by Simon Hawke
He handed them the flask and they each took a pull at it. “Thanks,” said Lucas, sitting down in a wooden chair. He sighed. “I don’t know how you’ve managed up till now.”
“One does what one must,” said Hugo, smiling tightly. “Perhaps now, after seeing all this, you can better appreciate your position, Father. There’ll be no going out into the hills to preach the word until these hostilities are done with.”
“That could take months,” said Lucas.
“It could,” said Hugo. “Meanwhile you’re needed by your own. There shall be work aplenty for you two at Chakdarra, when we reach them. Speaking of which, Father, I think you should have this.”
He handed Lucas a revolver.
“I can’t take that,” said Lucas, wanting to badly but knowing that staying in character meant he had to refuse.
“I’m not asking you to shoot anyone with it,” said Hugo. “That will be a matter for your own conscience. But I’ve seen what happens when Pathans get hold of a man. They cut him to pieces or else take him back to camp and have sport with him there.”
“I appreciate the gesture, Doctor,” Lucas said, “but I couldn’t possibly carry a gun.”
“I can,” Andre said. She took the revolver.
“Do you know how—” Hugo began, then stopped when he saw her quickly break the weapon open and check it. “Yes, I can see that you do. Useful skill for a woman to possess, especially in these parts. Well, go on now, you two. Get something to eat. You’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”
Sharif Khan received the emissaries in the main room of his house. Flanked by his chief bodyguards and lieutenants, TIA agents masquerading as Afridi tribesmen, Phoenix waited for the two emissaries to bow to him before he returned their greeting.
He noted that they carried ornate khanjars, tapering eight-inch daggers with carved and inlaid hilts, as well as Khyber knives—the deadly charras—the long knives of the Pathans. The charras had heavy, single-edged, wide blades over twenty inches long which tapered gradually from the hilt to a sharp point at the end. The hilt, like those of the smaller knives, was without a guard, and had a slight projection on one side, by the pommel. The knives were encased in leather scabbards and worn thrust through the sashes, similar to the way Japanese samurai carried their swords. The men also carried the ubiquitous jezails, the curved-stock matchlock rifles which were frequently converted with captured English flintlocks. The barrels were long and slender, the stocks inlaid with silver plate. The weapons were as much a show of finery as force—the single most prized possession of an Afridi, when thus handsomely crafted, was evidence of wealth and status.
“The Most Holy, Mullah Sayyid Akbar sends greetings to the warlord Sharif Khan,” said one of the emissaries. “He wishes to know why Sharif Khan has not responded to the call of the Prophet to rid our land of the infidel firinghi.”
“Convey my most respectful greetings to His Holiness, Sayyid Akbar,” said Phoenix, “and inform him that I have received no call to which I could respond.”
The emissary looked at him with puzzlement. “is the khan not aware of the flame that sweeps the land?” he said. “All the tribes are gathering for the Night of the Long knives. The time is ripe to slay the invader. They are weak and powerless before the strength of the jehad. How can the khan be ignorant of this?”
“I have heard that the tribes were gathering,” said Phoenix, “but there has been talk of the Great Jehad before. It is action that speaks loudest, and not words.
Sharif Khan does not blindly leave his holdings at the mere mention of a gathering of tribes. If there are spoils to be won, lives to be taken, that is another matter. But I have heard such talk before and little has come of it.”
“Know this then, Sharif Khan,” said the emissary, “that even as we speak, the infidel is being slaughtered in the Malakand by the forces of Sadullah, who speaks with the Voice of the Prophet. The Light of Islam, Sayyid Akbar, is now preparing to move against the British fortifications in the Khyber Pass. We strike everywhere and we strike as one. When comes the Night of the Long Knives, a great host shall come from the heavens to rid our land of the invader, and all who join in the jehad shall win their way to Paradise. Thus speaks Sadullah; thus speaks Sayyid Akbar. Where will Sharif Khan stand when comes the judgment? How shall Sharif Khan speak when it is asked who joined in the jehad and who stood by?”
“Does Sayyid Akbar question my faith?” said Phoenix.
“If the faith of Sharif Khan is beyond question,” countered the emissary, “why does Sharif Khan refrain from joining in the holy war? We have heard much of Sharif Khan, of how he has quickly risen to the status of a warlord and of how his tribe, though smaller than some, has grown strong and prospered. Clearly Sharif Khan is among the chosen. It is only fitting for Sayyid Akbar to search out such a man and seek his aid in the great cause. It is the time for the chosen of Islam to join together and lead the tribes in the fight to force the invader from our land. This is the message Sayyid Akbar has sent. What reply shall we take back to him?”
“None,” said Phoenix. “I will choose from among my tribe men to stay and watch over my holdings. Then I shall gather my warriors and return with you to deliver my reply to Sayyid Akbar myself. Sharif Khan has spoken. You will await my preparations and we shall depart together. In the meantime, let my humble home serve as your shelter. My retainers will see to it that you are made comfortable and that your hunger is appeased. You have been many days upon your journey. Rest and refresh yourselves, and then we shall begin our return.”
The emissaries bowed. “Sharif Khan is most kind and gracious. We shall humbly await your pleasure.” Respectfully, they backed out of the room.
“This is what we’ve been waiting for,” said Phoenix to his fellow agents when the emissaries had left. “If we’re going to learn anything, we must be at the centre of events. Three of you will remain here—Python, Zebra, and Mustang, keep the patrols going and report to me at once if you discover anything. If we need to send for reinforcements I’ll communicate with you, and one of you will clock to Plus Time and report our findings. Agents Fox and Sable, you’ll accompany me to Sayyid Akbar’s camp. We’ll leave a force of thirty men behind to conduct patrols and maintain security. The rest of the tribe, with the exception of the older men and women and the children, will travel with us. Any questions?”
“Just one,” said agent Python. “There’s supposed to be an adjustment team from the First Division back here somewhere, infiltrated into one of the British army regiments. We’re assuming a cover with the other side. How do we keep from killing them if we all wind up in the same battle?”
“Unless there’s some way you can recognise them, you don’t,” said Phoenix. “There’s nothing to be done about that. There’s a massive disruption going on back here, and we’ve got to get a fix on it somehow. Everything else comes secondary. Don’t forget that if we can’t keep from shooting at them, they can’t keep from shooting at us as well. That’s what happens when you’ve got teams on opposing sides. It comes with the territory. They knew the risks when they enlisted. So, for that matter, did we. Let’s just try to survive this one, okay? It’s liable to get pretty hairy. Any more questions?”
There were none.
“Right. Let’s get the show on the road. We’ve got us a holy war to fight.”
Chapter 6
Sayyid Akbar did not look like a holy man. Instead of white robes, he wore loose-fitting black trousers, high boots, a black shirt with flowing sleeves, and a black vest ornately embroidered in gold. His black turban was fastened with a ruby clasp. He towered over the white-garbed Sadullah as they stood in the Mad Mullah’s tent high in the cliffs above the Malakand fort.
“I have done everything you asked of me, O Holy One,” Sadullah said, his voice sounding very different from the way it did when he addressed his followers. It held a tone of abject supplication. “Even now, we have the British troops who have arrived trapped with the others in the fo
rt. At dawn we shall strike and wipe them out to the last man! Then we will move to finish off the soldiers at Chakdarra.”
“And what of the force assembling below, upon the green?” said Sayyid Akbar.
Sadullah smiled. “So much the better. My sentries have reported this to me. They think to attack the Buddhist Road. It is a foolhardy plan. They will be completely vulnerable to our fire from the high ground.”
“Have you bothered to gauge the size of this force?” Sayyid Akbar said.
“It is insignificant,” Sadullah said. “Our own numbers are far greater.”
“You’re a fool, Sadullah,” Sayyid Akbar said. “You have already lost this battle once before, and now you shall lose it again. I have given you another chance, and you are wasting it.’
“But how have I failed, Holy One?” Sadullah said, chagrined. “ I hold the British in the palm of my hand!”
“And they shall slip right through your fingers,” Sayyid Akbar said. “It is pointless. You will never understand strategy. Never mind. It matters little to me if you do not destroy the British here, so long as you engage them. It will distract their attention from the Khyber Pass long enough to buy me the time to do what I must do there.”
Sadullah’s eyes were bright with the light of fanaticism. “The Night of the Long Knives? You will call forth the host of heaven?”
“They will come when it is time,” Sayyid Akbar said.
When you have done all that you can do here, join me at my camp above the Khyber Pass.”
“And then we shall strike?” Sadullah said.
“Then we shall strike,” said Sayyid Akbar.
He vanished. The Mad Mullah prostrated himself upon the ground, weeping with joy. Surely he was blessed, he thought, anointed by the Prophet. The Holy One had been sent to deliver Islam, and he had been chosen as His instrument. Once before, he had launched the great jehad, and he had failed, not having anticipated the great strength and numbers of the British. The Holy One had turned back time and given him the chance to try again. He would not fail. At dawn his forces would descend upon the infidels and cut them to pieces. Then he would take his followers to the Khyber Pass to witness the coming of the host of heaven, before whom the infidel firinghi would not stand a chance. They would drive the invader from the land once and for all, and for centuries to come the mullahs would speak of how Sadullah the Anointed had prevailed and won his way to Paradise. He pressed his forehead to the ground and prayed with all the fervour of his soul.
As the first light of dawn showed above the peaks. General Blood gave the order to advance. The force assembled on Gretna Green immediately moved off down the graded road in fours formation, while the troops mobilised to attack the high ground set off under the command of Colonel Goldney. Three hundred men crept toward the sangars the Ghazis had erected upon the cliffs of Castle Rock. The sentries, who had been watching the assembled troops below, upon the green, were taken by surprise. The troops came within one hundred yards of their objective before they were spotted and the enemy opened fire.
Goldney ordered a charge. Spreading out and moving in from opposing flanks upon the sangars, the men scrambled up the rocks, firing at will and engaging the Ghazis at bayonet point. Surprised, and with no one to direct their movements, the Ghazis gave ground before the furious assault and the ridge was captured, completely without losses. Even as Sadullah was preparing to order his Ghazis into action, the first engagement of the battle was over and Castle Rock was captured.
Lucas and Andre watched with General Blood and his staff from the heights of Castle Rock as the British troops below pressed home the advantage of surprise. The infantry fixed bayonets and advanced into the Ghazi ranks. Without enemy fire from Castle Rock impeding their movements, they were able to deploy and press their way through. So quickly had Goldney’s men captured Castle Rock that the troops down below were already deployed and in position to force open the passage before the Ghazis knew that Castle Rock had fallen. By the time they realised what had happened, it was too late.
The assaulting troops charged into the Ghazi ranks. The Ghazis panicked and began to flee. As Sadullah watched in disbelief, his followers broke ranks and ran, scrambling from the rocks, where they were suddenly vulnerable to fire from the troops on Castle Rock. They took flight down the graded road to escape being trapped by their own numbers in the narrow pass.
“No!” Sadullah screamed uselessly. “Stand and fight! Stand and fight, you cowardly dogs!”
But his words were lost upon the wind.
“We’ve done it, General!’ said Hugo, standing beside Blood and watching the enemy in full flight. “We’ve broken through! We can post pickets in the pass and reinforce our position. Now we can—”
“No,” said Blood. “I will not allow them to escape so they can join with the tribesmen at Chakdarra and warn them. We’ll finish this here and now. They’ll be on the plain once they have retreated through the pass. Fully exposed and on foot. Order forth the lancers. No prisoners. No survivors.”
The signal was given and the four squadrons of cavalry charged. Delaney, leading the second squadron of Bengal Lancers, couched his lance and leaned forward slightly, bearing down upon the fleeing Ghazis before him. It was going to be a slaughter. The tribesmen still trapped in the pass were run down and trampled by the lancers as they thundered through. The cavalry formed a line upon the plain and charged the fleeing enemy. There was no escape. The Ghazis died in the rice fields, run through by the lances and hacked to death by sabres. Bodies fell everywhere as the lancers descended on the running Ghazis and butchered them.
“Christ,” said Hugo, turning away from the carnage down below. “I’m sorry, General, but that’s more than I can stand too watch. I’ve seen enough of death.”
Churchill was riveted by the spectacle. “They shall not forget this,” he said. “It’s probably the first time any of them have seen what cavalry can do, given room to deploy their strength. Henceforth the very words Bengal Lancers shall strike terror into their hearts.”
He turned away and walked toward Hugo. At that moment one lone Ghazi who had remained undiscovered, hidden behind the rocks of his crumbled sangar, rose to a kneeling position and brought his jezail to bear upon Hugo, whom he took to be the commander of the British forces. As he raised his rifle, Lucas spotted him.
“Hugo, look out!”
Instinctively, after so much time spent under enemy fire, Hugo reacted by throwing himself down flat upon the ground. In an instant, Lucas saw that Hugo’s combat-quick response had placed Churchill directly in the line of fire. In the white heat of adrenaline-charged clarity, he saw it all. He made a running dive for Churchill. The Ghazi fired. The .50 calibre ball slammed into Lucas’s chest, ploughing through the thorax and tearing everything in its path. Andre fired the revolver Hugo had given her, shooting the Ghazi right between the eyes.
Churchill stood, shocked, staring at the limp body at his feet. Lucas Priest lay facedown upon the ground, blood draining from the gaping hole in his chest. “My God,” he said.
He crouched down over the body and gently turned it over. The others gathered round.
“Doctor, can’t you do something?” Churchill said.
Hugo looked down and shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. There’s nothing to be done. He saved my life, and then he gave his to save yours. And all he came here for was to preach the word of God.”
Andre got down on her knees and gently stroked Lucas’s forehead. “No,” she said, softly, “he came here to do much more than that.”
She looked at Churchill, kneeling opposite her. He looked up at her, stricken. She looked back down at the lifeless body of her friend. She reached out and touched his face. It was still warm. She trailed her fingers across his forehead and closed his eyes for the last time.
They stood silently over the grave. General Blood had read the words, and when they had all said “Amen,” Churchill had added a heartfelt, “Rest in peace, Father.”
/> He won’t do that here, Finn thought. When this is over, Search and Retrieve will disinter the body and return it to the time where it belongs. And another name will be added to the Wall of Honour at Division Headquarters, with a posthumous commendation.
He could not believe it. He had seen men die in combat throughout all of history, but he could not bring himself to accept that Lucas could be one of them. They had been through so much together, had faced death a hundred times and laughed about it later. There would be no laughing anymore. No more bouts of drinking Irish whiskey in the First Division lounge to wash away the taste of the last mission and celebrate having completed it successfully. No more brawling in the dives of San Diego and Ensenada, no more quiet nights spent with the old man in his private sanctum, sipping ancient wine as they talked about old missions.
The relief force was departing for Chakdarra. The job for them had only just begun. After the brief service, Blood had ordered Andre back to Peshawar, from there to depart for Simla, and preferably from Simla to England—which was home to her, so far as the general knew. He felt that the Father’s death was his responsibility, that he never should have allowed him to accompany the unit in the first place, that if it wasn’t for the fact that medical aid was sorely lacking, he would have been firm from the beginning. The frontier was no place for civilian non-combatants.
Finn was to head up a small detachment that would escort Andre back to safer territory and deliver dispatches to be sent on from Peshawar. Mulvaney, Learoyd, and Ortheris would be among those to accompany them, since they would have to ride and Blood didn’t feet that he could spare any of his lancers. The cavalry had proved to be of great value, and he needed all the experienced horsemen under his command. Sending back one officer—the one with the least experience on the frontier—and several foot soldiers who could ride after a fashion, was the wisest choice. It would still be a hazardous journey, but one small mounted unit could move quickly and stood a better chance of getting through. All the tribes in the vicinity were up in arms, and most of them could be expected to join the forces at Chakdarra. There was far less risk in taking the opposite direction.
