Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

‘I will be safe with Bonaparte’s staff and Madame Verdier, but he must not suspect you, my dear, must not. You must go, and protect Jeanne.’

  ‘I do not need protecting,’ said Jeanne. ‘But I can protect her.’

  ‘Yes.’ The comtesse sounded certain and hugged Sarah, whispering in her ear, ‘If he is anywhere, my dear, he will be here, close to you. I know this much.’

  Sarah watched the generals file down the stairs to confer, their grand uniforms a blaze of colour and braid, their swords clanking. She closed her eyes tight and wished.

  William – please… live.

  * * *

  They assembled in Bonaparte’s stateroom. A young lieutenant appeared at the door, followed soon after by Derrien and a portly man in civilian dress, red-nosed with sunburn and agog at his surroundings, sweating and breathless from his journey.

  ‘Consul Magallon, General,’ announced Derrien. ‘Arrived from the port.’

  Since Hazzard’s disappearance Derrien had struggled to maintain Bonaparte’s confidence. To some extent he had succeeded, though not to his satisfaction. His mission of rehabilitation had been to alight at Alexandria and fetch the man who had called down the hellfire of France upon this far corner of the Mediterranean, Citizen Consul Magallon. It had been the work of a matter of minutes, as Magallon and several of his plump associates had been waiting stoutly at the quayside – with packed valises, as if ready for a short cruise.

  Magallon overflowed with pride and took Admiral Brueys’ hand effusively. ‘Mon général – quel honneur. I – I cannot believe that you are arrived!’

  Someone coughed, ‘Neither can we…’ Casabianca indicated Bonaparte nearby, who was not amused. Magallon repeated his greetings, with a deeper bow of apology. Bonaparte turned away to his maps.

  ‘But we are here, Citizen. Owing to your letter, pleading for action.’ It was not entirely true, but doubtless served Bonaparte’s purpose to keep the man on his best behaviour.

  Magallon was confused. ‘Pardon, Général…? My letter, you say?’ he replied, then nodded, as if suddenly remembering. ‘Ah yes, yes, of course, the, er, letter…’

  Brueys and Casabianca looked away. Another rolled his eyes, ‘Bon dieu…’

  ‘You did not warn us that we would be unable to dock in Alexandria,’ said a disgruntled Lt Marais.

  The overfed diplomat swallowed hard, and his sweat-soaked collar bobbed. ‘N-no… I should think it is too shallow for the great ships… is-is that… correct?’

  ‘So we have discovered, Citizen,’ said Brueys. ‘To our cost.’

  ‘What news of Nelson?’ asked Bonaparte.

  Magallon looked uncertainly at Derrien, who answered for him. ‘Nelson departed here two days ago and headed north, General. A Turkish captain has confirmed this.’

  ‘Saw it myself,’ said Magallon, ‘Kurayyim sent him away, pish-tish!’ He laughed but no one joined in.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Derrien. ‘The English squadron might return.’

  ‘How many ships?’ asked Casabianca, alarmed.

  ‘A mere half-dozen,’ shrugged Magallon, ‘I think…’

  ‘Thirteen,’ corrected Derrien. ‘No frigates, each one a 74-gun ship of the line of battle, from their Mediterranean Fleet I should think.’

  Brueys and Casabianca exchanged glances – small frigates aside, it matched their own battle-fleet almost ship for ship. Casabianca took a breath.

  Bonaparte passed an eye over his map. ‘Then we have little time to spare…’ He looked to Magallon. ‘What of the country between here and Cairo?’ asked Bonaparte. ‘Or am I to encounter Englishmen lurking there as well?’

  Magallon’s eyes flitted from one face to the next but none helped him. ‘I, well, that is, the English East India people call at the Red Sea coast from time to time… Kosseir, far, very far from Cairo, across the, er, eastern desert…’ He shrugged hopelessly. ‘I know mostly of commercial activity at the Delta ports, General…’

  Kléber boomed out at him, ‘You mean you know nothing of the country between here and Cairo? What of the wells? What of water for the forty thousand men we have brought at your behest, you gibbering buffoon!’

  ‘There are wells, yes, some, gentlemen, er, citizens, but the Nile, last year, it did not flood fully, and so far they may not be, er… full. But no, I do not know the countryside,’ he cleared his throat, ‘not terribly well, really…’

  ‘Putain de la merde…’

  Someone banged his fist against a wall and another cursed, but Magallon’s failings were forgotten when they heard a call on deck.

  There was a clatter on the stairs outside and an urgent knocking at the door. One of the young ensigns reported to Casabianca. ‘Capitaine, unidentified man of war sighted one league to stern. It could be the English.’

  * * *

  High at the taffrail of the poopdeck Bonaparte and Brueys peered astern through their glasses, the staff ranged behind doing likewise. Bonaparte’s secretary Bourrienne joined him, searching through the fleet’s labyrinth of masts and yards swinging in their view, wakes streaming into the distance. At last, they saw a distant flash of white canvas against the brilliant blue of the sky: a warship, giving chase under full sail.

  Lt Marais had not waited but climbed with another into the mizzen tops far above, and called down, ‘She is a ship of the third or fourth rank.’

  ‘Support vessels?’ called Casabianca.

  ‘Non, Capitaine.’ He paused then shouted louder, ‘Second sail dead astern!’

  ‘Another ship…’ Bonaparte muttered under his breath to Bourrienne, ‘Fortune will not abandon me now, Louis… Five days – five days… It is all I need.’

  ‘We can still do it, Général. They are far off—’

  Casabianca called out, ‘Beat to quarters! Signals officer – compliments to the Tonnant and the Guillaume Tell: prepare to brace about!’ He looked to Bonaparte. ‘General, we can come about and engage with all guns if you wish, or send in the rearguard under Admiral Villeneuve.’

  ‘Wait for confirmation,’ husked Bonaparte, staring through the telescope, trying to see if all were lost. Jullien and Junot looked to their commander, but Bonaparte had paled.

  Bourrienne peered through his eyeglass and glanced at him. ‘She is so small. It is a frigate – I would swear it is…’

  ‘If he has a dozen ships…’ murmured Bonaparte, calculating speed, odds, sea-room. ‘Nelson could cut us into three divisions…’

  ‘But what can so few English captains do to so many…?’ asked Jullien.

  Bonaparte watched the sea, then glanced at Bourrienne. ‘They will be like the fox, Thomas, and forget they cannot consume us all – yet kill everything in sight.’

  * * *

  Down below, the stairs and ladders rang with boots as the troops assembled in their landing companies, the drums beating, sergeants roaring for platoons and sections to form up, aux armes, sergents-chefs! Soldiers and their packs colliding with the middle- and lower-deck gunners and powder-monkeys as they hurried to their stations, Eh, passez-là stupide! the threat passed from bow to stern: Anglais.

  Nelson.

  Sarah stuffed her shifts and dresses into the trunk she shared with Jeanne – if Nelson did come upon them they would get off, she did not care how, jump like William, and make her way to the British – with Jeanne, for her own good, whether she liked it or not.

  The door opened and a figure forced his way inside from the chaos in the passage. It was Derrien.

  ‘You,’ she gasped. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Derrien spoke in urgent whispers. She had never seen him like this before. ‘We have no time for games, mademoiselle,’ he said, closing the door with a click. ‘Or should I say, Miss,’ he added, in English.

  Sarah looked back at him, her face betraying nothing, out of old habit, but it shook her.

  ‘Comprends pas,’ she said blankly. I do not understand.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ he replied, again in English. ‘You have been ve
ry clever to have come so far but it is over, and you are discovered and in great danger.’

  ‘Danger? How?’ she gasped, insisting on French. ‘From you of course—’

  ‘From me?’ he retorted with some anger. ‘I have been protecting you these three weeks past, have you not seen? If the general were to learn the truth he would destroy you, mademoiselle.’

  ‘You lie.’

  The calls and cries from outside, above and below somehow adding to his pressure, Derrien clenched his eyes shut, in frustration, desperation, she could not tell, and he held a fist close to her, biting back his own violence. ‘Do not,’ he hissed, ‘do not say such things to me. Do not pretend so with me, mademoiselle, with Nelson coming upon us, this great ship perhaps to become our last chance. You met Hazzard in the Orlop deck, your interlined despatches with invisible inks, I know all of this, do you hear me—’

  ‘No, no, please…’

  ‘You do not understand. You do not see,’ he rasped. ‘The general is not in command here, Isabelle, it is I. I was sent to watch him. Out here,’ he grated, ‘I am the Republic.’

  She gasped, her hands at her throat, ‘Please…’

  Derrien stopped. He was shaking her, his hand round the back of her neck, pressing her tight against the wall. He relaxed the tension in his grip, shocked at his strength, and she looked up at him, tears welling, the strain too much. He watched as she wept, seeing her submission, her fear. He released her, righted her, smoothed her dress, her gaunt doll’s face smeared with tears, and he looked away, confused by ambivalent desires. ‘How could they,’ he muttered bitterly, ‘how could they send one such as you. Stay here,’ he said in a low voice, ‘in the cabin, while the troops disembark. Until we return to Alexandria. I will come for you, and take you to… to safety. To Rosetta.’ She looked up at him as he dried her tears. ‘It will be the most comfortable for you.’ His eyes looked away for a moment, into a dark past. ‘This is my world,’ he said, ‘Not yours.’

  He slid back the bolt and opened the door, less circumspect, uncaring who saw him now, drawing his pistol, his teeth bared, ‘Out of my way, you damnable fools!’ and moved into the bustle of the decks.

  Sarah slammed the door behind him and wiped her face, and banged the small stiletto she had kept hidden in her sleeve into the plank wall in anger. She caught her breath. She had come that close to using it, and it made her feel ill. Tears had served her well before, as they had served to confuse and distract here as well – yet still he seemed concerned for her. Unless he too were playing the treacherous spy as well.

  She looked at the trunk and the clothes still to be packed, and hurried, uncertain which of them had been deceiving the other better. Whatever the answer, the tears and the doll’s face were gone, and, she decided, she would get off the Orient, come what may.

  * * *

  A shout went up from the tops and Marais called down to Brueys, ‘Admiral – confirmed! It is the Justice! She is French!’

  Brueys raised his eyeglass. ‘She was left behind, to scout.’

  Casabianca moved up beside him. ‘She must have followed from Valletta—’

  The second ship disappeared off to the north, a merchantman, a Portuguese, someone called, and there was a cheer: Nelson was not yet at their throats. The fox was not yet among them.

  Bonaparte released his fingers from the rail and Bourrienne lowered his eyeglass with a relieved smile. ‘I said so, did I not? Small ship? You see?’

  Bonaparte took a breath and they almost laughed. ‘Yes, Louis, shall I appoint you Grand Admiral I wonder…’

  Brueys approached. ‘General, we shall be upon Marabout within the hour. Perhaps.’ He hesitated before apologising but bowed his head, acknowledging the sword of Damocles which had nearly fallen upon them. ‘As you say, we should get the troops off the ships as soon as possible. We shall signal the captains to prepare for disembarkation, as you commanded, at Marabout, not Aboukir.’

  Bonaparte said nothing, but stalked away to his cabin, leaving the effluent wonders of stinking Alexandria far behind, Caesar and Pompey’s Pillar all but forgotten in the demands of the day and how close they had come to utter annihilation.

  * * *

  The good news did nothing to quell the pandemonium aboard Orient. When they reached Marabout further along the coast, Sarah and Jeanne fought their way up the steps with the troops, their trunk bouncing, clutched tight between them. None paid them any attention, except to lift Jeanne over a man’s head and up the last step to the deck, Voilà, ma petite, the trunk following after with cheers and laughter.

  The captain’s gig and nearly a dozen small boats had been swung outboard, several of them brought level with both the portside and starboard rails, some already down in the water, troops descending rope ladders, the sea pitching them in all directions. Company commanders and sergeants tried to maintain the sequence of boarding, First and second company first battalion, stand ready! Second company will wait below! Clear the decks and get back down there, damn you! Other transport ships in the fleet charged past, making for the coast, their boats splashing onto the surface, men rowing at once for the shore. The invasion had begun.

  Sarah took Jeanne’s hand. ‘Quickly… dépêche-toi…’ They struggled against the stream of soldiers, battling their way from the main gundeck up to the quarterdeck gangway. There were already several groups of civilians, the commissaire staff, savants, she guessed, some of them quite young, among them Berthollet, arranging the few women in a boat, looking away as they cocked their legs and skirts over the rails, but of course, madame, just a short journey to the capital, we are sure, a pleasure-trip – perhaps some believed him as they laughed.

  The comtesse was nowhere in sight, and Sarah was pleased – she had not wanted to defy her wishes to go to Rosetta, but every moment Sarah stayed aboard near Derrien jeopardised the old lady’s position, and her own life – of this she was certain. She ran to a boat and without waiting for permission threw in their small trunk.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ An officer, a lieutenant of the 86th demi, tried to stop her. ‘You will have to wait perhaps some time as the troops make preparations ashore to receive you…’

  ‘Très bien,’ she said, trying to sound as thrilled as the others. ‘It is so exciting!’ But she did not convince even herself, and she could see by the looks on many faces that she was not alone. Some soldiers, some civilians, women from the canteen, one sitting on a cavalry sergeant’s lap as he held her tight, Did I not say, eh, my wife, eh? With me you shall see the world! Several academics, clutching bags on their knees, some older, some younger, sat holding onto their hats, clearly worried this would not be as simple a matter as the cavalry sergeant had claimed: Ehh, m’sieur le professeur, stick with me, hein! Sergent François never falls off his mount! He roared with laughter and slapped his wife’s behind, but she turned and slapped him back hard, certainly lightening the mood for everyone. Sarah saw a place beside Charlotte Dutoit and pushed Jeanne inside.

  ‘There, get in…’

  ‘I’m not sitting with that simpering bitch—’

  ‘Oh mon dieu, Jeanne, push her over then!’

  She climbed in after, then heard a call far behind.

  ‘Isabelle!’

  It was Derrien, hemmed in by troops, calling out over the rail, ‘Isabelle! Non! Arrêtez!’ He and Masson pushed their way through the men all along the quarterdeck gangway, knocking some aside, cursing them, ‘Out of the way! Vous idiots! Vous crétins!’ An anonymous hand shoved him and he stumbled, but leapt to his feet and whipped out his screw-barrelled pistol, Masson smashing the miscreant soldier in the face, then trying for a second time, his comrades pulling the bloodied man back, ‘Non non non, pardon! A joke, pardon, m’sieur!’

  Derrien reached the rail too late. Sarah and Jeanne were lowered away, dropping in a series of sickening swings and lurches, until they smacked into the water, rocking violently. Derrien pulled himself along the rail, calling her name, Isabelle! Isabelle! Some of the
nearby soldiers pointing at him, laughing. But moments later he threw himself at the ratlines and shrouds, his face twisting into a mask of incoherent rage as he shook the stays, Isabelle! Isabelle… an impotent, caged beast, the soldiers and officers backing away, no longer laughing.

  Sarah shivered and Jeanne wrapped herself tight against her. The Dutoit girl opened a lace parasol over her shoulder, but her hands were shaking, and she pushed in on the other side of Sarah and they huddled together beneath its meagre shelter. ‘Madame Verdier goes with her husband the general, they say,’ said Sarah, to distract them, to distract herself. ‘Even into battle…’

  Jeanne nodded. ‘Maybe she takes a horse and not a boat then.’

  The oarsmen pulled away fast, and Orient slowly retreated from Sarah’s world, the vast bows rising up above them, great and terrible as if to crush them, then receding. All around them were jolly-boats, gigs and cutters, all racing for the shore. The boat heaved and Sarah lurched against Jeanne, the wind and the swell rising, the waves slapping the sides, the oarsmen before them straining forward and hauling back, calling the time, ‘Tirez!’ Heave!

  The clouds gathered overhead and the wind picked up, drowning the rhythmic calls of the soldiers, some paddling with the stocks of their muskets, Un deux, un deux! They passed other warships disgorging men on lines, some falling into the water, their arms waving as others pulled them in, some boats charging out immediately, wasting no time.

  Eighteen and nineteen begin your sally and enter the fleet lines…!

  Calls drifted across the sea, a cheer, and Sarah saw they were in the middle of the second wave of troops, the beach a tilting line of surf and breaking spray ahead, palms being lashed by the wind, dunes, scrub and tussocks of grass behind.

  ‘Vive la Spartiate!’ cried someone and oarsmen cheered, a boat passing. Sergent-chef-major Achille Caron hung over the side, the prow crashing into the battering waves as the Alpha-Oméga veterans of the 75th Invincibles rowed furiously with the oarsmen. ‘Pull, pull for the shore, enfants!’