by Wilbur Smith
While Nazeera made Amber drink again from the waters king Rebecca asked fretfully, “What am I going to do, Nazeera? I can never allow myself to become the chattel of a brown man, a native who is not a Christian.” The full extent of her predicament began to dawn on her. “I think I would rather die than have that happen to me.”
“Your sense of propriety is noble, Jamal, but I am brown and a native also,” Nazeera replied. “Also, I am not a Christian. If you have become so fastidious, then perhaps it would be better if you sent me away.”
“Oh, Nazeera, we love you.” Rebecca was immediately contrite.
“Listen to me, Jamal.” Nazeera took Rebecca’s arm and forced her to look into her eyes. “The branch breaks that will not bend with the wind. You are a limber young branch. You must learn to bend.”
Rebecca felt as though she were being crushed beneath a great weight. Wherever her mind turned it encountered only sorrow, regret and fear. She thought of her father, and touched the black stains of his blood on her bodice. She knew that the terrible moments of his beheading were engraved on her memory for the rest of her life. The sorrow was almost unsupportable. She thought of Saffron and knew she would never see her again. She held Amber close to her heart, but wondered if she would survive the disease that had already damaged her fragile body. She thought of the future that awaited them all, and gaped before her, like the black, insatiable maw of a monster.
There is no escape for any of us. As she thought it, there was an urgent shout from one of the crew. She looked about her as though she had been rudely awakened from a nightmare. The dhow had reached the middle of the river, and was sailing along on the light breeze. Now the entire crew was agitated. They crowded the weather rail, and gabbled at each other, pointing downstream.
A cannon boomed out across the water, then another. Soon every one of the Dervish guns were blazing away from both banks. Rebecca handed Amber to Nazeera and jumped to her feet. She gazed in the direction in which everybody was staring and her spirits lifted. All her dark fears and uncertainties fell away. Close at hand she saw the Union Flag of Great Britain flying bravely in the bright sunlight.
Quickly Rebecca pulled Amber to her feet, held her close and pointed downriver. Less than half a mile away a squadron of ships was steaming towards them down the middle of the channel. Their decks were crowded with British soldiers.
“They are coming to rescue us, Amber. Oh, look.” She turned Amber’s head. “Is it not the finest sight you have ever seen? The relief column has arrived.” Now, for the first time, she allowed herself to succumb to her tears. “We are safe, darling Amber. We are going to be safe.”
Penrod Ballantyne kept at a safe distance from the river as they rode the last few miles along the eastern bank of the Nile towards the smoke-hazed city of Khartoum on the horizon. Every mile they covered confirmed what was already a certainty in his mind. The flags on the tower of Mukran Fort were gone. Chinese Gordon had been overwhelmed. The city had fallen. The relief column was too late to save them.
He tried to arrive at some decision as to what he should do now. Every one of his calculations up to this point had depended on the survival of the city. Nowt there seemed to be no reason or logic in going on. He had seen a city captured and sacked by the Dervish. By the time he arrived the only living things inside the walls of Khartoum would be the crows and vultures.
But something drew him onwards. He tried to convince himself that this course of action was dictated by the fact that the doors behind him were shut. He had compounded the charge of insubordination that hung over him by disobeying Sir Charles Wilson’s direct orders to stay in the camp at Metemma. There seemed little merit in turning back now to face the court-martial with which Sir Charles Wilson would welcome his return.
“On the other hand, what merit is there in going forward?” he asked himself. There were others who might still be alive and in need of his assistance: General Gordon and David Benbrook, the twins and Rebecca. At last he was honest with himself. Rebecca Benbrook had loomed large in his consciousness ever since he had ridden away from Khartoum. She was probably the true reason he was there. He knew he must find out what had become of her, or for the rest of his life her memory would haunt him.
Suddenly he reined in his camel and cocked his head towards the river. The sound of gunfire was close and clear. It mounted swiftly from a few random shots to a full artillery barrage. “What is it?” he called to Yakub, who rode close behind him. “What are they shooting at now?”
There was a scattered grove of thorn acacia and palms growing along the bank, obscuring their view of the river. Penrod turned his camel and urged it into a gallop. They rode through the intervening belt of trees and came out abruptly on the bank of the Nile. A forlorn and desperate sight lay before him. The steamers of Wilson’s division were struggling upstream towards the city of Khartoum, whose skyline was clearly visible before them. From their mastheads they flew the red, white and blue Union Flag. Their decks were crammed with troops, but Penrod knew that between them they could not carry more than two or three hundred men. Most of the faces he could see through the lens of his telescope were those of Nubian infantrymen. There was a cluster of white officers on the bridge of the leading steamer. They all had their telescopes raised and were peering upstream. Even at this distance Penrod could pick out the tall, awkward figure of Wilson, his craggy features hidden by his large pith helmet.
“Too late, Charles the Timid,” Penrod whispered bitterly. “If you had done the right thing, as General Stewart and your officers urged, you might have been in time to tip the scales of Fate and save the lives of those unfortunates who waited ten months for you to come.”
The Dervish shot began falling more heavily around the little vessels,
and hordes of Arab cavalry came galloping down the banks from the direction of Omdurman and Khartoum to intercept the flotilla. The Dervish riders fired from the saddle as they kept pace with Wilson’s steamers.
“We must join them!” Penrod shouted to Yakub, and they raced forward to mingle with the Dervish. It was the perfect cover for them. They were soon lost in the dust and confusion of the Arab squadrons. Penrod and Yakub fired as enthusiastically as all the riders around them, but they aimed low so that their bullets whacked harmlessly into the river.
The surface of the water all around the two steamers was lashed by musketry, and the leaping fountains of spray kicked up by the Krupps guns. The white hulls were quickly pockmarked by the bullets that hammered against the steel plate. The thinner steel of the funnels was riddled with holes. Suddenly there was a louder explosion and a cloud of silver steam flew high into the sky above the second vessel. The Dervish riding around Penrod howled triumphantly, and brandished their weapons.
“One of the Krupps has hit her cleanly in the boiler,” Penrod lamented. “By all the gods of war, this day belongs to the Mahdi.”
With steam still erupting from her, the stricken vessel swung helplessly across the stream and began to drop back downriver. Almost immediately Wilson’s leading vessel slowed and turned back to render assistance, and the rest of the squadron followed him round.
The Arab riders with Penrod shouted threats and derision at the two vessels: “You cannot prevail against the forces of Allah!”
“Allah is One! The Mahdi is his chosen prophet. He is omnipotent against the infidel.”
“Return to Satan who is your father! Return to hell, which is your home!”
Penrod shouted with them, and exhibited the same jubilation, firing his rifle into the air, but inwardly his anger and contempt for Wilson seethed. What a fine excuse to break off your determined attack and betake your craven buttocks back to a comfortable chair on the veranda of the Gheziera Club in Cairo. I doubt, Sir Charles, that we shall be seeing much more of you in these latitudes.
In the hope that the crippled vessel would be carried on to the bank, hundreds of Dervish riders followed the squadron downstream, keeping up a rattling fusillade. The
crews struggled to pass a towline between them. As the steamers drifted in towards the opposite bank, and out of rifle range, many riders gave up the chase and turned back towards Omdurman. Penrod moved along with them and his presence was unremarked in the effusive mood of victory and triumph. It took almost an hour to reach Omdurman. This gave him plenty of opportunity to listen in on many shouted conversations, all of which were discussions of the devastatingly successful night attack on Khartoum, led by the Emir Osman Atalan, and the subsequent sack and looting. At one point he overheard some discussing the captured white women whom they had taken to the Customs House in Khartoum.
They must be talking about Rebecca and the twins. His hopes were resuscitated. Apart from them there were hardly any white women remaining in Khartoum, except the nuns and the Austrian doctor from the leper colony. Please, God, let it be Rebecca they are speaking about. Even if that means she is a prisoner at least she has survived.”
Among the long, haphazard ranks of riders Penrod and Yakub rode into Omdurman. Yakub knew of a small caravanserai on the edge of the desert, which was run by an old man of the Jaalin tribe, a distant relative to whom he referred as Uncle. This man had often given him shelter and shielded him from the blood feud with the other powerful members of their tribe. Although he looked curiously at Penrod he asked no questions and placed at their disposal a filthy cell with one tiny high window. The only furniture was a rickety angareb covered with coarse sacking in which numerous blood-sucking insects had already set up home. They seemed to resent any human intrusion into their territory.
“To reward you for your service to me over the years, Yakub the Faithful, I shall allow you to sleep upon the bed while I make do with the floor. But tell me how much we can trust our host, this man Wad Hagma.”
“I think my uncle suspects who you are, for I told him once, long ago, that you were my lord. However, Wad Hagma is of my clan and blood. Although he has sworn the oath of Beia to the Mahdi, I believe he did so with his mouth only, not his heart. He would not betray us.”
“He has an evil cast in his eye, Yakub, but that seems to run in the family.”
By the time they had watered and fed the camels and penned them in to the kraal at the back of Wad Hagma’s caravanserai, darkness had fallen and they wandered into the sprawling warren of the holy city, seemingly without purpose but in reality to find some news of the Benbrook family. After dark Omdurman was still a holy city and under the Mahdi’s strict moral code. Nevertheless, they found a small number of dimly lit coffee shops. Some offered in the back rooms a hookah pipe and the company of a young, beautiful woman or, should their tastes lean in that direction, an even more beautiful boy.
“It has been my experience that in any foreign town the most reliable sources of information are always the women of pleasure.” Yakub volunteered his services.
“I know that your motives are praiseworthy, Yakub the virtuous. I am grateful for your self-sacrifice.”
“I lack only the few paltry coins required to perform this onerous task for you.”
Penrod pressed the room price into his hand, and ensconced himself in a dimly lit corner of the coffee shop from where he was able to eavesdrop on several conversations between the other clientele.
“I have heard that when Osman Atalan laid the head of Gordon Pasha at the feet of the Divine Mahdi the angel Gabriel appeared at his side and made the sign of sanctification over the head of the Mahdi,” said one.
“I heard it was two angels,” countered another.
“I heard it was two angels and the Messenger of Allah, the first Muhammad,” said a third.
“May he live at Allah’s right hand for ever,” said all three in unison.
So, Gordon is no more. Penrod sipped the viscous bitter coffee from the brass thimble, to cover his emotions. A brave man. He will be more at peace now than he ever was during his lifetime. A short while later, Yakub emerged from the back room looking pleased with himself. “She was not beautiful,” he confided in Penrod, ‘but she was friendly and industrious. She asked me to commend her efforts to her owner or he would beat her.”
“Yakub, saviour of ugly maidens, you did what was expected of you, did you not?” Penrod asked, and Yakub rolled one eye knowingly while the other remained focused on his master.
“Apart from that, what else did she tell you that might be of value to us?” Penrod could not refrain from smiling.
“She told me that early this afternoon, just after the infidel steamers were driven in confusion and ignominy back downriver by the ever-victorious Ansar of the Mahdi, may Allah love him for ever, a dhow brought five women captives across the river from Khartoum. They were in the charge of Ali Wad, an aggagier of the Jaalin who is well known hereabouts for his ferocity and his foul temper. Immediately on landing Ali Wad conveyed the captives to the zenana of Muhammad, the Mahdi, may Allah love him through eternity. The women have not been seen again, nor are they likely to be. The Mahdi keeps firm control of his property.”
“Did your obliging young friend notice if one of those captives had yellow hair?” Penrod asked.
“My friend, who is not particularly young, was less certain of that. The heads and faces of all the women were covered.”
“Then we must keep a watch on the palace of the Mahdi until we are certain that these women are who we hope they are,” Penrod told him.
“The women of the zenana are never permitted to leave their quarters,” Yakub pointed out. “Al-Jamal will never again be allowed to show herself beyond the gates.”
“Nevertheless you might learn something by watching patiently.”
Early next morning Yakub joined the large group of worshippers and petitioners who were always gathered at the gates of the Mahdi’s palace, ready to prostrate themselves before him when the Chosen One went to the mosque to lead the ritual prayers and deliver his sermons, which were not his words but the very words of Allah. This day, as was his custom, the Mahdi emerged punctually for the first prayers of the day, but so great was the press of humanity around him that Yakub caught only a glimpse of his embroidered kufi skullcap as he passed. Yakub followed him to the mosque, and after the prayers returned in his train to the palace. He followed this routine five times a day for the next three days, without receiving any confirmation of the existence or whereabouts of the women. On the third afternoon, as had become his habit, he settled down to wait again in the sparse shade of an oleander bush from where he could keep one eye on the palace gates. He was beginning to nod off in the somnolent heat when there was a light touch on his sleeve and a woman’s voice entreated him, “Noble and beloved warrior of God, I have clean sweet water to quench your thirst, and freshly roasted as ida flavoured with chilli sauce as fiery as the flames of hell, all for the very reasonable price of five copper pice.”
“May you please God, sister, for your offer pleases me.” The woman poured from the waters king into an enamelled tin mug, and spread sauce on a round of dhurra bread. As she handed these to him she said, in a low voice muffled by the head cloth that covered her face, “O faithless one, you swore a mighty oath that you would remember me for ever but you have forgotten me already.”
“Nazeera!” He was amazed.
“Dimwitted one! For three days I have watched you flaunt yourself before the eyes of your enemies and now you compound your idiocy by shouting my name aloud for all to hear.”
“You are the light of my life,” he told her. “I shall give thanks every day that you are well. What of your charges? Al-Jamal and her two little sisters, are they with you in the palace? My lord seeks to know these things.”
“They are alive, but their father is dead. We cannot talk here. After the afternoon prayers I shall be at the camel market. Look for me there.” Nazeera drifted away to offer her water and bread to others who waited at the gates.
As she had promised, he found her at the well in the centre of the camel market. She was drawing water in a large earthenware pitcher. Two other women lifted it and
placed it on her head, Nazeera balanced it with one hand and set off across the marketplace. Yakub followed her closely enough to hear what she was saying, but not so close as to make it obvious that they were together.
“Tell your master that al-Jamal and al-Zahra are in the palace. They have been taken by the Mahdi as his concubines. Saffron escaped on the steamer of al-Sakhawi. I watched her go on board. Their father was beheaded by the Ansar. I saw it done.” Under the weight of the pitcher Nazeera moved with a straight back and rolling hips. Yakub watched the lively play of her buttocks with interest. “What are your master’s intentions?” she wanted to know.
“I think that his purpose is to rescue al-Jamal and carry her off as his woman.”
“If he thinks to accomplish this alone, he is touched by the sun. They will be discovered and both of them will die. Come here again tomorrow at the same time. There is someone else you must meet,” she told him. “Now, walk away and do not show yourself at the palace gates again.”
He turned aside to examine a string of camels that was being offered for sale, but from the corner of his eye he watched her go. She is a clever woman and skilled in the art of pleasing a man. Tis a pity she does not confine her affections to just one of us, he mused.
The following day Yakub was at the camel market again at the same hour. It took him some time to find Nazeera. She had changed her costume to that of a Bedouin woman, and she was cooking at a charcoal brazier. He might not have recognized her had she not called to him: “Roasted locusts, lord, fresh from the desert. Sweet and juicy.” He took a seat on the stump of acacia wood that had been placed by the fire as a stool. Nazeera brought him a handful of locusts she had crisped on the brazier. “The one I spoke of is here,” she said softly.
He had taken little notice of the man who sat on the opposite side of the fire. Although he was dressed in a jibba and carried a sword he was too plump and well fed to be an aggagier. In place of a man’s beard his chin was adorned with only a few wisps of curly hair. Now Yakub looked at him with more attention, and then, with a thrill of jealous anger, he recognized him. “Bacheet, why are you not cheating honest men with your shoddy goods, or prodding their wives with your inconsequential member?” he said coldly.
