The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series) Page 11

  ‘Hmmm. I see that you haven’t lost your radicalism. I fear that things are never quite as black and white as you paint them, Alice. I genuinely don’t think the government wants war. What it would prefer, of course, is a return to the status quo, but with the Turks assuming more responsibility for the damned place and, of course, easing the taxation lash on the backs of the poor labouring fellaheen. But I fear that Arabi has got the bit between his teeth now. I also don’t see Constantinople easing itself off its sleepy backside, if you’ll pardon the expression. It looks as though we will have to go in to protect our people and interests there. Regrettable, I grant you, but probably unavoidable.’ He summoned the waiter. ‘Come, let us eat. George, please bring the champagne through.’

  In the panelled dining room, Cornford tucked his napkin into the top of his waistcoat and picked up a spoon to dip it into the turtle soup. As he raised it to his mouth, he looked up at her. ‘Now, my dear, tell me what you want of me.’

  Alice sighed. ‘Oh, I think you have guessed already, Charles. I want to come back. I want you to send me to Egypt to cover the coming campaign. This life in the country is not for me, at least, not all the time. I suppose that by now I must have printer’s ink running through my veins. I miss journalism so much: the excitement, the competition, yes, even the occasional danger. I know that people still think it is a most unsuitable, even disgraceful, role for a woman to play but you know there are precedents and I believe I can say that I have served you well in the past. Please, take me back on. I don’t need much money, you know, although,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘I will expect to be paid, of course.’

  ‘Ah,’ he grinned. ‘That’s more like it. Shades of the old Alice.’ He dabbed his moustache with his napkin. ‘I remember that when we had a rather similar conversation some years ago, I said to you something like, “That’s all very well, but will your family let you go?” I must say something similar to you now: what of your husband? What will he think?’

  Alice frowned – it was more like a scowl. ‘He will not oppose me. First, he is rejoining the army. Despite his injuries he has wangled his way back into the regiment and on to Wolseley’s staff. I presume he will go in with the invading troops. What is good enough for him is good enough for me. Second, I am a mature woman and do not need the permission of my husband to do what I wish. I am both financially and sociologically independent. Times are changing, you know, Charles.’

  Cornford held up both hands, as though in self-defence. ‘Oh my goodness. Please don’t think that I am unaware of that. Telephones, gaslight everywhere and now women going off to war. Whatever next?’ He replaced his napkin on his lap and smoothed it down. Then he leaned forward. ‘Alice, I am delighted to offer you the post of special correspondent in Egypt. I shall write to you about remuneration and so on as soon as I have had time to consult with my colleagues, but I don’t think we shall fall out over that. Conditions for travelling expenses and suchlike will be the same as before.’

  He paused. ‘But I make two conditions. First, you must not endanger yourself by going into the firing line. Even seasoned male reporters like Russell don’t find it necessary to do that. Second, I do not wish to come between a woman and her husband. You must reconcile your going with Colonel Covington. Is that understood? Do you agree?’

  Alice sat still for a moment as her mind whirled. To hell with not going into the firing line! She could not do her job without taking risks. But a white lie – a white promise – would not hurt anyone. As for Ralph, well, she felt she could handle him. She smiled and held out her hand. ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘Thank you for having me back.’

  ‘Now,’ Cornford relinquished her hand and settled back in his chair, ‘I shall want you to go to Egypt immediately. I have a man there, of course, but he is not up to scratch. You will replace him. I don’t want to wait until the invasion starts. I would like you filing stories on the conditions there as soon as possible. Try and see Arabi, of course; our man has failed so far, but I have a feeling you will succeed. I will see that you are accredited to our forces as and when they go in. When can you leave?’

  Alice thought for a moment. ‘Today is Thursday. I can leave on Monday.’

  ‘Splendid. Now: what about a little claret with the lamb?’

  Alice’s confrontation with her husband that evening did not go exactly as she had expected or planned. Contritely, she confessed to her assignation as they sat together over dinner (lamb again, dammit! She had forgotten). With care and in a soft voice, she explained the reason for her desire to return to cover this campaign and her joy that Cornford had accepted her. He heard her out to the end without interruption, and then carefully laid down the fork from his good hand.

  ‘I absolutely forbid it,’ he said. ‘There is no question of you going and I am amazed that you have carried out this deception behind my back.’ He threw back his head and gazed at her, his blue eye blazing with indignation.

  Alice drew herself up in her chair and tried to keep her voice level. ‘Deception? Deception? Do you mean having an appointment in London that I kept from you for three days? Doesn’t it sound familiar, somehow, Ralph? Didn’t you have a secret – of a similar nature, as it happens – that you kept from me for much longer? Why does one rule apply to you and another to me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That’s beside the point. I mean you resuming your career. When we married, you promised that you would give up all this . . .’ he gestured dismissively with his hook, ‘scribbling. Your place is here, where your home is, particularly now that I have to go away.’

  Alice sighed. ‘That is just the point, Ralph. You are going away again, after giving up your career, and I wish to do the same. This is not the end of our marriage; in fact, I shall see more of you on campaign than if I had stayed here. We are both talented people who have something to contribute in these troubled times. I wish to make a contribution, as you do.’ She reached across and put her hand over his, and her voice softened. ‘It is not as if we have children, my dear. If we did, then of course I would not leave them. But the estate does not need me. Watkins is probably the best estate manager in the whole of East Anglia, and I shall certainly not be missed.’ She decided to make a concession. ‘I promise I shall return when the campaign is over.’

  They sat in silence for a time. Then Covington, as though receiving a new source of energy, flared up again. ‘No, dammit, no. It is not right. What will people think?’

  It was an unwise tack for him to try. ‘Don’t you know me well enough by now, Ralph,’ she said, her voice now ice cold, ‘to understand that I don’t care a damn what people think? The opinions of the county set around here or of your friends in the club in London matter to me not at all. Most of their brains seemed to have atrophied anyway. You will not forbid me, Ralph. You can try and persuade me – although I don’t think you will succeed – but you will not, I repeat not, forbid me. I am of age and an independent, freethinking human being, and although I am married, I am no one’s slave or servant.’

  The silence descended again and Alice stared at her husband in cold fury. Gradually, however, she saw the handsome face begin to crease. Then he threw back his head and the dining room was suddenly filled with laughter. ‘My God, woman,’ he cried, slapping his thigh, ‘I’d forgotten for a minute or two why I fell in love with you in the first place. You’re a feisty thing, Alice Covington, and although it makes you difficult to live with sometimes, I admire you for it. Love your spirit. Always have. Pack your damned bags then, but come here and kiss me first.’

  They embraced awkwardly at the table and Alice cradled his good hand in hers. She, too, remembered what had first attracted her to him when they had met before the invasion of Zululand. He was a man of his time: reactionary, high Tory, jingoistic, a traditionalist, but he was also brave and could show remarkable flexibility and good will at the most unexpected times. She kissed him again. ‘Thank you, Ralph,’ she said.

  It was not until Covington was fast a
sleep at her side – he had not attempted to take advantage of their reconciliation by forcing himself upon her – that she allowed herself to think of Simon. Where was he? Was he out there in Egypt, that inhospitable, volatile foreign land? Would their paths cross again out there? And was that the real reason she was resuming her career? She sighed and turned over, but sleep proved elusive.

  Chapter 7

  Ahmed’s cousin seemed to have bottomless resources, and the day after their affray in the street she produced two sets of garments for Simon and Jenkins that were both authentic and suitably anonymous. Their shirts were replaced by two simple cotton garments, buttoned to the neck and sufficiently voluminous not to demand niceties of sizing, worn under the ubiquitous long gown, gathered at the waist by a sash. They were given head cloths of undyed cotton, kept in place by plaited cords tied around the crown of the head, and soft slippers for their feet with upturned toes that seemed to Simon to have come out of the pantomime Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves that he had seen as a boy at Brecon.

  Ahmed regarded them with satisfaction, as did Fatima, his cousin. Then his approving smile was replaced with a frown. ‘The problem is if you talk,’ he said. ‘You look Egyptian, or, at least, like Arabs. But you speak no Arabic. Ah,’ he clicked his fingers, ‘I know. If people talk to you, shake head and say, “Sudan”. They think then that you are from deep south, with different tongue. Or . . . I hope.’

  ‘Blimey, so do I,’ said Jenkins. ‘Pity we don’t know Welsh, now, isn’t it?’

  Under the anonymity of their disguise, the three spent the next few days walking the perimeter of Alexandria while Simon surreptitiously marked the depositions of the troops that Arabi had brought up to surround the town. It was clear that the Egyptian commander was preparing for war and that he had made the presumption that the invasion would occur at Alexandria. It was an obvious assessment. The city had a deep harbour, with lying-off anchorage in Aboukir Bay. It was the nearest point of disembarkation to the mainland of Europe and near to the newly occupied French territory of Tunisia and also to the British military base in the eastern Mediterranean at Cyprus. Simon made a rough estimate that Arabi had something like twenty thousand troops already based around Alex, with others in fall-back positions at his strong base at Kafr Dewar, some fifteen miles south-east of the city. Fatima reported that the town was full of rumours that the soldiers were poised to storm Alexandria and take the European possessions within it.

  Ahmed had learned that the gun emplacements defending the port were now being considerably reinforced, and Simon turned his attention towards assessing these. On their previous brief stay in Alexandria, they had been allowed to saunter along to inspect the forts, but now they were turned back by Egyptian troops as they attempted to get close. The problem was solved, after waiting a day, by buying sacks of camel fodder, heaving them upon their backs and joining the lines of similarly burdened fellaheen who wound their way up to the fortifications, where work was continually in session. No one gave them a second glance as they plodded along the coastline. The forts and major gun emplacements were scattered along some four miles of the shore, before the city itself and on either side. It was obvious that Arabi had ordered considerable reinforcements to the individual forts. Long lines of earthworks were being erected to cover the entrance to the harbour, and Simon noted that the old Armstrong cannon were being supplemented here and there by new Krupp ordnance. He decided that it was time to make a full report to Admiral Seymour, in command of the British squadron lying in the bay, and, via him, to Wolseley in London.

  Back at the hotel, he wrote a full signal to Wolseley, relieved at last of the strictures of using the ‘family’ code, and leaving the others behind, he hired a boat in the harbour to take him out to the Admiral’s flagship, the Invincible, so that the message could be relayed immediately to London. The ironclad – its armour-plated sides were said to be eight to ten inches thick – was lying near to the city and seemed to dominate it with its massive armament of two 25-ton guns and ten others of 18 tons each. It was with some apprehension that the Egyptian boatman steered his small vessel alongside the bobbing landing stage at the bottom of the mighty vessel’s companionway. Gathering his burnous about him, Simon transferred to the slippery landing stage with some difficulty.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ shouted a voice from above. ‘Get orf that gangway, you dirty A-rab.’

  Simon looked up at the aggrieved Chief Petty Officer of the watch. ‘Would you ask the Officer of the Watch for his permission to come on board, please?’ he demanded in his best Sandhurst voice.

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘I am Captain Simon Fonthill, with an urgent message for General Sir Garnet Wolseley in London, and I would like to see the Admiral as soon as possible.’

  ‘Blimey. ’Alf a mo’ . . . er . . . sir.’

  Very quickly, the Chief Petty Officer’s head was replaced by that of a young man, resplendent in navy whites. ‘Do come on up, ah, there’s a good fellow,’ he called. ‘Watch your step.’

  In less than two minutes, Simon was sitting in the Admiral’s day cabin at the stern of the ship, facing the considerable figure of Vice Admiral Sir Frederick Beauchamp Seymour, Commander of the Mediterranean Squadron. The Admiral, white-bearded, bluff-browed and with shoulders seemingly as broad as his ship, had joined the navy as a boy and was not to be fazed by a young man in Arab fancy dress.

  ‘Why the hell are you dressed like that, and what do you want?’ he demanded.

  Resisting the urge to say that a cup of tea would be welcome, Simon shrugged off his esharp and decided to be amenable. ‘Sorry to look like an Arab barrow boy, sir,’ he said, ‘but I have been working for some time in Egypt directly for Sir Garnet Wolseley, the Adjutant General at the Horse Guards. It’s getting a bit difficult for Europeans to move freely around in Alex just now, so I had to go native. I have been communicating with Sir Garnet on open cable by code, but this has restricted me and I have reached the point where I need to report more fully. I would be grateful if this could go to him as a signal.’ He pushed forward his report. ‘Actually, sir, perhaps some of the content could be useful to you – although, of course, I am sure that you have your own sources of information from the shore.’

  Simon had gone into some detail, amplifying his previous messages about Arabi’s artillery strength and his allegedly strong regiments of cavalry, which gave him flexibility and reconnaissance competence in the desert – quoting Stone Pasha as the source – and reporting on the Egyptian concentration around Alexandria and the repair of its forts. He repeated his view that invasion was expected from the northern port and his advice to the General to feint at Alex and then move speedily to block both ends of the Suez Canal and land at Ismailia to strike at Cairo. Although the signal was formally addressed, he had decided, on a whim, to sign it ‘Cousin Simon’ once again.

  The admiral read it slowly and with a frown that seemed to entwine both bushy eyebrows. He looked up. ‘Yer not Wolseley’s cousin, are yer?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s my code signing.’

  ‘But yer not usin’ code now, so why be impertinent?’

  Simon sighed inwardly. ‘No impertinence intended, sir. It’s the signature I have been using and I thought for the sake of continuity and to give verisimilitude to the signal I would continue to use it.’ He coughed. ‘Sir Garnet signs himself to me as “Cousin Garnet”.’

  ‘Umph!’ The Admiral returned his gaze to the signal, then looked up again. ‘How old are you, young man?’

  ‘Twenty-seven, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve got a bloody cheek giving military advice to the Adjutant General, eh?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t. I am merely carrying out my orders. The General has asked for my advice. He has used it before.’

  ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? It all seems a bit far-fetched to me.’ He gestured to the signal. ‘This business of the Egyptians improvin’ their defences here. The Khedive himself has assured me that the on
ly work goin’ on is routine maintenance stuff. Am I to take your word against his, eh?’

  ‘If that is what the Khedive has said, sir, he is either lying or has been lied to by Arabi – and I would think that the latter is the case. I have seen the work being done myself. May I suggest, sir, that tonight, after dark, you train a couple of searchlights on the shore by the lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour. I know the Egyptians are working through the night there, throwing up earthworks. You will see them doing it.’

  The great eyebrows lowered again as the Admiral considered the proposition. Then he slammed down the paper and pushed it back across the table to Simon.

  ‘Don’t believe a word of it. I don’t know what you are up to, young man, but I don’t like it and I won’t be part of it. I will not send this rubbish to a man who is already up to his eyes working hard. Now, I would be grateful if you would get off my ship.’

  Simon rose slowly to his feet. Fighting back anger, he kept his voice level. ‘Admiral,’ he said, ‘I do not wish to be disrespectful to you, not least because I know you have many years of very fine service behind you. But you must send that signal. I may seem very young and inexperienced to you, but in the last three years I have fought at Rorke’s Drift and Isandlwana in Zululand; Kabul and Kandahar in Afghanistan; and Sekukuni and Majuba in the Transvaal. I know what I am talking about, and General Wolseley is expecting me to report.’ He paused for a moment. ‘If you do not promise to send that signal, sir, then I must immediately go to Cook’s offices on shore and cable him, explaining that you have refused to pass on my report. The choice is yours, Admiral.’