The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Jenkins disturbed the silence. ‘I shall ’ave ’im,’ he said quietly. ‘You see if I don’t.’

  ‘Not if I see him first,’ said Simon. ‘Right. We have rested long enough. Let’s follow the canal along. It can’t be too far before we see our lines, or perhaps another patrol.’

  ‘Or an Egyptian one,’ muttered Jenkins.

  ‘No. We’ll get there. Have faith.’

  Laboriously, Ahmed was hoisted back on to his sling and the little cavalcade trudged on, Simon taking up the rear, his rifle at the ready. If the Egyptians caught up now, then they would sell their lives dearly.

  They had stopped for another break when the second patrol appeared. There were ten men this time. They stopped well out of rifle range as their officer examined the trio through his field glasses. Then he turned, issued an order and the patrol dismounted and began spreading to right and left.

  ‘The hounds of hell,’ murmured Simon. ‘We’ve got the canal to our backs, so they can’t surround us. How much ammo do you have, 352?’

  ‘About eight rounds. Just enough for this lot. What about you?’

  ‘About the same. But I do have three other little babies . . .’

  ‘Eh?’

  Simon fumbled and produced the dynamite. ‘I was told to treat this stuff with care,’ he said, ‘but I’ve fallen on it, scraped it across rocks and sat on it. I only hope the bloody stuff goes off now, when I want it to, because if it doesn’t, we could be in trouble.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Jenkins. ‘Oh, sorry, Amen.’

  Leaving Ahmed lying under cover among rocks on the slope of the canal side, Simon and Jenkins took up their positions on a low sand dune near the bank, lying on their stomachs in a V formation, their rifle butts at their cheeks.

  ‘Do you think they’ll rush us?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Not yet. They will probably work round to both sides of us and try and pick off one or the other of us before charging in. Save your fire until you are reasonably certain of hitting. Let’s hope they’re as bad shots as the other lot.’

  ‘Hmmm. But they still got old Et cetera, didn’t they?’

  Jenkins voice was cut off by the crack of two rifle reports. The first round buried itself in the sand by the side of his head; the second landed similarly near to Simon.

  ‘Hell!’ cursed Simon. ‘They’ve got round further than I thought. Back to the rocks on the edge of the canal.’

  They crawled back as quickly as they could to the jagged line of stones and boulders that marked the line of the waterway and took up new positions either side of Ahmed, who lay still, only half conscious, his brow puckered by the pain of his wound. Jenkins eased himself into a crevice between two rocks and took careful aim. His shot was followed by a howl of pain.

  ‘Bugger.’ Jenkins swore softly. ‘Only got ’im in the shoulder. Must be gettin’ tired or old or somethin’.’

  ‘Keep changing position,’ said Simon. ‘They won’t be able to get a fix on us then.’

  But that was easier said than done, for it was difficult to crawl among the jagged jumble of rocks and stones and the Egyptians began to lay down a steady fire, forcing Simon and Jenkins to keep their heads down and giving them little opportunity to return the fire. Even so, Jenkins was able to elicit one more cry of pain from the riflemen out among the sand dunes.

  ‘I think they’re crawling nearer,’ said Simon. ‘It’s going to be difficult to toss these sticks among them when I can’t get a good view of them. Can you keep them occupied while I try and wade up on the edge of the canal and get behind them?’

  ‘Very good, bach sir. Go to the right and I’ll concentrate on the devils on that side and force ’em to keep their ’eads down while you get be’ind ’em, see. Go and ’ave a paddle.’

  Simon undid the cord with which the three sticks of dynamite were tied and secured it round his head, slipping the sticks through it so that they stood up like candles, well away from the water. He fixed his matches in the same way and, rifle in hand, slipped and crawled down to the edge of the canal. It was unappetising enough, but would it be sufficiently deep to force him to swim? He hoped not, for he did not want to leave his rifle behind. No, at the edge it only came up to his waist, and holding his rifle aloft, he was able to move slowly through the opaque water.

  He waded for perhaps a hundred and fifty yards, then scrambled out, still hearing the sharp crack of rifle fire to his left. Ideally he would have wished to have made more ground, but he could not risk leaving Jenkins any longer on his own. Would he lift his head above the bank and find himself staring into the muzzle of a Remington? Gritting his teeth, he edged upwards. Nothing. Making sure that his highly explosive headdress was dry and still in place, he crawled slowly towards the edge of a long, low dune that swelled before him, and gingerly looked over the top.

  Four white-clad Egyptian infantrymen were lying spaced along the top of the next dune, their backs to him, their long rifles poked over the top of the mound, firing leisurely at their distant target. Good, that meant that Jenkins was still keeping them at bay.

  Simon slipped back and released the dynamite and matches from the cord. He carefully placed two of the sticks to one side and brushed the sand from the third. He gulped, for its fuse was only about an inch and a half long: no time to ‘light and retire quickly’. He would have to ignite the fuse and throw almost in one action. And he was too near the target for safety. But what the hell!

  He lit the fuse, knelt for a frightening few seconds to make sure that the thing was burning, and then stood and threw the stick, in an overarm action to ensure accuracy, like bowling a cricket ball. It fell neatly between two of the enemy. Simon flung himself down and backwards, certain for an agonising moment that the fuse must have fizzled out, but then a blast of flame and a loud explosion showed that Mr Nobel’s Blasting Powder was still effective.

  Simon slung his rifle over his shoulder – he had better weapons now – picked up the other two sticks and his matches and peered over the edge of the dune. The four Egyptians lay in varying postures, mostly on their backs with their rifles blasted clear. Their skin, whatever its original colour, was now completely black and their clothing torn. That little hollow smelt horribly of burnt flesh and cordite.

  Breaking into a slow-motion run, his feet slipping in the sand, Simon crested the top of the dune and saw that the remaining six patrolmen were spread out in a crescent. Two of them were holding their shoulders and rocking with pain from where Jenkins’s bullets had caught them in, and the other four were staring in bewilderment at the black smoke still rising from behind Simon. Immediately, before they could realign their rifles, Simon put a match to another stick and hurled it at the group. Like flies caught in amber, the men lay immobile for a second as they watched it arc through the air, then, at the last moment, their legs fought for purchase in the sand and they attempted to rise and run.

  Simon flung himself to the sand again behind the crest of the ridge and so was unable to see the explosion, but he felt it well enough. A hot wave of air surged across his neck and back as he buried his face in the sand, and the noise of the explosion, so near, deafened him and left his ears singing. He looked up. The carnage was as before, except that this time there were six blackened bodies lying on the sand.

  He called to Jenkins. Slowly the Welshman appeared from the rocks, rifle in hand. He stood for a second, his mouth open, and then waved his rifle at Simon.

  ‘Come and help me see if anyone is alive and needs help,’ shouted Simon. But it was a hopeless mission. Every member of that patrol, caught out in the open at close range to the explosions, had been killed by the blast. It was a nosewrinkling sight and Jenkins shook his head in dismay.

  ‘Frightenin’ stuff, bach sir,’ he said. ‘But, bless me, you were just in time. They were movin’ in on me from all sides an’ I didn’t know which way to face, see. They would ’ave ’ad me in another couple of minutes. I thought you’d gone swimmin’ back to Tel el Watchemacallit.’


  ‘Sorry, 352. Let’s see if we can get their horses.’ But the Egyptians’ mounts, terrified by the explosions, had pulled up their shallow-rooted tethers and bolted into the desert. Wearily, the two men plodded back to the rocks and helped a now fully conscious Ahmed to his feet.

  ‘It’s back into your cradle, I’m afraid,’ said Simon. ‘We can’t have far to go now.’ But he knew that he was whistling to keep up their courage. There was probably about another two miles to walk before they reached the British lines, not so very far in terms of distance, but hopelessly far in terms of the terrain to be covered under this hot sun. Even the superbly strong Jenkins could not keep going carrying Ahmed for very much further. And if another Egyptian patrol came along? Well, they had one more stick of dynamite . . .

  They had been struggling alongside the canal for perhaps another half an hour before, like a mirage, they saw the launch slowly emerging out of the heat haze from the east, the white ensign of the British navy hanging limply at its stern. A Maxim machine gun was immediately presented to them before Simon waved and shouted, ‘Don’t shoot. We’re British. Long live the bloody navy!’

  Chapter 19

  It took less than half an hour for the launch to take them to Kassassin, steaming astern all the way, for the canal was too narrow to allow it to turn. The young midshipman in command – looking all of twelve years old in his shorts and a topi that seemed two sizes too large for him – told Simon that they had only ventured this far to the west because he had heard the explosions of the dynamite sticks and felt he should investigate. Back in the camp, Ahmed was taken ashore and medical orderlies carried him to the sick bay, escorted by Simon and Jenkins, anxious to ensure that the little Egyptian received as much care as if he had been an English officer. Leaving Jenkins with the doctor, Simon then sought out Wolseley to make his report.

  He was made to wait outside the Commander-in-Chief’s tent for more than fifteen minutes – unusual, this, for Wolseley had always granted him audience immediately in the past. Simon was eventually ushered in and found the General looking distracted and low (a touch of fever again?). Sir Garnet shook his hand warmly enough, however, and indicated a chair.

  ‘Good work, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘By the look of it, you did a splendid job. Casualties?’ Simon related the brush with the Egyptian patrols and the resulting wound to Ahmed’s shoulder. ‘Bad luck. Is he being looked after?’

  ‘I hope so, sir. As long as Major Denbigh-Smith doesn’t get near him.’ Simon had already decided to keep quiet about the encounter with the Major on the canal bank. That could wait for resolution – one way or another – later.

  Wolseley’s faced clouded over again. ‘Oh, that. Yes. I have had a word with the officer concerned. It won’t happen again, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘As I say, you did a splendid job on the tower. It looks as though it has completely disappeared from the skyline.’

  ‘Thank you. There was a heliograph there, so it was as well that we moved in and destroyed it. We did our best, sir, to bring it down without damage to the natives living nearby, but I can’t be certain about that.’

  ‘That reflects credit on you. Oh, by the way, I am sorry that our diversionary bombardment came a bit late. Damned difficult to get the RHA’s guns out through the sand in time under cover of darkness, but it seems as though they did their job.’

  ‘When are you going to launch your attack, sir?’

  Wolseley pulled at the end of his long moustache. ‘Just a bit late on that too, I fear. We have still been having trouble in bringing up men, supplies and ammunition from Ismailia, but we are using the canal more now and I am hoping to go in four or five days’ time. The build-up is going well, though, despite the heat and these damned flies, and I am feeling much more sanguine about the attack now that that blasted tower cannot be used for artillery spotting.’

  Simon nodded but remained silent. He had a feeling that the General, usually so forthright, was holding something back – and that whatever it was, it concerned him.

  Wolseley sighed. ‘What I am not feeling sanguine about, however,’ he said, ‘is something that has cropped up earlier today.’ He levelled a searching look at Simon, as though sizing him up. ‘To some extent, Fonthill, it concerns you, and once again, I fear, I need your help. I have to confess that what I will ask of you is beyond the call of duty. Here.’ He tossed a sheet of paper across the table to him. ‘Prepare for a bit of a shock and read this.’

  Frowning, Simon picked up the paper. It was unheaded but addressed to Colonel R. Covington CB, c/o British Army Headquarters, Kassassin. The handwriting, printed in capital letters, seemed vaguely familiar. It read:COLONEL COVINGTON, ONCE AGAIN I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF YOUR WIFE’S COMPANY. TO PROVE THAT I HAVE HER, I ENCLOSE A LOCK OF HER HAIR AND A SMEAR OF HER BLOOD – ONLY, SO FAR, FROM HER FINGER . . .

  Simon drew in his breath with a hiss.

  . . . BUT IF YOU REFUSE WHAT I DEMAND, MY NEXT LETTER WILL CONTAIN HER RIGHT EYE. AT LEAST THAT WOULD MAKE YOU EQUAL, EH? NOW READ CAREFULLY. IN RETURN FOR YOUR WIFE, I WANT A LETTER SIGNED BY GENERAL WOLSELEY GIVING ME SAFE CONDUCT OUT OF EGYPT VIA PORT SAID TO GREECE, PLUS TWO THOUSAND POUNDS IN GOLD.

  BRING THESE TO DAKHLAMI OASIS TWENTY-TWO MILES NORTH-NORTH-WEST OF TEL EL KEBIR. COME ALONE. I HAVE MANY MEN AND IF YOU ARE ACCOMPANIED THEY WILL BE SEEN AND THE BITCH WILL SWING FROM A PALM TREE. IF YOU ARE NOT HERE BY THE 10th I SHALL TAKE HER WITH ME TO THE NORTH AND SELL HER TO THE SUDANESE SLAVEMASTERS. BY THE WAY, DID YOU K NOW THAT SHE WAS FONTHILL’S WHORE?

  G. GEORGE.

  Simon slowly put down the letter and regarded Wolseley wide-eyed. ‘Has Covington seen this?’

  ‘Yes. He set off three hours ago to find this oasis place – I am informed that it is very remote. He took with him a letter from me, as demanded, but there has been no time, of course, to find that sort of money in gold if we are to meet the deadline. Instead, Covington has taken a bank draft from me in the hope that this will satisfy the swine. He has gone alone, of course.’

  Simon felt his mouth go dry and his brain immediately recalled a picture of George kicking away the table in that horrible room in Alexandria, so that Alice was sent swinging by the neck . . . He swallowed hard. ‘General,’ he said, ‘Covington does not know this man. I do. George will not carry out his end of the bargain. In fact, Alice could well already be dead.’

  ‘I think he appreciates that. But we had no choice. We both felt that we had no option but for him to go and attempt to barter for Mrs Covington’s life. But I want him to have back-up, whether he wants it or not. Certainly, it would be far too dangerous for me to send a cavalry troop trailing behind him. However . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon cut in quickly. ‘I will go. Jenkins and I make a pretty good pair of Bedawi now, and we can follow Covington without detection, I am sure. I can’t help feeling that the Colonel may attempt something stupid and endanger Alice – if, that is, she is still alive.’

  Wolseley smoothed back his receding hair with a weary gesture. ‘The chances are that she is. Some while ago I put out an order to the northern ports, which we control of course, giving George’s description and ordering him to be detained. My theory is that he has tried to leave Egypt by this route and has found it difficult, and that this taking of Mrs Covington is his last desperate ploy. He would not therefore throw away his only bargaining counter at this juncture.’

  Simon nodded. The logic was sound – and welcome.

  ‘As for Covington attempting something heroic,’ the General continued, ‘I’m afraid that may well be true. He left this morning somewhat distracted, I fear.’ He sighed, and Simon realised the strain that Wolseley must be under. He was about to attack a well-defended bastion, from an exposed position at the end of a tenuous line of communication and with the eyes of the world upon him. This latest development would be as welcome as an outbreak of malaria. Yet the man was being rational and constructive.

  Wolseley c
ontinued: ‘That is why I decided to ask you to follow him, despite the fact that you have only just returned from a most dangerous and tiring mission. I am most grateful that you have accepted, Fonthill. I am also sorry that your Egyptian cannot go with you, because his linguistic skills would have been useful, no doubt. But you and your Welshman have done heroic things in the past. I cannot advise you – let alone give you orders – on how to approach this task. You must react to the situation as you perceive it.

  ‘Now.’ He scribbled something on a pad. ‘Take this and get the best camels you can from my transport officer. Here is a local map giving the location of the oasis. Covington refused to take a camel and rode out on his charger, which means that although he has three hours’ advantage on you – more than that by the time you set out – you will make better time in the deeper sand and may catch him at some point. But I do suggest you leave him alone unless you have to intervene.’ The General gave Simon a penetrating glance. ‘He would not want to work with you, Fonthill, and he has no idea, of course, that you will be behind him. Act with great care.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Simon took a deep breath. ‘That last sentence of George’s, in his letter . . .’

  Wolseley waved his hand dismissively. ‘Nonsense, of course. Neither I nor Covington gave it credence. Just an attempt to cause anger and dismay.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The General stood. ‘One last point.’ His tone now became harsher. ‘I am most concerned about Mrs Covington, of course, and the welfare of one of my best staff officers. Nevertheless, Fonthill, I am about to launch what will be a very difficult attack – perhaps under cover of darkness – and I shall need you for that. I will want you back in less than five days. Is that understood?’

  Simon gulped. ‘Very good, sir.’

  Jenkins was aghast at the news of Alice’s capture and he willingly went off to find the camels while Simon secured provisions for their journey and ammunition for their rifles. Within two hours, as the sun was beginning to ease down on to the purple horizon to the west, the pair set out into the desert once again.