The Triumph of the Sun

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Keep the gun trained on me,’ he ordered.

  The gunner kept depressing his aim until he shook his head with exasperation. ‘You are too close, General. It can no longer bear.’

  ‘Captain Ballantyne, if they reach this point the Dervish will be under the gun.’ Gordon looked pleased that he had caught Penrod out.

  Penrod realized it was no excuse that Gordon overloaded him with responsibilities: he had been negligent, and he rebuked himself silently. Such an elementary oversight is almost as bad as starving the gun for ammunition, he thought bitterly. He ordered the engineers to tear down the wall of sandbags and rebuild it with a lower sill.

  ‘Where have you placed the second Gatling?’ Gordon demanded. He had Penrod on the defensive now, and was pushing his advantage.

  ‘It is still in the redoubt in front of the hospital. That is the other obvious weak point in our perimeter. I dare not leave that gap undefended, and place all our bets on the attack striking us here. The Dervish may even mount two simultaneous strikes at both positions.’

  ‘They will strike here,’ Gordon said, with finality.

  ‘I agree that is the highest probability. So I have built another machine-gun nest over there, where it can cover the beach and enfilade both banks of the creek. As soon as the attack develops and the enemy is committed, I can rush the second gun across from the hospital to this side. Equally, if we are mistaken and they strike at the hospital I can move this gun over to cover that position.’

  ‘How long will it take to move the guns?’ Gordon demanded.

  ‘I estimate about ten minutes.’

  ‘No estimates, Ballantyne. Run an exercise and time it.’

  On the first attempt the gun-crew encountered a pile of fallen masonry in the alley behind the harbour. They had to clear it before they could bring the heavy carriage through. The second attempt was more successful: it took twelve minutes to run it through the streets and resite it in the prepared nest to cover the beach and the banks of the creek.

  ‘It will be in darkness,’ Gordon pointed out. ‘The crew must be able to do it with their eyes closed.’

  Penrod kept them practising the manoeuvre late into the night. They cleared all obstacles and shell damage from the streets and alleys, and filled in the potholes and gutters. Penrod designed new gun tackles so that twenty men at a time could pull it.

  By the morning of the second day they had cut the transit time down to seven and a half minutes. All this had to be done in darkness after curfew. If the Dervish learnt that they were practising moving the Gatlings from one point to another on the perimeter they would suspect a trap. Penrod was not sure that they knew of the existence of the two guns: while in the arsenal they had been stored away from prying eyes, and had probably been forgotten. In any event the Dervish had a deep scorn for firearms. It was unlikely they had ever seen the Gatlings in action so they could not guess at their destructive potential. Until now he had been careful to exercise the gun-crew where they were not under observation from the enemy bank of the Nile. They only fired the weapons into the empty desert on the southern perimeter of the city. When they were not in use he kept them covered with tarpaulins.

  ‘With your permission, General, I intend to take up permanent quarters here at the harbour. I want to be on the spot when the enemy launch their attack. As things stand at present, it might all be over during the time it would take me to get here from the palace.’

  ‘Good,’ Gordon agreed. ‘But if the Dervish spies discover that you have set up permanent headquarters here at the harbour our plan will be compromised.’

  ‘I have thought about that, General, and I believe I will be able to conceal my whereabouts without causing suspicion.’

  They enlisted the co-operation of David Benbrook in concealing from everybody, including the Benbrook sisters and consular staff, that he had moved only as far as the harbour. The story was put about that Penrod had secretly left the city, sent on a mission by General Gordon to carry a message to the British relief column at the Wells of Gakdul.

  Penrod found his new quarters a far call from the luxury of his suite in the palace. He set up his angareb in a tiny dugout in the back wall of the Gatling emplacement. He had no mosquito net, and spent most of the night swatting the insects: at dusk they rose in clouds from the creek. Previously the palace’s paltry food supplies had been augmented by the ingenuity of the Benbrook sisters, Nazeera, the kitchen staff and, of course, by David Benbrook’s marksmanship. In his new headquarters Penrod shared the same rations as his men. Gordon had been forced to reduce the issue of dhurra to below starvation level, and hunger was now a constant spectral companion. Yakub was able to scrounge a few dried fish heads and skeletons from his uncle’s house and these went into the stew pot that Penrod shared with his gunners. Some of the Egyptians were eating the pith of the palm trees and boiling the leather thongs of their angarebs. Much as he had once disparaged the taste of it, Penrod now sorely missed the rations of green-cake that the Benbrook sisters had regularly brought home from the compound of Ryder Courtney.

  Penrod could not afford to be seen in the city, so he had to confine himself strictly to the harbour. This self-imposed incarceration was even more irksome than his cramped quarters and the disgusting food. It was a relief to direct all his energy and imagination into preparations for the coming conflict.

  His plan was in two parts. First he had to lure the Dervish through the drainage ditch in the outer wall, and into the narrow creek. Then he had to ensure there was no way for them to get out, at least not alive. Gordon restricted his inspection tours to the hours of curfew. Penrod never expected praise from Chinese Gordon, but made certain that he gave the general no further cause for criticism.

  Once all the preparations were completed, Yakub was more forthcoming in his praise than Gordon had been. ‘With the help of clever Yakub you have built an abattoir.’ He chuckled. ‘A slaughter house for the pigs of Ansar.’ Instinctively he fiddled with the hilt of his dagger as he looked around the stockade they had built. The men were stacking dry timber from the derelict buildings of the city on the bonfires that Penrod had ordered to be constructed on both banks of the creek. He had taken great care that once they were lit the flames would illuminate the enemy, but would not dazzle his gunners and riflemen. Each evening at nightfall his men soaked the bonfires with lamp oil so that their combustion would be almost instantaneous.

  Penrod’s sudden mysterious disappearance caused varying levels of consternation and concern among the Benbrook sisters. The one who suffered least was Saffron. She merely found herself deprived of a whip to torment her twin. It was no longer satisfactory to tease Amber about her beau, when he had absconded. Besides, Amber’s distress whenever she raised the subject detracted from Saffron’s enjoyment. Teasing was fun; inflicting pain was not.

  On the other hand Rebecca was adept at concealing her true feelings so Saffron had no inkling as to how profoundly Penrod’s disappearance had affected her. Had she guessed, she would have had richer fields to plough.

  When Amber had almost convinced herself that she would never again set eyes upon Captain Ballantyne, and that suicide was the only solution to her tragic existence, Yakub saved her life. This was not a deliberate act of charity: it was in gratification of Yakub’s baser instincts.

  His strict confinement, by his master, to the harbour defences above the mosquito-ridden creek suited Yakub not at all. In the last months he had become accustomed to finer living. Each evening Nazeera had provided him with a bowl of the same food as the consul general and his family enjoyed. This was not a great feast, but it far surpassed the watery communal stew, which smelt and tasted of rotten fish and dried animal hides.

  However, by far the most troubling element in this new existence was that each night he lay awake at the foot of his master’s angareb, waiting for the Dervish attack and wondering if Nazeera was being faithful to him. If her previous behaviour was anything to go upon, this seemed highly unlikely
. He brooded on the fact that the perfidious Bacheet, that illegitimate son of a Beja father and a Galla pleasure dancer, was under no restrictions as to his nocturnal movements. The thought of Bacheet creeping into his beloved’s angareb each night kept Yakub from sleep more effectively than all the mosquitoes from the creek. He rose quietly, as if he was going to use the latrine bucket. One of the sentries challenged him at the harbour gate, but Yakub knew the password.

  Amber was sitting sleepless at her bedroom window. It was three days since Captain Ballantyne had disappeared. She tortured herself with the thought that he might have been caught by the Dervish before he reached the British lines. She imagined him as a prisoner of the Mahdi. She had heard of the fate of those who fell into that monster’s bloodstained hands, and knew she would not sleep that night.

  Below her window someone moved in the shadows of the courtyard. She drew back quickly. It might be an assassin sent by the evil Mahdi, but at that moment the man glanced up towards her window and she recognized his squint. ‘Yakub!’ she breathed. ‘But he should be with Penrod on the way to the Wells of Gakdul.’ Yakub was Penrod’s shadow: wherever he went Yakub followed.

  The breathtaking truth dawned upon her. If Yakub is here, then Penrod is somewhere close by. He did not go to Gakdul after all. It was only recently that she had allowed herself to think of him as Penrod, and not as Captain Ballantyne.

  Amber’s melancholy and foreboding dropped away. She knew exactly where Yakub was going. She sprang up from the window-seat, ran lightly to her wardrobe and threw a dark cloak over her nightdress. She paused only long enough to make certain that Saffron was still asleep, then slipped out of the bedroom and crept downstairs, making certain to avoid the twelfth step, which always creaked and woke her father. She let herself out of the kitchen side door and crossed the stableyard to the servants’ compound.

  Nazeera’s window was lamp-lit. She found a lookout position in one of the empty stables and settled in to wait. She passed the next few hours by trying to imagine what Yakub and Nazeera found to keep themselves busy for such a long time. Rebecca had said that the two of them made love. Amber was not sure what this procedure entailed: her most diligent enquiries had not greatly increased her understanding of the subject. She suspected that Rebecca herself, despite her knowing airs, was just as ignorant as she was.

  ‘It’s when people kiss each other,’ Rebecca had explained loftily, ‘but it’s not polite to talk about it.’ Amber found this unsatisfactory. Most of the kisses she had observed were fleeting and usually planted on the cheek or the back of a hand, which could only be considered fairly dull entertainment. The one glaring exception was the exchange she and Saffron had witnessed between Ryder and Rebecca, which had caused such a brouhaha. That had been much more interesting. Both participants had obviously enjoyed the process, but even that had lasted less than a minute. In comparison, Yakub and Nazeera had been at it half the night.

  I will ask Nazeera, she decided, then had a better idea. As soon as I find out where he is, I will ask Penrod. He’s a man, so he must know how they do it.

  Shortly before dawn the lamplight in Nazeera’s room was extinguished, and moments later Yakub crept out of the door and set off through the dark, silent streets in guilty haste. Amber kept him in sight until he reached the harbour, and she heard one of the sentries challenge him. Then she had to get back to the palace before they found out she was missing.

  ‘Cat been at the cream?’ Saffron demanded. Amber’s ebullient mood was such a marked change from the days of gloom that had preceded it that she had to tackle her sister later that day as they worked side by side over the green-cake cauldrons in Ryder Courtney’s compound.

  Amber gave her a sweet but enigmatic smile, and would not be drawn.

  That evening, an hour after curfew, Penrod Ballantyne was amazed to recognize Amber’s voice arguing with the sentries at the entrance to his headquarters in the Gatling emplacement. He rushed out immediately, buckling on his sword belt. ‘You silly child,’ he scolded her severely. ‘You know very well there is a curfew. You might have been shot.’

  Amber had hoped for a warmer reception. ‘I brought you some green-cake. I knew you must be starving.’ She unwrapped the small bundle she was carrying. ‘And one of Papa’s clean shirts. I can smell your old one from here.’

  Penrod was about to demand how she had learnt of his whereabouts when, in the light of the bullseye lantern, he saw tears of humiliation in her eyes. But she blinked them back and faced him with her chin up. ‘Furthermore, Captain Ballantyne, I will have you know that I am not a silly child.’

  ‘Of course you are not, Miss Amber.’ He relented instantly. ‘You took me by surprise. I just did not expect you. I apologize.’

  She perked up. ‘If you give me your old shirt I will take it back to wash it for you.’

  Penrod found himself in a dilemma. With the threat of an imminent Dervish attack on the harbour, he should not allow her to stay here another minute. For the same reason he dared not leave the emplacement to escort her back to the palace, and he could not let her wander through the city alone after curfew. He could send Yakub with her, but he needed him at his side. There was no one else he could trust. He chose the lesser of all evils.

  ‘I expect that you will have to spend the night here. I cannot allow you to break curfew and go home alone,’ he muttered.

  Her face lit up with pleasure. This stroke of fortune far exceeded her remotest expectations. ‘I can cook your dinner,’ she said.

  ‘There isn’t much to cook, so why don’t you and I share your very generous gift of green-cake?’

  They sat on his angareb in the dugout. There were no curtains to this alcove so the gunners were involuntary chaperones as they nibbled the green-cake and talked in low tones. It was the first time he had spent any time with her, and Penrod soon discovered that Amber was entertaining company. She had an impish sense of humour that appealed to him, and a quaint manner of expressing herself. She described her various travels with her father, which ranged from Cape Town to Cairo, and finally Khartoum. Then, abruptly, she fell silent, placed her chin in her hand and considered him thoughtfully. ‘Captain Ballantyne, now that we have become friends, would you be civil enough to answer a question that has been troubling me lately? Nobody seems to know the answer.’

  ‘I am honoured that you consider us friends.’ Penrod was touched. She was such a funny little thing. ‘I would be delighted to render you any assistance I can.’

  ‘How do people make love?’ she asked.

  Penrod found himself deprived of words and the breath to speak them. ‘Ah!’ he said, and smoothed his moustache to win time. ‘I think that it is done in various ways. There do not seem to be any fixed rules of engagement.’

  Amber was disappointed. She had expected more of him. Obviously he knew as little as Rebecca. ‘I suppose they kiss each other like you and I saw my sister kissing Ryder. Is that how they do it?’

  ‘Indubitably.’ He grabbed thankfully at the opening. ‘I think that is exactly how they do it.’

  ‘I should think that would become rather boring after a while.’

  ‘It seems to grow on some people,’ Penrod said. ‘There is no accounting for taste.’

  Amber changed the subject again, with disconcerting suddenness. ‘Did you know that Lucy, Ryder’s monkey, has had babies?’

  ‘I had no idea. Boys or girls? What are they like.’ He followed her thankfully on to firm ground.

  Minutes later Amber’s eyes closed, she subsided against his shoulder and, like a puppy, dropped into instant sleep. She did not stir even when he laid her on the angareb and covered her with the threadbare blanket. He was in a good mood, smiling to himself as he left her and went on his midnight inspection of the harbour defences. For once every one of the Egyptian sentries was wide awake. Either they were stimulated by the proximity of the enemy and their own exposure in this forward position, or their hunger drove away sleep.

  He foun
d a comfortable place to sit on the forward firing platform and listened to the drums across the river. Their monotonous tempo became soporific and he found himself nodding. He stirred guiltily: If Chinese Gordon finds me I’ll be up before the firing squad myself. He took a turn along the parapet, and came back to his seat. He let himself relax and drift to the edge of sleep, but every few minutes he opened his eyes. He had trained himself to tread this tightrope without falling off it. Across the river the drums fell silent.

  He opened his eyes again and looked up. Red Mars, the god of war, was hunting across the southern quadrant of the moonless sky with Sirius, the Dog, in leash. It was the darkest and loneliest hour of the night. He was close to the edge of sleep, but he kept his eyes open.

  ‘Penrod.’

  Cool fingers brushed his cheek. ‘Are you asleep?’ He turned his head to her. He was touched that she had used his baptismal name. She must truly think of him as her friend. ‘No, I am not, but you should be.’

  ‘I heard voices,’ Amber whispered.

  ‘A dream, perhaps,’ he replied. ‘There are no voices.’

  ‘Listen!’ said Amber.

  Faintly he heard a dog bark on the west bank and another answered it from Tutti Island, further downriver. No dogs remained in the city. The last had been killed and eaten months before. ‘Nothing.’ He shook his head doubtfully, but she seized his arm and her sharp little fingernails dug in painfully.

  ‘Listen, Pen. Listen!’

  He felt his nerve ends jump tight, like the strike of a heavy fish on the deep-run fly. It was a whisper so faint, so insubstantial on the night breeze that only sharp young ears could have picked it up. It came from far out on the river. Sound carries over water, he thought, and stood up swiftly and silently. Faint as the breeze in the palm fronds, he had heard the traditional word of command to lower and furl the lateen sail of a dhow as it came in to its moorings. Now that he was straining his hearing to its limit, he heard the soft slap of bare feet on a wooden deck, and the slatting of canvas. Seconds later came the creak of a muffled rudder in its yoke as the dhow put up its helm. ‘They have come,’ he whispered, and moved swiftly along the firing platform to alert each of his men. ‘Stand to! Stand to your guns. The Dervish are here. Hold your fire until my command.’