Kingdom Lock Read online

  A distant gunshot rang out and Lock fixed his attention back on the city.

  A second shot.

  ‘What the hell is going on over there?’ Lock hissed in frustration. ‘We must get across!’

  ‘Sahib! Sahib!’

  Lock and Singh turned to see one of the sepoys scrambling along the bank towards them, waving his hand excitedly. Singh called out to him in Punjabi. He received a staccato response, interspersed by breathless gasps, until the scrawny Indian was kneeling down beside them, grinning from ear to ear. He saluted Lock.

  ‘Sepoy Ram Lal reporting, sahib!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Many, many boats, sahib!’ Ram Lal said, waving back down the river to the south.

  ‘What!?’ Lock snapped his gaze to the river. But all he could see was gloom. A thin mist was now blanketing the water’s surface, and even the Espiegle had been swallowed up by the shadows of the palm trees lining the shore on the opposite bank.

  ‘Sahib, I have found boats,’ Ram Lal said. ‘Bellums, sahib. Downriver in a lagoon, hidden in the reeds.’

  ‘Bellums?’ Lock said.

  ‘Yes, sahib, Arab boats.’ Ram Lal bobbed his head.

  ‘Transport for our troops?’ Lock said.

  ‘No, no, sahib, they are on this side of the river!’ Ram Lal said excitedly. ‘There is an Arab man with a rifle. He did not see me, but he was most definitely a guard. I am certain, sahib.’

  Lock raised the field glasses back to his eyes and scanned the riverbank to the south. There were innumerable lagoons and backwaters all along the edge of the river, all covered in large areas of tall reeds that ranged from slight rushes by the water, to canes nearly twenty foot high further up the bank. But he could see nothing of the boats Ram Lal mentioned. ‘How far?’

  ‘Five-minute walk, sahib. I was going to turn back, but I heard the wood of the boats knocking in the current. Most odd, I thought. So I follow the sound away from the main river, sahib, to a lagoon. I circled around and made my way down to the water’s edge to take a look-see.’

  Lock nodded slowly. ‘Good work, Ram Lal, good work.’

  Ram Lal grinned with delight.

  ‘Singh, this must be how Wassmuss planned to get his army across the Shatt and into Basra undetected,’ Lock said. ‘What with the shelling to the west and what looks like some action to the north, I’d say that Wassmuss’s agents have been hard at a regime of sabotage and distraction. The south-east of the city looks totally deserted.’

  Lock paused and rubbed his chin distractedly. ‘The south!’ he said. ‘Of course! No one would expect an army to invade from the marshes. Singh, we are looking to the east of the city from this point here, the south-east, you understand? Well, where we are now is the best place to cross. The river’s at its shortest point here. From what I recall of Major Ross’s map, it’s only some seven hundred feet across. Head a little to the south, swing round and you come to the Southern Gate of Basra itself.’

  Singh bobbed his head. ‘I believe you are on the right track, sahib.’

  ‘Let’s take a look at these boats, then. Ram Lal, lead the way!’

  Lock and Singh, with Ram Lal a little ahead of them, crept quietly down the riverbank to where the reeds became denser. Ram Lal slowly led them through a seemingly impenetrable forest of canes to the edge of one of the lagoons, thick with smaller reeds. They changed direction here and waded through the water, away from the main river, until they hit a sandbank choked with yet more reeds. They crawled along as quietly as they could, the lapping water, the soft rustling of the reeds and the distant thump of the guns at Shaiba covering their movements. The growing mist was a stroke of luck, too, for the Arab guard would find it harder to see them as they approached.

  There was an explosion of feathers and squawking right in front of them, as a couple of nesting birds took startled flight.

  The three men froze, and lay flat.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Lock hissed.

  ‘No, babblers, sahib,’ Singh whispered. ‘We will have to be careful. There will be many of the birds in here.’

  ‘That’s just great!’

  They remained still, and Lock listened for a moment to the beating of his heart, expecting to hear the clunk of a rifle bolt, or the sudden crack of gunfire. But there was nothing. No shouts and no sound of an approaching man.

  Ram Lal raised his head cautiously. He beckoned to the others; the coast was clear.

  They crept on, keeping their heads low, until the mist finally revealed the first of the long flat-bottomed bellums. Lock thought that they looked like punts, although these vessels narrowed at each end to a point, and the stem and sternpost ended in a high curved piece more in keeping with an Italian gondola. As Lock got closer, he could see that the boats were made of coarse timber, and that they all had a number crudely painted on their side. He estimated that they were about twenty feet long, each one more than capable of carrying ten or more soldiers.

  The trio continued to move onwards, and more and more of the boats came into view, all tied together, bobbing and knocking gently in the current.

  Ram Lal pressed Lock’s shoulder, and all three men stopped. The sepoy indicated over to the left, and Lock slowly lifted his head above the reeds. About thirty feet away, an Arab was sitting in one of the boats, facing out to the main river. He appeared to be dozing. His chin was resting on his chest and a rifle lay across his belly.

  Lock lowered his head again. He rolled onto his back and raised a finger to Singh, who nodded then drew his dagger and began to creep around the other side. Lock removed the sheepskin jerkin, his belt and holster, slouch hat, and slipped off his boots. He handed them to Ram Lal and signalled for him to stay put. Lock drew his bayonet and, placing it between his teeth, slipped down into the water beside one of the bellums. He stifled a gasp, surprised at how cold the water was, and then, after composing himself, carefully pulled himself along the edges of the bellums, inching closer and closer to the dozing Arab.

  The breeze picked up slightly, and the rustling reeds seemed impossibly loud to Lock. He paused and watched Singh move nearer and nearer to the bellum the Arab was sitting in. The Indian lifted his head. All of a sudden there was a squawk and a flurry of feathers right in front of his face as another brooding babbler was disturbed. The Arab jumped up, startled, and spun round. Lock exploded from the water and, in one swift movement, threw his bayonet. It struck the Arab in the side of the neck with a dull thud, like a faraway axe striking wood. The Arab cried out, twisted in surprise, and collapsed heavily to his knees. Singh rushed forward and jumped into the boat just as the Arab toppled over like a felled tree. Lock waded over and hauled his sodden body from the water and clambered into the boat.

  ‘Pukka throw, sahib,’ Singh said, pulling Lock’s bayonet from the Arab’s neck. Blood oozed from the wound. The Arab twitched, and then was still.

  ‘I was aiming for his back,’ Lock said, taking the bayonet from Singh. Both men crouched down. ‘Any more, do you think?’ Lock said, wiping the blade clean on the dead Arab’s aba. Singh shook his head. ‘Good,’ said Lock, pulling himself up again. ‘Call Ram Lal.’

  Singh whistled for the sepoy. Ram Lal’s turbaned head popped up from the middle of the reeds. He waved and quickly made his way over to them, with Lock’s kit cradled in his arms.

  Lock sat down and started to pull his boots on. ‘Right. Ram Lal, go back and fetch the others. Lance Naik Singh and I will take care of these boats.’ Ram Lal saluted and hurriedly made his way back through the reeds. ‘We had best scuttle all but one of these, Sid.’ Lock buckled his belt and scowled. ‘If only we had an axe.’

  Singh drew his kirpan and grinned at the hefty blade. ‘Better than any axe, sahib!’

  Lock smiled. ‘I’ll get rid of this chap, you get chopping!’ He bent down and grabbed the dead Arab by the arms, and started to drag his body from the boat.

  While Singh made quick work of chopping below the waterline on the other boats, Lock continuously s
canned the reeds and the bank, his Webley drawn and his ears straining to hear anything other than the distant shelling. A few minutes passed with nothing but the sound of splitting wood filling Lock’s ears.

  ‘Well, my German friend, “check again”.’ He scoffed at his chess analogy. But it was all beginning to feel like a game. Wassmuss had gained the upper hand, but then Lock had managed to thwart him. ‘Well, now I’ve got the upper hand,’ he said to himself. ‘Try crossing the river without boats!’

  A different sound stopped Lock’s thoughts. He snapped his head to the left and whistled softly for Singh to stop chopping. The Indian froze and Lock gave a second whistle. After a moment, the whistle was returned, and Ram Lal made his way forward with the rest of the sepoys following close behind.

  ‘Hurry!’ Lock said, and jumped down from the boat. He gathered the sepoys around him on a nearby muddy clearing, and pulled a thin reed from the ground. He crouched down and began to scratch a crude map of the river, the bank and the city of Basra in the mud.

  Singh made his way over to them. ‘All done, sahib,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  ‘Good,’ Lock said, before returning his attention back to the map. ‘Now, we don’t know what we will find on the other side of the Shatt, or at the Southern Gate for that matter. Maybe Johnny is already here, or the place has been abandoned, overrun by Marsh Arabs, left to its fate, which I doubt. But keep your heads, skirmish order through the marsh dwellings here … careful of dark doorways and possible hostile natives. I know it’s a British-held city, but we cannot take any chances. Keep focused and cover each other’s backs. There’s an observation tower just inside the city wall, so keep an eye out for snipers, too. Even if they’re our own chaps. Remember, we’re not expected. Got it?’

  There was a muttered ‘sahib’ as the sepoys indicated their understanding.

  ‘I don’t plan on losing any of you now!’ Lock said, getting to his feet. ‘When we get to the city gates I will scout ahead with two men.’ He tossed the reed aside and studied the sepoys thoughtfully. Singh stepped up.

  ‘Not you, Lance Naik. I need you to lead the rearguard. Besides, what if I got shot? Who would take charge then?’ Lock said with a smile. ‘Ram Lal … and … you … Sepoy …?’ He pointed to a slender young Indian with eager eyes and a fuzzy moustache. Christ, he was young, Lock thought, no older than eighteen. But he looked sprightly enough.

  ‘Sepoy Indar, sahib!’ The young Indian saluted, as did Ram Lal, who could barely disguise his pleasure at having been hand-picked.

  ‘All right, lads,’ Lock clapped his hands, ‘in the boat! Iggry! Iggry!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nearly an hour after Singh had set about scuttling the bellums, Lock’s platoon loaded up into one of the flat-bottomed vessels intended for Wassmuss’s invasion force. They clumsily set off across the quiet Shatt al-Arab towards the south-western bank and into Mesopotamia itself. Two of the sepoys, one at each end of the bellum, punted as best they could. The going was slow and meandering, and out on the water visibility in the ever-increasing mist made navigating worse. Lock saw or heard no one on the journey across, except for the continual rumble of the distant guns at Shaiba.

  What seemed like an age passed before they struck the muddy bank on the far side. Singh was the first ashore, leaping off the front of the boat and helping to run her aground so that Lock and the others could scramble off.

  All of Lock’s senses were alert as he waded through the last of the sharp reeds and pulled himself up the bank. Ahead were a number of traditional Marsh Arab dwellings, little more than simple fishing huts. They were primitive mud structures with domed roofs made from reeds, and dotted haphazardly about amongst the date palms. Lock pulled his Webley from its holster and crouched down, with Singh and the sepoys behind him. There was no sign of life, no livestock roaming free, not even the customary mangy dog.

  Lock strained to pick out anything, anything at all. But there was nothing, only the incessant chatter of insects. He waved his hand to the left and right and the sepoys spread out.

  Lock crept closer to the first of the dwelling houses. He paused and leant against its rough wall, cool to the touch, and looked over at the city perimeter, standing about five hundred yards away. He licked his lips and watched the darkness. The breeze suddenly picked up and a fishing net, hung out to dry, knocked against its wooden supports. Lock indicated with three fingers to his left, and then did the same gesture to his right. The sepoys separated and picked their way past the marsh huts.

  Lock moved forward and made his way up the tree-lined central track that led to the Southern Gate of the city. Singh and two sepoys followed close behind. Lock’s eyes were alert, searching every shadow, every possible hiding place for a telltale sign of a hidden foe: a gun nozzle, a bayonet tip, a glimpse of a kabalak or a flash of colour from a kufiya. But there was still no sign of life.

  As they neared the city perimeter, the dwellings thinned out and a crumbling wall of about ten feet in height came into view. It didn’t have any battlements like that of a castle, but seemed to be there more as a defence against the floodwaters than as a protection against potential invaders.

  Something crashed through the undergrowth near to the wall making Lock, Singh and the two sepoys swing around in alarm. It was a cow. Lock let his breath out slowly. The creature stared at the four intruders for a moment, chewing mournfully. It flicked its tail, defecated, then lumbered away. Lock signalled for the men to move on.

  Two minutes later, Lock and the sepoys were opposite the southern entrance to the city, a large open archway in the wall big enough for an ox-drawn cart to pass through. Two pillars, elaborately decorated with stone carvings of exotic animals and plants, were standing either side. Lock crouched down next to one of the date palms clustered around the last dwelling. He rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. There was still no sign of life, and there was no barricade across the entrance. It was just an open, dark passageway. The city beyond was vulnerable.

  Singh was at Lock’s shoulder now. ‘Well, Sid? What do you think?’ Lock whispered.

  The big Indian shrugged. ‘It is very strange, sahib. But there is no evidence of any roughhousing. No cartridges scattered about, or bullet holes in the walls. No bodies, not a thing.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Lock said. ‘So why are there no sentries? No checkpoint? No natives?’ He looked over to his left where three of the sepoys were crouched beside a wooden slatted fence. Indar was at the head of the small group. He caught Lock’s eye and nodded his readiness. Lock leant back and tried to spot the three sepoys to his right, but he couldn’t see them anywhere. Singh tapped his shoulder and pointed over to a darkened doorway about a hundred yards further on. Lock could see a rifle nozzle sticking out. He whistled softly. The turbaned head of Ram Lal appeared briefly, and the Indian waved back.

  ‘Well, time to find out what exactly is going on. I’ll see you on the other side,’ Lock said, and he ran across the track to the gateway, bearing left as he went, and leaving Singh under the cover of the trees. Ram Lal and Indar followed quickly, scuttling over to the boundary wall.

  Lock pressed his back against the left-hand pillar and waited. Indar appeared beside him, breathing rapidly but softly. Ram Lal was pressed against the opposite pillar. He raised his hand to Lock signalling that all was fine. Lock paused, listening. Still there was nothing but the breeze in the trees, and the lapping of the water on the riverbank and, as a reminder that there was actually a war on, the boom of the distant guns.

  Lock tapped Indar on the arm, and then both men slipped inside the entrance, with Ram Lal close behind.

  It was very dark on the other side of the wall, the moonlight only illuminating the tops of the buildings opposite. Lock crouched down, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, ears alert. The eerie stillness continued. Nothing moved. He could make out the occasional crack of a gunshot in the near distance. It sounded as if there was a sniper picking off targets. But they weren’
t coming from the nearby observation tower. It loomed above them to the left, dark and foreboding, but silent and empty. Lock gripped his Webley tightly and set off down the narrow street opposite, with Indar and Ram Lal at his heels.

  At the corner of a crossroads they stopped. Lock indicated for Indar to head off to the left, across a large expanse of lawn towards a row of flat-roofed two-storey buildings. He signalled for Ram Lal to take the road to the right. It would take the young Indian by a grand-looking residence with a loggia-style upper gallery, and over to an area of what appeared to be brick warehouses. The sepoys nodded and set off quickly and quietly.

  Lock crossed the deserted street, and headed north, towards the gunshots. He came to a bridge that led over and through a long, two-storey building lined with barred arched windows. He paused, gripping his Webley tighter. Then, crouching low, he scuttled across. His nose twitched as he passed over a foul-smelling canal. He ran under a stone archway and emerged onto another narrow street, the surface of which was made of hard mud. He could now see that the walls of the buildings were constructed with rough, mud bricks. Every now and again there was a doorway, crowned by an elaborate archway, cut into the wall, but there were no windows on this level. He looked up. Jutting out over the street on both sides, like enclosed balconies, were quaint latticed windows. They overhung the narrow road and nearly met in the middle. Lock was reminded of the Tudor windows of certain houses back in England. The sound of flowing water pulled his gaze down. There was an open gutter running down the centre of the road.

  Lock glanced back the way he had come. The road was mostly in shadow, but there was a sliver of moonlight seeping down through the narrow gaps between the balconies above. He had the uneasy impression that he was being watched and then the quiet was broken by the sound of running footsteps echoing around the walls. They were close by and getting nearer and nearer. Lock remained frozen to the spot, listening to the sound bouncing around his ears. He glanced behind him again and thought he saw a figure step into a doorway. He pressed himself as flat as he could against the wall, the bricks cold against his back, and breathed heavily, listening to the blood pulsate in his ears.