Stewart was studying him keenly. “Good to have your confirmation. You can hand over the despatches to Hardinge.”
“Sir, General Gordon would not commit anything to paper in case it fell into the hands of the Mahdi. I have only a verbal report.”
“Then you had best give that to me directly. Hardinge can take notes. Go ahead.”
“My first duty, sir, is to inform you of the enemy order of battle, as we are aware of it.”
Stewart listened intently, leaning forward in the saddle. His features were lean and suntanned, his gaze steady and intelligent. He did not interrupt Penrod while he reported the condition of the defenders in Khartoum. Penrod ended the first part of his report succinctly: “General Gordon estimates that he can hold out for another thirty days. However, the food supplies have been reduced to well below survival level. The level of the Nile is falling rapidly, exposing the de fences He asked me to emphasize to you, sir, that every day that passes renders his position more precarious.”
Stewart made no effort to explain the delays he had encountered. He was a man of direct action, not one who made excuses. “I understand,” he said simply. “Go on, please.”
“General Gordon will fly the flags of Egypt and Great Britain from the tower of Mukran Fort, day and night, while the city is still being defended. With a telescope the flags can be seen from as far downstream as the heights of the Shabluka Gorge.”
“I hope shortly to verify that for myself.” Stewart nodded. Although he listened to Penrod with attention, his eyes were constantly busy, watching over the orderly formation of his square as it moved steadily southwards.
“My journey from the city brought me through the midst of the enemy formations. I can give you my own estimate of their dispositions, if you consider that might be of use, General.”
“I am listening.”
“The commander of the Dervish vanguard is the Emir Salida, of the Jaalin tribe. He has probably fifteen thousand warriors under his red banner. The Jaalin are the northernmost tribe of the Sudan. Salida is a man in his late sixties, but he has a formidable reputation. The commander of the centre is the Emir Osman Atalan of the Beja.” Stewart narrowed his eyes at the name. Obviously he had heard it before. “Osman has brought approximately twenty thousand of his own men from the siege of Khartoum. They have Martini-Henry rifles, captured from the Egyptians, and a great store of ammunition. As I am sure you are well aware, sir, the Dervish prefer to get to close quarters and use the sword.”
“Guns?”
“Although they have Nordenfelts, Krupps and plentiful supplies of ammunition in Omdurman, I have seen none being brought north with this wing of their army.”
“I know you’re an old hand at Arab fighting, Ballantyne, where will they meet us, do you suppose?”
“I believe that they will want to deny you the water, sir,” Penrod replied. In the desert everything came down sooner or later to that. “The next water is at the Wells of Abu Klea. It is sparse and brackish,
but they will try to prevent you using it. The approach to the wells is through a rocky defile. I would guess that they will offer battle there, probably as you debouch from the narrow way.”
Hardinge had the map ready. Stewart took it and spread it on the front of his saddle. Penrod pressed close enough to read it with him.
“Point out to me the spot where you think they may attack,” Stewart ordered.
When Penrod did so Stewart studied it for a short while. “I had planned to bivouac tonight on the north side of Tirbi Kebir.” He placed his finger on the spot. “However, in the light of this new information it may be better to force march today, and reach the head of the defile before dark. This will place us in a flexible position in the morning.”
Penrod made no comment. His opinion had not been asked. Stewart rolled the map. “Thank you, Captain. I think you will be most useful with the vanguard under Major Kenwick. Will you ride forward again and place yourself under his command?”
Penrod saluted, and as he rode off Stewart called after him, “Before you join Kenwick, go back and see the quartermaster. Get yourself a decent uniform. From here you look like a bloody Dervish yourself. Somebody is going to take a pot at you.”
In the early-morning light, Osman Atalan and Salida sat at the top of the burnt-out hills of Abu Klea. From this vantage-point they overlooked a deep defile. They were seated on a fine woollen carpet, laid on the edge of the dragon’s back ridge of black basalt rock. An almost identical ridge of the same dark rock faced them across the pass. At its narrowest point it was some four hundred paces across.
The Emir Salida of the Jaalin had known Osman since he was a stripling of seventeen. At that age Osman had ridden into Jaalin territory from the east with his father’s raiding party. They had killed six of Salida’s warriors and driven off sixty-five of his finest camels. Osman had killed his first man on that long-ago raid. The Beja had also abducted twelve Jaalin girls and young women, but these in Salida’s eyes were insignificant against the loss of his camels. In the twelve years since then their blood feud had run red and rank across the desert.
Only since the Divine Mahdi, may he ever triumph over his foes, had called all the tribes of the Sudan to unite in the holy jihad against the infidel had Osman and Salida sat at the same campfire and shared the same pipe. In jihad all personal feuds were suspended. They were united by a common enemy.
A slave girl set the hookah between them. With silver tongs she lifted a live coal from the clay fire pot and placed it carefully on top of the black tobacco packed into the bowl of the pipe. She sucked on the ivory mouthpiece until the smoke was flowing freely. She coughed prettily on the powerful fumes, and passed the mouthpiece to Salida, a mark of respect for his years. The water in the tall glass jar bubbled blue as he drew the smoke through it, held it in his lungs and passed the mouthpiece to Osman. The Mahdi had forbidden the use of tobacco but he was in Omdurman, and Omdurman was far away. They smoked contentedly, discussing their battle plans. When there remained only ash in the pipe bowl, they knelt and prostrated themselves in the ritual of morning prayers.
Then the girl lit another pipe, and at frequent intervals one of their sheikhs came up the ridge to report to them on the enemy movements and the disposition of their own regiments.
“In God’s Name, the squadron of Sheikh Harun is in position,” reported one.
Salida looked at Osman from under hooded, sun-freckled eyelids. “Harun is a fine fighting man. He has two thousand under him. I have placed him in the wadi where the buzzard perched yesterday evening. From there he will be able to rake the enemy rear when they come out on to the plain.”
A short while later another junior sheikh came up the steep slope. “In the Name of God and the Victorious Mahdi, the infidels have sent forward their scouts. A patrol of six soldiers rode through the pass as far as the mouth. They gazed through their long glasses at the palm grove of the wells, then rode back. As you ordered, mighty Emir, we let them go unhindered.”
An hour after sunrise the final report came in, and all the Dervish forces were in the positions allotted to them.
“What of the infidel?” Salida asked, in his rusty high-pitched voice.
“They have not yet broken camp.” The messenger pointed to the head of the long defile. Salida offered his elbow to Osman, and his erstwhile enemy helped the old man to his feet. His joints were lumpy with arthritis, but once in the saddle he could ride and ply the sword like a young warrior. Careful not to show a silhouette against the early-morning sky, Osman led him solicitously to the edge of the cliff and they looked down.
The infidel camp was in full view less than two miles away. The previous evening the soldiers had thrown up a zareba of stones and thorn bush around the perimeter. As always the camp was in the shape of a square. They had placed a Nordenfelt gun at each of the four corners, so it could throw down enfilading fire on the outer walls of the stockade.
“What machines are those?” Salida had never fought the Franks. The Turks he knew well for he had slaughtered them in their hundreds with his own hands. But these big, red-faced men were a different breed. He knew nothing of their ways.
“Those are rifles, which fire very fast. They can lay down fields of dead men, like grass under the scythe, until they grow hot and jam. It is necessary to feed them corpses to stop up their mouths.”
Salida cackled with laughter. “We will feed them well today.” He made a wide gesture, “The feast is ready. We await the honoured guests.”
The hills, valleys and narrow gullies appeared barren and deserted, but in truth they were alive with tens of thousands of men and horses, sitting on their shields, waiting with the patience of the hunter.
