Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Hazzard pushed back and a marine cracked one on the head with his musket but Hazzard called out, ‘Stand off there, that man. No violence.’ He pushed through the crowd, ‘A full invasion force, Masoud, any day now.’

  ‘Can you stop them?’ called Hammer. ‘With only these?’

  ‘We could make a merry mess of them,’ replied Hardy.

  ‘I am here, at your service, Hardeh-effendi, Hazar-effendi,’ said Masoud, fear in his wide eyes. ‘Will you come back to help us? Please?’

  The crowd lining the dock heaved about them, whistling, jeering, Kur-ay-yim, Kur-ay-yim, but the marines ploughed through them, clearing the gangway to the Mutine, knocking several traders into the water. Hardy called out, ‘Major Hazzard, quick as you can, if you please.’

  Hazzard turned to Hammer. ‘Is there a chance a delegation could get to the capital?’

  ‘To the high Mamluk diwan?’ Hammer nodded. ‘It means a ride, a day and a half, less obtrusive than a boat upriver.’

  Hazzard looked back at the Mutine. The squadron could wait offshore for the French for as long as it took, and then pounce. ‘How soon could you organise such a journey?’

  ‘Not difficult. Two guides and some horses.’ He shot a glance at Cook. ‘For the pair of you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Hammer smiled. ‘Then come tonight. Find a double-torch on the shore by the warehouses in the western harbour. We shall be there.’

  Masoud shook his hand gratefully. ‘May God be with you, Hazar-effendi,’ the young Egyptian’s wide, dark eyes burning into his own. ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘I will tell Nelson we must wait,’ he said, halfway up the gangplank, already wondering if it would prove a lie. ‘I will.’

  They boarded the Mutine and cast off, and Cook murmured, ‘What’ll Nellie say about that then?’

  Hazzard watched as they pulled away. ‘I have no bloody idea.’

  The Alexandrian traders waved in celebration as the Mutine set sail, Hammer and his small group heading off through the crowd, Masoud momentarily alone on the jetty, the sole mourner at an unseen funeral. Hazzard raised a hand from the rail of the sloop. Masoud raised his in reply, a lost expression on his face until Hammer returned to lead him away.

  * * *

  ‘Dashed ridiculous,’ Hardy whispered to Hazzard over dinner on Vanguard that night. He swirled the wine at the bottom of his glass. ‘Will, you’ve done more than enough, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘It’s not enough if the French are not here…’ Hazzard stared at the table, the food dead in his mouth, his mind constantly working, wondering how he could have got her off, how he could get the men off Malta, knowing he could not. Lieutenant Wayland, how are you faring…

  Hardy watched him.

  ‘Surely you need rest. And our orders are clear – we did our best with that Koraim fellow. You can’t go charging off into the desert.’

  ‘How else can we warn them?’

  Sir Thomas Troubridge reached over and took the decanter from Hardy to top up his own glass. ‘Will, for God’s sake…’ He glanced at the other captains, and refilled Hazzard’s glass, more for something to do as he spoke under his breath, ‘You’ll go too far. You’ve done it before. You’ve been on the brink for… for weeks – we all have…’

  Hazzard gazed at the table, staring into nothing. Hardy tried to be jocular. ‘Come, when will you let us take some of the brunt, eh? Up the damned masthead of a French flagship, by heaven, and over the side into the drink. We have gunners positively itching for their chance.’

  There was a general chuckle round the table. At the head sat Nelson, watching them, saying little – ironically he reminded Hazzard of Bonaparte: closed-faced and watchful, somewhat humourless. He was surrounded by his devoted captains – several had stayed to dine after another conference. For weeks they had done nothing but plan; all had been drilled on their actions and reactions in any given scenario should they encounter the French fleet. Every contingency had been considered, including Nelson’s death.

  There was Hardy of the Mutine, Berry, Captain of Vanguard, Darby of the Bellerophon, Foley of the Goliath, Saumarez of the Orion, Ball of the Alexander, Thompson of the Leander, Hallowell of the Swiftsure, and Troubridge of the Culloden – a band of brothers indeed, thought Hazzard, the happy few. He could forgive Nelson imagining himself Henry V at Agincourt, facing insuperable odds.

  ‘You’ve been hogging them for ages,’ declared Darby brusquely. ‘Time for us to have a bash.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Saumarez. ‘There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t make it back to his lordship in Gib. Said so himself, didn’t he, Tom? Threatened to cut me sherry ration if I let ’im sink.’

  Laughter at Sir James, a suave, easy manner, betraying none of the relentless aggression beneath. Hazzard well knew that each captain at the table would lead his ship alone into the middle of Bonaparte’s fleet and blast it to Satan, or die trying.

  ‘How long shall we wait in this godawful place, sir?’ asked Darby of Nelson. He cast a doubtful eye at Hazzard. ‘If the Frogs ever turn up, that is…’

  They had been over Hazzard’s experiences aboard Orient for hours – less about Bonaparte, but more about the ship, its standing rigging, its weaknesses, the water-levels on the hull, the pumps, distribution of guns, whether she listed at all, the number of officers and crew, their watch system, anything to get an advantage when the time came to attack – as it would, they each were certain. They were in no doubt of Hazzard; they were merely tired of chasing, and now, waiting – and tempers were fraying.

  Nelson twirled the stem of his glass with the fingers of his left hand, then took up the port to pour himself some more. No one sought to help, to hold the glass or tip the decanter – it was a customary exercise for the one-armed man.

  ‘If they are not here,’ said Nelson, ‘then we can but guess they have headed northeast, perhaps to strike the Greek Ionian isles. If you have Venice, as the French do, you simply must take Bari on the heel of Italy and Corfu across the strait, else you are bottled up in the Adriatic, it’s imperative – and they have Venice, and some of the fortified isles. What then? Do we go there? Or perhaps they go to Constantinople itself.’

  The others nodded their heads but Hardy glanced at Troubridge, puzzled. Hazzard could scarcely believe it. ‘I do not understand, sir,’ he said. ‘We know the French are coming to Egypt.’

  Nelson was irritated with this contradiction. ‘Alas, Mr Hazzard, you know only what has been reported, or was allowed to be reported to you.’

  The captains passed the port and examined their glasses studiously, only Troubridge and Hardy watching the exchange. Hazzard regarded Nelson with incredulity.

  ‘Sir, Bonaparte announced his intentions to his army at Valletta, before my eyes. He confirmed it when I dined with him and his entire commission of savant specialists come to dig out a canal at Suez—’

  ‘So they said, sir—’

  ‘The general staff are working to a tactical battle plan to take the country from top to bottom in just thirty days. Why would he deceive on such a scale—’

  ‘Yet he did, all the way from Toulon, sir. Not a soul knew, so we have heard.’

  Hardy ventured to intervene but Troubridge did instead. ‘Sir, did Major Hazzard not provide clear enough evidence? The Arabic leaflets, their own conversation aboard ship? The battle order of his army?’

  ‘I cannot comment, Sir Thomas,’ said Nelson, rather formally, though with some disappointment. Something troubled him.

  Darby looked at Hazzard and piped up, ‘All we can do is look upon the sea, sir. And there we find no enemy.’

  ‘Men have lost their lives,’ Hazzard reminded Darby, ‘in battles that will never reach the pages of the London News. Our agent is still aboard the French flagship—’

  ‘Who by your own account you got killed,’ said Foley carelessly.

  Hazzard turned on him. ‘Who in hell are you to speak of such things to me?’

&nbs
p; ‘Foley, sir, of the Goliath.’ He set down his glass firmly. ‘Would you like to know me, sir?’

  ‘I am Hazzard, and by God you would not like to know me.’

  Nelson remained calm. ‘Mr Hazzard, you will keep your temper at my table,’ he said. ‘Captain Foley, you meant no slight, did you, sir? We shall have no wretched duelling.’

  Foley sloshed back another glass of claret. ‘No, sir. Forgive me.’

  Hazzard could not have cared less. ‘Men and women, from Paris to Toulon, Naples and Valletta, have gambled their lives to provide us with this intelligence, the number and organisation of their army, demi-brigades, commanders, disposition – and, above all, that the fleet is in full sail for Alexandria.’

  ‘Do you seek to argue with the admiral, sir?’ demanded Darby. ‘The tail, so it is said, does not wag the dog.’

  Hazzard knew very well what Darby’s metaphor suggested. ‘This red coat is mere decoration, Captain Darby. I am more than the Navy’s bloody watchdog.’

  Darby’s face darkened and he half rose. ‘How dare you…’

  ‘Enough, enough,’ said Nelson. ‘Sit down, sir…’

  Darby eased off but kept an angry eye on Hazzard. Nelson looked pained and banged the table. ‘This is frustration, gentlemen, pure and simple, all of us. We have ploughed these seas to and fro, and still not seen them. Four hundred ships, by heaven! How could we miss them?’

  ‘Then why leave, sir,’ protested Hazzard, ‘and risk missing them again?’

  Nelson hit the table again. ‘Because we must seek them, sir! Lest they strike elsewhere!’

  Hardy and Troubridge seemed resigned, while the captains glared at Hazzard for questioning their god.

  Thompson of the Leander spoke up. ‘Sir, Leander could scout past Crete with Hardy and the Mutine, while you wait here. We are but fifty guns and can speed like a frigate.’

  ‘No, Thos,’ said Nelson, ‘a fine idea but I can’t lose you as well. Our strength lies in our unity.’ He sat tight-lipped, then announced his decision. ‘Given fair winds tomorrow we shall retrace our steps. First to Crete, then Cyprus, to revictual, then Corfu. And give battle where we find them.’

  Hazzard stared at them, at the florid satisfaction of the impatient captains longing for action. Red-faced, he threw down his napkin and put his chair back, his hands shaking. ‘If you will excuse me,’ he said with obvious disgust, ‘I have another appointment.’

  The break with protocol and etiquette too great for them to endure, Foley and Darby fairly burst from their seats in outrage but Nelson was too quick for them, and was on his feet first. ‘Mr Hazzard, if you please, a word, sir. Gentlemen, you will excuse us.’

  Taken aback, the captains all rose and bowed at Nelson’s departure. Glowering, Hazzard followed him, Hardy and Troubridge watching.

  They passed from the wardroom into the Great Cabin. Hazzard shut the door behind him. Nelson headed for his desk.

  ‘You have done great work for your king, sir,’ said Nelson, ‘be in no doubt of that.’

  Hazzard said nothing.

  Nelson relented. ‘Darby can be a boor. He speaks and thinks for no one but duty, action and Darby. His ship is known as the Billy Ruffian for good reason. They are tired. So are we all. We have hunted everywhere. By God, we have.’ He thought of the past month. ‘To Spain, Toulon, Sardinia, Naples, Sicily, worn ourselves to the bone. When I lost the frigates in that gale I sought the aid of Naples. Hardy reported that you had already done so. Sir William Hamilton thought you our one great hope. Acton was condemnatory. It was that which decided me on you.’

  Hazzard had pleaded his case, reported everything, the losses, the effort, De la Vega, the Volpone, the Lazzaroni in Naples, the guide Azzopardo in Valletta, Sarah on the Orient. ‘If you leave now, sir, I will have failed, and all thus far will have been in vain.’

  ‘We cannot wait for them, sir. We must act.’

  Nelson then reached for a folded page on his desk, a letter. ‘Received at Syracuse, sir, but I ignored it, as you can see, and followed your lead regardless.’ He flapped it open with a flick of the wrist. Hazzard took it. It bore War Office and Admiralty seals.

  Given intelligence received at this office, the threat to the Sublime Porte of Constantinople appears all the greater than that to Egypt. The French intend progressive annexation of the Greek Isles as prelude to a swift attack on Turkey. Given relations with the Ottoman Empire, His Majesty’s Government must intervene. Exploring Officer 34’18’89 to withdraw upon locating French fleet.

  Melville, Secretary of War

  Nelson looked as defeated as Hazzard. ‘I was told by Sir William Hamilton that I should trust your word above all others,’ said Nelson. ‘But now, you see, we have no choice.’ He moved to the port decanter on the desk, removed the crystal stopper and poured two glasses. ‘Melville may be telling the truth. The Sea Lords have confirmed this fear. Therefore I must investigate.’

  ‘I have not yet reported to London, sir. Lord Melville cannot know—’

  Nelson banged down the decanter. ‘I know he is wrong, sir. In my very bones I know that India hangs in the balance – hacking their way through Egypt to the Red Sea, to thrust a damnable French battle-fleet into the Indies is…’ he put a hand to his forehead, ‘it is diabolical…’

  ‘Then what of the innocents lying a stone’s throw from this ship—’

  ‘We are bound by duty, sir! Bound.’

  ‘Bound be damned! I speak of conscience!’ Hazzard could scarcely conceal his anger. ‘Can you not see, sir? He is gaming with nations—’

  ‘And we are England, sir!’ snapped Nelson. ‘We determine the nations.’

  Footsteps in the passage stopped, and whispered voices diminished as listeners moved away. After a moment he handed Hazzard a glass of port. ‘The log will show none of your part in this affair. Only my concern that we have missed the French yet again. And how I must tell my tigers out there to leave off their dinner…’

  He was impatient, his nerves in shreds. Hazzard realised Nelson was not unlike him: he cannot stop. He cannot simply wait.

  Nelson took back the note and moved to his desk lamp. He touched the page to one of the burning candles. The fine vellum flared for only a moment, floated and vanished.

  This was the end, thought Hazzard. This was Empire speaking, and nothing would sway him. Hazzard put down his glass, the port untouched, light-headed enough from the sudden turn of events. In his mind flashed images of Hammer and Masoud on the dockside, and a city with no comprehension of the fate bearing down upon it.

  ‘If England should thrive at such a cost, sir,’ said Hazzard, ‘then we are no better than Bonaparte, and the murder of their Revolution.’

  ‘You refuse to withdraw, sir?’

  ‘I do.’ Hazzard’s mouth was dry, his voice a husk. He put a folded envelope on a side table, his hand shaking. ‘This is my report, about Malta’s garrison under Vaubois, and a copy of the disposition of the Armée d’Orient provided by—’ he stopped, his voice catching ‘—by our agent on the Orient.’

  ‘Am I your messenger now, Mr Hazzard?’

  ‘No. Sir William Hamilton is.’

  Thirty days, only thirty, for Bonaparte to conquer Egypt.

  There was nothing he could do to stop it. India rose bright and sharp in his mind, thoughts of fates and gods, and glib truisms about destinies and wisdom – who was he to stop the machine? Damn them all.

  He turned for the door, then stopped.

  ‘If you head north to Crete and Turkey as ordered, sir,’ said Hazzard, ‘revictual at Cyprus, then return here before heading west—’

  ‘No, sir—’

  ‘You would lose but a week, and so you may note in the log, but the French will not have been able to disembark all of their troops or cargo—’

  Nelson was adamant. ‘No, sir. To the Sublime Porte of Constantinople, then out to the Ionian Isles as ordered. It is the only way, sir, and there an end to it, else we answer to the Lords Commissioners a
nd Parliament for it, sir.’

  ‘Very well then. After the Ionian Isles would you not need to revictual?’

  Hazzard did the calculations: ten days, twelve, with favourable winds to Syracuse. Revictualling, several days, then eight, ten days to return to Alexandria on a good westerly. It made sense.

  By which time – what? Egypt under the French heel?

  But at least he would return.

  ‘Quite likely, yes. To Cyprus—’

  ‘What if you headed west instead, to Syracuse, to revictual, sir?’ He thought it through as he spoke: what was Bonaparte’s plan after the conquest? ‘If they take Egypt in thirty days as planned, they would feel no urgency to unload their fleet…’ Hazzard watched him. ‘They might even delay until victory was assured.’

  They regarded each other in silence, each aware of the other’s interests and implacable refusal to withdraw. ‘Syracuse…’ Nelson watched him. ‘It could be done.’

  ‘But still, you will leave, sir.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. For I must.’

  Nelson stood by his desk, the lamp lending him an unhealthy pallor, or revealing it. Hazzard looked round the cabin, its instruments, its charts – it was the essence of Vanguard, of the Royal Navy. It now appalled him. All of it did. His voice took on the dull tone of the vanquished. ‘Then that is the recommendation of the Exploring Officer in the field, sir.’ Hazzard put his hand to the door latch. He could hear the captains beyond, taking brandy. ‘For your own referral, sir, I have written in my report that I intend to follow my original orders, as bidden.’

  ‘And those orders were, sir?’

  ‘To engage the enemy independently by any means possible.’

  Nelson looked at the ash remains on his desk. ‘Then no man can condemn you, sir.’

  Hazzard very much doubted that. He opened the door.

  ‘Mr Hazzard.’ Nelson’s voice brought him to a stop. ‘If I do not find the French at Crete, or Corfu, or Syracuse, I shall follow my instincts, and return. With my tigers.’

  It was a lifeline, thought Hazzard, tossed from the portside rail to a drowning man – but not enough.