Winds of Eden (34 page)

‘With John.'

Michael recognised the signs of delirium.

‘We'll come together.'

‘Really have to go, sir.'

Michael nodded to the medics. He sat back, stretched his legs in front of him, and watched as they carried Tom out. For the first time since he'd entered the tent he listened – really listened to the moans and cries of the remaining men. One word was intelligible above all others. ‘Water.'

He reached for his water bottle and unscrewed the top. It was empty. He continued to sit and wait while the circulation returned. So much thirst to quench and so few people to do it.

Chapter Thirty-five

Basra wharf, Wednesday 16th February 1916

Restless, Georgiana paced the deck and watched the dock inch gradually closer. It was swarming with lines of British troops drawn up in formation. Behind them sepoys were ferrying supplies to and from vessels. Doctors and nurses were supervising the unloading of wounded from hospital ships and on to hospital transports.

She ran a practised eye over the walking wounded. Most looked as though they should be lying on a stretcher or at least propped up in a chair. She couldn't hazard a guess at the condition of the men on stretchers.

Clary joined her. ‘I missed you at breakfast.'

‘The snorer in our cabin kept me awake most of the night so I decided to eat early. Besides, I was anxious to catch a first glimpse of the town. Harry wrote to me about it in detail when he was sent here as punishment back in 1912. I've been longing to see it ever since.'

‘First impressions?'

‘The country's flatter and greener than I thought it would be but that could be down to the time of year. Trust us to arrive at the height of the rainy season.' She stuck her hand out from under her umbrella. ‘One of the crew said we'll be close enough to drop the gangplank in ten minutes.'

‘It looks every bit as cold, wet, and miserable as London.'

Georgiana looked at her. ‘Clary, what's the matter?'

‘The senior nursing officer posted a list on the board five minutes ago. Apparently the fighting's escalated. There's been an enormous influx of wounded.'

‘I saw some of them being unloaded on the quayside.'

‘Not all, apparently. Some have been taken to hospitals upriver and that's where half of us are going, including me.'

‘You're not disembarking?' Georgiana was as disappointed as Clarissa.

‘Not here.'

‘I'm so sorry. I suppose it was optimistic of me to hope that we'd both be in Basra and could continue as we've have done in London. Arranging to see one another on our days off and spending our free time together. You will write?'

‘I promise,' Clary said solemnly.

‘You have the address of the Lansing Memorial Hospital?'

‘You've given it to me three times.'

A thud announced that the gangplanks had been dropped. Georgiana balanced her umbrella in her left hand and hugged Clarissa. She looked down at her military issue kitbag and small case.

A middle-aged captain appeared at her elbow.

‘If you are disembarking, madam, may I and my bearer help you with your luggage?'

‘Thank you, Captain. You're very kind.' Georgiana picked up her case. The captain directed his bearer to pick up Georgiana's kitbag. The Indian shouldered it along with the captain's.

‘You have a husband with the forces in Basra?' the captain enquired as they walked ashore.

‘No. I've been given a post at the Lansing Memorial Hospital.'

‘The American mission?' He asked in surprise.

‘Yes.' She looked up and down the quayside but could see no sign of vehicles for hire. ‘Are you stationed in Basra, Captain?'

‘Horace Maytree.' He shook her hand. ‘I am. I've just returned from a spell of leave in India. My wife made me promise that I'd look for accommodation here for both of us, but, I ask you, does this look like the sort of place you'd want to take your wife?'

‘I don't know, Captain. I don't have a wife,' she smiled. ‘Is there any transport I can hire to take me to the Lansing Memorial?'

‘There should be, but this isn't the kind of country where a lady should travel alone.'

‘I'm accustomed to being independent, Captain Maytree.'

‘Please, for my own peace of mind, allow me to assist you.' He spoke to his bearer in Hindustani. The man dropped the kitbags and scurried off.

‘I really don't want to put you to any trouble.'

‘You're not. I need to hire a carriage to get to my own bungalow and the Lansing isn't far out of my way.' His bearer returned with a carriage and an Arab driver.

Captain Maytree helped Georgiana inside, handed her the suitcase and left the kitbags for his bearer to load.

‘I find it odd that a British lady would want to travel halfway across the world to work in an American mission,' he commented after they set off.

‘I have a brother with the British Expeditionary Force. I'm worried about him and taking a job with the Lansing Memorial was the only way to reach here.'

‘An officer?'

‘Lieutenant Colonel Harry Downe.'

‘The political officer?'

‘You know him?'

‘Not personally, but everyone with the Expeditionary Force has heard of Harry Downe's exploits. He's quite the hero.' He coughed nervously. ‘You have heard …'

‘That he's posted missing presumed dead. Yes, but I refuse to believe it and I won't until I see his body, Captain Maytree.'

‘In which case I wish you luck, Miss …'

‘Downe, Dr Downe.'

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr Downe.'

She looked out at the high mud brick walls of the town's buildings.

‘This area's not a pretty sight but the outskirts of the town are quite attractive. If you look ahead you'll see villas set in gardens. The large white building just coming into sight now is the Lansing Memorial Hospital. As you see, and I promised, it's no more than a few minutes' drive from the British compound.' Captain Maytree pointed to a building hemmed in on all sides by rough wooden carts filled with wounded Turkish soldiers. ‘I'll ask the drivers to move some of these carts on so we can drop you at the door.'

‘No, please I'll walk.' As soon as the cart slowed, Georgiana opened the door and stepped down. She thrust her hand into her pocket. ‘I must pay for the carriage …'

‘I wouldn't hear of it,' the captain looked up as a nursing sister approached. ‘I have a feeling we're about to be confronted.'

‘This is a hospital with strict visiting times. If you come to visit anyone, please return at a time when we're not busy …'

‘I'm Dr Downe. Please find someone to take my luggage and stow it where it can be retrieved later. You are …'

‘Sister Margaret.' The nurse was so shocked by a female doctor it was as much as she could do to mutter her name.

Georgiana looked down at a patient who was lying, choking in the back of a cart. ‘Please, find me an apron – an overall would be better and a medical kit? This man's windpipe needs stitching urgently, if he's to survive.'

She pulled off and pocketed her gloves before exerting pressure on a severed blood vessel. ‘Apron and medical kit?' She repeated.

‘Right away.' Sister Margaret shouted to an orderly.

British Camp outside Umm-El-Hannah, Wednesday 16th February 1916

Mitkhal plodded slowly into the British camp. The constant rain, tramp of feet and wagon traffic had turned the ground to sludge. After seeing Norfolk struggle hock deep in the glutinous mess, he'd dismounted and walked the mare the last few miles. Arab auxiliaries had congregated beneath a wind-torn, open-sided canvas shelter on the edge of camp. They'd lit a brazier inside. It smouldered low in the waterlogged atmosphere, belching out black smoke. He searched for a familiar face, and recognised Daoud, one of Cox's senior auxiliaries.

‘Mitkhal, my friend.' Daoud left the fire to greet him. ‘I don't know which looks worse, you or your horse.' He took Norfolk's rein and called over a syce. ‘Treat this horse like royalty. Give it plenty of feed, a rub down, and as dry a stable spot as you can find in this marsh. Don't worry, Mitkhal, she'll be well looked after.' He handed Mitkhal a camp chair.

Mitkhal took the chair, lifted his saddlebags from Norfolk's back, and slung them over his shoulder. ‘Thank you.'

‘Didn't expect to see you back here so soon,' Daoud commented.

‘I need to see the Chief Political Officer urgently.'

‘You have news?'

‘News that won't wait,' Mitkhal made it clear he'd said as much as he was going to.

‘All the political officers are on the chief's boat. I'll find a bellum to take you there but the meeting has just started so they won't be free for an hour or so. Are you hungry?'

Mitkhal recalled eating fish and flatbread but couldn't recall whether it had been that morning or the day before. ‘I could eat.'

Within minutes Daoud had organised a mug of tea, a bowl of bully beef stew, and a bellum to ferry Mitkhal to the staff boat.

‘I can't promise you that you will see Sir Percival Cox quickly, but what I can promise you, is that he'll find it more difficult to ignore you, once you're on board.

British staff boat moored on the Tigris outside Umm-El-Hannah, Wednesday 16th February 1916

Sir Percy Cox looked down the table at his assembled political officers. Over half were dressed in Arab robes, including Michael Downe, who'd just returned from a trip upriver to meet one of the sheiks camped just outside the Turkish lines. Despite his similarity to his brother, unlike Harry he looked ill at ease in native dress. The archetypal Englishman masquerading in fancy dress for a ball.

‘So, to begin.' Cox closed the file in front of him and surveyed the men around the table in the cramped captain's quarters. ‘I can't stress enough that what I'm about to tell you is highly confidential, and can never be mentioned or alluded to outside of this room. General Townshend is seeking approval from Lord Kitchener and the War Cabinet for an attempt to be made to buy the freedom of the garrison in Kut from the Turks.'

‘At what price, sir?' Michael asked.

‘One million pounds and five guns.'

‘General Townshend has one million pounds with him in Kut?' a major asked.

Cox sat back in his chair. ‘According to my sources in the India Office, neither he, nor the India Office, has anywhere close to that amount of money.'

‘It's a bluff?' Michael ventured.

‘On the contrary, I believe General Townshend made the offer on the assumption that either the India Office or the War Cabinet will provide the funds should the time come for them to be paid. What I want you gentlemen to do is contact every influential sheikh you know, friendly, duplicitous, or hostile and without going into details, canvass their opinion on such a bribe being paid to the Turks in return for free passage out of Kut for the beleaguered garrison.'

‘I can tell you now, sir, what the reaction of every decent Arab with integrity will be,' one of the senior political officers said. ‘The British would lose the respect of the native population and our prestige in Mesopotamia and the Near East would hit rock bottom. We would be called cowards, and rightly so. Men stand and fight for their beliefs. Only cowards would try to bribe themselves out of a siege situation where the odds are stacked against them.'

Cox didn't comment. He turned to Michael. ‘Mr Downe, you have just returned from a conversation with the leaders of the Arab auxiliaries who've attached themselves to the Relief Force. Have you an opinion on this matter?'

‘Only to agree with what's already been said, sir,' Michael demurred. ‘From what I've been told by the old Gulf hands, when Force D landed here in the autumn of 1914 the Arabs regarded us as invincible, which is why so many sheikhs flocked to our side. Now, most of the sheikhs I've spoken to regard the British as vulnerable which is why so many have retreated to the side lines to await the outcome of events rather than fight alongside us. You say that General Townshend has sought approval from the British War Cabinet and Lord Kitchener. Is he likely to get it?'

‘Is Michael Downe the war correspondent asking that question or Michael Downe, intelligence gatherer for the British Expeditionary Force?' Cox asked pointedly.

‘I gave you my word when I took this post, sir, that everything said within the confines of the Political Office is confidential. All my dispatches are heavily censored and I have sent my editor nothing that has not been approved by yourself or senior staff of the Relief Force.'

‘Point taken, Downe. Please accept my apologies. Like everyone else in the force, I'm tired. Recent setbacks have affected me more than I would wish. Has anyone else a comment they wish to make?' He looked down the table. ‘No? Carry on the good work, gentlemen. No one knows more than myself that it's not easy in view of the recent setbacks to convince the native population that we will be victorious but I assure you, we will win this war. On all fronts. Dismissed, gentlemen.'

Chairs were scraped back over the board planking and the officers began to file out of the door.

‘A word please, Mr Downe,' Cox said as Michael stood in line to follow the others. He waited until they were alone before continuing. ‘I wanted to thank you for the sterling work you've done among the natives in such a short time.'

‘Any success I've had in gathering information is due to Daoud, sir, not me.'

‘It's you in your brother's clothes that loosens their tongue, Downe. I've heard people of all races and colours say that Harry Downe was more Arab than the Arabs. He understood the Arab mind better than any of us and with understanding came mutual respect. How I miss him.'

‘I'm finding it hard to live without him, sir,' Michael couldn't bring himself to say more.

‘It's going to be hard to win this war without him.' Cox changed the subject. ‘I'm sorry if I offended you earlier by the suggestion that you would print confidential information.'

‘No offence taken, sir.'

They were disturbed by a knock at the door. An adjutant opened it.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Downe's orderly, Mitkhal, is here, sir. He's asking for an audience. He says it's urgent.'

‘Show him in, captain.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Michael went to the door.

‘No need to leave, Downe. I understand you've already met your brother's orderly.'