by Wilbur Smith
Penrod took it to the bedroom that Ryder had set aside for him and bolted the door. As he slit open the envelope, a weighty object fell out, but he caught it before it struck the tiles. It lay in his palm, shimmering gold and magnificent, its beauty undiminished by the ages. On the obverse side was the crowned portrait of Cleopatra Thea Philopator and on the reverse the head of Marcus Antonius. In the envelope with the coin was a single line of Arabic written on parchment. “When my lord needs me, he knows where I shall be.” The coin was her signature.
“Bakhita!” He rubbed the portrait of the woman with his thumb. How did she fit into the scheme of things now? Then he remembered Yakub trying to tell him something important while he was drugged with laudanum on the first night of the escape from Omdurman.
The next day he and Yakub rode up into the mountains where they could be alone. Yakub related in detail how, after Penrod had been captured by Osman Atalan, he had set out for Aswan to enlist the aid of the only person who could and would help them. He explained how he had been arrested on the Egyptian border while travelling with a dealer in slaves, and how he had been imprisoned for over a year before he could go on to Aswan.
“As soon as I found Bakhita al-Masur she travelled with me here to Entoto, and arranged your escape with al-Sakhawi.”
Penrod considered ignoring Ryder Courtney’s warning and taxing him with Bakhita’s role in their rescue, but in the end he shied away from doing so. He and Bakhita had always maintained the greatest secrecy and discretion in their relationship. It even surprised him that Yakub had known of it. By this time I should have learnt not to be surprised by anything that the intrepid Yakub comes up with. He smiled to himself. Then he considered writing to Bakhita, but this would be equally unwise. Even if the letter went through diplomatic channels, there was no telling which of the embassy staff was in the pay of the ubiquitous Evelyn Baring. There was another reason not to contact Bakhita. This was less clear-cut in his mind but it had to do with Amber Benbrook. He did not want to do anything that might later hurt the child.
Child? He questioned his choice of word as he watched her cross the yard in deep conversation with her twin sister. You deceive yourself, Penrod Ballantyne.
It was five months before Penrod received a reply to the letter he had written to his elder brother Sir Peter Ballantyne, at the family estate on the Scottish Borders. In his reply Sir Peter agreed that the Benbrook sisters might make their home at Clercastle until such time as their future had been decided. Penrod would sail back to England with Amber and Saffron and take care of them until they reached Clercastle. Once they arrived Sir Peter’s wife, Jane, would take over the responsibility from him.
As soon as Penrod received his brother’s letter he went up to the British Embassy and telegraphed to the office of the Peninsular and Orient Steamship line in Djibouti. He booked passage for himself and the twins on board the SS Singapore, sailing via Suez and Alexandria for Southampton in six weeks’ time. When Amber learnt that she would be sailing home in company with Penrod Ballantyne, then staying at Clercastle with the Ballantyne family she made no objection. On the contrary she seemed well pleased with the arrangement.
It did not go so easily with the other twin. There followed long and difficult discussions with Saffron, who announced with passion that she could see no reason why she should return to England ‘where it rains all the time, and I shall probably expire with double pneumonia on the same day I arrive’. It was necessary to appeal to Alice Packer for a ruling.
“My dear Saffron, you are only fourteen.”
“Fifteen in a month’s time,” Saffron corrected her grimly.
“Your education has been somewhat neglected,” Alice went on imperturbably. “I am sure Sir Peter will provide a governess for you and
Amber. After all, he has daughters of very much the same age as you two darling girls.”
“I don’t need geography and mathematics,” said Saffron, stubbornly. “I know all about Africa and I can paint.”
“Ah!” said Alice. “Sir John Millais is a dear friend of mine. How would you like to study art under him? I’m sure I can arrange it.”
Saffron wavered: Millais was a founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the most celebrated painter of the day. David Benbrook had kept a book of his paintings in his study at Khartoum. Saffron had spent hours dreaming over them. Then Alice played her trump: “And, of course, as soon as you are sixteen you will always be welcome to return to Entoto as my guest, whenever and as often as you wish.”
As the day of their departure for Djibouti drew nearer, Saffron spent less time with her twin and more in helping Bacheet look after Ryder. He agreed to pose for an hour or two each evening for one last portrait. Since the twins’ future had been agreed upon, his mood had been subdued, but it lightened perceptibly during these daily painting sessions. Saffron was an amusing girl and made him laugh.
Two days before Penrod and the twins were due to leave Entoto for Djibouti, Ryder announced his intention of joining their little caravan, as he was expecting a shipment of trade goods to arrive on board the SS Singapore from Calcutta. During the journey down to the coast Ryder and Saffron spent much time riding side by side at the rear of the convoy. The closer they came to Djibouti, the more serious their expressions became. The day before they came in sight of the town and harbour a flaming row broke out between them. Saffron left Ryder and galloped to the head of the column to ride beside Amber.
That night, as was the custom, the four of them ate supper beside the fire. When Ryder addressed a polite remark to her, Saffron pulled a face and deliberately moved her chair so that her back was turned to him. She did not bid him goodnight when she and Amber went to their tent.
The next day as they came in sight of Djibouti harbour the SS Singapore was lying in the roads and discharging cargo into the lighters clustered around her. While Ryder and Bacheet set up camp on the outskirts of the town, Penrod and the twins rode down to the shipping office at the wharf to pay for and receive their tickets for the voyage to Southampton. The shipping clerk assured them that the Singapore would sail on schedule at noon the following day. Penrod managed to buy a bottle of Glenlivet whisky from the purser. He and Ryder made short work of it that evening, when the twins had retired to their tent not long after nightfall.
Due to the exigencies of the previous evening’s consumption of liquor the two men were late in rising. In the roads the Singapore was already making steam in preparation for her sailing in three hours’ time. Penrod took the luggage down to the wharf and sent it on board, then rode back to the camp and found it in a state of uproar.
“She has gone!” Bacheet lamented, and wrung his plump hands. “Filfil has gone!”
“What do you mean, Bacheet? Where has she gone?”
“We do not know, Effendi. During the night she took her mule and rode away. Al-Sakhawi has gone after her, but I think Filfil has six hours’ start on him. He won’t be able to catch her before nightfall.”
“By that time the Singapore will have sailed,” Penrod fumed, and went to find Amber.
“After Saffron and I climbed into bed, I went to sleep directly. When I woke it was already light and Saffy had gone, just like that, without even a goodbye.”
Penrod studied her face for some hint of the truth. He was sure he had heard the twins whispering when he had passed their tent on the way to his own bed. He knew for certain it had been after midnight, because he had wound his pocket watch before he blew out the lamp. “We will have to go on board. We cannot miss this sailing. There will not be another for months. I will try to persuade the captain to delay until Saffron is on board,” he said, and Amber agreed with an angelic expression.
While Penrod and Amber stood at the starboard rail of the Singapore, Penrod was staring anxiously through a pair of borrowed binoculars as the last boat from the shore approached the ship’s side.
“Blue bloody blazes!” he muttered furiously. “She isn’t on board.”
&nbs
p; As he lowered the binoculars, the ship’s third officer hurried down the ladder from the bridge and came to them. “The captain’s compliments, Captain Ballantyne, but he very much regrets that he is not able to delay the sailing until the arrival of Miss Benbrook. If he does he will be unable to make his reservation for the transit of the Suez Canal.” Just then the ship’s siren wailed and cut off the rest of his apology. The capstan in the bows began to clatter and the anchor broke free.
“Now, Miss Amber Benbrook,” Penrod said grimly, “I think it’s time you delivered the truth. Just what is your sister playing at?”
“I should think that is perfectly obvious, Captain Ballantyne, except to a blind man or an imbecile.”
“Nevertheless, I would be most obliged if you could explain it to me.”
“My sister is in love with Mr. Ryder Courtney. She has not the slightest intention of leaving him. I am afraid we are to be deprived of her company on this voyage. You will have to make do with mine.”
A prospect that I do not find particularly distressing, he thought, but tried to disguise his pleasure.
The tracks of Saffron’s mule headed straight back along the main route towards the Abyssinia border. Except where they had been overridden by other travellers they were easy to follow. Saffron had made no attempt to cover them or to throw off any pursuit. Soon Ryder knew that he was overhauling her, but it was the middle of the afternoon before he made out her mule in the distance. He urged his own mount into a gallop. As he came within hail he let out an angry shout. She stopped and turned back towards him. Then he saw that it was not her at all, but one of the camp servants: a dim-witted lad whose sole employment was chopping firewood for the camp. Anything more demanding was beyond his limited capabilities.
“What in the name of God are you up to, Solomon? Where do you think you are going on Filfil’s mule?”
“Filfil gave me a Maria Theresa to ride back to Entoto and fetch a box she had forgotten,” he announced importantly, proud of the task with which he had been entrusted.
“Where is Filfil now?”
“Why, Effendi, I know not.” Solomon picked his nose with embarrassment at the complexity of the question. “Is she not still in Djibouti?”
When Ryder came in sight of the harbour again, the Singapore’s anchorage was empty, and the smoke from her funnels was merely a dark smear on the watery horizon. Ryder stormed into his camp and shouted at Bacheet: “Where is Filfil?” Bacheet remained silent but rolled his eyes in the direction of her tent.
Ryder strode to the tent and stooped through the opening of the fly. “There you are, you scamp.”
Saffron was sitting cross-legged on her camp-bed. She was barefooted and her most extravagant hat was perched on her head. She was looking extremely pleased with herself.
“What have you to say for yourself?” he demanded.
“All I have to say is that you are my dog and I am your flea. You can scratch and scratch as much as you will, but you’ll not get rid of me, Ryder Courtney.”
They were half-way back to Entoto before he had recovered from the shock, and had come to realize how happy he was that she had not sailed with the Singapore. “I still don’t know what we should do now,” he said. “I shall probably be arrested for child abduction. I have no idea of the legal age for marriage in Abyssinia.”
“It’s fourteen,” said Saffron. “I asked the Empress before we left Entoto. Anyway, that is merely a guideline. Nobody pays much attention to it. She was thirteen when the Emperor married her.”
“Have you any other gems of information?” he asked tartly.
“I have. The Empress has expressed her willingness to sponsor our union, should you care to marry me. What do you think of that?”
“I had not thought about it at all,” he exclaimed, ‘but, by God, now that you raise the subject it is not the worst notion I have ever heard of.” He reached across, lifted her off the back of her mule, seated her on the pommel of his own saddle and kissed her.
She clamped her hat onto her head with one hand and flung her other arm round his neck. Then she kissed him back with a great deal more vigour than finesse. After a while she broke away to breathe. “Oh, you wonderful man!” she gasped. “You cannot imagine how long I have wanted to do that. It feels even nicer than I hoped it might. Let’s do it again.”
“An excellent idea,” he agreed.
The Empress was as good as her word. She sat in the front pew of the Entoto cathedral with the Emperor at her side, beaming on the ceremony like the rising sun. She was dressed in a Saffron Benbrook creation, which made her look rather like a large sugar-iced chocolate cake.
Lady Packer had prevailed on her husband, Sir Harold White Packer, Knight Commander of Michael and George, Her Britannic Majesty’s ambassador, to give Saffron away. He was in full fig, including his bicorne hat with gold lace and white cockerel feathers. The groom was handsome and nervous in his black frock-coat, with the dazzling Star of the Order of Solomon and Judea on his breast. The Bishop of Abyssinia performed the service.
Saffron had designed her own wedding dress. When she came down the aisle on Sir Harold’s arm, Ryder was mildly relieved to see that it was in pure virginal white. Saffron’s taste usually ran to brighter hues. When they left the church as man and wife, a troop of the Royal Abyssinian Artillery fired a nine-gun salute. In the fever of the moment, one of the ancient cannon had been double charged and it burst in spectacular fashion on the first discharge. Fortunately nobody was injured, and the bishop declared it a propitious omen. The Emperor provided vast quantities of fiery Tej to the populace, and toasts were drunk to bride and groom for as long as the liquor held out and their well-wishers remained upright and conscious.
For the honeymoon Ryder took his bride into the southern Abyssinian highlands on an expedition to capture the rare mountain ny ala They returned some months later without having caught even a glimpse of the elusive beast. Saffron painted a picture to commemorate the expedition: on a mountain peak in the background stood a creature that bore more than a passing resemblance to a unicorn, and in the foreground a man and woman whose identities were in no doubt. The woman wore a huge yellow hat decorated with seashells and roses. They were not looking at the unicorn, but clasped between them was a large and magnificent bird, half ostrich and half peacock. The legend beneath the painting read, “We went to find the elusive ny ala but found instead the elusive bird of happiness.”
Ryder was so enchanted by it that he had the picture mounted in an ivory frame, and hung it on the wall above their bed.
The voyage up the Red Sea was calm and peaceful. There were only four passenger cabins on board the SS Singapore, two of which were unoccupied. Amber and Penrod dined each evening with the captain, and after dinner they strolled around the deck or danced to the music of the violin played by the Italian chef, who thought Amber was the most lovely creature in all creation.
During the day Amber and Penrod worked together in the card room, editing David Benbrook’s journal. Amber exercised her new-found writing talent, and Penrod provided military and historical background. Amber suggested he write his own account of the battle of Abu Klea, his subsequent capture by Osman Atalan and their escape from the captivity of the Dervish. They would combine this with the writings of David and Rebecca. The further they advanced into the project, the greater their enthusiasm for it became. By the time the Singapore anchored in Alexandria harbour they had made great progress in expanding and correcting the text. It could now be published as an inspiring true adventure, and they had the remainder of the voyage home to complete it.
Penrod went ashore in Alexandria, and hired a horse. He rode the thirty miles to Cairo, and went directly to the British agency. Sir Evelyn Baring kept him waiting only twenty minutes before he sent his secretary to summon him into his office. He had the thirty-page letter that Penrod had sent from Entoto spread like a fan on the desk in front of him. On it were many cryptic notations written in red ink in the margins. Bari
ng maintained his usual cold, enigmatic manner and expression during the interview, which lasted almost two hours. At the end he rose to dismiss Penrod without making any comment, expressing any opinion, or offering either censure or approval. “Colonel Samuel Adams at Army headquarters in Giza is anxious to speak to you,” he told Penrod, at the door.
“Colonel?” Penrod asked.
“Promotion,” Baring replied. “He will explain everything to you.”
Sam Adams limped only slightly and he no longer used a cane as he came round his desk to greet Penrod warmly. He looked fit and suntanned, although there were a few grey hairs in his moustache.
“Congratulations on the colonel’s pips, sir.” Penrod saluted.
Adams was without a cap so he could not return the salute, but he seized Penrod’s hand and shook it warmly. “Delighted to have you back, Ballantyne. Much has happened while you have been away. There is a great deal we must talk about. Shall we go for lunch at the club?”
He had reserved a table in the corner of the dining room at the Gheziera Club. He ordered a bottle of Krug, then waited until the glasses were filled and they had placed their order with the waiter, in red fez and white galabiyya, before he got down to business. “After the disaster of Khartoum, and the murder of that idiot Gordon, there were many unpleasant repercussions. The press at home were looking for scapegoats and fastened on Sir Charles Wilson’s delay in pressing on to the relief of Gordon after the victory at Abu Klea. Wilson sought to defend himself by placing the blame on his subordinates. Unfortunately you were one of those to suffer, Ballantyne. He has brought charges of subordination and desertion against you. Now that you have come back from limbo, you will almost certainly be court-martialled Capital offence, if you’re found guilty. Firing squad, don’t you know?”
