by John Wilcox
The Sikh squatted and shook the snow from the edge of his turban. Without speaking, the others helped him light the fire, and Simon poured water from his leather skin into a small kettle and set it on the flames.
‘There is nothing,’ said Jenkins, ‘but nothing, like a nice cup of tea to start the day.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Simon. ‘Now, W.G., what news?’
‘Lord, I think that we have come out here just in time. That man is a rissaldar of cavalry in Afghan army. It is good that we talked to him because it means that everyone else thinks we know him and he is very important. He says that we have arrived just in time to take part in attack which will be launched at dawn tomorrow. Signal will be lighting of great bonfire by His Holiness the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam himself.’
Simon’s eyes widened. ‘The old man himself is here?’
‘Ah yes, lord. He is with General Mohamed Jan up on the top of the Asmai mountain just behind us here. The bonfire will be lit up there. The rissaldar compliments you on making such long journey to fight the British.’
‘That’s kind of him,’ said Simon. ‘When you return the tea pouch, thank him and give him my hope that Allah will be with him through the fighting.’
The kettle boiled with a hiss and Jenkins emptied out the tea leaves into the kettle, added a sprig of mint from his pocket and produced three small earthenware gourds. He poured the tea and looked up at a silent Simon. ‘I know just what you’re thinkin’, bach sir,’ he whispered. ‘We mustn’t do it. We would be bloody barmy to go up there to this Jan chap’s camp. We’ve got what we want to know. So let’s get out of here while we’re lucky. Back to the fort, tell the General, an’ pick up our Victoria Crosses.’
Simon shook his head. ‘We must have confirmation,’ he said, half to himself. ‘We can’t report back just on one man’s word. There has to be a reason if they’ve picked tomorrow morning for the attack. We must have proof. And we must try and pick up some indication of where the attack will be directed. The General can’t man all of the perimeter with the troops he’s got. No. We’ve got to go on up. Sorry, 352, but, please, do finish your tea first.’
Jenkins sniffed and sipped his tea with care, his little finger raised high in contempt. Awkwardly, the three men stretched their cramped limbs, kicked snow on to the fire and gathered their meagre belongings together. Then, scarves round their necks to protect themselves from the cold - as well as to conceal their features - they began to scramble up the slopes of the Asmai heights. It was more of a hill than a mountain, turning into a ridge that stretched for some one and a half miles west to east, before forking into two crests, like the top of a Y, which loomed over the River Kabul below. The eastern side of the ridge commanded Sherpur as well as the flat plain which fronted the western, southern and eastern walls of the fortress. The three were climbing the slopes of the longer of the two arms of the Y, and as they rose higher, Simon could see the other hills which curled round the southern and eastern aspects of the citadel: the Shahr-i-Darwaza heights and the Siahsang. It was here that Roberts had tried to establish positions during the last few days and it was from here that he had been repelled.
It was not only the cold and the altitude which took Simon’s breath away, however, as the full panorama came into view. These hills and the declivities between were crawling with Afghan tribesmen. The snowfall had stopped, throwing the whole of the Kabul valley into perfect relief as the three paused for breath on an outcrop of rock and watched the Pathan army come to life below and all around them. Blue smoke coiled into the air from under a myriad cooking pots, the weak sunlight glinted from sword, spear and knife blades, and everywhere, tiny dun and white figures scurried about, starting their day. There were thousands of them, stretching into the blue morning mist, straddling the river and curving round behind Sherpur to the hidden Kohistan road behind. From their own hill, on Asmai, the noises of a stirring army were all about them: the harsh grunts of mules, the clink of harness, the hiss of food being prepared, the occasional scrape of a knife being sharpened and the muffled hum of guttural voices.
‘Must be thousands and thousands,’ muttered Simon, staring into the morning sun from under his hand. ‘How many would you say, W.G.?’
‘Between thirty and forty thousand, perhaps more, lord.’
‘How many has the General got, then?’ asked Jenkins.
Simon still scanned the distance. ‘With the few reinforcements that came through before the Khyber road was closed, and the detachments that came in from the city,’ he said, ‘I would guess between six and seven thousand.’
‘Right,’ said Jenkins. ‘That settles it. General Bobs needs us. Let’s get back quick, then, and make it seven thousand and three. Even the odds, like.’
‘Rubbish. Come on. Onwards and upwards.’ It was as well that they recommenced their climb, for, by standing gazing, they were beginning to attract attention. As they trudged upwards, they were now forced to push their way through Mohamed Jan’s infantry, who were resting in loose ranks on the terracing of the Asmai heights. Looking covertly around him, however, Simon realised that he and his companions looked indistinguishable from the multitude of loosely swathed Afghans all about them. He had long ago cultivated the long, lissom stride of the Pathan, and Jenkins’s short, squat carriage was more than compensated for by his sharp coal eyes and fierce black moustache. Even W.G.’s height and distinctive, tightly bound turban were matched by those of several tall, bearded warriors they passed who might - or might not - be Sikhs. No one challenged them. The urgency with which they climbed showed to those around them that their passage had some purpose. It was enough. This was no army of movement orders and countersigned chits. Yet, as he climbed, Simon sensed it had a dynamism and purpose of its own. There was a feeling, even this early in the morning, of suppressed excitement. Everyone, it seemed, was looking down at Sherpur. The attack must be near - but when?
As they approached the summit it became apparent that they were nearing the command centre of the Afghan army. Most of the Pathans around them now wore nondescript khaki uniforms and carried modern rifles, although not of a make Simon recognised. Were they Russian? The crest of the hill revealed a flat plateau, no more than a football pitch in area, but upon which many low tents had been pitched. Outside them, long banners flew from spears thrust into the ground. Simon felt a nudge from Jenkins. At the lip of the plateau, on the edge directly overlooking the valley and Sherpur, tribesmen were laying a huge bonfire from wood that had been piled nearby and covered by layers of sheepskins to keep it dry.
The three men exchanged glances. The signal bonfire was being laid. Simon frowned. Today? No. It was too late. The attack would surely come just before dawn, as the cavalryman had said, before daylight gave the defenders the advantages of a clear view for firing across the open ground below the walls. So it was almost certain to be tomorrow. But where? Would Jan surprise Roberts and attack up the slopes of the Bimaru heights, behind Sherpur? This option had been discounted by Roberts and his staff, for it would be difficult for the attackers to charge the wire and the trenches up the steep hill. But there would be no walls to scale that way and it would have the advantage of being unexpected. Jan would know that the British could not defend every sector in depth.
Simon whispered to W.G., ‘I think we are at the army headquarters. See if you can pick up any information about the timing of the attack and where it will be delivered. But,’ he put a hand on the Sikh’s sleeve, ‘don’t make yourself conspicuous. If questioned, say again that you have just arrived and have come to report.’ Simon nodded to where a number of Afghans seemed to be collecting behind one of the tents. ‘We will join that crowd there. Come to us as soon as you can. Don’t hang about.’
The Sikh nodded and walked away towards where guards were stationed at the entrance to one of the larger tents, outside which flew two long white and green banners. Simon and Jenkins ambled towards the crowd, which spilled over the lip of the plateau to form a large semi
-circle on a wide, flat area of ground. The crowd’s attention was fixed on a black-robed figure, bent over a staff, who was haranguing them with a force that belied his elderly frame.
Simon’s eyes narrowed and he felt his stomach contract, as, across the heads of the Afghans, his gaze again met that of Mushk-i-Alam, the Fragrance of the Universe. The distance was about a hundred yards. Simon drew in his breath. Could the old man see that far? Would he be recognised? He forced himself not to lower his gaze, and as the soldiers roared approval and waved their jezails, he nudged Jenkins and the two men followed suit. The mullah fell silent for a moment but his eyes remained fixed on Simon. Then, slowly, he turned and spoke to two attendants at his side.
‘Quick,’ whispered Simon. ‘I’ve been spotted. Let’s go. Don’t run, but walk quickly.’
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins. ‘I knew it couldn’t last. Tell me if I’m runnin’.’
The pair thrust their way through the edge of the crowd, which had thickened behind them as they stood, and joined a stream of Afghans, not in uniform, who were making for a copse at the far side of the plateau. Simon turned and saw W.G. deep in conversation with one of the guards at the big tent. Their eyes met and Simon nodded towards the copse and then lowered his head and lengthened his stride.
The trees proved to be but a thin screen, but a path led through and immediately plunged down towards the valley. At the edge of the trees, Simon pulled Jenkins behind a thicket. ‘Take off your turban and throw it away,’ he said. ‘Pull out a scarf and wrap it loosely round your head, like this. It’s the best we can do. They’ll be looking for us in turbans.’
The destination of the tribesmen became clear as, on a patch of level ground to the right of the path, uniformed soldiers were leading the men off to huge piles of roughly bound crude ladders, some twenty feet in length. Each man shouldered a ladder and shuffled off, down the hill.
‘Scaling ladders for the attack,’ murmured Simon, as they fell into line.
‘Oh shit,’ said Jenkins. ‘Don’t tell me we’re goin’ to attack the bleedin’ British Army again.’
‘Voice down, for God’s sake. No. But it means that it will be a frontal attack. They will only need these for the walls. And there are far too many just to make a diversion. Grab one and walk on down. They will make excellent cover.’
‘Bloody ’eavy, though. An’ my leg’s playin’ up.’
The two men shuffled forward in the line and, without so much as a questioning glance, were each handed a scaling ladder. They balanced them awkwardly on their shoulders and began walking, with the rest, down into the valley below.
Simon stole a glance behind him. Up above, he saw a group of khaki-clad soldiers emerge from the trees, pause there for a moment while they looked around, and then engage in conversation. It was clear that the pursuers, if that was what they were, had no idea in which direction to continue their search. They would only have the mullah’s description of Simon, and there were dozens of look-alikes all around: turbaned, slimly built Afghans, dressed in nondescript sheepskin and duffel. As Simon watched, the party of soldiers split up; some retreated back into the woods, some turned right, some left, and the residual half-dozen came down the slope just above Simon, out of his sight, to where the ladders were being issued. Then the unmistakable figure of W.G. appeared from the trees, looked down, gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head on seeing Simon and followed, at a leisurely pace.
Simon felt suddenly elated. Gone was the depression of the Sherpur compound, the sense of frustrated hatred of the army and that lurking fear of impotence. In their place sat an excitement which he did not remember experiencing before - a thrill of the sheer adventure of it all, a feeling of achievement at penetrating the enemy camp and of elation at holding the black-eyed gaze of the mullah himself, of gaining his recognition and then slipping away. The ladder that he gripped so firmly was proof, if proof were needed, that Jan would target the walls and not the entrenchments on the Bimaru heights, for he would need no ladders to attack trenches and wire. The heights constituted about forty per cent of the total perimeter of the fortress. By guarding them lightly, Roberts could concentrate most of his force on the walls to meet the main attack. If they could reach Sherpur soon after darkness they could give the General all the intelligence he needed and allow him to deploy his forces in plenty of time. If they could get back . . . He turned and grinned at Jenkins. Of course they could.
And they did. It took most of the day by the time they had wound their way through the Afghan army, heading east-north-east, between the river and one of the many canals which bisected the plain before Sherpur. There was no sign of pursuit and W.G. caught them up at the foot of the Asmai heights. He told them that he had been able to confirm that the attack would indeed take place at the next dawn, which was the last day of the Moharram, when religious exaltation among the Musselmen would be at its height and which was, therefore, a propitious time to drive out the infidels from the capital.
Simon and Jenkins held on to their scaling ladders as long as others about them were carrying theirs, so merging happily into the crowd. By late afternoon, however, when the long shadows of the mountains were spreading along the valley, the three men reached the north-eastern face of the fortress and quietly jettisoned their burdens in a ditch and turned to walk, at a distance, along this wall of Sherpur. This was the shortest of the ramparts and, just before the ground rose to become the Bimaru heights, the wall was broken and barbed-wire entanglements had been erected by the defenders to bridge the gap. Less than two hundred yards away a small hamlet called Kurja Kila threw its outbuildings close to the fortress, and Simon saw that a considerable body of Afghan troops was already massing behind the cover of the buildings. It posed a threat, he noted, to what was obviously the weakest part of the defences.
As darkness fell, the three men began to edge their way round the Bimaru heights and then turned west and began climbing to find the little hollow through which they had exited from the fortress. Once again they had to pick their way with care between the Afghan posts, but these were signposted by camp fires, which made their passage easier, and the thinness of the besieging screen confirmed to Simon that no real attack would be launched up the mountain. By six p.m. they were hissing the password to a Highland sergeant and had slipped through the wire back to safety.
Lamb was absent from the General’s HQ, away on the wall somewhere, so Simon asked to see the General himself. This time he insisted that Jenkins and W.G. should report with him, although the fussy major in charge of Roberts’s office raised his eyebrows.
Roberts - now promoted to Lieutenant General - was alone. He showed no surprise at Simon’s quick return nor at the presence of his companions. He gestured to them to stand at ease. ‘Report,’ he barked.
Simon told their story.
Roberts rose from his desk and paced around the little room. ‘Tomorrow at dawn, eh?’ He spoke half to himself. ‘Good. Don’t want to wait much longer. Thought they’d come at us on Christmas Day, thinking we’d be full of Christmas pudding.’ He turned to Simon. ‘Tomorrow? You’re sure?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s damned cold on the hills. There’s a hell of a lot of activity out there. The scaling ladders have been distributed and it’s the last day of this religious festival. It all adds up. They’ll come at dawn.’
Roberts turned his blue eyes to each of them in turn. ‘Right. You’ve all done well. I am grateful. We shall stand the whole garrison to just before dawn. Now, you’ve spent much of the day walking through the Afghan army. How many men has Jan got, d’yer think?’
Simon frowned. ‘The three of us have been trying to calculate that. From the hilltop we felt no more than, say, forty thousand. But we all now feel that a more accurate figure would be sixty to seventy thousand, maybe more.’ He turned to the others. ‘Yes?’
The Sikh nodded. Jenkins could not resist contributing. ‘About that, General bach,’ he offered. ‘Oh, sorry, sir.’
If
Roberts noticed the familiarity, he did not react. It was clear that the size of the enemy army was of some concern. He turned his back on the three and slapped his calf with his ever-present riding crop. ‘Where are they mainly massing?’ he asked.
‘It looks as though the main attack will be on the south-west wall, sir,’ said Simon. ‘But there is no doubt that the fault line where the wall ends on the north-east side by Kurja Kila will come under pressure. There are many troops gathering there.’
‘Good. Thank you again. Now, go and get something to eat and some sleep. Brigadier Lamb is in charge of the south-west sector. From what you say he will need good shots. Change those jezails for Martini-Henrys - you’ll get a chit outside - and join him when the attack starts. Good night.’
The three men sprang to attention and filed out of the little office and through the anteroom beyond, under the keen gaze of the officers and clerks busying themselves there. Simon obtained his weapons chit, and once outside in the cold air of the square, they relaxed.
‘Well,’ said Jenkins, ‘I’m not sure that he seemed all that grateful for what I’d call a fair bit of spyin’, like.’
W.G. pulled his beard. ‘Generals, Sergeant bach,’ he said, ‘are not put among us to be grateful, I am thinking.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Simon. ‘And they’re not used to being called bach, either. Come on, let’s get rifles and food and go to bed.’
Seven hours later, the stamp of running feet awoke Simon and told him that reveille had been called - no bugles - and the three men made quick toilets, gulped down sweet tea, grabbed their new rifles and trotted towards the south-west corner of the fortress. The sky was deep blue velvet through which bright button stars twinkled, and although no snow now fell, its promise was evident in the eye-watering coldness of the night. The breath of the garrisoning soldiers rose like steam as they doubled across the compound and began climbing the walls to take up their positions.
