For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘The lookouts are posted, sahib. There is not a thing else to report. All very quiet and empty. Johnny did leave quick sharpish. Much much equipment and the usual food left on the stove. It seems they are always cooking, sahib, does it not?’

  Lock smiled up at his friend. ‘Yes, Harrington-Brown said he found much the same thing. Still, more for us. Any coffee?’

  Singh nodded. ‘I will bring the pot up to you, sahib. We also found many rifles and one boat abandoned further up the shore.’

  Lock drew on his cigarette thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘All right, Sid. Thanks.’

  ‘What is next, may I ask, sahib? Do we wait for the Espiegle to transfer our prisoners?’

  Lock shook his head, and pulled himself to his feet. ‘No, Sid. I’m going on. Wassmuss is not far. I can feel him.’

  Singh frowned back at his friend, a look of worry written across his face.

  Lock smiled. ‘Don’t worry so, Sid. I’m not being reckless. Besides, I’m still taking the old Turk to one of the launches at the head of the regatta, to put him to work mine spotting. That’s the priority.’

  ‘Very good, sahib. I shall accompany you.’

  ‘Thanks, Sid.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘We’ll take Lieutenant Harrington-Brown, Elsworth and three of the sepoys, in the bellum not the bloody gufa. The sergeant major can stay here until relieved and follow on. Hopefully Sergeant Pritchard and the others will catch up, too.’

  ‘And Bing Ham Smith, sahib?’

  ‘He can stay here with Underhill and wait for his uncle to arrive. I’ve had enough of his comp—’

  ‘Again, Lock, I most certainly am not doing that,’ Bingham-Smith said, stepping out of the redoubt, a look of arrogant smugness written across his face.

  Lock glared back at him. ‘You’re not coming with me, Smith, not anymore.’

  Bingham-Smith sniffed and jutted his chin out. ‘I shall do as I please, Lock.’

  Lock was sorely tempted to swing for him. God, he thought, I really, really should. He clenched his fist and felt a soft jolt as Singh made a poor attempt at pretending to stumble into him.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sahib.’

  Lock shot Singh a black look, then realising what his friend had done, he calmed himself. He turned back to Bingham-Smith, then was momentarily distracted.

  ‘Listen,’ Lock said, holding up his hand.

  ‘What?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘I hear nothing.’

  ‘Elsworth.’

  ‘Sahib?’

  ‘He’s stopped singing,’ Lock said.

  ‘Bloody good job, too,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘One less prisoner to deal with.’

  ‘Get lost, will you, Smith.’

  Bingham-Smith straightened his tunic and adjusted his cap, squinting into the sun. ‘You needn’t worry, Lock. I have no desire to accompany you any further. I’ve seen quite enough. I will be returning to the Espiegle to make my report.’

  ‘Report?’ Lock said, suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Bingham-Smith said, turning his smug gaze to Lock. ‘Remember, I’ve been … observing you and, as far as I can tell, your mission is over. You disabled the electronic switch, yet you have insisted we all keep moving, with important prisoners in tow.’ He paused and smirked. ‘Why, Lock? Is it this ghost chase Amy keeps harping on about? This German fellow everyone presumes is dead, except for you?’

  ‘You heard what the artillery officer said in there,’ Lock said, jutting his chin towards the redoubt.

  ‘I don’t speak Turkish, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘So, as far as I’m concerned, you are just telling us what you want us to believe, that this German is alive and just over the next horizon.’ He shook his head mockingly. ‘Pathetic.’

  ‘He isn’t dead,’ Lock insisted.

  ‘So you keep saying, Lock. But how in the hell do you actually know?’

  ‘I just do, that’s all.’

  Bingham-Smith shook his head again.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I understand perfectly that you are reckless, selfish and obsessed. Dangerously so. I also understand that by keeping the … the ghost of this German fellow …’

  ‘Wassmuss. His name is Wassmuss.’

  ‘By keeping the ghost of this Wassmuss chappy alive, you think that you can keep his threat to Amy alive.’

  ‘The threat isn’t a fantasy, Smith. She’s in danger—’

  ‘Pah! Of course it is, for the more you insist he’s out there, the more you hope Amy will need you, will be scared. But do you know something, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘It’s me that she comes to for comfort. It’s my arms around her when she needs reassuring.’

  It was Lock’s turn to shake his head mockingly. ‘Now you’re the one making things up. Amy isn’t that kind of girl. You’d know that if you really knew her.’

  Bingham-Smith let out a snort of laughter. ‘Of course she bloody is, Lock. They all are. Gals, I mean. Needy, delicate creatures, looking for protection from chaps like me. Amy’s no different, you deluded fool.’

  Lock felt his heckles rise again. He turned away before he did anything he’d later regret and then stopped dead. Regret? What the hell was he thinking? He spun round, fist ready to strike. Singh stepped forward to intervene once again.

  ‘My, my, Lock, we are touchy today,’ Bingham-Smith smirked. Then his eyes dropped to the folder under Lock’s arm. ‘And I think I should be taking that, don’t you?’ He held out his hand for the document files. ‘I’ll see that Major Ross gets them.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Smith.’

  ‘Come, come, Lock. What if something happens to you and the files are lost? Do you know what’s in them? What strategic information they contain?’

  ‘I have had a read,’ Lock said.

  ‘And?’

  Look hesitated. He didn’t want to entrust the documents to this man, but what choice did he have? ‘They need to get to Ross as quickly as possible,’ he said.

  ‘Very well,’ Bingham-Smith sighed, ‘then give them to Singh here or that lance corporal, and send them along with me.’

  Lock shook his head. ‘I need Singh and Elsworth with me.’

  ‘Then you have little choice,’ Bingham-Smith said, his hand still held out expectantly.

  Look glared back at Bingham-Smith’s smug face. Bastard, he thought.

  ‘Or you could bring them yourself?’

  Lock shook his head and held out the cardboard folder. ‘Straight to Major Ross, you hear?’

  ‘But of course, old chap,’ Bingham-Smith said, taking the folder, and turning on his heels without another word.

  ‘Damn you, Smith,’ Lock muttered after him.

  ‘So you keep saying,’ Bingham-Smith called back over his shoulder. ‘And I’m taking two of the sepoys to row me back to the Espiegle. D’you hear me, Lock?’ He strode on down towards the shore like a strutting peacock, chin held high.

  Lock threw a foul curse after him, then turned back to the redoubt.

  ‘Come on, Sid. Let’s get after those launches.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  You don’t often meet people you take an instant liking to, Lock thought. An instant disliking for, yes, but the man he was standing next to on the deck of the Shaitan was the exception to that all familiar rule. His name was Mark Singleton, a Royal Navy lieutenant, and commander of the small flat-bottomed launch-tug that, along with its sister ship, the Lewis Pelly, was forging ahead of the main body of Townshend’s flotilla. They had been clearing mines and obstructions as they travelled further up the main channel of the Tigris, penetrating deeper and deeper into enemy territory. Only now, the chain linking the two vessels had been disconnected. The Shaitan now had an elderly Turk naval officer standing at its bow, a brass telescope occasionally lifting to his eye, as he helped point out the location of the mines he’d spent months previously laying down. Lieutenant Singleton was both delighted and bewildered as to why the Turk prisoner was
so amiable, but Lock explained to him that the liva amiral felt it was his duty as a captive to assist.

  Having left Sergeant Major Underhill in charge of Green Platoon back at Alloa until relieved once more, Lock had set off in the bellum. Along with the liva amiral, Lock had Singh, Harrington-Brown, Elsworth, Ram Lal and Sepoys Addul Tarin and Karamjeet Singh for company. They rowed on up the Tigris, passing the settlements of Jala, Halla and Bahran, now all flying white flags, eventually catching up with the Shaitan and the Lewis Pelly at the mouth of Rotah Creek. The two launch-tugs had been delayed there, having found the way obstructed by a sunken lighter. Luckily only half of the channel was blocked, but the other half was strewn with mines. Already the crews from both tugs were in the fast-flowing water up to their chests, cutting away with hatchets at the cables linking the mines.

  Lock had hailed the officer he could see directing operations from the deck of the Shaitan, and had been invited aboard.

  The launch was a small vessel, some 65ft long with a 12ft beam, and now with Lock and his men aboard, it was rather cramped. There was a central funnel and wheelhouse and a large wooden deck. Fortunately, the deck was covered by a large canvas awning, which stretched from bow to stern, with only the afterdeck exposed to the elements. She was armed with a single bow-mounted 1-3pdr gun, that boasted an 8ft barrel and which could fire off twenty rounds per minute. A Union Jack flew proudly from the mast at her stern.

  Her commander, Lieutenant Singleton, was a clean-cut man in his early twenties, well-built, with light-brown hair, a square, rather bright face with wide-set chestnut-brown eyes and a mouth that smiled easily. When he spoke his voice was calm and surprisingly tinged with a subtle Portsmouth accent that replaced any ‘ow’ sound with ‘ay’. He welcomed Lock and his men aboard with a salute and a firm handshake, as well as a puzzled but bemused expression upon seeing Elsworth help the liva amiral clamber up from the bellum. Lock explained who the Turk officer was, and then why he needed to get upriver as quickly as possible.

  ‘Well, Lock, I can tell you, I’ve seen no sign of the Turk ships, not in a physical sense,’ Singleton said with an air of mystery. Then he smiled at Lock’s reaction. ‘Sorry, what I mean to say is we’ve seen their smoke, but when we round a bend in the river, there’s nothing. They’re always just out of sight. I’d say they’re fleeing pretty sharpish.’

  Lock nodded. ‘It certainly looks that way, Lieutenant. Resistance has been pretty light and, as I’m sure you’ve seen, there are white flags everywhere.’

  Once the crews in the water called out that the cables were clear, Singleton invited the liva amiral to go and stand at the bow and point out the mines to his midshipman. Lock translated, and with a click of his heels and a bow, the Turk officer set about his task with diligence. In less than a quarter of an hour, they were underway.

  Lock glanced back to see that the Lewis Pelly, though keeping pace, was tending to drift over to the opposite side of the river. Risky, Lock thought, particularly as they weren’t certain how heavily mined this section of the Tigris was. The liva amiral was keeping a constant watch from the bow, shouting a warning in broken English now and then, to which the coxswain would swing the wheel, steering the launch to the left or right as needs be. But there was always a chance …

  A huge blast made everyone rush to the port side. Astern, the Lewis Pelly was just passing under a shower of muddy water, having narrowly missed a mine. Fortunately, it looked as if no damage was done. But it was a close thing.

  ‘Our wake luckily pushed the mine into the bank,’ Singleton said. ‘It must have exploded just as the Lewis Pelly drew level.’ He turned his head and scowled at the liva amiral. ‘Are you sure about this fellow, Captain? I only have a crew of eight. But I intend to still have a crew of eight by journey’s end.’

  The liva amiral shrugged at Lock apologetically. ‘I cannot be one hundred per cent accurate, Yüzbaşi. There are many mines. But I would advise that the boat behind stays directly astern and stops drifting to our port side,’ he said, before turning back to face the direction of travel, pressing his telescope to his eye once more.

  ‘I’d let your fellow commander on the Lewis Pelly know that he should stay in our wake,’ Lock said.

  Singleton gave a small smile. ‘Yes. I guess it was his own fault. Let’s just hope it doesn’t happen again, though.’

  The journey continued without further incident, but progress was slow. The Shaitan would normally be a fast vessel, but now, against a strong headwind and current, she could barely make four or five knots an hour. The river was full of mudbanks and the narrowing channel wound to and fro in such an unexpected manner that one of Singleton’s men had to constantly sound to help gauge where to steer the ship. There was no way, Lock thought, that they would be able to travel after dark.

  As the sun began to drop down towards the west, the heat just grew and grew. Lock felt his spirits wilt. He sat down beside the hot metal of the Shaitan’s gun, and pulled off his slouch hat. There was some breeze created by the movement of the boat, but the rushing waters of the Tigris did little to placate the raging thirst he felt. He rubbed his rough palm over his face and winced. His lips were cracked and sore again. He swallowed dryly. His stomach grumbled.

  Elsworth remained at the bow with the liva amiral and the Shaitan’s midshipman, while Singh and the sepoys Addul Tarrin and Karamjeet Singh sat dozing nearby. Ram Lal was somewhere towards the stern and Harrington-Brown was standing portside staring off at the distant landscape. There wasn’t a blade of vegetation to look at, but there were a large number of birds, mostly sandpipers, egrets and cranes, picking through the mudflats.

  Lock yawned and rubbed his eyes. He watched the launch’s crew shuffle about the deck performing the various tasks necessary for the smooth running of their ship, but from what Lock could see, with minimal effort. Still, he didn’t – he couldn’t – blame them. It was too hot to exert oneself. Besides, Singleton didn’t seem to notice.

  The Royal Navy lieutenant was standing in the open wheelhouse, scanning the river ahead with an intense concentration etched across his smooth features. Clearly, after the incident with the Lewis Pelly, he didn’t trust the liva amiral not to run them straight into another floating mine. Perhaps Singleton was right not to trust him.

  Lock twisted round, but the liva amiral was still there, studying the Tigris through his telescope.

  Lock turned back with a yawn. Singh stirred and caught his eye. The Indian smiled, pulled himself to his feet and wandered over to Lock’s side.

  ‘May I, sahib?’ Singh said, asking permission to sit down next to Lock.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Sid,’ Lock said, shifting over slightly.

  Singh sat himself down and wiped his brow. ‘How are you feeling, sahib?’

  ‘I’m fine, Sid. My head wound itches like crazy, but apart from that and a continuous raging thirst, I’m all right,’ Lock smiled. ‘How’s the ribs?’

  Singh bobbed his head. ‘They do not trouble me at all, sahib.’

  The two men fell silent. Lock felt his mind wandering, a combination of the gentle throb of the Shaitan’s engines, the gentle pitch and heave of the water around them, and the intense heat.

  Lock scoffed to himself.

  ‘What is it, sahib?’ Singh said.

  ‘Oh … what? Nothing, Sid. Sorry, I drifted off for a moment. The heat … I was just thinking how quickly it took me to lose a full-strength platoon.’

  ‘But, sahib, you have not lost any of the men to death.’

  ‘True, Sid, true. But we are seven now and at dawn we were twenty.’

  ‘Sahib, that is the nature of this very strange battle, if one may call it a battle. Men are being separated or left to guard redoubts or … deserting us like that Bing Ham Smith. If I may be saying so, sahib.’

  ‘You may, Sid.’

  ‘So what I am meaning, sahib, that when this is over it will be seventy men or more that you are having.’

  Lock gave his Indian frien
d a sideways glance. ‘A company? Ha! I doubt that very much, Sid.’

  ‘Why not, sahib? You are bloody fine officer.’

  ‘Thanks, Sid, but I cannot imagine Colonel Godwinson agreeing to that. Can you? Besides, they still want to court-martial me for this bloody assassination nonsense.’

  Singh bobbed his head again. ‘That is rubbish, and well you are knowing it, sahib.’

  ‘I know, Sid. But the colonel and Bingham-Smith have got it in for me. Christ knows what that slimy bastard is saying now back on the Espiegle with his “report”.’

  Singh bobbed his head. ‘Maybe the colonel will not be around to disagree …’

  Lock grinned. ‘Maybe, Sid. There’s always hope he finds himself in the way of a Turk or Arab bullet.’

  ‘Or a British one, sahib,’ Singh whispered.

  ‘Havildar Singh!’ Lock said in mock surprise, then pressed his head back against the hot metal base of the gun. He squinted across at the sun and a trickle of sweat ran into his eye. He winced, wiped it clear and tried to focus on the sky again.

  Lock turned his head to the right, facing east. There was something high up, moving slowly towards them. He wondered if it was a bird of prey at first, but the object was moving too true. He frowned and cocked his ear slightly. There was something else, something above the noise of the chugging of the Shaitan’s engines; a distant rattling buzz, not unlike a child blowing an intermittent raspberry. Lock sat forward and put his hand up to shield his eyes and stared long and hard at the dark object in the sky.

  ‘Do you see that, Sid?’ Lock said, getting to his feet. He pulled his slouch hat on and by now most of the crew had heard the same noise and were looking over to the eastern horizon, pointing at the object that was moving parallel to them.

  ‘I see it, sahib …’

  ‘Well, I’ll be …’ Lock said and turned his smile on Singh.

  ‘It is an aeroplane, sahib. Where has it come from?’ Singh was shading his eyes, too, and peering hard up at the sky.