Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [27]
The waning moon slid long silver fingers through the gaps in the curtains. It was late. I cleared my mind of distractions. Finally Emerson’s rhythmic breathing and the swaying of the carriage lulled me to sleep.
A YEAR AFTER THE ARMISTICE Cairo still had the look of an armed camp. Below the very terrace of Shepheard’s, a crowd surrounded a young orator who held forth in eloquent Arabic on British injustice and the inalienable right of Egypt to independence. The attempts of the doormen to silence him were frustrated by the pushing and shoving of his followers, and the more timid of the foreign residents of the famed hostelry hung back, fearing to pass the mob. We stopped to listen.
“Anybody you know?” Emerson inquired of Ramses, who had once been involved in a somewhat unorthodox manner with one of the nationalist groups.
“Good God, it’s Rashad,” Ramses exclaimed. “The last I heard he was in prison.”
The speaker caught sight of him at the same moment and broke off in mid-sentence. His blazing eyes moved from Ramses to Emerson, both of whom were conspicuous because of their height. I took a firmer grip on my parasol.
Rashad bared his teeth and pointed a quivering forefinger at Ramses, but before he could speak, one of the bystanders cried, “It is the Father of Curses and his son, and the Sitt Hakim his wife, and the Light of Egypt. Welcome! Have you come to speak for us and for our cause?”
“Certainly,” Emerson shouted over the chorus of greeting.
“Not now, Emerson!” I took a firm grip of his arm.
“Well, perhaps not,” Emerson conceded. He raised his voice to the pitch that has, together with his command of bad language, given him his Egyptian nickname. “Disperse, my friends, and take Rashad with you. The police are coming.”
A troop of mounted men clattered toward the scene, led, as was customary, by a British officer. As Rashad ran off, he twisted his head round to look at us over his shoulder. His lips moved. It was as well we could not hear the words, for his scowling face suggested he did not share the friendly attitude of his followers. By the time the squad of police arrived, they were all gone.
Perhaps it would be in order for me to remind my less well-informed Readers (a small minority, but nonetheless worthy of consideration) of the historical background in order to explain why a British officer was in command of Egyptian troops, and why Cairo seethed with the spirit of revolt. Though it was formally a province of the Ottoman Empire, Egypt had effectively been under British control since the middle of the nineteenth century. In 1914 it was declared a British protectorate, under military occupation, when the Turks were threatening the Suez Canal and it was feared that Egyptians would support their fellow Muslims against an occupying power they had always resented. These fears had not materialized, except for a single abortive attempt at an insurrection in Cairo. Maternal pride compels me to add that it was aborted by Ramses, who had taken on the role of a radical nationalist leader named Wardani in order to intercept the weapons sent by Turkey to Wardani’s group. Had it not been for his efforts, and the equally perilous part played by David, the Canal might well have fallen to the enemy.
But as I was saying . . . What Egypt wanted was independence, from Britain, Turkey, or any other nation. Once the war ended, the demands of Egyptian Nationalists intensified.
Britain’s response had not been well-thought-out. One bad mistake had been the exiling of Nationalist leader Zaghlul Pasha. A tall, impressive-looking man, he was a splendid orator and much beloved by the Egyptian people. When the news of his summary deportation became known, rioting and demonstrations broke out all over Egypt. Though we were of course deeply distressed by the