Hazzard lowered his head, the added weight of such an impossibility almost too much. ‘How can I promise so, my lady…’
She looked at him, and he saw the fire, and hope, burning in her exquisite eyes. She had an answer for him.
‘She says,’ said Masoud sadly, ‘Insha’allah: it is all we can ever hope for.’
God willing.
* * *
After the fitful, hot night, Hazzard stared into the tumult of the courtyard below. Cook handed him a new shoulder-sling adapted from soft camel-leather. Hazzard tried it on and Cook passed him a Turkish pistol.
‘Locked and cocked, courtesy of His Nibs downstairs himself. Not by Mr Manton or Mr Twigg, but does the same thing. Bit of a long nose on it but best we got. We going?’
‘Saddle-sore or not,’ said Hazzard, jamming the pistol into the holster and marching to the door. Cook snatched up a sword-belt and buckled it on, taking Masoud by the arm, ‘Come on, laddie, you’re Speaker o’the Delegation.’
They strode through the broad lofty passages, passing guardsmen, pikemen, squires and slaves. Alahum and Izzam fell in behind. Masoud worried, breathless, ‘But what will you do, Hazar-effendi?’ he asked. ‘Against so many?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Hazzard. ‘But I am not letting Bonaparte stroll into Cairo without a fight.’
They reached the quad. Footsoldiers and servants ran, carrying clutches of spears while others milled about, an Ottoman Makrib officer snapping orders at a squad of artillerymen, a sheikh surrounded by slaves pushing through the crowd to make way – there was no order, no formation, and Hazzard despaired for them against the Caesarian discipline of General Napoleon Bonaparte.
‘There’s our man,’ said Cook, and pointed out Sharif Nazir. They forced a path through the crowd and Nazir saw their approach.
‘Hazar-effendi,’ said the Sharif. ‘So. This is your triumph, I see,’ he accused. ‘The French have taken Alexandria and al-Rashid, just as you warned, and now approach al-Ramaniyah and the Nile. Are you thus pleased!’
‘You damned yourselves, Sharif. Where are our horses?’
Nazir almost laughed. ‘You could not possibly ride with the Mamluk. It would be an insult to their station! You may watch the work of the damned, effendi, from the flanks, guarding Hasim Bey.’
‘I must warn Murad—’
‘We have no need of such warnings, Englishman—’
‘You arrogant fool.’
‘And you blaspheme! For now this is holy jihad. How can we strike the infidel with kafiri Unbelievers in our midst! England shall observe, says Hasim Bey. And learn.’
A massed chant to God rose up in the square, the call travelling through the archways. From balconies above, women ululated with trilling tongues as the amirs mounted their horses. The great Murad was readied for battle.
‘They’re out of their bloody minds,’ rumbled Cook.
‘They just don’t know, Jory.’
Someone called and he saw a squire waving. Standing back among a group of cavalrymen was a Mamluk in white robes, a veil of black silk covered in hanging gold discs, a breastplate made of chains of gold coins. Hazzard recognised him immediately: it was Sheikh Ali Qarim.
Hazzard pushed his way towards him, the others following, Nazir calling out, ‘Hazar! There is nothing you can do, I say!’
‘Sheikh,’ said Hazzard. ‘As-salamu aleikum.’
Ali Qarim bowed, returning the blessing.
Hazzard turned to Masoud. ‘Please translate.’ He looked at the sheikh behind his veil. He did not know where to begin. ‘I am being prevented from warning Murad Bey—’
Nazir shoved his way through to them. ‘Hazar! You will say nothing.’ He stopped short when he saw his brother.
Ali Qarim removed the veil. As Hazzard had somehow expected, he bore a serene expression, his dark, weathered skin stark in contrast to the bright whites of deep, black eyes. A wide mouth was lined with a fine moustache and beard trimmed to a subtle point at his chin. It was the face of a philosopher, a thinking man.
Hazzard felt suddenly selfish in his desire to ride with them and advise, that he alone knew how to make war on France. Nazir made his greetings but in his anger left Masoud to translate. Ali Qarim spoke first.
‘The French have heard of al-Aafrit al-ahmar,’ said Masoud, ‘Ali Qarim Sheikh says—’
‘Aafrit?’ Hazzard had no idea of the word.
Nazir waved a hand at the interruption. ‘It is nothing, a way of speaking, a name given by fools. A spirit or djinn, a – a devil, al-ahmar, in red, that is all.’
‘Red Devils?’ muttered Cook. ‘We’ve had worse.’
Ali Qarim continued quietly, Masoud interpreting. ‘He says that three days ago he found many French captured by Awlad ’Ali Bedu, and even as far as the Khushmaan by the Red Sea, all have listened to the tale of two red sorcerers who rode with Bedu.’
‘Good,’ said Cook. ‘Time the Frogs know we’re comin’ for ’em.’
One eye on Nazir, Hazzard took his chance, and said to Masoud, ‘Tell Ali Qarim Sheikh that if the French give battle they will form into a large square – a formation defended by their bayonets, their spikes, four, five or even more rows deep. Like a fortress, or castle.’ Masoud began to interpret. Ali Qarim’s expression did not flicker; he listened carefully.
Nazir scoffed. ‘A castle of men? A blasphemer’s nonsense—’
‘Each rank of two hundred men will fire a volley, Sheikh, that’s two hundred bullets at a time, followed by the next rank, and then the next, and the next, each reloading and then firing again, one after the other, maintaining a constant fire across the field. This fortress can be defeated only by artillery. Do not charge the squares with the cavalry.’
The shouts and chants went up again, cheering as Murad mounted his horse and raised a hand to the amirs. A sudden silence – then Murad jerked his hand forward, his voice booming, ‘Ilal amam!’
The streets split into fresh jubilation. ‘Murad Murad Murad! Allahu akbar!’
The cavalry began to move off in file. Ali Qarim called for a servant. A slave-boy hurried forward, carrying a long object wrapped in dark cloth. The sheikh took it, and held it out to Hazzard.
‘Saif,’ said Ali Qarim. ‘Shamshir,’ he added by way of explanation.
Hazzard unfolded layers of deep blue silk to reveal a gleaming ivory and gold-mounted grip. It was a curved Damascene sword.
Nazir muttered something to Ali Qarim, questioning his brother’s judgement over such a gesture, but Ali Qarim silenced him with a sharp rebuke. ‘He brings a saif for you, Captain, a sword,’ said Nazir reluctantly, ‘called shamshir in Persia. You English call it “scimitar”, I am told.’
Hazzard pulled it from the cloth. The white leather scabbard was braided and decorated with gilt thread. He drew the blade several inches. The steel was like a mottled mirror, waves of pattern flowing like water, with Arabic characters inscribed just below the gold cruciform guard. It was perfectly balanced, the curve graceful, so natural the blade seemed ready to fly.
‘Hadeyya,’ said Ali Qarim, gift, then patted the pistol hung in pride of place across his chest, the one given by Hazzard. ‘Martimar, Londan.’
Hazzard wished he could have given him something more useful than a single muzzle firing a single ball.
Ali Qarim spoke, then snapped a word to Nazir and the sharif obeyed, translating, ‘They place artillery at Embabeh, the last village before Cairo, and thus to Bulaq on the other side of the river. The sheikh says, the soldier who can fight with cannons on water can defeat a fortress in the sands…’ He had further terse words with Ali Qarim, but the sheikh silenced him. Nazir continued, with some resignation, ‘He is asking, Hazar-effendi, when you return from guarding Hasim Bey, if you could advise with the defence of Cairo, of his homelands. These are the wishes of my brother, Sheikh Ali Qarim ibn Salah.’
Ali Qarim waited.
‘This is truly a great honour, Hazar-effendi,’ said Masoud.
‘It w
ill be an outrage to some,’ added Nazir, ‘but the sheikh’s word carries much power.’
‘Atlobo minka haza almaarouf.’
Nazir looked away, as if ashamed to translate. ‘He says, I humbly ask you this favour.’
Hazzard regarded the calm face before him. In the back of his mind was the suggestion that Ali Qarim knew the Mamluk cavalry would fail, and that Embabeh would be Egypt’s last chance. It was the request of a dying man. Hazzard could not refuse. He looked at the men on horseback, waiting, watching.
‘We shall,’ said Hazzard. ‘Farewell. Wa aleikum as-salam.’
Ali Qarim smiled for the first time. ‘Asbaha as-salamu ghariban huna.’
He replaced his veil and mounted his horse, and led his troop and footmen after the train of cavalry. He looked back at Nazir and Hazzard, his eyes once again mere shadows above the gold and black mask, and then was gone.
Hazzard asked Masoud, ‘What did he say?’
‘Peace, said the sheikh, is now a stranger here.’
The excitement of the crowds in the square rose. ‘Murad Murad Murad! Allahu akbar! Murad Murad Murad!’
‘Riding straight into bloody guns…’ muttered Cook. ‘Bloody barmy.’
‘We do it.’
‘Aye. But having a flamin’ great ship round you makes a difference.’
‘Bonaparte won’t feel even a pinprick,’ said Hazzard. ‘Sharif Nazir,’ he said, ‘I beseech you. Let me prove to you what the Mamluk will face.’
Nazir watched his brother disappear into the parade. ‘You will observe and guard with Hasim Bey?’
‘Upon my honour. And for the sake of Ali Qarim Sheikh.’
Nazir turned and looked him in the eye, then cursed. ‘You do truly have the devil in you both, English.’ He looked for a groom to fetch their horses.
* * *
At al-Ramaniyah, Bonaparte’s divisions staggered in from the waterless desert for rendezvous, the officers mutinous, the gloss of liberation long worn off. Whitewashed adobe hovels glowed in the heat, the army scattered in battalion camps, the men lying in the shade, propped against walls, many flat by the riverside, some gorged on the watermelons, some still eating them while up to their waists in the Nile, some drank greedily, some drowned in their eagerness.
Further down the embankment three adapted gunboats waited at their moorings. The flagship of the small flotilla, the Cerf, stood bright against the brilliant waters and dazzle of the blue sky – it was a chebek, a large, oared Levantine coastal trader, with two masts rigged with long, sloping lateen yards, now become an armed riverboat with an Egyptian crew, fellahin labourers hauling army field-guns aboard.
The two other improvised gunboats rode low and long in the river, cannons mounted awkwardly on the midship rails round a central shaded superstructure, a mortar since replaced with baggage and equipment. The flotilla was to follow the advance southward, cool on the Nile while the army sweated on the long march to Cairo.
Bonaparte stalked into his command tent. Monge and Berthollet rose from their chairs. Desgenettes, the surgeon-general, set down his glass of water, preparing for a confrontation. The death-march through the desert had raised his grave concerns.
‘Is there a problem, General?’ asked Monge.
‘Problem? Mutiny again,’ Bonaparte snapped. ‘His grand five foot ten inches will not save Damas if I have anything to do with it! Damn the man!’
‘I did warn you, General,’ said Desgenettes.
‘You did,’ said Bonaparte, cooling, looking absently at the maps on his desk. ‘What with my senior officers spouting seditious bile before their men, my junior officers being captured and buggered by amorous Bedouins, and everyone struck down with this, this idle, slack-jawed lassitude, this…what do they call it?’
‘Cafard, General,’ said Desgenettes. ‘It is the lack of salt and water.’
Bonaparte threw down a divider onto the map before him. ‘It is not, Surgeon-General. It is a lack of gumption, born of lying about on silken pillows in Italian villas. I should never have used the Army of Italy…’ Bonaparte sighed. ‘Are the boats ready?’
The naval commander, Perrée, stepped forward. ‘Yes, General. With the savants and, well, the civil concessionaires, and their ladies of course, we are very cramped but the Cerf should be big enough to act as a viewing platform—’
‘I am not staging a spectacle for an audience, Captain. All non-combatants, including those in the cavalry who have no damned horses—’ one of Bonaparte’s junior aides, Lt Desvernois, handed him a glass of water and he drank ‘—will go aboard the Cerf or the gunboats to support the army from the river. No excuses.’ He waved a hand irritably.
Perrée inclined his head. ‘General, your pardon. General Andréossy awaits your pleasure aboard the Cerf should you wish to inspect.’
‘Should think he’s glad to get his feet out of the sand and onto a boat… And the transport barges?’
‘Yes, General, all arranged. They shall follow the gunboats.’
There was a commotion outside and after a moment a soldier put his head in and had a word with Desvernois. The young aide whispered in Bonaparte’s ear and the general took a steadying breath. ‘Very well.’
Waiting outside were two Bedouin messengers. Seeing Bonaparte emerge, they bowed low.
‘As-salamu aleikum, ya Sultan al-Kebir.’
Bonaparte nodded impatiently. ‘What did he say?’
One translated for the other. ‘We say peace be upon you, Sultan al-Kebir.’ He bowed again, his hands outstretched. ‘Great Sultan.’
Bonaparte gave nothing away but the generals exchanged glances. They could only guess at his pleasure.
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘What have you for us?’
‘Mamliqiyyah.’ One of them pointed up the Nile.
The other man spoke. ‘The Mamluk come, Excellence, to Shubra Khit, like the host of Allah upon you, by water, by horse, by foot, led by Murad, Amir al-Hajj, Lord of the Pilgrimage. He comes with the Sword of Ali and a storm of fire.’ Their message concluded, the Bedouin bowed low again.
Bonaparte closed his eyes in relief. Thank God. He nodded to Desvernois, ‘Give them food and water. Send word to General Berthier to issue the orders, and fall in the army for an address. We march south through Minyet Salam,’ he said. ‘To Shubra Khit.’
His expression gave nothing away, but his eye had lustre once more.
* * *
The baggage trains moved with the field artillery, clouds of dust kicked up by horses in harness, urged on by the whips and cries of the Dragoons and Chasseurs galloping down the thoroughfare, frightened locals watching from darkened doorways. Platoons gathered their arms and equipment, everything that could move, everything that could be carried.
A platoon of the 25th with a dozen goats in tow stopped a mule on the packed desert road, two bowed figures on its back, a haggard young Bedouin leading on foot. A corporal snatched the rope halter from the Arab, but the boy shouted back in French, his voice a husk, ‘Non non, allez, allez…’
Exhausted, Sarah Chapel peeled the improvised hijab from her face, the sand and dust cascading over her shaking hands. She coughed at the corporal, ‘We are French. H-have you water?’
The corporal stared, incredulous. Lolling against Sarah’s back, Jeanne lifted her head to peer at the soldiers over the bands of her headscarf. The corporal called out, ‘Des bidons! Vite!’ Water bottles, at once!
Soldiers gathered round and they were lifted gingerly from the mule. ‘Mademoiselle, come, this is no place for you, venez,’ and they were led to the side of the road, the corporal calling over his shoulder, ‘Get him out of here and take that mule to the sapeurs…’ He swung a switch at Yussuf. ‘Off with you! Yallah yallah! Allez-vous en!’ and began to swat him over the head and neck.
‘No.’ Sarah caught at Yussuf and would not let go. ‘He is our guide.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ cried the boy. ‘Mes choupettes…’
Goatskins and water bottles were put
into their hands and the corporal watched as Sarah gave a skin first to Yussuf. He tried to intercept it. ‘It is for you, mademoiselle—’
Sarah struck his arm sharply. ‘Leave him!’
‘Corporal Roy! Bring them this way,’ said a young sous-lieutenant, waving them down the crowded road. They followed the officer, Yussuf keeping his head bowed for fear of being struck, Sarah holding his hand. She could see the bright blue of the Nile, the twin-masted chebek rising in the distance. Through the mayhem of troops and horses they could see civilians, commissary staff, and a group of savants gathered on the deck in their top hats and frock coats, chatting, admiring the sweep of the river, examining the vegetation, the fruits, the soil, excited.
‘It is bound for Cairo?’ Sarah asked the officer. Jeanne gripped her hand tightly.
‘But of course, mademoiselle.’ The subaltern put a hand up to a lieutenant and ran to him, calling, ‘Lt Vertray! Two more, je vous en prie, for Le Cerf…’
They were jostled by squads of men looking for their platoons, their companies, moving in all directions, sergents-chefs calling above it all, shouting orders, choking clouds of dust rising in the wake of galloping cavalrymen. Sarah fell against Yussuf, the sous-lieutenant catching her, The heat, water… more water, he said and in the commotion she whipped a hand to her breast and yanked the pendant figurine of St Jude from her neck. She thrust it into Yussuf’s hands, whispering urgently to him, ‘Go, Yussuf, to Cairo, understand? Qahira? Take this to the Red Pasha, or one who knows him. Find him. Understand?’
Yussuf’s young, pitted face crumpled in sadness. ‘No no no no my cabbages, mes choupettes… I stay with you—’
‘He will protect you, I promise.’
Lt Vertray handed a chit to the sous-lieutenant and called out, beckoning them, ‘Mesdames, we are soon to depart—’
‘Please, Yussuf, please,’ she repeated, squeezing his hand tight over the figurine.
‘For you, ma choupette,’ he promised, and Sarah watched him disappear into the crowd, looking back, fear in his eyes, swallowed up by the shakos and black helms and plumed bonnets and packs. Sarah and Jeanne were pulled along by the officers to join the savants and board the Cerf.
Lords of the Nile Page 20
