A Burial at Sea

memorandum that Chowdery and Arbuthnot had prepared for him on the subject of Ismail the Magnificent.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

In the morning Lenox went across to the docks in the Bootle with four of Carrow’s heartiest, most impressive men, all dressed in their formal uniforms. At the docks were Chowdery, his wife—“She nearly always runs late, but she would not miss this!”—and Arbuthnot, who was rather graver, and who whispered instructions into Lenox’s ear as they stepped into carriages. A detachment of ten British soldiers were with them.

At the wali’s palace Lenox met with a series of increasingly important gentlemen, who welcomed him and gave him further instructions about his introduction to Ismail.

As it happened, however, Ismail himself was less formal. He shook Chowdery’s hand, waved off everyone else, and invited Lenox to sit on his balcony alone.

It was hard to hear words like wali or khedive without picturing an exotic, long-bearded ruler, perhaps erratic in temperament and taste. Ismail was different. He had a short beard and, other than the medals pinned to his chest, wore what any gentleman in Hyde Park or the Place des Vosges might have. In fact the person he most resembled was King Henry the Eighth, or at least the portraits of him. Coffee and a tremendous array of foods were waiting on the balcony, which looked out over the port city.

In a heavy accent, he said, “I have been to your country several times, Mr. Lenox—yes, and sat with your Victoria, and been inside your Parliament. They gave me the Order of the Bath. But my heart must belong to France. It was there I studied, and it is the French who have built my canal.”

“I love France as well. I took my honeymoon there.”

“Ah? Tell me of your wife, sir. She awaits your return in London?”

A vision of Jane’s loving, calm face appeared in Lenox’s mind. “We were childhood friends, and now we are having a child.”

“I congratulate you!” Ismail snapped his fingers and a man appeared from the shadows. “Please see that Mr. Lenox receives a present, for his child.”

The man nodded and bowed his way away from them. “Thank you so much,” said Lenox. “I have brought you—”

“Wonderful things, I do not doubt. You will have heard I like gadgets. Good. Yet the reason I wished to meet with you—more than a formal meeting, at which we would exchange presents, you understand—is because I know you are on the next ship for London.”

“Oh?”

“We need money, Mr. Lenox. Do you see my hands?” He held them out, as if for inspection. “With these hands I have taken my country, ripped it away from Africa, and joined it to Europe. Do you understand the importance of that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you will also understand the cost. Opera houses. Industry. The canal, Mr. Lenox. To become European, I had to spend money.”

This was unusual frankness, Lenox believed, though the facts of Egypt’s debt were widely known. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“What will you give me, Mr. Lenox?”

It was clear that the customary answer to this question, when Ismail posed it, was “My life,” or something close to that. Lenox merely inclined his head. “Certainly I will speak with my colleagues—”

“We need action. Soon.”

“Oh?”

“I would never sell my share in the canal. That may go without saying. But it is in your interest as well as our own that Egypt succeed.”

A thought dawned on Lenox, then. The wali said that his share in the canal was not for sale—but then, why not? It would take an almost unfathomable amount of money, say three, four, perhaps even five million pounds. But why not spend it? Even from here he could see the canal, crammed with small craft, and then, as Sournois has said, to join England’s interests to France’s …

“You have my word that Great Britain will support your country, khedive.”

“Good.”

The wali rose, extended his hand, and, after they had shaken, walked away, his coffee still warm and untouched in its cup.

The rest of the day was taken up with meetings with various members of Ismail’s retinue, men who offered various ideas, all of which came down to England buying into the canal, somehow and someway. To Lenox, more and more, it seemed that the idea of buying Egypt’s share outright would be ideal. That was the idea he would take back to Parliament.

To celebrate the official meeting there was another supper that evening at the consulate, this time with Carrow and his officers in attendance and the traitor, the earl’s son, Ashenden, nowhere to be seen. Lenox inquired after him.

“He is bound for the interior of the continent, I understand, on very short notice,” said Arbuthnot. “He is a great shooter.”

“Indeed,” Lenox answered. “I shall have to tell people I have seen him when I’m in London again…”

There were men of all nationalities present, Egyptian, French, English, American, Dutch. The noise and the pomp were both at high levels, and Lenox followed Sir Wincombe’s speech with a brief address of his own.

In truth, though, he wanted to be back at sea. The glimpse of Jane he had seen in his mind today had made him long for her, for their house on Hampden Lane, for the mingled chaos and order of life in London. He felt a very long way from home.

Over the next several days there were more meetings. For the sake of getting to and from them on time he moved back to the consulate after two nights on board the Lucy—the days were too taxing otherwise. At his meetings he heard a great many statistics about customs, about sugar production, about shallow and deep draft vessels. Ismail had been correct: it was, in fact, like Europe here. But when Lenox went back through the streets of Port Said on a tour, he saw that at the same time it was different, and perhaps always would be.

Finally all of his responsibilities were concluded—an amiable supper with several important Frenchmen, Sournois not in their number. It was the morning of the Lucy’s departure. She was in fine shape, according to McEwan, having taken provisions on board and made a few minor repairs. The representative of the admiralty in Port Said had charged Carrow with returning the ship to England.

They set out for the Lucy early in the morning, seen off by a not very regretful Chowdery, who looked eager to get back to his library, and his imperious wife, who bestowed on Lenox a small parcel of books and letters that she asked Lenox—with more of the air of an order than a request—to deliver to several addresses in London for her.

For his part McEwan was carrying a bundle of packages that were larger than anything he had taken away from the Lucy. Food, Lenox suspected. It was gray and cool as the Bootle carried them through the water. From a thousand yards away it was obvious that the Lucy had been painfully, thoroughly cleaned; she sparkled in her masts and her rigging. An involuntary smile made its way onto Lenox’s face.

“Welcome!” said Carrow when they came back on board. “You two, help them with the trunk. Yes, you can put down your cocoa, it will still be here in a moment. Go, go.”

(It had been a surprise to Lenox, who associated the navy so strongly with rum, to discover how strongly affectionate the men felt for their breakfast cocoa and biscuits.)

“Your work went well on land, Mr. Lenox?” said Carrow.

“I thank you, Captain, very well.”

“Excellent. No more trips to shore?”

“No, thank you.”