customer was the Mahdi.
Ryder angled the darkened this across the river. For all the obvious reasons, the captains of the grain dhows were keeping closely to the bank furthest from Khartoum. Ryder and Bacheet stared ahead, watching for the first flash of canvas or the shine of starlight on one of the reed-matting lateen sails. Ryder’s lungs ached with the craving for a good cigar, but his stock was dwindling. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, he thought sadly. I might end up smoking black Turkish tobacco in a hookah. How have the mighty descended in the world.
Bacheet touched his arm. “The first little fish swims into our net,” he murmured.
Ryder watched the other vessel materializing on the dark waters, and muttered regretfully, “Small fishing- boat. Riding high in the water. No cargo on board. We will let her go.” He spun the wheel and sheered away from her.
There was a faint hail from the smaller vessel: “In God’s name, what ship are you?”
Bacheet called back: “Go in peace, with blessings of Allah upon you.”
They cruised on. As they rounded the first wide bend of the river, two miles above the city, another hull seemed to spring miraculously out of the night. They were closing so rapidly that Ryder had only seconds to make his decision. It was large dhow, broad-beamed and low in the water. She had only a foot of freeboard. Her bow wave creamed back in the starlight, almost slopping over her bulwarks.
“Heavy with cargo,” Ryder said, with quiet satisfaction. “This one is for us.” He swung in sharply towards the prize, and as they closed there was a cry of alarm from the man at her helm. As the steel hull made heavy contact with the dhow’s timber side, the three heavy grappling hooks shot from the this and clattered on to her deck. They bit and held in the dhow’s bulwarks, locking the two vessels together. With a burst of power and hard left rudder Ryder forced the dhow’s bows to slew across the current, spilling the wind out of her sail so that she wallowed helplessly. Then his men swarmed over the rail.
Before they realized what was happening the crew of the dhow were trussed up securely. Ryder jumped down on to the deck, just as the captain came up from his stern cabin. Ryder recognized him immediately. “Ras Hailu!” he exclaimed, then greeted him in Amharic: “I see you are in good health.”
The Abyssinian started with shock, then recognized Ryder. “Al-Sakhawi! So you have turned pirate.”
“I am no pirate, but you have been dealing with one such. I hear the Mahdi is gouging you on the price of your dhurra.” He took Ras Hailu’s arm. “Come aboard my steamer. Let us drink a little coffee and talk business.”
Jock held the two vessels in midstream while they settled down in the this cabin. After a decent exchange of pleasantries Ryder broached the matter in hand. “How is it that you, a devout Christian and a prince of the house of Menelik, can deal with a fanatic who is conducting a jihad against your Church and your countrymen?”
“I am covered with shame,” Ras Hailu confessed, ‘but, Christian or Muslim, money is still money and a profit is still a profit.”
“What price is the wicked Mahdi paying you?”
Ras Hailu looked pained, but his eyes were shrewd in the lamplight. “Eight shillings a sack, delivered at Omdurman.”
“Christian to Christian, and friend to old friend, what would you charge me if I paid in silver Maria Theresas?”
They both enjoyed the trading for it was in their blood, but time was too short to savour it. Dawn was only hours away. They struck a bargain at nine shillings, which left both men pleased. Jock towed the dhow into a quiet bay off the main river, known as the Lagoon of the Little Fish. Screened by the papyrus reeds, all hands turned out to tranship the cargo of dhurra to the steamer. It took all day, for the dhow was fully laden.
As darkness fell Ryder and Ras Hailu embraced warmly and took leave of each other. The dhow caught the evening breeze and ran up the Blue Nile towards the Abyssinian border. Ryder took the this downriver to Khartoum. She was so deeply laden that they had to tow her from the bank of the canal to her mooring at the rear of the compound.
As soon as curfew ended, Ryder sent Bacheet with a message to General Gordon. Within the hour the general had arrived on the canal bank. He was accompanied by a hundred Egyptian troops, and quickly set up a chain of men to unload the sacks of dhurra. The work went swiftly, and Ryder stood by, counting each one and making notations in his little red book. “By my calculations, General, this is considerably more than the contracted amount.” He cast an eye over the column of figures with the rapidity of a bookkeeper. “Even allowing for ten per cent underweight in the sacks, it’s more in the region of twelve tons than ten.”
Gordon laughed a rare sound, for Chinese Gordon was not given to frivolity, “Surely, Mr. Courtney, you are not suggesting that I should return the excess to the Mahdi, are you?”
“No, sir. I am suggesting that I am entitled to recompense for the overflow,” Ryder replied.
Gordon stopped laughing. “There must be some limit to your avarice, sir.”
“I have rendered unto Caesar,” Gordon frowned at the biblical reference, but Ryder went on unperturbed, ‘and now I would like to keep a ton of the dhurra for my own use. My compound was pillaged by the rioters. My own people are as close to starvation as any in the city. I have a duty to provide for them, as if they were my family. That does not add up to avarice in my book.”
They bargained shrewdly. At last Gordon threw up his hands. “Very well, then. Keep two hundred sacks for yourself and be thankful for my generosity. You can come up to the fort to collect your Judas shekels.” He stamped away towards the arsenal. He wanted to see his precious grain safely behind the walls. But there was another consideration behind his abrupt departure: he did not want Ryder Courtney to see the softening of his expression or the shadow of a smile in his eyes. What a pity to lose a young rascal like that. We should have had him in the army. I could have made him into a firstrate officer, but it’s too late now. He is spoilt by the lure of Mammon.
The train of his thoughts led him on, and he thought of another likely lad. As he reached the gates of the arsenal he paused and looked towards the north.
Ballantyne has been gone fifteen days already. Surely by this time he must have reached Stewart’s encampment at the Wells of Gakdul and given him my message. I know in my heart that God will not allow all my efforts to come to naught. Dear Lord, grant me the strength to hold out just a little longer.
But he was tired to the marrow of his bones.
They had ridden five days in the vast assembly of men and animals. It rolled ponderously northwards across the desert. Penrod Ballantyne swivelled on the saddle of his camel to look back. The dust of their progress reached the horizon and rose to the sky.
Fifty thousand fighting men? he wondered. But we will never know for sure nobody can count them. All the emirs of the southern tribes and all their warriors. What power does this man Muhammad Ahmed wield that he can bring together such a multitude, made up of tribes that for five hundred years have been riven by feud and blood feud?
Then he turned back in the saddle and looked to the north, the direction in which this vast host was riding. Stewart has only two thousand men to oppose them. In all the wars of all the ages did odds such as these ever prevail?
He put aside the thought, and tried to work out how far back Yakub and he were from the vanguard of this mighty cavalcade. Without drawing attention to themselves they had to work their way gradually to the front. It was only from that position that they could break away and make a final dash for the Wells of Gakdul. The Dervish were pacing their camels, not driving them so hard that they would be unfit to take part in the battle ahead. That they were moving so quietly and not rushing into battle reassured Penrod that Stewart must still be encamped there.
They passed slowly through another loose formation of Dervish. These were hard desert tribesmen with swords and shields slung across their backs. Most were mounted on camels, and each led a string of pack camels carrying tents and ammunition cases, cooking pots, food bags and waterskins. Trailing along behind them were the traders and petty merchants of Omdurman, their camels also heavily laden with trade goods and merchandise. After the battle, when the Ansar were rolling in loot, there would be rich profits.
At the head of this formation rode a small group of Ansar on fine Arab steeds, which had been lovingly curried until their hides shone in the sunlight like polished metal. Their long silky manes had been combed out and plaited with coloured ribbons. Their trappings and tack were of painted and beautifully decorated leather. The horsemen sat upon their backs with the panache and studied arrogance of warriors.
“Aggagiers!” Yakub muttered, as they drew closer. “The killers of elephant.”
