The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Simon did not dislike the regression. He took her hand. ‘I am so pleased for you, Alice. I am impressed that you have made your own way so successfully. It cannot have been easy for a woman - and such a young one at that.’

  Alice came as near to blushing as was possible for a newly hardened war correspondent, and she gave a half-embarrassed smile of thanks. Simon retained her hand and they sat silently for a moment, gazing into the fire. Then Simon stood. ‘I must go now, for I have much to do before the morning.’ Despite slight resistance from her, he kept her hand in his and drew her towards him. ‘Alice, I shall forever be grateful for the way you helped me. Goodbye, and God bless you.’

  He kissed her briefly on the lips and then walked away. As he mounted his horse, he looked back to see her framed against the firelight, one hand raised in silent farewell.

  Eighteen hours later, he and Jenkins were riding the dusty road towards Pietermaritzburg, Durban, and a ship for Bombay.

  Chapter 2

  By craning his head to look forward through the dirty glass of the carriage window, Simon could see the foothills of the mountains of Swat to the right, and to the left, those of Waziristan, which looked down from Afghanistan on to the border with India. Although the train had not climbed very far from the hot plains of India, he could already detect a certain freshness in the air, a crisp harbinger of the snows of the Hindu Kush.

  Opposite him, Jenkins stirred and opened one eye. ‘Where are we, then?’

  ‘Just coming into Khushalgarh, I think,’ said Simon, flattening his cheek against the glass in an attempt to look ahead. As they had already learned, opening the window let in not only the heat but also the soot-laden fumes from the twenty-year-old engine, straining two carriages ahead. ‘In fact, I think I can see the Indus now.’

  ‘Is this where we get off, then, bach sir?’ Jenkins yawned and stretched his arms luxuriantly. ‘I’ve just about had enough of this old puffer, look you.’

  Although it was little more than three weeks since they had left the army of Lord Chelmsford in South Africa, the two men carried no trace of their military background. Both were dressed in nondescript mufti: simple khaki shirts tucked into lightweight cotton trousers, with loose-weave white jackets slung above their canvas bags on the rack above their heads. They could have belonged to almost any stratum of the heterogeneous working population of British India: engineers, railway officials, or civil servants from the growing class of bureaucrats that kept the sub-continent functioning. The casual observer, however, might have puzzled about their ethnic origins. While both - and particularly Simon - carried with them something of the nonchalant air of confidence that went with their undoubtedly European clothing, their skins were quite dark and gave them the appearance of Indians or Eurasians. Simon’s brown eyes and, especially, the black coals of Jenkins added to this impression.

  ‘No, not yet.’ Simon had to raise his voice to be heard above the hiss of escaping steam as the train slowed itself to a halt at Khushalgarh station. ‘The one after this is for us. Kohat. About another twenty-five miles. Then it’s back on to horseback and up into the hills.’

  As he finished speaking, the door crashed open and a round-faced English officer, with captain’s stars on his shoulders, a tropical topi with a pugree wound round it on his head, and dressed in lightweight khaki and brightly gleaming Sam Browne belt and riding boots, started to climb into the carriage. On the second step, however, seeing Jenkins and Simon, he paused, stepped down again, swung the door back to look at its exterior, and then, with a frown, put his head into the compartment.

  ‘Look here, this is a first-class coach, isn’t it?’ It was more a statement than a question and he gestured vaguely with a swagger stick as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, do come in,’ said Simon. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘What ...?’ The officer blinked at Simon’s smooth tones, took a quick look at Jenkins and climbed into the compartment. Gingerly, he took a corner seat as far away from Jenkins as possible and put a small valise on the rack, stealing a glance at the two men’s luggage as he did so. What he saw obviously decided him.

  ‘Now look here,’ he said again, pointing with his cane to Simon, ‘you know perfectly well that only Europeans are allowed in first cl—’

  ‘Fonthill,’ Simon interrupted him, stretching out a languid hand of introduction. ‘Guides. Captain.’

  ‘Queen’s Own Corps of Guides,’ added Jenkins, helpfully.

  The captain’s jaw dropped. ‘Barlow,’ he said automatically. ‘Eighth Foot.’ He looked again from Simon to Jenkins and back again. Outside a whistle blew.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Simon. ‘This is Jenkins, 352.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ added Jenkins proudly, his white teeth cutting a swathe through his black countenance as he gave Barlow a huge grin. Then he jumped to his feet, grabbed the bewildered captain’s hand, shook it vigorously and sat down again.

  ‘Sergeant!’ spluttered Barlow. ‘Sergeant!’ He swung round to Simon, who was still sprawled in his corner. ‘You know very well that non-commissioned officers do not travel first class.’

  ‘This one does,’ said Simon imperturbably.

  ‘What?’ Barlow turned from one to the other uncertainly, before addressing Simon again. ‘I am not travelling in the same compartment as an NCO. Dammit, I wouldn’t do it even . . . even . . . even if the man was English.’

  Jenkins retained his smile but his eyes had hardened. ‘Ah well, look you, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Welsh, so perhaps that’s all right, is it?’

  ‘Damn your impertinence. Get out of this carriage.’

  Jenkins looked quickly across at Simon, who shook his head.

  ‘I said get out.’ With a swift movement, Barlow grabbed Jenkins by his shirt front and hauled him to his feet. But Simon was even quicker. He sprang from his seat, slipped one hand under Barlow’s belt and clamped the other on the back of his uniform collar and swung him away from Jenkins towards the open door. Then, his foot against the man’s buttocks, he ejected him through the doorway like a bullet from a gun. At that point, with a hiss, the train began to move forward.

  Unhurriedly, Simon pulled down Barlow’s valise and threw it out after him, as the train gathered speed. Then he leaned out, closed the door with a thud and resumed his seat in the corner.

  Jenkins stroked his moustache for a moment and then broke the silence. ‘Now we shall both be blown from the mouth of a cannon,’ he said. ‘Or you will. It was nothing to do with me, look you. I thought you were supposed to be gentle and quiet, like?’

  ‘Pompous bounder,’ murmured Simon. And closed his eyes.

  An hour later, the old engine wheezed into Kohat. It was not the end of the line, for the tracks now turned south to complete a loop at Dera Ismail Khan, but it was the nearest point to the Frontier south of Peshawar. Kohat certainly looked like a border town. There was no platform, and the two men stood with their bags in a rough square bounded by wooden shacks. Through a gap they could glimpse the tents of an army cantonment.

  ‘Where to now, then, bach sir?’

  ‘Now,’ said Simon looking around him, ‘we find the stables of one Sheram Khan, Pathan and dealer in fine horses. I’m told it’s near a market. It can’t be far.’

  The two men picked up their bags and began walking down a rough cart track between shacks, which soon opened out into a busy bazaar. The street became lined with stalls selling a colourful selection of northern Indian foods and artefacts: almond curd balushai sweetmeats; delicious-smelling boluses of spiced mutton, fried in fat with cabbage and onions; tobacco; trinkets of silver, turquoise and, perhaps, gold; dung cakes and firewood; long swathes of cotton and gauze in colours which sang the skills of the dyer. For Simon and Jenkins, who had had little time to explore Indian village life during their brief time in the sub-continent, it was all breathtakingly colourful. Nor did they feel out of place. Kohat had been the departure point of Major-General Roberts’s column, and the little town hummed with the busi
ness this had brought. The bazaar thronged with an eclectic mixture of castes and nationalities - wild-haired Akalis from the Sikh states; short, fat Gujarat traders from the south; tall Pathans with kohl-rimmed eyes and noses like eagle beaks; a sprinkling of dowdy, cotton-suited Eurasian clerks; and, everywhere, off-duty sepoys of the Indian Army, in their khaki drill, turbans and puttees, mixed with the occasional British Tommy, turning over the wares of the stallholders with dismissive fingers.

  ‘Just like Rhyl, bach,’ murmured Jenkins, as they picked their way through the crowd.

  A stall selling saddlewear and other leather pieces showed them to be near their goal. Behind the stall, a low archway opened on to a surprisingly spacious stable containing about a dozen horses in rough stalls. A small boy sat cross-legged, splicing a hempen halter.

  ‘Sheram Khan?’ enquired Simon. The boy, wide-eyed, gestured towards an open doorway to their left. A tall Pathan, his distinctive hill man’s robe hitched at the middle by a deep embroidered Bokhariot belt, rose as they entered.

  Simon gave him a respectful Musselman’s salaam and said, ‘Starrai Mashe! Khwar Mashe, janab ali. Sheram Khan?’

  The hill man bowed in silent acknowledgement and observed Simon with sharp eyes.

  In English, Simon said: ‘The cholera is bad in the south. I trust it has not come here?’

  ‘The cholera has not reached us.’ Sheram Khan spoke in excellent English and smiled slightly behind his long, grey-flecked beard. ‘Good. I have been expecting you. The General and Lamb Sahib are most anxious that you travel up to their camp as soon as possible. I am to tell you that you must travel on as soon as . . .’ he paused for a moment, ‘I can turn you into respectable Persians.’

  He stepped forward and examined the two men’s faces in turn. ‘The walnut dye is good,’ he said, rubbing Jenkins’s cheek gently with his thumb.

  ‘It’s not walnut, I understand,’ said Simon. ‘Our people in Gharghara have found something better now. This is supposed to last for about nine months before it starts to wear slightly.’

  The Pathan nodded in approval. ‘Your Pushtu sounded well. Can you speak it fluently?’

  Simon grinned sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid not. You see, we have only had three weeks’ training at Gharghara.’

  Sheram Khan regarded him impassively. ‘Then, my friend,’ he said, ‘you will last for two weeks in the hills, perhaps three if you are lucky and can shoot well.’

  ‘No. We will be supplied with an interpreter to travel with us when we reach the General’s camp. And, of course, we are to be Persian traders from Mashad in the north, who do not speak the Pushtu of the Afghan.’

  The Pathan nodded slowly. ‘You are of the Guides?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I respect you. The Guides fight well. Come, we have little time.’

  An hour later, two Persians left the stable. They were dressed in the flowing robes of their race; one rather more finely than the other, with the edges of his turban cloth edged in gold and a Delhi-embroidered waistcoat showing beneath the loose top-garment. He rode a fine Balkh stallion ahead of his companion, who was mounted less richly on a serviceable horse from Herat.

  ‘You’ve no right to be ridin’ ’im,’ hissed Jenkins from the rear. ‘I should have had that one. You’ll fall off if you ’ave to gallop. This one would ’ave suited you better. It might just pull a milk cart on a fine day.’

  ‘Shut up, 352,’ murmured Simon. ‘Just try and be a little more Persian-like, there’s a good chap.’

  Jenkins snorted in disgust and pulled hard on the long rein that linked him to the laden donkey reluctantly trotting behind. Then, silently, they picked their way through the streets of Kohat to the plain beyond. There they set their horses’ heads almost due west, towards the dark hills which rose before them and merged imperceptibly into the silver-capped escarpment dominating the far skyline.

  Major General Roberts’s main camp lay roughly fifty miles ahead of them, at the Afghan fort of Kuram, at the head of the Kuram valley, although the General had established a forward post higher in the hills at Alikhal. Simon’s orders were to press on with all speed along the route taken by Roberts’s little army of five thousand men and to meet the General at Kuram, where he would receive instructions for his mission. The orders, as paraphrased orally by Sheram Khan, were cryptic: don’t delay; the route is only partly patrolled and the local Afridis are not to be trusted, so be on your guard.

  The pair camped the first night at Thal, a little township which Roberts had used as the last springboard for his invasion. There they met the stony tributary of the Indus which flowed from north-north-west and which was to be their guide into Afghanistan proper. Although they were climbing gradually and the air was undoubtedly crisper, the sun beat down relentlessly, and Simon and Jenkins slipped off their top garments and rode only in shirts and breeches, retaining their turbans as much for solar protection as for disguise.

  Their track followed the river, which, although shallow in this high summer, and rock-strewn, varied from fifty to a hundred yards in width. They were now entering the Kuram valley, a barren, rocky plateau bordered by tall, magnificently wooded mountains. These were highest to the north and east. But Simon and Jenkins’s route led to the north-west and the Sufed Koh range, where, directly ahead of them at the nine-thousand-foot high pass of Peiwa Kotal, Roberts had fought his battle to clear the way to Kabul.

  Steadily they climbed until the mountains closed in and the stream, hissing and gurgling joyfully on its downward passage to the Indus, narrowed perceptibly. Their way now lay through craggy defiles, and Simon marvelled that Roberts had been able to take his army this way, with its camels and elephants carrying the heavier guns. It must have been continually susceptible to ambush.

  He screwed up his eyes and peered up at the heights on either side. Was Roberts able to post scouts up there to protect his flanks as he advanced? Just about possible, perhaps. But the two men had no such luxury now, and they rounded each bend in the track with care, hoping to meet an army patrol, for the General had said that he was taking pains to keep the route open.

  Rocks and crags, however, were all that met their gaze. The valley had now narrowed further to become a gorge and the distant vista of snow-capped peaks had long since disappeared. To the front and above them was a succession of spurs, covered with dense forests of deodar. Simon realised that, as the junior of the three invading generals, Roberts had drawn the shortest straw. This was by far the toughest approach to Kabul.

  ‘Do you know, bach sir,’ said Jenkins from the rear, ‘I think I’d rather have Zululand. At least we could see where we were goin’.’

  Simon looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. The sun had slipped away over a peak an hour ago and it was noticeably colder. ‘We’d better camp here,’ he said, pulling his horse’s head away from the track towards a mossy bank, which stretched invitingly under a rock overhang. ‘It should be safe to light a fire.’

  The two men dismounted and Jenkins began relieving the donkey of part of its load. The horses were hobbled - an unnecessary precaution in truth, because they could not have wandered far - and Simon gathered wood and began lighting a fire as Jenkins broke out their sleeping rolls and took water from the stream.

  It was quite dark by the time they had eaten. ‘Snug enough, though, isn’t it?’ said Jenkins comfortably.

  ‘Hmmn. Perhaps just a bit too snug.’

  Simon got to his feet and walked softly to the edge of the trees that came down to the rock overhang. He peered into the darkness and stood still, listening. Then he sniffed. Equally quietly, he walked back to Jenkins and crouched down beside him.

  ‘I don’t like it, 352,’ he said. ‘This big overhang stops the fire being seen to some extent, but the smell of wood smoke is strong and will carry up the gorge. If there is anyone about it won’t take long for them to know we are here.’ He looked around. ‘I think we shall have to forsake the fire. Come on.’

  Together the two
men unlashed some of the carpet samples that gave them credibility as traders, and laid them out like bed rolls, spoked away from the guttering fire. Then, taking their blankets and rifles, they stole quietly into the steep forest, finding a spot nearby which afforded them a view of the camp and where they could find cover, to some extent, by burrowing into the leaves and pine needles which covered the rocks.

  ‘I’ll take first watch,’ whispered Simon.

  ‘Kick me if I snore, then,’ said Jenkins, wrapping his blanket round him so that his moustache protruded over the edge like a little black rodent at rest. Within seconds he was asleep.

  Simon, after a cold and uneventful first watch, was fast asleep when a gentle dig in the ribs from Jenkins’s rifle woke him. The half-light of dawn revealed the gorge as Simon inched himself alongside the Welshman to look down on their campsite.

  At first he could see nothing, then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he spotted them. At either side of the rock overhang, two men - four in all - stood motionless. So still were they that it was difficult to pick them out, in their dun-coloured clothing, from the grey of the rock. Then, moving like cats, one man from each side approached the camp fire.

  Simon focused his eyes carefully in the gloom and saw that the two remaining men carried long-barrelled Afghan jezails, or muskets. The men tiptoeing towards the campsite seemed to be unarmed, until a charred ember of firewood slipped and caused the dying fire to blaze momentarily. The two men froze for a second, but not before the flame had caused the knife blades in their hands to flash. Jenkins lifted his rifle.