Lords of the Nile

by Jonathan Spencer

  Hazzard saw a gig rowing towards them, then turning, an officer in blue looking out at them, his face a featureless white against the darkness. ‘Advance and be recognised! Are you the Special Landing Squadron, 9 Company, the Marines…?’

  Hazzard said nothing. Wayland called back. ‘You have found us, sir!’

  The officer gave an order to his coxswain and they pulled again, closing the distance between them, but stood off some way to avoid grounding.

  ‘A message from Rear-Admiral Nelson to one Major Hazzard.’

  Hazzard said nothing. The marines looked from one to the other. De la Vega gave Hazzard’s reply. ‘He is not prepared to answer at this moment, señor.’

  The officer replied, ‘Very well. Nelson is wounded but recovered, and invites you to dine on Vanguard, sir. Major Tappey of Vanguard’s marines is killed and he would have Major Hazzard assume command. Furthermore, the Admiralty requests his presence forthwith for conference.’

  Hazzard set Sarah down gently on the bench seat, and rose slowly, distracted, unhearing. He looked at the water.

  ‘Major Hazzard, sir?’ asked the officer.

  Hazzard breathed, slowly, carefully, staring at the shore, at the waiting figures. ‘Volunteers,’ he said, with a lost, dead tone, ‘to me. Others may report… for orders, for honours, as they see fit…’

  Cook watched him, fearing what he might do. Hazzard carefully shrugged off his red Bombay coat and dropped it into the bilgewater of the scuppers at his feet. He looked out at the bay. He did not see the officer, nor his boat, did not look.

  ‘I said, sir, you are to dine with the captains in victory aboard Vanguard! And the men of the Special Landing Squadron are to attend as well. Nelson wishes to honour you all, sir!’

  Hazzard stepped out of the boat and into the shallows. He could feel the soft crush of the water, the pebbles beneath the soles of his boots. He bent down to the side of the boat, but his knees weakened, and he gripped the gunwale for support. He hung there a moment, breathing, then with a last effort lifted Sarah’s body into his arms, and straightened. She is so very light, he thought. Porter reached to help but Pettifer held him back. Carrying her, Hazzard waded for the shore, his steps slow and uncertain.

  ‘Sir? Will you deny Nelson in his moment of victory…?’

  They watched Hazzard, the water splashing around him. One of the Bedouin on shore moved towards the water. It was Masoud. Behind him, Joseph Hammer.

  Cook clambered out of the boat, musket over his shoulder, Hazzard’s discarded coat in one hand, the great scimitar in the other.

  ‘Marines. To me…’

  The French sailors watched as the marines rose from the benches one by one, and climbed out. Wayland gave one of them the tiller, ‘Bonne chance.’

  ‘You men there!’ called the officer. ‘Nelson calls! Do you not answer? Identify yourselves…’

  De la Vega watched as Cook led them in single file after Hazzard to the shore, then got to his feet and followed. The British guns began to bark again, their respectful silence cut short, and what was left of the battle continued – until it too faded in their hearing to nothing but hollow echoes, rapping across the indifferent sands, which stretched far into the glimmering night.

  Epilogue – Ankh

  They had camped amidst anonymous ruins on the south coast of the bay, slabs of broken glories strewn unremarked across the rocky sands, glowing eerie in the moonlight, the Nile dark and silent nearby. Over the following days, the body was prepared by a group of old Bedu women using ancient arts, sealed with mumiya, and wrapped in a linen shroud. Masoud recited the Salat al-Janazah prayer, the Beni Qassim the reverent congregation. He arranged for a small flat-bottomed barge to take the coffin on the final journey, and filled it with white and pale-blue Nile lotus blossom.

  Further fleet boats came and went, some patrolling, some collecting the dead, several at Nelson’s insistence trying to find Hazzard and the marines. Hazzard had remained silent until at last he sent back a single demand, and the Navy had acquiesced.

  They all waited at the water’s edge. The French were in turmoil, miles away, hurrying to fend off a potential landing by the British, many staring numbly out at the smouldering hulks in Aboukir Bay in disbelief. The Bedu rode with impunity, harassing their lines, darting off through the dunes and salt marshes. The British battleships hovered with menace, circling, guns run out, ready to bury Alexandria in its own rubble, their stifled rage keeping the marooned French at a distance. Far from friend or foe, Hazzard looked out at the dark sea, the moon a glimmer behind drifting cloud.

  De la Vega spoke in a hushed tone at his side, ‘So, you did burn their ships, amigo, and their thousands of men…’ he said, ‘as we said. And now we are Cortés no longer.’

  Hazzard nodded. ‘All for nothing.’

  The Spaniard bowed his head. ‘Volpone will always be yours, when you need her.’ He patted his pocket. ‘Your letter saves me from your admiral and I shake his hand. Cesár Domingo will fight the Franceses with your mad King George.’ He nodded to himself, confirming a personal conviction. ‘France will break her word. And we shall be brothers again,’ he said, ‘one day. I know this.’

  From the darkness of the waves there emerged a single boat, a British cutter, at times catching the silver of moonlight, then hidden by cloud and drifting smoke, its oars swinging, dipping into the black waves.

  ‘Here he comes, sir,’ said Cook.

  De la Vega put a hand on Hazzard’s shoulder and retired with Cook and the others to a respectful distance, leaving Hazzard alone, waiting.

  Eventually the cutter ground on the sand and shingle out in the shallows, some twenty yards out. A figure rose slowly in the stern. Even at that distance, Hazzard could recognise him. He stepped out of the cutter into the water, and walked steadily through the knee-deep waves in his long navy coat, then through the quietly hissing foam of the surf. He stopped before Hazzard, a dark silhouette, the moon floating behind. It was Tomlinson, of the Valiant.

  ‘Mr Hazzard,’ he said. He removed his cocked hat.

  Hazzard took a breath, relieved after the waiting. Of all the hardened souls he had ever encountered at sea, there had been only one man he would trust with such a task. ‘Lieutenant Tomlinson. Good to see you.’

  Tomlinson looked into the funeral barge. ‘After dropping you at Cadiz, all these months ago, this was not how I imagined we would meet again, sir.’

  ‘No. Nor I.’

  Hazzard looked down at her, wreathed in the blooms of the nation she had tried to save. Tomlinson’s arrival had brought it all back, their headlong race to Cadiz, meeting Lord St Vincent, Troubridge. Markham, Greaves, the Esperanza, all. Hazzard was not wholly present, his mind wandering, lost in distant thoughts. He handed Tomlinson a note. ‘Minster House… Sible Parva, near Hedingham, in Suffolk. Look for…’ His voice faltered and he swallowed. ‘Look for St Jude’s church rectory and my uncle, to take your rest.’ His vision blurred, the eyes stinging. ‘And tell her father and mother, I am sorry, I – I was too late.’

  Tomlinson nodded soberly. After a moment, he looked over Hazzard’s shoulder. ‘And these are your men.’

  Cook and the marines, now in a mix of Marine scarlet and Arab robes, fanned out behind him, watching.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hear they will not leave you.’

  Hazzard gazed down at the white shroud. ‘No.’

  ‘Most everything I said about you was quite right,’ said Tomlinson, looking out at the salvage ships and wreckage in the bay, lanterns playing on the water. ‘But by God I don’t blame them one bit.’

  It was as close to a compliment as he would get from him. Hazzard nodded. ‘I thank you.’

  They said nothing for a while, each searching their memories, until Tomlinson said, ‘Nelson called me out of Gib. Personally. But I was set to run from Syracuse and caught his request early. ’Tis said Lord St Vincent has cleared me to Lowestoft past customs, anyone delaying me to answer to him alone.
’

  Hazzard thought of Admiral St Vincent, of interrupting his dinner and standing in his day-room aboard the Ville de Paris for briefing, dripping onto his ‘rather good Turkey carpet’ – and how he had offered Hazzard his hand. He was grateful to the old bear, still guarding the Pillars of Hercules.

  Tomlinson’s voice softened. ‘I’m sorry she was in such a place at such a time.’ He looked over at Cook. ‘The orphan, his lordship wrote, he tried to rescue.’

  Cook lowered his head at the memory of the Toulon raid, and the fate of Hugues Bartelmi. Tomlinson recognised Wayland. ‘My compliments, sir, and thanks from Sir Thomas Troubridge and Cap’n Hallowell.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’

  ‘Hallowell says he couldn’t be certain it was you, but he saw the French fort firing on Culloden and that it stopped most abrupt. He spoke of your marines and said: That’s what they do.’

  Wayland looked at them, and nodded. ‘It is, sir.’

  Two of the Beni Qassim walked into the water, intoning a prayer, the barge between them, guiding it slowly out towards the cutter, Cochrane following into the surf, murmuring a Latin dismissal, the marines with heads bowed. The waiting boatmen raised their oars, one climbing out to tie a line and take the Nile boat in tow.

  ‘Be careful with her,’ said Hazzard.

  Tomlinson put on his hat and extended his hand. ‘As if she were my own. Chaplain on Valiant awaits her for prayers. I shall seal her safe and carry her home, don’t you doubt.’

  Hazzard shook his hand. ‘The next you’ll be collecting,’ he said, ‘will be mine…’

  ‘We shall meet afore, sir. As sure as God wills it.’

  Tomlinson turned and walked out into the water. The oarsmen shoved off, the oars splashing, and Tomlinson climbed into the stern of the funeral barge. They made for HMS Valiant, waiting in the distance, her topyards dipped in mute sorrow. Hazzard watched. Tomlinson looked over his shoulder and raised a hand in farewell. Hazzard did likewise, repaying the salute.

  After a time, Valiant set sail, turning slowly in the current, her lugsails filling and billowing, ghostly in the moonlight. Hazzard continued to stare at the sea for some while, and the marines left him quiet, gathering by the campfire with the Bedu. Cook and Masoud joined him.

  ‘Safe home,’ said Cook. It was an old palliative from the Bombay Marine, for those lucky enough to be sent back to England – the living or the dead.

  Hazzard nodded. ‘Safe home, aye.’ He stared out at the rippling water. ‘I failed you all, Masoud. Forgive me.’

  The earnest Alexandrian replied gently, ‘You did not, Hazar-effendi, no. The Huwaytat, the Sawalha, the Maaza and the Khushmaan, all know,’ he said, ‘that you came back for us.’ He bowed his head in respect.

  Hazzard watched the lights of Rosetta, the barges and tenders, the blockade ships, wondering if perhaps it were all written, after all. Flashes of Muhammad Bey al-Elfi, his serenity, the quiet of the Al-Azhar. ‘As you did for me, yes.’

  When they heard hoofbeats approaching, he did not turn. Out in the half-darkness a pair of mounted Awlad ’Ali came to a halt, calling to the Beni Qassim. After some commotion they led a rider forward slowly, and a horse approached, its hooves thudding softly into the sand. It drew to a halt.

  ‘Mr Hazzard, I presume.’

  An educated voice, a gentleman’s voice. Hazzard looked round. It was a senior naval officer in plain coat and cloak, an older man, but not by much, at his hip a curved Genoese cutlass, in his belt, a three-barrelled turnover pistol – he was certainly no mere Admiralty official.

  ‘So,’ said Hazzard. ‘Now comes the price.’

  The man looked down at him kindly. ‘I believe you have paid quite enough already,’ he replied. ‘My condolences.’

  Hazzard gave a brief nod. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In any case, no one knows I am here,’ he continued, ‘I rode from Rosetta. Utter pandemonium. Everyone wondering how they shall get home or retrieve their equipment from the bottom of the bay.’

  ‘How did you get through the lines?’

  ‘Rather like you, sir, I speak remarkably good French, but that isn’t frightfully important.’ He dismounted, handing the reins to one of the Beni Qassim, and stopped before Hazzard and the others. ‘Sir William Sidney Smith. At your service.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that.’

  Smith gave a wry smile. ‘Quite so.’ He glanced at the others. ‘And you must be Masoud ibn Yussuf, associate of Mr Hammer. As-salamu aleikum.’

  Masoud bowed. ‘I am, effendi. Wa aleikum as-salam.’

  Smith looked out at the bay. ‘You’ve been busy, Captain.’ He took out a slip of paper and glanced at it. ‘Nine ships of the line crippled or captured… two destroyed, run aground, half a dozen frigates captured…’ He noticed Wayland. ‘And enemy artillery destroyed, survivors rescued… and further unspecified actions, by Unknowns Extraordinary…’ He gave them all a brief nod of the head in acknowledgement. ‘And very smartly done too.’

  ‘That would be Mr Wayland and the men of 9 Company,’ said Hazzard.

  Smith nodded. ‘The survivors of the Esperanza have told us all. They currently rest easy aboard HMS Swiftsure.’ He cleared his throat and added sombrely, ‘I am unaware if you know, but on the French flagship alone, a thousand hands lost. Only seventy rescued.’

  Hazzard looked at him. He could see the raging fire on Orient again.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Du Petit-Thouars of Tonnant was blown in half and ordered he be propped on a cask to direct the battle against the Alexander, the colours nailed to the mast so no one could strike them once he was dead.’

  Hazzard looked away into the night. He had not met Du Petit-Thouars. ‘At least they paid.’

  ‘Oh they paid, Captain. Most certainly. Total enemy dead and wounded is estimated at five thousand. Three thousand more captured. But in Nelson’s squadron, seven hundred wounded, three hundred dead. No ships lost.’ He folded away the paper. ‘Apparently a young lady gave birth on the Goliath in the middle of it all.’

  Hazzard looked at him, anger rising. ‘Three of their ships escaped with two admirals.’

  ‘Yes. Villeneuve and Ganteaume. We’re after them, never fear. How did you put it? They shall cling to the rocks of Toulon like drowning men?’ Smith smiled ironically when Hazzard turned to look at him. ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to Acton in Naples. He was most put out to hear your name again. Damn near choked on his cigarillo.’

  Hazzard thought of Emma Hamilton, of the comtesse de Boussard. ‘Had he helped, none of this might have happened.’

  ‘Indeed. And now we have a problem.’

  ‘Do we.’

  Seeing Smith, his uniform, his connection to the fleet, all had revived Hazzard’s thoughts of vengeance, of blame, of old resentments. Taking care of Sarah over those last days, these ills had somehow drifted away on a merciful wind, and vanished, becoming nothing more than the faintest whispers in the rigging. Smith had brought them all back.

  ‘Now that the French have access to the Indian Ocean,’ said Smith, ‘though you have deprived them of a fleet, their army still threatens India.’

  Hazzard rounded on him. ‘Then their lordships should have thought wiser of ordering Nelson to pull out.’ He turned away, looking out to sea. ‘They can all rot in hell.’

  ‘Do you condemn Nelson?’

  ‘Yes, I damn well do,’ snapped Hazzard, ‘because Nelson let them in.’

  Smith looked down and admitted quietly, ‘He is not my favourite. Nor I his,’ he said, ‘but quite likely he withdrew under necessity, or orders.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hazzard. ‘I refused my orders. He did not.’

  There was a short silence between them. Smith put his hands behind his back, the Italian cutlass swinging, catching the light. ‘Then here is something you cannot know: five days ago, a French messenger intercepted Bonaparte on the road to Sinai and told him of Nelson’s victory. This fellow looked very much the worse for wear according to my observer �
� half-crazed, wounded, arm hanging limp, burnt on one side they tell me, coat falling to pieces off his back…’

  Hazzard stood dead still. For a moment he could not hear him, his throat tightening, a chill creeping through his blood.

  ‘He claimed he had himself leapt from the flagship Orient only moments before she exploded…’

  And then he understood.

  No.

  ‘And I have since established he is a senior officer of the Bureau d’information, their counter-intelligence service.’

  Derrien.

  ‘My good God…’

  Escaped.

  ‘Bonaparte flew into an unholy rage, but when he was handed one of your Arabic leaflets, and heard that you had not only been seen in the battle aboard Orient, but that you had previously been in the custody of this man not hours before—’

  ‘It’s him,’ growled Cook, ‘it’s that bloody bastard…’

  Hazzard could hardly find the words, could barely speak. ‘Where is he…’

  ‘Bonaparte threatened him with summary execution. The cavalry general with him, Damas or Dumas, I am not certain, wanted to kill him on the spot.’

  Hazzard nearly seized Smith by his coat. ‘Where is he?’

  Smith was clearly more disturbed by what he still had to relate. ‘The fellow swore blind to Bonaparte you had been seen returning ashore and that he would burn every village in the Delta, one after the other, until they gave you up.’ He watched Hazzard’s reaction. ‘And Bonaparte put ten thousand livres on your head.’

  Hazzard’s chest was pounding, ‘Good bloody God…’

  A memory of Bonaparte, of Caesar: I have such dreams, Mr Hazzard… and Fate is with me.

  ‘So,’ said Smith, looking at Masoud, at the Beni Qassim, at the marines, ‘what is that charming Room 63 phrase…? Would you like to get back to it…?’

  Hazzard stared at him, but saw only the splintered decks of the Orient, feeling the cannon-rounds crashing into her hull, Masson, the comtesse de Biasi.

  Derrien holding Sarah tight, his hatred…