The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘So tell me of them,’ Idris commanded.

  Felicity shrugged. ‘They are certainly men who live by the law, and their laws are different to yours, great Idris. Their laws require them to treat prisoners of war with respect and even honour, and so they expect to be so treated by their captors. But I will tell you this: they are men who will never admit defeat. However long it will take them, they will win this war.’ Idris stared at her, then got up and walked to the windows, to look across the rooftops at the harbour, and beyond at the Mediterranean across which the brilliant spring moon was cutting a white path. ‘There is an American force marching on us now.’

  Felicity swallowed a piece of fruit without chewing it and nearly choked.

  ‘At least … it is a motley force, I am informed. But with American officers. They seek to reinstate Hemet Karamanli as dey. They are fools. Yet …’ He stroked his beard. ‘They have crossed the Libyan desert, and seized the port of Derna. That is a remarkable feat for a few hundred men. They number no more than that. Derna is some distance away from us, but still I am told they are again marching across the desert towards us; my information is that their destination is Tripoli. They are led by a man called Eaton. I know of this Eaton. He has spent some years in Tunis. He has some naval people with him, I believe, from off the ships. My scouts speak of a giant of a man … such a man was with those who destroyed the warships. Now he marches with this Eaton.’ Felicity could hardly breathe. Toby McGann! Marching on Tripoli. She had known he would come. Toby McGann! What did it matter if he was actually seeking Bainbridge and his men? He was yet coming.

  Idris had turned and was watching her expression. ‘A giant of a man,’ he repeated. ‘You know of this man? You saw him, the day of the explosion? My guards found you on the roof. From there, you saw him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I saw him, great Idris. And I know of him.’

  ‘Unless there is more than one giant in the American Navy.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There is only one giant in the American Navy.’

  Idris came back across the room quickly before she could gather her wits. ‘And you know of him. Perhaps you know him.’

  ‘I …’

  His fingers twined in her hair, hurting her scalp, pulling her head back so that her eyes stared up into his. ‘Perhaps you once shared his bed.’

  ‘I came to you a virgin,’ she gasped. ‘You know this.’

  ‘Ha,’ he sneered, and threw her away from him, so that she fell across the cushions. ‘You know of this man, and now he marches upon us. Ha ha! Perhaps he seeks to rescue you, my pretty pomegranate. Well, we shall see. My army will swallow up his force in seconds. But I will make sure he is taken alive, that we may have sport with him, and that you may watch him die. Why, do you not suppose that a giant will take longer to die than an ordinary man? That will be sport.’

  *

  To their right, there was the sea, blue, unchanging, and salt. To their left, there was another sea, the Great Sand Sea, stretching for hundreds of miles down to the mountains of Tibesti, yellow, unchanging, and arid. In front of them, there was brown stony desert, stretching it seemed forever, treeless and indeed featureless, except for the ravines, old dry river beds which the Arabs called wadis, which suddenly appeared at your feet and into which entire companies of men could tumble if taken unawares. Yet the wadis were of vital importance; in some of them there sprouted little desert flowers, yellows and greens and pinks and purples — and where the flowers sprouted there was water, sometimes inches, sometimes several feet beneath the surface. The wadis, and the flowers, were the signposts of life in the desert.

  Signposts which were just sufficient to sustain life. For the moisture dug from the soil was hardly sufficient to replace that sucked from their bodies by the ever present sun. It was early spring, and apparently the best time of year for a desert march. Every afternoon great black clouds rolled out of the sea, and often there was thunder — but never any rain. And the thunderstorms only increased the heat which lay on them like a physical burden.

  Preble had said, ‘Thank me when you are dying of thirst in the desert.’ Well, Toby did not suppose he would actually die of thirst; the men with whom he marched were all experienced desert travellers, who knew enough to camp during the heat of the day, to turn their backs on the wind, wrap themselves in their cloaks, and remain motionless for hours when it was not necessary to move, conserving every ounce of energy, and therefore sweat, so irreplaceable in this climate.

  But even these men had never undertaken such a march as this, to such an end. Eaton had been able to raise no more than a thousand men in Egypt, willing to risk their lives for the rewards Hemet Karamanli promised them once they reinstated him on the throne of Tripoli. Toby had felt this was an utterly inadequate force, but he had allowed himself to be reassured by Eaton’s optimism.

  ‘We are but a diversion,’ the ex-consul had insisted. ‘We are to distract the Tripolitanian defences while your ships blow them apart from the sea.’ But even he had had his doubts. ‘If Congress had sent me any of the money I had asked for, so that I could have hired worthwhile men …’ he had sighed. ‘Ah, well, we must do the best with what we have.’ And had given that huge, cheerful grin. ‘Has that not been the cry of military commanders since time began?’

  It had been impossible to be impressed by their recruits, but Toby had found it difficult to be impressed by the deposed Dey, either, so anxious to regain his throne. His way. Hemet Karamanli was, as his name indicated, a Greek by descent — but a Turk by upbringing and inclination. He had wished to march across the desert with all his women at his side; even while living on the charity of Mehemet Ali, ruler of Egypt, he had yet managed to accumulate a harem. Eaton had had to be very firm with him, as well as very enticing. ‘There will be women enough, when you are again ruling Tripoli, Lord Karamanli,’ the consul had said. Karamanli had grumbled, but he had realised Eaton was his only hope of ever regaining his former glory, and had contented himself with selecting four handsome pages to while away the lonely hours.

  The recruits were, as Decatur had suggested they would be, the sweepings of Cairo and Alexandria. If they certainly knew how to use their weapons, they had seen little point in the weeks of training Eaton had insisted they undergo before commencing their march, the manoeuvres by which they learned to deliver volley fire and to form square to receive the onslaught of hostile cavalry — Mohammed ben Idris was apparently justly proud of his regiment of spahis, or Moorish lancers — or the mock battles he had made them fight beneath the shadows of the Pyramids, watched by crowds of amused Egyptians.

  Gradually, reluctantly, they had been turned into a reasonably disciplined fighting force, men who at last understood what the various commands and bugle calls meant, and had some concept of fighting in a body, each man shoulder to shoulder with his comrade. But they also remained men who, Toby had no doubt, would cut the throats of their American officers and flee into the desert at the first check. There had not as yet been a check.

  If Toby had been dubious about stepping aside to assault Derna, Eaton had revealed more knowledge of human nature. ‘Morale, Toby, my boy,’ he had said. ‘That is the most important aspect of warfare. Our morale must be higher than that of our enemies. It matters little how such morale is gained. The important thing is that our people should become convinced of their invincibility.’

  Thus they had swept down on Derna before their presence had been suspected, and the little fishing village had been taken with hardly a shot fired. Not that that had prevented a good deal of rape and pillage before the Americans had been able to get their men in hand, a difficult task as Hemet Karamanli had been the most determined rapist of all. But Eaton had gradually restored order, with the aid of Toby and his six seamen, to be sure, but principally by the exercise of his invariably good-humoured firmness. He really was a most remarkable man, Toby was coming to realise, a born leader, who, had he been of a generation earlier might have earned himself a
famous name during the War of the Revolution, but who was too much of an independent spirit, of an adventurer, to be happy within the bounds of close discipline and rigid orders he would have known in the Army. Or the Navy. Perhaps he was a military equivalent of Decatur. Toby counted himself privileged to have known two such men.

  Just as he hoped, when the time came, he would prove himself their equal. Certainly Eaton appeared to have complete confidence in him, and they very rapidly became fast friends, so much so that Toby soon hesitantly confessed his true reason for so quickly volunteering.

  Eaton had laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘A truly romantic story, and where would we all be without romance? Why, dull as ditchwater drones, to be sure.’ Then he had grown serious. ‘You do realise your chances of rescuing this girl are slim. Or of, shall we say, finding what you seek, even if you do free her.’

  ‘I know that,’ Toby acknowledged. ‘Yet I must try. And if she is beyond recall, then must I avenge her, on Mohammed ben Idris.’

  ‘And that, my huge friend, is all I wish of you,’ Eaton said.

  From Derna, they had despatched a felucca, commanded by one of the American sailors, to find the American squadron and give them a progress report; it would be the last contact they would be able to make with Preble’s command until they appeared outside Tripoli. And already they had been falling slightly behind the schedule necessary to make the rendezvous by the beginning of April, with the greater part of the desert still to be crossed.

  It was now that the march had become truly terrible, as the men had grumbled and even fought with one another, as the water holes had been discovered further and further apart, as their pack mules died one by one and they were forced to abandon even the half dozen ancient field pieces they had called their artillery.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Eaton had said with his unfailing confidence and good humour. ‘It is our intention to capture Tripoli, not blow it to pieces.’

  But a week later they became aware that they were being watched by patrols mounted on camels, who never attempted to interfere with them, but rode away as they approached.

  ‘They are from Tripoli,’ Hemet Karamanli grumbled. ‘Mohammed ben Idris will have his army waiting for us.’ His silks and satins were soiled, as was his temper; he had become bored even with the company of his page-boys. ‘He will swallow us up like the sand, supposing any of us actually reach the walls of the city.’

  This was a true enough consideration. The thousand men who had left Cairo numbered no more than six hundred now, and most of those missing had simply deserted. But the rest hung on, lured by the promises of rewards beyond their wildest dreams once they retook Tripoli. So they cursed at Eaton and Toby as they were driven onwards, with Eaton every day marking it off in his diary. ‘Preble will be in position,’ he said. ‘How long will he stay there, do you think, before sailing away in disgust? It is already past the appointed time.’

  It was actually the end of the second week of April before they finally topped a last rise, and saw Tripoli in front of them, bathed in the rays of the early morning sun. Best of sights, they could also make out the American squadron out at sea, blocking the channels to the port.

  Toby shaded his eyes. ‘He is still there, Bill. Now we are certain of victory.’

  ‘Then why are they not bombarding the port?’ Hemet Karamanli demanded.

  ‘No doubt they are waiting for us,’ Eaton said. ‘They will commence firing as soon as they realise we are here.’ He pointed at the city. ‘Our destination,’ he shouted at his men.

  ‘Tripoli!’ the army shouted with one voice. ‘Tripoli!’ Several men fired their muskets into the air.

  ‘Now recharge those pieces,’ Eaton commanded.

  ‘Now we will camp, and consider our situation,’ Hemet Karamanli decided.

  ‘Now we attack, Lord Karamanli,’ Eaton said.

  ‘Attack? Now! After such a march? And against such a place? The men must rest.’

  ‘For how long, do you suppose, my lord?’ Eaton demanded. ‘After such a march, will they be any the less exhausted tomorrow, or the day after? We must assault the citadel now, while the men are still excited by the prospect, and while the Americans are there to aid us. Who can tell when they will sail away? Toby, you will take two hundred men and capture the east gate. Lord Karamanli and I will take the main body and go for the south gate. Remember now, Toby, it is all or nothing.’

  ‘Look there,’ Toby said.

  The south gate of the city was opening, and the army of Mohammed ben Idris was coming out. Even Eaton stared in momentary dismay at the brightly uniformed spahis, the pennons on their long lances fluttering in the breeze, and at the companies of foot, performing intricate musketry drills as they took up their positions.

  ‘We are lost,’ Hemet Karamanli whined. ‘Lost. They will spreadeagle us on the sand and smear honey on our genitals.’

  The pageboys began to weep, and clung to each other.

  ‘He is making life easy for us, my lord,’ Eaton asserted grimly. ‘Now then, Toby, nothing need be changed. I will assault that force in front of me, and clear a way to the south gate. Do you make for the east gate, and force it.’

  ‘But there must be three thousand men there,’ Toby objected.

  ‘To our six hundred. But I doubt their quality is as high, no matter how brilliant their uniforms. We will distract them by our manoeuvres. Besides, as soon as Preble discovers what we are doing he will open fire and that will send those fellows tumbling back into the city. In any event, we have only the one course open to us; to hesitate is to die. Come, we will march in two columns, and you will separate when I give the order. Will you accompany us, my lord?’

  Hemet Karamanli mounted his camel. ‘I will remain here to oversee the battle. That is the proper duty of a commander-in-chief. Not to lose himself in the hurly burly. You will leave me an escort of twenty men, Mr Eaton. And the camels.’

  Eaton hesitated. But there were only twenty camels left in any event — and Karamanli was certainly not going to be an asset in a fight. ‘I must have your sacred word that you will remain here, my lord,’ he said. ‘Our men look to you as their leader.’

  Hemet sniffed. ‘I have every intention of dying at the head of my troops,’ he declared. ‘Should it become necessary.’

  Eaton nodded, and beckoned Toby to his side.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ Toby asked.

  ‘No. At the first sight of defeat he will be off like a scalded cat. Therefore we must allow him no signs of defeat.’

  ‘Does it really matter whether he is here or not? I will tell you straight, Bill, he and those lads of his sicken me.’

  Eaton tapped his nose. ‘Legitimacy, Toby. Legitimacy. Next to morale, it is the most important belief an army can possess. Legitimacy means God is marching with us, and all the angels. Legitimacy means we cannot lose. Of course, when both sides believe right is on their side it is apt to be confusing.’ He shook Toby’s hand. ‘Now we do or die. Are you ready for it?’ Toby grinned. ‘I might wish I’d been able to bathe and wash some of this sand from my crotch, and perhaps change my uniform from this collection of rags. But I am ready for it.’

  ‘Having you at my side has been a pleasure,’ Eaton said. ‘Knowing you are there now makes me confident of victory.’

  He drew his sword, as did Toby, and together they put themselves at the head of their men. If anyone behind him felt as exhausted as he did, Toby doubted they would even reach the walls. Nor had they found a wadi this day, and he was already parched with thirst. On the other hand, there was, as Eaton had said, nothing left for them to do but fight and conquer — their only alternative was to die.

  ‘Tripoli!’ Eaton shouted, and pointed his sword at the walls, perhaps two miles distant.

  The tiny army moved forward, losing sight of their enemies for a moment as they entered the dip, then re-emerging again and plodding onwards. The rebel forces had now formed their position, and awaited them with a clashing of cymbals,
the steady beating of drums, and shouts of derision; Toby presumed Eaton’s army was fortunate in that their enemies had decided against bringing down any of the cannon from the walls to form a battery. They had, as Eaton had remarked, indeed taken up their weakest position in offering to fight out on the desert rather than from behind their walls.

  The loyalists had nothing to offer in reply to the noise of the rebels but a single, menacing drumbeat as they advanced; they were too thirsty to shout. But their approach, so silent and purposeful, had its effect; when the armies were separated by about half a mile, the rebels also fell silent, and Toby saw horsemen galloping to and fro between the city and the troops, relaying orders, or perhaps asking for them — which seemed to indicate that Mohammed ben Idris was not actually commanding his men in the field.

  Mohammed ben Idris! Toby had spoken with Hemet Karamanli on the march, and the Dey had told him that if he had indeed seen Felicity on the battlements of the citadel, then she had to be in the harem either of his cousin, or of the Vizier. Toby had no doubt to whom she belonged. That was one score he certainly meant to settle, come what may.

  ‘Now, Toby,’ Eaton shouted. ‘On the double.’

  ‘Wheel right,’ Toby bellowed, turning smartly himself, and setting off at as fast a trot as his weary legs and cracked boots would allow. Sand crunched beneath his feet, and although he would not look back, he heard the stamping of his two hundred men behind him. Suddenly he felt a wild exhilaration, a certainty that they had but to dare, to win. Yet he kept his wits about him, watching the momentarily bewildered rebel army changing its deployment. While the infantry moved forward to receive Eaton’s charge, the cavalry, some five hundred men, were being detached, obviously intended to scatter his small force before it could reach the gate, now half a mile away.

  ‘Form square,’ he bawled, checking himself and facing the approaching horsemen. ‘Form square.’

  This was one of the movements they had practised repeatedly outside Cairo, and his men responded without hesitation, forming a tight square, fifty men to a side in two ranks, twenty-five kneeling, twenty-five standing immediately behind, shoulder to shoulder, their muskets presented.