by Wilbur Smith
Ryder went across to join him at the window. ‘Where?’
‘There! No, it’s gone now. I swear it was a boat, a small felucca.’
‘Probably a fisherman laying his nets.’
From the bathroom they heard Amber cry out in anguish. They rushed back to her. She was curled into a ball. The wasted muscles in her limbs were like whipcords as the spasms tightened them almost to snapping point. They lifted her out of the bath and laid her on the clean towels that Rebecca and Nazeera spread on the tiled floor.
Ryder rolled up his sleeves and knelt over her. Nazeera poured warm coconut oil into the cup of his hands and he began to massage Amber’s twisted legs. He could feel the ropes and knots under the skin. ‘Rebecca, take the other leg. Nazeera and Saffy, her arms,’ he ordered. ‘Do it this way.’ While they worked, David dribbled more of the tea mixture into their patient’s mouth. Rebecca watched Ryder’s hands as he worked. They were broad and powerful, but gentle. Under them Amber’s muscles gradually relaxed.
‘It’s not over yet,’ Ryder warned them. ‘There will be more. We must be ready to start again as the next spasms seize her.’
What depths there are to this man, Rebecca thought. What fascinating contradictions. Sometimes he is ruthlessly resourceful, at others he is filled with compassion and generosity of spirit. Would I not be foolish to let him go?
Before the hour was up the next cramps had locked Amber’s limbs so they fell to work on her again, and were forced to keep it up through the rest of the night. Just before daybreak, when all were reaching their own limits of exhaustion, Amber’s limbs gradually straightened and the knots softened and relaxed. Her head rolled to one side and she fell asleep.
‘She has turned the corner,’ Ryder whispered, ‘but we must still take care of her. You must make her drink the powder mixture again as soon as she wakes. She must eat also. Perhaps you might feed her a porridge of dhurra and green-cake. I wish we had something more substantial, like chicken broth, but that is the best we can do. She will be weak as a newborn infant for days, perhaps weeks. But she has not scoured since midnight, so I hope and believe that the germs, as Joseph Lister is pleased to call the wee beasties that cause the trouble, have been purged from her.’ He picked up his damp, soiled jacket from the floor. ‘You know where to find me, Rebecca. If you send a message I will come at once.’
‘I will see you to the door.’ Rebecca stood up. As they went out into the passage, she took his arm. ‘You are a warlock, Ryder. You’ve worked magic for us. I don’t know how the Benbrook family can ever thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me, just say a prayer for old Abbot Michael who robbed me of fifty Maria Theresa dollars for a bag of chalk.’
At the door she reached up and kissed him, but when she felt his loins stir, she pulled away. ‘You are a satyr as well as a warlock.’ She managed a faint smile. ‘But not now. We shall attend to that business at the first opportunity. Perhaps tomorrow after the relief force arrives, when we are all safe from the evil Dervish.’
‘I will hold myself on a short rein,’ he promised, ‘but tell me, dearest Rebecca, have you given any further thought to my proposal?’
‘I am sure you will agree, Ryder, that at this dire time in our lives, my first thoughts must be for Amber and the rest of my family, but each day my affection for you increases. When this dreadful business is over, I feel sure that we will have something of value to share, perhaps for the remainder of our days.’
‘Then I shall live in hope.’
Osman Atalan picked out two thousand of his most trusted warriors for the final assault on Khartoum. He marched them out of Omdurman, making no effort to conceal his movements. From his roost on the parapets of Fort Mukran, Gordon Pasha would observe this exodus, and take it as another indication that the Mahdi was abandoning the city and fleeing with all his forces to El Obeid. Once his men were behind the Kerreri Hills, where they were concealed from the prying telescopes on the towers and minarets in Khartoum, Osman divided them into five battalions of roughly four hundred men.
A large assembly of boats on the Omdurman bank would warn Gordon Pasha that something was afoot. If he attempted to take such a large force across the river in a single wave, it would overcrowd the tiny landing beach below the maidan, and in the darkness create chaos and confusion. He decided to use only twenty boats for the crossing of the river, each vessel could carry twenty men safely. Once they had landed the first wave of four hundred men, the boats would return to the Omdurman bank to take on board the following battalions. The first wave of attackers would get off the beaches as soon as they could, and leave the way clear for the next. Osman estimated that he would be able to transport his entire force across the Nile in little more than an hour.
He knew his men so well that he gave simple orders to the sheikhs he placed in charge of each battalion, orders that they would not forget in the passion of battle and the heady excitement of looting the city.
Dervish spies within the city had drawn detailed maps of the exact layout of Gordon Pasha’s defences. The Gatling guns were Osman’s prime targets. The memory of his last encounter with those weapons was etched deeply on his mind. He wanted no recurrence of that slaughter. The first battalion ashore would go straight for them, and put them out of action.
Once the guns had been captured or destroyed, they could roll up the fortifications along the waterfront, then wipe out the Egyptian troops in the barracks and the arsenal. Only then would it be safe to turn his men loose on the populace.
The previous night Muhammad, the first Prophet of Allah, had visited Muhammad, the Mahdi, his successor. He had brought a message directly from Allah. It was decreed that the faith and devotion of the Ansar should be rewarded. Once they had delivered to the Mahdi the head of Gordon Pasha, they must be allowed to sack the city of Khartoum. For ten days the sack would be allowed to run unchecked. After that the city would be burned and all the principal buildings, particularly the churches, missions and consulates, would be demolished. All traces of the infidel must be eradicated from the land of Sudan.
At nightfall Osman marched his two thousand back from the Kerreri Hills to Omdurman. Across the river in the city of Khartoum, Gordon’s nightly firework display and the recital of the military band were more subdued than they had been the previous evening. There was widespread disillusionment that the steamers had not yet arrived. When the rocket display fizzled out, and silence settled on the city, Osman led his first battalion down to the riverbank, where the twenty boats were moored. This small flotilla was an eclectic collection of feluccas and trading dhows. The crossing of the Nile through banks of river mist was conducted in an eerie silence. Osman was the first man to wade ashore. With al-Noor and a dozen of his trusty aggagiers close on his heels, he raced up the beach.
The surprise was total. The Egyptian sentries were sleeping complacently, in the certainty that dawn would show the steamers of the relief force anchored before the walls. There was no challenge, no shot or shouted warning, before Osman’s aggagiers were into the first line of trenches. Their broadswords rose and fell in a dreadfully familiar rhythm. Within minutes the trenches were clear. The dead and wounded Egyptian troops lay in heaps. Osman and his aggagiers left them and raced for the arsenal. They had not reached it before the second battalion landed on the beach behind them.
Suddenly a rifle shot clapped on the silence, then another. There were shouts, and a bugle sounded the call to arms. Erratic and isolated gunfire built into a thunderous fusillade, and the ripples and echoes spread across the city as the startled Egyptians blazed away at shadows or cravenly fired into the air. Down near the little beach an ombeya howled and a war drum boomed as another battalion landed and rushed through the breach into the city.
‘There is only one God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet.’ The war chant was carried through the city, and suddenly the streets and alleys were alive with running, struggling figures. Their screams and entreaties rose in a babble of terror and
anguish like voices from the pit of hell.
‘Mercy in the Name of Allah!’
‘Quarter! Give us quarter!’
‘The Dervish are within! Run! Run or die!’
All Gordon’s famous forts and redoubts were sited to cover the river approaches. Taken in the rear they were swiftly overwhelmed. Osman’s aggagiers massacred the stunned defenders in their trenches or hounded them through the streets and alleyways, rabbits before the wolf pack.
David was at his desk, working on his journal. He had kept it up to date faithfully throughout the ten long months that the city had been under siege. He knew that it was an invaluable document. With the promise of relief so near, it could only be a matter of weeks before he and his girls were aboard a P&O steamship on their way back to England. One of the first goals he had set himself on arrival was to work up his journal into a full-length manuscript. The public appetite for books of adventure and exploration in the Dark Continent seemed insatiable. Baker, Burton and Stanley had each made several thousands of pounds from their publications. Sam Baker had even received a knighthood from the Queen for his literary efforts. Surely David’s own first-hand memoirs of the valiant defence of the city would please many, and his account of the bravery and suffering of his three girls would tear at the heartstrings of every lady reader. He hoped he might have the book ready for the publishers within a month of reaching England. He dipped the nib of his pen in to the silver inkwell, and wiped off the excess carefully. Then he stared dreamily into the flame of the lamp on the corner of his desk.
It might bring in fifty thousand. The thought warmed him. Dare I hope for a hundred thousand? He shook his head. Too much by far, I would settle happily for ten thousand. That would help immeasurably with re-establishing ourselves. Oh! It will be so good to be home again!
His musings were interrupted by the sound of a rifle shot. It was not far off, somewhere down by the maidan. He tossed down his pen, splattering the page with a blob of ink, and strode across his office to the window. Before he reached it there were more shots, a volley, a crackling storm of gunfire.
‘My God! What is happening out there?’ He threw open the window and stuck out his head. Close at hand a bugler played the shrill, urgent notes of ‘stand to arms’. Almost immediately there came a faint but triumphant chorus of Arab voices: ‘La ilaha illallah! There is but one God!’ For a brief moment he was rooted to the spot, too shocked to draw breath, then he gasped. ‘They are in! The Dervish have broken into the city!’
He ran back to the desk and swept up his journal. It was too heavy to carry so he crammed it into the safe that was concealed behind the panelling of the back wall. He slammed the steel door and tumbled the combination of the lock, then closed the panelling that concealed it. His ceremonial sword was hanging on the wall behind his desk. It was not a fighting weapon and he was no swordsman, but he buckled it round his waist. Then he took the Webley revolver from his desk drawer and thrust it into his pocket. There was nothing else of value in the room. He ran out into the lobby and up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Rebecca had moved Amber into her own room so that she could care for her during the night. Nazeera was sleeping on an angareb in the far corner. Both women were awake, standing indecisively in the middle of the room.
‘Get your clothes on at once!’ he ordered. ‘Dress Amber too. Don’t waste a moment.’
‘What is happening, Daddy?’ Rebecca was confused.
‘I think the Dervish have broken in. We must run to Gordon’s headquarters. We should be safe there.’
Amber cannot be moved. She is so weak it might kill her.’
‘If the Dervish find her she will fare far worse,’ he told her grimly. ‘Get her up. I will carry her.’ He turned to Nazeera. ‘Run to Saffron’s room, quick as you can. Get her dressed. Bring her here. We must leave immediately.’
Within minutes they were ready. David carried Amber, and the other women followed at his heels as he went down the stairs. Before they reached the bottom, there came the crash of breaking glass and splintering wooden panels from the main doors, and savage shouts of Arab voices.
‘Find the women!’
‘Kill the infidel!’
‘This way,’ David snapped, and they ran into the back rooms. Behind them came another thunderous clap of sound as the front door was torn from its hinges and fell inwards. ‘Keep close to me!’ David led them to the door into the courtyard. Gordon’s headquarters were on the far side. He lifted the locking bar and pushed it open a crack. He peered out cautiously. ‘The coast is clear, for the moment at least.’
‘How is Amber bearing up?’ Rebecca whispered anxiously.
‘She is quiet,’ David answered. Her body was as light as that of a captured bird. She did not move. She might already have been dead, but he could feel her heart beating under his hand, and once she whimpered softly.
Gordon’s headquarters were only a hundred paces or so across the courtyard. The main gate at the opposite end was bolted. There were open staircases on the side walls leading up to the second store, where General Gordon had his private rooms. There was no sign of any Egyptian troops.
‘Where is Gordon?’ David asked, in consternation. It did not seem there was any shelter for them even in the general’s stronghold. At that moment the main gates shook, and heavy blows resounded on the outside. A terrible chorus of Dervish war cries swelled the uproar. While David tried to make up his mind as to what he should do next, three Egyptian troopers emerged from the headquarters building and ran across the courtyard to the main gates. They were the first David had seen.
‘Thank God! They are waking up at last!’ he exclaimed, and was about to lead the women out through the door when, to his amazement, he saw the soldiers lifting the heavy locking bars. ‘The craven bastards are surrendering, and letting in the Dervish without a fight,’ he barked.
Now the soldiers shouted, ‘We are faithful to the Divine Mahdi.’
‘There is one God, and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet.’
‘Enter, O ye faithful, and spare us, for we are your brothers in Allah.’
They swung open the gates and a horde of jibba-clad figures swarmed in. The first of the Dervish warriors chopped down the Egyptian traitors ruthlessly, and their bodies were trampled by the rush of hundreds of feet as the courtyard filled with the attackers. Many were carrying burning torches and the flickering yellow light of the flames lit up the horrific scene. David was about to shut and bolt the door before they were discovered, but at that moment a solitary figure appeared at the head of the stone staircase that overlooked the courtyard. Fascinated, David continued to peer through the chink.
General Charles Gordon was in full dress uniform. He prided himself on his ability to impress the savage and the barbarian. He had taken time to dress even when he heard the pandemonium in the streets. He wore his decorations but carried no weapon other than a light cane: he was fully aware of the danger of antagonizing the men he was trying to placate.
Calmly, the hypnotic gaze of those sapphire eyes glinting in the torchlight, he held up his hands to quell the uproar. To David this seemed futile but, astonishingly, an unnatural quiet descended on the courtyard. Gordon kept both arms raised, like a conductor controlling an unschooled orchestra. His voice was strong and unruffled, as he spoke good but heavily accented Arabic: ‘I wish to speak to your master, the Mahdi,’ he announced.
The listeners stirred like a field of dhurra when a breeze sweeps through it, but nobody answered him. His voice was sharper and more masterful when he spoke next – he had sensed he was taking control. ‘Who among you is your leader? Let him step forward.’
A tall, strikingly handsome figure stepped from the mob. He wore the green turban of an emir, and mounted the first step of the staircase. ‘I am the Emir Osman Atalan of the Beja, and these are my aggagiers.’
‘I have heard of you,’ Gordon said. ‘Come up to me.’
‘Gordon Pasha, you will give no more orders to any
son of Islam, for this is the last day of your life.’
‘Utter no threats, Emir Atalan. The thought of death troubles me not at all.’
‘Then come down these stairs and meet it like a man, and not a cringing infidel dog.’
For another few seconds Chinese Gordon stared down at him haughtily. Watching from the darkness of the doorway, David wondered what was going on in that cold, precise mind. Was there not, even now, a shadow of doubt or a flutter of fear? Gordon showed neither emotion as he started down the staircase. He stepped as precisely and confidently as if he were on a parade ground. He reached the step above Osman Atalan and stopped, facing him.
Osman studied his face, then said quietly, ‘Yes, Gordon Pasha. I see you are indeed a brave man.’ And he thrust the full length of his blade through Gordon’s belly. In almost the same movement he drew it out again, and changed to a double-handed grip. The pale blue light in Gordon’s eyes flickered like a candle flame in the wind, his cold granite features seemed to fall in upon themselves like melting beeswax. He struggled to remain upright, but the flame of his turbulent life was flickering out. Slowly his legs gave way under him. Osman waited for him with the sword poised. Gordon sagged forward from the waist and Osman swung his sword two-handed, aiming unerringly at the base of his neck. The blade made a sharp snick as it parted the vertebrae and Gordon’s head fell away like the heavy fruit of the durian tree. It struck the stone stair with a solid thump, and rolled down to the courtyard. Osman stooped, took a handful of the thick curls and, ignoring the blood that splashed down the front of his jibba, held the head aloft to show it to his aggagiers. ‘This head is our gift to the Divine Mahdi. The prophecy is fulfilled. The will and the word of Allah govern all of creation.’
A single abrupt roar went up to the night sky: ‘God is great!’ Then, in the silence that followed, Osman spoke again: ‘You have made a gift to Muhammad, the Mahdi. Now he returns a gift to you. For ten days this city, all its treasures and the people in it are yours to deal with as you wish.’