by John Wilcox
The General scratched at his beard. ‘What rifles did you have?’
‘Martini-Henrys, sir.’
‘Ah. There you are then!’ Roberts rose to his feet and began to pace around the room. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘We . . . er . . . brought them with us from Zululand, sir.’ Simon stirred uneasily.
The General stopped pacing and stood before him. ‘Did it not occur to you, young man, that a Persian carpet trader from the north and his servant would be highly unlikely to go about their business carrying the latest British Army rifles?’ He still spoke quietly, but every word was uttered with precision. It occurred to Simon that Roberts’s career as Quartermaster General of the Indian Army meant that his life had been one of careful planning and attention to detail.
He too stood up. ‘Yes, sir. That’s why we kept them carefully concealed until we were attacked.’
‘Hmmmn.’ The General’s blue eyes were completely expressionless. ‘Nevertheless, it’s not like the Afridis to attack a couple of merchants in the middle of the night. They would be curious about you . . . want to talk to you and offer you mint tea before slitting your throats. No. It’s my bet that they saw your rifles and took you for what you are - a couple of gora-logs, playing the game.’
‘The game, sir?’
Roberts looked at him sharply. ‘How long have you been in India?’
‘Just under a month, sir.’
‘What training have you had here?’
‘A little over two weeks in the school at Gharghara, in the hills. We learned some Parsi and a little Pushtu, native manners, how to measure distances by keeping our foot paces consistent . . . that sort of thing.’ Simon suddenly felt inadequate. ‘There was time for little else. I was told to hurry on to you by this date. I am sorry if . . .’
For the first time Roberts smiled. ‘Do sit down, Fonthill. Here, have some . . . dammit, Baa-Baa, you’ve virtually finished the brandy!’
An unusually quiet Lamb stood up. ‘I’ll fetch some more,’ he murmured and walked to the door.
Roberts leaned forward. ‘Yes, I was aware that you had little time for training here. Frankly, Fonthill, I’ve been forced to take a gamble with you. Lamb tells me that you and your man were the best intelligence people he had in South Africa. I asked him to bring you out because we are damned short of that sort of material here. Not that we don’t have some fine men operating. Cigar?’
Simon shook his head and the General leaned back and blew blue smoke to the ceiling.
‘Both we and the Russians have had agents working in and around Afghanistan for the last forty or fifty years; white men but living like natives, surveying the passes and roads, watching each other’s movements, gauging which tribe is friendly and which isn’t. That sort of thing.’
He smiled. ‘The newspapers back home have called it “The Great Game”, and in a way it is. Except that there aren’t any rules.’ Roberts’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a very dangerous game, Fonthill. But then . . .’ the smile came back, ‘you’ll know about this sort of thing because you’ve played it in Zululand.’
Simon’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to be regarded as some sort of master spy, skilled at subterfuge and disguise.
‘Not really, sir,’ he began. But Lamb had returned, and the next few moments were taken up with the brandy bottle. Despite the fire, the open windows made the room cold, and Simon was glad of the warm liquor. It helped to stop his heart from thumping. The Great Game sounded frightful.
The General settled back in his chair and sipped at his glass. ‘My irritation of a moment ago was caused by the fact that your disguise may well have been penetrated by the Afridis who attacked you. If it was, you have two chances. Firstly, you may have killed all the members of that attacking party. Secondly, even if a couple of the Pathans did get away, their particular tribe could well keep the news to themselves in the hope that they can pick you off themselves later to settle the score.’
For the first time, Colonel Lamb now intervened. ‘You may well wonder, Fonthill, why we would even think of sending a blacked-up chap into hostile territory which he doesn’t know and where he can’t speak the lingo, eh? What? What?’
Simon smiled. ‘I must confess, it had occurred to me, sir.’ He tried not to sound ironic.
‘Quite. Quite.’ Lamb bounced in his chair, pleased that he had so successfully put himself in the other’s place. ‘Well, we’re not such duffers as we seem. You see, this godforsaken country is really a loose collection of little kingdoms, which, although they formally owe allegiance to the Amir in Kabul, act very autonomously. There’s not much cross-fertilisation between ’em, so to speak. That’s one reason why those Afridis might not pass on to their neighbours the news of your presence.
‘The other - more important - point is that Afghanistan is a sort of crossroads. It’s the link between India and central Asia. All kinds of queer Johnnies are always travelling through it. Traders from Persia. Horse dealers from Samarkand. Fakirs from India. Teachers and their chelas. They speak their own tongues and often no other. So if you play your parts properly, you won’t seem at all unusual to the paharis - that means hill men - whose territories you pass through.’
The Colonel sank back, satisfied that he had made his point well. Simon nodded thoughtfully. ‘But I must be able to communicate, mustn’t I?’
A great grin seamed Lamb’s face and his teeth gleamed in the firelight. Even the General smiled faintly. ‘We’ve taken care of that,’ said Lamb. ‘We’re giving you a Sikh interpreter. He’s a Guide and he knows the hills, the tribes and the dialects well.’
‘He is, I understand, a trifle . . . ah . . . eccentric,’ interposed Roberts. ‘But the best man for the job, without a doubt. You will meet him in the morning.’
Simon nodded. ‘Thank you. Now, sir. What exactly is it you want me to do?’
Roberts took a reflective puff at his cigar. ‘You’ve read the briefing notes which I sent to Colonel Lamb?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You will know, then, that we have agreed peace terms with the Amir, Yakub Khan. Under the terms, mine is the only column that has been allowed to remain in Afghanistan.’ He smiled wryly. ‘And, as you can see, we’re not camped very far into the country. The other two columns, under General Stewart at Kandahar, and Sir Sam Browne’s force in the Khyber, have both been withdrawn.’
The General stubbed out his cigar in an earthenware dish. ‘However, we do have a military mission in Kabul itself, the capital. Sir Louis Cavagnari has gone there with a small force to set up the Residency.’
Roberts looked at the floor momentarily before continuing, and Simon intuitively felt that this straight-talking man was about to dissemble. ‘Cavagnari’s a good man, of course. Knows the country well. First-class diplomat - in fact, it was he who negotiated the treaty. His dispatches sent here for onwards transmission to the Viceroy in Simla are all full of optimism.’ Now the General held Simon’s gaze again. ‘But I don’t like it.’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘The Afghans may not be the world’s most united nation, but they’re quite cohesive in the sense that, not unreasonably, they don’t like their country being invaded by foreigners - particularly unbelievers. They’re mainly Musselmen, you see. They are fine fighters - although not as good as they think they are - and the trouble is that we’ve not defeated them properly in battle yet. Our southern army just went straight through to Kandahar without any fighting at all. In the Khyber, we had a few skirmishes but little else. Here, we gave ’em a bloody nose on the high pass, but you can’t say that the nation has been defeated.’
The General looked across at Lamb and smiled. ‘So I believe the pot is simmering. I want to know where, when and how it might boil over, and that’s why I sent for Colonel Lamb.
‘You see, Fonthill, I have found our intelligence to be poor here. Yes, we have a much-vaunted system of political officers. But although these people have military rank, they are
really civil servants and lack what I consider to be a proper strategic sense of our situation here. They’re all damned optimists and placators, it seems to me. The other point is that each officer is limited to his own territory and has no perception of what is happening, or likely to happen, in the valley next door.
‘As a result of this, I have asked Colonel Lamb to create an army intelligence operation to serve the Field Force here. Lamb rates you highly, so he has brought you with him to be in the van, so to speak.’
‘The van, sir?’
Roberts nodded. ‘I want you to go to Kabul. Cavagnari has only been there a month, but he will have settled in by now. Of course you will inform him of any development which you believe will have relevance to his work. But you will not report to him. You will deal with Colonel Lamb, who will remain here.’
Simon’s brow creased into a frown. ‘But I can’t stay at the Residency, sir.’
‘Of course not,’ Lamb interjected. ‘You and 457 - whatsisname - and your interpreter must live in Kabul as carpet traders. Sir Louis will need to refurbish the Residency, so there is every reason why a Persian merchant should visit him. But you must find lodgings in the city.’
The General now rose to his feet and Simon did the same, sensing the dismissal. ‘What we need from you, Fonthill,’ said Roberts, ‘is news of that pot. I want to know if there is an amalgamation of the mullahs in the hills; where the tribes will gather for it; and, of course, when they are likely to strike.’
Roberts seized Simon’s arm in emphasis. ‘The possibility of the tribes massing is what interests me most. If they stay disunited, I can pick them off separately. If they unify, it will be a very different matter. We would be outnumbered by a hundred to one.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Good luck, my boy.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Simon shook hands with both men and turned for the door.
‘Fonthill.’ It was Colonel Lamb who called. ‘I will walk with you to your tent.’
Once outside the General’s quarters, Lamb bustled into a quick walk, along the corridor, across the enclosed ground and through the massive gates of the fort towards the British lines, all the while gripping Simon’s arm.
‘Sorry about the early rubbishing,’ he said. ‘But Bobs was worried that you had blown everything when you killed those hill men. And you may well have done. Can’t be helped. You had no alternative. I understand that. But you’re at greater risk than ever, my boy.’
Simon gulped. ‘I’m not sure I’m the best man to be a spy, Colonel. For one thing—’
‘Rubbish.’ Lamb stopped at the lines of the Punjab Cavalry. The distinctive smell of horses and manure filled the air. ‘You did well in Zululand. No different here. Two things, though.’
‘Sir?’
‘Exchange those Martini-Henrys for a couple of old Sniders. They don’t shoot as well, but they fit better. A Persian trader would never be able to get his hands on Martini-Henrys, but Afghanistan is full of old Sniders.’
‘Very good, sir. And the second thing?’
Colonel Lamb looked up at Simon quizzically. ‘Did you throw a certain Captain Barlow of the 8th Foot out of a railway carriage at Khushalgarh?’
Simon examined the stars above, set like diamonds in blue velvet. ‘I certainly did, sir. Man’s a bounder.’
The Colonel sighed. ‘I suppose I was aware that you were not enamoured of what we might call conventional army officers. Very well. But get out of here as soon as you can in the morning. Barlow has filed a formal complaint and I can deal with it much better if you are lost somewhere in the hills.’
‘Thank you, sir. Good night.’
‘See me first thing in the morning. Sleep well, Fonthill.’
Chapter 3
Simon rose before dawn. While Jenkins collected their supplies for the journey to Kabul and their replacement rifles - snorting at their obsolescence - Simon reported to Colonel Lamb’s tent to receive his final briefing. He was given a rough map for the road ahead and a code to memorise and destroy, for use in written reporting. His interpreter, a sepoy from the Guides, was then brought in.
He was undoubtedly a Sikh, taller than Simon, blue-turbaned and heavily bearded, but dressed in the manner of a hill man. Incongruously, he crashed to attention before the Colonel and gave both men an impeccable salute.
Simon spoke quickly. ‘That will be the last time you will salute me,’ he said. ‘From now on I am a Persian merchant from Mashad, with my servant, and you are our guide and interpreter. You will show me conventional respect as an employee would. But that is all.’
The Sikh’s eyes glowed. ‘Very good, sahib.’ His voice was remarkably high-pitched for such a big man.
Simon sighed. ‘And that is the last time you will call me sahib. Do you understand? What is your name?’
The Colonel, sitting behind his desk, coughed slightly. ‘Ah, his name appears to be . . .’ and he consulted a note before him, ‘. . . er . . . W. G. Grace.’
‘What? But he’s a cricketer, isn’t he?’
‘Ah no, sir.’ The Sikh spoke firmly. ‘I believe that you are mistaken in degree, sir. W. G. Grace is not a cricketer, sir. He is the King, sir.’
‘King? King? King of where?’
‘King of cricket, sir. He is the Emperor and King of all cricket, sir. The best, sir. The very best, sir. He is King.’
‘What the dickens . . .?’ Simon looked at the Colonel in supplication. Lamb shrugged his shoulders, a half-smile playing on his lips. ‘Look here.’ Simon tried again. ‘You can’t call yourself after this man. I mean, well, he’s a Gloucestershire doctor or something. An English cricketer. You’re a Sikh and a Guide. It won’t do.’
The Sikh’s finely arched eyebrows rose. ‘With greatest of diffidence and respect, sir, and to repeat myself just this once more without giving offence, W. G. Grace is not simply a cricketer. He is greatest cricketer world has known.’ Simon took a breath to intervene, but he was too late. ‘Eight years ago, sahib, the honourable doctor scored ten centuries in one season. Imagine, sir, ten whole centuries. He was first man to do that. And then, in ’76, sir, he hit highest ever score of three hundred forty-four. But more than that, sir . . .’
He turned to Lamb. ‘If the Colonel will allow?’ The little man, one hand across his mouth, waved acquiescence with the other. The Sikh took up the ruler from Lamb’s desk. ‘Now, sir.’ He held the ruler as a cricket bat, his left hand above the right, bending his knees so that his bottom stuck out and the base of the ruler tapped the ground behind his right sandal, as though he was taking guard. It was an incongruous sight, and Simon noticed that the Colonel now had his hand across his eyes.
‘Now, sir,’ the Sikh repeated. ‘Before Dr Grace, batsmen would play ball so.’ And he took a half-pace forward and brought the ruler diagonally down from his right shoulder, so that he ended up with his body twisted, his head looking to the left. ‘What happens? Bally ball goes under bat, because bat has swung across line, and hits wicket. Out, sir!’
He smiled, confident that he had made his point. ‘Dr Grace changed all that, sir. Look.’ The big man settled into his crease once more, then took half a pace forward again with his left foot. This time, however, he brought the ruler down vertically and completely straight, his left elbow high - and seemingly awkwardly - in the air. He stayed in the pose for a moment to demonstrate. ‘You see, sir, ball has nowhere to go but plonk on to bat. Result? Straight back behind bowler for four of the best. This Mr Grace devised.’ He straightened up. ‘He is almost, though not quite, as great as revered Queen Empress.’
A silence fell on the tent, relieved only by Lamb blowing his nose. Simon did not know quite what to say. ‘How, ah, how do you know all this?’ he enquired.
The big Sikh smiled. Digging beneath the folds of his quilted coat, he produced a yellowed cutting. ‘Illustrated London News, sir. I have been great admirer of Dr Grace since reading this.’ A look of modest pride came over his countenance. ‘I also play, sir, and scored century last y
ear in Rawal Pindi. Not out, sir. Not out. With many covering drives, so . . .’ and, bending his right knee, he executed a graceful cover drive, finishing with the ruler in the air.
Holding the pose, he directed a stern eye at Simon. ‘So, sir,’ he said, ‘last year I change name as indication of great respect for great man. I am no longer Inderjit Singh, sir. I am W. G. Grace. Though,’ he smiled winningly, ‘everyone calls me W. G.’
The big man stiffly stood upright and shared his smile with Colonel Lamb. Simon looked at the cutting in his hand. It showed a sepia drawing of a large, thickset man, with a full beard and a round face topped by a rather ridiculous peaked schoolboy’s cap. He looked sharply at the Sikh. But for the headgear, they could be the same person. He folded the cutting. ‘Would you wait outside for a moment, please?’
The Sikh sprang to attention and was about to salute, then he stopped, gave his big smile and turned towards the tent flap. There he paused for a second, before whirling round and approaching Simon. ‘I would like to have Dr Grace’s story back, sir, if it is allowed.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Abstractedly Simon returned the cutting and watched as the big man left the tent. He turned to the Colonel, who was now unashamedly wiping his eyes.
‘Really, sir,’ said Simon, ‘I can’t have him. The man’s a buffoon. W. G. Grace indeed . . .’
‘Well,’ said Lamb, blowing his nose again. ‘I’ve been to Lord’s many times, but that was just about the best “covering” drive I’ve ever seen executed with a ruler. Haven’t laughed so much for years.’
‘It won’t be any laughing matter if he starts talking this cricket nonsense to the mullahs in the hills if they nab us.’
‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Fonthill.’ The Colonel replaced his handkerchief and walked round the table, his eyes twinkling. ‘Goodness me, you’ll be throwing NCOs out of first-class compartments soon.’
Simon smiled. ‘But we need somebody really good for this trip. Jenkins and I will have to depend on him.’
