The war maker

by Horace Herbert Smith

Under my British name of George MacFarlane I stopped at Shepheard’s Hotel, then the home of all pilgrims, and gave myself up to the enjoyment of new scenes while I waited, in no sense impatiently, for the development of the situation through whose coming I had been summoned. It was at the height of the tourist season, following the Christmas holidays, and there was an abundance of company, made up of cultured Europeans and a few Americans of gentle birth, for that was before Cairo was over-run with the over-rich. The time was delightfully whiled away for a month before anything happened to indicate the reason for my being there, but within less than half of that time I had renewed acquaintance with the man who was really the key to the situation, though I did not suspect it at the time. He and I had been strangely thrown together some years before, under conditions which provoked rather an intimate knowledge of each other, and when we met on the street one day the recognition was instant and mutual. He did not inquire into my business but simply asked what name I was travelling under, in order that he might not embarrass me. He stood in close and confidential relation to Tewfik Pasha, the Khedive, and on that account it is best that there should be no hint, even now, as to his name or nationality.

I wished to see the titular ruler of Egypt at close range, and through my old companion-in-arms I secured an invitation to the Khedive’s annual ball at the Abdin Palace. This function, which naturally was the event of the year, was rendered impressive by all the artistry of the East, and it was a most brilliant spectacle. At the ends of every step in the long stairway leading up to the palace stood immobile footmen, who suggested past glories despite their costume, which was decidedly English, save for the ever-present fez. Inside, there was an endless succession of long mirrors set in the walls, which multiplied the jewels of the women and the gay uniforms of the officers and diplomats into a flashing mass of colors; countless palms scattered profusely through the large rooms, and gorgeous chandeliers illuminated with candles, but there was not so much as a hint of furniture. Had there been any place where the guests could lounge or sit, beyond the floor, the chances are that some of them would have stayed there until the next day, at least, in the absence of physical violence as an aid to their departure. The only ladies present were Europeans and some few favored Americans, but from wide corridors behind the musharabiyeh, or fretwork around the frieze of the walls, the Khedivah and her women attendants had a good view of the proceedings without danger of being seen. They were equally secure from any possibility of intrusion, for every avenue that led in their direction was guarded by offensively haughty eunuchs.

I was purposely close to the end of the long line of people who were presented to the Khedive, for I wanted to study him. He was about five and a half feet tall, with straight black hair, black moustache, an olive complexion, brown eyes that were more than alert, and a rather Roman nose, giving a Jewish cast to his face, which always wore a very bored expression except when he was interested. His hand was small but firm—such a hand as would commit murder if the owner were sure it would not be found out. There was nothing of the brave man in his looks or actions. Polite and insinuating by nature, he was never born to lead. Rather, he suggested the favorite and tool of the Sultan, who would take some small chance of losing his head with a sufficiently large reward in the other side of the scale. He wore that night, and always, a single-breasted frock coat, like that of an Episcopal clergyman. He spoke English correctly but with an accent, and aversion as well; French he loved and spoke like a Parisian. I had been given advance information on this point, so when I was introduced, following a string of Englishmen and Americans, I addressed him in French. Instantly the weary look vanished and his face lighted up until he became almost handsome.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, as he gripped my hand with more force than I had previously seen him display, “you are a Frenchman. I am delighted.”

I made some polite reply and he went on, almost excitedly, “I love the French language, but I do not like the English. I speak it only because I have to. The Khedivah is more fortunate. She does not speak it at all, and she never will learn it.”

We exchanged commonplaces for a moment and I passed on, wondering to what extent England could trust this man, who hated her tongue and made no secret of it.

Cairo has been described so often and in so many ways by people who had nothing better to write about that I have no wish to add to the literature on that subject, but I cannot refrain from speaking, in passing, of one unusual scene which, so far as I have read, has for all of these years escaped the attention of literary loiterers. With my mind far back in centuries that are forgotten, in lands devoid of imperishable monuments like those around me, I had stayed on the summit of Cheops so long, one afternoon, that my dragoman declared I would have trouble in reaching the bottom before dark. Half-way down I paused for a glimpse at Cairo, with every minaret standing out boldly in the strong light. Then, suddenly, almost at my feet, the sinking sun created the shadow of the Great Pyramid, and it began to move. It advanced almost imperceptibly, at first, but gathered headway quickly and in a moment it was rushing across the twelve-mile plain toward the city with the speed of an express train, as it seemed to me; I am sure no race horse could have kept pace with it. When the shadow reached the Mokattam Hills it paused for an instant and then began, slowly and more slowly and with apparent difficulty, to climb the high side of the Citadel Mosque. When it was half-way up the wall the sun dropped out of sight like a shot and we were buried in Egyptian darkness, which, be it said, is no simple figure of speech. In a few minutes, however, we were able to complete our descent of the gigantic steps by the light of the brilliant afterglow, which spread its soft radiance over the land.

As I was enjoying my after-dinner cigar one evening in a quiet corner of the garden in front of the hotel, I was approached by three women pedlers, apparently of the fellah class. They wore the common blue kimono-like garment, held together seemingly by luck, and their small black veils were thrown over their heads, leaving their faces bare and thus placing them outside the pale of Egyptian respectability. I was about to walk away to avoid their pestering, when my eyes met those of the one who was in the lead, and instantly I was attracted in place of being repelled. Great, brilliant eyes they were; not fickle and flirtatious, like those of the thinly veiled beauties of the harem who were seen in their coupes on the Shoobra Road every afternoon, nor sullen or sensuous, like those of the class to which her garb gave her claim; but steady and sincere, wide-open and frank, and in them shone a light that converted into specks the lanterns with which the grounds were illuminated. Such eyes do not come in one generation, not even by chance, nor are they born of the soil. Her face was of the pure Egyptian type, gentle in its contour and refined in every line, with perfectly arched eyebrows and a mass of hair as black as her eyes, and her easy carriage emphasized the grace of her tall, lithe figure, the curves of which not even her coarse robe could entirely conceal.

Her sparkling eyes, turned full on me and ignoring all else, told me as plainly as words could have done that she had some message for me, and, suspecting that the moment for which I had been waiting for weeks had arrived, I walked slowly toward her, as though in a mood to barter. As we met, seemingly somewhat disconcerted by my steady gaze of profound and unconcealed admiration, she drew her uncouth veil across her face and held out her hands, like one trained to tourist trade, that I might examine her wonderful rings. Those hands could never have known work, they were so soft and small, and arms more perfectly rounded were never modelled in marble by a master. Plainly this woman was not of the servant class, to which her companions as clearly belonged. One of her hands was half-closed and as she laid it in mine it opened and a small piece of folded paper fell into my palm. Long accustomed to ways out of the ordinary, I gave no sign, beyond an involuntary start which she felt but no one else noticed, and proceeded with outward calmness, and assuredly with much deliberation, to select a ring, which I purchased as a souvenir of our first meeting. It was set with an uncut ruby in a band of gold so fine that it was removed from her tiny finger, which it encircled nearly twice, simply by pressing the ends outward. Not a word passed between us except as to the price of the ring, over which there was no haggling. The women who were with her made a pretence of showing me their wares, but it was only a show for the benefit of any inquisitive persons who might be watching, and without urging me to buy they passed on. I strolled after them and was interested in observing that as they approached other guests the woman who had slipped me the note remained in the background, with her face veiled, leaving commerce to her companions. They attempted to make only a few sales and then disappeared.

Curious to a degree that surprised me, as to the contents of the communication which had come to me so strangely, but fearful of being watched, by I knew not whom, it was some time before I went to my room to read the note by the light of a tallow candle. The mysterious missive read: “You are Captain Boynton. Are you willing to undertake a difficult and perhaps dangerous mission? Answer to-morrow night through the channel by which you receive this.”