Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  The dark was thick, enveloping. He was below the waterline. As his senses adjusted he heard the sea: it boomed against the hull, not with the rush of spray at the bows on the surface, but with a slow, heavy pulse, the timbers cracking and lowing with deep, sonorous moans, echoing like whale song.

  He moved forward, his hands out, a blind Teirisias feeling his way in the Underworld. He jerked back when he encountered the sharp splintering edges of storage crates and the stiff jute of sacks, at first shocked, then reassured that there was evidence of life here, the cargo absorbing his every sound, even his breathing in the heavy air. He moved past, then struck his head on one of Orient’s huge ribs jutting out between packages and packing-cases. He could detect the scurry of rats.

  The traditional Orlop of his experience was a split deck, one side higher than the other, creating two long-jettied overlapping platforms the length of the ship – he had no way of telling if this were the case here, or whether a French First-Rate had a single deck. He was afraid he might fall into the blackness of the holds, at least a storey high, a lost, broken figure to be found only on disembarkation, if ever. The skin at the nape of his neck contracted at the thought, the soles of his feet tingling, already weightless in the imagined fall.

  But once he rounded a bulkhead and its pile of stores he heard voices and the rhythmic working of a cranked machine. He wondered if the bilge pumps were being operated, but he could hear none of the usual grindings from above. A weak light began to suffuse the blackness and he could feel his eyes react, hungry for anything to define the darkness more clearly. The noise came from the hold below.

  To the stern, he guessed, lay the purser’s cabin, the slop room, and steward’s room – but it seemed deserted in favour of the cargo. The powder magazines could be anywhere, perhaps amidships, or behind hanging curtains aft or forward, as on the Ville. These were crucial to his plan.

  He moved further aft, hit an object, staircase, stopped, bumped something to his right and stepped round a post. He saw the source of light: an open hatchway. He moved toward the hatch and nearly bit his tongue when a silhouetted figure stepped out.

  ‘Down in the Orlop again, lad?’

  Hazzard choked back his shock as Cook put out a steadying hand, coming round into the light. ‘Y’always did creep about at night didn’t you, sir?’

  ‘Jory! By flaming Christ—’

  ‘Nah. He ain’t here. I looked.’

  ‘How? What in hell happened?’

  ‘Got a bit of an ’eadache from that last bomb on Malta. Needed one of Porter’s pillikies.’

  Hazzard went limp with relief. ‘Thank God. De la Vega?’

  ‘No sign, sir. But no body neither.’

  It was enough to give him hope. ‘I told him—’

  ‘Aye. But he didn’t know y’was to walk into the arms of the Frogs now, did he, though he guessed.’

  It was a rebuke. Hazzard accepted it. ‘It was the only way.’

  ‘And y’knew I’d bloody stop you.’

  Hazzard nodded. ‘I did.’

  ‘And you’d a’been right.’

  Hazzard accepted both the compliment and the complaint. ‘The men?’

  ‘At the rdv, sir. Mr Wayland walking wounded. I told Petty he was to execute your final order and get ’em back to Nellie or the Volpone.’

  ‘What a bloody mess… Was it you who gave the countess that note?’

  Cook pointed. ‘In a way. Ain’t got much time, sir. Look further aft.’

  Hazzard peered round a tower of packing cases. The shutter of a dark lantern opened slowly, and the area was soon bathed in light. It was Sarah.

  Hazzard stared for no more than a moment, then took her, held her, so she would not fly away, could not escape from him this time, burying his face in her hair, ‘God above…’

  She began to weep, ‘Forgive me forgive me,’ she repeated.

  ‘Found you, at last,’ he said, her tears hot on his neck, her hands forming fists, knotting his hair, holding him tight. ‘How? How? My God… Sarah…’

  He could say no more than her name again and again and she his, ‘William.’

  Then he was shaking her, his frustration coming to the fore, his briefing at the Admiralty by Blake and Lewis, his chase across the Mediterranean, the loss of the Esperanza in battle, duelling with Derrien in the gutters of Naples, all rushed out of him and struck her instead, as if it were her fault. ‘Where were you! You wrote a letter from Naples, yet you weren’t there! Why did you lie?’ He stopped when she broke down in his arms, his breath catching. ‘Blake – lied to me at the Cape, lied to me in London – I’ll kill him for this, by God. Lewis as well. I’m going to make them pay—’

  ‘No… Will, you do not understand…’ She shook her head, trying to stop him.

  ‘—took advantage, pretended to—’

  ‘Listen to me!’ She took a breath and whispered the truth of it: ‘It was I who went to them.’

  He stopped, his hand touching her damp cheek, suddenly still. ‘What?’

  ‘I went to them.’

  Hazzard stared. ‘You went to Blake? The Admiralty? You went to that bloody place? Wh… How? Why?’

  ‘After your return from the Cape. When I saw what they had done to you, all of them…’ She looked down, remembering the feeling of it, ‘I wanted the truth, of what had happened. You had done too much, and I wanted, needed…’ She kept weeping but gave a strangled laugh, the months and months of loneliness suddenly unstoppered, at an end, and she closed her eyes. ‘Say my name, William, say my name for me I beg of you…’

  ‘Sarah…’

  She began to sob, ‘That is me, that is me…’

  He held her, feeling her body quake as she cried into his shoulder. ‘I wanted adventure, did I not…’

  No.

  ‘I found it,’ she said.

  Christ, what have I done.

  ‘I am alone, and have been for so long…’ She looked at him steadily. ‘You would not know me any longer…’ And she told him what she had done.

  Hazzard stared. He could not conceive of it, Isabelle Moreau-Lazare of the Comédie Française, former mistress of Joseph Talma, and possibly lover of a general who would be king.

  The Admiralty agent.

  Sarah.

  He held her face, looked at her, could barely speak. ‘It was I who left you…’

  Cook moved forward. ‘Sir. Footsteps. Best show a leg.’

  Hazzard listened. They were still far off.

  ‘Derrien,’ he said, ‘Does he know?’

  She nodded, wiping her face. ‘No. He nearly caught me in Toulon… but I escaped—’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Climbed down the drainpipe from the top floor and jumped, hid for the night then found a boat to Naples.’

  ‘Christ God above…’ He looked further aft, then back at the glow from below, from the hold. ‘Jory, we are getting out. What’s down there?’

  ‘Bloody great printing press. Three or four civilians, working day and night, sir.’

  ‘They’re making these,’ said Sarah and handed him a sheet.

  Hazzard held it under the lantern. It was a single page. He recognised the script at once. ‘This is Arabic.’

  Marcel, the printer.

  ‘They’re also laying up a newspaper, like they did in Italy,’ she said, ‘and a journal for an Institute of Egypt, or some such.’

  Bonaparte’s words came back to him: I am a mathematician but enjoy the sciences of whichever persuasion.

  Cook nodded. ‘I’ve heard ’em, sir. Alexandry, Rosette, Jeeza. It’s all they natter about. Very excited they are to walk in and take it all, like the Turks’re a lot o’daft mollies. The Frogs don’t know a piskie’s tit about it.’

  ‘They want Suez,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ve heard them.’

  ‘Could they dig out the old canal?’ asked Hazzard.

  She nodded. ‘Theoretically, either to the sea or across to the Nile – they keep debating. It’s what I tried to pass t
o London, and Bonaparte confirmed it on Malta. The scientists, the savants, they have all manner of tools and surveying instruments, geological, geographical, engineering, everything. There are roughly a hundred and sixty-five of them, to compile a Domesday Book of Egypt, a record of everything they find. Here are their names.’

  She thrust a tightly rolled sheet into his hands and he saw the names, many of them he knew from his own studies, Malus, G.-St.-Hilaire, Le Père, Aymé, Raige, and others in categories, Section the First: Mathematical, Section the Second: Military Engineering, and still more. Hazzard thought of Berthollet’s comments at dinner, chemists, physicists and artists, Marcel to immortalise the results.

  She delved into an inner pocket of her bodice. ‘Here. I had wanted to pass it to you at dinner, had it on me all night. It’s all I have so far, the divisions, the adjutants, demi-brigade generals…’

  Hazzard opened another scroll of thin sheets. He read through them, and could not believe his eyes.

  Armée d’Orient

  Division Kléber. – (Adj-Gen Escale).

  Gen de Brig: Damas i/c 2nd Light Demi. (c.1700 men)

  Verdier i/c 25th (1700) and 75th Line Demi (1700) // (5100?)

  Divison Desaix (Adj-Gen Donzelot?)

  Gen de Brig: Belliard i/c 21st Light Demi (men do)

  Friant i/c 61st and 88th Line Demi. (men do)

  Division Bon (Adj-Gen Valentine).

  Gen Brig: Marmont i/c 4th Light Demi (do)

  Rampon i/c 18th and 32nd Line Demi. (do)

  It went on, lists of divisions, their strengths, generals, battalion commanders, cavalry regiments, number of artillery and horses. At the bottom, a total: 38,000 fighting men and reserves. He looked at her, for the first time understanding the depth of her dedication. ‘How on earth did you get this?’

  ‘Holy God…’ murmured Cook, reading the order of battle for the Armée d’Orient over Hazzard’s shoulder. ‘The 9th, 22nd, 69th, the 75th – it’s their feckin’ army from Italy, been moppin’ up the Austrians like bread in gravy. Turks won’t stand a flamin’ chance…’

  Hazzard now thought only of escape. ‘How many small boats do they have?’

  ‘Most are lashed, stowed or slung, sir. But there’s three strung out astern on a line, secured just below the short stays of the quarterdeck. No room for ’em up top. Reckon above a thousand troops aboard.’

  Sarah put a hand out. ‘I cannot,’ she said.

  ‘We are all going, Sarah, for God’s sake…’ Even as he said it he could see that she would not accept it.

  ‘I can’t leave the comtesse to the mercy of Derrien, or leave Jeanne—’

  ‘Yes, you damn well can—’

  ‘I cannot—’

  ‘I did not come this far to lose you again.’

  The footsteps were drawing closer. ‘Sir,’ said Cook, ‘The ship’s got three hanging magazines: for’ard, midships and aft. I’ve rigged a bang to the Number 2 for the 24-pounder ammo, just in case. Length of quickmatch behind us will give us enough time to scarper. Then we can take a line to a boat from the upper gundeck. Bit of a drop, but, we done worse…’

  ‘Can we put a small charge into the hold? Scupper her so she sinks slowly?’

  ‘Damn tricky if it hits the bilge and fuse goes out—’

  ‘You can’t mean to explode the magazine?’ gasped Sarah to Hazzard. ‘You would kill everyone aboard – two thousand people!’

  The footsteps stopped. Sarah looked up at the ceiling, alert.

  ‘Here,’ she said, with shaking hands, digging out her final prize. ‘The spare key to the Great Cabin, you can break in, take charts, whatever you need, but not kill them all! William, for the love of God—’

  ‘How else can we stop them?’

  De Villiers and Jollois.

  You must be very talented.

  Spoken while Hazzard knew he was going to blow the magazine.

  Head of the serpent, thought Hazzard. If Bonaparte were dead, would any man dare assume his mantle? Had they the authority? Or determination? Half the general staff of France was aboard Orient.

  Cook pointed at the ceiling. ‘Sir. Marines comin’.’

  Hazzard then thought of Berthollet. And Denon.

  Fortunes of war.

  She took his sleeve. ‘You would kill all of the savants? All of those good brave young boys! What of the women aboard, the sailors’ wives, the civilians—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sarah—’

  Jullien.

  Do nothing that would blacken our names, or your own. Remember my sadness that we are enemies.

  ‘Change of watch, might be,’ said Cook, looking steadily at the ceiling, listening. ‘Or we’re done for…’

  More boots, running now, and Hazzard took Sarah by the hand. ‘Sar’nt, the quickmatch—’

  ‘William,’ said Sarah, ‘if it comes to it you must leave me—’

  ‘The devil I will—’

  She tugged his arm hard and held him tight. ‘If you try to light the powder magazine I will run, somewhere into the ship! I will stay aboard!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous—’

  ‘Will, you do not know me any longer.’

  Running boots banged down the stairs. He watched her. Was she right? Still he fought her. ‘I will not—’

  ‘You must. I can still gather intelligence!’

  Cook got up, ‘Sir. Now.’

  Closing the dark lantern they used the glow from below and hurried aft just as the boots came thumping down the midships steps in the darkness. Cook pushed Sarah down against the crates in the darkness behind them, the quickmatch fuse coiled alongside, a post screening her, creepers of rope dangling from above, a jungle of deep shadow everywhere. Hazzard did not move. He heard musket-locks cocking. The shutter of a lantern clanged open, its light blinding. The Orlop leapt into bright focus, Hazzard caught centre-stage, kneeling behind a crate.

  It was Derrien. Six marines behind him presented arms, ready. Hazzard remained at a crouch.

  ‘Mr Hazzard.’ Derrien looked about at the stores, the locked cabins. ‘Raiding the provisions? Were you… what is that English word… “peckish”?’

  ‘Only six marines this time?’ said Hazzard. ‘I hear your Dutch grenadiers at Toulon were easy meat.’

  Derrien at first did not understand. ‘These men, you mean? Oh, there are always more soldiers, Mr Hazzard, somewhere. Behind you, above you, all around you. Really you surprise me. Did you believe you had only one man watching your door? How ever do you think I acquired this…?’

  Derrien opened his coat a fraction to reveal the golden hilt of the espada ropera.

  Hazzard almost lurched towards him in his anger. He glanced at the marines, and spoke in French. ‘So now you are a thief as well as a murderer.’

  The marines glanced uncertainly at Derrien, the French unexpected. Perhaps out of pride, Derrien continued in English. ‘And what are you doing, down here in the dead of the night? Did you not see how very easy I made it for you? No guards on the hatches, none on the steps – and down you came. Because I know what you are: assassin, saboteur.’

  ‘And I know what you are,’ he replied, still in French, ‘liar, thief. Traitor.’

  Derrien sounded weary. ‘Really, there is no escape on a ship at sea, Mr Hazzard. This surely is obvious to a naval man such as yourself. You will come with me now.’

  Hazzard rose, holding up a length of black fuse and the naked candle from Sarah’s lantern. He continued in French, so that the marines would understand.

  ‘Perhaps you can explain this. The aft hanging magazine has been set to explode with this fuse. It burns at a rate of one foot per second. The detonation of the initial charge will ignite two hundred tons of powder cartridges for the 24-pounder cannons of this vessel.’ He let it sink in. ‘The remaining ammunition in the forward and midships magazines will then explode. This ship, and everyone on board, will be blown to pieces.’

  The marines looked at Derrien. They backed away.

&nb
sp; ‘Do not move,’ he snapped at them. They stopped.

  Hazzard held the quickmatch fuse very still, Sarah’s candle beneath it. Derrien fixed his eyes upon it. ‘Your French is very convincing.’

  ‘Better than your English.’

  Derrien stiffened.

  ‘You would not dare. You too would be killed.’

  ‘In English one says “go to Glory”.’

  The marines were hesitant, looking to each other, no longer to Derrien, confused: was the Englishman now a Frenchman? Hazzard knew he could push them just that little bit further.

  ‘Soldats de France,’ he called to them, ‘Je suis Capitaine St Juste, 30e Infanterie de marine – on special orders from the Minister of the Interior! Citizen Derrien is an enemy of the state, thieving the wages of this fleet with the connivance of the purser. He has set this trap for us all.’

  Derrien shouted back, ‘Bougez pas, vous idiots!’ Do not move!

  Hazzard pushed them to their limit, ‘I give you this direct order! Arrest him at once!’

  A dishevelled figure in spectacles and shirtsleeves appeared at the top of the ladder down to the hold below, a large sheet of paper in one hand. It was one of the scholar printers. ‘H-hello…?’

  It was sufficient to distract. Cook hurled a 3-pounder round-shot like a cricket ball. It struck Derrien in the shoulder and he dropped the lantern with a cry, knocking a marine’s musket to one side. It went off. As they staggered from the blast, deafened and choking in the cloud of burnt powder in the confines of the Orlop, Hazzard lit his fuse.

  Derrien screamed. ‘Non, non! Stop him! The fuse!’

  Hazzard seized Sarah and they leapt for the ladder just behind, the quickmatch fizzing and lashing in mid-air, a maddened serpent spitting with fire, Derrien shouting, ‘The fuse, the fuse!’

  Hazzard and Sarah shot upwards, Cook hard behind. They reached the lower gundeck, lamps shining, men stirring, only a few hearing the heavily muffled report of the gunshot. They raced up the steps to the middle gundeck, Derrien raging out far below for no one to hear, ‘Aux armes! Aux armes! Arrêtez!’