Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Hardy watched fascinated as two filthy, barefoot fishermen struggled onto their hands and knees, one with a duffel bag over his shoulder – three marines and a sergeant were immediately upon them, muskets ready, the sergeant grabbing one by his soaked shirt, ‘Gerrup, yew ’orrible littew man, yew.’ But one of the marines inspected the duffel bag – and pulled out a scarlet coat.

  ‘Apologies… for the fish,’ gasped one of the fishermen. ‘Major Hazzard, Sergeant Cook, 9 Company, Marines…’ Hazzard was still out of breath. It had been worse than he had thought. ‘Permission to come aboard…’

  ‘Hazzard?’ said Hardy. ‘My good God…’

  A figure emerged from the wardroom doorway under the quarterdeck steps and approached. He looked down at them and stooped to offer his one good hand. ‘Mr Hazzard?’ he said, ‘Sir William Hamilton was right. You do not disappoint, sir.’

  34’18’89 – signal to Admiralty: Exploring Officer has made rendezvous.

  Nelson.

  Hazzard looked into the lined, careworn face, and took the proffered left hand gratefully, and got to his feet. Nelson positively beamed as Berry joined them from the rail, ‘Who the hell is that?’

  ‘Captain Berry,’ said Nelson, with a touch of pride, ‘This is Mr Hazzard and Sergeant Cook. As promised, in Naples.’

  Berry looked them over with disapproval. ‘I’m not the slightest surprised, sir.’

  ‘You two have been in the water, Major,’ observed Nelson. ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two days, sir. We jumped from Orient’s upper gundeck.’

  It took a moment for the gathered marines and officers to register his words. ‘You jumped from Bonaparte’s flagship?’ asked Berry. ‘A First-Rate in full sail?’

  ‘I reconnoitred the fleet from the masthead, sir.’

  Someone said, God above, possibly Hardy, thought Hazzard. Mugs of grog were put into their hands and cloaks slung over their shoulders. Hazzard sipped at the rum and felt it burn, closing his eyes a moment, life returning. The Sicilians had done their best and got them home, back to the fleet. God bless Neptune, and an unknown French sailor.

  Berry was incredulous. ‘The masthead? How the hell did you—’

  ‘Estimate three hundred and eighty or three hundred and ninety ships, sir, in three sections,’ said Hazzard. ‘Frigates on the flanks, pinques and poleacres, avisos, armed merchants and thirteen heavy ships of the line guarding the transports. All riding low and over-laden, making six to eight knots.’ He looked out at the small squadron anchored around them, then back to Nelson. ‘They covered the horizon.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Hardy, ‘It’s true…’

  Nelson waited. ‘And…?’

  Hazzard nodded. ‘Egypt, sir,’ he said at last. ‘They’re heading for Alexandria.’

  Nelson took a relieved breath. ‘Knew it…’ He gave a hard-won smile. ‘Well done, sir.’ He turned to Berry. ‘Cap’n Berry, can we set a course for Alex, if you please. Mr Hazzard,’ he said, ‘has called the tune.’ He looked at Hardy, a note of hope tight in his throat, ‘This time we’ve got them, Thomas,’ he said hoarsely, with renewed determination, ‘…by the scruff o’the neck.’

  Redcoat

  Alexandria glimmered in the heat of a midday June sun, the domes and minarets of the mosques glaring golden white in Hazzard’s eyeglass. Levantine ships of all shapes plied in and out of the harbour, sloping lateen sails gliding past, Turkish merchantmen, caravels, feluccas, large chebeks and peasant djerms. Tall square-topped fortresses dotted the castellated ochre walls of the city, and just behind hovered a shimmering white haze, a desolate expanse of desiccated inland seas. Hazzard knew very well what lay beyond – it was the edge of destruction, the distant desert.

  He had been only twice in his time. The Alexandria he remembered was a city of Christians, Copts, Hebrews and Muslims, their temples crowded in fitful competition. As they drew closer Hazzard could see the mix of people, some pale, some dark – he focussed on each black African face he saw, hoping to recognise Sotho, Khoina, Zulu or Xhosa, but there were none that he could tell. Instead he saw Turks, Greeks, Italians, Syrians, Berbers and Levantines, in kaftan and keffiyah, fez, collars and tailcoats. He thought of the Cape and heard the mutterings again, Makwerekwere, tata: foreigners.

  Cook watched the scene through narrowed eyes, the crows’ feet at his temples crinkling in the sun like brown paper. ‘Who the bloody hell’d want this? You can smell it ’fore you can see it. Worse’n Kal’kut.’

  ‘Here.’ Hazzard handed him the scope. ‘Not a Frenchman in sight.’

  ‘We bloody beat ’em to it is why. Told ’em they were only doing six knots at best…’ Cook raised the glass and surveyed the unmanned forts and batteries. A few Ottoman troops moved around in the heat onshore, a Turkish ship of the line offloading stores and gun-carriages. ‘Turks about… but not many. No patrol squadron to guard the place. Nothin’. Like they’re just asking for it.’ He took his eye off the glass and squinted into the glare. ‘They on our side or theirs these days?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Think they’re friendly, but not allies.’

  Lieutenant Hardy had requested they accompany him on the Mutine sloop to reconnoitre the harbour. The rest of the squadron stood offshore at a diplomatic distance, its gun-ports firmly shut, waiting. Hardy joined them at the rail. He raised his own glass as they slid slowly towards the port. ‘Mr Batty, bring us round to the old harbour, please…’

  The ship sliced gently round to starboard as the braces were trimmed. It was a good manoeuvre, thought Hazzard, showing an armed broadside and the red ensign before coming in.

  Merchant traders began to run to the quayside, driving mules and carts to the docks, ready for sales. The Ottoman troops stared, then began to form up, an NCO whacking their backs with a crop, and a crowd gathered.

  ‘Seems we are awaited with some eager anticipation, Mr Hazzard.’

  ‘I wonder if the marines could be of service, sir,’ suggested Hazzard. ‘Just a bit of drill.’

  Hardy smiled at the thought. ‘Capital idea.’

  A platoon of the Mutine’s Marine complement assembled on the main deck. Hazzard and Cook knew the company NCO, a Sergeant McMahon, an acerbic, thickset Ulsterman from Belfast. They watched as he drilled them to attention several times before their display.

  ‘P’rade! One two, one two, look lively there bye, ye blighted jackeen aejits…’

  The twin harbours of Alexandria were divided by a central spit forming a rough T-shape, separating the old western and new eastern harbours, the cross-beam of the T forming a protective screen and breakwater to seaward. Each harbour had its own fortresses, storage warehouses and basin, though this had sprawled since Hazzard had been there last. The western harbour was clear of traffic and Mutine nosed into the entry channel.

  Hardy’s first officer sidled up and asked quietly, ‘Should we fire a salute, sir…?’

  ‘I think not…’ said Hardy circumspectly. ‘We might frighten them into saluting back.’

  The sloop was met by a pilot boat, a small oared craft crewed by three men waving their arms and shouting.

  ‘Jolly friendly,’ murmured Hardy guardedly. ‘Douse sail and bring us in, Mr Batty. Ready the gangplank. Marines to the fore.’

  McMahon nudged Cook. ‘Want to see how it’s done, Cookie?’ They watched the crowd gathering on the quay. ‘We drilled for the King o’Naples, y’know. Oh but he loved us, and signed on with fair King Georgie.’

  Cook muttered, ‘Your buttons’re undone, Mick-Mack.’

  McMahon glanced down at the front of his trousers. His ruddy features beamed back at Cook. ‘Ah, but be a darlin’ and do ’em up for us, eh, Cookie?’

  The Alexandrians gathered to watch as Mutine slowed elegantly, boats pulling her in to moor. A drummer-boy stepped up to the rail and began to beat time as McMahon and his twelve marines marched down the gangplank, formed two lines and banged to a halt on the quayside.

  The Alexandrians stared in fascination,
the sun gleaming from the marines’ brass buttons, white cross-belts and facings. McMahon roared out his orders. ‘P’rade…! Shoulder – arms!’ The spectators jumped back as the marines crashed into their drill, the brightwork on their muskets flashing.

  ‘Mr Hazzard,’ said Hardy, ‘I think you shall best be employed with me, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The marines fixed and charged bayonets, shouldered and ordered arms, then slammed back into place with a final roar, ‘Aye, sir!’

  It had the desired effect. The waiting crowd cheered as if at a theatre performance of acrobats, then quietened in awe as Hardy, Hazzard and Cook were piped down the gangplank, the spectators’ voices rising with excitement at the sight of Hardy resplendent in his navy blue, flanked by Cook and Hazzard in Marine scarlet.

  They were met by a group of well-to-do men in robes, waiting with some deference, the crowd moving aside for two who stood at their head, the elder possibly Hazzard’s age, with dark moustache and beard, and alongside him a younger companion in his early twenties. They bowed in greeting to Hardy.

  ‘As-salamu aleikum, Kapudan.’

  ‘Wa aleikum as-salam,’ replied Hazzard. Hardy glanced at him in some surprise then looked away, smiling to himself.

  The younger Alexandrian asked, ‘Are you English, sir?’

  Hardy replied, ‘We are indeed, sir.’

  ‘Eímaste Englézi,’ repeated Hazzard in Greek for the crowd to hear. Greek was still the common tongue in Alexandria, or at least it had been, he recalled, despite the Ottoman Turks, whose troops scowled from the rear. ‘Erchómaste en eiríni.’ We come in peace.

  ‘Well done,’ whispered Hardy.

  ‘Very impressive,’ replied the older bearded Egyptian with a flawless accent, ‘but would you mind awfully if we got a move on?’

  ‘You’re English,’ said Hazzard with a start.

  ‘No,’ said the man, coming closer, ‘but some of us chaps learn very good English in Austria,’ he laughed. ‘And go to jolly good schools in England.’ He shook his hand. ‘Joseph von Hammer-Pürgstall. Diplomatic envoy to our Viennese Consul in Cairo. I saw the red ensign and thought I should present myself to assist.’

  ‘Thank God you did. Major William Hazzard, Marines.’

  Hammer chuckled. ‘Hazzard and Hammer. We sound like a pair of fearsome London solicitors.’

  Hazzard introduced Hardy and Cook, and Hammer indicated his companion. ‘This is Masoud ibn-Yussuf, my assistant. Speaks the lingua franca wherever he goes, an excellent interpreter.’

  Masoud bowed, keen to be of service. ‘I can help, if you please, Hazar-effendi.’

  ‘What is the situation, Mr Hammer?’ asked Hardy. ‘We sent a message in for our consul but have had no reply.’

  ‘Not surprising, sir. Your consul Mr Baldwin was recalled to London some time ago, “packed off home” you might say? Leaving you with no one but me, perhaps, and the rather distant threat of King George. I suggest we move with purpose.’

  Escorted by the phalanx of marines, Hammer and Masoud led the party along the busy quay to the rock-lined redoubt of the harbour. Everywhere the hot wind carried the smells of the port, the cargoes, the livestock, and the taint of Alexandria’s airless winding lanes. Barefooted children stared, the smoke from cooking fires drifting, flies floating on the breeze.

  ‘Have they seen Englishmen before?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘Certainly, Captain. This is the hub of the world. And everyone has heard of Nelson.’ Hammer smiled quickly but spoke with a note of censure. ‘They might wear robes and tassels, you know, but they’re not fools.’

  ‘Whom should we meet?’ asked Hazzard.

  ‘Your best course is to deal with the Ottoman Governor of Alexandria, Al-Sayyid Muhammad Kurayyim. Do be careful. The name Al-Sayyid supposes him to be a family member of the Holy Prophet Himself.’ His voice trailed off as he looked at another gathering on the distant dockside. ‘Speaking of mountains and prophets… it seems he has come to you. Very unusual. Your message for Mr Baldwin must have alarmed them, Captain.’

  From the great stone fortifications came a group in multi-coloured robes and turbans. In their centre was a spare, vigorous man beneath a broad canopy supported by servants, his advisers and followers clustering around him.

  ‘Al-Kurayyim, effendi,’ whispered Masoud. ‘He comes.’

  ‘Call him Kurayyim Pasha,’ advised Hammer. ‘It is not accurate but he will like it. Though it is a specific rank, “pasha” can be an honorific, much like the loose title “lord” in England…’

  Hardy stopped at a respectful distance, McMahon forming the marines into a protective cordon to keep the onlookers back, porting their muskets, bayonets ready. Kurayyim raised his hand and his party came to a halt. Hardy and Hazzard removed their hats and bowed.

  Kurayyim nodded, made a comment to his fellows and they laughed. Then he waved a hand, quickly touching his fingers to his heart, his lips and his forehead and spoke curtly in accented Arabic, rather than Turkish. ‘As-salamu aleikum.’

  Hardy glanced at Hazzard, who prompted him with a stage whisper, ‘Wa aleikum as-salam…’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Hazzard,’ whispered Hammer.

  Hardy cleared his throat and declaimed loudly, ‘Wah alleykum el salahm, Koraim-Pasha.’

  Kurayyim and the others were pleased by this and nodded in appreciation. Then Kurayyim called to them, ‘Ma alladhi turiduhu minna?’

  ‘Masoud,’ murmured Hammer, ‘if you please.’

  Masoud translated with some hesitation. ‘Al-Kurayyim asks what business have you with him.’

  ‘This is good,’ said Hammer, ‘his words are respectful. Give a show of friendly strength.’

  Hardy spoke with some severity, ‘I am Lt Thomas Hardy, Captain of His Majesty’s Ship Mutine. We come at the behest of our great King George, and Admiral Nelson.’

  After Masoud’s translation many of the advisers whispered and nodded, commenting, ‘Nelsoun, Nelsoun Amir… Amir al-bahr…’

  Hardy pointed out to sea, at the squadron standing offshore. ‘He awaits on his great ship for the words of Koraim-Pasha, for he has heard of the pasha’s wisdom and seeks to help him.’ There was further excited whispering and Cook glanced at McMahon and the marines behind.

  ‘Be ready, Mick-Mack…’

  For all his bluff manner, McMahon was coolly keeping a close watch. ‘Just say the word, Cookie…’

  ‘Nelson seeks to warn Koraim-Pasha, and all of Egypt,’ continued Hardy, addressing the crowd, ‘that a great and terrible fleet is coming from France, to invade your homeland, and that you might not be able to repel them.’

  Hammer shot a quick look at Hazzard. ‘It is true then?’

  Hazzard nodded. ‘Yes. Under General Bonaparte.’

  Hammer looked away but Hazzard heard him mutter to himself, ‘Lieber Gott…’

  Masoud translated the warning for Kurayyim. There were calls of disbelief, the advisers shouting and waving at them, but Kurayyim hushed them. ‘Limadha ataw?’

  ‘Why should they come?’ relayed Masoud.

  ‘They come, Koraim-Pasha,’ replied Hardy. ‘We have seen their ships. They will cover the seas, and fire a thousand guns upon Alexandria if they land their army. Sell us water and provisions at their value, and we shall stay to take care of this matter for you – for the French Sultan fears only one man: the great Admiral Nelson.’

  ‘Very good…’ murmured Hammer.

  Masoud seemed relieved to convey the message and added a note of pleading. Kurayyim shook his head and wagged a finger at them, ‘Hazihi khedaa…’

  ‘This is trickery,’ said Masoud. Kurayyim continued and Masoud said, ‘Thank Nelsoun Amir al-bahr, that is, amir of the sea, but you come here only for your own ends. We shall remain neutral in this…’

  Then Kurayyim raised his hands to the sky and pointed at the sea dramatically. ‘Faltazhab anta wa litamdi mashiat alrab!’

  There were cries from the crowd with raised fists
, Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!

  ‘But he says…’ Masoud looked fearfully from Hammer to Hazzard. ‘Go, and let God’s will be done.’

  Hardy took a breath. ‘Good God…’

  ‘Daft ruddy bastard…’ muttered Cook.

  Hazzard watched Kurayyim as he turned away, the interview concluded. Hazzard could only guess what Bonaparte would do with him. Hardy muttered under his breath, ‘Fool. I doubt God will forgive him for what he has just done.’

  Someone heard, detecting the tone, and a shout went up. Kurayyim snapped a look at Hazzard and there were cries of indignation from the gathering. Sergeant McMahon barked just the once. ‘M’rines… charge bayonets.’

  The marines banged one foot forward, their muskets and bayonets to the fore, held ready. The crowd backed away with a low murmuring. One of Kurayyim’s grandees stepped forward and bowed low to them.

  ‘He mocks, but thanks us for our care,’ said Masoud, his brow running with sweat, ‘but once you have what you need… you shall be on your way.’ He looked at Hammer. ‘We must go, Hammer-effendi…’

  ‘Now chaps,’ said Hammer, ‘back away like good English gentlemen…’

  Hardy bowed, replaced his hat and said, ‘Sar’nt McMahon, the marines will clear a path to the Mutine.’

  McMahon saluted. ‘Sah. Comp’nay! About – turn!’

  The people began shouting and waving their fists and the Ottoman troops tried to keep them back as the marines marched down the quay in two files, Hardy and the others in the centre.

  ‘That did not go well, did it,’ said Hardy.

  ‘As well as it could, sir,’ said Hammer, ‘Kurayyim must impress his rivals in the diwan that he is a man of power and decision. Shooing you away shows this.’

  ‘Yes, but at what cost.’

  ‘He’s about to find out,’ grunted Hazzard.

  Masoud hurried alongside them among the growing clamour. ‘Sir, please, how many are truly coming? When?’

  When they reached the gangplank some of the onlookers broke through, shouting in their faces, Allahu akbar!