The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [56]
“I am not ‘tearing around,’ gentlemen; I am searching for my husband. He was here. He is not here now. They have carried him off. There is another door—they must have gone that way. Pray don’t stop me”—for one of them had taken hold of my arm—“let me go after them. I must find him!”
My rescuers were none other than the young Americans who had behaved in so ungentlemanly a manner at the hotel. They had been in the carriage that had passed us. Falling into the ditch must have sobered them, for they were quick to understand and respond to my plea, and very kind, in their peculiar American fashion. Two of them immediately went off to follow the trail of the kidnappers and another insisted I return to the carriage.
“You can’t go running around the fields dressed like that, ma’am,” he said, when I would have resisted. “Leave it to Pat and Mike, they’re as good as coon hounds on a trail. How about a nip of brandy? For medicinal purposes, you know.”
Perhaps it was the brandy that cleared my head. I prefer to believe it was the resurgence of my indomitable will. Though every nerve in my body ached to join the search, I saw the strength of his argument, and it then occurred to me that there was better help close at hand. One of the young men— there were five of them in all—agreed to go to the house of Abdullah’s uncle and tell our reis what had transpired. It was not long, though it seemed an interminable interlude to me, before Abdullah and Daoud were with me. I came perilously close to breaking down when I saw Abdullah’s familiar face, distorted by worry and disbelief; Emerson had seemed to him like a god, immune to ordinary danger.
Assisted by the young Americans and a posse of their relatives, Abdullah and Daoud searched the fields and the nearby houses, ignoring the (legitimate) complaints of their occupants. But too much time had passed. He had been carried off and by now could be miles away. The dusty road kept its secret; too much traffic had passed along it.
Dawn was pale in the sky before I could be persuaded to return to the Castle. The driver had only been struck unconscious; restored by brandy and baksheesh, he turned the horse and the carriage. Daoud and the cat went with me. Abdullah would not leave the spot. I believe I had the courtesy to thank the Americans. It was not entirely their fault if they regarded the business as an exciting adventure.
I find it difficult to recall my sensations during the succeeding days. Events stand out in my memory sharp and clear as detailed engravings, but it was as if I were enveloped by a shell of clear cold ice that impeded neither vision nor touch nor hearing, but through which nothing could penetrate.
When the news of Emerson’s disappearance became known, I was overwhelmed with offers of assistance. This should have touched me. It did not; nothing could touch me then. I wanted action, not sympathy. The local authorities were hustled and badgered into a show of efficiency uncommon to them; they arrested and questioned every man in Luxor who had cause to hold a grudge against my husband. The list was fairly extensive. At one time half the population of Gurnah, whose inhabitants resented Emerson’s war against their tomb-robbing habits, were in the local prison. Hearing of this from Abdullah (several of whose distant kin were among the prisoners), I was able to bring about their release. Abdullah had his own methods of dealing with the men of Gurnah, and I knew Emerson would himself have interfered to forbid the kinds of interrogation the local police employed. Beating the soles of the feet with splintered reeds was a favorite method.
Our friends rallied around. Howard Carter visited me almost daily. Despite the differences of opinion that had often marked his relationship with Emerson, Neville was the first to offer his crew to help in the search. Telegrams arrived from Cairo; and from Cairo