The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  The blue eyes crinkled. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Campbell, ‘but I can’t somehow see myself as a warrior in an educational crusade.’

  Alice bridled. ‘Very well. Laugh at me if you must, but I am sure I will be proved right.’ She paused for a moment, frowning at the young, half-smiling face before her. It was a damned attractive face, for all its self-possessed, gentle air of superiority. She knew well enough now that all men when close exuded some distinctive odour, faint or strong; often tobacco, tooth powder, perhaps, or - most provocatively of all - an intangible, earthy smell that came from she knew not where. What would John Campbell smell and taste of?

  Her reverie was interrupted by Campbell throwing up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, all right. I give in. We are in a noble profession and I personally will welcome all women to it. Why,’ he reached across to the new bottle and filled their glasses, ‘if Miss George Eliot, or whatever her real name is, wishes to report on Mr Gladstone’s campaign up here, I shall go so far as to sharpen her pencil with my own penknife.’

  And so they went on, talking animatedly in great good humour, jousting happily, with a growing sexual attraction adding piquancy to the encounter. Campbell seemed reluctant to talk about himself, although Alice was able to elicit that he was a Highland Scot, his lack of accent explained by an education in the south of England. He said little at all, in fact, continuing instead to ply Alice with questions, as if he was determined to strip her of her mystery. Nevertheless, when at last the bill arrived, Alice realised that she had not enjoyed an evening so much since she had left South Africa, months before.

  ‘Please tell me the total, so that I may share it,’ she said, extracting her purse from her bag. ‘I insist. We are colleagues.’

  Campbell took a breath as though to argue, then smiled. ‘We are indeed. Very well.’ He examined the bill. ‘With the tip, I believe that a sovereign and a half will cover it all.’

  Alice fumbled in her purse and became aware for the first time that they were attracting the attention of other diners. But Campbell seemed unfazed, and meticulously counted out change for the coins she gave him. Outside the restaurant he took her arm again and she willingly allowed herself to be steered back to the hotel.

  ‘Are you covering the whole campaign?’ he asked, as they climbed the hotel steps.

  ‘Yes. And you also?’

  He stopped her at the doors. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Oh.’ Surprised, she allowed her disappointment momentarily to show in her face. ‘Do you go back to London? I am sorry.’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow.’ He drew her a little into the shelter of the impressive doorway, without, however, pushing through the large doors that led into the hotel - as though he wanted to share an intimacy with her which was not for others. ‘This was my last assignment for Central News. I am joining the Standard, and I am to leave as soon as possible for India to report the Afghan business. You see,’ and the attractive smile came back, ‘I am becoming a true reporter at last.’

  A mixture of emotions surged into Alice’s mind. The first was of acute disappointment - a disappointment coloured by a kind of sexual frustration that momentarily embarrassed her. Then came a strong feeling of jealousy. She swallowed. ‘I am so glad for you. My warmest congratulations. You are lucky. It is what I would most heartily wish to do myself.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. He did not smile, but held her arm for a moment before pushing open the doors.

  They climbed the stairs in silence to the door to Alice’s room. She inserted the key in the lock and turned to him. ‘Goodbye. I shall think of you in Afghanistan.’

  He put a hand on each of her shoulders, pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘Goodbye, Alice Griffith. I shall think of you too.’ Then he spun on his heel and was gone. Alice stood looking after him for a moment with an overwhelming feeling of sadness and disappointment. Then she shrugged, turned and entered her room.

  Early the next morning she was woken by a maid, who brought with her a telegram in its small brown envelope. ‘It arrived about two a.m., miss. But the hall porter thought it could wait until morning.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alice propped herself on her elbow and opened the envelope. It was from Cornford, her editor, and it ran:

  CONGRATS ON BEST CVERAGE YET OF GLDSTNE STOP BELIEVE YOU WASTED ON POLITCAL REPORTG STOP AFGHAN WAR BROKEN OUT AGN STOP TAKE FIRST TRN LONDON AND PREPARE LEAVE FOR BOMBAY SOONEST END

  Chapter 6

  ‘Tell me, W.G., about the tribes who live in these hills.’

  Simon’s question was pitched in a low voice, for although the three men were huddled together around a small fire, they had taken care to find a narrow defile, protected on three sides by walls of rock, in which to kindle it and so reduce the chance of its glare being seen in the darkness. They felt vulnerable and apprehensive.

  Since their flight from Kabul, twenty-four hours before, they had ridden hard. Even so, their progress had been slow, for they had forsaken the well-travelled track across the plain towards the border in the south, and headed due east, into the mountains, before turning south again. They had climbed steadily, if erratically, leaving behind them deodar, birch and pine until they were now among scree and rocks, making their way towards the Shutargardan with the aid of Simon’s compass and the Sikh’s knowledge of the country. They were wary and breathless, for even W.G. was unaccustomed to the altitude, and they had rested hardly at all during their night’s flight from Kabul. Although it was hot during the day, with the sun burning through the thin air from a completely cloudless sky, dusk lowered the temperature alarmingly and reminded them that winter was near. Now they huddled in their cloaks around the low flames.

  With a long black finger, the Sikh drew a wavy line in the dust at their feet.

  ‘Here, lord, is the frontier with India.’ Then he traced a line moving upwards and slightly to the left. ‘This is Kuram valley, through which you and bach sergeant rode to meet lord general at Kuram.’

  ‘That’s where we was nearly jumped by them black fellers,’ said Jenkins, his moustache resting on the knuckles of his right hand reflectively.

  ‘Ah.’ The Sikh nodded. ‘They would be Afridis, probably Jowaki Afridis. They live in hills either side of pass. In valley itself live the Turis, who are Shiah Muslims and are respectful to her Grace, Queen Empress, upon whom sun shines and rose petals fall. But in the hills are the Afridis, who are fellows not to be trusted. Not to be trusted at all, I am telling you.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Simon.

  The Sikh gestured to the west of his Kuram valley line. ‘Here, lord, are the Mangals and Wazirs, tribes of the Khost district, who are very warlike and aggressive. Not friendly at all, sir. But here,’ he drew a smudge in the dust across his valley line, ‘here is where real trouble starts.’

  He looked knowingly at both his companions in turn. ‘Real trouble, sir. Real trouble. Am I making myself one hundred per cent absolutely jolly clear, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes, W.G.’ Simon nodded solemnly. ‘Absolutely. And don’t call me sir.’

  ‘Sorry, lord.’ He pushed his finger along the smudge. ‘This is Shutargardan Pass - very high, lord, very high - and here,’ he gestured to the north, ‘everywhere in the hills are Ghilzais, one of great tribal groups in Afghanistan. Very fierce people, lord, who do not like gora-logs, begging your pardon, lord.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Simon nodded slowly. ‘The two tribesmen we met at Sang-i-nawishta who fancied our carpets, they were Ghilzais, weren’t they?’

  ‘Correct, lord.’

  ‘And they are led by this mullah, yes?’

  The Sikh inclined his head. ‘Indeed, lord. The Mullah Mushk-i-Alam. He is an old man now. No longer does he lead his team on to field, lord, but directs operations now from pavilion, so to speak. But he is still great captain and is always trying to stir jihad or holy war against British. There is no doubt, lord, that he will now be trying to unite all Afghans to attack Lord General Roberts if he invades no
w.’

  Jenkins lifted his head. ‘But isn’t this Amir bloke in charge around here?’

  ‘Not really, Sergeant bach. Of course, Amir in Kabul is nominally captain of team but he is powerful only really on plain. The outfielders in the hills are very independent, and anyway, they do not follow Amir closely now because he lost to Roberts Sahib at Peiwa Kotal. Mullah Mushk-i-Alam is religious leader and will gather faithful around him.’

  The three men fell silent. The fire spluttered a little and sent their shadows high for a moment on the rock walls surrounding them.

  ‘Do you know where the mullah’s village is?’ asked Simon.

  ‘No, lord, but he is thought to live in the hills to the south-east of Kabul.’

  ‘’Alf a minute, Gracey.’ Jenkins raised an anxious head and turned to Simon. ‘You know that I don’t know my arse from my ’elmet, speakin’ geographically, but, look you, isn’t that where we are now?’

  Simon nodded. ‘More or less.’ He looked at the Sikh. ‘Do you think we could find the mullah’s camp in these hills?’

  ‘ ’Ang on a bit.’ Jenkins looked quite indignant. ‘Why do we want to find his camp, anyhow? Isn’t the idea to get to the General and tell ’im about the massacre at Kabooli as soon as possible, like?’

  ‘Yes, but I think we would be welcomed all the more warmly by the General if we could tell him where the main forces against him are massing and how many Afghans he’s likely to have to fight.’

  ‘Well, if you say so.’ Jenkins looked around him gloomily. ‘But if you ask me, this moolah is more like to find us than we are to sneak up on him, see. Every bloody rock looks the same around ’ere and that’s a fact.’

  The Sikh turned an impassive face towards Simon. ‘The sergeant bach is right, lord. I am not very familiar with the field placings here and I do not know where the mullah is. He is, indeed, more likely to find us than we to find him. His men will know these hills backwards and frontwards, lord.’

  Simon pulled his cloak more closely around him and stared into the fire. Eventually he rose to his feet, walked a few paces deep in thought and then turned back to his companions.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We will make a virtue of necessity. If we can’t find the mullah, we will let him find us - or me, at least.’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘I am tired of skulking about this place like . . . well, like a second-rate carpet salesman. I am sick of being an intelligence agent who has no intelligence to report. And I am getting fed up of running away. From now on, we shall be positive.’

  Jenkins’s mouth turned down under his moustache. ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all, bach sir,’ he said. ‘With just three of us against thousands of them, it sounds like a good time to be a bit negative. Look you, why can’t we get down on to the plain again an’ just ride ’ard towards this Shittygarden place?’

  ‘For one thing, W.G. can’t ride hard at all on his mule, and for another, we could easily be picked off on the plain. No.’ He returned to the fire, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘Now, listen, this is the plan.

  ‘We will keep careful watch tonight - and I think it’s time to put out this fire now we’ve eaten. Then, in the morning, I will ride on ahead. I will ride quite openly, on the skyline, so that I can be seen. You will follow me, keeping careful cover, far enough away so as not to be taken with me, but near enough to keep me in your sight.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will take the mule, so you will easily be able to keep up with me.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Jenkins, whose eyes had never left Simon’s face

  Simon shrugged. ‘If I am not taken, then nothing has been lost, because I shall keep heading towards the Shutargardan and General Roberts’s camp. But if I am ambushed, I shall not resist and it is almost certain that I shall be taken to the mullah, if only,’ he smiled, ‘to be given a cup of tea.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but it’s daft.’ Jenkins shook his head in exasperation. ‘They’re more likely to shoot you first and then offer you tea later. Or cut your balls off, for a bit of fun, like. And anyway,’ he held out a hand in supplication, ‘what are we supposed to do while all this is goin’ on?’

  ‘I admit that that is the difficult part. But you must not interfere. Is that understood?’ He looked at both men in turn. ‘You must follow when I am captured and mark where the camp is.’ He turned to the Sikh. ‘You know how to use a compass?’

  W.G. inclined his head.

  ‘Good. Now, once in the encampment, I shall have to play it intuitively. I may be able to maintain my disguise as a Persian merchant—’

  ‘On a mule?’ interrupted Jenkins.

  ‘I shall say we were attacked and I lost you two and the horses. But,’ Simon’s face clouded for a moment, ‘if I have to confess to being a British officer I shall somehow have to bluff my way through long enough to gauge the mullah’s intentions and the strength of his force.’

  ‘And then what?’ Jenkins remained unimpressed. The Sikh stayed silent.

  ‘Somehow I must get a signal out to you two and, with your help, escape, and then we will all ride to Roberts to tell him what we know.’

  ‘Just like that?’ Jenkins sniffed and shook his head. ‘Too many risks is what I think.’

  ‘W.G.?’

  The Sikh pulled on his beard for a moment. ‘It may well work, lord. Pathans are fierce people. Good fighters. But not disciplined, you understand. Not trained soldiers. They are not often attacked in their homes because they live in remote mountains. So they keep poor guard on their camps. Am I making myself quite clear?’

  Simon and Jenkins both nodded.

  ‘Indeed. So if they hold you in camp, it could be possible to, ah, pull you out, so to speak. But lord, with greatest of respect, I do not think you should try to convince them that you are Persian. You do not speak much Pushtu at all and your Parsi is not good enough for a Persian. And there will be someone there who will speak Parsi. You will be revealed, master.’

  ‘Very well.’ Simon rose to his feet again. ‘I shall be open about who I am and say I’ve been sent by Roberts in an attempt to persuade them to join him. Who knows, that might even work.’

  ‘But, bach sir . . .’

  Simon rounded on Jenkins. ‘No more of that, 352. We were sent here to gather intelligence The fact that the place has exploded round our ears is no excuse for not doing our job. Roberts needs to know what he’s up against. Right?’

  Jenkins nodded gloomily.

  ‘Right. I will take first watch, W.G. the second and 352 will take over until dawn. Put out the fire. Watchman should be outside the circle. Now good night to you both.’

  They were ready to move long before dawn, anxious to be on their way to welcome the first warming rays of sun. Simon mounted the scrawny, recalcitrant mule and rode out, not without difficulty. The others gave him five minutes and then followed, scrambling a little at first to catch up before they glimpsed his turban among the rocks ahead of them.

  It was not easy for the two followers to keep Simon in sight intermittently and remain hidden themselves. Their way lay over loose shale and between large boulders, and the fact that they were well mounted helped them not at all. They were quickly reduced to leading their horses as they picked their way through stones and occasional scrub. Fortunately, they were helped by Simon’s deliberate efforts to be seen. They could remain below the skyline as he rode up ahead, silhouetted against the blue.

  For Simon, it was the most anxious morning of his life. Taking his direction by the sun, he let the mule pick its own way among the rocks, hauling its head over from time to time to keep them roughly on course. At any moment he expected to hear the crack of a rifle or the deeper cough of a jezail, and he wondered whether the ball would take him in the back or front. How pathetic to be shot in the back, here in these lonely wastes!

  It was almost a relief, then, when he caught a glimpse of sunlight reflected from steel a little way ahead of him. Thank goodness they were not behind him. He kicked the mule
and urged it onwards until he sensed rather than saw that he was in their midst, although there was still nothing tangible to be seen. Clearly, they were waiting to check that he was alone before declaring themselves - or killing him. Simon’s mouth was as dry as a wadi, but he licked his lips and called out as firmly as he could: ‘Allah kerim! Allah kerim!’ and lifted his hand, half in salute, half in greeting. He hoped that his cry would have carried to Jenkins and W.G. behind him.

  Immediately, about twenty Afghans emerged from the rocks around him, their sudden appearance reminding him of the Zulus’ capacity to merge into the terrain. These were big men, slim but tall, dressed in loose-fitting cotton over which had been slung a wild collection of belts and bandoliers holding curved daggers and short swords. Each man carried a jezail, and the eyes that stared at him from underneath the high turbans were black and impassive.

  All this Simon had time to take in before, from behind him, a musket butt crashed into his head and several hands pulled him from the mule and on to the ground. Dazed, he crouched on hands and knees in the dust for a moment before he was kicked in the stomach and a jezail barrel hit him in the face, knocking him half unconscious. He was aware of being beaten again and then of being lifted.

  He regained full consciousness, perhaps only a few minutes later, to find himself looking down at rocks and shale as they passed slowly and lurchingly a couple of feet beneath him. Blood from his head dripped on to the ground as he watched, and he was aware of a dull ache in his ribs and an excruciating throb in his head. He realised that he had been thrown over the back of the mule, and that underneath the belly of the animal, his wrists had been lashed to his ankles. Pain and nausea overcame him and he was sick, his vomit joining the blood on the ground to mark the mule’s passage. He groaned involuntarily and was rewarded by a crack across the shoulders from a gun barrel.