“Mr. Tremaine believes there are other forces at work here, left over from the recent war,” Smithson explained. “He wishes to take all these men into custody so as to sort it out.”
Hattie nodded, thinking hard—here was another dilemma in what was apparently a never-ending series of them; Drummond must be unaware that his associate was the enemy’s point man in Egypt, and Dimitry said he needed information from the man—probably the particulars about Napoleon’s planned escape from Elba. With this in mind, it seemed she should try to work against any rescue of the associate by the British, and trust that her husband was indeed this mysterious Le Sokol person, working for the Allies and not against them.
Her thoughts were interrupted by another crash from the other side of the tomb. “Bing,” she deduced with a smile.
“Miss Bing,” Smithson agreed as he fired another round into the shards of the broken pot, drawing more fire upon it. “She raised the alarm when you were taken and then it wasn’t difficult to trace you here—the natives were up in arms and showed the way. Indeed, many are here in the valley, but Mr. Tremaine didn’t think it wise to enlist them to assist us.”
Ah, thought Hattie; here is a task that is exactly suited to me and to no other. I suppose I am not slated to go off and hide somewhere until it is safe—that is not who I am and not who I ever was; I had almost forgotten, I was so thrown off by all of this.
Just then, she heard a gunfire report from the tomb, followed by a loud pinging noise as the bullet hit her boulder. She gasped, and the vicar calmly advised, “Best stay down, Mrs. Berry—the ricochet is unpredictable.”
As she crouched beside Smithson, Hattie thought through her plan; if those in the tomb were pinned down until the British arrived, Dimitry would have little chance of securing Drummond’s associate for himself. A means to allow them to escape was necessary—some type of diversion, and she had the very solution here at her fingertips. “I am going to retreat a ways,” she informed the distracted Smithson, gripping the sword as she crept away from the barren area that stretched out before the tomb. The moonlight aided her endeavors as she circled around, and soon she could hear the murmuring of many voices as she traversed the boulders and gravel that littered the landscape. I wore the wrong shoes for this, she thought, ruthlessly pushing the remaining pins back into her tangled hair. As she scrambled over a final mound of rocks to reach the road, she came upon the group of native men, conversing in low tones and watching the gunplay in the distance. Edward had said that superstition was a crutch for the fearful, so it was time to inject a healthy dose of courage into the proceedings. Drawing herself up, she advanced toward them, holding the sword aloft and trying to look warrior-like.
Upon viewing her approach, the men stared in astonishment, several steepling their hands before them and bowing with deep respect. Hattie stood among them and indicated with the sword. “Does anyone speak English?” She was met with only silence. “Does anyone speak French?” she asked in that language, and several men indicated they did. “Good.” In her best portrayal of a reincarnated princess, she gave instruction, “We are going to put a stop to this sacrilege—I need a contingent of men to approach the tomb with me. We will need a torch, and something to hold as a white flag.”
Hattie noted they all stared at her as though she were mad, but there was nothing for it; she needed to warn Dimitry that she was out here, that the British reinforcements were on the way, and that his time to secure the associate was running short. Hopefully they would not shoot her outright—there was enough moonlight to reveal that she was female and wearing a dress that had once been a pretty sprig muslin but which was now considerably the worse for wear; it would be a tragedy beyond bearing if Dimitry were to shoot her by mistake.
“This is a sacred place,” she explained in a firm tone. “There is to be no more violence—I assure you, they will not shoot me.” They nodded in agreement and she looked upon the intent faces, realizing there were some who stood in superstitious awe and some who merely listened to an English girl with a plan, which was just as acceptable to her. I have no desire to be the god-king’s daughter, she thought; I am Hattie-with-an-as-yet-unknown-surname and no one, not my parents or the prisoner himself, can take that away from me.
Without asking for volunteers, she held the sword and began to walk in the direction of the tomb. Two or three men immediately fell in beside her, one holding his kaftan above his head, the white cloth signifying a parlay. Hattie did not turn but she could sense the others join in, so that there was soon the tramping of many feet behind her.