‘I could have prevented it.’
On board the Orient.
Quickmatch.
‘I doubt that very much. You have good intentions, but are not the father of a lost little people, truly. Hasim Bey speaks of your disobedience,’ he replied. ‘He also speaks of reckless courage. My lord Murad and the other beys, however, understand the English better than some, so it is said. As I too have had the pleasure in the past – their benevolent view of all foreigners as unfortunate, misguided children.’ He smiled. ‘But above all, I believe, the English have a love for the just cause. Are we a just cause? Is that why you fight against God’s will? To save all this?’ He waved a hand at the room, the mosque, at Cairo itself. He leaned forward, earnest. ‘What is it that you truly seek in Egypt?’
Hazzard could feel Cook’s eyes on him, Masoud waiting in tense devotion. Hazzard had no answer. He thought of the pyramids, the Father of Terrors, looking out, silent.
Justice? Vengeance?
Duty? To whom?
Muhammad Bey gave that curious tilt of the head Hazzard had seen in Ali Qarim. ‘You do not merely seek vengeance, I think.’
I have such dreams, Mr Hazzard.
Because vengeance would not bring back lost time: the time before the battle for the Cape three years earlier, his bloody duel to the death with Harry Race, amid the barrage under those thunderous flaming Cape skies – or the time before Sarah had joined the ranks of the Admiralty spymasters – before all of this had begun. He wanted, needed, something more, something to protect this timeless place, protect his own timeless self, from the machine that came upon them, the machine leaving time crushed in its wake.
But his only recourse lay in subterfuge and trickery, the way of the Admiralty. How very fitting. Merely considering his scheme made disaster seem all the more likely, somehow manifesting an evil, elevating it to inevitability.
‘I need the scribes of the Al-Azhar to draft a letter for me,’ said Hazzard. ‘To shatter the dreams of the French Sultan.’
* * *
Thousands of troops awaited the return of Murad, who still resisted the French, village by village, on the retreat southward. Still the numbers grew: the sheikhs came from Middle and Upper Egypt, Bedouin from beyond Lake Moeris and the Sinai borderlands, the Bili, al-Huwaytat, al-Sawalha and al-Habayba, all had come, answering Ibrahim and Murad’s call to jihad.
Hazzard and Cook rode the perimeter of earthworks near Embabeh, ramparts heaped before dug-out gun emplacements, the batteries covering the north road, the only road the French could use to approach Cairo – the aim was for these to meet similar works stretching from Bashtil and Giza under Murad’s command, but they had not seen much evidence of it beyond the distant watermelon fields, but Hazzard was impressed: the batteries would be a surprise for Bonaparte, and deadly to his infantry squares.
Embabeh was an ancient outpost, little more than a marketplace for camel-trading, barely a mile from the river and a short ride to the northwest of the capital on the other side of the Nile. From what he could see, Hazzard recognised it could be Cairo’s last hope. He looked across the Nile, over the Isle of Rawdah and the deserted fortress mansion of Ibrahim; the high walls of the great city darkened in silhouette as the sun climbed steadily behind. He looked at Cook. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be…’
They rode back for a conference with Ibrahim Bey, who was inspecting the defences. Masoud at Hazzard’s side, they gathered with Sharif Nazir in a forward campaign tent with a number of Mamluk beys they had not yet met. Izzam and Alahum and the men of the Beni Qassim ranged about, suspicious of the Mamluks, watching, but taking their lead from Hazzard. Many kept a hand on the khanjar daggers at their waists, not trusting any of them.
Ibrahim Bey entered the tent, power emanating from every controlled gesture, the Ottoman Pasha, Abu Bakr following, in full Turkish court dress, complete with entourage, his courtiers keeping a safe distance from the Bedouin, the other beys bowing deeply. They approached a folding table covered with maps. Despite the wishes of Ali Qarim, neither was pleased to have Hazzard question the grand tactical plan.
‘This is His Excellence,’ said Sharif Nazir, introducing Hazzard, ‘Abu Bakr Pasha of the Sublime Porte. Governor of Egypt,’ he said with a note of warning. ‘He is confident of victory.’
Hazzard bowed to the frigid countenance of Ibrahim Bey and the somewhat pale and sickly pasha. ‘As-salamu aleikum.’
Ibrahim replied with curt disdain. ‘Wa aleikum as-salam…’
Nazir began. ‘Since you do not trust us to work it correctly, Hazar-effendi, I shall explain…’ He pointed at the Ottoman map, its Turkic and Arabic notations incomprehensible to Hazzard and Cook. ‘Here is Cairo. And here, at Ouardan, the French have already passed through. This night they will come soon upon Omm-Dinar, here, to the north. We attack them always, when they drink at the Nile, when they place their sentries, but still they come, a swarm of locusts. All the towns are taken to the French – any that resist are burned, the people put to the sword.’
Hazzard tried to focus on the map. He was tired, bitter, withdrawn. Cook watched him carefully. ‘And Omm-Dinar is the last village before Embabeh and Cairo.’
‘Yes.’
‘On this side of the Nile.’
‘Yes.’
It was too much. Hazzard wanted to give up, his advice come to naught. He glanced at Cook and they both saw the terrible flaw at once. The great artillery emplacements that the authorities were so busily digging were, to Hazzard, on the wrong side of the river.
‘This plan,’ said Hazzard with some control, ‘is unwise.’
Masoud was disturbed by his certainty and that he would have to translate his displeasure. He duly interpreted, bowing his head in abject apology to Abu Bakr and Ibrahim.
‘We have no need of your great opinion,’ retorted the Ottoman Pasha loftily, ‘the opinion of a kafir.’ His glance flicked over Hazzard’s robes and the red Marine tunic beneath. ‘Victory shall be ours, and not yours, England. On this day, England will observe.’
Evidently all had heard of what happened at Shubra Khit.
‘Yes,’ said Ibrahim. ‘We can defeat the blasphemers ourselves, Hazar al-hakim.’
He used the sobriquet of ‘the wise’ with irony, and even through the intervention of Masoud’s translation Hazzard felt the utter contempt of the nobleman. Izzam and Alahum looked on murderously, Izzam slowly putting a thumb behind his teeth and flicking it at them, then apparently stroking his beard. Hazzard pretended not to notice.
‘Why then is it unwise?’ demanded Nazir.
‘We’re on a lee shore,’ said Cook, as if it were obvious. ‘Fighting to windward while being blown onto a ruddy cliff at our back. Bloody mad. We’ll break up on the rocks.’
Nazir still did not understand and Masoud was lost by the naval idiom. Hazzard explained, ‘The French will come first to Embabeh, on the west bank, and need to cross the Nile to reach Cairo, on the east bank. Very well. Let them try. Cairo can be a fortress, the Nile its moat, its protection. Bonaparte will not want his disciplined formations thrashing about in the water – they will be helpless. Let them try to cross the river, then pound them with the guns on the Bulaq side of the Nile, not Embabeh. Their castles of men will fall apart and be destroyed.’
Nazir looked puzzled. ‘But if they are in the Nile, it will be too late.’
‘No, Nazir, they will be trapped in the water. If we fight with the river at our backs, there is nowhere to retreat and regroup. Nowhere. The Nile will become our enemy. If the French rout Murad’s army on the Embabeh side of the Nile, any survivors will have to run into the river to escape, and the French will slaughter them. Bonaparte will then cross at his leisure, in safety, facing no further resistance.’
‘There is my own army,’ said Ibrahim Bey, indicating a spot on the map. ‘We encamp here, at Bulaq, on the other side of the Nile, to meet any who come. So. Thus shall we spring the trap, and confound them, and be victorious.’<
br />
Cook pointed at the map and murmured to Hazzard, ‘Look. It’s just desert behind him… He can run all the way to ruddy China…’
Masoud stopped translating. Nazir glanced at Hazzard as Ibrahim looked on with suspicion, unable to understand the English. ‘You do not trust him to fight?’ asked Nazir.
‘No, I damn well do not,’ said Hazzard pleasantly with a nod, to reassure Ibrahim. ‘His plan puts his greatest political rival, Murad, and his cavalry, on our side of the Nile facing the French alone, while he has an escape route clear to Damascus. If Murad is killed, he would become ruler of the diwan and Egypt.’
Nazir kept his eyes low as if studying the map. ‘That would truly be unholy and wicked…’
‘You know his past better than I.’
‘Can we blow the bridges?’ asked Cook.
‘That will save the city, yes?’ asked Masoud. He began to translate once again for Ibrahim Bey and the pasha, who affected boredom, as if all such plans were in hand.
‘Surely the bridges can be used for our army to retreat as you say,’ said Nazir.
‘Yes, but if the French outflank Murad, and reach the river first, they will then use the bridges to cross the Nile to the city.’
Ibrahim laughed at Masoud’s translation, and Hazzard’s fears, but Nazir’s confidence was shaken and he grew angry. ‘How do you know of such things, oh wise Hazar al-hakim?’ He threw down his pointer. ‘Are you now the great general as well?’
‘Quite so, Sharif,’ said Ibrahim Bey. ‘Who is amir and pasha here indeed.’
Hazzard swallowed his anger, ‘I do hope someone is my lord, because the French will use the Nile as if it were the sea, and push your forces into it.’
‘That is not an argument,’ Nazir snapped back. Masoud quailed at his translations, his eyes closed, whispering to the pasha.
‘I am not here to make bloody arguments, Nazir,’ retorted Hazzard. ‘I am trying to save your city. If you lose Cairo you will lose Egypt.’
‘You are but an English officer of the sea!’
‘Indeed,’ chorused Ibrahim Bey.
‘We’re Marines,’ said Cook with finality. ‘We know guns.’
Masoud translated, his voice murmuring almost in prayer, bowing his apologies to the bey and pasha.
But Ibrahim Bey snorted and almost laughed. ‘They are not so many, these French blasphemers. They came long ago, and were thrown back. They shall run for their lives once again. As do all Unbelievers.’
The pasha sniffed and added, ‘Yes, and England shall prove the great liar.’
‘How’d you like that turban stuffed up your arse, Baboo,’ muttered Cook with a smile. ‘Translate that for the little shite.’
Masoud blanched and stayed silent. Ibrahim Bey’s face was a mask, giving nothing away, but the pasha looked pleased with himself.
‘I pray I am wrong, my lord pasha,’ said Hazzard to them, ‘but I know this man, the French Sultan. He is the reborn Julius Caesar. When Caesar came to Egypt, he was not thrown back.’
Masoud translated. Ibrahim and the pasha smiled with well-concealed incomprehension and turned away with their entourage, Izzam and Alahum stepping back, the Beni Qassim bowing low and retreating.
Afterwards, they rode out to the gun emplacements, Nazir irascible as ever, Hazzard fearing the worst for seeing the battle plan. The earthworks were extensive, a great barricade of heaped ramparts from the edge of the town overlooking a broad flat plain perfect for Murad’s cavalry. He could see Murad’s thinking and it afforded him some hope. However, the valley was also the perfect battlefield for Bonaparte’s army.
The labourers had dug separate gun-pits behind their ramparts in front of the now deserted adobe houses of Embabeh. The new batteries had been well sited, facing the northwest, providing overlapping fields of fire across the north road and broad, open ground either side, amounting in total to possibly sixty guns – equivalent to the broadside of a large First-Rate ship of the line, thought Hazzard. But, in each pit were a number of different field-pieces, some small-bore cannons on wheeled carriages.
‘What’s this?’ asked Cook. ‘Wouldn’t hurt a mouse.’
‘They are darbzen,’ snapped Nazir, ‘battering guns. Very effective.’
‘But you’ve dug them in,’ said Hazzard.
‘What of it?’
‘They have carriage wheels, Sharif – they are meant to be mobile guns. As the enemy moves, so one moves the guns…’ Among them were also three giant ten-foot Ottoman siege bombards, the size of a gaping 68-pounder carronade. ‘And those are utterly immobile,’ he added, ‘and should be mounted on a fortress wall.’
There was a short, vigorous Turkish officer in command of the operations, the long tassel on his tall fez swinging wildly as he swatted at his crews with a stick, swearing in thickly accented Arabic. ‘Izree, izree, yollah!’
‘He is an Osmanli, Hazar-effendi,’ said Nazir. ‘A Turk called Russuf, with the rank of Yuzbashi, a captain of artillery. He is a proud man, and knows his science.’
‘Science be damned, Nazir. If you dig these into the ground, we’ll have to use a company of foot to defend them.’
Nazir turned on him. ‘Muslim science was inflicted upon Christian armies with great success for centuries—’
‘And look at you now! Reckless heroism does not win battles!’
The Yuzbashi captain waved them away, irritated at the interruption of his task. He put his thumbs in his generous belt and brushed his long, curling black moustaches. He called out something and Nazir translated. ‘You see? He says they shall roar like the lion. Ha.’
Hazzard looked out at the terrain. It was wide open. Despite Murad’s strategy and the fields of fire, the French squares had more than enough room to manoeuvre, separate and split into battalions or storming companies. The only obstacles were large clumps of palm and ancient broadleaf trees. It was suitable cover for the Mamluks – but could be used against the gun positions by French light infantry.
‘And we have these also,’ said Nazir, indicating what appeared to be a cavalry unit trotting towards them. ‘Shayalaz.’
The troop of cavalry turned out not to be horses but camels, each with small artillery pieces. The guns were no bigger than a murderer swivel-gun from a ship’s rail – a light cannon firing a one- or two-pound round-shot, its ancient bronze casing oxidised to a dull verdigris colour. Its peculiarity was that it sat mounted on a tripod, not on wheels or a carriage, but on the backs of the camels.
‘Jaysus shite,’ murmured Cook.
‘You must be joking,’ said Hazzard. Even Izzam and Alahum and the other Bedu approached one of the beasts with some amused curiosity. Alahum asked the driver how much it cost.
‘Watch.’ Nazir gave the nod to the troop commander.
One of the riders called for a footman, who came at the run and lit the end of his long linstock taper with a tinderbox. Holding the wick aloft, the rider whacked the camel with his switch and it roared, shambling off into a fast trot. As he went, the driver pointed at a whitewashed mud hut fifty paces away. After some time, he turned and began his attack at full gallop. At the last moment the camel veered off and the rider put his taper to the gun’s touchhole. It fired with such a percussive bang that it startled the horses and Cook nearly fell from his saddle. ‘Christ Gawd Almighty—’
Reappearing from the cloud of white smoke the camel trotted past, roaring in victory, the rider beaming and waving. The hut door, doorframe and a considerable part of the walls either side had been obliterated.
‘Good God…’
‘It can hit a target at half a parasang, a league,’ said Nazir. ‘With all of these guns, we can stop the French Sultan.’
Hazzard looked at Russuf’s darbzen and the heavy bombard cannons. ‘You will make him withdraw temporarily, perhaps, but not stop. We’ll need at least a company of foot to support the guns, to be under Sar’nt Cook. The Albanians, Levantines, anyone, as long as they have firelocks.’
Nazir refu
sed. ‘Never. Never. The Albani are the sultan’s personal guard and must be employed for the defence of the beys—’
‘Sharif Nazir, you will give me support infantry or lose the guns.’
Nazir tugged at the rein of his horse. ‘Always you contend! Always! You are more quarrelsome than a wife!’ He threw up his hands and rode off, furious. He shouted over his shoulder, ‘Always, English!’
Within the hour a company of Albanian Ottomans marched in, a small, stout Turkish sergeant-major at their head. They wore the fez and embroidered jackets of the elite Janissaries of the sultan’s royal guard, and carried bent-bladed yataghan swords and long Turkish miquelet flintlocks. They halted with a snap.
Cook climbed out of Russuf’s gun-pit, where he had been helping site the darbzen. The sergeant-major saluted him as if he were King George himself.
‘Kuq chavus!’ he declared. ‘Kuq Sirjunt!’
Cook looked at them and muttered. ‘By all that’s holy in Bristol…’
Cook tried to drill them in volley shooting, the miquelet much as any other musket, the chief difficulty being its length and the men’s comparatively small stature – it took longer to load and ram because it was difficult for them to reach the muzzle easily, quick though they were.
Unwilling at first to break with their own tactical style and adopt rigid Marine ranks, within three volleys they could follow Cook’s parade-ground English commands, Alahum demonstrating, shouting in Arabic. Their only other hurdle thereafter was the urge to throw down their muskets once fired and attack with their swords.
‘They pick it up quick,’ said Cook to Hazzard as he looked them over, ‘but their names are all Greek to me…’
‘Albanian actually,’ said Hazzard, glancing at the sergeants in front of their platoons. ‘What rank are they? Officers? Warrants?’
‘Oh, er, that’s Fee, sir. Sergeant Fee.’
Hazzard frowned. ‘Fee?’
Sergeant Fee cracked to attention and beamed back a ferocious smile. A gold tooth sparkled.
Lords of the Nile Page 24
