Pharaoh (Jack Howard 7)

by David Gibbins

  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 machine 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.

  For these men, the southern desert represented the great unknown: the place of exile, the possible location of the lost tribes of Israel and the ancient hiding place of the Ark of the Covenant. They were fascinated by Akhenaten, whose venture into the desert three thousand years earlier seemed to mirror their own, a pharaoh who had seen the one God, the Aten. The desert seemed a place where those who were lost might be found; a place of redemption. Perhaps these men were not just enthused by the archaeology they came across, but like Akhenaten were seeking a revelation, a flash of insight that might give them a personal vision of God.

  Kitchener came up alongside and handed over the map case. ‘Colonel Wilson and I have prepared this for you. Memorise it and return it before you leave. You will take the desert route behind Stewart’s column, aiming for the wells at Jakdul and Abu Klea, and then on to the Nile at Metemma. Cross the river to the east bank, as the Mahdi’s forces occupy the west bank on the approaches to Khartoum. It should take you four days by foot to reach Khartoum from Metemma. You should be able to keep one day ahead of the river steamers carrying Wilson and the rescue force, as there are cataracts that will impede their progress. At Khartoum the river will be low and the mud banks treacherous. You will arrive on the opposite bank from the governor’s palace, beside the island of Tutti. You would do well to find a nuggar boat and make your way across at night. The palace is guarded by Gordon’s Sudanese irregulars but there are plenty of Arabs milling about, and your features are sufficiently dark that you should be able to pass yourself off as a native, with your beard and a headdress.’

  ‘Tell me, Kitchener. We’re out of earshot of the tent. What do think of our chances?’

  ‘You’ve seen my high regard for Gordon and my belief that his rescue is possible,’ Kitchener replied pensively. ‘But I am fully aware of the odds against it. In the two years since Hicks set out on his doomed expedition, the Mahdi has captured seven thousand Remington rifles, eighteen field guns, a rocket battery and half a million rounds of rifle ammunition. More than sixteen thousand Egyptian troops have been killed or captured, and our own casualties are now in the hundreds. Only two weeks ago, another force of a thousand Egyptian soldiers and bashi-bazouk policemen were annihilated. Every week more tribal leaders are defecting to the Mahdi. Gordon is defended by Sudanese soldiers whose officers have betrayed them. The telegraph line is cut, there is no heliograph and he is surrounded. The noose is tightening. It would be hard not to believe that he is done for.’

  ‘Your opinion?’

  ‘My opinion will not change the course of events. I advise you to look out for yourself. In the desert I carry a cyanide tablet, in case I’m captured.’

  Mayne looked towards the clump of palms where Charrière was sharpening his hunting knife on a small whetstone he carried on his belt. ‘That will not be necessary. My bodyguard will see to it that neither of us is captured alive. And he will also spot anyone who tries to follow us.’

  ‘The desert is different from the forests and rivers of Canada.’

  ‘It’s the mind of the tracker that matters.’ Kitchener stared at him, and Mayne held his gaze. In some ways Kitchener was the more obvious man for the job, a fluent Arabic speaker who had travelled in disguise deep into the Mahdi’s territory, who had earned his desert credentials. But he had become too visible amongst the tribesmen for a covert operation; Gordon would have been forewarned of his arrival, the element of surprise would have been lost and Gordon might have retrenched and refused to budge. Wolseley had been astute enough to keep Mayne out of the limelight, to give him extensive desert experience but ensure that he was unknown in Khartoum. And yet Wolseley was a pawn in the hands of a more powerful directive. In reality Mayne was not Wolseley’s man, but Wilson’s.

  And there was another factor. Mayne’s appointment might rankle with Kitchener’s desire to be in the thick of it, but Kitchener was ruled by intellect rather than instinct; he did not have the near-suicidal disregard for his personal safety of a Burnaby or a Buller.

  Kitchener tapped the map case. ‘Gordon will be expecting an officer to try to reach him before the relief force arrives. As you will be disguised as an Arab, you will need a convincing entreaty to gain an audience with Gordon once you reach the palace. I suggest you take along your Royal Engineers cap badge and ask for it to be sent to him. He won’t turn away a fellow sapper.’

  ‘He mig
ht think it comes from you.’

  ‘He knows well enough that Wolseley will keep me back.’

  ‘Do you still have spies in the desert, your Ababda bodyguard?’

  Kitchener remained expressionless. ‘The Mahdi’s forces have nearly sealed off the city. The east bank of the Blue Nile, where you are heading, is the last remaining point of access, and the river crossing will be perilous. Nobody could do it in daylight without being shot down either by Gordon’s men at the palace or by the dervishes on Tutti island. In answer to your question, I have not had any first-hand intelligence from Khartoum for days.’

  Kitchener had not answered his question. Mayne remembered him at the military academy, aloof and uncommunicative. It was impossible to tell whether he was being evasive or simply addressing the issues that he felt to be significant. He was giving Mayne the latest intelligence, that was all. Mayne knew that the networks of spies would now be focused on the opposing armies themselves as they crystallised for war, in front of Khartoum or somewhere in the desert as the British column advanced. With all eyes on troop movements rather than the odd Arab traveller, he might stand a better chance of passing through the desert without being reported by spies of the Mahdi.

  ‘The Mahdi has fuelled the uprising by playing on the grievances of the tribesmen. None are to be trusted, except my Ababda men.’ Kitchener paused. ‘On another matter, but related. Do you know Captain John Howard?’

  Mayne paused. ‘A few years below me at Woolwich. Out with the Madras Sappers in India putting down the Rampa rebellion, and now back at the School of Military Engineering to instruct in survey.’

  Kitchener nodded. ‘He’s another who shares my interest in the archaeology of the Holy Land. Colonel Wilson and I have recommended that he be entrusted with the safe keeping of Gordon’s antiquities when they are sent to Chatham, including any from Khartoum that we can salvage. Howard is a scholar and a safe pair of hands. I met him before coming here, and he told me that the Rampa rebellion began as a protest by tribal people against a tax on alcohol, was then hijacked by the nationalists who wanted it to be seen as an uprising against the British, and by the second year had simply become violence for its own sake, with the brigands burning and killing because they enjoyed it. The longer a rebellion is allowed to string out, the more it will become self-fuelling. Men who have been persuaded to become killers learn to love it and do not put down arms easily.’

  ‘The warrior tradition is strong in the desert.’

  ‘We must strive to equal it. We are a worthy adversary to warriors of the Mahdi army, whereas the Egyptians and Ottomans are not. The Ansar despise the fellahin of the Nile as poor soldiers who have no taste for war, and in that they are right. An Egyptian army like the one led by Hicks they can wipe out in an easy afternoon. A real army like ours they will throw themselves on with fanaticism, because there is a chance that we might defeat them. The more they encounter us in battle, the more they will return. It is the way of war: the fight becomes the end, not just the means. We may stem the tide temporarily with a good fight or two, but attrition is the only way to stop them and we do not have the manpower.’

  ‘Wolseley intends us to leave the Sudan to its own devices.’

  ‘That would be a profound mistake,’ Kitchener said. ‘The jihad could engulf north Africa and the Middle East, just as it did thirteen hundred years ago. It could prove a bigger threat to us than Russia and Europe combined.’

  Kitchener closed his empty map case and straightened up, then suddenly held Mayne by the shoulder, his eyes boring into him. ‘If any harm should befall Gordon, I will take a life for each hair on his head. Even if it takes the rest of my career, I will gain vengeance. You mark my words.’

  Mayne stared at him, discomfited. They said that Kitchener’s eyesight had been permanently affected by the sand and the desert sun, but that his eyes also showed that he had been seduced by the cruelty of the desert, a place where the value of a man’s life was less than that of the camel he rode on and the handful of grain in his saddlebag.

  Kitchener released him. ‘When Khartoum falls, we should expect the worst. The Ansar are a medieval army, and will behave like any other medieval army when they stormed a city. They will rape and pillage, mutilate and torture. The fair-skinned Egyptian women will be the first, the wives and daughters of the Ottoman officials still in Khartoum. They are the ones that Gordon will not leave behind. And then they will kill everyone.’

  ‘All in the name of Islam.’

  ‘For the dervishes baying for blood on that day, Muhammad will be about as far from them as Christ was from the crusaders when they took Acre.’

  ‘Could he convert to Islam? I mean Gordon? Others have done it among the Europeans captured by the Mahdi. The Austrian von Slatin for one.’

  ‘Von Slatin converted out of desperation to boost the loyalty of his Sudanese troops. It did him little good as they were massacred anyway, but after he was captured his conversion kept him alive. Others among the captured Europeans have done so under duress. Convert, or have your hands and feet chopped off.’

  ‘You have not answered my question.’

  Kitchener paused. ‘The Sudanese credit Gordon with baraka, with mystical healing powers, just as they do the Mahdi. Gordon and the Mahdi are closer than many might think. The Sufi version of Islam that the Mahdi was born into is tolerant and inclusive. The fundamentalism he espouses now is for the jihad, and in person he and Gordon would find common ground. They share a passion for the prophets common to both religions, for Isaiah in particular.’

  ‘The Mahdi has invited Gordon to join the jihad. My Dongolese guide told me that he even sent him a present of a patched jibba of the Ansar to wear.’

  Kitchener snorted. ‘Gordon kicked it across the room in disgust.’

  ‘And yet he kept it, along with the Mahdi’s other presents.’

  ‘What are you asking me?’ Kitchener demanded, suddenly haughty again.

  ‘If Gordon is pushed, which way will his pendulum swing?’

  ‘You mean has he built his own crucifix, is he standing on a holy rock reaching out to Allah?’

  ‘Either way he is flying very close to the sun.’

  Kitchener squinted at the reddening orb on the horizon. ‘That’s easily done in the desert. You can forgive a man out here for thinking like a pharaoh.’

  ‘Or like a Mahdi.’

  Kitchener pursed his lips. ‘As Christians we have been more savage to those within our faith who do not follow our path than we have been with the infidel. The Mahdi is playing the same game. He has persuaded his followers that the Turkish Muslims are unbelievers because they do not follow the jihad. He knows that in future the jihad will gain strength from this war with moderate Islam. And he knows perfectly well that the true Ansar, his most fanatical followers, only number a small minority now among his army, and that the majority are tribesmen who have been swept up for reasons other than faith. The basis for their fervour in battle is to be sought deep within the history of the desert itself. To keep that fervour stoked, the Mahdi must satisfy the warrior urge for blood, and keep them wanting more. It is a precarious edifice, with weaknesses that one day we might exploit to turn the tide.’

  ‘Yet not in this campaign.’

  ‘Each battle for the Mahdi has a parallel in the battles that the Prophet Muhammad fought twelve hundred years ago. As his power develops, the Mahdi is able to shape his own history so that it becomes even more similar. His ultimate aim is to restore the caliphate as he believed Muhammad envisaged it, to discard modern progress and take the world back twelve hundred years.’

  ‘Using Remington rifles and Krupps field guns.’

  ‘Means, not ends. Necessary evils to counter the weapons of the unbelievers. All will be discarded when the jihad is over, and the blade and spear will rule supreme again.’

  ‘Do you think Gordon sympathises with this view of history?’

  ‘Gordon stands apart from history. But like the Mahdi, he inhab
its the world of the foundation of our religion. His time in Jerusalem three years ago was a spiritual journey back to the final days of Christ. And since first arriving in the Sudan ten years ago he has been absorbed by the world of the Old Testament, the time of Moses and Pharaoh and the Exodus from Egypt. He believes that Akhenaten was the pharaoh of the Bible and that Moses received his vision of one God from him. He believes that the vision came to Akhenaten somewhere out here, in the desert.’

  ‘Those relief carvings I saw, of Akhenaten and the sun-disc,’ Mayne murmured. ‘That’s why you were so interested in them. Have you seen something similar in the desert?’

  Kitchener gave him a stony stare. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I know Gordon was searching for images of Akhenaten, and excavated sites in the desert with Heinrich Schliemann during his first period as governor general. My Dongolese guide worked as an interpreter for Gordon before joining me, and his last act before leaving Khartoum was to load crates of antiquities and artefacts on to the steamer Abbas for its voyage to safety. Among them was a stone slab which Gordon had insisted be double-crated and cushioned in cloth. My guide knew of my interest in the ruins and inscriptions we passed in the desert, and he drew me a sketch of the slab showing hieroglyphics and radiating lines like those of the Aten sun-disc.’

  Kitchener’s eyes bored into him. ‘Can you reproduce it for me?’

  Mayne shook his head. ‘It was a sketch made with a stick in the sand.’

  ‘You say this slab came from Khartoum?’

  ‘Gordon himself supervised the loading. Whether it was from Khartoum or from one of Gordon’s expeditions, I do not know.’

  Kitchener shook his head, knitting his brow. ‘If he had made such a find earlier, he would have told me. This must be a recent discovery, very recent.’