“Here it is the same sad story. Stewart is still encamped at the Wells of Gakdul,” Gordon told him.
“It does not seem possible that either of those divisions can reach us before the end of the month,” David mused, then looked at the others hopefully for a denial. Neither man responded.
Gordon broke the silence. “What is the state of the river, Ballantyne?”
“Yesterday it fell five inches,” Penrod replied. “Each day the pace of the ebb is accelerating.”
“Can one apply the word “ebb” to falling river waters?” David asked, as if to make light of the serious implications.
Gordon ignored the frivolous question. “The prisoners had other information to give us. The Mahdi has ordered another twenty-five thousand of his elite fighting men northwards to reinforce his army. There are now fifty thousand Dervish gathered at Abu Hamed.” He paused, as though reluctant to continue. “Stewart has two thousand. That means he is outnumbered twenty-five to one. The Dervish know exactly what route he must follow to reach the river. They will choose their ground with care before they attack.”
“Stewart is a fine officer.” David tried to sound confident.
“One of the best,” Gordon agreed. “But twenty-five to one is long odds.”
“In God’s Name we must warn Stewart of the danger.”
“Yes, that is what I intend.” Gordon looked across at Penrod. “I am sending Captain Ballantyne to the Wells of Gakdul to warn him and guide him through.”
“How do you intend that he make the journey, General? As far as I am aware, there are no camels in the city. They have all been eaten. There is only one steamer, Ryder Courtney’s Intrepid this, but the engine is still out of commission. It is highly unlikely that a dhow will get through the Dervish lines.”
Gordon gave a chilly smile. “I have discovered that Mr. Courtney is the owner of a fine herd of at least twenty racing camels. He has been prudent enough not to keep them in the city where I might have found them, but has sent them out into the desert, to a tiny oasis two days’ travel to the south. They are grazing there under the care of some of his people.”
David chuckled. “Ryder Courtney has more arrows to his bow than a monkey has fleas.”
“For somebody who recently queried my use of the language, that is as magnificently garbled an image as you are like to come across in a year of searching.” Penrod smiled with him.
“When taxed with the question of the camels, he at first denied ownership.” Gordon was not smiling. “Then he denied that he had any intention of concealing them from me, and said that it was simply a matter of the availability of grazing for the beasts. I immediately commandeered them. If he had been honest with me from the beginning I might have considered compensation.”
“He may not comply with your orders,” David said. “Ryder Courtney is a man of independent spirit.”
“And of avaricious instinct,” Gordon agreed. “But in this case he would be unwise in the extreme to gainsay me. Even under martial law one would hesitate to shoot a subject of the Queen, but he has several warehouses full of ivory and a large menagerie of exotic but edible animals.” Gordon looked smug. “My persuasive logic has prevailed. Courtney has sent word to his herdsmen at the oasis to bring the camels in, and I expect them to be at our disposal by the day after tomorrow.”
“I had no idea of the gravity of the situation,” David murmured. “Had
I done so I would have prevented my daughter arranging a celebration of your victory at the harbour. She has planned a soiree for tomorrow evening. Unfortunately our kitchens can no longer provide elaborate dinners. However, there will be piano recitals and singing. If you think this inappropriate, General, I shall ask Rebecca to cancel the evening.” “Not at all.” Gordon shook his head. “Although I shall not attend, Miss Benbrook’s festivities will keep up pretences and spirits. She must go ahead, by all means.”
Amber and Saffron opened the musical programme with a piano duet of “Greensleeves’. It mattered little that the consular palace’s grand piano was in sorry need of tuning: the twins made up in enthusiasm for what they lacked in other areas.
This evening Rebecca was a gay and vivacious hostess, and her father could not help remarking her change of mood. Last week she had been sad and moping but now she sang “Spanish Ladies’ with Ryder Courtney, then prevailed on him to render a solo of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” This was well received by the company. Saffron, in particular, applauded him rapturously.
Then Amber dragged Penrod on to the floor. “You have to sing also. Everybody has to sing or do something.”
Penrod gave in graciously. “Can you play “Heart of Oak”?” he asked, and Amber ran to the piano. Penrod’s voice startled and thrilled them all: it was easy, lyrical and true.
“Come, crfeer up, my lads! “Tis to glory we steer, To add something more To this wonderful year…”
When the song ended Rebecca tried to blink tears from her eyes, as she called gaily, “Refreshments will be served before the next act.”
She served strong Abyssinian coffee in delicate Limoges porcelain demitasses. There was no milk or sugar. While she was serving Captain Ballantyne, she fumbled and spilt hot coffee on to his gleaming boots.
Her father watched her from across the room as she blushed bright scarlet, and thought her confusion was almost as uncharacteristic as her clumsiness. Suddenly he realized what it meant. The pretty soldier has her deeply entangled in his web. She is all fluster and flutter whenever he is within fifty paces. When he disappeared she almost pined away, and now he is back she is dizzy with delight. He frowned, and thrust his hands into his pockets. She does not realize that in two days he will disappear again. I would hate to see her badly hurt. It is my paternal duty to warn her. He thought about that for a moment. And perhaps I shall. After all, the identity of the father of my grandchildren is very much my business.
Rebecca recovered herself, and clapped her hands for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special treat for you this evening. All the way from Madrid, where she has danced before the King and Queen of Spain and other crowned heads of Europe, Senora Esmeralda Lopez Conchita Montes de Tete de Singe, the celebrated flamenco dancer.” There was a brief but mystified spattering of applause as from behind the curtains a plump Spanish lady in lace mantilla, clattering bangles and earrings swept into the room on the arm of Ryder Courtney. In the centre of the floor she sank into a deep curtsy, then rose to her feet with unusual grace for such a portly female. She clicked castanets above her head, and as Rebecca struck up the opening bars of the “March of the Toreadors’ Senora Tete de Singe launched a drumfire salvo of heel stamps.
David let out a snort of laughter. He had been the first to recognize Consul Le Blanc beneath the tall wig and hectic makeup. Then a howl of laughter went up from the entire room, and did not subside until Le Blanc sank to the floor in another theatrical curtsy, his makeup running.
In the ensuing pandemonium David crossed to Rebecca and took her arm. “What an inspired entertainment, my darling. Le Blanc was superb. I do so love a good impersonation.”
Rebecca was in such high spirits that when he led her towards the french windows she went without protest. “Ah!” he said. “My kingdom for a breath of fresh air.” He led her along the terrace. “Of course, Ryder Courtney has a fine voice. A man of many talents. He will make some lucky lady a wonderful husband.”
“Papa, you are always so subtle.” She tapped his shoulder with her fan.
“I have no idea what you are talking about. But I must say I was surprised by Captain Ballantyne. He also has an extraordinary singing voice.” She went still, and looked away.
“What a pity he is leaving, this time for good, and we shall probably never have the pleasure of listening to him again.”
“What are you saying, Daddy?” Her voice was small.
“Dear me, I should not have let that slip. Gordon is sending him north with despatches to Cairo. You know these military men. Ships in the night, all of them, I’m afraid. One can not rely on them.”
“Daddy, I think we should go in to entertain our guests.”
Rebecca looked at herself in the mirror of her dressing-table. Her face was so thin that the cheekbones cast shadows beneath them. There are no fat people in Khartoum, these days. Even Consul Le Blanc is skin and bones. She smiled at the exaggeration, and noted with pleasure the improvement the smile made. I must try not to frown. She dipped her powder puff in the crystal bowl and lightly dusted the hollows under her eyes. “Better and better,” she whispered. She was thin but she still had the bloom of youth upon her skin. “At least Daddy thinks I am beautiful. I wonder if he would agree.” Thinking of him brought a glow to her cheeks. “I wonder if he is out there again.” She glanced towards the balcony doors. “I am not going to look. If he is there, he will think I am encouraging him. He will think that I am a fast woman, which I am definitely not.”
