imposed incarceration was even more irksome than his cramped quarters and the disgusting food. It was a relief to direct all his energy and imagination into preparations for the coming conflict.
His plan was in two parts. First he had to lure the Dervish through the drainage ditch in the outer-wall, and into the narrow creek. Then he had to ensure there was no way for them to get out, at least not alive. Gordon restricted his inspection tours to the hours of curfew. Penrod never expected praise from Chinese Gordon, but made certain that he gave the general no further cause for criticism.
Once all the preparations were completed, Yakub was more forthcoming in his praise than Gordon had been. “With the help of clever Yakub you have built an abattoir.” He chuckled. “A slaughter house for the pigs of Ansar.” Instinctively he fiddled with the hilt of his dagger as he looked around the stockade they had built. The men were stacking dry timber from the derelict buildings of the city on the bonfires that Penrod had ordered to be constructed on both banks of the creek. He had taken great care that once they were lit the flames would illuminate the enemy, but would not dazzle his gunners and riflemen. Each evening at nightfall his men soaked the bonfires with lamp oil so that their combustion would be almost instantaneous.
Penrod’s sudden mysterious disappearance caused varying levels of consternation and concern among the Benbrook sisters. The one who suffered least was Saffron. She merely found herself deprived of a whip to torment her twin. It was no longer satisfactory to tease Amber about her beau, when he had absconded. Besides, Amber’s distress whenever she raised the subject detracted from Saffron’s enjoyment. Teasing was fun; inflicting pain was not.
On the other hand Rebecca was adept at concealing her true feelings so Saffron had no inkling as to how profoundly Penrod’s disappearance had affected her. Had she guessed, she would have had richer fields to plough.
When Amber had almost convinced herself that she would never again set eyes upon Captain Ballantyne, and that suicide was the only solution to her tragic existence, Yakub saved her life. This was not a deliberate act of charity: it was in gratification of Yakub’s baser instincts.
His strict confinement, by his master, to the harbour de fences above the mosquito-ridden creek suited Yakub not at all. In the last months he had become accustomed to finer living. Each evening Nazeera had provided him with a bowl of the same food as the consul general and his family enjoyed. This was not a great feast, but it far surpassed the watery communal stew, which smelt and tasted of rotten fish and dried animal hides.
However, by far the most troubling element in this new existence was that each night he lay awake at the foot of his master’s angareb, waiting for the Dervish attack and wondering if Nazeera was being faithful to him. If her previous behaviour was anything to go upon, this seemed highly unlikely. He brooded on the fact that the perfidious Bacheet, that illegitimate son of a Beja father and a Galla pleasure dancer, was under no restrictions as to his nocturnal movements. The thought of Bacheet creeping into his beloved’s angareb each night kept Yakub from sleep more effectively than all the mosquitoes from the creek. He rose quietly, as if he was going to use the latrine bucket. One of the sentries challenged him at the harbour gate, but Yakub knew the password.
Amber was sitting sleepless at her bedroom window. It was three days since Captain Ballantyne had disappeared. She tortured herself with the thought that he might have been caught by the Dervish before he reached the British lines. She imagined him as a prisoner of the Mahdi. She had heard of the fate of those who fell into that monster’s bloodstained hands, and knew she would not sleep that night.
Below her window someone moved in the shadows of the courtyard. She drew back quickly. It might be an assassin sent by the evil Mahdi, but at that moment the man glanced up towards her window and she recognized his squint. “Yakub!” she breathed. “But he should be with Penrod on the way to the Wells of Gakdul.” Yakub was Penrod’s shadow: wherever he went Yakub followed.
The breathtaking truth dawned upon her. If Yakub is here, then Penrod is somewhere close by. He did not go to Gakdul after all. It was only recently that she had allowed herself to think of him as Penrod, and not as Captain Ballantyne.
Amber’s melancholy and foreboding dropped away. She knew exactly where Yakub was going. She sprang up from the window-seat, ran lightly to her wardrobe and threw a dark cloak over her nightdress. She paused only long enough to make certain that Saffron was still asleep, then slipped out of the bedroom and crept downstairs, making certain to avoid the twelfth step, which always creaked and woke her father. She let herself out of the kitchen side door and crossed the stableyard to the servants’ compound.
Nazeera’s window was lamp-lit. She found a lookout position in one of the empty stables and settled in to wait. She passed the next few hours by trying to imagine what Yakub and Nazeera found to keep themselves busy for such a long time. Rebecca had said that the two of them made love. Amber was not sure what this procedure entailed: her most diligent enquiries had not greatly increased her understanding of the subject. She suspected that Rebecca herself, despite her knowing airs, was just as ignorant as she was.
“It’s when people kiss each other,” Rebecca had explained loftily, ‘but it’s not polite to talk about it.” Amber found this unsatisfactory. Most of the kisses she had observed were fleeting and usually planted on the cheek or the back of a hand, which could only be considered fairly dull entertainment. The one glaring exception was the exchange she and Saffron had witnessed between Ryder and Rebecca, which had caused such a brouhaha. That had been much more interesting. Both participants had obviously enjoyed the process, but even that had lasted less than a minute. In comparison, Yakub and Nazeera had been at it half the night.
I will ask Nazeera, she decided, then had a better idea. “As soon as I find out where he is, I will ask Penrod. He’s a man, so he must know how they do it.”
Shortly before dawn the lamplight in Nazeera’s room was extinguished, and moments later Yakub crept out of the door and set off through the dark, silent streets in guilty haste. Amber kept him in sight until he reached the harbour, and she heard one of the sentries challenge him. Then she had to get back to the palace before they found out she was missing.
Cat been at the cream?” Saffron demanded. Amber’s ebullient mood was such a marked change from the days of gloom that had preceded it that she had to tackle her sister later that day as they worked side by side over the green-cake cauldrons in Ryder Courtney’s compound.
Amber gave her a sweet but enigmatic smile, and would not be drawn.
That evening, an hour after curfew, Penrod Ballantyne was amazed to recognize Amber’s voice arguing with the sentries at the entrance to his headquarters in the Gatling emplacement. He rushed out immediately, buckling on his sword belt. “You silly child,” he scolded her severely. “You know very well there is a curfew. You might have been shot.”
Amber had hoped for a warmer reception. “I brought you some green-cake. I knew you must be starving.” She unwrapped the small bundle she was carrying. “And one of Papa’s clean shirts. I can smell your old one from here.”
Penrod was about to demand how she had learnt of his whereabouts when, in the light of the bulls eye lantern, he saw tears of humiliation in her eyes. But she blinked them back and faced him with her chin up. “Furthermore, Captain Ballantyne, I will have you know that I am not a silly child.”
“Of course you are not, Miss Amber.” He relented instantly. “You took me by surprise. I just did not expect you. I apologize.”
She perked up. “If you give me your old shirt I will take it back to wash it for you.”
Penrod found himself in a dilemma. With the threat of an imminent Dervish attack on the harbour, he should not allow her to stay here another minute. For the same reason he dared not leave the emplacement to escort her back to the palace, and he could not let her wander through the city alone after curfew. He could send Yakub with her, but he needed him at his side. There was no one else he could trust. He chose the lesser of all evils.
“I expect that you will have to spend the night here. I cannot allow you to break curfew and go home alone,” he muttered.
Her face lit up with pleasure. This stroke of fortune far exceeded her remotest expectations. “I can cook your dinner,” she said.
“There isn’t much to cook, so why don’t you and I share your very generous gift of green-cake?”
They sat on his angareb in the dugout. There were no curtains to this alcove so the gunners were involuntary chaperones as they nibbled the green-cake and talked in low tones. It was the first time he had spent any time with her, and Penrod soon discovered that Amber was entertaining company. She had an impish sense of humour that appealed to him, and a quaint manner of expressing herself. She described her various travels with her father, which ranged from Cape Town to Cairo, and finally Khartoum. Then, abruptly, she fell silent, placed her chin in her
