Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  ‘You will be quite safe upon the river, mademoiselles,’ assured the sous-lieutenant earnestly, shepherding her to the watermelon fields, down to the riverside and the busy gangplanks – little knowing how very mistaken he was.

  * * *

  The men of the 25th demi de bataille, 2nd Légère, and the 75th Invincibles marched through the village of Shubra Khit and out onto the level ground to the south, a battalion commander bawling, ‘En carré! First Division will form square! First and Second Battalions the 25th to left marker, 75th to right marker, marchez!’ The line infantry rushed forward to assemble in their hundreds, their once gleaming leather helmets dusted almost white.

  Caron led the Alpha-Omegas to their rally points and looked out over the terrain. The low rising sandhills to the south betrayed the approach of Murad Bey’s cavalry, a towering dust-cloud in their galloping wake, a pillar of fire.

  ‘Sacre…’ Caron called to them, ‘Alpha et Oméga, Premier et Dernier! Pig, mon enfant!’ he called to Pigalle. ‘You shall be right marker for the 75th! Fifty metres and the division will form upon you! Show the général where you stand, mon garçon!’

  A musket in each ham-like fist, the giant Pigalle charged roaring into the soft sand, a spreading arrowhead of cheering men racing behind. At fifty paces he rammed his heel into the earth and slammed down the butt of a musket, shaking the other over his head, ‘I am Pigalle! And where I plant my boot, there shall I not be moved!’

  The colour guard dug the standards into the sand behind him, and the battalion cheered, Vive le Pig! Vive le Pig! Rossy, St Michel, Antonnais and the other Alpha-Omegas formed up behind him, the ranks of the 75th filling behind, line after line numbering off as they fell into formation, two ranks, three, four, each man crashing into the shoulder of the next, packs and boudin bedrolls jamming tight together, scarcely able to move, shoving the man in front, five ranks, six, muskets ordered before them, each platoon, each company, each battalion punctuating their formation with a massed shout: Fermez! Hwa!

  General Damas galloped through the dust clouds to the centre, the staff forming their mounts into troops, nearly trampling some, as the 2nd Légère filled in the rearward walls. The 25th demi fell into position to become the driving engine of the armoured machine they had all become. The artillery horses hauled 12-pounder guns to the corners, sand and dust flying from their thrashing wheels – just as the divisional commander General Dugua roared into the centre, arm raised, shouting from his saddle, cheers following him, Papa Papa! And the square of the 1st Division slammed shut: ‘Hwa!’

  Caron looked down the lines, sergeants shoving men into the gaps, pulling some further back, six ranks deep, two hundred men abreast on each side of the square. None of them could move against the other and Caron saw them jostling, some fighting. He raised his short-sword.

  ‘Division…! Division will load and ram! Chargez vos armes!’

  As one, all four walls of the formation brought their muskets to their fronts, ready to load, Hwa! The centre was clogged with braid, chefs de brigades, chefs de bataillons, all shouting their chain of orders, and Caron’s voice boomed over them all, ‘Ready to open your priming pans! Ouvrez bassinets! Ouvrez…’nets!’

  The hands of each rank moved in automated unison.

  ‘Ready with your cartridges! Prenez…’touche!’ He waited just one beat. ‘Déchirez! Tear cartridge!’

  The ground began to tremble with the thunder of hoofbeats. He could see the pillar of fire closing on them.

  ‘Amorcez!’ Prime!

  Captain Moiret nudged Caron. ‘Achille – look…’ He pointed.

  A lone Mamluk horseman had appeared. He pranced his mount before them, rearing on the low ridge just ahead, the rider spying out the French formations. The sun glinted from every silver and golden stitch on his woven armour, coins, chains, jewels sparkling, his billowing binish robe flaring behind, white, translucent. He galloped first to the right, then stopped dead and galloped back to the left. The horse reared, its forelegs kicking in mid-air, and turned slowly on its hind legs in a full circle. Caron heard the cavalrymen behind him, ‘Incroyable – c’est magnifique.’

  Caron spat sand and dust from his mouth, took a swig from his water bottle and spat again. ‘Magnifique… putain.’ He continued, ‘L’arme à gauche! Cartouche… dans canon!’ Pour your powder! The hands tipped the cartridge powder into the muzzles.

  ‘Balles dans canons! Spit your bullets, mes enfants!’

  The 14th, 32nd and 4th Légère of the Second Division under General Bon had formed their square and were moving slowly into position, a fortress of five thousand, shuffling through the sand, kerchiefs over their faces, packed tight, counting their paces in rhythmic unison, un deux, un deux, un deux…

  ‘Putain…’ said Caron. He could hear the ‘Marseillaise’ playing from somewhere. ‘Bourrez…!’ Ram!

  Several in the second rank to his right toppled and fell, one man knocking the other, and for a moment they went like dominoes, a sergeant screaming out, ‘Look to your fronts you bloody idiots and ram! Salauds de merde!’

  The answering call came from the Mamluks. Caron heard it shrieking over the sand, carried on the hot breeze. It grew ever louder, sweeping across the scrubby plain. The square fell silent. The men listened.

  Murad Murad Murad! Allahu akbar!

  Battalion commanders ordered the front rank to kneel. On each side of the square, two hundred men prepared, then took a knee, a tidal wave, breaking on the corners with the guns. ‘Putain,’ muttered Caron, and shouted, ‘Apprêtez!’ Make ready!

  As one, the Charleville muskets were levelled and faced outwards, two hundred across, six ranks deep of bristling spikes, now held ready, Hwa! They did not have to wait long.

  The Mamluk army had spread into a crescent formation, its ranks of chanting footsoldiers and gleaming pavilions topped with glowing brass crescent-moons and globes stretching from the Nile on their right, and beyond the vast French squares on the left.

  On the water, seven Mamluk gunships moved downriver towards the French riverboats, closing the distance to a great bend in the Nile, hugging the shore and the broad mudflats to bring their cannon within range of the French squares. The men aboard waved their swords overhead, their voices calling across the sands. The battle of Shubra Khit was about to begin.

  Murad rode at the head of his cavalry. The dust clouding all around them, they darted first to the right, then to the left, following Murad’s every move with effortless ease. When Murad saw the French squares, his face creased into confusion, and he recalled the words of Ali Qarim, who had passed on Hazzard’s warning.

  ‘What sorcery is this,’ he murmured, ‘that they conjure castles from the sands…’

  One of his sanjaq lords cried out, ‘It moves! It is a fortress of men!’

  Murad reached to his left hip and drew his sword. ‘Then their walls shall bleed!’

  Far to the rear, Sharif Nazir, Hazzard and Cook rode among the sparse cavalry guarding the right flank of the footsoldiers, the vanguard just ahead, Murad Bey a dark figure in the distance. The Mamluk foot units around Hazzard were more like a medieval rabble, with shields and swords.

  They watched the French squares advance through a screen of choking dust. They had seen their share of sea-battles, formations of great ships turning in line, and been among them as cannon had sought the destruction of all with random disregard. But this was different.

  ‘Jaysus shite an’ all,’ said Cook when he saw them.

  Hazzard rode closer to Nazir and shouted through the drumming of hoofbeats, ‘Do you see, Sharif? Now do you see?’

  Sharif Nazir stared in awe. ‘They are as castles, with walls of spikes…’

  ‘There are six ranks, Sharif! Each rank will fire a volley, over two hundred muskets at once,’ shouted Hazzard, ‘then another and another!’ He drew closer and they slowed slightly, ‘The cavalry will be destroyed! Murad must use the guns from his boats! Tell Hasim Bey! The cannons on the boats must
be aimed at the squares – it is the only way!’

  ‘But Hazar-effendi – you may only observe! Murad spoke it so!’

  Cook called back to him, ‘They’ll be cut to flamin’ ribbons!’

  ‘Murad is the greatest warrior in the world!’ cried Nazir. ‘You shall see!’

  ‘Christ above…’ Hazzard looked again at the antiquated horde around him. At last he understood Ali Qarim’s concerns for Cairo. ‘He’ll kill them all.’

  On the Nile, the Mamluk flagship reached the bend in the river and sighted the French flotilla, which Perrée had believed would make such a useful viewing platform for the savants and civilians. The Mamluk ship fired an opening round, the burst hurling a fountain of spray and great clods of riverbank mud into the air. The Mamluk footsoldiers cheered. It was the signal they had awaited.

  Nazir called out, ‘Hazar-effendi! We go to Hasim Bey! Now! Ride, ride!’

  Cook hauled on the reins and Hazzard followed, the Arabian horses leaping forward. ‘God, God, God!’

  Scimitar

  Murad raised his sword, calling over the thunder of hooves, ‘Ya saif… Ali…!’

  The cavalry kicked their heels in and charged the French squares. They curved towards the Nile at full gallop in a sweeping arc, the army of footsoldiers far behind, calling on the sword of Ali to lend them power, Ya saif Ali…! Murad Murad Murad! Allahu akbar!

  Amid the clamour of the charge, his vision blocked by the dust and sand and riders before him, Ali Qarim rode at the head of his own contingent behind Murad. As he spurred down the sloping fields he touched the pistol at his waist, now a protective talisman, a memory of Hazzard and their strangely entwined fates, and intoned under his breath, ‘Martimar, Londan…’

  He brought the worn leather of the reins up to his mouth under the silk veil and clenched them between his teeth, tasting the familiar salts of polish and sweat. His black mount, Selim, felt the change, his eyes rolling back as Ali Qarim drew his new London pistol with his right and another with his left, a French Boutet, an irony which made him smile. The amir ahead called the order.

  ‘Break!’

  The charge split into its troops and the first French formation came shuddering into his view. He fired one pistol then the other, tucked the Mortimer away and threw the Boutet over his shoulder, and drew two more, long-nosed Turkish wide-bores. He fired one then the other, the blast of white powder blossoming then whipped away on the wind, and he threw those over his shoulder, spent.

  The French squares stood before him, three, four, five of them, spiked castles of men shaking, tilting in the narrowed vision of his black silk mask. Selim, he thought, now, and the horse sped onward. He bit down hard on the reins and drew his two great curved scimitars from their scabbards on each hip, holding the blades high and out to the side as the first commands of the French began to rise to his ears.

  ‘Premier et deuxième rangs…! En joue!’

  The first and second ranks presented arms. Caron watched the Mamluks come and called out good luck to his men, ‘Bonne chance, mes enfants…’

  The battalion commander screamed out.

  ‘Fire!’

  The first volley appeared to Ali Qarim as a long bursting grey stormcloud, as four hundred balls of lead tore into the vanguard of cavalry. Then the corner field-guns barked, spraying the field with grape-shot. The Mamluks flew from their saddles, their whinnying horses crashing into the sand, legs shorn away by molten razor-sharp shrapnel.

  Ali Qarim thrust first with his left knee then his right, and Selim responded at once, dodging, leaping, and he shouted ‘Hat hat hat!’ Selim jumped a fallen horse and its rider, and in that moment exposed his broad unprotected belly to the second volley of the next two ranks of four hundred men.

  ‘Fire!’

  The horse turned, twisted, crying out, and Ali Qarim felt half a dozen hammers rapping at his armoured chest and arms, shredding his robes, and he was knocked backwards, the wind blowing from his lungs as he parted from the saddle. His swords still tight in his outstretched hands, he struck the ground and rolled, a passing hoof catching him, kicking his thigh and the sun burst in his eyes as he rolled again, the clouds of dust too thick, the whip and whine of French bullets thudding around him.

  ‘Fire!’

  Always that word, again and again, and he lay for a moment, trying to breathe.

  ‘Tiens! Vous là!’

  He lifted his head. Only a short distance away was a startled French soldier at the corner of the square by one of the guns, a kerchief tied round his mouth, pale eyes wide, white dust powdering every inch of him. He stared at Ali Qarim, his hand shaking the man beside him, his outstretched arm pointing as Ali Qarim rose up and fell. One man took a hesitant step forward but another yanked him back, shouting at him, and Ali Qarim stumbled again and fell.

  More riders swept in, hurling deadly djerid javelins, and one soldier fell with a cry in the tumult. Ali Qarim dived away as a horse tumbled, rolled and righted itself and he threw himself upon it, reaching for the empty saddle. The horse bolted, Ali Qarim riding, riding, the swords heavy as he guided the beast directly towards the next square. This much, he vowed, I will do. He readied his swords.

  ‘Allahu akbar.’

  He heard a voice calling, Sheikh Ali! and he swung the horse round in time as a sharif’s troop galloped past, the sharif reaching out and pulling him along and away, out of danger, as yet another volley burst upon them.

  At the front corner, Pigalle hauled round a cannon by himself and shoved in the grape-shot bag for the artillerymen, roaring madly every time it fired. Caron looked out at the sands littered with the Mamluk dead. ‘They ride in, they ride out, trying to pull us after them…’

  ‘It is slaughter…’ gasped Captain Moiret. ‘Why can they not see…?’

  It is usually so, thought Caron, but not so complete.

  Caron saw the stream of cavalry ride off then return in a long curving arc once more. ‘It is a madness. Here they come again…’

  * * *

  On the Nile seven oared Mamluk ships surged towards the French flotilla, their Greek and Turkish captains striding the decks, raging at them to row faster, ever faster.

  Three French gunboats pushed upstream in line, an oared galley abreast, its pace faltering when it saw the Mamluk advance. They had kept to the centre of the river to avoid the shallows – it was so low now that it narrowed to 250 metres across, but the waters spread out at the bend before them – now blocked by Mamluk ships.

  Citizen Monge, Bourrienne and Commodore Perrée stood on the command deck of the Cerf at the rear, Perrée looking ahead through his scope, aghast at the approaching peril. He shouted across the decks of the chebek.

  ‘All hands to the guns! Civilians to the stern!’

  He glanced at Monge and Bourrienne. ‘Messieurs, if you do not have a sword,’ he said, ‘it would be best to find one.’

  The Mamluk ships opened fire, pounding the first two gunboats, sending aloft spouts of water, several rounds hitting the decks. French troops tumbled into the water, some crewmen diving overboard and swimming to the second gunboat or making for the Cerf. Bedouins rode up and down the shoreline taking shots with their carbines while prepared Mamluk field-artillery crews dragged cannon into position and began to open fire.

  Hazzard and Cook reached the right flanking wing of Hasim Bey. The Mamluk infantry stood in loose ranks. Far to the front the bey watched the battle of the squares from relative safety, surrounded by a personal escort in flame-red turbans.

  ‘The cavalry is being shot to pieces,’ muttered Hazzard. ‘He’s got to turn the river-guns on the squares…’

  As he spoke a cannon on the Mamluk flagship roared and the Cerf took a hit, but the men who rushed to the bows and beat out the flames were not French sailors or Egyptian deckhands – they were dressed in topcoats and cravattes.

  Hazzard felt in his saddlebag for his telescope. ‘It’s the scholars, the damned savants,’ he said. He recognised the elder state
sman among them, Gaspard Monge, whom he had met aboard Orient. ‘My God – Bonaparte brought them into the battle…’

  ‘Who are these men?’ asked Nazir, drawing in beside him, taking the telescope to see. ‘They are not warriors…?’

  ‘No, they damn well are not,’ said Hazzard.

  The first French gunboat was soon overrun by Mamluks and Greek mercenaries. Several of the French soldiers threw down their arms and thrust their hands in the air. A Mamluk snatched up the nearest and held him to the mast by his hair. Another swung his scimitar. The decapitated body dropped amid gouts of blood, the twisted, open-mouthed head kept in place, and they laughed, the Mamluk waving the sightless horror to his comrades. They promptly beheaded the other captives, lifting the heads by the hair and shaking them at the Cerf, laughing, before tossing them into the Nile.

  Cook and Hazzard watched. They had seen worse in the battles for the Karnataka, with Mysore, between Rajahs, between Marathas and Mughals. But this made it no easier. Nazir lowered his telescope, evincing no celebration.

  ‘Bloody savages…’ murmured Cook. ‘Whose side we on…’

  The next gunboat fired, salvoes pounding the Mamluk flagship, more of the Greek sailors diving into the water and swimming to board the French ship. Soldiers fired their muskets, trying to pick off the sailors before they boarded but were overwhelmed, slaughtered by swinging axes and swords. They heard the cries and shouts as the French tried to escape – and something else: the screams of women.

  ‘Good God…’ Hazzard raised the scope once again to the river. One of the gunboats was swung round by the current but still the transport barges behind came on, filled with savants and civilians, those same men and women he had seen on the Orient, in utter helpless panic. Hazzard tugged at the rein. ‘Nazir, to me…!’