‘I thought you might.’
‘Smythe, sir,’ Crabbe said decisively. ‘He hasn’t recovered from the leg wound he took when he demolished Sandes’s bridge or the bullet in his shoulder. He can’t seem to shake off that hacking cough …’
‘So you send him out undercover with a native. The Turks will hear them coming from a mile away.’
‘That’s the idea, sir. You know how terrified the Turks are of tuberculosis.’
‘With good reason considering a third of the POWs we took before Nasiriyeh were infected.’
‘Exactly, sir. They’ll hear Smythe cough and give him as wide a berth as the river will allow.’
‘Does he have TB?’
‘Not according to Mason or Knight, sir. He’s had a couple of bouts of pneumonia which have worn him down physically and Mason has been concerned that he isn’t recovering from his wounds as well as he should.’
‘So by making him a courier we’ll be killing two birds with one stone, informing Nixon and Aylmer of our dispositions inside the town before they get here so they’ll know how best to disperse their troops; and getting Smythe out so he can continue on to Basra, decent medical care and no doubt a stretch of leave that he can spend with his wife.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re somewhat transparent at times, Crabbe.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The brigadier pulled a notepad towards him and scribbled an order. He tore it off and handed it to Crabbe. ‘That should get Harry’s horses out of Perry’s clutches. If Perry kicks up a fuss refer him to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll have the dispatches ready by nightfall. We’ll go over them before I hand them to Smythe. Do you want to give him the good news or shall I?’
‘I thought I’d ask Mason to do the honours, sir.’
‘Good idea. Might be better coming from a medic. Off with you, Crabbe. I have work to do even if you don’t.’
‘Sir.’
Crabbe left HQ and went directly to the hospital. He couldn’t have timed it better. John had finished his morning rounds and was drinking tea with Knight in his cubicle.
‘Snipers starting late today?’ Crabbe joined them.
‘Night sentries reported Turkish troops being pulled from the lines and moving downstream in columns. Show must be starting down there soon, if it hasn’t already.’ Knight filled another mug with tea and handed it to Crabbe.
‘I came to give you the news.’
‘Perry won’t hand Harry’s horses over to Mitkhal?’ John suggested.
Crabbe held up the paper the brigadier had given him. ‘No, I have the order here, signed by the brigadier.’
‘If Perry ignores it?’ John asked.
‘I don’t think even Perry would cross the brigadier. I’m here because we need a courier to get the brigadier’s dispatches through the lines. I suggested Smythe.’
‘Through the lines with Mitkhal,’ John guessed.
‘As far as Ali Gharbi, but once Smythe reaches there I doubt anyone will begrudge him a few days with his wife in Basra.’
‘If he lives to see Ali Gharbi,’ John qualified.
‘You think Smythe will be up for it?’ Knight moved his chair to face Crabbe.
‘I think he’ll listen to a doctor who tells him it’s his duty.’
‘He’s feverish and has a cough …’ John began.
‘The brigadier knows. We think it will put the Turks off questioning him, if he’s dressed in Arab robes and headdress.’
‘And if it doesn’t, Smythe will be shot as a spy.’
‘Mitkhal knows how to avoid Turks.’
‘I would have said the same of Harry until they murdered him. When is Mitkhal leaving?’ John asked.
‘Tomorrow before dawn. Will you tell Smythe or shall I?’
‘Tell? A mission like this has to be voluntary. The one to do the asking should be the brigadier.’
‘The brigadier thought the request might be better coming from a medic able to point out the benefits of a rest in a Basra hospital.’
‘Really?’ John was openly sceptical. ‘You’ve already told the brigadier I’ll talk to Smythe, haven’t you?’
‘If I have, it’s your fault for always being so accommodating.’
‘Thank you, Crabbe,’ John snapped.
‘I ordered Smythe back to bed after I dressed his wound this morning,’ Knight opened the stove and tossed in a cake of dried dung.
‘It’s infected?’
‘Not looking good, but what do you expect on this diet? Half the men I treated this morning have wounds and sores that are failing to heal and bleed when pressed.’
‘I’ll find him.’ John left his chair.
‘I’ll walk with you as far as the Norfolks’ stables.’ Crabbe followed John out of the building. ‘Have you asked Mitkhal to call on Maud?’ he asked when they were in the street.
‘No.’
‘Mitkhal’s not returning to Basra?’
‘You heard him last night. He’s not prepared to say where he’s based.’
‘You’re not giving him a letter for Maud or your family that can be sent on?’
‘No, Crabbe.’ John stopped walking. ‘Believe me, I’m grateful to you for defending me, and rescuing me from a firing squad. If it wasn’t for you I’d be mouldering in the cemetery, but you’re a realist. You’re aware just how precarious our situation is.’
‘Your family believe you’re dead, man!’
‘If I survive they’ll be surprised. If I don’t, they won’t have two telegrams to contend with.’
‘And there’s me thinking you’d be delighted to spread some sweetness and light among your nearest and dearest.’
‘One lot of sweetness and light will have to be enough for you, Crabbe, and even that’s dependent on me persuading Peter to accompany Mitkhal.’
‘These are the Norfolks’ stables.’ Unsure how to address Mitkhal, the corporal stood back to allow him to enter the building first.
Mitkhal ducked under the doorway and walked into a long, low-built barn that had obviously been built for storage. There were no stalls and no water troughs. The horses had canvas water buckets slung around their heads and a stable hand was filling them from a hose connected to a water pump.
Thoroughbred officers’ mounts were ranged in lines facing one another. Before Mitkhal’s eyes had time to adjust to the windowless gloom, Dorset saw him, whinnied, and stamped her hooves. Mitkhal turned and saw the two greys tethered next to one another. He walked over to the mare. She nuzzled his abba in search of sugar lumps.
‘Sorry, old girls, I’ve nothing for you,’ he murmured.
Somerset, who’d always been more reticent than Dorset about coming forward, nudged his elbow alongside her stablemate.
‘They’re beautiful horses,’ the corporal who’d escorted him to the stables ventured.
‘They are,’ Mitkhal agreed.
‘They know you.’
‘They haven’t forgotten me.’ Mitkhal thought of the greeting they’d give Harry – if he managed to avoid horse thieves and transport them downstream.
Footsteps echoed over the mud brick floor.
‘Hey, you there! Native boy!’
Mitkhal didn’t turn his head.
‘What do you think you’re doing there with Colonel Perry’s horses?’ a square-built, thickset sergeant demanded.
‘The brigadier sent him, sergeant,’ the corporal answered. ‘These are Lieutenant Colonel Downe’s horses.’
‘Lieutenant Colonel Downe’s dead and I was talking to the raghead, not you.’ The sergeant tugged at Mitkhal’s head cloth. Mitkhal turned and yanked it from the sergeant’s hands.
The sergeant pushed his face into Mitkhal’s. ‘I’m talking to you, cloth ears. What are you doing with Colonel Perry’s mounts?’
‘The brigadier …’ the corporal began.
‘I don’t care what the brigadier said. He has no jurisdiction in this stable. And neither hav
e you. Hampshires, aren’t you?’ The sergeant shoved the corporal. He lost his balance and reeled into the line of horses. The two tethered next to Dorset reared. They struck out with their hooves and one caught the corporal in the chest.
He gasped and fainted. Mitkhal scooped him up.
‘Take your friend and clear off out of here, you bastard,’ the sergeant tugged a crop from his belt and raised it to Mitkhal.
‘Hit me and you’ll regret it.’
The vehemence in Mitkhal’s voice momentarily stayed the sergeant’s hand. ‘So you do have a tongue in your head, raghead.’
Mitkhal set the corporal down on a pile of sacks of grain. Next to them was a small sack covered with greenish dust that had a peculiar distinctive odour. Mitkhal touched it.
‘No bloody raghead tells me what to do!’
Mitkhal whirled and caught the crop before it struck him. He wrenched it from the sergeant’s hands and snapped it across his knee.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Colonel Perry stood in the doorway blocking the limited light that percolated into the building.
‘This raghead was messing with your horses. He assaulted me.’
‘Did he now?’ Perry advanced. ‘It’s Harry Downe’s tame Arab, isn’t it?’
Mitkhal stood his ground and stared at Perry.
Perry bellowed an order. Half a dozen men ran into the building. ‘Disarm this native, escort him to a cell. If he gives you any trouble, show him who’s in charge of his country now.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Basra, Friday 7th January 1916
‘Who is that man Reverend Butler and Maud are talking to in the garden?’ Theo asked Mrs Butler when he and Dr Picard arrived at the mission for lunch.
‘Major Brooke from HQ. He came to tell Maud he’s finalised the paperwork for her widow’s pension and the annuity Major Mason arranged for her. Apparently the Brooke family are business acquaintances of Dr Mason’s father. After Major Brooke visited Maud last week he telegraphed Dr Mason and offered to put her affairs in order.’
‘That was good of him.’ Theo watched Major Brooke clasp Maud’s hand and kept his suspicions about the major’s motives to himself. ‘I trust Maud has been left well provided for.’
Reverend Butler left Maud and the major and entered the dining room through the French windows. ‘Sorry, my dear,’ he apologised to his wife, ‘I couldn’t persuade Major Brooke to stay for lunch as he has a meeting at HQ. As for Maud, Theo, she is now an extremely wealthy lady. I was aware Major Mason had independent means, but I didn’t realise the extent of his family’s wealth.’
‘Major Brooke apprised you of Maud’s financial affairs, Reverend?’ Theo was surprised.
‘Maud asked me to sit with them while the major explained the details. Like all women she’s incapable of understanding simple accounts.’ Reverend Butler took his place at the head of the table.
‘Sorry I’m late, but my lesson on Greek mythology overran.’ Angela rushed in.
‘Your pupils still want Troy to win the Trojan War?’ Theo teased her.
‘They can’t understand why a war was named after the losing side.’
‘Go on, admit it, you wanted the Trojans to win too when you first read the Iliad.’
‘You have to concede, Troy is a more romantic name than Sparta.’
‘Romantic maybe, but hardly moral, especially when you consider the city state produced men like Paris who stole another man’s wife.’ Theo took his chair between the Reverend and Dr Picard.
‘Morality seems to have bypassed most of Greek myths.’
‘May I suggest because they were penned before the Christian era, Angela.’ The Reverend folded his hands together. ‘Grace.’
Dr Picard, Mrs Butler, and Theo rose to their feet. Angela remained standing behind her chair and bowed her head.
‘Thank you, Lord, for the food we are about to eat and all your blessings. Amen.’
Grateful to the reverend for keeping the lunchtime grace short, Angela picked up the tray that had been set up for Maud on the sideboard and began filling the water glass and soup bowl. ‘I’ll take this to Maud.’
‘Tell her we’re looking forward to her joining us at meals as soon as she feels up to it.’ Mrs Butler passed the bread plate down the table.
‘You heard anything interesting at the hospital?’ Reverend Butler asked Theo and Dr Picard.
‘Like what?’ Theo helped himself to bread.
‘Like something’s happening upriver?’
Angela froze.
‘Not that we’ve heard. In fact Sister Margaret observed this morning that given the lack of new casualties the fighting appears to have stopped,’ Dr Picard observed.
‘I called in the Basra Club this morning to put up notices about our chess club for officers. The steward informed me that one of the subalterns from HQ let slip that hostilities have broken out between the Turks and the British upriver. In fact he …’ the Reverend started nervously when Angela dropped the tray. It shattered in a welter of cracked wood, broken glass, shards of porcelain and rivulets of soup and water.
‘Sit down before you fall down.’ Theo grabbed Angela by the shoulders and led her to her chair.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think,’ Reverend Butler blurted apologetically. ‘But even if the subaltern and steward are right, and hostilities have broken out, the fighting can’t possibly be anywhere near Kut. Besides, the account’s probably an exaggeration based on the actions of a few marauding Arabs who decided to attack the British at Ali Gharbi …’ Reverend Butler faltered. Even he realised the more he said, the less credible he sounded.
‘Please, let me do that,’ Angela said to the maid, who’d brought in a bucket and cloths to clear the mess.
‘I wouldn’t hear of it, my dear.’ Mrs Butler patted Angela’s hand. ‘Don’t worry about Maud. I’ll take in her tray.’
Theo checked Angela’s pulse. ‘You need to lie down.’
‘No, I have to teach …’
‘I’ll take your class this afternoon. It’s not their day for Bible studies but timetables should never be too rigid.’ Mrs Butler went to the sideboard and arranged another tray. ‘Go with your brother, dear. I’ll send you in some soup.’
‘Please don’t. I’m not an invalid.’
‘A sandwich and some water then.’
‘Come on, sis.’ Theo helped Angela to her feet.
‘No, really, I’m fine,’ Angela protested.
‘We can see how fine you are by your chalk-white cheeks. No more arguing, you’re going to lie down.’ Theo propelled his sister into the hall.
‘I can walk without supervision, please eat your lunch,’ she pleaded.
‘Not until I see you on your bed.’ Theo watched her lie down before returning to the dining room where Reverend Butler was holding forth on the steward of the Basra Club’s predictions on how long it would take to relieve Kut.
‘Everyone’s agreed it has to be days rather than weeks. So many troops are being shipped in from the Western Front and India they’ll overcome the Turks by sheer weight of numbers. As you’ve seen first-hand,’ he looked to Dr Picard and Theo, ‘the average Turkish soldier is a very poor specimen. Disease-ridden and cowardly.’
‘The disease can be put down to poor nutrition, if not outright starvation. As for cowardice, I’m not sure how I’d react if I were subjected to a constant artillery barrage.’ Dr Picard leaned back so the maid could clear his soup bowl.
‘But you agree the British will soon overcome the Turk and drive them from this land,’ Reverend Butler pressed.
‘As I have no idea of the conditions upstream I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to the outcome of this war.’
‘The British have never failed to triumph,’ Reverend Butler countered.
‘For all our sakes, I hope you’re right, Reverend.’ Bored by the speculative conversation, Dr Picard looked at Theo. ‘Given the rumours we’d better return to the hospital and check our stocks of
dressings and medicines in preparation for another influx of POWs.’
‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished this meal and checked on Angela.’
‘What about pudding, Theo?’ Mrs Butler smiled. ‘It’s your favourite. Madeira with custard.’
‘Save me some for later, please, Mrs Butler.’
‘I’ll make sure the cook sets it aside.’
As he finished his meal, Theo considered Maud’s new-found wealth and independence. She’d received rich compensation for the loss of the husband she’d betrayed and who would have divorced her for infidelity had he lived. If Peter Smythe died tomorrow, all Angela would be left with was a military pension, which she’d lose if she remarried. Unlike John Mason, who’d had independent means, all Peter could leave his widow was the memory of his love – and no one could live on that.
And him? He glanced at Dr Picard. Would that be him thirty years from now? After a lifetime of working for the Mission, Picard had little more than the clothes he stood up in, the goodwill of the patients he’d tended, and the fare back to France. If he didn’t last as long as Dr Picard, no doubt the mission would purchase him an ‘economy grave’ as it had done for his missionary parents when they’d succumbed to disease.
When he left Basra, whether it was tomorrow or years from now, he’d be hard put to scrape the fare back to the USA for both him and Angela if she was widowed – which was a likely prospect if conditions in Kut were anything like as foul as he’d heard.
They’d return to the States as paupers, without a house to live in and no funds for him to buy into a medical practice. Whereas Maud, who’d borne a bastard and treated her husband abominably had been left comfortably off. He and Angela for all their hard work would be left destitute.
He finished his meat and hid as much of the mashed potatoes as he could beneath his knife and fork. ‘Please excuse me.’
‘Would you like me to send the maid in with coffee?’
‘Just for Angela, please, Mrs Butler, I’ll have mine at the hospital. I’ll be with you in ten minutes, Dr Picard.’
‘I’ll order the carriage.’
Theo found Angela still lying on her bed staring up at the ceiling.
He pulled a chair up and reached for his pipe. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
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