The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  If Roberts’s overall strategy had failed, however, it became clear to Simon that the General’s tactics in the field that day against Jan’s army were succeeding. Massey’s small force, handled shrewdly by the little quartermaster, continued to fall back in good order, the three remaining guns and the carbine volleys doing just enough to stop a frontal attack by the Afghans. Nevertheless, it was a huge relief to find, when they reached the small village of Deh-i-Mazand, set amidst cliffs on either side, that the 72nd Highlanders had reached the gorge from Kabul in time and were lining the village walls and contiguous heights.

  Their presence was enough to halt the Afghan force. Although they still outnumbered the British, it would have been suicide for them to have stormed the pass under the guns of the Highlanders. In addition, far to the rear could now be heard muffled gunf ire. MacPherson had arrived.

  Riding at the rear of the British force with Jenkins and W.G., Simon realised that Mohamed Jan, probably unsure of MacPherson’s strength, was now disengaging his army and allowing the British to retreat unhindered to Kabul. The Afghan general knew they would be going nowhere. With the Afghan force from the south now nearing the heights surrounding the capital, the ring was closing. He could take his time about springing the trap.

  It was after dark before Simon and his two companions entered through the archway of Sherpur. An hour and a half later, MacPherson’s brigade rode in. The big gate clanged shut behind them all.

  Chapter 9

  Once inside Sherpur, the trio were told by Lamb to rest for a couple of days. ‘There’s a lot the General wants done,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be the uniforms who will do it. You’ll be needed soon enough.’

  Simon could see how the situation now gave Roberts little option for manoeuvring. More or less safe within the walls, the General knew that he had insufficient men - Baker’s column was still out on the plain to the north-west somewhere - to hold the city as well as the fortress, so he gave orders for the few detachments he had left patrolling the streets of Kabul itself to be withdrawn and concentrated all of his force within Sherpur. But he still retained hopes of preventing the concentration of the Afghan forces, now approaching the capital from north, west and south. Accordingly, over the next three days, he sent out troops in forays into the hills in an attempt to take and hold some of the key strategic heights. The actions were partly successful in that, in a series of brave and skilful attacks, the British were able to take most of their targets, but they were unable to hold them, so great were the numbers arrayed against them. Baker’s force, fighting its way back to the citadel after having failed, by a sequence of misfortunes, to find MacPherson, took part in one of these actions. But it, too, suffered unacceptable casualties and had to limp into Sherpur. By the end of the third day Roberts was forced to give up all attempts to prevent the ring closing around him. He barred the vast gateway to the fortress and decided to let the Afghans come to him there.

  Two days later Lamb sent for Simon. The Colonel was perched on the edge of a chair in his small office and looked uncomfortable. Simon sensed trouble. ‘Got a job for the three of you,’ said the little man. ‘A job - and then a bit of . . . ah . . . news for you. The job first.’ He stood to join Simon, there being no other chair in the room. ‘You know we’re surrounded?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Right. Bobs wants to know when the attack is coming. Harding seems to think that it won’t be until the New Year - what’s it now? Twenty-first of December, or something like that. Well, Harding believes they’ll sit and wait a bit - two or three weeks or so - and tempt us to make sorties. They will knock us about a bit as and when we come out and so reduce our force further before storming the walls. What do you think?’

  Simon half smiled at the compliment. His opinion was being asked, as though he was an experienced frontier man. Well, he would play the part! ‘Don’t think so, sir. It’s biting cold and the snow will be here very soon, maybe tomorrow. Mohamed Jan won’t be able to keep these men sitting about in the snow, far from the comfort of their villages. He knows exactly how many men we’ve got, and he knows the General will be hard put to defend every yard of these walls. He won’t hang about. He will come soon, is my guess.’

  Lamb nodded his head. ‘Agree completely. Right. Now. Bobs wants you and your men to slip out there, up to the heights somewhere, and try and pick up information as to when the attack will come. As you know, we haven’t got enough men to guard the perimeter walls continually. We can’t stand to all the time. Knowing roughly when they’re coming will be vital. Think you can do it?’

  Simon felt the room go colder. ‘Well, we can try, sir. The trouble is, only our Sikh knows the language. Jenkins and I will be in trouble as soon as we open our mouths.’

  ‘Thought about that. Cigar?’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘I know you’ve got some Parsi. If you’re in trouble, gabble fast in that.’ Lamb waved his cigar dismissively. ‘The Afghans out there are a polyglot lot. They’re a mixture of the Duranis from the plains in the west and the Ghilzais from the hills, churned up with Hazaras from the central highlands, the Tajiks from around here and the Chahar Aimaks from everywhere - they’re nomads. Then there are the subordinate tribes, all with their own lingo and vernacular. They will all have answered the call in the hope of getting in on the spoils if they knock us over. Half of ’em won’t know what the other half is saying.’

  The Colonel put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. ‘In other words, it sounds worse than it is. They’re not a standing army. Oh, yes, yes. There is a hard core of good professionals there who are regular soldiers. But around them Mohamed Jan has gathered tribesmen from all over. They’re not - what’s the word - homogenous. You won’t stand out. Sit, metaphorically speaking, on the edge of the campfire. Let your Sikh do the talking and the listening. Your Welshman will just have to pretend he’s dumb, but you will need him if you get in a scrape.’

  Simon nodded. ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere without him. But won’t our Sikh stand out like a sore thumb? You can tell his origins at a glance.’

  Lamb shook his head. ‘You’re forgetting that it’s less than thirty years since we beat the Sikh nation in the Punjab. Half of them are now in the British Army and the rest still hate us and take up arms against us whenever they can. That lot out there,’ again he gestured with his cigar, ‘will have plenty of Sikhs with ’em. Your chap won’t seem strange. But there is one thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ll have to leave your Martini-Henrys behind again. They would stand out. And Sniders would be a risk. Afraid it will have to be jezails.’

  ‘Oh lord.’

  ‘Sorry, it can’t be helped.’ Lamb dropped his gaze for a moment and, untypically, addressed the floor. ‘I’m also sorry that we’ve had to ask you to do this. I am well aware of the risk.’ He looked up again. ‘Trouble is, that arrogant political officer chap, Harding, has been wrong before and Bobs now can’t bring himself to trust him and his native informants. Anyway, this is the sort of work you came out to do. So,’ he slapped a forefinger into the palm of his hand, ‘one, give us some indication of when they are going to attack us, and two, where - a full frontal or round the back from the heights. Anything else will be a bonus.’

  ‘Very good, sir. We will leave now.’

  ‘Ah . . . there is one other thing.’ The faint air of embarrassment had returned to Lamb. ‘I spoke of some news for you.’

  ‘Sir?’ Simon knew that he would not like what was coming. Lamb did not embarrass easily.

  ‘Yes. I am being promoted to brigadier general and am taking over a brigade. Bobs has not been entirely happy with one or two of his senior men in the field, so he is making some changes.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, thank you. My replacement as Chief of Staff and head of intelligence is on his way here, together with a reinforcing brigade from Gandamak - and, by the way, a gaggle of journalists from home, which none of us like
s but we can do nothing about that. The brigade has got about thirteen hundred men, just what we need here. The trouble is that they are not strong enough to fight their way through to us. Bobs has ordered them up, but they won’t be able to get through. We are on our own for this fight.’

  ‘Quite, sir. And . . . er . . . may I ask who your replacement is?’

  ‘You may, as long as you don’t fly off the handle when I tell you.’ Lamb pursed his lips and braced his shoulders. ‘It is Lieutenant Colonel - now full Colonel - Covington, of your old regiment, the 24th Foot.’

  ‘What!’ Simon stared at the little man before him, whose back was now artificially straight as though he was about to resist a physical attack. ‘Do you mean,’ said Simon slowly, ‘that Covington is coming here and that I shall have to report to him again?’

  ‘I do. Can’t be helped. It’s the bloody Horse Guards at home.’ It was the turn of Lamb to look angry. ‘The army command seems to think the Indian Army can’t handle trouble on its own territory. Garnet Wolseley, the Adjutant General in London, believes that we should be - “stiffened”, I think is his word - by officers from British line regiments. And Covington, of course, served with him in Ashanti. So he was ordered here from South Africa, just after we left. He was given my job on his way here from Gandamak. In fairness, Roberts was happy to take him. He has the reputation of being a good staff man.’

  Simon stared over Lamb’s shoulder. ‘I shall undertake this job, Colonel,’ he said, ‘but it will be the last one. On its completion, I shall resign and, somehow, find my way back to India. I refuse to serve under this man.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Fonthill. You forget that you are on active service. You can’t walk out in the face of the enemy. That would be construed as cowardice. If you desert we shall find you and I will have you shot.’ The little man’s eyes were quite cold as he held Simon’s gaze. ‘You have no choice.’ Then, for a moment, he relented. ‘Oh for God’s sake, man. You have done good work here. Don’t spoil it all because of your hatred of a serving officer. I promise that Covington will be told of what you have done on the Frontier. I can’t and won’t promise to protect you. I shall have enough to do elsewhere. But I shall see that he understands that you are respected here. Now, push off and get on with it.’

  ‘Sir.’ Simon wheeled and left the room. He felt tired and sick. His loins, which had gone unbandaged since his return to Sherpur, now throbbed anew. The thought of impotence, which had been deliberately pushed into his subconscious during the days of action, now returned to him. Even if he survived this latest, ludicrously dangerous mission, what awaited him on his return? Persecution and constant undermining from his old enemy - and the ever-present thought that he was only half a man. It all seemed too much.

  Snowflakes were falling into the compound and he strode for a while, taking in deep draughts of the teeth-achingly cold air. Along the top of the wall, sentries walked, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. The snow had already mantled the beaten earth of the huge compound, but few footmarks had violated the gentle white. Only those who needed to be about had left the comfort of barrack room and mess. Simon could see why Roberts did not wish to have large numbers of his force standing to. There was no sign of afternoon sun, it was grey and bitterly cold. Standing and waiting on the ramparts in these conditions for an attack that showed no sign of coming was a recipe for destroying morale.

  Except for the thin screen of guards atop the wall, the fortress seemed almost deserted. Simon was glad of the solitude and he walked firmly along at the base of the wall as he considered his position. After a while, he felt better. What the hell! He had defeated Covington once before and he could do it again. He turned on his heel and went to find Jenkins and W.G. He had decided against mess life with the officers of the Guides and the three of them had found a room where they could lay out their mattresses and eat. It was easy to find space in that warren of a citadel and no one seemed to miss them. They were truly irregulars.

  Quickly, he told the other two of the task before them. W.G. seemed unperturbed. Nothing seemed to disturb the measured way of the big Sikh. Jenkins, however, was furious at leaving behind the modern rifles in favour of the old Afghan muskets. ‘I’ll not bother, look you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t ’it a mountain with one of them. I’ll just take me penknife, see, and Gracey can take a cricket bat.’

  W.G. shook his head in disagreement. ‘We must look the part, Sergeant bach. No Pathan would go to war without his jezail. And I am thinking that they will be better than nothing if we have to shoot and run. Am I making my meaning absolutely quite—’

  ‘Very clear,’ Simon interrupted. ‘Now we need some basic provisions and these bloody muskets. I want to be out of here as soon as it’s dark.’

  In those minutes after sunset and before the moon had risen, when the eyes found difficulty in adjusting to the darkness after the brightness of the day, the three slipped out of the defences on the far slopes below the Bimaru heights, which were contained within the overall Sherpur cantonment. Here, trenches and wire had been thrown up on the slopes of the ridge. The heights commanded the approach and it was thought that the Afghans here would be thinner on the ground, and that an attack would not be made from this quarter. It was also easier to leave across the broken ground than from the walls, but the exit remained potentially the most dangerous part of their mission. Nevertheless, although camp fires could be seen flickering only a few hundred yards below them, showing the presence of the besieging force, they were not challenged as they scrambled along a ditch, keeping away from the fires. Snow was now falling heavily and it blanketed their passage and also further restricted visibility. Simon was anxious that they should work their way round to the south-west of Sherpur, to the Asmai heights, which commanded a view of the fortress and the valley between and where he suspected that Mohamed Jan’s headquarters might be situated. So, following a compass bearing, they walked through the night, all of them muffled against the cold, with W.G., as the linguist, leading.

  Simon had worked out a rough strategy. They would walk - urgently, as though on a mission - round the periphery of the besieging Afghan army to establish where the main groupings were and how strong were the forces opposing Roberts. If challenged, W.G. would say that Simon, with his dumb brother, was a Persian from the Afghan border who had walked to Kabul to join Mohamed Jan in his holy crusade against the invading infidel. They were looking for his headquarters. Then, at the heart of the army, they would just have to use their eyes and W.G.’s ears to pick up what they could.

  That first night they moved unmolested west and then south, through the valley below the heights. There appeared to be no established front line, or at least no fortifications. Nevertheless, they were conscious that they were in the midst of a host, for camp fires glowed through the falling snow and they exchanged gruff greetings with a series of patrols, who moved slowly and disinterestedly in the cold. It was clear that the Afghans expected no sorties from the defenders in darkness and weather like this, nor did they suspect for a moment that spies might be afoot. After stumbling for a couple of hours in the darkness, Simon realised that further progress was impossible, so the little party holed up in a copse of birch trees between the canals which criss-crossed the ground below the Asmai heights. They were near enough to a picket of cavalrymen to see their Turkoman caps and know they were from the north, yet secluded enough to avoid awkward questions. Nevertheless, Simon decided against lighting a fire, so they built a rough shelter of birch boughs, wrapped their cloaks about them, huddled together for warmth and grabbed whatever sleep they could.

  The dawn took its time to arrive, for the light had to fight its way through the dark clouds that continued to deposit snow on the besieging army. When it came, it brought a shock. Peering from the edge of their rough shelter, Simon realised that, somehow, they had blundered through to the heart of the Afghan cavalry. The falling snow had concealed not only the rough sheepskin shelters under which the cavalry were
sleeping, but also the noise of the Afghan ponies as they moved on their hobbles, searching for tussock grass. The snow had been their saviour, for otherwise they must have been challenged as they approached the lines.

  His teeth chattering, Simon shook the others awake, his finger to his lips. ‘Now we’ve done it,’ said Jenkins, looking around at the figures who were beginning to emerge from their shelters, bringing with them precious scraps of dry wood and moss with which to light fires. ‘They’ll ’ave us for breakfast.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Simon. ‘We must just play our roles. Is there enough dry wood under here to start a fire?’ They had brought with them scraps of paper for that purpose but they would need kindling wood. A little was found within their primitive shelter - too little.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘W.G., go over there and ask if they could spare a burning brand to light our fire. Also ask them if they can give us some tea - and where Mohamed Jan’s headquarters are, for we need to report to him.’

  The Sikh smiled. ‘The Captain is taking a risk with his field placement, I am thinking, but golly, it is good we should take the game by the throat, isn’t it?’

  As the others affected to lay their fire, W.G. crawled out of the shelter, stretched himself and ambled over to the nearest group of cavalrymen. Neither Simon nor Jenkins could hear what passed, but, under lowered brows, they could see the Sikh talking with a short Afghan, who wore long kid riding boots and a black sheepskin cap, the fringe of which hung over his eyes and cheeks. He seemed to be in authority, for he made no effort to help his companions, who were bustling to light the fire and beginning to cook something within a large and blackened earthen pot. He gestured up behind him with his riding whip and looked across without too much interest at Simon and Jenkins. Simon inclined his head and the Afghan nodded. Then W.G. bent, picked up a couple of burning sticks from the fire, accepted the gift of a little leather pouch from one of the cooks and ambled back to his companions, blowing to keep the brands alight.