A Ditch In Egypt E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Egypt, 1882. Jack Windrush has to combine his role as Lieutenant-Colonel of the Royal Malverns with an unwanted position as a spy for General Hook.

Colonel Arabi has led an Egyptian rebellion against the Khedive, hereditary ruler of Egypt for the Ottoman Turks, and the British fear for the security of the Suez Canal and the passage to India. Jack and his men have to compete with the heat, insects and General Wolseley.

Adding to the complexities of war, Jack’s old adversaries of the Fenians become involved, as does Major Costello of the US Marines. Together with the Royal Malverns, can he find the way through and emerge victorious?

The 11th novel in Malcolm Archibald's Jack Windrush series, A Ditch In Egypt is a riveting story of a Victorian military officer's life set in the Eastern Mediterranean.

Leseprobe

A DITCH IN EGYPT

JACK WINDRUSH BOOK 11

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

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

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Appendix One

Appendix Two

Appendix Three

The Windrush Series

Next in the Series

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2022 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Cathy

Thou hast subdued Egypt, and destroyed it: thou hast scattered thine enemies abroad with thy mighty arm.

Psalm 89

CHAPTERONE

Eastern Mediterranean, June 1882

Jack stood at the rail of the transport ship Cullen Bay, watching the moon rise slowly above the Mediterranean Sea. “The second time I came here,” he mused, “I was a young, very raw subaltern sailing East and already feeling homesick.”

“Why were you homesick for a place that had rejected you?” Mary applied a Lucifer match to her cheroot, puffed contentedly, and pressed closer to her husband.

“I was only eighteen, and boys like familiarity,” Jack said. “Herefordshire was familiar, and I scarcely remembered my infant years in India.” He sighed. “We had to land at Alexandria, travel to Cairo, and take the train to Suez.”

“You said that was the second time?” Mary blew smoke into the still air. “What about the first time?”

Jack looked away. “I barely remember anything about it. I was too young, sent from India to England.” He borrowed Mary’s cheroot and drew deeply. “The world’s changed since the Suez Canal opened. No more travelling over the desert by train, and no more sailing by the Cape.”

Marie smiled. “Progress has brought India much closer to Great Britain.” She lifted a hand. “Listen! One of the men is singing.”

The lone private stood amidships, singing a sad song. Seen in profile, the soldier was of average height and build and leaned over the rail as he looked westward, the direction of travel. Moonlight made his uniform appear paler than khaki and highlighted the medal ribbons on the left breast.

“A gay fusilier was marching down through Rochester,

Bound for the war in the Low Country.

And he cried as he tramped through the dear streets of Rochester,

Who’ll be a soldier for Marlbro with me?

Who’ll be a sojer, who’ll be a sojer for Marlbro with me?

And he cried as he tramped through the dear streets of Rochester,

Who’ll be a sojer for Marlbro with me?”1

Mary put her head on one side so her black hair, now sprinkled with grey, swept over her face. “That’s a sad little tune. I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s the old marching song of the Royal Malverns,” Jack told her. “Although we were called Windrush’s Regiment of Foot when some musical genius wrote that song. The Windrush was my great-great, God knows how many greats, grandfather.” He drew on his cheroot. “We’ve sung that song for nearly two hundred years.”

“The song may be old,” Mary said and nodded towards the distant coast of Egypt, “but nothing like as old as the antiquities there. I had hoped that we might get some time ashore.”

“So did I, but the world is all hustle and bustle now,” Jack said. “You mentioned progress a moment ago. Well, the Suez Canal has cut the journey time between Britain and India to only a month. We’re all steam ahead for a coaling station in Malta and then home to merry old England.” He returned Mary’s cheroot. “Never mind, Mary, you’ll find plenty of history in Malta.”

“The song mentions Marlbro,” Mary drew on the cheroot. “Who was he?”

“Marlbro was the Duke of Marlborough,” Jack explained. “He was a famous general at the beginning of the eighteenth century.”

“If he was a general so long ago, why do your men sing about him now?”

“The army is conservative,” Jack said. “We tend to hold onto traditions longer than civilians do. That includes songs, although I must confess that it’s a long time since I’ve heard anybody sing that one.” He squinted forward to see the singer. “That’s Private Bullard, a good soldier, and I’ve got my eye on him as a possible corporal in a year or two.”

Mary was about to ask another question when they heard footsteps on the deck behind them.

“Colonel Windrush?” Jim Fairlie, the second mate of Cullen Bay, stood at what he intended to be attention. “Captain Charlton sends his compliments, sir, and could you kindly report to him on the bridge.”

Jack pushed himself away from the rail. “Thank you, Mr Fairlie. Could you tell me what it’s about?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Fairlie said, “but it might be connected to the Navy. HMS Helicon signalled a few moments ago. You might have seen the limelight.”

“The Navy?” Jack frowned. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll find out in a few moments. Would you excuse me, my dear?”

Mary smiled in resignation. “Duty must come first, Jack.”

Jack touched his wife’s arm. “I’ll be as quick as I can. Lead on, MacDuff.”

Captain Charlton was from Northumberland, an old-fashioned seaman who had learned his trade in the hard days of sail and who resented having to command what he called a steam kettle. He eyed Jack sourly.

“Colonel Jack Windrush?” Charlton asked as if he had not seen Jack every day since the Royal Malverns boarded his troop transport at Calcutta.

“Yes, Captain Charlton.”

“All you damned soldiers look the same to me. The captain of HMS Helicon wants you and Mrs Windrush to board his ship.”

“Why, Captain Charlton?”

“How the devil should I know why?” Charlton growled. “He’s sending a gig to pick you up. It’ll be here inside the hour, so grab your dunnage and your wife.”

Jack noted Charlton’s order of importance. “As you say, Captain.” He left to rejoin Mary.

“They want us aboard at this time of night?” Mary asked, then accepted the order with the equanimity expected of a soldier’s wife. “We’ll just take our cabin luggage,” she decided immediately. “The rest will travel with the regiment and Major Baxter will take care of it.”

“I’ll inform Baxter that he’s in command in my absence,” Jack said.

* * *

The captain of HMS Helicon greeted Jack with an outstretched hand. “Ah, Colonel Windrush of the Royal Malverns. Your exploits in Afghanistan have even reached the Navy.” He treated Mary to a bow. “And Mrs Windrush. Your servant, ma’am. Please join me in my day cabin, Colonel and Mrs Windrush. You’ll both be wondering what this is all about.”

“We are, Captain,” Mary confirmed.

The captain’s day cabin was plainly but comfortably furnished, with a varnished desk and a cabinet of decanters that shone under the lantern light. Yet it was the lone guest who held Jack’s attention. General Hook stood with a brandy glass in one hand and a cheroot in the other.

“Welcome aboard Helicon, Colonel and Mrs Windrush. I do apologise for the hour, but there are fewer prying eyes at this time.”

Jack tried to hide his dismay behind a smile. General Hook was high in the recently modernised British military intelligence, and Jack had known him for over twenty years. Although Jack liked and respected the man, Hook had a habit of sending him on dangerous missions. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Windrush. Brandy?” Hook lifted the ship’s decanter from the captain’s cabinet.

“Will I need it, sir?”

Hook smiled. “Not this time, Jack. I’m not sending you on a harum-scarum expedition beyond the edge of civilisation. On the contrary, I am sending you and Mrs Windrush to one of the centres of world history and culture.” The smile broadened. “I would hardly have asked for Mrs Windrush if it was dangerous, would I?”

“I hope not, sir,” Jack noted the use of his Christian name and wondered if that was a good or a bad sign.

“Exactly so,” Hook watched a poker-faced flag lieutenant pour them all a brandy, with Mary accepting hers with a brief curtsey.

“You may leave, lieutenant,” the captain said and stood as a distinguished-looking admiral with a fine beard entered the cabin.

“Ah, Admiral Seymour. I am glad you could join us,” Hook said. “This is the officer I was telling you about, Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Windrush of the Royal Malverns, and his lady wife, Mrs Mary Windrush.”

Admiral Frederick Beauchamp Seymour greeted Jack with a nod and briefly bowed to Mary.

“Good evening, Mrs Windrush.”

“Good evening, Admiral,” Mary replied and faced Hook. “What do you have in mind for us, General?” Mary was always forthright.

“A pleasant dinner in a comfortable hotel and a little sightseeing around one of the most historic cities in the world,” Hook said. “I know that you love your history, Mary.”

Jack nodded. “That’s very decent of you, sir. What’s the catch?”

Hook adopted an air of innocence. “I am hurt, Colonel. There’s no catch, but when on your perambulations around Alexandria, spare a few moments to look at the new fortifications around the harbour, could you? Our agents and one of our engineers have given us a rough idea, but I want an opinion from an experienced soldier. I want to know how strong they are, how many guns they hold and if the Egyptians continue to work on them.” The humour had faded from Hook’s face. “As many details as possible, with pictures, if you can draw them.”

“I am not great with pen and ink,” Jack said.

Mary held up a gloved hand. “I have some skill at sketching,” she volunteered. “I can make myself useful that way.”

“Thank you, Mrs Windrush,” Hook said with a slight bow. “I presume you have both heard of the situation in Egypt?”

“I’ve heard that it’s volatile,” Jack said cautiously. “And there is some anti-foreigner and anti-Christian sentiment.”

Hook nodded, sat down, and invited the rest to do the same as he poured out more of the captain’s brandy.

“Military intelligence is a complex procedure,” Hook said. “I see it as having five stages, gathering, delivery, acceptance, interpretation, and implementation. My agents,” he nodded to Jack, “gather the intelligence and deliver it to me. I accept what’s relevant, interpret it, and pass it to the generals for implementation.”

“I see,” Mary said.

“Of all our senior men, General Wolseley best understands the concept,” Hook said. “He surrounds himself with a ring of educated and intelligent men, studies his profession and mixes with intellectuals and historians. I know few officers with those bents, Windrush, but you are one.”

“I am a regimental officer,” Jack said.

“And a good one,” Hook told him. “But wasted. You’d rise higher and faster on the staff.” He raised his eyebrows to Mary. “However, to more immediate problems. Egypt is in turmoil,” Hook declared, “and that affects us all.” He waited a moment to allow his words to sink in. “In 1869, only thirteen years ago, the French opened the Suez Canal, which has drastically altered the position of India in the world, increased French influence in Egypt and weakened the status of Great Britain.”

Jack glanced at Mary, who sat upright in her chair, listening to every word.

Hook continued. “The French engineer Ferdinand de Lesseps masterminded the Suez Canal, and French capital backed and financed the building and operating. To set the Gallic seal, Eugenie, the Empress of France, sailed to Egypt to open the damned thing.” He coughed, “my apologies for the language, Mrs Windrush, but any mention of the French does that to me.” He appreciated Mary’s smile.

Jack leaned back. All that Hook said was true, but he did not wish to be drawn into politics.

“Egypt is now the key to India and the East,” Hook nearly echoed Jack’s earlier words. “Nearly a century ago, Napoleon Bonaparte called Egypt the most important country. De Lesseps has made that statement accurate, for the Suez Canal connects Europe and Asia in a manner inconceivable even twenty years ago. France opened up the world, and Egypt is the gatekeeper!”

“How about the Ottomans?” Jack played Devil’s Advocate. “The Khedive of Egypt is a satrap of the Sultan of Turkey, remember, so the Ottomans now control the two most important passageways in the world, Suez and the Dardanelles.”

Mary interrupted. “The Khedive? He runs Egypt for the Sultan, doesn’t he? Like a Governor-General?”

Hook nodded. “That’s correct, Mrs Windrush. Egypt is an autonomous part of the Turkish Empire, and the Sultan appoints the Khedive.” He examined the contents of his glass. “And the Khedive is bankrupt. The previous Khedive, Ismail, frittered away the nation’s money, so after British persuasion, the Ottoman Sultan deposed him in favour of Ismail’s son, who is now Khedive, the Khedive Tewfik. Egypt’s national income is less than the interest on his national debt.” Hook waited for a moment. “You may remember that Disraeli bought out the Khedive’s shares in the Suez Canal back in ’75, and Britain now owns a large chunk of the waterway. You may not know that when Egypt went bankrupt, Europe stepped in to help, and Europeans now run the country’s financial affairs. The European influence on Egypt has increased over the past several years.”

Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Is that why the Egyptians are restless?”

“Partly,” Hook said. “The Europeans are turning the economy around, while the Ottoman Turks still have official if nominal control. The Turks appointed their chosen men into the army, mainly Turks and Circassian officers, with the fellahin, the native Egyptians as unhappy conscripts or low-ranking officers.”

Hook paused for a moment. “However, there is one exception, an Egyptian named Ahmed ‘Urabi, who we know as Arabi Pasha.” Hook looked around the cabin. “Remember the name, gentlemen and lady, because Arabi Pasha is trouble. He rose through the officer ranks to become the head of the Egyptian army and the voice of the native Egyptians in Egypt. He constantly speaks out against Khedive Tewfik and wants to throw out all the foreigners.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Jack asked.

“In the ordinary course of events, I’d say no,” Hook said. “People could view Arabi as a William Wallace, Joan of Arc, or George Washington, but with Egypt’s strategic position, and Arabi turning against Ottoman Turkey, he could upset a very delicate international applecart.”

“I met the Turks in the Crimean business,” Jack said. “They were doughty fighters when they felt like it.”

Hook nodded, sipping at his brandy. “The Ottoman Empire are staunch enemies of the Russians, and, as the old saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Jack nodded. “Could we not make Arabi into a friend?”

Hook shook his head. “We don’t know if Arabi is behind the anti-European and anti-Christian movements in Egypt, but they seem to strengthen his position.”

“An Egyptian Jihad,” Jack said. “We’ve met religious risings in Afghanistan and on the Frontier.” His eyes darkened with bitter memories. “If the situation in Egypt is so dangerous, sir, I don’t wish Mary to accompany me ashore.”

Hook contemplated Jack over the rim of his glass. “A British officer, in uniform or civilian clothes, looking over Alexandria’s fortifications, would be a figure of suspicion, even of hostility. However, if any of Arabi’s soldiers see a man and a woman wandering around the harbour, they’ll take you for visitors looking at the antiquities.”

“I am Jack’s disguise,” Mary said.

“Just so,” Hook agreed. “Alone, either of you could be in danger for different reasons. Together, you protect each other.”

“Oh, Jack!” Mary put a hand on his arm. “I’ll be able to see some of the antiquities after all.”

Jack hesitated. “I don’t like to put you in danger.”

“Oh, don’t be such an old woman, Jack. It will be a lark!”

Jack winced. His nephew, Crimea, had used the same expression before the Pashtuns killed him at Maiwand.

“Anyway, Jack,” Mary said, “I’ll carry your old revolver.” She raised her eyebrows. “A lark’s all very well, Jack, but a girl must take precautions.”

“That’s settled, then.” Hook glanced at his watch and then at the admiral. “Admiral Seymour will have you transferred to HMS Superb. She’s sailing into Alexandria harbour, and a steam launch will take you both ashore.”

“We’re seeing the fleet,” Mary said. “That’s a bonus.”

“You are,” Hook stood up. “Remember that I want details of the forts around the harbour, Colonel. I am sure the admiral will eject some unfortunate officer to find accommodation for you on Superb. I bid you both a very good evening.”

CHAPTERTWO

Sitting on the deck of Cullen Bay, with a canvas screen offering some shade from the Mediterranean sun, Private Dusty Miller played a few notes on his penny whistle.

“I heard that the colonel left the ship last night,” Private Bullard said. “He and his missus sailed over to HMS Helicon there.”

“There’s trouble in the wind then, Bull,” Miller said. “Or maybe he’s having a few drinks with the admiral and his mates.”

Bullard nodded. “That will be it.” He placed a Jew’s harp between his teeth, strummed a few notes, swore when he nipped his tongue and removed the instrument. “Why did you join the army, Dusty?”

“For days like this,” Miller waved his penny whistle towards the blue sea and cloudless sky. “To escape from a lifetime of drudgery and visit tropical climes. I also fell out with the foreman at work. How about you, Bull?”

Bullard contemplated the sky for a moment, strummed his harp again and replied slowly. “I want to make something of myself, Dusty. I learned to read and cypher as a lad and looked for a decent position, but all I found was factory work. Nobody took me on as an apprentice, and I saw my future as nothing. No hope, just toiling for farthings to make some rich bugger even richer. I’ve got a girl back home, a peach she is.”

Miller grinned. “I’ve seen you reading her letters. Are you going back to her when you’re time expired?”1

“I’ve signed on for the full twenty-two,” Bullard said. “I want to make corporal first. Then I’ll get permission to marry and bring my gal into the regiment. I’ll make sergeant and maybe even warrant officer. How about you, Dusty?”

Miller played his whistle for a few moments before he replied. “I’m short service, me, Bull. I’ve got a girl in mind. Sarah and me were walking out before I entered the army, and she’s promised to wait for me.”

“Here comes the RSM,” Bullard said. “Best make ourselves invisible.”

“Come on, you loafing bastards!” Regimental Sergeant Major Deblin stalked along the deck, kicking legs, feet, and ribs with unconcerned malice. “You’ve lain there long enough. Do you think you’re on holiday, you doddering scum of the slums? On your feet, and we’ll try some drill. You’re idle; that’s what you are! Idle!”

Bullard put away his Jew’s harp and stood up. “You see, Dusty? I’ll be giving the orders in a few years, not taking them.”

* * *

HMS Superb was a London-built, steam-powered ironclad initially intended for the Ottoman navy. The British government had requisitioned her during the war scare with Russia in 1878, and, three-masted and twin-funnelled, she sailed under the White Ensign. With Captain Thomas Le Hunt Warde in command, Superb had been in the Mediterranean since 1880, with her crew used to the climate and conditions. Now she separated from the other three Royal Navy ships, Temeraire, Alexandria, and Inflexible, and approached Alexandria harbour, with Jack and Mary at the rail.

“I never realised how powerful these warships were,” Mary said, staring at her impressive complement of guns and torpedo tubes.

“Soldiers take them for granted,” Jack agreed. “We are so engrossed with our little army matters we forget that the navy is Britain’s real defence. The army is only an addition.”

Mary smiled and rubbed his arm. “Yes, Captain Jack, you’re only an addition. I can’t see these ironclads patrolling the North-West Frontier, though.” She looked towards the fast-approaching coast of Egypt. “It’s humbling to think we are entering a city founded by Alexander the Great,” Mary said. “We’re treading in the footsteps of heroes, Jack.”

Jack nodded. “We are,” he agreed. “Let’s hope our visit is free of drama. I was looking forward to a quiet voyage to Portsmouth and a few years at home.”

“You worry too much,” Mary scolded. “Not many people have the opportunity to visit Egypt. Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

They watched a three-masted ship slide through the water a quarter of a mile to starboard, with the Stars and Stripes of the United States flapping from her mizzen and then concentrated on the land. The Egyptian coastline was low and featureless so that Jack could scan the harbour defences on which he was to spy. He saw the Pharos Lighthouse, Pompey’s Pillar, and the forts of Napoleon and Cafarelli without difficulty, focussing his field glasses on the latter two as Superb approached. Their view was spoiled when a slant of wind sent smoke and smuts from the ship’s funnel across the deck, causing Mary to cough.

“I wish she wouldn’t do that! I much preferred the old sailing ships!”

Jack grunted. “So do many seamen, but steam is far more efficient.”

“It’s far dirtier,” Mary contradicted.

As well as Alexandria’s forts, Jack saw the ancient windmills, the expected minarets, and the less expected factory chimneys.

“I can’t remember so much industry,” he murmured. “Alexandria has moved forward since I was last here.”

“What’s that building there?” Mary scrabbled for the field glasses and focussed on a large, pinky-white structure within a circuit of feathery palms to the east of the city.

Jack consulted his map, fighting the fluke breeze. “That’s Ras-el-Tin, the Khedive’s Palace.”

Mary focussed on the palace. “It’s beautiful. The Khedive lives in some state, doesn’t he?”

“So it appears,” Jack retrieved his field glasses. “It’s not Khedive Tewfik we have to worry about. It’s this Colonel Arabi fellow who seems intent on stirring up trouble against us.”

Alexandria boasted two harbours, an eastern and a more significant western, with vessels of all sizes in both. On the extremity of the Eastern Harbour, Pharos Castle loomed up, with the sunlight reflecting from the muzzles of ranked cannon in the embrasures. Jack scanned the defences, noting the disturbing line of forts that spread along the coast, with smaller redoubts between the more massive fortifications.

“As far as I can see,” Jack murmured, “the forts and batteries that protect the western harbour are all on the shoreline. Arabi has not created any defence in depth.”

“Is that good?” Mary asked.

“It means that any attacking fleet could bombard them with minimum danger to the civilian population.” Jack focussed his field glasses on the defences. “There’s Fort Cafarelli, sitting on a mamelon, a hillock, maybe a hundred feet high. That would be the very devil to storm.”

“Shall I take notes?” Mary asked.

“Please do so,” Jack replied. “Cafarelli is at the junction of a peninsula, which makes it even stronger.” He traversed his field glasses. “And at the other end is Fort Tadjemi and the redoubts on Marabout Island.”

A bearded lieutenant approached Jack. “Looking at the forts, are you, sir?”

“I am,” Jack confirmed.

“I’m Charles Balfour,” the lieutenant said with a smart salute. “Unfortunately, the forts are only part of the problem. The harbour approaches are complicated. There are three entrances, or channels, as we call them. The eastern entrance or Corvette Pass is nearest the city, but it’s narrow and has only seventeen feet of water, so a larger vessel cannot use it.”

“There is little need for the forts to cover that entrance,” Jack understood immediately.

“The Egyptians need only light guns to counter small vessels at the Corvette. The central channel is better, a quarter of a mile wide and twenty-seven feet deep. We know that as the Boghaz Pass.”

Jack nodded. “And the third?”

“The western or Marabout Pass is about half a mile wide, with a minimum of twenty-five feet of water.” The lieutenant grinned. “And those entrances are all for the western harbour. Then there is the eastern harbour. I don’t know if old Arabi is adding to the defences there.”

“I can’t see the eastern harbour well from this angle,” Jack said. “But I can see some forts.”

“There are so many,” Balfour said, pointing with a stubby finger. “The main ones are El Silsili, El Nishau, El Minsharia, and El Yaoud, and there may be other batteries by now, the speed Arabi and these Egyptian lads work.” He looked up. “I’m needed on the bridge, Colonel. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Balfour,” Jack said and returned to his investigation. “Arabi is making this place secure,” Jack said. “If he completes all these forts, Alexandria will be Africa’s most heavily defended anchorage.”

“Why is he doing that?” Mary wondered

“That’s the question,” Jack replied. “With all the anti-European sentiment Arabi is fostering and the pan-Islamic undercurrent in the East and the Levant, we must be careful. Egypt and the Canal are vital for trade now and the Empire’s security.”

“There’s always worry about the Empire’s security,” Mary said wearily. “The Empire is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Jack agreed. “We’re close to the harbour entrance now, Mary. Best get ready to go ashore.”

With a twenty-six-foot draught, Superb drew too much water to enter the harbour at low water, so she anchored off the bar. While surf smashing silver-white surf on the curving breakwater that enclosed the harbour, Jack eyed the array of vessels that waited offshore.

As well as the ironclads HMS Invincible and Monarch, there were four British gunboats, with three French, two Greek, and a pair of Turkish war vessels. The American merchant vessel they had noted earlier sailed past unconcerned.

“It looks like half the world is preparing for a war,” Jack said. “I don’t like you going ashore, Mary.”

“We’ve already discussed that,” Mary dismissed Jack’s fears. “Now, how should we act in Alexandria?”

“We play the part of gawping visitors on a Thomas Cook tour,” Jack said. After twenty-three years of marriage, he knew it was futile arguing when Mary had determined on something.

The following morning, Sunday, Captain Warde granted permission for them to leave the ship.

“Colonel and Mrs Windrush?” Midshipman May was young, eager, and smiling. “There’s a steam launch taking some officers ashore, sir and madam,” he looked awkwardly at Mary. “The captain sends his compliments and wondered if you’d care to join the shore party.”

“We will, Mr May, and thank you,” Mary responded with a bright smile. She touched Jack’s arm as the midshipman hurried away. “Here we go, Jack. Our next adventure.”

“Let’s hope there is no adventuring,” Jack said. “I want a quick, quiet visit and back on board.”

Mary laughed. “Oh, Captain Jack, you are getting old and stuffy!” Her eyes were bright at the prospect of spending time in Egypt.

The steam launch bucked in the back surge from the breakwater, then sailed into the vast western harbour, allowing Jack to study the defending forts more closely. As he had thought from the previous day’s scrutiny, men laboured to improve the defences, adding depth and height to the walls, and dragging heavy guns into the apertures.

“That’s modern artillery,” Jack murmured. “Breech-loading, large calibre Krupps and Armstrong guns.”

“Is that bad?” Mary asked.

Jack nodded. “I had hoped for antiquated muzzle-loaders,” he said. “But with these weapons behind strong walls, Arabi can thumb his nose at even the Royal Navy.”

Mary looked at the massive ironclads in the harbour, with the White Ensign showing proud against the morning sky and the array of powerful guns. “That’s hard to believe,” she said. “The Royal Navy is a fixture. It’s kept the sea lanes safe ever since Trafalgar in 1805.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anybody defying the navy.”

“Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,” Jack said.

When the launch berthed at the quay, the passengers stepped ashore. As well as Jack and Mary, there was a small group of naval officers, including Lieutenant Balfour, Midshipman May, and a clerk.

“We’ll leave you here, sir, and Mrs Windrush,” Balfour said. “You two will wish to see the sights alone.”

“And you won’t wish us to hold you back,” Mary understood. She stepped back as what seemed like half of Alexandria rushed towards her.

Dressed in a wide variety of colourful clothing, a dozen Egyptians surrounded Jack and Mary, lifting their hands and voices to attract attention. Some spoke in Egyptian Arabic and others in broken English, with a smattering of French, Greek, or Italian. A crowd of men dressed in white or blue shirts watched from a distance, each with a red tarbouche perched on his head.

“Who are these people?” Mary asked.

“Boatmen, guides, porters, servants and dragomen,” Jack said.

“Do they have to all talk so fast at the same time?” Mary shook her head, smiling. “All we need is a tower, and it’ll be like Babel!”

“You!” Jack pointed to a dragoman, one of the translators and guides who made their living from looking after European visitors to Egypt. “Come here!”

Dressed in an embroidered vest, wide blue trousers, a shawl turban and scarlet slippers, the dragoman wore a scimitar and nearly ran up to Jack.

“Take us to the Hotel d’Europe,” Jack said and handed over a shilling. The dragoman, a bearded, smiling man who bowed with every second word, summoned a small boy who took Jack’s luggage and followed a few steps behind.

They passed a score of asses that the owners offered for hire and watched as Balfour and two other officers negotiated over prices. A few moments later, two of the asses galloped past, each with a naval officer perched astride as the owner ran behind, shouting to make the animals run faster.

“That looks decidedly uncomfortable,” Jack said as the seamen bounced on the backs of the asses.

“Red hot bottoms for these men,” Mary whispered, smiling. “It’s all very Biblical, isn’t it? Remember the quote? ‘She saddled her ass and said to her servant: drive and go forward, slack not thy driving for me, except I bid thee.’ That’s Second Kings, chapter two, verse twenty-four.”

“Of course, it is,” Jack agreed.

They walked up a long, narrow street with the tall houses on either side casting welcome shade and with each storey projecting further than the one below.

“It’s like a tunnel,” Mary said, “and look at the balconies. They’re angled to catch the northerly breeze. How clever!”

“They remind me of Malta,” Jack said. “With the balconies and latticework windows. I suppose it must be the Arab influence on both.”

“This way, sir and lady,” the dragoman smiled and pointed to a broad, straight street. “This way to the European Quarter.”

They walked up Exchange Street with the Ottoman Bank and the British Consulate prominent. The street led to the Great Square, otherwise known as the Grand Square, Place Mehmet Ali, or Place des Consuls.

“This is impressive,” Mary said.

Jack agreed. The Great Square was about half a mile long, with tall, white buildings with elaborate architecture surrounding a public space. Near the centre, an enormous alabaster fountain sent a spray of cooling water into the air, with people clustered around to lessen the heat. The Great Square was near the edge of the Frank or European Quarter, not far from the sea at the southeast of Alexandria.

A squad of Egyptian soldiers marched past, with white linen uniforms suitable for the warmth and red tarbooshes giving them a jaunty, devil-may-care look. Jack studied them with professional interest.

The officer was burly, with lighter coloured skin than his men and a better cut of uniform. He led from the front, returned Jack’s scrutiny, and snapped an order that had his men march to attention. Each man carried a modern American Remington rifle, with an extractor lever action similar to the British Martini-Henrys, but a sword bayonet that appeared more functional than the triangular British model.

“There’s the English Church,” Mary ignored the soldiers and nodded to a striking building on one side of the square.

Jack tore his mind from military matters. “You can visit if we have time.”

The Hotel d’Europe sat flush with the Square, with the sun reflecting on an array of shining windows.

“This could be anywhere in Europe,” Mary sounded disappointed. “It’s not what I expected at all.”

“Did you want pyramids at every corner?” Jack mocked her gently. He glanced around the square, noting the French Consulate opposite the Hotel d’Europe and the various consulates on the eastern side.

“Maybe something more authentically Egyptian,” Mary said.

“The people are authentic,” Jack pointed out.

Mary nodded, watching a bearded Turkish merchant astride a fine Arab horse, with a groom running in front, clearing a path with a long stick. The merchant wore a large red turban to match his slippers, with wide trousers and a cloak. “You won’t see men like that outside Hereford Cathedral.”

“Or like them,” Jack indicated a group of mounted Bedouins armed with lances. They rode past the blue-shirted fellahin without a word. With two parallel cords holding bright cloths on their heads and blue-and-white striped cloaks flowing from their shoulders, they were desert dwellers in the city.

The hotel was clean, airy, and more expensive than Jack had expected. He paid in the gold General Hook had supplied, and they ate in the French-style dining room.

“Let’s see Alexandria,” Jack said. “Remember to bring your sketch pads and painting materials.”

“I always do,” Mary had spent much of the voyage from India sketching and painting, using three pads. Now she produced another three, the first of which held her impression of the Suez Canal and a shipboard scene on the opening pages.

They toured the Frank quarter first, more so Jack could get his bearings than out of any genuine interest. Mary took them into the English church to pay her respects, and Jack noted the impressive buildings, banks, and shops on the wide streets running to the east.

They strolled along Sherif Pasha Street, grateful for the shade of strategically placed palm trees, and ended at the Rosetta Road. The palaces of Alexandria’s elite, huge buildings of marble and stone, gleamed under the sun, with dusty fronds of date palms thrusting from behind garden walls and green dates hanging in clusters. Jack heard the tinkle of fountains inside the gardens, and they stopped in the shelter of an orange tree with the heat bouncing from the ground.

Jack also noted small groups of beggars who congregated at street corners, glowering at the Europeans.

“Jack,” Mary twisted her parasol. “I’ve seen enough of this part of the town. I want to see some antiquities, and you have your duty to perform.”

“Do a quick sketch of one of these streets,” Jack said.

“Why? They don’t interest me.”

“If any Egyptian official looks at your sketchbooks and finds them full of forts and gun emplacements, they’ll know what we were doing. If they see some local scenes, they’ll be less inclined to arrest us.”

Mary nodded, leaned against a wall, and quickly sketched a street scene, adding in a couple of Bedouin riders and a donkey boy for local colour.

“That’s the way,” Jack approved.

“I’ll do another of the Great Square,” Mary said, turning the page. As Jack watched, she drew from memory, creating a scene that included the English Church, fountain, and a dozen pedestrians.

“You’re fast,” Jack praised her.

“Sshh! Let me concentrate!” Mary said, drawing with rapid, sure strokes. “There. That looks about right.” She held her sketch pad at an angle, narrowed her eyes and added a few lines. “Come on then, Captain Jack.”

“I’m Colonel Jack, now,” Jack reminded.

“You’ll always be Captain Jack to me, Captain Jack!”

When they left the Frank quarter, Jack and Mary hired donkeys and rode to the Roman triumphal column of Pompey’s Pillar and the nearby Temple of Serapis. Mary sketched both before they visited the Khedive’s Gardens and finally arrived at the harbour and the shore fortifications.

“Now, nobody can say we’re only here for military reasons. I am only an eccentric British woman who likes drawing, and you are my indulgent husband,” Mary said.

Jack glanced at his watch. “We’ve spent so much time sightseeing that it’ll soon be too dark to draw.”

“We can come again tomorrow,” Mary reminded.

“Now we’ll begin to work,” Jack eyed a file of Egyptian soldiers who marched past with sad faces but well-maintained weapons. Behind them came a long column of fellahin, all wearing long blue shirts and carrying tools. The soldiers escorted them to the nearest redoubt and set them to digging.

“There is no doubt that Arabi is strengthening the harbour defences,” he said, but Mary was already concentrating on her next sketch. Further along the harbour, the burly Egyptian officer was watching him, with a tall Sudanese sergeant at his side.

CHAPTERTHREE

Jack paid off the donkey boy and cast a professional eye at the line of modern forts, noting the soldiers supervising fellahin labouring with picks, shovels, and wheelbarrows. “I wouldn’t like to storm this place by sea when Arabi completes these forts,” he said. “Start your drawing, Mary, and I’ll take notes.”

“I’ve started,” Mary said without looking up. “The light’s quite good for sketching; the slanting rays give me interesting highlights.”

As Mary drew, Jack counted sixteen guns in Fort Mex, a modern building beside some older fortifications and defensive lines. He had brought a small notebook and jotted down the fort as MEX, with the figure ‘16’ at the side. Leaving Mary with her artwork, he strolled along the coastline to the nearby Round Tower, where he saw seven modern guns and a squad of labourers improving the defences. A busy sergeant bustled around, shouting orders.

Sergeants are the same in every army, Jack thought. Officers may give the orders, but sergeants ensure the men obey them.

Next to the Round Tower was a smaller redoubt with a single gun and a bored-looking gun crew, with one man smoking a hookah and another singing to himself. The singing man waved cheerfully to Jack.

“Come on, Mary; that will do for that one,” Jack glanced at her sketch, impressed by the accuracy. The Egyptian officer was nearby, snarling orders at his men.

They moved on with Mary adding a quick drawing of Cleopatra’s Baths for effect.

“It won’t take me a minute, Jack! Curb your impatience.”

“The light’s fading,” Jack said. “We wasted too much time.” His conscience began to bite.

“We’ve got all day tomorrow,” Mary soothed him. “You go on ahead and count the guns if you wish. I’ll be all right here. I’m used to India, remember, and Egypt is not much different.” She patted the side of her coat. “I do have your revolver,” she reminded.

Jack strode ahead, marking down the armaments of Fort Sale, then Fort Omuk Kubebe with its ominous eighteen guns, and the five cannon of Tabia-el-Kamaria. He made cryptic notes of each fortification in his book, adding WIP for Work in Progress when he saw men strengthening the defences.

“Add the two forts in the old town of Alexandria, and we have a well-defended port,” Jack said when he returned to Mary. “I make it fifteen forts around the town and harbours. It’s too dark for you to draw properly, Mary, and I don’t want to be far from the Frank quarter at night.”

“We’ve come rather a long way,” Mary closed her sketchbook. “Do they have taxi cabs in Alexandria?”

“I’ve seen a couple of taxi coaches,” Jack looked around and raised a hand to summon a coach. As soon as he lifted his hand, the driver cracked the reins over his horse’s rump, and the coach rolled eagerly across.

The coach driver was an elderly man with one eye and an imperfect understanding of English. He frowned as he listened to Jack’s instructions, flicked his reins, and set off at a gentle walk. Within minutes, Jack realised they were heading in the wrong direction and were rattling through a dark street of shabby houses. Dozens of men watched the coach, with some making threatening gestures.

“The driver might know a shortcut,” Mary said.

“Coach drivers don’t take shortcuts,” Jack said. “They take the longest route to increase the fare.” He raised his voice. “Hey, fellow! Take us to the hotel, not a tour of the city!”

As the cab driver turned around to face Jack, the same patrol of white-uniformed Egyptian soldiers appeared under the tall sergeant and burly officer. The officer glanced at Jack’s uniform, touched his spiked moustache, and gave a perfunctory salute. “Is everything all right, effendi?” He spoke in good English.

“Yes, thank you,” Jack said.

The officer eyed Mary’s bag and then looked at the dismal street. “Did you ask to be brought here?”

“No. The driver has made a mistake,” Jack did not think the officer had arrived by accident.

“He is a fool and the son of a dog!” the officer said and casually backhanded the driver, nearly knocking him down. He launched into a verbal tirade in Egyptian Arabic, ending in English for Jack’s benefit. “Why don’t you drive where the man tells you?”

“It’s all right,” Mary touched the officer’s shoulder. “It was a mistake. The man did not mean it.”

The officer grunted and slapped the coachman again. He pointed to Mary’s bag. “What do you have in there?”

“Drawings, sir,” Mary gave her sweetest smile. “I like to draw places of interest.”

“Show me,” the officer demanded.

“What the devil for?” Jack asked, sliding his hand under his jacket.

The Egyptian officer gripped the butt of his pistol as his tall Sudanese sergeant unshouldered his rifle.

“I’m a British officer,” Jack said until Mary put a placatory hand on his arm.

“It’s all right, Jack. Maybe the officer wants to see my artwork.” Still smiling, she opened her bag. “Which one do you wish to see?” Mary asked.

“Everything!” The officer snatched the bag, only for Jack to grab it with his left hand as his right slid around his revolver.

“You’ve no right to touch my wife’s bag!”

“Jack,” Mary said softly. “Let the gentleman see my sketches.”

Jack took a deep breath and recalled there was a file of Egyptian soldiers two yards away, with the sergeant already holding his rifle. “As you wish,” he said, relinquishing hold of the bag while still gripping the butt of his revolver.

The officer turned Mary’s bag upside down, so both sketchbooks tumbled onto the coach seat. He opened the first, flicked through a few pages, grunted, and threw it back when he saw the images along the Suez Canal and the Frank quarter of Alexandria.

“Thank you,” Mary said as the officer lifted the second book. Opening it, he pointed to Mary’s rough sketch of the harbour, with two forts in the background.

“You’re spying on us!” the officer snarled.

“No,” Mary said. “I like drawing, see?” She showed the officer the sketches of the Great Square.

Without a word, the officer ripped out the picture of the harbour. When Jack moved to protest, the sergeant thrust his rifle against his chest.

“Leave it, Jack,” Mary urged. “It doesn’t matter. Let the gentleman take my picture.” She smiled again. “Perhaps he’ll pin it to his wall.”

“Spies!” the officer said, then snapped an order and stalked away, with his patrol following. The sergeant stopped to stare at Jack before joining his men.

“That sergeant will know you next time,” Mary said casually and turned to the coachman. “Are you all right? What was all that about?”

The coachman shrugged. “He is a soldier. Today he called me a dog, tomorrow he will do the same to you. Never mind, God is great.”

“God is great,” Jack echoed. “Can you take us to the Great Square, please?”

The coachman nodded, flicked his reins, and his horse ambled through the narrow streets. The local men, who had vanished when the soldiers arrived, appeared again, following the coach at a distance.

“You did well,” Jack said. “It’s a pity about your pictures. We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“No, we won’t,” Mary produced another sketchbook from inside her tunic. “I had three books, remember? As soon as I saw the soldiers coming, I hid the one with the images of the forts. He got my rough sketch.” She smiled. “You didn’t think I would let him know what we were doing, did you?”

“You clever old thing,” Jack said, impressed. He glanced outside the carriage. “Is this authentically Egyptian enough for you?” They passed houses with tiny, barred windows, men leading donkeys, and the occasional camel. Veiled women watched them, and more men joined the crowd that followed the coach.

“Too authentic,” Mary said, touching the revolver under her jacket. “It reminds me of Peshawar.” She looked up suddenly. “Can you hear a noise?”

Jack lifted his head. “I can hear shouting,” he confirmed. “It sounds like a riot of some sort.” He raised his voice. “Could you go a little faster, driver? I think there’s trouble in the city.”

In response, the driver urged his horse from an amble to a walk, with the wheels squealing in ungreased protest as they turned at what must have been an unaccustomed speed.

A man in European clothing staggered down the street, saw the coach and immediately turned away. Blood masked one side of his face and stained his white shirt. Three Egyptians followed, two holding knives and the third wielding a heavy stick.

“What the devil!” Jack shouted. “Halloa there!” He stood up to leave the coach just as the Egyptians reached the fugitive. The closest swung his stick, knocking the European down, and the other two pounced on their victim, stabbing him repeatedly.

“You men!” Jack roared. “Stop!”

“Jack!” Mary held Jack’s arm. “We can’t do anything to help.”

Jack grunted, realising that the victim was already dead. “No, we can’t,” he agreed as the three Egyptians eyed the coach, and one knifeman stepped closer.

The coach driver glanced at the approaching man, shouted something, and applied his whip to the horse, which jerked into a surprisingly lively trot.

Jack felt for his sword, realised he had left it with his spare uniform at the hotel and grabbed the revolver inside his tunic.

“No, Jack,” Mary held his arm. “They’re not threatening us and if we don’t interfere, they’ll leave us alone.”

“That trio might not bother us,” Jack nodded forward, “but these lads might.” A mob of people erupted from a side street, shouting, and brandishing various weapons from sticks to knives. As soon as they saw Jack and Mary in the open coach, they stopped, spread into a semi-circle, and slowly advanced. A man in a blue shirt with a yellow sash around his waist stepped in front.

The coach driver shouted something in Arabic and turned his coach away. He used his whip again, urging the horse into a moderately fast walk.

“Hold on, Mary,” Jack murmured.

The mob filled the street, blocking the road to the Frank quarter. When they saw the driver try to escape, they set up a tremendous yell and surged forward, waving their sticks.

“Now they’re threatening us.” As always, Mary sounded calm in moments of stress.

“They are.” Jack agreed. “Let’s see if we can scare them off.” 1 He produced his pistol and fired a warning shot in the air, with the report echoing from the buildings on either side. The leading Egyptians hesitated, but pressure from the men behind forced them on. They advanced until a pair of Italians appeared at the opposite end of the street. Sensing easier victims than an armed man, the crowd changed its target, and the coach driver took his opportunity to turn to the left and rattle down a narrow street. When he heard more shouting ahead, the driver turned off that street, moved too quickly and lost control of his horse.

“Careful, man!” Jack roared and held out a hand, but too late to help.

The horse skidded on the ground, slipped, and fell, turning the coach onto its side. Mary yelled and grabbed at Jack, who held her, as the coach tipped right over and landed on the hard, dusty ground in a clatter of scraped wood and splintered wheels.

“Mary!” Jack rolled away from the coach as it rocked back and forth, with the horse kicking in the traces, and the driver nowhere to be seen. Three spokes of the front nearside wheel were smashed, with the splintered wood protruding dangerously as the wheel spun. “Mary! Are you all right?”

“Right as rain,” Mary lay on her back, with Jack’s right arm around her. She pushed herself upright, lifted the bag that contained her sketch pad and began to dust herself down. “See to the horse, will you, Jack? The poor thing’s struggling there.”

The horse rolled a terrified eye as Jack cut it free. “It’s scared but unhurt,” he said as the horse kicked itself upright and trotted away neighing.

“So am I,” Mary said. “Where’s that idiot of a driver?”

“He’s cut and run,” Jack said. “He was more scared than the horse. The crowd has gone too, thank goodness.” He looked around the narrow street, noticing a light behind a latticed window opposite. “I’d guess that half the street is watching us after the noise we made.”

Mary nodded, touching her revolver. “I can still hear the rioters.”

“So can I,” Jack glanced along the street. A pair of women stood in a doorway, huddled behind dark veils. “We have a choice. Either we return to the hotel or go to the harbour and try to reach the Royal Navy.”

“Which is closer?”

“The hotel,” Jack said.

“Then we’ll head there,” Mary decided. “Lead on MacDuff.”

Taking Mary’s bag from her hands, Jack stuffed it inside his tunic and headed in what he hoped was the direction of the Great Square. Within three minutes, he pulled Mary into a recessed doorway as a group of men appeared, carrying heavy sticks, and shouting in Arabic about the Nazarenes. They hurried past, with their voices echoing in the dark. A shaft of light appeared from a window, and a pair of eyes glinted, and then the light vanished. The darkness seemed more intense and more threatening.

“The Nazarenes means the Christians,” Mary said. “Have the Egyptian people risen against us?”

“It looks like it,” Jack held her while he checked the street ahead. “General Hook warned us about the discontent in Egypt.” He peered around the corner of the building. “This situation reminds me of the Mutiny.”

“I was trying not to think of that,” Mary fought to control her voice as the terrible memories returned.

“Listen!” Jack raised his hand as he heard a sharp, staccato hammer. “Gunfire! Come on, Mary.”

They moved from one narrow street of two-story, flat-roofed houses into another, heading towards the Great Square and ducking into the shadows whenever people came close. The gunfire sounded again, a sporadic crackle that echoed around the streets.

“Pistols,” Jack said. “The Egyptian Army would be firing rifles, so that could be the police or some Europeans defending themselves.”

“Unless the rioters have guns,” Mary added.

“That’s always a possibility.” Jack had not wished to worry his wife.

“We’re nearly at the Square,” Jack said and swore as the noise grew louder. A yelling mob erupted from a side street and ran towards the Great Square. The firing increased, followed by a long scream and then the crash of breaking glass.

“Trouble ahead,” Jack said. He heard the tension in his voice and forced a smile. “Keep close by me, Mary, and keep your revolver ready.”

“Jack! Look!” Mary nodded down the street, where a file of white-uniformed soldiers was approaching, with Remington rifles slung over their shoulders. “The Egyptian Army! Hopefully, they’ll restore order.”

The crowd scattered when the soldiers appeared, and Jack escorted Mary closer to the Great Square, but instead of the noise decreasing, it grew in volume. The men who had run gradually returned, sidling past the soldiers, who ignored them or shouted greetings.

“The soldiers are only watching,” Mary held her pistol in a firm hand. Jack heard the tension in her voice.

As the soldiers stood in a ragged line against one side of the square, casually talking amongst themselves, two European men ran from one of the streets, with a screaming mob in pursuit. Europeans leaned from the windows in the square, throwing stones and bottles with the occasional pistol shot, but a dozen Egyptians grabbed the fugitives.

“We’ve got to help!” Mary watched in horror.