The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series) Read online

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins, raising his Colt, ‘they’re comin’ again.’

  Simon held up his hand. ‘No. Don’t shoot. They want to collect their dead.’

  The leading rider raised both his hands and indicated the two bodies. Simon stepped from behind the hut and nodded. Immediately the two other Arabs slipped down from their camels and carefully slung the bodies of their comrades on to their saddles. Then the sad little cavalcade turned back, picked up the reins of the riderless camels and peeled away to the north, whence they had come.

  ‘Well blow me down,’ said Jenkins. ‘At least the bastards’ave got some Christian instincts.’

  Simon tucked his Colt back into the trouser waistband inside his shirt and wiped the perspiration from his face with his sodden handkerchief. ‘Well, I don’t think they’d thank you for calling it a Christian instinct. As a matter of fact—’

  Before he could complete his sentence, a bullet crashed into the shed at his side. A puff of white smoke came from the leading camel as the little trio headed off into the desert.

  Simon grinned. ‘I guess he wanted to have the last word. He had guts, that man, I must say. Would have made a good soldier.’

  ‘Bugger ’im,’ said Jenkins. ‘’Ow about tryin’ to cadge a lift on the train? I don’t fancy walkin’ ’ome, with them three still out there.’

  ‘Good idea. Get the shovels.’

  They hurriedly picked up the shovels, found two scraps of red rag from within the hut and tied them to the ends of the shovels. Then they stood in the centre of the track, waving the shovels, as the train approached. It pulled to a halt with a great hissing of steam and an anxious face appeared from the side of the cabin.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ asked Simon as they approached the footplate.

  ‘No I bloody don’t,’ said the driver. ‘I’m a Scotsman, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ grinned Simon. ‘Can we get a lift with you into Ismailia? We have been attacked by Bedawis and your arrival has probably saved our lives.’

  ‘Och, the devils are strong hereabouts. They’re all right in the north, where they’re peaceable out in the desert. But not here. They come up from the Sudan. You’re lucky: I wouldna have stopped for any Arabs wavin’ bits o’ rags. Climb up on the footplate and let’s be off before they come back. I’ll no be chargin’ ye for the ride, laddie. What the hell are you doin’ oot here anyway, on foot? You must be mad.’

  ‘Tell you later. We don’t want to hold you up.’

  Carefully concealing their Colts, the two climbed aboard, and with much clanking and hissing, the great locomotive got under way again, as Simon explained how they were studying the flora and fauna of the banks of the Canal and had wandered too far out into the desert. He was not at all sure that the canny Scotsman – thank God for the great diaspora of Scottish engineers that had spread around the world under Victoria’s rule! – accepted the story. He merely grunted, but they arrived at Ismailia within the half-hour, and Simon and Jenkins extended their thanks and slipped away before any railway officials could question them.

  Back in their hotel, they bathed and then took a congratulatory whisky together. Jenkins shook his head. ‘I still don’t know why we ’ad to walk out into the desert like that. Why not ’ire a couple of ’orses or camels or whatever? I know you can’t ride for toffee, but it would ’ave been better, wouldn’t it?’

  Simon took a deep draught of whisky before replying. ‘Point one,’ he said, ‘I bloody well can ride now. Not as well as you, but well enough. I have improved. Second, I had to know about marching conditions for Wolseley. I reckon the surface sand is about nine inches to a foot deep either side of the railway track. Now, that makes for difficult marching for an army and would slow it down considerably. If the General is to attack Cairo from this side – and I think he should – then this fact must go into his calculations and affect his timing.’

  Jenkins pulled a face. ‘Just occasionally, only occasionally mind you, I forget that you’re clever. Sorry, bach sir.’

  ‘Right. After the whisky, get down to the railway station and book us two tickets to Cairo, leaving tomorrow. It’s time we had a sniff around the capital city – and it’s also time I cabled the General.’

  The train journey was uneventful, but it gave Simon time to consider their next step and also the contents of his cable to Wolseley. By the time they had reached Cairo, he had made his decision on both counts. Strategically, he knew exactly what he would recommend to the General regarding his landings if he had to invade, but he knew little about the Egyptian army. It would be difficult to dig deep in this area in the time available without using subterfuge – and he had sworn not to be a spy. But he had also promised to serve the Queen, and he would gain no one’s sympathy if he pussyfooted about in Cairo merely to salve his own conscience. He would have to find a pretence to call on the American at the heart of the Egyptian command; what was his name? Ah yes. Stone Pasha. But first they had to find lodgings.

  Emerging from the station in Cairo, with its cacophony of sounds – the hiss of steam, the deep-throated puffing of the engines, the cries of the porters and the pleas of the fruit vendors – Simon and Jenkins’s senses were assailed anew by the familiar smells of the great city: a mixture of old dirt, incense, spices and bad drains. The streets teemed with a multi-ethnic stew of humanity, seemingly drawn from every corner of North Africa. Urchins in turbans and little else led camels laden with brushwood or green fodder; grey-bearded elders nodded along on donkeys; coal-black Nubians from the south strode through the multitude with primitive elegance, their heads held high; ragged water-sellers bent their backs under the weight of their sodden skin sacks; European-suited grandees sat back in their two-horse carriages preceded by breathless runners, who cleared the way for their masters with shrill shouts – ‘shemalak, ya weled’ ‘(to the left, oh boy!’); and everywhere – this a new element – Egyptian soldiers, clad in white cotton uniforms that looked more like pyjamas, sauntered along with a newfound arrogance.

  ‘Blimey,’ mouthed Jenkins. ‘Gone quiet again, isn’t it?’

  The two had remained dressed in their desert wear, and with their burnished complexions and wide-brimmed hats could have come from anywhere in the Dark Continent. Eschewing a carriage, they hired three donkeys, one to carry their modest baggage, and with their boys running ahead, took their place in the swirling tide and headed for the unfashionable Metropolitan Hotel in Bourse al-Gadid Street, Old Cairo, where they had stayed on their last visit to the city some eighteen months earlier.

  Bourse al-Gadid sat on the edge of a labyrinth of narrow lanes leading down to the bazaars. The upper storeys of its houses leaned towards each other, like those of Elizabethan England, so that it seemed a leap could take one across the gap, giving the added advantage of avoiding the coagulated traffic in the street below. The two men paid off the boys and, shouldering their bags, climbed the stairs to the second floor of the building, which contained a large and surprisingly cool reception area. Their entry provoked a jerk of the head and an appraising stare from the white-gowned manager behind the battered reception desk. Europeans – if they were Europeans – rarely visited his hotel.

  ‘Hello, Ahmed,’ said Simon, and removed his hat.

  The little Egyptian’s frown immediately disappeared and his eyes lit up. He gave a little bow and then took Simon’s outstretched hand. ‘Effendi. Mistair Fonteel and Mistair Jonkins. I am so sorry. I did not recognise you. Welcome. Welcome.’

  ‘I am sorry, Ahmed, we had no time to cable you. Do you have two rooms we could take for a few days, please?’

  ‘Two rooms! No! You shall have the best in the hotel. I throw people out immediately.’ He threw his hands up in emphasis.

  ‘No, no. That’s very kind, but two ordinary rooms will be fine, thank you.’

  ‘You will have them. Give me three minutes. Sit. I bring you whisky.’

  ‘No thank you. It’s a little early for
that.’ Simon put his hand on Jenkins’s shoulder to stifle the inevitable protest. ‘How is your brother?’

  Ahmed’s white teeth flashed beneath his small, elegant moustache. ‘Ah, Mahmud is well. He always talk of you. He is still very grateful.’

  ‘Any more trouble on the camel train with the Bedawis?’

  ‘No. They not come again. You frighten them off, I think.’

  ‘Good.’

  Ahmed looked around him and leaned towards Simon, lowering his voice and tapping his finger against the side of his nose. ‘You on important government business again, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Ahmed. Perhaps more important than last time.’

  ‘Ah. Of course. I help you, if I can.’

  Jenkins intervened. ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure, Amen. Perhaps just the one whisky while we’re waitin’, eh?’

  ‘Of course. Sit. I am back in several jiffies.’

  They were soon installed in two adjoining rooms, sparsely furnished, whitewashed and perfectly adequate, and while Jenkins unpacked their few belongings, Simon began the tricky task of drafting his cable to Wolseley. It was hard enough to couch his advice without sounding patronising to a man twice his age who was soldiering before he was born; but having to put it into a code that sounded juvenile whichever way he read it aloud made it doubly difficult. It took him an hour to scribble the following:

  RE YOUR HOLIDAY EGYPT STOP YOUR AUNT ADA WILL PROBABLY WAIT FOR YOU AT ALEX STOP IF YOU WANT TO AVOID HER AND HER FAMILY SUGGEST YOU FEINT ALEX AND TRAVEL QUIETLY SUEZ EMBARKING AT ISMAILIA STOP FROM THERE DIFFICULT ON FOOT IN SAND TO CAIRO FOR YOUR CHILDREN BUT TRAIN COULD BE AVAILABLE STOP UNDERSTAND AUNTS BOYS HAVE MANY GERMAN TOYS STOP HOLIDAY COULD BE NOISY STOP MORE LATER STOP COUSIN SIMON

  Changing into white drill jacket and trousers, which Jenkins had carefully pressed, Simon made his way by foot to the new Cairo, an enclave of modern buildings and wide thoroughfares built on swamplands by the Nile in a magnificent reproduction of Haussmann’s Paris. It had been created by Khedive Ismail, whose spending had brought Egypt to virtual bankruptcy and led to French and British fiscal control and his own abdication in 1879. Simon took pleasure in strolling once again through Ismail’s twenty-acre Azbakiyya Gardens, with their expensively imported Madagascan flame trees, banyans from India, and Australian bottle trees, before finding the offices of Thomas Cook by the Shepheards Hotel.

  Mr George proved to be a small, bespectacled Englishman, prematurely balding, whose resemblance to a London bank clerk was lent credence by his toothbrush moustache and polished celluloid collar. Simon introduced himself and handed over his cable.

  The little man read it and gave a brief smile. ‘That will be quite satisfactory, Mr Fonthill,’ he said, as though messages about General Sir Garnet’s aunt were commonplace currency at Cook’s. ‘It will be in London within the hour. Now,’ he leaned across the counter, ‘may I ask how you are for funds? Do you need a – what shall I call it? – a little topping up, perhaps?’

  ‘Well, that’s a kind thought. I think fifty pounds would be useful.’

  Mr George scribbled on an orange-coloured form. ‘Let’s make it a hundred, shall we, sir?’ He gave a wan smile. ‘Better to be safe than sorry, eh? These are difficult times in Egypt. Now, how would you like it? What currency?’

  ‘Ah. I think perhaps twenty pounds in gold sovereigns if you have them, as a kind of reserve, you know. The rest in piastres, if you please.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Would there be anything else?’

  Simon stifled a smile at this curious transaction, rather like dealing with an unctuous grocer in London. ‘Yes, there is, actually. I am in need of getting some visiting cards printed, rather quickly. Could you help me there, and how long would it take?’

  ‘That will be no problem, Mr Fonthill. We have our own small printing plant at the rear of the building. Please write here what inscription you would like and I can have them with you within, oh, forty-five minutes. How many would you like?’

  ‘Oh, only half a dozen or so, thank you.’

  Simon scribbled on a piece of paper, and if Mr George was surprised at the small number of cards required or the identity they were to convey, he gave no indication of it.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, gesturing to a chair in a corner of the reception area, ‘you would care to wait there and read this copy of The Times. It is only a week old, but events have not moved on here very much since it was published in London. I will have some tea sent to you. Indian or China?’

  ‘Indian, thank you.’

  Simon was glad of the opportunity to read a British report of the Egyptian situation, which was carried on page two of The Times, the paper’s main news page. It seemed that Colonel Arabi now had the army fully under his control and a botched attempt had been made on his life. The perpetrators, all of them of Circassian or Turkish origin, had been arrested and tried in secret, without being allowed formal defence pleas. All had been sentenced to exile in southern Sudan – a virtual death sentence. The Khedive had refused to confirm the sentences and this had led, for the first time, to outright confrontation between him and Arabi, so that he was now a prisoner in his own palace in Cairo. How long, The Times wondered, would it be before the Great Powers would be forced to intervene to restore order in Egypt?

  Simon put his chin on his hand. How long indeed? He was glad that he had been able to dispatch his cable, just within the time stricture that Wolseley had stipulated, although he couldn’t help wondering how useful his ramblings about aunts and toys would be to the Adjutant General. His musings were interrupted by a gentle cough from the nearby counter.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said Mr George. ‘Here now is your money: originally eighty pounds in piastres and twenty pounds in sovereigns, but I have taken the liberty of reducing the amount by the charges for the cable and the cards. These are two pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence. Would you please be so kind as to check that everything is correct.’

  Simon did so.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fonthill. Now here are your visiting cards. I have given you a dozen. I hope this will be sufficient. Kindly ensure that these are in order.’

  Simon read:Captain Ethan Williams II

  Late 7th Cavalry, US Army

  47, Bishop Street

  Cape Town, South Africa

  He looked up. ‘Everything is very much in order, thank you, Mr George. I am most grateful to you.’

  The clerk inclined his head, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Not at all. I am always here at your disposal, Captain . . . er . . . Williams, sir.’

  Simon returned the smile. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, his voice low. ‘What exactly is this arrangement Mr Cook has with Sir Garnet?’

  George’s face became inscrutable once more. ‘It is a personal matter, sir, and does not concern the company. Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘Ah, no thank you. Good day.’

  Carefully depositing the notes and coins in his small valise, Simon stood at the door of the offices for a moment in thought before striding out on to the thoroughfare and making for the impressive stone edifice that was Shepheards Hotel. He climbed the steps between the stone lions at their base, and with a nod to the turbaned doorman made his way to the elegant lounge, where he sat at a small writing desk in a corner. The lounge was empty except for a few elderly, linen-suited Englishmen and a sprinkling of Turks and Egyptians dressed in European clothing and talking in quiet tones. The atmosphere was that of a gentlemen’s club in St James’s.

  It had been very different the last time Simon had taken a drink at Shepheards. There was always something of the grand railway station about this hotel, because it was the halfway house between home and the outer reaches of the British Empire in the East. Eighteen months earlier, Shepheards had been full of Englishmen on the way out to or back from Malaya, Singapore, Australia and, mainly, India. Fresh-faced young men out to take their first posting swam against the home-going tide of sallow-complexioned memsahibs and their whisky-ruined husba
nds. Sometimes the women were on their own, perhaps widowed, or accompanied by young children whom they were taking back home to the misery of some public school in the shires. Saddest of all, however, were the ‘returned empties’ of the ladies’ Eastern Fishing Fleet, who, as bright young things, had journeyed out a year or so earlier in the hope of finding a husband and were now sailing back home, their hopes shattered. The present crisis, it appeared, had swept all of this flotsam away.

  Sighing, Simon reached out, took a pen from the inkwell and a sheet of fine headed hotel notepaper and began to write.

  General Stone Pasha,

  Headquarters, Egyptian Army,

  Cairo

  23 April 1882

  Dear General,

  Please forgive this approach to you from a stranger, albeit a fellow countryman, but I would be most grate ful for your help, or, at least, your advice.

  As you will see from the enclosed card, I am an exofficer of the 7th Cavalry, US Army, and I am anxious to investigate the possibility of finding employment in the Egyptian Army. I left the 7th about six months ago because I wished to see a little of the world and have been living in the Cape.

  I know that many American ex-officers have worked with you to help build the Khedive’s forces and I would dearly like to join them, for I am sorely sick of doing nothing. I appreciate that you would need references before offering me employment, if you are able to do so, that is, and I would be happy to supply them, given a little notice. At this stage, however, I would merely beg a little of your time for an exploratory talk.

  I would welcome an early reply to this address – the hotel – and would once again beg your indulgence for intruding upon your valuable time.

  I am, sir, your obedient servant,

  Ethan Williams II

  He read it through once, and then, shrugging his shoulders, slipped the letter and his card inside the envelope and sealed it. He was taking a risk in pretending to an American to be a fellow national. But his proficiency in French and German had always owed more to his keen ear for dialect than to scholarship, and he gambled that he could maintain a Yankee accent long enough to eke out at least a few morsels of information about Arabi’s army from Stone. He was also chancing his arm in professing to be a member of the 7th Cavalry, arguably the most famous US regiment after its mauling under Custer in the great Indian battle at Little Bighorn in 1876. But for the life of him, Simon could not think of another American regiment, and he knew enough about the encounter with the Indians to be able to talk about that, at least, if he was asked. He didn’t even know if Stone’s rank was indeed that of a general, but he guessed that the Egyptian title of Pasha was roughly similar. Anyway, how was he, just a recently discharged American cavalryman, supposed to know these things?