By Far Euphrates A Tale 25
"How will you disguise yourself?" some one asked.
"I can wear the Kourdish dress that served me coming here."
"But you do not know the country," another objected.
"As far as Biridjik I know it well. Trust me to find out the rest."
Finally, Jack's proposal was agreed to by all; except indeed by
Hohannes, who kept silence, but did not change his mind. The meeting
broke up, as soon as the heads of it had arranged for Jack to come to
them at a later hour, to receive messages and other instructions for his
dangerous mission.
As they went out together, Kevork laid his hand on his shoulder:
"Brother," he said, "do you not desire to see Shushan again before you
go? I think it might be managed for you, with backsheesh to the
zaptiehs."
Jack thought a moment; then he answered with a decided "No. We have had
our farewells," he added. "It is best not to alarm her." In his own
heart he said, "I had rather keep the last words she spoke to me, 'The
cross of Christ has been laid upon us together. Nothing can part us
after that!'" But he took his father's note-book, the one precious relic
that remained to him, wrote a few tender words in it, wrapped it up
carefully and gave it to Kevork to give her, in case anything happened
to him.
At the later consultation it was decided that Jack should not wear the
Kourdish dress: it was thought he could not keep up the character
sufficiently to disarm suspicion. A proposition that he should go
dressed _à la Frank_ was negatived also, since a person so attired would
never be found travelling alone. At last a disguise was found for
him,--the dress of an Armenian peasant of the very humblest class, a
countryman. It was hoped that the appearance of utter poverty and of
ignorance might secure his safety.
It was December now, and the nights were dark, as dark as they ever are
in that southern land. There are many places in which the ancient wall
of Urfa is much broken down, in some it is only three feet high, with
stones and rubbish and broken masonry all about. Stealthily and
noiselessly Jack crept towards one of these. There was no difficulty in
getting over the wall, but then at the other side there was a natural
rock to be descended--almost a precipice. This also however the agile
youth accomplished, and stood in safety at the bottom. His next
difficulty was to elude the Turkish patrol, which passed frequently
during the night. Seeing it at a distance, he laid himself down quite
flat amongst the stones, until the men had passed, and everything was
perfectly quiet. Then he cautiously set out upon his journey, passing
through fields and vineyards, and striking into the Roman road where he
had ridden with Shushan three months before. Although the weather was
now cold, he intended to travel by night, and rest during the day, in
order to minimize the dangers of discovery.
Yet, three hours later, the die was cast, and his fate was sealed. A
party of Turkish horsemen, who were conveying some prisoners into the
town, saw at a distance in the morning light his dark figure thrown out
by the white path behind him. He knew they had seen him, but there was
no place near where it was possible to conceal himself, so his only
chance was to pass on boldly in his assumed character.
The captain of the troop took little heed of him, just flinging him a
curse in passing as one beneath his notice. Unhappily, amongst the band
of wretched prisoners--all the more wretched for having had to keep up
on foot with the riding of the Turks--Jack saw a face he knew, Der
Garabed, the priest of Biridjik. No fear of consequences could keep the
look of grief and pity out of his eyes. It was observed, as also was the
captive's quick glance of recognition, changed though it was immediately
into the dull, vacant stare his race have a wonderful power of
assuming.
The Captain gave a rapid order, and Jack was surrounded and seized.
Asked what his name was, he answered boldly, "John Grayson. I am an
Englishman."
This was received with a shout of laughter. "By the Prophet, a likely
story!" the Captain said. "English Effendis do not go about the country
alone and in rags. More probably a Zeitounli prowling about to stir up
rebellion."
"I can prove my words," Jack said. "I am an Englishman. I put on this
dress to get down to the coast in safety, as the country is disturbed. I
have never been in Zeitoun. I can prove what I am. Those who hurt the
English have to pay for it. Those who help them get well paid
themselves, in good medjidis."
The last word had rather a softening influence. "Of what religion are
you?" the Captain asked.
"Of the religion of the English," Jack answered promptly. The Captain
hesitated for a moment.
"Captain," shouted a Turk from his following, "the Giaour is lying. He
is no English Effendi, but an Armenian of Urfa. I saw his face that day
there was fighting. He had a revolver in his hand, and shot true
Believers with it."
"Is that so? Then he goes to the Kadi," said the Captain, his momentary
hesitation at an end. "Bind him, men, in the Name of Allah, the
Merciful. You are an impudent liar, like all your race," he said to
Jack, turning away with a curse.
Jack hoped he might be able to speak to the priest; but this boon was
denied him. He was placed at the other end of the file of captives. The
man to whom he was bound seemed either afraid, or too thoroughly crushed
and dejected to speak to him. His own state of mind was not enviable.
His first feeling was that he had failed. He meant to do such great
things; he had gone forth full of hope and courage, as one who should
work a great deliverance in the earth. And now?--and now?--What would
they all feel, all the friends who loved and trusted him so? They would
be waiting, wondering, speculating about his fate. Their anxiety would
change into suspense, their suspense would deepen at last into sad
certainty. Yet, most likely, there would be none to tell of his fate.
And Shushan? The thought of her sorrow swallowed up all other thoughts,
all other regrets. And Shushan? For her dear sake he would not give up
hope, he would struggle on even to the end. His English name and his
English race might save him yet.
Not likely, after those fatal shots. Meanwhile, at the present moment,
where was he? Whither was he going? All the stories which, in the last
five years, he had heard spoken with bated breath of the horrors of
Turkish prisons rushed like a sea of bitter waters over his soul. They
brought with them a sensation absolutely new to him--utter, unreasoning,
overpowering _fear_. Terror and anguish took hold on him; large drops,
like the touch of cold fingers, stood upon his forehead; he shivered
from head to foot. He had faced death before this, and it had seemed to
him but a light thing. "After that, no more that they can do." After
that; but how much before--oh, God of mercy, how much before!
All at once Stepanian's voice seemed sounding in his ears. "You must
trust God utterly." Wherever they might bring him, whatever they might
do with him, _God would be there_. He could not get out of that
Presence, nor could they. A thrill shot through him of hope restored and
strength renewed; a vision of conflict over, and victory won at last. As
a cry "unto One that hears," his prayer went up: "Oh, God of my fathers,
I beseech Thee, suffer me not through any pains of death to fall from
Thee. Suffer me not to deny my faith, nor yet to accuse my brethren, in
the Name of Christ, my Redeemer!"
While he thought of God he was calm. When he thought of his chances, of
what might happen to him, of whether any one would believe his story,
the dark fears came again. Even of Shushan it did not do to think too
much just now--he could only commend her to God. Constitutionally, he
was brave and fearless. But to think of a Turkish prison without
shuddering requires much more than constitutional bravery,--either
nerves of adamant, or faith to remove mountains. Perhaps not either,
perhaps not both together could prevent the anguish of anticipation,
whatever strength might be given for actual endurance.
Back again in Urfa, and at the Government House where he had seen Melkon
witness his brave confession, Jack found that his story would not be
listened to for a moment. Some of the captives were taken away, he knew
not whither; others, along with himself, were led within the gloomy
gates of the prison, and after passing through several dark passages,
thrust into a room or cell. As well as he could discern by the light
that streamed from a narrow window high up in the wall, this cell was
already full--nay, crowded--men standing packed together as those who
wait for a door to open and admit them to some grand spectacle. "I
suppose," he thought, "they will take us out by-and-by for some sort of
trial. But what stifling, foetid, horrible air! Enough to breed a
pestilence!"
It was utterly impossible to sit down, difficult even to raise a hand
or move a foot, so dense was the crush. Occasional thrills through the
living mass told that some wretch was making a frantic effort to get a
little air, and thus increasing the misery of his neighbours. Jack
contrived to say to a companion in misfortune, whose ear touched his
mouth, "How long will they keep us here?"
At first the only answer was a mournful "Amaan!" followed by piteous
groans.
He repeated the question--"How long will they keep us in this horrible
place?"
"As long as they can," gasped the man he had addressed;--"until death
sets us free.--Why not?--It is the prison."
But another hissed into his ear, "No; it is hell--_hell_."
"'If I make my bed in hell, behold Thou art there,'" John Grayson
thought. With a brave effort to cling to his Faith and his God, he said
aloud, "God is here. Let us cry to Him."
"God has forsaken us," said the last speaker; but from two or three
others came the feebly murmured prayer, "Jesus, help us!" "Jesus, help
us!"
Time passed on. Jack would have given all the wealth he could claim in
England, were it here and in his hand, simply for one square yard of the
filth-stained ground beneath his feet to rest upon. It was long since
every limb had ached with intolerable weariness; now the dull ache was
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