The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  The coast of Egypt was far too long for the French, with their limited number of troops, to patrol the whole of it regularly; so at times the blockading ships landed parties on deserted stretches of coast to collect springwater. Such sources were too small for the larger ships to pick up the hundreds of gallons they required, so from time to time they had to water at Crete or Cyprus; but even half a barrel of fresh springwater was a great luxury so now and then, in order to obtain it, blockading vessels took the risk of their parties being surprised by the French.

  Down in the bay a semi-circle of half a dozen sailors with muskets kept guard some distance from a cluster of rocks above the tide-line. Among the rocks, under the supervision of an officer, others were filling three small casks from the spring with pannikins while, a hundred yards away, a boat was being kept in readiness to take them off.

  As Roger brought his mount to a halt on the top of the dune, the sailors spotted him, gave the alarm and raised their muskets. Before they could draw a bead on him he swung his horse round, put spurs to it and, crouching low in the saddle, cantered off back down the slope. But as soon as he was well under cover of the crest he pulled up.

  Wild thoughts were racing through his mind. He was alone; so if he appeared again, waving his white handkerchief, the men would not fire upon him. He had only to ride down to them and give himself up to be taken aboard the British sloop. Within a few days he could get himself transferred to Tigre and be again with Sir Sidney Smith. After all he had been through he had no doubt at all that the Commodore would take the first opportunity to send him home.

  It was seventeen months since he had left England During that time he had twice secured important despatches from Bonaparte, and had also sent back from Naples a very full report on the resources of the French Army in Egypt. Meanwhile, he had suffered grievously and several times had narrowly escaped losing his life. No one, with the possible exception of the fanatically patriotic Nelson, could possibly contend that he was not now entitled to give up the desperately dangerous double life that he had been leading for so long.

  If he did not take this chance, in a few weeks he must return to duty in Cairo. And what then? On re-entering Egypt Bonaparte had issued a proclamation containing more flagrant lies than even he had ever before given out. He claimed that he had totally destroyed Acre and that this had been his only object in invading Syria. He declared his total casualties to number a mere five hundred, when everyone in the Army knew that they ran into thousands. With superb effrontery he had organised a triumphant entry into Cairo, with the captured Turkish standards being carried before him, and claimed to have returned from a campaign of victories equalling those he had achieved in Italy.

  This unscrupulous propaganda had deceived the greater part of the Egyptian people and had even, to some extent, been swallowed by the French regiments which had not taken part in the Syrian campaign. But Roger knew the truth.

  During its thirteen months in Egypt the French Army had been reduced, by casualties and pestilence, to little more than half its original number. It had not received a single reinforcement from home and, as long as the British blockade continued, could not hope to do so. Even with the regiments of Mamelukes and other natives who had been enlisted, it was now barely strong enough to hold Egypt, let alone undertake other campaigns further afield. All prospect of raising the Arab races against their overlord, the Sultan, had vanished with the failure to take Acre. Gone, too, was the dream of capturing the Red Sea ports and from them invading India as a prelude to creating a great Empire in the East. Now the French were like a garrison in a besieged city that had no hope of relief, and in which the population was hostile. From attacks on their convoys by Bedouin, knifings by night in the streets, accident and disease, they must gradually be weakened to a point at which the Egyptians felt strong enough to rise and massacre them.

  As Roger thought of those months ahead during which, if he remained in Egypt, he must continue to suffer from the sweltering heat, myriads of flies, possibility of being killed by an Arab or stung by a poisonous reptile, and living all this time among companions growing daily more desperate with fear about their future, he had never before so greatly longed to be back in the green fields of England.

  Only the thought of Zanthé deterred him from galloping back over the crest, pulling out his white handkerchief and waving it aloft to the little party of seamen who meant home and safety to him. She had given him intense pleasure. She loved and needed him. She had twice saved his life and had nursed him back to health. Could he possibly desert her? Still worse, could he simply disappear without a word, leaving her to months of misery, wondering whether he were dead or alive and what had happened to him? She was very beautiful and he would soon be strong enough to become again her lover in the fullest sense. But there were other women as beautiful, even if in a different way, and as passionate in England. In a few years she would look middle-aged and have become fat and unwieldy. Why should he sacrifice every other thing for which he craved to saddle himself with a half-Asiatic girl whom he would have to take with him as his wife wherever they went, whether they actually married or not?

  For a few agonising minutes he wrestled with the most terrible temptation that had ever beset him. Then he knew that he could not give in to it. The shame of having left her, after all she had been to him, would haunt him all his days. He must remain in Egypt and share the lot of Bonaparte’s ill-fated Army. Sadly, he kneed his horse into a walk androde back to Alexandria.

  Having resolved not to abandon Zanthé, he committed himself to her still further that evening. It chanced that the Patriarch of Alexandria called at the villa to solicit a large sum from Sarodopulous for a charity. He was a big, jolly man with a fine, curly black beard and, while they were all consuming coffee and cakes, the talk turned to different faiths.

  When Roger was in St. Petersburg he had found that, under Catherine the Great, Russia was then the most tolerant country in the world with regard to religious matters. Priests of all denominations were encouraged by the Empress to establish churches there, and every year the Metropolitan gave a reception to which he invited Catholics, Lutherans and Calvinists as well as brethren of his own Church. Three kinds of wine were served at these receptions, and it was his custom to welcome his guests with the words: ‘Gentlemen, these wines are different; but all of them are good, and so are the different faiths which we follow.’

  Recalling that, Roger was not at all surprised to find that the Patriarch showed a most tolerant respect for other Christian faiths; but he stoutly maintained that, owing to its unbroken descent from the first teachings in the Holy Land, the Eastern Orthodox Church adhered more closely to the true principles of Christianity than any other religion.

  Zanthé showed great interest and questioned him closely. Roger, too, was intrigued and it occurred to him that, while nothing would have induced him to become a Roman Catholic, the undemanding tolerance of the Orthodox Church would make a ceremony performed by one of its priests quite a different matter. In consequence, when the Patriarch had gone he took Zanthé aside and asked her how she felt about it.

  To his delight he found that, while her abhorrence of Protestants still equalled his of Popery, she had always regarded the Orthodox Christians with respect. She could hardly contain her joy at his having proposed a way in which he could make her his wife in the sight of God, without either of them having to commit an act that they would have detested.

  When they told the Sarodopulouses of their intention, the banker and his family showed the greatest happiness and Madame Sarodopulous began to describe to them the charming marriage ceremony of the Orthodox Church, at which they would both wear crowns and carry candles. But her brother-in-law warned them that their marriage could not take place for at least a month. They would first have to receive instruction in the Orthodox faith and learn by heart its catechism and numerous prayers and responses.

  On hearing this the tall, dark, handsome Achilles, who, ever since th
ey had arrived at the villa, had made himself Zanthé’s willing slave, at once offered to act as their tutor. It was agreed that he should coach them daily in the Orthodox prayer book and that it should be arranged for them to visit the friendly Patriarch twice a week to be prepared for reception into his Church.

  Later that evening Roger again drew Zanthé aside and said to her with a smile, ‘My beautiful. For having arranged matters like this I feel that I may ask a reward from you.’

  ‘Count it already given,’ she smiled back. ‘What is it that you wish?’

  ‘That you should let me come to your room tonight,’ he whispered.

  She hesitated a moment. ‘Dear love, you cannot believe how terribly I have desired you during these two months since you were stricken. But, as long as we remain guests here, we are not free to do as we will. Should we be discovered, what would Madame Sarodopulous think of us? For having abused her hospitality in such a way I would die of shame.’

  ‘Oh, come!’ Roger protested. ‘Your room is but a few yards from mine, and I will use the utmost discretion. I’ll not come to you until everyone has retired for above an hour and should be sound asleep, and I’ll leave you well before the servants are awake. For the past fortnight or more I have thought of little but making love to you again. And you have already said that you would grant my wish.’

  ‘But … but,’ she murmured, ‘will it not harm you? Nothing must interfere with your complete recovery. And if … if it is for your good, I … I can still wait.’

  ‘On the score of my fitness have no fears, my sweet,’ he smiled. ‘I have reached a point at which to be denied your caresses would harm me more.’

  Her big, tawny eyes had become moist and she was trembling as she replied, ‘I would have to be made of iron to resist your pleading. But I’ll allow you to stay with me no more than half an hour. On that, for your health’s sake, I insist.’

  So that night Roger again entered Paradise in the arms of his beautiful fiancée.

  During the three weeks that followed they visited the Patriarch regularly and learned from the red lips of the dark, flashing-eyed Achilles to recite the Greek Church credo and other religious pieces from the Orthodox prayer book. Meanwhile, Zanthé put great restraint upon herself and refused to allow Roger to come to her room more than two nights a week. But on those nights they gave themselves up to their mutual passion with as much ardour as they had while in Acre.

  It was on the 16th August that a blockade-runner brought Sarodopulous further news of events in Europe. Throughout May and June matters had gone from bad to worse with the French. Towards the end of the former month the Allies, with the help of the Piedmontese Royalists, had regained possession of Turin. Moreau had only with great difficulty cut his way through the passes of the Alps to seek safety in Genoa.

  Macdonald, arriving in the north with the French Army that had occupied the Kingdom of Naples, had, in mid-June, defeated the Austrians at Modena; but Suvóroff, by a rapid concentration and forced march, had thrown his Russians on Macdonald’s force before Moreau could come to his aid. Three days of desperate fighting had ensued, at the end of which the terrible Muscovites had proved the masters of the French. Macdonald’s troops had broken and, in small parties, staggered back across the Apennines, to reach Genoa in a state of utter exhaustion. Suvóroff, for these brilliant victories in the Allied cause, had been given the title of Prince Italiski.

  These disasters to the French had led to the fall of the puppet States they had created: the Cisalpine, Roman and Parthenopean Republics. On all sides priests, Royalists, bourgeoisie and fanatical peasants were exacting vengeance for the repression, brutality and robbery to which they had been subjected by the bringers of ‘Liberty’. Mob leaders, gentle intellectuals with Liberal views and all who had collaborated with the French from either the worst or best motives were, through the length and breadth of the peninsula, impartially dragged from their homes by the hundred and shot, hanged, slashed to death or burnt in public.

  It was in the south that this ferocious vengeance reached its peak. In Naples the three castles, garrisoned by French troops and so-called ‘patriots’, continued to hold out; but by mid-June Cardinal Ruffo’s irregulars had entered the city, butchered every Republican they could find and laid siege to the castles.

  Ruffo, wishing to pacify the kingdom, offered these garrisons the honours of war and a safe-conduct to France if they would capitulate. The Republicans agreed to these generous terms and Captain Foote, then the senior officer with the British Squadron lying off Naples, also signed the terms of capitulation.

  But on June 24th Nelson arrived, invested with unlimited powers by King Ferdinand who was still in Palermo. The British Admiral promptly asserted that Cardinal Ruffo and Captain Foote had exceeded their authority in granting terms to the enemy garrisons. He declared the capitulation agreement null and void and, with a vindictiveness difficult to understand in so gentle a man, but evidently largely inspired by Emma Hamilton as the mouthpiece of the Queen, had the Republican leaders who had surrendered executed and the Neapolitan Admiral Caracciolo hanged from his own yardarm.

  Secretly, as an Englishman, Roger rejoiced to hear these tidings. Although he had the warmest personal feelings for many friends he had made among the French, he had never wavered in his conviction that the hydra-headed monster that had been produced by the Revolution could bring only evil to the peoples whom it first fascinated and then enslaved. It was excellent news that the Italians were, with the help of the Austrians and Russians, again achieving their freedom and from a worse tyranny than any they had known before. He hoped that it heralded the downfall of the collection of atheists, murderers and thieves who had for so long controlled the destinies of France.

  But policy had demanded that he should allow the Sarodopulouses to continue to believe that he was a French Colonel, and he had felt that it would be time enough to disclose to Zanthé the truth about himself when, and if, he could succeed in getting her out of Egypt. So, at this latest news from Europe, he had to pull a long face and pretend grave concern.

  Roger and Zanthé had fixed the date of their marriage as August 29th. On the evening of August 22nd, just as the sun was about to set, a Lieutenant of Bonaparte’s favourite regiment, the Guides, rode up to the villa on a lathered horse, bringing a despatch. Tearing it open, Roger saw it was in Bourrienne’s writing and was an order signed by the General-in-Chief. It read,

  I require you to report to me immediately. You will accompany the bearer of this with a minimum of delay,

  Roger was greatly puzzled, but felt that he could not possibly ignore the summons. Thinking it unlikely that he would be away for long, he told Zanthé that he would send her a message as soon as he possibly could and, in any case, would get permission to return for their wedding day. While he was taking leave of her and the Sarodopulouses, a horse was being saddled for him. Ten minutes later he rode away with the Lieutenant of Guides.

  When Roger asked the Lieutenant where they were making for the latter replied, ‘I regret, mow Colonel, that I am under orders not to reveal the whereabouts of the General-in-Chief; but we have no great distance to go. We must, though, make all speed, because I lost my way when coming to find you and so was more than an hour behind time in delivering my despatch.’

  The Lieutenant had turned west and, alternately trotting and cantering, they rode along the coast until they reached the little bay in which Roger had come upon the British landing party collecting springwater. Darkness had fallen, but a solitary boat lay there in which were men with lanterns. Their light showed thirty or forty saddled but riderless horses wandering loose about the beach. As soon as Roger reached the shore, a naval officer in the boat shouted to him to be quick and come aboard.

  More puzzled than ever he dismounted, abandoned his horse and, followed by the Lieutenant, scrambled over the gunwale. The boat pushed off at once and, after fifteen minutes’ rowing, came alongside a ship Roger judged to be a frigate. The crew were i
n the act of setting sail.

  He found a group of men on the quarter-deck which was lit by flambeaux. In its centre stood Bonaparte. With him were Berthier, Murat, Lannes, Marmont, Bessiéres, Andréossi, Monge, Berthollet, Bourrienne, Duroc, de Beauharnais and the other members of his personal Staff. Marching up to him, Roger saluted and said:

  ‘Mon General. You sent for me.’

  Bonaparte nodded. ‘You are late, and lucky to be taken off in time.’

  ‘Your pardon, but in time for what?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Why, to accompany me back to France, of course,’ snapped the pale-faced little Corsican. ‘Where else should I be going in a frigate?’

  Roger stared at him aghast. The boat in which he had been brought aboard was being hauled in. The frigate’s sails were filled with wind and she was already moving through the water. It was now too late to ask to be set ashore. Bleakly, he realised that his marriage to Zanthé would now never take place. Three weeks earlier he had overcome the temptation to desert her. Now Fate had decreed that without having any say in the matter he should do so. But he was not going home.

  22

  Back into the Secret Battle

  There was tremendous jubilation aboard the frigate. It was fifteen months since Bonaparte’s expedition had sailed from Toulon and those who accompanied him had said good-bye to their wives and sweethearts. During thirteen of those months they had lived in an utterly alien land, where white women were as rare as white blackbirds, where wine was almost unobtainable and where the food was unappetising and monotonous. As soldiers it was their trade to face danger but there had been added to it terrible marches under a blistering sun, days of torture from thirst, fear of the plague and a never-ending irritation from swarms of flies. Now, the seemingly impossible had happened. The nightmare that was Egypt was being left behind. The frigate was actually under sail. They were on their way back to France, which meant everything in life they held dear. Roger could not wonder that joy was depicted on every face.