The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Following a compass course, they soon picked up Covington’s trail in the virgin desert beyond the well-trodden sand surrounding the camp, and they made good time by bright moonlight. But after the exertions of the last twenty-four hours, they both began to nod in their saddles and Simon called a halt. Without lighting a fire or eating, they tumbled into their bedrolls, too tired to set a guard. Within five hours, however, they were up and riding off again into the star-sprinkled darkness.

  They rode on through the next day trusting to the compass alone, for two brief desert storms had long since removed the signs of Covington’s progress, although the ashes of a small dung fire and an empty British cigarette packet showed that they were on the right track. Otherwise, they saw and heard nothing in that empty desert.

  It was early on the morning of the third day that they heard firing, directly ahead of them. Simon checked his compass and the map. They should indeed be very near the oasis of Dakhlami. Dismounting, they hobbled the camels and, taking their rifles, crawled up to the crest of the sand dune facing them and carefully looked over its edge. Only another, higher dune faced them. They ascended that on their hands and knees and looked down on to the little oasis below them.

  Some twenty palm trees stood tall and still, no desert breeze disturbing their hats of green fronds. With relief, Simon also noted that no body swung from their tops. Twenty or so mud huts were scattered around a number of stone-lined wells, linked by narrow irrigation channels that meandered between the roots of the palms, sometimes giving enough moisture to sustain what looked like patches of rice and little clumps of fig trees and so bestowing life on the village in this desolate spot. More importantly, however, Simon could see Covington’s charger tethered outside one of the huts. Three Arabs were spread out in front of the hut, sheltering behind palm trunks and firing in sequence with their rifles at a fourth figure, who was taking inadequate shelter behind the low wall of one of the wells and attempting to return their fire with a revolver.

  ‘Is Alice with him?’ hissed Simon. The answer came when Covington sprang from behind the wall to shelter behind the slightly more hospitable cover of another hut.

  ‘No,’ said Jenkins, easing his rifle to his shoulder. ’E’s tryin’ to get back to the ’ut where ’is ’orse is. Perhaps she’s still in there.’

  ‘The idiot. He’s made a mess of it. I knew he would.’ Simon put his hand on Jenkins’s shoulder. ‘No. Don’t shoot. I don’t want anyone to know we are here yet.’ He bit his lip. ‘The question is, is Alice still alive and is she still in that hut, or has George taken fright and bolted with her? And where the hell are the villagers?’

  That question, at least, was answered when they caught a glimpse through the palms of a cluster of dark-shrouded figures, men, women and children, crowded together on the crest of a dune on the far side of the village. Then they heard the cries of frightened children.

  ‘The firing has driven them out. Good. Let’s see if we can get round that side, creep into the village that way and get behind the hut where Covington’s horse is. If George has fled, we should be able to see his tracks and follow them.’

  ‘What about Covington?’

  ‘I’ll worry about him later.’

  Bending low, to be beneath the skyline, they scrambled round the edge of the village, Simon using the top of the tallest palm as a marker. They were heartened to hear the firing continuing, showing that Covington was still putting up a fight. They crossed Covington’s tracks approaching the village and showing where he had been met, presumably by George’s men, and forced to dismount. Their route took them up behind the gaggle of villagers, who were all intent on watching the gunfight below them. The arrival of Simon and Jenkins from behind them, carrying their rifles, caused great consternation and Simon gestured to them to keep quiet.

  He beckoned to one man, who came forward reluctantly, his eyes wide with fright. Simon pointed to the hut. ‘George?’ he asked. ‘Effendi George?’ The man shook his head, clearly not understanding. Simon desperately tried to recall George’s Arabic name – the name he had used to rent the house in Alexandria.

  Then it came to him: ‘Ahmed Kamul?’ he asked. Again, the man looked uncomprehending. Simon repeated it, giving the ‘Ah’ the rasping sound that Ahmed had taught him. ‘Ahmed Kamul?’ Now the man nodded his head eagerly, delighted to understand and not be shot. He pointed to the hut.

  Simon drew in a slow breath. He had remembered the Arabic for woman, but he dreaded the answer to the next question. ‘Mar’a hurma?’ he asked, pointing again to the hut. ‘Mar’a hurma inglizi?’ Again the man nodded his head, his eyes wide, and pointed to the hut.

  Simon blew out his cheeks in relief and turned to Jenkins. ‘They’re still there, then – but whether dead or alive I don’t know.’

  ‘Right, bach sir. Let’s go down and see, shall we?’ The Welshman’s face was as though set in stone.

  ‘Yes.’ Simon looked down on the village and frowned. ‘We will approach the hut by the back. If there is a back door, we will get in that way. But there’s usually only one way in to these places. If we have to go in by the front, we must remain hidden until the last moment – from Covington as well as George’s men, because he will take us for Arabs and could well shoot. Now, wait a second.’

  Simon turned to the villagers. Slowly he swung the muzzle of his gun across them and held his finger to his lips. The man he had spoken to and several of the women nodded in eager acquiescence. Then Simon led the way down the sloping dune and began running from hut to hut, Jenkins close behind.

  When they reached the central hut, Simon held up his hand. There was no door at the rear. ‘You go round the hut to the left and I’ll go to the right,’ he whispered. ‘I will take the man on the right; you take the other two. Shoot to kill. I will go into the hut, and you shout to Covington to cease firing. Don’t forget to reload. Right?’

  Jenkins nodded.

  ‘Right. Gol!’

  They ran their different ways, and once he had reached the front of the hut, Simon found that the three Arabs were close and easy targets. Without compunction, he fired into the back of the nearest man and heard Jenkins shoot also. Quickly thumbing a cartridge into the Martini-Henry’s magazine, he took a deep breath and crashed the heel of his boot into the door of the hut, sending it swinging open. He ducked inside and presented his rifle to the interior.

  At first, the contrast of the darkness after the brightness of the sun outside rendered him sightless. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they took in a scene that he would remember always.

  Alice, in a déjà vu tableau from the house in Alexandria, was standing on a low table near a mud wall, her feet bound together. She appeared to be soaked in blood from throat to feet. Around her neck was a noosed rope with its end looped over a piece of timber spanning the roof of palm leaves – but this time the rope was not taut but hanging loosely. She was gagged and her left wrist was secured by a steel handcuff to a large staple in the wall, but her other hand was free and she was working the end of a bloodstained fork into the handcuff in an attempt to open the mechanism. Across her feet, like some stone hound in effigy at the bottom of a Crusader’s tomb, lay the body of George, blood still oozing from a ghastly wound at his throat. She froze as Simon jumped through the doorway, and for a second, the two gazed at each other across the spartan room.

  ‘My God,’ cried Simon, and leapt to Alice, taking her in his arms. He kicked away George’s inert form and lifted her down, the rope around her neck sliding down from the beam. Then he sat her on the table and untied the gag.

  ‘Oh, Simon.’ Her voice was hoarse and little above a whisper. ‘How amazing! Thank God you have come. Don’t worry, it’s not my blood. Now, this damned handcuff. The key is in his pocket but I couldn’t reach him. Unlock me, please. Where is Ralph?’

  ‘He’s all right. He’s conducting a one-man war with George’s bodyguards.’ Simon pushed away the body of the clerk with his foot and fumbled in
his pockets. He realised that the firing outside had stopped, although he could hear Jenkins’s unmistakable voice shouting. ‘I think Jenkins has seen to them. Here, now.’ He found the key and unlocked the handcuff. Then he bent and undid the bindings around her ankle. A sudden thought struck him.

  ‘How many men did George have?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Good. Then we have got rid of them all. Water?’

  ‘Oh yes. Over there, on the big table.’ She drank quickly, sending little streams down her chin, before handing the gourd back to him. Then she regarded him in silence for a moment, a tear emerging from her eye, before she began to shake. Immediately, Simon took her in his arms and began rocking her and patting her back, whispering, ‘It’s all right, my darling. It’s all right. You are safe now.’

  That was how Covington and Jenkins found them a minute later. Simon looked up, met the Colonel’s gaze and self-consciously released Alice from his embrace. He felt ridiculously guilty. ‘She was trembling,’ he said, and moved away.

  Covington paid no heed, but strode forward and took Alice in his own arms. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Alice pushed him away gently. ‘It’s all right, Ralph.’ She spoke firmly now. She nodded to the body. ‘It’s his blood. I killed him.’

  ‘What!’ The exclamation came together from the three men.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment,’ she said. Then her eyes widened. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Ah, don’t you worry your ’ead about them, miss,’ said Jenkins. ‘I’ve seen to them . . . well, the Captain got one and I finished off the rest, see.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alice summoned up a wan smile for Jenkins. ‘It is so good to see you again, 352,’ she said. ‘You always seem to be there when I want you most.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that . . .’

  Simon, his face now set firmly without expression, interrupted. ‘We will be outside if you want us,’ he said coldly. ‘We will get the villagers to dispose of the . . . er . . . bodies and so on. Come on, 352.’ He turned on his heel and strode out into the sunshine. Walking to the three bodies, where flies were already circling above the blood draining into the sand, he gestured to the men and women who were now beginning to straggle hesitantly back down the slope of the dune. The man he had spoken to earlier came running. Simon gestured to the bodies, took out a handful of coins and made a digging motion. The man immediately understood and beckoned to his fellows. In less than a minute, the corpses had been removed.

  Simon turned to Jenkins. ‘Let’s get the camels and water them,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to waste any time in getting back to Kassassin.’

  ‘Yes, bach sir, but what about Miss Alice?’

  ‘Her husband will look after her. Come on.’

  Haltered, the camels had not strayed far, and Simon and Jenkins also gathered Covington’s horse and the five camels that, by the look of them, had served as mounts for Alice, George and his three accomplices. ‘We’ll leave one of these camels for the villagers,’ said Simon, ‘and use the others. The army will be glad to have them and the extra beasts we can use to spell each of us in turn. Remember, we have to be back before the attack starts.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Jenkins was interrupted by the emergence from the hut of Alice, leaning on Covington’s arm. The Colonel, his face set grimly, ignored them and led Alice to a low wall under a palm tree where there was shade. Without looking at Simon he called, ‘Fonthill. Make yourself useful and see if the villagers can get us some food. Smartly now, dammit.’

  Simon exchanged glances with Jenkins, but nodded and found again the man who appeared to be the leader. Cursing Ahmed’s absence, he made eating gestures with his fingers and mouth and found more coins. But his sign language was immediately understood and the man issued orders. Within minutes, they were sitting in the shade of the palms, drinking blessedly cool well water and eating dates, figs and a little rice. Alice, the blood now caked on her well-worn desert garments, seemed calm but quiet, as though stunned by her experience.

  ‘Now, my darling,’ said Covington, who spoke as though Simon and Jenkins were not present, ‘you don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to, but perhaps it might do you good to tell me what happened. Get it off your chest, so to speak. Be a bit cathartic, don’t you know. Eh?’

  Alice took a deep breath and looked at them all in turn. ‘The first thing I want to say,’ she said, speaking slowly and so quietly that they all had to bend forward a little to hear her, ‘is to express my gratitude to all of you and to apologise for leading you into this terrible place.’

  ‘Noo,’ beamed Jenkins. ‘Not a bit of it, miss. Glad to be of service, see.’ Covington turned to the Welshman as though to rebuke him, but thought better of it. Simon remained silent, looking as though hypnotised by the pale, drawn, bloodstained face opposite him.

  Alice sighed and continued her story, explaining how she had been tricked into hiring George and how she had been brought to the oasis, where the other two men were waiting. She looked up apologetically. ‘It was all carefully planned. George told me that he would use me as a bargaining counter to enable him to get out of the country. He said that we had ruined his business and that he was wanted by the British in the north and could not find a ship to take him to Greece.’ She frowned. ‘He seemed to know all about me – about you, Ralph, and you, Simon. He seemed to have spies everywhere and must have been watching me somehow, since he saw me in Port Said. Of course, he wrote that letter to you, Ralph, from here.’

  Covington swallowed hard. ‘Did they . . . did they . . . er . . . hurt you or interfere with you at all, my darling?’ You know what I mean.’ ‘No,’ Alice replied quite coolly. ‘Not in that way. George hit me several times, and, of course, he pricked my finger to put the bloodstain on the letter, but otherwise, no. I had the impression that he was reaching the end of his tether and was becoming more and more desperate. That was the worst thing. I thought he might just go over the edge and kill me, out of hand. So I tried to be placatory . . . you know.’

  Alice shook her head for a moment, as though in denial, then summoned a rag from her pocket, blew her nose vigorously and sat very upright. She looked at the ground and continued her story in a dull monotone. ‘However, I could not keep up that pretence and I flew at George one evening, shortly after we arrived here. He then had me bound and gagged and, as you could see, handcuffed by one hand to that staple thing in the wall. That was very uncomfortable.’

  ‘The bastard,’ Covington hissed. ‘What a swine,’ agreed Jenkins. Simon remained silent.

  ‘The problem was,’ continued Alice, ‘that I had no weapon because, of course, they took away my revolver. I refused to eat with my fingers and insisted on being given a knife and fork, in the hope that I could hide the knife. But they always took it away after each meal – although I did manage to keep the fork.’ She looked at them all quickly. ‘I presume that they felt I could do no harm with it.’ She gave a mirthless smile and her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘But they were wrong.

  ‘Sitting for days in that hut, with one hand shackled, I had plenty of time to think, and I can tell you, I was not very proud of myself. I felt I had been selfish and unthinking.’ She looked at them all very quickly once again and gave a brief shrug of the shoulders. ‘I tried to devise ways of attempting to escape but I was completely helpless. Then, this morning, there was a great commotion and you, Ralph, were brought into the village.’

  Covington frowned and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was intercepted just outside and did not try to resist – produce my rifle or that kind of thing, and I kept my revolver in its holster. I was, of course, quite prepared to parley.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Simon quietly.

  ‘I demanded to see you.’ Covington spoke only to Alice, still ignoring the others, as though it was she who had asked the question. ‘This was to see if you were alive, of course. They allowed me
a glimpse of you, in that hut, with that disgusting rope around your neck, standing on the table. Then I was told to go outside and I met George for the first time. You can imagine . . .’ he paused and smoothed his moustaches, ‘that I was very upset to see you like that. But I kept myself under control and tried to deal with the little swine rationally. He seemed in a state of some anxiety and demanded to see Wolseley’s letter, of course. That was satisfactory and seemed to quieten him down a bit. But when I had to explain that I was not able to bring him gold coins but only a bank draft, he lost his temper and began to scream and shout that we were trying to cheat him and that you would swing.’ He paused and coughed. ‘And that, I am afraid, is when I rather lost my temper.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Alice.

  ‘Yes, well . . . I hit the little bastard with my hook and tried to get to the hut. Two of the others then piled into me, so to speak, but I was able to throw them off. I confess I was fighting like a madman by now, and this was one of the few times when this damned hook actually was an advantage. The third chap was standing off with a rifle but couldn’t get a line on me, what with the scuffle and all. Then a rifle bullet went by my ear and I sprinted for the nearest tree and drew my revolver. I winged one of them, I think, and I was trying to work my way round to the hut and making some headway, mainly because, luckily, those chaps weren’t good shots.’ Covington looked appealingly to Alice. ‘I couldn’t see George anywhere and I was desperate at the thought that he might have run back to the hut to do you harm.’

  Alice nodded slowly. ‘Indeed he had. When I was trussed up for inspection, so to speak, the end of the rope was tied fairly loosely to a peg in the wall. When George went out to talk to you, I was able to reach it and untie it, but keeping the end near me so that if an attempt was made to hang me . . .’ She paused for a moment, and the silence hung heavily between them. Then she regained her composure and went on: ‘I would at least have some sort of chance to make a fight of it, even though I only had one hand.’