The Triumph of the Sun By Wilbur Smith

Preliminary rating: 4.7Q

Synopsis:

In the Sudan decades of brutal misgovernment by the ruling Egyptian
Khedive in Cairo precipitate a fierce and bloody rebellion and Holy War
headed by a charismatic new religious leader, the Mahdi or Expected
One'.  The British are forced to intervene to protect their national
interests and to attempt to rescue the hundreds of British subjects
stranded in the country.

Along with hundreds of others, British trader and businessman Ryder
Courtney is trapped in the capital city of Khartoum.  It is here that
he meets Captain Penrod Ballantyne of the 10th Hussars, as well as the
British Consul, David Benbrook, and his three beautiful daughters.
Against the vivid and bloody backdrop of the siege of Khartoum, in
which British General Charles George Gordon is killed and the British
retreat, these three powerful men fight to survive.

Rich with vibrant historical detail and infused with his inimitable
powers of storytelling, The Triumph of the Sun is Wilbur Smith at his
masterful best.

Also by Wilbur Smith

THE COURTNEYS

When the Lion Feeds

The Sound of Thunder

A Sparrow Falls

Birds of Prey

Monsoon Blue Horizon

THE COURTNEYS OF AFRICA

The Burning Shore Power of the Sword

Rage

A Time to Die Golden Fox

THE BALLANTYNE NOVELS

A Falcon Flies

Men of Men

The Angels Weep

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

Also

The Dark of the Sun Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine The Diamond Hunters

The Sunbird

Eagle in the Sky

The Eye of the Tiger

Cry Wolf Hungry as the Sea

Wild Justice Elephant Song

River God

The Seventh Scroll

Warlock

WILBUR SMITH

THE TRIUMPH OF THE SUN

A Novel of African Adventure

MACMILLAN

First published 2005 by Macmillan an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 1 4050 0570 X Copyright Wilbur Smith 2005

The right of Wilbur Smith to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of the publisher.  Any person who does any unauthorized act
in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution
and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library.

Typeset by Set Systems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham,
Kent

This book is for

My helpmate, playmate, soulmate, wife and best friend, Mokhiniso
Rakhimova Smith

Rebecca leant her elbows on the sill of the wide, unglazed window, and
the heat of the desert blew into her face like the exhalation of a
blast furnace.  Even the river below her seemed to steam like a
cauldron.  Here it was almost a mile wide, for this was the season of
High Nile.  The flow was so strong that it created whirlpools and
glossy eddies across the surface.  The White Nile was green and fetid
with the taint of the swamps through which it had so recently flowed,
swamps that extended over an area the size of Belgium.  The Arabs
called this vast slough the Bahr el Ghazal, and the British named it
the Sud.

In the cool months of the previous year Rebecca had voyaged upstream
with her father to where the flow of the river emerged from the swamps.
Beyond that point the channels and lagoons of the Sud were tract less
and uncharted, carpeted densely with floating weed that was perpetually
shifting, obscuring them from the eyes of all but the most skilled and
experienced navigator.  This watery, fever-ridden world was the haunt
of crocodile and hippopotamus; of myriad strange birds, some beautiful
and others grotesque; and of sitatunga, the weird amphibious antelope
with corkscrew horns, shaggy coats and elongated hoofs, adapted for
life in the water.

Rebecca turned her head and a thick blonde tress of hair fell across
one eye.  She brushed it aside and looked downstream to where the two
great rivers met.  It was a sight that always intrigued her, though she
had looked upon it every day for two long years.  A huge raft of water
weed was sailing down the centre of the channel.  It had broken free of
the swamps and would be carried on by the current until it dispersed
far to the north in the turbulence of the cataracts, those rapids that,
from time to time, broke the smooth flow of the Nile.  She followed its
ponderous progress until it reached the confluence of the two Niles.

The other Nile came down from the east.  It was fresh and sweet as the
mountain stream that was its source.  At this season of High Nile its
waters were tinted a pale blue grey by the silt it had scoured from the
mountainous ranges of Abyssinia.  It was named for this colour.  The
Blue Nile was slightly narrower than its twin, but was still a massive
serpent of water.  The rivers came together at the apex of the triangle
of land on which the City of the Elephant's Trunk stood.  That was the
meaning of its name, Khartoum.  The two Niles did not mingle at once.
As far downstream as Rebecca could see they ran side by side in the
same bed, each maintaining its own distinct colour and character until
they dashed together on to the rocks at the entrance to the Shabluka
Gorge twenty miles on and were churned into a tumultuous union.

"You are not listening to me, my darling," said her father sharply.

Rebecca smiled as she turned to face him.  "Forgive me, Father, I was
distracted."

"I know.  I know.  These are trying times," he agreed.  "But you must
face up to them.  You are no longer a child, Becky."

"Indeed I am not," she agreed vehemently.  She had not intended to
whine she never whined.  "I was seventeen last week.  Mother married
you when she was the same age."

"And now you stand in her place as mistress of my household."  His
expression was forlorn as he remembered his beloved wife and the
terrible nature of her death.

"Father dear, you have just jumped off the cliff of your own argument."
She laughed.  "If I am what you say I am, then how can you prevail on
me to abandon you?"

David Benbrook looked confused, then thrust aside his sorrow and
laughed with her.  She was so quick and pretty that he could seldom
resist her.  "You are so like your mother."  This statement was usually
his white flag of defeat, but now he struggled on with his arguments.
Rebecca turned back to the window, not ignoring him but listening with
only half her attention.  Now that her father had reminded her of the
terrible peril in which they stood she felt the cold claws of dread in
the pit of her stomach as she looked across the river.

The sprawling buildings of the native city of Omdurman pressed up to
the far riverbank, earth-coloured like the desert around them, tiny as
dolls' houses at this distance, and wavering in the mirage.  Yet menace
emanated from them as fiercely as the heat from the sun.  Night and
day, the drums never stopped, a constant reminder of the mortal threat
that hung over them.  She could hear them booming across the waters,
like the heartbeat of the monster.  She could imagine him sitting at
the centre of his web, gazing hungrily across the river at them, a
fanatic with a quenchless thirst for human blood.  Soon he and his
minions would come for them.  She shuddered, and concentrated again on
her father's voice.

"Of course, I grant that you have your mother's raw courage and
obstinacy, but think of the twins, Becky.  Think of the babies.  They
are your babies now."

"I am aware of my duty to them every waking moment of my day,"

she flared, then as swiftly veiled her anger and smiled again the smile
that always softened his heart.  "But I think of you also."  She
crossed to stand beside his chair, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"If you come with us, Father, the girls and I will go."

"I cannot, Becky.  My duty is here.  I am Her Majesty's consul general.
I have a sacred trust.  My place is here in Khartoum."

"Then so is mine," she said simply, and stroked his head.  His hair was
still thick and springing under her fingers, but shot through with more
silver than sable.  He was a handsome man, and she often brushed his
hair and trimmed and curled his moustache for him, proudly as her
mother had once done.

He sighed and gathered himself to protest further, but at that moment a
shrill chorus of childish shrieks rang through the open window.  They
stiffened.  They knew those voices, and they struck at both their
hearts.  Rebecca started across the room, and David sprang up from his
desk.  Then they relaxed as the cries came again and they recognized
the tone as excitement, not terror.

"They are in the watch tower," said Rebecca.

"They are not allowed up there," exclaimed David.

"There are many places where they are not allowed," Rebecca agreed,
'and those are where you can usually find them."  She led the way to
the door and out into the stone-flagged passage.  At the far end a
circular staircase wound up the interior of the turret.  Rebecca lifted
her petticoats and ran up the steps, nimble and sure-footed, her father
following more sedately.  She came out into the blazing sunlight on the
upper balcony of the turret.

The twins were dancing perilously close to the low parapet.  Rebecca
seized one in each hand and drew them back.  She looked down from the
height of the consular palace.  The minarets and rooftops of Khartoum
were spread below.  Both branches of the Nile were in full view for
miles in each direction.

Saffron tried to pull her arm out of Rebecca's grip.  "The Ibisl' she
yelled.  "Look!  The this is coming."  She was the taller, darker twin.
Wild and headstrong as a boy.

"The Intrepid this," Amber piped up.  She was dainty and fair, with a
melodious timbre to her voice even when she was excited.  "It's Ryder
in the Intrepid this."

"Mr.  Ryder Courtney, to you," Rebecca corrected her.  "You must never
call grown-ups by their Christian names.  I don't want to have to tell
you that again."  But neither child took the reprimand to heart.  All
three stared eagerly up the White Nile at the pretty white steamboat
coming down on the current.

"It looks like it's made of icing sugar," said Amber, the beauty of the
family, with angelic features, a pert little nose and huge blue eyes.

"You say that every time she comes," Saffron remarked, without rancour.
She was Amber's foil: eyes the colour of smoked honey, tiny freckles
highlighting her high cheekbones and a wide, laughing mouth.  Saffron
looked up at Rebecca with a wicked glint in those honey eyes.  "Ryder
is your beau, isn't he?"  "Beau' was the latest addition to her
vocabulary, and as she applied it solely to Ryder Courtney, Rebecca
found it pretentious and oddly infuriating.

"He is not!"  Rebecca responded loftily, to hide her annoyance.  "And
don't be saucy, Miss Smarty Breeches."

"He's bringing tons of food!"  Saffron pointed at the string of four
capacious flat-bottomed barges that the this was towing.

Rebecca released the twins' arms and shaded her eyes with both hands
against the glare.  She saw that Saffron was right.  At least two of
the barges were piled high with sacks of dhurra, the staple grain of
the Sudan.  The other two were filled with an assorted cargo, for Ryder
was one of the most prosperous traders on the two rivers.  His trading
stations were strung out at intervals of a hundred miles or so along
the banks of both Niles, from the confluence of the Atbara river in the
north to Gondokoro and far Equatoria in the south, then eastwards from
Khartoum along the Blue Nile into the highlands of Abyssinia.

Just then David stepped out on to the balcony.  "Thank the good Lord he
has come," he said softly.  "This is the last chance for you to escape.
Courtney will be able to take you and hundreds of our refugees
downriver, out of the Mahdi's evil clutches."

As he spoke they heard a single cannon shot from across the White Nile.
They all turned quickly and saw gunsmoke spurting from one of the
Dervish Krupps guns on the far bank.  A moment later a geyser of spray
rose from the surface of the river a hundred yards ahead of the
approaching steamer.  The foam was tinged yellow with the lyddite of
the bursting shell.

Rebecca clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry of alarm, and
David remarked drily, "Let's pray their aim is up to the usual
standard."

One after another the other guns of the Dervish batteries burst into a
long, rolling volley, and the waters around the little boat leapt and
boiled with bursting shells.  Shrapnel whipped the river surface like
tropical rain.

Then all the great drums of the Mahdi's army thundered out in
full-throated challenge and the ombeya trumpets blared.  From among the
mud buildings, horsemen and camel riders swarmed out and galloped along
the bank, keeping pace with the this.

Rebecca ran to her father's long brass telescope, which always stood on
its tripod at the far end of the parapet, pointing across the river at
the enemy citadel.  She stood on tiptoe to reach the eyepiece and
quickly focused the lens.  She swept it over the swarming Dervish
cavalry, who were half obscured in the red clouds of dust thrown up by
their racing mounts.  They appeared so close that she could see the
expressions on their fierce dark faces, could almost read the oaths and
threats they mouthed, and hear their terrible war cry: "Allah Akbar!
There is no God but God, and Muhammad is his prophet."

These riders were the Ansar, the Helpers, the Mahdi's elite bodyguard.
They all wore the jibba, the patched robes which symbolized the rags
that had been the only garb available to them at the beginning of this
jihad against the godless, the unbelievers, the infidels.  Armed only
with spears and rocks the Ansar had, in the past six months, destroyed
three armies of the infidels and slaughtered their soldiers to the man.
Now they held Khartoum in siege and gloried in their patched robes, the
badge of their indomitable courage and their faith in Allah and His
Mahdi, the Expected One.  As they rode they brandished their
double-handed swords and fired the Martini-Henry carbines they had
captured from their defeated enemies.

During the months of the siege Rebecca had seen this warlike display
many times, so she swung the lens off them and turned it out across the
river, traversing the forest of shell splashes and leaping foam until
the open bridge of the steamboat sprang into sharp focus.  The familiar
figure of Ryder Courtney leant on the rail of his bridge, regarding the
antics of the men who were trying to kill him with faint amusement.  As
she watched him, he straightened and removed the long black cheroot
from between his lips.  He said something to his helmsman, who
obediently spun the wheel and the long wake of the this began to curl
in towards the Khartoum bank of the river.

Despite Saffron's teasing Rebecca felt no love pang at the sight of
him.  Then she smiled inwardly: I doubt I would recognize it anyway.
She considered herself immune to such mundane emotions.  Nevertheless
she experienced a twinge of admiration for Ryder's composure in the
midst of such danger, followed almost immediately by the warming glow
of friendship.  "Well, there is no harm in admitting that we are
friends," she reassured herself, and felt quick concern for his safety.
"Please, God, keep Ryder safe in the eye of the storm," she whispered,
and God seemed to be listening.

As she watched, a steel shard of shrapnel punched a jagged hole in the
funnel just above Ryder's head, and black boiler smoke spurted out of
it.  He did not glance round but returned the cheroot to his lips and
exhaled a long stream of grey tobacco smoke that was whipped away on
the wind.  He wore a rather grubby white shirt, open at the throat,
sleeves rolled high.  With one thumb he tipped his wide-brimmed hat of
plaited palm fronds to the back of his head.  At a cursory glance, he
gave the impression of being stockily built, but this was an illusion
fostered by the breadth and set of his shoulders and the girth of his
upper arms, muscled by heavy work.  His narrow waist and the manner in
which he towered over the Arab helmsman at his side gave it the lie.

David had taken the hands of his younger daughters to restrain them,
and leant over the parapet to engage in a shouted conversation with
someone in the courtyard of the consular palace below.

"My dear General, do you think you might prevail on your gunners to
return fire and take their attention off Mr.  Courtney's boat?"  His
tone was deferential.

Rebecca glanced down and saw that her father was speaking to the
commanding officer of the Egyptian garrison defending the city. General
"Chinese' Gordon was a hero of the Empire, the victor of wars in every
part of the world.  In China his legendary "Ever Victorious Army' had
earned him the sobriquet.  He had come out of his headquarters in the
south wing of the palace with his red flowerpot fez on his head.

"The order has already been sent to the gunners, sir."  Gordon's reply
was crisp and assertive, edged with annoyance.  He did not need to be
reminded of his duty.

His voice carried clearly to where Rebecca stood.  It was said that he
could make himself heard without effort across a raging battlefield.

A few minutes later the Egyptian artillery, in their emplacements along
the city waterfront, opened up a desultory fire.  Their pieces were of
small calibre and obsolete pattern, six-pounder Krupps mountain guns;
their ammunition was ancient and in short supply, much given to
misfiring.  However, to one accustomed to the ineptitudes of the
Egyptian garrison, their accuracy was surprising.  A few clouds of
black shrapnel smoke appeared in the clear sky directly over the
Dervish batteries, for the gunners on both sides had been ranging each
other's positions during all the months since the beginning of the
siege.  The Dervish fire slackened noticeably.  Still unscathed, the
white steamer reached the confluence of the two rivers and the line of
barges followed her as she turned sharply to starboard into the mouth
of the Blue Nile and was almost immediately shielded by the buildings
of the city from the guns on the west bank.  Deprived of their prey the
Dervish batteries fell silent.

"Please may we go down to the wharf to welcome him?"  Saffron was
dragging her father to the head of the staircase.  "Come on, Becky,
let's go and meet your beau."

As the family hurried through the neglected, sun-bleached gardens of
the palace, they saw that General Gordon was also heading for the
harbour, with a group of his Egyptian officers scampering behind him.
Just beyond the gates a dead horse half blocked the alley.  It had been
lying there for ten days, killed by a stray Dervish shell.  Its belly
was swollen and its gaping wounds heaved with masses of white maggots.
Flies hovered and buzzed over it in a dense blue cloud.  Mingled with
all the other smells of the besieged city the stench of rotting
horseflesh was sulphurous.  Each breath Rebecca drew seemed to catch in
her throat and her stomach heaved.  She fought back the nausea so that
she did not disgrace herself and the dignity of her father's office.

The twins vied with each other in a pantomime of disgust.  "Poof!"  and
"Stinky-woo!"  they cried, then doubled over to make realistic vomiting
sounds, howling with delight at each other's histrionics.

"Be off with you, you little savages!"  David scowled at them and
brandished his silver-mounted cane.  They shrieked in mock alarm, then
raced away in the direction of the harbour, leaping over piles of
debris from shelled and burnt-out houses.  Rebecca and David followed
at their best pace, but before they had passed the customs house they
encountered the city crowds moving in the same direction.

It was a solid river of humanity, of beggars and cripples, slaves and
soldiers, rich women attended by their slaves and scantily clad Galla
whores, mothers with infants strapped to their backs, dragging wailing
brats by each hand, government officials and fat slave traders with
diamond and gold rings on their fingers.  All had one purpose: to
discover what cargo the steamer carried, and whether she offered a
faint promise of escape from the little hell that was Khartoum.

The twins were rapidly engulfed in the throng so David lifted Saffron
on to his shoulders while Rebecca grasped Amber's hand and they pushed
their way forward.  The crowds recognized the tall, imposing figure of
the British consul and gave way to him.  They reached the waterfront
only a few minutes after General Gordon, who called to them to join
him.

The Intrepid this was cutting in across the stream and when she reached
the quieter protected water half a cable's length offshore she shed her
tow lines and the four barges anchored in line astern, their bows
facing into the strong current of the Blue Nile.  Ryder Courtney placed
armed guards on each barge to protect the cargoes against looting. Then
he took the helm of the steamer and manoeuvred her towards the wharf.

As soon as he was within earshot the twins screeched a welcome: "Ryder!
It's us!  Did you bring a present?"  He heard them above the hubbub of
the crowd, and had soon spotted Saffron perched on her father's
shoulders.  He removed the cheroot from his mouth, flicked it overboard
into the river, then reached for the cord of the boat's whistle, sent a
singing blast of steam high into the air and blew Saffron a kiss.

She dissolved into giggles and wriggled like a puppy.  "Isn't he the
most dashing beau in the world?"  She glanced at her elder sister.

Rebecca ignored her, but Ryder's eyes turned to her next and he lifted
the hat off his dense dark curls, sleeked with his sweat.  His face and
arms were tanned to the colour of polished teak by the desert sun,
except for the band of creamy skin just below his hairline where his
hat had protected it.  Rebecca smiled back and bobbed a curtsy. Saffron
was right: he really was rather handsome, especially when he smiled,
she thought, but there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes.  He's
so old, she thought.  He must be every day of thirty.

"I think he's sweet on you."  Amber gave her serious opinion.

"Don't you dare start that infernal nonsense, Mademoiselle," Rebecca
warned her.

"Infernal nonsense, Mademoiselle," Amber repeated softly and rehearsed
the words to use against Saffron at the first opportunity.

Out on the river Ryder Courtney was giving his full attention to the
steamer as he brought her into her mooring.  He swung her nose into the
current and held her there with a deft touch on the throttle, then
eased the wheel over and let her drift sideways across the stream until
her steel side kissed the matting fenders that hung down the side of
the wharf.  His crew tossed the mooring lines to the men on the jetty,
who seized the ends and made her fast.  Ryder rang the telegraph to the
boiler room, and Jock McCrump stuck his head through the engine-room
hatch.  His face was streaked with black grease.  "Aye, skipper?"

"Keep a head of steam in the boiler, Jock.  Never know when we might
need to run for it."

"Aye, skipper.  I want none of them stinking savages as shipmates."
Jock wiped the grease from his huge calloused hands on a wad of cotton
waste.

"You have the con," Ryder told him, and vaulted over the ship's rail to
the jetty.  He strode towards where General Gordon waited for him with
his staff, but he had not gone a dozen paces before the crowd closed
round him and he was trapped like a fish in a net.

A struggling knot of Egyptians and other Arabs surrounded him, grabbing
at his clothing.  "Effendi, please, Effendi, I have ten children and
four wives.  Give us safe passage on your fine ship," they pleaded, in
Arabic and broken English.  They thrust wads of banknotes into his
face.  "A hundred Egyptian pounds.  It is all I have.  Take it,
Effendi, and my prayers for your long life will go up to Allah."

"Gold sovereigns of your queen!"  another bid, and clinked the canvas
bag he held like a tambourine.

Women pulled off their jewellery heavy gold bracelets, rings and
necklaces with sparkling stones.  "Me and my baby.  Take us with you,
great lord."  They thrust their infants at him, tiny squealing
wretches, hollow-cheeked with starvation, some covered with the lesions
and open sores of scurvy, their loincloths stained tobacco-yellow with
the liquid faeces of cholera.  They shoved and wrestled with each other
to reach him.  One woman was knocked to her knees and dropped her
infant under the feet of the surging crowd.  Its howls became weaker as
they trampled it.  Finally a nail-shod sandal crushed the the eggshell
skull and the child was abruptly silent and lay still, an abandoned
doll, in the dust.

Ryder Courtney gave a bellow of rage and laid about him with clenched
fists.  He knocked down a fat Turkish merchant with a single blow to
the jaw, then dropped his shoulder and charged into the ruck of
struggling humanity.  They scattered to let him pass, but some doubled
back towards the Intrepid this, and tried to scramble across to her
deck.

Jock McCrump was at the rail to meet them with a monkey wrench in his
fist and five of his crew at his back, armed with boat-hooks and fire
axes.  Jock cracked the skull of the first man who tried to board and
he fell into the narrow strip of water between the ship and the stone
wharf, then disappeared beneath the surface.  He did not rise again.

Ryder realized the danger and tried to get back to his ship, but even
he could not cleave his way through the close pack of bodies.

"Jock, take her off and anchor with the barges!"  he shouted.

Jock heard him above the uproar and waved the wrench in
acknowledgement.  He jumped to the bridge and gave a terse order to his
crew.  They did not waste time un mooring but severed the lines to the
shore with a few accurate strokes of the axes.  The Intrepid this swung
her bows into the current, but before she had steerage way more of the
refugees attempted to jump across the gap.  Four fell short and were
whipped away downstream by the racing current.  One grabbed hold of the
ship's rail and dangled down her side, trying to lift himself aboard,
imploring the crew above him for mercy.

Bacheet, the Arab boatswain, stepped to the rail above him and, with a
single swing of his axe, neatly lopped off the four fingers of the
man's right hand.  They fell to the steel deck like brown pork
sausages.  His victim shrieked and dropped into the river.  Bacheet
kicked the fingers over the side, wiped his blade on the skirt of his
robe, then went to break out the bow anchor from its locker forward.
Jock turned the steamboat out across the current, and ran out to anchor
at the head of the line of barges.

A wail of despair went up from the crowd, but Ryder glowered at them,
fists clenched.  They had learnt exactly what that gesture presaged,
and backed away from him.  In the meantime General Gordon had ordered a
squad of his soldiers to break up the riot.  They advanced in a line
with their bayonets fixed and used their rifle butts to club down any
who stood in their way.  The crowd broke before them, and disappeared
into the narrow alleys of the city.  They left the dead baby, with its
bleeding mother wailing over it, and half a dozen moaning rioters
sitting, stunned, in puddles of their own blood.  The Turk who Ryder
had floored lay quiescent on his back, snoring loudly.

Ryder looked about for David and his daughters, but the consul had
shown the good sense to get his family away to the safety of the palace
at the first sign of rioting.  He felt a lift of relief.  Then he saw
General Gordon coming towards him, stepping through the litter and
bodies.  "Good afternoon, General."

"How do you do, Mr.  Courtney?  I am pleased to welcome you.  I hope
you had a pleasant voyage."

"Very enjoyable, sir.  We made good passage through the Sud.  The
channel is well scoured out at this season.  No necessity to kedge our
way through."  Neither deigned to remark on the gauntlet that the
steamboat had run through the Dervish batteries, or the riot that had
welcomed it to the city.

"You are heavily laden, sir?"  Gordon, who was fully six inches
shorter, looked up at Ryder with those remarkable eyes.  They were the
steely blue of the noonday sky above the desert.  Few men who looked
into them could forget them.  They were hypnotic, compelling, the
outward sign of Gordon's iron faith in himself and his God.

Ryder understood the import of the question instantly.  "I have fifteen
hundred sacks of dhurra sorghum in my barges, each bag of ten can tars
weight."  A can tar was an Arabic measure, approximating a
hundredweight.

Gordon's eyes sparkled like cut sapphires, and he slapped his cane
against his thigh.  "Well done indeed, sir.  The garrison and the
entire population are already on extremely short commons.  Your cargo
might well see us through until the relief column from Cairo can reach
us."

Ryder Courtney blinked with surprise at such an optimistic estimate.
There were close to thirty thousand souls trapped in the city.  Even on
starvation rations that multitude would devour a hundred sacks a day.
The latest news they had received before the Dervish cut the telegraph
line to the north was that the relief column was still assembling in
the delta and would not be ready to begin the journey southwards for
several weeks more.  Even then they had more than a thousand miles to
travel to Khartoum.  On the way they must navigate the cataracts and
traverse the Mother of Stones, that terrible wilderness.  Then they
must fight their way through the Dervish hordes who guarded the long
marches along the banks of the Nile before they could reach the city
and raise the siege.  Fifteen hundred sacks of dhurra was not nearly
enough to sustain the inhabitants of Khartoum indefinitely.  Then he
realized that Gordon's optimism was his best armour.  A man such as he
could never allow himself to face the hopelessness of their plight and
give in to despair.

He nodded his agreement.  "Do I have your permission to begin sales of
the grain, General?"  The city was under martial law.  No distribution
of food was allowed without Gordon's personal sanction.

"Sir, I cannot allow you to distribute the provisions.  The population
of my city is starving."  Ryder noted Gordon's use of the possessive.
"If you were to sell them they would be hoarded by wealthy merchants to
the detriment of the poor.  There will be equal rations for all.  I
will oversee the distribution.  I have no choice but to commandeer your
entire cargo of grain.  I will, of course, pay you a fair price for
it."

For a moment Ryder stared at him, speechless.  Then he found his voice.
"A fair price, General?"

"At the end of the last harvest the price of dhurra in the souks of
this city was six shillings a sack.  It was a fair price, and still is,
sir."

"At the end of the last harvest there was no war and no siege," Ryder
retorted.  "General, six shillings does not take into account the
extortionate price I was forced to pay.  Nor does it compensate me for
the difficulties I experienced in transporting the sorghum and the fair
profit to which I am entitled."

"I am certain, Mr.  Courtney, that six shillings will return you a
handsome profit."  Gordon stared at him hard.  "This city is under
martial law, sir, and profiteering and hoarding are both capital
crimes."

Ryder knew that the threat was not an idle one.  He had seen many men
flogged or summarily executed for any dereliction of their duty, or
defiance of this little man's decrees.  Gordon unbuttoned the breast
pocket of his uniform jacket and brought out his notebook.  He
scribbled in it swiftly, tore out the sheet and passed it to Ryder.
"That is my personal promissory note for the sum of four hundred and
fifty Egyptian pounds.  It is payable at the treasury of the Khedive in
Cairo," he said briskly.  The Khedive was the ruler of Egypt.  "What is
the rest of your cargo, Mr.  Courtney?"

"Ivory, live wild birds and animals," Ryder replied bitterly.

"Those you may off load into your go down  At this stage I have no
interest in them, although later it may be necessary to slaughter the
animals to provide meat for the populace.  How soon can you have your
steamer and the barges ready to depart, sir?"

"Depart, General?"  Ryder turned pale under his tan: he had sensed what
was about to happen.

"I am commandeering your vessels for the transport of refugees
downriver," Gordon explained.  "You may requisition what cordwood you
need to fuel your boilers.  I will reimburse you for the voyage at the
rate of two pounds per passenger.  I estimate you might take five
hundred women, children and heads of families.  I will personally
review the needs of each and decide who is to have priority."

"You will pay me with another note, General?"  Ryder asked, with veiled
irony.

"Precisely, Mr.  Courtney.  You will wait at Metemma until the relief
force reaches you.  My own steamers are already there.  Your famed
skill as a river pilot will be much in demand in the passage of the
Shabluka Gorge, Mr.  Courtney."

Chinese Gordon despised what he looked upon as greed and the worship of
Mammon.  When the Khedive of Egypt had offered him a salary of ten
thousand pounds to undertake this most perilous assignment of
evacuating the Sudan, Gordon had insisted that this be reduced to two
thousand.  He had his own perception of duty to his fellow men and his
God.  "Please bring your barges alongside the jetty and my troops will
guard them while they are offloaded, and the dhurra is taken to the
customs warehouse.  Major al-Faroque, of my staff, will be in command
of the operation."  Gordon nodded to the Egyptian officer at his side,
who saluted Ryder perfunctorily.  Al-Faroque had soulful dark eyes, and
smelt powerfully of hair pomade.  "And now you must excuse me, sir.  I
have much to attend to."

As the official hostess to Her Britannic Majesty's consul general to
the Sudan, Rebecca was responsible for the running of the palace
household.  This evening, under her supervision, the servants had laid
the dinner table on the terrace that overlooked the Blue Nile so that
David's guests might enjoy the breeze off the river.  At sunset the
servants would light braziers of eucalyptus branches and leaves.  The
smoke would keep the mosquitoes at bay.  The entertainment would be
provided with the compliments of General Gordon.  Every evening the
military band played and there was a fireworks display: General Gordon
intended the show to take the minds of Khartoum's population off the
rig ours and hardships of the siege.

Rebecca had planned a splendid table.  The consular silver and
glassware had been polished to dazzling brilliance and the linen
bleached white as an angel's wing.  Unfortunately the meal would not be
of comparable quality.  They would start with a soup of blackjack weeds
and rose hips from the ruins of the palace garden.  This would be
followed by a pate of boiled palm-tree pith and stone ground dhurra,
but the piece de resistance was supreme of pelican.

Most evenings David took his station on the terrace above the river
with one of his Purdey shotguns at the ready, and waited for the
flights of waterfowl to pass overhead as they flew in to their roosts.
Behind him the twins waited with the other guns.  Such a matching trio
of firearms was known as a garnish of guns.  David believed that any
woman who lived in Africa, that continent of wild animals and wilder
men, should be competent in the use of firearms.  Under his tutelage
Rebecca was already an expert pistol shot.  At ten paces she was
usually capable with six shots from the heavy Webley revolver of
knocking at least five empty bully-beef cans off the stone wall at the
bottom of the terrace to send them spinning out across the waters of
the Nile.

The twins were still too small to withstand the recoil of a Webley or
Purdey, so he had trained them to serve the spare shotguns until they
had become as quick and dexterous as a professional loader on a
Yorkshire grouse moor.  The moment her father had fired both barrels,
Amber snatched the empty gun from him and, at almost the same instant,
Saffron thrust the second into his hands.  While he picked his birds
and fired again, the girls reloaded the empty weapon and were ready to
serve him with it as soon as he reached for it.  Between them they
could keep up an impressive rate of fire.

David was a celebrated shot and seldom wasted a cartridge.  While the
girls squealed encouragement he might on occasion bring down five or
six birds in quick succession from a flight of teal speeding high
overhead.  In the first weeks of the siege wild duck had regularly come
within range of the terrace, teal, shovellers and more exotic species,
such as Egyptian geese and garganey, all of which had provided
important additions to the palace larder.  But the surviving duck
learnt quickly, and now the flocks habitually gave the terrace a wide
berth.  It was only the more stupid and less palatable birds that could
still be brought to table by David's marksmanship.  A brace of heavily
billed pelicans were his most recent victims.

The accompanying dish Rebecca planned to serve was the boiled leaves
and stems of the sacred Egyptian water-lily.  When he had recommended
this plant to her Ryder Courtney had told her that its botanical name
was Nymphaea alba.  He had a vast fund of knowledge of all the natural
world.  She used the lovely blue blossoms as a salad -their peppery
flavour helped to disguise the pervading fishy taste of pelican flesh.
These plants grew in the narrow canal that cut off the city from the
mainland.  At this season the water in the canal was waist deep, but in
the Low Nile period it dried out.  General Gordon had set his troops to
widening and deepening the canal into a moat to bolster the city's
fortifications and, much to Rebecca's annoyance, they were destroying
the source of this nutritious delicacy in the process.

The consular cellars were almost bare, except for a single case of Krug
champagne that David was saving to celebrate the arrival of the relief
force from the south.  However, when Ryder Courtney sent Bacheet up to
the consulate to accept the dinner invitation, he also sent three
calabash gourds of Tej, the powerful native honey beer, which tasted
like poor-quality cider.  Rebecca intended serving it in crystal claret
decanters to give it an importance it did not normally warrant.

Now she was putting the finishing touches to the dinner arrangements,
and the table's floral decoration of oleander from the neglected
gardens.  The guests would start arriving in an hour and her father had
not yet returned from his daily meeting with General Gordon.  She was a
little worried that David might be late and spoil her evening. However,
she was secretly relieved that General Gordon had refused the
invitation: he was a great and saintly man, a hero of the Empire, but
scornful of the social graces.  His conversation was pious and arcane,
and his sense of humour, to be charitable, was impaired if not totally
lacking.

At that moment she heard her father's familiar tread reverberating down
the cloisters and his voice raised as he summoned one of the servants.
She ran to greet him as he stepped out on to the terrace.  He returned
her embrace in a distracted, perfunctory manner.  She stepped back and
studied his face.  "Father, what is it?"

"We are to leave the city tomorrow night.  General Gordon has ordered
all British, French and Austrian citizens to be evacuated at once."

"Does that mean you will come with us, Daddy?"  These days she seldom
used the childish term of endearment.

"It does indeed."

"How are we to travel?"

"Gordon has commandeered Ryder Courtney's steamer and barges.  He has
ordered him downriver with all of us on board.  I tried to argue with
him, but to no avail.  The man is intractable and cannot be moved from
his chosen path."  Then David grinned, seized her round the waist and
spun her into a waltz.  "To tell the truth, I am vastly relieved that
the decision has been taken out of my hands, and that you and the twins
will be conveyed to safety."

An hour later David and Rebecca stood under the candelabrum in the
reception lobby to greet their guests, who were almost entirely male.
Months before, nearly all the white women had been evacuated north to
the delta, aboard General Gordon's tin-pot steamers.  Now those vessels
were stranded far south at Metemma, awaiting the arrival of a relief
force.  Rebecca and the twins were among the few European females who
remained in the city.

The twins stood demurely behind their father.  They had prevailed on
their elder sister to allow them to be there when Ryder arrived and to
watch the fireworks with him before Nazeera, their nurse, took them to
the nursery.  Nazeera had been Rebecca's nurse too and was a beloved
member of the Benbrook household.  She stood close behind the twins
now, ready to spring into action at the first stroke of nine.  Much to
the twins' disappointment, Ryder Courtney was last to arrive, but when
he did they giggled and whispered together.

"He's so handsome," said Saffron, and did her swooning act.

Nazeera pinched her and whispered in Arabic, "Even if you are never to
be a lady, you must learn to behave like one, Saffy."

"I have never seen him in full fig before."  Amber agreed with her
twin: Ryder wore one of the new dinner jackets that the Prince of Wales
had recently made fashionable.  It had watered satin lapels and was
nipped in at the waist.  He had had it copied from an picture in the

London Illustrated News by an Armenian tailor in Cairo, and carried it
off with a casual elegance far from his rumpled workaday moleskins.  He
was freshly shaven and his hair shone in the candlelight.

"And, look, he has brought us presents!"  Amber had seen the telltale
bulge in his breast pocket.  She had a woman's eye for such details.

Ryder shook hands with David and bowed to Rebecca.  He refrained from
kissing her hand in the Frenchified gesture that many members of the
diplomatic corps, who had arrived before him, had affected.  Then he
winked at the twins, who covered their mouths to suppress giggles as
they dropped him a curtsy in return.

"May I have the honour of escorting you two beautiful ladies to the
terrace?"  He bowed.

"Wee wee, Moonseer," said Saffron, grandly, which was almost too much
for Amber's self-control.

Ryder took one on each arm, stooping a little so that they could reach,
and led them out through the french windows.  One of the servants in a
white robe and blue turban brought them glasses of lemonade, made from
the few remaining fruits on the trees in the orchard, and Ryder
presented the twins with their gifts, necklaces of ivory beads carved
in the shape of tiny animals: lions, monkeys and giraffes.  He fastened
the clasps at the backs of their necks.  They were enchanted.

Almost on cue the military band down on the maid an beside the old
slave market began to play.  The distance muted the sound to a pleasing
volume, and the musicians succeeded in embellishing the familiar
repertoire of polkas, waltzes and marching tunes of the British Army
with beguiling Oriental cadences.

"Sing for us, Ryder, oh, please do!"  Amber begged, and when he laughed
and shook his head, she appealed to her father, "Please make him sing,
Daddy."

"My daughter is right, Mr.  Courtney.  A voice would add immeasurably
to the pleasure of the occasion."

Ryder sang unselfconsciously, and soon had them all tapping their feet
or clapping in time to the music.  Those who fancied their own vocal
prowess joined in with the chorus of "Over the Sea to Skye'.

Then the firework display began, General Gordon's nightly treat.  The
sky cascaded with sheets of blue, green and red sparks from the ship's
signal rockets, and the watchers oohed and aahed in wonder.  Over on
the far bank of the Nile the Dervish gunner whom David had dubbed the
Bedlam Bedouin fired a few shrapnel shells at the point from where he
guessed the rockets were being set off.  As usual, his aim was awry and
nobody sought shelter.  Instead, everyone booed his efforts with
gusto.

Then the twins were led away, protesting vainly, to the nursery, and
the company was summoned to the table by one of the robed Arab footmen
tapping on a ringer drum.  Everyone was in fine appetite: if not yet
starving, they were at least half-way there.  The portions were
minuscule, barely a mouthful each, but Herr Schiffer, the Austrian
consul, declared the blackjack weed soup to be excellent, the palm-pith
pate nourishing and the roast pelican 'quite extraordinary'.  Rebecca
convinced herself that this was meant as a compliment.

As the meal drew to a close, Ryder Courtney did something to confirm
his status as the hero of the evening.  He clapped his hands and
Bacheet, his boatswain, came out on to the terrace grinning like a
gargoyle and carrying a silver tray on which reposed a cut-glass bottle
of VSOP Hine Cognac and a cedar wood box of Cuban cigars.  With their
glasses charged and the cigars drawing until the tips glowed, the men
were transported into an expansive mood.  The conversation was
diverting, until Monsieur le Blanc joined in.

"I wonder that Chinese Gordon refused such fine entertainment."  He
giggled in a girlish, irritating manner.  "Surely it is not possible to
save the mighty British Empire twenty-four hours of every day.  Even
Hercules had to rest from his labours."  Le Blanc was head of the
Belgian delegation sent by King Leopold to initiate diplomatic contact
with the Mahdi.  So far his efforts had not been crowned by success and
he had ended up a captive in the city like the rest of them.  The
Englishmen at the table looked upon him pityingly.  However, as he was
a foreigner and knew no better, he was excused the solecism.

"The General refused to attend a banquet while the populace was
starving."  Rebecca rose to Gordon's defence.  "I think that was very
noble-minded of him."  Then she hurried on modestly, "Not that I claim
my humble offering as a great banquet."

Following her example David initiated a eulogy to the General's
inflexible character and his marvelous achievements.

Ryder Courtney was still smarting from Gordon's last demonstration of
his adamantine character and did not join in the chorus of praise.

"He wields an almost messianic power over his men," David told them
earnestly.  "They will follow him anywhere, and if they don't he will
drag them by their pigtails, as he did with his Ever Victorious Army in
China, or kick their backsides black and blue as he does to the
Egyptian riffraff with which he is forced to defend the city at the
moment."

"Your language, Daddy," Rebecca chided him primly.

"I am sorry, my darling, but it is true.  He is completely fearless.
Alone, mounted on a camel and in full dress uniform, he rode into that
murderous rogue Suleiman's encamped army of rebels and harangued them.
Instead of murdering him out of hand Suleiman abandoned the rebellion
and went home."

"He did the same with the Zulus in South Africa.  When he walked alone
among their warlike imp is and turned his extraordinary eyes upon them,
they worshipped him as a god.  At that, he thrashed their induna for
blasphemy."

Another spoke up: "Kings and potentates of many nations have competed
to secure his services the Emperor of China, King Leopold of the
Belgians, the Khedive of Egypt and the premier of the Cape Colony."

"He is a man of God before he is a warrior.  He scorns the clamour of
men, and before he makes any fateful decision he enquires in solitary
prayer what his God requires of him."

I wonder that God required him to steal my dhurra, Ryder thought
bitterly.  He did not voice the sentiment but changed the direction of
the conversation dramatically: "Is it not remarkable that in many ways
the man who faces him now across the Nile shares many characteristics
with our gallant general?"  A silence followed this remark, which was
almost as bad as Le Blanc's gaucherie, not at all worthy of a man of
the calibre of Ryder Courtney.

Even Rebecca was aghast at the idea of comparing the saint with the
monster.  Yet she noticed that when Ryder spoke other men listened.
Even though he was the youngest man at the table, the others deferred
to him for his fortune and reputation were formidable.  He had
travelled indefatigably where few men before him had ventured.  He had
reached the Mountains of the Moon and sailed on all of the great lakes
of the African interior.  He was a friend and confidant of John, the
Emperor of Abyssinia.  The Mutesa of Buganda and the Kamrasi of Bunyoro
were his familiars and had granted him exclusive trading rights in
their kingdoms.

His Arabic was so fluent that he could debate the Koran with the
mullahs in the mosque.  He spoke a dozen other more primitive tongues
and could bargain with the naked Dinka and the Shilluk.  He had hunted
and captured every known species of the wild beasts and birds of
Equatoria, and sold them to the menageries of the kings, emperors and
zoological gardens of Europe.

"That is an extraordinary notion, Ryder," David ventured cautiously.
"It strikes me that the Mad Mahdi and General Charles Gordon stand at
opposite poles.  But perhaps you can point out some characteristics
they have in common."

"First, David, they are both ascetics who practise self-denial and
abstain from worldly comforts," Ryder replied easily.  "And both are
men of God."

"Different Gods," David challenged.

"No, sir!  One and the same God: the God of the Jews, Muslims,
Christians and all other monotheists is the same God.  It is simply
that they worship Him in different ways."

David smiled.  "Perhaps we can debate that later.  But for now tell us
what else they have in common."

"They both believe that God speaks directly to them and that therefore
they are infallible.  Once their minds are set they are unwavering and
deaf to argument.  Then again, like many great men and beautiful women,
they are both betrayed by their belief in the cult of personality. They
believe that they are able to carry all before them by the blue of
their eyes or by the gap between their front teeth and their
eloquence," Ryder said.

"We know who possesses the blue and compelling eye," David chuckled,
'but to whom belongs the gap-toothed grin?"

"To Muhammad Ahmed, the Mahdi, the Divinely Guided One," said Ryder.
"The wedge shaped gap is called the falja and his Ansar consider it a
mark of the divine."

"You speak as though you are familiar with him," said Le Blanc.  "Have
you met the man?"

"I have," Ryder confirmed, and they all stared at him as though he had
admitted to supping with Satan himself.

Rebecca was the first to rouse herself.  "Do tell us, Mr.  Courtney,
where and when?  What is he truly like?"

"I knew him first when he lived in a hole in the bank of Abbas Island,
forty miles up the Blue Nile from where we now sit.  Often when I
passed the island I would go ashore to sit with him and speak of God
and the affairs of men.  I could not claim that we were friends, nor
would I ever wish to do so.  But there was something about him that I
found fascinating.  I sensed that he was different, and I was always
impressed by his piety, his quiet strength and unruffled smile.  He is
a true patriot, as is General Gordon another trait they have in
common."

"Enough of General Gordon.  We all know of his virtues," Rebecca
interjected.  "Tell us rather of this terrible Mahdi.  How can you say
he has in him a grain of the same nobility?"

"We all know that the domination of the Sudan by the Khedive in Egypt
has been iniquitous and brutal.  Behind the magnificent facade of
imperial dominion has flourished unspeakable corruption and cruelty.
The native population has been subject to greedy and heartless pashas,
and an army of occupation forty thousand strong, which was used to
collect the extortionate taxes the pashas imposed.  Only half went to
the Khedive in Cairo and the rest into the personal coffers of the
pashas.  The land was ruled by bayonet and kurbash, the vicious
hippo-hide whip.  The effete pashas sitting here in Khartoum delighted
in devising the most savage tortures and executions.  Villages were
razed and their inhabitants slaughtered.  Arab and black man alike
cowered under the shadow of the hated "Turk', but no man dared
protest.

"The Egyptians, while aspiring to civilization, fostered and encouraged
the trade in slaves, for that was how the taxes were paid.  I have seen
such horrors with my own eyes, and I was amazed by the forbearance of
the population.  I discussed all this with the hermit in his hole in
the riverbank.  We were both young men, although I was by some years
the younger.  We attempted between us to discover why this situation
persisted, for the Arab is a proud man and has not lacked provocation.
We decided that two essential elements of revolution were missing, and
the first of these was the knowledge of better things.  General Charles
Gordon, as the governor of the Sudan, provided this.  The other missing
element was a uniting catalyst among the oppressed.  In the fullness of
time Muhammad Ahmed provided this.  It was how the new Mahdist nation
was born."

They were silent, until Rebecca spoke again, and hers was a woman's
question.  The political, religious and military facets of the Mahdi's
history interested her very little.  "But what is he really like, Mr.
Courtney?  What of his appearance and his demeanour?  How does his
voice sound?  And tell us more of this strange gap between his
teeth."

"He possesses the same vast charisma as Charles Gordon, another trait
they have in common.  He is of medium height and slim in stature.  He
has always dressed in robes of spotless white, even when he lived in
the hole in the ground.  On his right cheek is a birthmark in the shape
of a bird or an angel.  This is seen by his disciples and adherents as
a touch of the divine.  The gap between his teeth rivets your attention
when he speaks.  He is a compelling orator.  His voice is soft and
sibilant, until his ire is aroused.  Then he speaks with the thunder of
one of the biblical prophets, but even in anger he smiles."  Ryder drew
out his gold pocket-watch.  "It lacks only an hour of midnight.  I have
kept you late.  We should all get a good night's rest, for as you have
been told it is my duty, allotted to me by General Gordon, to make
certain that none of you here tonight will ever be forced to listen to
the voice of Muhammad Ahmed.  Remember, please, that you are to be
aboard my steamer at the Old City wharf before midnight tomorrow.  It
is my intention to sail while it is still too dark for the Dervish
gunners to pick us out clearly.  Please restrict your luggage to the
minimum.  With good fortune we may run clean away from them before they
get off a single shot."

David smiled.  "That will require a certain amount of luck, Mr.
Courtney, for the city is crawling with Dervish spies.  The Mahdi knows
exactly what we are up to almost before we know it ourselves."

"Perhaps this time we will be able to outwit him."  Ryder half rose and
bowed to Rebecca.  "I apologize if I have overstayed my welcome, Miss
Benbrook."

"It is still far too early for you to leave.  None of us will sleep
yet.  Please sit down, Mr.  Courtney.  You cannot leave us high and
dry.  Finish the story, for you have intrigued us all."

Ryder made a gesture of resignation and sank down again on his chair.
"How can I resist your command?  But I fear you all know the rest of
the story, for it has been often told and I do not wish to bore you."

There were murmurs of protest down the length of the table.

"Go on, sir.  Miss Benbrook is right.  We must hear out your version.
It seems that it differs greatly from what we have come to believe."

Ryder Courtney nodded acquiescence, and went on: "In our western
societies we pride ourselves in glorious traditions and high moral
standards.  Yet in savage and uneducated peoples ignorance provides its
own source of great strength.  It engenders in them the overpowering
stimulus of fanaticism.  Here in the Sudan there were three giant steps
on the road to rebellion.  The first was the misery of all the native
peoples of the country.  The second was when they looked about them and
recognized that the source of all their ills was the hated Turk, the
minions of the Khedive in Cairo.  It needed but a single step more
before the mighty wave of fanaticism crashed over the land.  That was
the moment when there arose the man who would become the Mahdi."

"Of course!"  interjected David.  "The seed had been sown long ago. The
Shukri belief that one day, in the time of shame and strife, a second
great prophet would be sent by Allah, who would lead the faithful back
to God and sustain Islam."

Rebecca looked sternly at her father.  "It's Mr.  Courtney's story,
Father.  Please let him tell it."

The men smiled at her fire, and David looked guilty.  "I did not mean
to usurp your tale.  Pray go on, sir."

"But you are right, David.  For a hundred years the people of the Sudan
have always looked in hope to any ascetic who rises to prominence.  As
this one's fame spread, pilgrims began flocking to Abbas Island.  They
brought valuable gifts, which Muhammad Ahmed distributed to the poor.
They listened to his sermons, and when they left to return to their
homes they took with them the writings of this holy man.  His fame
spread throughout the Sudan until it reached the ears of one who had
waited eagerly all his life for the coming of the second prophet.
Abdullahi, the son of an obscure cleric and the youngest of his four
brothers, journeyed to Abbas Island in wild expectation.  He arrived at
last on a saddle-galled donkey, and he recognized instantly the devout
young hermit as the true messenger of God."

David could not restrain himself longer: "Or did he recognize the
vehicle that would convey him to power and wealth undreamed?"

"Perhaps that is more accurate."  Ryder laughed in accord.  "But, be
that as it may, the two men formed a powerful alliance.  Soon news
reached the ears of Raouf Pasha, the Egyptian governor of Khartoum,
that this mad priest was preaching defiance to the Khedive in Cairo. He
sent a messenger to Abbas to summon Muhammad Ahmed here to the city to
justify himself.  The priest listened to the messenger, then stood up
and spoke in the voice of a true prophet: "By the grace of God and his
prophet, I am the master of this land.  In God's name I declare jihad,
holy war, on the Turk."

"The messenger fled back to his master and Abdullahi gathered around
him a tiny band of ragged wretches, then armed them with sticks and
stones.  Raouf Pasha sent two companies of his best soldiers by steamer
upriver to capture the troublesome priest.  He believed in the
incentive method of conducting warfare.  He promised promotion and a
large reward to whichever of his two captains made the arrest.  At
nightfall the steamboat captain landed the soldiers on the island, and
the two companies, now in competition with each other, marched by
separate routes to surround the village in which the priest was
reported to be sheltering.  In the confusion of the moonless night the
soldiers attacked each other furiously, then fled back to the landing.
The terrified steamboat captain refused to let them embark unless they
swam out to his boat.  Few accepted this offer for most could not swim,
and those who could feared the crocodiles.  So the captain abandoned
them and sailed back to Khartoum.  Muhammad Ahmed and Abdullahi, with
their tatterdemalion army, fell upon the demoralized Egyptians and
slaughtered them.

"The news of this extraordinary victory spread throughout the land,
that men with sticks had routed the hated Turk.  Surely it must have
been the Mahdi who led them.  Knowing that more Egyptian troops would
be sent to kill him, the newly self-proclaimed Mahdi began a

hegira, very much like the exodus of the One True Prophet from Mecca a
thousand years before.  However, before the retreat began, he appointed
the faithful Abdullahi as his khalifa, his deputy under God.  This was
in accordance with precedent and prophecy.  Soon the retreat became a
triumphal progress.  The Mahdi was preceded by tales of miracles and
prodigious omens.  One night a dark shadow obliterated the crescent
moon, the symbol of Egypt and the Turk.  This message from God high in
the midnight sky was plain for every man in the Sudan to see.  When the
Mahdi reached a mountain fastness far to the south of Khartoum, which
he renamed Jebel Masa in accordance with the prophecy, he deemed
himself safe from Raouf Pasha.  However, he was still within striking
distance of Fashoda: Rashid Bey, the governor of the town, was braver
and more enterprising than most Egyptian governors.  He marched on
Jebel Masa with fourteen hundred heavily armed troops.  But, scornful
of this rabble of peasants, he took few precautions.  The intrepid
Khalifa Abdullahi laid an ambush for him.  Rashid Bey marched straight
into it, and neither he nor any single one of his men survived the day.
They were slaughtered by the ragged ill-armed Ansar."

Ryder's cigar had gone out.  He stood up, took a glowing twig from the
brazier of eucalyptus branches and relit it.  When it was drawing
brightly again he returned to his chair.  "Now that Abdullahi had
captured rifles and vast military stores, not to mention the treasury
of Fashoda in which was deposited almost half a million pounds, he had
become a formidable force.  The Khedive in Cairo ordered that a new
army be raised here at Khartoum and gave the command of it to a retired
British officer, General Hicks.  It was one of the most abysmally inept
armies ever to take the field, and Hicks's authority was diluted and
countermanded by the bumbling Raouf Pasha, who was already the author
of two military disasters."

Ryder paused and as he poured the last of the Hine into his glass he
shook his head sadly, "It is almost two years to the day that General
Hicks marched out of this city with seven thousand infantry and five
hundred cavalry.  He was supported by mounted artillery, Krupps guns
and Nordenfelt machine-guns.  His men were mostly Muslims and they had
heard the legend of the Mahdi.  They began to desert before he had
covered five miles.  He clapped fifty men of the Krupps battery in
chains to encourage them to greater valour, but they still deserted and
took their manacles with them."  Ryder threw back his head and laughed,
and although the tale had been terrifying the sound was so infectious
that Rebecca found herself laughing with him.

"What Hicks did not know and what he did not believe even when

Lieutenant Penrod Ballantyne, his intelligence officer, warned him, was
that by now forty thousand men had flocked to the Mahdi's green flag.
One of the emirs who had brought his tribe to join the array was none
other than Osman Atalan of the Beja."

The men around the table stirred at the mention of that name.  It was
one to conjure with, for the Beja were the fiercest and most feared of
all the fighting Arabs, and Osman Atalan was their most dreaded
warlord.

"On the third of November 1883, Hicks's motley force ran headlong into
the army of the Mahdi, and they were cut to pieces by the charges of
the Ansar.  Hicks himself was mortally wounded as he stood at the head
of the last formed square of his troops.  When he fell the square broke
and the Ansar swarmed over it.  Penrod Ballantyne, who had warned Hicks
of the danger, saw the General empty his revolver into the charging
Arabs before his head was sliced off by a swinging broadsword.
Ballantyne's own superior officer, Major Adams, was lying shot through
both legs, and the Arabs were massacring and mutilating the wounded.
Ballantyne sprang to horse and managed to lift Major Adams up behind
his saddle.  Then he hacked his way out through the attackers, and
broke clear.  He caught up with the Egyptian rear guard which was by
this time in full flight for Khartoum.  He was the only surviving
European officer so he took command.  He rallied them and led a
fighting retreat back into Khartoum.  Ballantyne brought back two
hundred men, including the wounded Major Adams.  Two hundred men of the
seven and a half thousand who had marched out with General Hicks.  His
conduct was the one single ray of light in an otherwise dark day.  Thus
the Mahdi and his khalifa became masters of all the Sudan, and they
closed in with their victorious forty thousand on this city, bringing
with them the captured guns that torment us to this day.  And so the
populace languishes and starves, or perishes from pestilence and
cholera, while awaiting the fate that the Mahdi has in store for
Khartoum."

There were tears in Rebecca's eyes as Ryder stopped speaking.  "He
sounds a fine and brave young man, this Penrod Ballantyne.  Have you
ever met him, Mr.  Courtney?"

"Ballantyne?"  Ryder looked surprised by this abrupt change in the
focus of his tale.  "Yes, I was here when he rode back from the
battlefield."

"Tell us more about him, please, sir."

Ryder shrugged.  "Most of the ladies I have spoken to assure me that
they find him dashing and gallant.  They are particularly enamoured of
his moustache, which is formidable.  Perhaps Captain Ballantyne might
agree rather too readily with the general feminine opinion of
himself."

"I thought you spoke of him as a lieutenant?"

"In an attempt to garner some tiny grain of glory from that terrible
day the commander of the British troops in Cairo made a great fuss of
Ballantyne's role in the battle.  It just so happens that Ballantyne is
a subaltern in the 10th Hussars, which is Lord Wolseley's old regiment.
Wolseley is always ready to give a fellow Hussar a leg up, so
Ballantyne was uplifted to the rank of a full captain, and if that was
not sufficient he was given the Victoria Cross to boot."

"You do not approve of Captain Ballantyne, sir?"  Rebecca asked.

For the first time David detected in his daughter's attitude towards
Ryder Courtney a definite coolness.  He wondered at the rather
excessive interest she was evincing towards Ballantyne, who presumably
was a stranger to her, when suddenly, with a small shock, he recalled
that young Ballantyne had visited the consulate some weeks before
Hicks's army had marched away to annihilation at El Obeid.  The lad had
come to deliver a despatch from Evelyn Baring, the British consul in
Cairo, which had been too sensitive to be sent over the telegraph, even
in cipher.  Although nothing had been said at the time he had guessed
that Ballantyne was an officer in the intelligence section of Baring's
staff, and that his seconding to Hicks's motley army was merely a
cover.

Damme, yes!  It's all coming back, David thought.  Rebecca had come
into his office while he was engaged with Ballantyne.  The two young
people had exchanged a few polite words when he introduced them, and
Rebecca had left them alone.  But later, when he was showing Ballantyne
to the door, David had noticed her arranging flowers in the hall.  On
glancing out of his office window a short time later, he had seen his
daughter walking with Ballantyne to the palace gates.  Ballantyne had
seemed attentive.  Now it all fell into place.  Perhaps it was not pure
chance that Rebecca had been lingering in the hall when Ballantyne
emerged from his office.  He smiled inwardly at the way his daughter
had pretended never to have met Ballantyne when she asked Ryder
Courtney his opinion of the man.

So young, but already so much like her mother, David reflected.  As
devious as a palace full of pashas.

Ryder Courtney was still responding to Rebecca's challenge: "I am sure
that Ballantyne is an authentic hero, and I am indeed impressed by his
facial hair.  However, I have never detected in him any excess of
humility.  But then again I am ambivalent about all military men.  When
they have finished thrashing the heathen, storming cities and seizing
kingdoms, they simply ride away, their sabres and medals clinking.  It
is left to administrators like your father to try to make some order
out of the chaos they have created, and to businessmen like myself to
restore prosperity to a shattered population.  No, Miss Benbrook, I
have no quarrel with Captain Ballantyne, but I am not entirely
enamoured of that branch of the state apparatus to which he belongs."

Rebecca's eye was cold and her expression severe as Ryder Courtney
stood up again to leave, but this time with greater determination.
Rebecca did not attempt to delay his departure any longer.

It was after midnight before Ryder rode back to his go down  He slept
only a few hours before Bacheet woke him again.  He ate his breakfast
of cold, hard dhurra cakes and pickled salt beef while seated at his
desk, working over his journal and cash book by the light of the oil
lamps.  He felt a sinking sense of dread as he realized how finely
drawn were his business affairs.

Apart from six hundred pounds deposited in the Cairo branch of Barings
Bank, almost all his wealth was concentrated in the besieged city.  In
his warehouse he had over eighteen tons of ivory, worth five shillings
a pound, but only when it reached Cairo.  In beleaguered Khartoum it
was not worth a sack of dhurra.  The same could be said of the ton and
a half of gum arabic, the sap of the acacia tree, which had been dried
into sticky black bricks.  It was a valuable commodity used in the
arts, cosmetics and printing industries.  In Cairo his stock would sell
for several thousand pounds.  Then he had four large storerooms stacked
to the ceiling with dried cattle hides bartered from the pastoral Dinka
and Shilluk tribes to the south.  Another large room was filled with
trade goods: rolls of copper wire, Venetian glass beads, steel axe and
hoe heads, hand mirrors, old Tower muskets and kegs of cheap black
gunpowder, rolls of calico and Birmingham cotton goods, with all the
other trinkets and gewgaws that delighted the rulers of the southern
kingdoms and their subjects.

In the cages and stockades at the far end of his compound he kept the
wild animals and birds that formed an important part of his trading
stock.  They had been captured in the savannahs and forests of
Equatoria and brought downriver in his barges and steamer.  In the
stockades they were rested, tamed and made familiar with their human
keepers.  At the same time the keepers learnt what food and treatment
would ensure their survival until they were transported north up the
Nile to be auctioned to the dealers and their agents in Cairo and
Damascus, and even to Naples and Rome where prices were considerably
higher.  In those markets some of the rarer African species might fetch
as much as a hundred pounds each.

His most valuable possessions were concealed behind the steel door of
the strongroom, which was hidden by a large Persian wall-hanging: more
than a hundred bags of silver Maria Theresa dollars, that ubiquitous
coin of the Middle East, minted with a portrait of the buxom queen of
Hungary and Bohemia.  This was the only coinage acceptable to the
Abyssinians in their mountainous kingdom and his other more
sophisticated trading partners, such as the Mutesa in Buganda, the
Hadendowa and the Saar of the eastern deserts.  At the moment there
would be little trading with the emirs of these desert Arab tribes.
Almost all had gone over en masse to join the Mahdi's jihad.

He smiled sardonically in the lamplight.  I wonder if the Mahdi might
be open to an offer of Maria Theresa dollars, he thought.  But I expect
not.  I hear he has already accumulated over a million pounds in
plunder.

In the strongroom alongside the canvas bags of dollars were even
greater treasures.  Fifty sacks of dhurra corn, a couple of dozen boxes
of Cuban cheroots, half a dozen cases of Hine Cognac and fifty pounds
of Abyssinian coffee.

Chinese Gordon is shooting hoarders.  I hope he offers me a last
cheroot and a blindfold, he mused.  Then he became deadly serious
again.  Before Gordon had commandeered the Intrepid this Ryder had made
plans to move as much as possible of his stock and stores downriver to
Cairo.  Then he would run the blockade of the river.

He had also planned that, while he was occupied with this voyage,
Bacheet would take the bulkier and less valuable stocks by camel
caravan to Abyssinia and perhaps even to one of the trading ports on
the coast of the Red Sea.  Although the Mahdi had deployed his armies
along the western bank of the Blue Nile, and the northern bank of the
Blue Nile, and was blockading the river, there were still many gaps in
his besieging cordon.  Principal of these was the broad wedge of open
desert between the two rivers, at whose apex stood the city.  Only the
narrow canal protected this part of the city perimeter, and although
General Gordon's men were deepening and widening it there was nothing
beyond: no Dervish army, only sand, scrub and a few stands of acacia
thorn for hundreds of miles.

Said Mahtoum, one of the few emirs who had not yet gone over to the
Dervish, had agreed a price with Ryder to bring his camels close in to
the city, just out of sight of it behind a low, rocky ridge.  There,
under Bacheet's supervision, he would load the cargo and smuggle it
over the Sudanese border to one of Ryder's trading stations in the
foothills of the Abyssinian mountains.  All of those plans must now go
by the board.  He would be forced to leave all his possessions in the
beleaguered city, taking only a boatload of refugees with him.

"Damn General bloody Chinese bloody Gordon!"  he said, stood up
abruptly and moved around the room.  Apart from the cabin of the
Intrepid this 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 go down 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 in spanned 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.  AH 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
horn-bills, 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 this 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 this 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 this 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 the
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 melee 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 this 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 this was listing dangerously.

When Ryder reached his bridge again and opened the throttle, he could
feel the enormous drag of the overloaded barges.  He glanced back and
saw that the nearest had less than two feet of freeboard.  He spun the
wheel towards the harbour entrance.

The this was driven by a Cowper engine, a powerful unit with three
cylinders.  This modern design incorporated an intermediate steam
reservoir for compound expansion that allowed much higher boiler
pressure than previous models.  The this needed all this power to
enable her to drag the string of heavily loaded barges up through the
fast-flowing waters of the cataracts.  Now, under the thrust of the
Cowper, she built up speed and a white wave blossomed under the bows of
each barge, faster still and the water curled over their bows.  A
chorus of despairing cries rose from the passengers in the barges as
they began to flood and settle even lower in the water.  Ryder cut back
the power, and managed to con the this and her tows out through the
harbour entrance into the open river where he would have more space in
which to manoeuvre but the increased turbulence of the surface
exacerbated the build-up of the bow waves.

Ryder was forced to throttle right back until he barely had
steerage-way.  The ship was picked up by the current and slewed across
the channel with her tow lines becoming fouled.  The barges ran down on
the this.  The first of the heavy vessels crashed into her stern, and
she shuddered with the shock.

"Cut them loose!"  Le Blanc screamed, his voice so shrill with terror
that it cut through the din.  "Cut them loose!  Leave them behind! This
is all their fault!"

The tangle of vessels, still bound together by their tow lines, drifted
past the last buildings of the city, then into the broad reach of the
combined Niles.  Ryder realized he would have to anchor to give himself
time to adjust the trim of the barges so that they would tow
obediently.  He considered turning back to put the stowaway passengers
ashore.  As they were now, they might flounder in the Shabluka Gorge.
Even if they won through, his legitimate passengers would not be able
to endure this overcrowding during the heat of the passage through the
Desert of the Mother of Stones.  Ryder gave the orders to break out the
heaviest anchor before they were carried beyond the protection of
General Gordon's artillery.  Suddenly there was a warning cry from
Bacheet.

"Boats coming fast!  Dervish boats from the other bank!"  Ryder ran to
him and saw a flotilla of dozens of small river craft appearing swiftly
and silently out of the darkness from the direction of Omdurman,
feluccas, nuggars and small dhows.  He ran back to the bridge.  The
ten-thousand-candle-power lamp was mounted on the bridge coaming.  He
turned its brilliant white beam on the approaching craft.  He saw that
they were crammed with armed Ansar.  The Dervish must have been fully
aware of their escape plans and had been lying in ambush for the
Intrepid this.  As they closed with the steamer and her tangled string
of barges the Ansar shrieked their terrible praise of God, and
brandished their broadswords.  The long blades glimmered in the light,
and the passengers in the barges wailed with terror.

"Man the rail!"  Ryder shouted to his crew.  "Stand by to repel
boarders!"

His crew understood this drill well.  They had practised it regularly
for the Upper Nile was a dangerous place and the tribes who lived upon
its banks and in its marshes were savage and wild.  They struggled to
reach their places at the ship's side to meet the enemy, but the
passengers were packed shoulder to shoulder and they found it almost
impossible to force their way through.  The ruck of human bodies surged
forward as they were shoved from behind, and some of those nearest the
side were thrown overboard.  They screamed and splashed on the surface
until they were borne away on the current or sank beneath it.  A young
wife with her newborn infant strapped to her back went over and
although she paddled desperately to keep her baby's head above the
surface, they were sucked back into the Intrepid this's propeller.

It was fruitless to attempt to rescue any of those in the water.  Nor
was there time to anchor, for the Dervish boats closed in swiftly: as
they reached the barges they hooked on to the sides and the Ansar
warriors tried to clamber aboard, but they were unable to obtain a
foothold on the packed decks.  They hacked and stabbed at the screaming
passengers with their swords, trying to clear a space.  The barges
rolled wildly.  More bodies splashed overboard.

The next wave of Dervish boats came at the this from her starboard
side.  Ryder dared not open the throttle of his engines for fear of
swamping the leading barge.  If that happened the drag on the tow line
would be so powerful the barge might drag this under with her.  He
could not run from them so he must fight them off.

By this time Jock McCrump and Bacheet had passed out the Martini-Henry
rifles from the gun rack.  Some of the Egyptian askaris had brought
their Remington carbines on board with them and stood shoulder to
shoulder with the crew at the rail.  Ryder played the spotlight on the
approaching boats.  In its stark beam the faces of the Ansar were
murderous with battle lust and religious ardour.  They seemed as
inhuman as a legion from the gates of hell.

"Aim!"  shouted Ryder, and they levelled their rifles.  "One round
volley.  Fire!"

The hail of heavy lead slugs ripped into the closely packed Arabs in
the feluccas, and Ryder saw one Dervish flung backwards into the river,
the sword spinning from his hands and half of his skull blown away in a
bright cloud of brains and blood, sparkling crimson in the spotlight
beam.  Many more were struck down or hurled overboard by the impact of
the 450-grain bullets at such close range.

"Load!"  Ryder yelled.  The breech-blocks snickered metallically, and
the spent cases pinged away.  The riflemen thrust fresh cartridges into
the open breeches, and snapped the loading handles closed.  "One round
volley.  Fire!"

Before the men in the small boats had recovered from the first volley,
a second smashed into them, and they sheered away from it.

At that moment Ryder heard David's voice carry above the wails and
shrieks of the other passengers.  "Behind you, Mr.  Courtney!"  David
had climbed up on to the roof of the cabin.  He was balanced there with
one of his shotguns held at high port across his chest.  Ryder saw
Rebecca at his side.  She held one of her father's Webley revolvers in
each hand, and handled them in a businesslike manner.  Behind them
stood the twins, each with a loaded shotgun ready to pass forward to
their father.  Their faces were moon pale but determined.  The Benbrook
family made a heroic little group above the struggling turmoil on the
deck.  Ryder felt a quick up-thrust of admiration for them.

David pointed over the opposite rail with the barrel of his shotgun,
and Ryder saw that another wave of Dervish boats was closing in from
that side.  He knew he could not get his men back across the crowded
deck before the attackers came aboard.  If he did he would leave the
starboard side undefended.  Before he could make the decision and give
the order, David took matters into his own hands.  He raised the Purdey
shotgun and let fly right and left into the crew of the nearest boat.
The spreading cloud of goose shot was, at this range, more potent than
the single Boxer-Henry bullet.  The instant carnage in the felucca
stunned the Dervish attackers.  Four or five had gone down and were
struggling on the deck in puddles of their own blood.  Others had been
knocked over the side and, flotsam, washed away on the stream.

Saffron slipped the second Purdey into her father's hands while Amber
reloaded the empty gun.  Rebecca fired the Webley revolvers into the
nearest felucca.  The recoil from each shot threw the heavy weapons
high above her head, but their effect was deadly.  David fired again in
such quick succession that the shots seemed to blend together in a
single jarring concussion.  As this havoc of lead pellets and revolver
bullets sprayed over the boats, and they saw the tall white man on the
cabin roof raise a third gun and aim at them, two of the felucca
captains put their helms over, and turned away, unwilling to accept
such punishment.

"Good man!"  Ryder laughed.  "And well done, you lovely ladies!"

The Dervish feluccas gave up on such dangerous, vicious prey and turned
on the overladen and defenceless barges.  Now that all the attackers
were concentrating on them, their fate seemed sealed.  Dervish Ansar
hacked their way on board and the passengers were driven like sardines
before a barracuda to the far rail of the ungainly craft.  The bulwark
was driven under by their combined weight and the river rushed in and
flooded her.  The barge foundered and rolled over.  Her weed-carpeted
bottom pointed for a moment towards the moon.  Then she plunged under
and was gone.

Immediately the sunken barge acted like a great drogue on the tow line,
and the Intrepid this was cruelly curbed, like a horse pulled on to its
haunches.  The tow line had been made by twisting together three
ordinary hawsers.  It was immensely powerful, far too strong to part
and release the barge.  The this's stern was dragged down irresistibly
and the water flooded the afterdeck in a rush.

Ryder tossed his rifle to one of the this's stokers and seized the
heavy fire axe from him.  He sprang down on to the flooding deck and
shouldered his way to the stern.  He was already knee deep in water,
which cascaded in over the transom.  Soon it would flood the engine
room and quench the boiler fire.  Ryder gathered himself and balanced
over the tow line, which was now stretched tight as an iron bar through
its fairlead in the stern plating.  It was as thick as a fat man's
calf, and there was no give or elasticity in the water-laid strands.

Ryder swung the axe from full reach above his head with all his
strength and, with a crack, a dozen strands parted at the stroke.  He
swung the axe high once more and put every ounce of muscle behind his
next stroke.  Another dozen strands gave way.  He kept swinging the
axe, grunting with the power behind each stroke.  The remaining strands
of the cable unravelled and snapped under the fierce drag of the
submerged barge and the this's driving propeller.  Ryder jumped back
just before the rope parted and slashed at him like some monstrous
serpent.  Had the parting cable end caught him squarely it might have
broken both his legs, but it missed him by a few inches.

He felt the this lurch under him as she was freed of the drag, then
spring back on to an even keel.  She seemed to shake the water off her
decks as a spaniel shakes when it comes ashore with a dead duck in its
jaws.  Then the propeller bit in hard and this surged forward.  Saffron
was shaken from her perch on the cabin roof.  Her arms windmilled and
Rebecca tried to catch her, but she slipped through her fingers and
fell backwards with a shriek.  If she had struck the steel deck she
might have caved in the back of her skull, but Ryder threw aside the
axe, dived under her and snatched her out of the air.  For a moment he
held her to his chest.

"A bird you certainly ain't, Saffy."  He grinned at her, and ran with
her towards his bridge.  Although she tried to cling to him, he dumped
her unceremoniously in Nazeera's arms.  Without a backward glance, he
jumped behind the this's wheel, and pushed the twin throttles wide
open.  With a rush of steam from her piston exhausts, she tore away,
rejoicing to be free of her towing cable, building up swiftly to her
top speed of twelve knots.  Ryder brought her round to port in a narrow
arc of 180 degrees until he was rushing straight back towards the
tangled mass of barges and feluccas.

"What are you going to do?"  David asked, as he appeared at Ryder's
side with his shotgun over a shoulder.  "Pick up swimmers?"

"No," Ryder replied grimly.  "I am going to add to, not subtract from,
the number of swimmers."  The bows of the this were reinforced with a
double thickness of half-inch steel plate to withstand contact with the
rocks of the cataracts.  "I am going to ram," he warned David.  "Tell
the girls that we will hit with an almighty thump and they must hang on
tight."

The Dervish boats were thick as vultures round an elephant carcass.
Ryder saw that some of the Ansar were freeing the tow lines that held
the barges together and passing the cables down to the dhows. Obviously
they intended dragging them one at a time into the shallows of the west
bank where they could complete the slaughter and plundering at their
leisure.  The rest were still hacking at the cowering bodies on the
crowded decks or leaning over the sides to stab at those who were
struggling in the water and screaming for mercy.  In the beam of the
this's spotlight the waters of the Nile were stained the colour of
mulberry juice by the blood of the dead and dying, and rivulets of
blood trickled down the sides of the barges.

"The murderous swine," Rebecca whispered.  Then, to Nazeera, "Take the
twins to the cabin.  They should not witness this."  She knew it was a
forlorn command.  It would require more bodily strength than Nazeera
possessed to remove them from the bridge.  In the reflection of the
spotlight's beam their eyes were huge with dreadful fascination.

The capsized barge was floating bottom up, but sinking swiftly.
Suddenly its stern rose, pointed at the moon, then slid below the
surface and was gone.  Ryder steered for a cluster of three big
feluccas, which had tied on to the side of the nearest surviving barge.
The Ansar were so busy with their bloody work on the deck that they did
not seem to notice the this bearing down on them.  At the last moment
one of the dhow captains looked up and realized the danger.  He shouted
a warning, and some of his comrades were scrambling back into the
feluccas as the this struck.

Ryder brought her in so skilfully that her steel bows tore through the
wooden hulls in quick succession, the timbers shrieking and exploding
with the sound of cannon fire as the boats capsized or were driven
under the bloody waters.  Although the this touched the side of the
barge as she tore past, it was a glancing blow and the vessel spun
away.

Ryder looked down into the terrified faces of the surviving refugees
and heard their piteous entreaties for rescue.  He had to harden his
heart: the choice before him was to sacrifice all or rescue some.  He
left them and brought the this around, still under full throttle, then
aimed at the next group of Dervish attack boats as they wallowed
helplessly without steerage way alongside another drifting barge.

Now the Ansar were fully aware of the danger.  The this bore down on
them and the blazing Cyclops eye of the spotlight dazzled them.  Some
threw themselves overboard.  Few could swim and their shields and
broadswords drew them under swiftly.  The this crashed at full throttle
into the first felucca, shattered it, and ran on with scarcely a check.
Beyond was one of the largest Dervish dhows, almost the length of the
this herself.  The steamer's steel bows sliced deeply into her, but
could not severe her hull.  The impact threw her back on her heels
and

some of those on her deck were hurled overboard with the crew of the
dhow.

Ryder threw the this into reverse, and as he backed off from the
mortally stricken dhow he played the spotlight beam around her.  Most
of the Dervish boats had recovered their boarding parties from the
barges, abandoning their prey in the face of the this's ferocious
onslaught.  They hoisted sail and steered back towards the west bank.
The three surviving barges were no longer linked together, for the
Ansar had succeeded in freeing the lines.  Independently of each other
they were spreading out and drifting in towards the west bank, thrust
across the wide bend of the river by the current.  In the powerful beam
Ryder could just make out the Dervish hordes waiting to welcome them
and complete the massacre.  He swung the this around in the hope that
he could reach at least one and pick up the tow line again in time to
drag it off the hostile shore.

As he tore towards the barges he saw that the one that contained the
cordwood, heavier than the others, was being carried more slowly on the
current.  The remaining two were still in its teeth, their decks piled
with the dead and wounded, blood painting their sides, glistening red
in the spotlight beam.  They would soon be into the shallows where the
this could not follow them.

Ryder knew every shoal and bend of the river as intimately as a lover
knows the body of his beloved.  He narrowed his eyes and calculated the
angles and relative speeds.  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach, he realized he could not reach them in time to rescue them
all.  He kept the this tearing downstream under full steam, but he knew
it was hopeless.  He saw first one barge, then the other check sharply
and come to a halt, stranded on the shoals.  From the shore the waiting
Dervish warriors plunged into the river and waded out waist-deep to
finish the slaughter.  Ryder was forced to throttle back and watch
helplessly in horror and pity as the Ansar scrambled aboard and their
bloody work began again.  In vain he directed the rifle fire of his
crew at the hordes of Dervish still wading out to the stranded vessels,
but the range was long and the bullets had little effect.

Then he saw that the cordwood barge was still floating free.  If he
acted swiftly he might still be able to salvage it before it, too, went
aground.  He opened the throttle and raced down to intercept it.  It
was of crucial importance to recover this stock of fuel for his
boilers.  With it, they might reach the first cataract without being
forced ashore to cut more timber.  Ryder shouted to Jock McCrump to
prepare a new tow line, then brought the this alongside the barge and
held her in position while Jock and his boarding party jumped across to
fix the fresh line.

"Quick as you like, Jock," Ryder shouted.  "We're going to touch bottom
at any moment."

He looked anxiously at the enemy shore.  They had now drifted within
pistol shot, and even as he thought it he saw muzzle flashes as the
Dervish riflemen opened fire on them from the bank.  A bullet struck
the bridge rail and ricocheted so close past David's ear that he ducked
instinctively, then straightened, looking embarrassed.  He turned
sternly to Rebecca: "Get the twins below immediately, and make sure
they stay there until I tell you."

Rebecca knew better than to argue with him when he used that tone.  She
gathered the twins and drove them off the deck with her fiercest tone
and expression.  Nazeera needed no urging and scuttled down to the
cabin ahead of them.

Ryder played the spotlight along the bank, hoping to intimidate the
Ansar marksmen or, at least, to illuminate them so that his own crew
could return fire more accurately.  Although Jock worked fast to rig
the new tow line, it seemed like an eternity as they drifted swiftly
towards the shallows and the waiting enemy.  At last he bellowed
across, "All secure, Captain."

Ryder reversed the this slowly until the gap between the two vessels
was narrow enough for Jock and his team to leap back on board the
steamer.  As soon as his feet hit the this's steel deck he yelled,
"Haul away!"

With a rush of relief Ryder eased the throttles ahead and gently drew
the barge after him until she was following like an obedient dog on a
leash.  He began to haul her off into the main stream of the river,
when a rushing sound filled the air and something passed so close above
him that his hat spun off his head.  Then, immediately afterwards,
there followed the unmistakable boom of a six-pounder cannon, the sound
following the shell from the west bank.

"Ah!  They've brought up one of their artillery pieces," David
remarked, in a conversational tone.  "Only wonder is that it has taken
them so long."

Quickly Ryder doused the spotlight beam.  "They could not fire before
for fear of hitting their own ships," he said.  And his last words were
drowned by the next shell howling overhead.  "That was not so close."
He kept his right hand pressing down on the throttle handles to milk
the last turn of speed out of his vessel.  The weight and drag of the
barge cut at least three knots off their speed.

"They are close enough to be using open sights," David said.  "They
should be able to do better than that."

"They will oh, I am sure they will."  Ryder looked up at the moon,

hoping to see the shadow of a cloud fall across it.  But the sky was
brilliant with stars and the moon lit the surface of the Nile as if it
were a stage.  For the gunners the this would stand out against the
silver waters like a granite hillock.

The next shell fell so close alongside that a shower of river water
fell over the bridge and soaked those on it so that their shirts clung
to their backs.  Then there were more cannon flashes along the shore
behind them as the Dervish gunners dragged up gun after gun and
unlimbered to bring the this under fire.

"Jock, we will have to give them the best of it and cut the barge
loose," Ryder called to the engineer.

"Aye, skipper.  I had a notion ye would say just that."  Jock picked up
the axe and started towards the stern.

Another Dervish gun-carriage galloped along the bank until it was
slightly ahead of the straining this and her burden.  Though neither
Ryder nor David was aware of it, the master gunner commanding the
mounted battery was the Ansar whom David had dubbed the Bedlam
Bedouin.

From astride the lead horse of the team, he gave a sharp command and
they wheeled the gun carriage into line with the gun's muzzle pointing
out across the river, and unlimbered.  The number two and three loaders
stamped the heavy steel base plate into the soft earth of the
riverbank.  They set the point of the trail into its slot in the plate.
While they worked the master gunner was shrieking orders, wild with
excitement: he had never in all his brief career been offered such a
fine target as the ferenghi ship now presented.  It was almost
broadside on.  Its silhouette stood out crisply against the shimmering
waters.  It was so close that he could hear the terrified voices of the
passengers raised in prayer and supplication, and the peremptory
commands of the captain speaking in the infidel language the gunner
could not understand.

He used a hand-spike to traverse the gun round the last few degrees
until the long barrel was aiming directly at the ship.  Then he wound
down the elevation handle until he was gazing over the open iron sights
at his target.

"In the Name of Allah, bring the bomboms!"  he screamed at his loaders.
They staggered up with the first ammunition box and knocked off the
clips that held the lid in place.  Inside, four shells lay in their
wooden cradles, sleek and glistening ominously.  The gunner,
self-taught in the art of gunnery, had not yet fathomed the arcane
principle of fuse delays.  In fumbling haste, he used the Allen key he
wore round his neck to screw the fuses to the maximum setting in the
belief that this imparted to each missile the greatest amount of
destructive power.  The

this was a mere three hundred yards off the bank.  He set his fuses at
two thousand yards.

"In God's Name let us begin!"  he ordered.

"In God's Name."  His number two flung open the breech of the Krupps
with a flourish.

"In God's Name," intoned the number three, and slid one of the long
shells deep into the chamber until it was snug against the lands.  The
number two slammed the breech-block shut.

"God is great," said the Bedlam Bedouin, as he squinted over his sights
to make certain of his aim.  He traversed the mount four degrees left
until he was aiming at the base of the this's funnel.  Then he jumped
back and seized the lanyard.  "Allah is mighty," he said.

"There is no other God but God," chorused his team.

"And Muhammad and the Mahdi are his prophets."  The gunner jerked the
lanyard, and the Krupps slammed back against its base plate.  The
discharge deafened the crew with its report and blinded them with the
muzzle flash and the flying dust.

On an almost flat trajectory the shell howled over the river and struck
the Intrepid this two feet above the waterline and just astern of
midships.  It passed obliquely through her hull as readily as a
stiletto through human flesh, but by virtue of the maximum fuse setting
it did not explode.

Had it been three inches higher or lower it would have done minimal
damage, nothing that Jock McCrump with his gas welding equipment could
not have repaired within a few hours.  But that was not to be.  In
passing it slashed through the main steam line from the boiler.  Steam
heated to twice the temperature of boiling water and under pressure of
almost three hundred pounds to the square inch erupted in a shrieking
jet from the ruptured pipe.  It swept over the nearest stoker as he
bent to thrust a faggot of timber into the open firebox of the boiler.
He was naked in the heat, except for a turban and loincloth.  Instantly
the steam peeled the skin and the flesh off his body in great slabs to
expose the bones beneath.  The agony was so terrible that the man could
not utter a sound.  Mouth gaping in a silent scream, he fell writhing
to the deck and froze into a sculpture of the utmost agony.

Steam filled the engine room and boiled in dense white clouds from the
ventilation ports to pour over the decks, shrouding the this in a dense
white cloud.  Rapidly the ship lost power and swung idly broadside to
the current.  The Bedlam Bedouin and his gun-crew howled with
excitement and triumph as they reloaded.  But their quarry was now
obscured by her own steam cloud.  Although shells from many Krupps
batteries along the bank plunged into the water alongside, or ripped
the air overhead as though a giant was tearing a canvas mainsail in
two, no more struck the little this.

Jock McCrump had been on the bridge with Ryder when the shell struck.
He grabbed a heavy pair of working gloves from the locker beside the
forward steam winch, and pulled them on as he ran back to the
engine-room hatchway.  The steam that billowed through the opening
stung his face and the bare skin of his arms, but the pressure in the
boiler had dropped as the steam bled off through the ruptured pipe.  He
ripped the heavy canvas curtain that covered the hatch from its rail,
and snapped at Ryder, "Wrap me, skipper!"

Ryder understood instantly what he was going to do.  He shook out the
thick curtain, then wound Jock in it, cloaking his head and every part
of his body but for his arms.

"The grease pot!"  Jock's voice was muffled by the folds of canvas.
Ryder seized it from its hook beside the winch, scooped out handfuls of
the thick black grease and spread it over the exposed skin of Jock's
muscular arms.

"That will do," Jock grunted, and opened a slit in his canvas head
cover to draw one last deep breath.  Then he covered his face and
plunged blindly down the steel companion ladder.  He held his breath
and closed his eyes tightly.  But the steam scalded the exposed skin,
melting away the coating of black grease from his bare arms.

Jock knew every inch of his engine room so intimately that he did not
need to see it.  Guiding himself with a light touch of gloved fingers
over the familiar machinery, he moved swiftly towards the main pressure
line.  The shrieking of high-pressure steam escaping from the rupture
threatened to burst his eardrums.  He felt his arms cooking like
lobsters in the pot and fought the impulse to scream, lest he use the
last air in his aching lungs.  He stumbled over the stoker's corpse,
but recovered his balance and found the main steam line.  It was
wrapped with asbestos rope to prevent heat loss so he was able to run
his gloved hands along it until he found the wheel of the stopcock that
controlled the flow of steam into the line.  Swiftly he spun the wheel
and the rushing sound of escaping steam rose sharply, then was snuffed
out as the valve closed.

It took ineffable pain to make a man like Jock McCrump sob, but he was
crying like an infant as he staggered back to the foot of the companion
ladder, then clambered painfully up to the deck.  He stumbled out into
the night air, which felt cold after the hellish atmosphere of the
engine room, and Ryder caught him before he fell.  He stared in horror
at the huge blisters hanging from Jock's forearms.  Then he roused
himself and scooped more grease from the pot to cover them, but Rebecca
had appeared suddenly and pushed him aside.

"This is woman's work, Mr.  Courtney.  You see to your boat and leave
this to me."  She was carrying a hurricane lamp and, by its feeble
light, examined Jock's arms, pursing her lips grimly.  She set the lamp
on the deck, crouched beside Jock and began to work on his injuries.
Her touch was deft and gentle.

"God love you, Jock McCrump, for what you've done to save my ship."
Ryder lingered beside Jock.  "But the Dervish are still shooting at
us."  As if to underline the fact another Krupps shell plunged into the
river, so close alongside that the spray rained down on them like a
tropical cloudburst.  "How bad is the damage?  Can we get power on at
least one of the engines to get us out of range of the guns on the
bank?"

"I couldnae see much at all down there, but at the best odds the main
boiler will not have as much pressure in her as a virgin's fart."  Jock
glanced at Rebecca.  "Begging your pardon, lassie."  He stifled a groan
as Rebecca touched one of the pendulous blisters, which burst open.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  McCrump."

"It's naught at all.  Dinna fash yourself, woman."  Jock looked up at
Ryder.  "Maybe, just maybe, I can knock together some kind of jury-rig
and get steam to the cylinders.  It just depends on the damage she's
suffered down there.  But at the best I doubt we'll get more than a few
pounds of pressure into the line."

Ryder straightened up and looked around.  He saw the dark shape of
Tutti Island no more than a cable's length downstream from where they
wallowed, powerless, under the Dervish guns.  What the Dervish cannon
fire lacked in accuracy, it made up for in rapidity.  From the sheer
weight of shells being hurled at them, it could not be long before they
received another direct hit.

He watched the changing bearing of the island for a moment longer. "The
current is carrying us past the island.  If we anchor in its lee it
will screen us from the guns."  He left them and shoved his way through
the passengers, shouting for Bacheet and his mate Abou Sinn. "Clear
this rabble out of the way, and prepare to anchor at my command."

They jumped to their stations, shoving and kicking aside the bewildered
ask ari and stowaways to give themselves room to work.  Bacheet freed
the retaining tackle from the ring of the heavy fisherman's anchor that
hung at the bows.  Abou Sinn stood over the chain where it emerged
through the fairlead of the chain locker with the four-pound hammer
ready.

Ryder peered back at the land, watching the muzzle flashes of the
Dervish guns and judging his moment.  For a few minutes he held his
breath while it seemed that they would be driven ashore on the island,
then an eddy in the current pushed them clear and they drifted so close
to the eastern side of the island that they were sheltered from the
Dervish batteries.

"Let go!"  Ryder shouted to Abou Sinn, and with a blow of the
sledgehammer he knocked the pin out of the anchor shackle.  The anchor
splashed into the river, the chain roaring out after it, and found the
bottom.  The chain stopped running and Bacheet secured it.  The this
came up hard and short, and spun round in the current to face upstream,
with the timber barge behind her on her tow line.  The Dervish cannon
fire tapered off as the gunners found themselves deprived of their
target.  A few more shells screeched high overhead or burst
ineffectually into the sandbanks of the screening island, then the
gunners gave up and silence descended.

Ryder found Jock sitting on the bunk in the cabin, being attended to by
all the Benbrook ladies.  "How are you feeling?"  he asked
solicitously.

"Not so bad, skipper."  He indicated his arms: "These bonny little
lasses have done a fine job on them."  Rebecca had bandaged both arms
with strips that the twins had torn from one of the threadbare cotton
bedsheets, then fashioned a double sling from the same material.  Now
she was brewing a mug of tea for him on the stove in the tiny galley
next door.  Jock grinned.  "Home was never so good.  That's why I ran
away."

"Sorry to interrupt your retirement, but can I trouble you to take a
peek at your engine?"

"Just when I was really enjoying me self Jock grumbled, but rose to his
feet.

"I'll bring your mug down to the engine room for you, Mr.  McCrump,"
Amber promised.

"And I'll bring one for you, Ryder," Saffron called.

Jock McCrump followed Ryder down to the engine room.  Bacheet and Abou
Sinn carried away the stoker's corpse, and by the light of a pair of
hurricane lamps they assessed the damage.  Now that Jock was able to
examine his beloved engine more closely, he grumbled bitterly to
disguise his relief.  "Bloody heathens!  Can't trust them further than
you can throw one of them.  No sense of common decency, doing this to
my bonny Cowper."  However, only the main steam line shot was through;
the engine itself was untouched.

"Well, there's naught I can do for the steam line this side of my
workshop in Khartoum.  In the meantime, though, perhaps I can cobble
something together to get a mite of steam through to the engine, but I
reckon we'll not be breaking any speed records with the old girl." Then
he held up his bandaged arms.  "You'll have to do the donkey work,
skipper."

Ryder nodded.  "While we're at it, I'm going to send Bacheet to move
all our uninvited passengers across to the barge.  That will correct my
trim and give me a little more manoeuvrability and control.  It will
also give the crew more room to work the ship properly."

While the passengers were trans hipped Ryder and his engineer began the
repairs.  Working quickly but carefully, they bled off the remaining
steam from the boilers and drew the fires from the grate.  Then they
used the in-line valve cocks to isolate the damaged section of the main
steam line.  Once this was done, they could begin rigging a bypass line
to carry steam through to the power plant.  They had to measure the
lengths they needed and cut the new pipe sections to length by hacksaw,
then clamp them into the heavy vice on Jock's workbench and cut threads
into the ends of the pipes with the haijd dies.  They packed the joints
with asbestos thread and tightened the elbows and connectors with their
combined weight on the long-handled pipe wrench.  They ended up with a
mare's nest of convoluted improvised piping.

The work took the rest of the night, and by the time they were ready to
test its integrity dawn was showing through the engine-room portholes.
It took another hour to set the fires in the grates and work up a head
of steam in the boiler.  When the needle of the pressure gauge touched
the green line Jock gingerly eased open the cock of the steam valve.
Ryder stood beside him and watched anxiously, hands black with grease,
knuckles bruised and bleeding from rough contact with steel pipes. They
held their breath as the needle on the secondary pressure gauge rose,
and watched the new pipe joints for the first sign of a leak.

"All holding," Jock grunted, and reached across to the port-engine
throttle.  With a suck and a hiss of live steam the big triple pistons
began to pump up and down in their cylinders, the rods moved like the
legs of marching men, and the propeller shaft rotated smoothly in its
bearings.

"Power up and holding."  Jock grinned with the pride of accomplishment.
"But I cannae take the chance and open her full.  You'll have to take
what you get, skipper, and thank the Lord and Jock McCrump for that
much."

"You're a living, breathing miracle, Jock.  I hope your mother was
proud of you."  Ryder chuckled.  When he wiped the sweat off his
forehead, the back of his fist left a black smear.  "Now, stand by to
give me everything you can just as soon as I can get the anchor weighed
and cat ted  He charged up the ladder to the bridge.  Abou Sinn
followed him and ran to the controls of the steam winch.

As the this pushed slowly forward against the river current, the anchor
chain came clanking in through the hawser hole  The flukes broke free
from the riverbed and Ryder eased open the throttle.  The this
responded so sluggishly that she made little headway against the
four-knot current.  Ryder felt a cold slide of disappointment.  He
glanced over the stern at the barge.  Drawing deeply under its cargo of
cordwood and uninvited passengers, it was behaving with mulish
recalcitrance.  Dozens of pathetic faces stared across at him.

By God, I've half a mind to cut you free and leave you to the mercy of
the Mahdi, he thought venomously, but with an effort set the temptation
aside.  He turned instead to David, who had joined him silently.
"She'll never be able to hold her own in the Shabluka Gorge.  When the
entire flow of the combined Niles is forced through the narrows the
current reaches almost ten knots.  With only half her power the this
will be helpless in its grip.  The risk of piling up on the rocky
cliffs is too great to accept."

"What other choice do you have?"

"Nothing for it but to battle our way back to Khartoum."

David looked worried.  "My girls!  I hate to take them back to that
death-trap.  How long will Gordon be able to hold out in the city
before the Dervishes break in?"

"Let's hope it's long enough for Jock to finish his repairs so that we
can make another run for it.  But now our only hope is to get back into
the harbour."  Ryder turned the this across the current and headed her
for the east bank.  He tried to keep the bulk of Tutti Island between
the ship and the Dervish batteries, but before they were half-way
across the first shells were howling above the river.  However, with
the current giving him some assistance Ryder opened the range swiftly,
and the skill of the Bedlam Bedouin and his comrades was not up to the
task of hitting a target as small as the Intrepid this at a range of
over a mile, except by the direct intervention of Allah.  This day,
however, their prayers went unanswered, and although there were a few
encouraging near misses the this and her barge made good their crossing
of the mainstream, then turned south for the city, hugging the furthest
edge of the channel at extreme range for the Krupps.

The Dervish feluccas sallied out from the west bank and made another
attempt to intercept the steamer, but by now the sun was high.  General
Gordon's artillery on the riverfront of Khartoum was able to direct
furious and remarkably accurate fire upon the enemy flotilla as it came
within easy range.  Ryder saw four small boats blown into splinters by
direct hits with high explosive and correctly fused shells.  The
severed limbs and heads of the crews were hurled high in the yellow
clouds of lyddite fumes.  This discouraged all but a few of the
bravest, most foolhardy captains, and most of the small boats turned
back for the shore.

Three of the attack boats pressed on across the river, but the wind
blew strongly from the south and the current was at five knots from the
same direction.  Two of the feluccas were swept downstream and were
unable to make good a course to intercept the this.  Only one of them
stood in her way.  But Ryder had been given plenty of time to prepare a
reception for it.  He ordered all the deck passengers to lie flat, so
as to offer no target to the attackers.  As the enemy vessel raced
towards them, heeled over by the wind and pushed along by the current,
Bacheet and Abou Sinn were crouched below the starboard bulwark.

"Let them get close," Ryder called down from the bridge, as he judged
the moment.  Then he raised his voice to full pitch: "Now!J he
bellowed.

Bacheet and Abou Sinn sprang up from hiding and aimed the brass nozzles
of the steam hoses down into the undecked hull of the felucca.  They
opened the valves and solid white jets of live steam from the this's
boiler engulfed the warriors crowded into the open boat.  Their
bloodthirsty war cries and angry challenges turned to screams of
anguish as the dense clouds of steam flayed the skin and flesh from
their faces and bodies.  The hull of the felucca crashed heavily
against the steel of the this's hull, and the impact snapped off the
mast at deck level.  The felucca scraped down the steel side of the
steamer, then spun out of control in her wake.  She now wallowed
directly in the path of the heavily laden barge.  The Ansar were so
blinded by the steam that they did not see her coming.  The barge
smashed into the frail craft and trod her under the surface.  None of
her crew surfaced again.

"That takes care of that," Ryder murmured, with satisfaction, then
forced a smile at Rebecca.  "Forgive me for depriving' you of the
comfort of the cabin floor, but tonight you will have to make do with
your own bed in the palace."

"That is a hardship I am determined to endure with the utmost stoicism,
Mr.  Courtney."  Her smile was almost as unconvincing as his, but he
was amazed at how pretty she looked in the midst of so much mayhem and
ugliness.

General Charles Gordon stood on the steps above the harbour entrance
and watched the this limp in.  When Ryder looked up at him from the
bridge, his regard was cold and cutting as blue ice, with no trace of a
smile nor any hint of sympathy.  When the steamer was tied up at the
stone jetty Gordon turned away and disappeared.

Major al-Faroque remained to welcome the bedraggled passengers as they
staggered ashore from the barge.  His head was swathed in a white
bandage, but his expression was ferocious as he picked out those of his
men who had deserted their posts and attempted to escape.  As he
recognized them he lashed each offender across the face with the
kurbash whip he carried, and nodded to the squad of ask ari who were
lined up behind him.  They seized the marked men and locked manacles on
their wrists.

Later that afternoon, when Ryder was summoned to the general's office
in the consular palace to make his report, Gordon was distant and
dismissive.  He listened without comment to all that Ryder had to say,
condemning him with his silence.  Then he nodded.  "I am to blame as
much as anybody.  I placed too much responsibility on your shoulders.
After all, you are not a soldier, merely a mercenary trader."  He spoke
scornfully.

Ryder was about to make an angry retort when a volley of rifle fire
rang out from the courtyard of the palace below.  He turned quickly to
the window and looked down.

"Al-Faroque is dealing with the deserters."  Gordon had not risen from
his chair.  Ryder saw that the ten men of the firing squad were leaning
nonchalantly on their weapons.  Against the wall of the courtyard
facing them sprawled an untidy row of corpses.  The dead men were all
blindfolded with their wrists tied behind their backs, their shirts
bloodsoaked.  Major al-Faroque was walking down the line, his service
revolver in his right hand.  He paused over a body that was twitching
spasmodically and fired a single shot into the blindfolded head.  When
he reached the end of the line he nodded to a second squad of men, who
ran forward and piled the corpses into a waiting cart.  Then another
group of condemned men were led up from the cells into the courtyard
and lined up along the wall.  While a sergeant tied their blindfolds,
the firing squad came to attention.

"I hope, General, that the consul's daughters have been warned of these
executions," Ryder said grimly.  "It is not something that young
gentlewomen should witness."

"I sent word to him that they should keep to their quarters.  Your
concern for the young ladies does you credit, Mr.  Courtney.  However,
you might have been of greater service to them by affording them safe
passage downriver to a place of security."

"It is my intention to do so, General, as soon as I am able to effect
repairs to my steamer," Ryder assured him.

"It might already be too late for that, sir.  Within the last few hours
I have received the most reliable intelligence that the Emir Osman
Atalan of the Beja tribe is in full march with his array to join the
Mahdi's besieging force out there."  General Gordon pointed out of the
window across the White Nile at the Omdurman bank of the river.

Ryder was unable to conceal his alarm.  With the notorious Osman Atalan
opposing them, the nature of the siege would change.  Any escape from
Khartoum would become incalculably more difficult.

As if to endorse these grim thoughts, the next volley from the
execution squad crashed out, and immediately afterwards Ryder heard the
soft sounds of human bodies flopping lifelessly to the ground.

The Emir Osman Atalan, beloved of the Divine Mahdi, was riding at
large.  In response to the Mahdi's summons to Khartoum, he had been for
many weeks on the march up from the Red Sea Hills with his army.  His
warrior spirit chafed at the monotony and drudgery of the pace set by
the great agglomeration of animals and people.  The baggage train of
camels and donkeys, the columns of slaves and servants, women and
children was strung out over twenty leagues, and when they camped at
night it was like a city of tents and animal lines.  Each of Osman's
wives rode in a curtained litter on the back of her own camel, and
slept at night in her own commodious tent, attended by her slaves.  In
the van and in the rear guard rode the legions of the forty thousand
fighting men he commanded.

All the subservient tribes had massed to his scarlet and black banner:
the Hamran, the Roofar of the hills and the Hadendowa of the Red Sea
littoral.  These were the same warriors who, within the last few years,
had annihilated two Egyptian armies.  They had slaughtered Baker
Pasha's superior numbers at Tokar and El Teb and left a wide road of
bleached bones across the desert.  When the wind came from the west the
inhabitants of Suakin on the coast twenty miles away could still smell
the unburied dead.

Many of the tribes under Osman Atalan had played a major role at the
battle of El Obeid where General Hicks and his seven thousand had
perished.  They were the flower of the Dervish army, but in their
multitudes they moved too slowly for a man such as Osman Atalan.

He felt the call of the open desert and the silence of wild lands.  He
left the teeming legions to continue the march towards the City of
Infidels while he and a small band of his most trusted aggagiers ranged
out on their horses to indulge in the most dangerous sport known to the
bravest of the tribes.

As he reined in his steed on the crest of a long wooded ridge that
overlooked the valley of the Atbara river, Osman Atalan cut a romantic,
heroic figure.  He wore no turban, and his thick black hair was parted
down the middle and drawn into a long plait that hung to the level of
the blue silk sash that girl the waist of his ornately patched jibba.
He held the scabbard of his broadsword clamped under his right knee
against the saddle.  The hilt was exquisitely fashioned from rhinoceros
horn with a patina like amber, and the blade was inlaid with gold and
silver.  Under the fine loose cloth of his jibba his body was lean and
wiry, the muscles of his legs and arms like the woven sinews of a
bowstring.  When he swung down from the saddle he stood tall beside his
horse's head and stared out across the wide land below, searching for
the first glimpse of the chase.  His eyes were large and dark with the
thick, curling lashes of a beautiful woman, but his features seemed
carved in old ivory, hard flesh and harder bone.  He was a creature of
the desert and the wild places, and there was no soft flesh on him. The
inexorable sun had gilded but not blackened his skin.

His aggagiers rode up behind him and dismounted.  The title of honour
was reserved for those warriors who hunted the most dangerous game on
horseback, armed only with the broadsword.  They were men carved from
the same stone as their lord.  They loosened the girths of their
horses' saddles, then tethered the animals in the shade.  They watered
them, pouring from the waterskins into leather buckets, then spread
mats of plaited palm fronds before them and put down a small heap of
dhurra meal for them to feed.  They themselves did not drink or eat,
for abstinence was part of their warrior tradition.

"If a man drinks copiously and often, he never learns to resist the
sway of the sun and the sand," the old men said.

While the horses rested the aggagiers took down their swords and
shields from where they were tied to the saddles.  They sat in a small,
companionable group in the sunlight, and began to strop their blades on
the cured giraffe hide of their shields.  The hide of the giraffe was
the toughest of all wild game, yet not so heavy as that of the buffalo
or hippopotamus.  The shields were round targes, unadorned with image
or emblem, marked only by the blade of the enemy, or the claw and fang
of the chase.  Blade-honing was a pastime with which they filled their
leisure, as much part of their life as breathing, more so than eating
or drinking.

"We will sight the quarry before noon," said Hassan Ben Nader, who was
the emir's lance-bearer, 'praised be the Name of God."

"In Allah's Name," the others chorused softly.

"I have never seen a spoor such as this lead bull leaves upon the
earth," Hassan went on, speaking softly so that he did not offend his
master or the djinns of the wilderness.

"He is the bull of all bulls," they agreed.  "There will be sport for a
man before the sun sets."

They glanced sideways at Osman Atalan, showing respect by not staring
at him directly.  He was deep in contemplation, squatting with his
elbows on his knees and his smooth-shaven chin in the cup of his
hands.

There was silence except for the susurration of steel on leather.  They
paused in this endless activity only to test an edge with a thumb. Each
blade was about three and a half feet in length, and double-edged. It
was a replica of the broadswords of the crusaders that, centuries
before, had so impressed the Saracens before the walls of Acre and
Jerusalem.  The most treasured blades had been forged from the steel of
Solingen, and handed down from father to son.  The marvelous temper of
this metal imparted immense power to the blade, and it was capable of
taking an edge like that of a surgeon's scalpel the lightest stroke
would split hide and hair, flesh and sinew to the deepest bone.  A full
stroke could divide an enemy at the waist, cutting him in two as
effortlessly as though he were a ripe pomegranate.  The scabbards were
fashioned from two flat pieces of soft mimosa wood, heW together and
covered by the skin of an elephant's ear, dried hard and strong as
iron.  On the flat of the scabbard were two raised leather projections
about twelve inches apart, which held the weapon securely under the
horseman's thigh.  Even at full gallop it would not flap and bounce in
the ungainly manner of the swords of European cavalry.

The aggagiers rested while the high sun moved through an arc of three
fingers across the sky.  Then Osman Atalan rose to his feet, in a
single flowing, graceful movement.  Without a word the others rose
also, went to their mounts and tightened the girths.  They rode on down
the slope of the valley, through open savannah in which the stately
flat-topped acacia trees stood along the banks of the Atbara river.
They dismounted beside one of the deep green pools.  The elephant had
been there before them.  They had filled their bellies with water, then
bathed riotously, hosing powerful jets from their trunks over
themselves and the surrounding sandbanks.  They had scooped up cart
loads of thick black mud and plastered it on their heads and backs as
protection against the sun and the swarms of biting insects.  Then the
three mighty grey beasts had wandered away along the bank, but the sand
and mud they had left on the edges of the pool were so fresh that they
were still damp.

The aggagiers whispered excitedly together, pointing out the huge round
tracks of the largest bull.  Osman Atalan laid his war shield upon one
of the pad marks.  The circumference exceeded the giraffe-skin targe by
the breadth of his finger.

"In God's Name," they murmured.  "This is a mighty animal, and worthy
of our steel."

"I have never seen a greater bull than this," said Hassan Ben Nader.
"He is the father of every elephant that has ever lived."  They filled
the waterskins and let the horses drink again, then mounted up and
followed the trail through the open acacia forest.  The three bulls
were moving head on to the faint breeze so that they would detect any
danger ahead.  The aggagiers moved up quietly and intently behind
them.

The lead bull had dropped a pile of bright yellow dung in a clearing.
It was stringy with chewed bark that he had stripped from the acacias,
and lumpy with the stones of the Doum palm tree.  A swarm of bright
butterflies hovered over it.  The scent was so strong that one horse
snorted nervously.  His rider calmed him with a reassuring touch on his
neck.

They rode on, with Osman Atalan a length ahead.  The trail was plain to
see even from the distance of a hundred paces or more, for the bulls
had ripped long slabs of bark from the boles of the acacias.  The pale
wounds were so raw and recent that they glistened with the running sap,
which would dry into sticky black lumps of the precious gum arabic.

Emir Osman rose high in the stirrups and shaded his eyes to gaze
forward.  Almost half a mile ahead, the shaggy head of a tall Doum palm
rose above the lesser trees of the savannah.  Although the breeze was
so faint as to be barely palpable the distant palm top was whipping
from side to side as though it were being battered by a hurricane.

He looked back at his companions and nodded.  They smiled, because they
understood what they were witnessing.  One of the bulls had placed his
forehead against the bottle-shaped trunk of the palm and was shaking it
with all his massive strength as though it were a sapling.  This
brought the ripe Doum nuts showering down on his head.

They reined in their steeds to a walk.  The horses had scented the
chase and were sweating and trembling with fear and excitement, for
they knew what would happen next.  Abruptly Osman laid his hand on his
mount's withers.  She was a creamy honey-coloured mare.  She lifted her
lovely Arabian head and flared the wide nostrils that were the mark of
her breed, but stopped obediently.  Her name was Hulu Mayya, Sweet
Water, the most precious substance in this thirsty land.  She was six
years old and in her prime, swift as an oryx and as gentle as a kitten,
but with the heart of a lioness.  In the clamour of battle and the fury
of the chase she never faltered.

Like her rider she stared ahead for the first glimpse of their quarry.
Suddenly there he was, one of the lesser bulls standing separated from
his companions, dozing under the spreading branches of a mimosa tree.
The dappled shadows blurred his outline.

Osman gestured with his right hand, and they went forward, the horses
stepping warily as though they expected a cobra to rear up under their
hoofs.  Almost imperceptibly the shapes of the other two beasts emerged
from among the trees.  One, tormented by the stinging flies, shook his
head violently so that his ears clapped thunderously against his
shoulders.  His tusks gleamed dully in the shade, darkened by sap and
vegetable juices to the colour of a meerschaum pipe stained by tobacco
smoke.  The curved and tapered pillars of ivory were so vast that the
aggagiers grunted with satisfaction, and touched the hilts of their
broadswords.  The third bull was almost hidden by a patch of kit tar
thorn bush  From this angle it was impossible to judge how his tusks
compared with those of his companions.

Now that Osman Atalan had placed the position of each bull, he could
plan his attack on them.  First they must deal with the nearest, for if
they passed across his wind their scent would be carried to him.  The
smell of man and horse would send him away at a rush, trumpeting the
alarm to the others, and only hard riding would bring them up to the
herd again.  In a whisper that was barely a movement of his lips, but
with expressive gestures of the hands Osman Atalan gave his commands to
the aggagiers.  From long experience each man knew what was expected of
him.

The bull under the mimosa tree was angled half away from them, so when
Osman led them forward again he circled out to the right, then came in
more directly from behind.  The eyesight of the elephant is poor, when
compared with that of other creatures of the wild, such as the baboon
and the vulture.  But if it has difficulty distinguishing shape it
picks up movement readily enough.

Osman dared not approach closer while he was mounted.  He slipped from
the saddle and girded up the hem of his jibba with the blue sash,
leaving his legs covered only with baggy breeches.  He tightened the
straps of his sandals, then drew his broadsword.  Instinctively he
tried the edge and sucked the drop of blood that welled from the ball
of his thumb.  He tossed Sweet Water's reins to Hassan, and started
towards the massive grey shape in the shade of the mimosa tree.  The
bull seemed as majestic as a three-decked man-o'-war.  It seemed
impossible that such a mighty beast could fall to the puny blade.

Osman stepped lithely and lightly with the grace of a dancer, carrying
the sword in his right hand.  However, he had bound the first hand's
breadth of the blade above the cruciform crosspiece of the hilt with a
strip of skin from the ear of a freshly killed elephant: now that this
had dried and cured it formed a double grip for his left hand.

As he approached the bull he heard the soft rumbling of its belly -the
animal was sharing its contentment and pleasure with the rest of the
herd, who were also dozing in the somnolent midday heat nearby.  The
bull was swaying gently, and swishing lazily at the flies with his
stubby tail; the wiry bunch of hair at the end was almost worn away
with age.  The gigantic stained tusks were so long and thick that the
bull was resting the blunt tips on the hard-baked earth.  His
weathered, corrugated trunk hung slackly between the ivory shafts.  He
was fondling the sun-dried, bleached femur bone of a long-dead buffalo
with the tip, rolling it against his front foot, then lifting it to his
lips as if to taste it, rubbing it between the fleshy finger-like
projections on each side of the nostril openings, much as an ancient
Coptic priest might play with his beads as he sat dreaming in the
sun.

Osman changed his grip, two-handed now for the fatal stroke, and moved
down the bull's flank close enough to touch him with the point of the
sword.  The riven grey hide hung down in bunches around the bull's
knees, and in loose flaps under his sagging belly, like the clothing of
an old man, too baggy for his wizened body.

His aggagiers watched him with awe and admiration.  A lesser warrior
would have chosen to hamstring his quarry, approaching the unsuspecting
beast from behind and, with swift double strokes, severing the main
tendons and arteries in the back of the legs above the huge, splayed
feet.  That injury would allow the hunter to escape, but cripple and
anchor the bull until the severed arteries had drained the life from
him, a slow death that might take up to an hour.  However, to attempt
the head-on approach as their emir was doing, increased the danger a
hundredfold.  Osman was now well within the arc of the trunk, which was
capable of delivering a blow that would shatter every bone in his body.
Those huge ears picked up the smallest sound, even a carefully
controlled breath, and at such close quarters the rheumy little eyes
would detect the slightest movement.

Osman Atalan stood in the bull's shadow, and looked up at one of those
eyes.  It seemed much too small for the huge grey head, and was almost
completely screened by the thick fringe of colourless lashes as the
bull blinked sleepily.  The dangling trunk was also shielded by the
thick yellow tusks.  Osman had to entice the bull into extending it
towards him.  Any untoward movement, any incongruous sound would
trigger a devastating response.  He would be clubbed down by a blow
from the trunk, or trampled under the pads of those great feet, or
transfixed by an ivory tusk, then knelt upon and ground to bloody paste
under the bulging bone of the bull's forehead.

Osman twisted the blade gently between his fists and, with the polished
metal, picked up one of the stray sunbeams that pierced the leafy
canopy above his head.  He played the reflected sunbeam on to the
bull's gently flapping ear, then directed it forward gradually until it
shot a tiny diamond wedge of light into the bull's half-closed eye. The
elephant opened his eye fully and it glittered as it sought out the
source of this mild annoyance.  He detected no movement other than the
trembling spot of sunlight, and reached out his trunk towards it, not
alarmed but mildly curious.

There was no need for Osman to adjust his double grip on the hilt.  The
blade described a glittering sweep in the air, fast as the stoop of the
hunting peregrine.  There was no bone in the trunk to turn the blow so
the silver blade sliced cleanly through it and half dropped to the
ground.

The elephant reeled back from the shock and agony.  Osman jumped back
at the same instant and the bull spotted the movement and tried to lash
out at it.  But his trunk lay on the earth, and as the stump swung in
an arc towards Osman, the blood hosed from the open arteries and
sprayed in a crimson jet that soaked his jibba.

Then the bull lifted the stump of his amputated trunk and trumpeted in
mortal anguish, his blood spraying back over his head and into his
eyes.  He charged into the forest, shattering the trees and thorn
bushes that blocked his path.  Startled from the brink of sleep by his
trumpeting screams, the other bulls fled with him.

Hassan Ben Nader spurred forward with Sweet Water on the rein.  Osman
snatched a lock of her long silky mane and leapt into the saddle
without losing his grip on the hilt of his broadsword.

"Let the first bull run," he cried.  The pumping of the massive heart
would drive the blood more swiftly out of the open arteries.  The bull
would weaken and go down within a mile.  They would return for him
later.  Without checking his horse, Osman passed the spot where the
dying animal had turned sharply aside.  He rose in the stirrups more
clearly to descry the trails of the two unwounded bulls.  He followed
them until they reached the first hills of the river valley where they
parted company.  One bull turned southwards and stormed away through
the forest, while the other clambered straight up the rocky slope.
There was no time to study the spoor and decide which was the larger
animal, so Osman made an arbitrary choice.

He signalled with his raised sword and the aggagiers separated smoothly
into two bands.  The first party rode on up the escarpment after one
animal, and Osman led the rest after the other.  The dust of its flight
hung in the still hot air, so there was no need to slow down to read
the spoor.  Sweet Water flew on for another mile until, four hundred
paces ahead, Osman made out the dark hump of the bull's back crashing
through the grey kit tar thorn scrub, like a whale breaching in a
turbulent sea.  Now that he had the chase in sight Osman slowed Sweet
Water to an easy canter, to save her strength for the final desperate
encounter.  Even at this pace they gained steadily on the bull.

Soon the gravel and small pebbles thrown up by the bull's great pads
rattled against his shield and stung his cheeks.  He slitted his eyes
and rode in still closer, until the bull sensed his presence, and
turned upon them with speed and nimbleness astonishing in such a
massive beast.  The horsemen scattered before his charge, but one of
the aggagiers was not quick enough.  The bull reached out with his
trunk and, at full gallop, plucked him from the saddle.  The broadsword
with which he might have defended himself spun from his grip, throwing
bright reflections of sunlight before it pegged into the hard earth and
oscillated like a metronome.  The bull turned aside and, with his trunk
coiled round the aggagier's neck, swung the man against the trunk of a
Doum palm with such force that his head was torn from his body, then
knelt over the corpse and gored it with his tusks, driving the points
through and through again.

Osman turned Sweet Water back and, although she tossed her long mane
with terror, she responded to the pressure of his knees and his touch
upon the reins.  He rode her in directly across the bull's line of
sight, and shouted a challenge to attract the animal's full attention,
"Ha!  Ha!"  he cried.  "Come, thou spawn of Satan!  Follow me, O beast
of the infernal world!"

The bull leapt up with the corpse dangling from one of his tusks.  He
shook his head and the dead man was hurled aside.  Then he charged
after Osman, squealing with rage, shaking his great head so that the
ears flapped and volleyed like the mainsail of a ship-of-the-line taken
all aback.

Sweet Water ran like a startled hare, carrying Osman swiftly away
before the charge, but Osman slowed her with a lover's touch on the
bit.  Though he lay forward over her neck he was looking back under his
arm.  "Gently, my sweetest heart."  He moderated her speed.  "We must
tease the brute now."

The bull realized he was gaining and thundered after them like a
squadron of heavy cavalry.  He thrust his head forward and reached out
with his trunk.  But the mare ran like a swallow skimming the surface
of a lake to drink in flight.  Osman kept her streaming tail an arm's
length ahead of the tip of the waving trunk.  The bull forced himself
to even greater speed, but as he was about to snatch down the horse and
her rider Osman pushed her gently so that she ran tantalizingly ahead,
just beyond the bull's reach.  Osman spoke softly into her ear and she
turned it back to listen to his voice.

"Yes, my lovely.  They are coming on."  Through the dust of the bull's
run he could make out the shapes of his aggagiers closing in.  Osman
was offering himself and his mount like the cape to the bull, giving
his men the opportunity to ride in and deliver the lethal strokes.  The
elephant was so absorbed with the horseman in front of him that he was
unaware of the men who rode up under his out-thrust tail.  Osman
watched Hassan Ben Nader leap lightly from the saddle to the ground
right at the bull's pounding heels.  His outrider seized the loose
reins and held the head for the instant that Hassan needed.

As he touched the earth he used the impetus of his horse's gallop to
hurl himself forward.  As the bull placed his full weight on the
nearest leg, the rope of the tendon bulged tightly under the thick grey
hide.  Hassan slashed his blade across the back of the fetlock, a
hand's span above the point where the straining tendon was attached to
the joint.  The gleaming steel edge cut down to the bone, and the main
tendon parted with a rubbery snap that, even in the uproar of the
chase, carried clearly to Osman's ear.  In the same instant Hassan Ben
Nader snatched back the reins from his outrider and leapt into the
saddle.  His horse plunged into full gallop once more.  It was a
marvelous feat of horsemanship.  With three lunges his horse had
carried him clear of the bull's tusks and trunk.

The bull lifted his wounded leg from the earth and swung it forward to
take the next pace, but as his full weight came down on to the pad, the
leg buckled and the fetlock joint gave way.  An elephant is unable to
run on three legs, as other four-legged creatures can, so he was
instantly crippled and anchored to the spot.  Squealing with agony and
rage he groped for his tormentor.  Osman spun Sweet Water about and,

with his heels, drove her back almost under the outstretched trunk,

shouting at the bull to keep his attention riveted, turning just out of
reach.  The bull tried to chase him, but stumbled heavily and almost
went down as the crippled leg gave way under his weight.

In the meantime Hassan had circled back and, again undetected by the
struggling animal, rode in now under his tail.  He jumped down once
more, and then, to demonstrate his courage, let his steed run on as he
stood alone at the bull's heel.  He waited an instant for the bull's
full weight to come down on its uninjured leg, and when the tendon
stood out proud beneath the skin he severed it with the skill of a
surgeon.  Both of the bull's back legs gave way under him and he sank
helplessly on to his haunches, screaming his anguish to the pitiless
sky and the triumphant African sun.

Hassan Ben Nader turned his back on the struggling animal and walked
away unhurriedly.  Osman jumped down from Sweet Water and embraced him.
"Ridden like a man, and killed like a prince."  He laughed.  "This very
day you and I shall take the oath and eat the salt of brotherhood
together."

"You do me too much honour," Hassan whispered, and fell to his knees in
homage, 'for I am your slave and your child, and you are my master and
my father."

They rested the horses in the shade and watered them from the skins
while they watched the last struggles of their quarry.  The blood
spurted from the gaping arteries in the back of the bull's legs, in
rhythm with the pulse of his heart.  The earth beneath his pads
dissolved into a bath of mud and blood, until his crippled legs slipped
and slid as he shifted his weight.  It did not take long.  The bright
crimson flow shrivelled, and the lassitude of approaching death settled
over him.  At last the air rushed out of his lungs in a long, hollow
groan and he toppled on to his side, striking the earth with a sound
that echoed off the hills.

"Five days from now I will send you back here with fifty men, Hassan
Ben Nader, to bring in these tusks."  Osman stroked one of the huge
ivory shafts that thrust up into the air higher than his head.  It
would take that long for the cartilage that held them in the bony
sockets of the skull to soften with decay so that the great shafts
could be drawn out undamaged by careless axe strokes.  They mounted and
rode easily back along their own spoor to find the first beast that
Osman had attacked.  By this time he, too, would have bled to death
from the terrible wound.  It would be easy to track him down to the
spot where he had fallen, for he must have left a river of blood for
them to follow.  They had not gone half a league before Osman held up a
hand to halt them and cocked his head, listening.  The sound that had
alerted him came again from across the rocky ridge over which the other
band of aggagiers had pursued the third bull.  The intervening hills
must have damped down the echoes so that they had not heard them
before.  The sound was unmistakable to these experienced hunters: it
was the sound of an angry elephant, one that was neither crippled nor
weakened by its wounds.

"Al-Noor has failed to kill cleanly," said Osman.  "We must go to his
aid."

He led them up the slope at a gallop, and as they crossed the ridge the
sounds of conflict were loud and close.  Osman rode towards them, and
found a dead horse lying where it had been struck down, its spine
shattered by a blow from the bull's trunk.  The aggagier had died upon
its back.  They rode past them without drawing rein, and found two more
dead men.  At a glance Osman read the signs: one had been unhorsed in
the face of the charging animal.  The hooked, red-tipped thorns of the
kit tar had plucked him from the saddle as he had tried to escape the
bull's charge.  The other dead man was his blood-brother, and he had
turned back to save him.  As they had lived so they died, their blood
mingled and their broken bodies entwined.  Their horses had run free.

The elephant trumpeted again.  The sound was closer now, and sharper.
It rang out from a forest of kit tar not far ahead.  They slammed their
heels into the flanks of their mounts and galloped towards the kit tar
As they approached, a rider broke at full gallop from out of the thorn
barrier into the open.  It was al-Noor on his grey, which was in the
extremes of terror and exhaustion.  Al-Noor wafc almost naked: his
jibba had been ripped from his body by the thorns and his skin was
lacerated as though it had been clawed by a wild beast.  The grey was
staggering, throwing out its hoofs sloppily at each stride, and was too
far gone to see and avoid the ant bear burrow in its path.  It stumbled
and almost went down, throwing al-Noor over its head, then ran on,
leaving its rider stunned, in the track of the great bull elephant that
burst out of the thorn forest behind him.  This was the patriarch bull,
whose tracks had first astounded them.  There was blood on one back leg
but too high and too far forward to have struck the tendon.  Al-Noor
had inflicted a flesh wound that did not slow or impede the animal.  As
he came on, he held his head high to keep his long tusks clear of the
thorn scrub and stony earth.  They extended from his lip twice as far
as a tall man could reach with both arms spread wide.  They were as
thick as a woman's thigh with almost no taper from lip to tip.

"Ten can tars a side!"  Hassan shouted, amazed.  This was a legendary
animal, with almost two hundred pounds of ivory curving out on each
side of his great grey head.  Still dazed al-Noor rose shakily to his
feet and stood, swaying drunkenly, with blood and dust coating his
face.  His back was turned to the charging bull, and he had lost his
sword.  The bull saw him, squealed again, and rolled his trunk back
against his chest.  Al-Noor turned.  When he saw death descending upon
him he raised his right hand, index finger extended as a sign that he
died in Islam, and cried, "God is great!"  It was his moment of
acceptance.  He stood without fear to meet it.

"For me and for Allah!"  Osman called to his mare, and Sweet Water
responded with her last reserves of strength and speed.  She dashed in
under the vaulted arch of tusks, Osman flat on her neck.  The bull's
trunk was rolled.  There was no target for his blade.  He could only
hope to draw the charge off the man.  The bull's gaze was so focused on
al-Noor that he was unaware of the horse and rider coming in from the
flank until they flashed past, so close that Osman's shoulder glanced
off one of the tusks.  Then they were gone, like the darting flight of
a sunbird.  The bull wheeled aside, forsaking the standing man and
following the more compelling focus of his rage.  He charged after the
horse.

"O beloved of Allah," al-Noor shouted his gratitude after the emir who
had saved him, 'may God forgive all your sins."

Osman smiled grimly as the words floated to him above the murderous
trumpeting, the clash of hoofs and bursting thorn scrub.  "God grant me
a few more sins before I die," he shouted back, and led the bull
away.

Hassan and the other aggagiers rode in his wake, shouting and whistling
to attract the bull's attention, but he held on after Sweet Water.  The
mare had run hard but she was not yet spent.  Osman looked back under
his arm and saw that the bull was coming on apace, so swiftly that
neither Hassan nor any other could get into position to attack his
vulnerable back legs.  He looked ahead and saw that he was being driven
into a trap.  Sweet Water was running into a narrow open lead between
dense stands of the kit tar thorn, but her path was blocked by a solid
wall of thorn.  Osman felt her check under him.  Then she turned her
head, gazed back at her beloved rider, as if seeking guidance, and
rolled her eyes until the red linings showed.  White froth splattered
from the corners of her mouth.

Then horse and rider ran into the kit tar which closed round them in a
green wave.  The thorns hooked into hide and cloth like eagle's talons,
and almost at once Sweet Water's graceful run was transformed into the
struggles of a creature caught in quicksand.  The bull thundered down
upon them, its mighty progress unchecked by the kit tar

"Come, then, and let us make an end."  Osman called the challenge,
dropped the reins and kicked his feet out of the stirrups.  He stood
up, tall, upon the saddle, facing back over Sweet Water's rump, his
eyes on the level of the bull's.  Man and beast confronted each other
over a rapidly dwindling gap.

"Take us if you are able," Osman called to the bull, knowing how the
sound of his voice would infuriate the animal.  The bull flattened his
ears against the sides of his skull, and rolled the tips in rage and
aggression.  Then he did what Osman had been waiting for: he unrolled
his trunk and reached out to seize the man and lift him high off the
back of his horse.

Balancing to Sweet Water's violent lunges and struggles, Osman held the
long blade poised, and as the serrated grey trunk was about to close
round his body, he struck.  The steel whickered in flight, and
dissolved into a silver blur of light.  The stroke was full, and seemed
to meet no resistance: the steel sliced through hide, flesh and sinews,
as though they were mist.  It severed the trunk close to the lip as
smoothly as the guillotine blade takes off a condemned man's head.

For an instant there was no blood, just the sheen of freshly exposed
flesh and the gleam of nerve ends and white tendons.  Then the blood
burst forth, engulfing the great grey head in a crimson cloud as the
arteries erupted.  The bull screamed again, but now in agony and
dismay.  Then he lurched to one side as he lost his balance and sense
of direction.

Osman dropped back into the saddle and guided Sweet Water with his
knees, steering her out of the arc of the bull's blood-dimmed eyesight.
The animal blundered in a wide uncertain circle as Hassan rode in
behind him to make the cut in the back of his left leg.  Then he jumped
back into the saddle, leaving the bull anchored by his crippled leg.
Osman slipped down from Sweet Water's back and, with another stroke of
his blade, cut through the other hamstring.

The heart blood pumped from the terrible wounds in his back legs and
trunk, but the bull remained upright for as long as a mullah might take
to recite a single sura of the Koran.  Osman Atalan and his aggagiers
dismounted and stood at their horses' heads to watch his death throes
and pray for him, praising his might and courage.  When at last he fell
with a crash to the stony earth, Osman cried, "Allah is almighty.
Infinite is the glory of God."

The word flashed through the alleys and souks, and was shouted from the
rooftops and minarets.  As it spread, a sombre, funereal mood descended
on the city of Khartoum.  Whispering dolefully as they came together,
the inhabitants hurried to find a vantage-point from which they could
gaze across the river and behold their fate.

Ryder Courtney was in the workshop in his compound behind the hospital
and the red mud walls of Fort Burri when a servant brought him a note
from David Benbrook, scribbled on a torn sheet of consular paper. Since
first light that morning Ryder had been working with Jock McCrump on
the repairs to the Intrepid this.  When they had disconnected the
punctured steam piping they discovered more damage than they had first
suspected.  Some of the metal fragments had been carried into the
cylinders and had scored the liners.  It was surprising that they had
been able to make the return trip to the harbour.

"Damn good job I didnae let you go tearing away at full throttle," Jock
muttered morosely.  "We would have had a right ballocks if I had."

They had been obliged to sway the heavy engine out of the this's hull
on to the stone jetty.  Then they transported it to the compound by
ox-wagon, taking a circuitous route to avoid the narrow alleyways. They
had been working on it for the last ten days, and the repairs were
almost completed.  Ryder wiped his hands on a ball of cotton waste,
then glanced through the note.  He handed it to Jock.  "Do you want to
come and watch the Lord Mayor's show?"

Jock grunted.  With long tongs he lifted a glowing sheet of metal from
the forge and carried it to the anvil.  "Like as not we'll be having a
gutful of that worthy Oriental gentleman Osman bloody Atalan without
running out to stare at him now."  He hefted the heavy blacksmith's
hammer and began to pound the metal to shape.  He ignored Ryder as he
plunged it into a trough of water.  It cooled in a hissing cloud of
steam and Jock measured it critically.  He was shaping a patch for one
of the shell holes in this's hull.  He was not satisfied with the
result, and whistled tunelessly as he returned it to the forge.  Ryder
grinned and went out to the stables for his horse.

He crossed the canal on the earthen causeway, and rode through the
scurrying crowds to the gates of the consular palace.  He hoped to
avoid running into General Gordon, and was pleased to see his
unmistakable khaki-uniformed silhouette on the upper parapet of Mukran
Fort with half a dozen members of his Egyptian staff gathered around
him.  Each man had either a telescope or a pair of field-glasses
focused on the north bank of the Blue Nile, so Ryder was able to ride
past the fort and reach the consulate without drawing their attention.
He handed his horse over to one of the syces at the gate of the
stableyard and strode through the barren gardens to the legation
entrance of the palace.  The sentries recognized him at once and
saluted him as he entered the main foyer.

An Egyptian secretary came hurrying to meet him.  Like everyone else he
wore a nervous, worried expression.  "The consul is on top of the
watchtower, Mr.  Courtney," the man told him.  "He asked you to be good
enough to join him there."

When Ryder stepped out on to the balcony the Benbrook family did not
notice him immediately.  They were grouped around the big telescope on
its tripod.  Amber was taking her turn, standing on a cane-backed chair
to reach the eyepiece.  Then Saffron looked round and let out a squeak
of delight.  "Ryder!"  She ran to seize his arm.  "You must come and
see.  It's so exciting."

Ryder glanced at Rebecca, and felt a tightening in the pit of his
stomach.  She showed no ill effects from their recent curtailed voyage
downstream.  On the contrary, she looked cool, even under the layers of
green georgette petticoats that ballooned out over her crinoline. There
was a bright yellow ribbon around the crown of her straw hat, and her
hair was arranged in ringlets over her shoulders.  It caught the
sunlight.

"Don't let that child pester you, Mr.  Courtney."  She gave him a
demure smile.  "She has been in an overbearing mood since breakfast."

"Overbearing means regal and queenly," said Saffron, smugly.

"It does not."  Amber looked back at her from the telescope.  "It means
bumptious and insufferable."

"Peace be unto both of you."  Ryder chuckled.  "Sisterly love is a
beautiful thing."

"Glad you could come," David called to him.  "Sorry to tear you away
from your work, but this is worth a look.  You have had enough of the
telescope, Amber.  Let Mr.  Courtney have a turn."

Ryder stepped up to the parapet, but before he stooped to the eyepiece
he stared out across the river.  It was an extraordinary spectacle: as
far as he could see the land seemed to be on fire.  It took a moment to
realize that this was not smoke that gave the sky a dun, fuming aspect,
but the dust cloud thrown up by a vast moving mass of living things,
human and animal, that stretched away to the eastern horizon.

Even at such a distance there was a low reverberation in the air, like
the muted hum of the beehive, or the murmur of the sea on a windless
day.  It was the sound of braying donkeys, lowing herds, fat-tailed
sheep and thousands of hoofs, marching feet, the creaking of camel
burdens and the squeal of axles.  It was the clatter of giraffe-hide
war shields, of spears and blades rattling in their scabbards, the
rumble of the gun-carriages and the ammunition train.

Then, more clearly, he heard the trumpeting of the ombeyas, the
Sudanese battle trumpets carved from a single ivory tusk.  The warlike
call of these instruments carried an immense distance in the desert
airs.  Underlying it was the throbbing bass beat of hundreds of huge
copper drums.  Each emir rode at the head of his tribe with his
drummers, trumpeters and banner-bearers preceding him.  He was closely
surrounded by his mulazemin, his bodyguards, his brothers and
blood-brothers, and his aggagiers.  Though they rode united now by the
holy jihad of the Divine Mahdi most of these tribes carried their
centuries-old blood feuds, and none trusted another.

The banners were of rainbow hues, embroidered with texts from the
Koran, and exaltations to Allah.  Some were so large that it took three
or four men to hold them aloft, rippling and snapping in the hot desert
breeze.  The banners and the harlequin-patched jib has of the warriors
made a gorgeous show against the drab landscape.

"How many do you estimate there are?"  David asked, as though he was
speaking about the race-day crowd on Epsom Down.

"The devil alone knows."  Ryder shook his head doubtfully.  "From here,
we can't see the end of them."

"Fifty thousand, would you hazard?"

"More," said Ryder.  "Maybe many more."

"Can you make out the entourage of Osman Atalan?"

"He will be in the van, naturally."  Ryder placed his eye to the
telescope and trained it forward.  He picked out the scarlet and black
banners.  "There is the devil himself.  Right at the forefront!"

"I thought you said you had never before laid eyes upon him," David
said.

"No introduction necessary.  That's him, I tell you."

In all that hubbub and bustle the slim figure on the cream-coloured
horse was unmistakable for its dignity and presence.

At that moment there was a sudden commotion among the vast congregation
on the far bank.  Through the telescope Ryder saw Osman rise in the
stirrups and brandish his broadsword.  The front ranks of his mulazemin
broke into a furious charge, and he led them straight at a small group
of horsemen that rode to meet them from the direction of Omdurman.  As
the masses of cavalry and camels dashed forward they discharged volleys
of joyous gunfire into the air.  The blue smoke mingled with the dust
cloud and the spearheads and sword blades twinkled like stars in the
murk.

"Who is that they are riding to meet?"  David asked sharply.

Through the lens Ryder concentrated on the small group of horsemen, and
exclaimed as he recognized the green turbans of the two leading
horsemen.  "Damme, if it's not the Divine Mahdi himself and his
khalifa, the mighty Abdullahi."  Ryder tried to make his tone sardonic
and pejorative, but no one was deceived.

"With that merry band of cut-throats sitting across it, the road to the
north is firmly closed."  Although David said it breezily, there was a
shadow in his eyes as he looked to his three daughters.  "There is no
longer any escape from this wretched place."  Any retort that Ryder
could make would have been famous, and they watched in silence the
meeting of the men who held the fate of the city and all its
inhabitants in their bloody hands.

With bared sword and his long plait thumping against his back, Osman
Atalan charged straight at the mounted figure of the Mahdi.  The
prophet of Allah saw him coming in a whirlwind of dust, to the
deafening bray of the war horns and the pounding of drums.  He reined
in his white stallion.  Khalifa Abdullahi stopped his horse a few paces
behind his master, and they waited for the emir to come on.

Osman brought Sweet Water to a plunging, skidding halt and shook his
broadsword in the Mahdi's face.  "For God and his Prophet!"  he
screamed.  The blade that had slain men and elephants in their hundreds
was now only a finger's breadth from the Mahdi's eyes.

The Mahdi sat unmoved with that serene smile on his lips and the falja
showing between them.

Osman spun Sweet Water round and galloped away.  His bodyguard and
banner-bearers followed him at the same wild gallop, firing their
Martini-Henry rifles into the air.  At a distance of three hundred
paces Osman rallied his men and they regrouped at his back.  He lifted
his sword high, and again they charged in a serried phalanx, straight
at the two lone figures.  At the last instant Osman pulled up the mare
so violently that she came down on her haunches.

"La il aha ill allah  There is but one God!"  he yelled.  "Muhammad
Rasul Allah!  Muhammad is the prophet of God!"

Five times the horsemen retreated and five times they charged back.  At
the fifth charge Muhammad Ahmed, the Divine Mahdi, raised his right
hand and said softly, "Allah kariml God is generous."

Immediately Osman threw himself from Sweet Water's back and kissed the
Mahdi's sandal led foot in the stirrup.  This was an act of the utmost
humility, a rendering up of one man's soul to another.  The Mahdi
smiled down at him tenderly.  He emanated a peculiar perfume, a mixture
of sandalwood and attar of roses, known as the Breath of the Mahdi.  "I
am pleased that you have come to join my array and the jihad against
the Turk and the infidel.  Rise up, Osman Atalan.  You are assured of
my favour.  You may enter with me into the city of Allah, Omdurman."

On the flat roof of his house, the Mahdi sat cross-legged on a low
angareb, a couch covered with a silk prayer rug and strewn with
cushions.  There was a screen of reed matting over the terrace to
shield them from the sun, but the sides were open to the cooling breeze
off the river and to provide a view across the wide expanse of the
Victoria Nile to the city of Khartoum.  The ugly square blockhouse of
Mukran Fort dominated the de fences of the besieged city.  Emir Osman
Atalan sat facing him, and a slave maid knelt before him with a dish of
water on which floated a few oleander petals.  Osman dipped water from
it and made the ritual ablutions, then dismissed the woman with a wave.
Another lovely Galla slave girl placed between them a silver tray that
bore three jewelled long-stemmed silver cups: chalices looted from the
Roman Catholic cathedral in El Obeid.

"Refresh yourself, Osman Atalan.  You have travelled far," the Mahdi
invited him.

Osman made an elegant gesture of refusal.  'I thank you for your
hospitality, but I have eaten and drunk with the dawn and I will not
eat again until the setting of the sun."

The Mahdi nodded.  He knew of the emir's frugality.  He was well aware
of the peculiar religious enlightenment and the sense of dedicated
purpose brought on by fasting and denial of the appetite.  The memories
of his sojourn on Abbas Island were as fresh as if it had taken place
the previous day, and not three years before.  He lifted a silver cup
to his lips, displaying for an instant the gap between his front teeth,
sign of his divinity.  Of course, he never drank alcohol but he was
partial to a drink made from date syrup and ground ginger.

Once he had been lean and hard as this fierce desert warrior, but he
was no longer a solitary hermit.  He was the spiritual leader of a
nation, chosen by God.  Once he had been a barefoot ascetic who had
denied himself all sensual pleasures.  Not long ago it had been boasted
through all the Sudan that Muhammad Ahmed had never known a woman's
body.  He was virgin no longer and his harem contained the first fruits
of all his mighty victories.  His was first choice of the captured
women.  Every sheikh and emir brought him gifts of the most lovely
young girls in their territory, and it was a political imperative that
he accept their largesse.  The numbers of his wives and concubines
already exceeded a thousand, and increased each day.  His women
fascinated him.  He spent half his days among them.

They were dazzled by his appearance, his height and grace, his fine
features, the winged birthmark and the angelic smile that disguised all
his emotions.  They loved his perfume and the gap between his teeth.
They were intoxicated by his wealth and power: his treasury, the Beit
el Mai, held gold, jewels and millions in specie, the spoils of his
conquests and the sack of the principal cities of the Nile.  The women
sang, "The Mahdi is the sun of our sky, and the water of our Nile."

Now he set aside the silver cup and held out his hand.  One of the
waiting girls knelt to offer him a scented silk cloth with which to dab
the sticky syrup from his lips.

Behind the Mahdi, on another cushioned angareb, sat the Khalifa
Abdullahi.  He was a handsome man with chiselled features and a nose
like the beak of an eagle, but his skin was dappled, like a leopard's,
with the scars of smallpox.  His nature was also that of the leopard,
predatory and cruel.  Emir Osman Atalan feared no man or beast, except
these two men who sat before him now.  These he feared with all his
heart.

The Mahdi lifted one gracefully shaped hand and pointed across the
river.  Even with the naked eye they were able to make out the solitary
figure on the parapets of the Mukran Fort.

"There is Gordon Pasha, the son incarnate of Satan," said the Mahdi.

"I will bring his head to you before the beginning of Ramadan," said
his khalifa.

"Unless the infidel reaches him before you do," suggested the Mahdi,
and his voice was soft and pleasant to hear.  He turned to Osman.  "Our
scouts report to us that the infidel army is at last on the move.  They
are sailing southwards in a flotilla of steamers along the river to
rescue our enemy from my vengeance."

"At the beginning they will move at the pace of the chameleon."  The
khalifa endorsed his master's report.  "However, once they pass through
the cataracts and reach the bend of the river at Abu Hamed, they will
have the north wind behind their boats and the current will abate.  The
speed of their advance will increase six-fold.  They will reach
Khartoum before Low Nile, and we cannot assault the city before the
river falls and exposes Gordon Pasha's de fences

"You must send half of your army northwards under your most trustworthy
sheikhs and stop the infidels on the river before they reach Abu Klea.
Then you must annihilate them, just as you destroyed the armies of
Baker Pasha and Hicks Pasha."  The Mahdi stared into Osman's face, and
Osman's spirits stirred.  "Will you deliver to me my enemy, Osman
Atalan?"

"Holy One, I will give him into your hands," Osman replied.  "In God's
Name and with the blessing of Allah, I will deliver to you that city
and all those within."  The three warriors of God gazed across the Nile
like hunting cheetahs surveying herds of grazing gazelle upon the
plains.

Captain Penrod Ballantyne had been waiting in the antechamber of Her
Britannic Majesty's consulate in Cairo for forty-eight minutes.  He
checked the time on the clock above the door to the inner office of the
consul general.  On the left-hand side of the massive carved door hung
a life-sized portrait of Queen Victoria as she had been on her wedding
day, pure and pretty with the bloom of youth still on her and the crown
of Empire on her head, On the opposite side of the door there was a
matching portrait of her consort, Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha,
handsome and marvellously bewhiskered.

Penrod Ballantyne shot a glance at himself in the gilt-framed
ceiling-high mirror that adorned the side wall of the antechamber and,
with satisfaction, noted his own likeness to the young Prince Consort,
now long dead while Penrod was young and vital.  The captain's
epaulettes on his shoulders and the frogging of his uniform jacket were
bright new gold.  His riding boots were polished to a glassy sheen, and
the fine glove leather creased around his ankles like the bellows of an
accordion.  His cavalry sabre hung down along the scarlet side stripe
of his riding breeches.  He wore his dolman slung over one shoulder and
clasped at his throat with a gold chain, and carried his Hussar's
bearskin busby under his right arm.  On his left breast he wore the
purple watered silk with the bronze cross inscribed "For Valour', which
had been cast from the Russian guns captured at Sebastopol.  There was
no higher military decoration in the Empire.

Sir Evelyn Baring's secretary came in.  "The consul general will see
you now."

Penrod had been standing to preserve the pristine appearance of his
uniform creases at the elbows, down the back of his tunic and at the
knees of his breeches were unsightly.  He replaced the tall busby on
his head, glancing in the mirror to make certain it was centred low on
his eyebrows with the chain across the chin, then marched through the
carved doors into the inner office.

Sir Evelyn Baring was seated at his desk, reading from a sheaf of
despatches in front of him.  Penrod came to attention and saluted.
Baring beckoned him in without glancing at him.  The secretary closed
the door.

Sir Evelyn Baring was officially the agent of Her Britannic Majesty's
Government in Egypt, and her consul general in Cairo with
plenipotentiary powers.  In truth he was the viceroy, who ruled the
ruler of Egypt.  Since the Khedive had been saved from the mobs of
rebellion by the British Army and the fleet of the Royal Navy in
Alexandria harbour, Egypt had become, in all but name, a British
protectorate.

The Khedive Tawfig Pasha was a weak youth and no match for a man like
Baring and the mighty Empire he represented.  He had been forced to
abdicate all his powers, and in return the British had given him and
his people the peace and prosperity they had not known since the age of
Pharaoh Ptolemy.  Sir Evelyn Baring possessed one of the most brilliant
minds in the colonial service.  The Prime Minister, William Gladstone,
and his cabinet were aware of and highly appreciative of his qualities.
However, towards his underlings, his manner was patronizing and
condescending.  Behind his back they called him "Sir Over Bearing'.

Now he ignored Penrod as he went on with his reading, making notes in
the margins with a gold pen.  At last he stood up from his desk, and
left Penrod standing while he went to the windows that overlooked the
river to Giza and the stark silhouettes of the three mighty pyramids on
the far bank.

That damned idiot, Baring mused to himself.  He has got us into this
pretty pickle of rotten fish.  From the outset he had opposed the
appointment of Chinese Gordon.  He had wanted to send Sam Baker, but
Gladstone and Lord Hartington, the Secretary of War, had overruled him.
It is in Gordon's nature to provoke conflict.  The Sudan was to be
abandoned.  His job was to bring our people out of that doomed land,
not to confront the Mad Mahdi and his Dervishes.  I warned Gladstone of
precisely this, Gordon is trying to dictate terms and force the Prime
Minister and the cabinet to send an army to reoccupy the Sudan.  If it
were not for the unfortunate citizens that he has incarcerated with
him, and for the honour of the Empire, we should let Chinese Gordon
stew in his own juice.

As Baring turned away from the window and the contemplation of those
immemorial monuments across the Nile, his eye fell on a copy of

The Times of London that lay on the table beside his favourite
armchair.  He frowned more deeply.  And then we have also to take into
account the uninformed and sentimental opinions of the sweating masses,
so readily manipulated by those petty potentates of the press.

He could almost recite the leading article from memory: "We know that
General Gordon is surrounded by hostile tribes and cut off from
communication with Cairo and London.  Under these circumstances the
House has the right to ask Her Majesty's Government whether they are
going to do anything to relieve him.  Are they going to remain
indifferent to the fate of the one man on whom they have counted to
extricate them from their dilemmas, to leave him to shift for himself,
and make not a single effort on his behalf?"  was what Lord Randolph
Churchill had said to the Commons, as reported on 16 March 1885. Damned
demagogue!  Baring thought now, and looked up at the Hussar captain.
"Ballantyne, I want you to go back to Khartoum."  He spoke directly to
Penrod for the first time since he had entered the room.

"Of course, sir.  I can leave within the hour," Penrod responded.  He
knew that the one word the master of Egypt liked to hear above all
others was 'yes'.

Baring allowed himself a wintry smile, an extraordinary mark of his
approval.  His intelligence system was wide-reaching and pervasive. Its
roots burrowed into every level of Egyptian society, from the highest
levels of the government and the military to the forbidden councils of
the mullahs in their mosques and the bishops in their cathedrals and
Coptic monasteries.  He had his agents in the palaces of the Khedive
and the harems of the pashas, in the souks, bazaars and brothels of the
greatest cities and the meanest villages.

Penrod was nothing but a tiny tadpole in the festering swamp of
intrigue in whose waters Sir Evelyn Baring set his lines and into which
he cast his net.  However, recently he had become quite fond of the
lad.  Behind the good looks and dandified appearance, Baring had
detected a bright, quick mind and an attention to duty that reminded
him of himself at the same age.  Penrod Ballantyne's family connections
were solid.  His elder brother was a baronet and had large estates on
the Scottish Borders.  He himself had a significant income from a
family trust, and the purple ribbon on his chest bore ample witness to
his courage.  Moreover, the young dog had shown a natural aptitude for
intelligence work.  Indeed, he was gradually and subtly making himself
valuable not indispensable, for nobody was that, but valuable.  The
only possible weakness that Baring had so far detected in him he
carried in his trousers.

"I will give you no written message, for the usual reasons," he said.

"Naturally, sir."

"There is one message for General Gordon, and another for David
Benbrook, the British consul.  The messages are not to be confused.  It
may seem to you that they are contradictory, but pray do not let that
trouble you."

"Yes, sir."  Penrod divined that Baring trusted Benbrook well enough
because he lacked brilliance.  Just as he trusted Chinese Gordon not at
all because of his brilliance.

"This is what you are to convey to them."  Baring spoke for half an
hour without consulting any slip of paper, barely pausing to draw
breath.  "Have you got that, Ballantyne?"

"I have, sir."

One of the fellow's assets is his appearance, Baring thought.  No one
can readily believe that behind those whiskers and those wonderfully
pleasing features is a mind that can assimilate such a lengthy,
complicated message at the first recital, then deliver it accurately a
month later.  "Very well," he said flatly.  "But you must impress on
General Gordon that Her Majesty's Government has no intention
whatsoever of reconquering the Sudan.  The British Army now making its
way up the Nile is in no way an expeditionary force.  It is not an army
of reoccupation.  It is a rescue column of minimal strength.  The
objective of the desert column is to insert a small body of regular
first-line troops into Khartoum to bolster the de fences of the city
long enough for us to evacuate all our people.  Once this has been
achieved we intend to abandon the city to the Dervish and come away."

"I understand, sir."

"As soon as you have delivered your messages to Benbrook and Gordon you
are to return northwards and join Stewart's relief column.  You will
act as guide, lead him across the bight of the Nile to where Gordon's
own steamers are waiting at Metemma to take them upriver.  You will
attempt to keep in contact with me.  The usual codes, mind."

"Of course, Sir Evelyn."

"Very well, then.  Major Adams of General Wolseley's staff is waiting
for you on the second floor.  I understand that you are acquainted with
him."

"I am, sir."  Of course Baring knew that Penrod had won his VC by
rescuing Samuel Adams from the bloody battlefield of El Obeid.

"Adams will give you a more detailed briefing, and provide you with the
passes and requisitions you will need.  You can catch the Cook's
steamer this evening and be in Assouan by Tuesday noon.  From there you
are on your own.  How long to Khartoum, Ballantyne?  You have made the
journey many times before."

"It depends on conditions in the Desert of the Mother of Stones.  If
the wells are holding I can cut the great S-bend of the river and reach
Khartoum in twenty-one days, sir," Penrod answered crisply. "Twenty-six
at the outside."

Baring nodded.  "Make it twenty rather than twenty-six.  Let yourself
out."  Baring dismissed him, without offering to shake hands.  He was
lost in his despatches again before Penrod reached the door.  It was
not important to Baring that people liked him.  Only that they did
their job.

Colonel Sam Adams was delighted to see Penrod again.  He was walking
with only a single stick now.  "The sawbones tells me I'll be playing
polo again by Christmas."  Neither mentioned the long ride back from
the battlefield of El Obeid.  All that needed to be said on that
subject had been said long ago, but Adams glanced admiringly at the
bronze cross on Penrod's chest.

Penrod composed a cipher telegraph to the intelligence officer with the
vanguard of the Desert Column that was assembling at Wadi Haifa eight
hundred miles up the Nile.  Adams's adjutant took it to the
telegraphist on the ground floor and returned with the confirmation
that it had been sent and received.  Then Colonel Adams invited Penrod
to lunch at Shephard's Hotel, but Penrod begged a prior engagement.  As
soon as he had his travel papers he left.  A groom had his charger at
the gate and it was less than half an hour's ride along the riverbank
to the Gheziera Club.

Lady Agatha was waiting for him on the Ladies' Veranda.  She was just
twenty and the youngest daughter of a duke.  Viscount Wolseley, the
commander-in-chief of the British Army in Egypt, was her godfather. She
had an income of twenty thousand a year.  Added to this, she was
blonde, petite and exquisite, but an enormous handful for any man.

"I would rather have the French clap than Lady Agatha," Penrod had
recently overheard a wag remark at the Shephard's bar, and had been
undecided whether to laugh or call the fellow outside.  In the end he
had bought him a drink.

"You are late, Penrod."  She was reclining in a cane chair and pouted
as he came up the steps from the garden.  He kissed her hand, then
glanced at the clock over the garden entrance to the dining room.  She
saw the gesture.  "Ten minutes can be an eternity."

"Duty, I am afraid, my lovely.  Queen and country."

"How utterly boring.  Get me a glass of champagne."  Penrod looked up,
and a waiter in a long white galabiyya and tasselled fez appeared as
miraculously as a genie from the lamp.

When the wine came, Agatha sipped it.  "Grace Everington is getting
married on Saturday," she said.

"A mite sudden?"

"No, actually, just in time.  Before it begins to show."

"I hope she enjoyed the chase."

"She tells me no, not at all, but her father is being beastly and says
she must go through with it.  Family honour.  It is to be quiet and
discreet, of course, but I have an invitation for you.  You may escort
me.  It might be fun to watch her making an ass of herself, and of
him."

"I am sorry to say it but by then I shall be far away."

Agatha sat up straight.  "Oh, God!  No!  Not again.  Not so soon."

Penrod shrugged.  "I was given no choice."

"When are you leaving?"

"In three hours' time."

"Where are they sending you?"

"You know better than to ask."

"You can't go, Pen.  The reception at the Austrian embassy is tomorrow
evening.  I have a new dress."  He shrugged again.  "When will you come
back?"

"That is blowing in the wind."

"Three hours," she said, and stood up.  The movement attracted the gaze
of every man on the veranda.  "Come!"  she commanded.

"Lunch?"  he asked.

"I think not."  Her family kept a permanent suite at Shepheard's, and
Penrod rode beside her open gharry.  As the door to the suite closed
she pounced on him, like a kitten on a ball of wool, lithe, playful and
earnest all at once.  He picked her up easily and carried her through
to the bedroom.

"Be quick!"  she ordered.  "But not too quick."

"I am an officer of the Queen, and an order is an order."

Later, she watched him as he dressed again while she lay stretched full
length, languid and replete, inviting his appraisal.  "You won't find
better than this, Penrod Ballantyne."  She cupped her hands under her
breasts.  They were pale and large in comparison to her girlish waist.
She squeezed out her nipples, and he paused to watch her.  "You see?
You do like it.  When will you marry me?"

"Ah!  May we apply ourselves to that question at some later date?"

"You are an utter beast."  She combed her fingers through the mist of
strawberry curls at the base of her belly.  "Should I pluck myself
here?  The Arab girls do."

"Your information on that subject is probably more accurate than
mine."

"I heard that you like Arab girls."

"Sometimes you are amusing, Lady Agatha.  At other times you are not.
Sometimes you behave like a lady, and at others not at all."  He slung
his dolman over his shoulder and adjusted the chain as he turned to the
door.

She flew off the bed like a wounded leopard, and he only just had time
to turn and defend himself.  She went for his eyes with her sharp,

pearly talons.  But he seized her wrists.  She tried to bite his face,
small white teeth clicking together an inch from his nose.  He bent her
backwards so she could not reach.  She kneed at his groin, but he
caught the blow on his thigh and turned her round.  She was helpless in
the circle of his arms with her back to his chest.  She pressed her
firm round buttocks into him, felt him swelling and hardening, and gave
a breathless but triumphant little laugh.  She stopped struggling, sank
to her knees and lifted high the twin half-moons of her buttocks.  She
wriggled her thighs apart so that the nest of pink curls peeked out
between them.  "I hate you!"  she said.

He dropped down behind her, still booted and spurred, his sabre belted
at his side.  He ripped open the front of his breeches, and she
screamed involuntarily as he transfixed her.  When he stood up again
she collapsed and lay panting at his feet.  "How do you always know
what I want you to do?  How do you always know what to say, and when to
say it?  That terrible name you called me a moment ago was like chilli
powder on a sweet mango it took my breath away.  How do you know these
things?"

"Some might call it genius, but I am too modest to agree."

She looked up at him.  Her hair was tangled and her cheeks were flushed
rosily.  "Call me that again."

"No matter how richly you deserve it, once is enough for now."  He went
to the door.

"When will you come back?"

"Perhaps soon, perhaps never."

"You beast.  I hate you.  I truly hate you."  But he was gone.

Three days later Penrod stepped off the fast steamer at the Assouan
jetty.  He was wearing tropical khaki uniform without decorations or
regimentals.  He had exchanged the busby for a pith helmet with a wide
brim.  There were at least another fifty soldiers and officers within
sight who were dressed almost identically, so he excited no attention.
A ragged porter in a filthy turban seized his kit-bag and ran ahead of
him into the maze of streets of the old town.  Striding out on long
legs Penrod kept him in sight.

When they reached the gate in a nondescript mud wall at the end of the
narrow, twisted alley, Penrod tossed the porter a pi astre and
retrieved his bag.  He tugged the bell cord and listened to the
familiar chimes. After a while there were footsteps beyond the gate,
soft and faltering, and a voice quavered, "Who is it that calls?  There
is nothing here for we are poor widows and deserted by God."

"Open this gate, you houri of Paradise," Penrod replied, 'and swiftly,
before I kick it down."

There was a moment's stunned silence, broken at last by a wild cackle
of laughter and a fumbling at the bolts.  Then they were shot back and
the gate creaked open.  An ancient head, like a turtle's but partly
covered with a widow's veil peered round the jamb.  The gaping grin
exposed two crooked teeth widely separated by an expanse of pink gum.
"Effendi!"  The old woman squealed, and her entire face puckered with
wrinkles.  "Lord of a thousand virtues."

Penrod embraced her.

"You are shameless," she protested with delight.  "You threaten my
virtue."

"I am fifty years too late to pluck that fruit."  He let her go. "Where
is your mistress?"

Old Liala glanced significantly across the courtyard.  In the centre of
the garden a fountain splashed into a pool in which Nile perch circled
tranquilly.  Around its border stood statues of the pharaohs: Seti,
Thutmose and great Rameses, lifted from their tombs by grave-robbers
back in the mists of time.  It never failed to amaze him that such
treasures were displayed in so humble a setting.

Penrod strode across the courtyard.  His heart beat faster.  He had not
realized until that moment how much he had been looking forward to
seeing her again.  When he reached the beaded curtain that covered the
doorway he paused to regain his composure, then jerked it aside and
stepped through.  At first she was merely a dim, ethereal presence, but
then his eyes adjusted and her shape emerged from the cool gloom.  She
was slim as a lily stem, but her robe was shot with gold thread, and
there was gold at her wrists and ankles.  As she came towards him, her
bare henna-painted feet made no sound on the tiles.  She stopped in
front of him and made obeisance, touching her fingertips to her lips
and her heart.

"Master!"  she whispered.  "Master of my heart."  Then she hung her
head and waited in silence.

He lifted the veil and studied her face.  "You are beautiful, Bakhita,"
he told her, and the smile that blossomed over her features enhanced
that beauty a hundredfold.  She lifted her chin and looked at him, and
her eyes glowed so that they seemed to light the dimmest recesses of
the room.

"It has been only twenty-six days, but it seems like all my life," she
said, and her voice quivered like the strings of a lute plucked by
skilled fingers.

"You have counted the days?"  he asked.

"And the hours also."  She nodded.  Roses coloured the waxen perfection
of her cheeks, and the long lashes meshed over her eyes as she glanced
away shyly.  Then her eyes crept back to his face.

"You knew I was coming?"  he accused her.  "How could you when I did
not know it myself?"

"My heart knew, as the night knows the coming of dawn."  She touched
his face as though she were blind and trying to remember something with
her fingertips.  "Are you hungry, my lord?"

"I am famished for you," he replied.

"Are you thirsty, my lord?"

"I thirst for you as a traveller thirsts for the waterhole when he has
been hunting seven days in the desert under the relentless sun."

"Come," she whispered, and took his hand.  She led him into the inner
room.  Their angareb stood in the centre of the floor and he saw that
the linen upon it had been washed, bleached and smoothed with a hot
iron, until it shone like the salt pan of Shokra.  She knelt before him
and removed his uniform.  When he stood naked she rose and stepped back
to admire him.  "You bring me vast treasure, lord."  She reached out
and touched him.  "An ivory sceptre, tipped with the ruby of your
manhood."

"If this is treasure, then show me what you bring in exchange."

Naked, her body was moon pale, and her breasts bulged weightily, the
nipples as large as ripe grapes, wine dark and swollen.  She wore only
a slim gold chain round her waist, and her belly was rounded and smooth
as polished granite from the quarries above the first cataract.

Her hands and feet were decorated with fine acanthus-wreath patterns of
henna.

She shook out the dark tresses of her hair, and came to lie beside him
on their mattress.  He gloated over her with his eyes and fingertips,
and she moved softly as his hands dictated, raising her hips and
twisting her shoulders so that her bosom changed shape and no secret
part of her body was hidden from him.

"Your quimmy is so beautiful, so precious, that Allah should have set
it in the forehead of a ravening lion.  Then only the valiant and the
worthy might dare to possess it."  There was wonder in his voice.  "It
is like a ripe fig, warmed in the sun, splitting open and running with
sweet juices."

"Feast to your heart's content upon the fig of my love, dear lord," she
whispered huskily.

Afterwards they slept entwined and their own sweat cooled them.  At
last old Liala brought them a bowl of dates and pomegranates, and a jug
of lemon sherbet.  They sat cross-legged on the angareb facing each
other and Bakhita made her report to him.  There was much for her to
relate, great and dire news from the south, from Nubia and beyond.  The
Arab tribes were all in a state of flux and change, new alliances
forged and century-old ties broken.  At the centre of all this turmoil
sat the Mahdi and his khalifa, two venomous spiders at the centre of
their web.

Bakhita was older than Penrod by three years.  She had been the first
wife of a prosperous grain merchant, but she was unable to bear him a
child.  Her husband had taken a younger woman to wife, a dull-witted
creature with broad, childbearing hips.  Within ten months she had
given birth to a son.  From this positron of marital power she had
importuned her husband.  He had tried to resist her, for Bakhita was
clever and loyal and with her business acumen he had doubled his
fortune in five short years.  However, in the end the mother of his son
had prevailed.  Sorrowfully he had spoken the dread words: lTalaq!
Talaq!  Talaq!  I divorce thee!"  Thus Bakhita had been cast into that
terrible limbo of the Islamic world inhabited only by widows and
divorced women.

The only paths that seemed open to her were to find an old husband with
many wives who needed a slave without having to pay the head price or
to sell herself as a plaything to passing men.  But she had honed the
wiles of a merchant while serving her husband.  With the few coins she
had saved she bought shards of ceramics and chipped, damaged images of
the ancient gods from the Bedouin and from the orphans who scratched in
the ruins, the dry riverbeds and nullahs of the desert, then sold them
to the white tourists who came up the river on the steamers from the
delta.

She paid a fair price, took a modest profit and kept her word, so soon
the diggers and grave-robbers brought her porcelain and ceramics, V
religious statuettes, amulets and scarabs that, after four thousand
years, 5 were miraculously perfect.  She learnt to decipher the
hieroglyphics of the ancient priests on these relics, and the writings
of the Greeks and Romans who came long after them; Alexander and the
Ptolemy dynasty, ; Julius Caesar and Octavian who was also Augustus. In
time her reputation spread wide.  Men came to her little garden to
trade and to talk.  Some had travelled down the great river from as far
afield as Equatoria and Suakin.  With them they brought news and
tidings that were almost as precious as the trade goods and the relics.
Often the men talked more than they should have for she was very
beautiful and they wanted her.  But they could not have her: she
trusted no man after what the man she had once trusted had done to
her.

Bakhita learnt what was happening in every village along the course of
the great river, and in the deserts that surrounded it.  She knew when
the sheikh of the Jaalin Arabs raided the Bishareen, and how many
camels he stole.  She knew how many slaves Zubeir Pasha sent down to
Khartoum in his dhows, and the taxes and bribes he paid to the Egyptian
governor in the city.  She followed intimately the intrigues of the
court of Emperor John in high Abyssinia, and the trade manifests in the
ports of Suakin and Aden.

Then one day a small ragged urchin came to her with a coin wrapped in a
filthy rag that was like no coin she had seen before or since.  It
filled the palm of her hand with the weight of fine gold.  On the
obverse was the portrait of a crowned woman, and on the reverse a
charioteer wearing a laurel wreath.  The surfaces were so pristine that
they seemed to have been struck the previous day.  She was able to read
the legend below each portrait readily.  The couple on the coin were
Cleopatra Thea Philopator and Marcus Antonius.  She kept the coin and
showed it to no one, until one day a man came into her shop.  He was a
Frank and for a while she was speechless, for in profile he was the
image of the Anthony on her coin.  When she recovered her tongue, they
talked for a while with Bakhita veiled and old Liala sitting in close
attendance as chaperone.  The stranger spoke beautiful poetic Arabic,
and soon he did not seem to be a stranger.  Without knowing it she
began to trust him a little.

"I have heard that you are wise and virtuous, and that you may have
items to sell that are beautiful and rare," he asked at last.

She sent Liala away on some pretext, and when she poured another
thimble of thick black coffee for her guest she contrived to let her
veil slip so that he could glimpse her face.  He started, and stared at
her until she readjusted it.  They went on speaking but something hung
in the air, like the promise of thunder before the first winds of the
khamsin.

Bakhita was gradually overtaken by an overpowering urge to show him the
coin.  When she placed it in his hand he studied the portraits gravely,
then said, "This is our coin.  Yours and mine."  She bowed her head in
silence and he said, "Forgive me, I have offended you."

She looked up at him and removed the veil so he could look into her
eyes.  "You do not offend me, Effendi," she whispered.

"Then why do your eyes fill with tears?"  ?,

"I weep because what you said is true.  And I weep with joy."

"You wish me to leave now?"

"No, I wish you to stay as long as your heart desires."

"That may be a long time."

"If it is God's will," she agreed.

In the years that followed that first meeting she had given him
everything that was in her power to give, but in exchange had asked
from him nothing that he would not give freely.  She knew that one day
he would leave her, for he was young and came from a world where she
could never follow him.  He had made her no promise.  At their first
meeting he had said, "That may be a long time," but he had never said,
'always'.  So she did not try to exact a pact from him.  The certainty
of the ending added a poignancy to her love that was sweet as honey and
bitter as the wild melon of the desert.

This day she sat with him and told him all she had learnt since they
had last spoken twenty-six days before.  He listened and asked
questions, then wrote it all out on five pages from his despatch
notebook.  He did not need to consult a cipher for he had learnt by
heart the code that Sir Evelyn Baring had given him.

Old Liala covered her head with her widow's cloak and slipped out into
the alley carrying the despatch tucked into her intimate undergarments.
The sergeant of the guard at the British military base knew her as a
regular visitor.  He was under strict orders from the base intelligence
officer, so he personally escorted her to the headquarters building.
Within the hour the message was buzzing down the telegraph line to
Cairo.  The following morning it had been deciphered by the signals
clerk at the consulate and the en clair text was on the consul
general's silver tray when he came in from breakfast.

Once she had sent Liala to the base with the report, Bakhita came back
to Penrod.  She knelt beside his stool and began to trim his sideburns
and moustache.  She worked quickly and, with the expertise of long
practice, had soon reduced his fashionable whiskers to the ragged shape
of a poor Arab fellah.  Then she turned to his dense wavy curls and the
tears slid down her cheeks as she hacked them away.

"They will soon grow again, my dove."  Penrod tried to console her as
he ran his hand over the stubble.

"It is like murdering my own child," she whispered.  "You were so
beautiful."

"And I will be beautiful again," he assured her.

She gathered up his uniform from where it lay in the corner of the
room.  "I will not let even Liala touch it.  I will wash it with my own
hands," she promised him.  "It will await your return, but never as
eagerly as I."

Then she brought the cloth bag in which she had kept his stained and
ragged clothing from his last journey to the south.  She wound the
filthy turban round his cropped head.  He strapped the leather purse
round his waist and tucked the service revolver into the light canvas
holster, then slipped the curved blade of the dagger into its sheath
beside the Webley.  They would not show under his dirty galabiyya. Then
he strapped on a pair of rough camel-hide sandals and was ready to
leave.

"Stay with God, honoured lady."  He bowed obsequiously and she was
amazed at how easily he had made the transformation from swaggering
Hussar to humble peasant, from effendi to fellah.

"Return to me soon," she murmured, 'for if you perish, I shall perish
with you."

"I shall not perish," he promised.

The harbour master took only a glance at the military travel pass
before he assigned Penrod to the gang of stevedores on the next
ammunition ship to leave for the south.  Penrod wondered again if the
elaborate precautions he was taking to avoid recognition were truly
necessary.  Then he reminded himself that the owner of almost every
black or brown face in the swarming docks was a sympathizer of the
Dervish.  He knew also that he was a marked man.  His heroics at El
Obeid had been widely discussed, for they were the one blemish on a
perfect victory for the Mahdi and his khalifa.  Bakhita had warned him
that when his name was uttered in the souks along the riverfront it was
with a frown and a curse.

The steamer's cargo was made up entirely of military stores for the
army, which was assembling at Wadi Haifa in preparation for the drive
upriver.  The loading continued all that night and most of the next
day.  It had been a long time since Penrod had indulged in such hard
and debilitating labour.  A pause to straighten an aching back or even
the slightest hesitation invited the flick and snap of the kurbash whip
from one of the overseers.  It required all his self-restraint to
grovel to the blows and not retaliate with a clenched fist.  The ship
settled lower into the water as the heavy ammunition cases were heaped
on her decks.  At sunrise as she left the wharf, pulled into the
channel of the river and thrust her ugly round bows into the current
she had less than two feet of free board.

Penrod found a space between the tall piles of crates and stretched out
in it.  He clasped his skinned knuckles and raw fingers under his
armpits.  He ached in every joint and muscle.  It was almost twenty
hours' steaming against the stream to the port of Wadi Haifa.  He slept
for most of the voyage, and was fully recovered by the time they
arrived early the next morning.  Fourteen larger steamers were anchored
in the main stream of the river.  On the south bank was a vast
encampment, lines of white canvas tents and mountainous piles of
military stores.  Boatloads of helmeted troops were being ferried out
to the steamers by nuggars and small dhows.

Sir Evelyn Baring had explained the rescue-expedition plan in detail.
This was the River Division of the double-pronged advance southwards.
The flotilla was preparing to set out on the detour around the great
western bend of the river.  They would be forced to negotiate three
dangerous cataracts along the way.  The men going on board would have
to tow the steamers on long lines from the bank through those boiling
rock-strewn narrows.

Ahead of them, the Desert Column would travel swiftly across the bend
of the Nile to Metemma, where Chinese Gordon's four little steamers
were waiting to carry a small detachment of hand-picked men to
Khartoum, to reinforce the city until the arrival of the main relief
column.

The ammunition ship moored against the riverbank and the porters were
immediately roused to begin offloading.  Penrod was one of the first
ashore and again his travel pass, when displayed to the subaltern in
charge of the detail, worked its small miracle.  He was allowed
through.  He picked his way through the encampment and was challenged
often before he reached the guard post at the entrance to the zareba
that contained the Desert Column.

Its four regiments, commanded by General Sir Herbert Stewart, were
drilling and exercising on the parade ground in preparation for the
long trek across the loop.  But it might be weeks or even months before
they received the final marching orders from London.

The sergeant of the guard must have been forewarned of Penrod's arrival
for he did not quibble when the dirty Arab labourer addressed him in
the idiom of the officers' mess, and demanded to be taken to the
adjutant's tent.

"Ah, Ballantyne!  I received the telegraph from Colonel Adams in Cairo,
but I didn't expect you for three or four days yet.  You have made good
time."  Major Kenwick shook hands, but refrained from mentioning
Penrod's unusual garb.  Like most of the senior officers he was rather
fond of this young scamp, but a little envious of his escapades.  He
seemed to have a knack of popping up whenever the bullets were flying
and promotion was in the air.

"Thank you, Major.  Do you know, by any chance, if my men are here?"

"Yes, damn it!  And that sergeant of yours has helped himself to five
of my best camels.  If I had not been firm he would have made off with
a whole troop."

"I'll be on my way, then, if you'll excuse me, sir."

"So soon?  I rather hoped that we might have the pleasure of your
company in the mess for dinner this evening."

Penrod saw that he was eaten up with curiosity about this mysterious
visitation.  "I'm in rather a hurry, sir."

"Perhaps we might see you in Khartoum, then?"  The adjutant kept
fishing resolutely.

"Oh, I doubt it, sir.  Shall we agree to meet at the Long Bar of the
Gheziera Club when this little business has been settled?"

Sergeant al-Saada was waiting for him at the camel lines.  Many eyes
were watching so his greeting was cold and dismissive, a measure of the
wide social chasm between a sergeant in a regiment of the Queen, and a
common fellah.  They rode into the dunes, Penrod trailing behind him on
the grey she-camel.  His spirits surged as she moved under him: he knew
at once that al-Saada had chosen a wind-eater for him.  As soon as they
were out of sight of the camp al-Saada reined in.  As Penrod came up
alongside him his forbidding expression split in a flashing grin, and
he snapped his clenched fist across his chest in the riding salute.  "I
saw you on the deck of the steamer when she came round Ras Indera.  You
have travelled fast, Abadan Riji."  The name meant the One Who Never
Turns Back.  "I told Yakub you would be here in less than five days."

"Fast I came," Penrod agreed, 'but even faster must we go."

Yakub was waiting for them a mile further on.  He had the other camels
couched behind an outcrop of black rock.  Their shapes were rendered
grotesque by the waterskins they carried, like huge black cancerous
growths on their backs.  Each camel was capable of carrying five
hundred pounds, but in the Mother of Stones desert each man needed two
gallons of water every day to stay alive.  As they dismounted Yakub
hurried to greet Penrod.  He went down on one knee and touched his lips
and his heart.  "Faithful Yakub has waited for you since Kurban
Bairam."

"I see you, Beloved of Allah."  Penrod smiled back at him.  "But did
you forget my pack?"

Yakub looked pained.  He ran back, untied it from one of the camels and
brought it to him.  Penrod unrolled it on the baked earth.  He saw that
his galabiyya had been freshly laundered.  Swiftly he changed his rags
for the fine wool robe that would protect him from the sun.  He covered
his face with the black cotton headdress in the fashion of the Bedouin,
and tied the black sash round his waist.  He tucked the curved dagger
and the Webley revolver into the sash over his right hip, and his
cavalry sabre on the opposite hip to balance them.  Then he drew the
sabre from its plain leather scabbard and tested the edge.  It stung
like a cut-throat razor and he nodded approval at Yakub.  Then he made
a few practice strokes with the steel, cutting to both sides, lunging
high and low, recovering instantly.  The sabre felt good in his hand
and seemed to take on a life of its own.  In this age of breechloading
rifles and heavy ordnance Penrod still revelled in the arme blanche.

Almost every Arab carried the long broadsword, and Penrod had observed
their use of the blade in contrast to his own.  The heavy weapon did
not suit the Arab physique.  Unlike the mailed crusaders from whom the
heavy blade had been copied they were not big, powerful men: they were
terriers rather than mastiffs.  They were devils to cut and lunge, and
the broadsword could inflict a terrible wound.  But they were slow to
recover their blade.  They did not understand the parry, and they used
their round leather shield almost exclusively to defend themselves.
Against a skilled swordsman they were vulnerable to a feint high in the
natural line.  Their instinctive response was to lift the shield and to
lose sight of the opponent's point, and they would not see the thrust
that followed the feint like a thunderbolt.  At El Obeid when the
square had broken and the Dervish had swarmed in, Penrod had killed
five in as many minutes with that ploy.  He ran the blade back into its
scabbard and asked Yakub, "Is the Mother of Stones open?"

"There is water at Marbad Tegga."  In the Taka dialect, the well's name
meant Camel Killer.  "Little and bitter, but just sufficient for the
camels," Yakub replied.

Yakub was a Jaalin Arab who had been driven from the tents of his
people by a blood feud that started in a quarrel over dishonour to
Yakub's sister.  Yakub was quick and expert with the blade and the man
had died.  However, he had been the son of a powerful sheikh.  Yakub
had been forced to flee for his life.

One of Yakub's eyes gazed in a different direction from the other.  The
ringlets that dangled from under his turban were greasy and his teeth,
when he smiled at Penrod, were yellow and crooked.  He knew and
understood the desert and the mountains with the instinct of a wild
ass.  Before he had been driven out of the tribe he had taken a knife
wound that had left him with a limp.  Because of this affliction he had
been refused service in the armies of the Queen and the Khedive.  Thus,
with no tribe and no other master, Penrod was all he had.  Yakub loved
him like a father and a god.

"So we can still cut the snake?"

When Penrod posed a question of such weight, Yakub gave it all his
respect and attention.  He tucked the skirts of his galabiyya between
his legs and squatted.  With his camel goad he scratched a large figure
S in the dirt, but the upper loop was smaller by half than the lower.
It was a rough charting of the course of the Nile from where they stood
to the mouth of the Shabluka Gorge.  To follow the riverbank through
this serpentine meandering would add many weeks to the journey.  This,
of course, was the route that the flotilla of the River Division would
be forced to take.  The Desert Division, on their camels, would cut
across the great loop and regain the river at Metemma.  This shortcut
was well marked by the caravans of the ages and by the bleached bones
they had left behind them.  There were two wells along the way that
gave the traveller just sufficient water to make the crossing.  Once
they reached Metemma they could follow the upper limb of the Nile,
keeping always in sight of the river as it swung back west again, until
eventually it settled once more on its southerly course and headed for
Khartoum.  It was a hard road, but there was a harder one yet.  The
caravan masters called it 'cutting the snake'.

Yakub made a bold slash with the goad, drawing a straight line from
their present position directly to the city of Khartoum.  The line cut
the S bend of the river neatly in half.  It saved hundreds of miles of
bitter, gruelling travel.  But the trail was unmarked and to take a
wrong turning meant missing the single well of Marbad Tegga, and
finding instead a certain, terrible death.  The well lay deep in the
furnace-hot belly of the Mother of Stones, and it was well hidden.  It
would be easy to pass it by a hundred paces and never know it was
there.  The camels could drink the water, but its caustic salts would
drive a man mad.  Once they had watered the camels at Marbad Tegga it
was still another hundred miles to the bank of the Nile at Korti below
the fourth cataract.  Long before they reached the river all the water
in the skins would be finished.  They might be twenty-four hours
without a drop before they saw the Nile again, longer than that if the
djinni of the desert were unkind to them.

Once they reached the riverbank, they must cross the river.  At this
point the current was swift, the stream was a mile wide and the camels
were reluctant swimmers.  But there was a ford known to few.  Once they
had crossed, drunk their fill and recharged the waterskins, they would
be forced to leave the Nile again and face the Monassir desert on the
other bank, another two hundred waterless miles.  Yakub reiterated all
this, drawing it all on the earth with his goad.  Penrod listened
without interruption: although he had cut the snake three times before
and won through to the river crossing at Korti, there was always
something fresh to learn from Yakub.

When he had explained it all Yakub announced, "With the fearless and
cunning Yakub to guide you, and angels to watch over you, perchance we
may indeed cut the snake."  Then he rocked back on his haunches and
waited for Penrod to make the decision.

Penrod had been considering the gamble while he was talking.  He would
never have attempted it without Yakub.  With him to lead, the gains in
time and distance to reach Khartoum were worth the gamble, but there
was another even more telling consideration.

Bakhita had told him that the Mahdi and his khalifa were well aware of
the British preparations to rescue Gordon.  Their spies had kept them
fully informed of the concentration of British regiments and the
flotilla at Wadi Haifa.  She said that the Mahdi had ordered a dozen of
the most important emirs to leave the siege of Khartoum and take their
tribes northwards along the river, to contest the way, to meet the
enemy at Metemma, Abu Klea and Abu Hamed.  She said that already both
banks of the river from Khartoum down to the first great bend were
swarming with Arab horsemen and camel troops.

"The Mahdi knows that he must stop the Franks before they reach the
city."  She used the word that described all Europeans.  "He knows that
their army is small and poorly equipped with horses and camels.  They
say he has sent twenty thousand men northwards to meet the British and
to hold the river line until Low Nile, when he can complete the
destruction of Khartoum and send General Gordon's head to his queen."
She had added, "Be careful, my dear lord.  They have cut the telegraph
lines to the north and they know that the generals in Cairo must send
messengers to Khartoum to keep in contact with the general.

The Mahdi will be expecting you to try to win through to the city.  His
men will be waiting to intercept you."

"Yes, they will be looking for us to cross the loop, but will they
guard the road to Marbad Tegga, I wonder?"  Penrod mused aloud.  Yakub
shook his head for he had no English.  Penrod switched back into
Arabic: "In God's name, brave Yakub, take us to the bitter well of the
Camel Killer."

They mounted up on the high wooden saddles.  Penrod checked the rifle
in its scabbard under his leg, and the bandolier of ammunition tied to
the crosspiece of the saddle, then prodded the grey camel.  Groaning
and spitting, she lurched to her feet.

"In God's Name let us begin," sang al-Saada.

"May He open our eyes to make the way clear," Yakub cried.  "And may He
make the Camel Killer plain for us to behold."

"God is great."  Penrod said.  "There is no other God but God."

Each led a pack camel and the water sloshed softly in the skins.  At
first, loose equipment squeaked or clattered to the rocking gait of the
camels, but quickly they readjusted the straps and bindings that held
the burdens.  Once they stopped briefly and bled the air from the
waterskins so that they no longer gurgled.  When they went onwards it
was in silence, a weird and unnatural silence in the void of heat and
unfathomable horizons.  The spongy pads of the camels' feet fell
soundlessly on the sands.  The men wrapped their heads so that only the
slits of their eyes showed and they did not speak.  They slumped low on
the tall wooden saddles and gave themselves over to the rhythm of the
camels' gait.

They followed the ancient caravan road across a level expanse of
orange-coloured sand that glowed in the sunlight until their eyes ached
with the glare.  The way was only faintly marked by the pale bones and
desiccated carcasses of long-dead camels, preserved by sun so that some
might have lain there for centuries.  The air they breathed scalded and
abraded the lining of the throat.  The horizon wavered and dissolved in
the silver lake of the mirage.  The camels and their riders seemed to
hang in space and though they rode forward as soundlessly as wraiths,
they seemed never to move against the shimmering background.  The only
point of reference was the tenuous outline of the caravan trail, but
even that seemed not to be attached to the earth but to rise up before
them like a drifting tendril of smoke.

Penrod let himself lapse into the mesmeric trance of the desert
voyager.  Time was suspended and lost all significance.  His mind
ranged free and he thought how easy it would be to believe, as the
Bedouin did, in the supernatural powers that inhabited this
otherworldly landscape.  He dreamed of the jinn, and of the ghosts of
lost armies that had perished in these sands.  Though Yakub was only
half a pistol shot ahead of him he seemed at times to be as distant as
the mirage, fluttering like a sparrow on the wings of his robe.  At
other times he loomed gigantically on the back of his elephantine
beast, swollen and elongated by the treacherous play of light.  On they
went, and silently on.

Slowly something began to appear before them, a mighty pyramid that
dwarfed the man-made constructions of the delta.  It quivered in the
silver mirage, detached from earth, hanging inverted above the horizon,
balancing on its point with the flat base filling the southern sky.
Penrod stared at it in awe, and again his credibility was taxed as it
shrank swiftly, disappearing to a dark spot, then began to grow again,
this time with its pointed summit uppermost and its base anchored to
the earth.

They rode on and now it assumed its true form, a cone-shaped hill with
two smaller ones standing close behind it.  In a clairvoyant flash
Penrod perceived that natural features such as these must have been the
model for those other man-made pyramids that had astonished mankind
over the ages.  The caravan trail ran straight towards them, but before
they reached the first Yakub turned aside, leaving the trail on the
left hand.  He led them forward into a wilderness that was no longer
marked by the faintest trace of man or of his passing.  This was the
hidden way to Marbad Tegga.

Penrod was lulled back into the hypnotic suspension of time and
feeling, and the hours passed as the sun made its noon and began its
fiery descent to earth.  At last he was roused by the altered gait of
his she-camel.  He looked around quickly and saw how the landscape had
changed.  The sand was no longer orange but ashen grey and seared.  On
the horizon all around were heaps of volcanic ash and lava several
hundred feet high, as though all the worlds of the universe had been
cremated and their remains dumped in this infernal cemetery and covered
by these forbidding tumuli.  The breath of ancient volcanoes had
charred the very desert.  There was no vestige of vegetation or of any
living thing, except the three men and their pacing beasts.

Penrod saw why his mount's gait had changed.  The earth was thickly
littered with boulders and stones.  Some were as large and perfect as
round shot for heavy cannon, and others as small as musket balls.  It
was like the detritus of some long-forgotten battlefield.  But Penrod
knew that these were not the munitions of war.  These rocks were the
efflorescence left over from the eruption of the volcanoes.  The liquid
lava had been expelled into the sky in a deadly rain.  As it fell back
to earth it had cooled and solidified into these shapes.  The camels
were forced to pick their way across this dangerous footing, and their
speed was much reduced.

The sun sank, and as it touched the earth it seemed to erupt in an
explosion of green and crimson light, then fall away to give the world
over to sudden night.

"Sweet night!"  Penrod whispered, and felt his lip crack.  "Blessed
cool night!"  They couched the camels and fed them a small ration of
crushed dhurra meal, then checked their harness and saddles for any
sign of galling or chafing.  While the men laid out their prayer mats
and prostrated themselves towards Mecca, Penrod walked out into the
desolation to loosen his cramped muscles and stiff joints.  He listened
to the night, but the only sound was the evening breeze along the
dunes, whispering with the voices of the jinn.

When he returned Yakub was brewing coffee on the tiny brazier.  They
drank three cups each, and ate dates with thin rounds of dhurra
biscuit.  They anointed their lips and exposed skin with mutton fat to
prevent them flaking and cracking.  Then they lay down beside the
camels and slept.  Yakub roused them after two hours' rest.  They
mounted and went on southwards in the night.

The heavens were brilliant with stars, such a profusion that it was
difficult to find the major navigational bodies in the silver dazzle.
The air was cool and tasted sweet, but it was so dry that it baked the
mucus in Penrod's nasal passages into pellets hard as buckshot.

Hour after hour the camels paced on.  At intervals Penrod swung down
from the saddle and strode along beside his mount, to rest her and
stretch his legs.  They stopped again before dawn, drank hot,
unsweetened coffee, slept for an hour, then remounted and went on with
the sun coming up on their left hand.  The first rays struck and they
quailed beneath the tyranny, covering their heads.

The desert was never the same.  It changed its character and aspect as
subtly as a beautiful courtesan, but always it was dangerous and
deceptive.  At times the dunes were soft and fleshy, pale ivory as the
breasts and belly of a dancing girl, then turned the colour of ripe
apricots.  They flowed like the rollers of the ocean, or writhed
together as sinuously as mating serpents.  Then they collapsed over
jagged escarpments of rock.

The hours and the miles fell behind them.  When they paused to rest in
the shade of the waterskins, it was often too hot to sleep.  They lay
and panted like dogs, then went on.  The camels groaned and bellowed
softly when they were couched and again when they were forced to their
feet to resume the march.  Their humps shrivelled.  On the fifth day
they refused to eat the small ration of dhurra meal that Yakub offered
on the straw feeding mats.

"That is the first sign that they are nearing the limit of their
strength," Yakub warned Penrod.  "We must reach the well before dusk
tomorrow evening.  If we do not they will begin to die."

It was not necessary to speak of the consequences for the men if the
camels failed.  The following morning, as they paused on the rim of a
deep saucer of ground, Penrod pointed ahead.  Along the opposite rim a
frieze of gazelle stood in silhouette.  They were as tiny and dainty as
creatures in a dream, the colours of cream and milk chocolate, with
lyre-shaped horns and white masked faces.  After a moment they
disappeared down the far side of the ridge as silently as if they had
never existed.

"They drink at Marbad Tegga.  We are close now."  It was the first time
Yakub had spoken in many hours.  "We will be there before sunset."  He
squinted with satisfaction.

At noon the camels refused to couch.  They grumbled and moaned and
shook their heads.  "They have smelt the water.  They are eager to go
to it," said Yakub happily.  "They will lead us to the well like
hunting dogs to the quarry."  As soon as the men had prayed and drunk
their coffee, all three mounted again and rode on.

The camels quickened their pace and moaned with excitement as the scent
of the water grew stronger in their nostrils.  When they stopped again
in the late afternoon Penrod recognized the terrain ahead from the last
time he had passed that.  way  It was a fantastic array of shale
hillocks, sculpted by wind and the ages into a gallery of weird shapes
and fanciful carvings.  Some resembled marching armies of stone
warriors, others were crouching lions, and there were winged dragons,
gnomes and jinn.  But above them all stood a tall, striking column of
stone that resembled a woman in a long robe and a widow's veil in an
attitude of mourning.

"There is the Widow of Ahab," said Yakub, 'and she faces towards the
well where her husband died."  He prodded his mount with the long goad
and they started forward again, the camels even more eager than their
riders.

"Wait!"  Penrod shouted urgently, and when Yakub and al-Saada looked
back he stopped them with a peremptory gesture.  He turned his own
camel into a shallow wadi that hid them completely.  They followed him
unhesitatingly.  They had to wrestle with the camels to force them to
couch, goading and twisting their testicles before they sank down,

bellowing in protest.  Then they hobbled them with rawhide ropes so
they were unable to rise again.  Al-Saada stayed to guard them, and
make certain they did not try to break away to reach the water.  Then
Penrod led Yakub to the top of the ridge and they found a vantage-point
among the shale hills.  Penrod lay stretched on his belly and panned
his field-glasses over the rugged ground beyond the Widow of Ahab.
Yakub lay beside him, squinting hideously into the sunset.  After a
long wait he muttered, "There is nothing but the sand and the rocks.
You saw a shadow, Abadan Riji.  Not even a jinn would inhabit this
place," and he began to stand up.

"Get down, imbecile," Penrod snapped.  They were silent and unmoving
for another half an hour.  Then Penrod handed Yakub the field-glasses.
"There is your jinnee."

Yakub stared through the lens, then started and exclaimed when he
picked out the distant shape of the man.  Sitting in the shade at the
base of one of the shale monoliths, he had been invisible.  Only the
pinprick of reflected light on the blade of the sword he was honing had
alerted Penrod to his presence.  Now he came to his feet and walked out
into the slanting sunlight, an alien shape in the brooding landscape.

"I see him, Abadan Riji," Yakub conceded.  "Your eyes are bright.  He
wears the patched jibba of the Mahdists.  Is there more than one?"

"You can be certain of it," Penrod murmured.  "Men do not travel alone
in this place."

"A scouting party?"  Yakub hazarded.  "Spies sent to wait for the
soldiers to come?"

"They know that the well of the Camel Killer is too small and the
waters too bitter to supply a regiment.  They are waiting to intercept
messengers carrying despatches to Gordon Pasha in Khartoum.  They know
there is no other road.  They know that we have to come this way."

"They are guarding the water.  We cannot go on without water for the
camels."

"No," Penrod agreed.  "We must kill them.  None must escape to warn
those men of our passing."  He stood up and, using the cover of the
hillock, went back to where al-Saada waited with the camels.  They
dared not brew coffee while they waited for night to fall, for the
smell of the smoke might carry to the enemy and betray their presence.
Instead they drank water sparingly from the skins, and sharpened their
blades as they ate the evening meal of dates.  Then the Arabs spread
their mats and prayed.

Darkness fell hot and heavy as a woollen cloak over the hills, but
Penrod waited until Orion the Hunter was at his zenith in the southern
sky before they left the camels and went forward on foot, Penrod
leading with the Webley in the sash at his waist and the bared sabre in
his right hand.  They had done this many times before and they moved
well separated but always in contact.  Penrod circled downwind of the
spot at which they had last seen the Dervish sentinel, and was grateful
for the evening breeze, which covered any small sounds they might make
as they closed in.  He smelt them first, the smoke of their brazier,
the sharp odour of burning camel dung.  He snapped his fingers softly
to alert Yakub and al-Saada, and saw them crouch obediently, dark blobs
in the starlight behind him.

He crept forward again, into the wind, keeping the smoke directly
ahead.  He stopped when he heard a camel belch and grumble softly.  He
lay flat against the earth and peered ahead, waiting with the patience
of the hunter.  His eyes scanned slowly over the broken ground in front
of him, picking out every rock and irregularity.  Then something
changed shape and his eyes flicked back to it.  It was small, dark and
round, not twenty paces ahead.  It moved again and he recognized it as
a human head.  A sentry was sitting just over the lip of a shallow
nullah.  Although it was after midnight the man was still awake and
alert.  Penrod smelt Yakub beside him, the odour of sweat, snuff and
camels, and felt his breath warm in his ear.  "I have seen him, and it
is past time for him to die."

Penrod squeezed his arm in assent, and Yakub slithered forward silently
as a desert adder.  He was an artist with the dagger.  His shape merged
with the rocks and star shadows.  Penrod watched the sentry's head, and
suddenly another appeared behind it.  For a moment they became a single
dark patch.  Then there was a soft exhalation of breath and both heads
sank from view.  Penrod waited but there was no outcry or alarm.  Then
Yakub came out of the nullah with his peculiar crablike limp.  He sank
down beside his master.

"There are five more.  They are sleeping with their camels in the
bottom of the nullah."

"Are the camels in harness?"  He needed not have asked.  The men were
warriors and would be ready to jump into the saddle and ride the moment
they were roused.

"The camels are saddled.  The men sleep with their weapons beside
them."

"Is there another sentry?"

"I did not see one."

"Where is the well?"

"They have not been foolish enough to camp beside the water.  It is
three or four hundred paces in that direction."  Yakub pointed to the
right end of the hidden nullah.

"So, if there is another man he will be there, watching the water."
Penrod thought for a few moments, then snapped his fingers again.
Al-Saada came to crouch beside them.

"I will wait between the camp and the well to watch for another sentry.
The two of you will go in and make a place in Paradise for these sons
of the Mahdi."  Penrod tapped each of them on the shoulder, an
affirmation and a blessing.  They were better at this kind of close
work than he was.  He was never able to suppress his squeamishness when
he had to kill a sleeping man.  "Wait until I am in position."

Penrod moved out swiftly to the right.  He reached the rim of the
nullah and looked down into it.  He saw the body of the man Yakub had
killed lying under the lip.  The man's knees were drawn up to his chest
and Yakub had covered his head with his turban to make it appear that
he had fallen asleep at his post.  Further on, the men and animals on
the floor of the nullah were a dark huddle, and he could not tell one
from another.  Yakub must have crawled in close to count them.  He
moved into the shadow of a boulder from where he could keep an eye on
the nullah and cover any approach from the direction of the well.

He felt his nerves tingle as, first, Yakub and then al-Saada slipped
over into the nullah below him.  They blended with the mass of men and
animals, and he could imagine the bloody knife work as they moved
swiftly from one sleeping man to the next.  Then, suddenly, there was a
ringing scream and his nerves jumped tight.  One had missed his stroke,
and he knew it was not Yakub.  There was instant confusion as the
quiescent mass of bodies exploded into violent movement and sound.
Camels lurched, bellowing, to their feet, men shouted and steel clashed
on steel.  He saw a man spring on to the back of one of the animals and
burst out of the camp, riding up over the far wall of the nullah.
Another Dervish escaped from the melee and bounded to the bottom of the
nullah; he had gone only a short way when a figure raced after him in
the unmistakable crablike style that covered the ground with deceptive
speed.  The two disappeared almost at once.

Penrod was poised to run down into the nullah and join in the fighting,
when he heard footsteps behind him and stayed low.  In the starlight he
saw another figure running towards him from the direction of the Widow
of Ahab.  This must be the second Dervish sentry.  He was carrying his
sword in his right hand and his shield on the other shoulder.  When he
was too close to escape, Penrod jumped into his path.  The Dervish did
not hesitate but charged at him, swinging with the long blade.  Penrod
parried easily, steel resounding on steel, and feinted at his head. The
Dervish lifted his shield to counter the blow, and instantly Penrod
sent his blade home, a classic straight thrust into the centre of his
chest so that the blade went clean through, and shot out two hands'
span from the back of his ribs.  With almost the same movement he
cleared and recovered his blade, and the Dervish dropped without a
cry.

Penrod left him and raced down the bank into the nullah.  He saw
al-Saada stooped over a fallen body, slashing with his dagger across
his victim's throat; black blood sprayed from the severed artery.
Al-Saada straightened and looked about him, but his movements were
sluggish.  Three corpses were lying where they had slept.

"Botched!  Two have got away," Penrod snapped angrily.  "Yakub has
chased one, but the other is mounted.  We must go after him."

Al-Saada took a pace towards Penrod and the blood-smeared dagger fell
from his hand.  He sagged slowly to his knees.  The starlight was
bright enough for Penrod to make out his expression of surprise.

"He was too quick," al-Saada said, his speech slurred.  He took his
other hand away from his chest and looked down at himself.  The blood
from the wound under his ribs darkened his robe to the knees.  "Chase
him, Abadan Riji.  I will follow you in a little while," he said, and
toppled on to his face.  Penrod hesitated only a moment as he fought
his instinct to aid al-Saada.  But he could tell by the loose-limbed
way in which he had fallen that he was already beyond any help that he
could give, and if he allowed the Dervish to escape his own chances of
getting through to the besieged city would be seriously threatened.

"Go with God, Saada," he said softly, as he turned away.  He ran to the
nearest Dervish camel and mounted it.  With his sabre he cut free the
knee halter.  The camel reared on to its feet and plunged into a gallop
that carried them up over the rim of the nullah.  He could just make
out the shadowy shape of the other camel flitting ahead, like a moth in
the starlight.  Within a few hundred paces he had adjusted to the pace
of the animal beneath him.  It seemed strong and willing, and it must
have been well watered and fed during the vigil at the Marbad Tegga. He
used his body to urge it forward, like a jockey pushing for the post.
A quick glance at the stars confirmed what he already knew: that the
fugitive was heading directly south towards the nearest point on the
Nile.

They covered another mile, then Penrod realized that the Dervish had
slowed his camel to a trot.  Either he had been wounded in the
skirmish, he was unaware that he was being followed or he was saving
his mount for the long and terrible journey that lay ahead if he hoped
to reach the river.  Penrod urged his own camel to its top speed, and
closed the gap swiftly.

He was beginning to think that he might still come up with the Dervish
before he realized his danger, but suddenly he saw the pale flash of
the man's face turned back over his shoulder.  The moment he spotted
Penrod he lashed out with his goad and urged on his mount with sharp
cries.  The two camels ran as though linked together, down through a
dry wadi and up the stony ridge beyond.  Then, gradually, Penrod's
mount began to exert its superior speed and stamina and closed in
remorselessly.  Penrod angled slightly across the enemy's rear,
planning to come in on his left, gambling on the chance that he was
right-handed and would be least able to defend himself on this side.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the Dervish swung his camel at a right angle
from its track, and brought it plunging to a halt only a hundred paces
ahead.  As he swivelled on the high wooden saddle Penrod saw that he
had a rifle in his hands, and was lifting it to level it at him.  He
had thought the Arab was carrying only his sword, and had not
considered the possibility that there might be a weapon in the
gun-scabbard behind the saddle.

"Come on, then, you eater of pork!"  Penrod shouted, and reached for
the Webley tucked into his sash.  The range was too long for the
weapon, and the back of a running camel was not a steady platform from
which to fire, but he must try to spoil his opponent's aim so he could
get close enough for the blade.

The Arab fired from the back of the standing camel.  Penrod knew from
the muzzle flash of black powder and the distinctive booming report
that he faced a Martini-Henry carbine, probably one of those captured
at El Obeid or Suakin.  A fraction of a second later the heavy lead
bullet tore into flesh and the camel stumbled beneath him.  The Dervish
whirled away, bowed over the carbine as he tried to feed another
cartridge into the breech.  Riding hard Penrod came up on his left-hand
side with the sabre at cavalry point.  The Arab realized he could not
reload in time and let the carbine drop.  He reached over his shoulder
and drew the broadsword from the scabbard strapped across his back.  He
stared across at Penrod, and started back in the saddle with the shock
of recognition.

"I know thee, infidel!"  he shouted, "I saw thee on the field of El
Obeid.  Thou art Abadan Riji.  I curse thee and thy foul, three-headed
God."  He aimed a heavy cross-bladed cut at the head of Penrod's camel.
At the last moment Penrod checked his beast and the stroke went high.
The blade lopped off one of the animal's ears close to the skull and
the camel shied to one side.  Penrod steadied it, but felt it stumble
as the bullet wound in its chest began to weaken it.  The Dervish was
just beyond the reach of his sabre and although he thrust at him he
could not touch him.  His camel groaned.  Suddenly its front legs
collapsed, and it went down in a tangle.  Penrod kicked his legs clear
and landed on his feet, managing to stay upright.

By the time he had recovered his balance the Dervish on his camel was a
hundred paces ahead and drawing away swiftly.  Penrod snatched the
Webley revolver from his sash and emptied the magazine after the
dwindling shapes of rider and camel.  There was no thumping sound of a
bullet strike to encourage him.  Within seconds they had dissolved into
the darkness.  Penrod cocked his head to listen, but there was only the
sound of the wind.

His camel was struggling weakly to regain its feet, but suddenly it
emitted a hollow roar and rolled over on to its back kicking its huge
padded feet convulsively in the air.  Then it collapsed and stretched
out flat against the earth, its head thrust forward.  It was breathing
heavily and Penrod saw twin streams of blood spurt from its nostrils
each time it exhaled.  He reloaded the Webley, stooped over the dying
animal, he pressed the muzzle to the back of its skull and fired a
single shot into its brain.  He took another few minutes to search the
saddle-bags for anything of importance, but there were no maps or
documents, except for a dog-eared copy of the Koran, which he kept.  He
found only a bag of dried meat and dhurra cakes, which would supplement
their frugal rations.

He turned away from the carcass and set off along his own tracks back
towards Marbad Tegga.  He had covered barely half a mile when he saw
another camel and rider coming towards him.  He knelt in ambush behind
a patch of jagged black rock, but as the rider came up he recognized
Yakub and called to him.

"Praise the Name of Allah!"  Yakub rejoiced.  "I heard a shooting."

Penrod scrambled up behind his saddle and they turned back towards
Marbad Tegga.  "My man escaped," he admitted.  "He had a rifle and he
killed my mount."

"My man did not escape, but he died well.  He was a warrior and I
honour his memory."  Yakub said flatly.  "But al-Saada is dead also. He
deserved to die for his clumsiness."

Penrod did not answer.  He knew there had been little love lost between
them, for although they were both Muslims, al-Saada was an Egyptian and
Yakub a Jaalin Arab.

In the bank of the nullah beyond the enemy camp Penrod found a deep
cleft in the rocks and laid al-Saada in it.  He wrapped his head in his
cloak and laid the captured Koran on his chest.  Then they piled loose
shale over him.  It was a simple burial but in accord with his
religion.  It did not take long, and neither spoke as they worked.

When they were done, they hurried back to the Dervish camp, and set
about making preparations to continue the journey.  "If we go swiftly
we might still pass through the enemy lines before the alarm is spread
by the one who got away."

The captured camels were all fat, well watered and rested.  They
transferred their saddles to them, and turned loose their own exhausted
animals to find the water in Marbad Tegga, then make their way to the
distant river.  In the Dervish waterskins they had more sweet Nile
water than two men needed.  Among the provisions they found more bags
of dhurra meal, dates and dried meat.

"Now we have supplies enough to win through to Khartoum," Penrod said,
with satisfaction.

"They will expect us to head for the ford of the river at Korti, but I
know of another crossing further to the west, below the cataract,"
Yakub told him.

They mounted two of the fresh animals and, leading three others loaded
with bulging waterskins, rode on southwards.

They rested through the middle of each day, lying in the meagre strip
of shade cast by the animals.  The camels were couched in direct
sunlight, which would have brought the blood of any other man or beast
to the boil but they showed no discomfort.  As soon as the tyranny of
the sun abated, they rode on through the evening and the night.  In the
dawn of the third day, while the eternal lamp of the morning star still
burned above the horizon, Penrod left Yakub with the camels and climbed
to the top of a conical hill, the only feature in this burnt-out,
desolate world.

By the time he reached the summit, day had broken, and an extraordinary
sight awaited him.  Two miles ahead, something white as salt and
graceful as the wing of a gull glided across this ocean of sterile sand
and rock.  He knew what it was before he lifted the field-glasses to
his eyes.  He stared at the single bulging lateen sail, which seemed so
out of place in such a setting.  He wasted a little more time revelling
in the sense of relief and accomplishment that settled over him: the
white wing of the dhow sailed upon the waters of the Nile.

They approached the river with the utmost caution.  While the terrors
of the Mother of Stones were behind them, a new menace lay ahead: men.
The dhow had passed out of sight downstream.  When they reached the
riverbank it was deserted, revealing no sign of human habitation.  Only
a flock of white egrets flew eastwards in an arrowhead formation, low
across the steely waters.  There was a narrow fringe of vegetation
along each bank, a few clumps of reed, scraggy palms and a single
magnificent sycamore tree with its roots almost planted in the mud at
the edge.  An ancient mud-brick tomb had been built in its shade.  The
plaster was cracked and lumps had fallen out of the walls.  Faded
coloured ribbons fluttered from the spreading branches above it.

"That is the tree of St.  al-Maula, a holy hermit who lived at this
place a hundred years ago," said Yakub.  "Pilgrims have placed those
ribbons in his honour so that the saint might remember them and grant
any boon they seek.  We are two leagues west of the ford, and the
village of Korti lies about the same distance to the east."

They turned away from the riverbank so that they would not be seen by
the crews of any passing dhows and made their way westward through
wadis and tumbled hillocks until they reached a tall stone bluff that
overlooked a long stretch of the Nile.  For the rest of that day, they
kept their vigil from the summit of the cliff.

Although the Nile was the main artery of trade and travel for an area
larger than the whole of western Europe, not another vessel passed, and
there was no sign of any human presence along this section of the
banks.  This alone made Penrod uneasy.  Something must have disrupted
all commerce along the river.  He was almost certain that this was what
Bakhita had warned him of, and that somewhere close by a massive
movement of the Dervish armies was under way.  He wanted to get across
into the wastes of the Monassir desert as soon as possible, and to keep
well away from the banks until he was opposite the city of Khartoum and
could make a final dash into Gordon's beleaguered stronghold.

When the angle of the sun altered, it penetrated the water, and the
darker outline of the shallows was just visible.  A submerged spur of
rock pushed half-way across the stream, and from the opposite side an
extensive mud bank spread out to meet it.  The channel between the two
shallows was deep green but narrow, less than a hundred and fifty paces
across.  Penrod memorized its position carefully.  If they used the
empty waterskins as life-buoys, they could swim the camels across the
deeper section.  Of course, they must cross in darkness.  They would be
terribly vulnerable if they were caught in midstream in broad daylight,
should a Dervish dhow appear unexpectedly.  Once they had reached the
far bank they could refill the skins and press on into the Monassir.

In the last hour of daylight Penrod left Yakub with the animals on the
heights of the bluff and went down alone to examine the bank for
tracks.  After casting well up- and downstream he was satisfied that no
large contingents of enemy troops had passed recently.

As darkness fell Yakub brought down the string of camels.  He had
emptied the last of the water from the skins, blown them up and
stoppered them again.  Each camel had a pair of these huge black
balloons strapped to its flanks.  They were roped together in two
strings so that they would not become separated in the water.

The camels jibbed at entering the water but Penrod and Yakub goaded
them down the bank and out on to the spur.  As they headed into the
middle of the Nile the water rose until it reached the men's chins, and
they had to cling to the camel harness.  The long legs and necks of the
beasts allowed them to cross almost to the far side before they lost
their footing and were forced to swim awkwardly.  But the waterskins
buoyed them up, and Penrod and Yakub swam beside them, urging them on
and pointing their heads in the right direction, taking care to keep
clear of their driving front legs below the surface.  They swam them to
the mud bank on the far side, and when they had regained their footing
led them out on to dry ground.  Quickly they refilled the waterskins
and gave the camels their last drink for many days.

The crossing had taken longer than Penrod had bargained on, and the
eastern sky was already paling before they were ready to leave the
Nile, the skins filled tight and the camels' bellies swollen with
water.  Before they set out they tried to obliterate their tracks from
the riverbank, but with that number of heavily laden animals and
working in darkness it was impossible.  They had to take a chance that
the wind and the river waters would wipe away their tracks before they
were discovered by Dervish scouts.

However, a dark premonition of evil rode on Penrod's shoulders as they
headed out into the Monassir desert.  After a few hours' travel the
feeling grew so pervasive that he knew he must sweep the back trail to
reassure himself that their crossing had not been discovered.  He
picked out the fleetest, most willing animal from their string by now
they knew each beast well by temperament and capability.  He sent Yakub
ahead with the others while he returned along their back trail.  When
he was still some miles from the river, he left the trail and headed
for a line of low hills he had noticed earlier that overlooked the
river.  He couched and tethered his mount below the skyline, then crept
forward.  As he neared the crest of the hill he dropped to his belly,
slithered up behind an outcrop of rocks and peered down into the valley
of the Nile.  His heart jumped against his ribs, and his nerves whipped
tight at what he saw below him.

A small party of Dervish scouts was dismounted on the near bank of the
Nile, and it was obvious that they had discovered the spoor as it
emerged from the water.  Through the field-glasses he studied the enemy
intently.  There were six of them.  He thought that one might be the
man he had chased from Marbad Tegga, but he could not be certain.  They
were all lean, hard desert Arabs, probably of the Beja tribe.  They
wore the gaily patched jib has of the Mahdists, and carried the
distinctive round targes and long-sheathed swords.  They were leaning
on the shafts of their spears and animatedly discussing the tracks on
the bank.  One turned and pointed south along the run of the spoor, and
they all looked in the direction he had indicated.  They seemed to be
gazing directly towards the spot where Penrod lay.

He ducked behind the rocks while he assessed his situation.  It seemed
obvious that the man he had chased from Marbad Tegga, even if that was
not him down there, had reached the river ahead of them.  He must have
spread the warning to the forward elements of the main Dervish army
coming down from the north.  Perhaps one of the commanding emirs had
sent this scouting party ahead to reconnoitre the river crossings and
intercept them.  Penrod could tell at a glance that these were
aggagiers, the finest Dervish warriors.  He and Yakub were outnumbered
by three to one, and the Dervish were on the alert.  He put out of his
mind any notion of a fight.  Their only salvation lay in flight.

Now he switched his attention from the men to their mounts.  Each rode
a handsome horse.  They had only one pack camel to carry the leather
bags of small gear, food and ammunition, but there were no waterskins.
Obviously they were a swift scouting party, but because they carried no
water they were confined to the narrow strip of ground a few miles each
side of the river.  They were not equipped for a deep foray into the
Monassir.  To intercept Penrod's caravan they would have to ride hard
round the great loop of the river and try to get ahead of them on the
riverbank opposite Khartoum.  That journey was almost two hundred miles
longer than the one that faced him and Yakub.  He felt a great wave of
relief as he realized that even the swiftest horses would not be able
to cut them off before they reached their goal.

"I leave you to the mercy of Allah," he murmured, in sardonic blessing,
then wriggled back from the skyline to return to his mount and catch up
with Yakub.  Then an unexpected stir among the men below made him
pause.  Quickly he refocused the field-glasses.  Two of the aggagiers
had run back to the single pack camel and forced it to kneel.  They
unstrapped some equipment from the animal's back.  One of the Arabs
squatted cross-legged with what appeared to be a writing tablet on his
lap.  He wrote with great concentration and care.

The other man took down a small crate from the camel's load and removed
the cotton cover that protected it.  He opened a trapdoor in the lid
and reached inside with both hands.  Penrod quailed as he saw a small
birdlike head bobbing and weaving between the man's fingers.  The
writer laid aside his pen, carefully folded his message and stood up.
The other man proffered the creature he held, and they were busy for a
moment longer.

Then the scribe stood back and nodded.  With both hands the other
tossed the sleek grey pigeon high into the air.  The bird exploded into
flight, its wings clattering softly as it rose higher and higher above
the river.  All the Arabs watched it, heads thrown back.  Their faint
cries of encouragement reached Penrod even at that distance.

"Fly, little one, on the wings of God's angels!"

"Swiftly to the bosom of the Holy Mahdi!"

Up and up the pigeon climbed, and then it described a series of wide
circles in the sky, a speck against the blue, until at last it found
its bearings and shot away in a straight, swift line, headed into the
south across the loop towards the Dervish city of Omdurman.

Penrod watched it out of sight, longing to see the knife-winged
silhouette of one of the desert Saker falcons towering above it, then
beginning the deadly stoop, but no predator appeared and the pigeon
vanished.

Penrod ran down the back slope of the hill and sprang into his camel's
saddle.  He turned its head in the same southerly direction as the
pigeon had taken and urged it into the pacing gait that it could
maintain for fifty miles without rest.  But the pigeon would reach
Omdurman before nightfall, while he and Yakub still had at least two
hundred and fifty miles to ride.  He knew now what a terrible gauntlet
they had yet to run before he could reach Khartoum and deliver his
despatch to Chinese Gordon.

Osman Atalan marched in the horde of worshippers towards the great
mosque of Omdurman.  Over his head floated his personal banner, which
had been awarded to him by the Mahdi.  It was worked with texts from
the Koran, and it was carried by two of his aggagiers.  All around him
throbbed the massive copper war drums.  The ombeyas bleated and brayed,
and the crowds shouted praises to God, to the Mahdi and his khalifa.
The heat clamped down upon the moving mass of humanity and the dust
rose in a cloud from the trampling feet and hung over their heads.  As
they approached the outer wall of the mosque the excitement built up
steadily for they knew that today the Mahdi, the light of Islam, would
preach the word of God and his Prophet.  The Ansar began to dance. Once
they had been called Dervish, but the Mahdi had forbidden the use of
that name as demeaning.

"The Holy Prophet has spoken to me several times and he has said that
whosoever calls my followers Dervish should be beaten seven times with
thorns and receive a plague of stripes.  For did I not give a proud
name and a promise of Paradise to my own true warriors who triumphed on
the battlefield of El Obeid?  Did I not decree that they be known as my
Ansar, my helpers and partisans?  Let them be known only as Ansar, and
let them glory in that name."

The Ansar danced in the sunlight, whirling like dust devils, faster and
faster, spinning so that their feet seemed barely to touch the earth,
and the ranks of worshippers that pressed around them ululated and
shouted the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah: "Al-Hakim, the Wise.
Al-Majid, the Glorious.  Al-Haqq, the Truth .. ."  One by one the
dancers were overtaken by holy ecstasy and fell to the ground, frothing
at the mouth and twitching until their eyes rolled back in the sockets
and only the whites showed.

Osman entered the gates of the mosque.  It was a vast enclosure open to
the sky, and surrounded by a twenty-foot-high wall of mud bricks.  It
was eight hundred paces square and the whole expanse was packed with
the kneeling ranks of jibba-uniformed faithful.  At the far end of the
mosque an opening was screened off by a rank of black-robed Ansar, the
Mahdi's executioners.

Osman made his way slowly through the crowds towards this space.  The
ranks of kneeling figures gave way to him and called his praises as he
passed, for he was the foremost of all the great emirs.  In the first
row of worshippers his aggagiers spread out his prayer mat of fine dyed
wool.  Beside it they piled the six great tusks that they had taken in
the hunt in the Valley of the Atbara.  Osman knelt on the mat and faced
the narrow gate in the wall, which led to the private compound of the
Mahdi.

Gradually the wild hubbub of the worshippers descended to a hum, and
then to a charged, expectant silence.  This was shattered by a ringing
blast on an ombeya and through the gateway appeared a small procession.
At the head were the three khalifas.  In appointing these men as his
successors the Mahdi had simply followed the precedent set by the first
Prophet Muhammad.

There should have been a fourth khalifa, Al Senussi, the ruler of
Cyrenaica.  He had sent an emissary to the Sudan to report to him on
this person who claimed to be the Mahdi.  The man had arrived while the
sack of the city of El Obeid was in full swing.  He had watched in
horror the massacre, the pillage, the torture, the children being
chopped into pieces by the Ansar.  He did not tarry to meet the Mahdi
and fled from the carnage to report back to his master the inhumanities
he had witnessed.

"This monster cannot be the true Mahdi," Al Senussi decided.  "I want
no truck with him."

Thus there were only three khalifas, of whom Abdullahi was the first.
Compared to him the other two were of no significance.  Abdullahi led
them to the prayer mats that had been laid out for them on the raised
dais.  When they had taken their places there was another expectant
pause.

The ombeya shrieked once more and the Mahdi's sword-bearer entered
through the gateway.  He carried before him the symbol of the Mahdi's
temporal powers: a sword with an extraordinarily long, bright blade.
Its gold hilt and guard were worked with jewelled stars and crescents,
and the steel was inlaid in gold with the double-headed eagle of the
Holy Roman Empire, beneath which was the legend "Vivat Carolus'.  It
was not an Islamic relic but must once have belonged to a Christian
crusader.  It was an heirloom that had been passed down over the
centuries until it had become the sword of the Mahdi.  Behind his
sword-bearer came the prophet of God himself.

The Mahdi was dressed in a spotlessly clean and beautifully quilted
jibba.  On his head he wore a gold casque with chain mesh cheek pieces
that might once have belonged to one of Saladin's Saracens.  He began a
slow, dignified progress through the congregation of kneeling
worshippers.  Their ranks opened before him, and sheikhs, warriors,
priests and emirs crawled forward to kiss his feet and proffer gifts.

They held up handfuls of pearls and gold jewellery, of precious stones
and beautifully wrought objects of silver.  They laid bolts of silk and
pure gold embroidery at his feet.  The Mahdi smiled his angelic smile
and touched their heads in acceptance of each gift.  While his Ansar
followed behind him and gathered up the offerings, the Mahdi preached
to them.

"Allah has spoken to me many times, and he has told me that you should
be forbidden to wear fine clothes and jewellery, for this is conceit
and pride.  You should wear only the jibba, which marks you as a lover
of the Prophet and the Mahdi.  Therefore it is right and wise that you
should deliver these trinkets and fripperies into my keeping."

Those close enough to hear the words shouted them aloud so that all
might hear and know the wisdom of the Mahdi, and others further on
repeated them so by the end they had been shouted to the furthest
reaches of the vast enclosure.  The worshippers praised God that they
should be allowed to hear such wisdom.

They lifted up leather bags of gold and silver coins and poured them at
his feet, glittering piles of Maria Theresa dollars, gold mohurs and
English sovereigns, the currency of the Orient and the Occident.  Osman
Atalan crawled forward under the weight of the largest of the six tusks
and his aggagiers followed him with similar offerings.  The Mahdi
smiled down on Osman and stooped to embrace him.

The watchers hummed with amazement at such favour bestowed.

"You know that these riches cannot buy you a place in Paradise.  If any
man hold back treasures and does not bring them to me freely and of his
own accord, Allah will burn him with fire and the earth will swallow
him.  Repent and obey my words.  Return to me all that you have taken
for yourselves.  The Prophet, grace be upon him, has told me many times
that any man who still keeps the spoils of looting in his possession
shall be destroyed.  Believe the revealed word of the Prophet."

They shouted again with joy to hear the word of God and his Prophet and
the Divine Mahdi, and shoved their way to the front to deliver up their
treasure.

Once the Mahdi had completed his progress round the mosque he returned
to the dais and took his seat on his silk prayer mat.  One at a time,
his three khalifas knelt before him and offered their gifts.  One
clapped his hands and his grooms led in a black stallion that shone
like washed obsidian in the sunlight.  Its saddle was carved from
ebony, while its bridle and reins were of gold lace, tasselled with the
feathers of marabou and eagles.

The second khalifa offered him a royal angareb bed, whose frame was
cunningly carved of ivory and inlaid with gold.

Abdullahi was the khalifa who knew his master best.  He offered the
Divine Mahdi a woman, but no ordinary woman.  He led her into the
enclosure himself.  She was cloaked from head to ankles, but her
outline beneath the silk was as graceful as that of a gazelle, and her
bare feet were elegantly shaped.  The khalifa opened the front of her
cloak, but held it so that she was screened from all eyes other than
those of the Mahdi.  She was naked under the cloth.

The Mahdi leant forward on one elbow and stared at her.  She was a
lovely child of the Galla who, at fourteen years, had eyes as dark as
pools of oil, and skin as smooth as butter.  She moved like a newly
woken fawn.  Her breasts were small and girlish, but shaped like ripe
figs.  Every hair had been meticulously plucked from her sex, so that
the pink tips of her inner lips peeked out at him shyly from the plump
little cleft.  This emphasized her tender age.  The Mahdi smiled at
her.  She hung her head, covered her mouth with a tiny hand and giggled
coyly.  The Khalifa Abdullahi covered her again and the Mahdi nodded at
him.  "Take her to my quarters."

Then he rose, spread his arms and began to speak again.

"The Prophet has told me many times that my Ansar are a chosen and
blessed people.  Thus He has forbidden you to smoke or chew tobacco.
You shall not drink alcohol.  You shall not play a musical instrument
except the drum and the ombeya.  You shall not dance, except in praise
of God and his Prophet.  You shall not fornicate, nor shall you commit
adultery.  You shall not steal.  Behold the fate of those who disobey
my laws."

He clapped his hands, and from the side gate his executioners led in an
elderly man.  He was barefoot and dressed only in a loincloth.  His
turban had been stripped off and his unwashed hair was a dirty white.
He looked confused and hopeless.  He had a rope round his neck.  When
he stood in front of the dais one of the executioners jerked it and
threw him to the ground.  Then four surrounded him with their whips
poised.

"This man has been seen smoking tobacco.  He must suffer a hundred
blows with the kurbash."

"In the Name of God and his victorious Mahdi!"  the congregation
assented, with a single voice, and the executioners laid on together.

The first stroke raised a red welt across the man's back, and the
second drew blood.  The victim writhed and shrieked as others followed
in quick succession.  At the end he moved no more and they dragged him
out of the gate through which he had entered.  Behind him the dust was
damp with his blood.

The next offender was brought in at the rope's end, and the Mahdi gazed
down on him with a mild and benign smile.  "This man stole the oars
from his neighbour's dhow.  The Prophet has decreed that he shall have
one hand and one foot cut off."

The executioner standing behind him swung his broadsword low and hard,
and lopped off the right foot at the ankle.  The man collapsed in the
dust and as he put out a hand to save himself, the executioner stood on
it to pin it to the ground, then hacked down and cut through the wrist
bone.  Quickly and expertly they cauterized the stumps by dipping them
into a small pot of boiling pitch from the brazier.  Then they tied the
severed hand and foot around the man's neck and dragged him out through
the side gate.

"Praise the justice and mercy of the Mahdi," howled the worshippers.
"God is Great and there is no other God but God."

Osman Atalan watched from his seat in the front rank of the mosque.  He
was amazed by the wisdom and perception of the Mahdi.  He knew
instinctively that new religious orders are not forged by granting
luxurious indulgences but by enforcing moral austerity and devotion to
the word of God.  No man who witnessed the rule of this prophet could
doubt that he wielded the authority of God.

The Mahdi spoke again: "My heart is as heavy as a stone with sorrow,
for there is a couple in our midst, a man and a woman, who have been
taken in adultery."

The congregation roared with anger and waved their hands above their
heads, crying, "They must die!  They must die!"

They brought in the woman first.  She was little more than a child, a
waif like figure with stick-thin arms and legs.  Her hair had come down
in a tangle over her face and shoulders, and she wailed piteously as
they tied her arms and legs to the stake below the dais.

Then they led in the man.  He also was young, but tall and proud, and
he called to the woman, "Be brave, my love.  We will be together in a
better place than this."

Despite the rope round his neck he strode forward towards the edge of
the dais as if he wished to address the Divine Mahdi, but the
executioner pulled him up short.  "No closer, thou foul beast, lest
your blood soil the raiment of the Victorious One."

"The penalty for adultery is that the man suffer beheading," said the
Mahdi, and his words were repeated and shouted across the wide
enclosure.  The executioner stepped up behind his victim and touched
the back of his neck with the blade of the sword, marking his aim. Then
he drew back and struck, and the blade fluted through the air. The girl
at the stake screamed in despair as her lover's head seemed to spring
from his shoulders.  He stood a moment longer as a bright stream
fountained into the air, then cascaded over his torso.  The Mahdi
stepped back fastidiously but a single drop splashed the skirt of his
white jibba.  The dead man fell in an untidy tangle of limbs and his
head rolled to the foot of the dais.  The girl wailed and struggled
with her bonds to reach him.

"The penalty for the woman taken in adultery is that she be stoned,"
said the Mahdi.

The Khalifa Abdullahi rose from his cushion and went to the girl at the
stake.  With a strangely tender gesture he swept the hair back from her
face and tied it behind her head, so that the believers could see her
expression as she died.  Then he paced back to the pile of stones that
had been placed ready to hand.  He selected one that fitted neatly into
his hand and turned back to face the girl-child.  "In the Name of Allah
and the Divine Mahdi, may they have mercy on your soul."

He hurled the stone with the strength and speed of a spearman, and it
caught the girl in the eye.  From where he sat Osman Atalan heard the
rim of the socket crack.  The eye popped out and hung by the vine of
its nerve on her cheek, like some obscene fruit.

One after the other the khalifas the emirs and the sheikhs came
forward, took up a stone from the pile and threw it.  By the time Osman
Atalan took his turn the front of the girl's skull had been crushed and
she was hanging lifelessly against her bonds.  Osman's stone struck her
shoulder but she did not move.  They left her hanging there while the
Mahdi finished delivering his sermon.

"The Prophet, grace and eternal life be upon him, has said to me on
many occasions that he who doubts that I am the true Mahdi is an
apostate.  He who opposes me is a renegade and an infidel.  He who
wages war against me shall perish from this life and be destroyed and
obliterated in the next world.  His property and his children shall
become the property of Islam.  My war against the Turks and the infidel
is by the order of the Prophet.  He has made me privy to many terrible
secrets.  The greatest of these is that all the countries of the Turks,
the Franks and the infidels who defy me and who defy the word of Allah
and his Prophet shall be subdued by the holy religion and law.  They
shall become as dust and fleas and small things who crawl in the
darkness of night."

When Osman Atalan returned to his tent in the palm grove beside the
waters of the Nile and looked across at the fortress of the infidel, he
felt exhausted in the flesh as though he had fought a mighty battle,
but he was as triumphant in the spirit as though the victory had been
granted to him by Allah and the Divine Mahdi.  He sat on the precious
carpet of silk from Samarkand and his wives brought him a gourd of sour
milk.  After he had drunk, his principal wife whispered to him, "There
is one who awaits you, my lord."

"Let him come to me," Osman told her.  When he came he was an old man
but straight of limb with bright young eyes.  "I see you, Master of the
Pigeons," Osman greeted him, 'and may the grace of Allah be with
you."

"I see you, mighty emir, and I pray the Prophet to hold you to his
heart."  He proffered the grey pigeon he held gently against his
breast.

Osman took the bird from him and stroked its head.  It cooed softly,
and he untied the silk thread that held a tiny roll of rice paper to
its scaly red leg.  He smoothed it against his thigh and as he read it
he began to smile and the weariness slipped from his shoulders.
Carefully he reread the last line of the tiny script on the note.

"I have seen his face in the starlight.  Verily, it is the Frank who
escaped your wrath on the battlefield of El Obeid.  The one who is
known as Abadan Riji."

"Summon my aggagiers and place the saddle on Sweet Water.  We ride for
the north.  Mine enemy has come."  They scurried to do his bidding.

"By God's grace we do not need to search the length and breadth of the
Monassir Desert," he told Hassan Ben Nader and al-Noor, who stood
outside the tent with him while they waited for the grooms to bring
their horses.  "We know when and where he crossed the loop, and there
is only one place to which he can be headed."

"It is two hundred and fifty miles from where he crossed to where he
aims to reach the river here opposite Khartoum," said al-Noor.

"We know he is a tough warrior for we all saw him at El Obeid.  He will
travel fast," said Hassan Ben Nader.  "He will murder his camels."

Osman nodded in agreement.  He knew the type of man he was hunting.
Hassan was right: this one would have no qualms about riding his camels
to death.  "Three days, four at most, and like a little fish he will
swim into our net."  The groom brought Sweet Water to him and she
whinnied when she recognized Osman.  He fondled her head and gave her a
dhurra cake to crunch while he checked her bridle and girth.  "He will
keep well away from the bank of the river until he is ready to cross."
Osman was thinking aloud with the mind of the chase.  "Will he cross
south of Omdurman or to the north?"  he mused, as he came back to the
mare's head, and before any of his companions could speak he answered
himself: "He would not cross to the north, for as soon as he entered
the water the current would push him back and away from the city.  He
must cross to the south so that the flow of the Bahr El Abiad," he used
the Arabic name for the White Nile, 'will carry him down to
Khartoum."

A man coughed and shuffled his feet in the dust.  Osman glanced at him.
Only one of his aggagiers would dare question his words.  He turned to
the most trusted of his men.  "Speak, Noor.  Let your wisdom delight us
like the singing of the heavenly cherubim."

"It comes to me that this Frank is as wily as a desert jackal.  He may
reason as you have just done and, knowing your mind, decide to do the
opposite.  He may choose to cross far to the north, then swing wide
towards the mountains and cross the Bahr El Abiad rather than the Bahr
El Azrak."

Osman shook his head.  "As you have said, he is no fool and he knows
the lie of the land.  He also knows that the danger for him will not be
in the empty desert but on the rivers where our tribes are
concentrated.  You think he will choose to cross two rivers rather than
one?  No, he will cross the Bahr El Abiad to the south of the city.
That is where we will wait for him."

He swung up easily into the saddle, and his aggagiers followed his
example.  "We move south."

They rode into the cool of the evening, and a long veil of red dust
spread behind them.  Osman Atalan was in the van, with Sweet Water
striding out in a flowing canter.  They had covered only a few miles
when he reined in the mare, and stood in the stirrups to survey the
terrain ahead.  The tops of the palm trees that marked the course of
the river were just visible on the left, but on the right stretched the
great void of the Monassir, which after two thousand miles would give
way to the infinite wastes of the Sahara.

Osman swung down from the mare's back and squatted at her head.
Immediately his aggagiers did the same.  "Abadan Riji will circle out
wide to the west to keep well clear of the river until he is ready to
make the crossing.  Then he will come out of the wilderness, and in the
night try to slip through our lines.  We will lay our net thus and
thus."  He sketched out the lines of his pickets in the dust and they
nodded their agreement and understanding as they watched.  "Noor, you
will take your men and ride thus and thus.  You, Hassan Ben Nader, will
ride thus.  I shall be here in the centre."

Penrod drove the camels at a pace that not even the hardiest men and
beasts could keep up for long.  They covered the ground at eight miles
an hour, and kept it up for eighteen hours without rest, but it taxed
even their endurance to the limit.  Both men were also exhausted when
he called the first halt.  They rested for four hours by his pocket
watch, but when they tried to rouse the camels to go on the oldest and
weakest refused to come to his feet.  Penrod shot him where he lay.
They distributed the water that the dead beast was carrying among the
other camels, then mounted up and went on at the same pace.

When they reached the end of the next eighteen-hour stage of the march
Penrod calculated that they had roughly another ninety to one hundred
miles to go to reach the Nile ten miles south of Khartoum.  Yakub
agreed with this estimate, although his calculations were based on
different criteria.  They had broken the back of the journey, but it
had cost them dear.  Thirty-six hours' hard going, and only four hours
of rest.  When they tried to feed them, the camels refused to eat their
meagre ration of dhurra.

Once the six camels were couched Penrod went to each waters king and
lifted it to judge the remaining contents.  Then he pondered over the
equation of weights and distances and the condition of each beast.  He
decided on a deliberate gamble.  He explained it to Yakub, who sighed,
picked his nose and lifted the skirts of his gcdabiyya to scratch his
crotch, all symptoms of doubt.  But in the end he nodded lugubriously,
not trusting himself to voice approval.

They selected the two strongest camels and took them out of sight of
the other four weaker animals.  They watered them from the skins they
carried, pouring the sweet water into leather buckets.  The animals'
thirst seemed unquenchable, and they sucked down bucketful after
bucketful.  They drank almost thirty gallons each.  The change in their
condition was startlingly swift.  They rested them another hour, then
fed them all the rations of dhurra that their companions had refused.
The two chosen beasts devoured it gluttonously.  Now they were strong
and alert again.  The resilience of these extraordinary creatures never
failed to amaze Penrod.

When the four hours of rest ended they led the two camels back to where
the other four lay listlessly.  They forced the used-up animals to
their feet.  Now when they began the next stage of the journey the two
pampered animals carried nothing but their saddles.  Between them the
exhausted camels carried all the remaining water and equipment as well
as the two riders.  One collapsed after three more gruelling hours.
Penrod shot it.  He and Yakub drank as much of the water from its skins
as their bellies would hold.  Then they shared the rest between their
two strong beasts.

They pushed on at the same pace, but within another ten miles the
remaining two weaker beasts went down in quick succession.  Half-way up
the slip-face of a low dune one fell as though shot through the brain,
and half an hour later the other groaned and its back legs gave way. It
knelt to die and closed the thick double rows of lashes over its
swimming eyes.  Penrod stood over it with the Webley in his hand.
"Thank you, old girl.  I hope your next journey is less arduous."  And
he put her out of her misery.

They allowed the surviving camels to drink what they could of the
water, then drank themselves.  What remained they loaded up.  The two
camels were strong and willing.  Yakub stood beside them, and studied
the terrain that lay ahead, the outline of the dunes and the shape of
the distant hills.  "Eight hours to the river," he estimated.

"If my backside lasts that long," Penrod lamented, as he climbed into
the saddle.  He ached in every nerve and muscle, and his eyeballs felt
raw and abraded by the sand and the glare of sunlight.  He abandoned
himself to the pacing gait of the beast under him, the legs on each
side swinging in unison, so that he pitched and rolled in the saddle.
The desolate landscape fell away behind them, and the dunes and bare
hills were so monotonously similar that at times he had the illusion
they were making no progress but repeating the same journey
endlessly.

Still clinging to the saddle, he slipped into a dark, leaden sleep.  He
slid sideways and almost fell off, but Yakub rode up alongside him and
shook him awake.  He lifted his head guiltily, and looked at the height
of the sun.  They had been riding for only two hours.

"Six more to go."  He felt lightheaded, and knew that at any moment
sleep would overtake him again.  He slipped to the ground and ran
beside his camels' head until the sweat stung his eyes.  Then he
mounted up again and followed Yakub through the shimmering wasteland.
Twice more he had to dismount and run to keep himself awake.  Then he
felt the camel under him change its pace.  At the same time Yakub
shouted, "They have smelt the river."

Penrod pushed up alongside his camel.  "How far?"

"An hour, perhaps a little longer, before it will be safe for us to
turn eastwards and head straight towards the river."

The hour passed slowly, but the camels paced on steadily until they saw
another low ridge of blue shale appear out of the heat haze ahead.  To
Penrod it seemed identical to hundreds of others they had passed since
they had crossed the loop, but Yakub laughed and pointed at it: "This
place I know!"  He turned his camel's head and the beast quickened its
pace.  The sun was half-way towards the western horizon, and their
shadows flitted ahead over the barren earth.

They came up over the ridge, and Penrod stared ahead eagerly for a
glimpse of greenery.  The wasteland was unrelieved and unrelenting.
Yakub was undismayed, and shook his lank curls in the hot wind, as the
camels ran on across the plain.

Ahead another low shale bank seemed to rise no more than head high
above the level ground.  Yakub brandished his goad and leered across at
Penrod with a satanic squint.  "Place your trust in Yakub, the master
of the sands.  Brave Yakub sees the land as a vulture from on high.
Wise Yakub knows the secret places and the hidden pathways."

"If he is wrong brave Yakub will have need of a new neck, for I will
break the one on which he balances his thick skull," Penrod called
back.

Yakub cackled and pushed his mount into a cumbersome gallop.  He
reached the top of the bank fifty paces ahead of Penrod, stopped and
pointed ahead dramatically.

On the horizon they saw a line of palm trees stretched across the
landscape, but it was difficult to judge the distance in the flat,
uncertain light.  The bunches of palm fronds on each long hole reminded
Penrod of the ornate hairstyles of the Hadendowa warriors.  He
estimated that it was under two miles to the nearest grove.

"Get the camels down," he ordered, and jumped to the ground.
Surprisingly he felt strong and alert.  At first sight of the Nile the
weariness of the journey seemed to have left him.  They took the camels
behind the ridge and couched them out of sight from the river plain.

"In which direction lies Khartoum?"  Penrod asked.

Without hesitation Yakub pointed to the left.  "You can see the smoke
from the cooking fires of Omdurman."

It was so faint on the horizon that Penrod had taken it for dust or
river haze, but now he saw that Yakub was right.  "So we are at least
five miles upstream of Khartoum," he observed.  They had reached the
precise position he had aimed for.

He went forward cautiously and squatted on the high ground with the
field-glasses.  He saw at once that he had overestimated the distance
to the riverbank.  It was probably closer to one mile than two.  There
was no cover on the river plain, which was flat and featureless.  It
seemed that there was some cultivation under the palm trees, for he
made out a line of darker green below the untidy fronds.  "Probably
dhurra fields," he muttered, 'but no sign of a village."  Again he
checked the height of the sun.  Two hours until dark.  Should we make a
run for the river before sunset, or wait for darkness?  He felt
impatience building in him, but he held it in check.  While he
considered the choice he kept the binoculars to his eyes.  The
riverbank could be far beyond the first trees of the grove, or it might
be right there at the edge.

Movement caught his eye and he concentrated on it.  A faint shading of
pale dust was rising from among the palms.  It was moving from left to
right, in the opposite direction of Omdurman.  Perhaps it was a
caravan, he thought, following the road along the riverbank.  But then
he realized it was moving too fast.  Riders, he decided, camels or
horsemen.  Suddenly the dust cloud stopped moving, hung for a few
minutes at the same point, then gradually settled.  They have halted in
the grove, right between us and the riverbank.  Whoever they were they
had made the decision for him.  Now he had no alternative but to wait
for darkness.  He went back to where Yakub sat with the camels.
"Mounted men on the riverbank.  We'll have to wait for darkness when we
can sneak past them."

"How many?"

"I'm not certain.  A large band.  Judging by the dust there are maybe
twenty or so."  There was little water left in the skins, no more than
a few gallons.  With the river in sight they could afford to be
profligate so they drank their fill.  By this time it was slimy with
green algae and had taken on the taste of the crudely tanned leather,
but Penrod drank it with relish.  What they could not consume they gave
to the camels.

Then they inflated the empty skins.  This was a laborious job: they
held each skin between their knees and blew into the nozzle, holding it
closed between breaths by clamping a hand over the opening.  When each
skin was full and tight they stoppered it.  Then they strapped them to
the backs of the kneeling camels.  All was ready for the river
crossing, and Yakub looked at Penrod.  "Yakub the tireless will keep
watch while you rest.  I will wake you at the setting of the sun."

Penrod opened his mouth to refuse the offer, then recognized the sense
of it.  The elation was wearing off, and he realized that, without
sleep, he was nearly at the end of his tether.  He knew, too, that
Yakub was almost indefatigable.  He handed him the field-glasses
without protest, stretched out on the shady side of his camel, wrapped
his scarf round his head and was almost instantly asleep.

"Effendi."  Yakub shook him awake.  His voice was a hoarse whisper.
With a single glance at his face Penrod knew that there was trouble.

Yakub's squint was hideous, one eye fixed on Penrod's face but the
other roved and rolled.

As Penrod sat up his right hand closed on the butt of the Webley. "What
is it?"

"Riders!  Behind us."  Yakub pointed back along the way they had come.
Far out on the sun-seared plain a tight bunch of horsemen was coming on
fast.  "They are on our tracks."

Penrod snatched the field-glasses from him and stared back at them.
They wore the jibba.  He counted nine.  They were covering the ground
at a canter.  The leaders were leaning forward in their saddles to
watch the ground ahead.

"They were waiting for us," said Yakub.  "It was the pigeon that warned
them."

"Yes!  The pigeon."  Penrod leapt to his feet.  He took a last glance
at the height of the sun.  It was squatting wearily on the horizon and
little daylight remained.  The camels were ready to run, eager for
water, and lunged to their feet at the first touch of the goad.

Penrod leapt into the saddle and pointed his mount's head at the
distant line of palm trees.  He used the goad and it lumbered into a
gallop.  From behind he heard the distant thud of a rifle shot and a
bullet ricocheted off the stony ground in a puff of dust and chips, but
it was fifty yards out on the left.  Even at such long range it was
poor shooting, but the Dervish favoured the sword and the spear above
the gun.  They considered any expertise in the use of firearms to be
effete and unmanly.  The true warrior killed with the blade, man to
man.

Within seconds the camels had crossed the ridge and were screened by
the shale bank from further enemy fire.  Penrod knew that they were no
match for a good horse over the short run, but he pushed his on with
cries of "Ha!  Ha!"  the sting of the goad and urgent movements of his
body.  Yakub was lighter, though, and his mount drew gradually ahead.

As they raced for the edge of the palm groves Penrod searched for any
sign of the horsemen he had spotted earlier.  He hoped they might have
ridden on towards Omdurman, and left their path open to the river. Even
the best of us needs a little luck, he thought, then heard faint but
excited cries from far behind.  He looked back under his arm, and saw
the nine horsemen sweeping over the shale bank they had just crossed.
They were strung out but riding hard.  There were more shots, but they
flew wide.  The palm groves drew closer, and he felt his confidence
burgeoning.  They had a clear run to the bank of the Nile.

"Come, Effendi, watch Yakub and you will learn how to ride a camel."

The little Jaalin tribesman laughed with delight at his own sense of
humour.  Both their animals were extended in full gallop, and Penrod
ducked as loose pebbles flew back from the pads of the camel in front
of him and flicked past his ears.

Suddenly there was a different sound of gunfire, much sharper and
clearer.  The band of riders he had seen earlier raced out of the
grove.  They must have been halted and resting among the trees, but now
they had been alerted by the shots of the pursuers.  All of them wore
the jibba of the Dervish and were armed with spear, sword, targe and
rifle.  They were on a converging course, racing in from the right
along the edge of the grove to cut them off from the river.  Penrod
narrowed his eyes as he judged their speed and the distance to where
their paths would cross.

We will make it, but with little to spare, he decided.  At that moment
a heavy Boxer-Henry .45 calibre bullet struck Yakub's camel in the head
and killed it instantly.  It dropped onto its nose and the long legs
flew over its head as it tumbled.  Yakub was thrown high, then struck
the hard ground heavily.

Penrod knew that he must be either killed or knocked senseless.  He
dared not stop to help him.  Baring's messages were more important than
the life of one man.  None the less he was filled with dismay at the
thought of leaving Yakub to the mercy of the Dervish.  He knew they
would give him to their women to play with.  The Hadendowa woman could
castrate a man, then flay every inch of skin from his body without
allowing him to lose consciousness, forcing him to endure every
exquisite cut of the blade.  "Yakub!"  he bellowed, with little hope of
any response, but to his astonishment Yakub clambered shakily to his
feet and looked about groggily.

"Yakub!  Make ready."  Penrod leant out sideways from the saddle. Yakub
turned and ran in the same direction, to lessen the shock as they came
together.  They had often practised this trick in preparation for just
such a moment on the battlefield or the hunting ground.  Yakub was
looking back over his shoulder to judge his moment.  As the camel swept
by him he reached up and linked arms with Penrod.  He was jerked clean
off his feet, but Penrod used the momentum to swing him back over the
camel's croup.

Yakub grabbed him round the waist and stuck to him like a tick to a
dog.  The camel ran on without check.  The moment Penrod was sure that
Yakub was secure he twisted in the saddle and saw that the closest
Dervish was only two hundred yards out on their right flank.  He rode a
magnificent cream mare with a flowing golden mane.  Although he wore
the green turban of an emir, he was not a greybeard but a warrior in
his prime, and he rode with the menace of a couched lance, slim, supple
and deadly.

"Abadan Riji!"  To Penrod's astonishment the emir challenged him by
name.  "Since El Obeid I have waited for you to return to Sudan."

Then Penrod remembered him.  His face and figure were not easily
forgotten.  This was Osman Atalan, emir of the Beja.

"I thought I had killed you there," Penrod shouted back.  The emir had
chased him as he carried the wounded Adams out of the broken square,
just as the Dervish charge overwhelmed it.  Osman had been riding
another mount, not that lovely mare.  Penrod had been up on a big
strong gelding.  Even burdened with Adams it had taken Osman a good
half-mile to catch him.  Then they rode stirrup to stirrup and shoulder
to shoulder, as though riding each other off the ball in a game of
polo, Osman slashing and hacking with that great silver blade, and
Penrod meeting it with parries and stop hits, until his moment came.
Then he feigned a straight thrust at Osman's eyes.  The Dervish threw
up his targe to catch the point, and Penrod dropped his aim and hit
him, driving hard under the bottom rim of the targe.  He had felt his
steel go well in.  Osman reeled back in the saddle and his mount had
swerved aside, breaking out of the trial of strength.

Looking back under his arm as he carried Adams away, Penrod had seen
that Osman's mount had slowed to a walk, and that his rider was hunched
over and swaying.  He had thought he was probably mortally wounded.

But that was clearly not the case, for now Osman shouted, "I swear on
my love of the Prophet that today I will give you another chance to
kill me."

Osman's men rode close behind him and Penrod saw that they were as
dangerous as a pack of wolves.  One of the aggagiers aimed his carbine
and fired.  The black powder smoke erupted from the muzzle and the
bullet parted the air so close to Penrod's cheek that he felt its kiss.
He ducked instinctively, and heard Osman shout behind him, "No guns!
Blades only.  I want this one for my sword, for he has tainted my
honour."

Penrod faced ahead, giving all his concentration to wringing the utmost
from the camel under him.  They rushed towards the palm grove, but
behind him he could hear the thunder of hoofs riding to a crescendo. As
they rode past the first trees of the grove, he saw that he had been
mistaken; this was not a field of dhurra but a dense stand of
second-growth palmetto.  The long needle spines could stab through the
hide of a horse, but not that of a camel.  He turned his mount's head
and it charged straight at the thicket.

He heard the hoofs closer behind him and the hoarse breathing of a
horse at full gallop, then saw the mare's golden head appear in the
periphery of his vision.

"Now is your chance, Abadan Riji!"  Osman called, and pushed the mare
alongside the camel.  Penrod leant across the narrow gap and thrust at
his turbaned head, but Osman swayed back and kept his targe low,
sneering at Penrod over the rim.  "The fox never comes twice to the
snare," he said.

"You learn swiftly."  Penrod conceded, and caught the great crusader
sword on his own slim blade, turning it in the air so that it flew past
his head.  He steered the camel with his toes against its neck into the
thicket of spiny palmetto.  The camel crashed through, but Osman turned
aside, breaking off his attack rather than lame or cripple the mare.

He galloped furiously round the edge of the thicket while the camel ran
straight through.  He had lost at least a hundred paces as he came back
into the camel's tracks and rode hard to catch up with it again.

Penrod saw the wide expanse of the Nile directly ahead, a shimmering
luminescence in the fading light.  The camel bounded forward under him
as it, too, saw the river.  Penrod carried the sabre in his right hand,
with the goad and the reins in the left.  "Yakub, take my pistol!"  he
said softly.  "And for the love and mercy of Allah, try this time to
aim fair and shoot straight."

Yakub reached round his body and pulled the Webley from his sash.  "The
remarkable Yakub will slay this false emir with a single shot," he
cried, took deliberate aim and closed both eyes before he fired.

Osman Atalan did not flinch at the crack of the shot: he came on
swiftly, but he had seen how close they were to the riverbank.  He
swung the mare in across the camel's rump, and stood in the stirrups
with the long sword poised.

Penrod saw that he had changed his attack, and that he meant to cripple
the camel with a deep cut through the hamstrings.  With a stab of the
goad and a hard tug on the reins he swung the beast's shoulder into the
mare.  Standing off balance in his stirrups Osman could not respond
swiftly enough to counter the turn, and the two animals came together
with the impetus of their combined weights.  The camel was almost twice
the height of the mare at the shoulder, and half again as heavy.  She
reeled and went down on her front knees.  Osman was thrown on to her
neck.

With the skill and balance of an acrobat he retained his seat, and kept
a grip on his sword.  However, by the time the mare had found her feet
again, the camel had pulled too far ahead for her to catch up before it
reached the riverbank.

As he raced towards it Penrod had only a moment to survey the river
before him.  He saw that the bank was a sheer drop of ten feet and that
the water below it was green and deep.  It was at least a mile across
to the opposite bank and three large islands of reeds and papyrus were
floating down in stately procession towards Khartoum in the north. That
was all he had time to observe.  With Osman and his aggagiers racing up
behind them he urged the camel straight to the top of the bank.

"In God's Name!"  shrieked Yakub.  "I cannot swim."

"If you stay here the Dervish women will have your balls," Penrod
reminded him.

"I can swim!"  Yakub changed his mind.

"Sensible Yakub!"  Penrod grunted, and as the camel hesitated he
stabbed hard into its neck with the goad.  It leapt outwards so
violently that Yakub lost his grip on the Webley as he snatched at a
handhold.  With a gut-wrenching sensation they dropped to hit the water
with a splash as high as the bank above their heads.  The aggagiers
reined in their horses and milled about on top of the bank, firing down
at the two men floundering on the surface.

"Stop!"  Osman shouted angrily, and knocked up the barrel of al-Noor's
carbine.  His intervention came too late, for a bullet fired by one of
the others hit the camel and damaged its spine.  The terrified beast
swam desperately with its front feet, but its paralysed back legs
anchored it so that it turned in small circles, bellowing and hissing
with terror.  Despite the crippling injury it rode high in the water,
buoyed by the inflated waterskins.

"You think you have cheated me yet again," Osman shouted across the
water, 'but I am Osman Atalan, and your life belongs to me."

Penrod guessed immediately from the emir's tone of false bravado that,
like most desert Arabs, he could not swim.  For all his wild courage on
land, he would never expose himself and his beautiful mare to the
attack of the jinn and the monstrous Nile crocodiles that infested
these waters.  He would not follow his enemy over the bank into the
swift green river.

For a minute longer Osman wrestled with his chivalrous instincts, his
passionate desire for single combat, to avenge himself on his enemy
with the sword.  Then he gave way to expediency, and made an abrupt,
eloquent chopping gesture with his right hand.

"Kill them!"  he ordered.  At once his aggagiers jumped to the ground
and lined the top of the bank.  They aimed volley after volley at the
group of bobbing heads.  Penrod seized Yakub by one arm and dragged him
behind the struggling camel, using it as a shield.  The current carried
them swiftly downstream and the aggagiers followed, running along the
bank, and keeping up a hail of carbine fire.  All the time the current
was carrying them away from the bank and the range was opening.  At
last a lucky shot struck the camel in the head, and it rolled over like
a log in the water.

Penrod drew the dagger from his sash, and cut loose one of the inflated
skins from its saddle.  "Hold here, brave Yakub," he gasped, and the
terrified Arab seized the tag of rawhide rope.  They abandoned the
camel's carcass, and Penrod swam them slowly out across the current
towards the middle of the river.

As darkness dropped over them, with the suddenness of the African
night, the shape of the Dervish on the bank faded away and only the
muzzle flashes of their rifles still showed.  Penrod swam with a gentle
sidestroke, kicking with both legs, paddling with one hand and towing
Yakub with the other by the scruff of his neck.  Yakub was clinging to
the skin bladder, and shivering like a half-drowned puppy.  "There are
crocodiles in this cursed river so large they could swallow a buffalo,
horns and all."  His teeth chattered and he choked on a mouthful of
water.

"Then they would not trouble themselves with a skinny little Jaalin,"
Penrod comforted him.  A huge dark shape loomed out of the gloom and
bore down on them.  It was one of the floating islands of papyrus and
reeds.  He caught a handful of reeds as it drifted by, and dragged
himself and Yakub up on to it.  The vegetation was so densely matted
and intertwined it could have supported a herd of elephants.  It
undulated softly under their feet as they crawled across it to the side
nearest Khartoum.  They squatted there, regaining their strength and
gazing across at the eastern bank.

Penrod was worried that, on such a moonless night, he might not see the
city when they reached it and stared into the darkness until his eyes
ached.  Suddenly he thought he could make out the ugly square shape of
Mukran Fort, but his eyes were playing tricks and, when he stared at
it, it dissolved.  "After such a journey, it would be the height of
stupidity to sail past Khartoum in the night," he muttered, and then
his doubts were dispelled.

From downstream there came the crash of artillery fire.  He leapt to
his feet and peered through the papyrus stems.  He saw the brilliant
orange muzzle flashes of cannon demarcating the Omdurman side of the
river.  Seconds later the shells burst on the east bank and illuminated
Khartoum's waterfront.  This time there was no mistaking the stark
outline of Mukran Fort and, beyond it, the consular palace.  He smiled
grimly as he remembered the nightly artillery bombardment by the
Dervish gunner, whom David Benbrook had dubbed the Bedlam Bedouin.  "At
least he has not run out of ammunition yet," he said, and explained to
Yakub what they had to do.

"We are safe here," Yakub demurred.  "If we stay here the river will
push us in time to the bank and we can walk ashore like men, not swim
like iguanas."

"That will not happen until you reach the Shabluka Gorge, where this
raft will surely be destroyed.  You know well that the gorge is the
lair of all the most evil river djinni."

Yakub thought about that for a few minutes, then announced, "Brave
Yakub fears no jinnee, but he will swim with you to the city to watch
over you."

The skin bladder had leaked half its air, and they blew it tight again
while they waited for the raft to reach the most advantageous point. By
then the moon had risen, and although the Dervish bombardment had
petered out, they could make out the city skyline clearly, and even see
a few small cooking fires.  They slipped into the water.  Yakub was
becoming more courageous by the minute and Penrod showed him how to
kick with his legs and help to drive the bladder across the current.

After a laborious swim Penrod felt the bottom under his feet.  He let
the bladder go and dragged Yakub ashore.  "Fearless Yakub defies all
the crocodiles and jinn of this little stream."  Yakub posed boldly on
the bank and made an obscene gesture towards the Nile.

"Yakub should close his fearless mouth," Penrod advised, 'before one of
the Egyptian sentries puts a bullet in his defiant backside."  He
wanted to get into the city secretly.  Apart from the danger of being
shot by the guards, any contact with the troops would result in him
being taken immediately to General Gordon.  His orders from Sir Evelyn
Baring were to deliver his message to Benbrook first, and only then to
report to Gordon.

Penrod had spent months in Khartoum before and after the disaster of El
Obeid, so he was intimately aware of the layout of the de fences and
fortifications, which were concentrated along the riverfront.  Keeping
well outside the walls and the canal, he worked his way swiftly around
the southern outskirts.  When he was almost opposite the domed roof of
the French consulate, he approached the canal bank.  Once he was
certain that it was clear, they waded across, the water only chin
deep.

When they reached the other side they lay up in the palm grove to wait
for the patrol to pass.  Penrod whiffed the smoke of Turkish tobacco
before he saw them.  They sauntered past along the footpath, rifles
trailing, the sergeant smoking.  It was behaviour typical of the
slovenly Egyptian troops.

As soon as they were gone he dropped into the drainage ditch that led
to the outer city wall.  The ooze stank of raw sewerage, but they
crawled through the tunnel, past the back wall of the French consulate
and into the old town.  Penrod was perturbed at how easily they had got
through.  Gordon's de fences must be stretched to breaking point.  At
the beginning of the siege he had commanded seven thousand Egyptians,
but that number must have been much reduced by the attrition of disease
and desertion.

They hurried through the deserted alleys, stepping round the bloated
carcasses of men and animals.  Even the appetite of the crows and
vultures was inadequate to the task of devouring such an abundance. The
stench of a city under siege assailed his nostrils, death and
putrefaction.  He had heard it called the cholera bouquet.

Penrod paused to pull his pocket watch from its pouch and held it to
his ear.  It had not survived the dousing in the river.  He looked at
the moon, judged that it was well after midnight, and hurried on
unchallenged through the deserted streets.  When they reached the gates
of the consular palace there was still lamplight in a few windows.  The
sentry at the front gate was asleep, curled like a dog in his box.  His
rifle was propped against the wall, and Penrod took charge of it before
he kicked him awake.  It took some time and a great deal of argument
with the sergeant of the guard, but despite his appearance and the
smell of sewerage that wafted from his robes Penrod was able at last to
convince him that he was a British officer.

When he was led to David Benbrook's office, the consul was reading by
lamplight.  He looked annoyed by the intrusion, as he removed the
reading glasses from his nose and stood up.  He was dressed in a velvet
smoking jacket and had been poring over a sheaf of documents.  "What is
it?"  he snapped.

"Good evening, Consul."  Penrod saluted him.  "I'm sorry to trouble you
at this time of night, but I've just arrived from Cairo with messages
from Sir Evelyn Baring."

"God bless my soul!"  David stared at Penrod in amazement.  "You're
English!"

"I am, sir.  I have had the pleasure of your previous acquaintance.  I
am Captain Ballantyne of the 10th Hussars."

"Ballantyne!  I remember you well.  As a matter of fact we were
speaking about you just the other day.  How do you do, my dear fellow?"
After they had shaken hands David held his handkerchief to his nose.
"First thing is to get you a bath and some fresh clothes."  He rang for
the servants.  "I am not sure that there will be hot water at this time
of night," he apologized, 'but it should not take long to get the
boiler going."

Not only was the bathwater scalding, David Benbrook even produced half
a cake of perfumed soap from Paris and lent Penrod a razor.  While he
shaved David sat on the lid of the commode across the tiled bathroom.
He seemed oblivious to Penrod's nudity, and scribbled notes in a little
red leather bound book, as Penrod repeated Baring's long and involved
message.  Then he questioned Penrod avidly about General Stewart's
preparations for the rescue expedition.  "Hasn't even left Wadi Haifa
yet?"  he exclaimed, with alarm.  "By Gad, I hope we'll be able to hold
out until he gets here."

David was of almost the same build as Penrod.  Even a pair of his boots
fitted as though they were made for the younger man.  Penrod had
considerably less girth, but he belted in the trousers and tucked in a
freshly ironed white shirt.  When he was dressed David led him back to
his study.  "I cannot even offer you brandy to wash it down," he said,
as a servant placed a beautiful Sevres plate before Penrod.  On it sat
a small portion of dhurra cake and a lump of goat's milk cheese no
larger than the first joint of his thumb.  "Hard commons, I'm
afraid."

"Very nourishing, sir."  Penrod nibbled the dhurra.

"Damned pleased to have your despatches, Ballantyne.  We've been
completely in the dark here for months.  How long did it take you from
Cairo?"

"I left there on the nineteenth of last month, sir."

"Damn me, but that was good going."  David nodded.  "Now, tell me what
the London newspapers are saying."  He was eager for every scrap of
news that Penrod could tell him.

"They are quite openly reporting the bad blood between General Gordon
and Mr.  Gladstone, sir, and public opinion is strongly on General
Gordon's side.  They want Khartoum relieved, the General rescued, and
the savages taught to mind their manners."

"What is your opinion, Captain?"

"As a serving officer I do not allow myself an opinion on such matters,
sir."

"Very wise."  David smiled.  "But as a member of the public, do you
think that the Prime Minister has shown lack of resolve?"

Penrod hesitated.  "May I speak frankly, sir?"

"That is what I am inviting you to do.  Whatever you say will remain
between us.  You have my word on it."

"I think that Mr.  Gladstone has shown neither cowardice nor indecision
in refusing to send an army upriver to save the life of General Gordon,
as most of the British public believes.  The general had only to embark
on one of his steamers and come home.  I believe that the Prime
Minister did not feel justified in involving the nation in costly and
risky operations here in the heart of Sudan merely to vindicate the
personal honour of one man."

David drew a deep breath.  "My goodness me!  I asked for your frank
opinion and I got it.  But tell me, Ballantyne, don't you think that
there is not some personal resentment in Whitehall for an officer whose
rash and intractable actions have brought so much odium upon them?"

"It would be remarkable if that was not the case.  It is clearly
demonstrated in the despatches from Sir Evelyn that I deli verd to
you."

David considered Penrod seriously.  He was not just a pretty fellow, he
thought, he had a thinking head on his shoulders.  "So you would oppose
the despatch of Wolseley's force to our relief?"

"Oh, never!"  Penrod laughed.  "I'm a soldier, and soldiers thrive on
war.  I hope to be in the thick of it, even if it doesn't make good
sense, which is apparent, and if matters turn nasty, which is highly
likely."

David laughed with him.  "War seldom makes good sense," he agreed.  "It
is refreshing to hear a military man say it.  But why has Gladstone
changed his mind, and agreed to send an army?"

"The expressed desire of the nation is a force to which Mr.  Gladstone
has always acceded.  I understand from Sir Evelyn Baring that the Prime
Minister was advised that only a single brigade would be needed for the
expedition.  Only after he had reluctantly taken the decision, and
announced it to the nation, did the war ministry ask for a much larger
force.  It was too late then to reverse the decision so the relieving
army has become not a single brigade but ten thousand men."

The hours sped away as they talked until the grandfather clock in the
corner chimed again.  David stared at it in astonishment.  "Two
o'clock, upon my soul!  We'll have to give you a few hours' sleep
before you meet Gordon.  I imagine you're in for a torrid time with
him."

The servants were waiting up for him but David dismissed them and
personally showed Penrod to one of the guest suites.  The night was so
sultry and he was so tired that he could not bother himself to don the
thick flannel nightshirt that David provided.  Instead he stripped
naked and before he crawled beneath the single sheet he placed his
dagger under the pillow.  Then he went out like a candle in a high
wind.

He awoke without a change in his breathing, and was immediately aware
that someone was in the bedroom with him.  While he feigned sleep, he
tried to remember where he was.  Through his eyelashes he saw that the
curtains were drawn and the light in the room was muted.  It was still
early in the morning.  He moved his hand infinitesimally slowly under
the pillow until his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger.  He
waited like a coiled adder for the strike.

There was a light footstep beside his bed, and someone coughed softly,
nervously.  The small sound gave him direction and he launched himself
off the bed.  He bore the intruder to the floor, held him by the throat
with one hand, and with the other touched him with the point of the
dagger.  "If you move I will kill you," he whispered ferociously in
Arabic.  "Who are you?"

Then he became aware that his captive smelt of rosebuds and the throat
he held was silken smooth and warm.  The body under him was clad in
taffeta bodice and skirts and there were marvelous protuberances and
hollows under the fine cloth.  He released his hold and sprang to his
feet.  He stared down in astonishment and consternation as his captive
sat up.  It took him some seconds to grasp that he had assaulted and
threatened a young woman with shining blonde hair.  And that sitting on
the floor, with her skirts in disarray around her, her eyes were at the
same level as his naked groin, her gaze was fixed upon an object that
happened to be a part of his anatomy seldom exposed to public
scrutiny.

Still gripping the dagger, he spun round to grab the sheet from the
bed.  Before he could wrap it round himself he realized that he was
offering the reverse view to the young woman.  Haste made him clumsy,
and he fumbled until at last, modestly covered, he faced her again.

"I am mortified, Miss Benbrook.  I had no idea it was you.  You
startled me."

Her pale cheeks were slowly suffused with a rosy blush, but she was
still panting for breath, as though she had run a distance.  The effect
this had on what lay beneath her bodice was riveting.  "If I startled
you, sir, then you have no idea how you have alarmed me.  Who are you
and what are you doing Her hand flew to her mouth as she recognized
him, despite his unflattering new haircut.  "Captain Ballantyne!"

"Your servant, madam."  His bow was spoilt by the need to retain a grip
on both the dagger and his sheet.  She scrambled to her feet, stared at
him a moment longer with wide eyes, then fled from the room.  He stared
after her.  He had forgotten how pleasing she was to the eye, a
condition not at all spoilt by her confusion and dismay.  Then he
grinned.  "That alone was worth the journey," he said to himself.

He whistled as he shaved and dressed, then winked at himself in the
mirror and said aloud, "Perhaps next time she will recognize me more
readily, now that she has more to remember me by."  Then he went down
the stairs.

David was already seated at the breakfast table, but apart from the
white' robed servants he was alone.  "Have some of this."  He placed a
spoonful of an amorphous pale green substance on Penrod's plate.  "The
taste is execrable, but I have it on excellent authority that it is
highly nutritious."

Penrod peered at it suspiciously.  It looked like green cheese.  "What
is it?"

"I understand that it is the curds of papyrus and reed weeds, made by
my daughters.  We eat a lot of it.  In fact, since the official rations
were reduced to one cup of dhurra corn a day, we eat little else."

Penrod put a morsel cautiously into his mouth.  "My compliments to your
daughters.  It is very palatable."  He tried to sound convincing.

"It's not bad really.  Try it with Worcester sauce or Gentleman's
Relish.  You will soon grow accustomed to it.  Now, shall we go and
call upon General Gordon?"

General Gordon turned from the window through which he had been staring
across the river at the enemy emplacements.  He stared at Penrod with
that disconcerting blue gaze as he saluted.  "At ease, Captain.  I
believe you made the journey from Cairo in record time," he said.

How did he know that?  Penrod wondered, and then it was obvious.  We
have the boasting of the fearless Yakub to thank.

In silence General Gordon listened to his report and the messages he
had brought from Sir Evelyn.  When he had finished speaking, Gordon did
not reply immediately.  He paced up and down the long room, finally
stopping to stare at the large-scale map of the Sudan that was spread
on the table under the windows.  The view from them was unrestricted:
the glass panes had been blown out by shrapnel from the Dervish
artillery across the river, but Gordon had taken no steps to fortify
his headquarters or to protect his person.  He seemed to be concerned
only for the safety of the city and the well-being of its people.

"I suppose that we must be grateful to the Prime Minister for coming to
the rescue of the populace, even though he is several months too late,"
he remarked at last.  Then he looked up at Penrod.  "The only
consolation for me is that now I have at least one British officer on
my staff."

At those words, Penrod felt the first chill breeze of unease blow down
his spine.  "My orders from General Stewart, sir, are to return to Wadi
Haifa as soon as I have delivered my despatches to you.  I am seconded
to the new Camel Corps with orders to assist in guiding them across the
loop of the Nile to the assault upon Metemma."

Gordon thought about that for a moment, then shook his head.  "If
General Stewart has not yet left Wadi Haifa it will be months before he
reaches Metemma.  You will be more useful here than sitting at Wadi
Haifa.  Besides, there must be hundreds of other guides qualified to
bring the Camel Corps across the loop.  When the rescue column reaches
Abu Hamed, I shall reconsider.  But in the meantime I need you here."

He said it with such finality that Penrod knew argument was futile. His
dreams of action and glory were shattered.  Instead of riding into the
city at the head of his corps after fighting his way up from Metemma,
he was now sentenced to the dreary monotony of the siege.

I must bide my time, and choose my moment, he decided, and did not let
his expression betray his true feelings.  "It will be an honour to
serve under you, General, but I would appreciate having those orders in
writing."

"You shall have them," Gordon promised, 'but now I must bring you up to
date with the situation here, and our immediate and most pressing
problems.  Take a seat, Ballantyne."

Gordon spoke quickly, almost with agitation, flitting from subject to
subject, chain-smoking cigarettes from a silver case.  Slowly Penrod
began to understand the enormous strain under which he had been
working, and to gain an inkling of the terrible loneliness of this
command.  He sensed that before his arrival, there had been nobody
Gordon could trust to share with him some of the burden.  If Penrod was
not an equal in rank, at least he was an officer of a first-line
British regiment, and as such was worth a dhow full of Egyptian staff
officers.

"You see, Ballantyne, I have here the responsibility and duty without
full control.  I am daily afflicted not only by the incompetence of the
Egyptian officers but by their unconscionable behaviour and total lack
of morality or sense of duty.  They wilfully disobey orders, if they
think they can escape the consequences, they neglect their duties and
spend most of their time with their concubines.  Unless I chivvy them
they seldom bother to visit the front-line de fences  I am aware that
they conspire and intrigue with the Dervish in the hope that they may
win advantage when the city falls, which they are convinced it will.
They steal from their own men.  The troops fall asleep at their posts,
and in their turn steal from the populace.  I suspect that large
quantities of dhurra have been stolen from the granary.  The women and
children of the city spit at me and revile me in the streets when I am
forced to reduce the rations yet again.  We are down to a cupful of
grain per person per day."  He lit another cigarette and the flame of
the match fluttered in his cupped hands.  He puffed rapidly, then
smiled coldly at Penrod.  "So you can imagine that your assistance will
be welcome.  That is especially true since you are so well acquainted
with the layout of the city."

"Of course you may rely on me, General."  Despite his cold, almost
messianic gaze, Penrod wondered how close Gordon was to breaking
point.

"I am going to delegate to you the following responsibilities at the
outset.  Until now Major al-Faroque has been in charge of the storage
and distribution of food.  His efforts have been at best pathetically
inadequate.  I suspect, though I cannot prove it, that he knows
something of the missing grain.  You will take over from him
immediately.  I want you to let me have an inventory of all the
available supplies as soon as possible.  Under the rule of martial law,
you have the power of seizure.  You may commandeer any stores you need.
Any transgressions are to be treated with the utmost severity.  You may
flog or shoot looters and black-marketeers without reference to me. The
troops and the populace must be forced to accept the unpleasant laws
you will make them fully aware that the alternatives are even worse.
Do you understand that?"

"Of course, General."

"Do you know a Ryder Courtney?"

"Only in passing, sir."

"He is a trader and merchant of this city.  I was obliged to
requisition a shipment of his dhurra.  As a mercenary without an
altruistic bone in his body, he resents it.  He has his own compound
within the city, and behaves as though he is independent of all
authority.  I want you to make the true position clear to him."

"I understand, sir," said Penrod, and thought sourly, So now I am no
longer a Hussar but a policeman and quartermaster.

Gordon was watching his expression, and saw the reaction, but he went
on unruffled: "Among other enterprises, he owns and operates a large
river steamer.  At present it is undergoing repairs in his workshop.
Once it is serviceable again, it will be useful in future military
operations and possible evacuation of our populace, should Stewart's
column fail to arrive in time.  Courtney also has horses and camels,
and much else that will be vital to us as the Dervish noose tightens
around us."  Gordon stood up as a signal that the meeting was at an
end.  "Find out what he is up to, and what he knows of the missing
dhurra, Ballantyne.  Then report back to me."

Penrod knew of Ryder Courtney's reputation: David Benbrook had spoken
of him and even Sir Evelyn Baring had taken note of him.  It seemed
that he was a resourceful and formidable character.  If Penrod was to
carry out Gordon's orders he would gain nothing by marching up to the
front gate of Courtney's compound and announcing himself and his
intentions.  First, he thought, a little scouting expedition is called
for.

He left the palace gardens by the river gate.  It was unguarded, and he
made a note of that.  He moved swiftly along the waterfront, to prevent
warning of his arrival being telegraphed ahead.  At the first redoubt
of the de fences the sentries were recumbent, resting weary limbs and
eyes.  Penrod had heard of Gordon's swift justice, and he had no wish
to precipitate a massacre and decimation of the Egyptian garrison, so
he used cane and boot to remind them of their duty.

He went on along the line of fortifications and gun emplacements that
had been erected since his last visit to the city.  It was evident that
these had been planned by General Gordon, for they had been laid out
with a soldier's eye and understanding of terrain.  He inspected the
field guns, and though he was no artilleryman, he picked out the
deficiencies in care and handling of the weapons.  The shortage of
ammunition was painfully apparent.  When he questioned them, the
gunners told him they were not allowed independent fire but had to wait
for orders from their officers before they were allowed to send a
single shell across the river.  The Dervish on the opposite bank were
under no such limitation, and morning and evening they indulged in
uninhibited barrages, which made up in enthusiasm for any lack of
accuracy.  Usually the middle of the day was calm and peaceful while
both sides rested from the heat of the sun.

Penrod moved quickly past the harbour, where he noticed a white river
steamer with most of her machinery stripped out and spread on the stone
wharf for repair.  Her hull and superstructure were peppered with
shrapnel hits.  A gang of Arab workers was busy patching and painting
over the damage.  A white engineer supervised them, encouraging his
crew with a chorus of oaths and imprecations that carried clearly
across the water in the accents of the Glasgow docks.  It was obvious
that it would be weeks, if not months, before the steamer was ready to
sail.  Penrod moved on along the river frontage of the Blue Nile
towards Fort Burri and the arsenal.

As he picked his way through the alleyways, which were almost clogged
with shell debris and filth, brown faces looked down at him from the
windows and rickety balconies that almost met overhead.  Women held up
their naked infants so that he could see the swellings and bruising of
scurvy, the skeletal limbs.  "We are starving, Effendi.  Give us food,"
they pleaded.  Their cries alerted the beggars, who hobbled out of the
gloomy depths of the alleyways to pluck at his clothing.  He scattered
them with a few shrewd cuts of his cane.

The guns on the parapets of Fort Burri covered the north bank of the
Blue Nile, and the Dervish fortifications facing them.  Penrod paused
to study them, and saw that the enemy were taking few precautions. Even
with the naked eye he could see figures across the river moving about
in the open.  Some Dervish women were washing their laundry on the
riverbank and spreading it out to dry in full view of Fort Burri. They
must have realized how perilously depleted was Gordon's stock of shot
and shell.

Behind Fort Burri stood the squat and ugly blockhouses of the arsenal
and the munitions store.  General Gordon was using them as the city
granary.  There were sentries at the entrance and at each revetment
that supported the crumbling walls.  From what Gordon had told him,
even those guards and the repairs to the walls had been no match for
the ingenuity of Ryder Courtney or the Egyptian officers, or whoever
was to blame for the depredations in the granary.  However, this was
not the time to visit the arsenal or to conduct an audit of the stores.
That would come later.  Penrod was headed towards the sprawling complex
of Ryder Courtney's compound, which lay a short way beyond, almost on
the canal that defended the city from an assault out of the southern
desert.

As he approached he saw that there was unusual activity in progress on
the canal banks behind the walls of the compound.  This puzzled him, so
he left the road and followed the towpath that ran along the
embankment.  At first he thought that the many men working in the canal
were constructing some form of fortification.  Then he realized that
women were carrying bundles on their heads from the embankment into the
rear gate of Courtney's compound.

As he came closer he saw that a huge raft of river weed almost blocked
the canal.  It was similar to the mass of vegetation on which he and
Yakub had escaped from Osman Atalan the previous day.  Dozens of Arabs
swarmed over the raft, clad only in loincloths and armed with scythes
and sickles.  They were cutting the papyrus and river weed and tying it
into bundles for the women to carry away.

What the devil are they up to?  He was intrigued.  And how did that
raft of weed get into the canal so conveniently placed for Courtney to
harvest?  Then the answer occurred to him.  Of course!  He must have
captured and roped it in the main river, then used muscle power to drag
it up the canal.  They warned me that he is crafty.

The workers hailed Penrod respectfully, invoking Allah's blessing on
him.  They looked impressed when he returned the greeting in fluent,
colloquial Arabic.  Although he wore no uniform, they knew his name was
Abadan Riji, and that he had ridden off Osman Atalan and all his most
famous aggagiers to reach Khartoum.  Yakub had seen to it that all the
city knew of their heroics.

When Penrod followed the line of Sudanese women through the rear gate
of the compound, no one challenged him.  He found himself in a large
walled enclosure, which swarmed with activity.  The women piled their
bundles in the centre and returned to the canal for the next load.
Another team was seated in groups, chattering as they picked over the
cut stems and sorted them into piles.  They discarded all the dead and
dried-out material, and chose only that which was still green and
succulent.  This they sorted into the various types of vegetation.  The
largest heap comprised the common papyrus, but there was also
water-hyacinth, and three other types of grass and reed.  The nymphaea
was obviously the most prized plant for it was not piled on the dusty
ground like the papyrus and hyacinth but carefully packed into sacks
and carried away for pulping by another team of women.  They were
working over a long line of stamp mortars "that usually crushed dhurra
into flour.  The women worked in unison, thumping the heavy wooden pole
they used as a pestle into the bowl-shaped mortar, pounding the
water-lilies with a little water into pulp.  They sang as they swayed
and rocked to the rhythm of the swinging poles.

Once the contents of the mortars were reduced to a thick green paste,
another party of women collected it in large black clay pots, and
carried it through the gate of a second enclosure.  Penrod was
interested and followed them.  No sooner had he stepped through the
gate when, for the first time, he was challenged in a peremptory
treble.  "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Penrod found himself confronted by too young females, neither of whom
stood much taller than his belt buckle.  One was dark brunette and the
other was golden blonde.  One had eyes the colour of molten toffee,
while the smaller girl's were the bright blue of petunia petals.

Both gazed up at him with a severe expression and pursed lips.  The
taller child had her fists on her hips in a pugnacious attitude.
"You're not allowed in here.  This is a secret place."

Penrod recovered from his surprise, gallantly lifted his hat and bowed
deeply.  "I beg your pardon, ladies, I did not mean to trespass. Please
accept my apologies and allow me to introduce myself.  I am Captain
Penrod Ballantyne of Her Majesty's 10th Royal Hussars.  At present I am
on the staff of General Gordon."

Both girls' expressions softened as they continued to stare at him.
They were unaccustomed to being addressed in such polite terms.
Furthermore, like most other women, they were not impervious to
Penrod's charms.

"I am Saffron Benbrook, sir," said the taller girl, and curtsied.  "But
you may call me Saffy."

"Your servant, Miss Saffy."

"And I am Amber Benbrook, but some people call me Midget," said the
blonde.  "I don't really like the name, but I suppose I am a little
shorter than my sister."

"I agree entirely.  It is not a fitting name for such a lovely young
lady.  If you will permit me, I shall address you as Miss Amber."

"How do you do?"  Amber returned his bow with a curtsy, and when she
straightened up she found herself in love for the first time.  It was a
sensation of warmth and pressure in her chest, disturbing but not
altogether unpleasant.

"I know who you are," she said, just a trifle breathlessly.

"Do you, indeed?  And, pray, how is that?"

"I heard Ryder speaking to Daddy about you."

"Daddy, I presume, is David Benbrook.  But who is Ryder?"

"Ryder Courtney.  He said you had the finest pair of whiskers in
Christendom.  What happened to them?"

"Ah!"  replied Penrod, his face suddenly touched with frost.  "He must
be a noted comedian."

"He is a great hunter and very, very clever."  Saffron rushed to his
defence.  "He knows the name of every animal and bird in the world -the
Latin names," she added portentously.

Amber was determined to wrest back Penrod's attention from her twin.
"Ryder says that the ladies find you dashing and gallant."  Penrod
looked slightly better pleased, until Amber went on innocently, "And
that you agree wholeheartedly with their opinion."

Penrod changed the topic.  "Who is in charge here?"

"We are," the twins chorused.

"What are you doing?  It looks very interesting."

"We are making plant curds to feed our people."

"I would be most grateful if you could explain the process to me."  The
twins seized upon the invitation and competed vigorously for his
attention, interrupting and contradicting each other at every
opportunity.  Each grabbed one of Penrod's hands and dragged him into
the inner courtyard.

"When the most succulent leaves are crushed, then they have to be
filtered."

"To get rid of the pith and rubbish."  There was no longer any thought
of safeguarding secrets.

"We strain it through trade cloth from Ryder's stores."

"We have to squeeze it to get out all the goodness."

Pairs of Sudanese women were pouring the green pulp into lengths of
printed cloth, then twisting it between them.  The juices dribbled into
the huge black cast-iron pots, which stood on three legs over the
smouldering cooking fires.

"We measure the temperature Saffron brandished a large thermometer
importantly.

' and when it reaches seventy degrees," Amber cut in, 'the protein
coagulates '

"I am telling it," said Saffron, furiously.  "I am the oldest."

"Only by one hour," Amber retorted, and gabbled out the rest of the
explanation.  "Then we sieve off the curds and make them into bricks
and dry them in the sun."  She pointed triumphantly at the long trestle
tables laden with square blocks set out upon them in neat rows.  This
was what Penrod had eaten for breakfast, and he remembered David's
warning that there was precious-little else.

"We call it green-cake.  You can taste some if you like."  Amber broke
off a morsel and stood on tiptoe to place it between his lips.

"Scrumptious!"  Penrod exclaimed, and swallowed manfully.

"Have some more."

"Excellent, but enough for now.  Your father says it is even tastier
with Worcester Sauce," he said hurriedly, forestalling delivery of the
next mouthful, which was already on its way in Amber's grubby little
hand.  "How much green-cake can you make in a day?"

"Not enough to feed everybody.  Just enough for ourselves and our own
people."

The efficacy of the green-cakes was apparent.  Unlike the rest of the
malnourished populace, none of the inhabitants of the compound was
showing signs of starvation.  In fact, the twins were blooming.  Then
he remembered his brief meeting with their elder sister that morning.

Nothing wrong with her either.  He smiled at the memory, and the two
children took it as a sign of his approval and smiled with him.

Penrod realized that he now had staunch allies in the Courtney
stronghold.  "You really are two very clever young ladies," he said. "I
would be most obliged if you were to show me around the rest of the
compound.  I hear that there are all sorts of fascinating things
here."

"Would you like to see the animals?"  cried Amber.

"The monkeys?"  said Saffron.

"The bongos?"

"Everything," agreed Penrod.  "I would like to see everything."

It was soon apparent that the twins were the favourites of everyone and
that they had the run of the Courtney compound.  They were particular
friends and intimates of AH the animal-keeper.  It was only with the
greatest difficulty that the old man prevented himself grinning with
delight as soon as he laid eyes on them.  They led Penrod from cage to
cage, calling to the animals by name and feeding them by hand when they
responded.

"They didn't like the green-cake at all when we first tried to feed
them with it, but now they all love it.  Just look how they gobble it
up."  Amber pointed.

"What about dhurra?  They must like that too?"  Penrod set a bait for
her.

"Oh, I suppose they do," Saffron cut in, 'but there isn't enough for
the people, let alone the animals."

"We only get a cupful a day," Amber confirmed.

"I thought your friend Ryder had plenty of dhurra and that he was
selling it."

"Oh, yes!  He had a whole boatload.  But General Gordon took it all
from him.  Ryder was furious."

Penrod was grateful that the girls' innocent disclosures virtually
guaranteed that, despite the general's suspicions, Courtney was not
guilty of the theft of grain from the arsenal.  He had no reason to
feel any warmth for the man, especially after his remarks about
Penrod's whiskers and his good opinion of himself, but he was an
Englishman and it would have been distasteful for Penrod to have to
confirm Gordon's suspicions.

"I would very much like to meet your friend Ryder," he suggested
tentatively.  "Would you introduce me?"

"Oh, yes!  Come with us."

They dragged him from the menagerie, and across an inner courtyard
until they reached a small door at the far end.  The twins let go of
his hands and raced each other to the door.  They threw it open and
burst into the room beyond.  Penrod stepped up close behind them and,
from the doorway, surveyed the room swiftly.

It was obviously both an office and the private living quarters of the
owner of the compound.  A massive pair of elephant tusks were mounted
on the far wall, the largest Penrod had ever seen.  The other walls
were covered with magnificently woven Persian carpets, and dozens of
murky yellowing photographs in dark wooden frames.  More carpets
covered the floors, and in a curtained recess, a large angareb bed was
spread with golden leopard skins dappled with black rosettes.  The
chairs and the massive desk were hewn from polished native teak.  The
bookcases held rows of leather bound journals, and scientific books on
flora and fauna.  A row of rifles and muzzle-loading guns stood in a
rack between the curves of the thick yellow tusks.  Penrod's gaze slid
over this untidy masculine display, then riveted on the couple who
stood in the middle of the room.  Even the tumultuous twins were frozen
with shock at the sight.

Man and woman were locked in a passionate embrace, oblivious to
everything and everyone around them.  Saffron broke the silence with a
wail of accusation: "She's kissing him!  Becky is kissing Ryder on his
mouth!"

Ryder Courtney and Rebecca Benbrook sprang apart guiltily, then stood,
frozen, staring at the group in the doorway.  Rebecca turned ice pale
and her eyes seemed to fill her face as she looked at Penrod.  He cut
her a mockingly appreciative salute.  "We meet again so soon, Miss
Benbrook."

Rebecca dropped her gaze to the floor and now her cheeks turned the
bright crimson of live coals.  "Her mortification was so intense that
she felt dizzy and swayed on her feet.  Then, with an enormous effort,
she rallied.  Without looking at either man she rushed forward and
seized her little sisters by the wrists.  "You horrible children!  How
many times have you been told to knock before you enter a room?"

She dragged them out of the open door, and Saffron's voice receded in
the distance: "You were kissing him.  I hate you.  I'll never speak to
you again.  You were kissing Ryder."

The two men faced each other as though neither had heard the sisterly
accusations of betrayal.  "Mr.  Courtney, I presume.  I hope my visit
has not come at an inconvenient time."

"Captain Ballantyne, sir.  I heard that you arrived in our lovely city
late last night.  Your fame precedes you."

"So it appears," Penrod conceded.  "Though for the life of me I know
not how."

"Simple enough, I assure you."  Ryder was relieved that there was to be
no heavy-handed banter regarding the romantic episode that Ballan-tyne
had witnessed it might have led to an outbreak of hostilities.  "Your
outrider, Yakub of the Jaalin, is the intimate friend of the nursemaid
of the Benbrook twins and a stalwart of their household, a good lady by
the name of Nazeera.  Her busy tongue is one of her most apparent
failings."

"Aha!  Now I understand.  Perhaps you were even expecting my visit."

"It comes as no great surprise," Ryder admitted.  "I understand that
General Gordon, may all his enterprises flourish, has some questions
for me regarding the dhurra missing from the arsenal."

Penrod inclined his head in acknowledgement.  "I see you keep yourself
well informed."  He was appraising Ryder Courtney with a penetrating
gaze, cloaked by a disarming smile as they sparred.

"I try to keep abreast of affairs."  Ryder was not at all disarmed by
the smile, and his own gaze was just as shrewd.  "But please do come
in, my dear fellow.  It is perhaps a little early, but may I offer you
a cigar and a glass of first-rate Cognac?"

"I was convinced those two marvelous commodities no longer existed in
this naughty world."  Penrod moved across to the chair Ryder
indicated.

When their cigars were drawing evenly they regarded each other over
their charged glasses.  Ryder gave the toast: "I congratulate you on
your speedy journey from Cairo."

"I wish I were already on my way back."

"Khartoum is hardly a spa," Ryder agreed.  They sipped the brandy and
talked guardedly, still sounding each other out.  Ryder knew Penrod by
sight and reputation so there were no real surprises for him.

Penrod learnt swiftly that he had not been misinformed, and that Ryder
was a formidable character, tough, quick and resilient.  He was also
good-looking in a rugged, forthright style.  No wonder the lovely Miss
Benbrook had shown herself susceptible to his advances.  I wonder just
how susceptible.  It might be amusing to test her commitment to this
fellow, man to man and hand to hand, so to speak.  Penrod smiled
urbanely, masking the glint of steel in his eyes.  He dearly loved a
contest, pitting his skills and wits against another, especially if a
handsome prize were at stake.  There was more to it than that.  The
nubile Miss Benbrook's involvement with Ryder Courtney added a new
dimension to the sharp attraction he had previously felt towards her.
It seemed that, despite appearances, she was not made of ice, that
there were depths beneath the surface, which might be fascinating to
plumb.  He was amused by his own choice of metaphor.

"You mentioned the missing dhurra," Penrod broached the subject
again.

Ryder nodded.  "I have a proprietary interest in that shipment," he
said.  "It once belonged to me.  It was transported at great expense
and no little hardship several hundred miles down the river, then
commandeered, some might even say stolen, by the redoubtable Chinese
Gordon the minute I landed it safely in Khartoum."  He fell silent and
brooded on the injustice.

"Naturally you have not the faintest notion what happened to it once it
passed out of your hands?"  Penrod suggested delicately.

"I have made some enquiries," Ryder admitted.  Under his instructions
Bacheet had spent several weeks pursuing them.  Even the rabbit warren
of ancient buildings and alleyways of Khartoum could not hide five
thousand ardebs of grain indefinitely.

"I would be fascinated to known the results of those investigations."

Ryder regarded the tip of his cigar with a frown of annoyance.  The
lack of humidity in the desert air desiccated the tobacco leaf and
caused it to burn like a grass fire.  "Did you hear if, by any chance,
the good general has offered a reward for the return of the missing
dhurra?"  he asked.  "Lord knows, he paid little enough for it on the
first purchase.  Six shillings a sack!"

"General Gordon has not spoken to me of a reward," Penrod shook his
head, 'but I will suggest it to him.  I would think that a reward of
six shillings a sack might bring forth information, don't you?"

"Perhaps not," Ryder replied.  "However, I believe that an offer of
twelve shillings would be almost certain to produce results."

"I shall speak to him at the first opportunity."  Penrod nodded.
"Although that does seem a trifle steep."

"None of his promissory notes, either," Ryder warned.  "It is common
knowledge that the Khedive has given him drawing rights of two hundred
thousand pounds on the Cairo treasury.  A few gold sovereigns would
sing sweeter than all the paper canaries ever to come out of the
forest."

"A sentiment most poetically expressed, sir," Penrod commended him.

Rebecca sat in her secret place in a hidden corner of the battlements
in the consular palace.  She was hidden by an ancient hundred-pounder
cannon, a monstrous rusting relic that had probably never been fired in
this nineteenth century, and would certainly never be fired again.  She
had covered her head and nightgown with a dark woollen cloak, and she
knew that not even the twins would find her there.

She looked up at the night sky and could tell by the height of the
Southern Cross above the desert horizon that it was well after
midnight, but she felt as though she would never be able to sleep
again.  In a single day her whole existence had been thrown into uproar
and confusion.  She felt like a captive wild bird, battering its wings
against the bars, bleeding and terrified, falling to the floor of the
cage with heart racing and body trembling, only to launch itself at the
bars again in another futile attempt to escape.

She did not understand what was happening to her.  Why did she feel
this way?  Nothing made sense.  Her mind darted back to that morning
when, as soon as she had seen the twins bathed and dressed, she had
begun her weekly housekeeping inspection.  As soon as she entered the
blue guest suite she had seen the strange figure occupying the
four-poster bed.  She had not been informed by the staff of the arrival
of any guests and Khartoum under siege was the last place to attract
casual visitors.  Knowing this, she should have left the bedroom
immediately and raised the alarm.  What had made her approach the bed
she would never know.  As she stooped over the sheet-covered figure, it
had launched itself at her with the suddenness of a leopard dropping
out of a tree on its prey.  She found herself borne to the floor by a
stark naked man with a dagger in his hand.

Remembering that terrible moment, she bowed her head and covered her
face with her hands.  It was not the first time that she had seen the
male body.  When Rebecca turned sixteen her parents had taken her on a
tour of the capital cities of Europe.  She and her mother had gone to
see Michelangelo's David.  She had been struck by the statue's
unearthly beauty but the cold white marble had invoked in her no
troublesome emotions.  She had even been able, unblushingly, to discuss
it with her mother.

Her mother often described herself as emancipated.  At the time Rebecca
thought that this merely meant she smoked Turkish cigarettes in her
boudoir and spoke frankly of the human anatomy and its functions. After
her suicide Rebecca realized that the word had deeper significance.  At
the funeral in Cairo she had overheard some of the older women
whispering together, and one had remarked tartly that Sarah Benbrook
had made David a cuckold more often than she cooked him breakfast.
Rebecca knew her mother never cooked breakfast. Nevertheless, she
looked up the word 'cuckold' in her father's dictionary.  It took her a
while to work out the true meaning, but when she did she had decided
that she did not want to be emancipated like her mother.  She would be
true to one man for life.

Rebecca had next seen the male body only last year.  David had taken
her and the twins with him on an official visit to the upper reaches of
the Victoria Nile.  The Shilluk and Dinka tribesmen who inhabited the
banks of the river wore no clothing of any description.  The girls
recovered from the first surprise when their father remarked that it
was merely custom and tradition for them to adopt the state of nature,
and they should think nothing of it.  From then onwards Rebecca looked
upon the enormous dark appendages as a rather ugly form of adornment,
rather like the pierced lips and nostrils on the tribes of New Guinea
that she had seen illustrated.

However, when Penrod Ballantyne had leapt upon her that morning the
effect had been devastating.  Far from leaving her uninterested and
rather pitying, she found emotions and feelings of whose existence she
had never dreamed until that moment erupting into her consciousness.
Even now in the darkness, with the cloak over her head and her face
covered with both hands, she was blushing until her face felt as though
it was on fire.

I won't think about it ever again, she promised herself.  "It' was as
fully as she allowed herself to describe what she had seen.  Never.
Never again.  She even eschewed that description on the second attempt.
Then immediately she found herself thinking about it with all her
attention.

After that long-ago visit to Europe, Rebecca had overheard her mother
discussing the subject with one of her friends.  They agreed that a
woman in a state of nature was beautiful, while a man was not, except
Michelangelo's David, of course.

"It wasn't ugly or obscene," Rebecca contradicted her mother's shade.
"It was ... it was .. ."  But she wasn't sure what it had been, except
very disturbing, fascinating and troubling.  What had happened later
between her and Ryder Courtney was connected with the first episode in
some strange way that she could not fully understand.

Over the previous months she and Ryder had gradually become friends.
She had realized that he was strong, clever and amusing.  He had an
inexhaustible fund of marvelous stories and, as Saffron had often
remarked, he smelt and looked good.  She came to find his company
reassuring and comforting in the days of the siege, when death, disease
and starvation gripped the city.  As her father had observed, Ryder
Courtney was a man of accomplishment.  He had built up a thriving
business enterprise and sustained it even though the world seemed to be
falling apart.  He took good care of his own people and his friends. He
had shown them how to make the green-cake, and he could make her laugh
and forget her fears for a few hours.  She felt safe when she was with
him.  Of course, once or twice he had made physical contact with her a
light touch on the arm when they were talking, or his hand brushing
hers as they walked together.  But always she had pulled away. Her
mother had warned her often about men: they just wanted to ravish you,
then leave you sullied for ever so that you could never find a husband.
That was bad enough but, worse, ravishment was painful and, in her
mother's experience, only childbirth more so.

Then that very morning after her horrible experience in the Blue
Bedroom when her emotions had been in turmoil, she had gone alone to
Ryder's quarters.  She had never done that before.  She had always
taken at least one of the twins with her as a chaperone.  But this
morning she had been confused.  She felt guilty about her strange and
ambivalent thoughts of Captain Penrod Ballantyne.  She was terrified
that she had inherited the bad seed from her mother.  She needed to be
comforted.

As always, Ryder had been pleased to see her, and ordered Bacheet to
brew a pot of the precious coffee.  They had chatted for a while, at
first discussing the twins and their lessons, which, since the
beginning of the siege, had fallen sadly into default.  Suddenly and
unexpectedly, even to herself, Rebecca had begun to sob as though her
heart would break.  Ryder had stared at her in astonishment: he knew
she was neither a whiner nor a weeper.  Then her had put his arms round
her and held her tight.  "What has happened to you?  I have never seen
you like this.  You have always been the bravest girl I know."

Rebecca was surprised by how good it felt to be held by him.  "I'm
sorry," she whispered, but made no effort to pull away.  "I'm being
very silly."

"You're not silly.  I understand," he told her, in the deep, gentle
tone he used when he was comforting a frightened animal or a hurt
child.  "It is getting too much for all of us.  But it will soon be
over.  The relief column will be here before Christmas, mark my
words."

She shook her head.  She wanted to tell him that it was not the war,
the siege, the Dervish or the Mad Mahdi, but he stroked her hair and
she quietened, pressing her face to his chest, his warmth and
strength,

and his rich man-smell.  "Ryder," she whispered and lifted her face to
explain how she felt to him.  "Dear, dear Ryder."  But before she could
say more he kissed her full on the lips.  The surprise was so complete
that she could not move.  When she had recovered her wits sufficiently
to pull away, she found that she did not want to.  This was something
so new and different that she decided to indulge herself a few moments
longer.

The few moments became a few minutes and when at last she opened her
mouth to protest, an incredible thing happened: his tongue slipped
between her lips and stifled her protest.  The sensation this produced
was so overwhelming that her knees threatened to give way and she had
to cling to him to hold herself up.  The full muscular length of his
body was pressed hard against her, and her protest came out as mewing
sounds, like the cries of a newborn kitten seeking the teat.  Then, to
her consternation, she felt a monstrous hardness growing up between
their lower bodies, something that seemed to have a life of its own. It
terrified her, but she was powerless.  Her will to escape evaporated.

A shrill high voice sundered the bonds that held her and set her free:
"She's kissing him!  Becky is kissing Ryder on his mouth!"

Thinking about that moment now, she spoke aloud in the darkness under
the great cannon: "Now even Saffy hates me, and I hate myself.  It is
all such a terrible mess, and I wish I could die."

She did not realize how far the words had carried until a voice
answered her from the darkness: "So there you are, Jamal."  The name
meant the Beautiful One.

"Nazeera, you know me too well," Rebecca murmured, as the plump,
familiar shape appeared.

"Yes, I know you well and I love you more than I know you."  Nazeera
sat beside her on the carriage of the cannon, and placed her arms round
her.  "When I found that you were missing from your bed, I knew I would
find you here."  Rebecca rested her head on Nazeera's shoulder and
sighed.  Nazeera was as soft and warm as a feather mattress and smelt
of attar of roses.  She rocked Rebecca gently.  After a while she
asked, "Now, do you still wish to die?"

"I did not mean you to overhear me," Rebecca answered ruefully.  "No, I
do not want to die.  Not for a while yet.  But life is difficult
sometimes, isn't it, Nazeera?"

"Life is good.  It is men who are difficult most of the time," said
Nazeera.

"Bacheet and Yakub?"  Rebecca teased her.  Nazeera's admirers were no
secret within the family.  "Why don't you choose one of them,
Nazeera?"

"Why don't you make a choice, Jamal?"

"I don't understand what you mean."  Rebecca lifted her cloak off her
head and stared at Nazeera, her eyes large and dark in the starlight.

"I think you do.  Why is it that the day the beautiful captain returns
to Khartoum you rush for safety to al-Sakhawi, and when you find out
that he does not think of himself as just your old friend, you decide
you want to die?"

Rebecca covered her face again.  Nazeera knew nearly everything, and
had guessed the rest.  In a few words she had helped Rebecca understand
her turmoil.  Nazeera went on rocking her.  She started to croon a
lullaby, an old tune with new words: "Which one will it be?  How will
you choose, and who will it be?"

"You make it seem like a child's game, Nazeera."  Rebecca tried to
sound stern.

"Oh, it is.  Life is just a child's game, but often the games of
children, like those of grown-ups, end in bitter tears."

"Like poor little Saffy," Rebecca suggested.  "She says she hates me,
and she won't speak to me."

"She thinks you have stolen her love from her.  She is jealous."

"She is so young."

"No.  She will soon be a woman and at least she knows what she wants."
Nazeera smiled tenderly.  "Unlike some older women I know."

Twelve shillings?"  Ryder Courtney insisted.  "There can be no
misunderstanding ?"  "Twelve shillings.  The word of an officer and a
gentleman."

"That description might be debated," Ryder grunted.

"Will you not carry a weapon?"

"Yes."  Ryder hefted the heavy ironwood club.

"I meant a sidearm or an edged weapon."  Penrod touched the sabre in
its scabbard on his belt.

"In the dark it will not be easy to tell friend from foe.  I prefer
denting heads with a fist or a club.  Not so irrevocable."

They were stepping out, shoulder to shoulder, along one of the sordid
alleys of the native quarter of the city.  They both wore dark
clothing.  The sun had set little more than an hour ago, but it was
already dark.  Just enough daylight lingered for them to pick their way
along.  Bacheet was waiting for them near the Ivory Tower, one of the
more notorious brothels of the most dangerous section of the city.  He
whistled softly to attract their attention, then beckoned them into the
ruins of a building that had been destroyed by Dervish cannon fire from
across the river.

The three found seats on the piles of masonry and shattered roof beams.
The intermittent glow of Penrod's cigar shed just enough light for them
to make out each other's features.

"Has Aswat arrived yet?"  Ryder asked in Arabic.

"Yes," replied Bacheet.  "He came an hour ago, at sunset."

"Who is he?"  asked Penrod.  "Who is responsible for this business?"

"I can't be certain yet.  Bacheet has heard his men call him Aswat but
he wears a mask, to keep his face well hidden.  Nevertheless, I have my
suspicions.  We will know for sure before the night is out."  Ryder
turned back to Bacheet.  "How many men with him?"

"I counted twenty-six.  That includes six armed guards.  They will work
late tonight.  They always do.  There is a lot of dhurra, and the sacks
are heavy to move about.  Aswat divides them into two gangs of about
twelve men each.  When the curfew falls, and the streets are deserted,
they carry the sacks to the customers in other parts of the city.  Two
of Aswat's armed men who know the password of the night go ahead of
each gang to make sure the road is clear of patrols.  Two others bring
up the rear to make sure they are not followed.  Aswat waits at the
tannery.  It seems he won't take a chance on the street."

"How many sacks does Aswat distribute every evening?"  Ryder asked.

"About a hundred and twenty."

"So by now he has sold a few thousand," Ryder calculated.  "Probably
less than three thousand left in his store.  Do you know what he is
charging for a sack?"

"At first it was five, but he has raised it to ten Egyptian pounds.  He
takes only gold, no notes," Bacheet told him.

Ryder shook his head.  "Chinese Gordon is getting another bargain.  The
going rate is ten pounds.  "He is offering me but twelve shillings
reward."

"I'll cry for you tomorrow," Penrod promised.  "Where is Aswat storing
the stolen grain?"

"At the end of this street," Bacheet explained.  "He is using an
abandoned tannery."

"Who have you left to watch the building?"  Penrod asked Bacheet.

"Your man, Yakub.  He is a Jaalin.  The most treacherous of all tribes.
Even that slithering of snakes have driven him out from their nest.  I
do not trust Yakub at all.  He has no sense of honour, especially with
women," said Bacheet, bitterly.  It was well known that he and Yakub
were rivals for the favours of the widow Nazeera.

"But he is a good man in a fight, is he not?"  Penrod defended Yakub.

Bacheet shrugged.  "Yes, if you do not turn your back on him.  He is
waiting behind the tannery, on the canal bank.  My men are hidden in
the courtyard of the Ivory Tower.  The mistress of the house is a good
friend."

"She should be," Ryder murmured drily.  "You are one of her best
customers."

Bacheet ignored such a famous remark.  "I chose this place to wait
because from these windows we will be able to keep watch on the alley."
He nodded at the empty window openings.  The glazing had been blown out
by the shell blast, and the frames had been stolen for firewood. "It is
the only way to reach the tannery."

"Good," Ryder said.  "Two of your best men must follow the gangs.  I
want the names of all the merchants dealing with him.  As soon as we
have them we shall drop in on Effendi Aswat at the tannery."

At that moment they heard the muffled tramp of feet.  Bacheet slipped
out through a shell hole in the rear wall to carry out Ryder's orders.
Penrod stubbed out his cigar and wrapped the butt in his handkerchief,
then joined Ryder at the empty window.  They stayed well back in the
shadows so that they were not spotted from the alley.  A group of dark,
furtive figures moved past the window.  The two guards were first: they
wore khaki Egyptian uniform with a flowerpot fez.  They carried their
rifles, bayonets fixed, slung over the shoulder.  The porters followed
them, bowed under the heavy dhurra sacks.  The two armed men of the
rear guard followed a short distance behind.

When they had disappeared Penrod remarked, "Now I understand why you
would not allow me to bring any of the garrison troops, and why you
insisted that we use only your Arabs.  Gordon's Egyptians are in this
up to their necks."

"Deeper than their necks," Ryder corrected him.  Within a short time
the unburdened porters and their escorts came hurrying back down the
alley towards the tannery.  Bacheet appeared again, with the suddenness
of the genie from the lamp.  "AH Muhammad Acrani, who has a house
behind the hospital, has bought all twenty-four sacks of the first
delivery," he reported.  They waited for the next delivery to pass the
windows.  It was after midnight before the heavily laden porters left
the tannery for the sixth time and staggered down the alley.

"That will be the last delivery," Bacheet told Ryder.  "In God's Name,
it is time at last to catch the jackal while he is still gobbling up
the chickens."

"In God's Name," Ryder agreed.

When they slipped out of the rear of the shelled building, Bacheet's
band was waiting for them in the shadows of the rear wall, armed with
broadswords and spears.  None carried firearms.  Ryder led them quietly
down the alley, keeping close to the dark buildings on each side.  The
silhouette of the tannery rose against the star bright desert sky.  It
was a three-storeyed building, dark and derelict, that blocked the end
of the alleyway.

"Very well, Captain Ballantyne.  I think it's time for you to go and
find your man, Yakub."

While they waited in the ruined building they had discussed the last
details of the raid, so now there was no hesitation or
misunderstanding.  They had agreed that, as this was Ryder's affair, he
would make the decisions and give the orders.  However, Yakub was
Penrod's man and would take orders only from him.

Penrod touched Ryder's shoulder in acknowledgement and moved quickly to
the enclosing wall of the tannery's yard.  The gate was closed and
locked, but Penrod sheathed his sabre and jumped up to grab a handhold
in a crack in the masonry.  He pulled himself up with a single lithe
movement, swung his legs over the top of the wall and dropped out of
sight.

Ryder gave him a few minutes to get clear, then led Bacheet and the
rest of the party to the high gate.  He knew the layout of the
building.  Before the siege he had sent almost all of the hides he
brought up from Equatoria to be processed by the old German who had
owned the factory.  The tanner had fled Khartoum with the first exodus
of refugees.  Ryder knew that the gate led into the loading yard.  He
tried it, but found it locked from the inside.  It was unpainted, dry
and cracked.  He drew out his knife, whose point sank into the wood as
though it were cheese.

"Dry rot," he grunted.  He ran the blade through the narrow gap between
the edge of the door and the jamb, and located the staple of the lock
on the far side.  He "backed off a few paces, lined up, then stepped
forward and slammed the flat of his right boot into the door.  The
screws that held the lock on the far side were ripped from the rotten
wood and the gate swung open.

"Quickly now!  Follow me."  Across the yard there was a raised loading
platform with the main doors of the warehouse leading off it.  This was
where he had unloaded his bundles of raw hides for curing, and where he
had collected the finished product.  A broken-down wagon still stood
against the platform.  The entire place stank of half-cured leather.
The glimmer of lamplight showed through slits in the boarded-over
ground-floor windows, and beneath the main doors to the warehouse.

Ryder ran up the steps of the loading platform.  Rats scurried into
their holes as he crossed to the main door.  He paused to listen and
heard muffled voices through the woodwork.  Gently he put his weight on
the door, which eased open an inch, and peered through the gap.  A

man was leaning against the door frame with his back turned to Ryder.
He wore the long dark cassock of a Coptic Christian priest and the hood
covered his head.  Now he turned quickly and stared at Ryder with
astonishment in his eyes.

"Ah, Effendi Aswat," Ryder greeted him, as he lifted the ironwood club.
"Do you have any dhurra for sale?"  He swung the club with the power of
his wide shoulders behind it, aiming at the cloaked head.  It should
have cracked on the priest's skull, but the down stroke crashed into
the top frame of the door above Ryder's head with a force that numbed
his wrist.  The club flew from his grip and struck the cloaked figure a
glancing blow on the shoulder that sent him reeling backwards with a
howl of pain.

"To arms!  Stand to arms!  The enemy is on us!"  the priest shouted, as
he raced away across the open floor of the warehouse.

Ryder wasted a few moments retrieving his club from where it had rolled
against the wall.  As he straightened he glanced around the cavernous
warehouse.  It was lit by a dozen or more oil lamps hanging from the
railing of the catwalk that ran round the high walls, just below the
roof beams.  In the dim light he saw that Bacheet had underestimated
the strength of the opposition: at least twenty other men were
scattered around the warehouse.  Some were slaves, naked except for
turbans and loincloths, but others wore the khaki uniforms and red fez
of the Egyptian garrison troops.  All had frozen in the attitude in
which the priest's cry had caught them.

The slaves were stacking mountainous heaps of sacks in the centre of
the warehouse and the floury smell of ripe dhurra blended with the
ancient reek of raw hide and tannin.  An Egyptian lieutenant and three
or four non-commissioned officers were overseeing their efforts.  It
took them all some moments to gather their wits.  They stared, aghast,
at Ryder as he advanced on them brandishing his club.  Then, with
warlike shouts, Bacheet and his Arabs burst in through the main
doors.

The Egyptian non-commissioned officers came to life and rushed to where
their rifles were stacked against the far wall.  Their lieutenant
pulled his revolver from its holster and loosed off a shot before
Bacheet and his gang were upon them, swinging swords and thrusting
spears.  The shouting, hacking, cursing melee surged back and forth
across the warehouse floor.  One of the slaves threw himself at Ryder's
feet and clung to his knees, screaming for mercy.  Impatiently Ryder
tried to kick him away, but he clung like a monkey to a fruit tree.

At the far end of the long building Aswat was getting away.  With the
robes of his cassock billowing behind him, he jumped over a pile of
loose dhurra sacks and darted to the foot of one of the vertical steel
ladders that led up to the overhead catwalk.  As he started to climb,
his skirts flapped around his legs, hampering his movements.  Despite
this handicap, he climbed with agility.  All the while he kept up cries
of encouragement and exhortation to his men: "Kill them!  Let none
escape!  Kill them all!"

Ryder tapped the clinging slave across the temple with the club, and he
released his grip and crumpled to the floor.  Ryder jumped over his
inert body and ran to the foot of the ladder.  He stuffed the club
under his belt and leapt on to the first rungs, following the priest
and gaining on him rapidly.  He saw that beneath the skirts of his
cassock the fugitive wore polished riding boots and spurs, and that his
legs were clad in khaki riding breeches.

The priest reached the catwalk, and clung to the handrail, heaving for
breath.  He peered back down the ladder.  His voice shrilled with panic
when he saw Ryder coming up fast behind him.  "Stop him!  Shoot him
down like a dog!"  But his men were too occupied with their own
problems to take any notice.  He struggled with the skirts of his
cassock, trying to hoist them high enough to reach the sidearm that
bulged on his hip, but he could not free it.  Now Ryder was almost on
him and Aswat abandoned the effort.  Instead he snatched one of the oil
lamps that hung from the handrail.  He lifted it high over his head.
"Stop!  In God's Name, I warn you!  I will burn you alive."

The hood of the cassock fell off to reveal the khaki tunic of the
Egyptian Army, with the epaulettes and scarlet tabs of a major on the
shoulders.  His curls were dark and wavy, lustrous with pomade.  Ryder
caught a whiff of a pungent eau-de-Cologne.  "Major Faroque.  What a
pleasant surprise," Ryder said cheerfully.

Al-Faroque's expression was frantic.  "I warned you!"  he screamed.
With both hands he hurled the lamp at Ryder, who flattened himself
against the rungs of the ladder.  As the lamp flew past his shoulder,
it spun a meteor's tail of burning oil through the air behind it.  It
struck the steel ladder near the bottom and exploded, spraying a sheet
of fire over the closest stack of dhurra sacks.  Rivulets of flickering
blue flames poured over the under dry sacks, which caught swiftly and
burned as brightly as candles.

"Don't come near me!"  al-Faroque yelled down at Ryder.  "I warn you.
Don't He grabbed the second lamp off its hook, but Ryder was ready for
it and pulled the club from his belt.  The major threw with all his
strength, sobbing with the effort as the lamp left his hand.

It flew straight towards Ryder's face.  He watched it coming and, at
the last moment, swatted it aside.  It spun down into the body of the
warehouse, and burst over another stack of dhurra.  The grain went up
in a leaping conflagration.

Al-Faroque turned to run, but Ryder threw himself up the last few feet
and seized him by the ankle.  He squealed and tried to kick himself
free, but Ryder held him easily and hauled him towards the edge of the
catwalk.  Al-Faroque grabbed on to the handrail, and clung to it,
squealing like a pig being dragged to slaughter.

At that moment a pistol bullet, fired from below, grazed Ryder's
shoulder and struck the steel ladder six inches in front of his eyes.
It left a bright smear of lead on the steel.  The sting of the passing
shot was so intense and unexpected that he slackened his grip on
al-Faroque's ankle.  Al-Faroque felt him give, and kicked backwards.
The rowel of the spur on his other riding boot ripped across Ryder's
temple, and knocked him off balance.  Ryder let go of the man's leg,
and grabbed at the ladder rung before his eyes.  Al-Faroque pounded
away along the catwalk.

Another shot from the tannery floor hissed past Ryder's head and kicked
a slab of plaster and cement dust from higher up the wall.  He glanced
down in time to see the Egyptian guards who had escorted the last
delivery of grain run back into the warehouse.  He realized they must
have seen the flames and heard the gunfire.  They were blazing away
wildly, stabbing with bayonet and sword at Bacheet's men.  The one who
had fired at Ryder reloaded his carbine, then swung up the stubby
barrel and took deliberate aim at him.  Helpless, Ryder watched the
flash of the muzzle blast, and the swirling bouquet of black powder
smoke.  Another bullet clanged on the steel foot plate inches above his
head.  It galvanized him and he hauled himself up the last few feet on
to the catwalk.  He jumped to his feet and raced after al-Faroque.

The Egyptian had disappeared through the low door at the far end of the
catwalk.  Ryder reached the opening, expecting another bullet from the
marksman below, but when he glanced down he saw the trooper flopping
about on the concrete floor like a fresh-caught catfish in the bottom
of the boat.  Bacheet was standing over him with one foot on his
throat, trying to pull the buried spearhead out of his chest.  Just
then one of the enemy charged at him.  Bacheet gave one last heave, the
spear came free and he levelled it at his new assailant.

Ryder saw that his own men on the floor below were heavily outnumbered,
and although they were fighting like gladiators they were gradually
being overwhelmed.  He was on the point of letting al-Faroque escape
and turning back to join them when another two men ran into the
warehouse through a rear door.

"More power to the glorious 10th!"  Ryder roared, as he recognized
Penrod Ballantyne and Yakub with him, dagger in hand.  Penrod parried
the bayonet thrust that the Egyptian lieutenant levelled at his face,
then caught him with the riposte, sabring him cleanly through the
throat; the silver blade parted the lieutenant's vertebrae, and was
blurred with pink blood as it came out through the back of his neck.
Penrod recovered his blade smoothly, and the Egyptian fell to the
ground.  His heels drummed spasmodically on the concrete as he went
into his death throes.  Penrod had a moment to wave casually at Ryder,
who pointed through the door at the end of the catwalk.

"It's al-Faroque!"  he yelled at Penrod.  "He went that way.  Try to
cut him off."  That was all he had time for, and he did not know if
Penrod had heard, let alone understood.  The flames were roaring like a
mighty waterfall, and the entire contents of the warehouse were burning
furiously, flames racing up the dry timber beams that supported the
walls and roof.

So much for my reward, Ryder thought bitterly.  Coughing in the smoke,
he ran on after al-Faroque.  He reached the low door at the end of the
catwalk through which the man had disappeared, and stuck his head
through it.  He sucked in a deep breath of sweet night air and, through
streaming eyes, saw that beneath him another ladder ran down the rear
wall of the tannery, to the towpath of the canal.

Al-Faroque was still struggling with the folds of his cassock on the
bottom rungs of the ladder, but when he saw Ryder's head he let go and
dropped the last six feet to land on his hands and knees.  He scrambled
up, unhurt, and looked up at Ryder.  "Get back!"  he shouted.  "Don't
try to stop me."  He tried again to hoist the tangled skirts of his
cassock, and succeeded in reaching the holster on his belt.  He drew
the revolver and aimed it at Ryder.  The light of the flames through
the rear windows of the tannery lit the towpath brightly.  Ryder saw
that the major's hand was shaking.  Oily drops of sweat ran down his
cheeks and dripped from his double chins.  He fired two quick shots,
which struck the wall on each side of the door.  Ryder ducked back
inside and heard al-Faroque's footsteps running away along the
towpath.

If he reaches the alley, he might get away, Ryder thought, as he
clambered out of the door and swung on to the top rungs of the escape
ladder.  He went down it swiftly, dropped the last ten feet and landed
with such force that he bit his tongue.  He spat out the blood, and saw
that al-Faroque had a lead on him of at least a hundred yards.  He had
almost reached the corner of the building.

Still carrying his club Ryder raced after him, but al-Faroque dodged
round the corner and was gone.  Seconds later Ryder reached it, and saw
he was half-way down the alley, moving with amazing speed for such a
portly figure.  Ryder launched himself after him.  Once al-Faroque
reached the end of the alley he would disappear into the tangled maze
of streets beyond.  He'll not wait for us to catch him.  He'll clear
out of Khartoum tonight, Ryder thought grimly.  By dawn he will be
across the river and converted into the Mahdi's most faithful disciple.
What mischief he can do us over there!  He was starting to gain on him.
 But not fast enough, he thought.

As al-Faroque reached the end of the alley, an elegant figure stepped
out of a dark doorway and kicked his back foot across the other.
Al-Faroque crashed to earth with a force that drove the air from his
lungs.  However, he wriggled forward on his plump belly and tried to
reach the revolver that had flown from his hand as he went down, but as
his fingers closed over the butt Penrod stamped hard on his wrist,
pinning his hand.

Ryder came up, stooped over him, and cracked him across the back of his
skull with the club.  Al-Faroque's face dropped and he snored into the
filth of the alley floor.

"A perfect flying trip," Ryder said to Penrod, with admiration.
"Doubtless perfected on the rugger fields of Eton."

"Not Eton but Harrow, my dear fellow.  And don't confuse the two,"
Penrod corrected him.  Then, as Yakub appeared at his side, he changed
easily into Arabic: "Tie him up tidy and tight.  Gordon Pasha will be
interested to talk to him."

"Perhaps he will allow me to watch the execution?"  Yakub asked
hopefully, as he unbuckled al-Faroque's belt and used it to strap his
arms behind his back.

"Gentle Yakub," said Penrod, "I have no doubt that he will prepare a
place for you in the very front row of the entertainment."

By now the sky and the rooftops of the city were brightly lit by the
blazing tannery.  They left al-Faroque to Yakub, and ran back to the
main gate.  The heat of the flames was so intense that the combatants
were being driven out of the building into the open.  As they emerged
from the doors or jumped from the windows, Bacheet and his Arabs were
waiting for them.  There were pugnacious shouts and bellows, the clash
of blades and a few shots, but gradually most of the renegade Egyptian
garrison troops were rounded up.  A few managed to escape into the
alleys, but Yakub went after them.

Dawn was breaking as the survivors were marched in clanking chains up
to the gates of Mukran Fort.  General Gordon watched their arrival from
the battlements, and sent for Penrod.  His benign expression turned to
cold fury when he learnt of the destruction of three thousand sacks of
his precious dhurra.  "You let a civilian take command of the raid?" he
demanded of Penrod, and his blue eyes blazed.  "Courtney?  The trader
and black-marketeer?  A shabby fellow without a patriotic scruple or a
shred of social conscience?"

"I beg your pardon, General, but Courtney was every bit as committed to
the recovery of the missing grain as we were.  In fact, his agents
discovered where it was hidden," Penrod pointed out mildly.

"His commitment went as far as twelve shillings a sack, and not a penny
further.  If you had taken command this fiasco might well have been
avoided."  Gordon stood on tiptoe to glare at him.  Penrod stood
rigidly to attention and, with an effort, kept his mouth grimly shut.

With an obvious effort Gordon regained his equanimity.  "Well, at least
you were able to apprehend the ring leader.  I am not at all surprised
to find that it was Major al-Faroque.  I am going to make an example of
him to stiffen the remainder of the garrison.  I am going to have him
and his accomplices shot from the mouth of a cannon."

Penrod blinked.  This was a particularly savage military punishment
reserved for the most outrageous crimes.  As far as he knew, it had
last been performed on the captured sepoys after the suppression of the
mutiny in India almost thirty years ago.

"I would shed no tears if that scoundrel Courtney were to share the
same fate."  The little general stamped to the window of his
headquarters and scowled across the river at the enemy lines. "However,
I don't suppose I can do that to an Englishman," he growled, 'more's
the pity.  But I will decide on something that will leave him in no
doubt of my true estimate of his conduct and his moral worth.  It will
have to be something that affects the contents of his purse.  That is
where he keeps his conscience."

Penrod knew that by far his best policy was silence.  The good Lord
knows I cherish no great affection for Ryder Courtney, he thought.  No
doubt we will soon be at daggers drawn over the favours of a young lady
of our mutual acquaintance.  Yet it is difficult to suppress a sneaking
admiration for the fellow's brains and courage.

Gordon turned back from the window and pulled his gold hunter from his
pocket by its chain.  "Eight o'clock.  I want this rogue al-Faroque and
his minions tried, sentenced and ready for execution by five this
afternoon.  I want it done in public on the maid an to make the deepest
impression on the populace.  I cannot abide black-marketeering in this
city where most of the populace is starving.  You are in charge,
Ballantyne, and I want it done properly."

It had all gone off very well, Penrod decided, as he wandered down the
terrace of the consular palace before he retired for the night.  He
came to a stately tamarind tree whose branches overshadowed half the
terrace and leant against the trunk.  He was smoking the Cuban cigar
that Ryder Courtney had pressed upon him when they parted.  Cour-teney
had declined the invitation to attend the executions.  'I don't blame
him.  I myself would rather have been employed elsewhere," he
murmured.

He felt slightly queasy as he thought about it now, and he took a long,
deep draw on the cigar.  At five o'clock that afternoon almost the
entire garrison of Khartoum had paraded on the maid an to witness
punishment.  Only the minimum strength was left to man the de fences of
the city.  Although they had not been ordered to do so, it seemed that
the entire civilian populace, too, lined the perimeter of the parade
ground three and four deep.  The eight Krupps guns were lined up wheel
to wheel and aimed at maximum elevation toward the besieging Dervish
hordes in Omdurman.  The ammunition shortage was too severe to waste
even these eight rounds: after they had completed the primary
destruction they would fly on across the river to burst among the
legions of besiegers and, with luck, kill a few more of the enemy.

The first to be marched out were the black-marketeers and merchants of
the city who had been caught red-handed with stocks of al-Faroque's
grain.  Ali Muhammad Acrani was at the head of the file.  When Penrod
had searched his premises behind the hospital he had found six hundred
sacks hidden in the slave cells under the barra coons

The prisoners were lined up close behind the guns.  Gordon Pasha had
sentenced them to watch the executions.  In addition all their
possessions, including the contraband dhurra, were confiscated. Finally
they were to be expelled from the city to take their chances on the
clemency of the Mahdi and his Ansar across the river.  Penrod
considered their fate.  Given the same choice, I think I would have
preferred the kiss of the gunner's daughter, he decided.

His mind went back to that afternoon's programme of entertainment on
the maid an  When all the spectators were assembled, Penrod had given
the order and Major al-Faroque and the seven other condemned men were
marched, out from the cells of Mukran Fort.  They wore full dress
uniform.  Each man stood to attention in front of the artillery piece
to which he was allocated.  The regimental sergeant major read out the
charges and sentences in a stentorian voice that carried to every one
of the spectators.  They craned forward to catch the words '... that
they shall be shot from guns."  A hum of anticipation went up from the
packed ranks.  This was something none of them had ever witnessed. They
held up their babies and young children for a better view.

They watched the sergeant major roll up the charge sheet and hand it to
a runner, who carried it to where Gordon Pasha and Captain Ballantyne
stood.  The man saluted and handed the roll to the general.  "Very
well."  Gordon returned the salute.  "Carry out the sentences."

The sergeant marched smartly down the rank of condemned men, halting
before each in turn and ceremoniously ripping the insignias of rank and
merit from their shoulders and the breasts of their tunics.  He threw
the golden crowns, chevrons and medals into the dust.

When the eight men stood in their torn clothing, forlorn and
dishonoured, he gave another order.  One at a time the condemned were
led to the waiting guns and spreadeagled over them.  The gaping muzzles
were aimed into the centre of their chests and their arms strapped
along each side of the shining black barrels.  From this grotesque
embrace they would receive the kiss of the gunner's daughter.
Al-Faroque threw himself down in the dust of the parade ground.  He
howled, wept and drummed his heels.  Finally he had to be carried to
his gun by the soldiers.

"Prepared to carry out the sentence," the sergeant major bellowed.

"Carry on, Sergeant Major!"  Penrod snapped back, his face and voice
expressionless.

The sergeant major drew his sword and raised the bare blade.  The
drummer-boy at his side raised his sticks to his lips, then dropped
them to the drumhead in a long roll.  The sergeant major dropped his
sword blade, and the drummer stopped abruptly.  There was a momentary
silence and even Penrod drew a sharp breath.  The first gun bellowed.

The victim disappeared for an instant in a cloud of dense grey powder
smoke.  Then the separate parts of his torso were spinning high in the
air.  There was a stunned silence after the explosion, then a
spontaneous burst of cheering from the spectators as the head fell back
to earth and rolled across the sun-baked clay.

The sergeant major raised his sword again.  The drum rolled, and was
again abruptly cut short.  Another thunderous discharge.  This time the
spectators were anticipating the result and the wild applause was mixed
with hoots of laughter.  Al-Faroque was last in the line and as his
turn came closer he screamed for mercy.  The crowd yelled in imitation,
and al-Faroque's bowels voided noisily.  Liquid faeces stained the back
of his breeches.  The hilarity of the watchers swelled to a bellow as
the drum rolled for the eighth and last time.  Al-Faroque's head leapt
higher in the air than that of any man who had preceded him.

Penrod examined the stub of his cigar and decided regretfully that he
could not take another draw without scorching his fingertips.  He
dropped it on to the flags of the terrace and ground it out under his
heel.  Although it was late and he had already made his nightly rounds
of the city's de fences he still had a pile of paperwork to complete
before he could think of bed.  Gordon would want all his lists and
reports first thing in the morning.  The little martinet made no
allowances for the contingencies of the siege and the heavy load he had
already placed on Penrod's shoulders: "We have to keep up to scratch,
Ballantyne, and set an example."

At least he spares himself even less than he does me, Penrod thought.

He straightened up from the tree, preparing to make his way up to the
quarters that David Benbrook had allocated to him, when a small
movement on one of the second-floor balconies caught his eye.  The door
to the balcony had opened and he was able to see into the room beyond
it.  The interior was lit by an oil lamp that stood on a ladies'
dressing-table, and he could just make out the upright posts and canopy
of the bed.  The wallpaper was patterned with red roses and sprigs of
greenery.

A slim feminine figure appeared in the doorway, back-lit by the lamp,
which spun a golden nimbus about her head, like a medieval painting of
the Madonna.  Even though he could not see her face, he recognized
Rebecca immediately.  She wore a robe of some lustrous material with a
pale blue sheen, probably crepe-de-Chine.  It fitted her closely,
emphasizing the curve of her waist and hip, and leaving her arms bare
below the elbows.  She came to the front of the balcony where the
moonlight added subtle silver tones to the golden lamplight behind
her.

She gazed down on to the garden and terrace below her but did not see
him, half concealed by the wide branches of the tamarind.  She gathered
her skirts and, with a graceful movement, swung her lower body up until
she was sitting on the balcony wall.  Her feet were bare, and her legs
exposed to the knees.  Her calves were shapely, her feet small and
girlish.  Penrod was enthralled by their elegance.  Now the lamplight
struck her in profile and left the other half of her face in mysterious
moon shadow.  She held an ivory-backed brush in one hand, and her long
blonde hair was loose.  She stroked the brush through it, beginning at
the pale parting that ran down the centre of her scalp and ending at
her waist, where the tresses danced and rippled.  Her expression was
serene and lovely.

Penrod wanted to move close enough to study every plane and angle of
her face and perhaps even to catch a trace of her perfume.  Despite the
gloves, the long sleeves and the wide-brimmed straw hat that she wore
habitually during the day, the skin of Rebecca's bare arms and legs was
not fashionably milky but a light gold.  Her neck was long and
graceful, her head tilted at a beguiling angle.  She began to hum
softly.  He did not recognize the tune, but it was a siren song he
could not resist.  He moved closer to the balcony with the caution of a
hunter, waiting for her to close her eyes briefly at the completion of
each brush stroke before he took another small step towards her.  Now
he could hear the intake of her breath at the end of each bar of the
tune and almost feel the warmth and texture of her lips under his own.
He imagined the tremulous way in which they would part to allow him to
taste the apple-sweet juices of her mouth.

At last she set aside the brush, twisted her hair into a thick rope and
coiled it on top of her head.  She drew a long hairpin with a jewelled
head from the lapel of her gown and reached up to secure her hair.  As
she did so she turned her head away and Penrod took advantage of this
to step forward again.

She froze like a gazelle sensing the stalk of the leopard.  He stood
still and held his breath.  Then she turned to face him and her eyes
flew wide.  She stared down at him for a moment, then swung her legs
back into the balcony and sprang to her feet.  Her lips framed a silent
accusation: "You were spying!"

Then she whirled away through the open door and closed it behind her,
with just a faint click of the latch, as though she did not want anyone
else to hear.  As though the fact that he had been spying on her was a
secret between them.  Penrod's heart was drumming and his breath came
faster.  He regretted that he had frightened her away.  He wished he
had been able to watch her a little longer, as though he might have
learnt some secret by studying her unsuspecting face.

He left the terrace and, as he mounted the main spiral staircase to his
own quarters, his predatory instinct, which, for a brief interlude, had
been replaced by an almost reverential awe, reasserted itself.  He
smiled.  At least we now know where to find Mademoiselle's boudoir,
should the need arise, he thought.

Unlike her twin, Amber was unperturbed by what they had witnessed when
they burst in upon their elder sister and Ryder.  She was the only one
of the Benbrook sisters who returned to his compound the following day.
She arrived at the usual hour with Nazeera in tow and immediately took
charge of the team of three dozen Sudanese women who were manufacturing
the precious green-cake.  She relished not having to share the
authority with Saffron.

Bacheet found his master in the workshop at the harbour and whispered
his report.  Ryder looked up from the this's main steam line, which he
and Jock McCrump were welding.  "Her sisters?"  Ryder demanded.  "Miss
Saffron and Miss Rebecca?"

Bacheet shook his head.  "Only Miss Amber."  This was not a
conversation that Ryder wanted to share with Jock McCrump and the
this's stokers and oilers.  He jerked his head towards the door and
Bacheet followed him out.

They were half-way back to the compound before Ryder broke the silence.
"What happened, Bacheet?"  Bacheet looked innocently uncomprehending,
but Ryder was certain that he had shared Nazeera's mattress last night
and knew every detail of what had transpired during the past
twenty-four hours in the ladies' quarters of Her Britannic Majesty's
consular palace.

"Tell me what you know," he insisted.

"I am a simple man," said Bacheet.  "I know horses and camels, the
cataracts and currents of the Nile.  But what do I know of a woman's
heart?"  He shook his head.  "Perhaps you should enquire of these
mysteries from one much wiser than I."

"Send Nazeera to me."  Ryder stifled a smile.  "I shall wait for her at
the monkey cages."

Nazeera approved of Ryder Courtney.  Of course, he had the parboiled
look of most ferenghi, and his eyes were a disconcerting and unnatural
shade of green, but a man's looks and age counted for little if he was
a good provider.  This one's wives would never starve: he was a man
strong in body and resolve, and he would protect his own.  Yet there
was a gentleness in him.  He would never beat his women, unless their
behaviour truly invited it.  Yes, she approved of him.  It was to be
regretted that, so far, al-Jamal had not displayed equal good sense.

She came to the animal compound, and whispered to old Ali that he
should stay within call but out of earshot.  She might be a widow and
almost forty years of age, but she was a devout, respectable woman. She
had convinced herself that she was the only one who knew of her
discreet friendships with Yakub and Bacheet.

She greeted Ryder, asked the blessings of the Prophet for him, touched
her heart and lips, then squatted at a polite distance from him.  She
drew her shawl over the lower part of her face and waited for him to
speak.

Ryder asked after her health, and she assured him that she was well.
Then he asked after the health of her charges.

"Al'Jamal is well."

"I am happy to hear that.  I was worried about her.  She has not come
to help the women today."

Nazeera inclined her head slightly but made no comment.

"Nazeera, is she angry with me?"  he asked.

She drew a sharp breath of disapproval.  The question lacked even a
semblance of subtlety.  She should not dignify it with a reply.
However, this time she would make allowances for him: after all, he was
an infidel.

"Al-Jamal feels that you took advantage of her trust.  She was in need
of comfort and counsel so she came to you as a friend, but you behaved
like a lecher."

Bacheet saw Ryder's face crumple with dismay.

"Lecher?"  he asked.  "She is wrong.  I bear her great respect and
affection.  I am not a lecher."

Nazeera was balanced on a knife edge of loyalty.  She could not tell
him that the real offence was that they had been discovered not only by
the twins but also by the pretty captain.  But she liked him enough to
give him a light word of comfort.  "I love her like my own daughter,
but she is a young girl and understands nothing, not even her own
heart.  She will change with the moon and the wind and the current,
like a dhow without a captain.  When she says she wishes never to see
someone again, she means at least until midnight, but probably not
until noon tomorrow."

Ryder pondered this as he offered a morsel of green-cake through the
bars of the cage to Lucy, the vervet monkey.  She was due to give birth
at any moment.  She seized his wrist and licked the last crumbs from
his fingers.

"What should I do, Nazeera?"  He asked.

She shook her head.  Men were such children.  "Anything you do now will
only make matters worse.  Do nothing.  I will tell her how much you are
suffering.  Most young girls like to hear that.  When it is time to do
so we will speak again."

Ryder was much cheered, by this offer of assistance.  "But what of
Saffron?  Why has she not come to help Amber?"

"Filfil feels as strongly about your behaviour as her eldest sister."
Filfil was the Arabic word for pepper, and also Saffron's nickname.
"She also has expressed an intention never to speak to you again.  She
says that she wishes to die."

Ryder looked alarmed again.  "A single kiss, and a fairly chaste one at
that.  Now she wants to die?"

"Long ago she chose you as her future husband.  She has even discussed
the details with me.  I should warn you now that she will never allow
you to have more than one wife."

Ryder burst out in incredulous laughter.  "What a sweet and funny child
she is, but a child nevertheless."

"In a few short years she will be of marriageable age," Nazeera did not
smile, 'and she has made her plans."

Ryder laughed again, but this time with a note of trepidation.
"Nazeera, I do not wish to encourage her to believe in the impossible,
but nor do I wish to hurt her.  Will you give her my message?  Will you
tell her that there is important work for her to do?  I need her
here."

"I will tell her, Effendi," Nazeera rose to her feet and bowed, 'but
she will need more encouragement than that to forgive your infidelity.
But now I must go to help al-Zahra," Amber's Arabic name meant 'the
Flower'.  "We can never make enough of the green-cake to feed so many
hungry mouths."

After she had gone Ryder lingered a few minutes longer at the monkey
cage, pondering his predicaments.  Lucy perched at the bars, belly
bulging between her knees, and offered her head to his caress.  She
loved to be scratched behind the ears, and to have her fur searched for
vermin.  At last Ryder sighed and made to leave the cage.  Lucy seized
his hand as he tried to pull it out through the bars, and sank her
sharp white fangs into his thumb.

"You creature, you!"  He cuffed her lightly.  She shrieked, as though
in mortal anguish, and shot to the top of the cage where she gibbered
at him furiously.

"A plague on you, and all female wiles!"  he scolded, and sucked his
thumb as he left the enclosure to go down to the harbour.  Today Jock
McCrump hoped to complete the repairs to the hull and engine, and he
was planning to take the this out on her trials.

Penrod stood on the parapet of the forward redoubt on the riverbank
opposite Tutti Island.  He stamped on the sandbags to test their
solidity.  As the stores of dhurra were used up he had the empty sacks
filled and worked into weak points in the fortifications.  "That will
do!"  he told the Egyptian sergeant in charge of the work detail.  "Now
we need a few more timber baulks in the embrasures of the gun pits."
Under General Gordon's orders, he was stripping the abandoned
buildings, and using their timbers to strengthen the fortifications.

He strode along the top of the sandbagged wall, pausing every fifty or
hundred paces to survey the riverbank below.  He had placed marker pegs
in the strip of muddy earth between the foot of the wall and the edge
of the water.  A month ago the Nile had lapped the wall three feet from
the top.  Two weeks ago a few inches of mud had appeared at the foot of
the wall.  Now the strip of bank was six feet wide.  Each day the river
was falling.  Within the next few months it would enter the stage of
Low Nile.  This was what the Dervish were waiting for.  The wide banks
would dry out to give a safe mooring for the dhows ferrying their
legions across the river, and a firm footing from which to launch a
final assault on the city.

Penrod jumped down on to the mud flat and moved his pegs out to the
edge of the receding river.  In places there were now fifteen or twenty
feet of exposed bank.  They will need a lot more ground from which to
launch a full' scale attack, he decided, but the river is falling
rapidly.  The Mahdi had shrewd and experienced warlords commanding his
army, men like Osman Atalan.  Soon they would start probing the de
fences with midnight raids and sorties.  Where will they strike us
first?  he wondered.  He walked on along the perimeter, looking for the
weak spots.  By the time he reached Mukran Fort he had picked out at
least two points where he could expect the first raids to strike.

He found General Gordon at one of his favourite lookouts on the parapet
of the fort.  He was seated under a thatched sunshade at a camp table
on which were laid out his binoculars, notebooks and maps.  "Sit down,
Ballantyne," he said.  "You must be thirsty."  He indicated the
earthenware water jug on the table.

"Thank you, sir."  Penrod filled a glass.

"You may rest assured that it has been boiled the full half-hour."  It
was a barbed jest.  Under threat of flogging, Gordon had ordered all
the garrison water to be boiled to those specifications.  He had learnt
the necessity of this during his campaigns in China.  The results were
remarkable.  Although at first Penrod had believed this was another
whim of Gordon's he had since become a fervent believer.  Cholera was
raging among the civilian populace of the city, who openly flouted
Gordon's decrees and filled their waterskins from the river and the
canal, into which discharged the city sewers.  By contrast the garrison
troops had suffered only three cases, and all of those had been traced
to disobedience and the use of unboiled water.  All three victims had
died.  "Damned lucky for them," Penrod had remarked to David Benbrook.
"If they had lived Gordon would have had them shot."

"The death of the dog, they call it.  Reeking torrents of your own hot
excrement and vomit, every muscle and sinew of your body knotted in
agonizing cramps, a desiccated skeleton for a body and a head like a
skull!"  David shuddered.  "Not for me, thank you very much.  I'll take
my water boiled."

Penrod felt his skin crawl as he recalled that description: it was so
accurate.  Yet thirst could kill as swiftly as the cholera.  The heat
and the desert air sucked the moisture from his body so his throat was
parched.  He raised the mug, savoured the smell of woodsmoke, which
proved it was safe, then drained it in four long swallows.

"Well, now, Ballantyne, what about the north bank?"  Gordon never
wasted time in pleasantries.

"I have marked a number of weak spots in the line."  Penrod spread his
field map on the table and pinned down a corner with the water jug.
They pored over it together.  "Here and here are the worst.  The river
level is dropping sharply it's down another three inches since noon
yesterday.  Each day exposes us more.  We will have to strengthen those
places."

"Heaven knows, we are hard pressed for men and material to keep pace
with the work."  Gordon looked up shrewdly at Penrod.  "Yes?  You have
something to suggest?"

"Well, sir, as you say, we cannot hope to maintain the entire line
impregnable ..."  Gordon frowned.  He could not abide those he referred
to as 'dismal Johnnies'.  Penrod hurried on before he could level the
accusation.  '... so it occurred to me that we should deliberately
leave some gaps in our outer de fences to entice the Dervish to attack
them."

"Ah!"  Gordon's frown lifted.  "Poisoned gifts!"

"Exactly, sir.  We leave an opening, then behind it we set a trap.  We
run them into one of the blind alleys, and cover it with enfilading
fire from the Gatlings."

Thoughtfully, Gordon rubbed the silver stubble on his chin.  They had
only two Gatling guns, the rejects of Hicks's expedition.  He had
declined to take them with him on the march to El Obeid as he had
considered them too cumbersome.  Each weapon was mounted on its own
heavy gun-carriage, a sturdy axle and two iron-shod wheels.  It needed
a span of at least four oxen to drag it into action.  The mechanisms
were fragile and prone to stoppages.  Hicks had believed in traditional
volley fire from squares of infantry, rather than sustained fire from a
single exposed position.  He conceded that the Gatlings might be useful
in a static defensive position, but he was convinced that there was no
place for them in a flying offensive column.  He had left the two guns
and a hundred thousand rounds of the special .58 bore ammunition in the
arsenal at Khartoum when he marched away to annihilation at El Obeid.

Penrod had found them stored in a dark recess of the arsenal, where he
had collected a pistol to replace the one Yakub had lost, under dusty
tarpaulins.  He was familiar with the Gatling.  He had selected two
teams of the most likely Egyptian troopers under his command, and
within a week had taught them to serve the weapons.  Even though it was
a complicated firing mechanism, they had learnt swiftly.  The
copper-cased rimfire .58 bore cartridges were fed by gravity from a
hopper on top of the weapon.  The gunner turned a hand crank, and the
six heavy brass barrels rotated around a central shaft.  As each bullet
dropped from the hopper it was seized by one of the six cam-operated
bolts, locked into the breech, fired and ejected by gravity.  The rate
of fire depended on the vigour with which the gunner turned the crank
handle.  It required strength and stamina to keep up a sustained fire
for longer than a few minutes, but in practice Penrod timed one gun at
nearly three hundred rounds in a half a minute.  Of course, as soon as
it heated it jammed.  There was no machine-gun he knew of that did
not.

In one respect Hicks had been correct, the Gatling guns were not very
mobile.  Penrod had realized that, in the event of a surprise night
attack, it would not be possible to move them swiftly from one position
to another on the ten-kilo metre perimeter of the city's defence
works.

Penrod summarized his plan: "Suck them through the pretended weak spots
on to the Gatlings and cut them up, sir."

"First rate!"  Gordon beamed.  "Show me again where you propose to set
your traps."

"Well, sir, I thought that here below the harbour would be the most
obvious point."  Gordon nodded approval.  "The other spot would be
here, opposite the hospital."  Penrod prodded the map with his
forefinger.  "Behind both those positions there is a maze of narrow
streets.  I will block them with piles of rubble and timber baulks,
then site the Gatlings behind strong brickworks .. ."  They discussed
the plan over the next hour.

"Very well, Ballantyne.  Carry on."  At last Gordon dismissed him.

Penrod saluted and headed for the ramp that led away from the parapet
of the fort.  Half-way down he paused to peer into the north.  Only
eyes as sharp as his could have picked out the tiny dark speck in the
cloudless steel blue sky.  At first he thought it was one of the Saker
falcons coming in over the wastes of the Monassir desert from the
north.  He had noticed that a pair of the splendid birds were nesting
under the eaves of the arsenal roof.  He watched the tiny shape
approaching, then shook his head.  "Not the typical falcon wing beat
The distant shape grew in size and he exclaimed, "Pigeon!"

He was reminded sharply of his last ride down from the north when he
and Yakub had cut the loop of the river.  He watched the pigeon's
approach with keen interest.  As it approached the river, it began a
wide circle high in the steely sky with the city of Omdurman as its
centre.

"Pigeon returning to loft."  He recognized the manoeuvre.  A pigeon
nearly always began a long flight with a number of circles to orient
itself, and ended in the same way before it descended to its home. This
bird swung wide over the river, then passed almost directly overhead
where Penrod stood.

"It's another bloody Dervish carrier!"  He had seen the tiny roll of
rice paper tied to its leg.  He pulled his watch from his hip pocket
and checked the time.  "Seventeen minutes past four."  He had bought
the watch from Consul Le Blanc at an exorbitant price to replace the
one that had been doused on his last crossing of the river.

He watched the pigeon come round in another sweeping circle that
carried it over the grounds of the consular palace, then begin a long,
slanting descent across the broad waters of the Nile.  The last glimpse
he had of it was as it dropped in steeply towards the whitewashed dome
of the small mosque on the southern outskirts of Omdurman.

As he slipped the watch back into his pocket he had the feeling he was
being watched and looked round.  General Gordon's head showed above the
parapet.  "What is it, Ballantyne?"  he called down.

"I can't be certain, General, but I would wager a gold sovereign to a
pinch of dry pigeon droppings that the Mahdi is running a regular bird
mail with his army in the north."

"If you are right, I would give more than a gold sovereign to get my
hands on one of his messages."  Gordon stared grimly across the river
at the mosque where the pigeon had landed.  It was almost a month since
Penrod had arrived in the city.  Since then they had received no news
from Cairo.  There was no way of guessing what had happened to General
Stewart and his relief column.  Had they begun the march?  Had they
been beaten back?  On the other hand perhaps they were only days
away.

"Ballantyne, how can you get me one of those pigeons?"  Gordon asked
quietly.

A little before four the following afternoon Penrod was waiting on the
terrace of the consular palace with his head thrown back to watch the
northern sky.

"Right on time!"  he exclaimed, as the speck appeared in the north sky,
slightly to the east of where he had expected it.  As it passed over
his head he estimated the bird's speed and height with narrowed eyes.
"Two hundred feet if it's an inch, and going like its tail's on fire. A
long call!"  he murmured.  "But there is no wind, and I have taken
pheasant higher than that."  He stroked his moustache, which was
approaching its former glory.

The consular dinner that evening was formal.  There were a dozen
guests, all that remained of the diplomatic corps and the civil
administrators of the Khedive in Cairo.  As usual, Rebecca was her
father's hostess.  David had sent an invitation to Ryder Courtney,
without consulting either Rebecca or Saffron, either of whom would
surely have exercised a veto if they had had the chance.

Ryder had been cherishing a young buffalo heifer in the expectations of
selling it for an enormous profit when the city was relieved.  The
prospect of salvation was becoming daily more remote, and the buffalo
had a voracious appetite that was increasingly difficult to satisfy.
When he received David's invitation he slaughtered the animal and sent
a haunch with two bottles of Cognac to the consular kitchens.

Rebecca recognized the gift as a peace-offering, and it placed her in a
terrible quandary.  Could she refuse it, when it would make the evening
a triumphant success?  It would mean acknowledging Ryder's existence,
which she was not yet prepared to do.  She solved the dilemma by
sending him a note, delivered by Amber, accepting the gift on behalf of
her father.  She knew this was weakness on her part, but she salved her
conscience by derermining not to address a single word to him if he
attended the dinner.

Ryder, as was his wont, was the last guest to arrive.  He was looking
so elegant in his dinner jacket, and seemed so at ease with himself and
the world that Rebecca's anger was exacerbated.

Nazeera lied, she thought, as she watched from the corner of her eye as
he chatted affably with her father and Consul Le Blanc.  He isn't
suffering in the least.

At that moment she became aware that she, in her turn, was being
watched.  She glanced round sharply to see Captain Ballantyne studying
her from across the room with the knowing smile that had begun to
infuriate her.  He is always spying, she thought.  Before she recovered
her poise and looked away, she noticed that his hair and his whiskers
had grown out in a rather fetching fashion.  She felt her cheeks burn
and that disconcerting sensation in her lower belly.  She turned to

Imran Pasha, the former governor of Khartoum who was now subservient to
General Gordon.

Ten minutes later she glanced around surreptitiously to see whether
Captain Ballantyne was still spying on her, and felt a twinge of
annoyance when she saw that he was engrossed with the twins or they
were with him.  Both Amber and Saffron were shrieking with laughter in
a most unladylike fashion.  She regretted that she had given in to
their blandishments and allowed them to join the company instead of
making them eat their dinner with Nazeera in the kitchen.  She had
scored a small point by seating Saffron beside Ryder Courtney: the
child would have difficulty holding firm to her vow never to speak to
him again.  She had placed Captain Ballantyne as far away from herself
as possible, at her father's end of the table.

The buffalo haunch was a glorious pink in the centre, and running with
juices.  The company fell upon it in ravenous silence.  No sooner were
the plates removed than Captain Ballantyne whispered a few words to her
father, stood up, bowed to her and strode from the room.  She knew
better than to expect an explanation for his departure.  After all,
they were at war, and he was responsible for the city's de fences
However, she regretted that she was to be deprived of the opportunity
to snub him more profoundly.

She glanced down the table at the second object of her disapproval, and
saw that Saffron had obviously forgiven Ryder.  At the beginning of the
meal he had ignored her haughtiness and had concentrated all his
attention on Amber at his right hand.  This had brought Saffron close
to tears of jealousy.  Then he had switched tactics and turned all his
charm on her.  She had been unprepared for this.  "Saffron, did you
know that Lucy has had her babies?"  Before she realized the trap, she
was listening avidly as he told her Lucy had given birth to twins, what
the babies looked like, how proud Lucy was of them.  He had named them
Billy and Lily.

"Oh, can I come and see them tomorrow?  Oh, please, Ryder," Saffron
cried.

"But Saffy, Nazeera told me you were not feeling well," Ryder said.

"That was yesterday.  I was feeling rather pea ky  Ryder gathered that
pea ky was one of her new words.  "But I am very well now.  Amber and I
will be with you at seven o'clock tomorrow morning."  The trial of
wills had ended with a complete capitulation on her part.

Rebecca made a small moue at the silliness of the child, and turned her
attention back to Consul Le Blanc.  She had overheard her father remark
to Ryder that he was as queer as a duck with four legs.  It was a pity
that she was unable to ask Ryder what that meant.  It sounded
intriguing, and Ryder knew everything.  I suppose I will have to
forgive him in time, she thought, 'but not just yet."

The dessert was pate of green-cake with warm honey sauce: at David
Benbrook's instigation Bacheet had robbed the nest that wild bees had
built in the palace roof.  He had been sternly restricted to the
removal of a single honeycomb David had a sweet tooth and was hoarding
the bees' output.  This dish was also warmly received, and the Limoges
porcelain dessert bowls were scraped clean.

"I have not enjoyed a meal as much since my last visit to Le Grand
Vefour in eighty-one," Le Blanc assured Rebecca.

Despite his four legs, he is rather a dear old ass," she thought.  In
this new mood of benevolence she glanced back at Ryder, caught his eye,
then nodded and smiled.  His obvious relief was really quite
gratifying.  Am I becoming fast?  she questioned herself.  She was not
certain what being fast entailed, but her father disapproved of fast
women, or said he did.

After their guests had departed and they had climbed the spiral
staircase to the bedroom floor her father placed his arm round her
shoulders, hugged her and told her how proud he was of her, and what a
lovely woman she was growing into.

So he does not think I am becoming fast, Rebecca thought, but
nevertheless she felt strangely discontented.  As she prepared for bed
she whispered, "There is something missing.  Why should I feel so
unhappy?  Life is so short.  Perhaps the Mahdi will storm the city
tomorrow and it will all be over, and I won't even have lived."

As if the monster had heard_ her and stirred in his lair, there came
the crash of artillery fire from across the Nile.  She heard a shell
shriek overhead, then burst somewhere in the native quarter near the
canal. With her hair in a golden cloud upon her shoulders she threw on
her silk dressing-gown, turned the lamp down low and opened the door to
the balcony.  She hesitated, feeling guilty and uncertain.  "There
won't be anybody there," she told herself firmly.  "It's after
midnight.  If he's still awake, he'll be at the waterfront with those
Gatlings."

She stepped out on to the balcony and before she could stop herself she
glanced down and searched beneath the outspread branches of the
tamarind tree.  She felt a nasty twinge of disappointment when she
realized she had guessed right.  Nobody was there.  She sighed, leant
her elbows on the wall and stared out across the river.

The Bedlam Bedouin is having an early night, she thought.  Since sunset
there had been only that single cannon shot, and now all was silent. In
the moonlight she watched the bats diving and circling as they hunted
insects in the top branches of the ficus tree at the bottom of the
terrace.  After a few minutes she sighed again and straightened up. I'm
not sleepy, but it's late.  I should go to bed, she thought.

A vesta flared in the shadows beneath the tamarind tree, and her heart
tripped.  The flame settled to a yellow glow, and she saw his face lit
like the portrait in a cameo, while the rest of him remained shrouded
in darkness.  He had a long black cigar between his teeth.  He placed
the tip of it to the match and drew deeply.  The flame burned up
brightly.  "Oh, sweet Jesus, he is so beautiful."  The blasphemy was
out before she could quell it.  Still holding the burning match in
front of his face he looked up at her.  She stared back.  He was fifty
yards away but she was mesmerized, like a bird by a cobra.

He blew out the vesta, and the image of his face was gone.  Only the
glow of his cigar remained, brighter then fading as he drew on it.  The
pain came over her again, pervasive and debilitating, until she no
longer had control of her emotions.  Like a woman in a trance she
turned slowly, went back through her bedroom and out into the corridor
beyond.  She passed the door to her father's suite, and her bare feet
danced faster over the silken carpet that led her to the head of the
staircase.  She ran down, and was suddenly stricken with the fear that
he would be gone by the time she reached the terrace.  She fumbled with
the latch of the front doors it seemed an eternity before they opened.
She ran across the lawn, then stopped dead when she saw his dark shape
exactly where it had been.

He took the cigar from his mouth, dropped it on to the stone flags and
waited.  Her feet moved again, of their own accord, slowly at first
then faster.  "I don't - I won't she stammered.

"Don't talk," he commanded.  And she was overwhelmed by deep gratitude
although she did not understand why.  She went into his arms, which
closed round her.  She lost all contact with reality.  His mouth tasted
of cigar smoke mingled with precious musk, a distillation of masculine
ambergris, a rare elixir of desire.  She felt terrified and helpless,
yet as safe and secure as though she had been spirited into the keep of
a fairy fortress.

Her silk robe and the light cotton nightgown offered no obstacle to
him.  Her skin beneath them was burning hot, but his cunning fingers
ignited deeper and more intense fires within her.  She closed her eyes,
threw back her head and surrendered to his touch.  Suddenly she gasped
and her eyes flew open at a sensation almost too exquisite to be borne.
The painful knot in the pit of her stomach burst, and a new, wonderful
sensation replaced it and diffused through her whole being.  She looked
down and realized that the front of her gown was open to her navel and
his mouth was pressed to her breast.  She could feel his teeth upon her
nipple, and thought he might bite through to her very heart.

He picked her up and she felt weightless.  He laid her on the lawn, and
the grass felt cool and soft under her back.  He lifted the skirts of
her robe and the night air caressed her thighs and belly.  She felt his
weight come over the top of her.  He was touching her where she had
never been touched before.  Her thighs fell apart.

The cannon across the river roared.  She heard the shriek of the
approaching shell, and her legs snapped together like the blades of a
pair of scissors.  The shell flew so close overhead that it took her
breath : away so that she could not scream.  It crashed into the east
wing of the palace, and burst in a cloud of flame, dust, flying plaster
and bricks.

With all her strength she thrust him away and rolled out from under
him.  She jumped up and, long pale legs flashing, ran like a fawn
startled from its forest bed, back across the terrace and up the
stairs.  Frantically she raced to the twins' room, beside her father's
suite.  The door was never locked.  She ran in to them, gathered them
up and held them tight.  She was sobbing with relief to find them safe,
and for her own escape.  "Are you all right, my darlings?  Oh, dear
Jesus, thank you for keeping us all safe."  She hugged them closer, but
the twins were sleepy and grumpy.

"Why did you wake us up?"  demanded Saffron.

"What's wrong with you, Becky?  Why are you crying?"  Amber yawned and
rubbed her eyes.  "Why are you being so silly?"

Before she could reply her father came in through the door, carrying a
lantern.  "Are you girls all right?"

"What happened?  What is all the fuss about?"  Saffron clamoured.

"Didn't even wake you up, what?"  David laughed.  "The Bedlam Bedouin
will be mortified.  He's been shooting at the palace for months.  The
first time he manages to hit it, you go on sleeping as though nothing
had happened.  Shows a lack of respect, I'd say."

"Oh, was it a shell?"  Amber said.  "I thought it was a dream."

"Where, Daddy?  Where did it hit?"

"The east wing, but it's deserted.  Nobody hurt.  No fires.  Everything
safe."

The twins were asleep before Rebecca left them, but after she got back
to her own bed she could not drop off.  She tried a prayer.  "Gentle
Jesus, meek and mild, thank you for looking after Papa and the twins.
Thank you saving me from .. ."  She did not think it necessary to
elaborate: He knew everything.  '..  . for saving me from a fate worse
than death."  She had read that expression somewhere, and now seemed an
appropriate time to use it.  "Please keep me from temptation."  But the
prayer did not seem to help.  She did not truly feel as though she had
been saved; on the contrary, she felt as though she had been cruelly
deprived of something of great value, something as dear as life
itself.

She thought about how he had touched her and began to ache again, where
his fingers had been.  Timidly she ran her own hand down to make sure
he had not hurt her.  She started with panic as she felt that she was
bleeding, all hot and running wet.  She pulled away her hand and held
it up to the moonlight streaming in through the window.  Her fingers
were indeed damp but not with blood.  She replaced her hand, and felt
the pain swelling up inside her.  She was panting, and wicked images
flashed before her tightly shut eyelids.  Penrod Ballantyne standing
over her, naked, with the knife in his hand.  She imagined his fingers
where hers were now.

The huge ball inside her exploded, and the pain was gone.  She felt a
wonderful sense of elation and freedom.  She felt herself falling
backwards through the mattress, sinking down into a warm dark nest of
sleep.  When Nazeera woke her, sunlight was streaming in through the
open balcony door.

"What happened to you, Becky?  You are glowing like a ripe peach on the
bough with the morning sun upon it."

Arabic is such a romantic language, Rebecca thought.  It suits my mood
perfectly.  "Darling Nazeera, I feel as though this is the very first
morning of my life," she replied, in the same language, and wondered
why Nazeera suddenly looked so worried.

Penrod understood David's reluctance to part for even a few hours with
his precious double-barrelled twelve-bore London best guns by James
Purdey & Sons.  They were extraordinary weapons and had probably cost
him as much as fifty pounds each, he guessed.  "One hundred and fifty,"
David corrected him.  "Tsar Alexander of all the Russias and Kaiser
William of Germany both have guns almost identical to mine."

"I assure you that they are needed in the furtherance of an excellent
cause, sir.  I give you my solemn word of honour that I will look after
them as though they were my firstborn," Penrod wheedled.

"I hope you treat them better than that.  It is always possible to
beget brats.  Purdeys like mine are another matter entirely."

"Perhaps I should explain why I need to borrow them," Penrod
suggested.

David listened attentively.  He became more intrigued as Penrod
continued.  In the end he sighed with resignation.  "Very well, but
there is a condition.  The twins go with them."  As he saw Penrod's
nonplussed expression he went on, "They are my loaders and I have
taught them to pay proper respect to my guns."

Both girls were delighted to be chosen for the commission, Amber even
more so than Saffron.  This was an opportunity for her to have her hero
to herself for a while.  They were ready and waiting on the palace
terrace an hour ahead of the appointed time.

When Penrod arrived they insisted on coaching him in the skills of
passing and handing the guns.  He soon saw how seriously they took
their duties: to humour them he pretended ignorance and asked a few
asinine questions.  "Where do you put the bullets in?"

"They are not bullets, silly.  They are cartridges," Amber explained
importantly.  She was chief instructress.  She and Saffron had debated
this issue the previous night, when the lights were out and they were
supposed to be asleep.  Finally Amber had settled the matter: "Saffy,
you can have Ryder as your special friend, but Captain Ballantyne is
mine.  Remember that!"

When it came to handling the guns, Penrod was deliberately clumsy and
slow so that he did not deprive Amber of the pleasure of correcting
him.

"When I pass it to you, you must try to remember to hold out your left
hand with the palm up, Captain Ballantyne, so I can place the fore-end
into your hand."

"Like this, Miss Amber?"  He managed to keep a straight face, as he
reflected that he had been about the same age that Amber was now when
he had first been allowed to attend his family's grand shoot at
Clercastle on the Borders, and to take his place in the line like a
man.

"Don't hold your hand so high, Captain Ballantyne, otherwise I can't
reach."  She hated to draw attention to the discrepancy in their
heights.  At last she was satisfied.  She even commended him on his
progress: "I must say, you do learn quickly, Captain Ballantyne."

"I think that you and I make an excellent team, Miss Amber," he replied
seriously, and Amber felt quite giddy with gratification.

"Yes, but have you actually ever shot before?"  Saffron was feeling
left out, a sensation to which she was unaccustomed.

"Once or twice," Penrod reassured her.

"My papa is one of the best shots in England," Saffron informed him
grandly.

"I am sure Captain Ballantyne will do very well."  Amber pulled a
disapproving face at her twin.  Could not Saffy keep quiet for once?

"Well, we shall see about that," said Saffron haughtily.

All three waited impatiently on the terrace, the twins vying with each
other to be the first to spot the pigeon.  They saw it in the same
instant, and squealed with excitement.  The bird's wing tips were bone
white.  They flashed in the sunlight.  It was high as it came in across
the river, much too high as it passed overhead.  The Purdeys were
choked full and full, giving them an effective pattern of pellets at a
range out to sixty yards, but this pigeon was at least three hundred
feet high.

"Why didn't you shoot?"  Saffron demanded, as it flew on.

"It was well out of range," Penrod told her.  "If I prick the bird and
send it wounded to its loft, the Dervish might tumble to what we are up
to.  They will stop using the birds.  We must have a clean kill."

"Daddy would have killed it easily."

"Look, it's coming round again."  Amber tried to prevent her sister
baiting the captain.

The pigeon turned wide beyond the scattered buildings of Omdur-man,
then came back across the river, angling in towards the waterfront,
losing height gradually.

"That should do well enough," Penrod murmured, and brought up the gun.
The movement was unhurried, almost casual.  His left arm was extended
almost straight in line with the barrels, his right cheek pressed to
the comb of the butt-stock.  He picked up the bird from behind its
tail, and swung smoothly through its line of flight.  At the final
instant, as his forefinger tightened on the trigger, he gave the gun an
extra forward flick.  It fired and the muzzle kicked up at the recoil.
Smoothly he remounted the gun, his hands, shoulder and head dropping
into the same position as before.  The gun thudded again and jumped
with a spurt of black powder smoke from the right-hand muzzle.

"Miss!"  cried Saffron.

The bird was so high that there was a perceptible delay after the sound
of the shots before the pellets reached it.  Then the pigeon lurched
and tottered in the air.  Its legs dropped and dangled down.

"Hit!"  howled Amber.

Then the pattern of the second shot caught the wounded bird and they
heard the pellets rattle on its plumage.  One pellet struck it under
the chin and it threw back its head as the lead cut through to its
brain.

"Dead!"  Amber shrieked.  "Stone dead in the air!  Even Papa couldn't
have done better."  The pigeon's wings folded and it plummeted to
earth, but it still had the momentum of its flight and curled out
towards the water.

"It's going to fall into the river," Penrod shouted with alarm, and
tossed the shotgun back to Amber.  It took her by surprise but she
caught it before it hit the earth.  Penrod bounded away down the lawn
towards the riverbank, and she ran after him, hampered by the heavy
gun.

For a while it looked as though the dead bird might fall on firm
ground, but then the breeze caught it.  Penrod came up short on the
muddy strip of ground above the water's edge and watched in dismay as
the pigeon splashed in thirty yards offshore.  The carcass floated in
the centre of a spreading circle of ripples and loose blue breast
feathers.

"Crocodile!"  Amber screamed behind him.  A hundred yards beyond the
fallen pigeon Penrod saw the monstrous head push through the surface.
The skin was gnarled and lumpy as the bark of an ancient olive tree.
"Big one!"  Amber shouted.

"It's after the pigeon," Saffron cried.

Penrod did not hesitate.  He pulled off his boots and flung them aside,
then ran to the water's edge ripping off his shirt so that the buttons
flew away like sown wheat.  His breeches went next and he was left with
only his underpants, in a dashing crimson silk.  He ran into the green
water until it reached his waist, then linked his hands over his head
and dived forward.  The moment his head broke water again, he struck
out in a powerful overarm stroke.  The crocodile was drawn on by the
commotion, and its great tail thrashed from side to side, driving it to
meet Penrod.

"Come back!"  wailed Amber.  "Leave the silly old bird!"

Penrod swam furiously, kicking hard with both legs, cleaving through
the water.  The crocodile moved much faster.  This was its element, but
it had three times further than Penrod to travel.  He reached the
carcass and thrust the pigeon's head into his mouth, then turned and
started back towards the shore.  "Faster!"  Amber shouted wildly. "It's
gaining on you!  Faster, please!  Please!"

The great saurian had fixed all its attention on the man.  Instead of
diving, it swam on the surface and the long tail drove from side to
side, sending out a boiling wake behind it.  It was so close that its
eyes glittered like opaque yellow marbles.  Long fangs protruded over
its scaly lips, the rows interlocking with each other.  It bore in on
Penrod's naked legs.

"It's going to catch you!"  Amber was wild with fear.  She had not
reloaded the shotgun, but now she pushed the slide across and broke
open the breech.  She fumbled a pair of cartridges out of the leather
bag on her hip, thrust one into the breech, and dropped the other into
the mud.  There was no time to retrieve it or find another so she
snapped the breech closed.  As she ran into the water it rose to her
knees, her hips, then her lower ribs.

Penrod was directly in front of her, crashing through the water like a
maniac, kicking up a froth behind him.  With cold horror Amber watched
the monster close the gap between them.  Suddenly it reared high out of
the water, and its jaws gaped open.  The lining of its mouth and throat
was a lovely buttercup yellow.  It was so close that she could clearly
see the flap of skin at the back of its throat sealing off the opening
of its gullet to keep the water from flooding into its lungs.  The
fangs were sharp and ragged.  She could smell the obscene reek of its
open maw.  It lunged towards Penrod's legs.

Amber threw up the gun and thumbed back the ornate hammer.  At any
other time she would have needed both hands to work against the heavy
spring of the side lock but she was possessed.  The butt was too long
to fit into her shoulder so she held it under her right armpit.  She
aimed, and kept her eyes open, as her father had taught her, as she
pulled the back trigger.  If she had pulled the front one the hammer
would have fallen on an empty chamber.  David had taught her well.

The gun bucked and bellowed and a blast of shot swept inches over
Penrod's head.  The muzzle blast deafened him.  Amber and the gun were
sent flying backwards by the recoil and she disappeared under the
swirling river waters.

The full charge of shot flew down the crocodile's gullet.  The great
jaws shut with a clash like the slamming of steel gates, and its body
arched into a drawn bow of agony.  The glistening black snout almost
touched its tail.  Half out of the water it performed a backwards
somersault, then dived below the surface and was gone in a mighty swirl
of green waters.

Penrod found the bottom and staggered to where Amber had gone under.
His ears were ringing painfully with the concussion of the shot, and as
he shook his head to try to clear them the sodden pigeon carcass he was
still holding in his teeth flopped against his cheeks.  Golden tendrils
of Amber's hair floated on the surface like some lovely water plant.
Penrod seized a handful and dragged her head to the surface.  She
spluttered and choked, but she still had a firm grasp on her father's
Purdey.  Penrod changed his grip, swung her under his arm and he waded
with her, an undignified tangle of sodden skirts, hair and kicking
limbs, to the bank.

"Put me down!"  she gasped.  "Please put me down."

He set her on her feet.  "Cough it all up," he ordered, "Don't swallow
any."  He pounded her between the shoulder-blades.  The city sewers
spilled into the river upstream.  He did not want to lose this little
one to the blast of the cholera horn.

David and most of the palace staff had been watching from the terrace
and were running down to the riverbank.  Before they arrived Penrod
knelt in front of her.  "Are you all right now?"

"Yes, I am," she gasped, 'but Papa's gun is wet."

"What a brave and wonderful girl you are."  Penrod hugged her hard.
"I'd choose you in a scrap every time."  As her father came running up,
Penrod rose to his feet but he kept one arm round Amber's shoulders.
"Forgive the impropriety, sir, but I owe this young lady my life."

"Quite right and proper, Captain.  I'm going to give her a kiss
myself."

Before that could happen Nazeera and Rebecca arrived.

"That filthy river!"  Rebecca avoided Penrod's eyes, and pulled Amber
away from him.  "Nazeera, we're going to get her into a Lysol bath."
The two swept Amber away.

In the bathroom, as Rebecca and Nazeera stripped off Amber's
bedraggled, mud-plastered clothing and Saffron poured another bucket of
heated water into the porcelain hip-bath, Amber was in raptures, "Did
you hear what he said, Becky?  He said he'd choose me in a scrap every
time."

Rebecca studiously avoided a reply, but went to the bath and poured a
liberal measure of Lysol into the steaming water.

Saffron was not so reticent.  "So now I suppose you think that makes
him your beau," she mocked.

"He jolly well will be one day.  You wait and see."  Amber placed her
hands on her bare hips and glared at her twin.

"Don't be so silly, Midget," Rebecca rebuked her.  "Captain Ballantyne
is old enough to be your father.  Now, come and get into this bath at
once."

Nazeera felt a pang as she watched Amber clamber into the bath. Changes
seemed to have taken place in the child's body.  Soon there would be
womanly hollows and swells where before all had been flat and
featureless.

I am losing all my babies, she lamented inwardly.

Once he had buckled on his breeches, Penrod could examine the pigeon.
It was a large bird with body plumage of bronze and wing tips of white,
probably a female for they made the best homers.  The message it
carried had been folded and rolled tightly into a spill no larger than
the first joint of his little finger and secured to the bird's leg with
a fine silk thread.  With his pocket-knife he cut the thread, and kept
the carcass to take to the kitchens.  He wrapped the roll of paper in
his handkerchief to mop up as much moisture as possible, then pulled on
his boots and, leaving David to mourn his waterlogged shotgun, set out
for General Gordon's headquarters in the west wing of the palace.

I understand that you have had some success with your shooting.  There
was a great deal of excitement on the riverbank," Gordon greeted him.

"I managed to bring down a pigeon, sir, and it was a carrier."

"You retrieved the message?"  demanded Gordon eagerly.

"I have it, but it took a soaking in the river.  I have not dared to
unfold it, because the rice paper might disintegrate."

"Let's take a look at it.  Put it here."  Obediently Penrod placed his
bundled handkerchief on the general's desk, and carefully unfolded it.
They studied the tiny roll of paper.

"Seems it's still in one piece," Gordon murmured.  "It's your prize.
You unfold it."

Careful Penrod nipped the silk thread with the point of his penknife
blade.  The rice paper was so fine that it tore along the folds as he
tried to open it, but the inner part of the message had been kept
almost dry by the tightness of the roll.  The ink had run, and in spots
the words were indecipherable.

"We need a book," Penrod said, 'to press it while it dries
completely."

Gordon handed him his leather bound copy of the Bible.

"Are you certain, sir?"

"The good book for good works," Gordon told him.

Penrod opened the Bible and gingerly spread the damp sheet between the
pages.  He closed it and pressed the heel of his hand on the outer
cover.  Gordon was visibly impatient.  He paced up and down the room
puffing at one of his Turkish cigarettes until he could contain himself
no longer.  "Damned thing must be dry enough by now."

Penrod open the Bible carefully.  The sheet of rice paper was still
intact, flattened by the pressure, and it seemed that the ink had not
run further.  Gordon handed him a large magnifying glass.  "Your eyes,
and your understanding of Arabic, are probably better than mine."

Penrod carried the Bible across to the table below the window where the
light was better.  He pored over it, and after a moment began to read
aloud the tiny flowing script: '"I, Abdullah Sayid, son of Fahl,

Emir of the Baggara, greet the Victorious Mahdi who is the light of my
eyes, and call down upon him the blessing of Allah and his other
Prophet, who is also named Muhammad."

"Standard salutation," Gordon grunted.

Penrod went on: '"True to the orders of the Victorious Mahdi, I stand
guard upon the Nile at Abu Hamed, and my scouts watch all the roads
from the north.  The infidel Frank and the despicable Turk approach on
two separate routes.  The Frankish steamers have this day passed
through the cataract at Korti."

Gordon slammed the flat of his hand on the desk.  "Praise God!  This is
the first hard intelligence I have had in six weeks.  If Wolseley's
steamers have arrived at Korti they should reach Abu Hamed before the
end of Ramadan."

"Sir!"  Penrod agreed, though he was not so sure.

"Go on, man.  Go on!"

"A trifle difficult here.  The ink has run badly.  I think it says,
"The camel regiments of the Franks are still encamped at the Wells of
Gakdul, where they have been now for twenty-eight days."

"Twenty-eight days?  What on earth does Stewart think he is playing
at?"  Gordon demanded.  "If only he had some gumption, he would make a
bold dash for it.  He could reach us within ten days."

That is Chinese Gordon's own style the bold dash and the grand gesture,
Penrod thought, but he kept his expression neutral.  "Stewart is also a
death-or-glory lad, but he has to bring up his supplies before he can
make the final charge to the city."

Gordon jumped up again, and flicked the butt of his cigarette through
the open window.  "With two thousand of Stewart's first-line British
troops I could hold the city until the desert freezes over, but still
he shilly-shallies at Gakdul."  He spun on his heel and faced Penrod
again.  "Go on, Ballantyne, what else is there?"

"Not much, sir."  He stooped over the tattered scrap of paper.  "In the
name of the Victorious Mahdi, and with the blessing of Allah, we will
meet the infidel at Abu Hamed and destroy him."  Penrod looked up.
"That's all.  It seems that Sayid ran out of space."

"Very little for our comfort," Gordon observed, 'and the Nile is
falling."

"With a brace of Ryder Courtney's fast camels Yakub and I could be at
the Wells of Gakdul in three days," Penrod said.  "I could take Stewart
your message."

"You do not escape me so easily, Ballantyne."  Gordon laughed
ironically, a short bark of sound.  "Not yet awhile.  We will continue
to follow the progress of the relief columns by intercepting the
pigeons."

"The Dervish might accept one or two missing birds as prey of the
falcons," Penrod demurred, 'but we must not frighten them off by
killing every one as it arrives."

"Of course, you have a point.  But I must have news.  I want you to
shoot every fourth pigeon that comes in."

Muhammad Ahmed, the Victorious Mahdi, walked in the cool of the evening
along the bank of the great river.  He was attended by his khalifa and
his five most trusted emirs.  As he walked he recited the
nine-and-ninety beautiful names of Allah and his entourage murmured the
response after each was enunciated.

"Al-Ghafur, the concealer of faults."

"God is great!"

"Al-Wall, the friend of the righteous."

"Praise be to God!"

"Al-Qawi, the strong."

"May his word triumph."

They reached the tomb of the saint al-Rabb, and the Mahdi took his seat
in the shade of the tree that spread its branches over it.  When his
warlords were assembled, he called upon each to report his order of
battle, and give an account of the troops that he commanded.  One after
another they knelt before him and described their array.  Then the
Mahdi knew he had seventy thousand men gathered before the walls of
Khartoum; another twenty-five thousand had gone two hundred miles north
to Abu Hamed on the bend of the river to await the approach of the two
British forces.  These Ansar were of the finest, their religious ardour
and their devotion to the jihad against the infidel at its fiercest.
The Mahdi knew that no infidel army could prevail against them.

The Mahdi smiled at Osman Atalan.  "Tell me what we know of the enemy,"
he ordered.

"O Mighty and Victorious Lord, beloved of God and the other Prophet,
know you that each day Abdullah Sayid, Emir of the Baggara, sends a
pigeon from his camp at Abu Klea on the bend of the Nile.  Some of the
birds do not reach my lofts, for there are birds of prey and other
hazards along their flight path, but most come to my hand."

The Mahdi nodded.  "Speak to me, Osman Atalan.  Tell us what news of
the enemy movements these birds bring us."

"Sayid reports that the infidel steamers, seven in number, have passed
through the last cataract below Korti, and now that the worst of their
voyage is behind them, they come on apace.  They are travelling almost
five times faster than they did below the cataract.  They carry many
men and great guns."

"God shall deliver them to my hand, and they shall be destroyed," said
the Mahdi.

"God is great!"  Osman Atalan agreed.  "The second infidel column has
reached the Wells at Gakdul.  There they have stopped.  We do not know
why this is.  I believe that there is not sufficient good fodder to
feed the camels for the heavy work they must do.  They wait at Gakdul
for more supplies to be brought up from Wadi Haifa."

"How many infidel troops are at Gakdul?"

"Divine One, Sayid has counted more than one thousand Franks, and about
the same number of camel drivers, guides and servants."

"Are these Franks mad?"  the Mahdi demanded.  "How can they dream to
prevail against my one hundred thousand Ansar?"

"It may be that they are waiting at Gakdul for reinforcements to join
them," Osman suggested delicately.

"These infidels shall be destroyed also.  No mortal man can prevail
against the will of God.  All these things God has told me."

"Allah is all seeing and all knowing."

"Know you that on many nights Allah has come to me as an eagle of
flame.  He has told me many grave secrets that are too powerful for the
common man to hear," he said, in his soft mellifluous voice, and they
bowed before him.

"Blessed is the Mahdi, for he alone hears and understands the word of
Allah," chanted Khalifa Abdullahi.

"Allah has told me that before the infidel and the Frank and the Turk
can be driven for ever from the Sudan and the earthly kingdom of Allah
and Islam, my enemy Gordon Pasha must be destroyed.  Allah has told me
that Gordon Pasha is the black angel, Satan, in the guise of a man."

"May he be ever accursed, and never look upon the face of God," they
cried.

"Allah, the All Wise, has told me that the noble warrior of Islam who
cuts the head of Gordon Pasha from his trunk, like some bitter and evil
fruit, and brings it to me, and lays it at my feet, shall ever be
blessed and that there shall be prepared for him a place in Paradise at
God's right hand.  He will also be given power and riches in this world
of the flesh."

"God is merciful!  God is great!"  they chanted.

"Allah has spoken to me, and he has told me the name of my servant who
shall bring the head of the infidel to me," quoth the Mahdi solemnly,
and they prostrated themselves before him.

"Let the man be me!"

"If it be me, I shall want no other honour in this life or hereafter."
The Mahdi held up his hands and they fell silent.  "Osman Atalan of the
Beja, draw closer to me," he said.  On his hands and knees Osman
crawled to his feet.  "Allah has told me that you are that man."

Tears of joy streamed down the emir's cheeks.  He bowed his head over
the Mahdi's feet and washed the dust from them with his tears.

Then he unwrapped his turban and, with the locks of his long dark hair,
he dried the feet of the Chosen Prophet of God.

The Nile is falling," said Osman Atalan, 'and God and the Mahdi have
prepared a task for us."  His aggagiers drew closer to the campfire and
watched his face by the light of the flames.  "They have chosen us
above all the warriors of Allah.  We are blessed beyond all other men,
for we have been given the wondrous chance to die for the glory of
Allah and his Mahdi."

"Let us seize Allah's bounteous gift.  Command us, Great Lord," his
aggagiers pleaded.

He studied their fierce expressions with pride.  These were not men,
but man-eating lions.  "Our sacred task is to bring to the Divine Mahdi
the head of Gordon Pasha, for omnipotent and mighty Allah has decreed
that when we achieve this the infidel will be driven from this land for
ever, and that Islam will prevail throughout all the world."

Al-Noor asked: "Shall we wait for the time of Low Nile, so that we may
find a firm foothold on the city shore and a passage through the
walls?"

"Every day we delay, the forces of Satan march down upon us from the
north.  Already their steamers laden with men and guns sweep up the
river.  Yes, the river is still high, but God has made clear a road for
us."  Osman clapped his hands.  An old man limped into the firelight
and knelt before him.  "Have no fear, Beloved of God.  No harm shall
come to you.  Tell these men what you know."

"I was born and I have lived all my life in the City of the Elephant's
Trunk, Khartoum.  But since the Victorious Mahdi has invested the city
and laid siege, the curse of Allah has been laid upon the city.  Those
infidels and Turks who have thought to resist his wisdom and his truth
have been made to suffer as no men before them.  Their empty bellies
cling to their backbones, their children are eaten up by the cholera,
the vultures gorge on their rotting corpses, the fathers club the birds
and eat them half cooked while their crops bulge with the flesh of
their own children."  The aggagiers moved restlessly as they listened
to this recital.

What an abomination to eat the flesh of the bird that had devoured your
children.  "Those who are not too weak of starvation flee the doomed
city, and the de fences are every day denuded and weakened.  I am one
of those who has flown.  But, like you, I wish to see the infidel
banished for ever from the Sudan, and the son of all evil, Gordon
Pasha, destroyed.  Only then may I return in the peace of the Mahdi to
my home."

"Let Allah accomplish this," they murmured.  The man was old and frail
but they admired his spirit.

"The Turks who fight for Gordon Pasha are so reduced in number by
disease, starvation and desertion that the infidel can no longer guard
the city walls.  In their place Gordon Pasha has placed men of straw,
mere scarecrows, to frighten off the timid among you."

"What is this talk of straw men?"  Hassan Ben Nader demanded.  "Is it
true?"

"It is true," Osman confirmed.  "I have sailed close to the harbour
mouth in this brave old man's dhow.  There is a place in the de fences
where a creek runs into the river through a stone gateway.  This is the
main outflow from the city sewers.  Gordon Pasha has manned the gateway
and the walls on either side with dummy soldiers to replace those who
have died or run away.  Only their heads show above the parapets.  At
intervals a few old women move them so that from this bank they seemed
to live.  There is none to resist our onslaught.  With one rush we can
be through the gap.  Then the city and all those within will be
ours."

"There will be great stores of gold and jewels," al-Noor mused.

"There are women in the city, hundreds of women.  As his wives,
concubines and slaves, the Turkjias chosen the most beautiful women of
the Sudan and all the surrounding lands.  For each of us there will be
a dozen women at least."  Hassan Ben Nader's eyes gleamed in the
firelight.  "The women of the Franks have hair like yellow silk and
their skin is like rich cream."

"Speak not of gold and slaves.  We fight for the glory of Allah and the
Mahdi."  Osman reprimanded them for their greed.  "After that we fight
for our own honour and a place in Paradise."

"When will we attack these straw men?"  Al-Noor laughed with
excitement.  "I have sat too long with my harem, and I am growing fat.
It is time to fight again."

"Three nights from now it will be the dark of the moon, and in the
night we will cross the river.  At first we will land two hundred men
on the beach there is no space for more.  When we have forced the
breach a thousand more will follow us, and after them a thousand more.
By dawn I will stand on the parapets of Mukran Fort with the head of

Gordon Pasha in my hands, and the prophecy will be fulfilled."  Osman
stood up and made a sign of blessing over them.  "Make certain that
your swords are sharp and all your wives are with child before we cross
the river."

The old fisherman, the uncle of Yakub, has given the signal.  A handful
of sulphur in the flames of his cooking fire, and the puff of yellow
smoke that Yakub was watching for," Penrod reported to the Chinese
Gordon.

"Can we trust this fellow, Yakub?  To me he seems an evil rogue."

"I have trusted him often in the most dire circumstances and I am still
alive, General."  Penrod kept his anger under control, but with
difficulty.

"Has he been able to warn us when the Dervish will attack if they
do?"

"No, sir, we don't know that," Penrod admitted, 'but I expect they will
use the new moon."

While Gordon consulted his almanac for the moon phases, David Benbrook,
the third man in the room, gave his appraisal of the chances of
success.  "He is a brave man, this uncle of Yakub.  I know him well. He
has been in my service ever since I arrived in Khartoum.  His
information has always been reliable."  David was sitting in a chair by
the window.  These days, he and the general spent much time together.
They were unlikely companions, but as Gordon's tribulations increased
he seemed to find solace with his own kind.

Without seeming to do so Penrod studied Gordon's face while he spoke to
David.  Even in repose, a nerve fluttered in his right eyelid.  This
was only a visible sign of how finely stretched Gordon was.  One of the
other deeper and more significant indications was in his behaviour: the
brutal excesses of inhumanity.  It seemed to Penrod that these were
becoming more savage each day, as though by the kurbash, the firing
squad and the noose he could delay the fall of the city.  Even he must
now see that our struggle is drawing towards the end, and the populace
is beyond hope or caring.  Does he believe that he can compel them to
their duty by convincing them that the consequences of their
disobedience will be far worse than anything that the Mahdi can do to
them?  Penrod studied Gordon's face as the general spoke to David
Benbrook.  At least Benbrook is a man of humanity, he thought.  His
influence on Gordon can only be for the good.

He put aside such considerations when Gordon stood up and addressed him
abruptly.  "Let us go down to the harbour and inspect your preparations
to meet this imminent attack, Ballantyne."

Penrod knew it was unwise for Gordon Pasha to show himself on the walls
where the attack was expected: too many spies were watching his every
move, and the Dervish were too shrewd not to suspect that he was
preparing something for their discomfort.  However, he knew it was even
more unwise to gainsay the little man.

But Penrod need not have concerned himself: Gordon was too sly an old
fox to lead the hounds to the entrance of his earth.  Before they left
the palace, Gordon removed his distinctive fez and replaced it with a
grubby turban, the tail of which concealed half of his face, then
covered his uniform with a stained, nondescript galabiyya.  From a
distance he looked like any humble citizen of Khartoum.

Even when they reached the harbour Gordon did not show himself on the
parapets.  However, he was meticulous and painstaking in his inspection
of Penrod's preparations.  He peered through every embrasure that
pierced the walls of the derelict buildings that overlooked the noisome
sewerage-clogged creek.  He stood behind a Gatling and traversed the
gleaming multiple barrels from side to side.  He was dissatisfied with
the dead area directly under the muzzles.  He climbed out of the
Gatling's nest into the ooze of the creek and placed himself in the
line of fire, then moved closer to the redoubt.

"Keep the gun trained on me," he ordered.

The gunner kept depressing his aim until he shook his head with
exasperation.  "You are too close, General.  It can no longer bear."

"Captain Ballantyne, if they reach this point the Dervish will be under
the gun."  Gordon looked pleased that he had caught Penrod out.

Penrod realized it was no excuse that Gordon overloaded him with
responsibilities: he had been negligent, and he rebuked himself
silently.  Such an elementary oversight is almost as bad as starving
the gun for ammunition, he thought bitterly.  He ordered the engineers
to tear down the wall of sandbags and rebuild it with a lower sill.

"Where have you placed the second Gatling?"  Gordon demanded.  He had
Penrod on the defensive now, and was pushing his advantage.

"It is still in the redoubt in front of the hospital.  That is the
other -obvious weak point in our perimeter.  I dare not leave that gap
undefended, and place all our bets on the attack striking us here.  The
Dervish may even mount two simultaneous strikes at both positions."

"They will strike here," Gordon said, with finality.

"I agree that is the highest probability.  So I have built another
machine-gun nest over there, where it can cover the beach and enfilade
both banks of the creek.  As soon as the attack develops and the enemy
is committed, I can rush the second gun across from the hospital to
this side.  Equally, if we are mistaken and they strike at the hospital
I can move this gun over to cover that position."

"How long will it take to move the guns."  Gordon demanded.

"I estimate about ten minutes."

"No estimates, Ballantyne.  Run an exercise and time it."

On the first attempt the gun-crew encountered a pile of fallen masonry
in the alley behind the harbour.  They had to clear it before they
could bring the heavy carriage through.  The second attempt was more
successful: it took twelve minutes to run it through the streets and re
site it in the prepared nest to cover the beach and the banks of the
creek.

"It will be in darkness," Gordon pointed out.  "The crew must be able
to do it with their eyes closed."

Penrod kept them practising the manoeuvre late into the night.  They
cleared all obstacles and shell damage from the streets and alleys, and
filled in the potholes and gutters.  Penrod designed new gun tackles so
that twenty men at a time could pull it.

By the morning of the second day they had cut the transit time down to
seven and a half minutes.  All this had to be done in darkness after
curfew.  If the Dervish learnt that they were practising moving the
Gatlings from one point to another on the perimeter they would suspect
a trap.  Penrod was not sure that they knew of the existence of the two
guns: while in the arsenal they had been stored away from prying eyes,
and had probably been forgotten.  In any event the Dervish had a deep
scorn for firearms.  It was unlikely they had ever seen the Gatlings in
action so they could not guess at their destructive potential.  Until
now he had been careful to exercise the gun-crew where they were not
under observation from the enemy bank of the Nile.  They only fired the
weapons into the empty desert on the southern perimeter of the city.
When they were not in use he kept them covered with tarpaulins.

"With your permission, General, I intend to take up permanent quarters
here at the harbour.  I want to be on the spot when the enemy launch
their attack.  As things stand at present, it might all be over during
the time it would take me to get here from the palace."

"Good," Gordon agreed.  "But if the Dervish spies discover that you
have set up permanent headquarters here at the harbour our plan will be
compromised."

"I have thought about that, General, and I believe I will be able to
conceal my whereabouts without causing suspicion."

They enlisted the co-operation of David Benbrook in concealing from
everybody, including the Benbrook sisters and consular staff, that he
had moved only as far as the harbour.  The story was put about that
Penrod had secretly left the city, sent on a mission by General Gordon
to carry a message to the British relief column at the Wells of
Gakdul.

Penrod found his new quarters a far call from the luxury of his suite
in the palace.  He set up his angareb in a tiny dugout in the back wall
of the Gatling emplacement.  He had no mosquito net, and spent most of
the night swatting the insects: at dusk they rose in clouds from the
creek.  Previously the palace's paltry food supplies had been augmented
by the ingenuity of the Benbrook sisters, Nazeera, the kitchen staff
and, of course, by David Benbrook's marksmanship.  In his new
headquarters Penrod shared the same rations as his men.  Gordon had
been forced to reduce the issue of dhurra to below starvation level,
and hunger was now a constant spectral companion.  Yakub was able to
scrounge a few dried fish heads and skeletons from his uncle's house
and these went into the stew pot that Penrod shared with his gunners.
Some of the Egyptians were eating the pith of the palm trees and
boiling the leather thongs of their angarebs.  Much as he had once
disparaged the taste of it, Penrod now sorely missed the rations of
green-cake that the Ben-brook sisters had regularly brought home from
the compound of Ryder Courtney.

Penrod could not afford to be seen in the city, so he had to confine
himself strictly to the harbour.  This self-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 hand and considered him thoughtfully.  "Captain Ballantyne, now
that we have become friends, would you be civil enough to answer a
question that has been troubling me lately?  Nobody seems to know the
answer."

"I am honoured that you consider us friends."  Penrod was touched.  She
was such a funny little thing.  "I would be delighted to render you any
assistance I can."

"How do people make love?"  she asked.

Penrod found himself deprived of words and the breath to speak them.
"Ah!"  he said, and smoothed his moustache to win time.  "I think that
it is done in various ways.  There do not seem to be any fixed rules of
engagement."

Amber was disappointed.  She had expected more of him.  Obviously he
knew as little as Rebecca.  "I suppose they kiss each other like you
and I saw my sister kissing Ryder.  Is that how they do it?"

"Indubitably."  He grabbed thankfully at the opening.  "I think that is
exactly how they do it."

"I should think that would become rather boring after a while."

"It seems to grow on some people," Penrod said.  "There is no
accounting for taste."

Amber changed the subject again, with disconcerting suddenness.  "Did
you know that Lucy, Ryder's monkey, has had babies?"

"I had no idea.  Boys or girls?  What are they like."  He followed her
thankfully on to firm ground.

Minutes later Amber's eyes closed, she subsided against his shoulder
and, like a puppy, dropped into instant sleep.  She did not stir even
when he laid her on the angareb and covered her with the threadbare
blanket.  He was in a good mood, smiling to himself as he left her and
went on his midnight inspection of the harbour de fences  For once
every one of the Egyptian sentries was wide awake.  Either they were
stimulated by the proximity of the enemy and their own exposure in this
forward position, or their hunger drove away sleep.

He found a comfortable place to sit on the forward firing platform and
listened to the drums across the river.  Their monotonous tempo became
soporific and he found himself nodding.  He stirred guiltily: If
Chinese Gordon finds me I'll be up before the firing squad myself.  He
took a turn along the parapet, and came back to his seat.  He let
himself relax and drift to the edge of sleep, but every few minutes he
opened his eyes.  He had trained himself to tread this tightrope
without falling off it.  Across the river the drums fell silent.

He opened his eyes again and looked up.  Red Mars, the god of war, was
hunting across the southern quadrant of the moonless sky with Sirius,
the Dog, in leash.  It was the darkest and loneliest hour of the night.
He was close to the edge of sleep, but he kept his eyes open.

Tenrod."

Cool fingers brushed his cheek.  "Are you asleep?"  He turned his head
to her.  He was touched that she had used his baptismal name.  She must
truly think of him as her friend.  "No, I am not, but you should be."

"I heard voices," Amber whispered.

"A dream, perhaps," he replied.  "There are no voices."

"Listen!"  said Amber.

Faintly he heard a dog bark on the west bank and another answered it
from Tutti Island, further downriver.  No dogs remained in the city.
The last had been killed and eaten months before.  "Nothing."  He shook
his head doubtfully, but she seized his arm and her sharp little
fingernails dug in painfully.

"Listen, Pen.  Listen!"

He felt his nerve ends jump tight, like the strike of a heavy fish on
the deep-run fly.  It was a whisper so faint, so insubstantial on the
night breeze that only sharp young ears could have picked it up.  It
came from far out on the river.  Sound carries over water, he thought,
and stood up swiftly and silently.  Faint as the breeze in the palm
fronds, he had heard the traditional word of command to lower and furl
the lateen sail of a dhow as it came in to its moorings.  Now that he
was straining his hearing to its limit, he heard the soft slap of bare
feet on a wooden deck, and the slat ting of canvas.  Seconds later came
the creak of a muffled rudder in its yoke as the dhow put up its helm.
"They have come," he whispered, and moved swiftly along the firing
platform to alert each of his men.  "Stand to!  Stand to your guns. The
Dervish are here.  Hold your fire until my command."

The sergeant gunner stripped the tarpaulin off the Gatling.  The stiff
material crackled softly and Penrod hissed him to silence.  He looked
into the ammunition hopper that sat on top of the glistening weapon. It
was filled to the brim: six hundred rounds.  He lifted the lids of the
spare ammunition cases.  They were all unlocked.  At the Hill of
Isandlwana when the Zulu imp is had broken the British square the spare
ammunition cases had been locked and the officer who had the Allen key
had ridden out on patrol.  Every white soldier in the camp had died
that day under the Zulu blades.  Ryder Courtney had told him that his
elder brother had been among them.  Tonight the ammunition cases were
unlocked and the four Egyptian loaders were standing by to keep the
hopper filled.

He ran to the rear of the firing platform.  The corporal of signallers
with a detail of four men had their crates of rockets open, and a line
of ten flares ready for firing in their launching brackets, nose cones
pointed skywards.  "Send up a flare at the first shot.  Keep one
burning in the sky until the last shot is fired.  I want the whole area
lit up like daylight," Penrod ordered.

There was no time for anything else.  Penrod started back towards the
forward firing platform to take command there.  He could not trust the
jittery Egyptians to resist blazing away at their first glimpse of the
enemy boats before the Dervish were disembarked upon the beach and well
inside the trap.

He tripped over Amber, who was at his heels.  "Sweet Mary!  I had
forgotten about you."  He caught her by the arm and dragged her to the
rear entrance of the redoubt.  "Run!"  he ordered.  "You have to get
out of here right away.  This is no place for you now.  Even the
streets are safer.  Run, Amber, and don't stop until you get home."  He
gave her a firm shove through the doorway to send her on her way, and
did not wait to see if she had obeyed before he turned back towards the
forward firing platform.

Amber ran a few paces down the alley, then turned and crept back to the
entrance of the redoubt.  She watched Penrod disappear into the
darkness.  "I am sick and tired of being treated like a baby," she
whispered.  She hesitated only a moment before she followed him.

She moved quietly and self-effacingly along the back of the parapet so
as not to attract the attention of the troopers who were manning the
firing embrasures.  They are all too busy to worry about me, she
thought.  Her confidence swelled, and she hurried forward to look for
Penrod.  What if he needs me?  I will be no use sitting in my bedroom
at the palace.  She saw his tall figure just ahead.

Penrod was already standing at the parapet that overlooked the beach.
The straw-filled decoys had been dragged away and now live riflemen
leant on the firing sills, peering down upon the dark beach.  He had
his drawn sword in his right hand.  Amber felt a prickle of pride.  He
is so brave and noble, she thought.  She found a place to hide in a
corner of the rear wall and sank down behind it.  From here she could
watch over him.  A tight, brittle silence held all the men at the
firing wall.

Suddenly Amber realized how few of them were spread out thinly along
the wall, twenty paces between them.  These men did not seem enough to
stop the hordes of the Dervish.

Then a man close to where Amber knelt whispered so softly that she
could barely catch the words.  "Here they come."  His voice quavered
with fear.  The breech-block of his Martini-Henry snicked as he
chambered a round.  He lifted the weapon to his shoulder, but before he
could press the trigger an open hand slapped across his face.

As he reeled sideways Penrod seized him by his collar and spoke close
to his ear: "Fire before my command, and I will have you blown from the
cannon's mouth," he promised.  Al-Faroque's execution had left a deep
impression on all the Egyptians who had witnessed it.  Penrod pushed
the man back to his position and they waited.

Then Penrod drew breath sharply.  The first Dervish boat glided in
towards the beach below.  As it touched the sand a dark horde of Ansar
clambered out into the waist-deep water and waded on to the narrow
strip of mud below the walls.  They carried their swords at shoulder
height and moved with barely a sound.  From the dark waters behind them
appeared a flotilla of small dhows and feluccas, each packed with a
mass of men.

"Hold your fire!"  Penrod strode back and forth along the parapet,
keeping his puny force under control with his savage whisper.  The
feluccas and dhows kept coming in until the beach was packed with
hundreds of Ansar.  There was not room for all of them on firm ground
and the ones in the rear were still waist deep in the river.  Those in
front began to rip down the barricade that blocked the entrance to the
drainage creek.

"Steady now!  Steady!"  Penrod exhorted them.

Part of the barricade crashed down and the Dervish swarmed through.
Their war cry went up: "There is no God but God!"

"Volley fire!"  Penrod shouted and the rifles crashed out.  The Dervish
rushed on through the hail of bullets.  Then the first rockets soared
into the night sky, and the masses of Dervish swarmed like columns of
ants in the weird greenish light.  The riflemen fired down into them
but there were so many that the bullets had little effect.  When the
front ranks reached the harbour wall they clambered up it, the rear
ranks shoving from below.  As they came over the top the defenders
thrust with the bayonets.

Penrod strode along the wall, firing his new Webley pistol point blank
into their bearded faces.  In his right hand he carried his sabre and
when the revolver was empty he slashed and hacked with the blade.  The
dead and wounded Ansar toppled back on to their comrades, who were
climbing up behind them.  The Egyptian line was too flimsy to hold them
in check much longer: all along the top of the wall knots of Dervish
were gaining footholds.  Their two-handed crusader blades hissed
through the air with the sound of bats' wings.  One of the Egyptians
reeled back from the parapet with his right arm sliced off cleanly
above the elbow.  His blood was inky black in the light of the
rockets.

"Back!"  shouted Penrod.  "Fall back to the second line!"  Even in her
own terror, Amber was startled by how clearly his voice carried above
the uproar.  His men formed quickly into a skirmishing line, bayonets
facing outwards, and they retreated backwards along the top of the
wall.  For a terrible moment Amber thought she would be left behind,
but she sprang up and ran like a startled hare.  Instinctively she knew
that the Gatling emplacement was the strongest point of the defence,
and headed for it.

She reached it well ahead of Penrod and his men, and scrambled to the
top of the wall of sandbags.  As she hung there, someone grabbed her
arm from the far side and dragged her over.  She fell on top of her
rescuer.  He smelt of rotten fish heads, and glared at her with a
horrific squint, his face green in the light of the flares.  "Nazeera
will kill you with her bare hands if she finds out you are here."  He
pushed her roughly into the dugout in the back wall, just as Penrod led
his men back in a rush.

"Gatling gunner!  Open fire!"  P,enrod had selected the man on the
crank handle of the gun for his strength and stamina.  Sergeant Khaled
was a colossal black man from one of the Nubian tribes of upper Egypt.
Men like him made the finest soldiers in all the army of the Khedive.
He bobbed up and down like a marionette as he worked.  The brightly
burnished barrels spun, like the revolving spokes of a chariot wheel.
The flickering glare of muzzle flashes lit the parapet as brightly as a
stage.

With a sound like a giant ripping up a roll of heavy canvas, a
continuous stream of bullets tore into the ranks of Ansar as they
swarmed forward.  The heavy lead bullets slogged into living flesh, and
the ricochets screamed off the stone parapets, almost drowning the
clamour of the Dervish force.  Traversing back and forth the Gatling
scythed them down, piling heaps of corpses along the front of the wall.
Those who followed scrambled over them and grabbed at the barrels of
the rifles that aimed at them through the embrasures, trying to tear
the smoking weapons from the hands of the defenders on the far side of
the wall.  The soldiers thrust at them with their bayonets, screaming
with battle rage, and the Dervish screamed back at the agony of the
steel slicing deeply into their bodies.  Then the barrels of the
Gatling swung back and blew them away, like the khamsin wind.  The last
of the Dervish tumbled off the revetment, and lay in huddles or dragged
themselves through the black slick of the creek bed.

Sergeant Khaled straightened up and the gun fell silent.  His black
face was split with a white and ferocious grin, and his barrel chest
ran with rivers of sweat that gleamed in the green light of the
flares.

"Reload!"  Penrod shouted, as he filled the chambers of his own
revolver from the loops on his belt.  "Get ready for the next wave."

The loaders came running up with the ammunition buckets, and the shiny
copper-cased cartridges cascaded into the Gatling hopper.  Other
ammunition boys ran along the parapet, doling out paper packets of
Boxer-Henry ammunition to the riflemen.  The water-carriers followed
them, squirting water from the nozzles of the skins directly into the
parched mouths of the soldiers.

"Be ready for them.  They are not beaten.  They will come back through
the creek again."  Penrod moved down the parapet, talking to the men.
The trooper whose arm had been hacked off had died from loss of blood.
They laid his body against the rear wall and covered him with a
blanket.  Penrod started back towards the Gatling to bolster the
courage of Sergeant Khaled and his gunners, but as he passed the
doorway to his dugout he saw a small white face staring out at him.
"Amber!  I thought you had gone."

Now that she was discovered she decided to brazen it out.  "I knew you
didn't mean to send me away.  Anyway, it's too late now.  I have to
stay."

He was about to debate this point with her, but from the depths of the
creek bed rose the dread chorus of Dervish war cries.  The hordes
poured back in a flood that filled the creek from side to side.

Penrod drew the Webley from the holster on his belt and broke it open
to check that it was fully reloaded.  He snapped the breech closed.  "I
know you can use this.  I have seen you practising with your father."
He thrust the weapon, butt first, into her hands.  "Get back into the
dugout.  Climb under the bed.  Stay there until this is over.  Shoot
anybody who touches you.  This time do as you're told.  Go!"  He ran
back to the parapet.

Two hundred Egyptian riflemen did not wait for his command to reopen
fire.  The volleys crashed down into the creek bed, and the Gatling
ripped and rattled, a stream of spent cartridge cases spilling into a
glistening mound on the floor of the redoubt beneath its carriage.  A
succession of coloured flares burst high above the arena, illuminating
with garish light the Dervish struggling upwards through the reeking,
mud.  Their ranks were so closely packed that every bullet must strike.
Surely mortal men must break under such punishment, yet they came on,
clambering over the torn and twitching corpses of their comrades, their
multi-coloured jib has plastered with reeking black mud, never
wavering, each man trying to fight his way to the front rank of the
attack, scornful of death, eager to seek it out in the smoking muzzles
of the guns.

But there was a line at the foot of the wall across which even their
courage could not carry them.  The Gatling stopped them there, as
though they had reached a wall of glass, building up taller piles of
dead men.  Wave after wave of warriors came on to add their own corpses
to the growing heaps.  Swiftly the creek was transformed into a ghastly
charnel house.  Then, as the attack wavered, the Gatling fire ceased.

"Captain!  Stoppage!"  Sergeant Khaled yelled.  "The gun is jammed." As
the import of those words struck the Egyptian troopers, horror dawned
on their faces in the light of the flares.  As the full extent of this
disaster struck them their fire dwindled, stammered, and fell silent.
Even the Ansar in the creek were caught up in the spell.  A weird and
unnatural quiet fell over the battlefield, broken only by the groans
and cries of the wounded.  It lasted but a few seconds.

Then a single voice spoke.  "La il aha ill allah  There is but one
God!" It was a voice Penrod recognized.  He looked down into the grisly
creek bed and saw Osman Atalan in die first rank of the Dervish horde.
Their eyes locked.  Then the battle cry went up from hundreds of
throats and the attack swept forward again.  As though the wall of
glass that had contained them was shattered, they clawed their way up
the steep, treacherous bank of the creek towards the redoubt.

The heads of the Egyptian riflemen turned as they looked back to find a
line of retreat.  Penrod knew that gesture well.  He had seen it
before, on the terrible day when the square broke at El Obeid.  It was
the prelude to flight and rout.  "I will kill the first man who
breaks," he shouted, but one ignored him.

As he turned to run, Penrod stepped forward and thrust for his belly.
The long blade of his sabre slipped in as though it had been greased,
and the point sliced out through the back of the man's khaki tunic.  He
dropped to his knees, and clasped the blade of the sabre with his bare
hands.  Penrod pulled out the razor-sharp steel between his victim's
fingers, severing skin and flesh and sinew.  The man screamed and
toppled backwards.

"Stand your ground, and keep firing."  Penrod held high his blood-wet
blade.  "Or sing the same song as this cowardly creature."  They turned
back to the firing embrasures and poured their volleys down into the
mass of Dervish clambering up towards them.

Sergeant Khaled was hammering on the breech mechanism of the silent
Gatling with his bare fists, leaving the skin of his knuckles on the
sharp metal edges.  Penrod grabbed his shoulder and pulled him aside.
By the light of the flares he saw the crushed cartridge case jammed in
the jaws of one of the six cam-operated bolts.  It was a number-three
stoppage, the most difficult to clear.  There was a trick to it that
Penrod had learnt from hard experience.  He snatched the bayonet from
the sheath on Sergeant Khaled's belt and, with the point of the blade,
worked to prise open the jaws of the bolt.

The Dervish came up the walls, climbing like squirrels up the trunk of
an oak.  The Martini-Henry rifles fell silent as the attackers wriggled
through the embrasures and grappled hand to hand with those Egyptians
who had stood their ground.  The Gatling's bolt was still jammed
solidly.  Penrod glanced up: at that moment the fate of the city and
all its inhabitants hung on him.

One of the many myths that had built up around the image of General
Chinese Gordon was that his voice could carry above the din of any
battlefield.  Penrod heard it now in the uproar of this inevitable
disaster.  "Number-two gun, open fire."  Penrod had never expected to
welcome those harsh and hectoring tones.  They carried clearly across
from the secondary emplacement that Penrod had built in anticipation of
just such a moment as this.  His knees went weak with relief.  Then he
braced himself, and turned his mind back to the jammed gun.

Waiting, sleepless, on the glacis of the hospital fortifications,
Gordon had heard the opening volleys of the battle, and seen the rocket
flares sailing up from the harbour into the night sky.  He had roused
his gunners.  They limbered up the second Gatling and ran it through
the alleyways and byways of the city.  It took them eight and a half
minutes to reach the harbour and unlimber the Gatling in the empty
emplacement that had been prepared for it.  True to his nature, Gordon
had timed them.  He nodded approval and thrust the hunter back into his
pocket.

"Number-two gun, open fire," he grated, and the monstrous thunder of
the six rotating barrels smothered the frenzied war cries of the
Dervish.  A moving sheet of fire swept relentlessly across the
revetment, of the creek.  From this angle he caught them in left flank
and rear.  His fire tumbled them off the walls like ripe apples from a
wind-shaken tree.  Most lost their weapons in the fall.  Those who rose
to their feet again were hurled forward by the press of bodies still
surging up the creek, and were trapped against the footwall of the
fortifications.

"Back!  Go back!  It is over," shouted those in the forefront.

"Forward!"  screamed those coming up from the beach, "For God and His
Ever Victorious Mahdi!"  The creek became a massive log-jam of bodies
packed so tightly that even the dead were held upright by their
comrades.

Penrod could not witness all this taking place while he struggled with
the jammed bolt.  At last he forced the point of the bayonet behind the
lug of the cam and hammered on the hilt with his palm.  He ignored the
pain, and shouted at Sergeant Khaled, "Back up the crank!"  Khaled
heaved anti-clockwise on the handle, taking the pressure off the cam
and suddenly the lug flew back, with a clanging force that would have
taken off Penrod's thumb, had he not jerked it away.  The crushed and
deformed cartridge case flew clear.  As Khaled released the handle, the
next round dropped from the hopper and was fed smoothly into the
breech.  The bolt cocked with a sweet, almost musical clank.

"Number-one gun cocked and ready, Sergeant."  Penrod slapped Khaled on
the shoulder.  "Commence firing!"  Khaled stooped to the crank, and
Penrod himself took hold of the twin traverse handles and depressed the
barrels so they were aimed down into the struggling confusion of
mud-smeared Ansar.  The gun jumped, hammered and shook in Penrod's
hands.

Not even the bravest could withstand the combined fire of the two
Gatlings.  It rolled them back until they jammed in the portal of the
drain tunnel, then decimated their ranks, piling their bodies like
faggots of firewood on that narrow strip of beach.  As the survivors
staggered through the shallows towards the boats, the bullets kicked
foam from the surface around them.  When at last they clambered aboard,
the heavy bullets splintered the deck timbers and struck down the crew
cowering within the hulls.  Their blood dribbled out of the
bullet-holes and trickled down the outside of the hulls, like claret
spilt from the goblet of a drunkard.

With their cargoes of broken bodies on the decks, the dhows steered
back across the river in the first flush of day.  As the last pulled
out of the bight of the harbour the Gatlings ceased their dreadful
clangour.

The timid silence of the dawn was marred only by the lamentations of
the new widows across the river on the Omdurman bank.

Penrod stepped back from the Gatling, whose barrels glowed as though
they had been heated in a blacksmith's forge.  He looked around him
like someone awakening from nightmare.  He was not surprised to find
Yakub at his side.  "I saw Osman Atalan in the front rank of the enemy
host," he told him.

"I saw him also, lord."

"If he is still on this bank of the river, we must find him," Penrod
ordered.  "If he is alive, I want him.  If he is dead, his head shall
be sent to the Ever Victorious Mahdi.  It may discourage him and his
Ansar from another attack on the city."

Before he left the redoubt Penrod called to Sergeant Khaled, "See to
our wounded.  Get them to the hospital."  He knew how futile that would
be.  Both the Egyptian doctors had deserted from Gordon's regiment
months ago, but not before they had stolen and sold all the medical
supplies.  At the hospital building a few old Arab midwives still
treated the wounded with herbs and traditional potions.  He had heard
that Rebecca Benbrook had tried to teach some of the Sudanese women how
to take care of the wounded in a more orthodox fashion, but he knew
that she had no medical training.  She could do little more than
attempt to staunch bleeding, and make sure the wounded had clean boiled
water to drink, and extra rations of dhurra and green-cake.

Before the words were out of his mouth he heard a scream.  He glanced
in the direction it had come from and saw a woman dressed in black
robes bending over a wounded Dervish.  The Arab and Nubian women of the
city had an instinct for death and loot.  The first were arriving even
before the crows and the vultures.

The wounded Dervish wriggled and writhed as the woman prodded him into
position with the point of her little dagger.  Then, with an expert
stroke that started in his throat under the ear and raked forward, she
opened both his carotid and jugular arteries and hopped back so the
blood would not soak her skirts.  Long ago Penrod had learnt not to
interfere in this type of business.  Arab women were worse than the
men, and this one had made no attempt to conceal what she was about. He
turned away.  "Sergeant, I need prisoners for questioning.  Save as
many as you can."  Then he jerked his head to Yakub.  "Come, All-seeing
Yakub.  Let us seek the Emir Osman Atalan.  The last I saw of him, he
was on the beach trying to rally his men as they ran for the boats."

"Wait for me, Pen.  I am coming with you."  Amber had crept out of the
dugout.

Once again he had forgotten her presence.  Her hair was in tangled
disarray, her blue eyes were underscored with plum-coloured bruises,
and her yellow frock was filthy with smoke and dust.  The revolver was
too big for the hand that held it.  "Will I never get rid of you?  You
must go home, Amber," he said.  "This is no place for you, and it never
was."

"The streets are not safe," Amber argued.  "Not all the Dervish got
away in the boats.  I saw hundreds of them escaping that way."  She
waved the Webley in an indeterminate gesture over her shoulder.  "They
will be waiting to ravish me or cut my throat."  "Ravish' was one of
her new words, although she was uncertain of its meaning.

"Amber, there are corpses and dying men down there.  It's no place for
a young lady."

"I have seen dead men before," she said sweetly, 'and I am not a lady
yet, just a little girl.  I only feel safe with you."

Penrod laughed a little too harshly.  He always felt lightheaded and
detached from reality when fighting was over.

"Little girl?  In stature, perhaps.  But you have all the wiles of a
fully fledged member of your sex.  I am no match for you.  Come along,
then."

They slipped and slid down the bank into the creek.  The first rays of
the sun were gilding the minarets of the city, and the light improved
every minute.  Penrod and Yakub moved cautiously among the bullet-torn
bodies of the fallen Ansar.  Some were still alive, and Yakub leant
over one with his dagger poised.

"No!"  Penrod said sharply.

Yakub looked aggrieved.  "It would be merciful to help his poor soul
through the gates of Paradise."  But Penrod indicated Amber, and shook
his head again even more definitely.  Yakub shrugged and moved on.

Penrod was looking for Osman Atalan's green turban.  As he ducked out
under the stone arch of the tunnel on to the muddy beach, he picked it
out: it was on the head of a corpse floating face down in the lap and
wash of the wavelets at the edge of the bank.  Through the clinging
folds of the jibba he saw that the corpse was lean and athletic.  There
were two bullet-holes in its back.  The Gatling had inflicted massive
damage he could have thrust his fist into the holes.  A few fingerling
Nile perch worried the ragged tatters of raw meat that hung from the
wounds.  The end of the turban floated free, waving like a tendril of
seaweed in the wash of the current.  Osman Atalan's long dark hair was
entwined with the cloth.

Penrod felt his spirits plunge when only moments before he had been
intoxicated.  He felt cheated and angry.  There should have been more
to it than this.  He had sensed that he and Atalan were caught up
together in the ring of destiny.  This was no way for it to end.  There
was no satisfaction in finding his enemy floating like the carcass of a
pariah dog in a drainage creek with fish nibbling his flesh.

Penrod sheathed his sabre and went down on one knee beside the floating
body.  With a strangely respectful gesture he took the dead man's arm
and rolled the body face up in the shallows.  He stared at it in
astonishment.  This was an older, less noble face, with brutish brows,
thick lips and broken teeth stained by the smoke of the hashish pipe.

"Ostnan Atalan has escaped."  He spoke aloud in his relief.  He was
overtaken by a sense of prescience.  It was not over yet.  Fate had
linked him and Atalan, as a serpentine liana binds two great forest
trees to each other.  There was more to follow, much more.  He knew it
in his heart.

There was a soft sound behind him, but it did not alarm him.  He
thought it was either Yakub or Amber.  He went on studying the features
of the dead emir, until Amber screamed, "Pen!  Behind you!  Look out!"
She was some way to his right.  Even as he turned he knew it was not
her he had heard so close behind him.  And he knew he was too late.
Perhaps, after all, this was where it ended, on this strip of mud
beside the great river.

He completed the turn with his right hand on the hilt of his sabre,
rising from his knees, but he knew he could not regain his feet and
draw his sword in time.  He had only a fleeting glimpse of his
assassin.  The Dervish had been feigning death: it was one of their
tricks.  Coiled like a poisonous adder he had waited his moment. Penrod
had fallen into the trap: he had turned his back and sheathed his
sabre.  The Dervish had come to his feet with his broadsword drawn back
like a forester about to make the first cut on the trunk of a tree.
Now he swung all his wiry frame behind the stroke.  He was aiming a few
inches above the point of Penrod's left hip bone.

Penrod watched the massive silver blade looping towards him, but it
seemed that time had slowed.  He was like an insect trapped in a bowl
of honey, and his movements were sluggish.  He realized that the blade
would slice through the soft tissue of his midriff, until it struck his
spinal column just above the pelvic girdle.  That would not stop it.
The entire circumference of his body would offer as little resistance
as if it were the spongy stem of a banana tree.  This single stroke of
the blade would bisect him neatly.

The shot came from his right, a flat blurt of sound, the characteristic
report of the Webley .44.  Although he was not looking directly at her,
Penrod was aware of Amber's small shape at the periphery of his vision.
She was holding the weapon double-handed at the full reach of both her
arms, but the heavy recoil threw it high above her head.

The assassin was a young man with a thin, unkempt beard, his pockmarked
skin the colour of toffee.  Penrod was staring at his face as the heavy
Webley bullet struck him in the left temple and blasted through his
skull just behind the eyes.  It distorted his features as though they
were an india-rubber mask.  His lips twisted and elongated, and his
eyelids fluttered like the wings of butterflies.  His eyes bulged from
their sockets, and the bullet erupted from his right temple in a cloud
of bone chips and wet tissue.

Half-way through the sword stroke his fingers opened nervelessly and
the weapon flew from his grip.  It spun past Penrod's hip, missing it
by a hand-span, and cartwheeled away to peg point first into the muddy
bank.  The assassin took a step back before his legs folded and he
collapsed.

With his right hand on the hilt of his half-drawn sabre Penrod turned
to stare in amazement at Amber.  She dropped the revolver and burst
into sobs.  He went to her and picked up the Webley, thrust it into the
holster on his belt and buckled the flap.  Amber was sobbing as though
her heart was breaking.  She was shivering and her lips were quivering
wildly as she tried to tell him something.  He placed one arm round her
shoulders and the other behind her knees and lifted her as though she
were an infant.  She clung to him with both thin arms round his neck.

"That is absolutely enough for one day," he said gently.  "This time I
shall take you home myself."

Gordon was waiting for him in the Gatling redoubt as he came up the
bank.  "A fair night's work, Ballantyne.  The Mahdi will think once or
twice before he comes again, and the populace will be much heartened."
He lit a cigarette and his hand was steady.  "We will throw the Dervish
dead into the river, a floating warning to their comrades.  Perhaps
some may even be carried down through the gorge to our troops coming
upriver.  They will know that we are holding out.  It may encourage
them to a little more haste."  Now he glanced at Amber, who was still
weeping silently.  Her whole body shook with sobs, but the only sounds
were small gulps of breath.  "I will take command here.  You may escort
the young lady back to her family."

Penrod carried Amber into the street.  She was still weeping.  "Cry if
it makes you feel better," he whispered to her, 'but, by God, you are
as brave a little thing as any man I have known."  She stopped weeping
but her grip tightened round his neck.

By the time he handed her over to Rebecca and Nazeera Amber had cried
herself to sleep.  They had to prise her arms from round Penrod's
neck.

General Gordon used their little victory to counter the numbing despair
of the civilian inhabitants of the city.  He gathered up the corpses of
the enemy, two hundred and sixteen, laid them out in rows on the
harbour quay and invited the populace to view them.  The women spat
upon them, and the men kicked them and shouted abuse, calling down the
curse of Allah and condemning them to the fires and torments of hell.
They shouted with glee as the corpses were thrown into the river, where
the crocodiles snapped at them and dragged them below the surface.

Gordon posted official bulletins in every square and souk of the city,
announcing that the British relief columns were now in full march for
the city and would almost certainly arrive within days.  He also gave
them the joyous tidings that the Dervish were so disheartened by their
devastating defeat and the approach of the British columns that vast
numbers were deserting the black flag of the Mahdi and marching into
the desert to return to their tribal homelands.  It was true that there
was a large movement of Dervish troops on the enemy bank, but Gordon
knew that they were being sent northwards in battle array to oppose the
British relief columns.

More welcome bulletins announced that General Gordon had declared a
double ration of dhurra from the stock he was holding in the arsenal.
The same bulletin informed the people that the remaining stocks of
grain were more than sufficient to feed the city until the arrival of
the relief column.  It assured them that when the steamers docked in
the harbour they would off load thousands of sacks of grain.

That night Gordon lit bonfires on the maid an  The band played until
midnight, and the night sky was lit up again by rockets and coloured
flares.

Early the following morning he called a more sombre meeting in his
headquarters.  There were only two other participants: David Benbrook
and Penrod Ballantyne.

Gordon looked at Penrod first.  "You have drawn up the latest inventory
of the grain stocks?"

"It did not take long, sir.  At ten o'clock last night there were four
thousand nine hundred and sixty sacks remaining.  Yesterday's issue of
double rations expended five hundred and sixty-two.  At the present
rate of consumption, we have sufficient dhurra for another fifteen
days."

"In three days I will be forced to halve the ration again," Gordon
said, 'but this is not the time to tell the people."

David looked shocked.  "But, General, surely the relief column will be
here in two weeks.  Your own bulletins gave that assurance."

"I have to protect the people from the truth," Gordon replied.

"What, then, is the truth?"  David demanded.

Gordon contemplated the ash on his cigarette before he replied.  "The
truth, sir?  The truth is not a monolith cast in iron.  It is like a
cloud in the sky, constantly changing shape.  From every direction that
one views it, it offers a different aspect."

"That description has great literary value, I have no doubt, but in
this situation it is of little help."  David smiled bleakly.  "When can
we expect the relief column to reach us?"

"The information I am about to disclose to you must not go beyond the
four walls of this room."

"I understand."

"Six Dervish were taken prisoner at the harbour."

"I thought there would have been more."  David frowned.

"There were."  Gordon shrugged.  David knew better than to pursue the
subject.  This was the Orient where different standards prevailed.
Interrogation under torture fell within those standards.  "The six
prisoners were questioned by my Sergeant Khaled.  We obtained much
useful intelligence, none of it reassuring.  The steamers of the River
Division seem to have been delayed at Korti."

"Good Lord!  They should have been at Abu Hamed by now," David
exclaimed.  "What on earth is holding them back?"

"We do not know, and speculation is vain."

"What of the Desert Division under Stewart?"

"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."

She let her dress fall round her ankles, and reached for the crepe'
de-Chine gown.  Before she slipped it on she looked at her reflection
in the mirror.  Then, on an impulse, she crossed the bedroom and locked
the door.  She had sent Nazeera away, but she did not want her to
return unexpectedly.  As she went back to the mirror she pushed the
straps of her shift off her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor
beside her dress.  She looked at her naked body in the mirror.  Her
ribs showed beneath her white skin, and her pelvic bones stood proud.
Her belly was concave as that of a greyhound.  She touched her breasts.
Nazeera said that men did not like small breasts.  "Are they too
small?"

Then she remembered the feel of his lips upon them, the brush of his
moustache and the sharpness of his teeth.  As she stared, the tips
swelled and darkened with heat.  Suddenly she was aware of that wetness
again, hot as blood, spreading slowly down the inside of her thighs.
From her breasts her fingertips traced downwards, but as they brushed
the gossamer cloud of golden hair at the base of her hollow belly, she
jerked her hand away.  "I shall never do that again," she told
herself.

She reached for the gown, and belted it round her waist.  She looked at
the balcony door.  "I should not go out there.  I should blow out the
lamp and go to bed."  She moved slowly across the floor and hesitated
at the door.  "This is silly and dangerous.  Heaven knows where it will
lead.  I only pray that he is not there."

She placed her hand on the door handle and drew a deep breath as though
she was about to plunge into an icy pool.  She turned the handle and
stepped out on to the balcony.  Her eyes turned instantly to the base
of the tamarind.

He was there, leaning against the trunk.  He straightened and looked up
at her.  His face was in shadow and she stepped to the edge of the
balcony to see him more clearly.  They stood very quietly, staring at
each other.  Rebecca felt as though she might suffocate.  Every breath
was an effort.  Her skin was hot and sensitive.  Her whole body was on
the rack, every nerve stretched to breaking point.  The long sinews
down the inside of her thighs were drawn tight as whipcord.  She turned
her head and gazed at a branch of the tamarind.  It curled out from the
trunk like a python, thick as her waist, and hung over the edge of the
balcony beside where she stood.  The twins used it as a ladder and a
swing.  The bark was lightly polished where they had slid along it. Now
she laid one hand on it and looked down again at Penrod.

"I am not enticing him," she told herself firmly.  "This is not an
invitation.  He must not think that it is."

He went to the base of the tree, and began to climb upwards.  No!  she
thought.  He must not do that!  I did not mean that!

She was alarmed by the rapidity with which he came up towards her.  He
reached the bough, and instead of sliding along it in an ungainly
manner, with his legs dangling on either side, he stood up and ran
lightly along it as though it were a gangplank.  He was twenty feet
above the ground, and she was terrified that he might slip.  She was
even more frightened that he would reach the balcony safely and what
then?

She ran back into her bedroom, and closed the door behind her.  She
reached for the latch to lock it but her fingers disobeyed her.  She
backed away from the door into the centre of the floor.  She heard his
footstep on the balcony and her breathing came faster.  The door handle
turned and her fists clenched at her sides.  She wanted to call to him
to go away and leave her alone.  But no sound passed her lips.

He pushed open the door very slowly, and she wanted to scream.  But her
father was in the room across the landing and the twins' room was even
closer.  She did not want to wake them.

Penrod stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind him.  She
stared at him, huge startled eyes in a thin pale face.  He came to her
slowly, with one hand outstretched as though to calm an unbroken filly.
She began to tremble.

He touched her cheek.  "You are very lovely," he whispered, and she
thought she might burst into tears.  He placed both hands on her
shoulders, and she stood rigid.  He leant gently towards her.  She
could not tear her eyes from his: they were green in the lamplight,
with golden flecks and stars round the iris.  Lightly his mouth touched
hers.  His lips were hot and smooth.  His hands slid down from her
shoulders and settled on her waist.  Her arms hung at her sides like
those of a rag doll.  He drew her towards him, and she was unresisting.
His lips opened on hers, and the taste and smell of him overwhelmed
her.  His tongue forced her lips apart, and she lifted her arms from
her sides and wound them round his neck.  He pulled her harder, almost
roughly, against his body.  She felt that massive hardness growing up
again between their lower bodies.  Her own wetness welled up like a
spring from deep inside her, and she clenched her thighs and buttocks
to stop it overflowing, but it flooded creamily down her thighs.

He swayed back, and she felt deprived as the contact between them was
broken.  She tried to follow his body with her own.  He untied her belt
and opened her gown.  She tried half-heartedly to cover herself but he
held her wrists, and studied her pale body with a rapt expression. "You
are lovely beyond the telling of it," he murmured, and his tone was
husky.

Her shyness evaporated in the warmth of his praise, and instinctively
she pulled back her shoulders.  Her breasts were pert and pointed.  She
saw by his eyes that he did not consider them too small.  Her nipples
felt pebble hard.  She wanted desperately to feel his mouth on them
again.  She was possessed by utter wantonness.  She reached up and took
a double handful of the dense springing hair at the back of his head,
twisted her fingers in his curls and drew his face down.

She gasped as his mouth closed on hers.  She would never have believed
the plethora of sensations that followed from such a simple act.  His
breath on her skin was alternately cool and warm as he inhaled and
exhaled, his lips at first firm and dry, then soft and moist.  His
tongue squirmed like an eel, then lapped like a cat at a saucer of
cream.  He suckled on her, tugging and biting, and she felt the
sensation repeated like an echo deep inside her.

When she reached the threshold of pain, he broke off suddenly, lifted
her and carried her to her bed.  He laid her on it as though she were
something fragile and precious, then stepped back.  He unbuttoned the
front of his shirt, turned to the lamp on her dressing-table, cupped
his hand behind the glass chimney and drew a breath to blow out the
flame.

She sat up quickly.  "No!"  she said sharply.  "Don't blow it out.  You
have seen me, and now I must see you."  She could not believe that she
had spoken so brazenly.  He came back and stood over her.  Without
haste he stripped off his shirt.  His skin was ivory smooth and
unblemished where it had been protected from the sun.  The muscles of
his chest were hard and flat, forged by swordplay and hard riding.  He
stood on one leg to pull off his boot, and his balance was rock steady.
He laid the boot aside, careful not to drop it, and she was grateful
for his consideration.  He did the same with the second boot.  Then he
unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his breeches.  She had seen him
naked once before, and she had believed that the image would remain
with her for ever.  But she had not seen him like this.  She bit her
lip to prevent herself crying out with shock.  He came on to her bed
and knelt over her.  "Please don't hurt me," she begged.

"I would die first," he said.  She whimpered as she felt him at the
threshold of her being.  She thought that something must tear or give
way and she braced herself for the agony.  She felt a wall of
resistance within her.

This cannot be happening, she thought, but she was suddenly reckless of
any consequences.  She pushed up hard with her hips to meet him, and
she felt him break through.  The pain was sharp but transitory.  He
glided on and on into her, until he had filled her to her very depths.
The pain fell away, and she was carried out over the void, terrified at
first, then soaring upwards as though she scaled a mighty mountain
range.  When she reached the peak, the need to scream out her triumph
was so powerful that she pressed her open mouth into the hollow of his
neck to gag herself.

"Stay with me," she pleaded, as, later, he rose to dress.  "Don't leave
me so soon."

"You know I cannot stay.  It is late.  Dawn is close, and the household
will begin to stir."

"When are you going away?"

He paused in the act of buttoning his shirt.  "Who told you that I am
going away?"  he demanded sharply.  She shook her head.  "That is
dangerous knowledge, Becky.  If the enemy find out it could cost my
life, and worse besides."

"I will not tell another soul," she said miserably.  "But I shall miss
you."  She wanted his reassurance that he would return.  Papa had said,
"Ships in the night, all of them, I'm afraid.  One can not rely on
them."  She did not want it to be like that.

He did not reply, but shrugged on his khaki tunic.

"Promise me you will come back," she pleaded.  He stooped over her bed
and kissed her lips.  "Promise me," she insisted.

"I never make promises I may not be able to keep," he said, and then he
was gone.

She felt tears close to the surface, but she forced them back.  "I will
never be a whiner or a weeper," she promised herself.  Despite her
bursting heart, sleep came down on her like a dark avalanche.

She woke to the sound of guns, but the shells were bursting near the
harbour, where the attack had been beaten off.  The Dervish were
venting their spite.  Her bedroom curtains were wide open, and sunlight
streamed in.

Nazeera was fussing ostentatiously around the room.  "It is after
eight, Jamal.  The twins have been gone two hours," she said, as
Rebecca raised her head sleepily from the pillow.  "I have filled two
buckets of hot water, and laid out your blue skirt."

Rebecca was still half asleep as she slipped out from under the sheet.
Nazeera stared at her in astonishment, and she tried to brazen it out:
"Oh, Nazeera, you look as though you were frightened by a jinnee.  How
many times have you seen me naked?"  She ran to the bathroom and poured
one of the steaming buckets of water into the galvanized hip bath.

Nazeera gazed after her, then pursed her lips.  She pulled back the
bedclothes and started with alarm.  There was a patch of dried blood on
the under sheet  Nazeera knew at once that this was not menstrual
issue: al-Jamal had seen her moon only twelve days before and it was
too soon for it to rise again.  This blood was bright and pure and
virginal.

Oh, my baby, my little girl, you have made the crossing, and now you
stand on a strange and dangerous new shore.  She bent closer to the bed
to scry the omen.  The stain was no larger than her spread hand, but it
was shaped like a bird in flight.

A vulture?  That was an evil omen, the bird of death and suffering. No.
She thrust away the thought.  A gentle dove?  A falcon, cruel and
beautiful?  A wise old owl?  Only the future will tell us, she decided,
and gathered up the sheet.  She would wash it with her own hands, in
secret.  No other must be allowed to see this marking.  Then she
stopped, for she sensed that al-Jamal was watching her through the open
bathroom door.

She dropped the bundled sheet on the floor and went through to her. She
knelt beside the bath and picked up the loofah.  There was no soap they
had finished the last bar a week ago.  Rebecca held her hair on top of
her neck, and leant forward.  Nazeera began the familiar ritual of
scrubbing her back.

After a while she whispered her question: "Which one was it, Jamal?"

"I don't understand what you are asking."  Rebecca would not look at
her face.

"Who climbed the tamarind tree last night?"  But Rebecca pretended she
had water in her eyes, and covered them with both hands.

"It could not have been Abadan Riji, the pretty soldier.  He has
another woman," Nazeera said.

Rebecca lowered her hands and stared at her.  "You are a liar," she
said softly, but with deadly ferocity.  "That is a cruel and hurtful
lie."

"So it was the soldier.  I wish it had been the other, who might bring
you happiness.  The soldier never will."

"I love him, Nazeera.  Please understand that."

"So does she.  Her name is Bakhita."

"No!"  Rebecca covered her ears.  "I don't want to hear this."

Nazeera was silent.  She took Rebecca's arm and ran the loofah over it.
When she came to her fingers she separated them and washed them one at
a time.

"Bakhita is an Arabic name," Rebecca blurted at last, but Nazeera
remained silent.  "Answer me!"  Rebecca insisted.

"You did not want to hear."

"You are torturing me.  Is she an Arab?  Is she very beautiful?  Does
he love her?"

"She is of my people and my God," Nazeera answered.  "I have never seen
her, but men say she is very beautiful, and rich and clever.  As to
whether he loves her or not, that I do not know.  Can a man like Abadan
Riji ever love a woman in the same way that she loves him?"

"He is an Englishman and she is Arab."  Rebecca whispered.  "How can
she love him?"

"He is a man and she is a woman before all else.  That is how she can
love him."

"Nazeera, an hour ago I was happy.  Now happiness has flown away."

"Perhaps it is best that you are unhappy for today rather than unhappy
for the rest of your life," Nazeera said sadly.  "That is why I have
told you these things."

Two hours after the beginning of curfew the four men left the city.
Penrod and Yakub wore turbans and Ansar jib has for they would be
riding north through the Dervish lines.  Ryder and Bacheet wore simple
galabiyyas, like common tribesmen, for they would return to the city.

Despite their outfits they were unchallenged as they crossed the canal
behind Ryder Courtney's compound.  The guard had been warned to let
them pass.  They were all heavily laden with weapons and woven sisal
bags as they struck out into the desert.  None spoke and they moved
warily, keeping well separated but in sight of each other.

Bacheet led the way.  He never slackened his pace even when the sand
was ankle deep.  They walked for two hours before they climbed a bank
of shale that was frosty pale in the glimmer of the moon.  One of the
wadis that was carved out of the far side was filled with a dark
amorphous mass of thorny scrub.  There Bacheet paused and lowered his
burden to the ground.  He spoke a few quiet words to Ryder Courtney.
Ryder handed him a leather bag of Maria Theresa dollars, and Bacheet
-went forward alone.  The other three squatted to wait.  In the
distance they heard Bacheet utter the lonely haunted cry of a courser,
the nocturnal plover of the desert.  The call was answered from the
wadi.

"So al-Mahtoum is here.  He is a good man.  I can rely on him," Ryder
said, with satisfaction.

"Let us go to join them."  Penrod Ballantyne stood up impatiently.

"Sit down," Ryder ordered.  "Bacheet will come to fetch us.  Al-Mahtoum
will not allow a stranger to see his face.  He lives a dangerous
existence.  When he has handed over the camels to Bacheet he will
disappear back into the desert like a fox."

An hour later the courser cried again, and Ryder stood up.  "Now," he
said, and led Penrod and Yakub forward.  There were four camels couched
among the scrub.  Bacheet squatted beside them but al-Mahtoum was gone.
Penrod and Yakub went to each of them to check their tack and their
loads.  There were dhurra loaves and dried dates in the food bags and
one of the animals was loaded with camel fodder.  The waterskins were
less than a quarter filled.

Penrod remarked on this.

"Al-Mahtoum expects you to fill them at the river crossing.  No sense
in carrying more than you need.  You should reach the Nile at Gutrahn
before midnight tomorrow.  Don't try to cross sooner.  The Dervish are
thick as tsetse flies this side of Gutrahn."

Penrod replied tartly: "Yakub and I have travelled this road before,
but thank you for your excellent advice."  He went from one beast to
the next, slapping their humps.  They were plumped up with fat.  Next
he checked their limbs, running his hands down shoulder and haunch to
the fetlock.  "Sound," he said.  "They are in good condition."

"They don't come any sounder," Ryder said bitterly.  "These are gimal,
the finest racing camels.  They are worth fifty pounds each stolen from
me by your warlord Chinese Gordon."

"I will treat them like my own children," Penrod promised.

"I am sure you will," Ryder said, 'although those who call you the
Camel Killer, and they are legion, might have difficulty believing
you."

Penrod and Yakub mounted up, and Penrod gave Ryder an ironic salute
with the goad.  "I shall give your respects to the ladies at the Long
Bar in the Gheziera Club."  He knew that Ryder was not a member.  It
was another little burr in the rough texture of their relationship.

Yet Ryder was not particularly pleased to see him go.  Penrod

Ballantyne was never dull.  He and Bacheet watched the little caravan
meld with the night.

Bacheet grunted and spat.  It was apparent that he did not share his
master's feelings.  "The two of them ride together because they are
both rogues and lechers, almost as quick with knife and gun as they are
with their meat prods."

Ryder laughed.  "You should rejoice that Yakub has gone.  Perhaps you
will now be able to enjoy a little more of Nazeera's company."  He
swung the sling of his rifle over his shoulder.

"You should be equally grateful to see their backs," Bacheet's tone was
astringent, 'although the leopard has already been in the goat kraal,
or so I have heard."

Ryder stopped in his tracks and tried to fathom Bacheet's expression in
the starlight.  "What leopard, and whose goats?"

"Yesterday morning Nazeera changed the linen in the palace bedrooms.
She had to wash one set in cold water."  It was an oblique reference,
but Ryder understood it.  Hot water removes most stains, but not blood.
For that, one used cold water.

They did not speak again until they had crossed the canal into the
city.  Ryder was still filled with disbelief and betrayal as he entered
his compound and went to his private quarters.  Of course he knew of
Penrod Ballantyne's reputation as a lady-killer, but Rebecca Benbrook?
Surely not.  She was a young girl of excellent family and strict
upbringing.  His respect and affection for her had led him to expect
certain standards of her, those a man might look for in his future
wife.

Bacheet and Nazeera are notorious gossips I do not believe it.  Then,
suddenly, he remembered an observation his elder brother, Waite, had
once made: "The colonel's lady and Katie O'Grady are both women under
the skin.  In certain circumstances both think with their organs of
generation, instead of their brains."  Ryder had laughed at the time,
but now it sickened him.

He did not feel better until he had shaved and drunk two large mugs of
black coffee, almost the last of his hoarded supply.  Even then when he
sat down at his desk, he found it difficult to concentrate on his
ledgers.  The most lurid and disquieting images kept forming in his
mind.  It was with relief that he made the final entry in his journal,
closed the heavy leather bound book and went out to begin his morning
rounds of the compound.

As he stepped into the animal enclosure, Saffron ran to meet him.  She
had Lucy the monkey on her shoulder.  Unperturbed the remaining infant
was clinging to Lucy's belly fluff with all four paws and suckling
busily.  Lucy had lost the other to a disease that not even AH had been
able to cure.  Saffron skipped along beside him, blissfully relating
every shred of information and gem of wisdom that Ali had shared with
her that morning.

"Victoria is scouring," she informed him.

"Are we discussing the female bongo, or the Queen of England and
Empress of India?"  Ryder asked.

"Oh, don't be silly!  You know exactly who I mean."  Saffron laughed.
"Ali says that the acacia leaves do not agree with her.  He and I are
going to dose her as soon as he has brewed his medicine.  It's what he
uses for the horses."

Ryder felt his dark mood lift a little.  Saffron's company was always
healing and distracting.  "Why aren't you helping Amber in the
green-cake kitchens?"  he asked, as they came to the last cages.

"My sister is a bore, so bossy and overbearing.  She hasn't been here
for weeks and today she appears and gives orders as though she was a
duchess."

They walked between the ranks of Sudanese women who were crushing the
bundles of fresh greenery in the wooden stamp pots.  Ryder greeted most
by name and asked a question, which demonstrated his interest and
concern for them.  They giggled in gratification.  Some of the younger
girls were openly saucy and flirtatious for Ryder was a great favourite
among them.  He knew that the way to get the best out of his people was
to make certain they liked him.  Saffron took part in the banter with
the women, for she shared their sense of fun and they enjoyed her
sparkle.  High spirits were rare in the city, where terror and
starvation had turned the populace into wild animals.  We have the
green-cake to thank for that.  It keeps all of us healthy and human,
thought Ryder.

He tried not to show it but he was eager to get to the inner enclosure
where the smoke was rising from the line of three-legged cauldrons.
When they reached it they found Rebecca, Amber and five Arab girls
weighing and packing the loaves of green-cake into woven baskets for
distribution to those who needed it most.  This was not easy to decide,
for there was not nearly enough to go round.  Rebecca was reading the
scale and Amber was writing down the results as her elder sister called
them out.

"This is our best day ever, Ryder.  One hundred and thirty-eight
pounds," Amber announced with pride, as he came up.

"Excellent.  You ladies have done wonderfully well."  Ryder turned to
Rebecca.  She wore long skirts and a wide-brimmed straw hat, for the
sun was already high and hot.

"Miss Benbrook, I hope I find you well?"  He could see that she had
lost more weight.  He was sure he would be able to encircle her waist
with his hands.  But the thought of touching her made him uneasy, and
he shifted from one foot to the other.

She gave him the first direct smile since their indiscreet behaviour
had been discovered, but it lacked her usual sparkle and verve.  She
seemed depressed and subdued.  "Thank you, Mr.  Courtney.  For a while
I was unwell but I am now fully recovered."  They exchanged a few more
stilted pleasantries, while Saffron pouted because she had lost Ryder's
attention.

"If you will excuse us we should get back to work."  Rebecca ended the
conversation.  "Amber, we have finished with the scale and you may take
it back to the shed.  Saffron, you are killing Lucy and her baby with
love.  Go and put them back into their cage.  We need your help
here."

Saffron pulled a face but went to do as she was told leaving Ryder and
Rebecca alone.

"You are wearing Arab dress," Rebecca remarked.  "That is unusual, is
it not?"

"Not at all," Ryder replied.  "I always wear it when I travel in the
desert.  It is cooler and more practical for riding and walking.  Also,
my people prefer me to do so.  It makes me seem one of them, and less a
stranger."

"Oh?  I thought it was because you and Bacheet went out to find camels
for Captain Ballantyne and Yakub."

"Who told you that?"

"For me to know and you to find out."

"Nazeera's a chatterbox.  You should not pay attention to everything
she tells you."

"You are jumping to conclusions, Mr.  Courtney.  However, I have always
found Nazeera's information highly reliable," she replied.

If only you knew Nazeera's latest bulletin, he thought, but she went
on, "Tell me, sir, did Captain Ballantyne get away safely?"

It was a direct question to which she obviously knew the answer.  Ryder
considered it carefully.  It occurred to him that Penrod's departure
had left the field clear for him, On the other hand did he really want
the pretty soldier-boy's discarded toy?

"Well, did he?"  Rebecca insisted on a reply.  "It is of no interest to
me, but Nazeera will want to know about Yakub.  He is her particular
friend."

Ryder grimaced at her delicate description of their relationship.  Did
Rebecca think of the soldier-boy as her particular friend, he wondered.
"I don't think that we should discuss military matters that relate to
the safety of the city," he said at last.

"Oh, la, Mr.  Courtney!  I am not a spy for the Mahdi.  If you don't
tell me I shall simply ask my father.  However, I thought you might
save me the trouble."

"Very well.  I cannot see any pressing reason why you should not know.
Captain Ballantyne left a little after midnight.  He and Yakub are
heading north, and in all probability will cross the Blue Nile tonight.
They plan to join up with the Mahdist army that is moving north along
the river towards Abu Hamed."

Rebecca paled.  "They plan to travel in company with the Dervish?  That
is madness."

"It is known as hiding in full view.  They will conceal themselves
among the host," he assured her.  "You need not worry, Captain
Ballantyne is adept at disguise.  He can change like a veritable
chameleon."  And he thought, She can take that as a warning, if she
wishes.

"Oh, I am not worried, I assure you, Captain."  The lie was
transparent: she looked as though she might burst into tears.

There is no doubt now that Nazeera was telling the truth, and that
Ballantyne has made her his doxy, but what of it?  Ryder reflected. She
was never mine, and I don't love her at least, not now that she is
spoilt fruit.  Even in his own ears that did not ring true.  He tried
to be more honest with himself.  Do I love her?  But he did not want to
face that question four square.

"I will leave you to your labours, Miss Benbrook," he murmured, and
turned towards the door of the shed.  "Amber!"  he exclaimed.  He and
Rebecca had been so caught up in their own conversation that neither
had noticed she had returned.

"How long have you been listening?"  Rebecca demanded.

Instead of answering Amber asked, "Are the Dervish going to catch
Penrod?"

"Of course not.  Don't be silly!"  Rebecca turned on her.  Both sisters
were close to tears, "Anyway you should not eavesdrop on other people,
and you should not refer to Captain Ballantyne as Penrod.  Now, come
and help me to get the cauldrons filled again."

Amber pushed past her and fled through the gates of the compound and
back through the streets towards the consular palace.

Poor little thing, thought Ryder, but there are difficult days ahead
for all of us.

Early each morning, the minute the bells of the old Catholic mission
had tolled the end of curfew, the women of the city streamed from the
ruins, huts and hovels and scurried to the arsenal for the daily
distribution of grain.  By the time the gates opened several thousand
were waiting in a line that stretched almost as far as the harbour.  It
was an agglomeration of misery.  Starvation and disease, those dread
horsemen, rode so rampantly through every quarter of the city that all
cowered beneath their lash.  Each of these poor ruined creatures, gaunt
and ragged, some barely able to totter along, infants strapped to their
backs or sucking vainly on their empty, withered dugs, clutched a
battered dish and the tattered ration booklets issued by General
Gordon's secretariat.

At the arsenal gates an Egyptian captain was in charge, with twenty men
under his command.  The dhurra sacks were dragged out one at a time
from the granary.  None of the citizens were allowed to enter the
gates.  Gordon did not want the populace to see for themselves how
perilously low the stocks had fallen.

As each woman reached the head of the line, a sergeant examined her
booklet to make sure it had not been forged.  When he was satisfied he
scribbled the date and his signature.  The day's ration for her family
was doled out into her dish with a wooden scoop.  Two masters-at-arms,
with clubs, stood ready on each side of the gates to discourage any
argument or disturbance.  This morning an additional twenty armed
troopers were drawn up in a double rank on each side of the gates.
Their bayonets were fixed, their expressions grim and businesslike. The
women knew from bitter experience what this show of force presaged.
They became restless and rowdy, bickering spitefully, jostling each
other.  The children sensed the tension and were fretful.

When General Gordon came striding down the street from the fort towards
the gates, the women held up their children to show him their bruised,
distorted features, the skeletal semi-paralysed limbs, and how their
hair had turned to a sparse reddish fuzz, all sure signs of starvation,
scurvy and beri-beri.

Gordon ignored these marks of affliction, the curses and supplications
of the mothers, and took his place at the head of the squad.  He nodded
to the captain to proceed.  The young officer unrolled the
proclamation, which had been run off on the consulate printing press,
and began to read it: "I, General Charles George Gordon, by the
authority vested in me by the Khedive of Egypt as Governor of the
province of Kordofan and the city of Khartoum, do hereby proclaim that,
with immediate effect, the daily ration of grain issued to each citizen
of the city of Khartoum shall be reduced to the volume of thirty
decilitres per diem--' The officer could get no further: his voice was
drowned by jeers and screams of protest.  The crowd pulsed and seethed
like a black jellyfish, the women shaking their fists and waving their
arms over their heads.

Gordon gave a sharp order.  The troopers lowered their bayonets to
present a bristling steel hedge to the advancing mob.  The women spat,
shrieked and hammered on the metal dishes they carried as though they
were drums.  The captain drew his sword: "Back!  Get back, all of
you!"

This infuriated them further.

"You want us to starve!  We will open the city gates!  If the Khedive
and Gordon Pasha cannot feed our children, we will throw ourselves on
the mercy of the Mahdi."

The women in the front rank seized the blades of the bayonets, and held
them in bloody hands, forcing the troopers back.

Gordon gave a quiet command to the young captain.  There was a clash of
breech-blocks as the troopers loaded their rifles.  "Company .  present
arms, aim!"  The troopers looked over the iron sights into the
contorted faces of the mob.  "Fire!"

The rifles crashed out, aimed carefully over the women's heads.  Black
powder smoke enveloped them in a dense cloud and, stunned, they reeled
back a few paces.

"Reload."  The crowd wavered before the menace of the levelled rifles,
but then a new sound erupted.  The women had begun the high-pitched
ululation that goaded and inflamed the passions of the mob.

"Throw open the granary!  Give us full ration!"

"Feed us!"  they screamed, but the soldiers stood firm.

One woman picked up half a brick from a shell-damaged wall and hurled
it at the front rank of riflemen.  It did no damage, but provoked the
rest to rush to the wall and grab bricks, stones and shards of pottery.
The mob was transformed.  It was no longer a gathering of human beings
but a single monstrous organism, mindless amoeba of violence and
destruction.

The stones and bricks flew into the thin ranks of troops.  The young
captain was struck full in the face.  The red fez flew from his head,
he dropped his sword and sank to his knees.  He spat out a tooth and
his mouth ran with blood.  The women rushed forward, trying to reach
the open grain sack, trampling the captain.

Gordon stepped into his place.  The women saw his blazing blue eyes.
"Devil eyes!"  shrieked those in front.  "Shaitan!  Kill him!"

"Give us bread for the children!  Give us food!"

The bricks clattered among the soldiers.  Another man fell.

"Aim!"  Gordon's voice carried, clear as a trumpet call.  "One round.
Fire!"

The volley smashed into the mob at point-blank range, they went down
before it and lay squealing like pigs in the abattoir.  Those still on
their feet wavered, and the ringleaders tried to rally them.

"Bayonets!"  Gordon called.  "Forward!"  They stepped out briskly, the
bright blades levelled and the mob shrank back, then turned on itself
and broke.  They dropped their stones and bricks, threw aside their
dishes and ran back into the alleys.

Gordon halted his men and marched them back into the arsenal.  As the
gates closed behind them, the survivors crept out from their
hiding-places in the warren of slums.  They came to find their dead,
their wounded and their lost children.  At first they were timid and
terrified, but then one woman picked up a fist-sized stone and flung it
against the barred gates of the arsenal.  "The soldiers are fat, their
bellies stuffed full.  When we beg for food they shoot us down like
dogs."  She was a tall bony harridan, dressed all in black.  She stood
before the gates and raised both skinny arms towards the sky.  "I call
on Allah to smite them with the pestilence and the cholera.  Let them
eat the flesh of toads and vultures, as we are forced to do!"  Her
voice was a high-pitched shriek.

The other women thronged to her.  They began to ululate again, rolling
their tongues so that their spittle flew as they emitted that terrible
keening sound.

"The Franks also have food," screeched the woman in black.  "They gorge
like pashas in their palaces."

"The compound of al-Sakhawi, the infidel, is filled with fat beasts.
His storerooms are piled high with sacks of grain."

"Give us food for our babies!"

"Shaitan is the ally of al-Sakhawi.  He has taught him witchcraft. From
grass and thorn he has taught him to make the Devil's manna.  His
people feast upon it."

"Destroy the nest of Shaitan!"

"We are the children of Allah.  Why should the infidel feast while our
babies starve and die?"

The crowd wavered uncertainly, and the black-clad woman took charge.
She ran to the head of the street that led to the hospital and beyond
it to the compound of Ryder Courtney.  "Follow me!  I will show you
where to find food."  She broke into a shuffling dance, bobbing and
ululating, and the crowd streamed after her, filling the narrow street
from side to side with a dancing, keening flood of humanity.

The men heard the uproar and came out of their hiding-places among the
ruins.  The ululating of the women maddened them.  Those who carried
weapons brandished them.  They joined the turbulent dancing procession,
and burst into the war songs of the fighting tribes.  Ryder and Jock
McCrump were in the main workshop.  They had suffered many setbacks.
This was the third time in as many months that they had been forced to
remove the this's engine from the hull and painstakingly reweld the
steam lines.  Then they had discovered that the main drive-shaft
bearings had also been damaged, and were knocking noisily at even
moderate revolutions.  Jock had made replacements: from a solid block
of metal he had forged and filed the half-shells by hand.  It was a
monumental exhibition of skill and patience.  At long last, after all
these months of meticulous labour, the repairs were complete.  Now they
were putting it all together for a final check before they transported
it to the harbour for installation in the steamer's engine room.

"Well, now, skipper, I think this time we've got it right."  Jock stood
back with black grease to the elbows and his few remaining hairs
plastered to his scalp with sweat.  "This time I think the old this
will be able to carry us out of this God-forsaken hell-hole.  There is
a shebeen in Aswan run by a lass from Glasgow, a lady of my
acquaintance.  She sells genuine malt from the Isle of Islay.  I would
fain have the taste of it on my tongue again.  It is the true nectar of
the Almighty, and that's no blasphemy, mind."

"I will buy the first round," Ryder promised.

"And the rest," Jock told him.  "You havenae paid me this year past."

Ryder was about to protest the injustice of this accusation but he
heard racing footsteps coming across the compound and Saffron's
breathless squeaks: "Ryder!  Come quickly."

Ryder stepped to the doorway.  "What is it, Saffron?"

She was holding her skirts high and her hat was hanging down her back
on its ribbon.  Her face was flushed scarlet.  "Something terrible is
happening.  Rebecca has sent me to call you.  Hurry!"  She grabbed his
hand and pulled him with her.  They ran towards the cauldron yard.

"Can you hear it?"  Saffron stopped and held up her hand.  "Now, can
you hear?"  It was faint babble and murmur, like wind in trees or a
distant waterfall.

"Yes, but what is it?"

"Our women say it's a huge crowd of the people.  They are coming from
the arsenal.  Our women say that the grain rations have been cut again,
and there is going to be terrible trouble.  They are terrified, and
they are running away."

"Saffron, go and fetch Rebecca and Amber."

"Amber is not here.  She is sulking in the palace.  She has not come
back since she heard that Captain Ballantyne had gone away."

"Good.  She will be safe there.  Let the women go if they want to.
Bring Rebecca, Nazeera and any others who want to stay to the
blockhouse.  You know how to shutter the windows and bar the doors. You
also know where the rifles are kept.  You and Rebecca arm yourselves.
Wait for me there."

"Where are you going?"

"To call the men.  That's enough questions.  Now, run!"

It was for just this sort of trouble that Ryder had fortified the
compound.  The walls were high and solid and the tops were lined with
shards of broken glass.  He had designed the interior of the compound
as a series of courtyards, each of which could be defended, but when
one was overrun they could fall back into the next.  In the centre, the
blockhouse comprised his private quarters, treasury and arsenal.  All
the windows and doors could be covered with heavy shuttering.  The
walls were pierced with loopholes for rifle fire and the reed roof was
heavily plastered with river clay to render it fireproof.

The first line of defence was the outer wall with its heavy gates at
front and rear.  He sent Jock with three men to barricade the rear
gates, and stand guard there.  Then Ryder took Bacheet and five of his
most reliable men to the front gates, which opened on to the narrow
street.  They were all armed with long wooden staves.  Ryder made
certain the gates were bolted and the heavy timber bars were in their
slots.  It would take a battering-ram to break them down.  There was a
low wicket gate in the wall to one side, wide enough to admit one man
at a time.  Ryder stepped through it.  The city street was empty,
except for a few of the women from the green-cake kitchens.  They were
scurrying away like frightened chickens, and within seconds the last
had disappeared.

Ryder waited.  He was deliberately carrying nothing more provocative
than the wooden staff.  A rifle was worse than useless against a mob. A
single shot might drop one person, but would merely infuriate the rest,
and they would be on him before he could reload.  A certain way to get
yourself torn to pieces, he thought, and leant casually on the staff,
assuming a calm, relaxed pose.  The noise of the crowd was nearer now,
becoming louder as he listened.  He knew what that keening chorus of
women's voices meant.  They were whipping themselves and their menfolk
into a frenzy.

He stood alone in front of the gates, and the sound built up into a
muted roar, coming down on him like the wild waters of a river in flash
flood.  Suddenly the front rank of the mob burst into view two hundred
paces down the narrow street from where he stood.  They saw him and
faltered.  The hubbub subsided gradually, and a strange hush fell over
them.  They knew him well and his reputation was formidable.

Damn me, if I don't do a Gordon on them.  Ryder smiled inwardly.
Chinese Gordon was famous for the hypnotic power he could wield over a
tribe of hostile savages.  It was said he could calm and control them
by the sheer power of his personality and the gaze of his steely blue
eyes.

Ryder straightened until he stood tall, and glowered at them with all
the ferocity he could command.  He knew that they looked upon green or
blue eyes as those of the Devil.  The hush became silence.  For the
moment it was a standoff.  It needed but a small push to topple it one
way or the other.

He started to walk towards them.  Now he held the stave threateningly,
and paced with calculated menace.  They backed off slowly before his
approach.  One looked back over his shoulder.  They were on the point
of breaking.

Suddenly a tall, gangling female figure bounded into the alley.  Her
features were withered with starvation.  Her lips had shrunk back to
expose bone-white teeth, too large for her pale pink gums, which were
studded with open ulcers.  She was the harpy of mythology, swathed in
black cloth.  As she danced towards him, her shanks beneath the black
skirts were thin as the legs of a heron, and her enormous feet flapped
like the carcasses of stranded black catfish.  She threw back her head
and emitted the cry of a banshee.  The mob behind her roared and poured
after her, filling the alley.

Ryder held up his right hand in a placatory gesture.  "I will give you
whatever you want," he shouted.  "Stop."

His voice was drowned by the wild shrieks of the harpy: "We have come
to take what we want, and we will kill all who stand in our way!"

Slowly Ryder lifted his left hand and made the sign of the evil eye. He
pointed at the woman's face, and saw her eyelids flutter as she
recognized the sign.  She stumbled and checked, but then she gathered
herself and leapt forward again.  He saw the madness in her gaze and
knew she was too far gone to respond even to the most dire
witchcraft.

Still he stood his ground until she was almost upon him.  Then he
stepped forward to meet her and drove the point of his staff into her
midriff just below the ribcage.  The spleens of most river-dwellers
were swollen with malaria.  A blow like that could burst the organ and
kill or maim.  The harpy dropped like a bundle of black rags, but the
leading ranks of the mob leapt over her body.  The man in the forefront
swung a broadsword at Ryder's head.  He ducked and darted back through
the wicket gate.  Bacheet slammed and bolted it behind him.  They heard
and felt the impact as the mob crashed into it on the far side.

"We will let them through the gate one at a time, and we can crack
their skulls as they come through," Bacheet suggested.

"Too many."  Ryder shook his head.  "I will climb to the top of the
gate and try to reason with them."

"You cannot reason with a pack of rabid dogs."

Somebody was tugging insistently at his coattails and Ryder tried to
pull away.  Then he looked back.  "I thought I told you to stay in the
blockhouse," he exclaimed angrily.

"I brought you this."  Saffron held up his gunbelt with the holstered
revolver dangling from it and the rows of brass cartridges in their
loops.

"Good girl!"  He strapped it on.  "But now get back to the blockhouse
and stay there."  He did not watch her to make sure she had gone but
turned back to Bacheet.  "Fetch the long ladder from the workshop."

They placed it against the wall.  Hand over hand Ryder shot to the top
and looked down into the street.  The length and breadth of it was
filled with humanity.  He picked out the harpy he had felled: she was
on her feet again, doubled over and hobbling with pain, but her voice
was as shrill and strident as before.  She was directing the crowd to
gather anything that would burn from the buildings that lined the
street.  They were dragging out baulks of timber, dried palm fronds,
old furniture, rubbish, and piling it against the outside of the
compound gates.

"Hear me, citizens of Khartoum," Ryder shouted in Arabic.  "Let the
peace and wisdom of God guide you.  There is nothing within these walls
that I will not give you gladly."

They looked up him uncertainly as he balanced at the top of the
ladder.

"There is the disciple of Shaitan!"  the harpy screamed.  "The infidel!
Look at him, the pork-eater!  The brewer of the green manna from hell!"
She shuffled into a painful dance, and behind her the crowd growled.
They threw stones and sticks at him, but the wall was high and the
range was long.  The missiles hit the wall and bounced back, clattering
in the dusty street.

"What you call the Devil's manna, is cooked grass and reeds.  If you
will feed them with it, your children will thrive and regain their
health."

"He lies!  These are the falsehoods that the Devil has placed in his
mouth.  We know you are eating bread and meat, not grass.  Within these
walls you have dhurra and meat.  Give it to us.  Give us your animals.
Give us the dhurra you have in your warehouse."

"I have no dhurra."

"He lies!"  screeched the harpy.  "Bring fire!  We will burn him out of
this nest of evil and sacrilege."

"Wait!"  Ryder shouted.  "Hear me!"

But the roar of the crowd drowned his voice.  One of the women ran up
the crowded street.  She was carrying a lighted torch, a bundle of rags
soaked in pitch tied to a broomstick.  A thick black tarry smoke
billowed from the flames.  She handed the torch to one of the men, ,
who ran with it to the gate.  Ryder glanced down in alarm as he
realized how high the rubbish had been piled against the main gates.
The man threw the smoking torch on top of the bonfire.  It rolled
half-way down, then stuck.  In the dry desert air the flames caught at
once and licked upwards.  The gates had stood in the sun for many
years.  Even though Ryder had his people paint them regularly, the wood
dried out and cracked faster than they could repair it, and now the
dried paint flared, and the flames shot high.  They were almost
colourless in the bright sunlight.  Ryder considered ordering Bacheet
and his men to form a bucket chain to douse the flames before they
could burn through the gates, then realized that there were neither
enough men nor buckets, that the river and the well were too far, and
the flames were already leaping higher than the top of the wall.  The
heat was intense and drove him off the ladder.

"Bacheet, we could fight them here, but I don't want any shooting.  I
don't want to kill anybody."  .

"It is me that I am worried about, Effendi.  I don't want to be killed
either," Bacheet replied.  "These are animals, mad animals."

"They are starving and they have been driven to this."

"Should I send one of the men with a message to Gordon to bring the
soldiers to drive them away?"  Bacheet asked hopefully.

Ryder smiled grimly.  "Gordon Pasha is not our friend.  He values us
only for our dhurra and our camels.  If you send one of our men out
there the mob will tear him to pieces.  I think we will be forced to
save ourselves without the help of Gordon Pasha."

"How will we do that?"  Bacheet asked simply.

"We must fall back to the main compound.  They will not be able to burn
that gate.  The fire hose will reach it."  He had to raise his voice
above the howls and shouts of the crowd in the street outside and the
crackle of the flames.  "Come!  Follow me!"  The paint on the inside of
the gate was already charring.

He ran back to the inner gate, and gave orders to have the water pump
and fire hose rigged.  There was a firing platform along the top of the
inner wall, and reluctantly Ryder issued Martini-Henry rifles to those
who could handle them.  Apart from Rebecca and Jock, he had trained
only five of his men, including Bacheet.  The Arabs took little
interest in musketry and showed even less aptitude for it.  Rebecca
could outshoot most of them.  He left the women and Jock in the
blockhouse, guarding the loopholes.

From the firing parapet he watched the main gates sag slowly inwards,
then crash to the dusty earth in a final burst of sparks and burning
fragments.  The mob poured through, leaping and pushing each other over
the still flaming remnants of the gates.  One of the older women lost
her footing and fell into the flames.  They caught at once in her
voluminous robe.  The rest of the crowd ignored her agonized shriek,
and within seconds she lay still.  The smell of her roasting flesh
floated sickeningly to where Ryder stood on the parapet of the inner
wall.

Once the leaders were inside, they came up short.  They were in
unfamiliar territory and they looked about curiously.  Then they caught
sight of the row of heads above the parapet of the inner wall, and the
hunting chorus went up again.  They charged straight at the inner gate
like a pack of savage hounds.  Ryder let them get half-way across, then
fired into the hard-packed clay in front of the leaders.  The bullet
kicked up a spray of dust and gravel, then ricocheted away over their
heads.  It stopped them short, and they milled indecisively.

"Don't come closer!"  he shouted.  "I will kill the next one who
comes."  Some turned, and started to creep away.  Then the harpy
hobbled through to the front.  She broke once more into her grotesque
dance.  From somewhere she had armed herself with a cow tail fly
switch. She brandished this as she screeched her threats and curses at
the men on the parapet.

"You foul and stupid old woman," Ryder muttered, in frustration and
despair, 'don't force me to kill you."  He fired at her feet, and when
the bullet kicked up dirt under her, she leapt into the air, flapping
the black wings of her robe like an ancient crow taking flight.  The
crowd howled again.  She hit the ground and came straight on towards
the inner wall.  Ryder levered another round into the breech and fired.
Again she jumped high, and the men behind her imitated her, laughing.
The sound had a deranged, obscene quality that was as menacing as the
shouts of rage had been.

"Stop!"  Ryder muttered.  "Please stop, you old bitch."  He shot again,
but now the mob had realized he would not shoot to kill and lost all
fear.  They came on after the prancing figure in a swarm.  They reached
the gate and beat against it with the weapons they carried and their
bare hands.

"Wood!"  shouted the harpy.  "Bring more wood!"  They ran to fetch it,
and came back to pile it against the gate as they had before.

"Get the pump started!"  Ryder shouted, and two men seized the handles
and swung them up and down.  The empty canvas hose, laid out across the
yard, swelled and hardened as the pressure built up and a powerful
stream of river water spurted from the nozzle.  Two men on the parapet
pointed it down on to the kindling below.  It struck with such force
that the pile tumbled over.

"Aim at her."  Ryder pointed out the harpy.  The stream hit her full in
the chest and knocked her backwards.  She struck the ground on her
shoulder-blades and rolled.  The hose stream followed her.  Every time
she regained her feet, it knocked her down again.  At last she crawled
out of range on hands and knees.  Ryder turned the hose on the men in
the front of the crowd and they scattered.  Then they spread out to
search the other buildings of the compound, which lay outside the inner
fortifications.  Within minutes Ryder heard hammering and banging
coming from the direction of his warehouses.

"They are smashing down the doors of the ivory storeroom," Bacheet
shouted.  "We must stop them."

"A thousand of them, and ten of us?"  Ryder did not have to say more.

"But the ivory and skins?"  Bacheet was entitled to a small share of
Ryder's profits, and now at the thought of his losses his face was a
pattern of dismay.

"They can have the elephant teeth and the animal skins, rather than my
own teeth and skin," Ryder said.  "Anyway, they cannot eat ivory.
Perhaps when they find no dhurra in the stores they will lose
interest."

It was a vain hope, and he knew it.  It was not long before the men
were streaming back, egged on by the wild ululations of the women. They
were carrying some of the largest elephant tusks and bundles of
sun-dried animal hides.  They piled these at the foot of the wall.
Their intention was clear.  They were building a ramp to scale the
wall.  Immediately Ryder ordered the men on the hose to direct the
stream on to the pile.  The tusks and the heavy bales were much more
solid than the rubbish they had used in their first attempt and the
hose stream made no impression upon them.  Then they tried to drive off
the men, but although the hose beat down on them most stayed on their
feet and placed more tusks on the growing ramp.  When one was knocked
down, three others rushed forward to take his place.  They kept piling
up the heavy material until it reached just below the top of the wall.
Then they reassembled in the outer courtyard out of range of the fire
hose.  The black harpy pranced among them.

"You should have hit her harder," Bacheet muttered darkly, 'or, better
still, you should have put a bullet through that ugly head.  It's still
not too late."  He lifted the Martini-Henry and aimed it over the top
of the parapet.

"She is in no danger, with you doing the shooting," Ryder remarked.
Despite the hours of instruction he had lavished on Bacheet he was a
long way from mastering the art of musketry.  Bacheet looked pained at
the insult, but he lowered the rifle.  "See?  The old witch is picking
out the best men to climb the walls."

Bacheet was right.  Somehow she had kept hold of the switch even when
the hose had hit her squarely.  It was secured round her wrist by a
loop of rawhide.  She was moving among the crowd and marking the ones
she chose by slapping them in the face with it.  Quickly she picked out
thirty or forty of the youngest and strongest.  Many were armed with
broadswords or axes.

Encouraged by the harpy the women started that dreadful cacophony
again.  The assault troop brandished their weapons and rushed at the
wall.  The jet of water from the hose struck the leaders but they
linked arms to support each other.

"Let us shoot, Effendi," Bacheet pleaded.  "They are so close even I
cannot miss."

"I would not give odds on that," Ryder grunted, "But hold your fire. If
we kill just one they will go berserk and start a massacre."  He was
thinking of the women in the blockhouse.  Little else mattered.

Even with the hose playing over them the attackers climbed swiftly to
the parapet.  Ryder and his men checked them there, swinging at their
heads with clubs and staves.  They had the advantage of height.  At a
range of only a few feet the fire hose was almost irresistible, and the
long staves kept the attackers from getting close enough to use their
swords.  But when some lost heart and retreated down the ramp of bales
and tusks the harpy was at the bottom to meet them, lashing their faces
with the switch and screaming abuse.  Three times they fell back and
each time she sent them up again.

"They are giving up," Bacheet panted.  "They are losing heart."

"I hope Allah is listening to you," Ryder said, and plied his staff,
cracking it across the temple of the man in front of him.  He rolled
down the ramp and lay still at the bottom.  Even the harpy's stinging
blows with the switch could not rouse him.

Then a man pushed through the throngs of ululating women.  He walked
with the rolling long-armed gait of a silver-backed gorilla bull.  His
head was round, shaven and shiny as a cannonball.  His skin was the
colour of anthracite and his features were Nubian, with thick lips and
a wide, flattened nose.  He had stripped to his loincloth and the
muscles of his chest bulged under the oiled skin, and writhed like a
black silk bag of pythons.  "I know this one," Bacheet croaked huskily.
"He is a famous wrestler from Dongola.  They call him the Bone
Cruncher.  He is dangerous."

The Nubian climbed the ramp with astonishing agility.  Ryder ran down
the platform to confront him, but he was already at the parapet.  He
raised himself to his full height, balanced like an ebony colossus.

Ryder placed the butt of the long stave under his arm, like a lance,
and ran at him.  The sharpened point caught the Nubian in the centre of
his chest and snagged in his flesh.  Ryder threw his weight behind it,
and the Nubian hovered at the point of balance, his arms windmilling,
body arched backwards.

Bacheet sprang to Ryder's side and the two threw their combined weight
on the staff.  The Nubian went over like an avalanche of black rock. He
tumbled into five men behind him, and they tumbled down the steep
incline of the ramp in a confused jumble of arms and legs.

The Nubian hit the sun-baked earth on the back of his shaven head and
the impact reverberated like the fall of a lightning-blasted mahogany
tree.  He lay quiescent, mouth agape and thunderous snores echoing up
his throat.  The harpy jumped on to his chest and lashed at his face.

The Nubian opened his eyes and sat up.  He swatted her away with the
back of one hand and shoak his head groggily.  Then he saw Ryder and
Bacheet grinning down at him.  He threw back his head, bellowed like a
bull buffalo in a pitfall, then groped for his sword, lurched to his
feet and charged straight back up the ramp.

"Sweet Mother of God," said Ryder.  "Just look at him come."  He raised
the staff again, and as the Nubian reached the top he thrust at him
viciously.  With a flick of the blade the Nubian lopped two feet off
the end.  Ryder stabbed at him again with the butt.  The Nubian cut
again back-handed and left Ryder with a stump no longer than his arm.
Ryder hurled it at him.  It struck the Nubian in the centre of his
sloping forehead.  He blinked and roared again, then came over the top
of the parapet, hacking wildly.

"Back to the blockhouse!"  Ryder yelled, as he ducked under the
blade.

Suddenly he realized he was alone on the parapet.  The others had
anticipated his order and taken themselves off at top speed.  He dived
down the rickety ladder into the yard and raced for the door.  He could
hear the Nubian close behind him, and the swish of his sword fanned the
short sweaty hairs on the back of his neck.

"Run, Ryder!  He's right behind you," Saffron shrilled from one of the
loopholes.  "Shoot him I gave you your gun!  Why don't you shoot?"  In
theory it was good advice, but if he lost even a second in loosening
the flap of his holster the Nubian would take his head off at the
shoulders.  He found an extra turn of speed and began to catch up with
Bacheet and the other Arabs.

"Faster, Ryder, faster!"  Saffron yelped.  Close behind him he could
hear the hoarse breathing.  Ahead, the others burst through the
blockhouse door.

Rebecca was holding it open for him.  Now she levelled the rifle and
seemed to aim straight at his head.  "I can't shoot without hitting
you," she cried, and lowered the barrel.  "Come on, Ryder, please, come
on."  Even in the desperate circumstances, her use of his first name
gave him a sweet thrill and added wings to his feet.  He flew through
the doorway and Rebecca and Saffron slammed it behind him.  On the far
side the Nubian crashed into it with a force that shivered the frame.

"He's going to smash it off its hinges."  Rebecca gasped.  They heard
the Nubian hacking and kicking at it.

"Steel door, steel frame," Ryder reassured her, and grabbed the rifle
Saffron handed him.  He opened the breech and checked the load.  "We'll
be safe in here."

He stepped up to the loophole and Rebecca stood close beside him.
Through the narrow opening they had a view across the yard to the door
of the workshop and in the other direction to the inner gate of the
menagerie.  The broad sweat-gleaming back of the Nubian appeared in
their field of vision.  He had abandoned his assault on the blockhouse
door.  Now he was striding across the yard to the barred inner gates.
When he reached them Ryder watched him lift the heavy teak locking bars
and toss them aside.  Then he stood back and kicked the brass lock off
its hinges.  As the gates swung open the harpy was first into the yard.
The horde poured in behind her.

She headed straight for the blockhouse, and the rest followed her
closely.  It was a horrific spectacle, as though the gates of hell had
burst open and spewed out the legions of the damned and long-dead.
Their faces were ravaged by disease and hunger, their eyes too large
for their wizened, emaciated heads, their lips and eyelids swollen and
inflamed with running ulcers and carbuncles.  Starvation and disease
emit their own odour as the body devours itself and the skin releases
the fluids of decay and dissolution: as they crowded to the loopholes
the stench oozed through into the hot, airless interior and filled it
with the reek of open sepulchres.  It was a miasma that was difficult
to breathe.  The ruined faces leered and grimaced through the openings.
"Food!  Where is the food?"  They thrust their arms through.  Their
limbs were thin and gnarled as dead branches.  The palms of their hands
were as pale as the bellies of dead fish.

"Oh, Jesus, have mercy on us," Rebecca gasped, and shrank against
Ryder, instinctively seeking his protection.  He placed one arm round
her shoulders.  This time she made no effort to pull away from him.
"What will happen to us now?"

"Whatever happens, I will stay with you," he said, and she pressed
closer to him.

The harpy was shrieking orders to the mob.  "Search all the buildings!
We must find where they have hidden the dhurra!  Then we will smash the
pots in which they have brewed the Devil's manna.  It is evil and an
offence in the sight of God.  It is this that has brought misfortune
upon the city, and visited us with pestilence and disaster.  Find where
they have hidden the animals.  You shall feast on sweet meat this day."
Her shrill voice reached to the depths of their starved bodies.  They
responded to her with a kind of blind, hypnotic obedience and rushed
away from the rifle slits so that Ryder could see out again.  He and
Rebecca pressed their faces to the same opening, breathing the cleaner
air and watching the hordes streaming towards the gates of the
menagerie, led by the colossal Nubian and the harpy.

"Well, them bongos of yours ain't going to be shitting on the decks of
my ship again, skipper," said Jock McCrump lugubriously.  Suddenly he
remembered his manners and touched the brim of his cap to Rebecca.  "If
you'll forgive my Erench, ladies."

"What are they going to do with them, Jock?"  Saffron's voice was
fearful.

"It's the cooking pot for all of them beasties, dye ken, Miss Saffy?"

Saffron flew at the door and tried to tear open the locking bars.
"Lucy!  I have to save Lucy and her baby!"

Ryder took her arm gently but firmly, and drew her to his side.
"Saffron," he whispered huskily, 'there is nothing we can do for Lucy
now."

"Can't you stop them?  Please!  Won't you stop them, Ryder?"

There was no reply he could give her.  He held the two girls tightly,
Saffron on one side and Rebecca on the other.  They clung to him and
watched some of the mob crowd the gate that led to the menagerie and
try to break in, but it was stout and resisted their efforts.  Then the
Nubian shouldered them aside.  He braced himself against the gate and
shook it until it rattled in its frame, but it did not give way.  He
stepped back, charged and crashed into it with one massive shoulder.
The hinges were torn from the frame and the door flew open.

AH, the old keeper, stood in the open doorway with a rusty sword in his
hands.

"AH, you old fool."  Ryder groaned and tried to turn the girls away so
that they would not see what was about to happen.  But they resisted
and stared ashen-faced through the loophole.

AH raised the sword above his head.  "Begone, all of you!  You will not
enter here."  His voice was high-pitched and quavering.  "I will not
allow you to touch my darlings."  He hobbled towards the giant,
threatening him with the dented weapon.  The Bone Cruncher shot out one
thick arm and seized the old man's sword wrist.  He shook it as a
terrier shakes a rat, and they heard the bone of the old man's forearm
crack.  The rusty sword dropped into the dust at his feet.  Using the
broken arm as a handle the Bone Cruncher lifted AH's wriggling body
above his head and slammed him into the jamb of the gate with such
force that his ribs snapped like dry kindling.  He dropped the broken
body, and stepped over it.  The crowd rushed after him into the
menagerie, but as they passed they hacked at Ali's head with club or
sword.

A great roar of greed and hunger went up from within the menagerie as
the mob saw the rows of cages and the terrified animals they
contained.

"Food!  Meat!"  screamed the Harpy.  "I promised you a feast of fresh
red meat.  It is here for you."  She rushed at the nearest cage and
tore open the door.  It was filled with scarlet and grey parrots, a
swirling screeching cloud of wings.  She leapt in and slashed at them
with the whisk, knocking them to the floor of the cage and stamping on
them with both horny feet.

The crowd followed her example, breaking open the monkey cages and
clubbing the terrified occupants as they bounded around.  Then they
attacked the stockades and pens of the antelope.

In the blockhouse they could hear what was happening.  Above the crash
of breaking cages and the uproar of the mob, Saffron was able to
identify the terrified voices of her favourite creatures: the shrieks
of the parrots and the howls of the monkeys.

"That's Lucy, my poor darling Lucy," she sobbed.  "They can't eat her.
Tell me they won't eat Lucy."  Ryder hugged her but could find no words
of comfort.

Then there came wild bleating and bellows of pain from the larger
animals.

"That's Victoria, my bongo!"  Saffron struggled again.  "Let me go!
Please, I have to save her."

The female bongo bounded out through the gates of the menagerie where
old Ali's corpse still lay in the bloody dust.  She must have escaped
from her pen as the mob tore it down and seemed unhurt.

"Run, Victoria!"  Saffron screamed.  "Run, my baby."

A dozen men and women ran after her with spears and swords.  The large,
strikingly coloured animal saw the open gate ahead of her and swerved
towards it, her sleek hide glistening dark chestnut with creamy white
stripes, ears pricked forward, eyes filled with terror, huge and dark
in her lovely head.  She had almost reached the open gate when one of
the spearmen checked and swivelled his shoulders, his left hand
pointing straight at her, the right cocked back and holding the spear.
He swung his weight forward and the spear flew in a high arc, then
dropped towards the animal.  It struck her just forward of the croup
and the spearhead buried itself.  The point must have struck the spine,
for her paralysed hindquarters dropped, and she stood still on her
front legs.

A triumphant howl went up from the hunters and they crowded round the
maimed animal.  They made no effort to put her out of her misery, but
hacked off lumps of her living flesh.  The Nubian rushed up and, with a
sweep of his sword, opened her belly as if it were a purse.  The pale
bag of her stomach and the entwined ropes of entrails bulged out
through the gash.  These were delicacies, and the mob dragged them out
of her, and devoured them voraciously.  The yellow contents of the
uncleaned guts mingled with the blood, and dribbled from their lips and
jowls as they chewed.

Rebecca gagged at the sight and turned away her face, but Saffron
watched until at last the bongo collapsed and the crowd swarmed over
her carcass like a flock of vultures hiding it from view.  From the
gates of the menagerie others ran out carrying bleeding lumps of meat
and the battered carcasses of the birds and monkeys.  They tried to
escape before the latecomers from the city streets joined in.  They
were too late, and all across the compound vicious squabbles and
fighting broke out.  Saffron saw one of the children pounce upon a
scrap.  He stuffed it into his mouth and tried to swallow it.  But the
woman who had dropped it set upon him, beating him and pummelled him
until he was forced to spit it out.  Before she could pick it out of
the dust, someone else snatched it and ran out of the gates with the
woman chasing after her.

Another group broke down the door of the shed that contained the day's
cooking of green-cake.  They gathered up slabs in their shirts, but
before they could make off with it the harpy fell upon them.  She
seemed to have risen above the simple need to find food and ran among
them, striking at random with her whisk, screaming, "That is the poison
of Shaitan!  Throw it on the fire.  Throw it into the latrines where it
belongs."  Although a few ran off with their booty, the harpy forced
most to fling their share into the cooking fires or down the latrine
pits.

"She has destroyed it all.  What a shameful waste," Rebecca cried in
anguish.  "And she is making them smash our cauldrons.  Now we shall
all starve."

Ryder watched the harpy helplessly.  He saw how dangerous this raving
demagogue was, that at any moment she might trigger another explosion
of murderous passion and insanity.  However, most of the mob had
disappeared, and it seemed that the riot must soon die of its own
accord.

Even though the damage they had wreaked was punishing, Ryder sought
some small comfort in the fact that they were making no effort to take
the ivory.  It was clearly too heavy to carry far.  Most of his other
valuable possessions were locked in the strongroom in the blockhouse.
Just as soon as the Intrepid this was seaworthy again, he would load
what was left of them and be ready for instant flight.

But the harpy was still prowling round the yard, stopping every few
minutes to shake her whisk at the blockhouse and scream curses and
insults at the white faces she could see watching her from the
loopholes.  When she paused at the door of the workshop, Ryder was not
seriously alarmed.  Some of the other looters had gone in there but had
soon come out again.  There was nothing in there for them to eat,
nothing of obvious value for them to carry away.  However, the harpy
was in the workshop for only a minute, before she rushed out and
screamed across the yard for the Nubian wrestler.  Like a tame gorilla
responding to its trainer, he crossed the yard with his massive rolling
gait.  She led him into the workshop.  When the Nubian came out again
he was carrying such a heavy burden that his legs were bowed under its
weight.

"Look!"  shouted Jock, in consternation.  It was a burden that would
have taken the strength of five ordinary men, but the Nubian was
carrying the main steam pipe from the Intrepid this.  Jock had laboured
over this piece of machinery for months and now it was ready to
reinstall in the steamer.

The harpy screeched towards the blockhouse, "You think to escape the
wrath of the Mahdi?  You think to run away in your little steamer?  We
are going to throw this thing into the Nile.  When the Mahdi comes,
your white and leprous corpses will rot in the streets of Khartoum.
Even vultures will not eat them."  She drove the giant Nubian like an
ox towards the gates.

"Even he can never carry it to the river!"  Ryder exclaimed.  But the
harpy was now shouting for others to help him.  A number were hurrying
to his aid.

"I give you my solemn oath that he is taking my steam pipe nowhere,"
Jock growled.  He swung up the Martini-Henry, and the crash of the shot
in the narrow confines of the room numbed their ears.  The rifle kicked
back, and the sweet stink of black powder smoke stung their nostrils.

The Nubian had reached the gates.  He was less than sixty yards from
the rifle slit.  The heavy lead bullet caught him just behind the ear
and angled forward through his brain.  In a pink cloud of wet tissue,
it burst out through his right eye socket.  He collapsed, with the
weight of the steam-pipe chest pinning his corpse to the sunbaked
clay.

"You killed him," Ryder exclaimed in disbelief.

"I aimed at him, didn't I?"  Jock said brusquely.  "Of course I damn
well killed him."  With his calloused thumb he pushed another cartridge
into the breech of the rifle.  "And I'm going to kill anybody else who
touches my engine."

In the yard there was an abrupt and breathless silence.  The rioters
had almost forgotten the presence of the white prisoners in the
blockhouse.  They stared at the huge half-naked corpse in awe.

The harpy was the only one not bereft of the power of movement.  She
snatched an axe out of the hands of the man nearest to her and rushed
at the length of pipe.  One of the many duties of a Sudanese woman is
to cut the firewood for her household.  As the first stroke of the axe
clanged against his steam pipe, Jock knew she was an expert.  She swung
the axe again, and hit exactly the same spot.  Jock could see that she
was aiming at one of his welds.  The metal there would be annealed by
the heat of his torch.  Already it was buckling.  Two or three blows
like that and she.  would puncture and distort it.  It might take days
to repair the damage she had already done.  If he didn't do something
to stop her she might inflict damage beyond repair.

"We will have no more of that nonsense," he muttered.

Ryder saw him lift the rifle again.  "Don't shoot!"  he shouted. "Jock,
don't shoot her."

"Too late!"  said Jock, without the least note of contrition in his
voice, and again the Martini-Henry bucked and bellowed in his hands.

The bullet caught the harpy full in the chest.  It picked her off her
feet and threw her against the wall.  She hung there, her mouth wide
open, but the scream was trapped for ever in her throat.  Then she slid
down the wall, leaving a long bright smear on the whitewash.

The remaining rioters stared in consternation at the bodies of the two
ringleaders.  Retribution had come swiftly and unexpectedly.  When
would the next shot crash out, and who would fall?  A wail of alarm
went up, and they rushed for the gates.

"Keep them on the run!"  Ryder had resigned himself to making the most
of Jock's precipitate action.  He snatched up his own rifle and fired
over the heads of the rioters.  Within minutes the yard was empty,
except for the harpy and her Nubian.

Ryder opened the blockhouse door cautiously and called to Rebecca,
"Keep Saffron in here with you until we know it's safe for you to come
out."  With rifles loaded and held at high port, ready to get off a
quick shot, the men swept the compound to make certain no danger still
lurked.  Jock hurried directly to his steam pipe and knelt beside it.
He peered anxiously at the axe marks on the metal, removed the greasy
and battered cap from his head and polished the marred surface
tenderly, then he replaced his cap and studied the marks again.  He
sighed with relief.  "Ain't too much damage done."  He picked up the
whole pipe as easily as the Nubian had, and carried it lovingly back
into his workshop.

Ryder walked over to the two corpses.  The harpy was sitting with her
back against the wall.  Her eyes and her mouth were open and her
expression was faintly quizzical.  He prodded her with the toe of his
boot.  She flopped on to her face and lay still.  He could have fitted
his clenched fist into the deep dark bullet-hole between her
shoulder-blades.  He did not need to examine the Nubian.  His head lay
in a puddle of his own brains.

"I don't approve, but that was not bad shooting, Jock," he muttered,
then called to Bacheet, "Dump them in the river.  The crocodiles will
take care of them.  No need to report this.  Gordon Pasha is a busy
man.  We don't want to give him more to worry about than he already
has."  He waited until Bacheet and his Arabs had dragged the bodies out
of the yard and through the gates that led to the canal.  Then he went
back to the blockhouse and opened the door.  "All is safe.  You may
come out."

Saffron rushed past him and darted to the menagerie gates.  Old AH lay
curled beside the gate post.  He had been her friend.  He had loved the
animals as much as she did, and he had taught her how to care for them.
She knelt beside his body.  In the months since the beginning of the
siege she had been exposed to death in many of its most hideous forms,
but now she gagged as she looked at her friend's body.  The rioters had
battered his head until it was shapeless, no longer recognizable as
human.

"Poor AH," she whispered.  "You died for your animals.  God will love
you for that."  She found his bloodsoaked turban and covered his face.
"Go in peace," she said in Arabic.

She left him and went on into the menagerie.  There she stopped again.
She gazed around at the devastation and her knees went weak under her.
Every cage had been smashed open and every one of the animals was gone.
Clouds of blue flies hummed over puddles of their blood that were
drying and caking in the desert sun.  With an effort, Saffron steeled
herself and went on down the rows of empty cages.

"Lucy!"  She called as she went, and she imitated the chittering sound
that was the monkey's special recognition call.  "Billy!  Billy, baby,
where are you?"  She reached Lucy's cage.  The door had been torn off,
and the cage was deserted.  She stood before it, grieving.  She had
been so young when her mother died that she could barely remember it
but she knew she had not felt as bereaved as she did now.

"They couldn't have done this.  It's so cruel."  She knew that if she
stood there longer she would start to blubber and her father would be
ashamed of her.  There was only one other place in the menagerie to
search.  She went to the feed shed at the far end of the enclosure.

"Lucy!"  she called.  "Billy, where are you, my baby?"  She peered into
the gloom.

"Billy!"  She made the chittering monkey sound, and a tiny dark shape
shot out from behind a pile of straw.  With a single bound it landed on
her hip, climbed on to her shoulder and chittered softly in reply to
her call.

"Billy!"  whispered Saffron.  "You're safe!"  She sank to the floor and
hugged the small furry body to her chest.  Despite everything her
father had told her, she began to cry and could not stop.

Before sunrise the next rooming, just after the mission bells had
sounded the end of curfew, Ryder heard feminine voices in the yard,
followed by the slamming of the door to the green-cake shed.  He wiped
the lather from the blade of his razor on to his wash-rag, and made one
last pass from the bulge of his Adam's apple to the point of his jaw.
He examined his clean shaven image in the hand mirror, and grunted with
resignation.  Despite the kiss of the razor, his jaw was still blue.
Not everybody can have whiskers like the pretty soldier-boy.  He folded
his razor, laid it carefully in the velvet slot in its fitted leather
case and closed the lid.  Then he left his private quarters in the
blockhouse, and went out into the yard.

He glanced at the gate to the menagerie, and felt the surge of fresh
anger and grief for the wanton slaughter of his animals.  He could not
yet bring himself to go into the enclosure.  At least Bacheet had
removed old Ali's body and buried it before yesterday's sunset, in
accordance with the law of Islam.

Now Bacheet and his men were collecting tusks from where they were
piled against the inner wall, and carrying them back to the warehouse.
Ryder called Bacheet to him, and they went to inspect the main gates.
There was nothing left of them but a few charred planks.  "We will have
to abandon everything in the outer stockade," Ryder decided.  "We will
move into the inner fortifications.  The gates are solid and strong. We
can defend them."  He left Bacheet to carry out those orders.

For the last half an hour he had heard the hammering of metal on the
anvil coming from Jock's workshop, but now there was silence.  He
crossed to the workshop and looked in at the door.  Jock McCrump had
just lit the blue acetylene flame of his welding torch and was lowering
the smoked-glass goggles over his eyes.  He looked up at Ryder.  "Old
vixen could swing an axe like a lumberjack, and she packed a punch like
John L. Sullivan his self  It's going to take couple or three days to
fix this.  Now make yourself scarce."  He bent over the damaged pipe
and played the flame on to the gash in the metal.

"In one of our bloody moods today, are we?"

"Ain't nothing to laugh and dance about.  You should have let me shoot
her before she did this."

Ryder chuckled.  They had been together a long time and knew each
other's foibles.  He left Jock to get on with it and went to the
green-cake shed.  Nazeera and all three Benbrook sisters were there.
They were wearing the working aprons and gloves they had made for
themselves, and they were trying to restore order to the devastated
kitchen.

"Good morning, Ryder."  Rebecca smiled at him.  Ryder was taken aback
by the warmth of her greeting and because she was still using his first
name.

"Good morning, Miss Benbrook."

"I would be obliged if in future you would address me by my Christian
name.  After the way you protected my sister and me yesterday, we need
no longer stand on ceremony."

"What little I could do for you was only my duty."

"I was particularly pleased that you were so restrained in your use of
force.  A lesser man might have turned the riot into a massacre.  You
have the humanity to realize that those poor people had been driven to
excess by the terrible dilemma in which they are caught up.  However, I
would like to express my sympathy for the grievous losses you have
suffered."

Saffron had been listening to her elder sister impatiently.  She was
not pleased by this new warmth between Rebecca and Ryder.  She told me
she despised him, but now she's cooing at him like a dove, she thought.
"You should have shot all of them, not just two," she said sourly.
"Then we might have saved Lucy."

"At least Billy seems none the worse."  Saffron's severe expression
softened and Ryder took immediate advantage.  "How are you going to
feed him?  He isn't weaned yet," he enquired solicitously.

"Nazeera has found a woman who lost her new baby from cholera.  We're
paying her to feed Billy and he guzzles her milk like a little pig,"
Saffron replied.

Rebecca blushed.  "I am sure Ryder does not want to hear all the
gruesome details," she told her little sister primly.

"Then he should not have asked," Saffron replied reasonably.  "Anyway,
everybody knows how babies are fed, so why are you turning red,
Becky?"

Ryder looked around for an avenue of escape, and found one.  "Good
morning, Amber.  You missed all the excitement yesterday."

But Saffron did not want to relinquish Ryder's attention to yet another
sister.  "Don't mind her," she said.  "She has been grumpy since
Captain Ballantyne went away."  Before Amber could protest she went on
blithely, "All the Sudanese women have run away.  They won't come back
to work here.  They have been threatened by bad men in the town who say
that we are doing the Devil's work by making green-cake."

Ryder looked at Rebecca with concern.  "Is this true?"

"I am afraid it is.  They were too terrified to come to tell us
themselves.  But one went to Nazeera.  Even then she was taking a grave
risk.  She says that the Dervish sympathizers in the city have
discovered how valuable the green-cake is to our survival, and they are
trying to stop us making it.  That female creature and the Nubian
wrestler who led the riot against you were Mahdists."

"That explains a great deal."  Ryder nodded.  "But what do you plan to
do?"

"We will go on alone," Rebecca replied simply.

"Just the three of you?"

"Four, with Nazeera.  She is not afraid.  We Benbrooks don't give up
that easily.  We have found two cauldrons that were not smashed and our
first batch of green-cake will be ready by this evening."

"Pulping the vegetation is hard work," he protested.

"In which case you should let us get on with it, Ryder," Rebecca told
him.  "Why don't you go and help Mr.  McCrump?"

"A man knows when he is not wanted in the kitchen."  Ryder tipped the
brim of his hat and hurried back to the workshop.

A little after noon Jock pushed the welding goggles to the top of his
head and smiled for the first time that day.  "Well, skipper, that's
about the best I can do.  Maybe she'll hold up without blowing out
under pressure and giving us another steam bath.  We can only pray to
the Almighty."

They loaded the drive shaft and steam pipe into a Scotch cart and
covered them with a tarpaulin to hide them from the eyes of Dervish
agents while they moved them through the streets.  No draught animals
remained in the city.  They had all died of starvation or been eaten.
Ryder joined Jock, Bacheet and the Arabs in the shafts of the cart and
they trundled it down to where the Intrepid this lay at the wharf.  By
lantern light they worked on in the engine room long after dark.  When
even Jock was overtaken by exhaustion they stretched out on the this's
steel deck plates and snatched a few hours' sleep.

They woke again at dawn.  The food bag was almost empty, but Ryder
ordered Bacheet to dole out a few dates and scraps of smoked fish for
breakfast.  Then they went back to work in the engine room.  In the
middle of the morning Saffron and Amber came down to the harbour.  They
had two small loaves of freshly made green-cake hidden in Saffron's
paintbox.

"We put them there because we did not want anyone to know what we were
doing.  This is our first batch," Saffron announced, with pride.  She
held up her hands, "Look!"  Amber followed her example.

Ryder saw the blisters in their palms.  "My two heroines."

There were only a few mouthfuls for each of the men, but it was enough
to boost their flagging energy.  Saffron and Amber sat with Ryder on
the edge of the deck, their legs hanging over the side, and watched him
eat.  He was touched by the womanly satisfaction that they showed, even
at their age, to be feeding a man.  They watched each piece go into his
mouth just as his mother had so many years ago.

"I am sorry, but that's all," Saffron said, as he finished.  "We'll
make some more tomorrow."

"It was delicious," he replied.  "The best batch yet."

Saffron looked pleased.  She pulled her knees up to her chin, and sat
hugging her long skinny legs, it makes me sick to think of all those
horrible Dervish eating their heads off over there."  She stood up
reluctantly and brushed down her skirts.  "Come on, Amber.  We must get
back or Becky will give us the sharp edge of her tongue."

Long after the twins had gone, and the men were struggling to manoeuvre
the long drive shaft into its chocks in the confines of the engine
room, Ryder pondered Saffron's casual remark.

It was mid-afternoon when Jock announced at last that he was cautiously
optimistic that this time the engine might perform as God and its
makers had intended.  He and his crew fired up the boiler, and while
they were waiting for a head of steam to build up, Ryder shared one of
his last remaining cigars with the Scotsman.  They leant together on
the bridge rail, both tired and subdued.

Ryder took a long deep draw on the cigar and passed it to Jock.  "The
Mahdi has a hundred thousand men camped on the other side of the river.
Tell me, Jock, how do you suppose he is feeding them?"  he asked.

Jock held the smoke in his lungs until his face turned puce.  At last
he exhaled explosively.  "Well, first off they have thousands of head
of stock that they've plundered," he said.  "But I reckon he must be
bringing dhurra downriver from Abyssinia."

"In dhows?"

"Of course.  How else?"

"At night?"  Ryder persisted.

"Of course.  On a moonlit night you can see the sails.  Lot of traffic
on the river at night."

"Jock McCrump, I want you to get this old tub of ours working under a
full head of steam by tomorrow evening at the latest.  Earlier than
that, if you like."

Jock stared at him suspiciously, and then he grinned.  His teeth were
as ragged and uneven as those of an ancient tiger shark.  "If I didn't
know you better, skipper, I'd think you were up to something."

There were no clouds in the desert sky to provide a canvas on which the
setting sun could paint its setting.  The great red orb dropped like a
stone below the horizon and almost immediately the night came down upon
the heat-drugged land.  Ryder waited until he could no longer make out
the opposite bank of the river, then gave orders to Bacheet to cast
off.

With his engine telegraph at 'dead slow ahead', he eased the Intrepid
this out through the harbour entrance and into the main stream of the
river.  As soon as he felt the tug of the current he turned the bows
into it and rang down to Jock for 'half ahead'.  They pushed up against
the flow of the river and Ryder listened anxiously to the beat of the
engine.  He could feel the hull quivering under his feet, but there
were no rough vibrations.  He held her at that speed until they had
rounded the first bend of the Blue Nile and a long deep glide of the
river lay ahead.

He took a deep breath and rang down for 'three-quarters ahead'.  The
this responded with the panache of a toreador parading into the
bullring.  Ryder let out a long sigh of relief.  "Take the wheel,
Bacheet.  I am going below."

He slid down the engine-room companionway.  Jock was shining the beam
of his bulls eye lantern on to the shaft, and Ryder went to stand
beside him.  They watched it turning in its new bearings.  Jock lowered
the lantern and in its golden light they studied the outline of the
silver column minutely, looking for the tiniest flutter or tremble of
distortion.  Like a gyroscope, it was spinning so evenly that it seemed
to be standing still.

Jock cocked his head.  "Listen to her sing, Skipper."  He raised his
voice above the hiss and slide of the cylinders.  "Sweeter than Lily
McTavish!"

"Who in creation is Lily McTavish?"

"Barmaid at the Bull and Bush."

Ryder let out a roar of laughter.  "I never realized what a connoisseur
of opera you are, Jock."

"Can't really say I know much about it, skipper, but I do know a fine
pair of tits when I see 'em."

"Can I push the this up to full revolutions?"

"Just like Lily McTavish, I reckon she's game for anything."

"I'd like to meet this Lily."

"Get in the queue behind me, skipper."

Still laughing Ryder went back to his bridge and took the wheel from
Bacheet.  When he pushed the telegraph to 'full ahead', the this surged
forward against the current.

"Twelve knots!"  Ryder shouted gleefully.  He felt a great weight slip
from his shoulders.  He was no longer a prisoner in the fever city of
Khartoum.  Once more all three thousand miles of the Nile belonged to
him, his high road to freedom and fortune.

He pulled back the lever of the engine telegraph to 'half ahead' and
kept on up the river; before he reached the next wide bend he had
counted five head of sail, all heavily laden trading dhows coming down
from the Abyssinian highlands to Omdurman.  He turned across the flow,
and ran swiftly back downstream.  Then he shouted down the voice tube
to the engine room: "Jock, come up here where we can talk."

They leant on the bridge rail together.  "After what happened at the
compound yesterday, I am not taking any more chances.  The mood of the
people is ugly and dangerous.  The city is crawling with agents and
sympathizers of the Mahdi.  They will know by morning that the this is
seaworthy again.  We must expect an attempt at sabotage.  From here on,
we must keep an armed guard on board twenty-four hours a day."

"I was going to do that anyhow."  Jock nodded.  "I've already moved my
bed and duffel back on board, and I'll be sleeping with a pistol under
me mattress.  My stokers will be taking turns at guard duties."

"Excellent, Jock.  But apart from that, as soon as it's light enough I
want you to move her from the harbour into the canal and tie her up at
the jetty at the back gate of the compound.  She'll be much safer
there, and easier to load."

"You thinking about your ivory?"  Jock asked.

"What else?"  Ryder smiled.  "But also I want to be able to make a run
for it if things go wrong again.  I'll be waiting for you to bring the
this up the canal at first light."

'"hat's all that din?"  Ryder had been woken by Bacheet hammering on
the blockhouse door.

"One of the Egyptian officers is here with a message from Gordon
Pasha," Bacheet shouted back.

Ryder's heart sank.  No news from Chinese Gordon was ever good.  He
reached for his trousers and boots and pulled them on.

The Egyptian had two black eyes and a scabbed, swollen lower lip.

"What happened to you, Captain?"  Ryder asked.

"There was a food riot at the arsenal when the general reduced the
ration.  I was hit in the face by a stone."

"I'd heard that your troops shot twenty of the rioters."

"That is not correct," the officer said hotly.  "To restore order, the
general was forced to shoot only twelve."

"How abstemious of him," Ryder murmured.

"You also had trouble with the rioters, and were forced to shoot," the
captain added.

"Only two, but they killed one of my men first."  Ryder was relieved to
have confirmation of the shooting at the arsenal: Gordon was no longer
in a position to point the finger at him.  "I understand that you have
a message for me from Gordon Pasha."

"The general wishes to see you at Mukran Fort as soon as possible.  I
am to escort you there.  Will you please make ready to leave at
once?"

Schoolboy being called to the headmaster's study, Ryder thought wryly.
He took his hat down from the peg on the wall.  "Very well.  I am
ready."

Gordon was at his usual station on the battlements of the fort.  He was
standing behind his telescope, peering downriver towards the Shabluka
Gorge.  Two brilliant coloured flags flew from the flagstaff of the
watchtower.  The red, white and black of Egypt was surmounted by the
red, white and blue of the Union Flag of Great Britain.

Gordon straightened up and saw Ryder's upturned face.  "Those flags
will be the first thing that the relief force sees when they come up
the river.  Then they will know that the city is still in our hands,
and that we have withstood all the forces of evil and darkness."

"And all the world will learn, General, what one Englishman alone and
almost unaided has been able to achieve.  It is a story that will be
written large in the annals of Empire."  Ryder had meant it to be
ironic, but somehow it did not come out that way.  He was forced to
admit, however reluctantly, that he admired this terrible little man.
He could never feel the slightest affection for him, but he stood in
awe of him.

Gordon raised a silver-grey eyebrow beneath which a cold blue eye
glinted, acknowledging the barbed compliment from an adversary.  "I am
informed that you took your steamer out on trial last night, and that
it was successful," he stated crisply.

Ryder nodded cautiously.  The old devil misses nothing, he thought. Now
he found himself hating the man as strongly as ever.

"I hope that does not mean you are planning to sail away in her before
the relief arrives?"  Gordon asked.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Mr.  Courtney, despite your mercenary instincts you have made, perhaps
unwittingly, a significant contribution to the defence of my city. Your
production of the foul-tasting but nutritious green-cake in itself has
been of great assistance.  You have other resources at your disposal
that might save lives."  Gordon stared at him.

Ryder stared back into the sapphire eyes and replied, "Indeed, General,
and I feel I have done as much as I can.  However, I have a premonition
that you will try to convince me otherwise."

"I need you to remain in the city.  I do not want to be forced to
impound your vessel, but I shall not hesitate to do so if you defy
me."

"Ah!"  Ryder nodded.  "That is a compelling argument.  May I suggest a
compromise, General?"

"I am a reasonable man," Gordon inclined his head, 'and I am always
ready to listen to good sense."

That is not a widely held opinion, Ryder thought, but he replied
evenly, "If I am able to deliver equal value, will you allow me to sail
from Khartoum whenever I wish, with the cargo and passengers of-my own
choice without restriction?"

"Ah, yes.  I believe you have become friendly with David Benbrook's
daughters," Gordon smiled bleakly, 'and that you have several tons of
ivory in your warehouse.  Those would be your passengers and cargo,
would they not?"

"David Benbrook and the three young ladies will be among those I shall
invite to sail with me.  I am certain that this would not be in
conflict with your sense of chivalry."

"What do you offer, sir, as your part of the bargain?"

"A minimum of ten tons of dhurra grain enough to feed the populace
until the arrival of the relief force and forestall any further
rioting.  You will pay me twelve shillings a sack, in cash."

Gordon's face darkened.  "I have always suspected that you had a hidden
hoard of grain."

"I have no secret hoard, but I will risk my ship and my life to obtain
it for you.  In return I want your word of honour as a gentleman and an
officer of the Queen that on delivery to you of ten tons of dhurra you
will pay me the agreed price and allow me to sail from Khartoum.  I
suggest that this is fair, and that you have nothing to lose by
agreeing to it."

Ryder had spread a black tarpaulin over the this's white
superstructure, and coated her hull above the waterline with black
river mud.  Using long bamboo poles they punted her quietly down the
shallow canal to the open river.  Under her camouflage she blended so
well into the darkness, that even in the brilliant starlight she was
almost invisible from any distance over a hundred yards.  As she slid
into the main current of the river and the long poles could no longer
find the bottom, Ryder rang down to Jock in the engine room for 'half
ahead'.  He turned upriver and cruised eastwards along the Blue Nile.
He was deliberately avoiding the main branch of the White Nile, because
the Dervish artillery batteries were all concentrated on the northern
approaches.  It was plain that by this time they were expecting the
arrival of the British gunboats from that direction.  However, in
making these dispositions they had left the other branches of the river
to the east and south unguarded.  Until the Dervish realized this
mistake the Intrepid this had the run of thousands of miles of river.

All the dhows coming down the Blue Nile would be Abyssinians.  Like
Ryder, they were just honest, hard-working traders, selling their grain
to the highest bidders.  Of course, it was to be regretted that their
main 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 mid-stream 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."

Penrod drew the tail of his turban closer over his mouth and nose so
that only his eyes showed, and edged aside his camel to pass the group
at a safe distance.  As they drew level with them they saw the horsemen
staring across at them.  They were animatedly discussing the two
strangers.

"Damn Ryder Courtney for his taste in camel flesh."  For the first time
since leaving Khartoum, Penrod bemoaned the quality of their mounts.
They were magnificent creatures, more befitting a khalifa or a powerful
emir than a lowly tribesman.  Even in this vast assembly they stood out
as thoroughbreds.  Yakub urged his camel forward at a faster clip, and
Penrod cautioned him sharply: "Gently, fearless Yakub.  Their eyes are
upon you.  When the mice nan the cat pounces."

Yakub reined in, and they continued at more leisurely pace, but this
did not deter the aggagiers.  Two broke away from the group and rode
across to them.

"They are of the Beja," Yakub said hoarsely.  "They mean us no good."

"Steady, glib and cunning Yakub.  You must deceive them with your ready
tongue."

The leading aggagier came up and reined his bay mare down to a walk.
"The blessings of Allah and His Victorious Mahdi upon you, strangers.
What is your tribe and who is your emir?"

"May Allah and the Mahdi, grace upon him, always smile upon you," Yakub
responded, in a clear untroubled voice.  "I am Hogal al-Kadir of the
Jaalin, and we ride under the banner of the Emir Salida."

"I am al-Noor, of the Beja tribe.  My master is the famed Emir Osman
Atalan, upon whom be all the blessings of Allah."

"He is a mighty man, beloved of Allah and the Ever Victorious Mahdi,
may he live long and prosper."  Penrod touched his heart and his
forehead, "I am Suleimani Iffara, a Persian of Jeddah."  Some Persians
had fair hair and pale eyes, and Penrod had adopted that nationality to
explain his features.  It would also account for the slight nuances and
inflections in his speech.

"You are a long way from Jeddah, Suleimani Iffara."  Al-Noor rode
closer and stared at him thoughtfully.

"The Divine Mahdi has declared jihad against the Turk and the Frank,"
Penrod replied.  "All true believers must hearken to his summons and
make haste to join up with him, no matter how hard and long the
journey."

"You are welcome to our array, but if you travel under the banner of
Emir Salida, you must ride harder to catch up with him."

"We are solicitous of the camels," Yakub explained, 'but on your advice
we will move faster."

"They are indeed magnificent beasts," al-Noor agreed, but he was
staring at Penrod and not at his mount.  He could see only his eyes,
but they were the eyes of a jinnee and disconcertingly familiar.  Yet
it would be a deadly offence to order him to unveil his features.  "My
master Osman Atalan has sent me to enquire if you wish to sell any.  He
would pay you a good price in gold coin."

"I have the utmost respect for your mighty master," Penrod replied,
'but rather would I sell my firstborn son."

"I have said before and I say again that they are magnificent
creatures.  My master will be saddened by your reply."  Al-Noor lifted
his reins to turn away, then paused, "There is aught about you,
Suleimani Iffara, your eyes or your voice, that is familiar.  Have we
met before?"

Penrod shrugged.  "Perhaps in the mosque of Omdurman."

"Perhaps," al-Noor said dubiously, 'but if I have seen you before I
will remember.  My memory is good."

"We go on ahead to find our commander," Yakub intervened.  "May the
sons of Islam triumph in the battle that looms ahead."

Al-Noor turned to him.  "I pray that your words may carry to the ear of
God.  Victory is sweet, but death is the ultimate purpose of life.  It
is the key to Paradise.  If the victory is denied to us, may Allah
grant us glorious martyrdom."  He touched his heart in farewell salute.
"Go with the blessings of Allah."  He galloped away to rejoin his
squadron.

"The Emir Atalan," Yakub whispered in awe.  "We ride in the same
company as your most deadly enemy.  This is the same as carrying a
cobra in your bosom."

"Al-Noor has granted us permission to leave his banner," Penrod
reminded him.  "Let us make all haste to obey."

They stirred up the camels with the goad, and pushed them into a trot.
As they pulled away Penrod looked across at the distant group of
aggagiers.  Now that he knew what to look for he recognized the elegant
figure of Osman Atalan in a bone-white jibba with gaily coloured
patches that caught the eye like jewels.  On his lovely pale mare he
was riding a few lengths ahead of the rest of his band.  He was staring
at Penrod, and even at that distance his gaze was disturbing.

Behind his master, al-Noor drew his rifle from its boot under his knee
and pointed it to the sky.  Penrod saw the spurt of blue powder smoke a
few seconds before the report reached his ears.  He lifted his own
rifle and returned this feu du joie.  Then they rode on.

They were challenged several times during the rest of the day.  The
quality of their camels and their obvious haste marked them out even
among this huge gathering of animals and men.  Each time they asked for
the red banner of Emir Salida of the Jaalin, they were told, "He leads
the vanguard," and they were pointed ahead.  Penrod pushed on rapidly:
ever since the meeting with al-Noor he had felt uneasy.

They paused in their journey only once more.  One of the petty traders
who followed the armies called to them as they passed.  They turned
aside to inspect his wares.  He had rounds of dhurra bread, roasted in
camel's milk butter and sesame seeds.  He showed them also dried dates
and apricots, and goat's milk cheese, whose high aroma started their
saliva.  They filled their food bags, and Penrod paid the exorbitant
prices with Maria Theresa dollars.

When they rode on the merchant watched them until they were well out of
earshot, then called his son who handled the pack donkeys.  "I know
that man well.  He marched with Hicks Pasha to El Obeid, at the start
of the war of jihad.  I sold him a gold inlaid dagger, and he bargained
shrewdly.  I would never mistake him for another.  He is an infidel and
a Frankish effendi.  His name is Abadan Riji.  Go, my son, to the
mighty Emir Osman Atalan, and tell him all these things.  Tell him that
an enemy marches in the ranks of the warriors of Allah."

The sun was sinking towards the western horizon and the elongated
shadows cast by their camels flitted across the orange yellow dunes
when at last Penrod made out the streaming red banner of Emir Salida
through the dust clouds ahead.

"This is the front rank of the army," Yakub agreed.  He rode close to
Penrod's right hand so that he did not have to raise his voice: other
riders were within earshot.  "Many of these men are Jaalin.  I have
recognized two who carry a blood feud against me.  They are of the
family who drove me out of my tribe, and made me an outcast.  If they
confront me I will be honour-bound to kill them."

"Then let us part company with them."

The Nile was only a mile distant on their left hand.  The whole army
had been following the course of the river since they had joined it at
Berber.  At this late hour of the day many other travellers were
turning aside to water their animals on the riverbank.  They were too
intent on their own affairs to remark the presence of the two strangers
among them.  Nevertheless Penrod contrived to keep well clear of
them.

The grazing closer to the riverbank was dense and luscious.  The grass
reached as high as the knees of their camels.  Suddenly there was an
explosion of wings from under the front pads of Yakub's mount, and a
covey of quail rocketed into the air.  These were the Syrian Blue
variety of their breed, larger than the common quail and highly prized
for the pot.  Yakub swivelled in his saddle and, with a whipping motion
of his right hand, threw the heavy camel goad he carried.  It
cartwheeled through the air and smacked into one of the birds.  In a
burst of blue, gold and chestnut feathers the quail tumbled to earth.

"Behold!  Yakub, the mighty hunter," he exulted.

The rest of the covey swung across the nose of Penrod's camel and he
made his throw.  The goad clipped the head off the leading cock bird,
and spun on with almost no deflection.  It thumped into a plump young
hen and snapped her near wing.  She came down heavily and scuttled away
through the tall grass.

Penrod jumped from the camel's back and chased her.  She jinked and
fluttered up, but he snatched her out of the air.  Holding her by the
head he flicked his wrist and broke her neck.  He retrieved his goad
and the cock's carcass, then ran back to his mount and swung up into
the saddle.  "Behold!  Suleimani Iffara, the humble traveller from
Jeddah, who would never boast of his prowess."

"Then I will not embarrass him by speaking of it," Yakub agreed
ruefully.

So they came down to the river.  Hundreds of horses and camels were
spread out along the bank, drinking.  Others were grazing on the green
growth that bordered it.  Men were filling their waterskins, and some
were bathing in the shallows.

Penrod picked out a spot on the bank that was well away from any of
these people.  They hobbled the camels and let them drink while they
filled the waterskins and cut bundles of fresh grass.  They turned the
hobbled camels loose to graze, and built a small cooking fire.  They
roasted the trio of quail, golden brown and oozing fragrant juices.
Then Yakub went to the cow camel and milked her into a bowl.  He warmed
the milk and they washed down with it a round of dhurra bread topped
with a slice of the cheese, which reeked more powerfully than the goat
that had produced it.  They ended the meal with a handful of dates and
apricots.  It was tastier fare than Penrod had ever enjoyed in the
dining room of the Gheziera Club.  Afterwards they lay under the stars
with their heads close together.  "How far are we from the town of Abu
Hamed?"  Penrod asked.

With his spread fingers Yakub indicated a segment of the sky.

"Two hours."  Penrod translated the angle to time.  "Abu Hamed is where
we must leave the river and cut across the bight to the Wells of
Gakdul."

"Two days' travel from Abu Hamed."

"Once we pass the vanguard of the Dervish, we will be able to travel at
better speed."

"It will be great pity to kill the camels."  Yakub rose up on one elbow
and watched them grazing nearby.  He whistled softly and the
cream-coloured cow wandered over to him, stepping short against her
hobble.  He fed her one of the rounds of dhurra cake and stroked her
ear as she crunched it up.

"O compassionate Yakub, you will cut a man's throat as happily as you
break wind, but you grieve for a beast who was born to die?"  Penrod
rolled on to his back and spread his arms like a crucifix.  "You stand
the first watch.  I will take the second.  We will rest until the moon
is at its zenith.  Then we will go on."  He closed his eyes and began
almost at once to snore softly.

When Yakub woke him, the midnight chill had already soaked through his
woollen cloak and he looked to the sky.  It was time.  Yakub was ready.
They stood up and, without a word, went to the camels, loosened the
hobbles and mounted up.

The watch fires of the sleeping army guided them.  The smoke lay in a
dense fog along the wadis, and concealed their movements.  The pads of
the camels made no sound, and they had secured their baggage with great
care so that it neither creaked nor clattered.  None of the sentries
challenged them as they passed each encampment.

Within the two hours that Yakub had predicted they passed the village
of Abu Hamed.  They kept well clear, but their scent roused the village
dogs, whose petulant yapping faded as they left the river and struck
out along the ancient caravan route that crossed the great bight of the
Nile.  By the time dawn broke they had left the Dervish army far
behind.

In the middle of the next afternoon they couched the camels in the
lengthening shadow of a small volcanic hillock and fed them on the
fodder they had cut on the riverbank.  Despite the severity of the
march the camels ate hungrily.  The two men examined them at rest but
found no ominous swellings on their limbs or shale cuts on their
pads.

"They have travelled well, but the hard marches lie ahead."

Penrod took the first watch and climbed to the top of the hillock so
that he could overlook their back trail.  He panned his telescope over
the south horizon in the direction of Abu Hamed, but could pick out no
dust cloud or any other sign of pursuit.  He built a knee-high wall of
loose volcanic rocks to screen himself in this exposed position, and
settled comfortably behind it.  For the first time since they had left
the Nile he felt easier.  He waited for the cool of the evening, and
before the sun reached the horizon he sat up and once more glassed the
southern horizon.

It was only a yellow feather of dust, small and ephemeral, showing
almost coyly for a few minutes, then dissipating and fading away as
though it were merely an illusion, a trick of the heated air.  Then it
materialized again, and hovered in the heat, like a tiny yellow bird.
"On the caravan road, fairly on our tracks, the dust rises over soft
ground and subsides again when the trail crosses shale or lava beds."
He explained to himself the intermittent appearance of the dust cloud
"It seems that al-Noor's memory has returned at last.  Yet these cannot
be horsemen.  There is no water.  Camels are the only animals that can
survive out here.  There are no camels in the Dervish army that can run
us down.  Our mounts are the swiftest and finest."

He stared through the lens of his telescope but could make out nothing
under the dust.  Still too far off, he thought.  They must be all of
seven or eight miles away.  He ran down the hill.  Yakub saw him coming
and could tell from his haste that trouble was afoot.  He had the
camels saddled and loaded before Penrod reached them.  Penrod jumped
into his saddle and his mount lurched up, groaning and spitting.  He
turned her head northwards, and urged her into trot.

Yakub rode up alongside him.  "What have you seen?"

"Dust on our back trail  Camels."

"How can you tell that?"

"What horse can survive so far from water?"

"When the aggagiers are in hot pursuit of either elephant or men, they
use both their camels and their horses.  At the beginning of the hunt
they ride the camels, and also use them to carry the water.  That is
how they save the horses until they have their quarry in sight.  Then
they change to them for the final chase.  You have seen the quality of
their horses.  No camel can run against them."  He looked back over his
shoulder.  "If those are the aggagiers of Osman Atalan, they will have
us in sight by dawn tomorrow."

They rode on through the night.  Penrod gave no thought to conserving
the water in the skins.  A little before midnight they stopped just
long enough to give each animal two bucketfuls of water.  Penrod
stretched out on the ground" and used an inverted milk bowl as a
sounding board to pick up the reverberation of distant hoofs.  When he
placed his ear against it, he could hear nothing.  He did not allow
this to lull him into complacency.  Only when they sighted the pursuers
at dawn would they know how far they were trailing behind them.  They
wasted no time and padded on through the desolation and the hissing
silence of the desert.

As the first soft light of dawn gave definition to the landscape Penrod
halted again.  Once again he was prodigal with the remaining water, and
ordered Yakub to give each of the camels two more buckets and the
remainder of the fodder.

"At this rate, we will have emptied the skins by this evening," Yakub
grumbled.

"By this evening we will either have reached the Wells of Gakdul, or we
will be dead.  Let them drink and eat.  It will lighten their load, and
give strength to their legs."

He walked back a hundred yards and once again used the milk bowl as a
sounding cup.  For a few minutes he heard nothing, and grunted with
relief.  But some deep instinct made him linger.  Then he heard it, a
tremble of air within his eardrum, so faint it might been a trick of
the dawn breeze sweeping over the rocks.  He wetted his forefinger and
held it up.  There was no wind.

He lowered his head to the bowl, cupped his hands round his ear and
closed his eyes.  Silence at first.  He took a deep breath and held it.
At the outer reaches of his hearing there was a susurration, like fine
sand agitated gently in a dried gourd, or the breathing of a beloved
woman sleeping at his side in the watches of the night.  Even in this
fraught situation an image of Rebecca flared in his memory, so young
and lovely in the bed beside him, her hair spread over them both like
cloth of gold.  He thrust away the picture, stood up and went back to
the camels.  "They are behind us," he said quietly.

"How far?"  Yakub asked.

"We will be able to see them clearly in the first rays of the sun."
They both glanced into the east.  The sun cast a nimbus around a
distant hilltop, as though it were the rugged head of an ancient
saint.

"And they will see us just as clearly."  Yakub's voice was husky and he
cleared his throat.

"How far to the Wells of Gakdul?"  Penrod asked.

"More than half a day's ride," Yakub answered.  "Too far.  On those
horses they will catch us long before we reach the wells."

"What terrain lies ahead?  Is there a place for us to take cover where
we might evade them?"

"We approach the Tirbi Kebir."  Yakub pointed ahead.  "There is good
reason why it is called the Great Graveyard."  This was one of the most
formidable obstacles along the entire crossing of the bight.  It was a
salt pan twenty miles across.  The surface was level as a sheet of
frosted glass, unmarred by a single ripple or undulation, other than
the broad indentation of the caravan road.  Both its verges were
outlined by the skeletons of the men and camels who, over the
centuries, had perished along the way.  The noon sunlight reflecting
off the diamond white salt crystals lit the noonday sky with a glare
that could be seen from many leagues in every direction.  A camel
standing in the centre of this great white place could be clearly
recognized from the perimeter.  The unrelenting sunlight, reflected and
magnified by the shining surface, could roast man and beast like a slow
fire.

"There is no other way forward.  We must go on."  They put the camels
to the crossing.  Refreshed by the copious draughts of water and the
fodder they had eaten they paced out strongly.  As the daylight
strengthened, the sky ahead became incandescent, like a metal shield
raised to white heat in the forge of Vulcan.  Abruptly they left the
area of dunes and undulated gravel hills, and rode out on to the pan.
With theatrical timing the sun soared out above the eastern hills and
struck into their faces with its stinging lash.  Penrod could feel it
sucking the moisture from his skin and frying the contents of his
skull.  He groped in his saddlebag and brought out a piece of curved
ivory into which he had carved horizontal eye slits so narrow that they
blocked out most of the reflected glare.  He had copied this from an
illustration in the book of Arctic travel by Clavering and Sabine that
depicted a native Eskimo of Greenland wearing such a contrivance,
carved from whalebone, to ward off snow blindness.

Under the goads, the camels broke into the gait that the Arabs called
'drinking the wind', a long striding trot that sent the miles swiftly
behind them.  With every few strides either Penrod or Yakub swivelled
round and stared back into the shimmering glare.

When the enemy came it was with shocking suddenness.  At one moment the
pan behind them was bare and white with not the least sign upon it of
man or beast.  At the next the Dervish column poured out from among the
gravel hills and rode on to the white expanse.  The weird play of
sunlight created an illusion of perspective and foreshortened
distances.  Although they were still several miles away, they seemed so
close that Penrod fancied he could make out the features of each
individual.

As Yakub had predicted they were riding camels, pack camels: the
aggagiers sat up in front of the huge balloon-like waterskins.  Each
rider led his horse behind him on "a long rein.  Osman Atalan was on
the leading camel.  The folds of his green turban covered his lower
face, but his seat in the saddle was unmistakable, head held high and
shoulders proud.  Beside him rode al-Noor.  Bunched up behind the
leading pair Penrod counted six more aggagiers.  Both sides spotted
each other in the same instant.  If the pursuers shouted it was too far
for the sound to reach him.

Without undue haste the aggagiers dismounted from their camels.  Two
men were acting as camel-handlers and they gathered up the reins. Osman
and each of his men led out a horse and watered it.  Then the aggagiers
tightened the girths and swung up into the saddle.  This changeover
took only the time that a Red Sea diver might hold his breath when he
goes down to fill his net with pearl oysters from the deep coral reef.
Then the horsemen bunched up and came across the shimmering salt
surface at an alarming pace.

Penrod and Yakub leant forward in their saddles and, with thrusting
movements of their hips, urged their mounts to the top of their speed.
The camels reached out in a long-legged gallop.  For a mile and then
another the two bands raced on, neither gaining nor faltering.  Then
Hulu Mayya, Osman's cream-coloured mare, broke from the pack.  She came
on with her mane and long golden tail floating in the wind, a pale
wraith against the dazzling plain of salt.

Penrod saw almost at once that no camel could hold off this horse over
any distance, and he knew the tactics Osman would adopt: he would ride
up behind them and hamstring their camels on the run.  Penrod tried to
conjure up a plan to counter this.  He could not rely on a lucky bullet
to bring down the mare.  Perhaps instead he should let her come close,
then turn back unexpectedly, taking Osman by surprise, and use his
camel's height and weight to rush down on the mare.  He might be able
to force a collision that would inflict such injury on her that she
would be out of the race.  In truth, he knew that such a plan was
futile: the mare was not only fleet but nimble; Osman was probably the
most skilled horseman in all the Dervish ranks.  Between them they
would make a mockery of any clumsy charge he could mount.  If by some
remote chance he succeeded in crippling the mare, the rest of the Beja
aggagiers would be upon them in the next instant, their long blades
bared.

The tail of the green turban had blown clear of Osman's face and now he
was so close that Penrod could make out his features clearly.  The
crisp curls of his beard were smoothed back by the wind of the mare's
run.  His gaze was locked on Penrod's face.

"Abadan Riji!"  Osman called.  "This is our moment.  It is written."

Penrod drew the Martini-Henry carbine from its boot under his knee, and
half turned in the saddle.  He could not make the full turn and face
his enemy to mount the rifle to his shoulder, without throwing his
camel off balance.  He swung up the rifle with his right hand, as
though it was a pistol and tried to settle his aim.  The camel lurched
and jerked under him, and the rifle barrel made wild and unpredictable
circles.  At the full reach of his right arm the muscles strained and
tired swiftly.  He could hold his aim no longer, and fired.  The recoil
jarred his wrist and the trigger guard smashed back into his fingers.
His aim was so wild that he did not mark the flight or strike of the
bullet.  Osman's replying laughter was natural and easy.  He was so
close now that his voice carried over the sound of hoofs and the rush
of the wind.

"Put up your gun.  We are warriors of the blade, you and I."  His mare
came on apace, now so close that Penrod could see the white froth
flying from the snaffle between her jaws.  The scabbard of Osman's
broadsword was trapped under his left knee.  He reached down and drew
out the blade, then held up its shining length for Penrod to see. "This
is a man's weapon."

Penrod felt the strong temptation to respond to his challenge and take
him on with the sword.  But he knew that more was at stake than pride
and honour.  The fate of an army of his countrymen, the city of
Khartoum and all within the walls Rebecca Benbrook too hung on the
outcome of this race.  Duty dictated that he must eschew any heroics.
He ejected the empty case from the breech of his rifle, and took
another round from his bandolier to replace it.  He locked the
breech-block but before he could turn back to fire again at Osman Yakub
called to him in urgent tones.  He glanced at him, and saw that he was
pointing ahead, standing high in the saddle, waving his arms above his
head, screaming in wild excitement.

Penrod followed the direction of his finger and his heart bounded.  Out
of the white glare of the salt pan ahead a squadron of mounted men
appeared, their camels racing towards him on a converging track.  There
was no mistaking that their intentions were warlike.  How many?  he
wondered.  In the clouds of white dust it was impossible to guess but
they came on, rank upon rank.  A hundred, if not more, he realized, but
who were they?  Not Arabs!  That's certain.  Hope stirred.  None of
them wore the jibba, and their faces were un bearded

They rushed towards each other, and Penrod saw the khaki of their
tunics and the distinctive shape of their pith helmets.  "British!"  he
exulted.  "Scouts from Stewart's Camel Corps."

Penrod swivelled in the saddle and looked back.  Osman was standing
tall in his stirrups, peering at the approaching ranks.  Behind him his
aggagiers had reined down from the charge and were milling in
confusion.  Penrod looked ahead again and saw that the commander of the
Camel Corps had ordered a halt.  His men were dismounting and couching
their camels to form the classic square.  It was done with precision.
The camels knelt in an unbroken wall, and behind each crouched the
rider, with rifle and bayonet presented across his animal's back.  The
white faces, although tinted by the sun, were clean shaven and calm.
Penrod felt a breathtaking surge of pride.  These men were his
comrades, the flowering of the finest army on earth.

He ripped the turban from his head to show them his face, then waved
the cloth over his head.  "Hold your fire!"  he yelled.  "British!  I
am British!"  He saw the officer standing behind the first rank of
troopers, with drawn sword, step forward and give him long, hard
scrutiny.  Now he was only a hundred and fifty paces from the square.
"I am a British officer!"

The other man made an unmistakable gesture with his sword, and

Penrod heard his order repeated by the sergeants and non-commissioned
officers: "Hold your fire!  Steady, the guards!  Hold your fire."

Penrod looked back again, and saw that Osman was close behind him.
Although his aggagiers were still in confusion, he was charging alone
into the face of a British square.

Again Penrod raised the carbine and aimed at Osman's mare.  He knew
that this was the one thing that might turn him aside.  Now they were
no more than three lengths apart, and even from the unstable back of a
galloping camel Penrod's carbine was a deadly menace.  Nevertheless, if
he had aimed at the man, Osman would not have been daunted by it.  But
by this time Penrod had learnt enough about him to know that he would
not push the mare into the muzzle of the rifle.

Osman reined back, his face furrowed with rage.  "I was wrong about
you, coward," he shouted.

Penrod felt his own rage flare.  "There will be another time," he
promised.

"I pray God that it is so."  Within sixty yards of the British square
Osman turned.  He brought the mare down to a trot and rode away to
rejoin his aggagiers.

The square opened to let in Penrod, Yakub following.  He rode up to the
officer and slid to the ground.

"Good morning, Major."  He saluted, and Kenwick stared at him in
astonishment.

"Ballantyne, you do turn up in odd places.  You might have got yourself
shot."

"Your arrival was at a most appropriate moment."

"I noticed you were having a spot of bother.  What in the name of the
Devil are you doing out here in the middle of the blue?"

"I have despatches from General Gordon for General Stewart."

"Then you are in luck.  We are the advance guard.  General Stewart is
with the main body of the relief column, not more than an hour behind
us."  He looked out over the camels and the kneeling men at the front
of his square.  "But first things first.  Who was the Dervish bounder
chasing after you?"

"One of their emirs.  Fellow called Osman Atalan, head of the Beja
tribe."

"My solemn oath!  I've heard of him.  He's a nasty piece of work, by
all accounts.  We had better deal with him."  He strode away towards
the front of the square.  "Sergeant Major!  Shoot that fellow."

"Sir!"  The sergeant major was a burly figure with a magnificent pair
of moustaches.  He picked out two of the his best marksmen.  "Webb and
Rogers, shoot that Dervish."

The two troopers leant across the backs of their couched camels and
took aim.  "In your own time!"  the sergeant major told them.

Penrod found he was holding his breath.  He had told Kenwick of Osman's
position and rank to discourage just such an order.  He had vaguely
hoped that some chivalrous instinct might have dissuaded Kenwick from
shooting down an emir.  At Waterloo, Wellington would never have
ordered his sharpshooters to make Bonaparte their target.

One of the troopers fired but Osman was riding steadily away and the
range was already over five hundred yards.  The bullet must have passed
close for the mare swished her tail as though to drive off a tsetse
fly.  But Osman Atalan did not deign even to look back.  Instead he
deliberately slowed his horse to a walk.  The second trooper fired and
this time they saw dust fly.  Again the bullet had missed by very
little.  Osman continued to walk the mare away.  Each marksman fired
two more shots at him.  By then he was out of range.

"Cease firing, Sergeant Major," Kenwick snapped.  Then, in an aside to
Penrod, "Damned fellow has the luck of the fox," he was smiling thinly,
'but you have to admire his cool performance."

"We will almost certainly be treated to other virtuoso performances in
the near future," Penrod agreed.

Kenwick glanced at him, sensing the note of censure in his tone.  "A
sporting sentiment, Ballantyne.  However, I do believe that one should
not accord too much respect to the enemy.  We must bear in mind that we
are here to kill them."

And vice versa.  But Penrod did not say it aloud.

In the distance they watched Osman Atalan join up with his aggagiers
and ride away southwards towards Abu Hamed.

"Now," said Kenwick, "General Stewart will probably be pleased to see
you."

"And vice versa, sir."  This time Penrod voiced the thought.

Kenwick scribbled a note in his despatch book, tore out the page and
handed it to him.  "If you wander around the countryside dressed like
that, it's likely you'll be shot as a spy.  I shall send young
Stapleton back with you.  Please inform General Stewart that we're
making good progress and, apart from this Atalan fellow, we have made
no other contact with the enemy."

"Major, please do not be lulled into believing that happy state of
affairs will persist much longer.  For the last several days I have
been riding in company with a vast concourse of the Dervish.  All of
them are coming this way."

"How large a force?"  Kenwick asked.

"Difficult to say for certain, sir.  Too many to count.  However, I
would estimate somewhere between thirty and fifty thousand."

Kenwick rubbed his hands with glee.  "So, all in all, you might say
that we are in for an interesting few days."

"You might indeed, sir."

Kenwick called over a young ensign, the lowest rank of commissioned
officer.  "Stapleton, go back with Captain Ballantyne, and see him
through the lines.  Don't get him or yourself shot."

Percival Stapleton gazed at Penrod with awe.  He was not much more than
seventeen, fresh-faced and eager as a puppy.  The two rode back, with
Yakub, along the ancient caravan road.  For the first few miles Percy
was struck dumb with hero-worship.  Captain Ballantyne was a holder of
the Victoria Cross, and to have the honour of riding with him was the
pinnacle of his sixteen months of military experience.  Over the next
mile he summoned up his courage and addressed a few respectful remarks
and questions to him.  He was highly gratified when Penrod responded in
a friendly fashion, and Percy became relaxed and chatty.  Penrod
recognized him as a prime source of information, encouraged him to
speak freely, and quickly picked up most of the regimental gossip from
him.  This was highly coloured by Percy's pride in the regiment, and
his almost delirious anticipation of going into action for the first
time.

"Everybody knows that General Stewart is a fine soldier, one of the
best in the entire army," the youngster informed him importantly.  "All
the men under his command have been drawn from the first-line regiments
of guards and fusiliers.  I am with the Second Grenadiers."  He sounded
as though he could hardly believe his good fortune.

"Is that why General Gordon has been waiting so long in Khartoum for
your arrival?"  Penrod needled the boy with surgical skill.

Percy bridled.  "The delay is not the general's fault.  Every man in
the column is as keen as mustard, and spoiling for a fight."  Penrod
lifted an eyebrow, and the boy rushed on hotly: "Because of the haste
with which the politicians in London forced us to leave Wadi Haifa, we
were obliged to wait at Gakdul for the reinforcements to reach us.  We
were less than a thousand strong and the camels were sick and weak from
paucity of fodder.  We were in no fit state to meet the enemy."

"What is the position now?"

"The reinforcements arrived only two days ago from Wadi Haifa.  They
brought up fodder, fresh camels and the provisions we were lacking. The
general ordered the advance at once.  Now we have men enough to do the
job," he said, with the sublime confidence of the very young.

"How many is enough?"  Penrod asked.

"Almost two thousand."

"Do you know how many Dervish there are?"  Penrod asked, with
interest.

"Oh, quite a few, I shouldn't wonder.  But we are British, don't you
see?"

"Of course we are!"  Penrod smiled.  "There is nothing else to say, is
there?"

They topped the next rise and on the stony plain ahead appeared the
main body.  It was advancing in a compact square formation, with the
pack camels in the centre.  There appeared to be many more than two
thousand.  They came on at a good steady rate, and it was clear that
they were under firm command.

With young Percy in uniform to smooth the way, the pickets let them
into the marching square.  A party of mounted staff officers was coming
up behind the front rank.  Penrod recognized General Stewart.  He had
seen him at Wadi Haifa, but had not been presented to him.  He was a
handsome man, stiff-backed and tall in the saddle, exuding an air of
confidence and command.  Penrod knew the man at his side rather better:
he was Major Hardinge, the Camel Corps senior intelligence officer.  He
pointed at Penrod and spoke a few words to the general.  Stewart
glanced in Penrod's direction and nodded.

Hardinge rode over.  "Ah, Ballantyne, the traditional bad penny."

"Penny now worth at least a shilling, sir.  I have despatches from
General Gordon in Khartoum."

"Have you, my goodness?  That's a guinea's worth.  Come along.  General
Stewart will be pleased to see you."  They rode back to join the
staff.

General Stewart motioned to Penrod to fall in alongside his own camel.
Penrod saluted.  "Captain Penrod Ballantyne, 10th Hussars, with
despatches from General Gordon in Khartoum."

"Gordon is still alive?"

"Very much so, sir."

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.

"What are the infidels doing now?"  Salida asked curiously as his
attention went back to the enemy camp.

"They are preparing for our attack."

"They know that we are here, waiting for them?"  al-Salida enquired.
"How do they know that?"

"We had a spy in our ranks.  A ferenghi officer.  A clever, crafty
infidel.  He speaks our sweet mother tongue, and passes readily as a
son of the Prophet.  From Berber he rode northwards with our array.
Doubtless, he has counted our heads, divined our intentions and gone
into the infidel camp."

"What is his name?  How do you know so much about him?"

"His name is Abadan Riji.  He gave me the wound at El Obeid that almost
carried me to my grave.  "He is my blood enemy."

"Then why have you not killed him?"  Salida asked, in a reasonable
tone.

"He is slippery as a river eel.  Twice he has wriggled through my
fingers," Osman said, 'but that was yesterday.  Today is today, and we
shall count the dead at the setting of this sun."

"The infidel may not offer us battle this day," Salida demurred.

"Look!"  He passed Salida his telescope.  The old man held it the wrong
way round and peered through the large lens.  Though he could see
nothing but a vacant blue sky, he looked wise.  Osman knew that he
understood little of these infidel toys, so to spare him embarrassment
he described the scene in the British camp for him.

"See how the quartermasters are passing down the ranks handing out
extra ammunition."

"By God, you are right," Salida said, and the telescope wavered several
degrees in the wrong direction.

"See how they are bringing in the Nordenfelts."

"In the saintly name of the Mahdi, you are right."  Salida bumped his
eyebrow on the brass frame of the telescope, and lowered it to rub the
spot.

"See how the infidel mounts up, and you can hear the bugles sound the
advance."

Salida looked up and, without the hindrance of the lens, saw the enemy
clearly for the first time, "By the holy name of the Mahdi, you are
right!"  said he.  "Here he comes in full array."

They watched the British break camp and ride out.  Their orderly ranks
immediately assumed the dreaded square formation.  They moved
deliberately into the mouth of the defile, and no gaps appeared in
their lines.  Their discipline and precision were chilling, even to men
of Osman's and Salida's temperament.

"For them there is no turning back.  They must win through to the water
or perish as other armies have done, swallowed by the desert."

"I will not leave them for the desert," declared Salida.  "We will
destroy them with the sword."  He turned to Osman.  "Embrace me, my
beloved enemy," he said softly, 'for I am old and tired.  Today seems a
good day to die."

Osman hugged him and kissed his withered cheeks.  "When you die, may it
be with your sword in your hand."  They parted and moved down the back
slope of the ridge to where the lance-bearers held their horses.

Penrod looked up at the stark black cliffs that rose on each side of
them.  They were barren as ash heaps from the pit of hell.  As they
moved into the gut of the defile the cliffs compressed and deformed
their formations.  But no gaps appeared in the sides of the square.
Carefully Penrod scanned the cliffs.  There was no sign of life, but he
knew this was an illusion.  He glanced across at Yakub.  "Osman Atalan
is here," he said.

"Yes, Abadan Riji."  Yakub smiled and his right eye rolled out of
kilter.  "He is here.  There is the sweet perfume of death in the air."
He drew a deep breath.  "I love it even more than the smell of fresh
quimmy."

"Only you, lascivious and bloodthirsty Yakub, could combine love and
battle in the same thought."

"But, Effendi, they are one and the same."

They moved on down the narrow defile.  Fear and excitement coursed like
intoxicating wine through Penrod's veins.  He looked around at the
bluff, honest faces that surrounded him and was proud to ride in their
company.  The quiet orders and responses were given in the familiar
accents of home, so diverse that they might have been different
languages: the sounds of the Scottish Highlands and the West Country,
of Wales and the Emerald Isle, of York and Kent, of the Geordies, the
Cockney, and the elegant drawl of Eton and Harrow.

"They will be waiting for us on the far side of this pass," Yakub said.
"Osman and Salida will want to work their cavalry in the open
ground."

"Salida is the emir of your tribe so you understand his mind well,"
said Penrod.

"He was my emir, and I rode in his raiding parties with him and ate at
his fire.  Until the day his eldest son ravished my little sister and I
took the dagger to them both, for it was she who enticed him.  Now
there is blood between me and Salida.  If he does not kill me first,
one day I will kill him."

"Ah, patient and vengeful Yakub, this may be that day."

They rode on through the narrow neck of the pass and the sides opened
like the jaws of a monster on each side of them.  Still there was no
sign of life on the dead, seared hills, not a bird or a gazelle.  The
bugle sounded the halt, and the distorted square came to a jerky
stop.

The sergeants rode down the ranks to redress them.  "Close up on the
right!"

"Keep your spacing in the ranks."

"Wheel into line on the left."

Within minutes the integrity of the square was restored.  The corners
were at meticulous right angles and the spacings were precise.  The
lines of bayonets glittered in the relentless sunlight, and the faces
of the waiting men were ruddy with sweat, but not one unhooked a
water-bottle from his webbing.  In this thirsty wilderness, to drink
without orders was a court-martial offence.  From the back of his camel
Penrod surveyed the ground ahead.  Beyond the funnel of hills it opened
into a broad, level plain.  The earth was carpeted with white quartz
pebbles and studded with low, sun-blackened salt scrub.  At the far end
of this bleak expanse stood a tiny clump of palm trees that seemed to
have fossilized with age.

Good cavalry country, Penrod thought, and turned his full attention
back to the trap of hills on either hand.  Still they were devoid of
all life, yet seemed charged with menace.  They quivered in the heat
mirage like hunting hounds brought up short by the scent of the quarry,
waiting only the slip to send them away in full tongue.

The cliffs were riven by gullies and wadi mouths, by rocky salients and
deep re-entrants.  Some were choked with rock and scree, others coated
with sand like the floor of a bullring.  Yakub giggled softly and
indicated the nearest of these with the point of his camel goad.  There
was no need for him to speak.  The tracks of a thousand horses dimpled
the surface of the sand.  They were so fresh that the edge of each hoof
print was crisply defined and the low angle of the sun defined it with
bold blue shadow.

Penrod raised his eyes to the serrated tops of the hills.  They were
sharp as the fangs of an ancient crocodile against the eggshell blue
sky.  Then something moved among the rocks and Penrod's eye pounced
upon it.  It was a tiny speck and the movement was no more striking
than that of a flea crawling in the belly fur of a black cat.

He brought his small telescope out of the leather saddlebag and focused
on it, then saw the head of a single man peering down on them.  He wore
a black turban and his beard was black, blending well with the rock
around him.  It was too far to recognize his features but the man
turned his head, perhaps to give an order to those behind him.  Another
head appeared beside his, and then another, until the skyline was lined
with human heads like beads on a string.

Penrod lowered the glass and opened his mouth to shout a warning, but
at that moment the air throbbed with the gut-jarring beat of the
Dervish war drums.  The echoes rebounded off the facing cliffs, and now
the host of the Mahdi appeared, with miraculous suddenness, upon all
the ledges, galleries and crests of the pass.  The central figure stood
clear upon the utmost pinnacle.  His jibba sparkled white in the sun,
and his turban was dark emerald green.  He lifted his rifle with one
hand and pointed it at the sky.  The grey gunsmoke spurted high into
the air like the breath of a breaching sperm whale, and the sound of
the gunshot followed seconds later.  A mighty shout went up from the
serried Dervish ranks: "La il aha ill allah  There is but one God!"

The echoes shouted back: "God!  God!  God!"

The bugle in the centre of the British square sang on a wild, urgent
note, and the troops reacted with smooth, practised precision.  Down
went the camels, kneeling in orderly lines, forming at once the outer
ramparts of this living fortress.  The baggage animals and their
handlers moved back and couched in a dense mass in the centre.  They
were the inner keep.  Swiftly the gunners unloaded the Nordenfelt
machine-guns from the pack-camels and staggered with them to the four
corners, from where they could lay down enfilading fire along the front
of each wall of the square.  General Stewart and his staff stood in a
group just within the front wall.  The runners knelt close at hand,
ready to race to any corner of the square with the general's orders.

A deadly silence fell upon this assembly of warriors.  The Dervish
ranks stared down upon them, and time seemed frozen.  Then a single

Dervish horseman rode out from the stony mouth of the main wadi.  At
extreme rifle range, he stopped, facing the square.  He raised the
curved ivory war clarion, the ombeya, and its clear, deep voice
resounded along the cliff.

From the mouth of every wadi and combe poured the Dervish host, rank
upon rank, thousand upon thousand, camels and horses.  They kept
coming, wheeling into loose squadrons, facing the little square.  Few
man were dressed or armed in the same way: lance and spear, axe and
round leather targe, rifle, jezail and the dreadful broadsword were
poised.  The drums started again, a slow rhythmic beat and the Dervish
ranks started forward.

"Wait for 'em, lads."  The sergeants strolled down behind the front
wall of the square.

"Hold your fire, boys."

"No hurry.  There's enough for everybody."  The voices were calm,
almost jocular.

The drums beat faster and the Dervish lines broke into a trot, the
Ansar in the front beginning to jostle each other to be first into the
square.  Faster still, and the dense, savage masses seemed to fill the
valley floor.  Drums crescendoed and hoofs thundered.  The dust rose in
a choking miasma.  The war cries were shrill.

"Steady, boys, steady!"  Calm English voices, responding to the pagan
shrieks.

"Hold your fire, chaps!"  Penrod recognized Percy Stapleton's clear,
boyish voice as he called to his platoon.  He was having great
difficulty restraining his eagerness.  "Steady, the Blues!"

The scamp thinks it's the Boat race.  Penrod smiled to himself.  The
drums pounded feverishly, and the ombeyas squealed and sobbed.  Like
the flood from a burst dam, the Dervish cavalry came straight at the
British square.

"Get ready!  Rolling volleys, lads," called the sergeants.

"By the book now, my boys.  Remember your drills."

"Rolling volleys!  Make each shot tell."

Penrod was watching a sheikh on a rangy ginger camel.  He had forced
his way well ahead of the front rank of the charge.  His mouth was wide
open as he screamed, and there was a black gap in the line of his front
teeth.  He was a hundred yards from the face of the square, then
seventy, then fifty, and coming on at a wild gallop.

The bugle rang out sweet and high.

"Rolling volleys.  Front rank, fire!"

There was that brief pause, characteristic of highly trained troops, as
each man steadied his aim.  Penrod picked out the gap-toothed sheikh.

The volley crashed out, astonishing the ear.  The front rank of the
charge shuddered to the shock.  Penrod's man took the heavy bullet
squarely in the chest, and flipped backwards from his high saddle.  His
camel slewed round and crashed into the two horses coming up behind it,
bringing one down heavily.

"Second rank, rolling volleys.  Fire."  Again the rifles crashed out.
The bullets struck flesh with the sound of wet clay slung against a
brick wall.  The Dervish charge wavered, and lost impetus.

"Third rank, rolling volleys," sang out the sergeants.  "Fire!"  The
bullets churned the Dervish into confusion.  Riderless animals milled
and shied.  Bearded warriors swore and struggled to break clear.
Corpses and wounded men were trampled and kicked beneath the hoofs.  At
that moment the Nordenfelts added their spiteful chatter to the uproar.
Their fire hosed down the line.  Like a barracuda driving through a
shoal of pilchards, it split them into small, isolated groups.

"Front rank, rolling volleys.  Fire!"  The orders were repeated.  The
troopers reloaded, aimed and fired, with the oiled precision of rows of
bobbins on a carding machine.  The charge stalled, broke, and the
survivors streamed towards the cliffs.  But before they reached them
the drums called to them and the ombeyas sang: "Go back!  For Allah and
the Mahdi, go back into the battle!"

Fresh squadrons streamed out from the rocks to swell their depleted
ranks.  They massed, shouted to God, and came again, tearing across the
trampled field where so many of their comrades already lay.  Charging
in to break the British square.

But a British square does not break.  The sergeants called the timing
of those regular rolling volleys.  The barrels or the Nordenfelt
machine-guns began to glow like horseshoes in the blacksmith's forge.

Osman Atalan had told Salida, "It is necessary to feed them corpses to
stop up their mouths."

The Nordenfelts gorged on human flesh, choked on it and one after
another jammed.  As their staccato chatter ceased so the Dervish
cavalry pressed closer, right on to the thicket of bright bayonets.
Still the volleys crashed into them.  They struggled forward and were
chopped down, until even their courage and resolve were exhausted.  At
last they shrank away and rode back to the cliffs.

Salida looked down on the unbroken square from the heights.  "These are
not men," he said, 'they are jinn.  How does a man kill a devil?"

"With courage and the sword," replied Rufaar, his eldest surviving son.
Two other sons older than him had been killed in raids and tribal
warfare, and one had died in a feud over a woman.  That death was still
to be avenged.

Rufaar was thirty-three, a child of the warrior blood.  With his own
sword he had killed fifty men and more.  He was as his father had been
at the same age: his ferocity was unquenchable.  Three of his younger
brothers stood behind him.  They were of the same brood, and in their
veins also Salida's blood ran true.

"Let me lead the next charge, revered father," Rufaar pleaded.  "Let me
shatter these pig-eaters.  Let me cauterize this festering sore in the
heart of Islam."

Salida looked upon him, and he was pleasing to a father's eye.  "Nay!"
He shook his head.  The single word of denial cut deeper than any enemy
blade ever had.  Rufaar winced with the pain of it.  He went down on
one knee and kissed his father's dusty foot.  "I ask no other boon but
this.  Let me lead the charge."

"Nay!"  Salida denied him a second time, and Rufaar's expression
darkened.  "I will not let you lead, but you may ride at my right
hand."  Rufaar's face cleared.  He jumped to his feet and embraced his
sire.

"What of us?"  His other three sons joined the chorus.  "What of us,
beloved father?"

"You puppies may ride behind us."  Salida glowered at them to hide his
affection.  "Perchance Rufaar and I may throw you some scraps from the
feast.  Now fetch my camel."

tret cher-bearer!"  The call came from a half-dozen points around the
outer wall of the square, where troopers had been hit by random Dervish
fire.  Quickly the wounded were carried into the centre and the gaps
were closed.  The doctors operated amid the dust and flies, sleeves
rolled to the elbow, blood clotting swiftly in the heat.

The wounded who could still stand came back in their bandages to take
their places in the square once more.

"Water-boys!"  The shout went around the little square.  The boys
scurried about with the skins and spilled water into the empty
felt-covered bottles.

"Ammunition here!"  The quartermasters moved along the sides of the
square, doling out the cardboard packets.

The gunners struggled to clear the blockages of the machine-guns.  They
splashed precious water over the barrels to cool them.  It boiled off
in clouds of hissing steam, and the metal crackled and pinged.  But the
actions were locked solidly, and though they hammered and heaved they
would not budge.

Suddenly in the midst of all this frantic activity the bugle rang out
again.  "Stand to!"  shouted the sergeants.

"They are coming back."  The Dervish cavalry rode out from the fastness
of the hills.  Like a great wave building up beyond the surf, they
lined up again along the foot of the hills, facing the square.

"There is your enemy."  Penrod murmured to Yakub.  The red banner waved
in the centre of the line, carried by two Dervish striplings.

"Yes."  Yakub nodded.  "That is Salida in the blue turban.  The mangy
jackal beside him is his son, Rufaar.  I must kill him also.  Those are
some of his other brats carrying his flag.  There will be no honour in
killing them, no more than popping fleas between the fingernails, but
it must be done."

"Then we still have much work to do."  Penrod smiled as he broke open
another paper box of cartridges and filled the loops of his
bandolier.

"Salida is a clever old jackal," Yakub murmured.  "By the sweet breath
of the Prophet, he learns quickly.  He saw how we broke their first
charges.  Look!  He has hardened his centre."

Penrod saw what he meant.  Salida had changed his formation.  His line
was not evenly distributed.  The flanks were only two ranks deep, but
in his centre Salida had formed a hammer, a solid knot of six closely
packed ranks.

On the other side of the square General Sir Herbert Stewart studied the
emir through the lens.  "He appears very old and frail."

"He is old, but not frail, sir."  Hardinge assured him.  "With only
fifty men, he led the charge that broke up Valentine Baker's Egyptians
at Suakin.  That was less than two years ago.  The old dog still has
teeth."  "Then we shall have to draw them for him," Stewart murmured.
"Here he comes, sir."  "Here he comes indeed," Stewart agreed.

The Dervish ranks rolled forward, the horses trotting and the camels
pacing steadily, the men upon their backs brandishing their weapons and
chanting their war cries.  The dust storm trailed behind them.  They
crossed the half-way line, and broke into a canter.  The lines bunched
up like a clenching fist.  Ahead the ground was littered with their own
dead.  They lay thickly as cherry blossom beneath the windblown trees
of an orchard.  Their harlequin jib has bore fresher, darker stains
than the decorative patches, and the blue flies rose in a cloud as the
thunder of the charge shook the earth.  The hoofs of the front rank
trampled the corpses, scattering the bloody heaps into fresh confusion,
and they came on without check.

In the centre Salida leant forward in the saddle of his grey camel. His
rifle was still in its boot beneath his knee, but he handled the heavy
broadsword as lightly as if it were a toy.  He shouted no war cry,
reserving his scant breath for the main business.  His expression was
ecstatic; the rheum from his bloodshot eyes ran down his cheeks into
his silver-grey beard.  He was an obvious target for the rifles that
lay ahead.  The first volley crashed into them, and men and animals
were shot down.  But Salida and his sons rode on untouched. Men pushed
forward from the rear ranks to fill the gaps, and they were just in
time to receive the next volley, and the next.  But Salida rode on.

On the left flank a Nordenfelt machine-gun opened up, slicing through
the front of the Dervish charge with bullets.  Then, almost
immediately, it jammed again -and fell silent.  But the Martini-Henrys
crashed out in unison, keeping their terrible unhurried beat.  Camels
bellowed as they were hit and went down.  Horses plunged, reared and
fell backwards, crushing their riders.  But in Salida's centre new men
rode forward, keeping up the impetus of the charge.  Salida reached the
point twenty feet in front of the wall of the square where each of the
previous charges had failed and floundered.  Rufaar's knee touched his
own, his other sons backed him almost as closely.  Although three ranks
of the Dervish centre had been shot away, brave men still poured
forward to give the hammer weight as it swung towards the frail wall of
the square.

"This time we will break these dogs."  Rufaar laughed.

But the British line never breaks.  Now it gave a little, as a blade of
Damascus steel will bend, but it did not shatter.  A wave striking the
solid coral reef, they washed over the front rank.  Khaki-clad figures
fell under the swinging blades, and the Dervish fired down into them
from the backs of the camels.  But gradually Salida's hammer lost its
momentum.  It slowed and stalled and at last spent its weight and fury
against the second rank of the little square.  The big men in
sweat-soaked khaki tunics held them, then hurled them back.

The Dervish cavalry turned and streamed away towards the cliffs.

Salida was reeling on the saddle.  A bayonet thrust had gone in deep
above his hip bone.  He might have fallen, but Rufaar reached across
and, with one arm around his shoulders, steadied him and led him back
to the shelter of the wadi.  "You are sore wounded, Father."  He tried
to lift him to earth.

"The battle has only just begun."  Salida struck away his son's hands.
"Help me bind up this little cut, then we will ride back and finish the
task that God and the Mahdi have set us."

With his own long blue turban they bound up the old man's wound, so
tightly that the flow of blood was stopped; and the bandages stiffened
his back so that he could sit tall in the saddle once again.

"Start the drums," said Salida.  "Sound the ombeya.  We are going
back."

Osman Atalan rode up on Sweet Water, Hulu Mayya.  His Beja division had
been waiting in reserve, ready to ride in and exploit when Salida and
his Jaalin forced the breach.  "Revered and warlike Emir, you have done
more than any man before you.  Now let me take in my Beja to finish the
work you have begun so well."

"I will force the opening," Salida told him firmly.  "You can follow
after me, as we agreed."

Osman looked into that haughty face, and saw that there was no merit in
argument.  If they delayed here another minute the day was lost.  The
British wall had almost broken.  If they struck again in the same place
before it could recover, perhaps they could carry it away.

"Ride then, noble Emir.  I will follow close behind you."

The entire Dervish army, two full divisions, poured out from the hills
and advanced upon the little cluster of men on the open plain.  In the
van rode the emaciated figure in a bloody jibba, bareheaded, his grey
hair covering his shoulders.  His eyes glittered feverishly, like those
of a saint or a madman.

Gentlemen," Stewart addressed his staff, 'we will move our station
across to meet these fine fellows.  I had not expected them to pound
away at our rear wall like this.  However, it seems that they are
coming back for more of the same."

They moved off in a group, just as Hardinge rode up to report.  "The
Dervish did some damage with that last charge, sir.  We suffered
fifty-five casualties all told.  Three officers killed Elliot,
Cartwright and Johnson.  Another two were wounded."  "Ammunition?"

"Still in good supply, but all four of the Nordenfelts are out of
action."  "Damned rubbish.  I asked for Gatlings.  What about the
water?"  "Running low, sir.  We must reach the wells before nightfall."
"That is my intention."  Stewart pointed at the massed Dervish cavalry,
drawn up along the foot of the hills.  "It looks as though they are
about to attack with everything they have.  A last desperate throw of
the dice.  I want you to pass the order to the three other walls to
have the quarter columns standing in reserve.  Just in case these
fellows get inside."  "Oh, they'll never get in, sir."

"Of course they won't, but see to the quarter columns nevertheless."
During the battle the Dervish had hammered away at the northern wall of
the square.  The men in the other three walls had received only the
very first charge.  Since then they had taken little part.  They were
restless and frustrated.  Now, ia the face of this new threat, the
sergeants strode down the ranks detailing the quarter columns.  If the
enemy broke one wall, the square must not be allowed to collapse in
upon itself.  The other three walls must stand firm, while every fourth
man, the quarter columns, rushed to stop the gap and shore up the
broken wall.  Before they were ready the war drums began their frenetic
rhythm, and the ombeyas brayed and blared.  The Dervish cavalry rolled
forward yet again.

With no troops under his direct command Penrod had time enough to
squint up at the height of the sun through slitted lids.  It's after
noon, he thought, amazed.  We have been in play for three hours and
more.

Beside him Yakub was fretting: "If Salida does not come to me, someone
else will kill him first."

"That will never do, gentle Yakub."  Penrod lifted his helmet, swabbed
his brow with his kerchief and settled the helmet again at a rakish
angle.  Then he looked ahead as the rumble of hoofs and the babble of

Arab voices swelled into the deafening overture of battle.  They swept
up to the threshold of the square.

"First rank, rolling volleys.  Fire."  The sergeants began their chant
and at regular intervals the massed gunfire thundered out.  The ranks
of cavalry shuddered and shook as the volleys raked them, and their
advance slowed under the dreadful punishment, but they came on and on,
struggling over the last few yards until they struck the wall for the
second time.  Like raging bulls the two sides locked horns, swayed and
pushed, thrust and hacked.

The British gave a little, then heaved themselves back.  The white
soldiers were adept with the bayonet.  These weapons were longer
reaching and quicker to recover than the swinging broadswords.  For the
second time that day Salida's division began to crumple.  The soldiers
plied the bayonets at close quarters, and some went down under the
heavy crusader blades, but the rest tightened their grip and the
Dervish gave ground more rapidly.

Then Osman Atalan rode in at the head of his fresh reserves.  He came
up behind Salida, and threw his full weight into the balance.  His Beja
were an avalanche and nothing could stand before them.

"They are in!"  Along the British ranks a terrible shout went up.  The
unthinkable had happened.  A British square had broken.  The Dervish
poured in exultantly.  They drove back the khaki line and chaos
descended on the dense maul and ruck of struggling men.  Isolated
British soldiers dropped and died under the Dervish blades, and were
trampled beneath the hoofs.

"There is but one God!"  the aggagiers shouted, as they killed and
killed again.

The troopers of the shattered north wall were swiftly broken up into
tiny groups of three and four men under the weight of Osman Atalan's
aggagiers.  As they were pushed back, Penrod ran forward to meet them,
and gathered some of the strays to his own command.  "Form on me, lads.
Back to back, shoulder to shoulder," he shouted.

They recognized his authority and presence, and fought their way to
him.  As they came together they hardened into a cohesive whole, a
prickly hedgehog of bayonets in the fluid fury of the fight.

Other officers were rallying the scattered troopers.  Hardinge had
gathered up a dozen, and the two bands melded.  They were no longer a
pair of tiny hedgehogs, but a fierce porcupine rattling steel quills.

An Arab on a tall black camel smashed into them, and before they could
cut him down, he had lanced Hardinge through the belly.  Hardinge
dropped his sword and seized the lance shaft in both hands.

The Arab still had hold of the butt.  With a single heave Hardinge
plucked him off his saddle.  They fell in a tangle together.  Penrod
snatched up the sword Hardinge had dropped and rammed the point between
the Dervish's shoulder-blades.  Hardinge tried to rise, but the lance
tip was deep in his guts.  He tried to pull it out, but the barb held.
He sank down again, bowed his head and closed his eyes, clutching the
shaft with both hands.

Penrod stood over him to protect him and his troopers closed the gaps
on either hand.  It was good to have a fine sabre in his hand again.
The blade had wonderful balance and temper: it came to life in Penrod's
hand.  Another Dervish rushed at him, swinging overhand with the
broadsword.  Penrod caught the heavy blade high in the natural line,
and deflected it past his shoulder.  It sliced open Penrod's sleeve but
did not break the skin beneath.  Before the Dervish could recover
Penrod killed him with a thrust through the throat.  He had a moment to
glance round: his little group was standing firm.  Their bayonet blades
were dulled, and their arms black with clotted Arab blood.  "Forward,
lads," Penrod called to them.  "Close the breach!"

"Come on, boys.  Let's see these fellows off!"  a familiar voice piped
at Penrod's elbow.  Percy Stapleton was beside him.  He had lost his
helmet and his curly hair was dark with dust and sweat, but he was
grinning like a demented ape as he cut and thrust at another Dervish
then hit him cleanly in the chest.  Penrod saw at once that Percy was a
practised natural swordsman.  When a Dervish swung low at his knees,
Percy jumped lightly over the blade and cut the Arab across the side of
the neck, half severing it.  The man dropped his broadsword and tried
to grab at his throat with both hsthds.  Percy killed him with a quick
thrust.

"Well done, sir."  Penrod was mildly impressed.

"You are too kind, sir."  Percy flicked his hair out of his eyes, and
they both looked round for another opponent.

But, quite suddenly, the Dervish charge ran out of momentum.  It slowed
and hesitated, heaved forward again, then ran up against the mass of
couched camels of the British baggage train, and stopped dead.  The two
opposing sides clinched and leant against each other like exhausted
boxers in the tenth round, too weary to throw another punch.

"Quarter columns, forward!"  General Stewart took command of his
reserves at this crucial moment when all hung in such fine balance.
They wheeled in behind him.  Sword in hand, he stalked ahead on long
legs like a marabou stork.  He led them round the bulwark of kneeling
baggage camels and they took the stranded Dervish in their left flank.
The scattered and exhausted bands of British troopers saw them
coming,

took new heart and hurled themselves back into the fray.  The ruptured
square began to contract, and repair the tear in its outer fabric.

Osman Atalan, with the sure instinct of the warrior, recognized the
moment when the battle was lost.  He turned his mare back, then he and
his aggagiers fought themselves clear before the jaws of the trap could
close on them.  They galloped away to the safety of the hills and left
Salida and his sons enmeshed in the British square.

Salida was still sitting high on his camel.  But the wound above his
hip had burst open again and blood was streaming down his legs.  His
face was yellow as the mud of a sulphur spring and the sword had fallen
from his trembling hand.  Rufaar sat up behind him and, with an arm
round his waist, held him upright, despite the camel's terrified
plunges.  Salida was dazed by the lethargy of his wounds, and the shock
of watching his younger sons die under the British bayonets He looked
for them in childlike bewilderment, but their broken bodies were lost
under the trampling hoofs.

Yakub saw an opening in the Dervish ranks as they turned to meet
Stewart's reserves.  "I have private affairs to attend to, Effendi," he
called to Penrod, but Penrod and Percy Stapleton had found three more
maddened Dervish to deal with and did not notice as he slipped away.

As Yakub ran up behind Salida's camel he scooped up a broadsword from
the hand of a dead Arab.  The animal was kicking and plunging, but
Yakub dodged the flying hoofs, which might have delivered a killing
blow.  With a powerful double-handed swipe he cut through the tendons
in one of the beast's hind legs.  It bellowed and lurched forward on
three legs, but he ran after it and hacked through the other hamstring.
The camel collapsed on to its hindquarters.  Salida and Rufaar were
hurled violently from its back.  Rufaar kept hold of his father and
tried to break his fall as they struck the ground at Yakub's feet.

Rufaar looked up and recognized him.  "Yakub bin Affar!"  he said, and
the bitter hatred of the blood feud roughened his voice.  But he was
holding his father with both hands and unable to defend himself.

"Mine enemy!"  Yakub acknowledged, and killed him.  He left the
broadsword buried to the hilt in his chest, and drew his dagger.  He
caught a handful of Salida's silver beard and pulled his head back,
exposing his throat.  He did not hack at the windpipe, but drew the
razor edge of the dagger across the side of the watt led throat.  It
sliced through the carotid artery under Salida's ear, and Yakub made no
effort to avoid the jet of bright blood that spurted over his hands and
arms.

"She is avenged," he whispered as he daubed the blood on his forehead.
He would not utter his sister's name for she had been a whore, and many
good men had died because of her.  He let go of Salida's beard and let
his face flop into the dust.  He left him lying beside his son and ran
back to Penrod's side.

The breach in the British square closed on the Dervish like the mouth
of sea anemone on a small fish that had swum into its tentacles.  The
Dervish asked no quarter.  Martyrdom was the way to eternal life, and
they welcomed it.  Stewart's men knew that they would not surrender.
Like a poisonous serpent with a broken back, they would strike at any
hand extended to them, no matter how compassionately.

Relentlessly the soldiers plied the bayonet and the sword, but it was
dangerous, bloody work, for each Dervish had to be surrounded and cut
down.  While there was life in them they fought on.  The slaughter went
on through the afternoon, raging at first, then gradually subsiding.

Even when it seemed to be over, it was not.  Among the mounds of
corpses individual Ansar were feigning death, poised to leap on any
unwary victim.  They lost a half-dozen more men to these furtive
assassins before General Stewart ordered the advance.  They gathered up
their own casualties, and there were many.  They took with them
ninety-four wounded and seventy-four British corpses, wrapped in their
own blankets, as they marched away towards the palm grove at the limit
of the plain that marked the Wells of Abu Klea.

Among the palms they threw up a zareba, and buried their dead, laying
them gently in rows in the shallow communal grave dug hastily in the
sandy earth.  It was evening before Penrod could go to find Hardinge in
the hospital bivouac.  "I have come to return your sword, sir."  He
proffered the beautiful weapon.

"Thank you, Ballantyne," Hardinge whispered weakly.  "It was a gift
from my wife."  His face was as pale as candle wax  They had moved his
stretcher close to the fire, because he had complained of the cold.  He
reached out painfully and touched the blade, as if in farewell.
"However, I doubt I shall have much further use for it.  Keep it for
me, and use it as you did today."

"I will not accept that, sir.  You will march with us into Khartoum,"
Penrod assured him, but Hardinge sagged back on to the stretcher.

"I think not," he murmured.  He was right: he was dead before
daybreak.

The rest of the men were too exhausted to move on.  Although he was
haunted by thoughts of the great and lonely man waiting for them in
Khartoum, Stewart could not drive them on in their present state.  He
gave them that night and most of the next morning to recover.  They
rested until noon in the scanty shade of the palm grove around the
wells.  The water was filthy, almost as salty as seawater.  They boiled
it with black tea and the last of the sugar.

In the enervating heat of midday Stewart dared delay no longer.  He
gave the order to continue the march.  They loaded the seriously
wounded on to the camels, and when the bugler sounded the advance they
toiled away across the burning land.  They marched on through the rest
of that day, then on again through the night.  They had covered
twenty-three miles before sunrise, and then they stopped.  They could
go no further.  They were utterly exhausted.  There remained only a few
cupfuls of water for each man.  The camels were all played out: even
though they could smell the river ahead, they could not go on.  The
wounded were in desperate straits.  Stewart knew he would lose most of
them unless he could bring them to the water.  He sent a runner to
summon Penrod.  "Ballantyne, I have need of your local knowledge again.
How far is it to the river?"

"We are very close, sir, about four miles.  You will be able to see it
from the next ridge."

"Four miles," Stewart mused.  He looked back over the exhausted British
formation.  Four miles might as well have been a hundred for all the
hope he had of getting them there.  He was about to speak again, but
Penrod interrupted him.

"Look ahead, sir."

Upon the ridge of higher ground that lay between them and the river a
small band of fifty or so Dervish had appeared.  All the officers
reached for their telescopes.  Through the lens Penrod at once
recognized the banner of Osman Atalan.  Then in the centre of the band
he picked out his tall lean figure on the back of the cream-coloured
mare.

"Not too many of them," said Sir Charles Wilson, Stewart's
second-in-command, but his tone was dubious.  "We should be able to
brush them aside without too much trouble.  I don't think they will
have the temerity to come at us again, not after the lesson we gave
them at the wells."

Penrod was about to contradict him.  He wanted to point out that Atalan
was a clever tactician: he had pulled his men out of the lost battle at
Abu Klea before they were utterly destroyed.  During the previous day
and night, his scouts must have shadowed the battered British square,
waiting for this moment when they had used up all their strength and
endurance and their camels were finished.  With an effort Penrod bit
back the words.

"You wanted to say something, Ballantyne?"  Stewart had not lowered his
telescope but he had been aware of Penrod's reaction.

"That is Osman Atalan himself on the cream horse.  I think there are
more than just that one troop.  He got off comparatively lightly at Abu
Klea.  His divisions are almost intact."

"You are probably right," Stewart agreed.

"There is dust on the right," Penrod pointed out.  All the telescopes
turned in that direction, and another group of several hundred more
Dervish cavalry appeared upon the ridge.  Then there was more dust
further to the left.  Swiftly the numbers of the enemy swelled from
fifty to thousands.  Their sullen squadrons stood squarely across the
road to the Nile.

Stewart lowered his telescope and snapped it shut.  He looked directly
at Sir Charles Wilson.  "I propose to laager the baggage and the
wounded here in a zareba, and leave five hundred able-bodied men to
protect them.  Then with a flying column of eight or nine hundred of
the fittest men we shall make a run for the river."

"The camels are done in, sir," Wilson cut in quickly.  "They will never
make it."

"I am aware of that," said Stewart, crisply.  Privately he had come to
think of his second-in-command as a man who could smell the dung in a
bed of roses.  "We will leave the camels here with the wounded and
proceed on foot."  He ignored the shocked expressions of his staff and
looked at Penrod, "How long would it take you lead us to the river,
Ballantyne?"

"Without the wounded and the baggage I can have you there in two hours,
sir," Penrod answered, with all the confidence he did not feel.

"Very well.  The company commanders will select their strongest and
fittest men.  We will march in forty minutes' time, at fifteen hundred
hours precisely."

What kind of men are these?"  al-Noor asked with wonder, as they sat on
their horses and watched the depleted British square form up and march
out of the zareba.  "They have no animals and no water and still they
come on.  In God's Holy Name, what kind of men are they?"

"They are descendants of the men who fought our ancestor Saladin,
Righteous of the Faith, eight hundred years ago before Jerusalem,"
Osman Atalan replied, "They are men of the Red Cross, like the
crusaders of old.  But they are only men.  Look upon them now and
remember the battle of Hattin."

"We must always remember Hattin," agreed his aggagiers.  "At Hattin
Saladin trapped an exhausted, thirst-crazed army of these men and
destroyed it at a single blow.  So great were the losses he inflicted
upon the infidel that he tore from their bloody hands the entire
kingdom of Jerusalem, which they had stolen from the faithful and held
for eighty-eight years."  Osman Atalan rose in his stirrups and pointed
the blade of his broadsword at the band of marching men, so tiny and
insignificant on the stony grey plain.  "This is our field of Hattin.
Before the setting of the sun we will destroy this army.  Not one will
reach the river alive.  For the glory of Allah and his Mahdi!"

His aggagiers drew their swords.  "The victory belongs to God and his
Mahdi," they cried.

As the slow-moving British square climbed the gentle slope towards them
the Dervish disappeared behind the ridge.  The British toiled on. Every
few hundred yards they halted to preserve the order of the wavering
ranks and bring in their stragglers.  They could not leave them for the
Dervish and the castrating knife.  Then they started again.  In one of
the pauses Stewart sent for Penrod.  "What lies beyond the ridge?
Describe the ground ahead," he ordered.

"From the ridge we should overlook the town of Metemma on the near
bank," Penrod assured him.  "There is an intervening strip of heavy
scrub and dunes about half a mile wide, then the steep bank of the
Nile."

"Please, God, from the ridge let us also see Gordon's steamers moored
against the bank and waiting to take us up to Khartoum."  As Stewart
said it the ridge ahead was transformed.  The entire length was sown
with bright white puffs of powder gun-smoke, like a cotton field with
ripe pods bursting open in the hot sunlight.  The Boxer-Henry bullets
began to whip around them, ploughing up the red earth and whining off
the white quartz rocks.

"Should we not return their fire, sir?"  Wilson asked.  "Clear that
ridge before we move on?"

"No time for that.  We must keep stepping out," Stewart snapped.  "Pass
the word for my piper."

General Sir Herbert Stewart's personal piper, like his master, was a
Highlander.  His tartan was the hunting Stewart and he wore his
glengarry at a jaunty angle, the ribbons dangling down his back.

"Give us a good marching tune," Stewart ordered.

"The Road to the Isles", sir?"

"You know my favourites, don't you, young Patrick Duffy?"

The piper marched twenty paces ahead of the front wall of the square,
his kilt swinging and his pipes skirling the wild, outlandish music
that inflames the warlike passions of all men who hear it.  The bullets
still whipped around them.  Every few minutes a man was hit and went
down.  His comrades lifted him and carried him forward.  The Dervish
snipers retreated before the resolute advance until at last the ridge
was silent and deserted.  The square marched on towards it.

Suddenly the drums hidden behind the ridge began a deep bass beat that
made the air tremble.  Then the ground seemed to tremble in sympathy.
To the rumbling thunder of hoofs, the Beja cavalry swept over the
skyline ahead.

The square halted and tightened its formation, and the horde of
horsemen rode into the first blast of gunfire and reeled back.  The
second and third volleys decimated them and they turned and galloped
away.

The soldiers picked up their wounded comrades and started forward
again.  The next Beja charge thundered over the skyline.  The drums
thudded and ombeyas shrieked.  The British laid down their wounded and
dead, and formed up in the impenetrable walls.  The charge broke
against them and, like a retreating wave, fell back.  The weary march
resumed.  They passed over the fallen Dervish, and to forestall the
treacherous suicidal attack of the warriors feigning death, they
bayoneted the living and dead bodies as they stepped over them.

At last, the front rank came out on the skyline.  A hoarse cheer issued
from their parched throats and they grinned with cracked, bleeding
lips.  Before them lay the broad sweep of the Nile.  The surface of the
river splintered the sunlight into myriad bright reflections like
spinning silver coins.  There, against the far bank, lay the pretty
little steamers of Gordon's flotilla, waiting to take them upriver to
Khartoum.

Some of the men sank to their knees, but their comrades hauled them to
their feet and held them erect.  Penrod heard a youngster croak,
"Water!  Sweet God, water!"  But his voice was gagged by his swollen
purple tongue.

The corporal who supported him answered, "The bottles are dry, but
there is all the water you can drink down there.  Brace up, lad!  We're
going down to fetch it.  Ain't no blackamoor going to stop us
either."

"No stopping, lads," the sergeant major called to them.  "Not until you
wash off the stink of your sweat in yon wee stream."

Those who were still able to laughed, and with a new lift in their
weary stride they started down towards the Nile.  Ahead stood an
undulating series of low dunes, the last barrier before the river.  The
sands were multi-hued: cinnamon and chestnut, puce and chocolate.  The
hollows between them were thick with thorn scrub and saltbush.

Beyond the dunes, along the riverbank, lay the labyrinthine native town
of Metemma.  The narrow winding alleys, huts and hovels pressed right
up to the water's edge.  It was silent and deserted as a necropolis.

"The town is a trap, sir."  Penrod offered his opinion diffidently.
"You can be certain that it is teeming with Dervish.  If the men get
into those alleys they will be cut to shreds."

"Quite right, Ballantyne," Stewart grunted.  "Make for the open stretch
on the bank below the town."  The Dervish harassing fire still spurted
and smoked from the tops of the dunes and from among the thick scrub in
the hollows below them.  Stewart took one step forward, then spun round
as a heavy bullet thudded into him.  He went down in a broken heap.
Penrod knelt beside him and saw that the bullet had struck him in the
groin, shattering the large joint of the femur.  Shards of bone stuck
out of the churned flesh, and blood bubbled over them.  It was a wound
that no man could survive.

Stewart sat up and thrust his clenched fist into the gaping hole in his
flesh.  "I am hit," he called urgently to Sir Charles Wilson.  "Take
command, and keep the regiment pushing hard for the river.  Let nothing
stand in your way.  Drive for the river with everything you have
got."

Penrod tried to lift him and carry him forward.  "Damn you, Ballantyne.
Do your job, man.  Let me lie.  Take them on.  You must help Wilson to
get them to the river."

Penrod stood up and two burly troopers rushed to the general.

"Good luck, sir!"  Penrod said, and left him.  He hurried to catch up
with the front rank and lead them down into the dunes.

It did not seem that a squadron of cavalry could conceal itself in that
low scrub, but as they came off the ridge, the bush ahead came alive
with horses and figures in speckled jib has  Within seconds the two
sides were once more locked in savage, bloody conflict.  Every time the
soldiers drove them back with those flailing volleys, they reassembled
and charged again.  Now some of the white men in the front rank of the
mangled British square were dropping, not from their wounds but from
heat exhaustion and that terrible thirst.  The men on each side hoisted
them up again and pushed them forward.

The sweat dried in salt-ringed patches on their tunics; their bodies
could no longer sweat.  They reeled like drunks and dragged their
rifles with the last of their strength.  Penrod's vision wavered and
darkened with cloudy shapes.  He blinked eyes to clear his eyes, and
each step was a monumental labour.

Just when it seemed that mortal man could endure no longer, the dense
scrub ahead rustled and shook and out came the horsemen yet again.
Riding at the head of the charge was the familiar figure in the green
turban.  The coat of the cream-coloured mare under him was dulled with
sweat, her long mane matted and tangled.  Osman Atalan recognized
Penrod in the front rank of the square, turned the mare with his knees
and rode straight at him.

Penrod tried to steady himself for his legs were rubbery under him. His
light cavalry carbine seemed to have been transmuted to lead.  It
needed a painful effort to lift it to his shoulder.  Even though they
were still separated by fifty paces the image of his enemy, Osman
Atalan, seemed to fill the field of his distorted vision.  He fired.
The sound seemed muted, and everything around him moved with dreamlike
slowness.  He watched his bullet strike the mare high in the forehead
above the level of her magnificent dark eyes.  She flung her head back
and went down, struck the earth and rolled in a cloud of sand with her
legs kicking spasmodically.  She came to rest with her neck twisted
back under her body.

With feline grace, Osman kicked his feet from the stirrups as she fell
and sprang from her back to land lightly in balance.  He stood and.
glared at Penrod with an expression of deadly hatred.  Penrod tried to
reload the rifle, but his fingers were numb and slow, and Osman held
his eyes with a mesmeric spell.  Osman stooped and picked up his
broadsword from where he had dropped it.  He ran towards Penrod.  At
last Penrod managed to guide the cartridge into the open breech and
closed the block.  He lifted the weapon and his aim wavered.  He tried
desperately to steady it, and when, for an instant, the bead of the
foresight lay on Osman's chest he fired.  He saw the bullet graze the
emir's sword arm, and leave a bloody line across the muscle of his
biceps, but Osman neither flinched nor lost his grip on the hilt of the
broadsword.  He came on steadily.  Other troopers on either side of
Penrod turned their rifles on him.  Bullets kicked up sand or snapped
through the scrub around him.  But Osman's life seemed charmed.

"Kill that man!"  shouted Wilson, his tone strident and nervous.

The rest of the Arab horsemen had seen their emir go down and their
ranks broke up.  One of his aggagiers swerved towards Osman's isolated
figure.  "I am coming, master."

"Let me be, Noor.  It is not yet finished," Osman shouted back.

"It is enough for this day.  We will fight again."  Without slowing his
mount al-Noor leant out of the saddle, linked arms with him and swung
him up behind his saddle.

As he was carried away into the dense scrub, Osman glared back at
Penrod.  "It is not finished.  In God's Name, this is not the end."
Then he was gone.  The rest of the Dervish cavalry disappeared as
swiftly, and an eerie silence fell over the field.  Some of the
exhausted men in the British line sank to the earth again, their legs
no longer able to support them, but the cries of the sergeants roused
them: "On your feet, boys.  There is the river in front of you!"

Stewart's piper puffed up his bag and "Scotland the Brave' shrilled on
the desert air.  The men shouldered their weapons, picked up their dead
and the square moved forward yet again.  Staggering along in the front
rank, Penrod licked the salt and dried blood from his cracked lips, and
the last few drops of his sweat burned his bloodshot eyes as he
searched the scrub ahead for the next wave of savage horsemen.

But the Dervish had gone, blown away like smoke.  The British came out
on to the high bank of the Nile, and waved and shouted to the steamers
across the river.  They were pretty as model boats floating on the
Serpentine on a bright Sunday morning in London Town.

They had won through.  They had reached the river, and a hundred and
fifty miles to the south in Khartoum, General Charles Gordon still
endured.

Osman Atalan waited in the village of Metemma for shattered divisions
of his Jaalin allies to reassemble, for their sheikhs to come to him
and place themselves under his command.  But their own emir, Salida,
and all his sons were dead.  So brave when he led them, they were now
like children without a father.  Allah had deserted them.  The cause
was lost.  They disappeared back into their desert fastnesses.  Osman
waited in vain.

At first light the next morning he called for the master of the
pigeons.  "Bring me three of your fastest and swiftest birds," he
ordered.  With his own hand he wrote out his message for the Mahdi in
triplicate, one copy to be carried by each bird.  If falcons or other
misfortune struck one or even two, the vital message would still reach
the holy man in Omdurman.

"To the Mahdi Muhammad Ahmed, may Allah protect and cherish him.  You
are the light of our eyes, and the breath of our bodies.  My shame and
sadness is a great rock in my belly, for know you that the infidel has
prevailed in battle against us.  Emir Salida is dead, and his division
destroyed.  The infidel has reached the Nile at Metemma.  I am
returning in all haste with my division to Omdurman.  Pray for us, Holy
and Mighty Mahdi."

The pigeon-master tied the folded messages to the legs of the birds,
replaced them in their basket and carried them to the riverbank.  Osman
went ahead of him.  The pigeon-master handed the birds to him one at a
time.  Before he launched them, Osman held each in his cupped hands and
blessed it.  "Fly swiftly and straight, little friend.  May Allah
protect you."  He tossed the bird into the air, and it rose on the
clatter of wings, circled the little village of Metemma, then picked up
its bearings and shot away on rapid wingbeats into the south.  He let
each pigeon get well clear before he sent away the next, lest they
should form a flock that would attract the attention of the
predators.

When they were gone he walked back to the village and climbed the mud
dome of the mosque.  From the top balcony of the prayer tower, whence
the muezzin called the faithful to their devotions, he had a full view
of both banks of the river.  The cluster of small white steamers was
still anchored downstream in the Pool of the Crocodiles.  They were
beyond his reach, for he had no artillery with which to attack them.
Instead he turned his attention to the British camp.  With the naked
eye he could make out the men within the walls of their hastily
constructed zareba.  They had not yet made any effort to begin loading
the steamers with either men or equipment.  He wondered at their
curious lethargy.  It was much at variance with the energy and urgency
they had displayed until now.  If their goal was still to reach and
relieve Khartoum as swiftly as possible they should have left their
wounded on the riverbank, embarked their fighting men and sailed
southwards without an hour's delay.

"Perhaps Allah has not yet forsaken us.  Perhaps He will help me to
reach the city ahead of these unpredictable men," he murmured.

He went down from the tower to where the remnants of his division were
waiting for him on the outskirts of the village.  The horses and camels
were already saddled and loaded, and al-Noor held his new steed.  It
was a big black stallion, the strongest animal in his string.  Osman
stroked the white blaze on his forehead.  His name was al-Buq, the War
Trumpet.

"You are without vice, Buq," he whispered, 'but you could never match
Hulu Mayya."  He looked back up the dunes to where she had fallen.  The
vultures and the crows still circled over the ridge.  Will there ever
be another animal as noble as she?  he wondered, and the black tide of
his anger flooded the depths of his being.  Abadan Riji, you have much
to atone for.

He swung up into the saddle and raised his clenched right fist.  "In
the Name of Allah, we ride for Omdurman!"  he cried, and his aggagiers
thundered after him.

Khartoum lay in a torpor of despair, weak with plague and deprivation.
The girls' voices were in penetrating contrast to the brooding silence
around them.

"There's one coming."  Saffron sang out.

"I know.  I saw it long ago," Amber chanted.

"That's a lie.  You never did!"

"I didV

"Stop that squabbling, you two little harridans," David Benbrook
ordered sternly, 'and point it out to me."  Their young eyes were
sharper than his.

"Over there, Daddy.  Straight above Tutti Island."

"Just to the left of that little cloud."

"Ah, Yes.  Of course," David said, slipped the butt of the shotgun
under his right armpit and turned to line up with the approaching bird.
"I was just testing you."

"You were not!"

"Tut, tut.  A little more respect, please, my angel."

Nazeera heard their voices.  She was on her way back to the kitchen
carrying a pitcher of water that she had drawn from the well in the
stableyard.  She had been going to boil and filter it, but the voices
distracted her.  She set the pitcher on the table beside the front door
next to the cluster of glasses on the silver tray, crossed to the
window of the dining room and looked out over the terrace.  The consul
stood in the middle of the brown, burnt-out lawn.  He was staring up
into the sky.  There was nothing unusual in this behaviour.  For many
weeks now he had spent each afternoon on the terrace watching for any
bird to come within range of his shotgun.  She turned back to the
kitchen, but absentmindedly left the pitcher of unboiled water on the
table with the glasses.  Behind her she heard the thud of the gun and
more excited squeals from the twins.  She smiled fondly and closed the
kitchen door behind her.

"You got him, Daddy!"

"Oh, clever paterfamilias!"  This was Saffron's latest addition to her
vocabulary.

The pigeon tumbled in the air as the pellets plucked a burst of
feathers from its chest.  It fluttered down and crashed into the top
branches of the tamarind tree above the palace bedrooms.  It stuck
there, thirty feet above the ground.  The twins raced each other to the
base of the tree and clambered up it, arguing and pushing each other.

"Be careful, you little demons!"  David called anxiously.  "You're
going to hurt yourselves."

Saffron reached the bird first.  She was the tomboy.  She balanced on
the branch and stuffed the warm body into the front of her bodice and
started down again.

"You are always so overbearing," Amber accused her.

Saffron accepted the compliment without protest and jumped the last few
feet to the ground.  She ran to her father.  "It's got a note!"  she
shrilled.  "It's got a note just like the others."

"Goodness gracious me, so it has," David agreed.  "Aren't we lucky?
Let's see what the gentlemen across the river have to say for
themselves."  The twins danced after him as he carried the dead pigeon
into the hall.  He propped the shotgun against the wall and fumbled in
his coat pocket for his pince'nez and clipped it on to the end of his
nose.  Then with his penknife he cut the thread that held the tiny roll
of paper, and spread it carefully on the table beside the pitcher and
the glasses.  His lips moved silently as he deciphered the Arabic
script, and slowly his benign expression changed.  It became alert and
businesslike.

"This is the most wonderful news.  The relief column has smashed up the
Dervish army in the north.  Now they will be here within days.  I must
take this note across to the general right away," he told the twins.
"Go in and ask Nazeera to pour your bath now.  I will be a while, but I
will come to your room to say goodnight."  He clapped his hat on to his
head and set out down the terrace towards Gordon's headquarters.

Saffron snatched up the shotgun before Amber could reach it.  She held
it tantalizingly, like another trophy under her sister's nose.

"That's not fair, Saffy.  You always do everything."

"Don't be a baby."

"I'm not a baby."

"You are a baby, and you're sulking again."

Saffron carried the shotgun across the lobby and into her
father's-gunroom.  Amber watched her go with her clenched fists on her
hips.  Her face was flushed and her hair was sticking to her forehead
with perspiration.  She saw the pitcher on the side table where Nazeera
had left it.  With an angry flourish she poured herself a glass of
water, drank it and pulled a face.  "It tastes funny," she complained.
"And I'm not a baby and I'm not sulking.  I'm just a bit cross, that's
all."

Ryder Courtney knew that his stay in Khartoum was drawing to an end.
Even if the relief column arrived before the city fell, and was able to
evacuate them all safely, the city would belong to the Dervish.  He was
clearing out the compound, ready to pull out at the first opportunity.
Rebecca had volunteered to help him draw up an inventory and bills of
lading for everything that was being loaded on board the Intrepid
this.

Ryder had become increasingly aware of the emotional turmoil she was
going through.  The uncertainty was wearing away at everyone's nerves,
as conditions in the city deteriorated.  The menace of the great army
of the Dervish besiegers seemed to grow as the will of the trapped
population declined and the relief column did not arrive.  It had been
ten months since the city had been invested by the Mahdi.  A long time
to live under the threat of horrible death.

Ryder knew how the responsibility of caring for her little sisters
weighed upon Rebecca Her father was little help in this regard: he was
amiable and affectionate but, like the twins, he relied on her with
almost childlike faith.  None of the Sudanese women had returned to
work since the mob attack on the compound.  The running of the little
green-cake kitchen had devolved almost entirely upon Rebecca.  The
twins were willing helpers, but the grinding labour was beyond their
strength and endurance.  Ryder's admiration and affection for her were
enhanced as he watched her struggle to take care of her family.  He
considered once again the fact at barely eighteen she had been saddled
with this heavy load of responsibility.  He understood how alone and
isolated she felt, and tried to give her the help she needed.  However,
he was aware that his ill-considered unrestrained behaviour had damaged
her trust in him.  He had to be careful not to frighten her again, yet
he longed to take her in his arms, comfort and shield her.  He felt
that since Penrod Ballantyne had left Khartoum he had made good
progress in repairing their damaged relationship: she seemed so much
easier in his company.  Their conversations were more relaxed and she
did not avoid him so obviously as before.

They were in the blockhouse, sitting at his desk across from each
other.  They were counting the piles of silver dollars into heaps of
fifty, then wrapping them into rolls of parchment and packing them into
wooden coffee chests, preparatory to taking them on board the this.
From the corner of his eye Ryder watched her brush back a strand of
that beautiful silken hair.  His heart ached as he noticed the calluses
on her hands, and the little lines of worry and hardship at the corners
of her eyes.  A complexion like hers was more suited to the pleasant
climes of England than to scorching sunlight and burning desert airs.
When this is over, I could sell up here, and take her back to England,
he thought.

She looked up suddenly and caught his eyes upon her.  "What would we do
without you, Ryder?"  she said.

He was astonished by the words and the tone in which they were spoken.
"My dear Rebecca, you would do well in any circumstances.  I claim no
credit for your strength and resolve."

"I have been unkind to you."  She ignored his denial.  "I behaved like
a little girl.  You of all people I should have treated more kindly.
Without you we might long ago have perished."

"You are being kind to me now.  That makes up for everything," he
said.

"The green-cake is just one of your valuable gifts to my family.  I do
not think it an exaggeration to say that with it you have saved our
lives.  We are healthy and strong in the midst of starvation and death.
I can never repay you for that."

"Your friendship is all the payment I could ask for."

She smiled at him and the worry lines were smoothed away.  He wanted to
tell her how beautiful she was, but he bit back the words.  She reached
across the desk, spilling a stack of silver coins, and took his hand.
"You are a good friend and a good man, Ryder Courtney."

For the first time she studied his face quite openly.  He is not as
beautiful as Penrod is, she thought, but he has a strong, honest face.
It's a face one could see every day and not grow tired of.  He would
never leave me, as Penrod has.  There would be no native girls hiding
in a back room.  He is a man of substance, not ostentation or pretence.
There would always be bread on his table.  He is a rock of a man and he
would shelter his woman.  The hand holding hers was powerful and
competent, hardened with work.  His bare arm reaching towards her was
like the pillar of a house.  His shoulders under the cloth of his shirt
were broad and square.  He was a man, not a boy.

Then, suddenly, she remembered where they were.  Her smile crumpled.
The precariousness of their lives rushed back upon her.  What would
happen if Ryder sailed away in the this and left her and the twins
here?  What would happen to them when the Mahdi and his murderous army
stormed into the city?  She knew what they did to the women they
captured.  Tears swamped her eyes and clung to her lashes.  "Oh, Ryder,
what will become of us all?  Are we all going to die in this awful
place?  Dead before we have lived?"  She knew in her woman's heart that
there was only one certain way that she could bind a man like him to
herself for ever.  Was she ready to take that step?

"No, Rebecca, you have been so brave and strong for so long.  Don't
give up now."  He stood up and moved quickly round the desk.

She looked up at him as he stood over her, and the tears ran down her
cheeks.  "Hold me, Ryder.  Hold me!"  she pleaded.

"I do not want to give you offence again."  He hesitated.

"I was a child then, a mindless girl.  Now I am a woman.  Hold me like
a woman."

He lifted her to her feet and took her gently in his arms.  "Be
strong!"  he said.

"Help me," she answered and pressed close to him.  She buried her face
against his chest and inhaled his scent.  Her terrors and doubt seemed
to recede into insignificance.  She felt safe.  She felt his strength
flowing into her, and clung to him with quiet desperation.  Then,
slowly, she was aware of a new, pleasant sensation that seemed to
emanate from the centre of her being.  It was not the divine and
consuming madness that Penrod Ballantyne had evoked.  It was, rather, a
warming glow.  This man she could trust.  She was safe in his arms.  It
would be easy to do what she had contemplated.

This is something I must do not only for myself but for my family.
Silently she made the decision, then said aloud, "Kiss me, Ryder."  She
lifted her face to him "Kiss me as you did before."

"Rebecca, my darling Becky, are you sure what you are about?"

"If you can speak only to ask daft questions," she smiled at him, 'then
speak not at all.  Just kiss me."

His mouth was hot and his breath mingled with hers.  Her lips were soft
and she felt his tongue slip between them.  Once that had frightened
and confused her, but now she revelled in the taste of him.  I will
take him as my man, she thought.  I reject the other.  I take Ryder
Courtney.  With that level-headed decision she let her emotions take
control.  She slipped the leash on all restraint as she felt something
clench deep in her belly.  It was a sensation so powerful that it
reached the edge of pain.  She felt it throbbing inside her.

It is my womb, she realized, with amazement.  He has roused the centre
of my womanhood.  She pushed her hips hard against his, trying to ease
the pain or aggravate it, she was not certain which.  The last time
Ryder had embraced her she had not understood what she had felt
swelling and hardening.  Now she knew.  This time she was not afraid.
She even had a secret name for that man's thing.  She called it a tam
my after the tamarind tree outside her bedroom, which Penrod had
climbed that first night.

His tam my is singing to my quimmy, she thought, and my quimmy likes
the tune.  Her mother, the emancipated Sarah Isabel Benbrook, had
taught her the quaint word.  "This might be the last day of our lives.
Do not waste it," she breathed.  "Let us take this moment, hold it and
never let go."  But he was diffident.  She had to take his hands and
place them on her breasts.  Her nipples seemed to swell and burn with
his touch.

She twisted the fingers of one hand into the hair at the back of his
head to pull it down, and with the other hand she opened the hooks down
the front of her bodice.  She freed one of her breasts and as it popped
out she pressed it into his mouth.  She cried out with the sweet pain
of his teeth on her tender flesh.  Her essence welled inside her and
overflowed.

She was overcome with a desperate sense of urgency.  "Quickly -please,
Ryder.  I am dying.  Do not let me die.  Save me."  She knew she was
babbling nonsense, but she did not care.  She clasped both her arms
round his neck and tried to climb up his body.  He reached behind her,
took a double handful of the hem of her skirt and lifted it up round
her waist.  She wore nothing beneath it, and her buttocks were pale and
round as a pair of ostrich eggs in the gloom of the shuttered room.  He
cupped them in his hands and lifted her.

She locked her thighs round his hips, and felt him burrowing into the
silken nest of curls at the fork of her legs.  "Quickly!  I cannot live
another moment without you inside me."  She pressed down hard, screwing
up her eyes with the effort, and felt all her resistance to him give
way.  She dug her fingernails into his back and pushed down again. Then
nothing else in the world mattered: all her worries and fears dissolved
as he glided in, impaling her deeply.  She felt her womb open to
welcome him.  She thrust against him with a kind of barely controlled
desperation.  She felt his legs begin to tremble, and stared into his
face as it contorted in ecstatic agony.  She felt his legs juddering
beneath them, and she thrust harder and faster.  He opened his mouth
and when he cried out, her voice echoed his.  They locked each other in
a fierce paroxysm that seemed as if it would bind them together through
eternity, but at last their voices sank into silence, and the rigid
muscles of his legs relaxed.  He sank to the floor on his knees, but
she clung to him desperately, clenching herself round him so that he
could not slip out and leave her empty.

He seemed to return at last from a faraway place, and stared at her
with an expression of awe and wonder.  "Now you are my woman?"  It was
half-way between a question and a declaration.

She smiled at him tenderly.  He was still deep inside her.  She felt
marvellously powerful, deliciously lascivious and wanton.  She
tightened her loins, and gripped hard.  She had not realized she was
capable of such a trick.  He gasped and his eyes flew wide.  "Yes," she
agreed, 'and you are my man.  I will hold you like this for ever, and
never let you go-'

"I am your willing captive," he said.  She kissed his lips.

When she broke off to draw breath he went on, "Will you do me the great
honour of becoming my wife?  We do not want to shock the world, do
we?"

Suddenly it was all happening very swiftly.  Although this had been her
intention, she could not think of a response both demure and yet
binding upon him.  While she considered it there was a loud knock on
the blockhouse door.  She pushed him away and hurriedly stuffed her
breasts back into her bodice, looking anxiously towards the door.  "It
is locked," he reminded her in a whisper.  With hundreds of pounds in
coin lying on his desk, he had taken no chances.  Now he raised his
voice: "Who is it?"

"It is I, Bacheet.  I have brought a news bulletin from Gordon
Pasha."

"That is not important enough to worry me when I am busy," Ryder
retorted.  Gordon issued his bulletins almost daily.  They were
designed to comfort the populace of the city and to bolster their will
to resist.  Thus his compositions were subject to wide literary
licence, and were often separated from the truth by a considerable
distance.

"This one is important, Effendi."  Bacheet's tone was excited.  "Good
news.  Very good news."

"Push it under the door," Ryder ordered.

He stood up and lifted Rebecca to her feet.  They both adjusted their
clothing: he buttoned the front of his breeches and she straightened
her skirts.  Then Ryder went to the door and picked up the crudely
printed bulletin.  He scanned it, then brought it to her.

DERVISH ARMY ROUTED.

THE ROAD TO KHARTOUM IS OPEN.

BRITISH RELIEF COLUMN WILL ARRIVE WITHIN DAYS.

She read it twice, the first time swiftly, the second deliberately.  At
last she looked up at him.  "Do you think it is the truth this time?"

"It will be a cruel hoax if it is not.  But Chinese Gordon is not
renowned for his restraint or his consideration for the delicate
feelings of others."

Rebecca pretended to reread the bulletin, but her mind was racing.  If
the relief column was truly on its way, was the need for a permanent
relationship with Ryder Courtney really so pressing?  As his wife she
would be doomed to spend the rest of her days in this wild, savage
land.  Would she ever again see the green fields of England and have
the society of civilized people?  Was there any desperate urgency to
marry a man who was pleasant and would care for her, but whom she did
not love?

"True or not," Ryder went on, 'we shall find out very soon.  One way or
the other you will still be my fiancee.  There is a full head of steam
in the this's boiler and her hold is loaded with every stick of cargo
it can carry He broke off and studied her face quizzically.  "What is
it, my darling?  Is something worrying you?"

"I have not yet replied to your question," she said softly.

"Oh, if that is all, then I shall repeat it and hope for your formal
response," he said.  "Will you, Rebecca Helen Benbrook, take me, Ryder
Courtney, to be your lawful wedded husband?"

"In all truth, I do not know," she said, and he stared at her,
appalled.  "Please give me a little time to think about it.  It is a
momentous decision and not one I can rush into."

In this pivotal moment on which so much depended, a thought suddenly
occurred to her: If the relief column arrives the day after tomorrow,
will Penrod Ballantyne be with them?  Then she thought, It is of no
account, one way or the other, for he no longer means anything to me. I
made a mistake in trusting him, but now he can go back to his Arab
girls and his philandering ways for all I care.  But she found herself
unconvinced by this, and the image of Penrod persisted in her mind long
after she had left Ryder's compound and was on her way back to the
consular palace.

It took Sir Charles Wilson several days to bring in all his wounded,
the baggage and the camel string.  In the meantime he fortified the
camp on the riverbank below Metemma, siting the Nordenfelt machine-guns
to cover all the approaches, and he raised the walls of the zareba to a
height of six feet.

On the third day after the battle the chief regimental surgeon reported
to him that General Stewart's wound had developed gangrene.  Wilson
hurried down to the hospital tent.  The rotten sweet smell of necrotic
flesh was nauseating in the heat.  He found Stewart lying in a bath of
his own sweat under a mosquito net over which the huge hairy blue flies
crawled, searching for some point of entry to reach the irresistible
odour of the wound.  It was covered with a field dressing, heavily
stained with a custard-yellow discharge.

"I have managed to remove the bullet," the surgeon assured Wilson, then
lowered his voice to a whisper that the stricken man could not hear:
"The gangrene has a firm hold, sir.  There is little or no hope, I am
afraid."

Stewart was delirious and mistook Wilson for General Gordon as he
stooped over the camp bed.  "Thank God we were in time, Gordon.  There
were times when I feared we would be too late.  I offer you my
congratulations for your courage and fortitude, which saved Khartoum.
Yours is an achievement of which Her Majesty and every citizen of the
British Empire will be justly proud."

"I am Charles Wilson, not Charles Gordon, sir," Wilson corrected him.

Stewart stared at him in astonishment, then reached through the
mosquito net and seized his hand.  "Oh, well done, Charles!  I knew I
could trust you to do your duty.  Where is Gordon?  Ask him to come to
me at once.  I want to congratulate him myself."

Wilson freed his hand and stood back from the bed.  He turned to the
surgeon.  "Are you sedating him sufficiently?  It will do him no good
to become so agitated."

"I am administering ten grains of laudanum every two hours.  But there
is little pain in the site of a wound once the gangrene takes hold."

"I will place him on the first steamer that departs downriver for
Aswan.  That will probably be in two or three days' time."

"Two or three days?"  Stewart had only picked up the last few
sentences.  "Why are you sending Gordon down to Aswan, and why two or
three days?  Answer me that."

"The steamers will set off for Khartoum imminently, General.  We have
run into unforeseen but unavoidable obstacles."

"Gordon?  But where is Gordon?"

"We must hope he is still holding out in Khartoum, sir, but we have had
no news of him."

Stewart looked around the tent with a wild, bewildered expression.  "Is
this not Khartoum?  Where are we?  How long have we been here?"

"This is Metemma, sir," the surgeon intervened gently.  "You have been
here four days."

"Four days!"  Stewart's voice rose to a shout.  "Four days!  You have
thrown away the sacrifice made by my poor lads.  Why did you not push
on with all speed to Khartoum, instead of sitting here?

"He is delirious," Wilson snapped at the surgeon.  "Give him another
dose of laudanum."

"I am not delirious!"  Stewart shouted "If you don't set out for
Khartoum immediately, I will see you court-martial led and shot for
dereliction of your duty and cowardice in the face of the enemy, sir."
He choked and fell back, spent and muttering, on his pillows.  He
closed his eyes and was quiet.

"Poor fellow."  Wilson shook his head with deep regret.  "Completely
out of his head and hallucinating.  No appreciation of the situation.
Look after him and make him comfortable."

He acknowledged the doctor's salute, and ducked out through the fly of
the tent.  He blinked in the bright sunlight, then scowled as he
realized that a small group of officers was standing rigidly to
attention nearby.  They had certainly heard every word that had been
spoken.  Their expressions left no doubt of that.

"Have you gentlemen nothing better to do than laze about here?"  Wilson
demanded.  They avoided his eyes as they saluted and walked away.

Only one stood his ground.  Penrod Ballantyne was the junior officer in
the group.  His behaviour was impudent.  He was walking the tightrope
across the lethal chasm of insubordination.  Wilson glowered at him.
"What are you about, Captain?"  he demanded.

"I wondered if I might speak to you, sir."

"What is it, then?"

"The camels are fully recovered.  Plenty of water and good feed.  With
your permission I could be in Khartoum within twenty-four hours."

"To what purpose, Captain?  Are you proposing a one-man liberation of
the city?"  Wilson allowed his scowl to change to an amused smirk -an
expression that was no great improvement, Penrod thought.

"My purpose would be to take your despatches to General Gordon, and
inform him of your intentions, sir.  The city is sore pressed and at
the limit of its endurance.  There are English women and children
within the wails.  It can be only days before they fall into the
clutches of the Mahdi.  I was hoping I might be allowed to assure
General Gordon that you have his plight and that of the populace in
mind."

"You disapprove of my conduct of the campaign, do you?  By the way,
what is your name, sir?"  Of course Wilson knew his name: this was a
calculated insult.

"Penrod Ballantyne, 10th Hussars, sir.  And no, sir, I would not
presume to remark on your conduct of the campaign.  I was merely
offering, for your consideration, my local knowledge of the
situation."

"I shall be sure to call upon you if I feel in need of your vast
wisdom.  I will mention your subordinate conduct in the despatches I
shall write at the conclusion of the campaign.  You are to remain in
this camp.  I shall not detach you on any independent mission.  I shall
not include you in the force that I shall lead to the relief of
Khartoum.  At the first opportunity you will be sent back to Cairo. You
will take no further part in this campaign.  Do I make myself clear,
Captain?"

"Abundantly clear, sir."  Penrod saluted.

Wilson did not return his salute as he stamped away.

Over the days that followed, Wilson spent most of his time in his
headquarters tent, busying himself with his despatches.  He ordered an
inventory of the remaining stores and ammunition.  He inspected the
fortifications of the zareba.  He drilled the men.  He visited the
wounded daily, but General Stewart was no longer conscious.  The
steamers waited at their moorings with full heads of steam in their
boilers.  A mood of indecision and uncertainty descended on the
regiment.  Nobody knew what the next step would be, or when it would be
taken.  Sir Charles Wilson issued no orders of consequence.

On the evening of the third day Penrod went down to the camel lines and
found Yakub.  While he made a pretence of inspecting the animals, he
whispered, "Have the camels ready and the waterskins filled.  The
password for the sentries when you leave the zareba will be Waterloo. I
will meet you at midnight by the little mosque on the far side of
Metemma village."  Yakub looked at him askance.  "We have been ordered
to take messages to Gordon Pasha."

Yakub was at the rendezvous, and they set out southwards at a rate that
would take them beyond pursuit by dawn.

Two days to Khartoum, Penrod thought grimly, and my career in ruins.
Wilson will throw me to the lions.  I hope Rebecca Benbrook appreciates
my efforts on her behalf.

Osman Atalan, riding hard with a small group of his aggagiers, left the
main body of his cavalry many leagues behind.  He climbed up through
the gut of the Shabluka Gorge.  On the heights, he reined in al-Buq and
leapt on to the saddle.  Balancing easily on the restless horse, he
trained his telescope on the City of the Elephant's Trunk, Khartoum,
which lay on the horizon.  "What do you see, master?"  Al-Noor asked
anxiously.  "The flags of the infidel and the Turk are flying on the
tower of Fort Mukran.  The enemy of God, Gordon Pasha, still prevails
in Khartoum," said Osman, and the words were bitter as the juice of the
aloe on his tongue.  He dropped back onto the saddle and his sandal led
feet found the stirrups.  He gave the stallion a cut across the rump
with the kurbash, and al-Buq jumped forward.  They rode on
southwards.

When they reached the Kerreri Hills they met the first exodus of women
and old men from Omdurman.  The refugees did not recognize Osman with
his black head cloth and unfamiliar mount, and an old man called to him
as he cantered by, "Turn back, stranger!  The city ii lost.  The
infidel has triumphed in a mighty battle at Abu Klea.  Salida, Osman
Atalan and all their armies have been slain."

"Reverend old father, tell us what has become of the Divine and
Victorious Muhammad, the Mahdi, the successor of Allah's Prophet."

"He is the light of our eyes, but he has given the order for all his
followers to leave Omdurman before the Turks and the infidels arrive.
The Mahdi, may Allah continue to love and cherish him, will move into
the desert with all his array.  They say he purposes to march back to
El Obeid."

Osman threw back the head cloth that covered his face.  "See me, old
man!  Do you know who I am?"

The man stared at him, then let out a wail and fell to his knees.
"Forgive me, mighty Emir, that I pronounced you dead."

"My army follows close behind me.  We ride for Omdurman.  The jihad
continues!  We will fight the infidel wherever we meet him.  Tell this
to all you meet upon the road."  Osman thumped his heels into al-Buq's
flanks and galloped on.

He found the streets of Omdurman in turmoil.  Heavily armed Ansar
galloped down the narrow streets; wailing women were loading all their
possessions on to donkey carts and camels; crowds hurried to the
mosques to hear the imams preach the comforting word of Allah at this
terrible time of defeat and despair.  Osman scattered all before his
horse, and rode on towards the mud-walled palace of the Mahdi

He found the Mahdi and Khalifa Abdullahi on the rooftop, under the reed
sunscreen, attended by a dozen young women of the harem.  He prostrated
himself before the angareb on which the Mahdi sat cross-legged.  He had
agonized over his decision to ride for Omdurman and face the successor
to the Prophet of Allah, rather than taking his aggagiers and
disappearing into the eastern deserts of the Sudan.  He knew that if he
had taken that course the Mahdi would certainly have sent an army after
him, but in his own territory he would prevail against even the largest
and most skilfully led host.  But to wage war on the Mahdi, the direct
emissary of Allah on earth, would have meant the end of him as a
Muslim.  The risk of death he ran now was preferable to being declared
by the Mahdi an unbeliever, and having the gates of Paradise closed to
him through all eternity.

"There is only one God, and no other God but Allah," he said softly,
'and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is the successor to his Prophet here on
earth."

"Look in my face, Osman Atalan," said the Mahdi.  Osman looked up at
him.  He was smiling, the sweet smile that showed the small,
wedge-shaped gap between his front teeth.  Osman knew, with the cold
hand of death laid upon his heart, that this did not mean he was
forgiven.  The Mahdi was certainly infuriated by his failure to stop
the relief column.  It was necessary only for him to raise his hand and
Osman would suffer death or mutilation.  Often the Mahdi would offer
the condemned man his choice.  On the long ride up from Metemma Osman
had decided that if the choice were offered him he would choose
beheading, rather than the amputation of his hands and feet.

"Will you pray with me, Osman Atalan?"  the Mahdi asked.

Osman's spirit quailed.  This invitation was ominous, and often
preceded the sentence of death.  "With all my heart and the last breath
of my body," Osman responded.

"We will recite together the al-fatihah, the first sura of the Noble
Koran."

Osman adopted the appropriate first prostration position, and they
recited in unison: "In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most
Merciful," then went on through the remaining four verses, ending, "You
alone we worship, and you alone we ask for help, for each and
everything."  When they had finished, the Mahdi sat back and said,
"Osman Atalan, I placed great faith in you, and set a task for you."

"You are the beat of my heart, and the breath in my lungs."  Osman
thanked him.

"But you have failed me.  You have allowed the infidel to triumph
against you.  You have delivered me up to mine enemy, and it is all
finished."

"Nay, my master.  All is not finished.  I have failed in this one
thing, but not in all."

"Explain your meaning."

"Allah has told you that it will not be finished until a man brings you
the head of Gordon Pasha.  Allah told you that I, Osman Atalan, am that
man."

"You have not fulfilled that prophecy.  Therefore you have failed your
God as well as his prophet," the Mahdi replied.

"The prophecy of God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, can never be brought to
naught," Osman replied quietly, feeling the breath of the dark angel
upon his neck where the executioner's blow would fall.  "Your prophecy
is a mighty rock in the river of time that cannot be washed away.  I
have returned to Omdurman to bring the prophecy to fruition."  He
pointed across the river to the stark outline of Fort Mukran. "Gordon

Pasha still awaits his fate within those walls, and the time of Low
Nile is upon us.  I beseech you, give me your blessing, Holy One."

The Mahdi sat silent and unmoving for a hundred of his rapid heartbeats
while he thought swiftly.  The Emir Osman was a clever man and an
adroit tactician.  To refuse his plea was to admit that he, Muhammad,
the Mahdi, was fallible.  At last he smiled and reached out to lay his
hand on Osman's head.  "Go and do what is written.  When you have
fulfilled my prophecy, return to me here."

An hour before midnight a small felucca lay in the eastern channel of
the Victoria Nile.  It was hove to against the night breeze and the
current, with sail skilfully backed.  Al-Noor sat beside Osman Atalan
on the thwart.  Both men watched the Khartoum bank.  Tonight the rocket
display was extravagant.  Since the onset of darkness a continual
succession of fireworks had soared into the sky and burst in cascades
of multi-coloured sparks.  The band was playing with renewed alacrity
and verve, and at intervals they heard singing and laughter, carried
faintly across the dark waters.

"Gordon Pasha has heard the news of Abu Klea," al-Noor whispered.  "He
and his minions rejoice in their heathen hearts.  Hourly they expect
the steamers to appear from the south."

It was long after midnight before the sounds of celebration slowly
subsided, and Osman gave a quiet order to the boatman.  He let the
lateen sail fill, and they felt the ii way in closer to the shore below
the walls of Khartoum.  When they reached a point opposite the maid an
al'Noor touched his master's arm and pointed at the tiny beach, now
exposed by the retreating waters.  The wet mud glittered like ice in
the starlight.  Osman spoke a quiet word to the boatman, who tacked and
sailed in closer still.  Osman moved up to the bows and used one of the
punt poles to take soundings of the sloping bottom as they crept along
the beach.  Then they sat quietly, listening for the sentries doing
their rounds, or other hostile movements.  They heard nothing except
the hoot of an owl in the bell tower of the Catholic mission.  There
was lamplight within the upper floor of the British consular palace
which faced on to the river, and once they saw shadowy movement beyond
the window casement, but then all was still.

"After their victory, the infidel is lulled.  Gordon Pasha is not as
vigilant as he was before," al-Noor whispered.

"We have discovered the beach on which we can land.  We can return to
Omdurman now to make our preparations," Osman agreed.  He gave a quiet
command to the boatman, and they headed back across the river.

When Osman and al-Noor reached his double storeyed house in the south
quarter, which lay between the Beit el Mai, the treasury, and the slave
market, dawn was breaking and a dozen of his aggagiers were sitting in
the courtyard being fed by the house slaves a breakfast of
honey-roasted lamb and dhurra cakes with steaming pots of syrupy black
Abyssinian coffee.  "Noble lord, we arrived at dusk last night," they
told him.

"What kept you so long on the road?"  he asked.

"We do not ride horses like al-Buq, who is the prince of all horses."

"You are welcome."  Osman embraced them.  "I have more work for your
blades.  We must retrieve the honour that was stripped from us by the
infidel on the plains of Abu Klea."

David Benbrook insisted that he should host a victory party to
celebrate the battle of Abu Klea, and the imminent arrival of the
relief column in the city.  Because of the paucity of food and drink,
Rebecca decided on an al fresco dinner, rather than a formal display of
silver and crystal in the dining room.  They sat on folding canvas
campaign chairs on the terrace overlooking the maid an and listened to
the military band, joining in with the better-known choruses.  In the
intervals, while the band regained their breath, they toasted the
Queen, General Wolseley and, for the benefit of Consul Le Blanc, King
Leopold.

After much inner communication with his conscience, David decided to
bring up from the cellars the single case of Krug champagne that he had
been hoarding all these months.  "A little premature perhaps, but once
they arrive we will probably be too busy to think about it."

This was the first time that General Gordon had accepted one of
Rebecca's invitations to dinner and entertainment.  He wore an
immaculate dress uniform with a red fez.  His boots were polished to a
high gloss and the Egyptian Star of Ishmael glinted on his breast.  He
was in a relaxed, expansive mood, although Rebecca noticed the nervous
tic below his eye.  He nibbled a minute portion of the food on offer:
green-cake, dhurra bread and cold roast bird of indeterminate species,
which had been gunned down by the host.  He chain-smoked his Turkish
cigarettes, even when he stood to make a short speech.  He assured the
company that the steamers crammed with British troops were racing even
at that hour up against the rapids of the Shabluka

Gorge and that he confidently expected them to reach the city by the
following evening.  He commended the other guests and the entire
populace, of every colour and nationality, for their heroic resistance
and sacrifice, and gave thanks to Almighty God that their efforts had
not been in vain.  Then he thanked the consul and his daughters for
their hospitality and took his leave.  The mood of the remaining guests
was at once much lighter.

The twins were given special dispensation to delay their bedtime until
midnight, and were allowed a sherry glass of the precious champagne.
Saffron quaffed hers like a sailor on shore leave, but Amber took a
minute sip and made a face.  When Rebecca was looking the other way,
she poured the rest into her twin's glass, much to Saffron's glee.

Amber was becoming increasingly quiet and wan as the evening
progressed.  She took no part in the singing, which Rebecca thought
odd.  Amber had a sweet, true voice and loved to sing.  She refused
when David asked her to dance the polka with him.  "You are so quiet
and subdued.  Are you feeling unwell, my darling?"

"A little, Daddy, but I do love you so much."

"Would you like to go up to bed?  I will give you a dose of salts. That
will fix it."

"Oh, no.  Goodness me, no!  It is not that bad."  Amber forced a smile,
and David looked worried but did not pursue the matter.  He went off to
dance with Saffron instead.

Consul Le Blanc also noticed Amber's unusual behaviour.  He came to sit
beside her, held her hand in an avuncular manner and launched into a
long, complicated joke, about a German, an Englishman and an Irishman.
When he reached the climax he doubled over with laughter and tears ran
down his pink cheeks.  Although she saw nothing funny in the story
Amber laughed dutifully, but then stood up and went to Rebecca, who was
dancing with Ryder Courtney.  Amber whispered in her elder sister's
ear, and Rebecca left Ryder, took the younger girl's hand and hurried
indoors with her.  David saw them leave and he and Saffron followed.
When they reached the foot of the staircase, Rebecca and Amber were on
the first landing above them.

"Where are you going?"  David called after them.  "Is anything the
matter?"

Still holding hands Rebecca and Amber turned to face him.  Suddenly
Amber groaned and doubled over.  With an explosive rush of gas and
liquid, her bowels started to empty.  It poured out of her like a
yellow waterfall, and went on and on, forming a deep, spreading puddle
at her feet.

David was the first to recover his wits.  "Cholera!"  he said.

At that dread word Saffron thrust the fingers of both hands into her
mouth and screamed.

"Stop that!"  Rebecca ordered, but her own voice was almost a scream.
She tried to lift Amber, but the yellow discharge was still spurting
out of her and splattered down the front of Rebecca's long satin
evening dress.

Ryder had heard Saffron scream and ran in from the terrace.  He took in
the scene almost instantly.  He dashed back to where they had dined and
swept the heavy damask cloth off the long table, sending silver
candlesticks and table ornaments crashing to the floor.  He raced up
the stairs.

Amber was still voiding copiously.  It seemed impossible that such a
small body could contain so much liquid.  It was running down the
staircase in a rivulet.  Ryder shook out the damask like a cape, and
enfolded her in it, lifted her as though she were a doll and ran with
her up the stairs.

"Please put me down, Ryder," Amber begged.  "I will dirty your lovely
new suit.  I cannot stop myself.  I am so ashamed."

"You are a brave girl.  There is nothing to be ashamed of," Ryder told
her.  Rebecca was at his side.  "Where is the bathroom?"  he asked
her.

"This way."  She ran ahead and threw open the door.

Ryder carried Amber in and laid her in the galvanized bath.  "Get her
soiled clothes off her and sponge her down with cool water," he
ordered.  "She is burning up.  Then force her to drink.  Weak warm tea.
Gallons of it.  She must keep drinking.  She has to replace every drop
of the fluid she has lost."  He looked at David and Saffron in the
doorway.  "Call Nazeera to help you.  She knows about this disease.  I
must go back to the this to fetch my medical chest.  While I am gone,
you must keep her drinking."

Ryder raced through the streets.  He was fortunate that for this one
night General Gordon had relaxed the curfew so that all the populace
might celebrate the relief of the city.

Bacheet had stowed the medical chest in its usual place under his bunk
in the main cabin of the this.  He rummaged through it swiftly,
searching for what he needed to staunch Amber's diarrhoea and replace
the mineral salts that she had lost.  He knew he had little time.
Cholera is a swift killer.  "The Death of the Dog," they called it.  It
could kill a robust adult in hours, and Amber was a child.  Already her
body had been stripped of fluid.  Soon every muscle and sinew would
scream for liquid, terrible cramps would twist her, and she would die a
desiccated husk.

For a dreadful moment he thought that the vital packets of dirty white
powder were missing, then remembered that he had moved them to the
lockers in the galley for safety.  In the cholera-torn city they were
worth more than diamonds.  The powder was packed in a woven-sisal bag.
There was enough to treat five or six cases.  He had bought it at a
usurious price from the abbot of a Coptic monastery deep in the gorge
of the Blue Nile.  The abbot had told him that the chalky powder was
mined by his monks from a secret deposit tucked away in the mountains.
Not only did it have a powerful binding effect on the bowels, it was
also close in character and composition to those minerals purged from
the human body by the disease.  Ryder had been sceptical until Bacheet
had been struck down with cholera, and Ryder had pulled him through
with liberal doses of the powder.

He stuffed everything he needed in to an empty dhurra sack and ran back
to the consulate.  When he climbed the stairs to the bathroom he found
that Amber was still in the bath.  She was naked, and Rebecca and
Nazeera were sponging her from the basin of warm soapy water that
Saffron held.  David hovered ineffectually in the background holding a
tin mug of warm black tea.  The stench of vomit and faeces still hung
heavily in the room, but Ryder was careful not to show disgust.

"Has she vomited?"

"Yes," replied David, 'but only some of this tea.  I don't think she
has anything else inside her."

"How much has she drunk?"  Ryder demanded, as he snatched the mug from
the other man's hand and poured a handful of the powder into it.

"Two mugs and a bit," said David, proudly.

"Not enough," Ryder snapped.  "Not nearly enough."

"She won't take any more."

"She will," said Ryder.  "If she can't drink it, I will give it to her
with an enema tube."  He carried the mug to the bath.  "Amber, did you
hear what I said?"  She nodded.  "You don't like enemas, do you?"  She
shook her head vehemently, and her sodden curls dangled in her eyes.
"Then drink!"  He placed one hand behind her head and held the cup to
her lips.  She gulped it down painfully, then lay back gasping. Already
wasted by prolonged starvation, her body was now dehydrated and
skeletal.  The change that had taken place in the hour he had been away
was dramatic.  Her legs were as thin as those of a bird, her ribs as
distinct as the fingers of a hand.  The skin on her sunken moon-pale
belly seemed translucent so that he could see the network of blue veins
under it.

Ryder poured another handful of powder into the mug, and filled it with
warm tea from the kettle that stood close at hand.  "Drink!"  he
ordered, and she choked it down.

She was panting weakly, and her eyes had sunk into plum-coloured
sockets.  "I have no clothes on.  Please don't look at me, Ryder."

He stripped off his moleskin jacket and covered her.  "I promise not to
look at you if you promise to drink."  He refilled the mug and poured
the powder into it.  As she drank it, her belly bulged out like a
balloon.  The gases in it rumbled, but she did not void again.  Ryder
refilled the mug.

"I can't drink any more.  Please don't make me," she begged.

"Yes, you can.  You made me a promise."

She forced down that mug and another.  Then there was a strong ammoniac
odour and a yellow trickle of urine ran down the bottom of the bath to
the plug-hole.  "You've made me wet myself like a baby."  She was
weeping softly with shame.

"Good girl," he said.  "That means you are making more water than you
are losing.  I am so proud of you."  He understood the trespasses he
had already made on her modesty, so he stood up.  "But I am going to
let Rebecca and Saffy look after you now.  Don't forget your promise.
You must keep drinking.  I will wait outside."

Before he left the bathroom he whispered to Rebecca, "I think we may
have beaten it.  She is out of immediate danger.  But the cramps will
begin soon.  Call me at the first sign.  We will have to massage her
limbs or the pain will become unbearable."  From his sack he handed her
the bottle of coconut oil he had brought from the this.  "Tell Nazeera
to take this down to the kitchen and warm it to blood heat, no more
than that.  I will stay close."

The other dinner guests had left hours ago, and everything was quiet.
Ryder and David settled down to wait on the top step at the head of the
staircase.  They chatted in a desultory fashion.  They discussed the
news of the relief column, and argued about when the steamers would
arrive.  David agreed with Chinese Gordon's estimate, but Ryder did
not: "Gordon is always conservative with the truth.  He says whatever
suits his purpose best.  I will believe in the steamers when they tie
up in the harbour.  In the meantime I will keep up steam in the
this."

Out in the night an owl hooted mournfully, then again, and a third
time.  Restlessly David stood up and went to the window.  He leant on
the sill and looked down on the river

"When the midnight owl hoot thrice.  To-wit-too-woo, with one breath,
Then in a trice It heralds death."

"That's superstitious nonsense," said Ryder, 'and, what's more, it does
not scan."

"You are probably right," David admitted.  "My nursemaid repeated it to
me when I was five, but she was the wicked witch in person and loved to
frighten us children."  Then he straightened up and peered down towards
the riverbank.  "There's a boat out there, close in to the beach."

Ryder went across to join him at the window.  "Where?"

"There!  No, it's gone now.  I swear it was a boat, a small felucca."

"Probably a fisherman laying his nets."

From the bathroom they heard Amber cry out in anguish.  They rushed
back to her.  She was curled into a ball.  The wasted muscles in her
limbs were like whipcords as the spasms tightened them almost to
snapping point.  They lifted her out of the bath and laid her on the
clean towels that Rebecca and Nazeera spread on the tiled floor.

Ryder rolled up his sleeves and knelt over her.  Nazeera poured warm
coconut oil into the cup of his hands and he began to massage Amber's
twisted legs.  He could feel the ropes and knots under the skin.
"Rebecca, take the other leg.  Nazeera and Saffy, her arms," he
ordered.  "Do it this way."  While they worked, David dribbled more of
the tea mixture into their patient's mouth.  Rebecca watched Ryder's
hands as he worked.  They were broad and powerful, but gentle.  Under
them Amber's muscles gradually relaxed.

"It's not over yet," Ryder warned them.  "There will be more.  We must
be ready to start again as the next spasms seize her."

What depths there are tcthis man, Rebecca thought.  What fascinating
contradictions.  Sometimes he is ruthlessly resourceful, at others he
is filled with compassion and generosity of spirit.  Would I not be
foolish to let him go?

Before the hour was up the next cramps had locked Amber's limbs so they
fell to work on her again, and were forced to keep it up through the
rest of the night.  Just before daybreak, when all were reaching their
own limits of exhaustion, Amber's limbs gradually straightened and the
knots softened and relaxed.  Her head rolled to one side and she fell
asleep.

"She has turned the corner," Ryder whispered, 'but we must still take
care of her.  You must make her drink the powder mixture again as soon
as she wakes.  She must eat also.  Perhaps you might feed her a
porridge of dhurra and green-cake.  I wish we had something more
substantial, like chicken broth, but that is the best we can do.  She
will be weak as a newborn infant for days, perhaps weeks.  But she has
not scoured since midnight, so I hope and believe that the germs, as
Joseph Lister is pleased to call the wee beasties that cause the
trouble, have been purged from her."  He picked up his damp, soiled
jacket from the floor.  "You know where to find me, Rebecca.  If you
send a message I will come at once."

"I will see you to the door."  Rebecca stood up.  As they went out into
the passage, she took his arm.  "You are a warlock, Ryder.  You've
worked magic for us.  I don't know how the Benbrook family can ever
thank you."

"Don't thank me, just say a prayer for old Abbot Michael who robbed me
of fifty Maria Theresa dollars for a bag of chalk."

At the door she reached up and kissed him, but when she felt his loins
stir, she pulled away.  "You are a satyr as well as a warlock."  She
managed a faint smile.  "But not now.  We shall attend to that business
at the first opportunity.  Perhaps tomorrow after the relief force
arrives, when we are all safe from the evil Dervish."

"I will hold myself on a short rein," he promised, 'but tell me,
dearest Rebecca, have you given any further thought to my proposal?"

"I am sure you will agree, Ryder, that at this dire time in our lives,
my first thoughts must be for Amber and the rest of my family, but each
day my affection for you increases.  When this dreadful business is
over, I feel sure that we will have something of value to share,
perhaps for the remainder of our days."

"Then I shall live in hope."

Osman Atalan picked out two thousand of his most trusted warriors for
the final assault on Khartoum.  He marched them out of Omdurman, making
no effort to conceal his movements.  From his roost on the parapets of
Fort Mukran, Gordon Pasha would observe this exodus, and take it as
another indication that the Mahdi was abandoning the city and fleeing
with all his forces to El Obeid.  Once his men were behind the Kerreri
Hills, where they were concealed from the prying telescopes on the
towers and minarets in Khartoum, Osman divided them into five
battalions of roughly four hundred men.  A large assembly of boats on
the Omdurman bank would warn Gordon Pasha that something was afoot.  If
he attempted to take such a large force across the river in a single
wave, it would overcrowd the tiny landing beach below the maid an and
in the darkness create chaos and confusion.  He decided to use only
twenty boats for the crossing of the river, each vessel could carry
twenty men safely.  Once they had landed the first wave of four hundred
men, the boats would return to the

Omdurman bank to take on board the following battalions.  The first
wave of attackers would get off the beaches as soon as they could, and
leave the way clear for the next.  Osman estimated that he would be
able to transport his entire force across the Nile in little more than
an hour.

He knew his men so well that he gave simple orders to the sheikhs he
placed in charge of each battalion, orders that they would not forget
in the passion of battle and the heady excitement of looting the
city.

Dervish spies within the city had drawn detailed maps of the exact
layout of Gordon Pasha's de fences  The Gatling guns were Osman's prime
targets.  The memory of his last encounter with those weapons was
etched deeply on his mind.  He wanted no recurrence of that slaughter.
The first battalion ashore would go straight for them, and put them out
of action.

Once the guns had been captured or destroyed, they could roll up the
fortifications along the waterfront, then wipe out the Egyptian troops
in the barracks and the arsenal.  Only then would it be safe to turn
his men loose on the populace.

The previous night Muhammad, the first Prophet of Allah, had visited
Muhammad, the Mahdi, his successor.  He had brought a message directly
from Allah.  It was decreed that the faith and devotion of the Ansar
should be rewarded.  Once they had delivered to the Mahdi the head of
Gordon Pasha, they must be allowed to sack the city of Khartoum.  For
ten days the sack would be allowed to run unchecked.  After that the
city would be burned and all the principal buildings, particularly the
churches, missions and consulates, would be demolished.  All traces of
the infidel must be eradicated from the land of Sudan.

At nightfall Osman marched his two thousand back from the Kerreri Hills
to Omdurman.  Across the river in the city of Khartoum, Gordon's
nightly firework display and the recital of the military band were more
subdued than they had been the previous evening.  There was widespread
disillusionment that the steamers had not yet arrived.  When the rocket
display fizzled out, and silence settled on the city, Osman led his
first battalion down to the riverbank, where the twenty boats were
moored.  This small flotilla was an eclectic collection of feluccas and
trading dhows.  The crossing of the Nile through banks of river mist
was conducted in an eerie silence.  Osman was the first man to wade
ashore.  With al-Noor and a dozen of his trusty aggagiers close on his
heels, he raced up the beach.

The surprise was total.  The Egyptian sentries were sleeping
complacently, in the certainty that dawn would show the steamers of the
relief force anchored before the walls.  There was no challenge, no
shot or shouted warning, before Osman's aggagiers were into the first
line of trenches.  Their broadswords rose and fell in a dreadfully
familiar rhythm.  Within minutes the trenches were clear.  The dead and
wounded Egyptian troops lay in heaps.  Osman and his aggagiers left
them and raced for the arsenal.  They had not reached it before the
second battalion landed on the beach behind them.

Suddenly a rifle shot clapped on the silence, then another.  There were
shouts, and a bugle sounded the call to arms.  Erratic and isolated
gunfire built into a thunderous fusillade, and the ripples and echoes
spread across the city as the startled Egyptians blazed away at shadows
or cravenly fired into the air.  Down near the little beach an ombeya
howled and a war drum boomed as another battalion landed and rushed
through the breach into the city.

"There is only one God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet."  The
war chant was carried through the city, and suddenly the streets and
alleys were alive with running, struggling figures.  Their screams and
entreaties rose in a babble of terror and anguish like voices from the
pit of hell.

"Mercy in the Name of Allah!"

"Quarter!  Give us quarter!"

"The Dervish are within!  Run!  Run or die!"

All Gordon's famous forts and redoubts were sited to cover the river
approaches.  Taken in the rear they were swiftly overwhelmed.  Osman's
aggagiers massacred the stunned defenders in their trenches or hounded
them through the streets and alleyways, rabbits before the wolf pack.

David was at his desk, working on his journal.  He had kept it up to
date faithfully throughout the ten long months that the city had been
under siege.  He knew that it was an invaluable document.  With the
promise of relief so near, it could only be a matter of weeks before he
and his girls were aboard a P&.O steamship on their way back to
England.  One of the first goals he had set himself on arrival was to
work up his journal into a full-length manuscript.  The public appetite
for books of adventure and exploration in the Dark Continent seemed
insatiable.  Baker, Burton and Stanley had each made several thousands
of pounds from their publications.  Sam Baker had even received a
knighthood from the Queen for his literary efforts.  Surely David's own
first-hand memoirs of the valiant defence of the city would please
many, and his account of the bravery and suffering of his three girls
would tear at the heartstrings of every lady reader.  He hoped he might
have the book ready for the publishers within a month of reaching
England.  He dipped the nib of his pen in to the silver inkwell, and
wiped off the excess carefully.  Then he stared dreamily into the flame
of the lamp on the corner of his desk.

It might bring in fifty thousand.  The thought warmed him.  Dare I hope
for a hundred thousand?  He shook his head.  Too much by far, I would
settle happily for ten thousand.  That would help immeasurably with
re-establishing ourselves.  Oh!  It will be so good to be home again!

His musings were interrupted by the sound of a rifle shot.  It was not
far off, somewhere down by the maid an  He tossed down his pen,
splattering the page with a blob of ink, and strode across his office
to the window.  Before he reached it there were more shots, a volley, a
crackling storm of gunfire.

"My God!  What is happening out there?"  He threw open the window and
stuck out his head.  Close at hand a bugler played the shrill, urgent
notes of 'stand to arms'.  Almost immediately there came a faint but
triumphant chorus of Arab voices: "La il aha ill allah  There is but
one God!"  For a brief moment he was rooted to the spot, too shocked to
draw breath, then he gasped.  "They are in!  The Dervish have broken
into the city!"

He ran back to the desk and swept up his journal.  It was too heavy to
carry so he crammed it into the safe that was concealed behind the
panelling of the back wall.  He slammed the steel door and tumbled the
combination of the lock, then closed the panelling that concealed it.
His ceremonial sword was hanging on the wall behind his desk.  It was
not a fighting weapon and Kc was no swordsman, but he buckled it round
his waist.  Then he took the Webley revolver from his desk drawer and
thrust it into his pocket.  There was nothing else of value in the
room.  He ran out into the lobby and up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Rebecca had moved Amber into her own room so that she could care for
her during the night.  Nazeera was sleeping on an angareb in the far
corner.  Both women were awake, standing indecisively in the middle of
the room.

"Get your clothes on at once!"  he ordered.  "Dress Amber too.  Don't
waste a moment."

"What is happening, Daddy?"  Rebecca was confused.

"I think the Dervish have broken in.  We must run to Gordon's
headquarters.  We should be safe there."

"Amber cannot be moved.  She is so weak it might kill her."

"If the Dervish find her she will fare far worse," he told her grimly.
"Get her up.  I will carry her."  He turned to Nazeera.  "Run to
Saffron's room, quick as you can.  Get her dressed.  Bring her here. We
must leave immediately."

Within minutes they were ready.  David carried Amber, and the other
women followed at his heels as he went down the stairs.  Before they
reached the bottom, there came the crash of breaking glass and
splintering wooden panels from the main doors, and savage shouts of
Arab voices.

"Find the women!"

"Kill the infidel!"

"This way," David snapped, and they ran into the back rooms.  Behind
them came another thunderous clap of sound as the front door was torn
from its hinges and fell inwards.  "Keep close to me!"  David led them
to the door into the courtyard.  Gordon's headquarters were on the far
side.  He lifted the locking bar and pushed it open a crack.  He peered
out cautiously.  "The coast is clear, for the moment at least."

"How is Amber bearing up?"  Rebecca whispered anxiously.

"She is quiet," David answered.  Her body was as light as that of a
captured bird.  She did not move.  She might already have been dead,
but he could feel her heart beating under his hand, and once she
whimpered softly.

Gordon's headquarters were only a hundred paces or so across the
courtyard.  The main gate at the opposite end was bolted.  There were
open staircases on the side walls leading up to the second store, where
General Gordon had his private rooms.  There was no sign of any
Egyptian troops.

"Where is Gordon?"  David asked, in consternation.  It did not seem
there was any shelter for them even in the general's stronghold.  At
that moment the main gates shook, and heavy blows resounded on the
outside.  A terrible chorus of Dervish war cries swelled the uproar.
While David tried to make up his mind as to what he should do next,
three Egyptian troopers emerged from the headquarters building and ran
across the courtyard to the main gates.  They were the first David had
seen.

"Thank God!  They are waking up at last!"  he exclaimed, and was about
to lead the women out through the door when, to his amazement, he saw
the soldiers lifting the heavy locking bars.  "The craven bastards are
surrendering, and letting in the Dervish without a fight," he barked.

Now the soldiers shouted, "We are faithful to the Divine Mahdi."

"There is one God, and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet."

"Enter, O ye faithful, and spare us, for we are your brothers in
Allah."

They swung open the gates and a horde of jibba-clad figures swarmed in.
The first of the Dervish warriors chopped down the Egyptian traitors
ruthlessly, and their bodies were trampled by the rush of hundreds of
feet as the courtyard filled with the attackers.  Many were carrying
burning torches and the flickering yellow light of the flames lit up
the horrific scene.  David was about to shut and bolt the door before
they were discovered, but at that moment a solitary figure appeared at
the head of the stone staircase that overlooked the courtyard.
Fascinated, David continued to peer through the chink.

General Charles Gordon was in full dress uniform.  He prided himself on
his ability to impress the savage and the barbarian.  He had taken time
to dress even when he heard the pandemonium in the streets.  He wore
his decorations but carried no weapon other than a light cane: he was
fully aware of the danger of antagonizing the men he was trying to
placate.

Calmly, the hypnotic gaze of those sapphire eyes glinting in the
torchlight, he held up his hands to quell the uproar.  To David this
seemed futile but, astonishingly, an unnatural quiet descended on the
courtyard.  Gordon kept both arms raised, like a conductor controlling
an unschooled orchestra.  His voice was strong and unruffled, as he
spoke good but heavily accented Arabic: "I wish to speak to your
master, the Mahdi," he announced.

The listeners stirred like a field of dhurra when a breeze sweeps
through it, but nobody answered him.  His voice was sharper and more
masterful when he spoke next he had sensed he was taking control.  "Who
among you is your leader?  Let him step forward."

A tall, strikingly handsome figure stepped from the mob.  He wore the
green turban of an emir, and mounted the first step of the staircase.
"I am the Emir Osman Atalan of the Beja, and these are my aggagiers."

"I have heard of you," Gordon said.  "Come up to me."

"Gordon Pasha, you will give no more orders to any son of Islam, for
this is the last day of your life."

"Utter no threats, Emir Atalan.  The thought of death troubles me not
at all."

"Then come down these stairs and meet it like a man, and not a cringing
infidel dog."

For another few seconds Chinese Gordon stared down at him haughtily.
Watching from the darkness of the doorway, David wondered what was
going on in that cold, precise mind.  Was there not, even now, a shadow
of doubt or a flutter of fear?  Gordon showed neither emotion as he
started down the staircase.  He stepped as precisely and confidently as
if he were on a parade ground.  He reached the step above Osman Atalan
and stopped, facing him.

Osman studied his face, then said quietly, "Yes, Gordon Pasha.  I see
you are indeed a brave man."  And he thrust the full length of his
blade through Gordon's belly.  In almost the same movement he drew it
out again, and changed to a double-handed grip.  The pale blue light in
Gordon's eyes flickered like a candle flame in the wind, his cold
granite features seemed to fall in upon themselves like melting
beeswax.  He struggled to remain upright, but the flame of his
turbulent life was flickering out.  Slowly his legs gave way under him.
Osman waited for him with the sword poised.  Gordon sagged forward from
the waist and Osman swung his sword two-handed, aiming unerringly at
the base of his neck.  The blade made a sharp snick as it parted the
vertebrae and Gordon's head fell away like the heavy fruit of the
durian tree.  It struck the stone stair with a solid thump, and rolled
down to the courtyard.  Osman stooped, took a handful of the thick
curls and, ignoring the blood that splashed down the front of his
jibba, held the head aloft to show it to his aggagiers.  "This head is
our gift to the Divine Mahdi.  The prophecy is fulfilled.  The will and
the word of Allah govern all of creation."

A single abrupt roar went up to the night sky: "God is great!"  Then,
in the silence that followed, Osman spoke again: "You have made a gift
to Muhammad, the Mahdi.  Now he returns a gift to you.  For ten days
this city, all its treasures and the people in it are yours to deal
with as you wish."

David waited to hear no more, and while the full attention of the
Dervish was on their emir, he closed and bolted the door.  He gathered
the women about him, settled Amber's head more comfortably against his
shoulder and led them back through the scullery, past the pantries and
the entrance to the wine cellars to the small door that led to the
servants' quarters.  As they hurried along they could hear behind them
the crash of breaking furniture.  The women looked up fearfully at the
sound of running footsteps from the floor above as the Dervish rampaged
through the palace.  David struggled briefly with the servants' door
before he could open it and lead them out into the night air.

They reached the entrance to the reeking sanitary lane that ran along
the back wall of the palace.  Along it stood stacks of the night-soil
buckets.  They had not been collected for months and the odour of
excrement was overpowering.  This was a place so unclean that any
devout Muslim would avoid it assiduously so they could afford to pause
for a few moments.  While they regained their breath, they heard
gunfire and shouting in the streets beyond the boundary wall, and in
the palace they had just left.

"What shall we do now, Daddy?"  Rebecca asked.

"I do not know," David admitted.  Amber groaned and he stroked her
head.  "They are all around us.  There does not seem to be any avenue
of escape."

"Ryder Courtney has his steamer ready in the canal.  But we must go
quickly, or he will set sail without us."

"Which road to reach him is safest?"  David's breathing was laboured.

"We must keep clear of the waterfront.  The Dervish will certainly be
looting the big houses along the corniche."

"Yes of course.  You are right."

"We must go through the native quarter."

"Lead the way!"  he said.

Rebecca grabbed Saffron's hand.  "Nazeera take the other."

The women ran down the narrow alley between the buckets.  David ,
ploughed along heavily behind them.  When they reached the far end of
the lane Rebecca paused to make certain that the street ahead was
empty.  Then they ran to the next corner.  Once more she checked the
ground ahead.  They went on like this, a stage at a time.  Twice,
Rebecca spotted groups of rampaging Dervish coming towards them, and
was just quick enough to lead them down a side alley.  Eventually they
came out behind the rear of the Belgian consulate.  Here they were
forced to a halt to avoid another gang of Dervish, who were breaking
into the building.  They were using a pew from the Catholic cathedral
as a battering ram.  The tall carved doors gave way and the Dervish
burst in.

Rebecca looked around for another escape route.  Before she could find
one the aggagiers dragged the portly figure of Consul Le Blanc through
the shattered doors into the street.  He was squealing like a piglet on
its way to the abattoir.  Although he fought and struggled, he was no
match for the lean and sinewy warriors.  They pinned him down on his
back in the middle of the road, and ripped off his clothing.  When he
was naked one knelt beside him with a drawn dagger.  He took a handful
of Le Blanc's hairy scrotum, and stretched it out as though it was
india-rubber.  With one stroke of the dagger he sliced it away, leaving
a gaping hole in the base of the pale, pendulous belly.  Roaring with
laughter the men who held him forced Le Blanc's jaws open with the
handles of their daggers and stuffed his testicles into his mouth,
gagging his shrieks.  Then they completed the ritual mutilation by
lopping off his hands and feet at wrists and ankles.  When they were
finished with him, they left him writhing on the ground, and rushed
back into the consulate building to join the pillage.  Le Blanc
struggled up and sat like some grotesque statue of Buddha, clumsily
trying to remove the flaccid sack of his scrotum from his mouth with
his bleeding stumps.

"Sweet Jesus, how horrible!"  Rebecca's voice was husky with pity.
"Poor Monsieur!"  She started to go to his aid.

"Don't!  They will have you also."  David's voice was choked not so
much with pity, as with the brutal effort of running so far with Amber
in his arms.  "There is nothing we can do for him.  We can try only to
save ourselves.  Becky darling, we must keep going.  Don't look
back."

They ducked down another alley, forced ever deeper into the warren of
huts and hovels of the native quarter and further off the direct route
to Ryder Courtney's compound.  After another few hundred yards David
came up short, like an old stag run to a standstill by the hounds.  His
face was twisted with pain and sweat dripped from his chin.

"Daddy, are you all right?"  Rebecca had turned back to him.

"Just a little winded," he gasped.  "Not as young as I once was.  Just
give me a moment to get my breath back."

"Let me take Amber from you."

"No!  Little mite that she is, she is still too heavy for you.  I will
be all right in a few seconds."  He sank to the ground, still holding
Amber tenderly to his chest.  The other three women waited with him,
but every time there was another outburst of gunfire or shouting they
gazed around fearfully and huddled closer together.  From the direction
of the Belgian consulate, flames towered into the sky, and illuminated
the surroundings with a yellow, flickering light.  David heaved himself
back to his feet, and stood swaying.  "We can go on now," he said.

"Please, let me take Amber."

"Don't be silly, Becky.  I am perfectly all right.  Go on!"

She peered closely at his face.  It was pale and shining with sweat,
but she knew that to argue with him would be a dangerous waste of time.
She took his arm to steady him and they went on, but their pace was
slower now.

After another short distance David had to stop again.  "How far to
where the this is moored now?"

"Not far," she lied.  "Just beyond that little mosque at the end of the
road.  You can do it."

"Of course I can."  He staggered forward again.  Then, from behind,
they heard a shout and the baying of Arab voices.  They looked back.
There was another pack of Dervish down the road behind them, at least
two dozen, brandishing their weapons and hooting with wild excitement
as they saw the women.

Rebecca dragged David to the corner of the nearest building.  For a
moment they were out of sight of their pursuers.  David leant heavily
against the wall.  "I can't go any further."  He handed Amber to
Rebecca.  "Take her!"  he ordered.  "Take the others with you and run.
I will hold them here while you get away."

"I cannot leave you," said Rebecca, staunchly.  Her father tried to
argue but she ignored him and turned to Nazeera.  "Take Saffron and
run.  Don't look back!  Run for the boat."

"I'll stay with you, Becky," Saffron cried.

"If you love me, you will do as I say," Rebecca told her.

"I love you, but '

"Go!"  Rebecca insisted.

"Please, Saffy, do as she says."  David's voice was rough with pain.
"For my sake."

Saffron hesitated only a moment longer.  "I will always love you,
Daddy, and Becky and Amber," she said, and grabbed Nazeera's hand.  The
two dived down the alley.  David and Rebecca turned back to face the
Dervish as they poured round the corner.  Their jib has and the blades
of their swords were wet with blood, their faces were mad with blood
lust.  David drew his sword.  He pushed Rebecca and Amber behind him to
protect them.

The Dervish formed a half-circle facing him, just out of reach of his
sword.  One darted forward and feinted at his head.  When David slashed
back at him he shouted with laughter and jumped away.  David tottered
unsteadily after him.  The others joined in the sport.  They baited
him, just out of reach of his blade, forcing him to turn from one side
to the other.

While the others kept him in play, one circled and came up behind
Rebecca.  He seized her round the waist with one arm, and with the
other hand pulled up her skirts.  She was naked below the waist and the
other Arabs roared with approval, as their comrade butted his hips
against her buttocks in a copulatory display.  Rebecca shrieked with
outrage and tried to break away but she was hampered with Amber in her
arms.  David staggered back to try to protect them.

The Dervish released Rebecca.  "We will all mount her like that and she
will bear us twenty fine Muslim sons."  He laughed and leered.

David was maddened by the pain in his chest and the taunts they shouted
at him.  He charged again and again, but they were swift and nimble.
Blinded by his own sweat, and crippled by the pain that was building
swiftly in his chest, the sword slipped from his hand at last and he
sank to his knees in the dirt.  His face was swollen and contorted, his
mouth was open and he gulped like a stranded fish.  One of the
aggagiers stepped up behind him and, with a surgeon's skill, sliced off
one of his ears.  Blood poured down his shirt but David did not seem to
feel the pain.

Rebecca was still holding Amber, but she rushed to her father and knelt
beside him.  She placed an arm round his shoulders.  "Please!"  she
said in Arabic.  "He is my father.  Please spare him."  The blood from
David's wound sprinkled them both.

The Dervish laughed.  "Please spare him!"  they mimicked her.  One
grabbed a handful of her hair, and dragged her away.  He threw her full
length in the dust.

She sat up, holding Amber in her lap.  She was weeping wildly.  "Leave
him alone!"  she sobbed.

With a shaking hand David reached into the pocket of his jacket and
drew out the Webley.  He waved it in vague circles.  "Stand back or I
shall fire."

The aggagier who had cut off his ear stepped in again, and with another
quick, controlled cut lopped off David's outstretched hand at the
wrist.  "Spare us, O mighty infidel, for we are in great terror of
you," he jeered.  David stared at his severed wrist from which spurted
a jet of arterial blood.

Rebecca cried out, "Oh, what have they done to you?"

David clutched the stump to his chest with the other hand, then bowed
his head over it, in an attitude of devout prayer.  The Arab swordsman
stepped up to him again and lightly touched the back of his neck with
the blade, measuring the distance for a clean blow.  Rebecca shrieked
with despair as he lifted the sword, then swung back into the stroke.
It cut through David's neck without sound or check, and his head
dropped free of his shoulders.  His headless body collapsed and his
legs kicked in a brief convulsive jig.

The Arab picked up the head, holding it by a handful of its grey hair.
He came to where Rebecca crouched and thrust her father's head into her
face.  "If he is your father, then kiss him farewell before he goes
down to boil in the waters of hell through all eternity."

Although Rebecca was sobbing hysterically she tried to cover Amber's
eyes with one hand and keep her face averted.  But Amber twisted back,
and screamed as she looked into her father's face.  The tip of David's
tongue protruded between slack lips, and his eyes were open, but blank
and sightless.

At last the Dervish lost interest in such mild sport.  He threw aside
the head, and wiped his bloody hands on Rebecca's bodice.  Then,
through the cloth, he pinched and twisted her nipples, laughing when
she cried out at the pain.  "Take them!"  he ordered.  "Take these two
filthy infidel whores to the pen.  They will be taught to serve the
needs and pleasures of their new masters."

They pulled Rebecca to her feet, still with Amber in her arms, and
dragged her away towards the waterfront.

Saffron crouched in the angle of one of the ruined shacks.  Nazeera was
beside her as they stared back down the alley and watched the Dervish
tormenting her father and Rebecca.  Saffron was too shocked to speak or
weep.  When the executioner stepped up to David and held the sword over
him she covered her mouth with both hands to prevent herself uttering a
sound that might betray them but she could not tear her gaze away from
the harrowing sight.  When the Dervish made the fatal stroke and her
father's corpse fell forward, Saffron was at last released from the
spell.  She began to sob silently.

She watched them tormenting Amber with their father's head, and could
not control her tears.  When at last they dragged Rebecca and Amber
towards the waterfront, Saffron jumped to her feet and took Nazeera's
hand.  The two ran on towards Ryder Courtney's compound.

Dawn was breaking when they reached it, and the light was growing
stronger.  The gates of the outer compound stood wide and the buildings
were deserted.  The Dervish had not yet spread out from the centre of
the town as far as this.  They ran on across the inner courtyard.
Saffron paused long enough to peer through the open door of the
blockhouse.  It was empty, stripped of every item of value.  "We are
too late!  Ryder has gone!"  she cried to Nazeera.  With a despairing
heart she ran on towards the canal gates.  They were closed but
unbarred.  It required their combined efforts to push them open.
Saffron was the first through.  Then she stopped abruptly.  The
Intrepid this's mooring was empty, and the steamer was gone.

"Where are you, Ryder?  Where have you gone?  Why have you left me?"
She gasped for breath and fought back the dark waves of panic.  Once
she had gathered herself, she turned and raced along the canal towpath
towards its juncture with the Blue Nile.  She had not covered more than
half the way to the first bend in the canal before she smelt the
woodsmoke from the this's funnel.  "He can't be too far ahead," she
told herself, and her spirits soared.  She pulled quickly ahead of
Nazeera, who was struggling to keep pace with her.  When she reached
the first bend in the canal and came round it she screamed at the top
of her voice, "Wait for me!  I am coming.  Wait for me, Ryder!"  The
this was two hundred yards ahead.  She was puffing away down the
channel towards the open river.  Saffron summoned every last ounce of
strength, and raced after it.  The little steamer was not yet under
full power, but was easing her way carefully down the shallow, winding
canal.  With this last burst of speed Saffron began to overhaul it.

"Wait!  Ryder, wait!"  In the glowing sparks from the smoke stack she
could just make out Ryder's dark figure in the angle of his bridge, but
he was looking ahead.  The pumping steam cylinders drowned her voice.

"Ryder!"  she screamed.  "Oh, please, look round."  Then she saved her
breath and ran with all her heart.  Ahead of her the this reached the
entrance to the river, and increased her speed, pulling out into the
stream of the Nile current.  Saffron came up short on the edge of the
bank.  She cried out again, danced up and down and waved both hands
over her head.  The this drew away rapidly into the softly swirling
banks of silver mist that hung low on the water.  Saffron dropped her
arms and stood still.  Nazeera came up beside her and the two hugged
each other in despair.  Suddenly a rifle shot rang out on the towpath
behind them.  They spun round and saw four Dervish running towards
them.  One halted and levelled his rifle.  He fired another shot.  The
bullet kicked dust from the towpath at their feet and ricocheted across
the river.  Saffron turned back towards the rapidly departing shape of
the this.

The rifle shot had alerted Ryder and he was staring back at them.
Saffron was lifted on a new wave of hope: she shrieked again and waved
her arms.  Then Ryder was bringing the little steamer round in a tight
circle, and heading towards them.  She looked back at the Dervish.  All
four were running towards her in a bunch.  She saw at once that they
would be upon her before the this could reach the entrance to the
canal.

"Come!"  she called to Nazeera.  "We must swim."

"No!"  Nazeera shook her head.  "Al-Sakhawi will take care of you.  I
must go back to look after my other girls."  Saffron would have argued,
even though the pursuers were closing in swiftly, but Nazeera
forestalled her protests and ducked off the towpath.  She disappeared
into the swamp reeds that grew along the verge.

"Nazeera!"  Saffron shouted after her, but the yells of the Dervish
were louder still.  She pulled off her shoes, tucked up her skirts and
ran to the edge of the canal.  She drew a deep breath and dived in.
When her head broke the surface she launched out towards the
approaching steamer in a determined dog-paddle.

"Good girl!"  She heard Ryder's voice and kicked wildly with both legs,
pulling at the water with her cupped hands.  Behind her she heard
another shot and a bullet kicked up a fountain that showered her head
and ran into her eyes.

"Come on, Saffy."  Ryder was leaning over the side of the steamer,
ready to grab her.  "Keep swimming."  At last she felt the current
catch her and push her faster.  Then she saw his face above her and
reached up to him.

"Got you!"  Ryder said.  With a single heave he plucked her out of the
river, as though she was a drowning kitten, and swung her up on to the
deck.  Then he shouted to Bacheet, "Take her out again."

Bacheet spun the wheel and the deck canted over into the turn.  Once
more they headed out into mid-stream.  The Dervish was still firing at
them from the towpath, but swiftly the river mist closed around them,
and although the bullets still splashed about them or pinged off the
steel superstructure the man had lost sight of them.  At last the
gunfire petered out.

What happened to you, Saffy?"  Ryder carried her down the deck to the
cabin.  "Where are the others?  Where are Rebecca and Amber, and your
father?"

She tried to stop herself blubbering at his questions and put her arms
round his neck, "It's just too horrid to say, Ryder.  Terrible things
have happened.  The very worst things ever."

He sat her on his bunk in the cabin.  Her distress touched him and he
wanted to give her a few moments to recover.  He handed her a dry but
grubby towel.  "Very well.  We'll get you tidied up first.  Then you
can tell me about it."  He pulled a faded blue shirt off the
clothes-line above the bunk.  "Hang your dress up there.  Put this
shirt on when you're dry, and come to the bridge.  We can talk up
there."

The tails of his shirt reached below her knees.  It served well enough
as a loose shift.  She found one of Ryder's neckties in the drawer
under the bunk, and tied it round her waist as a belt.  She used his
tortoiseshell comb to tidy her damp hair, then twisted it into a single
pig-tail.  A few minutes later, she went up to the bridge.  Her eyes
were pink and swollen with grief.  "They have killed my father," she
said hopelessly, and ran to Ryder.

He caught her up and hugged her hard.  "It can't be true.  Are you
sure, Saffy?"

"I saw it.  They cut off his head, just like they did to General
Gordon.

Then they took Rebecca and Amber away."  She fought back another sob.
"Oh, I hate them.  Why are they so cruel?"

Ryder lifted her up and sat her on the coaming of the engine-room
hatch.  He kept one arm round her.  "Tell me everything, Saffy, every
detail."

Jock McCrump heard her voice and came up from the boiler room.  He and
Ryder listened in silence to her account.  By the time she had
finished, the top rim of the sun was showing above the horizon, and the
river mist was burning off.  The city was slowly revealed in all its
stark detail.  Ryder counted eight burning buildings, including the
Belgian consulate.  Thick smoke drifted across the river.

Then he turned his telescope on the square silhouette of Mukran Fort.
The flags had been pulled down and the flagstaff was as bare as a
gallows.  Slowly he panned his lens across the rest of the city. Crowds
of the faithful were dancing through the streets, and crowding the
corniche in their brightly patched jib has  There were outbursts of
gunfire, black powder smoke spurting into the air, salvoes of feude
joie from the victors.  Many were carrying bundles of loot.  Others
were rounding up the survivors of the attack.  Ryder picked out small
groups of women prisoners being herded towards the Customs House.

"What colour dress was Rebecca wearing?"  he asked Saffron, without
lowering the glass.  He did not wish to look upon her anguish.

"Blue bodice, with yellow skirts."  Although he stared until his eye
ached, he could not pick out a blue and yellow dress, or a head of
golden hair among the captive women.  But they were far off, and the
smoke from the burning buildings and the dust from all the wild
activity ashore confused the scene.

"Where will they take the women, Bacheet?"  he demanded.

"They will pen them up like heifers in the cattle market until first
the Mahdi, then the khalifa and the emirs have time to look them over
and take their pick."

"Rebecca and Amber?"  he asked.  "What will happen to them?"

"With their yellow hair and white skin they are a great prize," Bacheet
answered.  "They will certainly be selected by the Mahdi.  They will go
to him as prime concubines."

Ryder lowered the telescope.  He felt sick.  He thought of Rebecca,
whom he loved and had hoped to make his wife, reduced to a plaything
for that murderous fanatic.  The thought was too painful to bear, and
he forced it to the back of his mind.  Instead he thought of sweet
little Amber, whom he had nursed and saved from cholera.  He had a
vivid image of her pale childish body, the same body he had massaged
back to life, being mounted and violated, sweet flesh torn and alien
seed flooding her immature loins.  He felt vomit rising to the back of
his throat.

"Take us in closer to the shore," he ordered Bacheet.  "I must see
where they are so I can plan a rescue."

"Only Allah can save them now," said Bacheet softly.  Saffron
overheard, and fresh tears oozed down her cheeks.

"Damn you, Bacheet, do as I say," Ryder snarled.

Bacheet turned across the current and they eased in towards the city
waterfront.  At first they attracted little attention from the shore.
The Dervish were too preoccupied with the sack of the city.  An
occasional shot was fired in their direction, but that was all.  They
steamed downstream as far as the confluence of the two great rivers,
then turned back, cruising in close to the Khartoum waterfront.
Suddenly there was the boom of a cannon shot, and a Krupps shell burst
the surface ahead of the bows.  The spray flew back across the deck.
Ryder saw the gun smoke on the harbour wall.  The Dervish had turned
the captured guns on them.  Another Krupps in the redoubt below the
maid an came into action and the shell screeched over the bridge and
burst in the middle of the river.

"We are not doing much good here, except giving them artillery
practice."  Ryder glanced at Bacheet.  "Turn back into mid-stream and
head on upriver.  We'll find a quiet place to anchor until we can
gather more news and find out what they have done with Rebecca and
Amber.  Then I can plan more sensibly for their rescue."

For miles up the Blue Nile both banks were deserted.  Ryder headed for
the Lagoon of the Little Fish in which he had trans hipped the cargo of
dhurra from Ras Hailu's dhow, When he reached it he anchored in a stand
of papyrus, which hid the this from curious eyes on the shore.

As soon as they had made everything onboard shipshape, he called
Bacheet to the engine room where they could talk without being
overheard by the rest of the crew.  He wasted no time but put it to
Bacheet straight and unadorned.

"Do you think you would be able to go back among the Dervish and
discover what has become of al-Jamal and al-Zahra without arousing the
suspicions of the Ansar?"

Bacheet pursed his lips and puffed out his cheeks, which made him look
like a ground squirrel.  "I am as they are.  Why should they suspect
me?"

"Are you willing to do it?"

"I am not a coward, but neither am I a rash man.  Why would I be
willing to do something as stupid as that?  No, al-Sakhawi.  I would
not be willing.  I would be extremely reluctant."  He tugged unhappily
at his beard.  "I will leave at once."

"Good," Ryder said.  "I will wait for you here, unless I am discovered,
in which case I will wait for you at the confluence of the Sarwad
river.  You will go into the city and, if necessary, cross to Omdurman.
When you have news for me, you will return to give it to me here."

Bacheet sighed theatrically and went to his own tiny berth in the
forecastle.  When he emerged he was dressed in a Dervish jibba.  Ryder
refrained from asking where he had obtained it.  Bacheet dropped over
the side of the this and waded to dry ground.  He set off along the
bank towards Khartoum.

On the waterfront Nazeera mingled unobtrusively with the milling
crowds.  There were as many Dervish women as men in the throng, and she
was no different from them in her black ankle-length robes and the head
cloth covering half of her face.  The other women had come across from
Omdurman as soon as they had heard that the city had been taken. They
had come for the excitement of the triumphal celebrations, the loot,
and for the thrill of the executions and torture that must surely
follow the victory.  The wealthy citizens of Khartoum would be forced
to reveal the hiding-places of their valuables, their gold, jewellery
and coin.  Obtaining information was a skill that the Dervish women had
learnt from their own mothers and honed to a high art.

Nazeera was part of the jostling, cavorting, ululating river of
humanity that flowed along the corniche above the river.  Ahead the
crowd parted to allow a line of chained Egyptian soldiers through. They
had been stripped of their tunics, then beaten until their bare backs
looked as though they had been savaged by angry lions.  The blood from
the whip weals soaked their breeches and dripped down their legs. As
they shuffled past on their way to the beach, the women rushed forward
to beat them again with any weapon that came to hand.  The Dervish
guards chuckled indulgently at the women's antics, and when a prisoner
fell under the blows they prodded him to his feet again with a sword
point.

Although Nazeera was desperate to find where her charges had been
taken, she was trapped in the mass of women.  She could see down on to
the beach where lines of rickety gallows of roughly trimmed poles were
being hastily erected.  Those that had been completed were already
buckling under the weight of the bodies that dangled from them, and
more captives were being dragged forward with nooses round their necks.
In groups they were prodded by the executioners on to' the angarebs
placed as steps beneath the gallows.  When the nooses had been fastened
to the crosspiece the angareb was pulled away and the victims were left
swinging and kicking in the air.

This was slow work, and further along the beach another gang of
executioners was hastening the business with the sword.  They forced
their victims to kneel in long lines with their hands tied behind their
backs, their necks stretched forward.  Then two headsmen started at
opposite ends of the line and moved slowly towards each other, lopping
off heads as they went.  The watchers shouted as each head fell into
the mud.  When one of the executioners, his sword-arm tiring from the
work, missed his stroke and only partially severed his victim's neck
they clapped and hooted derisively.

At last Nazeera extricated herself from the press of bodies and made
her way towards the British consular palace.  The gates were open and
unguarded.  She slipped through them into the grounds.  The palace was
extensively damaged, window-panes smashed and doors torn off.  Most of
the furniture had been thrown out of the upper-floor windows.  She went
stealthily to the front terrace, and found more devastation.  Terrified
that she might run into a looter she crept in through the french
windows and made her way through the wreckage to David Benbrook's
study.  Papers and documents were strewn across the room.

However, the oak panelling on the walls was intact.  She went quickly
to one panel and pressed the hidden spring built into the carving of
the architrave.  With a soft click it jumped back to reveal the door of
the large safe.  Her father had allowed Rebecca to keep her jewellery
there, and Rebecca had taught Nazeera how to tumble the combination so
that she could fetch and return the pieces she needed.  The combination
numbers were Rebecca's birthdate.  Now Nazeera fed them into the lock,
turned the handle and swung open the door.

On the top shelf lay David's leather bound journal.  The lower shelves
were filled with family valuables, including the jewellery that Rebecca
had inherited from her mother.  It was all packed into matching
red-leather wallets.  There were also a number of canvas money-bags,
which held over a hundred pounds in gold and silver coins.  It was too
dangerous to carry all of this with her.  Nazeera returned all of the
jewellery and most of the cash to the safe, then relocked the door and
closed the secret panel.  This would be her secret bank when she needed
money.  She placed a few small coins in her sleeve pocket for immediate
use, then lifted her robe and strapped a canvas bag with more round her
waist, then smoothed her shapeless skirts over it.

She left the study and climbed the stairs to the second floor.  She
went to Rebecca's bedroom, and stopped involuntarily in the doorway as
she saw the extent of the damage.  The looters had smashed every stick
of furniture, and scattered books and clothing across the floor.  She
went in and searched through the mess.

She was almost in despair when at last she spotted the sisal bag lying
under the overturned bed.  The drawstring had burst open and much of
the cholera remedy had spilled out.  Nazeera squatted, scooped it up
and poured it back into the bag.  When she had salvaged as much as she
could, she knotted the drawstring securely and tied it round her neck
so that it hung down inside her robe.  She gathered up a few other
feminine trifles that might be useful and hid them about her person.

She went back downstairs, and stole out of the palace.  She left the
gardens through the small gate at the end of the terrace and lost
herself in the Dervish victory celebrations.  It did not take her long
to discover where the women prisoners had been taken: the news was
being shouted in the streets and people were flocking to the Customs
House.  Many had climbed up the walls and were clustered at the windows
to peer in at the captives.  Nazeera tucked up her skirts and scrambled
up one of the buttresses until she reached the highest row of barred
windows.  She elbowed two small urchins out of her way.  When they
protested she unleashed a torrent of abuse that sent them scampering
off.  Then she gripped the bars and pressed her face to the square
opening.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside.  The
Egyptian women prisoners were the wives and daughters of Gordon Pasha's
officers, who were probably now lying headless on the river beach or
dangling from the gallows.  The women were squatting in miserable
groups, with their children huddled around them.  Many were spattered
with the dried blood of their murdered menfolk.  Among them were a few
white women, the nuns from the Catholic mission, an Austrian lady
doctor, the wives of the few Occidental traders and travellers who had
been trapped in the city.

Then Nazeera's heart bounded: she had spotted Rebecca sitting on the
stone floor with her back against the wall and Amber on her lap.  She
was bedraggled and filthy with dust and soot.  Her hair was lank and
matted with sweat.  Her father's blood had dried in black stains down
the front of her yellow skirt.  Her feet were bare and dusty, scratched
and bruised.  She sat aloof from the others, trying to fight off the
waves of despair that threatened to overwhelm her.  Nazeera recognized
the stoic expression that concealed her courageous spirit, and was
proud of her.

"Jamal!"  Nazeera called to her, but her voice did not carry.  The
other women and their brats were making a fearful racket.  They were
weeping and wailing for their murdered menfolk, praying aloud for
succour, entreating their captors for mercy.  Above all else they were
calling for water.

"Water!  In the Name of Allah, give us water.  Our children are dying.
Give us water!"

"Jamal, my beautiful one!"  Nazeera screamed to her, but Rebecca did
not look up.  She went on rocking Amber in her arms.

Nazeera broke a chip of plaster from the rotten windowsill, and threw
it down through the bars.  It struck the ground just short of where
Rebecca was sitting, but skidded across the stone flags and hit her
ankle.  She lifted her head and looked around.

"Jamal, my little girl!"

Rebecca raised her eyes.  She stared at the head in the window high
above her, and her eyes flew wide in recognition.  She looked around
her quickly, to make certain that the Dervish guards at the doors had
noticed nothing.  Then she stood up and crossed the floor slowly,
carrying Amber, until she stood directly under the high window.  She
looked up again, and mouthed a single word: "Mayya!  Water!"  She
lifted Amber's face and touched her chapped, swollen lips.  "Water!"
she said again.

Nazeera nodded and climbed down the wall.  She pushed her way through
the crowds, searching frantically until she found the old woman with
the donkey she had noticed earlier.  The animal was so heavily laden
with waterskins and bags of dhurra bread that its legs splayed
outwards.  The old woman was doing a thriving business with the hungry
and thirsty crowds along the waterfront.

"I wish to buy food and one of your skins, old mother."

"I still have a little bread and dried meat to sell, and for three pice
you may drink your fill, but I will never sell one of my waterskins,"
said the woman firmly.  She changed her mind when Nazeera showed her a
silver dollar.

With the small waters king slung over her shoulder, Nazeera hurried
back to the front entrance of the Customs House.  There were five
guards at the main door.  They stood with drawn swords, holding the
curious throng at a respectful distance.  Nazeera saw at a glance that
they were all men of her tribe, the Beja.  Then, with a twinge of
excitement, she recognized one.  He was of the same clan and had been
circumcised at the same time as her dead husband.  They had ridden
beneath the banner of the Emir Osman Atalan, before the rise of the
Mahdi when their world had been sane and sensible, not yet maddened by
the new fanaticism.

She sidled closer to the doors, but the man she knew made a threatening
gesture with his sword, warning her to come no closer.

"AH Wad!"  Nazeera called in a low tone.  "My husband rode with you on
the famous raid to Gondar when you slew fifty-five Christian
Abyssinians and captured two hundred and fifty fine camels."

He lowered the sword and stared at her in astonishment.  "What is your
husband's name, woman!"  he demanded.

"His name was Taher Sherif, and he was killed by the Jaalin at Tushkit
Wells.  You were with him the day he died."

"Then you are the Nazeera who was once reckoned beautiful."  His stern
expression relaxed.

Her old feelings of affection for him stirred.  "When we were all young
together," she agreed, and lowered the head cloth so he could see her
face.  "It seems to me, AH Wad, that you have become a man of great
power.  One who could still light the flame in any woman's belly."

He laughed.  "Nazeera of the silvery tongue.  The years have changed
you little.  What is it you seek from me now?"  She told him and his
smile faded.  The scowl reappeared.  "You ask me to risk my life."

"As my husband gave his life for you .. . and as, once, his young widow
risked more than her life for your pleasure.  Have you forgotten?"

"I have not.  AH Wad does not forget his friends.  Come with me."

He led her in through the main door, and the guards within deferred to
him respectfully.  She followed him, and Rebecca ran to her.  They
embraced ecstatically and tearfully.  Even in her extremity Amber
recognized her and whispered to her, "I love you, Nazeera.  Do you
still love me?"

"With all my heart, Zahra.  I have brought water and food."  She led
them to a corner of the hall and they huddled close together.  Nazeera
mixed some of the powder with water in the mug she had brought from the
palace.  She held it to Amber's lips.  She drank greedily.

While this was going on AH Wad glowered at the other prisoners.  "These
three women," he indicated Nazeera and her charges, 'are under my
protection.  Interfere with them at your peril, for I am a man of ugly
moods.  It gives me great pleasure to beat women with this kurbash." He
showed them the wicked hippo-hide whip.  "I love to hear them
squeal."

They cringed away from him fearfully.  Then he stooped and whispered in
Nazeera's ear.  She cast down her eyes and giggled coquettishly.  AH
Wad stalked back to his post at the door, grinning and stroking his
beard.

The water revived Amber miraculously.  "What has happened to my
sister?"  she whispered, "Where is Saffy?"

"She is safe with al-Sakhawi," Nazeera assured her.  "I saw her go on
board his steamer before I returned to you."  At this wonderful news
Rebecca was too overcome with relief to speak.  Instead she threw her
arms round Nazeera and hugged her.

"You must stop weeping now, Jamal," Nazeera told her sternly.  "We must
all be clever, strong and careful, if we are to survive the difficult
days that lie ahead."

"Now that you are back with us, and I know Saffy is safe, I can face
whatever comes.  What will the Dervish do with us?"

Nazeera did not answer at once but glanced significantly at Amber.
"First you must eat and drink to remain strong.  Then we shall talk."

She gave them a little of the dhurra bread.  Amber managed a few
mouthfuls, and kept them down.  Nazeera nodded with satisfaction, and
took her on to her own lap to allow Rebecca a chance to eat and rest.
She stroked Amber's hair and crooned softly to her.  The child fell
asleep almost at once.  "She will be well again within days.  Young
ones have the most resilience."

"What will happen to us?"  Rebecca repeated her question.

Nazeera pursed her lips as she considered how much she should say.  As
much of the truth as is good for her, she decided.  "You and all these
women are part of the spoils of war, as much as horses and camels."
Rebecca glanced at the sorry creatures around her, and felt momentary
pity for them, until she remembered that she and Amber were in the same
predicament.  "The Dervisji will use them as they wish.  The old and
ugly will become house and kitchen slaves.  The young and nubile will
be used as concubines.  You are young and surpassingly beautiful.  Your
hair and pale skin will intrigue all men."

Rebecca shuddered.  She had never imagined what it might be like to
fall under the power of a man of different race.  Now the thought
sickened her.  "Will they draw lots for us?"  She had read in Gibbon's
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire that that was what soldiers did.

"No.  The Dervish leaders will select those they want.  The Mahdi will
choose first, then the others in order of their rank and power.  The
Mahdi will choose you, there is no doubt of that.  And it is good.  He
is the best for us, far better than any of the others."

"Tell me why.  Explain this to me.  How can you know what he is like in
his zenanaV

"He already has over three hundred wives and concubines, and his women
talk.  It is widely known where his tastes lie, what he likes to do
with his women."

Rebecca looked puzzled, "Don't all men do the same thing, like '

She broke off, but Nazeera finished the question for her: "You mean the
same as Abadan Riji and al-Sakhawi have done to you?"

Rebecca blushed scarlet.  "I forbid you to speak to me like that ever
again."

"I shall try to remember," Nazeera replied, with a twinkle in her eye,
'but the answer to your question is that some men want different things
from their women."

Rebecca thought about that, then lowered her eyes shyly.  "Different
things.  What is the different thing that the Mahdi wants?  What will
he do to me?"

Nazeera glanced down at Amber to make sure she was asleep, then leant
closer to Rebecca, cupped her hand to her ear and whispered.  Rebecca
jerked back.  "My mouth!"  she gasped.  "That is the most disgusting
thing I have ever heard."

"Nay, silly girl.  Think a moment.  With a man you do not love, or one
you hate, it is quicker, easier and less uncomfortable.  You do not
lose your precious maidenhead, or if you have already done so, nobody
is any the wiser.  Even more important, there are no undesired
consequences."

"I can see that with certain men this might be preferable."  Then
another thought struck her, and her expression changed again.  She
looked intrigued.  "What is it like ... to do that to a man or let him
do it to you?"

"First, remember this.  With the Mahdi you obey him in all things with
every semblance of pleasure and joy.  Only one thing is vitally
important.  With the Mahdi you must never display repugnance.  He is
divine, but in these matters he is as vain as all other men.  Unlike
other men, however, he has in his hands the power of life and death,
and he does not hesitate to employ it on all who displease him.  Thus
the next thing to bear closely in mind is not to gag or spit.  To
reject and expel his essence would be a mortal insult to him."

"But, Nazeera, what if I do not like the taste?  What if I cannot help
myself?"

"Swallow quickly and have done.  In all events you will grow accustomed
to it.  We women learn and adjust very quickly."

Rebecca nodded.  Already the idea was not so shocking.  "What else must
I remember?"

"There is no doubt in my mind that the Mahdi will choose you.  You must
greet him as the Chosen of God and the successor to His Prophet.  You
must tell him what a deep joy and honour it is to meet him at last. You
can add whatever else you wish that he is the light of your eyes and
the breath of your lungs.  He will believe this.  Then you must tell
him that al-Zahra is your orphan sister.  The holy law places a duty on
him to protect and care for the orphan, so she will not be parted from
you.  There are quotations from the holy writings about orphans that
you must learn by rote so that you are able to repeat them to him.  I
will teach them to you."  Rebecca nodded, and Nazeera went on, "There
is one other thing more important than all else.  You must do or say
nothing that might cause the Mahdi to pass you by.  Show no anger, or
resentment or disrespect.  If he should reject you, the next choice
will fall to his Khalifa Abdullahi."

"Would that be worse?"

"Abdullahi is the cruel lest most wicked man in Islam.  Better we
should all perish than he take you or al-Zahra as his concubine."

Rebecca shivered.  "Teach me the quotations."

She was a quick learner and, before Amber woke, Nazeera was satisfied
that she would acquit herself properly in the presence of the prophet
of God.

Osman Atalan returned across the Nile from the city he had conquered.
He came in glory at the head of the flotilla of boats that had carried
his army to Khartoum.  Every man, woman and child who could walk,
toddle or totter came down to the riverbank to greet him.  The war
drums boomed and thumped and ombeyas blared.  One groom held his
weapons, his lance, spears and broadsword.  Another groom held his
warhorse al-Buq for him, fully caparisoned, with his rifle in the
scabbard behind the saddle.

When Osman stepped ashore from the dhow he was preceded by al-Noor who
carried over one shoulder a leather dhurra bag, whose bottom was
stained a dark wine colour.  The crowds shouted when they saw it, for
they guessed the contents.  They shouted again at the sight of Osman,
so tall and noble in his gleaming white jibba decorated with the
brightly coloured patches.

Osman mounted al-Buq and processed through the town.  The crowds lined
both sides of the narrow, winding streets, and the road was strewn with
palm fronds.  The children ran ahead of his horse and the women lifted
their infants high so that they could look upon the hero of Islam and
tell their own children that they had seen him.  Brave men and mighty
warriors tried to touch his foot as he swept past, and the women
ululated and called his name.

At the Mahdi's palace, Osman dismounted and took the stained dhurra bag
from al'Noor.  He climbed the outside staircase to the flat-roof
terrace where the prophet of Allah sat cross-legged on his angareb.  He
made a sign to the young women who attended him, and they prostrated
themselves quickly before him, then moved gracefully backwards, leaving
the terrace to the two men.

Osman went to the Mahdi and placed the sack before him.  He knelt to
kiss his hands and feet.  "You are the light and the joy of our world.
May Allah always smile upon you, who are his chosen one."

The Mahdi touched his forehead.  "May you always please God, as you
have pleased His humble prophet."  Then he took Osman's hand and raised
him up.  "How went the battle?"

"With your presence watching over us and your face before us, it went
well."

"What of my enemy and the enemy of Allah, the crusader, Gordon
Pasha?"

"Your enemy is dead and his soul boils eternally in the waters of hell.
The day you had foreseen has arrived, and those things you had
prophesied have come to pass."

"All that you tell me, Osman Atalan, pleases God.  Your words are as
honey on your lips and sweet music in my ears.  But have you brought me
proof that what you say is true?"

"I have brought you proof that no man may doubt, proof that will
resound in the heart of every son of the Prophet throughout all Islam."
Osman stooped, gripped the corner seams of the dhurra bag and lifted
it.  The contents rolled out on to the mud floor.  "Behold the head of
Gordon Pasha."

The Mahdi leant forward with his elbows on his thighs and stared at the
head.  He was no longer smiling.  His expression was cold and
impassive, but there was such a glow in his eyes that struck fear even
into Osman Atalan's valiant heart.  The silence went on, and the Mahdi
did not move for a long time.  Then at last he looked up again at
Osman.  "You have pleased Allah and his prophet.  You shall have great
reward.  See that this head is placed on a spike at the gates of the
great mosque that all the faithful may look upon it and fear the power
of Allah and his righteous servant, Muhammad, the Mahdi."

"It shall be done, master."  For the first time Osman used the title
"Rabb', which was more than 'master'.  It meant "Lord of all things'.
"Rabb' was also one of the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah.  Had
his praise exceeded the limits of flattery?  Was this not blasphemy?
Osman was immediately stricken by his own presumption.  He bowed his
head and waited for the Mahdi to rebuke him.

He need not have feared.  His instinct had been flawless.  The serene
smile blossomed once more on the Mahdi's beloved face.  He held out his
hand to Osman.  "Take me to the city you have won for the glory of
Allah.  Show me the spoils of this great victory that brings the jihad
to its full flowering.  Take me across the river Nile and show to me
all that you have achieved in my name."

Osman took his hand and brought him to his feet.  They went down to the
riverbank and embarked in the dhow that was waiting for them.  They
crossed the flow and went ashore in the harbour of Khartoum.  When he
walked along the corniche to the governor's palace the crowds spread
before him bolts of looted silk, fine linen and wool so that the Mahdi
need not soil his feet in the dust and filth of the captured city.  The
chorus of prayer and praise that went up from the prostrating crowds
was deafening.

In the governor's audience hall the Mahdi took his place beside Khalifa
Abdullahi, who was working with four black-robed kadi, the Islamic
judges.  They were questioning the wealthy citizens of Khartoum who had
been brought before them in chains.  They were asked to reveal where
they had hidden their treasures.  This was a protracted process, for it
was not enough simply to reveal all one's wealth at the outset.  The
Khalifa Abdullahi and his kadi had to ensure that the victims were
holding back nothing.  The full answers were extracted with fire and
water.  The branding irons were heated in charcoal braziers and when
the tips glowed red they were used to burn the texts of appropriate
sura from the Koran into the naked bellies and backs of the victims.
Their agonized shrieks echoed from the high ceilings.

"Let your cries be heard as praise and prayers to Allah," the Mahdi
told them.  "Let your riches be offerings that you render to His
glory."

When there was no space left on their blistered skin for further
religious texts to be inscribed, the red-hot irons were applied to
their genitals.  At last they were carried to the water fountain in the
middle of the atrium of the palace.  There they were strapped to a
stool and tipped backwards over the wall of the fountain until their
heads were below the surface of the water.  When they lost
consciousness, they were tipped forward, mucus streaming from their
mouths and noses.  They revived, and were immersed again.  Before they
expired the judges were well satisfied that they had revealed all their
secrets.

Abdullahi led his master to the governor's robing room, which they were
using as a temporary treasury, and showed him all that they had
collected so far.  There were bags and chests of coin, piles of plate
and chalices of silver and gold; some were even carved from pure rock
crystal or amethyst and encrusted with precious and semi-precious
stones.  There were heaps of silk and fine wool in bolts, satins
embroidered with gold thread, more chests of jewellery, fantastic
creations from Asia, India and Africa, earrings, necklaces, collars and
brooches set with fiery diamonds, emeralds and sapphires.  There were
even statuettes in images of the old gods, fashioned thousands of years
previously and plundered from the tombs of the ancients.  The Mahdi
frowned angrily when he saw these.  "They are an abomination in the
sight of God, and every true Muslim."  His usually mild tones thundered
through the halls so that even the khalifa trembled.  "Take them hence,
smash them into a hundred pieces and throw the fragments into the
river."

While many men scrambled to obey his order, the Mahdi turned to Osman
and smiled again.  "I think only what Allah wishes me to think.  My
words are not my own words.  They are the very word of God."

"Would the blessed Mahdi care to see the women prisoners?  If any
please him, he might take them into his zenana."  The khalifa sought to
placate him.

"May Allah be pleased with you, Abdullahi," said the Mahdi, 'but first
I wish some refreshment.  Then we shall pray, and only thereafter will
we go to view the new women."

Abdullahi had prepared a pavilion in the governor's garden at a spot
that overlooked the river and the beach beside the harbour on which the
gallows had been erected.  Under a tent of plaited reed matting, which
was suspended on bamboo poles and open on all sides to allow a cooling
breeze to blow through, they reclined on splendid rugs of the finest
wool and pillows of silk.  From clay pitchers that allowed the liquid
to permeate through and cool the rest of the contents, they sipped the
Mahdi's favourite beverage of date syrup and ground ginger.  In the
meantime they watched, with mild interest, the execution of Gordon's
men.  Some of the victims were cut down from the scaffold while they
still writhed in the noose and thrown into the river, hands bound
behind their backs.

"It is a pity that so many are of Islam," said Osman, 'but they are
also Turks, and they opposed your jihad."

"For that they have paid the price, but in as much as they were of the
true faith let them find peace," said the Mahdi, and extended the
forefinger of his right hand in blessing.  Then he stood up and led
them towards the Customs House.

When they entered the main hall the captured women had been lined up
against the far wall.  They prostrated themselves as the Mahdi entered
and sang his praises.

The guards had erected a dais at the opposite side of the hall to where
the women knelt.  This was covered with Persian carpets.  The Mahdi
took his seat upon them, then motioned for his khalifa to sit at his
right hand and the Emir Osman Atalan to sit on his left.  "Let them
bring the captives forward, one at a time."

AH Wad, who was in charge of the women, presented them in inverse order
of their appeal to masculine taste.  The old and ugly to start with,
and the younger and prettier to follow.  The Mahdi dismissed the first
twenty or so, who interested him not at all, with a curt gesture of his
left hand.  Then AH Wad led forward a young Galla girl.  The Mahdi made
a sign with his right hand.  AH Wad lifted her robe over her head and
she was naked.  The three great men leant forward to examine her.  The
Mahdi made a circular movement with his right hand, and the girl
revolved before them to display all her charms, which were
considerable.

"She is, of course, too thin," the Mahdi said at last.  "She will have
eaten little in the last ten months, but she will plump up prettily.
She is pleasing, but she has a bold eye and will be difficult.  She is
of the kind that causes trouble in the zenana."  He made the left-hand
sign of rejection, then smiled at his khalifa.  "If you decide she is
worth the trouble, you may take her, and I wish you joy of her."

"If she makes trouble in my harem, she will have stripes on her
lustrous buttocks to show for it."  The Khalifa Abdullahi flicked her
with his fly whisk on the threatened area of her anatomy.  At the sting
she squeaked and slotted in the air like a gazelle ewe.  Abdullahi made
the right-hand sign of acceptance and the girl was led away.  The
selection went on at a leisurely pace, the men discussing the females
in explicit detail.

The daughter of a Persian trader caught their particular attention.
They all agreed that her features were unattractively bony and angular,
but the hair of her head was red.  There was some discussion about its
authenticity, which the Mahdi settled by having AH Wad remove her
garments.  The gorgeous ruddy tone of her dense, curling nether bush
dispelled their doubts.

"There is every hope that she will bear red-headed sons," said the
Mahdi.  The first Prophet Muhammad, of whom he was the successor, had
possessed red hair.  Thus she was highly valuable as a breeder.  He
would give her to one of his emirs as a mark of his divine favour.  It
would reinforce the emir's loyalty and strengthen the bonds between
them.  He made the right-hand sign.

Then AH Wad led forward Rebecca Benbrook.  Nazeera had covered her head
with a light shawl.  Amber had just enough strength to totter at her
elder sister's side, clinging to her hand for comfort and support.

"Who is the child?"  demanded Khalifa Abdullahi.  "Is she the woman's
daughter?"

"Nay, mighty khalifa," AH Wad replied, as Nazeera had coached him.  "It
is her little sister.  Both girls are virgins and orphans."

The men looked interested.  A maidenhead was of great value, and
bestowed a magical and beneficial influence on the man who ruptured it.
Then, as Nazeera had told him, AH Wad drew off the shawl that covered
Rebecca's head.  The Mahdi drew a sharp breath, and both the khalifa
and Osman Atalan sat straighter as they stared in astonishment at her
hair, which Nazeera had combed out carefully.  A beam of sunlight
through one of the high windows transformed it into a crown of gold.
The Mahdi beckoned Rebecca to come closer.  She knelt before him.  He
leant towards her and fingered a lock.  "It is soft as the wing of a
sunbird," he murmured in awe.

Rebecca had been careful not to look directly into his face, which
would have been a gesture of disrespect.  With her eyes still lowered,
she whispered huskily, "I have heard all men speak of your grace and of
your holy state.  I have longed for sight of your beautiful face, as a
traveller in the great desert longs for his first glimpse of Mother
Nile."

His eyes opened a little wider.  He placed one finger beneath her chin
and lifted her face.  She saw at once that what she had said had
pleased him.  "You speak good Arabic," he said.

"The holy tongue," she agreed.  "The language of the faithful."

"How old are you, child?  Are you virgin, as AH Wad has told us?  Have
you ever known a man?"

"I pray that you might be my first and my last," she lied, without a
tremor, knowing just how much depended on his choice.  She had been
watching the khalifa during the selection of the other women and sensed
that all Nazeera had told her was true: he was as slippery as a
slime-eel and as venomous as a scorpion.  She thought that it would be
better to be dead than to belong to him.

When he whispered to the Mahdi his voice was oily and unctuous.
"Exalted One, let us have sight of this one's body," he suggested.  "Is
the bush of her loins of the same colour and texture as the hair on her
head?  Are her breasts white as camels' milk?  Are the lips of her
quimmy pink as the petals of a desert rose?  Let us discover all these
sweet secrets."

"Those sights are for my eyes alone to gaze upon.  This one pleases me.
I will keep her for myself."  With his right hand he made the sign of
acceptance over Rebecca's head.

"I am overcome with joy and gratitude that you have found me pleasing,
Great and Holy One."  Rebecca bowed her head.  "But what of my little
sister?  I pray that you will take her under your protection as well'

The Mahdi glanced down at Amber, who shrank from him and clung to
Rebecca's dusty, bloodstained skirt.  She stared back at him in
trepidation and he saw how young she was, how weak and sickly she
appeared.  Her eyes were sunk into bruised-looking cavities, and she
had barely the strength to stand upright.  The Mahdi knew that a child
in her condition would be a nuisance and the cause of disruption in his
household.  He was not lubriciously attracted to children, either male
or female, as he knew his khalifa was.  Let him have this wretched
creature.  He was about to make the left-hand gesture of rejection,
when Rebecca forestalled him.  Nazeera had coached her in what she must
say.  She spoke up again, clearly this time.

"The saint Abu Shuraih has reported the direct words of the Prophet
Muhammad, the messenger of Allah, may Allah love him eternally, who
said, "I declare inviolate the rights of the weak ones, the orphans and
the women."  He said also, "Allah provides for you only in as much as
you protect the orphans among you."

The Mahdi lowered his left hand, and looked at her thoughtfully.  Then
he smiled again, but there was something unfathomable in his eyes.  He
made the right-hand sign of acceptance over Amber and said to Ali Wad,
"I place these women in your charge.  See that no harm befalls them.
Convey them to my harem."

Ali Wad and ten of his men escorted Rebecca, Amber and the other women
chosen by the Mahdi to the harbour.  Without drawing attention to
herself, Nazeera followed them.  When they were placed on board a large
trading dhow to be carried across the Nile to Omdurman, she went on
board with them, and when one of the crew questioned her presence Ali
Wad snarled at him so belligerently that he scurried away to attend to
the hoisting of the lateen sail.  From then on Nazeera was accepted as
the servant to al-Jamal and al-Zahra, the concubines of the Mahdi.  The
three squatted together in the bows of the dhow.

While Nazeera made Amber drink again from the waters king Rebecca asked
fretfully, "What am I going to do, Nazeera?  I can never allow myself
to become the chattel of a brown man, a native who is not a Christian."
The full extent of her predicament began to dawn on her.  "I think I
would rather die than have that happen to me."

"Your sense of propriety is noble, Jamal, but I am brown and a native
also," Nazeera replied.  "Also, I am not a Christian.  If you have
become so fastidious, then perhaps it would be better if you sent me
away."

"Oh, Nazeera, we love you."  Rebecca was immediately contrite.

"Listen to me, Jamal."  Nazeera took Rebecca's arm and forced her to
look into her eyes.  "The branch breaks that will not bend with the
wind.  You are a limber young branch.  You must learn to bend."

Rebecca felt as though she were being crushed beneath a great weight.
Wherever her mind turned it encountered only sorrow, regret and fear.
She thought of her father, and touched the black stains of his blood on
her bodice.  She knew that the terrible moments of his beheading were
engraved on her memory for the rest of her life.  The sorrow was almost
unsupportable.  She thought of Saffron and knew she would never see her
again.  She held Amber close to her heart, but wondered if she would
survive the disease that had already damaged her fragile body.  She
thought of the future that awaited them all, and gaped before her, like
the black, insatiable maw of a monster.

There is no escape for any of us.  As she thought it, there was an
urgent shout from one of the crew.  She looked about her as though she
had been rudely awakened from a nightmare.  The dhow had reached the
middle of the river, and was sailing along on the light breeze.  Now
the entire crew was agitated.  They crowded the weather rail, and
gabbled at each other, pointing downstream.

A cannon boomed out across the water, then another.  Soon every one of
the Dervish guns were blazing away from both banks.  Rebecca handed
Amber to Nazeera and jumped to her feet.  She gazed in the direction in
which everybody was staring and her spirits lifted.  All her dark fears
and uncertainties fell away.  Close at hand she saw the Union Flag of
Great Britain flying bravely in the bright sunlight.

Quickly Rebecca pulled Amber to her feet, held her close and pointed
downriver.  Less than half a mile away a squadron of ships was steaming
towards them down the middle of the channel.  Their decks were crowded
with British soldiers.

"They are coming to rescue us, Amber.  Oh, look."  She turned Amber's
head.  "Is it not the finest sight you have ever seen?  The relief
column has arrived."  Now, for the first time, she allowed herself to
succumb to her tears.  "We are safe, darling Amber.  We are going to be
safe."

Penrod Ballantyne kept at a safe distance from the river as they rode
the last few miles along the eastern bank of the Nile towards the
smoke-hazed city of Khartoum on the horizon.  Every mile they covered
confirmed what was already a certainty in his mind.  The flags on the
tower of Mukran Fort were gone.  Chinese Gordon had been overwhelmed.
The city had fallen.  The relief column was too late to save them.

He tried to arrive at some decision as to what he should do now.  Every
one of his calculations up to this point had depended on the survival
of the city.  Nowt there seemed to be no reason or logic in going on.
He had seen a city captured and sacked by the Dervish.  By the time he
arrived the only living things inside the walls of Khartoum would be
the crows and vultures.

But something drew him onwards.  He tried to convince himself that this
course of action was dictated by the fact that the doors behind him
were shut.  He had compounded the charge of insubordination that hung
over him by disobeying Sir Charles Wilson's direct orders to stay in
the camp at Metemma.  There seemed little merit in turning back now to
face the court-martial with which Sir Charles Wilson would welcome his
return.

"On the other hand, what merit is there in going forward?"  he asked
himself.  There were others who might still be alive and in need of his
assistance: General Gordon and David Benbrook, the twins and Rebecca.
At last he was honest with himself.  Rebecca Benbrook had loomed large
in his consciousness ever since he had ridden away from Khartoum.  She
was probably the true reason he was there.  He knew he must find out
what had become of her, or for the rest of his life her memory would
haunt him.

Suddenly he reined in his camel and cocked his head towards the river.
The sound of gunfire was close and clear.  It mounted swiftly from a
few random shots to a full artillery barrage.  "What is it?"  he called
to Yakub, who rode close behind him.  "What are they shooting at
now?"

There was a scattered grove of thorn acacia and palms growing along the
bank, obscuring their view of the river.  Penrod turned his camel and
urged it into a gallop.  They rode through the intervening belt of
trees and came out abruptly on the bank of the Nile.  A forlorn and
desperate sight lay before him.  The steamers of Wilson's division were
struggling upstream towards the city of Khartoum, whose skyline was
clearly visible before them.  From their mastheads they flew the red,
white and blue Union Flag.  Their decks were crammed with troops, but
Penrod knew that between them they could not carry more than two or
three hundred men.  Most of the faces he could see through the lens of
his telescope were those of Nubian infantrymen.  There was a cluster of
white officers on the bridge of the leading steamer.  They all had
their telescopes raised and were peering upstream.  Even at this
distance Penrod could pick out the tall, awkward figure of Wilson, his
craggy features hidden by his large pith helmet.

"Too late, Charles the Timid," Penrod whispered bitterly.  "If you had
done the right thing, as General Stewart and your officers urged, you
might have been in time to tip the scales of Fate and save the lives of
those unfortunates who waited ten months for you to come."

The Dervish shot began falling more heavily around the little
vessels,

and hordes of Arab cavalry came galloping down the banks from the
direction of Omdurman and Khartoum to intercept the flotilla.  The
Dervish riders fired from the saddle as they kept pace with Wilson's
steamers.

"We must join them!"  Penrod shouted to Yakub, and they raced forward
to mingle with the Dervish.  It was the perfect cover for them.  They
were soon lost in the dust and confusion of the Arab squadrons.  Penrod
and Yakub fired as enthusiastically as all the riders around them, but
they aimed low so that their bullets whacked harmlessly into the
river.

The surface of the water all around the two steamers was lashed by
musketry, and the leaping fountains of spray kicked up by the Krupps
guns.  The white hulls were quickly pockmarked by the bullets that
hammered against the steel plate.  The thinner steel of the funnels was
riddled with holes.  Suddenly there was a louder explosion and a cloud
of silver steam flew high into the sky above the second vessel.  The
Dervish riding around Penrod howled triumphantly, and brandished their
weapons.

"One of the Krupps has hit her cleanly in the boiler," Penrod lamented.
"By all the gods of war, this day belongs to the Mahdi."

With steam still erupting from her, the stricken vessel swung
helplessly across the stream and began to drop back downriver.  Almost
immediately Wilson's leading vessel slowed and turned back to render
assistance, and the rest of the squadron followed him round.

The Arab riders with Penrod shouted threats and derision at the two
vessels: "You cannot prevail against the forces of Allah!"

"Allah is One!  The Mahdi is his chosen prophet.  He is omnipotent
against the infidel."

"Return to Satan who is your father!  Return to hell, which is your
home!"

Penrod shouted with them, and exhibited the same jubilation, firing his
rifle into the air, but inwardly his anger and contempt for Wilson
seethed.  What a fine excuse to break off your determined attack and
betake your craven buttocks back to a comfortable chair on the veranda
of the Gheziera Club in Cairo.  I doubt, Sir Charles, that we shall be
seeing much more of you in these latitudes.

In the hope that the crippled vessel would be carried on to the bank,
hundreds of Dervish riders followed the squadron downstream, keeping up
a rattling fusillade.  The crews struggled to pass a towline between
them.  As the steamers drifted in towards the opposite bank, and out of
rifle range, many riders gave up the chase and turned back towards
Omdurman.  Penrod moved along with them and his presence was unremarked
in the effusive mood of victory and triumph.  It took almost an hour to
reach Omdurman.  This gave him plenty of opportunity to listen in on
many shouted conversations, all of which were discussions of the
devastatingly successful night attack on Khartoum, led by the Emir
Osman Atalan, and the subsequent sack and looting.  At one point he
overheard some discussing the captured white women whom they had taken
to the Customs House in Khartoum.

They must be talking about Rebecca and the twins.  His hopes were
resuscitated.  Apart from them there were hardly any white women
remaining in Khartoum, except the nuns and the Austrian doctor from the
leper colony.  Please, God, let it be Rebecca they are speaking about.
Even if that means she is a prisoner at least she has survived."

Among the long, haphazard ranks of riders Penrod and Yakub rode into
Omdurman.  Yakub knew of a small caravanserai on the edge of the
desert, which was run by an old man of the Jaalin tribe, a distant
relative to whom he referred as Uncle.  This man had often given him
shelter and shielded him from the blood feud with the other powerful
members of their tribe.  Although he looked curiously at Penrod he
asked no questions and placed at their disposal a filthy cell with one
tiny high window.  The only furniture was a rickety angareb covered
with coarse sacking in which numerous blood-sucking insects had already
set up home.  They seemed to resent any human intrusion into their
territory.

"To reward you for your service to me over the years, Yakub the
Faithful, I shall allow you to sleep upon the bed while I make do with
the floor.  But tell me how much we can trust our host, this man Wad
Hagma."

"I think my uncle suspects who you are, for I told him once, long ago,
that you were my lord.  However, Wad Hagma is of my clan and blood.
Although he has sworn the oath of Beia to the Mahdi, I believe he did
so with his mouth only, not his heart.  He would not betray us."

"He has an evil cast in his eye, Yakub, but that seems to run in the
family."

By the time they had watered and fed the camels and penned them in to
the kraal at the back of Wad Hagma's caravanserai, darkness had fallen
and they wandered into the sprawling warren of the holy city, seemingly
without purpose but in reality to find some news of the Benbrook
family.  After dark Omdurman was still a holy city and under the
Mahdi's strict moral code.  Nevertheless, they found a small number of
dimly lit coffee shops.  Some offered in the back rooms a hookah pipe
and the company of a young, beautiful woman or, should their tastes
lean in that direction, an even more beautiful boy.

"It has been my experience that in any foreign town the most reliable
sources of information are always the women of pleasure."  Yakub
volunteered his services.

"I know that your motives are praiseworthy, Yakub the virtuous.  I am
grateful for your self-sacrifice."

"I lack only the few paltry coins required to perform this onerous task
for you."

Penrod pressed the room price into his hand, and ensconced himself in a
dimly lit corner of the coffee shop from where he was able to eavesdrop
on several conversations between the other clientele.

"I have heard that when Osman Atalan laid the head of Gordon Pasha at
the feet of the Divine Mahdi the angel Gabriel appeared at his side and
made the sign of sanctification over the head of the Mahdi," said
one.

"I heard it was two angels," countered another.

"I heard it was two angels and the Messenger of Allah, the first
Muhammad," said a third.

"May he live at Allah's right hand for ever," said all three in
unison.

So, Gordon is no more.  Penrod sipped the viscous bitter coffee from
the brass thimble, to cover his emotions.  A brave man.  He will be
more at peace now than he ever was during his lifetime.  A short while
later, Yakub emerged from the back room looking pleased with himself.
"She was not beautiful," he confided in Penrod, 'but she was friendly
and industrious.  She asked me to commend her efforts to her owner or
he would beat her."

"Yakub, saviour of ugly maidens, you did what was expected of you, did
you not?"  Penrod asked, and Yakub rolled one eye knowingly while the
other remained focused on his master.

"Apart from that, what else did she tell you that might be of value to
us?"  Penrod could not refrain from smiling.

"She told me that early this afternoon, just after the infidel steamers
were driven in confusion and ignominy back downriver by the
ever-victorious Ansar of the Mahdi, may Allah love him for ever, a dhow
brought five women captives across the river from Khartoum.  They were
in the charge of Ali Wad, an aggagier of the Jaalin who is well known
hereabouts for his ferocity and his foul temper.  Immediately on
landing Ali Wad conveyed the captives to the zenana of Muhammad, the
Mahdi, may Allah love him through eternity.  The women have not been
seen again, nor are they likely to be.  The Mahdi keeps firm control of
his property."

"Did your obliging young friend notice if one of those captives had
yellow hair?"  Penrod asked.

"My friend, who is not particularly young, was less certain of that.
The heads and faces of all the women were covered."

"Then we must keep a watch on the palace of the Mahdi until we are
certain that these women are who we hope they are," Penrod told him.

"The women of the zenana are never permitted to leave their quarters,"
Yakub pointed out.  "Al-Jamal will never again be allowed to show
herself beyond the gates."

"Nevertheless you might learn something by watching patiently."

Early next morning Yakub joined the large group of worshippers and
petitioners who were always gathered at the gates of the Mahdi's
palace, ready to prostrate themselves before him when the Chosen One
went to the mosque to lead the ritual prayers and deliver his sermons,
which were not his words but the very words of Allah.  This day, as was
his custom, the Mahdi emerged punctually for the first prayers of the
day, but so great was the press of humanity around him that Yakub
caught only a glimpse of his embroidered kufi skullcap as he passed.
Yakub followed him to the mosque, and after the prayers returned in his
train to the palace.  He followed this routine five times a day for the
next three days, without receiving any confirmation of the existence or
whereabouts of the women.  On the third afternoon, as had become his
habit, he settled down to wait again in the sparse shade of an oleander
bush from where he could keep one eye on the palace gates.  He was
beginning to nod off in the somnolent heat when there was a light touch
on his sleeve and a woman's voice entreated him, "Noble and beloved
warrior of God, I have clean sweet water to quench your thirst, and
freshly roasted as ida flavoured with chilli sauce as fiery as the
flames of hell, all for the very reasonable price of five copper
pice."

"May you please God, sister, for your offer pleases me."  The woman
poured from the waters king into an enamelled tin mug, and spread sauce
on a round of dhurra bread.  As she handed these to him she said, in a
low voice muffled by the head cloth that covered her face, "O faithless
one, you swore a mighty oath that you would remember me for ever but
you have forgotten me already."

"Nazeera!"  He was amazed.

"Dimwitted one!  For three days I have watched you flaunt yourself
before the eyes of your enemies and now you compound your idiocy by
shouting my name aloud for all to hear."

"You are the light of my life," he told her.  "I shall give thanks
every day that you are well.  What of your charges?  Al-Jamal and her
two little sisters, are they with you in the palace?  My lord seeks to
know these things."

"They are alive, but their father is dead.  We cannot talk here.  After
the afternoon prayers I shall be at the camel market.  Look for me
there."  Nazeera drifted away to offer her water and bread to others
who waited at the gates.

As she had promised, he found her at the well in the centre of the
camel market.  She was drawing water in a large earthenware pitcher.
Two other women lifted it and placed it on her head, Nazeera balanced
it with one hand and set off across the marketplace.  Yakub followed
her closely enough to hear what she was saying, but not so close as to
make it obvious that they were together.

"Tell your master that al-Jamal and al-Zahra are in the palace.  They
have been taken by the Mahdi as his concubines.  Saffron escaped on the
steamer of al-Sakhawi.  I watched her go on board.  Their father was
beheaded by the Ansar.  I saw it done."  Under the weight of the
pitcher Nazeera moved with a straight back and rolling hips.  Yakub
watched the lively play of her buttocks with interest.  "What are your
master's intentions?"  she wanted to know.

"I think that his purpose is to rescue al-Jamal and carry her off as
his woman."

"If he thinks to accomplish this alone, he is touched by the sun.  They
will be discovered and both of them will die.  Come here again tomorrow
at the same time.  There is someone else you must meet," she told him.
"Now, walk away and do not show yourself at the palace gates again."

He turned aside to examine a string of camels that was being offered
for sale, but from the corner of his eye he watched her go.  She is a
clever woman and skilled in the art of pleasing a man.  Tis a pity she
does not confine her affections to just one of us, he mused.

The following day Yakub was at the camel market again at the same hour.
It took him some time to find Nazeera.  She had changed her costume to
that of a Bedouin woman, and she was cooking at a charcoal brazier.  He
might not have recognized her had she not called to him: "Roasted
locusts, lord, fresh from the desert.  Sweet and juicy."  He took a
seat on the stump of acacia wood that had been placed by the fire as a
stool.  Nazeera brought him a handful of locusts she had crisped on the
brazier.  "The one I spoke of is here," she said softly.

He had taken little notice of the man who sat on the opposite side of
the fire.  Although he was dressed in a jibba and carried a sword he
was too plump and well fed to be an aggagier.  In place of a man's
beard his chin was adorned with only a few wisps of curly hair.  Now
Yakub looked at him with more attention, and then, with a thrill of
jealous anger, he recognized him.  "Bacheet, why are you not cheating
honest men with your shoddy goods, or prodding their wives with your
inconsequential member?"  he said coldly.

"Ah, Yakub of the quick knife!  How many throats have you 'slit
recently?"  Bacheet's tone was every bit as chilled.

"From where I sit yours looks soft enough to tempt me."

"Stop this childish squabbling," said Nazeera sternly, although she
found it more than a little flattering that she could still be at the
centre of such rivalry for her waning charms.  "We have important
things to discuss.  Bacheet, tell him what you have already told me."

"My master, al-Sakhawi, and I escaped from Khartoum on his steamer, the
night that the Dervish attacked and captured the city.  We found the
girl-child, Filfil, and took her with us.  Once we were clear of the
city, we moored the steamer in the Lagoon of the Little Fish.  My
master sent me back here to seek out al-Jamal.  However, he can tarry
no longer at the lagoon.  The Dervish are diligently searching both
banks of the river for him, and within a short while they will surely
find him.  He is forced to flee further up the Blue Nile into the
kingdom of the Emperor John of Abyssinia where he is known and
respected as a trader.  When he is secure there he will be able to make
careful plans for the rescue of al-Jamal and al-Zahra.  My master is
not yet aware that you and your master are here in Omdurman, but when I
bring him this news I know that he will wish to join his efforts with
your master's to achieve the rescue of the two white women."

"Your master is called al-Sakhawi for his generosity and liberality. It
is rumoured that his courage surpasses that of a buffalo bull, although
no man has ever seen him fight.  Now you tell me that this renowned
warrior intends to run away and leave two helpless women to their fate.
On the other hand, I know that Abadan Riji will remain here in
Omdurman until he has procured their escape from the blood-drenched
clutches of the Mahdi," Yakub said scornfully.

"Ha, Yakub, how edifying to hear you talk of blood-drenched clutches,"
said Bacheet smoothly.  He stood up to his full height and sucked in
his belly.  "The yapping of a puppy must not be mistaken for the baying
of the hound," he said mysteriously.  "If Abadan Riji wishes the
assistance of al-Sakhawi in arranging the rescue of al-Jamal, he may
desire to send a message to my master.  He can do so through Ras Hailu,
an Abyssinian grain trader from Gondar whose dhows trade regularly
downriver to Omdurman.  Ras Hailu is a trusted friend and partner of my
master.  I will not waste more breath and time in arguing with you.
Stay with God."

Bacheet turned his back on Yakub and stalked away.

"You are like a small boy, Yakub.  Why do I allow you to waste my time
and breath?"  Nazeera asked the sky.  "Bacheet was speaking good sense.
It will need more than reckless courage to lift my girls from the
zenana of the Mahdi, and to carry them thousands of leagues across the
desert to safety.  You will need money to place as bribes within the
palace, more money to buy camels and provisions, still more money to
arrange relays along your escape road.  Does your master have that much
money?  I think not.  Al-Sakhawi does, and he also has the patience and
brains that your master lacks.  Yet in your arrogance and conceit you
turn away the offer of assistance that will certainly make the
difference between success and failure in your master's enterprise."

"If al-Sakhawi is a man of such merit and virtue, why do you not marry
your beloved al-Jamal to him, rather than to my master, Abadan Riji?"
Yakub demanded angrily.

"That is the first sensible thing you have said all day," Nazeera
agreed.

"Are you against us?  Will you not help us to free these women? Knowing
how much I love you, Nazeera, will you turn me away in favour of that
beardless creature, Bacheet?"  Yakub assumed a piteous expression.

"I am newly arrived in Omdurman.  I know very few people in this city.
I have no way to enter upon the pathways of power and influence.  There
is little in which I can help you.  One thing only is certain.  I will
not risk the lives of the two girls I love to some wild and reckless
scheme.  If you want me to give you what help I can, you must work out
a plan that has more chance of success than of failure.  It must be a
plan that above all, takes into account their safety."  Nazeera began
to pack up her pots and dishes.  "It must be a plan in which I can
place my trust.  When you have made such a plan, you can find me here
every sacred Friday morning."

"Nazeera, will you tell al-Jamal that my master is here in Omdurman,
and that soon he will rescue her?"

"Why would I kindle false hope in her heart, which has already been
broken by her captivity, the death of her father, the loss of her
little sister Fifil, and the sickness of her other sister al-Zahra?"

"But my master loves her and will lay down his own life for her,
Nazeera."

"As he also loves the woman Bakhita and fifty others like her.  I do
not care if he lays down his life for her, but I will not let her lay
down her life for him.  Have you never seen a woman stoned to death for
adultery, Yakub?  That is what will happen to al-Jamal if your plans
fail.  The Mahdi is a man without mercy."  She tied a cloth round her
dishes and lifted it on to her head.  "Come to me again only when you
have something sensible to discuss with me."  Nazeera walked away,
balancing the parcel gracefully on her head.

How much money do you have?"  asked Yakub's putative uncle, Wad Hagma.
Penrod looked into his guileless eyes and replied with a question. "How
much will you need?"

Wad Hagma pursed his lips while he considered.  'I will have to bribe
my friends in the Mahdi's palace to clear the way and they are
important men whom I cannot insult with a paltry sum.  Then I will have
to find and pay for the extra camels to carry so many people.  I must
provide fodder and provisions along the road, pay the guards at the
border.  All this will cost a great deal, but of course I will take
nothing for my own trouble.  Yakub is like a son to me, and his friends
are my friends also."

Of course, he does this willingly and without thought of his own
rewards."  Yakub endorsed his uncle's altruistic intentions.  They were
sitting together by the small fire in the soot-blackened lean-to
kitchen of the caravanserai, and eating the stew of mutton, wild onions
and chilli.  Considering the insalubrious surroundings in which it had
been cooked and the-venerable age of the flyblown ingredients, the dish
was tastier than Penrod had expected.

'I am grateful to Wad Hagma for his assistance, but my question was,
how much does he need?"  It was only as a last resort that Penrod had
agreed to enlist the assistance of the uncle in his plans.  Yakub had
convinced him that Wad Hagma knew many of the Mahdi's entourage and
members of his palace household.  With his uncle to help them, Yakub
had considered it unnecessary to bring to his master's attention the
offer of assistance conveyed by Bacheet on behalf of his own master,
al-Sakhawi.  In any case, his animosity towards Bacheet was so deep
that he could not bring himself to do anything that might redound to
his rival's credit or profit.  He had refrained from mentioning to
Penrod his meeting with Bacheet.

"It will not be less than fifty English sovereigns," Wad Hagma said, in
a tone of deep regret, watching Penrod's reaction.

"That is a small fortune!"  Penrod protested.

Wad Hagma was encouraged to be dealing with a man who considered fifty
sovereigns only a small fortune, rather than an extremely large one, so
he immediately raised the bidding.  "Alas, it could be a great deal
more," he said lugubriously.  "However, the fate of these poor females
has touched my heart and Yakub is dearer to me than any son.  You are a
mighty man and famous.  I will do my best for you.  In God's Name I
swear this!"

"In God's Name!"  Yakub agreed automatically.

"I will give you ten pounds now," said Penrod, 'and more when you show
your intent in deeds rather than in fine words."

"You will see that the promises of Wad Hagma are like the mountain of
Great Ararat, on which the ark of Noah came to rest."

"Yakub will bring the money to you tomorrow."  Penrod did not want to
reveal where he kept his purse.  They finished the meal and wiped the
last drops of gravy from the bottom of the dishes with scraps of dhurra
bread.  Penrod thanked the uncle and wished him goodnight, then he
signed to Yakub to follow him.  They walked out into the desert.

"There are already too many people in Omdurman who know who we are.  It
will be unsafe to stay any longer in your uncle's house.  From now
onwards we will sleep every night at a different place.  Nobody must be
able to follow our movements.  We must see but never be seen."

It was some months after she had been confined in the zenana before the
Mahdi took any further notice of Rebecca.  Then he sent her and Amber
new wardrobes of clothing.  Amber received three simple cotton dresses
and light sandals.  Rebecca was sent apparel of a more elaborate but
modest design, as befitted a concubine of Allah's prophet.

The clothes were a welcome distraction from the boredom of the harem.
By this time Amber had recovered sufficiently from her illness to take
an active interest, and they tried on the dresses and showed them off
to Nazeera and to each other.

The zenana was an enclosure the size of a small village.  There was
only one gate in the ten-foot-high wall of mud-brick that surrounded
the hundreds of thatched huts that housed all the Mahdi's wives and
concubines, the slaves and servants who attended them.  The women were
fed from the communal kitchen, but it was a monotonous diet of dhurra
and river fish fried in ghee, clarified butter, and blindingly hot
chilli.  With so many mouths to feed, the Mahdi obviously believed that
some economies were called for.

Those women who had a little money of their own could buy additional
provisions and delicacies from the female vendors who were allowed
within the walls of the zenana for a few hours each morning.  From her
hoard of coins Nazeera bought legs of mutton, thick cuts of beef,
calabashes of soured milk, and onions, pumpkins, dates and cabbage.
They cooked these in the small fenced yard behind the thatched hut that
AH Wad had had his men build for them.  On this nourishing diet their
bony bodies, the legacy of the long siege, filled out, the colour
returned to their cheeks and the sparkle to their eyes.  Twice during
this time Nazeera had returned secretly at night to the ruins of the
British consular palace across the river in the abandoned city of
Khartoum.  On the first visit she had brought back not only money but
David Benbrook's journal.

Rebecca had spent days reading it.  It was almost as though she was
listening to his voice again, except that on these pages he was
expressing ideas and feelings she had not heard before.  Between the
sheets she discovered her father's last will and testament, signed ten
days before his death and witnessed by General Charles Gordon.  His
estate was to be divided in equal shares between his three daughters,
but kept in trust by his lawyer in Lincolns Inn, a gentleman named
Sebastian Hardy, until they reached the age of twenty-one.  Newbury was
as remote as the moon, and the chance of any of them returning there
was so slim that she paid scant heed to the document and placed it back
between the pages of the journal.

She read on through her father's closely written but elegant script,
often smiling and nodding, sometimes laughing or weeping.  When she
reached the end she found that several hundred pages remained empty in
the thick book.  She detefmined to continue with his account of family
joys and tragedies.  When next Nazeera crossed the river Rebecca asked
her to find her father's writing materials.

Nazeera returned with pens, spare nibs and five bottles of best-quality
Indian ink.  She brought also more money and some small luxuries that
had been overlooked by the looters.  Among these items was a large
looking-glass in a tortoiseshell frame.

"See how beautiful you are, Becky."  Amber held up the mirror so they
could both admire the long dress of silk and silver thread that the
Mahdi had sent her.  "Will I ever look like you?"

"You are already far more beautiful than I am, and you will grow more
so every day."

Amber reversed the mirror and studied her own face.  "My ears are too
big, and my nose too flat.  My chest looks like a boy's."

"That will change, believe me."  Rebecca hugged her.  "Oh, it's so good
to have you well again."  With the resilience of the young, Amber had
put most of the recent horrors behind her.  Rebecca had allowed her to
read their father's journal.  This had helped her recovery, and
alleviated the terrible mourning she had undergone for him and Saffron.
Now she was able to reminisce about the happy times they had all spent
together.  She was also taking a more active interest in their alien
surroundings and the circumstances in which they now found themselves.
Using her natural charm and attractive personality she struck up
acquaintances with some of the other women and children of the zenana.
With the money that Nazeera brought home, there was enough for her to
take small gifts to the most needy of the other women.  She was soon a
favourite in the zenana with many new friends and playmates.

Even Ali Wad softened under her warm, sunny influence.  This forbidding
warrior had renewed the intimate friendship with Nazeera that they had
once enjoyed.  On many occasions recently Nazeera had left their hut
immediately after they had eaten the evening meal, and only returned at
dawn.  Amber explained her nocturnal absences to Rebecca.  "You see,
poor Ali Wad has a bad back.  He was unhorsed in battle.  Now Nazeera
has to straighten his back for him to stop the pain.  She is the only
one who knows how to do it."

Rebecca alleviated her boredom by attempting to bring some order into
the social and domestic chaos she found all around them.  First, she
concerned herself with the lack of hygiene that prevailed in the
zenana.  Most of the women were from the desert and had never been
forced to live in such crowded conditions before.  All rubbish was
simply tossed outside the doors of the huts, to be scavenged by crows,
rats, ants and stray dogs.  There were no latrines and everybody
answered the call of nature wherever they happened to be when they
received it.  To navigate the labyrinth of pathways between the huts
required nimble footwork to dodge the odoriferous brown mounds that
dotted open ground.  For Rebecca the final provocation was coming upon
two small naked boys competing to see which could urinate across the
opening of the single well that supplied water to the entire zenana.
Neither competitor was able to reach the far side and their puny
streams tinkled into the depths of the well.

Rebecca, with the backing of Nazeera, prevailed on Ali Wad to set his
men to dig communal earth latrines and deep pits in which the rubbish
could be burned and buried, and to make sure that the women used them.
Then she and Nazeera visited the mothers whose offspring were wasting
away with dysentery and the occasional bout of cholera.  Rebecca had
remembered the name of the monastery from which Ryder had obtained the
cholera powder, and Nazeera persuaded Ali Wad to send three of his men
to Abyssinia to fetch fresh supplies of the medicine.  Until they
returned, the women used what remained of Ryder

Courtney's gift sparingly and judiciously to save the lives of some
infants.  This earned them the reputation of infallibility as
physicians.  The women obeyed when they ordered them to boil the well
water before they gave it to the children or drank it themselves. Their
efforts were soon rewarded, and the epidemic of dysentery abated.

All of this kept Rebecca's mind from the threat that hung over them.
They lived close to death.  The smell of bloating human bodies wafted
over the enclosure and their nostrils soon accepted this as
commonplace.  In the zenana Rebecca and Nazeera prevailed upon AH Wad
to enforce the Islamic custom: the bodies of the cholera victims and
those who died of other illness were removed by his men and buried the
same day.  However, they had no control over the execution ground,
which was separated from the zenana by only the boundary wall.

A line of eucalyptus trees grew along the back wall of the zenana.  The
children and even some of the women climbed into the branches whenever
the braying of the ombeya horns announced another execution.  From this
viewpoint they overlooked the gallows and the beheading ground.  One
morning Rebecca even caught Amber in the branches, watching in
white-faced and wide-eyed fascination as a young woman was stoned to
death not more than fifty paces from where she was perched.  She
dragged Amber back to their hut, and threatened to thrash her if she
ever found her climbing the trees again.

Yet her first thought when Rebecca awoke each morning was the dread
that this day the summons from the Mahdi to attend him in his private
quarters of the palace would be delivered.  The arrival of the gift of
clothing made the threat more poignant.

She did not have long to wait.  Four days later AH Wad came to inform
her of her first private audience with the Chosen One.  Nazeera delayed
the inevitable by pleading that her charge was stricken by her moon
sickness.  This excuse could work only once, however, and AH Wad
returned a week later.  He warned them that he would come back later to
fetch Rebecca.

In the small screened yard at the back of their hut Nazeera undressed
Rebecca, stood her naked on a reed mat and poured pitchers of heated
water over her head.  It was perfumed with myrrh and sandalwood that
she had bought in the market.  It was well known that the Mahdi
detested unclean odours.  Then she dried her and anointed her with
attar of lotus flowers and dressed her in one of her new robes.  At
last AH Wad came to escort her to the presence of the Chosen One.

Nothing was as Rebecca had expected.  There was no grand furnishing or
tapestries, no marble tiles upon the floor, no tinkling water
fountains.  Instead she found herself on an open roof terrace furnished
only with a few quite ordinary angarebs and a scattering of Persian
rugs and cushions.  Instead of the mighty Mahdi alone, three men were
reclining on the angarebs.  She was taken aback and uncertain of what
was expected of her, but the Mahdi beckoned to her.  "Come, al-Jamal.
Sit here."  He indicated the pile of cushions at the foot of his bed.
Then he went on talking to the other men.  They were discussing the
activities of the Dervish slavers along the upper reaches of the Nile,
and how this trade could be increased tenfold now that Gordon Pasha and
his strange Frankish aversion to the trade was no more.

Although she hung her head demurely, as Nazeera had cautioned her to
do, Rebecca was able to study the other two men through her half closed
lashes.  The Khalifa Abdullahi frightened her, though she could barely
admit it to herself.  He had the cold and implacable presence of a
venomous snake; an image of the sleek, glittering mamba came to her
mind.  She shivered and looked to the third man.

This was the first opportunity she had had to study the Emir Osman
Atalan closely.  During their first meeting she had been too immersed
in the game of survival for herself and Amber that she had played out
with the Mahdi.  Of course, since she had been in the zenana she had
heard the other women discussing his reputation as a warrior.  Since
his final victory over Gordon Pasha, Osman was now the senior commander
of the Dervish army.  In power and influence with the Mahdi he ranked
only below the Khalifa Abdullahi.

Now she was able to watch him from the corner of her eye and found him
interesting.  She had not realized that an Arab man could be so
handsome.  His skin did not have the usual dingy umber tone and his
beard was lustrous and wavy.  His eyes were dark, but sharp and alert
with stars of light in their depths, like jewels of polished black
coral.  In contrast his teeth were very white and even.  It seemed to
Rebecca that he was in a jubilant mood, waiting for the first
opportunity to deliver some important tidings to the others.

The Mahdi must also have sensed his eagerness, for at last he turned
his smile upon him.  "We have spoken of the south, but tell me now what
news you have from the north of my domains.  What do you hear of the
infidels who have invaded my borders?"

"Mighty Mahdi, the news is good.  Within the last hour a carrier-pigeon
has arrived from Metemma.  The last infidel crusaders who dared to
march on your cities and attempt to rescue Gordon Pasha have fled from
your sacred lands like a pack of mangy hyenas before the wrath of a
great black-maned lion.  They have abandoned the steamers that brought
them to Khartoum, and which you and your ever-victorious army damaged
and drove away.  They have fled back past Wadi Haifa into Egypt.  They
have been vanquished, and will never again set foot upon your
territories.  All of Sudan is indisputably yours and, at your command,
your ever-victorious army stands ready to bring more vast territory
under your sway, and to spread your divine words and teachings to all
the world.  May Allah always love and cherish you."

"All thanks is due to Allah, who promised me these things," said the
Mahdi.  "He has told me many times that Islam will flourish in Sudan
for a thousand years, and all the monarchs and rulers of the world will
relinquish their infidel ways and become my vassals, trusting in my
benevolence and placing their faith in the one true God and his
Prophet."

"Praise be to God in his infinite power and wisdom," said the others
fervently.

The news of the withdrawal of the British army from the Sudan was
devastating to Rebecca.  Despite the fall of Khartoum and the repulse
of the British river steamers, she had cherished a tiny flame of hope
that one day soon British soldiers would march into Omdurman and they
would be freed.  That flame was cruelly snuffed out.  She and Amber
would never escape this smiling monster who now owned them, body and
soul.  She tried to fight back the dark despair that threatened to
overwhelm her.

I must endure, she told herself, not only for my own sake but for
Amber's.  No matter the price I am forced to pay, no matter the obscene
and unnatural practices forced upon me, I must survive.

With a start she realized that the Mahdi was speaking to her.  Although
she felt dizzy with grief she gathered her courage and gave him her
full attention.

"I wish to send a letter to your ruler," he told her, "You will write
it for me.  What material do you need?"  Rebecca was startled by this
demand.  She had expected to be roughly handled and treated as a
harlot, not as a secretary.  But she gathered her wits and told him her
requirements.  The Mahdi struck the brass gong beside the bed.  A
vizier scurried up the stairs and prostrated himself before his master.
He listened to the orders he was given and backed away down the stairs,
chanting the Mahdi's praises.  In a short while he returned with three
house slaves carrying a writing cabinet that had been looted from the
Belgian consulate.  They placed it front of Rebecca, and because the
sun was setting and the daylight fading, they placed four oil lamps
around her to light her work.

"Write in your own language the words I will tell you.  What is your
queen's name?  I have heard that your country is ruled by a woman."

"She is Queen Victoria."

The Mahdi paused to compose his thoughts and then he dictated:
'"Victoria of England, know you that it is I, Muhammad, the Mahdi, the
messenger of God who speaks to you.  Foolishly you have sent your
crusader armies against my might, for you did not know that I am under
the divine protection of Allah, and therefore must always triumph in
battle.  Your armies have been vanquished and scattered like chaff on
the winds.  Your powers in this world have been destroyed.  Therefore I
declare you to be my slave and my vassal."  He paused again, and told
Rebecca, "Be certain that you write only what I tell you.  If you add
anything else I will have you thrashed."

"I understand your words.  I am your creature, and I would never
presume to disobey your lightest wish."

"Then write this to your queen.  "You have acted in ignorance.  You did
not know that my words and thoughts are the words of God Himself.  You
know nothing of the True Faith.  You do not understand that Allah is
one God alone, and that Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his true Prophet.
Unless you make full recompense for your sins you will boil for ever in
the waters of hell.  Give thanks that Allah is compassion' ate, for he
has told me that if you come immediately to Omdurman and prostrate
yourself before me, if you place yourself and all your armies and all
your peoples under my thrall, if you lay all your wealth and substance
at my feet, if you renounce your false gods and bear witness that Allah
is one and that I am his prophet, then you shall be forgiven.  I will
take you to wife, and you will give me many fine sons.  I will spread
my wings of protection over you.  Allah will set aside a place for you
in Paradise.  If you defy this summons your nation will be cast down,
and you will burn for all of eternity in the fires of hell.  It is I,
Muhammad, the Mahdi, who orders these things.  They are not my words,
but the words that God has placed in my mouth."

The Mahdi sat back, pleased with his composition, and made the chopping
sign with his right hand to show that he had finished.

"This is a masterpiece that you have created," said Khalifa Abdullahi.
"It gives voice to the power and majesty of God.  Your words should be
embroidered on your banner for all the world to read, and to
believe."

"It is plain that these are the very words of Allah delivered through
your mouth," agreed Osman Atalan, gravely.  "I give thanks eternally
that I have been privileged to hear them spoken aloud."

If it ever becomes known that I wrote this traitorous nonsense, Rebecca
thought, I will be locked in the Tower of London for the rest of my
days.  She did not look up from the page but, trusting that no other
person in Omdurman could read English, she added a final sentence of
her own: "Written under extreme duress by Rebecca

Benbrook, the daughter of the British Consul David Benbrook who was
murdered along with General Gordon by the Dervish.  God save the
Queen."  It was worth the risk, not only to excuse herself but to send
a message to the civilized world of her predicament.

She sanded the page and handed it to the Mahdi, with lowered eyes.
"Holy One, is this as you wished?"  she whispered humbly.  He took it
from her and she watched his eyes move up the page from the lower
right-hand corner to the top left, in the inverse direction.  With a
rush of relief she realized he was trying to read the Roman letters as
though they were Arabic script.  He would never be able to decipher
what she had written.  She was certain he would not admit this and show
it to another person for translation.

"It is as I wished."  He nodded, and she had to stifle an instinctive
sigh of relief.  He handed the sheet of paper to Kalifa Abdullahi.
"Seal this missive and make sure that it is delivered with all despatch
to the Khedive in Cairo.  He will send it onwards to this queen, whom I
will take as my wife."  He made a gesture of dismissal.  "Now you may
leave me, as I wish to disport myself with this woman."

They rose, made obeisance and backed away to the staircase.

With a sharp surge of fear Rebecca found herself alone with God's
prophet.  She knew that her hands were trembling and she clenched them
into fists to keep them still.

"Come closer!"  he ordered, and she rose from her seat at the writing
cabinet and went to kneel before him.  He stroked her hair and his
touch was surprisingly gentle.  "Are you an albino?"  he asked.  "Or
are there many women in your country with hair this colour, and eyes as
blue as the cloudless sky?"

"In my country I am one of many," she assured him.  "I am truly sorry
if it does not please you."

"It pleases me well."  In front of him as he sat on the angareb her
eyes were at the same level as his waist.  Beneath the brilliant white
cloth of his jibba she saw his body stir: the extraordinary masculine
tumescence that she still found incomprehensible a distinct creature
with a life of its own.

His tam my is waking up, she thought, and almost giggled at the
absurdity of the prophet of God with a tam my between his legs, just
like other men less divine.  She realized how close she was to
succumbing to hysteria and, with an effort, she controlled herself.

"I can see the lamplight through your flesh."  The Mahdi took her
earlobe between his fingers and turned it to catch the beam of the
lamp, admiring the pink luminosity of light that shone through.  She
blushed with embarrassment and he remarked the change immediately. "You
are like a little chameleon.  Your skin changes colour in tune with
your moods.  That is remarkable, but enticing."  He took her earlobe
between his teeth and bit it, hard enough to make her gasp but not
enough to break the skin or draw blood.  Then he sucked on the lobe,
like an infant at the breast.  She was unprepared for her body's
reaction.  Despite herself she felt the heightened sensitivity of her
nipples rubbing against the silk of her bodice.

"Ah!"  He noticed her inadvertent response, and smiled.  "All women are
different, but also the same."  He cupped one of her breasts in his
hand and pinched the engorging nipple.  She gasped again.  He sat back
on his haunches and unfastened the front of her bodice.  He seemed in
no hurry.  Like a skilled groom with a nervous filly, he moved with
gentle deliberation so as not to startle her.

She realized he was highly skilled in the amorous arts.  Well, he has
had much practice, hundreds of concubines.  She set herself to remain
aloof and unmoved by his expertise.  But when he lifted out one of her
breasts from the opening of her bodice, and bit her nipple as he had
her earlobe, with a tender sharpness that forced another gasp from her
lips, she found her good resolution wavering.  She tried to ignore the
ripples of pleasure that radiated from her nipple through her body.
When she started to pull away he held her with a light pressure of his
teeth.  The pleasant sensation was piqued by guilt and the conviction
that what was happening was sinful.  Not for the first time in her
short life she realized that sin, as much as sanctity, held its own
peculiar attraction.  I do not want this to happen, she thought, but I
am helpless to prevent it.

His mouth wandered over her breast, his lips kneading and plucking at
her flesh, his tongue slithering and probing.  She felt her sex
melting, and the shame receded.  She began to itch with a strange
impatience.  She needed something more to happen but she was not sure
what.

"Stand up!"  he said, and for a moment she did not understand the
words.  "Stand up!"  he ordered, more sharply.  She rose slowly to her
feet.  Her bodice was still open and one breast bulged free.  He smiled
up at her as she stood over him, his smile sweet and almost saintly.

"Disrobe!"  he ordered.  She hesitated, and his smile faded.  "At
once!"  he said.  "Do as I tell you."

She slipped the robe off her shoulders, and let it drop as far as her
waist.  He looked at her, and his eyes seemed to caress her skin.  A
light rash of goose pimples rose round her nipples.  He reached out and
drew the fingernail of his right forefinger over it, scratching the
skin lightly.  Her knees felt as though they might give way under her.
Although she had known all along that this must happen, she felt her
shame return powerfully.  She was an English woman and a Christian.  He
was an Arab and a Muslim.  It flew in the face of all her training and
beliefs.

"Disrobe!"  he repeated.  Her dilemma was insoluble, until her father's
words, which she had so recently read in his journal, returned to her:
"One must always bear in mind that this is a savage and pagan country.
We should not seek to judge these peoples by the standards that apply
at home.  Behaviour that would be considered outlandish and even
criminal in England is commonplace and normal here.  We should never
forget this, and make allowance for it."

Daddy wrote that for me!  she thought.  She hung her head demurely. "No
man has ever laid eyes on what lies beneath this silk."  Shyly she
touched the swelling of her own pudenda beneath the cloth.  "But if you
will remove my covering I will know that it is the Hand of Allah and
not of a common man that does so.  Then will I rejoice."

Unwittingly she had hit upon the perfect response.  She had abrogated
the responsibility to him.  She had placed herself in his power, and
she could see that in doing so she had pleased him inordinately.

He reached out again and slipped the dress down over the bulge of her
hips.  As it fell round her ankles, Rebecca cupped her hands over her
Mount of Venus.  He did not protest at this last demonstration of
modesty.  It was what he expected of a true virgin, but he said softly,
"Turn."  She revolved slowly and felt one of his fingers trace the
curve of her buttock where it met the back of her thigh.

"So soft, so white, but touched with pink, like a cloud at dawn with
the first ray of sunrise upon it."  With the touch and pressure of his
finger he guided her, inducing-her to lean over with straight legs
until her forehead almost touched her knees.  She felt his warm breath
on the back of her legs as he brought his face closer to examine her.
Again his finger insisted and she moved her feet wider apart.  She
could feel his gaze, directed deeply into her most secret places.  He
was seeing things that no other person, nurse, parent, lover or
herself, had ever laid eyes upon.  In this respect she was truly a
virgin.  She knew she should resent this minute examination of her
body, but she was too far gone, too deeply under his influence.  He was
possessing her with his dark, hypnotic gaze.

"Three things in this world are insatiable," the Mahdi murmured.  "The
desert, the grave and the quimmy of a beautiful woman."  He turned her
back to face him again, and gently removed her hands, which still
covered her mount.  He touched her pubes.  "Surely this is not hair but
spun thread of gold.  It is silk and gossamer and soft morning
sunlight."

His admiration was so manifest and poetically expressed that she
welcomed rather than resented his touch as he gently parted the outer
lips of her sex.  Of her own accord and without his further guidance
she moved her feet apart.

"You must never pluck yourself here," he said.  "I grant you special
dispensation not to do so.  This silk is too beautiful and precious to
be discarded."

The Mahdi took her hands, drew her down beside him on the angareb and
laid her on her back.  He lifted her knees and knelt between them.  He
lowered his face, and she was amazed as she realized what he was about
to do to her.  Nazeera had not warned her of this.  She had believed
that it would be the other way about.

What happened next exceeded her furthest imaginings.  His skill was
sure, his instinct faultless.  She felt as though she were being
devoured.  As though she were dying and being reborn.  In the end she
cried out as if in mortal anguish and fell back on the angareb.  She
was bathed in perspiration and trembling.  She was deprived of the
powers of thought or movement.  She seemed to have become merely a
receptacle of overpowering bodily sensations.  It seemed to last for an
age, before at last the spasms and contractions deep within her stilled
and she heard his whisper.  Although his lips were at her ear, it
seemed to come from far away.  "Like the desert and the grave."  He
laughed softly.  She lay for a long time, rousing herself only when she
felt him begin to caress her again.  When she opened her eyes she
discovered to her mild surprise, that, like her, he was naked.  She sat
up and leant on one elbow looking down on him.  He was lying on his
back.  After what he had done to her, all sense of modesty and shame
had been expunged.  She found herself examining him with almost as much
attention as he had lavished on her.  The first thing that struck her
was that he was almost devoid of hair.  His body was soft and almost
feminine, not hard and muscled like Penrod's or Ryder's.  Her eyes went
down to his tam my  Although it stuck up stiffly, it was small, smooth
and unmarred by ropes of blue veins.  The circumcised head was bare and
glossy.  It looked childlike and innocent.  It evoked an almost
maternal feeling in her.

"It's so pretty!"  she exclaimed, and was immediately frightened that
he would find the description effeminate and derogatory, that he might
take it as an insult to his masculinity.  She need not have worried.
Once again her instinct had been correct.  He smiled at her.  Then she
remembered Nazeera's advice: "Master and Lord, would it give you
offence if I presumed to do to you as you were gracious enough to do to
me?  For me it would be an undreamed-of honour."  He smiled until the
gap between his front teeth was fully exposed.

At first she was clumsy and uncertain.  He seemed to regard this as
more evidence of her virginity.  He started to direct her.  When she
was doing what pleased him, he encouraged her with murmurs and whispers
and stroked her head.  When she became over-enthusiastic, he restrained
her with a light touch.  She became absorbed in the task, and her
reward was a gratifying sense of power and control over him, however
fleeting it might be.  Gradually he urged her to increase the tempo of
her movements, until suddenly he gave her complete and undeniable proof
that she had pleased him.  For a moment she was at a loss as to what to
do next.  Then she remembered that Nazeera had advised her to swallow
quickly and have done..

Like a barbellate catfish in the muddy waters of the Nile, Penrod
Ballantyne allowed himself to be absorbed into the teeming byways,
alleys and hovels of Omdurman.  He became invisible.  He changed his
costume and appearance almost daily, becoming a camel herdsman, a
humble beggar or a nodding, drooling idiot almost at will.  Yet he knew
that he could not remain in the town indefinitely without drawing
attention to himself.  So, for weeks on end he left the sprawling city.
Once he found employment as a drover with a camel dealer taking his
beasts downriver to trade them in the small villages along the banks.
On another he joined the crew of a trading dhow, plying up the Blue
Nile to the Abyssinian border.

When he returned to Omdurman he made it a rule never to sleep twice in
the same place.  On the warning of Yakub he did not attempt to make
direct contact with Nazeera or anyone else who knew his true identity.
He communicated with Wad Hagma only through Yakub.

The preparations for Rebecca's rescue were long drawn-out, seemingly
interminable.  Wad Hagma encountered many obstacles, all of which could
only be surmounted with money and patience.  Every time Yakub brought a
message to Penrod it was for more cash to buy camels, hire guides or
bribe guards and petty officials.  Gradually the contents of Penrod's
once-heavy money belt were whittled down.  Weeks became months, and he
fretted and fumed.  Many times he considered making his own
arrangements for a lightning raid to snatch the captives and run with
them for the Egyptian border.  But by now he knew just how futile that
would be.  The zenana of the Mahdi was impenetrable without inside
help, and daily the Dervish were exerting more control and restrictions
on strangers entering or leaving Omdurman.  Alone Penrod was able to
move around with relative freedom, but with a party of women it would
be almost impossible unless the way had been carefully prepared.

At last he discovered a small cave in a limestone outcrop in the desert
a few miles beyond the town.  This had once been the haunt of a
religious hermit.  The old man had been dead for some years, but the
spot had such an unhealthy reputation among the local people that
Penrod felt reasonably secure in taking it over.  There was a tiny
water seep at the back of the cave, just sufficient for the needs of
one or two persons, and for the small herd of goats he purchased from a
shepherd he met on the road.  Penrod used the animals to support his
disguise as a desert herder.  From the cave back to Omdurman was a
journey on foot of a mere two or three hours.  Thus he was always in
contact with Yakub, who rode out at night to bring him a little food
and the latest news from his uncle.

Often Yakub stayed in the cave for a few days, and Penrod was glad of
his company.  He was unable to carry openly the European sword that
Ryder Hardinge had given him at Metemma.  It would attract too much
attention.  He buried it in the desert from where he would be able to
retrieve it, and perhaps one day return it to Major Hardinge's wife. He
instructed Yakub to find him a Sudanese broadsword, then practised and
exercised each day with it.

Whenever Yakub visited him they sparred in the wadi at the front of the
cave where they were hidden from the eyes of a casual traveller or a
wandering shepherd.  Such was his skill that after half the day at
practice Yakub disengaged their blades with the sweat dripping from his
chin.  "Enough, Abadan Riji!"  he cried.  "I swear, in the Name of God,
that no man in this land can prevail against your blade.  You have
become a paragon of the long steel."

They rested in the low mouth of the cave, and Penrod asked, "What word
from your uncle?"  He knew the news could not be good: if it had been
Yakub would have given it to him immediately on his arrival.

"There was a vizier of the Mahdi with whom my uncle had come to an
understanding and everything was at last in readiness.  Three days ago
the vizier fell foul of his master on another matter.  He had stolen
money from the treasury.  On the Mahdi's orders he was arrested and
beheaded."  Yakub made a gesture of helplessness, then saw his master's
face darken with rage.  "But do not despair.  There is another man more
reliable who is in direct charge of the zenana.  He is willing."

"Let me guess," said Penrod.  "Your uncle needs only fifty pounds
more."

"Nay, my lord."  Yakub was hurt by the suggestion.  "He needs a mere
thirty to seal the matter."

"I will give him fifteen, and if all is not in readiness by this new
moon at the latest, I will come to Omdurman to have further speech with
him.  When I arrive I will be carrying the long steel in my right
hand."

Yakub thought about this seriously for a while then replied, just as
seriously, "It comes to me that my uncle will probably agree to your
offer."

Yakub's instincts proved correct.  Four days later he returned to the
hermit's cave.  When he was still some way off he waved cheerfully and
as soon as he was within hail he shouted, "Effendi, all is in
readiness."

As he came to where Penrod was waiting he slid down from the saddle of
his camel, and embraced his master.  "My uncle, so honest and
trustworthy, has arranged everything as he promised.  Al-Jamal, her
little sister, and Nazeera will be waiting behind the old mosque at the
river end of the execution ground three midnights hence.  You should
return to Omdurman earlier that day.  It is best if you come alone and
on foot, driving the goats before you in all innocence.  I will meet
you and the three women at the try sting place.  I will bring six
strong fresh camels all provisioned with waterskins, fodder and food.
Then I, Yakub the intrepid, will guide you to the first meeting place
with the next relay of camels.  There will be five changes of animals
along the road to the Egyptian border, so we will be able to ride like
the wind. We will be gone before the Mahdi knows that his concubines
are missing from the harem."

They sat in the shade of the cave and went over every detail of the
plans that Wad Hagma had laid out for Yakub.  "Thus you will see,
Abadan Riji, that all your money has been spent wisely, and that there
was no reason to distrust my beloved uncle, who is a saint and a prince
among men."

Three days later, Penrod gathered up his few meagre possessions,
slipped the sword in its scabbard down the back of his robe, wrapped
the turban round his head and face, whistled up his goats and ambled
off towards the river and the city.  Yakub had give him a flute carved
from a bamboo shoot, and over the months Penrod had taught himself to
play it.  The goats had become accustomed to him and they followed him
obediently, bleating appreciatively whenever he struck up a tune.

He wanted to arrive on the outskirts of Omdurman an hour or so before
sunset, but he was a little premature.  Half a mile short of the first
buildings he turned the goats loose to graze on the dried-out thorn
scrub and settled down to wait beside the track.  Although he wrapped
himself in his robe and pretended to doze, he was wide awake.  An old
man leading a string of six donkeys loaded with firewood passed him.

Penrod continued to feign sleep, and after calling an uncertain
greeting the old man walked on.

A short while later Penrod heard singing accompanied by the tapping of
finger drums.  He recognized the traditional country wedding songs, and
then a large party of guests came along the road from the nearest
village only a short distance to the south of the city.  In their midst
walked the bride.  She was covered from head to foot with veils and the
tinkling jewellery of gold and silver coins that formed part of her
dowry.  The guests and her male relatives were singing and clapping,
and despite the Mahdi's restrictions on these ceremonies, they were
dancing, laughing and shouting ribald advice to her.  When they saw
Penrod squatting on the roadside they called to him, "Come on, old man.
Leave your flea-bitten animals and join the fun."

"There will be more food than you can eat, and perhaps even a sip of
arak.  Something you have not tasted for many years."  The man
displayed a small waters king with a conspiratorial smirk.

Penrod answered them in a quavering unsteady voice: "I was married once
myself, and I do not wish to see another innocent fellow take that same
hard road."

They roared with laughter.

"What a waggish old rascal you are."

"You can give wise counsel to our doomed cousin in how best to appease
a demanding woman."

Then Penrod noticed that all the guests had the broad, overdeveloped
shoulders of swordsmen, and despite their humble attire their swagger
and strutting self-confidence was more that of aggagiers than cringing
country oafs.  He glanced down at the bare feet of the bride, all that
was visible of her, and saw that they were broad and flat, not painted
with henna, and that the toenails were ragged and broken.

Not the feet of a young virgin, Penrod thought.  He reached over his
shoulder and took a grip on the hilt of the sword concealed down the
back of his robe.  As his blade rasped from the scabbard he sprang to
his feet, but the wedding guests had surrounded him.  Penrod saw that
they, too, had drawn weapons as they rushed at him from every
direction.  With surprise he realized that they were not edged blades
but heavy clubs.  He had little time to think about it before they were
on him in a pack.

He killed the first with a straight thrust at the throat, but before he
could disengage and recover, a blow from behind smashed into his
shoulder and he felt the bone break.  Still, he parried one-handed the
next blow at his head.  Then another hit him in the small of the
back,

aimed at his kidneys, and his legs started to give way.  He stayed
upright just long enough to send a deep thrust into the chest of the
man who had broken his shoulder.  Then a great iron door slammed shut
in the centre of his skull and darkness descended upon him like an
ocean wave driven by the storm.

When Penrod regained consciousness he was uncertain where he was and
what had happened to him.  Close by where he lay, he heard a woman
moaning and groaning in labour.

Why does not the stupid bitch hold her mouth, and have her brat
elsewhere?  he wondered.  She should show some respect for my aching
head.  It must have been cheap liquor I drank last night.  Then,
suddenly, the pain ripped through the roof of his skull and he realized
that the groans were issuing from his own dried-out mouth.  He forced
his eyes open against the pain and saw that he was lying on a mud floor
in an evil-smelling room.  He tried to raise his hand to touch his
damaged head, but his arm would not respond.  Instead a new shaft of
agony tore through his shoulder.  He tried to use the other hand for
the job, but there was a clink, and he found that his wrists were
fastened together with chains.  He rolled over painfully and cautiously
on to his good side.

Good is a relative term, he thought groggily.  Every muscle and sinew
of his body throbbed with agony.  Somehow he pushed himself into a
sitting position.  He had to wait a moment for the blinding agony in
his head, caused by the movement, to clear.  Then he was able to assess
his situation.

The chains on his wrists and ankles were slaving irons, the ubiquitous
utensils of the trade across the country.  His leg shackles were
anchored to an iron stake driven into the middle of the dirt floor. The
chain was short enough to prevent him reaching either the door or the
single high window.  The cell reeked of excrement and vomit, of which
traces were scattered around him in a circle at the limit of the
chain.

He heard a soft rustle nearby and looked down.  A large grey rat was
feeding on the few rounds of dhurra bread that had been left on the
filthy floor at his side.  He flicked the chain at it, and it fled,
squeaking.  Next to the bread was an earthenware pitcher, which made
him realize how thirsty he was.  He tried to swallow but there was no
saliva in his mouth and his throat was parched.  He reached for the
pitcher, which was gratifyingly heavy.  Before he drank he sniffed the
contents suspiciously.  He decided it was filled with river water and
he could smell the woodsmoke from the fire over which it had boiled. He
drank and then drank again.

I think I might yet survive, he decided wryly, and blinked back the
pain in his head.  He heard more movement and glanced up at the window.
Someone was watching him through the bars, but the head disappeared
immediately.  He drank again, and felt a little better.

The door to the cell opened behind him and two men stepped in.  They
wore jib has and turbans, and their swords were unsheathed.

"Who are you?"  Penrod demanded.  "Who is your master?"

"You will ask no questions," said one.  "You will say nothing until
ordered to do so."

Another man followed them.  He was older and grey-bearded, and he
carried all the accoutrements of a traditional eastern doctor.

"Peace be upon you.  May you please Allah," Penrod greeted him.  The
doctor shook his head curtly, and made no reply.  He set aside his bag,
and came to stand over him.  He palpated the large swelling on Penrod's
head, obviously feeling for any fracture.  He seemed satisfied and
moved on.  Almost at once he noticed that Penrod was favouring his left
side.  He took hold of the elbow and tried to lift the arm.  The pain
was excruciating.  Penrod managed to prevent himself crying out.  He
did not want to give the two interested guards that satisfaction, but
his features contorted and sweat broke out across his forehead.  The
Arab doctor lowered the arm, and ran a hand over his biceps.  When he
pressed hard fingers into the site of the broken bone, Penrod gasped
despite his resolution.  The doctor nodded.  He cut away the sleeve of
Penrod's galabiyya and strapped the shoulder with linen bandages.  Then
he folded and tied a sling to support the arm.  The relief from pain
was immediate.

"The blessing of Allah and his Prophet be upon you," Penrod said, and
the doctor smiled briefly.

From a small alabaster flask he poured a dark, treacly liquid into a
horn cup, and gave it to Penrod.  He drank it, and the taste was
gall-bitter.  Without having spoken a word the doctor repacked his bag
and left.  He returned the next day, and the four days that followed.
On each visit the guards refilled the water pitcher and left a bowl of
food: scraps of bread and sun-dried fish.  During these visits neither
the guards nor the doctor spoke; they did not acknowledge Penrod's
greetings and blessings.

The bitter potions that the doctor gave him sedated Penrod, and reduced
the pain and swelling in his head and shoulder.  After he had completed
his examination on the fifth day the doctor looked pleased with
himself.  He readjusted the sling, but when Penrod asked for another
dose of the medicine, he shook his head emphatically.  When he left the
cell, Penrod heard him speaking in a low voice to the guards.  He could
not catch the words.

By the following morning the effects of the drug had worn off, and his
mind was clear and sharp.  The arm was tender only when he tried to
lift it.  He tested himself for any concussion he might have suffered
from the head blow, closing first one eye and then the other while he
focused on the bars of the window.  There was no distortion or any
double vision.  Then he began to exercise the injured arm, starting
first by simply clenching his fist and bending the elbow.  Gradually he
was able to raise the elbow to the horizontal.

The visits from the taciturn doctor ceased.  He took this as a
favourable sign.  Only his guards made brief visits to leave water and
a little food.  This left him much time to consider his predicament. He
examined the locks on his shackles.  They were crude but functional.
The mechanism had been developed and refined over the centuries.
Without a key or a pick he wasted no more time upon them.  Next he
turned his mind to deducing where he was.  Through the lop-sided window
he could see only a tiny section of open sky.  He was forced to draw
his conclusions from sounds and smells.  He knew he was still in
Omdurman: not only could he smell the stink of the uncollected rubbish
and the dung heaps but in the evenings he caught a softer sweeter whiff
of the waters of the river, and could even hear the faint calls of the
dhow captains as they tacked and altered sail.  Five times a day he
heard the wailing cries of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer
from the half-built tower of the new mosque, "Hasten to your own good!
Hasten to prayer!  Allah is great!  There is no God but Allah."

From these clues he pinpointed his position with a certain precision.
He was about three hundred yards from the mosque, and half that
distance from the riverbank.  He was due east of the execution ground
and therefore approximately the same distance from the Mahdi's palace
and harem.  He could judge the direction of the prevailing wind from
the occasional small high cloud that sailed past the window.  When it
was blowing the stench of rotting corpses from the execution ground was
strong.  This gave him a rough sense of triangulation.  With a sinking
sensation in his gut, he decided that he must be in the compound of the
Beja tribesmen beside the Beit el Mai, the stronghold of his old enemy
Osman Atalan.  Next he had to consider how this had happened.

His first thought was that Yakub had betrayed him.  He wrestled with
this theory for days, but could not persuade himself to accept it.  I
have trusted my life too many times to that squint-eyed rascal to doubt
him now, he thought.  If Yakub has sold me to the Dervish, there is no
God.

He used the shackle of his chain to scratch a crude calendar in the mud
floor.  With it he was able to keep track of the days.  He had counted
fifty-two days before they came to fetch him.

The two guards unlocked the chains from the iron stake.  They left his
legs and arms shackled.  There was sufficient slack in this chain to
enable him to shuffle along, but not to run.

They led him out into a small courtyard and through another door into a
larger enclosure, around whose walls were seated a hundred or more Beja
warriors.  Their spears and lances rested against the wall behind them,
and their sheathed swords were laid across their laps.  They studied
Penrod with avid interest.  He recognized some of their faces from
previous encounters.  Then his eyes jumped to the familiar figure
seated alone on a raised platform against the far wall.  Even among
this assembly of fighting men, Osman Atalan was the focus of
attention.

The guards urged him forward and, with the chains hampering him, he
shambled across the courtyard.  When he stood before Osman a guard
snarled in his ear, "Down on your knees, infidel!  Show respect to the
emir of the Beja."

Penrod drew himself to attention.  "Osman Atalan knows better than to
order me to my knees," he said softly, and held the emir's eyes
coolly.

"Down!"  repeated the guard, and drove the hilt of his spear into
Penrod's kidney with such force that his legs collapsed under him and
he fell in a heap of limbs and chains.  With a supreme effort he kept
his head up and his eyes locked on Osman's.

"Head down!"  said the guard, and lifted the shaft of the spear to club
him again.

"Enough!"  said Osman, and the guard stepped back.  "Welcome to my
home, Abadan Riji."  He touched his lips and then his heart.  "From our
first encounter on the field of El Obeid I knew there was a bond
between us that could not easily be sundered."

"Only the death of one of us can do that," Penrod agreed.

"Should I settle that immediately?"  Osman mused aloud, and nodded at
the man who sat immediately below his dais.  "What think you,
al-Noor?"

Al-Noor gave full consideration to the question before he replied.
"Mighty lord, it would be prudent to scotch the cobra before he stings
you again."

"Will you do this favour for me?"  Osman asked, and with one movement
al-Noor rose to his feet and stood over the kneeling prisoner with the
blade of his sword poised over Penrod's neck.

"It needs but the movement of your little finger, great Atalan, and I
shall prune his godless head like a rotten fruit."

Osman watched Penrod's face for any sign of fear, but his gaze never
wavered.  "How say you, Abadan Riji?  Shall we end it here?"  Penrod
tried to shrug, but his injured shoulder curtailed the gesture, "I care
not, Emir of the Beja.  All men owe God a life.  If it is not now, then
it will be later."  He smiled easily.  "But have done with this
childish game.  We both know well that an emir of the Beja could never
let his blood enemy die in chains without a sword in his hand."

Osman laughed with genuine delight.  "We were minted from the same
metal, you and I."  He motioned to al-Noor to go back to his seat.
"First we must find a more suitable name for you than Abadan Riji.  I
shall call you Abd, for slave you now are."

"Perhaps not for much longer," Penrod suggested.

"Perhaps," Osman agreed.  "We shall see.  But until that time you are
Abd, my foot slave.  You will sit at my feet, and you will run beside
my horse when I ride abroad.  Do you not wish to know who brought you
to this low station?  Shall I give you the name of your betrayer?"  For
a moment Penrod was too startled to think of a reply, and could only
nod stiffly.  Osman called to the men guarding the gate to the
courtyard, "Bring in the informer to collect the reward he was
promised."

They stood aside and a familiar figure sidled through the gate to stand
gazing about him nervously.  Then Wad Hagma recognized Osman Atalan. He
threw himself upon the ground and crawled towards him, chanting his
praises and protesting his allegiance, devotion and loyalty.  It took
him a while to traverse the yard for he stopped every few yards to beat
his forehead painfully on the earth.  The aggagiers guffawed and called
encouragement to him.

"Let not your great belly drag in the dust."

"Have faith!  Your long pilgrimage is almost ended."

At last Wad Hagma reached the foot of the dais, and prostrated himself
full length with arms and legs splayed out flat against the dusty
ground like a starfish.

"You have rendered me great service," said Osman.

"My heart overflows with joy at these words, mighty Emir.  I rejoice
that I have been able to deliver your enemy to you."

"How much was the fee on which we agreed?"

"Exalted lord, you were liberal enough to mention a price of five
hundred Maria Theresa dollars."

"You have earned it."  Osman tossed down a purse so heavy it raised a
small cloud of dust as it struck the ground.

Wad Hagma hugged it to his chest, and grinned like an idiot.  "All
praise to you, invincible Emir.  May Allah always smile upon you!"  He
stood up, head bowed in deep respect.  "May I be dismissed from your
presence?  Like the sun, your glory dazzles my eyes."

"Nay, you must not leave us so soon."  Osman's tone changed.  "I wish
to know what emotions you felt when you placed slavers' chains upon a
brave warrior.  Tell me, my fat little hosteller, how does the sly and
treacherous baboon feel when it leads the great elephant bull into the
pitfall?"

An expression of alarm crossed Wad Hagma's face.  "This is no elephant,
mighty Emir."  He gestured at Penrod.  "This is a rabid dog.  This is a
cowardly infidel.  This is a vessel of such ungodly shape that it
deserves to be shattered."

"In God's Name, Wad Hagma, I see that you are an orator and a poet.  I
ask only one more service of you.  Kill this rabid dog for me!  Shatter
this misshapen pot so that the world of Islam will be a better place!"
Wad Hagma stared at him with utter consternation.  "Al-Noor, give the
courageous tavern-keeper your sword."

Al-Noor placed the broadsword in Wad Hagma's hand and he looked
hesitantly at Penrod.  Carefully he placed the bag of Maria Theresa
dollars on the ground, and straightened.  He took a step forward, and
Penrod came to his feet.  Wad Hagma jumped back.

"Come now!  He is chained and the bone in his arm is broken," said
Osman.  "The rabid dog has no teeth.  He is harmless.  Kill him."  Wad
Hagma looked around the courtyard, as if for release, and the aggagiers
called to him, "Do you hear the emir's words, or are you deaf?"

"Do you understand his orders, or are you dull-witted?"

"Come, brave talker, let us see brave deeds to match your words."

"Kill the infidel dog."

Wad Hagma lowered the sword, and looked at the ground.  Then, suddenly
and unexpectedly, in the hope that he had lulled his victim, he let out
a blood-chilling shriek and rushed straight at Penrod with the sword
held high in both hands.  Penrod stood unmoving as Wad Hagma slashed
double-handed at his head.  At the last moment he lifted his hands and
caught the descending blade on his chain.  Such was the shock as it hit
the steel links that Wad Hagma's untrained hands and arms were numbed
to the elbows.  His grip opened involuntarily and the sword spun from
his hands.  He backed away, rubbing his wrists.

"In God's Holy Name!"  Osman applauded him.  "What a fierce stroke!  We
have misjudged you.  You are at heart a warrior.  Now, pick up the
sword and try again."

"Mighty Emir!  Great and noble Atalan!  Have mercy on me.  I shall
return the reward."  He picked up the bag of coins and ran to place it
at

Osman's feet.  "There!  It is yours.  Please let me go!  O mighty and
compassionate lord, have mercy on me."

"Pick up the sword and carry out my orders," said Osman, and there was
more menace in his tone than if he had shouted.

"Obey the Emir Atalan!"  chanted the aggagiers.  Wad Hagma whirled
round and raced back to where the sword lay.  He stooped to pick it up,
but as his hand closed on the hilt Penrod stepped on the blade.

Wad Hagma tugged at it ineffectually.  "Get off!"  he whined.  "Let me
go!  I meant nobody any harm."  Then he dropped his shoulder and lunged
at Penrod with all his weight, trying to push him backwards off the
sword.  Penrod swung the loop of chain.  It whipped across the side of
Wad Hagma's jaw.  He howled and sprang backwards, clutching the injury.
With a loop of chain swinging threateningly Penrod followed him.  He
turned and scuttled across the yard towards the doorway, but .  when he
reached it a pair of aggagiers blocked his way with crossed swords. Wad
Hagma gave up, and turned back to face Penrod as he stalked after him,
swinging the loop of chain.

"No!"  Wad Hagma's voice was blurred, and the side of his face
distorted.  The chain had broken his jaw.  "I meant you no harm.  I
needed the money.  I have wives and many children ..."  He tried to
avoid Penrod by circling along the wall, but the seated aggagiers
pricked him forward with the points of their swords and roared with
laughter when he hopped like a rabbit at the sting.  Suddenly he darted
away again, back to where the sword lay.  As he reached it and stooped
to seize the hilt, Penrod stepped up behind him and dropped the loop of
chain over his head.  With a quick twist of his wrists he settled the
links snugly under Wad Hagma's chin and round his throat.  As Wad
Hagma's fingertips touched the sword hilt Penrod applied pressure on
the chain and pulled him up until he was dancing on tiptoe, pawing at
the chain with both hands, mewing like a kitten.

"Pray!"  Penrod whispered to him.  "Pray to Allah for forgiveness. This
is your last chance before you stand before him."  He twisted the chain
slowly and closed off Wad Hagma's windpipe, so that he could neither
whimper nor whine.

"Farewell, Wad Hagma.  Take comfort from the knowledge that for you
nothing matters any longer.  You are no longer of this world."

The watching aggagiers drummed their sword blades on their leather
shields in a mounting crescendo.  Wad Hagma's dance became more
agitated.  His toes no longer touched the ground.  He kicked at the
air.  His damaged face swelled and turned dark puce.  Then there was a
sharp crack, like the breaking of a dry twig.  All the aggagiers
shouted together as Wad Hagma's limbs stiffened, his entire body sagged
and he hung from the chain round his throat.  Penrod lowered him to the
ground and walked back towards Osman Atalan.  The aggagiers were in
uproar, shouting and laughing, some mimicking Wad Hagma's death throes.
Even Osman was smiling with amusement.

Penrod reached the spot where the sword lay, swept it up in a single
movement and rushed straight at Osman, the long blade pointed at the
emir's heart.  Another shout went up, from every man in the yard, this
time of wild surmise and alarm.  Penrod had twenty paces to cover to
reach the dais and the courtyard exploded into movement.  A dozen of
the aggagiers nearest to the dais leapt forward.  Their swords were
already unsheathed, and they had only to come on guard to present a
glittering palisade of steel to prevent Penrod carrying his charge
home.  Al-Noor darted forward, not to oppose Penrod head on but cutting
in behind him.  He seized the dragging leg chain and hauled back on it,
whipping Penrod's feet from under him.  As he hit the ground the
waiting aggagiers rushed forward.

"No!"  shouted Osman.  "Do not kill him!  Hold him fast, but do not
kill him!"  Al-Noor released his grip on the leg shackles and grabbed
the loop of chain that held Penrod's wrists.  He jerked this viciously
against the half-healed shoulder.  Penrod gritted his teeth to prevent
himself crying out but the sword fell from his hands.  Al-Noor snatched
it away.

"In God's glorious Name!"  Osman Atalan laughed.  "You give me great
entertainment, Abd!  I know now that you can fight, but tomorrow I
shall see how well you run.  By evening I doubt you will have the
stomach for more of your games.  Within a week you will be pleading for
me to kill you."

Then Osman Atalan looked down from the dais at al-Noor.  "You I can
always trust.  You are always ready to serve.  You are my right hand.
Take my Abd to his cell, but have him ready at dawn.  We are going out
to hunt the gazelle."

News travelled swiftly in the zemma.  Within hours it was known by all,
including AH Wad and the guards, that the Mahdi had expressed himself
pleased with the infidel woman, al-Jamal.  Rebecca's status was
enhanced immeasurably.  The guards treated her as though she was
already a senior wife, not a low-ranking concubine.  She was given
three female house slaves to attend her.  The other women of the Mahdi,
both wives and concubines, called greetings and blessings to her as she
passed, and they carried petitions and supplications to her hut,
begging her to bring them to the notice of the Mahdi.  The rations that
were sent to her from the kitchens changed in character and quantity:
large fresh fish straight from the river, calabashes of soured milk,
bowls of wild desert honey still in the comb, the tender est cuts of
mutton, legs of venison, live chickens and eggs, all in such amounts
that Rebecca was able to feed some of the sick children of the
lowest-ranking concubines who were in real need of nourishment.

This new status was passed on to the others in her household.  Nazeera
was now greeted with the title Ammi, or Auntie.  The guards saluted her
when she passed through the gates.  Because it was known that Amber was
the sister of one of the Mahdi's favourites, she, too, was granted
special privileges.  She was a child and had not seen her first moon,
so none of the guards raised any objection when she accompanied Nazeera
on her forays beyond the gates of the zenana.

That particular morning, Nazeera and Amber left the zenana early to go
down to the market on the riverbank to meet the farmers as they brought
in their fresh crops from the country.  Figs and pomegranates were in
season, and Nazeera was determined to have the first selection of the
day's offerings.  As they passed the large edifice of the Beit el Mai
there was a disturbance down the street ahead of them.  A crowd had
gathered, the war drums boomed and the ivory horns sounded.

"What is it, Nazeera?"

"I don't know everything," Nazeera replied testily.  "Why do you always
ask me?"

"Because you do know everything."  Amber jumped up to see over the
heads of the crowd.  "Oh!  Look!  It is the banner of the Emir Atalan.
Let's hurry or we shall miss him."  She ran ahead and Nazeera broke
into a trot to keep up with her.  Amber ducked between the legs of the
crowd until she had reached the front rank.  Nazeera forged her way in
behind her, ignoring the protests of those she shoved aside.

"Here he comes," the crowd chanted.  "Hail, mighty emir of the Beja!
Hail, victor of Khartoum and slayer of Gordon Pasha!"  With his
banner-bearer riding ahead and four of his most trusted aggagiers
flanking him, Osman Atalan was up on the great black stallion, al-Buq.
As this entourage swept past Nazeera and Amber they saw that a man ran
at the emir's stirrup.  He wore a short sleeveless shift and a
loincloth.  On his head was a plain turban, but his legs and feet were
bare.

"That's a white man!"  exclaimed Nazeera, and around her the crowd
laughed and applauded.

"He is the infidel spy, the henchman of Gordon Pasha."

"He is the one they once called Abadan Riji, the One Who Never Turns
Back."

"He is the prisoner of the emir."

"Osman Atalan will teach him new tricks.  Not only will he learn to
turn back, but he will be taught to turn in small circles."

Amber shrieked with excitement, "Nazeera!  It is Captain Ballantyne!"

Even over the noise of the crowd Penrod heard Amber call his name.  He
turned his head and looked directly at her.  She waved frantically at
him but the cavalcade carried him away.  Before he was gone Amber saw
that there was a rope round his neck, the other end of which was tied
to one of the emir's stirrups.

"Where are they taking him?"  Amber wailed.  "Are they going to kill
him?"

"No!"  Nazeera placed an arm round her to calm her.  "He is far too
valuable to them.  But now we must go back and tell your sister what we
have seen."  They hurried to the zenana, but when they reached the hut
they found that Rebecca was gone.

Nazeera immediately taxed the house slaves.  "Where is your
mistress?"

"AH Wad came to fetch her.  He has taken her to the quarters of the
Mahdi."

"It is too early in the day for the Mahdi to begin taking his manly
pleasures," Nazeera protested.

"He is sick.  Wad AH says he is sick unto death.  He is struck down by
the cholera.  They know that al-Jamal saved her little sister al-Zahra
and many others from the disease.  He wishes her to do the same for the
Holy One."

As the news of the Mahdi's illness swept through the zenana a high tide
of wailing, lamentation and prayer followed it.

As they reached the edge of the desert Osman reined in al-Buq lightly
and at the same time urged him forward with his knees.  It was the
signal for the stallion to break into a triple gait, the smooth,
flowing action so easy on both horse and rider.  It is not a natural
pace, and a horse has to be schooled to learn it.  The emir's outriders
followed his example and tripled away at a pace faster than a trot but
not as fast as a canter.

At the end of the rope Penrod had to stretch out to keep up with them.
They swung southwards, parallel to the river, and the heat of the day
started to build up.  They rode on as far as the village of Al Malaka,
where the headman and the village elders all hastened out to greet the
emir.  They implored him to grant them the honour of providing him with
refreshment.  If Osman had been truly on the chase he would never have
wasted time on such indulgences, but he knew that if the captive did
not rest and drink he would die.  His clothing was drenched with sweat
and his feet were bloody from the prick of thorns and flint cuts.

While he sat under the tree in the centre of the village and discussed
the possibility of finding game in the vicinity, Osman noted with
satisfaction that al'Noor had understood his true purpose and was
allowing Penrod to sit and drink from the waterskins.  When Osman stood
at last and ordered his party to mount up, Penrod seemed to have
regained much of his strength.  He had pulled his left arm out of the
sling, although it was not yet completely healed: it unbalanced him,
and hampered the swing of his shoulders as he ran.

They rode on and paused an hour later while Osman glassed the desert
ahead for any sign of gazelle.  In the meantime al-Noor let Penrod
drink again, then allowed him to squat on his haunches, his head
between his knees as he gasped for breath.  Too soon Osman ordered the
advance.  For the rest of that day they described a wide circle through
sand dunes, over gravelly plains and across ridges of limestone,
pausing occasionally to drink from the waterskins.

An hour before sunset they returned to Omdurman.  The horses had slowed
to a walk and Penrod staggered along behind them at the end of his
rope.  More than once he was jerked off his feet and dragged in the
dirt.  When this happened al'Noor backed his horse until he was able to
struggle up.  When they rode through the gates and dismounted in the
courtyard Penrod was swaying on his torn, bloody feet.  He was dazed
with exhaustion, and it required all his remaining strength merely to
remain upright.

Osman called to him: "You-disappoint me, Abd.  I looked for you to find
the gazelle herds for us but you were more happy rolling in the dust
and looking for dung beetles."

The other hunters shouted with delight at the jest, and al-Noor
suggested, "Dung beetle is a better name for him than Abd."

"So be it, then," Osman agreed.  "From henceforth he shall be known as
Jiz, the slave who became a dung beetle."

As Osman turned towards his own quarters a slave prostrated himself in
front of him.  "Mighty Emir, and beloved of Allah and his true Prophet,
the Divine Mahdi has been taken gravely ill.  He has sent word for you
to go to him at once."

Osman leapt back into al-Buq's saddle and galloped out through the
gates of the compound.

The jailers came for Penrod and dragged him to his cell.  As
previously, they chained him to the iron stake.  But before they locked
the door and left him, one of the jailers grinned at him.  "Do you
still have the strength to attack the great emir?"

"Nay," Penrod whispered.  "But perhaps I could still twist off the head
of one of his chickens."  He showed the jailer his hands.  The man
slammed the door hurriedly and locked it.

Standing within his reach were three large pitchers of water in place
of the usual one, and a meal that in comparison to those he had
previously been offered was a banquet.  Rather than having been thrown
on to the bare floor, the food had been placed in a dish.  Penrod was
so exhausted that he could hardly chew, but he knew that if he were to
survive he must eat.  There was half a shoulder of roasted lamb, a lump
of hard cheese and a few figs and dates.  As he munched he wondered who
had provided this fare, and if Osman Atalan had ordered it.  If that
was the case, what game was he playing?  They let him rest on the
following day, but on the next his jailers woke him before sunrise.

"Up, Abd Jiz!  The emir presents his apologies.  He cannot join you in
the gazelle hunt this day.  He has urgent business at the palace of the
Mahdi.  However, al-Noor, the famous aggagier, invites you to hunt with
him."  They placed the rope round his neck before they removed his
chains.

Penrod's feet were so swollen and torn that standing on them was agony,
but after the first few miles the pain receded and he ran on.  They
found not a single gazelle, although they scoured the desert for many
leagues.  By the time they returned the nails on three of Penrod's toes
had turned blue.

They hunted again, day after day.  Osman Atalan did not accompany them
and they killed no gazelle, but al-Noor ran him hard.  The nails fell
off his injured toes.  Many times over the next few weeks Penrod
thought that the infected wounds and scratches on both feet might turn
gangrenous and he would lose his legs.

By the onset of the new moon that signalled the beginning of Ramadan,
both his feet had healed and the soles were toughened and calloused as
though he wore sandals.  Only the sharpest thorns could pierce them. He
was as lean as a whippet.  The fat had been stripped from his frame,
replaced with rubbery muscle, and he could keep pace with al-Noor's
horse.

Penrod had not seen Osman Atalan since the first unsuccessful gazelle
hunt, but when he returned to Omdurman from the field on the third day
of Ramadan, he was running strongly beside al-Noor's stirrup.  He
looked like a desert Arab now: he was lean and bearded, sun-darkened
and hard.

As they reached the outskirts of the holy city, al-Noor reined in.
"There is something amiss," he said.  "Listen!"  They could hear the
drums beating and the ombeyas blaring.  The music was not a battle hymn
or the sound of rejoicing.  It was a dirge.  Then they heard salvoes of
rifle fire, and al-Noor said, "It is bad news."

A horseman galloped towards them, and they recognized another of

Osman Atalan's aggagiers.  "Woe upon us!"  he shouted.  "Our father has
left us.  He is dead.  Oh, woe upon us all."

"Is it the emir?"  al-Noor yelled back.  "Is Osman Atalan dead?"

"Nay!  It is the Holy One, the Beloved of God, the light of our
existence.  Muhammad, the Mahdi, has been taken from us!  We are
children without a father."

For weeks they waited at the bedside of the Mahdi.  Chief among them
was Khalifa Abdullahi.  Then there were the Ashraf, the Mahdi's
brothers, uncles and cousins, and the emirs of the tribes: the Jaalin,
the Hadendowa, the Beja and others.  The Mahdi had no sons, so if he
should die the succession was uncertain.  There were only two women in
his sickroom, both heavily veiled and sitting unobtrusively in a far
corner.  The first was his principal wife, Aisha.  The second was the
concubine al-Jamal.  Not only was she his current favourite, but it was
well known that she possessed great medical skills.  Together these two
women waited out the long and uncertain course of his disease.

Rebecca's Abyssinian cure seemed highly effective during the first
stages of the illness.  She mixgd the powder with boiled water, and she
and Aisha prevailed upon the Mahdi to drink copious draughts of it.  As
with Amber, his body was drained of fluids by the scouring of his
bowels and the prolonged vomiting, but between them the two women were
able to replace the liquid and mineral salts he had lost.  It was
fourteen days before the patient had started along the road to full
recovery, and prayers of thanksgiving were held at every hour in the
new mosque below his window.

When he could sit up and eat solid food, the city resounded to the beat
of drums and volleys of rapturous rifle fire.  The following day the
Mahdi complained of insect bites.  Like most of the other buildings in
the city the palace was infested by fleas and lice, and his legs and
arms were speckled with red swellings.  They fumigated the room by
burning branches of the turpentine bush in a brazier.  However, the
Mahdi scratched the flea bites, and soon a number were infected with
the faeces of the vermin that had inflicted them.  The temperature of
his body soared, and he suffered alternating bouts of fever and chill.
He would not eat.  He was prostrated by nausea.  The doctors thought
that these symptoms were a complication of the cholera.

Then, on the sixteenth day, the characteristic rash of typhus fever
covered most of his body.  By this time he was in such a weakened
condition that he sank rapidly.  Near the end he asked the two women to
help him sit up and, in a faint, unsteady voice, he addressed all the
important men crowded around his angareb.  "The Prophet Muhammad, who
sits on the right hand of Allah, has come to me and he has told me that
the Khalifa Abdullahi must be my successor on earth.  Abdullahi is of
me, and I am of him.  As you have obeyed me and treated me, so must you
obey and treat him.  Allah is great and there is no other God but
Allah."  He sagged back on the bed and never spoke again.

The men around the bed waited, but the tension in the crowded room was
even more oppressive than the heat and the odour of fever and disease.
The Ashraf whispered among themselves, and watched the Khalifa
Abdullahi surreptitiously.  They believed that their blood-tie to the
Mahdi superseded all else: surely the right to take possession of the
vacant seat of power belonged to one of their number.  However, they
knew that their claim was weakened by the last decree of the Mahdi, and
by the sermon he had preached in the new mosque only weeks before he
fell ill.  Then he had reprimanded his relatives for their luxurious
living, their open pursuit of wealth and pleasure.

"I have not created the Mahdiya for your benefit.  You must give up
your weak and wicked ways.  Return to the principles of virtue I have
taught you which are pleasing to Allah," he had ranted, and the people
remembered his words.

Even though the claim of the Ashraf to the Mahdiya was flawed, if one
or two powerful emirs of the fighting tribes declared for them,
Abdullahi would be sent to the execution grounds behind the mosque to
meet his God and follow his Mahdi into the fields of Paradise.

Sitting quietly beside Aisha at the end of the room Rebecca had learnt
enough of Dervish politics to be aware of the nuances and undercurrents
that agitated the men.  She drew aside the folds of her veil to ask
Aisha if she might take a dish of water to bathe the fevered face of
the dying Mahdi.

"Leave him be," Aisha replied softly, "He is on his way to the arms of
Allah who, even better than we can, will love and cherish him through
all eternity."

It was so hot and muggy in the room that Rebecca kept her veil open a
little longer, making the most of a sluggish movement of air through
the tiny windows across the room.  She felt an alien gaze upon her, and
flicked her eyes in its direction.  The Emir Osman Atalan of the Beja
was contemplating her bare face steadily, and though his dark eyes were
implacable she knew he was looking at her as a woman, a young and
beautiful woman who would soon be without a man.  She could not look
away: her eyes were held by a force beyond her control, as the compass
needle is held by the lodestone.

Though it seemed an age, it was only a few moments before Abdullahi
leant towards Osman Atalan and spoke to him so softly that his lips
hardly moved.  Osman turned his head to listen, and broke the spell
that had existed between him and the young woman.

"How do you stand, noble Emir Atalan?"  Abdullahi whispered, and his
voice was so low that nobody else in the room could overhear.

"The east is mine," Osman said.

"The east is yours," Abdullahi agreed.

"The Hadendowa, the Jaalin and the Beja are my vassals."

"They are your vassals," Abdullahi acknowledged.  "And you are mine?"

"There is one other small matter."  Osman procrastinated a moment
longer, but Abdullahi was ahead of him.

"The woman with yellow hair?"

So he had seen the exchange of glances between Osman and al-Jamal.
Osman nodded.  Like the rest of them, Abdullahi lusted after this
exotic creature with her pale golden hair, blue eyes and ivory skin,
but to him she was not worth the price of an empire.

"She is yours," Abdullahi promised.

"Then I am the vassal of Abdullahi, the successor of the Mahdi, and I
will be as the targe on his shoulder and the blade in his right
hand."

Suddenly the Mahdi opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.  He
uttered a cry: "Oh!  Allah!"  Then the air rushed from his lungs.  They
covered his face with a white sheet, and the opposing factions faced
each other across the cooling body.

The Ashraf stated their case, which was based on their holy blood.
Against this the Khalifa Abdullahi's case was manifest: he did not have
the blood but he had the word and blessing of the Mahdi.  Still it hung
in the balance.  The newborn empire teetered on the verge of civil
war.

"Who declares for me?"  asked the Khalifa Abdullahi.

Osman Atalan rose to his feet and looked steadily into the faces of the
emirs of the tribes that traditionally owed him allegiance.  One after
the other they nodded.  "I declare for the word and wish of the holy
Mahdi, may Allah love him for ever!"  said Osman.  "I declare for the
Khalifat Abdullahi."

Every man in the room shouted in homage to the new ruler, the

Khalifat, of the Sudan, although the voices of the Ashraf were muted
and lacked enthusiasm.

When Rebecca returned to the hut in the zenana, Amber greeted her
ecstatically.  They had been parted for all the long weeks of the
Mahdi's last illness.  They had never been separated for so long
before.  They lay together on one angareb, hugging each other and
talking.  There was so much to tell.

Rebecca described the death of the Mahdi and the ascendancy of
Abdullahi.  "This is very dangerous for us, my darling.  The Mahdi was
hard and cruel, but we managed to inveigle ourselves into his favour."
Rebecca did not elaborate on how this had been achieved, but went on,
"Now he is gone, we are at the mercy of this wicked man."

"He will want you," Amber said.  She had grown up far ahead of her
years while they had been in the clutches of the Dervish.  She
understood so much Rebecca was amazed by it.  "You are so beautiful. He
will want you just as the Mahdi did," Amber repeated firmly.  "We can
be sure he will send for you within the next few days."

"Hush, my sweet sister.  Let us not go ahead to search for trouble.  If
trouble is coming it will find us soon enough."

"Perhaps Captain Ballantyne will rescue us," Amber said.

"Captain Ballantyne is far away by now."  Rebecca laughed.  "He is
probably at home in England, and has been these many months past."

"No, he is not.  He is here in Omdurman.  Nazeera and I have seen him.
All the town is talking about him.  He was captured by that wicked man
Osman Atalan.  They keep him on a rope and make him run beside the
emir's horse like a dog."

In the lamplight Amber's eyes glistened with tears.  "Oh, it is so
cruel.  He is such a fine gentleman."

Rebecca was astonished and dismayed.  Her brief interlude with Penrod
seemed like a dream.  So much had happened since he had deserted her
that her memory of him had faded and her feelings towards him had been
soured by resentment.  Now it all came flooding back.

"Oh, I wish he had not come to Omdurman," she blurted.  "I wish he had
stayed away, and that I never had to lay eyes on him again.  If he is a
prisoner of the Dervish, as we are, there is nothing he can do to help
us.  I don't even want to think about him."

Rebecca spent most of the following day bringing up to date the journal
she had inherited from her father, describing in small, closely written
script all that she had witnessed at the death bed of the Mahdi, then
her own feelings at the news that Penrod Ballantyne had come back into
her life.

From time to time her writing was disturbed by the shouts from the vast
crowds in the mosque, which carried over the zenana wall.  It seemed
that the entire population of the country had gathered.  Rebecca sent
out Nazeera to investigate.  Amber wanted to accompany her, but Rebecca
forbade it.  She would not let Amber out of her sight in these
dangerous, uncertain times.

Nazeera returned in the middle of the afternoon.  "All is well.  The
Mahdi has been buried, and the Khalifat has declared that he has become
a saint and that his tomb is a sacred site.  A great new mosque will be
built over it."

"But what is all the noise in the mosque?  It has been going on all
day."  Rebecca demanded.

"The new Khalifat has demanded that the entire population take the
Beia, the oath of allegiance to him.  The emirs, sheikhs and important
men were first to do so.  Even the Ashraf have made the oath.  There
are so many of the common people clamouring to swear that the mosque is
overflowing.  They are administering the oath to five hundred men at a
time.  They say that the Khalifat weeps like a widow in mourning for
his Mahdi, but still the populace crowds around him.  Everywhere I
walked in the streets I heard the crowds shouting the praises of the
Khalifat and declaring their promises to obey him as the Mahdi decreed.
They say the oath-taking will go on for many more days and even weeks
before all can be satisfied."

And when it is done, the Khalifat will send for me, Rebecca thought,
and her heart raced with panic and dread.

She was wrong.  It did not take that long.  Two days later AH Wad came
to their hut.  With him were six other men, all strangers to her.  "You
are to pack everything you own, and go with these men," AH Wad told
her.  "This is ordered by the Khalifat Abdullahi, who is the light of
the world, may he always please Allah."

"Who are these men?"  Rebecca eyed the strangers anxiously.  "I do not
know them."

"They are aggagiers of the mighty Emir Osman Atalan.  Nazeera and
al-Zahra are to go with you."

"But where are they taking us?"

"Into the harem.  Now that the holy Mahdi is departed from us, he has
become your new master."

There was much work to be done.  The Khalifat Abdullahi was a clever
man.  He understood that he had inherited a powerful, united empire,
and that this had been built upon the religious and spiritual mysticism
of the Mahdi and the political imperative of ridding the land of the
Turk and the infidel.  Now that the Mahdi was gone, the cement that
held it together was dangerously weakened.  The infidel would soon
gather on his borders and the enemies within would emerge and gnaw
away, like termites, the central pillars of his power.  Not only was
Abdullahi clever, he was also ruthless.

He called all the powerful men to him in a great conclave.  Their
numbers almost filled the new mosque.  First he reminded them of the
oath they had sworn only days before.  Then he read to them the
proclamation that the Mahdi had issued the previous year in which he
had made abundantly clear the trust that he placed in Khalifa
Abdullahi: "He is of me, and I am of him," the Mahdi had written in his
own hand.  "Behave with all reverence to him, as you do to me.  Submit
to him as you submit to me.  Believe in him as you believe in me.  Rely
on all he says, and never question his proceedings.  All that he does
is by the order or the permission of the Prophet Muhammad.  If any man
thinks evil or speaks evil of him, he will be destroyed.  He has been
given wisdom in all things.  If he sentences a man to death, it is for
the good of all of you."

When they had listened earnestly to this proclamation he ordered the
emirs and the Ashraf to write letters that were sent out with fast
horsemen and camel-riders to the most remote corners of the empire to
reassure and calm the population.  He announced the creation of six new
khalifs.  In effect they would become his governors.  His brothers were
elevated to this rank, and so was Osman Atalan.  The Khalif Osman was
awarded a new green war-banner to go with the scarlet and black, and
granted the honour of planting this at the gates of Abdal-lahi's palace
whenever he was in Omdurman.  All the eastern tribes were placed under
his banner.  Thus Osman now commanded almost thirty thousand elite
fighting men.

It took several months for all this to be accomplished, and when it was
achieved Abdullahi invited Osman Atalan to hunt with him.  They rode
out into the desert.  There are no eavesdroppers in those great empty
spaces, and the two mighty men rode a mile ahead of their entourage.
When they were alone Abdullahi disclosed his vision of the future.

"The Mahdiya was conceived in war and the flames of the jihad.  In
peace and complacency it will rust and disintegrate like a disused
sword.  Like spoilt children, the tribes will return to their old blood
feuds, and the sheikhs will bicker among themselves like jealous
women," he told Osman.  "In the Name of God, we lack not real enemies.
The pagan and the infidel surround us.  They gather like locust swarms
at our borders.  These enemies will ensure the unity and strength of
our empire, for their threat gives reason for the jihad to continue. My
empire must continue to expand or it will collapse upon itself."

"You wisdom astounds me, mighty Abdullahi.  I am like an innocent child
beside you.  You are my father and the father of the nation."  Osman
knew the man well: he fed on flattery and adulation.  Yet the scope of
his vision impressed Osman.  He realized that Abdullahi dreamed of
creating an empire to rival that of the Sublime Porte of the Ottoman
Empire in Constantinople.

"Osman Atalan, if you are a child, and Allah knows that you are not,
you are a warlike child."  Abdullahi smiled.  "I am sending Abdel Kerim
with his jihad ia northwards to attack the Egyptians on the border.  If
he is victorious, the entire country of Egypt from the first cataract
to the delta will rise up behind our jihad."

Osman was silent as he considered this extraordinary proposal.  He
thought that Abdullahi had wildly overestimated the appeal of the
Mahdiya to the Egyptian population.  It was true that the majority were
Islamic, but of a much milder persuasion than the Dervish.  There was
also a large Coptic Christian population in Egypt, which would oppose
the Sudanese Mahdiya fanatically.  Above all, there were the British.
They had only recently taken over supreme power in that country, and
would never relinquish it without a bitter fight.  Osman knew the
quality of these white men: he had fought them at Abu Klea where there
had been a mere handful of them.  He had heard that they were building
up their armies in the north.  Their battleships were anchored in
Alexandria harbour.  No army of the Khalifat could ever fight its way
over those thousands of miles to reach the delta.  Even if by some
remote chance it did, then certain destruction awaited it there at the
hands of the British.  He was trying to find the diplomatic words to
say this without incurring Abdullahi's ire, when he saw the sly glint
in his eye.

Then he realized that the proposal was not what it seemed.  At last he
saw through it: Abdullahi was not intent on the conquest and occupation
of Egypt; rather, he was setting a snare to catch his enemies.  The
Ashraf were the main threat to his sovereignty: Abdel Kerim was the
cousin of the Mahdi and one of the leaders of the Ashraf.  He had under
his control a large army, including a regiment of Nubians who were
superb soldiers.  If Abdel Kerim failed against the Egyptians,
Abdullahi could accuse him of treachery and have him executed, or at
least strip him of his rank and take the Ashraf army under his own
command.

"What an inspired battle plan, great Khalifat!"  Osman was sincerely
impressed.  He realized now that Abdullahi, by virtue of his cunning
and ruthlessness, was indeed fitted to become the one ruler of the
Sudan.

"As for you, Osman Atalan, I have a task also."

"Lord, you know that I am your hunting dog," Osman replied.  "You have
only to command me."

"Then, my warlike child, my faithful hunting dog, you must win back for
me the Disputed Lands."  This was the territory around Gondar, a huge
tract of well-watered and fertile land that lay along the headwaters of
the Atbara river, and stretched from Gallabat as far as the slopes of
Mount Horrea.  The Sudanese and the Abyssinian emperors had fought over
this rich prize for a hundred years.

Osman considered the task.  He looked for the pitfalls and snares that
Abdullahi was setting for him, as he had done for Abdel Kerim, but
found none.  It would be a hard and difficult campaign, but not an
impossible one.  He had sufficient force to carry it out.  The risks
were acceptable.  He knew he was a better general than the Abyssinian
Emperor John.  He would not be forced to campaign in the highlands
where the advantage would pass to Emperor John.  The prize was
enormous, and the recaptured lands would become part of his own domain.
The thought of moving his personal seat of government to Gondar, once
he had captured the city, was attractive.  Gondar had been the ancient
capital of Abyssinia.  There, he would be so far removed from Omdurman
that he could establish virtual autonomy while paying lip service to
Abdullahi.

"You do me great honour, exalted lord!"  He accepted the command.
"Before the rise of the new moon I shall leave Omdurman and travel up
the Atbara river to reconnoitre the border and lay my battle plans." He
thought for a moment, then went on, "I shall need some pretence to
travel along the border, and perhaps even visit Gondar.  If great
Abdullahi should write a letter of greetings and good wishes to the
Emperor that he orders me to deliver to the Abyssinian governor at
Gondar, I could secretly inspect the de fences of the city and the
deployment of the enemy troops along the border."

"May Allah go with you," said Abdullahi gently.  "You and I are as twin
brothers, Osman Atalan.  We think with one mind and strike with the
same sword."

In a flotilla of dhows, Osman Atalan and his entourage sailed up the
Bahr El Azrek, the Blue Nile, as far as the small river town of
Aligail.  Here, one of the major tributaries joined the Nile.  This was
the Rahad river, but it was not navigable for more than a few leagues
upstream.  Osman offloaded his aggagiers, his women and slaves, almost
three hundred souls.  The horses had come up in the dhows from
Omdurman.  At Aligail he sent his aggagiers fifty miles in all
directions to hire camels and camel-drivers from the local sheikhs.
Once the caravan was assembled they moved eastward along the course of
the Rahad.  The caravan was strung out over several miles.  Osman and a
select band of his aggagiers rode well in advance of the main column.
Penrod ran beside his horse with the rope round his neck.

The country became more wooded and pleasant as they moved slowly
towards the mountains.  There were a few small villages along the
river, but these were well separated and the land between was populated
with wild game and birds.  They came upon rhinoceros and giraffe,
buffalo, zebra and antelope of all descriptions.  Osman hunted as they
travelled.  Some days were passed entirely in the pursuit of a
particular species of antelope that had caught his attention.  Spurning
firearms, he and his aggagiers used the lance from horseback to bring
down the quarry.  There were wild rides and Penrod was able to keep up
only by grabbing hold of Osman's stirrup leather and letting himself be
pulled along by al-Buq at full gallop, his feet touching the earth
lightly every dozen paces or so.  By this time he was in such superb
physical condition that he delighted in the sport as much as any of the
aggagiers.  It was all that made his captivity bearable, for during the
chase he felt free and vital once again.

Most nights Osman's party slept in the open under the starry sky
wherever the day's hunting had taken them.  They were usually far ahead
of the main column.  However, when they had killed some large animal,
such as a giraffe or rhinoceros, they camped beside the carcass until
the main body caught up with them.  When the baggage train arrived,
Osman's enormous leather tent was erected in the centre of a zareba of
thorn bush.  It was the size of a large house, furnished with Persian
carpets and cushions.  The smaller but no less luxurious tents of his
wives and concubines were placed around it.

Unlike the Mahdi and the Khalifat Abdullahi, Osman had limited himself
to four wives, as decreed in the Koran.  The number of his concubines
was also modest, and although it fluctuated, it did not exceed twenty
or thirty.  On this expedition he had brought with him only his latest
wife: she had not yet borne him a child and he needed to impregnate
her.  He had also restricted himself to seven of his most attractive
concubines.  Among this small group was the recently acquired white
girl, al-Jamal.  Until now Osman had been so occupied with affairs of
state and politics that he had not yet gathered and tasted her fruits.
He was in no hurry to do so: the anticipation of this consummation
added greatly to his pleasure.

Penrod knew that Rebecca was with the expedition.  He had seen her
going aboard one of the dhows when they embarked at Omdurman.  He had
also seen her from a distance on four different occasions since the
land journey had begun.  Each time she had avoided looking in his
direction, but Amber, who was with her, had waved and given him a saucy
grin.  Of course, there was never an opportunity to exchange a word:
Atalan's women were strictly guarded, while Penrod was kept on a leash
during the day and locked in leg shackles each evening.  At night he
was confined to a guarded hut in the zareba of al-Noor and the other
aggagiers.

Even though he was usually exhausted when he settled down on the
sheepskin that served him as a mattress, he still had opportunity to
think about Rebecca during the long nights.  Once he had convinced
himself that he loved her, that she was the main reason why he had
defied Sir Charles Wilson's strict orders and returned to Khartoum
after the battle of Abu Klea.  Since then his feelings towards her had
become ambivalent.  Of course, she was still his fellow countrywoman.
Added to that she had surrendered her virginity to him, and for those
reasons he had a duty and responsibility towards her.  However, her
virtue, which had initially made her so attractive to him, was now
indelibly tarnished.  Although she had not done so of her own free
will, she had become the whore of not one but at least two other men.
His strict code of honour would never permit him to marry another man's
whore, especially if that man was his blood enemy and of a dark, alien
race.

Even if he were able to subdue these feelings and take her as his wife,
what good could come of it?  When they returned to England the full
story of her defilement and degradation at the hands of the Dervish
would not remain secret.  English society was unforgiving.  She would
be branded for life as a scarlet woman.  He could not present her to
his friends and family.  As a couple they would be ostracized.  The
regiment would never condone his choice of wife.  He would be denied
advancement and forced to resign his commission.  His reputation and
standing would be destroyed.  He knew that in time he would come to
resent and, later, even hate her.

As an ambitious man with a well-developed instinct for
self-preservation and survival, he knew what his course of action must
be.  First, he would do his duty and rescue her.  Then, painful as it
might be, they must part company and he would return to the world from
which she would be for ever excluded.

If he were to carry through this determination, and rescue Rebecca and
her little sister, his first concern must be to find freedom himself.
To achieve this he must gain the trust of Osman Atalan and his
aggagiers, and lull any suspicions they harboured that the sole purpose
of his miserable life was either to assassinate the Khalif or to escape
from his clutches.  Once he induced them to relax the conditions of his
imprisonment he knew he would find his opportunity.

The closer they came to the Abyssinian border, the more wild and grand
the land became.  Magnificent savannahs gave way to forests of stately
trees, interrupted by open glades of green grass.  Twenty-five days
after they had left the Nile they came upon the first herd of elephant.
Closer to the towns and villages, these great animals had been
ruthlessly pursued by ivory hunters and had been forced to withdraw
deeper into the wilderness.

This herd was drinking and bathing at a pool in the Rahad river.  The
water was deep and broad, surrounded by fever trees with canary yellow
trunks.  They heard the squealing and splashing from a great distance,
and manoeuvred downwind to climb the low kopje that overlooked the
pool.  From the summit they had a splendid view of the unsuspecting
herd.  It was made up of fifty or so cows with their offspring.  There
were three immature bulls with them, but they carried nondescript
tusks.

One of Osman Atalan's young warriors had not yet killed an elephant in
the classical manner, on foot and armed only with the sword.  Osman
described the technique to him.  It was a masterly dissertation.

Penrod listened with fascination.  He had heard of this dangerous
pastime in which the aggagiers earned their title, but had never seen
its execution.  Towards the end of his lecture, when Osman was pointing
out the exact point on the back of the elephant's hind leg where the
sword stroke must be aimed to sever the tendon, it occurred to Penrod
that Osman was addressing him as much as the Arab novice.  He dismissed
this as an idle thought.  The herd finished drinking and wandered away
through the grove of fever trees.  Osman let them go unmolested.  They
were not worthy of his steel.  He ordered the aggagiers to mount up and
they rode back to the encampment.

Three days later they came across more elephant tracks.  The aggagiers
dismounted to study them, and saw that they had been made by a pair of
bulls.  The pad marks were fresh and one set was enormous.  With
animation they speculated among themselves as to the size and weight of
ivory that the larger bull carried.  Osman ordered them to remount and
led them forward at a smart walk, so that the sound of galloping hoofs
would not alarm and stampede the quarry.

"They drank at the river early this morning and now they are returning
to the hills to take cover in the thickets of kit tar thorns where they
feel secure," Osman said.  As they approached the hills they saw that
the lower slopes were covered with the reptilian and venomous green
thorn bush which contrasted with the brighter, fresher colour of the
deciduous forest higher up the slope.  They found the big bull standing
alone on the edge of the thicket.

"The two bulls have parted company and gone their separate ways.  This
will make the hunt easier for us," Osman said softly, and led them
forward.  The elephant was drowsing quietly, fanning his huge ears,
rocking gently from one foot to the other.  He was angled away from
them and his head was lowered so that the thorn scrub reached to his
lower lip and hid his tusks from view.  The aggagiers reined in the
horses to rest them before beginning the hunt.  The breeze was steady
and favourable and there was no reason to hurry.  Penrod rested with
the horses.  He squatted on his haunches and drank from the waters king
that al-Noor unstrapped from the pommel of his saddle and dropped to
the ground beside him.

Suddenly the bull shook his head so that his ears clapped loudly, then
reached out with his trunk to pluck a bunch of kit tar blossom.  When
he lifted his head to stuff the yellow flowers into the back of his
throat, he revealed his tusks.  They were perfectly matched, long and
thick.

The hunters stirred and murmured in appreciation.

"This is a fine animal."

"This is an honourable bull."

They all looked to Osman Atalan to see whom he would choose for the
honour, each hoping it would be himself.

"Al-Noor," said Osman, and al-Noor pushed his mount forward eagerly,
only to slump again in the saddle when his master went on, 'slip the
leash off Abd Jiz."

Penrod came to his feet with surprise and al-Noor removed the rope from
round his neck.

"It is too great an honour for an infidel slave," Al-Noor whispered
enviously.

Osman ignored his protest.  He drew his sword and reversed it before he
handed it to Penrod.  "Kill this bull for me," he ordered.

Penrod tested the balance and weight of the blade, cutting with it
forehanded, then backhanded.  He spun it in the air and caught it with
his left hand, then cut and thrust again.  He turned back to Osman, on
al-Buq.  Penrod was balanced on the balls of his bare feet; he held the
sword in the guard position.  His expression was grim.  The blade was
steady as if fixed in the jaws of a steel vice, pointed at the Khalif's
chest.  Osman Atalan was unarmed and within the sweep of Penrod's sword
arm.  Their eyes locked.  The aggagiers urged their mounts forward and
their hands rested on their sword hilts.

Penrod brought the sword slowly to his lips and kissed the flat of the
blade.  "It is a fine weapon," he said.

"Use it wisely," Osman advised him quietly.

Penrod turned away up the slope towards where the bull elephant stood.
His bare feet made no sound on the stony earth and he stepped lightly.
He felt the breeze chill the sweat on the back of his neck.  He used
its direction to guide him as he angled in behind the bull.  It was an
enormous creature: at the shoulder it stood over twice his own
height.

Penrod had in mind every word of Osman's advice as he studied the hind
legs.  He could clearly make out the tendons beneath the grey and riven
hide.  They were thicker than his thumb, and as the beast rocked gently
they tightened and relaxed.  He fastened his gaze on them and moved in
quickly.  Unexpectedly the bull humped his back and braced both back
legs.  From the pouch of loose skin between his back legs his penis
dropped out and dangled until the tip almost touched the ground.  It
was longer than the span of Penrod's outstretched arms and as thick as
his forearm.  The bull began to urinate, a powerful yellow stream that
hosed out a shallow trench in the hard earth.  The smell was rank and
strong in the noonday heat.

Penrod closed in to within three yards of the bull's haunches, and
stood poised, the sword lifted.  Then he ran forward and swung the
blade, aiming two hand spans above the bull's right heel.  It sliced
down to the bone, and with a rubbery snap the tendon parted.  In the
same movement Penrod stepped across to the other leg, reversed his
blade and cut again.  He saw the recoil of the severed tendon under the
thick hide, and jumped back.  The crippled bull squealed and dropped
heavily to his hindquarters in a sitting position with both back legs
paralysed.

Behind him Penrod heard the aggagiers shout in acclamation.  He watched
the jets of blood squirting from the twin wounds.  The bull's struggles
to regain his feet aggravated the flow.  It would not be long.  The
bull saw him and swung his head to face Penrod.  He tried to drag
himself forward, but his movements were awkward and ineffectual. Penrod
retreated before him, watching until he was certain that the bull was
mortally wounded, then turned and walked unhurriedly back towards the
group of watching horsemen.

He had covered half the distance when another elephant squealed on his
right flank.  The sound was so unexpected that he wheeled to face it.
All this time the second, younger bull had been standing nearby, also
asleep on its feet.  The kit tar bush had concealed it, but at the
cries and struggles of its companion it burst out of the dense thorn
bush at full charge, pugnaciously seeking a focus for its alarm and
anger.  It saw Penrod immediately and swung towards him, rolling back
the tips of its huge ears and coiling its trunk against its chest in a
threatening attitude.  It trumpeted wildly.  As it began its charge the
ground trembled under its weight.

Penrod glanced around swiftly for some avenue of retreat.  There was no
point in running towards the group of horsemen.  They could offer him
no help and would gallop away before he reached them.  Even to climb
into one of the tall trees that grew nearby would be of no avail.
Standing on its back legs the bull could reach even to the top branches
to pull him down, or it could knock over the whole tree almost
effortlessly.  He thought of the ravine they had crossed a short
distance back.  It was so narrow and deep that he might crawl down into
it beyond the bull's reach.  He whirled and ran.  Faintly he heard the
ribald shouts of the aggagiers.

"Run, Dung Beetle!  Spread your wings and fly."

"Pray to your Christian God, infidel!"

"Behold, the fields of Paradise lie before you."

He heard the elephant crashing through the scrub behind him.  Then he
saw the opening of the ravine a hundred paces ahead.  He was at the top
of his own speed, his tempered, hardened legs driving so hard that the
elephant was overhauling him only gradually.  But he knew in his heart
that it would catch him.

Then he heard pounding hoofs close behind him.  He could not help
glancing back.  The bull was towering over him like a dark cliff,
already uncoiling its trunk to swipe him down.  The blow would smash
bone.

Once he was on the ground the bull would kneel on him, crushing him
against the hard earth until every bone in his body was smashed, then
stabbing those long ivory shafts repeatedly through what remained of
his body.

He tore away his gaze and looked ahead.  Still the sound of hoofs
crescendoed.  Without slackening his run Penrod braced himself for the
shattering blow that must surely come.  Then the hoofs were alongside
him, and he saw movement from the corner of his eye.  The black bulk of
al-Buq was overtaking him.  Osman was leaning forward over his withers
and pumping the reins.  He had kicked his foot out of the near side
stirrup, and the empty iron bumped against al-Buq's flank.

"Come up, Abd Jiz!"  Osman invited him.  "I have not finished with you
yet."

With his right hand Penrod snatched the stirrup leather and twisted it
round his wrist.  Instantly he was jerked off his feet, and he allowed
himself to be carried away by the racing stallion.  As he swung on the
end of the leather he looked back.  The bull was still at full charge
behind them, but losing ground to the stallion.  At last he abandoned
the chase and, still squealing with rage, turned aside into the kit tar
thorn.  As he ran off he ripped down branches from the trees in his
path in frustration and hurled them high into the air.  He vanished
over the crest of the hill.

Osman reined in al-Buq, and Penrod released the stirrup leather.  He
still held the hilt of the sword in his left hand.  Osman threw his leg
over the stallion's neck and dropped to the ground, landing like a cat
in front of him.  The other aggagiers were widely scattered and for the
moment the two were alone.  Osman held out his right hand.  "You have
no further need of that steel," he said quietly.

Penrod glanced down at the sword.  "It grieves me to give it up."  He
reversed the weapon and slapped the hilt into Osman's right hand.

"In God's Name, you are a brave man, and an even wiser one," Osman
said, and brought out his left hand from behind his back.  In it he
held a fully cocked pistol.  He thumbed the hammer and let it drop to
half-cock, just as al-Noor rode up.

Al-Noor also jumped down and spontaneously embraced Penrod.  "Two true
strokes," he applauded him.  "No man could have done it cleaner."

They did not have time to wait for the tusks to rot free so they
chopped them out.  It took until noon the next day to remove the long
cone-shaped nerve from the cavity in the base of each.  It was
painstaking work: a slip of the blade would mar the ivory and reduce
drastically its monetary and aesthetic value.

They loaded them on to the packhorses, and when they rode into the main
encampment the drummers beat loud and the horns blared.  The women,
even the Khalif's wife and his concubines, came out to watch.  The men
fired their rifles in the air, then crowded around the packhorse to
marvel at the size of the tusks.

"This must have been the father and grandfather of many great bulls,"
they told each other.  Then they asked Osman Atalan, "Tell us, we beg
you, exalted Khalif, which hunter brought down this mighty beast?"

"The one who was once known as Abd Jiz, but who has now become the
aggagier Abadan Riji."

From then on no man ever called Penrod Abd Jiz again.  That derogatory
name was lost and forgotten.

"Command us, Supreme One.  What must we do with these tusks?"

"I shall keep one in my tent to remind me of this day's sport.  The
other belongs to the aggagier who slew it."

Early the following morning when Osman Atalan emerged from his tent he
greeted his waiting aggagiers and discussed with them the usual
business of the day, the route he intended to follow and the purpose
and object of the day's ride.  Penrod squatted nearby with the horses,
taking no part until Osman called to him, "Your style of dress brings
your companions into disrepute."

Penrod stood up in surprise and looked down at his shift.  Although he
had washed it whenever an opportunity presented itself, it was stained
and worn.  He had no needle or thread with which to mend it, and the
cloth was ripped by thorn and branch, worn threadbare with hard use. "I
have become accustomed to this uniform.  It suits me well enough, great
Atalan."

"It suits me not at all," said Osman, and clapped his hands.  One of
the house slaves came scurrying forward.  He carried a folded garment.
"Give it to Abadan Riji," Osman ordered him, and he knelt before Penrod
and proffered the bundle.

Penrod took it from him and shook it out.  He saw that it was a clean,
unworn jibba and with it were a pair of sandals of tanned camel hide.

"Put them on," said Osman.

Penrod saw at once that the jibba was plain, not decorated with the
ritual multi-coloured patches that had such powerful political and
religious significance and constituted a Dervish uniform.  He would not
have donned the jibba if it had.  He stripped off his rags and slipped
it over his head.  It fitted him remarkably well, as did the sandals.
Somebody had observed his size shrewdly.

"That pleases me better," said Osman, and swung up easily into al-Buq's
saddle.  Penrod moved up to his usual position at the stirrup, but

Osman shook his head.  "An aggagier is a horseman."  He clapped again,
and a groom led a saddled horse from behind the tent.  It was a sturdy
roan gelding that Penrod had noticed in the herd of spare horses.

"Mount up!"  Osman ordered him, and he went into the saddle, then
followed the group of riders into the forest.  Penrod was conscious of
his inferior rank in the band, so he kept well back.

Over the first few miles he assessed the roan under him.  The horse had
a comfortable gait and showed no vices.  He would not be particularly
fast.  He could never outrun any of the other aggagiers.  If Penrod
ever tried to escape, they would run him down quickly enough.

No great beauty, but a hard pounder with good temperament, he decided.
It felt good to have a horse between his knees again.  They rode on
towards the blue mountains and the Abyssinian border.  They were
heading now directly for Gallabat, the last Dervish stronghold before
the border.  Though the mountains seemed close, they were still ten
days' ride ahead.  Gradually they left the wilderness behind.  There
were no more signs of elephant or of the other great game animals. Soon
they were passing through fields of dhurra and other cultivation and
many small Sudanese villages.  Then they started to climb through the
foothills of the central massif.

When they off-saddled to recite the midday prayers, Osman Atalan always
left the others and spread his carpet in a shaded place that overlooked
the next green valley.  After he had prayed he would usually eat alone,
but that day he called Penrod, and indicated that he should sit facing
him on the Persian carpet.  "Break bread with me," he invited.  Al-Noor
set out between them a dish of unleavened dhurra cakes and as ida and
another dish of cold smoked antelope meat.  He had hastily cut the
throats of the animals before they died from the lance wounds that had
brought them down so the flesh was hal al  There was a smaller dish
filled with coarse salt.  Osman gave thanks to Allah and asked for His
blessing on the food.  Then he selected a morsel of smoked meat and,
with his right hand, dipped it in to the salt.  He leant forward and
held it to Penrod's lips.

Penrod hesitated.  He was faced with a crucial decision.  If he
accepted food and salt from Osman's hand it would constitute a pact
between them.  In the tradition of the tribes it would be equivalent to
a parole.  If thereafter he tried to escape, or if he committed any
warlike or aggressive act against Osman, he would break his word of
honour.

Swiftly he made his decision.  I am a Christian, not a Muslim.  Also, I
am not a Beja.  For me this is not a binding oath.  He accepted the
offering, chewed and swallowed, then picked out a scrap of venison,

salted it and offered it to Osman.  The Khalif ate it and nodded his
thanks.

They ate slowly, savouring the meal, and their easy conversation
concerned the affairs that absorbed them both: war, hunting and the
pursuit of arms.  At first it was wide-ranging, then became more
specific as Osman asked how the British trained their troops and what
qualities their commanders looked for in their officers.

"Like you we are a warlike people.  Most of our kings were warriors,"
Penrod explained.

"This I have heard."  Osman nodded.  "I have also seen with my own eyes
how your people fight.  Where do they learn these skills?"

"There are a people called the French, a neighbouring tribe.  We have
sport with them on occasion.  There is always trouble in some part of
the Empire that must be controlled.  During periods of peace we have
colleges, which have been established for many generations, to train
our line and staff officers.  Two are famous: the Royal Military
Academy at Woolwich, and the Royal Military College at Camberley."

"We also have a school for our warriors."  Osman nodded.  "We call it
the desert."

Penrod laughed, then agreed.  "The battlefield is the best training
school, but we have found the academic study of the art of war
invaluable too.  You see, most of the great generals of all the ages
from Alexander to Wellington have written of their campaigns.  There is
much in which they are able to instruct us."

When they rode on eastwards, Osman summoned Penrod to ride at his side
and they continued their discussion animatedly.  At times they became
heated.  Penrod was describing how Bonaparte had been unable to break
the British square at Waterloo, and Osman had mocked him lightly.  "We
Arabs have not studied at any college, and yet unlike this Frenchman we
broke your square at Abu Klea."

Penrod rose to the bait, as Osman had intended he should.  "You never
broke us.  You penetrated locally, but the square held and healed
itself, then became a trap for your emir al-Salida, his sons and a
thousand of his men."  They argued with the freedom of blood-brothers,
but when their voices rose the aggagiers looked at each other uneasily
and pressed close to be ready to intervene if their khalif was
threatened.  Osman waved them back.  He reined in on the skyline of
another ridge in the series that climbed like a giant staircase towards
the mountains.

"Before us lies the land of the Abyssinians, our enemies for many
centuries past.  If you were my general and I asked you to seize the
territory as far as Gondar, then hold it against the rage of Emperor

John, tell me how you, with your schoolroom studies, would accomplish
this task."

It was the kind of problem that Penrod had studied at the staff
officer's college.  He took up the challenge with enthusiasm.  "How
many men will you give me?"

"Twenty-five thousand," Osman replied.

"How many does the Emperor have to bring against me?"

"Maybe ten thousand at Gondar, but another three hundred thousand
beyond the mountains at Aksum in the highlands."

"They will have to descend through the high passes to bring me to
battle, will they not?  Then I must invest Gondar swiftly, and once the
city is contained I will not pause to reduce it, but I will drive on
hard to seal the mouths of the passes before the reinforcements can
debouch into the open ground."

They discussed this problem in detail, considering every possible
response to the attack.  Their discussion continued unflaggingly over
the rest of the march to Gallabat.  It was only when they came in sight
of the town that it occurred to Penrod that it had not been an academic
discussion, and that this journey was a prelude to the Dervish invasion
of the kingdom of Abyssinia.  Osman was calling on his training as a
military adviser.

So the Mahdi's jihad did not end at Khartoum, Penrod realized.
Abdullahi knows that he must fight or he will languish and perish. Then
he considered how much damage he had unwittingly done by giving
encouragement and expert advice to Osman.

Even if the Dervish triumphs here at Gondar, Abdullahi will not be
satisfied.  He will turn his eyes on Eritrea, and he won't stop there.
He cannot stop.  He will never stop until he is forcibly stopped.  That
will not happen until Abdullahi has aroused the wrath of the civilized
world, he decided.  In my own humble way I may have done something to
help bring that about.  He smiled coldly.  There are exciting days
ahead.

The Dervish governor of Gallabat was almost overcome by the honour of
receiving the mighty Khalif Osman Atalan as a guest in his city.
Immediately he vacated his own mud-brick palace and placed it at the
disposal of the visitors.  He moved into a much smaller, humbler
building on the outskirts of the town.

Osman decided to rest in Gallabat until the cessation of the monsoon
period, which would make travelling in the hilly country around Gondar
almost impossible.  This would entail a delay of several months,

but there was much to keep him occupied.  He wanted to gather every
scrap of information that might be of importance during the coming
campaign.  He sent out word that the local guides who had taken
caravans up to Gondar through the high passes, and those warlike
sheikhs who had raided the Ethiopian territories for cattle and slaves
must come to him in Gallabat.  They hastened to his bidding.  He
questioned them at great length, and recorded all they had to tell him.
This information would comprise the bulk of his report to the Khalifat
Abdullahi when he returned to Omdurman.

Osman recalled that the Mahdi had used the white concubine, al-Jamal,
as a scribe and letter-writer.  She was skilled in many languages.  He
ordered her to be present at these interrogations to write down the
facts as they were revealed by the witnesses.  He had seen little of
al-Jamal since the beginning of the expedition for he had had marital
obligations elsewhere.  But Osman had barely settled into the
governor's palace before the older women slaves of the harem came to
him with the news that his youngest wife had at last responded to his
repeated attentions by missing her moon.  They informed him that she
had not flown her red banner for two months past.

Osman was pleased.  His fourth wife was a niece of the Khalifat
Abdullahi and therefore her pregnancy was of great political
importance.  Her name was Zamatta.  Although she had a pretty face, she
enjoyed her food and had thick thighs, a pudding-shaped belly and a
pair of soft, cow-like udders.  At this time in his life Osman Atalan
demanded more from his favourites than a musical giggle and a
willingness to lie back and open their legs.  He had done what had to
be done, and now he felt no inclination to spend more time in the
company of the dull-witted Zamatta.

During the first few days of the interrogations al-Jamal had taken up
an unobtrusive position behind the governor's dais in the audience
hall.  On the third day Osman ordered her to move to a seat below the
front of the dais.  Here she sat cross-legged with her writing tablet
on her lap, directly in his line of vision.  He liked the quick
movements of her slim, pale hands, and the texture of the cheek that
was turned towards him as she wrote.  As was fitting, she never raised
her eyes from the parchment or looked at him directly.  Once or twice
while he was watching her a mysterious smile touched her lips, and this
intrigued him.  Seldom before in his life had he been concerned with
what his women were thinking, but this one seemed different.

"Read back to me what you have written," he ordered.

She lifted those strangely pale blue eyes to look at him, and his
breath caught.  She recited the evidence, without having to read it.

When she finished she leant towards him and dropped her voice so that
he alone could hear.  Trust him not, Great Lord," she said.  "He will
give you little for your comfort."  They were the first words she had
ever addressed to him.

Osman's expression remained impassive, but he was thinking quickly.  He
had let it be known that he was conducting these enquiries to
facilitate trade with the Abyssinians and plan his state visit to
Gondar.  Had this woman guessed his true intentions, or had she been
informed?  What grounds did she have for the warning she had just given
him?  He went on with his enquiries, but now he studied the man before
him more intently.

He was an elderly caravan master, prosperous from the cloth of his
robes, intelligent judging by the depth of his knowledge.  In all other
respects he was unremarkable.  He had stated that he was of the tribe
of Hadendowa.  Yet he did not affect the patched jibba, and there was
something alien in his accent and the manner of his speech.  Osman
considered challenging his identity, but discarded the idea.  He looked
for the other signs that al-Jamal must have noticed.  The man leant
forward to take the small brass cup of coffee from the tray that had
been placed before him, and the neck opening of his robe gaped to show
a flash of silver.  It was a fleeting glimpse, but Osman recognized the
ornately engraved Coptic Christian cross that hung on a chain round his
neck.

He is Abyssinian, Osman realized.  Why would he dissemble?  Are they
spying on us as we are on them?  He smiled at the man.  "What you have
told me has been of great value.  For this I thank you.  When do you
begin your next journey?"

"Great Khalif, three days hence I leave with two hundred camels laden
with rock salt from the pans at al-Glosh."

"What is your destination?"

"I travel to the new city of Addis Ababa in the hills, where I purpose
to barter my salt for ingots of copper."

"Go with God, good merchant."

"Stay with God, mighty Atalan, and may angels guard your sleep."

When the caravan owner left the audience hall, Osman gestured al-Noor
to his side.  When the aggagier knelt beside him he whispered, "The
merchant is a spy.  Kill him.  Do it secretly and with cunning.  None
must learn who delivered the blow."

"As you order, so shall it be done."

The staff left the hall, each making an obeisance to the Khalif as he
passed, but when al-Jamal rose to follow them Osman said curtly, "Sit
by me.  We shall talk a while."

By this time Rebecca could act the part of a concubine.  The Mahdi had
taught her how to please an Arab master.  Flattery was the one sure way
to achieve it.  She was always astonished at how they would accept the
most extravagant hyperbole as nothing more than their due.  While she
spouted this nonsense she could efface herself and keep her true
feelings hidden.  She sat as he had ordered and, with her face veiled,
waited for him to speak.

"Remove your veil," he said.  "I wish to see your face while we
discourse."  She obeyed.  He studied her features in silence for a
while, then asked, "Why do you smile?"

"Because, my lord, I am happy to be in your presence.  It gives me
great pleasure to serve you."

"Are all the women in your country like you?"

"We speak the same language, but none of us is like the others.  Great
Khalif, I am sure your women are no different."

"Our women are all the same.  The reason for their existence is to
please their husbands."

"Then they are fortunate, great Atalan, especially those who have the
honour to belong to you."

"How did you learn to read and write?"

"My lord, I was taught to do so from an early age."

"Your father did not forbid this?"

"Nay, sweet master, he encouraged it."

Osman shook his head with disapproval.  "What of his wives?  Did he
allow them to indulge in such dangerous practice?"

"My father had one wife, and she was my mother.  When she died he never
remarried."

"How many concubines?"

"None, exalted Khalif."

"Then he must have been very poor, and of little standing in this
world."

"My father was the representative of our queen, and well beloved by
her.  I have a letter from Her Majesty that says so."

"If the Queen truly loved him, she should have sent him a dozen wives
to replace the old one."  Osman was fascinated by her replies, each of
which led him immediately to another question.  He found it difficult
to imagine a land where it rained almost every day and was so cold that
the raindrops turned to white salt before they hit the ground.

"What do the people drink?  Why do they not die of thirst if the water
turns to saltV

"My master, before very long the snow turns back to water."

Osman looked up to the spade-shaped windows.  "The sun has set.

You must follow me to my quarters.  I wish to hear more of these
wonders."

Rebecca's spirits quailed.  Since she had been taken into his zenana,
she had been able to avoid this confrontation.  She smiled prettily,
and covered her mouth with one hand as she had seen the other women do
when overcome with shyness.  "Again you fill my heart with joy, noble
lord.  To be with you is all in this life that gives me pleasure."

The cooks brought up the evening meal to his quarters while Osman
prayed alone on the terrace, which commanded a grand vista of distant
mountains.  As soon as he had completed the complicated ritual he
dismissed the cooks, and ordered Rebecca to serve his food, but showed
little interest in it.  He took a few mouthfuls, then made her sit at
his feet and eat from his leavings.

He continued to ply her with questions, and listened intently to her
replies, hardly allowing her a chance to swallow before he asked the
next question.  Some time in the early hours of the morning she slumped
over and fell into a deep sleep on the cushions from sheer exhaustion.
When she awoke it was dawn and she was stretched out still fully
dressed on his angareb.  She wondered how she had got there, then
remembered her dream of being a small girl again and her father
carrying her up the stairs to bed.  Had the Khalif carried her to bed?
she wondered.  If he had, that was some small miracle of
condescension.

She heard excited shouts and galloping hoofs from below the terrace and
rose from the bed, went to the window and looked down.  In the
courtyard Osman Atalan and some of his aggagiers were trying out a
string of unbroken three-year-old horses that had been the gift of the
governor of Gallabat.  Penrod Ballantyne, almost indistinguishable from
the Arabs, was up on a frisky bay colt that was bucking furiously
around the yard with arched back and stiff legs.  Osman and his other
aggagiers shouted with laughter and offered ribald advice.

These days, whenever Rebecca laid eyes on Penrod her emotions were
thrown into uproar.  He was a heartbreaking reminder of that long-ago
existence from which she had been snatched so untimely.  Did she still
love him, as she had once thought she did?  She was not sure.  Nothing
was certain any longer.  Except that the man who stood at the opposite
end of the yard now ruled her destiny.  She stared at Osman Atalan, and
the despair she thought she had subdued returned in full force to
overwhelm her like a dark wave.

She turned from the window and stared at the Webley revolver that lay
on a side table across the room.  She had seen the Khalif place it
there before he went to his prayers the previous night.  It had
probably been taken from a dead British officer at Abu Klea or perhaps
even looted at the sack of Khartoum.

She crossed the room and picked it up.  She opened the action and saw
that every chamber was fully loaded.  She snapped it shut and turned to
the mirror on the facing wall.  She stared at her image as she cocked
and lifted the pistol to point at her own temple.  She stood like that
trying to summon that last grain of determination to press the
trigger.

Then she noticed in the mirror the initials engraved discreetly in the
butt plate of the weapon.  She lowered it and examined the inscription.
"D.  W. B. From S. I. B. With love," she read.  "David Wellington
Benbrook from Sarah Isabel Benbrook."

This had been her mother's gift to her father.  She hurled it from her
and ran from the room, back to the zenama to find Nazeera, the only
person in the world to whom she could turn.

Penrod sat the colt easily and let him work himself into a lather as he
whipped from side to side with long elastic jumps, then stood on his
hind legs and pawed at the sky.  When the colt lost his balance and
toppled backwards, the watching aggagiers shouted and al-Noor beat on
his leather shield with his scabbard.  But Penrod jumped clear, still
holding the long rein.  With a convulsive heave the colt came up again
on all four legs, and before he could break away, Penrod sprang lightly
on to his bare back.  The colt stood on planted hoofs and shivered with
outrage and frustration at being unable to rid himself of the
unfamiliar weight.

"Open the gates!"  Penrod shouted, to the captain of the city guard,
then lashed the colt across the shoulder with the end of the reins.  He
sprang into startled flight, and Penrod turned him towards the open
gates.  They flew through and out into the lane, scattering chickens,
dogs and children, skirted the souk, then ran out into the open
country, still at full gallop.  Almost an hour later horse and rider
returned.  Penrod walked the colt round the courtyard, turning him left
and right, halting him, making him back up and stand at last.  He threw
one leg over his neck and dropped to the ground, stood at the colt's
head and stroked his sweat-drenched neck.

"What think you, Abadan Riji?"  Osman Atalan called down from the
terrace.  "Is this a horse fit for an aggagier?"

"He is strong and swift, and he learns quickly," Penrod responded.

"Then he is my gift to you," said the Khalif.

Penrod was astonished at this mark of approval.  It enhanced his status
yet again.  He lacked only a sword to be counted a full warrior of the
Beja.  He clenched his right fist and held it to his heart in a gesture
of respect and gratitude.  "I am not worthy of such liberality.  I
shall name him Ata min Khalif, the Gift of the Khalif."

The following day Penrod loaded his ivory tusk on to one of the
packhorses and carried it down to the souk.  For an hour he sat
drinking coffee and haggling with a trader from Suakin.  In the end he
sold the tusk for two hundred and fifty Maria Theresa dollars.

When he had entered the souk he had passed the stall of a fat Persian.
In pride of place among the merchant's wares a sword was laid out on a
sheepskin fleece.  Now Penrod came back to him.  He examined all his
other stock, showing particular interest in a matched necklace and
earrings of polished amber, and avoided glancing at the sword.  He
haggled the price of the amber jewellery, and drank so many more cups
of coffee that his bladder ached.  In the end he struck a bargain at
three Maria Theresas for the necklace.  He bid the Persian farewell,
and was leaving his stall when his eye fell at last upon the sword. The
Persian smiled: he had known all along where Penrod's true interest
lay.

The slim curved blade was of the finest Damascus steel, unembellished
by gold engravings and inscriptions for the graceful wavy patterns in
the metal, caused by the strip forgings, were sufficient ornamentation.
This was not a pretty bauble but a true killing blade.  With the bright
edge Penrod shaved a patch of hair off his forearm, then flicked his
wrist.  The steel sang like a crystal glass.  It cost him seventy-five
Maria Theresas, the equivalent price-of two pretty Galla slave girls.

Three days later Osman Atalan held an audience in the great tent that
had been set up at the edge of the city.  Penrod waited his turn among
the supplicants, then knelt before the Khalif.  "What more do you
require of me, Abadan Riji?"  Osman asked, and his tone was sharp and
brittle as flint.

"I beg the mighty and noble Atalan to accept the gift of one he has
honoured with his benevolence."  He placed the roll of sheepskin at
Osman's feet.

Osman unwrapped it and smiled when he saw the lovely weapon.  "This is
a fine gift and one that I accept with pleasure."  He handed the sword
back to Penrod.  "Carry it for me.  If you must use it, use it
wisely."

Between them they had reached a compromise.  The slave was still a
slave, but accoutred like a warrior.

Rebecca sat at the Khalif s feet each day, recording the proceeds in
the audience hall.  Every evening she was sent back to the zenana in
the governor's palace.  At first his indifference was a relief to her,
but after three days it irked her.  Had she given him offence by
falling asleep in his presence, or bored and annoyed him with
garrulousness, she wondered.  Or am I just unattractive to him?  It
really does not matter what he feels.  Only what happens to Amber and
Nazeera, and of course to me also.  Endlessly she and Nazeera discussed
this predicament, which involved them all so intricately and
intimately.  Their well-being and even their lives were in the Khalifs
hands.  From hating the thought of allowing Osman Atalan to touch her,
Rebecca began to fear that he would not do so.

Nazeera held up to her the example of his fourth wife Zamatta.  "She
was unable to hold his interest.  And so, even though she is a relative
of the Khalifat Abdullahi, he sent her back to Omdurman as soon as she
had a babe in her belly.  She may never see him again, and will
probably pass the entire remainder of her life locked in the zenana.
Beware, al-Jamal.  If he rejects you, you may not be so fortunate as
Zamatta.  He might sell you, or give you to some old emir or sheikh who
smells like a goat.  And Amber what will he do with her?  The Khalifat
likes children, young children.  He would welcome her into his own
harem, if Osman Atalan offered her to him.  You must strive to please
him.  I shall teach you how, for I have some small experience in these
matters."

With these threats as an incentive Rebecca determined to pay full
attention to Nazeera's advice and instruction.

The following afternoon Nazeera returned from a visit to the souk, and
displayed her purchase: the tusk from the lower jaw of a hippopotamus.
"We shall use this as a tool of instruction," she informed Rebecca.
"There is much demand for toys such as this among the women of the
harem and zenana who do not see their husbands from one feast of
Ramadan to the next.  They call them the jinn of the angareb.  The
Khalif Atalan has different tastes from those of the Divine Mahdi. Your
mouth and sweet lips alone will not suffice.  He will require more of
you than the Mahdi ever did."  She held up the tusk.  "The Khalif will
be this shape, but if he is so large you will be blessed indeed."
Nazeera went on to demonstrate her artistry.

Rebecca would never have dreamt that some of the behaviour Nazeera
described between man and woman was possible, and she found herself
becoming more interested in the subject than the cold contemplation of
survival required.  She thought about it a great deal at night before
she slept, and if Amber had not been lying beside her on the same
angareb she might have indulged in some preliminary experimentation
with the ivory toy.

However, it seemed that Osman Atalan had lost interest in her even
before he had pursued their relationship to its full potential.
Eventually he finished questioning the last of the witnesses.  He was
about to leave the audience hall without having acknowledged her, when
unexpectedly he turned to one of his viziers.  "This evening the
concubine al-Jamal will serve my evening meal.  See to it."

Although she kept her eyes downcast Rebecca felt a lift of intense
relief, tempered by a stirring of trepidation.  I must play the game
that Nazeera has taught me to arouse his carnal passions, and make our
lives secure, she thought, then tried to suppress the flutter of
excitement in the pit of her stomach.  It seemed, however, that this
particular evening the Khalif's passions were more conversational than
concupiscent.  He gave her little opportunity to try out her freshly
acquired knowledge.

"I know that in your country the ruler is a woman," he said, before he
had finished eating.

"Yes.  Victoria is our queen."

"Does she rule firmly and are her laws strong?"

"She does not make the laws.  The laws are made by Parliament."

"Ah!"  said the Khalif knowingly.  "So Parliament is her husband, and
he makes the laws.  That is clever of him.  He must be cunning and
wise.  I knew that a man must be behind it all.  I should like to write
a letter to Lord Parliament."

"Parliament is not a single man.  It is an assembly of the people."

"The common people make the laws?  Do you mean the cooks and grooms,
the carpenters and masons, the beggars, fellahin and grave-diggers?
Anyone of this riffraff can make a law?  Surely this is not
possible."

Rebecca struggled for half of the rest of the night to explain an
electoral system of government and the democratic process.  When
finally she succeeded Osman was appalled.  "How can warriors like those
Englishmen I have fought allow this obscenity to exist?"  He was silent
for a while as he paced the floor.  Then he stopped in front of her,
and his tone was diffident, as though he feared her answer.  "Women
also have this thing you call a vote?"

"Women do not have a voice.  No woman may cast a vote," she replied.

Osman placed his fists on his hips and laughed triumphantly.  "Ha!  Now
at least I can still respect my enemies.  At least your men keep
control of their wives.  But tell me, please.  You say your ruler is a
woman.  Does she not have a voice, a vote?"

"I - I don't know.  I don't think so."

"You Franks!"  He clutched his head theatrically.  "Are you mad?  Or is
it me alone?"

Rebecca found that she was beginning to enjoy herself.  Like a pack of
hunting dogs, their discussion ranged over wide territory and started
some extraordinary game.  This was like the unrestricted and open-ended
discussions in which her father had indulged her.  Beyond the open
windows the cocks crowed at dawn while she was still trying to explain
to him that the Atlantic Ocean was wider than the Nile or even, in
God's Name, Lake Tana.  When he sent her back to the harem unmolested,
her relief was tempered by a strange feeling of inadequacy.

Before she joined Amber on the mattress she held up the oil lamp and
studied herself in the small mirror.  Most men find me appealing, she
reminded herself, and thought of Ryder Courtney and Penrod Ballantyne.
So why does this savage treat me like another man?  she wondered.

The next morning she watched with Amber and the rest of the women from
the terrace of the harem as Osman Atalan rode out at the head of a band
of his aggagiers on a hawking expedition along the eastern border.

"Look!"  cried Amber.  "There is Captain Ballantyne.  They say that the
Khalif gave him that horse.  On him the jibba looks as dashing as a
cavalry dolman.  He is so handsome, would you not agree, Becky?"

Rebecca had barely noticed Penrod but she made a non-committal sound
while she followed with her eyes the elegant, exotic figure at the head
of the cavalcade of horsemen.  He is as fierce and dangerous as the
falcon on his wrist, she thought.

Osman Atalan was gone from the city for almost ten days.  When he
returned he sent for Rebecca.  He stood behind her shoulder as he
directed her to draw a detailed map of the ground he had covered in his
foray across the Abyssinian border.  When she had completed it to his
satisfaction, he dismissed her.  Then he called her back from the door,
"You will attend me after evening prayers.  I want to discuss with you
certain matters that interest me."

When she found Nazeera in the harem, she whispered the news to her. "He
wants me to go to him again this evening, Nazeera.  What shall I do?"

Nazeera saw the colour in her cheeks.  "I am sure you will think of
something," she said.  "Now I will prepare your bath."  She poured a
liberal measure of attar of roses and sandalwood essence into the
pitchers of hot water, then rummaged through the chests to choose a
robe fitting to the occasion from the wardrobe that the Mahdi had
provided for Rebecca.

"You can see through it," Amber protested, when Rebecca put it on.
"With the lamp behind you it makes you seem nakedV She placed a
powerful pejorative emphasis on the last word.  "You will look like a
belly-dancer!"

"I shall wear my woollen shawl over it, and keep myself covered
throughout the dinner," Rebecca reassured her.

As soon as they were alone in his quarters, the Khalif picked up the
subject of their conversation of ten days previously, as though it had
not been interrupted.  "So this large water you call the ocean is
alive.  It moves backwards and forwards, and leaps up and down.  Is
that not what you told me?"

"Indeed, mighty Atalan, at times it is like a ravening beast with the
strength of a thousand elephants.  It can overwhelm ships fifty times
larger than any that voyage on the Nile as though they were dried
leaves."

He looked into her eyes to discover if there was any truth at all in
these improbable statements.  All he found were points of light, like
those in the depths of a sapphire.  This diverted his train of thought
and he took her chin and lifted it to gaze deeply into her eyes.  His
hands were strong and his fingers hard as bone from sword-play and from
handling his hawks and horses.

He made her feel helpless and vulnerable.  I must remember everything
Nazeera has taught me.  She felt her loins melt lubriciously.  This
might be the only opportunity he will ever give me.

"I shall send an expedition of a thousand of my most intrepid men to
find this wild water and bring it back in large skins," Osman
announced.  "I will pour it into the Nile to overwhelm the British
steamers when next they sail upriver to attack us."

She was touched by his naivety.  Sometimes it was like talking to a
small child.  Not for the first time she felt an extraordinary
tenderness towards him, which she had forcibly to suppress.  This is no
child.  This is a shrewd, ruthless, arrogant tyrant.  I am completely
at his mercy.  Why did that thought excite her, she wondered.  But
before she could decide the answer he made another disconcerting change
of subject.

"But I have heard that their steamers are able to voyage on the land
further and faster than the bravest horse.  Is this true?"

"It is true, mighty Khalif.  These carriages are different from the
river steamers and are called steam locomotives."  It took her a few
moments to rally her thoughts, and she described how she had journeyed
from

London to Portsmouth in a single day, including a stop for refreshment.
"That is a distance greater than from Metemma to Khartoum."  Her voice
was husky and disturbed.  He still held her chin, but now he stroked
her cheek and touched a lock of her hair.  She was surprised at the
gentleness of his hard fingers, this savage warrior from the primal
deserts.

"What unguent do you use to keep your skin and hair so soft?"  he
asked.

"This is how I was born."

"It grows dark.  Light the lamps so that I may see you more clearly."

She remembered how Amber had disapproved of the transparency of the
silk she wore.  She slipped the light woollen shawl off her shoulder as
she stood up, and tossed it over the table as she went to take a taper
from the fire pot.  She cupped the flame in her hands and carried it
across to the lamp.  It caught, then burnt brightly; the warm yellow
light chased the shadows along the walls.  She lingered there a little
longer, trimming the wick until the flame was burning evenly.  Her back
was turned to him, but she was aware of the picture she made.  I am
acting like a harlot, she thought, then seemed to hear her father's
voice: "It's an honourable profession.  The oldest in the world."  She
smiled in confusion as the ghost voice went on, delivering his often
repeated advice to her: "Whatever you do, do it to the very best of
your ability."  It was a blessing.

"I shall try, Daddy," she replied inwardly, and at that she felt a
touch.  She had not heard Osman Atalan cross the room behind her.  His
hands on her shoulders were strong and steady.  She smelt him.  It was
a good smell like a well-groomed horse or a cat.  Muslim men of his
rank bathed as many times in a day as an Englishman did in a month.

She stood submissively as his hands ran down from her shoulders, under
her armpits, then reached in front of her to take her breasts.  They
filled each of his hands.  He took her nipples and rolled them between
his fingers, then pinched them until she gasped.  The pressure was
skilfully applied, just sufficient to startle and arouse her without
inflicting pain.  Then he pulled her back against him.  It was some
moments before she realized that he had shed his jibba and was now
naked.  Through the silk of her robe she could feel the hard muscular
length of his body pressing against her back.  Tentatively she pushed
back with her buttocks, and found conclusive proof that he did not find
her repellent.  With Nazeera's advice and instruction still sharp in
her mind, Rebecca stood without moving as she appraised that which the
Khalif was pressing against her.  It seemed to be of similar shape to
Nazeera's hippo tusk, and it was certainly every bit as hard.

She turned slowly in his arms and looked down.  It seems that I am to
be blessed indeed, she thought.  Like the ivory tusk, he was smooth and
slightly curved.  She touched him, then encompassed him with her hand.
Her fingers were barely able to meet round his girth.  She made the
movements of her hand that Nazeera had demonstrated and felt him throb
and leap in her grip.

"Great Khalif, in your manly attributes you are peerless and
imperial."

He took the word 'imperial' as a comparison to the Light of the World,
Muhammad el Mahdi, who now sat at the right hand of Allah, and he was
well pleased.  "I am your stallion," he said.

"And I am your filly, in awe of your strength and majesty.  Treat me
gently, I beg you, sweet lord."

She continued to hold him.  She expected him to pounce upon her as
Ryder Courtney had done, but his restraint surprised, then titillated
her.  She kept her grip on him as he undressed her, and was still
holding him as she fell back on his mattress.  She attempted to direct
him to her source, using both hands and coming up on her elbows so she
could watch him disappear inside her.  But he resisted her urging, and
began to examine her as though she were indeed a thoroughbred filly,
turning her this way and that, lifting each limb in turn, admiring and
caressing them.  It was at first flattering to be at the centre of his
attention, but he was so unhurried and deliberate that she became
impatient.  She longed for the delicious sensation of being deeply
invaded that she had last known with Ryder Courtney.

Still he lingered over her, taking his time so deliberately that she
felt she must scream in her desperation.  She had once owned a tabby
cat named Butter.  In her season Butter would yowl and sob to attract
feline admirers.  Rebecca understood that imperative now.  How many
thou-sand women has he known?  she wondered.  For him there is no
urgency.  He cares not at all that he is causing me such distress.

She tugged at him again with both hands.  "I beg of you, great Atalan,
lack of you is torture beyond my ability to endure.  Please be merciful
and end it now."

"You asked me to treat you gently," he reminded her, with a smile.

"I am a silly creature who does not know her own mind or nature. Forget
what I have said, my lord.  You know much better than I ever will what
must be done.  Make haste, I entreat you.  I can wait no longer."  He
did as she asked, and this time she could not forbear from screaming,
louder and longer than Butter ever had.  None of Osman Atalan's other
women had ever acknowledged his mastery in such a comprehensive vocal
fashion.  He was flattered and amused.

He did not dismiss her on rising, as was his habit, but kept her beside
him as he ate his breakfast.  Soon none of the other concubines he had
brought with him from Omdurman were honoured by a summons to his
private quarters.  Rebecca took up almost permanent abode in them.  She
did not bore him, as the others were wont to do.

Once Osman Atalan had assembled all the expert first-hand information
of the local guides and hunters and traders, he employed Rebecca's
artistic skills and penmanship to incorporate it into a large-scale map
of the border and the disputed country immediately beyond, where he
expected one day soon to do battle with the Ethiopians.  He gave a
tracing of this map to Penrod and sent him out on a scouting mission to
check it against the terrain.  He could not entrust this task to any of
his aggagiers: for all their loyalty and dedication to him, none was
more than barely literate and none possessed more than a vestige of
map-reading skills.  However, to exclude any from such an important
expedition would be to afford them deep insult.

On the other hand he was still not certain how far out of his sight he
could trust the slave Abadan Riji.  He solved this delicate problem by
selecting al-Noor and six other aggagiers to accompany him, ostensibly
as his jailers but in reality as his bodyguard.  Osman left them in no
doubt that they should accede to the reasonable orders and directions
of Abadan Riji in the accomplishment of the objects of the expedition.
On the other hand if they returned to Gallabat without their charge, he
would decapitate them.

After his scouts had left, Osman Atalan remained at Gallabat to review
with the Dervish governor the state of his province, also to receive
the Abyssinian emissaries from Aksum.  Emperor John was anxious to
discern the true reason for the presence of such an important Dervish
on his borders.  His ambassadors brought valuable gifts, and assurances
of mutual peace and goodwill.  Osman sent back a message that as soon
as the season of the big rains ended he would travel to Gondar to meet
the emperor.

Meanwhile the thunderstorms raged daily over the mountains, affording
him ample opportunity for prolonged discourse with his new favourite.

Penrod's expedition left Gallabat in the middle of the morning, just as
soon as the rain of the previous night had blown over and the sun
broken out between the high cumulus-nimbus cloud mountains.  They were
as lightly equipped as a tribal raiding party.  Each man carried his
own weapons and bedroll on the pommel of his saddle, while three pack
mules brought up the rear with leather bags of provisions and cooking
pots bouncing on their backs.  Half a mile beyond the last buildings of
the town they came upon a group of five women sitting beside the track.
They were engaged in the endless feminine pastime of hairdressing. This
was the equivalent of the aggagiers' sword-honing, and filled their
idle hours, of which there were many.

It was not possible for an Arab woman to arrange her hair alone: it was
a social enterprise that involved all her close companions.  The
styling was elaborate and might take two or three days of patient,
skilled creation.  In the year that Amber had lived in the harem she
had learnt the art so well that, with her nimble fingers and eye for
detail, her skills were much in demand among the other women of Osman
Atalan's zenana; so much so that she was able to charge a fee of two or
three Maria Theresas, depending on the labour required.

First, the hair had to be combed out.  It was usually wiry, matted with
congealed cosmetics and twisted into tight curls from its previous
dressing.  Amber used a long skewer to separate the strands.  After
that she employed a coarse wooden comb to bring about some order to the
dense tresses.  All these preliminaries might occupy a full day, which
was enlivened by laughter and the exchange of juicy morsels of scandal
and gossip.

Once it was possible to burrow down as far as the scalp, a hunt for
trespassers was conducted in which everyone participated.  The sport
was accompanied by cries of triumph and shrieks of delight as the
scurrying vermin were hunted down and crushed between the fingernails.
Once the field had been cleared, Amber dressed the locks with a
concoction of oil of roses, myrrh, dust of sandalwood, and powder of
cloves and cassia mixed with mutton fat.  Then the most delicate part
of the operation took place.  The hair was twisted into hundreds of
tiny tight plaits and set with a liberal application of sticky gum
arabic and dhurra paste.  This was allowed to dry until it was stiff as
toffee.  On the final day each tiny plait was carefully unpicked with
the long tortoise shell skewer, and allowed to stand on its own, free
and proud, so the woman's head appeared twice its normal size.  The
finished work was usually greeted with squeals of admiration and
approbation.  After ten days the entire process was repeated, affording
Amber a steady income.

This morning Amber was so intent on her work that she was not aware of
the approaching band of aggagiers until they were less than a hundred
paces off.  All present were now placed in an invidious situation. Here
were five of the Khalif Osman Atalan's women, unveiled and
unchaperoned, except by each other, about to be confronted by a war
party of the same Khalif's trusted warriors.  The correct and
diplomatic behaviour would have been for both sides to ignore the
presence of the other, and for the aggagiers to pass by as though they
were as invisible as the breeze.

"Captain Ballantyne!"  screamed Amber, and jumped to her feet, leaving
the skewer sticking from her customer's bushy curls.  She flew down the
road to meet him.  None of the women knew quite what to do.  So they
giggled and did nothing.  Al-Noor, at the head of the band of horsemen,
was in a similar predicament.  He scowled ferociously and glanced at
Penrod.  Penrod ignored both him and Amber and rode on
expressionlessly.  Al-Noor could think of no rules to cover this
situation.  Al-Zahra was still a child, not a woman.  She was in sight
of four other women, and six warriors.  By no stretch of the
imagination could she be in any danger of violation.  In the event of
any repercussions all the others present were in equal guilt.  In the
last resort, he could plead with the Khalif that Abadan Riji was the
leader of the band and therefore responsible for any breach of
etiquette or custom.  He stared straight ahead and pretended that this
was not happening.

"Penrod Ballantyne, this is the first opportunity I have had to speak
to you since Khartoum.  "Amber danced along beside Ata.

"And you know very well why."  Penrod spoke from the corner of his
mouth.  "You must go back to the other women or we shall both be in
serious trouble."

"The women think you very dashing.  They would never tell on us."  They
were speaking English, and Penrod was sure that none of the aggagiers
understood a word of it.

"Then take a message to your sister.  Tell Rebecca that I will seize
the first opportunity to arrange your escape, and bring both of you to
safety."

"We know that you will never let us down."

His expression softened: she was so pretty and winsome.  "How are you,
Amber?  Are you bearing up?"

"I was very sick, but Rebecca and Nazeera saved me.  I am well now."

"I can see that.  How is your sister?"

"She is also well."  Amber wished he would not keep harking back to
Rebecca.

"I have a little gift for you," said Penrod.  Surreptitiously he
slipped his hand into the saddlebag and found the amber necklace and
earrings he had bought in the souk.  He had wrapped them in a scrap of
tanned sheepskin.  He did not hand them to her directly but dropped
them into the road, using his horse to conceal the move from the other
aggagiers.

"Wait until we have gone before you pick it up," he instructed her,
'and don't let the other women see you do it."  He pressed his heels
into Ata's flanks and rode on.  Amber watched him out of sight.  The
eyes of the other women also followed the band of horsemen.  Amber
scooped up the small roll of sheepskin.  She could barely contain
herself until she was alone in the zenana before she opened it.  When
she did she was almost overcome with delight.

"It is the most beautiful gift I have ever had."  She showed it to
Rebecca and Nazeera.  "Do you think he really likes me, Becky?"

"It is a very handsome gift, darling," Rebecca agreed, 'and I am sure
he likes you very much."  She chose her words carefully.  "As does
everyone who knows you."

"I wish I could grow up soon.  Then he would no longer treat me as a
child," said Amber wistfully.

Rebecca hugged her hard and felt her tears just below the surface.  At
times like this the peril of their situation and her sense of
responsibility towards Amber was a burden almost too heavy for her to
bear.  If you do to this beautiful child what you did to me, Penrod
Ballantyne, she vowed silently, I shall kill you with my bare hands and
dance on your grave.

The principal object of the expedition into Abyssinian territory was to
scout the three main mountain passes through which any army coming down
from the highlands to the relief of Gondar would have to march.

The major combe in the mountain chain was the gorge of the Atbara
river.  Although the ground on the north bank of this river was
precipitous and guarded by sheer rock cliffs, the slope of the south
bank was less demanding.  The ancient trade route ran along this side
of the river.  It took Penrod's party almost three weeks to reach the
mouth of the pass.  It rained heavily almost every night, and during
the day the rivers and streams were swollen, the ground sodden and
swampy.  The going was so heavy that on some days they covered less
than ten miles.  The aggagiers suffered cruelly from the wet and cold,
to which they were unaccustomed.

Once they reached the Atbara gorge they climbed the slope of the south
bank and about three hundred feet above the level of the river they
came upon a saucer of ground that was hidden from any traveller on the
caravan road below.  A tiny stream ran down the middle of this hollow.
Fresh green grass grew along both banks of the stream.  They had driven
the horses and mules hard, and Penrod decided to rest them for a few
days while he observed any traffic coming down through the pass.

Each morning Penrod and al-Noor climbed to the lip of the saucer and
took up a position in a patch of dense scrub just below the skyline. On
the first two days they saw no sign of any human activity.  The only
living creatures were a pair of black eagles who had their eyrie in the
cliffs above the north bank of the river: they were curious about the
two men and came sailing along the hills on their immense wings to pass
close over their heads as they crouched in the scrub.  During the rest
of the day they were often in sight, carrying hare and small antelope
in their talons to their young in the shaggy pile of their nest.

Apart from these birds, the mountains seemed barren and deserted, the
silence so complete that the mournful cry of the eagles carried clearly
to them, although the birds were mere specks in the blue vault of cloud
and sky.

Towards evening on the third day Penrod was roused from a drowsy
reverie by another alien sound.  At first he thought it might be a fall
of rock rattling down the hillside.  Then he was startled to hear the
faint sound of human voices.  He reached for his telescope and scanned
the caravan road as far as the first bend of the pass.  He saw nothing,
but over the next half-hour the sounds grew louder, and when the echoes
picked them up and accentuated them he was no longer in any doubt that
a large caravan was threading its way down the pass.  He lay on his
belly and focused the spyglass on the head of the pass.  Suddenly a
pair of mules appeared in the field of his lens.  They were heavily
laden, followed immediately by another pair, then a third, until
finally he counted a hundred and twenty beasts of burden and their
drovers descending along the riverbank towards the vale of Gondar.

"A rich prize."  The sight had woken the bandit instincts in al-Noor
and he watched the caravan hungrily.  "Who can say what is in those
sacks?  Silver Maria Theresas?  Gold sovereigns?  Enough for each of us
to afford a hundred camels and a dozen beautiful slave girls.  Paradise
enow!"

"Paradise indeed!  Who could ask for more?"  Penrod agreed, grim-faced.
"If we lifted a finger to these good merchants, Abyssinia would be
thrown into uproar.  The plans of the exalted Khalif Atalan would be
frustrated, and you and I would be sent to Paradise without our
testicles with which to enjoy its pleasures.  All things in their
season, al-Noor."

Slowly the leading mules of the column came closer until they were
passing directly below Penrod's lookout.  Three men were bringing up
the rear.  Penrod studied them.  One was a young lad, the second was
short and pudgy and the third was a powerfully built rascal, who looked
as if he could give good account of himself in a fracas.  As they rode
closer still, their features became more distinct, and Penrod almost
let out an exclamation of surprise.  He checked the outburst before it
passed his lips.  He did not want to arouse curiosity in al-Noor.  He
looked again more carefully and this time there could be no doubt.
Ryder Courtney!  His mind had difficulty accepting what his eyes had
seen.

He moved the lens to the plump figure who rode at Ryder's left side.
Bacheet, the fat rogue!

Then he turned his lens to the third person, a stripling dressed in
baggy crimson trousers, a bright green coat with long skirts and a
wide-brimmed yellow hat that seemed to have been designed in anger or
in a state of mental confusion.  The boy was laughing at something
Courtney had said.  But the laughter had a decidedly feminine lilt, and
Penrod started, then controlled himself.  Saffron!  Saffron Benbrook!
It seemed impossible.  He had believed she must have perished with her
father in Khartoum.  The thought had been too painful to contemplate
squarely, and he had pushed it to the back of his mind.  Now here she
was, as lively as a grasshopper and pretty as a butterfly despite her
outlandish garb.

"They are on their way down to Gondar from either Aksum or Addis
Ababa."  Al-Noor gave his opinion morosely, still mourning the fortune
in camels and nubile wenches that he was being forced to pass by.

"They are going into camp," said Penrod, as the head of the long column
turned aside from the route and drew up on a clear, level stretch of
ground above the bank of the Atbara.  He looked at the height of the
sun.  There would be at least another two hours of light by which to
travel, but Ryder was setting up his camp.  While the herders cut
fodder from the riverbank and carried it back in bundles to feed the
mules, the servants erected a large dining and sitting tent and two
smaller sleeping tents.  They set out a pair of folding chairs in front
of the fire.  Ryder Courtney travelled in comfort and style.

Just as the sun set and the light began to fade Penrod saw Ryder,
accompanied by Saffron, who had divested herself of the yellow hat,

making his rounds of the camp and posting his sentries.  Penrod made a
careful note of the position of each guard.  He had seen that they were
armed with muzzle-loaders, and he could be certain these were filled
with a mixture of pot-legs, rusted nails and assorted musket balls, all
of which would be unpleasant missiles to receive in the belly at close
range.

Penrod and al-Noor kept watch on Ryder's camp until darkness obscured
it, except for the area in front of the main tent, which was dimly lit
by an oil lamp.  Penrod observed that Saffron retired early to her
small tent.  Ryder remained by the fire smoking a cheroot, for which
Penrod envied him.  At last he threw the stub in to the embers, and
went to his own bed.  Penrod waited until the lamplight had been
extinguished in both tents, then led al-Noor back to their own camp
beside the stream.  They built no fire and ate cold as ida and roast
mutton.  Firelight and the smell of smoke might warn unfriendly
strangers of their presence.

Al-Noor had been quiet since they left the ridge, but now he spoke
through a mouthful of cold food.  "I have devised a plan," he
announced.  "A plan that will make all of us rich."

"Your wisdom will be received as cool rain by the desert.  I wait in
awe for you to impart it to me," Penrod replied, with elaborate
courtesy.

"There are twenty-two Abyssinians with the caravan.  I have counted
them, but they are fat traders and merchants.  We are six, but we are
the fiercest warriors in all of Sudan.  We will go down in the night
and kill them all.  We will allow none to escape.  Then we will bury
their bodies and drive their mules back to Gallabat, and the
Abyssinians will believe that they were devoured by the djinni of the
mountains.  We will hand all the treasure to our exalted lord Atalan,
and from him we will win great preferment and riches."  Penrod was
silent, until al-Noor insisted, "What think you of my plan?"

"I can see no vice in it.  I think that you are a great and noble
shufta," Penrod replied.

Al-Noor was surprised but pleased to be called a bandit.  To an
aggagier of the Beja, the epithet was a compliment.  "Then this very
night in the time when all of them are asleep, we will go down to the
camp and do this business.  Are we agreed, Abadan Riji?"

"Once we have been given permission by the Emir Osman Atalan, may Allah
love him for ever, we will murder these fat merchants and steal their
wares."  Penrod nodded, and another long silence ensued.

Then al-Noor spoke again: "The mighty Emir Atalan, may Allah look upon
him with the utmost favour, is in Gallabat two hundred leagues to the
north.  How will it be possible to solicit his permission?"

"That is indeed a difficulty."  Penrod agreed.  "When you have found an
answer to that question, we shall discuss your plan further.  In the
meantime, Mooman Digna will take the first watch.  I shall take the
midnight shift.  You, Noor, will take the dawn watch.  Perhaps then you
will have time to consider a solution to our dilemma."  Al-Noor moved
away in dignified silence, rolled himself in his sheepskin and, within
a short while, emitted his first snore.

Penrod slept fitfully and was fully awake at Mooman Digna's first touch
on his shoulder, and his whisper, "It is time."

Penrod allowed almost an hour for the aggagiers to settle again.  He
knew from experience that once they were cocooned in their sheepskins,
they could not be easily roused to face the bitter mountain cold.  He
rose from his seat on the rock that overlooked the camp and,
barefooted, moved silently up over the lip of the ridge.  He approached
Ryder's camp with great caution.  By this time there was a slice of
crescent moon above the horizon, and the stars were bright enough for
him to pick out the sentries.  He avoided them without difficulty.  As
al-Noor had pointed out, they were not warriors.  He crept up behind
the rear wall of Ryder's tent, and squatted beside it.  He could hear
Ryder breathing heavily on the other side of the canvas, only inches
from his ear.  He scratched on the canvas with his fingernails, and the
sound of breathing was cut off immediately.

"Ryder," Penrod whispered, "Ryder Courtney!"

He heard him stir, and ask in a sleepy whisper, "Who is that?"

"Ballantyne - Penrod Ballantyne."

"Good God, man!  What on earth are you doing here?"  A wax vesta
flared, then lamplight glowed and cast a shadow on the canvas.  "Come
inside!"  Ryder urged him.

When Penrod stooped through the doorway, he was astounded.  "Is it
really you, Ballantyne?"  You look like a wild tribesman.  How did you
get here?"

"I don't have long to talk to you.  I am a prisoner of the Dervish and
under restraint.  I would appreciate it if you waste no more time on
famous questions."

"I stand corrected."  Ryder's friendly smile faded.  "I shall listen to
what you have to tell me."

"I was captured after the fall of Khartoum.  I had returned there in an
attempt to discover the fate of those who had been unable to escape,
especially David Benbrook and his family."

"I can reassure you that Saffron is with me.  We managed to get out of
Khartoum on my steamer at the last minute.  I have been trying to
contact her family in England, to send her back to them, but these
things take a great deal of time."

"I know she is with you.  I have been keeping watch on your camp.  I
saw her this evening."

"I have been waiting to receive a message from you," Ryder said.
"Bacheet met your man, Yakub, in Omdurman.  He told Yakub that Ras
Hailu could carry messages between us."

'I have not seen Yakub since the day I was captured in Omdurman.  He
did not tell me anything about a meeting with Bacheet, or about this
man Ras Hailu," Penrod said grimly, "Yakub has disappeared.  I think
that he and his uncle, a rogue named Wad Hagma, betrayed me to the
Dervish.  I was able to deal with his uncle, and Yakub is next on my
list of unfinished business."

"You cannot trust any of these people," Ryder agreed, 'no matter how
long you have known them and how well you have treated them."

"So you know, then, that David Benbrook was killed in the sack of
Khartoum, and that Rebecca and Amber were captured by the Dervish and
handed over to the Mahdi:"

"Yes.  Bacheet heard all this terrible news from Nazeera when he was
looking for you in Omdurman.  It is hard to imagine those two lovely
young Englishwomen in the clutches of that dissipated maniac.  I hope
and pray that Amber is young enough to have been spared the worst, but
Rebecca!  The good Lord alone knows what she has suffered."

"The Mahdi is dead.  He died of cholera or some other disease.  Nobody
can be certain what carried him off."

"I had not heard.  I don't suppose that will change anything.  But what
has become of Rebecca now?"  Ryder's concern was apparent.  He made
little effort to hide his feelings for Rebecca.

So Courtney has also had the benefit of Rebecca Benbrook's liberal
nature, Penrod thought cynically.  She has had so much experience now
that when she returns to London she can turn professional and ply her
trade in Charing Cross Road.  Although his pride was stung, it did not
detract from the responsibility he felt for her safety, or for that of
her little sister.  Aloud he said, "When the Mahdi died the two
sisters, Rebecca and Amber, were taken into the harem of the new Khalif
Osman Atalan."  As he said it, there was a gasp behind him, and he
turned quickly with his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

Saffron stood in the tent doorway.  She was dressed in a man's shirt,
which was many times too large for her and hung well below her knees.
She must been awakened by their voices, and had come from her own tent
just in time to overhear his last words.  The thin cloth of the shirt
was artlessly revealing, so that Penrod could not help but notice her
figure under it.  She had changed a great deal from when he had last
seen her.  Her hips and bosom were swelling and her face had lost its
childish roundness.  She was already too mature to be sharing a camp in
the remote African wilderness with a man.

"My sisters!"  Her eyes were huge with sleep and shock.  "First my
father, and now my sisters.  Ryder, you never told me that they were in
the harem.  You said they were safe.  Is there never to be an end to
this nightmare?"

"But, Saffron, they are safe.  They have not been harmed."

"How do you know that?"  she demanded.  "How can they be safe in the
den of the pagan and the barbarian?"

"I spoke to Amber not two weeks ago," Penrod intervened, to comfort
her.  "She and Rebecca are brave and are making the best of the hard
blows that Fate has dealt them.  It may seem impossible, but they are
being treated ... if not kindly then gently enough.  The Dervish see
them as valuable chattels, and they will want to preserve their
worth."

"But for how long?  We have to do something.  Especially for Amber. She
is so sweet and sensitive.  She is not strong like Rebecca and me. We
have to rescue her."

"That is why I am here," Penrod told her.  "It is the most incredible
good fortune that I stumbled across your path.  It must be one chance
in a million.  But now that we have met we can plan the rescue of your
sisters."

"Is that possible?  Abyssinia, where we are now, is primitive and
backward, but at least the people are Christians.  The Sudan is hell on
earth, ruled by demons.  No white man or woman can remain there long
with any chance of survival."

"I will be going back," said Penrod.  "I can stay with you only a few
minutes more, and then I am going to do what I can for your sisters.
But if I am to get them out of the Sudan, I will need all your help."
Penrod turned back to Ryder.  "Can I count on you?"

"I feel insulted that you need to ask," said Ryder, stiffly.

It was amazing how quickly the two of them could give and take offence,
Saffron thought angrily.  In these dreadful circumstances why did they
have to bicker and posture?  Why were men always so pigheaded and
arrogant?  "Captain Ballantyne, we will help you," she promised, 'in
every way within our power."

Penrod noticed that she used the plural 'we' with the proprietary air
of a wife.  Penrod wondered if she had good reason to do so.  The idea
was repugnant: despite appearances Saffron was still a child.  And a
man like Ryder Courtney would never molest her.

"I can waste no more time," he said.  "I must return to my keepers, if
my delicate position of trust with the Dervish is not to be
compromised.  We have much to plan.  First, we must be able to contact
each other and exchange news and plans.  Tell me about Ras Hailu."

"He was my friend and trading partner," Ryder explained.  "He used to
travel to Omdurman in his dhow two or three times a year to trade with
the Dervish.  Tragically he fell foul of the Mahdi, who accused him of
spying for Emperor John.  He was executed in Omdurman.  I have no other
agents in the Sudan."

"Well, we shall have to set up some new line of communication.  Do not
to try to contact me directly, for I am carefully watched at all times.
You must try to get any message to Nazeera.  She is allowed much
freedom of movement.  I shall try to arrange for a messenger of my own.
There are other European captives in Omdurman.  One of them is Rudolf
Slatin, who was the Egyptian governor of Dongola.  He is a resourceful
fellow, and I suspect that he has ways of communicating with the
outside world.  If I am successful in finding a messenger, where will
he be able to contact you?"

Quickly Ryder gave Penrod a list of his trading posts closest to the
Sudanese border, and the names of his trusted agents there.  "Any
message they receive will be passed on to me but, as you can see, I am
forced to travel great distances in pursuit of my business affairs.  It
may take an inordinate length of time to reach me."

"Nothing happens swiftly in Africa," Penrod agreed.  "What I will ask
from you, when the time comes, is that you make the travel arrangements
to get us to the Abyssinian border as swiftly as possible.  As soon as
we leave Omdurman the entire Dervish army will be alerted, and will
pursue us relentlessly."

"The safety of Saffron's sisters takes priority over everything else,"
Ryder assured him.

"Where is the Intrepid this?"  Penrod asked.  "A steamer would be the
fastest and surest method of getting us to the border.  I should not
like to attempt a flight on camels across the desert.  The distances
are enormous and the going is killing hard on the women."

"Unfortunately I was obliged to sell the little steamer.  Now that the
upper reaches of both Niles have been closed to me by the Dervish, I
have been forced to restrict my business activities to Abyssinia and
Equatoria.  The this was of no further use to me."

"That is a great pity, but I shall devise another route."  Penrod stood
up.  "I can spend no more time with you.  Before I go, there is one
other important matter.  The reason I am here is that Abdullahi is
planning to attack Abyssinia, and seize all the disputed territories
from Gondar to Mount Horca.  He is going through all the diplomatic
motions of lulling Emperor John with overtures of friendship and peace.
But he will attack, probably after the big rains of next year.  Osman
Atalan will command the Dervish army of about thirty thousand.  His
first and main objective will be the passes here at Atbara gorge and
Minkti.  His purpose will be to prevent the Emperor coming down from
the plateau with his main forces to intervene.  I have been sent here
by Atalan, may he rot in hell, to scout the terrain over which he will
attack."

"My God!"  Ryder looked aghast.  "The Emperor has no inkling of
this."

"Do you have access to him?"  Penrod demanded.

"I do, yes.  I know him well.  I shall be seeing him immediately on my
return to Entoto in three or four months' time."

"Then give him this warning."

"I will depend on it.  He will be grateful.  I am sure he will offer
his assistance in the rescue of Rebecca and Amber," Ryder assured him.
"But tell me, Ballantyne, why do you offer him this warning?  What is
it to you if the Dervish invade this country?"

"Need you ask?  Your enemy is my enemy.  The evil that is abroad can
only be appreciated by those who have witnessed the sack of a city by
the Dervish.  You were at Khartoum?"  Ryder nodded.  "Emperor John is a
Christian monarch.  Abdullahi and his bloodthirsty maniacs must be
stopped.  Perhaps he will be able to put an end to these horrors."
Penrod turned to Saffron.  "What message can I take back to Omdurman
for your sisters?"  he asked.

Her eyes glistened with tears in the lamplight as she struggled with
her reply.  "Tell them that I love them both with all my heart, and
always shall.  Tell them to be brave.  We will help them.  We shall all
be together again soon.  But whatever happens I still love them."

"I will give them that message," Penrod promised.  "I am certain it
will be of great comfort to them."  He turned back to Ryder, and held
out his hand.  "I think we would be wise to forget our personal
differences and work together towards our common goal."

"I agree with all my heart," said Ryder, and shook the proffered
hand.

Penrod stooped over the lamp and blew out the flame, then disappeared
out into the night.

It was almost Christmas before Ryder Courtney returned to Entoto, the
capital of Abyssinia and the city where he had his main trading
compound.

"This must be the bleakest place in the world," said Saffron, as they
rode in through the city gates at the head of the caravan of mules,
'even worse than Khartoum.  Why can't we live in Gondar, Ryder?"

"Because, Miss Saffron Benbrook, in the near future you will be living
in the village of Bishop's Sutton in Hampshire with your uncle Thomas
and aunt Jane."

"You are being tiresome again, Ryder," she warned him.  "I don't want
to live in England.  I want to stay here with you."

"I am flattered."  He touched the brim of his hat.  "But, most
unfortunately for all concerned, you cannot spend the rest of your life
traipsing through the African bush like a gypsy.  You have to go back
to civilization and learn to be a lady.  Besides, people are beginning
to talk.  You are a child no longer indeed, you are a big girl now."

Ah, so you have noticed!  Saffron thought complacently.  I was
beginning to think you, Ryder Courtney, were blind.  Then, aloud, she
reiterated the promise that was usually enough to satisfy him: "I will
go back to England without any fuss when Rebecca and Amber have been
rescued," she spoke with a straight face and total insincerity, 'and
when my uncle Thomas promises to take care of us.  He has not replied
to your letters yet, and it's over a year since you first wrote," she
reminded him smugly.  "Now, let us speak of more interesting matters.
How long will we stay in Entoto, and where will we travel to next?"

"I have business here that will take some time."

"It's so cold and windy in the mountains after the warmth of the
lowlands, and there is no firewood for miles.  All the trees have been
cut down."

"You must have been talking to Empress Miriam.  She shares your opinion
of Entoto.  That's why the Emperor is moving the capital to the hot
springs at Addis Ababa.  She is a nag, just like somebody else I
know."

"I am not a nag, but sometimes I know best," said Saffron sweetly.
"Even though you treat me like a baby."

Despite her protests, the Courtney compound at Entoto was really very
comfortable and welcoming, and she had managed, with the help of
Bacheet, to make it even more so.  She had even prevailed on Ryder to
convert one of the old disused storerooms into a bedroom and studio for
her exclusive use.  It had not been easy.  Ryder was reluctant to do
anything that might give her reason to believe that her stay with him
was permanent.

In order to procure a studio Saffron had enlisted the help of Lady
Alice Packer, wife of the British ambassador to the court of the
Emperor, who had taken her under her wing.  Of course, her husband had
known David Benbrook when they had both worked under Sir Evelyn Baring
in the diplomatic agency in Cairo so she felt some responsibility for
his orphaned daughter.

Alice was an amateur artist, and when she recognized Saffron's natural
talent in the same field she had assumed the role of teacher.  She
provided Saffron with paints, brushes and art paper brought in from
Cairo in the diplomatic pouch, and taught her how to make her own
canvas stretchers and charcoal sticks.

Within the time that they had known each other Saffron had almost
outstripped her teacher.  Her portfolio contained at least fifty
lovingly wrought portraits of Ryder Courtney, most of which had been
drawn without the subject's knowledge, and she had completed numerous
African landscapes and animal sketches, which astonished both Alice and
Ryder with their maturity and virtuosity.  Recently she had commenced a
series of drawings and paintings from her memories of Khartoum and the
horrors of the siege.  They were beautiful but harrowing.  Ryder
realized that they were a form of catharsis for her, so he encouraged
her to continue with them.

Two days after their return to Entoto, Saffron made her way up to the
embassy to take tea with Alice.  She showed her tutor all the Khartoum
sketches, which they discussed at some length.  Alice wept as she
looked at them.  "These are magnificent, my dear.  I stand in awe of
your skill."

Saffron stopped repacking them and turned to Alice, her eyes full of
tears.

"What is it, Saffron?"  Alice asked kindly.  Although she had been
sworn to secrecy by Ryder, Saffron blurted out a full account of the
nocturnal meeting with Penrod Ballantyne in the Atbara gorge.  Alice
promised her husband would inform Sir Evelyn Baring at once of the
predicament of her sisters and also of Captain Ballantyne.  Saffron was
much cheered by this.  Then, as she was leaving, she asked innocently,
"If any mail for Mr.  Courtney has arrived, I would be pleased to
deliver it to him, and perhaps save one of your staff the trouble."

Alice sent down to the chancery and a secretary returned with a stack
of envelopes addressed to "Ryder Courtney Esq," care of the British
ambassador at Entoto, Abyssinia.

Saffron examined them as she walked through the town to the market. She
recognized the handwriting on the first envelope.  It was from Ryder's
nephew, Sean Courtney, at the newly discovered gold fields in the
Transvaal Republic of South Africa.  Saffron knew that Sean was
importuning his uncle to invest several thousand pounds in a new mine.
The next was a bill for goods supplied by the Army and Navy stores in
London.  The third envelope bore the seal of "The Office of the
Government Assayer of the Cape of Good Hope', and the fourth was the
one that Saffron had been dreading.  On the reverse was the
inscription:

Sender:

The Reverend Thomas Benbrook

The Vicarage

Bishop's Sutton

Hampshire.  England

She placed the other letters in her pocket, but this one she hid down
the front of her bodice.  Saffron spent less time than usual in the
market.  She bought a large bunch of wild mountain gladioli from her
favourite flower-seller.  Then she came across a handsome silver
hip-flask, which she decided might do for Ryder's birthday.  The price
was beyond her meagre resources and she was in too much of a hurry to
bargain with the merchant, so she promised to return the following
day.

She hurried back to the compound and placed the flowers in the tub
beside the kitchen door.  Then she retired to the earth closet, which
was discreetly tucked away in a corner behind the living quarters.  She
bolted the door, perched on the high seat and carefully split the seal
on the fourth envelope.  The single sheet was covered with writing on
both sides, and dated seven months earlier.  She read it avidly;

Dear Mr.  Courtney,

My wife and I were saddened to receive your letter and to hear of the
tragic murder of my brother David in Khartoum, and of the plight of his
daughters.  I understand your predicament and agree that it is beyond
common decency for poor little Saffron to continue in your care, as you
are a bachelor and there is no woman with you to see to her
upbringing.

I have addressed enquiries to Sebastian Hardy Esquire, my dear
brother's solicitor, as you suggested I might.  It pains me to have to
inform you that the value of my brother's few remaining assets are far
exceeded by his substantial debts.  Sarah, his deceased wife, was a
lady of profligate disposition.  None of my brother's daughters will be
due any inheritance from his estate.

My wife and I have discussed the possibility of taking Saffron into our
home.  However, we have nine children of our own to support on my
stipend as a country vicar.  Alas, we would not be able to feed and
clothe the poor orphan.  Fortunately I have been able to make adequate
arrangements for her to be taken into a suitable institution where she
will receive strict Christian instruction and an education that will be
adequate for her later entry into respectable employment as governess
to a child of the nobility.

If, in your Christian charity, you would be kind enough to provide her
with passage to England and the train fare from the port of her arrival
to the Bishop's Sutton railway station, I would meet the poor child
there and convey her to the institution.  Unfortunately I am not able
to contribute to her subsequent upkeep and maintenance.

I wait to hear from you.

Your brother in Christ,

Thomas Benbrook

Slowly, and with relish, Saffron tore the letter into shreds, and
dropped each scrap separately into the malodorous pit beneath her. Then
she pulled up her skirts and urinated vigorously on the remains of the
offending document.

"A fitting end for such a nasty piece of rubbish," she said to herself.
"So much for an institution, Christian instruction and employment as a
governess.  I would prefer to walk back to Khartoum on my own bare
feet."  She stood up and smoothed down her skirts.  "Now I must hurry
to see that Ryder's dinner is ready, and to prepare his whisky peg for
him."

For Saffron, dinner-time was the highlight of her busy day.  After she
had discussed the roasting of the chicken and yams with the cook, she
made certain there was hot water, soap and a clean towel on the
washstand in Ryder's bedroom, and a freshly ironed shirt folded on the
bed.  Next she laid the table, and arranged the flowers and candles.
She would not trust one of the servants, even Bacheet, with such an
important task.  Then she unlocked the strongroom with the key that
Ryder had entrusted to her and brought out the bottle of whisky, the
crystal glass and the cedar wood cigar box.  She set them on the table
at the end of the veranda from where there would be a fine view of the
sunset over the mountains.

She hurried to her own room and changed the clothes she had worn all
day for a dress of her own design and creation.  With the help of two
Amharic women from the town, who were expert seamstresses, she had
assembled her own abundant and unusual wardrobe.  Lady Alice Packer and
even Empress Miriam had complimented her on her style.

While she was still combing her hair she heard the clatter of hoofs in
the courtyard as Ryder returned from the palace, where he had been in
day-long discussions with the Emperor and various royal functionaries.
She was waiting for him on the veranda when he emerged from his private
quarters in the fresh shirt, his face glowing from the hot water and
his wet hair combed back neatly.  He is the most handsome man in the
world, but his hair needs cutting again.  I shall see to it tomorrow,
she thought, as she held the whisky bottle over the glass.  "Say when,"
she invited.

' "When" is a four-letter word that should be uttered only with great
deliberation after long reflection," he replied.  It was their private
joke, and she poured him a liberal quantity.  He tasted it and sighed.
"Too good for human consumption!  Such nectar should be drunk only by
angels in their flight!"  That completed the ritual.  He sank down
comfortably on to the leather cushions of his favourite chair.  She sat
opposite him and they watched the sun set in crimson splendour over the
mountains.

"Now tell me what you did today," Ryder said.

"You first," she replied.

"I spent the morning in council with the Emperor and two of the
generals of his army.  I told them what Penrod Ballantyne had reported
about the intentions of the Dervish to attack his country.  Emperor
John was grateful for this warning, and I think he has taken it
seriously.  I did not tell him of our plans to rescue your sisters.  I
thought it premature to do so.  However, I believe that he will be
helpful when we are in a position to act."

Saffron sighed.  "I do wish Captain Ballantyne would be in touch.  It
seems ages since he was."

"He and your sisters have probably been travelling in the entourage of
Osman Atalan.  Penrod is so closely guarded that he might not have been
able to find a reliable messenger.  We must be patient."

"So easy to say, so hard to do," she said.

To distract her he went on with a recital of his day.  "After I left
the Emperor, I spent the rest of the day with his treasurer.  He
finally agreed to renew my licence to trade throughout the country for
another year.  The bribe he demanded was extortionate, but in all other
respects quite reasonable."  He made her laugh he always made her
laugh.  "By the way, I forgot to mention that we are invited to the
royal audience next Friday.  Emperor John is to award me the Star of
the Order of Solomon and Judea, in recognition of my services to the
state.  I think that the truth of the matter is that Empress Miriam
wants to admire your latest high-fashion creation and persuaded her
husband to invite us.  Either that or she wants you to paint another
portrait of her."

"How exciting.  Will the Star of Solomon be enormous and covered with
lots of diamonds?"

"I am sure it will be gigantic, and perhaps not diamonds, but at least
good-quality cut glass," he said, and reached across the table to the
small stack of mail that Saffron had brought down from the embassy.
First he opened the bill from the Army and Navy Stores.  "Good!"  he
exclaimed with pleasure.  "They have my pair of number-ten rifles ready
to ship out to me.  I shall arrange payment tomorrow.  They should
arrive before our next journey to Equatoria where they will be most
useful."  He set aside the bill and opened the letter from his nephew.
"Sean is insistent that this new gold reef they have opened will
persist to great depth.  I do not have the same hopes for it.  I
believe that the reef will pinch out before long and leave him much
poorer in pocket, if richer in experience.  I am afraid I shall have to
disabuse him of his hopes that I might provide any capital for his
venture."  He picked up the letter with the Cape Colony postage stamp,
and examined it.  "I have been waiting for this!"

He opened the envelope, took out the assay report, scanned it
anxiously, then smiled comfortably.  "Excellent!  Oh, so very good
indeed."

"Can you tell me?"  Saffron asked.

"Certainly!  Before we left for Gondar I sent a bag of rock samples to
the assay office of the Cape Colony.  The year before I was caught up
in the siege of Khartoum I gathered them from the mountains a hundred
miles east of Aksum while I was hunting mountain ny ala  This is the
report on those samples.  Over thirty per cent copper, and just on
twelve per cent silver.  Even taking into account how remote the area
is, and the difficulty of reaching it, it should be a highly profitable
deposit.  The only trouble is that I will have to go back to the royal
treasurer to ask for a mining licence.  He had my skin today, so
tomorrow he will want my scalp and my teeth."

"Sans teeth and sans hair, you might set a new fashion," Saffron
suggested, and he laughed.

As usual they sat late after dinner, talking endlessly.  When Ryder
climbed into his own bed he was still chuckling at her saucy Parthian
shot.  He blew out the lamp, and as he composed himself for sleep he
realized he had not once thought of Rebecca that day.

When they entered the audience hall at the palace, Alice Packer
summoned Saffron with a peremptory wave of her fan.  "Will you forgive
me, please, Ryder?"

"Off you go and do your duty."  Ryder watched her cross the room, as
did almost everybody else.  It was not only the yellow dress that was
so striking.  Youth has beauty inherent in its very nature.  He
realized he was staring and looked away quickly, hoping no one had
noticed.

The rest of the company was made up of a number of Abyssinian princes
and princesses, for the Emperor and the other members of the house of
Memelik were prolific breeders.  There were also generals and bishops,
prosperous merchants and landowners, the entire corps of foreign
diplomats, with a few foreign travellers and adventurers.  The uniforms
and costumes were so exotic and colourful that Saffron's dress seemed
restrained and understated by comparison.

Suddenly Ryder became aware that somebody in the throng was watching
him.  He looked about quickly, then started with surprise.  The person
who had purchased the Intrepid this from him was standing at the far
corner of the room, but even at that range her Egyptian eyes above the
veil had a hypnotic quality that could not be ignored.  As soon as she
had his attention she resumed her conversation with the elderly general
beside her who was resplendent in an array of medals, jewelled orders
and a cloak of leopard skins

"Peace and the blessing of Allah be upon you, Sitt Bakhita al-Masur,"
Ryder greeted her in Arabic, as he came to her side.

"And upon you in equal measure, Effendi."  She made a graceful gesture
in reply, touching her lips, then her heart with her fingertips.

"You are a long way from your home," he remarked.  Her eyes slanted
upwards at the outer corners, and her dark gaze was direct, unusual in
an Egyptian lady even of the highest rank, yet also mysterious.  Some
men would find her irresistible, but she was not to Ryder's taste.

"I came by the river.  In my fine new steamer it was not such a long
journey from the first cataract."  Her voice was soft and musical.

"You encountered no let or hindrance along the way, I hope?  These are
troubled times and the this is well known."

"She is the this no longer but the Durkhan Sama, the Wisdom of the
Skies.  Her appearance is much altered.  No one would recognize her for
what she once was.  My boat-builders at Aswan have lavished much
attention on her.  I paid my dues to the men of God in Omdurman when I
passed that pestilential if holy city."

"Where is she moored now?"  Ryder demanded eagerly.

Bakhita looked at him quizzically.  "She is at Roseires."  That was the
small port at the uppermost limit of navigation on the Blue Nile.  It
was still within the Sudan, but less than fifty miles from the
Abyssinian border.

Ryder was pleased.  "Is Jock McCrump still the engineer?"  he asked.

Bakhita smiled.  "He is captain also.  I think it would be difficult to
dislodge him from his berth."

Ryder was even better pleased.  Jock would be a useful man to have
aboard if they were to use the steamer in any rescue attempt.  "You
seem interested in your old steamer, Effendi.  Do I imagine it, or is
it indeed so?"

Immediately Ryder was wary.  He knew little about this woman, except
that she was wealthy and had influence in high places in many
countries.  He had heard it said that even though she was a Muslim she
was favourably inclined towards British interests in the Orient, and
opposed to those of France and Germany.  It was even rumoured that she
was an agent of Sir Evelyn Baring in Cairo.  If this was true she would
not support the Dervish jihad in Omdurman, but it was best not to trust
her.

"Indeed, Sitt Bakhita, I did have some idea of chartering the steamer
from you for a short period but I am not sure that you would be
agreeable to the proposition," he said.

She dropped her voice when she spoke next: "General Ras Mengetti speaks
only Amharic.  Nevertheless we should continue this conversation in
private.  I know the whereabouts of your compound.  May I call upon you
there?  Say, tomorrow an hour before noon?"

"I will be at your disposal."

"I will have matters of mutual interest to relate to you," she
promised.  Ryder bowed and moved away.

Saffron was still with Alice, but the moment Ryder was free she came
across to join him.  "Who was the fat Arab lady?"  she asked tartly.
"She was making huge cow eyes at you."

"She may be useful to us in uniting us with friends and family."

Saffron considered this, then nodded.  "In that case I forgive her."

Ryder was uncertain as to how Bakhita had transgressed, but before he
made the mistake of pursuing the subject, a flourish of trumpets
announced the entrance of the Emperor and his wife.

Much later that evening when they returned to the compound, Saffron
brought Ryder his slippers and poured him a nightcap.  Then she
unpinned the Star of Solomon from his lapel and examined it in the
lamplight.  "I am certain they are real diamonds," she said.

"If you are correct then we are probably millionaires."  He chuckled,
and noted that he had picked up the habit from her of using the plural
pronoun.  It seemed somehow to constitute a formal link between them.
He wondered if that was wise, and concluded that perhaps it was not. In
future I shall be more circumspect, he promised himself.

The following day Bakhita arrived at the compound in a closed coach
drawn by four mules.  Ryder recognized the coach and driver and knew
that they had probably been put at her disposal by the Emperor.  This
was further proof, if any were needed, of Bakhita al-Masur's influence
and importance.  Behind the coach half a dozen armed bodyguards
followed closely.  They waited in the courtyard while Ryder ushered
Bakhita into the main room, where Saffron served coffee and little
honey cakes.

When she stood up and excused herself, Bakhita held up her hand.
"Please do not go, Sitt Benbrook.  What I have to say concerns you
above all others."  Saffron sank back on the sofa, and Bakhita went on,
"I have come to Entoto for the main purpose of meeting you and Mr.
Courtney.  The three of us have affairs of great concern that are all
linked in Omdurman.  I have a friend to whom I owe complete loyalty,
and close members of your family are held in captivity by the Dervish.
I am certain that you are as anxious to procure their release as I am.
To this end I wanted to pledge to you all the assistance and support of
which I am capable."  Ryder and Saffron stared at her in silent
astonishment.  "Yes, I know that your elder sister and your twin are in
the harem of the Emir Osman Atalan.  My friend is the slave of the same
man."

"May we know the name of your friend?"  Ryder asked cautiously.

Bakhita did not answer at once then said, "My English is not good, but
I think we must use your language for very few people in Abyssinia
understand it."

"Your English is very good, Sitt Bakhita," said Saffron.  Her latent
antagonism towards the other woman had undergone a sea-change.

"You are kind, but it is not so."  She smiled at Saffron, then turned
back to Ryder.  "I could refuse to answer your question, but I want us
to be honest with each other.  I am sure that my friend is well known
to both of you.  He is Captain Penrod Ballantyne of the 10th
Hussars."

"He is a valiant officer and a fine gentleman," Saffron exclaimed.  "We
last met him at the Atbara gorge not more than five months ago."

"Oh, please tell me how he was!"  Bakhita exclaimed.

"He was well, although indistinguishable in dress and deportment from
his captors," said Saffron.

"I knew he had been captured by the Dervish, but I heard he had been
terribly abused and tortured.  Your assurances are of much comfort to
me."

While they discussed Penrod, Ryder was thinking swiftly.  From Bacheet
he had heard a rumour, which Nazeera had told him, that Penrod had an
intimate Egyptian friend.  From the depth of her concern for him there
was little doubt that Bakhita must be the lady in question.  Ryder was
shocked.  Penrod was a highly decorated officer in a first-rate
regiment.  A liaison of this nature, if it came to light, might easily
cost him his commission and his reputation.

"From all that you have told us, Sitt Bakhita, it is clear that we must
pool all our intelligence and resources," he said.  "Our first concern,
which has been troubling me deeply, is how to get messages to and from
our friends in Omdurman."

"I believe I am able to offer a means of communication."  Bakhita stood
up and went to the door that led into the courtyard.  She clapped her
hands, and one of her bodyguard appeared before her.  "I think you know
this man," said Bakhita, as he removed his head cloth and made a deep
salaam towards Ryder.

"May God always protect you, Effendi."

"Yakub!"  Ryder was truly astonished.  "I heard bad things about you. I
heard that you had betrayed your master, Abadan Riji."

"Effendi, sooner would I betray my father and mother, and may Allah
hear my words and strike me down into hell if I lie," said Yakub.  "The
only remaining purpose in my life is to bring my master safely out of
the clutches of the Dervish into which my uncle so treacherously led
him.  I will do anything .. ."  Yakub hesitated, then qualified his
statement: "I will do anything except have any truck with the
despicable Bacheet to save my master from the Dervish.  If there is no
other way, I may even abide with, for some brief time, the company of
the nefarious Bacheet.  However, I shall probably kill him
afterwards."

"On the matter of killing," Ryder told him grimly, "Abadan Riji
believes that you were as much the traitor as your uncle.  He slew your
uncle, and he means to do the same to you."

"Then I must go to him and place my life and loyalty in his hands."

"While you are about it," said Ryder, drily, 'you may as well take your
master a message and return to us with his reply."

It took five more days for Ryder and Bakhita to evolve an escape plan
for the prisoners in Omdurman that had a reasonable chance of
success.

On the following day Yakub left alone for the Sudan.

Osman Atalan was well pleased with the report that Penrod brought him
back from the passes of the Abyssinian highlands.  He listened with
great attention to his suggestions concerning the conduct of the
campaign against Emperor John, and they discussed all these in
exhaustive detail during the course of the long return, journey to
Omdurman.

Once they reached that city, Penrod found that the conditions of his
imprisonment were much relaxed.  He had achieved a position of
conditional trust, which had been his objective from the first day of
his capture.  It was what he had set out to achieve by indulging Osman
Atalan, and pretending to submit to his will.  However, he was still
accompanied at all times by selected aggagiers of Osman's personal
bodyguard.  During the months after their return to Omdurman Osman
spent much time with the Khalifat Abdullahi.  Al-Noor told Penrod that
he was trying to persuade Abdullahi to allow him to return to his
tribal domain in the desert.  However, Abduliahi was too foxy and
devious to allow a man of such power and influence as Osman Atalan to
escape his direct supervision and control.  Osman was allowed out of
Omdurman only for brief punitive raids and reprisals on those persons
and tribes who had incurred Abdullahi's displeasure, or for hunting and
hawking excursions into the desert.

When he returned to the city, Osman found himself with much time on his
hands.  One day he sent for Penrod.  "I have watched the way you wield
a blade.  It is contrary to usage and custom, and lacks even the
semblance of grace."

Penrod lowered his gaze to hide his anger at the insult, and with an
effort refrained from reminding him of their first meeting at El Obeid
in which the mighty Khalif Atalan had countered Penrod's feint by
raising his targe and blocking his own view of the thrust that
followed, a riposte that passed close to his heart.

"However," said Osman, 'it holds some interest."

Penrod looked up at him and saw the glimmer of mockery in his eyes.
"Exalted Khalif, from such a master swordsman as you are, this is
praise that warms my soul," he mocked in return.

"It will amuse me to practise at arms against you, and to demonstrate
the true and noble usage of the long blade," said Osman.  "We will
begin tomorrow after the morning prayers."

The next morning as they faced each other with naked blades, Osman set
out the rules of engagement, "I shall try to kill you.  You will try to
kill me.  If I succeed I will hold your memory in contempt.  If you
succeed, my aggagiers," he indicated the fifteen men that formed a
circle around him, 'will immediately kill you, but you will be buried
with much honour.  I shall commission a special prayer to be recited in
the mosque in your memory.  Am I not a benevolent master?"

"The mighty Atalan is fair and just," Penrod agreed, and they went to
it.  Twenty minutes later, when Osman was slow on the recovery, Penrod
nicked his forearm in warning.

Osman's gaze was murderous.  "Enough for now.  We shall fight again in
two days' time."

After that they fought for an hour every second day, and Osman learnt
to recover swiftly and riposte like a hussar.  Gradually Penrod found
himself more seriously taxed, and was forced to exert all his own skill
to restrain his opponent.  At the end of Ramadan Osman told him, "I
have a gift for you."

Her name was Lalla.  She was a frightened and abused little thing, a
child of war, pestilence and famine.  She did not remember her father
or mother, and in all her short life nobody had ever shown her
kindness.

Penrod was kind to her.  He paid one of al-Noor's concubines to wash
her as though she were a stray puppy, and to dress her tangled hair. He
provided her with fresh clothing to replace her rags.  He allowed her
to cook his meals, launder his clothes, and sweep the floor of the
small cell off the courtyard of the aggagiers, which was his lodging.
He let her sleep outside his door.  He treated her as though she was
human, not an animal.

For the first time in her life Lalla had sufficient food.  Hunger had
been part of her life from as far back as she could remember.  She did
not grow fat, but her bones were gradually covered with a little flesh.
Sometimes he heard crooning softly over the fire as she cooked his
meal.  Whenever he returned to the courtyard of the aggagiers she
smiled.  Once when Osman had succeeded in touching his right shoulder
with the long blade, Lalla dressed the wound under his instruction.  It
was a flesh wound and healed swiftly.  Penrod told her she was an angel
of mercy, and he bought her a cheap silver bracelet in the souk as a
reward.  She crept away with it to a corner of the yard and wept with
happiness.  It was the first gift she had ever received.

That night she crept shyly on to Penrod's angareb, and he did not have
the heart to send her away.  When she whimpered with her nightmares, he
stroked her head.  She woke and cuddled closer to him.  When he made
love to her it was without lust or passion, but with pity.  The
following evening while she was cooking his dinner he spoke to her
quietly: "If I asked you to do something dangerous and difficult for
me, would you do it, Lalla?"

"My lord, I would do whatever you ask."

"If I asked you to put your hand in the fire and bring out a burning
brand for me, would you do it?"  Without hesitation she reached towards
the flames and he had to seize her wrist to prevent her thrusting her
hand into them.  "No, not that!  I want you to carry a message for me.
Do you know the woman Nazeera, whom they call Ammi?  She works in the
harem as a servant of the white concubines."

"I know her, my lord."

"Tell her that Filfil is safe with al-Sakhawi in Abyssinia."  Filfil,
or Pepper, was Saffron's Arabic name.

Lalla waited her chance to accost Nazeera discreetly at the well, which
was a gathering place for all the women, and delivered the message
faithfully.  Nazeera hurried back to give the news to Rebecca and
Amber.

Within days Nazeera had met Lalla again at the well.  She had a message
for her to take to Penrod.  "Yakub is here in Omdurman," Lalla reported
faithfully.

Penrod was amazed.  "It cannot be the Yakub I know.  That rascal
disappeared a long time ago."

"He wants me to meet him," Lalla said.  "What will you have me do?"

"Where will you meet?"

"I will be with Nazeera in the souk, at the camel market."

"Will it be safe for you?"  Penrod asked.

Lalla shrugged.  "That is of no account.  If you ask it, I will do
it."

When she returned he asked, "How was this Yakub?"

"He has two eyes, but they do not follow each other.  One looks east
and the other north."

"That is the Yakub I know."  How could he ever have doubted him, Penrod
asked himself.

"He said to tell you that the peerless Yakub is still your servant.  He
has languished a year and three months in an Egyptian prison, unjustly
accused of trading in slaves.  Only when he was released was he able to
go to the lady of Aswan.  Now she has sent him back to you with tidings
that are much to your benefit."

Penrod knew instantly who was the lady of Aswan, and his heart leapt.
He had not thought of Bakhita recently, but she was still there, as
constant as she had ever been.  With her and Yakub he was no longer
alone.  "You have done well, Lalla.  No one could have done better," he
said, and her face glowed.

He had now established a line of communication to the outside world,
but Lalla was a simple child, incapable of remembering more than a few
sentences at a time, and the meetings with Nazeera and Yakub could be
risked only at intervals of several days: Abdullahi and Osman had spies
everywhere.

Planning the escape was a long-drawn-out and complicated business.
Twice Yakub had to leave Omdurman and make the hazardous journey to
Abyssinia to consult Ryder Courtney and Bakhita.  But, very slowly, the
plan took shape.

The attempt would be made on the first Friday of Ramadan, five months
hence.  Yakub would have camels waiting on the far bank of the Nile,
hidden among the ruins of Khartoum.  By some ruse or subterfuge, Penrod
would find his own way out of the courtyard of the aggagiers.  Nazeera
would spirit Rebecca and Amber out of the harem to a waiting felucca
that she would arrange.  Penrod would meet them there, and the felucca
would ferry them across the Nile.  Then, on Yakub's camels, they would
dash up the south bank of the Blue Nile to where Jock McCrump would
have the old this hidden in the Lagoon of the Little Fish.  He would
take them up to Roseires, where horses would be waiting for the final
dash to the Abyssinian border.

"Will you take me with you, my lord?"  Lalla asked wistfully.

What on earth would I do with her?  Penrod wondered.  She was not
pretty, but had an endearing monkey face, and she looked at him with
worshipful adoration.  "I will take you with me wherever I go," he
promised, and thought, Perhaps I can marry her to Yakub.  She would
make him a perfect little wife.

Only four weeks later, when everything was at last in place, Lalla
brought Penrod another message, which struck him like the broadside of
heavy cannon.

"Ammi Nazeera says that al-Zahra has seen her first moon and become a
woman.  She can hide this from the exalted Osman Atalan, but in one
month's time her moon will rise again.  She will not be able to conceal
it longer from him.  The mighty Atalan has already ordered Nazeera to
watch for and report to him the first show of her woman's blood.  He
has announced that, as soon as she is marriageable,

he will offer al-Zahra as a gift to the Khalifat Abdullahi, who hungers
for her."

Even if he had to risk all of them, Penrod could not possibly allow
Amber to go to Abdullahi.  It would be worse than feeding her alive to
some obscene carnivorous monster.  The entire plan had to be brought
forward.  They had a month's grace in which to change the arrangements.
It would be a near-run thing.  He sent the willing Lalla almost daily
to carry messages to Yakub.

Two weeks before the new date of the escape attempt, the Khalif Osman
Atalan announced a feast and entertainment for all his relatives and
his most loyal followers.  The main compound was decorated with palm
fronds and two dozen prime sheep were roasted on spits.  The low tables
at which the company sat on soft cushions were piled with dishes of
fruit and sweetmeats.  Penrod found himself placed in a position of
preference, close to the Khalif, with al-Noor at one hand and Mooman
Digna on the other.

When all had eaten their fill and the mood was as warm as the sunshine,
with laughter rippling like the waters of the Nile, Osman rose, made a
short speech of welcome and commended them on their loyalty and duty.
"Now let the entertainment begin!"  he ordered, and clapped his
hands.

A finger drum began to tap a staccato rhythm and then a murmur of
surprise went up.  Every head craned towards the side gate of the
courtyard.  Two men led in a creature on a leash.  It was impossible at
first to guess the nature of the animal.  It moved slowly and painfully
on all fours, forced by its handlers to make a torturous circuit of the
yard.  It was only gradually that they realized it was a human female.
Her hands and feet had been crudely amputated at wrists and ankles. The
stumps had been dipped in hot pitch to staunch the bleeding.  She
crawled on elbows and knees.  The rest of her naked body had been
whipped with thorn branches.  The thorns had lacerated her skin.  The
mutilations were so horrible that even the hardened aggagiers were
silenced.  Slowly she crawled to where Penrod sat.  The handlers
tightened the leash and forced her to lift her head.

Cold with horror Penrod stared into Lalla's little monkey face.  Blood
was trickling from her torn scalp into her empty eye-sockets.  They had
burned out her eyeballs with hot irons.  "Lalla!"  he said softly.
"What have they done to you?"

She recognized his voice, and turned towards him.  Blood was still
oozing down her cheeks.  "My lord," she whispered, "I told them
nothing."  Then she collapsed with her face in the dust, and though
they yanked on the leash they could not rouse her.

"Abadan Riji!"  Osman Atalan called.  "My trusted aggagier of the
famous sword arm, put this sorry creature out of her agony."  A
terrible silence hung over the gathering.  Every man looked at Penrod,
not understanding but enthralled by the drama of the moment.

"Kill her for me, Abadan Riji," Osman repeated.

"Lalla!"  Penrod's voice trembled with pity.

She heard him and rolled her head towards him, blindly seeking his
face.  "My lord," she whispered, 'for the love I bear you, do this
thing.  Give me release, for I can go on no longer."

Penrod hesitated only a moment.  Then he rose and drew his sword from
its sheath.  As he stood over her she spoke again: "I will always love
you."  And with a single blow he struck her head off the maimed body.
Then he placed his foot on the blade and, with a sharp tug at the hilt,
snapped it in two.

"Tell me, Abadan Riji," said Osman Atalan, 'are those tears I see in
your eyes?  Why do you weep like a woman?"

"They are tears indeed, mighty Atalan, and I weep for the manner of
your death, which will be terrible."

"With the help of this creature, Abadan Riji was planning to escape
from Omdurman," Osman explained to his aggagiers.  "Bring in the
shebba, and place it round his neck."

The shebba was a device designed to restrain and punish recalcitrant
slaves, and to prevent them escaping.  It was a heavy Y-shaped yoke cut
from the fork of an acacia tree.  The prisoner was stripped naked, to
add to his humiliation, then the crotch of the shebba was fitted
against his throat.  The thick trunk extended in front of him.  They
lifted it to shoulder height, and bound the fork in place behind his
neck with twisted rawhide ropes.  Finally Penrod's bare arms were
lashed to the long pole in front of him.  With both arms pinioned, he
was unable to feed himself or lift a bowl of water to his lips.  He
could not clean himself of his bodily waste.  If he allowed the pole to
sink from horizontal the fork would crush his windpipe and choke him.
To move he had first to raise the whole massive contraption and keep it
balanced.  He could not lie on his side or back, nor was he able to
sit.  If he wished to rest or sleep he must do so on his knees, with
the end of the pole resting on the earth in front of him.  At best he
could only totter a few paces before the weight of the unbalanced pole
forced him to his knees again.

The feast continued while Penrod knelt in the centre of the court yard.
Afterwards he was driven back to the courtyard of the aggagiers. Mooman
Digna whipped him along like a beast of burden.  He was unable to eat
or drink, and nobody would help him.  He could not sleep for the pain
of the shebba goaded him awake.  It was too large and cumbersome to
allow him to enter his cell so he knelt in the open courtyard, with an
aggagier assigned to guard him day and night.  By the third day he had
lost all feeling in his arms, and his hands were blue and swollen.
Although he staggered around the wall of the courtyard to keep in the
shadow, the sun's rays reflected from the lime washed walls and his
naked body reddened and blistered.  His tongue was like a dry sponge in
his parched mouth for the heat in the noonday was intense.

By the morning of the fourth day he was becoming weak and disoriented,
hovering on the verge of unconsciousness.  Even his eyeballs were
drying out, and still no one would help him.  As he knelt in a corner
of the courtyard he heard the voices of the aggagiers arguing nearby.
They were discussing how much longer he would be able to hold out. Then
there was silence and he forced open his swollen eyelids.  For a moment
he thought he was hallucinating.

Amber was coming towards him across the yard.  She carried a large
pitcher balanced on her head in the manner of an Arab woman.  The
aggagiers were watching her, but none tried to intervene.  She took the
pitcher off her head and placed it on the ground.  Then she dipped a
sponge into it and held it to his lips.  He was unable to speak, but he
sucked it gratefully.  When she had given him as much as he could
drink, she replaced the empty pitcher on her head and said softly, "I
will come again tomorrow."

At the same time the following day Osman Atalan entered the yard and
stood in the shade of the cloister with al-Noor and Mooman Digna. Amber
came in shortly after his arrival.  She saw him at once and stopped,
balancing the pitcher with one hand, slim and graceful as a gazelle on
the point of flight.  She stared at Osman, then she lifted her chin
defiantly and came to where Penrod knelt.  She dipped the sponge and
gave him drink.  Osman did not stop her.  When she had finished and was
ready to leave, she whispered, without moving her lips, "Yakub will
come for you.  Be ready."  She walked past Osman on her way to the
gate.  He watched her go impassively.

Amber came again the next day.  Osman was not there and most of the
aggagiers seemed to have lost interest.  She gave Penrod water, then
fed him as ida and dhurra porridge, spooning it into his mouth as
though he were an infant, wiping the spillage off his chin.  Then she
used another sponge to wash his filth from the back of his legs and his
buttocks.  "I wish you did not have to do that," he said.

She gave him a particular look and replied, "You still do not
understand, do you?"  He was too bemused and weak to try to fathom her
meaning.  She went on, with barely a pause, "Yakub will come for you
tonight."

Darkness fell and Penrod knelt in his corner of the courtyard.  The
aggagier Kabel al-Din was his guard that night.  He sat nearby, with
his back against the wall and his sheathed sword across his lap.

The muscles in Penrod's arms were cramping so violently that he had to
bite his lip to stop himself screaming.  The blood in his mouth tasted
bitter and metallic.  Eventually he slipped into a dark, numb sleep.
When he woke he heard a woman's soft laughter nearby.  It was a vaguely
familiar sound.  Then the woman whispered salaciously, "The enormity of
your manhood terrifies me, but I am brave enough to endure it."
Incredibly Penrod realized that it was Nazeera.  What was she doing
here, he wondered.  He opened his eyes.  She was lying on her back in
the moonlight with her skirts drawn up to her armpits.  Kabel al-Din
was kneeling between her parted thighs, about to mount her, oblivious
to everything about him.

Yakub came over the wall as silently as a moth.  As Kabel al-Din humped
his back over Nazeera, Yakub sank the point of his dagger into the nape
of the man's neck.  With the expertise of long practice he found the
juncture of the third and fourth vertebrae and severed the spinal
column.  Al-Din stiffened, then collapsed soundlessly on Nazeera.  She
pushed aside his limp body and rolled out from beneath him.  Then she
scrambled to her feet, pulling down her skirts as she came to help
Yakub, who was stooped over Penrod.  With the blood-smeared dagger
Yakub cut the thongs that pinioned his arms and Penrod almost screamed
as the blood coursed back into his starved arteries and veins.  While
Nazeera took the weight of the yoke to prevent it crushing Penrod's
larynx, Yakub cut the thongs at the back of his neck.  Between them
they lifted it off.

"Drink."  Nazeera held a small glass flask to his lips.  "It will
deaden the pain."  With three gulps Penrod swallowed the contents.  The
bitter taste of laudanum was unmistakable.  They helped him to his feet
and half carried him to the wall.  Yakub had left a rope in place.
While Nazeera propped him up, Yakub settled the loop on the end of the
rope under Penrod's armpits.  As he straddled the top of the wall and
heaved on the rope Nazeera pushed from below and they hoisted Penrod
over.  He fell in a heap on the far side.  Nazeera slipped quietly away
in the direction of the harem.  Yakub dropped down beside Penrod and
hauled him on to his numb feet.

At first their progress towards the riverbank was torturously slow, but
then the laudanum took effect and Penrod pushed away Yakub's hands. "In
future, do not stay away so long, tardy Yakub," he mumbled, and Yakub
giggled at the jest.  Penrod broke into a shambling run towards the
river, where he knew the felucca was waiting to take them across.

As the favourite of Osman Atalan, Rebecca had her own quarters and
Amber was allowed to share them with her.  The two waited by the small
grilled window through which they had a glimpse of the silver moonlight
reflected from the wide river.  Rebecca had turned the wick of the oil
lamp low, so they could just make out each other's faces.  Amber was
wearing a light woollen robe and sandals, ready to travel, and she was
quivering with excitement.

"It is almost time.  You must make ready, Becky," she entreated.
"Nazeera will be back at any moment to fetch us."

"Listen to me, my darling Amber."  Rebecca placed her hands on her
sister's shoulders.  "You must be brave now.  I am not coming with you.
You are going alone with Penrod Ballantyne."

Amber went as still as stone, and stared into her sister's eyes, but
they were unfathomable in the gloom.  When she spoke at last her voice
shook.  "I don't understand."

"I cannot go with you.  I must stay here."

"But why, Becky?  Why, oh, why?"

In reply Rebecca took her sister's hands and guided them under her
shift.  She placed them on her own naked belly.  "Do you feel that?"

"It's just a little fat," Amber protested.  "That won't stop you.  You
must come."

"There is a baby inside me, Amber."

"I don't believe it.  It cannot be.  I still love you and need you."

"It's a baby," Rebecca assured her.  "It's Osman Atalan's bastard.  Do
you know what a bastard is, Amber?"

"Yes."  Amber could not bring herself to say more.

"Do you know what will happen if I go home to England with an Arab
bastard inside me?"

"Yes."  Amber's voice was almost inaudible.  "But the midwives could
take it away, couldn't they?"

"You mean kill my baby?"  Rebecca asked.  "Would you kill your own
baby, Amber darling?"  Amber shook her head.  "Then you cannot ask me
to do it."

"I will stay with you," said Amber.

"You saw what a sorry condition Penrod is in."  Rebecca knew it was the
strongest lever she had to move Amber.  "You have saved his life
already.  You fed him and gave him water when he was dying.  If you
desert him now, he will not survive.  You must do your duty."

"But what about you?"  Amber was cruelly torn.

"I will be safe, I promise."  Rebecca hugged her hard, and then her
tone became firm and brisk.  "Now, you must take this with you.  It's
Daddy's journal, which I have added to.  When you reach England, take
it to his lawyer.  His name is Sebastian Hardy.  I have written his
name and address on the first page.  He will know what to do with it."
She handed the book to Amber.  She had packed it into a bag of woven
palm leaves and bound it up carefully.  It was heavy and bulky, but
Rebecca had plaited a rope handle to make it easier to carry.

"I don't want to leave you," Amber blurted.

"I know, darling.  Duty can be hard.  But you must do it."

"I will love you for ever and always."

"I know you will, and I will love you just as hard and just as long."
They clung to each other until Nazeera appeared quietly beside them.

"Come, Zahra.  It is time to go.  Yakub and Abadan Riji are waiting for
you by the riverside."

There was nothing left to say.  They embraced for the last time, then
Nazeera took Amber's hand and led her away, with the bag that contained
her legacy.  Only once she was alone did Rebecca allow her grief to
burst out.  She threw herself on to their angareb below the window and
wept.  Every sob came up painfully from deep inside her.

Then something inside her was awakened by the strength of her sorrow,
and for the first time she felt the infant kick in her womb.  It
startled her into stillness, and filled her with such bitter joy that
she clasped her arms round her belly and whispered, "You are all I have
left now."  She rocked herself and the infant to sleep.

The felucca was anchored close to the muddy strip of beach below the
old mosque.  It was a battered, neglected craft that stank of river mud
and old fish.  The owner hoped to replace it with a new vessel paid for
out of the exorbitant fee he had been promised for a single crossing of
the river.  Its amount warned him that he was at great risk, and he was
edgy and fidgety as he waited.

The laudanum made Penrod Ballantyne feel muzzy-headed and divorced from
reality, but at least he was without pain in his limbs.  He and Yakub
were lying on the floorboards where they would be concealed from casual
inspection.  In a whisper Yakub was trying to tell him something that
he seemed to think was of prime importance.  However, Penrod's mind
kept floating off on the wings of opium, and Yakub's words made no
sense to him.

Then, vaguely, he was aware that somebody was wading out to the vessel.
He lifted himself on one elbow and looked groggily over the side.
Nazeera was standing on the beach, and the lithe figure of Amber
Benbrook, with a large bag on her head, was moving towards the felucca.
"Where is Rebecca?"  he asked, and blinked to make certain he was
seeing straight.

Amber pulled herself aboard the felucca, then Nazeera turned away from
the water and ran off.

"Where is Nazeera going?"  he wondered vaguely.

Amber dropped her bag on the deck and stooped over him.  "Penrod! Thank
goodness!  How are you feeling?  Let me see your arms.  I have some
ointment for your bruises."

"Wait until we get to the other side," he demurred.  "Where is Nazeera
going?  Where is Rebecca?"  Neither Amber nor Yakub answered him.
Instead Yakub gave a sharp order to the boat-owner and scrambled to
help him hoist the lateen sail.  It filled to the night breeze and they
bore away.

The felucca sailed closer to the wind than her age would suggest, and
she kicked up such a bow wave that the spray splattered over them.  On
the Khartoum side they went aground with such force that the rotten
keel was almost torn off her.  Amber and Yakub helped Penrod ashore,
and Yakub propped his shoulder under his armpit to steady him as they
hurried through the deserted streets of the ruined city.  They met not
a living soul until they reached Ryder Courtney's abandoned compound.
There, a Bedouin boy was waiting for them with a string of camels.  As
soon as he had handed the lead reins to Yakub, he fled into the
shadows.

The riding camels were fully saddled and equipped.  They mounted at
once, but Yakub had to help Penrod into the saddle and he was almost
unseated as the animal lurched to its feet.  Yakub took him on the lead
rein and led the little caravan through the mud of the almost dry canal
and into the desert beyond.  There he goaded the camels onwards and
they paced away, keeping the river in sight on their left-hand side.
Within the first mile, Penrod lost his balance and slipped sideways out
of the saddle.  He hit the ground heavily and lay for a while like a
dead man.  They dismounted and helped him back into the saddle.

"I will hold him," Amber told Yakub.  She climbed up, sat behind Penrod
and placed both arms round his waist to steady him.  They went on for
hours without a halt, until in the first light of dawn they picked out
the shape of the lagoon ahead in the river mist.  There was no sign of
the steamer out on the open water.

On the edge of the reed bed Yakub reined in his camel and stood upright
on his saddle.  He sang out over the lagoon in a high wail that would
carry for a mile.  "In God's Name, is there no man or jinnee who hears
me?"

Almost immediately, from close by in the reeds, a jinnee replied in a
broad Scots burr: "Och, aye, laddie!  I hear you."  Jock McCrump had
camouflaged his steamer with cut reeds so that it was almost invisible
from the bank of the lagoon.  As soon as they had turned the camels
loose and were safely aboard he reversed the old this, now the Wisdom
of the Skies, out into the open water and turned her bows eastwards for
Roseires, almost two hundred miles upstream.  Then he came down to the
cabin where Penrod was stretched out on the bunk with Amber anointing
his blisters and bruises with the lotion that Nazeera had provided.
"And now you'll be expecting me to make you a cup pa tea, I hae nae
door," said Jock, morosely.  It was Darjeeling Orange Pekoe, with
condensed milk, and Penrod had never tasted anything so heavenly.  He
fell asleep immediately after he had downed a third mug, and did not
wake again until they were a hundred miles upriver from Khartoum, and
beyond the pursuit of even the swiftest camels of Osman Atalan's
aggagiers.

When he opened his eyes Amber was still sitting at the end of his bunk,
but she was so engrossed in reading her father's bulky journal that for
some time she did not realize he was awake.  Penrod studied her
countenance as the emotions that her father's writing evoked flitted
across it.  He saw now that she had become far and away the beauty of
the trio of Benbrook girls.

Suddenly she looked at him, smiled and closed the journal.  "How are
you feeling now?  You have slept for ten hours without moving."

"I'm a great deal better, thanks to you and Yakub."  He paused.
"Rebecca?"

Amber's smile faded, and she looked bereft.  "She will stay in
Omdur-man.  It was her choice."

"Why?"  he asked, and she told him.  They were both silent for a while
and then Penrod said, "If I had had my wits about me, I would have gone
back to fetch her."

"She did the right thing," Amber said softly.  "Rebecca always does the
right thing.  She made that sacrifice for love of me.  I will never
forget it."

Over the rest of the river voyage, as they talked, Penrod discovered
that she was no longer a child in either body or mind, but that she had
become a courageous, mature young woman, her character tempered in the
forge of suffering.

The horses were waiting at Roseires, and they picked up relays of mules
as they journeyed through the foothills of the Abyssinian highlands.
They reached Entoto after eleven days of hard going, and as they rode
into the courtyard of Ryder Courtney's compound Saffron rushed out to
greet her twin.  Amber tumbled off her mule and they fell into each
other's arms, too overcome to speak.  Ryder watched them from the
veranda with a benign smile.

Once they had recovered their tongues, the twins could barely pause to
draw breath.  They sat up all night in Saffron's studio, talking.  They
wandered hand in hand through the souks and lanes of Entoto, talking.
They rode out into the mountains and came back with armfuls of flowers,
still talking.  Then they read their father's journal aloud to each
other, and Rebecca's additions to it, and they hugged each other as
they wept for their father and elder sister, both of whom they had lost
for ever.

Amber studied Saffron's portfolio of Khartoum sketches.  She pronounced
them wonderfully accurate and evocative, then suggested a few small
changes and improvements, which Saffron, anxious to please her, adopted
immediately.  Saffron designed and made a complete wardrobe of new
clothes for Amber, and took her to have tea with Lady Alice Packer and
Empress Miriam.  The queen thought Amber's new outfit stylish and
fetching, and asked Saffron to design her a dress for the next state
dinner.

Amber continued David Benbrook's journal from the point where Rebecca
had left off.  In it she described her escape from Omdurman and the
flight up the Blue Nile to the Abyssinian border.  In the process she
discovered she had a natural talent with the written word.

Only Ryder was not completely enchanted by Amber's arrival in Entoto.
He had become accustomed to having Saffron's undivided attention.  Now
that it had been diverted to her twin, he realized, with something of a
shock, how much he missed it.

Penrod recovered swiftly from the injuries he had suffered in Osman
Atalan's shebba.  He exercised his sword arm in practice with Yakub,
and his legs in long, solitary walks in the mountains.  His first
urgent duty was to report his actions and whereabouts to his superiors
in Cairo, but the telegraph line ran only as far as Djibouti on the
Gulf of Aden.  He wrote letters to Sir Evelyn Baring and Viscount
Wolseley, and to his elder brother in England.  The British ambassador
sent these out in the diplomatic pouch, but they all knew how long it
would be before he could expect a reply.

Ryder Courtney had a sealed blank envelope for Penrod.  When Penrod
weighed it in his hand he realized that it contained more than paper.
"Who is it from?"  he asked.  "Regrettably I have been sworn to
silence," Ryder replied, 'but I am sure the answer is contained in it.
You must ask nothing more from me concerning the matter, for I am
unable to discuss it."

Penrod took it to the bedroom that Ryder had set aside for him and
bolted the door.  As he slit open the envelope, a weighty object fell
out, but he caught it before it struck the tiles.  It lay in his palm,
shimmering gold and magnificent, its beauty undiminished by the ages.
On the obverse side was the crowned portrait of Cleopatra Thea
Philopator and on the reverse the head of Marcus Antonius.  In the
envelope with the coin was a single line of Arabic written on
parchment.  "When my lord needs me, he knows where I shall be."  The
coin was her signature.

"Bakhita!"  He rubbed the portrait of the woman with his thumb.  How
did she fit into the scheme of things now?  Then he remembered Yakub
trying to tell him something important while he was drugged with
laudanum on the first night of the escape from Omdurman.

The next day he and Yakub rode up into the mountains where they could
be alone.  Yakub related in detail how, after Penrod had been captured
by Osman Atalan, he had set out for Aswan to enlist the aid of the only
person who could and would help them.  He explained how he had been
arrested on the Egyptian border while travelling with a dealer in
slaves, and how he had been imprisoned for over a year before he could
go on to Aswan.

"As soon as I found Bakhita al-Masur she travelled with me here to
Entoto, and arranged your escape with al-Sakhawi."

Penrod considered ignoring Ryder Courtney's warning and taxing him with
Bakhita's role in their rescue, but in the end he shied away from doing
so.  He and Bakhita had always maintained the greatest secrecy and
discretion in their relationship.  It even surprised him that Yakub had
known of it.  By this time I should have learnt not to be surprised by
anything that the intrepid Yakub comes up with.  He smiled to himself.
Then he considered writing to Bakhita, but this would be equally
unwise.  Even if the letter went through diplomatic channels, there was
no telling which of the embassy staff was in the pay of the ubiquitous
Evelyn Baring.  There was another reason not to contact Bakhita.  This
was less clear-cut in his mind but it had to do with Amber Benbrook. He
did not want to do anything that might later hurt the child.

Child?  He questioned his choice of word as he watched her cross the
yard in deep conversation with her twin sister.  You deceive yourself,
Penrod Ballantyne.

It was five months before Penrod received a reply to the letter he had
written to his elder brother Sir Peter Ballantyne, at the family estate
on the Scottish Borders.  In his reply Sir Peter agreed that the
Benbrook sisters might make their home at Clercastle until such time as
their future had been decided.  Penrod would sail back to England with
Amber and Saffron and take care of them until they reached Clercastle.
Once they arrived Sir Peter's wife, Jane, would take over the
responsibility from him.

As soon as Penrod received his brother's letter he went up to the
British Embassy and telegraphed to the office of the Peninsular and
Orient Steamship line in Djibouti.  He booked passage for himself and
the twins on board the SS Singapore, sailing via Suez and Alexandria
for Southampton in six weeks' time.  When Amber learnt that she would
be sailing home in company with Penrod Ballantyne, then staying at
Clercastle with the Ballantyne family she made no objection.  On the
contrary she seemed well pleased with the arrangement.

It did not go so easily with the other twin.  There followed long and
difficult discussions with Saffron, who announced with passion that she
could see no reason why she should return to England 'where it rains
all the time, and I shall probably expire with double pneumonia on the
same day I arrive'.  It was necessary to appeal to Alice Packer for a
ruling.

"My dear Saffron, you are only fourteen."

"Fifteen in a month's time," Saffron corrected her grimly.

"Your education has been somewhat neglected," Alice went on
imperturbably.  "I am sure Sir Peter will provide a governess for you
and

Amber.  After all, he has daughters of very much the same age as you
two darling girls."

"I don't need geography and mathematics," said Saffron, stubbornly.  "I
know all about Africa and I can paint."

"Ah!"  said Alice.  "Sir John Millais is a dear friend of mine.  How
would you like to study art under him?  I'm sure I can arrange it."

Saffron wavered: Millais was a founder of the Pre-Raphaelite
Brotherhood, the most celebrated painter of the day.  David Benbrook
had kept a book of his paintings in his study at Khartoum.  Saffron had
spent hours dreaming over them.  Then Alice played her trump: "And, of
course, as soon as you are sixteen you will always be welcome to return
to Entoto as my guest, whenever and as often as you wish."

As the day of their departure for Djibouti drew nearer, Saffron spent
less time with her twin and more in helping Bacheet look after Ryder.
He agreed to pose for an hour or two each evening for one last
portrait.  Since the twins' future had been agreed upon, his mood had
been subdued, but it lightened perceptibly during these daily painting
sessions.  Saffron was an amusing girl and made him laugh.

Two days before Penrod and the twins were due to leave Entoto for
Djibouti, Ryder announced his intention of joining their little
caravan, as he was expecting a shipment of trade goods to arrive on
board the SS Singapore from Calcutta.  During the journey down to the
coast Ryder and Saffron spent much time riding side by side at the rear
of the convoy.  The closer they came to Djibouti, the more serious
their expressions became.  The day before they came in sight of the
town and harbour a flaming row broke out between them.  Saffron left
Ryder and galloped to the head of the column to ride beside Amber.

That night, as was the custom, the four of them ate supper beside the
fire.  When Ryder addressed a polite remark to her, Saffron pulled a
face and deliberately moved her chair so that her back was turned to
him.  She did not bid him goodnight when she and Amber went to their
tent.

The next day as they came in sight of Djibouti harbour the SS Singapore
was lying in the roads and discharging cargo into the lighters
clustered around her.  While Ryder and Bacheet set up camp on the
outskirts of the town, Penrod and the twins rode down to the shipping
office at the wharf to pay for and receive their tickets for the voyage
to Southampton.  The shipping clerk assured them that the Singapore
would sail on schedule at noon the following day.  Penrod managed to
buy a bottle of Glenlivet whisky from the purser.  He and Ryder made
short work of it that evening, when the twins had retired to their tent
not long after nightfall.

Due to the exigencies of the previous evening's consumption of liquor
the two men were late in rising.  In the roads the Singapore was
already making steam in preparation for her sailing in three hours'
time.  Penrod took the luggage down to the wharf and sent it on board,
then rode back to the camp and found it in a state of uproar.

"She has gone!"  Bacheet lamented, and wrung his plump hands.  "Filfil
has gone!"

"What do you mean, Bacheet?  Where has she gone?"

"We do not know, Effendi.  During the night she took her mule and rode
away.  Al-Sakhawi has gone after her, but I think Filfil has six hours'
start on him.  He won't be able to catch her before nightfall."

"By that time the Singapore will have sailed," Penrod fumed, and went
to find Amber.

"After Saffron and I climbed into bed, I went to sleep directly.  When
I woke it was already light and Saffy had gone, just like that, without
even a goodbye."

Penrod studied her face for some hint of the truth.  He was sure he had
heard the twins whispering when he had passed their tent on the way to
his own bed.  He knew for certain it had been after midnight, because
he had wound his pocket watch before he blew out the lamp.  "We will
have to go on board.  We cannot miss this sailing.  There will not be
another for months.  I will try to persuade the captain to delay until
Saffron is on board," he said, and Amber agreed with an angelic
expression.

While Penrod and Amber stood at the starboard rail of the Singapore,
Penrod was staring anxiously through a pair of borrowed binoculars as
the last boat from the shore approached the ship's side.

"Blue bloody blazes!"  he muttered furiously.  "She isn't on board."

As he lowered the binoculars, the ship's third officer hurried down the
ladder from the bridge and came to them.  "The captain's compliments,
Captain Ballantyne, but he very much regrets that he is not able to
delay the sailing until the arrival of Miss Benbrook.  If he does he
will be unable to make his reservation for the transit of the Suez
Canal."  Just then the ship's siren wailed and cut off the rest of his
apology.  The capstan in the bows began to clatter and the anchor broke
free.

"Now, Miss Amber Benbrook," Penrod said grimly, "I think it's time you
delivered the truth.  Just what is your sister playing at?"

"I should think that is perfectly obvious, Captain Ballantyne, except
to a blind man or an imbecile."

"Nevertheless, I would be most obliged if you could explain it to
me."

"My sister is in love with Mr.  Ryder Courtney.  She has not the
slightest intention of leaving him.  I am afraid we are to be deprived
of her company on this voyage.  You will have to make do with mine."

A prospect that I do not find particularly distressing, he thought, but
tried to disguise his pleasure.

The tracks of Saffron's mule headed straight back along the main route
towards the Abyssinia border.  Except where they had been overridden by
other travellers they were easy to follow.  Saffron had made no attempt
to cover them or to throw off any pursuit.  Soon Ryder knew that he was
overhauling her, but it was the middle of the afternoon before he made
out her mule in the distance.  He urged his own mount into a gallop. As
he came within hail he let out an angry shout.  She stopped and turned
back towards him.  Then he saw that it was not her at all, but one of
the camp servants: a dim-witted lad whose sole employment was chopping
firewood for the camp.  Anything more demanding was beyond his limited
capabilities.

"What in the name of God are you up to, Solomon?  Where do you think
you are going on Filfil's mule?"

"Filfil gave me a Maria Theresa to ride back to Entoto and fetch a box
she had forgotten," he announced importantly, proud of the task with
which he had been entrusted.

"Where is Filfil now?"

"Why, Effendi, I know not."  Solomon picked his nose with embarrassment
at the complexity of the question.  "Is she not still in Djibouti?"

When Ryder came in sight of the harbour again, the Singapore's
anchorage was empty, and the smoke from her funnels was merely a dark
smear on the watery horizon.  Ryder stormed into his camp and shouted
at Bacheet: "Where is Filfil?"  Bacheet remained silent but rolled his
eyes in the direction of her tent.

Ryder strode to the tent and stooped through the opening of the fly.
"There you are, you scamp."

Saffron was sitting cross-legged on her camp-bed.  She was barefooted
and her most extravagant hat was perched on her head.  She was looking
extremely pleased with herself.

"What have you to say for yourself?"  he demanded.

"All I have to say is that you are my dog and I am your flea.  You can
scratch and scratch as much as you will, but you'll not get rid of me,
Ryder Courtney."

They were half-way back to Entoto before he had recovered from the
shock, and had come to realize how happy he was that she had not sailed
with the Singapore.  "I still don't know what we should do now," he
said.  "I shall probably be arrested for child abduction.  I have no
idea of the legal age for marriage in Abyssinia."

"It's fourteen," said Saffron.  "I asked the Empress before we left
Entoto.  Anyway, that is merely a guideline.  Nobody pays much
attention to it.  She was thirteen when the Emperor married her."

"Have you any other gems of information?"  he asked tartly.

"I have.  The Empress has expressed her willingness to sponsor our
union, should you care to marry me.  What do you think of that?"

"I had not thought about it at all," he exclaimed, 'but, by God, now
that you raise the subject it is not the worst notion I have ever heard
of."  He reached across, lifted her off the back of her mule, seated
her on the pommel of his own saddle and kissed her.

She clamped her hat onto her head with one hand and flung her other arm
round his neck.  Then she kissed him back with a great deal more vigour
than finesse.  After a while she broke away to breathe.  "Oh, you
wonderful man!"  she gasped.  "You cannot imagine how long I have
wanted to do that.  It feels even nicer than I hoped it might.  Let's
do it again."

"An excellent idea," he agreed.

The Empress was as good as her word.  She sat in the front pew of the
Entoto cathedral with the Emperor at her side, beaming on the ceremony
like the rising sun.  She was dressed in a Saffron Benbrook creation,
which made her look rather like a large sugar-iced chocolate cake.

Lady Packer had prevailed on her husband, Sir Harold White Packer,
Knight Commander of Michael and George, Her Britannic Majesty's
ambassador, to give Saffron away.  He was in full fig, including his
bicorne hat with gold lace and white cockerel feathers.  The groom was
handsome and nervous in his black frock-coat, with the dazzling Star of
the Order of Solomon and Judea on his breast.  The Bishop of Abyssinia
performed the service.

Saffron had designed her own wedding dress.  When she came down the
aisle on Sir Harold's arm, Ryder was mildly relieved to see that it was
in pure virginal white.  Saffron's taste usually ran to brighter hues.
When they left the church as man and wife, a troop of the Royal
Abyssinian Artillery fired a nine-gun salute.  In the fever of the
moment, one of the ancient cannon had been double charged and it burst
in spectacular fashion on the first discharge.  Fortunately nobody was
injured, and the bishop declared it a propitious omen.  The Emperor
provided vast quantities of fiery Tej to the populace, and toasts were
drunk to bride and groom for as long as the liquor held out and their
well-wishers remained upright and conscious.

For the honeymoon Ryder took his bride into the southern Abyssinian
highlands on an expedition to capture the rare mountain ny ala  They
returned some months later without having caught even a glimpse of the
elusive beast.  Saffron painted a picture to commemorate the
expedition: on a mountain peak in the background stood a creature that
bore more than a passing resemblance to a unicorn, and in the
foreground a man and woman whose identities were in no doubt.  The
woman wore a huge yellow hat decorated with seashells and roses.  They
were not looking at the unicorn, but clasped between them was a large
and magnificent bird, half ostrich and half peacock.  The legend
beneath the painting read, "We went to find the elusive ny ala but
found instead the elusive bird of happiness."

Ryder was so enchanted by it that he had the picture mounted in an
ivory frame, and hung it on the wall above their bed.

The voyage up the Red Sea was calm and peaceful.  There were only four
passenger cabins on board the SS Singapore, two of which were
unoccupied.  Amber and Penrod dined each evening with the captain, and
after dinner they strolled around the deck or danced to the music of
the violin played by the Italian chef, who thought Amber was the most
lovely creature in all creation.

During the day Amber and Penrod worked together in the card room,
editing David Benbrook's journal.  Amber exercised her new-found
writing talent, and Penrod provided military and historical background.
Amber suggested he write his own account of the battle of Abu Klea, his
subsequent capture by Osman Atalan and their escape from the captivity
of the Dervish.  They would combine this with the writings of David and
Rebecca.  The further they advanced into the project, the greater their
enthusiasm for it became.  By the time the Singapore anchored in
Alexandria harbour they had made great progress in expanding and
correcting the text.  It could now be published as an inspiring true
adventure, and they had the remainder of the voyage home to complete
it.

Penrod went ashore in Alexandria, and hired a horse.  He rode the
thirty miles to Cairo, and went directly to the British agency.  Sir
Evelyn Baring kept him waiting only twenty minutes before he sent his
secretary to summon him into his office.  He had the thirty-page letter
that Penrod had sent from Entoto spread like a fan on the desk in front
of him.  On it were many cryptic notations written in red ink in the
margins.  Baring maintained his usual cold, enigmatic manner and
expression during the interview, which lasted almost two hours.  At the
end he rose to dismiss Penrod without making any comment, expressing
any opinion, or offering either censure or approval.  "Colonel Samuel
Adams at Army headquarters in Giza is anxious to speak to you," he told
Penrod, at the door.

"Colonel?"  Penrod asked.

"Promotion," Baring replied.  "He will explain everything to you."

Sam Adams limped only slightly and he no longer used a cane as he came
round his desk to greet Penrod warmly.  He looked fit and suntanned,
although there were a few grey hairs in his moustache.

"Congratulations on the colonel's pips, sir."  Penrod saluted.

Adams was without a cap so he could not return the salute, but he
seized Penrod's hand and shook it warmly.  "Delighted to have you back,
Ballantyne.  Much has happened while you have been away.  There is a
great deal we must talk about.  Shall we go for lunch at the club?"

He had reserved a table in the corner of the dining room at the
Gheziera Club.  He ordered a bottle of Krug, then waited until the
glasses were filled and they had placed their order with the waiter, in
red fez and white galabiyya, before he got down to business.  "After
the disaster of Khartoum, and the murder of that idiot Gordon, there
were many unpleasant repercussions.  The press at home were looking for
scapegoats and fastened on Sir Charles Wilson's delay in pressing on to
the relief of Gordon after the victory at Abu Klea.  Wilson sought to
defend himself by placing the blame on his subordinates.  Unfortunately
you were one of those to suffer, Ballantyne.  He has brought charges of
subordination and desertion against you.  Now that you have come back
from limbo, you will almost certainly be court-martialled  Capital
offence, if you're found guilty.  Firing squad, don't you know?"

Penrod blanched under his suntan and stared at Adams in horror.

He went on hurriedly: "You have friends here.  Everyone knows your
worth.  Victoria Cross, derring-do, heroic escapes and all that.
However, you will have to resign your commission in the Hussars."

"Resign my commission?"  Penrod exclaimed.  "I will let them shoot me
first."

"It might come to that.  But hear me out."  Adams reached across the
table and laid his hand on Penrod's arm to prevent him leaping to his
feet.  "Drink your champagne and listen to me.  Damn fine vintage, by
the way.  Don't waste it."  Penrod subsided, and Adams went on,

"First, I must give you some other background information.  Egypt now
belongs to us in all but name.  Baring calls it the Veiled Protector'
ate, but it's a bloody colony for all the pretty words.  The decision
has been taken by London to rebuild the Egyptian army from a
disorganized rabble into a first-rate fighting corps.  The new sirdar
is Horatio Herbert Kitchener.  Do you know him?"

"I cannot say that I do," Penrod said.  The sirdar was the
Commander-in-chief of the Egyptian army.

"Cross between a tiger and a dragon.  Absolute bloody fire-eater.  He
desperately needs first-class officers for the new army, men who know
the desert and the lingo.  I mentioned your name.  He knows of you.  He
wants you.  If you join him he'll quash all Wilson's charges against
you.  Kitchener is going up the ladder to the top and will take his
people with him.  You will start at your equivalent rank of captain,
but I can almost guarantee you a battalion within a year, your own
regiment within five.  For you the choice is between ruin and high
rank.  What do you say?"

Penrod smoothed his whiskers thoughtfully on board ship Amber had
trimmed his sideburns and moustache for him and once again they were
luxuriant.  He had learnt never to jump at the first offer.

"Camel Corps."  Adams tossed in another plum.  "Plenty of desert
fighting."

"When can I meet the gentleman?"

"Tomorrow.  Nine hundred hours sharp at the new army headquarters.  If
you love life, don't be late."

Kitchener was a muscular man of middling height and moved like a
gladiator.  He had a full head of hair and a cast in one eye, not
unlike Yakub's.  This made Penrod incline towards him.  His jaw had
been shot half away in a fight with the Dervish at Suakin when he had
been governor of that insalubrious and dangerous corner of Africa.  The
bone was distorted and the kelo id scar was pale pink against his
darkly tanned skin.  His handshake was iron hard and his manner harsh
and unyielding.

"You speak Arabic?"  he asked, in that language.  He spoke it well, but
with an accent that would never allow him to pass him as a native.
"Sirdar effendi!  May all your days be perfumed with jasmine."  Penrod
made the gesture of respect.  "In truth, I speak the language of the
One True God and His Prophet."

Kitchener blinked.  It was perfect.  "When can you come on strength?"

"I need to be in England until Christmas.  I have been out of contact
with civilization for some time.  I must settle my personal affairs,
and I shall have to resign my commission with my present regiment."

"You have until the middle of January next year and then I want you
here in Cairo.  Adams will go over the details with you.  You are
dismissed."  His uneven gaze dropped back to the papers on the desk in
front of him.

As he and Adams went down the steps of the headquarters building to
where the grooms were holding their horses, Penrod said, "He wastes
little time."

"Not a second," Adams agreed.  "Not a single bloody second."

Before he rode back to Alexandria to rejoin the Singapore, Penrod went
to the telegraph office and sent a wire to Sebastian Hardy, David
Benbrook's lawyer, at his chambers in Lincolns Inn Fields.  It was a
lengthy message and cost Penrod two pounds, nine shillings and
fourpence.

Hardy came from London by train to meet the ship when she docked at
Southampton.  In appearance he reminded Penrod and Amber of Charles
Dickens's Mr.  Pickwick.  However, behind his pince-nez he had a shrewd
and calculating eye.  He travelled back to London with them.

"The press has got wind of your escape from Omdurman, and your arrival
in this country," he told them.  "They are agog.  I have no doubt they
will be waiting at Waterloo station to pounce upon you."

"How can they know what train we will arrive on?"  Amber asked.

"I dropped a little hint," Hardy admitted.  "What I would refer to as
pre-baiting the waters.  Now, may I read this manuscript?"

Amber looked to Penrod for guidance, and he nodded.  "I think you
should trust Mr.  Hardy.  Your father did."

Hardy skimmed through the thick sheaf of papers so rapidly that Amber
doubted he was reading it.  She voiced her concern, and Hardy answered,
without looking up, "Trained eye, my dear young lady."

As the carriage ran in through the suburbs he shuffled the papers
together.  "I think we have something here.  Will you allow me to keep
this for a week?  I know a man in Bloomsbury who would like to read
it."

Five journalists were waiting on the platform, including one from The
Times and another from the Telegraph.  When they saw the handsome,
highly decorated hero of El Obeid and Abu Klea, with the young beauty
on his arm, they knew they had a story that would electrify the whole
country.  They barked hysterically as a pack of mongrels who had chased
a squirrel up a tree.  Hardy gave them a tantalizing statement about
the horrifying ordeal the couple had survived, mentioning Gordon, the
Mahdi and Khartoum more than once, all evocative names.  Then he sent
the press away and led the couple out to a cab he had waiting at the
station entrance.

The cabbie whipped up his horse and they clattered through the foggy
city to the hotel in Charles Street where Hardy had booked a room for
Amber.  Once she was installed they went on to the hotel in Dover
Street where Penrod would stay.

"Never do for the two of you to frequent the same lodging.  From now on
you will be under a magnifying lens."

Four days later Sebastian Hardy summoned them to his office.  He was
beaming pinkly through his pince-nez.  "Macmillan and Company want to
publish.  You know they did Sir Samuel White Baker's book on the Nile
tributaries of Abyssinia?  Your book is caviar and champagne to
them."

"What can the Benbrook sisters expect to receive?  You know that Miss
Amber wishes any proceeds to be shared equally between them, following
the example their father set in his will?"

Hardy sobered and looked apologetic.  He removed his reading glasses
and polished them with the tail of his shirt.  'I pressed them as hard
as I could, but they would not budge beyond ten thousand pounds."

"Ten thousand pounds!"  Amber shrieked.  "I did not know there was that
much money outside the Bank of England."

"You will also receive twelve and a half per cent of the profits.  I
doubt this will amount to much more than seventy-five thousand
pounds."

They gaped at him in silence.  Placed in consols, irredeemable
government treasury bonds, that sum would bring in almost three and a
half thousand pounds per annum in perpetuity.  They would never have to
worry about money.

In the event, Hardy's estimate erred on the side of caution.  Months
before Christmas Slaves of the Mahdi was all the rage.  Hatchard's in
Piccadilly was unable to keep copies on its shelves for more than an
hour.  Irate customers vied with each other to snatch them and carry
them triumphantly to the till.

In the House of Commons the opposition seized on the book as a weapon
with which to belabour the government.  The whole sorry business of Mr.
Gladstone abandoning Chinese Gordon to his fate was resuscitated.
Saffron Benbrook's harrowing painting depicting the death of the
general, to which she had been an eye-witness, formed the book's
frontispiece.  It was reported in a leading article in The Times that
women wept and strong men raged as they looked at it.  The British
people had tried to forget the humiliation and loss of prestige they
had suffered at the hands of the Mad Mahdi, but now the half-healed
wound was ripped wide open.  A popular campaign for the reoccupation of
the Sudan swept the country.  The book sold and sold.

Amber and Penrod were invited to all the great houses, and were
surrounded by admirers wherever they went.  London cabbies greeted them
by name, and strangers accosted them in Piccadilly and Hyde Park.
Hundreds of letters from readers were forwarded to them by the
publishers.  There was even a short note of congratulation from the
sirdar, Kitchener, in Cairo.

"That will do my new career no harm at all," Penrod told Amber, as they
rode together down Rotten Row, acknowledging waves.

The book sold a quarter of a million copies in the first six weeks, and
the printing presses roared night and day churning out fresh copies.
They were unable to keep up with the demand.  Putnam's of 70 Fifth
Avenue, New York, brought out an American edition, which piqued the
interest of readers who had never heard of the Sudan.  Slaves of the
Mahdi outsold Mr.  Stanley's account of his search for Dr.  Livingstone
by three to one.

The French, true to the national character, added their own fanciful
illustrations to the Paris edition.  Rebecca Benbrook was depicted with
her bodice torn open by the evil Mahdi as he prepared to ravish her as
she courageously sheltered her beautiful, terrified little sister
Amber.  The indomitable thrust of her bare bosom declared her defiance
in the face of a fate worse than death.  Copies were smuggled across
the Channel and sold at a premium on stalls in the streets of Soho.
Even after the payment of income tax at sixpence in the pound, by
Christmas the book had earned royalties little short of two hundred
thousand pounds.  Amber, at the suggestion of Penrod Ballantyne,
instructed Mr.  Hardy to place this in a trust fund for the three
sisters.

Amber and Penrod celebrated Christmas at Clercastle.  They walked and
rode together every day.  When the house-party went out to shoot Sir
Peter's high-flying pheasant, Amber stood in the line of guns beside

Penrod and, thanks to her father's training, acquitted herself so
gracefully and skilfully that the head keeper came to her after the
last drive, tugged at the peak of his cap and mumbled, "It was a joy to
watch you shoot, Miss Amber."

January came too soon.  Penrod had to take up his post in Cairo. Amber,
chaperoned by Penrod's sister-in-law Jane, went to see him off from
Waterloo station on the boat train.  With Jane's assistance, Amber had
spent the previous week shopping for the correct attire at such a
momentous parting.  Of course, price was now of little consequence.

She settled on a dove-grey jacket, trimmed with sable fur, worn over
ankle-length skirts and a fashionable bustle.  Her high-heeled boots
buckled up the sides and peeped out from under the sweeping skirts. The
artful cut of the material emphasized her tiny waist.  Her wide-brimmed
hat was crowned with a wave of ostrich feathers.  She wore the amber
necklace and earrings that he had given her on the road outside
Gallabat.

"When will we see each other again?"  Amber was trying desperately but
unsuccessfully to hold back her tears until after the train had
departed.

"That I cannot say."  Penrod had determined never to lie to her, unless
it was absolutely necessary.  The tears broke over Amber's lower lids.
She tried to sniff them back, and Penrod hurried on: "Perhaps you and
Jane could come out to Cairo to spend your sixteenth birthday at
Shepheard's Hotel.  Jane has never been there and you might show her
the pyramids."

"Oh, can we do that, Jane?  Please?"

"I will speak to my husband," Jane promised.  She was about the same
age as Rebecca, and in the few weeks that Amber had lived at Clercastle
they had become as close as sisters.  "I can see no possible reason why
Peter should object.  It will be the height of the grouse-shooting
season and he will be much occupied elsewhere.  He will hardly miss
us."

Sam Adams came down from Cairo to meet Penrod when his ship docked in
Alexandria.  Almost his first words were "We have all read the book.
The sirdar is as pleased as a cat with a saucer of cream.  London was
starting to have second thoughts about rebuilding the army.  Gladstone
and those other idiots were dithering with the idea of using the money
to build a bloody great dam on the Nile instead of giving it to us.
Miss Benbrook's book created such a rumpus in the House that they
changed their dim minds sharpish.  Kitchener has another million
pounds, and to the devil with the dam.  Now we will certainly have new
Maxim guns.  As for myself, well, we desperately need a good number two
if we're to have any chance of retaining the Nile Cup this year."

"After my brief meeting with the sirdar, I estimate that he is not
likely to set aside much time for polo."

Adams's wife had found and rented a comfortable house for Penrod on the
bank of the river, close to army headquarters and the Gheziera Club.
When Penrod climbed the steps to the shady veranda, a figure in a plain
white jibba and turban rose from his seat beside the front door and
made a deep salaam.

"Effendi, the heart of the faithful Yakub has pined for you as the
night awaits the dawn."

The next morning Penrod found out what Kitchener and Adams had in store
for him.  He was to recruit and train three companies of camel cavalry
to travel far and fast, and fight hard.  "I want men from the desert
tribes," he told Adams.  "They make the best soldiers.  Abdullahi has
driven many of the Ashraf out of Sudan, emirs of the Jaalin and the
Hadendowa.  I want to go after them.  Hatred makes a man fight harder.
I believe I shall be able to turn them against their former masters."

"Find them," Adams ordered.

Penrod and Yakub took the steamer to Aswan.  Here they waited
thirty-six hours for the sailing of another boat that would carry them
up beyond the first cataract, as far as Wadi Haifa.  Penrod left Yakub
at the dock to guard the baggage, and went alone to the gate at the end
of the narrow, winding alley.  When old Liala heard his voice she flung
open the gate and collapsed in a heap of faded robes and veils, wailing
pitifully.  "Effendi, why have you come back?  You should have spared
my mistress.  You should never have returned here."

Penrod lifted her to her feet.  "Take me to her."

"She will not see you, Effendi."

"She must tell me that herself.  Go to her, Liala.  Tell her I am
here."  Sobbing pitifully, the old woman left him beside the fountain
in the courtyard and tottered into the back quarters.  She was gone a
long time.  Penrod picked tiny green flies from the flowering fuchsias
and dropped them into the pool.  The perch rose to the surface and
gulped them down.

Liala returned at last.  She had stopped weeping.  "She will see you."
She led him to the bead screen.  "Go in."

Bakhita sat on a silk rug on the far side of the well-remembered room.
He knew it was her by her perfume.  She was heavily veiled.  "My heart
fills with joy to see you safe and well, my lord."

Her soft, sweet voice tugged at his heart.  "Without you, Bakhita, that
would not have been possible.  Yakub has told me of the part you played
in bringing me to safety.  I have come to thank you."

"And the English girl's Arabic name is al-Zahra.  I am told that she is
young and very beautiful.  Is that so, my lord?"

"It is so, Bakhita."  He was not surprised that she knew.  Bakhita knew
everything.

"Then she is the one we spoke of.  The girl of your own people who will
be your wife.  I am happy for you."

"We will still be friends, you and I."

"Friends and more than that," she said softly.  "Whenever there is
something that you should know I will write to you."

"I will come to see you."

"Perhaps."

"May I see your face once more before I go, Bakhita?"

"It would not be wise."

He went to her and knelt in front of her.  "I want to see your lovely
face again, to look into your eyes and to kiss your lips one last
time."

"I beg of you, lord of my heart, spare me this thing."

He reached out and touched her veil.  "May I lift it?"

She was silent for a while.  Then she sighed.  "Perhaps, after all, it
would be easier this way," she said.

He lifted the veil and stared at her.  Slowly she watched the horror
dawn in his eyes.

"Bakhita, oh, my dear heart, what has happened to you?"  His voice
trembled with pity.

"It was the smallpox.  Allah has punished me for loving you."  The
pockmarks were still fresh and livid.  Her luminous eyes shone in the
ruins of the face that had once been so lovely.  "Remember me as I once
was," she pleaded.

"I will remember only your courage and your kindness, and that you are
my friend," he whispered, and bent forward to kiss her lips.

"It is you who are kind," she replied.  Then she reached up and covered
her face with the veil.  "Now you must leave me."

He stood up.  "I shall return."

"Perhaps you will, Effendi."

But they both knew he never would.

The aggagiers found the corpse of Kabel al-Din lying in the courtyard
beside the abandoned yoke of the shebba.  Osman Atalan called all his
men to horse and for many days they scoured both banks of the river.
Osman was in a murderous mood when at last he returned to Omdurman
without having found any trace of the fugitive.  This was a bad time
for the women to come to him and tell him that al-Zahra was also
missing.

"How long has she been gone?"  he demanded.

"Eight days, exalted Khalif."

"The same time as Abadan Riji," he exclaimed.  "What of the woman
al-Jamal?"

"She is still in the zenana, mighty Atalan."

"Bring her to me, and her servant also."

They dragged in the two women and flung them at his feet.

"Where is your sister?"

"Lord, I do not know," Rebecca replied.

Osman looked at al-Noor.  "Beat her," he ordered.  "Beat her until she
answers truthfully."

"Mighty Khalif!"  Nazeera cried.  "If you beat her she will lose your
child.  It may be a son.  A son with golden hair like his mother and
the lion heart of his sire."  Osman looked startled.  He hesitated,
staring at Rebecca's belly.  Then he snarled at his aggagiers, "Leave
us.  Do not return until I call you."

They hurried out of the room, relieved to be sent away, for when a
khalif and emir of the Beja is angry all men around him are in
jeopardy.

"Disrobe," he ordered.  Rebecca rose to her feet and let her robe drop
to her feet.  Osman stared at her white, protruding belly.  Then he
went to her and placed his hand upon it.

Move!  Please, my darling, move!  Rebecca begged silently, and the
foetus kicked.

Osman jerked away his hand and jumped back.

"In God's Name, it is alive."  He stared in awe at the bulge.  "Cover
yourself!"

While Nazeera helped her to dress, Osman tugged furiously in his beard
as he considered his dilemma.  Suddenly he let out another angry shout
and his aggagiers trooped back into the room.  "This woman."  He
pointed at Nazeera.  "Beat her until al-Jamal tells us the whereabouts
of her sister."

Two of them held Nazeera's arms and Mooman Digna grabbed the cloth at
the back of her neck and ripped it open to the knees.  Al-Noor hefted
the kurbash in his right hand.  The first blow raised a red stripe
across her shoulder-blades.

"Yi!  Yi!"  screeched Nazeera, and tried to throw herself flat, but the
aggagiers held her.

"Yi!"  she howled.

"Wait, Lord.  I will tell you everything."  Rebecca could bear it no
longer.

"Stop!"  Osman ordered.  "Tell me."

"A stranger came and led al-Zahra away," Rebecca gabbled.  "I think
they went north towards Metemma and Egypt, but I cannot be certain of
it.  Nazeera had nothing to do with this."

"Why did you not go with them?"

"You are my master, and the father of my son," Rebecca replied.  "I
will leave you only when you kill me or send me away."

"Beat the old whore again."  Osman waved to assuage his fury without
endangering the well-being of the son who might have blue eyes and
golden hair.

Rebecca clutched her belly with both hands and cried, "I can feel the
distress of my son within me.  If you beat this woman, who is as my own
mother, I shall not be able to hold the boy longer in my womb."

"Hold!"  Osman shouted.  He was torn.  He wanted to see blood.  He drew
his sword and Nazeera quailed under his gaze.  Then he rushed at the
stone column in the centre of the room and struck it with such force
that sparks showered from the steel.

"Take these two women to the mosque at the oasis of Gedda."  It was a
lonely place run by a few old mullahs fifty leagues out in the desert,
a religious retreat for the devout, and for students of the Noble
Koran.  "If the child that al-Jamal brings forth is a female, kill all
three of them.  If it is a son, bring them back to me and make certain
they remain alive, especially my son."

Five months later, lying on a rug spread on the floor of her cell at
Gedda, while Nazeera attended her and the mullahs waited at the door,
Rebecca gave birth to her first child.  As soon as she felt the
slippery burden she had carried for so long rush out of her, she
struggled up on her elbows.  Nazeera held the infant in her arms, all
shiny with blood and mucus, still bound to Rebecca by the thick cord.

"What is it?"  Rebecca gasped.  "Is it a boy?  Sweet God, let it be a
boy."  Nazeera cackled like a broody hen and presented the child for
her inspection.  "This one is a little stallion."  With her forefinger
she tickled the baby's tiny penis.  "See how hard he stands already.
You could crack an egg on the end of it.  Beware anyone in skirts who
stands in this one's way."

The mullahs of Gedda sent word to Omdurman, and within days twenty
aggagiers headed by al-Noor came to escort them back to the Holy City.
When they reached the gates of Osman Atalan's palace, he was waiting to
meet them.  During the past five months his fury had had time to abate.
However, he was trying not to appear too benign, and stood with one
hand on the hilt of his sword, scowling hideously.

Al-Noor dismounted and took the child from Rebecca's arms.  He was
wrapped in cotton swaddling clothes and his face was covered to protect
him from the sunlight and the dust.  "Mighty Atalan, behold your
son!"

Osman glared at al-Noor.  "This I must see for myself."

He took the bundle and placed it in the crook of his left arm.  With
his right hand he unwrapped it.  He stared at the tiny creature.  His
head was bald, except for a single copper-tinted quiff.  His skin was
the colour of goat's milk with a splash of coffee added to it.  His
eyes were the colour of the waters of the Bahr al-Azrek, the Blue Nile.
Osman opened the lower folds of his covering, and his scowl slipped,
hovered on the verge of a smile.

The infant felt the cool river breeze fan his genitals, and let fly a
yellow stream that splashed down his father's brightly patched jibba.

Osman let forth a startled roar of laughter.  "Behold!  This is my son.
As he pisses on me, so he shall piss on my enemies."  He held the child
high, and he said, "This is my son, Ahmed Habib abd Atalan. Approach
and show him respect."  One after another his aggagiers came forward
and, with a full salaam, greeted Ahmed, who kicked and gurgled with
amusement.  Osman had not glanced in the direction of the two waiting
women, but now he handed the infant to al-Noor, and said offhandedly,
"Give the child to his mother, and tell her that she will return to her
quarters in the harem, and there await my pleasure."

Over the following eighteen months Rebecca saw Osman only three or four
times, and then at a distance as he came and went on affairs of war and
state.  Whenever he returned he would send al-Noor to fetch Ahmed, and
would keep the child away for hours on end, until it was time for him
to be fed.

The child flourished.  Rebecca fancied that she saw in him a
resemblance to her own father, and to Amber, which made her loneliness
more acute.  She had only Nazeera and the baby: the other women of the
harem were silly, scatter-brained creatures.  She missed her sisters,

and thought of them when she awoke to another empty day, and when she
composed herself to sleep with Ahmed at her bosom.

Then, slowly, she became aware that she wanted Osman Atalan to send for
her.  Her body had recovered from the damage of childbirth, except for
the stretch marks across her belly and the soft sag of her breasts.
Sometimes when she awoke in the night and could not sleep again she
thought of the men she had known, but her mind returned variably to
Osman.  She needed somebody to talk to, somebody to be with, somebody
to make love to her, and nobody had done that with the same skill as
Osman Atalan.

Then the rumour in the harem was that there was to be a great new
jihad, a war against the Christian infidels of Abyssinia.  Osman Atalan
would lead the army, and Allah would go with him.  Ahmed was now
toddling and talking.  She hoped that Osman would take them with him.
She remembered how it had been at Gallabat when she had conceived.  She
thought about that a great deal.  She had vivid dreams about it, of how
he had looked and how he had felt inside her.  Her loneliness was an
ache deep within her.  She devoted herself entirely to the child, but
the nights were long.

Then the news ran through the harem.  Osman was taking three wives and
eight concubines with him to the jihad; Rebecca was chosen as one of
the eight.  Ahmed and Nazeera would go with her, but none of Osman's
other children.  She understood that he was interested solely in the
child, and that she and Nazeera were merely Ahmed's nursemaids.  Her
empty body ached.

They rode to the Abyssinian border forty thousand strong, a mighty
warlike array.  Osman left Rebecca and his other women at Gallabat.  He
rushed into Abyssinia and struck with all his cavalry at the passes.

The Abyssinians were also a warlike nation, and warriors to the blood.
Although they had been alerted by Ryder Courtney's warning, even they
could not stand before the ferocity of Osman Atalan's attack.  He drove
hard for the mountain passes at Minkti and Atbara, and seized them
against desperate and courageous resistance.  He slaughtered all the
Abyssinian prisoners that he took, and led his army into the Minkti
pass.  They toiled up through bitter cold.

Ras Adal, the Abyssinian general, had not expected them to come so high
and he made the mistake of allowing them to debouch unopposed on to the
plain of Debra Sin before he attacked them.

The battle was fierce and bloody, but at last Ras Adal broke before the
savagery of Osman's assault.  He and all his army were driven into the
river at their backs and most of them drowned.  The entire province of
Amhara fell to Osman, and he was able to advance unopposed to capture
Gondar, the ancient capital of Abyssinia.

Gondar was the city in which Osman intended to set up his own capital,
but he had never experienced a winter in the Abyssinian highlands.  His
Beja were men of the sands and deserts: they shivered, sickened and
died.  Osman abandoned his conquests, sacked and burned Gondar and led
his men back to Gallabat.  He arrived on a litter, drawn by his own
warhorse, al-Buq.  The cold of the mountains had entered his lungs and
he was a sick man.  They laid him on his angareb and waited for him to
die.

Osman wheezed for breath.  He choked and hawked and spat up slugs of
greenish-yellow phlegm, "Send for al-Jamal," he ordered.

Rebecca came to his bedside and nursed him.  She dosed him with a brew
of selected herbs and roots that Nazeera prepared, and sweated him with
hot stones.  When his crisis came she brought Ahmed to him.  "You
cannot die, mighty Atalan.  Your son needs his father."

It took several weeks, but at last Osman was on the road to recovery.
During his convalescence he sent for Rebecca on most evenings and
resumed the long conversations with her as though they had never
ceased.  Rebecca was lonely no more.

As he grew stronger, he made love to her again, possessing her
masterfully and completely, filling the aching emptiness deep inside
her.  He declared Ahmed his heir and, in the unpredictable fashion in
which he often did things, sent for the mullah and made Rebecca his
wife.

It was only when she lay beside him on the first night as his wife that
she could bring herself to face the truth squarely.  He had made her
his slave, in body and in heart.  He had snuffed out the last spark of
her once indomitable spirit.  The suffering he inflicted upon her so
casually had become a drug that she could not live without.  In a
bizarre and unnatural way he had forced her to love him.  She knew she
could never be without him now.

Emperor John and all his subjects were infuriated by the capture of the
province of Amhara and the sack of Gondar.  With an army of more than a
hundred thousand behind him he came down upon Gallabat to take his
revenge.  He sent a warning to Osman Atalan that he was coming, so he
might not be seen as a sneaking coward.  Osman decapitated his
messenger and sent the man's head back to him.  Heavily outnumbered,
Osman transformed the town into a huge defensive zareba.  He placed the
women and children in the centre, and stood to meet the Abyssinian
fury.  It burst upon him.  Al-Noor's division of four thousand men was
almost wiped out, and al-Noor himself was gravely wounded.  The
exultant Abyssinians broke into the centre of the zareba where the
women were, and the rape and slaughter began.

When Osman realized the day was lost, he leapt on to al-Buq, and
spurred him forward, going for the head of the serpent.  The Emperor
had once been a legendary warrior, but he was a young man no longer. In
his leopard skins bronze cuirassier and the gold crown of the Negus on
his head, he was tall and regal but his beard was more silver than
black.  He drew his sword when he saw Osman charging at him through the
carnage.  The Dervish commander cut down the bodyguard that tried to
interpose themselves.  He had learnt from Penrod Ballantyne, and he
never took his eye from the Emperor's blade.  His riposte was like a
bolt of silver lightning.

"The Emperor is dead.  The Negus has gone!"  The cry went up from the
Abyssinian host.  The moment of complete victory had been transformed
into defeat and rout by a single stroke of Osman Atalan's long blade.

Osman rode back to Omdurman with the heads of Emperor John and his
generals carried on the lances of his bodyguard.  They planted them at
the entrance to Khalifat Abdullahi's palace.

Seven months later Rebecca gave birth to her second child, a girl.
Osman was not sufficiently interested in a female to bother himself
with a name for her.  Rebecca aiamed her Kahruba, which in Arabic means
Amber.  After some months Osman forgave her for bearing a girl, and
resumed their nightly conversations and lovemaking.  When Kahruba
turned into a pretty little thing with smoked-honey hair, he sometimes
stroked her head.  Once he even took her up on the front of his saddle
and ran al-Buq at full gallop.  Kahruba squealed with glee, which
caused Osman to remark as he handed her back to Rebecca, "You erred
grievously, wife.  You should have made her a boy, for she has the
heart of one."

None of his other daughters received any sign of his affection.  They
were not allowed to speak to him, or to touch him.  When Kahruba was
six years old, at the feast of Kurban Bairam, she left the women and,
with one finger in her mouth, she went to where Osman sat among his
aggagiers.  He watched her coldly as she approached.  Undeterred she
scrambled on to his lap.

Osman was flabbergasted.  His aggagiers had difficulty in maintaining
their sober expressions.  Osman scowled at them as though daring any to
laugh.  Then he deliberately selected a sweetmeat from the bowl in
front of him and placed it in the child's mouth.  She retaliated by
throwing both arms round his neck.  However, this was going too far.
Osman replaced her on the ground and slapped her little bottom.  "Be
off with you, you shameless vixen!"  he said.

Mr.  Hiram Steven Maxim sat on a low stool in the brilliant sunshine of
the Nile delta.  In front of him on a steel tripod was an
ungainly-looking weapon with a thick water-jacketed barrel.  On his
left side stood a five-gallon water can, connected to the weapon by a
sturdy rubber hose.  At his right hand dozens of wooden crates of
ammunition were piled high.  His three assistants hovered about him.
Despite the heat they wore thick tweed jackets and flat cloth caps. Mr.
Maxim had stripped down to his shirtsleeves, and his bowler hat was
pushed to the back of his head.  Since he had come from America to
settle in England, he had adopted British ways and dress.

Now he rolled the unlit cigar from one side of his jaw to the other.
"Major Ballantyne," he sang out.  His accent still proclaimed that he
had been born in Sangerville, Maine.  "Would you be good enough to note
the time?"  At a short distance behind him was a small group of
uniformed officers.  In the front rank stood the sirdar, General
Horatio Herbert Kitchener, a stocky, powerful figure flanked by his
staff.

"General, sir?"  Penrod glanced at Kitchener for permission to reply.

"Carry on, Ballantyne."  Kitchener nodded.

"Time mark!"  Penrod called out.  Six hundred yards ahead of the
machine-gun, at the foot of a high dun-coloured sand dune, was a line
of fifty wooden models of the human form.  They were dressed in Dervish
jib has and carried wooden spears.  Mr.  Maxim leant forward and took
hold of the firing handles.  By squeezing the finger-grips he lifted
the safety catch off the firing button.

"Commencing firing, now!"  He thrust his thumbs down on the trigger
button.  The gun shuddered and roared.  The separate shots were too
rapid for the ear to distinguish.  It was a prolonged thunder like a
high waterfall in spate.  The recoil of each shot kicked back the
mechanism, and ejected the spent cartridge cases in a blur of
glittering bronze.  The forward stroke of the action reloaded the
chamber, cocked and fired.  It was too fast for the eye to follow the
sequence.

Mr.  Maxim traversed the barrel.  One after another the wooden figures
exploded in a storm of splinters.  The sands of the dune behind the
targets boiled into sheets of dust.  He reached the end of the line and
traversed back again.  The shattered remains of the targets hung from
their frames.  The returning torrent of bullets blew them to
fragments.

The British officers watched in awed silence.  The roar of the gun
numbed their eardrums.  They could not speak.  They did not move.  Mr.
Maxim's assistants had performed this demonstration numerous times and
in many countries.  They had been drilled to perfection.  As one of the
ammunition boxes emptied it was dragged away and a full one
substituted.  A fresh belt of ammunition was hitched to the end of the
previous belt as it was sucked into the breech.  There was no check, no
jamming of the action, no diminution in the rate of fire.  The water in
the cooling jacket boiled, but the powerful emission of steam was drawn
away through the pliable hose into the can of cold water.  It was
cooled and condensed.  There was no steam cloud to betray the position
of the gun to the enemy.  The cooled water was recycled through the
barrel jacket.  The clamour of the gun continued without check.  The
final belt of ammunition was fed through the breech, and only when the
last empty cartridge case was flung clear did silence fall.

"Time check," Mr.  Maxim shouted.

"Three minutes and ten seconds."

"Two thousand rounds in three minutes," Mr.  Maxim announced proudly.
"Almost seven hundred rounds a minute, without a stoppage."

"No stoppage," Colonel Adams repeated.  "This is the end of cavalry as
we know it."

"It changes the face of warfare," Penrod agreed.  "Just look at the
accuracy."  He pointed to the row of targets.  Splinters were spread
over a wide area.  Not even the poles that had supported the targets
still stood upright.  A thick cloud of dun-coloured dust kicked up by
the stream of bullets hung in the air above the dunes.

"Now let the Dervish come!"  murmured the sirdar, and his dark
moustache seemed to stand erect, like the bristles on the back of an
enraged wild boar.

Penrod and Adams rode back to Cairo together.  They were both in high
spirits, and when a jackal broke from the scrub at the side of the
track they drew their sabres and rode it down.  Penrod spurted ahead
and turned back the drab terrier-like creature.  Adams leant low out of
the saddle and ran it through between the shoulders, then let its
weight swing his blade back until the carcass slipped from the blade,
rolled in the dust and at last lay still.  "Beats pig-sticking in the
Punjab."  He laughed.  When they reached the gates of the Gheziera
Club, he said, "Do you care for a peg?"

"Not this evening," replied Penrod.  "I have guests from home to
entertain."

"Ah, yes!  So I have heard.  What does Miss Amber Benbrook think of
your new pips?"

Penrod glanced down at the shiny new major's crowns on his
epaulettes.

"If you remember her name, you must have received the invitation to the
ball.  It is her sixteenth birthday, you know.  Will you be
attending?"

"The remarkable young lady who wrote Slaves of the MahdiV Adams
exclaimed.  "I would not miss it for the world.  My wife would
assassinate me if I so much as contemplated the idea."

Amber's birthday ball was held at Shepheard's Hotel.  The band of the
new Egyptian army played until dawn.  White-robed waiters served silver
trays of brimming champagne glasses.  Every commissioned officer of the
army from the rank of ensign upwards, a hundred and fifteen in all, had
accepted the invitation to attend.  Their smart new dress uniforms made
a handsome foil to the ball gowns of the ladies.  Even the sirdar and
Sir Evelyn Baring made a brief appearance, and each danced a Vienna
waltz with Amber.  They both left early, aware that their presence had
an inhibiting effect on the festivities.

Ryder and Saffron had made the long circuitous journey down from the
highlands of Abyssinia, across the desert by camel, up the Red Sea and
through the Suez Canal to Alexandria to be there.  Saffron's evening
dress caused a mild sensation, even in this glittering company.  She
was two months pregnant, but of course that was not yet apparent.

At the beginning of the evening, after he had collected Amber and his
sister-in-law Jane from the suite they were sharing on the top floor of
the hotel, Penrod filled in Amber's dance card.  He reserved fifteen of
her twenty dances.  She was a little peeved that he had been so
restrained.  At the stroke of midnight the band broke into a rousing
rendition of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow'.  The guests applauded
wildly.  The champagne flowed like the Nile, and everybody was in
jovial, expansive mood.

Penrod climbed the bandstand with Amber on his arm.  The band welcomed
them with a long drumroll, and Penrod held up his hands for silence. He
was only partially successful in achieving it while he proposed the
birthday toast.  They drank it with gusto, and Ryder Courtney burst
into "When You Were Sweet Sixteen'.  The band and the rest of the
guests picked up the tune.  Amber blushed and clung to Penrod's arm.

At the end of the song he quietened them again.  "I have another
announcement to make.  Thank you!"  The uproar subsided to a buzz of
interest.  "My lords, ladies, and fellow officers, who fall into
neither of the first two categories!"  They hooted, and again he had to
bring them to order.  "It gives me ineffable pleasure to inform you
that Miss Amber Benbrook has consented to become my wife, and in so
doing she has made me the happiest man in creation."

A little later Colonel Sam Adams was smoking a quiet cigarette on the
darkened terrace when he overheard the conversation of two young
subalterns who had imbibed copious quantities of champagne.

"They say she has made herself a flash hundred thousand iron men from
the book.  Happiest man in creation?  Ballantyne has that great gong
stuck on his chest, pips on his shoulders, his own battalion, and to
top it all the lucky blighter has dug himself a gold mine with his pork
shovel.  Why shouldn't he be happy?"

"Lieutenant Stuttaford."  A cold, familiar voice spoke from the shadows
close at hand.

Pale with shock, Stuttaford came unsteadily to attention.  "Colonel
Adams, sir!"

"Kindly present yourself at my office at ten o'clock tomorrow
morning."

By noon the next day Lieutenant Stuttaford, still suffering from a vile
hangover, found himself packing for immediate departure to the desert
outpost at Suakiri", one of the most desolate and dreary postings in
the Empire.

The Egyptian army has always been considered a music-hall turn, the
Gilbert and Sullivan opera of the Nile.  The standing army at home, and
those in the Indian Service snigger when they speak our name," Penrod
told the other members of the party.  He and Ryder lolled against the
transom of the felucca.  Jane Ballantyne, Saffron and Amber sat on
gaily-coloured cushions on the deck.  They were sailing upstream in the
hired felucca to climb to the summit of the pyramid of Cheops at Giza,
and afterwards to picnic in the shadow of the Sphinx.

"How vulgar and silly of them."  Amber came immediately to his
defence.

"In all truth they had good reason at one time," Penrod admitted, 'but
that was the old army, in the bad old days.  Now the men are paid.  The
officers do not steal their rations, and turn tail and run at the first
shot.  The men are not beaten when they fall sick, but are sent to the
doctor and the hospital.  All of you must come to the review on Monday.
You will see some parading and drilling that will astonish you."

"My father was a colonel in the Black Watch, as you know, Penrod," said
Jane.  "I cannot claim to be a great expert, but I have read something
of military affairs.  Papa saw to that.  As soon as we knew that we
were coming to Cairo, Amber and I read every book about Egypt on the
shelves of the library at Clercastle, as well as Sir Alfred Mimer's
excellent England in Egypt.  Nowhere have I heard it suggested that the
Egyptian fellahin are good soldierly material."

"What you say is true.  It was always unlikely that the rich and
fertile delta, with its enervating climate, would produce warriors. The
fellahin may be cruel and callous, but they are not fierce and
bloodthirsty.  On the other hand, they are stoic and strong.  They meet
pain and hardship with indifference.  Theirs is a kind of docile
courage that we more warlike peoples can only admire.  They are
obedient and honest, quick to learn and, above all, strong.  What they
lack in nerve they make up for in muscle."

"Pen darling, that is all well and good about the Egyptians but tell us
about your Arabs," Amber interjected.

"Ah, but you know them well, my heart."  Penrod smiled tenderly at her.
"If the Egyptian fellahin are mastiffs, then the Arabs are Jack Russell
terriers.  They are intelligent and quick.  They are venal and
excitable.  They do not lend themselves willingly to discipline.  You
can never trust them entirely, but their courage is daunting.  At Abu
Klea they came against the square as if they gloried in death.  If they
give you their loyalty, and they seldom do, it is a link of steel that
binds them to you.  War is their way of life.  They are warriors, and I
respect them.  Some I have learnt to love.  Yakub is one of those."

"Nazeera is another," Amber agreed.

"Oh, I wonder what has become of her, and of our dear sister Rebecca."
Saffron shook her head sorrowfully.  "I dream of her most nights.  Is
there nobody in Military Intelligence who can discover this for us?"

"Believe me, I have tried diligently to find news of Rebecca.  However,
the Sudan is closed off from the world, as though in a steel casket. It
slumbers in its own nightmare.  Would that one day we have the will and
the way to end the horror and set her people free.  Rebecca is the
first of those we would liberate."

Rebecca sat with the other wives in the cloister of the inner courtyard
of the palace of Ostnan Atalan.  It was the cool of the evening and
Osman was demonstrating to his followers the courage of his blue-eyed
son.  For many months Rebecca had known that her son faced this ordeal.
She covered her face with her veil so that none of the other women
would know of her fear.

Only three months previously Ahmed Habib abd Atalan had been
circumcised.  Rebecca had wept as she dressed his mutilated penis, but
Nazeera had rebuked her: "Ahmed is a man now.  Be proud for him,
al-Jamal.  Your tears will unman him."

Now Ahmed stood before his father, trying to be brave.  His head was
bare and his fists were clenched at his side.

"Open your eyes, my son."  Osman's voice crackled.  He tossed his sword
into the air and it spun like a cartwheel before the hilt dropped back
into his hand.  "Open your eyes.  I want Allah and all the world to
know that you are a man.  I want you to show me, your father, your
courage."

Ahmed opened his eyes.  They were no longer milky, but a dark blue like
the African sky when storm clouds gather.  His lower lip quivered and
tiny droplets of perspiration de wed the upper.  Osman flourished the
long blade and cut at the side of his head with such force that the
steel hummed in the air.  The stroke could have bisected a grown man at
the trunk.  It swept past Ahmed's temple.  His unruly coppery hair
fluttered in the wind of its passage.  The watching aggagiers growled
with admiration.  Ahmed swayed on his feet.

"You are my son," Osman whispered.  "Hold fast!"  He stroked the tip of
his son's ear with the flat of the blade.  Ahmed shrank away from the
cool touch of steel.

"Do not move," Osman warned him, "Or I will cut it off."

Ahmed leant forward and vomited on the ground at his feet.

An expression of contempt and shame crossed Osman's face, and was
smoothed away immediately.  "Go back to your mother," he said softly.

Ahmed tried to choke back his sobs.  "I do not feel well," he murmured
hopelessly, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

Osman stepped back and glared at him.  "Go and sit with the women," he
ordered.

Ahmed ran to his mother and buried his face in Rebecca's skirt.

A tense silence held the watchers.  Nobody spoke and nobody moved.

They were barely able to draw breath.  Osman was turning away when a
small, delicate figure rose to her feet from among the ranks of seated
women.  Rebecca tried to hold her back, but Kahruba pushed away her
hand and went to her father.  He grounded the point of his blade and
watched her stop in front of him.  He studied her face, then demanded
ominously, "What disrespect is this?  Why do you pester me so?"

"My father, I want to show you and Allah my courage," said the child.
She removed her head cloth and shook out her tawny hair.

"Go back to your mother.  This is no childish game."

"Exalted father, I do not wish to play games."  She looked straight
into his eyes.

He raised the sword and stepped towards her, like a leopard stalking a
gazelle.  She stood her ground.  Suddenly he cut, forehanded, at her
face.  The blade flashed inches from her eyes.  She blinked, but stood
like a statue.

He cut again, backhanded.  A curl dropped from the loose mop of her
hair, and floated to the ground at her bare feet.  Behind her Rebecca
cried out, "Oh, my darling!"

Kahruba ignored her, and held her father's eyes steadfastly.

"You provoke me," he said, and slowly traced the outline of her body
with the blade.  Never further than a finger's breadth from her flesh,
the scalpel-sharp edge moved up from the outside of one knee, over her
thigh, round the curve of her hip, along her arm and shoulder to the
side of her neck.  He touched her and she closed her eyes, then opened
them as she felt the steel on her cheek.  It moved up over the top of
her head and down again to her other knee.  She did not flinch.

Osman narrowed his eyes and brought the blade back along the same
route, but faster, and then again, even faster.  The steel dissolved
into a silver blur.  It danced in front of the child's eyes like a
dragonfly.  It hummed and whispered in her ears as it passed close to
her tender skin.  Rebecca was weeping silently, and Nazeera held her
hand hard, but she, too, was close to tears.  "Do not make a sound,"
she whispered.  "If Kahruba moves, she is dead."

The dancing blade held Kahruba in a cage of light.  Then, abruptly, it
stopped, pointing at her right eye from the distance of an inch.  The
point advanced slowly, until it touched her lower lashes.  The child
blinked but did not pull away.

"Enough!"  said Osman, and stepped back.  He threw the sword to
al-Noor, who snatched it out of the air.  Then Osman stooped and picked
up his daughter.  He held her close to his chest, and looked around at
their taut expressions.  "In this one, at least, my blood has bred
true," he told them.  Then he tossed her high in the air, caught her as
she fell back and carried her to Rebecca.  "Breed me another like this
one," he ordered, 'but, wife, this time make certain it is a boy."

Later that evening Rebecca lay sprawled on his angareb.  She still felt
devastated by the events of the day and by the controlled fury of his
lovemaking, which had ended only minutes before.  She had watched her
daughter come close to death under the dancing silver blade, while she
herself seemed to have come even closer.

She was stark naked, a vessel overflowing with his fresh seed, aching
pleasurably where he had been deep inside her.  The lovemaking had
rendered her ha from unclean in the eyes of God.  She should cover
herself, or go immediately to bathe and cleanse her body, but she felt
languorous and wanton.  She opened her eyes and found that he had come
back from the bedroom window and was standing over her.  He was still
half erect, his glans glistening with the juices of her body.  As she
studied him she felt herself becoming aroused once more.  She knew,
with sure feminine instinct, that he had just impregnated her again,
and that she would be forced to many months of abstinence until she was
delivered of the infant.  She wanted him, but saw that now his seed was
spent his restless mind had moved on to other concerns.

"There is aught that troubles you, my husband."  She sat up and covered
herself with the light bed cloth

"We spoke once of the steamer that runs on land, that travels on
ribbons of steel," he said.

"I recall that, my lord, but it was many years ago."

"I wish to discuss this machine again.  What was the name you gave
it?"

"Railway engine," she enunciated slowly and clearly.

He imitated her, but he lisped and garbled the sounds.  He saw in her
eyes that he had not succeeded.  "It is too difficult, this language of
yours."  He shook his head angrily, hating to fail in anything he
attempted.  "I shall call it the land steamer."

"I shall understand what you mean.  It is a better name than mine, more
powerful and descriptive."  At times he was like a small boy and must
be jollied along.

"How many men can travel upon this machine.  Ten?  Twenty?  Surely not
fifty?"  he asked hopefully.

"If the land over which it passes is levelled it can carry many
hundreds of men, perhaps as many as a thousand, perhaps many
thousands."

Osman looked alarmed.  "How far can this thing travel?"

"To the end of its lines."

"But surely it cannot cross a great river like the Atbara?  It must
stop there."

"It can, my lord."

"I do not believe it.  The Atbara is deep and wide.  How is that
possible?"

"They have men they call engineers who have the skills to build a
bridge over it."

"The Atbara?  They cannot build over a river so wide."  He was trying
desperately to convince himself.  "Where will they find tree trunks
long and strong enough to span the Atbara?"

"They will make the bridge of steel, like the rails it runs upon.  Like
the blade of your sword," Rebecca explained.  "But why do you ask these
questions, my husband?"

"My spies in the north have sent a message that these God-cursed
Englishmen have begun to lay these steel ribbons from Wadi Haifa south
across the great bight of the river, towards Metemma and the Atbara."
Then, suddenly, his temper flared.  "They are devils, these infidel
tribesmen of yours," he shouted.

"They are no longer my tribesmen, exalted husband.  Now I am of your
tribe and no other."

His anger subsided as suddenly as it had arisen.

"I am leaving at dawn tomorrow to go to the north and see this
monstrosity with my own eyes," he told her.

She dropped her eyes sadly: she would be alone again.  Without him she
was incomplete.

The year 1895 dawned and events were put in train that would change the
history and face of Africa.  British South Africa's conquests were
consolidated under the new nation of Rhodesia, and almost immediately
the predatory men who had brought it into existence attacked the Boer
nation of the Transvaal, their neighbours to the south.  It was a puny
invasion under Dr.  Starr Jamieson that was immediately dubbed the
Jamieson Raid.  They had been promised support by their countrymen on
the Witwatersrand gold fields which never materialized, and the tiny
band of aggressors capitulated to the Boers without firing a shot.
However, the raid presaged the conflict between Boer and Briton that,
only a few years later, would cost hundreds of thousands of lives,
before the Transvaal and its fabulously rich gold fields came under the
sway of Empire.

In England the Liberal Party of Gladstone and Lord Rosebery was ousted
by a Conservative and Unionist administration under the Marquess of
Salisbury.  In opposition they had always been vociferously opposed to
Gladstone's Egyptian policies.  Now they had a massive majority in the
House of Commons, and were in a position to change the direction of
affairs in that crucial corner of the African continent.

The nation still smarted from the humiliation of Khartoum and the
murder of General Gordon.  Books such as Slaves of the Mahdi had set
the mood for exonerating Gordon of shame.  In the new Egypt, which was
now virtually a colony of Great Britain, the tool was at hand in the
shape of the new Egyptian army, reorganized, trained and equipped as no
army in Africa before.  The man to lead it was already at its helm in
the person of Horatio Herbert Kitchener.  Great Britain contemplated
the prospect of repossessing the Sudan with increasing pleasure and
enthusiasm.

By the beginning of 1896 Britain was ready to act.  It needed only a
spark to set off the conflagration.  On 2 March, at the battle of
Adowa, the Abyssinians inflicted a crushing defeat on Italy.  Another
European power had been thrashed by an African kingdom.  This sent a
clarion call to all colonial possessions.  Almost immediately the
gloomy forebodings of rebellion were fulfilled.  The Dervish Khalifat
Abdullahi threatened Kassala and raided Wadi Haifa.  Reports reached
Cairo of the gathering of a great Dervish army in Omdurman.  Added to
this, the French made covert hostile moves towards British possessions
in Africa, especially in southern Sudan.

Thus a number of concurrent events had cast Great Britain in the role
of far-seeing saviour of the world from anarchy, the avenger of
Khartoum and Gordon, the protector of the Egyptian state.  The honour
and pride of the Empire must be preserved.

The order went out from London to General Kitchener.  He was to
recapture the Sudan.  He was to do it swiftly and, above all, cheaply.
The attempts to rescue Gordon and destroy the Mahdi had cost Britain
thirteen million pounds: defeat is always more costly than victory.
Kitchener was allowed a little over one million pounds to succeed in
the job that, thirteen years before, had been botched.

Kitchener summoned his senior officers and told them the momentous
news.  They were ecstatic.  This was the culmination of years of
gruelling training and desert skirmishes, and the laurels were at last
within their reach.  "There will be more sweat and blisters than
glory," the sirdar cautioned them.  Never one to seek popularity, he
preferred to be feared rather than liked.  "From the twenty-second to
the sixteenth parallel of north latitude we are faced with waterless
desert.  We will go to capture the Nile, but we cannot use that river
as a means of access.  The cataracts stand in our way.  The only route
open to us is the railway we will build to carry us overland into
battle.  We can use the river only in the final stage of our advance."
He regarded them with his cold misanthropic stare.  "There are no
mountains to cross, the desert is level and good going.  It will not be
a matter so much of engineering technique as of hard work.  We will not
rely on private contractors.  Our own engineers will do the job."

"What about the Atbara river, sir?  At its confluence with the Nile it
is almost a thousand yards wide," said Colonel Sam Adams.

"I have already called for tenders to supply the components for a
bridge to be manufactured in sections that can be taken up on the
railway trucks.  Another call for tenders will soon be going out for
the supply of steel-hulled river gunboats.  They will be sent up by
rail to the clear water above the fifth cataract.  There, they will be
reassembled and launched."

The Egyptian officer corps was immediately plunged into a hurly-burly
of planning and action.

There was only one respect in which the times and circumstances were
not propitious.  The delta of Egypt had been the bread basket of the
Mediterranean since the time of Julius Caesar and Jesus Christ.  For
the first time in a hundred years the abundant fertility of its black
alluvial soils had failed.  The production of wheat and dhurra had
fallen short of the needs of the civilian population, let alone those
of a great expeditionary army.

"We are short of at least five thousand tons of the flour needed for
the primary stage of the campaign," the quartermaster general told the
sirdar.  "After the first three months, we will require an additional
fifteen hundred tons per month for the duration of hostilities."

Kitchener frowned.  Bread, the staple of any modern army made from
wholesome clean grain, and not too much hard biscuit ensured the health
of the troops.  Now they were telling him that he did not have it.

"Come back tomorrow," he told his quartermaster.

He went immediately to see Sir Evelyn Baring at the British Agency it
would have been political suicide for anybody to call it Government
House, but that was what it was.  Baring had championed Kitchener's
appointment to commander-in-chief above the claims of better qualified
men.  Although they were not friends, they thought alike.  Baring
listened, then said, "I think I know the man who can get your bread for
you.  He provisioned Gordon in Khartoum during the siege.  Most
fortuitously, he is in Cairo at this very moment."

Within two hours a mystified Ryder Courtney found himself under
Kitchener's reptilian stare.

"Can you do it?"  Kitchener asked.

Ryder's business instincts clicked into place.  "Yes, I can.  However,
I will need four per cent commission for myself, General."

"That is known as profiteering, Mr.  Courtney.  I can offer you two and
a half."

"That is known as highway robbery, General," Ryder replied.

Kitchener blinked.  He was unaccustomed to being addressed in that
fashion.

Ryder went on smoothly, "However, in the name of patriotism I will
accept your offer.  On the condition that the army provides a suitable
home in Cairo for me and my family, in addition to a stipend of two
hundred pounds a month to cover my immediate expenses."

Ryder rode back to Penrod's riverside home where he and Saffron had
been guests since their arrival in Cairo.  He was in jubilant mood.
Saffron had been agitating: rather than return to Abyssinia, she wanted
to remain in this civilized, salubrious city, where she could be close
to Amber.  When Saffron agitated it was much like living on the slopes
of an active volcano.  Now her power to persuade was even more
formidable than usual as she was pregnant again.  Ryder had seen no
good commercial sense in setting up business in Egypt, but Herbert
Kitchener had just changed that.

Ryder left his horse with the groom in the stables and went down to the
lawns above the riverbank.  Jane Ballantyne, Amber and Saffron were
taking tea in the summer-house.  They were rereading and animatedly
discussing the letter from Sebastian Hardy, which had arrived on the
mail ship from England and had been delivered to Amber's suite at
Shepheard's Hotel that morning.

Mr.  Hardy took great pleasure in informing Miss Amber Benbrook of the
recent resuscitation of public interest in her book Slaves of the
Mahdi, owing to the prospect of war against the evil Dervish Empire in
Omdurman.  The amounts paid by Macmillan Publishers in respect of
royalties earned over the past three months amounted to 56,483 10s. 6d.
In addition, Mr.  Hardy begged to inform her and the other
beneficiaries that the investments he had made on behalf of the
Benbrook family trust had been most favourably affected by the same
considerations as the book.  He had placed large sums in the common
stock of the Vickers Company, which had purchased Mr.  Maxim's patent
in his machine-gun.  This investment had almost doubled in value.  The
value of assets of the trust now amounted to a little over three
hundred thousand pounds.  In addition Macmillan were eager to publish
Amber's new manuscript, provisionally entitled African Dreams and
Nightmares.

Ryder strode down the lawns, but the twins were so excited by Mr.
Hardy's good tidings that they were oblivious to his presence until his
shadow fell over the tea-table.  They looked up.  "What is all this
laughter and high jinks?"  he demanded.  "You know I cannot bear to see
anybody having so much fun."

Saffron jumped to her feet, a little ungainly under her maternal
burden, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him.  "You will never guess
what," she whispered in his ear.  "You are married to a rich woman."

"Indeed, I am married to a rich woman who resides permanently in Cairo,
in a house paid for by General Kitchener and the Egyptian army."

She leant back, holding him at arm's length, and stared at him in
astonishment and delight.  "If this is another of your atrocious jokes,
Ryder Courtney, I will..."  She searched for a suitable threat.  "I
will throw you into the Nile."

He grinned complacently.  "Too early for a swim.  Besides, you and I
cannot waste precious time.  We have to go hunting for our new home."

He would tell her later that he must leave within days for the United
States and Canada to negotiate for the purchase of twenty thousand tons
of wheat.  It was not the ideal time to break such news to a pregnant
wife.  At least she will have enough to keep her fully occupied in my
absence.  He had learnt by hard experience that when she was bored
Saffron was more difficult to handle than the entire Dervish army.

The ground shook to the thunder of hoofs.  Eight horsemen raced each
other down the long green field.  The spectators shrieked and roared.
The atmosphere was feverish and electric.  Once again the Nile Cup and
the honour of the Army polo team were at stake.

The white ball rolled over the uneven turf.  Colonel Adams overhauled
it swiftly, and leant low out of the saddle, mallet poised.  His bay
mare was as adept as her rider.  She turned in neatly behind the
bouncing ball, placing him in the perfect position to make the crossing
shot.  Mallet and ball met with a crisp thwack, and the ball sailed in
a high arc over the heads of the opposing team, dropping directly in
the path of Penrod's charging grey gelding.  Penrod picked it up on the
first bounce after it struck earth.  He tapped it ahead, and his nimble
pony chased after it, like a whippet behind a rabbit.  Tap and tap
again the ball skipped towards the goalposts at the far end of the
field.  The other riders pursued the grey, their heels hammering into
the ribs of their mounts, shouting and pumping the reins for greater
speed, but they were unable to catch Penrod.  He ran the ball between
the posts, and the umpires waved their flags to signal a goal and the
end of the match.  Once again, the army had retained the Nile Cup
against all comers.

Penrod rode back to the pony lines.  Under her parasol, Amber was
waiting for him.  She watched him with pride and devotion.  He was
marvellously handsome and tanned, although there were crow's feet at
the corners of his eyes from squinting into the desert glare.  His body
was lean and hard, tempered by years of hard riding and still harder
fighting.  He was no longer a youth, but a man approaching his prime.
He swung one booted leg over the pony's withers and dropped to the
ground, landing like a cat.  The grey trotted on to meet his grooms: he
could smell the bucket of water and the bag of dhurra meal they had
ready for him.

Amber ran to Penrod, and threw herself against his chest.  "I am so
proud of you."

"Then let's get married," Penrod said, and kissed her.

She made the kiss endure, but when at last she must relinquish his
lips, she laughed at him.  "We are getting married, you silly old
thing, or have you forgotten?"

"I mean now.  Immediately.  At once.  Not next year.  We've waited far
too long."

She stared at him.  "You jest!"  she accused him.

"Never been more serious in my life.  In ten days I am away again into
the desert.  We have a spot of business to take care of in Omdurman.
Let us be married before I go."

They were swept up in the feverish madness of war when custom and
convention no longer counted.  Amber did not hesitate.  "Yes!"  she
said, and kissed him again.  She had Saffron and Jane to help her with
the arrangements.  "Yes!  Oh, yes, please!"

Every pew in the cathedral was filled.  They held the reception at the
Gheziera Club.  Sir Evelyn Baring placed the Agency houseboat at their
disposal for the honeymoon.

They cruised upriver as far as Giza.  In the evening they drank
champagne and danced on the deck, while before them rose the silhouette
of the pyramids backlit by the sunset.  Later, in the great stern cabin
on the wide bed with green silk covers, Penrod led her gently along
enchanted pathways to a mountain peak of whose existence she had only
dreamed.  He was a wonderful guide, patient and skilled, and
experienced, oh, so very experienced.

Penrod left Amber in the care of Saffron and Jane, and took the steamer
south to Aswan and Wadi Haifa to rejoin his regiment.  He found Yakub
waiting for him at the river landing, wearing his new khaki uniform
with panache.  He stamped his feet as he saluted, his grin was
infectious, and one eye rolled sideways.  Yakub, the outcast, had a
home at last.  He wore the chevrons of a sergeant on the sleeve of the
uniform of the Camel Corps of the Egyptian army.  His turban had been
replaced with a peaked cap and neck flap.  He was still becoming
accustomed to breeches and puttees rather than a long galabiyya so his
stance was slightly bowlegged.  "Effendi, the peerless and faithful
Sergeant Yakub looks upon your face with the same awe and devotion that
the moon feels towards the sun."

"My bags are in the cabin, O faithful and peerless one."

They rode southwards on one of the flat-bed track-laying bogies of the
new railway.  The smoke from the engine stack blew back over them.  The
soot darkened Penrod's tanned skin and even Yakub turned a deeper brown
while dust and sparks stung their eyes.  At last the locomotive reached
the railhead, and came to a hissing halt with clouds of steam billowing
from her brakes.

The railway line had already been driven sixty-five miles into Dervish
territory.  Penrod's regiment was waiting for him and his orders were
to scout the few small villages along the intended line of rail, then
sweep the terrain ahead for the first sign of the Dervish cavalry,
which they knew must already be on its way northwards to dispute the
right of way.

Penrod found it good to breathe the hot, dry air of the desert again,
and to have a camel under him.  The excitement of the chase and the
battle ahead made his nerves sing like copper telegraph lines in the
wind.  The sensation of being young, strong and alive was
intoxicating.

They reached the village at the wells of Wadi Atira.  Penrod opened the
ranks of his squadron and they encircled the cluster of mud buildings,
which were deserted and falling into ruins.  There was one chilling
reminder of the Dervish occupation: at the entrance to the village
stood a makeshift but obviously effective gallows, made from telegraph
poles that the army had abandoned when it withdrew after the fall of
Khartoum.  The skeletons of the souls who had perished upon it had been
cleaned and polished by the abrasive, dust-laden wind.  They still wore
their chains.

Penrod moved forward past Tanjore where the desolation was similar. The
old British fort at Akasha, relic of the Gordon relief expedition, was
in ruins.  The storerooms had been used by the Dervish as execution
chambers: desiccated human carcasses lay in abandoned attitudes on a
dusty floor, which was thick with the droppings of lizards and the shed
skins of vipers and scorpions.

Penrod converted Akasha into an entrenched camp, a base from which the
Camel Corps could sally out.  He left two of his squadrons to hold the
camp, and with the remainder of his regiment he pressed on into the
Desert of the Mother of Stones to search for the Dervish.

While he scoured the land along the Nile, behind him the railhead
reached Akasha and his rudimentary camp was transformed into an
impregnable fortress and staging station, guarded by artillery and
Maxim machine-gun detachments.

As Penrod's camels approached Firket, a few Bedouin galloped towards
them, waving their arms and shouting that they were friendly.  They
reported to Penrod that, only hours before, they had been pursued by a
marauding party of Dervish cavalry, and although they had escaped, five
of their comrades had been overtaken and massacred.  He sent a troop of
his camels forward to scout the caravan route that led through a narrow
boulder-strewn defile towards Firket five miles ahead.  No sooner had
they entered the defile than the troop commander found himself
confronted by at least two hundred and fifty Dervish horsemen,
supported closely by almost two thousand spearmen.

Trapped in the defile, the commander wheeled his men round in an
attempt to extricate them and bring them back to the support of
Penrod's main force.  Before they could complete the manoeuvre the
Dervish horses charged.  Immediately both sides became entangled in
wildest confusion, and covered by a dense fog of brown dust thrown up
by the hoofs of the horses and the pads of the camels.  In the tumult
all words of command were drowned.

From the mouth of the defile Penrod saw that disaster was about to
engulf his embattled squadron.  "Forward!"  he shouted, and drew his
sabre.  "Charge!  Go straight at them!"  With three troops of camels
behind him, he crashed into the struggling mass of men and beasts. With
his left hand he fired his Webley, and hacked with his sabre at the
jibbd'clad figures half hidden in the swirling curtains of dust.

For minutes the outcome hung in the balance, then the Dervish broke and
scattered back behind the shields of their spearmen.  They left
eighteen of their dead lying on the sand and retreated towards Firket.
Penrod sensed they were trying to lead him into a trap, and let them
go.

Instead he turned aside and climbed Firket mountain.  From the towering
heights he glassed the town below, and saw immediately that his
instinct had been true.  He had found the main body of the Dervish
army.  It was massed among the mud-brick buildings, and the cavalry
lines extended as far as the banks of the Nile a mile beyond the
city.

"At a rough estimate three thousand horse, and only Allah knows how
many spears," he said grimly.

Osman Atalan arrived at Firket two weeks after the skirmish with the
Egyptian Camel Corps.  He had travelled fast, covering the distance
from Omdurman in only fourteen days.  He was accompanied by ten of his
trusted aggagiers.

Since the first word on the British advance, and the commencement of
the work on the railway line from Wadi Haifa, Firket had been under the
command of the Emir Hammuda.  Osman listened to the report of this
indolent and careless man.  He was appalled.  "He cares only for what
lies between the buttocks of his pretty boys," he told al-Noor.  "We
must go forward ourselves to find the enemy and discover what they are
planning."

They came no closer to the village of Akasha than five miles before
they were attacked by elements of the Camel Corps, and driven off with
the loss of two good men.  They made a wide circle round the village,
and the next day captured two Bedouin coming from the direction of the
village.  Osman's aggagiers stripped and searched them.  They found
foreign cigarettes and tins of toffees with a picture of the English
queen painted on the lids.

The aggagiers held down the Bedouin and sliced off the soles of their
feet.  Then they forced them to walk over the baking stones.  This
induced them to talk freely.  They described the huge build-up of
infidel troops and equipment at Firket.

Osman realized that this was the forward base from which the main
infidel attack on Firket would be launched.  He circled back through
the Mother of Stones towards the Nile, coming in ten miles to the north
of Akasha.  He was searching for the railway line from Wadi Haifa that
the Bedouin had reported.  The railway had been in the forefront of his
mind since al-Jamal had described it to him.

When he came upon it, it seemed innocuous, twin silver threads lying on
the burning sands.  He left al-Noor and the rest of his band on the
crest of the dunes and rode down alone to inspect it.  He dismounted,
and warily approached the shining rails.  They were fastened by
fish-plates to heavy teak sleepers.  He kicked the rail: it was solid
and immovable.  He knelt beside it and tried to lever out one of the
iron bolts with the point of his dagger.  The blade snapped in two.

He stood up and hurled away the hilt.  "Accursed thing of Shaitan! This
is not an honourable way to make war."

Even in his scorn and anger he became aware of a sound that trembled in
the desert air, a distant susurration, like the breath of a sleeping
giant.  Osman stood upright on al-Buq's saddle, and gazed northwards
along the line of rail.  He saw a tiny feather of smoke on the horizon.
As he watched, it drew closer, so rapidly that he was taken by
surprise, the alien shape seeming to swell before his eyes as it rushed
towards him.  He knew that this was the land steamer of which al-Jamal
had told him.

He swung al-Buq's head round and urged him into a gallop.  He had a
quarter of a mile to cover before he reached the foot of the dune.  The
machine was coming on apace.  He looked ahead to the crest of the dune
and saw his aggagiers on the skyline.  They had dismounted and were
holding their horses, allowing them to rest.

"Get down!"  Osman roared as he raced across the open ground.  "Let not
the infidel see you!"  But his men were four hundred yards away and his
voice did not carry to them.  They stood and watched the approaching
machine with amazement.  Suddenly a blast of white steam shot up from
the land steamer and it emitted a howl like a maddened jinn. Stupefied,
making no effort to conceal themselves, they stood and stared at it.
It was a mighty serpent, with a head that hissed, howled and shot out
clouds of smoke and steam, and whose body seemed to reach back to the
skyline.

"They have seen you!"  Osman tried to warn them.  "Beware!  Beware!"
Now they could see that the rolling trucks were stacked with steel
rails and crates.  On the last they made out the heads of half a dozen
men, who were crouched behind some strange contraption.

"Beware!"  Osman was racing up the slip-face of the dune, almost at the
top.  His voice held a high, despairing note.  Suddenly the yellow
sands under the feet of the group of aggagiers and the hoofs of their
horse exploded into flying clouds of dust.  It was as though a khamsin
wind had torn over them.  The terrible sound of the Maxim gun followed
close behind the spray of bullets.  The troop of men and horse
disintegrated, blown away like dead leaves.

The gun traversed back towards Osman, but before the dancing pattern of
bullets reached him, al'Buq lunged over the crest.  Osman swung down
from the saddle.  He was still stunned by the enormity and menace of
the machine, but he ran to where his men lay.  Most of them were dead.
Only al-Noor and Mooman Digna were still on their feet.  "See to the
others," Osman ordered.  He threw himself flat on the top of the dune
and peered down the far side.  He watched the long train of wagons wind
away along the floor of the valley towards Akasha.

In the few moments that they had been exposed to the fire of the Maxim
gun, eight of his men had been killed outright, four were gravely
wounded and would die.  Four had survived.  Five horses were untouched.
Osman destroyed the wounded animals, left a waters king with the
wounded men to ease their passing, gathered up his surviving aggagiers
and rode back to Firket.

Now that he had had his first glimpse of the juggernaut that was
rolling down on them, he realized that his options were limited.  There
was little he could do to oppose and hold the enemy here at Firket.  He
determined to assemble and concentrate all his array on the banks of
the Atbara jiver and strike the enemy there in overwhelming force.

He replaced the depraved and ineffectual Emir Hammuda with the Emir
Azrak.  This man was completely different from Hammuda: he was a
fanatical devotee of the Mahdi; he had carried out many daring and
brutal raids on the Turk and the infidel; his name was well known in
Cairo, and he could expect little mercy if he were captured; he would
fight to the death.  Osman gave Azrak orders to delay the enemy at
Firket for as long as possible, but at the last moment to fall back on
the Atbara river with all his army.  He left him, and rode back to
Omdurman.

No sooner had Osman ridden away than Hammuda refused to accept that he
had been replaced and engaged in a bitter dispute with Azrak, which
left both men powerless.

While they wrangled the sirdar built up his base at Akasha.  Men and
equipment, supplies and munitions were brought down the railway line
with machine-like efficiency.  Then, with nine thousand men under his
personal command, General Kitchener fell upon the town of Firket.  The
Dervish were decimated and the survivors driven out helter-skelter.

Hammuda died in the first charge.  Azrak escaped with less than a
thousand men and rode southwards to the confluence of the Atbara to
meet Osman.  With his Camel Corps Kitchener followed the fleeing
Dervish along the riverbank, and captured hundreds of men and horses
and great stores of grain.

Within weeks the entire Dervish province of Dongola had fallen to the
sirdar.  The juggernaut resumed its deliberate and ponderous advance
southwards towards the Atbara river.  Month after month and mile after
weary mile the railway line unreeled like a silken thread across the
desert.  On most days the track advanced a mile or so, but on occasions
up to three miles.

The workmen encountered unexpected hardships and setbacks.  Cholera
broke out and hundreds of graves were hastily dug in the empty desert.
The first false flood of the inundation brought the 'green tide', all
the sewerage that had settled on the exposed banks during the Low Nile,
downstream.  There was no other water to drink.  Dysentery racked the
army camps.  Terrible thunderstorms poured out of a sky that usually
never rained.  Miles of track were washed away, miles more were swamped
under six feet of water.

Zafir, the first of the new stern-wheel gunboats, was brought in
sections from Wadi Haifa, and reassembled in a makeshift boatyard at
Koshesh on the clear-water section above the cataracts.  Her appearance
was stately and impressive, and she was launched with General Kitchener
and his staff on board.  As the boilers built up a full head of steam
there was an explosion like a salvo of heavy artillery as they burst.
The Zafir was out of action until new boilers could be brought out from
England and installed.

Yet the remorseless advance continued.  The Dervish garrisons at Abu
Hamed and Metemma were overrun, and driven back on the Atbara river.
Here Kitchener bombarded Osman Atalan's great defensive zareba, then
smashed it wide open with bullet and bayonet.  The Arabs either fled or
fought to the death.  The black Sudanese troops who would fight as
willingly for the infidel as they had for the Dervish were recruited
into the sirdar's army.

Victory on the Atbara was decisive.  Kitchener's expeditionary force
went into summer quarters.  He planned and mustered his powers and
waited for the river to rise before the final advance on Omdurman.

Penrod, who had received a spear wound through the thigh during the
fighting, was granted convalescent leave.  He travelled back, by rail
and river steamer from Aswan, to Cairo.

When Penrod limped into Cairo, Amber was beside herself with joy to
have him at her side, and in her bed.  Lady Jane Ballantyne had
returned to Clercastle at the insistence of her husband.  What had been
planned as a three-month sojourn had extended to almost two years.  Sir
Peter had long ago tired of the bachelor existence.

Ryder Courtney had returned from a highly successful visit to the
United States and Canada.  The wheat he had purchased was already
offloading in Alexandria docks.  He had arrived home just in time for
the birth of his son.  He had learnt that as soon as the Sudanese
campaign ended, Sir Evelyn Baring would turn all his energy and the
resources of the Khedive to the building of the great irrigation works
on the upper Nile, which had been long projected.  Almost two hundred
thousand acres of rich black soil would be brought under permanent
irrigation and would no longer be dependent on the annual inundation
from the Nile.  Ryder had purchased twenty thousand of these acres in a
speculative move.  It was a wise decision that, within ten years, would
make him a cotton millionaire.

Penrod's wound healed cleanly, and he discovered that he had been
gazetted for the Distinguished Service Order for his conduct in the
battles of Firket and Atbara.  Amber missed her moon, but on Saffron's
advice she did not tell Penrod of this momentous occurrence.  "Wait
until you are certain," Saffron told her.

"What if he guesses the truth before I tell him?"  Amber was nervous.
"He would take that hard."

"My darling, Penrod is a man.  He would not recognize a pregnancy if he
tripped over it."

With the approaching cool season heralding High Nile, and conditions
conducive to resuming campaigning, Penrod kissed Amber farewell and,
oblivious of his impending elevation to fatherhood, returned upriver to
the great military camp on the Atbara.

When he arrived he found that the encampment now stretched for many
miles along the riverbank, and the Nile itself resembled the port of
some prosperous European city.  It was a forest of masts and funnels.
Feluccas and gyassas, barges, steamers and gunboats crowded the
anchorage.  There were six newly assembled armoured'screw gunboats.
They were a hundred and forty feet long and twenty-four wide.  They
were armed with twelve- and six-pounder quick-firing guns, and with
batteries of Maxim machine-guns on their upper decks.  They were
equipped with modern machinery: ammunition hoists, searchlights and
steam winches.  Yet they drew only thirty-nine inches of water, and
their stern screws could drive them at speeds of up to twelve knots. In
addition there were four elderly stern-wheel gunboats, dating from
Chinese Gordon's era, which also carried twelve-pounders and Maxim
guns.

The sirdar had asked London for first-line British troops to reinforce
his already formidable new Egyptian army.  His request had been granted
and battalions of the Royal Warwickshires, Lincolns, Seaforth
Highlanders, Cameron Highlanders, Grenadier Guards, Northumberland
Fusiliers, Lancashire Fusiliers, the Rifle Brigade and the 21st Lancers
had already joined and were encamped in the great zareba.  The array of
artillery was formidable and ranged from forty-pounder howitzers to
field and horse batteries.  The sirdar's large white tent stood on an
eminence in the centre of the zareba, with the Egyptian flag waving on
a tall staff above it.

Penrod found his camels fat and strong and his men in much the same
condition.  Life in summer quarters, without the presence of their
commander, had been restful.  Penrod stirred them into action with a
vengeance.

As the first green flood of the rising Nile had poured down through the
Shabluka gorge, the grand advance began.  Thirty thousand fighting men
and their battle train moved southwards to the first staging camp at
the entrance to the gorge.  Here the mile-wide river was compressed
into a mere two hundred yards between the black and precipitous cliffs.
They were fifty-six miles from Khartoum and Omdurman.  The next staging
camp was only seven miles upstream opposite Royan Island above the
gorge, but these were seven difficult and dangerous miles.

The gunboats thrashed their way up through the racing, whirling rapids,
towing the barges behind them.  The ill-fated gunboat Zafir now sprang
a leak and sank by the bows in the jaws of the gorge.  Her officers and
men had barely time to escape with their lives.

For the infantry and cavalry the march to Royan Island was doubled in
length.  To avoid the rocky Shabluka hills they had to circle far out
into the desert.  Penrod's camels carried water for them in iron
tanks.

Once they had reached Royan Island, the road to Omdurman was clear and
open before them.  The vast array of men, animals, boats and guns moved
forward relentlessly, ponderously and menacingly.

At last only the low line of the Kerreri hills concealed the city of
Omdurman from the binoculars of the British officers.  There was still
no sign of the Dervish.  Perhaps they had abandoned the city and fled.
The sirdar sent his cavalry to find out.

The Khalifat Abdullahi had assembled all his army at Omdurman.  They
numbered almost a hundred thousand.  Abdullahi reviewed them before the
city, on the wide plain below the Kerreri hills.  The prophecy of one
of the saintly mullahs on his deathbed was that a great battle would be
fought upon the hills that would define the future of Mahdism and the
land of Sudan.

Anyone looking upon the mighty Dervish array could not doubt the
outcome of the battle.  The galloping regiments were strung out over
four miles, wave after wave of horsemen and massed black Sudanese
spearmen.  At the climax of the review, Abdullahi addressed them
passionately.  He charged them in the name of Allah and the Mahdi to do
their duty.  "Before God, I swear to you that I will be in the
forefront of the battle."

The threat that the emirs and khalifs feared above all others was that
presented by the gunboats.  Their spies had reported the power of these
vessels to them.  Abdullahi devised a counter to this menace.  Among
his European captives still in Omdurman was an old German engineer.
Abdullahi had him brought before him, and his chains were struck off.
This was usually the prelude to execution and the German was prostrated
with terror.

"I want you to build me explosive mines to lay in the river," Abdullahi
told him.

The old engineer was delighted to have this reprieve.  He flung himself
into the project with enthusiasm and energy.  He filled two steel
boilers each with a thousand pounds of gunpowder.  As a detonator he
fixed in them a loaded, cocked and charged pistol.  To the pistol's
triggers he attached a length of stout line.  A firm tug on this would
fire the pistol, and the discharge would ignite the explosive contents
of the boiler.

The first massive mine was loaded on to one of the Dervish steamers,
the hhmaelia.  With the German engineer and a hundred and fifty men on
board it was taken out into mid-channel and lowered over the side.  As
it touched the bottom of the river the steamer's captain, for reasons
he never had an opportunity to explain, decided to yank the trigger
cord.

The efficacy of the mine was demonstrated convincingly to Abdul-lahi,
his emirs and commanders who were watching from the shore.  The
hhmaelia, with her captain, crew and the German engineer, was blown out
of the water.

Once Abdullahi had recovered from the mild concussion induced by the
explosion, he was delighted with his new weapon.  He ordered the
captain of one of his other steamers to place the second mine in the
channel.  This worthy had been as impressed as everybody else with the
first demonstration.  Wisely he took the precaution of flooding the
mine with water before he took it on board.  The mine, rendered
harmless, was then laid in the channel of the Nile without further
mishap.  Abdullahi praised him effusively and showered him with
rewards.

The Dervish commanders waited for the infidel to come.  Each day their
spies brought reports of the slow but relentless approach.  Better than
anyone Osman Atalan understood the strength and determination of these
stern new-age crusaders.  When the infidel advance reached Merreh, only
four miles beyond the Kerreri Hills, he rode out with al-Noor and
Mooman Digna and gazed down from the heights upon the host.  Through
the dust they raised, he saw the marching columns and the lance heads
of the cavalry glittering in the sunlight.  He watched the heliographs
flashing messages he could not understand.  Then he gazed at the
flotilla of gunboats, beautiful and deadly, coming up the flow of the
Nile.  He rode back to his palace in Omdurman and called for his wives.
"I am sending you with all the children to the mosque at the oasis of
Gedda.  You will wait for me there.  When the battle is won, I will
come to find you."

Rebecca and Nazeera packed their possessions on to the camels, gathered
up the three children and, under an escort of aggagiers, left the
town.

"Why do these infidels wish to hurt us?"  Ahmed asked pitifully.  "What
shall we do if they kill our exalted and beloved father?"  Ahmed lacked
the fine looks of his parents.  His eyes were blue, but close-set and
furtive.  His front teeth protruded beyond his upper lip.  This gave
him the appearance of a large, ginger rodent.

"Do not snivel, my brother.  Whatever Allah decrees, we must be brave
and take care of our honoured mother."  Kahruba answered.

Rebecca felt her heart squeezed.  They were so different: Ahmed
plain-featured, timid and afraid; Kahruba beautiful, fearless and wild.
She hugged the infant to her breast as she swayed on the camel saddle.
Under the cotton sheet she had spread over her to protect her from the
sun, her baby daughter lay listlessly against her bosom.  The tiny body
was hot and sweaty with the fever that consumed her.  Omdurman was a
plague city.

The little caravan of women and children reached the oasis an hour
after dark.

"You will like it here," Rebecca told Ahmed.  "This is where you were
born.  The mullahs are learned and wise.  They will instruct you in
many things."  Ahmed was a born scholar, hungry for knowledge.  She did
not bother to try to influence Kahruba.  She was her own soul, and not
amenable to any views that did not coincide with her own.

That night as she lay on the narrow angareb, holding her sick baby,
Rebecca's mind turned to the twins.  This had happened more often
recently, ever since she had known that the Egyptian army was moving
irresistibly southwards down the river towards them.

It was many years since she had parted from Amber, even longer since
Saffron had run off through the dark streets of Khartoum.  She still
had a vivid picture of them in her mind.  Her eyes stung with tears.
What did they look like now.  Were they married?  Did they have
children of their own?  Were they even alive?  Of course they would not
recognize her.  She knew she had become an Arab wife, drawn and haggard
with childbirth, drab and aged with care.  She sighed with regret, and
the infant whimpered.  Rebecca forced herself to remain still, to allow
her baby to rest.

She was seized with a strange unfocused terror for what the next few
days would bring.  She had a premonition of disaster.  The existence to
which she had become inured, the world to which she now belonged, would
be shattered, her husband dead, perhaps her children also.  What was
there still to hope for?  What was there still to be endured?

At last she fell into a dark, numbed sleep.  When she awoke the infant
in her arms was cold and dead.  Despair filled her soul.

The British and Egyptian cavalry moved forward together.  The Nile lay
on their left hand, and on it they could see the gunboats sailing up
the stream in line astern.  Before them stood the line of the Kerreri
hills.  Penrod's camels were on the right flank of the advance.  They
climbed the first slope, and came out abruptly on the crest.  Spread
below him, Penrod saw the confluence of the two great Niles, and
between them the long-abandoned ruins of Khartoum.

Directly ahead, in Omdurman, rose the brown dome of a large building.
It had not been there when Penrod had escaped.  He knew, however, that
this must be the tomb of the Mahdi in the centre of the city.  Nothing
else had changed.

The wide plain ahead was speckled with coarse clumps of thorn bush and
enclosed on three sides by harsh, stony hills.  In the centre of the
plain, like another monument, was the conical Surgham Hill.  Abutting
the hill, a long low uneven ridge hid the fold of ground immediately
beyond it.  There was no sign of the Dervish.  Obedient to his express
orders, Penrod halted his troops on the high ground and they watched
the squadron of British cavalry ride forward cautiously.

Suddenly there was movement.  Hundreds of tiny specks left what
appeared to be the walls of a zareba of thorn branches.  It was the
Dervish vanguard.  They moved forward to meet the British cavalry.  The
front echelon of, troopers dismounted and, at long range, opened fire
with their carbines on the approaching Dervish.  A few fell, and their
comrades rode unhurriedly back to the zareba.

Then a remarkable transformation took place.  The dark wall of the
zareba came to life.  It was not made of thorn bush but of men, tens of
thousands of Dervish warriors.  Behind them another vast mass appeared
over the low ridge in the centre of the plain.  Like an infestation of
locusts, they swarmed forward.  Around and between their divisions
individual horsemen rode back and forth, and squadrons of their wild
cavalry swirled.  Hundreds of banners waved above their ranks, and
myriad spearheads glittered.  Even at this distance Penrod could hear
the booming of the war drums and the braying of the ombeyas.

Through his binoculars he searched the front ranks of this massive
concentration of the enemy, and in the centre he picked out the
distinctive scarlet and black war banner of Osman Atalan.  "So my enemy
has come," he whispered, reverting instinctively to Arabic.

Beside him, Sergeant Yakub grinned evilly and rolled his one eye.
"Kismet,"I he said.  "This has been written!"

Then their attention was diverted from the awe-inspiring spectacle of
the Dervish advance to the river on their left.  The flotilla of
gunboats, with a crash of cannon, engaged the Dervish forts on both
banks, which guarded the river approaches to the city.  The Dervish
guns responded, and the thunder of artillery echoed from the hills. But
the fire from the gunboats was fast and deadly accurate.  The
embrasures of the forts were smashed to rubble and the guns behind them
blown off their mountings.  The Maxim guns scoured the rifle trenches
on each side of the forts, and slaughtered the Dervish in them.

The British and Egyptian cavalry withdrew slowly ahead of the advancing
Dervish army.  In the meantime Kitchener's main army came marching up
along the riverbank, and laagered around the tiny abandoned fishing
village of Eigeiga.  In this defensive position they awaited the first
assault of the Dervish.

Suddenly the mass of advancing Dervish halted.  They fired their rifles
into the air, a salute and a challenge, but instead of coming on to the
attack they lay down on the earth.  By now it was late in the
afternoon, and it was soon evident that they would not mount their main
attack that day.

The flotilla of gunboats had reduced all the Dervish forts, and shelled
the tomb of the Mahdi, destroying the dome.  Now they dropped back down
the current and anchored opposite the army zareba.  Night fell.

At the rear of the Dervish army, Osman Atalan sat with the Khalifat
Abdullahi at the small campfire in front of his tent.  They were
discussing the day's actions and skirmishes, and planning for the
morrow.  Suddenly, from the centre of the river, a huge cyclopean eye
of brilliant light swept over them.  Abdallahi sprang to his feet and
shouted, "What is this magic?"

"Exalted Abdullahi, the infidel are watching us."  "Pull down my tent!"
Abdullahi screamed.  "They will see it."  He covered his eyes with both
hands, lest the light blind him, and threw himself on to the ground.
He feared no man, but this was witchcraft.

Four miles apart the two great armies passed the hours of darkness in
fitful slumber and constant vigilance, impatiently awaiting the dawn.
At half past four in the morning the bugles of the river camp sounded
the reveille.  The drums and fifes joined in.  The infantrymen and
gunners stood to arms and the cavalry mounted up.

Before sunrise the cavalry patrols trotted forward.  Because there had
been no night attack they suspected that the Dervish had crept away
during the hours of darkness, and that the hillside would be deserted.
At the head of three troops of his camels, Penrod reached the crest of
the slope in front of the zareba and looked down the back slope towards
the city and Surgham Hill.  Even in the dim light he could see that the
dome of the Mahdi's tomb had been shot away by the gunboats.  He
searched the plain below him, and saw that it was covered with dark
patches and streaks.  Then the light strengthened with the swiftness of
the African dawn.

Far from having absconded, the entire might of the Dervish army lay
before him.  It began to roll forward on a solid front almost five
miles wide.  Spear points shimmered above the ranks, and the Dervish
cavalry galloped before and about the slowly moving masses of men. Then
the war drums began to beat, the ivory ombeyas blared, and the Dervish
to cheer.  The uproar was almost deafening.

As yet the Dervish masses were hidden from the main Egyptian army on
the river, and the gunboats anchored behind them.  However, the tumult
carried to them.  The attack developed swiftly.  The Dervish legions
were well disciplined and moved with purpose and determination.  The
British and Egyptian cavalry dropped back before them.

The Dervish front ranks, waving hundreds of huge coloured banners and
beating the drums, topped the rise.  Below them they saw the waiting
infidel army.  They did not hesitate, but fired their rifles into the
air in challenge and rushed down the slope.  The sirdar let them come,
waiting until they were exposed on the open hillside.  The ranges were
accurately known to his gunners, and to the captains of the gunboats.
However, it was not the British who opened the conflict.  The Dervish
had brought up a few ancient Krupps field cannon and their shells burst
in front of the British zareba.

Immediately the gunboats and field batteries returned fire.  The sky
above the advancing Dervish masses was pocked with bursting puffs of
shrapnel, like cotton pods opening in the sun.  The sea of waving
banners toppled and fell, like grass blown down by a whirlwind.  Then
they rose again as the men coming up behind the fallen lifted them high
and charged forward.

The cavalry cleared the field to give the guns full play.  The Dervish
came on, but their ranks thinned steadily and they left the hillside
thickly strewn with tiny inert figures.  Then the Dervish were in range
of the rifles and the Maxims.  The slaughter mounted.  The rifles grew
so hot that they had to be exchanged with those of the reserve
companies in the rear.  The Maxims boiled away all the water in their
reservoirs and were refilled from the water bottles of their crews.

The frontal attack had been planned, by Osman and Abdullahi, to allow
their main forces to hook round the flanks and crush in to the sides of
the infidel line.  The men being massacred by the guns on the open
ground were brave, but they were not the elite of the Dervish army.
This was coming up behind the ridge.

Penrod had retired on to the flank, and was ready to deal with the
survivors of the first charge when they tried to escape, when suddenly
he was confronted by thousands of fresh enemy cavalry coming at him
from over the crest of the ridge at close range.  He must fly with his
troops, and try to reach the safety of the lines before they were wiped
out.  They raced away but the Dervish and their excited clamour were
close upon them.  One of the gunboats, playing nursemaid, had been
watching this dangerous situation develop.  It dropped back down the
river, and just as it seemed that Penrod's troops must be overtaken by
overwhelming numbers of cavalry, it opened up with the deadly Maxims.
The range was short and the results stunning.  The Dervish cavalry fell
in tangled masses, and their rear ranks pulled up and turned back.
Penrod led his squadrons into the shelter of the zareba.

Now the sirdar could leave the zareba and begin the final assault
towards the city.  The Dervish were in full retreat and the way was
open.  The lines of cavalry, bayonets and guns crossed the ridge and
moved down towards the shattered tomb of the Mahdi.

But the Dervish were not beaten.  As the British lines neared Surgham
Hill and the sandy ridge they found that Osman Atalan and the Khalifat
had concealed the flower of their army in this fold of ground.
Twenty-five thousand aggagiers and desert warriors burst out from
ambush, and poured down on the British.

The fighting was terrible.  The gunboats on the river could take no
part in it.  The British lancers were surprised by the close proximity
of Osman's lurking aggagiers and were forced to charge straight at
them.  Savage, undisciplined infantry could not withstand the charge of
British lancers, but these were horsemen.  They ran forward to press
the muzzles of their rifles against the flanks of the British horses,
then fired; they hamstrung others with the long blades, they dragged
the riders from their saddles.

The lancers suffered terrible casualties.  Al-Noor killed three men.
This short but bloody action was only a tiny cameo in the main battle
that raged across the plain and around Surgham Hill.

The British and the Egyptians fought superbly.  The brigades manoeuvred
with parade-ground precision to meet every fresh charge.  The officers
directed their fire with cool expertise.  The Maxims came up to
exacerbate the slaughter.  But the Dervish courage was inhuman.  The
fires of fanaticism were unquenchable.  They charged and were shot down
in tangled heaps, but immediately fresh hordes of jibba-bright figures
sprang up, seemingly from the ground, and ran upon the guns and
bayonets and died.  From the gunsmoke that hung over their mangled
corpses fresh figures charged forward.

And the Maxims sang the chorus.

By noon it was over, Abdullahi had fled the field, leaving almost half
his army dead upon it.  The British and the Egyptians had lost
forty-eight men, almost half of whom were lancers who had died in the
fatal two minutes of that brave but senseless charge.

Penrod was among the first men into the city of Omdurman.  There were
still small pockets of resistance among the pestilential hovels and
stinking slums, but he ignored them and, with a troop of his men, rode
to the palace of Osman Atalan.  He dismounted in the courtyard.  The
buildings were deserted.  He strode into them with his bared sabre in
his hand, calling her name: "Rebecca!  Where are you?"  His voice
echoed through the empty rooms.

Suddenly he heard a furtive movement behind him, and whirled round just
in time to deflect the dagger that had been aimed between his
shoulder-blades.  He flicked back his blade, catching his assailant as
he struck again, slicing open his wrist to the bone.  The Arab screamed
and the dagger fell from his hand.  With the point of the sabre to his
throat Penrod pinned him to the wall behind him.  He recognized him as
one of Osman Atalan's aggagiers.  "Where are they?"  Penrod demanded.
"Where are al-Jamal and Nazeera?"  Clutching his wrist, the blood from
his severed artery pumping sullenly, the Arab spat at him.

"Effendi."  Yakub spoke from behind Penrod's shoulder.  "Leave this one
to me.  He will speak to me."

Penrod nodded.  "I will wait with the camels.  Do not be long."

"The remorseless Yakub will waste little time."

Twice Penrod heard the captured Arab scream, the second time weaker
than the first, but at last Yakub came out.  "The oasis of Gedda," he
said, and wiped the blade of his dagger on his camel's neck.

The oasis of Gedda lay in a basin of chalk hills.  There was no surface
water, only a single deep well with a coping of limestone.  It was
surrounded by a grove of date palms.  The dome of the saint's tomb was
separated from the taller dome of the mosque and the flat-roofed
quarters of the mullahs.

As Penrod's troop rode in from the desert they saw a group of children
playing among the palm trees, small, barefooted boys and girls in long,
grubby robes.  A copper-haired boy pursued the others, and they
squealed with laughter and scattered before him.  As soon as they saw
the camel troop approaching they froze into silence and stared with
huge dark eyes.  Then the eldest boy turned and ran back towards the
mosque.  The others followed him.  After they had disappeared the oasis
seemed silent and deserted.

Penrod rode forward, and heard a horse whinny.  The animal was standing
behind the angle of the side wall.  It was knee-haltered and had been
feeding on a pile of cut fodder.  It was a dark-coloured stallion.
"Al-Buq!"

He reined in well short of the front doors of the mosque, jumped down
and threw the reins to Yakub.  Then he unsheathed his sabre and walked
forward slowly.  The doors were wide open and the interior of the
mosque was impenetrably dark in contrast to the bright sunlight
without.

"Osman Atalan!"  Penrod shouted, and the echoes from the hills mocked
him.  The silence persisted.

Then he saw dim movement in the gloom of the building's interior. Osman
Atalan stepped out into the sunlight.  His fierce and cruel features
were inscrutable.  He carried the long blade in his right hand, but he
had no shield.  "I have come for you," Penrod said.

"Yes," Osman answered.  Penrod saw the glint of silver threads in his
beard.  But his gaze was dark and unwavering.  "I expected you.  I knew
that you would come."

"Nine years," said Penrod.

"Too long," Osman replied, 'but now it is time."  He came down the
steps, and Penrod retreated ten paces to give him space to fight.  They
circled each other, a graceful minuet.  Lightly they touched blades and
the steel rang like fine crystal.

They circled again, watching each other's eyes, looking for any
weakness that might have developed in the years since they had last
fought.  They found none.  Osman moved like a cobra, tensed and poised
for the strike.  Penrod was his mongoose, quick and fluid.

They crossed and turned, and then as if at a signal, leapt at each
other.  Their blades slithered together.  They broke apart, circled and
came together again.  The silver blades blurred, glittered and
clattered against each other.  Penrod drove in hard, forcing Osman on
to his back foot, keeping the pressure on him, the blades dancing.
Osman stepped back, and then counter-attacked, just as furiously.
Penrod gave ground to him, leading him on, making him buy each inch.

Penrod watched him carefully, then cut hard at his head.  Osman
blocked.  Their blades were locked together.  Now they both stood
solidly and all their weight was on their sword wrists.  Tiny beads of
sweat popped out on their foreheads.  They stared into each other's
eyes and pushed.  Penrod felt the sponginess in Osman's grip.  To test
him he broke the lock and jumped back.

As their blades disengaged Osman had a fleeting opening and tried for
it, thrusting at Penrod's right elbow to disable his sword arm, but it
was one of his old tricks and Penrod was ready for it.  It seemed to
him that Osman was slow.  He hit the long blade and pirouetted clear.

Not slow.  He changed his mind as they circled again.  Just not as fast
as he used to be.  But, then, am I?

He feinted at Osman's face, then leant back, not making it obvious that
he was inviting the riposte.  Osman almost caught him.  His
counter-stroke came like thunder.  Penrod just managed to turn it.
Osman was at full extension, and there was the lag again, his old bad
habit, slow on the recovery.  Penrod hit him.

It was a glancing blow that skidded along Osman's ribcage under his
arm.  The point sliced down to the bone, but did not find the gap
between the ribs.  They circled again.  Osman was bleeding profusely.
The blood loss must weaken him swiftly, and the damaged muscles would
soon stiffen.  He was running out of time and threw everything into the
attack.  He came with all his weight and skill.  His blade turned to
dancing light.  It was cut and thrust high in the line of defence, then
cross and go back-handed for the thigh, then at the head.  He kept it
up relentlessly, never breaking, never giving Penrod a chance to come
on to his front foot, forcing him on to the defensive.

He cut Penrod high in the left shoulder.  It was a light wound, and
Osman was losing blood more heavily.  Each fresh attack was less fiery,
each recovery after the thrust just a little slower.  Penrod let him
expend himself, holding him off and waiting his moment.  He watched
Osman's eyes.

During the entire bout Osman had not gone for Penrod's hip.  Penrod
knew from experience that it was his favourite and most deadly stroke
with which he had crippled innumerable enemies.  At last Penrod offered
it to him, turning his lower body into Osman's natural line.

Osman went for the opening, and once he was committed Penrod turned
back so the razor edge slit the cloth of his jodhpurs but did not break
the skin.  Osman was fully extended and could not recover quickly
enough.

Penrod hit him.  His thrust split the sternum at the base of Osman's
ribs and went on to transfix him cleanly as a fish on a skewer.  Penrod
felt his steel grate on his opponent's spinal column.

Osman froze, and Penrod stepped in close.  He seized his opponent's
sword wrist to prevent a last thrust.  Their faces were only inches
apart.  Penrod's eyes were hard and cold.  Osman's were dark with
bitter rage, but slowly they became opaque as stones.  The sword
dropped from his hand.  His legs buckled, but Penrod held his weight on
the sabre.  Osman opened his lips to speak, but a snake of dark blood
trickled from the corner of his mouth and crawled down his chin.

Penrod relaxed his wrist and let him slide off the blade.  He fell at
Penrod's feet, and lay still upon his back with his arms spread wide.

As Penrod stepped back a woman screamed.  He looked up.  He became
aware for the first time of the small group of Arab women and children
huddled in the doorway of the mosque.  He recognized the little ones as
those who had run to hide as he rode up.  But he knew none of the
women.

"Nazeera!"  It was Yakub's voice.  He saw one of the women react, and
then he recognized her.  Nazeera held two children against her legs.
One was the ugly copper-haired boy, and the other an exquisite little
girl, a few years younger than the boy.  Both children were weeping and
trying to break out of Nazeera's grip, but she held them fast.

Then an Arab women left the group and came slowly down the steps
towards him.  She moved like a sleep-walker, and her eyes were fastened
on the dead man at his feet.  There was something dreadfully familiar
about her.  Instinctively Penrod backed away, still staring at her in
fascination.  Then he exclaimed, "Rebecca!"

"No," the stranger replied in English.  "Rebecca died long ago."  Her
face was a pitiful travesty of that of the lovely young woman he had
once known.  She knelt beside Osman and picked up his sword.  Then she
looked up into Penrod's face.  Her eyes were old and hopeless.  "Look
after my children," she said.  "You owe me that at least, Penrod
Ballantyne."

Before he understood what she intended and could move to prevent her,
she reversed the sword.  She placed the pommel on the hard ground and
the point under her bottom ribs and fell forward upon it with all her
weight.  The length of the blade disappeared into her body, and she
collapsed on top of Osman Atalan.

The children screamed, broke from Nazeera's grip, rushed down the steps
and threw themselves on to the bodies of their parents.  They wailed
and shrieked.  It was a dreadful sound that cut to the core of Penrod's
being.

He sheathed his sabre, turned away and walked away towards the palm
grove.  As he passed Yakub he said, "Bury Osman Atalan.  Do not
mutilate his body or take his head.  Bury al-Jamal beside him.  Nazeera
and the children will come with us.  They will ride my camel.  I will
ride al-Buq.  When all is ready call me."

He went into the grove and found a fallen palm trunk on which to sit.
He was very tired, and the cut on his shoulder throbbed.  He opened his
tunic and folded his handkerchief over the wound.

The two children, the boy and the girl, must be Rebecca's, he realized.
What will become of them?  Then he remembered Amber and Saffron.  They
have two aunts who will fight over them.  He smiled sadly.  Of course,
they will have Rebecca's share of the trust fund, and they have
Nazeera.  They will lack nothing.

Within the hour "Yakub came to call him.  On the way back to the mosque
they stopped beside the newly filled double grave.  "Do you think she
loved him, Yakub?"

"She was a Muslim wife," Yakub replied.  "Of course she loved him.  In
God's eyes, she had no choice."

They mounted up.  Nazeera had the two children with her on the camel,
and Yakub rode beside her.  Penrod was on the stallion, and led them
back to Omdurman.

Ahmed Habib abd Atalan, the son of Rebecca and Osman Atalan, became
uglier as he grew older, but he was very clever.  He attended Cairo
University where he studied law.  He fell in with a group of
politically active fellow students, who were violently opposed to the
British occupation of their country.  He devoted the rest of his life
to the same jihad against that hated nation and Empire as his father.
He was a German supporter during both world wars and spied for Erwin
Rommel in the second.  He was an active member of the Revolutionary
Command Council in the bloodless coup that ousted the Egyptian King
Farouk, the British puppet.

Rebecca's daughter Kahruba remained small but she became more beautiful
with every year that passed.  At an early age she discovered in herself
an extraordinary talent for dancing and acting.  For twenty years she
burned bright as a meteor across the stages of all the great theatres
of Europe.  With her wild, free spirit, she became a legend in her own
lifetime.  Her lovers, both men and women, were legion.  Finally she
married a French industrialist, who manufactured motor-cars, and they
lived together in regal state and pomp in their palatial mansion in
Deauville.

The Khalifat Abdullahi escaped from Omdurman, but Penrod Ballan-tyne
and his Camel Corps pursued him relentlessly for more than a year.  In
the end he deigned to run no further.  With his wives and devotees
around him he sat on a silk carpet in the centre of his camp in the
remote wilderness.  When the troops rushed in he offered no further
resistance.  They shot him dead where he sat.

The tomb of the Mahdi was razed to the ground.  His remains were
exhumed, and his skull was turned into an inkwell.  It was presented to
General Kitchener, who was horrified.  He had it reburied in a secret
grave in the wilderness.

After the battle of Omdurman Kitchener became the darling of the
Empire.  He was rewarded with a peerage and a huge money grant.  When
the Boers in South Africa inflicted a series of disastrous defeats on
the British army, Kitchener was sent to retrieve the situation.  He
burnt the farms and herded the women and children into concentration
camps.  The Boers were crushed.

During the First World War, Kitchener was promoted to field marshal and
Commander-in-chief to steer the Empire through the most destructive war
in all human history.  In 1916 while he was on board the cruiser
Hampshire, en route to Russia, the ship struck a German mine off the
Orkneys.  He drowned at the high noon of his career.

Sir Evelyn Baring became the 1st Earl of Cromer.  He returned to
England where he spent his days writing and, in the House of Lords,
championing free trade.

Nazeera helped to raise all the children of the three Benbrook sisters.
This occupied most of her time and energy, but what remained she
divided impartially between Bacheet and Yakub.

Bacheet and Yakub pursued their vendetta for the rest of their lives.
Bacheet was referred to by his rival as the Despicable Lecher.  Yakub
was the Jaalin Assassin.  In their later years they took to frequenting
the same coffee-house where they sat at opposite ends of the room,
smoking their water-pipes, never addressing each other but deriving
great comfort from their mutual antagonism.  When Bacheet died of old
age, Yakub never returned to the coffee-house.

Ryder Courtney's cotton acres flourished.  He invested his millions in
Transvaal gold and Mesopotamian oil.  He doubled and redoubled his
fortune.  In time his mercantile influence encompassed almost all of
Africa and the Mediterranean.  But to Saffron he remained always a
benign and indulgent husband.

General Sir Penrod Ballantyne went to South Africa on Kitchener's
staff, and was present when the Boers surrendered at the peace of
Vereeniging in the Transvaal.  In the First World War he rode with
Allenby's cavalry against the Ottoman Turks in Palestine.  He fought at
Gaza and Megiddo, where he won further honours.  He continued to play
first-class polo well into his seventies.  He and Amber lived in their
house on the Nile, and in it raised a large family.

Amber and Saffron outlived both their husbands.  They grew ever closer
as the years passed.  Amber flourished as an author.  Her novels
faithfully captured the romance and mystery of Africa.  She was twice
nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature.  Saffron's marvellously
colourful paintings were hung in galleries in New York, Paris and
London.  Her Nile series of paintings was eagerly sought by wealthy
collectors on two continents, and commanded enormous prices.  Picasso
said of her, "She paints the way a sunbird flies."

But they are all gone now, for in Africa only the sun triumphs
eternally.

GLOSSARY

Arab names will not go into English, exactly, for their consonants are
not the same as ours, and their vowels, like ours, vary from district
to district.  There are scientific systems of transliteration, helpful
to people who know enough Arabic not to need helping, but a wash out
for the world.  I spell my names anyhow, to show what rot the systems
are

T. E. Lawrence, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

Abadan Riji - "One who never turns back'.  Penrod Ballantyne's Arabic
name abd slave aggagiers elite warriors of the Beja tribe of desert
Arabs

Ammi aunt angareb - a native bed with leather thong lacing

Ansars - "The Helpers', warriors of the Mahdi ardeb Oriental measure of
volume.  Five ardebs equal one cubic metre as ida porridge of dhurra
(G.V.) flavoured with chili Bahr El Abiad the White Nile Bahr El Azrek
the Blue Nile bombom bullets or cannon shells

Beia oath of allegiance required by the Mahdi from his Ansars

Beit el Mai the treasury of the Mahdi

Buq, al- War Trumpet, Osman Atalan's charger can tar Oriental measure
of weight: one can tar equals a hundredweight djinni see Jinnee dhurra
Sorghum vulgare; staple grain food of men and domestic animals

Effendi lord, a title of respect falja - a gap between the front top
teeth; a mark of distinction, much admired in the Sudan and many Arabic
countries fellah (pi.  fellahin) Egyptian peasant ferenghi foreigner

Filfil pepper, Saffron Benbrook's Arabic name

Franks Europeans galabiyya traditional long Arabic robe

Hulu Mayya Sweet Water, one of Osman Atalan's steeds

Jamal, al- 'the Beautiful One'; Rebecca Benbrook's Arabic name jibba
the uniform of the Mahdists; long tunic decorated with multi-coloured
patches jihad holy war jinnee (pi.  jinn) - a spirit from Muslim
mythology, able to assume animal or human form and influence mankind,
with supernatural powers jiz scarab or dung beetle kufi Muslim
traditional skull cap

Karim, al- "Kind and Generous'; variation of Ryder Courtney's Arabic
name kit tar bush with wicked hooked thorns

Kurban Bairam Islamic festival of sacrifice,

commemorating the sacrifice of the ram by Abraham in place of his son
Isaac; one of the most important holidays in Islam kurbash whip made
from hippo hide khalifa deputy of the Mahdi khalifat the senior and
most powerful khalifa khedive the ruler of Egypt mulazemin the servants
and retainers of an eminent Arab

Mahdi 'the Expected One', the successor to the Prophet Muhammad

Mahdist follower of the Mahdi

Mahdiya the rule of the Mahdi nullah dry or water-filled streambed
ombeya war trumpet carved from a single elephant tusk souk bazaar sitt
title of respect, equivalent to 'my lady' in English

Sakhawi, al- "Generosity', Ryder Courtney's Arabic name sirdar the
title of the commander-in-chief of the Egyptian Army shufta bandit

Tej strong beer made from dhurra

Turk derogatory term for Egyptian

Tirbi Kebir the great graveyard, large salt pan in the Bight of the
Nile wadi Gully or dried watercourse

Yom il Guma Friday, the Muslim Sabbath

Zahra, al- "The Flower', Amber Benbrook's Arabic name zareba fortified
stockade of stones or thorn bush zenana women's quarters in an Arabic
household

WILBUR SMITH was born in Central

Africa in 1933.  He was educated at Michaelhouse and Rhodes
University.

He became a full-time writer in 1964

after the successful publication of

When the Lion Feeds, and has since written thirty novels, all
meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide.I

His books are now translated intol twenty-six different languages.