by John Wilcox
Simon nodded. ‘Of course, sir. So . . . you are planning to invade?’
The General stopped his pacing, walked back to his chair and sank slowly into it. It was as though the air had gone from a balloon. ‘No, I am not. And that’s just the point. The Liberal Party that now rules this country dislikes foreign intervention. You will have seen some of this for yourself in the Transvaal.’ He scowled at his blotter. ‘They so procrastinated in their support of Pommery-Colley – one of our army’s best men – that the poor chap was forced to occupy that accursed hilltop at Majuba and lay himself open to the massacre that followed and get himself shot. Disgraceful!’
Simon thought of that general’s failure to post vedettes down the hillside to warn of an enemy advance and to erect even the most basic fortifications on the summit to defend his position. He opened his mouth to make the point, then thought better of it. He was here to listen, not to argue.
‘No,’ Wolseley continued. ‘Gladstone will do all he can to avoid armed intervention and so will the French, despite this silly warning we have jointly issued. What’s more, the Duke and my political master won’t allow me to make contingency plans yet, although I feel that view will change soon if things continue to get worse in Cairo.’ He looked hard at Simon. ‘And this is where you come in, Fonthill.’
Simon swallowed hard. ‘I must confess, I don’t quite see how, General. You must be receiving constant diplomatic and military information from our people in Cairo, all of them far more au fait with the position and better able to interpret it than I.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Wolseley put his head on one side and regarded Simon in silence for a moment, long enough to cause the young man to colour in embarrassment. ‘Oh yes,’ he resumed. ‘We get plenty of information through the normal channels. In fact, our political agent there, Edward Malet, is young, industrious and considered to be good. But he too is anxious to avoid armed intervention, and I can’t help feeling that he occasionally looks at the situation through rose-tinted spectacles. As for military information, well, we’ve got no one there I consider good enough to give a balanced assessment. Anyone in uniform or known to be a serving officer of the Queen, anyway, wouldn’t get very far in picking up the sort of detail I want.’
He pulled at the end of his moustache. ‘Now you, Fonthill, have certain very definite advantages. I shall save your blushes, but you certainly have brains, and a tactical awareness in military terms far in advance of most serving officers much older and more experienced than you.’ Simon stirred on the chair and opened his mouth to speak, but Wolseley held up his hand. ‘Your appreciation of the way to attack Sekukuni’s stronghold helped me win that battle. In addition, until his sad end, I was in constant communication with Pommery-Colley during his campaign and he sang your praises in terms of the value of your scouting for him and, in particular, your advice on attacking the Boers at Laing’s Nek. In fact, he admitted you were right and he was wrong.’
Simon gave an inward nod of thanks to the memory of a gentle, intelligent officer whose only fault lay in his lack of experience of command in the field.
The General smacked two fingers into the palm of his hand. ‘The second point is that, as I mentioned earlier, you can handle yourself if and when you get into trouble – and given the fact that Egypt at the moment is a bit of a melting pot, this could be important.’ He shot a hard glance at Simon. ‘In this context, will 352 be coming with you?’
‘Definitely, sir.’
‘Good. You may well need him, but you’ll need to keep him well under control. No gratuitous killing, you understand?’
Simon frowned. What did Wolseley know?
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Three fingers now slapped into his palm. ‘The third advantage . . .’ he paused and gave a grim smile, ‘and you must understand and accept this, Fonthill, if you wish to undertake this mission: the third advantage is that, if things go wrong, you are dispensable, in that you can be cut off without any acknowledgement from us of any kind. Do you understand?’
Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘I think so, sir. No links back to the Horse Guards?’
‘Quite so. If I have to, I shall deny that this conversation ever took place. That is why I need you. You are not a serving officer, nor a member of our diplomatic or civil service. You will be a freelance, doing whatever it is you are apprehended for on your own initiative completely. Understood?’
‘Understood.’ How ruthless these successful generals were! He had served under two of them, Roberts and Wolseley, and they both shared the same attribute of determining what they wanted and then going for it, irrespective of who stood in their way. At least Wolseley never dissembled. Simon appreciated that, and his spirits lifted for a moment at the thought of being completely cut off from official control to be free to act to do . . . to do what? ‘What exactly is it that you want of me, sir?’
The General leaned back. ‘Yes, the important part. Sure you won’t have a cigar?’
‘No thank you, sir.’
‘Right. What do we want of you?’ He let his chair come crashing back and leaned across his desk. ‘First, I want to know as much as you can feed me about the Egyptian army. Of course, I know its numerical strengths. Arabi would be able to put far more men in the field than whatever I could summon in terms of an invasion force. But that’s of comparatively little importance. It’s quality that counts. From the information I have, I sense that the fellaheen who comprise most of the infantry are not that impressive – their performance in the recent Egyptian – Abyssinian war was not good – but they could perform with far more backbone if they perceive that they are fighting to set their country free, don’t you know.’
Simon felt a pang of sympathy for the rank and file of the Egyptian army, paid a pittance, treated badly by their Turkish officers and living in what was virtually an occupied country. But he nodded.
‘From what I hear,’ the General continued, ‘the artillery is a different matter, and I believe that Arabi has recently been buying decent ordnance from Krupp. This could be a hard nut to crack. I would like to have it confirmed. Most importantly, however, I would like you to scout the country and give me your assessment of my options in terms of invasion, as well as how you think Arabi would react and where he would set up defensive positions to stop me. Let’s look at a map.’
Wolseley strode to a table at the far end of the woodpanelled room and Simon followed him. The table was placed under a large portrait in oils of the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon’s conqueror. Simon couldn’t help feeling that despite Sir Garnet’s reforming energies, the Iron Duke and his practices of long ago still permeated the corridors of the Horse Guards.
‘Now.’ The General unrolled a large map of Egypt and pinned the corners to the edges of the table. ‘There are really only two ways I can go in if I am going to march on Cairo. From here, in the north,’ he tapped the port of Alexandria in the eastern Mediterranean, ‘or from the south, here.’ His finger rested on the Red Sea entrance to the Suez Canal, at Suez itself. ‘Nowhere else will do to land an invasion force.’
Simon frowned. ‘Can’t you do both? Come from the south, presumably with troops from India, and also with a force from home, landing in the north, and catch Arabi in pincers, so to speak?’
Wolseley shot him an appraising glance. ‘I’ve considered that. Good idea in theory but difficult in practice, and it would take time to organise the logistics. It might be on, though. Have a look at the Canal and the landing facilities at, say, Ismailia. But be careful. I hear there are marauding gangs of Arabs ranging up and down the banks now. In fact, lawlessness is growing throughout the whole country, so you’d better have your wits about you.’
‘Can we have rifles?’
‘No. You’re not in the army. Take pistols and, if you must, maybe a couple of hunting rifles for sport; for shooting crocodiles on the Nile, that sort of thing. It depends what identity you are going to adopt.’
‘
I will have to think about that, sir, and decide when we get there how we can best fit in.’ Fowling pieces or sporting rifles would be no good against Egyptian soldiers or, for that matter, the armed Bedawis they had encountered on their last crossing of the northern desert.
The General looked up from the map. ‘This question of identity or cover is important. There are still plenty of English gentlemen taking their holidays along the Nile, hunting for archeological finds and so on, but as things warm up there, as I am sure they will, these people will be forced to leave the country, so you could be quite exposed unless you can adopt some credible disguise or other. You will need to think about that and set up your baggage accordingly.’
‘Hmmm. Whatever we do, or whoever we are, we shall travel light, sir. We may have to move fast.’
‘Absolutely right. Of course,’ Wolseley smiled waspishly, ‘you could apply to join the Egyptian army. I understand there are quite a few mercenaries in their ranks already.’
Simon shook his head firmly. ‘Jenkins and I are basically scouts, sir,’ he said. ‘We are not spies. I intend to lie as little as I have to.’
Wolseley frowned. ‘Well, that’s as maybe, Fonthill, but if we are to serve the Queen to the best of our ability, then we all sometimes have to do things we dislike. But I am not directing you on this matter. You must find your own cover and stick to it. To repeat: you will be on your own.’
‘Yes, I well understand that.’
‘One more point, though. Speaking of mercenaries, there is a fellow right at the top of the Egyptian army who could, perhaps, be useful to you. They call him Stone Pasha. He’s an American who was a divisional commander in the Civil War – don’t know whose side he was on. He’s a rather shadowy figure who has, or had, the title of Chief of Staff of the Egyptian army, and I suppose his role was to knock them into shape as a modern force. Now, of course, Arabi will be in charge. I don’t know if Stone’s nose has been put out of joint by all this promotion of the Egyptians and, indeed, the rise of Arabi. He just might be useful, so bear him in mind.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will.
‘Now.’ The General was gesturing to the map again. ‘I want to hear from you within five weeks at the latest. Give me the options on going in and some idea of where Arabi might stand to fight at each place. Use your soldier’s eye to assess the ground. I won’t expect you to dot the I’s and cross the T’s, but if things move as I think they will, I shall have to make plans very quickly – and that means that to help me, you will have to move equally fast.’
‘Who do I report to, sir?’
Wolseley looked at him in surprise. ‘Me, of course, and only me. At this point there is no question of invasion, and if anyone knew I had sent someone into a country with whom our relations are strained to help me plan just that, then there would be hell to pay.’ The General gave his grim smile. ‘Sorry, my boy, but you will be on your own. You will not make contact in Cairo or anywhere else with representatives of Her Majesty’s Government.’
‘Very well. But how do I report to you?’
‘Here.’ Sir Garnet produced a small scrap of unheaded white paper carrying two names. ‘These chaps, Mr Roberts and Mr George, work as clerks for Thomas Cook, the travel agency, which as you must know has tremendous commercial power in Egypt. Roberts is in Alexandria and George in Cairo. They can be trusted completely and will relay cables to me directly. You can’t use code because that could be counterproductive and attract attention. Pretend that I and my family are planning a holiday in Egypt and tell me where to go and what the problems could be. Eh? Got it?’
Simon smiled ruefully. ‘Got it, sir.’
‘Good. Now, as soon as we have landed or I tell you otherwise, I want you to report to me personally on the spot, because there will be further work for you once hostilities have begun. This means, my boy, that the pair of you could be away for some time. Does that cause you problems?’
Simon’s mind flew to Alice and her possible visit to Brecon. He must not be there. ‘No, sir. On the contrary.’
‘Splendid.’ Wolseley walked back to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘While you are in service, you will be paid at the level of major and your Welshman at that of warrant officer second class.’ He withdrew an envelope and gave it to Simon. ‘This is a draft for two hundred guineas for your initial expenses. It will help you to equip yourselves for the trip and, at least initially, to get about the country. Mr George in Cairo can provide further funds when and if needed, but be discreet.’ He gave a smile that didn’t quite reach his eye. ‘This comes from a confidential budget I have here that is by no means limitless, so don’t go about buying elephants or such like. Understood?’
Simon gave an answering smile and nodded his head.
‘Now, Jervis and Hawsbury, just off Piccadilly, can kit you out and will be expecting you this afternoon. They know the country and will be able to advise.’ He handed Simon another envelope. ‘Here are two tickets for the Indian mail wagon lit to Bologna and Brindisi, from which you will board the P & O steamer Cathay for the three-day voyage to Alexandria. You leave the day after tomorrow and you should be in Egypt seven days from then.’ He gave another smile, gentler this time. ‘You see, my dear boy, time is of the essence.’
Simon gave an answering smile and shook his head, almost in disbelief. ‘You seem to have been pretty sure of me, sir.’
Wolseley raised his eyebrows. ‘I trust my judgement in men, Fonthill. I was sure that once you had decided to come and talk to me, you would not resist this request to serve your country in a way that,’ he smiled again, ‘I rather felt would suit you and your man. I remember you telling me in bePedi country that you did not have too high a regard for the regular army after your experiences in Zululand, and indeed, you rejected my offer of a regular commission and promotion. Something irregular, however, I thought would suit your style. I do hope that I am not wrong?’
‘No, sir. I suppose Jenkins and I are destined to be “irregular” for the rest of our lives. For better or worse, as they say.’
‘So you’ll go?’
‘Of course.’
‘Capital. Now, off you go. You have much to do before you set off, and I must apply myself to the pressing question of the quality of the brass buttons being supplied to the Household Cavalry. Goodbye, Fonthill. Thank you, and good luck.’
He held out his hand and Simon shook it. ‘Goodbye, sir.’ Simon had reached the door when he was called back.
‘One more thing – forgot all about it. You remember Covington?’
The name made Simon stand stock still. ‘Of course. What about him?’
Wolseley rose from his chair and sauntered across to Simon with a look of, could it be mischief, in his eye? ‘Well, he has applied to me for permission to rejoin the army, damn it all. He’s only got one arm and one eye, but he wants to come back in to serve and fight. What d’you think of that, Fonthill?’
Simon regarded the General intently. Wolseley knew full well that Simon had knocked Covington down before Rorke’s Drift in Zululand and been court-martialled for it. He might even have received an inkling of Simon’s regard for Alice, now Covington’s wife. Yes, he was playing games, all right.
‘Full marks to him, sir. But it’ll be difficult for him to serve, won’t it, with his disabilities?’
‘Depends. There are precedents. If he can ride, shoot and hold a sword, then I must confess I am tempted to let him come back. I know you had your differences with him, Fonthill, but he was a damned good soldier, y’know. Served me well on the Ashanti campaign. Yes, I’m inclined to give him back his commission. Gad!’ He began to chortle. ‘You might even meet him in Egypt.’
‘That will be a pleasure, General.’
‘Yes, I am sure it will. Goodbye, Fonthill, and good luck.’
Simon paused outside by the iron railings and took a deep breath. Hansom cabs were lined up along Whitehall, nose to tail, interspersed here and there with a few delivery drays. The line seemed to be at
a standstill. An elderly gentleman in top hat and smartly cut overcoat stood waiting for a gap so that he could cross the road. He caught Simon’s eye and gestured with his stick. ‘Gettin’ beyond a joke, this damned traffic,’ he said. ‘Average speed of about seven miles an hour now, I read somewhere. Disgraceful.’
Pulling a face in distant sympathy, Simon began to walk away slowly towards Piccadilly, deep in thought. London’s traffic problems did not occupy his mind, however, nor did the difficulties and dangers facing him in Egypt. They were real enough, but for the moment, they could wait. It was Ralph Covington who loomed before him as he picked his way along the crowded pavement on that March afternoon: Covington with his cold courage and arrogant bearing, his chilling blue eyes and sweeping moustaches; Covington, the husband of the woman he loved; Covington, cruelly disfigured by a bePedi spear, his left arm shattered by an elephant gun – it seemed that he now wore some sort of hook. Simon bared his teeth in anguish. It would be unthinkably cruel if this man who had been his persecutor and competitor for Alice should once again be about to cross his path. Wolseley had seemed to take delight in the prospect. What was it the General had said? ‘No gratuitous killing.’ Of course, he would have been thinking of Jenkins and his fierce reputation as a fighter. And yet . . . Simon shrugged his shoulders. If, during this difficult assignment, Ralph Covington stood in his way, then there would be nothing gratuitous about the result. He strode on, trying now to concentrate on the requirements for the journey ahead.
Chapter 4
