by John Wilcox
‘Get on with it. I’m in a hurry.’
‘Yes, I can see that. I can also see that you’re blazin’ furious, like – an’ I don’t blame you. This Major seems the sort of bloke that gives the army a bad name. I’ve met plenty like ’im. But with respect, like: cool down a bit. You’re at your best, see, when you’re cool. No offence now, sir.’
‘None taken. Get on with it.’
‘Very good, bach sir. But I ’ave a feelin’ we could be playin’ with fire ’ere. Oh dearie me. Now what does a Mosselman like for ’is tea . . .?’ Still muttering, he strode away.
Simon found the DCLI lines easily enough and dispatched a soldier to find Major Smith-Denbigh, telling him, in the crisp tones of an English officer, that the matter was most urgent. The Major arrived four minutes later, wiping crumbs from his mouth with a napkin.
‘What the hell is all this about?’ he demanded. ‘And who the hell are you, interrupting my dinner?’
He was about Simon’s height, but predictably stout and red-faced. His inevitable moustache was blond, as was his thinning hair, and he appeared to be in his early to midthirties. He had not stopped to put on his jacket, and the end of his napkin was still tucked into his shirt front.
‘Major Smith-Denbigh?’ enquired Simon politely.
‘Ah. You’re not an Arab, then. Who the hell are you?’
‘What’s your seniority, Major?’
‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’
Simon took a pace closer, so that he could smell the garlic on the other man’s breath. He paused a moment, looking into the Major’s eyes from a distance of a few inches. ‘I asked you a civil question,’ he said in level tones, ‘and if I have to hang around all night here waiting for an answer, then General Sir Garnet Wolseley isn’t going to be very pleased. Now. What’s your seniority?’
‘Er . . . twenty-eighth of February, ’69. What’s this about?’
Simon smiled inwardly. Good. The man was, of course, older than him, but not so much that the age discrepancy could be detected easily, particularly as Simon had pulled down the edge of his esharp to just above his eye line. He could lie happily. ‘I am Major Simon Fonthill, head of Sir Garnet’s intelligence operation in Egypt. Gazetted thirtyfirst of January ’69, so I’m senior to you, Smith-Denbigh, and I have to tell you that I wouldn’t be in your boots tonight.’
‘What? What? What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t bluster, man. Firstly, are you in the habit of walking about the lines without your jacket? Eh? You may be a soldier, but you look like a fucking butler who’s fallen out of his pantry.’
‘I was told this was urgent. Here – how do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘Don’t interrupt me. Now, is it your custom to go around whipping natives with your cane?’
‘Oh, that. He was only a native. Impertinent little bugger. Anyone would have done the same – and anyway, what the hell has it to do with you?’
Simon inched even closer. ‘The man you thrashed happened to be my best undercover agent in this country. What is more, he is the favourite nephew of the Khedive, specially seconded to the British army because of his knowledge of the country and his eagerness to help us. He has been out in the desert with me at Tel el Kebir and came back to Major General Graham with a message of great importance. He had just delivered it when you chose to slash him across the face and then have him shackled like a coolie. I have just got in and heard about it. You have created a diplomatic incident of the utmost severity, you stupid, stupid bastard.’
Simon stayed perfectly still, his eyes glaring deeply into those of Smith-Denbigh, only some eight inches away. He knew he had won when the other dropped his eyes. Bullies, he had gambled, usually step back first.
‘I . . . I . . . didn’t know who the little bugger . . . er . . . the chap was.’ The Major was perspiring, and he dabbed his forehead with his napkin. ‘He should have said.’
‘He tried to talk to you but you slashed him across the face. Is that the way you behave in this country, you fat oaf?’
‘No. It’s the heat, don’t you know. And the bloody flies. They make a man tetchy. What’s to be done, then, eh?’
Simon stepped back. ‘I have spoken to Muharram Pasha, who is prepared to let the matter drop, given an apology from you. I am sure that General Graham, who has enough on his mind just now, will also be prepared to overlook the whole bloody episode. But you must come with me now to release Ahmed Muharram and apologise to him, and then explain to the General that you have dropped any charges against the man. Will you do that?’
‘Well, of course. It was all a mistake, you know.’
‘Very well. Let’s do it quickly. I haven’t dined yet.’
‘I’d better get my jacket.’
‘No time for that. I have unshackled Muharram Pasha and he is just about ready to ride back to Ismailia and take ship to Alex to see his uncle. I have persuaded him to wait. Come along.’
Simon turned and walked quickly away, so that Smith-Denbigh was forced to half trot to catch him up. When they arrived at the guard tent, the guard immediately snapped to attention.
‘Open the tent flap, Barraclough.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The obvious respect with which the infantryman addressed Simon and the fact that the latter knew the guard’s name removed the last doubts that might have lingered in Smith-Denbigh’s mind. He followed Simon into the tent, dabbing the back of his neck with his napkin. Inside, Ahmed was chewing on a chicken bone, with Jenkins at his side. Immediately on seeing the Major, the little Egyptian attempted to rise to his feet, but Simon stopped him and stepped back, slightly behind the Major, so that Smith-Denbigh could not see him.
‘Please don’t get up, Your Excellency.’ Simon addressed Ahmed, holding a warning finger up to his lips. ‘I appreciate that the shackles must have left their mark. Major Smith-Denbigh has something to say to you. Major?’
‘What? Er . . . ah, yes. I do beg your pardon for my . . . er . . . behaviour earlier today and for . . . ah . . . putting you in this sad position. It was a misjudgement of mine and I am exceedingly sorry for it. I shall, of course, withdraw the charge.’
‘Immediately,’ prompted Simon.
‘Ah . . . immediately.’
Ahmed’s jaw had now dropped on to his neckband and a great grin was beginning to spread across Jenkins’s face. Simon frowned at him and the grin disappeared immediately. The Egyptian blinked and began to speak but was halted by Simon.
‘If Your Excellency would be prepared to shake hands with the Major and then perhaps we can forget the incident . . .?’ It was another prompt, and catching Simon’s eye, Ahmed immediately nodded and slowly extended his hand.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said.
Very self-consciously, the two men shook hands, then before any more, perhaps revealing, words could be exchanged, Simon took Smith-Denbigh’s arm and moved him towards the tent opening. ‘Perhaps we can catch the General before he retires,’ he said, ‘and withdraw this charge tonight so that there is no embarrassment with the Provost Major in the morning.’ Nodding to Jenkins, he continued: ‘Please escort His Excellency to his quarters, Sergeant Major, and see what can be done to treat those wounds. I shall join you shortly.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Simon propelled the Major through the tent flap and towards General Graham’s tent. ‘I say,’ protested Smith-Denbigh, ‘all this doesn’t have to be done tonight, does it? I mean . . .’
‘Better to get it over with now. I don’t want Muharram Pasha suffering the indignity of being brought up before the Provost Major in the morning, even if it is only to be given an apology. Let’s get the slate cleaned tonight.’
They found Graham still working by lanternlight at his desk. The two men paused for a moment at the opening, and once again, Simon coughed discreetly. The General looked up and frowned at their presence.
‘Sorry, sir, to intrude once again,’ said Simon. ‘
You will remember the incident when my Egyptian colleague was arrested?’
The General nodded.
‘The charge was brought by Major Smith-Denbigh, as you know, sir, who, on being acquainted with the circumstances, wishes to withdraw the charge and has hurried here to ask your permission to do so. Major?’
Smith-Denbigh looked slightly incongruous, standing to attention jacketless, his napkin still in his hand. ‘Yes, General,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the canvas above Graham’s head. ‘I fear the charge was a mistake and I acted too hastily . With your permission, sir, I would like to withdraw the charge against Mr . . . er . . .’
Graham waved a hand irritably. ‘For goodness’ sake withdraw it, then. I’ve got too much to do to bother with it anyway. You must inform the Provost Major yourself, Smith-Denbigh. No doubt he’ll be glad to see the back of it.’ He bent his head to the table again. ‘Now good night, gentlemen.’
‘Good night, sir.’
Outside the General’s tent, Simon wasted few words in parting from Smith-Denbigh. ‘I will leave it to you to see the Provost Major,’ he said. ‘My advice to you, my friend, is to curb your temper in future. Good night.’ He turned and strode away, leaving the Major looking after him with narrowed eyes.
Simon found Jenkins dabbing at the marks on Ahmed’s face with all the care of a midwife, using cotton wool dipped in a pannier full of warm water. He looked up with a grin. ‘Just fixin’ ’Is Excellency’s make-up,’ he said.
‘Yes, Simon,’ frowned Ahmed, wincing at Jenkins’s administrations. ‘Why did you call me that, and why did bloody man change his mind? Very strange, eh? Very strange.’
Simon grinned back. ‘I had a few words with him about the unfairness of slashing away with a swagger stick. I think he saw the point and wanted to apologise. And you have done such a marvellous job riding with us, Ahmed, that I have decided that from now on you are a pasha and shall be called Your Excellency.’ He bowed low to the little Egyptian.
‘Ah,’ added Jenkins, ‘the Captain – sorry, Major; e’s promoted all of us now – can work the odd miracle when he wants to.’
‘Speaking of miracles,’ said Simon, ‘is there anything to eat? I’m famished.’
Jenkins dropped the cotton wool into the bowl with a sigh and rose. ‘Well, I can’t do everythin’, now, can I? One minnit I’m a master locksmith, the next Florence bleedin’ Nightingale, an’ the next expected to be, what’s ’is name, bloomin’ Escoffier. I’ll go an’ see what I can find.’ He spoke over his shoulder as he bowed and went through the tent flap, ‘P’raps you’ll continue lookin’ after ’is Royal ’Ighness . . .’
Simon squatted down beside Ahmed and inspected the livid weals across his face. ‘Hmmm. No lasting harm done, I think, though you are going to have a couple of black eyes, I’m afraid. I am so sorry about this, Ahmed. It should never have happened.’
Ahmed nodded his head earnestly. ‘No. It is not like British I know, like those that come to my hotel, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘No.’ Simon sighed. ‘But there are black sheep in every flock, I am afraid. Now, continue the bathing if you wish, but excuse me, because I desperately need to wash this sand out of my hair and off my body before Jenkins comes back with the caviar and champagne.’ He directed a level gaze at the Egyptian. ‘Do you think you can come out into the desert again tomorrow? Will you be fit enough? We are being asked to go back to Kassassin again, and I can well understand if you do not wish to ride with us, but I would rather not leave you behind.’
‘Oh no, Simon. I shall be good to go. I do not need beautiful face to ride bleedin’ camel, look you.’
Simon grinned with relief as much as amusement. He did not want the Egyptian staying in the camp alone, vulnerable to any enquiries a newly suspicious Smith-Denbigh might make about his real identity. Risking the mosquitoes and flies, he stripped off his shirt and pantaloons and washed outside, and was towelling himself down as Jenkins returned.
‘Bloody chicken again, I’m afraid,’ said the Welshman. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll dress it up so that it tastes like old boots an’ rat’s tails. After all, on this postin’, I can do everythin’, can’t I?’
‘Of course you can, old chap. You certainly used to be a good wine waiter, so where’s the bloody whisky, then?’
Chapter 16
Once back in Mahsama, Alice resigned herself to the inevitable dressing-down from, first, her husband and then, probably and more seriously, from the C-in-C himself, Sir Garnet Wolseley. Covington arrived back late that evening, dusty and tired from his patrol, but they ate together outside the little bivouac tent she had unloaded from her camel. She did her best with the meal, but it consisted mainly of army tinned rations, with a very little rice, that her man had been able to buy from the stores. She and her husband were both subdued and spoke little during the meal.
Eventually Covington looked at her across the firelight and spoke quietly. ‘You know, Alice,’ he said, ‘you are now becoming that thing that all generals hate the most.’
‘And what is that, pray?’
‘A bloody nuisance.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, Ralph, I can’t help that. It is Wolseley’s fault for cooping up the journalists in Ismailia with nothing to write about but the weather. He is trying to corral us like sheep. Why, he has even appointed an officer to “see to our needs” – which means keep on eye on us and ensure that we don’t stray. We are bound to break out a bit.’
‘No. Only you have broken out.’
‘Well, more shame on the others.’
Covington sighed. ‘I fear that he might send you home.’
Alice shot him an anxious glance. ‘Oh, Ralph, he must not do that. I was only doing my job.’
‘No. You were exceeding your brief.’
‘Does he need to know?’
‘Yes. Graham will have been informed that you are here, and he will be less than delighted to have you on his hands. He is bound to tell Wolseley, and the General, in fact, arrives here tomorrow, I understand. I shall, of course, intervene and tell him myself, and I will put the best face on it that I can. But I fear the worst.’
‘Oh blast!’ She looked into the fire for a moment, then gazed beseechingly at him. ‘Don’t let him send me home, Ralph. It will end my career and . . .’ her voice grew stronger, ‘there will be a hell of a fuss back in England, you know. He will be accused of muzzling the press and all that sort of thing. Questions will be asked in the House and I will become even more of a bloody nuisance to him back home than out here. You know him well and he respects you. Please talk him out of it, my dear. I know you can.’
Covington shook his head slowly. ‘You have the reputation of being something of a stormy petrel, you know. Wolseley knows that General Roberts ordered you home from Afghanistan for evading his censorship. I will do my best, but you do have a record, so to speak.’
They fell silent for while, then Alice moved around the fire and seized Covington’s good hand, looking steadily into his eye. ‘Ralph,’ she asked, ‘do you want me out of here? Do you want me sent home, back to Norfolk in disgrace?’
Covington sighed. ‘Of course I bloody well do, you silly goose,’ he murmured. ‘You must know that. I want you back home, where it is safe, and where you won’t get captured by mad booty collectors and strung by your neck from a rafter, or shot at by Arabi’s soldiers. That’s your place – my home and your home. That’s where you should be. When we married, you promised that you would give up this journalism nonsense, so if this disgrace, as you call it, means that you go back to dear old Norfolk and lose your job, then I would give at least two and half cheers.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but he frowned and held up his hand. ‘I know you well enough, however, to understand that you cannot be reconciled to that. So I shall do my best – short of threatening to run him through with my sword – to persuade Wolseley to let you stay. You can rely on that. But you must realise that you have made a bloody fool of your
self.’
Alice hung her head. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. But thank you for promising to help.’
Alice rose early next morning to compose five hundred words on the facts that Simon had given her about the fighting at Maskhuta and Mahsama station, her account threaded through with background colour on the difficulties of travelling in the desert and the problems facing Wolseley in keeping his lines of communication open and supplied. At mid-morning an orderly slipped a note through her tent flap, inviting her to visit the Commander-in-Chief at two p.m. that day. Sighing, she slipped out of her desert clothes and did her best, with a damp cloth and the palm of her hand, to smooth out the wrinkles from the only change of clothing she had: a simple, if slightly low-cut, blouse, with a skirt and sandals. She remembered how, in South Africa, the General had cast what seemed to be a not altogether disapproving eye on her ankle when first they had met. She was desperate enough to use all the weapons in her armoury.
She presented herself sharply at two and was led into the General’s bell tent, where Wolseley rose to greet her and indicated a folding chair across from his collapsible table. Alice decided to take the initiative.
‘I am afraid I have become a nuisance to you, Sir Garnet,’ she said.
‘I fear that is so, Mrs Covington.’ His tone was icy and he had obviously chosen to address her by her married name to remind her of her marital duties. ‘You know that all journalists were ordered to remain in Ismailia until we could establish ourselves out here in the desert. Yet you chose to disobey that instruction. Why was that?’
‘Because, General, it prevented me from doing my job, which is to report back to my newspaper on the war and how it is being conducted. I certainly could not do that from a collection of huts on the edge of the Suez Canal.’
‘The . . . ah . . . restriction on your movement was only temporary, but it was necessary because myself and my staff have faced very difficult logistical problems with this campaign, and until they could be resolved, or at least reduced, we could not assume the responsibility of protecting the considerable number of journalists we have here if they were allowed to roam out into the desert – a very dangerous place. You must have understood that. The position was explained to you all, I believe, by your liaison officer.’
