by Wilbur Smith
Penrod jumped down on to the mudflat and moved his pegs out to the edge of the receding river. In places there were now fifteen or twenty feet of exposed bank. They will need a lot more ground from which to launch a full-scale attack, he decided, but the river is falling rapidly. The Mahdi had shrewd and experienced warlords commanding his army, men like Osman Atalan. Soon they would start probing the defences with midnight raids and sorties. Where will they strike us first? he wondered. He walked on along the perimeter, looking for the weak spots. By the time he reached Mukran Fort he had picked out at least two points where he could expect the first raids to strike.
He found General Gordon at one of his favourite lookouts on the parapet of the fort. He was seated under a thatched sunshade at a camp table on which were laid out his binoculars, notebooks and maps. ‘Sit down, Ballantyne,’ he said. ‘You must be thirsty.’ He indicated the earthenware water jug on the table.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Penrod filled a glass.
‘You may rest assured that it has been boiled the full half-hour.’ It was a barbed jest. Under threat of flogging, Gordon had ordered all the garrison water to be boiled to those specifications. He had learnt the necessity of this during his campaigns in China. The results were remarkable. Although at first Penrod had believed this was another whim of Gordon’s he had since become a fervent believer. Cholera was raging among the civilian populace of the city, who openly flouted Gordon’s decrees and filled their waterskins from the river and the canal, into which discharged the city sewers. By contrast the garrison troops had suffered only three cases, and all of those had been traced to disobedience and the use of unboiled water. All three victims had died. ‘Damned lucky for them,’ Penrod had remarked to David Benbrook. ‘If they had lived Gordon would have had them shot.’
‘The death of the dog, they call it. Reeking torrents of your own hot excrement and vomit, every muscle and sinew of your body knotted in agonizing cramps, a desiccated skeleton for a body and a head like a skull!’ David shuddered. ‘Not for me, thank you very much. I’ll take my water boiled.’
Penrod felt his skin crawl as he recalled that description: it was so accurate. Yet thirst could kill as swiftly as the cholera. The heat and the desert air sucked the moisture from his body so his throat was parched. He raised the mug, savoured the smell of woodsmoke, which proved it was safe, then drained it in four long swallows.
‘Well, now, Ballantyne, what about the north bank?’ Gordon never wasted time in pleasantries.
‘I have marked a number of weak spots in the line.’ Penrod spread his field map on the table and pinned down a corner with the water jug. They pored over it together. ‘Here and here are the worst. The river level is dropping sharply – it’s down another three inches since noon yesterday. Each day exposes us more. We will have to strengthen those places.’
‘Heaven knows, we are hard pressed for men and material to keep pace with the work.’ Gordon looked up shrewdly at Penrod. ‘Yes? You have something to suggest?’
‘Well, sir, as you say, we cannot hope to maintain the entire line impregnable . . .’ Gordon frowned. He could not abide those he referred to as ‘dismal Johnnies’. Penrod hurried on before he could level the accusation. ‘. . . so it occurred to me that we should deliberately leave some gaps in our outer defences to entice the Dervish to attack them.’
‘Ah!’ Gordon’s frown lifted. ‘Poisoned gifts!’
‘Exactly, sir. We leave an opening, then behind it we set a trap. We run them into one of the blind alleys, and cover it with enfilading fire from the Gatlings.’
Thoughtfully, Gordon rubbed the silver stubble on his chin. They had only two Gatling guns, the rejects of Hicks’s expedition. He had declined to take them with him on the march to El Obeid as he had considered them too cumbersome. Each weapon was mounted on its own heavy gun-carriage, a sturdy axle and two iron-shod wheels. It needed a span of at least four oxen to drag it into action. The mechanisms were fragile and prone to stoppages. Hicks had believed in traditional volley fire from squares of infantry, rather than sustained fire from a single exposed position. He conceded that the Gatlings might be useful in a static defensive position, but he was convinced that there was no place for them in a flying offensive column. He had left the two guns and a hundred thousand rounds of the special .58 bore ammunition in the arsenal at Khartoum when he marched away to annihilation at El Obeid.
Penrod had found them stored in a dark recess of the arsenal, where he had collected a pistol to replace the one Yakub had lost, under dusty tarpaulins. He was familiar with the Gatling. He had selected two teams of the most likely Egyptian troopers under his command, and within a week had taught them to serve the weapons. Even though it was a complicated firing mechanism, they had learnt swiftly. The copper-cased rimfire .58 bore cartridges were fed by gravity from a hopper on top of the weapon. The gunner turned a hand crank, and the six heavy brass barrels rotated around a central shaft. As each bullet dropped from the hopper it was seized by one of the six cam-operated bolts, locked into the breech, fired and ejected by gravity. The rate of fire depended on the vigour with which the gunner turned the crank handle. It required strength and stamina to keep up a sustained fire for longer than a few minutes, but in practice Penrod timed one gun at nearly three hundred rounds in a half a minute. Of course, as soon as it heated it jammed. There was no machine-gun he knew of that did not.
In one respect Hicks had been correct, the Gatling guns were not very mobile. Penrod had realized that, in the event of a surprise night attack, it would not be possible to move them swiftly from one position to another on the ten-kilometre perimeter of the city’s defence works.
Penrod summarized his plan: ‘Suck them through the pretended weak spots on to the Gatlings and cut them up, sir.’
‘First rate!’ Gordon beamed. ‘Show me again where you propose to set your traps.’
‘Well, sir, I thought that here below the harbour would be the most obvious point.’ Gordon nodded approval. ‘The other spot would be here, opposite the hospital.’ Penrod prodded the map with his forefinger. ‘Behind both those positions there is a maze of narrow streets. I will block them with piles of rubble and timber baulks, then site the Gatlings behind strong brickworks . . .’ They discussed the plan over the next hour.
‘Very well, Ballantyne. Carry on.’ At last Gordon dismissed him.
Penrod saluted and headed for the ramp that led away from the parapet of the fort. Half-way down he paused to peer into the north. Only eyes as sharp as his could have picked out the tiny dark speck in the cloudless steel blue sky. At first he thought it was one of the Saker falcons coming in over the wastes of the Monassir desert from the north. He had noticed that a pair of the splendid birds were nesting under the eaves of the arsenal roof. He watched the tiny shape approaching, then shook his head. ‘Not the typical falcon wingbeat.’ The distant shape grew in size and he exclaimed, ‘Pigeon!’
He was reminded sharply of his last ride down from the north when he and Yakub had cut the loop of the river. He watched the pigeon’s approach with keen interest. As it approached the river, it began a wide circle high in the steely sky with the city of Omdurman as its centre.
‘Pigeon returning to loft.’ He recognized the manoeuvre. A pigeon nearly always began a long flight with a number of circles to orient itself, and ended in the same way before it descended to its home. This bird swung wide over the river, then passed almost directly overhead where Penrod stood.
‘It’s another bloody Dervish carrier!’ He had seen the tiny roll of rice paper tied to its leg. He pulled his watch from his hip pocket and checked the time. ‘Seventeen minutes past four.’ He had bought the watch from Consul Le Blanc at an exorbitant price to replace the one that had been doused on his last crossing of the river.
He watched the pigeon come round in another sweeping circle that carried it over the grounds of the consular palace, then begin a long, slanting descent across the broad waters of the Nile. The last glimps
e he had of it was as it dropped in steeply towards the whitewashed dome of the small mosque on the southern outskirts of Omdurman.
As he slipped the watch back into his pocket he had the feeling he was being watched and looked round. General Gordon’s head showed above the parapet. ‘What is it, Ballantyne?’ he called down.
‘I can’t be certain, General, but I would wager a gold sovereign to a pinch of dry pigeon droppings that the Mahdi is running a regular bird mail with his army in the north.’
‘If you are right, I would give more than a gold sovereign to get my hands on one of his messages.’ Gordon stared grimly across the river at the mosque where the pigeon had landed. It was almost a month since Penrod had arrived in the city. Since then they had received no news from Cairo. There was no way of guessing what had happened to General Stewart and his relief column. Had they begun the march? Had they been beaten back? On the other hand perhaps they were only days away.
‘Ballantyne, how can you get me one of those pigeons?’ Gordon asked quietly.
A little before four the following afternoon Penrod was waiting on the terrace of the consular palace with his head thrown back to watch the northern sky.
‘Right on time!’ he exclaimed, as the speck appeared in the north sky, slightly to the east of where he had expected it. As it passed over his head he estimated the bird’s speed and height with narrowed eyes. ‘Two hundred feet if it’s an inch, and going like its tail’s on fire. A long call!’ he murmured. ‘But there is no wind, and I have taken pheasant higher than that.’ He stroked his moustache, which was approaching its former glory.
The consular dinner that evening was formal. There were a dozen guests, all that remained of the diplomatic corps and the civil administrators of the Khedive in Cairo. As usual, Rebecca was her father’s hostess. David had sent an invitation to Ryder Courtney, without consulting either Rebecca or Saffron, either of whom would surely have exercised a veto if they had had the chance.
Ryder had been cherishing a young buffalo heifer in the expectations of selling it for an enormous profit when the city was relieved. The prospect of salvation was becoming daily more remote, and the buffalo had a voracious appetite that was increasingly difficult to satisfy. When he received David’s invitation he slaughtered the animal and sent a haunch with two bottles of Cognac to the consular kitchens.
Rebecca recognized the gift as a peace-offering, and it placed her in a terrible quandary. Could she refuse it, when it would make the evening a triumphant success? It would mean acknowledging Ryder’s existence, which she was not yet prepared to do. She solved the dilemma by sending him a note, delivered by Amber, accepting the gift on behalf of her father. She knew this was weakness on her part, but she salved her conscience by determining not to address a single word to him if he attended the dinner.
Ryder, as was his wont, was the last guest to arrive. He was looking so elegant in his dinner jacket, and seemed so at ease with himself and the world that Rebecca’s anger was exacerbated.
Nazeera lied, she thought, as she watched from the corner of her eye as he chatted affably with her father and Consul Le Blanc. He isn’t suffering in the least.
At that moment she became aware that she, in her turn, was being watched. She glanced round sharply to see Captain Ballantyne studying her from across the room with the knowing smile that had begun to infuriate her. He is always spying, she thought. Before she recovered her poise and looked away, she noticed that his hair and his whiskers had grown out in a rather fetching fashion. She felt her cheeks burn and that disconcerting sensation in her lower belly. She turned to Imran Pasha, the former governor of Khartoum who was now subservient to General Gordon.
Ten minutes later she glanced around surreptitiously to see whether Captain Ballantyne was still spying on her, and felt a twinge of annoyance when she saw that he was engrossed with the twins – or they were with him. Both Amber and Saffron were shrieking with laughter in a most unladylike fashion. She regretted that she had given in to their blandishments and allowed them to join the company instead of making them eat their dinner with Nazeera in the kitchen. She had scored a small point by seating Saffron beside Ryder Courtney: the child would have difficulty holding firm to her vow never to speak to him again. She had placed Captain Ballantyne as far away from herself as possible, at her father’s end of the table.
The buffalo haunch was a glorious pink in the centre, and running with juices. The company fell upon it in ravenous silence. No sooner were the plates removed than Captain Ballantyne whispered a few words to her father, stood up, bowed to her and strode from the room. She knew better than to expect an explanation for his departure. After all, they were at war, and he was responsible for the city’s defences. However, she regretted that she was to be deprived of the opportunity to snub him more profoundly.
She glanced down the table at the second object of her disapproval, and saw that Saffron had obviously forgiven Ryder. At the beginning of the meal he had ignored her haughtiness and had concentrated all his attention on Amber at his right hand. This had brought Saffron close to tears of jealousy. Then he had switched tactics and turned all his charm on her. She had been unprepared for this. ‘Saffron, did you know that Lucy has had her babies?’ Before she realized the trap, she was listening avidly as he told her Lucy had given birth to twins, what the babies looked like, how proud Lucy was of them. He had named them Billy and Lily.
‘Oh, can I come and see them tomorrow? Oh, please, Ryder,’ Saffron cried.
‘But Saffy, Nazeera told me you were not feeling well,’ Ryder said.
‘That was yesterday. I was feeling rather peaky.’ Ryder gathered that ‘peaky’ was one of her new words. ‘But I am very well now. Amber and I will be with you at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ The trial of wills had ended with a complete capitulation on her part.
Rebecca made a small moue at the silliness of the child, and turned her attention back to Consul Le Blanc. She had overheard her father remark to Ryder that he was as queer as a duck with four legs. It was a pity that she was unable to ask Ryder what that meant. It sounded intriguing, and Ryder knew everything. I suppose I will have to forgive him in time, she thought, but not just yet.
The dessert was pâté of green-cake with warm honey sauce: at David Benbrook’s instigation Bacheet had robbed the nest that wild bees had built in the palace roof. He had been sternly restricted to the removal of a single honeycomb – David had a sweet tooth and was hoarding the bees’ output. This dish was also warmly received, and the Limoges porcelain dessert bowls were scraped clean.
‘I have not enjoyed a meal as much since my last visit to Le Grand Véfour in eighty-one,’ Le Blanc assured Rebecca.
Despite his four legs, he is rather a dear old ass, she thought. In this new mood of benevolence she glanced back at Ryder, caught his eye, then nodded and smiled. His obvious relief was really quite gratifying. Am I becoming fast? she questioned herself. She was not certain what being fast entailed, but her father disapproved of fast women, or said he did.
After their guests had departed and they had climbed the spiral staircase to the bedroom floor her father placed his arm round her shoulders, hugged her and told her how proud he was of her, and what a lovely woman she was growing into.
So he does not think I am becoming fast, Rebecca thought, but nevertheless she felt strangely discontented. As she prepared for bed she whispered, ‘There is something missing. Why should I feel so unhappy? Life is so short. Perhaps the Mahdi will storm the city tomorrow and it will all be over, and I won’t even have lived.’
As if the monster had heard her and stirred in his lair, there came the crash of artillery fire from across the Nile. She heard a shell shriek overhead, then burst somewhere in the native quarter near the canal. With her hair in a golden cloud upon her shoulders she threw on her silk dressing-gown, turned the lamp down low and opened the door to the balcony. She hesitated, feeling guilty and uncertain. ‘There won’t be anybody there,’ she tol
d herself firmly. ‘It’s after midnight. If he’s still awake, he’ll be at the waterfront with those Gatlings.’
She stepped out on to the balcony and before she could stop herself she glanced down and searched beneath the outspread branches of the tamarind tree. She felt a nasty twinge of disappointment when she realized she had guessed right. Nobody was there. She sighed, leant her elbows on the wall and stared out across the river.
The Bedlam Bedouin is having an early night, she thought. Since sunset there had been only that single cannon shot, and now all was silent. In the moonlight she watched the bats diving and circling as they hunted insects in the top branches of the ficus tree at the bottom of the terrace. After a few minutes she sighed again and straightened up. I’m not sleepy, but it’s late. I should go to bed, she thought.
A vesta flared in the shadows beneath the tamarind tree, and her heart tripped. The flame settled to a yellow glow, and she saw his face lit like the portrait in a cameo, while the rest of him remained shrouded in darkness. He had a long black cigar between his teeth. He placed the tip of it to the match and drew deeply. The flame burned up brightly. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, he is so beautiful.’ The blasphemy was out before she could quell it. Still holding the burning match in front of his face he looked up at her. She stared back. He was fifty yards away but she was mesmerized, like a bird by a cobra.
He blew out the vesta, and the image of his face was gone. Only the glow of his cigar remained, brighter then fading as he drew on it. The pain came over her again, pervasive and debilitating, until she no longer had control of her emotions. Like a woman in a trance she turned slowly, went back through her bedroom and out into the corridor beyond. She passed the door to her father’s suite, and her bare feet danced faster over the silken carpet that led her to the head of the staircase. She ran down, and was suddenly stricken with the fear that he would be gone by the time she reached the terrace. She fumbled with the latch of the front doors – it seemed an eternity before they opened. She ran across the lawn, then stopped dead when she saw his dark shape exactly where it had been.