The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 25

  ‘Is she all right?’

  Charles gave him a hard look. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Something John said. What made her decide to go to Basra? She hates the place.’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  ‘You forced her,’ Harry guessed.

  ‘I thought John might be missing her,’ Charles answered evasively.

  ‘You never were a good liar. Paternal interest in Emily’s daughter?’

  ‘Nothing like that. Call it a favour to John.’

  ‘John’s in Ahwaz. God knows when he’ll be back in Basra.’

  Charles took the coffee Harry handed him. ‘How did Emily die?’

  ‘I wrote to you. She walked out on the veranda at night and trod on a scorpion.’

  ‘She wasn’t there when I left at four.’

  ‘Night – early hours of the morning. What’s the difference?’

  ‘A great deal if she was trying to see me.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing what was on her mind.’ Harry set the pot back on the stove.

  ‘Harry, I loved her. I begged her to come to England with me but she wouldn’t leave George. I have to know if she changed her mind.’

  ‘Would it make a difference if she had?’

  ‘I keep wondering if she cared for me as much as I cared for her. If I knew she had, yes, it would make a difference.’

  Harry stuffed a map into a saddlebag. How much could he – should he – tell Charles? He’d promised John he wouldn’t say a word to anyone about Emily’s death but if there was some way of finding out if Furja had loved him, even for a short while … ‘I found Emily lying on the ground in front of my bungalow. There’s no way of knowing for certain but if you want my opinion, I think she was trying to reach you. I’m sorry, Charles.’

  ‘You’re sorry, and we have a war to fight.’ Charles turned to the window.

  ‘It won’t last for ever.’

  ‘When it’s over there’ll be time for other things. Georgiana and I talked about it. We agreed after the treaties have been signed nothing will be the same again. Too many people have died. You have no idea what it’s like back home. We can never go back to what we were.’

  Hammar Marshes, Tuesday 20th April 1915

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever feel sorry for the Turks.’ Harry watched Ibn Muba turn the duck he was roasting over a dung fire. Another scream tore through the air, piercing, deep-throated, it hovered in the atmosphere, lending menace to the gathering twilight.

  ‘They’re only Turks.’ Ibn Muba passed Harry a skin of sour milk.

  ‘They were obeying orders.’

  ‘Orders that gave them the right to hang Arabs and boil Arab patriots alive.’ Another cry tore through the air. Ibn Muba’s opinion didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  ‘What in Allah’s name are they doing to him?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ Harry drank from the skin and corked it. Strange to think he’d retched up sour camel’s milk the first time he’d tasted it. Now he drank it without a second thought, proof one could get used to anything – or almost anything, he qualified, remembering Furja’s absence from his life.

  Ibn Muba lifted the duck from the ashes with the point of his knife. Wrapping his abba around his fingers to protect them, he tore it in half and handed Harry the larger of the two pieces. Harry knew Ibn Muba too well to protest. Another scream rent the air. Ignoring it, Ibn Muba began to chew on his meat.

  Harry leant against a rotting palm and prayed for silence. This was the first time since they’d entered the Marsh five nights ago that they’d dared light a fire. The Bani Turuf who lived north of Shaiba had no scruples about slaughtering strangers. Everyone, irrespective of race, language, or costume was suspect and Ibn Muba, who lived in the Kerkha River Marsh, knew few men in the area who’d vouch for him.

  Just as Harry had prophesied, the tribes who’d fought with the Turks had scattered when defeat became a certainty. The Bani Lam had returned to their villages; the Bedouin, the desert.

  Before he’d left Shaiba, the Bawi were alternating threats with offers of help to British Command. With Shaiba taken, there were troops available to reinforce Ahwaz, and Harry wasn’t worried about John and the men in the KarunValley. With the Turks in disarray, the Bawi’s threats were empty ones.

  ‘Your meat’s getting cold.’ Ibn Muba was offended by Harry’s tardiness.

  Harry listened; he heard only the lapping of water against reed-choked banks, the cries of night birds, and the scuttle and splashes of water rodents as they foraged between land and water. He bit into his duck; the flesh was black, more smoked than cooked. ‘It’s good.’ He wasn’t being polite; after five days of living on dates, it was superb.

  ‘Good? And you’ve tasted my wife’s roast duck.’

  ‘I wasn’t so hungry then.’

  ‘Without the Turks our lives will be easier.’ Ibn Muba belched and threw a bone into the water. ‘With no Turkish tax collectors to bother us we’ll eat well, and sleep peacefully for the first time in years.’

  Harry remembered the civil administrators and Indian police who were following in the wake of the Expeditionary Force. He said nothing. He only hoped the taxes set by the Indian office would be lower than those set by the Turks.

  ‘You, Hasan, will always be welcome in my village. Your gold will buy guns for my sons and a new boat. We’ll shoot more ducks than even we can eat, smoke their flesh, and sell it in Qurna and Basra. I’ll be the richest man on the Kerkha, with nothing to do but attend to my wives.’

  ‘I envy you that life, my friend.’

  ‘You have given me much gold, Hasan; surely you were wise enough to keep twice as much for yourself. You could buy two or three wives and set yourself up in my village. Then you would have no need to envy my life.’

  ‘Would that everything were that simple.’ Harry wrapped himself in his abba and sat cross-legged, with his rifle nestling in the crook of his arm. ‘I’ll take first watch.’

  Ibn Muba stamped out the fire, and walked to the boat. Curling in the bottom, he settled himself.

  Harry stared into the darkness and listened. Watchful, alert, he thought over his conversation with Charles. Now the end of the war was in sight everyone was looking to the future. John had Maud. Whatever their differences, he was sure they’d reconcile and return to England.

  Charles would come to terms with Emily’s death and find someone else. That left him. He could return to Clyneswood and live there until it was his turn to play the squire. If Georgiana joined him, they could grow into sour, celibate old age together with dreams of Furja and Gwilym to lighten their respective bachelor and spinsterhoods. Forcing all thoughts of Furja from his mind, he walked down to the water. Darkness was lifting, dawn breaking. He’d kept watch the whole night.

  The screaming resumed with even more intensity. Gripping his rifle in his left hand, he moved his bandaged right fingers up the barrel, hoping they’d be strong enough to pull the trigger.

  ‘Hasan!’ Ibn Muba stirred in the bottom of the boat.

  ‘I hear.’ A frenzied splashing travelled towards them.

  ‘It’s large but too fast for a water buffalo,’ Ibn Muba whispered.

  Harry peered into the half-light. Ibn Muba moved to the prow of the boat. He leant over the side and Harry saw the glint of steel when he unsheathed his knife. A man blundered towards them. Naked, barely human, he clutched his head. Fearful moans came from lips shredded to a pulp; blood flowed sluggishly from sockets where the nose, eyes, and ears should have been. Ibn Muba pushed the boat out cautiously, paddling over to where the man stood in the waist-deep water. There was a flash, a cry, then only a red bubble floating on the surface.

  ‘A Turk,’ Harry whispered when Ibn Muba paddled back to the bank.

  ‘Whoever he was, he needed to be put out of his misery.’

  ‘I thought Arabs didn’t torture their prisoners.’

  ‘We didn’t,�
�� Muba replied unsmilingly, ‘until the Turks showed us how.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Basra Hospital , Friday April 23rd 1915

  Knight invited Harry into his office. ‘Usually, I’d keep an injury like your orderly’s in for a month but he’s determined to see his wife. I’ve a feeling if I don’t discharge him, he’ll climb out of the window.’

  ‘I’ve secured berths on the Shaitan.’ Harry took a seat in front of Knight’s desk. ‘It’s going to Ahwaz tomorrow and from there it’s a short ride to his tribe’s camp.’

  ‘I hope by short, you mean no more than a mile,’ Knight warned. ‘That shoulder was shattered.’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘You can give him the good news, but first I’ll take a look at your hand.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Knight pinned Harry’s hand down by the wrist and began unrolling the bandages. ‘Just like your chest and ribs. John told me what an appalling patient you are.’

  ‘How was he when you left?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Bad luck him having to go on to the Kerkha. You’d think the brass would have given him leave now Maud’s here.’

  ‘He insisted we toss for Basra, so he couldn’t have known about Maud. I won.’

  ‘Lucky heads.’

  ‘How did you know it was heads?’ Knight removed the last of the dressings with tweezers.

  ‘Intuition.’ Harry had given John a two-headed sovereign on his last birthday.

  ‘I would have been happy to go to the Kerkha. John seemed depressed. I felt he needed the fleshpots of this place more than I did and that was before I discovered Maud was here.’ Knight probed gently with his fingers. The bullet had passed through Harry’s palm, leaving a hole that was healing, but his fingers were splayed stiff and awkward.

  ‘Try picking this up.’ Knight put a pencil on the table. It fell from Harry’s grasp.

  ‘It’ll get better,’ Harry said.

  ‘You shouldn’t be on active service until it does. You can’t handle a gun with a hand like that.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Political officers only listen to gossip and dictate notes.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that one, but I have heard a lot of other peculiar stories about political officers in general and one political officer in particular.’ Knight re-bandaged Harry’s hand. ‘Now take off your shirt.’

  ‘Come on, Knight,’ Harry protested. ‘I came here to see Mitkhal.’

  ‘I know about the beating and I’m not asking, I’m ordering.’

  ‘I outrank you.’

  ‘Not in here you don’t.’

  Harry reluctantly complied. Knight ran his fingers over Harry’s ribs, then pulled out his stethoscope. ‘Any persistent coughing?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘I’d like to know what you call ordinary. There’s one rib here –’ he pressed the right side of Harry’s chest, making him wince ‘– that either hasn’t set or has been re-broken. Been in any more fights lately?’

  Harry recalled the kicking he’d had from the Turks but said nothing.

  ‘Harry, for God’s sake be careful.’

  ‘Considering this is the middle of a war, that’s odd advice.’

  ‘It’s the end. Everyone knows it, one more battle and …’

  ‘They’ll move us to the Western Front.’

  ‘Not you. You’ll be put out to grass.’ Knight folded his stethoscope away. ‘If you want to see Maud, she’s helping out in the officers’ convalescent ward.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Thanks for this.’ Harry held up his hand.

  ‘Any time, but don’t take it personally if I say I’d rather not see you in here again.’

  Harry left the main building, which was reserved for officers. There were two annexes, the left for the ranks, the right for Indians; the overflow was housed in tents in the grounds. He turned right. The orderly directed him to a cubicle. Mitkhal was lying on a cot; his shoulder and arm heavily bandaged, his face ashen against the sheets.

  ‘You’re a fine one taking your ease here, while I run myself ragged,’ Harry complained.

  ‘I know where I’d rather be. And where I’ll be tomorrow.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘I’m not staying here …’

  ‘I’ve booked berths on the Shaitan. She’s leaving Basra for Ahwaz in the morning.’ Harry sat on the bed. ‘I’m taking what’s left of you back to your wife before you do any more damage to yourself.’

  ‘And you?’ Mitkhal asked.

  ‘After I’ve left you with Gutne, I’m going on to Amara.’

  ‘Amara’s on the Tigris, not the Karun.’

  ‘General Gorringe’s travelling overland.’

  ‘Across country, with the hot weather just beginning? They’ll never make it,’ Mitkhal predicted.

  ‘They will if I go with them.’

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘The last thing I need is a sick man to take care of.’

  ‘You know nothing about the Kerkha,’ Mitkhal snapped.

  ‘Ibn Muba does.’

  Mitkhal retreated into sullen silence.

  ‘Don’t you want to see Gutne?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I don’t want to be put out to graze like a lame camel.’

  ‘It will only be for a month or two.’

  ‘During which time you’ll take Amara.’

  ‘I hope so indeed, then it’ll be my turn to be put out to grass. You’re not the only one to be declared unfit.’

  ‘You’ll be going back to England?’

  Ignoring the question, Harry took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Lighting two, he handed one to Mitkhal. ‘This war is ending at the right time. You can settle down. Bring up your sons. Live the life you’ve always wanted.’

  ‘What was it like in the Hammar Marshes?’

  ‘I felt sorry for the Turks.’

  ‘The Marsh Arabs had good reason to take revenge. I wish I could have seen it.’

  ‘You would have heard it first. I never knew men could scream so loud.’

  ‘The Turks deserved whatever they got.’ Mitkhal inhaled his cigarette.

  ‘Ibn Muba said much the same thing.’

  ‘So Marsh Arab and Bedouin can agree on some things, after all. Did I tell you about the girls the Turks took from the brothel when I worked there?’

  ‘You never told me you worked in a brothel.’ Harry tried not to appear too interested lest Mitkhal clam up. The Arab rarely spoke of his past.

  ‘My mother fell sick when I was a child. She couldn’t leave her bed. The woman who kept the brothel she’d worked in liked her, so she paid me to clean the rooms and run errands. When I grew strong enough she gave me a job throwing out the troublemakers. After my mother died, I moved in with her.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Old enough. I learnt to hate Turks in that house. A captain hired two girls one night. I never found out what they did. What they didn’t do was please him. He sent a squad of soldiers the next day to arrest them. We tried to stop them but there were too many and they were Turks. The law was on their side.’ Mitkhal drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘If there was a trial we never heard about it. That night, we went to the governor’s house to plead for them. What we didn’t discover until the next day was that while we were pleading, the captain had them boiled alive on the midden in full view of the town. One of them took over an hour to die. She was 12 years old.’

  ‘The Turks have gone for good, Mitkhal.’ Harry rose. Mitkhal had closed his eyes, but there was one more subject he wanted to raise. ‘Have you heard from Gutne?’

  ‘Her cousin found out I was here; he came to see me.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Furja?’ Harry pressed him, knowing Mitkhal would have asked.

  ‘She never leaves Shalan’s harem. No one sees her.’

  ‘What will happen to her?’

  ‘Until she has the child, nothing.’ />
  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘Shalan told you she will marry a Bedouin.’ Mitkhal hated confirming what Harry already knew.

  ‘The child?’

  ‘Will remain with Furja until the age of seven. If it’s a boy he’ll be placed in Shalan’s care; if it’s a girl, she will remain with Furja until she marries.’

  ‘Do I have any rights to the child under Bedouin law?’

  Mitkhal turned his dark eyes to Harry’s. ‘You would, Harry, if you were Bedawi.’

  ‘Miss Perry. How delightful to see you. Do you remember me? Grace, Alf Grace?’

  ‘Of course –’ Maud plumped out the paper flowers she was arranging before shaking his hand ‘– but I’m Mrs Mason now.’

  ‘So you married that blighter. What a catastrophe for the rest of us.’

  Maud smiled. It was good to see a man with all his limbs intact.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Arranging flowers and library books.’

  ‘I mean in Basra.’

  ‘Waiting for my husband. He’s in Ahwaz.’

  ‘Is he due back soon?’ Grace enquired.

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘His loss could be my gain. Would you like to lighten a weary sailor’s life by dining with me this evening?’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, mindful of Charles’s observant eye and her sullied reputation.

  ‘The Basra club. I know a chap there who’d see we fared all right.’

  It was tempting. She could leave a note for the Hales so she wouldn’t have to face them until morning and she shouldn’t feel guilty. The Basra club was a respectable place. John knew Alf Grace as well, so that made him almost a family friend.

  ‘Yes,’ she said decisively.

  ‘Terrific. I’ll hire a cab. Where shall I meet you?’

  ‘Here, at eight. I promised to bring in some magazines.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it, Mrs Mason.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Until eight.’

  She saw Harry glowering in the doorway.

  ‘Goodbye, Lieutenant Grace.’

  Grace turned and saw Harry. He nodded and left.

  ‘Harry, what a wonderful surprise.’ Maud kissed his cheek. ‘Colonel Hale mentioned you were in Basra and injured. You must tell me all about it.’