Hazzard held the espada ropera with care. He had thought it lost, as he seemed to have lost everything else. ‘Sergeant-Major Caron.’
‘You remember.’
Hazzard nodded. ‘I shall never forget. Give them my thanks.’
‘Suis heureux, er, I am happy,’ he replied, ‘that they bring to us the honour.’
‘They have. And they restore mine.’
Jullien nodded, pleased he had brought pleasure and good news, and shook his hand with genuine pleasure. Hazzard buckled on the sword and fell in with him and the other subalterns as they marched off down the corridors. ‘Tout à fait, it has been the madness,’ said Jullien in heavily accented English, ‘Very hoccupied, oui? Vous savez? Busy? Occupé?’
‘Ah oui, bien sûr,’ replied Hazzard, badly, bienn soor.
They passed through to the winding outer walkways of the fort. The army had been gathered on the foreshore and the decks of the waiting ships. Bonaparte addressed the troops. Hazzard heard snatches as they marched.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Hazzard.
‘I think it please you, hm?’ replied Jullien with a smile. He seemed to enjoy Hazzard’s company. ‘For the, er, savant, the Man of Learning, d’histoire, yes? Le savant anglais? Oui?’
Bonaparte’s words carried across the bastions, ‘…the blow you are about to give to England will be the best aimed, the most painfully felt she can receive…’ There were cheers but the speech faded in and out as they turned through the stone passageways. Hazzard wanted to stand still and listen.
‘…the Mamluk beys, who favour exclusively English commerce… whose extortions oppress our merchants, and who tyrannise the unfortunate inhabitants of the Nile, a few days after our arrival will no longer exist! We shall bring the Revolution and freedom to a new…’
But Hazzard missed anything further, the words drowned by another tumultuous cheer. ‘What does he say?’ he asked Jullien, then in a poor accent, ‘Qu’ess-il dit?’
‘Qu’est-ce qu’il dit,’ corrected Jullien politely. ‘What-is-this-that-he-say! Mon dieu! Quelle langue! What a langooage, as you say!’ he laughed.
They passed through further arches, the sun bright on the ancient stonework just ahead of them. ‘The general,’ explained Jullien, ‘announces the, er, destination, Capitaine.’ Then, with some ceremony, ‘We go to l’Égypte! Formidable, non?’
Hazzard nodded, playing the learned scholar, naturally intrigued at the news. ‘How fascinating,’ he said between clenched teeth.
‘But, in the summer, alors! The months of Messidor and Thermidor, mon dieu. It shall be hot, n’est-ce pas?’ He held up his hand, ushering him to the right. ‘This way, s’il vous plaît…’
Hazzard obliged, his mind running like a ticking meter: Where in Egypt? Artillery, horse, foot? All? Where will you anchor the fleet? Alex? Rosetta? Where! He pictured Hamilton’s study, with the smug Sir John Acton and his glass of Fiano, or Verdicchio, or whatever it damned well had been, his spies’ tongues twittering in his ear – they go to Egypt, don’t they?
And damn his eyes for being right.
‘Yes,’ Jullien stopped, embarrassed again. ‘The général, he, he wish to put this to you, lui-même, himself, but, très, très, er, hoccupied, oui? As I say. He hope, er, you accept his invitation, to… rejoin, join us, in the expédition.’
Hazzard had suspected such but feigned surprise, ‘Me? Why of course. Très bien. Un grand honneur.’
Jullien was delighted. ‘Ah, formidable! Merci! Mais, c’est historique, non? We shall be the first of civilised men on the Nile,’ said Jullien in fast French, brimming with excitement. ‘Just to think! Précisément – quel honneur for all!’
Hazzard nodded, smiling. By Christ above it’s true. Wayland was right. Caesar wants the Nile again. He had thought he might get the chance to slip away at night, to get back to the men, to warn Nelson or shadow the fleet somehow – but here he was being placed front and centre in the flagship, spearheading the invasion itself. He could hear Cook whisper in his ear:
Christ Almighty.
They emerged into bright sunshine. The streets were filled with troops marching in column, drums beating. The people crowded the waterside and shoreline to watch the boarding of the fleet, cheering. Among the army were a number of newly republican French Knights, as well as former galley slaves and prisoners, now freed men, who had sworn allegiance to their saviour Bonaparte.
Jullien led Hazzard to a stream of officers, adjutants and aides, petty officers shouting down the quays, checking orders, checking berths, and they joined the queue. Jullien talked about Egypt, the sand, the need for water, cotton uniforms at last – ‘Je l’espère, eh? I hope!’
Hazzard was only half listening as they mounted the gangplank, a sense of a door slamming shut somewhere behind him, being cut off from Wayland and the Volpone, his loss of Cook and De la Vega – while Jullien chatted amiably, ‘C’est plus mal, er, worse? Oui? Pour les dames, hm? For the ladies? We have too many aboard, alors! Les folies du coeur! The heart, it is mad. But, les anges, the beauties, from the Comédie, are with us, hm? Les belles danseuses…’
Hazzard tried to sound only vaguely interested. ‘The ladies are aboard the flagship? The ladies of the Comédie?’
‘Oui, bien sûr. And some others. Beaucoup – er, plehenty, hm?’ He shook his head, having forgotten something, ‘Ah oui, je m’excuse, I forget to say.’ He extended a hand in display of the ship, ‘Bienvenue à bord. Welcome,’ he said, ‘aboard l’Orient.’
Hazzard looked up. She was a First-Rate giant, bigger than St Vincent’s Ville de Paris, three decks of open gun-ports, row upon row of 36- and 24-pounder ship-killing muzzles run out in fierce display. But all he could do was thank the heavens above for this single touch of Fate: that within this enemy castle was all he had sought.
She was here.
Good God. Sarah, how did you come to this?
‘Come,’ said Jullien, pleased with his efforts, ‘we have found you a couchette, hm? It was mine, alors, among the casks of wine. So now I have the, er, how you say, the henvy!’ he laughed.
‘You have been too kind. Très gentil?’ offered Hazzard.
Jullien laughed, ‘Ah! Parfait, monsieur!’
Just before he climbed the last steps to what could become his scaffold, Hazzard looked down the quayside, at the crowds, for what or whom, he knew not. Familiar faces? Faint hope? For Cook, for De la Vega? For hope they had survived and were there? For some way of signalling them, perhaps, were they alive.
But one glance at the foreign shore and he knew he was alone – but for Sarah, somewhere inside, within the belly of this great beast. Before he ducked his head into the hatchway, into the embrace of his enemy, he gave one last look at this old world, as all who sailed would have done, and wondered if he would ever see it again. He saw the work-gangs, pointing up at him, the only officer in scarlet. Then, without thinking, as if to convince himself he were not alone, he raised a clenched fist to them all, opened it, then clenched it again. It was an old hand-signal, a message in a bottle thrown without real hope into an indifferent tide:
Fortitude. Regroup.
* * *
The Maltese dockworkers had the best view of the ceremonies and parades, two of them lying by a heap of jute sacks, grubby robes pulled over their heads against the morning sun. They had all worked the holds of the Orient, Franklin and Tonnant for days, shovelling in horse fodder and shovelling out manure – but two of them in particular had always come out each morning to sleep in the sun. They saw freed Berber slaves and Turks, now volunteers, armed with their great nimcha swords and, among the newcomers, the mysterious man in red. They all watched him, one pointing him out as if he were a special knight, and others gathered round, arguing the matter.
A foreman saw them dozing and stormed along the gravel shore, waving his stick at them. ‘Fuq saqajn tieghek u tikseb lura għal xogħol!’ He whacked the first one over the head, beating at his flapping gown, raising clouds of dust, and the others l
aughed.
‘Oxhi! Oxhi!’ cried the beaten one in Greek, holding up his hands, ‘Parakalo, effendi! Páo stin Kipro! Páo stin Kipro!’
Somewhat baffled by this peculiar reply, the foreman kicked them back to their stations and they each took up a heavy sack, muttering oaths, waving their open palms and brushing their chins at him in the Greek style. When they approached the aft gangplank to the Orient, the one who had spoken the only basic Greek phrases he had ever known – No, please, I go to Cyprus – dumped his sack with others and marched straight past, down the quayside and into the crowds, whistling a snatch from ‘The British Grenadiers’.
His companion meanwhile joined the lines of labourers carrying sacks of meal into the now familiar depths of Orient, mumbling, ‘God save Bristol…’
Within a few minutes Marine Sergeant Jory Cook was well ensconced in a dark corner of the cavernous holds of Bonaparte’s flagship, and Corporal Pettifer was on his way to the rendezvous, with the news that at least he knew where they had to go next.
Departure
‘You know of Citizen Monge?’
The wardroom table of Orient was crowded with civilians. At Bonaparte’s request Hazzard was to meet the senior savants of the expedition’s scientific Commission. They were the handpicked elite of French academia, and the invitation considered something of a privilege. In his Marine scarlet he stood out warlike in the gathering, and wondered if he were to be displayed as a rare new oddity in Bonaparte’s private cabinet of curiosities.
As part of the parole, Hazzard had been allowed to move about the ship, albeit with an escort of two of Derrien’s Bureau deputies at his heels. There was little room for them: some of the junior officers from Fort St Elmo had been posted aboard and still clustered about him with Jullien, a curious cadre of protection, had they but known it. He had seen Derrien only once that day – and only then at a distance before he disappeared below decks. Hazzard could no more have killed him than he could have killed Bonaparte.
He saw various ladies on the poopdeck and quarterdeck, moving through to the admiral’s day room, but he did not see Sarah once. All the while his mind turned over endless questions about her past.
He sought peace in data, assessing the progress of Orient and the fleet. He moved through the troops on the crowded upper gundeck and fo’c’sle, threading his way through the stacks of cargo, trying to answer the questions posed by the young lieutenants, Did you find any relics on Malta? Why did you retire from the Marines? When we reach Egypt shall we see Pompey’s Pillar from the ship? Jullien did his best, fielding and interpreting the questions and answers.
Meanwhile Hazzard observed everything, the captain’s favoured spread of sail, their speed – but in particular the cramped conditions, the rumblings amongst the troops, their fights with sailors, the bo’sun arguing with army quartermasters, demanding room for his deckhands to man the ship, ‘Lest we founder under your damned poilu merde!’ The ship required a crew of nearly a thousand men. There must have been at least another thousand troops aboard. No wonder there were fights, thought Hazzard.
He returned the soldiers’ jokes with a stately bow of the head, an admiral walking his deck, and many laughed at Milord Anglais, Hazzard noting every collar flashing, every badge, every cracked cross-belt, every patched uniform, every sign of wear on their weapons and equipment. Demi de bataille, light infantry, chasseurs. Charleville 1777 Pattern, .69 calibre. Italians, Swiss, Poles. It was the army of an empire: Rome come to war. Bristling red beards and pointed moustaches, bright blue eyes, some with dark alpine skins, and the black faces of North Africans now free to join the expedition. All the while, the chattering young men and his gaolers believed he understood no more than two words of French. Or anything else.
The sky was bright, the wind perfect. He had assumed Captain Casabianca was taking advantage of a fair westerly, and would make a direct heading east-southeast to Alexandria, perhaps according to a set fleet plan. However, such a route could prove obvious and be easily intercepted. The danger of this was all too real to the helpless passengers around him: the soldiers stared out from the rails, as captive as he, on every lip the fearful whisper, Nelson.
Officer of the watch Lt Gilles Marais saw Hazzard and the group looking up at the network of rigging on the mainmast. He pushed past the two Bureau men watching Hazzard. The most senior, he gave a quick bow of his head to the others, ‘Messieurs,’ and then at Hazzard. ‘Major.’ One hand to his hat, he craned his neck to look up at the rigging as well.
Hazzard had seen him coming from the aft rooms of the quarterdeck, but feigned surprise. ‘Ah, Lieutenant. I was but a captain, you know, never made it to major.’ He shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up still higher, playing his part of the inquisitive visitor.
Marais nodded. ‘Major when aboard a ship, hm – is that not the English way? But you know this I am sure. You know something of ships.’
Hazzard ignored this and kept looking up ‘It seems very high…’
‘Indeed?’ said Marais. The top of the masthead was another 150 feet in the air. He shrugged, then stared at them boldly. ‘It is, yes, too high for common soldiers to climb…’ He looked away, the challenge clear to all.
Sous-Lieutenant Thierry laughed, ‘I will ask you to support that assertion, Lieutenant…’
Marais shrugged again. ‘Ten livres?’
Jullien intervened good-naturedly, ‘Ah non non, this is not polite, gentlemen, he is a retired soldier, with honour—’
But the young men dug out their pockets. ‘Fifty,’ said Thierry with triumph.
‘Certainly,’ said Hazzard. ‘If he believes it is safe, of course…’
Jullien translated but added quietly, ‘The risk, mon ami, there is no need, it is very high—’
Marais interrupted ‘Perfectly safe. If you have, how do you say in English? A “head for the heights”.’
The Bureau men tried to step in, but the others brushed them away, Jullien clearly concerned, but putting on a brave face, ‘Then I shall climb up with you.’
There was a small cheer and growing excitement from the gathered crowd. ‘Excellent,’ said Hazzard. ‘Shall we?’
Orient’s ratlines were rigged with rat-board battens for steps all the way to the tops, and Hazzard was grateful – he was all too used to the endless twist and heave of rope footings. Marais stepped back and indicated the rail, his dubious expression evident to all. Hazzard climbed up onto the ledge, the waves rushing furiously below. He reached one hand round to clutch a shroudline for balance, swinging a boot onto the first rung. Jullien did likewise. Hazzard then grasped the next foot-board batten with an overhand grip. ‘Like this?’
Marais shook his head impatiently, ‘Ah non non non, mon dieu… like this… comme ci…’ Marais reached up from underneath and demonstrated, taking firm hold of the vertical shroudlines with some exasperation. He checked Jullien, who followed suit. ‘D’accord?’
Hazzard looked at Jullien. ‘Ready?’
Jullien looked up, uncertain, but shrugged, excited. ‘I never am on such a boat before!’
To the calls of the officers and a growing crowd, they began to climb. Hazzard had to remind himself to move slowly, as if unfamiliar. Jullien puffed behind him, elated in the sunshine. ‘Quelle journáe! What a day for this, hein?’
As he ascended Hazzard gazed out at the deep blue of the Mediterranean, already extraordinary at thirty feet, the fleet ships in line all around, their frothing wakes streaming, churned by the vessel behind. And Jullien was right, it was a perfect summer’s day. Their cause could be forgotten, momentarily eclipsed by the sight before him.
Hazzard passed the mainyard and reached out for the adjacent ladder to the platform on the mainmast top, and the way up to the topgallant shrouds. The wind buffeted him at every move, but after Fort St Elmo he felt exhilarated. He looked down and called to Jullien, ‘Ça va?’ Jullien did not answer, watching and copying Hazzard’s movements with care.
Once Hazzard ma
de the platform, he gave the gasping Jullien a hand up, ‘Mon dieu…’ two rigging hands helping him, astonished that the pair had made it so far.
Hazzard looked out, sails billowing all about him, the mainsail huge below, the foot of the lower topsail arcing just overhead before them, the horizon visible through a web of whispering rigging.
‘Can we go up?’ asked Hazzard, pointing.
Jullien caught his breath and looked. Another climb into the sky, the ratlines growing ever tighter and smaller as they disappeared into the heavens. The group on the deck below were calling out and urging them on. ‘I think you must,’ said Hazzard, ‘for the honour of the army.’
Jullien laughed. ‘Eh bien. So it must be…! But I do as you do, mon vieux!’
Seagulls whirled about them, floating alongside in the slipstream, the wind stronger. The ratlines narrowed, the battens giving way to rope footings, and their weight bounced against the play of the rigging, the roll of the ship straining at their arms, the horizon tilting one way then the other by mild degrees.
Within ten minutes they reached the topgallant mast and hung for a moment’s rest near the topyard, tackles and braces rattling all around. Hazzard shouted to him, ‘Mind the crossjack…’ indicating the vibrating yard, then in halting French, ‘Careful here!’ He had seen reaching hands trapped in less.
Just above there was a crow’s nest of yet more finely wrought carpentry, Hazzard noticed, with rails and fine finishes, though cramped. The lookout helped them up and made room, stepping into the rigging for them. He was an older, bearded, long-haired man of more than fifty, in ragged white denim canvas culottes and thin leather slippers; he was as dark as the oak of the mast and hard as the sea all round. ‘Bienvenue,’ he said. Welcome.
The topgallant sail snapped above, bulging with the wind, the lines humming in the roar. There was the glow of bright canvas everywhere, signal flags whipping and cracking. They looked out at the scene before them.
‘C’est magnifique,’ laughed Jullien, and Hazzard agreed. Just over the flaring sails of the mizzentops astern, Malta lay far off, a pale brown and green smudge in the distance. The horizon rose all around them, blurring from a white haze of cloud to an infinite indigo, paling into the arc of the deep sky. To them alone the world was revealed for the illusion it was, an endless sea under a dome of blue, the domain of gods.
Lords of the Nile Page 4
