by John Wilcox
‘Careful, bach. Shout if you need me.’
Simon took the stairs two at a time, and a disturbing sight met his eyes as he reached the ground-floor reception area. The fire from the upstairs window had indeed halted the attack of the battering ram – for the moment at least. But the windows had now become a target for entry. Two men had already climbed through, and Simon was just in time to see Ahmed bring down the first with a blow across the knees with his scimitar. Blunt or not, the sword was as effective as a tackle from a two-hundred-pound rugby footballer, and the man went sprawling across the floor, cracking his head on the tiling. The second intruder was being incongruously but bravely faced by a young clerk from upstairs who held a chair before him like a lion-tamer. Simon shot the Arab before he could circumvent the clerk’s awkward defence and released a second shot at a form that presented itself at the same shattered window. Cocking the Colt quickly, he fired again at a head that had appeared at the second window.
‘You four,’ Simon shouted to a group of the refugees who were standing indeterminedly watching the action, ‘grab those tables and wedge them into the windows. You two, push these desks against the door. Ahmed, are you all right?’
The Egyptian was standing, almost forlorn, fingering the edge of his scimitar. ‘Very all right, Simon. I think this is a good fighting day. But I am afraid my father’s sword is damned blunt, look you.’
Simon could not keep back the grin at the acquired Welshness of the little man. ‘You seem to be doing pretty well with it so far. Well done. Now stand by the windows, and if anyone tries to climb through before the tables are in, whack them with your blunt sword.’
Above the howling of the mob Simon could hear the crack of Jenkins’s Colt and the firing of the buckshot from the first floor. The blows of the battering ram had not been renewed but the tables now being awkwardly thrust into the windows were being met with a hail of bricks and stones, and the occasional musket ball was still thudding into the thick timber of the front door. Even so, the flimsy defences seemed to be holding for the moment, so Simon ran back up the stairs and across to Jenkins.
‘There’s a couple of them still with muskets or rifles,’ he said. ‘Can you see ’em?’
Jenkins peered out. ‘No, but we’ve stopped the bastards bangin’ away at the door . . . oops, no we ’aven’t.’ A crash from below confirmed his words.
Simon looked down. The Arabs had taken advantage of a pause in the defensive fire, as the shotgun, the fowling piece and Jenkins’s Colt were reloaded at the same time, to pick up their ram and relaunch it against the door. Simon turned. ‘Ladies. Where the hell is the boiling water?’
‘Now, young man. There is no need to use such language. We are doing our best.’ The mature lady was staggering towards him carrying a huge bowl of steaming water.
Simon leapt to her aid. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said, relieving her of her load. ‘Is there more to come?’
‘Boiling now.’ As she spoke, two more women emerged from a corridor at the back of the room, carrying another steaming pannier between them.
‘Jenkins,’ shouted Simon, ‘open the window wide and grab the other pot.’ With care, he positioned himself on the edge of the windowsill. Looking down, he waited until the Arabs with the battering ram shuffled forward once more, and then tipped the boiling water on to their heads. The screams were as satisfying a sound as Simon had heard since arriving in Alexandria. As he watched, he heard Jenkins intone from the other window, ‘One, two, three, go!’ And the contents of the second, larger pannier showered down in all its hissing menace.
‘Well done, young man.’ The matronly woman patted Simon on the shoulder. ‘I had a feeling you had something in mind at this juncture other than making tea. We will get you some more water.’
He grinned his thanks at her and immediately put her into the same category as the counsul’s wife: brave, calm and resourceful. Where would the British Empire be without women like that?
The elderly man with the shotgun beckoned across to Simon. ‘I think the varmints have had enough,’ he said. ‘They’re getting thinner down there. They probably think we’re too tough a nut to crack and they’re slipping away to find easier game elsewhere.’
And so it seemed. The musket fire had stopped, and by the light of the red glare, figures could be seen moving away. Certainly the battering ram had been dropped and the ring that had formerly been pressing up to the door and windows had melted away. Two more shots from Jenkins’s revolver seemed to hasten the exodus, and within a couple of minutes, the street in front of the bank had become completely deserted, except for seven prostrate figures marking the accuracy of the defenders’ fire. Three more lay on the ground, clutching buckshot wounds.
Simon turned to the bearded man. ‘I think we should get them inside and see if we can tend to their injuries.’
The man gave him a quizzical glance. ‘If you think so, although I’m not sure they deserve it.’
‘Will you organise it, sir, perhaps with the ladies’ help? We ought to be on our way, in case we can give a hand to others.’
‘Of course.’ He put his head out of the window and then turned back to Simon. ‘But are you sure you want to go roaming around the streets through the night? There are lots of fires burning now and it looks as though the mobs are out in force. They can be quite frightening.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘They knocked the wind out of us here, I can tell you. Feel quite ashamed, in fact. Thank God you came and put a bit of backbone into us.’
‘We’ll be all right. It looks as though we are passing for Arabs well enough. Do you know if there are any Europeans nearby who have stayed in their homes?’
‘Must be a few. Not everybody wanted to clear off in the boats and just leave their houses to the mob. Those of us in here felt that we couldn’t put up a fight on our own and that we would have greater security in the bank.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Just shows you that banks are never as safe as you think they are.’ He put out a hand. ‘But if you must go, God speed to you and take care.’
‘Goodbye.’ Simon grinned. ‘If the symptoms return, repeat the dose of buckshot and hot water.’
Outside the bank, the three men stood guard for a while as the wounded rioters were carried – none too gently – inside. Then the big doors were bolted behind them and they set off, picking their way over the rubble, to where the sky seemed to be glowing the deepest red.
‘We can’t take ’em all on, bach sir,’ growled Jenkins. ‘That’ll just be askin’ for trouble, look you.’
‘I know. We can’t stop the looting but we might be able to help one or two families holed up in their homes. We’ve got to try. We can’t just stand by.’
Simon looked around in despair as they turned a corner and saw a line of once elegant houses, all with their fronts torn open and displaying the most intimate details of their domesticity: beds with their sheets torn and hanging, pictures askew on fire-ravaged walls, chairs spilling out their soft fillings like intestines torn from corpses. These were obviously all victims of the shelling, but further along, more sinister sights met their eyes. Houses spared the bombardment had obviously been deliberately set afire. Men were tossing burning torches into their interiors while others ran in and out, dodging the flames and carrying away ornaments, paintings and pieces of furniture. Worse still, the bodies of men, women and children, some wearing night clothing, lay strewn across the pavement. Simon and Jenkins wrinkled their noses in disgust.
‘Bastards,’ said Jenkins, and drew out his revolver.
‘No.’ Simon shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s go where there is gunfire. Listen. Yes, here.’
They turned into a side street at the end of which a small crowd had gathered in front of a white stucco house. Three in the mob had rifles and they were firing them at a half-open tall window behind a small wrought-iron balcony, from which a man, incongruously wearing a white pith helmet, was attempting to return the fire with a pistol. Others in the crowd
were trying, so far abortively, to set fire to the wooden door.
‘What . . .?’ asked Jenkins.
‘Straight into the middle and kill the ones with guns,’ said Simon. ‘Short range. Shock tactics. You, Ahmed, stay on the edge, and if we get into trouble, shout again that the sailors are coming.’
Jenkins frowned but nodded, as did Ahmed.
Simon and Jenkins edged their way along the wall of houses until they were immediately under the balcony and facing the mob. They did so unnoticed, for they appeared to be just two more from the desert or the town anxious to join in the pillaging. Then, backs to the wall, they drew their Colts and fired at the riflemen. At such short range they could not miss, and all three fell. Coolly cocking their hammers, the pair turned their fire on to the front row of the Arabs, bringing down four more. At this, the rest turned and fled, their sandals making a despairing flapping noise on the cobbles as they ran for their lives. Within seconds the street had been cleared.
Simon stepped out from underneath the balcony. ‘Are you all right up there?’ he called.
Cautiously the man in the helmet peered over the edge, his revolver at the ready. ‘Who on earth are you? Are you English?’
‘Half Welsh. Anyone injured up there?’
‘No. Sent my family off in a steamer three days ago. Stayed on to defend the place. I don’t intend to let the buggers have it. God bless you for turning up like this. Can you stay?’
‘No. Do you have ammunition?’
‘Yes. Plenty.’
Jenkins appeared. ‘If they come back, bach, try pourin’ boilin’ water over ’em. They ’ate it.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ said Simon. ‘We’ll call back later, if we can. Good luck.’
Several times during that long night the same scene was repeated, as the three men intervened crucially to disperse would-be pillagers attacking homes in the town. They had to exercise care, for of course in every case they were outnumbered, but they had the advantage of surprise, and Simon’s shock tactics always prevailed. As dawn broke, the trio, soot-stained and weary, made their way back towards the haven of Fatima’s hotel. But before they reached it, Alexandria, battered, smoking and bleeding had one more surprise for Simon.
They had long ago decided against attempting to prevent looting, and so, as they passed one more empty building with its attendant pillagers swarming over it like ants, they walked on by. But the presence of one seemingly familiar figure, who looked as though he was in charge of the looting, in that he was directing the loading of objects on to a cart, made Simon pause. He walked across.
‘Mr George again, isn’t it?’ he enquired.
The little man started and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. His face was smoke-blackened and the celluloid collar glimpsed from under his Arab burnous was filthy, but his features were unmistakable.
‘Oh, hello, sir,’ he said, and gave a weak smile. ‘Fancy seeing you again.’
‘What on earth are you doing, Mr George?’
‘Oh, er, this, you mean?’ He gave a sweep of his hand, as though Simon might be referring to something else. ‘Just trying to save a few objets d’art from the house of one of the company’s clients, you know.’
Simon’s jaw dropped and he looked at the Arabs running in and out of the house. They appeared to be no different from any of the other looters they had seen during the course of the long night. ‘What? Are these your chaps?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Got to find help where we can. Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I’d better be getting on. There are plenty of others about this morning who would like this stuff. Nice to see you again, sir.’
Simon shook his head. Thomas Cook certainly seemed to look after their customers. Then he joined the others and walked away. It had been a long, fraught night and he was very tired.
Chapter 9
At approximately the time when Simon was entering Alexandria for the second time, Alice Covington sat waiting for Colonel Arabi. It was proving to be a tiresome and timeconsuming business, and with a toss of her head, Alice consulted the little watch on her fob. The dashed man had kept her waiting now for nearly an hour and a half. She tapped her foot on the mosaic floor of the corridor – the army headquarters in Cairo used to be a palace, and traces of its noble ancestry shone through the prosaic nature of its usage now. Still, she was inside the HQ at last and she was damned if she was going to leave until she had seen the Colonel. He had refused all previous requests from the foreign press for an interview, and to get this far was a triumph. She must hang on!
She dipped into her handbag and read again the rough copy she had made of the letter to him that, to her surprise, had resulted in his agreeing to meet her. It had been a gamble, of sorts, but it had worked – at least, so far:. . . If I may say so, we share certain features in common. You are a member of the fellaheen who has made his way to the top of a profession dominated by Caucasians purely on merit, and I am the only woman currently serving as a foreign correspondent on a British daily newspaper staffed almost completely by men. I hope that you find the comparison neither impertinent nor inappropriate, for I have much personal sympathy with your cause and would like to record your point of view.
I must confess that that sympathy is not shared completely by the British people nor by the main newspapers in England that serve them – including, I am afraid, my own. This is because your viewpoint has never, to my knowledge, been presented fairly to them. This I would like to do through the medium of an interview with you. I cannot promise to convey outright propaganda but I can promise to articulate your views as fairly as I possibly can. Enquiries will show that I have a reputation for empathetic and accurate reporting from conflicts in which Britain has been recently involved in Zululand, Afghanistan and the Transvaal . . .
‘The Colonel will see you now, madam.’ Alice looked up into the impassive face of a tall Egyptian wearing a fez.
She pushed the letter back into her bag, rose and, resisting the temptation to say, ‘About time,’ murmured instead, ‘How kind of him.’
She was ushered into a surprisingly small room, very plainly furnished, containing only one desk and two chairs and dominated by a large man, in a plain uniform, who rose to greet her. Alice looked at him keenly. Now in early middle age, he had the build and appearance of a peasant: tall, broad and running to corpulence, with a large fleshy nose and great sweeping moustaches. It was his eyes, however, that held her. They were black, of course, and they seemed to contain a sadness that spoke of hardship and disappointment. She knew that he had the reputation of being a great orator – the Tories in England, of course, called him a ‘rabble-rouser’ – and she quickly sensed how he could sway an audience, for he had an air of charismatic command that strangely reminded her of Gladstone. He had joined the army as a boy and had been raised by Ismail Pasha, the previous khedive, to commissioned rank and then colonel, an almost unheard-of progression. Then, as he languished without promotion for years under the present khedive, he had begun to agitate for better conditions for the army and been cashiered for insubordination, only to rejoin again with a short-service commission. His agitation had met with some success in that he had secured an increase in pay for all ranks, and he had gradually become acknowledged as a spokesman for the army, making further demands and not being afraid to march with his regiment on Cairo with drawn sabres to enforce them. Now he was Minister for War and, it was widely assumed, plotting to remove the rule of Turkey and the influence of the Great Powers.
He smiled at her and gestured to one of the two chairs. ‘Welcome, miss,’ he said, in a voice deep and rich – she could see how he could hold a crowd. ‘My English, not good. This man talk for me.’
Alice noticed for the first time that a small Egyptian in a white suit was standing deferentially in a corner. He smiled at her and she nodded to him and then held out her hand to the Colonel. He paused for a moment and then took it, holding it limply. Alice presumed that this was probably the first
time he had ever touched a white woman. She sat.
‘Please tell the Colonel,’ she said to the interpreter, ‘how honoured I am that he has agreed to see me. I realise how busy he is and therefore, with his permission, I will begin immediately by asking him some questions.’
Arabi nodded, although Alice felt that his sad eyes assumed a rather apprehensive expression. She took a deep breath. ‘Do you wish to depose the Khedive?’ she asked.
She sensed the interpreter almost wince at the directness of the question. The Colonel was probably more used to the sycophancy of those beneath and around him and to the more pliant modes of address used by the diplomats and statesmen with whom increasingly he had to deal these days. But he answered it directly enough, talking fluently in Arabic, using his huge shoulders and his hands in emphasis.
No, he replied, the Khedive was his master and he was loyal to him and to the Turkish empire, of which Egypt would forever be a part. Similarly, he did not wish the removal of British and French influence in Egypt. It had been proved that their financial expertise was necessary for the continued economic growth of his country. British residents, in particular, had nothing to fear from him.
Why, then, was the country in a state of unrest and near revolt, with foreigners being jostled in the streets? Ah, that was because the justified demands of the people were not being met and, regrettably, some of the ordinary people blamed high taxation on foreign demands. A new constitution was needed that would give all Egyptians more say in their affairs, and the army needed to be strengthened by the promotion of more people, like himself, from the fellaheen class so that it could be more representative.
And so it went on. As Alice asked her questions and laboriously wrote down the answers – oh, how she wished she had mastered shorthand! – she became increasingly aware that she was dealing with a man who was probably sincere in his radical view of the need for greater liberalisation of the Egyptian people but who would stop at nothing to get it, including force, once he had moulded the army to his satisfaction. He was, after all, a soldier. Was he being duplicitous in some of his more contradictory answers, or was he merely displaying the ingenuousness of the peasant? Difficult to tell. A strange and not unlikeable man on the surface, but also a potentially dangerous one.
