The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘What?’ Covington waved his hook. ‘Damn you, Fonthill. Get out of my way—’

  His words were cut short as the Egyptian guns facing the approaching first division at last opened up, in a great boom that seemed to split the heavens. Simon was conscious of a hissing sound above his head, and he instinctively threw himself flat as the ground ahead erupted in a fiery mass of exploding stone, sand, earth and goodness knows what else as the shells crashed into the lines of advancing troops. He buried his face in the sand and clasped his hands over his head as debris rained down upon him. Then, desperate at what he might see, he turned his head to search for Jenkins and glimpsed the Welshman, equally prostrate, but head up and waving a hand to show that he had survived the first wave of shells. Ahead of him, however, there was nothing but smoke.

  Simon stayed there, hands over his head and attempting to burrow into the sand for shelter, dreading the next salvo from the Egyptian lines. It came seconds later. Whether the gunners had adjusted their sights to direct their shells deeper into the advancing mass, or whether some of them had already fled their posts, he would never know, but the second salvo seemed far less concentrated and he was aware that marines, now trotting, were passing him on their way to attack the Egyptian lines.

  Crawling to his feet, Simon went back to Jenkins and knelt by his side. ‘Have you been hit, old chap?’

  The Welshman gave a weary grin. ‘No, bach sir. Just takin’ a bit of a rest in all this noise, see. Out of bloody breath, look you. Are you all right?’

  Simon flung himself down as a third salvo whistled over their heads, but as before it was markedly less accurate, or so it seemed. ‘No, I’m unharmed. You stay here. It looks as though the guns are ranging further back now. I’m going to look for Covington.’

  ‘Not on your own you’re not.’ And Jenkins hauled himself to his feet, the bloodstain on the dressing spreading.

  They found Covington lying some hundred yards ahead, marines stepping over him as they advanced. He was alive, but shrapnel had torn a hole in his stomach which he was desperately trying to cover with his one good hand. Blood oozed through his fingers and from another gaping wound in his thigh.

  ‘Covington,’ cried Simon, kneeling by his side. ‘Don’t move. We’ll get a medic to you.’ He looked down, winced and lied desperately. ‘It’s not serious. We’ll soon have you right.’

  A half-smile crept over Covington’s features. ‘Wish you’d stop intruding into my life, damn you, Fonthill. And you’re a bloody liar. Can’t see very well, so I know I’m done for.’ His voice started to tail away. ‘Shame. I would have liked to have a go at those chaps. Bloody guns.’ Then his eye blazed fiercely for a moment as blood began to ooze from the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell Alice that . . .’

  His head fell to one side and the blood ran down his chin into the sand. He lay quite still.

  Simon felt for a pulse but found none, and then Jenkins leaned over and, with his thumb, closed the sightless eye. ‘Well,’ said the Welshman, ‘that’s that, then. Brave bloke, despite ’is faults.’ He looked across at Simon. ‘Better get out of ’ere while we can, bach sir. We can’t do nothin’ more for’im. They’ll pick ’im up after the battle, like.’

  Simon nodded. Then they both ducked as another salvo boomed over their heads. ‘Let’s go. No. Wait.’ Gently he withdrew Covington’s sword from its scabbard. ‘I’ll take this back. Alice might like to have it.’

  Almost unaware of the guns, whose firing was now more intermittent, they trudged back to the southern section of the Egyptian lines, where the fighting had now completely ceased. It was continuing, however, at the Egyptian reserve line of trenches, although less intensely now.

  ‘I suppose we had better get on over there,’ said Simon. ‘There might be something we can do.’

  ‘All right, then, but I’m not rushin’.’

  ‘How’s the arm?’

  ‘Just ’urts a bit when I laugh, see. Nothin’ much.’

  ‘Come on then. We can probably find you a field doctor over there.’

  In fact, by the time they reached the second line, it was clear that this too had been broken, and bagpipes were wailing in triumph. Bodies lay less thickly here, but it was obvious that the Egyptians had suffered badly. British medical orderlies were busying themselves among the wounded, British and Egyptian alike, and stretcher parties were carrying the worst cases to the rear. Along the length of the line, smoke rose as though from a funeral pyre.

  Simon sat on the edge of a trench and looked at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock. The boom of guns from the north had fallen silent. He removed his hat and immediately felt the hot sun on his head. He ran his hand over his eyes, sore from the dust and smoke, and blinked. As before after a battle, he felt an overwhelming sense of depression descend upon him, seeming to replace the adrenalin that had surged through him during the fighting and leaving behind an emptiness – no, more a feeling of shame at the waste of it all. He looked again at the crumpled figures around him. So many lives lost, to preserve . . . what? The ownership of a few miles of waterway carved out of sand dunes? The restoration of stability to a country unsettled by foreign domination? Well, at least Ahmed seemed to think it had all been worthwhile.

  Simon realised that he had deliberately been avoiding any thought of Covington, as though his death was a momentary aberration – a mistake that would be righted as soon as the smoke cleared. He shook his head. No, the man was gone. Covington, his old oppressor, his rival in love for Alice, the man who had stood between him and happiness, was dead. Yet there was no feeling of elation, of new hope for the future. The tragedy of the man’s death, its brutality and suddenness, was too prevalent. How would Alice take it? Simon sighed. Would she welcome him back now – emerging from the debris of the battlefield with her husband’s sword, as though he had just slain him in mortal combat?

  He shook his head again. Whatever Alice had said about her love for him, he knew that she had always been fond of Covington, had admired his courage and his soldierly qualities. She was bound to be upset at being so rudely thrust into widowhood. Would she even, perhaps, blame him for it? Well, whatever the answers to those questions, one thing was certain: it looked as though the battle of Tel el Kebir was over and that Arabi’s insurrection, revolt, uprising – whatever it was – had been broken. Sir Garnet Wolseley’s great gamble had paid off and he had won the day.

  As though to mark the fact, he heard cheering. A group of officers was riding the length of the line, led by a small man with drooping moustaches on a black charger. He was smiling and saluting to acknowledge the ovation. Wolseley was savouring his victory.

  Simon felt Jenkins sink down beside him, and they both watched the approach of Wolseley with tired, lacklustre eyes. They failed to rise as the little cavalcade approached, and then, at the last minute, hauled themselves upright, leaning on their rifles, but neither could raise a cheer.

  The General halted and looked down at them, noting their bloodstained bayonets and the dressing on Jenkins’s arm. If he also noticed Covington’s sword on the ground at Simon’s feet, he paid it no attention. Instead, he nodded. ‘Ah, my two indefatigable A-rabs. Been in the thick of it by the look of it, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Not hurt badly, I trust, 352?’

  ‘No, thank you, General bach, just a scratch, see.’

  ‘Good. You both look all in. Fonthill, no time to talk now, and you need to rest, but come and see me at about six tonight. I shall probably have set up a temporary headquarters at the station. See me there. Good work, both of you.’ He put a forefinger to the edge of his topi and rode on. The cheering broke out again as he made his way down the line.

  Simon sighed. ‘Well, that’s obviously that, then. The battle must be over.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I wonder if Alice got her story. I hope so. Come on. Let’s find someone who can have a look at that arm. Then perhaps we can snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before I have to see the General again.’

  Chapter 21r />
  In fact, tired as he was, Simon found no sleep throughout the day. Instead, he lay on his bedroll contemplating his future. Would it be with Alice, and more to the point, would she want him? He was old enough now to know that what was unattainable often seemed the more desirable, until, that is, it became attainable. And then the bloom went off the rose. With reality came revision, and what? Rejection? Covington had been rich and Alice would inherit. He, Simon, had nothing in comparison. He looked at the snoring figure of Jenkins on the other side of the tent, his arm freshly bandaged, and not for the first time envied the little man’s ability to sleep.

  He felt, then, tired and dejected when he stirred himself that evening to keep his appointment with the General. He left early for he was anxious to detour on the way to the station to visit the site of the tower. He was gratified to see that the building had, indeed, seemed to have collapsed in on itself. A stump remained, poking through the pile of rubble, but the huts around were undisturbed, and this did a little something to relieve the depression that now consumed him. Unsurprisingly, he was asked to wait at the station, and he perched gloomily on a stool provided for him outside the tiny office, as a succession of young aides and clerks swept by him attending to the General. He sat back, leaning against a wall, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, pondering. Alice, ah, Alice . . .

  His reverie was ended by a summons at last, and he found Wolseley sitting behind a makeshift desk scribbling furiously. For a man who had presumably had little sleep for twenty-four hours, he looked surprisingly sharp. ‘Bring your stool in,’ said the General. ‘There’s nowhere else to sit. Shan’t keep you long. Got far too much to do.’

  Once Simon was seated, Wolseley put down his pen and regarded him. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but I often think that there’s more to do after a battle than before it.’ He lifted up a tin cup at his side. ‘Take a brandy with me, Fonthill. You look terrible.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ Dutch courage, to face Alice. Why not? Then he remembered the formalities. ‘Congratulations, Sir Garnet. It seems to have been a quick and most comprehensive victory.’

  The General nodded. ‘I have to say that it was.’ He yelled through the door to an aide sitting at a campaign desk on the station platform: ‘Smithie, bring me another cup, there’s a good fellow.’ He took a sip from his own mug. ‘Yes. Considering the difficulties of logistics and so on, it was a considerable relief to me, I must say, to see how well it went in the end. I hear that Arabi himself is running back to Cairo with what’s left of his army. All the fight’s gone out of them and I’ve got the cavalry on their heels to make sure there’s no question of them attempting to defend the capital. I shall enter Cairo as soon as I can.’

  ‘What will you do with Arabi?’

  ‘He will be tried by a properly constituted court. I shall make sure that he’s not hanged out of hand, or anything of that kind. He will probably be deported. Here.’ He lifted up a bottle from the floor by his foot and poured a little amber liquid into the cup handed to Simon. ‘Take a gulp.’

  Simon drank from the cup and coughed as the harsh aftertaste of the cognac hit his throat. ‘You will have heard the sad news about Covington, I presume, sir?’

  Wolseley nodded. ‘This is the kind of price that always has to be paid for a successful action, but I can never come to terms with it. I know you had your problems with him, but to me he was a fine comrade and soldier. A great loss to me and to the nation.’

  Simon could think of nothing to say. He nodded mutely.

  ‘Damned shame,’ the General continued. ‘The division he was guiding got a bit bent, so to speak, during the night, so it was late arriving, as you know. They caught one or two salvos from the Egyptian guns before the line could be stormed. The cursed thing is that the gunners didn’t really cause all that much damage in the end because so many of their shells just buried themselves in the sand. Just bad luck that Covington caught it. But he died as he would have wished, in the heat of battle.’ Wolseley looked out of the door with unseeing eyes. ‘That’s the way I would like to go, when the time comes.’

  Simon took another draught of the brandy. ‘What about Al . . . what about his wife? Has she been told?’

  ‘Yes. Broke the news myself. Felt I had to. She seemed to take it well, but I know she will be broken. In fact, Fonthill, I would be grateful if you would go to her and give her whatever comfort you can. I know that you were friends more or less from childhood, wasn’t it?’

  Simon nodded. ‘More or less. Our fathers served together in the 24th and remain great friends.’ The cognac was now beginning to warm his stomach and bring him to life again. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She said she must file her story for the Morning Post.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s got guts, that girl, you know. To have this terrible news so soon after her dreadful experience out in the desert with that infernal scoundrel George is just too much. My word, she’s got pluck. But she’s probably back in her tent by now. The correspondents’ quarters are just south of the village here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d better go, then.’ Simon stood and made for the door.

  ‘Hold on.’ Wolseley gestured to the stool. ‘You’ve got time to finish your brandy, man. And anyway, I have something I wish to say to you.’

  Slowly Simon regained his seat.

  ‘Right. Now. Your work for me here in Egypt has been exemplary. If you had rejoined the army I would have cited both you and your Welshman for medals. But I can’t give crosses to civilians, even though you clearly fought like tigers on the entrenchments there. So you will both receive an extra six months’ pay. It’s the least I can do – wish there was more.’

  Simon thought quickly. ‘Thank you, sir. That’s much appreciated. But there is something . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Our Egyptian comrade, Ahmed Muharram – you will remember, he sustained a wound when we were coming back from Tel el Kebir, south of the canal.’

  ‘Ah yes. Of course.’

  ‘Would it be possible to reduce the money coming to Jenkins and myself and give him a commensurate one-third share from the total amount? He has worked so bravely for us and supports the British one hundred per cent in what we are trying to do in Egypt. And he could use the money for his hotel. He has not earned while he has been away in Cairo.’

  ‘Of course.’ Wolseley made a note. ‘I shall increase the overall sum accordingly. I don’t want you and Jenkins to suffer. Which reminds me . . .’ A scowl came over the General’s face that he vainly tried to stop lapsing into a half-smile. ‘That officer who hit your Egyptian – Smith-Denbigh, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The most amazing thing seems to have happened to him in Kassassin, before the march. I’ve just heard about it. It appears that he was lured out into the desert a little way that evening just after dark. Don’t know the details, but I gather he was told that I wished to see him by the camel lines. Bloody fool went, it seems, and there he was hit over the head by some Arab. When he regained consciousness a few minutes later, he had been stripped naked and covered in camel dung. Nothing had been taken – in fact, his money was carefully laid out on the sand by his side. But his clothes had gone and he had to stumble stark naked back through the lines.’

  Simon carefully composed his face. ‘Good lord! I hope he wasn’t badly hurt.’

  ‘No, it seems it was only a tap on the head. But it’s made the man a laughing stock, of course. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you, Fonthill?’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘Well, I don’t take this sort of thing lightly, I can tell you. Luckily for the perpetrator, I have too much to do now to conduct an investigation, but if you hear anything, please let me know.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Now, as far as I am concerned, my boy, you can consider your service to me in Egypt at an end. This campaign is almost certainly over and I will have no need of you
in Cairo. Come to my office there when the dust has settled and I will have steamer tickets to take you back home. What do you intend to do with yourself there?’

  Simon felt as though his head was still spinning. Alice free at last! But would she . . . could she . . . ? ‘I have absolutely no idea, sir,’ he said, quite truthfully. ‘No idea at all.’

  ‘You won’t, of course, consider taking up a commission again? You have excellent qualities for the service, Fonthill, and I can certainly advance you.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Sir Garnet, but I don’t think so. I used the bayonet today for the first time for years, and . . .’ he paused and shook his head, ‘I have to say that I did not like it one bit. As I told you once before, I believe, I don’t think I am cut out to be a regular soldier. However . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know how my circumstances will change now, sir, but Jenkins and I have always enjoyed working for you, and if you feel in the future that we can be of service to you,’ he coughed, ‘in our rather irregular way, then I am sure we would be interested. But not as regular soldiers, I fear.’

  Wolseley allowed a grin to spread under his moustaches. ‘I seem to remember that we had this conversation once before.’ He stood and extended his hand. ‘I could well be interested, Fonthill, although I rather see my life now extending before me in a damned office in Whitehall. But we shall see. Goodbye, my boy, and thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  Simon stood outside on the station platform and gazed unseeingly at the young officer working at the desk there. He turned, and then turned back again and walked along the bustling station’s little platform, deep in thought and quite unaware of the activity all around. How would Alice have taken the news? She had married the man, after all, and lived with him for two years. Of course she would be grieving for Covington. Perhaps he should leave her with her grief for a while. Yes, that was the sensitive thing to do. But then . . . he kicked away an empty shell case . . . better to get it over with. Ask her to marry him straight away, so that they both knew where they stood. Brutal surgery, so to speak. Too brutal, though? And what about Jenkins? His future would be affected too. He had the right to express an opinion. His mind suddenly made up, Simon turned and strode off in search of his servant and best friend.