by Wilbur Smith
The sweat dried in salt-ringed patches on their tunics; their bodies could no longer sweat. They reeled like drunks and dragged their rifles with the last of their strength. Penrod’s vision wavered and darkened with cloudy shapes. He blinked eyes to clear his eyes, and each step was a monumental labour.
Just when it seemed that mortal man could endure no longer, the dense scrub ahead rustled and shook and out came the horsemen yet again. Riding at the head of the charge was the familiar figure in the green turban. The coat of the cream-coloured mare under him was dulled with sweat, her long mane matted and tangled. Osman Atalan recognized Penrod in the front rank of the square, turned the mare with his knees and rode straight at him.
Penrod tried to steady himself for his legs were rubbery under him. His light cavalry carbine seemed to have been transmuted to lead. It needed a painful effort to lift it to his shoulder. Even though they were still separated by fifty paces the image of his enemy, Osman Atalan, seemed to fill the field of his distorted vision. He fired. The sound seemed muted, and everything around him moved with dreamlike slowness. He watched his bullet strike the mare high in the forehead above the level of her magnificent dark eyes. She flung her head back and went down, struck the earth and rolled in a cloud of sand with her legs kicking spasmodically. She came to rest with her neck twisted back under her body.
With feline grace, Osman kicked his feet from the stirrups as she fell and sprang from her back to land lightly in balance. He stood and glared at Penrod with an expression of deadly hatred. Penrod tried to reload the rifle, but his fingers were numb and slow, and Osman held his eyes with a mesmeric spell. Osman stooped and picked up his broadsword from where he had dropped it. He ran towards Penrod. At last Penrod managed to guide the cartridge into the open breech and closed the block. He lifted the weapon and his aim wavered. He tried desperately to steady it, and when, for an instant, the bead of the foresight lay on Osman’s chest he fired. He saw the bullet graze the emir’s sword arm, and leave a bloody line across the muscle of his biceps, but Osman neither flinched nor lost his grip on the hilt of the broadsword. He came on steadily. Other troopers on either side of Penrod turned their rifles on him. Bullets kicked up sand or snapped through the scrub around him. But Osman’s life seemed charmed.
‘Kill that man!’ shouted Wilson, his tone strident and nervous.
The rest of the Arab horsemen had seen their emir go down and their ranks broke up. One of his aggagiers swerved towards Osman’s isolated figure. ‘I am coming, master.’
‘Let me be, Noor. It is not yet finished,’ Osman shouted back.
‘It is enough for this day. We will fight again.’ Without slowing his mount al-Noor leant out of the saddle, linked arms with him and swung him up behind his saddle.
As he was carried away into the dense scrub, Osman glared back at Penrod. ‘It is not finished. In God’s Name, this is not the end.’ Then he was gone. The rest of the Dervish cavalry disappeared as swiftly, and an eerie silence fell over the field. Some of the exhausted men in the British line sank to the earth again, their legs no longer able to support them, but the cries of the sergeants roused them: ‘On your feet, boys. There is the river in front of you!’
Stewart’s piper puffed up his bag and ‘Scotland the Brave’ shrilled on the desert air. The men shouldered their weapons, picked up their dead and the square moved forward yet again. Staggering along in the front rank, Penrod licked the salt and dried blood from his cracked lips, and the last few drops of his sweat burned his bloodshot eyes as he searched the scrub ahead for the next wave of savage horsemen.
But the Dervish had gone, blown away like smoke. The British came out on to the high bank of the Nile, and waved and shouted to the steamers across the river. They were pretty as model boats floating on the Serpentine on a bright Sunday morning in London Town.
They had won through. They had reached the river, and a hundred and fifty miles to the south in Khartoum, General Charles Gordon still endured.
Osman Atalan waited in the village of Metemma for shattered divisions of his Jaalin allies to reassemble, for their sheikhs to come to him and place themselves under his command. But their own emir, Salida, and all his sons were dead. So brave when he led them, they were now like children without a father. Allah had deserted them. The cause was lost. They disappeared back into their desert fastnesses. Osman waited in vain.
At first light the next morning he called for the master of the pigeons. ‘Bring me three of your fastest and swiftest birds,’ he ordered. With his own hand he wrote out his message for the Mahdi in triplicate, one copy to be carried by each bird. If falcons or other misfortune struck one or even two, the vital message would still reach the holy man in Omdurman.
‘To the Mahdi Muhammad Ahmed, may Allah protect and cherish him. You are the light of our eyes, and the breath of our bodies. My shame and sadness is a great rock in my belly, for know you that the infidel has prevailed in battle against us. Emir Salida is dead, and his division destroyed. The infidel has reached the Nile at Metemma. I am returning in all haste with my division to Omdurman. Pray for us, Holy and Mighty Mahdi.’
The pigeon-master tied the folded messages to the legs of the birds, replaced them in their basket and carried them to the riverbank. Osman went ahead of him. The pigeon-master handed the birds to him one at a time. Before he launched them, Osman held each in his cupped hands and blessed it. ‘Fly swiftly and straight, little friend. May Allah protect you.’ He tossed the bird into the air, and it rose on the clatter of wings, circled the little village of Metemma, then picked up its bearings and shot away on rapid wingbeats into the south. He let each pigeon get well clear before he sent away the next, lest they should form a flock that would attract the attention of the predators.
When they were gone he walked back to the village and climbed the mud dome of the mosque. From the top balcony of the prayer tower, whence the muezzin called the faithful to their devotions, he had a full view of both banks of the river. The cluster of small white steamers was still anchored downstream in the Pool of the Crocodiles. They were beyond his reach, for he had no artillery with which to attack them. Instead he turned his attention to the British camp. With the naked eye he could make out the men within the walls of their hastily constructed zareba. They had not yet made any effort to begin loading the steamers with either men or equipment. He wondered at their curious lethargy. It was much at variance with the energy and urgency they had displayed until now. If their goal was still to reach and relieve Khartoum as swiftly as possible they should have left their wounded on the riverbank, embarked their fighting men and sailed southwards without an hour’s delay.
‘Perhaps Allah has not yet forsaken us. Perhaps He will help me to reach the city ahead of these unpredictable men,’ he murmured.
He went down from the tower to where the remnants of his division were waiting for him on the outskirts of the village. The horses and camels were already saddled and loaded, and al-Noor held his new steed. It was a big black stallion, the strongest animal in his string. Osman stroked the white blaze on his forehead. His name was al-Buq, the War Trumpet.
‘You are without vice, Buq,’ he whispered, ‘but you could never match Hulu Mayya.’ He looked back up the dunes to where she had fallen. The vultures and the crows still circled over the ridge. Will there ever be another animal as noble as she? he wondered, and the black tide of his anger flooded the depths of his being. Abadan Riji, you have much to atone for.
He swung up into the saddle and raised his clenched right fist. ‘In the Name of Allah, we ride for Omdurman!’ he cried, and his aggagiers thundered after him.
Khartoum lay in a torpor of despair, weak with plague and deprivation. The girls’ voices were in penetrating contrast to the brooding silence around them.
‘There’s one coming,’ Saffron sang out.
‘I know. I saw it long ago,’ Amber chanted.
‘That’s a lie. You never did!’
‘I did!’
‘Stop that squabbling, you two little harridans,’ David Benbrook ordered sternly, ‘and point it out to me.’ Their young eyes were sharper than his.
‘Over there, Daddy. Straight above Tutti Island.’
‘Just to the left of that little cloud.’
‘Ah, Yes. Of course,’ David said, slipped the butt of the shotgun under his right armpit and turned to line up with the approaching bird. ‘I was just testing you.’
‘You were not!’
‘Tut, tut. A little more respect, please, my angel.’
Nazeera heard their voices. She was on her way back to the kitchen carrying a pitcher of water that she had drawn from the well in the stableyard. She had been going to boil and filter it, but the voices distracted her. She set the pitcher on the table beside the front door next to the cluster of glasses on the silver tray, crossed to the window of the dining room and looked out over the terrace. The consul stood in the middle of the brown, burnt-out lawn. He was staring up into the sky. There was nothing unusual in this behaviour. For many weeks now he had spent each afternoon on the terrace watching for any bird to come within range of his shotgun. She turned back to the kitchen, but absentmindedly left the pitcher of unboiled water on the table with the glasses. Behind her she heard the thud of the gun and more excited squeals from the twins. She smiled fondly and closed the kitchen door behind her.
‘You got him, Daddy!’
‘Oh, clever paterfamilias!’ This was Saffron’s latest addition to her vocabulary.
The pigeon tumbled in the air as the pellets plucked a burst of feathers from its chest. It fluttered down and crashed into the top branches of the tamarind tree above the palace bedrooms. It stuck there, thirty feet above the ground. The twins raced each other to the base of the tree and clambered up it, arguing and pushing each other.
‘Be careful, you little demons!’ David called anxiously. ‘You’re going to hurt yourselves.’
Saffron reached the bird first. She was the tomboy. She balanced on the branch and stuffed the warm body into the front of her bodice and started down again.
‘You are always so overbearing,’ Amber accused her.
Saffron accepted the compliment without protest and jumped the last few feet to the ground. She ran to her father. ‘It’s got a note!’ she shrilled. ‘It’s got a note just like the others.’
‘Goodness gracious me, so it has,’ David agreed. ‘Aren’t we lucky? Let’s see what the gentlemen across the river have to say for themselves.’ The twins danced after him as he carried the dead pigeon into the hall. He propped the shotgun against the wall and fumbled in his coat pocket for his pince-nez and clipped it on to the end of his nose. Then with his penknife he cut the thread that held the tiny roll of paper, and spread it carefully on the table beside the pitcher and the glasses. His lips moved silently as he deciphered the Arabic script, and slowly his benign expression changed. It became alert and businesslike.
‘This is the most wonderful news. The relief column has smashed up the Dervish army in the north. Now they will be here within days. I must take this note across to the general right away,’ he told the twins. ‘Go in and ask Nazeera to pour your bath now. I will be a while, but I will come to your room to say goodnight.’ He clapped his hat on to his head and set out down the terrace towards Gordon’s headquarters.
Saffron snatched up the shotgun before Amber could reach it. She held it tantalizingly, like another trophy under her sister’s nose.
‘That’s not fair, Saffy. You always do everything.’
‘Don’t be a baby.’
‘I’m not a baby.’
‘You are a baby, and you’re sulking again.’
Saffron carried the shotgun across the lobby and into her father’s gunroom. Amber watched her go with her clenched fists on her hips. Her face was flushed and her hair was sticking to her forehead with perspiration. She saw the pitcher on the side table where Nazeera had left it. With an angry flourish she poured herself a glass of water, drank it and pulled a face. ‘It tastes funny,’ she complained. ‘And I’m not a baby and I’m not sulking. I’m just a bit cross, that’s all.’
Ryder Courtney knew that his stay in Khartoum was drawing to an end. Even if the relief column arrived before the city fell, and was able to evacuate them all safely, the city would belong to the Dervish. He was clearing out the compound, ready to pull out at the first opportunity. Rebecca had volunteered to help him draw up an inventory and bills of lading for everything that was being loaded on board the Intrepid Ibis.
Ryder had become increasingly aware of the emotional turmoil she was going through. The uncertainty was wearing away at everyone’s nerves, as conditions in the city deteriorated. The menace of the great army of the Dervish besiegers seemed to grow as the will of the trapped population declined and the relief column did not arrive. It had been ten months since the city had been invested by the Mahdi. A long time to live under the threat of horrible death.
Ryder knew how the responsibility of caring for her little sisters weighed upon Rebecca. Her father was little help in this regard: he was amiable and affectionate but, like the twins, he relied on her with almost childlike faith. None of the Sudanese women had returned to work since the mob attack on the compound. The running of the little green-cake kitchen had devolved almost entirely upon Rebecca. The twins were willing helpers, but the grinding labour was beyond their strength and endurance. Ryder’s admiration and affection for her were enhanced as he watched her struggle to take care of her family. He considered once again the fact that at barely eighteen she had been saddled with this heavy load of responsibility. He understood how alone and isolated she felt, and tried to give her the help she needed. However, he was aware that his ill-considered unrestrained behaviour had damaged her trust in him. He had to be careful not to frighten her again, yet he longed to take her in his arms, comfort and shield her. He felt that since Penrod Ballantyne had left Khartoum he had made good progress in repairing their damaged relationship: she seemed so much easier in his company. Their conversations were more relaxed and she did not avoid him so obviously as before.
They were in the blockhouse, sitting at his desk across from each other. They were counting the piles of silver dollars into heaps of fifty, then wrapping them into rolls of parchment and packing them into wooden coffee chests, preparatory to taking them on board the Ibis. From the corner of his eye Ryder watched her brush back a strand of that beautiful silken hair. His heart ached as he noticed the calluses on her hands, and the little lines of worry and hardship at the corners of her eyes. A complexion like hers was more suited to the pleasant climes of England than to scorching sunlight and burning desert airs. When this is over, I could sell up here, and take her back to England, he thought.
She looked up suddenly and caught his eyes upon her. ‘What would we do without you, Ryder?’ she said.
He was astonished by the words and the tone in which they were spoken. ‘My dear Rebecca, you would do well in any circumstances. I claim no credit for your strength and resolve.’
‘I have been unkind to you.’ She ignored his denial. ‘I behaved like a little girl. You of all people I should have treated more kindly. Without you we might long ago have perished.’
‘You are being kind to me now. That makes up for everything,’ he said.
‘The green-cake is just one of your valuable gifts to my family. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that with it you have saved our lives. We are healthy and strong in the midst of starvation and death. I can never repay you for that.’
‘Your friendship is all the payment I could ask for.’
She smiled at him and the worry lines were smoothed away. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, but he bit back the words. She reached across the desk, spilling a stack of silver coins, and took his hand. ‘You are a good friend and a good man, Ryder Courtney.’
For the first time she studied his face quite openly. He is not as beautiful as Penrod is, she thought, but he h
as a strong, honest face. It’s a face one could see every day and not grow tired of. He would never leave me, as Penrod has. There would be no native girls hiding in a back room. He is a man of substance, not ostentation or pretence. There would always be bread on his table. He is a rock of a man and he would shelter his woman. The hand holding hers was powerful and competent, hardened with work. His bare arm reaching towards her was like the pillar of a house. His shoulders under the cloth of his shirt were broad and square. He was a man, not a boy.
Then, suddenly, she remembered where they were. Her smile crumpled. The precariousness of their lives rushed back upon her. What would happen if Ryder sailed away in the Ibis and left her and the twins here? What would happen to them when the Mahdi and his murderous army stormed into the city? She knew what they did to the women they captured. Tears swamped her eyes and clung to her lashes. ‘Oh, Ryder, what will become of us all? Are we all going to die in this awful place? Dead before we have lived?’ She knew in her woman’s heart that there was only one certain way that she could bind a man like him to herself for ever. Was she ready to take that step?
‘No, Rebecca, you have been so brave and strong for so long. Don’t give up now.’ He stood up and moved quickly round the desk.
She looked up at him as he stood over her, and the tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Hold me, Ryder. Hold me!’ she pleaded.
‘I do not want to give you offence again.’ He hesitated.
‘I was a child then, a mindless girl. Now I am a woman. Hold me like a woman.’
He lifted her to her feet and took her gently in his arms. ‘Be strong!’ he said.