it dropped in steeply towards the whitewashed dome of the small mosque on the southern outskirts of Omdurman.
As he slipped the watch back into his pocket he had the feeling he was being watched and looked round. General Gordon’s head showed above the parapet. “What is it, Ballantyne?” he called down.
“I can’t be certain, General, but I would wager a gold sovereign to a pinch of dry pigeon droppings that the Mahdi is running a regular bird mail with his army in the north.”
“If you are right, I would give more than a gold sovereign to get my hands on one of his messages.” Gordon stared grimly across the river at the mosque where the pigeon had landed. It was almost a month since Penrod had arrived in the city. Since then they had received no news from Cairo. There was no way of guessing what had happened to General Stewart and his relief column. Had they begun the march? Had they been beaten back? On the other hand perhaps they were only days away.
“Ballantyne, how can you get me one of those pigeons?” Gordon asked quietly.
A little before four the following afternoon Penrod was waiting on the terrace of the consular palace with his head thrown back to watch the northern sky.
“Right on time!” he exclaimed, as the speck appeared in the north sky, slightly to the east of where he had expected it. As it passed over his head he estimated the bird’s speed and height with narrowed eyes. “Two hundred feet if it’s an inch, and going like its tail’s on fire. A long call!” he murmured. “But there is no wind, and I have taken pheasant higher than that.” He stroked his moustache, which was approaching its former glory.
The consular dinner that evening was formal. There were a dozen guests, all that remained of the diplomatic corps and the civil administrators of the Khedive in Cairo. As usual, Rebecca was her father’s hostess. David had sent an invitation to Ryder Courtney, without consulting either Rebecca or Saffron, either of whom would surely have exercised a veto if they had had the chance.
Ryder had been cherishing a young buffalo heifer in the expectations of selling it for an enormous profit when the city was relieved. The prospect of salvation was becoming daily more remote, and the buffalo had a voracious appetite that was increasingly difficult to satisfy. When he received David’s invitation he slaughtered the animal and sent a haunch with two bottles of Cognac to the consular kitchens.
Rebecca recognized the gift as a peace-offering, and it placed her in a terrible quandary. Could she refuse it, when it would make the evening a triumphant success? It would mean acknowledging Ryder’s existence, which she was not yet prepared to do. She solved the dilemma by sending him a note, delivered by Amber, accepting the gift on behalf of her father. She knew this was weakness on her part, but she salved her conscience by derermining not to address a single word to him if he attended the dinner.
Ryder, as was his wont, was the last guest to arrive. He was looking so elegant in his dinner jacket, and seemed so at ease with himself and the world that Rebecca’s anger was exacerbated.
Nazeera lied, she thought, as she watched from the corner of her eye as he chatted affably with her father and Consul Le Blanc. He isn’t suffering in the least.
At that moment she became aware that she, in her turn, was being watched. She glanced round sharply to see Captain Ballantyne studying her from across the room with the knowing smile that had begun to infuriate her. He is always spying, she thought. Before she recovered her poise and looked away, she noticed that his hair and his whiskers had grown out in a rather fetching fashion. She felt her cheeks burn and that disconcerting sensation in her lower belly. She turned to
Imran Pasha, the former governor of Khartoum who was now subservient to General Gordon.
Ten minutes later she glanced around surreptitiously to see whether Captain Ballantyne was still spying on her, and felt a twinge of annoyance when she saw that he was engrossed with the twins or they were with him. Both Amber and Saffron were shrieking with laughter in a most unladylike fashion. She regretted that she had given in to their blandishments and allowed them to join the company instead of making them eat their dinner with Nazeera in the kitchen. She had scored a small point by seating Saffron beside Ryder Courtney: the child would have difficulty holding firm to her vow never to speak to him again. She had placed Captain Ballantyne as far away from herself as possible, at her father’s end of the table.
The buffalo haunch was a glorious pink in the centre, and running with juices. The company fell upon it in ravenous silence. No sooner were the plates removed than Captain Ballantyne whispered a few words to her father, stood up, bowed to her and strode from the room. She knew better than to expect an explanation for his departure. After all, they were at war, and he was responsible for the city’s de fences However, she regretted that she was to be deprived of the opportunity to snub him more profoundly.
She glanced down the table at the second object of her disapproval, and saw that Saffron had obviously forgiven Ryder. At the beginning of the meal he had ignored her haughtiness and had concentrated all his attention on Amber at his right hand. This had brought Saffron close to tears of jealousy. Then he had switched tactics and turned all his charm on her. She had been unprepared for this. “Saffron, did you know that Lucy has had her babies?” Before she realized the trap, she was listening avidly as he told her Lucy had given birth to twins, what the babies looked like, how proud Lucy was of them. He had named them Billy and Lily.
“Oh, can I come and see them tomorrow? Oh, please, Ryder,” Saffron cried.
“But Saffy, Nazeera told me you were not feeling well,” Ryder said.
“That was yesterday. I was feeling rather pea ky Ryder gathered that pea ky was one of her new words. “But I am very well now. Amber and I will be with you at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” The trial of wills had ended with a complete capitulation on her part.
Rebecca made a small moue at the silliness of the child, and turned her attention back to Consul Le Blanc. She had overheard her father remark to Ryder that he was as queer as a duck with four legs. It was a pity that she was unable to ask Ryder what that meant. It sounded intriguing, and Ryder knew everything. I suppose I will have to forgive him in time, she thought, ‘but not just yet.”
The dessert was pate of green-cake with warm honey sauce: at David Benbrook’s instigation Bacheet had robbed the nest that wild bees had built in the palace roof. He had been sternly restricted to the removal of a single honeycomb David had a sweet tooth and was hoarding the bees’ output. This dish was also warmly received, and the Limoges porcelain dessert bowls were scraped clean.
“I have not enjoyed a meal as much since my last visit to Le Grand Vefour in eighty-one,” Le Blanc assured Rebecca.
Despite his four legs, he is rather a dear old ass,” she thought. In this new mood of benevolence she glanced back at Ryder, caught his eye, then nodded and smiled. His obvious relief was really quite gratifying. Am I becoming fast? she questioned herself. She was not certain what being fast entailed, but her father disapproved of fast women, or said he did.
After their guests had departed and they had climbed the spiral staircase to the bedroom floor her father placed his arm round her shoulders, hugged her and told her how proud he was of her, and what a lovely woman she was growing into.
So he does not think I am becoming fast, Rebecca thought, but nevertheless she felt strangely discontented. As she prepared for bed she whispered, “There is something missing. Why should I feel so unhappy? Life is so short. Perhaps the Mahdi will storm the city tomorrow and it will all be over, and I won’t even have lived.”
As if the monster had heard_ her and stirred in his lair, there came the crash of artillery fire from across the Nile. She heard a shell shriek overhead, then burst somewhere in the native quarter near the canal. With her hair in a golden cloud upon her shoulders she threw on her silk dressing-gown, turned the lamp down low and opened the door to the balcony. She hesitated, feeling guilty and uncertain. “There won’t be anybody there,” she told herself firmly. “It’s after midnight. If he’s still awake, he’ll be at the waterfront with those Gatlings.”
She stepped out on to the balcony and before she could stop herself she glanced down and searched beneath the outspread branches of the tamarind tree. She felt a nasty twinge of disappointment when she realized she had guessed right. Nobody was there. She sighed, leant her elbows on the wall and stared out across the river.
The Bedlam Bedouin is having an early night, she thought. Since sunset there had been only that single cannon shot, and now all was silent. In the moonlight she watched the bats diving and circling as they hunted insects in the top branches of the ficus tree at the bottom of the terrace. After a few minutes she sighed again and straightened up. I’m not sleepy, but it’s late. I should go to bed, she thought.
A vesta flared in the shadows beneath the tamarind tree, and her heart tripped. The flame settled to a yellow glow, and she saw his face lit like the portrait in a cameo, while the rest of him remained shrouded in darkness. He had a long black cigar between his teeth. He placed the tip of it to the match and drew deeply. The flame burned up
