The Triumph of the Sun Read online

  ‘Damn General bloody Chinese bloody Gordon!’ he said, stood up abruptly and moved around the room. Apart from the cabin of the Intrepid Ibis this was his only permanent home. His father and his grandfather had been wanderers. From them he had learnt the itinerant lifestyle of the hunter and the African trader. But this godown was home. It needed only a good woman to make it complete.

  A sudden image of Rebecca Benbrook opened in his mind. He smiled ruefully. He had a feeling that, for no good reason he could fathom, he had burned his bridges in that quarter. He crossed to a pair of massive elephant tusks that were fastened by bronze rings to the stonework of the wall and stroked one of the stained yellow shafts absently. The feeling of the smooth ivory under his fingers was as comforting as a string of worry-beads. With a single bullet through the brain, Ryder had killed the mighty bull who had carried these tusks at Karamojo, a thousand miles south of Khartoum on the Victoria Nile.

  Still fondling the ivory, he studied the faded photograph in its ebony frame on the near wall. It depicted a family standing in front of an ox-wagon in a bleak but unmistakably African landscape. A team of sixteen oxen was inspanned and the black driver stood beside them, ready to crack his long whip and begin the trek towards some nameless destination out there in the blue yonder. In the centre of the picture Ryder’s father sat in the saddle of his favourite mount, a grey gelding he had named Fox. He was a big, powerfully built man, with a full dark beard. He had died so long ago that Ryder could not remember if it was a reasonable likeness. He was holding the six-year-old Ryder on the pommel of his saddle with his long skinny legs dangling. Ryder’s mother stood at the horse’s head gazing serenely at the camera. He remembered every detail of her lovely features and, as always when he looked on them, he felt his heart squeezed by the memory. She was holding his sister’s hand. Alice was a few years older than Ryder. On the other side of her stood Ryder’s elder brother, with one arm protectively round their mother’s waist. That day had been Waite Courtney’s sixteenth birthday. He was ten years older than Ryder, and had been more a father to him than a brother after their own father had been killed by a wounded buffalo during the course of the journey on which the five in the photograph had been about to embark.

  The last time Ryder Courtney had wept was when he received the telegraph from his sister Alice in London with the terrible news that Waite had been killed by the Zulus on some God-forsaken battlefield in South Africa under a hill called Isandlwana, the Place of the Little Hand. He had left his widow Ada with two sons, Sean and Garrick; fortunately they were almost grown men and could take care of her.

  Ryder sighed and drove those sad thoughts from his mind. He shouted for Bacheet. Although it was still dark, there was much they must do today if they were to be ready to sail before midnight.

  The two men walked past the ivory warehouse to the gate of the animal stockade. Old Ali met them coughing and grumbling.

  ‘O beloved of Allah,’ Ryder greeted him. ‘May the wombs of all your beautiful young wives be fruitful. And may their ardour fire your heart and weaken your knees.’

  Ali tried not to grin at this levity, for all three of his wives were ancient crones. When a chuckle almost escaped him he turned it into a cough, then spat a glob of yellow phlegm into the dust. Ali was the keeper of the menagerie, and although he seemed to hate all mankind he had a magical way with wild creatures. He led Ryder on a tour of the monkey cages. They were all clean, and the water and feed in the dishes was fresh. Ryder reached into the cage of Colobus and his favourite jumped on to his shoulder, bared his teeth and exposed his fangs. Ryder found the remains of the dhurra cake from his breakfast in his pocket and fed it to him. He stroked the handsome black and white coat as they went on down the row of cages. There were five different species of ape, including dog-faced baboons, and two young chimpanzees, which were hugely in demand in Europe and Asia, and would find eager buyers in Cairo. They clambered up and hugged Ali round the neck; the youngest sucked his ear as though it were its mother’s teat. Ali grumbled at them in soft, loving tones.

  Beyond the monkeys there were cages full of birds, from starlings of vivid metallic hues to eagles, huge owls, long-legged storks and hornbills, with beaks like great yellow trumpets. ‘Are you still able to find food for them?’ Ryder indicated the carnivorous birds tethered by one leg to their posts. Ali grunted noncommittally, but Bacheet answered for him.

  ‘The rats are the only animals that still thrive in the city. The urchins bring them in for two copper coins each.’ Ali looked at him venomously for having divulged information that was none of his business.

  At the far end of the stockade the antelopes were penned together, except for the Cape buffalo who were too aggressive to share with other animals. They were still calves, barely weaned, for young animals were more resilient and travelled better than mature beasts. Ryder had left for last the two rare and lovely antelope he had captured on his last expedition. They had lustrous ginger coats with stark white stripes, huge swimming eyes and trumpet-shaped ears, and were also still calves; when fully mature they would be the size of a pony. Buds bulged out between their ears, which would soon sprout into heavy corkscrew horns. Although the cured hides of the bongo had been described before, no live specimen had ever been offered for sale in Europe, as far as Ryder knew. A breeding pair like this would command a prince’s ransom. He fed them dhurra cakes and they slobbered greedily into his palm.

  As they walked on Ryder and Ali discussed how best to maintain a constant supply of fodder to keep their charges nourished and healthy. The bongos were browsing animals, and Ali had discovered that they accepted the foliage of the acacia tree. Al-Mahtoum’s men regularly brought in camel loads of freshly cut branches from the desert in exchange for handfuls of silver Maria Theresa dollars.

  ‘Soon we will have to capture another floating reed island because if we do not the other animals will starve,’ Ali warned lugubriously. He relished being the bearer of worrisome tidings. When rafts of swamp weed and papyrus broke free from the dense masses in the lagoons and channels of the Sud they were carried downstream on the Nile. Some of the rafts were so extensive and buoyant that often they brought large animals with them from the swamps. Despite the best efforts of the Dervish, Ryder and his crew were able to secure these living rafts with long cables and heave them on to the bank. There, gangs of labourers hacked the matted vegetation into manageable blocks and moored them in the moat of the channel. The grasses and reeds remained green until they could be used as fodder.

  There was scarcely enough daylight for Ryder to finish his preparations to leave Khartoum, and the sun was setting by the time he and Bacheeet left the compound with a string of baggage camels for the old harbour. Jock McCrump had steam up in the boilers of the Intrepid Ibis when they went aboard.

  Ryder was painfully aware of the spying eyes of the city upon them as they loaded the last bundles of cordwood for the boilers into one of the barges. The sun had been down for two hours before they had finished but the heat of the day still held the city in a sweaty embrace as the moon began to show its upper limb above the eastern horizon and transform the ugly buildings of the city with its pale romantic rays.

  Unremarked among the other sparse river traffic, a tiny felucca used the last of the evening breeze to leave the Omdurman bank and slip downriver. Under cover of darkness it passed not much more than its own length beyond the entrance to the old harbour. The captain stood on one of the thwarts and stared into the entrance. He saw that torches were burning, and with the rays of the moon he was able to make out all the unusual activity around the ferenghi steamer moored in the inner harbour. He heard the clamour and shouting of many voices. It was as he had been informed. The ferenghi ship was making ready to leave the city. He dropped back on to his seat at the tiller and whistled softly to his three-man crew to harden the big lateen sail so that he could bring her closer to the night breeze, then put the tiller hard up. The small boat shot away at an angle across the current
and headed back for Omdurman on the western side of the river. As they came under the loom of the land the captain whistled again, but more piercingly, and was challenged almost immediately from the darkness: ‘In the name of the Prophet and the Divine Mahdi, speak!’

  The captain stood up again and called to the watchers on the bank. ‘There is no God but God, and Muhammad is his prophet. I bear tidings for the Khalifa Abdullahi.’

  The Intrepid Ibis still lay at the Old City wharf. Jock McCrump and Ryder Courtney were checking the row of Martini-Henry rifles in the gun rack at the back of the open bridge, making certain they were loaded, and that spare packets of the big Boxer-Henry .45 calibre cartridges were to hand, should they run into the Dervish blockade when they left the harbour.

  No sooner had they completed their final preparations than the first of the most important passengers came up the gangplank, Bacheet leading them to their quarters. The Ibis had only four cabins. One belonged to Ryder Courtney, but over Bacheet’s protests he was going to relinquish it to the Benbrook family. There were only two bunks in the tiny cabin. They would be crowded, but at least it had its own bathroom. The girls would be afforded some privacy in the crowded steamer. Presumably one of the twins could sleep with her father, while the other would be with Rebecca. The foreign consuls had been allocated the remaining cabins, while the rest of the almost four hundred passengers must take their chances on the open decks, or crowded into the three empty barges. The fourth barge was laden with the cordwood so that they would not be forced to go ashore to cut supplies of this precious commodity.

  Ryder looked towards the eastern horizon. The moon was only a few days from full, and would give him just enough light to descry the channel down towards the Shabluka Gorge. Unfortunately it would also light up the target for the Dervish gunners. Their aim was improving each day as they had more practice and experience with the laying of the Krupps guns that they had captured at El Obeid. They seemed to possess an endless supply of ammunition.

  Ryder looked back at the wharf and felt a prickle of irritation. Major al-Faroque of General Gordon’s staff had lined up a company of his troops to guard the perimeter of the harbour. With fixed bayonets they were prepared to prevent a mob of refugees without General Gordon’s pass trying to storm the little steamer and force themselves aboard. The desperate populace would go to any lengths and take any chance to escape the city. What annoyed Ryder was that al-Faroque had allowed his men to light torches so that they could examine the faces and papers of those would-be passengers who were lining up at the entrance. The torchlight now illuminated the entire expanse of the wharf to the scrutiny of the Dervish sentries across the river.

  ‘In God’s name, Major, get your men to douse those lights!’ Ryder bellowed.

  ‘I have General Gordon’s strict orders to allow no one to pass until I have checked their papers.’

  ‘You are calling the Mahdi’s attention to our preparations to sail,’ Ryder shouted back.

  ‘I have my orders, Captain.’

  While they argued, the crowd of passengers and hopefuls was swelling rapidly. Most were carrying infants or bundles of their possessions. However, they were becoming anxious and panicky at being forbidden entry. Many were shouting and waving passes over their heads. Those who had no pass stood stubborn and grim-faced, watching for their opportunity.

  ‘Let those passengers through,’ Ryder shouted.

  ‘Not until I have examined their passes,’ the Major retorted and turned his back, leaving Ryder fuming helplessly at his bridge rail. Al-Faroque was stubborn and the altercation was having no effect except to delay the embarkation interminably. Then Ryder noticed David’s tall figure pushing through the throng with his daughters pressing close behind him. With relief he saw that al-Faroque had recognized them and was waving them through the cordon of his troops. They hurried to the gangplank, burdened with their most valued possessions. Saffron was lugging her paintbox and Amber a canvas bag stuffed with her favourite books. Nazeera pushed the girls up the gangplank for David had used all his influence and the dignity of his office to obtain a pass for her.

  ‘Good evening, David. You and your family will have my cabin,’ Ryder greeted him, as he stepped aboard.

  ‘No! No! My dear fellow, we cannot evict you from your home.’

  ‘I will be fully occupied on the bridge during the voyage,’ Ryder assured him. ‘Good evening, Miss Benbrook. There are only two narrow bunks. You will be a little crowded, I am afraid, but it’s the best available. Your maid must take her place in one of the barges.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Courtney. Nazeera is one of us. She can share a bunk with Amber. Saffron can share with my father. I will sleep on the cabin floor. I am sure we will all be very comfortable,’ Rebecca announced with finality. Before Ryder could protest an ominous chanting and shouting came from the large crowd held back by the guards at the head of the wharf, like floodwaters by a frail dam wall. It provided him with a welcome excuse to avoid another confrontation with Rebecca. There was an ominous glitter in her dark eyes, and a mutinous lift to her chin.

  ‘Excuse me, David. I will have to leave you to install yourselves. I am needed elsewhere.’ Ryder left them and ran down the gangplank. When he reached Major al-Faroque’s side he saw that the crowd beyond the line of soldiers was growing larger and more unruly with every minute that passed, and they were pressing right up to the points of the bayonets. Monsieur Le Blanc was the last of the diplomatic corps to arrive. Incongruously he was decked out in a flowing opera cloak and a Tyrolean hat with a bunch of feathers in the band. He was followed by a procession of his servants, each heavily laden with his luggage. Born aloft on the shoulders of his porters was a pair of brassbound cabin trunks, each the size of a pharaoh’s sarcophagus.

  ‘You cannot bring all that rubbish on board, Monsieur,’ Ryder told him, as the guards allowed him to pass.

  Le Blanc reached him with sweat dripping off his chin, fanning himself with a pair of yellow gloves. ‘That “rubbish”, Monsieur, as you call it, is my entire wardrobe of clothing and is irreplaceable. I cannot leave without it.’

  Ryder saw at once the futility of arguing with him. He stepped past Le Blanc and confronted the first party of trunk-bearers as they staggered through the cordon with their load.

  ‘Put those down!’ he ordered, in Arabic. They stopped and stared at him.

  ‘Do not listen to him,’ squealed Le Blanc, and rushed back to slap at their faces with his glove. ‘Bring it along, mes braves.’ The porters started forward again, but Ryder measured the huge Arab who was clearly the head porter, then stepped up to him and slammed a punch into the point of his jaw. The porter dropped as though shot through the head. The trunk slipped from his fellows and crashed to the stone flags. The lid flew open and a small avalanche of clothing and toiletries poured out on to the wharf. The rest of the porters waited for no more but dropped their load and fled from the wrath of the mad ferenghi captain.

  ‘Now see what you have done,’ cried Le Blanc, and fell to his knees. He began gathering up armfuls of his scattered possessions and trying to stuff them back into the trunk. Behind him the crowd sensed an opportunity. They pressed forward more eagerly, and the guards were forced back a few paces.

  Ryder grabbed Le Blanc’s arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘Come along, you Belgian imbecile.’ He tried to drag him towards the gangplank.

  ‘If I am an imbecile, then you are an English barbarian,’ howled Le Blanc. He reached back and grabbed a trunk’s heavy brass handle. Ryder could not break his grip, although he hauled with all his strength.

  From the back of the crowd a large rock was hurled at the head of Major al-Faroque. It missed its target and struck Le Blanc’s cheek. He shrieked with pain, released the trunk handle and clutched his face with both hands. ‘I am wounded! I am gravely injured.’

  More stones flew out of the crowd to fall among the soldiers and bounce off the pavement. One struck an Egyptian sergeant, who dropped his rifle and
went down on one knee clutching his head. His men fell back, glancing over their shoulders for a line of retreat. The crowd yammered like a pack of hounds and pressed them harder. Someone picked up the sergeant’s fallen rifle and aimed it at Major al-Faroque. The man fired and a bullet grazed the major’s temple. Al-Faroque dropped, stunned. His men broke and ran back, trampling his prostrate form. They had been transformed in an instant from guards to refugees. Ryder picked up Le Blanc and ran with him kicking, screaming and struggling in his arms like a child in a tantrum.

  Ryder dumped the Belgian on the deck, then raced on to his bridge. ‘Cast off!’ he shouted to his crew, just as the first wave of rioters and half the Egyptian askaris scrambled on board. The decks were already so overcrowded that the crew were shoved from their positions and were unable to reach the mooring lines. More and more rioters raced down the wharf, and leapt on board the steamer or scrambled into the barges. Those already on board tried to beat them back and the decks were buried under a mêlée of struggling bodies.

  Saffron popped her head out of the main cabin to watch the excitement. Ryder picked her up and thrust her bodily into her elder sister’s arms, then pushed them both into the cabin. ‘Stay out of the way,’ he shouted, and slammed the door. Then he snatched the fire axe from its bracket at the head of the companionway. More rioters were coming out of the darkness, unending hordes.

  Ryder felt the deck of the Ibis heel over under the uneven distribution of weight. ‘Jock!’ he shouted desperately. ‘The bastards are going to capsize us. We have to get her off the jetty.’ He and Jock fought their way through the throng. They managed to cut the mooring lines free, but by this time the Ibis was listing dangerously.