The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Lamb ran his eye over the three of them. They were dressed in Afghan garb, what was left of their original disguise topped with drab, loose-fitting jackets and old turbans. Simon had lost all trace of the affluent Persian merchant. Gone was his gold braid and brocaded waistcoat. A scuffed sheepskin jacket now gave him the air of a nondescript tribesman and his illness had hollowed his cheeks and heightened his cheekbones so that his face possessed a sharpness characteristic of the Pathan. The scars of the broken nose were still livid, but the end of the bone was bent down and to the left, giving it the look of a talon. Simon’s whole appearance now was that of an Afghan. The Colonel grunted approvingly.

  ‘Look the part, anyhow,’ he said. ‘Don’t get yourself shot by our pickets.’ He pulled on the rein and cantered off, towards the head of the column.

  Simon glanced at W.G. and then at Jenkins. Both were watching him keenly. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, gentlemen, I’m feeling better by the minute. Let’s go and invade Afghanistan.’

  The three men moved forward at a gentle walk and slipped into a gap in the column. Forward and behind, the thin line seemed to stretch for ever. Far ahead, Simon could just make out the silver and blue flashes of Punjab cavalry in the van, although the rocky terrain prevented them from fanning out into a screen. Behind them he could see the white helmets, crossed pipe clay belts and dark kilts of the 72nd and 92nd Highlanders, followed by the mules of a mountain battery, its guns broken down and lashed to the animals’ backs. Immediately ahead jangled two squadrons of the Royal Horse Artillery, their cannon bouncing and banging from rock to rock behind the horses. Behind Simon and his companions marched a company of Bengal sappers and miners, dark little men in nondescript uniforms, their white teeth flashing in the early morning sunlight. Behind them, swaying in ponderous rhythm, walked six elephants in single file, their mahouts perched behind their ears, scratching their charges’ heads with their sticks.

  It was cold, but there had been no rain, and dust rose from the marching feet and wagon wheels: this could be no surprise invasion. The road, such as it was, allowed only about six men to march abreast, and despite its weaponry, the column gave off an air of vulnerability as it wound its way slowly and sinuously upwards, towards the Shutargardan, along the track which Simon and Jenkins had taken just a few weeks before.

  To Simon it seemed a perilously sparse force with which to conquer a country, and his mind slipped back to a similar column, which had marched into Zululand with equally high hopes less than a year ago. He sighed and, with a touch of impatience, urged his horse forward, wincing as the familiar ache accompanied the action.

  Chapter 8

  Simon, Jenkins and W.G. cantered along the wide road of the Kabul valley past the two villages, Chardeh and De-i-Aghan, which fringed the outskirts of the capital. Their horses and garments were covered in ochre-coloured dust and they looked more like Saharan Touregs than Pathans, for they had wound cloths around their faces to protect themselves against the fierce December wind which rampaged up the valley. Only their eyes were visible, eyes that blinked and watered from the wind and dust. Ahead of them and to their right rose the ramparts of the Sherpur cantonment, within which Roberts had been forced to withdraw with most of his small army.

  At the main gate, a massive, metal-studded affair which it took two men to open and close at dawn and dusk, the Highlander sentry challenged the trio. ‘Captain Fonthill, Guides, for the General,’ replied Simon and was waved through without ceremony. Many and varied were the men who had ridden down from the hills to have audience with Roberts since the army had reached Kabul two months ago; these dusty strangers evoked no surprise from the sentry.

  The three dismounted - Simon gingerly, the others loosely but with obvious relief - and looped their reins over a hitching post outside the General’s headquarters. They were on the edge of a huge square within the walls and Simon whistled as he looked around him. The fortress of Sherpur was vast. Enclosed on three sides by a high and massive loop-holed wall and backing on to the Bimaru heights, it stood about a mile and a half outside Kabul and near to the Bala Hissar, which Roberts had had destroyed in revenge for the attack on the Residency. It seemed impregnable, yet it had a perimeter of some four and a half miles: difficult to defend with a force as small as that under Roberts’s command.

  The Sikh caught Simon’s gaze. ‘A big pavilion, lord,’ he smiled. ‘Perhaps too big, I am thinking.’

  ‘Do you want us with you to see the General?’ asked Jenkins. ‘If you don’t, I could do with a cup of tea and a lie-down, see. Four weeks on that bloody horse has rubbed me bum raw.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No. Look after the horses and then report to the Guides’ quarters so that I know where to find you. And ...’ he frowned, ‘I know I don’t have to tell you to keep what you know to yourselves.’

  Jenkins’s eyebrows rose. ‘Look you, bach, I am not sure that I know anything. And if I did know something I wouldn’t know anyone to tell it to, we’ve been out so long. Come on, Gracey, let’s find some char.’

  Unwinding his turban and shaking some of the dust from his half-blanket, half-cloak, Simon walked through a succession of rooms to find the General’s anteroom, where an infantry subaltern regarded him with interest. ‘Captain Fonthill? Ah yes, sir, we’ve been wondering about you. The General is out, up at the back on the heights with Colonel Lamb. He shouldn’t be long, so please wait. I know he will want to see you urgently. Take a pew.’

  Gratefully, Simon lowered himself on to a canvas chair. ‘Any chance of a cup of char? I’ve had nothing since last night. We ran low on fodder up in the hills.’

  The lieutenant’s eyes widened and he smoothed his generous moustache. ‘Good lord, sir. Right ho. Straightaway. This very minute.’

  Simon stretched out and looked around him. The anteroom seemed as active as an anthill. Indian clerks scurried past him carrying files and boxes; a quick-striding colour sergeant of the 67th Foot made as if to kick Simon’s outstretched feet out of his way, caught Simon’s eye and thought better of it; two subalterns were writing intensively, at trestle tables; and, in a corner, a punka wallah was pulling his cord, quite unnecessarily, for the December weather was cool enough. It was a ritual. This was an Indian army, therefore there had to be a punka wallah, whatever the temperature. The atmosphere within the mud walls of the room was bustling but, it seemed to Simon, somehow uneasy. More that of a beleaguered garrison than a victorious army: tense and nervous.

  It was now nearly three months since Roberts had invaded. At Charasia he had outflanked and dispersed a strong force ranged against him and had entered Kabul on 8 October. Two days later, the Amir, Yakub Khan, had abdicated and Roberts found himself in command of a sullen, resentful city and of a nation which had no acknowledged leader. He had been forced to bring to Kabul the force he had left behind at the Shutargardan pass keeping open his line of communication to India. Determined to punish the men responsible for the massacre at the Residency, he had placed under arrest the Amir’s main advisers and set up two councils of enquiry. While the councils deliberated, it became clear to Roberts that he could not garrison the crowded, narrow streets of Kabul itself and he had withdrawn most of his army behind the ramparts of Sherpur. There, rumours reached him of tribesmen massing in the hills and of an imminent attack. But from where, and with what force? ‘Friendly’ Afghans brought him intelligence that conflicted and made him suspicious about its source.

  It was against this background that Simon and his two companions had been ordered to scout into the hill villages and gather what information they could. In the initial stages of the advance, Simon, with the help of W.G., had negotiated with the maliks of the Logar valley and procured precious grain for the column, thereby establishing a relationship of grudging respect with the General. Now they had become the eyes and ears of the army. They had been away for more than a month. It was their true testing time.

  Simon was woken by a hand shaking his
shoulder. ‘Tea’s getting cold and the General is back,’ whispered the young subaltern. ‘Wants to see you right away. Door behind you.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ Simon took a mouthful of the still-warm tea and wiped his chin with the back of his hand, so depositing another layer of dust across his mouth. He knocked on the door and strode in.

  Roberts was sitting behind a trestle table, tapping its top with a riding crop. On stools to his right and left were Colonel Lamb and someone unknown to Simon, a dark, tall European, dressed in an unseasonable summer-white linen suit. The General gestured to Simon to sit in the camp chair facing the desk. ‘And bring your tea,’ said Lamb, with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Right.’ The General showed no affability. ‘You’ve been away a hell of a time. Thought we’d lost you. Why didn’t you report?’

  Simon thought it best to put his tea down. ‘Sorry, sir. We were a bit busy. There was no chance of sending you a message and, anyway, until the last couple of days there was not much to report.’

  Lamb leaned forward. ‘Ah, but you have something for us now, Fonthill?’ Simon noticed that the dark civilian was regarding him with a fixed stare. The tension in the room was palpable. These men, he thought, were like blindfold pugilists, put into a ring for sport and not knowing from where the next punch would come.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He leaned forward and pointed to the map which hung on the wall behind Roberts - a map, he noticed, with the usual white spaces revealing the poor state of British cartographical knowledge. ‘You are in the middle of a pincer movement. Here,’ he rose, walked behind the desk and put his finger into one of the white spaces, to the south-west of Kabul, ‘Mohamed Jan is advancing from Ghazni.’ He moved his finger down and across. ‘From the south there is a large force advancing with the object, as far as I could learn, of seizing the range of hills extending from Charasia, here, to the Shahr-i-Darwaza heights, including the fortifications of upper Bala Hissar. And here,’ he pointed to the north, ‘there is a comparable force marching south to occupy the Asmai heights. Once they are all assembled, they will have you virtually surrounded and will be joined by most of the people in Kabul and surrounding villages. You will, of course, be completely outnumbered. They will then launch an attack to re-take Kabul. The advance on the three fronts seems to be co-ordinated. Since you moved in here, the Afghans have been waiting for you to do what the British have always done when they have invaded before, that is,’ he coughed apologetically, ‘make a few pronouncements and then leave. But you seem to be staying, so the decision has been made to attack.’

  The three men gazed in silence at Simon. Eventually, the General spoke. ‘How many men?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Probably about forty, fifty thousand or so. Maybe more.’ The silence continued. Simon was unsure whether it was prompted by admiration for the detail he was providing or overall disbelief. Most likely the latter. He thought it a good time to bend down and retrieve his tea.

  It was the white-suited man who broke the quiet. ‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ he said. ‘My information is that the tribes are scattered and leaderless. They have lost the Amir,’ his lip curled, ‘not that he could ever unite them, but he was a central, focal point of resistance. Now there’s no one. They’re still arguing the toss among themselves about what to do next. They are disunited.’

  Roberts gestured. ‘This is Mr Harding. Political officer.’ The hostility with which Harding regarded Simon was obvious, a case of the professional despising the upstart amateur. Simon shrugged his shoulders. It was not for him to cross swords with this slim insider. If Roberts chose to disbelieve him, so be it.

  The General pursed his lips and buried his riding crop deep into his moustache. ‘Do you know who is leading them, Fonthill?’

  ‘Not in the field, no, sir. But the man who has rallied the troops, so to speak, is this mullah chap, whom I . . . er . . . met, you may recall. I understand that he has been stomping the hills, denouncing us from every mosque in the country.’ Simon shot a glance at Harding. ‘Name of Mushk-i-Alam, Mr Harding. Means Fragrance of the Universe, I understand.’

  ‘I am aware of that, thank you.’

  ‘Ah. Just trying to help.’

  Roberts seemed unaware of the look of pure hatred that Harding directed at Simon. He spoke more to himself than the others: ‘If these forces are converging on us here at Kabul and they amalgamate, they could be too much for us. I must go out and knock off at least one of the columns, to destabilise them and prevent them all joining up.’

  ‘And split your already small force in the face of the enemy, sir?’ Lamb interposed quietly.

  ‘Could be the lesser of two evils,’ mused Roberts.

  Harding’s face took on a darker hue. ‘With respect, Sir Frederick, you can’t take that sort of risk on the basis of this . . . . this ....’ he gestured towards Simon, ‘sort of unsubstantiated report. It certainly doesn’t conform with my concept of reliable intelligence.’

  Lamb turned to Simon. ‘I think, Fonthill, that you had better reveal the source of this information. You will see that much hangs on it.’

  Simon looked at the three men facing him: one openly and contemptuously sceptical; Lamb solicitous and almost begging his protégé to impress; the General completely expressionless but fixing Simon with a gaze that seemed to bore through him.

  ‘We managed to extricate this from one of the mullah’s right-hand men, sir,’ said Simon in a matter-of-fact tone. He gestured towards his broken nose. ‘He was the chap who did this to me and I remember him well. He was certainly close to the mullah. He spoke good English and seemed to be well informed.’

  Roberts frowned. ‘Spoke. Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s buried under a pile of stones up in the hills, sir. We shot him. At least Sergeant Jenkins did. Remarkable shot. At a range of about one hundred and twenty paces in the semi-darkness. Got him behind the right ear. I couldn’t have done it.’

  Before Harding or the General could respond, Lamb spoke. ‘Right, Captain. The whole story. From the very beginning, please.’

  ‘Indeed,’ snorted Harding. The General remained silent, but his bright blue eyes gazed unblinkingly at Simon.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Simon sighed. Just as he had expected, this report was not going well. ‘We spent our first three weeks in the hills visiting the small villages, talking to the herdsmen. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you speak Pushtu?’ snapped Harding.

  ‘A bit, but not well. W.G. . . . er . . . my Sikh speaks it fluently and knows the hills and the people well. But we were getting nowhere. The villagers were much too cautious. Afraid of their own people and of us. So I decided that there was nothing for it but to go back to the mullah’s den, so to speak: the valley where I was taken when I was captured.’

  General Roberts’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You went back there, to where they did that . . . to you?’ He gestured vaguely to Simon; it could have been to his nose or his genitals.

  ‘Yes, it seemed the only thing to do. It was a risk but I was fairly sure we would find someone who would know something. We went in at night down a fissure in the rock wall that Jenkins remembered, though,’ and Simon smiled, ‘he had a problem finding it. It was pretty well protected from view and away from the entrance to the camp, which I recalled was well guarded and so almost impenetrable. But the bird had flown. Well, almost flown.’ He took another sip of tea, as much to aid concentration as give refreshment. ‘The camp was virtually empty - certainly the mullah had gone and, it seems, taken with him all of his men and camp followers. But this one chap had stayed behind for some reason.’

  Simon stared unseeingly at the map on the wall and frowned at the recollection. ‘I remembered him well so he was quite a catch. We hit him on the head and bundled him up like washing. He was a dead weight, so we couldn’t carry him up the rock face. Only thing to do was to go out the main gate, so to speak. So we slung him over a mule and led him out past the guards in the dark.’ He smiled at his interlocu
tors. ‘Funny thing about guards. They’re always worried about people coming in, never those going out.’

  ‘Quite so,’ observed Roberts drily. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘We found our horses, rode back to our camp, which was pretty high up, just below the snow line, and persuaded our guest to cough up.’

  There was another silence, broken only by the low murmur of voices from the anteroom. Harding spoke: ‘So he just . . . coughed up?’

  Simon shifted slightly in his chair. ‘Oh no. He needed a bit of persuasion.’

  ‘Persuasion?’

  ‘Yes. We lit a fire between his legs. It worked quite well.’

  The General lowered his riding crop slowly. ‘You did what, Fonthill?’

  ‘We spread-eagled him on the ground, sir, and lit a fire between his legs. Didn’t hurt him at all really, because he began singing as soon as the flames got going.’

  Harding rose, his face flushed with anger. ‘Sir, you are a barbarian. You don’t deserve to hold Her Majesty’s Commission. Apart from the disgusting, uncivilised nature of your action, it will have set back our relationship with these people by years - a relationship I have spent a lifetime building.’

  Simon took another sip of tea. It was cold now. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Mr Harding,’ he said. ‘Firstly, as I said, this man is dead now, so he can’t tell his story to anyone.’ He turned to the General. ‘We had him tied and were going to bring him here for interrogation, but unfortunately he somehow slipped his ropes while we were asleep. Luckily Jenkins - our best shot - was on guard and spotted him and . . . . er . . . . potted him, as I said. Buried him in a shallow grave below stones, so it’s unlikely he will be found.’ Simon turned back to the political officer. ‘But in any case, I was under the impression that this burning business - not that we actually did it, mind you - was a kind of national sport here.’ His smile froze and his eyes were blank. ‘They did it to me, you see - properly. I still hurt.’