Desert Queen (66 page)

O
n June 23, Gertrude received word that, with Philby there to welcome him, Faisal had arrived in Basrah. The plan was for Faisal to travel directly to the Shiite holy cities of Karbala and Najaf, underscoring his religious importance as a descendant of the Prophet, and then continue north to Baghdad. In preparation for his arrival, people in town started flying the Sharifian flag, and as Gertrude walked through the bazaar on her way to work, she saw the banner waving from the shops. “The intention is good but the flag heraldically bad,” she noted to Hugh, her critical eye offended.

Early on Wednesday morning, June 29, 1921, Gertrude motored through town with Colonel Joyce, Military Adviser to the Iraqi Government. Past throngs of people waving Arab flags, past scores of buildings decorated with flags, flowers and triumphal arches, the car rode along the big street to the Baghdad train station. An immense crowd had gathered, impatient for Faisal’s arrival. She and the colonel made their way to the special seats reserved for dignitaries, but after they had waited an hour, there came instead a disappointing message: the train was delayed and would not arrive before noon. Midday was much too hot for a reception. Word was sent back asking Faisal to stay on board and delay his arrival to six
P.M.
Home they all went, to return again in the late afternoon.

Faisal stood at the carriage door, slim and splendid in his flowing robes and gold-braided headdress, saluting the honor guard. Sir Percy Cox and General Haldane greeted him ceremoniously, and the crowd broke into applause. “He went down the line of the guard of honour, inspecting it,” Gertrude reported. “Sir Percy began to present the Arab Magnates, representatives of the Naqib, etc. I hid behind Mr. Cornwallis, but Faisal saw me and stepped across to shake hands with me. He looked excited and anxious—you’re not a king on approbation without any tension of the spirit—but it only gave his natural dignity a more human charm.”

She chatted eagerly with the tall, distinguished Kinahan Cornwallis, “a tower of strength and wisdom.” Indeed, he towered over the crowd, an eagle, with his large beak of a nose and penetrating blue eyes. Highly intelligent and dependably wise, he had been Director of the Arab Bureau in Cairo, and then Faisal’s adviser in Damascus; he had worked closely with the Emir for five years, earning his great respect. In fact, Faisal had refused to come to Baghdad without him.

Yet as the eminent Cornwallis stepped off the train, Gertrude noticed that he looked glum. The reception in Basrah, he quickly told her, had not gone terribly well. The crowds that came out to see the candidate had been restrained and had given no cheers; indeed, as the train progressed toward Baghdad, the response had ranged from quietly curious to outright hostile. The Political Officers in each of the towns along the route had listened to Philby, who, undermining Percy Cox, discouraged their participation or any show of support; and Philby himself, who had been sent to welcome Faisal, had been less than kind to him. The British officials, Philby informed the Emir, had been instructed that the elections were to be “absolutely free.” If Faisal thought he could win the people’s votes “on the grounds that he was the nominee of Great Britain,” Philby warned him, his “chances of success were slender.” The people wanted a republic, Philby insisted, and he himself supported Ibn Saud as its leader. In addition to these disheartening words, Faisal heard rumors along the way that Philby was against him, the Khatun was in favor of him and that Sir Percy Cox was neutral. Bewildered, Faisal wanted to know whether the High Commissioner was on his side. And if so, why were Cox’s own officials against him?

Instead of finding a welcome embrace, Faisal had found a wall of resistance. In Basrah the leaders wanted autonomy to govern their own enclave. Along the lower Euphrates, the tribes were readying a petition for a republic. In Karbala and Najaf the Shiite holy men were opposed to a Sharifian. Around the country pro-Turkish factions believed the Turks would return. And in Baghdad the Naqib and his followers were reluctant to give their support. Shades of Hussein and Muharram: the great reception that Gertrude had hoped for had not occurred. The snowball had melted in the sand.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
ONE

Faisal

I
t was not yet seven
A.M.
but the waves of heat that shimmer over Baghdad in July were already beginning to appear. The temperature was racing to its daily high of 120 degrees as Gertrude, on her way to work the morning after Faisal’s arrival, stopped at the Serai. The long brick building sat on the riverfront, not far from her house, a sprawling display of strength and grace. She handed her calling card to the aide-de-camp, expecting that Faisal would invite her later that day or the next. Would the Khatun please wait? the man inquired. The Emir would like to see her. A servant led her into a large salon, and a short while later Faisal, thin and angular even in his flowing robes, walked across the room to greet her. It was two years since they had spoken at length at the Paris Peace Conference, but he had not forgotten. His eyes warm and welcoming, he reached out, took both her hands in his and said gratefully, “I couldn’t have believed that you could have given me so much help as you have given me.”

After leading her to a sofa, he sat beside her and as he smoked one cigarette after another, divulged his fears. Gertrude did what she could to comfort the anxious candidate, assuring him that Percy Cox was “absolutely with him.” You must speak your mind to Sir Percy, she advised. Furthermore, make certain you see the Naqib and do what you can to win him to your side.

The Naqib and his followers had watched with disappointment when Faisal and his men took the throne in Damascus, only to lose it to the French. Now the Baghdadi elders were concerned that the coterie around him was too weak to take control in Iraq. Gertrude was aware that the elitist notables did not like the idea of ordinary young men coming into power. When Faisal arrived in Baghdad, the Naqib remained at home, too sick, it was claimed, to greet the train.

Knowing that Faisal resisted the idea of appeasing his enemy, Gertrude counseled him nonetheless to do what he could to gain the Naqib’s support. “I shall make you responsible,” Faisal replied, but he took her advice. Playing the game by the Naqib’s rules, he called on the old man at home and wished him a speedy recovery; the visit broke the ice.

That evening, at an outdoor banquet she had arranged, Gertrude looked around with delight at the electric lights and the decorations, and listened with pleasure when the orator called Faisal the King of Iraq. But the behavior of some of Faisal’s guests left her appalled. “I shall have to set about getting a proper ceremonial for Faisal’s court,” she remarked; “none of them have the least idea of what to do next.” Several times during the evening, the guests walked off to talk among themselves, leaving Faisal standing alone.

When dinner was served, and course after course slowly brought to the table, the would-be king ate sparingly, impatient and obviously eager to jump from his chair. “There is a great deal to be said for an Arab dinner party,” Gertrude observed. “All the viands are before you, you eat what you want and when you’re done you get up and go back to your coffee and cigarettes.” To make matters worse, the after dinner speeches went on for far too long. Tired and bored, Faisal stood up, went over to Gertrude and, with the weariness of a long-time politician, moaned confidentially, “I used to do all I could to avoid speeches in Syria and I’m afraid they are going to be much worse here.”

I
n spite of a few bouquets that were tossed, the path Faisal walked was thorny. He had never before set foot in Iraq; he knew little of the people he would rule, of the land over which he would reign, of the history he would inherit. He had no knowledge of the Iraqi tribes, no friendships with their sheikhs, no familiarity with the terrain—the marshes in the south, the mountains in the north, the grain fields, the river life—and no sense of connection with its ancient past. He even spoke a different dialect of Arabic, a mixture of Hejaz, Egyptian, Syrian and Turkish. Yet Gertrude knew he had the intelligence to learn quickly and the charisma to lead effectively.

He sent for her frequently to ask her advice. In the privacy of his quarters, in a large cool, underground room with a vaulted ceiling, the two conferred, and after servants brought in glasses of iced lemonade, Gertrude suggested what he should do: what to say to Sir Percy, how to handle the Baghdadi businessmen, how to form his Cabinet, how to approach the Kurds. And day after day, dressed in her prettiest clothes and using her most feminine ways, she spread out her maps and taught the charming Faisal the tribal geography of Iraq.

Opposition to Faisal was strong. Some tribes wanted a republic; others, such as the Anazeh, led by Fahad Bey, wanted British rule; and still others, such as the Dulaim, favored the Naqib. As Gertrude struggled to convince the contrary factions, the tension took its toll. “I’m beginning to feel as if I couldn’t stand it much longer!” she cried. She was “straining every nerve,” trying to sell her candidate, “talking, persuading, writing,” even arguing in her sleep.

Walking to work each day, she picked her way through throngs of curious sheikhs and notables, sitting for hours under the Residency’s courtyard awnings, waiting to meet the candidate. At least, she noted, Faisal’s great charm was a help. “He has been roping in adherents,” she reported. That, combined with her assurances to the people who favored the British that Faisal had Sir Percy’s approval, was beginning to sweeten the brew, convincing the magnates that the Sharifian was the best if not the only choice for Emir.

One of the most important dignitaries to fall in line was the venerable Naqib. On Thursday, July 7, the holy man gave a dinner at home. One hundred people were seated at tables in the open space of the courtyard, while the most distinguished were led to places on the roof, carpeted and lighted for the occasion. Tottering forward to the head of the stairs to meet his honored guest, the Naqib kissed the white-robed Faisal on both cheeks and, walking with him hand in hand, brought him together with the influential leaders of the town. “We are making history,” Gertrude proclaimed. The following week more dinners were held, first by the Coxes for Faisal and then by Faisal for the sheikhs of the Tigris and the Euphrates. “Dinners!” she groaned. “In this weather they are a real trial.” The nights were hardly any cooler than the days, and sweat poured off the guests’ brows as they ate their way through heaping platters of eggplant, stuffed grape leaves, roast lamb, rice, fresh fruit, listening all the while to endless speeches.

But if Gertrude was able to persuade the Naqib and his followers to lend their support to Faisal, she had less success with her colleague Philby. Sent away for a ten-day rest by Cox, Philby on his return was called to the High Commissioner’s office. Could he accommodate his views? Cox wanted to know. Philby refused; he could not go along with the official agenda for an Arab emir. Cox was furious and informed his aide he had no choice but to relieve him of his duties. It hurt Gertrude to see Philby destroy himself. “It’s a real tragedy, he’s dismissed,” she wrote disappointedly, “but he has himself to thank.” Cox had given him “a long rope” and every chance to use it. “Sir Percy, who never hesitates in what he thinks to be his duty, has cut the knot in the only possible way. I am, nevertheless, very sorry.”