“Use your hips, Duncan. Hmm ... just like you are having it off with a girl,” Standforth said with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“So ye ken how it’s done, ye randy little bugger!” Duncan had to laugh. “Like this, is it?” he asked with a cackle, as he waggled his hips on the saddle. The animal seemed to pick up speed, so he repeated the same motion, his feet now sticking out at a wide angle from the sides of the surprised horse. Duncan gave a vulgar guffaw of glee, while Standforth nearly fell off his own animal, he laughed so hard.
“What is all that mirth about back there?” Sir Sidney called from the carriage ahead of them.
“Er … nothing, Sir. Graham has a spirited mount,” Standforth called back, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Then hurry up and master the beast, Mr Graham. I do not wish to be late for the ceremony.”
“Indeed, Sir. I’ll be right there in a moment,” Duncan called back, stifling a laugh of his own while warily settling in on the back of his animal.
“If those two midshipmen are playing the fool I shall have to discipline them,” Lt Fowler said, sounding cross.
“They are boys, Lieutenant. I dare say that you were one once, too.” Sir Sidney chuckled. “Let them be. That Graham did very well the other day, and young Standforth will come to no harm by being with him.”
Lt Fowler sat back looking skeptical, but he held his peace.
The journey to Nicosia took several hours along a dirt track that passed for a road in these parts. The dust thrown up by the carriage and the four horses had layered the men at the rear in a light coat of white by the time the city gates came into view.
Word seemed to have gone ahead by some invisible means of communication, because they were clearly expected. A group of Orthodox priests greeted the carriage at the gates. Their tall black hats and robes stood out from the crowd of curious onlookers and monks who had gathered to greet the hero of the island.
One monk, younger than the rest, came to open the door of the carriage and said in English, “A very great honor to meet you Sir Sidney. I shall act as your interpreter, as the dignitaries here do not speak very much English.”
“Your men will be given refreshments in the shade by the gates, Sir Sidney, but I would like to escort you along with the worshipful priests to the cathedral where you will meet with his eminence the Archbishop of Cyprus.”
Sir Sidney smiled and said, “Lead on. We will be honored to follow.” He motioned for his two officers and the two midshipmen to join him. Hastening to obey, Duncan and Standforth dismounted and handed off the reins of their mounts to some servants who hurried to take them.
The young monk led the way into the city towards the huge Orthodox cathedral. Duncan followed the senior officers, and behind them came the gaggle of priests and the crowd of onlookers. He had time to look around as they walked.
The city of Nicosia was larger than Larnaca, but to his eyes it still didn’t measure up to what he considered to be a real city. Duncan had been to London and since that time he measured all ‘cities’ against this formidable example.
For the most part, the houses here were made of mud baked brick walls. The cathedral, as it was called, was constructed of stone and towered over the other dwellings, matched only by the tall minarets of the mosque nearby which by law had to be taller than any other building.
“Now that is a truly beautiful pile of stones,” remarked Standforth in an undertone to his companion. Graham, who knew almost nothing about buildings or their history, asked, “What is so beautiful about that? It’s just a large church, isn’t it?”
“Ignoramus!” scoffed Standforth. “It is Byzantine and was probably built when our ancestors, most certainly yours, were running about in skins.”
“Where did ye learn all about these places then, Minnow?” Duncan demanded, bridling at the remark.
“My Greek tutor. He didn’t manage to teach me much about the language, but he used to hold forth on their civilization at great length. I am looking forward to seeing what is inside.”
“Stop muttering away over there and be quiet,” Lt Fowler said in a loud whisper. “Pay attention and do not speak.”
They were quiet and watched as Sir Sidney Smith was presented to a man decked out in black robes who wore a high black hat with a rim, similar to those worn by the other priests. The difference lay with three large iconic devices hanging down to his midriff, suspended on thick gold chains around his neck. He also wore a bright red stole over his shoulders that was lined with gold thread, with a large embroidered cross on either side. The priest held an ivory staff, wound about with silver and studded with precious stones, atop of which was a gold cross.
Sir Sidney was facing the Archbishop of Cyprus of the Orthodox Church of Christ, who gave him a warm smile through his long white beard.
“Welcome to our island, Sir Sidney Smith,” he said in clear but careful English. “My name is Father Chrysanthos and I am the leader of the church of Christ on this island.”
He reverted back to Greek for the remainder of his speech, allowing time at intervals for the translator to catch up.
Father Chrysanthos continued, “We, people of the island, are honored to meet the man who not only defeated the anti-Christ at Acre, but who has saved the island from a dreadful fate at the hands of the renegade soldiers of the Turk. Your speedy action has ensured that the island is to be safe once again, and we thank you from our hearts.”
Duncan found his attention wandering during this address, but Standforth nudged him when the speech came to an end. The Archbishop embraced their Commodore and kissed him on both cheeks.
Everyone thought the ceremony was over at this point, but the archbishop had something to present to Sir Sidney.
He held out with both hands a long gold chain; suspended at its end was a cross shaped like the two crosses on the clergyman’s stole.
He motioned Sir Sidney closer and slipped the chain over his bowed head, then stood back. Sir Sidney lifted his head and fingered the ancient device. “This is a great honor, Sir. From where does this cross come?” he asked.
“Commodore, this cross once belonged to an Englishman, and I now restore it to an Englishman. It belonged to the man you call Richard I, otherwise known as Richard Coeur de Lion whom we call Agio Ricardo, Saint Richard. He left it in this church when he departed in 1191 for Acre, and it has been preserved in our treasury ever since. Eighteen archbishops in succession have signed for the receipt of this cross. I now give it over to you, in token of our gratitude.”
Smiling at the surprise on Sir Sidney’s face he continued, “You are now a Knight of the Temple, Sir Sidney.”
“I don’t understand, Sir,” Sidney said in surprise.
“I have just made you a knight of the Temple. You do know of them?”
“Er yes, of course. But they were destroyed, were they not, by Phillip IV and Pope Clement V?”
“Indeed, those two evil men took it upon themselves to dissolve and outlaw the order. Clement’s henchman Phillip captured many of the Templars and seized their wealth, burning to death Jacques de Molay, the final known Grand Master. They did this because they coveted the enormous wealth of the Templars. It is not good to be richer than a pope and a bad king. It is said that, as he was being taken to the pyre, Jacques de Molay cursed both men, predicting that they would follow him within the year. The prediction came true: and the king and the Pope both died within a year of de Molay. However, some Templars did escape, and they took much of the treasure with them. No one knows to this day where it is buried.”
“I was right then. They were destroyed,” Sidney remarked.
“No, not entirely, and Cyprus remained on the Templar books as a property that neither the Pope nor the King of France could confiscate. King Richard sold it to Guy Lusignan. There have been subsequent Grand Masters and most assuredly there are Knights Templar to be found today, Sir Sidney. One of whom is now yourself.”
Chapter 5
A Victorious Army Returns
The return of Bonaparte’s army to Cairo was to be a spectacle unlike any that had ever been seen before in the city.
The entire population came to watch the victorious soldiers marching through the gates and on to the very heart of the city. Although it was stifling and the sun beat down mercilessly, no one wanted to miss this occasion. The garrison commander had dictated that all the musicians far and wide were to appear to participate in the massive parade. All those of rank and importance, near and far, from land owners to Sheikhs in the outlying villages, were ordered to be present with gifts and congratulations. Failure to attend could mean imprisonment.
To the snap of flags and captured banners flying in the wind, with drums pounding out a tattoo and music wailing from stringed instruments, reedy pipes and blaring trumpets, the expectant crowd gathered to watch their new emperor enter the city. Napoléon rode a magnificent white stallion and was the first to appear through the Bab el-Nasr gate, the Gate of Victory. Behind him marched his troops, the Grenadiers and then the Infantrie, all in near new or new uniforms, their white cross belts freshly clayed. The brass gleamed and their weapons shone in the bright sunlight, Because he had pretensions to being Muslim, Napoléon had invited solemn Muslim prayers of thanks to be offered by black-robed mullahs. It was a political move but it didn’t convince the upper echelons of the religious community, who remained very skeptical of this Infidel who had conquered their country so easily. Meanwhile, the festivities continued all over the city with trained monkeys and dancing bears being exercised on the streets leading up to the square. The celebrations and feasting went on for three nights and concluded with a fireworks display that for the most part fizzled because of the poor quality of the powder with which the engineers had to work.
It all went extremely well. The only uncomfortable moment for Bonaparte came when a local pasha asked him why the number of soldiers in the parade was so small. He covered it well by saying that he’d only brought a small number of men with him, that most of the units had been left in Alexandria and in the delta to guard against a possible Turkish invasion.
It was true that a large part of his force had been left behind. At Acre, they were still burying the dead.
*****
After the parade, Corporal Émile and his companions marched to the barracks and for the first time in months were able to avail themselves of the limited delights of Cairo. Since the French had arrived, the ever opportunistic people of the city had learned that cafés which provided a little more in the way of drink than coffee were deeply appreciated by their conquerors. Not only that, the time honored profession of prostitution had been revived and actively encouraged by the authorities. Émile, newly promoted to Sergeant, and his companions intended to take advantage of all of this for as long as their coin lasted.
After they had deposited their arms in the barracks, the Infantrie set about getting as drunk as they could on the wine and spirits the cafés provided. Claude led the way along the narrow smelly streets of the city to their favorite haunt. The Infantrie considered this café and its girls their property to the exclusion of the Grenadiers.
They arrived in an exuberant mood and the men of Clément’s company spread out around the ground floor room, occupying most of the tables and chairs. It didn’t take long for the lady who owned the café, Madame Farage, to appear, still touching up her hair and pulling her dress into place. Their arrival had caught her by surprise. The parade had barely ended and here they were, thirsty and ready for the girls upstairs.
She could not fail to notice how thin they were; their new uniforms were hanging off most of the men, but there could be no mistaking the weathered hardness on their young faces.
These men had coin and that was all that mattered. Her small, dark, sharp eyes noted that there were NCOs among the group, so the likelihood of violence was minimized. She put on a bright smile baring bad teeth and welcomed them all. It wasn’t long before the rooms upstairs were fully occupied and the men seated at the tables were singing bawdy songs and very drunk. They had few memories that they wanted to keep, and drunkenness was one form of escape. The squeals of girls and the raucous laughter of the sex-starved soldiers who had ventured upstairs reverberated through the house.
It couldn’t last, of course. There were many more Grenadiers in the city than there were Infantrie, and there were only a limited number of cafés and drinking holes in the city of Cairo. Sergeant Émile became aware of impending trouble while he was talking to Claude and Jean-Baptiste, who were well into their cups, when the room went silent. Uncharacteristically he had his back to the door — he was keeping an eye on the stairway, to see who went upstairs and when they came down again — but now he turned his head and saw the reason for the quiet.
Some bluecoats were standing at the doorway, clutching bottles, with more behind them, and they were wildly drunk. He gave a sigh of annoyance.
“They look as though they want trouble,” Jean slurred and began to stand up.
“Don’t stand up on our account, Green-bottle,” one of the blue-coated Grenadiers shouted and swayed into the room, his mates crowding in around him.
“I think we can deal with this,” Claude said, and stood up.
The men boiling into the room were too drunk to realize just how big the man was who beckoned to them with his fingers. “Come on, you lot. This is our place, go and fuck each other somewhere else,” he invited them.
“Did that idiot say something?” one of the more cocky Grenadiers asked his comrades in an exaggerated tone. “Doesn’t he realize that the real soldiers have arrived?”
He received a cackle of supportive laughter from his equally drunk friends, but now Sergeant Émile stood up. “You men can leave now and nothing will be said. Get out and go back to barracks,” he warned them.
One of the Grenadiers waved a finger at him. “Go back to barracks!” he mimicked. “You Green-bottles need to go back and learn how to soldier, so it’s time for you to leave. The real men are here to fuck everyone and we’ll fuck you too if you get in the way.”
“All right, men. It’s time to find out who is who,” Jean said. “Arrest me later, Sergeant.” He strode up to the man who had wagged his finger and slammed his fist into the smirking face. The man went down bleeding from his mouth, and a tooth fell onto the floor.
“You don’t insult my sergeant, you pig’s arse,” Jean said, as he waggled his hand, wincing from the pain. He got no further. With a roar the Grenadiers charged. The café erupted into a frantic brawl as men from upstairs, hearing the noise below, came to investigate and then joined in. Bluecoats from the street, hearing that there was a fight taking place, ran to support their comrades.
Émile kept pace with Claude, who was hammering a path deep into the surging tide of blue, his fists moving like huge pistons, tossing men to the side as he pounded them. Soon there was not a stick of furniture left undamaged, as men used stools as bludgeons, broke tables as they fell, and then grabbed broken legs to use as weapons. Bleeding men of both colored jackets were soon lying unconscious or moaning with bloody heads on the glass-strewn floor
The shouting and yelling groups of green jackets and blue punched and kicked at one another as they fought for possession of the room and its dubious booty. The shrill screams and shrieks of the women and servants only added to the mayhem, but they were ignored as the French soldiers went for one another, teeth bared and fists jabbing at glaring, yelling faces. A stool was thrown, missing its mark and smashing into a very expensive mirror, which shattered into tiny pieces.
Madame Farage stood on the first steps of the stairway, clutching the banister, shrieking and wailing with rage and despair as she watched the French soldiers utterly demolish her furniture and smash every mirror and piece of glass in the room. Poupard raced down the stairs with his trousers only half-buttoned, pulling up his braces. Madame Farage snatched at his sleeve with a claw. “Stop them!” she shrieked at him. He shrugged her off and
dived into the fray with a yell.
The battle finally spilled out into the street where Émile, conscious of the danger from the garrison patrol and the potential loss of his new rank, started to haul his men together. When they heard whistles and calls of “Patrol! Patrol!” shouted at the end of the street, he knew it was time to leave.
The girls had by now overcome their initial panic and were lining the balcony, pointing and even laughing at the struggle going on below. Glancing up, Émile could have sworn some were laying wagers on the outcome of individual fights. “Cheeky whores!” he shouted up at them, but all they did was to blow him kisses. “Come back soon!” one called to him. He shook his head, laughing.
“Come away Claude, Poupard! Come on Jean, where are the others?” he panted, pulling on Claude’s sleeve. Claude was busy pounding two bluecoats’ faces to pulp while holding both semi-conscious men with one hand by the front of their jackets.
“Leave them!” Émile ordered. Claude gave him a wild uncomprehending look. “But I’m having a good time!” he protested.
“It’s the patrol, you fool! You won’t enjoy being in the jail if they catch us,” Émile shouted at him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a movement. Then he had to duck as a Grenadier swung a table leg at him. Émile whirled, his fist lashed out and punched once. The man was thrown backwards, his eyes rolling up into his head as he fell.
Claude dropped both of his victims, who collapsed to the cobbles in a heap. Other men were beginning to separate themselves from the fray and look for avenues of escape. Some were too drunk to know where they were, so they stumbled into the path of the patrol, hindering its passage long enough for Émile and his men, along with many other Grenadiers and Infantrie, to flee down the street in the opposite direction and out of harm’s way.
Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir Page 5