The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  The task of the working party was to build, while darkness lasted, a series of small redoubts for the protection of gun teams, so that the artillery men could bring up their field-pieces closer to the city. But they were never completed. After Roger and Zanthé had been wearily carrying sandbags for over two hours, without any chance having arisen for them to get away undetected, several shots suddenly rang out. They were followed by shouting and a bugle call

  Dropping their burdens, the men ran back to the place where they had stacked their muskets, grabbed them, ran on another twenty yards and jumped down into a trench, Roger and Zanthé lost no time in following them. The shouting increased, there came the noise of hundreds of feet running down the outer slope of what had been the great wall and Roger guessed at once that this must be one of the sorties that the garrison had frequently made during the siege to prevent the French getting a firm hold on any of the breaches they had made in the walls,

  Pushing Zanthé behind him, Roger took a firm grip of his musket. The thundering feet came nearer, the shouting of war-cries became deafening. The men on either side of Roger were up on the fire-step of the trench with their muskets levelled, Someone gave the order to fire. Seconds later there came the crash of the volley. It was succeeded by yells and screams, but the attackers still came on. A Muslim of no great size, but with huge, black moustaches and fiery eyes, suddenly appeared above the trench, then leapt down on Roger.

  It was his last leap. Roger had never practised bayonet fighting; but he knew that if he failed to kill this kind of fanatic outright he was liable, however seriously he wounded his enemy, to be killed himself. With the barrel of his musket he parried the Muslim’s spear-thrust, then jabbed the bayonet in below the man’s ribs, The Muslim’s own weight forced the point up into his heart. He made another feeble stab with his spear, then his eyes rolled up and he was dead.

  A second Muslim sprang over Roger’s head across the trench, another and yet another followed. In the immediate vicinity, apart from hand-to-hand encounters that were going on to either side some way along the trench, there came a brief lull. But bugles were blaring in all directions and a battery of guns opened somewhere in the rear.

  There came the sound of running feet again, this time from the opposite direction. The French infantry in the reserve trenches had held the attack and were now driving the enemy back. A wounded Muslim tumbled into the trench behind Zanthé. Squirming round, he made a slash at her ankles with his scimitar. Just in time, Roger took the swipe on his bayonet, then jabbed it with all his force into the man’s gullet. As he put his foot on the Muslim’s chest to wrench the bayonet free from his contracted neck muscles, three or more other Muslims leapt the trench in flight back to the city. Hard on their heels came the French.

  The Sergeant, twenty yards away to Roger’s left, was yelling: ‘Up you go, lads! Get after the swine! No quarter! Give it ‘em in the kidneys as they run. Come on now!’ He was already out on the parapet and the men on either side were scrambling up over it.

  Swiftly, Roger took advantage of the fact that the light was not sufficient for his actions to be seen from any distance. Falling on his knees, he pulled Zanthé down and said, ‘Lie on your stomach with an arm twisted behind you. We must sham dead, or the Sergeant will force us to take part in the fighting.’

  As she obeyed him, he thrust a hand on to the wound of the nearest dead Muslim, smeared the blood from it over his own face and threw himself on his back across Zanthé’s legs. He had acted none too soon. The Sergeant was striding along the parapet of the trench, routing out the laggards with a spate of curses. But after one glance at Roger’s bloody face and the tangle of bodies about him he passed on.

  Having given him time to get well away, Roger got to his feet, jumped up on the fire-step and peered about him. It was getting a little lighter, the stars were paling in the east and dawn could not be far off, but he still could not see very far because the smoke from the muskets now helped to limit the field of vision. As far as he could make out, the Muslims had rallied on the crest of what remained of the wall and a fierce conflict was taking place there.

  So far, during the long night, he had been buoyed up by the need for being constantly on the alert and the knowledge that, one after the other, he was surmounting the perils that beset him. But now he was suddenly seized with fears and forebodings. They had escaped from Djezzar’s palace, come through the city unchallenged, overcome the one sentry who had endangered their flight, secured uniforms which would protect them from being shot on sight by the French and succeeded in reaching the French lines. But now fortune seemed to have deserted them. They had become caught up in the midst of a battle and he could see no way of getting them out of it.

  20

  The Unholy Land

  Roger was in a terrible quandary. Now that a battle had begun it seemed certain that both sides would throw in reinforcements and the struggle in that sector would continue for many hours. If he and Zanthé continued to sham dead and within a short time the Muslims re-took the trench they would, as was their custom, slaughter any wounded and mutilate any dead they found there. If the Muslims were held at bay French stretcher-bearers would make their appearance. Having collected the wounded they would, as they invariably did, search the dead for any items of value they might have on them. When they found him and Zanthé apparently unconscious, but still alive, they would revive them and force them to go forward to join in the fighting. Worse, should an officer be present he would arrest them and give them short shrift as cowardly malingerers. Even should they escape such calamitous attentions they could not possibly remain there shamming dead all day. Heat, thirst, the stench and the myriads of flies that would be attracted by the wounds of the dead would force them into making a move in one direction or the other. But which?

  If they went forward they could not escape becoming involved in the fighting. Against the fanatical Muslims Roger knew he would have all his work cut out to defend himself. It would be almost impossible to protect Zanthé at the same time, and the thought of her being cut down or having a pike thrust through her body was unbearable. Yet if they made for the rear that held the worst risk of all. They could not possibly get far without meeting other troops. As they were unwounded it would at once be assumed that they had turned tail and run. In Bonaparte’s Army there was only one penalty for deserting one’s comrades when in action: it was to be shot out of hand without even the formality of a drumhead court martial.

  As Roger wrestled with this problem, a tall soldier came lurching out of the murk towards the trench. Staggering from side to side, he reached its parapet some ten yards to Roger’s right, tripped on it and fell headlong into the trench. Roger had seen that the man was carrying something that projected a good two feet above his head. Wondering what it could be, he scrambled along to find out. As he came nearer and realised what the object was, he gave a cry of delight. The man was a giant Sergeant of Grenadiers, and he was clutching to his chest a captured Turkish standard.

  The Sergeant lay twisted sideways. From his mouth a stream of blood gushed, then he was quite still. Obviously he had received a mortal internal wound and his fall into the trench had finished him. Stooping, Roger took the standard from the clutching fingers. The lower few feet of the pole had been broken off, but the standard itself was intact. It was not a flag, but a flat, diamond-shaped sheet of silver cut out to form an intricate design of Arabic letters. It was surmounted by a crescent lying on its back, from which hung a fine horsetail.

  Carrying it back to Zanthé, he exclaimed, ‘My sweet, your prayers to Allah for our safety have been answered. See, he has sent us this. It will prove our safe-conduct to the rear of the French lines. We have only to tell everyone we meet that we have been ordered to take it to Bonaparte.’

  Without losing a moment they climbed out over the back of the trench and set off. But they were not yet out of danger. The guns of the city were replying to the French artillery and were trained on reinforcements th
at were hurrying forward. They had covered only fifty yards when a cannon ball bounded past within two feet of Zanthé. There was little cover but, zigzagging from side to side, they ran on, taking such advantage of the ground as they could.

  Dawn had now come. Ahead of them they saw a company of infantry coming towards them at the double. Roger raised the captured standard high above his head and cried, ‘Vive la France! Vive Bonaparte! ‘The nearest officer grinned and waved his sword in reply. The men broke into cheers as they streamed past them.

  Another five minutes and they were out of range of the guns. Pulling up, they sat down on some rocks to regain their breath. Laughing, they hugged one another, then Roger said:

  ‘I have as yet had little chance to think of your situation while with the French Army, but I count it unlikely that there will be other women at headquarters. For your protection it seems best that I should give out that you are my fiancée.’

  Lifting his hand, she kissed it then gave him her most ravishing smile. The will of Allah has made you my dear lord, and I am happy that you should wish everyone to know it.’

  Soon afterwards they set off at a walk and, although the strain of the past night was now telling heavily on them, they met with no difficulties. Everywhere they were greeted with cheers and, after many enquiries, learned the whereabouts of the General-in-Chief’s headquarters. He had come up from Mount Carmel to direct the battle and had taken up his position on a slight rise about three miles from the city.

  As they trudged up the slope, they saw that a marquee had been set up for him and that he was standing in front of it with his telescope to his eye, surrounded by his Staff, several of whom were mounted ready to gallop off with his orders to the different Divisions and Brigades. Not thinking it fitting to approach him while he was making his decisions, Roger halted some thirty yards from the edge of the group, then he and Zanthé turned to look back across the plain at the city from which they had escaped.

  The whole field of battle lay spread before them. Full daylight had come and the sun glinted on the domes and minarets of the great fortress city. Parts of it were wreathed in smoke which was stabbed every moment by the flash of cannon. The still-standing towers stood out sharply against the blue sky and the whole was framed by the background of the bay, where lay the British frigates and gunboats. They too were partially obscured by smoke and rows of little white puffs kept on bursting from them as they fired broadside after broadside at the attackers. In three places where breaches had been made in the walls solid columns of infantry were carrying out assaults. Dotted about the plain were batteries of guns and dozens of other regiments, awaiting orders to enter the battle. The French Army numbered close on ten thousand men and was supported by several thousand auxiliaries: Copts, Druses, Armenians and other Christian warriors whom Bonaparte had enlisted in his war against the Turks. Even at that distance the roar of the guns and the constant discharge of thousands of firearms came to them like the rolling of thunder. To witness such a vast assembly—white, brown and black—which, including the garrison and the British ships’ crews, amounted to some fifty thousand men engaged in conflict, was an unforgettable spectacle.

  Roger’s gaze was still roving over the amazing panorama when Zanthé touched his arm. An officer was calling to them and Bonaparte was beckoning. Side by side, they walked quickly forward. When they arrived within ten feet of him Roger stood stiffly to attention and lowered the standard until its crescent top touched the ground.

  ‘Mon brave, I thank you,’ Bonaparte said loudly. ‘Where did you capture this standard and when?’

  ‘Near the north-east tower, mon Général, shortly before dawn this morning,’ replied Roger promptly.

  Bonaparte gave him a closer look and said, ‘I know your face. Where have I spoken with you before?’

  Roger gave a sudden laugh. ‘Mon Général, you should know it. I am your Colonel Breuc.’

  The Corsican’s big, dark eyes widened and he exclaimed, ‘Breuc! By all that’s wonderful! Where in thunder have you sprung from?’

  ‘For the past seven weeks I have been a prisoner in Acre; but last night, with the aid of my companion, I succeeded in escaping.’

  Bonaparte’s glance turned to Zanthé’s dirt-smeared face above the far-too-large uniform coat, the shoulders of which sagged halfway to her elbows, and he frowned. ‘If you were issued with that garment I’ll crime your Quartermaster-Sergeant. No soldier could be expected to fight his best in so cumbersome a uniform.’

  ‘We took our uniforms off the dead,’ Roger answered for her, ‘and my companion is not a soldier of your Army. You will recall the reason for your sending me away from Cairo. Allow me to present the lady in the case—the widow of the Commander of the Turkish garrison.’

  ‘Breuc, your audacity astounds me! To have captured both her and a Turkish standard you must be the Devil in person. But does this mean that instead of obeying my instructions you followed her to Acre?’

  ‘No, mon Général, far from it. But, alas, I never reached France. I was taken first by Barbary Corsairs, escaped, was re-captured by the English and brought to Acre as a prisoner by Sir Sidney Smith. I am, though, happy to report that I succeeded in preventing that with which you entrusted me from falling into the hands of the enemy.’

  ‘God be praised for that!’

  ‘I was about to add,’ Roger went on, ‘that this lady is not my captive. She left Acre of her free will, and has done me the honour to promise to become my wife.’

  Turning back to Zanthé, Bonaparte smiled. ‘Then I congratulate you. For your husband you will have one of the bravest and most resourceful officers in my Army. What is your name, madame?’

  She went down on one knee. ‘May it please you, Monsieur le Général, I am called Zanthé. Although I am a stranger to you, it is possible that you have heard of my mother. She was a Mademoiselle Dubucq de Rivery. She later became the Sultana of Son Majesté Impérial le Sultan Abd-ul-Hamid.!

  Again Bonaparte’s eyes opened wide. He had not yet become used to Princesses kneeling to him. Stepping swiftly forward, he took both her hands and raised her to her feet exclaiming, ‘I have indeed heard of Your Highness’s mother! When young, in Martinique, Her Majesty and my wife were cousins and close friends.’ Then, with his invariable courtesy towards women, he added, ‘I am honoured to have Your Highness as a guest in my camp. We are but rough soldiers, and at the moment very badly found. But you shall lack for nothing with which it is possible for us to provide you.’ Turning back to Roger, he said with a smile:

  ‘A moment ago I erred, it is not Madame I should have congratulated but you, mon brave Breuc. And to have you back rejoices me. You are, of course, reinstated as one of my aides-de-camp and in my next Order to the Army I shall make mention of your return with this standard. It is the seventeenth that we have captured from the Turks.’

  As Roger thanked him, he spoke to his step-son, who was standing just behind him, then lifted his telescope to make another survey of the battle.

  Young Eugene de Beauharnais bowed to Zanthé, shook Roger warmly by the hand and led them round the side of the marquee. On the slope behind it thirty or forty tents had been erected. Showing Zanthé into one, he said he would send a servant with water for her to wash and a light meal, and suggested that she should then get some sleep while he sent to Main Headquarters for some more suitable clothes for her. Roger he took to a larger tent, shared by the aides-de-camp, and told a servant to look after him.

  With water from a canvas bucket, Roger washed the blood from his face and hands then ate a little fruit, washed it down with two glasses of wine, stripped off his outer clothes and lay down on the camp cot. Although it was barely twelve hours since Zanthé had come weeping to his room with the news that Djezzar meant to force her to marry him, that now seemed days away and he was desperately tired. Her plight had prevented him taking her aboard a British ship and so securing his longed-for passage home. But he knew that they had both been incredibly lucky to
have come through the night unscathed, and Bonaparte’s reception of them could not have been kinder.

  His thoughts turned to the future and he recalled the heartiness of Bonaparte’s congratulations on his having become affianced to an Imperial Princess. When suggesting that he should present her as his fiancée he had intended no more than the adoption of a measure which would ensure that no other man attempted to force his attentions on her; but her reply had implied that she had expected nothing less of him. He realised that, now she had cut herself off entirely from her own people, he was responsible for her. Previously the idea of marrying her had never entered his head, but now he had to consider doing so. And why should he not? She was utterly devoted to him, intelligent, charming, passionate and one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Still musing over this thought, he fell asleep.

  It was evening when he awoke, and shortly afterwards Eugene entered the tent. He brought with him the uniforms of an officer of Chasseurs, who had been about Roger’s build and had died of wounds a few hours earlier, and one of the scarfs, that distinguished aides-de-camp, for Roger to wear round his arm. He said that the man he had sent to Main Headquarters had rummaged through several chests there which contained loot from Jaffa and had found in them a number of rich, silk garments, jewelled girdles and sandals. These he had sent to Her Highness’s tent; he had also raked up some spare shirts, a razor and other kit for Roger.

  Roger thanked him and asked the result of the day’s battle. Eugene shook his head and replied, ‘Since dawn there has been most desperate fighting and rumour has it that we have lost several of our best men. But the fighting continues and for the first time our troops have managed to force their way into the streets of Acre. My step-father is throwing everything in. His hope is to overcome all resistance before the reinforcements brought by the Turkish Fleet can be landed. But whether he will succeed in that still lies in the lap of the gods. You are to sup with him and he will probably give his views then on our prospects.’