The tower loomed dark above them, its glowing windows showing few signs of life. On the far side they saw an A-frame gantry standing in stark silhouette, low, dark humped shapes nearby, low crumbling walls concealing something behind. As they rounded the promontory, the source of the distant light came slowly into view. Alfonso stared.
‘Dios mío…’
Aboukir Bay lay spread out before them, a vast bight from the top of the Nile Delta, its shores curving away and gently back out to sea towards distant Rosetta in the east. There, riding safely at anchor, their lamps gleaming across their busy decks and soaring mastheads, lay the entire battle-fleet of Napoleon Bonaparte’s Egypt expedition.
‘Jaysus shite an’ all,’ murmured De Lisle. ‘It’s really here…’
Cochrane’s craggy face glowed with the distant light. ‘…And lo, the lords of all sin lay before them…’
De la Vega hissed at them, ‘Back back back, rápido, amigos, rápido…’
They began to paddle back into the safety of the darkness. Countless lights winked around them, shining into the night, the waves black, the white surf foaming. They had seen the distant lights of the French fleet at Malta, but not like this: at last, after two months, they looked upon the target they had sought.
‘I never believed ’em…’ whispered Warnock. ‘It’s like bloody Spithead…’
Behind a cluster of smaller bomb-craft and sloops, the warships rode in line astern, the 74s and 80s, Guerrier, Conquérant, and Spartiate, Aquilon and Peuple Souverain, and the big Franklin. Just behind them in the centre rose the largest of them all, the giant 120-gun flagship.
‘That’s the big bastard I saw Cookie go in, the one they gone an’ took the major in,’ said Pettifer. ‘The Orient.’
‘That means he’s here, lads,’ said Kite with realisation. ‘Cookie an’ the major – both of ’em are bloody here.’
‘Let us pray so, my friend,’ said De la Vega.
Behind Orient came the Tonnant, and still more 74s, Heureux, Mercure – at the rear stood the 80-gun Guillaume Tell and her own squadron, the Généreux, Timoléon and several smaller frigates closer to the shallows and the rising sand dunes ringing the bay.
Supply boats and tenders were dotted everywhere, French and Egyptian, large djerms, feluccas and small punts. Crates and nets swung from booms to waiting barges, livestock taken aboard and munitions taken off, labourers hauling cargo up the beaches for the road to Alexandria.
‘We have seen enough,’ said De la Vega. ‘Alfonso, we must come about.’
‘But we got ’em, sir…’ whispered Warnock.
‘Too right, Knocky,’ said Napier. ‘Let’s gut one and burn her down…’
‘Not yet, y’daft oke,’ hissed Pettifer. ‘Got to find the major first.’
Underhill agreed. ‘The Professor said we’ve to join Nelson, lads. But I’m for finding the major first, as no one else in this bloody navy will. They’ll cut ’im adrift given ’alf the chance and us with ’im if needs be. ’Tis the way of things. He and old Cookie might’ve signed on for that, but I don’t cares for it one bit, as it’s not fittin’ to be doing that to our major, mad or no, be he Jack or Jolly.’
‘Jack or Jolly,’ they repeated.
‘Amen,’ said Cochrane.
‘Too right, Sarge,’ confirmed Kite.
They murmured their agreement. ‘Then we can watch Nellie burn ’em all bloody down like it’s Guy Fawkes Night. What says the boat?’
They looked to each other and nodded. ‘Boat says aye, Sarge,’ said De Lisle. ‘Let’s crack on.’
They rowed back towards Alexandria. Under cover of scrub and stunted trees they grounded the boat on the shingle of the rocky shoreline, past the bay of ancient half-sunken Canopus. Fluted columns stood doleful guard over bare pediments and tumbled stone ruins, the waves washing at them, wearing them down. The marines leapt out. De la Vega followed, but Alfonso stopped him. ‘Padre.’
‘Go,’ replied De la Vega. ‘Take the Volpone, find the great admiral inglés. Tell him what we have seen.’ De la Vega smiled faintly. ‘I am obliged, my son, to my duty for my friend.’ When he saw Alfonso’s disquiet he added, ‘They tried to drop a house on me, hm? How can Providence let the Franceses defeat me now?’
Underhill made his way through the bushes. Beyond was a featureless desert of dark hillocks, visible only in the reflected light from the fleet and the traffic on the distant road to Alexandria. He held up a hand. The marines sank down in the dark, and he mouthed, ‘Locals comin’…’
From around a bend further ahead a donkey-cart appeared, driven by an old couple. Beside it came two heavily laden mules pulled by two younger men, arguing, one shaking a bag of coins at the other in dispute.
The family stopped when they heard a distant shout. There was a fast thudding of hooves from behind, slowing gradually to a walk. Four French horsemen arrived, light cavalry.
‘Jesu, bugger an’ blight…’ whispered Underhill, and sank down lower, his hand going out to the side and making a cutting gesture in a mute signal: silence in the boat.
The cavalrymen bombarded the family with questions in French, pointing back at the bay. One dismounted and swaggered in front of the younger men, his thumbs in his belt, his white gauntlets glowing.
He took the bag of coins from the young man, wagging a finger at him, chuckling. One of his three comrades said something and they laughed, the trooper pocketing the purse. He then poked at the bags on the mules and in the cart.
Underhill pointed at De Lisle and Hesse and raised four fingers, and pointed left. He then looked to Warnock, raised one finger, jabbing to the right, then at Pettifer and Napier, and raised two, then three. De la Vega, Cochrane, Porter and Kite crouched behind Underhill in the shadows of the scrub, blackened blades and muskets ready.
The dismounted cavalryman gave a victorious little cry when he found what he had been hoping for. ‘Aha! Tabac, hein? Oh ho ho…’ He wagged his finger again. ‘Vous êtes méchants, oui?’
The young Alexandrians argued as the elder shielded his wife with a protective arm but the Frenchman drew his holster pistol – just as Warnock stepped out, right in front of him.
‘Knock-knock,’ he said, ‘you twat.’
He struck the cavalryman in the neck with his tomahawk with such force he nearly removed his head. Pettifer and Napier burst from behind the other two men and dragged them both out of the saddle, Pettifer putting his knife into the first, Napier holding the other down with his boot as he yanked up his free arm, and stamped on the man’s chin, the bone cracking loud. De Lisle and Hesse raced round behind the fourth man furthest from the group, De Lisle snatching the reins as Hesse leapt up the saddle and pushed his knife through the rider’s throat, throwing him down the other side. He was still choking as De Lisle dragged him into the bushes. It was over in seconds.
One of the young Egyptians stooped to retrieve his purse from Warnock’s dead cavalryman, spitting on the body. The old man looked down at the marines from his cart in fear and confusion as the others appeared. ‘Matha turidoon?’
De la Vega put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh, padre.’
The old man looked puzzled. ‘Vooz non ettas Fransay…?’
Underhill shook his head. ‘No, me ol’ cockerel, we are not Franssay, we are al-Ingleezee, from King Georgie-Sultan of England, Gawd love his mad little socks.’
‘Nelsoun Amir!’ The young men appealed to the old father, ‘Hal turid Masoud!’ The son smiled at Underhill. ‘Masoud? Hammer,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Hammer!’
Chevalier
Within hours of formal occupation of the deserted palaces of the beys, the aides of the French general staff began to pore over the accounts of the former Mamluk civil administrators – many of whom had been retained by Bonaparte’s more astute logistics officers.
Masoud proved invaluable to them. His grasp of Turkish and French smoothed the way of the new government. The patient, helpful young Alexandrian was everywhere it see
med, so much so he earned the wary distrust of other Egyptians. Had it not been for the support of Al-Jabarti and the Al-Azhar Mosque, he might have become a target for his own countrymen.
One morning several days into Masoud’s tenure among the Headquarters Battalion at the former palace of Qasim Bey, ADC Desvernois marched into his temporary offices in the rear mews with new despatches. He saw the name of the first intended recipient at the top of the pile.
‘Merde…’ Desvernois called for his corporal, ‘Caporal! Venez-ci, vite!’ But one of Masoud’s assistants, Firaj, appeared at the door instead. ‘Has the courier departed?’ demanded Desvernois. ‘Gone? Clippity-clop, yallah-yallah?’
The little man shook his head at the young officer. ‘N-no effendi… but toot syit!’
‘It’s suite, for God’s sake, tout de suite…’
Masoud had heard, and hurried in. ‘I take it, Devenwa-effendi, a pleasure.’
‘Just get it to him before the damned man goes, and get Corporal Battista in here,’ he muttered, and without another thought handed it to Masoud who dashed out, calling in deliberately bad French to the quad for the rider to wait, attennday, attennday!
But he did not take it directly to the quad. Instead, he ducked into the scroll rooms with the sealed despatch and took up a pen at an open inkwell to write. Once finished, he rushed through the cool corridors past the stables and saw the army galloper in the quad, mounted in the saddle ready to depart, the horse rearing, grooms trying to hold it steady, its rider still dusty from the road, fearsome in his tall leather shako and draped golden braids, roaring angry. He drained a water bottle and threw it empty at one of the grooms, saw Masoud and charged across to him, a black gauntlet thrust out, the horse’s iron hooves clattering loud.
‘Well!’ he demanded. ‘For whom? Which district?’
Masoud read the slanting hand on the despatch. ‘For the Général Damas! At Ouardan! Damas, yes!’
‘Ouardan? Merde alors…’ With a sigh of disgust the rider snatched the document from his hands and stuffed it into his sabre-tache, ‘Arab dog…’ before he spurred away into a canter.
Masoud knew the despatch riders were easy targets, and this one would be no exception. Having mastered Desvernois’ impatient hand, he had falsely directed the rider to an area infested with Bedu bandits: Ouardan Banlieue, 3e Bn 7e Bis Hussar. General Damas had long since moved on with his dragoon cavalry, but the despatch rider had not known that – no one did, as Masoud had not delivered that particular news to Desvernois, or to anyone. He watched him go without a flicker of compassion, and reflected how very easy it was to play the fool for them. The battle for Cairo had changed the learned scholar and now he felt no sorrow for the invader. When he turned, Firaj was waiting.
‘Why do you help them so, Masoud al-hakim? They are uncivilised animals…’ Masoud returned to the shade of the mews corridors, Firaj hurrying after, his voice a whisper, ‘They eat like pigs. Meat, meal and limes mixed in the same bowl. Disgusting. They tread upon the carpets in their filthy boots, and blow their noses on the curtains – they are revolting. And the women are worse! Laughing on mules as they race through the markets, calling to their friends, causing disturbance, consorting with the common people—’
Masoud spoke in a low urgent voice, ‘Firaj ibn Saleh… you will help them, as I do. Become indispensable, as I do. And thus learn their secrets, as I do – and help me find him before they do.’
Firaj looked up at him, frightened of speaking his name. ‘Al-Pasha al-ahmar.’
Masoud did not correct him. After his furious ride across the field of battle, all now followed the Awlad ’Ali and called him the ‘Red Pasha’. He strode down the corridor towards a distant archway. ‘They say a rogue clan of Maaza took him from the battle. I want the Beni Qassim, the Awlad ’Ali, the Al-Habayba, the Huwaytat, from Maryut, Menouf, Ouardan, Sais, from Al-Arish, everywhere, to seek him out. He is beloved of God, and risked his life for us. Honour demands we do the same for him.’ He stopped at the exit, looking out at the steps and garden path to the wall and gates, Firaj catching him up.
‘But where do you go, Masoud?’
Masoud was in no doubt. He looked out through the arch and the cool shade of overhanging trees. ‘To the Nile, Firaj. To find Hammer-effendi. And to find my friend.’
* * *
A roar. Izzam.
Izzam!
A camel, he thought. It is a camel. Izzam had a camel.
No, horse, he had a horse.
Grit in his teeth and sand and the heat from it, an oven of molten glass, like that airless abattoir of Cairo. St Jude’s… the lawns, Sarah as he had longed once, as his wife, three children, a townhouse in Cambridge. But India had called and France killed their king.
The king the king.
Swaying.
Damn the king.
A stinging blow across his cheek, fourteen years of age, his Uncle Thomas, the Reverend Hazzard, red-faced and angry, Never! Never say such a thing, boy! Your father served the king, as did I—
France. Golden France, the ghost of mother somewhere nearby, and his promise to the Mediterranean breeze, Maman… I shall be English, Maman, as you wished.
Burning on his leg. A thousand tons pressing against his thigh and he shouted out, a fire in his bones, then relief, the sound of metal ringing, bullet, and another, second bullet. A fierce gaze watching him, a surgeon, Al-Jabarti? No, and he tried to speak, but could not, the educated face saying, be still.
Days passed, dressings changed, Nile breezes. Birds. Ibis perhaps. Ibis everywhere. The ibis-headed god, Thoth. God of science, of letters, of writing, of knowledge. My patron saint, patron of the man of letters, the man of straw and his bloody pen—
No, mine is St Jude, Patron Saint of Causes Lost. Laughter somewhere in the dark mind. Four hundred ships – what a damned good lost cause that was.
Swaying stopped.
‘Combien? Vous êtes fou, mon cher salaud.’
You are mad, my dear bastard. Mon cher salaud. Very polite. Cavalry officer, talking to someone. On a horse, talking down to men on foot. Hoofbeats riding, riding, and the sands receding, weightless heat, all-consuming heat.
Hands lifting him, carrying him – a Bordelais accent, and a Norman, he could tell, Muddy-arse! They called Normans and Gascons that in Paris, he remembered, Cul terreux!
At last the drenching cool of shade, a cloud, a veil over the sun, palm fronds above, and water on his face, hands slapping it onto his cheeks, forehead and chin, a bandage across his eyes and this too gradually soaked with water, evaporating, cooling.
‘Voilà, mon brave. Seulement un petit peu.’
Just a little bit, and he drank a mouthful, holding it, then swallowing carefully.
‘Oh God…’ he choked. Swallowing nails, his parched throat tight and shrunken. The bandage was lifted from his eyes but the inside of the tent remained a blur, a face gazing down.
‘Bonjour.’
Hazzard tried to focus. It was a dark-skinned soldier, an officer, long dark sideboards, that weary, ironic Gallic look he knew so well.
‘Moi, je suis Colonel Jacques Cavalier, à votre service.’ At your service.
He nodded his head in a bow. Hazzard could not speak his thanks.
‘And you are the Red Devil, hm? El afrit l’akhmerre.’
Cook lay on a mattress a few feet away, eyes closed, face blistered, lips puffed and cracked. Dead? Be dead soon, like I am. Hazzard tried to reach over and put the bottle to Cook’s lips but was too weak, could not do it, embarrassing really, try again. Cavalier took it. ‘Ah, non non non… moment, moment…’
Cavalier trickled some water onto his fingers and applied them to Cook’s face and mouth. ‘It is bad, you know, the water, when one is without mind, without conscience, hm? One can drown after the desert.’
Two sun-blackened Bedouins looked down from behind Cavalier, baffled by his care for the prisoners. They were dressed much as the Bedu Hazzard had encountered when he had met Ali Qari
m: Maaza.
‘Our friends here, they want to sell you, for the ransom, to the next East India ship on the Red Sea. But we found you instead and bought you. Give you proper hospital attention sooner, hm. Better or worse, I cannot say, forgive me but I think it best for you.’ He shrugged. ‘C’est la guerre.’
He could hear movement, shouts of men beyond the canvas. They were in a camp. Cavalier handed him the water bottle. ‘Messengers have ridden with news of your capture. It is the big day for the colonel here, Lacroix, un salaud, hm? Beware.’
Hazzard blinked and nodded, words not yet possible.
Cavalier gazed at him a moment then spoke, lowering his voice, ‘My men of the 1st Cavalry saw you ride the field with the sword. I thought I had seen all on campaign but, mon dieu, an anglais with such skill.’ He looked over his shoulder, then back. ‘The officers, they fear you. But the men, they respect you. They call you Milord Mamluk.’
The tent flap was thrown aside and a major and captain entered with two infantrymen behind, followed by a still more senior officer – white-haired, greying moustache, a pinched, sour mouth, a dark blue coat adorned with white facings, braid and epaulettes – judging by Cavalier’s glance, this was the salaud, ‘the bastard’, Lacroix.
‘Chef d’escadron Cavalier,’ announced Lacroix, ‘you are still here.’ Hands behind his back, he raised himself up on his toes once or twice, a triumphant schoolmaster discovering misbehaviour.
Cavalier remained on his haunches next to Hazzard, his features twisted with humour at a private joke. ‘Oui, chef de brigade, I am. But now I go. Two colonels in one tent is one too many. Though one of us was a – what was it? A paper-hanger for the bourgeois ladies…?’
Lacroix went red. ‘How dare you.’ He snapped a finger at Hazzard and gestured at the two infantrymen. ‘Take him.’
Lacroix could have waited but it was clear even to Hazzard he wanted to do it deliberately in front of Cavalier – the soldiers forced their way past him and seized Hazzard. Cavalier protested, ‘Colonel, he is recovering from battle. His wounds—’
Lords of the Nile Page 28
