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

As for von Hildemaller, he tossed away the stump of the cigarette he had been smoking, and watched the departing figure of the British officer through half-closed lids, while he still panted and mopped his forehead. Then, thrusting his panama upon his shaven head, he looked craftily about him for a moment, and, having assured himself that no one in particular was watching him, lifted his right hand to his shoulder and made a sudden signal. A moment later a tall, sleek Turk slid up from an adjacent stall, and halted beside him:

"My master?" he asked, in the Turkish tongue.

"You saw him," demanded the German curtly, with that brutal abruptness common to the German. "That man – that Douglas Pasha – you saw the man?"

"I did. I watched and waited yonder. And then?" asked the Turk.

"Go and kill him, that's all! Go and slay the man!" von Hildemaller told him, turning upon his emissary just as friendly a smile as ever he had turned upon Joe Douglas. "There is no need to discuss the matter further, for you know the man and you have the method. Go then! When it is done come back to me and you shall be rewarded."

Who would have thought the worthy von Hildemaller capable of such words, or of giving such a dastardly order? Indeed, at the very moment when he was condemning the gallant Major to death by the hand of this Turkish assassin, the stout German looked so utterly genial, so entirely friendly and harmless, that none could possibly have suspected the real gist of his orders. Yet, as we have inferred already, behind those smiling, merry eyes, which looked so frankly and so honestly at people, there was a clever scheming brain, and behind those lips which were never stern, and seemed ever to be parted amiably, was a tongue given to much lying. Let us add, too, the fact that that brain was capable of inventing acts which would have shamed an Englishman, and of producing orders even more dastardly than that which had already been given. Indeed, there was no limit to the crimes which von Hildemaller could perpetrate, more particularly if they were for the ultimate benefit of his own country. With the smooth, smiling, genial face almost of a child, he was at heart a wretch, a cruel, scheming, cunning creature, an unscrupulous agent, capable of planning any atrocity. When that was said, we have von Hildemaller's full character, and we have merely to add that, like many of his kidney, when the planning was done, when the schemes for assassination and murder were arranged, the power for evil of this German suddenly subsided. He could scheme, but he lacked the courage to carry out his enterprise. His was the crafty brain which arranged the deed but contrived to get another to carry it out for him. Thanks to a Government which supplied him with ample funds, he could command in this country a host of ruffians. Pooh! The assassination of a British officer was quite a small matter, to be arranged on the spur of the moment, and to cost not so much as a second thought, and no great sum of gold when all was considered.

Von Hildemaller snapped his fingers and mopped his face again as the Turk sped away from him; then, lighting a German cigar, and puffing at it till he got it going to his satisfaction, he strolled – waddled rather – through the Bazaar, and on to his own quarters.

"Quite a nice sort of fellow, that Douglas Pasha!" he was telling himself as he went. "For a Briton, quite a respectable individual! Conceited? Yes! But then, that's a fault of the nation; but honest, clear-headed, I think, friendly and – yes – certainly – simple!"

"Simple!" did he say? If the worthy German, waddling through the Bazaar, could have seen Major Douglas at that moment, he might have had cause to reflect a little, and to change his opinion. For, though the gallant Major may have made pretence at simplicity when meeting the German, though he may have given the impression of being shallow, of being thoughtless, and of possessing not so much as an atom of cunning, yet Douglas Pasha had not travelled through Mesopotamia, had not met hosts of Germans, had not studied the history of Germany and her people, without learning many lessons. It was a habit of this gallant officer to study unconsciously the character of every individual with whom he came in contact, and thus it happened that the worthy von Hildemaller had, as it were, come under the microscopic examination of this British officer.

"Very charming, ahem! I am sure. A most excellent fellow to meet in a café, say on the Grand Boulevard in Paris, or in the Unter den Linden in Berlin. A generous host, a loud-speaking, merry fellow, but insincere, unscrupulous – like his people – out for something big, something to benefit his own country; to be carefully watched, and distrusted, and yet to be met in the most friendly manner possible."

That was the Major's summing-up of the excellent and cunning von Hildemaller; and now, as he took the nearest cut back to his own apartments in the city of Bagdad, apartments which he had occupied on more than one occasion, there was something in his face which, if the German could have seen it, would have warned him that Douglas Pasha was hardly so simple as he anticipated.

"Unfortunate meeting that German," Joe Douglas was telling himself as he hurried along. "Of course he knows just as well as I do that war has been declared between Great Britain and Germany, and that Turkey is likely to come into the conflict. That being the case, he and I are hardly likely to remain on speaking terms after this; indeed, he'll look upon me as a dangerous enemy, just as I look upon him. Shouldn't wonder if his hirelings are already watching me, and – yes – there are tales of the worthy Herr von Hildemaller which aren't too pleasant."

Rapping sharply on the door of his lodgings, he was admitted by an Armenian servant, and at once strode into his sitting-room. Throwing himself into a cane-seated chair and lighting a cigarette, he then rapped sharply on the table.

"Pack up," he ordered; "we leave in five minutes. Wait! What's that?"

Someone was rapping on the floor below them, someone who called in low tones for admission. Instantly Joe Douglas sprang to his feet, and, pulling the chair away, and the table, dragged a piece of Turkish carpet on one side, disclosing a narrow trap-door.

"Enter!" he called, and helped the person below who had demanded admission to raise the opening.

And slowly, as he did so, there emerged from a dark hole below, by means of a roughly-made ladder, the big, bony, angular form of that same hook-nosed Jew with whom he had haggled in the Bazaar not half an hour before.

"H-h-'sh! Listen, Excellency!" The man stood half in and half out of the opening, one warning talon held upward, his beady eyes fixed on Douglas Pasha, his lips trembling. "That man! That German hound! That scoundrel!"

The gallant Major was the very last individual to show alarm. In fact, fuss and worry were things he hated intensely, and his nonchalance on all occasions was something which long ago had attracted the admiration of his comrades. He still smoked on, and, throwing himself into his chair, and flinging his legs on the table, he smiled at the Jew and bade him proceed with the story.

"Yes, the German, von Hildemaller!" he said. "A most excellent gentleman! And you said beware, my friend, did you not? But surely – "

He gave vent to a laugh, an ironical laugh, which grated on the ears of those listening, and which warned them that, though the German may have considered this British officer to be childishly simple, he was yet well aware of the danger which surrounded him.

"Listen, Excellency!" said the Jew, emerging now completely from the chamber beneath the room in which Joe Douglas was seated. "I watched the scene from my stall. Long ago I warned Your Excellency that this German had no love for you, that his hirelings were watching you and dogging your steps, and that some day he would do you a mischief. Now the day has arrived! Even as you hurried away from that accidental meeting with him, I saw him call to one whom I know to be nothing but an assassin – a wretch – whose knife is at the bidding of anyone who can pay him money – one who should long ago have been hanged in the market-place. Leaving my stall, I followed this rascal, and saw him call to others. Even now they are arming, and, as dusk falls – which will be within an hour perhaps – they will break a way into this dwelling and carry out the purpose of this German."

Joe Douglas whistled, a merry whistle, and smiled in the most friendly fashion at the Jew. He even got up from his chair, still smoking, and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"My friend," he said, "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this warning; not this time alone, but on many occasions, have you proved a real friend to me, and may it be many a day before I forget your loyalty. But, as it happened, I guessed the intentions of our worthy friend von Hildemaller. Already I have given orders to pack up all my belongings, and soon, in a little while indeed, we shall be out of this place, leaving it to the hired assassins of the German."

There was bustle in that little house in the ten minutes which followed, all hands being engaged in packing the Major's belongings. Then, having completed the work to his satisfaction, the Jew and the Armenian servant of Douglas Pasha dragged his trunks through the opening down into the cellar beneath. Long before that, Joe Douglas had transformed himself into an absolute replica of the Jew who had come to warn him, and, indeed, looked the part to perfection. Then, casting a hurried glance round, and throwing the light from an electric torch into every corner – for already the dusk was falling, and the house opposite darkened that in which he had been living – he slid through the opening in the floor, and gently lowered the trap-door after him, having just before that dragged the table across it. Then the three made their way to the far edge of the cellar, and, ascending some steps, entered a narrow alley. There, at the bidding of the Major, his two companions went off to their left, while Joe Douglas made ready to venture into the open.

"You will go to the old quarters," he told them in a whisper, "while I see what is happening in the street yonder. To-night, as the moon rises, you will have a conveyance ready for me, and to-morrow we shall be well out in the desert."

But a minute before, Douglas Pasha, in spite of the rags with which he was now covered, was without doubt the tall British officer who had made his way into the heart of the city of Bagdad; but now, as the need to act up to his disguise arrived, he became transformed in a manner which was really remarkable. Leaning on a long, stout stick, his head and shoulders bent, and his legs tottering, he stumbled from the alley into the open street, and shuffled and clattered his way along past the door of his own dwelling. It was there that he almost collided, in the dusk, with three Turkish rascals, one of whom was preparing to break the door in with a crowbar. Yet the Jew took no notice of them, but stumbled past, muttering into the cloak which covered his head, talking to himself, and pulling his rags round him. A little farther on, less than a hundred yards, perhaps, he caught sight of a rotund and perspiring figure in a sunken doorway – a figure which was faintly illuminated by an oil lamp hanging in a passage opposite. It was the figure of von Hildemaller, who had crept to this spot to watch the doings of his hired assassins. Again it was characteristic of the Major that he halted in front of the man, careless of the consequences.

"Money! Money to buy food and lodging," he whined, holding out a shuddering, shaking hand, while his whole frame swayed and tottered. "Money, Excellency, to keep body and soul within me!"

"Money! Bah!" The German struck at him with the light cane he was carrying, and threw a glance of hatred and contempt after the tottering figure of the Jew as he retreated.

Then with wide-open ears he listened as the door of the house along the street was burst open, and waited breathlessly for news from his assassin. It was with a storm of rage and disappointment that he learned that the place was empty, that Douglas Pasha was gone, and that the scheme for ending his energies in Mesopotamia had been defeated.

Yet the cunning of this German was not always to meet with such ill success, for though Douglas Pasha contrived to escape from Bagdad that night, and made his way into the desert, there came a day when von Hildemaller traced him. Also there came a day when Douglas Pasha – a prisoner then, and none too well treated – contrived to get a message out of the Turkish fortress in which he was incarcerated. Even as Geoff Keith, and Philip, and Commander Houston braced themselves for a stiff engagement with the Turks aboard the steam-launch which had been pursuing them, that message was speeding down the Tigris towards the British forces. It was a request for help, but with no definite statement of the position where Douglas Pasha was imprisoned. And there were miles of desert country to traverse, and hundreds of enemies to pass, ere the messenger could bear his missive to our Head-quarters. It was a toss-up, indeed, as to whether the news of the Major's plight would ever reach his own people; just as it was a toss-up whether Geoff and his comrades would ever contrive to beat off the Turks who were about to assail them.

CHAPTER VIII
The Motor-boat in Action

There was a deathly silence about the reed-clad island which separated the motor-boat, with its British crew, which was stealing along one side of it, and the wide-stretching marshes on the farther side, where the Turkish launch forged her way slowly, steering for the far end of the island. There was just the gentle purr of the petrol motor aboard the British boat as it slowly turned over – that and the occasional click of a rifle-lock, as one of the men saw to his weapon. From the far side, however, there came voices on occasion, smothered every now and again by the burr and hiss of steam as it escaped from the safety-valve above the boiler. Geoff looked over the side and peered into the water; then he took a boathook and thrust it downward till it struck the bottom of the swamp close beside them. An instant later he had plucked the Commander by the sleeve, and was whispering to him.

"Look, sir," he said; "not much more than two-feet-six of water; you can see the mark on this boathook; and it's hard ground down below – listen!" He sent the boathook down through the water again till the end struck heavily on the bottom, and sent forth a dull, ringing sound.

As for the Commander, he drew the inevitable pipe from between his lips and looked inquisitively at Geoff and then at the boathook.

"Yes?" he asked. "What then?"

"Might be useful," Geoff ventured. "A couple of men dropped overboard could take cover at the edge of the island in amongst the reeds, and might help us immensely."

Commander Houston smiled an indulgent smile at him, and gripped him by the shoulder.

"Well done, Keith!" he said in that sharp, commanding tone of his. "Take a man with you, and get a rifle. Quick with it! for those Turks will be clear of the island within a few minutes. Here, Smith! You're one of my best shots. Overboard with you!"

There were spare rifles lying in the open cabin of the motor-boat, and beside them clips of cartridges. Geoff instantly seized one of the weapons, and filled a pocket with ammunition; then he dropped overboard, while the man who had been called joined him within half a minute with a grin of expectation, while on the faces of his comrades there was a look almost of envy.

"Come!" said Geoff, wading through the water and finding the ground at the bottom as he had expected – hard, and giving firm foothold.

Indeed, it would appear that the wide swamps they were now traversing, and which seemed to be composed of practically stagnant water, were stirred and swept now and again by eddies from the main stream. Perhaps in those violent gales, which every now and again sweep across Mesopotamia, the waters from the Euphrates are driven into the marsh lands, and, instead of flowing slowly and almost imperceptibly across them, filtering through them, as it were, they rush and sweep through every channel, heaping islands of mud here and there where there happen to be eddies, and carrying on vast accumulations of ooze and slime to other quarters. No doubt, too, in dry seasons, when the Shatt-el-Arab has fallen considerably, and the depth of the water in the main stream is much reduced, the waste of water lying at such a time across these marsh lands drains away, leaving a glistening, sandy desert. In any case, there was good going at this spot, and Geoff and his comrade made the most of it.

Wading up beside the island, they advanced, within a couple of minutes, some yards towards the upper end, to which the Turkish launch was fast approaching.

"In here," said Geoff, seeing an opening between some reeds where the bank jutted out a little and formed an angle or depression. "Now cut some of the reeds away with your knife, so as to give you a good field of fire and clear vision."

"Make ready!" they heard the Commander call to them gently, just after they had got into position, and, turning to look at the motor-boat, they saw that she had moved farther out from the island, and was now lying end-on, her bows presented to the spot where the enemy was to be expected.

Almost at the same instant, the shriek of a steam siren came from the far distance – from that big Turkish steamer which had so unexpectedly opposed the advance of this British party on the River Euphrates, and, following it, an answering shriek, more piercing in its intensity, from the steam-launch drifting but a few yards away from them. Then her bows appeared, to be followed in a little while by her funnel, and then by the whole length of her. There was foam at her stern, while smoke was blowing out from the top of her funnel, for she was under way again, and, indeed, was steering a course towards another island which dotted the marshes in the distance. Perched on a raised portion of the deck, just in front of her funnel, was a Turkish officer, shouting loud commands; while on the deck for'ard of him were gathered some twenty or more soldiers, all eager and expectant; yet, as it happened, their gaze was fixed on the distant island, and not upon the water beyond that from behind which they were just emerging. Thus it followed that more than a minute passed before one of them noticed the motor-boat stealing gently, bow on, towards them. The man started and shouted, lifting his rifle high over his head.

"Look!" he shouted, so suddenly, and in such a voice of alarm, that the officer was startled. Swinging round, he too saw the motor-boat, and himself took up the shout with a vengeance.

"The enemy! Swing the ship round! Fire into them!" he bellowed.

"Steady lads!" cried Commander Houston, standing erect in his cabin. "Marsden, stop her! Now, boys, let 'em have it!"

A volley burst from the weapons of the sailors in the motor-boat, and several of the Turks fell from the steam-launch and splashed into the water. By that time bullets were sweeping about the head of the Commander, while not a few struck the sides of the motor-boat or the surface of the water near at hand, throwing up spray which swept over the heads of those who manned her. But not a man flinched; while Commander Houston, snatching his pipe from between his teeth, roared encouragement at the sailors.

"Let 'em have it!" he cried. "Now, Keith," he bellowed, swinging round to our hero, "put in your bullets as fast as you are able. Ah! That has dropped their officer. Just keep your eye on the man at the wheel, and the man who's running the engine, for we can't afford to allow that boat to get away from us."

His teeth had gritted on the stem of his pipe a few seconds earlier, and, unseen by his men, the Commander clapped a hand to one shoulder. Perhaps it was a minute later that he wiped blood from his lips with his handkerchief, and then, like the old "sea-dog" he was, thrust his pipe back into his mouth and went on smoking, still careless of the bullets humming about him, his eyes fixed all the while upon the enemy.

As for Geoff and the man with him, they were able to make excellent shooting from the point of advantage where they had taken cover. Seeing the Turkish officer level his revolver at the Commander, and pull his trigger – a shot which caused the Commander to act as already narrated – Geoff levelled his own piece on him, and gently pressed the trigger, sending the Turkish officer in amongst his soldiers. Then Smith, the watchful sailor beside him, grim and silent and stern now, picked off the man at the wheel of the steam-launch, while Geoff transferred his attention to the Turk whose head bobbed up and down above the engine.

Perhaps two minutes had passed since the first exchange of shots, two busy minutes, during which more than half of the crew of the Turkish launch had been killed or wounded, while as yet, but for a slight wound here and there, not one of the British sailors had been damaged. And now a figure suddenly took the place of the Turkish officer.

"An under officer," shouted the Commander, "look out for him!"

"He is giving orders for the steam-launch to get under way again," cried Geoff – for at the first discharge the engine aboard the enemy vessel had been stopped. "Come along, Smith, we'll wade out to her and stop any sort of movement."

Floundering out from behind the cover he had selected, and with his rifle held well above the water, Geoff led the way direct to the enemy vessel, while a well-timed shot from the motor-boat sent the under-officer in amongst his fallen comrades. Then the engine aboard Commander Houston's little vessel began to thud, while the water behind her was churned, and as the screw got into operation she darted forward towards the steam-launch, the rifles of her crew spitting bullets still at the Turks who remained in evidence. Then, at a shout from the Commander, the fusillade ceased absolutely, though the motor-boat still pushed on towards the enemy.

"Cease fire!" bellowed the Commander; "they have surrendered; see that man holding his hands up towards us."

Taken by surprise as the Turks were, and broken indeed by the first volley, it was not extraordinary that this little British force had at the very commencement the best of the argument. The raking volley which they had poured into the enemy had thrown them into instant confusion, while the shots which Geoff and the man Smith, who went with him, had fired, had contributed not a little to the success of the operation; and now, with her deck covered with wounded or dead, the launch surrendered; a soldier, a huge, well-grown Turk, standing there amongst his comrades, with both arms held over head, and calling to the British to spare them. By then Geoff was within a few yards of the launch, and, staggering on, clambered aboard her. A glance into the open engine-room showed him a man cowering there, the one whose head he had seen bobbing above the side of the vessel a few moments earlier.

"Come out!" he commanded briskly. "No, you won't be shot, and don't fear it, for you've been captured by British sailors. Smith, get hold of that wheel. Now let every man who has escaped injury 'fall in' on the deck, so that you may be counted."

A hail reached him a moment later from the motor-boat, and, turning for a second, and so taking his eyes from the Turks now mustering on the deck quite close to him, he saw Philip waving frantically to him; but of the Commander there was not a sign, for indeed that gallant individual was reclining in the depths of his cabin.

"Geoff, ahoy!" he heard. "I'm coming up close to you. Commander Houston's wounded."

"Stop!" Geoff shouted back at him. "Back your boat in behind the island, where I'll join you. Smith, can you see any sign of that Turkish boat we met in the river?"

There was half a minute's pause before he received an answer, and then the fine fellow he had posted at the wheel called gently to him.

"Not a sign, sir," he said; "those islands yonder, through which we came on our way here, hide the channel of the river. She's out of sight, and can't see us either, though there's no doubt that she's within fairly close distance."

"Which means that she will have heard the firing. Hum!" thought Geoff, as he swept his eyes round the waste of waters and wondered what would happen. Then he called to the Turk who had been manning the launch engine.

"Get down to your engine again," he commanded, "and give her a little steam. Smith, swing her round behind the island. We'll lie up there with the motor-boat for a while, and see to the Commander, and repair damages."

The minutes which followed were busy ones indeed, for, as may be imagined, there was much to be done after such a brisk little encounter. Swinging the launch round, while the Turk gave the engine steam, Smith steered her in till she was quite close to the island; then the motor-boat came alongside her, and the two vessels were moored there, the crew of the British vessel taking ropes ashore, and their own and the launch's anchor.

"I'm not a sailor," Geoff told the men aboard the motor-boat, when at last they were secured to the island, "so I'll leave it to the senior amongst you to look to your damages. You've got some shot-holes about your hull, I'm sure, for I heard the bullets strike, and I can see water spurting in in more than one direction. Just post four men up on to the deck of the launch to look after our prisoners, and let one man make his way through the reeds of the island to the far side to keep watch for the arrival of more enemies. Now, Philip, give a hand and let us look to the Commander."

Leaping down into the cabin, they found Commander Houston lying full length upon the floor, his face wonderfully changed from that to which they had become accustomed. Instead of displaying a ruddy countenance, and cheeks which glowed with health and vigour, there was now a deathly pallor upon the merry face of their friend, which seemed to have shrunken and grown smaller. But if the gallant sailor had suffered an injury, as indeed he had without a doubt, and if he were placed hors de combat by it, there was yet no loss of spirit, no lack of joviality; indeed the same happy smile wreathed the pallid face of this most gallant fellow, while he was still actually making a pretence of smoking.

"A nice brisk little affair; eh, boys?" he said weakly, in tones which evidently astonished and disgusted himself, for he apologized for them. "Don't take any notice of my voice," he told them; "it's nothing, believe me; merely a shot through my chest, for which I have to thank that Turkish Commander. A mere trifle, I assure you," he went on, and then coughed violently, while blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

He shut his eyes, and, in the midst of calling to them again, fell backwards heavily, leaving both Geoff and Philip dismayed at his appearance. Springing forward, Phil lifted his head and supported the Commander against his knee, while Geoff rapidly undid his tunic, and, seeing clearly from the stain upon it where the wound must be, tore the shirt open. But what to do further was the question with him, for, though our hero may have had some experience already of travelling, and had undoubtedly seen rather more of foreign places than is the lot of most young fellows, yet he was singularly ignorant of wounds, had seen few indeed, and had practically no training in minor surgery. But amongst the crew there was one who was quite an experienced old sailor, who, had he cared to tell his tale, no doubt could have yarned to them of many a naval scrap in out-of-the-way places. It was the Cox who joined them now – a short, broad-shouldered, rather wizened fellow, with a cheerful smile always on his face, and with that brisk, respectful, helpful way about him so common to his counterpart, the non-commissioned officer, in the army.

"You just hold on to him like that," he told Philip, who was supporting the Commander's head and shoulders. "No," he added in a warning voice, "no, I wouldn't let him lie down flat, sir, if I was you, 'cause, you see, sir, he's hit through the lung, and he's bleeding internally. If you just think for a moment, sir, you'll see that that sort of thing is likely to drown a man, to swamp his lungs, as it were, and the more you can sit him up for a while the better. Hi, Marsden," he called, "let's have that surgical pannier!"

If Geoff and his chum were entirely ignorant of wounds beyond what knowledge was required to place a first field dressing in position – and that was a task which every officer and man learned as a matter of course – the Cox was, on the other hand, quite a respectable surgeon. While Philip held the Commander's heavy frame up, the broad-shouldered little sailor cut away his tunic and shirt, and, having exposed the wound both at the front and at the back – for the bullet had passed right through the body – he swiftly dabbed each wound with his brush loaded with iodine, and then clapped on a dressing.

"Next thing is to bandage him up so as to leave the other side of his chest free to move, and keep this side just as still as possible," he told Geoff; "that will give the damaged arteries and veins a chance to heal and stop bleeding. Beg pardon, sir, but if you'd hold the box of dressings I can help myself easier."

With dexterous hands – hands which were as gentle as might be, in spite of this sailor's rough calling – the Cox rapidly secured the dressings with a roller bandage. Meanwhile, at a call from Geoff, the cabin cushions had been laid on the boards at the bottom of the cabin, and on this improvised bed the Commander was now laid, his head well propped up with cushions.