Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Handley helped Wayland into the saddle. ‘Sir, the major wouldn’t like this…’

  ‘We shall reconnoitre, Handley. We do not yet know the disposition of shore batteries or reinforcements in the bay. French artillery on the high dunes may be able to range on Nelson’s attack squadron and we’ve got to prevent them – damnation!’ He tried to lift his left leg into the foot-iron but could not. ‘Dammit, come along, Handley, get me up…’

  Handley bent the limb at the knee and Wayland shoved it into the stirrup. ‘Anyone challenges us, I answer. We’ll pass as French sailors and their officer. If we find a single gun that can hit our squadron we’re going to blow it sky-high, clear?’ He had discarded his red coat, which left him in gentleman’s shirtsleeves, white waistcoat and pistol-belt – they all looked the part. ‘Mount up then, Handley, and let’s get on.’

  Handley looked at the saddle before him, Purdo holding the bridle ready. ‘Well, I – ain’t never been on an ’orse before, sir…’

  Wayland could not believe it. ‘You walk on foretop yards in a gale in bare feet without a line but you can’t ride a horse? Just get on it, kick the thing with your heels and hang on.’

  Handley clambered up, and Purdo stuck his boots into the stirrups. ‘’Old on tight, ’Andy, feet in the irons and stand up if it gets bumpier than the Ville with you at the ’elm.’

  ‘Well bugger you an’ all.’ Handley did so and took off so quickly Wayland had to catch him up.

  Far off to their left, the sea glowed in the setting sun, the fleet alarm bells echoing across the bay, creeping shadows bringing dread of the darkness to come. Wayland, Handley and the Esperanza hands forced their way through gaps in the crowds of soldiers, labourers and traders clogging the road from Alexandria to Aboukir, some heading for the bay, others fleeing from it.

  Playing his role to the full, Wayland cursed down at the troops in his path in French, hitting out at them with a crop; a sergeant yelled out at them, Putain matelots! and Wayland stuck two fingers up and shouted back as they rode past, ‘Va te foutre, tu salaud pompeux!’ Up yours, you pompous bastard!

  The Esperanza seamen laughed, as did most of the French sailors around as well, calling Vive l’Orient! They pushed through the low scrub on the side of the road, Handley doing just as Wayland had told him, his legs clamped round the horse’s girth for dear life. The dunes of Aboukir rose before them and Wayland chivvied his mount to the crest, its hooves thrashing in the sand, ‘Come on, Handley, dig in.’

  They crested the rise and looked down.

  ‘By God…’ said Wayland.

  The French fleet lay moored in the bay below, bells clanging all the louder, the shallows teeming with boats, sailors rowing for the fleet, rushing into the water, officers driving them on, soldiers forcing some to obey, others simply running.

  Nelson’s squadron was closing fast, a thousand yards from the French, a loose line of sail, two leaders jockeying for position, HMS Goliath and HMS Zealous.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, sir… Frogs’ve been caught bloody nappin’,’ gasped Handley beside him.

  High dunes formed much of the seawall of the large bay, curving down to the south on their right to Rosetta on the far side. In the centre lay the waiting French line, a floating fortress of cannon, moored nose to tail.

  To their left, the headland of the bay curled past the ramshackle village of Aboukir and out to sea, the antique fortress tower at the far end, dim lights winking as the sun faded fast. The top of the ridge along the headland towards the fortress tower looked almost deserted, only a few lines of soldiery now running down to help on the shore. Between Wayland and the fortress tower squatted the makings of artillery positions, guns in place but not yet sited.

  ‘Field-guns…’ said Wayland.

  Handley looked out to sea. ‘Range from here is at least two thousand yards to the Frog battle-line, sir. They’d need a long 32-pounder to hit one of ours.’

  The 24-pounder, Wayland knew, was a ship-killer. A 32-pounder, however, could send a ball over two miles and batter its way through two feet of solid oak. But all they could see were a handful of army howitzers and field-pieces, 12- or even 9-pounders. Wayland zeroed his telescope further along the headland to the fort, which had the best forward position in the bay. Then he saw it, at the foot of the old tower.

  ‘Good God.’ He gave the scope to Handley. ‘That ammunition. Look.’

  Handley refocussed. There was a stack of heavy round-shot at the side of the tower. Two men were rolling one ball to the gates – it was at least two feet in diameter. ‘Jaysus alive…’ he said, ‘That’s not for a 32-pounder, sir – more like an ’undred-weight or a one-fifty mortar.’

  ‘Could a mortar hit one of our ships at that range?’

  ‘If ours draws too close, aye, sir,’ said Handley. ‘They could lob a one-fifty down a 74’s throat with a lucky shot an’ send her straight to the bottom.’

  By the light of swinging lanterns Wayland saw support troops and several half-finished gun-emplacements – one of them with an 18-pounder naval gun slewed on its carriage. He thought it would be just the job.

  Wayland kicked his heels in. ‘Come on.’

  * * *

  Derrien could scarcely breathe. His cravatte was tied tightly over his mouth and nose against the dust and almost choked him, his lungs wheezing as he rode for his life towards Aboukir Bay.

  Masson beside him, they charged between landsmen labourers digging wells, raised fists cursing them for their flying dust and soil as they shot through and onward, over scrub and rocky hillocks, the fear tearing at him, the fleet the fleet.

  He was in no doubt that it would cost his life if he failed. If Nelson crushed or captured the battle-fleet, he would take with him not only Brueys and Casabianca, but Du Petit-Thouars, Admirals Blanquet du Chayla, Villeneuve and Ganteaume as well – but also the expedition’s last chance of contact with home. They would be trapped, marooned in the Egyptian desert.

  An entire army, lost.

  With a twist in his vitals he recalled his confident assertions over the past six months – and now, here it was, the reality: a brutal death awaiting at the hands of the Ottoman Turks, Bonaparte and the Armée d’Orient joining the lost souls haunting the Nile.

  Because of me.

  Approaching from the Rosetta side of the bay, the southern end of the battle-fleet appeared before him on the bright horizon. He saw Villeneuve’s flagship, the Guillaume Tell, and the Mercure and Timoléon just behind. Strung out ahead lay the remainder, furled sails a gilded yellow in the dying sun. The dunes in the foreground rose to obscure his view, the few half-complete artillery positions on the ridge summit picked out in silhouette against an opalescent sky. He would have flogged them raw at Valmy for such dereliction: They have had weeks, he thought. He could hear the alarm bells.

  He and Masson splashed through the salt marshes, scattering flocks of shrieking shore birds into the sky. They seemed to be laughing, endlessly laughing.

  ‘It is Nelson, Citizen! He is arrived…!’ called Masson.

  Derrien pressed on. There was a loud thud and a whine off to his left. Then another to his right. Derrien glanced over his shoulder: Bedouin. They came at the gallop, crossing the marshy wasteland of Lake Maadiyya, letting go of their reins to fire their carbines, their speed and agility inhuman. Behind the first few was a European, and behind him came another. And another. Then he saw it, beneath a flying Arab robe: a flash of red.

  No.

  Hazzard.

  Masson roared out. ‘Still he comes, Citizen! Still!’

  ‘Separate!’ shouted Derrien. ‘Find the Ordinator! I will board the Orient with the orders!’

  ‘Yes, Citizen!’

  * * *

  Hazzard could not feel the ground beneath him, his legs and knees were locked, braced above the saddle like a steeple-chaser on the home straight. The black mane before him thrashed violently as the head of the Arabian plunged and shook with unrelenting power and pace. Pain had gone,
become something else, become someone else, an insistent voice lost in the wind, lost to an encroaching numbness. The light of the evening sky was bright, oranges and yellows dying with the sun – but all he could see was Derrien, driving him on: Must not stop.

  The Bedouin riders ahead jumped the scrub hills and splashed through the water’s edge. The horse accelerated, thrilling at the chase, passing the rearmost of the Bedouin who waved him on with shrieks. He saw the broad-backed Masson breaking off, galloping hard to the left, two of the Beni Qassim following, but Hazzard held his course, wanting only Derrien.

  The figure in black rode towards a gap in the palms by the lowest dunes. The Bedouins were taking shots at him and Hazzard prayed for a hit. The ground kicked up in spouts as Derrien ascended the soft grassy sand hills.

  He heard De la Vega behind him, the Spaniard waving him on, ‘Vaya! Rápido, amigo! Vaya, vaya!’ Go! Go!

  Derrien made the summit, sand flying in clouds, and Hazzard nearly slipped, his hands snatching for the mane, hold on, through the marsh, the water spraying, ibis flying up, white and black, omens of Thoth, crying, crying. He was soon charging up the sandy incline, gasping for breath, clinging to the horse’s shoulder, shouting to someone, to himself, ‘Go on! Go on! Don’t fall, don’t fall!’

  The hooves of the Arabian exploded through the sand on the crest of the dune, and he hung on, Aboukir Bay spreading before him, the clanging bells banging loud in his ears, shoreline alarms mingling with the fleet’s, the French ships magnificent, but trapped, calling out.

  Beyond a broad curve of beach small boats dotted the water, crews trying to reach the warships, seizing the barges and punts of merchant traders in the race to get aboard the battle-fleet before Nelson reached them. Hazzard saw the sails. Ten, eleven, twelve ships and a sleek brig – Hardy, he thought, in the Mutine – a thirteenth making her way round the far headland shoals, the blood-red ensign flaring out behind each, a spear heading straight for the heart of the French fleet.

  Nelson.

  One of the Bedouin pointed.

  ‘Nelsoun Amiral! Amir al-bahr!’

  Derrien reappeared below them between the sand hills, his horse trying to make the steep descent, but it lost its footing and staggered and Derrien flew from the saddle. The Bedouin took shots at him again as he struck the ground with a cry and rolled. French soldiers looked up, pointed at them.

  Hazzard’s Arabian took the sand in leaping strides and he hung on as he gained on Derrien’s black figure, stumbling through the soft sand, his head turning to look over his shoulder, eyes wide as Hazzard reached for him from the saddle and leapt.

  The impact was worse than he had expected and he caught Derrien’s shoulder, lights exploding behind his eyes, rolling end over end down the slope, Hazzard’s sword flailing, the curved scabbard biting into his hip. A hand rose up into his face, a small pistol muzzle gaping and a puff of smoke, the crack deafening as the bullet passed his ear. No, you will not…!

  He reached for Derrien’s neck, the dark face now darker as the teeth flashed white in the primal grimace of the animal, and they clawed at each other until his fingertips felt the fabric at Derrien’s throat, cravat, Derrien’s fist struck him again and again, ignore, and he twisted, now screaming in Derrien’s face, knocking his hands away, locked in the determination to strangle the breath from the creature before him.

  ‘Non…’ choked Derrien. ‘Non…’

  A bullet whined past and struck the stones and Hazzard heard a shout in French, ‘Là-bas!’ Over there. He saw a squad of sappers, half of them unarmed, some with only picks and shovels. A startled artilleryman appeared. A single shot cracked from behind and the man vanished. Sand burst and a shadow leapt, the thud of hoofbeats behind, the French crying out as the first Bedouin took him with his scimitar. ‘Allah…!’

  Derrien tossed sand in the air, and Hazzard turned his face away, blinded, too weak, too weak for this, a French soldier roaring before him, his eyes wide, a black stovepipe shako, a pike in hand – there was a shot, and the man’s chest burst, and De la Vega rode through them, the horse’s hooves crushing his further cries into the sand.

  ‘Where is she!’ Hazzard screamed, ‘Where! Where, damn you!’

  ‘Non…’ gasped Derrien and Hazzard knew he had him fast, his forearm on his windpipe, crushing. His right arm around Derrien’s neck, he whipped his left across his forehead, pushing him down, controlling him, ready to twist and break.

  ‘Where is she, où est-elle! Where is she!’ he grated in Derrien’s ear, all he could think of, all he could say, ‘Where…!’

  Derrien’s arms waved helplessly, a marionette with cut strings as he gazed out upon the bay and the crashing waves, at the battle about to rage, the British ships closing in.

  ‘Every ship out there will be shot to pieces!’ shouted Hazzard, ‘And every wretched bloody man, woman and child you brought to this place will die in it – thanks to you and Napoleon bloody Bonaparte! Now where is she! Let me save her!’

  Derrien struggled, shaking violently left and right, his fingers trying to prise Hazzard’s arm free. ‘Non… non! I must…’

  Union flags ran up the British topmasts, the white of the Jack bright in the deepening dark. The attack squadron split. Two streams bore down on the French, HMS Goliath leading the charge with Zealous directly behind, cheers echoing across the bay as the sailors on Zealous waved them on, the Goliath officers doffing their hats as they won the race, heading straight for the leading French warship of the line, Guerrier, positioned so carefully by Brueys, close to the shoreline shoals, where no captain would dare go – except Foley of the Goliath. Conquérant, second in line behind Guerrier, ranged her guns and opened fire. The battle had begun.

  Hazzard shook him again. ‘Watch, damn you!’

  Goliath streaked for the bows of Guerrier, her sails furling to control her speed, the battleship passing smoothly between Guerrier’s prow and the deadly shallows. Guerrier stood little chance. As Goliath passed Guerrier’s defenceless bows, she unleashed a broadside, raking Guerrier from stem to stern, the bursting cannon-rounds exploding through Guerrier’s gun-ports and the gallery windows, carrying everything in their path, the screams shrill on the evening breeze. Hazzard could not look away. ‘Good God…’

  He could see the French captains caught in their boats, shouting orders up at their ships as they were rowed to their commands, Trullet of Guerrier shaking his fist up at the decks, ‘Return fire! Return fire…!’

  Slowing, Goliath swung hard to port, tucking in beside Guerrier, putting herself between the French battle-line and the shore. She then fired point-blank on Guerrier’s undefended portside. The blasts rocked the French ship, rigging hands falling to the shattered decks, into the sea. Hazzard held Derrien tighter in his grip as they watched the spectacle.

  ‘When Nelson sailed away,’ grated Hazzard, ‘when the Admiralty or the damned War Ministry abandoned Egypt to you and your liberating, murderous bloody Republic, I sent him just far enough, Citizen, to come back. For this. Watch, damn you!’ He shook Derrien, a ragdoll in his arms. ‘This is how it always ends for bloody empires! Damn them and damn you and your pride and your kings and banners!’ He began to squeeze. He was beginning to kill him.

  For Sarah, for Bartelmi – father, mother, all.

  Gone. They are all gone.

  Inarticulate sounds emanated from Derrien’s bubbling lips as he lashed out in vain. ‘Non… pas vrai… pas possible…’ Not true, not possible.

  HMS Zealous followed Goliath round the bow of the stricken Guerrier, and gave Guerrier another pounding broadside. Guerrier’s foremast collapsed in a cloud of splinters and there rose a bloodthirsty roar from the bowels of the British ships. Goliath passed down the French line and came to rest opposite Conquérant and the bows of Spartiate. She opened fire once more, pounding the unprepared portsides of the French ships.

  ‘Where is she!’

  Desperate, Derrien stabbed a finger at the shoreline and the small friga
te anchored there, his strangled words barely comprehensible. ‘Iss-en…! She is there…!’

  He caught Hazzard’s attention, because he had spoken in English.

  ‘On… a ship…’

  Derrien’s meaning became clear to Hazzard only a moment later.

  ‘What? Where! Which! Dites-moi! Tell me!’

  The third British 74 in the line, HMS Orion, approached the bows of Guerrier to follow Goliath and Zealous into the blazing shallows. Derrien’s fingers pulled frantically at Hazzard’s arm. ‘Zabell…! Is-a-belle…!’

  Derrien’s free hands waved, the straining fingers extending and contracting, trying to reach out to the ship, to take hold of it. He pointed. ‘Ss-Sérieuse…!’

  Hazzard saw the lone frigate moored closest inshore. ‘That ship? That ship there?’

  ‘Ess…!’

  The light frigate had previously been sheltered by the French battle-fleet, but was now at the mercy of three 74-gun British ships of the line. Zealous had ignored her – Audacious and Theseus had cut across the French line and were raking Conquérant and Guerrier, but Orion had swung very close. Hazzard had a memory of Sir James Saumarez at Nelson’s table, amusing, benevolent, laughing about his sherry ration.

  ‘Arr… est’d her,’ choked Derrien, his final confession, not to Hazzard, but to his own uncomprehending mind, ‘to k’p her – for mys’lf…’ Derrien slowly sagged in Hazzard’s arms, his limbs going limp as Hazzard watched the end, of everything.

  HMS Orion towered above the diminutive Sérieuse.

  A boot caught Hazzard in the back and he fell, another horse coming fast, Geddown, sir! Warnock jumping, bringing a man down, smashing his tomahawk into his head. Derrien sprang away, gasping, a hand to his throat, another shape, Pettifer, out of nowhere, shielding Hazzard as Derrien’s arm extended, his aim wild. ‘Petty!’