For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  Lock didn’t know if he’d been out for a minute or an hour when he opened his eyes. He took a moment to collect himself, mentally running a hand down his body. Nothing was broken, nothing sprained. He was lucky. His face was wet and his left eye stung. There was a metallic taste on his tongue and his bottom lip felt swollen. He was aware that he was lying on his front, his head pointing to one side. The floor beneath him felt hot and his nostrils were full of cordite. He blinked and tried to clear his blurred vision. He still had a tight grip on the torch and its beam was shining directly under the bunk opposite. He could see a pair of boots, an old newspaper and the barrel of a gun. It was pointing directly at him. He blinked again. No one was holding the gun; he could see that now. He groaned softly and tried to will the fuzz away from his stunned brain. Where was he? He shifted his eyes to the far left where he could just make out the foot of the stairs and a number of other bunks around him, all screwed to the deck.

  Yes, he remembered now. He was in the crew’s quarters. In the hold. On the Marmaris. But what else? The ship had run aground and was listing. And she was on fire.

  The explosion!

  The aft magazine in the hold must have gone up. Lock forced his neck up and to the side. It was like trying to lift a cannonball. Thick smoke was clinging to the ceiling and billowing up the stairwell.

  ‘Move, Kingdom,’ Lock muttered, and he pushed his hands against the slick metal deck and forced himself up onto all fours.

  He grunted, and fighting off a wave of nausea, wiped his eye and looked at his palm. Blood. He tentatively felt his head. There was a fresh gash just above his ear. Not too deep. He felt a little higher. Thankfully his old wound was all right. He sucked in his teeth and sat upright.

  ‘I really must start wearing a topi,’ he muttered.

  Spotting his slouch hat, Lock scooped it up and pulled it on. Where was his gun? He scanned the area and then moved across to the bunk opposite, remembering the barrel he had seen when he was lying on the floor. Feeling underneath, he pulled out the Beholla. He checked it over. It was undamaged.

  The footsteps.

  Lock spun round. Someone else was on the Marmaris with him.

  The dinghy. Yes, of course. That was the slosh of water he thought he’d heard in the early hours before the moon came up. It was the dinghy passing by in the dark, the careless splash of its paddle.

  ‘Shit, Kingdom, you’re being slow.’

  Lock grabbed hold of the bunk frame and pulled himself to his feet. He stood unsteadily for a moment, then leant forward and vomited. Gasping, he ran the back of his hand across his mouth and wiped it on the blanket hanging down from the upper bunk nearest to him.

  Thud thud thud.

  Lock flashed the torch in the direction of the stairs. Someone was up on the main deck. Lock switched off the torch and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Cautiously, taking one step at a time, trying to keep his head out of the rising smoke, he began to ascend the stairs. He paused at each step, straining to hear anything above the burning and creaking ship. The smoke thickened when he was just at the top and, stifling a cough, he popped his head up through the top of the stairwell, quickly stealing a glance left and right, before ducking back down again. The ship appeared as deserted as before.

  Holding his breath, Lock paused and waited for a waft of thick smoke to flow past him, then using it as cover, sprang up and rolled to one side. His eyes were stinging and streaming from the effects of the smoke, and his lungs were burning, but he just ignored it, stifling the cough he wanted to choke out, and peered about searching for any sign of life.

  There was nothing but stillness.

  Lock pulled himself to his feet, but remained crouched low, Beholla in his right hand levelled at his hip, his left hand out straight, stiff like a chopping blade. He circled slowly, backing up towards the bow. He darted a quick look over the side. The dinghy was still there, tied as before, bobbing in the current. He gave a wolfish smile, felt along the gunwale until he came to the knot of coarse rope. Keeping an eye on the stairwell and the gangways, he untied the rope and felt it pull from his hand immediately as the current whipped the now untethered dinghy away. He glanced out to the river just to make sure. The dinghy had already drifted out some twenty feet.

  ‘Right,’ Lock said with a certain amount of venom, turning back towards amidships, ‘let’s see where you are, my German friend …’

  By now the fire at the stern, or what was left of the stern, was raging ferociously, making the shadows cast by the flames and the moonlight dance and dodge across the deck. Lock skirted the open stairwell that was still oozing smoke up from the hull, and began to make his way down the gangway that ran along the port side of the bathrooms. Here was in dark shadow, and the deck was submerged under a few inches of water and mud. It was slimy underfoot.

  Lock edged forward, his back to the bulkhead, gun held up, ears straining for the slightest sound from within one of the closed bathrooms or just up ahead, round the corner by the central stairwell. His mouth was as dry as dust and when he swallowed, he winced. His throat felt like it was passing razor blades. The gash above his ear was stinging like mad, made worse by the sweat seeping in from his hatband and his damp hair. But at least the pain kept him alert.

  At the edge of the bulkhead he paused, heart thumping in his ears. The bulkhead wall behind him ticked and popped like an erratic clock as the heat from the blaze started to expand the metal of the ship’s very frame. Lock inched his eye around the corner. Across the small, open gangway beyond the stairwell was the ship’s office and the galley. Further amidships was the enclosed section of the boiler and engine rooms. Beyond that nothing. Nothing but twisted, hot, broken metal. The propellers, the aft quarters, the sick bay, the dispensary and the rear guns were all gone. Destroyed. Lock could see the door to the office was open. A light was flashing intermittently from the inside.

  In two quick strides, he moved across the open gangway, and sprang across the office threshold, his finger poised on the trigger of the Beholla.

  Inside was a desk, with papers scattered across its surface, and a lamp hanging off the edge, upside down, by its flex. The lamp was flickering on and off at random intervals creating dancing shadows on the empty shelves that lined the surrounding walls. On the floor a chair lay on its side. And next to it, sprawled on his front, face turned to one side, was an officer. His arms were spread above the head, legs angled as if frozen in the act of running. There was a knife sticking in the back of the officer’s neck, just above the shoulder blades. Blood had already spread from the wound staining his white tunic dark red.

  Lock’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be?

  ‘Wassmuss?’ he said aloud. But he knew it wasn’t the moment he spoke the name.

  Lock’s mind tumbled. The body, the whole scene, looked strangely familiar. He stepped a little closer and stopped, spun round to the open door, pistol raised. Nothing. He turned his attention back to the dead body.

  The officer was wearing a well-tailored uniform of the German navy. Lock crouched down, grabbing the lamp and holding it closer to the body to get a better look at the face. The officer’s dark eyes were staring blankly back. Lock so wanted it to be Wassmuss. But it wasn’t. This man had dark green eyes. He was clean-shaven and his salt-and-pepper hair was receding. Even though the body was still warm to the touch, the colour had already drained from the lean face, and the skin had taken on that waxy pallor of the dead.

  Lock’s eyes moved to the knife sticking out of the man’s back. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the hilt. Then he pulled the blade out. Wiping it off on the dead man’s uniform, he bent the flat edge in the lamplight and mouthed the inscription engraved along the flat edge, ‘For Kingdom and Country.’

  Thud thud thud.

  Lock sprang up. The footsteps were closer this time. He moved swiftly to the doorway and paused at the threshold. He glanced back at the dead body. Then he remembered, remembered where he had seen this before. It was almost t
he exact same scene as when he and Ross had discovered Lord Shears, stabbed, dead amongst the debris of a frantic search, on board the Espiegle when they were travelling from Mohammerah to Basra2. That was Wassmuss’s handiwork then, surely this was his handiwork now?

  Thud thud thud.

  That was just outside. As Lock turned, something flashed by the opening of the door. Lock fired at the same instant, the roar of his shot echoing around the office. From outside, there was a cry and a stumble, followed by a heavy fall.

  Lock darted out of the office and turned, gun levelled, to see a dark smear of blood against the bathroom bulkhead opposite. He ran forward. There was a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, and a sudden jarring pain as a boot smashed into his wrist. The Beholla span out of his grip and skidded away across the greasy deck. Lock dropped the knife and grabbed the attacking foot, and yanked it hard. A man was jolted out from around the corner, and Lock punched him in the face. He felt a sting as his assailant’s front teeth cracked and cut into his knuckles. The man gave a muffled cry, swung his own fist, and caught Lock with a glancing, but painful blow just above his left ear, catching the fresh wound.

  Lock staggered back, and his assailant scrambled forward across the deck making a grab for the knife. But Lock was quicker. He kicked out and his foot met the assailant’s stooping head, sending him crashing back against the stairs. Lock rushed forward. The assailant was still, slumped up against the stairs, his back to Lock, a hand gripping the rail above him. His left shoulder was a mass of blood where Lock’s bullet had struck home when he had darted past the open office doorway.

  Lock grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, left fist clenched and ready to strike again, and twisted him round to face him.

  Harrington-Brown, mouth swollen and bleeding, was gasping and wheezing as he stared back up at Lock, a flame of hatred burning deep within his narrowed eyes. Then his face changed and took on a look of hurtful innocence.

  ‘Lock,’ he spluttered. ‘What the deuce? Thought you … thought you were a bloody Johnny out to get me.’

  Lock kept his fist high and ready.

  Harrington-Brown winced and lifted his hand to his injured shoulder. ‘You bloody shot me, old man,’ he said weakly. His head began to sway and his eyes flickered as if he were about to pass out.

  ‘Hey,’ Lock said, slapping Harrington-Brown hard across the cheek. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Harrington-Brown put his hand to his cheek, a stunned expression in his eyes. ‘Steady … steady on. I feel damned faint … I …’ His head lolled forward again.

  Lock grabbed him with both hands and gave him a shake. ‘Hey?’

  Harrington-Brown sprang up and gave Lock a mighty shove, sending him staggering back off balance. Lock scrambled to one side, scooping up his knife, and turned just as Harrington-Brown pulled a Webley from his holster and fired. The bullet impacted on the gunwale just above Lock’s right shoulder. Lock threw his blade. It fizzed through the air and slammed into Harrington-Brown’s chest with a hollow thock. The lieutenant staggered back a pace startled, dropped the Webley from his grip, and crashed down on his backside as his legs gave way. He sat, eyes wide, opened his mouth to say something, then his chin fell forward just inches above the hilt of the knife, and he was still.

  Lock sat blinking back at Harrington-Brown’s body. ‘Holy … bloody … shit,’ he gasped, catching his breath.

  He pulled himself to his feet, picked up the Beholla and pushed it in his waistband. He scooped up his slouch hat and walked over to Harrington-Brown. He prodded the lieutenant’s wounded shoulder checking that he was actually dead. He didn’t move. Lock crouched down beside him. There was a trickle of blood running out of the dead lieutenant’s mouth, dripping down onto his tunic.

  ‘Who the bloody buggering hell are you, Hazza? A man after the bounty on my head? I can’t believe that.’

  Lock began to rifle through the dead officer’s pockets. The first thing he found was a packet of Pall Mall’s and a Ronson ‘wonderlite’ strike lighter. Lock sat back, crossed his legs, and lit himself a cigarette.

  ‘Jesus, I need this,’ he sighed.

  He had another couple of pleasurable draws on the cigarette, then scowled back at the dead British officer.

  ‘All right, Hazza, let’s see what else you’ve got.’

  Lock, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eye squinting against the stream of smoke, began to empty the rest of Harrington-Brown’s pockets out onto the deck.

  A ball of string, a few dates, a folded red-spotted handkerchief. There was something inside it. Lock carefully unfolded it to reveal six translucent pearls.

  ‘Now what are you doing with these, Lieutenant?’ Lock muttered, searching Harrington-Brown’s face for some clue.

  The final thing he pulled from the dead lieutenant’s pockets was a picture postcard. It was the kind of thing that would be thrust under your nose in the bazaar back at Basra, usually by some shifty-looking Arab with a twinkle in his eye and a phlegmatic chuckle of, ‘Bint, bint. Two rupees, two rupees.’

  This picture card, although in very soft focus, was better than the usual standard, but wasn’t the most erotic thing Lock had seen. The naked girl had a nice figure, he thought appreciatively, though the display of fruit on the table next to her added nothing to the scene. They weren’t even apples. They looked more like oranges. On the flip side was a list of eight names written in pencil, laid out in two columns of four.

  Braut Bräutigam

  Gen. Townshend Col. Godwinson

  Maj. Ross Ast. Provt. Mar. Bingham-Smith

  Cpt. Brooke Cpt. Carver

  Jem. Pahal Ris. Shah

  It was an old list because the second name under the Bräutigam column was Bingham-Smith’s, but he still had the title ‘Ast. Provt. Mar.’. Lock recognised two other names there, Col. Godwinson and Cpt. Carver (again under his previous rank). The fourth name was an Indian cavalry officer called Shah. The Braut column had Gen. Townshend, Maj. Ross, Cpt. Brooke and Jem. Pahal. Could that be the late Captain Brooke who had died only hours earlier? Lock pondered. And was that the Pahal who had helped Lock storm the Turk trenches at Barjisiyah Woods?

  Lock reread the names for a third time and shook his head. Braut and Bräutigam? Something to do with Amy and Bingham-Smith’s impending wedding? Seating arrangements? Teams of some sort? For Bridge? But why no women? Lock couldn’t make head nor tail out of it. He turned the card back and studied the picture once more. The girl looked strangely familiar.

  Lock gave a wry smile and said, ‘You’re coming with me, chérie.’

  He pocketed the picture card along with the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, and the handkerchief containing the pearls.

  Lock cocked his head. For the first time since he’d boarded the Marmaris, above the noise of the clanking and creaking of the ship’s bulkheads expanding in the heat, he could hear the distant shout of men. He got to his feet and walked over to the gunwale. Out on the river, he could see that more and more of the British flotilla had caught up with the Shaitan. He could make out the dark silhouette of the familiar Espiegle, further south along the river, where it had run aground as Lieutenant Singleton had said. It would appear that the command sloop had been abandoned and that Townshend and whomever senior officers he deemed worthy were continuing on upriver in a smaller vessel, the Comet. Lock could see Captain Nunn’s pennant, bright in the moonlight, flapping from the gunboat’s mast.

  A sudden shout and the scraping and banging of wood against metal came from the direction of the bow. Soldiers were coming aboard the stricken Turk steamer. Lock was running out of time. He moved back to Harrington-Brown. Clearly the lieutenant had been searching for something. But what? Was he the one who had killed the German officer? And the running footsteps? And the explosions? Was that the fire reaching the magazines or a deliberate act? Was Harrington-Brown, in fact, trying to destroy evidence? Was there something else still on board? Someone else? But why? Lock cursed.
His head hurt. So many questions left unanswered.

  He stared down at the slumped dead body of the young British officer and wished his throw hadn’t been so true.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said, and stopped forward to pull his knife from Harrington-Brown’s chest.

  ‘Just hold it right there!’

  Lock instinctively ducked down as a bullet smacked into the bulkhead above his head. He dived away. Glancing back, he could see four silhouettes, three distinctive with their topi helmets, moving quickly up the foredeck towards him. The voice that had shouted out the warning he recognised as Bingham-Smith. Lock’s eyes darted to Harrington-Brown’s body and the knife that was still sticking out of his chest, his knife, engraved with a personal message and with his name. Lock swore but it was too late to go and retrieve it. He turned and ran to the port side, vaulted up over the gunwale, and slipped down into the dark, reed-choked water. Silt and mud swirled about him as he sank down. He quickly drew the Beholla out of his belt and held it up, but luckily the river only came up to his waist. He pulled himself closer in to the hull, melting into the dark shadow cast from the moonlight up above, and clung on to the side of the ship, pausing, ears peeled and alert. From up above he could hear snatches of whispered conversation, a barked order, and then a loud exclamation.

  ‘That’s Hazza. The bastard has killed Hazza!’

  Lock slowly waded forward, feeling the mud suck and pull at his boots with every heavy step, until he eventually passed round the front of the stricken steamer. The water became deeper and tied to the bow was another dinghy. Lock presumed it was Bingham-Smith’s. He held back in the shadows. Sitting at the rudder, silhouetted by the moon, was an Indian Sikh, the shape of his turban distinctive against the pale sky. Only this wasn’t any ordinary sepoy, this was a figure whom Lock instantly recognised.

  ‘Sid!’ Lock hissed, giving a quick wave.