The Master's Wife (30 page)

Hurrying to them, Caseley put an arm around Antonia’s waist to help support her. ‘Thank God you’re safe. I was afraid – What happened?’

‘We were on the roof of the Reuters building. Antonia was taking photographs when the bombardment started.’ His face was tight with anger and anxiety. ‘From the moment the guns opened fire, shells were landing in the city.’

‘Do you think it’s deliberate?’

He moved a shoulder. ‘The British guns are supposed to be shelling the forts along the shoreline. Are we really supposed to believe they are simply guilty of poor marksmanship? But only Admiral Seymour knows whether he is acting on his own initiative or following orders from back home. Will you take care of her?’

‘Of course. What of her camera? She’s sure to ask.’

He held up the case. ‘Probably smashed to bits, but knowing how much it means to her I couldn’t leave it.’

‘Spencer Blaine came in earlier. The Consulate’s been hit. He said it’s just a pile of rubble.’

‘Oh, God.’ Pawlyn passed his hand over his face. ‘Sir Douglas?’

Caseley shook her head.

‘Where is Blaine now?’

‘If the trains are running he will be on his way to Cairo. I pleaded with him to stay and help but he refused.’

‘He’d be as useful as a headache. Maybe I should stay.’

‘No. When this is over and each side is blaming the other, your account of today’s events will be vitally important. Who else cares enough to describe the devastating effects of all the political manipulation and deceit on ordinary people?’

‘Thank you.’ It was heartfelt. ‘I’ll come back later.’

Taking Antonia’s weight, Caseley half-dragged, half-carried her to a corner space at the end of a bench and propped her up. Her closed eyes were screwed tightly against pain and the blood-free side of her face was ash-pale.

Caseley pushed the camera box underneath the bench and left to fetch a basin of warm water. She saw Soeur Jeanne, who frowned. ‘Why are you not –?’

‘Miss Collingwood is the daughter of the assistant British Consul. The Consulate was hit this morning. She was injured and a friend brought her here.’

Jeanne looked at Antonia’s forehead. ‘It needs stitches. Clean it with warm water and a pinch of chloride of lime. Then take her to the benches down there.’ She pointed down the corridor. ‘They are close to the operating theatre so the doctor will see her waiting.’ She glided away, moving quickly without seeming to hurry.

Fetching water, cotton wool and a bandage Caseley began to clean the wound. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. Panic stirred like mud in a pond.

Wincing, Antonia tried to push Caseley’s hand away. ‘Don’t – hurts.’

‘Antonia? It’s Caseley. You’re at the hospital.’ Setting the basin and bloody cotton wool under the bench so they wouldn’t get kicked over before she had time to take them back to the sluice room, Caseley hauled Antonia up and supported her along the corridor. Her heart sank. The benches here were almost as crowded as the foyer. Lowered to the bench, Antonia folded her arms across her middle and curled forward over them, head bowed. Knowing there was nothing more she could do, Caseley returned to the foyer as a young woman holding a baby ran in, sobbing.

Caseley went to her. ‘Are you hurt?’ As the young woman swung round, wide-eyed, she asked again in French, ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. No. My husband is a doctor at the Greek-Egyptian hospital. He was supposed to come home at eight. When the house next to ours was hit I was afraid to stay. I ran all the way here.’

Caseley looked at the silent baby’s closed eyes and waxen skin.
Oh no. Please, no.

‘He’s sleeping,’ the young woman said with a glassy smile. ‘That’s best, isn’t it? Then he won’t be frightened.’

Caseley felt her heart break. She knew she should rest and eat. But how could she when so many people needed help?

––––––––

A
fter thirty-six hours the blue Mediterranean turned brown with muddy outflow from the Nile.
Cygnet
was approaching her destination.

Protected by two breakwaters, one supporting a tall lighthouse, several basins along the main waterway were lined with jetties. Warehouses and buildings stood behind them. The water was crowded with lighters ferrying cargo and dhows laden with handicrafts to offer to ships waiting to enter or leave the Suez Canal.

Night was falling and Jago’s eyes were gritty with tiredness. The sun’s fierce glare and the fast passage had taken their toll. As soon as the passengers were ashore, he went down to his day room. Martin had already lit the overhead lamp. He knocked on the open door while Jago was writing the log.

‘Cocoa, Cap’n,’ he set the mug down carefully, keeping it away from the chart. ‘One of the boatmen was selling fresh milk.’

‘Thanks, Mart.’ Dropping his pen, Jago rubbed his face.

‘Leaving tonight, are we?’

He was tempted. But common sense prevailed. ‘No, we’ll go at first light. Get some sleep. Ask Nathan to come down.’

They divided the watches while Jago swallowed his cocoa. Nathan moved his gear back into his own cabin. Falling onto his bunk Jago was asleep in seconds.

Woken by Martin bringing in a pitcher of water, Jago glanced up through the skylight and saw the pearl grey of dawn. He washed, buttoned up a clean shirt, pulled up his braces, dragged a comb through his hair and walked through to the saloon.

Breakfast was porridge with treacle, bread, cheese and dates.

‘Dear life, Mart. Fattening us up for Christmas are ’e?’ Hammer demanded.

‘Leave ’n be,’ Nathan grunted. ‘Boy got his head screwed on. Need a good start, we do. Bleddy wind can’t make up its mind. If he stay in the nor’west we’ll be tacking back and forth all the bleddy way.’

Jago felt his heart drop like a weight in his chest. The wind had to change. It
had
to.

Against the roar of guns, and the crump and rumble of explosions, Caseley fetched water for parched throats and helped the walking wounded to dressing stations or the lavatory.

A dark-haired man burst through the doors, frantic with worry and shouting his wife’s name. Looking round, Caseley heard the young woman cry out to him, watched as he fought his way through to her. He looked down at their child and she saw him flinch as realisation struck like a blow. He gathered his wife close. Tears slid down his face, cutting tracks through the dust.

That was what Jago must have felt: helplessness, guilt, rage. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people would have been killed today. All over the city parents would be weeping for dead children.

She returned to the corridor, retrieved the basin and bloody cotton wool from under the bench and took them to the sluice room. When she got back Antonia hadn’t moved, but Caseley’s stomach twisted on seeing that rivulets of blood had flowed over her arms to soak her skirt. Fewer people were waiting and the theatre doors stood open.

Caseley hauled Antonia to her feet. One nurse was wiping blood off the floor while another laid instruments on a clean towel. She looked up as Caseley staggered in.

‘Soeur Jeanne says it needs stitches.’

‘Put her on the table.’ She peered at Caseley. ‘Who are you?’

‘A volunteer. I’ve been helping Soeurs Jeanne and Marie.’ Suddenly dizzy, Caseley crumpled and slid down to sit on the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘How long is it since you ate anything?’

Caseley tried to remember. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Too long.’ The nurse gently pushed wet blood-thickened hair back from Antonia’s forehead. She went to the instrument table. The doctor strode in and, as Caseley struggled to her feet, he beckoned her forward.

‘Hold her head still.’

Caseley went to the head of the table, placed her hands on each side of Antonia’s face, and looked away from the gaping cut and all the blood.

‘Camera?’ Antonia slurred.

‘It’s safe,’ Caseley reassured. ‘Mr Pawlyn had gone to find more plates. He promised he would be back very soon.’

The nurse caught hold of Antonia’s hands as the doctor came to the table.

‘Keep her still,’ he repeated.

Antonia’s screams pierced Caseley like knife thrusts. She wanted to press her hands over her ears and run away. Instead she held Antonia’s face, told her how brave she was and it was nearly over.

The doctor stepped back. Caseley received another weary nod. Then he left.

‘Sit her up.’ As soon as Antonia was upright, the nurse placed a pad over the neatly stitched wound and bandaged it in place.

‘Dreadful headache,’ Antonia whispered.

Pouring a little water into a small glass, the nurse took a dark brown bottle from a cupboard and added a few drops to the glass then held it to Antonia’s lips. ‘Find her somewhere to sit,’ she told Caseley. ‘Then get yourself something to eat. You did well.’

Back in the foyer, now less crowded, Caseley settled Antonia in the corner so she leaned against the wall. Her eyes were closed and all the tension had drained from her face.

‘Antonia? Your camera box is under the bench. Rest here. I’ll be back soon.’ Caseley turned away and saw a familiar figure walk in from outside. She picked her way through to meet her.

‘Sheikha! Are you injured?’

‘No, I am unharmed. But Sheikh Imad was shot by an Egyptian soldier.’ She turned as four servants carried in a litter bearing the inert figure of the Sheikh. ‘This hospital has the finest surgeons. If he is not operated on immediately –’

‘I’ll fetch a sister.’ Running to the ward, Caseley found Soeur Jeanne accompanying the doctor on his rounds. Within minutes, Sheikh Imad was taken into the operating theatre.

Caseley watched them go, queasy with hunger and exhaustion. There was something she should do, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

‘Go and eat!’ Soeur Marie insisted.

In the quiet room a covered plate had been placed on the table. It held bread, cheese and dates, and there was also a covered jug of juice. She sat down, swallowed some juice. It slid down her parched throat, cool, soothing and so welcome. Tiredness dropped over her like a heavy blanket. She felt herself falling and everything went dark.

She woke with a jolt. Something was different. Then she realised: the gunfire had stopped.

What was she doing on the couch? She didn’t remember lying down. She sat up and, in the light from a lamp on the table, saw Sabra sitting nearby gazing out into the darkness.

‘How long –?’ She croaked and cleared her throat.

Sabra looked round. ‘So you are back with us. Not as long as you needed. What are you doing here?’

‘Sir Douglas ordered my husband to take passengers to Port Said. I was to remain at the Consulate until he returned. But I couldn’t – with nothing to do I would have – so I came here and offered to help.’

‘It’s as well you did.’

‘Mr Pawlyn brought Antonia in. She had a gash on her head that needed stitches.’ Caseley’s skin tightened as she recalled the screams.

Sabra nodded. ‘Does she know about her father?’

‘I’m not sure. I haven’t told her. How is Sheikh Imad?’

‘Recovering. The bullet had lodged in a muscle so he did not lose too much blood. As soon as the doctor will allow, I shall take him to my villa. When he is fit to travel we will return to Cairo.’

Caseley nodded, biting back the question that hovered on her tongue. But Sabra had noticed.

‘You are wondering why we did not tell you we were coming to Alexandria.’

Caseley felt her cheeks warm, and nodded.

‘We went to speak to the Khedive who was then at Ras-el-Tin palace.’

‘Why?’

‘Colonel Arabi’s offers of negotiation had been rejected by Admiral Seymour so we knew the British were determined to go ahead with the bombardment. They claimed it was necessary to restore the Khedive’s authority. But their true intent has always been to destroy any chance of Egyptians ruling their own country. We don’t want Egypt’s ruler to be a puppet of the English. We tried to persuade the Khedive that achieving a compromise with Colonel Arabi would be a demonstration of statesmanship and understanding of what his people want.’ Her voice faltered but pride lifted her chin. ‘We talked until our voices failed. Tewfiq was offered safety aboard one of the English ships but he declined.’

‘Surely that shows his loyalty to –’

Sabra’s smile was bitter. ‘He declined because he couldn’t make up his mind which side was most likely to win and didn’t want to be on the losing one.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘During the night he fled to Cairo. Soon after the bombardment started the palace was hit and caught fire. We got out just in time.’

‘What do you think will happen?’

‘To Egypt?’ She inhaled deeply. ‘While you were sleeping I was brought information that Tewfiq sent Colonel Arabi a letter claiming the bombardment was his fault, because he had refused to disarm the forts. Yet how could he disarm them when, as Minister for War appointed by the Khedive, it was his responsibility to ensure the city was protected against attack by a foreign power? A truce has been declared and seems to be holding. Now the Admiral has sent a letter to Colonel Arabi claiming that he has no desire to make war on Egypt and is ready to hand over the city – what is left of it – to a disciplined and obedient Egyptian army. To that end, Colonel Arabi is invited to return to Ras-el-Tin to agree arrangements.’ Irony and disgust shaded Sabra’s tone. ‘I suspect Tewfiq’s sole contribution to that letter was his signature. The rest will have been dictated by his English advisors, who know perfectly well that Arabi cannot obey.’

‘Why can’t he?’ Caseley asked. Even as she wondered how Sabra knew about the letter, she remembered Jago telling her what Sheikh Imad had said about having many sources of information. ‘Surely if it means peace –’

‘It doesn’t,’ Sabra said flatly. ‘It’s a trap. If he goes to the Palace he will be arrested. If he refuses to obey the summons he’ll be labelled an outlaw.’

Caseley stared at her, appalled.

‘So in answer to your question, I fear Colonel Arabi’s forces will be crushed and this country will be occupied by the English on the pretext of protecting the Suez Canal which was never in danger. But an occupying power needs the goodwill of the governed. We will play the English at their own game.’ Caseley had no idea what Sabra intended but she felt her skin prickle. ‘However, Sheikh Imad needs time for his wound to heal first.’