by John Wilcox
They passed the gangers’ shed where they had made their stand against the marauding Bedawi, and plodded on, following the railway line to the east, the broad pads of the camels’ feet spreading in contact with the sand to gain purchase and then flicking the golden grains behind them in uninterrupted, hypnotic sequence. It was hot, damned hot, and Simon had to force himself to keep awake.
Some seven miles from Ismailia, they reached the tiny village of Magfar, where Simon realised that the low-lying nature of the terrain would make it easy for the Egyptians to break down the banks of the Sweetwater and dam it, so lowering the level of the canal or even drying it up completely, denying the invading force both a source of fresh water and a means of transportation.
They pressed on and camped that night just outside Tel el Maskhuta, another of the hamlets that studded the railway line, providing occasional labour to maintain it and its neighbouring waterway. They erected their low communal tent and used a little camel dung to light a fire, then made coffee and ate some cold mutton. As the sun went down, they were visited by an Egyptian cavalry patrol. While Ahmed spoke to them, Simon regarded them carefully from under his esharp. They rode their camels with confidence and were armed with modern Remington rifles. Their commander was a Turk, who spoke to Ahmed with an obvious air of superiority and, it soon became apparent, indifference, for he led his troop away after only a few minutes of conversation.
‘Did you learn anything, Ahmed?’ asked Simon.
‘Little. They are patrolling much desert and are living at Kassassin. But he says the fighting is in north and they are bored. They think they don’t ever fight here.’
‘Good. The bluff is still holding.’
The village proved to be of little strategic importance, unlike Kassassin, to which they pushed on through the day. Here the Sweetwater curved roughly north – south, and although little more than a collection of huts huddled on the western side of the canal at a bridge across it, the village guarded a lock whose possession would ensure a defending force an easy opportunity to cut off the supply of water for the troops advancing from Ismailia and so deny them the ability to carry stores and provisions up the canal. As Ahmed had originally heard, the village was not strongly defended, but earthworks had been erected that clearly could be supplemented quickly if necessary.
The three rode on the next day, following the railway line towards Tel el Kebir, but Simon’s brow was now permanently furrowed. He realised now how vulnerable Wolseley would be to any sabotaging of the railway line and, even more importantly, the Sweetwater. Given the tiny pier at Ismailia and the bottleneck of the single bridge across the canal, which would have to be crossed to march west, the disembarkation of troops at Ismailia would be a lengthy business. Even if most of Arabi’s troops were still facing a disgrunted Hallam outside Alexandria, the Egyptian leader could still use his railway to rush troops to the eastern desert to oppose the advance, blow up the Cairo – Ismailia railway and sabotage the Sweetwater Canal, while Wolseley was still slinging his guns from ship to shore. All of this presuming that Sir Garnet would be able to bottle up both ends of the Suez Canal before the Egyptians sank lighters across the waterway to block it and prevent his ships reaching Ismailia in the first place!
Tel el Kebir presented Simon with more reasons to ponder the wisdom of his advice to Wolseley. The village itself, grouped on the southern side of the railway and the canal, boasted a station, a strange tall stone tower (useful for guiding long-range gunfire?) and a small, seemingly permanent barracks for Egyptian troops. It was impossible, of course, to estimate the number of soldiers based here, but the force seemed to be quite considerable and again, of course, could be supplemented by rail at short notice. More impressive, however, were the fortifications dug into the sand and gravel.
These were unfinished, but they stretched due north of the canal and railway out into the desert. Having sauntered into the village, the three men retraced their steps across the single bridge at the station and slowly walked their camels back towards where the entrenchments began to the east of the village. There, they turned the heads of their mounts to the north and began to follow the line of fortifications out across the sand. Simon soon appreciated the wisdom of the choice of Tel el Kebir for the defence of Cairo. Here, the desert was completely flat and there was no cover of any kind for anyone attempting a frontal attack: no dunes, no buildings and hardly a shrub in sight. The trenches were still being dug, but no one was working in that midday heat and the three attracted little curiosity as they plodded along, seemingly only interested in finding a way around the obstacle before rounding it and heading west again. In fact, Simon was making a surreptitious sketch of the fortifications as he rode, his head nodding sleepily to the rhythm of the camel’s movements.
A continuous line of earthworks, of course, was being thrown up in front of the trenches. These were high and would pose major problems for infantry attempting to storm them. But it was the artillery emplacements that impressed. These consisted of ten redoubts of varying sizes at intervals along the lines. The strongest sections were in the south, near the canal and railway, where there were ten guns; the centre, with two redoubts a thousand yards apart, one with four guns, the other with five; and the tip of the line in the north, where there was a total of seven guns in two more redoubts similarly spaced. Some thousand yards in front of the entrenchments and sixteen hundred yards north of the canal was an advanced redoubt with eight guns and trenches for infantry.
The whole line stretched, Simon estimated, for at least two miles out into the desert, and when the three riders reached the northern tip, they could see further entrenchments being dug behind the main line, running back for about three and a half thousand yards from the centre of the line and facing north-west to protect the Egyptians’ camp, which could be seen shimmering in the distant rear. This line, which also protected the tip of the main line from attack from the north, mounted no fewer than twenty-four further guns.
Simon sat back in his saddle and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Jenkins urged his camel alongside.
‘Blimey,’ said the Welshman. ‘Guns galore.’
‘Yes.’ Simon recalled Wolseley’s estimation back in London of the strength of the Egyptian army: untried infantry but the artillery was good – very good. ‘Yes,’ he mused, running his eye back down the line to where it disappeared in the heat haze to the south and squinting where the sun reflected from the pewter-coloured steel of the new Krupp cannon. ‘Anyone attacking them across this open ground will have to go through an inferno.’ He sighed and his gaze fell on Ahmed.
The little Egyptian had not spoken for some while and had dropped a little way behind his companions. He was now slumped in his saddle, contemplating the fortifications. Simon edged towards him and was surprised and embarrassed to see that Ahmed’s eyes were moist.
‘Are you all right, Ahmed?’ he asked. ‘Be careful. This sun is damned hot.’
‘No.’ The Egyptian gave a wan smile, pulled out a huge red handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘It’s not sun, Simon. It’s . . . it’s . . .’ He blew his nose again and waved his hand. ‘It’s bloody guns, that’s what it is.’
Simon frowned. ‘Sorry, old chap. I don’t quite . . .’
‘Bloody guns.’ He stood in his stirrups and gestured. Now he was not tearful but angry. ‘All these big guns. All these soldiers. But nobody in Cairo can spare troops to protect my brother and other people crossing desert in caravans from Bedawis. No money for that, they say. Who pay for all this – all these German cannon, eh? I tell you. Poor fellaheen, that’s who. They pay with their taxes and if they don’t pay taxes they beaten with kourbash. I see it. My father was beaten. I was beaten as a boy by tax collectors with their whips. Now the money goes to fight British – the British who help us! They stop cheating in government and help the Khedive. They stay at my hotel. Why bloody hell fight them? Silly, silly, silly.’ And he blew his nose again.
Simon and Jenkins exchanged glances. The
little man was rarely opinionated, usually only anxious to help and, as time went on, clearly a little more apprehensive about ‘the fighting’. But this was a new side to him. Simon couldn’t think what to say. He patted Ahmed on the shoulder and pulled the head of his own camel round. ‘Come on. I’ve seen enough. Let’s go before they start questioning us.’
Simon set the course for their return journey a little further north of the canal and railway, the better to test the conditions to be faced by an army marching in some width across the desert. Here, as he had feared, the sand was deeper, and he realised that it would be difficult for wheeled vehicles to progress and that the British Army’s two great beasts of burden, the horse and the mule, would be at a great disadvantage. As, of course, would be marching soldiers. He began drafting his report to Wolseley around the camp fire that night.
The problem of how to communicate with the General, at least, was solved on their return to Ismailia. Half fearing that the Royal Navy would have taken the Canal before their return, Simon was relieved to see that all was still serene in the little town, with the usual procession of steamers of various nationalities making its cautious way between the high banks of the Canal before entering the broader waters of Lake Timsah. Only the presence of an innocent enough Royal Navy gunboat, anchored off the pier head in the lake, provided any possible indication of unusual British interest in the town.
Repossessing their rooms in the hotel, the three men relinquished their Bedawi disguise and Simon completed his report. The hope that the gunboat would have direct Morse contact with the General’s HQ prompted him to eschew the use of any clumsy code, but he kept his message terse and factual. He warned Wolseley of the guns of Tel el Kebir, of the entrenchments there, of the problems of advancing across the desert in heat and sand and of the vulnerability of the railway and the Sweetwater Canal. It was vital, he urged, to land a flying column at Ismailia very quickly ahead of the main force to strike out into the desert and secure these two ‘desert highways’ at least as far as Kassassin before they could be sabotaged.
To Simon’s relief, he found that the British gunboat not only knew of his identity but had been expecting him. Wolseley thought of everything! The young lieutenant in command of the vessel welcomed him aboard and assured him that his report would be immediately telegraphed to the General, who was now, it seemed, steaming towards Port Said with his fleet of transports. As the message was tapped out in the wireless room, and over a large glass of gin and bitters in his small cabin, the young officer, appropriately bearded, brought Simon up to date with plans to take the Canal.
‘It’s all poised to go tomorrow, old chap,’ he confided. ‘The navy, thank goodness, is doing the whole job – with the marines, of course. Both ends are to be closed at exactly the same time, and Commander Edwards on HMS Ready will steam down the Canal, take over all barges and dredgers between Said and here, and make all ships in the waterway move into the gares.’ He chortled. ‘What’s more, Orion, Northumberland and Coquette, plus five hundred marines will be here by daybreak to take over the lock and the Governor’s house. By jove, I would love to see the look on old de Lesseps’s face when this lot gets in.’
‘De Lesseps?’
‘Yes, you know, the Johnny who built the damned Canal in the first place?’
‘Ah yes. Of course.’
‘Well, he built himself a capital mansion here, and he runs virtually all of the pilots who work the Canal. He’s very anti-British, and that’s already posed a problem, because we know he’s likely to withdraw the pilots as soon as the navy goes in. As a result, we’ve had to allocate a naval officer to every transport to con them down the canal. Tricky business, particularly as our ships haven’t got the proper gear to steer in a narrow channel. Another gin?’
‘No thanks.’
‘This very evening, by the way, old de Lesseps is holding a dinner in his house for the officers of the garrison here in honour of Arabi. Bit of a cheek, eh? Trailing his coat a bit, what?’
Simon frowned. ‘I presume he has a telegraph office here?’
‘Yes. It’s on the quay, just to starboard.’ He pointed.
‘Do we know the name of the telegraph manager?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do. Difficult little bugger called Mahmut Sadat. He’s been very unhelpful since we’ve been here. Why do you ask?’
‘When do you expect your ships to berth here?’
‘In the early hours.’
‘And when will the marines land?’
‘At dawn. You’ve obviously got something in mind.’
‘Absolutely.’ Simon smiled. ‘Could I borrow your wireless operator at first light?’
‘Ah. I see where you’re bearing. A false message back to Cairo, eh?’
‘Yes. In the manager’s name, it could cause confusion at the very least. I presume they don’t transmit in Arabic, for God’s sake, do they?’
‘No, French or English. Usually English, I think. That’s the main language of the Canal, given the number of our merchant ships that pass through.’
‘Good. Ask your chap to be on the quayside just before dawn and I’ll tell him what to do. Now I must be off. Thanks for the gin.’
‘A pleasure, old boy. I must say, you intelligence chaps are very inventive.’
‘Intelligence?’ Simon’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, well, I suppose that’s what we do. Never quite thought of it like that. We’re supposed to be just scouts.’ He smiled again. ‘Nice to be called intelligent, anyway. Thanks again for the drink.’
Back in the hotel, Simon sat down with Jenkins and Ahmed to tell them of the imminent invasion. Jenkins just grinned and nodded, but Simon’s thoughts went again to Ahmed, who was about to see his country attacked by foreign troops. If the little Egyptian had harboured any lingering doubts about continuing to serve Simon and the British, however, the sight of the guns of Tel el Kebir had removed them, for he raised no objection to helping in the takeover of the telegraph shed the next morning.
‘I do not want to kill my people,’ he explained, ‘but I want to push this Arabi down. So I want to help you get on with it. Not too much fighting though, eh?’
‘Not too much, Ahmed. I will do my best.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh, it’ll be a lovely little tea party, look you. Don’t you two worry about gettin’ your ’ands dirty for a minute, see. Old 352 will do whatever’s nasty, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’
Ahmed frowned at first, and then his thin face broke into a smile. ‘Ah, 352, you pull my legs. Like you say, all Welshmen have one leg shorter than the other because they live in mountains and walk only one way round. Ha, ha. Very funny . . . I think.’
Jenkins shook his head sadly. ‘Oh bloody ’ell. I’d better go an’ oil the rifles.’
Simon took the opportunity to lie on his bed and, for the first time, allow himself to think of Alice. If Wolseley had kept his promise, then she would be with him as a member of the press contingent, sailing now with his transports on the way to Port Said and then on to Ismailia. That meant that she would also be with Covington. He stared at the inadequately whitewashed ceiling, seeing but not recording the pieces of plaster peeling away. What a strange situation! Would they live as man and wife on the ship and sleep together? He tossed his head. Surely not. To do so would certainly threaten their respective positions. A man couldn’t take his wife with him on active service. But after the campaign, what then . . .? He closed his eyes. They would return to their normal married state, of course, living together, presumably trying to have children and . . . Damn it all! He sat upright. He must stop thinking like this. Alice was not his, she was Covington’s and that was bloody well that! He grabbed a pencil and began drafting his faux telegraph to Cairo.
Long before the indigo sky to the east was fingered by the new day’s sun, Simon and his companions had made their way to the quayside. Ismailia was tucked away on the northwestern side of Lake Timsah, just where the Suez Canal debouched into the lake, so offering sufficien
t room for ocean-going ships to anchor, and water deep enough for them to do so. Just as the gunboat captain had promised, three ironclads were now anchored off the pier head, looking grey and menacing in the semidarkness, and even though the hour was early, marines could be seen mustering on their decks. Waiting on the quayside was the young wireless operator from the gunboat. Telling him to stand by, Simon availed himself of the gunboat’s tender to take him out to Orion, which the lieutenant had told him carried the force’s leader, Captain Fitzroy. Dressed as he was in his Arab garments, he was not exactly welcomed on the deck of the vessel, where all seemed organised chaos, but he prevailed upon the Marine Major to take him to the Captain, standing aloof on the quarterdeck.
‘Captain Fonthill, sir,’ said Simon. ‘General Wolseley’s intelligence officer’ (how much better that sounded than ‘scout’!), ‘working here in Egypt.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The Captain’s frown disappeared. ‘I’ve heard of you, Fonthill. Now, for God’s sake, you’ve not come to tell me to stop this bloody invasion, have you?’
Simon grinned. ‘No, sir. Three things for you, though. First, there are about two thousand Egyptian troops based just over there, perhaps a couple of miles into the desert at Nefisha. You could lay a barrage on the place as soon as it is light. Hopefully that should prevent any attempt to stop you landing in force. Second, I must tell you that I intend to break into Monsieur de Lesseps’s telegraph office on the quayside there and transmit a false message to Cairo, exaggerating your strength and warning against attacking Ismailia.’