by John Wilcox
Harding looked puzzled. ‘What ...?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Roberts crisply. ‘If you obtained this information under torture, which is what you did, young man, then how do we know it is genuine? A man will say anything under pain, I would have thought . . .’ Momentarily, the General’s glance dropped to Simon’s groin and his voice tailed away, in some embarrassment.
‘Not torture, General. Threat of torture. There is a difference.’ Simon’s face had now resumed an expression of sweet reasonableness. ‘But I thought of that, of course. W.G., our Sikh, that is, has travelled extensively through Afghanistan, as you will remember, sir. He knew that Mohamed Jan is from Ghazni and that it was logical that he should raise forces from his home ground. So that bit seemed true. We also asked our man the composition of the various forces in terms of their tribal origins. According to W.G., it was all accurate: Kohistanis in the northern army and so on. In any case, this man - never did get his name, but I remembered that he seemed to be in the mullah’s inner circle - would not have worried too much about disclosing this kind of information. He felt that the British were trapped in Kabul and could do little to stop the trap being closed around the city. In fact he boasted of it.’ Simon smiled. ‘Of course, he may have been exaggerating the size of the columns, but our Sikh, having recently travelled through the country with a British intelligence officer, thought not.’
Harding opened his mouth to speak, but Roberts silenced him with a wave of the riding crop. The General turned to Lamb, who had been taking notes throughout Simon’s account. ‘Baa-Baa,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
Colonel Lamb put down his pencil. ‘Harding may well be right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t quite see from where a leader in the field will emerge. Ayub Khan, perhaps, a relation of the old Amir, but as far as we know, he is way off to the west. On the other hand,’ he squinted at Simon, ‘the problem remains that we haven’t yet defeated the Afghan army. Oh yes,’ Lamb held up his hand as Harding began to interject, ‘we’ve had a couple of brisk engagements which we have won hands down. But we have not taken on a full Afghan force.’ He gestured. ‘They’re out there, scattered all over the bloody place. Itching to fight. We’re here, provokin’ them. They’ll have a go at us. Pride dictates it. They don’t need the mullah to tell ’em. They’ll unite somehow and come in. I think Fonthill’s picked up the true stuff. ’Pon my word, I do.’
Harding leaned forward. ‘General, you have had to leave units behind to secure your lines of communication so that you have fewer than six thousand troops here. It would be unwise to leave the comparative safety of these walls. Give me a week or two to get to my informants and see what I can find out.’
Slowly, Roberts shook his head. ‘Haven’t got the time, Harding. No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I must take the risk. There is only one way to find out if Fonthill is right; that is to presume that he is and go out and attack one of these columns at least and destroy it before they unite. I shall send MacPherson to attack the tribesmen coming from the north and put Baker across the Ghazni road to cut off the retreat of that northern column and prevent their remnants linking up with Mohamed Jan’s men coming from the south-west. The rest of the force will stay here to protect Kabul. Baa-Baa, tell Martin to come in and I will draft the orders.’
As Lamb went through the door, the General turned to Simon. His blue eyes were icily cold. ‘Captain Fonthill, you may well have performed a signally important service to your Queen and Country. Time will tell whether that is so. But I want to make it perfectly clear that if you indulge in any further “persuasion”, as you call it, of the native people here, then you will face a court martial. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘Very well. You and your two men will join Brigadier MacPherson’s force, which will march tomorrow.’ For the first time, he seemed to notice Simon’s appearance. ‘Do you all have uniforms?’
‘No, sir.’
Roberts looked with distaste at Simon’s dusty folds. ‘Very well. Probably just as well. MacPherson will want to use you as scouts, no doubt.’ For the first time his face softened somewhat. ‘How are your . . . injuries?’
‘Getting better, I think, sir.’
‘Good. That will be all.’
At the door, Simon almost collided with the young, fresh-faced subaltern, who bustled in carrying a notepad. In the anteroom, Colonel Lamb was awaiting him. They exchanged gazes for several seconds, neither speaking. Simon did not lower his eyes, but allowed one eyebrow to creep up.
‘I don’t quite know what to say to you, Fonthill,’ said Lamb, ‘which is just as well because there is no time. I have to rejoin the General. You have changed, there is no doubt about that.’ Then a half-smile crept across his face, although his eyes did not share in it. ‘For now, I will content myself with saying just two things: well done - and I hope to God that you are right. That’s all.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Simon loped to the door and, once outside in the huge courtyard, took a deep breath. Instinctively, his hand went to his loins and he rubbed to ease the ache, then spat into the dust. ‘Bastards,’ he swore. He asked a guard for directions to the Guides’ quarters and as he slowly walked there he asked himself once again what the hell he was doing here, in this arid, windswept country, working for an army he hated - and once again he could find no satisfactory answer. Duty? No, he had left that behind in Natal. Fear that Lamb would exercise his threat of a court martial? Well, partly, but he doubted if the little man really meant it. Love of adventure? Possibly, but - and he frowned at the thought - he had had enough of that in the last six months to last a lifetime. Perhaps, and he paused for a moment in his stride, perhaps he was still somehow trying to redeem himself in the eyes of those whom he loved and respected: his parents, Jenkins, Alice . . .? Ah, Alice. How was she getting on with Gladstone? The question brought a better humour and his gait quickened.
Reveille was at three a.m., and the column was due to march at four thirty, so it was dark and bitterly cold when the three men, muffled to the eyes again, reported to Brigadier MacPherson at four a.m. The Brigadier, a portly, comfortable-looking man with sharp eyes, looked them over keenly.
‘Heard all about you,’ he said to Simon. ‘Want the three of you to stay together and with me. You could be damned useful. Anyway,’ he pulled his red nose and then grinned, ‘don’t know where else to put you. So stay close.’
Simon smiled. He had no wish to become a line soldier again. The three of them walked their horses in behind the Brigadier’s brigade major and his ADC and among his signallers and mounted messengers.
The column comprised slightly fewer than seventeen hundred men. As the bugles sounded the advance, two squadrons of the 14th Bengal Lancers jingled out ahead of the column and fanned out as the vanguard. Jenkins nudged Simon: ‘Look you, bach. They’re just like chocolate soldiers.’
And indeed they were. The Lancers were wearing their parade ground best: dark blue jackets and white buckskin breeches thrust into highly polished knee-high riding boots. Scarlet sashes adorned their waists under white pipe-clay belts that also criss-crossed their chests. The Lancers had fine beards and wore tightly bound turbans decorated with bright cotton thread. Each carried a high lance. It could have been the Queen’s birthday parade at Delhi.
‘It’s for effect,’ murmured Simon. ‘A bit of pomp to show who’s boss.’
‘Indeed, lord,’ nodded W.G. ‘It is right that whoever opens the batting should be absolutely bloody dressed well. It is good for morale and all that sort of thing, you know.’
The rest of the force was less grand but, even so, it was clear that the column had been put together for business, not for show. Behind the Lancers marched four hundred rifles of the 67th Foot; then came four cannon of the Royal Horse Artillery and four smaller guns of a mountain battery, broken down and strapped to mules; followed by five hundred and nine rifles of the 3rd Sikhs, not quite as splendid as the Lancers
but earning an approving nod from W.G.; three hundred and ninety-three men of the 5th Gurkhas, quick-stepping and smiling in the dark cold; and, finally, a squadron of the 9th Lancers. It was a column lacking only engineers to give it independence, but unburdened by heavy wagons or elephants: it was a quick-moving, manoeuvrable force, containing some of the best troops under Roberts’s command. Yet, wondered Simon, was it strong enough to take on a full Afghan army in the field? And could Roberts afford to spare it from the thinly defended walls of Sherpur?
The column halted at eight a.m. for a quick breakfast. MacPherson, cradling a mug of tea in his cold hands, called Simon over. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ve not gone far, but if your story is true about millions of Pathans on the march from the north, we should have seen or heard something by now. Get out there,’ he gestured with his mug to the head of the column, ‘with your two ruffians. Get out beyond the screen of Lancers - this is no country for cavalry anyway - and find us your army. We will be doing little more marching today. The General wants me to wait at Kila Aushar,’ he gestured towards a small collection of mud roofs that could be seen about a mile to the right, ‘probably overnight to give Baker time to wheel his cavalry round on the Ghazni road to the west.’ The Brigadier eased his considerable bulk in the saddle and his eyes twinkled in his round red face. ‘Find us some sport, Fonthill, there’s a good chap.’
‘We’ll do our best, sir.’
The three rode through the Lancers and then split into a trident formation: Jenkins to the right, Simon in the middle and W.G. to the left, spreading about three quarters of a mile. The country was broken and difficult for horsemen. Terraced for irrigation and fissured by nullas, it was studded with rocks and scrub. Although the route north lay through a valley of sorts, it undulated so that visibility for any distance was poor, and it proved difficult for Jenkins and W.G. on the flanks to keep Simon in view at all times. The cold of the winter morning soon gave way to midday warmth, which beat back from the boulders and slabs of rock and made perspiration run down from the riders’ turbans into their eyes, stinging and making constant vigilance difficult.
It was a tiring, fruitless day and the three rode back into Kila Aushar despondently just before dusk. Ravens and eagles were all they had seen, and for the first time, Simon began to doubt the information they had drawn from the mullah’s henchman. Had he been boasting? It would have been in character.
The Brigadier, however, was surprisingly reassuring. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I feel in me water that you’re on to something. Baker will be in position to the west probably soon after sun-up. So get you out well before dawn and flush the bastards out. I have to wait here for further orders.’
The next day they had put about ten miles behind them, picking their way cautiously to the top of each rise, before, to the right, Jenkins caught Simon’s eye by waving a handkerchief from the muzzle of his rifle. Simon signalled to W.G. and rode to the Welshman.
‘There they are, look you,’ said Jenkins. Together they crawled to the top of a gentle hill. At first, Simon could see only a familiar vista of rocks, shale and scrub, stretching, it seemed, for ever. Then, a flash of light far to the right caught his eye. He focused his binoculars and the flash became a silver blur as the sun bounced from a thousand lances and then drew into his vision dozens of swirling banners. As he watched, small figures slowly moved over the hill and disappeared from sight into the declivity below. But they kept on coming and coming.
‘God,’ whispered Simon. ‘It must be the whole damned Afghan army.’
‘Not quite, lord.’ W.G. had noiselessly joined them and was squinting from under a shielding palm. ‘Probably no more than ten thousand. Look.’ He pointed with his other hand. ‘You can see where they end, to the left, at deep long on.’
‘Wish I had your eyesight, W.G.’ Simon moved the glasses slightly to the left and then lowered them. ‘Yes. But there’s enough of them to keep MacPherson busy. Now, a body that strong will have patrols out front, between us and them, though I can see no signs of them. But we have to be careful, because they could be just a few hundred yards ahead of us now. Jenkins, you ride back to the Brigadier at Kila Aushar and—’
A look of quiet desperation came into Jenkins’s eye. ‘Where’s she when she’s at home, then?’
‘It’s where the Brigadier’s camped. Where we slept last night. He won’t have moved far, if he’s moved at all. For goodness’ sake, even you can find seventeen hundred men . . . oh, very well. W.G., you’d better go. Tell the Brig what we have seen and explain that we are shadowing the army. Wait.’ Simon raised the glasses again and studied the distant ridge. ‘Yes, I can see cannon, and they are marching, not just sauntering all over the place.’ He turned back to the Sikh. ‘Make sure the Brigadier understands that this is a well-equipped force, not a rabble. Tell him they have artillery and that they seem to be advancing on Kabul, directly towards Kila Aushar, but slowly.’
‘Very well, lord.’
Jenkins watched the Sikh ride off and scowled. ‘You should have let me go. I can ride better’n that.’
‘Oh yes?’ Simon raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘And which way would you have gone? North, south, east or west? Never mind. Move out to the left - that’s that way - about half a mile and watch to the front for patrols. Keep me in sight. We shall need to drop back a little every half-hour or so. Don’t fire unless you have to.’
For three hours the two men observed the advancing host, retreating slowly to keep distance between them and whatever patrols were ranging out ahead of the army. Then, in the early afternoon, it became clear that the Afghans had stopped their march and were concentrating around and upon a steep, conical and isolated hill at the base of which sat a small village. Through his field glasses, Simon could just discern what seemed like earthworks being thrown up and cannon dug in. It was an admirable defensive position and, for the first time, it occurred to Simon that the Afghans knew of MacPherson’s force and had decided to fight him there. Could it be a trap? He climbed a higher knoll and carefully searched the terrain to east and west, but it seemed empty. He was considering whether to risk sending Jenkins back with this latest development when a small cloud of dust to the south indicated the arrival of a troop of Lancers, led by W.G.
‘Hear you’ve found the buggers!’ The subaltern in command, the only European - and therefore the only beardless man - in the troop, was glowing with excitement. ‘Well done . . . er . . . sir. I missed the show at Charasia but it looks as though I shall be in at this one. Where are they?’
Simon showed him. ‘Good God,’ the young man exclaimed. ‘Millions of ’em. And dug in, by the looks of it. Oh, sorry. Orders for you from the Brigadier. Please will you and your men fall back to Kila Aushar - we haven’t moved from the bloody hole since you left this morning - and report to him. We will stay and keep an eye on this lot.’
Ninety minutes later, Simon was giving his report to the Brigadier, who listened in silence throughout. At the end, he nodded in approval.
‘Well done, Fonthill. It looks as though you’ve been proved to be right. Capital! We’ll have a go at them first thing in the morning, unless for some unfathomable reason Bobs doesn’t want me to - I have reported to him, of course.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Simon took a breath. ‘Just a word of warning, Brigadier. It looks as though they are well positioned and waiting for you. You are, of course, outnumbered, I would think by about six to one - and they do have artillery.’
MacPherson rose languidly from his camp chair. ‘So your Sikh said. But you forget, Fonthill, that our whole bloody army here in this godforsaken country is outnumbered by far more than that.’ He stretched his arms above his head. ‘Anyway, my job is to bring this lot to battle and beat ’em. Tomorrow I shall do that. Now get a good night’s sleep.’
By four a.m. MacPherson’s column was on the move, picking its way along the valley as fast as the infantry could march. Once again, Simon, Jenkins and W.G. rode with the Brigadier, who, now that t
he enemy had been located and battle loomed, was the soul of joviality. His orders from Roberts, he explained, were straightforward: he was to attack the Kohistanis (for so they were perceived to be) immediately and to put them to flight before they could join forces with the other formidable Afghan column that was approaching, it had now been confirmed, from the south-west. Any attempt by the remnants of the defeated Kohistani column to join up with the men from Ghazni would be foiled by Brigadier Baker’s cavalry, positioned astride the Ghazni road.
‘At last a chance,’ he chortled to Simon, ‘to beat ’em fairly and squarely in the field and then mop ’em up.’
Simon fell back slightly and exchanged glances with Jenkins. The Welshman, as always, was riding easily, looking every inch a Pathan: coal-black eyes, fierce moustache, swarthy countenance, his turban loosely wound and seeming as though it might topple at any minute. All very Afghan. Yet his legs were bent into unusually short stirrups and the width of his chest and shoulders told of an origin far from India’s North West frontier. Jenkins nodded ahead.
‘Looks as though we’re goin’ to be in another old-fashioned battle, then. Better stay close, bach.’ His face was smiling but his eyes betrayed concern.
Simon frowned and turned to look at the column behind. ‘No need to worry. This lot should be able to see off whatever is in front. But I agree. Stick together by all means. We’ll probably be sent ahead with the skirmishers - I don’t think the Brigadier will like us lowering the sartorial tone by fighting with the uniforms once the action starts. So watch your back. In this garb we’re quite likely to be taken for the enemy by some young sepoy once we’re out in front. Tell W.G. I’ll ride on with the Brigadier.’
