The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  They found that the British line was under sustained artillery attack from, Simon estimated, some forty guns. Graham’s men had dug in along the Egyptians’ original lines and their disciplined rifle fire was holding back the attempts by the enemy’s infantry to launch frontal attacks. The artillery duel, however, was very one-sided, for Graham had only his two RHA guns, and although they were splendidly served by their men and accurately laid, their precious shells had to be conserved.

  Graham, his face streaked with perspiration, nodded to his guns when Simon had reported. ‘It’s a case of firing one bally round to twenty of theirs,’ he complained. ‘They’ve also brought up reinforcements by train from Tel el Kebir, so I estimate they’ve got about ten thousand against my merry band of odds and sods.’ Then he tugged at the end of his hanging moustache and gave a lugubrious smile. ‘Mind you, we shall hold out all right. They have kindly provided us with reasonable trenches to shelter from their cannon, and our rifles are stopping their infantry from coming at us across the open ground.’ His smile was replaced by the suspicion of a frown. ‘As long, that is, as Drury Lowe can protect my open right flank. That mustn’t be turned.’

  The confrontation continued throughout the long day, with the artillery fire forcing the defenders to keep their heads down, only for them to re-emerge above the trench parapets to direct volleys to deter the desultory attempts by the Egyptian foot soldiers to advance across the open ground. It was a stalemate, and as dusk descended, more and more heads turned to the north to detect any sign of the arrival of Drury Lowe and his Horse Guards.

  With no scouting role to play, Simon, Jenkins and Ahmed took their place in the line and suffered along with the rest of the defenders from the heat, the flies and, worst of all, the lack of water. The only source for this was the canal, but this was now discoloured and stank from the numerous animal carcasses that floated in it.

  Jenkins wrinkled his nose as he uncorked his canteen. ‘The bastards ’ave poisoned the canal deliberately by throwin’ corpses in it,’ he said. ‘Now that ain’t fair, eh?’

  Ahmed, sitting disconsolately with his back to the trench wall, shook his head. The marks on his face had had little chance to heal and he was forced continually to swat away the flies attracted to them.

  ‘No,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Koran commands that those killed in action are buried with proper ceremonies, et cetera, et cetera. Egyptians would not throw bodies in water. Too precious to be made deliberately mucky, anyway.’

  Simon grimaced. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He did so, and swallowed with difficulty, despite his thirst. ‘Best to use this stuff just to wet the lips and dampen a handkerchief to tie around the neck. Cholera is worse than sunstroke.’ He glanced up the line to the north. ‘It looks as though the cavalry have got through to the top there, otherwise we would have been attacked from the rear by now. I just hope that they’ve been able to bring cannon up with them. We could do with them.’

  It was long after dark when, at last, news came through from Drury Lowe that his brigade had successfully charged the guns and skirmishers of the Egyptians on the right flank, and that the enemy was in full retreat. Graham, who had himself mounted a rather hesitant advance from his trenches in support of what he had hoped was an attack from his cavalry in the north, was now able to withdraw his men and consolidate his line as more reinforcements dribbled in from the east.

  The next two days saw a resumption of the scouting work for Simon and his companions. Once, returning to the camp from another uneventful day riding over the hot sand, he exchanged glances with Smith-Denbigh. Simon nodded to him, but the Major gave no obvious sign of acknowledgement, merely following Simon with narrowed eyes as he plodded through the lines. Covington seemed to have disappeared, and Simon presumed that he had rejoined Wolseley and his staff in the east.

  In fact, the General himself rode up on the third day after the Kassassin engagement, and within an hour of his arrival, Simon found himself looking into Wolseley’s good eye.

  ‘Now, Fonthill,’ said the General (no jocular appellation of ‘cousin’ this time, noted Simon), ‘the time has come for me to have a good look at the el Kebir lines. My Indian division has disembarked at Ismailia from Suez, and I am reinforcing Kassassin rapidly, mainly by boat up the Sweetwater now that the canal has been cleared. It won’t be long before I have sufficient forces here to launch what I anticipate will be the knockout blow to Arabi at el Kebir. So I need to see the lines for myself. I will ride out at dawn with a squadron of cavalry, and I shall want you and your scouts to come with me.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Wolseley’s face looked drawn, and Simon wondered if the fever had returned.

  ‘Two more things.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You will remember, of course, that message you intercepted at Ismailia from Mahmoud Fehmy, one of Arabi’s leading advisers? He spoke of an informer, you will remember.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Well,’ Wolseley’s face broke into a bleak smile, ‘we’ve captured a man who has told us something about this informer. It seems that he is, or was, an employee of the Thomas Cook Company.’

  Simon felt his heart leap. ‘Not . . .?’

  ‘It has to be. Your nasty friend Mr George, the man I appointed to handle my confidential account at the agency. It seems that George turned on us after the bombardment of Alex . . .’

  ‘. . . and told them of my earlier cables to you.’

  ‘Exactly. It wasn’t only the bombardment, I suspect, that turned him, but also your own little contretemps with him, when many of his precious belongings were burned. However, it is of no account now, because he was rather too late with his information – or the Egyptians were slow to act on it – and as you know, we were able to land without interference.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but the man is English and remains a traitor.’

  ‘Well, he has certainly lost his job at Cook’s and probably left Cairo, but I doubt if he will be able to leave Egypt while the war continues. I shall make sure that he is found and brought to book as soon as hostilities are over. Like you, I have a personal debt to settle with him. But now, Fonthill, the other matter . . .’

  Wolseley’s tone had been cold throughout the exchange about George, and Simon realised that he was about to be carpeted.

  ‘Colonel Covington informs me,’ continued the General, ‘that you have been claiming that your little Egyptian scout is the favourite nephew of the Khedive and that you are a major of some seniority in the British Army. He also tells me that you told a pack of lies to ensure that the man was not brought before the Provost Major on a charge of insolence to a British officer. Is this true?’

  ‘More or less, sir.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, “more or less”? Is it true or isn’t it?’

  ‘Put like that, most of it is true.’

  The vein that had throbbed so in Wolseley’s confrontation with Alice now slipped into action again, although the General made a great effort to control his voice. ‘Then you had better explain yourself.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Simon also kept his voice level. ‘My Egyptian is certainly not related to the Khedive. He is a hotel-keeper – a very good one – who has always been helpful to Jenkins and me. We wanted an interpreter for our work here and he volunteered to join us, without pay, I may add. He has proved to be honourable, brave and a hard worker. Although he does not like fighting his own people, he helped us against the mob in Alexandria and also against the Egyptian garrison at Nefisha. He had just returned to Mahsama with an important message from me to General Graham when he fell foul of an officer of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ahmed, my scout, stumbled across a tent peg into one Major Smith-Denbigh, who swore at him. Ahmed told the Major that he had tripped over the peg, but he was shouted down. Ahmed is not used to being bullied in this fashion and was continuing to try and explain when the man slashed him twice across the face with his s
wagger stick and ordered his arrest. I found him that evening, after he had been shackled to the main pole of the guard tent for at least four hours. He had had no food or water nor any opportunity to relieve himself. His wounds were still bleeding when we tended them.’

  A silence fell over the tent. ‘But he was insolent?’ asked Wolseley.

  ‘Neither Covington nor I was present when the incident occurred. However, I obtained the facts from the Egyptian and confirmed them with Smith-Denbigh. From what I heard, I certainly would not regard Ahmed’s behaviour as insolent, but then I am not Smith-Denbigh.’

  ‘But why did you then tell such a pack of lies? Why not intervene with General Graham and ask for the man’s release?’

  ‘I did so. The General said that he was too busy to go into the case himself and that it should be left to the Provost Marshal.’

  ‘So?’

  Simon took a deep breath and leaned across the desk. ‘I had been ordered to ride with the General when he left for Kassassin the following day. I would not therefore be present to speak for Ahmed when the charge was heard. What chance would the word of an Egyptian have against that of a British Army major? I needed Ahmed to scout with me and Jenkins the next day and – far more importantly – I did not want this good man humiliated and given further punishment. I therefore confronted Smith-Denbigh to get the facts – and he corroborated what Ahmed had told me – and I then invented my rank and seniority and Ahmed’s false identity to, er, persuade him to apologise to my man and intervene with General Graham to have the charge withdrawn. He did so and that was that. All done and dusted without further fuss.’

  Simon sat back and held the General’s gaze. Wolseley looked away for a moment and then returned to the argument, albeit with a voice that was beginning to show doubt. ‘But you can’t go around telling those sort of lies, Fonthill, you know.’

  ‘With respect, General, what do you expect from a man who is more or less employed to tell lies? I am not a line soldier – in fact I am not a soldier at all. I am a spy-cum-scout. But I do work for you and you have given me the pay of a major and that of a warrant officer for my man Jenkins. I assumed that rank formally and momentarily to browbeat a bully who only understands that sort of language. The rubbish about Ahmed being the Khedive’s nephew was part of the same game. General, I had no time and no inclination to play this the army’s way. I had to do it my way. My word, but Smith-Denbigh changed his tune when he heard that he had hit the Khedive’s favourite nephew!’

  A slow smile spread across Wolseley’s face. ‘Yes, I can imagine.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Good lord, Fonthill, your methods are certainly most irregular, but I have to confess that they seem successful. I also have to tell you that, so far, I have been most grateful for all your efforts here in Egypt. However, I will wish to meet your man Ahmed when we ride out tomorrow. I shall examine his injuries and take matters from there.’

  Simon stirred uncomfortably. ‘I think I should warn you, sir, that if Smith-Denbigh or Covington tries to resurrect the charge against Ahmed, I shall bring a counter-charge against Smith-Denbigh for attacking a member of the civilian population.’

  Wolseley stood. ‘I don’t accept warnings of that sort and you will do nothing of the kind,’ he said. ‘You will leave the matter with me. Now get out of here, Fonthill, and don’t go about telling everyone that you are my mistress and claiming the rank of field marshal. Understood?’

  Simon grinned. ‘Understood, sir.’

  At the tent flap, Wolseley called him back. His voice was now almost plaintive. ‘Is there anything you can do to patch up this feud with Covington, for God’s sake? It could get out of hand, you know.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I think you should take that up with the Colonel.’

  Wolseley waved a dismissive hand. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Be ready to ride at dawn.’

  Sir Garnet liked to travel light and fast when on reconnaissance, and he had only a squadron of Dragoons with him when the small party assembled as the red of the sun began to fringe the horizon to the east. It was warm already, presaging another hellishly hot day. Wolseley called to Simon as soon as he rode up.

  ‘Where’s your man?’

  Simon called over an apprehensive Ahmed.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Muharram,’ beamed the General. ‘Do you mind if I take a look at those marks on your face?’

  ‘Ah, they are nothing, effendi.’ Ahmed was obviously as disconcerted at this attention as if he had been struck again. ‘Nothing at all, sir.’

  ‘No. Let me see.’ Wolseley turned the Egyptian’s face the better to get the benefit of the early morning light. ‘Hmmm. Nasty. Are you still in discomfort from them?’

  ‘What? Oh no, effendi. No hurt at all, at all.’

  ‘Good. Now, Mr Muharram . . .’ (where on earth had he got Ahmed’s second name from? wondered Simon), ‘I believe you are owed an apology for this, ah, incident. And on behalf of the army, I extend one to you now. I do hope that we can leave the matter there, for I do value the work you are doing with Major Fonthill.’

  Ahmed gave as elegant a bow as anyone riding a camel could possibly produce. ‘Of course, Sir General,’ he said. ‘Very happy, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s get on, shall we?’ He pulled his horse’s head round and caught a glimpse of Jenkins. ‘What the hell are you grinning at, 352?’

  ‘Who, me, sir? Nothin’, General bach. Nothin’ at all, see.’

  ‘Go ahead, Fonthill, and take your army of irregulars with you.’

  The party proceeded as fast as the horses could manage in the sand, Simon and his companions riding ahead, spread out in arrowhead formation, with Jenkins, inevitably, riding in the middle to ensure that he did not stray. They met no Egyptian outriders and eventually Simon pulled up on an incline of sand and granite and waited for the General.

  ‘I think this is as near as we can go, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s a reasonably good view from here through your glasses.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Wolseley quieted his horse with his hand and then levelled his field glasses at the lines, which could be clearly defined ahead, with the black blemish of the village of Tel el Kebir in the distant background to the left. He stayed that way for all of five minutes, scanning the horizon. Then he lowered his glasses and addressed Simon.

  ‘You’ve been into the village, I think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s that tall tower thing I can make out?’

  Simon raised his own binoculars. ‘Don’t quite know, sir. Some sort of old lookout tower, I think. Certainly not a mosque. You will remember that in an early report I mentioned that it could be dangerous to us in terms of it being used as a spotter tower for their guns.’

  ‘Exactly. Wilson.’ A colonel of artillery urged his horse forward. ‘Take a look at that tower. Could be used to range their guns, don’t you think? And what’s the chance of bringing it down with our own ordnance from this far out?’

  Wilson studied the distant building for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘We know that the enemy are good gunners, and they could well use the thing to range their cannon. With powerful glasses they would see where their shells were landing. They would use a heliograph or even a relay of signal flags to pass on corrections for their gun-layers. That tower ought to be put out of action, but we would never reach it accurately with the guns we have, sir. And if we tried, there would be a danger of killing civilians in the village there.’

  ‘Thought so. Right, let’s go further north and take a look from there.’

  The little party cantered off and reconnoitred the plain that rose from the southern end of the Egyptian lines, near the railway and canal, and stretched out into the desert. As Simon had noted, it provided no cover at all for attacking infantry, for the guns of el Kebir could send low-elevation shot and shrapnel screaming across the gravel that surfaced the plain, with little in their path except for the odd sand hill and clump of shrub.

  Wolseley rode the length of
the Egyptian lines, scribbling notes on his pad, before turning back to the east. He beckoned Simon to ride with him.

  ‘Now, my boy,’ he said. ‘I have a problem – in fact I have quite a few problems, but only one of them concerns you directly.’ Simon remained silent, but he felt that he would not welcome what was about to come. ‘That damned tower,’ the General continued. ‘It has to come down or the enemy will know exactly where to place their shells. Now, we can’t reach it with our own guns and I can’t exactly send a disposal squad of sappers to waltz through the enemy lines, nor a spearhead of Dragoons to carve their way through to the village in the face of what’s likely to be point-blank fire.’

  Simon gave a soulful grin. ‘But three men disguised as Bedawi might slip through and blow it up?’

  ‘Indeed they might. Now, I can’t order you to go, and for goodness’ sake, there would be no criticism of you if you decided to decline the honour and continue your career behind the lines as an impersonator of senior officers.’ He smiled. ‘But you would be our best hope.’