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When the inevitable moment of separation came, Winston looked resigned to it, almost. I wish I could say that we were kind when he thudded onto the ground, but alas! Even his adoring wife, Clementine, was convulsed, and every attempt to stifle our laughter made things worse.
“The animal must be an Egyptian nationalist,” someone shouted.
“Offer her a caliphate!” someone else called out.
To Thompson’s alarm, our Arab escorts wheeled their steeds around and raced toward Winston, who still lay glaring upward from the ground. “Christ!” Thompson cried. “They’ll crush him, and on my watch!” But no—these were superbly skilled riders on beautifully trained Arabian horses. With a splendid spray of fine yellow sand, they pulled up just in time and leapt gallantly to the ground, shouting their distress.
“They plead with the great man,” Lawrence translated, straight-faced, “that he will, by God, exchange mounts with one of them, and not hazard himself again by sailing on a ship of the desert!”
Growling, Winston rolled onto his hands and knees, stood himself up, brushed himself off, and looked around for his hat. “Tell them I started on a camel,” he ordered Lawrence, “and I’ll finish on a camel!” To the rest of us, he declared, “I’ll have you know I ranked fourth in my class of cavalry candidates at Sandhurst.”
“Yes, and I’m quite sure your animal was aware of that,” Lawrence soothed as he slid lightly off his own mount and came to the side of Winston’s. “When she realized she’d have the honor of carrying you”—Lawrence heaved the heavy saddle upward—“naturally, she puffed up with pride. Then she felt how badly you rode and decided there must have been some mistake.” Lawrence bent at the knees, then rose to ram a shoulder into the camel’s belly. The animal exhaled with an audible rush of stinking breath and he jerked the belly strap tight before continuing: “Since she was obviously being ridden by some very common person, she decided to unload you as speedily as possible. So she let out the air, the girth loosened, and off you came.”
Slapping the animal’s neck, Lawrence turned around. The schoolboy grin had been replaced by a workmanlike confidence. “It won’t happen again.”
The errant camel was once more brought to her knees, and Winston was helped to remount. At that point, the two great men exchanged a few private words, Churchill glowering and bullish, Lawrence quiet and reassuring. Whatever Lawrence told him, it seemed to make a difference. Churchill rode without incident afterward.
As for the rest of us? Well, even without an inglorious public plummet, we were soon humbled. You see, camel saddles have two high horns, front and rear. Their wooden frames beat rhythmically on bones, while their coarse woolen covers grind like pumice against any unprotected skin. My garters chafed and buttons prodded, and judging from the increasingly open squirming and shifting, all the other greenhorns were equally discomfited. Within twenty minutes conversation ceased as we passed from quiet dismay to open misery. In a fury of wretchedness, one or another of the men would kick and snarl at his beast, trying to rouse it to a trot, but these were tourist camels, disinclined to hurry. Their response was not an increase in speed but bared yellow teeth and a bitter, misanthropic commentary of their own.
I suspected that more than one of us envied Lady Cox’s snap decision not to embark on this trek at all. How easy it is to begin a journey in ignorance and how quickly one can come to regret it, I thought. We had gone too far to turn back now, though the pyramids seemed no closer on the horizon. Indeed, our goal seemed to recede as time ground on, but there was nothing to do except stay the course.
To distract myself, I watched the two experienced riders in our party. Miss Bell was admirably stoic and skilled in the saddle, but Lawrence’s boneless, unresisting grace was a marvel, and I found myself relaxing as I tried to mirror his supple motion. Dahabeah gradually drew even with his slowing mount. Without much thought, I called, “Colonel Lawrence! I’m surprised that you—”
At the sound of his name, he straightened, and I realized he’d been sleeping. He came to himself with startling quickness, but I could see that it was not merely boredom and the rocking rhythm of the camel that had lulled him. His cornflower eyes were red-rimmed and sunken in bruised-looking, bluish skin. His features seemed stretched taut across the bone. Poveretto! I thought reflexively, and it came to me that my landlady, Mrs. Motta, had taught me the proper way to respond to affliction: not with an admonition to buck up or count one’s blessings but with simple kindness and compassion.
“You poor thing,” I said aloud, and firmly. “Colonel Lawrence, you look exhausted.”
“The longest fortnight I have ever lived,” he admitted. “Forty points of view, forty opinions to bring into balance … And then it all has to be written up.” He smiled briefly and looked away. “Winston’s idea of working hard is to assign an impossible task to others and wait for the report.” He leaned toward me slightly and confided, “War was easier.”
For a time he rode silently, haggard and depressed, then shook the tiredness off, stretching like a cat before settling back into his saddle. “What was it you … ?”
“Oh! Yes! I’m so sorry I woke you. It was just something silly. I wondered why you didn’t wear your Arab robes this morning.”
“Clothing is a tool, Miss Shanklin. What one wears depends on whom one hopes to influence. When Winston brought me into the Colonial Office, everyone expected me to be colorful and difficult. ‘What? Wilt thou bridle the wild ass of the desert?’ ” he quoted with self-deprecating amusement. “They were prepared to resist anything I said or did. So I have been plain and brown as a wren, and used their own surprise as a lever.”
“And have you achieved what you hoped? Will your friend Feisal get his kingdom?” He hesitated, and I promised, “I won’t say anything to Herr Weilbacher, if you’d rather I don’t. I know Sergeant Thompson thinks Karl is a German spy.”
“Thompson is an excellent policeman,” said Lawrence, although his tone seemed to imply, The man is out of his depth. “Has Karl asked about me?”
“He mentioned that you knew each other before the war.”
Lawrence gri
“Anyway, I’d like you to know that Karl is simply—” My breath caught before I finished: “A dear friend.”
“Yes … He can be charming.” Lawrence looked away, his eyes measuring the distance to the pyramids. “You have my leave to inform Herr Weilbacher that the British Crown plans to repair the injury done to the House of the Sherifs of Mecca.” All this was said in the bland, measured tones of diplomacy. Then he smiled his beaming, cryptic smile and added, “The French won’t like it.”
“You could tell him yourself,” I suggested. “Have di
He giggled. “It might be entertaining to watch the veins stand out on Thompson’s forehead, but no. Thanks, all the same.” Lawrence yawned and rubbed at his face. “Another day, and this part of the job will be done. Inshallah, it will last. Are you still pla
“Oh! Jebail! That’s right—” I’d become so enthralled by Karl, I’d forgotten all about Colonel Lawrence’s invitation. But I could easily imagine what Karl would say. To see the Holy Land in such company! Agnes, you must go! We have time. I will be here when you return.
Lawrence and I discussed our itinerary. There would be three days in Jerusalem before going north to the American Mission School, where Lillian had taught. Then I asked, “And what are your plans when all this is over, Colonel?”