hits. A gang of Arab workers was busy patching and painting over the damage. A white engineer supervised them, encouraging his crew with a chorus of oaths and imprecations that carried clearly across the water in the accents of the Glasgow docks. It was obvious that it would be weeks, if not months, before the steamer was ready to sail. Penrod moved on along the river frontage of the Blue Nile towards Fort Burri and the arsenal.
As he picked his way through the alleyways, which were almost clogged with shell debris and filth, brown faces looked down at him from the windows and rickety balconies that almost met overhead. Women held up their naked infants so that he could see the swellings and bruising of scurvy, the skeletal limbs. “We are starving, Effendi. Give us food,” they pleaded. Their cries alerted the beggars, who hobbled out of the gloomy depths of the alleyways to pluck at his clothing. He scattered them with a few shrewd cuts of his cane.
The guns on the parapets of Fort Burri covered the north bank of the Blue Nile, and the Dervish fortifications facing them. Penrod paused to study them, and saw that the enemy were taking few precautions. Even with the naked eye he could see figures across the river moving about in the open. Some Dervish women were washing their laundry on the riverbank and spreading it out to dry in full view of Fort Burri. They must have realized how perilously depleted was Gordon’s stock of shot and shell.
Behind Fort Burri stood the squat and ugly blockhouses of the arsenal and the munitions store. General Gordon was using them as the city granary. There were sentries at the entrance and at each revetment that supported the crumbling walls. From what Gordon had told him, even those guards and the repairs to the walls had been no match for the ingenuity of Ryder Courtney or the Egyptian officers, or whoever was to blame for the depredations in the granary. However, this was not the time to visit the arsenal or to conduct an audit of the stores. That would come later. Penrod was headed towards the sprawling complex of Ryder Courtney’s compound, which lay a short way beyond, almost on the canal that defended the city from an assault out of the southern desert.
As he approached he saw that there was unusual activity in progress on the canal banks behind the walls of the compound. This puzzled him, so he left the road and followed the towpath that ran along the embankment. At first he thought that the many men working in the canal were constructing some form of fortification. Then he realized that women were carrying bundles on their heads from the embankment into the rear gate of Courtney’s compound.
As he came closer he saw that a huge raft of river weed almost blocked the canal. It was similar to the mass of vegetation on which he and Yakub had escaped from Osman Atalan the previous day. Dozens of Arabs swarmed over the raft, clad only in loincloths and armed with scythes and sickles. They were cutting the papyrus and river weed and tying it into bundles for the women to carry away.
What the devil are they up to? He was intrigued. And how did that raft of weed get into the canal so conveniently placed for Courtney to harvest? Then the answer occurred to him. Of course! He must have captured and roped it in the main river, then used muscle power to drag it up the canal. They warned me that he is crafty.
The workers hailed Penrod respectfully, invoking Allah’s blessing on him. They looked impressed when he returned the greeting in fluent, colloquial Arabic. Although he wore no uniform, they knew his name was Abadan Riji, and that he had ridden off Osman Atalan and all his most famous aggagiers to reach Khartoum. Yakub had seen to it that all the city knew of their heroics.
When Penrod followed the line of Sudanese women through the rear gate of the compound, no one challenged him. He found himself in a large walled enclosure, which swarmed with activity. The women piled their bundles in the centre and returned to the canal for the next load. Another team was seated in groups, chattering as they picked over the cut stems and sorted them into piles. They discarded all the dead and dried-out material, and chose only that which was still green and succulent. This they sorted into the various types of vegetation. The largest heap comprised the common papyrus, but there was also water-hyacinth, and three other types of grass and reed. The nymphaea was obviously the most prized plant for it was not piled on the dusty ground like the papyrus and hyacinth but carefully packed into sacks and carried away for pulping by another team of women. They were working over a long line of stamp mortars “that usually crushed dhurra into flour. The women worked in unison, thumping the heavy wooden pole they used as a pestle into the bowl-shaped mortar, pounding the water- lilies with a little water into pulp. They sang as they swayed and rocked to the rhythm of the swinging poles.
Once the contents of the mortars were reduced to a thick green paste, another party of women collected it in large black clay pots, and carried it through the gate of a second enclosure. Penrod was interested and followed them. No sooner had he stepped through the gate when, for the first time, he was challenged in a peremptory treble. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Penrod found himself confronted by too young females, neither of whom stood much taller than his belt buckle. One was dark brunette and the other was golden blonde. One had eyes the colour of molten toffee, while the smaller girl’s were the bright blue of petunia petals.
Both gazed up at him with a severe expression and pursed lips. The taller child had her fists on her hips in a pugnacious attitude. “You’re not allowed in here. This is a secret place.”
Penrod recovered from his surprise, gallantly lifted his hat and bowed deeply. “I beg your pardon, ladies, I did not mean to trespass. Please accept my apologies and allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Penrod Ballantyne of Her Majesty’s 10th Royal Hussars. At present I am on the staff of General Gordon.”
Both girls’ expressions softened as they continued to stare at him. They were unaccustomed to being addressed in such polite terms. Furthermore, like most other women, they were not impervious to Penrod’s charms.
“I am Saffron Benbrook, sir,” said the taller girl, and curtsied. “But you may call me Saffy.”
“Your servant, Miss Saffy.”
“And I am Amber Benbrook, but some people call me Midget,” said the blonde. “I don’t really like the name, but I suppose I am a little shorter than my sister.”
“I agree entirely. It is not a fitting name for such a lovely young lady. If you will permit me, I shall address you as Miss Amber.”
“How do you do?” Amber returned his bow with a curtsy, and when she straightened up she found herself in love for the first time. It was a sensation of warmth and pressure in her chest, disturbing but not altogether unpleasant.
“I know who you are,” she said, just a trifle breathlessly.
“Do you, indeed? And, pray, how is that?”
“I heard Ryder speaking to Daddy about you.”
“Daddy, I presume, is David Benbrook. But who is Ryder?”
“Ryder Courtney. He said you had the finest pair of whiskers in Christendom. What happened to them?”
“Ah!” replied Penrod, his face suddenly touched with frost. “He must be a noted comedian.”
“He is a great hunter and very, very clever.” Saffron rushed to his defence. “He knows the name of every animal and bird in the world -the Latin names,” she added portentously.
Amber was determined to wrest back Penrod’s attention from her twin. “Ryder says that the ladies find you dashing and gallant.” Penrod looked slightly better pleased, until Amber went on innocently, “And that you agree wholeheartedly with their opinion.”
Penrod changed the topic. “Who is in charge here?”
“We are,” the twins chorused.
“What are you doing? It looks very interesting.”
“We are making plant curds to feed our people.”
“I would be most grateful if you could explain the process to me.” The twins seized upon the invitation and competed vigorously for his attention, interrupting and contradicting each other at every opportunity. Each grabbed one of Penrod’s hands and dragged him into the inner courtyard.
“When the most succulent leaves are crushed, then they have to be filtered.”
“To get rid of the pith and rubbish.” There was no longer any thought of safeguarding secrets.
“We strain it through trade cloth from Ryder’s stores.”
“We have to squeeze it to get out all the goodness.”
Pairs of Sudanese women were pouring the green pulp into lengths of printed cloth, then twisting it between them. The juices dribbled into the huge black cast-iron pots, which stood on three legs over the smouldering cooking fires.
“We measure the temperature Saffron brandished a large thermometer importantly.
