by Wilbur Smith
•••
Saffron thought she might have prayed herself into a daze. The priests chanted in slow, rising cadences. Sometime after midnight she realized that the sacred tabot over which the priests were praying was not a replica of the Ark of the Covenant, one of which was kept in every church in Ethiopia. It was the actual Ark. The legend, accepted as fact by every son or daughter of Ethiopia, was that it had been carried to Axum from Jerusalem many centuries ago by the son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. Now the priests of the ancient capital had brought it to guide and protect the imperial family. Saffron was not sure if it was her exhaustion, or her fear and frustration, but she could have sworn that the Ark seemed to glow.
She heard a shout at the back of the church.
“They are coming! To arms! The Italians are coming!”
The emperor stood and helped his wife up from her knees. He bowed deeply to the priests and the Ark. Everything was still. Then he turned and swept out toward the battlefield.
Saffron shook herself awake and followed the empress.
•••
The further he galloped through the predawn dark, the more intense the pain in the pit of Penrod’s stomach grew. One mile, two, three along the straighter, wider track of the Mai Agam valley and the path became clogged with the rear of Albertone’s column. Penrod swung off his sweating horse and went at a run toward the group of dark uniforms, bright sashes and white faces that showed Albertone’s position on the heights in front of him.
The officers turned to watch him approach with expressions of amusement and mild disdain. Penrod went straight to the general.
“You are miles out of position. You must retreat back to Kidane at once.”
Albertone put his arm through Penrod’s and led him away from the rest of the staff with a light laugh. As soon as they were out of earshot, Albertone’s face became an angry mask.
“You presume to give me orders, Englishman?”
“Sir, I am only stating a fact. You are at least three miles forward of where you should be. You are practically in Menelik’s camp! You must return to the line—the position you were ordered to—before the enemy discovers you and attacks. You will be encircled here.”
Albertone showed no surprise or concern. If anything, Penrod thought he looked rather satisfied, like a child whose little intrigue against his elders has succeeded.
“I doubt that, Major Ballantyne. I have chosen my position. The enemy cannot take the heights to my left or right, but will be forced forward into the fire of the guns. A few rounds and they will fly away like crows in a cornfield when the farmer comes out with his shotgun.”
“You will not retreat and take up the position you were ordered to defend?”
“I disagree with your interpretation of my orders. It was my understanding that I was instructed to occupy this point and I have done so.”
“I tell you, the other columns are three miles in the rear.”
Albertone had begun to look bored. “I’m sure they will join us quickly enough. They will not wish to miss the fun.”
Penrod was tempted to pull his revolver and shoot the man dead on the spot. Only the knowledge that doing so would mean his immediate execution, and not result in the forces deploying their proper position, prevented him. The night was pulling away from him.
They heard scattered rifle fire coming from a point some half a mile in front of their position. Albertone handed his coffee cup to one of the servants.
“Good, Turitto has woken them up.”
He gave his orders. The mountain batteries had not yet reached the high ground, but Albertone ordered the Sixth Native Battalion to the left to hold the southern flank of his position, while the Seventh, under Major Rudolfo, was sent to the right. The Eighth would hold the center.
Penrod watched as the artillerymen unloaded the 75mm guns from the backs of mules and began to assemble them, while others of the company drove the animals away and up the slope.
The light came quickly. Penrod was soon able to see a mass of Ethiopian forces making their way across the valley toward them. A sea of men, the early sun struck sparks from the decorations on their shields. They were not charging, but moving forward in good order directly toward their position. Penrod made a quick calculation. Ten thousand men were already in the field and their numbers continued to grow. The Ethiopians broke into an easy jog and the ground between them and Albertone’s position seemed to melt away. The sound of rifle fire located the advance guard, or what might remain of it. Their position had already been overwhelmed.
Penrod gritted his teeth as Captain Henry’s battery began loading. The Ethiopians were ignoring the flanks and pushing forward against the center. Henry gave the order and the guns belched smoke and flame with a ripple of cracks that echoed up and down the valley. They were firing shrapnel rounds directly into the middle of the approaching warriors. The gunners hardly had to aim. The numbers coming against them were already so vast they came in a single wave rather than in groups. Bodies disappeared in a mist of blood and torn-up dust, and the wave drew back for the briefest of moments, then reformed and came on again.
Moments later, the remains of Turitto’s advance guard struggled up the slope under cover of the guns. Two of the askari were dragging a wounded white officer between them. Penrod went to the man’s assistance. A captain, he was pulling at the blue sash over his right shoulder. His right arm hung limp and bloody, the forearm smashed by a rifle bullet. Penrod called for a stretcher party as the wounded captain shivered and mumbled to himself.
“We walked into them,” the captain kept repeating. “We walked into them. We had no time to take a position. They have sharpshooters. I thought they did not know how to handle guns, but they took out all our officers first. All the officers.”
A pair of stretcher-bearers carried him away at a jog. Penrod tried to calculate how long it would take them to get back to the main force of the army and the field hospital beyond at the main camp. The man didn’t stand a chance. He would be dead long before he reached the hospital.
All four mountain batteries were at work now. The valley below them had become an image of hell, of flesh and dust and the screams of the injured. Each wave of attack was coming closer. Penrod lifted his field glasses. The Ethiopians had sent squads of riflemen to the right and left, working their way into cover and taking out the officers and artillerymen. The forward riflemen of the Sixth and Seventh Battalions were doing a good job of holding them off, but they were still inching forward.
Albertone was watching the action from a knot of his senior staff, issuing orders to reinforce positions on the flanks, a model of calm authority. He noticed Penrod watching him and beckoned him over. Penrod walked toward him across the plateau, his face impassive.
“You have a horse, I think, Major Ballantyne?”
“I did, General. I’m sure I can find him again.”
“Perhaps you might take this to Baratieri, then,” Albertone said, writing a short note on his field notebook, then folding it and handing it to him.
“Certainly, General,” Penrod replied. The guns boomed heavy and slow. They seemed to have plenty of ammunition, but no matter the havoc they wreaked on the Ethiopian lines, the enemy showed no signs of breaking off the attack. The outcome was inevitable. For the sake of his conscience, Penrod made one last attempt.
“General, a fighting retreat even at this stage could save the majority of your men and enable you to fight on.”
Albertone shook his head like a teacher with a particularly dense student. “Major, these savages will wear themselves out shortly. We are the rock on which this army will break. I will not deny my men the honor of subduing them.”
Penrod did not salute. Only then did he remember the reason he had joined Albertone in the first place.
“General, an acquaintance of mine has blundered into some men under your command at Suria and they require your note to release him. They think him a spy for Menelik.”
&
nbsp; “And is he a spy?”
“No, he is a trader and a miner. Ryder Courtney.”
Albertone still looked as if he were scanning a parade ground rather than a field of slaughter. “I have not time to deal with it now.”
“Sir!” He waited until Albertone turned back to him. “You owe me a debt.”
“So that race and my wife’s foolish wager have come back to haunt me at last, have they?” He lowered his field glasses, and wrote another quick note. “I’ve released him on your parole, Major.”
“Thank you, sir.”
•••
Penrod found his horse among the mules that had brought up the mountain guns. The beast looked rather indignant to be left among such low company and received Penrod with a toss of her head.
He swung himself up into the saddle, and as soon as they were clear of the beasts of burden, he encouraged her into a canter. Behind him he could still hear the regular crack and echo of the guns.
Penrod left his horse where the path became a mountain track and made the rest of the ascent on foot, negotiating it with the ease of a native. The spur where Baratieri had established his command post had a good view of the ground directly in front of him, but the curves of the valley floor put Albertone’s position out of view.
Penrod found Baratieri still observing the deployment of Arimondi’s brigade on the western flank of Belah. He was seated at a field desk under a short stretch of tarpaulin that gave him a certain amount of shade. He looked up as Penrod approached.
“Major Ballantyne, what are those guns?”
Penrod handed him the folded sheet from Albertone and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, focusing on some point in the middle distance of the morning haze.
“Advance guard hotly engaged and reinforcements would be welcome?” Baratieri read. “I would welcome a cold bath and a chicken dinner, but that does not mean I need them. Your report, Major.”
Penrod continued to stare directly ahead as he spoke. “General Albertone is deployed some three miles in advance of this position, sir. The Sixth, Seventh and Eighth Native Battalions are all engaged against vast numbers of infantry. I would estimate they face twenty thousand Ethiopian warriors in the field and the enemy are moving their field guns into position. At present Albertone is holding off successive waves of frontal attack with his mountain batteries and rifles.”
Baratieri clenched his jaw. He pushed aside the papers he had been writing on so that the map of the ground between Suria and Adowa was visible.
“Show me.”
Penrod leaned forward. “The mountain guns are here and here, on rising land.”
“And these heights?”
“General Albertone is sure that they are too steep for the Ethiopians to reach them.”
“They made it up Amba Alagi. They are as quick as mountain goats,” Baratieri said under his breath.
Penrod had not taken the time to consider what effect the news might have on the Italian commander. He was in a vulnerable position and vastly outnumbered, and now his entire plan had been willfully destroyed by the actions of one of his most senior officers. He might have called down curses on Albertone, but he did not. He summoned his messengers and began to give his orders.
“Make all haste to Arimondi. He is ordered forward and east to protect Albertone’s right flank and give him cover to retreat.” The officer he instructed saluted and scurried away. “Albertone is to retreat back to his position with Arimondi’s support. Go at once.” Off went the next messenger.
Only then did Baratieri’s calm fail for a moment. He covered his eyes with a shaking hand, then removed his pince-nez and polished them vigorously on his handkerchief. A fresh burst of gunfire boomed to the south-west. A new note, distinct from the mountain guns of Albertone’s brigade. They both knew what it meant. The Ethiopian artillery was in position and had commenced firing.
Baratieri looked up at Penrod and spoke quietly. “Major Ballantyne, I understand you have some business back at Suria.”
It was a dismissal, as firm as it was tactful. Penrod understood. He would not want a foreign witness in such a situation either. He put out his hand.
“May I wish you and your men the best of luck, General?”
Baratieri shook his hand firmly. “And to you, Major.”
•••
Penrod reclaimed his horse once more and made his way along the empty paths the army had covered during their silent march the night before. His impulse was to pick up a rifle and fight where he could, but the Italians did not want him. And now he had to go and rescue Ryder.
It did not take Penrod long to find him. He could hear Ryder bellowing in frustration a hundred yards from the tent.
Penrod lit a cheroot on the threshold. It seemed Ryder had persuaded one of the native guards he was no spy. The man was trying to talk to his white comrades in broken Italian, but the two youths who were guarding Ryder looked stubborn and defensive.
“Penrod, thank God!” Ryder exploded. “Tell these idiots to release me at once, or I swear I will release myself and kill them both with my own hands.”
Even if his guards did not understand his words, they understood something of his intentions and flinched as Ryder glowered at them.
Penrod raised his eyebrows. Ryder was in shirtsleeves, seated on a camp stool, with his hands tied behind his back. His guards had used a great deal of rope to secure him.
“I always knew your complete inability to look like a gentleman would be your downfall in the end,” he said. “The Italians think you are some wildman of the hills—they have heard rumors of such a creature—and that you are also a spy for Menelik. I can’t say I blame them.”
Ryder pulled at his bindings and the ropes creaked ominously. One of the guards started fumbling for his rifle and almost dropped it. Penrod laughed.
“We have no time for this!” Ryder shouted.
His tone stilled the laughter in Penrod’s throat. He gave Albertone’s note freeing Ryder into his custody to the guards and ordered them to fetch Ryder’s things with a few short phrases, then, his cheroot clamped between his teeth, he went to untie the ropes himself. Ryder’s struggles had fused and tightened the knot into a dense mass. Penrod took out his knife and sawed at it. Ryder’s wrists were bruised a deep purple, and his forearms showed signs of recent burns.
“What’s happened?”
“Amber has been taken.”
Penrod’s heart stopped in his chest for a moment. He bent over the ropes again, sawing at the last fibers. “By whom?”
Ryder burst free of the last shreds. “Thank you.” Then he grabbed his coat and gun belt from the cowed guards.
“Can you get me food, water and more rifle ammunition?”
“Yes. Who has taken Amber?” Penrod’s voice remained level.
Ryder looked at Penrod directly for the first time. “I hired an engineer. Bill Peters. Never liked him much but he knew his work. Then he tried to kidnap Amber on our last trip to Addis during a flash flood, but he was lost in the waters. I hoped he was dead but he’s been leading a group of bandits in the hills and he attacked the camp to take Amber. I’ve no idea who he really is, but I know he’s mad and obsessed with her.”
Penrod sprang forward, driving Ryder up against the pole in the center of the tent. Everything shook and the guy ropes creaked. The guards began to protest in fluent, high-pitched Italian, but Penrod and Ryder ignored them.
“You let him take her?”
Ryder stared back at him, but did not attempt to break his hold. “She let him take her, to save Saffron and the children. Penrod, listen to me!”
Penrod breathed hard, controlling his rage, trying to hear Ryder’s words through the thundering of his blood.
“I’m sure his camp is nearby,” Ryder continued, “and I came here looking for information, but the Ethiopians think I’m a spy for the Italians, and, as you see, vice versa. But I don’t care if I have to search every cave and hilltop for a hundred miles. I
am going to find Amber. Are you going to help?”
Penrod released him. “Yes. Talk to that man. He’s one of the scouts, though I think he’s been working for Menelik too.” He turned to the sputtering guards and spoke in Italian. “Water rations and ammunition. At once.”
They scurried out of the tent and Ryder spoke to the native scout, then he too left them.
“Well?” Penrod said.
“He does work for Menelik, and luckily he works for Ras Alula too, and we have friends in common. He’s told me what he knows and is going to talk to his fellows and see if he can find out more.”
The Italians came back into the tent and dumped their spoils in front of the two men. While they both selected what they wanted from the pile of canteens and ammunition, Penrod told them in a few short sentences what had happened and where he was going. One offered his own rations from his pack. Penrod thanked him, but refused. They backed out of the tent, mumbling apologies.
“We have another problem,” Ryder said, filling his pockets with ammunition.
“What?”
“The people are rising up against the Italians and they aren’t going to stop and let us explain that we are subjects of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Any local we see will try to kill us. It’s their duty.”
“Couldn’t your friend Alula give us safe passage?”
“He has other business today. I won’t waste time dragging you around the battlefield to his camp. Even if we survived, it will be hours before he can lend us any men.”
Penrod changed into civilian clothes. The scout slipped back into the tent and had another, shorter, conversation in Amharic with Ryder, then he shook hands with him and disappeared.
“So do you know where he has taken her?”
“He’s heard rumors of a white bandit near the Three Sisters. That must be him. It’s more than I had, anyway, and he will tell Alula where we are going so he can send men after us when this business with the Italians is done. Are you ready?”
“I am,” Penrod said, then stiffened. “Listen.” He had heard the distant crackle of rifle fire.