Read Winds of Eden for Free Online Page B

Reverend Butler looked down the table to where his wife, Dr Theo Wallace, Theo’s sister Angela Smythe, and Dr Picard were sitting. ‘I can only repeat to you what I said to them. It’s cold comfort after the news that was brought to our door yesterday, but God’s mercy knows no bounds. Unfortunately neither does man’s inhumanity to man. We have, all of us, been placed here, in this town, this country, at this time, by God. It is His will that we offer comfort and assistance to our fellow man to the best of our abilities. As for what has happened. It cannot be changed. All we can do is remember the souls of Lieutenant Colonel Harry Downe and Captain John Mason along with those of every other brave man who has fallen, in our private prayers, and pray that God extends his mercy to the courageous men who are besieged at Kut al Amara, including Angela’s beloved husband, Peter. So,’ he solemnly filled their glasses from the wine decanter, ‘please, join me in a toast to Lieutenant Colonel Harry Downe, Captain John Mason and all absent friends.’
    Blinded by tears, Angela rose to her feet and raised her glass along with the others.
    â€˜Two more toasts, ladies and gentlemen before we drain our glasses. To the new life that joined us yesterday by God’s will. A posthumous son for Captain Mason, and our guest Mrs Maud Mason. And to peace. May it grace the world in 1916.’
    As Angela echoed the toast of ‘Peace’ she recalled the troops she’d seen disembarking at the town’s wharves. Sepoys and sappers from India and the Western Front, senior officers in splendid dress uniforms and behind them crates of guns, ammunition and stores destined to feed the war effort.
    She couldn’t help wondering if peace would return to Mesopotamia – or anywhere in the world. Or if she’d ever see Peter in this life again.

    Kut al Amara, Saturday 25th December 1915
    Warren Crabbe and Peter Smythe left the improvised mess of the Dorsets after the last post-Christmas dinner toasts had been drunk and all the bottles the steward had permitted to be opened for the occasion, emptied.
    â€˜Leg still bothering you?’ Crabbe asked when he noticed Peter limp out of what had been a carpet shop before their regiment had evicted the merchant and taken over the building.
    â€˜When it hits the cold,’ Peter admitted.
    â€˜That will teach you to blow up a bridge when you’re under it.’
    â€˜You would have found a better way?’
    They heard General Charles Townshend’s baritone accompanied by his inevitable banjo-playing echoing from the sheikh’s house he’d requisitioned. The general exhibited a taste for all things French, and officers who’d been invited into his private quarters swore the mud walls of the room he entertained in were festooned with risqué pictures cut from La Vie Parisienne .
    â€˜Alphonse is on good form tonight,’ Peter commented.
    Crabbe stopped walking and listened. ‘ The Black Cat , or as the general with his penchant for all things French would say, Le Chat Noir.’
    â€˜Your accent is improving.’
    â€˜Thanks to the French I hear in the mess every time Townshend’s name is mentioned. Why do officers refer to him as “Alphonse” when the men call him “Charlie”?’
    â€˜Possibly because Charlie is more British and French isn’t taught in council schools,’ Peter suggested.
    â€˜My Glasgow slum school didn’t even teach English.’
    â€˜I’ve noticed,’ Peter joked.
    â€˜I’ll talk to you when you’ve mastered the tongue of Robbie Burns, my boy.’
    â€˜Frankly, given the noises you Scots produce I’d rather not try.’
    They headed north-east through the rod-straight avenues Sandes and his engineers had hacked through the higgledy-piggledy, cheek-by-jowl housing in Kut. Walls had been torn down and the holes covered by