Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Derrien’s eyes glittered. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we shall all go to Alexandria. And your new home by the sea.’

  * * *

  Caron stood silent between two tents, the bleached canvas either side luminous white in the cold desert night. He had waited until the picket guard had changed. The day patrol had still not returned, and only engineers remained, auxiliaries and walking wounded from several demis, the 86th, 69th, sapeurs, artillery. Lanterns hung from props outside the command tent, two bored men on guard, one virtually asleep on his feet. But otherwise the camp was quiet, deserted, all in their beds. He looked across the compound towards the mule corral. A scorpion scuttled across the sand and disappeared under a stone.

  His slackened bonds still holding his arms to the post behind him, Hazzard lay crumpled on the sand. Once Cavalier had gone, Lacroix had dragged him into his tent twice at least to attempt to interrogate him, but failed, and slung him out again. As evening fell someone had thrown a canvas cover over him. The pack animals milled behind, occasionally braying. There was only one sentry, an overfed corporal of the 25th demi, slumped against a shattered adobe wall in the dull wash of a lantern, glugging from a jug of wine and gnawing on a piece of dried sausage.

  Caron surveyed the scene and felt a great sorrow overwhelm him. He had worn his coat for nearly thirty years, he reflected. In that time he had carried messages, then powder and shot, then a musket, and eventually the colours. He had fought in different regiments, served two kings, a duke, a marquis, and big-wigged viscount-generals – and now, he thought with distaste, now he served the petit bourgeois, men like Lacroix, administrative clerks, insurance men, merchants in brand-new uniforms they had not earned. At least, he mused, the aristos had better manners. There had once been a sense of serving something greater than oneself, however false. The Revolution had become that, the new purpose, the new hope, but even that had faded – the murderous bourgeois had drained its font dry of all promise. He had once stepped over a stream of blood in the gutter of a Paris street, draining from a guillotine scaffold, and knew at once that hope had died, along with the souls of his fellow countrymen. All the Revolution had achieved, it seemed, as with any coup, was to change the king, several times over.

  He looked at Hazzard. He knew Lacroix did not have the courage for this brutality without the cover of an order. And Bonaparte would not have countenanced it. No, this, he had reasoned, bore all the hallmarks of le diable: Citizen Croquemort.

  Rossy and Pigalle emerged silently from the tent-lines and joined Caron, fully armed. They had seen and heard everything the previous day. Cavalier, Lacroix, and the squad from the dung-eating 3rd Battalion of the 25th demi dragging Hazzard to the post, then beating Cook. They had not liked that. Cook was the brother-in-arms of their special anglais, and they had fought them in the field, each doing their duty. They had more respect for the Englishmen than they ever could for Lacroix. They sided with Cavalier in that regard – but called Lacroix a con, instead of a salaud.

  ‘I wish to be certain, Chef,’ whispered Rossy, adjusting the sling of his musket, ‘that we do not do this in the name of honour, hm?’

  ‘What a suggestion,’ said Caron. ‘In any case, I told you all to stay.’

  ‘That is funny, Chef.’ Rossy did not laugh.

  Pigalle looked out at Hazzard, at his head hanging low. ‘It is not good,’ he said, ‘what they do here to a man.’

  ‘No, Pig,’ agreed Rossy, ‘it is not good. Let us stop them.’

  St Michel appeared, his Austrian rifle slung over his shoulder, two full bidons of water in his hands. ‘Chef.’

  Caron nodded to him, still lost in thought. What he did next, he knew, could destroy him. He no longer cared. He had worn his coat, he decided, for a few years too long.

  ‘Bon, Micheline. Allons-y.’

  Caron led the way across the compound. They passed the glow of the command tent, the one sentry watching them, the other snoring, then jerking awake. When the guard at the mule corral saw Caron approach he dropped his wine-jug and began to struggle to his feet, still chewing. ‘Chef-major… I was just, I was…’

  Caron ignored him and went straight to Hazzard. Where once there had been unbearable heat there was now a chill, even to Caron, and he had not been staked in the open all day like a beast. He set down the bidon of water, and threw off the canvas thrown over Hazzard’s back. He lay unconscious, his breathing merely a dry wheeze. Caron drew his old Prussian sword-bayonet and started to cut the ropes binding Hazzard’s raw, blistered wrists. The guard began to protest, and raised his lamp.

  ‘Chef? Lacroix, the colonel, he said no water… I – I have orders not to, but, to – do you, have… any orders?’

  Hazzard’s hands came free and he rolled forward, Pigalle catching him and setting him upright, his back against the post. Caron opened a bidon and poured water onto his hand and patted Hazzard’s mouth, trickling a little over his head. His wounds had opened, others had been left untended, dark bruises had spread across his ribs and shoulders. Caron swore. ‘Mon dieu…’

  The sentry began to babble, ‘Chef, I – I will get the, the colonel, Colonel Lacroix—’

  ‘Go then!’ snapped Caron with disgust. ‘Get out of here, vas-t’en, tu idiot!’

  The guard set down his lantern and tried to run but Rossy put up a hand to stop him, then pointed out into the dark. ‘Goodness, what was that?’

  The man looked and Pigalle dropped him with a fist to the top of his head. He fell heavily to the ground. Pigalle kicked him. ‘Con stupide.’ The two sentries by the command tent had run.

  Caron nodded to Pigalle. ‘Alors, mon garçon. We take him.’

  Pigalle lifted Hazzard, taking one of his arms across his shoulder, his own round Hazzard’s waist, and carried him to the tent some twenty metres away. Caron threw open the tent flap. They saw by the light of a flickering candle the vacant bedroll on the floor, Cook lying beside it. The big man’s face was livid and swollen from his beating and he shook with cold. Cook’s guard, another soldier of the 25th, rose from a stool, puffing out his belly. ‘Ehh, tiens, what goes on here?’ Caron drew his Liège pistol and pointed it in the man’s face.

  ‘Get out or die.’

  The soldier threw up his hands, ‘Non, non, Chef! I beg you – je vous en prie,’ and dashed outside.

  They dressed Hazzard in the remains of the shirt that had been torn from his back and lay him down. Hazzard began to breathe more deeply, then coughed and hacked, his chest rising and falling, his throat rattling. Caron held his head back and Rossy poured water over his dry, cracked lips. Hazzard fought them off but Caron held him tight, until he swallowed and coughed, then drank again.

  Caron knelt beside Cook and gave him water as well, holding up his head, and the big man drank, and breathed, sinking back. Pigalle watched, confused, awestruck. ‘He is the first to put me down, ever, this anglais,’ he said in wonder. ‘He is truly the John Bull.’

  When Caron returned to Hazzard, Hazzard put a hand on his wrist. ‘Qui… êtes vous…?’ Who are you?

  They had never heard his voice. Not clearly – shouting out at Malta, raging with the guns at Embabeh, but not like this. They listened. His French was pure, not anglais at all. Caron looked down at him, the grip on his wrist strong, his eyes cloudy but open. He decided Hazzard deserved an answer.

  ‘I am Caron. Of the 75th. These are the Alpha-Oméga. Soldiers. Like you.’

  Hazzard then relaxed, his eyes closing, his grip slackening, his hand falling back to the bed. ‘Merci…’

  They watched him a moment, the breathing returning almost to normal, the wheezing rattle almost gone. There was no doubt they had saved his life.

  ‘Bon,’ said Caron, breaking out rice rations in a tin bowl. ‘You go, all of you. I shall watch over him.’

  ‘In all the excitement,’ said Rossy, settling down, his back to the central tent pole, ‘I forgot how comfortable these old tents can be…’

  Caron looked at him. ‘Fusilier R
ossy. I gave you the command.’

  ‘You are in fine form tonight, Chef,’ said Rossy with a smile, closing his eyes. ‘Wake me when the bad men come. I wish to see the look on their faces.’

  * * *

  They did not have to wait long. Just after dawn there was a distant shot and St Michel peered out the tent flap. Hoofbeats approached and soon they heard horses stamping to a halt by the mule corral, voices raised.

  ‘Company,’ said St Michel. ‘Two men on horses.’ He hefted his rifle and flipped up its ladder-sights. ‘I shall get in a good few shots before they come for us. Maybe get the colonel,’ he added brightly.

  But Caron was having none of it. ‘Enfants,’ he said, ‘trouble has found us again. Let us shake its hand.’ He got to his feet and checked the pan of his pistol, then slammed it shut.

  When they stepped out into the cool morning air, they fanned out in front of the tent, Pigalle towering over all, a sapeur’s axe in each hand. Lacroix stood screaming at the babbling sentry of the 25th demi, and at the empty wine-jug by the bare post where Hazzard had been tied.

  Of the two riders in black looking down upon Lacroix one turned and saw Caron. The unmistakable blank stare made Caron’s skin crawl.

  ‘Alors,’ he whispered, ‘Le Croquemort.’

  Derrien’s gaze took in Caron and his squad and came to rest on the tent. ‘Over there,’ he told Masson. Ignoring Lacroix, the pair dismounted and marched towards them.

  ‘Enfants, let them pass…’

  Rossy was reluctant to do so and readied his Charleville. ‘Chef… I want very much to hurt this one…’

  ‘Be wise, garçon. He is the enemy of Lacroix.’

  Rossy and Pigalle stood still as Caron cocked his pistol. Derrien slowed and came to a halt.

  ‘We meet again, Sergent-chef-major.’

  Caron looked back at him. ‘Infamy brings us close too often, Citizen.’

  He nodded to Rossy who stood aside and opened the tent flap. Derrien stepped in and saw Hazzard and Cook. He glanced at Caron. ‘Lacroix?’

  Caron nodded. ‘Had the sergeant beaten. Tied the anglais in the sun. No water.’

  Masson bent over Cook, a hand to his neck. He looked up. ‘He lives, Citizen.’

  ‘Very well.’ Derrien shrugged off his cloak. ‘Then Lacroix must be kept away.’

  Pigalle crowded in behind Caron in the tent entrance. ‘So,’ said Caron, ‘we save him from Lacroix only to deliver him up to you? I think not, m’sieur. I give the word, and you are dead men.’

  Derrien glanced at Pigalle.

  ‘And what then of you? And your men?’

  Caron did not blink. ‘We have been dead men for years.’

  Derrien met his gaze. ‘You will not win, with me, Chef-major.’

  Caron did not budge. ‘No. But neither will you, with me.’

  Pigalle moved forward slightly with a growl. Masson looked up, uncertain.

  ‘I am here to question him,’ said Derrien, holding up a letter. ‘He is then to be handed to the général en chef who seeks recompense for his deceptions.’

  Caron took the note and read, doubtful. ‘Bonaparte? How can I believe you?’

  ‘Because you shall escort him. After all…’ said Derrien, to mollify the sergeant-major, ‘he was your prisoner.’

  Caron considered his words. They promised more than Lacroix would.

  ‘I do not like him,’ said Pigalle.

  ‘Nor do I, M’sieur le Pig,’ agreed Caron – but he nodded to Derrien. ‘Thirty minutes, no more, then we go. My men will be outside.’ It was more threat than reassurance.

  He turned to go but Derrien spoke, an admonishing reminder, ‘Sergent-chef-major. He is our enemy.’

  Caron looked back at him a moment. ‘I know who my enemy is…’

  An audience had formed, men coming out of the tent lines, some giving a low whistle with applause, one shouting, Vive le Pig! Lacroix stormed across the compound towards them, his guards running alongside belatedly, the sentry corporal gibbering, pointing. ‘Caron!’ screamed Lacroix. ‘What is the meaning of this! You defy my orders!’

  St Michel, Rossy and Pigalle formed a protective cordon around Caron and the tent entrance, Pigalle swinging an axe from each hand, Rossy’s Charleville levelled at the hip, St Michel’s Austrian long-rifle cocked, ready. They stood like rock, unmoving. Lacroix stopped dead, glaring at them.

  ‘You are all under arrest! Traitors! Do you hear me!’ He turned to a staff major beside him. ‘Arrest them! At once!’

  Hesitantly pulling the pistol from his belt, the Chef de bataillon began to protest, ‘But, I am sure…’

  ‘Do as I say!’

  Caron stepped out in front of his men, his pistol hanging at arm’s length. ‘Chef de brigade Lacroix, you are not fit to command! Come to this tent by force of arms, and you will be the first to die.’ He cocked the pistol.

  Lacroix’s eyes bulged in disbelief. ‘You what! You dare give me orders!’

  ‘I am Achille Mérové Caron, Sergent-chef-major of the 75th demi-brigade de bataille, The Invincibles, veteran of the Indies, the Americas, Batavia, the 13th Vendémiaire, of Montenotte, Lodi, Caldiero, and saviour of Bonaparte at Arcole.’ Caron looked out at Lacroix’s officers ranged around him. ‘You who do this thing to this soldier, are cowards and swine. Not men.’

  Lacroix staggered backwards, his face reddening. ‘You dare speak to me like this!’

  ‘I have seen too much done to my own countrymen in the name of kings, or freedom, or revolution, to let this be done in my name.’ He raised his pistol, ready. ‘I am Caron, soldat de France. And here I stand.’

  The audience cheered once again, Vive le chef! Vive le chef! Pigalle calling out, ‘And I am Pigalle! And where I plant my boot, there shall I not be moved!’

  Lacroix jerked round at the gales of cheering, Chef! Chef! Chef! Vive le Pig! Vive le Pig!

  ‘Stop that!’ screamed Lacroix. ‘Stop that at once, I say! Arrest them! Chef de bataillon!’

  No one in the camp moved to help him. Instead, the men of the 25th stepped further back, well out of Pigalle’s long reach. Lacroix screamed again for silence as the whistling and jeering continued. Caron remained still, waiting.

  * * *

  Inside the tent, Derrien tossed his cloak onto the guard’s stool and knelt by Hazzard, taking firm hold of his wet and filthy shirt-front and yanking him forward, whispering viciously into his ear, ‘I would have staked you in the middle of the Sahara, Captain, but I had no idea it was you,’ he said. ‘This so-called devil in red or “Red Pasha” or whatever nonsense these animals call you,’ he hissed. ‘We are not alone so I shall be brief: this time, you will answer my questions,’ he said with venom, ‘because I have her.’

  Hazzard stirred. ‘Sarah…’

  Derrien’s face lightened. ‘Ah yes… of course! How very English, I should have guessed. Sarah…’ He came closer, relishing his triumph. ‘Can you hear her name upon my lips? Sarah… I can taste her even now…’

  Hazzard tried to fight him off. ‘Mur – murderer…’

  Derrien gripped him more tightly, shaking him, his teeth bared. ‘And what of you, Mister Hazzard? Do you know Bonaparte still calls you that? And the cavalry loves you, their gallant foe! Are you French, or English? What are you now, Bedouin, or Mamluk? Soldier or sailor? Scholar? Traitor? Or none.’

  Hazzard collapsed, his head heavy, hanging.

  ‘You are nothing, you are adrift—’ spitting out his hatred, sweat pouring from his brow ‘—a thief of hopes, Mister Hazzard – promising so much to them all, and delivering nothing.’

  Derrien threw him down as if sullied, tainted. He pulled a sheet from his coat pocket and flapped it open. ‘Do you see this?’ He held it before Hazzard’s face. It was a map. He seized the back of Hazzard’s head and pushed his face closer. ‘Look at it, damn you. Upper and Lower Egypt as you well know…’

  Hazzard focussed on the names, in Roman characters, Memphis, Karnak, Nécropolis et la route
au Memnonium, faces blurring before him, at the museum, figures bending over the tables, charts, engravings.

  ‘De Toit-Thainville,’ said Derrien, ‘for Vermiac, years ago. We have been ready for this day for longer than even we have known, and we alone shall open this desert tomb of yours – treasures beyond your imagination, they said, Egyptian kings, les pharaoens, hm? While the clever oxen dig their ridiculous canals, their grand works at Suez, this is where we shall go, Captain, you and I, to find prizes, booty to fuel the Republic,’ he said proudly, ‘gold, jewels, proof of the Revolution’s indomitability. And you, the expert, the savant anglais, will lead us to each one.’ He shook Hazzard violently. ‘And I shall be the man who enslaved Milord Mamluk, the great Red Devil – not the general, not Bonaparte.’

  Derrien had waited so long for this moment that simply killing Hazzard would have left him bereft, devoid of the power he had sought so desperately to wield over him. Instead, Hazzard would become a symbol of his victory, his own personal trophy, paraded before the world.

  ‘And you will obey, I know.’ He leaned closer and said, ‘Because I have her.’

  The breath sighed between Hazzard’s lips, a dark realisation creeping into his eyes, ‘The savants…’

  ‘Yes, the savants. And why should we not? – I said this to Maximilien as they pushed him into the machine to be slaughtered like a beast and afterwards they let me hold his head. Do you hear? His head.’ In his rage he shook Hazzard by the neck and thrust him violently back onto the bedroll. Masson grew concerned.

  ‘Citizen… they will come back—’

  ‘The case,’ Derrien snapped at Masson, who then handed him a bulging leather wallet. Derrien opened a flap, and from a series of pockets inside pulled a small blue bottle. He uncorked it with a pop and put a folded pad of cotton over it, tipping it up.