by Sandra Heath
Tansy did not dwell longer on the mystery of his lordship’s motives, for she and Mrs. Entwhistle had to help Amanda into the hidden chamber, where the floor was dusty but at least dry. There they huddled together in a corner, feeling a false sense of warmth simply because they were out of the wind. But they were still in danger, for by the sounds from outside, the French seemed to be setting up camp. Suddenly the oleanders rustled. It wasn’t the wind; something—or someone—was out there! Mrs. Entwhistle sat forward nervously, and Amanda’s breath caught as a robed man appeared in the doorway and spoke to them in a hoarse whisper. “Peace upon you, ladies. Fear not, for I am your friend.”
“Who are you?” the chaperone asked, for in this part of the world it was nothing for a sworn enemy to pretend friendship.
He entered, and by now Tansy’s eyes were sufficiently accustomed to the dark to make him out in some detail. He was in his mid-thirties, and his chin was clean shaven, but he had a bristling mustache and fine side-whiskers. He wore the shirt, waistcoat, and exceedingly baggy trousers of the Mameluke, and was pale skinned instead of dark like the native Egyptians, because the Mamelukes were white slave warriors of Circassian origin. The tarboosh on his head was swathed in a turban fixed with a spray of jewels that sparkled so much they had to be diamonds. Tansy knew that Mamelukes carried all their wealth upon their persons, so that this man probably wore many other jewels among his clothes. He bowed, and then addressed them in immaculate English. “By God’s grace I am called Tusun. I help the British, and it is my business to learn all there is to know about the French. I was scouting this place and saw your felucca sink. I heard you speak English.” He dropped some bundles at their feet. “Food and milk, dry blankets, and robes. I stole them from the French. You must change out of your wet clothes.”
Tansy gazed incredulously at the supplies. “Oh, thank you,” she said gratefully.
Mrs. Entwhistle smiled at him. “Yes, thank you very much indeed, Tusun.”
“It is important you stay very quiet, for there are many French here, and so far they do not know of this place.”
“Long may it stay that way,” Mrs. Entwhistle murmured.
“Indeed so. Tell me how you came here. European women are rare in this land.”
They explained about the loss of the Gower, and he drew a long breath. “Ah, yes, that sandbar has claimed many a ship.”
“Many of the crew must have been rescued. If you could get us to them…?”
“I have another plan for your salvation, lady,” he said quietly; then his glance fell upon Amanda’s ankle, which was exposed because that young lady, annoyed at not being the center of attention, began to make a fuss about her injury. “You are hurt, lady?”
“I tripped on something and fell down the slope from the steps,” she said, stretching out her dainty foot, even now unable to resist the urge to make a conquest.
Tusun crouched down beside her. “With your permission, let me see.” Amanda displayed no maidenly modesty as she submitted to his stranger’s hands. Tansy and Mrs. Entwhistle looked at each other, for neither of them was under any illusion about her. The chaperone in particular was dismayed, having seen enough of the world to know that Amanda often played with fire. At first Tusun gave no indication of what he thought. His expert fingers probed the slightly swollen ankle; then he nodded. “God is merciful, lady. There is no injury,” he said, then very deliberately and pointedly pulled the hem of her gown down over her foot. Amanda flushed, for there was no mistaking the silent rebuke, but for once she said nothing.
Embarrassed, Mrs. Entwhistle sought to divert attention by telling him about Amanda’s accident. “We were seeking shelter here when a cat crossed our path, and—”
Tusun stepped back as if scalded. “A cat?” he gasped, making a superstitious sign before him. “You saw a cat? Here?”
“Why, yes. It was just a cat….”
“Oh, no lady, not just a cat, not if you saw it here at Tel el-Osorkon. Long ago in the time of the pharaohs, this place was dedicated to Bastet, the cat goddess. On top of the temple mound there is a statue of a cat-headed woman, Bastet herself, seated upon a throne, with cats and kittens at her feet. Once there were a thousand cats here, but now there are none. Cats will not come here because Bastet has sent them away, to show her displeasure at no longer being worshipped.”
Mrs. Entwhistle was adamant. “Well, I assure you we saw one.”
Tusun made another superstitious sign. “Then it is an omen,” he murmured.
“Good or bad?” Tansy inquired.
He spread his hands. “That I do not know.” He glanced up as more sounds came from the loggia above them. “I must go now, for I have a task to do. You are safe until I bring help, God willing.”
Mrs. Entwhistle got to her feet. “Bring help from where? The crew of the Cower?” she asked.
“No. I am to meet the British frigate Lucina tonight in Aboukir Bay, to tell them what the French are doing. An officer, Lieutenant Ballard, will come ashore to consult with me. I will tell him of you, and of the Gower, and he will come for you.”
“I see. How long will this take?”
“I will return with the lieutenant before the night is out.”
Mrs. Entwhistle was relieved. “Then I wish you God speed, Tusun. Ma’as salama.” Go in safety. She had been in the Levant long enough to have learned a little of most of its languages.
He bowed, and left them. There was a rustling in the oleanders, then nothing, except the mutter of the storm around the entrance, and the sounds of the French.
Chapter 5
“Remember now, lads, not a word once we’re close to the shore! English voices will prove our undoing!”
In Aboukir Bay, about eight miles away from Tel el-Osorkon, First Lieutenant Martin Ballard’s voice was snatched by the wind as the pinnace pushed away from HMS Lucina. It was half an hour to midnight, the cloudy Mediterranean night was black and starless, and the muffled oars made little sound as the sailors began to pull for the shore through the wind and swell. The storm was abating quickly now, but the sea was still surly and unsettled. There were no lights on the thirty-two-gun fifth rater, for fear of alerting the French fort on the western promontory. Out of sight to the east lay the Rosetta mouth of the Nile, and the infamous sandbar where, as yet unknown to the Lucina, the Gower had met her fate.
Martin was thirty-three years old and romantically handsome, with dark curling hair, thick-lashed brown eyes, and finely chiseled lips that could as swiftly warm into a smile as press thin with anger or grim determination. His complexion was tanned from the sun and sea, and there was a ruggedness about him that rested oddly well with the grace of his movements, for he was as at home in bloody hand-to-hand action as dancing a measure at an assembly room ball. He tugged his flowing green robes around his lean, muscular body, and adjusted his turban. When he slipped ashore on these secret intelligence-gathering missions, he always wore a disguise, for to appear in naval uniform would be to sign his own death warrant. But this was his last such mission; indeed, it was his last voyage. When the Lucina returned to Portsmouth, he would leave the navy and start a new life in far-off America.
He checked the dagger and long curving knife thrust into the wide sash around his waist, then made sure of the pistol he carried against his heart. Only then did he gaze toward the land, where there were a few clumps of date palms, and dunes topped with waving grass. Beyond the dunes that fringed the beach there was a sandy waste that stretched to the lush fertile edge of the delta. He raked the rocky beach for any sign of activity, but all seemed deserted, just as he’d hoped. Secrecy was essential now that the British were only days from invasion to end French occupation. Information about enemy numbers and deployment was vital.
The coxswain addressed him suddenly. “Are there any further orders, sir?”
“No, it’s all as before, Matthews. If I’m not there at dawn, you’re to return at the same time every day until I am. If I have any urgent messages
and cannot stay to deliver them in person, I will leave them in the usual place.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Matthews replied. He was an experienced seaman, wiry and agile as a monkey.
The pinnace slid further from the protection of the Lucina and was swept forward on huge rollers. The noise of the surf grew louder, and spume flew on the air. Salt stung Martin’s lips, and the lurch of the boat was almost sickening as the sailors shipped the oars and allowed the last wave to almost hurl the pinnace onto a small stretch of sand. The moment Martin was ashore, the sailors began to shove the boat back into the surf. He didn’t wait to see them go, but slipped away toward the usual thicket of date palms. On reaching the trees, he ducked down among some wind-carved bushes and laid low, listening beyond the racket of the breakers for any sound that might warn of danger. The seconds passed. Out on the water the pinnace was pulling strongly back toward the indistinct silhouette of the Lucina out in the bay. He was alone. There was a knot in his stomach that felt as cold as ice, but the blood pumped swiftly through his veins as he took out his fob watch. Midnight. He settled back to wait for Tusun.
Time seemed to pass on leaden feet. The clouds overhead began to thin, and one by one stars appeared. Then the moon slid out of hiding, casting a cool silver light over everything. The Lucina was beating seaward, and come daylight no one would know she had ever been there. Suddenly there came the sound of a horse, a low whicker that was almost lost in the noise of the sea. Martin stiffened warily, and slid a hand toward the pistol inside his robe, but then a voice he knew called out quietly. “Effendi?”
“Over here, Tusun!”
Shadows moved as the Mameluke approached, leading two horses, a bay and a chestnut, exquisitely beautiful Arabian mounts of the desert. “Ah, Effendi, God has willed it that you are here safely,” he declared.
Martin grinned and got up. “Have you any information?”
“Oh, indeed, Effendi. I had much to impart concerning the movements of the French, but I also have something else to tell you. Three Englishwomen need help.”
“What in God’s own name are Englishwomen doing here?”
“They were on a British sloop, the Gower, which was wrecked on the sandbar at the Rosetta mouth of the Nile.”
Martin knew the Gower, and was acquainted with some of her officers. “You only mention the three women. What of the crew?”
“I believe they reached the shore, Effendi, but the women were taken by pirates. They came from Constantinople, and that is all I know of them. Now they hide.”
“How far away are they?”
“Maybe eight miles, Effendi. It is nothing to these fine mounts.” Tusun patted the horses.
“Maybe not for just you and me, but if we have three extra to bring back….”
Tusun gave him a wily grin. “There is a fine canja, Effendi. It is laden with treasure and antiquities stolen by the French.”
“The French?” Martin repeated guardedly.
“Indeed so.” The Mameluke shuffled his feet slightly. “You see, the place where they are hiding has become a French encampment. Most of the officers sailed from Cairo in the canja, but the rest—and the men—came across the desert. I was following them, so I know this.”
“How many altogether?’
The Mameluke spread his hands again and shrugged. “Oh, not many, Effendi. Maybe two thousand.”
“Oh, is that all? Good heavens, for a moment you had me worried,” Martin replied dryly. Damn it all, why couldn’t these women have stayed in Constantinople?
Tusun looked intently at him in the moonlight, then held out a pair of reins. “If we hurry, Effendi, we can accomplish all before dawn, God willing.”
“Yes, but first I must leave word about the Gower. If there are shipwrecked British seamen ashore, they need to be saved. The Lucina can do that, and will be glad of the extra hands.” Martin searched inside his robe for the notebook and pencil he carried everywhere. He scribbled a message about the location of the wrecked sloop and her stranded crew, and about his intention to rescue the three women if possible. Then he ripped the page from the book and hid it in a cleft in one of the date palms, where Matthews was bound to look if no one was waiting the next morning. Then he and Tusun rode swiftly away along the beach.
Chapter 6
Tansy crept to the doorway and peered out past the oleanders. She was very tired but still couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Her skin and hair were still sticky with salt and Nile mud, but at least she had been able to change into the black robes Tusun had purloined from the French. She had eaten too, just wheat cakes and milk, but she felt a good deal better than before. The storm had faded considerably now, and the reeds at the water’s edge swayed occasionally. Beyond the channel the shadowy delta stretched away into a darkness that was briefly pierced by moonlight as the clouds began to break.
The canja was moored alongside the riverbank. It was long, low, and graceful, with a flat-topped cabin area toward the stern, and its tall mast had been lowered along the deck. She saw that it was heavily laden with antiquities, from terra-cotta jars and pieces of carved masonry, to two finely decorated caskets and a number of bronze animal figures. There were also half a dozen large crates, some of them badly packed, which soldiers were rearranging and securing with ropes. Suddenly one of the crates was dropped, and an infuriated officer bellowed from the loggia. Tansy glanced up and saw his fist brandishing in the light of a lantern. Realizing that he might see her, she drew hastily back into the room, where Amanda and Mrs. Entwhistle were asleep on the floor in Tusun’s blankets. They too were now clothed in robes, and the wet garments belonging to all three women were hanging from a stone projection on the wall.
Tansy was about to join them on the floor, when more moonlight shone through the entrance onto the wall opposite. What she had previously thought was plain stonework was now revealed to be beautifully painted with a hunting scene from the time of the pharaohs. Vivid, colorful, and graceful, it showed a young man catching waterfowl among the papyrus and blue lotus of the delta marshes. Birds of every description surrounded him as he stood on a small reed boat beneath which fish swam. In one hand he held a brace of white egrets, while he held out the other to take a papyrus being brought to him not by a retriever dog but by a tabby cat! She went closer, hoping the moonlight would last long enough for her to see it properly. The cat fascinated her, not only because of its unlikely role, but also because it was painted in such exquisite detail that its fur almost invited her to stroke it.
Mrs. Entwhistle suddenly spoke from the floor behind her. “The pharaohs often used cats instead of dogs, especially here in the delta.”
Tansy turned in surprise. “Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes, it is quite a well-known thing.” Holding the warm blanket around her, the chaperone got up and came to join her, while Amanda slept on. “Tusun said this place was called Tel el-Osorkon, and so I believe this scene depicts a myth my husband once told to me. It concerns a young nobleman named Osorkon, who lived in the delta and went hunting every day with his faithful she-cat. But the young man was really the rightful pharaoh, and his evil half-brother ordered his death in order to have the throne. One day the cat brought Osorkon a papyrus that revealed his destiny; he defeated his wicked sibling, and on ascending the throne of Egypt he built a temple to his faithful cat, who became beloved of the goddess Bastet.” Mrs. Entwhistle smiled. “It would be agreeable, would it not, to imagine that this place was the very temple, and that the creature we saw when we first arrived was a descendant of Osorkon’s cat?”
“I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about Ancient Egypt, Mrs. Entwhistle.”
“Oh, hardly knowledgeable, my dear. I only claim a little learning, gleaned from my dear late husband, who was an antiquarian of some standing.”
Tansy looked fondly at her. “The Reverend Entwhistle would be very proud indeed to know how staunch and brave you’ve been for Amanda and me.”
“You are a good girl, T
ansy, and worth a thousand A—” Mrs. Entwhistle broke off awkwardly, for she had been about to say a thousand Amandas.
Neither of them spoke for a moment; then Tansy looked shyly at the older woman. “It seems rather silly for me to keep calling you Mrs. Entwhistle, when you call me Tansy. Would you mind very much if I called you Hermione?”
“No, of course not, my dear, horrid name though it is. In fact, I would like it very much if we were on more friendly terms.” Hermione cleared her throat. “Now, where were we before? Ah, yes, retriever cats. It’s strange, is it not? We always regard the cat as a law unto itself and quite impossible to train, yet the Ancient Egyptians seem to have managed it.” She reached up to touch the hieroglyphs that also adorned the painting. “Oh, if only we could unlock this puzzle, what stories we would learn, what history would be revealed to us across the centuries. I heard that a year or so ago, the French found an inscribed stone of immense importance somewhere near here, at Rosetta, I think. It is said to be written with three different languages, one being Greek, another hieroglyphic, and I’m not sure about the third. Anyway, it is hoped that all the inscriptions are versions the same text. If so, maybe our understanding will advance at last. I was told that the British confiscated this stone, and I pray the information is correct, for we do not wish the French to have the glory of translating hieroglyphs, do we?” She smiled at Tansy.