Siege of khartoum simon.., p.14
Siege of Khartoum (Simon Fonthill Series), page 14
The two men exchanged glances. ‘I am expecting to get to Khartoum,’ said Wolseley finally, ‘by the end of January.’
‘And do you believe that Gordon can hold out until then?’
Wolseley sat back in his chair and gave her a sad smile. ‘That, of course, is the question. I believe that he can, because the last that we heard from him - and he is now completely cut off, of course - was that he had plenty of ammunition, food and water. But we cannot be sure, of course. Hence our need to push on just as quickly as we possibly can.’
‘Do you have any intelligence back from Khartoum?’
‘The occasional cryptic message gets through, but we do not seem able to reach him in return.’
Alice directed a firm gaze at Wolseley’s good eye. ‘And please tell me, sir, is that where my fiancé, Simon Fonthill, comes in?’
Once again the two men exchanged glances. ‘Ah yes, my dear,’ said Wolseley, and he shifted a trifle awkwardly on his seat. ‘What I tell you now is in the strictest confidence, for I would hate any news of young Fonthill’s mission to get out and prejudice his safety. You understand, of course?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good.’ Wolseley nodded, and then explained the exact nature of the task he had given Fonthill. Alice listened with increasing anxiety, and when he had finished, she lost her composure for the first time.
‘But that is incredibly dangerous!’ she exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t speak a word of Arabic, he doesn’t look in the least like an Arab, and how on earth do you expect him to penetrate the Mahdi’s army and get through into a city that is besieged? Surely you have native spies better equipped for such a . . . a . . . lunatic mission?’ She threw down her napkin in emphasis.
‘Now, now, dear lady . . .’ began Buller.
Wolseley held up a placatory hand. ‘I well understand your apprehension, my dear,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I rather feared your reaction when you learned of the duty he had undertaken, and that was why I . . . er . . . perhaps have rather avoided you so far. But I felt it best to tell you now. Let me try and answer your questions.’
Quietly but emphatically, Wolseley gave his reasons for sending Fonthill on such a mission: his need to have someone with the expertise, courage and experience to penetrate the Dervish lines, and also the military ability to form a judgement of Gordon’s chances. No native spy could do that. He reassured her on the effectiveness of Simon’s disguise, and his faith in the ability of Jenkins and Ahmed to support him.
‘You know, my dear,’ he leaned towards her as though about to exchange a confidence, ‘Fonthill did not have to undertake this journey. There was no compulsion, because he is not a serving officer, of course. He gladly accepted it. You will know that I have twice offered him his commission back with a high rank. Both times he rejected the offer.’ The General shook his head. ‘He is a remarkable man. Quite, quite independent, with his own rather . . . what shall I say . . . critical views of the army. He prefers to operate outside its ranks, and he is brilliant at what he does. But it is a dangerous game he plays, I must admit.’
Alice winced. ‘Have you heard anything at all from him?’
‘No message. But according to Major Kitchener, who is out in the field in the south, in charge of our intelligence work with the local Sudanese, he . . . er . . . was met by one of our patrols south-east of Dongola, and was certainly well then and . . . ah . . . in rather typical good form, from what I hear.’
Alice gritted her teeth to hold back tears. Her feelings were a mixture of apprehension and anger. Fear for Simon’s safety, of course, although the General had confirmed what she had already suspected, but also fury at Wolseley’s confirmation that Simon was doing what he loved best in all the world: risking his life to go out with Jenkins on some hopeless, highly perilous mission instead of proving his expressed love for her by staying at home and marrying her.
She blew her nose and sat up very straight. ‘Thank you, sir, for your explanation. I apologise for my outburst.’
‘Quite understandable, my dear.’
‘May I return to your plans?’
‘Of course - although you will understand that I cannot reveal too many details to you.’
Alice nodded. ‘You intend to split your army when you reach Korti. You will have, what, about eight thousand men in the front line by that time? The Mahdi is said to command forty thousand or more, all of them well armed. Is it not bad practice to divide your already quite small force in the face of an enemy that is already proven to be more than a horde of spear-carrying savages?’
Wolseley chortled and held up a cigar. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Of course not. I can’t exactly retire on my own.’
‘Quite so.’ A steward appeared as if from nowhere, and lit cigars for both men. Wolseley blew a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling.
‘Your question does you credit, of course,’ he said, ‘and befits a brigadier’s daughter. But needs must. This is not exactly a textbook invasion, you know. You understand the difficulties of advancing up the Nile. It may be that we can get the majority of our men up the river by boat from now on faster than we have been able to carry them so far, because we are learning all the time. I hope and think we will, but perhaps events will prove me wrong. The desert column is my back-up strategy. If we are still behind the clock, so to speak, then this column, led by my new camel corps, will make a dash for Khartoum. So far, the Mahdi has knocked over only Egyptian troops, and frankly, my dear, they are a poor lot, as we saw at Tel el Kebir. He has not yet met trained, well-armed British soldiers, the best in the world. No, I will back this column, not necessarily to win a great pitched battle, but to give this desert preacher a bloody nose and forge on to Khartoum, to give Gordon heart and support until we can get there with the main force.’ He sat back. ‘There. Now you have my plans.’
Alice finished scribbling. ‘Thank you, General,’ she said. ‘You have been most helpful.’
Wolseley nodded. Then he pulled on his cigar and waved away the smoke. ‘But it is all a question of timing. When and if I unleash my desert column depends upon how long Gordon can hold out. I desperately need Fonthill’s advice on this. I doubt if I can get any force to Khartoum until the end of January at the earliest.’
Alice lifted her glass. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘all in all, perhaps it would be appropriate for us to drink to Simon Fonthill and his comrades, and to their safe and prompt return.’
‘Hear, hear,’ growled the two old soldiers.
Alice left the yacht a soon as propriety allowed, for she was anxious to retire before the wine adversely affected her memory. She lacked shorthand, so an accurate recollection of what had been said was vital to support her scribbled notes. Her attitude as she stepped down the gangplank and nodded at the sentry’s salute was at first one of elation. She had undoubtedly got the bones of a first-class story in that almost illegible scrawl in her notebook. There had been much speculation about Wolseley’s exact intentions. Now she had them - and straight from the horse’s mouth, even though she couldn’t quote him! And the creation of the camel corps - so inventive, so very Wolseley - was a splendid piece of hard news on which to hang the rest of the story. This would be one in the eye for all those begaitered, cigar-smoking veterans with whom she was competing!
Her mood changed, however, as she walked the short distance along the river bank to her quarters on the press boat. She began to shiver under her wrap, less from the night air than at the thought of the dangers facing Simon. The bright stars above did little to offset the fetid odour that rose from the banks of the Nile, like the stench from a newly opened tomb. It brought home to her once again the very primitive nature of the country that the British were invading. She could not but help recall what the Dervishes did to infidels: the lopping of hands and feet, the slitting of noses and slicing of ears. Horrible, horrible! Leaning against a stanchion, Alice let herself go, and sobbed until the tears dropped on to her precious notebook, smudging her pencilled notes. How cruel to lose the man she loved just when, at last, it was right and seemly that they could be together, after all the changes they had faced! Oh, why had he left her? Did he not love her enough at least to marry her before careering off into this barbaric desert to get himself mutilated or killed? But it was uncharacteristic for Alice to cry, and it was not long before the anger reasserted itself. She stamped her foot, disturbing two scorpions investigating her slipper. Damn Simon, and damn bloody Gordon for getting himself into such a mess that fine men had to come out here to rescue him! She blew her nose, straightened her back and strode back to the press boat. She had a story to write.
She rose early the next day and took another precious shower - really only a bucket balanced overhead on a swinging axle - to relieve her aching head before the men could get to the douche cubicle. Then she read through the story she had written, correcting some of the more awkward cablese abbreviations she had used. She had led her story on the formation of the camel corps, before going on to give her authoritative analysis of the General’s plans, without, of course, quoting Wolseley. In a covering note to Bonnard, she had explained that her source was the General himself, and she allowed herself another self-congratulatory smile at the effect her exclusive would have on the rest of the correspondents here. They would be furious, for there was so little hard news to report from the Nile! Then she strode off to the cable office.
Despite the early hour, the new press liasion officer was already on duty. He was a small, slim man, as erect as a Guards officer at the Trooping of the Colour, and wearing a captain’s badges of rank and the largest moustache she had ever seen on such a small man. He gave her a perfunctory glance as she handed in her copy, and then another, this time lingering on her body, examining it insolently from her solar topi to her desert sandals.
She disliked that, but she forbore to complain. There was something about this man that sent a tingle through her - not exactly of fear, but carrying a kind of warning that he could be dangerous. The examination and the stare were insolent and arrogant, but they were also quite fearless. This captain of infantry exuded cruelty, and she drew in her breath. Perhaps she should be careful. No, dammit. The man was loathsome.
‘I say,’ he said. ‘You must be the famous Miss Griffith.’
Alice felt herself flushing. ‘Yes, and I have an eight-hundred-word story here that I need transmitting immediately. And don’t you dare alter a word of it, because the source is the General himself and I have his permission to write it as long as it is not attributed to him. So be damned careful - and keep it confidential.’
With that, she turned on her heel, wishing she had a skirt she could swish behind her. As she strode away, she heard him call after her, ‘What about a drink at sundown, eh? As a reward for no deletions, what?’
Alice tossed her head and strode on, shivering with . . . what? Rage, impotence or fear? She did not know. Near the river bank she met Willie Russell. ‘You’re an early bird, Alice Griffith,’ he grinned. ‘Not another exclusive, for God’s sake, is it?’
Alice ignored the question. ‘Who is that impertinent little man who has been appointed liaison officer, Willie?’
‘Aw, somebody they’ve dredged up from Intelligence. I gather he put his foot in it out in the desert somewhere, so he’s been drafted back to this awful job.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I think it’s Hicks-Johnson. Why do you ask?’
Chapter 8
Major General Gordon led the little party further into the huge room. It was long and low and dominated by large windows that commanded a view of the Blue Nile and the far bank some eight hundred yards away. An intermittent fire was being directed at the palace from the bank and was being returned from the roof of the building. Gordon, however, seemed quite unaware of the noise and danger and indicated chairs for them all, including Mustapha. Then he beckoned to his Sudanese servant and ordered tea. As he did so, Fonthill scrutinised him closely.
At that time, he pondered, Gordon was undoubtedly one of the most famous men in the world. When Simon had first heard of him, the man was forging a remarkable international reputation as a shrewd, brave and resourceful soldier, leading what was little more than a handful of irregular troops in China against the Taiping rebellion and suppressing it, so earning the gratitude of the Chinese government and the nickname ‘Chinese Gordon’. A period of comparative obscurity had followed as an Engineer colonel in England, where he had worked amongst the poor and particularly helped disadvantaged young boys. Here he showed himself to be a hero who seemed to care nothing for material benefits. A dedicated bachelor, he gave away much of his salary and lived in the most frugal way, proclaiming a devotion to fundamental Christian ethics that seemed close to fanaticism. Then he had earned a new reputation as a shrewd and energetic governor of Sudan and an implacable enemy of the slave trade in central Africa. Back home and at a loose end, he had responded to an invitation from the King of the Belgians to govern the Belgian possessions in the Congo, but when the task of evacuating Egyptian troops from the Sudan in the face of the Mahdi’s uprising had presented a problem for the British government, the nation had cried, ‘Send for Chinese Gordon!’ He had answered the call, and now he was holed up in Khartoum, surrounded by thousands of the most fanatically brave soldiers in Africa, all of whom hated him and regarded him as an infidel pig. The eyes of the world were upon him and the attempts to rescue him.
Yet now, as he sat on a small wooden chair in his palace, Gordon seemed to Fonthill rather like a country vicar fussing over the tea. Except that those astonishingly blue eyes looked tired, and there were worry lines in the skin radiating out from their corners. One hand tapped on his knee in a nervous fashion and he inhaled deeply on the cigarette he was smoking.
‘I’ve heard a little about you in army circles, Fonthill,’ he said, after Simon had made the introductions. ‘You were at both Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift in Zululand, were you not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, quite remarkable. Then you had better tell me what you are doing here, when I had expected Wolseley with fifteen thousand redcoats.’
Fonthill took a deep breath and explained his mission. He avoided as best he could the puzzlement caused by Gordon’s many contradictory messages before the telegraph was cut - and also, of course, his own instructions to gauge the state of the town’s defences. ‘What Lord Wolseley wants, sir,’ he concluded, ‘is an estimation of how long you can hold out and some indication of the strength of the forces surrounding the town. Then my orders are to return to his lordship with this information as quickly as possible.’
Gordon sighed. ‘That last part is easier said than done. I have been smuggling messages out for weeks, but nothing comes back. I suppose the Dervishes intercept them. When can Wolseley get here, do you think?’
‘I believe he is hoping to fight his way through by the end of January.’
‘Umph. Well, if that is his intention, he will probably be too late. Let me see, where are we now?’ Gordon rose and walked to a table near the window where a large journal lay open. As he did so, Fonthill looked across at his companions. Mustapha was tracing a pattern with his big toe on the wooden floor; Ahmed was looking at the General with something like awe - Gordon’s name was as familiar in Cairo as it was in London - and Jenkins had enveloped the small teacup with his two great hands and was shaking his head at Simon with consternation written on his face. His expression asked clearly: what on earth are we doing, sitting here drinking tea in a doomed palace surrounded by savages?
‘Ah, yes.’ Gordon walked back to his chair. ‘Today is the sixteenth of November. Well now, let me see. About a month ago I estimated that some three million cartridges had been used in the siege so far by our Remington rifles, together with ten thousand mountain gun shells and one thousand five hundred and seventy by our Krupps cannon. Back then we had about two million Remington cartridges left, more than eight thousand shells for the mountain guns and six hundred and sixty for the Krupps.’
Fonthill wondered at Gordon’s recall of statistics, and then remembered that the man was a Royal Engineer, renowned for his grasp of detail.
You know,’ the General continued conversationally, ‘I have converted the mission next door, where this little chap will go to school,’ and he leaned across and patted Mustapha’s head, ‘into an arsenal, and am making about fifty thousand Remington cartridges a week there. Not bad, eh?’
‘Very good, General bach,’ acknowledged Jenkins, as though anxious to please a difficult child. Fonthill nodded his head encouragingly, wondering where all this was leading.
‘Quite so.’ Gordon seemed pleased to have the praise. ‘However,’ he went on, ‘the attacks have increased considerably over the last few weeks. My spies tell me that the Mahdi himself, who has been skulking hundreds of miles to the south-west, has now moved his camp near to the fort at Omdurman, and as a result, things have hotted up. So we will have used far more ammunition pro rata. You ask how long we can hold out.’ The General drew on his cigarette. ‘I reckon that we have about eight weeks’ food left, so we can probably last until the end of December. Perhaps a little longer, but not much. By then we shall be eating the dogs, and the town must fall.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘It is all, of course, in the hands of our Redeemer.’
A shocked silence hung over the room.
‘Good gracious,’ whispered Fonthill.
‘Do you know where Wolseley and his column are now?’ asked Gordon. ‘Is he at Berber?’
Simon shook his head. ‘I am sorry, General,’ he said, ‘but I have no idea. I left him in Cairo weeks ago, of course, just before he was due to start upriver. Judging from our own experience, he will have encountered difficulties in getting his army through the cataracts and it will have been slow going. As I said, I believe his intention was to arrive to rescue you by the end of January.’
