by John Wilcox
Eventually, Sunil called. ‘We go right here.’
Simon led them into a narrow dark street, fringed on the right by a high stone wall in which narrow, barred, unglazed windows were set high up.
‘This is place,’ called Sunil.
Fonthill looked around him quickly. The street seemed deserted, although the normal Tibetan shack-like dwellings formed a terrace facing the jail. Everything was strangely quiet. He took a deep breath.
‘Dismount,’ he called. ‘Handlers take the horses.’ Two men came forward. ‘Keep them here, against the wall,’ Simon ordered, ‘in case we have to ride away quickly. One man at the end of the street to watch for Khampa soldiers. The rest of the troop, draw kukris.’
He helped Jenkins and Sunil down from their horse, withdrew his sabre from its saddle sheath, stuck it through his belt and then took his Webley revolver from its holster.
‘Where is the entrance?’ he demanded of Sunil.
‘Just here. It will be locked. You will need to knock loudly.’
But there was no need. The great, metal hinged door, set in its recess, hung open, revealing a dark interior. Treading carefully, Fonthill stepped forward, pulled it back with his foot and stepped inside. A small passageway opened out onto a courtyard of beaten earth, lined on all sides by blank walls, topped along the roof line by narrow, barred windows.
‘Ah!’ Simon drew back with a gasp. Just inside the courtyard, hung a figure, swaying gently in the breeze created by the open doorway. The rope around his neck had been fixed to a cross-beam and his feet hung only a couple of inches from the ground. Underneath his feet lay a pair of pince-nez spectacles, the glass lenses shattered, the frames twisted, as though someone had stamped upon them. Part rigor mortis seemed to have set in, so the man must have been hanging for a little time.
‘My God!’ exclaimed Jenkins. ‘I thought at first it was Miss Alice.’
‘So did I.’ Fonthill levelled his revolver and looked around keenly. Nothing stirred. He stepped outside into the courtyard. All of the cell doors were hanging wide open, except one.
‘Sunil, which cell was she in?’
‘I can’t tell from inside. Wait. I go outside and count windows.’
He returned within seconds. ‘Second on the left.’
‘Oh God.’ Simon swallowed hard. ‘That’s the only one that has been locked by the look of it. Wait. The key is still in the door on the outside.’
He stood stock-still, thinking for a moment. Then, he spoke softly. ‘This may be a trap. Daffadar. Take the men and look into each cell. Be careful. There may be Khampas waiting in each one. Sunil and 352, come with me.’
Averting their eyes from the hanging body, the three stepped softly towards the locked cell. There, Fonthill gently turned the key, pulled open the door and stepped back.
Immediately, a Tibetan, dressed in ubiquitous smock and baggy trousers, held up both hands in the far corner of the cell and screamed something.
‘He say, don’t shoot,’ interpreted Sunil.
‘Good lord!’ Once again Simon stepped back in revulsion. Two bodies, lay flat on the floor of the cell. They were obviously Khampa warriors, for their long black hair trailed behind them and they wore the washed blue smocks that were as near as these soldiers ever came to wearing uniforms. Their long swords lay, undrawn in the sheaths hanging from their belts. Two pools of blood had oozed out from a bullet wound in each of their chests and lay, half congealed, at their side. They were clearly dead.
Apart from a small heap of flattened straw lying in a corner, from which the Tibetan had obviously just risen, the rest of the cell was empty – except, that is, for a small, crumpled piece of clothing that lay against the wall near the door.
‘Tell him he’s not going to be shot as long as he tells us truthfully who he is and what has happened,’ said Fonthill tersely. Still keeping the man covered with his revolver, he moved to the garment and picked it up. It was a cotton garment of some sort and carried a strange, sulphurous smell, emanating from a small hole, blackened at the edges, in the centre of the fabric.
Frowning, Simon shook it out. ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s Alice’s under-vest. Look at these little primroses embroidered onto the neckline. Oh, don’t say that she’s been shot!’ He whirled round to where Sunil was talking quietly to the man. ‘What’s he saying? What happened in here?’
‘It’s all right, sahib. She not dead. At least, not yet.’
‘What happened? Tell me.’
‘I do. Listen. This is jailer for the prison. He came in early this morning with these two dead men. They Khampas, part of bodyguard of Khampas General who is also governor here. It was General who ordered Memsahib’s arrest and who had her tied up there to bar in window.’
‘Yes. Go on. Get on with it.’
‘Sorry to be slow. He keep talking. Now, he say that he let the two men in this morning. He think they going to take Memsahib to General who lives in this street for, er, further questioning – he think probably torture to make Memsahib say she really a British spy. They come into cell, but Memsahib not hanging any more because I cut her down, see. She standing facing them. The men go to her to take her but she had little pistol – I give her, you know.’
‘Yes, Yes. Go on.’
‘She has pistol wrapped in that cotton thing in your hand. She fire it at each man in turn and garment reduce noise. She clever, Memsahib, of course.’
‘Sunil …!’
‘Yes, I go on. Both men die quickly because she fire into their chests very close. Jailer think she go to kill him so he falls on knees and cries for mercy. But Memsahib go to door to see if anybody who heard muffled shots is coming but nobody comes. So she takes key from jailer, makes him lie on straw and goes out, locking door behind her.’
‘What a gal!’ Jenkins was grinning from ear to ear. ‘I told you she could look after ’erself. She’s a fighter, that one.’
But Fonthill was frowning. ‘What about the man hanging out there by the courtyard?’
‘Ah, yes. I ask him.’
Immediately, the jailor dropped his eyes and spoke slowly, addressing the floor.
Eventually Sunil turned back. ‘He say that is body of man who is professor at one of great monasteries here. He used by General to act as interpreter with Memsahib. But General finds out that he has been giving food and water to Memsahib so he has him killed, also this morning.’
‘The swine. Does he have any idea of where Alice has gone?’
Sunil shook his head. He say he think Memsahib take keys to open all cell doors so that other prisoners can escape because he can hear them shouting in courtyard, but he don’t know where she goes then. He worried because he thought no one would come and rescue him.’
‘Ah, so the General has not come looking for his men?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Hmmm. That’s a bad sign. Perhaps he came and took Alice himself?’
Jenkins wrinkled his face. ‘No, bach sir. He would surely come and rescue the jailer, wouldn’t ’e, and ask how she got out – and probably strangle the little bugger with ’is bare ’ands – ’e sounds that sort of bloke.’
They were interrupted by the return of the daffadar. ‘Nobody in cells, sahib. Everyone empty. Whole jail seems to be empty.’
‘Thank you, Daffadar.’
Jenkins laid a hand on Simon’s arm. ‘What do you intend to do now, bach sir? We’ve obviously got to find ’er, but where do we look in this bloody sacred city, eh?’
Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘The question is … what would Alice have done? After acting as Mother Bountiful, that is, to the seedy dropouts of the city? Where would she have gone? To the monasteries to carry out her original mission? Maybe. But she wouldn’t know where to go and wouldn’t be able to ask anyone to help her.’ He frowned. ‘I have a feeling that this General of the Khampas can probably help us.’
He turned quickly back to Sunil. ‘Find out from the jailer where the General lives and if he will have
more of his bodyguard with him. I think we’d better pay him a call. I’d certainly like to make his acquaintance, anyway.’
Now it was Jenkins’s turn to frown. ‘You told me that old Youngfather had ordered you not to make a fuss. If you do make a fuss, it’d better be a quiet one.’
‘To hell with that—’
He was interrupted by the arrival of the trooper he had left on guard at the end of the street. ‘Sahib,’ he cried, breathlessly, ‘Khampas coming down main street.’
‘Damn! Daffadar, get the horses in here, into this courtyard. Then shut the door behind you.’
Immediately, all was bustle as the daffadar rushed out, followed by his men, and then the clatter of hooves as the horses were pushed and led through the narrow archway and into the compound within.
‘Sunil,’ Fonthill turned to the boy. ‘Come into the courtyard and bring your rifle. Interpreter, tell this jailer he is to lock the main door of the jail once the horses are inside.’
Jenkins was by his side. ‘What are you goin’ to do?’
‘I don’t want to fight unless I really have to. Perhaps if we can get everyone inside here, these fellows will pass by and we won’t have any trouble.’
‘Who are these blokes, anyway?’
‘I should think they’re probably the party that passed us on the way in and have followed our route by questioning people who saw us … oh damn!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve just seen that little weasel of a jailer slip through our Gurkhas and go through the doorway into the street. He’s not locked it, of course. And he’ll tell the Khampas where we are. Daffadar.’
‘Sahib.’ The sergeant was standing by the open gateway, ushering the last horses into the compound.
‘Can you lock the door?’
‘No, sahib. Don’t have key. No bolts, either.’
‘Very well. I think we are bound to have visitors now. Close the door and then get the men to bring the horses to the rear of this courtyard. There they must stand behind the horses. Leave the carbines in the saddle buckets. When I give the order, we will stampede the horses towards the Khampas, once they have all come into the courtyard. We will be close behind with our kukris. Quickly, now, there is little time.’
‘Sahib.’
Jenkins nodded and a slow smile began to spread from under his great moustache. ‘What a bloody good idea, bach sir. Set the horses on ’em in this confined space an’ then go in with our koookerisdoodars. They’ll be buggered. They won’t know which way to turn.’
‘I hope so. Now, Sunil, come with us to stand with our backs to the wall over there. You are not to fire your rifle unless it is the only way to defend yourself. I don’t want gunshots to sound out. Understand?’
‘Oh yes, sahib. Bloody good idea.’
‘Don’t swear.’
‘No, sahib.’
The last pony was ushered in and the daffadar closed the heavy gate and sprinted back to help the Gurkhas herd the horses back to the far end of the little courtyard, where they bunched together, nervous and wide-eyed, just in front of Fonthill, Jenkins and Sunil, the total, men and beasts, taking up half of the space of the yard.
Simon drew his sabre and Jenkins his knife.
‘You’re not going to be much good with a wounded leg and just that knife,’ said Fonthill in low voice. ‘I shall lead the Gurkhas in. You stay here and look after Sunil.’
‘Oh, yes. An’ who’s goin’ to look after you, then?’
Before Simon could reply the gate was thrown open with a crash and a group of Khampas, swords drawn, broke through, ran through the passageway and then stood, hesitantly, at the entrance to the courtyard. Fonthill thrust his way between the horses towards them, stood with his legs apart, waved his sabre and shouted, ‘Come on, then, you bastards. Let’s see what you’re made of!’
Immediately, there was a howl and the soldiers brandished their swords and set off towards him. Simon ducked back between the ponies and shouted, ‘Let the horses go!’
Almost as he shouted the command, there was an answering shriek from the Gurkhas, who slapped the rumps of their steeds and set up a great howl. The horses reared, snorted and began to gallop away from their handlers. It was only a small courtyard, hardly room enough for the Gurkhas and the Khampas, let alone thirteen frightened, scampering ponies and the beasts charged straight into the new arrivals, bringing several of them down and scattering the rest.
The Gurkhas, as light and as agile on their feet as monkeys, were dancing immediately behind their mounts, cutting and thrusting at the Tibetans, slipping like quicksilver between their adversaries, slashing and shouting ancient Nepalese war cries as though fired by some strange Himalayan bloodlust.
The horses, wild with terror now, began thundering around the walled perimeters of the courtyard, to get away from the fighting. In doing so, they trampled on several of the Khampas who had previously been knocked down.
Simon and, inevitably, a limping Jenkins now joined the fray. The Khampas were in the majority but now, not knowing which way to turn, as predicted by Jenkins, they began to try and crowd back under the archway leading onto the little passageway before the open gateway. Fonthill caught a glimpse of the murdered interpreter swinging like a pendulum as he was brushed aside.
The crowded space, however, left the Khampas at an even greater disadvantage for they could not swing their long swords. Simon parried the downward swing of one man on the periphery of the crowd and countered it by thrusting the point of his sabre into the man’s breast. As the man fell, he caught him and used him as a kind of battering ram to force his way along the edge of the passageway until he reached the open gateway. Luckily, the door swung outwards and he was able to pull it back and close it.
‘What’ve you done that for?’ He became aware of Jenkins at his side, blood oozing again through the bandage on his head.
‘I don’t want the bastards escaping and giving the alarm,’ he gasped. He and Jenkins were now at the rear of the mass of Khampas and the pressure was now on the two men, who had their backs to the door. Fonthill stood parrying and thrusting with his sword into the mass of bodies before him. Jenkins was now bent almost double, his head bobbing from side to side like a boxer’s as he looked for targets and then thrust selectively upwards with his long knife.
The noise in the little passageway added to the chaos, with steel rasping on steel and the shrieks of the wounded merging with the war cries of the Gurkhas. Fonthill realised that Jenkins, crouched almost at his feet and slashing upwards ferociously, was creating a space before him, giving him time to select his targets, thrusting and withdrawing, thrusting and withdrawing.
Although savage and brave, the Khampas, were not a disciplined, well-led force. Now, fighting at front and back, and unnerved by the charge of the horses, they could not last long. In fact, the carnage was over in a remarkably short time, and Simon suddenly realised that the only people left standing in the crowded passageway and in the courtyard were his own Gurkhas, gasping for breath but wearing their beaming smiles, as though they had just returned from a native wedding.
Fonthill leant on his bloodstained sabre to get his breath. ‘Daffadar!’ he panted.
‘Sahib.’ The man materialised as though by magic.
‘Let me know the casualties.’ Through the milling little men he looked anxiously to the far wall and let out a sigh of relief as he saw Sunil trying to capture some of the ponies and calm them down. He turned. ‘Are you all right, 352?’
‘Not as good as I used to be in this sort of a fight, see.’ The little man was on his haunches, panting. ‘’Ave a bit of difficulty, look you, in gettin’ me breath.’ He levered himself upward with the help of his knife. ‘All right now, though.’
‘Only one casualty, sahib,’ called the daffadar from inside the courtyard. ‘The interpreter wallah. He should not have tried to fight but he did. He got killed.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. He was a brave man. But no one else?’
‘No, sahib.’ The daffadar’s smile widened. ‘We too good for them. But good plan to use horses. Very clever.’
Fonthill nodded and returned the grin. ‘Glad you approved. You and the men did wonderfully well. Now try and calm the horses. We are going to need them.’
‘Very good, sahib.’
Jenkins stood once again at his side. ‘Did you notice if many of the varmints got away?’
‘No, but some of them must have done, before I got to the door. So the message that we are here and on the rampage is bound to get around, probably to the ear of the General.’
‘So what do we do now, then?’
‘We find that swine and have a word with him about that poor bastard swinging there on the end of the rope and, also,’ his voice wavered for a brief moment, ‘about my dear wife. Let’s collect Sunil now, round up the horses, and find out where the General lives. Then we’ll pay him a visit.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After Sunil left her, Alice searched in the straw and found the little jar that the interpreter had left for her and quickly drained the water that remained within it. Her shoulders ached abominably and she shrugged and rubbed them as best she could. Then, gun in hand, she settled herself in the straw to wait. She had no great plan, but would react to circumstances. Whatever ensued, she would not let herself be taken …
She had not intended to let herself sleep but the strain of the last few days were too much for her and her eyes closed and she dreamt of riding away from Lhasa towards … she was not sure … almost certainly Simon. Then the grate of the key in the lock jerked her awake and she scrambled to her feet, hiding the gun behind her.
The door swung open and the hunched figure of the jailer appeared. He seemed to be alone, for he suddenly stiffened when he saw her standing upright and not, as he expected, hanging from the bars above. He swung around and, just as she took a step forward, he swung around on his heel and pulled the door to behind him and locked it. Once again she was alone.
