The Triumph of the Sun

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Perhaps it is best that you are unhappy for today rather than unhappy for the rest of your life,’ Nazeera said sadly. ‘That is why I have told you these things.’

  Two hours after the beginning of curfew the four men left the city. Penrod and Yakub wore turbans and Ansar jibbas for they would be riding north through the Dervish lines. Ryder and Bacheet wore simple galabiyyas, like common tribesmen, for they would return to the city.

  Despite their outfits they were unchallenged as they crossed the canal behind Ryder Courtney’s compound. The guard had been warned to let them pass. They were all heavily laden with weapons and woven sisal bags as they struck out into the desert. None spoke and they moved warily, keeping well separated but in sight of each other.

  Bacheet led the way. He never slackened his pace even when the sand was ankle deep. They walked for two hours before they climbed a bank of shale that was frosty pale in the glimmer of the moon. One of the wadis that was carved out of the far side was filled with a dark amorphous mass of thorny scrub. There Bacheet paused and lowered his burden to the ground. He spoke a few quiet words to Ryder Courtney. Ryder handed him a leather bag of Maria Theresa dollars, and Bacheet went forward alone. The other three squatted to wait. In the distance they heard Bacheet utter the lonely haunted cry of a courser, the nocturnal plover of the desert. The call was answered from the wadi.

  ‘So al-Mahtoum is here. He is a good man. I can rely on him,’ Ryder said, with satisfaction.

  ‘Let us go to join them.’ Penrod Ballantyne stood up impatiently.

  ‘Sit down,’ Ryder ordered. ‘Bacheet will come to fetch us. Al-Mahtoum will not allow a stranger to see his face. He lives a dangerous existence. When he has handed over the camels to Bacheet he will disappear back into the desert like a fox.’

  An hour later the courser cried again, and Ryder stood up. ‘Now,’ he said, and led Penrod and Yakub forward. There were four camels couched among the scrub. Bacheet squatted beside them but al-Mahtoum was gone. Penrod and Yakub went to each of them to check their tack and their loads. There were dhurra loaves and dried dates in the food bags and one of the animals was loaded with camel fodder. The water-skins were less than a quarter filled.

  Penrod remarked on this.

  ‘Al-Mahtoum expects you to fill them at the river crossing. No sense in carrying more than you need. You should reach the Nile at Gutrahn before midnight tomorrow. Don’t try to cross sooner. The Dervish are thick as tsetse flies this side of Gutrahn.’

  Penrod replied tartly: ‘Yakub and I have travelled this road before, but thank you for your excellent advice.’ He went from one beast to the next, slapping their humps. They were plumped up with fat. Next he checked their limbs, running his hands down shoulder and haunch to the fetlock. ‘Sound,’ he said. ‘They are in good condition.’

  ‘They don’t come any sounder,’ Ryder said bitterly. ‘These are gimal, the finest racing camels. They are worth fifty pounds each – stolen from me by your warlord Chinese Gordon.’

  ‘I will treat them like my own children,’ Penrod promised.

  ‘I am sure you will,’ Ryder said, ‘although those who call you the Camel Killer, and they are legion, might have difficulty believing you.’

  Penrod and Yakub mounted up, and Penrod gave Ryder an ironic salute with the goad. ‘I shall give your respects to the ladies at the Long Bar in the Gheziera Club.’ He knew that Ryder was not a member. It was another little burr in the rough texture of their relationship.

  Yet Ryder was not particularly pleased to see him go. Penrod Ballantyne was never dull. He and Bacheet watched the little caravan meld with the night.

  Bacheet grunted and spat. It was apparent that he did not share his master’s feelings. ‘The two of them ride together because they are both rogues and lechers, almost as quick with knife and gun as they are with their meat prods.’

  Ryder laughed. ‘You should rejoice that Yakub has gone. Perhaps you will now be able to enjoy a little more of Nazeera’s company.’ He swung the sling of his rifle over his shoulder.

  ‘You should be equally grateful to see their backs,’ Bacheet’s tone was astringent, ‘although the leopard has already been in the goat kraal, or so I have heard.’

  Ryder stopped in his tracks and tried to fathom Bacheet’s expression in the starlight. ‘What leopard, and whose goats?’

  ‘Yesterday morning Nazeera changed the linen in the palace bedrooms. She had to wash one set in cold water.’ It was an oblique reference, but Ryder understood it. Hot water removes most stains, but not blood. For that, one used cold water.

  They did not speak again until they had crossed the canal into the city. Ryder was still filled with disbelief and betrayal as he entered his compound and went to his private quarters. Of course he knew of Penrod Ballantyne’s reputation as a lady-killer, but Rebecca Benbrook? Surely not. She was a young girl of excellent family and strict upbringing. His respect and affection for her had led him to expect certain standards of her, those a man might look for in his future wife.

  Bacheet and Nazeera are notorious gossips – I do not believe it. Then, suddenly, he remembered an observation his elder brother, Waite, had once made: ‘The colonel’s lady and Katie O’Grady are both women under the skin. In certain circumstances both think with their organs of generation, instead of their brains.’ Ryder had laughed at the time, but now it sickened him.

  He did not feel better until he had shaved and drunk two large mugs of black coffee, almost the last of his hoarded supply. Even then when he sat down at his desk, he found it difficult to concentrate on his ledgers. The most lurid and disquieting images kept forming in his mind. It was with relief that he made the final entry in his journal, closed the heavy leatherbound book and went out to begin his morning rounds of the compound.

  As he stepped into the animal enclosure, Saffron ran to meet him. She had Lucy the monkey on her shoulder. Unperturbed the remaining infant was clinging to Lucy’s belly fluff with all four paws and suckling busily. Lucy had lost the other to a disease that not even Ali had been able to cure. Saffron skipped along beside him, blissfully relating every shred of information and gem of wisdom that Ali had shared with her that morning.

  ‘Victoria is scouring,’ she informed him.

  ‘Are we discussing the female bongo, or the Queen of England and Empress of India?’ Ryder asked.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly! You know exactly who I mean.’ Saffron laughed. ‘Ali says that the acacia leaves do not agree with her. He and I are going to dose her as soon as he has brewed his medicine. It’s what he uses for the horses.’

  Ryder felt his dark mood lift a little. Saffron’s company was always healing and distracting. ‘Why aren’t you helping Amber in the green-cake kitchens?’ he asked, as they came to the last cages.

  ‘My sister is a bore, so bossy and overbearing. She hasn’t been here for weeks and today she appears and gives orders as though she was a duchess.’

  They walked between the ranks of Sudanese women who were crushing the bundles of fresh greenery in the wooden stamp pots. Ryder greeted most by name and asked a question, which demonstrated his interest and concern for them. They giggled in gratification. Some of the younger girls were openly saucy and flirtatious for Ryder was a great favourite among them. He knew that the way to get the best out of his people was to make certain they liked him. Saffron took part in the banter with the women, for she shared their sense of fun and they enjoyed her sparkle. High spirits were rare in the city, where terror and starvation had turned the populace into wild animals. We have the green-cake to thank for that. It keeps all of us healthy and human, thought Ryder.

  He tried not to show it but he was eager to get to the inner enclosure where the smoke was rising from the line of three-legged cauldrons. When they reached it they found Rebecca, Amber and five Arab girls weighing and packing the loaves of green-cake into woven baskets for distribution to those who needed it most. This was not easy to decide, for there was not nearly enough to go r
ound. Rebecca was reading the scale and Amber was writing down the results as her elder sister called them out.

  ‘This is our best day ever, Ryder. One hundred and thirty-eight pounds,’ Amber announced with pride, as he came up.

  ‘Excellent. You ladies have done wonderfully well.’ Ryder turned to Rebecca. She wore long skirts and a wide-brimmed straw hat, for the sun was already high and hot.

  ‘Miss Benbrook, I hope I find you well?’ He could see that she had lost more weight. He was sure he would be able to encircle her waist with his hands. But the thought of touching her made him uneasy, and he shifted from one foot to the other.

  She gave him the first direct smile since their indiscreet behaviour had been discovered, but it lacked her usual sparkle and verve. She seemed depressed and subdued. ‘Thank you, Mr Courtney. For a while I was unwell but I am now fully recovered.’ They exchanged a few more stilted pleasantries, while Saffron pouted because she had lost Ryder’s attention.

  ‘If you will excuse us we should get back to work.’ Rebecca ended the conversation. ‘Amber, we have finished with the scale and you may take it back to the shed. Saffron, you are killing Lucy and her baby with love. Go and put them back into their cage. We need your help here.’

  Saffron pulled a face but went to do as she was told leaving Ryder and Rebecca alone.

  ‘You are wearing Arab dress,’ Rebecca remarked. ‘That is unusual, is it not?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Ryder replied. ‘I always wear it when I travel in the desert. It is cooler and more practical for riding and walking. Also, my people prefer me to do so. It makes me seem one of them, and less a stranger.’

  ‘Oh? I thought it was because you and Bacheet went out to find camels for Captain Ballantyne and Yakub.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘For me to know and you to find out.’

  ‘Nazeera’s a chatterbox. You should not pay attention to everything she tells you.’

  ‘You are jumping to conclusions, Mr Courtney. However, I have always found Nazeera’s information highly reliable,’ she replied.

  If only you knew Nazeera’s latest bulletin, he thought, but she went on, ‘Tell me, sir, did Captain Ballantyne get away safely?’

  It was a direct question to which she obviously knew the answer. Ryder considered it carefully. It occurred to him that Penrod’s departure had left the field clear for him. On the other hand did he really want the pretty soldier-boy’s discarded toy?

  ‘Well, did he?’ Rebecca insisted on a reply. ‘It is of no interest to me, but Nazeera will want to know about Yakub. He is her particular friend.’

  Ryder grimaced at her delicate description of their relationship. Did Rebecca think of the soldier-boy as her particular friend, he wondered. ‘I don’t think that we should discuss military matters that relate to the safety of the city,’ he said at last.

  ‘Oh, la, Mr Courtney! I am not a spy for the Mahdi. If you don’t tell me I shall simply ask my father. However, I drought you might save me the trouble.’

  ‘Very well. I cannot see any pressing reason why you should not know. Captain Ballantyne left a little after midnight. He and Yakub are heading north, and in all probability will cross the Blue Nile tonight. They plan to join up with the Mahdist army that is moving north along the river towards Abu Hamed.’

  Rebecca paled. ‘They plan to travel in company with the Dervish? That is madness.’

  ‘It is known as hiding in full view. They will conceal themselves among the host,’ he assured her. ‘You need not worry, Captain Ballantyne is adept at disguise. He can change like a veritable chameleon.’ And he thought, She can take that as a warning, if she wishes.

  ‘Oh, I am not worried, I assure you, Captain.’ The lie was transparent: she looked as though she might burst into tears.

  There is no doubt now that Nazeera was telling the truth, and that Ballantyne has made her his doxy, but what of it? Ryder reflected. She was never mine, and I don’t love her – at least, not now that she is spoilt fruit. Even in his own ears that did not ring true. He tried to be more honest with himself. Do I love her? But he did not want to face that question four square.

  ‘I will leave you to your labours, Miss Benbrook,’ he murmured, and turned towards the door of the shed. ‘Amber!’ he exclaimed. He and Rebecca had been so caught up in their own conversation that neither had noticed she had returned.

  ‘How long have you been listening?’ Rebecca demanded.

  Instead of answering Amber asked, ‘Are the Dervish going to catch Penrod?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be silly!’ Rebecca turned on her. Both sisters were close to tears. ‘Anyway you should not eavesdrop on other people, and you should not refer to Captain Ballantyne as Penrod. Now, come and help me to get the cauldrons filled again.’

  Amber pushed past her and fled through the gates of the compound and back through the streets towards the consular palace.

  Poor little thing, thought Ryder, but there are difficult days ahead for all of us.

  Early each morning, the minute the bells of the old Catholic mission had tolled the end of curfew, the women of the city streamed from the ruins, huts and hovels and scurried to the arsenal for the daily distribution of grain. By the time the gates opened several thousand were waiting in a line that stretched almost as far as the harbour. It was an agglomeration of misery. Starvation and disease, those dread horsemen, rode so rampantly through every quarter of the city that all cowered beneath their lash. Each of these poor ruined creatures, gaunt and ragged, some barely able to totter along, infants strapped to their backs or sucking vainly on their empty, withered dugs, clutched a battered dish and the tattered ration booklets issued by General Gordon’s secretariat.

  At the arsenal gates an Egyptian captain was in charge, with twenty men under his command. The dhurra sacks were dragged out one at a time from the granary. None of the citizens were allowed to enter the gates. Gordon did not want the populace to see for themselves how perilously low the stocks had fallen.

  As each woman reached the head of the line, a sergeant examined her booklet to make sure it had not been forged. When he was satisfied he scribbled the date and his signature. The day’s ration for her family was doled out into her dish with a wooden scoop. Two masters-at-arms, with clubs, stood ready on each side of the gates to discourage any argument or disturbance. This morning an additional twenty armed troopers were drawn up in a double rank on each side of the gates. Their bayonets were fixed, their expressions grim and businesslike. The women knew from bitter experience what this show of force presaged. They became restless and rowdy, bickering spitefully, jostling each other. The children sensed the tension and were fretful.

  When General Gordon came striding down the street from the fort towards the gates, the women held up their children to show him their bruised, distorted features, the skeletal semi-paralysed limbs, and how their hair had turned to a sparse reddish fuzz, all sure signs of starvation, scurvy and beri-beri.

  Gordon ignored these marks of affliction, the curses and supplications of the mothers, and took his place at the head of the squad. He nodded to the captain to proceed. The young officer unrolled the proclamation, which had been run off on the consulate printing press, and began to read it: ‘I, General Charles George Gordon, by the authority vested in me by the Khedive of Egypt as Governor of the province of Kordofan and the city of Khartoum, do hereby proclaim that, with immediate effect, the daily ration of grain issued to each citizen of the city of Khartoum shall be reduced to the volume of thirty decilitres per diem—’ The officer could get no further: his voice was drowned by jeers and screams of protest. The crowd pulsed and seethed like a black jellyfish, the women shaking their fists and waving their arms over their heads.

  Gordon gave a sharp order. The troopers lowered their bayonets to present a bristling steel hedge to the advancing mob. The women spat, shrieked and hammered on the metal dishes they carried as though they were drums. The captain drew his sword: ‘B
ack! Get back, all of you!’

  This infuriated them further.

  ‘You want us to starve! We will open the city gates! If the Khedive and Gordon Pasha cannot feed our children, we will throw ourselves on the mercy of the Mahdi.’

  The women in the front rank seized the blades of the bayonets, and held them in bloody hands, forcing the troopers back.

  Gordon gave a quiet command to the young captain. There was a clash of breech-blocks as the troopers loaded their rifles. ‘Company present arms, aim!’ The troopers looked over the iron sights into the contorted faces of the mob. ‘Fire!’

  The rifles crashed out, aimed carefully over the women’s heads. Black powder smoke enveloped them in a dense cloud and, stunned, they reeled back a few paces.

  ‘Reload.’ The crowd wavered before the menace of the levelled rifles, but then a new sound erupted. The women had begun the high-pitched ululation that goaded and inflamed the passions of the mob.

  ‘Throw open the granary! Give us full ration!’

  ‘Feed us!’ they screamed, but the soldiers stood firm.

  One woman picked up half a brick from a shell-damaged wall and hurled it at the front rank of riflemen. It did no damage, but provoked the rest to rush to the wall and grab bricks, stones and shards of pottery. The mob was transformed. It was no longer a gathering of human beings but a single monstrous organism, mindless amoeba of violence and destruction.

  The stones and bricks flew into the thin ranks of troops. The young captain was struck full in the face. The red fez flew from his head, he dropped his sword and sank to his knees. He spat out a tooth and his mouth ran with blood. The women rushed forward, trying to reach the open grain sack, trampling the captain.

  Gordon stepped into his place. The women saw his blazing blue eyes. ‘Devil eyes!’ shrieked those in front. ‘Shaitan! Kill him!’

  ‘Give us bread for the children! Give us food!’

  The bricks clattered among the soldiers. Another man fell.