For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘Try to understand, Kingdom. It is for the best.’

  Lock shot to his feet, scraping the chair back noisily against the wooden floor. He marched over to the other side of the room to retrieve his hat. Amy followed and pulled at his sleeve.

  ‘Wait, Kingdom … I …’

  ‘What, what do you want, Amy?’ Lock said, rounding on her. ‘Really?’

  Amy bit her lip, eyes searching his face. Then she stepped over to the bed, and reaching under the pillow, pulled out a small oblong package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

  ‘To give you this,’ she said, holding out the gift.

  Lock hesitated, then accepted the package, and glared back at her.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘It is a knife. I had it engraved.’

  Lock stared back into her wide, emerald eyes. He so wanted to take her in his arms, to pull her over to the bed and to make love to her. He took a breath.

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘I wanted to give you something.’

  ‘Why?’ Lock repeated.

  She scowled. ‘To say thank you.’

  ‘Is that all? “Thank you”.’ Lock slowly shook his head.

  ‘What do you want from me, Kingdom?’ she said, throwing his earlier accusatory question back at him.

  ‘For you to be true to your heart, Amy. To be …’

  Amy’s eyes had hardened again, and there was a flame of anger deep within the dark pools of her pupils. ‘Merde. Je ne peux pas être ce que je ne suis pas. Il suffit de laisser! Leave!’ she screamed, turning her back on him.

  Lock sighed heavily and made his way over to the door. He paused, tempted to throw the gift back at her, but in a flash of stubbornness he decided against that and pocketed it instead.

  ‘Did you ever love me?’ he said, without turning to face her.

  Amy gave a sob, but didn’t say anything.

  Lock’s shoulders dropped. He needed to get away from her as quickly as possible. He needed to think, to decide what to do. Bugger it, of all the times.

  ‘If you breathe a word to father, to Casper,’ she called out, ‘I shall deny it! I shall deny everything.’ There was real venom in her voice.

  At the threshold Lock turned back to look at her. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She seemed so vulnerable and small now and his heart ached for her. He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Why would you even ask that?’ he said.

  Amy thrust her chin up defiantly. There was fire in her eyes once more.

  ‘If you do I shall never speak to you again.’

  Lock pulled on his slouch hat, swore under his breath, and without another word, stormed out.

  Slamming the door behind him, Lock stood still for a moment in the dark stairwell. The Arab woman downstairs was still chastising her children and Lock wanted to scream at her to shut the hell up. He closed his eyes and cursed bitterly. That had all gone so terribly wrong. He hadn’t even told Amy about the price on his head, that he was leaving for Qurna, or that Wassmuss was probably still snooping around. He didn’t believe it himself, but he wanted her to be on her guard, just in case. He thought about going back inside, about taking her in his arms forcibly, about making her see reason, to abandon her stubborn idea of marrying Bingham-Smith, about keeping bloody secrets.

  ‘Bugger.’

  The light flickered on and footsteps began to make their way up the stairs. Lock moved away from the door just as Mary turned the corner. Her smile was warm, her face slightly flushed with exertion.

  ‘Captain Lock! I … Hello,’ she said. ‘Is Amy not in?’

  ‘I was just leaving. Duty calls. Back to the front for me.’

  Mary paused. ‘Are you fit enough?’ she scowled.

  ‘According to Major Ross I am,’ Lock said, then smiled. ‘No, I’m fine. On the mend.’

  Mary smiled back. ‘I’m glad.’ She moistened her lips.

  They both stood there in awkward silence and the light clicked off. Mary slapped it on again.

  ‘Keep an eye on her for me,’ Lock said. He touched the brim of his hat and started to make his way downstairs.

  ‘Be careful,’ Mary called after him.

  ‘Always,’ he said over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Always, indeed,’ Lock scoffed to himself.

  He was back at the front lines now, back where the Grim Reaper was waiting in the corner of the eye, scythe glistening in the harsh sunlight. An assassin’s bullet was no different to a bullet fired by a Turk Mehmetçik. It meant the same thing after all, an end to Kingdom Lock. He took a deep, fetid breath from the still, stagnant air hanging heavy over the reed marsh in front of him, and found his thoughts constantly dragging him back to Amy.

  Lock’s anger at her had taken some time to dissipate. He had emerged from the girls’ apartment building back into the stifling dusty heat of the Street of Allah’s Tears where Singh, Elsworth and the dog were waiting for him. Singh had his nose buried, as it so often was when he had a moment alone, in his tatty copy of Nitnem Gutka, the Sikh prayer book, and Elsworth was playing another of his insufferable army tunes on his harmonica, tapping his foot along to the beat as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The dog sprang up at Lock’s approach, barked once and then bounced around his ankles excitedly. Singh handed Lock his haversack, shouldered his own, and from there the three men had set off in silence towards the quays at Ashar.

  Singh knew Lock’s moods well enough by now not to engage him in conversation; not so Elsworth. But the young marksman, bristling with pride at the chevron sewn on his sleeve, got the message soon enough when Lock glared blackly back at him in answer to an innocently put question regarding Miss Townshend’s health.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Elsworth muttered. But he didn’t keep quiet for long, and soon he was whistling and humming one of his tunes.

  Lock sighed, catching Singh’s eye. But he gave a brief shake of his head, indicating that he didn’t want the big Indian to stop Elsworth from having his musical moment. Although, when the young sharpshooter began to sing the words to his tune, Lock regretted the decision.

  Come on Tommy. Come on Jack,

  We’ll guard the home till you come back.

  Come on Sandy. Come on Pat,

  For you’re true blue!

  Down your tools and leave your benches,

  Say goodbye to all the wenches.

  Take your gun, and may God speed you,

  For your King and Country need you.

  ‘Enough,’ Lock growled.

  ‘Sir. Yes, sir,’ Elsworth said, and fell into a hurt silence.

  They walked on through the quiet streets, and when they were nearing the quay, Singh tugged gently at Lock’s arm.

  ‘We have company, sahib.’

  Lock stopped and glanced back at the deserted street they had just walked through.

  ‘I know, Sid. He’s been following us since we left the Street of Allah’s Tears.’

  ‘Trouble, sahib?’

  ‘I doubt it. He can’t be more than eleven years old.’

  ‘Sahib?’

  ‘Didn’t you see him, loitering in the shadows outside of Amy’s apartment building? Young Mesop Arab lad.’

  ‘A spy maybe, sir?’ Elsworth said, dropping his haversack to the floor, and removing his rifle from his shoulder.

  ‘Steady on, Alfred. We don’t know that.’ Lock scanned their immediate surroundings and indicated to a dank side alley that wound off to the left. ‘Quick, in there. Come on, come on.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently at the dog, and all four of them moved to the alley and shrank back into the shadows.

  Lock kept his eye on the street, but there was still no movement.

  ‘We seem to be spending many moments in alleyways, sahib.’

  ‘Hush, Sid.’

  There was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the beat of their hearts. Then the dog growled.

  ‘L
ook, there!’

  Halfway down the street there was a stack of wooden crates piled near to the latticed entrance of a storehouse. Peering up from behind the crates, Lock could see the small figure of a young native. The boy hesitated, then scampered across to the middle of the road, glancing from left to right. He came to a stop again, darted forward and stopped once more, spun round, then slumped down on the spot. He sat with his legs crossed, resting his chin on one hand, looking decidedly dejected at having lost his prey.

  Lock smiled to himself and stepped out of the alley, followed by the others. All three stood watching the boy whose head was down now as he picked at the dirt of the road with his fingers. Lock glanced down at the dog and gave a soft click of his tongue. The dog darted off towards the boy and was almost upon him before the lad looked up at the sudden rush of feet. He jumped up, startled. The dog yapped noisily and bounced around him. The lad moved in a tight circle, hands raised up, eyes wide with unease and fixed on the animal.

  ‘You, what do you want here?’ Lock called in Arabic.

  The lad’s eyes shot over to Lock and the others and his face burst into a huge grin.

  ‘Very tired horse, as-sayed!’ the boy said in English and waved, the dog still yapping and springing up at his knees.

  Lock frowned. Then he remembered having met the lad once before. It was when he had galloped back to Basra from Barjisiyah Woods to see Amy. The boy had looked after his mount for him.

  ‘Very tired, as-sayed,’ he said and beckoned the lad over.

  The Arab boy sprinted to him, the dog scampering along at his heels. He pulled up grinning from ear to ear, looking from Lock to Singh to Elsworth and back to Lock again. He was perhaps a little older than ten, indicated by the downy hairs sprouting above his upper lip. He was dirty, rather smelly in a musty, dank kind of way, not unlike the alley they had just left, Lock thought, and was dressed in the common Mesopotamian clothing of a threadbare waistcoat worn over an ankle-length thobe. The lad had no shoes on his feet. He was slight of frame, wiry, probably malnourished, but looked sprightly enough. He had broken, jagged nails and discoloured teeth, but his brown eyes sparkled with life as they peered out from beneath a thick matt of dark-brown hair.

  ‘No horse, as-sayed?’

  ‘No horse,’ Lock said. He narrowed his eyes and looked sternly down at the lad. ‘Are you a spy?’

  The lad shook his head vigorously and threw out a smart salute. ‘I am cook. Like father, like mother.’

  ‘And where is like father, like mother?’

  The lad’s face dropped. ‘Dead, as-sayed. Turk man beat and kill them for poison. But they did not poison, they—’

  Lock held up his hand to stay the lad’s staccato chatter. ‘You speak good English.’

  ‘Best bloody Engleesh, as-sayed,’ he said saluting again.

  ‘Stop saluting.’ Lock gave a wry grin to Singh and Elsworth. ‘What say you? New cook?’

  Elsworth shrugged, but Singh didn’t look too happy.

  ‘I am not sure, sahib. Can we trust him?’

  ‘Have a little faith, Sid.’

  ‘It is up to you, sahib, but I am telling you now that Sergeant Major Underhill will be very purple about this. He is not liking the native Arab very much at all.’

  Lock had noticed that colours were Sid’s new way of describing the Sergeant Major’s level of anger of late. Purple, naturally, being the highest.

  ‘Sod Underhill, Sid,’ he said.

  ‘So you keep on saying, sahib.’

  ‘Besides, since when has he liked anyone very much anyway?’

  Lock turned back to the boy. ‘Well, a cook’s not much use without pots and pa—’

  Before Lock could finish his sentence, the boy darted off back the way he had come and soon disappeared from sight.

  Elsworth collected their haversacks from the alleyway and then the three men, with the dog sat at their feet, stood watching the empty street for a while.

  Lock began to fidget, rubbing the fingers of his left hand. He sighed. ‘Bug—’

  ‘Listen, sahib.’

  Lock strained his ears. Above the soft breeze and the gentle lapping of the nearby water against the quayside he could make out the slap of feet and a soft clump-clump not unlike the sound of someone plumping up a pillow. God damn it, there she was again, a picture of Amy flashing into his head, of her leaning over him, dressed in her nurse’s uniform, helping him to sit up while she made his bed more comfortable. The dog began to growl and Lock shook the thought of his hospital bed away.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Elsworth said.

  The young sharpshooter’s keen eyesight had spotted movement at the far end of the street and it took Lock a moment to see the same. He squinted ahead and then saw the Arab lad running back towards them, a huge pack over his shoulders.

  The dog gave a solitary bark and began to wag its tail.

  The lad ran up to them, panting. ‘Pots and pans, as-sayed,’ he grinned.

  Lock was impressed. The lad had a large canvas haversack bulging with equipment, but what was even more impressive wasn’t the amount of pans and ladles and serving spoons dangling down, tied to the outside of the pack by rough twine, but the fact that each and every one was wrapped in a protective rag to dull any noise.

  Lock looked to Singh, who nodded his approval.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jawad Saleem, as-sayed.’

  ‘Well, I’m Captain Lock. This is Havildar Singh and Lance Corporal Elsworth. Welcome to the Mendip Light Infantry, Cook Jawad Saleem.’

  ‘And dog, as-sayed?’

  ‘And Dog,’ Lock said.

  The boy saluted again, and the group turned and continued on their way towards the quay and the waiting steamer that would be taking them upriver to Qurna.

  The dockyard was as frenetically busy as always, with equipment and troops cramming every available space. A terrific cacophony of human cries, orders and chatter filled the air, all of which was occasionally drowned out by the sudden toot from one of the steamers lined up along the quay. Arab and Indian dockhands manning the crude wooden pulley cranes added their own colourful tones to the atmosphere as they loaded ammunition, guns and supplies aboard the various ships.

  Lock weaved his way through the bedlam scanning the various steamers.

  ‘Here, we are,’ he said.

  Their transport vessel, the Mejidieh, was a surprisingly airy tub, a shallow draught, 150ft long stern-wheeler river steamer of around 463grt tonnage. Despite being armed with two 18-pdr guns and crammed with sweaty, parched soldiers, the boat still had a romantic air about it that brought to Lock’s mind the tales of Huckleberry Finn he’d so enjoyed reading as a boy.

  As they approached the gangplank leading across to the lower deck of the steamer, a familiar figure rose up from a group of men sat on a pile of sandbags at the edge of the quayside.

  ‘Sergeant Major,’ Lock said. ‘All here?’

  Underhill gave a stiff nod. He had gathered together the remnants and new additions to the original Green platoon, those few men who had survived the Battle of Barjisiyah Woods. The three sepoys, the scrawny, eager and serious Ram Lal, the nervous Chopra and his bosom-buddy Toor, all jumped to their feet and saluted smartly, greeting Lock with enthusiastic smiles.

  Lock had not seen the Indian boys since the march back to Basra after the battle, nearly a month earlier. He returned the salute. ‘Good to see you, lads.’

  ‘Sahib,’ they said in unison.

  Sat just behind them, his nose buried in one of his homemade jam-tin bombs, was stocky Sergeant Pritchard from Dorset. He had requested, and was granted, permission to join the Mendips, specifically to stay with Lock.

  ‘Glad to see you got your stripes, Pritchard,’ Lock said.

  Pritchard gave his new captain a grin and a nonchalant salute with a finger to his forehead, then carefully began to pack away his deadly hobby in his haversack.

  ‘Too many bloody NCOs in this unit,’ Underhill mumb
led, but loud enough for all to hear.

  ‘Yes, but only one sergeant major,’ Lock said. ‘For now.’

  ‘Huh. Well, I ’ope we get some more bloody lads when we get to Qurna, that’s all,’ Underhill said, with a shake of his head. ‘Sah,’ he added in his usual, belligerent way as an afterthought.

  Lock grunted in agreement and turned back to the busy quayside. He gave a shrill whistle and moments later the mangy mongrel pup darted up to them.

  ‘Great, a bloody mutt to stink up the place.’

  ‘Just you show some respect, Sergeant Major, this is your new lieutenant.’

  Underhill’s face fell momentarily before he realised Lock was pulling his leg. ‘Piss off!’

  Lock smiled and the others began to laugh. The dog yapped and Lock bent down to rub its ears.

  ‘Another straggler who won’t let go,’ Underhill sneered.

  ‘He may come in handy, Sergeant Major.’

  ‘If we run outa food, mebbe.’

  Again the men laughed. They were in good spirits, obviously eager and looking forward to getting back to the war. Boredom, Lock had quickly realised, was a worse health hazard than a Turk or Arab bullet.

  ‘And, talking of food … Where is he?’ Lock said, straightening up and scanning the crowds. He raised his hand up. ‘Jawad Saleem,’ he called.

  Underhill was still glaring down at the dog. ‘All we need now is one of yer bloody Buddoo mate—’

  He abruptly stopped when he spotted the young Arab boy pushing his way towards them, a huge pack of pots and pans upon his back.

  Underhill turned and gave Lock a withering look. ‘Tell me it ain’t so.’

  Lock shrugged. ‘We need feeding. He can cook.’

  ‘What is this?’ Underhill spat, his face turning purple with barely controlled rage. ‘You the bleedin’ Pied Piper of ’Amlin? We ain’t some fuckin’ orphanage, sah.’

  Jawad Saleem came up to them and threw out a smart salute, then pulled a dead chicken from his waistcoat and held it aloft.

  ‘Very sorry, Captain as-sayed, made supply stop,’ he grinned.

  ‘Good lad, Sergeant Major Underhill here loves a chook dish.’