Call of the Trumpet Read Online Free PDF Page A

birth. So I have left my father’s estate in the able hands of a caretaker while I go in search of my foster father. His name is Raga eben Haddal, and he is shaikh of all the Rwalan tribes.”
    Another awkward silence ensued. Captain Winterthorpe cleared his throat. “I, uh … I assume you have some help in this … adventure,” he said in a desperate attempt to cover the uncomfortable moment. “Someone to outfit you, supply you with a guide?”
    “Yes, I do,” Cecile replied quickly, with a grateful smile for the gray-haired captain. “At least, I think I do. I’ve written to someone in Damascus, someone my father once told me about. He’s an Englishman but has lived a great deal of his life in North Africa and is considered somewhat of an authority on the Badawin tribes. I wrote to him, and although he didn’t have time to reply, I’m sure I’ll be able to find him and enlist his aid when I reach Damascus.”
    “A … a shaikh, a tribesman, a … a
native?”
Mrs. Browning squeaked suddenly, as if oblivious to the intervening conversation. “And … and
you’re
a native, too?”
    “Emmaline …” Mr. Browning began. But the situation was beyond rescue.
    Mrs. Browning pushed abruptly to her feet, toppling her chair. “I’ve been sitting at the supper table every night with a
Badawin native?”
    “Excuse us, please,” Mr. Browning muttered, and directed his wife out of the salon.
    “A native! A
native
!”
    The words echoed along the narrow corridor and were eventually punctuated by the slam of a door. With a halfhearted smile of relief, Captain Winterthorpe raised his glass.
    “I won’t even attempt to apologize for that woman’s rudeness,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I should be able to, in any event. I will, however, drink to the success of your adventure.
Bonne chance,
my dear young lady. To your very good luck. You will, I think, be in need of it.”

Chapter
3
    T HE SUN HAD ALMOST COMPLETED ITS ARC ACROSS the sky. It hung low in the west, laying sheets of gold atop the calm waters of the bay. The eerie cry of a
muzzein,
calling the Faithful to prayer, echoed hauntingly, followed by the bray of an outraged donkey. Carts rumbled over the uneven streets, and vendors shrilly hawked the last of their day’s wares. The tall, dark-haired Englishman, dressed in an immaculate white linen suit, turned from the window back to his host.
    “Bayrut is a beautiful city. And your home adorns it like a jewel, Adeeb,” the Englishman said smoothly. He set his empty coffee cup on a low table. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
    “My home is yours, Matthew Blackmoore, whenever you are in my city. It is the least I can offer to the man who so ably breeds our horses, and keeps the spirit of the desert alive in them.”
    Matthew acknowledged the elaborate compliment with a smile. “You are too generous, friend. Just care well for the mares I have brought you, and I will be satisfied.”
    “They shall receive the very best of care. And not just because of the great price I have paid for them.”
    Matthew chuckled dutifully at Adeeb’s little joke, knowing only too well that it was not made entirely in jest. The man was notoriously stingy and had, indeed, paid well for the mares. Matthew smiled to himself.
    As usual, he had derived a great deal of pleasure from the dealing itself, always tricky, if not the person with whom he dealt. He loved the intricate twists and turns of the Arab intellect, and had spent long years learning and mastering it. He admired the people greatly. It was the reason he had stayed on in the country, if not the reason for his coming.
    Adeeb was rattling on about prices in general in the city, but Matthew barely heard him. His thoughts were long ago and far away, recalling the fateful events that had led to the greatest adventure of a boy’s life.
    Both of Matthew’s parents had come from wealthy, upper-echelon British stock. That is where the similarities between the two