‘Well, he won’t get up to any nonsense with those two villains watching him,’ Lily thought with satisfaction, ‘and the rest of us won’t have to listen to his braying voice telling us how he impressed the Malik.’
She leaned over and spoke to Grace urgently. ‘Something missing, Grace? I mean your Afghani escort. Somewhere about this place there’s thirty fellers who must be wondering just where they’re meant to be headed. Surely the Malik isn’t holding them hostage?’
‘He’s planning a phased release. They’re being allowed to leave tomorrow so we’ve a chance to get back to the fort and warn James not to blow them to perdition when they arrive and ring the bell.’
Lily scanned the mêlée of men and horses in the courtyard one last time as their small procession picked its way carefully around the edge and made for the great gate but still there was no sign of Iskander. Was this good or bad? He didn’t even know about his sister’s child. But in these parts it seemed everybody heard everything before it happened so he would surely be told.
Aslam set off at a good pace and soon they were saying a friendly goodbye to the two Afridi escorts who handed over their guns and went back on sentry duty in the rocks. Lily saw Grace’s back stiffen as they rode on as though she could sense rifle barrels trained on her spine and she did not appear to relax until they had rounded one or two bends and begun to descend to a broad valley. After an hour’s riding Grace called a halt in the shade of a clump of twisted apricot trees near an ancient bridge over the Bazar river. Apprehension at last seemed to melt away. They were no longer playing mouse to the Malik’s cat. Lily was glad nevertheless to be back under the watchful eye of the Scouts and comforted to mark their continued state of readiness. Eyes were always moving, surveying the land ahead as well as behind them, hands were never far from rifles.
Two of them tethered the horses and melted silently away – scouting ahead, Lily supposed. To them the whole expedition was a gasht with its usual precautions being taken. This was no picnic by the river. But this thought was instantly belied by the third Scout, who began to take tea-making equipment from his saddle bag. Idly Lily’s mind drifted away to the memory of so many lake-shore picnics with starched table cloths and cascades of napkins. Attendant and obliging young men in blue blazers and straw boaters standing by: ‘Let me pass you an anchovy sandwich, Miss Coblenz.’ Lily supposed it was all still going on on the other side of the world.
She looked about her – pitiless sun in a pitiless landscape. ‘Pitiless people too. Still, he looks peaceful enough,’ she thought, her eye on the third Scout. She watched as he lit a fire and admired his deft and economical movements as he picked an old bird’s nest from a cleft in a tree, made a little teepee of broken rushes, added some driftwood from the river bed and applied a match. No straw boater here, just a mud-coloured cloth twisted carelessly into a loose turban.
Lily looked at Grace expectantly, waiting to hear her story. Negligently Rathmore accepted a tin mug of tea from the Scout and sat down a little apart from the women.
‘Wouldn’t it be great if someone emerged from those rocks and shot him – just shot him!’ Lily thought viciously.
‘We can’t stay here long if we’re to be back at the fort before sunset,’ said Grace with an anxious glance at the sky. ‘Sunset! What a day! It seems to be an eternity since I set off at dawn.’
‘Won’t they be thrilled to see us back again, all in one piece!’ said Lily with satisfaction.
‘Especially Joe?’ said Grace, slyly.
‘Joe! Fat lot of use he was!’ said Lily. ‘Funny – all along it was Joe I was expecting to come to my rescue. For a while back there I really thought he cared about me! But when it came to the point, well! – where was he? Probably playing squash!’ Pink with indignation, Lily looked from one to another. As she spoke the third Scout, the silent, enigmatic third Scout looked up.
‘Jor ye?’ he said. ‘Jor ye, missy baba?’
Grace began to laugh. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Very good, Joe! And speaking Pushtu, it seems?’
‘Can’t spend a day in the exclusive company of these boys without picking up a bit. Anyway – I enjoyed the “hallagullah”! I think I’ve got that right – it seems to mean “uproar”. Useful word.’
Lily stared and stared again. She reached out a hand to touch Joe’s shoulder to make sure he was real. ‘Why!’ she sputtered. ‘You old devil! There you were all along! You fooled them all!’ And more soberly, ‘You darned well fooled me! You did come for me! And,’ she added seriously, ‘I’m not going to forget that. And when I’m a little old lady in mittens in a rocking-chair I’ll tell my grandchildren about you and all the hairy bandits who didn’t spot you! But Joe! That was a dangerous thing to do! Those men would have killed you if they’d known!’
‘Well, I’m damned,’ drawled Rathmore, not pleased by this turn of events. ‘So the forces of law and order make a belated appearance!’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “belated”!’ Suddenly angry, Grace turned on him. ‘It was Joe who worked out where you were being held and it was Joe who risked his skin coming into enemy territory to get you out of the spot you’d blundered into, smug, self-satisfied and supremely unaware. I think a little more gratitude wouldn’t come amiss.’
Undismayed, he opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by an excited shout from the Scouts patrolling the area. All turned to look and look again as they took in the sight of the two Scouts. Between them was a third man, a man in Afridi dress. He was being encouraged along with a pistol in his side towards the group by the fire. At the sight of him, Lily and Joe leapt to their feet calling out his name, Joe in puzzlement, Lily with recognition and relief.
‘Iskander!’
‘Joe, you’re not to shoot him!’ said Lily urgently. ‘He’s an outlaw now, did you know? And we’ve got an arrangement. At least I think we’ve got an arrangement,’ she hissed mysteriously.
‘I think I’ll wait to hear what he has to say for himself before I shoot him,’ said Joe easily. ‘Tea, Iskander? I think I can squeeze another one out.’
Aslam handed Iskander’s weapons, a pistol and a dagger, to Joe.
‘Well, this is very jolly!’ said Grace. ‘Anyone else lurking in the rocks you’d like to invite?’
‘No, no,’ said Iskander, completely unabashed. ‘Be reassured! We are alone. I waited here, knowing you must pass this way. This is the place everyone stops on their way to Peshawar or the fort and there is adequate cover for brigands or outlaws as many less careful than yourselves have found to their cost.’
He settled down between Grace and Joe, confident of his welcome. ‘I was hoping to hear your news.’ His eyes flicked to Lily and she was quick to reassure him.
‘Your sister is fine, Iskander. And, thanks to Grace, so is the child. It’s a boy. They both looked very healthy when we left them.’
Joe noticed again the instant understanding between these two and wondered with trepidation what exactly was the nature of the arrangement Lily had mentioned. He began to fear that his career as chaperone might have been compromised. ‘I think we all have many questions but the main one must surely be addressed to Dr Holbrook. What magic did you use, Grace, to prevail on the Malik to release us? Are you able to tell us now?’
Grace looked consideringly at each questioning face raised to hers – Iskander, Lily, Joe and Rathmore – and replied slowly, ‘Yes. In fact there are things I would like to clear up before we get back to the fort. I have things to tell you – a story going well back into the past, a story that starts in a ravine not far from here . . .’ Grace looked around her and shivered, ‘. . . that encompasses the death of Zeman and ends with the birth of that small Afridi boy. But I can see only half the picture and we must look to Iskander to fill in the details that have been hidden from me.’
Iskander nodded. No one interrupted and she resumed, a supreme raconteuse, apparently telling a story by a camp fire but Joe sensed that she was taking no pleasure in t
he telling. Her eyes were full of pain and fixed on a distant past.
‘Before the war, about four years before the war, a section of the First Peshawar Scouts, based at Fort Hamilton as Gor Khatri was called before it was refurbished, was in the throes of a more than usually bloody struggle with the local Afridi. They’d been having problems for some months – the Afridi had somehow or other got their hands on large numbers of first-class bolt-action rifles and were keen to show their prowess. A barrampta – a punishment squad I believe they called it – was sent out to teach them a lesson but they got into difficulties and had to make a run for it. The whole thing was botched I must think – the patrol was under strength for the job it had to do and the Afridi had been underestimated. They were cock-a-hoop and tails up and giving our chaps a thorough pasting. Several wounded, some dead.
‘They were making their way back, over rough ground, retreating to the shelter of a back-up force that came out belatedly to cover them with Lewis gun fire when an awful thing happened. One of the men – he was their medical officer – fell from a cliff he was climbing with others and was very badly injured. Not walking, not even crawling wounded. Well, I don’t need to spell out the implications. His own men wanted to go in and fetch him out in spite of the thick enemy fire and the difficulties of the terrain. Harry – the MO was called Harry – was lying in an impossible situation at the bottom of a ravine with Afridi lined up overhead ready to pick off anyone attempting a rescue.
‘It would have been a suicide mission had it taken place but it was never attempted. The Colonel commanding ordered the men to stand down and who shall say he was wrong?’ Grace paused, thoughtful.
‘Couldn’t they have shot him?’ asked Lily anxiously. ‘I mean, I think that’s what they would normally do, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. But he was at the bottom of the defile and they couldn’t get him in their sights. Well, there was one man in the company who wasn’t prepared to leave it like that. He was a subaltern, only twenty years old at the time and he’d only just joined the unit but he knew what was bound to happen to Harry if no one acted. His name was Jock – his nickname I should say – inevitable, because he was a Scotsman.’
Joe stirred uneasily but made no attempt to interrupt.
‘And, as many Scotsmen do, he carried one of those little daggers they have in the Highlands . . .’
‘A skian dhu,’ Joe supplied.
‘Yes, that’s it. It means a black knife, I believe. He also had his pistol and armed with these he set off by himself, disobeying orders, into the gathering gloom. As he crept along he noticed that the Afridi had melted away in their Pathan way and left the ravine apparently clear for him. But when he got to the place where Harry had fallen he found he was too late – others had got there before him. Two Afridi lagging behind the rest had found Harry and were robbing him. They’d taken his gun and were searching through his pockets. They were so occupied with this they didn’t hear Jock approach and he killed them both silently. When he turned his attention to Harry he realized there was little he could do for him. The man was a doctor and knew perfectly well the gravity of his own injuries. He told Jock that his back was broken and he could not possibly survive and he asked him to do what was expected of him.’
‘Poor man! And poor kid! What a god-awful thing to have to do,’ Lily murmured.
‘Yes. Bad enough for Harry but he was a seasoned soldier and medical man. He knew what was what and what had to be done. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for that young subaltern to have to pull the trigger. The first time he’d killed in action and he had to put a bullet in his friend. He’d become very fond of Harry . . . everyone was fond of Harry.’ Her voice was becoming more indistinct. She rallied and said more brightly, ‘But, at the end, I thank God he met his death looking into a friendly face! If Jock hadn’t made that brave but suicidal dash into the ravine, much, very much, worse would have occurred.’
‘And Jock made it back safely?’ Lily hardly dared ask.
‘Oh yes. He was much applauded, of course, and nobody bothered to remind him that he’d disobeyed an order. They were very relaxed about such things in those pre-war days. He only just made it back though. He was shot at as he ran and was slightly wounded. Shot at by someone firing an old-fashioned musket, a jezail.’
‘And you’re telling us that all this is linked in some way to Zeman?’ asked Lily, trying to understand.
‘I think it must be,’ said Grace. ‘You see, the two Afridi who had discovered Harry’s broken body were young boys no older than Jock, but not just any boys, they were the two older sons of Ramazad Khan.’
‘So it would have fallen on the youngest of all, Zeman, to do this badal thing? To be avenged on the British for his older brothers?’ Lily frowned, working her way through to a conclusion Joe had come to some time ago. ‘But, hang on – what you’re saying is – not just any old Briton – you’re saying the Briton, the one who knifed the Afridi? You’re saying this Jock?’ She fell silent for a moment and then breathed, ‘Grace, this Jock, we wouldn’t all know him by some other name, would we? Like it might be James? James Lindsay?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘James Lindsay. Bless the man!’
With a lurch of the heart and a sudden insight, Joe cursed himself for his blindness. He looked at Grace with anguish and asked quietly, ‘Why do you say that, Grace? Why do you say, “Bless the man!” with such emotion?’
Tears had begun at last to shimmer in Grace’s eyes and she dashed the sleeve of her blouse hurriedly across her face before replying slowly, ‘Because at the risk of his own life, James Lindsay saved my husband from suffering an unspeakable death. Harry, my husband, Harry.’
Chapter Nineteen
There was a deep silence as Grace’s story ended. They listened to the song of a bird hidden amongst the apricots, a thrush perhaps, Joe thought, adding its own sad coda to the tale. At last Iskander stirred and began to speak diffidently. ‘Dr Holbrook, would you mind if I . . .?’ His voice trailed away.
She smiled at him. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to fill in the gaps in my tale, Iskander.’
‘We speak of a time long ago. Twelve years but the memories are very clear for you and for me. I was only a boy of nine at the time of which you speak and Zeman was a year older. He was always much more the warrior than I was and used to trail about behind his older brothers begging them to take him with them on raids. At last when he was ten years old they agreed to take him and they supplied him with the only weapon that came to hand, an old jezail that had long done no more than decorate a wall of their home. He watched the battle from the safety of the crags, delighting in the British discomfiture. Finally, when the Lewis guns were brought up the Afridi decided to call it a day and retreat. Zeman’s brothers were in the rear, angry at their orders, unwilling to withdraw when they were doing so well and, bringing up the rearguard, they came upon an injured British officer. He’d fallen from a cliff face and was unable to move. Zeman was told to keep watch for them up in the rocks while they . . .’ Iskander paused briefly then resumed, ‘robbed him and considered their next move.
‘Before even Zeman was aware of what was happening a figure had leapt from the shadows and stabbed his brothers to death. The man, a man with red hair, then pulled up the shirt of one of them and slashed his flesh with the point of his dagger.’
Lily gasped and shuddered.
As though speaking only to her, Iskander said, ‘This would not be the surprising and sickening deed you might think. It is the custom among the tribes to carve their tribal symbol on the backs of their enemies.’
‘And sometimes they even wait until they’re dead,’ said Rathmore waspishly.
As though he had not even heard the interruption Iskander went on, ‘Zeman remained calm. He did not cry out but aimed his jezail and fired. But the hammer stuck and the British soldier began to run. Zeman tracked him as he ran and pulled the trigger again. This time it freed itself and he was certain he had hit
him. He climbed down to attend to his brothers. With a burning anger against the man who had done this he copied the letters which he could not understand on to his arm with a piece of burned wood and later copied them on to paper so that he might one day identify what he assumed to be a tribal symbol.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Lily. ‘Do you know, Iskander?’
‘No one could work it out, not even the ones among us who knew English. I showed the word to my English teacher one day in Peshawar and he could not understand either. Look!’ He took a stick and wrote in a few brisk strokes in the sand: EENDO!
‘Can’t figure it out,’ said Lily, considering.
‘Nor could Zeman until some years later. At school in England he was idly writing out the letters which he regularly did to keep it fresh in his mind and his anger glowing when the boy at the next desk looked over and said, “I say, Khan, never would have taken you for a Scotsman!” Zeman asked him to explain. His neighbour was a McGregor and had recognized the motto of an enemy tribe – the Lindsays. “E’en do and spare not!”’
‘Look, I’m awful sorry to be slow here but I still don’t know what it means,’ Lily complained.
‘”Even do . . .”’ said Joe. ‘In other words, “Go right ahead and take no prisoners!”’
‘So when, after many years, Zeman encountered in Peshawar a certain red-haired Major Lindsay who had served on the frontier before the war he resolved to be avenged for his brothers.’
‘And Grace’s escort duty provided the perfect opportunity,’ said Joe.
‘Yes, indeed. I was supposed to be in charge of the troop but Zeman insisted on coming with us as senior officer. He counted on being invited into the fort where he could get close enough to Lindsay to kill him.’
‘Zeman? I’m finding this a bit hard to swallow,’ said Lily. ‘He was charming, he was amusing – he got on so well with James!’ She gasped and then said slowly, ‘Oh, Lord! Do you remember? I think I recall . . . when I was about to shoot that darned pheasant Zeman said, “Slay and spare not, Miss Coblenz!” Was he needling James? Saying, “I’m here. I know who you are.” Taunting him?’
The Damascened Blade Page 23
