The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘No. Mr Jonkins say that you will leave for Alexandria soon.’ Again he tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘This is not a good place for Europeans to go, I can say. I do not know what you do but I know you cannot speak Arabic and you do not know ways of Egyptians and you could be in danger there. Ahmed can help with the . . .’ he sought the appropriate word, ‘translations and where you stay for nights, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’ His words came more quickly as the value of his offer became apparent to him. ‘I am fellaheen from the country by the Nile, but I came to Cairo and was young man in bazaars. I am familiar with the, er, dirty things, you know?’

  Jenkins’s smile was matched by Simon’s frown and Ahmed hurried to correct the misapprehension. ‘No, not those dirty things . . . ladies and such like. No. I mean,’ the finger went to the nose again, ‘those things you cannot buy in shops. I know the dirty men who can get things not legal, like guns, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, you know?’

  ‘An’ whisky?’ enquired Jenkins.

  ‘Oh whisky, most definitely.’

  Gradually the worth of Ahmed’s proposal began to grow on Simon. They were travelling in a country of which they had little knowledge and which was quite likely to go to war with their own. They did not speak the language and knew little of the customs of the Egyptians. They would probably have to go into war zones, even perhaps behind enemy lines. Ahmed could be invaluable. But there were dangers.

  ‘It really is most kind of you to offer to join us,’ said Simon, ‘but perhaps we might have to do things with which you would not agree. May I ask you how you feel about Colonel Arabi and his movement?’

  ‘Ah.’ Ahmed frowned and rocked slightly on his haunches. ‘Because I am fellaheen, at first I support Ahmed Arabi. There is too much taxation of fellaheen. But he goes too fast, too far. He is peasant and does not understand business like I do.’ He waved a deprecatory hand. ‘He want to throw out Turks and British business. If he take over government, what do we do? We lose nice British people coming here for Nile. He wants big Canal back. How? We sold it, so we must buy it back. But we have no money. No. Arabi is soldier. Soldiers cannot run governments. Mr Gladstone like poor people and want to help fellaheen and pushes Turks that way, so I support Khedive now. I think you do too, yes?’

  Simon exchanged a grin with Jenkins. There seemed no doubting Ahmed’s sincerity, his thinking was shrewd and he had proved resourceful and helpful in the past. He decided to trust him.

  ‘Yes, Ahmed,’ he said. ‘We do. We work for the British government and the Khedive. We do not want Colonel Arabi to depose him. The British do not want war but they may have to invade, perhaps with the French, to stop Arabi from causing a revolt throughout Egypt. We are working to prepare the way for the British to come in if they need to do so. That is our task and it is difficult and dangerous. I am not sure that you would really want to be part of it. After all, it could lead to loss of Egyptian lives.’

  Ahmed’s eyes lost their sparkle for a moment. ‘Ah yes, that would not be nice.’ He thought for a moment and then looked up. ‘But sometimes it is necessary to chop off finger to save leg – no, arm. Yes? I do not want this big colonel to bring his troops into Cairo and . . . what is the word? Ah yes, bully, is the word. I do not want him to threaten to remove head of Khedive, et cetera. He goes too far and must be stopped. British only people who can stop him. I read Mr Gladstone’s speeches and like what he says. I help you, I think.’

  Simon’s thoughts flashed for a moment to someone else, far away, who also admired the liberally minded British Prime Minister. Someone with fair hair, steadfast grey eyes and skin the texture of . . . He coughed. ‘But Ahmed, you have a fine business here. What about your hotel? We could be away for several months, you know.’

  Ahmed waved his hand again. ‘That is not a problem, effendi. I have brother-in-law who will manage the hotel while I am away. You see,’ his eyes grew sad, ‘my wife she died a year ago now. I am very sad. I am also very, er, monotonous – no, that is not the word. Bored, that is the word. I am bored. I have money. I would not want you to pay me, but I would like to do . . .’ his eyes flashed again and the white teeth appeared under the neat moustache, ‘exciting things. Yes. Exciting things. I think you do exciting things, yes?’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins, ‘you’ve come to the right place, all right.’

  Simon made up his mind. ‘Right,’ he said, standing and holding out his hand. ‘Ahmed, you have just become part of the team.’ Grinning, they shook hands. ‘Also part of the family. From now on, there is no more effendi. You will call me Simon, and Jenkins 352 – no,’ he held up his hand, ‘don’t ask, it’s too complicated. Just call him that. We cannot pay you, I am afraid, but I will bear all the costs we incur and, yes, you will be a great help. Now, to be practical. We need to leave for Alexandria as soon as possible in the morning. Can you do that?’

  ‘Oh yes. When we go, we have to go, I think. Yes?’

  ‘Oh blimey, bach,’ said Jenkins, ‘that’s about right.’

  ‘Very well. Now, 352, go off to the station and buy us all tickets for Alexandria by the first train. Oh, all right then. Here.’ He handed Jenkins his half-full glass. ‘Finish it off. But straight back, mind you.’

  The next morning found them comfortably seated in a first-class carriage on the 8.15 for Alexandria. Ahmed had changed his Arab dress for a white cotton suit, impeccably pressed, and he looked the very epitome of an Egyptian businessman – so much so, in fact, that Simon felt distinctly scruffy sitting beside him in his desert travelling slacks and shirt. The train was billed as an express, but in fact it made several unscheduled stops at the little two-storey wooden buildings where railway officials both lived and worked and where the driver smoked a cigarette and took coffee with his friends. Here Arab boys ran along the trackside calling up to Simon: ‘I say, John. Buy orange?’ It was not unpleasant, rolling along, watching the flatlands of the Nile pass outside their window. Ahmed had insisted on providing provisions for the journey, and they contentedly munched cold chicken and delicate cucumbers stuffed with forced meats, followed by ruby pomegranates, washed down by a bottle or two of Hadji Hodson beer, although Ahmed, of course, abstained from the latter. Simon exchanged a glance of approval with Jenkins. So far, Ahmed was proving to be an undoubtedly fine addition to the partnership.

  Inevitably, Ahmed knew exactly where they should stay in Alexandria. It was a little hotel, a few streets back from the harbour, not quite in the native quarter but certainly not smart enough for most Europeans. ‘My cousin’s hotel,’ explained Ahmed. ‘She very confidential lady. She don’t want to know anything. Good, eh?’

  Once installed, Simon decided that he should check with Mr Roberts for cables, and the three walked through the streets to the Thomas Cook offices in the heart of town. Once again the absence of Europeans from the streets was noticeable, and an air of menace hung over the wide avenues – much more apparent than in Cairo, where the crowds in the narrow streets and their noise seemed somehow to dilute the promise of danger. Alexandria, however, shared with the capital the presence of Egyptian soldiers, lolling in doorways, sitting smoking outside cafés and sauntering along the pavements. To Simon, it seemed that their numbers had increased considerably since they had landed here a few weeks before.

  Mr Roberts confirmed this. He was the antithesis of Mr George in Cairo, although he obviously shared the same strange personal relationship with General Wolseley. Broad as an ironclad, and with a waxed moustache that seemed to project past his ears, he had been, he freely offered, a sergeant with Wolseley in the latter’s Ashanti campaign, and owed his job to the General, although how long he would keep it with revolt around the corner he would not care to say.

  ‘What’s the latest then, Mr Roberts?’ asked Simon.

  Leaning on his counter, Roberts looked proprietorial. ‘The latest, my dear sir, is that a British and French fleet is on its way and will anchor in the bay. The idea is to face down Arabi and his lot
and make sure that British and French nationals here – who all have the wind up, I can tell you – are protected if violence breaks out.’

  ‘Has there been any trouble so far?’

  ‘Yes. Europeans have been stoned in the streets and others more directly attacked. Representations have been made to the Khedive, but that poor bugger can do nothing about it. He’s a prisoner in his own palace in Cairo. The Turks are supposed to be sending somebody important from Constantinople to restore order, but I can’t see that stopping Arabi. He wants the Turks out anyway – or a new constitution to protect native Egyptians. It’ll be war, I’m afraid.’

  He selected a small key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into a box set into the wall behind him. From within he produced a folded piece of paper. ‘From Sir Garnet, for you, sir. Came this morning.’

  Simon read:

  THANKS YOUR ADVICE AND INFO STOP FATHER HAS GIVEN PERMISSION TO PREPARE HOLIDAY STOP WILL GIVE YOUR VIEWS CAREFUL THOUGHT STOP WILL INFORM YOU VIA COOKS STOP GIVE MY LOVE TO AUNT ADA STOP COUSIN GARNET

  Carefully pocketing the cable, Simon grinned. He was beginning to enjoy this new intimacy with England’s Adjutant General. How he wished he could flaunt it before Colonel Ralph Covington!

  Mr Roberts leaned across his counter and gazed at the three of them in turn. ‘Now, all you gentlemen must be very careful walking home. It’s really quite dangerous now at this time of the late afternoon, just when it’s getting dark. Take care, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Roberts,’ said Simon. ‘We will be careful.’

  ‘Bit of an old windbag, wasn’t ’e?’ growled Jenkins as they walked away. ‘Looks quiet enough to me.’

  But it was not. They had just turned into a street parallel to the harbourside when the first stone took Jenkins squarely in the back. He staggered for a moment – as much from the shock as from any injury sustained – and they all turned to see four Arabs running towards them, throwing stones as they came.

  Ahmed threw up his hand. ‘Go into doorway,’ he said to his companions. ‘I tell them you Americans and stop throwing.’

  ‘No, Ahmed,’ shouted Simon, but the little man was already running towards their assailants, waving and shouting to them in Arabic.

  Ahmed’s approach halted the stoning for a moment, and Simon and Jenkins, huddled in a doorway, watched as the little man argued with what seemed like great eloquence, turning and pointing towards them, then spreading his hands as though in supplication. At first he seemed to have gained an audience, but suddenly the largest of the Arabs pushed him in the chest, so strongly that he fell on to his back. Then all four began kicking him.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘Don’t use your knife except as a last resort. Run straight at ’em, fast. Go!’

  The two sprinted as quickly as they could to the little group, some twenty yards away. At first, the Arabs were so intent on kicking Ahmed that they did not notice that they in turn were being attacked, and Jenkins’s lowered head took the largest of the four squarely in the midriff as, too late, he turned. Simon had no time to see the sequel, for he now crashed into two of the others, his arms outstretched, taking each of them around the waist and bringing them down.

  Unencumbered by a long gown, he gained his feet first and kicked the nearest man in the face as he attempted to rise, then swung his boot into the other’s midriff. As he did so, he felt a blow on the head that sent him staggering. Another and then another rained on to his shoulders as he turned to face his assailant. The fourth Arab had produced a stave and had it raised in both hands to bring it down again when Ahmed, his beautifully pressed white suit now covered in mud and dust, caught him behind the knees, like a spaniel harrying a bull. The two went down together, but again Simon had no time to witness the outcome, for the man whom he had kicked in the stomach was now upon him, enveloping him in a bear-like hug and lifting him off the ground. He crashed Simon against a wall and pulled back his head to butt him in the face, but he had telegraphed the action and Simon was able, at the last minute, to lean his head to the right so that the blow caught him on the side of the cheek. At the same time, he was able to slip his hand down to the Arab’s groin, grab his testicles through the loose folds of his garment and squeeze them tightly.

  The man howled and loosened his grip so that Simon was able to knee him in the groin and push him away. A glance to his right showed that the Arab whom Ahmed had tackled was now on top of the little Egyptian, both hands round his neck and, judging by the colour of Ahmed’s face, attempting to strangle him. Simon swung his boot again – what it was to have Jenkins as his dirty fighting mentor! – and caught the man high on the cheekbone. It was enough to send him rolling away from Ahmed. Simon saw a sizeable stone on the ground, obviously from the arsenal the Arabs had been using; he grabbed it quickly and swung it down on the man’s head. A second blow was enough for him to subside on to the ground with a grunt.

  Wearily, and panting to get his breath, Simon turned just in time to take evasive action as a knife swung at his face. He lowered his head, ducking under the man’s arm, and swung a succession of short-armed punches into his midriff, forcing the man back by sheer aggression until the Arab’s heel caught the inert form of the stave-wielder and he too went sprawling.

  His breast heaving, blood trickling down his cheek on to his chin and then his shirt, Simon surveyed the scene. A grinning Jenkins was wiping his knife on the burnous of one of the two Arabs lying on the ground. Ahmed – dishevelled but grinning – was on his hands and knees trying to regain his feet, and of the other two Arabs there was no sign.

  ‘Oh God,’ panted Simon to Jenkins. ‘You didn’t kill anyone, did you?’

  ‘Good lord, no, bach sir. You told me not to. So I just stuck a couple of the perishers who drew knives on me in the arm, look you, an’ they was off like rabbits when they saw that two could play that game, see. Anyway, most of the time I was just standin’ back and watchin’ you two fightin’ like tigers. Most impressive, I must say. Good old Amen.’

  ‘Thank you, eff . . . 352.’ The Egyptian wiped dust from his eye and tried to adjust his tie, but failed. He looked up again with a smile. ‘I did not know this would be so exciting so soon. Does this sort of thing,’ he waved his hand, ‘et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, happen often?’

  ‘Every Tuesday, Amen,’ grinned Jenkins. ‘Every Tuesday.’

  ‘Are these two all right?’ asked Simon, gesturing to the prostrate Arabs.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jenkins. He pointed. ‘That one – the one you punched in the belly so nicely – is just fakin’. The other one I tapped on the ’ead with a bit of stone just to discourage ’im from gettin’ up, see.’

  ‘Sure? I don’t want to leave any corpses.’

  ‘Absolutely, bach sir. No lastin’ ’arm done – although by golly they deserve it.’

  ‘Right.’ Simon extended his hand to Ahmed. ‘You did marvellously, Ahmed, and I am so sorry that you got involved in the mess. Three five two was just joking. We don’t usually get caught up in this sort of thing. And I am particularly sorry about the suit.’

  The little Egyptian tried to brush the stains from his once white jacket. ‘Ah yes. It is a pity. It was my best. Still,’ the grin came back, ‘I shall brush when it is dry and then it will wash clean again.’ A sudden thought struck him and the smile was lost again. ‘Unless, that is, we shall be fighting again tomorrow. Should I leave it dirty, do you think?’

  ‘No, old chap. I don’t want to get involved in this sort of brawl again, thank you very much.’ Simon winced as Jenkins attempted to clear the blood away from his face with a soiled handkerchief. ‘Come on. Let us get away from here back to the hotel to clean up.’

  Darkness had fallen as they moved away, but a backward glance from Simon showed that both the inert Arabs had miraculously come to life and stolen away. They all felt conspicuous in their bloodstained, soiled clothing, but the darkness helped to shroud them, and within five minutes they had gained the refuge of the little hotel.
Ahmed’s cousin was, indeed, ‘confidential’, for if she was surprised at their condition, she gave no sign. Baths for the three of them stretched the hotel’s resources, but it was managed somehow. Jenkins and Ahmed had walked away from the fight with only light bruises, and Simon’s wounds to the head and face were found to be comparatively superficial, demanding only the application of a little antiseptic and a light dressing.

  ‘We were lucky,’ said Simon as they gathered together that evening for a meal of kebabs beautifully cooked by Ahmed’s cousin in a sauce of plums and herbs. ‘Things are hotting up here and I don’t think we should go parading about like that again. Given that we’ve caused a bit of damage, what’s left of that gang could be looking out for us.’

  Jenkins sucked his fingers. ‘Well, if Amen’s auntie or whatever she is is goin’ to carry on cookin’ like this, I don’t mind lyin’ low for a while.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Simon frowned. ‘But I don’t want to be holed up here. I want to see what Arabi is doing to the city’s defences.’

  ‘Ah, er, Simon . . .’ Ahmed still found it difficult to address Simon by his Christian name. ‘Perhaps I make a suggestion? Yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You both dark people. I dress you before like Arabs and you look very well. Let us do that again. I find glabya,’ he indicated the long, loose garment he was wearing, ‘for you, and also burnous, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. You will be good Arabs, I think. Yes?’

  Simon smiled. ‘Ahmed, you are worth your weight in gold. I should have thought of that. Can you do it tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. Then we go, er, strolling again. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenkins. ‘Let’s ’ave a good stroll in our nighties. Why not?’

  Chapter 6

  Alice Covington threw down her copy of the Morning Post in disgust and put a hand to her brow. There was no doubt about it, Gladstone was going to invade Egypt! Gladstone, her radical, anti-imperialist, caring hero was about to don the mantle of Disraeli, the great jingoist, and send troops to occupy a patch of gravel and sand in northern Africa. Oh, he was talking of ‘reintroducing stability’ to the country, but once in, she was sure the troops would not leave. The City demanded that Britain protect the great ditch that was the Suez Canal, and so another piece of foreign soil would be added to the British Empire. Gladstone was showing that he was really just like the rest of them: political aggrandisers anxious to placate the merchants and financiers who grew rich from the pickings of empire. Oh, how she hated them all!