‘Not even if he was offered money?’
‘Not even then, Furja.’ Mitkhal turned to Zabba. ‘How long is Michael Downe staying in Basra?’
‘He intends to follow the soldiers upriver in the next few days. Everyone knows there’s going to be a major battle there soon between the British and the Turks.’ She remembered the saddlebags. ‘You’re going upriver too?’
‘I’m going upstream, but not because of Michael Downe. This is the first I’ve heard of him. Hasan is concerned for his horses. I promised I would look for them.’
‘If you travel you may be recognised. One of the British may see you, or one of Ibn Shalan’s men, and that will be the end of you. If they torture you and you reveal the secret of this house, it will also be the end of the lives of everyone here.’
‘I would never betray Furja, Gutne, or the children.’
‘I know you wouldn’t, Mitkhal, no matter what it cost you, because you are as stubborn as Hasan. But you’d still be risking your own life. It’s not worth it, not for horses,’ Furja insisted.
‘Some things are worth taking a risk for, Furja.’
‘If you won’t be dissuaded, Mitkhal, my cousin has a boat. He’s leaving Basra tomorrow. I could ask him to take you upriver with him.’ Zabba accepted the tea Farik handed her.
‘Your cousin who visits battlefields to pick up the weapons of the fallen so he can sell them to the sheikhs?’ Mitkhal guessed.
‘The same cousin.’
‘He’ll take me upriver without telling Shalan, or anyone else who asks, the identity of his passenger?’
‘He will, because he knows better than to cross me. But that doesn’t mean he’ll take you without payment. He’ll charge full rate.’
‘For a passenger or a fugitive?’ Mitkhal asked.
‘He’s my cousin.’
‘Fugitive rate,’ Mitkhal said wryly.
Zabba smiled and her chin wobbled. ‘We poor people have to make a living.’
‘You’ll need money, Mitkhal,’ Furja warned.
‘What’s in Abdul’s will be enough.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ He eyed Zabba. ‘You said Abdul wanted a girl for Hasan’s brother.’
‘One who spoke English so she could spy on him. I gave him Kalla.’
‘Gave him?’ Mitkhal repeated.
‘I explained she has regular customers and will have to return here one or two days a week to keep her appointments.’
‘And when she does, she’ll inform you of everything’s she’s learned about the British plans from Hasan’s brother?’ Furja suggested.
‘I doubt it will be much. From what the officers say after a few glasses of brandy, I don’t think even British command knows their plans. Mitkhal, do you want to travel upriver with my cousin or not?’
‘It will be quicker than by horse or camel, so yes, thank you. What time will he be leaving?’
‘All I know is tomorrow. He’s eating with me this evening. If you visit me at midnight you can make arrangements with him.’
‘How far upriver will he be going?’
‘As far as Kut al Amara.’
‘Sailing on the Tigris?’
‘He’s not a fool, Mitkhal. He’ll be travelling the back way through the canals and the Shatt-el-Hai. Less risk of being stopped and searched by the British military.’
It took Furja to say what they were all thinking. ‘But more risk of being stopped by the Marsh Arabs, who’d slaughter a man for his abba, let alone a boat.’
Zabba rose from her chair. ‘My cousin is used to dealing with Marsh Arabs. I guarantee you’ll reach Kut in one piece, Mitkhal. However, travelling downriver with horses, especially if they’re good ones, may be a little trickier.’
Basra, Friday 31st December 1915
‘It was good to have someone from home to talk to. We could have dinner in the Basra Club every night until you go upstream,’ Charles suggested.
‘Provided they allow you out of the hospital again.’ Michael helped Charles from his chair into the landau.
‘They will,’ Charles muttered through gritted teeth.
Richard Chalmers folded the chair and placed it on the floor of the carriage. He held the door open. ‘We’ll drop you off at Abdul’s on our way to the hospital, Michael.’
‘No, thank you. I’ve seen enough of Basra to know it’s out of your way. Besides, I’d like to get my bearings and explore the town by night. Am I right in thinking that, if I stay on this road, I’ll reach the quay and Abdul’s?’
‘In about ten minutes, but don’t deviate or wander up any alleys,’ Charles warned. ‘The natives are aware that British officers are armed, but there’s a criminal element that might consider a European in civvies a soft target with a fat wallet.’
‘My wallet is anything but,’ Michael refuted.
‘Only by your standards, not those of the natives,’ Richard cautioned. ‘We’d be happier if you’d let us give you a lift.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll call in the hospital to see you tomorrow, Charles.’ Michael shivered when icy air hit his lungs and he walked briskly in an effort to keep warm. The street was narrow, hemmed in by high mud brick walls pierced at intervals by close-fitting wooden doors. Lamps burned in niches set alongside them. Michael couldn’t see keyholes and presumed the doors were bolted or barred on the inside and manned by a doorkeeper.
Rubbish was piled below the walls. It stank abominably and dark, foul liquid oozed from it, forming puddles he tried to avoid.
The road widened when it approached the river bank. The quay came into view and the high walls were supplanted by shop fronts on the landward side. Most were shuttered, but a stall selling dried dates and figs was open, lit by smoking oil lamps. The stallholder shouted and stepped out to greet him. Michael shook his head to indicate he didn’t want to buy anything.
Undeterred the man ran towards him. Michael sidestepped, but the man caught him and began speaking at speed in Arabic. Michael extricated himself and backed towards Abdul’s. Grinning, still talking, the man followed. When they were within earshot of the coffee shop the doorman called out to the stallholder. When Michael saw the man freeze and tears appear on his cheeks, he realised he’d been mistaken for his brother – yet again.
‘You look so like Hasan you will have to get used to it, my friend.’ Abdul, who’d watched the proceedings from the window, pulled a chair out from his table for Michael.
Michael sank down, loosened his muffler, removed his gloves, opened his overcoat and held his hands out to the stove to warm them.
Abdul clicked his fingers at a waiter. He brought over a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Abdul filled both and handed one to Michael.
‘You’ve just begun to realise Hasan is dead.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I see the pain in your eyes, my friend. He was a brother to me too.’ Abdul raised his glass. ‘To Hasan.’
Michael emptied his glass. Abdul refilled it and his own.
‘To Mesopotamia. May the country oust all the interlopers who wish to take it and make it their own.’
Michael hesitated but after a moment’s reflection diplomatically joined in the toast. ‘I thought Muslims didn’t drink alcohol,’ he commented when Abdul filled their glasses a third time.
‘Some do, some don’t. Some drink to honour their friends. Hasan was my true friend even if he was born a ferenghi.’
‘Ferenghi?’
‘Like Hasan when he first came here, you have much to learn about my country, our ways and our language. A ferenghi is a foreigner.’
Exhausted after a long day, devastated by Harry’s death, overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, Michael was tempted to go upstairs and pack his bags. Then he remembered his brief as war correspondent. If he felt like a fish out of water, what were the feelings of the men who’d been ordered into this theatre of war without any prior knowledge of the country or its inhabitants?
‘You say you’re here to write about the war for the newspapers, Mr Downe. So you won’t be doing any fighting?’
‘No,’ Michael confirmed.
‘Not at all?
‘I’m here to watch, not fight. Please, tell me about my brother, did he stay here often?’
‘He lived here whenever he was in Basra.’
‘With his …’ Michael recalled Abdul’s vehement denial that Harry’s bearer was his servant, ‘… friend.’
‘Mitkhal lived here too.’
‘You said Harry’s father in law had a house in Basra. Do you know where?’
‘No.’ Abdul left the table.
‘Someone must know …’
‘It’s not wise to ask questions about important people,’ Abdul pushed the brandy bottle towards Michael’s glass and went into his office. He closed the door behind him.
‘To annoy Abdul is to flirt with danger, Mr Downe. He knows some very odd people.’ Theo Wallace approached the table.
‘I didn’t set out to irritate him.’
‘Like all Arabs, he frequently sees insult where none was intended. Mind if I join you?’
‘I’d be glad of your company.’
Theo picked up the bottle of brandy and waylaid a waiter. ‘Bring me a glass, please?’
‘That’s Abdul’s brandy.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my expenses.’
The waiter returned with the glass and two plates of snacks.
‘Sesame and date balls and fig halva soaked in honey. Thank you.’ Theo pushed one of the plates towards Michael and filled his glass.
‘No, thank you, I dined well in the Basra Club.’
‘And you found your way to Abdul’s afterwards. I congratulate you, from one end of Basra’s social spectrum to another on your first evening. What led you here?’
‘My room. I’ve moved in.’
‘You are aware it’s a brothel?’ Theo filled his glass and topped up Michael’s.
‘So everyone keeps saying but I’ve yet to see a girl.’
‘Abdul keeps them at the back of the building, behind a well-guarded door on the second floor, lest anyone try sampling the goods without paying. He also owns a building behind this one as well, where the brandy is cheaper but coarser and the girls older and somewhat plain. It’s popular with the ranks, but I don’t recommend it.’
‘You know a great deal about Abdul’s business,’ Michael commented.
‘Professional interest. I check out his girls on a weekly basis. Medically, that is,’ Theo explained. ‘I recommend them. They’re pliant, trained to satisfy, and if you’ve any doubts about disease there’s a box of French letters in every room. Apparently courtesy of a suggestion your cousin John Mason made to Abdul.’
‘John visited this place?’
‘To check the girls. Before Ctesiphon the Indian Medical Service did the honours, but after Ctesiphon their medics were too busy so Abdul approached the Lansing.’ He finished his brandy and winked at Michael. ‘It has its perks, which I’m off to enjoy. I’m surprised to see you still in Basra?’
‘I’m hoping to track down my sister-in-law, Harry’s Arab wife. Don’t suppose you have any idea where she is?’
‘Unfortunately, no. I never met her. You’ve spoken to my sister about her?’
‘Yes, she couldn’t help me. But I only have a day or two to search for her before I head upstream.’
‘To report on the top secret “show” everyone is talking about. Good luck, Michael, I hope to see you again before you leave. If you’d like a tour of the Lansing Memorial Hospital, please call in. I can give you a couple of paragraphs of copy designed to keep the donations flowing in.’
‘I can’t see the readers of the Mirror donating to a medical facility that treats the enemy.’
‘We treat natives, too, Mr Downe, including women and children. They can be real pocketbook-openers.’ Theo rose from his seat. ‘Excuse me. I hate to keep ladies waiting.’
Michael finished his drink and left the table. Before he walked away the waiter cleared the bottle of brandy, plates of uneaten sweetmeats and glasses.
Lightheaded from the uneasy mixture of Abdul’s brandy and the Chianti he’d drunk with his meal in the Basra Club, he went to his room. He knocked on the door of Adjabi’s cupboard and opened it. His bearer was sound asleep on his divan. Closing the door he turned. He’d left the shutters open. Moonlight streamed in illuminating a figure in Arab robes sitting in the corner behind the door.
Michael’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Harry?’ he whispered.
‘No, Mr Downe.’ The man rose and stretched out his hand. ‘Sir Percival Cox, Secretary to the Government of India and Political Resident in the Gulf. Until his death, Lieutenant Colonel Downe was under my direct command. I’d appreciate a word.’
Chapter Twelve
Kut al Amara, Friday 31st December 1915
‘This is becoming a habit,’ Peter Smythe complained as he, Crabbe, and Sub-Lieutenant Philip Marsh – who, unfortunately for him, had been posted to Nasiriyeh a day before the battle of Ctesiphon – stepped down into the front line trench where the Dorsets faced the Turks across the barbed-wire-strewn wasteland of no-man’s-land.
‘Someone has to keep up the men’s morale, and as the brass are busy guarding their personal supplies of whisky, brandy, and cigars, it falls to us lowly officers.’ Crabbe saluted a private on sentry duty.
‘Password, sir.’
‘Wellington,’ Crabbe answered.
‘Thank you, sir. Nice of you to call. Don’t suppose you’ve any New Year’s cheer tucked away in your pockets for us poor sappers?’
‘Evans put you up to asking, Roberts?’
‘He did, sir, but we’re all hoping.’
‘Hope away, Roberts. The only New Year cheer you’ll get until we’re relieved is a slice of mule with whatever you find growing around here as vegetable substitute.’
‘That’s not a cheery thought, sir.’
‘This is not a cheery place,’ Peter Smythe countered.
‘Please, can one of you sirs tell us poor sappers why we’re here?’ Private Evans feigned subservience.
‘The stock answer is serving king and country,’ Crabbe answered.
‘We know that, sir. What we can’t fathom is why any king, let alone one as good and kind as ours, would want us here. From what I’ve seen this country’s no good to man, beast, or anyone used to living in Buckingham Palace. It’s certainly no good to anyone from Ynysybwl.’
‘Ynys-a-where?’ Peter had trouble repeating the name.
‘Ynysybwl, sir. It’s a nice little village outside Pontypridd in Wales. Not much there other than mountains, the pit where my father works, and a couple of shops. But it has a railway station for those who want to get away for a few hours and some nice pubs for them that wants to stay. It would be my pleasure to show you around when we get out of here. The barmaids …’
‘That’s enough, Evans. Officers don’t want to hear about your village. Nice to see you up and about, Lieutenant Marsh, sir. I trust your wound has healed.’ Sergeant Lane stepped out of a canvas roofed dugout and saluted the officers.
‘It’s better than yours by the size of that bandage on your shoulder, Sergeant Lane,’ Philip answered.
‘You sure you should be here and not in the hospital, Sergeant Lane?’ Crabbe questioned.
‘Someone has to keep the boys on their toes, sir. Give them five minutes rest and they’ll take five days if you let them.’
‘As long as you’re not watching them at the cost of your health, sergeant.’ Peter pulled out a pack of Golden Dawn and offered them around before he and Lieutenant Marsh turned right towards the fort that marked the North East boundary of the Front.
Crabbe lit Sergeant Lane’s cigarette. ‘The men really all right?’
‘They grumble as only sappers can, sir.’
‘But?’ Crabbe waited.
‘It’s none of my business, sir, but if I was an offic
er I’d take a look at the lines around Brigade HQ. There was a bit of a ruckus there half hour ago among the sepoys. I couldn’t tell what they were shouting. Only that one or two sounded as though they needed to keep their hair on.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Crabbe called to Smythe and Marsh. ‘We’re making a detour.’ They turned back and joined him.
‘All quiet here, Major Crabbe, sir,’ Lieutenant Ash reported as they entered one of the “linking” trenches between the first line and the second manned by the Kents and Hampshires.
‘But not further on?’ Crabbe suggested.
‘Sepoys been a bit noisy around the Norfolks’ HQ, sir.’
‘Drew the short straw, Ash,’ Philip Marsh crowed.
‘It’ll be your turn next week, Marsh,’ Ash retorted. ‘You can’t play the wounded soldier for ever.’
‘I hope the Turks will be as sleepy on my duty as they are on yours.’
‘Ssh.’ Crabbe unbuckled his revolver holster and moved forward. Peter Smythe saw a shadow on the river bank. He rose above the parapet to take a better look. A shot rang out and he crumpled to the ground.
Lieutenant Ash shouted, ‘Bastard’s reloading.’
Philip Marsh unbuckled his revolver. He saw the silhouette of a sepoy, aimed and fired. The Indian screamed and dropped his weapon.
Crabbe crouched beside Peter. ‘Where are you hit?’
‘My arm. It’s not serious.’
Crabbe shouted, ‘Stretcher-bearer!’
A major from the Indian 103rd Infantry ran up to the sepoy, dragged him into the trench and threw him down alongside Crabbe.
The sepoy fell to his knees. ‘I am Muslim, Sahib Major. Tell them I am Muslim,’ he pleaded. ‘Those are my brothers on the other side. I cannot kill my brothers. I want to join them …’
‘You’ll be doing that soon enough but not on any side on this earth, you bloody fool,’ the major snapped. ‘Beasely, Warrington?’
A sergeant and sub lieutenant appeared.
‘Get this bastard to Brigade HQ and convene a court martial. Ash, Crabbe, Marsh, you’re witnesses. How’s that poor beggar?’
‘In need of the hospital.’ Crabbe put pressure on Peter’s wound and helped him to his feet.
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