"May I permit myself a question, Monsieur le Capitaine? You tell me that
your ship is not independent, but under orders. How did it happen then
that you came this way along the coast instead of sailing northwest?"
"Gentlemen, I'm sure it must be a long time since you smoked. May I offer
you a packet of cigarettes?"
And Brisson handed the teacher a big packet. He turned his grey, naval head
to Ter Haigasun, thoughtfully.
"Your question interests me, mon pčre, because in fact I went against my
orders, and came a good way out of our course. Why? At about ten we passed
the north cape of Cyprus. An hour after midnight I received reports of
a big fire on the Syrian coast. It looked as though a fairly large town
had been set on fire. A wide expanse of red sky. We were well out to sea,
at least thirty miles off land. And now I hear that you'd only set fire
to a few huts. Qf course fog often acts as a magnifying-lens. Such things
are conceivable. Half the sky was red! So, from curiosity -- it must have
been mere curiosity -- I altered our course."
Ter Haigasun rose from his chair. It looked as though he had something
very important to say to them. His lips moved. But suddenly, in a few
uncertain steps, he went to the wall of the cabin and pressed his face
against the glass pane of a porthole. Captain Brisson supposed that the
priest, like the old doctor, was on the verge of a collapse. The priestly
face shimmered in rays of sunlight, as though cut in amber.
Ter Haigasun's eyes were sightless with ecstasy as he stammered in Armenian:
The evil only happened . . . to enable God to show us His goodness."
He raised his hands lightly, as though all this suffering had been surmounted
by its meaning. The Frenchman could not understand. Bedros Hekim sat asleep,
with his head on the table. But Hapeth Shatakhian was not thinking of the
fire in the Town Enclosure, which began with a sacrilegious altar flame
to end in redemption.
Two hours later the great Jeanne d'Arc was on the horizon, with behind
her the English and the French cruisers. The big troopship did not arrive
till close on midday. In a wide, beautifully even line, these blue-grey
turreted fighters approached the land, drawing long foam-trails in their
wake. The squadron commander had signalled back to Captain Brisson that
not only would he pick up these Armenian fugitives, and change his course
in order to do so, but was himself most anxious to inspect this heroic
encampment, where the offshoots of a Christian people had held their own
for forty days against superior forces of barbarians. The rear-admiral
was a pious, indeed a celebrated Catholic, and this fight of Armenians
in defence of the religion of the Cross had really moved him.
When the squadron had anchored in perfect symmetry, there began a sparkling
stir on the glassy sea. Bugle signals vied with one another. Chains and
pulleys creaked. Slowly the big boats hovered down. Meanwhile the sailors
of the Guichen had improvised a kind of landing jetty at the most accessible
place along the shore, where Pastor Aram's raft came in unexpectedly useful.
The rescued people lay, sat, squatted on narrow ledges and watched this sight
through half-seeing eyes, as though it were no concern of theirs. The
head-surgeon of the Guichen, with his assistants and medical staff, were
busy with the sick and those exhausted with hunger. He praised Bedros
Altouni highly, for the fact that yesterday, even when life seemed
almost at an end, he had still arranged a separate camp for infected
people and those suspected of being so.
Altouni admitted with a sigh that many of these poor people up on the
Damlayik had died for want of proper care, though they might quite well
have been saved with the usual nursing. The head-surgeon frowned. It was
a great responsibility for him to take in these fever patients. But what
was to be done? Christians could not simply be left to the mercies of the
revengeful Turks. Since the head-surgeon was humane, he gave his Armenian
colleague a hint: "Don't say too much about it." The troopship was almost
empty, with big, well-arranged hospital cabins. The head-surgeon winked
at the old doctor not to give it another thought.
Vast supplies of bread and tinned food had been divided up among the
healthy, in so far as there were any "healthy" to eat. The ships' cooks
had boiled big kettles of potato soup, and the good-natured French sailors
lent their own mess tins. But the people received all this as though it
were none of it real -- dream-bread and dream-soup, which could never
satisfy. Yet a new state of mind possessed the communes when everyone had
gulped down his portion, unchewed, almost untasted. People felt almost
lifeless, weary to death, and yet, having eaten, the forty days seemed as
remote as some half-forgotten saga. Their bodies might protest against
this unaccustomed food (oh, bread, bread, a thousand times desired) --
to their souls all this seemed merely normal, as if nothing else had
ever been, as if God's grace were no more than "normality."
The rear-admiral landed, with his numerous staff, by the rickety bridge.
A swarm of craft shot in the wake of his motor launch. Detachments of
marines with machine guns had been ordered ashore from every vessel,
to protect the squadron commander. These troops landed and invested
the narrow ledges of rock in such dense throngs that, hemmed in by
innumerable French uniforms, the admiral scarcely managed to get a sight
of this camp he was so curious to inspect. Then, as he came on closely
through crowds of villagers, he asked for an exact account of the origin
and course of this defence. And here Shatakhian got his second chance, a
still better one, to air his French and charm an august French ear with
his perfect accent and choicely extensive vocabulary. The rear-admiral
was a small, dapper old genfleman with a soldierly face, austerely
ornate. His cheeks had the brown tan of the sea. A little, snow-white
moustache. His light-blue eyes were unrelenting, yet their look seemed
mollified by distances. This old gentleman's dapper little body was
not clothed in regulation naval uniform, but he wore a comfortable
drill suit, to which only the narrow strip of decorations on his chest
gave martial distinction. He asked several questions about the fighting
strength of the Turks, and then, with his thin bamboo cane, pointed up
the walls of rock and once more informed his suite of his decision to
inspect the plateau and encampment. One of them ventured to observe
that this would entail a climb of hundreds of meters, which perhaps
might be too much for the chief. Nor would they be able to get back
on board in time for lunch. This audacious officer got no answer. The
rear-admiral gave the sign to proceed. His adjutant had to send off
secret instructions to the marines to hurry on up the winding path
at the double and reach the Damlayik plateau before the admiral. Such
an incursion into enemy territory was a highly risky proceeding. The
mountain seemed surrounded by Turkish troops and Turkish guns. It might
lead to inconvenient surprises. But the chief's well-known obstinacy made
any further objections hopeless. It was decided, therefore, to drop a
few shells, in the course of this picnic, in villages along the coast,
to warn the Turks to keep their distance.
The long-suffering adjutant had also to arrange for a special snack,
since the effort entailed by such a climb might well prove a strain on
an elderly naval officer. It was one of the admiral's pet foibles to show
the younger men surrounding him how sound he was of wind and limb. He went
blithely on, well ahead of the rest. Sato was his alpine guide. She darted
on and back, and on again, as her habit was, like a young mongrel bitch,
covering the ground at least three times. Never in all her life had the
orphan of Zeitun beheld such resplendent shapes. Her greedy, magpie eyes
devoured these uniforms with their rows of medals, their gold braid, while
her paw scraped out the last fat in a bully-beef tin. Her body glowed
with the brandy the sailors had given her. She wriggled it urgently,
in the indescribable rags of what had once been her "butterfly frock,"
cajoling these dazzling gods. And she stretched out her dark brown paw
to them while a sound indigenous to these regions came almost unbidden
to her lips: "Bakshish."
The officers stopped several times, looked about, and began to admire
the beauties of this treed and watered Musa Dagh. More than one was
inspired to the same description as Gonzagne Maris: "Riviera." Others
again were charmed by its wildly virginal quality. The last to ascend
were two young naval lieutenants. So far neither had said anything,
nor had they even admired the view. The one, an Englishman, stood still,
though he did not turn back to look at the sea, but stared straight at
the wall of rock in front of him.
"I say, you know, those Armenians! I don't feel as though I'd been
looking at people; nothing but eyes."
Gabriel had not broken his lines. Though he had had reports that the
Turkish forces were being withdrawn, both north and south, he seemed still
to put no faith in this peace. It may merely have been a matter of war
morale, still no armed defender should quit his post till his people's
fate has been fully determined. But perhaps there were deeper reasons
for his austerity. The new Gabriel had advanced too far along unknown
paths to be able to find his way back to the old so quickly. The forty
days had worked in him a transformation which held him banned by a kind
of magic. Many a rougher man had the same experience. No one in his line
protested or groused against Bagradian's long resistance, least of all the
conscience-stricken deserters, who could not do enough to display their
servility. Gabriel had spoken to the decads. No one must fancy they were
safe till their last women and children were on board. Their steadiness
must show the French the worth of the Armenian nation. They must leave
this camp and their old home as undefeated soldiers, rifles in hand,
in the steadiest order. Nor would he consent to leave the howitzers
shamefully undefended on the Damlayik, for the Turks to take back that
night. He intended rather to present such magnificent trophies to the
French nation.
The fact that Ter Haigasun had had ample supplies sent up to the Damlayik,
bread, marmalade, wine, and tinned meat, was no doubt as persuasive as
Gabriel's words. Also tobacco. The men lay about in a pleasant half-sleep,
better pleased with their long rest than they would have been at having
to move, no matter where.
Their rest ended when the marines appeared on the plateau to march straight
to the howitzer emplacement in one long, extended line. Then the Armenians
sprang up and with shouts of joy rushed to meet the French. These sailors,
in smart, clean uniforms, were in glaring contrast to the scarecrows,
ragged and famished, of Musa Dagh. The men at last were fully conscious
of this marvellous triumph of their enterprise. Then came the group of
officers, and Gabriel went slowly to meet it. His approach was casual,
he would have been ashamed to make it seem too soldierly. He had left
his rifle on the ground. He looked now like a huntsman or a mining
engineer. He took off his dented sun helmet to confront the rear-admiral.
That old gentleman eyed him keenly for a second before holding out his hand.
"You were the commander?"
Gabriel pointed at once to the howitzers. It seemed most important to
show these rescuers that he did not come to them empty handed:
"Monsieur l'Amiral, I give over to you and the French nation these two
guns which we captured from the Turks."
The rear-admiral, who possessed highly developed ceremoniousness, stood
at the salute. All the other officers drew themselves up. "I thank you,
Commander, in the name of the French nation, which receives these Armenian
trophies of victory."
He held out his hand again to Bagradian. "Did you yourself capture
these howitzers?"
"No, my young son, who was killed."
A long and general silence followed this. The rear-admiral pushed aside a
stone with his bamboo cane. He turned to his escort. "Will it be possible
to get these guns down, and on board?"
The expert of whom he asked it looked rather dubious. Given the necessary
assistance, it would, with the greatest difficulty, be possible, if they
could have a whole day at their disposal.
The admiral thought it over for a minute. He decided: "See to it these
guns are rendered useless. Better blow them up, but carefully, please!"
So much the better, Gabriel thought; two pieces of artillery less in
the world. And yet he was sorry. For Stephan's sake.
The admiral proffered consolation: "You have done the good cause most
signal service, Monsieur le Commandant, even though these howitzers
are destroyed."
This brought the transition from ceremony to practical matters.
The rear-admiral asked for a complete account of Gabriel's battles
and defences. As Gabriel briefly described them, he grew conscious of
the deepest impatience. These kempt and soigné officers in their smart
uniforms seemed as faintly, patronizingly interested in a reality which
constricted the heart as they might have been in any indifferent piece
of amateur soldiering. The three battles? They had been by no means
the reality. What did these electro-plated bigwigs know of the Armenian
destiny, of the gradual, slow undermining of every individual life up
there? His impatience became tinged with disgust. Couldn't he simply
turn his back on them and walk away? Now he was merely a civilian, and
he should be looking after Juliette and Iskuhi, to make sure that they
were properly bestowed. No -- in Christ's name! The French, after all,
were miraculous saviours; they had a right to eternal gratitude. At last
the pertinacious rear-admiral expressed the wish to see their chief
sector, the North Saddle. He had already whispered to his officers to
take careful notes of all they heard. He no doubt intended a precise
report to the French Admiralty. This rescue of seven Armenian villages
was, after all, not merely significant; it was highly decorative. So that
therefore there was nothing left for Gabriel but to satisfy the admiral's
wish. He sent along word to Chaush Nurhan the Lion. At the same time,
led by a few orderly-scouts, a detachment of marines with a machine gun,
to protect the admiral, went ahead. When half an hour later Gabriel and
the officers climbed the Saddle, Chaush Nurhan had already disposed his
men in exemplary lines, to receive the French as soldiers should.