On the Road to Bagdad: A Story of Townshend's Gallant Advance on the Tigris

"What now?" he asked.

"Round to the back of the prison. I heard some of the beggars pulling the front door open. Thank goodness, it's getting darker every second, and if we can only hide for some five or ten minutes we shall be safe for to-night at least. Lor'! Look at the fruit I had in my pocket – smashed to a pulp."

Philip shook him, and then the two turned away from the scene of their escape and ran softly along beside the wall of the prison. Gaining the farther end, they turned a corner, and then, at a suggestion from Geoff, Philip ran on to the opposite corner. Thus they were able to watch two sides of the prison, and could warn one another if an enemy were approaching. Fortune favoured them, favoured those two young fellows who had so cleverly achieved their escape, and the darkness, settling down over the country, safely hid them from view, while the noise of the searchers within and without the prison subsided.

"And now?" asked Philip, when it was quite certain that they were not likely to be apprehended.

"Oh – ! 'Now,' well, that wants some deciding."

Geoff scratched his dishevelled head of hair and pondered, for indeed the matter was one which would have taxed the wisdom of an older man – even the cunning of von Hildemaller. For they were out in the open, free of their cell it was true, but yet in an enemy country, surrounded by Turks, without a friend to appeal to. Yet what they had done so far gave them encouragement for the future.

"We'll have to be like that Mr. Micawber of Dickens," said Phil, as they crouched beside the wall, "we'll just have to wait for something to turn up, and you bet your boots something's bound to."

CHAPTER XVII
The Road to Bagdad

Free from prison, after an adventure the success of which might well stimulate them to greater effort, to greater daring, and give them hopes beyond any they had possessed during the weary weeks of waiting which had passed, it was yet not by any means certain that Geoff Keith and his chum Philip would ever win their way back to that Expeditionary Force with which they had landed in Mesopotamia. It was weeks and weeks, and it seemed to them years, since they had been captured with Esbul at Nasiriyeh; and though their jailer had not been entirely uncommunicative – for at heart he was quite a genial fellow, and the thought of reward warmed his heart wonderfully – yet they had failed to hear of the easy, bloodless capture of Amara. Indeed, all tidings of the Mesopotamian invading force had ceased; and whether it had retired, whether it still hung on to the banks of the River Tigris, what its fortunes were now, were withheld from them.

"If we don't get out soon there won't be an Englishman left in the whole of Mesopotamia," Philip grumbled one day during their long and tedious imprisonment, when he was perhaps a trifle bilious, and feeling out of sorts and out of temper. "Everything's wrong".

And Geoff had grinned at him, an irritating grin, which had roused the irate Philip to a state of anger which set him stuttering, and which caused him to clench those powerful fists of his – made powerful by the exercises he and Geoff practised. But just as suddenly as his cheeks had flamed with anger, just as quickly as he had allowed natural vexation and irritation to get the better of him, Philip's better sense, his honest heart, his real affection for his chum, caused him suddenly to beam upon him.

"I'm in a rotten humour," he told him, "just the sort of humour in which a fellow grumbles, asks 'What's the good of anything?' and grouses 'Nuffin'."

"I've felt the same often enough," Geoff told him, "and I dare say you've known it, and have seen what a nasty sulky beast I could be. You see, fellows chained up like this, close together in a cell, get to know all there is that's worth knowing about a chap – all the good side, you know."

"And a precious deal of the bad side too," grinned Philip. "Trust a campaign to show up a man from every point of view. People say that aboard-ship life is the most trying of existences; but I imagine that one of those Arctic Expeditions of ours, when a hundred men, perhaps, are bottled up in winter quarters for months together, must try officers and men to the last extremity, must prove their good feelings and temper, and must bring them back to safety comrades for life – friends who will never be forgotten."

Doubtless the fact of hearing nothing of the Expeditionary Force did try the nerves and the temper of the two prisoners in their cell extremely. Yet what mattered such a trial now? Now that they were out of their prison; now that they had dropped from the window of the Governor's quarters; now that they had worsted that odious fellow, von Hildemaller – that mass of perspiring flesh and fat, that ogling, cunning, scheming German?

"Jingo!" Philip kept on repeating, as he and Geoff crouched by the wall, and then let go a chuckle. "To think that we've done that von what's his name – Hilde something – "

"Maller," grunted Geoff, sniffing his contempt of the fellow. "And now?"

"That's what I keep asking, now?"

"Well, we've the whole of Mesopotamia," Geoff told him a little politely, a little icily in fact.

"Right oh! Then all we've got to do is to choose some spot in it. Of course one naturally selects a part now occupied by our fellows."

Naturally enough that was the choice which any British officer or man would have made under similar circumstances. But where was the Expeditionary Force which had sailed from India, and which had fought its way by now into the heart of Mesopotamia? Unbeknown to these two young subalterns, it had driven a path up the banks of the River Tigris towards Kut-el-Amara – some hundred and fifty miles above Amara itself – and well on the road to Bagdad – the Mesopotamian Mecca, a city, almost a holy city in the eyes of the Arabs of that part, to which their eyes were attracted far more than to Constantinople. Driven from Nasiriyeh, from Basra, from every place down-stream on the banks of the Shatt-el-Arab, of the Tigris and of the Euphrates, the Turks, nevertheless, had not abandoned Mesopotamia. They were in strong-force at Kut, in prepared positions, engineered, sketched, and arranged by German instructors. And there, to be precise, some seven miles to the east of Kut, the enemy took up his position astride the River Tigris, extending his trenches to some six miles from the left bank of the river. Yet, in spite of those deep-dug trenches which gave such security from shell-fire, in spite of wired entanglements which might have aroused the envy of Germans in Flanders and Poland, notwithstanding preparations made without haste and hurry, and over a country which gave wonderful assistance, the enemy was defeated.

The same dash, the same almost reckless bravery of the British and Indians, the same natural, friendly rivalry between those two races of soldiers, sent them forward against the Turkish trenches like an avalanche, caused them to turn the position, and rapidly effected the capture of Kut-el-Amara. Not only that, it effected at the same moment the capture of the northern end of the Kut-el-Hai, that watercourse running roughly north and south between the Tigris and the Euphrates Rivers, and which, unknown to the British, had permitted the Turks to reinforce their post at Nasiriyeh, and collect that army at Shaiba, which had threatened the rear of the Expeditionary Force when in the neighbourhood of Kurnah. It may be said, indeed, that the Expeditionary Force had now captured a solid wedge of Mesopotamia, a wedge of land with its base pointing towards Bagdad, its lines of communication open – for the Tigris allowed of shipping reaching the British force at Kut as easily and almost as safely as that shipping had been able to reach Kurnah. For the Tigris was still deep and wide, though not entirely free of sand-banks. As to the size of this wedge – Nasiriyeh was secured, Ahwaz, the head of the Persian pipe-line, was in our hands, and there remained Bagdad alone – a jewel which must have strongly tempted the British Commanders. An expedition to that city, its capture in fact, would no doubt result in the crash of Turkish influence in Mesopotamia, would win over thousands of Arabs now wavering and prepared to join the side which looked like winning, and would inevitably destroy all German influence.

For many reasons then Bagdad was a magnet, a magnet which drew the Expeditionary Force onward. And in the heat of summer, even as Geoff and Philip were making that adventurous escape, British and Indians were once more on the move from Kut en route for Bagdad, hoping to capture the city. Whether such an expedition were justified, whether the risks of an advance along the River Tigris to the city of Bagdad were out of proportion to the advantages to be gained, and whether those in command were fully informed as to the strength of Turkish troops before them, one cannot venture an opinion, seeing that at this date little information has been published, little indeed more than the fact that such an advance took place, and its sequel.

If, however, actual news of our troops in Mesopotamia at this time is meagre, and if a cloud covers their operations and leaves us in doubt as to what has actually happened, we have yet left to us news of Geoff and Philip, and of others who participate in this story. There is, for instance, the stout, perspiring, and odious von Hildemaller. Boiling with rage, perspiring indescribably, he leant against that door outside the quarters of the Turkish governor, mopping his face perpetually with that red handkerchief, while he gripped the rifle he had seized from one of the Turkish soldiers, and glared from it towards the Governor.

"And – and – you are fooling me," he shouted at last, when he had got his breath; for that dash into the courtyard, the blows he had levelled at the unfortunate jailer, and his race from thence to the hall of the prison and up those stairs had left him gasping. "What means this?" he demanded. "You give me free entry into a cell in which these brutes are imprisoned; you – you – allow them to set upon me, to tie me hand and foot, to gag me, and now – now – you bring me here to be faced with a door that is barred and bolted, when you should have taken me to some other place from which I could have shot down those ruffians."

Of a truth, the Teuton was positively boiling over with wrath, indignation, and disappointment. Never before, in a somewhat long life, devoted in these latter years to crafty plotting, had von Hildemaller been so worsted. Like every other man, he had had his ups and downs to be sure, his failures and his successes; but of late, since the "All Highest", since the Kaiser had set his ambitious eye on Turkey, had ogled the Sultan, brow-beaten his particular adherents, and had gained the ear of the Young Turk Party, since, in fact, the influence of the Germans and of Germany had risen to such heights in Turkey, von Hildemaller had become quite an important person, one to be considered, an agent of the Kaiser to whom no doors were shut, who claimed entry anywhere and on any occasion. Yet here, when he had thought to succeed so easily, when he had planned to add these two British subalterns to that Douglas Pasha – then in prison – why, see here, the door was banged in his face, the tables had been turned most distinctly upon him, and all his plans had been shattered.

"I – it is monstrous!" he shouted, using the native tongue but indifferently, his words bearing a strong Teutonic accent. "Are you, too, in the plot? Did you then plan for them to seize me? I – I – "

The poor fellow was stuttering more than ever, his flabby cheeks were positively shaking, while his whole person was quivering. It looked almost as if he would have thrown himself upon the Governor, that other stout man staring back at him now in frightened manner. No doubt, too, had von Hildemaller had breath sufficient for the task, he would have vented his wrath upon the Turk promptly. But, as it was, he cast the rifle on the stone steps and sent it clattering down into the hall below. Then, wobbling badly, his knees shaking after such unusual exertion, perspiring still in horrible fashion, and displaying that particularly close-cropped pate, he went off after the rifle, stumbling down the steps and into the hall, and from there out into the open. It was almost dark then, and for a while he stood still, blowing heavily, and enjoying the evening breeze as it played about his heated features. Then he gave vent to a faint and somewhat subdued whistle, and repeated it a moment later. A figure slid up from some dark corner and stood beside him.

"Master," he said, "you whistled."

"Whistled? Yes, twice, and you were not there at the first summons," snarled von Hildemaller, delighted to have someone else upon whom he could turn his wrath and vexation. "How now? Where are these prisoners? You saw them escape from the place? You followed them, eh?"

"Prisoners?" said the man, startled, stepping back a pace or two, so that a gleam of light, flashing through the open door of the prison from a lantern which had now been lighted, fell upon him. "Prisoners? But – "

"But – prisoners, fool!" the German retorted, eyeing the man severely as he stood in the lamp-light. "You did not follow them then; you allowed them to escape without troubling?"

His tones were even more angry as he watched the man; while those beams of light, as they fell upon the German's companion, showed the features of that same rascal who had answered his signal in the Bazaar at Bagdad at that time when Major Joe Douglas had accosted von Hildemaller. Without a shade of doubt, indeed, this Turk was the ruffian who was in the hire of the German, who was ready to carry out any piece of villainy for him. Esbul knew it; that old Jew whom Douglas Pasha had questioned in the Bazaar at Bagdad knew it too; while the cautious yet seemingly unsuspicious Douglas Pasha knew it better, knew it so well that he had made that hurried departure from Bagdad, knew it better still now, seeing that it was thanks to this rascal, and the German, that he lay in prison.

No doubt, had the man not been of such great use to von Hildemaller, the latter would then and there have vented all his wrath and vexation on him; but if the German were angry he was still not so furious that he was altogether bereft of common sense and caution. Caution, indeed, was something which had helped the Teuton to be successful; it was his hard-headed common sense and cunning which had made of him such a plotter, and now that same common sense caused his anger to evaporate. In any case he became calm, and stood for a moment or so considering deeply.

"Listen, my friend!" he said at last, his tone completely changed. "You did well. You sat here, you tell me, and heard nothing. Then I will tell you what has happened. The two prisoners we sought are gone – escaped within a few minutes of my gaining the prison; they are nowhere to be found, and we must seek them. Tell me now, you who are clever in such matters, supposing you to be in their place, and to have shaken yourself free of the prison, whither would you turn? What quarter?"

The man answered him promptly, without a thought it seemed.

"Bagdad, Master."

"And nowhere else?"

"And nowhere else," the man repeated.

"Then in Bagdad you believe that we shall trace them?"

"I do, Master, and the sooner we can make our way there the better."

Early on the following morning, in fact, von Hildemaller could have been discovered in a shaky old country vehicle, drawn by a dilapidated pony, being rattled over an incredibly rough road close to that city. Perched on the driving-seat was the rascal whom he had encountered outside the prison on the previous evening. A picturesque rascal to be sure, for there was nothing about this man which denoted his calling. Very soon they entered the gates, and were swallowed up amidst the narrow, tortuous streets of the city, and finally gained the quarters habitually occupied by the German. Yet we have to recount the fact that, quietly as these two had entered Bagdad, unostentatiously as they had made their way through the streets, much as they had sought to escape observation, yet one at least had watched their coming. It was that tall, skinny, bony Jew, who sat, as ever, it seemed, cross-legged on his stall, perched like a bird of evil omen above those embroidered goods, the sale of which appeared to trouble him so little. His beady eyes marked the passing of that clattering vehicle and recognized, while they appeared to be looking at nothing, the picturesque rascal who drove it, and took in in a single fleeting glance the fat features of the German.

"So, that man – the one who tracked Douglas Pasha – " he muttered, appearing to address the words rather to the embroidered goods he had for disposal than to any particular person. "Coffee, boy!" he called, clapping his hands. "Coffee, that I may sip it and think."

Almost motionless, merely his eyelids blinking, while occasionally his long fingers played over the wares on his stall, the Jew waited for the coffee, and then, taking the cup with a deliberation peculiar to him, lifted it slowly to his lips and sipped it thoughtfully. It was at such times, too, that this curious old man, who had such a strong liking for Douglas Pasha, looked above the rim of the egg-shaped cup and cast his glance over the Bazaar. It masked his movements, as it were, and that cup disguised the fact, from any who might be looking, that he was interested in his immediate surroundings. Not that the man saw anything in particular, merely walls, merely long shadows cast by a brilliant sun, and stalls upon which other figures rested much as he did – motionless figures, men apparently indifferent to their success in business, for not an effort did they make to attract the attention of would-be purchasers and extract money from them.

"So!" he muttered again into the coffee-cup. "That man is back, and I have heard tales of a journey to another prison. Perhaps Esbul may give information; perhaps he followed. Who knows? We will wait till the evening."

And wait the old man did, placidly, with not the smallest show of impatience, till the shadows lengthened, till dusk fell over the Bazaar, and until other merchants were closing their places of business. Then, having seen his stall shut by the boy who did jobs small and large for him, the Jew tottered away from the place, dived into a narrow alley, and wriggled his way to a house at some distance. Entering this from a courtyard at the back, he rapped twice with his stick on the floor, and waited for an answer.

"What then?" a voice asked cautiously from the top of a flight of stairs, "Who is that?"

"A friend!" the Jew replied, and ascended promptly. Gaining a room at the top of the flight of stairs he sat down on a divan, and then turned to the man who stood before him.

"So they have come – that German and the ruffian," he said. "You saw them, Esbul?"

Esbul nodded.

"I saw them; they passed to their old quarters."

"And maybe you know from whence?" the Jew asked.

"Not so," Esbul told him. "They slipped from the city unbeknown to me, and were gone while I was sleeping. But – but – I have a feeling that they were bent on business which concerned my master, or which concerned those two who were captured with me at Nasiriyeh."

There was silence for some long while in that room, for the Jew was not given to much talking. Instead, he ate his humble evening meal slowly and thoughtfully, gazing at the opposite wall as if he could read there the mystery of Douglas Pasha's whereabouts, of the prison in fact where von Hildemaller had caused him to be sent. Let it be remembered, too, that though this Jew had means of learning much of what was happening, had learned, indeed, that Geoff and Phil had been incarcerated somewhere outside the city, yet he had no knowledge of the German's movements, did not dream, in fact, that von Hildemaller had so recently visited the place where they were held, and did not suspect his mission. But he guessed that the Teuton's exit from the city and return had something to do with Douglas Pasha, though it might not be directly. He hated this German – hated all Germans in fact – for, Armenian Jew though he was, Turkey was his country, and, as a wise man, he realized that Germany's interest in it was not disinterested. But the subject of Douglas Pasha touched him even more deeply, for he was devoted to the Englishman, had received much kindness from him, had, in days past, to thank him for an act which saved his life – a deed of bravery which might have cost Douglas Pasha his own quite easily. That was the secret of the Jew's attachment to this British officer, the secret of his solicitude for his safety, and part of the reason for his detestation of von Hildemaller. He turned after a while, solemnly and slowly, upon Esbul, who meantime had waited for him to speak, with too great a respect for the aged Jew to disturb him.

"My son," he said, and the beady old eyes flickered wisely at Esbul, "there has been a deep plot hatching in these parts, and the German has been weaving a web to cast about these British people. As I, a good Armenian Jew and subject of the Sultan – though he has sorely ill-treated us Armenians – as I hate this German, so he loathes all those British. He fears the influence of Douglas Pasha amongst the Turks; when there was no war he feared him, for even against their will our Turkish pashas could not help having a liking for the Briton, while for this Teuton they had nothing but contempt. Thus von Hildemaller was jealous of Douglas Pasha, feared his strength, and made plans to rid Bagdad and Mesopotamia of him. The chance came when war burst over the land, and the German seized it. Yet, surrounded by enemies as he was, Douglas Pasha evaded the danger for a while, evaded it till the hirelings of von Hildemaller tracked him down and cast their net about him. Then, but for those Turkish friends of our master, but for the news of Douglas Pasha's capture which I sent swiftly to them, the German would have killed him. Against the wishes of the Turks he could do no such thing, and therefore had to be content with his imprisonment. Now see what follows: the ward of Douglas Pasha is captured also, and with him a companion. The news comes to the ears of this scheming German. He can do no worse, for the time being at any rate, to Douglas Pasha himself, but he can hurt him through this young soldier – this young officer who is dear to him. Who knows? It may be that his journey outside the city was to secure the person of young Geoffrey Keith. Who knows? But it is likely."

"More than likely," Esbul told him respectfully.

"That we shall learn in time," the Jew answered. "I have ways of gathering news unknown to you – unknown to anyone, in fact. We shall learn. But you, Esbul, in the meantime you will set a watch upon these people, will disguise yourself and hover about the streets of the city, and perchance it may be that information will come to you sooner than to me, in which case you will be lucky."

Esbul, indeed, might consider himself an extremely well-favoured individual if it turned out that he was more successful in unearthing the secret doings of von Hildemaller than was Benshi, this aged Jew, this extraordinarily silent man who hovered the day long over his embroidered wares, and seemed to take no interest in things outside his narrow stall, and to possess no energy for doing so; for, indeed, Benshi was a deep, discreet, and clever individual – one to whom tales came in the most uncanny manner, to whom reports of doings outside the city of Bagdad were sent almost before they reached the Governor's palace. And yet the exact whereabouts of Douglas Pasha was hidden from him; while beyond the fact that Geoff and Philip had been imprisoned – a fact communicated by Esbul – he had no knowledge of them.

Donning a garb which was calculated to deceive easily any who might meet him, Esbul slipped out of the house that evening and plunged into the intricacies of the thoroughfares of the city. No need for him to seek for the quarters of von Hildemaller, for they were already known to him, and no need, therefore, to ask questions. But arrived at the house – one detached from its fellows, standing aloof and alone in a compound – there was little to encourage him to wait, nothing to prove that the German and the arch-scoundrel he employed were in residence. Not a light flickered from the windows, not a gleam came through a crack in the shutters; the place was clad in darkness, while not a sound came from it.

"But yet it may be that they are there, these crafty fellows," thought Esbul; "we'll see, we'll investigate the premises carefully."

To clamber over the containing wall was an easy matter, while the drop on the far side was nothing. With stealthy steps the Armenian passed round the house, squinting in through keyholes, staring at the shutters, seeking for something which might prove of interest. Yet, though he spent a good half-hour in the compound, not a sound reached his ears, and nothing rewarded his efforts.

Meanwhile, one may wonder what had happened to Geoff and Philip after their adventurous escape from the Governor's quarters of the prison.

"Where now, then?" asked Philip, darkness having fallen completely. "I say, Geoff, I'm sorry about that fall of yours and the fruit, for the supply I've brought is precious scanty; let's finish it now, and then consider matters."

It was, indeed, rather an unfortunate thing that the breaking of the rope and Geoff's fall upon the cushions – which they had had forethought enough to drop out of the Governor's window – had resulted in the pulping of the supply of fruit he was carrying on his person. Yet, if they were deprived of that, they had gained something immeasurably greater, for they had gained their liberty.

"And mean to keep it now," Geoff was whispering to himself, as they crouched beside the wall of the prison. "But what to do, where to go, and how to fare now that we are free?"

It was, indeed, rather a problem, and yet not so difficult after all; for, consider, Bagdad, they knew – they had learned from their jailer – was within a day's march of them, and Bagdad was just as much a magnet to these two young subalterns as it was to any Arab or any Turk in Mesopotamia – just as much a magnet, indeed, as it was to the British Expeditionary Force then fighting its way towards the city from Kut-el-Amara.

"Of course it's got to be done; we've got to get to Bagdad," Geoff exclaimed, when they had finished their small supply of fruit. "Next question is – in what direction?"

Philip scratched his head; it was, indeed, a problem which floored him.

"Which direction, eh?" he muttered. "Yes, that does want deciding, for I've no notion."

"But here's an idea – a good idea, too," said Geoff. "Naturally enough the prison must be on some road, else how would one get to it? How could we have been driven here?"

"Brilliant! Of course, naturally enough – on a road. We look for it."

"Quite so; we look for it, and then – "

"Then we march along it, eh?" Philip told him cheerfully.

"Which direction?" asked Geoff satirically. "Supposing it runs west and east, do we turn west or east? And if north and south, which way, please, Philip?"

It was Philip's turn again to cogitate, to scratch his head even harder, and to wonder. It made him quite irritable and angry when he discovered how hopeless the situation really was; and then, seizing upon a brilliant idea, he almost gave vent to a shout of triumph.

"Of course; easy as smoking; we just get on to the road and wait for folks to come along it."

"Brilliant!" Geoff scoffed at him. "People don't travel so often during the night in these parts, but at any rate it's the only solution of our difficulties. We'll get on to the road and see what happens."

What actually happened was that, after a while, voices were heard in the neighbourhood of the prison; for by then Geoff and his friend had passed round the place, had found the road, and had sat down beside it. They heard the rattle of wheels somewhere on the road, and the ring of horses' hoofs. Creeping nearer, they heard those voices more distinctly, and after a little while, getting nearer still, Geoff was convinced that it was von Hildemaller himself who was talking.

"Go easy," he told Philip; "keep as far away as we can and listen to them. Von Hildemaller's in a nasty temper, I expect, and is quitting the prison. There! He's mounting into some sort of Turkish vehicle, and he's about to drive off. What's that he's saying? To Bagdad?"

"To Bagdad!" exclaimed Philip in an excited and eager whisper. "That's where we're going."

"I hope so, certainly," agreed Geoff.

"Then why not accompany our dear friend Hildemaller?" asked Philip, starting forward.

"Accompany him!" exclaimed Geoff; "you're fooling."

"Never hung on the back of a trap before?" said Philip immediately. "I have. Come along; let's get this German fellow to give us a lift to our destination."

The young subaltern had never given expression to a more brilliant proposal. Geoff seized upon it on the instant, and the two, running swiftly across the road in their stockinged feet – for they still kept their boots tucked close to their bodies – were within a few feet of the rickety chaise in which the German was riding. As it drove off, clattering heavily over the rough road, they raced up behind it, and, unknown to the German, clung on behind and accompanied him towards Bagdad.