Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  ‘Sharif,’ said Hazzard with a bow. ‘Your brother was generous in the circumstances.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but only if you speak the truth, Captain. Otherwise he is a trusting fool.’

  He was angry, with the French, with all Europeans perhaps, and possibly with his brother for riding into such a storm with the Siwa caravan. There was no doubt Nazir knew the landing was real: riders with cries for aid had been coming in from Kurayyim since Hazzard had arrived, with shouts along the passageways, echoes of running boots and calls for more men, more horses. Murad had been sending out messengers to all parts of the Delta to confirm the reports and gather the cavalry.

  ‘There is no question of their intention, Sharif. I stood on the flagship of the French fleet. There are over thirty thousand men coming to invade.’

  Al-Jabarti stared back at him, his rich black eyes wide with alarm. ‘Then why this firman proclamation? This Bonaparte-Sultan? He appeals to the common people and to our Ottoman lords as a liberator of Egypt, rather than conqueror – why, if he intends to invade in any case? I wonder, from whom does he liberate us? Ourselves perhaps?’

  ‘The Mamluk is his declared enemy, Sheikh, not the sultan in Constantinople,’ said Hazzard. ‘He is aware of the power of the sultan and wants to avoid war with him. But he knows of the sultan’s mistrust of the Mamluk in Egypt, and believes that he comes to do the sultan a service by defeating you. Be in no doubt, he is a clever man, and the most successful commander in Europe.’

  ‘If that should mean so much,’ scoffed Nazir.

  ‘He has not yet been defeated on the battlefield, Sharif. He is believed fearless and virtually invincible.’

  ‘So, not completely invincible,’ said Nazir, as if seeking out the weaknesses in Europeans, watching Hazzard. ‘Such pride, such, such blasphemy…’

  ‘Watch it…’ murmured Cook, and shifted his stance. Izzam and Alahum did not like the sharif’s tone and came forward a pace in support.

  ‘Ha! It speaks!’ said Nazir, ‘The sergeant? And his, his ruffians?’ He nearly spat. ‘You dare speak to me?’

  ‘He does, Sharif,’ said Hazzard, ‘He has been welcomed by princes more powerful than you can conceive.’

  Nazir glowered at the insult, and Al-Jabarti spoke. ‘Sharif, I entreat you, we need our friends.’

  But Nazir mocked again, ‘So. We need the great Red Pasha, but not Murad, or the army—’

  Hazzard was confused. ‘Red Pasha?’

  ‘It is what the Bedu call you,’ said Nazir with a deprecating gesture at Izzam and Alahum. ‘Or do they not tell you so, for fear of God, for their vainglorious lack of humility? How absurd.’

  Another roar from the diwan chamber announced the explosion of Murad Bey into the hall. He stormed from the assembly chamber infuriated, four of his armed sanjaq supporters behind him. He glared about, then saw Hazzard.

  ‘Hingleesh!’ He charged forward, his robes flying.

  ‘Jaysus an’ all the saints…’ whispered Cook and moved one pace in front of Hazzard. Murad noted him and waved him away, muttering irritably, as if to allay fears.

  ‘Limaza atayta limisr ayyoha, al-Inglizi?’

  Masoud nearly fainted with fright but translated, ‘Murad Bey asks, why have you come to Egypt, Englishman?’

  Hazzard looked at Al-Jabarti who nodded. Clearly this was Murad’s final avenue, to confer directly with the British strangers. He had a choice: stand back and advise, or promise support. Despite Nelson, despite the captains and their refusal to listen, Hazzard knew Bonaparte would crush all in his path, and decided: damn them. According to Lewis, Hazzard was His Majesty’s Exploring Officer – and, as such could speak with the authority of an officer-parliamentary.

  ‘I am here to offer our services as ally, on behalf of King George of England.’

  ‘Hazar-effendi,’ Masoud said deferentially, ‘Herr Hammer is the one to interpret for you in such matters properly, not I…’

  Hazzard shook his head. ‘Herr Hammer left you in his stead because he believes you more than capable, Masoud.’

  Masoud looked to Nazir but the sharif had turned away, arms folded, refusing to help. Murad listened to Masoud’s interpretation, then flicked a glance at Hazzard, at Cook, at Izzam and Alahum, standing firm behind them in evident devotion.

  ‘Maza yurido al malek George min Misr!’ shouted Murad. Every utterance, thought Hazzard, was a challenge. He began to believe what Hammer had said about him.

  Masoud swallowed. ‘And what does King George want of Egypt?’

  ‘Cocked and locked, sir…’ murmured Cook. His left hand sliding to the butt of a pistol under his robes.

  ‘King George wishes to destroy the French fleet.’ He tried to convey the value of his offer to a desert warrior who most probably had never been to sea in his life. ‘Murad Bey, we bring to you the captains of Nelsoun Amir al-bahr, and the warships of the Royal Navy. No man, not even the great sultan in Constantinople, commands such forces of destruction.’

  ‘Too bloody right…’ murmured Cook.

  ‘And we offer our services as advisers in the fight against Bonaparte Sultan. He shall bring fire upon you in ways the Mamluk cavalry has never seen.’

  Masoud was sweating and pleaded with Hazzard, ‘I beg of you, effendi…’

  ‘Tell him, Masoud.’

  With a few uncertainties and corrections, Masoud translated. Murad gave a laugh, shaking his head. Hyperbole was a common enough pose, thought Hazzard.

  Masoud turned to him, unnerved. ‘Effendi, what now?’

  But Hazzard bade Masoud wait. Murad saw this too, and exchanged a glance with Nazir. The sheikhs behind waited, curious. Hazzard cast about for a convincing end to his offer, memories of Dr Muhammad in London, his antique books from the Moorish library in Cordoba, his dreams of the Rubaiyyat, and his earnest expression as he examined the manuscripts.

  ‘I have heard it was written,’ said Hazzard, praying Dr Muhammad had schooled him correctly, and added with some hesitation, ‘Aadow aadowwi, howa sadiqi.’

  The enemy of mine enemy, shall be my friend.

  Masoud bowed his head, backing away a pace. The armed sanjaqs behind Murad inclined their heads at this attempt, a fine compliment, and waited for their bey’s reply.

  The great man studied Hazzard, his sincerity, the truth within him. After an age, he nodded slowly and spoke through Nazir. Nazir muttered something but Murad snapped at him.

  Reluctantly Nazir interpreted, ‘Murad Bey has heard some say, before even the Father of Terrors, that God knows all mysteries.’

  Izzam and Alahum had been speaking of their journey south.

  ‘I too have heard this,’ replied Hazzard.

  Murad made his decision.

  ‘Good,’ he said, in English, ‘Good. Insha’allah, Hingleesh, sawfa nouwajeh adouanna fil maaraka bessayfi wa’nnar.’

  Masoud looked back to Hazzard, his head bowing in deep respect. ‘Then, God willing, Englishman, we both shall meet our enemy in battle. With fire and sword.’

  Al-Sahraa

  Alexandria was in uproar. The ancient walled city had fallen in three hours. Houses had been confiscated as billets for senior officers and some of the savants, tenants politely ejected to the confusion of the streets, an army receipt for compensation clasped in their hands. Open spaces had been cordoned off for white canvas tents in tight, neat rows, sentries at every corner, muskets and bayonets keeping the newly liberated from breaking into riot.

  After the initial assault from Marabout, the new garrison disembarked in luxury from the broad sweep of Aboukir Bay several miles to the east; columns of troops from the coast road poured into the city through the medieval gatehouses, and the Provosts set up checkpoints to direct the traffic: ancillary army staff, cooks, labourers, carpenters and farriers, as well as regular Delta traders trying to reach their commandeered cargoes in the harbours – and fearful families trying to get out.

  A sunburnt Provost lieutenant in dusty grey coat, gorget and black sh
ako fought off a shouting husband and his brothers waving documents in his face – ‘Franssiyah, Franssiyah, eessi, eessi!’ He shoved them away, Get back, damn you, enough! Still he had the presence of mind to stop others, You there! Passport! Oui, merci, passez par là, pointing to a pair of press-ganged savants now demoted to clerical workers, then back to the family, Non, allez-vous en! Away with you, the clamour made all the worse by the ceaseless braying of donkeys and the bleating of goats. When he saw a pair of European women in the midst of the Egyptians, he knew they did not belong.

  ‘You there! Venez! Come, be quick!’ He waved an arm at them. ‘Which brigade are you? Have you a ticket of leave or gate passport?’

  The women were tattered and dishevelled, their once fine gowns torn and soiled, a simple army kitbag for a few provisions, army cloaks over their shoulders. For all the world they looked like dispossessed camp followers. It was Sarah and Jeanne.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Non,’ she called back.

  ‘You must have a camp number or passport to pass through the gate!’ called the lieutenant. ‘Which battalion?’

  ‘We do not have one,’ she replied, ‘but I am to say Sergent-chef-major Achille Caron, and the 75th Invincibles—’

  The officer stopped and turned, his full attention on them now. He knew the name of the Invincibles, and everyone knew the name Caron. He noted Sarah’s sunken, black-rimmed eyes, her pale complexion, the Parisienne accent, and saluted. ‘How may I assist you, mademoiselle?’

  The crowd’s shouts grew louder as the phalanx of Provost troopers parted and let the pair through, an NCO with a pickaxe handle pushing the Alexandrians back.

  ‘We were to go to Cairo,’ she told the lieutenant.

  He took another passport and called over his shoulder, ‘Oui, passez par là,’ then looked back at her, ‘Cairo? Why are you not with the boats?’ He broke off and nodded to an Alexandrian. ‘Oui, d’accord – they will be upriver at Ramaniyah by now.’

  ‘The army kept us at the camp for nearly a week,’ said Jeanne.

  ‘I cannot allow you to travel to Cairo, mademoiselles. It is too dangerous. You must get to Rosetta with the others and wait.’ He examined the ticket of a sergeant from a company of sapeurs, and shouted his orders over Sarah’s head, but she persisted.

  ‘Capitaine Jullien awaits us on the river…’

  He shook his head. ‘Suis désolé, mademoiselle, I am sorry, but please listen, I cannot afford the men to escort you—’

  He beat a pleading hand from his shoulder, passpah, passpah, eessi, eessi—

  ‘Be off, I say, damn you! Yallah, yallah, isri ya!’

  ‘What then?’ shouted Jeanne. ‘Should we fly off with your army balloons? Or shall we say Bonaparte to you? Or Eugène, and Hortense, his children, who have known us for years?’

  The lieutenant gave her more attention now. ‘Mademoiselle, it is not poss—’

  ‘Or the Chausee d’Antin where he lives?’ continued Jeanne. ‘Or that Madame Joséphine has the oval dining-room and puts her own flowers in her hall every morning? Shall we say this to you and remember the time, the place where you, Lieutenant provôt, said non to Mademoiselle Isabelle Moreau-Lazare!’

  ‘Sacre, I do not have the men…’ The lieutenant thought a moment. He turned to the NCO behind him. ‘Sergent, where is Yussuf?’

  The call went up for Yussuf, over the heads of the mob. By a makeshift mule corral, tethered in the shade of nearby trees by the stone gatehouse walls, a number of Nubian goats stood bleating in the tumult. Cooing to them softly was a young Bedouin boy. He looked up at the sound of his name and dived into the crowds, making for the lieutenant. ‘Jy viens! Jy viens!’ I come, I come.

  ‘This is Yussuf,’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘He can get you to Aboukir Bay. He is Bedouin, mademoiselle, not too bright, but he has proved reliable. He will find you passage across the river mouth to Rosetta. It is the very best I can do, je m’excuse.’ He turned away and called to the passing sappers, ‘Keep moving! Stop your damned gawping and gather for appel in the square and wait!’

  They moved away from the gate and the Provosts. Barely sixteen at most, Yussuf bowed repeatedly to them, the habit of a life spent in subservience, marci marci, and took their bag. ‘Pauver maddamms,’ poor ladies, he intoned sadly, as if to his goats, adding in broken French, ‘I am Yussuf, ehh, how you say, Joseph.’ He pronounced carefully for them. ‘I take you, yes, take you? To the General Menouss in al-Rashid? The Rosette, oui? Come, come,’ pulling them out of the mob and away from the gate, away to Rosetta and safety.

  Sarah turned to Jeanne. ‘Jeanne, go to Rosetta, to the comtesse, I beg you.’

  Jeanne stopped dead. ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  Sarah took a breath. ‘I must go to Ramaniyah, and Cairo.’

  ‘No,’ said Jeanne curtly. ‘Where you go, I go.’

  ‘al-Ramaniyah?’ asked Yussuf.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘It is very important.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Jeanne. ‘So you can find him? Find your anglais? He is gone, alors!’

  ‘He is not, Jeanne!’

  Because he intended to jump. She knew that. Because he knew he could escape.

  ‘This is madness, a-a folie du coeur!’

  ‘Un Hanglais?’ asked Yussuf. An Englishman?

  Sarah looked at him. The boy blinked back at them, perplexed. ‘Yussuf,’ she said softly, ‘have you heard of, of any anglais coming here?’

  ‘Inglizi? But yes they come, since days now, the great Nelsoun Amir al-bahr.’

  Sarah kept her face a blank but within she felt a floodtide of relief.

  Nelson. At last.

  Jeanne looked away, muttering, ‘Mon dieu…’

  But Sarah continued. ‘And was there a man, alone… by himself, a soldier – in red?’

  Jeanne hissed at her, ‘Belle, non, mon dieu, not here, by the gate, you are mad!’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ he whispered. ‘The Maaza Bedu, they say al-Aafrit al-ahmar, ehh… le diable rouge, hm? The Red Devil? The Inglizi with Nelsoun Amir.’

  She wanted to put a hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying out, but she did not.

  Oh God.

  Yussuf went on excitedly, with pride, ‘But we, Awlad ’Ali, say Pasha al-ahmar, the Red Pasha, a lord of power in the red coat, rouge, oui? He rides from the desert, from nowhere, to le Caire, and saved his Bedu servant with a pistol of a king, before a great Mamluk sheikh. Nelsoun Amir and the red man,’ he declared, ‘Hazar Pasha.’

  William.

  Jeanne took Sarah’s arm and hissed at her, ‘Putain putain, Belle! What do you do here, in this mad place in front of soldiers? Seek an anglais?’

  ‘Yussuf,’ she said slowly, ‘we must go to Cairo, not Rosetta.’

  Yussuf looked doubtful. ‘Oh lo lo lo, maddamms. It needs the monnaie…’ he said, ‘for the man of the boat, for water, for the donkey-horse…’

  ‘We have enough.’ Sarah put a hand to a pouch slung on her hip.

  Yussuf looked inside. More valuable than silver Ottoman sultani or sharifi, piastres or scudi, the purse was full of shining brass army tunic buttons, now become the prized currency. He closed it quickly, glancing over his shoulder for fear of sneak-thieves. ‘Gardez-le bien. Keep it well, dear cabbages, mes chou-choux, mes choupettes. I know.’ He pointed south. ‘We take little boat, on canal, come.’

  They headed for the mule corral, Sarah unwilling to believe, yet her heart swelling in painful hope, in prayer.

  William.

  Alive.

  * * *

  Commander Blake opened the door to the chart room and entered. Admiralty staff officers had gathered to stand round the broad table, their figures dark before the tall, bright windows. At the far end, in powdered wig and navy-blue coat, was the First Sea Lord, the Earl Spencer, his normally upright posture bowed as he pored over a chart of the Mediterranean, his expression fraught.

  Behind him, ever watchful, stood Lewis, listening as the staff presented their adv
ice for action, ‘Retire to Gibraltar, my lord, recall Nelson to Cadiz, prepare the Channel Fleet for a secondary assault from Boulogne…’

  Spencer looked up as Blake entered, as if hopeful for some tactical reprieve. Seeing none, he looked down again. Lewis slipped away to join Blake.

  Blake handed him a signal despatch.

  ‘He did it, sir.’

  Lewis took the message. ‘Did what? Who?’

  ‘Carried by Nelson to Sicily and then by Tomlinson of the Valiant, sir, through Gibraltar and Cadiz…’

  Lewis skimmed the two sheets. ‘Hazzard,’ he said, and glanced at him.

  Blake seemed to be indulging in a certain pleasure from Hazzard’s achievement. Lewis read the signal once again more thoroughly – the first page was the enciphered original and the second its decryption from the cipher clerks.

  34’18’89 landed Naples. Carriage attack on agent a hoax. Agent identified aboard French flagship Orient120. Fled Toulon with Cmtsse de Biasi and joined French fleet Civita Vecchia.

  Naples refused to give naval aid to England.

  Malta fallen to French 11 June. Action in Sliema, 9 Co. Wayland Lt, Ai/c, defeated French column, current whereabouts unknown presumed Malta.

  34’18’89 captured in Valletta to infiltrate French HQ. Taken aboard Orient120 paroled prisoner. Reconnoitred fleet. Identified Adm agent.

  French fleet c.380 sailed Valletta-Alexandria 19 June.

  34’18’89 with CSM 1st Ft debarked Orient120 night 20th inst. to rdv Nelson off Cape Passaro. Adm agent still aboard Orient120.

  Nelson sqn arrived Alexandria 28 June ahead of French fleet. Treated w Alex officials but refused rights of station. Squadron deptd Alex-Syracuse via Crete/Cyprus.

  34’18’89 will execute original order.

  Ends, Exploring Officer 34’18’89.

  ‘Nelson was that close…’ Lewis reread it. ‘The fleets must have passed within a mile of each other.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Hazzard and Sgt Cook must have jumped overboard from the Orient in open water.’ He put his kerchief to the side of his mouth carefully, his nervous gesture indicating there was more to come. ‘I find his oblique reference to Miss Chapel somewhat chilling, sir. I should imagine it relays a certain bitterness of feeling.’