Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Masson grabbed Hazzard, forcing his head back, as Derrien clamped the cloth over Hazzard’s mouth, Masson pinching his nostrils shut. ‘And when I am finished, I will leave you a mindless husk in the sand, a relic from one of your damnable lost tombs—’ Derrien relaxed his grip on the pad ‘—and nothing will remain of you, but a fading memory of dust.’

  Hazzard tried to cough but could not, and breathed it in, the fumes of the pad swirling into his mouth and throat, a hissing poisonous mist, his eyes closing, his muscles sagging. He sank back, shivering, and Derrien leaned over him again, barely able to contain the vengeance in his heart. ‘You will answer because I have her. And she is mine.’

  * * *

  Heat. Always heat, thought Hazzard.

  Heat had a physical mass, he decided, in that remote corner of his mind where he had saved his fears, loves and secrets, somewhere Derrien would never find them.

  The sun leaned upon him, a burning stone, crushing him – then shade, blessed relief – then the sun, vultures circling on high, gliding, silent, searching, and the screams, no not out there again, and more fire.

  India, Brahmins discussing the elements, fakirs standing in hot coals, I become as fire, Sahib. Hazzard too had become as fire, and it angered his tormentors, shouts from above, from below, all around, in bitter frustration. Masson’s intermittent blows became dull, distant sounds, a madman raging at a closed shop door, demanding to be let in, his blurred face visible through smudged, distorting windows.

  Bastard bastard bastard…!

  The ghost of Harry Race, cousin, he thought, adopted brother, friend, enemy, so full of hate all those years before at the Cape, It should have been me to marry her – bastard bastard…!

  Derrien’s face, broad as the moon, immense, an enchanter’s poison. Sour, vaporous, pungent. Rising, falling, on an ocean swell, calming, their anger growing because it was not working.

  Mera naam Lewis hai… yah ek mugal taalavaar hai… India pattern compliments, is that a Mughal Talwar, kunjani kunjani! Ndiphilele enkosi, tata…how are you! Perfect thank you, tata!

  Speaking very fast, almost incoherent, schoolroom Hindi and isiXhosa, wide awake now, eyes open, Harry!

  Harry Race, dead Captain of Marines, slain by William John Hazzard at the bottom of the world, roaring in the bleeding surf.

  Harry!

  Harry’s hand shaking him, Wakey wakey, the HMS William!

  Derrien’s mouth opening, a yawning cave to swallow him whole. ‘Yes, Sir Rafe Lewis, yes we know of him! Who is Harry! Who?’

  Streams of images, endless whispering, Lewis and Blake, and Hazzard thought, Yes, I have failed, and Lord Melville, Egypt, sir, Egypt, I don’t give a damn where they are if I can keep ’em there, as if drawn by Rowlandson, a king’s warrant not worth the ink – and a letter, Leave them! You cannot leave them to die!

  Letter.

  To Nelson.

  More laughter. His. A hand slapped him in the face and he felt it. Coming down, breath light and quick. Masson – fighting Masson, bloody bastard bloody bastard!

  Water on his face.

  Caron shouting.

  Grenôble, the old stairs, books, des livres, oui, Kircher, hieroglyphs, Thoth.

  Englishman!

  Lies.

  ‘Lies, yes, all of them.’ Derrien’s voice urging him on faster. ‘Through Hamburg, yes, you told us, your Captain Day and Mr Udney the spy, yes, we know them all now…’

  Push, till it stops.

  I never stop.

  Coming full circle, strength of ten men, Masson’s face, his bulging eyes open wide in surprise, Hazzard’s fist catching him, an old payattu strike, Mahakali…!

  Masson went down, falling against the tent wall with a cry as Hazzard swung from the waist at Derrien, but Derrien caught it and threw him back down.

  ‘What were your orders, 34’18’89? You told us so very much, Room 63, yes, but what were your orders? To prevent the invasion? Then you failed…!’

  Ahoy the HMS William! Ahoy!

  Harry calling, always mocking – something, somewhere, to do with ships, Nelson’s ships.

  Nelson.

  Time, distance, so forth, timing important, that is why I sent him there, I, Wm. J. Hazzard Esq. the Exploring Officer in the field, defender of deserts, keeper of gods, pharaoh of dust, I called the Destroyer back to Egypt, back to the House of Ptah.

  Because Bonaparte would never come to this strange new world without leaving a coachman waiting at the corner to take him home again.

  Where is the coachman, oh, he is where, waiting here, waiting there, waiting waiting for his fare…?

  Aboukir, the great bay.

  The coachman, waiting.

  A tethered goat. For the tigers’ dinner.

  Masoud, Muhammad Bey al-Elfi, Al-Jabarti. Tell me, scribes of the Al-Azhar, did we crush his dreams?

  Derrien looked down at him. ‘What? What of the scribes of Al-Azhar?’

  Derrien broke off at the sound of more shouts, stamping hooves, an enraged officer calling to Lacroix, to everyone, Where is he! Marching through squads of shouting men, hurried feet following him. The tent-flap flew open, two Bedu in the robes of the Maaza behind, each carrying an ancient Turkish blunderbuss.

  ‘Be damned, m’sieur!’ the officer shouted down at Hazzard. ‘Your Bedouin have killed him!’

  Derrien got to his feet. ‘Killed who? Identify yourself—’

  The officer looked at Hazzard and Cook. ‘Jullien, Citizen, Jullien!’ he cried. ‘They have killed Captain Jullien and massacred his escort!’

  ‘Where? How?’

  ‘At Alqam! He was riding north with fleet orders, and they threw his butchered body into the Nile!’ He dropped a bloody saddlebag. ‘I am Jumard, of the 4th Légère, taking his place!’

  ‘Which fleet orders?’

  Jumard tore open the bag and held out a sheet of paper, waving it at him. ‘These, Citizen! To Admiral Brueys, countersigned a week ago! They never reached him! To move the battle-fleet! It still stands exposed in Aboukir Bay! The commandant was outraged – and Jullien volunteered to take it himself!’

  Derrien took it from him. ‘They should have sailed to Corfu…’ Derrien read the order to set sail, signed with an angry flourish, ‘Bonaparte’. Then he stared into nothing, past Hazzard, past the camp, the Nile, the glories of conquest, the triumph of their battle in the shadow of the pyramids. He repeated the name, ‘Aboukir…?’

  Hazzard stared up at him, whispering under his breath.

  Derrien looked down at him. ‘What did you say?’

  Masson watched. ‘He is raving, Citizen.’

  Derrien knelt over Hazzard and shook him. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘B’nson… Cr’soe…’ said Hazzard.

  Derrien shouted, ‘Encore. Again!’

  ‘He said Crusaud, Citizen,’ said Masson.

  Derrien shook Hazzard again. ‘What is it, what is this Caruso? A place? A codename? For what? A counter-attack? Are the English coming to invade?’

  Instead, Jumard had the answer. He frowned. ‘It is a book—’

  Derrien turned. ‘Book?’

  ‘Yes, Robinson Crusoe…’ said Jumard distracted, irritated. ‘My son, he has read it in English, for his study…’

  ‘But what is it? What does it mean?’

  ‘Ah, ma foi, I do not know!’ exclaimed Jumard. ‘A man on an island, alors, abandoned, his ship sunk, lost, what do they call it, the shipwreck, he is, how you say, marooned. What of justice for Jullien!’

  Derrien gazed unseeing, the word playing in his mind. ‘Marooned…’

  ‘Yes!’ snapped Jumard, gathering the contents of the saddlebag together again. ‘Left on the barren island with no chance of sailing home, what does it matter!’

  As if he had suddenly recognised a train of thought so obtuse, so tortuous, Derrien looked at Hazzard, astonished, and recognised the hand of the British Admiralty. Hazzard looked back.

  ‘That is why Nelson departed…’ whispered Der
rien. ‘You could not find us at sea… so you wanted us to land – in the desert… to be stranded?’ He looked at Jumard, then glanced at the crumpled order in his hands. ‘Mon dieu. I have been guarding the army – but not the navy.’ Derrien stuffed the order into his pocket and pushed past Jumard to the tent entrance. ‘Lacroix!’

  Derrien burst out of the tent to find a state of anarchy – the day patrol at last returned, enraged at the news of Jullien’s death, discovering Hazzard’s presence and holding him to blame, men pointing at the tent, shouting, their officers at gunpoint. A full platoon of the 25th had Caron and the Alphas at the point of the bayonet, a terrified young lieutenant calling, ‘You w-will throw down your arms, Sergent chef-major…! I beg of you! Je vous en prie!’ Captain Lefebvre of the patrol stood beside Caron, shouting, ‘The 25th will stand down! The 25th will disperse at once,’ Pigalle was ready to wade into the infantrymen, Caron calling over it all, ‘Lacroix, you will reign over corpses!’

  ‘No, Chef!’ cried Lacroix in victory. ‘First his crimes against the Republic, and now this, our own young glorious Jullien! How can you defend him now! Enough of this charade – bring him!’

  Pigalle smashed three out of the way with a sweep of his sapper’s axe and the rest fell back at once, but Caron put out a hand to restrain the big man. It was over. ‘Ça suffit, mon fils.’ Enough, my son. Rossy and St Michel put up their guns, and the 25th shouldered past, two seizing Derrien, pinning his arms back, ‘Non! Lacroix – wait – he has information…!’

  Two men hauled Hazzard to his feet and into the scorching sun, the two Maaza following, a deadly escort, one calling out, al Pasha al-ahmar! Hazzard’s legs collapsed under him and Caron made a move but was kept back by a pair of bayonets. Six men formed line a short way off as Hazzard was dragged into the heat, blinded, the colours bursting in dizzying array. Two others came behind him, dragging something heavy, Lacroix calling like a town crier, ‘…for the crimes of espionage and aiding the enemies of the Republic, you are sentenced to suffer death by—’

  It was Cook.

  Each held by a pair of soldiers of the 25th, Derrien and Masson were marched into the crowd of shouting men to watch. ‘Lacroix!’ called Derrien, ‘The fleet! They know of Nelson’s plan, his attack! We do not know if they bring troops with them! You will release him! By order of the Republic, damn you!’

  Lacroix stopped and turned. ‘By whose order?’ he scoffed.

  ‘Mine, you imbecile! In this damnable place,’ raged Derrien, ‘I AM the Republic!’

  For a moment, Lacroix considered his words. But the threat had no effect. Lacroix laughed. ‘Here, M’sieur le Croquemort, you are nothing but the sand.’

  Hazzard’s head sagged and the light burned his eyes, but basic shapes began to take form: Lacroix, a staff officer, and a line of dusty blue-grey coats porting muskets. Murmuring among the men, someone shouted, Ce n’est pas la guerre, ce n’est pas l’honneur, and others joined in, some fighting, Justice pour Jullien! Captain Lefebvre standing with Caron, a shot in the air from the boy lieutenant, and all stood still. The Bedu guides watched, moving away, dark faces swathed in black headdresses.

  Cook was lashed to the post by the mule corral, his head hanging low, almost the colour of his coat, thought Hazzard, that blood-red coat he had worn for twenty years.

  Jory.

  A hand clutched at Hazzard’s hair, pulling his head back and his mouth opened. Water was poured in. Hazzard choked, and they laughed, his insides contracting in spasm, and again, more water – he coughed but swallowed, the cascade continuing over his head, across his neck and shoulders and down his chest. He gasped with relief.

  ‘You shall be awake to see what you have done, Milord Mamluk,’ snorted Lacroix.

  Cook struggled at his bonds, but only to get sufficient purchase to stand upright. Slowly he raised his head in Hazzard’s direction. Hazzard tugged at the hands behind him and fell forward to the sand on all fours – more laughter, but it was good to be out, on his own, even if beaten to the ground. Someone said, No, leave him, what can he do.

  He pushed himself up onto one knee, then both feet, the sodden bloodstained shirt hanging loose, the heat a roaring crucible, the air baking iron. He saw the line of men, the officer calling out, Portez… armes! and Hazzard made his way slowly towards Cook at the post. Legs weak, he thought, and stumbled, been in a battle, bit sore, yes, and he pulled himself up then sank again, head hanging, till he heard Cook.

  ‘On yer feet, boy…’

  Hazzard pushed himself up again, yes, his legs, pas devant les domestiques, yes, not in front of the staff, but enough to stand, and he reached the dark shape of the big man.

  Cook whispered, ‘Least not… goin’ t’be drownded…’ He managed a feeble laugh and Hazzard fell against his shoulder, facing the line of men, a throb throughout his head, neck and shoulders, light and heat pulsing, matching his heartbeat, thudding in his eardrums.

  ‘Had ’nough, Jory – just… had enough.’

  ‘Me an’ bloody all…’ Cook coughed deep in his chest.

  The command came.

  Apprêtez! Prenez cartouche!

  They began to load their cartridges.

  ‘D’you know…’ sighed Cook through bloated, cracked lips. ‘The G in m-my name… tss… it’s not f’r George…’

  Hazzard hung there, staring, every ache and pain and stitch coming to life in the heat. ‘Jory, is short for George…’

  ‘No… Not George.’ Cook looked down. ‘It’s Gulliver…’

  Hazzard dimly registered Cook’s words.

  ‘Ma wanted me… t’see th’ world…’

  Hazzard wanted to laugh. ‘We did that…’

  ‘Aye…’

  Hazzard felt the crest of a wave, lightness – just as he had at Giza, seeing the Sphinx, seeing the pyramids, a release, a burden going heavenward. Time would always win.

  ‘Then ’tis a secret, Mr Gulliver Cook.’

  ‘Much ’bliged, sir…’ rasped Cook. ‘W’d ne’er live it down…’

  Someone shouted to come to attention, Garde… À vous! and the once voluble troops quietened to watch solemnly. Very kind of them, thought Hazzard. The closer the end came, the stronger he felt, a last bid to squeeze precious life from what few seconds remained. Clarity, the tang of salt in the air, the screech of a seabird. He felt the figurine on his chest, bumping in rhythm to his heartbeat.

  Cook’s voice was no more than a whisper, but Hazzard heard it clear. ‘Stand fast th’ Marines, sir…’

  Thief of hopes, defender of dust. England shall observe no longer.

  Hazzard saw them, a row of filthy, misused toy soldiers, the blue of the sky brilliant above, birds wheeling, Derrien screaming, Lacroix! Lacroix!

  En – joue!

  The muskets came up, ready to fire.

  ‘Stand fast it is, aye, Sar’nt…’ Hazzard patted his arm. ‘Excuse me…’ he said and moved round to stand in front of him.

  Cook shouted, ‘No! No, sir!’

  But he cried too late to stop it, as one of the Maaza leaned towards the boy lieutenant and whispered, ‘Hsst.’

  The boy looked at him. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Knock-knock.’

  The Maaza stepped back, levelled his blunderbuss and pulled the trigger. The packed weapon erupted, and the other Maaza did likewise at the other end of the line, ‘Bloody have that.’

  The six men of the firing squad were blown to pieces and fell just as the first Bedu rider of the Beni Qassim tore past the mule corral. ‘Yallah!’

  The staff major next to Lacroix dropped to one knee as if suddenly tired, his severed head rolling through the dust to Lacroix’s feet. Lacroix screamed at it and staggered backwards. ‘Aux armes…!’

  There came a call in English, ‘Hit the bloody deck!’ A rattling volley followed, and another, the men of the 25th falling. A line of galloping horse poured through the camp, the dust kicked into blinding clouds. Lacroix ran. Hazzard fell back to the post and pulled Cook as l
ow as he could as another volley came in from over the heads of the mules behind, which began braying in fright.

  Derrien wrested his hands from the two soldiers behind him, spun and shot the first in the forehead with his screw-barrelled pistol, Masson smashing a fist into the face of the other. They ran after their bolting horses.

  Hazzard saw Bedouin headdresses float before his eyes and a lopsided grin. The two Maaza.

  Warnock, Pettifer.

  ‘That were right bloody close, weren’t it, eh, sir?’

  Pettifer tried to free Cook while Warnock knelt in front to shield them for cover, reloading the blunderbusses. The Bedouin horsemen wrought chaos, Allahu akbar! one riding past and pointing at Hazzard, al-Pasha al-ahmar! Al-Pasha al-ahmar!

  Barely recognisable in his filthy smock and Greek cap, Porter appeared, coming at a run. ‘How we doing then, sir? Bit peaky?’

  Masoud with his khanjar, proud, pleased, exhilarated, cutting Cook free, his shaking hands on Hazzard’s shoulders. ‘We searched the land for word of you, from Aswan to the ports! As you came back for us, Hazar-effendi,’ he said, ‘so we have come back for you.’

  The French scattered, Lacroix calling, Regroup, regroup, as the Bedouin riders charged through them time and again, tents collapsing, canvas dragging, men running.

  Napier was swinging a heavy club, knocking men down like skittles. ‘Come on, yew littew daisies!’

  Some of the 25th formed a firing rank but were run down by further horse led by De la Vega, galloping in hard and fast, sword in hand, leaning low to his left, cutting down two, throwing the blade up in the air and catching it with his right, leaning to the other side and taking another. Joseph Hammer followed, and Underhill came in behind on a camel. He waved to Cook.

  ‘Come, y’auld Methuselah, or must I fetch thy sorry arse out of it meself!’

  ‘Amigo!’ shouted De la Vega to Hazzard. ‘Come, get him up here!’

  Hammer handed down a goatskin bulging with water. ‘Drink, my friend, and quickly, mach’s ja schnell, hm?’

  From atop his camel Underhill flung Hazzard a quivering salute. ‘Sah! Beg to report Royal Navy sighted and French fleet anchored in Aboukir Bay like cornered rats for the catcher! Officer commanding 9 Comp’ny standing by to lead Nelson straight to the bloody bastards, whence they shall learn the error of their sinful and misguided bloody ways, sah!’