The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series) Page 13

  ‘Fonthill, sir.’

  ‘Ah yes. Look here, Fonthill. I owe you a great debt. If I did not, I would look very severely upon your presence here, dressed as you are and carrying very military-looking revolvers. You have expressed an interest in archaeology, and I am sure you know that the Egyptian government set up the Antiquities Service to ensure that all new archaeological finds were registered and a licence granted before they could be exported.’ He was now looking at the ceiling, as though embarrassed to catch Simon’s eye. ‘Inevitably, this has resulted in a thriving trade in smuggling such things out of the country, of which Alexandria is the main port of exit. As a result, I am sure – although I cannot prove it – that this town is full of such precious objects, most of them having been brought here from Cairo.’

  He turned his gaze back to Simon. ‘There will be treasures here behind many doors, Fonthill. Now, if the British Navy fires on Alexandria – as it looks as though it will – there could be widespread destruction, either from British shells or from Egyptian gangs who will take advantage of the chaos to attack buildings and loot them.’

  Simon nodded slowly. ‘Would you like us to stay here and help protect you, sir?’

  Cookson gave an irritated shake of the head. ‘No, no. We have our own defences, and Seymour knows the position of the consulate; we are far enough away from the forts not to be in danger from the guns. No. I am talking of you, Fonthill.’ He raised himself on one elbow again. ‘Do not – I repeat – do not stay here. Do not become involved. Get away while you can.’

  Simon realised that this good man suspected him of being a smuggler of ancient Egyptian artefacts – and even, perhaps, of hoping to take advantage of the shelling and to engage in the consequent looting. He smiled. ‘Thank you for the advice, Mr Cookson. I will take it.’

  ‘Good man.’ Cookson held out his hand. ‘You should still be able to get a ship in the harbour, or even a train south to Cairo, although I wouldn’t advise that. Thank you again for your intervention on my behalf back in Sister Street.’

  Within minutes, Simon and his companions had left the consulate. They had to do so by the back gate, for a small crowd had gathered outside the tall railings that fronted the building. It seemed peaceable enough, for the moment more sullen than angry, but Simon feared for the consul and his quiet, able wife. She assured them that they were quite capable of looking after themselves, and gestured to two tall Nubian servants. ‘We have rifles,’ she said, ‘and they can shoot. If things get really out of hand we can signal to the Admiral from the roof and he will land marines, I am sure.’ To Simon’s amazement, she pressed a small box of Colt .45 cartridges into his hand. How resourceful were these women working in distant lands! ‘My husband tells me you expended quite a lot of ammunition on his behalf yesterday. Now go, but do be careful, all of you.’

  The three of them slipped away, through the palms and sycamore fig trees at the back of the consulate, and eventually made the safety of their hotel without incident. Once there, Jenkins turned to Ahmed.

  ‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘I knew there was somethin’. Why did you suddenly start shootin’ round the corner, and what were you yellin’ that made them fellers run for it?’

  Ahmed grinned, and his chest seemed to swell by a couple of inches. ‘Simon tell me to shoot up empty street,’ he said, ‘and then say that sailors were coming. So I shot and shouted, “British sailors are coming with bloody great bayonets, et cetera, et cetera.” Good, yes?’

  ‘Bloody marvellous, bach. Bloody marvellous.’

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, promptly at seven a.m., the bombardment began.

  It commenced with a deep boom, as though a sighting gun was being used, then immediately the warm, soft morning exploded into a hellish cacophony as the rest of the squadron opened fire. At first the Egyptian gunners seemed to have been taken by surprise, despite the fact that the ultimatum had obviously been delivered. Then, however, their response began, and the deeper note of the guns on the forts and at the newly dug positions along the shoreline mingled with the more distant crashes from the ships, so that the port of Alexandria – hitherto an idyllic haven, its treelined avenues fringing the bluest of seas – became an inferno of noise, smoke and, increasingly, collapsing bricks and masonry as the huge naval shells crashed in from the sea.

  Despite their years of active service, Simon and Jenkins had never before experienced such a bombardment. Nothing that the Zulus, the Pathans, the bePedis or the Boers had unleashed could match the terror of these mighty shells exploding only a couple of hundred yards away from their fragile hotel. The three of them, with Fatima and her terrified Egyptian staff, crouched in the little dining room as the explosions seemed to creep closer. Dust filled the air, and particles crunched between their teeth.

  ‘Right,’ shouted Simon, ‘let’s move out. Ahmed, tell Fatima and the rest to take their valuables – wrap them in blankets or something – and we will escort them to the hill above the town. Quickly now, and lock up the hotel. We should be safe on the top, and we can come back when the bombardment has finished. It can’t go on all day.’

  But it did. The shelling continued for more than ten hours. It was as though Seymour was determined to reduce the forts to rubble. Looking down from the heights – they were, in fact, little more than a swelling in the ground, but they gave the fugitives some perspective on the battle being waged below – it seemed as though the whole shoreline was being destroyed. The parts of the city that fringed the sea were marked by a cloud of black smoke that was constantly being illuminated from within by flashes of orange flame as the big shells landed. But it was clear that it was not one-way traffic. The Egyptian gunners seemed to be putting up a courageous fight, for the distinctive flare of their own guns could be seen, showing like intermittent white sparks through the smoke. Whether they were having an effect on the vessels out in the bay no one could tell, for the smoke had now taken on a kind of permanence, hanging like an oleaginous mantle over the town, preventing the viewers on the hill from seeing the ships.

  Simon and his group, rendered silent by the noise, sat glumly watching the battle, chewing oranges as the day wore on. They were by no means the only witnesses to the artillery duel; there must have been hundreds of natives who had fled the town and were now waiting for the resolution of the bombardment. There seemed to be no Europeans among them, however, and Simon wondered if they had all fled the city, or if they were huddled in their houses, praying that a wayward shell would not land on them – and also waiting perhaps, guns in hand, to repel any looters who would attempt to take advantage of the end of the shelling. This prompted a thought, and during the afternoon, he and Jenkins left their companions and walked to the Egyptian army’s positions, spread out somewhat to the rear of the town in a vast semicircle. They found nothing except rubbish and other military detritus. The troops had all been withdrawn, probably to their previously prepared positions to the south and east. It was obvious that Arabi was not going to defend the town.

  ‘It also means,’ said Simon as they trudged back, ‘that he won’t make any effort to prevent looting. If Seymour wins this artillery battle – and so far there’s no evidence that he will – then I hope to God that he puts ashore a strong landing party to stop looting and organise some sort of clearing-up of the damage.’

  The guns fell silent at last in the late afternoon. It had been clear for some time that the Egyptian reply had been diminishing, and the distinctive bark of the shore-based guns had disappeared long before Seymour called a halt to his bombardment. As the black cloud eventually began to drift away, the ships in the bay came into view again. Simon counted them: eight ironclads and five gunboats. None had been sunk, and as far as he could see through his field glasses, none had suffered severe damage. He ranged his glasses along the shoreline. In contrast, the devastation to the forts and the newly thrown-up emplacements along the shore was clear. Guns could be seen torn away from their mountings and thin grey smoke rose f
rom the rubble of stone and brick that had once been stout bastions. It was amazing that the Egyptians had been able to continue their defiance for so long. Simon recalled from his Sandhurst days the debate about whether modern vessels, with their huge long-range guns and armoured sides and tops, could at last tip the balance away from guns firing from fixed emplacements on shore, an imbalance that had existed since Nelson’s day. The gun battle at Alexandria had settled that debate. The new ironclads were the masters.

  Simon swept his glasses along the rooftops of the town. It was obvious that the navy’s gun-layers had not been as accurate as had been hoped, for fires were now springing up away from the forts, particularly in the European quarter. Was it, though, collateral damage from the shelling, or were looters already moving in?

  Simon turned to Jenkins and Ahmed. ‘We must get down into the town quickly,’ he said. ‘First we will take Fatima and her people back to the hotel, then we must go and help any Europeans who might be in danger. Come on. Quickly now.’

  At first the streets of the town seemed deserted, and it appeared that the native quarter had been spared any damage. Fresh fires, however, could be seen springing up towards the European sector. The hotel had survived the shelling, apart from the thick layer of dust that lay over it, and Fatima and her staff were safely reinstalled.

  ‘Tell her,’ said Simon to Ahmed, ‘to lock the doors and admit no one until we return, which may be tomorrow, I don’t know. Now, we need ammunition for the Colts. Sorry, Ahmed, but I think you should stay here. Fatima may need protection, and anyway, you don’t have a weapon.’

  Ahmed’s eyes widened. ‘No, no. I come with you. It is a fighting day again, yes? Then you need me. Fatima has old shotgun she can use if people come. But I don’t think so. So I come with you, for the fighting again. I have my father’s sword.’ His teeth gleamed through his now quite luxurious moustache.

  ‘Oh, very well. Three five two: the ammunition. Thank God for the consul’s replacements. Let’s go.’

  Once outside, they realised that the street was now full of running figures. A new sound had replaced the booming of the bombardment: the noise of shouting people. The mob had taken to the streets and the looters were out. Dusk was falling, but the sky was now lit a swollen red by the gleam of the burning fires. The biggest lay to their right. ‘What is there, Ahmed?’

  ‘Anglo-Egyptian Bank, maybe.’

  ‘An obvious target. Let’s go there.’

  In fact the bank was not alight, for it was a solid building, laid in stone. But it was clear that it was being besieged. A mob was milling about at its front, hurling stones and burning brands through its smashed windows. More seriously, gunfire had now opened up from the edge of the crowd, and Simon saw that four Bedawis were firing their jerzails from the protection of a half-shattered building virtually next door to it. Although the bank building was occupied – frightened faces could be glimpsed through the shattered windows – there seemed to be no sign of an organised defence.

  Simon nodded towards the gunmen. ‘Let’s take those four first,’ he said. The three of them slipped through the crowd to the edge of the still smouldering building next to the bank and clambered through fallen stonework to where they had a clear view of the gunmen.

  ‘Do we . . .?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Afraid so. We have no time to ask them to lay down their arms – and we know they wouldn’t anyway.’

  Simon and Jenkins carefully sighted their long-barrelled revolvers, and two shots rang out. Immediately two of the Arabs fell, for even Simon could not miss at that range. Jenkins’s second shot brought down the third man, but Simon missed with his and the fourth Bedawi immediately levelled his musket and fired. The ball crashed into the stonework above Simon’s head, but before he could cock his revolver to fire again, Ahmed had leapt to his feet, sword in hand, and run across the rubble towards the man.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ shouted Simon to Jenkins, as the Welshman levelled his Colt. ‘You might hit Ahmed.’

  The danger was clear, for Ahmed was now blocking the eye line to the Arab and was swinging his scimitar around his head like some primitive Marmaluke. The Bedawi had had no time to reload his jerzail, but he was no coward. With the barrel of his gun, he parried the little man’s sword and swung the stock back to plunge it into Ahmed’s face. But the Egyptian, half slipping in the rubble, half ducking, saw the butt of the musket pass over his head, and punched the other man in the stomach with the hilt of his sword. As the Arab let out a wheeze and doubled up, Ahmed swung the scimitar back and brought the blade down on his opponent’s neck. Alas, the old sword was blunt, but the force of it was enough to break the man’s neck, and the crack could clearly be heard by Simon and Jenkins. The Arab fell without a sound. Simon ran to Ahmed.

  ‘You all right, old chap?’

  The little man looked up at Simon, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Then he began to shake.

  ‘Quick, bach,’ said Jenkins, ‘sit down. The first time’s always the worst.’

  In fact there was no time for rehabilitation, for they had been seen by some of the mob at the rear, who immediately began hurling stones at them. Two more musket balls pinged off the wall nearest to them.

  ‘Round the back of the house!’ shouted Simon. ‘Let’s see if we can get on to the bank’s roof. It looks as though the houses are almost joined and the back looks solid enough.’

  ‘Oh bloody ’ell,’ groaned Jenkins. ‘You know I don’t like heights. You go on up, look you, and I’ll protect the rear, like.’

  ‘No. You’ll get picked off on your own. Ahmed, are you all right to climb?’

  The little man seemed to have recovered, for his eyes were bright again and he nodded his head.

  ‘Good. You go first. See if we can get across to the bank’s roof and through a skylight or something down to the interior. I’ll push Jenkins up from behind.’

  ‘No, bach sir, it’s all right, see. I’ll just . . .’

  ‘Get on with you. It’s not difficult. Look, Ahmed’s halfway up already.’

  Somehow the trio, with Jenkins perspiring and not daring to look down, and Simon with a hand on his bottom, managed to scramble up the loosened brickwork at the back of the building to where only a small gap separated it from the flat roof of the bank. A hunched wooden structure seemed to promise entry to the floors below, and even Jenkins was persuaded to leap across the gap. The shed was, indeed, the entrance to a stairway and a shot from Simon’s revolver shattered the lock, allowing them entry.

  Clattering down the stairs, their arrival on the first floor, where most of the occupants seemed to have gathered, created great consternation and cries of horror. A portly Englishman came forward with his hands raised. ‘No, no,’ he cried. ‘Don’t shoot. We can open the vaults.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Simon, slipping his Colt into his waistband. ‘Are you in charge here?’

  The man was visibly shaking and perspiring. ‘Yes. I am the manager. But who are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He turned. ‘Three five two, go back up the stairs and block that entrance we have opened. Others could follow us if we’ve been seen. You,’ he gestured to a young man in European clothing, ‘go and help him. Now . . .’

  His words were drowned by a thumping from below. A quick look out of the window showed that a large blackened rafter was being used as a battering ram to crash against the door.

  Simon turned back to the manager. ‘Do you have any weapons here?’

  The man nodded, wide-eyed. ‘We have one shotgun and a fowling piece. I did not want to use them because I thought it would inflame the mob. Surely the navy will arrive soon?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but this mob is well and truly inflamed already, and if they break in I wouldn’t give a farthing for our lives. Get the guns quickly.’ He looked around him. Perhaps fifty people were crammed into the open-plan first floor, above what was obviously the reception area of the bank below. They seemed to be mainly Europeans, includin
g some dozen women. One mature woman was eyeing him steadily. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘do you know if there are cooking facilities here?’

  If she was surprised at being asked such a question, she showed no sign. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But there is water and we have filled buckets and pans in case the building was set on fire by the shelling.’

  Simon realised that the bank must have formed a refuge and rallying point for families living nearby. Down below he could hear the tempo of the battering ram’s blows increasing. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Get the rest of the ladies and boil as much of the water as you can. Make fires from any wood you can find. Quickly, now. Where are those two guns?’

  A young man appeared. ‘Here, sir. I have loaded them. Only buckshot, I am afraid.’

  Simon shot him a grateful glance. ‘That will have to do. Can you shoot?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Of course.’ A tall elderly man with a crisp beard and still immaculate in his white ducks strode forward. ‘About time we fought back, dammit.’

  ‘Right. To the windows and fire on the men holding the battering ram. Shoot at their heads and faces if you can. Make the buckshot count. I will get you help.’ Simon turned. ‘The rest of you men go downstairs and shore up the doors and windows with whatever you can find. And stamp out those burning brands they have thrown through the windows. Ahmed, you go with them. I’ll join you in a second. Don’t stand there gawping, all of you: GO!’

  Two loud reports from the windows showed that the marksmen had begun their work. Simon ran back to the stairway and shouted up, ‘Three five two, you’re needed down here. Can you come?’

  ‘On my way, bach sir.’ And Jenkins, Colt poised, arrived with a clatter.

  ‘You take that far window and shoot down on the leading ranks of the mob. We have to deter them. Don’t waste ammunition, but shoot to kill. I’m going downstairs to make sure they can’t break through there.’