The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  At the last moment Wally turned, and looking up at Ash's window, flung up his arm in a Roman salute. But the gesture of farewell went unanswered, for Ash was not there. The despair that had stabbed through him when he saw the guns had served to goad his brain into searching yet again, and for at least the hundredth time that day, for a way of escape; and this time, suddenly, he had remembered something. Something that it had not occurred to him to consider before – the geography of the storey below…

  He knew which room lay below his own, but he had not thought to visualize those that lay on either side of it; and doing so now he realized that under the Munshi's library lay a small disused room that had once possessed a balcony window. The balcony itself had fallen long ago and the window had subsequently been boarded up; but by now those boards were probably rotten, and once he had broken through the library floor and dropped down through the cavity, it would not be difficult to wrench them off. After which it would merely be a matter of using the sheet rope to negotiate the twenty-foot drop to the ground below.

  Any Afghan seeing him slide down from the window would suppose him to be an ally eager to get to grips with the enemy, and the only danger was that one of the jawans on the barrack roof would spot him, and taking the same view, shoot him before he could reach the ground and the cover of the low wall that separated the line of tall houses from the Residency compound. But that was a risk that would have to be taken, and Ash did not trouble his head over it, but within a matter of seconds was back in the Munshi's library and attacking the floorboards.

  William, who had seen that valedictory gesture and jumped to a wrong conclusion, clutched at Wally's arm and said breathlessly: ‘Who were you waving at? Was someone trying to signal us? Is the Amir… are they…?’

  ‘No,’ gasped Wally, flinging his weight against the door to help close it. ‘It's – only – Ash…’

  William stared at him blankly: the name meant nothing to him and the sudden flare of hope that had sprung to life at the sight of that gesture died again. He turned away and sank down to the ground, but Ambrose Kelly looked up from the wounded sepoy he was tending and said sharply: ‘Ash? You can't mean – do you mean Pelham-Martyn?’

  ‘Yes,’ panted Wally, still busy with the bars of the outer door. ‘He's up there… in one of those… houses.’

  ‘In –? For Christ's sake! Then why isn't he doing something for us?’

  ‘If he could do anything, he'll have done it. He'll have tried, anyway. And God knows he warned us often enough, but no one would listen – not even the Chief. Get that fellow into one of the quarters, Rosie. We're too near the door and they're bound to blast off again. Get back – all of you.’

  The mob had only waited until the door was closed before rushing forward to take possession of the guns once more and drag them round and into position in front of the archway, while from every housetop their allies directed a storm of musket-balls onto the stout, windowless walls of the barracks, the unmanned roof and the tattered, bullet-torn canvas awnings.

  There was very little light inside the barracks, for the sun had sunk behind the heights of the Shere Dawaza, and by now the whole compound was in shadow. But as the day waned the flames from the burning Residency gathered brightness, and when the guns fired again the flash was no longer dimmed by sunlight, but a vivid glare that dazzled the eyes and gave a fractional warning of the deafening crash that followed.

  This time there had been no attempt to fire both guns simultaneously. The first shell had been intended to break in both doors of the archway, and as far as the mutineers were concerned it had done so, for they were unaware that the second one had been left open. They saw the woodwork of the outer one disintegrate in a haze of flying splinters, and when the smoke cleared, the archway gaped on a view of the long central courtyard and the far wall.

  Cheering wildly, they touched off the second gun, and the shell streaked through the centre of the barracks to smash a ragged hole that gave access to the lane. Behind that breach lay the courtyard of the Residency – full now of their victorious brothers, who had only to cross the lane and fall upon the infidels from the rear while their exultant allies in the compound rushed them from the front. But though the scheme was an excellent one, it contained two serious flaws, only one of which was immediately apparent: the fact that the inner and far stouter door of the archway had not been destroyed and was now slammed shut.

  The other and more serious one, which was known to the garrison but still not realized by the mutineers, was that in setting fire to the Residency the Afghans had made the place untenable for themselves, so that instead of massing there in strength they had looted what they could find and hastily withdrawn out of reach of the flames. The likelihood of an attack from that direction was therefore minimal, and Wally could afford to disregard it and concentrate on one front only since by now there would be no snipers firing on them from the Residency, and the smoke from the burning building would confuse the aim of many of the marksmen on the nearby rooftops.

  Secure in this knowledge, his first act after retreating to the barracks and closing that flimsy outer door had been to order four of his men up the stairway at the far end with instructions to keep down out of sight until the guns fired, and then run forward under cover of the smoke and take up their former positions behind the front parapet above the arch, from where they would open fire on the gun-crews to prevent them reloading.

  The rest of his small force had scattered to left and right; neither he nor they having any illusions as to what would happen next. Nor had it been long in happening. The outer door duly went, and the shell that demolished it also damaged one of the stone pillars and brought down a shower of bricks; though without injuring anyone.

  They waited tensely for the second, and the instant it came, raced forward to close and bar the heavy inner door, while the four jawans who had been crouching at the top of the far stairs leapt to their feet, and concealed by the smoke, ran forward to take cover behind the parapet overhead and open fire on the cheering gun-crews.

  Now the loading and firing of a piece of heavy artillery is no easy task for inexperienced men; and the mutineers were not gunners. Not only should the gun be swabbed out between shots, but the live shell must be thrust into the muzzle and rammed down the barrel, the touch-hole primed with gunpowder and lit with a port-fire – or, if necessary, a match. All this takes time, and can be an exceedingly difficult and dangerous task when the crews are being fired on at close range.

  Had the walls of the barrack-block possessed proper loopholes that offered protection and a reasonable field of fire, the garrison would have found it a simple matter to prevent the guns being used against them. But as the only place from which they could fire was from behind parapets surrounding a roof that was overlooked by enemy snipers, the guns were strong cards that could not be trumped, and Wally knew it.

  He knew too that it was only a matter of time before the four on the roof ran out of ammunition – and that the rest of them had very little left. When that was gone the guns would be loaded without interference and the door would be blown in.

  The end was a foregone conclusion, and he realized now that he must have recognized that long ago, and unconsciously based all his actions upon it.

  If they must die, then at least let them die in a manner that would redound to the credit of the Guides and the traditions they upheld. Let them go down fighting, and by doing so add lustre to their Corps and become a legend and an inspiration to future generations of Guides. That was the only thing they could do.

  He knew that there was very little time left, and that little was running out fast; but for a brief space he stood silent, staring into space and thinking of many things… Of Inistioge and his parents and brothers; of his mother's face as she kissed him goodbye; of Ash and Wigram and all the splendid fellows in the Guides… He had had a good life – a wonderful life. Even now he would not have exchanged it for anyone else's.

  A host of foolish memo
ries passed in procession before his mind's eye, all of them clear-cut and bright. Birds‘-nesting with his brothers on Wimbledon Common. A ball at the Military Academy. The long voyage to Bombay and his first sight of India. The happy days in the bungalow in Rawalpindi and later on in Mardan, and those carefree holidays that he and Ash had spent together… The work and the play, the talk and the laughter and the fun. All the pretty girls he had fallen in love with – gay ones, demure ones, shy ones, flirtatious ones… their faces merged into one face – Anjuli's, and he smiled at it and thought how lucky he was to have known her.

  He would never marry now, and perhaps that was no bad thing; it would have been hard to find anyone who could live up to the ideal she had set: and he would also be spared the sadness of discovering that love does not last and that time, which destroys beauty and youth and strength, can also corrode many things of far greater value. He would never know disillusionment, or failure either, or live to see the gods of his idolatry brought down and shown to have feet of clay…

  This was the end of the road for him, yet he had no regrets – not even for the loss of that imaginary figure, Field Marshal Lord Hamilton of Inistioge, for had he not won the most coveted award of all, the Victoria Cross? That alone was enough glory to make up for anything: and besides, the Guides would remember him. Perhaps one day, if he could leave an unsullied name, his sword would hang in the Mess at Mardan and men of the Corps yet unborn would finger it and listen to an old story from by-gone history. The story of how once, long ago, seventy-seven men of the Guides under the command of one Walter Hamilton, V.C., had been besieged in the British Residency at Kabul and held it against overwhelming odds for the best part of a day – and died to the last man…

  ‘Stat sua cuique dies, breve tempus – Omnibus est vitae; sed famam extendere factis – Hoc virtutis opus,’ murmured Wally under his breath. It was an odd time to remember a Latin tag from the Aeneid, and he thought how Ash would laugh if he knew. But it fitted the occasion: ‘Everyone has his allotted day. Short and irrecoverable is the lifetime of all; but to extend our fame by deeds, this is the task of greatness.’

  Today it had been his task to help extend the fame of the Guides, and Ash would understand that. It was good to know that Ash was close by and would see and approve – would realize that he had done his best, and be with him in spirit. He could not have asked for a better friend, and he knew that it was not Ash's fault that help had not come. If he could…

  The boy collected his wandering thoughts with an effort and looked about him at the tattered, blood-stained, smoke-begrimed scarecrows who were all that were now left of the more than three score and ten whom he could have mustered that morning. He had no idea how long he had been standing there silent and thinking of other things, or what the hour was, for now that the sun had left the compound the barracks were full of shadows. The daylight seemed to be fading, and there was no time to be lost.

  Lieutenant Walter Hamilton, V.C, straightened up and drawing a deep breath addressed his men, speaking in Hindustani, which was the lingua-franca of a corps that contained Sikhs, Hindus and Punjabis as well as the Pushtu-speaking Pathans.

  They had fought, he said, like heroes, and most splendidly upheld the honour of the Guides. No men could have done more. Now all that remained for them was to die in a like manner, fighting the foe. The alternative was to be killed like rats in a trap. There was no other choice, and he did not need to ask which they would choose. He therefore proposed that they should make one last effort to capture a gun. But this time they would all harness themselves to it while he alone would hold off the enemy and cover their retreat:

  ‘We will charge the left-hand gun only,’ said Wally. ‘And when we reach it you will not look aside even for a moment, but rope yourselves to it and put your shoulders to the wheels, and get it back here. Do not stop for anything – do you understand? You must not turn to look behind you and I will do all I can to cover you. If you get it back, turn it on the Arsenal. If not, no matter if I fall, or how many of us fall, remember that those who are left will still hold the honour of the Guides in their hands. Do not sell it lightly. It is told of a great warrior who conquered this land and half the world many hundreds of years ago – none other than Sikandar Dulkhan (Alexander the Great) of whom all men have heard – that he said ‘It is a lovely thing to live with courage and to die leaving behind everlasting renown.’ You have all lived with courage and what you have done this day will bring you everlasting renown; for your deeds will not be forgotten as long as the Guides are remembered. Your children's children will tell their grandchildren the tale and boast of what you have done. Never give in, brothers – never give in. Guides, ki-jai!’

  The cry was greeted with a shout that echoed under the arches and among the shadowy quarters until it sounded as though the ghosts of all the Guides who had died that day were cheering in unison with the few who still lived. And as the echoes died away, William called out, ‘Scotland for Ever! – Political Department ki-jai!’ and the men laughed and took up the sabres and ropes that they had laid down.

  Ambrose Kelly came stiffly to his feet and stretched tiredly. He was the oldest of the group by a number of years and, like Gobind, his talents and training had been devoted to saving life and not taking it. But now he loaded and checked his revolver, and buckling on the sword that he had never learned to use, said: ‘Ah well now, I'm not saying it won't be a relief to get it over with, for it's been a long day and it's dog-tired I am – and as some poet fellow has said, “how can man die better than facing fearful odds?” Hakim ki-jai!’

  The Guides laughed again; and their laughter made Wally's heart lift with pride and brought a lump to his throat as he grinned back at them with an admiration and affection that was too deep for words. Yes, life would have been worth living if only to have served and fought with men like these. It had been a privilege to command them – an enormous privilege: and it would be an even greater one to die with them. They were the salt of the earth. They were the Guides. His throat tightened as he looked at them, and he was aware again of a hard lump in it, but his eyes were very bright as he reached for his sabre, and swallowing painfully to clear that constriction, he said almost gaily: ‘Are we ready? Good. Then open the doors –’

  A sepoy sprang forward to lift the heavy iron bar, and as it fell clear, two others swung back the massive wooden leaves. And with a yell of ‘Guides ki-jai!’ the little band charged out through the archway and raced towards the left-hand gun, Wally leading, a full six paces ahead.

  The sight of them had a curious effect upon the mob: after the failure of the last attack every member of it had been confident that the ‘foreigners’ had shot their bolt and would never be able to mount another, yet here they were, rushing out again and with undiminished ferocity. It was unbelievable - it was uncanny… For a moment the mob stared at the ragged scarecrows in almost superstitious awe, and in the next second scattered like dry leaves before the whirlwind force of the attack as Wally fell upon them, his sabre flashing and his revolver spitting death.

  As he did so a solitary turbanless Afghan whose hair and clothes were white with plaster and brick dust, raced from the left to join him, and was recognized by two sowars with a yell of ‘Pelham-Dulkhan! Pelham-Sahib-Bahadur!’

  Wally heard that greeting above the clash of battle, and glancing swiftly aside saw Ash fighting beside him – a knife in one hand and a tulwar snatched from a dead Herati in the other: and he laughed triumphantly and cried, ‘Ash! I knew you'd come. Now we'll show ‘em -!’

  Ash laughed back at him, drunk with the terrible intoxication of battle and the relief of fast, violent action after the frustrations of that long nerve-wracking day of helpless watching… of seeing his comrades die one by one without being able to lift hand or arm to help them. His wild exhilaration communicated itself to Wally, who suddenly lifted out of himself was fighting like one inspired.

  Afghans are not small men, but the boy seemed to tower above them,
wielding his sabre like a master – or one of Charlemagne's Paladins. And as he fought he sang. It was, as usual, a hymn: the same that Ash himself had sung as he galloped Dagobaz across the plain of Bhithor on the morning of the Rana's funeral. But hearing it now he felt his heart jerk roughly, for this was not a verse that Wally had ever sung before, and listening to it he realized that the boy cherished no false hopes. This was his last fight and he knew it, and his choice of that particular verse was deliberate, a valediction. For calm and rest had never held any appeal for Wally, yet now he sang of both – loudly and joyously so that the words were clearly audible above the clamour of the fight…

  ‘The golden evening brightens in the West,’ sang Wally, plying that deadly sabre: ‘Soon, soon, to faithful warriors comes their rest. Sweet is the calm of Paradise the Blest; Alleluia! Al-le-lu –’

  ‘Look out, Wally!’ yelled Ash, and beating aside the blade of an opponent, leapt back to attack an Afghan armed with a long knife who had come up behind them unseen.

  But even if Wally had heard, the warning came too late. The knife drove home to the hilt between his shoulder-blades, and as Ash's tulwar slashed through his attacker's neck, he staggered, and firing his last round, flung the useless revolver into a bearded face. The man reeled back, tripped and fell, and Wally transferred his sabre to his left hand: but his arm was weakening and he could not lift it. The point dropped and caught on a roughness in the ground, and as he pitched forward, the blade snapped.

  In the same moment the butt of a jezail crashed down on Ash's head with stunning force, and for a split second lights seemed to explode inside his skull before he plunged down into blackness. And then the tulwars flashed and the dust fumed up in a blinding cloud as the mob closed in.

  A few paces behind them, William had already fallen with a scimitar half buried in his skull and his right arm shattered below the elbow. And Rosie too was dead, his crumpled body lying barely a yard beyond the barrack archway, where he had been struck down by a musket-ball through the temple as he ran out at Wally's heels.