The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  Had L’Orient not blown up she would have proved the most valuable prize ever taken by the British, for in her hold she carried £600,000 in ingots of gold looted from the new Swiss and Roman Republics and, in addition, the huge treasure in gold and gems that Bonaparte had stolen from the Knights of Malta. These were to have been his treasure chest for the conquest of the East; so it was a shattering blow to him that the whole of this great wealth should have gone down with L’Orient to the bottom of Aboukir Bay.

  But Roger was thinking only of his own survival. Swimming round and round in the darkness he again, at length, hit the anchor cable and clung on to it. Soon after, fires ignited by the flaming debris falling on to British ships, and a renewal of the firing, intermittently lit the scene.

  Some three hundred of the survivors in L’Orient had jumped into the sea before she blew up; upon which Audacious, to the cable of which ship Roger later learned he had been clinging, put out several boats to pick up as many as they could. Seeing this, Roger swam to the nearest boat and, to his immense relief, was hauled aboard. A quarter of an hour later he and a number of others who had been rescued were hoisted in through the lower ports of Audacious, herded to one end of her tier deck and, under guard, kept there for the remainder of the night.

  The battle continued sporadically until 3 a.m., and was resumed for a while after dawn. Vice-Admiral Villeneuve in his flagship, Guillaume Tell, one other ship-of-the-line, Généreux, and a frigate, made sail and got away. It was later said that they would not have escaped had Nelson not been temporarily incapacitated by his wound, and so unable to direct the later stages of the battle. As it was, despite Zealous’s crippled state, gallant Sam Hood gave chase, but no other British ship was in a condition to support him; so he was recalled.

  Daylight revealed the fruits of victory. Eleven of the thirteen French ships-of-the-line had been captured or destroyed. Out of some eight thousand French sailors, over five thousand were dead and the majority of the remainder were prisoners. It was possibly the most bloody sea battle ever fought and the greatest triumph for British sea power since the defeat of the Spanish Armada. It made the Mediterranean henceforth, for over a century, a British lake; and the French Navy was so completely shattered that seven years elapsed before, in combination with a large Spanish Fleet, it again dared challenge Nelson at Trafalgar.

  During that night Roger had no inkling of all this, apart from the knowledge that his countrymen had proved victorious. He had mounted his horse long before dawn that morning at Damanhûr, ridden thirty miles to Alexandria, talked with Kléber, ridden on to Aboukir, gone aboard the flagship, delivered his despatch to Brueys, sustained over five hours of appalling anxiety and a further three of hideous battle.

  When going overboard he had hurt himself badly and the exertion of swimming and clinging to the cable had drained away his last reserves of strength. He was hardly able any longer to think coherently, yet sufficiently able to realise that he was in some danger: for in no circumstances, while he remained among the French prisoners, must he give away the fact that he was English. Wondering vaguely what new problems and perils he might have to face next day, he slumped down on the hard deck, utterly exhausted, and, almost instantly, was asleep.

  12

  The One Who Got Away

  The personnel of Audacious were so fully occupied preparing the dead for burial, tending their wounded, clearing away wreckage, and stopping holes torn in the side of the ship by French cannon balls, that it was mid-morning before they had time to give any attention to their prisoners. Roger was roused by movement all round him and found that half a dozen Jack-tars, supervised by a Lieutenant, were serving out a ration of ship’s biscuits and a drink of water, dipped from buckets.

  He eagerly swallowed the few mouthfuls of brackish water, but was not sufficiently hungry to tackle the biscuits. It was very cold down there on the tier deck; so his clothes had not yet dried out, and his right arm and hip, with which he had hit the bulge of L’Orient when going overboard, were stiff and painful.

  Looking about him he saw in the dim light some fifty officers and men in the same wretched state as himself: their clothes torn and sodden, their faces begrimed and their hair in rats’-tails. With some twenty others, who had been picked up and taken to other ships, they were the only survivors of the eight hundred men who the day before had manned the mighty L’Orient.

  When the ration had been served the Lieutenant sat himself down on an upturned barrel and, using a crate for a table, produced some sheets of paper. A Petty Officer then marshalled the prisoners into a queue for examination. The Lieutenant spoke little French, but all he asked each man was his name, rank and ship; then he wrote them down. When Roger’s turn came he drew himself to his full height and replied in French:

  ‘Breuc, Colonel on the Staff of French Army headquarters, Cairo, and aide-de-camp to the General-in-Chief.’

  The Lieutenant gave him a surprised look, took down what he had said and put a large cross against his name, then told him to stand aside with another French officer who had been singled out from the ratings. By the time all the names had been taken, the group of officers numbered five, with one Midshipman. A Sergeant of Marines beckoned them to follow him and took them to the bread-room, where they were locked in.

  There, while agreeing that they were lucky to be alive, they commiserated with one another on the defeat their Fleet had sustained and speculated groomily about their future as prisoners-of-war. Roger produced his share of apparent despondency, but inwardly he was now in excellent spirits. Apart from his right arm and side being badly bruised and aching, he had come through the terrible night unscathed and rosy prospects lay ahead of him.

  He had known that he had to do no more than say he was one of Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp to ensure his being brought before a senior officer for questioning. From that it should be only a step to securing a private interview with Admiral Nelson, to whom alone he was prepared to disclose his true identity. None of the prisoners had so far been searched, presumably because it was thought that they would have only small, private possessions on them. He still had the despatch concealed under his tunic and even should it be taken from him before he got to the Admiral that would not prevent it from being sent to Nelson with him. All he had to do was guard against anyone, French or British, finding out that he was an Englishman, and that should present no great difficulty.

  Then, once he had had his interview with the Admiral, good-bye to Egypt. Kléber would report that he had left Alexandria to deliver the despatch to Brueys on the afternoon that the British Fleet had been sighted. Bonaparte would assume that he had been either killed or captured during the battle, and what more perfect explanation could there be for not returning to him? Now that he had captured Cairo and had virtually subdued Egypt, it was certain that he would proceed with his ambitious schemes. The Directory had ordered him to occupy the Red Sea ports, and it was highly probable that, having secured them, he would use them as bases for a descent on India. Alternatively, he might first turn north to conquer Syria. But, whichever he did, India would be his ultimate objective, and to conquer the whole of the East must take him several years.

  Roger had had more than enough of deserts and battles, and now he could get Nelson to send him home, either as an important prisoner who would be well treated, or under another name in a merchant ship. Even if at a later date he wished to return to France he would still be able to do so with a clean bill as a Frenchman, because he could say that he had been held as a prisoner in England. Even Talleyrand could have no reason to suspect that his capture had not been genuine.

  One thought only marred his delight at chance having provided him with a way to escape further service in the East: that was of Zanthé. There she was—the most breathtaking beauty he had seen for years, lovely to look at, lovely to touch and, with her rich, deep voice, lovely to listen to—his captive in Cairo. Not to return to her seemed the height of ingratitude to those generous joy-loving gods o
f Olympus who had sent her to him. To have done so, then almost immediately to have placed him in a position where every other interest demanded that he should sacrifice her, was harsh indeed. But one of the reasons why Roger had survived so many perilous situations was his ability to face facts squarely and weigh their pros and cons.

  To return to Zanthé might bring him delirious happiness, but for how long? At the very best for a few months, while Bonaparte fully established a new administration throughout Egypt. He was such a dynamic worker that it was quite possible that, having set the pattern, after a few weeks, he would leave someone else to do the administering and himself march on to new conquests. Still worse, as Roger spoke Arabic, his master might any day take it into his head to pack him off on some mission to a desert Sheik or the Red Sea ports, and he would not be able to take Zanthé with him.

  There was, too, the most potent reason of all for not returning to Cairo. It was most unlikely that any opportunity such as this to get back to England would occur again, so he would be tying himself to Bonaparte for an indefinite period. And now the French Fleet had been destroyed, the Army was cut off. This meant that should disaster befall the adventurous Corsican he would be unable to take his Army back to France. He and all those with him would become slaves of some Eastern potentate or perish.

  On the other hand, there beckoned England, Home and Beauty in the form of his beloved Georgina and, however passionately he might be attracted to other women, he always had loved and always would love her above all, for she was his true female counterpart in heart and mind as well as body.

  Regretfully, but without hesitation, he put from him the lure of Zanthé.

  Early in the afternoon the Sergeant of Marines unlocked the door and beckoned Roger out. With a gloomy grimace for the benefit of his fellow-prisoners, he stepped into the passage, then followed the Sergeant up on deck, happily confident that he was about to take the first fence that would put him on the way to England.

  The Captain of Audacious, telescope under arm, was pacing his quarter-deck, while keeping an eye on the working parties labouring on the most urgent repairs to spars and rigging. Roger was marched up to him, then halted and made a graceful bow. The Captain returned it courteously and asked in poor French:

  ‘Is it true that you are one of General Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp?’

  Roger bowed again. ‘Oui, Monsieur le Capitaine.’

  ‘How long is it since you left the General?’

  ‘Six days. I am, as you say, direct from Cairo and became mixed in battle,’ Roger replied with a strong accent and deliberately distorting his English.

  The Captain nodded and spoke in English himself. ‘In that case I feel sure Sir Horatio Nelson would like to speak with you. I have ordered a boat and am sending you across to his flagship.’

  ‘It is great honour.’ Roger bowed once more, now with a smile at having achieved his object without even having to use the bait he had prepared to get himself sent to the Admiral.

  A well-grown Midshipman, who was standing by, was given a message about Roger for the Officer of the Watch in Vanguard. Roger was then taken to the ship’s side, where a rope ladder led down to the waiting boat.

  It was then that he had his first sight of the destruction wrought by the battle. Twenty-five ships lay at anchor scattered about the long, shallow bay. Culloden alone among them showed no sign of damage. Despite herculean efforts, and hours of cursing by her unfortunate Captain, Troubridge, who was one of Nelson’s most able officers, it had proved impossible to get her off the sandspit beyond Aboukir Island, where she had run aground while still out of range of the enemy. There was hardly another ship that had not lost a mast, and several had had all three shot away. Most of the French ships had been reduced to no more than floating hulks and two, having been burnt out and sunk, had disappeared. From the masts still standing in the British ships many of the sails still sagged in tatters. For miles round the gently heaving sea was strewn with wreckage, barrels, crates and hundreds of bobbing corpses, while scores of boats went to and fro among them picking up anything that appeared worth salvaging.

  Through this watery charnel-house Roger was rowed to Vanguard. On board her the ‘Middy’ gave his message and, after a wait of ten minutes out on the deck, Roger was taken in under the poop to Berry, Nelson’s Flag Captain.

  After greeting him courteously, Berry said in French, ‘Since you have come from Cairo it is to be assumed that your Army has captured that city.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger replied in the same language. ‘On the 25th General Bonaparte took possession of the capital, after inflicting a crushing defeat on the Mamelukes four days earlier on the left bank of the Nile.’

  ‘We picked up a rumour,’ Berry said, ‘that there had been a battle in which your Army was victorious, but we have had no particulars. Would you be agreeable, Colonel, to describing these events to my Admiral?’

  Roger drew himself up and put his hand on his heart. ‘You will appreciate, Captain, that it would not be in keeping with the honour of a soldier of France to disclose the strength of our forces, or their situation with regard to supplies. But I should be happy to describe to your Admiral the actions in which the Army has been engaged.’

  Berry bowed. ‘I thank you, Colonel. Sir Horatio has been wounded, although, thank God, not seriously; and he is at present much occupied. But I feel certain he would wish to hear an eyewitness account of these events. Be good enough to wait here.’

  The Flag Captain left him and returned after a few minutes to take him along to a larger cabin. Nelson was seated behind a desk littered with papers. Roger had heard a great deal about this quite junior Admiral whose heroic exploits had already led the British people to take him to their hearts, but he had never before seen him.

  Nelson had still two months to go before his fortieth birthday, but the pain he had suffered from severe wounds had made him look much older and had turned his hair grey. Roger was surprised, too, at the Admiral’s frailty. With his thin, lined face and small body he looked a mere wisp of a man, and the loss of his right arm at the shoulder, with the sleeve pinned tightly across his chest, made him look even smaller. His head was bandaged and he was not wearing a shade over his misty eye, the sight of which he had lost during the taking of Corsica, but his ‘bright’ eye glanced as alert and purposeful as ever.

  After the Peace of ’83 he had taken six months’ leave to go to France, with the intention of learning the French language, because few officers then spoke it and while in the West Indies he had found it frustrating to have to rely on indifferent interpreters when questioning the personnel of French prizes he had taken. He had no gift for languages, so had never succeeded in fully mastering French, but he spoke sufficient of it to greet Roger in that tongue.

  Politely coming to his feet, he said, ‘Colonel, may I offer you my commiserations on having become a prisoner-of-war; but be assured that we shall treat you with the respect to which your rank entitles you. Pray take a chair and tell me all that you feel you can in honour disclose about the remarkable prowess of your Army.’

  Roger bowed and replied, ‘Monsieur I’ Amiral, the prowess of your Fleet equals, if not exceeds, that of our Army. I am greatly honoured that you should receive me. Since I must be conveyed to England as a prisoner there is one favour I would ask. Would you be so kind as to inform Sir Christopher Brook of it?’ Then he calmly accepted the invitation to sit down, and crossed his long legs comfortably.

  ‘Chris Brook!’ exclaimed Nelson. ‘Why, he is an old friend. I served under him in the Indies. How comes it that you are acquainted with him?’

  Roger cast a glance at Berry, who was standing in the doorway, and replied, ‘Our association was of a distinctly private nature; but if I had your ear alone …’

  ‘You intrigue me greatly,’ said Nelson. Then he added to Berry, ‘I know you have much to do. Get on with it and leave me with the Colonel for a while.’

  As Berry hesitated, the little Admiral pulled open
a drawer in his desk, took a small pistol from it and pressed one of the triggers, upon which a miniature bayonet shot out from below the barrel. With a smile he said to Berry, ‘Dear friend, I can see you fear that if you leave me alone with the Colonel he may do me an injury. Put your mind at rest. He is unarmed and, big fellow as he is, should he attack me I will stick him full of holes with this.’

  When the Flag Captain had reluctantly withdrawn, Roger said in a low voice in English, ‘Sir, I have spent much of my life in France, and it is true that I am one of General Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp. In France I am accepted as a Frenchman who has some English blood, and a number of people there believe me to be a cousin of one Roger Brook. The fact is that I am Roger Brook, son to Admiral Brook, and for the past ten years I have served my country in secret as an agent of Mr. Pitt.’

  ‘What’s that you say!’ cried the Admiral. ‘That you are a Staff officer of Bonaparte’s, yet an Englishman and Chris Brook’s son! I can scarce believe it.’

  ‘Here is the proof,’ smiled Roger, undoing his tunic and producing the despatch. ‘General Bonaparte charged me to deliver this to Admiral Brueys for forwarding to the Directory. I did so yesterday afternoon, then could not escape remaining in L’Orient for the battle. After Admiral Brueys had been killed and the ship took fire, I went to his cabin, retrieved the despatch from a cabinet in which he had locked it and went overboard in the hope of bringing it to you. Under God’s protection, I have succeeded.’

  His good eye glittering with excitement, Nelson took the despatch and ripped it open. After a glance at the closely written pages he threw them back to Roger and said quickly, ‘Your French must be far better than mine, Mr. Brook. Pray translate it for me.’

  To Roger the request presented no difficulty. For the next five minutes, pausing only now and then to render the sense exactly, he gave a version in English of the despatch. In a series of the abrupt, dogmatic statements that were typical of Bonaparte’s address, either in speech or writing, it gave an account of his occupation of Cairo and his intention when he had fully subdued Egypt to march north and conquer Syria.