The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series) Page 10

  She picked up the newspaper again and propped it up against the breakfast condiments. The British and French squadrons that had been sitting in the bay off Alexandria had been sent to provide a symbolic warning shot across Arabi’s bows and to reassure the European residents in the town. But, it appeared to Alice from her reading, both purposes had failed. The Khedive had fled Cairo and had taken refuge in his palace in Alexandria, under the protection of the French and British guns, but Arabi had followed him and was now in the northern port with a large part of his army camped outside its walls. The Sultan of Turkey had sent a representative, Dervish Pasha, to his colony in an attempt, it seemed, to restore some kind of order. But an appeal to him from the British diplomatic representatives in Cairo to guarantee the lives of the many British in Egypt had been met with the reply that neither he nor the Khedive could give that guarantee, for they did not have the troops to do so. Within the last two weeks, some fourteen thousand Europeans and their dependants had fled Egypt, and thousands more were ready to go. Riots were expected to break out in the streets of Alexandria. Gladstone was saying that Colonel Arabi had ‘thrown off his mask’ and was now openly working for the deposition of the Khedive and the expulsion of all Europeans from Egypt. What a mess!

  And Simon, she was sure, would be right in the middle of it.

  Alice let the paper fall from her hand and stared at the wall of the breakfast room. Simon, who was supposed to be out of her thoughts but who was forever in them. In the last eighteen months, since they had parted on the eve of Wolseley’s attack on King Sekukuni’s stronghold near the Mozambique border, she had received just one, simple letter from him, expressing congratulations on her wedding and regretting that he could not be there. She knew from Charlotte Fonthill that he had recently left Brecon on some confidential mission for General Wolseley. Oh God – if he should be killed in some sordid street fracas in Egypt! She put her hand to her mouth and then let it fall again, for Jenkins, the great 352, would surely be with him and protect him.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of her husband descending the stairs, and she pushed the paper away. It took him a while every morning to fit and adjust the hook that served as an artificial hand – he insisted on doing it himself – so she always breakfasted alone but waited for him so that they could discuss the day’s programme. There was much to do on their estate in Norfolk, particularly now that the summer was approaching.

  Colonel Ralph Covington, Companion of the Bath, strode into the room with his customary air of command. ‘Kedgeree or bacon, my dear,’ he cried. ‘What shall I have?’

  ‘Kedgeree. The bacon is rather too fat.’

  ‘Very well.’ He looped his hook under the handle of the tureen and deposited it skilfully on a serving plate. ‘I always follow orders, as you know.’ Now nearing the middle forties, almost twenty years her senior, Covington was still an imposing figure. Well over six feet tall, his wounds had not affected his erect bearing. His shoulders were broad, and the corpulence that had begun to mar his posture a few years ago had now been more or less banished by careful eating and good tailoring. A touch of grey coloured the sideburns that led to his great moustaches, and the black patch that covered his sightless eye – worn as much to hide the scar left by the bePedi spear across his eyebrow and high cheek as much as to conceal the false eye itself – gave him a piratical air that, Alice suspected, he deliberately cultivated.

  With his good hand, Covington scooped the kedgeree on to his plate and strode to the table. He nodded to the paper. ‘What’s happening in Egypt?’

  Alice sighed. ‘Things seem to be going from bad to worse. There has been some rioting in the streets of Alexandria, our ships are obviously lying there itching to fire their broadsides into the town and Arabi seems to have taken complete control of the country. Gladstone is rattling sabres in a manner worthy of Beaconsfield himself.’

  ‘Well, bloody man’s a revolutionary. Probably have to be put down.’

  ‘Who, Arabi or Gladstone?’

  Covington grinned. ‘Both of ’em, if I had my way.’

  Alice summoned up a return smile. They had long ago agreed to disagree on their politics, although Covington could be surprisingly liberal on certain issues. The threat posed by Arabi, however, was not one of them. She decided to change the subject.

  ‘How did you get on in London yesterday?’ she asked. ‘I am sorry that I had retired when you came back, but I had had rather a long day and I was tired.’

  Covington’s jaw clenched slightly. His wife often ‘retired early’ these days, and he could not avoid the fear that she found his lovemaking distasteful. The subject, of course, had never been broached, and he had no intention of doing so. He had always undressed in his own dressing room and took care that she should not see the stump of his arm or the eye without its patch. Nevertheless, the problem seemed to be growing. There was no sign of Alice becoming pregnant, and if things continued as they were, she never would be. He had no idea what to do about it.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I had a pleasant day.’

  ‘What exactly did you do, Ralph?’

  ‘Oh, saw one or two old friends from the regiment, lunched at the club. That sort of thing, you know.’

  Alice gave a sweet smile. ‘And did you pass, my dear?’

  He looked up sharply. ‘Pass? What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh really, Ralph. You must think me no end of a fool. I know that you have been receiving letters from the Horse Guards, one of them at least from the Adjutant General’s office. And Jackson packed your riding jodhpurs and boots yesterday; not quite the things to take to London, my dear, now were they? You can have much finer riding here in Norfolk than on Rotten Row. No. You were being tested by the army to see if you could serve again, weren’t you?’

  Covington reached across with his good hand and took hers in it. He gave a rueful smile. ‘You are too smart a girl to deceive, aren’t you? Just as well I am not having an affair; you’d sniff me out in no time.’ He shook his head. ‘I was going to tell you, of course. Just waiting for the verdict and the right time.’

  ‘Good. Well I think that now is the right time, don’t you?’

  ‘Very well.’ Covington carefully put down his fork, clipped carefully to his hook. ‘I wrote to Wolseley some time ago and enquired if there was any chance of regaining my commission. Just a shot in the dark, really. I told him that I was fully fit again, that the sight in my good eye was perfect for shooting and that I was riding without trouble every day. Told him that I had been practising and could swing a sword from the saddle, and that, in fact, this damn thing,’ he held up his hook, ‘had given me an extra weapon. Right as rain again really.’

  There was a plaintive note of appeal in his voice, and Alice felt a conflict of emotion rise within her. Part of her pitied this fine man whose career had been so tragically ended and yet who was determined – as he always had been – to fight back. That pity and admiration, of course, had been behind her decision to honour her commitment to him, despite the development of her deep love for Simon Fonthill. She now felt also, however, a sense of guilt that she could not give him the kind of love for which he yearned. Above all, he wanted an heir. She had tried – God how she had tried! – but so far she had failed him. Another part of her, however, a despicable, shameful part, thrilled at the thought that, if the army accepted him, he would be away and could make no further demands on her, for a time at least.

  To hide a blush, she looked out of the window behind her, at the perfectly cut lawn, the early roses and the laurel hedges that shielded this end of their large garden. ‘Oh, Ralph,’ she said, turning back, ‘I am so sorry that you want to go back.’

  His hand tightened on hers. ‘Ah, nothing to do with you. It’s just that . . . Well, I enjoy running the estate, and indeed, there is plenty to do, although, in fact, you could run the place on your own and make a better job of it than me. But I miss the active life of the army so much and I can’t stand the thought of Wol
seley, my old commander, going into action again without me.’

  ‘Are we definitely going into Egypt then, and will he command?’

  His good eye seemed to light up. ‘Well, this is very confidential, of course, but it looks as though we will invade. Wolseley will be in charge. He’s the obvious choice, of course; the man’s hardly ever lost a battle. Almost as good a record as Wellington. I understand the plans are already drawn up. Gladstone is pussy-footing about, of course, as long as he can, but it looks inevitable to me.’

  Alice slowly withdrew her hand. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Did you pass your test?’

  Covington sat back and seemed to grow in his chair. ‘With flying colours, of course. They put me through all the drill in some indoor riding school back of Whitehall: galloping, turning, charging and swinging with the sabre from the saddle, firing with the old Martini-Henry rifle – couldn’t reload the bloody thing quickly enough, of course, but I was fine with a revolver, the officer’s weapon, so that was all right. Felt like I was a subaltern again. They told me I was as good as new. Haven’t heard from Sir Garnet yet, of course, but I know he’ll give me a job.’

  Alice smiled. ‘I am glad for you, Ralph, if it’s really what you want. I just want you to be happy.’ It was as true a statement as she had ever made to him.

  He rose, put his good arm around her shoulders and kissed her. ‘Knew you’d support me. And anyway,’ he gave her a strong, almost brutal hug and returned to his chair, ‘I wanted to be sure I could pass the bally test. Knew I would, though.’ He gave a self-satisfied sigh.

  ‘What are your plans for the day?’ Alice rose. ‘You can hardly spend all morning sharpening your sword, can you?’

  He grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, I did that three days ago. No, I am riding into Norwich with Watkins. The blade on one of the ploughs has broken and we need to have it replaced. Watkins could do it, I suppose, but I want to make sure that everything’s shipshape before I go. What about you?’

  Alice looked out of the window for a moment, her brow creased. ‘Oh, I have some letters to write,’ she said. ‘I would like to catch the midday post, so please excuse me, my dear. Finish your breakfast.’ She brushed his brow with her lips and left the room.

  Alice waited until she heard him leave the house before sitting down in the morning room and pulling a sheet of paper towards her. She sat for at least three minutes before beginning to write. It was, after all, a most important letter.

  The reply came three days later. As usual, she was up before her husband and was able to retrieve the envelope before he came down. Since revealing his secret to her, Covington had become a new man. He seemed to have found a new source of energy, and hardly relaxed at all during the long days he spent out of doors, beating the bounds of the estate to ensure that everything would be in order, enabling him to leave as soon as the call came. Wolseley had confirmed the offer to him of a lieutenant colonelcy in his old regiment, the 24th of Foot. He could not be reinstated in his rank of full colonel, it was explained, but Covington cared nothing for that. Should the expedition to Egypt be mounted – and it was growing more likely by the day – then he would join Wolseley’s staff. It could not be better.

  Alice had plenty of time to digest her own letter in the quietness of the large house. Written on Morning Post headed paper, it was short and to the point:

  My dear Alice,

  How splendid to hear from you. Of course we miss you, and I would be delighted to meet and discuss your proposal. That would be appropriately reminiscent of a previous occasion, would it not?

  Let us have lunch on Thursday 27th, if you are free. That should give you time to come up from Norfolk and return in the day. Shall we say 12.15 at the Writers’ Club?

  Please confirm or otherwise by telegram.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Charles Cornford

  (Editor)

  Alice immediately sent off a telegram of acceptance, read the letter again and smiled at the reference to ‘a previous occasion’. More than four years earlier, as a freelance writing from her parents’ home on the Brecon Beacons, she had penned a series of articles on current affairs for the Morning Post. Some of them had been published, and this had encouraged her to write to the editor, asking for an appointment as a foreign correspondent. Cornford, under the impression that ‘A. Griffith’ was a man, and impressed by the perspicacity shown by her articles, had agreed to meet her. His shock at seeing a young woman in her early twenties walk through his door had, after much argument from Alice, been replaced by a sense of intrigue. As a result, he had reluctantly agreed to give her a temporary trial posting in the quiet backwater of South Africa, where Alice claimed she had contacts, through her brigadier father, with the 24th Regiment, both of whose battalions were serving there. From a clear blue sky, the Zulu War had broken out, and Alice’s coverage of it had made her reputation. This had been cemented by her subsequent reporting from Afghanistan and the Transvaal, before she had resigned on her marriage to Ralph Covington.

  To tell Ralph, or not? She pondered for a moment. No. She would have her own secret for a day or two and, like her husband, if she failed then it would remain her secret. In any case, she was not used to failure and would not contemplate it.

  Covington needed a new uniform, and she persuaded him to take an early train to London on the 27th to see his tailor. She followed him on the next train and made her way leisurely, for she had plenty of time, to the Writers’ Club, just off the Strand. Arriving there early, she visited the ladies’ room and carefully made her toilet, studying critically the image that stared back at her from the large gilded mirror. It was that of an attractive, though perhaps rather strong young woman, for the jaw was a little too square and the grey eyes seemed to invite challenge and even confrontation. Making her professional way in an almost completely male environment had stiffened an already strong backbone, and the Alice Covington, née Griffith, who had experienced enemy fire in Zululand, Afghanistan and the Transvaal had already shown in the genteel drawing rooms of East Anglia that she took no prisoners in debate. Nevertheless, her overall appearance was feminine and pleasing, for her fair hair was full and soft and her skin was as clear as a sunlit day. Studying it now, she thought no rouge was needed but perhaps just a trace of face powder, for she had acquired a slight tan from her days out of doors in Norfolk – and she so hated looking like a country bumpkin!

  Charles Cornford was waiting for her in the ladies’ lounge – the Writers’ Club was one of the few such institutions to have one, reflecting its rather bohemian position in London’s Clubland – when she entered, and he stood to receive her, looking more than ever like an elderly Prince of Wales, with his neat beard, and his grey morning jacket emphasising, rather than concealing, his considerable paunch.

  He bowed over her hand and kissed it. ‘My dear Alice,’ he said. ‘It is so good to see you again. Do sit down. I think the occasion calls for a little champagne.’ He beckoned the waiter. ‘A bottle of the Bollinger ’70, George, please. Now. How is married life in the shires suiting you, my dear?’

  Alice smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Cornford . . .’

  ‘I think it’s time you called me Charles.’

  ‘. . . Charles, it is not suiting me at all. I have become, I have to admit, very bored. Oh, there is plenty to do on the estate – we farm a little, you know – but we have people to look after it, and although I try to become involved, they know much more about it than I do. It is almost driving me to submit androgynously signed freelance articles to The Times.’

  He threw back his head and chortled. ‘Good lord, that would never do! Can’t have you writing for the opposition. Do you know,’ he leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I do miss your pieces. We don’t seem to have anyone these days who can upset cabinet ministers as you did. I always enjoyed receiving their apoplectic letters, sent by special messenger, usually by about ten a.m. Such fun, such fun.’

  ‘Oh Charles,’ she put her hand briefly on
his, ‘I was always so grateful for the way you supported me. I know I caused you more trouble than anyone else on the Post. I was always running into trouble with generals and such.’

  He shook his head and took a sip of the Bollinger. ‘Freedom of the press is vital,’ he said. ‘You will remember that, as a Tory newspaper, we had to tone you down a bit when you were writing what I used to call “colour pieces” and boosting our present dear Prime Minister when he was in opposition, but your reportage from the campaigns abroad was always factual, informative and vivid. Now, tell me, what do you think about the present position in Egypt?’

  She realised that Cornford, with his suave skills, was gently testing to see if her sabbatical in rural Norfolk had reduced her knowledge of current affairs or, indeed, blunted her ability to analyse them. Drawing on the champagne, then, she presented a well-rehearsed critique of the government’s seeming opposition to the Egyptian people’s right and proper desire for independence from the Turkish yoke and British and French interference in their affairs. An opposition, indeed, that had impelled it to send a squadron to menace the Egyptians and persuade them to accept the suzerainty of the Turks – the most backward and barbaric of all the imperial powers.

  ‘It’s both hypocritical,’ she concluded, ‘given that this is supposed to be a Liberal administration, pledged to people’s rights to self-determination, and unwise, in that it will end in another expensive war – just think of that seemingly “easy” Zulu campaign – and we could lose the very thing we are trying to protect, the Suez Canal, for it would be so easy for its defenders to blow it up or block it.’