for the Dervish gunners. Their aim was improving each day as they had more practice and experience with the laying of the Krupps guns that they had captured at El Obeid. They seemed to possess an endless supply of ammunition.
Ryder looked back at the wharf and felt a prickle of irritation. Major al-Faroque of General Gordon’s staff had lined up a company of his troops to guard the perimeter of the harbour. With fixed bayonets they were prepared to prevent a mob of refugees without General Gordon’s pass trying to storm the little steamer and force themselves aboard. The desperate populace would go to any lengths and take any chance to escape the city. What annoyed Ryder was that al-Faroque had allowed his men to light torches so that they could examine the faces and papers of those would-be passengers who were lining up at the entrance. The torchlight now illuminated the entire expanse of the wharf to the scrutiny of the Dervish sentries across the river.
“In God’s name, Major, get your men to douse those lights!” Ryder bellowed.
“I have General Gordon’s strict orders to allow no one to pass until I have checked their papers.”
“You are calling the Mahdi’s attention to our preparations to sail,” Ryder shouted back.
“I have my orders, Captain.”
While they argued, the crowd of passengers and hopefuls was swelling rapidly. Most were carrying infants or bundles of their possessions. However, they were becoming anxious and panicky at being forbidden entry. Many were shouting and waving passes over their heads. Those who had no pass stood stubborn and grim-faced, watching for their opportunity.
“Let those passengers through,” Ryder shouted.
“Not until I have examined their passes,” the Major retorted and turned his back, leaving Ryder fuming helplessly at his bridge rail. Al-Faroque was stubborn and the altercation was having no effect except to delay the embarkation interminably. Then Ryder noticed David’s tall figure pushing through the throng with his daughters pressing close behind him. With relief he saw that al-Faroque had recognized them and was waving them through the cordon of his troops. They hurried to the gangplank, burdened with their most valued possessions. Saffron was lugging her paintbox and Amber a canvas bag stuffed with her favourite books. Nazeera pushed the girls up the gangplank for David had used all his influence and the dignity of his office to obtain a pass for her.
“Good evening, David. You and your family will have my cabin,” Ryder greeted him, as he stepped aboard.
“No! No! My dear fellow, we cannot evict you from your home.”
“I will be fully occupied on the bridge during the voyage,” Ryder assured him. “Good evening, Miss Benbrook. There are only two narrow bunks. You will be a little crowded, I am afraid, but it’s the best available. Your maid must take her place in one of the barges.”
“Good evening, Mr. Courtney. Nazeera is one of us. She can share a bunk with Amber. Saffron can share with my father. I will sleep on the cabin floor. I am sure we will all be very comfortable,” Rebecca announced with finality. Before Ryder could protest an ominous chanting and shouting came from the large crowd held back by the guards at the head of the wharf, like floodwaters by a frail dam wall. It provided him with a welcome excuse to avoid another confrontation with Rebecca. There was an ominous glitter in her dark eyes, and a mutinous lift to her chin.
“Excuse me, David. I will have to leave you to install yourselves. I am needed elsewhere.” Ryder left them and ran down the gangplank. When he reached Major al-Faroque’s side he saw that the crowd beyond the line of soldiers was growing larger and more unruly with every minute that passed, and they were pressing right up to the points of the bayonets. Monsieur Le Blanc was the last of the diplomatic corps to arrive. Incongruously he was decked out in a flowing opera cloak and a Tyrolean hat with a bunch of feathers in the band. He was followed by a procession of his servants, each heavily laden with his luggage. Born aloft on the shoulders of his porters was a pair of brassbound cabin trunks, each the size of a pharaoh’s sarcophagus.
“You cannot bring all that rubbish on board, Monsieur,” Ryder told him, as the guards allowed him to pass.
Le Blanc reached him with sweat dripping off his chin, fanning himself with a pair of yellow gloves. “That “rubbish”, Monsieur, as you call it, is my entire wardrobe of clothing and is irreplaceable. I cannot leave without it.”
Ryder saw at once the futility of arguing with him. He stepped past Le Blanc and confronted the first party of trunk-bearers as they staggered through the cordon with their load.
“Put those down!” he ordered, in Arabic. They stopped and stared at him.
“Do not listen to him,” squealed Le Blanc, and rushed back to slap at their faces with his glove. “Bring it along, mes braves.” The porters started forward again, but Ryder measured the huge Arab who was clearly the head porter, then stepped up to him and slammed a punch into the point of his jaw. The porter dropped as though shot through the head. The trunk slipped from his fellows and crashed to the stone flags. The lid flew open and a small avalanche of clothing and toiletries poured out on to the wharf. The rest of the porters waited for no more but dropped their load and fled from the wrath of the mad ferenghi captain.
“Now see what you have done,” cried Le Blanc, and fell to his knees. He began gathering up armfuls of his scattered possessions and trying to stuff them back into the trunk. Behind him the crowd sensed an opportunity. They pressed forward more eagerly, and the guards were forced back a few paces.
Ryder grabbed Le Blanc’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come along, you Belgian imbecile.” He tried to drag him towards the gangplank.
“If I am an imbecile, then you are an English barbarian,” howled Le Blanc. He reached back and grabbed a trunk’s heavy brass handle. Ryder could not break his grip, although he hauled with all his strength.
From the back of the crowd a large rock was hurled at the head of the Major al-Faroque. It missed its target and struck Le Blanc’s cheek. He shrieked with pain, released the trunk handle and clutched his face with both hands. “I am wounded! I am gravely injured.”
More stones flew out of the crowd to fall among the soldiers and bounce off the pavement. One struck an Egyptian sergeant, who dropped his rifle and went down on one knee clutching his head. His men fell back, glancing over their shoulders for a line of retreat. The crowd yammered like a pack of hounds and pressed them harder. Someone picked up the sergeant’s fallen rifle and aimed it at Major al-Faroque. The man fired and a bullet grazed the major’s temple. Al-Faroque dropped, stunned. His men broke and ran back, trampling his prostrate form. They had been transformed in an instant from guards to refugees. Ryder picked up Le Blanc and ran with him kicking, screaming and struggling in his arms like a child in a tantrum.
Ryder dumped the Belgian on the deck, then raced on to his bridge. “Cast off!” he shouted to his crew, just as the first wave of rioters and half the Egyptian askaris scrambled on board. The decks were already so overcrowded that the crew were shoved from their positions and were unable to reach the mooring lines. More and more rioters raced down the wharf, and leapt on board the steamer or scrambled into the barges. Those already on board tried to beat them back and the decks were buried under a melee of struggling bodies.
Saffron popped her head out of the main cabin to watch the excitement. Ryder picked her up and thrust her bodily into her elder sister’s arms, then pushed them both into the cabin. “Stay out of the way,” he shouted, and slammed the door. Then he snatched the fire axe from its bracket at the head of the companionway. More rioters were coming out of the darkness, unending hordes.
Ryder felt the deck of the this heel over under the uneven distribution of weight. “Jock!” he shouted desperately. “The bastards are going to capsize us. We have to get her off the jetty.” He and Jock fought their way through the throng. They managed to cut the mooring lines free, but by this time the this was listing dangerously.
When Ryder reached his bridge again and opened the throttle, he could feel the enormous drag of the overloaded barges. He glanced back and saw that the nearest had less than two feet of freeboard. He spun the wheel towards the harbour entrance.
The this was driven by a Cowper engine, a powerful unit with three cylinders. This modern design incorporated an intermediate steam reservoir for compound expansion that allowed much higher boiler pressure than previous models. The this needed all this power to enable her to drag the string of heavily loaded barges up through the fast-flowing waters of the cataracts. Now, under the thrust of the Cowper, she built up speed and a white wave blossomed under the bows of each barge, faster still and the water curled over their bows. A chorus of despairing cries rose from the passengers in the barges as they began to flood and settle even lower in the water. Ryder cut back the power, and managed to con the this and her tows out through the harbour entrance into the
