by Wilbur Smith
They leant on the bridge rail together. “After what happened at the compound yesterday, I am not taking any more chances. The mood of the people is ugly and dangerous. The city is crawling with agents and sympathizers of the Mahdi. They will know by morning that the this is seaworthy again. We must expect an attempt at sabotage. From here on, we must keep an armed guard on board twenty-four hours a day.”
“I was going to do that anyhow.” Jock nodded. “I’ve already moved my bed and duffel back on board, and I’ll be sleeping with a pistol under me mattress. My stokers will be taking turns at guard duties.”
“Excellent, Jock. But apart from that, as soon as it’s light enough I want you to move her from the harbour into the canal and tie her up at the jetty at the back gate of the compound. She’ll be much safer there, and easier to load.”
“You thinking about your ivory?” Jock asked.
“What else?” Ryder smiled. “But also I want to be able to make a run for it if things go wrong again. I’ll be waiting for you to bring the this up the canal at first light.”
‘“hat’s all that din?” Ryder had been woken by Bacheet hammering on the blockhouse door.
“One of the Egyptian officers is here with a message from Gordon Pasha,” Bacheet shouted back.
Ryder’s heart sank. No news from Chinese Gordon was ever good. He reached for his trousers and boots and pulled them on.
The Egyptian had two black eyes and a scabbed, swollen lower lip.
“What happened to you, Captain?” Ryder asked.
“There was a food riot at the arsenal when the general reduced the ration. I was hit in the face by a stone.”
“I’d heard that your troops shot twenty of the rioters.”
“That is not correct,” the officer said hotly. “To restore order, the general was forced to shoot only twelve.”
“How abstemious of him,” Ryder murmured.
“You also had trouble with the rioters, and were forced to shoot,” the captain added.
“Only two, but they killed one of my men first.” Ryder was relieved to have confirmation of the shooting at the arsenal: Gordon was no longer in a position to point the finger at him. “I understand that you have a message for me from Gordon Pasha.”
“The general wishes to see you at Mukran Fort as soon as possible. I am to escort you there. Will you please make ready to leave at once?”
Schoolboy being called to the headmaster’s study, Ryder thought wryly. He took his hat down from the peg on the wall. “Very well. I am ready.”
Gordon was at his usual station on the battlements of the fort. He was standing behind his telescope, peering downriver towards the Shabluka Gorge. Two brilliant coloured flags flew from the flagstaff of the watchtower. The red, white and black of Egypt was surmounted by the red, white and blue of the Union Flag of Great Britain.
Gordon straightened up and saw Ryder’s upturned face. “Those flags will be the first thing that the relief force sees when they come up the river. Then they will know that the city is still in our hands, and that we have withstood all the forces of evil and darkness.”
“And all the world will learn, General, what one Englishman alone and almost unaided has been able to achieve. It is a story that will be written large in the annals of Empire.” Ryder had meant it to be ironic, but somehow it did not come out that way. He was forced to admit, however reluctantly, that he admired this terrible little man. He could never feel the slightest affection for him, but he stood in awe of him.
Gordon raised a silver-grey eyebrow beneath which a cold blue eye glinted, acknowledging the barbed compliment from an adversary. “I am informed that you took your steamer out on trial last night, and that it was successful,” he stated crisply.
Ryder nodded cautiously. The old devil misses nothing, he thought. Now he found himself hating the man as strongly as ever.
“I hope that does not mean you are planning to sail away in her before the relief arrives?” Gordon asked.
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Mr. Courtney, despite your mercenary instincts you have made, perhaps unwittingly, a significant contribution to the defence of my city. Your production of the foul-tasting but nutritious green-cake in itself has been of great assistance. You have other resources at your disposal that might save lives.” Gordon stared at him.
Ryder stared back into the sapphire eyes and replied, “Indeed, General, and I feel I have done as much as I can. However, I have a premonition that you will try to convince me otherwise.”
“I need you to remain in the city. I do not want to be forced to impound your vessel, but I shall not hesitate to do so if you defy me.”
“Ah!” Ryder nodded. “That is a compelling argument. May I suggest a compromise, General?”
“I am a reasonable man,” Gordon inclined his head, ‘and I am always ready to listen to good sense.”
That is not a widely held opinion, Ryder thought, but he replied evenly, “If I am able to deliver equal value, will you allow me to sail from Khartoum whenever I wish, with the cargo and passengers of-my own choice without restriction?”
“Ah, yes. I believe you have become friendly with David Benbrook’s daughters,” Gordon smiled bleakly, ‘and that you have several tons of ivory in your warehouse. Those would be your passengers and cargo, would they not?”
“David Benbrook and the three young ladies will be among those I shall invite to sail with me. I am certain that this would not be in conflict with your sense of chivalry.”
“What do you offer, sir, as your part of the bargain?”
“A minimum of ten tons of dhurra grain enough to feed the populace until the arrival of the relief force and forestall any further rioting. You will pay me twelve shillings a sack, in cash.”
Gordon’s face darkened. “I have always suspected that you had a hidden hoard of grain.”
“I have no secret hoard, but I will risk my ship and my life to obtain it for you. In return I want your word of honour as a gentleman and an officer of the Queen that on delivery to you of ten tons of dhurra you will pay me the agreed price and allow me to sail from Khartoum. I suggest that this is fair, and that you have nothing to lose by agreeing to it.”
Ryder had spread a black tarpaulin over the this’s white superstructure, and coated her hull above the waterline with black river mud. Using long bamboo poles they punted her quietly down the shallow canal to the open river. Under her camouflage she blended so well into the darkness, that even in the brilliant starlight she was almost invisible from any distance over a hundred yards. As she slid into the main current of the river and the long poles could no longer find the bottom, Ryder rang down to Jock in the engine room for ‘half ahead’. He turned upriver and cruised eastwards along the Blue Nile. He was deliberately avoiding the main branch of the White Nile, because the Dervish artillery batteries were all concentrated on the northern approaches. It was plain that by this time they were expecting the arrival of the British gunboats from that direction. However, in making these dispositions they had left the other branches of the river to the east and south unguarded. Until the Dervish realized this mistake the Intrepid this had the run of thousands of miles of river.
All the dhows coming down the Blue Nile would be Abyssinians. Like Ryder, they were just honest, hard-working traders, selling their grain to the highest bidders. Of course, it was to be regretted that their main customer was the Mahdi.
Ryder angled the darkened this across the river. For all the obvious reasons, the captains of the grain dhows were keeping closely to the bank furthest from Khartoum. Ryder and Bacheet stared ahead, watching for the first flash of canvas or the shine of starlight on one of the reed-matting lateen sails. Ryder’s lungs ached with the craving for a good cigar, but his stock was dwindling. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, he thought sadly. I might end up smoking black Turkish tobacco in a hookah. How have the mighty descended in the world.
Bacheet touched his arm. “The
first little fish swims into our net,” he murmured.
Ryder watched the other vessel materializing on the dark waters, and muttered regretfully, “Small fishing-boat. Riding high in the water. No cargo on board. We will let her go.” He spun the wheel and sheered away from her.
There was a faint hail from the smaller vessel: “In God’s name, what ship are you?”
Bacheet called back: “Go in peace, with blessings of Allah upon you.”
They cruised on. As they rounded the first wide bend of the river, two miles above the city, another hull seemed to spring miraculously out of the night. They were closing so rapidly that Ryder had only seconds to make his decision. It was large dhow, broad-beamed and low in the water. She had only a foot of freeboard. Her bow wave creamed back in the starlight, almost slopping over her bulwarks.
“Heavy with cargo,” Ryder said, with quiet satisfaction. “This one is for us.” He swung in sharply towards the prize, and as they closed there was a cry of alarm from the man at her helm. As the steel hull made heavy contact with the dhow’s timber side, the three heavy grappling hooks shot from the this and clattered on to her deck. They bit and held in the dhow’s bulwarks, locking the two vessels together. With a burst of power and hard left rudder Ryder forced the dhow’s bows to slew across the current, spilling the wind out of her sail so that she wallowed helplessly. Then his men swarmed over the rail.
Before they realized what was happening the crew of the dhow were trussed up securely. Ryder jumped down on to the deck, just as the captain came up from his stern cabin. Ryder recognized him immediately. “Ras Hailu!” he exclaimed, then greeted him in Amharic: “I see you are in good health.”
The Abyssinian started with shock, then recognized Ryder. “Al-Sakhawi! So you have turned pirate.”
“I am no pirate, but you have been dealing with one such. I hear the Mahdi is gouging you on the price of your dhurra.” He took Ras Hailu’s arm. “Come aboard my steamer. Let us drink a little coffee and talk business.”
Jock held the two vessels in midstream while they settled down in the this cabin. After a decent exchange of pleasantries Ryder broached the matter in hand. “How is it that you, a devout Christian and a prince of the house of Menelik, can deal with a fanatic who is conducting a jihad against your Church and your countrymen?”
“I am covered with shame,” Ras Hailu confessed, ‘but, Christian or Muslim, money is still money and a profit is still a profit.”
“What price is the wicked Mahdi paying you?”
Ras Hailu looked pained, but his eyes were shrewd in the lamplight. “Eight shillings a sack, delivered at Omdurman.”
“Christian to Christian, and friend to old friend, what would you charge me if I paid in silver Maria Theresas?”
They both enjoyed the trading for it was in their blood, but time was too short to savour it. Dawn was only hours away. They struck a bargain at nine shillings, which left both men pleased. Jock towed the dhow into a quiet bay off the main river, known as the Lagoon of the Little Fish. Screened by the papyrus reeds, all hands turned out to tranship the cargo of dhurra to the steamer. It took all day, for the dhow was fully laden.
As darkness fell Ryder and Ras Hailu embraced warmly and took leave of each other. The dhow caught the evening breeze and ran up the Blue Nile towards the Abyssinian border. Ryder took the this downriver to Khartoum. She was so deeply laden that they had to tow her from the bank of the canal to her mooring at the rear of the compound.
As soon as curfew ended, Ryder sent Bacheet with a message to General Gordon. Within the hour the general had arrived on the canal bank. He was accompanied by a hundred Egyptian troops, and quickly set up a chain of men to unload the sacks of dhurra. The work went swiftly, and Ryder stood by, counting each one and making notations in his little red book. “By my calculations, General, this is considerably more than the contracted amount.” He cast an eye over the column of figures with the rapidity of a bookkeeper. “Even allowing for ten per cent underweight in the sacks, it’s more in the region of twelve tons than ten.”
Gordon laughed a rare sound, for Chinese Gordon was not given to frivolity, “Surely, Mr. Courtney, you are not suggesting that I should return the excess to the Mahdi, are you?”
“No, sir. I am suggesting that I am entitled to recompense for the overflow,” Ryder replied.
Gordon stopped laughing. “There must be some limit to your avarice, sir.”
“I have rendered unto Caesar,” Gordon frowned at the biblical reference, but Ryder went on unperturbed, ‘and now I would like to keep a ton of the dhurra for my own use. My compound was pillaged by the rioters. My own people are as close to starvation as any in the city. I have a duty to provide for them, as if they were my family. That does not add up to avarice in my book.”
They bargained shrewdly. At last Gordon threw up his hands. “Very well, then. Keep two hundred sacks for yourself and be thankful for my generosity. You can come up to the fort to collect your Judas shekels.” He stamped away towards the arsenal. He wanted to see his precious grain safely behind the walls. But there was another consideration behind his abrupt departure: he did not want Ryder Courtney to see the softening of his expression or the shadow of a smile in his eyes. What a pity to lose a young rascal like that. We should have had him in the army. I could have made him into a firstrate officer, but it’s too late now. He is spoilt by the lure of Mammon.
The train of his thoughts led him on, and he thought of another likely lad. As he reached the gates of the arsenal he paused and looked towards the north.
Ballantyne has been gone fifteen days already. Surely by this time he must have reached Stewart’s encampment at the Wells of Gakdul and given him my message. I know in my heart that God will not allow all my efforts to come to naught. Dear Lord, grant me the strength to hold out just a little longer.
But he was tired to the marrow of his bones.
They had ridden five days in the vast assembly of men and animals. It rolled ponderously northwards across the desert. Penrod Ballantyne swivelled on the saddle of his camel to look back. The dust of their progress reached the horizon and rose to the sky.
Fifty thousand fighting men? he wondered. But we will never know for sure nobody can count them. All the emirs of the southern tribes and all their warriors. What power does this man Muhammad Ahmed wield that he can bring together such a multitude, made up of tribes that for five hundred years have been riven by feud and blood feud?
Then he turned back in the saddle and looked to the north, the direction in which this vast host was riding. Stewart has only two thousand men to oppose them. In all the wars of all the ages did odds such as these ever prevail?
He put aside the thought, and tried to work out how far back Yakub and he were from the vanguard of this mighty cavalcade. Without drawing attention to themselves they had to work their way gradually to the front. It was only from that position that they could break away and make a final dash for the Wells of Gakdul. The Dervish were pacing their camels, not driving them so hard that they would be unfit to take part in the battle ahead. That they were moving so quietly and not rushing into battle reassured Penrod that Stewart must still be encamped there.
They passed slowly through another loose formation of Dervish. These were hard desert tribesmen with swords and shields slung across their backs. Most were mounted on camels, and each led a string of pack camels carrying tents and ammunition cases, cooking pots, food bags and waterskins. Trailing along behind them were the traders and petty merchants of Omdurman, their camels also heavily laden with trade goods and merchandise. After the battle, when the Ansar were rolling in loot, there would be rich profits.
At the head of this formation rode a small group of Ansar on fine Arab steeds, which had been lovingly curried until their hides shone in the sunlight like polished metal. Their long silky manes had been combed out and plaited with coloured ribbons. Their trappings and tack were of painted and beautifully decorated leather. The horsemen sa
t upon their backs with the panache and studied arrogance of warriors.
“Aggagiers!” Yakub muttered, as they drew closer. “The killers of elephant.”
Penrod drew the tail of his turban closer over his mouth and nose so that only his eyes showed, and edged aside his camel to pass the group at a safe distance. As they drew level with them they saw the horsemen staring across at them. They were animatedly discussing the two strangers.
“Damn Ryder Courtney for his taste in camel flesh.” For the first time since leaving Khartoum, Penrod bemoaned the quality of their mounts. They were magnificent creatures, more befitting a khalifa or a powerful emir than a lowly tribesman. Even in this vast assembly they stood out as thoroughbreds. Yakub urged his camel forward at a faster clip, and Penrod cautioned him sharply: “Gently, fearless Yakub. Their eyes are upon you. When the mice nan the cat pounces.”
Yakub reined in, and they continued at more leisurely pace, but this did not deter the aggagiers. Two broke away from the group and rode across to them.
“They are of the Beja,” Yakub said hoarsely. “They mean us no good.”
“Steady, glib and cunning Yakub. You must deceive them with your ready tongue.”
The leading aggagier came up and reined his bay mare down to a walk. “The blessings of Allah and His Victorious Mahdi upon you, strangers. What is your tribe and who is your emir?”
“May Allah and the Mahdi, grace upon him, always smile upon you,” Yakub responded, in a clear untroubled voice. “I am Hogal al-Kadir of the Jaalin, and we ride under the banner of the Emir Salida.”
“I am al-Noor, of the Beja tribe. My master is the famed Emir Osman Atalan, upon whom be all the blessings of Allah.”
“He is a mighty man, beloved of Allah and the Ever Victorious Mahdi, may he live long and prosper.” Penrod touched his heart and his forehead, “I am Suleimani Iffara, a Persian of Jeddah.” Some Persians had fair hair and pale eyes, and Penrod had adopted that nationality to explain his features. It would also account for the slight nuances and inflections in his speech.