The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  The spahis came on at the trot, shouting their war cry: ‘Ul-ul-ul-Akhbar.’ They made an impressive sight with their red cloaks streaming in the breeze. But Toby grinned at them. He had seen pretty sights before, as he had heard that shout before, and then, too, had gained the victory. He and the two petty officers who were his lieutenants had taken their place inside the square, patrolling from side to side, while the oncoming horsemen spread out into a vast crescent as they quickened their pace into a canter and then a gallop, their lances swinging down into the horizontal, the pennons still streaming in the breeze.

  ‘Wait for the command,’ he called. ‘Wait for the command.’

  A hundred yards, he estimated. Seventy-five yards. He looked left and right at his waiting men, and felt suddenly proud. They were cutthroats, and they looked the part; they had never had uniforms, and their clothing was now nothing more than a collection of rags. But their weapons were bright and clean, and they were awaiting his command with the patience of guardsmen; however much they had grumbled during the past four months, they had learned to have total confidence in their American officers. How could he fail?

  Now the ground shook to the drumming of the hooves. ‘Front rank, fire!’ he bawled, and with scarce a pause for breath, as the musketry rippled around him, continued giving orders. ‘Front rank, two steps back and reload. Second rank, two steps forward. Kneel. Aim. Fire!’

  The lancers had been shaken by the first volley, but by no means checked. They were now right up to the tiny square, dust clouding from their hooves, when the second volley exploded, sending men and horses crashing to the earth, the dead and dying bringing down several of those still unhurt as they fell to and fro. Yet for this moment, with the first rank still not reloaded, the loyalist flank was exposed, but the devastating effects of the volleys, together with the barrier formed by their own fallen comrades, had driven men and horses to either side, as water flowing downhill will seep around a solid obstacle. There they came into the sights of the next two sides of the square, and the petty officers were giving the commands. ‘Front rank, fire! Second rank, advance. Front rank, retire and reload. Second rank, fire!’

  Once again white smoke clouded into the air, horses screamed as they fell, men shouted and yelled, and died, and a dustcloud drifted across the furious scene. Some of the spahis actually reached the kneeling men, and hurled their spears. Several of the loyalists fell to terrible wounds in the chest, and lay screaming on the ground. But Toby and his sailors had their people well in hand, totally confident of victory. As the lancers turned away to regroup, the muskets were reloaded and the orders were repeated. Hit by another hail of flying lead, the spahis galloped out of range, their ranks disordered, their men gasping fear. Some sixty men and an equal number of horses lay writhing on the bloodstained sand, so deadly had been the execution of the muskets; at so close a range it had been almost impossible to miss.

  ‘Company will advance in square,’ Toby called. ‘On the double. Mr Strong, detach twelve men to guard the wounded, but I want you with me at the gate.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Mr McGann,’ the sailor called.

  This was another manoeuvre they had rehearsed often enough. The men ran forward, keeping their alignments as well as they could, so that should the cavalry re-form they could again receive them in square. But the cavalry clearly were not going to re-form; thoroughly discomforted they were making their way, at a walk, back towards the main battle. And now the gate was only a hundred yards distant. It appeared undefended. Where Toby had expected to see a head in every embrasure staring down at him, he saw only one or two. They, having overseen the destruction of their much-vaunted cavalry, were shouting and gesticulating, but clearly the remainder of the garrison were more interested in what was happening at the main gate. Or were distracted by the American squadron. Yet strangely, and disturbingly, as there could now be no doubt, even from several miles distance, that a battle was being fought outside the walls of the city, the American ships had not opened fire.

  ‘Up the walls,’ he shouted at the same time taking from his shoulder one of the ropes with which he had provided himself and the two sailors. The ends of these were swiftly made fast to the small grapples hanging from their belts, and thrown up at the embrasures. Lodgments made on the rough stone, Toby sheathed his sword and went up hand over hand without hesitation, as he might have climbed a mast, while the two seamen followed, and the Arabs behind them stood and shouted their appreciation, several even attempting to climb behind the Americans.

  Toby was first into the embrasure, looking left and right. The last Moor had abandoned the parapet, and beneath him were the houses of the town. He swung himself through, ran for the steps leading down to the street and the east gate. At the foot, half a dozen men, undecided whether to flee or stand their ground, stared at him; he let out a tremendous whoop and swung his sword round his head, and they turned and ran. He put his shoulder to the huge wooden boom, assisted now by the sailors panting at his heels, and slid it through the steel rings to leave the gate swinging free. A push, and his men were flooding through. He paused for a moment, to listen to the noise from the south, where, from the screams and the shouts he estimated that Eaton was gaining a similar victory, and then dashed along the narrow street with his followers.

  ‘The citadel,’ he bellowed. ‘The citadel,’

  The windows and doors of the houses to either side were barred; there was no telling if anyone was actually inside, for which he was utterly thankful. Undistracted, his men debouched into a square, only a quarter of a mile from the captured gate. Here there was a crowd of people milling about, restrained from approaching the citadel gate by a company of soldiers. Both people and soldiers made off with shrieks of fear as they saw Toby and his men bearing down on them.

  ‘Break down that door,’ Toby commanded, and a moment later the heavy door went crashing in. ‘Mr Strong, you’ll hold this against all comers. Mr Allen, you’ll follow me. To the roof.’

  He led the way, running up wide marble steps, using his sword to slash away priceless brocade drapes, reaching through empty hallways and magnificently appointed reception rooms, all strangely empty. His heart pounded and his breath came in great gasps as he found himself in a succession of even more splendidly appointed bedchambers, which gave access on to a flat roof with crenellated battlements. On to this he ran, and from the embrasures looked down on the harbour and the disordered shipping that drifted there, the men and women trying to board the boats, fighting each other in their determination to escape the marauding horde bursting into their city. While out at sea the American ships remained silent onlookers. But it was from here that face had looked down on him, nine months before. She had to be in this castle somewhere.

  ‘Mr Allen, you’ll hold this roof,’ he snapped. ‘Do not fire into those people unless they attack you, but should they do so, use everything you have, including these cannon. You and you and you …’ he picked out three of the most reliable of the Arabs. ‘Come with me.’

  He ran back down the steps, seeking new corridors, saw two black men guarding a doorway. They stood immobile, statuesque, formidably disciplined despite the chaos going on around them, the fact that they had clearly been deserted at their posts. Toby ran at them, shouting at them to stand aside. Instead they presented their scimitars, and were cut down in two savage, swinging blows. He put his shoulder to the doors behind them, burst them in, and knew he was in a harem. Screams arose to mingle with the scents to either side. Women in the scantiest of costumes rose from their divans, or scattered from the groups they had formed to listen and discuss the noises they could hear from the street; now they all ran screaming back towards the inner compartments. The men at Toby’s back gave whoops of anticipated pleasures and ran behind them.

  Toby had no time to check them now. He tore open door after door, saw only terrified faces, some black, some nearly white, most brown, none familiar. He seized one girl by the arm and dragged her close to him, trying not to lo
ok at her exposed breasts and slender, hairless body, while her musk surrounded him like a cloud and her mouth drooped open in something between an attempted smile and a supplication, ghastly to behold.

  ‘The English woman!’ he bawled in Arabic. ‘Where is the English woman?’

  She goggled at him, shaking her head. ‘No English,’ she gasped. ‘No English here.’

  ‘Is this not the harem of Mohammed ben Idris?’

  Again a shake of the head, accompanied now by a quick flick of the lips round her mouth; she was regaining some confidence. ‘This is the harem of the Lord Karamanli, Dey of Tripoli.’ He swore, and she gave a scream of pain as his grip on her arm tightened. ‘Then where is the harem of Mohammed ben Idris?’

  ‘There. There!’ She pointed back the way he had come.

  Further yet into the recesses of the palace. He threw her away from him and ran back into the outside hallway, vaulting the bodies of the two dead guards, leaving his men to do their worst — or best, as the women had not seemed all that displeased to see them, once they had gathered they were not to be murdered — and ran along the empty corridors, until he reached more barred doors. But these were unprotected, and even unlocked — a push had them swinging on their hinges.

  His heart lurched with the fear that he might be too late as he threw them wide, gazed at a scene even more chaotic than any he had already witnessed this day, that of a harem packing up. Women and children ran to and fro, bales and boxes were heaped higgledy-piggledy, eunuchs barked commands, lap dogs yelped, cats mewed, babies wailed. Unlike his puppet, who had obviously abandoned his women in his haste to escape the vengeance of his cousin, Mohammed ben Idris was intending to take his harem with him. If he could.

  All the hustle and bustle stopped as the terrified people turned to face the huge, bloodstained intruder. None of the women wore yashmaks, and Toby could tell at a glance that Felicity was not amongst them. He strode forward. A eunuch attempted to stop him and was hurled aside with a sweep of his hand. The women fell to their knees, and he ignored them and threw open the doors to the inner chamber, looked at an elaborately furnished room, in which there were several more women and children, all now turning to face him. At their rear, there stood Felicity Crown. And at her shoulder there waited Mohammed ben Idris, scimitar drawn.

  ‘Toby!’ Felicity gasped. ‘Toby McGann!’

  ‘Stop there, American,’ Mohammed ben Idris commanded, also speaking English. ‘Or I will cut her throat.’

  Toby never hesitated. He charged straight at Idris, his sword thrust in front of him like a lance, his flailing left arm sending eunuchs and women tumbling against the walls as they endeavoured to check his progress. Idris stared at him, tightened his grip on Felicity’s hair, then realised that if he killed her he was certainly going to die himself. He threw her aside and ran for an inner doorway.

  Toby let him go, stooping beside the fallen woman. ‘Felicity,’ he said, ‘Felicity Crown.’ She had been wrapped in a haik, but this had fallen open, and underneath she wore only sheer silk. Hastily he wrapped her up again, and raised her to her feet, while she stared at him, eyes wide, as if she could not truly believe what had happened. ‘You are safe now,’ he said, reassuringly.

  ‘Idris?’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, he has fled.’

  ‘Fled? Oh, but, he must be …’ she bit her lip. ‘As long as he remains alive, he will seek to avenge himself on you.’

  Toby grinned at her. His determination to kill Idris had quite vanished with the joy of finding her, alive, and so far as he could tell, unharmed. He did not want to analyse his emotions at this moment, knew only that he was happier than ever before in his life. His first duty must be to make her as happy.

  ‘He will never be a danger to you again,’ he promised. ‘You have my word on that. Now come …’ He looked around him at the women and eunuchs, most of whom had fallen to their knees to beg mercy on being abandoned by their master. ‘Stay here,’ he told them in Arabic. ‘And no one will harm you.’ His arm round Felicity’s waist, he helped her to the door, heard his name being called.

  ‘Toby McGann!’ It was Eaton, hatless, and with a bloodstained sword in his hand. ‘By God, but I am glad to see you.’ He stared at Felicity. ‘Is this the women of whom you spoke?’

  ‘Yes,’ Toby said.

  ‘Miss Crown!’ Eaton touched his forehead. ‘But our work is not yet done. There is something amiss here.’

  ‘Amiss?’ Toby frowned at him. ‘But as you are here … have we not gained the victory?’

  ‘We have scattered Mohammed ben Idris’s army, and you have seized the citadel. I have brought my men in here with yours. But the Moors are being rallied in the streets, and we may have to defeat them all over again. We must signal the ships to resume firing. Why they have not already done so I cannot say, unless they were afraid of hitting us. But that is a risk we must accept to disperse those fellows.

  Toby hurried out of the harem, still half carrying Felicity. ‘I thought you had already signalled them.’

  ‘Not I. Listen to that noise from the square. They are certainly preparing a counter attack; we shall have a fight on our hands very shortly. However, I am holding the gate in strength. The rest of our people must be deployed on the roofs. Perhaps you would care to place Miss Crown in a position of safety.’

  ‘Do not abandon me, Toby,’ she begged. ‘For God’s sake do not abandon me.’

  ‘I’ll never do that, Felicity,’ he assured her, and squeezed her hand. There was so much to come. Hurdles to be overcome, certainly. An understanding of what she had suffered. Of what she had become. But these were only hurdles, to be vaulted at full speed. He had rescued her. If she had been, in his mind, a symbol of what this war was all about, then it was now won, conclusively.

  Eaton had been studying them, and he was an understanding man. ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘why do you not play the guide, Miss Crown. Our very first duty must be to locate and release Bainbridge and his men, supposing they are in the citadel. But I would think it is their most likely prison. If we can secure them, we have achieved the object of our enterprise, at any rate.’

  ‘And Karamanli?’ Toby demanded.

  ‘Oh, I have no intention of abandoning him, to be sure. He is still sitting on his hilltop with his guards, awaiting word from me. He is best off remaining there until we have settled the business here. But we will be in a much stronger bargaining position as regards Mohammed ben Idris with Bainbridge at our side. While with a hundred odd American sailors thirsting for revenge on their captors … why, we will be able to withstand any assault, even if we can make no contact with the ships. Take Miss Crown and find them, Toby.’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Toby cried, and turned to Felicity. ‘Do you know where the dungeons are?’ She shook her head. ‘I know nothing of the palace save for the harem and this chamber and roof. But I am sure I can find them.’

  ‘Then lead me. Mr Strong,’ he called, for the petty officer had been released from his duties on the gate by the arrival of Eaton’s men, and had come seeking orders. ‘Follow me, with six men. William,’ he said to Eaton, ‘be sure to summon me back if we are needed.’

  ‘I will do that. But I look forward to seeing you accompanied by Bainbridge and his people.’

  Toby nodded, and followed Felicity down the stairs and through the lower corridors of the palace. She continued to hold his hand, perhaps to reassure herself that he was flesh and blood and not some dream, while he watched her move in front of him, seeing her for the first time, as he himself came to appreciate that the dreams were over, that he had actually found her and rescued her.

  The haik fluttered in her self-created breeze, and as she was hurrying she had gathered it from around her ankles; he could see traces of crimson pantaloons, sheer to reveal the contour of her calves, sometimes fluttering to reveal knee and even thigh, as her breasts had been momentarily uncovered when Mohammed ben Idris had thrown her to the floor, and he had been afraid to look. She was
virtually naked in his presence, but for the thin folds of linen. Her hair was loose and flowing. It was more beautiful, in its rich brownness, its silky texture, than he remembered. As was her face, which had filled out and lost the gauntness which had been the principal characteristic of her parents and brother. Obviously she was entirely well, and had even put on weight. He could hardly believe it, any more than he could believe that she had remembered him as well as he remembered her. His heart pounded with anticipated joys.

  They continued to find no one in the palace, not even when they left the sunlit upper areas to descend cold stone steps, into darkened and damp passageways illuminated by flaring torches. Now Toby summoned Strong and his men closer, in case of ambush. But there was no one down here, either. Or … no free men, that was certain. Because now they smelt the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting wood, and now, too, they heard the cries of men confined, aware that something dramatic had happened above them, but unsure of what.

  Toby paused at the top of the dark corridor, where even the torches no longer guttered. ‘Captain Bainbridge!’ he called. ‘Are you there, Captain Bainbridge? This is Toby McGann.’

  ‘Toby McGann, by God,’ Bainbridge replied. ‘Toby McGann!’

  There came a ragged cheer from the darkness.

  ‘Fetch those torches,’ Toby commanded. ‘Stand aside, Felicity.’ He himself attacked the first locked door, smashing it open in seconds, shaking hands with the gaunt, bearded figure in the tattered blue uniform who awaited him.

  ‘Toby McGann,’ Bainbridge said again. ‘How I have prayed for a sight of you. But … the squadron …’

  ‘Has still to be reached. We may need your assistance.’ Toby left him to help Strong smash the locks on the succeeding doors. ‘What say you, lads? Are you ready to break a few Arab heads?’