by John Wilcox
For a moment the two men, the old and the young, stood gazing at each other, their horns locked in metaphorical combat. Eventually it was the older man who gave way. ‘Very well,’ he looked down at the paper and spoke with heavy irony, ‘“Cousin Simon”. I shall send your report. But I shall preface it with my own comment saying that yer a cocky young man and that I doubt the truth of much – if not all – of what you say.’
Simon took a deep breath. ‘You have no right to do that,’ he said, ‘because you have no evidence that I am wrong. But,’ knuckles on the table, he leaned towards the Admiral, ‘there’s one way of proving which one of us is right. Shine your bloody searchlights on that wall after dark tonight. That will show. Good day to you, sir.’
He swept out of the cabin, flouncing his burnous behind him and stalking across the deck, ignoring the smiles of the Officer of the Watch and the Chief Petty Officer. Luckily, his boatman had obeyed his instructions to wait, because the dramatic effect of his leaving the ship would have been completely sabotaged by having to stand about on the deck until another boat was summoned.
Sitting in the stern as the boatman hauled on the oars, his mind seethed at the stupidity of the senior officers serving the Queen. He had had experience of it before, with the army, but not with the so-called Senior Service. He had come up against dunderheaded colonels and generals: specifically in the Transvaal with General Pommeroy-Colley (although not, definitely not, with Wolseley), and in Zululand. Had not Colley decided that the digging of trenches on top of Majuba Hill would not be necessary, even though the Boers had proved that they were the finest marksmen in the world? Had not Lieutenant Colonel Covington, his former commanding officer, refused to accept that the column of British infantry left at Isandlwana could be overwhelmed by the Zulus? And had not the brave officer left in command under that terrible hill failed to heed Simon’s warning that the camp was comparatively undefended against the Zulus, who were out in force and moving fast? Why could the unusual and the unthinkable never be faced? And why was being young so unforgivable? Simon clenched his fist. The decision to invade might already have been taken. Indeed, Wolseley might now be on his way, with his army. It was imperative that the signal be sent, otherwise the work of the last seven weeks would be made completely redundant. What fools these people were! So bloody inflexible!
It was, then, with anxiety that Simon, Jenkins and Ahmed walked that evening just after dusk to the highest point behind the town. And with huge relief that they saw first one, then two searchlights spring into life from the Invincible and play their beams on the scurrying, ant-like figures working on the embrasures and earthworks. So elephants could be moved, after all!
There was now little that Simon and his companions could do except wait. He attempted to keep in touch with affairs in Egypt by buying a week-old copy of The Times every day from a small French bookshop near the harbour, but the headline ‘Heightened Tension’ above reports of continued diplomatic activity between London, Paris, Constantinople and Cairo seemed to be a daily constant, with little hard news to support it. If the Admiral had taken action as a result of the activity shown by his searchlights, there was little to show for it. The great ironclads, with their French consorts, still rode out in the bay, mute, immobile and threatening.
‘Y’know,’ said Jenkins, ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about it, see, an’ if I was the Egyptians, I would bloody well start rebuildin’ my forts, if them bloody great guns was pointin’ at me. It’s very threatenin’ an’ very provokin’, that’s what it is. What would we do if Gyppo gunboats were anchored up the Thames, and were pointin’ their guns at our pubs, eh? Well, we’d point a few guns back at them, that’s what we’d do, isn’t it? So why should old Admiral Blunderguts make a fuss, eh?’
Simon looked sharply at Jenkins. First the lawyer, now the anti-imperialist. The man was coming on! He nodded his head. ‘I have to agree,’ he said. And they both looked at Ahmed, who shrugged his shoulders and made a lugubrious face.
On the third day after his visit to Invincible, Simon slipped through streets that were now semi-deserted to the Thomas Cook office to see if Wolseley had cabled him with further instructions, perhaps to return to Ismailia, Cairo or even London. But Mr Roberts shook his head gloomily. ‘Nothing, sir. And I would keep right off the streets if I were you. Trouble’s coming, I can smell it. You make a very good Arab, but if you’re out and about when it blows up, you’ll get caught up in it. I’d stay indoors if I was you, sir.’
Leaving the offices, Simon glimpsed a figure approaching that made him finger the handle of the Colt tucked into the cummerbund under his burnous. The man was similarly dressed to Simon, except that he had raised the hood of his cloak, and by the look of it was wearing European trousers and boots. He had something awkwardly large that he was carrying under the folds of the cloak. The two were set to pass on the same side of the street, and Simon felt that he would attract attention if he crossed to the other pavement, so, head down and right hand on his revolver, he moved forward. As they passed, he glimpsed under the hood a familiar small moustache, round spectacles and celluloid collar.
‘Mr George,’ he called, in surprise. The little clerk jerked his head round and his eyes widened as he recognised Simon. ‘Oh, hello, sir,’ he half whispered. He was clearly embarrassed and clutched the large object closer to him under his cloak.
‘What on earth are you doing in Alexandria?’
George looked around, obviously anxious not to be seen. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Didn’t recognise you in that get-up. Just on an errand for the company. You’ll excuse me if I don’t stop. In a bit of a hurry, you see. I hope you are well, sir. Now good day to you, excuse me please.’ And he hurried away, pulling his hood further down over his face.
Simon looked after him with a puzzled frown. Why was the clerk so far from his post in these dangerous times? And what was he carrying? He shrugged his shoulders and hurried back to the hotel.
Three days later, Simon was woken in the morning by Jenkins shaking his shoulder. The Welshman was obviously himself fresh from his bed, for he was stripped to the waist, his chest a mass of tangled black hair. ‘Trouble in the streets, bach sir,’ he said. ‘Listen.’
Simon could hear distant shouting and occasionally the sound of gunshots. He threw back his covering and pulled on his pantaloons and Arab shirt. ‘Have you any idea what started it, and are any British involved?’
Jenkins pushed open the wooden shutters and hung his head out. ‘Can’t see anything,’ he called back. ‘But it’s from the direction of the harbour. Old Amen says that a crowd is attackin’ some Europeans, but ’e don’t know ’ow it started. Best to keep out of it, eh?’
‘No. Not if British people are involved. We must help. Come on.’
Hurriedly dressed, the two men ran to the door of the hotel, where Ahmed was waiting. From somewhere he had found a fearsome curved scimitar, which he had pushed into the sash around his waist. ‘A little bit of fighting today, I think, Simon, eh?’ His eyes were bright and Simon noticed that he had begun to grow his moustache military style, so that it looked like a weaker version of Jenkins’s.
‘Looks like it. Where is the trouble?’
‘Fatima says corner of Sister Street. Something to do with British consul. Big riot.’
‘Show us the way. Quickly now.’
Winding their esharps around the lower part of their faces, Simon and Jenkins ran behind the scurrying figure of the little Egyptian. As they did so, the noise grew louder until they turned a corner to find a crowd of Arabs, including, Simon felt sure, some black-shrouded Bedawis, jostling around an open carriage so that it was completely surrounded. The single horse in the shafts was wide-eyed and rearing, keeping some parts of the crowd at bay. An elderly European stood in the middle of the carriage, attempting to keep his balance while flailing away with his driver’s whip at the hands attempting to pull him down. As the three arrived, a shot rang out and the European’s Egyptian driver, who was also st
anding and shouting at the attackers, crumpled and fell.
Simon quickly pulled Ahmed to the side, handed him his revolver and shouted something in his ear. Then, Jenkins at his side, they thrust their way through the crowd as best they could towards the man in the carriage. Suddenly behind them a shot rang out, and then another. Turning, they saw Ahmed firing around the corner, into the street from which they had come. Ahmed wheeled round – he had now drawn his scimitar and was waving it – and screamed something in Arabic at the top of his voice. Then he fired one more shot around the corner and ran towards the crowd, waving his arms.
‘’As he gone mad?’ demanded Jenkins. ‘What’s ’e up to?’
‘Don’t talk. Run and wave your arms. Point ahead.’
Suddenly the crowd began to panic and, ushered by Simon, Jenkins and Ahmed, left the carriage and began running up the street. One man – obviously the one who had shot the European’s driver – stayed behind and began reloading his rifle.
‘Kill him,’ panted Simon.
Jenkins drew his Colt, aimed with care and brought the man down before he could reload. The crowd, now in full flight, did not seem to notice. The elderly man in the open carriage, however, immediately, and with great courage, lashed at Simon with his whip.
His hand across his face, Simon shouted, ‘Get down, you fool. Lie flat in the carriage.’ And he leapt up on to the driver’s seat and began gathering the reins.
‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded the man, his face and grey whiskers drenched in perspiration, and, Simon noticed for the first time, his left arm bleeding from what seemed to be a gunshot wound.
‘Never mind,’ shouted Simon, gaining control of the horse. ‘Lie flat. If they see you, they’ll pull us all down.’
‘No. I’m not leaving without my driver. Can you put him in the carriage?’
‘Jenkins?’
The Welshman tucked away his Colt and lifted the inert figure of the driver as though he was thistledown, depositing him gently on the floor of the carriage.
‘Best lie down, bach,’ he said to the elderly man. ‘Do as the Captain says, there’s a good gentleman.’
The man’s jaw dropped – whether from the control being taken by the hawk-nosed Arab with the reins who spoke like a young subaltern, or from the Welsh accent coming from his fiercely moustached companion – but he obediently lay down next to his driver. Jenkins stretched down an arm to pull aboard a breathless but exultant Ahmed, and with a shake of the reins, the carriage began to move.
‘Take the next siding, that way,’ shouted Ahmed.
‘What?’ It had been some time since Simon had driven a carriage, and the combination of a terrified horse and quite inexplicable instructions shouted from behind him combined to make the carriage sway fearsomely from side to side.
‘I think ’e means take the next left,’ shouted Jenkins. ‘’Ere, let me do it.’ Simon happily surrendered the reins to the Welshman and, taking his Colt back from Ahmed, who was brandishing his scimitar over the side of the carriage like some medieval Saracen, knelt beside the elderly man. ‘Keep your head down, sir,’ he said. ‘We will probably have to drive straight through the crowd if we can. I don’t want to shoot again, but we may have to.’
The carriage rocked as Jenkins hauled on the reins to take it around the corner. But they had not completely escaped the mob. Most of the Arabs had certainly sprinted ahead, towards the harbour. But a minority had swung around the corner and were now coming back. Seeing the carriage again, they hurled derision and began to stretch across the narrow street. Simon levelled his revolver beside Jenkins’s hip and dispatched two rounds into the air above the line of the crowd. At the same time, Jenkins, his left hand holding the reins skilfully and his right brandishing the whip, let out a Celtic scream and urged the horse and carriage straight towards the front line of the mob. Like magic it parted and the fugitives galloped straight through, Ahmed hanging over the rear, abortively swinging his sword and hurling imprecations at everyone within sight.
‘Keep galloping,’ shouted Simon. ‘There are plenty of them still about.’
As if to underline his words, two shots rang out from a doorway and Simon glimpsed two smoking jerzails as they thundered by. The musket balls hissed harmlessly over their heads, but several gowned figures attempted bravely to grab the carriage’s harness as they passed, one of them gaining a cut on his shoulder from Ahmed’s scimitar for his efforts.
‘Where to, sir?’ asked Simon, realising that they could be galloping into further trouble.
The elderly man looked up, his face waxen. ‘Head for the public gardens by the Mahmoudieh Canal,’ he gasped. ‘European quarter. My house is near there and we should be safe. I’m the British consul. Name of Cookson. I owe you my life. Who are you?’
‘Just a minute, sir.’ Simon stood to shout in Jenkins’s ear. ‘Next right, and right again on the main highway. Keep galloping if the horse can take it.’ He turned back to Cookson. ‘Simon Fonthill, sir. Late of the 24th Regiment and the Queen’s Corp of Guides in India. This is Sergeant Jenkins, same regiments, and this is Ahmed, without whom we should all probably be dead.’
Jenkins waved his whip in airy greeting and Ahmed tried to bow in the bouncing carriage but failed and sprawled back on to the seat. ‘Enchanté, effendi,’ he said.
Simon took off his burnous and bundled it into a pillow for the consul’s head. ‘Let me take a look at that wound, sir.’
‘Oh, it’s only a scratch. Bullet’s gone through the fleshy part of the arm, that’s all. They pulled me from the carriage and banged me about a bit. But Ali here,’ he gestured to his driver, who lay depressingly still, ‘hauled me back in. I do fear that he may be dead. Splendid chap. I’d rather you took a look at him.’
Simon did his best to examine the wound in the Egyptian’s chest and felt for his pulse. ‘I fear he has gone, sir.’
‘Ah.’ Cookson dropped his head back and closed his eyes.
The horse was now blown and Jenkins let him walk. But they were near to the gardens, and here the thoroughfare was much wider and quite empty. Eventually, they found the British consulate, without bothering Cookson further. He had relapsed into unconsciousness, although he was breathing evenly. Simon wondered what had made him set out in his open carriage in the narrow streets at such a dangerous time.
The consul’s wife greeted them anxiously, and Mr Cookson was lifted with care into his house and a doctor summoned. Mrs Cookson, a stout, competent woman, showed the imperturbability of a colonial officer’s wife, for she asked no questions about why they were wearing disguise, but declared that it would be unsafe to return that evening and insisted they stay in the consulate overnight. She fed them well, and by morning the consul had recovered sufficiently for Simon to visit his bedside. The reason for Cookson’s drive, it seemed, lay with Admiral Seymour.
‘The Admiral has threatened Arabi that he will open fire on the forts unless the defences are dismantled,’ confided Cookson. ‘I was visiting the leading Europeans still left in the city, warning them of this to give them one last chance of getting out or boarding up their houses.’ He raised himself on one elbow. ‘I don’t know how accurate these naval big guns are, but there is bound to be widespread damage to the town itself, I would have thought.’
‘Don’t distress yourself, sir,’ said Simon, gently pushing Cookson back on to his pillow.
‘No. I’m well recovered now. Managed to get round most of them until that mob caught me and you and your strange friends saved me. I really am most grateful to you, for I am sure that you saved my life. But you must tell me what you are doing here, at this difficult time, disguised as Arabs. Are you still serving in the army, then?’
Simon decided to dissemble. The consul was the senior representative of the British government in Alexandria, and, as such, was one of the main sources of information to the government, via the British agent in Cairo. He would not take lightly the fact that the army’s Adjutant General had set up his own lin
e of intelligence in Egypt. Simon recalled Wolseley’s warning that he was on his own.
‘No, sir. Here really on a bit of a holiday – Jenkins is my servant and Ahmed our interpreter. I am interested in archaeology and have been looking to see what I could buy to take home.’ He indicated his dress. ‘Got Ahmed to kit us out like this so that we could move around the streets more easily. I didn’t realise how bad things had become here.’ He decided to move off the shifting ground his lies were taking him towards. ‘But do tell me, sir, why has the Admiral gone so far? If he fires on Alexandria, that is tantamount to a declaration of war. Has he had instructions from London to do so, do you know?’
‘No. He says that his squadron is threatened by the shore defences, and that it is his duty to protect it.’
‘Good lord. The man must be mad.’
Cookson frowned in disapproval at the condemnation of such a senior figure by one so young. ‘Well, he has heavy responsibilities, you know. Nevertheless, you make a fair point, and I have begged him to wait while we continue to negotiate with the Khedive – who is here, of course – and Colonel Arabi. But Seymour is talking of putting a time limit on his threat; in other words, of issuing an ultimatum.’
‘What time will he put on that?’
‘I don’t know. It depends upon whether the Khedive and Arabi continue to prevaricate. I gather they have been doing this for the last few days – still promising to stop the work on the emplacements but not doing so. However, I feel that time is now running out. It is significant that I have had a message this morning to say that the French squadron has weighed anchor and sailed, leaving Seymour here on his own. I fear that the Admiral is no diplomat.’
Simon grinned at the thought. ‘I can imagine that, sir.’
Cookson frowned again, and the head that lay on the pillow now seemed older. ‘Look here, young man,’ he said, ‘er, forgive me, I’ve forgotten . . .’