The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [22]
Rather than resign himself to the inevitable, as a woman would do, Emerson wasted a great deal of time trying to think of ways to get around it. He also refused to accept the obvious arguments against working in a region where food was scarce and trained workmen were in exceedingly short supply.
“If we could find something to feed them, we would have workers enough,” he growled, puffing furiously on his pipe. “These stories about the congenital laziness of the Sudanese are only European prejudice. I don’t see how we can manage it, though. All transport south of Wadi Haifa is controlled by the military; we can hardly commandeer a railway carriage, load it with supplies…” He fell silent, his eyes brightening as he considered this idea.
“Not without being somewhat conspicuous,” I replied dryly. “You would also have to commandeer an engine to pull the carriage, and wood to stoke the boiler, and an engineer, among other necessities. No, I fear the idea is impractical. We must give it up, Emerson, for this year at least. By next autumn our brave lads will have taken Khartoum and wiped out the stain of dishonor that has soiled the British flag since we failed to succor the gallant Gordon.”
“Gallant nincompoop,” said Emerson. “He was sent to evacuate Khartoum, not squat like a toad in a puddle daring the Mahdi to come and murder him. Well, well, perhaps it is all for the best. Even if the country were pacified, it has suffered greatly. Not a fit place for our boy, hardy though he is.”
“Ramses does not enter into it,” I replied. “He will be at school in Cairo. Where shall we excavate then, Emerson?”
“There is only one place, Peabody. Napata.”
“Napata?”
“Gebel Barkal, near Merawi. I am convinced it is the site of the first capital of Cush, which flourished for six hundred years before the Cushites moved upriver to Meroë. Budge is already there, curse him,” Emerson added, clenching his teeth so violently on the stem of his pipe that a cracking sound was heard. “What he is doing to the pyramids I dare not think.”
Poor Mr. Budge was at fault because he had had the audacity to be already in the Sudan. It was no use for me to point out that he had only done what Emerson himself would have done, given the opportunity—i.e., accept an invitation from the British authorities. “Invitation, my—” Emerson would roar, employing language that made me clap my hands over my ears. “He invited himself! He bullied, pushed, and toadied his way into going. Good Gad, Peabody, by the time that blackguard finishes, there won’t be one stone left on another in Nubia, and he will have stolen every portable antiquity in the country for his cursed museum.…”
And so on, at considerable length.
Though as a rule I attempted to defend Mr. Budge against Emerson’s more unreasonable complaints, I was a trifle out of sorts with him myself. A dispatch sent through military channels boasted of his making the arduous journey from Cairo to Kerma in only ten and one half days. I knew too well what the effect of this claim would be on my irascible spouse. Emerson would insist on bettering Budge’s record.
The first stage, from Cairo to Assouan, was one we had made many times, and I anticipated no particular difficulty there. So it proved; but Assouan, which had been a sleepy little village, was now transformed into a vast depot for military supplies. Though we received every courtesy from Captain Pedley, he was tactless enough to tell Emerson he ought not allow his wife to travel into such a desolate and dangerous region. “Allow!” Emerson repeated. ” ‘Allow,’ did you say?”
Though scarcely less annoyed, I thought it best to change the subject. One must recognize the limitations of the military mind, as I later pointed out to Emerson. After a certain age— somewhere in the early twenties, I believe—it is virtually impossible to insert any new idea whatever into it.
Since travel by boat through