by Wilbur Smith
‘There is no other way forward. We must go on.’ They put the camels to the crossing. Refreshed by the copious draughts of water and the fodder they had eaten they paced out strongly. As the daylight strengthened, the sky ahead became incandescent, like a metal shield raised to white heat in the forge of Vulcan. Abruptly they left the area of dunes and undulated gravel hills, and rode out on to the pan. With theatrical timing the sun soared out above the eastern hills and struck into their faces with its stinging lash. Penrod could feel it sucking the moisture from his skin and frying the contents of his skull. He groped in his saddlebag and brought out a piece of curved ivory into which he had carved horizontal eye slits so narrow that they blocked out most of the reflected glare. He had copied this from an illustration in the book of Arctic travel by Clavering and Sabine that depicted a native Eskimo of Greenland wearing such a contrivance, carved from whalebone, to ward off snow blindness.
Under the goads, the camels broke into the gait that the Arabs called ‘drinking the wind’, a long striding trot that sent the miles swiftly behind them. With every few strides either Penrod or Yakub swivelled round and stared back into the shimmering glare.
When the enemy came it was with shocking suddenness. At one moment the pan behind them was bare and white with not the least sign upon it of man or beast. At the next the Dervish column poured out from among the gravel hills and rode on to the white expanse. The weird play of sunlight created an illusion of perspective and foreshortened distances. Although they were still several miles away, they seemed so close that Penrod fancied he could make out the features of each individual.
As Yakub had predicted they were riding camels, pack camels: the aggagiers sat up in front of the huge balloon-like waterskins. Each rider led his horse behind him on a long rein. Osman Atalan was on the leading camel. The folds of his green turban covered his lower face, but his seat in the saddle was unmistakable, head held high and shoulders proud. Beside him rode al-Noor. Bunched up behind the leading pair Penrod counted six more aggagiers. Both sides spotted each other in the same instant. If the pursuers shouted it was too far for the sound to reach him.
Without undue haste the aggagiers dismounted from their camels. Two men were acting as camel-handlers and they gathered up the reins. Osman and each of his men led out a horse and watered it. Then the aggagiers tightened the girths and swung up into the saddle. This changeover took only the time that a Red Sea diver might hold his breath when he goes down to fill his net with pearl oysters from the deep coral reef. Then the horsemen bunched up and came across the shimmering salt surface at an alarming pace.
Penrod and Yakub leant forward in their saddles and, with thrusting movements of their hips, urged their mounts to the top of their speed. The camels reached out in a long-legged gallop. For a mile and then another the two bands raced on, neither gaining nor faltering. Then Hulu Mayya, Osman’s cream-coloured mare, broke from the pack. She came on with her mane and long golden tail floating in the wind, a pale wraith against the dazzling plain of salt.
Penrod saw almost at once that no camel could hold off this horse over any distance, and he knew the tactics Osman would adopt: he would ride up behind them and hamstring their camels on the run. Penrod tried to conjure up a plan to counter this. He could not rely on a lucky bullet to bring down the mare. Perhaps instead he should let her come close, then turn back unexpectedly, taking Osman by surprise, and use his camel’s height and weight to rush down on the mare. He might be able to force a collision that would inflict such injury on her that she would be out of the race. In truth, he knew that such a plan was futile: the mare was not only fleet but nimble; Osman was probably the most skilled horseman in all the Dervish ranks. Between them they would make a mockery of any clumsy charge he could mount. If by some remote chance he succeeded in crippling the mare, the rest of the Beja aggagiers would be upon them in the next instant, their long blades bared.
The tail of the green turban had blown clear of Osman’s face and now he was so close that Penrod could make out his features clearly. The crisp curls of his beard were smoothed back by the wind of the mare’s run. His gaze was locked on Penrod’s face.
‘Abadan Riji!’ Osman called. ‘This is our moment. It is written.’
Penrod drew the Martini-Henry carbine from its boot under his knee, and half turned in the saddle. He could not make the full turn and face his enemy to mount the rifle to his shoulder, without throwing his camel off balance. He swung up the rifle with his right hand, as though it was a pistol and tried to settle his aim. The camel lurched and jerked under him, and the rifle barrel made wild and unpredictable circles. At the full reach of his right arm the muscles strained and tired swiftly. He could hold his aim no longer, and fired. The recoil jarred his wrist and the trigger guard smashed back into his fingers. His aim was so wild that he did not mark the flight or strike of the bullet. Osman’s replying laughter was natural and easy. He was so close now that his voice carried over the sound of hoofs and the rush of the wind.
‘Put up your gun. We are warriors of the blade, you and I.’ His mare came on apace, now so close that Penrod could see the white froth flying from the snaffle between her jaws. The scabbard of Osman’s broadsword was trapped under his left knee. He reached down and drew out the blade, then held up its shining length for Penrod to see. ‘This is a man’s weapon.’
Penrod felt the strong temptation to respond to his challenge and take him on with the sword. But he knew that more was at stake than pride and honour. The fate of an army of his countrymen, the city of Khartoum and all within the walls – Rebecca Benbrook too – hung on the outcome of this race. Duty dictated that he must eschew any heroics. He ejected the empty case from the breech of his rifle, and took another round from his bandolier to replace it. He locked the breech-block but before he could turn back to fire again at Osman Yakub called to him in urgent tones. He glanced at him, and saw that he was pointing ahead, standing high in the saddle, waving his arms above his head, screaming in wild excitement.
Penrod followed the direction of his finger and his heart bounded. Out of the white glare of the salt pan ahead a squadron of mounted men appeared, their camels racing towards him on a converging track. There was no mistaking that their intentions were warlike. How many? he wondered. In the clouds of white dust it was impossible to guess but they came on, rank upon rank. A hundred, if not more, he realized, but who were they? Not Arabs! That’s certain. Hope stirred. None of them wore the jibba, and their faces were unbearded.
They rushed towards each other, and Penrod saw the khaki of their tunics and the distinctive shape of their pith helmets. ‘British!’ he exulted. ‘Scouts from Stewart’s Camel Corps.’
Penrod swivelled in the saddle and looked back. Osman was standing tall in his stirrups, peering at the approaching ranks. Behind him his aggagiers had reined down from the charge and were milling in confusion. Penrod looked ahead again and saw that the commander of the Camel Corps had ordered a halt. His men were dismounting and couching their camels to form the classic square. It was done with precision. The camels knelt in an unbroken wall, and behind each crouched the rider, with rifle and bayonet presented across his animal’s back. The white faces, although tinted by the sun, were cleanshaven and calm. Penrod felt a breathtaking surge of pride. These men were his comrades, the flowering of the finest army on earth.
He ripped the turban from his head to show them his face, then waved the cloth over his head. ‘Hold your fire!’ he yelled. ‘British! I am British!’ He saw the officer standing behind the first rank of troopers, with drawn sword, step forward and give him long, hard scrutiny. Now he was only a hundred and fifty paces from the square. ‘I am a British officer!’
The other man made an unmistakable gesture with his sword, and Penrod heard his order repeated by the sergeants and non-commissioned officers: ‘Hold your fire! Steady, the guards! Hold your fire.’
Penrod looked back again, and saw that Osman was close behind him. Although his a
ggagiers were still in confusion, he was charging alone into the face of a British square.
Again Penrod raised the carbine and aimed at Osman’s mare. He knew that this was the one thing that might turn him aside. Now they were no more than three lengths apart, and even from the unstable back of a galloping camel Penrod’s carbine was a deadly menace. Nevertheless, if he had aimed at the man, Osman would not have been daunted by it. But by this time Penrod had learnt enough about him to know that he would not push the mare into the muzzle of the rifle.
Osman reined back, his face furrowed with rage. ‘I was wrong about you, coward,’ he shouted.
Penrod felt his own rage flare. ‘There will be another time,’ he promised.
‘I pray God that it is so.’ Within sixty yards of the British square Osman turned. He brought the mare down to a trot and rode away to rejoin his aggagiers.
The square opened to let in Penrod, Yakub following. He rode up to the officer and slid to the ground.
‘Good morning, Major.’ He saluted, and Kenwick stared at him in astonishment.
‘Ballantyne, you do turn up in odd places. You might have got yourself shot.’
‘Your arrival was at a most appropriate moment.’
‘I noticed you were having a spot of bother. What in the name of the Devil are you doing out here in the middle of the blue?’
‘I have despatches from General Gordon for General Stewart.’
‘Then you are in luck. We are the advance guard. General Stewart is with the main body of the relief column, not more than an hour behind us.’ He looked out over the camels and the kneeling men at the front of his square. ‘But first things first. Who was the Dervish bounder chasing after you?’
‘One of their emirs. Fellow called Osman Atalan, head of the Beja tribe.’
‘My solemn oath! I’ve heard of him. He’s a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. We had better deal with him.’ He strode away towards the front of the square. ‘Sergeant Major! Shoot that fellow.’
‘Sir!’ The sergeant major was a burly figure with a magnificent pair of moustaches. He picked out two of the his best marksmen. ‘Webb and Rogers, shoot that Dervish.’
The two troopers leant across the backs of their couched camels and took aim. ‘In your own time!’ the sergeant major told them.
Penrod found he was holding his breath. He had told Kenwick of Osman’s position and rank to discourage just such an order. He had vaguely hoped that some chivalrous instinct might have dissuaded Kenwick from shooting down an emir. At Waterloo, Wellington would never have ordered his sharpshooters to make Bonaparte their target.
One of the troopers fired but Osman was riding steadily away and the range was already over five hundred yards. The bullet must have passed close for the mare swished her tail as though to drive off a tsetse fly. But Osman Atalan did not deign even to look back. Instead he deliberately slowed his horse to a walk. The second trooper fired and this time they saw dust fly. Again the bullet had missed by very little. Osman continued to walk the mare away. Each marksman fired two more shots at him. By then he was out of range.
‘Cease firing, Sergeant Major,’ Kenwick snapped. Then, in an aside to Penrod, ‘Damned fellow has the luck of the fox.’ He was smiling thinly. ‘But you have to admire his cool performance.’
‘We will almost certainly be treated to other virtuoso performances in the near future,’ Penrod agreed.
Kenwick glanced at him, sensing the note of censure in his tone. ‘A sporting sentiment, Ballantyne. However, I do believe that one should not accord too much respect to the enemy. We must bear in mind that we are here to kill them.’
And vice versa. But Penrod did not say it aloud.
In the distance they watched Osman Atalan join up with his aggagiers and ride away southwards towards Abu Hamed.
‘Now,’ said Kenwick, ‘General Stewart will probably be pleased to see you.’
‘And vice versa, sir.’ This time Penrod voiced the thought.
Kenwick scribbled a note in his despatch book, tore out the page and handed it to him. ‘If you wander around the countryside dressed like that, it’s likely you’ll be shot as a spy. I shall send young Stapleton back with you. Please inform General Stewart that we’re making good progress and, apart from this Atalan fellow, we have made no other contact with the enemy.’
‘Major, please do not be lulled into believing that happy state of affairs will persist much longer. For the last several days I have been riding in company with a vast concourse of the Dervish. All of them are coming this way.’
‘How large a force?’ Kenwick asked.
‘Difficult to say for certain, sir. Too many to count. However, I would estimate somewhere between thirty and fifty thousand.’
Kenwick rubbed his hands with glee. ‘So, all in all, you might say that we are in for an interesting few days.’
‘You might indeed, sir.’
Kenwick called over a young ensign, the lowest rank of commissioned officer. ‘Stapleton, go back with Captain Ballantyne, and see him through the lines. Don’t get him or yourself shot.’
Percival Stapleton gazed at Penrod with awe. He was not much more than seventeen, fresh-faced and eager as a puppy. The two rode back, with Yakub, along the ancient caravan road. For the first few miles Percy was struck dumb with hero-worship. Captain Ballantyne was a holder of the Victoria Cross, and to have the honour of riding with him was the pinnacle of his sixteen months of military experience. Over the next mile he summoned up his courage and addressed a few respectful remarks and questions to him. He was highly gratified when Penrod responded in a friendly fashion, and Percy became relaxed and chatty. Penrod recognized him as a prime source of information, encouraged him to speak freely, and quickly picked up most of the regimental gossip from him. This was highly coloured by Percy’s pride in the regiment, and his almost delirious anticipation of going into action for the first time.
‘Everybody knows that General Stewart is a fine soldier, one of the best in the entire army,’ the youngster informed him importantly. ‘All the men under his command have been drawn from the first-line regiments of guards and fusiliers. I am with the Second Grenadiers.’ He sounded as though he could hardly believe his good fortune.
‘Is that why General Gordon has been waiting so long in Khartoum for your arrival?’ Penrod needled the boy with surgical skill.
Percy bridled. ‘The delay is not the general’s fault. Every man in the column is as keen as mustard, and spoiling for a fight.’ Penrod lifted an eyebrow, and the boy rushed on hotly: ‘Because of the haste with which the politicians in London forced us to leave Wadi Halfa, we were obliged to wait at Gakdul for the reinforcements to reach us. We were less than a thousand strong and the camels were sick and weak from paucity of fodder. We were in no fit state to meet the enemy.’
‘What is the position now?’
‘The reinforcements arrived only two days ago from Wadi Halfa. They brought up fodder, fresh camels and the provisions we were lacking. The general ordered the advance at once. Now we have men enough to do the job,’ he said, with the sublime confidence of the very young.
‘How many is enough?’ Penrod asked.
‘Almost two thousand.’
‘Do you know how many Dervish there are?’ Penrod asked, with interest.
‘Oh, quite a few, I shouldn’t wonder. But we are British, don’t you see?’
‘Of course we are!’ Penrod smiled. ‘There is nothing else to say, is there?’
They topped the next rise and on the stony plain ahead appeared the main body. It was advancing in a compact square formation, with the pack camels in the centre. There appeared to be many more than two thousand. They came on at a good steady rate, and it was clear that they were under firm command.
With young Percy in uniform to smooth the way, the pickets let them into the marching square. A party of mounted staff officers was coming up behind the front rank. Penrod recognized General Stewart. He had seen him at Wadi Halfa
, but had not been presented to him. He was a handsome man, stiff-backed and tall in the saddle, exuding an air of confidence and command. Penrod knew the man at his side rather better: he was Major Hardinge, the Camel Corps senior intelligence officer. He pointed at Penrod and spoke a few words to the general. Stewart glanced in Penrod’s direction and nodded.
Hardinge rode over. ‘Ah, Ballantyne, the traditional bad penny.’
‘Penny now worth at least a shilling, sir. I have despatches from General Gordon in Khartoum.’
‘Have you, my goodness? That’s a guinea’s worth. Come along. General Stewart will be pleased to see you.’ They rode back to join the staff.
General Stewart motioned to Penrod to fall in alongside his own camel. Penrod saluted. ‘Captain Penrod Ballantyne, 10th Hussars, with despatches from General Gordon in Khartoum.’
‘Gordon is still alive?’
‘Very much so, sir.’
Stewart was studying him keenly. ‘Good to have your confirmation. You can hand over the despatches to Hardinge.’
‘Sir, General Gordon would not commit anything to paper in case it fell into the hands of the Mahdi. I have only a verbal report.’
‘Then you had best give that to me directly. Hardinge can take notes. Go ahead.’
‘My first duty, sir, is to inform you of the enemy order of battle, as we are aware of it.’
Stewart listened intently, leaning forward in the saddle. His features were lean and suntanned, his gaze steady and intelligent. He did not interrupt Penrod while he reported the condition of the defenders in Khartoum. Penrod ended the first part of his report succinctly: ‘General Gordon estimates that he can hold out for another thirty days. However, the food supplies have been reduced to well below survival level. The level of the Nile is falling rapidly, exposing the defences. He asked me to emphasize to you, sir, that every day that passes renders his position more precarious.’