by Wilbur Smith
David was of almost the same build as Penrod. Even a pair of his boots fitted as though they were made for the younger man. Penrod had considerably less girth, but he belted in the trousers and tucked in a freshly ironed white shirt. When he was dressed David led him back to his study. “I cannot even offer you brandy to wash it down,” he said, as a servant placed a beautiful Sevres plate before Penrod. On it sat a small portion of dhurra cake and a lump of goat’s milk cheese no larger than the first joint of his thumb. “Hard commons, I’m afraid.”
“Very nourishing, sir.” Penrod nibbled the dhurra.
“Damned pleased to have your despatches, Ballantyne. We’ve been completely in the dark here for months. How long did it take you from Cairo?”
“I left there on the nineteenth of last month, sir.”
“Damn me, but that was good going.” David nodded. “Now, tell me what the London newspapers are saying.” He was eager for every scrap of news that Penrod could tell him.
“They are quite openly reporting the bad blood between General Gordon and Mr. Gladstone, sir, and public opinion is strongly on General Gordon’s side. They want Khartoum relieved, the General rescued, and the savages taught to mind their manners.”
“What is your opinion, Captain?”
“As a serving officer I do not allow myself an opinion on such matters, sir.”
“Very wise.” David smiled. “But as a member of the public, do you think that the Prime Minister has shown lack of resolve?”
Penrod hesitated. “May I speak frankly, sir?”
“That is what I am inviting you to do. Whatever you say will remain between us. You have my word on it.”
“I think that Mr. Gladstone has shown neither cowardice nor indecision in refusing to send an army upriver to save the life of General Gordon, as most of the British public believes. The general had only to embark on one of his steamers and come home. I believe that the Prime Minister did not feel justified in involving the nation in costly and risky operations here in the heart of Sudan merely to vindicate the personal honour of one man.”
David drew a deep breath. “My goodness me! I asked for your frank opinion and I got it. But tell me, Ballantyne, don’t you think that there is not some personal resentment in Whitehall for an officer whose rash and intractable actions have brought so much odium upon them?”
“It would be remarkable if that was not the case. It is clearly demonstrated in the despatches from Sir Evelyn that I deli verd to you.”
David considered Penrod seriously. He was not just a pretty fellow, he thought, he had a thinking head on his shoulders. “So you would oppose the despatch of Wolseley’s force to our relief?”
“Oh, never!” Penrod laughed. “I’m a soldier, and soldiers thrive on war. I hope to be in the thick of it, even if it doesn’t make good sense, which is apparent, and if matters turn nasty, which is highly likely.”
David laughed with him. “War seldom makes good sense,” he agreed. “It is refreshing to hear a military man say it. But why has Gladstone changed his mind, and agreed to send an army?”
“The expressed desire of the nation is a force to which Mr. Gladstone has always acceded. I understand from Sir Evelyn Baring that the Prime Minister was advised that only a single brigade would be needed for the expedition. Only after he had reluctantly taken the decision, and announced it to the nation, did the war ministry ask for a much larger force. It was too late then to reverse the decision so the relieving army has become not a single brigade but ten thousand men.”
The hours sped away as they talked until the grandfather clock in the corner chimed again. David stared at it in astonishment. “Two o’clock, upon my soul! We’ll have to give you a few hours’ sleep before you meet Gordon. I imagine you’re in for a torrid time with him.”
The servants were waiting up for him but David dismissed them and personally showed Penrod to one of the guest suites. The night was so sultry and he was so tired that he could not bother himself to don the thick flannel nightshirt that David provided. Instead he stripped naked and before he crawled beneath the single sheet he placed his dagger under the pillow. Then he went out like a candle in a high wind.
He awoke without a change in his breathing, and was immediately aware that someone was in the bedroom with him. While he feigned sleep, he tried to remember where he was. Through his eyelashes he saw that the curtains were drawn and the light in the room was muted. It was still early in the morning. He moved his hand infinitesimally slowly under the pillow until his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger. He waited like a coiled adder for the strike.
There was a light footstep beside his bed, and someone coughed softly, nervously. The small sound gave him direction and he launched himself off the bed. He bore the intruder to the floor, held him by the throat with one hand, and with the other touched him with the point of the dagger. “If you move I will kill you,” he whispered ferociously in Arabic. “Who are you?”
Then he became aware that his captive smelt of rosebuds and the throat he held was silken smooth and warm. The body under him was clad in taffeta bodice and skirts and there were marvelous protuberances and hollows under the fine cloth. He released his hold and sprang to his feet. He stared down in astonishment and consternation as his captive sat up. It took him some seconds to grasp that he had assaulted and threatened a young woman with shining blonde hair. And that sitting on the floor, with her skirts in disarray around her, her eyes were at the same level as his naked groin, her gaze was fixed upon an object that happened to be a part of his anatomy seldom exposed to public scrutiny.
Still gripping the dagger, he spun round to grab the sheet from the bed. Before he could wrap it round himself he realized that he was offering the reverse view to the young woman. Haste made him clumsy, and he fumbled until at last, modestly covered, he faced her again.
“I am mortified, Miss Benbrook. I had no idea it was you. You startled me.”
Her pale cheeks were slowly suffused with a rosy blush, but she was still panting for breath, as though she had run a distance. The effect this had on what lay beneath her bodice was riveting. “If I startled you, sir, then you have no idea how you have alarmed me. Who are you and what are you doing Her hand flew to her mouth as she recognized him, despite his unflattering new haircut. “Captain Ballantyne!”
“Your servant, madam.” His bow was spoilt by the need to retain a grip on both the dagger and his sheet. She scrambled to her feet, stared at him a moment longer with wide eyes, then fled from the room. He stared after her. He had forgotten how pleasing she was to the eye, a condition not at all spoilt by her confusion and dismay. Then he grinned. “That alone was worth the journey,” he said to himself.
He whistled as he shaved and dressed, then winked at himself in the mirror and said aloud, “Perhaps next time she will recognize me more readily, now that she has more to remember me by.” Then he went down the stairs.
David was already seated at the breakfast table, but apart from the white’ robed servants he was alone. “Have some of this.” He placed a spoonful of an amorphous pale green substance on Penrod’s plate. “The taste is execrable, but I have it on excellent authority that it is highly nutritious.”
Penrod peered at it suspiciously. It looked like green cheese. “What is it?”
“I understand that it is the curds of papyrus and reed weeds, made by my daughters. We eat a lot of it. In fact, since the official rations were reduced to one cup of dhurra corn a day, we eat little else.”
Penrod put a morsel cautiously into his mouth. “My compliments to your daughters. It is very palatable.” He tried to sound convincing.
“It’s not bad really. Try it with Worcester sauce or Gentleman’s Relish. You will soon grow accustomed to it. Now, shall we go and call upon General Gordon?”
General Gordon turned from the window through which he had been staring across the river at the enemy emplacements. He stared at Penrod with that disconcerting blue gaze as he salut
ed. “At ease, Captain. I believe you made the journey from Cairo in record time,” he said.
How did he know that? Penrod wondered, and then it was obvious. We have the boasting of the fearless Yakub to thank.
In silence General Gordon listened to his report and the messages he had brought from Sir Evelyn. When he had finished speaking, Gordon did not reply immediately. He paced up and down the long room, finally stopping to stare at the large-scale map of the Sudan that was spread on the table under the windows. The view from them was unrestricted: the glass panes had been blown out by shrapnel from the Dervish artillery across the river, but Gordon had taken no steps to fortify his headquarters or to protect his person. He seemed to be concerned only for the safety of the city and the well-being of its people.
“I suppose that we must be grateful to the Prime Minister for coming to the rescue of the populace, even though he is several months too late,” he remarked at last. Then he looked up at Penrod. “The only consolation for me is that now I have at least one British officer on my staff.”
At those words, Penrod felt the first chill breeze of unease blow down his spine. “My orders from General Stewart, sir, are to return to Wadi Haifa as soon as I have delivered my despatches to you. I am seconded to the new Camel Corps with orders to assist in guiding them across the loop of the Nile to the assault upon Metemma.”
Gordon thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. “If General Stewart has not yet left Wadi Haifa it will be months before he reaches Metemma. You will be more useful here than sitting at Wadi Haifa. Besides, there must be hundreds of other guides qualified to bring the Camel Corps across the loop. When the rescue column reaches Abu Hamed, I shall reconsider. But in the meantime I need you here.”
He said it with such finality that Penrod knew argument was futile. His dreams of action and glory were shattered. Instead of riding into the city at the head of his corps after fighting his way up from Metemma, he was now sentenced to the dreary monotony of the siege.
I must bide my time, and choose my moment, he decided, and did not let his expression betray his true feelings. “It will be an honour to serve under you, General, but I would appreciate having those orders in writing.”
“You shall have them,” Gordon promised, ‘but now I must bring you up to date with the situation here, and our immediate and most pressing problems. Take a seat, Ballantyne.”
Gordon spoke quickly, almost with agitation, flitting from subject to subject, chain-smoking cigarettes from a silver case. Slowly Penrod began to understand the enormous strain under which he had been working, and to gain an inkling of the terrible loneliness of this command. He sensed that before his arrival, there had been nobody Gordon could trust to share with him some of the burden. If Penrod was not an equal in rank, at least he was an officer of a first-line British regiment, and as such was worth a dhow full of Egyptian staff officers.
“You see, Ballantyne, I have here the responsibility and duty without full control. I am daily afflicted not only by the incompetence of the Egyptian officers but by their unconscionable behaviour and total lack of morality or sense of duty. They wilfully disobey orders, if they think they can escape the consequences, they neglect their duties and spend most of their time with their concubines. Unless I chivvy them they seldom bother to visit the front-line de fences I am aware that they conspire and intrigue with the Dervish in the hope that they may win advantage when the city falls, which they are convinced it will. They steal from their own men. The troops fall asleep at their posts, and in their turn steal from the populace. I suspect that large quantities of dhurra have been stolen from the granary. The women and children of the city spit at me and revile me in the streets when I am forced to reduce the rations yet again. We are down to a cupful of grain per person per day.” He lit another cigarette and the flame of the match fluttered in his cupped hands. He puffed rapidly, then smiled coldly at Penrod. “So you can imagine that your assistance will be welcome. That is especially true since you are so well acquainted with the layout of the city.”
“Of course you may rely on me, General.” Despite his cold, almost messianic gaze, Penrod wondered how close Gordon was to breaking point.
“I am going to delegate to you the following responsibilities at the outset. Until now Major al-Faroque has been in charge of the storage and distribution of food. His efforts have been at best pathetically inadequate. I suspect, though I cannot prove it, that he knows something of the missing grain. You will take over from him immediately. I want you to let me have an inventory of all the available supplies as soon as possible. Under the rule of martial law, you have the power of seizure. You may commandeer any stores you need. Any transgressions are to be treated with the utmost severity. You may flog or shoot looters and black-marketeers without reference to me. The troops and the populace must be forced to accept the unpleasant laws you will make them fully aware that the alternatives are even worse. Do you understand that?”
“Of course, General.”
“Do you know a Ryder Courtney?”
“Only in passing, sir.”
“He is a trader and merchant of this city. I was obliged to requisition a shipment of his dhurra. As a mercenary without an altruistic bone in his body, he resents it. He has his own compound within the city, and behaves as though he is independent of all authority. I want you to make the true position clear to him.”
“I understand, sir,” said Penrod, and thought sourly, So now I am no longer a Hussar but a policeman and quartermaster.
Gordon was watching his expression, and saw the reaction, but he went on unruffled: “Among other enterprises, he owns and operates a large river steamer. At present it is undergoing repairs in his workshop. Once it is serviceable again, it will be useful in future military operations and possible evacuation of our populace, should Stewart’s column fail to arrive in time. Courtney also has horses and camels, and much else that will be vital to us as the Dervish noose tightens around us.” Gordon stood up as a signal that the meeting was at an end. “Find out what he is up to, and what he knows of the missing dhurra, Ballantyne. Then report back to me.”
Penrod knew of Ryder Courtney’s reputation: David Benbrook had spoken of him and even Sir Evelyn Baring had taken note of him. It seemed that he was a resourceful and formidable character. If Penrod was to carry out Gordon’s orders he would gain nothing by marching up to the front gate of Courtney’s compound and announcing himself and his intentions. First, he thought, a little scouting expedition is called for.
He left the palace gardens by the river gate. It was unguarded, and he made a note of that. He moved swiftly along the waterfront, to prevent warning of his arrival being telegraphed ahead. At the first redoubt of the de fences the sentries were recumbent, resting weary limbs and eyes. Penrod had heard of Gordon’s swift justice, and he had no wish to precipitate a massacre and decimation of the Egyptian garrison, so he used cane and boot to remind them of their duty.
He went on along the line of fortifications and gun emplacements that had been erected since his last visit to the city. It was evident that these had been planned by General Gordon, for they had been laid out with a soldier’s eye and understanding of terrain. He inspected the field guns, and though he was no artilleryman, he picked out the deficiencies in care and handling of the weapons. The shortage of ammunition was painfully apparent. When he questioned them, the gunners told him they were not allowed independent fire but had to wait for orders from their officers before they were allowed to send a single shell across the river. The Dervish on the opposite bank were under no such limitation, and morning and evening they indulged in uninhibited barrages, which made up in enthusiasm for any lack of accuracy. Usually the middle of the day was calm and peaceful while both sides rested from the heat of the sun.
Penrod moved quickly past the harbour, where he noticed a white river steamer with most of her machinery stripped out and spread on the stone wharf for repair. Her hull and superstructure wer
e peppered with shrapnel hits. A gang of Arab workers was busy patching and painting over the damage. A white engineer supervised them, encouraging his crew with a chorus of oaths and imprecations that carried clearly across the water in the accents of the Glasgow docks. It was obvious that it would be weeks, if not months, before the steamer was ready to sail. Penrod moved on along the river frontage of the Blue Nile towards Fort Burri and the arsenal.
As he picked his way through the alleyways, which were almost clogged with shell debris and filth, brown faces looked down at him from the windows and rickety balconies that almost met overhead. Women held up their naked infants so that he could see the swellings and bruising of scurvy, the skeletal limbs. “We are starving, Effendi. Give us food,” they pleaded. Their cries alerted the beggars, who hobbled out of the gloomy depths of the alleyways to pluck at his clothing. He scattered them with a few shrewd cuts of his cane.
The guns on the parapets of Fort Burri covered the north bank of the Blue Nile, and the Dervish fortifications facing them. Penrod paused to study them, and saw that the enemy were taking few precautions. Even with the naked eye he could see figures across the river moving about in the open. Some Dervish women were washing their laundry on the riverbank and spreading it out to dry in full view of Fort Burri. They must have realized how perilously depleted was Gordon’s stock of shot and shell.
Behind Fort Burri stood the squat and ugly blockhouses of the arsenal and the munitions store. General Gordon was using them as the city granary. There were sentries at the entrance and at each revetment that supported the crumbling walls. From what Gordon had told him, even those guards and the repairs to the walls had been no match for the ingenuity of Ryder Courtney or the Egyptian officers, or whoever was to blame for the depredations in the granary. However, this was not the time to visit the arsenal or to conduct an audit of the stores. That would come later. Penrod was headed towards the sprawling complex of Ryder Courtney’s compound, which lay a short way beyond, almost on the canal that defended the city from an assault out of the southern desert.