David Gibbins - Pharaoh

He rolled against the parapet and stared back out over the desert. The pellucid light of the early morning when he had woken at the wells with Shaytan had given way to a dusty haze, a mist of sand that lay low over the desert floor; it seemed to cut off anything that rose above it, leaving the pyramidal outcrops he had seen earlier hanging in the distance like a mirage, and his camel standing fifty yards away partly disembodied, as if its head were peering above a diaphanous veil of red. It was a disconcerting effect, part reality, part mirage, but it was also alluring, and he could see how men had been tempted to ride off into the desert and disappear, caught in an embrace that only those who knew what they were seeking and had learned its ways could survive.

The heliograph flashed above the opposite bank, and he snapped back to reality. He turned to the river and saw that the boat was now being rowed out, tested by the sappers who had repaired it. He peered at the line of the cliff one last time. He could not wait any longer and he would have to take his chances. He retracted the telescope, put it in its case and slung it round his neck beside the binoculars, then handed the Martini-Henry rifle and the cartridge box to Jones. ‘Take this. It’s the most accurate rifle the engineer quartermaster could find for me when I arrived. It’s sighted for four hundred yards over the river.’

‘Nobody up here could take a shot like that except you, sir.’

‘Then you’ll need to keep your heads down.’ He stooped over and picked up the khaki bag that Jones had been looking after for him, checking that it was wrapped and secure.

Jones watched him, his voice hesitant. ‘So you really are leaving us for good, sir?’

Mayne paused. ‘I don’t know. But look out for me.’

‘Sir.’ The subaltern offered his hand, and Mayne shook it. ‘We’ll be on guard next time, sir. The next time a British officer appears out of the desert disguised as an Arab.’

Mayne turned to Jones. ‘That reminds me. My camel.’

‘Sir?’

‘I won’t be needing her again. She’s yours.’

Jones stared at Mayne, then out at the chewing, grunting form beyond the parapet, then back at Mayne, his face a picture of horror. ‘But sir .’

‘A little desert grass, some water. You’ll find she’s very loyal. Once you feed her, she won’t look at any other man. And if you get cold at night, hobble her and snuggle up tight. You won’t notice the smell after a while.’

The Irish soldier jostled Jones. ‘Go on, Jonesy. You was telling us how good you was with the Egyptian ladies in Cairo. Well, here’s one for you now, and a chance for you to show us what you’re worth.’

Jones’ face had turned from horror to despair. Mayne grinned at him, then picked up his saddlebag and slung the khaki wrap over his back, feeling the hard wooden case inside, and turned towards the parapet.

It was time to go.

‘Get down, sir!’

There was a crack as a bullet whined by, so close that the air it displaced pushed Mayne off balance and sent him tripping and stumbling back into the sangar. The report of the gunshot echoed and rumbled down the gorge below, and he heard yells and commands from the men on the river as they took cover. He quickly doffed his bags and crawled to the parapet beside Jones, who handed back the rifle he had taken from him only moments before. The other soldiers had dropped what they were doing and crouched with their heads under the parapet. The sound of the report had come about half a second behind the bullet; for a .43 calibre Remington that meant the shooter was about four hundred yards away, perhaps five hundred over the river where the air was cooler and less dense, slowing the bullet by a fraction. He twisted his head to one side, listening as another bullet whined by. He could also gauge the distance a Remington bullet had travelled by its noise, whether a snap or a buzz or a whine, and what he heard confirmed his estimate: four hundred, perhaps four hundred and fifty yards, exactly the distance from the ridge opposite where he had expected a sharpshooter to appear. He whipped out his telescope and trained it on the ridge. Another bullet whined over, followed by another sharp report, the noise overlaying the distant echoes of the previous report and resounding through the gorge. He lowered the telescope, searching for the telltale puff of white smoke. Another shot rang out, but he could see nothing. The man had waited until there was enough haze coming off the desert to obscure the smoke, and until the sun was directly behind him, dazzling any onlookers from the opposite bank. He was good, too good to allow himself to be caught by the soldiers who would already be clambering up the rocks from below to search for him, but likely to hold his ground until he had inflicted serious casualties among the men by the river or here in the sangar.

‘It’s a harassing fire,’ the subaltern said, his voice high pitched with excitement and fear. ‘They can’t be aiming at us individually, from that far off.’

‘There’s only one of them,’ Mayne replied. ‘The dervish sharpshooters only ever work alone, like any good marksmen. And I wouldn’t be sure it’s just harassing fire. He’s going to get his range soon enough, and then we might be in for some trouble.’

The subaltern slid further down into the sangar, holding his helmet on to his head. ‘What do you propose to do?’

‘He’s using the sun behind him as cover, but he’s left it a little late in the day. Pretty soon the sun will drop and we might have a chance of seeing him on that ridge. Until then we sit tight.’

‘Do you intend to have a go? At this range?’

Mayne pursed his lips, looking at the others. ‘Everybody hold their fire. I’ll only have one chance. As soon as he knows we’ve spotted his position, he’ll be gone and that’ll be it.’ He glanced at the wrapped box, and then dispelled the thought. The Sharps was more accurate at a longer range, but he had yet to sight it in, and to use it now would be to compromise himself, to open himself to questioning that he did not want. The Martini-Henry would be at the limit of its effectual range but he had got to know its foibles in the desert, and he felt confident with it. He glanced through the crack in the parapet masonry and saw the men of the river column running around and diving for cover, sheltering behind rocks and overhangs, the sentries fixing bayonets and holding their rifles at the ready, blindly scanning the rocks above them. He glanced at the subaltern, who had taken out his revolver and was gripping it hard, his knuckles white and his hand shaking, popping his head up to look and then quickly slipping down again, breathing fast and hard. Mayne opened up his cartridge box. ‘At the moment he’s targeting us because he knows he’s got us at a disadvantage in this light, and it’s always good to put the wind up a sentry post like this so that the men inside keep their heads down and fail to see what’s coming next.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the subaltern, alarm in his eyes. ‘The Mahdi army?’

Mayne grunted, not listening, eyeing the river again. ‘We don’t want him shifting his position behind a rock where we can’t see him but he can shoot at the river column below. Their progress is slow enough as it is, but being under fire will seize it up completely. The Kroomen and voyageurs are not members of Her Majesty’s armed forces and I doubt whether being shot at was in their contract with Wolseley.’

‘How long?’ asked the subaltern, his voice hoarse.

Mayne narrowed his eyes, looking towards the orb of the sun to the west, beyond the ridge. He remembered the days he had spent with Shaytan, observing everything about the desert, learning to gauge the remaining daylight by the position of the sun above the horizon, a crucial survival skill. He had needed to prepare himself for what might lie ahead in the days and weeks to come, but it was paying off here as well. ‘About half an hour,’ he murmured. ‘We need to catch him just as the sun drops and before he realises he’s visible. That might be a matter of moments.’