For Kingdom and Country

by I. D. Roberts

  Ross nodded in agreement.

  ‘Or a British lieutenant in the White Tabs,’ Lock added.

  Ross frowned back at Lock.

  ‘Harrington-Brown.’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Small fry. No, Wassmuss has his spies and agents throughout Persia, as we know, and thus far Grössburger is the only other European involved.’ The major cursed under his breath. ‘If only I hadn’t lost that notebook. It’ll all be in there, I just know it.’

  ‘So Bombegy is innocent?’

  Ross shrugged. ‘He’s involved somehow, Lock. I’m sorry to say, but it’s true.’ He paused, tapping the stem of his pipe against his teeth. ‘We know Wassmuss has a contact in Constantinople, a Liman von Sanders. But that’s all we know, his name. And a fat lot of good that is at the moment. We’re a long way from the Turkish capital.’ The major paused again, then pointed his pipe at Lock. ‘And I have heard the name Brugmann bandied about.’

  ‘But we have no proof, sir,’ Lock said. ‘It’s all just theory.’ He sighed. ‘I need to find Feyzi, our blue-eyed boy who we thought was the actual Wassmuss. Then we’ll know.’

  Ross muttered something else under his breath that Lock didn’t quite catch, and then the major’s eyes took on a far away stare, lost in thoughtful silence once more.

  Lock glanced about him. The crew of the Shaitan were busy going about their duties, and Lock was pleased to see that along with the major, Elsworth and Ram Lal were still on board too. Singh was standing at the stern keeping a discreet distance from him and the major, but watching them with a look of troubled concern across his brow.

  Lock gave his Indian friend a reassuring nod and Singh returned the gesture, but looked none the happier. Lock knew that Singh was convinced that he was in deep trouble, trouble that he would struggle to get out of.

  ‘Trust me,’ Lock mouthed.

  ‘Did anyone else see?’ Ross said after a while.

  ‘See?’

  ‘You kill Harrington-Brown.’

  Lock shook his head. ‘No, I was alone.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘My knife was still sticking out of his chest when Bingham-Smith and a few Tommies boarded the Marmaris.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to retrieve it.’

  ‘Well, it’s of no consequence, the knife could bel—’

  Ross stopped short, noting the look on Lock’s face. His eyes widened.

  ‘Oh, laddie, tell me you—’

  ‘’Fraid so, sir. It’s damnable evidence. The knife is personally engraved. From Amy.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Ross fumed. ‘You’re supposed to be trying to prove your innocence about being a murderer, not leaving more evidence to the contrary. How in hell’s name am I going to keep you from a court martial now?’

  The major swore bitterly and jammed his pipe back in his mouth, scraping his teeth noisily. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make up some story. Tell them your knife was stolen.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Stolen, sir.’

  Ross grunted.

  ‘Tell me something, sir,’ Lock said, ‘you suspected Harrington-Brown all along, didn’t you?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘He works for you, yes? Is a White Tab, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hence why he was at the brothel in Basra. Not as one of Casper’s pals, but in the hope that he would make contact with Grössburger and perhaps expose himself. If you’ll forgive the pun. But I’m right, aren’t I? I imagine my turning up really did put a spanner in the works.’

  Ross was silent, but Lock knew that he had guessed right.

  ‘So even if the accusation sticks, about Harrington-Brown, I mean, then …’ Lock shrugged, ‘… I’ve disposed of a traitor.’

  Ross frowned and was about to add something when a cry came from the other end of the boat.

  ‘Sahibs! Sahibs! I think that you best be seeing this.’ It was Singh and he was beckoning them over to the starboard side of the gunboat, pointing over to the eastern bank.

  ‘Now what?’ grumbled Ross, as he followed Lock over to where Singh was standing.

  There was a buzz of excitement amongst the ship’s crew now, for all along the shore stood hundreds of Arabs. They had emerged from their mud huts that lined the banks of the river and were now waving white flags and uttering shrill cries of welcome. Women held young children up and men clutched their rifles by the barrels and were pumping them up and down in the air, cheering ‘Salaam, salaam’, over and over.

  ‘What is going on?’ Lock said, scanning the seemingly joyous faces of the local populous.

  ‘Ah,’ Ross said, ‘I may have had a little hand in this. Didn’t expect it to work so beautifully, though.’

  ‘Sir?’ Lock said.

  ‘Yesterday evening, I let slip to a local sheikh who hailed us from the bank, that some 15,000 British troops were rapidly “marching” upriver. I told the fellow to keep it under his hat. Which, of course, I knew damned well that he wouldn’t do,’ Ross said with a wry smile, gesturing to the waving, cheering mob. ‘Obviously the sheikh spread the word. All hail the victors, yes?’

  ‘And Amara, sir? Do you think …?’

  ‘Let’s hope so. But it’s a big place, some 10,000 inhabitants with caravan routes leading off to Kut Al Amara and the Persian passes. There’s a heavy Turk presence in that town.’

  Most of the figures on the bank were dressed in ragged black abas, and many of the women, Lock noted, as well as the girls, were carrying baskets of eggs. One even had a live chicken held by its legs. The boys, on the other hand, and there were dozens of them, all mostly naked, turned Catherine wheels, and shouted and waved in delight.

  ‘Baksheesh, baksheesh,’ one little girl shouted, as she ran down to the bank, clutching her basket of eggs. She was about twelve and skipped about coyly, showing off her gaudy cotton wrappings held together by a scarlet sash. Lock was instantly reminded of Aziz Azoo’s daughter, Fairuza.

  One of the Shaitan’s seamen gave a pleading glance to Singleton. The commander gave a nod of approval in return.

  ‘If you’re quick. Amos, do the honours.’

  ‘Here, lads. Iggry, iggry!’ Able Seaman Amos said, holding out his hands. ‘Rupees. Come on, cough up!’

  He collected a fair amount of coins from his crew mates, tied them up in a rag, and attached it to the end of a boathook. He thrust the boathook out to the bank. The girl snatched the bundle off the end, hooked the basket of eggs in its place, and whooped in delight when she opened up the rag to see how much money she’d made.

  The crew cheered as Amos drew in the eggs, and they all grabbed at them greedily, eating them raw. One of the seamen handed an egg each to Lock and Ross.

  Lock cracked his open on the gunwale and threw the contents into his mouth.

  ‘God, that’s good,’ he grinned at Ross. ‘If only we had some bacon.’

  The girl didn’t leave, though, and she kept screaming and shouting across as she ran along the bank trying to keep pace with them.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ one of the seamen said, through a mouthful of raw egg.

  ‘Dunno, mate. Perhaps we short-changed her?’ Amos said.

  ‘The basket,’ Lock said.

  ‘Eh, sir?’ Amos said, glancing over to Lock.

  ‘The basket. She wants it back.’

  ‘Oh, right you are, sir,’ Amos said. ‘Here, lass,’ he shouted, tossing the basket towards the girl.

  It landed with a plop in the water at the edge of the bank, and the girl dived in to fish it out. She held it aloft as if it was some prize trophy, her face beaming with delight, and whooped in thanks.

  As the Shaitan steamed on by, leaving the cheering Arabs behind, Lock could see, with the rising sun, that the landscape had changed tremendously. Gone was the stiflingly damp and cloying stinking marsh, and now, all around them, as far as the eye could
see, was a vast, desolate plain covered in a low scrub. It was as flat and as green as a billiard table. The atmosphere had changed, too. It was still oven-hot, even at such an early hour, but the air felt much drier. For the first time in days Lock didn’t feel as if his clothes were sticking to his skin. Above the Shaitan’s engines, Lock could even hear the odd bird call welcoming the new day.

  ‘Major Ross, sir?’

  Lock and Ross turned to see Lieutenant Singleton standing behind them, a pair of binoculars in his hands.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ Ross said.

  ‘We’re just about ten miles out of Amara now, sir. How shall we proceed?’

  Ross glanced at Lock, then turned his gaze astern, staring back down the river. Lock could see the smoke plumes of the rest of Townshend’s Regatta, the Comet, no doubt, at its head.

  ‘I think, Lieutenant,’ Ross said, ‘judging by the white flags we’ve just seen, that news of our arrival has already reached Amara. I’m guessing that we’ll find a similar welcome there. I say we push on.’

  ‘And the Comet, sir?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant, the general and I have already discussed the various scenarios along with your Captain Nunn. They’ll be steaming up behind us soon enough.’

  Singleton nodded. ‘Very good, sir.’

  Just then the distant rumble of an approaching aeroplane broke in over the chug of the Shaitan’s engines. Lock peered up out of the canvas roof, shading his eyes against the dawn sun.

  ‘There, sahib,’ Singh said, pointing to the north-east.

  ‘I see him, Sid. Looks like our friend from the other day.’

  ‘One of the Mesopotamian Half-Flight,’ Ross said.

  ‘Australian Half-Flight, sir,’ Lock corrected.

  Ross shook his head. ‘New title, laddie.’

  Lock scoffed. ‘Of course. Can’t be crediting colonials, can we?’

  ‘Now, now, Lock. We’re all in this war together.’

  England first, Britain second, everyone else can piss right off, Lock thought, turning his gaze back to the approaching aeroplane.

  The beat of its engine grew louder and Lock could soon make out the familiar blue, white and red stripes on its double tail fins and the shape of the pilot and his observer in the nacelle. It caught the sun and flashed brilliantly as it banked, spluttered and swooped and putted overhead. As he had before, the observer dropped a message canister. Only his aim was a little off this morning. It bounced off of the canvas roof and splashed into the river. But one of the seamen was ready with a fishing net on a rod. He scooped it up and hurried it over to Singleton.

  Ross and Lock gathered round as the Royal Navy lieutenant unscrewed the canister lid and removed a piece of paper from the inside.

  ‘Good news, Major,’ Singleton said. ‘Amara is in panic. Troops are fleeing north, a group are stranded to the south, being attacked by Arabs.’

  Lock watched as the aeroplane spluttered and spat its way on downriver towards the Comet.

  ‘Right then, Lieutenant,’ Ross said. ‘Amara, full steam ahead.’

  Singleton gave Ross a smart salute and a beaming smile, and then he turned and barked orders at his crew.

  The Shaitan shuddered and quickly picked up speed, pitching and heaving against the shifting current of the Tigris, as it steamed on towards Amara.

  3. See Kingdom Lock

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As the sun rose higher into the brilliant deep blue of the cloudless sky, and the dry heat of the morning increased in temperature, the Shaitan entered the long straight of the river just below Amara. Up ahead, Lock could see movement on a bridge of boats that joined the east to the west banks.

  ‘Have you—’ Lock started to say.

  Singh handed Lock his haversack with a grin.

  Taking out the binoculars, Lock fixed them to his eyes, and adjusted the focus.

  A column of Turkish troops were hurrying across and scrambling aboard a barge that was itself attached to a large steamer lying along the bank.

  ‘Guns, fire a warning shot!’ Singleton hollered to the seamen manning the Shaitan’s forward 3-pdr gun.

  The 8ft barrel craned upwards and then, with a terrific cough, sent a shell fizzing over the bridge of boats. It exploded with a great boom and a shower of water only about twenty feet from the steamer’s port bow.

  Lock watched through his binoculars as the Turks still crossing the bridge began to panic, pushing and shoving their way towards the barge. The steamer was already pulling away from the bank. The tie rope attached to the barge went taut and jerked violently, then seemed to snap. The barge crashed back into the bank and the troops on board began to scramble out of it again and run ashore. The steamer didn’t stop, ploughing right through the bridge of boats, and charging on upriver and away from the Shaitan.

  ‘Fire!’ Singleton shouted, and again the 3-pdr sent a shell screaming off towards the Turks.

  ‘Head straight for that gap, Carrington!’ Singleton said.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ the coxswain replied, as he twisted the wheel about.

  The Shaitan powered forward and had soon caught up with the stricken barge. Turk soldiers were fleeing in all directions, not one standing their ground and taking aim at the British boat. The Shaitan weaved easily through the gap in the smashed bridge of boats, debris and a number of dead soldiers bobbing about in its wake. The river then abruptly bent to the west and the Royal Navy gunboat bounced and skidded round the curve.

  The river was about 150 yards wide now, and on the left bank Amara opened up before them. It was a large town of low, mud-brick buildings stretching along the eastern foreshore and opposite they passed a narrow fringe of date palms dotted with palatial riverside residences of two storeys, with open balconies, and jetties. Behind these were a few fields, and then open desert.

  As they moved closer and closer to the town, everywhere Lock’s eye fell he could see troops hurriedly retreating in confusion. There were dust clouds to the north, and just 500 yards distant from where he was standing at the bow, over on the west bank, he estimated there to be well over 1,000 troops moving off, but in a more orderly fashion.

  ‘Jesus, I hope the Comet does catch up with us soon, after all,’ Ross said. ‘We’ll need the men.’

  But, to Lock’s astonishment, still not one shot was fired at them, nor one company, one platoon or even one soldier turned to face them, nor made a stand to protect their town.

  The Shaitan came to a quay that stretched away for about a mile, and on the river front was a long row of continental-looking houses with verandas and balconies, simple block-built offices, stores with latticed frontages, a three-storey hospital and what appeared to be rows and rows of army billets, judging by the stacks of rifles and equipment set out in their yards.

  ‘There,’ Ross said, pointing to the east bank. A large group had gathered on the river front, and were standing and waving outside of an imposing four-storey office-like building that had the Ottoman flag hanging limply from its roof.

  Lock adjusted the focus on his binoculars.

  ‘They look to be officials of some kind, sir,’ he said. ‘There are a few men in suits and quite a number of Turkish officers. No Germans, that I can see.’

  ‘All right, Lieutenant,’ Ross called back over his shoulder to Singleton, ‘let’s make for that Customs House over there.’

  The Shaitan slowed and turned and began to drift towards the bank. The launch’s crew and Lock’s men kept their weapons trained on the waiting crowd. The Shaitan softly bumped into the quayside and the crew were quick to tie her off.

  Lock, Ross and Singleton stepped ashore, along with Singh and Ram Lal who both kept their rifles held low across their midriffs. On the quayside, there were some thirty to forty officers with ranks ranging from mülazimi sani, second lieutenant, to binbaşi, major, standing in an ordered, silent group, along with a senior commander, a civilian dignitary and four miralays, colonels.

  Lock slowly scanned the faces of the officer
s, searching vainly for that familiar pair of blue eyes. But he knew in his gut that Wassmuss wasn’t amongst them.

  The civilian dignitary stepped forward, clicked his heels, and bowed his head stiffly.

  He was a tall, wiry man in his fifties, with a neat, long beard and small round glasses that hid an astute, peaceful face. He wore a dark business suit, a high-collared shirt and tie, and a lambskin kalpak hat on his head. He held out a ceremonial sword resting on the palms of his upturned hands. He shuffled on his feet nervously and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and weak, as if he’d been shouting for hours on end,

  ‘I am Vali Aziz Bey, the Governor of Amara, and I hereby surrender our town.’

  Lock translated for Ross.

  The major stepped forward, saluted, and graciously accepted the sword with a stiff nod of his head.

  ‘On behalf of His Britannic Majesty King George, I humbly accept your surrender. You and your men will be treated with dignity and respect.’

  Again Lock translated. The governor gave a quick smile, a wave of relief washing across his face. He began to wring his hands now they were free of the sword, as if he were washing them in invisible water, washing them clean of his responsibility for this Mesopotamian town.

  ‘You, sir. What is your name?’ Lock suddenly asked the senior commander, the man standing just to the right of the governor.

  ‘Halim Bey, Yüzbaşi. Miralay Halim Bey,’ the senior commander said with an air of arrogance, as if Lock should be awed by the name.

  Miralay Halim was a heavy-set man, jowly with small and dark fierce eyes, and his face was dominated by a stiff, upturned moustache. Like the rest of the military officers behind him, he was wearing khaki service dress, a kabalak military hat and leather riding boots. Lock had already marked him down as dangerous and his arrogant response confirmed the same.

  ‘Well, my dear Miralay,’ Lock said, ‘do you see that man?’ He indicated over to Elsworth, who was standing at the bow of the Shaitan with his rifle pointing directly at the Turkish officer.

  The miralay nodded. ‘Yes, I am not blind.’