Winds of Eden (36 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

Furja's house, Basra, Thursday 2nd March 1916

‘All down! I did it!' Hari jumped up in excitement as her lemon ‘ball' knocked down the tower she and Aza had built out of wooden food bowls and utensils they'd sneaked out of the kitchen.

‘I think it's time to give the bowls and everything else back to Bantu before you break them.' Furja stroked her daughters' hair.

‘One more,' Hari begged.

‘Only if you let Aza take two turns to your last one.'

Hari reluctantly handed Aza the bruised lemon.

Furja picked up the dolls Hari and Aza had left on a stool and looked through the open arches of the covered terrace that ran the entire length of the house. On summer evenings and early mornings it was a cool and pleasant place to sit. Halfway between living area and courtyard garden it was everyone's preferred place. In winter and during the rainy season it was grey and miserable.

The rain poured down in sheets almost as dense as the black cloth of the Bedouin tent she'd been raised in. She carried the toys into the sitting room and opened the door to her bedroom.

Hasan was sleeping again. But his face was no longer flushed with fever and his breathing was soft, regular, without nightmarish thrashings. Three days ago the doctor had told her that he was certain that her husband would recover as much as anyone with his serious injuries could. She was still finding it difficult to believe him.

A knock at the door separating her house from Zabba's interrupted her reverie. She closed the bedroom door, and placed the dolls in the girls' toy box. Farik opened an umbrella, and darted out of the shelter of the terrace to the courtyard door. Furja watched him open it and smiled, ready to welcome Zabba. Her father stood framed in the doorway.

They stared at one another as a full minute ticked past. Shalan was the first to break the silence.

‘Isn't my daughter going to invite me into her house?'

Furja steeled herself. ‘Of course, Father. Will you honour me by entering and drinking tea?'

He walked through the door and into the terrace.

She turned to her daughters. Hari had fallen unnaturally silent and Aza was hiding behind her sister's skirts – as she always did whenever she felt unsure of a situation – or a stranger.

‘Hari, take your sister to Aunt Gutne. You can play in her room.'

Hari craned her neck and gave Ibn Shalan a tentative shy look before grasping Aza's hand and leading her away. Furja called to Farik to bring refreshments and showed her father into the sitting room.

‘Please sit down.' She waited until her father had taken his seat before curling on a cushion at his feet.

Farik brought in a tray of coffee and almond and date cakes. He set them on a low table. Furja poured her father coffee, sweetened it to his taste, handed him the cup, and set a selection of the cakes on a plate which she placed before him.

‘I've brought Dorset and Somerset back to you. They are in Zabba's stable.'

Furja's blood ran cold. ‘Mitkhal …'

‘Is well, Furja.'

‘You've seen him?'

‘When he gave me the horses. I sent him upstream to the British.'

‘Why?' she asked suspiciously.

‘I needed an ambassador.'

‘And as you no longer have Harry to call on you decided to send Mitkhal. Into a British camp when they are in the middle of fighting the Turks.'

Shalan bit into an almond cake. ‘This is very good. Did you make it?'

‘Gutne, who's worried sick about Mitkhal, did,' Furja replied.

‘Why? Mitkhal can look after himself.'

‘Why did he “give” you the horses?' Furja didn't attempt to hide her scepticism.

‘They were an encumbrance. Mitkhal had brought them out of Kut but he had Norfolk as well and when I asked him to contact the British on behalf of the tribe I offered to bring them here.'

‘Mitkhal had Norfolk … but Ali Mansur …' Furja fell silent. The last person she wanted to discuss with her father was the husband he'd foisted on her against her will.

‘Ali Mansur is dead, Furja.'

She looked her father in the eye.

‘No tears?'

‘I didn't wish him ill.'

‘You didn't wish to remain with him.'

‘I already had a husband.'

‘How is he?'

‘Dead.'

‘Don't lie to me, Furja.'

‘It's not a lie, Father. My English husband is dead. He was tortured to death by the Turks.'

‘You believe Hasan no longer remembers his past.'

‘You can see for yourself.' She left the cushion and opened the bedroom door.

British Military Hospital, Amara, Thursday 2nd March 1916

Clarissa picked up the leg Doctor Evans had just amputated, wrapped it in brown paper and carried it out of the operating theatre. She set it on a trolley that was already loaded with a motley collection of bloody covered body parts.

‘You look about done in, Sister, if you don't mind me saying so.' An orderly dumped a zinc bucket of blood- and pus-soaked dressings on the lower shelf of the trolley.

‘It's the end of a double shift. I haven't stopped since the last ship docked.'

‘Which one was that, Sister?'

‘First thing yesterday morning – I think. It all seems rather blurry.' She frowned. ‘Another ship's docked?'

‘Half an hour ago. We've orders to leave everyone on board while we load one that's just come up from Basra with our walking wounded. Hospital's ready to burst at the seams and the doctors are refusing to look at another case.'

‘That's hard on the men on the boat.'

‘If it's like the last one, there won't be many fit enough to save.'

‘I hope you're wrong.' She pulled down her surgical mask. ‘I'd better get to the ward and see how many beds we can clear.'

She went to the nurses' cloakroom, peeled off her surgical gown, gloves and mask, dumped them in the linen bin and scrubbed her hands with antiseptic. They were red raw. She surveyed the cracked skin around her nails and wondered if she'd ever manage to restore them to their pre-war glory.

‘You know another's ship come in,' Molly said when she returned to the ward.

‘An orderly just told me.'

‘Given the number of men who have passed through here in the last few days I don't believe there can be anyone left in the Relief Force to fight the Turks.' Molly helped a patient into a wheelchair.

‘Basra for Blighty,' he smiled hopefully.

‘Never know your luck, lieutenant. War could be over before your wounds have healed.'

‘If my return to Blighty is dependent on the peace treaties being signed, I'll be here for the next decade,' he prophesied gloomily.

Clarissa fixed a smile to her face. She was finding it harder to remain cheerful in the sight of so much suffering. Richard Chalmers was sitting in a wheelchair next to his bed playing cards with three other men. They'd all pulled chairs around Richard's empty locker and were using it as a table.

‘You're leaving us, Major Chalmers?' she said in surprise.

‘Told you I was fitter than you thought. I'll be back upstream fighting fit at the beginning of next month.'

‘I don't know about fighting fit, but you might well be back upstream if you give the nursing staff in Basra as much trouble as you've given us. I can't honestly say I'm sorry to see you go.'

Richard adopted a theatrical pose worthy of a melodrama. Hand on heart, he declaimed, ‘If the doctors weren't tossing me out of this place, like an unwanted rodent, I would never dream of leaving you, Sister Amey.'

An orderly walked in and shouted, ‘Everyone for downstream bound for Basra to the harbour.'

Despite her weariness and mood, Clarissa couldn't help laughing. ‘I'll power your chariot, Major Chalmers, as soon as I've put on my overall. Come on, everyone, the sooner you leave the sooner we can unload another vessel.'

The orderlies did their best to cover both the nurses and the patients with umbrellas as they navigated the chaos of the dockside. An orderly took Richard Chalmers's wheelchair from Clarissa as they approached the downstream vessel.

‘This is as far as I go, Major Chalmers,' Clarissa shouted to make herself heard above the crowd and the rain.

‘Kiss goodbye?' he demanded.

Clarissa looked around. Major Evans and two of the junior doctors were already boarding the vessel that had come down from upstream. It was just as foul as the others and she could feel her stomach churning, revolting at the thought of having to board it. She placed her fingers on her lips and placed them on Richard's cheek.

‘That's no good, Sister. I want a proper kiss to remember you by.' He grabbed her arm, pulled her down with a strength she wasn't expecting, and kissed her firmly on the mouth, to the amusement and catcalls of his fellow officers.

‘If you were fit, I'd slap your face for that, Major Chalmers,' she said when he finally released her.

‘If I was fit I'd carry you aboard and marry you in Basra, Sister Amey.'

‘Sister Amey,' Major Evans called to her, ‘when you've quite finished flirting we need your assistance here.'

‘On my way, Major.' She took a deep breath before boarding the upstream vessel. After ruining one pair of shoes on the first boat she trod carefully in an effort to avoid the worst of the mess.

The major handed her the inevitable soft-leaded pencils. She slipped them into her pocket turned and looked down on Tom. She froze. His skin was translucent, as dry as parchment. She crouched next to him and held her own breath until she could be certain he was still breathing.

‘Is he dead, Sister Amey?' Familiarity with death had blunted all their sensibilities, Major Evans's more than most.

‘No, sir. Not yet.'

He looked more closely at her. ‘Do you know this man?'

Clarissa made a superhuman effort to pull herself together. ‘Yes, sir. His name is Captain Thomas Mason. He's a doctor.'

‘Relative?'

She ventured into the realms of fiction. ‘My fiancée, sir.'

‘We need all the doctors we can lay our hands on. Get him into the hospital and cleaned up. If he needs surgery, tell whoever's on duty in theatre to put him at the top of the list.'

Clarissa rose to her feet and shouted, ‘Stretcher-bearers.'

Furja's house, Basra, Thursday 2nd March 1916

Hasan woke with a start to see his wife and father-in-law looking down at him. Disorientated, he struggled to sit up and face Ibn Shalan.

‘My father has brought Dorset and Somerset. They are in Zabba's stables.'

‘Mitkhal went to fetch them.'

‘Mitkhal is well and sends you greetings, Hasan, I sent him upstream on business.'

‘What kind of business?'

‘We need more guns, ammunition, and horses to guard the ferenghi pipeline.'

‘You expect Mitkhal to steal them?'

‘I expect the British to give them to him. It is in their interest to give us what we need to watch their back, when they fight the Turk that stands between them and their men in Kut al Amara.'

Hasan left the bed. ‘I want to see the horses.'

‘I'll go with you.' Ibn Shalan studied Hasan. The marks of torture on Hasan's face were obvious. The hollow, scar-encrusted eye socket where his right eye had been, the dark circular burn marks on his neck, cheeks, and forehead where cigarettes had been stubbed. The bandaged stump that ended at his right wrist. But the extent of Hasan's sufferings was most noticeable when he moved. Slowly, stiffly, jerking his arms and legs as if he were an old man.

‘I'll go ahead and ask Zabba to clear everyone from the passage that leads to the courtyard and the stables.

‘Ask my men to do it,' Ibn Shalan ordered Furja.

Hasan went to the bowl on the table, splashed his face and hands, and put on his kafieh and agal. He took his abba from a chair and slipped it on over his gumbaz.

‘You don't trust me.' Shalan had stated a fact not asked a question.

‘No. For myself I don't care. But if you should try to hurt Furja, our children or Gutne or Mitkhal …'

‘I'm here to invite you – all of you – to return to the tribe.'

‘In return for what?'

‘Mitkhal's help with the British.'

‘Even if I believe that, what about Ali Mansur? He still believes himself to be Furja's husband.'

‘Ali Mansur is dead. It's regrettable but a fact.' Shalan shrugged in a gesture Hasan remembered only too well. His father-in-law had frequently resorted to it when enforcing unpalatable decisions.

‘How did he die?'

‘In a fight with the Bani Lam.'

‘Then his relatives will not be baying for my or Mitkhal's blood?'

‘Not after I have arranged good marriages for his sisters. Come, Furja is beckoning. We'll go and see your horses.'

Hari and Aza ran out of Gutne's room as soon as they saw their father enter the terrace. Hasan smiled at Aza and offered her his left hand. She grasped it and wrapped her arm around her sister. He was conscious of Gutne and Furja standing behind him. Their concern like their silence hung heavy in the atmosphere.

‘Come and see our horses,' he murmured to the girls.

Ibn Shalan went ahead. Furja walked next to Hasan and their daughters. Gutne and Ibn Shalan's men followed them and closed the door behind them. The passageway to the stables was deserted. They walked out into the courtyard. The stable door was open and Hasan led the girls inside.

Dorset and Somerset went to Hasan, burying their heads in his chest.

Furja bit her lips to control the emotion welling inside her.

‘Few men could expect such a greeting from their wife,' Ibn Shalan observed dryly. ‘You have rivals for your husband's affection, Furja.'

Chapter Thirty-eight

Kut al Amara, Friday 10th March 1916

John took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Knight. They were sitting as close to the stove in the dressing room of the hospital as they could get without burning themselves. It was the tail end of a very long day. Turkish snipers had started taking pot shots at the sappers in the forward trenches the moment the sun rose, and as the rains were finally abating, a full hour earlier than a week ago. They only finished firing when darkness blocked their sights. As a result the officers' hospital had been banked up with casualties and the last wounded officer had left for the ward only minutes before.

It was the first break they'd been able to take all day and they were too exhausted to even go in search of an orderly to make them tea. David unfolded the sheet and read the latest directive sent to the medics from General Townshend.

‘Finally, Alphonse is taking our advice and killing a large number of horses to reduce the quantity of grain the animals are eating to free up enough to increase the rations of the sepoys.' John rubbed the circulation back into his hands.

‘It's a short-term measure,' David commented. ‘The garrison can only eat the horses once.'

‘As most of the Indian troops are refusing to eat mule, donkey, or horseflesh, we have to increase their grain rations somehow and I can't think of another way. How many Indians have you seen close to the last stages of malnutrition in the last couple of weeks?'

‘Too many,' David admitted. ‘If only the idiots would eat horse.'

‘Townshend and HQ have done all they can to persuade them. Hunger is the last and most persuasive force. The problem is, even if some of the sepoys change their mind at this late stage they'll be too weak to digest meat, so an increased grain ration is the only solution.'

‘It will be hard on the cavalry officers. Given the choice most would shoot their wives in preference to their horses.' David became serious. ‘The death rate from disease is escalating alarmingly. How much longer do you think we can hold out?'

‘Last time I spoke to Crabbe he said HQ were estimating a month. I told him if it takes that long I seriously doubt any of us will be worth rescuing.'

‘The door opened and Mitkhal walked in, saddlebags slung over his shoulder and carrying two large boxes.

‘Good Lord, Mitkhal. Where did you pop up from?' David asked.

‘Turkish lines.'

‘They letting you come and go as you like?' John pushed a chair in the Arab's direction.

‘To a point.' He handed John a hamper. ‘Food from the Relief Force stores.'

John opened it. ‘Good Lord, tinned beef, chicken, ham, biscuits, cheese, rice … we have to keep this for the sick.'

‘No you don't. I knew you'd want to give everything away, John, so I filled the mahaila with supplies. It's not as full as when I left the British lines, because I had to give a couple of boxes to the Turks as payment for allowing me to pass through their defences.' He pulled up a chair and sat next to them. ‘They asked me carry a communiqué to General Townshend from Halil Bey.'

‘Halil suggested we surrender?' John guessed.

‘That's what they told me, but the message was sealed, so I can't say for certain.' Mitkhal opened the second box, which held a dozen bottles of brandy. He took out two and handed them to David.

‘I was about to go in search for an orderly to make tea but this is better.' David left his chair and took three tin mugs from a shelf. He filled them and handed them around. As he returned to his chair, Warren Crabbe walked in.

‘Is that what I think it is?' he asked.

‘Brandy, courtesy of Mitkhal,'

‘Get yourself a mug,' David held out the bottle.

‘Thank you.' Crabbe fetched one and a chair and joined them. ‘What wind blew you in, Mitkhal? Not that you're unwelcome.'

‘If you're asking about supplies, I brought a load in.' Mitkhal indicated the boxes at John's feet.

Crabbe set his attaché case on the floor and lifted his mug. ‘To our brave Arab ally. Without his largesse this bloody awful siege would be bloody insupportable.'

‘Who are you trying to impress, Crabbe?' Knight indicated the attaché case.

‘No one. Alphonse has written another of his morale-boosting letters to the men in the hope that it will stiffen their resolve along with their backs. I've been given two hundred copies to distribute through the town and the trenches.'

‘If he set foot in a trench and talked to some of the men who haven't been able to leave them since we dug in here in December, he might accomplish more in the way of raising spirits,' David griped.

‘Given that everyone knows that the Relief Force were rebuffed by the Turks at the Dujeila Redoubt yesterday, he probably decided it would be more circumspect to stay in his quarters.' Crabbe opened his case and handed David a copy of Townshend's communiqué.

‘Do we know the casualty figures from the last Relief Force push?' John asked Mitkhal.

‘Three and a half thousand,' Mitkhal answered.

‘That takes the Relief Force's casualties to fourteen thousand,' Crabbe murmured.

‘Fourteen thousand casualties to free less than ten thousand trapped men, and we're still sitting here, bathing our sniper wounds, and fighting disease and boredom.' Knight picked up the brandy bottle. ‘Before you suggest the wounded need this more than us, John, we're not machines. We deserve a rest before the onslaught of whatever tomorrow brings.'

‘I'll drink to that.' Crabbe raised his mug. ‘Rest for all medical officers.'

‘You'll drink to anything, Crabbe,' Knight topped up Crabbe's mug first.

‘How long are you staying, Mitkhal?' John asked.

‘I'll be leaving at dawn. Halil Bey wants an answer to his dispatch by tomorrow.'

‘Who did you give it to?' Crabbe asked.

‘The brigadier.'

‘Then you'll have your answer first thing.'

‘If you don't mind I'll leave you to your brandy. I have a pass from the Turks that should get me through their river blockade tomorrow, but some of their sentries are trigger-happy and I'll need my wits about me. May I sleep in your room again, John?'

‘I told Dira to leave your bed made up. I'll come up with you.'

‘Trouble with you, John, you've no stamina.' Crabbe raised his mug. ‘There was a time when you could drink until dawn.'

‘That was when I could look forward to three square meals a day.'

‘Point taken.' Knight pushed the cork back into the brandy bottle. ‘Have you seen the way the flies are breeding in the trenches now the hot weather's on its way? It won't be long before fever strikes.'

‘Now you've said it, we can expect the first case tomorrow.' John led the way out and up the stairs. He opened the door to his room. Mitkhal followed him and sat on the only chair. John sank down on the bed.

‘Before you fall asleep,' Mitkhal opened his saddlebags and took out a couple of dozen packs of cigarettes two bottles of brandy, half a dozen lemons, and a dozen oranges.'

‘Is it Christmas?' John lifted an orange and smelled it.

‘The Bakhtairi Khans had some of last year's harvest going spare.'

‘You expect me to believe that?' John raised his eyebrows. ‘There isn't a piece of fruit or a corner of vegetable to be had for love or money in this town, and I doubt there's much in the Turkish lines.'

‘None,' Mitkhal countered. ‘Arab irregulars aren't into sharing with armies that have invaded their lands. ‘I suppose it's too much to hope you'll keep those oranges and eat them yourself.'

‘The patients …'

‘Those oranges won't go far among hundreds of men and you and Knight look worse than those in your care. How long is it since any of you have eaten fruit or vegetables other than the grass and weeds the cooks harvest and cook?'

‘I was going to have a word with you about those. Have you any idea which plants are poisonous and which aren't? Four men died last week. We think a particular plant was to blame.'

‘I'll talk to a cook before I leave. You need to keep strong, John,' Mitkhal continued his lecture. ‘No one knows what the future will bring …'

John interrupted him. ‘You know something don't you?'

Mitkhal met his steady gaze.

‘Come on, out with it?'

‘Discounting Arab irregulars, the Turks have 13,000 troops and 34 guns at Sannaiyat and 21 guns surrounding Kut along with 11,000 troops.‘

‘The Relief Force has 24,000 men, and a cavalry brigade. Which puts us a cavalry brigade ahead of the Turks.'

‘I went up in a reconnaissance flight with one of the Royal Flying Corps. The manpower is the same but the Turks have 55 guns to your 35. They're also better placed,' Mitkhal revealed.

‘You think Townshend will be forced to surrender?'

‘I do, and so does he, otherwise he wouldn't be trying to bribe his way out of Kut.' Mitkhal told John about the discussion he'd had with the senior political officer. ‘If Townshend accepts Halil Bey's offer …'

‘He won't,' John predicted, ‘not after just issuing the order to kill the horses. If the Relief Force doesn't break through in the next couple of weeks he may rethink, but not yet.' Depressed by the thought of remaining besieged for the foreseeable future, John changed the subject. ‘It's strange to see you without Harry. I miss him more every day.'

‘So do I.' Mitkhal pulled the cork on one of the bottles. He drank directly from the neck and passed it to John.

‘Are you still fighting for the British because Harry was killed by the Turks?'

‘I'm fighting for Ibn Shalan, my wife and child, and Harry's wife and children. The tribe needs the guns and horses the British pay us for guarding their pipeline.'

‘Furja and the children. They are well?'

‘They were the last time I saw them. I intend to return to them as soon as this siege is over.'

‘One way or another.' John drank from the bottle, but barely a mouthful. He'd lost his taste for alcohol and brandy in particular.

Clarissa wheeled Tom's chair through the doors of the hospital and under the covered terrace. ‘You wanted fresh air, Captain Mason, you have it.' She stopped next to a bench, pressed the brake on the chair with her foot, and sat beside him.

Tom eyed the men around him. ‘I was hoping for privacy?'

‘In a military hospital in the middle of a war?' She smiled. ‘You'd stand a better chance of privacy in a glass case in the Natural History Museum.'

‘No doubt labelled,
Captain Mason, idiot medic who didn't duck low enough to avoid Turkish bullets.
' He reached for her hand. She took it, but only after she'd looked around to check there were no senior nurses around. The doctors, recognising Tom as one of them, were more forgiving of his displays of affection.

‘Feeling sorry for yourself more than usual today?' she asked.

‘I'm not self-pitying. Am I?' he asked, suddenly feeling that he'd been just that.

‘No more than usual.'

‘I've been a bloody idiot.'

‘I'll second that.'

‘All that talk before I left London about you having a good time, getting on with your life and not moping over my absence. I didn't mean a word of it.'

‘You didn't?' she waited for him to continue.

‘I said it because I thought that's how men going off to war should behave. Nonchalant, as if it was no more important than going off to study medicine in London. Then, when I reached Basra and Charles told Michael and me that John and Harry were dead I realised just how fragile and temporary life is.' He gripped her hand hard and turned to her. ‘I love you, Clary. I only realised just how much when I thought I was going to die out on that hellish battlefield. Marry me, please?'

Her smile broadened.

‘Is that a good or a bad smile?' he asked.

‘Neither. I remembered what Georgiana said when she thought I was going to travel here alone.'

‘Knowing Georgie, I might regret asking this, but what did she say?'

‘ “Don't put up with any nonsense from that cousin of mine when you catch up with him.” She added that there'd be military chaplains even in Mesopotamia, and I should drag you to the altar.'

‘She's right.'

‘No she's not, Tom. If I married you I'd have to give up nursing. I've never felt as needed as I am here. You only have to look around. How can I leave these men to return to England to wait for you? Because given the shortage of doctors you will be going back to active duty.'

‘And there's me hoping that I would be invalided out.'

‘No you aren't. I overheard you talking to Dr Evans about taking a post here as soon as you're fit enough.'

‘If I did, at least we'd be in the same hospital. We could put in for leave at the same time, and sneak down to Basra. As Georgie's living in a Baptist mission she could arrange a secret wedding …'

‘That would waste valuable time. If we sneaked down to Basra, as you put it, we could book into a hotel and forget the wedding ceremony.'

‘You told Evans we were engaged, at least let me buy you a ring.'

‘That I will agree to. But you'll have to buy me a chain as well.'

‘Chain – this is the twentieth century.'

‘Idiot. A small one I can thread through the ring so I can wear it around my neck under my uniform, out of sight of Matron.'

‘Fine, I'll settle for an engagement night and a promise you'll marry me the moment the peace treaties are signed. Agree?'

Clarissa looked around at the men on the terrace. Over half of them were missing limbs or eyes. The peace treaties couldn't come quick enough for her. ‘Agree,' she murmured, pulling her hand away as he lifted it to his lips. Matron was walking towards them, and if Matron had an inkling of her relationship with Tom, she knew she'd be moved off his ward within the hour.