Pharaoh (Jack Howard 7)

by Gibbins, David

  He rolled against the parapet and stared back out over the desert. The pellucid light of the early morning when he had woken at the wells with Shaytan had given way to a dusty haze, a mist of sand that lay low over the desert floor; it seemed to cut off anything that rose above it, leaving the pyramidal outcrops he had seen earlier hanging in the distance like a mirage, and his camel standing fifty yards away partly disembodied, as if its head were peering above a diaphanous veil of red. It was a disconcerting effect, part reality, part mirage, but it was also alluring, and he could see how men had been tempted to ride off into the desert and disappear, caught in an embrace that only those who knew what they were seeking and had learned its ways could survive.

  The heliograph flashed above the opposite bank, and he snapped back to reality. He turned to the river and saw that the boat was now being rowed out, tested by the sappers who had repaired it. He peered at the line of the cliff one last time. He could not wait any longer and he would have to take his chances. He retracted the telescope, put it in its case and slung it round his neck beside the binoculars, then handed the Martini-Henry rifle and the cartridge box to Jones. ‘Take this. It’s the most accurate rifle the engineer quartermaster could find for me when I arrived. It’s sighted for four hundred yards over the river.’

  ‘Nobody up here could take a shot like that except you, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to keep your heads down.’ He stooped over and picked up the khaki bag that Jones had been looking after for him, checking that it was wrapped and secure.

  Jones watched him, his voice hesitant. ‘So you really are leaving us for good, sir?’

  Mayne paused. ‘I don’t know. But look out for me.’

  ‘Sir.’ The subaltern offered his hand, and Mayne shook it. ‘We’ll be on guard next time, sir. The next time a British officer appears out of the desert disguised as an Arab.’

  Mayne turned to Jones. ‘That reminds me. My camel.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I won’t be needing her again. She’s yours.’

  Jones stared at Mayne, then out at the chewing, grunting form beyond the parapet, then back at Mayne, his face a picture of horror. ‘But sir.’

  ‘A little desert grass, some water. You’ll find she’s very loyal. Once you feed her, she won’t look at any other man. And if you get cold at night, hobble her and snuggle up tight. You won’t notice the smell after a while.’

  The Irish soldier jostled Jones. ‘Go on, Jonesy. You was telling us how good you was with the Egyptian ladies in Cairo. Well, here’s one for you now, and a chance for you to show us what you’re worth.’

  Jones’ face had turned from horror to despair. Mayne grinned at him, then picked up his saddlebag and slung the khaki wrap over his back, feeling the hard wooden case inside, and turned towards the parapet.

  It was time to go.

  8

  ‘Get down, sir!’

  There was a crack as a bullet whined by, so close that the air it displaced pushed Mayne off balance and sent him tripping and stumbling back into the sangar. The report of the gunshot echoed and rumbled down the gorge below, and he heard yells and commands from the men on the river as they took cover. He quickly doffed his bags and crawled to the parapet beside Jones, who handed back the rifle he had taken from him only moments before. The other soldiers had dropped what they were doing and crouched with their heads under the parapet. The sound of the report had come about half a second behind the bullet; for a .43 calibre Remington that meant the shooter was about four hundred yards away, perhaps five hundred over the river where the air was cooler and less dense, slowing the bullet by a fraction. He twisted his head to one side, listening as another bullet whined by. He could also gauge the distance a Remington bullet had travelled by its noise, whether a snap or a buzz or a whine, and what he heard confirmed his estimate: four hundred, perhaps four hundred and fifty yards, exactly the distance from the ridge opposite where he had expected a sharpshooter to appear. He whipped out his telescope and trained it on the ridge. Another bullet whined over, followed by another sharp report, the noise overlaying the distant echoes of the previous report and resounding through the gorge. He lowered the telescope, searching for the telltale puff of white smoke. Another shot rang out, but he could see nothing. The man had waited until there was enough haze coming off the desert to obscure the smoke, and until the sun was directly behind him, dazzling any onlookers from the opposite bank. He was good, too good to allow himself to be caught by the soldiers who would already be clambering up the rocks from below to search for him, but likely to hold his ground until he had inflicted serious casualties among the men by the river or here in the sangar.

  ‘It’s a harassing fire,’ the subaltern said, his voice high pitched with excitement and fear. ‘They can’t be aiming at us individually, from that far off.’

  ‘There’s only one of them,’ Mayne replied. ‘The dervish sharpshooters only ever work alone, like any good marksmen. And I wouldn’t be sure it’s just harassing fire. He’s going to get his range soon enough, and then we might be in for some trouble.’

  The subaltern slid further down into the sangar, holding his helmet on to his head. ‘What do you propose to do?’

  ‘He’s using the sun behind him as cover, but he’s left it a little late in the day. Pretty soon the sun will drop and we might have a chance of seeing him on that ridge. Until then we sit tight.’

  ‘Do you intend to have a go? At this range?’

  Mayne pursed his lips, looking at the others. ‘Everybody hold their fire. I’ll only have one chance. As soon as he knows we’ve spotted his position, he’ll be gone and that’ll be it.’ He glanced at the wrapped box, and then dispelled the thought. The Sharps was more accurate at a longer range, but he had yet to sight it in, and to use it now would be to compromise himself, to open himself to questioning that he did not want. The Martini-Henry would be at the limit of its effectual range but he had got to know its foibles in the desert, and he felt confident with it. He glanced through the crack in the parapet masonry and saw the men of the river column running around and diving for cover, sheltering behind rocks and overhangs, the sentries fixing bayonets and holding their rifles at the ready, blindly scanning the rocks above them. He glanced at the subaltern, who had taken out his revolver and was gripping it hard, his knuckles white and his hand shaking, popping his head up to look and then quickly slipping down again, breathing fast and hard. Mayne opened up his cartridge box. ‘At the moment he’s targeting us because he knows he’s got us at a disadvantage in this light, and it’s always good to put the wind up a sentry post like this so that the men inside keep their heads down and fail to see what’s coming next.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the subaltern, alarm in his eyes. ‘The Mahdi army?’

  Mayne grunted, not listening, eyeing the river again. ‘We don’t want him shifting his position behind a rock where we can’t see him but he can shoot at the river column below. Their progress is slow enough as it is, but being under fire will seize it up completely. The Kroomen and voyageurs are not members of Her Majesty’s armed forces and I doubt whether being shot at was in their contract with Wolseley.’

  ‘How long?’ asked the subaltern, his voice hoarse.

  Mayne narrowed his eyes, looking towards the orb of the sun to the west, beyond the ridge. He remembered the days he had spent with Shaytan, observing everything about the desert, learning to gauge the remaining daylight by the position of the sun above the horizon, a crucial survival skill. He had needed to prepare himself for what might lie ahead in the days and weeks to come, but it was paying off here as well. ‘About half an hour,’ he murmured. ‘We need to catch him just as the sun drops and before he realises he’s visible. That might be a matter of moments.’

  The subaltern had slid down the sloping edge of the parapet on his back, and was now gripping the revolver w
ith both hands, trying to control his shaking. ‘I’m going to watch the desert on this side. He could be distracting us while others sneak up from the east.’

  Mayne looked at the subaltern, a terrified young man under fire for the first time, his back to the enemy, trying to convince himself and his soldiers that he was not a coward. Every soldier had to go through his trial by fire, and it was especially hard in the sangar, where there was nothing they could do except wait. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Corporal Jones, watch the southern flank.’

  Mayne trained his telescope on the opposite cliff once more, seeing only the glare of the sun, then lowered it and turned over, his back against the parapet. Two of the soldiers were still crouched at the rear of the sangar, vulnerable to bullets that would be falling in an arched trajectory at this range, and he waved them urgently forward, making space so that they could squeeze up alongside him. Another bullet whined overhead and struck a rock, moaning like a spent firework as it tumbled off into the distance. The rock was only yards from where his camel stood in open view, munching away oblivious to the danger. He thought for a moment. Exposing himself would be an additional risk, but he was sure the marksman had not yet pinpointed the range well enough to shoot accurately. He would need to hit a visible target before he had done that, and repeat his point of aim. Mayne turned to Jones. ‘I’m going out. I won’t be long.’

  Jones stared at him, horrified. ‘Where?’

  ‘The camel. Your camel. A good camel like that’s worth its weight in gold.’

  Jones seemed incapable of response. Mayne crawled to the ancient masonry wall at the far end of the sangar, quickly vaulted over and ran below the ridge line of the cliff until he was some thirty yards away and about the same distance from the camel. He dropped below a slight rise in the plateau that put him out of sight of the opposite side of the river, then threw himself flat, hugging the ground, and crawled across on his elbows. Just as he came within range, the beast emptied its bowels in a vile spray, filling the air with a brown mist; then it bent its neck round, staring down at him with that expression of disdain and indifference unique to the camel. A bullet struck with a deadening thud somewhere in its midriff, only a few feet above Mayne’s head. He rolled over just as another whined by, and saw where the first bullet had embedded itself and flattened into the camel’s harness, the bone-dry leather already beginning to smoulder with the heat of the lead. He whacked the harness with one hand to extinguish it and swivelled round to kick the camel hard behind its front right knee, bringing it down with a groan on its forelegs. He quickly did the same to the hind legs, then took a coil of braided leather rope from the harness to hobble it. The camel was still vulnerable to falling bullets and ricochets, but at least it was no longer a visible target. He crawled back the way he had come, feeling the brush of air as another round buzzed past. The marksman was getting better; these seemed more like targeted shots. He reached the wall and leapt over, then quickly crawled up beside Jones and peered out through the embrasure in the parapet. Jones stared at him, wincing and going red in the face, then let out a loud exhalation. Mayne stared, alarmed. ‘Are you all right? Are you hit?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The voice sounded strangulated. ‘It’s you, sir. It was bad enough when you first joined us; now it’s a lot worse. That smell, sir. That stench.’

  Mayne sniffed, smelling nothing, and then glanced at the sleeve of his tunic, seeing the spatter of brown. ‘Ah. Occupational hazard for the cameleer, I’m afraid. You’re going to have to get used to that, Corporal Jones.’

  He positioned his rifle against the parapet and took a round from the ammunition pouch, examining it carefully and wiping around the narrow upper end of the brass case that clenched the bullet to ensure that it was free from dirt. He pulled down the lever of the rifle to open the breech, put the cartridge on the loading block and pushed it home with his thumb, then closed the breech with the lever. As there was no safety on the Martini-Henry, it was now cocked and ready to fire. He lay on his front, nestled against the edge of the embrasure, and slid the rifle out until the muzzle was resting on the parapet, invisible to an observer four hundred or more yards away; then he shouldered it and aimed along the sights, traversing across the stretch of ridge where he would have positioned himself had he been the sharpshooter, where the profile was broken up by jagged spurs and ridges that would provide good concealment. He relaxed, breathing in deeply a few times, focusing his mind, remembering how good he had always felt when he had a target in his sights and knew he could kill, how it had made him feel when he had first done it and all the grief and anger at the death of his parents and brother and sister had finally seemed to lift from him, if only for a precious moment.

  ‘Sir, I’m going for ammunition.’ He heard the Irish soldier speak to the subaltern, and then a shuffling noise as the man crawled across to the stack of gear at the back of the sangar. He felt uneasy for a moment, knowing that the man would be vulnerable to a bullet on an arching trajectory, but he was in position now and did not want to lose his concentration, even to shout out a warning. The sun was dropping, and he knew he would only have one chance.

  Suddenly there was a deafening metallic clang beside him. A bullet had smashed into the receiver of the rifle of the soldier next to him and ricocheted off in fragments, peppering the loose folds of his tunic but miraculously missing flesh. The soldier knelt up, stunned, head and shoulders above the parapet, and Jones screamed at him to get down, but it was too late. A bullet burst out from him in a spray of blood and shredded cloth, and he fell backwards with a neat black hole in the front of his neck, his eyes wide open and lifeless. Behind him Mayne heard the sickening thump of lead striking flesh, and then another a few seconds later, followed by a blood-curdling cry and a string of Anglo-Saxon curses. He kept focused on the ridge, his right forefinger feathering the trigger, panning the rifle in a tiny arc to cover the twenty or thirty metres of cliff where he thought the shooter would be. Another round whined overhead and crashed into the rock behind. The sharpshooter had got their range and was firing fast, dropping rounds into the sangar as quickly as he could work the lever of his rifle and reload. Mayne knew that this was his chance: there would be small movements in the rocks, moments of incaution as the shooter exposed himself, misplaced confidence that there could be nobody opposite to match his skill.

  He sensed something different, a barely perceptible change in the light. He blinked, and it was still there. The sun had dropped. And then he saw it, a minuscule wobbly reflection among the rocks, the white of a headdress, a briefly elevated rifle barrel. He held himself steady, staring down the sights, both eyes open, focusing on the target. There was no wind, and he could aim dead-on. He adjusted infinitesimally to the left, an instinct, no more, and then slowly exhaled until there was nothing left, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped and cracked, and through the smoke he saw the figure rise upwards as if standing, but then crumple sideways and hang head first over the ledge in front of him, arms dangling, blood gushing and splatting down the cliff and his rifle falling with a clatter to the rocks beneath.

  He was conscious of a ragged cheer from the men by the river below. He barely felt the need to breathe, and when he did so it was as if he had taken a lungful of the strongest tobacco, leaving his heart pounding and the blood rushing to his head. It had been a long time since he had done that. He let go of the rifle and turned to look at the scene in the sangar. The man who had been beside him was lying on his back in a pool of blood, already coagulating and dotted with flies. The other two bullets had hit the same man, the Irish soldier who had gone back for more ammunition. He was lying on his back, surrounded by a group of men, with his trousers torn off, his legs drenched with blood and shaking convulsively. One round had ploughed into a calf, shearing off the muscle and leaving it curled up in a lurid yellow and red mass below his knee. The other had gone through both thighs and severed the arteries, leaving him bleeding to death in agony.
The subaltern was propping his head up while the other men worked feverishly to staunch the blood, Jones holding his hand and feeding him dribbles of water from his bottle. The soldier was moaning and weeping, his face deathly grey and contorted, his lips saying something that only the subaltern could hear. Mayne could have told him that he had got the man who had shot him, but it seemed irrelevant. He swung open the loading lever on the rifle to eject the spent cartridge, and then closed it up and laid it beside Jones’ gear. He watched as the man’s face relaxed and his eyelids drooped, and his breathing became a rasping, snoring rattle, and then he was dead.

  The subaltern remained hunched over, unable to move, and the two men beside his legs sat back, their arms and tunics dripping blood. Jones got up and came over to him, offering the water bottle. Mayne took it gratefully, drinking in great gulps, feeling suddenly very much alive. ‘That was a good shot, sir,’ Jones said, eyeing him. ‘Not even the Afghans could shoot like that.’