Chapter Thirty-Three
PORT SAID, EGYPT
The surge of women presses against our vehicle from all sides.
We have come to a complete stop at this intersection of city streets, and Mama’s terror is mounting.
I’d thought we’d reached our lowest point last week when our season’s excavation efforts came up empty-handed and Howard and I were trapped in an empty, ancient chamber for the better part of a day. How wrong I’d been.
“Porchey,” Mama screeches, “tell the driver to take another route.”
“There is no other route, Almina,” Papa insists, in an alarmed tone himself. “We cannot move. Can’t you see that?”
Even Howard, usually the essence of calm, sounds concerned. “Every other way to the port is blocked, Lady Carnarvon.”
“This way is blocked.” Mama is now shouting. “We will never make it to the ship on time if we stay here. And if we don’t board the Saturnia, who knows when another ship will be allowed to leave the Port Said harbor?”
The country has again erupted in riots and strikes, because England has not agreed to the sought-after terms for independence, but insists on continuing the protectorate.
The protests have been organized by none other than Mr. Zaghloul’s wife, Safiya.
This former daughter of a prime minister had indeed followed the traditional path of purdah until her husband’s exile, when everything changed and she assumed his mantle and organized the efforts of the Wafd.
Her special talent is mobilizing all the Egyptian women—Copts and Muslims, pasha and worker class, well educated and illiterate—behind the cause of freedom, an unprecedented event in Egyptian society.
Even with Mr. Zaghloul back in Egypt again, she continues to lead protests.
Today, we are captive to the women she’s marshaled on the Port Said streets. Thousands of her followers—from all walks of Egyptians life—march at her urging, including women who, until recently, were in purdah. If I was not so terrified, I would be impressed by her efforts.
“There’s only one way out of this if we are going to make the ship,” I proclaim.
“What’s that?” Papa asks.
“We’ve got to walk the rest of the way to the dock,” I say, ignoring my mother’s immediate protests and trying not to think of my father’s limp. “It’s less than a mile.”
“Have you lost your mind, Eve? We won’t survive that mile,” Mama insists. “We’ll be attacked by this mob that so desperately hates the English.”
“Mama, as I’m certain you’ve noticed, this isn’t a violent mob.
And, even if it did turn angry, that ire won’t be directed at us if we blend in,” I force myself to sound more confident than I actually feel amidst this crush of people, and reach into my hand luggage to pull out two shawls.
“Here, put this over your head and wrap it around your mouth. The four of us will walk in a line, with you at the back and me at the front. We will shield Papa and Mr. Carter.”
“I will do no such thing,” Papa snaps at me. “How could you think I’d ever submit to the ungentlemanly act of allowing my wife and daughter to protect me in a riot?”
“Would you prefer to remain here, Papa? If I recall correctly from the newspaper reports, there were people stuck in their vehicles and carriages for a day and a half during the last strike. You’ll certainly miss the Saturnia in that case.
” I meet his gaze, daring him to challenge the validity of my plan.
Howard intercedes. “Lord C., I hate this unchivalrous scheme as much as you do, but I think Lady Evelyn is right. It’s the only way out of the mob and onto the ship.”
“You’d think hosting Zaghloul at Highclere would give us some kind of immunity here,” Papa grumbles, but I see that he’s packing up his small bag and slinging it on his shoulder. He has agreed, even though he’ll never say so aloud.
“What about our trunks?” Mama asks, always one to worry about the frivolous and unnecessary. Even in a crisis. “We can’t leave them behind.”
“How many gowns will you need if you are stuck in this automobile forever?” I ask her. For once, I’d like her to see the shallowness of her concerns.
“Lady Carnarvon, please bring your hand luggage, and I’ll give the driver and Ahmed instructions on how to forward our trunks,” Howard reassures Mama, and then whispers something to Ahmed Gerigar, our rescuer when we were trapped in the Valley of the Kings chamber.
Howard’s now-favorite foreman had insisted on accompanying us to Port Said from Luxor to ensure we made it safely on board the Saturnia, even though Howard assured him that it was outside the purview of his role.
I’ll never forget the relief and gratitude that coursed through me at the sight of Ahmed’s face that fateful day.
“Are we quite ready?” I ask through the scarf I’ve wound tightly around my head and mouth.
“Ready,” Papa answers as Howard and Mama nod.
The knuckles clutching onto his cane are white, and I wonder if he really can walk the distance to the ship with his limp. But what are our options?
“Stay close.” I turn back to remind them, before stepping out of the car into the yelling, marching throngs.
I wait until Papa, Howard, and then Mama line up behind me to start walking.
I notice that Ahmed has followed along, seamlessly blending in with the crowd even though it consists primarily of women.
Glancing at the throngs, I decide to fall in behind a matronly looking woman with heavy gold bracelets and a dress of emerald green brocade who must hail from the upper class.
She appears harmless enough, and we progress behind her until we reach the street bordering the dock.
We’re getting closer, I think with satisfaction. The ruse has worked! Turning back, I risk a nod and smile underneath my scarf. Papa grins back in evident relief.
Just then, the stately woman I’ve been following moves to my right and glances in my direction. Her eyes widen in shock, and I realize that she sees through my ploy.
“Alshaeb al’iinjiliziu!” she cries out in Arabic. I don’t know what she’s said, but what she calls out next in French, I certainly understand. “Les Anglais!”
What will this mob of women do when they discover English in their midst? We cannot risk finding out.
My parents have frozen, but immobility could be a death sentence here.
“Run!” I scream at them, knowing full well Papa can do no such thing with his limp. But if he can only stride quickly, we might just make it.
The moment we begin darting through the crowd, those around us take heed of the shrieking woman’s words. Dozens of women close in on us, encircling us and herding us together like cattle. We can no longer proceed, and the four of us glance at one another with the wild eyes of the caged.
The noise becomes deafening as the women screech at us, and I lament my assurances to Mama that this crowd would not turn aggressive. Had my guarantees cursed us? Will these women do more than scream at us?
Suddenly, a familiar face appears among the women.
There is Ahmed, his expression determined yet placid.
And he is not alone. He links arms with a dozen or so men.
Where did they come from? Had Ahmed arranged for them in advance, or somehow managed to recruit them in the last few minutes?
Together, they hold the women back just long enough to provide us with leeway to dodge past the mob and weave through the masses toward the dock.
Pushing my parents ahead of me, I take up the rear with Howard at my side.
I doubt Mama has ever run in her life, and Papa usually lacks strength due to his lung damage to do more than a brisk walk.
Yet, they race with surprising speed through the horde of women, across the road jammed with vehicles, and behind the wall of soldiers guarding the dock.
We dash toward the Saturnia. As we get closer, I hear its horn blast in warning, and I see the sailors begin to roll back the gangway connecting the ship to the dock. We have a minute to board, at best.
“Come on!” I call to my parents and Howard. Just as the gangplank is about to pull away, we leap on and away from pulsating streets.
The Saturnia’s horn lets out a final, mournful bellow, signaling our departure from Port Said.
As my parents and Howard drop into chairs in the first-class lounge, panting from the exertion, and signal the waiter for drinks, I race to the railing.
My eyes scan the dock, skimming past the sailors and laborers and Egyptian families waving farewell to loved ones. Only then do I see him.
Ahmed. He has saved me. Not once but twice now.
This man has put himself in harm’s way to extricate me, but what have I bothered to learn about him?
Does he have a family—a daughter, even—that he protects as well as he does us?
How does he feel about the English on Egyptian soil?
What does he think about the pressing movement for Egyptian independence?
Is he a follower of Zaghloul, and so supports us despite his beliefs? Out of loyalty or simply his humanity?
He sees me staring from the deck of the Saturnia.
As our gazes meet, I clasp my hands together and bow toward him.
And I say a silent prayer that the expanse between us—English and Egyptian, man and woman, Christian and Muslim, aristocrat and fellaheen—disappears and that Ahmed perceives my gratitude, as well as my atonement.