by Wilbur Smith
“Only Allah can save them now,” said Bacheet softly. Saffron overheard, and fresh tears oozed down her cheeks.
“Damn you, Bacheet, do as I say,” Ryder snarled.
Bacheet turned across the current and they eased in towards the city waterfront. At first they attracted little attention from the shore. The Dervish were too preoccupied with the sack of the city. An occasional shot was fired in their direction, but that was all. They steamed downstream as far as the confluence of the two great rivers, then turned back, cruising in close to the Khartoum waterfront. Suddenly there was the boom of a cannon shot, and a Krupps shell burst the surface ahead of the bows. The spray flew back across the deck. Ryder saw the gun smoke on the harbour wall. The Dervish had turned the captured guns on them. Another Krupps in the redoubt below the maid an came into action and the shell screeched over the bridge and burst in the middle of the river.
“We are not doing much good here, except giving them artillery practice.” Ryder glanced at Bacheet. “Turn back into midstream and head on upriver. We’ll find a quiet place to anchor until we can gather more news and find out what they have done with Rebecca and Amber. Then I can plan more sensibly for their rescue.”
For miles up the Blue Nile both banks were deserted. Ryder headed for the Lagoon of the Little Fish in which he had trans hipped the cargo of dhurra from Ras Hailu’s dhow, When he reached it he anchored in a stand of papyrus, which hid the this from curious eyes on the shore.
As soon as they had made everything onboard shipshape, he called Bacheet to the engine room where they could talk without being overheard by the rest of the crew. He wasted no time but put it to Bacheet straight and unadorned.
“Do you think you would be able to go back among the Dervish and discover what has become of al-Jamal and al-Zahra without arousing the suspicions of the Ansar?”
Bacheet pursed his lips and puffed out his cheeks, which made him look like a ground squirrel. “I am as they are. Why should they suspect me?”
“Are you willing to do it?”
“I am not a coward, but neither am I a rash man. Why would I be willing to do something as stupid as that? No, al-Sakhawi. I would not be willing. I would be extremely reluctant.” He tugged unhappily at his beard. “I will leave at once.”
“Good,” Ryder said. “I will wait for you here, unless I am discovered, in which case I will wait for you at the confluence of the Sarwad river. You will go into the city and, if necessary, cross to Omdurman. When you have news for me, you will return to give it to me here.”
Bacheet sighed theatrically and went to his own tiny berth in the forecastle. When he emerged he was dressed in a Dervish jibba. Ryder refrained from asking where he had obtained it. Bacheet dropped over the side of the this and waded to dry ground. He set off along the bank towards Khartoum.
On the waterfront Nazeera mingled unobtrusively with the milling crowds. There were as many Dervish women as men in the throng, and she was no different from them in her black ankle-length robes and the head cloth covering half of her face. The other women had come across from Omdurman as soon as they had heard that the city had been taken. They had come for the excitement of the triumphal celebrations, the loot, and for the thrill of the executions and torture that must surely follow the victory. The wealthy citizens of Khartoum would be forced to reveal the hiding-places of their valuables, their gold, jewellery and coin. Obtaining information was a skill that the Dervish women had learnt from their own mothers and honed to a high art.
Nazeera was part of the jostling, cavorting, ululating river of humanity that flowed along the corniche above the river. Ahead the crowd parted to allow a line of chained Egyptian soldiers through. They had been stripped of their tunics, then beaten until their bare backs looked as though they had been savaged by angry lions. The blood from the whip weals soaked their breeches and dripped down their legs. As they shuffled past on their way to the beach, the women rushed forward to beat them again with any weapon that came to hand. The Dervish guards chuckled indulgently at the women’s antics, and when a prisoner fell under the blows they prodded him to his feet again with a sword point.
Although Nazeera was desperate to find where her charges had been taken, she was trapped in the mass of women. She could see down on to the beach where lines of rickety gallows of roughly trimmed poles were being hastily erected. Those that had been completed were already buckling under the weight of the bodies that dangled from them, and more captives were being dragged forward with nooses round their necks. In groups they were prodded by the executioners on to’ the angarebs placed as steps beneath the gallows. When the nooses had been fastened to the crosspiece the angareb was pulled away and the victims were left swinging and kicking in the air.
This was slow work, and further along the beach another gang of executioners was hastening the business with the sword. They forced their victims to kneel in long lines with their hands tied behind their backs, their necks stretched forward. Then two headsmen started at opposite ends of the line and moved slowly towards each other, lopping off heads as they went. The watchers shouted as each head fell into the mud. When one of the executioners, his sword-arm tiring from the work, missed his stroke and only partially severed his victim’s neck they clapped and hooted derisively.
At last Nazeera extricated herself from the press of bodies and made her way towards the British consular palace. The gates were open and unguarded. She slipped through them into the grounds. The palace was extensively damaged, window-panes smashed and doors torn off. Most of the furniture had been thrown out of the upper-floor windows. She went stealthily to the front terrace, and found more devastation. Terrified that she might run into a looter she crept in through the french windows and made her way through the wreckage to David Benbrook’s study. Papers and documents were strewn across the room.
However, the oak panelling on the walls was intact. She went quickly to one panel and pressed the hidden spring built into the carving of the architrave. With a soft click it jumped back to reveal the door of the large safe. Her father had allowed Rebecca to keep her jewellery there, and Rebecca had taught Nazeera how to tumble the combination so that she could fetch and return the pieces she needed. The combination numbers were Rebecca’s birthdate. Now Nazeera fed them into the lock, turned the handle and swung open the door.
On the top shelf lay David’s leather bound journal. The lower shelves were filled with family valuables, including the jewellery that Rebecca had inherited from her mother. It was all packed into matching red-leather wallets. There were also a number of canvas money-bags, which held over a hundred pounds in gold and silver coins. It was too dangerous to carry all of this with her. Nazeera returned all of the jewellery and most of the cash to the safe, then relocked the door and closed the secret panel. This would be her secret bank when she needed money. She placed a few small coins in her sleeve pocket for immediate use, then lifted her robe and strapped a canvas bag with more round her waist, then smoothed her shapeless skirts over it.
She left the study and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She went to Rebecca’s bedroom, and stopped involuntarily in the doorway as she saw the extent of the damage. The looters had smashed every stick of furniture, and scattered books and clothing across the floor. She went in and searched through the mess.
She was almost in despair when at last she spotted the sisal bag lying under the overturned bed. The drawstring had burst open and much of the cholera remedy had spilled out. Nazeera squatted, scooped it up and poured it back into the bag. When she had salvaged as much as she could, she knotted the drawstring securely and tied it round her neck so that it hung down inside her robe. She gathered up a few other feminine trifles that might be useful and hid them about her person.
She went back downstairs, and stole out of the palace. She left the gardens through the small gate at the end of the terrace and lost herself in the Dervish victory celebrations. It did not take her long to discover where the women prisoners had
been taken: the news was being shouted in the streets and people were flocking to the Customs House. Many had climbed up the walls and were clustered at the windows to peer in at the captives. Nazeera tucked up her skirts and scrambled up one of the buttresses until she reached the highest row of barred windows. She elbowed two small urchins out of her way. When they protested she unleashed a torrent of abuse that sent them scampering off. Then she gripped the bars and pressed her face to the square opening.
It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. The Egyptian women prisoners were the wives and daughters of Gordon Pasha’s officers, who were probably now lying headless on the river beach or dangling from the gallows. The women were squatting in miserable groups, with their children huddled around them. Many were spattered with the dried blood of their murdered menfolk. Among them were a few white women, the nuns from the Catholic mission, an Austrian lady doctor, the wives of the few Occidental traders and travellers who had been trapped in the city.
Then Nazeera’s heart bounded: she had spotted Rebecca sitting on the stone floor with her back against the wall and Amber on her lap. She was bedraggled and filthy with dust and soot. Her hair was lank and matted with sweat. Her father’s blood had dried in black stains down the front of her yellow skirt. Her feet were bare and dusty, scratched and bruised. She sat aloof from the others, trying to fight off the waves of despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Nazeera recognized the stoic expression that concealed her courageous spirit, and was proud of her.
“Jamal!” Nazeera called to her, but her voice did not carry. The other women and their brats were making a fearful racket. They were weeping and wailing for their murdered menfolk, praying aloud for succour, entreating their captors for mercy. Above all else they were calling for water.
“Water! In the Name of Allah, give us water. Our children are dying. Give us water!”
“Jamal, my beautiful one!” Nazeera screamed to her, but Rebecca did not look up. She went on rocking Amber in her arms.
Nazeera broke a chip of plaster from the rotten windowsill, and threw it down through the bars. It struck the ground just short of where Rebecca was sitting, but skidded across the stone flags and hit her ankle. She lifted her head and looked around.
“Jamal, my little girl!”
Rebecca raised her eyes. She stared at the head in the window high above her, and her eyes flew wide in recognition. She looked around her quickly, to make certain that the Dervish guards at the doors had noticed nothing. Then she stood up and crossed the floor slowly, carrying Amber, until she stood directly under the high window. She looked up again, and mouthed a single word: “Mayya! Water!” She lifted Amber’s face and touched her chapped, swollen lips. “Water!” she said again.
Nazeera nodded and climbed down the wall. She pushed her way through the crowds, searching frantically until she found the old woman with the donkey she had noticed earlier. The animal was so heavily laden with waterskins and bags of dhurra bread that its legs splayed outwards. The old woman was doing a thriving business with the hungry and thirsty crowds along the waterfront.
“I wish to buy food and one of your skins, old mother.”
“I still have a little bread and dried meat to sell, and for three pice you may drink your fill, but I will never sell one of my waterskins,” said the woman firmly. She changed her mind when Nazeera showed her a silver dollar.
With the small waters king slung over her shoulder, Nazeera hurried back to the front entrance of the Customs House. There were five guards at the main door. They stood with drawn swords, holding the curious throng at a respectful distance. Nazeera saw at a glance that they were all men of her tribe, the Beja. Then, with a twinge of excitement, she recognized one. He was of the same clan and had been circumcised at the same time as her dead husband. They had ridden beneath the banner of the Emir Osman Atalan, before the rise of the Mahdi when their world had been sane and sensible, not yet maddened by the new fanaticism.
She sidled closer to the doors, but the man she knew made a threatening gesture with his sword, warning her to come no closer.
“AH Wad!” Nazeera called in a low tone. “My husband rode with you on the famous raid to Gondar when you slew fifty-five Christian Abyssinians and captured two hundred and fifty fine camels.”
He lowered the sword and stared at her in astonishment. “What is your husband’s name, woman!” he demanded.
“His name was Taher Sherif, and he was killed by the Jaalin at Tushkit Wells. You were with him the day he died.”
“Then you are the Nazeera who was once reckoned beautiful.” His stern expression relaxed.
Her old feelings of affection for him stirred. “When we were all young together,” she agreed, and lowered the head cloth so he could see her face. “It seems to me, AH Wad, that you have become a man of great power. One who could still light the flame in any woman’s belly.”
He laughed. “Nazeera of the silvery tongue. The years have changed you little. What is it you seek from me now?” She told him and his smile faded. The scowl reappeared. “You ask me to risk my life.”
“As my husband gave his life for you… and as, once, his young widow risked more than her life for your pleasure. Have you forgotten?”
“I have not. AH Wad does not forget his friends. Come with me.”
He led her in through the main door, and the guards within deferred to him respectfully. She followed him, and Rebecca ran to her. They embraced ecstatically and tearfully. Even in her extremity Amber recognized her and whispered to her, “I love you, Nazeera. Do you still love me?”
“With all my heart, Zahra. I have brought water and food.” She led them to a corner of the hall and they huddled close together. Nazeera mixed some of the powder with water in the mug she had brought from the palace. She held it to Amber’s lips. She drank greedily.
While this was going on AH Wad glowered at the other prisoners. “These three women,” he indicated Nazeera and her charges, ‘are under my protection. Interfere with them at your peril, for I am a man of ugly moods. It gives me great pleasure to beat women with this kurbash.” He showed them the wicked hippo-hide whip. “I love to hear them squeal.”
They cringed away from him fearfully. Then he stooped and whispered in Nazeera’s ear. She cast down her eyes and giggled coquettishly. AH Wad stalked back to his post at the door, grinning and stroking his beard.
The water revived Amber miraculously. “What has happened to my sister?” she whispered, “Where is Saffy?”
“She is safe with al-Sakhawi,” Nazeera assured her. “I saw her go on board his steamer before I returned to you.” At this wonderful news Rebecca was too overcome with relief to speak. Instead she threw her arms round Nazeera and hugged her.
“You must stop weeping now, Jamal,” Nazeera told her sternly. “We must all be clever, strong and careful, if we are to survive the difficult days that lie ahead.”
“Now that you are back with us, and I know Saffy is safe, I can face whatever comes. What will the Dervish do with us?”
Nazeera did not answer at once but glanced significantly at Amber. “First you must eat and drink to remain strong. Then we shall talk.”
She gave them a little of the dhurra bread. Amber managed a few mouthfuls, and kept them down. Nazeera nodded with satisfaction, and took her on to her own lap to allow Rebecca a chance to eat and rest. She stroked Amber’s hair and crooned softly to her. The child fell asleep almost at once. “She will be well again within days. Young ones have the most resilience.”
“What will happen to us?” Rebecca repeated her question.
Nazeera pursed her lips as she considered how much she should say. As much of the truth as is good for her, she decided. “You and all these women are part of the spoils of war, as much as horses and camels.” Rebecca glanced at the sorry creatures around her, and felt momentary pity for them, until she remembered that she and Amber were in the same predicament. “The Dervisji will use them as they wish. The
old and ugly will become house and kitchen slaves. The young and nubile will be used as concubines. You are young and surpassingly beautiful. Your hair and pale skin will intrigue all men.”
Rebecca shuddered. She had never imagined what it might be like to fall under the power of a man of different race. Now the thought sickened her. “Will they draw lots for us?” She had read in Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire that that was what soldiers did.
“No. The Dervish leaders will select those they want. The Mahdi will choose first, then the others in order of their rank and power. The Mahdi will choose you, there is no doubt of that. And it is good. He is the best for us, far better than any of the others.”
“Tell me why. Explain this to me. How can you know what he is like in his zenanaV
“He already has over three hundred wives and concubines, and his women talk. It is widely known where his tastes lie, what he likes to do with his women.”
Rebecca looked puzzled, “Don’t all men do the same thing, like ’
She broke off, but Nazeera finished the question for her: “You mean the same as Abadan Riji and al-Sakhawi have done to you?”
Rebecca blushed scarlet. “I forbid you to speak to me like that ever again.”
“I shall try to remember,” Nazeera replied, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘but the answer to your question is that some men want different things from their women.”
Rebecca thought about that, then lowered her eyes shyly. “Different things. What is the different thing that the Mahdi wants? What will he do to me?”
Nazeera glanced down at Amber to make sure she was asleep, then leant closer to Rebecca, cupped her hand to her ear and whispered. Rebecca jerked back. “My mouth!” she gasped. “That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard.”
“Nay, silly girl. Think a moment. With a man you do not love, or one you hate, it is quicker, easier and less uncomfortable. You do not lose your precious maidenhead, or if you have already done so, nobody is any the wiser. Even more important, there are no undesired consequences.”