Siege of Khartoum (Simon Fonthill Series) Read online

  Siege of Khartoum

  JOHN WILCOX

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  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2009 John Wilcox

  The right of John Wilcox to be identified as the Author

  of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters - other than the obvious historical figures - in this

  publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 7659 9

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Author’s Note

  By John Wilcox

  The Horns of the Buffalo

  The Road to Kandahar

  The Diamond Frontier

  Last Stand at Majuba Hill

  The Guns of El Kebir

  Siege of Khartoum

  Masters of Battle

  (Non-fiction)

  For three splendid old friends and followers of the fortunes of Simon Fonthill: Nigel Cole, Peter Jackson and Jim Farrand

  Acknowledgements

  As always, I readily acknowledge the debt I owe to my agent, Jane Conway-Gordon, for her constant encouragement, and to my editor at Headline, Sherise Hobbs, whose suggestions and gentle criticism so improved the original manuscript. Before his untimely death, my good friend Lieutenant Colonel Chris Stuart Nash, late of the Royal Artillery, proved invaluable in describing exactly how Fonthill would have directed the fire of the two penny steamers in halting the attack on Omdurman, and I would equally have been lost without the help of the staff of the London Library, who never fail to find that lost forgotten book that sheds contemporary light on the period I inhabit during the creation of my novels. Lastly, my thanks, as always, go to my wife Betty, loving proofreader, research assistant and critic extraordinaire.

  There have been few events in Victorian England that have been written about so extensively as the expedition to relieve Gordon in Khartoum. I read widely in researching this novel, but the books I found particularly helpful I list below.

  England’s Pride by Julian Symons, Hamish Hamilton, London, 1965

  War on the Nile by Michael Barthorp, Blandford Press, Poole, Dorset, 1984

  In Relief of Gordon, Lord Wolseley’s Campaign Journal, edited by Adrian Preston, Hutchinson, London, 1967

  Gordon. The Man Behind the Legend by John Pollock, Constable, London, 1993

  The War in Egypt and the Soudan by Thomas Archer, Blackie & Son, London, 1888

  The Stolen Woman by Pat Shipman, Bantam Press, London, 2004

  Fuzzy Wuzzy by Brian Robson, Spellmount Ltd, Tunbridge Wells, 1993 Prisoners of the Mahdi by Byron Farwell, Longmans, Green & Co., London, 1967

  The Colonial Wars Source Book by Philip J. Haythornthwaite, Arms and Armour Press, London, 1995

  Ponsonby by Henry Ponsonby, Macmillan & Co., London, 1942

  Henry and Mary Ponsonby by William M. Kuhn, George Duckworth, London, 2002

  Queen Victoria in Her Letters and Journals, selected by Christopher Hibbert, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1985

  Many of the above, I am afraid, are out of print now, but copies can almost certainly be found in the London Library and the British Library.

  The Nile from Cairo to Khartoum in 1884

  Chapter 1

  The Syrian trader shielded his eyes against the sun and squinted along the banks of the Nile, where the great brown river bent as it wound to the south, ever more deeply into the heart of the Sudan. The fertile flood plains bordering the Nile in northern Egypt had long since given way to the barren nothingness of yellow sand and rock that now ushered the river on its way through to its source a thousand miles away. The dangers posed by the bouncing white waters of the three cataracts that lay behind them had almost been a welcome diversion to the Syrian and his small party, although their boat had been overturned twice, forcing them to clutch at rocks and then lose three precious days in salvaging what they could of their belongings from debris-strewn beaches on inlets downriver.

  Balancing himself against the gentle list of the filuka as it made steady progress upriver under its triangular sail, the man concentrated his gaze ahead, on the left bank of the river.

  Slim but broad-shouldered, and of medium height, he was dressed in the ubiquitous long, shirt-like jibba of the desert, caught in the middle by an embroidered belt through which was thrust a sheathed dagger. His feet were tucked into open sandals, showing dirty toes and feet and ankles the colour of dark chocolate. His face, what little of it could be seen between the folds of his loosely wound esharp or headscarf, seemed even darker, with high cheekbones and a black beard. The eyes, though, were of a light brown, betraying that his origins were not from this Nubian part of Africa and hinting at something within - a gentleness, or was it uncertainty? - that sat ill with his general appearance. For it was clear that, whatever the eyes might suggest, the Syrian carried himself warily, with an air of militant readiness for whatever violence the river and its people might present. This trace of aggression was reinforced by a nose that had been broken at some time and now appeared hooked and predatory. In fact, if the eyes had been black instead of a gentle brown, the man would have looked more like a marauding Pathan from the cruel hills of India’s North-West Frontier than a peaceful trader of the Nile.

  He spoke at last, at first as though he was murmuring to himself, so that the boatman at the stern could not hear. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this bloody river and its cataracts.’ Then he turned. ‘There’s a village up ahead, Ahmed,’ he said, still quietly. ‘Do you think that if we paid off the boatman there we could buy camels?’

  The accent was that of an upper-class Englishman and the words came incongruously from the Arab. They had been addressed to the smaller of his two companions, a slim man with the light-coloured skin of an Egyptian, similarly bearded but with the delicate features of a skilled clerk and looking, perhaps, more at home in a Cairo counting house than here, in the Sudan of the Mahdi. Ahmed Muhurram, proprietor of the excellent Metropolitan Hotel in Cairo, rose unsteadily and joined Simon Fonthill, formerly lieutenant in the 24th Regiment of Foot and captain in the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides, Indian Army, in the prow of their filuka.

  The two men stood in silence for a moment as, slowly, the village came more clearly into view.

  ‘I think we get camels there,’ said Ahmed
eventually. ‘But I am not sure. You think all bloody Egyptians know about camels and the desert. But I keep telling you I don’t know the bloody desert. I don’t like it, nor the bloody sand, you know. It gets into ears, underpants, testicles, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera . . .’

  Fonthill gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Yes, I confess I have noticed that, but you’re the only bloody Arab we have and you’ve just been promoted to Honorary Camel Master on this trip - unpaid, of course.’

  The two men grinned. ‘I tell boatman to pull into village,’ said Ahmed and wobbled his way to the stern, where the white-clothed boatman was sitting, half dozing, his skullcap pushed to the back of his head and his arm slung over the long tiller.

  Simon Fonthill climbed forward over their packs on the crowded deck to where 352 Jenkins, his former batman and now his servant, boon companion and fellow adventurer in the service of General Lord Wolseley, commander-in-chief of the British Expeditionary Force to the Sudan, was lying asleep on a sack, a happy dribble of saliva trickling down his chin. Jenkins - his Christian name long forgotten since he had formed part of a holding company of the 24th at Brecon barracks, where the presence of many Jenkinses in this definitively Welsh regiment had forced each to be known by the last three digits of his army number - lay curled like a cat. He too was dressed as an Arab, a pose given verisimilitude in his case by his naturally dark countenance and coal-black eyes and hair. Unlike Fonthill, there had been no need for Jenkins to dye his hair, moustache and beard, which now lay stiffly upon his chest, spread like a child’s bib. Even in repose, the Welshman displayed the strength of a pithead collier. At five foot four, some five inches shorter than Simon, he seemed almost as broad as he was tall, and within the folds of his jibba, it was clear that he was strongly muscled. Five years of campaigning with Fonthill as a scout to British forces in Zululand, Afghanistan, the Transvaal and Egypt had hardened Jenkins’s already formidable physique.

  Simon grinned at the familiar figure and gently prodded the sleeping man’s bottom with his toe. Immediately he found himself staring into the barrel of a long-barrelled silver Colt revolver, which appeared as if by magic from the folds of Jenkins’s garment.

  ‘Ooh, sorry, bach sir,’ grunted the Welshman, sitting up. ‘I never did like to be woken, specially not with a toe up me balls, like, see.’

  ‘Yes, well, put that damned revolver away before the boatman sees it. It’s not the sort of weapon that people would carry in the Sudan - not unless you’re an officer in the US cavalry, that is.’

  ‘Right.’ The Colt disappeared back into Jenkins’s midriff and he wiped his beard with the edge of the esharp that, predictably, had slipped down the back of his neck. ‘What’s ’appenin’? We repellin’ boarders, is it, then?’

  ‘No.’ Simon sat down cross-legged next to his friend and produced a crumpled map. ‘Take a look at this. Here we are, just upstream of the Third Cataract and Dongola, the big town we passed last night, you remember?’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘Yes, I would ’ave appreciated the chance for a run ashore and a drop of somethin’ refreshin’, like, instead of scurryin’ past in the dark like rats swimmin’ up the Conwy.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot. You know we are vulnerable in towns. And anyway, this is Mosselman country. You won’t find alcohol outside Cairo. Now listen.’ He pointed at the map. ‘You see where we left the train at Sarras, just over the border in Sudan - although there’s no real border, of course. We took to the Nile there and we’ve sailed about, oh, some two hundred miles, but it’s taken bloody ages, not to mention the difficulties of the cataracts. If we stay on the Nile, which, in theory anyway is the safest way, in that trade follows the river and we are supposed to be traders, then we will be forced to go back up to the north on this great loop before coming back south again towards Berber.’ He eased his buttocks on the cross-planking. ‘Not only will we have to fight our way through another two cataracts . . .’

  Jenkins rolled his eyes. ‘God forbid.’

  ‘Quite. Not only that, but we will also go about three hundred miles out of our way, costing us precious time. From what I understand, Gordon is now completely surrounded and besieged in Khartoum; no one is sure how long he can hold out, and my orders are to get through to him as soon as possible.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, there’s a village up ahead. If Ahmed can buy us some camels there, I propose that we ride south-east across the desert, here and here, cutting out these two big loops of the Nile. We could save ourselves two weeks or even three and come out at Berber, the last big town before Khartoum.’

  ‘What about water?’

  ‘Good point. But this map shows that there is a track across both pieces of desert, and that track wouldn’t exist unless there were wells along the way. And, of course, we will fill our water bags before we start.’

  Jenkins sniffed and then looked about him in some alarm as the filuka listed in response to the tiller. ‘Oh bloody ’ell,’ he exclaimed, pointing to where long grey shapes lay on the rocks that came down to the water’s edge on the port side. ‘Look, crocs!’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake! We’ve seen dozens so far in this part of the Upper Nile. They are not going to bother us if we don’t bother them. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, well. I ’ope this village place ’as a proper landin’ stage. I don’t like crocodiles, I ’ave to acknowledge. ’Orrible things.’

  Fonthill sighed. ‘Crocodiles don’t worry me, but,’ and he jabbed his finger on to the map again, ‘I must confess that the Mahdi’s army does. ‘In this first part of the desert we are not too deep into his territory. In fact, we are in the area ruled by the Mudir of Dongala, who, according to Wolseley, is supporting the British. But this is well and truly the Sudan now, and the Mahdi is winning fanatical support all over this huge country. And once we cross the Nile again, here, at about this place called Abu Dom, we will be well and truly in the land of the Dervish. What’s more, Berber, here, fell to the Mahdi’s hordes in May, and we shall have to change our tune there.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Fonthill scratched his beard. ‘Being Syrian traders has got us so far, but we really don’t have any artefacts to trade now - we left most of ’em being carried down the Nile at the Second Cataract - and I don’t see my knowledge of Persian Pushtu helping us if we get into trouble with tribesmen out in the desert or in Berber.’

  ‘But we’ve got old Amen and ’is Arabic.’

  ‘True. But we won’t be able to sustain our role as traders. We shall have to be true Mosselmen, though still Syrians, mind you, from the north, coming to join the Mahdi in his great crusade.’

  ‘Blimey. You’d better tell me again about this Mahdi bloke. Where did ’e come from then? Oh, lor!’

  Jenkins grabbed a gunwale as a large crocodile, disturbed by their approach, slipped off a rock and slid underneath them, causing the boat to rock gently. Over the years, the Welshman had proved himself to be a completely fearless warrior, a fine horseman, a crack shot and a loyal and shrewd comrade. Simon, however, had found that his rock of a servant was undoubtedly fissured. In addition to an immoderate and uncontrollable love of alcohol, he lacked any sense of direction and hated heights and water. Now, it seemed, a fear of crocodiles must be added to the list.

  Fonthill looked ahead and saw that they were approaching a rickety wooden landing stage. He tucked the map away. ‘Don’t worry about the crocs. I’ll tell you about the Mahdi later. Pick up that rope and throw it to Ahmed when he jumps ashore.’

  The boat was swiftly tied up to a post on the landing stage, and Fonthill stepped ashore and looked about him carefully. He knew that the Mahdi’s militant followers wore a rough kind of uniform: a shirt-like garment with wide sleeves, patched with squares of black, white, red and yellow cloth, not unlike harlequins. He had seen none so far, and indeed, now only the usual scattering of peasant fellaheen, sitting in the shade occasionally waving away the flies, or idling down the filthy main street, met his gaze. Yet t
he place exuded a threat he could not place. An intangible air of evil emanated from the sloppily whitewashed mud boxes of houses. They might be in the Mudir of Dongola’s territory, but the whole country was now in the grip of the Mahdi. One slip and their mission could be over before it had even begun. Yet his body ached from sitting for so long on the hard cross-thwarts of the boat. It was time he looked around. He waved to Ahmed and Jenkins to join him and moved away so that they could not be heard.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Ahmed, tell the boatman that you are going to find food and then see what you can do about camels. We shall need three good riding beasts and two pack animals for what we have left of our baggage. We should not tell the boatman that we are leaving him here until we can be sure we have transport. Three five two, you stay on board and keep an eye on our things. But don’t feed the crocodiles.’

  ‘What are you goin’ to do, then, bach sir?’

  ‘I feel the need to stretch my legs and make a reconnaissance. I’ll be back in about half an hour. I don’t think there’s much to see.’

  Nor was there. The village was nothing more than a collection of mud huts, baked hard by the sun and populated by several million flies and a handful of Sudanese, their eyes as black as their faces. The flies hardly seemed to worry the people, even though the insects crawled into and around the eyes, only occasionally prompting a languid wave of the hand to disperse them for a second or two before they were back. Fonthill realised that the physical characteristics of the Arabs he had observed on the Lower Nile had now virtually disappeared, and that people here were more purely African. Those not muffled in the pervasive esharp headdresses revealed hair treated with oil or mud and twisted into elaborate braids. Despite the fierce sun, little girls and boys ran around wearing nothing more than a light fringe of black string about six inches long around their waists.