The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 18

  ‘This is a stroke of luck, finding you here.’ Harry prepared to slide off the camel’s back.

  ‘Make it kneel, Harry. Hit it with your stick. That’s it, sharp, on the neck. Luck has nothing to do with it. We heard you’d travelled up river since you left Bakhtairi Khan country. I guessed you’d continue on that route. I’ve been waiting for hours.’

  ‘Thank you. Is Furja safe and well?’

  ‘Safe, yes. Shalan would never allow her to be otherwise.’

  ‘Shalan said she’d been worrying about me. Is his camp far? I’d like to move on.’

  ‘It’s an hour’s ride. We’d never make it in the dark.’

  ‘Then we’ll …’

  ‘Move out at first light.’ Mitkhal noticed Harry winced at his touch as he helped him on to firm ground. ‘Furja will be asleep. You’ll see her in the morning. Shift this animal next to mine.’

  ‘They told me horses would get bogged down in the mud.’ Harry tugged at his camel’s rein. ‘So I took this stinking, insubordinate beast …’

  ‘From the Turks.’

  ‘I have some explaining to do.’

  ‘To Furja, and Shalan, not me. Who am I to question you, if you chose to join forces with the Turks?’ Mitkhal forced Harry’s camel to lie alongside his own. After they crawled into the makeshift tent, he offered Harry dates and bread flaps. Harry shook his head.

  ‘All I’ve done this past week is eat. Turkish food lies heavy on the stomach.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Is Shalan angry with me?’

  ‘He wasn’t pleased to see you in Turkish uniform,’ Mitkhal confirmed. ‘Furja begged him to rescue you. He risked his life walking into that camp. If the Turks had recognised him …’

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘Only to see you strutting about as if you owned the place. We heard you’d been taken into the compound trussed like a goat for the slaughter.’

  ‘They were suspicious of my fair beard and skin, so they took me to their camp. When they started questioning me, I had a brilliant idea. If I had to be European, why not German? I spouted a few words I’d learnt as a child. Fortunately, their German was even worse than mine. If it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘They didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘Apart from pulling a chunk of my hair out, no.’ Harry rubbed his head. ‘I hope it grows back. I told the commander I was an agent sent to encourage native tribes to attack the British Expeditionary Force. I explained I’d been forced to adopt Arab dress for my own safety as the demarcation line between British and Turkish territory was so uncertain. I implied it was the fault of the Turkish Army and if they didn’t take the offensive soon, we Germans would have no option but to send in Imperial troops to take command of an Ottoman shambles.’

  ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t shoot you.’

  ‘By then I’d convinced him I was somewhat higher than a general and only a fraction lower than the Kaiser.’

  ‘Why stay after you convinced them you were a German spy?’

  ‘Because chance had given me an opportunity to shape Turkish policy on the Karun. Before dawn tomorrow, the commander is sending half his garrison to attack a British column he believes is advancing on the Karun from Qurna.’

  ‘Over the desert?’ Mitkhal asked.

  ‘Over the desert. They swallowed my story of an impending British attack, hook, line and sinker. What a glorious catch. One thousand Turkish troops riding directly into Bakhtairi Khan territory. I travelled up through that country. The Sheikhs are armed and spoiling for a fight.’

  ‘You sent lambs to the slaughter, Harry. Have you thought what will happen when the Turks discover the identity of Herr Untern?’

  Harry rested his back against the steaming side of Mitkhal’s camel. ‘They’ll put a price on my head,’ he murmured, thoughts drifting over the desert to Furja.

  ‘A high one. I hope your success is worth it.’

  India , 1 a.m., Thursday December 30th 1914

  The orchestra of native musicians played the Strauss waltz softly lest they disturb the conversation of the guests lingering around the supper buffet. Maud rinsed her fingers in the brass chillumchee a liveried footman held out for her. The moment she withdrew her hands, another footman handed her a damasked napkin.

  ‘Madam Sahib would like grapes?’ the Khitmagar enquired, seeing her glance at the fruit bowl.

  ‘Yes,’ Maud replied in the brusque tone she reserved for servants. He snipped at the stem of a bunch of purple grapes with silver scissors, easing his selection onto a Meissen plate.

  ‘A wise choice after so heavy a meal, Mrs Mason.’

  She glanced at the man who’d addressed her. From his sleekly brushed black hair, to his patent dancing pumps, he gleamed as though he’d been polished. Tall, around Geoffrey’s height (she’d ceased to use John as a yardstick when comparing men), slender, in contrast to most British officers who tended to be thickset and muscular when young, and corpulent in middle age. Darkly handsome with the black eyes, long face, and pale skin that could mean the same Portuguese ancestry as her host or – she bristled as she recalled the gossip she’d heard about the D’Arbez household – a touch of native blood.

  He waved away a waiter who pivoted a tiered silver cake stand loaded with cream-filled layers of sugared pastries.

  ‘I will join Madam in her choice of grapes. Forgive me for being so forward as to introduce myself, Mrs Mason. Unfortunately, I was detained by business, so I missed your and the other guests’ arrival. I am Miguel D’Arbez, Carlos’s elder brother.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’ She recovered her composure. Harriet’s lectures on what a lady should or shouldn’t do, and, what was infinitely worse, what Miss Emily would or wouldn’t have done, had upset her more than she’d realised. After all, she was here with Marjorie, and Marjorie would never allow her to be placed in a socially compromising position.

  ‘Marjorie has spoken about you so often I feel you are an intimate friend.’

  ‘Exactly what did Marjorie tell you about me?’

  ‘A little of this, a little of that. May I say that now I have met you, I am glad she persuaded you to celebrate New Year in our rural backwater.’ He flicked his fingers at the elaborate decor of the largest and grandest reception room in the palatial plantation mansion. ‘As you see, we Portuguese may not be British, but we are civilised.’

  She laughed, attracting the attention of their hostess, Louisa D’Arbez.

  ‘My sister-in-law adores entertaining her British compatriots. We Portuguese can be a trial to her. But Marjorie has been a loyal friend to both Louisa and my brother. We owe what little social standing we have in your circles to her.’ Miguel took two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and presented her with one. ‘Marjorie has visited Louisa every week since she married my brother, and where Marjorie goes, others follow.’

  ‘There aren’t enough peer’s daughters in India to make it otherwise,’ Maud commented.

  ‘Did you know Louisa’s fiancé?’

  ‘No, I was living in Mesopotamia when Louisa arrived here.’

  ‘Very inconsiderate of the fellow to die before Louisa set foot in India.’ He duplicated the regimental accent so accurately Maud choked on her champagne.

  ‘You sound exactly like Colonel Hartley.’

  He handed his empty plate to a servant. ‘English as spoken by British officers is easy to acquire. Portuguese, on the other hand, is difficult to master. However, when you are ready to learn my tongue, I will be happy to teach you.’

  ‘I’m no linguist.’

  ‘You should make the effort. It will be invaluable after the war.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Portugal will control India at the end of the war?’ Maud’s voice rose in indignation.

  ‘No, dear lady. But when this war finally ends, most of Europe will be flattened and the majority of young men dead. Portugal will be one of the few havens of civilis
ation left.’

  ‘The Allies are going to win,’ she countered fiercely.

  ‘I don’t doubt it. My only question is at what cost. I apologise.’

  ‘For what?’ she enquired.

  ‘Talking about the war. I only meant to tell you how much Louisa values your visit. My sister-in-law is very dear to me.’

  Maud found it difficult to imagine how any woman as plump, plain, and middle-aged as Louisa could be dear to a man as exotic as Miguel.

  ‘Would you care to dance?’

  She nodded assent. Miguel led her on to the floor. Marjorie glided past in the arms of an ancient colonel.

  ‘Your thoughts are with your husband?’ Miguel asked when they circled the room a second time.

  ‘No,’ she blurted out thoughtlessly.

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. It is refreshing to dance with a beautiful woman whose thoughts remain her own. Your husband is in France?’

  ‘Mesopotamia.’

  The waltz ended. Couples applauded the orchestra. Maud left the reception room. She began to climb the stairs, intending to hide herself in her room, but Miguel caught up with her. Blocking her path, he rested his hand on the wall above her head.

  ‘Tell me, Senhora Mason,’ he enquired in bland, conversational tones, ‘are you very bored with my brother’s party? Or is it the war you’re bored with?’

  ‘The war.’

  ‘On that point we agree. The war is boring and distasteful. Unfortunately, it exists. But it’s not reason enough for civilised people to abandon the pleasures of life. May I suggest that as we cannot help the men at the front, we owe it to ourselves to forget them? Our misery will not make them more comfortable and beautiful women have a duty to enjoy life. Didn’t one of your English poets write “we walk this way but once”? So, instead of hiding in your room, why don’t you accompany me to my library where you can view the more interesting exhibits in my collections and sample my brandy?’

  Maud hesitated.

  ‘We will, of course, leave the door open to settle any question of impropriety.’

  The doors to the reception room opened. A swell of music drifted towards them. A waiter scurried past with a tray of empty glasses. The music was lighter, more melodious than it had been earlier. Miguel D’Arbez was right, Maud decided as she ascended the staircase with her hand resting on his arm. Life was for living. There was little point in allowing the war to spoil what could so easily become good times.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The KarunValley, Thursday December 30th 1914

  Harry slept fitfully; his dreams interspersed with bouts of pain and elusive images of Furja.

  Furja sick with worry, her face thin and pale beneath her red bridal headdress. Furja pleading with him to come to her, but no matter how he struggled, she remained just out of reach. He summoned the last of his strength, made one final effort …

  Cold, shivering, he started into consciousness. The waterlogged atmosphere had lightened to a shade that meant dawn was breaking somewhere above the leaden clouds and unrelenting rain. Crawling out of Mitkhal’s makeshift tent, he stepped in a puddle of freezing mud that engulfed him to his waist.

  ‘Why in hell didn’t you warn me?’ he demanded of Mitkhal, who peered sleepily at him from the cover of the tent.

  ‘It was obvious we were sleeping on a rock.’ Taking Harry’s hand, Mitkhal hauled him out of the mess. ‘I keep telling you. If you want to live in the desert you must learn the ways of the Bedawi.’

  ‘If that means I have to sleep in disgusting filth …’

  ‘The winter rains last only a few months. Soon the cold, dry weather will be here, and after that the summer. Then you can complain about the heat and the flies again.’ Taking down the pole, Mitkhal gathered the folds of sodden blanket together.

  ‘I remember last summer, and the tail-end of the summer before that. And not just the heat and flies – the dust …’

  ‘You prefer mud?’ Mitkhal surveyed Harry’s plastered robe and boots. ‘Don’t worry; the rain will wash you clean before your wife will see you.’ He reached into his saddlebag. ‘Date? Bread flap?’

  ‘No,’ Harry growled.

  ‘Then we ride.’

  Mitkhal secured the blanket and pole to his pack. They saddled their camels, mounted them, and wound the folds of their kafiehs around their faces. Setting his face against the driving rain, Harry followed Mitkhal’s lead.

  After an hour’s hard riding, he spotted a figure on the horizon. He wondered if the rain had blurred his vision but the figure remained, hazy, but definitely there. Mitkhal lifted his arm. The watchman returned the gesture. They’d reached journey’s end, but the plain stretched unbroken around them. Turning, Mitkhal led his camel down a path that wound into a steep-sided wadi, invisible until you stood on the brink. When Harry guided his camel forward he realised he could have wandered the KarunValley for months without stumbling on the narrow cleft.

  A torrent of water hurtled over the riverbed far beneath them. Halfway down, the track widened into a shelf that had been carved out centuries before, during another wet winter. The shelf broadened, cut back under the cliff wall, and there, beneath an overhanging rock, Harry saw black tents. He looked for Furja, but the hands that took his camel guided him to Shalan.

  The Sheikh sat within the public area of his tent and listened while Harry outlined his reasons for wearing Turkish uniform in a Turkish camp. When he mentioned he’d persuaded the Turks to send an expedition into Bakhtairi Khan country, to meet a non-existent British force, Shalan silenced him and summoned his warriors. The Arabs held an urgent whispered conversation. Hands on swords, rifles slung across their shoulders, two dozen tribesmen left the tent.

  ‘Why place your men at risk when the Bakhtairi Khans can do your killing for you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Because the Turkish soldiers are carrying arms.’

  ‘I promised to supply all the arms you need.’

  ‘You sold us British arms at a high British price. We pay for them in blood every time we ride out to guard your pipeline. The Turkish guns will cost only the blood spilled in one fight.’

  ‘The British army will soon secure the land around the pipeline and when they do, your debt will be cancelled,’ Harry promised. ‘The Turks will lose this war and then there will be no need for the Bedawi to fight. If you want more weapons to see you through until that time, you have only to ask.’

  ‘The last consignment cost more than I bargained for; the next will be offered at a price I cannot afford.’

  Silence reigned thick and uncomfortable in the close, damp atmosphere. Harry rubbed the stubble on his chin. He felt as impotent as he had done during the divan when Shalan had informed him he was to marry Furja.

  At length, Shalan spoke softly. ‘The British have taken Basra. They are moving up country.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘When I left three weeks ago we were in control of the Tigris as far as Qurna.’

  ‘And your Indian soldiers were hammering notices on our palm trees.’ Shalan lifted a scroll from the ottoman next to him and flung it at Harry. Harry didn’t need to unroll it. He recognised the cheap yellow paper and coarse printing.

  ‘The natives must not carry arms,’ Shalan quoted, ‘ for it will not be possible to distinguish an armed man from an enemy, and thus any person going armed will be liable to be shot. And you worry about my men being killed by Turks.’

  ‘I have been looking for you since the day that proclamation was posted.’

  ‘The Arabic is good.’

  ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘I know.’

  Harry braced himself to return Shalan’s gaze. Was there nothing the man didn’t know? ‘The Arabic is mine, but the words are none of my doing.’

  ‘You are a British soldier. You made your loyalties clear the day you left Furja with Mitkhal and rode off to guard the Ferenghi oil wells.’

  ‘I am an officer in my King’s Army. We are at war.’

  ‘We also,
with those who invade our land.’

  ‘We had to come here,’ Harry insisted. ‘The Turks have allied themselves to the Germans – our enemies. We have to protect our oil wells.’

  ‘Which are on Arab land. And you will protect them at the expense of Arab lives. When I saw you dressed in Turkish clothes in the Turkish fort, I knew you’d made your choice, Hasan.’ Rising, he walked across the tent and clamped his hand on Harry’s shoulder. The heat from his fingers burned Harry’s flesh. ‘You would give your life and the lives of those you love for your British Empire, and I for the Bedawi who have lived here since Allah threw the first man from the Garden of Eden. There is little difference between the beginning of your Bible and my Koran, but there is a world of difference between our peoples. We are on different sides.’

  ‘We both want to oust the Turk.’

  ‘I want to free my people from the Imperial bonds that bind them. But you?’ Shalan looked into Harry’s eyes. ‘What will you do after your armies have driven out the Turk? Will you leave? Return this land to those who have lived here since the beginning of time?’

  ‘I don’t know what High Command has in mind for tomorrow, let alone the end of the war.’

  ‘I can read the future of your army and the future of the desert. I order you to divorce Furja now, before we Bedawi exchange one Imperial overlord for another. British or Turk, the oppression will be the same, foreign soldiers dictating how we live in our own land. When the Turks have left, our war will go on. And when I begin to shoot our new enemies I don’t want to shoot my son-in-law.’

  ‘But you would shoot your former son-in-law?’

  ‘If Allah willed it. Because when that time comes, Furja will be settled as a Bedawi wife in the tent of one of her own blood.’

  ‘She is married to me. And she is going to remain married to me,’ Harry maintained.

  ‘I ordered you to marry my daughter, now I’m ordering you to divorce her.’

  ‘No! I’ve been searching for her since the day we took Basra, and no one is going to stop me from finding her.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to be found. She has returned to my tent. Under Bedawi law, your marriage is over.’