Siege of khartoum simon.., p.21
Siege of Khartoum (Simon Fonthill Series), page 21
The river? A possibility. The durra fields would almost certainly be close to the Nile, and working there perhaps could give them the chance of observing the scene and weighing the chances of stealing a boat. A boat? Ha! Simon grinned, despite the pain from his flayed back. Neither of them were experienced sailors, and Jenkins, in particular, was terrified of the water. Without help they would run aground at the first rapids, not to mention the cataracts.
Their only hope would be to file or saw through their irons then, during the night, steal out to the camel lines and somehow steal three good ones that might outdistance their pursuers. Mustapha still had Simon’s compass hidden away. But Jenkins must be dissuaded from settling his score with Abu Din. Even a revenge so sweet - and the possibility that they could regain their revolvers - was not worth the risk of awakening the camp.
He eased his back and tried to turn on to his other side. The pain from his lacerated shoulders shot through him and reminded him that he was in no position to run anywhere for a while. He closed his eyes and let the flies crawl unmolested over his eyelids. Alice . . . Alice . . . She came into his mind’s eye from out of nowhere: dressed in a cool summer dress in Norfolk, that familiar apple-green silk scarf at her throat, she strode towards him smiling. She was saying something to him but he could not hear. Her hand was outstretched and beckoning him towards her, but he could not move because of his chain. He shuffled his feet, but the hajji seemed to have increased in weight and it was as though he was standing in concrete. Alice . . . He had acted so unfairly to her and now it must seem that he was refusing to answer her call. Alice! He awoke with a start to find perspiration pouring down his cheeks and the skin at his ankles worn sore where he had tried to move his feet.
Fonthill felt his stomach churn and looked at Jenkins with envy. The man could sleep on a clothesline. Slowly he hauled himself to his feet and felt that unheralded, dreaded movement in his stomach again. He knew that the big danger for them both now, given the close proximity in which they lived to their unkempt neighbours and the filth everywhere, was guinea worm or some other tropical disease. So far there had been no sign of that. At the moment, though, the pressing need was to throw off the incipient diarrhoea that was beginning to attack. He was just able to reach the disgusting leather bucket that had been provided for the ablutions of both of them before his bowels opened. He wiped himself with a handful of sand and did his best to wash again with a palmful of precious water. Then he stood and looked around him.
There were perhaps ten or so other chained prisoners in this particular compound. Like Fonthill and Jenkins they all appeared to be shackled with the hajji but, similarly, it seemed that they were free to move about. Why had they not been set to work? Some of them had what appeared to be their families with them: ragged children and sullen-faced women sitting in what shade they could find, their bare toes clenching in the dust, their eyes dull. Perhaps they too were refugees from Khartoum who had thrown themselves on the mercy of the Mahdi and found it lacking. Simon wiped his brow and went through the useless movement of brushing away the flies. He gazed up at the blue bowl of the sky. It was now late afternoon and they were all existing in what must be more than ninety degrees of heat.
Gingerly he stretched his battered shoulders and made a resolution. They would escape from this place or die in the attempt. It was as simple as that. Get out or perish! The means were still not evident, but somehow he felt better now that the decision was made. As soon as they could move without pain, and if they continued to stay free of tropical disease, they would go - somehow - at whatever the risk.
Alas, there was no sign of Mustapha. He was not usually absent for this period of time, and as the sun went down, Fonthill began to worry. He knew that the boy was incorrigibly brave, to the point of recklessness in fact, and they had been lucky that his constant toings and froings on their behalf had not attracted attention so far. Their precious store of Sudanese dollars had stayed safe with him - even Fonthill had no idea where it was kept - but it could only be a matter of time before someone would question why a slave boy seemed to be so well endowed with money and, terrible thought, follow him, kill him and take the cash. This was a lawless community. If that happened, there was no way they would know and absolutely nothing they could do about it. And, final thought: without Mustapha they had little chance of leaving the Mahdi’s camp.
The boy did not return that evening, and they were forced to cook their daily ration of durra and eat it without the little additional comforts he brought that made it palatable. The next day dawned without him and the two men became increasingly anxious that, somehow, Mustapha had been waylaid and hurt.
‘What the hell can we do?’ muttered Fonthill.
‘This is your department, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘The brains bit. I’ve no idea what’s ’appened to the lad or where we could search for ’im.’
‘Well I’m not prepared to sit here and do nothing. I’ve no idea whether we will be allowed to walk around and look for him but let’s try. You go that way . . .’ He caught the look of desperation in 352’s eyes. Jenkins had no sense of direction. He would lose his way even crossing from one side of Piccadilly to the other, and the teeming molehill that was the Mahdi’s camp would see him lost without trace within seconds. ‘All right. We’ll go together.’
They shuffled and clunked their way through the labyrinth of tents and camel lines that formed the movable, vibrant metropolis, rubbing their ankles sore to the point that they left a trail of blood behind them. There were plenty of active small boys of various shades of black and brown, darting like trout between the adults thronging the camp. But not one with tightly curled hair, bright brown eyes and a smile like the sun.
They returned just before nightfall, exhausted and feeling ill. There was no trace of the boy.
‘I will go and try and find Slatin in the morning and see if he can help,’ said Fonthill.
‘Good idea. But ’ave you forgotten we’re supposed to start work in the fields tomorrer?’
‘Dammit, yes. Tomorrow night, then.’
‘One good thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It looks as though we can go more or less where we like with these bleedin’ hajji things on our legs. No one thinks we can escape wearin’ ’em.’
‘Quite so. But we won’t really get out unless we can get rid of them. And I don’t see how we can get them off without Mustapha.’ Fonthill’s brow was like thunder. ‘I do hope that nothing has happened to the boy.’
‘Ah, cheer up, bach sir. He existed quite well before ’e met us. ’E’s as sharp as a bag full of butcher’s knives. The lad knows ’ow to look after ’imself. You’ll see.’
There was no sign of Mustapha, however, when they were rounded up just before sunrise the next morning to fall into line with a shuffling chain gang deputed to work in the fields. All wore the heavy foot irons, and progress to the river, therefore, was extremely slow, even though it was only some three hundred yards away. Two Dervishes, carrying a sword and a kourbash each, watched over them as they were put to work, not to harvest the durra but to dig the field where it had grown.
It was excessively hard work in the heat, and Fonthill could feel his wounds opening again under his shirt as he bent his back. He clenched his teeth as the blood dribbled down his torso and deliberately set himself a slower pace so as to last the day, for he knew that if he fell he would be beaten and probably never get up again. Jenkins, his muscles rippling under his jibba and perspiration drenching the cotton, did his best to shield Simon. Luckily, however, the two Dervishes were not cut from the same cloth as Abu Din, and they seemed to have no concern at the pace of the work. Indeed, they called for drink breaks every two hours or so. Their whips were never uncoiled and Fonthill began to feel that there were some good Dervishes left in the Sudan after all.
As the day wore on, Fonthill felt his strength perversely seem to grow within him and he found a rhythm that enabled him to keep going metronomically under the burning sun, grateful for the protection of his headdress wound round his scalp, forehead and neck. He offered thanks in particular for the fact that incontinence did not strike again. Somehow they both lasted to the end of the day, when the chain gang, feet dragging in the dust, wound its way back to its various enclosures. There was still no sign of Mustapha.
‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ said Jenkins on their return. ‘What a day! You did well, look you. ’Ere now, let me look at that back.’
Gingerly he peeled back Fonthill’s jibba and began gently sponging the wounds where the scabs had been reopened. Then he applied a little of the ointment that remained and replaced the garment.
‘Thanks, 352,’ said Simon, easing his muscles ‘That’s better. Now I shall see if I can find Slatin. You stay here in case Mustapha returns. I’m more worried about him than I am about this blasted back. Have you still got the knife you used to carve Ahmed’s grave marker?’
Jenkins put his hand inside his jibba and produced the knife. ‘You’re not goin’ to look for trouble, now, bach sir, are you?’ he asked. ‘If you do, you won’t get far with that bloody great iron down below. If there’s a problem, come back for me.’
‘What? Just skip along back, do you mean? No. I just feel safer if I have something to defend myself with in this place.’ He pushed the blade down his loose cummerbund. ‘Now where in this hellhole, I wonder, would that strange Austrian be living . . .?’
Slowly Simon made his way towards the centre of the camp, on the assumption that Slatin would have been allocated accommodation somewhere near the Khalifa. The assumption proved correct, and he found the big man sitting outside a small mud hut, attempting to clip his moustache and beard without the help of a mirror.
‘Here, Mr Slatin,’ said Fonthill, ‘let me do that.’
The Austrian nodded gratefully and Simon made a creditable job of his barbering, allowing him the opportunity to beg one more favour of Slatin. He described Mustapha merely as an itinerant slave boy who had attached himself to them in the camp and proved useful. ‘But now he seems to have disappeared. Would you know where I might find him?’
Slatin shrugged his shoulders. ‘He could be anywhere in the camp,’ he said. ‘They say that about another ten thousand people are expected here over the next few weeks. It will be like looking for one grain in a corn sack. There are many boys here.’
‘Are there any blacksmiths in the camp?’
The Austrian looked up quickly. ‘Why do you ask?’
Fonthill shrugged his shoulders in turn. ‘I think the boy said that he had been a smith’s slave boy. He might have gone back there.’
Slatin seemed satisfied with the answer. ‘The smiths are grouped together to the east, that way.’ He gestured. ‘But if he has gone back to his master, than I would advise you to stay clear. These people can be very possessive, you know. Slaves - even boys - are property, not to be stolen.’
‘Yes.’ Simon nodded slowly. ‘I take your point.’
The rattle of musketry from the Omdurman fort, nearby but out of sight to the north, interrupted them. ‘How long can Gordon hold out, Mr Slatin?’
The Austrian munched his moustache. ‘The Khalifa - and it will be he who will actually make the decision, for the Mahdi is no general - will almost certainly wait until more people have arrived from the south and east before he makes a big attack. Gordon Pasha is getting very low on food, by all accounts, but he still has troops and firepower. I think the Khalifa will be happy to wait a little longer anyway to try and starve him out. He has time on his side.’
‘How long? Days? Weeks? Months?’
‘I don’t know. Weeks, I should think.’
Fonthill thought for a moment. ‘Mr Slatin, have you ever tried to escape?’
The big man shot him a sharp glance. ‘No, for it is impossible without outside help. And there is no one to help me. Even then, prisoners who escape are pursued and always brought back and punished - sometimes by death.’ He gave his weary smile. ‘Do not think about it, my friend. Accept your lot and then . . . perhaps one day things will improve and it might be possible to negotiate your freedom. That is what I hope. That is what I live for.’
‘Yes.’ Fonthill rose to his feet awkwardly. ‘Thank you. Thank you for your help to us here.’
He shuffled away. When he was out of the Austrian’s sight, he turned to his left, to the east, and began wrinkling his nose to pick up the distinctive scent of a smith’s open brazier and listening for the clink of metal on metal. As he slowly made his way, he realised that no one was paying the slightest attention to him. Firstly, of course, he looked now like any other impoverished Arab in the camp. He no longer needed to rely on the long-lasting walnut dye that had been applied to him in Cairo. The sun had burned his skin black and his beard had grown so that it covered his chest. Prisoners in their chains, it seems, were allowed to walk freely through the camp, although he saw no others bearing the dreadful hajji farma. Secondly, however, this was not really an army camp, despite the fact that most of the men he saw carried either a Remington rifle or a musket of some kind. It was more like a huge tribal gathering, with the Mahdi’s soldiers appearing to continue to live their desert lives with their families in their brown and dun-coloured tents, as on the other side of the Nile. There was no army discipline evident, although the Messiah’s flags were everywhere. Fonthill was able to walk between the families without challenge or even an inquisitive stare.
A more distant sound of cannon from the direction of Khartoum made Simon lift up his head and turn his thoughts to Gordon. How odd, he reflected as he shuffled along, that this strange, gifted soldier of fortune - that was what he was, for he was no conventional career officer - should end by facing a man who in many ways so resembled him. True, they were different in obvious ways: one was white, the other black; Gordon was a soldier, the Mahdi a preacher; the Englishman was celibate, the Sudanese had many concubines; and the man of the desert was primitive while the English gentleman had been formally educated. But both were ruthless in their own way (Gordon had certainly proved this in China) and both were fired by a religious zeal that made them fanatics. Each regarded his religion as the only way and would not consider, even for one moment, that alternative concepts of theology might have merit. And yet Gordon had often expressed an understanding of the reasons for the Sudanese revolt, and his contempt for the Turks’ form of colonialism was known to be as strong as that of the Mahdi. Now here they were, facing each other in conditions of barbarous cruelty. Fonthill shook his head.
He lifted it again, however, when his nostrils caught the distinctive smell of charcoal burning and he saw, to his right, faint columns of semi-transparent smoke rising in a line behind the tents that blocked his vision. Ah, the smiths’ quarter! But would Mustapha be there? It was a gamble with long odds against.
He shuffled his way through the tents and came upon a clearing where some eight or nine blacksmiths were still working at their open fires and anvils, even though the sun was setting. A quick glance showed that Mustapha was not to be seen, at least in the clearing itself, and Fonthill turned to retrace his steps. Then, on an impulse, he began to walk around the clearing behind the several awnings that had been erected to give the smiths a little shade.
He found the boy behind one of the awnings. He was hanging from one of the poles by one ankle, head downwards, his hands tied behind his back. Fonthill stifled a cry and looked around him. The awning had a backcloth, which meant that Mustapha could not be seen from the front. The alleyway itself was bordered by the side of a large tent and was deserted for the moment. Simon drew his knife and carefully cut the boy down. He put his hand to Mustapha’s throat and felt a faint pulse. Quickly, not waiting to free the bonds at his wrists, he loosened his own jibba and somehow thrust the lad half inside the folds, so that his head lay against Fonthill’s shoulder. Then he shuffled away, keeping to the narrow alleyways between the desert tents, his right hand holding the knife, ready to cut down anyone who stood in his way.
Darkness fell quickly, a blessing in terms of hiding them from inquisitive eyes but a curse in that it took Simon nearly an hour to find his way back through the labyrinth of tents and camel lines to the compound. A relieved Jenkins sprang to his feet and quickly took Mustapha away from an exhausted Fonthill.
‘Give him water,’ gasped Simon. ‘He’s still alive, but only just. He’s been hanging upside down for God knows how long, but it looks as though he’s not been hit or knifed because he’s not bleeding. Just . . .’ he gulped, ‘just left hanging there in the sun, by the look of it. What sort of people are they that would do that to a young boy?’
‘I suppose you’d call ’em Dervishes,’ muttered Jenkins, gently pouring water over the boy’s brow and then offering a little to his lips.
Fonthill cut the cords that bound the boy’s wrists and began chafing his hands and feet, and gradually Mustapha began to respond. He parted his lips to receive the water, and coughed and gulped. Then he opened his eyes and, recognising the two in the dim light, gave a half-smile.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Simon.
‘Amen,’ echoed Jenkins. ‘All right, sunshine. Don’t try to speak. I’m goin’ to put you down in the back ’ere, just in case anybody comes lookin’ for you, see. Would you like somethin’ to eat, like? Though we’ve only got rotten old doorah, or whatever it’s called.’
Mustapha shook his head and opened his mouth to reveal a swollen, cracked tongue.
‘All right,’ said Fonthill. ‘Don’t try and speak. Let me put some of this ointment on your ankle and your wrists. Take a little more water and then see if you can get some sleep. We will make sure you are not disturbed in the night.’
The pair stood guard over him through the darkness, keeping watch in turn. Simon doubted if there would be a search mounted for the boy, for it was obvious that he had been left there to die in the sun as a cruel punishment . . . but for what?
