His Excellency's English Governess

by Sydney C. Grier

To this the sentry, seeing only a small boy in a high state of excitement, with worn and ragged clothes splashed and mud-bespattered, replied merely by the Eastern equivalent of “Tell that to the marines,” coupled with a little good advice as to civility of language, and continued to bar the passage. Azim Bey turned pale.

“I must get in!” he cried. “The men of the city are murdering Mdlle. Antaza. Show me the Balio Bey, your officer, the Mother of Teeth—any one—they will know me and send help.”

But the sentry still smiled in grim incredulity, not unmixed with anger at the boy’s disrespectful reference to Lady Haigh; and Azim Bey threw himself on the ground and cast dust upon his head, and wept and stormed in his despair. The more he cursed, the more the sentry laughed, until the noise attracted the attention of Captain Rossiter, an Engineer officer who was making the Residency his headquarters during a series of surveys which he was carrying out for the Indian Government within the borders of the pashalik, and who had lately been present at a fête at the Palace, where Azim Bey had seen him. He happened to be crossing the courtyard, and hearing the din, came to see what was the matter. To him Azim Bey rushed, and clinging to his hand, told his tale of woe, while the tears poured down his grimy little face. The tale was very incoherent, and, moreover, it was related in a strange mixture of tongues; but Captain Rossiter understood enough of it to send him flying madly out into the street and down the lane, with as many of the Sepoys as he could collect at his heels, Azim Bey staggering after them, almost too much exhausted to walk.

They arrived at the scene of action in the nick of time, to find Charlie, his last shot fired, standing at bay in an angle of the wall, with the fainting Cecil all in a heap on the ground behind him, while he was doing his best to defend himself with the butt-end of the revolver. The arrival of the reinforcements turned the scale. The mob fled before the onslaught of the hated Hindus, and Charlie and Captain Rossiter lifted Cecil up, and half-carried her the rest of the way between them. Azim Bey, picked up on the return journey, was hoisted on the shoulders of one of the men, and they retraced their steps, to find that they must force their way through a large and angry crowd which had gathered in the street, and was hurling defiances at the Residency. All eyes were turned on them as they emerged from the lane, and a moment’s hesitation would have been fatal. A yell of execration went up, a hundred hands were grasping missiles and were about to hurl them, but Captain Rossiter said something quickly to Charlie, and gave a sharp order. The Sepoys closed around, the two Englishmen caught up Cecil and carried her across the street at a run, and before the mob had guessed what was going to be done, they were parted as though by a wedge, the gate of the Residency was gained, and their intended victims were out of reach, the stones and potsherds which they threw clattering on the stout doors as these were shut fast, and barred and bolted from within.

“Sharp work!” said Captain Rossiter to Charlie, wiping his face. “I say, I must go and report to the chief. You and Lady Haigh will look after Miss Anstruther, I suppose? She looks pretty bad.”

He went off to Sir Dugald’s office at once, and told him what had happened. Sir Dugald received the news with a look of weary resignation most piteous to behold. His whole diplomatic life was a struggle against the occurrence of what are euphemistically called “complications,” and here was one brewing literally at his very door. He finished the sentence he was writing, folded his papers and locked them up in a drawer, carefully restoring the key to its place on his watch-chain, but as he walked across the courtyard with Captain Rossiter, his perturbation made itself audible in disjointed mutterings.

“Why couldn’t they have taken refuge anywhere rather than here? That fellow Egerton is bound to bring trouble wherever he goes. On my word, it’s ‘heads you win, tails I lose,’ with a vengeance. If the mob attack us, blood won’t wash it out, and if we fire on them we shall have a blood-feud with all the Arabs in the country. Bringing that child here, too, as if to proclaim that we support Ahmed Khémi in all his wretched grinding oppression. We shall be identified with him in the Baghdadi mind for years. Subadar, turn out the guard.”

The last sentence was addressed to the Sepoy officer, who was eagerly awaiting the order, and the soldiers marched down to the gate, where was gathered a crowd of clerks, servants, interpreters, cavasses, and the other motley hangers-on of a consulate in the East, besides a number of people from outside who considered themselves “under protection,” and always sought the Residency in haste at the first sign of a riot. These were all listening, pale with fear, to the repeated crashes as the mob amused themselves by throwing stones at the gate, but they made way with grateful confidence for Sir Dugald as he advanced, his face absolutely impassive once more, and examined the bars and bolts.

“So long as they are content with this,” he said to Captain Rossiter, “we are all right. It’s an insult to the flag, of course, but an apology will set it right. But if they get tired of throwing stones and making no impression, we must still try and keep them off without coming absolutely to blows. I will leave you in charge of the gate, Rossiter, but there must be no firing with ball except in the very last resort. Ah, listen to those mad idiots outside! They are trying to provoke the Sepoys. Send the men back to fetch sand-bags or anything that will strengthen the gate. Either keep them busy or keep them out of hearing.”

Tired of throwing stones without result, the mob were now resorting to hard words. One man after another stood up at a safe distance and howled insults at the Sepoys, their families, and their whole ancestry, and any particularly telling phrase was caught up and echoed by the crowd. Sir Dugald’s brow was furrowed with anxiety as he slowly retraced his steps from the gate, for these Sepoys were fresh from India, full of memories of annual conflicts with Moslems at the Hûli and the Moharram, and he could not tell how long they would stand the provocation they were receiving. From the river-terrace he now sent off a messenger to the Palace, informing the Pasha of the situation, and begging him to send a sufficient force of soldiers to secure his son’s safety and to enable him to return home, either by land or water. And meanwhile he lamented that this “complication” should have happened, as was only natural, at a time when the gunboat was away down the river.