The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘I think we’d better be gettin’ on now, bach sir,’ the Welshman said quietly.

  ‘Ah yes, right. Are you fit to get back on that camel now, Alice?’

  She lowered her gaze. ‘Yes, quite well again now, thank you. Thank you both. Back to bloody Mahsama, then.’

  Simon set a more southerly course now to take them directly back to Mahsama. For most of the time they rode in silence, but Alice, after considerable thought, pulled alongside Simon and told of seeing George in the bazaar at Port Said. It was salutary for both of them: for Alice because it brought back the terror and pain of standing on tiptoe with the noose around her neck before that final swing into, as she thought, eternity; and for Simon because it reminded him of unfinished business. The recent skirmishes had, for the time being, driven all thoughts of the sadistic little clerk from his mind. He felt guilty and a little ashamed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Alice,’ he said. ‘He can’t reach us here, and when this is over, we will find him and there will be a reckoning.’

  She smiled back but could find nothing to say, and they rode on in silence.

  They quickly reached the tracks made by the Egyptians retreating from Mahsuma and began following the railway line back towards the station. They had been riding in this way for less than half an hour when they saw what was clearly a British cavalry patrol approaching, the sun twinkling from the brasses of its harnesses and equipment.

  Simon reached for his field glasses and focused them on the figure leading them. ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Alice.

  Simon lowered the glasses and turned to her. ‘The patrol is being led by your husband.’ His voice was cold. ‘I gave him an undertaking in Alex that I would have nothing further to do with you after the George affair. I fear that this will look bad, Alice.’

  Alice could not help sucking in her breath, but she spoke firmly enough. ‘Nonsense. You have nothing at all to be ashamed of. Without you both, Abdul and I would be dead by now. It is I who will get the scolding, you will see.’

  Through the glasses Simon could see that Covington was similarly studying him. It seemed strange that an infantry officer – although now on the staff, of course, with the rank of full colonel – should be leading a cavalry patrol, but Simon reasoned that with Wolseley’s lines of communications so thinly stretched, the cavalry and its officers would be much in demand, policing the long line back to Ismailia. And Covington, whatever his faults, was a brave officer who would seize any opportunity to range out to find the enemy.

  When only about one hundred yards separated the two parties, Covington held up his hand to halt his troop and rode forward alone to meet Alice and Simon. He made a fine figure on his charger, sitting bolt upright, of course, his reins somehow looped tightly around his hook and his right hand hanging straight at his side, as though on parade. His white pith helmet was set low and straight on his head, so that its peak seemed to dig into his forehead at the top of his nose, between his one good eye and the black patch. As ever, his moustaches seemed to bristle. His eye – cold, china blue – ignored Simon completely and settled upon Alice.

  ‘Good morning, Ralph,’ she said, and gave her sweetest smile. ‘I am so glad to see you, my dear.’

  The Colonel allowed a pause to develop for a moment between them before replying. ‘What are you doing out here, Alice, with . . . with . . . this man?’ He still bestowed no gaze on Simon but merely indicated him with a jerk of his head.

  Alice’s smile remained but her voice dropped a fraction in tone. ‘Simon – this man, as you call him – has saved my life for the second time in three months. I hired this guide,’ she nodded her head towards Abdul, sitting on his camel to the rear, ‘to take me out from Ismailia to witness some of the fighting so that I could report on it. Unfortunately, I lost my compass and we were wandering with no water when Simon and Jenkins found us. We are now on our way back to Mahsama.’

  ‘Why did you disobey the General’s instructions and leave Ismailia?’ Covington’s voice remained cold and his words were precise, as though chipped from stone.

  ‘Because I am not in the army, Ralph. I am an employee of the Morning Post and I must go where my work takes me. I do not accept directions from anyone in the army, not even you, my dear.’

  At this point, Simon pulled the head of his camel around and tapped the beast into a walk with his stick.

  ‘And where the hell d’yer think you are going, Fonthill?’ snarled Covington. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  Simon replied over his shoulder as his camel plodded past the Colonel: ‘I have delivered your wife to you, Covington, and now I must get on with my work and make my report to General Graham. Good day to you.’

  ‘Come back here.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that. I shall have you arrested.’

  Simon turned round in the saddle. ‘If you do, then you will have to answer to General Wolseley,’ he said. ‘I report to him and only to him, unless he delegates his authority, and he has certainly not done that. Pray continue with your family quarrel; I wish to play no part in it. I met your wife in the desert when she was lost and I was bringing her back to you. I would have thought that would have brought thanks, not threats of arrest. But then I had forgotten what a boorish brute you are. Good day to you. Come along, 352.’

  Jenkins urged his camel forward and gave Covington one of his face-splitting grins. ‘Nice day for it, Colonel bach, eh?’ he said as he passed by.

  Covington was about to kick his horse into action when Alice pulled on his arm. ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself in front of the men, Ralph,’ she entreated. ‘All that we have told you is true. Now, I am going back to Mahsama, but if you do not wish me to go with Simon Fonthill, then give me two of your troopers to escort me and we can meet tonight to talk. Please be sensible.’

  For a moment or two Covington glared at her, then he relented, leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘I did not realise what you had done, you silly puss,’ he said. ‘If I had known you had pushed off into the desert like this, I would have come after you myself. Off you go, then, for I must continue my patrol. I will send two men to escort you. Go back to the camp, Alice, and for God’s sake don’t get into any more trouble.’

  The little party reached Mahsama just before nightfall. Simon, riding ahead with Jenkins, had set a brisk pace without a backward glance, and Alice, some two hundred yards to the rear with her new escort, had been hard put to keep up. Once they were behind the British lines, Simon turned his head to look at her for the first time since they had left Covington. His face held no smile and he gave her only a curt nod as he pulled away to where General Graham’s pennant was fluttering by his tent. Seeing Alice with Covington had reminded him finally that she was lost to him. He must have nothing more to do with her, for meeting her just caused him pain.

  Graham was sitting on a camp stool, one booted leg thrust out, scribbling. Simon paused by the entrance and coughed, and the General looked up. ‘Ah, Fonthill.’ He indicated another camp stool. ‘Sit down. My word, you’ve made jolly good time from Kassassin. Must be a bit short of breath, eh? Anyway, I got your message. Good work. I have sent a cavalry force up to occupy Kassassin and will be following up myself at first light tomorrow, with whatever odds and ends I can scrounge to reinforce the place. You must have passed my chaps on the way here?’

  ‘No, sir. We detoured out into the desert to avoid trouble. But we did encounter Colonel Covington about five miles out.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  Simon liked Graham. A tall, thin man with a lugubrious air compounded by his drooping moustaches, he had acquired a reputation as a fighting soldier and had won the Victoria Cross, Britain’s highest decoration for gallantry, as a young man fighting the Russians in the Crimean War. He looked across at Simon now with some paternalism, for he was aware that Simon’s own father had also won a VC, in the Indian Mutiny. This valorous club was ex
clusive and rather self-serving; a kind of Masonic order of bravery. No son of a VC could possibly offer ill-considered advice.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve taken your advice to move in on Kassassin. I hope to God it’s not some incredibly sophisticated trap that old Arabi has set us. Eh, what?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘It has to be rated a possibility, sir, but I should doubt it. The Egyptians don’t seem to think like that. And even if they do attack, if you have moved in quickly you should be able to defend the position well enough.’

  ‘Well I hope you’re right, young man. Sir Garnet certainly seems to trust your judgement. Now – what about Tel el Kebir?’

  ‘That’s the place where Arabi will make his stand all right. The lines have been further strengthened since I was last there. A huge ditch has been dug in front of the entrenchments and the guns are well dug in and command the approaches from north and east. It will be difficult to take. It’s my belief that Arabi wants to lure us on to those guns. He might have a go at you in Kassassin, but it won’t be serious. He wants the British Army to founder on those guns.’

  ‘Hmmm. Right. Well, go and get something to eat, and then turn in. I leave at dawn and I want you and your man to ride with me.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Simon thought for a moment. Graham would hear soon enough about Alice. He must report it matter-of-factly. ‘I think I should report to you that we found Mrs Covington – that is, Alice Griffith of the Morning Post – lost out in the desert about two miles north-east of Kassassin.’

  Graham’s eyebrows rose. ‘God! What was she doing out there?’

  ‘I believe that she was rather irked by the restrictions placed on correspondents at Ismailia, so she hired a guide and decided to see for herself how far we had been able to penetrate along the line of the Sweetwater and the railway track. She’s . . . ah . . . a very enterprising young woman, sir, and her heart is always in the right place. She earned a fine reputation in reporting from Zululand, Afghanistan and the Transvaal. Anyway, somehow she had lost her compass and we were lucky enough to find her. By coincidence we met Colonel Covington riding in and he provided an escort to bring her back here.’

  ‘Oh lord!’ Graham slapped his boot. ‘That’s all I need – some bright young woman reporter hanging about the camp. What the hell am I going to do with her, Fonthill?’

  The air of distress that had suddenly descended on the General was so abject that Simon could not prevent a grin. ‘Can’t help you there, sir. I suppose you will have to move her on back to Ismailia. No doubt her . . . er . . . husband could help.’

  Graham’s eyes lit up. ‘A capital idea. Yes. Let him handle her. All his fault. He shouldn’t have let her come out here in the first place. All this damned heat and sand and flies – no place for a woman. A woman war correspondent! Ridiculous. Whatever next. Women generals, I suppose. Thank you, Fonthill, go and get some rest. I will put Miss Griffith under guard until her husband returns. We march at dawn.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Ah – one thing more, sir. You said you wish Jenkins and me to come with you to Kassassin. I presume that there is no objection to my Egyptian man coming with us? He has grown to be indispensable.’

  ‘What? Oh yes. That little fellow who brought back your message.’ A frown descended above the moustaches. ‘Afraid he got himself into some sort of scrape and we have had to put him in shackles in the guard tent. Sorry about that, but he won’t be able to go with you.’

  ‘A scrape! What sort of a scrape?’

  Graham looked embarrassed. ‘I understand that he was rude to one of my majors. Can’t have that, you know. Can’t have these natives doing that sort of thing. Anyway, we’ve put him under lock and key. He will be sentenced tomorrow. The Provost Major will have to do it. I have to get on to Kassassin.’

  Simon rose to his feet. ‘General Graham,’ he said slowly, ‘this man is the most trustworthy and gentle of colleagues. He has been invaluable to Sergeant Jenkins and me throughout our time in Egypt. Although he is not a soldier, he faced the mobs in the Alexandria riots and he fought with us against the Egyptians – his own people – at Nefisha, outside Ismailia. He is steadfast, true and even-tempered. I don’t see how he could offend anyone. What exactly is the charge?’

  Graham shuffled his feet, but the frown remained. ‘I can’t tell you that exactly. It was brought, I believe, by Major Smith-Denbigh, of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry. It will all be dealt with tomorrow, of course. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you further, Fonthill. Now, you must excuse me. I have far more important matters to worry about than your little Egyptian, I am afraid. Good evening.’

  Simon stood looking down at the General, who held his gaze firmly. ‘Very good, sir,’ he said finally, and turned on his heel and left the tent.

  Outside, Jenkins was still standing, in the twilight, holding the halters of their two camels. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘that took long enough. Are we in trouble again, then?’

  ‘No, but we will be shortly. Now take the camels to the lines and then join me at the guard tent, wherever that is. And bring your knife.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell. Very good, bach sir.’

  The guard tent was situated on the extreme edge of the British camp, its entrance guarded by a very bored-looking infantryman of the Second Yorks. Simon rendezvoused with Jenkins at the rear of the tent and then approached the guard, who immediately levelled his rifle, bayonet fixed.

  ‘Push off,’ he said. ‘No natives allowed ’ere, mate.’

  Simon pushed back his headdress. ‘I am Major Fonthill, head of General Wolseley’s intelligence department here in Egypt. This is Sergeant Major Jenkins. Kindly come to attention. NOW!’

  The man’s jaw dropped momentarily, and then he picked up his left boot and slammed it alongside its mate, while he brought his grounded rifle butt back into line with his right leg. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Good. That’s better. At ease. Now – is the prisoner still inside?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘We are going to step inside the tent to question him on the charge that has been brought against him. Kindly make sure that we are not disturbed. Admit no one. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Very good. We should not be long. Please unthread the opening.’

  The infantryman did so, and Simon and Jenkins stepped inside. ‘Oh, shit!’ exclaimed Jenkins. Ahmed was sitting on the desert floor, his legs stretched either side of the central tent pole and shackled at the ankle. His wrists were similarly handcuffed around the pole. As they came in, the little man looked up, and they saw that two weals stood out on his forehead and cheeks, as though he had been whipped across the face. Blood had congealed on the wounds but a little still dripped down from the lower edges of the marks.

  ‘My God, Ahmed,’ cried Simon. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Ah, my friends,’ said Ahmed, trying to smile. ‘I knew you would come, but it has been a little time, you know.’

  ‘Now don’t waste breath, my dear chap,’ said Simon. ‘Just tell us what happened.’

  ‘Very well, Simon. I delivered your message to the General effendi and he seemed pleased and thanked me. Good. Then, as I walk away, I stumble on one of the tent things . . . you know, in ground . . .’

  ‘Pegs.’

  ‘Exactly. And I fall into stomach of large, fat English officer walking by. He call me nasty names. I do not like this so I say, it is not my fault because I fall over. He says, don’t talk back to me, black bastard, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, and I say, I do not talk back but only explain, and he shouts and raises his cane and hits me across face and calls the guard and I am here now for four hours. No drink, no food and,’ he looked down in embarrassment, ‘nowhere to weewee.’

  A silence fell and Simon and Jenkins exchanged glances. ‘Now, Ahmed,’ said Simon, ‘answer this question carefully. Did you put up your hand to hit this officer, or touch him apart from when you first stumbled into him?’

  ‘No, Simon. I
only raise my hands to stop him hitting me. You know he hit me like a tax-collector. I thought that only Turks did that. Not English officers. It is not right, is it?’

  ‘No, my dear fellow, it is not right. Now, 352, can you prise these bloody shackles off with your knife?’

  Jenkins grimaced. ‘No. Not a chance. But I’ve got a bit of wire ’ere, see, that might do the trick. Never go without it, even when I’m wearin’ this Arab rubbish.’ He fumbled under his burnous. ‘’Ere we are. Now, ’old these things out straight, like.’

  The Welshman kneeled, and after five minutes of poking and manoeuvring the wire with the skill of a brain surgeon, he unlocked first the ankle shackles and then the handcuffs. Ahmed rubbed his ankles and wrists with relief and stood shakily.

  ‘Thanks you, very much. It is great relief.’

  ‘Now, Ahmed,’ said Simon, ‘352 will go and get some food and water for you, and I will find a certain Major Smith-Denbigh. You must not move from here until we come back. Understand?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  Once outside, Simon turned to the guard, who had sprung to attention at their reappearance. ‘We have unshackled the prisoner,’ he said, ‘but he will not be removed from the guard tent for the moment. Sergeant Major Jenkins here . . .’, the guard looked askance at the unshaven, definitively Arabic Jenkins, who grinned back at him, ‘will return with some nourishment for the man, but you are to let no one else in to see him. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Now, what’s your name, soldier?’

  ‘Barraclough, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Barraclough. Now, where are the officers’ quarters for the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry?’

  The infantryman, chin tucked into his chest, nodded to the right. ‘Go along the lines that way, sir, an’ you’ll find ’em.’

  Jenkins laid a hand on Simon’s arm and led him to one side. ‘Now, bach sir,’ he said, ‘I know that you won’t mind me givin’ you a bit of advice – in me new position as a skilled lawyer, that is . . .’