Forty Days of Musa Dagh (104 page)

 

 

Meanwhile there were signs of resistance. Some determined people
pressed forwards to free Ter Haigasun. Two minutes more, and perhaps
the square might have run with blood since, threatened with superior
numbers, the criminals were already loading their guns. But fate,
run mad, again surpassed herself. The wind blew up in a sudden gust,
as it had so often in these last days, a whirlwind sweeping round the
square. Since no one any longer watched the altar, the wooden lights and
a vase of flowers were blown down. Ter Haigasun still tugged silently
at the thick cords which lashed him to the altar-frame. From time to
time he stopped to get up fresh strength, and, with every jerk, the
frame swayed. His bloodshot eyes looked round for the other priests,
the singers, Asayan the sacristan. They had all run off, or else dared
not venture too near their superior, who was being guarded by deserters,
no doubt to give plunderers of munitions their chance to get away in
peace. Among those deserters around the altar stood Sarkis Kilikian. He
watched with interest Ter Haigasun's attempts to wriggle free, not,
it seemed, personally concerned in any of these incidents and fortunes,
but merely inquisitive. After a time he slouched away. His weary-looking
back seemed to be saying: "I've had quite enough of this. And it's
about time." But scarcely was Kilikian out of sight when the terrible
thing began to happen. Later Ter Haigasun connected Kilikian with this
fire, merely because his disappearance coincided so strikingly with
its outbreak. But in reality the Russian merely passed along the altar
steps, not even touching the screen of leaves, about three feet behind
the altar-frame. The jet of flame which now leapt skywards was at least
three times as high as the plaited leaf-screen. A puff of wind from the
sea turned it inwards at once, and spread it wide, on the right. Winged
tongues of fire and scattering sparks detached themselves, to leap on
to the roof of the nearest hut. This hut was Thomas Kebussyan's solid
residence, with the inscription on the door "Town Hall." The fire at
first seemed to set to work rather gingerly, as though it had a bad
conscience to surmount. But when the twig-roof of the mayoral residence
had begun in the next minute to crackle and flame, there was no more
holding it. As a row of lamps lights up on a city boulevard, so did this
conflagration dart round the square, flaring up out of nearly every hut
simultaneously. The gang may have lit some of these fires, to hold people
back and to cover their retreat. And now a banner of flame waved above the
government barrack. One thing only remained certain, that these criminals,
as the fire began, had rid the Town Enclosure of their presence.

 

 

When, with alarming suddenness, the leaf-screen sprang into flame above
the altar, the crowd had burst asunder like a shell. Everyone forgot the
criminals, no one so much as thought of the altar, with its bound priest,
and the many presumably dead. With queer, almost whimpering noises,
the people rushed down their lines of huts. No hope! Nothing to put it
out with! Only -- let them save what was to be saved! The essentials of
life. It seemed not to occur to anyone to ask: "Is it worth while?"
But the mukhtars, the village notables, those doddering ancients so palsied
with terror a minute ago, so lamed with fear as to be quite unable to help
Ter Haigasun, had suddenly legs. Their money was burning! The lovely,
well-smoothed-out pound notes which they had stored in corners of the
huts, under their bedding, waited forlorn for rescuing hands. The old men,
with their wives and daughters, went scurrying homewards.

 

 

One last, violent wrench, and then Ter Haigasun ceased to struggle.
The rough cords, through the stiff silk of his vestments, had taken the skin
off his arms and chest. Ice-cold sweat poured down his spine. Flakes of
blazing wood kept falling over the altar, which had partly already begun
to burn. Now and again, these flaming embers scorched the priest. His
hair and beard were already singed by them. The heavy altar curtain
blazed in a sheet of flame. So be it! The square was empty. Screeching
families pranced round their flaming huts. Why call for help? A priest
who dies a martyr, lashed to his altar, has earned sure forgiveness of
his sins. A jet of loose flame scourged past Ter Haigasun. If only the
Turks had been his assassins! Why his own people! Armenians! Dogs! Wild
dogs! Dogs! A bellowing rage, which threatened to burst his head, broke out
of him. Wailings of despair from round the huts. But when Ter Haigasun's
furious shout, "Dogs! Dogs!" went howling across the square, it startled
the money-grubbers, who left their vanity, ran to the altar to untie
their priest. Before the first of them had reached him, the loosened
post gave way and the frame crashed down in a burst of fire. The priest
fell forward. They picked him up. Quickly cut his bonds. Ter Haigasun
could go a few steps, but was soon forced to lie on the ground.

 

 

Bedros Hekim came out at the right minute, just as a few old men and
women were taking pity on Gabriel, still unconscious. The doctor saw
at once, before he had even felt his pulse, that Gabriel was still
alive. With many groans old Altouni sat and took Gabriel's head on his
knees. Cautiously he loosened the cork helmet, which the rifle-butt
had driven so far down as to cover the eyes. The instant they were free
Gabriel opened them. He thought he had only been asleep. All this had
happened in some unbelievably short time -- in an interval "outside
time," so to speak. First, he gradually felt the burning weight of his
own skull. The doctor lightly fingered over his scalp. No blood. Only
a huge lump. But perhaps the stroke had done inner damage, burst a vein
in the forehead. Bedros gently spoke Gabriel's name.

 

 

Gabriel stared incredulously and smiled. "What's been happening here?"

 

 

Bedros Hekim laughed shortly. "If only I knew that myself, my son."

 

 

Tenderly he took Gabriel's cheeks between his brown and shrivelled hands.
"Anyway, nothing's happened to you, I know that now."

 

 

Gabriel sprang to his feet. He refused at first to use his memory. He just
managed to say in a drunken voice: "What about that surprise attack? . . .
Have we made it? Jesus Christ, the South Bastion. . . . Now we're done for.
. . ."

 

 

But Ter Haigasun, too, was on his feet again. And his voice seemed to
issue from another drunkenness, a clear, superconscious intoxication:
"Now, no more!"

 

 

Bagradian did not hear him. The crackling and roaring was too loud
to hear oneself speak. The fire ate its way step by step from hut to
hut. And groups of trees on the edge of the Town Enclosure were already
bright with flames. More and more families, with their arms full of
rescued goods and chattels, had collected on the altar square, awaiting
an order, an objective. Some of the women had used their last ounce of
strength to bring their sewing machines into safety. All eyes sought the
leaders. But there were none, since both Bagradian and Ter Haigasun were
still absently staring out at nothing in a kind of coma. And Dr. Altouni
didn't count. No mukhtar, no teacher, showed himself; they were all too
busy saving their property.

 

 

In this desperate pause there came at least help from the North Saddle.
It is some proof of the uncanny quickness of these proceedings, the interval
from Ter Haigasun's outbreak to this instant, that Avakian with ten decads
only now put in an appearance, when all was over. Chaush Nurhan had sent
at once to fetch him, the instant the deserters began to fire.

 

 

Avakian came running in horror to Gabriel. "Are you wounded, Effendi? . . .
Jesus Christ, what's the matter? Your face! . . . Say something, please.
. . ."

 

 

But Gabriel Bagradian said nothing. In a few quick steps past the flaming
altar, he left the square, the Town Enclosure, broke into a run, and
stopped at last on the summit of a little hill. Avakian followed without
a word. Gabriel strained his head forward, listening sharply, trying to
hear through the crackling flame. A long-drawn rattle of bullets in the
south. Machine guns? And now again! But perhaps it was only deception,
since the pain in his head threatened to burst it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

6. THE SCRIPT UN THE FOG

 

 

The junior officer had managed to discharge his impossible duty. He had
laid down a field-telephone, not of course as far as Villa Bagradian --
there was probably not enough wire in the whole Fourth Army to do that! --
but at least as far as the village of Habaste, about four hundred
feet below the South Bastion. It was a meritorious piece of service,
considering how badly his men were trained and the many difficulties
presented by the rocky terrain. General Ali Risa Bey, disguised in
mufti for the benefit of observers on the Damlayik, had come in person
to Habaste. The sun had just set when the primitive telephone on the
little field-table before him began to buzz. It lasted a very long time,
and there was still much surmounting of technical difficulties before,
at the other end of the wire, the voice of the yüs-bashi became audible.

 

 

"General, I have to report, we've taken the mountain."

 

 

Ali Risa Bey, he of the clear, unmuddied countenance, the non-smoker
and teetotaler, leant back in his little folding-chair, holding up the
earpiece: "The mountain, Yüs-Bashi? How do you mean? You mean the south
end of the mountain?"

 

 

"Quite so, Effendi, the south end."

 

 

"Thanks. Any losses?"

 

 

"None at all, not a single man."

 

 

"And how many prisoners, Yüs-Bashi?"

 

 

A technical defect became apparent. The general glanced keenly at the
telephone officer. But soon the yüs-bashi's voice could be heard again,
though not quite so distinct.

 

 

"I've taken no prisoners. The enemy trenches were empty. We'd thought
they might be. Nearly empty. Only about ten men, counting, that is,
four boys among them."

 

 

"And what's been done with all these people?"

 

 

"Our fellows disposed of them."

 

 

"They defended themselves?"

 

 

"No, General."

 

 

"That considerably lessens your success, Yüs-Bashi. These prisoners
might have saved us a lot of trouble."

 

 

Even in this clumsy earpiece the major's wrath was still perceptible.

 

 

"It wasn't I gave the order."

 

 

The general's fervid coolness remained unruffled. "And what's become of
all those deserters?"

 

 

"We only found the dregs of them, nobody else."

 

 

"I see. Anything more to report, Yüs-Bashi?"

 

 

"The Armenians have set fire to their camp. It looks like a considerable
blaze. . . ."

 

 

"And what does that mean, in your opinion, Yüs-Bashi? What reasons do
you suppose they have for doing it?"

 

 

The yüs-bashi's voice, revengefully acrimonious: "It's not for me to judge
that, General. You'll know all that better than I do. Fellows may be wanting
to clear off the mountain, in the night. . . ."

 

 

For two seconds, with pale grey eyes, Ali Risa Bey stared silently at
distances. He gave his opinion: "Possibly . . . But there may be some
feint at the back of it. . . . That ringleader of theirs has had the
best of our officers several times. They may have planned a sortie."

 

 

He turned to his surrounding officers. "All outpost lines in the valley
to be thoroughly strengthened tonight."

 

 

The yüs-bashi's voice came somewhat impatiently: "Any further orders,
please, General?"

 

 

"How far have your companies got?"

 

 

"The third company and two machine gun groups are holding the nearest
mound, about five hundred paces away from my base."

 

 

"We've been hearing machine gun fire down here. What's the meaning
of that?"

 

 

"Only a little demonstration."

 

 

"That demonstration was highly deleterious and unnecessary. Your men are
to remain where they are and take proper cover."

 

 

The voice at the other end had now become spitefully astute: "My men
to remain where they are. May I have that, please, as a written order,
Effendi? . . . And tomorrow?"

 

 

"Tomorrow, half an hour before sunrise, the artillery to open fire from
the north. Set your watch exactly by mine, please, Yüs-Bashi. . . .
Good. . . . I shall be up there with you just before sunrise and lead
the business from the south. Thank you."

 

 

As he banged down the receiver, the yüs-bashi bared his teeth. "So he'll
come along up in time for the walk-over, the goat's-milk pasha! And then
he'll be 'the victor of Musa Dagh'!"

 

 

 

 

Gabriel turned back silently to the altar square. All the short way back
he gripped Avakian's hand. The fire had eaten its way further and further
along the streets. The sun had not long been down. But, in spite of
surrounding flames -- the leaf-screen of the altar was still blazing
-- the world kept darkening around Gabriel. Black, miserable shapes,
voices of black desolation, eddied round the square in meaningless
arabesques. The scales of Gabriel's whole life tottered. Had he not fully
earned the right to let himself collapse a second time, this time forever,
and know no more? Stephan was dead. Why start all over again? And yet,
second by second, his splitting head began to fill with ever more lucid,
purposeful thoughts.