The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  The little Egyptian shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ mused Simon. ‘They could be playing a clever game. They must know that Wolseley’s lines of communications are very severely extended by now. They are also sure to know about his difficulties in unloading at Ismailia, so that he has not yet been able to disembark anything like his complete army. They might be luring him on to stretch him so that they can attack from out of the desert and cut his lines, surround and outnumber the forward troops and polish them off. Or even tempt him to keep coming, without a full force, and entice him on to the guns at el Kebir.’

  Jenkins nodded his head slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that, see. Just as well that I’m not paid to be the thinkin’ one, isn’t it, then?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that – but can you operate lock gates?’

  A great beam came across Jenkins’s face. ‘Well now, bach sir, it’s funny you should say that, see, because as a matter of fact, I used to do it sometimes on the canal near ’ome, when I was a nipper, like. I reckon I can ’andle those little things.’

  ‘Good. Open ’em up so there’s plenty of water downstream. You come with me, Ahmed, and let’s see what we can find.’

  In fact there was nothing to be learned except that the defenders had left in a hurry and had moved out west, presumably towards the safer lines of Tel el Kebir. Simon made a decision. He scribbled a note to Major General Graham, informing him that the Kassassin lock was undefended and that, in his opinion, the lines could be occupied and held as a forward post for the final advance. He and Jenkins, he explained, would scout on ahead and report back on the extent to which the Tel el Kebir defences had been completed. He gave the note to Ahmed and instructed him to ride back with it, looping out into the desert to avoid the soldiers retreating from Mahsama.

  The little man rode off, and Simon returned to where Jenkins was completing the opening of the lock gates. They both stood for a moment in silence as they watched the released water surge through the open lock. There was something satisfying, in this arid place, about seeing water flow and hearing it gurgle. Then they mounted their camels and set off once more towards Tel el Kebir to camp out in the desert twilight. They headed slightly to the north to avoid overtaking any of the troops retreating from Kassassin.

  They reached the el Kebir entrenchments early the next day, and, mindful of their pursuit by Egyptian horsemen on their last visit, kept their distance, slowly plodding northwards up the line of the fortifications and carefully observing them through the field glasses.

  It was clear that this line was meant to be very permanent. A huge, continuous ditch had now been dug in front of the trenches, south to north, and the excavations had been thrown up between the two to provide high earthworks. Any attacking force would have to cross flat open ground, span the ditch and then climb the earthworks – all in the face of a heavy artillery barrage from the redoubts and, by the look of it, an unbroken line of musketry fire from the earthworks. It was a defensive position of some sophistication, only lacking the new barbed-wire entanglements that Simon had first seen in Afghanistan. It was also well manned, for the familiar white-clad soldiery could be seen along the top of the earthworks all the way up the line.

  ‘Can it be turned, then, bach sir?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Difficult. The end of the line at the south rests on the canal, which would be damned awkward to cross under fire, and the northern tip, by the look of it, curls back on itself and is protected by that second line running back from it at an angle.’ Simon frowned. ‘Despite his inexperience of field warfare, old Aunt Ada seems to know what he’s doing in terms of erecting defensive positions. All right, I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s get back to Mahsama.’

  Once more they turned back, heading out into the desert a little way to ensure that they met no Egyptian stragglers or cavalry patrols sent out to scout the ground between the two forces. They halted at midday when the overhead sun beat down on them with such intensity that they were reduced almost to automatons, lolling in their saddles and desperately resisting the temptation to drain their water bottles. They hobbled the camels, and using their rifles and blankets to erect a primitive lean-to shelter against a sand dune, crawled under its shade, ate a handful of raisins and fell into an uneasy doze.

  The respite lasted for less than an hour, for Simon found little sense of security in the desert. Empty as it seemed, they were still caught between two opposing armies and it was a dangerous place, with the undulating sand dunes offering cover to anyone approaching and the desert sand, of course, muffling the sounds of footfalls, horses’ hooves or camel pads. Two sleeping men were vulnerable, and Simon insisted that they go on their way as soon as they had snatched a few minutes’ sleep.

  They had been riding again for less than a quarter of an hour and Simon, head down, was consulting his compass when Jenkins whispered, ‘Two riders, about a quarter of a mile away.’ Simon caught only a momentary glimpse, following Jenkins’s outstretched arm, before they disappeared out of sight behind a distant undulation.

  ‘Our own cavalry, d’you think?’ asked Jenkins.

  Simon shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Wolseley promised that he’d send a troop out, but they would never ride in pairs. And, from a quick glimpse, they looked like Arabs.’

  ‘Better avoid them, then?’

  ‘Yes. On second thoughts, perhaps not. We can’t be all that far from Kassassin now, and if they are Arabs – Egyptians or Bedawis – they might be able to give us information. So I think we should take ’em in for questioning. Pity Ahmed isn’t with us to interpret, but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘They could be armed.’

  ‘They probably are, but only with jerzails, the old muskets, I should think, and we should be able to intimidate them with our Martini-Henrys. So we will show them we’ve got them as we approach. If they run off, then to hell with it, we’ll let them go. I don’t fancy another camel race. Come on.’

  They withdrew their rifles from their canvas covers and urged their camels into a trot, setting a course to intercept the distant riders. It seemed for a time as though they had not been seen, for the Arabs made no alteration in their course, and as they approached, it could be seen that they were lolling forwards in their saddles, obviously half dozing in the heat. They were riding camels but they did not appear to be Bedawi, for they were shrouded not in black but in the duns and browns of Egyptian desert dwellers, perhaps traders travelling between oases. Then the smaller of the two figures sat upright as he caught sight of Simon and Jenkins and thrust a hand out to his fellow.

  ‘Show our rifles,’ shouted Simon.

  They both waved their Martini-Henrys and Simon unslung his binoculars. Before he could raise them to his eyes, however, the smaller of the Arabs produced a revolver and fired. It seemed to be a warning shot, because the aim appeared to be deliberately high and the bullet whined well over the heads of the two men. Jenkins immediately reined in and raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  ‘No,’ cried Simon. ‘I’ve never seen an Arab with a revolver before. He can’t do us much harm at this range. Let me have a look at them first before we begin firing.’

  ‘Just as you say, bach sir, but I don’t like bein’ fired on one little bit.’

  Simon focused the glasses. The larger of the two figures immediately came into view: a desert Arab all right, bearded, dark, but not with the Nubian blackness of the Bedawi. The smaller was clean-shaven, and as a movement of his camel caused his esharp to slip a little, his face came into focus, revealing a skin quite light in colour. Simon moved the focusing wheel with his thumb, and into clearer view came a strangely familiar square jaw and a wisp of fair hair.

  ‘My God,’ he cried. ‘It’s Alice!’

  Chapter 15

  ‘What?’ said Jenkins. ‘Are you sure? What on earth is she doin’ out ’ere?’

  Simon put down his rifle and waved his arms. ‘Alice! Alice!’ He pushed bac
k his headdress. ‘It’s Simon. Don’t shoot. We’re coming over.’ He urged his camel forward, and as the distant figure extended her pistol again, he attached his handkerchief to his rifle and waved it. ‘Alice,’ he shouted again, ‘it’s Simon. Simon and Jenkins.’ The extended pistol was slowly lowered, and Simon beat his camel’s flanks with his stick, so that it broke into its vertebrae-rattling trot.

  She came to meet him and they paused a few yards apart. ‘Is it really you, Simon?’ she asked, her voice quite hoarse. Although through the lenses of the field glasses her face had appeared quite pale, compared with the blackness of her companion, it was now obvious that it was burned by the sun and that her lips were drily puckered and almost white. Her shoulders drooped but she now made an effort to sit straight in her saddle, and her grey eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. You seem like a . . . a . . . mirage. And, oh my goodness, dear 352.’ Her voice cracked and a tear appeared on her cheeks.

  Simon fumbled for his water bottle. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You look as though you need a drink.’

  She took it but offered it first to her companion. ‘Drink, Abdul,’ she said. He took it and gulped greedily before handing it back. Then she raised it to her lips and hiccupped as the precious fluid poured down her throat. ‘Sorry,’ she gasped, handing the bottle back. ‘We ran out some time ago and I was trying to find our way back to the canal.’ She summoned a regretful smile. ‘Somehow, while I was half asleep on this damned camel yesterday, my compass slipped into the sand, and we have been well and truly lost now for twenty-four hours or so.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Simon, you really must stop this business of continually rescuing me. It’s getting quite embarrassing . . . but thank you, thank you. I don’t know how much longer we could have gone on. I tried to steer by the sun, but with it almost directly overhead, it was so difficult to do . . .’

  Simon dismounted and put up his arms. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Slip down and rest for a while. We will make you a little shade. We have some raisins left and you can have the rest of my water.’

  Alice uncoiled her leg from the saddle cantle and half slipped, half fell into his arms. They stayed locked together for a moment before Jenkins strode over and swept her up into his arms and marched with her to the slope of the dune. He laid her down tenderly, and with their blankets and rifles they re-erected their rough shelter over her head to provide some shade, poured a little water on to a handkerchief and laid it on her forehead.

  Simon turned to Abdul. ‘Can’t you find your way in the desert, man?’ he demanded. ‘You must know that the Sweetwater Canal is that way.’ He pointed south. ‘Easy enough to find.’

  The Egyptian gave a half-smile and a shrug. ‘The miss did not want us to get too near the army, effendi. She say we keep going to west. She very determined, and when compass is lost, in the end I do not know which way I am going myself. I am from Ismailia, effendi, and not happy here. Sorry, effendi.’

  Simon sighed. ‘I know she is determined, but you should have insisted. She was in your care, dammit, and you should never have run out of water. Here, have another drink.’

  Abdul salaamed and drank deeply a second time. ‘Miss’s water bottle has leak,’ he explained. ‘So we share mine. Nothing left for some time. Sorry, effendi.’

  ‘Never mind now. Take some rest.’ Simon walked back to where Alice was lying, with Jenkins at her side, waving away the flies. She watched him approach, her eyes wide.

  ‘Can you sleep a little before we go on, Alice?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I will be fine in a moment. The water was what I really wanted, although this shade is heavenly. Thank you both so much. But what on earth are you doing out here?’

  Jenkins let out a guffaw. ‘Blimey, miss, that’s fine comin’ from you, like. It’s what we’re dying to know about you, see. It’s our job to be out ’ere in this blasted sand, look you. We’re army scouts, that’s what we are. But you ain’t, now, miss, are you?’

  Alice smiled. ‘I don’t somehow think so. If I am, I’m making a fine bloody mess of it, if you’ll pardon my army language.’

  They both smiled down at her and she sat up. ‘I suppose I owe you an explanation, but first, how are you for water? Could I have just another sip, do you think?’

  ‘Of course. Here.’

  She drank, more carefully this time, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Colour already seemed to be returning to her face under its tan.

  ‘Thank you. Now, my story. There seems to be a whole army of journalists at Ismailia, but of course we are not allowed to do anything – anything, that is, but report on the endless unloading of equipment and supplies and the heat and the flies, always the damned flies. We were even too late for the first landings on the quay, where,’ she looked up at them with a shy smile, ‘I hear you distinguished yourselves once again.’

  ‘Not really.’ Simon went to take her hand and then thought better of it. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Well, I became extremely tired of all this waiting and writing about the same thing every day. We were forbidden to ride out into the desert, but I don’t like being hemmed in, so I went down into the market and recruited old Abdul here and talked him into being my guide and taking me towards whatever action there might be.’

  ‘Humph,’ growled Simon. ‘He wasn’t much of a guide. He got you lost and let you run out of water.’

  Alice frowned. ‘No. It was not his fault. He always told me that he would not be at home in the desert, but he spoke reasonable English, seemed honest and got us two good camels, and, of course, I had my compass. I did not want to follow the railway line because I felt we might blunder into the army and get sent back right away locked in irons, or whatever the army locks you in these days. I set a course to take us just north of Mahsama station, where I thought there might be some action . . .’

  ‘You were right there, miss,’ said Jenkins.

  ‘. . . and I could watch it from a distance, so to speak, and then, maybe, get on to Kassassin.’

  Simon sighed. ‘You took an awful risk, Alice. You can’t just go blundering about the desert, you know. Apart from the Egyptian forces, there are the Bedawi . . .’

  ‘No there aren’t. I checked and everyone told me that they have more or less retreated to the south to get away from the armies and all the fighting. And I wasn’t blundering. I would have been fine if I hadn’t lost that damned compass and if my water bottle hadn’t split its seam. Anyway, I was armed.’

  ‘What?’ Simon grinned. ‘That little peashooter?’

  ‘That’s no peashooter. I’ll have you know that that’s an eleven-millimetre French-officer-issue Chamelot-Delvigne revolver. I could have killed you as you rode up, but I deliberately fired over your head as a warning. You should be more careful, Simon.’

  ‘Very well, ma’am. Now, we had better get you back to Mahsama and—’

  ‘Oh no. I shall be arrested and shot, or probably something even worse. First of all, tell me what has happened out here.’ She groped underneath her burnous and produced a notebook and pencil.

  Simon shook his head in mock despair, then related all that had happened over the last couple of days. ‘We are now riding back to Mahsama,’ he concluded, ‘from where, I believe, Major General Graham will march on Kassassin and take possession of it, so that it can be set up as a kind of springboard for what will hopefully be Wolseley’s final assault on Tel el Kebir.’

  Alice looked up from her scribbling. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘Now, Simon, you must help me. I can’t go back to Mahsama, so Abdul and I will camp out in the desert just north of there and follow the army – shadow it, so to speak, out here – as it goes on to Kassassin. But I can’t do that without a compass and a couple of extra water bottles. Do you think, my dear, that you could get those things for me? Could you?’

  At this point, Jenkins rose and walked away shaking his head. Simon watched him go and turned back to Alice. ‘Alice,’ he spoke sl
owly but with emphasis, ‘you are being quite, quite irresponsible, you know. If we had not come along, you could have died out here. If you don’t have a thought about your life, think of Abdul, whom you have clearly bullied into bringing you here.’

  Alice opened her mouth to protest, but Simon held up his hand. ‘Now listen. I believe that it is quite a possibility that Arabi wants Wolseley to occupy Kassassin and then will attack him there. He might even fall on Mahsama before the General has a chance of bringing up his main force. The Egyptians will transport much of their infantry by train to just before Kassassin, but their cavalry will almost certainly come out of the desert in the north. They will find you and Abdul sitting out there like observers at a football match and they will ride through you and, likely as not, slit your throats just for being in the way – or because they think you to be British spies.’

  Alice pouted. ‘No they won’t. I shall show them my press accreditation.’

  ‘And how many Egyptian officers will have heard of the Morning Post or even care about it? This is war, Alice. These people are fighting for their country. We are an occupying force. They won’t observe the niceties of honourable warfare. You would be trampled underfoot. And as for camping just north of Mahsama, you must realise that Wolseley will be sending out cavalry patrols all the time to protect his position. You would be discovered before you could put up your tent.’

  A silence fell between them. Eventually Alice sighed. ‘I suppose you are right, Simon. Back to Mahsama it is, then. But if old Wolseley tries to ship me back to Ismailia in disgrace, I shall slip away again into the desert, I warn you.’

  Simon smiled, and then asked tenderly, ‘How is your throat now, Alice?’

  She held his gaze for a moment and then slowly reached out and took his hand. ‘Much better now, thank you.’ She brought his hand to her throat. ‘See? No marks, no lumps.’

  He let his hand lie on her soft skin, under the cotton burnous, while his eyes looked into hers. They stayed that way, he kneeling beside her, until the arrival of Jenkins made him pull his hand away.