Winds of Eden (31 page)

‘From the sorry state of your uniform, your last bearer appeared to be less than conscientious, Sahib.'

‘Lieutenant Bell tells me he is now my ex-bearer.'

‘I gave him notice because he was negligent in his duties.'

‘He's not you. But I doubt many bearers would carry their officer on their back for miles if he'd been wounded, as well as argue with superiors who consider the officer past saving. I owe you my life, Chatta Ram. If I haven't thanked you until now, it was only because I lacked the means.'

‘Any bearer would have done the same,' Chatta Ram demurred.

‘I doubt it, but most brothers would have.'

‘You shouldn't talk like that, Sahib.'

‘There's no one to overhear us.'

‘Now. But it might lead you to drop your guard when there is.'

‘There's a bottle of brandy and glasses in the living room. Why don't you bring it in so we can drink as well as talk?'

‘And if Lieutenant Bell should hear us?'

‘I told him we have a lot to catch up on.'

Chatta Ram left and returned with the bottle and two glasses. He placed them on the table in front of Charles.

‘Please, sit down.'

‘Someone could look through the window and see us.'

‘Pull the blind. Then they'll only see shadows. Besides, it is allowed for officers to talk to their bearers.' Charles took the bottle and filled two glasses. ‘How is our mother?'

‘Getting old.'

‘Your father?' Charles didn't want to know but felt he should ask.

‘Died last November, before I returned home.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Your father?' Chatta Ram asked.

‘Fine, as far as I know. Running the war from the War Office in London, not the India Office, so we can't blame him for the shortage of equipment, boats, and supplies that's crippling the Relief Force.' Charles filled the brandy balloons and pushed one towards Chatta Ram.

Chatta Ram picked it up and looked at it. ‘I can't drink with you.'

‘I thought we'd just established that we can do what we like in secret.'

Chatta Ram studied Charles. ‘You've changed.'

‘If you mean that coming close to death has softened some of the officer starch that went into my make-up, you'd be right. Cheers,' he touched his glass to Chatta's. ‘This is a new experience for me. I've never had a brother before.'

‘From what I saw you were as close to Harry Downe and John Mason as any man to his brother, Sahib …'

‘Charles,' Charles contradicted.

‘No, it has to be “sahib”. If we're overheard conversing like this it would go bad for both of us. I would be thrown out of the army and so would you. Some of the older officers know what our mother did. It was a huge scandal at the time.'

‘Which my father kept from me. But after this war things will be different. The old social barriers will be broken down.'

‘Some, maybe,' Chatta Ram agreed. ‘Too many of your class are being killed here and in France not to make a difference. The shortage of men may encourage the ordinary sapper to try to work his way up the social tree and into a better position in life. But nothing will change for the likes of me or you, Sahib.'

‘In terms of our relationship, it will. I promise you.' Charles replenished both their glasses.

‘Enough for you to introduce me to your father, Sahib?' A ghost of a smile played at the corners of Chatta Ram's mouth.

‘Not that much,' Charles qualified, ‘but who knows where any of us will be, or what we'll be doing when this war is over.'

Chapter Thirty-two

Chitab's Fort, The Wadi, early hours before dawn Tuesday 11th January 1916

The river ran noisily below Peter. The surrounding air was so inundated he felt as though he were breathing in water not air. Above him, rain fell with the force of hailstones. It permeated everything, drenching every inch of his body, coating the boards of the mahaila and soaking his and Mitkhal's robes until they dripped whenever they moved.

The guns had fallen silent. Only the cries of the wounded rent the air, piteous and pathetic. Occasionally Peter spotted the flash of a lantern as an officer or stretcher-bearer searched the battlefield for survivors. He couldn't see any fires and assumed if any had been lit after the battle the braziers had been placed inside tents out of the rain.

‘Now would be a good time for me to swim back to the bellums,' he suggested to Mitkhal.

‘If you want a bellum I'll sail back.'

‘No need. I couldn't possibly get any wetter than I am now.'

‘Give it another half hour and the sentries on the bank will look for shelter and we'll be able to sail across to the British side.'

‘What sentries?'

Mitkhal tapped the binoculars slung around Peter's neck.

Peter lifted them to his eyes. ‘I can't see a thing.'

‘Shadows on the bank.'

‘I'll take your word for it.'

‘Listen. You can hear their footsteps in the mud.'

Peter strained his ears but he could only hear the sound of the river and the rain. After the deafening din of the battle the rhythm proved hypnotic. His eyelids grew heavy despite the wet and the cold.

He was catapulted out of sleep when Mitkhal shook him.

‘Put on your uniform. We'll hit the left bank in five minutes. The sentries may not listen to you, but they definitely won't listen to me.'

Peter reached for the cloth bag that contained his uniform. Like everything else it was sodden. His trousers clung uncomfortably to his legs when he pulled them on but when he tried to put on his shirt and tunic, he felt as though he'd entered into a wrestling match.

Just before they hit the bank, the sound of rifles being cocked was accompanied by a, ‘Halt who goes there!'

‘Captain Smythe, 2nd Battalion the Dorsets out of Kut al Amara. Take me to your CO.'

A lantern was lifted high. Its light shone directly into Peter's eyes blinding him. ‘Sentry, this is my orderly. Take care of him and the horses.'

The sentry hesitated.

‘That is a direct order from a superior, Private.'

‘Yes, sir. I'll summon an escort to take you to the Duty Officer, sir.'

‘On the double, Private.' Peter shook Mitkhal's hand. ‘Thank you. I wouldn't have made it without you.' He joined his escort and disappeared into the darkness.

Mitkhal untied the horses and led them off the boat. ‘Have you anywhere dry I can stable these?' he asked the remaining sentry.

‘You'll be lucky, mate. There's nowhere dry for us let alone the livestock but we can get your animals some feed. Good-looking horses.' The sentry lifted his lantern higher. ‘They're an odd colour. Never seen beasts streaked brown and white before.'

Mitkhal ran his hand over Dorset's flanks then held it up to the light. It was dyed orange with henna. ‘We didn't want them gleaming in the dark.'

‘I say, these are Harry Downe's horses, aren't they?' The sentry was a corporal, Harry a lieutenant colonel who'd never taken any notice of rank when it came to making friends. ‘You selling them, mate?' he asked Mitkhal. ‘Because if you are I know an officer …'

‘I'm taking them to his widow.'

‘Hope she appreciates them.'

‘She has a son who will when he's old enough to ride them.'

‘Here, I'll help you.' The corporal took Norfolk's rein. Mitkhal looked around as he followed him through the camp. Wounded men lay everywhere on the muddy ground.

His and Peter's trip this far down river had been easy. Too easy. Mitkhal had a feeling that the stretch between the British camp and Basra would be anything but. If a British corporal had recognised the quality of the horseflesh on his mahaila, how many Arabs would cast a covetous eye – and try to snatch them?

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

By tacit agreement, the guns remained silent. Both sides took the opportunity to attend to their wounded and clear and bury their dead.

A bearer gave Mitkhal a tin of bully beef and a stool. Conscious of the attention he, or rather Harry's horses, was attracting, he tethered the horses to a post, sat within arm's reach of them and ate.

‘Dear Lord, that's Dorset, Norfolk, and Somerset. I'd know them anywhere.'

Mitkhal didn't have to look far for the man who'd spoken. The voice had been uncannily like Harry's, the speaker his brother.

He hunched further under the grey army blanket he'd scavenged to keep the worst of the rain from his shoulders and pulled up a corner to cover his face.

Michael approached the horses and held out his hand. ‘What have they done to you, you poor things?'

‘Dyed them to try and keep thieving Arab hands off them, sir,' the private who'd stuck to Mitkhal like a turd to an army boot answered.

‘Are they in your care?'

‘No, sir.' The private moved aside so Michael could see Mitkhal sitting on a canvas stool behind him.

Even with the blanket partially covering his face Michael recognised him as the Arab he'd seen sail from the wharf outside Abdul's. He approached him and held out his hand.

‘How do you do, I'm Michael Downe. The brother of Harry Downe who used to own these horses.'

‘I know who you are, sir.' Mitkhal gave Michael a cold clammy handshake.

‘You're my brother's friend Mitkhal.' It was a statement not a question.

‘I worked with Lieutenant Colonel Downe, sir,' Mitkhal answered evasively.

‘You're caring for these horses?'

‘I'm taking them to Lieutenant Colonel Downe's widow.'

‘Harry shipped four horses from England to India,' Michael continued to stroke Dorset's nose and Mitkhal realised the mare wasn't only Harry's favourite. ‘He had another he named Devon. Is she dead?'

‘He gave Devon to his father-in-law.'

‘Sheikh Ibn Shalan.'

‘You know his name.' Mitkhal was surprised.

‘I spoke to people in Basra who'd known Harry. He wrote home almost every week when he first arrived here but after the war broke out, he hardly sent any letters.'

‘He was too busy.'

‘You said you were taking these to Harry's widow?'

Mitkhal nodded assent.

‘Is she in Basra?'

‘Downriver.' Much as Michael resembled Harry, Mitkhal was conscious that the fewer people who knew Harry was still alive the safer, he, Furja, and their children would be.

‘I'd really like to meet her.'

‘She is in hiding, Mr Downe.'

‘From the Turks?'

‘Many people would like to find Harry's wife and children.'

‘I know he has twin girls.' Michael desperately wanted to gain Mitkhal's trust. He lacked his brother's charisma and talent for making friends but from the suspicious way the Arab was eyeing him, he felt as though he were facing a wall of hostility.

‘He has a son as well,' Mitkhal revealed,

‘That's wonderful. I'm their uncle. I would like to do everything I can for them.'

‘You're with the Relief Force?'

Mitkhal hadn't commented on Michael's civilian clothes but Michael sensed he'd noticed them. ‘I'm a reporter for a newspaper.'

‘Then you'll be too busy to see them until after the war is over.'

‘Depending on where they are, I probably will,' Michael admitted. ‘How can I get in touch with her?'

‘You could leave a message for me in a coffee shop on the wharf at Basra. It's owned by a man called Abdul.'

‘I have a room in Abdul's. I asked him to find you. He didn't.'

‘Abdul is discreet. He wouldn't have admitted he knew me until I told him it was all right to acknowledge our acquaintance. He knows where to contact me, although it may take a week or two. Longer if I'm in the desert.'

‘You'll be able to pass a message on to Harry's wife?'

‘Eventually.' Mitkhal looked Michael in the eye. ‘This is a big country, Mr Downe.'

‘As I've discovered.' Michael saw a sergeant rise from a canvas stool and grabbed it before anyone else could. He pulled it close to Mitkhal and sat down. ‘I heard my brother was killed by the Turks.'

‘He was.' Mitkhal felt that wasn't exactly a lie. Harry Downe had been killed by the Turks, Hasan Mahmoud lived on.

‘Harry and I were close. If there's anything you can tell me about his time here I'd appreciate the information.'

‘What would you like me to tell you about him, Mr Downe?'

‘Was he happily married?'

‘He loved his wife and children.'

‘I spoke to Charles Reid. He said that when Harry was dressed as an Arab he was indistinguishable from a native.'

‘He took the trouble to learn our language and our ways,' Mitkhal agreed.

‘Was he happier as an Arab than a British soldier?'

‘That's a strange question to ask me, Mr Downe. I knew the Arab.'

‘You also knew the British soldier.'

‘Not well. British officers do not allow natives in the mess or their living quarters.'

Peter Smythe walked up to Mitkhal. ‘I've been looking for you. Thank you for waiting. I know you're anxious to carry on downstream.'

‘You're ready to leave.' Mitkhal set his empty bully beef tin on the ground.

‘General Aylmer asked me to stay with the Relief Force. As I've just left Kut and know the layout in the town, he thinks I'll be of some value. Are you still intent on going down river?'

‘Yes,' Mitkhal replied.

‘As far as Basra and the Lansing Memorial?'

‘I could do.'

Too engrossed in his own affairs to be aware of his surroundings or Michael sitting next to Mitkhal, Peter thrust his hand inside his shirt and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. ‘This is a letter for my wife. Tell Angela I'm sorry I couldn't find an envelope, and tell her … tell her I wanted to go downstream and see her but it's vital we get everyone holed up in Kut out before they starve to death, and that means me travelling back upstream. Tell her I love her and I think of her all the time.'

Mitkhal took the letter which was already damp and tucked it into his gumbaz.

‘You've come from inside Kut?' Michael asked.

Peter finally turned to him. ‘Good God!'

Accustomed to the reaction his appearance elicited among Harry's friends, Michael held out his hand. ‘I'm Harry Downe's brother. I'm a reporter, for the
Daily Mirror
. If you could give me a first-hand account of what it's like for our troops inside Kut, I'd guarantee you the front page.'

‘The force would appreciate the front page, but I'd want you to leave my name off it.'

‘An anonymous gallant officer who dared to breach the Turkish blockade?' Michael suggested.

‘Sounds good, although I'm not in the least gallant. You could be Harry's twin brother.'

‘So people keep telling me. You knew him well?'

‘Captain Smythe was one of your brother's closest friends, Mr Downe. If you'll excuse me, I have to leave if I'm to make headway before dark.' Mitkhal untied the horses.

‘You're riding out?' Michael asked when Mitkhal untied the horses.

‘No, I have a boat tied at the temporary dock.'

‘I'll walk with you. Can you spare me some time in about half hour?' Michael asked Peter.

‘If there's anything resembling a mess tent here, that's where you'll find me. I'm ravenous.'

‘Indians have set up a kitchen of sorts in the north-east corner of the camp,' Mitkhal advised.

‘You will give Angela that letter and tell I love her, Mitkhal?'

‘I promise, Peter. See you downstream?'

‘Soon I hope. Good luck, Mitkhal.'

The Christian name terms weren't lost on Michael. One conversation between Peter and Mitkhal had been enough to convince him that Mitkhal was anything but a subservient orderly.

‘I know my brother thought a great deal of you. I was hoping I could be your friend as well.' Michael took Somerset's rein, leaving Mitkhal with Dorset and Norfolk.

‘It's difficult to find time for friendships during a war, Mr Downe.'

‘Please call me, Michael.'

Mitkhal led the horses on to the makeshift dock the engineers had cobbled together. From there he led them one by one on to the mahaila and under the canvas cover that had been thrown over a makeshift wooden frame.

‘You'll mention me to my sister-in-law, when you give her the horses and tell her I'd like to see her.'

‘I will.' Mitkhal lashed the canvas cover closed. He lifted the anchor and the sail, waved to Michael and the vessel scudded out into the river. The current carried it swiftly downstream.

Michael stood on the riverbank and watched the sail grow gradually smaller before turning and walking back to the camp.

Michael found Peter ensconced in a camp chair outside the kitchen tent. He'd given up trying to shelter from the rain and was eating bully beef from a tin and nursing a packet of crackers.

‘Dessert,' he joked, holding the crackers out to Michael as he approached. ‘Want me to see if I can track some down for you?'

‘No thanks, four hard biscuits and one tin of bully beef a day is my limit.'

‘Here you go, Sahibs. Just made a fresh pot.' Adjabi emerged from the tent with two mugs of tea. He handed one to Michael and gave the other to Peter.