The Sultan's Daughter (53 page)

Being shot at both from front and rear had made it obvious that they were now in no man's land. Roger drew Zanthé back a few yards down the city side of the slope, then
they crawled along until they had put some distance between themselves and the place where she had been fired at Still on their stomachs they wriggled over the ridge and down the far side. As they advanced, the stench of dead bodies increased to nausea-point, and near the bottom of the slope they suddenly slid into a deep ditch that was half full of corpses.

Giving a shudder, Zanthé gulped, ‘Allah defend us; this is horrible! Help me out of here, dear one, or I'll be sick.'

Quickly, Roger gave her a hand to scramble up over the far side of the ditch. As he did so, he whispered, ‘Crawl twenty yards, then wait for me. This is just what I was hoping to come upon. I may be quite a time, but don't worry.' Then he let himself slide back on to the pile of dead bodies.

The light was only just sufficient for him to make them out individually. They had evidently been killed in a recent assault, as none of them was in a state of actual decay. There were about thirty of them, mostly French, with a few tur-baned Muslims among them. Mainly by feel, he formed an idea of their size and it did not take him long to find a body of roughly his own build; but it was no easy matter to get the dead man's uniform from his stiff corpse. To do so, Roger had to use his dagger and cut the cloth in several places. However, he felt that by now Bonaparte's troops had been reduced to such a ragged state that the hacked condition of the uniform would not cause comment. Taking off his own worn travelling coat, he struggled into the tail-coat and breeches of the soldier. He then cut off that part of the hem of the travelling coat in which Bonaparte's despatches had for many months lain rolled up and put the piece of cloth containing them in his pocket.

It was a more difficult matter to find a uniform suitable for Zanthé. Holding his nose now and then to prevent himself from vomiting, he continued to search until he came upon a shortish man who, although much broader than Zanthé, looked about her height. Having got the uniform off this second man, he hunted round till he found two muskets, two bandoliers and a grenadier's shako.

This repulsive labour took him the best part of an hour, but he found Zanthé waiting in patient confidence that he would rejoin her as soon as he could. Loath as she was to
exchange her silken robe for the bloodstained uniform, she made no protest about so doing. He put one of the bandoliers over her shoulders and concealed her long hair by tucking it up under the shako, but he kept both muskets to carry himself.

Giving her a kiss, he told her that he now felt their chances of getting into the French lines without being fired upon were much better and, standing up, they walked forward. As they advanced, Roger began to curse loudly in French, using phrases which would give the impression to anyone who heard him that he had lost his way in the darkness.

When they had covered a few hundred yards a voice to their right and a little to their rear suddenly shouted, ‘Who are you? And where the hell d'you think you're going?'

Halting, Roger gave one of the muskets to Zanthé and shouted back, ‘We're lost. Can you tell us the way to Company Headquarters?'

A tall figure, wearing the same type of shako as Zanthé's, emerged out of the darkness. With the rasping scorn of a typical Sergeant-of-the-line, he bellowed at them, ‘Company Headquarters, indeed! Why not ask the way to the “Little Corporal's” headquarters and tell me, he's invited you to breakfast?' Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he added, ‘'Cos I'm new to the Company, don't think you can put it over on me. Get back to the rest and give a hand with them sandbags, or I'll have the hide off the two of you.'

In the face of this threat Roger swiftly decided that, should he declare himself to be one of Bonaparte's aides-de-camp, he would not be believed and would land himself in a packet of trouble. Adopting the only alternative he set off, with Zanthé beside him, in the direction the Sergeant had indicated, hoping that they would soon be rid of him. But he turned and followed them until they came upon a platoon of troops, some of whom were filling sandbags and others carrying off the filled sacks through the semi-darkness.

Stacking their muskets with others, they picked up two spades, intending to fill some of the sacks; but the men who had this easier job cursed them and pushed them aside, so they were forced to join the chain of sack carriers. The stronger men were carrying a sack apiece, but a number had
been so weakened by lack of nourishing rations that they could manage only a sack between two. This enabled Roger and Zanthé to work together but, even so, it was fortunate that she was a strong-limbed girl, as she had to support one end of the sack and each one seemed to weigh half a ton.

The task of the working party was to build, while darkness lasted, a series of small redoubts for the protection of gun teams, so that the artillery men could bring up their field-pieces closer to the city. But they were never completed. After Roger and Zanthé had been wearily carrying sandbags for over two hours, without any chance having arisen for them to get away undetected, several shots suddenly rang out. They were followed by shouting and a bugle call

Dropping their burdens, the men ran back to the place where they had stacked their muskets, grabbed them, ran on another twenty yards and jumped down into a trench, Roger and Zanthé lost no time in following them. The shouting increased, there came the noise of hundreds of feet running down the outer slope of what had been the great wall and Roger guessed at once that this must be one of the sorties that the garrison had frequently made during the siege to prevent the French getting a firm hold on any of the breaches they had made in the walls,

Pushing Zanthé behind him, Roger took a firm grip of his musket. The thundering feet came nearer, the shouting of war-cries became deafening. The men on either side of Roger were up on the fire-step of the trench with their muskets levelled, Someone gave the order to fire. Seconds later there came the crash of the volley. It was succeeded by yells and screams, but the attackers still came on. A Muslim of no great size, but with huge, black moustaches and fiery eyes, suddenly appeared above the trench, then leapt down on Roger.

It was his last leap. Roger had never practised bayonet fighting; but he knew that if he failed to kill this kind of fanatic outright he was liable, however seriously he wounded his enemy, to be killed himself. With the barrel of his musket he parried the Muslim's spear-thrust, then jabbed the bayonet in below the man's ribs, The Muslim's own weight forced the
point up into his heart. He made another feeble stab with his spear, then his eyes rolled up and he was dead.

A second Muslim sprang over Roger's head across the trench, another and yet another followed. In the immediate vicinity, apart from hand-to-hand encounters that were going on to either side some way along the trench, there came a brief lull. But bugles were blaring in all directions and a battery of guns opened somewhere in the rear.

There came the sound of running feet again, this time from the opposite direction. The French infantry in the reserve trenches had held the attack and were now driving the enemy back. A wounded Muslim tumbled into the trench behind Zanthé. Squirming round, he made a slash at her ankles with his scimitar. Just in time, Roger took the swipe on his bayonet, then jabbed it with all his force into the man's gullet. As he put his foot on the Muslim's chest to wrench the bayonet free from his contracted neck muscles, three or more other Muslims leapt the trench in flight back to the city. Hard on their heels came the French.

The Sergeant, twenty yards away to Roger's left, was yelling: ‘Up you go, lads! Get after the swine! No quarter! Give it ‘em in the kidneys as they run. Come on now!' He was already out on the parapet and the men on either side were scrambling up over it.

Swiftly, Roger took advantage of the fact that the light was not sufficient for his actions to be seen from any distance. Falling on his knees, he pulled Zanthé down and said, ‘Lie on your stomach with an arm twisted behind you. We must sham dead, or the Sergeant will force us to take part in the fighting.'

As she obeyed him, he thrust a hand on to the wound of the nearest dead Muslim, smeared the blood from it over his own face and threw himself on his back across Zanthé's legs. He had acted none too soon. The Sergeant was striding along the parapet of the trench, routing out the laggards with a spate of curses. But after one glance at Roger's bloody face and the tangle of bodies about him he passed on.

Having given him time to get well away, Roger got to his feet, jumped up on the fire-step and peered about him. It was getting a little lighter, the stars were paling in the east and dawn could not be far off, but he still could not see very far
because the smoke from the muskets now helped to limit the field of vision. As far as he could make out, the Muslims had rallied on the crest of what remained of the wall and a fierce conflict was taking place there.

So far, during the long night, he had been buoyed up by the need for being constantly on the alert and the knowledge that, one after the other, he was surmounting the perils that beset him. But now he was suddenly seized with fears and forebodings. They had escaped from Djezzar's palace, come through the city unchallenged, overcome the one sentry who had endangered their flight, secured uniforms which would protect them from being shot on sight by the French and succeeded in reaching the French lines. But now fortune seemed to have deserted them. They had become caught up in the midst of a battle and he could see no way of getting them out of it.

Roger was in a terrible quandary. Now that a battle had begun it seemed certain that both sides would throw in reinforcements and the struggle in that sector would continue for many hours. If he and Zanthé continued to sham dead and within a short time the Muslims re-took the trench they would, as was their custom, slaughter any wounded and mutilate any dead they found there. If the Muslims were held at bay French stretcher-bearers would make their appearance. Having collected the wounded they would, as they invariably did, search the dead for any items of value they might have on them. When they found him and Zanthé apparently unconscious, but still alive, they would revive them and force them to go forward to join in the fighting. Worse, should an officer be present he would arrest them and give them short shrift as cowardly malingerers. Even should they escape such calamitous attentions they could not possibly remain there shamming dead all day. Heat, thirst, the stench and the myriads of flies that would be attracted by the wounds of the dead would force them into making a move in one direction or the other. But which?

If they went forward they could not escape becoming involved in the fighting. Against the fanatical Muslims Roger knew he would have all his work cut out to defend himself. It would be almost impossible to protect Zanthé at the same time, and the thought of her being cut down or having a pike thrust through her body was unbearable. Yet if they made for the rear that held the worst risk of all. They could not possibly get far without meeting other troops. As they were unwounded it would at once be assumed that they had turned tail and run. In Bonaparte's Army there was only one penalty
for deserting one's comrades when in action: it was to be shot out of hand without even the formality of a drumhead court martial.

As Roger wrestled with this problem, a tall soldier came lurching out of the murk towards the trench. Staggering from side to side, he reached its parapet some ten yards to Roger's right, tripped on it and fell headlong into the trench. Roger had seen that the man was carrying something that projected a good two feet above his head. Wondering what it could be, he scrambled along to find out. As he came nearer and realised what the object was, he gave a cry of delight. The man was a giant Sergeant of Grenadiers, and he was clutching to his chest a captured Turkish standard.

The Sergeant lay twisted sideways. From his mouth a stream of blood gushed, then he was quite still. Obviously he had received a mortal internal wound and his fall into the trench had finished him. Stooping, Roger took the standard from the clutching fingers. The lower few feet of the pole had been broken off, but the standard itself was intact. It was not a flag, but a flat, diamond-shaped sheet of silver cut out to form an intricate design of Arabic letters. It was surmounted by a crescent lying on its back, from which hung a fine horsetail.

Carrying it back to Zanthé, he exclaimed, ‘My sweet, your prayers to Allah for our safety have been answered. See, he has sent us this. It will prove our safe-conduct to the rear of the French lines. We have only to tell everyone we meet that we have been ordered to take it to Bonaparte.'

Without losing a moment they climbed out over the back of the trench and set off. But they were not yet out of danger. The guns of the city were replying to the French artillery and were trained on reinforcements that were hurrying forward. They had covered only fifty yards when a cannon ball bounded past within two feet of Zanthé. There was little cover but, zigzagging from side to side, they ran on, taking such advantage of the ground as they could.

Dawn had now come. Ahead of them they saw a company of infantry coming towards them at the double. Roger raised the captured standard high above his head and cried, ‘
Vive la France
!
Vive Bonaparte
! ‘The nearest officer grinned and
waved his sword in reply. The men broke into cheers as they streamed past them.

Another five minutes and they were out of range of the guns. Pulling up, they sat down on some rocks to regain their breath. Laughing, they hugged one another, then Roger said:

‘I have as yet had little chance to think of your situation while with the French Army, but I count it unlikely that there will be other women at headquarters. For your protection it seems best that I should give out that you are my fiancée.'