The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Fitzroy’s lip curled under his grey-flecked beard (was hirsuteness a necessary accoutrement for advancement in the navy? Simon wondered). ‘Damned good idea. But don’t sign it with de Lesseps’s name. He’s already proved an awkward customer and we don’t want an international incident with France. I know about Nefisha and I shall fire at first light. What’s the third thing?’

  ‘A bit more long-term, sir. Arabi has already stationed a considerable number of troops about thirty-five miles away, along the railway and the Sweetwater Canal. A force should go out as soon as possible to protect both the rail line and the canal and prevent sabotage.’

  ‘Very well, Fonthill. I only have a few marines and my orders are to secure Ismailia, but I will see how far I can get into the desert. Now, off you go to get that message off, before this place wakes up. And if all goes well through the day, come and dine with us on board this evening.’

  ‘Very kind, sir, but another time. I have plenty to do.’

  ‘I understand. Off you go.’

  Simon landed just behind the first boatload of marines, who looked parade-ground smart in their white pith helmets with their red tunics criss-crossed by white pipe-clayed belts. But he shook his head sadly as he watched them double away, their rifles at the carry, to their allocated targets. When the sun came up, how they were going to sweat in that red serge! The new lightweight khaki had already been introduced in South Africa. Why not here?

  Jenkins, Ahmed and the young wireless operator were waiting for him, a trifle impatiently.

  ‘Is the telegraph office occupied?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Jenkins replied. ‘An’ it’s locked and bolted. I didn’t like to blast it off, ’cos the place was so nice an’ quiet, see. Seemed such a pity to wake everybody.’

  ‘Quite right. Have you got your wonderful sword, Ahmed?’

  The Egyptian drew it with a grin.

  ‘Good. Let’s see if we can use it to force the lock.’

  In the event, neither the lock nor the bolt offered much resistance, and within five minutes the four of them were within the telegraph shed. Simon lit the oil lamp standing on a table and examined the apparatus. ‘Can you use this all right?’ he demanded of the young sailor.

  ‘Oh aye, sir. I’ll have to find the destination in this book. Where do you want to send it?’

  ‘Address it to Army Headquarters, Cairo.’ He handed him the message and then, seeing what seemed like a newly received signal scribbled on a message form on the desk, held up his hand. ‘Wait. What’s this?’ He read:

  TO COMMANDER NEFISHA GARRISON STOP INFORMER REPORTS THAT BRITISH LIKELY TO ATTACK ISMAILIA SOON STOP BATTALION OF INFANTRY WILL LEAVE CAIRO BY TRAIN AT SIX PM TOMORROW TO REINFORCE YOUR GARRISON STOP MAKE PROVISION ACCORDINGLY STOP FEHMY PASHA END

  Simon frowned. An informer? Could Wolseley have a traitor in his camp? No, most unlikely. Somehow, despite all his care, the news of his intention must have leaked. He read out the message to the others.

  ‘Who is Fehmy?’ he asked of Ahmed.

  ‘Big man. Number two to Arabi, I think.’

  Simon grinned. ‘Well, the big man deserves an answer.’ He handed the message to the young blue jacket. ‘Can you tell when this arrived?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He pointed to a code at the top of the message. ‘About ’alf past five last night. It probably came in just as the bloke ’ere was goin’ to shut up shop. So he decided to leave it until this mornin’ to deliver it. Lazy bastard.’

  ‘Fine.’ Simon scribbled some alterations to his message. ‘Now send this in reply.’ He read it for everyone’s benefit.

  ADVISE DO NOT, REPEAT NOT, SEND TROOPS STOP BRITISH HAVE LANDED FIVE THOUSAND SOLDIERS STOP ISMAILIA AND NEFISHA ALREADY TAKEN STOP RAIL LINE DESTROYED STOP EVEN MORE TROOPS BEING LANDED NOW STOP THIS SENT IN SECRECY STOP MAHMUT SADAT STOP TELEGRAPH MANAGER END

  He grinned at them all. ‘They will learn about the landings soon enough anyway, but with any luck, this should stop ’em rushing down here to attack us when we are still landing troops and supplies and are at our most vulnerable. Reduce the fighting, eh, Ahmed? Do you approve?’

  The Egyptian nodded, his face breaking into his familiar sad smile.

  They waited while the sailor transmitted the message. He looked up. ‘Received all right, sir. Do you want me to wait here to see if there is a reply?’

  ‘No. I doubt if there will be. They will presume that the telegraph point has been overrun. Well done. Get back to your ship and present my compliments and thanks to your skipper.’ Simon opened the door of the hut and listened. He could hear distant shouting and the crunch of hobnailed boots on stone as the last of the marines landed and began doubling away from the pier, but no sound of firing. The promise of another hot day was now burnishing the eastern sky, but the town still seemed to be asleep. So far, it seemed as though Ismailia had been taken without a shot.

  ‘The navy’s guns will soon start ranging on to Nefisha,’ said Simon, squinting at his watch. ‘We must get over there and see what the effect is. I have a feeling that Fitzroy may not have enough marines to put out scouts, so that must be our job. The Egyptians there certainly have enough troops to counterattack if they have the guts. If they do, we must give warning.’

  Jenkins wiped his moustache. ‘What? Run towards the shells? Blimey, let’s be careful, bach sir, eh? A bit cautious, like, eh?’

  ‘Good lord, 352, you’re getting to be a proper old woman. What’s the matter? Frightened of a bit of gunfire?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I want to live to retire and take up the law, see. Now, don’t you run too fast, bach sir. I’ve only got little legs, and Amen’s are even littler.’

  They began to jog-trot to the west, over the single bridge that spanned the Sweetwater and through palm-tree-fringed boulevards where everyone seemed to be indoors, unaware that sailors and marines of Queen Victoria were occupying their town and beginning the invasion of their country. None of the invading force were venturing this far out of the town’s centre, and only dogs observed their progress, some of them following on their heels for a while until they lost interest. The three jogged, rifles and pistol in hand, through the somnolent, whispering quiet of the suburbs. Quiet, that is, until the first gun roared into life from the deck of HMS Orion.

  The crump came like a thunderbolt from out of the now clear sky, and as they paused at the edge of the town, they saw a V-shaped eruption, black at the top and red at the bottom of the triangle, spring from near the rail track just behind the barrack block immediately ahead of them. As they watched, a bugle sounded and white-clothed men began to double from the barracks. Another shell landed, further out in the desert beyond the block, and then another, exploding harmlessly in the sand.

  The shelling stopped and Simon pictured a gunnery lieutenant in the battle-top of Orion, focusing his telescope or binoculars on the target, reporting an overshoot and shouting down his instructions to the gun-layers. He noticed for the first time that a steam locomotive and a row of empty trucks were waiting on the rail track behind the barracks. More to the point, however, soldiers were being lined up in loose order in front of the barrack block, hastily adjusting their equipment and shouldering their rifles, as officers doubled up and down their ranks. The soldier in Simon could not resist a nod of approval.

  ‘Good for them,’ he murmured. ‘They’re not running. They’re going to attack the town.’

  ‘And us,’ growled Jenkins.

  ‘Quite.’ Simon looked around. They were on the extreme edge of the town, although it was difficult to know where Ismailia ended and Nefisha began. A low wall ran to their right, indicating the boundary of a rambling garden. To their left meandered a dry wadi. ‘Right,’ he ordered. ‘Three five two, you take the wall and Ahmed and I will take the wadi. Spread out and double up and down, firing from different positions. We must try and make them believe that an infantry platoon at least is facing them and so make them think twice about advancing over this open ground. If th
ey try to enfilade us, then we will drop back.’

  Simon was conscious once again of Ahmed, revolver in hand, looking at him with wide eyes. ‘Enfilade means outflank us – get round the side and fire on us from there,’ he explained. Then a second thought occurred to him. ‘Don’t worry, old chap. It is not important to kill anyone; just deter them. Fire your Colt over their heads or, better still, in the ground at their feet. You are almost out of range with that thing from here anyway. It’s the noise and gun flashes that count.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t forgotten my promise. No real fighting, if we can help it. Go now, and keep moving and firing.’

  The three split up just in time to see the first detachment of Egyptian soldiers in their baggy white uniforms, rifles at the slope, begin to march in their direction. Simon shouted to Jenkins: ‘Don’t fire to kill unless you have to.’

  ‘Very good, bach sir.’

  The two Martini-Henrys cracked as one and dust spurted up from the sand immediately in front of the leading rank. Simon heard the lighter note of the Colt, and he ran down the wadi and let off another round before doubling back again and repeating the exercise. Lifting his head, he saw two Turkish officers, swords in hand, berating their men, who were now lying flat on their stomachs. Reluctantly, the infantrymen began to climb to their feet and, fixing their bayonets, followed their officers towards where Simon, Jenkins and Ahmed were doing their inadequate best to replicate a platoon giving rapid fire.

  Simon realised that deterrent fire was not going to be enough to stop the advance of the Egyptians, not least because further troops were now pouring out from the barracks and forming up in front of the building. It would only be a couple of minutes before the first rank were upon them. ‘Take out the officers,’ he shouted to Jenkins, who nodded, settled his cheek against his rifle stock and dispatched two rounds in quick succession. It was sufficient. Both men, their swords held aloft momentarily, sank to the ground and lay crumpled there. ‘Sorry, Ahmed,’ murmured Simon to himself. At that moment the shelling resumed.

  The lieutenant in his battle-top eyrie had done his work well, for although the first and second shells overshot into the desert again, the third and fourth hit the barracks, causing black clouds of masonry to spiral upwards and the roof of the building to sag in the middle. It was enough for the leaderless troops in the open. They turned and fled, joining their comrades behind them.

  At first, Simon thought that it was a rout. Then he saw officers directing the men round the end of the barracks towards the rail track, where a thin column of white vapour showed that the driver of the locomotive was building steam. As the shells from Orion continued to plunge into the now flaming shell of the barracks, the Egyptian troops, showing commendable discipline despite the proximity of the explosions, filed into the rail trucks under the direction of their officers. With a derisive toot on its steam whistle, the train pulled out, to reveal a second locomotive and attendant line of open wagons, which began to absorb the remainder of the troops.

  Slowly, Simon, Jenkins and Ahmed stood to watch the evacuation, and Simon wondered idly if their Scottish friend was on one of the footplates.

  ‘Hey, you two A-rabs, put down them rifles!’

  Simon whirled round to see a sergeant of marines, his huge moustache spreading out behind the rear sight of his rifle, the muzzle of which was attempting to cover both him and Jenkins. Behind the sergeant a detachment of marines came trotting up, sweat pouring down their cheeks from under their helmets. ‘Put ’em down, I say.’

  ‘Very well, Sergeant,’ said Simon, in his best Sandhurst tones. He lowered his rifle to the ground. ‘You look as though you could do with a drink.’

  ‘Wot? Who the bloody ’ell are you?’ The sergeant’s head came up, but he still directed the barrel of his Martini-Henry at Simon.

  ‘Captain Fonthill. Army intelligence. This is Sergeant Jenkins and Ahmed, our guide. Now put down that rifle, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Good lor’! Sorry, sir. You make a bloody good A-rab.’

  Simon turned and gestured to where the second train was beginning to follow the first out into the desert. ‘It looks as though the Nefisha garrison has departed, so there should be no further threat from that quarter. And it seems, thank God, that Orion has stopped shelling. Now, we had to shoot two Turkish officers. They are lying over there. I think one is dead but the other is only wounded. Can you send someone for a doctor?’

  ‘Our ship’s doctor is on the quayside, sir. I think we’ll ’ave to carry the gennelman back to ’im.’

  ‘Very well. Has the town been taken?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’ The sergeant grinned. Without firin’ ’ardly a shot. Looks as though it’s goin’ to be easy to invade Egypt.’

  Simon wiped his brow. ‘I wouldn’t quite say that. But come along now. Let’s see to this wounded chap.’

  The senior of the two Turks was, indeed, dead, but the second had sustained a bullet through the shoulder. He was in pain, but the sergeant produced a cigarette and the wounded man was carefully loaded on to a rough litter made from two rifles and crossbelts, and four marines began to carry him to the quayside.

  There, Simon met Captain Fitzroy. ‘Ah, Fonthill.’ The Captain’s cap was now set jauntily on his head, tilted to starboard. The light of victory was in his eyes. He could afford to be jocular. ‘They tell me that you and your threeman army have sent the bloody Nefisha garrison packing, virtually on your own.’

  Simon gave a weary grin. ‘Not quite, sir. Had a bit of help from some pretty efficient gun-laying on Orion. Congratulations, Captain. I gather the town is taken.’

  ‘Aye. Hardly had to fire a shot. I will push as many marines as possible out along the railway track as soon as I can, but I can’t spare many. I gather that things have gone well in closing off the Canal at both Port Said and Suez, and the first of the transports will be here tomorrow and we can begin off-loading. Wolseley himself should be here soon. No doubt you will want to report to him, eh?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Wolseley and his staff, Covington and Alice . . .

  Chapter 13

  Alice was grateful for the clean sea air afforded by the passage to Port Said after the heat and pain of Alexandria. The press corps, in fact, were not accommodated on Wolseley’s own vessel and Alice was glad of that, for it meant that she would not have to be in daily contact with her husband, who was a member, of course, of the General’s staff. Her meeting with him at the consul’s house had been difficult. He had been full of concern but also anger at her foolhardiness in pursuing George and, it was clear, he had channelled much of that anger towards Simon. She had felt despair at being the cause of renewing the old hostility, and although the damage to her throat had soon been repaired, a deep depression had descended: a combination of the memory of the terrors of the ordeal she had endured and her realisation that she must, she really must, grasp the fact that she had no future with Simon. It was her duty, indeed her only option, to put all her energy into making her marriage work. Wolseley’s invitation, however, to join the main press party with his expedition, and a message from Cornford complimenting her upon her reports from Alexandria, had served to lift her spirits, and she left the consulate with a new determination to face the future positively.

  The size of the press contingent amazed her. She had had to face little on-the-spot competition in her coverage of the campaigns in Zululand, Afghanistan and the Transvaal – even though the great Willie Russell of The Times had been with her on the last. She had always had time and space to slip away and follow her own leads. This war was obviously going to be very different. The press corps now numbered more than forty and was international to an extent that she had not encountered before. The Toronto Globe drank on board with the New York Herald Tribune; Figaro rubbed shoulders with the more familiar Reuters; and Wiener Zeitung was to be seen exchanging notes with the bright new Corriere della Sera from Milan. The world and its wife, it seemed, was now following the fortunes of Sir Garnet Wolseley. For th
is was not just the latest in Queen Victoria’s little colonial wars. Great Britain was now invading a sovereign country, albeit with the condign, if rather distant, approval of that state’s imperial masters in Constantinople. The whole world was watching and waiting for the British lion to flounder and then fall flat on its face in the sands of Egypt. General Wolseley was quite aware of this. Like all his contemporaries, he disliked and distrusted the growing intrusion of the press, but he was worldly enough to know that it was a necessary evil and that he must live with it. As a result, he had set up a special section of his staff to cooperate with and look after the reporters. Alice immediately regarded it as a euphemism for sponsorship, and decided to have as little to do with it as possible.

  As always, of course, she was the only woman in this gaitered, cigar-smoking fraternity. For that and other reasons, she stood aloof and discouraged familiarity. She had no wish to compromise her position as a married woman, of course, but more to the point, she had never liked the practice adopted by some correspondents of working in pairs. This certainly helped to cover the ground more efficiently, but it meant the sharing of information, and this was anathema to Alice, who valued her ability to discover the obscure fact that might illuminate a whole campaign or, more delightfully, reveal the weakness in a strategy presented with pompous confidence by a commander.

  There was another reason, however, for Alice’s singularity. Despite her youth and her gender, she stood out in that polyglot gathering of much-travelled war correspondents as ‘Griffith of the Morning Post’, an experienced campaigner who had been first into Alexandria and written colourful copy about the bombardment and the riots. Her cold beauty concealed a wily, idiosyncratically skilled professional. She was to be admired but watched, greeted but not courted, respected but never indulged.

  All of this suited Alice perfectly. She used the two days’ sailing along the coast to set her mind in place, to regain her confidence and her accustomed good health. After much thought, she also penned a background piece to the Alexandria riots and looting, profiling, in more detail this time, the story of the three men dressed as Arabs, two of them, it seemed British, and the third Egyptian, who had toured the city on that first dreadful night. In addition to organising the defence of the bank, they had saved the consul from the mob and also intervened crucially in several other attacks on European residents, before disappearing into the night. They had come to be known, she wrote hyperbolically and quite inaccurately, as ‘The Pimpernels of Alexandria’. It was a good piece, she felt, if a little sensational for the Post. It was also, she was forced to confess to herself, her goodbye to Simon and her last tribute to him. Finally, it would infuriate Ralph Covington – and she was not averse to doing that at this point in her life.