The bombardment went on for some time, and he beseeched Allah to spare Miriam from harm. The radio spoke again.
“The colonel says he will now stop the shelling on the town and move it to the ridges,” the operator shouted, though he was barely more than an arm’s length away. “You are to attack now.”
Ibrahim held the chestnut stallion to a walk as he mounted the rise. The Brothers followed at the same pace, and the massed horsemen flowed over the crest. Ahead the land rose gently toward New Tourom. A few houses showed through the trees and the smoke from burning roofs. Ibrahim glimpsed people in flight. He almost laughed when one group came running straight toward him, and then, seeing murahaleen descending on them, turned tail. An automatic rifle rattled, bullets spurted in front of him—lousy shots, these blacks. Halting Barakat, he raised his rifle, and standing in the stirrups, his rear end thrust out, he looked back and yelled, “Follow my ass, O Brothers! Follow my ass!” “Allahu akhbar!” they yelled. He slacked the reins and gave the stallion his head.
THEY WERE RETURNING home from church, sweating in the oppressive April air, pestered by swarms of mosquitoes. Michael was not a regular churchgoer, but Quinette had pleaded with him to attend and offer prayers for forgiveness. At the service Fancher had introduced St. Andrew’s new minister, a Nuban he had trained. The man’s homily had met with general approval—the congregation applauded, as if it had been a political speech. Quinette had understood not one word and afterward asked Michael to give her the gist of it. In the midst of his summary, they heard a boom, softened by distance, and then several more, one after the other. Hearing no more, they walked on warily and were approaching the gap in the hills when mortar shells crashed into the town behind them. The bodyguards closed ranks around Quinette and Michael and virtually swept them down the path and through the gap toward the headquarters building. Just as they arrived, two shells banged into one of the ridges above the garrison, while another landed in the village of camp followers and soldiers’ families. In moments, people were streaming out of their tukuls, carrying children, pots, and blankets. Off-duty soldiers, some wearing only their undershorts, flew out with their rifles, looking for someone to tell them what to do.
There was pandemonium inside as well, a radio operator talking frantically, officers gathering documents, apparently with the intention of burning them if necessary. A mortar landed nearby. Shrapnel clattered on the tin roof, pinged against the stone walls. Negev pushed Quinette down into a corner, and as she huddled there, her husband issued commands to the officers and into the radio. He put the handset down and turned to her.
“You have got to get out of here. Murahaleen are attacking the town, hundreds of them. If they break through to here and see you—” He left the rest unsaid and repeated that she must leave. Negev would guide her to a safe place. Murahaleen—she reacted to that word as would any Dinka or Nuban, with terror. Negev grabbed her by the hand. “Come, missy, hurry.”
A MACHINE GUN opened fire. Horses to one side of him pitched forward, spilling their riders. “Allahu akhbar! Allah ma’ana!” Riding without his hands on the reins, Ibrahim fired his AK-47, spraying trees and houses. At full gallop, the murahaleen slammed into New Tourom, a shock wave of living flesh. The momentum of their charge broke against the town. Huts, animal pens, fences, panic-stricken goats, cows, and people shattered the horsemen’s mass into individual bands. Each one went about its own business, looting houses, seizing livestock and captives. It was this way on every raid—a melee.
Ibrahim rode on with his own band of twenty-odd men. They over-ran the rebel machine gun, killing two abid soldiers. Then he saw it—a round Nuban house with a green cross over its door and the letters G-O-D B-L-E-S-S T-H-I-S H-O-U-S-E on an outer wall. Barakat vaulted a stick fence surrounding the garden. A man’s body lay among the plants. Cries came from inside. Ibrahim dismounted and ducked under the low doorway, his rifle leveled. It was almost too dark to see. “Outside! Outside!” he said, grabbing people by their clothes and shoving them through the door. Two women, five kids, an old man. “Yamila! Where is she!” The idiots did not understand Arabic, or were pretending not to. He offered a language