Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir

by James Boschert

  “Noo, but there is nothing else a younger son can do where I come from,” he told her. “I had a choice to become a minister, which I simply could not do. I like a scrap too much, so it was to join the army or the navy. I chose the latter because I’ve always liked the sea.”

  “Is it like this city, where you come from, Dunkin?” she asked innocently.

  He smiled. “Er… no. It’s a good deal wetter and damned sight colder in winter. Even the sea can freeze at times.”

  She gave a shudder. “I could not live in a place like that. I like to be warm,” she stated firmly.

  “Well, there’s a bunch of hairy Scots would agree wi’ ye about that,” he assured her. “All the same, it’s my home.”

  They talked the afternoon away and only noticed that the sun was setting when the call to prayers began. After the hush of prayers Duncan noticed that activity in the house had picked up. He felt a tingle of anticipation as he contemplated what they might be doing later that night. All the same he also felt a twinge of regret at his impending departure from Leilah, who he realized had somehow managed to get under his skin.

  He remembered the fumbled kisses of his youth at home in Scotland, the semi-willing girls who considered the son of a small clan laird a catch, but nothing had prepared him for the delights he had experienced with Leilah.

  Dusk drew in and she left him with some food, some nan and flavored meat slices, because she said the entertainment downstairs was about to commence and the girls had to be on hand. She had rolled her eyes at this but then gave him a tender kiss. “I ’ope you are ’ere when I get back, my Scottish man,” she told him. He ate the food, but he was too excited to eat very much even though it was very good, much better than anything he had eaten on board ship. The thought of that alone made him fantasize that perhaps he could stay here and fight the French as a spy, rather like Captain Williams. He dismissed the fantasy and moodily contemplated the parting to come.

  He guessed it was now about eight o’clock; it was quite dark outside. Captain Williams had not yet appeared, which made Duncan worry. Had something happened? God forbid but he might have been discovered and even now be on the torture rack. He grew anxious. However, the evening appeared to be progressing in a normal manner, so he resigned himself to his fate and dozed.

  Kaylah shook him awake. “Come now, Duncan,” he said; there was urgency in his tone. “There is danger, you must leave at once!”

  Duncan struggled awake and wiped his eyes. “What? What is it?” he demanded.

  “The police, they are here in large numbers. Danush said that he thinks there is something going on and it is too dangerous for you to remain,” Kaylah said, sounding very frightened.

  “Where is Captain Williams?” Duncan responded, feeling a knot growing in his stomach.

  “I’m here, Graham,” Williams said from the door. “Danush said that there is a bad feel to the presence of the Chief of Police. He is here down below watching the belly dancer, but as soon as her performance is over Danush fears that they will turn the house over.”

  “But why?” Duncan asked as he began to take off his dress.

  “The officer you struck last night registered a complaint, and the Police Chief is a nasty man to have coming after you. No time for that! Grab your clothes and other things and come with me!” he snapped.

  Duncan needed no further bidding. He snatched up his weapons, the small bundle of clothes, and then on impulse a light hooded cloak that he saw hanging on a hook by the door, then he and ran after Williams, who was hurrying after Kaylah. They sped down the back stairs into the darkness of the back garden. Duncan could hear the shouts and cheers of the soldiers as they were entertained by the fabulous Fatima.

  “Come on,” Williams called in a loud whisper as they raced across the garden. “The police will be back here any moment.”

  Kaylah thrust back the long iron bolts and opened the door a crack, peered outside, then signaled them urgently with his hand to go through. He closed the door in their faces and they could hear the patter of his departing feet on the other side, leaving them in silence.

  “Well, that’s that. We’re on our own now,” Williams commented in the darkness.

  “Are you all right, Graham?” he enquired of his companion.

  “Yes, Sir. I’m fine. Just wish I could put on my uniform.”

  “No time for that, I’m afraid. We have to get to the harbor before the prisoners are taken back to the citadel,” Williams said, and led the way at a brisk pace towards the main street called the Road of Thirty Strada. “Remember this place?” he asked of Graham as they exited onto the avenue from the street that led to the Garden of Paradise. Duncan grunted acknowledgement.

  “We will follow it for most of its path and then turn right for the harbor. Not many people out now, but it fills up as the evening progresses. Our aim is to be on the pier by around nine tonight. That will be a little before the prisoners are taken back to their cells.”

  He continued talking as they moved along the street at a good pace, heading for the dense forest of masts and spars that indicated the location of the harbor. Other than an occasional glance from other pedestrians no one paid either of them much attention. Duncan was very glad he had taken the cloak. It hid his features and the wig from inquisitive eyes.

  Then they saw a patrol of French soldiers marching towards them. Even in the darkness they could see that the the soldiers wore green jackets and white cross belts as opposed to the standard blue with white cross belts that were worn by the garrison. Duncan hesitated; these men looked like the soldiers they had passed on the road to Alexandria who had been on their way towards the lake.

  “Those are the Carabiniere d’Infantrie,” Williams remarked casually, as though taking mental notes. “They would normally be out at the peninsula. Must be coming in to sample the flesh pots of the city.”

  Duncan didn’t say anything but tried to cover his face as the soldiers marched by. The man in front, an NCO with a huge mustache, seemed familiar to Duncan. As they came closer the NCO noticed them and his eyes strayed to Duncan. They widened briefly, but the men continued marching, though not without ribald comments about women as they passed.

  “I have the boat picked out and can guide us all there if we are successful in getting the prisoners freed. There are only two guards,” Williams continued, as though he had not noticed anything. “God, I hope they have the keys to the chains,” he added fervently.

  They had just arrived at the beginning of the pier and Williams was pointing out the working laborers about a hundred paces beyond when the night lit up and the guns began to roar.

  The wharf extended in a horseshoe form with the entrance somewhat to the east. The huge batteries that guarded the harbor were firing on a ship that had crept up to within range and was now bombarding one of them. The long flames of the cannon and the deafening booms filled the night.

  Duncan felt a thrill of excitement. His eyes scanned everywhere trying to find the longboats that would surely have sneaked into the harbor to attack the anchored French war ships.

  “Seems to me that Sir Sidney is taking his revenge for the mess at Abukir!” Williams exclaimed.

  “We’d be fools if we didn’t take advantage of this distraction,” he added. “Come on, Graham. The last time I saw the prisoners they were about three quarters of the way around the pier, close to that end battery, which appears to be rather busy right now.”

  Cursing his dress that hampered him as he ran, Duncan gathered up the skirt and chased after Williams, who was pelting down the quayside, dodging in and out of the piles of bales, boxes and mountains of sacks that were strewn all over the area. The darkness was one moment lit up by the roar of a broadside from the English ship and then the earsplitting boom of one of the harbor batteries returning fire.

  “Those have to be even bigger than the ship’s thirty-fivers,” Duncan muttered to himself, as they pounded along the pavement.

  They were among th
e few who were going in this direction. Most of the laborers and other people who worked at the warehouses and on the merchant ships were fleeing in the opposite direction. Some were silently running for their lives while others were wailing with fear, wringing their hands as they contemplated the damage the attack was going to do to their livelihoods. There were several languages being shouted back and forth: French, Greek, and of course streams of Arabic interspersed with calls to Allah for help.

  The incessant boom of guns and the fire work displayed by the guns and bombs made the harbor resemble the fiery gates to a hell. The filthy dark waters glittered with the flashes, while the seagulls, now thoroughly disturbed, took to the air screaming their indignation and fear, adding their chorus to the din of battle.

  “There!” Williams called back in a low tense voice. “Coming towards us. Do you see them?”

  Duncan crouched with him behind some huge cotton bales and peered forward. He saw a group of people half-running, half-shuffling, coming rapidly towards them shepherded by two guards who were yelling at them. He could just make out what was being said.

  “Hurry, you Goddam bastards. You are not going to be free, not today. Hurry or we will shoot you!” the lead guard called back at the group of chained men scurrying along behind him. Duncan could now see that the men were chained together by the ankles and to enable them to move each man carried the loose chain from the leg of the man in front of him. In the bad light he could not tell the condition of the men, but it sufficed that Williams had said that they were British prisoners.

  “We’ll wait until they are going past and then take the rear sentry. I’ll do that. The moment I do, you run for the other one and knock him down. Got that, Graham?” Williams demanded in an urgent whisper. The midshipman nodded, his mouth dry.

  The the prisoners and their guards were jogging towards them. From his vantage point Duncan could now see the prisoners occasionally lit up by the flash of the guns or an explosion. They didn’t look to be in very good condition.

  The chain gang shambled by the two men hiding in the darkness of the bales without a sideways glance in their direction. As the last man, the sentry, passed, Williams slapped Graham on the shoulder. “Go!” he snapped, and he himself ran out to hammer the butt of his pistol onto the back of the guard’s head. The man fell forward unconscious, dropping his musket as he did so. With impressive reflexes, Williams caught the musket in midair and at the same time grabbed the falling man and eased him to the ground.

  The prisoners trotted on, unaware of what had just happened. Moments later they beheld the extraordinary sight of a woman running past them, skirts flying, wig askew, clutching a pistol in her right hand and a sword in her left. The guard at the front of the gang must have sensed that something was amiss because he began to turn and caught sight of the white-faced, wildly grimacing Valkyrie flying at him. He gaped and shouted “Merde!” with surprise and fear in his voice, cocked his musket and raised it to shoot, but by this time Duncan had reached him. Instinctively the boy thrust his sword forward and felt it go in deep.

  In his death throws the sentry pulled the trigger and the gun went off with a jet of flame from the muzzle and a loud bang. The sentry groaned and fell back onto the ground. Duncan had to heave hard to release his sword. He felt cold. It was the first time he had ever killed a man in this manner.

  “Bollocks!” he exclaimed, feeling ill. But it was too late to do anything about that. He turned towards the prisoners, who shrank away, looking stunned.

  “Damn, what happened up there?” Williams called urgently. Then he noticed the sentry on the ground and swore. “Damme! Never mind. See if you can find the keys!” he called again. Then he turned to the prisoners and herded them in a clinking, rattling huddle into the darkness. “Shut up and listen,” he called out. “Which one had the keys?”

  The front one!” someone called out.

  “No, the back one, stupid. Didn’t yer hear them jangling all the time? Drove me mad.” Within a moment they were all talking at once.

  “Shut up, men. We are not out of trouble yet, so listen and pay attention. I am Captain Williams and this is Midshipman Graham. You must get out of these chains and then do as I say.”

  All eyes turned to stare at Graham, still clutching his bloody sword and the pistol, looking like some menacing female revolutionary from Naples.

  “Bloody ’ell. ’e frightened the fockin’ life out of me,” one commented.

  “Still does!” another quipped.

  “Looks like me wife; always did scare the shit out of me,” another added. This was greeted with guffaws from the others. It eased the tension but Graham was mortified. He simply had to get out of these clothes.

  “Quiet,” Williams snapped at them, but he was relieved. Morale still seemed to be high. “Mr. Graham, go and get the keys and you lot get those bodies out of sight,” he commanded the prisoners.

  While Graham dived to the task, Williams told rescued prisoners what he had in mind.

  The keys were found and one by one the men were released from their shackles. Most of them promptly sat on the ground to rub their sore ankles, but the ongoing battle worried Williams.

  “Time is of the essence here, lads,” he told them. “Two of you pick up the muskets and find some powder and ball for the one discharged, then reload it. Who is the senior one among you?” he demanded.

  “Me, Sorr.” One stepped forward and Williams recognized the petty officer from before. “Name, Petty Officer?” he demanded without preamble.

  “Hotchkins, Sorr.”

  “Get the men together, Hotchkins, and follow us. We have a ship to catch.” Williams darted off along the pier, causing the men to chase after him with Graham bringing up the rear. As Duncan ran he glanced back towards the gates several hundred paces behind them, and gasped. A large group of dark figures were emerging from under the old archway. There was no doubt that they were soldiers; they were armed and coming their way. Williams paused and looked back.

  “The gun shot must have alerted the guards,” Duncan called.

  *****

  In fact the gun shots had alerted the guards, but it was more than that. Sergeant Émile had continued to march his men in the one direction for a few minutes, but then he’d halted them. He stood, his brows contracted in thought.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” Hugo called out. “Why are we halted?”

  Just at that moment they heard the musket going off on the pier. “About turn!” Émile shouted.

  “Knew I had smelled a rat!” He exclaimed to his puzzled men. “That ‘woman’ was not a woman!”

  “Now I know the desert got to him,” muttered one of the men as they changed direction with a smart pivot.

  “Not just him!” another replied. “I was sooo looking forward to jumping a real live girl tonight! Now I, too, will go mad.”

  But Émile had seen that face before. “It was the boy at the beach. I never forget a face, and that face, that woman, was the same face!” he called to his bewildered men. “Double march and prime muskets!” he shouted, and they headed for the entrance to the harbor, which was now in an uproar.

  His men mentally shrugged. The Roast Beef were here making a damned nuisance of themselves; where else would they go? Their sergeant might indeed have gone mad but he was at least leading them in the right direction for a fight.

  They arrived on the pier to see, about two hundred paces away on their right, some prisoners running down the quay towards a collection of small boats, and leading them was a woman in flowing skirts brandishing a sword. They swarmed aboard a small ship even as Émile pointed and shouted.

  “I thought so! Hurry, men, those are the prisoners and they are trying to escape!”

  “Looks like they have taken down a couple of our people, the bastards!” Hugo called out, not that the men needed any more incentive. They pounded along the otherwise deserted pier, chasing after the fugitives.

  Chapter 29

  Ambush and Escape.<
br />
  Chief of Police Le Guennet was seated at a table near the front of the entertainment room, his eyes riveted on Fatima as she performed for the second night. Like every other man in the room, Le Guennet was mesmerized by the seductive dance. His men sat or stood nearby, their eyes bulging and their mouths gaping at the vision, and they applauded enthusiastically along with everyone else when she disappeared.

  Le Guennet shook his head to dispel the erotic thoughts racing through his head and remembered why he was here in this brothel. He stood up abruptly and headed for the doorway at the back of the room, calling for his men to join him. A servant moved to intercept him but another man said something and the servant stood back.

  Danush stood before the policeman and smiled. “Good evening, Monsieur Le Guennet. May I be of assistance?” he enquired politely.

  “You certainly may,” the Chief of Police told him rudely. “I am conducting a search of these premises at this moment.”

  “May I ask why?” Danush asked, looking composed but wearing an expression of concern. Le Guennet’s men were already moving around, asking for papers from the civilian visitors and the servants who worked the tables.

  “I am looking for someone. We received a report that last night one of the officers of the Grand Army was assaulted and humiliated.” Le Guennet made his tone sound menacing, but it didn’t seem to faze the Persian.

  “Perhaps you could remind me as to whom that officer might have been, Sir,” Danush asked.

  “His name is Captain Kermaret and he was grievously injured. He claims it was here, in this, this brothel that he was attacked.”

  “That is an appalling thing to hear, Sir. Does he remember who attacked him, Sir? I shall turn the men over to you immediately.”

  “Well, er, he said it was a woman.” Le Guennet was watching for any sign of amusement or contempt from the Persian. Nothing, just a bland face appearing to be very concerned.