Pharaoh jh-7

by David Gibbins

  Wolseley put down his pencil and arched his hands together. ‘Time has run short for us, gentlemen. Colonel Wilson has received intelligence that Russian forces have advanced over the Oxus river near Panjdeh in Afghanistan. It’s the most dangerous escalation since the end of the war in Afghanistan four years ago. If it comes to renewed war now, we will be siding with the Afghans against the Russians. Mr Gladstone has ordered an emergency session of Parliament and the army in India has begun to mobilise. And this won’t just be a British war to curb Russian imperialism on the borders with India. The French will become involved, as they did in the Crimea. The web of alliances across Europe will draw in other nations, some of them itching for an excuse to get at each other’s throats. The greatest fear is that Germany could enter as a belligerent against us and even against the Russians too, and that she could emerge supreme if we overextend ourselves in the east. Gentlemen, for the first time since the war against Napoleon, we could find ourselves leading armies across the English Channel to Flanders and Picardy and Normandy.’

  ‘So Egypt and the Sudan becomes a sideshow,’ Buller rumbled.

  ‘We could be withdrawn at any moment,’ Wolseley replied. ‘We must attempt to reach Khartoum without delay.’

  ‘The Mahdist jihad is as much a threat as the Russian menace,’ Kitchener said.

  Wolseley shot him an annoyed glance. ‘We are here to rescue Gordon, not to put down a desert rebellion that would scarcely concern us were Gordon safe and away.’

  ‘It should concern us,’ Kitchener replied forcibly. ‘It threatens Egypt and the entire Arab world. The fires of fanaticism will spread to India. There will be bombings and outrages in Europe.’

  Wolseley waved one hand dismissively. ‘The Mahdi will die, and the rebellion will wash against the borders of Egypt and dissipate. The tribesmen have neither the appetite nor the ability to prosecute war beyond their homeland. They are riven by internal jealousies and feuds that will consume them. Beyond the present question of Gordon, the revolt is of little moment to us as we have no interest in occupying the Sudan.’

  Mayne watched Kitchener bristle but keep quiet. He reflected on the absurdity of a situation where a flashpoint two thousand miles away in Afghanistan had finally lit a fire under Wolseley, when for months now Gordon’s situation had presented the utmost urgency to all other onlookers, up to the Queen herself. Not for the first time he wondered whether Wolseley’s sluggish operation had been deliberately engineered because the relief of Gordon was always going to be problematic; better to be unsuccessful this way and blame the obstinacy of the man himself, rather than fail spectacularly in a risky dash across the desert to Khartoum.

  Wolseley turned to Mayne. ‘You will impress upon General Gordon the urgency of his situation.’

  ‘Mayne will be able to impress nothing upon General Gordon,’ Kitchener interjected. ‘As you yourself are aware, he is a man of the strongest convictions.’

  ‘Major Mayne will follow my orders. Brevet Major Kitchener will remember his rank and focus his attention on the map,’ Wolseley said, his voice strained with controlled anger. He waited until Kitchener had resumed sketching in the lines, and then turned again to Mayne. ‘You will impress upon General Gordon the urgency of his situation,’ he repeated. ‘This may well be his last chance of escape. Kitchener himself carried out a reconnaissance of the shoreline at Khartoum in October, and I have used his information to devise a plan. Kitchener?’

  Kitchener appeared to ignore Wolseley, concentrating on tracing a line on the map.

  ‘Major Kitchener, if you please,’ Wolseley exclaimed impatiently.

  Kitchener carried on for a few seconds more until he had completed the line, and then pointed to a small structure he had drawn on the bank of the Nile opposite the palace. ‘This is a ruined fort,’ he said. ‘It dates from the time of the Egyptian foundation of Khartoum in the 1830s, but is remarkably similar to a fort of the pharaoh Akhenaten I observed further down the Nile. Studying the ancient fort has helped me to understand its function.’

  He eyed Wolseley coldly, then laid his ruler on the map just south of the fort, on a line running across the southern point of Tutti island to the shoreline of Khartoum just north-west of the governor’s palace. ‘To the south of this line, the shore opposite Khartoum is unoccupied by the Mahdi’s forces. At this point the river is some eight hundred yards across, beyond the effective range of their Remington rifles. Instead they’ve occupied Tutti island, close enough for them to fire accurately into the city.’

  ‘So the fort is abandoned,’ Mayne said, peering over Earle’s head at the map.

  ‘It should be your objective,’ Kitchener said. ‘If you arrive under cover of darkness, you should be able to get into the ruins unseen, and from there plan your trip across the river to the governor’s palace.’

  Wolseley tapped his pencil on the fort. ‘This fort is where you will take Gordon. If you succeed in spiriting him away in disguise from the palace and return across the river without being seen, you can hole up in there until our river steamers arrive. Captain Lord Beresford of the Royal Naval contingent will be under instructions to send a landing party to the fort simultaneously with putting a half-company of troops ashore at the governor’s palace.’

  Kitchener had folded his arms and stood aloof, his face set impassively. ‘You may as well order all the troops to make for the fort, as any British soldier who attempts to land at the palace will be shot down by the marksmen on Tutti island.’

  ‘Or by the marksmen on the palace roof, if Khartoum has already been taken,’ Burnaby added, dropping his cigarette on the floor and crushing it.

  ‘If Gordon agrees and comes away to the fort, Mayne’s role in his rescue will be exposed once the steamers arrive,’ Earle said. ‘We had agreed to keep his mission secret.’

  Wolseley nodded. ‘Beresford will find Gordon alone in the fort, because Mayne will have disappeared into the desert once they see the steamers round the bend of the Nile at Tutti island. Gordon will go along with the secrecy, as the last thing he will want is for the world to see that he has agreed to be spirited away. It must seem as if he crossed the river alone in disguise to await our arrival once he had spotted our steamers coming, from a place where he could then direct an assault against Tutti island and return back into the city at the head of our troops. He must be given the opportunity to see that this could happen, even if events turn out otherwise. The press can then report that his move to the fort was in fact an attempt to rescue Khartoum, and that if he leaves with us it was not of his own volition. His reputation would remain untarnished.’

  Buller snorted. ‘Old Charlie Gordon doesn’t care about his reputation any more. All he cares about is his people in Khartoum, and the promises he has made them. He’s their messiah. He’ll go down fighting rather than scuttle out with his tail between his legs. That’s where this plan falls asunder. We’ve left it too late. He won’t want to be rescued.’

  Wolseley pursed his lips, and looked at Wilson. ‘Your opinion? You are my intelligence chief.’

  Mayne held his breath. Suddenly his mission was on a knife edge. Only he knew the thoughts that would be running through Wilson’s mind, the urgency of keeping Wolseley’s plan on course. Wilson looked up. ‘I defer to Kitchener. He’s the last man here to have seen Gordon.’

  Wolseley pursed his lips again, and looked up at the tall man standing impassively opposite him. For once Kitchener was silent, staring at Wolseley with those disarming eyes, his moustache barely twitching. Wolseley turned away and looked at the others.

  ‘Mayne?’ he said.

  Mayne did not dare to glance at Wilson. He could not allow Wolseley to be dissuaded, even though he knew Buller was right. Buller’s scenario was precisely the one that had brought him here. Gordon might die defending Khartoum, but he might also survive and be captured. That could not be allowed to happen.

  He spoke confidently. ‘It can be done. Charrière and I can reach the Blue Nile, and I can
make my way across to the palace. I know what to say to General Gordon.’

  Wolseley nodded curtly. Kitchener leaned over and continued transferring his notes to the map as they watched in silence. When he had finished, he stood up, and Mayne pointed at a series of crosses that he had put along the course of the Nile. ‘What do these mark?’ he asked.

  ‘Ancient ruins from the pharaonic period,’ Kitchener replied. ‘A passing interest.’

  ‘A passing irrelevance,’ Wolseley said irritably.

  Kitchener pointed to one cross. ‘Not an irrelevance, sir. This cliff face had a bas-relief showing slaves pulling boats over rocks in the river, apparently undertaking the same exercise as General Earle’s river column, without of course the benefit of Mohawks or Kroomen but with many different dark-skinned men among the team.’

  Earle looked up incredulously. ‘Are you saying that the ancient Egyptians attempted the same exercise, dragging boats through the cataracts?’

  ‘The next scene shows them having abandoned the boats and setting out across the desert. Of course, they had no camels then, the camel only having been introduced by the Arabs, but they have horses and chariots and even the slaves are shown striding off confidently.’

  ‘A lesson for us there, perhaps,’ Buller rumbled, peering at Wolseley.

  ‘Precisely my plan in ordering out the desert column, though we hedge our bets by keeping the river column going,’ Wolseley said tartly.

  Mayne picked up Wolseley’s pencil and put another cross beside the Nile to the south-east of Korti. ‘Yesterday I was shown an underground chamber found by our sappers beside the third cataract,’ he said.

  Kitchener looked at him sharply. ‘Any inscription?’

  Mayne thought for a moment, and decided not to describe the scene showing the destruction of the Egyptian army. ‘At the far end of one wall was the image of a sun-disc, with its rays carved over the entire relief. In front of it was a man with a distended belly and an elongated face, a pharaoh.’

  ‘Akhenaten,’ Kitchener breathed, looking over at Wilson. ‘It must be.’

  ‘I believe so,’ Mayne said. ‘I saw the same disc when we stopped at Amarna on the voyage south through Egypt and visited the excavations there.’

  Kitchener spoke directly to Wilson. ‘I will visit this site tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Right now, you will finish tracing the desert route,’ Wolseley said, his patience clearly wearing thin. ‘You still need to show Mayne a track from Metemma to Khartoum.’

  Kitchener stood back from the map. Wolseley tapped the pencilled lines between Korti and Metemma, and then between Metemma and Khartoum, and looked at Mayne. ‘If all goes to plan, Wilson will reach Gordon within a day of your meeting with him, giving Gordon as little time as possible to change his mind if you are able to persuade him to leave. Meanwhile the Mahdi might force our hand by ordering the final assault on Khartoum. But we must take our chances. Whether you succeed or fail, Mayne, you will not wait to return on the steamers, but will make your own way back along the Nile to rejoin General Earle and the river column. If we fail to save Gordon, and one of the press correspondents gets wind of the fact that a British officer had managed to reach him beforehand, then there will be hell to pay. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It would look like a desperate measure that could only have been ordered by the expedition commander. I would rather the blame went higher up the chain of command in Whitehall. Scapegoats will be sought, gentlemen, you can be sure of it. The press and the public will bay for blood, and those on whom the blame should fall for delaying the dispatch of the expedition will be seeking any sign of weakness in our conduct. If my reputation is tarnished, then so is that of every one of you around this table. Major Mayne’s mission must remain secret, known only to those of us in this tent and to Charrière, who will go with you.’

  Mayne stared at Wolseley. He had guessed as much, but he still had to try. ‘Most of the Mohawk contingent have left for Canada. Their job was mainly done after the third cataract, and their contract finished. Charrière will want to go too.’

  Wolseley gave him a thin smile. ‘They’re anxious to get back to their wives and families. As you told Buller, Charrière has nothing to go back to. I want you to operate together just as you did on the Red River expedition fifteen years ago, when you observed Louis Riel and his rebels from your hideout for days before the rest of the column arrived.’

  Buller slammed his hand on the table. ‘Come on, man. You should relish it. You were a team. He can be your bodyguard, and your tracker.’

  ‘Colonel Wilson will brief him after this meeting,’ Wolseley said. ‘You are agreeable to this?’

  ‘Sir.’ Mayne returned an unwavering gaze. He well remembered the two of them lying with their rifles on the ridge above Riel’s encampment. He had been there as Wolseley’s reconnaissance scout, with Charrière as a runner to report back should Riel strike camp and return to the American border. Had Riel mustered his men in preparation for a fight, then Mayne had an entirely different mission, one so sensitive that nobody else knew of it. His friendship with Charrière had always been predicated on what he had been briefed to do that day.

  Wolseley carried on. ‘I requested you for this expedition because I anticipated just such a mission. I had General Earle send you on long reconnaissance forays into the desert not only to acclimatise you, but also so that your fellow officers in the column will not think it unusual if you return a few weeks from now after a particularly long absence, dressed and bearded like an Arab and doubtless the worse for wear. And if you do not return, you will not be the first British officer to ride out into the desert and disappear without trace.’

  Mayne said nothing, but nodded. He knew who really pulled the strings here. Wolseley had played into Wilson’s hands in almost every detail. The absolute imperative of any mission Mayne carried out for Wilson was anonymity. And he knew that there was one message, one simple code that Wilson could give him that would make his disappearance afterwards a necessity, his ultimate act of duty to Queen and country. The message that would show that he had been given a licence to kill.

  Wolseley stood up. ‘Kitchener will give you the maps to memorise. You must take nothing with you that could be traced back here.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Buller reached over to shake his hand. ‘Good luck, Edward. Give Charlie Gordon my regards. If he doesn’t agree to come out, then he can have the damned place as far as I’m concerned.’

  Burnaby lit another cigarette, and gave Mayne a languid smile. ‘Best of luck, old boy. Perhaps we’ll meet on the other side.’

  Mayne nodded at him, and then turned to follow Wilson and Kitchener to the entrance flap of the tent. Wilson looked back at him intently. ‘You have everything you need? Everything?’

  ‘I have everything.’

  ‘Kitchener will answer any questions you might have. Good luck.’ Wilson shook his hand firmly. As he did so, he passed him something, a folded piece of paper which Mayne kept in his hand without looking at it. Wilson turned back into the tent as Kitchener came out. Mayne tensed, the adrenalin coursing through him at last, his hand held tight around the paper. He knew there was no turning back now.

  15

  Mayne opened the tent flap and stepped outside, waiting for Kitchener to collect the map case and join him. He walked a few paces into the desert, relishing the fresh air after the smoky atmosphere inside, breathing in deeply and smelling the coppery tang the sand exuded after a day in the burning sun, a smell like blood. After the heat of the afternoon the encampment beside the Nile was beginning to stir again, and the soldiers who would make up the desert column were preparing for departure the next day. In the marshalling ground to the south he could hear the snorting and bellowing of more than three thousand camels, along with curses and yells that showed the inexperience of the men who had been detailed to handle them. Beside the river the naval contingent were cleaning and oiling their Gardner mach
ine gun, an unwieldy weapon mounted on a carriage that had already shown its vulnerability to sand and dust. In the distance he could hear the crackle of musketry from the rifle range as the infantry sharpened their skills for what might lie ahead. The picquets of dismounted cavalry he could see on the ridges were a reminder that although Khartoum and the Mahdi were two hundred miles away, dervish spies were everywhere and the troops were vulnerable to sharpshooters and suicide attacks. It was a lesson that the soldiers in the river column had learned all too well the previous day, and one that the desert column would confront soon enough as they struck out across the desolate wasteland to the south.

  The sand turned blood-red as the rays of the setting sun streaked across from the south-west. Soon it would be a dazzling spectacle, deep oranges and maroons, the ridges and knolls of the desert framed black as the orb of the sun dropped below the horizon. He remembered first seeing a desert sunset three years before, one evening alone at the pyramids of Giza, when he had arrived in Egypt to carry out intelligence work in the wake of the British invasion. That was when he had first come south, too, though only as far as the border of Egypt at Aswan, before the first cataract of the Nile. The ruins he had seen at sunset there had seemed to draw him further on, and he had tried to imagine what it had been like for those who had gone before, for the ancient Egyptians, the Romans, the Arabs: what it was that had made them go against the flow of the Nile and travel into the land that would so often become their grave. During evenings sitting above the ruins, he had felt as if the red rays were reaching out across the sand, pulling him towards the setting sun and into the dangerous darkness that followed. He thought it had helped him to understand Gordon, to see what it was that could take a man like that and put him in a place that seemed beyond the edge of the world.

  He thought about how the archaeology of the Holy Land had motivated those among the officers who were steeped in biblical history. Twenty years before, Wilson had carried out the Ordnance Survey of Jerusalem, intent on improving the water supply but in the process revealing much of its archaeology. He had then worked for the newly formed Palestine Exploration Fund on the survey of Western Palestine and the Sinai, work so highly esteemed that it earned him a Fellowship of the Royal Society. Kitchener’s exhaustive four-year survey of Palestine had made his name before he had any military reputation. And Gordon had been fascinated by Palestine all his life, culminating in the year’s leave he had spent in Jerusalem in 1883 exercising his engineer’s eye to pinpoint to his satisfaction the site of the crucifixion and key locations of the Old Testament. It was a point of similarity between Gordon and the prime minister, also a fervent biblical scholar, except that Gladstone’s religion made him bridle at Gordon’s messianic status in the eyes of the people, and the two men would never publicly acknowledge their shared fascination as scholars.