Mrs. Entwhistle got to her feet. “Bring help from where? The crew of the
Cower?”
she asked.
“No. I am to meet the British frigate
Lucina
tonight in Aboukir Bay, to tell them what the French are doing. An officer, Lieutenant Ballard, will come ashore to consult with me. I will tell him of you, and of the
Gower,
and he will come for you.”
“I see. How long will this take?”
“I will return with the lieutenant before the night is out.”
Mrs. Entwhistle was relieved. “Then I wish you God speed, Tusun.
Ma’as salama.” Go in safety.
She had been in the Levant long enough to have learned a little of most of its languages.
He bowed, and left them. There was a rustling in the oleanders, then nothing, except the mutter of the storm around the entrance, and the sounds of the French.
“Remember now, lads, not a word once we’re close to the shore! English voices will prove our undoing!”
In Aboukir Bay, about eight miles away from Tel el-Osorkon, First Lieutenant Martin Ballard’s voice was snatched by the wind as the pinnace pushed away from HMS
Lucina.
It was half an hour to midnight, the cloudy Mediterranean night was black and starless, and the muffled oars made little sound as the sailors began to pull for the shore through the wind and swell. The storm was abating quickly now, but the sea was still surly and unsettled. There were no lights on the thirty-two-gun fifth rater, for fear of alerting the French fort on the western promontory. Out of sight to the east lay the Rosetta mouth of the Nile, and the infamous sandbar where, as yet unknown to the
Lucina,
the
Gower
had met her fate.
Martin was thirty-three years old and romantically handsome, with dark curling hair, thick-lashed brown eyes, and finely chiseled lips that could as swiftly warm into a smile as press thin with anger or grim determination. His complexion was tanned from the sun and sea, and there was a ruggedness about him that rested oddly well with the grace of his movements, for he was as at home in bloody hand-to-hand action as dancing a measure at an assembly room ball. He tugged his flowing green robes around his lean, muscular body, and adjusted his turban. When he slipped ashore on these secret intelligence-gathering missions, he always wore a disguise, for to appear in naval uniform would be to sign his own death warrant. But this was his last such mission; indeed, it was his last voyage. When the
Lucina
returned to Portsmouth, he would leave the navy and start a new life in far-off America.
He checked the dagger and long curving knife thrust into the wide sash around his waist, then made sure of the pistol he carried against his heart. Only then did he gaze toward the land, where there were a few clumps of date palms, and dunes topped with waving grass. Beyond the dunes that fringed the beach there was a sandy waste that stretched to the lush fertile edge of the delta. He raked the rocky beach for any sign of activity, but all seemed deserted, just as he’d hoped. Secrecy was essential now that the British were only days from invasion to end French occupation. Information about enemy numbers and deployment was vital.
The coxswain addressed him suddenly. “Are there any further orders, sir?”
“No, it’s all as before, Matthews. If I’m not there at dawn, you’re to return at the same time every day until I am. If I have any urgent messages and cannot stay to deliver them in person, I will leave them in the usual place.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Matthews replied. He was an experienced seaman, wiry and agile as a monkey.
The pinnace slid further from the protection of the
Lucina
and was swept forward on huge rollers. The noise of the surf grew louder, and spume flew on the air. Salt stung Martin’s lips, and the lurch of the boat was almost sickening as the sailors shipped the oars and allowed the last wave to almost hurl the pinnace onto a small stretch of sand. The moment Martin was ashore, the sailors began to shove the boat back into the surf. He didn’t wait to see them go, but slipped away toward the usual thicket of date palms. On reaching the trees, he ducked down among some wind-carved bushes and laid low, listening beyond the racket of the breakers for any sound that might warn of danger. The seconds passed. Out on the water the pinnace was pulling strongly back toward the indistinct silhouette of the
Lucina
out in the bay. He was alone. There was a knot in his stomach that felt as cold as ice, but the blood pumped swiftly through his veins as he took out his fob watch. Midnight. He
settled back to wait for Tusun.
Time seemed to pass on leaden feet. The clouds overhead began to thin, and one by one stars appeared. Then the moon slid out of hiding, casting a cool silver light over everything. The
Lucina
was beating seaward, and come daylight no one would know she had ever been there. Suddenly there came the sound of a horse, a low whicker that was almost lost in the noise of the sea. Martin stiffened warily, and slid a hand toward the pistol inside his robe, but then a voice he knew called out quietly. “Effendi?”
“Over here, Tusun!”
Shadows moved as the Mameluke approached, leading two horses, a bay and a chestnut, exquisitely beautiful Arabian mounts of the desert. “Ah, Effendi, God has willed it that you are here safely,” he declared.
Martin grinned and got up. “Have you any information?”
“Oh, indeed, Effendi. I had much to impart concerning the movements of the French, but I also have something else to tell you. Three Englishwomen need help.”
“What in God’s own name are Englishwomen doing here?”
“They were on a British sloop, the
Gower,
which was wrecked on the sandbar at the Rosetta mouth of the Nile.”
Martin knew the
Gower,
and was acquainted with some of her officers. “You only mention the three women. What of the crew?”
“I believe they reached the shore, Effendi, but the women were taken by pirates. They came from Constantinople, and that is all I know of them. Now they hide.”
“How far away are they?”
“Maybe eight miles, Effendi. It is nothing to these fine mounts.” Tusun patted the horses.
“Maybe not for just you and me, but if we have three extra to bring back….”
Tusun gave him a wily grin. “There is a fine
canja,
Effendi. It is laden with treasure and antiquities stolen by the French.”
“The French?” Martin repeated guardedly.
“Indeed so.” The Mameluke shuffled his feet slightly. “You see, the place where they are hiding has become a French encampment. Most of the officers sailed from Cairo in the
canja,
but the rest—and the men—came across the desert. I was following them, so I know this.”
“How many altogether?’
The Mameluke spread his hands again and shrugged. “Oh, not many, Effendi. Maybe two thousand.”
“Oh, is that all? Good heavens, for a moment you had me worried,” Martin replied dryly. Damn it all, why couldn’t these women have stayed in Constantinople?
Tusun looked intently at him in the moonlight, then held out a pair of reins. “If we hurry, Effendi, we can accomplish all before dawn, God willing.”
“Yes, but first I must leave word about the
Gower.
If there are shipwrecked British seamen ashore, they need to be saved. The
Lucina
can do that, and will be glad of the extra hands.” Martin searched inside his robe for the notebook and pencil he carried everywhere. He scribbled a message about the location of the wrecked sloop and her stranded crew, and about his intention to rescue the three women if possible. Then he ripped the page from the book and hid it in a cleft in one of the date palms, where Matthews was bound to look if no one was waiting the next morning. Then he and Tusun rode swiftly away along the beach.
Tansy crept to the doorway and peered out past the oleanders. She was very tired but still couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Her skin and hair were still sticky with salt and Nile mud, but at least she had been able to change into the black robes Tusun had purloined from the French. She had eaten too, just wheat cakes and milk, but she felt a good deal better than before. The storm had faded considerably now, and the reeds at the water’s edge swayed occasionally. Beyond the channel the shadowy delta stretched away into a darkness that was briefly pierced by moonlight as the clouds began to break.
The
canja
was moored alongside the riverbank. It was long, low, and graceful, with a flat-topped cabin area toward the stern, and its tall mast had been lowered along the deck. She saw that it was heavily laden with antiquities, from terra-cotta jars and pieces of carved masonry, to two finely decorated caskets and a number of bronze animal figures. There were also half a dozen large crates, some of them badly packed, which soldiers were rearranging and securing with ropes. Suddenly one of the crates was dropped, and an infuriated officer bellowed from the loggia. Tansy glanced up and saw his fist brandishing in the light of a lantern. Realizing that he might see her, she drew hastily back into the room, where Amanda and Mrs. Entwhistle were asleep on the floor in Tusun’s blankets. They too were now clothed in robes, and the wet garments belonging to all three women were hanging from a stone projection on the wall.
Tansy was about to join them on the floor, when more moonlight shone through the entrance onto the wall opposite. What she had previously thought was plain stonework was now revealed to be beautifully painted with a hunting scene from the time of the pharaohs. Vivid, colorful, and graceful, it showed a young man catching waterfowl among the papyrus and blue lotus of the delta marshes. Birds of every description surrounded him as he stood on a small reed boat beneath which fish swam. In one hand he held a brace of white egrets, while he held out the other to take a papyrus being brought to him not by a retriever dog but by a tabby cat! She went closer, hoping the moonlight would last long enough for her to see it properly. The cat fascinated her, not only because of its unlikely role, but also because it was painted in such exquisite detail that its fur almost invited her to stroke it.
Mrs. Entwhistle suddenly spoke from the floor behind her. “The pharaohs often used cats instead of dogs, especially here in the delta.”
Tansy turned in surprise. “Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes, it is quite a well-known thing.” Holding the warm blanket around her, the chaperone got up and came to join her, while Amanda slept on. “Tusun said this place was called Tel el-Osorkon, and so I believe this scene depicts a myth my husband once told to me. It concerns a young nobleman named Osorkon, who lived in the delta and went hunting every day with his faithful she-cat. But the young man was really the rightful pharaoh, and his evil half-brother ordered his death in order to have the throne. One day the cat brought Osorkon a papyrus that revealed his destiny; he defeated his wicked sibling, and on ascending the throne of Egypt he built a temple to his faithful cat, who became beloved of the goddess Bastet.” Mrs. Entwhistle smiled. “It would be agreeable, would it not, to imagine that this place was the very temple, and that the creature we saw when we first arrived was a descendant of Osorkon’s cat?”
“I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about Ancient Egypt, Mrs. Entwhistle.”
“Oh, hardly knowledgeable, my dear. I only claim a little learning, gleaned from my dear late husband, who was an antiquarian of some standing.”
Tansy looked fondly at her. “The Reverend Entwhistle would be very proud indeed to know how staunch and brave you’ve been for Amanda and me.”
“You are a good girl, Tansy, and worth a thousand A—” Mrs. Entwhistle broke off awkwardly, for she had been about to say a thousand Amandas.
Neither of them spoke for a moment; then Tansy looked shyly at the older woman. “It seems rather silly for me to keep calling you Mrs. Entwhistle, when you call me Tansy. Would you mind very much if I called you Hermione?”
“No, of course not, my dear, horrid name though it is. In fact, I would like it very much if we were on more friendly terms.” Hermione cleared her throat. “Now, where were we before? Ah, yes, retriever cats. It’s strange, is it not? We always regard the cat as a law unto itself and quite impossible to train, yet the Ancient Egyptians seem to have managed it.” She reached up to touch the hieroglyphs that also adorned the painting. “Oh, if only we could unlock this puzzle, what stories we would learn, what history would be revealed to us across the centuries. I heard that a year or so ago, the French found an inscribed stone of immense importance somewhere near here, at Rosetta, I think. It is said to be written with three different languages, one being Greek, another hieroglyphic, and I’m not sure about the third. Anyway, it is hoped that all the inscriptions are versions the same text. If so, maybe our understanding will advance at last. I was told that the British confiscated this stone, and I pray the information is correct, for we do not wish the French to have the glory of translating hieroglyphs, do we?” She smiled at Tansy.
“Certainly not. That would not do at all.” Tansy smiled at her. “You have surprised me greatly tonight, Hermione.”
“Ah, my dear, just because I say very little and seem inclined to regard crochet as the be-all and end-all of life, does not mean that I am a fool.”
“Oh, I have never thought you
that.”
“No, my dear, maybe you haven’t, but I fear your cousin has formed a very firm opinion on the matter.”
Amanda sighed in her sleep and turned over, and at the same time the wind stirred the oleanders. A draft breathed in, persuading both women to return to the floor to sleep, but as Tansy began to wrap herself as cozily as she could, she found something cold and hard caught up in her blanket. It was the object that Amanda had tripped upon earlier, and with the help of the moon Tansy saw it was a bronze figurine of a cat, about eight inches tall, with gold rings piercing its ears and nose; bronze or not, it felt oddly warm to the touch. There were hieroglyphs around its neck, so she knew it was very old indeed.