Winds of Eden (17 page)

‘You see Charles this morning?' Richard handed Michael a glass.

‘No, I said my goodbyes last night.'

‘Would you believe he was trying to get himself posted to one of the command boats?'

‘Yes.' Michael continued to watch the dot that was the mahaila.

‘We will be in time for this show, won't we?' Martin demanded. ‘Only there were rumours …'

‘There are always rumours,' Richard cut in. ‘Everything in good time, as the vicar said to the tart.'

Michael glanced at him.

‘The waiting's always the worst.' Richard slurred and Michael realised he was drunk. Either he'd started early, or hadn't finished drinking since the night before. ‘Gives a man time to think of all the good chaps who've gone before him.' He lifted his glass to Michael. ‘Men like your brother.'

‘You knew him well?'

‘Everyone knew Harry Downe. War's a damned sight less interesting since he's been gone.'

Chapter Seventeen

Confluence of Tigris and Euphrates below Qurna, leading to Shatt al-Hai, Tuesday 4th January 1916

Although Mitkhal knew the mahaila couldn't possibly out-race the paddle steamer, he resented Zabba's cousin, Habid's, decision to leave the main waterway of the Tigris before dawn on their second day out of Basra. They turned up one of the side channels below Qurna and sailed into the network of ancient waterways and canals that had been hacked through the marshes by the engineers of ancient civilizations long lost to human memory.

Mitkhal had lost sight of the steamer at sunset on the first day but logic hadn't prevented him from hoping that the vessel would stop to take supplies and men on board at Qurna and they'd catch up with it on the voyage to Ali Gharbi.

With the Tigris behind them, Habid set a course for the Shatt al-Hai, a river that diverged from the Tigris south of Kut al Amara. Given the number of military vessels plying the Tigris between Basra and Ali Gharbi it was a sensible decision but Mitkhal wasn't in a mood to be sensible.

Stunned by the similarity between Harry's brother and Harry, all too aware of the risks to Harry and Furja should anyone – even Harry's brother – discover that Harry was still alive, Mitkhal wanted to talk to the man and find out if he resembled Harry as much in character as he did in appearance.

‘We're heading for Kut by the back door.' Mitkhal stated the obvious as he manned the rudder, negotiating a course through the reed beds.

‘This course is safer. Less chance of being held up by British river traffic and the military police.'

‘More chance of meeting pirates.'

‘I know them and they know me.' Habid pointed to a stall and makeshift wooden smoke house outside a reed and mud village. ‘Breakfast?'

Mitkhal adjusted the rudder and took down the sail. He was hungry but his resentment escalated as he sat with his back to the prow watching Habid gossip with the fishermen who crewed the small, canoe-like native mashufs and the sailors from the mahailas who'd also been seduced by the smell of fresh bread and smoking fish.

In Furja's house he'd felt restless – fettered and imprisoned despite his pleasure in fatherhood and Gutne's company. Now he was heading upriver he felt guilty for leaving Harry seriously ill and the women unprotected apart from Farik. Zabba had promised to take care of them but what if Furja's father or husband tracked her down and turned up in Zabba's with a dozen or more well-armed tribesmen?

Would the British officers who patronised Zabba's whorehouse fight them off? The more he considered the situation, the less faith he put in the British military to protect Zabba's brothel or her ‘friends' in the secret house. The British had enough to do in fighting the Turks without making enemies of the friendly natives in Basra and he was certain that's how the officers in British Headquarters would categorise Ibn Shalan and his tribesmen. Especially if Shalan brandished the treaty Harry had negotiated with him before the war, a treaty that had secured Shalan's protection for the Anglo-British oil pipeline in exchange for weapons.

For all that Furja was Shalan's daughter and Gutne his sister, Mitkhal knew that, if the sheikh considered circumstances warranted it, he wouldn't hesitate to kill Harry or either of the women or their children. Furja had committed an unpardonable sin in the sheikh's eyes by taking Harry's daughters and fleeing the tent of Ali Mansur, the second husband he had chosen for her.

By flouting Shalan's edicts, Furja, Harry, and their children posed a threat to the sheikh's authority within the tribe, and as Gutne and his son's presence in Furja's house confirmed that he'd helped Furja and her daughters escape Ali Mansur, his and his family's lives would be forfeit too.

Mitkhal narrowed his eyes against the watery winter light and scanned the reed beds. A flock of ducks hurtled upwards. Startled by a wild cat – or human predator? He hadn't forgotten that it was a Marsh Arab, Ibn Muba, who'd betrayed Harry to the Turks and identified him as a British officer.

Marsh Arab, Bedouin, town Arab in the pay of Ibn Shalan, Turk – and British who would no doubt ship Harry back to Britain or at the very least an Indian medical facility if they found him alive. It seemed the entire Middle East was ranged against him and Harry and those they loved.

Habid interrupted his thoughts by splashing through the shallows to the boat. ‘These are so good I brought you one. I thought it might chase away the sour expression on your face.' He handed Mitkhal a bread flap filled with smoked fish.

‘Thank you.' Mitkhal took it, smelled the fish and fresh bread, and bit into it.

Habid climbed on board and sank down on his haunches beside Mitkhal. ‘Word on the bank is the British are preparing to move upstream from Ali Gharbi tomorrow.'

‘Towards Kut?' Mitkhal didn't know why he was asking when all the talk in Basra had been gossip and guesswork as to when – not “if” – the British would muster their forces to relieve their beleaguered troops.

‘Towards Kut,' Habid confirmed. ‘According to our most excellent cook, Mohammed, who gathers and digests information as birds do breadcrumbs, most of the desert tribes have joined forces with the Turks outside the town.' Habid lifted his bread flap from its palm leaf wrapping and took an enormous bite.

‘The Bedouin are not there to fight with the Turk, only to scavenge from the battlefield when the bullets stop flying.'

‘Whatever they're there for, they're not inside the town walls with the British, which means things don't look too well for the British interlopers.'

‘They haven't looked well for the British since the battle of Nasiriyeh,' Mitkhal reached for his water bottle.

‘From where I'm standing, I regard British and Turk the same. Both have no business here. They should return to their own countries and leave this land to those who have always lived here.'

‘The Marsh Arabs? The Bedouin? The Bani Lam, the Shias, the Sunnis …' Mitkhal paused to take another bite.

‘At least we'd be fighting and killing our own kind who were born and bred here.' Habid looked out over the riverbank. ‘Allah only gave us enough land to bury our own, not the hordes intent on colonising us.'

Mitkhal thought of Shalan, Furja, and Gutne. He'd been mad to leave them for horses … then he recalled the expression on Harry's face when he realised Dorset was real, not just a dream.

‘What do you think, Mitkhal?'

Mitkhal looked across at Habid and realised he'd been too lost in his own thoughts to listen to him. ‘You're right, all the interlopers should leave.'

‘And then?'

‘We can start quarrelling amongst ourselves as to who should govern us.'

Habid laughed. ‘You are a born diplomat, my friend. Zabba said you were going upriver to look for horses?'

‘I am.' Mitkhal was wary, wondering what else Zabba had told Habid.

‘The British look after their animals but upriver …' Habid shook his head. ‘There's no grazing. Animals soon become skinny and sicken. You want good horses pay a visit one dark night to the British Military stables in Basra. But take your gun, because their sentries are well armed, and if you're wise you'll collect friends who also have guns to go with you.'

‘I'm not insane enough to try to steal livestock from Kut. The horses I want belong to a friend. He was taken ill and was forced to leave them behind when he travelled downriver by boat.'

‘These horses. They're inside Kut?'

‘Close by,' Mitkhal hedged.

‘Let me know before we're in sight of whoever's guarding them, so I can kick you off the boat.'

Mitkhal smiled. ‘I will.'

‘You give me your word?'

‘You have it.'

‘You may not value your own head more than that of a horse, my friend. But I value mine.' Habid tossed the palm leaf that had been wrapped around the bread flap he'd eaten overboard. ‘Unfurl the sail. With Allah's grace and this wind we may be out of the marshes by the next sunrise.'

Lansing Memorial Mission, Basra, Tuesday 4th January 1916

‘Come in,' Maud called in response to a knock at the door.

Mrs Butler bustled in with a tea tray.

‘Mrs Butler, good morning.' Maud set aside the book she'd been reading. ‘How kind of you to bring me tea.'

‘I thought you might enjoy a mid-morning drink and as I was making it I realised so would I.' Mrs Butler set the tray on the desk and glanced into the cot, which the nursemaid, Badia, had as usual pulled close to her in the alcove. ‘He looks so angelic sleeping there. Reverend Butler was only saying this morning that you'd hardly know there was a baby in the house. I thought I heard him crying once in the night but I couldn't be sure whether it was him or one of the cats.'

‘It was him, but once Badia fed him he soon fell back to sleep.' Maud turned to the nursemaid who was sitting head down, working her way through a pile of mending, apparently oblivious to the conversation, although she was beginning to wonder just how much the woman understood.

‘Reverend Butler and I talked this morning,' Mrs Butler announced, as though she rarely communicated with her husband. She busied herself with pouring tea and spooning sugar and lemon slices into the cups. Maud sensed her hostess was embarrassed by the information she'd been entrusted to impart and decided to pre-empt her.

‘You and Reverend Butler have been very kind, Mrs Butler, but now Robin has arrived, it's time I made plans to move on and set up my own establishment.'

Mrs Butler finally met Maud's gaze and there was unmistakeable relief on her face. ‘We wouldn't hear of you leaving us until your baby is at least six weeks old, Maud.'

‘That is very kind of you. It will give me time to look for suitable accommodation, and, unless you allow me to poach Badia, a nursemaid.'

‘Surely you don't intend to settle here in Basra? Angela told us you have no family or friends in Great Britain but a war widow in your position will attract sympathy and social connections. You must think of Robin; there will be better schools and more opportunities for him in Britain.'

‘I don't know a soul in Britain, Mrs Butler. As for choosing somewhere to live there, I would be reduced to placing a pin in a map.'

‘There's Captain Mason's family.'

‘Robin isn't Captain Mason's child. It would be embarrassing for his parents and me if I were to settle close to John's family home.'

Although Theo had informed her and the Reverend that Maud's child was the result of an attack, Mrs Butler was used to “refined society” where all unpleasantness – if it had to be referred to at all – was cloaked in euphemisms. Maud's honesty shocked her, rendering her momentarily speechless.

She sank down on a chair and waited for her hand to stop shaking before handing Maud her tea.

‘If I'm being too personal, please, just tell me to mind my own business, but has Captain Mason left you well provided for?'

‘He has, Mrs Butler. Captain Tom Mason mentioned an annuity that John had taken out, payable on his death, and I'm also entitled to a military widow's pension. As neither can be claimed by any other member of John's family, I intend to make enquiries about them.'

‘If you really have no friends in Britain I could ask if there is a sinecure or position in one of the Lansing's other charitable institutions that may suit you. Possibly one in America.'

‘It's very kind of you, Mrs Butler, but as I said, I have no plans other than finding alternative accommodation as soon as I've recovered from Robin's birth.'

‘But if you move elsewhere in Basra, Maud, I'd feel as though we're … well … not to put too fine a point on it … throwing you out.'

‘Considering all you have done for me, you'd be doing nothing of the kind. Mrs Butler. It really is time for me to build an independent life for myself and my child.'

‘Mrs Butler, ma'am, Mrs Mason.' A maid hovered outside the door. ‘There's a military gentleman here to see Mrs Mason. Shall I show him in here?'

‘Not in Mrs Mason's bedroom, girl. Take him into the drawing room, offer him tea, and tell him I'll be along presently.'

‘I'll go with you.' Maud rose from her chair.

‘Are you certain you're strong enough, my dear?'

‘Quite certain, Mrs Butler.' Maud followed her out of the door and into the drawing room.

A man rose to his feet when she and Mrs Butler entered. The breath caught in Maud's throat. It wasn't just the uniform, a major's, the same rank as John. It was also his features. He resembled Geoffrey Brooke. The first lover she had taken after her marriage.

‘I'm Mrs Butler.'

‘Mrs Butler.' He shook her hand. ‘Major Brooke, stationed at Basra HQ.' He turned to Maud. ‘You must be.'

‘Mrs Mason, Major Brooke.' Maud shook his hand and sat down.

‘It's good of you to see me, Mrs Mason. My condolences on the death of your husband. I heard of your indisposition,' he added delicately.

‘Thank you, Major Brooke, I'll soon be quite well again.'

‘I knew your husband, Mrs Mason. I was at school with him, Charles Reid, and Harry Downe.'

‘You had a brother, Geoffrey, Major Brooke.'

‘A younger brother. He was killed at Ahwaz last June.'

‘I met him in India.

‘Good Lord, did you? He never said, but then he wrote infrequently.'

Maud knew from the tone of Major Brooke's voice he was lying. And that was without the way he was looking at her, cool, appraising, as though he were visualizing her naked.

‘You're here on business, Major?' Mrs Butler prompted.

‘At the behest of HQ and Mrs Mason's father-in-law who contacted HQ with regard to an annuity Major John Mason set up payable to his widow on his death. With reference to your military war widow's pension, Mrs Mason, HQ sent out the usual forms that had to be returned but we haven't as yet received them.'