Baptism Of The Sword E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

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

Beschreibung

Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Windrush is sent as an observer on a British-led Egyptian expedition to rescue the garrison of two Egyptian posts in Sudan. When the local warriors intervene, the British send an army.

Jack and his regiment, the Royal Malverns, are heavily involved. Things become more complicated when Jack is ordered to hold a village deep in the desert as an escape route for General Gordon and the beleaguered garrison of Khartoum.

The twelfth book in Malcolm Archibald's 'Jack Windrush' series of  historical military novels, Baptism Of The Sword is an action-packed historical adventure set in the period when Britain stretched her imperial muscle, despite the misgivings of some politicians and soldiers. It shows the bravery of the ordinary fighting men on both sides, as well as the futility of war.

Leseprobe

BAPTISM OF THE SWORD

JACK WINDRUSH

BOOK 12

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

Prelude

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

Chapter 34

Appendix One

Appendix Two

Appendix Three

The Windrush 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

Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers

Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years

Rather the scorned – the rejected – the men hemmed in with the spears;

The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,

Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries,

The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.

A CONSECRATION – JOHN MASEFIELD

PRELUDE

Woods Of Shaykan, Kordofan Province, Sudan, November 1883

Their dead will be left unburied,

And the stench of rotting bodies will fill the land

Isiah, 34:3

William Hicks Pasha lifted himself higher in the saddle, wiped the sweat from his face and looked over his men. They had been marching for days, with their guides assuring them they travelled in the correct direction, but he was not sure. Now they were wandering in a dry forest with tree trunks exploding in the heat and men and camels dying with sunstroke by the hour.

“Where are we?” Hicks asked.

Baron Seckendorff, the adjutant, shrugged. “I’m damned if I know, sir. Somewhere in Kordofan.”

“I’m sure the Mahdi is around here.” Hicks looked around at the wilderness of desiccated trees through which his seven thousand infantry, one thousand cavalry and innumerable camp followers straggled. He had ascended the Nile to El-Dumeim, a hundred miles south of Khartoum, and marched westward across the arid, baking plains towards El Obeid, the Mahdi’s headquarters.

The European officers with Hicks looked for inspiration as their army of reluctant Egyptian soldiers and camp followers trudged on hopelessly.

“I calculate we are about thirty miles south of El Obeid,” Hicks said. “If the Mahdi is nearby, he’ll make himself known soon.”

As soon as Hicks had spoken, he heard the faint cry of “Allah! Allah!” from the depths of the forest, and men looked at each other in consternation.

“The Mahdi!” somebody shouted as men jammed cartridges into their rifles.

“Form a square!” Hicks ordered, and his men obeyed, gathering in a confusion of noise. “Build a zareba!”1 Hicks knew his Egyptian soldiers were fine engineers and would fight better behind the protection of a barricade.

The Ansar, the Mahdi’s army, arrived within the hour, advancing through the trees with loud cries and the glitter of sunshine on spears and rifle barrels. “Volley fire by companies!” Hicks ordered and walked around the zareba’s perimeter, allowing the Egyptian soldiers, Sudanese mercenaries, European volunteers and Bashi-Bazouks 2 to see him. As well as their Remington rifles, the Egyptians possessed modern Krupp artillery pieces and six Nordenfeldt machine guns. Even so, the soldiers’ morale was low, and they were disinclined to fight.

The Mahdi ordered his men forward in wave after wave of screaming attacks. Hicks repelled them with volley fire, with the smoke clouding among the trees and the heat increasing. The Egyptian square held out that first day, despite losing as many men to heat exhaustion and dysentery as to enemy spears and rifles. In the evening, with the forest echoing to the rattle of the machine guns and the acrid stink of gun smoke polluting the dry air, the Mahdi recalled his warriors. The sudden silence was unnerving as the defenders coughed and peered into the trees.

“He’s gone,” the journalist, Frank Vizitelly, said. “We’ve beaten him off.”

“No.” Hicks Pasha shook his head and reloaded his revolver. “The Mahdi’s still out there.”

Night brought little relief as the tom-toms hammered out around the Egyptian zareba and the Mahdi’s men fired at random, hoping to thin out the defenders. At dawn on the second day, the Mahdi’s men prayed to Allah and then attacked again, brave, inspired men throwing themselves at the massed musketry. The Egyptians hefted their Remington rifles and fired, knowing there was no retreat and little prospect of surrender.

“Ammunition’s running low,” Vizitelly said.

“I know,” Hicks replied. “We won’t last much longer.”

Vizitelly nodded, looked around at the smoke drifting through the forest and heard the Mahdi’s drums and the chanting of his army. “There are fifty thousand of the enemy,” he said.

“I haven’t counted them.” Hicks wiped the sweat from his face with a powder-stained forearm. He roared encouragement to his men, knowing they had already lost the battle.

“What are your plans, sir?” Vizitelly asked.

“Fight,” Hicks said dryly. “We have no other option.”

As the smoke cleared, Hicks Pasha saw a group of the enemy watching him. One was a broad-shouldered man of medium height, and even from this distance, Hicks sensed the power of his character.

“That’s the Mahdi,” Hicks said, lifting his field glasses. “He’s smiling!”

The British general and the Sudanese warrior studied each other for a full minute, and then the Mahdi turned away.

Hicks did not lower his field glasses, for the man who had been at the Mahdi’s side was nearly equally impressive. Taller than the Mahdi, he wore the unofficial uniform of the Mahdi’s army, a jibbeh with coloured patches to show the owner was virtuously poor. His turban was neat on his head, his beard well-trimmed beneath three tribal scars, but it was the sword hilt protruding over his left shoulder that Hicks noticed.

“Who are you, my fine soldierly friend?”

The tall man touched the hilt of his sword in a gesture that could have been a salute or a threat, turned away and followed the Mahdi. The instant he disappeared into the trees, the Mahdi’s warriors charged again.

“Volley fire!” Hicks ordered. “Mark your man, and don’t waste ammunition.”

The Remingtons fired, with most shots wild as nervous men jerked the triggers. At the angle of the square, the Nordenfeldt machine guns stuttered and stammered, scything through the forest, and chopping chips and leaves from the trees. The Mahdi’s warriors fell beneath the bullets, dead, wounded, or feigning injury in the hope of rising later and attacking their enemy.

The Mahdi gave an order, and the attackers pulled back.

“He’s not pressing home his attacks,” Vizitelly said.

“He doesn’t have to,” Hicks said. “We’re dying from the heat and lack of water. All the Mahdi has to do is contain us here, and he’ll win.” He spoke calmly, a veteran soldier who had already accepted the inevitability of death.

On the third day of the battle, the Egyptians’ ammunition ran out. The men knew they were in a desperate situation, with the Mahdi’s forces cutting them off from water and home, deep in enemy territory, and without ammunition or hope. Some soldiers sobbed with fear, and others resigned to fighting to the end or decided to surrender and hope for mercy from the Mahdi.

When the Egyptians’ firing ceased, there was a momentary silence in the forest as if the world waited for the inevitable slaughter. Somebody shouted, “Allah!” and a thousand, ten thousand voices echoed the cry as the Mahdi sent his warriors forward. The Ansar advanced through the scarred trees to claim their victory.

“Fix bayonets!” Hicks shouted. “Follow me!”

With a sword in his right hand and a pistol in his left, Colonel William Hicks stepped toward the enemy. His European staff officers followed, yelling their defiance as the Mahdi’s men closed around them, thrusting with their broad-headed spears. The tall warrior Hicks had noticed earlier stepped forward, and rather than draw his sword, he took a spear from one of his followers, aimed and threw.

The point took Hicks full in the chest, and he staggered, lifted his revolver, and fired his final cartridge. He did not see where the bullet went, but he saw the tall Sudanese walking slowly towards him, drawing his sword.

Hicks plucked at the spear, lifted his sabre, and swung at the tall warrior, who parried without apparent effort, poised his long, straight-bladed sword, and sliced off the British officer’s head.

“Good,” the tall warrior, Osman Zubeir, said. “Decapitate the Nazarenes. Save the followers of Mohammed who accept the Mahdi and kill the rest.” Bending down, he cleaned his sword on Hicks’ uniform and slid it back into its scabbard.

CHAPTERONE

Cairo, Egypt, December 1883

There’s trouble in the wind, my boys; there’s trouble in the wind.

Rudyard Kipling

Mary Windrush curtseyed, aware that half the room’s occupants were watching her and wishing her shoes were not so tight. She straightened up and faced the Khedive of Egypt, who smiled at her from under his red fez.

“Mrs Colonel Windrush,” Mohamed Tewfik Pasha, the Khedive of Egypt and the Sudan, was plainly dressed in contrast to the glorious full-dress uniforms of most men present. He greeted Mary with a courteous bow. “I am delighted you could honour us with your presence.”

“The honour is entirely mine, your Highness,” Mary said.

“Your husband did great things in Colonel Arabi’s late rebellion,” the Khedive continued, with his eyes roaming across Mary’s dress and returning to her face.

“Thank you, your Highness,” Mary replied. “He does his best.”

The Khedive gave his pleasant smile. “I hope you enjoy the ball, Mrs Colonel Windrush. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask.” He snapped his fingers, and a gorgeously attired aide-de-camp hurried up, bowing.

“More champagne for Mrs Windrush,” the Khedive ordered, “and for Colonel Windrush.”

“At once, your Highness,” the servant bowed again and moved to one of the side tables.

“You’ve made a new friend, Mary,” Jack stepped closer to his wife, with a cheroot in his hand and the double row of medals on his scarlet dress uniform gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. Any army officers present would see that Jack’s campaigns spanned thirty years.

“You’ll notice that the Khedive is very attentive to all the European ladies,” Mary said dryly, accepting her champagne from the aide-de-camp with a smile. “You’ll also notice that his wife is not present.”

“I had noticed.” Lieutenant-colonel Jack Windrush of the Royal Malverns drew on his cheroot. “However, I believe that the Khedive is a faithful husband.” He gave a tight smile. “I think he is trying to be a gentleman.”

They walked across the crowded room, nodding to casual acquaintances and stopping to speak to those they knew well. One of the busy servants directed them to an empty table, and Mary sat with a sigh. “I’d like to kick off these shoes! I don’t know who designs lady’s shoes, but they insist on making them the tightest and most uncomfortable creations possible.”

“It must be a man,” Jack told her solemnly.

“Oh, it’ll be a man, right enough,” Mary agreed. She smiled and lifted her hand to a passing couple. “That’s Sir Archibald and Lady Alison.”

“I know,” Jack said. “I met General Alison during the late campaign.” He watched the one-armed general and his wife walk past. “I think he prefers to be on campaign than to prance around in an Egyptian palace.”

“As do you, Captain Jack,” Mary said. “You’re never happy on social occasions, even in such a magnificent setting.”

Jack smiled. “The Abdin Palace has style, I grant you, Mary, and the Khedive gives a grand ball, but these events always seem false to me.”

“Sit back and allow the servants to care for you,” Mary advised. “When you think where we’ve been and what we’ve seen, this place is like paradise.”

Jack nodded, remembering the disease-ridden forests of Burma and the human sacrifices of Ashantiland, the ambushes and horrors of Afghanistan and the bitter winter in the Crimea. “That is certainly true.” When he closed his eyes, he was back in the nightmare of the Indian Mutiny, when trusted friends became vicious enemies overnight, the Mutineers slaughtered women and children and the British retaliated with mass executions.

“Come back, Jack,” Mary shook his arm. “I should have known better than to remind you. Look, there’s Lord Dufferin. The poor man’s wife is sick with a fever. And there’s Sir Andrew Colvin; don’t his daughters look lovely? I hope he doesn’t let them out of his sight with all these unattached men wandering around.” Mary diverted Jack with a constant flow of talk, pointing out the great and good of Cairo society. “There are far too few women here, Jack. My dancing card is so full I hardly have time to think. There’s the music started again!” She consulted her card. “I have General Hook next dance.”

“Be careful with that man,” Jack murmured. “Or he’ll have you off on some expedition to the back of beyond.”

Mary stood up and fluttered her white-gloved fingers at Jack. “I must go, Jack. Mingle, will you? Don’t sit there and get all despondent.”

“I’ll mingle.” Jack watched as Mary drifted away. He had only one dance booked with his wife, and until then, he wandered around the brilliantly lit suite of rooms the Khedive had arranged for the ball, then slipped outside. A band played in the square beside the palace, with the music a mixture of European and Egyptian. The flaring light of torches highlighted the faces and clothes of the guests, the sweating Europeans and bland locals who pretended to accept the occupation with good grace. Cigar smoke spiralled upwards, and Jack saw a British woman puffing at a cigarette. The first time he had seen cigarettes had been in the Crimea, and now the craze had spread from the soldiers to the fashionable upper classes.

Jack watched Mary dance with a succession of partners, knowing she enjoyed such social events. He sipped a glass of Glenlivet whisky, smiled as Mary waved at him behind her back, and surreptitiously checked the time. It was two in the morning. Surely this ball will end soon.

At last, the call for the final waltz came. Jack reclaimed his wife from a red-faced civilian engineer and guided her around the dance floor, breathing deeply of her perfume as she danced with as much grace as a woman half her age.

“General Hook is watching us,” Mary murmured.

“That’s a bad sign,” Jack said. “We’ll keep out of his path and escape before the rest. That way, we’ll avoid the crush, and hopefully, the general will forget about us.”

“It’s been a lovely night,” Mary told him. “I wish you could enjoy these events as much as I do.”

“I enjoy watching you enjoy yourself,” Jack said seriously, responding to her quick smile and brief hug.

As the music died to a halt, Jack led Mary to the front of the palace, where their hired carriage waited. The driver was dozing beside the horse until Jack woke him.

“Shepheard’s Hotel, driver!”

“Yes, effendi.” The man waited until Jack and Mary were seated, cracked the reins, and the carriage jolted forward.

When Jack glanced over his shoulder, he saw General Hook standing with a cheroot in his hand, watching them.

“General Hook can wait until tomorrow,” Mary took hold of Jack’s arm. “Leave your duty until then.”

Shepheard’s Hotel was the oldest established hotel in Cairo and dominated the street known as the Esbekeeyeh, which Mary always likened to a Cairo version of the Champs Elysees in Paris. The Esbekeeyeh stretched from the ornate Place de L’Opera to the more mundane Alexandria Railway Station across the Ismailia Canal.

Mary sang “The Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond” as the carriage rattled across Cairo, la-la-la-ing when she did not remember the words and inviting Jack to join in.

“I think you’ve had a little too much champagne,” Jack said, smiling.

“Nonsense,” Mary shook her head. “It’s impossible to have too much champagne. How long have we been married for now?”

“How long?” Jack wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Let’s see. This is December 1883, and we married in 1859, so that’s twenty-four years.”

“Twenty-four years, and how often have you seen me drink too much in that time?”

Jack was an experienced enough husband to know when he was venturing into dangerous territory. “Never,” he replied, hiding his smile.

“Exactly so,” Mary agreed. “Oh, we’re here already! I was enjoying the ride.”

Shepheard’s was a rambling, two-story building with large, airy rooms surrounding a leafy quadrangle. Jack helped his wife out of the carriage, and as he paid the driver, Mary walked through the luxuriant palm trees of the garden and up a flight of steps into the broad, roofed veranda. A doorman opened the principal entrance, and Mary waited for Jack to join her.

“I’m not ready for bed yet,” Mary said.

“It’s nearly four in the morning,” Jack reminded.

“I don’t care,” Mary said. “I’m not ready for bed yet.” She indicated the veranda, floored with marble, and furnished with various lounging and easy chairs. Although Shepheard’s hotel was the first choice for the elite, the veranda was also an institution where guests had discussed a hundred business deals, political decisions, and military campaigns.

Mary selected a pair of cane-bottomed chairs at an oval table and stretched out. “Join me, Jack,” she ordered imperiously.

Despite the hour, a waiter came from the refreshment bar a few yards from the veranda and smiled when Mary ordered champagne. Jack sighed and asked for coffee.

“Oh, Captain Jack!” Mary scoffed. “Can’t you keep up?”

“Not with you,” Jack said and settled into the chair. Shepheard’s veranda was one of the few places in Cairo permanently free from the clamorous donkey boys, beggars and pedlars that infested the streets. He smiled as Mary sipped at her glass, tasted his coffee, and watched the numberless lights of Cairo spreading around the hotel.

“Ah, here you are, Jack! No, don’t get up!” General Hook bowed to Mary and pulled up a chair. “I wondered where you had got to when you left the ball.”

“We’re winding down after all the excitement, sir,” Jack said.

Jack had known General Hook for more than twenty years, although he was unsure how to categorise their relationship. Hook was high up in British Intelligence and acted as a superior and mentor to Jack.

“How is the regiment, Jack?” Hook lifted a hand, and a waiter brought him a brandy and soda.

“In permanent transition,” Jack replied. “These short terms of service mean we barely get men trained as soldiers, and they’re off again.”

“That’s a complaint that all regiments have,” Hook said. “You’re based in Lower Egypt, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack wondered what Hook wanted. The general was not a man to waste time on social calls. “The regimental headquarters is in the Cairo Citadel, and the rest is scattered in a dozen different small garrisons around the Nile Delta.”

Hook nodded. “Most of your men will be acclimatised to the heat by now.”

“Yes, sir, except for the latest intake,” Jack glanced at Mary, who was beginning to look apprehensive.

Hook sipped at his brandy. “What do you think of the current political situation, Windrush?”

Windrush, not Jack. The preliminary niceties are over, and Hook is moving to the purpose of his visit. When he calls me Colonel, I can begin to worry.

“Not great, sir,” Jack said, glad Mary listened quietly without giving the general the benefit of her wisdom. “Ever since the Mahdi’s forces defeated Hicks Pasha in Kordofan, some of the populace have been disturbed. I believe the Mahdi’s army has increased in size since then.”

“It has,” Hook said quietly. “What do you think about the state of Sudan?”

The question was not unexpected, but Jack was tired. “I try not to think about it, sir.”

“What do you think about Sudan, Colonel?” Hook repeated the question.

The general called me colonel: there’s trouble ahead.

“I think the Egyptians have mismanaged Sudan for decades, sir,” Jack said. “They’ve plundered it for what they can get, enslaved the population, weighed them down with taxes, tortured and harassed them until the Sudanese rebelled.” He looked up, signalled the waiter, and ordered a whisky.

Hook wrote down what Jack said. “When we defeated Arabi’s rebellion last year,” he said, “the idea was to ensure free passage through the Suez Canal. We did not want to add Egypt to the empire.”

“So I believe, sir,” Jack said. He looked up and spoke sharply to the waiter in Arabic. “I asked for whisky, not brandy!”

“Sorry, effendi,” the waiter hurried to change Jack’s drink.

Hook raised a bushy eyebrow. “You speak Arabic well, Windrush. As I was saying, Great Britain, or at least Gladstone and the Liberal Party, doesn’t want to add Egypt to the empire. We’re only here to ensure the country is stable, then hand it back to the Egyptians and, by association, the Turks. We are not empire building, whatever the French might think.”

Jack sipped at his whisky. “I hope that is correct, sir. In my mind, the Empire is more of a burden than anything else. The bigger it is, the more we have to defend and the more it costs.” Jack knew not many people agreed with his views.

“You are a man of original thought, Colonel,” Hook said. “Off the record, I tend to agree with Gladstone and you, but there are many who like to see Britain covering the globe in red paint and an ever-expanding Empire.”

“I am sure there are, sir,” Jack said. “They don’t have to police and defend the damned thing.”

Hook swirled his brandy around the glass. “However, Gladstone’s ideas of a fair and progressive government are alien to many of the current Egyptian ruling class. The present Khedive is an exception. In essence, that leaves Evelyn Baring, our consul general here, as the de facto ruler of Egypt.”

“Temporarily, I hope, sir,” Jack continued. “Britain lacks the military and financial capacity to defend Egypt against external aggression.”

“We manage all right in India,” Hook probed.

“India is self-financing and produces some of the best soldiers in the world,” Jack argued his case. “Egypt produces little, and the fellaheen are not soldier material. I think Hicks Pasha’s defeat proves that. Sudan is a huge territory with ill-defined and indefensible borders.” Jack paused, wondered what Hook was thinking, shrugged, and continued. “I know we have installed Colonel Valentine Baker to organise an Egyptian gendarmerie, while Major-General Wood is the Sirdar, or commander, with the task of raising and training a new Egyptian army. Even so, I doubt the fellaheen will fight for us.”

“Why is that, Colonel?” Hook asked gently.

“They don’t want us here,” Jack fought off waves of tiredness as he tried to organise his thoughts. “Colonel Arabi led a nationalist rising against Turkish rule and got the British as rulers instead. Why the devil should the Egyptians like us ordering them around in their own country? Particularly as we intend handing them back to the Ottoman Turks.”

Hook smiled faintly. “It would be less than diplomatic of me to agree with you, Windrush. The fact is: we are here, and we’re trying to clean up the Egyptian administration.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack glanced at Mary, who had fallen asleep. He took the half-full glass from her hand.

Hook waited until Jack had settled Mary into a more comfortable position. “When Gladstone reluctantly agreed to fight Arabi, he did not intend to occupy Egypt, but it’s a fait accompli, and now we find ourselves dragged into Egyptian affairs.”

Jack nodded. Either the alcohol was wearing off, or he was becoming immune. He held up his glass, and the waiter immediately brought a refill.

“Unfortunately for us,” Hook said, “Egyptian affairs include their occupation and colonisation of Sudan. We have inherited a major problem.”

“So I believe, sir,” Jack said.

“Do you know much about Egypt’s history in Sudan?”

“A little.”

Hook nodded. “You’ll forgive me if I give you a brief history lesson.” He smiled, “not that I’ll give you a choice.”

Jack found the waiter had refilled his glass and removed Mary’s empty.

“Egypt began occupying Sudan in 1819 and pressed south. They established a series of military and slaving posts, and by 1870 they reached the equatorial region some eight hundred miles south of Khartoum.”

Jack glanced at Mary, who was still asleep on her chair. “That’s far south, sir.”

“It is,” Hook agreed. “Sudan is a huge territory, and the Egyptians proved to be probably the worst colonisers in the world. They were guilty of every kind of oppression under the sun, extortion, corruption, theft, and slavery. You name it Windrush, and the Egyptians used it. To enforce their will, they had an army of around 40,000 men. An infamous army with poor morale and useless officers backed by Bashi-Bazouks and laced with Sudanese soldiers.” He stopped. “Have you encountered the Bashi-Bazouks yet?”

“I’ve seen the odd individual pretending to act as a policeman, sir,” Jack said. “I don’t know much about them.”

“Let me enlighten you, Windrush,” Hook said. “The Bashi-Bazouks are irregular soldiers in the Ottoman Turkish army. One definition of the name is Crazy head or Leaderless, which tells you a lot. They are recruited all over the Turkish Empire and have an unenviable reputation for looting and violence. The Egyptian authorities use them as armed policemen.”

“Just what the Sudanese need,” Jack said. “Poor buggers.”

“Poor buggers indeed,” Hook agreed. “The Egyptians controlled their empire through the Bashi-Bazouks, torture and the lash. Slave trading flourished, both from Egypt proper and with Arabs crossing the Red Sea to raid at will.”

Jack stirred uncomfortably. “I hope we’re not supporting these people, sir.”

Hook gave another faint smile. “We’ll get to that. Nine years ago, a man named Charles Gordon became the last Khedive’s governor of the Equatorial province of the Sudan.”

Jack nodded. Gordon was one of the most famous men in Great Britain. A Royal Engineer with experience in the Crimean War, he had made his name fighting against rebels in China and had struggled against the slave trade in Sudan.

“Gordon cleaned the area up so successfully that in 1877 the Khedive made him governor-general of the entire Sudan. He remained for two years, then left.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack was familiar with Chinese Gordon’s story.

“When Gordon left, the Sudan reverted to the chaos it had been before, and then this present outbreak occurred.”

Jack shifted in his chair. Hook’s voice had developed a new edge, as though he was approaching a significant point in his story.

“You’ve dealt with jihads before, Windrush,” Hook said.

“Yes, sir, on the North West Frontier of India. It’s a holy war against the infidels, normally the British. Us.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Hook agreed, “but the leader of this jihad is different from any Islamic holy man you’ve ever faced before.”

“Why is that, sir?” Jack asked.

Hook finished his brandy and signalled for more. “You’ll have gathered by now why the Sudanese hate the Egyptians. You might also know that Islam is amazingly powerful in northern and central Sudan.”

“And in parts of Egypt, sir,” Jack said.

“Indeed. We became aware of unrest in Sudan in early 1881, but we ignored it. After all, it wasn’t our business. We had more important things to worry about in Afghanistan and South Africa. However, we kept an ear to the ground and learned that a new mystic had appeared to lead the rebellion. We didn’t much care, for these fellows are forever proclaiming themselves for a few months, then fading away.”

Jack stirred restlessly. He had experienced the power of religion and knew the influence it could have.

“However, this fellow did not fade away,” Hook said. “His name is Mohammed Ahmed Ibn el-Sayyid Abdullah, and people call him the Mahdi.”

“The Mahdi,” Jack repeated. Mary sat up, fully awake, although her hair was dishevelled and her dress no longer pristine.

“The Mahdi,” Mary said. The Mahdi had occupied columns of newsprint for the previous few months. “His followers believe he is a prophet. He has taken the name of the twelfth Shia Imam, “Al Mahdi,” who vanished about a thousand years ago. Some, perhaps most, Shias believe the original Al Mahdi will return to restore justice and truth. They say that Muhammed promised that one of his descendants would appear to bring their faith alive again. They think the Mahdi will arrive before the world ends, a spiritual and temporal leader who will restore the true religion and justice.”

Mary stood up, a shimmering figure with the light of dawn behind her. “It’s their equivalent of the Second Coming.”

“Yes,” Hook said. “And Abdullah declared he was that man. To the Sudanese, he is the Mahdi, the Second Coming, and he’s just over our border.”

Jack stared over the city of Cairo. “Dear Lord, preserve us.”

CHAPTERTWO

‘Semper aliquid novi Africam adferre [Africa always brings [us] something new]’,

Pliny the Elder

As Hook finished speaking, the muezzins across Cairo proclaimed the azan, the call to prayer, and the beautiful sound floated to them, diffused by distance, enhanced by the subject of their conversation. Throughout Cairo, the faithful halted whatever they were doing and hurried to their local mosque.

Jack stood and looked over the gardens, where a breeze rustled the palm trees. “Tell me about this Mahdi, General Hook.”

“My informants can’t tell me anything definitive,” Hook said as the muezzins continued their ululating call. “He appeared out of nowhere, like a wraith from the desert, at Aba Island, about 150 miles upstream from Khartoum. Some claim he’s from a long line of boat builders on the Nile.”

“A carpenter,” Mary murmured as the muezzins completed their call, and for a moment, the city was quiet. “And a warrior priest.”

“Others think his father was a poor religious teacher or perhaps a sheikh.”

“Pay your money and take your choice,” Jack continued to face out over the garden to the slowly waking city of Cairo.

Hook nodded and continued. “Abdullah had hardly arrived when he set himself up as a religious leader and said he’d rid Sudan of the Egyptians, with their corruptions. He said he’d bring the Sudanese back to the true faith with its austere, pure lifestyle.”

“A Cromwell to the Egyptian’s Stuart kings,” Mary whispered. “Or a Sudanese Covenanter, maybe a Martin Luther from the desert.”

Hook allowed Mary to speak before he continued. “Naturally, the Khedive disagreed and sent a couple of hundred men to arrest the self-proclaimed Mahdi. The Mahdi’s men waited until the Egyptians landed on Abas Island and attacked as they floundered in the mud. Armed only with sticks and stones, they destroyed the Khedive’s professional soldiers.”

Jack could imagine the scene as the virtually unarmed Sudanese attacked the white-uniformed Egyptians. He could picture the fear and the blood, and the screaming. “That would please the Khedive.”

Hook signalled for another drink. “Rather than wait for the inevitable retaliation, the Mahdi vanished into the Kordofan deserts and called for a jihad. We were too busy fighting Arabi to take notice at the time.”

Jack nodded, remembering the skirmishes around Alexandria, the naval bombardment, nighttime march across the desert and the short, fierce battle of Tel-el-Kebir. “We were,” he agreed.

“When the Mahdi emerged again, he laid siege to the city of El Obeid,” Hook spoke quietly, yet his words were distinct. “His army, the Ansar, camped outside the walls for six months, and when El Obeid fell in January 1883, he massacred the defenders.”

Again, Jack pictured the scene; the exhausted, starving defenders and the tribesmen charging through the town. He could nearly hear the cries of “Allah!” and the pointless begging for mercy as the spears stabbed and slashed.

“When the Ansar finished their slaughter, the vultures feasted, and the blood soaked into the sand,” Hook continued, “Abdullah, the self-styled Mahdi, now had hundreds of modern weapons and ammunition, as well as money. He also had an army of devoted followers willing to die for him.”

The sun was rising, lighting up the domes and minarets of Cairo, with the pyramids mysterious in the distance. The noise of the modern city swelled to the sky. Jack drew in his breath, imagining the Ansar loose on the streets of Cairo, with the resulting massacre of men, women, and children. Cairo was known as the Paris of the Levant, a civilised city where military bands performed classical music in spacious public gardens. It was a city with gas-lit streets, French-style houses and apartment blocks where elegant women and men sat on iron balconies. Men from across Europe and the Middle East drank coffee in sophisticated cafes, while women wore sweeping dresses to visit the many theatres. Jack could only imagine the chaos if the Mahdi invaded this place with his hordes of desert tribesmen. Scenes from the Indian Mutiny returned to him, the murder, fear, and horror.

“The Mahdi is a dangerous man,” he said quietly.

“Probably the most dangerous we’ve ever faced in Africa,” Hook said. “And more formidable, now he has defeated a British-led army and captured all the modern weapons of Hicks’ army. The Zulus were excellent fighting men, but King Cetewayo would never have dreamed of attacking Cape Town. The Boers shot us stupid at Majuba, but all they wanted was to be left in peace. The Xhosa massacred settlers in the border districts without any intentions of further conquest. The Ashanti were forest fighters with no knowledge of the outside world. The Mahdi is different.”

“How different?” Jack asked.

Hook remained in his seat. “The Mahdi has said that when he’s conquered all Sudan, he will capture Egypt and cross the Red Sea for a bloody battle outside Mecca. After that, he’ll advance on Jerusalem, where Christ will descend from Heaven to meet him.”

“The man is mad,” Mary said.

“Maybe,” Hook said, passing a cheroot to Jack and lighting one himself. “Once he has combined with Christ, the Mahdi said, Islam will conquer the entire world.”

“An African Bonaparte,” Jack glanced at Mary. “He won’t conquer the world, of course, but he could make things very difficult for us in this quarter of Africa. What do you intend to do about it?”

“Me?” Hook stood up and stepped beside Jack. “I’m only a soldier, Colonel. I obey orders, the same as you and the lowliest recruit in the army. The politicians make the decisions; God help us.”

“What have they decided?” Jack drew on his cheroot. He glanced at Mary. If the Mahdi’s forces come into Egypt, you’re shipping out, my girl. I’ll have you on the first boat to Britain, whatever you say.

“Gladstone and his men have decided the game’s not worth the candle. We’re evacuating Sudan and leaving it to the Mahdi.”

“Easier said than done, I think,” Jack said. “How about the Egyptian garrisons there? Aren’t the Egyptian soldiers our responsibility now?”

“Chinese Gordon is returning to Khartoum to arrange the evacuation,” Hook said. “But there’s fresh trouble breaking out on Sudan’s Red Sea littoral. A fellow by the name of Osman Digna has raised the local tribes and is menacing a trio of small garrisons. After Hicks, we can’t afford any more disasters, so we’re sending Baker Pasha down the coast.”

“Chinese Gordon and Valentine Baker,” Jack said. “We’re using heavy artillery now.” Why is Hook telling me all this?

Hook smiled. “Osman Digna is threatening the port of Suakin, Colonel. That’s Sudan’s main trading outlet and a threat to British shipping in the Red Sea. Baker Pasha is a good soldier, but he leads Egyptian soldiers and Bashi-Bazouks, just as Hicks Pasha did. I want an experienced British soldier in Suakin to observe and tell me what’s happening.”

“Me?” Jack felt Mary’s eyes swivel to him.

“You,” Hook confirmed. “Who is your senior major?”

“Baxter,” Jack said. “He’s a good man, vastly experienced.”

“Tell him he’s in temporary command of the regiment. I want you to leave with Baker’s expedition.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mary waited until Hook had left before she put a hand on Jack’s arm. She did not have to speak.

* * *

“Her Highness paid a shilling for you?” Sergeant Hanley viewed the latest offering for the Royal Malverns with incredulity. “Twelve whole pennies? By all that’s Holy, I hope she got ninepence change!” He walked down the line of recruits with his swagger stick under his arm and his moustached face frowning in contempt. “Look at you! I’ve seen a bag of potatoes with more shape to it! Stand at attention, for God’s sake!”

Jack hid his smile. He had witnessed similar scenes a thousand times as veteran NCOs tried to transform raw civilians into soldiers fit to serve the queen. The new men would feel out of place and uncertain. Within a fortnight, they would assume the swagger of old soldiers, and within six months, the regiment would accept them. If they survived the various diseases of the exotic East.

Jack had altered the labelling of the Malverns’ companies from a numeral to an alphabetical system. The old Number One Company was now A Company, Number Two was B Company, with the reorganisation continuing through the alphabet. Two companies, A and B, shared the Citadel in Cairo with regimental headquarters and other regiments. Jack strolled across the barrack square, happily at home with the military atmosphere he had known all his life.

Major Baxter had informed him that two new subalterns had arrived with the latest batch of recruits. One was broad-shouldered and confident, looking around as if he had come home. The second appeared more diffident, smooth-faced, and youthful.

That lad looks like he’s hardly left school.

“You two!” Jack barked. “Come here!”

The subalterns hurried across to him, sprung to attention and saluted.

“Who are you?” Jack tried to keep the bite from his voice.

“Second Lieutenant Lang, sir,” the confident officer said. “We have to report to the adjutant here.”

“And you?” Jack asked the smooth-faced youth.

“Second Lieutenant Moffat, sir.” The boy looked as if he were going to faint.

“Major Bryant is the adjutant,” Jack said. “He’ll see you right.” He nodded to the barracks. “His office is clearly labelled.”

“Yes, sir,” Lang said. “Come along, Moffat!”

Jack watched them march away, with Lang in the lead.

Welcome to the Malverns. Sink or swim, my lads.

“Major Baxter!” Jack shouted as he entered the barracks. He saw soldiers stiffen to attention and acknowledged their salutes.

Major Baxter hurried up, adjusting his uniform. “Sir?” In his early forties, Baxter had been with the Malverns since he was eighteen. He stood at attention with his bushy moustache trimmed to perfection and a shaft of sunlight gleaming on the campaign ribbons on his left breast.

“General Hook is sending me to Suakin,” Jack told him. “You’re in charge of the regiment in my absence.”

“Will you be gone long, sir?” Baxter asked.

“That’s in God’s hands, Baxter, or the Mahdi’s.”

Baxter nodded. “Take care, sir. I wish the regiment were going with you.”

“So do I, Baxter.” Jack strode to his quarters, where Donnelly, his soldier-servant, stood at attention.

“I’ve packed your things, sir,” Donnelly said.

“How the devil did you know I was going, Donnelly? I only told Major Baxter five minutes ago.”

“One of the Arabs down the bazaar told me last night, sir.” Donnelly remained at attention. “These lads know everything before the ink is dry on the paper.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll need you to come with me, Donnelly.”

“I’m already packed, sir. Mrs Colonel Windrush told me to look after you.” Donnelly smiled without moving his lips. “She usually does.”

Jack grunted. “Who’s in charge of this damned regiment? Her or me?”

“You, sir,” Donnelly replied without a change of expression. “You’re in charge of the regiment, and Mrs Colonel Windrush is in charge of you.”

“Thank you for educating me on the chain of command, private,” Jack said. “I’ve offered you promotion twice, Donnelly, and you’ve turned me down each time. I will offer it again. You’d be an asset to the regiment as an NCO. I can see you advancing rapidly from corporal to sergeant and maybe even to sergeant major.”

Donnelly shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. I am quite content where I am.”

“As you wish, Donnelly,” Jack said. “I’ll leave the offer open.”

Jack did not need to double-check Donnelly’s work. He informed Bryant that he was leaving for an unspecified time and ensured he had the most up-to-date maps, plus two portable water filterers.

Jack glanced out the window when he heard a man singing. Second lieutenant Lang was in full voice.

“We don’t want to fight,

But by Jingo, if we do,

We’ve got the ships,

We’ve got the men,

And got the money too.”

Bryant sighed, lit two cheroots, and passed one to Jack.

“How long do you give that young man before the reality hits him, sir?”

Jack drew on the cheroot. “I like hearing enthusiastic young men, Bryant. It’s only sad that we lose so many.”

“We lose too many of our best,” Bryant agreed with a wry smile. “Lang is full of life and patriotism. I’d hate to tell him that Gilbert McDermott, the fellow that wrote that song, was a brickie’s labourer, and the entire West End banned him because of his obscene double entendres.”

Jack shook his head. “Not quite the patriotic Briton that Lang might imagine, then.”

“Not quite,” Bryant said. “McDermott was paid to write that song. The Conservative party and some arms dealers wanted Great Britain to get involved in the war between Russia and Turkey and tried to stir up Russophobia.” He shook his head. “It was all about money making and politics.”

Lang was strolling around the barrack square, watching Sergeant Hanley drill the men and shaking his head as if in professional disapproval.

“We’ve fought the Bear before,

And while we’re Britons true

The Russians shall not

Have Constantinople.”

“Terrible lyrics,” Bryant said. “You’d think there was enough trouble in the world without idiot politicians stirring up more. So you’re going away again, sir?”

“It seems so,” Jack agreed. He looked out the window as Sergeant Hanley continued to drill the sweating recruits.

“You’ll have heard that your bundook is your best friend.” Hanley held up a rifle to show what a bundook was. “Well, that’s a lie spread by uninformed civilians. Your best friends are your boots! Keep them clean and in good repair!”

Jack nodded as Hanley continued.

“Your uniform comes in two sizes,” Hanley warmed to his task. “Too big or too small. Make it fit; learn the bugle calls and how to drill, and in time, in ten years or more, you might become a soldier.”

Jack remembered Hanley as a private in Afghanistan. Now Hanley was a veteran, skilled in the art of breaking down slouching civilians and rebuilding them as soldiers. He listened to the bawdy banter as a group of men passed the office and heard the barking of Private Wright’s dog Nicky, the unofficial regimental mascot.

“We’ll look after them for you, sir,” Bryant said. “Major Baxter has the Malverns in his blood and bones. He’s been in the regiment since he was a teen.”

“I leave the Malverns in safe hands,” Jack said, smiling.

“Now, you idle layabouts!” Hanley marched from one end of the newcomers to the other and blasted them with iron lungs. “You may think that a soldier’s worst enemy comes howling from the desert with spears or hides behind an Afghan rock with a jezzail or maybe a grey-coated Russian.” He paused for effect. “You are wrong!”

The recruits stared at him, no doubt wondering what enemy could be worse than a Pashtun warrior or a Cossack. Hanley soon educated them.

“Your worst enemy is your own filthy habits!” Hanley said. “You’ll have heard of Delhi belly; well, in Egypt, we have Gyppy tummy, a humorous name for dysentery. I can tell you, lads; there’s nothing humorous about it. You probably can’t avoid it but keep proper latrine discipline and watch what you eat and drink!”

The recruits stared at him. Some had already experienced the horrors of dysentery and understood. Others had that nightmare still to come. Jack turned away, knowing the Malverns would continue without him. A regiment was organic; the men were its blood and bones, each playing his part but replaceable. He was the commander, yet if he left, another would take his place, and the regiment would continue.

Leaving the Royal Malverns was hard but saying farewell to Mary was much worse.

“Take care of yourself,” Mary told him. “No heroics, Captain Jack.”

“No heroics,” Jack promised. “I’m only in Suakin to observe and report. It’s an Egyptian affair; it’s nothing to do with us.”

“Just you remember that, Jack,” Mary said sternly. “It’s one thing to court danger when fighting for your country and quite another to be silly when all you’re doing is trying to evacuate somebody else’s land.”

“You take care when I’m gone,” Jack said, and, despite the presence of a hundred hard-bitten soldiers, he held her close. God, how I hate goodbyes!

“Come back to me, Captain Jack,” Mary said softly as all the petty misunderstandings of their marriage faced into inconsequential irrelevance, and only their love remained.

Jack breathed deeply of Mary’s perfume and released her. “I must go,” he said.

“I know,” Mary breathed. “Off you go, Captain Jack, and do your duty.” Only Jack could hear the catch in her voice.

CHAPTERTHREE

Are all men in disguise except those crying?

Dannie Abse

The sun hammered onto the riverside at Cairo, with Jack watching a couple of Highlanders ride past, each man precariously balanced on a donkey’s back. As their kilts ballooned up behind them, Jack smiled to think what Mary would have said, then looked up as a man strode towards him dressed in the uniform of a senior Egyptian officer.

“So you’re coming with me, Windrush?” Valentine Baker, in charge of the Egyptian Gendarmerie, was an experienced soldier. He had fought in the Cape Frontier and Crimean wars and commanded the 10th Hussars for thirteen years. After travelling extensively in Asia, Baker seemed destined for higher command until he sexually assaulted a young woman in a railway carriage. The British Army removed him, and Baker joined the Ottoman Empire, distinguishing himself during Turkey’s war with Russia.

“I am,” Jack agreed. Despite Baker’s impressive fighting record, Jack could not bring himself to like the man.

Tall, with a fierce moustache, Baker wore his fez slightly back on his head and glowered at Jack. “Are you here in a fighting capacity, Windrush? Or are you merely an observer?”

“Officially, I am an observer,” Jack said. “Unofficially, I am quite willing to lend a hand where needed.”

Baker glanced at Donnelly, who stood at attention ten paces back. “How about your servant?”

“Private Donnelly will accompany me,” Jack said.

“You’ll be under my command, of course,” Baker told him.

Jack felt his anger rise. “No, Baker. I am not in your Gendarmerie. I am in the British Army and not under the control of any mercenary soldier of whatever rank.” He saw Baker stiffen and pushed his point. “That goes for Private Donnelly or any other man in my regiment.” He waited for a moment. “Now we have that clear, Baker, could you kindly tell me what your mission is? General Hook was rather vague.”

Baker looked nonplussed. “You’re a cool hand, Windrush.”

“I’m a Lieutenant-colonel in the British Army, Baker. What has the Khedive ordered you to do?”

Baker glanced at Donnelly, who stood with the slightly contemptuous look that only an old soldier could adopt while remaining within the bounds of discipline.

“It’s all right, Baker,” Jack said. “Private Donnelly is professionally deaf, blind and dumb.”

Baker grunted doubtfully. “The Khedive has given me supreme military and civil command in all parts of the Sudan that I can reach with my forces.”

Jack noted the pride in Baker’s voice and wondered if he was correct in stating Baker had no authority over him. I’ll be damned before I have a man like Baker giving me orders. “Is there an objective to your expedition?”

Baker glanced around, where a company of Egyptian soldiers were shambling towards a boat, with their officers hectoring them. “The Khedive has ordered me to pacify the country between Suakin and Berber and create a line of communications between those towns.”

Jack pictured a map of Sudan in his head. “That’s a huge chunk of the country to control,” he said. “Especially with Osman Digna active in that area.” He glanced at the Egyptian soldiers slouching past. “Are your men ready? Hicks Pasha didn’t have much luck with his Egyptians.”

“Hicks Pasha was a fool,” Baker said. “I’ve trained these men, and they’ll fight.” He smiled. “I have experience in fighting with Turkish soldiers, remember.”

“I remember,” Jack said. He watched another company of Egyptian soldiers wander past, some with drooping shoulders and others with dirty rifles. He itched to get among them, but he was here to observe, not command. “Is that all the Khedive expects of you?”

“Oh, no,” Baker said. “I have also to relieve a couple of outposts that Osman Digna is besieging.”

“I see.” Jack produced two cheroots, lit one and passed the other to Baker. “Which are?”

“Sinkat and Tokar,” Baker said easily. “Neither is too far from the coast.”

“That will be a blessing,” Jack said. He had seen the names on the map but knew nothing of the Egyptian outposts.

“A brave fellow called Tewfik Bey is holding Sinkat,” Baker said. “From what little I’ve heard, groups of the enemy gather outside the besieged little town every day and shout curses and threats. They attack repeatedly, but Tewfik’s garrison chases them away.”

“That’s encouraging,” Jack said.

“He’s a good man.” Baker ignored the flies that buzzed around his head. “I’ve been in touch with Tewfik. His agents told me that many tribesmen believe the Mahdi is the genuine prophet and Osman Digna is his caliph.”

“How about the other place, Tokar?” Jack asked.

“A little grim, I heard,” Baker said. “The Mahdists have filled up the wells outside the town, and the water in the wells within Tokar is brackish. The defenders are dropping like flies with sickness, and their ammunition is running low.”

“Not so good,” Jack watched one of the Egyptian soldiers try to run away until an officer wrestled him to the ground. “What are your plans?”

“I’ll sail to Suakin first,” Baker said, “then down to Trinkitat, a little further down the coast. From there, I’ll march inland and relieve Tokar. I’ve offered a hundred pounds to the first sheikh to enter Sinkat with supplies.”

Jack nodded. The British sometimes used bribery to control the tribes on India’s North West Frontier.

Baker continued. “I hope this Osman Digna fellow fights, so I can smash him and show the Mahdi that we mean business.”

Jack nodded. “I wish you the best of British luck, Baker.”

“Once I’ve defeated Osman Digna,” Baker said, “I’ll clear the route from Suakin to Berber, then it’s up the Nile to Khartoum, evacuate Gordon and the Egyptian garrisons and let the Mahdi have his blasted desert.”

“As easy as that,” Jack said dryly.

Baker drew on his cigar and allowed the smoke to trickle from his nostrils. “You and I know, Colonel, that it’s never easy.” He dropped his flippant tone. “But we can’t allow the civilians to realise that, can we?”

“No, we certainly can’t,” Jack agreed. He could see a little more depth to Valentine Baker without any pretence of friendship.

Baker glanced at his men. “I’d better get these reprobates on the move,” he said. “I suspect we’ll see quite a bit of each other, Windrush.”

“I suspect we will, Baker,” Jack agreed and watched as Baker hurried off, barking orders.

“All right, Donnelly,” Jack said. “Let’s find our ship. We’re sailing independently.”

“It’s all arranged, sir,” Donnelly said. He marched on as a tall black man in the uniform of an Egyptian sergeant strode towards him. Neither moved for the other, so they collided, with both men muttering insults.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Donnelly snarled and pushed the Egyptian aside.

“I am superior in rank to you,” the sergeant replied. “You move for me!”

“And that’ll be bloody right, Gyppo!” Donnelly squared up to the taller man with his chin thrust out pugnaciously.

“Enough!” Jack rapped. “Both of you, take one step to the left!”

When the men obeyed, Jack nodded. “Stand at attention!” He looked the sergeant up and down. “You speak English well. Where did you learn?”

“On a ship from the Caribbean to London, sir.” The sergeant had an unusual accent that Jack could not place.

“You’re not from the Caribbean,” Jack said. “I served with a West Indian regiment and know the accent. Where are you from?”

“The western Sudan, sir,” the sergeant said, with a glint of humour in his eyes.

“So, how did you get to the Caribbean?”

The humour deepened. “The French shipped me over when I served in the French army in Mexico.”

Jack nodded. “That explains the military bearing. What’s your name, Sergeant?”

“Deng, Sir, Faiz Deng.”

“Carry on, Sergeant Deng.”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant saluted smartly and marched on.

“He was in the right, Donnelly,” Jack said quietly. “Next time, you move aside for a soldier of superior rank.”

“Even a Gyppo, sir?”

“Would you step aside for a Sikh NCO? Or one of the Guides?”

“Of course, sir. They’re proper soldiers, but the Egyptians are just a rabble.”

Jack could see Donnelly’s point of view. “Treat them as you’d treat a British soldier, Donnelly.”

“Yes, sir.” Donnelly could say nothing else, but Jack sensed his resentment. It was easy for a British soldier to respect the Guides, Sikhs, or Gurkhas with their proven fighting records, but the Egyptians had fled from every encounter with the Ansar.

“Ensure we have everything, Donnelly. Bring my horses and two for you, spare water canteens, food, and ammunition.”

“It’s all ready, sir,” Donnelly said. “Checked and double-checked.”

“Let’s get aboard then,” Jack said. “We’re going to war again.”

* * *

The voyage down the Red Sea was hot but uneventful. Jack heard that some of Baker’s soldiers had mutinied and had been forced to embark at bayonet point.

“That augers badly for the expedition,” he said.

Captain Kelly, one of Baker’s European officers, nodded. “We only hope that they rally when they meet the Ansar.”

Jack pulled on a cheroot. “Do you think they will?”

Kelly shrugged. “Inshallah,” he said. “It’s the will of Allah. Out here, everything is the will of Allah. One grows fatalistic in this heat.”

“Does one?” Jack asked.