by John Wilcox
‘Sorry, bach,’ said Jenkins and pulled the trigger. So close was the muzzle of the Snider that the Pathan’s head and turban half muffled the sound of the shot. Jenkins directed a quick glance towards W.G. The Sikh, clearly startled, was shuffling on his ledge to bring his Snider to bear on the new direction of danger when he recognised Jenkins and gave a quick wave of thanks. Jenkins jabbed his finger towards W.G.’s right, in the direction in which the furthest Pathan had crept. The Sikh nodded again and wriggled out of sight. As he did so, a bullet cracked into the rock sheltering Jenkins, forcing him to duck low behind its protection. Now, of course, he had been seen and it was to be hoped that the odds were only two to two.
He slipped another cartridge into the breech of his rifle and thought hard. He did not want to stray too far from the cave, leaving Simon unprotected, and his elbows and kneecaps were bleeding from being scraped along in the shale and shingle. He did not fancy any more of that. He poked a reflective finger up his nostril. He suddenly realised that this was where he missed Simon. He himself could shoot and kill well enough. But Simon could think. So, what would the Lieutenant - no, Captain now - do? He weighed the odds again. It looked like two against two. A quick glance at W.G. showed that the Sikh had wriggled round on his ledge to face the threat from the man on his right, so leaving the Pathan opposite to Jenkins. A frontal charge? Why not? These buggers took ages to reload their old guns. It was worth a chance that the first shot would miss; they hadn’t hit anything yet.
Jenkins wiped his moustache, raised himself into a crouch and then, like a sprinter at the starting gun, was off, jumping from rock to rock, keeping low and running hard. But to where? He was well on his way before he realised that he had no firm idea where his target was: somewhere ahead, but behind which rock? To clarify matters he let out a high yell. Immediately, a long musket poked out about fifty yards to his right down the hill, and he saw the puff of smoke and heard the report simultaneously. The ball took him in the right thigh and sent him rolling down the slope - towards his assailant.
Jenkins’s rifle clattered away across the shale and the Pathan leaped from behind his rock, running at the crouch as he tugged a curved knife from the sheath at his belt. Despairingly, Jenkins clutched at his thigh and shot a glance towards W.G. But a low saddle of rock now screened both him and the Afghan from the Sikh on the other side of the track.
Jenkins was on his knees when the Pathan reached him. He bought himself a second or two of time by hurling a handful of stones at the Ghilzai. The Pathan flinched for a moment, then kicked Jenkins, leaped astride him and raised his dagger high in the air.
The shot took him in the back, neatly between the shoulder blades. Jenkins saw the look of astonishment on the man’s dark, high-cheekboned face before he collapsed with a sigh across the Welshman’s midriff. Jenkins looked around wildly and saw the last remnant of blue smoke wafting away from the cave’s mouth.
‘God bless you, bach,’ he muttered. ‘What a time to discover you’re a good shot.’
Then another shot sent echoes answering from the valley below. It was the sharp crack of a second Snider, this time from across the track. There was no answering cough from a jezail and silence settled on the peaks again.
Jenkins lay for a moment, his hand gripping his thigh, and watched as his blood mingled with that of the dead Pathan in a little scarlet stream that slid slowly between the stones down the hill.
He raised his head. ‘Gracey.’
‘Yes, Sergeant bach.’
‘Did you get ’im?’
‘Of course. Between the eyes, I think. He made mistake of looking too long, too long.’
‘Is that the lot, then?’
‘Yes, five. I outdistanced the rest. But these followed me through the night. Very disconcerting and annoying. I am glad I have found you. Where is the Captain, lord?’
‘In a cave just across the way. I’ve been hit. Come and help me.’
In a moment the tall Sikh appeared, his face smudged darker by cordite marks. Contemptuously he turned the Pathan over with his foot. ‘Ah. But he was shot in the back. How did you . . .?’
Jenkins, grimacing with pain, nodded towards the cave. ‘The Captain. Bloody good shot. Particularly as ’e was shakin’ with the fever the last time I saw ’im. This feller put a ball through me thigh. That was good shootin’ as well. I lost me rifle an’ ’e was about to cut me throat, look you, when the Captain got ’im. Saved me life.’
The Sikh gathered up Jenkins’s rifle and, putting his arm around the Welshman, helped him limp back to the cave. There they found Simon staring down his Snider barrel, shivering violently. He gave no sign of recognition as the two men approached but looked beyond them to where the Pathan’s body lay. W.G. was visibly shocked at the young man’s appearance: the blood from his broken nose and from the various head wounds had congealed but the fever’s perspiration had now streaked through it, giving him a bizarre, striped appearance, as though war paint had been applied. The wildness was emphasised by his red-rimmed, wide-eyed stare.
The Sikh drew in his breath. ‘You must stay warm, lord. Please get back under the cloak.’
Simon paid no attention. ‘I know that you are not supposed to shoot men in the back,’ he murmured, as though to himself. ‘But these are very evil people.’ He looked up appealingly. ‘Aren’t they?’
Jenkins sat down beside him awkwardly, his wounded leg stretching out straight. Gently he removed the rifle from Simon’s grasp and helped him back into the cave and beneath the folds of blanket and cloak. ‘Well, they don’t seem to like us much, that’s a fact. That was a bloody good shot, bach sir. If you ’adn’t ’ave picked ’im off, ’e would ’ave slit me throat, as sure as God made little apples.’ He took the young man’s hand. ‘I’m very grateful, see. Now try and sleep a bit more, eh?’
Like a child, Simon nodded and, closing his eyes, turned his head. He seemed to slip into sleep immediately.
W.G. looked down at the pair and a smile lit up his face. ‘You and the captain sahib are close, Sergeant bach. I can see that. It is good. It is good to be brothers. It makes the team better.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Now I must get the horses because we must travel on. The rest of the mullah’s men will not be far behind and they will have heard the shooting. When I come back, I must take that ball from your leg.’
Jenkins looked up in surprise. ‘ ’Ang on, Gracey, the Captain can’t travel now. An’ I’m not up to much. Why can’t we stay in the cave till we’re a bit better an’ then move, eh?’
The Sikh stood erect and slowly shook his head - everything he did had dignity, it seemed to Jenkins. ‘I hope that the Sergeant does not think me disrespectful, but no. That would not do.’ He gestured inside the cave and laid a long finger on the palm of his other hand. ‘Fact number one. There is hardly room for two in there and certainly not for three. Fact number two. The horses are our only means of reaching Lord General Roberts - you cannot walk all that way - and,’ he shrugged his shoulders and looked around theatrically, ‘where can we hide them? These men of the hills can smell a good horse at two thousand paces. They have found the horses once and assuredly they would find them again. No, Sergeant bach. However difficult, we must ride.’
Without waiting for a reply, the Sikh turned and trotted down the track, rifle at the trail, in the direction the horses had disappeared. Jenkins shook his head resignedly and, for the first time, took a close look at the wound in his leg. The ball had lodged in the fleshy part of the under-thigh and, by the feel and look of it, had not penetrated far. Gingerly he bent his leg at the knee and felt around the wound. Certainly there were no bones broken and he thanked his stars that the Ghilzai had not been armed with a modern rifle. At that range, his leg would have been shattered. The wound had stopped bleeding and he cleaned it as best he could. Then, taking the water bottles, and the handkerchief from Simon’s head, he limped to the stream, refilled the canteens and cleaned and soaked his handkerchief. Back in the cave he gently wipe
d Simon’s face and head and, when his eyes opened, gave him water to drink.
The young man sat up. He was no longer perspiring although his face, under what remained of the congealed blood and the dye, had paled perceptibly. ‘Thank you, 352,’ he said, taking another deep draught from the bottle. ‘Listen, did I . . . did I dream it or did I shoot someone?’
‘No, bach sir, you didn’t dream it. You shot the feller who was tryin’ to top me, and I’m grateful to you, see.’ Quickly Jenkins explained to Simon what had happened from the time they had left the Pathan camp, and the need now to keep moving. ‘Can you ride now, d’you think?’
Simon nodded, although without enthusiasm, and Jenkins, wincing from the pain of his leg, unwrapped the turban he had wound round Simon’s loins and inspected the wounds.
He sniffed. ‘I’m no doctor, bach, but I think that fat has done a reasonable job.’
They were interrupted by the return of W.G., who came loping up the trail leading the two horses. Hitching them to the bush, he knelt down to look at Simon’s wounds, as Jenkins explained their history. The Sikh nodded and spoke softly to Simon. ‘The sergeant bach could not have done better. We will not disturb the fat. It should keep away germs, lord. But now we must remove ball from the Sergeant’s leg. And we must risk making fire.’
Quickly W.G. built a small fire in the interior of the cave. The smoke made them cough and their eyes water but it was better than letting it curl up straight outside like a signal column. The Sikh let it remain a flame only long enough to heat the blade of his knife to a dull red. Then he extinguished the blaze with dust and turned to where Jenkins waited, sucking his moustache.
‘The ball is not far beneath the skin,’ he said, waving the blade to cool it. ‘I shall flick it out like I dispatch the red cherry to fine leg boundary.’ He gestured, using the knife as a cricket bat, rolling his wrists to demonstrate the leg glance. ‘Little pain, Sergeant bach, I am assuring you.’
‘Oh bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins, closing his eyes.
In fact the Sikh was as good as his word and the operation took only seconds. Then, tearing fine cotton from Jenkins’s only other shirt, he bandaged the wound tightly and a perspiring Jenkins got to his feet, albeit with caution. Simon was tightly wrapped in whatever their packs could provide and the three men shuffled to the waiting horses. Simon mounted the Balkh stallion with W.G. seated behind him, holding him around the waist, while Jenkins, grimacing with pain, brought up the rear on his original Herat mount. They set off to the south, still climbing.
After half an hour, Jenkins urged his horse forward so that it was almost alongside that in front. He looked carefully at Simon, who was sitting well enough in the saddle but with his eyes closed. ‘You all right, bach sir?’ he enquired. Simon opened his eyes and nodded. ‘Ah, good,’ said the Welshman. ‘Look, see. I forgot to ask in all the fuss. Was it worth it? Did you learn anything back there, then?’
Simon gave a half-smile as his head nodded with the gait of the horse. ‘Oh yes. I learned all sorts of things - even some things which might help the General.’ Then he closed his eyes again and pain crossed his face. ‘Don’t ask me now, because my brain’s in a muzz. I’ll tell you when I’ve got my thoughts straight.’ He grimaced and his head fell forward again. Jenkins had to bend close to hear his last muttered words: ‘But whether it was worth it I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
Chapter 7
It took the little party two more days to reach the Shutargardan. The Kabul road was far too dangerous to use, which meant that the three men had to pick their way by compass through the mountains, using goat tracks where they could find them and always, always climbing. Simon lapsed into a state of semi-consciousness and only the arm of the Sikh kept him in the saddle. The first night after leaving the cave they found shelter and blessed hot food - gruel, mutton and sweet tea - with a nomad goatherd and his family. Not Ghilzais, said W.G. There were signs that Simon’s fever was returning and the two rough blankets they purchased to wrap him in were as welcome as was the lean-to that protected them all to some extent from the bitter wind and cold.
Nevertheless, Simon’s condition deteriorated the next day. He became delirious, shivering, his eyes half closed, mouthing meaningless phrases through which only ‘the Zulus move fast’ and ‘twenty thousand Russians’ were understandable. It was becoming more and more difficult for W.G. to hold him in the saddle as the horses slithered and stumbled on the shale.
It was Jenkins who insisted that they risk taking the road, the better to make progress: ‘Look, Gracey, look at ’im. He’ll die if we don’t get ’im to a doctor soon. Use that compass thing to get us down to the road. Come on. I’m pullin’ rank, look you. It’s the sergeant speaking, see.’
The Sikh turned Simon’s face round so that he could look into the young man’s eyes. Wordlessly, W.G. nodded and pointed to their right. An hour later they hit the road just before it crested the range at Shutargardan, both the wind and the pass’s eleven-thousand-foot elevation taking their breath away. Just below the crest they met a patrol of British cavalry, lances held high, carbines slung at their saddles, and they were escorted down over the battle-scarred ridge of Peiwa Kotal, into the Kuram valley and, eventually, as the shadows lengthened from the mountain peaks, into the British forward encampment of Alikhal, twelve miles from Kuram.
It was clear that Simon could go no further but a doctor was with the forward post and he bustled in to take charge as the young man was lowered from the saddle by Jenkins and W.G.
‘What’s wrong? Dysentery?’
Jenkins shook his head and slowly explained what had happened to Simon. The doctor, a short, red-haired Scotsman, wrinkled his nose in disgust and looked with concern at the half-dead form that Jenkins carried in his arms. He put a hand to Simon’s forehead.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Warmth. The fever’s the main problem at the moment. We must keep out pneumonia, though . . .’ he gazed pityingly at Simon’s lower half, ‘God knows what we do about down below. This way. Quick as you can.’
For three days Simon lay in a semi-coma, sweat plastering his hair and his broken nose making his breathing even more laboured. On the morning of the third day, General Roberts and Colonel Lamb rode into camp and to the tent where he lay. The two little men, their faces inscrutable, stood for several moments looking down at the unconscious man. Eventually Roberts turned to the doctor. ‘Will he live?’
‘I’ll know soon, General. I’m hoping the fever will break tonight. I think we’ve caught him just in time.’ He shook his head. ‘Though whether the laddie is ever going to be able to enjoy married life is in the hands of the good Lord above. There’s not much I can do in that department, except keep stickin’ on fresh dressings.’
Colonel Lamb frowned and blew his nose, but Roberts’s expression did not change. ‘Has he regained consciousness to say anything - has he talked at all?’
‘No, sir. Only blatherins that we can’t make head nor tail of.’
Roberts tapped his thigh with his riding crop. ‘I shall stay here overnight. I want to be told as soon as he regains consciousness or . . . er . . . gets worse. Understand?’
‘Aye, sir.’
The two men strode out of the tent. Roberts, in fact, had already known about the Kabul massacre when Simon and his companions rode into Alikhal. Five days earlier, he had been with his wife in attendance on the Viceroy at Simla, the summer seat of Indian government, when a telegram had reached him to tell him of the rumoured death of Cavagnari and the embassy staff. Immediately, the little officer had metamorphosed from polished courtier to man of action. With the two other British columns long since withdrawn from Afghanistan, his Kuram force was the only one in the field, and he instantly resumed his command and prepared to march on Kabul before winter snows closed the passes. Within days he had assembled a force comprising two infantry brigades (Indian and British regiments), a brigade of cavalry, a brigade of artillery with twenty-two guns, and a force of engineers.
(The Mullah Mushk-i-Alam’s intelligence was impeccable.) Even as Simon lay in his tent, one of the infantry brigades was moving up past Alikhal to occupy the Shutargardan and so keep open the door to Kabul.
It was clear that the invasion would be opposed. But to what extent, and what role would the Amir play? Roberts knew that the disenchanted Herat troops from the west had been at the heart of the insurrection and that the people of Kabul had supported them. But what of the hill tribes? Would they attack his small force - he had only seven and a half thousand men - as he advanced? And if they did, how many men could they muster? Not for the first time, his intelligence was sketchy and contradictory.
At the door of the hut that served as his headquarters Roberts turned to Lamb. ‘Baa-Baa, fetch me the two men who were with Fonthill. I am sure they can tell us something.’
Jenkins and W.G. filed into the dark little room and stood before Roberts, who was joined by Colonel Lamb. The Welshman and the Sikh made an incongruous pair, their disparity in height and dishevelled native garb giving them an air of the bazaar that was dispelled abruptly by the guardsmanlike rigidity with which they crashed to attention.
The General - he was now Sir Frederick, the knighthood quickly recognising his victory at Peiwa Kotal - examined each man with care, his eye taking in the bloodstain on Jenkins’s trousers and the slight wince with which the Welshman stamped to a halt. His gaze, however, betrayed no sympathy. It was that of a man weighing up the pair’s usefulness - and their credibility.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Stand easy and tell me exactly what happened to you. You first, Sergeant.’
So Jenkins took a deep breath and began their story, hesitantly at first but gaining in confidence as the tale unfolded and his Welsh loquacity took over. The General occasionally interrupted to ask a question but mainly listened in silence, while Colonel Lamb took notes steadily.
