by Simon Hawke
Chapter 2
The city of Peshawar in the Kashmir was the point where the trade routes from China, Turkestan, and Persia intersected. Its colourful bazaar was a cacophony of Bokhara rug dealers, Chinese silk merchants, almond growers from the valleys of the Hindu Kush, horse breeders from Turkestan, brass and silver merchants, fruit sellers and pilgrims on their way to Mecca. The square teemed with beggars and fakirs; charm sellers and holy men; Afridis from the Khyber Pass armed with jezail rifles and long knives; white-robed Afghanis from Kabul, gray-clad Orakzais from the Bolan, and mysterious, wraithlike Kashmiri women cloaked in veils and silks; all intermingling beneath the white-stone minarets of the mosque of Mahabat Khan. British Royal Cavalry rode with tack jingling and banners rippling in the wind through packed streets where Mongol hordes once left their hoof prints.
To the northwest of the city lay the Khyber Pass, the most direct route east into India. The Khyber was only thirty miles long, but it was like a jagged crack through solid walls of rock, a twisting, turning gorge above which towered sheer cliffs that seemed to stretch up into eternity.
The people who lived there were as wild as the country they inhabited. They ceaselessly fought foreign invaders and each other, governed only by the Koran and the Pakhtunwali, their unwritten laws of social conduct, which were composed of three main dictums. Melmastia demanded that anyone who crossed the threshold of a Pathan dwelling be treated as an honoured guest, even a sworn enemy. Nanawatai dictated that asylum must be granted to anyone who sought it, whether it was a fugitive from foreigners—firinghi—or from other Pathans. And Badal, the strictest commandment of them all, called for revenge, payment taken in blood for any wrong done to a Pathan, any personal affront, any infringement of those things most precious to a mountain tribesman: zar, zan, and zamin—gold, women, and land.
Into this country and into their domain came the British Royal Indian Army, prepared to pit its might against a half dozen rebellious mountain tribes. In the north there were the Mohmands and the Yusufzais in the mountains of Bajaur, Buner, Dir, and Swat. In the Khyber Pass there were the Afridis. The domain of the Orakzais was in the high mountain valleys of Tirah, country they shared uneasily with several Afridi tribes. In Waziristan and Bannu, to the south, were the Mahsuds and the Waziris. Come to pacify their region were Gordon Highlanders and Gurkha regiments; Sikhs and Punjabi Muslims in the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides; the renowned native Khyber Rifles; seasoned British infantrymen and young, green subalterns sent to reinforce the edicts of the government, or Sirkar, with the strong arm of the Raj, with the dreaded curved kukri of the Gurkhas and the MartiniHenry rifles of the British infantry. They came with Hindu infantry called sepoys and with Indian cavalrymen called sowars. They came with saddle-mounted guns called zomboruks and French Maxim machine guns. They came with mules and camels, horses and attendants, cooks, mahout elephant drivers, stewards, bhisti water carriers, and supplies. And unknown to any of them, they came with three commandos from the 27th century.
Finn Delaney was dressed in the khaki uniform of a subaltern in the 11th Bengal Lancers, while Lucas Priest and Andre Cross were attired in civilian clothing, their cover being that of a Christian missionary and his nurse. The setup would allow them considerable flexibility, as the Bengal Lancers were a highly mobile regiment, and Christian missionaries, while having extremely limited success in converting adherents to Islam, were welcome among the mountain tribes for setting up hospitals and providing basic medical care, which was otherwise non-existent. The three of them strolled through the bazaar, examining the multitude of weapons on display in the cloth-covered booths. Curved swords called tulwars gleamed in the bright sunlight. Jazail rifles were on display side by side with local imitations of British ordnance such as the “Brown Bess” muskets, and even copies of the Snider rifle. Knives of all lengths and styles were to be had cheaply, as was hashish, smoked in small water pipes called chillums. Arrack, an alcoholic drink distilled from rice, was offered for refreshment along with a hemp infusion known as bhang. Risaldars, Indian cavalry officers, moved through the streets along-side local residents dressed in long gowns called chogas. The wealthier locals rode in covered litters known as doolies. The atmosphere was clamorous and festive. Everywhere one looked, there was a new exotic sight to greet the senses.
A crowd of onlookers had gathered around an emaciated fakir dressed in nothing save a turban and a dhoti, a small loin cloth he wore wound around his waist and between his legs; it looked like a diaper. He had loosened the dhoti and shoved the material between his legs to one side, exposing his buttocks. He squatted down in a puddle and assumed a lotus posture, sitting in the filthy water. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, just beneath his turban. Then, with a heavy exhalation, he assumed an expression of utter serenity and sat still. As the onlookers talked amongst themselves, wondering what he was doing, someone suddenly noticed that the puddle the fakir was sitting in was beginning to grow smaller. It was another moment or two before anyone realised what the fakir was doing. He was performing an astonishing feat of yogic control. He was taking in the water of the puddle through his anus.
“Neat trick,” said Delaney.
“Yes, but what’s it good for?” Andre said, staring at the fakir with disbelief.
Delaney shrugged.”I don’t know. Suppose it would come in handy if you had a sore throat and you wanted to take a drink.”
Someone standing just behind them in the crowd of onlookers guffawed. “A drink, ‘e says! Lord, an what’s the good o’ that, eh? It’s a neat trick, sure enough, but you show me a way to squeeze me arse into a pint o’ bitters and then I’ll shake your bloomin’ ‘and!” The remarks were punctuated by a hearty laugh and a slap on Delaney’s back that almost sent him sprawling.
“Mulvaney, you bloody fool!” another voice said. “Have you lost your mind to go pummelling subalterns?”
Delaney turned around to see three infantrymen standing behind them. All were privates. One was tall and slim, built along the same lines as Priest, with dark hair, black eyes, and a cleft chin. Another was blond, shorter in stature, broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, with a go-to-the-devil insouciance about him, the unmistakable stamp of a hell-raiser. The third was built like a bull, with a barrel chest and arms like an ape’s. He was red haired, like Delaney, only where Finn’s hair was a dark red shade, his was so bright as to be almost orange. All three immediately stiffened to attention as Finn turned to face them.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said the redhead. “If I’da known you was an officer, I’da never been quite so familiar, nor spoke barracks talk in the presence of a lady. Forgive me, mum, I didn’t see you for the other gentlemen.”
Despite the obvious Irish in the voice, the delivery was pure cockney, half brogue, half burr, a bastard amalgam of army accents stirred so thoroughly as to create a unique and not unpleasant-sounding result.
“Stand at case, men,” said Delaney. “No offence meant and none taken. And the lady’s heard far worse, I can assure you. Wounded soldiers speak plainly enough while they’re being tended to. What are your names?”
“Privates Learoyd, Ortheris, and Mulvaney, sir, of B Company,” said the blond, whose voice seemed to hold a natural tone of insolence. “I’m Learoyd, the tall drink of water is Ortheris, and this horse is Mulvaney. A bit slow, Mulvaney is, but he’s a good Tommy in a pinch. Good of you to overlook this, sir, there’s a lot that wouldn’t. Can we offer you some drink by way of thanks?”
“I’m never one to turn down a drink,” Delaney said. “But I must bring my friends along. They’re new to Peshawar, and the Father here doesn’t know his way around quite yet. My name’s Delaney. This is Father Priest. He’s come to do missionary work and start a hospital up in the hills. Miss Cross will be his nurse.”
The three privates politely doffed their caps to Andre. Ortheris chuckled. “Father Priest, eh? Born to the collar, in a manner o’ speakin’, eh, Father?”
Lucas smiled
. “Only in a manner of speaking,” he said. “My father was a soldier. He had hopes that I would become one as well, but I took vows instead. You might say the name is both a blessing and a curse.”
They took seats at a table in an outdoor tea shop covered by a cloth roof. Ortheris ordered gahwa for them all, a Chinese tea spiced with cardamom seeds, into which Mulvaney poured liberal amounts of whiskey from his flask.
“I take it then that you’re not new to the frontier, sir,” Learoyd said to Delaney.
“I’ve just transferred in from Simia, but I’ve been out here before,” said Finn.”Have you three been here long?”
“All our bloomin’ lives, seems like,” said Mulvaney. He turned to Lucas. “You’ll love it, Father. In the summer the ‘eat’ll blister the skin o’ your back right through your uniform. In the winter it’s cold enough to freeze your bleedin’ ba—er, it’s very cold, sir, I can assure you o’ that.” He cast a sheepish glance at Andre.
“Well, fortunately, Private Mulvaney,” she said, “I lack that especially vulnerable portion of the human anatomy, so perhaps I’ll bear up in this climate.”
Mulvaney looked shocked, and Learoyd threw back his head and laughed. “I believe you will, miss. It takes spirit to survive on the frontier. And you’ll need all the spirit you can muster if you’re off to the high country to mingle with those Pathan heathens.”
“I hope to do something about that,” said Lucas. “We’ve travelled a long way to bring the tribes modern medicine and the Lord’s word.”
“Well, the medicine they might well welcome, I’ll grant you that,” said Learoyd. “As for the Lord’s word, if you’ll forgive my speakin’ bluntly, I think you’re wastin’ your time. Tryin’ to get a Pathan to turn the other cheek would be akin to tryin’ to teach a mule to run at steeplechase.”
“That’s the truth of it, Father,” said Mulvaney. “You give ‘em gold an’ they’ll convert right quick, but they’ll go and reconvert themselves to their butcherin’ ways the minute they take a fancy to, and that minute will come quicker if they suspect you’ve got more gold on you.”
“Let me tell you a bit about these Pathans, Father,” said Ortheris. “They’re the most contrary bunch o’ savages the good Lord ever made, and I’ll be hanged if I can figure why ‘e made ‘em to begin with. Picture this for a pretty creature—a filthy Afghan with the beak of a vulture and eyes like a snarlin’ wolf; a great, shaggy, black beard, and a mouth forever set in cruelty. ‘E’s wearing a blue turban, which like as not hasn’t seen a washin’ in at least a month or two, and a long white robe, all tattered and begrimed. ‘E’s got on baggy trousers tied down at the ankles, and a tunic with charms and whatnot round ‘is neck. Round ‘is waist ‘e’s got a wide sash what ‘olds a pistol and a brace o’ knives long as your arm, as well as one o’ those sharp charra knives like what you’ve seen back in the bazaar. You can drop a lady’s scarf upon one o’ those long blades, an’ it’ll slice it neat as you please. To complete the picture, put a long jezail into ‘is hand and tuck a flower in ‘is ear, and there you ‘ave your pretty rosy Pathan, thorns an’ all. You oughtta see them do their sword dances, leapin’ and caperin’ like dogs tearin’ at a piece o’ meat. Like as not they didn’t prepare you for that lot in the seminary, eh, Father?”
“No, they most certainly did not,” said Lucas. “But I must admit they sound like a fascinating people.”
“They’ll fascinate you with a knife right through your gullet, beggin’ your pardon, Father,” Learoyd said. “Far be it from me to tell a missionary priest his Christian duty; I’ve met enough men of the cloth to know they’ll take the Lord’s word into the jaws of Hell if that’s where they see fit to go, but it’s no country for a woman, Father. If I were you, I’d send Miss Cross here back to Simia, where a lady can be treated like a lady. You’d be doin’ her a favor, and that’s God’s truth.”
“In other words, Private Learoyd,” Andre said, “‘you’re saying that you do not think me fit for such a challenge?”
“No offence, miss,” Learoyd said, “but the Pathan highlands are no place for one of the weaker sex.”
She smiled. “Weaker, Private Learoyd?”
“I do not impute your strength of spirit, miss,” said Learoyd, “I speak of physical strength. It’s a hard land you plan on goin’ to.”
“And you are strong enough to brave the dangers, whereas I am not?” said Andre.
Learoyd grinned. “Well, I’m a man, miss. And dealin’ with the Pathans is a man’s work.”
“Prove it,” she said, setting her elbow on the table in position for an arm wrestle. “Prove I’m weaker than you, and I may reconsider my position.”
Mulvaney roared and slapped the table. “Now that’s what I call spunk!” he said. “Go on, Learoyd, me son, lave a go. It’s as good an excuse to ‘old a lady’s ‘and as any!”
“Surely you’re joking,” said Learoyd.
Andre stared at him deadpan, her hand still held ready to grasp his.
“Come now, miss, I’d be loath to hurt you,” said Learoyd. “This is foolishness. I’m right sorry if I hurt your pride. I’ll take it back now, right?”
“You said you were stronger than I,” said Andre. “I say you’re a liar. Prove you’re not.
“Now, miss,” said Learoyd, clearly annoyed, “that’s no way to talk. Tell her I meant no offence, Father, and we’ll leave it at that.”
Lucas shrugged. “Miss Cross, as I have learned, is a woman of an independent thought and unusual talents. Once she has made her mind up, she will not be dissuaded. You’ve made a statement you purport is true, Private. It appears you’ll have to prove it or have it known you were afraid to.
“What a load of rubbish, said Learoyd. He frowned. “Right, then.” He put up his elbow and grasped Andre’s hand. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, miss. But mind now, you insisted on this. Say when, Mulvaney.”
“On three,” said the burly private. “One … two … three!”
Learoyd’s hand smacked the table before he knew what happened. His eyes grew wide. Ortheris spat tea as he tried to keep from laughing.
“That wasn’t fair,” said Andre. “You weren’t even trying. You were going to give in a little, just to humour me. One more time, and this time for real.” She put up her arm again.
“Faith, and you’re a different sort of woman altogether,” said Learoyd. ‘Very well, then. But this time I won’t hold back. I give you fair warning.”
“I expect no less than for you to do your best,” said Andre.
“Mulvaney,” said Learoyd.
“Right. One… two… three!”
Both exerted pressure on the signal. Learoyd’s mouth dropped open as Andre’s arm refused to budge. Ortheris and Mulvaney, thinking he was toying with her, started chuckling, but it became apparent to them in a moment that Learoyd wasn’t fooling, that he was exerting all his strength to try and put her down and he wasn’t getting anywhere. They stared at the contest in astonishment.
“Blimey!” said Mulvaney. “I must be dreamin’!”
“Corne on, Learoyd!” said Ortheris. “You can’t let a woman put you down, now can you?”
Mulvaney frowned.”Stop muckin’ about, me son.”
“Who’s muckin’ about?” said Learoyd. “She’s as strong as I am!”
“Only as strong?” Andre said, smiling. Learoyd’s arm slowly began to give.
“Well, I’ll be buggered!” said Mulvaney, forgetting he was in the presence of a priest. Both he and Ortheris started to cheer Learoyd on, but it was to no avail. Learoyd gritted his teeth; Learoyd turned red with effort; Learoyd grunted; Learoyd strained, and his arm was still inexorably forced lower until at last the back of his hand touched the surface of the table.
Learoyd gasped as Andre let him go. Ortheris shook his head with amazement. “If I ‘adn’t seen it for myself,” he said, “I’d never ‘ave believed it!”
“Learoyd, that was a disgraceful exhibition, mate,” Mulva
ney said. “Wait’ll the lads in B Comp’ny find out about this!”
“You have a go at her!” said Learoyd. “She’s got the strength of a bloody dockworker!”
Mulvaney, of course, had to rise to the occasion, and being at least twice as strong as Learoyd, he was able to put Andre down, but not without some effort. “Well, sod me!” said Mulvaney, then realised what he had said and flushed.
“It’s quite all right, Private Mulvaney,” said Andre.
“Miss Cross is a most unusual and surprising woman, wouldn’t you agree?” said Lucas.
Andre was rubbing her arm.
“I ‘aven’t done you any ‘arm, ‘ave I, mum?” said Mulvaney, genuinely concerned. “Nothin’ against you, y’understand, but I’m quite strong, an’ you just ‘ad a good match with Learoyd, ‘ere.”
“I’m all right,” said Andre, though her arm was sore and her hand felt as if it had been squeezed in a vice.
“I take back everything I said,” Learoyd said with admiration. “Tell me, miss, how did you come to be so strong? It’s truly remarkable.”
“I grew up on a farm,” said Andre truthfully, for she did grow up on a farm in the Basque country of the Pyrenees in the 12th century. She did not mention that a large part of her strength was due to having been raised as a boy who was trained to be a squire to a knight. The not inconsiderable weight of an English broadsword did wonders for arm development.
“Well, I’ll grant you this, miss,” said Learoyd, “if any white woman was fit enough to travel among the Pathans, that woman is yourself. Though why anyone would want to go there is beyond me.”
“Why do you go, Private Learoyd? “ Andre said.
“Because I’m a Tommy, miss, and I go where I’m ordered,” Learoyd said.
“That isn’t the real reason,” Andre said. “If the duty was unbearable to you, ways could be found to avoid it. You could request a transfer. If no other option were available, you could even take more drastic measures. As a nurse, I’ve seen many cases where men had avoided duty due to being accidentally wounded in some manner, and though I’m not a physician, it didn’t take one to see that the wounds were self-inflicted.”
