Authors: Braven
The graceful gallop of
our steeds ate up distance, and in a short while the ground began to
slant upwards. Fertile soil had faded away to sand, which was now
replaced by rock, though the narrow road we followed was reasonably
clear of obstacles and passable. Ahead of us loomed the stark cliffs
of the Theban hills, and I knew that we were upon the entrance to the
remote valley.
We curved to the right
in the lee of the cliffs and our pace slackened to a fast trot as we
followed a serpentine course. Then the valley was before us. But a
short way back, the land was cultivated and there were date palms and
greenery and the black, rich soil brought by Nile floods. Now all was
limestone and flint with naught growing, a place of desolation.
It was much larger than I had anticipated, though I sensed this
rather than noted it visually since the sun was now gone and the
last traces of it in the sky had disappeared. The moon was low and
its light not revealing, and I wondered how the horses picked their
way between boulders and outcroppings, but they did, for the desert
was their element. Obviously this strange place was the result of
violent flood waters that through eons of time had cut this crease in
the cliffs that had become the place of the dead.
Then we heard it. There
was no mistaking the sound. Gunfire! The entire party reined up, and
we paused to consider the next move.
The sheik was gazing
into the darkness, and he exchanged words with several of his
followers before turning his bearded visage towards me.
"A rather brisk
battle, Doctor, in the vicinity of a half-moon of graves almost due
west."
With a small-scale war
in progress, I did not feel that the withholding of information was
practical.
"Holmes is in
search of an undiscovered tomb of one of the pharaohs. Possibly he
and the troopers found it."
"Only to discover
that it was guarded, hence the gunfire. What now?"
I regarded him with a
startled expression. "Why, we reconnoiter the situation."
"Well said,"
was his brief reply, and he whirled his horse and pressed forward at
such a rate that I was hard pressed to keep up with him. Behind us
the Bedouins formed a tight group, their eyes wide and their teeth
flashing in the moonlight. Close by, Mahoot was sniffing at the air
as if to catch the welcome smell of gunpowder. I recalled tales I had
read of the American West. Was it not General Lou Wallace who had
described the Indians of the American frontier, such as the Sioux and
the Cheyennes, as the finest light cavalry in the world? That may be,
but it occurred to me that the horse was not indigenous to the
Americans but came by way of the Spanish conquistadores, whereas I
was with those who had ridden their mounts since the memory of man
and, at the moment, would have matched my companions against any
mounted irregulars in the world.
The sound of the firing
was louder now, and the sheik slowed his horse to a walk and then
reined in at the top of a crest. From his saddlebag he secured a very
modern pair of binoculars with which he surveyed the scene ahead of
us.
"The tombs of Seti
First and Rameses Tenth lie there," he said, indicating a
southerly direction. "The battle is, as you can see by the gun
flashes, to the right."
"Near the tomb of
Rameses Sixth," I said automatically, accepting the binoculars
from him.
I noted that he gave me
a surprised look. "Quite right, Doctor. How didâ?"
"Something I
heard," I explained quickly, viewing the night scene.
The moon had risen and
visibility had improved. We were, I judged, in the western end of the
valley, and ahead the desolate Eocene limestone and bedrock slanted
upwards towards a projecting bastion of rock. Well up the slope
were heaps of stone, removed no doubt from the numerous tombs of
the area and interspersed with faults and fissures. The flashes of
gunfire indicated that the Scottish soldiers and Holmes were shooting
upwards towards the rocky escarpment that dominated the section. Well
hidden behind large boulders just below the crest, another group was
returning their fire.
Lowering the glasses, I
noted that the sheik's head was shaking in a manner that registered
disapproval of the scene before us.
"The Queen's
soldiers are using their standard Enfield rifles."
"Of course," I
muttered. To me a shot was a shot, but such was not the case with my
experienced companion.
"The others have
Winchester repeating carbines. The twelve-shot model, I'd say, along
with some Martini rifles." I just stared at him, amazed that he
could deduce so much purely by sound. Then it passed through my mind
that Holmes on several occasions had done the same thing relative to
handguns.
"My point is,
Doctor, that the troops can scarcely risk a rush up the slope towards
their concealed adversaries. The Winchesters would chop them to
pieces."
There was a heavier boom
in the distance, and I surveyed the area of conflict again
through the glasses.
"Why doesn't Gray
pull his men back? They could regroup and attack from another
angle."
Another, louder boom
punctuated the sheik's reply. "On top of one of those rocks is
an elephant gun. Being long-range, it could make things costly if the
British retreated."
"Then they are
pinned down."
"And the moonlight
is getting brighter every moment, which does not improve the
situation."
I peered through the
binoculars, my mind desperately searching for inspiration. What would
General Sternways have thought if faced with a tactical problem such
as this? The General had regaled Holmes and myself with stories of
his quite illustrious career on several occasions after the sleuth
had recovered his daughter's famous pendant of Ceylonese rubies. It
was the geography I viewed that prompted a sudden rush of words.
"Sheik, could we
not circle to the south and come upon that hillock from the rear?
Whoever is up there is dug in below the crest, and if we charged over
it, we'd certainly have them at a disadvantage."
"True,"
replied the desert chieftain with a quick smile of approval. "But
consider, we could have them between two fires but would be exposed
to two fires ourselves."
"That can be
remedied," I said with confidence. From the side pocket of my
jacket I extracted my notebook that was with me always. The pen with
which I had written endless prescriptions was, of course, in my
handkerchief pocket. "Sheik, could not one of your men make his
way upwards to the British with a note? At a signal, Holmes could
have the troopers hold their fire as we attack from beyond the hill."
"The cry of the
jackal," responded the Arabian promptly. "The gunfire has
frightened them from the area, so there is no possibility of an
error, and Mahoot is quite good at emulating the sound of the carrion
beast."
As he spoke, I scrawled
rapidly on a piece of notepaper, trying to summon the words that
would explain our plan briefly. The sheik was rattling to one of his
men and I caught the name, Holmes, repeated at least four times. The
Bedouin dismounted, secured the message from my hands, and darted
forward into the open, flitting from boulder to boulder and making
use of every furrow cut by primeval floods in the rocky terrain to
approach the Sutherland-Argyles undetected. Obviously our messenger
was well aware of the menace of the long-range elephant gun and
taking suitable precautions. The rest of our party had also
dismounted now and were busy affixing pieces of leather to their
horses' hooves, securing them with thongs of rawhide. As I vacated my
saddle, Mahoot performed that feat for my steed. With a cunning bred
of centuries of desert warfare, the Bedouins were muffling the hooves
so that our progress over the bedrock of the area would not be
revealed by sound. This sensible precaution prompted a sudden
thought.
"Sheik," I
stammered, indicating towards the soldiers, "your messenger!
Will not the troopers mistake him for the enemy?"
"When he is close
enough he will call out Holmes's name. Surely that will alert the
British that he is friend not foe."
I was reassured. "Holmes
will take care of it." Now we remounted and were able to follow
the crest that concealed us from the area of hostilities, in a
southerly direction and at a good rate. The ground sloped away and
kept us under cover as we rode in a half circle to approach, as
planned, from the rear. Rifle fire, punctuated at infrequent
intervals by the ominous boom of the elephant gun, continued. I
imagined that Colonel Gray was keeping the opposition busy, hoping
for a cloud over the now-brilliant moon that would allow him to
dispatch a man to secure reinforcements and extricate his party
from the difficult situation in which they found themselves.
Well, Colonel, I thought with some pride, the reinforcements are
already on the scene, as you will learn shortly. I noted the riders
around me checking their weapons and began to wonder just what I
would do in the coming melee and also if this stratagem would work.
General Sternways had stated more than once that the effectiveness of
a cavalry charge was in part visual. The specter of a wall of
horsemen thundering towards a position was enough to strike terror in
the stoutest defender's heart. But, he had added, mounted units were
highly susceptible to ambush, and a sound knowledge of the terrain
was essential. Dear me, all we knew was that we were to charge over a
crest of stony outcropping, and what lay beyond this natural
fortification and the boulders sheltering the snipers we knew not. At
that moment, my morale was at a low ebb.
Suddenly, the sound of
gunfire, now quite close, picked up its tempo. The messenger has
arrived, I thought. Gray has his men pouring it on to cover our
approach and capture the complete attention of the enemy. Had I
been truly of the military, I would have considered a commendation
for Colonel Gray.
My thoughts were cut
short. The moment was upon us.
The sheik and his men
were grouped at the base of an incline, and I thanked my stars that
we had arrived undetected at our present position. The chieftain
and his riders were regarding me quizzically, and suddenly it dawned
on me that they were awaiting orders. I was in charge of this mad
escapade. A physician, a man of peace, trained to save life and not
to take it, was expected to head a group of desert nomads in a
quasi-military maneuver in this remote, dried-out valley of
death. My heart quailed.
Then a voice drummed in
my ears. "This motley crew is here on your errand, ol' chap, and
if the rush is blunted and the field is lost, it is you who must
accept the consequences and blame. So on with it, you bag of
aging bones!"
"Sheik," I
whispered with more conviction than I felt, "we'll spread out
and rush the top in a line, which will give us maximum firepower as
we clear the ridge and, possibly, mislead the
enemy as to our
numbers as well. Have Mahoot give the cry of the jackal, then the
British fire should cease and I'll give the signal."
Already the chieftain
was relaying, in Arabic, soft words to his men to form a row of white
steeds, which they did with, alacrity. Bathed by the luminous moon,
their white robes fanned by a faint wind, and seated on their steeds
whose nostrils flared, they made an impressive sight pictured against
the stark cliffs in the background. The moment produced an
adrenalin flow into my blood, and for a wild second I imagined that
this villainous-looking crew was transformed into the cream of
chivalry and that we could charge inexorably to the gates of hell and
back! I scarce knew what Holmes was up to, but the cause had to be
right, and God supports the forces of light and those with the
fastest guns.
Mahoot's evil-looking
mouth opened and the howl of the jackal rose from his lips. In a
moment there was a sudden cessation in the heavy firing, and I knew
this was it. Seizing my trusty Webley in one hand, I rose in my
stirrups, one arm aloft to lower and signal the charge. But my mount,
feeling my weight shift forward, took this to be the moment and
bolted for the top of the hill. I slammed back in my saddle and from
my surprised mouth there came a cry that I'm told was a satisfactory
blending of the rebel yell of Stuart's Confederate cavalry with the
ear-splitting cry of one of Chief Crazy Horse's mounted braves. I
think the Arabs were as startled as I was, but they picked up the
refrain and we cleared the crest for all the world like a mass of
screaming centaurs infected with the madness of whirling
dervishes.
My steed held his lead
over the rest and we made the top in advance of the main body. I had
cocked my weapon, an insane thing to do on horseback, and was
bouncing like a rubber ball at every leap of my noble Arabian. As a
result I lost both my stirrups and my Webley blasted off into
the night, not aimed at anything. I shoved the weapon into my belt
again, gripping the pommel of the saddle desperately but to no
avail. I was thrown loose from my horse but still clung to the saddle
with a grip fused by raw panic. Both feet hit the ground and I
bounced with my heels flying upwards and was amazed when they came in
contact with two Egyptians who must have been working their way back
up the hill.