Winds of Eden (32 page)

‘Thank you, Adjabi. Can you ask Daoud to bring me my travelling desk please?' Michael wiped the rain from his eyes and took the chair next to Peter. ‘I can't believe you actually escaped from Kut.'

‘I was there last night.'

‘What are conditions really like there? Thank you.' Michael took his desk from Adjabi and opened it. He pulled out a small notebook and pencil and closed it quickly before rain soaked the contents.

‘Grim,' Peter said succinctly.

‘Is it true you're short of ammunition?'

‘Ammunition is the one thing we have plenty of. Pity we can't eat it. But we're short of everything else. Warm clothes, fuel, fodder for the animals, food for the men, and medical supplies. I think it was hearing about the shortage of animal feed that drove Mitkhal upstream. He was worried, with good reason, that Harry's horses would be slaughtered for food.'

‘How did he hear that the horses were being killed?'

‘We radioed HQ in Basra before Christmas that we were slaughtering our animals. We had over 3,000 horses and mules at the beginning of the siege, and we started with the mules. When the Indian sepoys refused to eat their flesh we began slaughtering the cavalry horses. General Townshend radioed out to Hindu, Sikh, and Muslim leaders asking if they could be given dispensation to eat horse and mule flesh. Dispensation was given but the sepoys still refused to eat the meat so the oats and barley intended for the livestock went to the sepoys.'

‘Yet Harry's horses survived until Mitkhal arrived.'

‘One of the worst experiences of my life was losing Harry. I wasn't alone in valuing his friendship. All his friends – and he has hundreds if not thousands in Kut – conspired to keep his horses safe.'

‘How long can Townshend and the garrison hold out?'

‘You'll have to wait for an answer to that question. Command keeps changing their mind. When I left, they were finally organising a search of the town for hidden food stocks. Something some of the senior officers had been pleading for since the beginning of the siege. Our troops are a damned sight thinner than the natives in the town.'

‘So, the force is short of food, clothes …'

‘Decent accommodation. Most of the men have been living in trenches since we dug them the first week of the siege. That makes for freezing cold, damp misery in this weather. The one thing we're not short of is lice. The fleas are bad but nothing like as foul as the lice. They get into everything, clothes, shoes, hair, corners of your body you didn't know you possessed. So if I were you I'd move your chair further away from mine.'

Unsure whether Peter was joking, Michael did as he suggested.

‘How long have you been here, Mr Downe?'

‘My name is Michael. Since the end of December.'

‘Then you've seen this country at its best. After the cold, wet, lice and fleas, come the mosquitoes. Just when you think nothing could possibly be worse than the sandflies and mosquitoes, the hot weather hits. And I mean hits. The good news is, it shrivels mosquitoes and flies, the bad, it shrivels men.'

Michael stopped scribbling. ‘Thank you. You've given me an insight into this country. I've been looking for an old Gulf hand to do that since I arrived here.'

‘Sahib,' Adjabi appeared again with the teapot in his hand. ‘More cha, Sahib?'

‘Please.' Michael held out his cup.'

‘Sami is packing up Captain Mason's things, Sahib. They are sending him upstream to open an aid station closer to the battlefield.'

‘When is he going?' Michael asked.

‘As soon as his transport is ready.'

‘That could mean tomorrow morning,' Michael quipped.

‘Mason, no relation of John Mason by chance?' Peter asked.

‘His brother. You knew John Mason as well as Harry?' Michael looked at Peter. There was a strange expression on Peter's face he couldn't quite decipher.

Chapter Thirty-three

Chitab's Fort, The Wadi, Tuesday 11th January 1916

Tom tossed his washing kit and hairbrushes into his personal bag. He had no idea of the location of his tent or his army kit, or even if he still possessed them. If Sami had found time to stow them somewhere, all well and good; if he hadn't, the loss of kit was trivial in comparison to the amount of death and suffering in the Relief Force.

Ordered upstream twice after Sheikh Saad, overwhelmed by the pressing needs of the wounded, he hadn't slept more than an hour or two at a stretch since he'd docked at Sheikh Saad, and then only on makeshift mattresses in field hospitals. He was so bone-weary he had a problem standing upright. He'd even caught himself daydreaming about sleep.

‘Tom?'

He looked up to see Michael with a captain from the Dorsets.

‘This is Peter Smythe. He knew Harry and John. He's just left Kut.'

‘Kut – you escaped?' Tom shook Peter's hand.

‘Both of you make it sound as if I've done something heroic. My superiors planned it and I was taken out by an exceptionally brave Arab auxiliary.'

‘If you don't mind me saying so, you look in one piece compared to the wounded I've been treating, but positively skeletal.'

‘I assure you I'm in better shape than most of the Kut garrison,' Peter protested.

‘Do they all have hacking coughs?' Tom asked when Peter started coughing and couldn't stop.

‘It's the reason I was sent out of Kut. Brass thought if the Turks stopped us they'd assume I was tubercular and wouldn't bother to search me.'

‘Take off your shirt and tunic. I'll check you out.'

‘No need. Your brother said …' Peter faltered. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to forget the promise he'd made John. He was furious with himself. Physically and emotionally exhausted he'd dropped his guard. An inexcusable error. Then he remembered the promise he'd made John had only been in relation to Maud. Surely John wouldn't want his brother to carry on believing he was dead when he wasn't …

‘My brother!' Tom repeated.

Peter would have given a great deal to take his words back but it was too late. ‘I promised John I wouldn't tell anyone he's alive. Problem is I'm too bloody tired to think straight.'

‘Sit down.' Tom pushed a camp chair towards him. ‘You've seen my brother. Major John Mason.'

‘Yes,' Peter admitted reluctantly.

‘You know him well enough to recognise him?'

Peter sank down on the chair. He looked from Tom to Michael. ‘It's a long story.'

The Tigris below the Wadi, Wednesday 11th January 1916

Mitkhal kept a careful eye on both banks as he steered downriver. The horses were well hidden from casual observers under the canvas cover. With the British and Turks occupied with fighting one another upriver, the lower reaches of the Tigris would soon become infested by pirates. That's if they weren't already.

He had sailed the river many times, in British boats with Harry, and in native boats, occasionally with Harry but more often with Arab captains. He knew isolated places, remote from the nearest inhabited hamlet, where he could drop anchor when he needed to water the horses or rest. The only question was, would it be better to choose a spot away from civilisation in the hope pirates hadn't discovered it or risk berthing close to a village where he could appeal for help should he need it?

Whether or not assistance would be forthcoming from people who'd learned to mistrust outsiders from the tribe was another matter.

He pulled his dripping kafieh and agal from his head and squeezed them out one-handed, keeping his right hand firmly on the tiller. He was placing his head cloth back on his head when a movement on the left bank caught his eye. A stationary figure on horseback was watching the boat.

Both face and figure were swathed in black. Blurred by distance and the heavy downpour it was impossible to recognise more than a human shape astride the animal. The mount appeared to be similar to a chestnut ridden by of one of Shalan's trusted advisors, but similar didn't mean it was the same horse.

Mitkhal wondered if the beating he'd taken had affected his judgement. Had he dropped his guard in the British camp? There'd been any number of Arab irregulars around. What if one or more of them had recognised Harry's horses? Watched him load them on to the mahaila and decided to bide their time until he stopped to sleep or water the horses and then steal them? Or was the man simply a lone traveller gauging the distance he'd travelled by the bends in the river?

Was he seeing a threat where there was none? Or was the man a scout for a party of thieves travelling inland out of his sights. Was he one of Ibn Shalan's men?

He checked his bearings and headed out into the centre of the river. Keeping his course steady, he pulled his revolver from his abba. He kept it fully loaded but he still opened the chamber and counted the bullets before returning it to the concealed pocket. He didn't have to look at his stiletto blade. He could feel it strapped tight against his leg.

He'd make as much headway as he could before dark. Then, when he did berth, he'd sleep with one eye open.

Chitab's Fort, The Wadi, Tuesday 11th January 1916

‘I know John well. He asked me not to tell anyone he was alive for the best of motives,' Peter insisted. ‘You just said I look skeletal. I know I do, but no one in Kut looks good, and John has been seriously ill. None of us thought he'd survive the fever he contracted after crossing the desert from Karun to Amara. He wouldn't have if Harry hadn't pulled strings to get him on a boat bound for Basra.' Peter tactfully managed to avoid all mention of John's addiction to alcohol that had probably done as much as, if not more than, the cross-country trek to wreck his health.

‘You said the death sentence on John has been lifted …' Tom began.

‘Postponed pending a review after Kut has been relieved,' Peter corrected.

‘Surely the brass would have allowed him to send a wireless message to his family out of Kut if he'd asked.'

‘They would have,' Peter agreed, ‘but as I said, John didn't want to raise hopes that could be dashed again. It's anyone guess what will happen to the garrison. If the Relief Force reaches the town and the Turks put up a fight they could all be wiped out. And if, heaven forbid, the Relief Force doesn't get through and they're all marched into captivity, there's no guarantee any of them will survive. You promise most solemnly not to tell John's wife he's alive?' Peter pleaded in the hope of limiting the damage he'd done. ‘John was most insistent on that point.'

‘I've no reason to call on my sister-in-law again so I can safely promise you that much. But I still find it difficult to believe he would allow our mother, father, sister, and me to believe he's dead when he isn't.'

‘Knowing John's alive gives us all the more reason to carry on fighting until we reach Kut.' Michael offered his cigarettes to Peter and Tom.

‘I'd give anything to see my brother alive and well.' Tom was too choked by emotion to say more.

‘With luck you may not have to give anything to see him – and soon.' Michael turned to Adjabi. ‘There's news?'

‘The bearers say there will be an enormous battle tomorrow, Sahib. If we win that, the next battle will be at Kut.'

‘I hope you're right, Adjabi. Regret staying with us, when you could have gone downstream to a decent hospital and your wife, Peter?' Michael asked.

Peter rose to his feet. ‘No regrets. I have many good friends in Kut.'

Tigris, early hours of Saturday 15th January 1916

Mitkhal couldn't sleep. His insomnia was down to more than the hard boards he was lying on, or the wet clothes that clung uncomfortably, chafing his body. Travelling downriver at the height of the rainy season was never easy, but this particular trip seemed endless. Partly due to the sheer monotony of the rain and boredom coupled with exhaustion. A result of the pain he still suffered from the beating the sappers in the Norfolks' stable had given him.

Having to care for the three horses as well as navigate and steer the boat without assistance hadn't helped. Neither had his mounting concern for Gutne, Furja, and the children.

Dorset whinnied and all three horses moved nervously, their hooves clattering over the deck of the mahaila. Wet, shivering, bones aching, Mitkhal clambered slowly upright, pushed aside the canvas and ducked under the tarpaulin.

‘What's the matter, girl?' He reached out and stroked Dorset's nose. ‘You're dancing as if someone's lit a fire beneath you.'

The horse whinnied again, backing up as far as the ropes would allow. A lamp shone suddenly, unbearably bright behind Mitkhal's head, blinding him. Footsteps resounded over the boards. Mitkhal reached for his gun and crouched in preparation to pull out his knife.

‘Give me your gun, Mitkhal, or I'll shoot the horses.' Ibn Shalan and two of his henchman moved on deck. Both men pointed the rifles they were carrying at Mitkhal's head.

Mitkhal knew when he was beaten. He handed Shalan his gun. He rose slowly, leaving his knife where it was.

‘My men will care for the horses. Come, we'll go on to my boat and talk. It's dry in the cabin and I have coffee brewing.'

With armed men at his back, Mitkhal had no choice but to follow.

Shalan's mahaila was larger than the one the British had given him and Peter. The cabin was small, but dry as Shalan had promised. The coffee was freshly brewed and hot.

‘Sit,' Shalan indicated a cushion.

Mitkhal took it and the coffee a slave handed him.

‘How is my daughter?'

‘Well when I last saw her. She has a son, she named him Shalan.' Mitkhal hoped the news would please the sheikh. If it did, Shalan showed no sign of it. But the sheikh had always been a master at controlling his feelings – except anger. And even then Mitkhal suspected he only allowed it to show when it suited, to intimidate the object of his annoyance.

‘A son. Hasan's son?'

Mitkhal looked at Shalan but he had the sense to keep quiet.

‘Of course.' He stroked his thin beard. ‘That's why Furja left the tribe and that's why you helped her. To return her to her English husband.'

Mitkhal finally spoke. ‘Harry Downe is dead.'

‘Don't lie to me, you tribeless bastard. You were seen carrying him out of the Turkish camp outside Kut. You hired a boat to take you downriver. And you carried him into Zabba's house.'

‘I carried a body into Zabba's house.' Mitkhal kept his voice soft, low. Almost as low as Shalan's.

Shalan pulled out his tobacco pouch. He removed a pack of papers and began to roll a cigarette. Mitkhal had seen him do the same thing many times. It passed the time while Shalan counted off minutes designed to unnerve his audience and prompt them to say things they hadn't meant to, just to fill the silence.

Shalan finally finished rolling his cigarette. He looked at it. ‘You killed Ali Mansur.'

‘A blade wielded by one of your men killed Ali Mansur.'

‘He was not aiming for Ali Mansur.'

‘He was aiming for Norfolk. I deflected the blade.'

‘You admit you started a fight between my men and those of Habid in which several of my men were killed.'

‘Your men started the fight, not me.' Mitkhal contradicted.

‘You did not stay until the end of the fight.' Shalan's eyes, dark, probing looked directly into Mitkhal's.

‘No.'

‘Because you went into Kut al Amara.'

‘I had business there and with the Turks sitting outside it seemed best to go in under cover of darkness.'

‘So you still work for the British.'

‘I work for myself, my family, and Furja. You know I went into Kut. You've seen the mahaila they gave me and the horses I brought out. You know they were Harry Downe's horses. You've admired them often enough.'

‘You want the horses for yourself?'

‘For Furja and Harry's children. Harry always said if they were used for breeding they'd found a fine bloodline.'

‘You were seen leaving Kut with a British officer. You helped him evade the Turks.'

‘In return for the horses.'

‘So you still work for the British.'

Mitkhal shrugged. ‘I told you, I work for myself, but like all Arabs, including you, I work for the British when it suits me.'

‘You are on good terms with them?'

‘Obviously they talk to me or I would not be sailing a boat they gave me.'

‘Gave you?'

‘I didn't have one. It was the easiest way to travel downstream. Not just for me but for the British officer.'

‘I lost twelve men outside Kut beside Ali Mansur.'

‘The fighting was heated,' Mitkhal agreed.

‘I also lost twenty horses and guns I could not afford to lose.'

‘There were Arabs of many tribes camped outside Kut. The Bani Lam, the Bakhtairi Khans … there is no love between them and your tribe.'

‘And you and my daughter? Do either of you have any love for the tribe?'

Mitkhal chose his words with care because he couldn't see where Ibn Shalan was leading the conversation. ‘I and your daughter have a great deal of love for the tribe.'

‘My daughter wants to return to the tribe?'

‘Not if it means her death and the death of her children.'

‘You and Gutne?'

‘We like being alive.'

‘I need more guns and ammunition to replace the ones that were stolen from my men at Kut by the Bani Lam and Habid's men. Two hundred new rifles with a corresponding amount of ammunition should be sufficient. We also need more horses, a minimum of fifty, because many of ours have been stolen by the Bani Lam who raid our camps mercilessly. This war has made it difficult to find grazing for our goats. My people are hungry, we need replacement herds. Four would be good, eight better.'