For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Lock muttered, impatience threatening to overwhelm him, as the ship ahead of them once again disappeared from sight as it rounded another bend in the river.

  The shelling from the Espiegle continued to rain overhead, and the Shaitan chugged on. It came to the bend in the river and then swung far to the left and then seemed to stall, bounce and finally emerge back on the straight. Lock was suddenly met by a landscape bathed in an eerie, flickering glow. The ship they had been pursuing had run aground. She was lilting to one side and on fire. Her entire stern was nothing but a mangled mess of burning metal, spewing out a cloud of thick, toxic smoke. Near to her was a lighter with a number of soldiers aboard. They all had their hands thrust high in the air in surrender.

  ‘Heave to!’ Singleton shouted from the wheelhouse.

  Lock pushed forward at the bow and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Are you the Marmaris?’ he called in Turkish.

  ‘Yes, effendim. Marmaris,’ came a reply from the lighter.

  Lock turned back and called down the length of the launch, ‘Harrington-Brown, Sid, on the double!’

  Singh was quick to arrive, with Elsworth and Ram Lal at his heels.

  ‘Sahib?’ Singh said.

  ‘Where the hell’s the lieutenant?’

  ‘He escorted the Turkish officer to the Lewis Pelly, sahib.’

  ‘And he’s still not back?’

  Singh bobbed his head. ‘I think that he may have missed our very sudden departure, sahib.’

  ‘The bloody useless bastard,’ Lock fumed, ‘he’s got the dinghy. He’s more incompetent than Bingham-Smith. And that’s quite an achievement.’

  ‘He also took with him Sepoys Addul Tarin and Karamjeet Singh, sahib.’

  Lock swore. ‘Can’t these bloody aristos do their own rowing?’

  ‘It would seem not, sahib.’

  Lock glanced over his shoulder at the burning wreck of the Turkish steamer.

  ‘Well then, I have little choice. I’ll have to swim over. It’s too dangerous for Singleton to move the launch any closer, their magazine could go off at any moment judging by the way that fire’s burning.’

  ‘But, sahib …’

  ‘No “buts”, Sid,’ Lock said. ‘If the Marmaris is the Ottoman command ship, as that artillery officer hinted, then what better place to find evidence of not only the Turks’ plans, but hopefully of Wassmuss’s spy network too? Anything that could help clear my name. Hell, the man himself may still be aboard. As himself or as Binbaşi Feyzi. Either way, Sid, I’ve got to get across and find out.’

  Singh rubbed his beard thoughtfully. ‘Yes …’

  ‘I know it’s a long shot, but what choice do I have? It’s a strong possibility that I’m right, Sid. I mean, what better place to have an HQ than on a ship that can make a speedy retreat?’ Lock paused, and pulled Singh a little closer. ‘I’m running out of options, Sid. Godwinson and Bingham-Smith aren’t far behind us now.’ He glanced back down the river as if to check that the Espiegle wasn’t already upon them. ‘I doubt the general or even Ross can help me anymore.’

  ‘The major will not let those horses’ arses influence what he knows to be the truth, sahib.’

  Lock shook his head. ‘The only way I’m going to clear my name, Sid, is by catching Wassmuss myself and dragging him before General Townshend.’

  Singh looked down at his friend, his brow creased with worry.

  ‘I cannot let you go alone, sahib. It is too dangerous. Let me and Ram Lal accompany you. We do not know if the Turks have armed men still aboard. We can watch your back.’

  The big Indian’s brown eyes moved to the burning vessel, his pupils alive with the reflection of the flickering flames.

  ‘That’s just the point, Sid. It is too dangerous. I will not let you or anyone else risk themselves for me. I go alone. That’s an order. I need Elsworth to cover me from here, and I need you and Ram Lal to go over to that lighter,’ Lock said, pointing to the stricken barge full of pleading Turk soldiers, ‘and search the faces of each man. Take an electric torch. Wassmuss may be able to disguise himself, but he can’t disguise his piercing blue eyes. Remember that.’ He began removing his jacket, his cross straps and his Sam Browne belt. ‘And I wouldn’t put it past the slimy toad to try to hide amongst the normal soldiers and then slip away when everything has calmed down a little. So, anyone with blue eyes, separate them and tie them up until I get back.’

  Lock went to draw his knife and cursed. Bugger, he’d forgotten. He’d lost it somewhere in Qurna.

  ‘Alfred, give me your bayonet again, will you?’ he said.

  The young sharpshooter unclipped his scabbard from his Sam Browne belt and handed it to Lock.

  ‘Here you go, sir.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lock said, and stuffed the blade in his waistband. He sat down and began to pull off his boots and socks.

  Pulling the magazine from his Beholla, Lock checked it was full, before stuffing it in the inside band of his hat. He then put the main body of the handgun inside one of the socks, tied the second sock to the open end of the first, and finally tied the whole thing around his neck, so it dangled down on his bare chest like a crude necklace. He put the slouch hat back on his head, held his hand out, and Singh helped to haul him back to his feet.

  ‘Thanks, Sid. As long as I keep my hat dry, I should be able to use my gun.’

  Singh nodded. ‘Very smart, sahib, but I am hoping you will not have to.’

  Stuffing one boot inside the other, Lock then used his jacket as a kind of sling resting the boots inside, then wrapped the whole thing around his waist.

  ‘All right, Sid, over I go.’

  ‘Captain Lock, Captain Lock …’ Singleton called, hurrying forward. He grabbed Lock’s arm just as he was about to swing his legs up and over the gunwale.

  ‘What is it, Lieutenant?’ Lock said, turning back to face the Royal Navy commander.

  ‘The Espiegle … and the Clio and the Odin … all three have run aground, and have signalled for us to hold.’

  ‘Very well, Lieutenant. You do that. I’m afraid, though, that I’ll be leaving you now. Need to go see if there’s a German spy in that steamer over there,’ Lock grinned, and nodded his head towards the stricken Marmaris.

  Singleton’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You can’t, Lock. She could blow at any minute! If that fire reaches the ma—’

  ‘I know, Lieutenant. Please, don’t trouble yourself,’ Lock smiled reassuringly, ‘I won’t be long. Could I borrow one of your torches?’

  Singleton hesitated, then clicked his fingers at one of his crew members. ‘Torch, Healy.’

  The sailor rushed off to the wheelhouse, and came back with a torch.

  Singleton handed it to Lock.

  ‘Much obliged,’ Lock said, securing the torch to the top of his slouch hat with one of his cross straps tied under his chin. ‘Better than a miner’s helmet,’ he said.

  Singleton was shaking his head. ‘This is a very bad idea, Captain Lock.’

  ‘My whole life is a very bad idea, Lieutenant.’

  And with that Lock hauled himself up and over the gunwale, and disappeared over the side.

  Singleton stepped forward and peered down into the inky-black Tigris. ‘Lock, you damned fool, come back!’

  Lock grinned sheepishly up at Singleton, but continued to lower himself down into the water. He was surprised to find the water to be as tepid as a day-old bath, and just as musty. Holding onto the guide rope strung around the hull of the Shaitan, feeling the rough fibres cutting into his hands, Lock paused to assess the strength of the current. It was strong and pulled hungrily at his breeches. Fortunately, though, it was flowing in the direction of the Marmaris. He glanced back up to see Singleton, Elsworth, Singh and Ram Lal all still peering down at him, then, careful to keep his head above water, he let go of the guide rope. The current whipped Lock about like a piece of driftwood, but he soon had his momentum under control and was able to gu
ide himself in the right direction by kicking fiercely to his left. Using breaststroke, he began to move closer to the Marmaris.

  As Lock neared the stricken steamer, the water around him became slick with diesel oil and strewn with debris. Lock tried to keep his mouth above water, but every third stroke he’d taste oil, and would retch.

  ‘Jesus,’ he spluttered, spitting oily water from his mouth. At least it kept his mind from worrying about the possibility of the fire igniting the oil around him.

  From the starboard side, the Marmaris close up was badly damaged and looked as if she had taken a hell of a beating, all 500 tons of her was listless, dying, drowning and burning. Lock made a mental note to congratulate the Espiegle’s gunners on their marksmanship. If he ever got back alive that is, he smiled grimly to himself as an afterthought. He was now just ten feet away.

  What the hell are you doing now, Kingdom? Swimming out to a burning ship in the vague hope that Wassmuss is still on board? That he’ll be dressed as Binbaşi Feyzi, lying wounded, forgotten somehow by his comrades when they abandoned ship, with evidence on how he’d set you up clutched in his hand? Lock scoffed at his own foolishness.

  But there was a chance, he reminded himself. Those papers he’d taken off the liva amiral, the pearls, the fact that this could be the command ship for the Tigris area, the fact that a German was directing operations according to the captured Ottoman officers he’d questioned on his journey to this point.

  Lock reached the hull of the Marmaris and stretched up, grabbing hold of a twisted length of cable that was dangling down from the guard rail running along the upper deck. Lock tested that it would hold his weight. Satisfied, he pulled and heaved himself up out of the water. He hung there for a moment, glancing over his shoulder, back at the silhouette of the Shaitan, wondering if Elsworth was keeping a close eye on him through his riflescope. He gave a nod just in case. Then he turned, took a deep breath, and began to climb. His clothes were soaked and clung to him, restricting his movements, as the weight of his jacket sling pulled at his neck. The torch tied to his head was a ton weight pressing down on his skull. But he forced his aching limbs upwards.

  A dull rumble made him check his ascent and he hung there, listening and feeling the boat shudder under him. He wiped the slime of oil and sweat that had run into his left eye with his shoulder, and blinked along the length of the ship, past the twisted broken 9-pdr guns that were sticking up at odd angles like gnarled branches on a fallen tree, to the very stern. It was nothing but a broken, twisted mass of iron and wood, like a toy that had been crushed under the foot of a petulant child. Thick smoke was still billowing out of a huge charred hole in the hull just above the waterline. Lock twisted his head to look up the length of the boat towards the bow. There was less damage here, but then he wasn’t really concentrating on the state of the Marmaris anymore. He felt a sudden wave of apprehension. Bobbing about in the current, tied to a length of rope running down from the bow of the Marmaris, was a dinghy.

  Lock hesitated, his mind running through the significance of that tiny boat. Then he continued his climb. He paused at the main deck. The ship was listing on its port side at an angle of no more than twenty degrees, and Lock guessed that it would roll and tip no further. The far side of the deck, though submerged under cloudy water, was well and truly wedged against the muddy bank. Lock could see reeds sticking up through the gaps in the rails on that side of the ship. He looked up. Not far to go now. If the design was similar to the British river gunboats, then the captain’s stateroom would be just behind the pilot house. And that was on the upper deck. He continued his ascent.

  With the sweat pouring off him, the breath rasping in his chest, his muscles screaming in complaint, Lock finally hauled himself up and over the gunwale, and onto the forward upper deck. Above him was a mounted 1-pdr gun, limp and obsolete, its turret splintered. Aft from that was the pilot house. Its glass viewing windows were all shattered. Lock peered inside. There was nothing to see but an empty seat and the wheel. He turned away and leant against the bulkhead outside, catching his breath for a moment, his bare chest heaving, eyes and ears sharp to any sign of life. For now, he was alone.

  Lock unfastened the strap around his chin and eased the torch off his slouch hat. With his palm over the lens, he switched it on and then off again to check it still worked. He crouched down and began to untie his sodden jacket from around his neck, and removed his boots. He untied the socks and pulled out the Beholla, placing everything on the wooden deck in front of him. He felt for the bayonet that he’d stuffed in his waistband. It was gone. Bugger, must have been snatched away by the current. Idiot.

  Lock discarded the socks and, after wringing the water out as best he could, pulled his damp jacket on. He poured the excess water out of his boots and worked his feet into them, cursing at their pinching, damp, cloying tightness. Taking the Beholla, he tipped it barrel down to let any excess water drain out. He then opened the breech and blew as hard as he could. He retrieved the magazine from within his hatband, and slammed it home. He adjusted his slouch hat, the only dry item of clothing he had on, then pulled himself to his feet.

  Looking left to right, Lock strained to hear any sound above the water lapping against the hull and the distant crack and pop of the fire burning to astern. Satisfied, he began to ease his way along the greasy gangway aft on the starboard side.

  About five feet along the bulkhead was the door to the captain’s stateroom. It was wide open. Lock hesitated, his back pressed against the metal of the bulkhead, Beholla raised and ready. He waited. All was silent. He stole a glance inside. The room appeared to have been ransacked. Lock clicked the torch on and stepped cautiously inside.

  Shining the light around the room, the beam picked out random items of clothing scattered over the floor: a pair of socks, a left boot, a pair of longjohns, one half of a leather gaiter. Books, stacked haphazardly, still lined the railed shelves, but the desk against the wall was bare, its drawers open and cleared. The bunk still had bedding on, unkempt, as if its occupant had been woken suddenly from his slumber, perhaps when the Marmaris was hit, Lock thought. There was a carafe and a glass, smashed, at the side of the bunk, the Persian rug on the deck stained dark with whatever liquid had been inside.

  Lock scanned the cabin further, shining the torch into each and every corner. There were a number of loose-leaf papers littering the floor, but on closer inspection he dismissed them. They were nothing more than memorandums relating to ship’s duties, menus, stores and alike. Not too dissimilar to what had been in the cardboard folder he’d found with the liva amiral. The stateroom disappointingly offered nothing significant. Lock switched the torch off, stepped back out onto the gangway, and continued aft.

  The rest of the upper deck, from the edge of the captain’s stateroom to the open section aft that housed a second 1-pdr gun, was covered by a canvas awning. It was ripped and torn and hung loosely down from its wooden frame in a number of places. Lock moved underneath, and stooping under a torn piece of canvas, passed between the funnel and the stairwell, and made his way to the port side where the radio room backed onto the captain’s stateroom. However, this too proved to be empty. If there had been any codebooks they were gone.

  Lock stared at the telegraph set and its cold, lifeless wires. He cursed. This was taking too long. He shone the beam onto his wristwatch. He’d been on board for fifteen minutes now and was no further on than he had been when stood on the deck of the Shaitan. He crossed back to the stairwell and peered down into its gaping mouth. There was a tangled mass of cabling and wires running all the way down from the telegraph mast that had collapsed and come crashing down through the canvas roof. But the way down looked passable. Just. He could see part of the main deck below, illuminated by the flickering flames, but the hold further below still looked to be nothing more than a deep black hole of trouble. He bit his lip and scratched at his stubbly chin. He flexed the grip on his Beholla and began to pick his way down the stairs.

&n
bsp; Lock stopped at the first level, the main deck, which was again open to the elements. This would house an office and the galley, with a large section amidships being the enclosed upper section of the engine and boiler rooms. Unlike the upper deck, here the gangways were lined with strips of cocoa matting to try and give something of a footing.

  Lock made his way forward for no other reason than it was away from the flames. The bulkhead of the section up ahead was riddled with bullet and shrapnel holes the size of fists. Lock could hear the familiar drip-drip of a faulty faucet coming from the other side and smell mouldy damp. There were three doors, one of which had a sign written in Turkish, Tuvalet. These were the bathrooms.

  Lock pressed on, passing between two hatchways that he knew would lead to the magazines below the hull. He halted once he reached the open forecastle deck at the bow. Here there was a second flight of stairs leading down into the hull. It smelt of brine, oil and sweat. The crew’s quarters. He turned the torch on and followed the beam down into the bowels of the ship.

  The temperature was higher down here, and Lock’s wet uniform was already beginning to steam. As he descended the stairs, he listened for any sounds of human activity, but there was still nothing to hear but the click and creak of shifting metal, the distant crackle of fire and a muffled throb of engines on the water. The British flotilla was near to hand. He really was running out of time.

  As Lock’s boot came off the bottom step and hit the metal deck of the hold, the entire ship shuddered. He grabbed out for the stair rail with his gun hand to steady himself. The Beholla knocked against the metal of the rail sending an echoing clang all the way to the upper deck. Lock cursed at his clumsiness and remained still, his head cocked slightly to one side. He could make out a dull but distinct thud thud thud of running footsteps. Then they abruptly stopped.

  ‘Wha—’

  Lock felt his mouth go slack, as a huge explosion appeared to bend the air about him. A shockwave knocked the feet from under him and he slammed to the deck. Pain screamed across his temple. Then he felt nothing.