Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  ‘His feelings, Commander, bitter or not, are irrelevant.’ Lewis crumpled up the note. ‘The question is whether Hazzard has cooperated with Nelson off the shores of Egypt and withdrawn as ordered. There seems to be something of a threat in his final comment.’

  ‘There was no other appended by Nelson on the matter, sir. Indeed he does not confirm or deny Hazzard’s presence, merely that he has intelligence concerning Malta. But we do have this from the Viennese Consul, Mr Rosetti.’ Blake handed him another sheet. Lewis read it.

  Two soldiers in red reported riding south to Cairo to parley with Mamelukes. Presume your officers. Both now under protection of Murad Bey.

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘I should imagine this must be Mr Hazzard and Sgt Cook sir.’

  ‘I know what he damn well means – what in hell does Hazzard think he’s doing?’

  ‘Since Nelson was refused at Alexandria, they have ridden to Cairo to warn them of the coming attack, sir.’ Blake had no doubt as to what Hazzard would do to warn the Egyptians of Bonaparte – and that he would do so despite being ordered not to. But he decided not to voice his opinion to Lewis. ‘Anything further, I dare say, we shall discover only in some weeks, sir.’ Blake paused, then asked, ‘How then shall we withdraw our agent – I beg your pardon, Miss Chapel, sir?’

  Lewis gave him an unambiguous answer. ‘Hazzard has corroborated her information, Commander and reported to Nelson. Blown, captured, dead or alive,’ he said with harsh indifference, ‘she is now of no value.’

  For some moments, Blake said nothing. Lewis looked at him.

  ‘Comment, Commander?’

  ‘Mr Hazzard will not see it that way, sir. Neither will their lordships.’

  Lewis stood closer, keeping his voice low, aware of the assembled company. ‘You will not play the innocent part in this, Mr Blake. We want a canal at Suez. All the better if the French dig it for us so we may take it from them later. Hazzard must simply obey his blasted orders.’

  ‘To sink the French battle-fleet?’

  ‘And nothing more.’

  Blake looked at the despatch and added quietly, ‘And the original order to resist the French by all means possible, sir? I believe I have a copy of it in the minutes…’ Blake made a show of looking through his papers. It was a clearer threat than Hazzard’s despatch.

  ‘Do I understand you right, sir?’ asked Lewis. ‘Did you minute a confidential briefing in Room 63 without sanction, sir?’

  ‘Merely an observation, sir,’ said Blake blandly, ‘that owing to their accountability for the activities of Room 63, the Sea Lords created Mr Hazzard an Exploring Officer in the name of the Crown, and thereby made him His Majesty’s local de jure representative. We can have little authority over him without rapid communication. His orders in hand are to resist the French. By now he will have surmised that we suspected the target of the fleet was indeed Egypt and not England, and that we kept this from him. As such I should imagine he will have little interest in abiding by our wishes for him to withdraw.’

  Lewis squared off to him, his voice low. ‘If you have any warning, Mr Blake, that Hazzard is actively undermining our strategic aims—’

  ‘Oh I would doubt that, sir,’ said Blake. ‘He might, however, subject them to, how shall I say, reinterpretation. According to the dictates of the moment.’ He paused, then added, ‘As we did, sir, with his fiancée.’

  It was obvious to both that a gulf had opened between them – and that Blake had no intention of closing it.

  ‘If stricken, Mr Blake,’ said Lewis, ‘this particular ship of state sinks with all hands. Is that clear? And if need be I would sacrifice a thousand Hazzards to prevent it. You would do well to remember that.’

  Blake bowed, and withdrew silently, remarking with some pride how grossly Sir Rafe Lewis had underestimated William John Hazzard.

  * * *

  The marines bobbed on the waves in the blazing sun. Their stores had lasted two days, by which time their small cutter was well beyond Malta, its bleached, threadbare sail catching a hot westerly breeze. Between them they had nearly a century of experience at sea, but only Underhill, Pettifer and Kite had the vaguest idea how to navigate. They aimed roughly for the southeast. It bothered none that they might be headed to oblivion. It was better than dodging the French on shore.

  ‘Water,’ said Wayland with a hoarse voice, ‘at quarter ration, Sar’nt Underhill.’

  Underhill touched two fingers to his brow. His parade-ground rasp had declined to an even worse dry whisper. ‘Aye-aye, sir. Quarter it is.’

  The fish they had caught and eaten raw smacked of salt to such an extent their thirst raged. But they were shaded partially from the sun – they had improvised a small canopy from three of their baggy Maltese smocks, strung from a line rigged fore and aft, and they rotated a watch regularly in and out of the sun. Except Wayland, who sat stolidly at the stern, one hand on the tiller.

  Sometime in the mid-afternoon, Porter noticed the boy had fallen particularly quiet.

  ‘Sir? You’ve gone a mite pale…’

  Wayland shifted, taking firmer hold of the tiller, and drew himself more upright. ‘Ons’nse—’ he coughed. ‘Nonsense, Dr Porter…’ They had called Porter ‘Doc’ for some time, Wayland using a more formal address to amuse them – though Porter had been but an apothecary’s assistant, the quiet Yorkshireman knew more than most doctors of their experience.

  Porter looked him over. Despite the sunburn his skin was almost grey, and there were dark bloodstains on Wayland’s lower leg. Porter took hold of his boot. Wayland tensed and grimaced with pain, then slid off his seat into the scuppers in a dead faint. Hands reached to take hold of him.

  ‘Quick,’ said Porter, propping up his chin, checking his tongue. He nodded to De Lisle, ‘Lil, lend us a hand… get that boot off…’

  Porter supported Wayland’s head while De Lisle took hold of his leg and gave the boot a mild twist. As it came off, it tore open a blackened scab. Wayland’s calf wound had been weeping badly through its dressings, and must have been causing him tremendous pain, but he had told no one.

  ‘God on high,’ whispered Porter. ‘Right. Lie him down flat.’

  ‘Bloody hell…’ Warnock helped shift him fully into the shade of the canopy. Wayland’s forehead immediately began to bead with moisture. His head lower, Wayland came to and began to struggle.

  ‘Will he lose the leg, Doc…?’ asked Pettifer.

  Porter peeled the matted stocking away. ‘Not to me, he ruddy shan’t.’

  At Pettifer’s suggestion they had harvested some floating seaweed and, though ridden with salt, they had found it good for eating. Porter took a handful of it, soaked it over the side then wrapped it tight round the wound in lieu of bandages. Wayland winced and gasped with pain. ‘What’s the rule, sir?’ said Porter brightly. ‘The sea’s good for cuts got out of it, but not got within, i’n’t that right, sir?’

  Wayland sighed, ‘You are… alas… no poet, Dr Porter…’

  ‘No, sir,’ he agreed. ‘But I am Yorkshire, which is the next best thing.’

  Wayland gave a feeble laugh and closed his eyes. They gathered round as Porter worked. ‘If I can get the pus out, it might go a-right. Petty, give us your belt between his teeth… Clamp down, sir,’ he called to Wayland, ‘it might feel a tad smart…’

  Wayland screamed as he bit down on the thick leather as Porter went to work, time and again, squeezing the poisons out of the torn flesh. Warnock looked down at him. ‘Bloody hellfire. And me thinking he’s just some molly kid…’

  ‘You would, y’daft shite,’ said De Lisle.

  Napier nodded. ‘He’s a gent, like the major. They breed ’em tough as boots.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ said Warnock. ‘He’s hard as a coster’s arse and no mistake.’ He poured a ration of water into the cup and handed it to Porter.

  Porter took it. ‘He has had his ration for the afternoon, Private.’

  ‘Go on, give it ’im and belt
up. Say it’s mine.’

  Porter nodded. ‘Duly noted in the log.’ He tipped the water carefully between Wayland’s pale lips.

  Kite called back to them from the bows. ‘Hoi – who’s mindin’ the shop? We got a customer.’

  Dead ahead not a mile off, was the billowing sail of a man of war. They left Wayland to Porter and peered into the distant glare.

  ‘What is she?’ whispered Pettifer. He looked at De Lisle. ‘Lil? A lost Frog?’

  The waves slapped against the sides of the cutter. The rigging creaked rhythmically in the silence. Against the brilliant blue of the sky no one could identify the colours flying from her stern and mainmast.

  ‘’Talian,’ said De Lisle. ‘Bet yer a bob.’

  ‘If she’s a Frog,’ murmured Underhill, reaching for his Shorter India, ‘I bags the captain and the first officer…’

  ‘Sure thing, Sarge,’ said Warnock, ‘just leave us a midshippie or two.’

  Cochrane stared across the waves, his bony chin jutting like a defiant figurehead at the prow. ‘If she comes about a-right, then we’re done. And Jonah shall have us below.’

  ‘Yer a bloody little sunbeam today, Cocky,’ whispered Kite. He reached carefully for his musket, as if not to disturb Fate. The warship turned towards them.

  ‘She’s spotted us,’ said Kite, and began to load and ram. ‘Game’s up. Well lads, ’twas most fine, our time on the high seas ’gainst the foe… but I intend to take a few with me, just to pay ’em back for generally givin’ me the bloody hump.’

  Underhill agreed. ‘Prime your pans, and lock your bloody cocks, lads. We’ll make a few holes in ’em afore we pays Davy Jones a visit.’

  Each man began to load his musket and pistols. The ship bore down on them, spray flying from her sharp bows, the flash of its hull bright in the sun. As he loaded, Kite began to hum one of his favourites. Warnock and De Lisle joined in. ‘I’m Jolly Jack… I’m Jolly Jack… I’m master of the fleet…’

  They watched the ship approach in the dazzling sun, taking note of her gun-ports. If they opened, they knew they were done for. It slowed, the bow-wave subsiding as the crew doused sail, the foremainsail reefed, the canvas collapsing, the tops furling. Kite levelled his musket, checking his sights. ‘…But I never seen a belayin’ pin… wiv bloody bollocks on… hoi.’

  The ship glided closer, its course aimed to pass them on the starboard bow. A challenge was shouted down from the rail. The marines sat ready in their boat, waiting.

  ‘Here’s to the major, lads, our mad, mad Bloody Billy-Jack,’ muttered Kite. ‘And let’s hope he gets more’n a few to even the score…’ Kite raised a hand and shouted back, ‘Hoi, mate! Can’t hear you, mon-soo-er! Come a bit closer, so’s I can put one in your thick bloody ’ead! Voos savvy, eh?’

  ‘After the first volley,’ said Underhill to them all, ‘over the side, into the drink, and head for the trailing lines like the wharf-rats I knows you truly to be.’

  ‘Aye, Sarge…’ they mumbled.

  A voice called down, this time louder.

  ‘Hola!’

  It took a moment for them to register the language. It was Spanish. Underhill got it first. ‘It’s bloody Dagos.’

  De Lisle cocked the lock on his old four-barrelled turnover pistol. ‘Sorry you ain’t got your ’buss, Petty…’

  Pettifer readied his musket. ‘One at a time’ll do me fine, Lil.’

  They heard a choking sound from behind and Porter lifted Wayland’s head. ‘What’s he say?’ asked Warnock.

  Wayland coughed, then waved them back. ‘No – chaps… h-hold fire…’

  The frigate drew nearer, lines dropping over the side, two hands climbing down to meet them, shouts across the decks and rigging. High above them at the starboard rail appeared the familiar face of Alfonso and Ship’s Master Handley. It was the Spanish privateer, the Volpone – their lifeline.

  ‘Hoi, Kitey! You lot on a Grand Tour then?’

  Kite’s filthy sunburnt face split into a broad smile. ‘Bloody matelot! We’re Jollies, whelks an’ cockles, alive-alive-oh, matey!’ he called and Handley laughed down at him.

  He was joined moments later at the rail by none other than their erstwhile saviour, Capitán Cesár Domingo de la Vega. ‘Señores!’ He raised them a brief salute, ‘Soldados of the sea you may be, hm? But sailors, perhaps no, eh?’

  Square

  Early in the morning the mounted guard assembled in Ezbekiya and the crowds began to chant Murad’s name. The Mamluk cavalry had come, the amirs’ sanjaqs answering the call to arms, and all cried out for jihad. Word went about that over ten thousand horse and foot had gathered outside the capital.

  ‘Murad Murad Murad! Allahu akbar!’

  Hazzard stood with Masoud at a balcony on the second floor of the palace, overlooking the quad below. As well as the horsemen were Mamluk footsoldiers with their medieval panoply of arms, buckler, javelins, mace, axe, sword, a few with the long Turkish miquelet muskets.

  ‘Not a line-infantryman in sight.’

  Cook looked down. ‘They’ll be shot to bloody bits.’

  Hazzard tore himself from this new frustration, feeling that he and Cook alone understood the engine of war that was coming to crush them all.

  They had dined that previous night with Murad and his men, sheikhs and sanjaqs ranged around a hall on cushions and rugs amid wafting tapestries giving a draught of cooling air, vast tables laden with meats and fruits on huge ceramic platters and bowls, each carried in by Mamluk servants, a procession of heralds leading the way. Hazzard had not been able to converse with Murad directly or discuss tactics and strategy with anyone – they were isolated, Izzam and Alahum seated protectively either side of Hazzard and Cook, Sharif Nazir joining them at several points in the evening on Murad’s orders. They were being entertained, but kept at arm’s length, while the beautiful awalim danced to music, entrancing them all. The women of the assembly sat quietly, wreathed in veils of fine woven silks and linens, gathered in groups behind each lord, some watching Cook and Hazzard curiously, Masoud trembling with fear that any wrong move might spell disaster. To Hazzard the easy confidence in the palace was infuriating.

  Some hours later they were escorted back to their rooms, Masoud exhausted by his role of interpreter, Hazzard feeling bloody and hopeless, imagining an unopposed landing by the French, battalions forming on the beaches and marching inland, no one to stop them – and no one in the palace, it seemed, was prepared to listen.

  They followed their hard-bitten Mamluk guide down unfamiliar corridors and up stone staircases, arches soaring high above, the Nile breeze blowing in, Hazzard wondering why they had taken such a circuitous route. Eventually they came to a dark, broad landing of cool white stone. At the end was a gallery balcony overlooking the palace gardens. As they reached the top they stopped dead, Masoud in sudden stark terror. He took Hazzard’s wrist tightly.

  ‘Effendi…’

  Before them, ranged across the darkness of the balcony, were half a dozen women in voluminous robes. With the flicker of distant lanterns and the glow of the moon through the trees beyond, the landing was wild with crazed shadow. Both parties stood in expectant silence.

  Masoud bowed deeply, keeping his head down, ‘Hazar-effendi, please look down…’

  Hazzard bowed but did not look away, wondering who should speak first. Judging by her bearing, he recognised the one figure he had noticed at the feast: the foremost of Murad’s wives.

  Stricken with more fear than when he had met Sheikh Ali Qarim in the desert, Masoud hissed, ‘Nafisa Khatun al-Muradiyya. Once concubine, now leader of the Mamluk harim and wife to Murad Bey. We are in such danger, effendi…’

  The dark figure approached, as if to pass by, and stopped beside him. As Hazzard’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see she wore a formal decorative yelek kaftan and flowing black cotton robes. This was topped by a long, fine black silk headscarf fringed with glittering gold trim; beneath it, a black and gold veil over
her nose and mouth, the whole effect delicate, diaphanous, wafting slightly in the breeze, with a scent of Indian patchouli. Hazzard could see almost nothing of her, yet could detect the presence of extraordinary beauty. A pair of black-centred almond eyes looked back at him.

  ‘Al Pasha al-ahmar,’ she said.

  The Red Pasha.

  Masoud whispered, ‘You must reply, effendi.’

  Hazzard bowed again and spoke softly, ‘Your servant, my lady. Sergeant Cook, and Izzam and Alahum of the al-Kalbi.’

  Masoud translated, bowing. Nafisa spoke again and bowed her head briefly. ‘As-salamu aleikum, ya Hazar Pasha.’

  Hazzard then guessed they had been led there by the Mamluk servant, hers presumably – he stood behind the group, one hand on a sword. Her eyes the only point of reference in the flowing silks, Hazzard watched them as they flicked up and down, sizing him up. She spoke, and Masoud translated.

  ‘She asks, are the French coming, truly.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ said Hazzard, ‘Ships enough to cover the sea, tens of thousands of footsoldiers, cavalry and artillery.’

  Masoud glanced at him nervously, uncertain if he should impart such news. ‘To the lord’s wife, effendi, it is a grave matter to speak such things…’

  ‘She asked for the truth. Tell her.’

  Masoud nodded and conveyed his words. The younger women around her gasped and shifted in some fear. Nafisa calmed them, then addressed Hazzard again. Masoud gritted his teeth and translated.

  ‘She asks, can the Lord Murad defeat them?’

  Hazzard listened to her voice. It was gentle, detached, its lilt, in itself, beautiful. He exchanged glances with Cook. ‘I cannot say, madam.’

  Masoud squeezed Hazzard’s wrist, his grip tight. ‘I beg of you, effendi… let us go.’

  She spoke once again, soft and plaintive. Masoud quietened, bowing to her words, and the feeling behind them. ‘She says, then you must protect the Lord Murad. In doing so, you shall protect us.’