by Wilbur Smith
David waited to hear no more, and while the full attention of the Dervish was on their emir, he closed and bolted the door. He gathered the women about him, settled Amber’s head more comfortably against his shoulder and led them back through the scullery, past the pantries and the entrance to the wine cellars to the small door that led to the servants’ quarters. As they hurried along they could hear behind them the crash of breaking furniture. The women looked up fearfully at the sound of running footsteps from the floor above as the Dervish rampaged through the palace. David struggled briefly with the servants’ door before he could open it and lead them out into the night air.
They reached the entrance to the reeking sanitary lane that ran along the back wall of the palace. Along it stood stacks of the night-soil buckets. They had not been collected for months and the odour of excrement was overpowering. This was a place so unclean that any devout Muslim would avoid it assiduously so they could afford to pause for a few moments. While they regained their breath, they heard gunfire and shouting in the streets beyond the boundary wall, and in the palace they had just left.
‘What shall we do now, Daddy?’ Rebecca asked.
‘I do not know,’ David admitted. Amber groaned and he stroked her head. ‘They are all around us. There does not seem to be any avenue of escape.’
‘Ryder Courtney has his steamer ready in the canal. But we must go quickly, or he will set sail without us.’
‘Which road to reach him is safest?’ David’s breathing was laboured.
‘We must keep clear of the waterfront. The Dervish will certainly be looting the big houses along the corniche.’
‘Yes – of course. You are right.’
‘We must go through the native quarter.’
‘Lead the way!’ he said.
Rebecca grabbed Saffron’s hand. ‘Nazeera take the other.’
The women ran down the narrow alley between the buckets. David ploughed along heavily behind them. When they reached the far end of the lane Rebecca paused to make certain that the street ahead was empty. Then they ran to the next corner. Once more she checked the ground ahead. They went on like this, a stage at a time. Twice, Rebecca spotted groups of rampaging Dervish coming towards them, and was just quick enough to lead them down a side alley. Eventually they came out behind the rear of the Belgian consulate. Here they were forced to a halt to avoid another gang of Dervish, who were breaking into the building. They were using a pew from the Catholic cathedral as a battering ram. The tall carved doors gave way and the Dervish burst in.
Rebecca looked around for another escape route. Before she could find one the aggagiers dragged the portly figure of Consul Le Blanc through the shattered doors into the street. He was squealing like a piglet on its way to the abattoir. Although he fought and struggled, he was no match for the lean and sinewy warriors. They pinned him down on his back in the middle of the road, and ripped off his clothing. When he was naked one knelt beside him with a drawn dagger. He took a handful of Le Blanc’s hairy scrotum, and stretched it out as though it was india-rubber. With one stroke of the dagger he sliced it away, leaving a gaping hole in the base of the pale, pendulous belly. Roaring with laughter the men who held him forced Le Blanc’s jaws open with the handles of their daggers and stuffed his testicles into his mouth, gagging his shrieks. Then they completed the ritual mutilation by lopping off his hands and feet at wrists and ankles. When they were finished with him, they left him writhing on the ground, and rushed back into the consulate building to join the pillage. Le Blanc struggled up and sat like some grotesque statue of Buddha, clumsily trying to remove the flaccid sack of his scrotum from his mouth with his bleeding stumps.
‘Sweet Jesus, how horrible!’ Rebecca’s voice was husky with pity. ‘Poor Monsieur!’ She started to go to his aid.
‘Don’t! They will have you also.’ David’s voice was choked not so much with pity, as with the brutal effort of running so far with Amber in his arms. ‘There is nothing we can do for him. We can try only to save ourselves. Becky darling, we must keep going. Don’t look back.’
They ducked down another alley, forced ever deeper into the warren of huts and hovels of the native quarter and further off the direct route to Ryder Courtney’s compound. After another few hundred yards David came up short, like an old stag run to a standstill by the hounds. His face was twisted with pain and sweat dripped from his chin.
‘Daddy, are you all right?’ Rebecca had turned back to him.
‘Just a little winded,’ he gasped. ‘Not as young as I once was. Just give me a moment to get my breath back.’
‘Let me take Amber from you.’
‘No! Little mite that she is, she is still too heavy for you. I will be all right in a few seconds.’ He sank to the ground, still holding Amber tenderly to his chest. The other three women waited with him, but every time there was another outburst of gunfire or shouting they gazed around fearfully and huddled closer together. From the direction of the Belgian consulate, flames towered into the sky, and illuminated the surroundings with a yellow, flickering light. David heaved himself back to his feet, and stood swaying. ‘We can go on now,’ he said.
‘Please, let me take Amber.’
‘Don’t be silly, Becky. I am perfectly all right. Go on!’
She peered closely at his face. It was pale and shining with sweat, but she knew that to argue with him would be a dangerous waste of time. She took his arm to steady him and they went on, but their pace was slower now.
After another short distance David had to stop again. ‘How far to where the Ibis is moored now?’
‘Not far,’ she lied. ‘Just beyond that little mosque at the end of the road. You can do it.’
‘Of course I can.’ He staggered forward again. Then, from behind, they heard a shout and the baying of Arab voices. They looked back. There was another pack of Dervish down the road behind them, at least two dozen, brandishing their weapons and hooting with wild excitement as they saw the women.
Rebecca dragged David to the corner of the nearest building. For a moment they were out of sight of their pursuers. David leant heavily against the wall. ‘I can’t go any further.’ He handed Amber to Rebecca. ‘Take her!’ he ordered. ‘Take the others with you and run. I will hold them here while you get away.’
‘I cannot leave you,’ said Rebecca, staunchly. Her father tried to argue but she ignored him and turned to Nazeera. ‘Take Saffron and run. Don’t look back! Run for the boat.’
‘I’ll stay with you, Becky,’ Saffron cried.
‘If you love me, you will do as I say,’ Rebecca told her.
‘I love you, but—’
‘Go!’ Rebecca insisted.
‘Please, Saffy, do as she says.’ David’s voice was rough with pain. ‘For my sake.’
Saffron hesitated only a moment longer. ‘I will always love you, Daddy, and Becky and Amber,’ she said, and grabbed Nazeera’s hand. The two dived down the alley. David and Rebecca turned back to face the Dervish as they poured round the corner. Their jibbas and the blades of their swords were wet with blood, their faces were mad with blood lust. David drew his sword. He pushed Rebecca and Amber behind him to protect them.
The Dervish formed a half-circle facing him, just out of reach of his sword. One darted forward and feinted at his head. When David slashed back at him he shouted with laughter and jumped away. David tottered unsteadily after him. The others joined in the sport. They baited him, just out of reach of his blade, forcing him to turn from one side to the other.
While the others kept him in play, one circled and came up behind Rebecca. He seized her round the waist with one arm, and with the other hand pulled up her skirts. She was naked below the waist and the other Arabs roared with approval, as their comrade butted his hips against her buttocks in a copulatory display. Rebecca shrieked with outrage and tried to break away but she was hampered with Amber in her arms. David staggered back to try to protect them.
The Dervish released Rebecca. ‘We
will all mount her like that and she will bear us twenty fine Muslim sons.’ He laughed and leered.
David was maddened by the pain in his chest and the taunts they shouted at him. He charged again and again, but they were swift and nimble. Blinded by his own sweat, and crippled by the pain that was building swiftly in his chest, the sword slipped from his hand at last and he sank to his knees in the dirt. His face was swollen and contorted, his mouth was open and he gulped like a stranded fish. One of the aggagiers stepped up behind him and, with a surgeon’s skill, sliced off one of his ears. Blood poured down his shirt but David did not seem to feel the pain.
Rebecca was still holding Amber, but she rushed to her father and knelt beside him. She placed an arm round his shoulders. ‘Please!’ she said in Arabic. ‘He is my father. Please spare him.’ The blood from David’s wound sprinkled them both.
The Dervish laughed. ‘Please spare him!’ they mimicked her. One grabbed a handful of her hair, and dragged her away. He threw her full length in the dust.
She sat up, holding Amber in her lap. She was weeping wildly. ‘Leave him alone!’ she sobbed.
With a shaking hand David reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out the Webley. He waved it in vague circles. ‘Stand back or I shall fire.’
The aggagier who had cut off his ear stepped in again, and with another quick, controlled cut lopped off David’s outstretched hand at the wrist. ‘Spare us, O mighty infidel, for we are in great terror of you,’ he jeered. David stared at his severed wrist from which spurted a jet of arterial blood.
Rebecca cried out, ‘Oh, what have they done to you?’
David clutched the stump to his chest with the other hand, then bowed his head over it, in an attitude of devout prayer. The Arab swordsman stepped up to him again and lightly touched the back of his neck with the blade, measuring the distance for a clean blow. Rebecca shrieked with despair as he lifted the sword, then swung back into the stroke. It cut through David’s neck without sound or check, and his head dropped free of his shoulders. His headless body collapsed and his legs kicked in a brief convulsive jig.
The Arab picked up the head, holding it by a handful of its grey hair. He came to where Rebecca crouched and thrust her father’s head into her face. ‘If he is your father, then kiss him farewell before he goes down to boil in the waters of hell through all eternity.’
Although Rebecca was sobbing hysterically she tried to cover Amber’s eyes with one hand and keep her face averted. But Amber twisted back, and screamed as she looked into her father’s face. The tip of David’s tongue protruded between slack lips, and his eyes were open, but blank and sightless.
At last the Dervish lost interest in such mild sport. He threw aside the head, and wiped his bloody hands on Rebecca’s bodice. Then, through the cloth, he pinched and twisted her nipples, laughing when she cried out at the pain. ‘Take them!’ he ordered. ‘Take these two filthy infidel whores to the pen. They will be taught to serve the needs and pleasures of their new masters.’
They pulled Rebecca to her feet, still with Amber in her arms, and dragged her away towards the waterfront.
Saffron crouched in the angle of one of the ruined shacks. Nazeera was beside her as they stared back down the alley and watched the Dervish tormenting her father and Rebecca. Saffron was too shocked to speak or weep. When the executioner stepped up to David and held the sword over him she covered her mouth with both hands to prevent herself uttering a sound that might betray them but she could not tear her gaze away from the harrowing sight. When the Dervish made the fatal stroke and her father’s corpse fell forward, Saffron was at last released from the spell. She began to sob silently.
She watched them tormenting Amber with their father’s head, and could not control her tears. When at last they dragged Rebecca and Amber towards the waterfront, Saffron jumped to her feet and took Nazeera’s hand. The two ran on towards Ryder Courtney’s compound.
Dawn was breaking when they reached it, and the light was growing stronger. The gates of the outer compound stood wide and the buildings were deserted. The Dervish had not yet spread out from the centre of the town as far as this. They ran on across the inner courtyard. Saffron paused long enough to peer through the open door of the blockhouse. It was empty, stripped of every item of value. ‘We are too late! Ryder has gone!’ she cried to Nazeera. With a despairing heart she ran on towards the canal gates. They were closed but unbarred. It required their combined efforts to push them open. Saffron was the first through. Then she stopped abruptly. The Intrepid Ibis’s mooring was empty, and the steamer was gone.
‘Where are you, Ryder? Where have you gone? Why have you left me?’ She gasped for breath and fought back the dark waves of panic. Once she had gathered herself, she turned and raced along the canal towpath towards its juncture with the Blue Nile. She had not covered more than half the way to the first bend in the canal before she smelt the woodsmoke from the Ibis’s funnel. ‘He can’t be too far ahead,’ she told herself, and her spirits soared. She pulled quickly ahead of Nazeera, who was struggling to keep pace with her. When she reached the first bend in the canal and came round it she screamed at the top of her voice, ‘Wait for me! I am coming. Wait for me, Ryder!’ The Ibis was two hundred yards ahead. She was puffing away down the channel towards the open river. Saffron summoned every last ounce of strength, and raced after it. The little steamer was not yet under full power, but was easing her way carefully down the shallow, winding canal. With this last burst of speed Saffron began to overhaul it.
‘Wait! Ryder, wait!’ In the glowing sparks from the smoke stack she could just make out Ryder’s dark figure in the angle of his bridge, but he was looking ahead. The pumping steam cylinders drowned her voice.
‘Ryder!’ she screamed. ‘Oh, please, look round.’ Then she saved her breath and ran with all her heart. Ahead of her the Ibis reached the entrance to the river, and increased her speed, pulling out into the stream of the Nile current. Saffron came up short on the edge of the bank. She cried out again, danced up and down and waved both hands over her head. The Ibis drew away rapidly into the softly swirling banks of silver mist that hung low on the water. Saffron dropped her arms and stood still. Nazeera came up beside her and the two hugged each other in despair. Suddenly a rifle shot rang out on the towpath behind them. They spun round and saw four Dervish running towards them. One halted and levelled his rifle. He fired another shot. The bullet kicked dust from the towpath at their feet and ricocheted across the river. Saffron turned back towards the rapidly departing shape of the Ibis.
The rifle shot had alerted Ryder and he was staring back at them. Saffron was lifted on a new wave of hope: she shrieked again and waved her arms. Then Ryder was bringing the little steamer round in a tight circle, and heading towards them. She looked back at the Dervish. All four were running towards her in a bunch. She saw at once that they would be upon her before the Ibis could reach the entrance to the canal.
‘Come!’ she called to Nazeera. ‘We must swim.’
‘No!’ Nazeera shook her head. ‘Al-Sakhawi will take care of you. I must go back to look after my other girls.’ Saffron would have argued, even though the pursuers were closing in swiftly, but Nazeera forestalled her protests and ducked off the towpath. She disappeared into the swamp reeds that grew along the verge.
‘Nazeera!’ Saffron shouted after her, but the yells of the Dervish were louder still. She pulled off her shoes, tucked up her skirts and ran to the edge of the canal. She drew a deep breath and dived in. When her head broke the surface she launched out towards the approaching steamer in a determined dog-paddle.
‘Good girl!’ She heard Ryder’s voice and kicked wildly with both legs, pulling at the water with her cupped hands. Behind her she heard another shot and a bullet kicked up a fountain that showered her head and ran into her eyes.
‘Come on, Saffy.’ Ryder was leaning over the side of the steamer, ready to grab her. ‘Keep swimming.’ At last she felt the current catch her and pus
h her faster. Then she saw his face above her and reached up to him.
‘Got you!’ Ryder said. With a single heave he plucked her out of the river, as though she was a drowning kitten, and swung her up on to the deck. Then he shouted to Bacheet, ‘Take her out again.’
Bacheet spun the wheel and the deck canted over into the turn. Once more they headed out into mid-stream. The Dervish was still firing at them from the towpath, but swiftly the river mist closed around them, and although the bullets still splashed about them or pinged off the steel superstructure the man had lost sight of them. At last the gunfire petered out.
‘What happened to you, Saffy?’ Ryder carried her down the deck to the cabin. ‘Where are the others? Where are Rebecca and Amber, and your father?’
She tried to stop herself blubbering at his questions and put her arms round his neck, ‘It’s just too horrid to say, Ryder. Terrible things have happened. The very worst things ever.’
He sat her on his bunk in the cabin. Her distress touched him and he wanted to give her a few moments to recover. He handed her a dry but grubby towel. ‘Very well. We’ll get you tidied up first. Then you can tell me about it.’ He pulled a faded blue shirt off the clothes-line above the bunk. ‘Hang your dress up there. Put this shirt on when you’re dry, and come to the bridge. We can talk up there.’
The tails of his shirt reached below her knees. It served well enough as a loose shift. She found one of Ryder’s neckties in the drawer under the bunk, and tied it round her waist as a belt. She used his tortoiseshell comb to tidy her damp hair, then twisted it into a single pig-tail. A few minutes later, she went up to the bridge. Her eyes were pink and swollen with grief. ‘They have killed my father,’ she said hopelessly, and ran to Ryder.