Trade Wind (39 page)

Fattûma had brought the same shoes and sombre outer clothing that Hero had worn once before when she had visited The Dolphins’ House, and five minutes later, muffled from head to foot, the two women were letting themselves out through the garden door that the night-watchman had been bribed to leave unlocked.

“I have told him that I go to meet a friend,” giggled Fattûma. “A man friend. He thinks it is a matter of the heart and that he is helping two lovers, the old fool! But we must be back before it is light, or we shall find it locked against us.”

They did not see many people in the streets, for they avoided the more frequented thoroughfares and kept as far as possible to the lanes and alleyways where there were few lights and no crowds to jostle them. But once Hero suffered a flash of panic when they paused at a street comer, and she looked back and saw a man who was obviously a member of the Western community cross the road behind her. He was wearing what appeared to be a dark cloak over a suit of white tropical duck, and for a moment she was sure that it was Clayton and that he was following her. But the next minute he had turned into a narrow cul-de-sac and disappeared from view, and she realized that in spite of her boasted calm she was allowing her nerves to get the better of her.

If Clay had seen her leave the Consulate he would certainly have caught up with her and stopped her instead of following her. And if she were going to allow her imagination to turn some harmless European clerk into Authority dogging her footsteps, then her conscience could not be as clear as she supposed! which was absurd, because of course it was clear: she was on an errand of mercy—helping to save a man from assassination and his brother from the sin of fratricide. Hero clutched her dark draperies about her, and hurrying forward again was careful not to look back at the next turning.

She was unfamiliar with the route they had taken, but she knew when they neared the harbour, for she could hear the sound of the surf and the voices of the soldiers who were on guard before the Heir-Apparent’s house. Beit-el-Tani was dark and quiet, but there were two women waiting for her at the kitchen entrance, and Fattûma touched her on the arm, and whispering that she would stay there until the Bibi returned, squatted down inside the doorway as the women led Hero swiftly up winding stairways and along stone passages to the room where the Seyyidas awaited her.

“You are late!” snapped Cholé; words and voice betraying the extent of her nervous agitation.

There seemed to be a great many women in the room, all of whom appeared to be excited and overstrung, and Hero noticed that at least half-a-dozen of them were negro or Abyssinian slaves: tall women wearing long cloaks and head coverings of coarse blue cotton, whose eyeballs showed white with alarm in their anxious ebony faces. The Arab women were draped from head to foot in dark
scheles
similar to Hero’s own, and under their fringed head-dresses their faces looked as white as hers. But their doe eyes flickered and started in the manner of frightened animals and Salmé was the only one to smile at her; though it was a poor enough effort and Hero saw that her hands were shaking and that she could not keep still, but like the rest of the women must walk nervously to and fro, jerking at the fastenings of her cloak and fidgeting with her ornaments.

Poor girl, thought Hero. No wonder the Seyyidas had so urgently desired her company on this venture! They certainly needed one cool Western head to provide moral support and a steadying influence, and she regretted that her lack of fluency in Arabic prevented her from taking immediate command of the whole affair. But since this was not possible, she contented herself with smiling reassuringly and exchanging calm greetings with any of the women she recognized, until told curtly by Cholé to veil her face and cover herself with her cloak.

“It is time we left,” said Cholé, and swept the whole party out; the women silent now except for the staccato slap of heelless slippers and the sound of quickened breathing. Salmé‘s nieces, who had brought their own retinue of slaves, were already waiting for them in the street outside, and the two processions of heavily veiled and shrouded figures merged together and made their way to the main entrance of the Heir-Apparent’s house.

The wind that fluttered the women’s dark draperies swayed the flames of the oil lamps burning outside the house, and sent the shadows of armed men leaping like acrobats across the high white walls as the advance guard from Beit-el-Tani reached the door, and were halted by the crossed muskets of loud-voiced soldiers. A moment later the night was full of turmoil, wrangling and noise, and Hero could see the silhouettes of heads crowding the lamplit squares of Bargash’s windows, as men in the besieged household leaned out to see the cause of the confusion.

One of Salmé‘s women thrust her way back through the press, whimpering and indignant, and clawed at her mistress’s arm: “Highness, Highness! they say we may not pass; that there is an order that no one may pass. I have told them that it is some noble ladies who wish to see the Seyyida Méjé, but they do not believe it. They say that if we will not disperse they will unveil us here in the street and deal with us as they would with harlots. We must go back. Highness—it is useless to persist They are rough men and lewd—we must go back!”

Salmé thrust the woman behind her, and turning to her sister said in a voice that despite all her efforts she could not keep from trembling:

“You were right, Cholé. We must go ourselves to their commanding officer and tell him who we are. It is the only way.”

Several of the more elderly waiting women, horrified by this announcement, fell on their knees and endeavoured to hold them back, but Hero struck away the clutching hands and thrust herself between them, and finding themselves free the sisters ran forward to confront the Commander of the guard.

It was probably Chole’s beauty more than Salmé‘s dramatic and emotional pleading that reduced the guard to dazzled, stammering subservience, for although no man there could have recognized any of the rigorously secluded Palace ladies, it was instantly plain that these two women were what they claimed to be; daughters of the Royal House.

There was a collective gasp of awe and admiration as the sisters threw back their dark wrappings, and a sudden stillness fell on the crowd as they looked on something that men of their stamp would never see again. Even Hero was conscious of a small shock of admiration and a sudden uncomfortable feeling that she herself was fashioned out of coarser clay. The Sultan’s sisters were dressed as she had always imagined that the fabulous Queens and Princesses of the Arabian Nights would be dressed, and the lamplight shone on shimmering silks and gold embroidery and threw back the flash and glitter of jewels. But although Salmé‘s dark eyes and sad mouth had their own appeal, it was Cholé who took one’s breath away; Cholé looking as pale and as impossibly lovely as one of those fragile, heavy-scented moon-flowers that bloom only by night and die before the dawn.

The Commander of the guard, bemused alike by that beauty and his reverence for the Royal Family, found his tongue with difficulty and began to stammer apologies for having attempted to obstruct the path of such noble ladies, while the guards themselves drew back, hands to foreheads and bowing almost to the ground. Cholé inclined her lovely head in regal acknowledgement, and the long procession of women—Seyyidas, serving-women, slaves and Hero Hollis—swept past and were admitted into the Heir-Apparent’s house.

They found Bargash in Méjé’s room, and bedlam reigning. Méjé and several of her women were in tears, Bargash himself ablaze with excitement and nervous tension, and twelve-year-old Aziz riotous with triumph:

“We saw you!” shouted the boy, jumping up and down with all the inexhaustible enthusiasm of the young: “We were watching you from the windows and Méjé said they would never let you through, and even my brother was afraid. He was pulling his beard and sweating and cursing.”

Yes, you were, I heard you! And old Ayesha there was praying. But I wasn’t afraid. I knew you’d do it. I knew they wouldn’t dare stop you!

Oh, Salmé, isn’t it exciting? Have you got a plan? Why are you here? What are you going to do?”

“
Hush!
begged Cholé with a frantic glance at the open windows. “Close the shutters, or they will hear us. We are going to take you away; now, at once. We have brought women’s clothes with us for a disguise, and since those fools below never thought to count us they will not know how many go out with us. Salmé has sent word to the chiefs to bring horses to a meeting place outside the city so that you may escape to join your supporters. But they will only wait there until moonrise, and if we are not there by that time they will know our plan has failed and will disperse for their own safety. So we must go quickly—quickly!”

The words had been too swiftly spoken for Hero to follow, but the gist of them—the need for speed—was completely clear, and she could hardly believe it when Bargash haughtily and flatly refused to wear womens’ clothes, declaring that he would die rather than allow it to be said that he, Seyyid Bargash-bin-Saïd, had skulked within the dress of a serving-maid and played the woman. Danger he would face, and death if necessary; but humiliation and disgrace, never I If he was to be shot down by his brother’s hirelings it would be as himself—the Heir! “Do you think I could endure hearing the laughter of those low-bred mercenaries if they should discover me among your slaves, trembling behind a woman’s veil? No, Cholé! I will not do it!”

“
Men!
” thought Hero: and for the first time began to take a less romantic view of the Heir-Apparent. Couldn’t he see that every minute wasted in this ridiculous manner was increasing their danger and lessening their chances of success? Was he
really
going to throw away any hope of escape, and waste all the efforts that these courageous women had made to save him, for the sake of a stupid male quibble? He might assert that to be found in women’s dress reflected on his courage and honour, but in Hero’s opinion it was the women who were showing themselves the braver sex. And the more sensible one, too!

The minutes ticked away and time slipped through their fingers and was lost, but still the foolish argument went on and on; until at last Hero, angry, exasperated and suddenly beginning to wish that she had never come, said loudly: “We had better leave him then, and go.”

In the babble of voices her words went unheeded by the chief contestants, but Salmé at least had heard them. And so too had several of the serving-women, who already frightened by the delay, recognized the voice of prudence and began to edge towards the door in the manner of panic-stricken sheep.

It was enough for Bargash. He had the sense to see that in another moment their nerve would break and they would be stampeding from the room and out of the house, taking his only chance of escape with them, and he capitulated. “But I will not go unarmed. If they try to stop me I shall fight. I will not be taken alive!”

Willing hands rushed to arm him, and pistols and daggers were thrust into his waistband and hung about his neck, and at last a
schele
belonging to the tallest of the women was wrapped about him, leaving only his eyes free.

“You must walk behind us,” said Cholé, “among those of our women who are nearest to you in size, so that your height will not betray you. And we must talk, all of us, and walk slowly. Remember, we have only been on a visit here and we are anxious on Méjé’s account. That is all. There must be no hurrying and no signs of fear.’ She motioned to Hero and the three tallest slaves to stand with Bargash, directed little Aziz, also disguised in a
schele
, to walk between two of her waiting-maids, and turning her back on the sobbing Méjé said curtly: “Let us go.”

They walked out the way they had come; forcing themselves to move unhurriedly and control the trembling of their voices; talking lightly though with little idea as to what they were saying, and wondering, each one of them, if when they reached the guards they would be stopped and the whole desperate enterprise end in shots and terror and spilt blood.

Bargash’s own servants unbarred the great carved door, opening it only wide enough to allow the women to pass through. And then they were out in the night air once more, with the sea wind blowing in their faces and the lamplight and the shadows swaying back and forth across their shrouded figures.

It seemed to Hero that the guards had been reinforced and that there were now many more of them massed outside the house than there had been half an hour ago. But she held herself straight, walking erect and tall so that the Heir-Apparent’s hunched shoulders and lowered head might appear shorter by contrast. Out of the comer of her eye she saw one of the Sultan’s Baluchi soldiers lean forward suddenly and stare, and felt fear trickle like ice-water down her spine. Had he noticed anything strange about the muffled figure that kept pace with her, or was it a glimpse of her own grey eyes that had attracted his attention? She should have remembered to keep them lowered, and she did so now; hoping that if he bad seen them he would take her for a Circassian.

“Slowly,” muttered Salmé—for once past the guards the impulse to break into a run had been strong enough to make every one of them quicken their steps, though they were still in full view and by no means out of danger. Hero could hear Bargash breathing as though he had already run a mile, and was annoyed to find that her own breathing was far from steady and her heart beating much too fast. And then at last they had reached the comer, turned it, and were out of sight…

“Not yet—not yet!” whispered Cholé urgently. “We must not run until we are free of the town. There are still too many people abroad, and we must look as though we were only going or returning from a visit to friends. Go on talking as though there was nothing wrong.”

It had never occurred to Hero that they would not return immediately to Beit-el-Tani. She had visualized Bargash being given a more adequate disguise there, and provided with a trustworthy escort to accompany him to some waiting ship that would take him to safety. But they had already passed Beit-el-Tani and were walking through the streets; faster now but still without any appearance of haste; and somehow it did not seem possible to turn back and abandon them at this point. Whether she wanted to or not she would have to stay with them, and she could only hope that Fattûma would have the sense to wait for her, since it began to look as though the whole affair were going to take a good deal longer than she had anticipated.