by Max Hennessy
There still seemed to be no contact with the British Embassy and Babington began to grow irritated.
‘What they need in there,’ he said, ‘is a good wireless operator.’
The air force commander offered to find them a guide, but by this time shells were falling in and around the Legation and they heard that several people had been hit and cut with glass or flying splinters of wood.
Eventually, a Rezhan dressed in long white robes, a waistcoat and a fez, appeared, and said he was bearer to Sir Andrew MacAllister, the Minister.
‘The sahibs must not let anyone see their uniforms,’ he warned. ‘The King’s Russian pilots wear uniforms very similar and have been bombing the rebels, and if you fall into their hands they will think you are Russian and–’ He drew his finger across his throat.
The ancient Chevrolet appeared after dark and they drove away through the streets of the town. In the villages near the Legation, there were bodies everywhere, their stomachs swollen, and the houses were charred, the stonework black and oily. Leaving the car and groping their way in the dim light of a torch, they pushed into the shadows, the bulk of the buildings faint against the sky. There was a stink of death and several times they heard rats squeaking among the rubble and their claws castanetting over the stones.
Eventually the Rezhan guide held up his hand and they sank down in the shadows of a wall which they realised surrounded the garden of the Legation. It had a large scorched hole in it.
‘Rebel field gun misfire,’ the Rezhan said. He gestured to left and right. ‘Here are Bachi-i-Adab’s army. Here are King’s army. We must wait.’
A lot of firing was going on and they could hear the whack-whack of bullets. Among the trees huge fires were blazing. There was no sign of life from the Legation, a large rambling white building full of arches and colonnades to catch the cool winds during the hot summer. In the moonlight, it looked a little like the Parthenon in Athens. Nearby was a large house obviously belonging to one of the Legation staff, but it had been hit by shells and one end had collapsed.
The guide pointed to the Legation. ‘I will go first. When firing stops, next one go.’
A breeze had got up and it was cold enough to make them shiver. The guide tapped Dicken on the shoulder and slipped away and a moment later they saw him running across the lawn, with his head well down. Eventually he vanished into the shadows alongside the Legation.
‘You next, Babington.’
Babington’s teeth flashed as he grinned and, ducking his head, he slipped through the hole in the Legation wall and began to run as the guide had run, his head down and following a zigzag route. As he disappeared, the firing swelled up and Dicken had to crouch down lower against the shattered wall.
After a while he heard voices and, sinking into the shadows, became aware of rebel soldiers nearby. As they moved in and out of the trees in the moonlight, he could see they were armed to the teeth. They obviously suspected something was afoot and were searching the undergrowth. Dicken could hear them talking to each other and occasionally a burst of laughter, then they disappeared, except for one who remained watching the Legation.
For a while, Dicken waited. A light flashed abruptly from the Legation then went out and he guessed they were encouraging him to make a dash for it, but the rebel soldier was still there and he could smell the rancid smell of sweat and woodsmoke that came from his clothes.
Finding a heavy stone in the undergrowth, Dicken flung it towards where he had seen a pebbled pathway. At the clatter, the soldier lifted his head and began to run in the direction of the noise. As he vanished, Dicken scrambled through the hole in the wall.
The firing started again at once and the chances of being hit seemed dangerously high. Instead of being a hundred and fifty yards, the distance seemed to Dicken more like a hundred and fifty yards, even like a run in a nightmare – going backwards as he tried to go forward. As he reached the blackness of the verandah, he paused to get his breath, then took several stumbling steps forward and raised his hand to push against a glass-panelled door. As he did so, it opened in front of him and, caught off balance, he fell inside into the darkness.
As he sat up, he heard the clash of curtain rings and someone slamming the door, then a light went on. In front of him was a circle of men, all incredibly handsome, all immaculate, as if their nationality and profession called on them to be so. Among them was the guide, and alongside him, grinning, Corporal Babington.
And – Dicken’s eyes widened – holding two children just behind Babington was Nicola Aubrey!
Five
The room was crowded and as everybody pressed forward the face vanished, so that Dicken felt he’d been seeing things.
They were in the billiard room of the Legation and under the wide table were children’s toys. As Dicken scrambled to his feet, a tall, good-looking man stepped from among the other good-looking men. He was impeccably dressed.
‘I’m Sir Andrew MacAllister,’ he said. ‘The British Minister in Ambul. How do you do? How kind of you to come.’ He was all charm, as if they were meeting at a party. ‘You can see it’s a bit of a mess here.’
Dicken glanced around him, his eyes alert for that fugitive face he had seen so briefly.
‘I came, sir, with the intention of arranging evacuation,’ he said.
MacAllister ignored him. ‘It’s been rather a noisy day here today,’ he pointed out. ‘Following an unrefreshing night when they kept us all awake. We spend most of our time in the billiard room because it’s the safest place. I spend most nights walking round the corridors and sleep during the day. What weapons we have I keep in my bathroom. You’d better meet my wife.’
In a daze, Dicken found himself being introduced to a middle-aged woman as calm and attractive as the Minister himself. He’d often read of besieged Britishers behaving as normally as if the enemy were hundreds of miles away and he suspected they probably still dressed for dinner every evening.
‘The Bachi came to the gate yesterday,’ MacAllister went on calmly. ‘He knew we had white women here but he promised they’d come to no harm. As a matter of fact, I think he meant it but, of course, it’s impossible for him to answer for every man in his forces, any more than it is for the King, who’s also promised us no harm. Fortunately the Rezhans are all dreadful shots but we’ve lost a lot of windows and chimney pots, and we’ve been hit by over fifty shells. The children spend most of their time in the cellar.’ He sounded like a vicar recounting what had been done with the proceeds of the Belfry Fund.
Once again Dicken tried to explain why he was there but MacAllister seemed so absorbed with his thoughts he didn’t appear to hear him. ‘The place is full of rebels, of course,’ he went on. ‘We watched them taking the forts to the north-east. Then they began marching towards Ambul and began to collect outside the gates here. We locked them for safety but our Rezhan guards dropped their rifles and all vanished within twenty-four hours.’
It seemed to Dicken that the whole affair was being handled in far too leisurely a manner. ‘I think we ought to make some attempt to contact Peshawar, sir,’ he said, but MacAllister waved a hand.
‘I have the Bachi’s word,’ he said. ‘I met him at the gate.’
‘You were very brave, dear,’ his wife interposed.
MacAllister shrugged. ‘He made an impassioned speech, saying the King was an infidel and must be dethroned. I explained that was his affair but that I expected him to respect the Legations. He said he would. In the meantime everybody moved here from their homes for safety.’
There was a curiously dreamlike quality about the situation and Dicken was handed over to another tall handsome man who was equally unruffled.
‘Their troops came past the Legation,’ he said. ‘Standards. Mullahs on horses. That sort of thing. Took the Shirira Fort and the Riding School. Spasmodic firing all the time. Got all the b
edding and mattresses into the Legation building, y’know. Thought it safer.’
‘Look–’ Dicken was growing angry ‘–I came here with the express intention of organising an evacuation. The machines are ready and so are the crews. They only want the Minister’s word. But when I mention it he doesn’t seem to be listening. Is he deaf or something?’
The new speaker, who turned out to be the Minister’s Secretary and seemed to be trying to ape the Minister with his neatly-cut breeches, box-cloth gaiters and cravat, smiled. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘He’s just very conscious of the dignity of the British Empire.’
‘Dignity won’t help much if that lot out there run amok.’
‘They’ll never do that! They tried once or twice. The Minister always manages to calm them down.’
‘Perhaps one day he won’t be able to.’
The Secretary offered a gold case and, lighting a cigarette, continued leisurely. ‘My dear chap,’ he said. ‘You don’t evacuate a Legation just like that. This is British territory, you know. I don’t think the Minister’s even considered it.’
The Minister and his wife had vanished by this time and Dicken suspected they were wandering round the building somewhere, bolstering up everyone’s courage with their calm demeanour.
‘Lots of activity between the Lalu Pushta and the forts still,’ Dicken’s guide continued. ‘Still fairly safe in the garden, though, and we continued to come and go. Then Henry’s kitchen and George’s lounge were hit and a lot of those damned Russian aviators dropped bombs. Rotten shots. Battle’s all round us now. German Legation and French Legations have been in touch. Got the wind up a bit. Wondered if they could join us. Said yes, of course. Got to help foreigners, what? Shell burst on the lawn yesterday. Rebels want to burn down the Nau Burja and came begging for oil. Pretended to be a bit stupid and gave ’em some in a saucer. When they said they wanted our lamp oil, we told ’em we use electricity. Put ’em off a bit. Minister’s decided that if they break in we’re not going to fight. Just keep calm. By the way don’t undress. Sleep in your clothes. Safer.’
The Legation looked like a colander. On the wall opposite the windows upstairs, Dicken counted forty bullet holes.
‘One singed the Minister’s moustache,’ the Transport Officer, another of the calm handsome young men, said. ‘And a shell missed his head by inches. Lots of VC work going on here, you know. But the Bachi’s behaving jolly well.’
Babington and Dicken looked at each other, both faintly bewildered.
‘Don’t you think, sir, since you’re on such good terms with the Bachi,’ Babington suggested, ‘that I ought to get my wireless set out of the aircraft? It’ll be better than the one you’ve got.’
The idea was put to the Minister who pooh-poohed it gracefully. ‘Can’t afford to lose you, my boy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the Squadron Leader would do the job. Have to be careful though. Scotty was shot in the leg yesterday. Most inconvenient.’
Within three hours of arriving at the Legation, Dicken found himself outside again. The Transport Officer went with him and they led two horses.
Arriving at the aerodrome, the Transport Officer shook hands with the aerodrome commandant, who was more than willing to help and, detaching the generator and the heavy T21 and TF long wave sets from the aircraft, they roped them across the horses’ backs. As they returned towards the Legation there was a lot of artillery fire and the Transport Officer explained that the Bachi had captured several old Turkish field guns belonging to the King but, since no one knew how to aim them, there was no telling where the shells might go.
His eyes still on the look-out for that face of which he had caught such a fleeting glimpse, Dicken helped Babington to carry the sets and the generator up the stairs to the highest part of the house. Neither of them had slept properly for days but to Dicken there seemed rather more urgency than the Legation staff seemed willing to admit.
There were a Rolls and a Crossley tender in the garage, so they disconnected the batteries and carried them after the wireless sets. The highest point of the house turned out to be the Minister’s bedroom but his wife agreed that they should use it and they screwed the sets to her dressing table. The T21 was a long range set that needed a big aerial, and climbing to the flat roof in the moonlight, they studied the flagpole against the moving clouds and the whiteness of the snow on the surrounding mountains.
Babington had just climbed the pole and was attaching a loop to the top when the clouds moved away from the moon and they heard the whack-whack-whack of bullets. Babington descended so quickly he landed on top of Dicken and they both collapsed at the foot of the pole. Diving for cover trailing the lead, they disappeared down the stairs to the bedroom and began to connect up. Within half an hour, Babington was tapping out morse and within minutes he gave a yell of delight.
‘We’re through, sir! We’ve been picked up by somebody in Miranshar. They’re going to pass on anything we wish to send.’
The following day was a Sunday and Dicken and Babington found themselves at a service conducted in the little chapel attached to the Legation. There were bullet splashes in the plaster above the altar and one of the windows had been blown in to allow a cold draught to blow through so that everyone wore coats and gloves. To Dicken’s surprise when the priest arrived it was Father O’Buhilly, bearlike as ever, a red woollen scarf round his neck and a pair of green mittens on his hands.
MacAllister sat at the front with his wife. Behind them were the Secretary and his wife and children, then the Transport Officer with, behind them, ranged in order of precedence, the rest of the Legation staff, including Rezhan and Indian servants and their families. Dicken’s eyes roved among them as O’Buhilly moved in front of the altar, searching all the time for the face he’d seen so briefly at the moment of his arrival.
As everybody began to file out, he felt himself grasped by the shoulder, then O’Buhilly swung him round and gave him a bear-like hug.
‘Me boy,’ he beamed. ‘’Tis simply not possible that it’s yourself! I was hardly able to keep me mind on me job when I saw you sittin’ there. I heard we’d had visitors but, sure, it never entered me mind that it would be me ould fellow-prisoner from China.’
‘What are you doing here, Father?’ Dicken asked.
‘Simple, me boy. It seemed to me it wouldn’t be long before we were all chucked out of China. So I came here.’
‘But Rezhans are Moslems.’
Father O’Buhilly shrugged. ‘I’m not a crusader, me boy. I just look after the women and children. There is a lot of poverty here and the women are badly used. When trouble looked likely, the Anglican padre suddenly discovered he was sick and bolted for India and I was asked if I’d oblige by joining the staff. Nobody seems to mind that I’m a Catholic and I conduct an ecumenical service that suits everybody.’
‘We should be thinking of getting out of here, Father.’
‘That we should.’ O’Buhilly smiled. ‘But I think Himself’s read about Gordon at Khartoum,’ he said. ‘It is failin’ the British Empire he’d be if he were to consider leavin’.’
He led the way to his room, which seemed as bare and empty as the room he’d had in Shanghai. As he produced a bottle of Irish whiskey and a packet of cigarettes, it seemed to Dicken to be time to enlist his help to identify the face he’d seen.
‘Look, Father – that girl. The one with the children. There wasn’t much light. Only candles. I thought I was seeing things. Who is she?’
‘She’s governess to the Minister’s Secretary’s children. Why?’
‘I’ve got to talk to her, Father.’
Father O’Buhilly studied him with a faint smile. ‘She’s pretty, me boy,’ he said. ‘What are y’intending?’
‘I know her, Father. You remember how we talked when Lee had us as prisoners.’
‘I do indeed, me boy. Is she the one?’
‘She is, Father.’
‘I thought you were married.’
‘I am. And I shan’t forget it. But I must talk to her. Can you arrange it?’
‘I think so, me boy. This evening, I should think.’
There was a lot of talk during the day about the prestige of the Union Jack but Dicken suspected that they were all being heavily over-optimistic. Pathan tribesmen were no respecters of persons and, if it suited them, they could easily sweep over the Legation and butcher everybody inside. The Minister was still against aircraft trying to land, however, because the rebels were shooting at anything within sight.
When Babington sent a message asking for another aircraft to fly over, the words that came back startled them. ‘Squadron Leader Quinney to return at once – repeat at once – to Miranshar,’ it read. It was signed ‘C A Diplock, Wing Commander.’
MacAllister, who had appeared as soon as the set had started to cheep, shook his head immediately.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘That’s not possible! We need you here. If we have to evacuate we shall need every single man.’
‘Are we going to evacuate, sir?’
MacAllister gave him a mild reproving look. ‘We represent His Majesty’s Government and we don’t leave until it becomes absolutely necessary.’
‘Not even the women and children?’
‘I have the Bachi’s word that no harm is intended to them.’ It was a little like arguing with a gramophone record.
In the expectation of an aeroplane appearing overhead, Dicken and Babington lugged a large looking-glass to the roof in the hope of using it as a heliograph. Outside, the fighting swayed backwards and forwards all day. Troops rushed a two-storeyed house nearby and captured a few insurgents who were shot on the spot, but they were then pinned down themselves by fire from near the Legation gates. During the afternoon, the Legation gardener was shot through the head, and during the evening, the men isolated in the captured house managed to escape and fled through the Legation garden, starting another storm of firing as they went.
