Kingdom Lock

by I. D. Roberts

  Whilst the Espiegle’s crew went about their duties, Lock checked on his platoon. The recently demoted Dunford seemed happy enough; he had buddied up with one of the sailors and they were playing cards, and Underhill was sitting nearby meticulously cleaning the SMLE he still possessed from the late Lance Corporal Connolly. The sepoys were mostly asleep, or chatting quietly amongst themselves, and Singh was reading a tatty prayer book.

  The big Indian jumped to his feet as Lock approached.

  ‘How are the men?’ Lock said, glancing over to the group of sepoys.

  ‘They are glad to be on the move, sahib.’

  Lock removed his slouch hat and wiped his sweating brow with his upper arm.

  ‘Apricot, sahib?’ The big Sikh offered a bulging paper bag to Lock. ‘They help the thirst but not the bowels!’ Singh grinned.

  Lock took one of the fruits and chewed it in silence. Singh made to move away, but Lock put his hand up to stop him. ‘Do I make you uncomfortable?’

  Singh frowned and looked in Underhill’s direction. Lock followed his gaze. The sergeant major had been watching them and, when he caught their eye, he grunted his disapproval and returned to his cleaning.

  ‘Sahib … I … do not understand.’

  ‘Am I too familiar with you, Singh? Would you prefer me to be as the sergeant major? Or perhaps you’d like the stern, white colonial landowner, as my uncle would have been? He would have whipped you for offering him an apricot, you know. “How dare you address your superior!” he would have bellowed.’

  Singh shifted uneasily and glanced over to the sepoys again, but Lock just carried on talking.

  ‘I was brought up to believe that you are an inferior people, Singh; all Indians, all castes and religions. “Useless, black, darkie scum. Good for fetching and carrying, nothing more.”’

  Lock paused, wondering whether to continue. Singh had a scowl across his brow.

  ‘That was my uncle’s view,’ Lock said. ‘He owned a tea plantation in Assam. But I didn’t share, don’t share, his views. We had a wonderful family living in the servants’ quarters. Now I come to think of it, they were Hindus not Sikhs, as I thought before … They were kind to me. I grew to respect them. Of course, when my uncle found out I was treating his staff as equals, he shipped me off to England for a “proper education”.’

  Lock fell silent and stared off into the middle distance.

  Singh made to leave again. ‘I best check on the men, sahib.’

  ‘Why did you join the army?’ Lock said, indicating for the big Indian to be seated.

  Singh smiled shyly and sat down, crossing his legs. Lock joined him.

  ‘I was a clerk for a cotton company in the north of the Punjab, near to a place called Hasan Abdal. Have you heard of it, sahib?’ Lock hadn’t. ‘It is where Panja Sahib is, the shrine to Guru Nanak, the founder of Sikhism. It is not far from Murree, where the British spend their summers. This you know? Yes? Well, I was not happy in my job, sahib. Then a friend suggested joining the army. I was a young man. I was restless and had … well, I found myself with no family to care for.’ He paused here as if about to elaborate, but changed the subject instead. ‘When the war broke out, I saw it as a great opportunity to do my duty for the generous-hearted sovereign, King George.’

  ‘So you’re alone? No sweetheart? No arranged marriage?’ Lock said.

  Singh shook his head. ‘No, sahib. The woman promised to me was killed …’ He trailed off, lost in memory. Then he smiled. ‘But the women of the Punjab are most beautiful and I would like one for my own one day.’

  Lock smiled. ‘What do you think about European women?’

  Singh gave a gentle shake of his head. ‘They are most beautiful, sahib, particularly the ones with hair the colour of wheat dancing in the sun. But they have no devotion to God and, if I may be permitted to say so sahib, they are shameless.’

  Lock laughed. ‘Shameless?’

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ Singh answered in all seriousness, ‘how they mingle so freely with men.’

  Lock grinned and got to his feet. ‘It was good to talk to you, Lance Naik. I’ll let you get back to your book.’

  Singh jumped up, too, and nodded his head. ‘Thank you, sahib.’

  Lock made to move away, but he suddenly stopped dead. Something was niggling at his mind, and he turned back to Underhill. What was it? By Christ, the bastard!

  ‘Hey!’ Lock said, storming over to Underhill and snatching the cloth he was using to polish his rifle with from his hand. It was Amy’s handkerchief. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’

  Underhill scowled back at him. ‘Found it on the deck o’ the Lucknow.’

  Lock opened the handkerchief up. It was stained with grease and dried blood, but he could still make out the dainty flower monogram of Amy’s initials stitched in the corner. ‘Look at the state of it!’

  ‘It’s only a bleedin’ bit o’ rag,’ Underhill said.

  Lock glowered down at him, stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, and wheeled away.

  ‘Bastard,’ Underhill said. But Lock just carried on, happy at least to have been reunited with Amy’s keepsake once again.

  As the sun slowly sank on the horizon, the light began to fade and the shadows lengthened. The gunboat chugged smoothly along, but there was precious little of the surrounding country that sparked an interest. Lock could see nothing but thick reeds and date palms dotted along the bank, and a vast, barren land beyond.

  Lock was relieved that the weather remained calm, although it became increasingly sticky as the evening progressed and the further west they travelled. Irritating flies gave way to insufferable mosquitoes, but Lock’s spirits were lifted briefly by a cloud of delicate moths flittering about the navigation lamp at the stern. He thought of Amy and tried to imagine her here with him now, holding her hand out, as he did, into the weak light, watching in fascination as the insects delicately brushed their fingertips. His eye was drawn to a small fishing boat further upriver, returning, no doubt, with the day’s catch and Lock wondered if they even knew a war was going on around them.

  Time ticked by uneventfully, until just before nine o’clock when Lock was startled out of a doze by a gunshot from the north bank. He strained his eyes into the dark, as a few of the sepoys were stirred to their feet by the noise. Lock could make out the odd muzzle flash coming from the bank quickly followed by the crack of rifle fire. He and the other men instinctively ducked down as bullets pinged off the hull of the ship. There followed a flurry of commotion from the starboard bow and then all hell broke loose as the Espiegle’s machine guns opened fire on the north bank.

  A familiar voice piped up next to Lock. ‘Bloody Marsh Arabs,’ Underhill scoffed, ‘they never learn.’

  Lock nodded in agreement, but he didn’t really understand what the sergeant major meant.

  ‘Still, gives these sailor boys a bit of target practice!’ Underhill moved away and left Lock watching the Marsh Arabs flee in panic. It looked like a picture show, with the opposite bank flickering in the glare from the machine-gun fire. Lock stayed at the starboard guard rail until the Espiegle drifted out of range and the guns fell silent once more. There was a smell of cordite and hot metal on the air and Lock felt strangely impatient for the battle to come.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After the evening meal, Lock and Ross joined Shears, as arranged, in the captain’s sparse but comfortably furnished cabin. They sat in awkward silence around the wooden table in the centre of the room, Shears opposite the door, then Lock, with Ross to his left.

  ‘We must get you a proper jacket in Basra once and for all, lad,’ Ross said out of the blue.

  ‘I’m growing rather fond of it, sir,’ Lock grinned, as he peeled the sheepskin jerkin off his shoulders and made to hook it over the back of his chair.

  ‘No, no, no! Outside with it! Go on!’ Ross said, waving to the door. ‘I can abide the stench no longer.’

  Lock picked the jerkin up again, just as Hayes-Sadler came burst
ing in with a bottle of rum clutched in his hand. Lock went outside and spotted a lifebuoy attached to the bulkhead. He threw the jerkin over it, then returned to the cabin and sat back down at the table. Shears was smoking his habitual cigarette, and Ross and Hayes-Sadler had both already stoked up their pipes. Soon the cabin became heavy with tobacco smoke.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we play? May I suggest Le Truc?’ Shears opened his hands to invite comments.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know that game,’ Lock said, lighting himself a cigarette.

  ‘Quinto then?’ Shears said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lock said.

  Ross sighed. ‘What do you know, Lock?’

  ‘Hearts, sir,’ Lock said.

  ‘Hearts! Too straightforward,’ the major scoffed.

  ‘Well, I prefer a stakes game, sir,’ Lock said.

  ‘What about skat, gentlemen?’ Shears said.

  Hayes-Sadler shook his head. ‘I know hearts, but I’m afraid I don’t know that game, my Lord. Skat, you say?’

  ‘It’s similar to hearts, sir,’ Lock explained before Shears could, ‘but more skilful. The Turks on my old engineering crews before the war used to play it. A German card game isn’t it, sir?’ Lock directed the question to Shears.

  ‘Is it? I didn’t know that,’ Shears said.

  Ross turned in his seat and stared at Lock, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘It amazes me the things you come out with sometimes, Lock.’

  ‘I aim to please, sir.’

  ‘Then how about rummy?’ Shears said, as he removed his glasses and began to polish the lenses with his handkerchief.

  ‘If Lock knows the rules?’ Ross said.

  ‘I do, sir. Rummy suits me fine.’

  ‘Ah, rum,’ Hayes-Sadler said, ‘that reminds me. Here.’ He stretched from his chair to a nearby shelf, grabbing four thick tumblers. He poured out four measures from the bottle resting at his elbow, and placed them in front of each player.

  ‘Very apt, Captain,’ Shears said, pushing his glasses back on and stuffing the handkerchief into his breast pocket. He leant forward and picked up the pack of cards from the table. ‘Shall we say seven deals per game? And may I suggest a penny a point to make it more interesting?’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Ross said.

  Hayes-Sadler nodded in agreement and downed his rum in one. Lock sipped at his. It was harsh stuff, and burnt his throat. But it left a pleasant fiery feeling in his chest, and he didn’t refuse the offer of a refill when Hayes-Sadler poised the bottle over his glass.

  ‘And you, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Let’s make it a shilling.’

  ‘Lock!’ Ross said.

  ‘It’s quite all right, Major,’ Shears said. ‘A bob it is. Captain?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Very well,’ Shears said, ‘we will need pencil and paper to tally up the points. Do you have a notebook, Captain? Major?’

  The question was innocent enough, but Lock’s ears pricked up at the mention of ‘notebook’. He glanced at Ross, but the major appeared not to have noticed Shears’ request. Hayes-Sadler lifted himself out of his chair and went over to a small wooden cabinet in the corner. He opened a drawer and noisily rummaged around inside until he found what he was looking for. He returned to the table and placed a notebook and pencil in front of Shears.

  ‘Good,’ Shears said, and with a watery smile, he began to shuffle the cards. ‘Shall I deal?’ It wasn’t a question.

  Lock watched with interest as Shears dealt out seven cards apiece; all the time his mind kept returning to the comment about a notebook. He didn’t know what it meant, but he had a feeling that Shears’ presence on this boat was no accident. Shears was a powerful man and he could easily have secured some form of transport to get him back to Karachi. No, he wanted to be here and he wanted to get to Basra, Lock was certain of that. But why? He couldn’t believe that it was at the behest of Churchill. Or perhaps it was? The British were after the majority share of APOC, so was he merely protecting their investment?

  Shears finished dealing and Lock took up his seven cards and carefully fanned them out. It was an excellent hand. He already had a book of three nines.

  It wasn’t long before Lock found himself racing ahead in the game, making sets quickly and easily. Shears was running him a close second, but Ross and Hayes-Sadler seemed to be just enjoying themselves, and not too bothered as to how the game went. Hayes-Sadler did, however, reward himself with a tot of rum with each set he managed to lay down. But the drink appeared to have no effect on the man other than to accentuate the red veins in his nose.

  After a while, the game changed in Shears’ favour. He had a miraculous rummy within four hands and Lock began to feel irritated. Not only by his luck changing, but by the smug look on Shears’ face. Play carried on, with each man taking his turn at dealing. But there were no great changes in fortune. More rum was consumed and tobacco smoked and, after an hour, the cabin became stifling. Jackets were removed and sleeves were rolled up. All except for Shears, that is. He seemed content to just sit and sweat. Hayes-Sadler threw open a porthole, but the warm air from outside was little better.

  When play moved to Shears once more, Lock spotted that he drew the top card from the discard pile, the jack of diamonds, the last jack, and after a brief show of sorting, discarded the same card again. This was the second time he had done so. It was a dishonest play, to discard the same card drawn from the discard pile in the same turn. Shears was ensuring that he wouldn’t have to finish and that he was also not left with a high-points-value court card in his hand should the game end.

  Lock looked at Ross and Hayes-Sadler to see if they had spotted the same, but neither man made any indication that they had done so. Lock pursed his lips. If there was one thing he hated more than losing at cards, it was losing to a cheat. So he decided that the only option he had was to adopt Shears’ method and, as soon as he did, he began to gain ground again.

  After four more hands Lock drew level and Shears became twitchy. The smug look vanished, to be replaced by a tic at the left-hand corner of his mouth, as he angrily totted up the points in the notebook. He broke the lead of the pencil twice, obliging Hayes-Sadler to sharpen it again with a pocket-knife.

  On the next hand, with Ross dealing, Lock made it obvious that he had discarded the card that he had just picked up, and Shears noticed. His face flushed with anger as he looked up into Lock’s eyes. Lock just stared calmly back.

  Go on, you bastard, Lock thought, say something, I dare you.

  Shears wisely kept his lips tightly shut. Lock placed his final four cards down in sequence, the four, five, six and seven of diamonds, winning the hand and going ‘out’. Play ceased and the deal passed to Shears again.

  But instead of shuffling the cards, Shears pinched the bridge of his nose and stood up. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a dreadful migraine and need to take some air.’

  ‘Perhaps we should call it a night?’ Ross said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Shears snapped, and then he smiled thinly. ‘I just need a little break. Besides you still have money I wish to relieve you of, Major.’

  Hayes-Sadler chuckled at that and Shears made his way out of the cabin. Lock swivelled in his chair. Should he follow?

  ‘Something bothering you, Lock?’ Ross said, before necking back his rum.

  Lock turned back. ‘No, not really, sir.’

  ‘Not even Lord Shears’ cheating?’ Ross raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I was beginning to think I was the only one who noticed.’

  Hayes-Sadler snorted. ‘Bloody aristocrats. Always the same when you play them at cards.’

  Ross smiled. ‘But Lock is giving him a good run, aren’t you, my boy?’

  ‘Playing him at his own game, sir. That’s all.’

  ‘And should you win, you’ll reimburse the captain and I, won’t you?’ Ross said.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Lock said.

  Ross grunted and went to pour himself another drink. But the bottle
was dry.

  ‘I’ll get a refill.’ Hayes-Sadler pushed his chair back.

  ‘No, let me,’ Ross said. ‘I’ve got a fine bottle of Armagnac in my cabin. Let’s all take a short break.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll go and check on the first officer, see how we’re progressing,’ Hayes-Sadler said, slapping his cap on his head and throwing his heavy jacket back over his shoulders. ‘Shall we, say, meet back in fifteen? I’ll let Shears know, if I see him.’

  ‘Very well, Captain,’ Ross said, standing and rolling down his shirtsleeves. He pulled on his jacket as Hayes-Sadler left the cabin. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Lock? Clear your mind.’

  Lock nodded and followed Ross out onto the deck. There was a three-quarter moon high above them and the sky was littered with bright stars. Everything had an eerie, silvery glow to it, from the ship’s deck to the palm trees lining the riverbank. Persia and the war was like a half-forgotten dream to Lock, such was the tranquillity of the night. He took a deep lungful of warm desert air and stretched.

  The ship itself was very quiet, with nothing to be heard but the gentle chug of the engines, the lapping of the water below, and the chattering of conspiring insects on the hunt for sweat and blood.

  ‘The whole ship’s asleep. Must be later than I thought,’ Ross said.

  They made their way forward to the first officer’s quarters where the major was bunking. As they approached the door, Ross froze and held his hand up. Lock started to speak, but Ross hushed him.

  ‘When I left my cabin earlier this evening,’ he whispered, ‘I turned the light out.’

  Lock looked to the door. There was a sliver of light showing through the porthole. He strained his ears, but couldn’t hear a sound coming from the inside. ‘Aren’t you sharing?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, with the first officer. But he’s on duty at the helm. Have you got your pistol?’

  Lock nodded. ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘In there.’ Ross indicated towards the cabin.

  Lock silently unclipped his holster and, wiping his damp palm down the seat of his trousers, withdrew his Webley. He held his breath. Ross slowly pressed down the handle and softly pushed open the door.