Greenmantle by John Buchan (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

“I take it,” he said, “that your travels have not extended to the East.”

“No,” I said, “barring a shooting trip in East Africa.”

“Have you by any chance been following the present campaign there?”

“I’ve read the newspapers pretty regularly since I went to hospital. I’ve got some pals in the Mesopotamia show, and of course I’m keen to know what is going to happen at Gallipoli and Salonika. I gather that Egypt is pretty safe.”

“If you will give me your attention for ten minutes I will supplement your newspaper reading.”

Sir Walter lay back in an armchair and spoke to the ceiling. It was the best story, the clearest and the fullest, I had ever got of any bit of the war. He told me just how and why and when Turkey had left the rails. I heard about her grievances over our seizure of her ironclads, of the mischief the coming of the Goeben had wrought, of Enver and his precious Committee and the way they had got a cinch on the old Turk. When he had spoken for a bit, he began to question me.

“You are an intelligent fellow, and you will ask how a Polish adventurer, meaning Enver, and a collection of Jews and gipsies should have got control of a proud race. The ordinary man will tell you that it was German organization backed up with German money and German arms. You will inquire again how, since Turkey is primarily a religious power, Islam has played so small a part in it all. The Sheikh-ul-Islam is neglected, and though the Kaiser proclaims a Holy War and calls himself Hadji Mohammed Guilliamo, and says the Hohenzollerns are descended from the Prophet, that seems to have fallen pretty flat. The ordinary man again will answer that Islam in Turkey is becoming a back number, and that Krupp guns are the new gods. Yet⁠—I don’t know. I do not quite believe in Islam becoming a back number.”

“Look at it in another way,” he went on. “If it were Enver and Germany alone dragging Turkey into a European war for purposes that no Turk cared a rush about, we might expect to find the regular army obedient, and Constantinople. But in the provinces, where Islam is strong, there would be trouble. Many of us counted on that. But we have been disappointed. The Syrian army is as fanatical as the hordes of the Mahdi. The Senussi have taken a hand in the game. The Persian Muslims are threatening trouble. There is a dry wind blowing through the East, and the parched grasses wait the spark. And that wind is blowing towards the Indian border. Whence comes that wind, think you?”

Sir Walter had lowered his voice and was speaking very slow and distinct. I could hear the rain dripping from the eaves of the window, and far off the hoot of taxis in Whitehall.

“Have you an explanation, Hannay?” he asked again.

“It looks as if Islam had a bigger hand in the thing than we thought,” I said. “I fancy religion is the only thing to knit up such a scattered empire.”

“You are right,” he said. “You must be right. We have laughed at the Holy War, the jehad that old Von der Goltz prophesied. But I believe that stupid old man with the big spectacles was right. There is a jehad preparing. The question is, How?”

“I’m hanged if I know,” I said; “but I’ll bet it won’t be done by a pack of stout German officers in pickelhaubes. I fancy you can’t manufacture Holy Wars out of Krupp guns alone and a few staff officers and a battle cruiser with her boilers burst.”

“Agreed. They are not fools, however much we try to persuade ourselves of the contrary. But supposing they had got some tremendous sacred sanction⁠—some holy thing, some book or gospel or some new prophet from the desert, something which would cast over the whole ugly mechanism of German war the glamour of the old torrential raids which crumpled the Byzantine Empire and shook the walls of Vienna? Islam is a fighting creed, and the mullah still stands in the pulpit with the Koran in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. Supposing there is some Ark of the Covenant which will madden the remotest Muslim peasant with dreams of Paradise? What then, my friend?”

“Then there will be hell let loose in those parts pretty soon.”

“Hell which may spread. Beyond Persia, remember, lies India.”

“You keep to suppositions. How much do you know?” I asked.

“Very little, except the fact. But the fact is beyond dispute. I have reports from agents everywhere⁠—pedlars in South Russia, Afghan horse-dealers, Turcoman merchants, pilgrims on the road to Mecca, sheikhs in North Africa, sailors on the Black Sea coasters, sheep-skinned Mongols, Hindu fakirs, Greek traders in the Gulf, as well as respectable Consuls who use ciphers. They tell the same story. The East is waiting for a revelation. It has been promised one. Some star⁠—man, prophecy, or trinket⁠—is coming out of the West. The Germans know, and that is the card with which they are going to astonish the world.”

“And the mission you spoke of for me is to go and find out?”

He nodded gravely. “That is the crazy and impossible mission.”

“Tell me one thing, Sir Walter,” I said. “I know it is the fashion in this country if a man has a special knowledge to set him to some job exactly the opposite. I know all about Damaraland, but instead of being put on Botha’s staff, as I applied to be, I was kept in Hampshire mud till the campaign in German South West Africa was over. I know a man who could pass as an Arab, but do you think they would send him to the East? They left him in my battalion⁠—a lucky thing for me, for he saved my life at Loos. I know the fashion, but isn’t this just carrying it a bit too far? There must be thousands