The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  When Roger had put on the uniform of the dead officer of Chasseurs he went along to Zanthé’s tent. He found her again dressed as a woman and the silk garments that had been brought to her did not, owing to their flowing nature, appear unsuitable. There was a young Arab woman with her, who had been brought from a nearby village to be her servant. When he had kissed her she asked him if he could come to her that night, but he shook his head:

  ‘Alas no, my dearest, For the time being we must be most circumspect. Bonaparte has displayed a high regard for you. I could not spend the nights here undetected and discovery would lead to a scandal that would destroy your prestige in his eyes. We dare not risk that, I will seek your sweet company whenever possible, but until conditions are more favourable we must restrain as best we may our impatience to enjoy love’s revels.’

  After spending some time with her, talking over the excitements of the past night, he went to the marquee. There he was surrounded by a dozen of his old friends, all of whom slapped him on the back, congratulated him on his escape and wanted to hear what had happened to him. However, after the friendly welcome he soon realised that the general atmosphere was one of gloom and learned the reason. Generals Rambout and Langier had both been killed that day, Lannes had been so terribly wounded that his life was despaired of and Duroc had just been carried in with a wound in the thigh.

  At supper Bonaparte placed Roger on his right and asked him for an account of his doings. Roger gave a fictitious description of his capture by Corsairs, his weeks of slavery in Tripoli, as a prisoner in a British ship and, more recently, in Acre. Contrary to custom, Bonaparte listened without interrupting and made only one comment, ‘I see you have had your hair cut’.

  During the past seven weeks Roger’s hair had grown a good inch. It now stood up stiffly all over his head and, where before his previous ordeals had caused it to become pre- maturely grey only at the temples, the new hair was mainly white as a result of the terror he had experienced during his first day and night in Djezzar’s palace. But he did not mind that, as older men still used powder on their hair in England. With a laugh, he replied:

  ‘It was cut for me, but I do not resent that; it is much more sanitary.’

  ‘You are right,’ Bonaparte nodded, then added with a frown, ‘You have no doubt been told that there is a serious outbreak of plague inflicting the Army?’

  ‘I had, mon Général, and was greatly distressed to hear it.’

  ‘It has already robbed me of six hundred men,’ Bonaparte went on gloomily, ‘and as we have no hope of receiving reinforcements I can ill afford them.’

  After the meal Bonaparte said nothing of the battle. Obviously much upset by the day’s losses, and particularly about Lannes and Duroc having been wounded, he said that he was going to bed. But before leaving the mess for his sleeping quarters he drew Roger aside and asked in a low voice:

  ‘My letters. What did you do with them?’

  Producing the part of the hem of his travelling coat that he had cut off, Roger replied, ‘They are still stitched up in this, mon Général. I was loathe to destroy them as long as there was any hope of my getting through to France, but the Fates were against me.’

  Bonaparte nodded and pulled his ear. ‘You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. No man could have done more. See Bourrienne in the morning, give him such intelligence as you can and he will inform you of our situation.’

  Next morning, after a visit to Zanthé, Roger repaired to a tent that had been set apart as an office for Bourrienne, On the previous evening he had thought that the Chef de Cabinet looked far from well, and his friend told him something of the trials that had seriously undermined the health of the Army during the past three months.

  The march from Suez across the desert of Sinai had been as bad as the original advance from Alexandria. The sufferings from thirst of everyone had been terrible and conditions had been little better while coming up the coast. The weary infantry had often openly cursed their own senior officers because, being mounted, the demands on the latter’s endurance were not so great. Yet in spite of great reluctance to embark on the campaign, and terrible privations during it, the fighting spirit of the Army had remained unimpaired.

  Apart from their capture of El Arish and Jaffa, and exposure to death or wounds for seven weeks under the walls of Acre, that spirit had been most gloriously displayed in a brief campaign against Abdullah, Pasha of Damascus, Early in April they had learned that the Pasha was assembling an Army, estimated at thirty thousand strong, for the relief of Acre. Bonaparte, with his usual aptitude for taking time by the forelock, at once despatched a force to attack the Turkish Army before it was fully organised. Junot led a reconnaissance in force with five hundred men, and Kléber’s Division followed. On the road to Nazareth, Junot was surrounded by several thousand Nablousian warriors, but drove them off with terrible losses and captured fivestandards.

  The Pasha’s main Army had, in the meantime, crossed the Jordan and when Kléber, with his three thousand men, reached the base of Mount Tabor, he found himself opposed to at least eight times his own number. The French fought in square until on every side it had a breast-high rampart of dead horses, camels, Mamelukes, Syrians, Turks and Arnauts. After six hours of heroic resistance Bonaparte—from a feeling that Kléber might get into difficulties—arrived unexpectedly on the scene with Bon’s Division. Forming it into two squares behind that of Kléber he surprised and enveloped the enemy, bringing utter destruction on the Pasha’s Army and capturing his camp, four hundred camels and a great quantity of booty.

  But gallant General Bon was dead and so was their beloved Chief Engineer, the one-legged General Caffarelli. On the 9th April he had been inspecting a trench and the men there had warned him that to show any part of himself was to risk being shot by an Albanian sniper. He had been careless and received a bullet in the elbow. His arm had been amputated but he had failed to recover. Bourrienne wept as he related to Roger how, eighteen days later, their gifted friend had died in his arms.

  Bourrienne estimated that they had lost three thousand French troops from death in action, serious wounds, capture and death from plague; so the backbone of the Army of Syria had been reduced by nearly a third of its original strength. But if Acre could be captured they would not have suffered in vain. Bonaparte had already planned his march on Damascus and Aleppo and his prospects would be brighter than they had ever been.

  The Turkish rule was so oppressive that many Chieftains in Palestine, Mesopotamia and Asia Minor were in secret negotiations with French agents and had expressed their readiness, when Bonaparte could march on Constantinople, to throw off the Turkish yoke and join him. There were also the Christian subjects of the Sultan, all of whom were ready to welcome the French. The warriors of these peoples totalled near a hundred thousand men. At present they were sitting on the fence. But once Acre had fallen Bonaparte would have a vast Army at his disposal and, with his organising genius, there could be little doubt that Constantinople and the whole of the Turkish Empire would fall like a ripe plum into his hands.

  ‘He has never failed in anything he has yet attempted,’ Roger remarked; ‘so I cannot believe he will in this, unless it be through something beyond his control, such as the spreading of the plague.’

  Bourrienne nodded. ‘It is from that we have most to fear. But apart from it the odds against us are damnably heavy. By now we must have killed many thousands of Djezzar’s men and we have taken many prisoners. Yesterday alone eight hundred of them were brought in. But the garrison is still as numerous as a swarm of ants, and I am told that the reinforcements, which by now must be landing from the Turkish Fleet, number twelve thousand. A matter, too, that causes me great anxiety is that we are running short of gunpowder. It is bad enough that, for weeks past, we have had to rely on the British to supply us with cannon balls; but there is no way in which we can secure powder from them.’

  ‘How mean you,’ Roger asked, ‘that they supply us with cannon ball
s?’

  ‘We ran out long ago,’ Bourrienne replied, with a sad smile, ‘but they appear to have unlimited supplies. They will even fire on our men when a few of them go down to the seashore to bathe. Our little man was prompt as ever to think of a way to remedy our shortage. He offered the troops ten sous for every ball they could bring in. So there is now a nightly hunt for British shot and next day we fire it back at Acre.’

  After a moment Bourrienne went on, ‘We would have been in Acre, as we were in Jaffa, within a week, had it not been for those accursed English. They have good grounds for having adopted the bulldog as their symbol. The six hundred gunners whom, as we have learned from prisoners, they sent ashore to strengthen the defences have proved the rock upon which our assaults have been shattered. Their Commander is said to be no more than a Commodore, but he deserves to be a High Admiral. He is as courageous as their other seadogs, but far superior to them in brain. By using his intelligence he has caused us endless trouble. Aboard one of his ships he has a printing press, and he has used it to run off thousands of leaflets. Some of them are distributed through Arab agents bought with British gold among our own troops. They are to the effect that Bonaparte is giving their lives not for France but only to advance his own ambitions. Others, distributed among the Christians of the Lebanon, contain a version of the proclamation issued by our General within a few hours of his first entering Alexandria. You will recall that he said in it that he regarded the Mohammedan religion as more sensible than the Christian.’

  Roger grinned. ‘So it has become a boomerang, eh? Has this propaganda had any serious effect?’

  ‘Naturally. It has disturbed the minds of the troops and has had a most adverse effect on the Christian tribes, on whom we have been counting as our future allies. Our little man was so enraged by it that he issued an order stating that Sir Smith is mad, and that anyone found in possession of pamphlets issued by him would be liable to severe punishment. At that, though you’d scarce credit it, Sir Smith sent a flag of truce ashore challenging the General-in-Chief to a duel.’

  ‘What reply was sent to him?’ Roger asked with amused interest.

  Bourrienne shrugged. ‘The English are mad. Everyone knows it. No man of any other nation would have even thought of such a thing. Bonaparte naturally replied that he had many other matters to engage his attention. But, with a touch of humour, he added that if, at any time, Sir Smith could produce Marlborough to fight him, that would be a different matter.’

  They then talked of the European situation, as far as they knew it. Roger could give only such information as he would have picked up as a prisoner when captured off Malta by Sir Sidney Smith in March. He gave a sketchy account of the Neapolitan war, adding that he understood that the French had finally subdued Naples early in February and that England, Russia and Turkey had formed another Coalition against France.

  Bourrienne’s information, from neutrals and blockade-runners, was little better; but he could add that Austria had joined the Coalition and had declared war on France on March 12th. Rumour had it that the French were now having great difficulty in keeping control of the population in all the recently created Republican States in Italy. No despatch from the Directors had reached Bonaparte since March. In this last despatch, they had given him the choice of striking at either Constantinople or India; but, as it had left Paris as far back as November, such news as it contained was already stale.

  This exchange of views over, Roger went out into the brilliant May sunshine. The assaults on Acre were being continued with unflagging vigour and the General-in-Chief had gone up to the front to supervise them personally; so Roger was free to visit Zanthé. He found her outside her tent. A small table had been procured for her and she was sitting at it playing against herself the oldest paper game in the world, a form of noughts and crosses.

  Not far from her two Mamelukes stood, leaning on their weapons. When Roger asked what they were doing, she replied, ‘General Bonaparte has detached six of them from his regiment of Mamelukes to act as a guard of honour for me. I am greatly touched by this attention; but, alas, it is going to make it still more difficult for you to come to me at night without your visits becoming common knowledge.’

  ‘I fear it is,’ he agreed. ‘We must do our best to remain patient.’ As he had received no orders, he enjoyed a picnic lunch with her and remained talking to her for most of the day. Then, as the shadows lengthened, he went to the big marquee.

  It was May 10th. For thirty-six hours the all-out assault had now been raging. The troops who had penetrated to the streets of Acre the previous afternoon had been halted and cut off. Two hundred of them had taken refuge in a mosque and held it all through the night Sir Sidney Smith, who had come ashore to take personal charge of the city’s defence, had generously saved this little party from massacre by forcing the Turks to allow it to withdraw; but that had put an end to the French penetration of the city. The Turkish troops who had been brought by sea were now taking up positions to defend the breaches made in the walls, and the French had suffered so severely that Bonaparte had decided to put a stop to the assaults.

  In the French camp there were now twelve hundred wounded, but the British Squadron, which had become an integral part of the city defences, dared not leave its moorings; so the coastal waters from a few miles south of Acre were no longer under its control, and many of the French wounded were carried down in litters to the little port of Haifa, from which they were being sent by ship to Egypt. The indomitable Lannes still miraculously clung to life. He had already been severely wounded in the assault on Jaffa and on the previous day, when twice wounded, his Grenadiers had had to drag him out of the battle by his feet. The doctors said of him that his bones must be made of rubber, as it seemed that when hit by musket balls they bent but rarely broke. Bonaparte ordered a special litter to be made for him which sixteen Turkish prisoners were to carry in teams of eight.

  Between the 11th and 18th of May the siege continued, but with less intensity; so Roger was not called on to run much risk in delivering orders from the General-in-Chief to officers commanding units down in the plain. Zanthé slept through the hottest hours of the day and spent the rest of the time sitting outside her tent. Some French books had been found for her to read and in the evenings a little Court, composed of Roger and friends whom he had introduced to her, surrounded her. All of them, having been deprived for so long of female society, found delight in her company.

  It was on the evening of the 18th that Bonaparte sent for Roger and said, ‘Breuc, have a comfortáble litter made for Her Highness, and take as many prisoners to carry it as you wish. Tomorrow she is to set off to Egypt and, as I shall not require you on our march, you have my leave to accompany her.’

  ‘On our march! …’ Roger exclaimed. ‘Can you mean … ?’

  The Corsican nodded. ‘Yes. You will speak of this to no one. So far, I have told only Bourrienneand a few members of my personal Staff who will have to make the necessary preparations. If it got about that I mean to retreat, the whole garrison of Acre might sally forth and overwhelm our rear guard. But on the night of the 20th I intend to break off the siege.’

  ‘It was a terrible decision to have to take,’ Roger murmured.

  ‘I had no alternative. Scattered about Egypt we now have only some ten thousand troops, and a despatch from Menou informs me that trouble is brewing there. In high summer, too, conditions will be favourable for an invasion and I cannot doubt that the Turks will despatch a great Army by sea for an attempt to reconquer the country. If I do not return there all my labours to make it a prosperous French colony will have been in vain and, with the loss of the ports, we would lose our one hope of receiving reinforcements.’

  ‘You think then that there is still a chance that the Directory may send them?’

  ‘One can but hope. The Brest Fleet under Admiral Bruix is still intact. With that of the Spaniards it could form a formidable armament and stand a good chance of bringing troops round to us thro
ugh the Mediterranean. For months now I have been sending despatch after despatch, urging this course upon the Directors. It may be that they are so eaten up with jealousy of me that, rather than aid me to further triumphs, they would sooner see a French Army founder here. But it may be that I am unjust and that all my despatches have been captured by the accursed English.’

  ‘They have proved a most ugly thorn in our side here,’ Roger commented

  ‘You are right there. Had it not been for them, I should have been in Acre weeks ago and by now halfway to Constantinople. Do you know that the Sheiks have already offered me the keys of Damascus? Could we but advance the whole of Syria and the Lebanon would rise to aid us. But it is not to be. One man has robbed me of my greatest ambition. Nelson did no more than cut us off in Egypt, and there I proved that we could be self-supporting. But this Sir Smith has dealt me a vital blow. To my mind, he far surpasses any other English Commander. He has shown not only the greatest tenacity but the highest intelligence in handling his very limited forces, and in addition he has throughout maintained a most chivalrous attitude towards our wounded and our prisoners. Whatever his future may be he must now go down in history as the man who changed the fate of the whole Eastern world.’

  As Roger left the tent with Bonaparte’s generous tribute ringing in his ears he could not help recalling the contempt with which the British in Palermo had spoken of Sir Sidney Smith, dubbing him ‘The Swedish Knight’ and ‘The Great Plenip’. He wondered if Nelson was still there, bewitched by Emma and dancing attendance on the despicable King and Queen of the Two Sicilies. But of one thing there could be no question. Sir Sidney had inflicted on Bonaparte his first defeat. Time was to show that on land no other British Commander, with the exception of Wellington, would ever defeat him.

  On the following day Roger and Zanthé set off southward. He rode beside her litter, they were escorted by her Mameluke guard who kept in order the prisoners who acted as bearers and the rear was brought up by two camels carrying Zanthé’s Arab woman servant and the baggage. That afternoon they crossed the river Kishon and in the evening made camp on the far slope of Mount Carmel. No longer fearing that his actions would be reported to Bonaparte to the detriment of Zanthé’s reputation, Roger and his beautiful mistress spent a night of delight together.