by John Wilcox
It had been the threat of the dams blocking the waters of the Sweetwater Canal that had concerned Wolseley when he had summoned Simon for a meeting immediately on his arrival at Ismailia. The General had seemed preoccupied and pale (as well he might, thought Simon, given the logistical nightmare facing him with the disembarkation of his army and supplies). He had even given up waxing his moustache, so that it now drooped either side of his mouth. His congratulations to his scout on the latter’s reports and action in sending the false telegram to Cairo were clearly sincere, but brief.
‘What I want from you now, Fonthill,’ he had said, ‘is to get out there, along the line of the canal and find out where they dam it, as I’m sure they will. Report on how well they’re defending the dams. I’m sending Graham out behind you with a considerable force as soon as he can get started. Report back to him and he will clear the dams as far as he can go, even up to Kassassin, if he can. I shall need the canal for drinking water on the advance and as a supply route. Off you go now on your bloody camel, and stay safe, my boy.’
Stay safe. So far on their reconnaissance they had met no danger, only discomfort. The Egyptians did not seem to have put out patrols near to Ismailia, although no doubt they were concentrating in force further up the rail line. Kneeling on his wooden saddle now, Simon could see no sign of troops defending the dam, although beyond it he could see a dark smudge that was the village of Maskhuta. This had been unoccupied when they had previously passed through it, but could well now be a point of defence for the dam and the railway itself. Well, there was only one way to find out . . .
They rode on, trusting to their disguise as Bedawi to protect them from indiscriminate fire, at least. But the dam seemed completely deserted. It had been hurriedly thrown up, that seemed clear, for no attempt had been made to seal the barrier of mud blocks and sand, so that water was seeping through. But it was effective enough to lower the level of water considerably below it. A couple of such blockages could completely cut off the water supply to Ismailia.
Simon levelled his glasses at Maskhuta. Although now much nearer and well within field gun range, a number of sand hills restricted his view. He could see, however, white-clad figures ranging along the hills and dull reflections from what could only be cannon.
He turned to the others. ‘We will turn off north out into the desert and see if we can get round these emplacements,’ he said. ‘Then I shall need you, 352, to ride back to General Graham . . .’
He stopped short. Jenkins, magnificent horseman, shot, knife-fighter, boot-cleaner, shirt-presser and, now, legal advocate, had two great failings: he drank too much and, more to the point now, he had absolutely no sense of direction. Simon frowned. Even with the rail track and the canal to guide him, there was no guarantee that the little Welshman would find Graham’s force marching behind them. The look of near panic that had crept into Jenkins’s eyes convinced him.
‘No’, he continued. ‘On second thoughts, I would like you, Ahmed, to ride back to the General. I will write you a message when I can see more detail. Let’s ride on now.’
Rather shamefacedly, Jenkins grinned his acknowledgement, and the three urged their camels out into the desert. It soon became obvious that Maskhuta was indeed the advance point of Arabi’s forces and that the Egyptians had erected a further dam there. The position was a smaller version of Tel el Kebir, with the enemy having dug trenches out into the desert with what looked like twelve guns set in emplacements, all of which also commanded the dam at Magfar. What was more, there was a fringe of cavalry lurking at the northern point of the trenches and a considerable number of white-clad troops manning the line. It looked very much as though Arabi intended to make a stand here, holding up Wolseley’s advance on Tel el Kebir.
As Simon made a rough sketch of what he could see of the defences, he was interrupted by Jenkins.
‘I don’t think we’re goin’ to be able to get round them lot,’ he said, pointing to where the Egyptian cavalry were mustered. As they watched, a detachment of about half a dozen horsemen began mounting and falling into line. It was clear that the trio had been seen.
‘Damn,’ said Simon. He looked at Ahmed. ‘Can horses outrun camels on this ground?’
‘Depends. If sand deep, no. If it get hard, yes.’
‘Right. We obviously can’t get round, so I think we had all better go back and warn Graham. Wait a minute, Ahmed.’ He scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it and handed it to the Egyptian. ‘If it looks as though they are going to overtake us, you go on ahead and give this to the General. We will try and hold them off while you get away.’ He pulled the head of his camel round. ‘Let’s head out to the north a bit to find the deeper sand. Come on.’
‘Oh, blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘No racin’ now, bach sir. You’re goin’ to find it a bit precarious up ’ere when we’re goin’ fast, see.’
They turned round and set their beasts to a lumbering trot. It soon became clear that their camels were made for the plodding walk of desert marathons, rather than short-distance sprinting. Racing camels they were not, and Simon, his left leg hooked desperately round the saddle cantle as he bumped and swayed to the irregular gait, had a horrible feeling that he was edging slowly to the left and an inevitable tumble to the ground. Way ahead of him, Ahmed was flying and had opened a considerable gap on the heavier Jenkins, who, impeccable horseman that he was, was sitting easily, flaying his mount’s side with his thin camel stick.
Clinging on for dear life, Simon looked at the ground. The sand certainly seemed deeper here and it billowed up from the pads of the animals ahead. Would it, however, delay horses? He ventured a look behind him. The six horsemen had fanned out but were clearly making heavy going of it, sending up their own much heavier clouds of sand. But were they gaining? He could not tell. One thing was sure, he could not stay on his blasted animal for much longer at this pace.
He called ahead: ‘Three five two.’
Jenkins reined in and Simon caught him up.
‘Let Ahmed ride on. My animal is not as fast as either of yours. Let’s dismount at the top of that rise ahead and put in a bit of rapid fire, to show that we have modern rifles and discourage these fellows.’
Jenkins nodded and grinned but, for once, stifled any jibe about Simon’s riding abilities. Together they rode to the top of a high sand dune ahead and, on its reverse slope, dismounted, then hurriedly hobbled their camels and crept to the top of the dune, rifles in hand. Their pursuers were some three hundred yards away, flogging their beasts as they floundered in the deepening sand.
‘Rapid fire,’ ordered Simon, and the two Martini-Henrys barked together. The lead rider, presumably the officer, immediately threw up his hands and fell from his horse, and the second horse, a bullet through its breast, sprawled in the sand, throwing its rider well clear. The other four cavalrymen reined in and milled around as they attempted to withdraw their carbines from their holsters. Jenkins’s second shot brought one of them down and Simon sent a bullet whistling between the remainder. It was enough. With hardly a backward glance, the three men pulled their horses’ heads round and galloped back the way they had come.
‘Well, bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins, climbing to his feet. ‘That wasn’t much of a fight, was it? They could ’ave done better’n that.’
‘I’m not sure they could. We caught them by surprise.’ Simon frowned. ‘I don’t think we can afford to go back to see if we can help anyone who is wounded, and anyway, those three should return when they’ve got their nerve back. Come on. I want to see Graham as soon as possible.’
They remounted and Simon set a course further south to regain firmer ground near the railway. They never did catch up with Ahmed, whose speed on the camel belied his earlier claim that he did not know the ways of the desert. They did, however, strike General Graham’s force just before nightfall. In fact, the General was not with the advance guard, but Sir Garnet Wolseley and his staff were. Simon was surprised to see the Commander-in-Chief, whom he had supp
osed to be back in Ismailia, sorting out the depressing conundrum of off-loading his men and supplies and getting them over that narrow bridge across the Sweetwater. He was immediately reminded of Wolseley’s contemptuous reference in London to ‘counting beans’. He would have been glad of the excuse to get out into the desert to contact the enemy, and he looked all the better for it.
The General and his senior officers was sitting round an open camp fire as darkness descended. They were studying a map, and Simon noticed that Wolseley had his note in his hand. The General looked up as Simon and Jenkins were led into the circle.
‘Good Gad, Fonthill.’ Wolseley grinned as he looked the pair of them up and down. ‘You two make as fine a pair of A-rabs as I have seen since landing in this bloody awful country. You do black up well, I must say. Come in and sit down and have a mug of tea. You too, 374.’
At that, Simon heard a distinct snort of disgust from the circle and caught the disapproving eye of Covington, the scar that stretched from under his patch across the cheekbone standing out blackly in the firelight.
‘Thank you, sir. Not shoe-blacking, though. Just sunburn. I see you have my note.’
‘Yes. Now fill me in completely. I thought that the Sweetwater level seemed to have fallen. Two dams, you say?’
Simon nodded, and described the results of their reconnaissance, while Jenkins, noisily supping his tea, sat bolt upright on the camp stool at his side, beaming and proud to find himself in the council of war but in no way daunted at being in its presence.
When he had finished, Wolseley nodded. ‘Well done, Fonthill.’ He looked around at his staff. ‘I’m glad we came, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think we would all agree that we need now to move urgently and engage the enemy at the first possible opportunity, to flush them out and clear those dams.’
There was a general murmur of approval, and Wolseley turned back to Simon. ‘I’ve got Major General Drury Lowe here,’ he nodded to a heavily moustached officer sitting with his elegantly booted legs thrust before him, ‘with the Household Cavalry, a detachment each of the 19th Hussars and the mounted infantry and two guns. General Graham is coming up behind with the 2nd Yorks and Lancasters and some Royal Marine artillery acting as cavalry.’ He grinned and pulled at his moustache. ‘Bit of a patchwork quilt, but had to take the chaps off-loaded first, don’t you know. Now, from what you’ve seen, have we got sufficient to clear the enemy from Maskhuta?’
‘With respect, General.’ Covington made his way into the circle of light. ‘With respect, I doubt whether Fonthill here has the capacity or the experience to give that sort of advice. He was in my regiment as a subaltern, you may remember, and I know him well. May I suggest that you go out with a detachment of cavalry tomorrow and take a look for yourself first, before making decisions?’
Simon flushed, and he felt Jenkins stiffen at his side and murmur, ‘Bloody cheek.’
Wolseley looked up and spoke coolly. ‘You seem to forget, Ralph, that Fonthill has served with me too, and I believe him to have a remarkably old head on his young shoulders.’ A testy note entered his voice. ‘Of course I shall bloody well go and have a look myself at first light, but if I want to act quickly, I need to send a message back to Graham tonight. Now,’ he turned back to Simon, ‘pray give me your opinion.’
Simon cleared his throat and avoided looking at Covington. ‘I would say you have enough men, sir, to flush the Egyptians out of Maskhuta, but you will be outgunned with just two cannon. The enemy have twelve guns, well emplaced. You will need more guns. And if I may suggest . . .’
‘Suggest away, though Ralph here may snort and fume.’ Sir Garnet looked up at Covington with a smile to temper his earlier tartness. Simon recalled that the two men had served together closely in the jungle during the Ashanti War.
‘Once you have cleared Maskhuta,’ Simon continued, ‘I think you should strike as far up the railway and canal as you can, sir, with the men you have now and those behind with General Graham, to stop any further damming of the canal and possible disruption to the railway. If you can fetch up more artillery, I think you could clear Kassassin and then pause to build up your strength before making your final attack at Tel el Kebir.’ Silence fell on the little gathering, and Simon wondered if he had gone too far. Wolseley sat looking at him.
‘Right,’ he said finally, slapping his thigh and standing. ‘Smithie,’ he called to an aide. ‘Draft orders immediately to General Graham, asking him to bring forward the 2nd DCLI from Nefisha and the Guards brigade and any cavalry and artillery that are available from Ismailia. Have the orders ready for me to sign within the half-hour, and a rider and escort to take them back. Drury, have your men ready to march out at first light. I shall be with you. And you two Arabs,’ he flashed a smile at Simon and Jenkins, ‘shall come too. Now, gentlemen, let us muster again at six for something to eat and then it must be an early night.’
He nodded his dismissal of Simon and Jenkins – it was clear that the dinner invitation was not completely inclusive – and strode away, leaving the little group to break up. Without a glance at Covington, Simon led Jenkins away to find Ahmed.
The three men made their own fire by their tent and ate well from the provisions that Jenkins, who had never lost his ability to forage, provided from a friendly army cook. When told that they would be part of the general advance in the morning, Ahmed betrayed a little apprehension.
‘It is not that I am afraid, Simon,’ he confessed. ‘But it will be a killing business, I think. Yes?’
‘Afraid so, Ahmed.’
‘I would not like to kill my own people, please. I know you understand. And I am a bit afraid of shooting off my foot again, anyway.’ His eyes opened earnestly. ‘I am good with first shot with your revolver. But it bounces back and I shoot second too soon. I worry I shoot off my toes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘Ooh blimey,’ said Jenkins, ‘you don’t want to lose them.’Ave you tried shootin’ with your eyes closed, like?’
Simon sighed. ‘Oh, take no notice of him, Ahmed. As you will have noticed, the Welsh are very peculiar. I do understand what you are saying, but I don’t think you need to worry. There will be plenty of other people to fire guns tomorrow. But keep your Colt with you at all times. You cannot be in a battle without some sort of protection. Now I think it’s time to turn in.’
Before he did so, Simon stood at the edge of the light cast by the fire and looked up at the sky, where the stars hung like sequins on a cloak of the darkest velvet. Only the munching of oats from the nearby horse lines and a stamped hoof disturbed the silence of the desert. Where was Alice on this night of such quiet beauty?
He was joined for a moment by Jenkins. ‘The old CO ain’t lost ’is charm, bach sir, ’as ’e?’
Simon smiled. ‘I don’t suppose Covington will ever change. He once believed me to be a coward. I would have thought that enough has happened over the last few years to prove otherwise, but he still hates me and I suppose he always will. One thing’s for certain – I have had enough of the bloody man now.’
Jenkins was silent for a moment, and then he coughed. ‘Would it be Miss Alice, d’yer think . . .?’
For once Simon did not flare up. ‘No. He never knew about us. I am sure that Alice, once she’d made up her mind about honouring her engagement after he was so badly disfigured, would never tell him. I am certain of that.
Perhaps the bastard just needs someone to hate. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Come on. Let’s get some sleep.’ The column set off long before sun-up, with Wolseley and his staff riding in the van and a thin screen of cavalry pushed far ahead. The General gestured for Simon to ride with him. Sir Garnet nodded to the rear.
‘The guns and the few carts we’ve got with us are having difficulty getting through the sand,’ he said. ‘I know you warned me about this in your cables, but it was just not possible to get sufficient pack camels and their handlers to join us in the time available, so we are going to have to put up with mules and such
.’
‘Can’t be helped, sir. Do you think that Arabi will stand and fight at Tel el Kebir?’
‘Undoubtedly. Always thought so. It’s the obvious place to try and stop me, once he knew that I wasn’t going to push south from Alex.’
This jolted Simon’s memory. ‘That message we intercepted at Ismailia, sir. It spoke of an informer warning that you would land there. Do you have any idea of who he might be?’
Wolseley frowned and brushed a fly from his moustache. ‘No. But it did concern me, of course. Obviously it couldn’t be anyone on my staff, and very few people knew of my plans. However, once we were seen off Port Said, the cat was out of the bag. Anyway, we were able to disembark without any interference, so all was well in the end.’
It was Simon’s turn to frown. ‘Yes, sir, but if we hadn’t intercepted that telegram and sent the false one back by return, that extra battalion would have arrived before you’d landed and could have made all the difference to you taking the town.’
‘Mmm.’ The General’s frown was now a scowl. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ He seemed to find distasteful the idea that his plans could have been fallible, and looking at the scowl, Simon recalled that vanity so often seemed to accompany ability in the top echelons of the British Army. Wolseley gestured ahead. ‘Take your two chaps and range out there well ahead of the cavalry. You might be able to lure the Egyptians to attack you and bring them on to our cavalry. Off you go.’
So dismissed, Simon called Jenkins and Ahmed and they pushed their camels into a trot to join the horsemen a mile ahead and then out through the screen into the empty desert beyond. If the Egyptians had intelligence that a British column was approaching them, then there was no evidence of it, for Simon found that, as before, the first dam at Magfar was undefended by troops, and no screen of skirmishers had been extended before the trenches of Maskhuta.