The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Alice could not resist smiling at the memory of that harassed young man attempting to explain to his flock why they could not leave their pen. ‘Ah yes,’ she responded, ‘but I asked for no protection from the army. I did not wish to be a nuisance. I merely made my own arrangements and slipped quietly out into the desert, keeping well clear of your posts along the railway and canal.’

  ‘And where you would surely have died had not young Fonthill most fortuitously come across you.’

  ‘That remained to be seen, General. I feel sure we would have found our way to the canal and replenished our water.’

  A vein now began to throb in Wolseley’s temple. His position of Adjutant General at the Horse Guards made him effectively the second in command of the British Army. Here, as Commander-in-Chief on campaign in Egypt, he was in supreme command. He was not used to conducting a discussion. He issued orders, not debated them.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Has it not occurred to you, Mrs Covington, that your actions could have placed the men under my command at great disadvantage? Did you not think of that?’

  Alice frowned. ‘In what way, pray?’

  Wolseley leaned across the table. ‘We are fighting a vicious foe. The Egyptian army is not a civilised body of men as we know them in Europe. Torture is still used in Cairo to extract information from prisoners – oh yes, I have evidence of that. You could well have been captured, put to the lash and forced to divulge whatever details you have of my dispositions and the difficulties we are facing in unloading our men and supplies at Ismailia, thereby encouraging Colonel Arabi to launch a preventive action there.’

  Alice thought quickly. ‘But General,’ she said, ‘that applies to any of your troops who might be captured. You run that risk at all times.’

  ‘There are two points in refutation of that.’ Wolseley’s voice had now risen in tone. ‘The first is that my men are not allowed to wander, undefended, around the desert asking to be captured. And second, they are trained to resist the sort of interrogation I have described. They are not women.’ The last word was delivered with emphasis, leaving Alice in no doubt about the General’s views on the frailties of her gender.

  Alice flushed. ‘Sir Garnet, I am a brigadier’s daughter and a colonel’s wife. I have never had the misfortune to be treated as you describe, but my work has led me to campaign with the army in many parts of the empire. I am not the sort of person who would wilt under interrogation, I assure you.’

  Wolseley sat back in his seat and for a moment his face relaxed. ‘My dear Mrs Covington,’ he said, ‘may I assure you that I defer to no one – except possibly your husband – in my admiration for your pluck, and even the . . . er . . . competence and skill you show in your work.’ He looked down at his table for a moment before continuing. ‘I remember well the fortitude and loyalty you displayed in the face of Ralph’s terrible injuries in Sekukuniland. And I should inform you that your husband, this morning, has made a very strong and persuasive case for allowing you to remain on this campaign. But I cannot accede to his request, I am afraid. I wish you to leave immediately for Ismailia and to return home to England as soon as you are able to make arrangements to do so. I shall cable your editor and explain the circumstances to him.’

  Despite the heat in the tent, Alice felt herself grow cold. ‘Sir Garnet,’ she said, ‘I beg you to reconsider. Perhaps I was a little headstrong, but, like soldiers, journalists must sometimes display that kind of foolishness if they are to do their job. Please let me stay.’

  Wolsley shook his head. ‘I am sorry, dear lady, but it is not possible. You see, the British Army has never been accompanied before in any of its overseas campaigns by so large a contingent of journalists. As you know, they are here from all over the world. If I made an exception in your case, then I am convinced that we should have all kinds of people – particularly the . . . er . . . Latin types and the Americans – slipping away and getting into trouble. Once they see that you have done it and, forgive me, got away with it, so to speak, then others will follow. No. I am sorry. You must return home. There is a detail leaving for Ismailia at four. It is expecting you.’

  Alice nodded slowly. ‘I see. I am to be made an example of. Very well.’ She stood. ‘Thank you, Sir Garnet, for explaining your reasons so carefully, and I am indeed sorry to cause you trouble in the middle of your other considerable worries. I will pack immediately.’

  Wolseley stood and bowed to her. At the tent entrance she paused. ‘May I beg one last indulgence of you, General?’

  He inclined his head. ‘If it does not compromise my position on this matter, then of course.’

  ‘I have written a report of the recent fighting at Maskhuta and I would be most grateful if it could be relayed back in the normal way to my newspaper, without prejudice to your decision.’

  Wolseley nodded. ‘Of course, if it conforms with our established rules of censorship, Mrs Covington.’ He smiled. ‘I think we can allow you a valedictory.’

  She returned the smile and, bowing her head, slipped through the tent opening. Outside, she looked down at her skirt and the rather dainty sandals. All wasted, dammit!

  In her tent, Alice found a note pinned to her bedroll. It was from Covington and merely said: I am sorry. Did my best. Back tonight. R. She shook her head at it. ‘Sorry, Ralph,’ she said, ‘I must be on my way.’ She scribbled a brief note of farewell to Covington, and then began packing her few belongings before finding Abdul.

  On the uncomfortable and monotonous journey back to Ismailia, Alice hardly exchanged a word with anyone but remained within her own cocoon, thinking hard. She let her mind roam, and although at first she tried to avoid it, it was the thought of Simon Fonthill that most insistently thrust itself into her consciousness. She could not but recall the thrill of Simon’s hand on her throat, staying there much longer than was necessary, warm and tender to the touch. She summoned up again his look of first amazement and then delight when they met in the desert and she half fell, half slipped down from her saddle into his arms. With a toss of her head, she acquiesced and, just for a little while, allowed herself to fantasise about what might have been, if that spear had not slashed Ralph’s face and the elephant gun’s giant slug had not crushed his forearm in the valley at Sekukuni. Then, quite firmly, she ended the indulgence once and for all. She would never, never think that way again. It was pointless and debilitating. She could not have Simon and that was that. The question now was: what to do next? As her camel plodded along behind the horses and mules of the detachment returning to Ismailia, grains of sand gritting between her teeth, a plan began to formulate in her mind. There was no question, of course, of her leaving Egypt and returning home. To hell with that – and with General Wolseley! There were stories to be written!

  Back in the journalists’ compound at Ismailia, Alice carefully composed a cable to her editor. It was important that Wolseley’s message to him, telling him of her dismissal, should be refuted before the Morning Post rushed out a replacement correspondent. It would be running too great a risk openly to contradict Wolseley’s decision in a cable sent from the army’s headquarters, but Alice gambled that the kind of keen censorship exercised on press reports would not apply to individual messages of a personal nature. In fact, the censor would most likely be quite unaware of her dismissal. Accordingly, she wrote:

  NEWS OF MY RETURN EXAGGERATED STOP WILL CONTINUE REPORTAGE FROM DIFFERENT ANGLE STOP MORE LATER STOP REGARDS GRIFFITH

  Alice’s reappearance in the compound caused some discussion. Her general air of aloofness discouraged questions, but the bright-eyed, curly-haired Corriere della Sera, with all his Milanese brashness, had no such inhibitions. She had grown to like his ineffable charm. ‘Where you bin, Miss Griffith?’ he asked, falling into step beside her. ‘I bin missin you. Scoopin’ us all out in the desert, eh?’

  She rewarded him with a smile. ‘Not really, Enrico. Just getting some fresh air away from this place. Any announcements while I’ve been away?’

>   The Italian shrugged his shoulders. ‘They give us a few scraps about a bit of a fight at some place called Mahsama, but it only worth two paras. This isn’t a war. Nothin’ ’appens.’

  She increased her smile and slipped away. Good. Her piece about the engagement at Maskhuta and the cavalry charge at Mahsama might be the only story filed in any depth. So far so good! That evening she sought the friendly armourer who had obtained the pistol for her and begged him to find her two compasses and two more water bottles. That would, he said, be no problem. Then she returned to the market in Ismailia and sought out Abdul. He gave her a cheerful grin, but that disappeared very quickly when she made her request.

  ‘Come now, Abdul,’ she wheedled. ‘We only got lost the last time because I dropped the damned compass. I am now buying two, one to be held in reserve. And this time I want to sweep much further north into the desert so that we will avoid all the trouble. I shall know exactly where to turn south for Tel el Kebir and we will not be involved in the fighting. I just want to observe the battle from a safe distance.’

  ‘No, missy.’ Abdul shook his head. ‘Too dangerous.’

  ‘I will double your pay, Abdul. And let us find someone else to come with us as well to afford a little further protection.’

  The Egyptian grinned somewhat shamefacedly. ‘Sorry, missy. I don’t like the desert.’

  Alice sighed. ‘Very well, Abdul. But here.’ She pressed a handful of piastres into his hand. ‘Find me someone – two people – who know the desert and whom you trust. Can you do that for me?’

  Abdul closed his fingers over the coins. ‘I know one man, at least, missy. I will ask. You come back here same time tomorrow. Yes?’

  ‘Good. Yes. Same time tomorrow, but I must meet him first. Can you bring him along?’

  ‘I try, missy.’

  ‘Yes. Do that.’

  The next day Alice picked up her compasses and canteens from the quartermaster and made her way to the market. At first she thought that Abdul had decided she was too dangerous to deal with, for there was no sign of him. Then he reappeared, that embarrassed grin on his face, accompanied by a large, turbaned Egyptian.

  ‘This is Mohammed, missy,’ he said. ‘He good in desert and know English.’ The tall man bowed, running his fingers through his long black beard.

  ‘I was trader for some years with the desert caravans from Cairo, missy,’ he said. ‘Also took English tourists down Nile. I come with you into desert. Know all the oasis.’

  Alice looked at him carefully. Abdul had been recommended to her by an Ismailia-based Frenchman she had befriended, and he had been reliable up to a point and honest, if less than efficient out in the sandy wastes. Could she trust Mohammed? His black eyes held hers steadily, so coolly, indeed, as to prompt the question, was there just a trace of arrogance in his gaze? Ah well, she reasoned, confidence of that sort was needed in the desert.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Abdul has told you of the terms? From that sum you must find us good camels, and food and water enough for us to survive in the desert for perhaps four weeks. Is that acceptable to you?’

  He bowed again. ‘Quite acceptable, missy. I am happy out in desert.’

  ‘Very well, I will take you. Now, can you find one other to accompany us? I want to have no trouble with any Bedawi we might meet, and three is better than two in those circumstances. I shall be armed, of course.’ She added the last sentence to offer a hint that she, too, could be strong.

  His eyes flickered for a moment. ‘I have a friend, missy. He called Ehab. He does not speak English but he knows Tel el Kebir well and has many friend in Egyptian army. He will come, I know. But he needs four or five days before we go. He only man I know for this work. I recommend you wait for him, please.’

  Alice frowned. She had hoped to get away from Ismailia as soon as possible before questions were asked about the exact date of her departure. However, it was most unlikely that Wolseley could advance on Tel el Kebir for several weeks at least, and if this man knew the Egyptian army dispositions, he could be more than useful.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘Tell him that he is hired. Let us be prepared to leave in five days’ time. Mohammed, you must understand that I want no fuss made about our departure. I just want to slip quietly away. I would prefer to leave after dark. Is that possible?’

  ‘Yes, missy.’

  ‘Good. I am in the journalists’ compound near to the main camp. Let me know if you have problems. I will wish to see you the day before we leave to go through our supplies and so on and to see receipts for them. Is that understood?’

  ‘Understood, missy.’

  ‘Very well. Good day to you both.’

  Ehab turned out to be a small, rather rotund Egyptian with a light-skinned face, although Alice could see little of it, for the man kept his esharp wrapped tightly around it. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and the gaze from his dark eyes seemed myopic. Nevertheless, he handled his camel well, and after checking through the list of supplies and inspecting the camels – an extra one had been added to carry their equipment – Alice accepted everything and they made arrangements to rendezvous at the edge of the town just after dusk the following evening.

  Alice’s plan was simple, even crude. There was no point in attempting to shadow the corps of correspondents when they were brought up to the front line, nor to keep in loose touch with the army outposts along Wolseley’s line of communication. That would open her to the danger of being discovered by army patrols. She had obtained a detailed map from the market, which showed the exact stations along the railway line up to and beyond el Kebir. Her intention was to sweep deeply out into the desert and then turn south to the Egyptian lines and camp to the north of them, as Bedawi, and wait until Wolseley launched his attack. She would observe the battle as best she could, then slip back into the camp under cover of the inevitable confusion, find Enrico, her Italian friend, and persuade him to file her dispatch to the Morning Post under an Italianised version of her name. Cornford, her editor, already warned by her cable, would recognise her style and would realise that she had had to resort to subterfuge. She would gamble that in the hectic aftermath of the clash between the two armies, when the censors would have reverted to their role as front-line troops, her story would slip through as long as its contents were not controversial.

  She shook her head as she contemplated the plan. Crude indeed! It depended upon far too many fortuitous outcomes. But it was the only tactic she could think of employing. She shrugged her shoulders. Better to try and fail than to submit weakly to transportation back to England!

  Alice and her two companions met by the ruin of the barracks at Nefisha. Without incident, they turned their camels and headed a little way along the edge of the rail track before turning north-west out into the desert. After an hour, Alice decided it was safe to camp, and the two men lit a fire and prepared a meal while Alice erected her bivouac tent. They ate in companionable silence and were up before dawn to continue their journey, Alice carefully plotting their course with the aid of her compass.

  They continued in this fashion for three days, Alice diverting twice to find small oases marked on her map, where they were able to replenish their water. The two men proved to be amenable to instruction and worked easily with the camels and the cooking. It was, however, a silent party, for Mohammed spoke little and Ehab not at all. The latter kept very much to himself, and after a while, Alice realised that she had no idea what he looked like, for he remained shrouded in his voluminous Arab garments and headdress. But it was of no importance. They both did their job and that was what mattered.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Alice decided that the time had come to turn south towards Tel el Kebir. Map in one hand and compass in the other, she gestured to Mohammed, riding behind her. He nodded and turned to Ehab in the rear, passing on the order. The little man also nodded, but then urged his camel forward so that it was level with Alice’s and caught her wrist. She whirled round and saw that Ehab ha
d donned spectacles – small, round spectacles. Then he hit her hard across the face.

  ‘No, bitch,’ he said. ‘We continue to the north-west.’ And he swung his hand around and caught her a second blow across the face that sent her falling from the saddle to the ground.

  Sprawled there, she looked up, wide-eyed. ‘Oh my God,’ she cried. ‘George!’

  Chapter 17

  The day following the Smith-Denbigh incident, General Graham and his small force moved up and occupied Kassassin without interference from the enemy. He settled down in defence of this post with a mixed detachment of dragoons, two battalions of infantry supported by mounted infantry, men of the Marine Artillery acting as infantry and two guns of the Royal Horse Artillery. The latter’s ammunition was limited to that carried in their limbers: thirty-six rounds per gun. It was a thin line, and Graham used his three scouts continually for three days, patrolling to the west and north, riding ahead of troops of cavalry who themselves were deployed as constant, fluid forward screens to ensure that the outpost was not taken by surprise attack. It was a repetitive and tiring task, out in the scorching sun for most of each day, plagued by fitful dust storms and the everpervasive flies, but Simon, at least, preferred it to staying in the lines, away from further attention by Smith-Denbigh and where there was no Alice or Covington, for that matter, to distract him.

  It was Ahmed, riding out north of his two fellows in the early morning, who first saw the hesitant advance of the Egyptian army. The clouds of white-coated figures were gathering on high ground, without, however, displaying any strong antagonistic intentions. Nevertheless, the three scouts rode back to report to General Graham. The latter immediately dispatched them back to Mahsama – their camels were still the fastest and most reliable form of transport between the two camps – to direct Drury Lowe to bring up his cavalry to protect Graham’s north flank. The horsemen turned out, but before they could advance, the Egyptians retired, having let off a few salvos of artillery fire. The British cavalry were put on stand-by (there was no fodder available for their mounts at Kassassin, so the decision to move them up there could not be taken lightly), only to advance in earnest in the early afternoon when the enemy was observed making a more determined advance in greater strength, with cavalry and infantry supported by guns. Simon, Jenkins and Ahmed rode up with Drury Lowe, but as he and his cavalry wheeled off to the north into the desert proper to protect the British right flank, Simon and his companions peeled away to the south to rejoin Graham and the main force.