Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Good man. I knew we could rely on you, but I do insist you take this as a small token of thanks for what I am now asking you to do.’ Simon pushed the coins back and leaned forward conspiratorially, beckoning Ahmed towards him. The Egyptian, eyes wide, inclined his head across the counter.

  ‘Now, Ahmed,’ continued Simon in a low voice. ‘With your intelligence and sharp eye, I know you will have realised that we have been here in Cairo these last three days on special work.’ Ahmed, his mouth open, began to shake his head in denial, then switched to nodding in happy agreement. ‘Of course,’ said Simon, ‘I knew you would. Nothing escapes you. In fact, we have been liaising between the British Government and the Khedive on matters of the utmost secrecy. Now, can I rely completely on your discretion?’

  Ahmed looked quickly to his right and left. ‘Of course, effendi. Oh yes, indeed.’

  ‘Good. It has now become necessary for us to leave Cairo early in the morning to take a steamer from Alexandria to Italy. But for reasons which you will understand I cannot reveal . . .’ the Egyptian nodded his head solemnly, ‘we cannot take the train to Alexandria. This means we must somehow cross the desert to Suez at the southern end of the Canal and pick up a northbound boat from there. Is it possible to do this?’

  The Egyptian frowned. ‘Let me see . . . what day is it? Ah yes, Monday. You are in luck, effendi. There is a camel train which leaves at about ten o’clock tomorrow, from the Bab El-Ghurayib gateway in the East Wall, right at the end of the Musky. The caravan takes goods to the little villages at oases on the way to Suez. The leader of the train is Mahmud Muharram and he is my brother. I am sure that for a fair price he will take you across the desert. I can go now and arrange it for the morning, if you wish.’

  ‘That would be very kind of you, Ahmed. I knew we could rely on you. But there is one last task I ask of you.’ Simon added another sovereign to the little pile. ‘We must travel incognito until we reach Suez, you understand?’ Ahmed nodded his head vigorously. ‘Do you think that you could procure for us some Arab garments? Nothing elegant, just something so that we do not stand out from your friends conspicuously as Europeans. Mahmud can know that we are English, but until we leave Cairo, no one else must. Yes?’

  ‘Of course, effendi. That will be no problem. No problem at all.’

  Simon leaned across and shook his hand, and equally solemnly, so did Jenkins. ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ said Simon. ‘You have done our two countries a great service.’

  ‘It is nothing, sir. Nothing at all.’

  Jenkins gave him a great grin. ‘And don’t forget the whiskies, bach. Right away if you can. Bit parched, see.’

  Chapter 2

  Ahmed was as good as his word, and shortly after dawn they found small bundles of clothing outside each of their doors. He knocked on Simon’s door shortly afterwards - did the man never sleep? - and assured him that his brother would take them on the journey with his funduq for six English sovereigns. Then he showed him how to dress, displaying the delight of a mother arraying her child for the school fancy dress.

  Simon was allowed to keep his plain white trousers, tucked into his riding boots. It was not possible, explained Ahmed, to find Egyptian slippers to fit, but the boots would merely show that he was probably from the northern coast, more accustomed to riding horses, and he would pass. His tailored shirt was replaced by a simple cotton garment, buttoned to the neck, worn under a voluminous and unstructured white robe, gathered at the waist by a red sash. A head cloth of undyed cotton, allowed to flow over the forehead to the eyes and also over the shoulders to offer protection against the sun, but loose enough to be tucked across the mouth to keep out sand, was kept in place by two plaited cords tied around the crown of the head. To Simon’s untutored eye, this seemed more the dress of an Arab than an Egyptian, but he was relieved to be spared the great Egyptian turban, wound precariously round the head like a bundle of washing, which he knew, from previous experience with something similar in Afghanistan, Jenkins would be unable to keep in place. Ahmed assured him that the dress was typical of a desert traveller and would fit them for the eighty-mile journey across the plains and sand dunes to Suez.

  Once Jenkins had been similarly equipped, they shouldered their duffel bags, took down their still-wrapped Martini-Henrys, paid their bill, shook hands warmly once again with Ahmed and left the little hotel before the other guests were up and about to marvel at their transformation. Within the hour they had passed through the great gate of Bab El-Ghurayib in the East Wall to where a bewildering number of camels and men were milling about on the scrub and arid shingle that lapped the walls of the city. The activity seemed haphazard, with camels snarling their yellow tombstone teeth and refusing to rise from their kneeling positions, tents being struck and household utensils being rolled into untidy bundles. The smell of camel dung forced the two men to wrinkle their noses.

  They soon found Mahmud Muharram - not difficult in that he stood tall in the chaos, shouting words of command and swishing in emphasis with a long frayed whip. He was a big man and wore a black beard behind which his teeth flashed in welcome as he nodded in approval of their garb.

  ‘Good, you are dressed for the desert,’ he said in excellent English. Then he frowned and pointed at their awkwardly wrapped rifles. ‘What are they?’

  ‘English army rifles,’ said Simon. ‘We have no wish to use them on this journey but they will be necessary when we reach our final destination.’

  The frown remained. ‘You are soldiers, then?’

  ‘No, although we used to be. We have been asked to work for the British army as scouts.’

  ‘I do not know what that means. But I want no shooting on my funduq. Show me the rifles, but not here. Come.’ He beckoned to them to follow him to where one tent was still standing. It was long and shallow, secured by a seemingly random web of ropes tied to pegs in the ground or pinned down by rocks, and it had no defined shape except for a low peak in the middle. It looked as though the first breath of wind could blow it away, but Simon and Jenkins were to come to respect its strength and resilience to desert storms. One end had been left open and they ducked their heads and followed Mahmud into the interior. There they sat on cushions and Simon carefully unwrapped his rifle.

  The Egyptian took it and his eyes lit up as he weighed it in his hands, worked the ejector lever behind the trigger and then lifted the stock into his shoulder and sighted along its barrel. He raised an eyebrow towards Simon: ‘It is the latest, I think?’

  ‘Yes. We have used it in the Zulu War and last year against the Afghans.’

  ‘Ah.’ The big man nodded his head slowly. ‘Then you are truly warriors.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jenkins, ‘used to be, that is. We’ve sort of retired now, see.’

  The smile returned to Mahmud’s eyes. ‘Good. I am glad to hear it. I do not want any soldiering on the journey to Suez.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Simon hastily agreed. ‘We will keep the rifles out of sight, of course. But there will be no danger in the desert, surely?’

  The Egyptian shrugged his shoulders. ‘If we are lucky, no. But there are always the Bedawis.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They are not Egyptians.’ His lip curled. ‘They are from the south and they are nomads, desert dwellers. They have drifted up from the big desert lands above the Sudan and they look after small herds of sheep and cattle. But that is not all they do. Some - the bad ones - raid small villages and steal and they sometimes stop caravans like ours and demand payment to allow us to progress.’

  ‘Good lord. They are just pirates, then?’

  Jenkins’s moustache bristled. ‘Why don’t you just send them off with a bloody nose or whatever, eh?’

  Mahmud looked from one to the other uneasily, as though acknowledging a weakness. ‘Ah, unlike you, my friends, we are not warriors. We are just traders. My people are not brave. It seems easiest just to give them what they want and then get on with our business. You see, these Bedawis are c
ruel people. They will kill if they are opposed.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Simon. ‘It is not easy for you. But you deserve protection. Why does the army of the Khedive not give you that protection?’

  The big man shrugged again. ‘There was a time when the army sent out patrols to keep the camel routes open. But now we see very few soldiers. The Bedawis know this and they are growing more . . . what do you call it? . . . yes, arrogant. They stopped me a month ago and also last week, on the way here. But,’ he opened out his hands in a fatalistic gesture, ‘that was unusual. Perhaps Allah will be good this time.’

  Simon involuntarily put a hand on his pack, where a slight bulge revealed the presence of the gold sovereigns. He exchanged glances with Jenkins. ‘When they stop you, what do they demand?’

  ‘Ah, nothing particular. They just go through our wares, taking what they want. But they are not stupid. They do not take everything, for that would mean the end of our journeys and the end of their income. It is best to let them have their way. It is like a tax that we pay. But,’ he frowned again as he ran his hand along the steel-blue barrel of the Martini, ‘keep these out of sight. They will want them.’

  ‘Hmm. How are they armed?’

  ‘They have muskets - our traditional jerzail - but I am not sure how good they are at shooting. The weapon, you know, is not accurate like these rifles of yours. What I have seen them use is the scimitar, their curved swords. Three years ago they took off the head of one of my men with one sweep.’ He shuddered. ‘After that I do not oppose them.’

  Simon nodded slowly. ‘I see. Right, Mahmud, if they show up we will adopt a very low profile, I promise you. And we will keep our rifles under wraps. Now, here is the payment for our journey. Tell me, how many miles must we travel and how long will it take?’

  The Egyptian gave a half-smile. ‘I do not know your miles,’ he said. ‘I count journeys in time, and this one usually takes about ten days, depending upon whether we have a windstorm. If we do, it is longer.’

  Simon made a quick calculation. ‘Good lord. That’s less than nine miles a day!’

  ‘There’s slow for you,’ agreed Jenkins, curving up his eyebrows.

  ‘Ah, but you forget that we must stop at five or six villages by the wells to trade and to water the camels. And our beasts are not racing camels. They . . . er . . . what is the English word?’

  ‘Plod?’

  ‘Plod, yes. A lovely word. You have both ridden camels before?’

  Jenkins coughed and Simon interjected before the Welshman could speak. ‘I am afraid not. But Jenkins here can ride anything.’

  Mahmud smiled. ‘That is well. Camels are not difficult to ride when they . . . er . . . plod. But it is different if we have to make them go fast, although that should not be necessary. Time in the desert should not be bullied or hurried. You will see. Now, I will find you camels and show you how to mount and sit. Bring your bags - and wrap your rifles and put them away.’

  The two Britons did as they were bid and exchanged glances as they followed the big man outside into the burning sun. Simon was glad that Mahmud had shown not the slightest interest in why two Europeans should wish to adopt Arab disguise and take the slowest way across the desert to Suez. Perhaps Ahmed had put his finger to the side of his nose and implied great affairs of state. If so, Simon’s admission that they were on their way to work as scouts with the British army would have sat ill with that theory. Simon sighed. What the hell! He was tired of spinning lies and just wanted to get out of Egypt. Yet he liked what he had seen of Mahmud. When he was speaking he had given no hint of dissembling and he had looked Simon directly in the eye. He had an air of command, and certainly the men, women and even children who were loading the camels and packing the tents seemed to possess a sense of purpose and urgency about them that was not typical of Egyptians, in Simon’s brief experience. They seemed to respect and unhesitatingly obey the big man. He was surely to be trusted.

  The Bedawis were a different matter. By the sound of it, it would be difficult to conceal the rifles and the sovereigns from them if they came calling. Simon bit his lip. There was no way that he and Jenkins could allow either to be taken. Low profile or not, they would fight if they had to, even if it meant compromising Mahmud and his people. The prospect of that worried Simon. If there was a fight - and they must do all they could to avoid it - and if he and Jenkins survived it, then they would move on, leave the caravan at Suez, board ship there and depart from Egypt and the desert, probably for ever. But the families of the little caravan had to make the return journey. The aggrieved Bedawis would surely attack them again, and without the two well-armed Englishmen, what would happen to these gentle traders? He sighed, for he could think of no obvious solution. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He would have to find an answer to that question when and if it arose. Perhaps, as Mahmud had hoped, Allah would intervene.

  The camels, however, were a more immediate problem.

  Despite years of riding as a boy in the Brecon Hills and his time spent on horseback at Sandhurst and in the Regiment, Simon was a poor horseman and he knew it. In fact, if the matter ever slipped his mind, Jenkins - a superb natural rider - was there to remind him. Falling off a horse seemed as instinctive a course of action to Simon as staying on was to the Welshman. It was true that gradually, over the last two years in South Africa and Afghanistan, his seat in the saddle had become a little more secure. But these sky-high, lolloping, unempathetic creatures were a different proposition altogether, and he approached the smelly camels with a sinking heart. There was that distinctive hump to start with - how was he to sit on that? And how the hell was he to get on in the first place?

  Most of the trading goods, the tents and the other paraphernalia of the little column now seemed to be loaded on to the pack camels, and the packs of the newcomers, the wrapped barrels of the rifles poking through, were added to the wide, many-layered burdens that projected above the animals by some four feet and by a similar distance on either side of their flanks. Everything - including the camels - looked most unstable. Mahmud pointed with his whip to two beasts, slimmer and taller than the pack animals, who were waiting in the couched position, their legs folded under them. A small boy stood on the doubled foreleg of each camel.

  ‘These are for you,’ he said. ‘Egyptian camels are not the best but they can carry loads well enough. For riding, animals from Arabia are preferable and she camels better than males. These are from Syria. They will do.’

  Jenkins approached the nearer camel with an appraising eye. At that moment, the beast turned towards him and emitted a huge belch and began chewing as a green sliver oozed over her loose lips and dripped down to the ground. The Welshman staggered back. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ he said, holding his nose. ‘What’s she been eatin’, then?’

  Mahmud grinned. ‘Too much grass,’ he said. ‘They half digest it and then bring it back to chew again. She must walk it down. Now I show you how to mount and control. Watch.’

  He seized the saddle pommel, dug his left knee into the side of the animal and nodded to the camel boy to stand aside. Immediately the camel unfolded her bent legs, and as she rose clumsily, Mahmud swung his other leg across the animal’s back, tucking his robe under his bottom as he did so, and settled into the saddle in one smooth movement.

  ‘Easy, eh?’ he grinned.

  Jenkins shot a worried glance at Simon. ‘Bloody sight better if we didn’t ’ave to wear these nightshirts,’ he muttered.

  Mahmud coiled his left leg around the front cantle of the saddle. ‘Better to ride like this,’ he said. He picked up the rein linked to the head stalls and shouted to the boys. Immediately, each gave Simon and Jenkins a short stick. The Egyptian gestured with his whip. ‘Use those to give directions. Tap on the camel’s neck to go left or right and so . . .’ he tapped on the top of the neck, ‘to go down.’ Immediately the beast lurched forwards and then backwards and was kneeling again. Mahmud skipped off. ‘You will get used to it. One important thing.�
�� He knocked on Simon’s chest with his whip in emphasis. ‘Always keep up with the caravan. It is easy to drop behind, and suddenly the camel train is lost in the heat haze. You are alone and soon you are lost. If you are lost in the desert you will die.’

  Simon nodded and looked across at Jenkins. The little Welshman blew out his cheeks and nodded even more vigorously.

  ‘Good.’ Mahmud looked around him. The first camels were making their way in stately line away from the city walls. ‘Now mount and ride in the middle of the funduq.’ He flashed his teeth. ‘And God be with you.’

  The camel boys gave reciprocal grins and gestured to the two Europeans to mount. Somehow they did so, although Jenkins’s camel rose a little too quickly, leaving the Welshman’s short legs waving in the air until he was able to get purchase and pull himself across the saddle. Once astride, however, it was as though he had been born there. He slapped the camel’s haunch instinctively with his stick to set her moving and then tapped more gently on the left side of her neck so that the animal immediately fell into line.

  To Simon, the impression was one of sitting on the cross trees high in the rigging of a heeling, pitching sailing ship, with one leg coiled around the mast as the only way of avoiding falling off. He shot a quick look around. No one seemed to be clutching the saddle pommel, not even Jenkins, who was now sitting grinning and swaying in complete unison with the gentle, undulating movement of his mount. Simon grabbed the pommel and clung on, hoping it would get better.

  In fact it did, and it was not long before he began almost to enjoy the swaying, soporific gait of the strange beast he was riding. It was not unpleasant to allow his eyes to close as he reflected that it looked as though they had slipped away from Cairo before they could be connected with the dead body in the alley. And they had sufficient funds for the passage to South Africa! He opened one eye and patted the little goatskin bag of sovereigns that he had taken from his baggage roll and secured firmly to the saddle cantle. He squinted ahead at the squat figure of Jenkins, the cords securing the little man’s headdress already slipping down his back, and the future definitely looked brighter.