last he fell with a crash to the stony earth, Osman cried, “Allah is almighty. Infinite is the glory of God.”
The word flashed through the alleys and souks, and was shouted from the rooftops and minarets. As it spread, a sombre, funereal mood descended on the city of Khartoum. Whispering dolefully as they came together, the inhabitants hurried to find a vantage-point from which they could gaze across the river and behold their fate.
Ryder Courtney was in the workshop in his compound behind the hospital and the red mud walls of Fort Burri when a servant brought him a note from David Benbrook, scribbled on a torn sheet of consular paper. Since first light that morning Ryder had been working with Jock McCrump on the repairs to the Intrepid this. When they had disconnected the punctured steam piping they discovered more damage than they had first suspected. Some of the metal fragments had been carried into the cylinders and had scored the liners. It was surprising that they had been able to make the return trip to the harbour.
“Damn good job I didnae let you go tearing away at full throttle,” Jock muttered morosely. “We would have had a right ballocks if I had.”
They had been obliged to sway the heavy engine out of the this’s hull on to the stone jetty. Then they transported it to the compound by ox-wagon, taking a circuitous route to avoid the narrow alleyways. They had been working on it for the last ten days, and the repairs were almost completed. Ryder wiped his hands on a ball of cotton waste, then glanced through the note. He handed it to Jock. “Do you want to come and watch the Lord Mayor’s show?”
Jock grunted. With long tongs he lifted a glowing sheet of metal from the forge and carried it to the anvil. “Like as not we’ll be having a gutful of that worthy Oriental gentleman Osman bloody Atalan without running out to stare at him now.” He hefted the heavy blacksmith’s hammer and began to pound the metal to shape. He ignored Ryder as he plunged it into a trough of water. It cooled in a hissing cloud of steam and Jock measured it critically. He was shaping a patch for one of the shell holes in this’s hull. He was not satisfied with the result, and whistled tunelessly as he returned it to the forge. Ryder grinned and went out to the stables for his horse.
He crossed the canal on the earthen causeway, and rode through the scurrying crowds to the gates of the consular palace. He hoped to avoid running into General Gordon, and was pleased to see his unmistakable khaki- uniformed silhouette on the upper parapet of Mukran Fort with half a dozen members of his Egyptian staff gathered around him. Each man had either a telescope or a pair of field-glasses focused on the north bank of the Blue Nile, so Ryder was able to ride past the fort and reach the consulate without drawing their attention. He handed his horse over to one of the syces at the gate of the stableyard and strode through the barren gardens to the legation entrance of the palace. The sentries recognized him at once and saluted him as he entered the main foyer.
An Egyptian secretary came hurrying to meet him. Like everyone else he wore a nervous, worried expression. “The consul is on top of the watchtower, Mr. Courtney,” the man told him. “He asked you to be good enough to join him there.”
When Ryder stepped out on to the balcony the Benbrook family did not notice him immediately. They were grouped around the big telescope on its tripod. Amber was taking her turn, standing on a cane-backed chair to reach the eyepiece. Then Saffron looked round and let out a squeak of delight. “Ryder!” She ran to seize his arm. “You must come and see. It’s so exciting.”
Ryder glanced at Rebecca, and felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. She showed no ill effects from their recent curtailed voyage downstream. On the contrary, she looked cool, even under the layers of green georgette petticoats that ballooned out over her crinoline. There was a bright yellow ribbon around the crown of her straw hat, and her hair was arranged in ringlets over her shoulders. It caught the sunlight.
“Don’t let that child pester you, Mr. Courtney.” She gave him a demure smile. “She has been in an overbearing mood since breakfast.”
“Overbearing means regal and queenly,” said Saffron, smugly.
“It does not.” Amber looked back at her from the telescope. “It means bumptious and insufferable.”
“Peace be unto both of you.” Ryder chuckled. “Sisterly love is a beautiful thing.”
“Glad you could come,” David called to him. “Sorry to tear you away from your work, but this is worth a look. You have had enough of the telescope, Amber. Let Mr. Courtney have a turn.”
Ryder stepped up to the parapet, but before he stooped to the eyepiece he stared out across the river. It was an extraordinary spectacle: as far as he could see the land seemed to be on fire. It took a moment to realize that this was not smoke that gave the sky a dun, fuming aspect, but the dust cloud thrown up by a vast moving mass of living things, human and animal, that stretched away to the eastern horizon.
Even at such a distance there was a low reverberation in the air, like the muted hum of the beehive, or the murmur of the sea on a windless day. It was the sound of braying donkeys, lowing herds, fat-tailed sheep and thousands of hoofs, marching feet, the creaking of camel burdens and the squeal of axles. It was the clatter of giraffe-hide war shields, of spears and blades rattling in their scabbards, the rumble of the gun-carriages and the ammunition train.
Then, more clearly, he heard the trumpeting of the ombeyas, the Sudanese battle trumpets carved from a single ivory tusk. The warlike call of these instruments carried an immense distance in the desert airs. Underlying it was the throbbing bass beat of hundreds of huge copper drums. Each emir rode at the head of his tribe with his drummers, trumpeters and banner-bearers preceding him. He was closely surrounded by his mulazemin, his bodyguards, his brothers and blood-brothers, and his aggagiers. Though they rode united now by the holy jihad of the Divine Mahdi most of these tribes carried their centuries-old blood feuds, and none trusted another.
The banners were of rainbow hues, embroidered with texts from the Koran, and exaltations to Allah. Some were so large that it took three or four men to hold them aloft, rippling and snapping in the hot desert breeze. The banners and the harlequin-patched jib has of the warriors made a gorgeous show against the drab landscape.
“How many do you estimate there are?” David asked, as though he was speaking about the race-day crowd on Epsom Down.
“The devil alone knows.” Ryder shook his head doubtfully. “From here, we can’t see the end of them.”
“Fifty thousand, would you hazard?”
“More,” said Ryder. “Maybe many more.”
“Can you make out the entourage of Osman Atalan?”
“He will be in the van, naturally.” Ryder placed his eye to the telescope and trained it forward. He picked out the scarlet and black banners. “There is the devil himself. Right at the forefront!”
“I thought you said you had never before laid eyes upon him,” David said.
“No introduction necessary. That’s him, I tell you.”
In all that hubbub and bustle the slim figure on the cream-coloured horse was unmistakable for its dignity and presence.
At that moment there was a sudden commotion among the vast congregation on the far bank. Through the telescope Ryder saw Osman rise in the stirrups and brandish his broadsword. The front ranks of his mulazemin broke into a furious charge, and he led them straight at a small group of horsemen that rode to meet them from the direction of Omdurman. As the masses of cavalry and camels dashed forward they discharged volleys of joyous gunfire into the air. The blue smoke mingled with the dust cloud and the spearheads and sword blades twinkled like stars in the murk.
“Who is that they are riding to meet?” David asked sharply.
Through the lens Ryder concentrated on the small group of horsemen, and exclaimed as he recognized the green turbans of the two leading horsemen. “Damme, if it’s not the Divine Mahdi himself and his khalifa, the mighty Abdullahi.” Ryder tried to make his tone sardonic and pejorative, but no one was deceived.
“With that merry band of cut-throats sitting across it, the road to the north is firmly closed.” Although David said it breezily, there was a shadow in his eyes as he looked to his three daughters. “There is no longer any escape from this wretched place.” Any retort that Ryder could make would have been famous, and they watched in silence the meeting of the men who held the fate of the city and all its inhabitants in their bloody hands.
With bared sword and his long plait thumping against his back, Osman Atalan charged straight at the mounted figure of the Mahdi. The prophet of Allah saw him coming in a whirlwind of dust, to the deafening bray of the war horns and the pounding of drums. He reined in his white stallion. Khalifa Abdullahi stopped his horse a few paces behind his master, and they waited for the emir to come on.
Osman brought Sweet Water to a plunging, skidding halt and shook his broadsword in the Mahdi’s face. “For God and his Prophet!” he screamed. The blade that had slain men and elephants in their hundreds was now only a
