by Jane Jackson
Caseley went to her. ‘Are you hurt?’ As the young woman swung round, wide-eyed, she asked again in French, ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No. No. My husband is a doctor at the Greek-Egyptian hospital. He was supposed to come home at eight. When the house next to ours was hit I was afraid to stay. I ran all the way here.’
Caseley looked at the silent baby’s closed eyes and waxen skin. Oh no. Please, no.
‘He’s sleeping,’ the young woman said with a glassy smile. ‘That’s best, isn’t it? Then he won’t be frightened.’
Caseley felt her heart break. She knew she should rest and eat. But how could she when so many people needed help?
Chapter Twenty-one
After thirty-six hours the blue Mediterranean turned brown with muddy outflow from the Nile. Cygnet was approaching her destination.
Protected by two breakwaters, one supporting a tall lighthouse, several basins along the main waterway were lined with jetties. Warehouses and buildings stood behind them. The water was crowded with lighters ferrying cargo and dhows laden with handicrafts to offer to ships waiting to enter or leave the Suez Canal.
Night was falling and Jago’s eyes were gritty with tiredness. The sun’s fierce glare and the fast passage had taken their toll. As soon as the passengers were ashore, he went down to his day room. Martin had already lit the overhead lamp. He knocked on the open door while Jago was writing the log.
‘Cocoa, Cap’n,’ he set the mug down carefully, keeping it away from the chart. ‘One of the boatmen was selling fresh milk.’
‘Thanks, Mart.’ Dropping his pen, Jago rubbed his face.
‘Leaving tonight, are we?’
He was tempted. But common sense prevailed. ‘No, we’ll go at first light. Get some sleep. Ask Nathan to come down.’
They divided the watches while Jago swallowed his cocoa. Nathan moved his gear back into his own cabin. Falling onto his bunk Jago was asleep in seconds.
Woken by Martin bringing in a pitcher of water, Jago glanced up through the skylight and saw the pearl grey of dawn. He washed, buttoned up a clean shirt, pulled up his braces, dragged a comb through his hair and walked through to the saloon.
Breakfast was porridge with treacle, bread, cheese and dates.
‘Dear life, Mart. Fattening us up for Christmas are ’e?’ Hammer demanded.
‘Leave ’n be,’ Nathan grunted. ‘Boy got his head screwed on. Need a good start, we do. Bleddy wind can’t make up its mind. If he stay in the nor’west we’ll be tacking back and forth all the bleddy way.’
Jago felt his heart drop like a weight in his chest. The wind had to change. It had to.
Against the roar of guns, and the crump and rumble of explosions, Caseley fetched water for parched throats and helped the walking wounded to dressing stations or the lavatory.
A dark-haired man burst through the doors, frantic with worry and shouting his wife’s name. Looking round, Caseley heard the young woman cry out to him, watched as he fought his way through to her. He looked down at their child and she saw him flinch as realisation struck like a blow. He gathered his wife close. Tears slid down his face, cutting tracks through the dust.
That was what Jago must have felt: helplessness, guilt, rage. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people would have been killed today. All over the city parents would be weeping for dead children.
She returned to the corridor, retrieved the basin and bloody cotton wool from under the bench and took them to the sluice room. When she got back Antonia hadn’t moved, but Caseley’s stomach twisted on seeing that rivulets of blood had flowed over her arms to soak her skirt. Fewer people were waiting and the theatre doors stood open.
Caseley hauled Antonia to her feet. One nurse was wiping blood off the floor while another laid instruments on a clean towel. She looked up as Caseley staggered in.
‘Soeur Jeanne says it needs stitches.’
‘Put her on the table.’ She peered at Caseley. ‘Who are you?’
‘A volunteer. I’ve been helping Soeurs Jeanne and Marie.’ Suddenly dizzy, Caseley crumpled and slid down to sit on the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘How long is it since you ate anything?’
Caseley tried to remember. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Too long.’ The nurse gently pushed wet blood-thickened hair back from Antonia’s forehead. She went to the instrument table. The doctor strode in and, as Caseley struggled to her feet, he beckoned her forward.
‘Hold her head still.’
Caseley went to the head of the table, placed her hands on each side of Antonia’s face, and looked away from the gaping cut and all the blood.
‘Camera?’ Antonia slurred.
‘It’s safe,’ Caseley reassured. ‘Mr Pawlyn had gone to find more plates. He promised he would be back very soon.’
The nurse caught hold of Antonia’s hands as the doctor came to the table.
‘Keep her still,’ he repeated.
Antonia’s screams pierced Caseley like knife thrusts. She wanted to press her hands over her ears and run away. Instead she held Antonia’s face, told her how brave she was and it was nearly over.
The doctor stepped back. Caseley received another weary nod. Then he left.
‘Sit her up.’ As soon as Antonia was upright, the nurse placed a pad over the neatly stitched wound and bandaged it in place.
‘Dreadful headache,’ Antonia whispered.
Pouring a little water into a small glass, the nurse took a dark brown bottle from a cupboard and added a few drops to the glass then held it to Antonia’s lips. ‘Find her somewhere to sit,’ she told Caseley. ‘Then get yourself something to eat. You did well.’
Back in the foyer, now less crowded, Caseley settled Antonia in the corner so she leaned against the wall. Her eyes were closed and all the tension had drained from her face.
‘Antonia? Your camera box is under the bench. Rest here. I’ll be back soon.’ Caseley turned away and saw a familiar figure walk in from outside. She picked her way through to meet her.
‘Sheikha! Are you injured?’
‘No, I am unharmed. But Sheikh Imad was shot by an Egyptian soldier.’ She turned as four servants carried in a litter bearing the inert figure of the Sheikh. ‘This hospital has the finest surgeons. If he is not operated on immediately –’
‘I’ll fetch a sister.’ Running to the ward, Caseley found Soeur Jeanne accompanying the doctor on his rounds. Within minutes, Sheikh Imad was taken into the operating theatre.
Caseley watched them go, queasy with hunger and exhaustion. There was something she should do, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
‘Go and eat!’ Soeur Marie insisted.
In the quiet room a covered plate had been placed on the table. It held bread, cheese and dates, and there was also a covered jug of juice. She sat down, swallowed some juice. It slid down her parched throat, cool, soothing and so welcome. Tiredness dropped over her like a heavy blanket. She felt herself falling and everything went dark.
She woke with a jolt. Something was different. Then she realised: the gunfire had stopped.
What was she doing on the couch? She didn’t remember lying down. She sat up and, in the light from a lamp on the table, saw Sabra sitting nearby gazing out into the darkness.
‘How long –?’ She croaked and cleared her throat.
Sabra looked round. ‘So you are back with us. Not as long as you needed. What are you doing here?’
‘Sir Douglas ordered my husband to take passengers to Port Said. I was to remain at the Consulate until he returned. But I couldn’t – with nothing to do I would have – so I came here and offered to help.’
‘It’s as well you did.’
‘Mr Pawlyn brought Antonia in. She had a gash on her head that needed stitches.’ Caseley’s skin tightened as she recalled the screams.
Sabra nodded. ‘Does she know about her father?’
‘I’m not sure. I haven’t told her. How is Sheikh Imad?’
‘Rec
overing. The bullet had lodged in a muscle so he did not lose too much blood. As soon as the doctor will allow, I shall take him to my villa. When he is fit to travel we will return to Cairo.’
Caseley nodded, biting back the question that hovered on her tongue. But Sabra had noticed.
‘You are wondering why we did not tell you we were coming to Alexandria.’
Caseley felt her cheeks warm, and nodded.
‘We went to speak to the Khedive who was then at Ras-el-Tin palace.’
‘Why?’
‘Colonel Arabi’s offers of negotiation had been rejected by Admiral Seymour so we knew the British were determined to go ahead with the bombardment. They claimed it was necessary to restore the Khedive’s authority. But their true intent has always been to destroy any chance of Egyptians ruling their own country. We don’t want Egypt’s ruler to be a puppet of the English. We tried to persuade the Khedive that achieving a compromise with Colonel Arabi would be a demonstration of statesmanship and understanding of what his people want.’ Her voice faltered but pride lifted her chin. ‘We talked until our voices failed. Tewfiq was offered safety aboard one of the English ships but he declined.’
‘Surely that shows his loyalty to –’
Sabra’s smile was bitter. ‘He declined because he couldn’t make up his mind which side was most likely to win and didn’t want to be on the losing one.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘During the night he fled to Cairo. Soon after the bombardment started the palace was hit and caught fire. We got out just in time.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘To Egypt?’ She inhaled deeply. ‘While you were sleeping I was brought information that Tewfiq sent Colonel Arabi a letter claiming the bombardment was his fault, because he had refused to disarm the forts. Yet how could he disarm them when, as Minister for War appointed by the Khedive, it was his responsibility to ensure the city was protected against attack by a foreign power? A truce has been declared and seems to be holding. Now the Admiral has sent a letter to Colonel Arabi claiming that he has no desire to make war on Egypt and is ready to hand over the city – what is left of it – to a disciplined and obedient Egyptian army. To that end, Colonel Arabi is invited to return to Ras-el-Tin to agree arrangements.’ Irony and disgust shaded Sabra’s tone. ‘I suspect Tewfiq’s sole contribution to that letter was his signature. The rest will have been dictated by his English advisors, who know perfectly well that Arabi cannot obey.’
‘Why can’t he?’ Caseley asked. Even as she wondered how Sabra knew about the letter, she remembered Jago telling her what Sheikh Imad had said about having many sources of information. ‘Surely if it means peace –’
‘It doesn’t,’ Sabra said flatly. ‘It’s a trap. If he goes to the Palace he will be arrested. If he refuses to obey the summons he’ll be labelled an outlaw.’
Caseley stared at her, appalled.
‘So in answer to your question, I fear Colonel Arabi’s forces will be crushed and this country will be occupied by the English on the pretext of protecting the Suez Canal which was never in danger. But an occupying power needs the goodwill of the governed. We will play the English at their own game.’ Caseley had no idea what Sabra intended but she felt her skin prickle. ‘However, Sheikh Imad needs time for his wound to heal first.’
Reluctantly, Caseley stood up. ‘Will you excuse me?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the ward. With so many new patients the nurses will have had no rest.’
After a night doing whatever the nurses asked of her, Caseley was walking wearily across the foyer when Robert Pawlyn entered. He was carrying another box. His suit looked as if he had slept in it.
‘How is Antonia?’
‘Her head is sore but otherwise she is well.’
‘Does she know about her father?’
Caseley nodded. ‘She asked if I had heard anything so I told her what Mr Blaine had told me. She could not face the wards. So she has been helping in the supply room, rolling bandages and making pads from old sheets.’ As his brows rose, Caseley smiled. ‘The sisters are very persuasive. What were those explosions?’
‘Admiral Seymour sent a shore party to the forts to destroy the remaining guns. The Egyptians have suffered heavy losses. Most of the European quarter of the city has been reduced to rubble. There are bodies everywhere and fires are spreading. Colonel Arabi and his army have withdrawn under a flag of truce. As they were leaving he ordered the jails to be opened and the prisoners set free. Now people are blaming him for the looting. What should he have done? Left them to burn?’ He passed a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry.’
Caseley waved away his apology ‘Sheikh Imad was shot. The Sheikha brought him here. He’s had the bullet removed and is recovering. As soon as it is safe, the Sheikha will move him to her villa. Then they’ll return to Cairo. I saw no benefit in telling Antonia any of this.’
He nodded gratefully. ‘I appreciate it. Marines have arrived from Cyprus and are starting to restore order. I’d better go. Please tell her I came, and that I’ll be back later.’ His cheeks reddened. ‘Give her my love.’
‘I will.’ Caseley walked to the ward, tired to her bones and desperate to keep busy.
Jago climbed the companionway. Golden in the east and turquoise overhead, the sky softened to clear, pale blue.
‘Go down and get your breakfast, Jimbo.’
‘Aye, Cap’n.
As Martin clattered dishes in the galley shack, Nathan relinquished the wheel to Jago who watched the smoke from the stove chimney. It blew one way then the other. Then it steadied. He glanced at the compass. North-east. He offered up silent thanks.
Glancing back at him with a grin, Nathan turned to Hammer as they prepared to tack. ‘Come on. Put your back into it. Missus will be wondering where we’re to.’
Jago stepped out on deck soon after sun-up on the 13th July. It had been two days of hard sailing. But the wind had held steady, blowing fresh to strong as it drove Cygnet along parallel to a coast of low sandhills fringing a vast lake.
Looking shoreward his mouth dried as he saw a pall of smoke darkening the sky. As Cygnet passed the ruins of two forts, then the burning palace, the crew on deck was silent. The lighthouse still stood but huge chunks had been blown out of it. The surrounding area was a scene of carnage and devastation.
The entire city seemed to be on fire. Hungry flames flared within the thick choking smoke, adding weight to the humid summer heat.
Caseley.
The rising wind had created a heavy swell that made manouevering in the harbour difficult. But the crew knew what to do and shortened sail without a word from Jago while he steered them past the naval ships. Many had buckled plates, jagged holes in the superstructure, and broken spars, damage inflicted by the fort batteries.
Two boats packed with armed marines rowed shoreward. As Cygnet headed for one of the jetties, Jago heard a volley of small arms fire.
As soon as Cygnet pulled alongside, Jago jumped down. He stumbled but caught himself and ran towards the Custom House. The stout wooden doors were closed, the stonework pocked with huge holes. He saw mangled bodies, grotesquely swollen in the heat, lying where they had fallen.
Caseley.
Trying to remember the route the calèche had taken he headed east. But with many of the buildings in ruins and streets blocked by rubble, bodies and raging fires, he was forced to detour. He crossed a wide avenue, saw a square with a Napoleonic fort in it, and release a gasp of relief as he realised where he was.
He continued east then north, barely seeing the sprawled eviscerated bodies, deaf to the screams of the injured and the wailing grief of dazed survivors.
He reached Midan Muhammad Ali but the devastation had left it barely recognisable. The Consulate was just a pile of broken walls, rubble and twisted iron.
Caseley.
Looking towards the hotel he saw more ruins. He wanted to roar his fury at the English guns. She couldn’t be dead. He
would know.
He’d had no suspicion when the boys died.
That was different. Caseley was – everything. Without her...
He shut the thought off. He could not return to the ship without her. The crew would never forgive him.
He swiped at wet eyes, dragged a breath into lungs that ached, and forced himself to think. She might have been hurt. If so, she’d have gone to a hospital. He had to find someone who spoke English.
Hearing another volley of shots he ran towards the sound and emerged into an open space in front of a church. A line of British sailors wearing white caps and dark blue coats and trousers had just lowered their rifles. A dead Arab lay slumped at the base of a tree.
‘Bloody fire-raiser,’ one of the sailors spat.
Jago grabbed him. ‘Where’s the nearest hospital?’
‘Right there, mate.’ The soldier pointed to the rear of a long building.
Jago raced round to the front and ran through the main door, skidding to a halt in the foyer. He saw an elderly nun wearing a white apron over her grey habit. She had a mop and bucket and was washing the blood and dirt-smeared floor.
‘Excuse me.’ Fear roughened his voice. ‘My wife ... Is she here?’
The nun straightened. Leaning on the mop for support she shrugged apologetically and replied in French.
Jago looked wildly round. There had to be someone who spoke English. He strode towards the back of the foyer where a wide corridor led off in each direction and almost fell over another nun who was on her knees scrubbing a large splatter of crimson whose edges had dried rusty-brown.
‘I beg your pardon. Do you speak English?’
She sat back on her heels. ‘A little.’ Her accent was strong. ‘How may I help you?’
