by John Wilcox
A slow flush had crept over Alice’s face as she listened, forgetting even to take a note. Eventually she said, very quietly, ‘You obviously didn’t get their names, but can you describe them?’
The bearded man pursed his lips as he concentrated. ‘The leader was quite a young chap, probably ex-army because he knew what he was doing. Strange face. Broken nose, I think. The Welshman had a bristling black moustache, and though he was much smaller, he had shoulders as broad as a barn door. The little Egyptian . . .’
‘No, don’t worry about him. Do you know where they came from or where they might be now?’
‘Sorry, I don’t have the faintest idea, I’m afraid. They did come back in the early morning to see if we were all right, but I haven’t seen hair or hide of them since. Pity. They should all get a medal.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alice. ‘You have been most helpful. I think I will retire now. It’s been a long day.’
Alice crept back to her corner and found that her hand was shaking as she poured into the bottle cap what was left of her brandy. Simon and 352! It had to be. They were here! – or, at least, they had been in the city a few days ago. It could only be them: the young one with the broken nose taking charge of the defence; the Welshman with the barndoor shoulders. There could not be such a distinctive pair anywhere else in the world. She slipped into her bedroll and lay there, hugging herself with joy. Oh, how she prayed that they had not left Alex! The thought of seeing Simon again – and genuinely by accident, without her losing pride or respectability by seeking him out – sent a shiver down her spine. Then she frowned and knuckled away the moistness that had crept into her eyes. This would never do. She was a married woman and she would not, she must not, go back on the pledge that she had made so many months ago. No. There would be no question of that. But it would be so good to see them both again. Of course it would. She settled herself down to sleep and the aches in her bones soon prompted a dream that she was riding on a camel across a stone-hard desert, towards a distant church in an oasis where Simon was waiting to marry her.
At eight thirty the next morning, Alice made her way down to the inner harbour and found that life there was beginning to re-emerge after the hostilities. A boatman agreed to take her out to the Invincible, and she sat in the stern making notes as she passed each of the ironclads. The Alexandra, the Penelope, the Monarch, the Superb, the Temeraire, the Sultan and the Invincible all seemed to have come through the gun battle with the shore batteries comparatively unharmed, although there were gashes on their superstructures and indentations on their hulls where the thick armour plating had resisted the Egyptian shells. The smaller gunboats showed more evidence of the fight, but she had little time to take further notes, for the boat was now approaching the flagship’s companionway.
Alice had dressed as well as she could for the interview with the Admiral, for she had discovered many months ago when first she had arrived on the overwhelmingly masculine scene at Cape Town that her appearance was a distinct asset when it came to opening doors with the military. But the bank had provided no facilities, of course, to enable her to clean or press the few garments she had been able to roll into her pack on the donkey. Nevertheless, she had made an effort. Her long hair had been tied back with a soft wisp of silk, and a matching shirt of green cotton, looking fresh in the morning sun, if a little wrinkled, was tucked into her jodhpurs. As a mark of professional intent, she wore her long riding boots, from which she had managed to wipe much of the desert sand. She smiled radiantly up at the startled face that appeared at the top of the gangway.
‘Permission to come aboard, please? I have an appointment with the Admiral.’
The face above broke into a grin. ‘I should rather say so, miss. Very much so. Come aboard.’
She had half expected to be turned away by the Admiral, for she had read somewhere before setting out that he was a gruff sea dog of the old order and she doubted if he would take kindly to being bearded without invitation in his lair by a woman journalist. She had written down his full name: Vice Admiral Sir Frederick Beauchamp Paget Seymour. Looking at it as she dressed that morning, her radical lip had curled. The very name sounded like a roll call of privilege. In fact, however, the Admiral proved to be charm personified. Perhaps the hyperbolic flattery had worked. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
‘Sit down, dear lady,’ Seymour said as she was ushered into his day cabin. His face positively beamed behind his fearsome whiskers. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ He looked at the card in his hand. ‘The Morning Post, indeed. My daily reading when I am at home. And yes, I have heard of you. You seem to have established quite a reputation in a short time. But I am amazed to find you here. No British journalists came out with my squadron, and as far as I know, there were none in Alex when this . . . this mess began.’
Alice smiled. As an expert in the field, she knew flattery when she heard it. ‘No, Sir Frederick. As I expect you know, Colonel Arabi has closed down the rail route to Cairo, so I came by horseback, with a camel train.’ She looked down and then back up at him through her eyelashes. ‘I came alone and it was a question of roughing it. That is why I look such an awful mess, I’m afraid.’
‘How intrepid of you! But goodness, you look perfectly delightful to me, madam. Now, how do you take your tea?’
They chatted inconsequentially and half flirted as they took tea and some excellent muffins, both of which Alice accepted with gratitude, for she had had no breakfast. Then she began gently probing the Admiral, starting uncontentiously by asking him about the damage inflicted on his ships by the shore batteries and the effect that his guns, in turn, had had on them. She learned that he had taken the decision to issue the ultimatum when his searchlights had shown that, despite assurances, the Egyptians were expanding their defences and he felt that his squadron was under threat.
‘Perhaps,’ she said ingenuously, her eyes wide, ‘they felt that your squadron, with all these magnificent ironclads anchored out here off the port with their huge guns, was threatening them.’
‘What?’ Seymour looked at her sharply, but the question seemed to have been asked in all innocence. ‘Good lord, no. They knew that we were just there to protect British nationals in case trouble broke out.’
‘I see.’ Alice sucked her pencil, rather like a schoolgirl attempting to find her way through a difficult problem of mathematics. ‘But why, then, did the French squadron sail away when you issued the ultimatum? Didn’t they have nationals to protect? I understood that the two powers were supposed to work in concert.’
‘Good lord. You know what the French are like. They’re off at the first sniff of grapeshot.’
‘Ah yes. The French . . .’ She left unsaid her obvious agreement with him on the question of France’s typical perfidiousness. ‘Sir Frederick, it must have been quite brave of you to fire first. Did you have orders from the Admiralty to do so?’
‘What?’ The great eyebrows came down. ‘No. Had full powers granted to me here to do what was necessary to protect my fleet.’
Alice put down her pencil and, tilting her head on one side, gave him her sweetest smile. ‘So I suppose we are at war with Egypt now, then, Admiral. Is that so?’
‘At war . . . no. Well, not exactly. No declaration has been made. No. Of course we’re not at war. Well, not yet, anyway. Soon will be, though. Wolseley’s on his way.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Damn! This must have been announced while she was on the road with those blasted camels. ‘General Wolseley and I are old friends. When, pray, is he due?’
‘Pretty soon now. But General Sir Archibald Alison will be here any day with an advance force from Cyprus.’
‘Then we are at war with Egypt, and so, presumably, with the Turkish empire?’
‘No, dammit. Ah, I beg your pardon. You must excuse the quarterdeck language. No. We shall be invading to put down this revolt by Arabi and restore the Khedive, who reigns, of course, on behalf of Turkey, to his throne. And also, natural
ly, to protect our main investment here, the Suez Canal, and the many British who are working and living in Egypt. We will invade to restore order. We shall not be attacking the Egyptian nation.’
It was clear that Sir Frederick was uneasy on these issues, so Alice led the conversation back to the bombardment, the attack on the European quarter by the mob and the subsequent looting. The Admiral had to admit that the damage and loss of life were regrettable. It was estimated that between fifty and a hundred Europeans had been killed. He had been unable to land a force to subdue the rioting and begin clearing up the damage until he had been reliably informed that Arabi’s considerable army had retreated from the city.
Alice took a deep breath. Had the Admiral heard of two Britons who had worked through the night of the rioting, saving the lives of dozens of Europeans who were under attack? They were, she had heard, dressed in Arab clothing.
This time the eyebrows rose. ‘Two of ’em, you say? No. Not heard a thing.’
‘One of them is an ex-British officer, I understand. Quite slim, with a broken nose.’
‘Ah, that feller! Yes. Came on board nearly two weeks ago, on his own, though. Said he was working for the AG – Sir Garnet, don’t you know – and asked me to pass on a signal to him. I did so, but under protest.’ He scowled. ‘He was of some small service in terms of providing information from the shore, but he seemed an arrogant young chap to me. However, if he’s been some use during the rioting, then good for him.’
‘I don’t suppose, Admiral, that you would know where I could contact him?’
‘No idea. I understand that he had previously been cabling Wolseley via Cook’s office, so you might try them. Near the harbour. Anyone will direct you. Why do you want to track him down?’
Alice felt a blush coming on and looked down. ‘Oh, it’s just that I thought he might make good copy.’ She returned her gaze to the old seaman and smiled. ‘Now I really must go and let you get on with your important work. Thank you very much indeed. You have been very helpful. Ah, one more thing. I must find a hotel. Are there any left standing?’
‘I think so. My major of marines should know.’
A few minutes later, Alice was being ferried back to the shore in the stern of the Admiral’s steam pinnace, escorted by three blue jackets and the same young midshipman, now exuding a proprietorial air. They took her to a modest hotel in the European district, blessedly untouched by either the shelling or the mob, where she was able to hire a bedroom and a small sitting room in which to work. Here she began drafting her cable to the Post. She led it with her interview with Seymour, confirming that he had ordered the bombardment on his own initiative and that up to one hundred Europeans were thought to have died during the shelling and the consequent rioting. She then developed the story into a colour piece on the devastation caused and the terror unleashed when the mob took to the streets, going into detail on the siege of the bank and the intervention of the three unknown men who had organised the defence and then disappeared. On completion, Alice read it through with satisfaction. It was a good piece: a mixture of hard news and feature-style colour. Had she been hard on the Admiral? She went back to the beginning and checked. No. She had let the man’s arrogance be reflected in his own words. Let the Tory sub-editors tamper with this at their peril!
Alice put her copy into her bag, tied back her hair and strode down the stairs. At the reception desk a small man who was somehow familiar was just leaving. He caught her eye for a second, then bent his head and hurried away. She paused on the bottom step and frowned. Now, who was that? She had caught a glimpse of spectacles and a small moustache. Shaking her head in annoyance, she dismissed the problem and asked the clerk to direct her to the offices of Thomas Cook. Thanking him, she walked to the door, then stopped and turned back.
‘That man who just left,’ she said. ‘I am sure I know him. Do you mind telling me his name?’
‘Ah,’ the clerk smiled, ‘that was Mr George from Cairo, madam. He is a regular guest here. An English gentleman.’
‘I see.’ Alice shook her head. ‘I don’t know him. I must have been mistaken.’
‘He is employed by Thomas Cook in Cairo,’ the clerk offered helpfully.
‘Ah, of course. Yes. Thank you. That’s where I met him.’ She smiled her gratitude, glad to have the puzzle solved. He was the unctuous clerk at the desk who had seemed happy to be negative. Then the smile was replaced by a frown. George had told her that Arabi had stopped all non-military train travel between Cairo and Alexandria. She had had this conversation with him some nine days ago in Cairo. How, then, had he travelled to Alex?
She turned back to the desk. ‘Is it now possible to travel by train from and to Cairo? Has the track been opened?’
‘No, madam. It has been closed for about two weeks and, given the circumstances, I am afraid it will remain closed for some time to come now.’
‘I see.’ She summoned up her radiant smile. ‘I am so sorry that I missed Mr George. Has he been here long and is he staying on for a few more days, do you know?’
‘He has been with us for about a week, but he has just left us rather unexpectedly, I am afraid. I do not know his destination but perhaps the people at Cook’s office here can help you, madam.’
‘Yes, of course. I will ask them.’ This minor mystery deepened. So Mr George could not have travelled by train – unless, of course, he was allowed to do so by the military, and that seemed most unlikely. He could perhaps have come up the Nile to Rosetta and then travelled along the coast westwards, or even disembarked at Desouk and travelled overland. But she knew those routes to be slow and difficult. Obviously he had come along the same road that she had travelled. Yet he had been here a week. He could not possibly have come overland all the way within three days! She shook her head and tried to put the mystery of the phantom Mr George out of her mind. She had far more important things to think about.
Nevertheless, after she had handed over her cable at the office of Thomas Cook, had her words counted and paid the cost of transmission, she enquired of the genial employee there if Mr George was within.
‘Who, miss? Old Georgie of our Cairo office? No. He’s in Cairo. Haven’t seen him for some six months, when I last went down the line. He’s not here, miss, that’s for sure.’
‘I see. Thank you.’ Well, that was that. Perhaps there were two Mr Georges. Anyway, it was of no importance. She smiled her gratitude and turned towards the door. There, she bumped into a slim young Arab man. His eyes were a melancholy brown and he had a broken nose.
‘Simon!’ she gasped. And burst into tears.
Chapter 10
Simon’s jaw dropped in amazement and instinctively he started forward to put his arms around her. Then he stepped back and coughed. ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘what on earth . . . You were the last person I expected to see in this place.’
‘I am so sorry.’ Alice fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘I just . . . so sorry . . . I am so glad to see you. Oh dear, please forgive me.’ She turned away and put the handkerchief to her eyes.
‘My dear, dear . . .’ he began, and then coughed again. ‘Here. Take my handkerchief.’
She accepted it, dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose. She smiled at him through her tears. ‘I must look a mess. I am sorry, and now I’ve ruined your handkerchief. Let me keep it and I shall wash it and return it.’
‘No. There’s no need. Just keep it.’
They stood awkwardly in the doorway of Cook’s and an uneasy silence descended on them. Simon became aware that Mr Roberts was watching them from behind his desk. He took Alice by the arm and led her into the street. ‘We can’t stand here,’ he said. ‘Look – I know somewhere in the square where they still serve coffee. Would you care to . . . I mean, do you have the time . . .’
‘Oh yes.’ Alice dabbed her eyes again. ‘Of course. I have just filed my story. Of course I have time. How nice, Simon. Thank you.’
‘Story? Ah.’ Simon nodded his head. ‘I see. You are
reporting again, then, for the Morning Post?’
‘Yes. I arrived yesterday.’
‘I see.’
A sudden embarrassment had descended upon them and they walked along in silence, each looking straight ahead and being careful not to touch the other. When they reached the little café, Simon carefully pulled out a chair for Alice in the shade. Without thinking, he ordered two dark, sweet Turkish coffees.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Alice. Is that how you like . . .’
‘Yes, thank you. That will be ideal.’
After studying the tablecloth for a moment, Simon forced himself to look into those well-remembered grey eyes. They were still brimming with tears and he fought back the desire to cup her face within his hands.
She smiled. ‘How is dear 352? You see, I know he is with you and I have heard about your exploits during the riots. Oh Simon, I am so proud of you.’
He looked away. ‘The old devil is fighting fit, very much so, in fact. As usual, he took the lead in the awkward business we have had around here. I presume that you were not in Alex then?’
‘No. I only arrived yesterday.’
‘Of course. You said so.’ He addressed the next question to her right ear. ‘And how is your husband? Is he with you?’
The two questions came like a blast of cold air to Alice – a reminder of her position and her duty and a cruelly effective puncturing of any hope she might have cherished that there could be a rapprochement for them. What nonsense. She tightened her lips. ‘He is quite well, thank you. At least, I think he is. I left him back in England. He has regained his commission and Wolseley has promised to take him back on the staff. So I expect he will be in the invasion force and, of course,’ it was her turn to cough, ‘I am looking forward to seeing him again.’
