Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Lords of the Nile

  Cover

  Title Page

  Praise for Jonathan Spencer

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Crusader

  Departure

  Neptune

  Redcoat

  Murad

  Strike

  Al-Sahraa

  Square

  Scimitar

  Al-Qahira

  Pharaoh

  Chevalier

  Nemesis

  Detonate

  Epilogue – Ankh

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Jonathan Spencer

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Praise for Jonathan Spencer

  ‘This is an outstanding novel, made even more remarkable by its debut status. I loved it, from the first page to the end. Finely textured, deftly woven, it evokes – with confidence and a rare beauty – late eighteenth century England and France. The scene-setting is perfect, and laced with rich, juicy details. The dialogue is period-convincing, and spoken by meaty, believable characters. Hazzard is a tortured hero par excellence, a mixture of conscience, courage and martial skill, a man who can fall victim to arrogance and even cruelty.

  ‘Better than Sharpe, gripping and intense, Napoleon’s Run deserves to be a runaway success’

  Ben Kane, Sunday Times bestselling author of Lionheart

  ‘Hornblower meets Mission: Impossible. A thrilling, page-turning debut packed with rousing, rip-roaring action’

  J. D. Davies, author of the Matthew Quinton Journals

  ‘This book has it all. Combines great action with really good history, and an engaging and original character in Marine officer William Hazzard, who adds a satisfying dash of the swashbuckling Bombay Buccaneers to some solid scholarship. In many ways this captures the true – and surprisingly subversive – nature of early British imperialism’

  Seth Hunter, author of the Nathan Peake novels

  ‘Fantastic … I found myself utterly engrossed in this book, its wonderfully vivid characters and explosive action. There was never a moment’s peace to relax and pause for breath, the reader is dragged along on a white-knuckle adventure by Hazzard’s Bombay coat tails’

  Parmenion Books

  ‘Hugely atmospheric, Napoleon’s Run by Jonathan Spencer offers a fascinating evocation of the sights, sounds and smells of the Napoleonic Wars. Thanks to an extraordinary attention to detail and accuracy, it paints a vivid and realistic picture of life on board ship, striking the perfect balance between a thoroughly absorbing history lesson and a thumping good read.

  ‘Packed to the gunwales with action, this fast-paced story is also a very thoughtful thriller filled with intrigue and suspense. Leading a crew of wonderfully drawn characters, Hazzard is not only a convincing action hero, but also one who offers a timeless insight into loyalty, trust and honesty’

  Chris Lloyd, author of The Unwanted Dead

  ‘This book has a rich cast of characters who will delight, enthral and keep you turning the pages to the very end. A brilliant, thrilling read, with a new – and very believable – hero. This is my favourite historical novel of the year so far’

  Michael Jecks, author of the Last Templar Mysteries

  ‘A strong, fast-moving story by an author with a deep knowledge of the period and the narrative skill of a fine story-teller’

  Andrew Swanston, author of Waterloo

  ‘A great read! Well-tempered and well-researched, with well-drawn, well-conceived characters who will, I am sure, be with us for a while’

  Rob Low, author of The Lion Wakes

  ‘Loads of action and plenty of plot twists, meticulously researched with a fine period feel’

  A.J. MacKenzie, author of The Ballad of John MacLea

  For my father, who knew the sting of the desert winds

  The English informed them that the French had set sail from their country with a great fleet. ‘Perhaps they will attack you and you will not be able to repel them… Sell us water and provisions according to their value, and we shall stay in our ships lying in wait for them. When they come we shall take care of the matter and save you the trouble.’

  Al-Sayyid Muhammad Kurayyim declined their offer and said, ‘We do not accept what you say… Begone, that God’s will might be fulfilled.’

  Al-Jabarti’s Chronicle

  Sheikh Abd-al Rahman al-Jabarti,

  Muḥarram-Rajab 1213

  June–December 1798

  Crusader

  The streets of Valletta and the Three Cities lay quiet and cowed in the grey pre-dawn mist, French patrols moving through the dim, empty lanes. The cool, damp air hung heavy with the tang of gunsmoke and iron, a memory of the terrors of the previous day – and the fleet of Napoleon Bonaparte riding in Malta’s Grand Harbour, the lanterns on its forest of masts so many dancing stars on a brightening sea. The holy Knights of the Order of St John looked out from their lofty fortress battlements with resignation. Their Day of Judgement had come.

  Sporadic cannon-fire thudded across the waterfront, shouted commands from French sloops and frigates in the harbour echoing across Valletta’s bastions, so much crackling thunder. After the brief fighting on the outskirts, the new occupying troops began to spread throughout the city, beyond Cottonera and up into Gzira and Sliema, surrounding the Grand Harbour. Resistance had crumbled, Malta resting in a relieved if apprehensive peace – while the Knights agreed their pensions with the conquerors.

  The damage to the capital on the first day of Bonaparte’s invasion seemed minimal, but it had been enough. Torchlit donkey carts rolled slowly through the misty streets, the dead laid out on litters, loaded carefully by reverent Maltese, heads lowered, caps in hand, another stricken family left to weep. Some victims had been trampled among the panicking crowds, others crushed into the churches, or fallen in skirmishes with the French – militia and bystanders alike. Bowed clergymen watched, fearful of the days to come.

  With the dawn had come the labourers to clear away the signs of defeat, their shovels scraping on the cobbles, the rhythm broken only as a digger paused to pick up an unexpected bonus, a trinket, a coin: on the first day of the new French Republic of Malta, there was little sign of regular local life – only the conquerors, the conquered, and the scavengers.

  Far from the work-parties, a thin Maltese youth picked his way barefoot through the cold rubble at the end of an alley to a small church square, his toes clinging to jagged chunks of stone. He saw the glint of a rosary, and pulled it from the dust, hanging it round his neck, a good talisman, for protection – he looked next for a ring, a buckle, anything.

  But when he bent over the next heap, he had something of a surprise, and no chance to cry out. Broad hands reached up from the debris and closed round his throat, as Marine Sergeant Jory Cook sat up, and rose from the dead, face blackened by smoke and dust, eyes bright, teeth bared. The terrified boy choked out a gibbering prayer.

  Cook put a finger to his lips, ‘Shh,’ then held out a gold coin. ‘One word, mind,’ said Cook with a smile, ‘and I break yer thievin’ little neck.’ He mimed the action. ‘Got me? Northeast. To the sea – mareh? Right?’

  The boy nodded quickly, ‘La mare, la mare,’ pointing, ‘Iva, iva, il-baħar,’ his eyes widening as Cook clambered slowly to his full height, showering dust and debris everywhere. The boy swallowed fearfully and asked, ‘Fransaya?’

  Cook looked sharply at him. ‘Fransay? Not on yer life, mate.’ He stabbed a thumb at his chest. ‘Me Hingaleezee. Englishman, right?’

  The boy smiled, relieved he had not fallen foul of the new conquer
ors. He shook Cook’s hand vigorously, whispering with excitement, ‘Ingliż…!’ He hesitated then asked hopefully, ‘Mas-suldat l’aħmar?’ Then, in slow and hesitant Italian, ‘Con soldato rosso…?’

  With the red soldier.

  Cook caught his meaning at once.

  Hazzard.

  Once again he could feel the press of the crowd from that morning, hear their screams as the company of French moved into the square, calling ‘You are free!’ A Maltese revolutionary was throwing grenades, and Hazzard charged into the midst of it all, in his bright red Bombay Marine coat.

  Red soldier.

  He looked at the shattered portico of the house next to him and remembered the whump of the grenade as it blew him and De la Vega off their feet, throwing him into the open doorway under a cascade of iron and masonry, his last view of Hazzard when he was hauled out of the square by a squad of French chasseurs, captured.

  ‘With the red soldier?’ he said. ‘Aye, lad. That I am.’

  The boy’s face lit up. ‘Iva! Ingliż, Ingliż!’ He tugged Cook’s arm, urging him to follow, ‘Biex tmur, iva, Ingliż?’ We hurry, yes, English?

  A priest entered the far side of the square, two labourers following, leading another donkey cart, torches flickering. But there were no French to speak of as yet. He looked at the rubble nearby – it had felt like a hurricane at the time, and there was no sign of De la Vega. He thought about the flamboyant Spaniard, the privateer who had saved them all in the heat of battle at sea, giving his ship, his crew, and himself to Hazzard and the marines. It seemed a shambles.

  Cook had come to his senses as he was pulled out of the doorway some hours after the grenade exploded and dragged into the darkness of the house. He remembered hands at his belt, taking his pistol and ammo pouch, then whispers and the sound of the looters running off, distant shouts in French, then nothing. He had passed out again, only to wake in the darkness of the abandoned house.

  When he emerged, he saw civilians in the square, picking through the debris of the square, upturned carts, already looted, broken. Many called for missing relatives, searching, holding each other, then running for safety. He had searched for De la Vega, but found nothing. But before he could head back to the landing site under cover of night, a full demi-brigade marched past on the main road. Cook had stayed well hidden, and slept. Come the dawn he had bided his time – a tame scrounger was perfect for his needs.

  ‘Trove un altro?’ he asked the boy in rough Italian, pointing around him, into the alley, hoping the boy had seen De la Vega. ‘Un capitano del mare?’ Find another? A sea-captain?

  The boy understood but shook his head, sorry to disappoint, ‘Leh.’

  Cook took that for a no, then froze: he heard French voices. He gestured to the boy, and he led Cook into the alleyway and out of the square. De la Vega had gone, he thought, either good news or bad, and prayed the Spaniard had not been piled onto a donkey cart. ‘God save Bristol…’

  The boy led him through the backstreets, keeping to the shadows. At one point they heard the slow march of a French patrol and sheltered in a passageway, Cook watching them go by, listening to their muttered complaints, hoping none of them would turn or linger – even his sword-bayonet was gone, and he felt exposed. Although he was in civilian clothes he had no wish to be interrogated in either French or Maltese. Troops would be on the lookout for anything untoward. He had no doubts: Malta had fallen – and so had Hazzard. It was now up to Cook to get him back.

  The boy beckoned him on again. Their luck held as they dodged through the lanes and alleys, and soon they approached the eastern limits of Sliema. Cook heard the cries of seabirds and could taste the salt in the air. They made their way through a warren of decrepit cottages and hovels, the inhabitants waking to the new day, opening their doors, lighting their fires, their harsh world now ordered by different rulers. Cook doubted they would notice any improvement. They reached a rocky shoreline, the sea crashing in tints of turquoise and green, and moved further from the city, in places the rock plunging straight into the water, then giving way to rough shingle. Long shadows stretched behind them as the sky lightened before them, streaks of silver mist on the grey sea giving way to pink and yellow, their course set by the white froth of the foaming surf.

  After an hour of splashing through the shallows, they saw lamplight up ahead and came to a ramshackle stone cottage. Fishing nets stretched out on props, on the rocks, an open boat with a single mast rocking in the rising tide at a natural stone breakwater. To Cook it looked like home.

  The morning was suddenly flooded with light as the sun rose on the horizon. A door opened and a woman and her daughter appeared. The boy ran to them, chattering excitedly, pointing back at Cook, and showed them the coin Cook had given him. The hesitant matriarch called him over.

  ‘Eeng-a-leesh?’

  Cook looked about. But for the waves and the knocking of the boat on the rocks it was quiet. They were unarmed. There seemed little risk – but he did wonder what kind of reward could be expected from the French for handing over an Englishman. He thought of the risks taken by Luca Azzopardo for Hazzard the previous day, running through the tumult of the French landings, braving the waterfront, and decided to take the chance. ‘Aye, ma. I am, Ingliż.’

  She looked out at the morning and blew out the lamp, and gestured to him to come inside. ‘Vieni, come.’ He followed her in.

  It was no more than a gloomy shack grown out of the rock of Malta by sheer will, slabs piled to make walls, a baking dry thatch overtop. She stepped quickly to one side and out of the darkness a cold muzzle touched Cook’s ear.

  ‘Who goes there then, matey?’ said a voice in the shadows.

  Cook stopped dead. ‘Joan of Arc’s fanny, y’arse.’

  ‘Well blow me down, Madam Arc,’ said Marine Corporal Pettifer in his rolling Cornish accent. ‘Want some breakfast, Sarge? S’prob’ly fish, mind.’

  Cook grinned and they shook hands warmly. ‘I’ll catch ’em meself if I has to, Pet.’

  In one corner on a bedroll on the floor lay young Lt Wayland, his cutaway Marine scarlet jacket and gentleman’s waistcoat folded behind his head, his once white shirt now torn and bloody from action with the French. He struggled to rise, a wounded hand wrapped in cloth, his lower left leg wrapped with a stained bandage. ‘Sergeant Cook, thank God. Any others?’

  ‘Just me, sir, so far.’ He looked at Pettifer. ‘No word?’

  Pettifer shook his head. ‘Not yet, Sarge. We’re halfway to the landing site here, figured you’d be passin’ eventually. That’s Matteo,’ he said, pointing at Cook’s young guide. ‘And that’s Dolly – well, I calls her that anyways. Don’t I, Dolly now, eh?’

  All of eight years old, the girl smiled through a curtain of thick hair and hid behind her mother. Matteo nodded to Cook and pulled him towards Wayland, pointing, ‘Ingliz, ingliz, iva?’

  ‘Aye, thanks be, lad.’ Cook looked Wayland over. ‘What happened, sir?’

  Wayland looked away. ‘We… we had some difficulty…’

  Pettifer was bursting with pride. ‘We was haulin’ it fast down the coast road, when all hell broke out round us, Malt militia, civvies, and a whole ruddy column o’Frogs coming. He stood two ranks of us and the Malts across the road, Sarge, no messin’, and gave ’em four or five volleys point-blank, while they couldn’t even load their first. Put the whole damn lot flyin’ for the hills. Bloody marvellous,’ he said, then added quietly, ‘Took a few cuts and burns to the right arm, one shot clean through the calf, but can walk.’

  Wayland struggled to lift himself up. ‘As I keep saying, Corporal, I’m perfectly all right—’

  Cook held him down. ‘Let’s have a look, sir.’

  Wayland gave in and sank back as Cook examined the bandage around his leg. ‘We became separated,’ said Wayland. ‘Sergeant Underhill pushed the corporal and I down a slope as a host of French footsoldiers trooped past… When we emerged, the others had moved on and we were cut off.’

 
Cook nodded. ‘He knew you’d make it better alone, sir.’

  Pettifer nodded. ‘Pure Underhill that is.’

  Wayland watched Cook. ‘It was… shocking, Sergeant.’

  Cook looked up at him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The… the action. We…’ He corrected himself. ‘I – I tried to… there were too many killed – I put us at risk, as well as the Maltese…’

  Cook glanced at Pettifer. ‘Losses?’

  Pettifer shook his head. ‘Not one. And them Malts was like ruddy lions.’

  Cook knew what the boy was going through. ‘Did you stop the French, sir?’

  Wayland said nothing, merely looked down. ‘Stopped them, yes, and, and butchered them… French officer could not believe it, the – the bodies, his men. The colour guard, a sergeant I think, had to run off to one side, his colours flying in their faces and they – they just couldn’t see, or load… The Maltese militiamen were very brave.’ He fell quiet again, then said loudly, his voice cracking, ‘My, my pistol… went off in a man’s face…’ He blinked and said quietly, almost to himself, ‘Our chaps had their blood up.’

  ‘Then you did your duty, sir. An’ damn them all who came up against you. For they got the wages o’sin.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Pettifer.

  Wayland cleared his throat. ‘Yes… yes, of course.’

  Cook gave him the all-clear and retied his dressing. ‘Wound looks fair, sir, but you can’t be doing a constitutional ’cross the moors with it.’

  ‘But we must reach Sar’nt Underhill and the others. The major will be waiting for us—’

  ‘He won’t, sir.’ He tied a new knot and Wayland winced. ‘Major Hazzard’s been taken.’

  Wayland blinked in the darkness. ‘Taken? But… what of Captain De la Vega? We must get them out…’ He tried to pull himself upright and, but Cook kept him down.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Cook, ‘Cap’n Cesár went down in the battle with me, but I couldn’t find him nowhere. I reckon either he was pulled out quick or came to his wits and couldn’t risk hangin’ about lookin’ for me.’ He glanced at Pettifer. ‘Or he was pulled out, and lies quiet somewhere, with the others.’