by John Wilcox
Simon sighed as he looked down at her - though not completely from unrequited love. How the hell were they going to link up with Roberts, if and when he had been able to fight his way through to Kandahar? If the city had resisted attack, it would be surrounded by Ayub Khan’s army and Afghan scouts would be out for miles around, attempting to locate Roberts’s advancing force. How could they slip through these patrols - and what sort of welcome would they get from Roberts anyway?
His reverie was interrupted by the briefest flicker of light from the tip of the surly, dark peaks to the east. Shivering, he threw away his blanket, climbed down and kicked the smouldering fire into life, so that they could have hot tea, at least, before starting the day’s journey. Within the half-hour, they were all mounted and riding to the west, as the newly emerged sun brought some warmth. When they came to a wider part of the trail, Simon dropped back and walked his horse alongside Alice’s pony. She had been strangely quiet the previous evening and had uttered no word since resuming the journey. Simon smiled at her but, her eyes downcast, she did not return the smile or look at him.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid that it’s been hard pounding, Alice, but we should not have far to go now.’
Alice did not reply for a moment. Then she looked up and gave him a half-smile, and he realised that her eyes were moist. ‘Oh, Simon,’ she said. ‘I have been thinking, and I realise that I have been so foolish and selfish. Making you undertake this journey and . . . and . . . exposing you all to so much danger, just because I want to save what I call my career.’ She spat out the last two words. ‘How could I have been so thoughtless? I realise that once we approach Kandahar we shall be entering the lion’s den and I will have been responsible for putting all of your lives at great risk. Is it not too late, even now, to turn back?’
There was no trace left now of the Alice who had so confidently forged a general’s signature, who had used her body like a Parisian courtesan, and who had observed executions clinically. That feisty, strong woman seemed to have been blown away, like an autumn leaf, by the hot wind that whistled through these heights. The eyes brimming with tears belonged to a young girl out of her depth for the first time in a harsh world. Simon felt pity and love for her anew, and he reached out and took her hand.
‘I don’t quite know what to do to comfort you, Alice, except to say that what you did for me showed that you are the most unselfish and caring person in the world. If you can do that for someone you don’t love, then you will surely suffocate with unselfishness the man you truly do come to love.’
She smiled at him through her tears.
‘I am afraid that we have gone too far to turn back now,’ said Simon. ‘We have been lucky to have travelled so far undetected and I doubt if we could retrace our steps and keep our luck. Anyway, it would mean returning to the Kabul road, which is unsafe to follow without an army escort. We are not far from our destination now. In less than two days, I judge, we can turn south and go down to look for the valley of the Arghandabad River, which should take us just north of Kandahar.
‘And look,’ he added, ‘it is a career worth saving. None of us would be here if we did not believe that.’
Alice sniffed and nodded her thanks, not sure that she could speak. But as the day wore on, her smile returned.
They rode with more caution now, picking their way round the villages they encountered more frequently and shivering without a fire that night. The wood smoke, they felt, would betray their position. W.G. had ridden these hills before, but many years ago, and Simon backed the Sikh’s recollections with rough compass bearings. His plan was to find the Arghandabad River, follow it for a few miles north of Kandahar and then loop south to the west of the city. W.G. remembered a flat plain that extended to the south and east of Kandahar, and it was Simon’s guess that the Afghan general, whether or not he had taken the city, would draw up his army to receive Roberts there. The Afghans, he knew, were traditionalists when it came to large battles: the British were the invaders, therefore it was they who must attack the fixed positions of the defenders. It was seemly so to do. It was unlikely that Ayub Khan would advance up the Kabul road to confront Roberts in those cramped passes. If this were so - and if Simon and his companions had indeed out-marched the British army - then the four could, perhaps, observe how the Afghans were drawn up, outflank them and ride into Roberts’s advance guard and explain the enemy dispositions, so winning the General’s grateful forgiveness for Alice’s indiscretions. Perhaps, perhaps . . . and perhaps pigs would fly. Simon shrugged his shoulders as he slouched wearily in the saddle. It was the only plan he had, anyway.
Just under three weeks after leaving the column, they turned their horses’ heads south at last, down towards the valley far below them, where the real danger lurked. That evening they encountered the shallow, bouncing waters of the Arghandabad and made an uncomfortable camp by its shores, tucked away within a copse of deodar that was feathered and plumed with ferns. They knew that if they followed the river westwards, they would hit the Kabul road on the far side of Kandahar. They also knew, however, that this was the most dangerous part of their journey, for if the Afghans were still laying siege to the city, they would probably have forces to the north as well as to the south, where lay the plain, and to the east, from which direction Roberts was still presumably marching. So, with great caution, they proceeded, W.G. in the lead, Simon ahead of Alice, and Jenkins at the rear, their cocked rifles carried athwart their saddles but with cotton folds across the trigger mechanisms to conceal their British origins.
Inevitably, they encountered a Pathan patrol. They saw them coming from perhaps half a mile away: a group of five horsemen, dressed in the dull khaki of Afghan cavalry, picking their way slowly but purposefully between the boulders fringing the river. The four quickly established that flight would be inadvisable: the stone-strewn track was the last place for a gallop. They decided that they would stick to their original plan, trusting that the men of the patrol would be locals and unfamiliar with the Afridi dialect.
As the two parties closed, W.G. and Simon lifted their hands in greeting and called, ‘Allah kerim!’ The leader of the patrol, a hawk-nosed man with black eyes that scanned them all in a second, replied similarly and directed a flow of fluent Pushtu to W.G., who had ridden forward to meet them. The two stayed in conversation for three minutes or so - although it seemed an eternity to Simon, Alice and Jenkins, who leaned wearily on their saddle pommels and gazed about them with what they hoped appeared to be disinterest. The sun was at its height and the heat made the tension worse. In fact this helped them, for it was clear that the patrol did not wish to linger on such a day interrogating three men and a boy who, it was quickly apparent, were not outriders of the approaching British column nor had information about it. From under lowered brows, Simon saw the patrol leader gesture with his rifle ahead and then to the south, and then wave them on. With a nod of thanks, he urged his horse forward and the four of them walked by, feigning nonchalance and a fatigue which was not altogether assumed.
Once out of sight of the Pathans, Simon called to W.G. and the three of them gathered round the Sikh.
‘It was not a problem, lord,’ said W.G. ‘I explained that you were headman of a village near the Khyber Pass, with your son,’ he nodded to Alice, ‘and a villager, and that I had been hired to take you to Ayub Khan to join his force. But I said that we had got a bit lost in the outfield, so to speak, in avoiding the British Army.’
Simon nodded. ‘Well done, W.G.’
Jenkins snorted. ‘Sounds all a bit simple to me. Not proper soldiers, them, not at all.’
The Sikh acknowledged the point with a grave inclination of his head. ‘Precisely so, Sergeant bach. But they were tired, like us, and you forget that they are blasted Afghans. Not clever at all, I am saying. Also,’ he bowed slightly to Alice, ‘the presence of the memsahib helped considerably. We could not be gora-log spies, or disguised British patrol, with such a young boy riding with us.�
�� He grinned broadly. ‘Very good show, miss, I am thinking.’
‘Good.’ Simon nodded ahead. ‘What were the directions he was giving you?’
‘Ah, lord. He said that Kandahar has not fallen and that Afghan general has withdrawn his forces to the south and the west of the city to wait for the British, who are, perhaps, one day’s march only away. He tells me that there is a ford just ahead where we can cross river and then go down to Afghan army. I am thinking, lord, that we do not wish to do this.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘No fear.’
‘I am not so sure,’ mused Simon.
‘Now come on, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, his eyebrows nearly meeting his turban fringe in exaggerated surprise. ‘I think we’ve used up just about all of our nine lives so far in marchin’ straight into enemy camps. We’ve got none left, look you. What would we want to do it for, anyway?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No. I don’t intend to walk into Ayub Khan’s camp, thank you very much. But I would very much like to take a peek at his disposition so that if - no, sorry, when - we find Roberts we have something to bring him, so to speak.’ He smiled at Alice. ‘A sort of peace offering. A present to turn away his wrath.’
Alice smiled back. She had regained something of her composure and had resumed taking notes of the terrain. ‘Do whatever you think is right, Simon. But do not do this for me. I do not wish to lead you all into any further danger.’
Jenkins snorted. ‘Don’t worry about that, miss. We’ve bin in the fryin’ pan so long that I don’t think I’d notice if we jumped into the bleedin’ f ire . . . er . . . beggin’ your pardon, that is, miss.’
They found the ford soon enough, splashed through the shallows and, staying with a narrow trail, immediately began climbing a spur of hills the summit of which, as the day wore on, seemed to recede before them, so that they were forced once again to dismount and lead their horses. The slow progress annoyed Simon, who, with Roberts only a rumoured day’s march away, began to fear that they would arrive too late for the battle. Accordingly, they camped late and rose before the dawn the next morning to continue their climb.
Some four hours later, they crested the range and were rewarded with a panoramic vista spread below them, a sight that reminded Simon of the trestle-mounted sand reconstructions of great battle sites that he had studied at Sandhurst. Far to their left, half concealed behind a spur of the hills, they glimpsed the ochre-coloured smudge that, from its size and the heat haze that shimmered above it, was undoubtedly Kandahar. Leading to it, and disappearing into the distance beyond it, was the black, winding road back to Kabul: no traffic on it and certainly no British Army in sight. Directly below them, as W.G. had promised, lay the plain, featuring a large village and gridded, here and there, with low stone walls surrounding cultivated vegetable and fruit patches. Two roads, straight as a die and running roughly east to west, broke the plain and passed out of sight behind a line of rugged peaks to their right.
W.G. indicated with a long forefinger. ‘That, lord, is the village of Gundigan, and that line of little mountains there is the Baba Wali Kotal. You see that the Afghan scoundrels are based around the village.’
Indeed they were. Ayub Khan seemed to have drawn up his army on the plain, as Simon had expected, and had used the walls of the village on which to base his right wing and to site artillery. They could see the village teeming with tiny figures, like an anthill. The figures were also to be seen scurrying across the plain, setting up positions behind the walls. It was no country for cavalry, though the two main roads seemed wide and to provide good enough conduits for a two-pronged attack on the Afghan position. Then a flash of light from the Baba Wali Kotal below them and to their right drew Simon’s attention. He shaded his eyes.
‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s put artillery in those hills. The cunning bastard.’
Somehow, the Afghans had manhandled what seemed to be quite heavy pieces of ordnance up the steep sides of the hills and had positioned the guns on ledges and cols so that they commanded the plain below. From their vantage point, Simon and his companions could clearly see the gun emplacements and the white-robed ghazis pushing and hauling the pieces into position. From the plain, however, they would be difficult to see. Any force attacking the village and its outlying walled gardens would be vulnerable to this flanking fire from above. It was a perfect trap - another Balaclava.
Simon turned to the others. ‘He knows what he’s doing, this chap. Our people will be blown away unless those hills are cleared.’
‘Yes, well.’ Jenkins blew his nose with great ostentation. ‘Shall we just nip down and do that before the General arrives, look you? He might be quite glad to see us then, see.’
Alice did not speak, but frowned in consternation as she sketched the scene below in her notebook.
Not for the first time, Simon wished he had a telescope or binoculars. ‘W.G., you have the best eyes. Can you see any sign of the British coming down the Kabul road or moving to the city?’
The Sikh turned his head and remained perfectly still for a moment in concentration. He shook his head. ‘Nothing I can see, lord.’ Then, very slowly, he raised a hand. ‘Wait . . . I think there is something. Can you see - beyond the city, where the road disappears into mountains? Can you see?’
They all shielded their eyes and desperately tried to focus on the indistinct end of the black line where it snaked away to the east.
‘Either you’ve got eyes like an eagle, Gracey, or you’ve got a touch of the sun,’ said Jenkins, his nose wrinkled in concentration so that a flash of white teeth appeared behind his moustache. ‘As far as I can see, there’s bugger-all out there.’
‘No, no, there is something.’ Alice spoke softly, as though she would lose that far-distant something if she raised her voice. ‘There is something . . . moving out there, just where the road comes down to the plain. Can you see it?’
The others could not at first, but then, after twenty seconds or so of concentration, they spotted it: a tiny brownish block, moving very slowly at that distance. Then a brief flash, another, and yet another as the sun caught something burnished and bright and sent its reflection in an instant some twenty miles across the plain.
‘Good.’ Simon dug the heel of each hand into his eyes, now watering from the strain of focusing so far. ‘That’s got to be Roberts. The old devil has done the march in three weeks. Fantastic!’
‘But Simon,’ said Alice, ‘could it not be an Afghan patrol, returning from a scouting mission to look for Roberts?’
‘Don’t think so. Even at this distance, that looks like the vanguard of an army to me.’ He turned to W.G. and Jenkins. ‘What do you two think?’
‘Wouldn’t they be comin’ from the other way, then?’ asked Jenkins, gesturing to the right. ‘Ah, no. Perhaps not.’ He squinted upwards. ‘If the sun’s just there, then, that means the left’s the north . . . or do I mean the south? Sorry, I’m not much good at this. Can’t really tell me arse from me elbow. Oh, sorry, miss.’
The Sikh had never relaxed his gaze on the Kabul road. ‘I think, lord,’ he said, ‘that it is cavalry coming slowly. Perhaps, indeed, it is the advance screen of Punjabis leading the column.’ He spoke with proprietorial satisfaction.
‘Right.’ Simon looked up at the sun. ‘If it is Roberts, he will go straight to the city and probably camp just outside it for the night. If I know him, he won’t waste any time. He will send out patrols to reconnoitre Ayub Khan’s position and attack him as soon as possible. They will be running low on supplies at Kandahar now and the General will want to lift the siege right away. W.G., how long do you think it will take for the column to reach the city?’
It was the Sikh’s turn to squint up at the sun. ‘He will reach it just before nightfall, lord, I believe.’
‘Is there a way down from the top here to Kandahar behind us, or will we have to go straight down on to the plain and ride back that way?’
‘I am being fairly certain, lord, that w
e must travel back many miles before we can take a pass down to the city. This is the quickest way.’ W.G. gestured forward, where they could see the trail winding downwards until it was lost between the rocks.
‘Very well. We will make our way down and find somewhere reasonably hidden to camp before we reach the plain. If we are discovered, we will tell our usual story. Then we must be up just before dawn and ride towards the British position. I suggest that we keep as close to the edge of these hills as possible. Those two roads will be full of Afghan patrols, or even perhaps a sizeable portion of Ayub Khan’s army. You see,’ Simon turned to Alice, ‘he will want Roberts to attack him at these villages below. He may well try to lure him on by making a feint. Then, as Roberts advances along the valley, the guns in these crags below will give him hell.’
Alice nodded gravely. ‘I quite understand. You feel we must go and warn him against being drawn into the trap.’
‘Absolutely.’
A sigh of great and histrionic weariness came from Jenkins. ‘Ah well,’ he said, munching his moustache. ‘ ’Ere we go again. ’Eroes of the Queen an’ all that. An’ we’re not even in the bleedin’ army any more. Oh dear, oh dear.’ But he pulled his horse’s head round and led the descent into the valley.
That night they camped some way off the trail amid rocks and scree about two hundred and fifty feet above the plain. It was uncomfortable, with no fire to provide warmth or hot food, but they were undisturbed and rose well before the sun to begin picking their way down to where the trail broadened out to meet the plain. It was still dark when their descent ended and they turned their horses east, towards Kandahar.
For Simon, blowing on his hands against the pre-dawn cold, it was an anxious time. He looked around at the shadowy figures behind him. They slouched in their saddles and their mounts stepped forward with no enthusiasm. They had all been on the road too long. There was no way they could out-run Afghans on brisk little ponies if it came to a confrontation. Yet they had no story now to explain why they were heading away from the Pathan army and towards the British. It was doubtful if even W.G. could talk his way out of that one. Simon licked his lips and tasted again the dust - the dry, gritty particles that lodged between the teeth and in the corner of the eyes and that would remind him of Afghanistan for ever. In this grim, unforgiving country he was taking his little party into great danger; placing it right between two confronting armies. He must be mad! And yet what else could he do? His gaze took in the slight figure of Alice, riding now with less style, her head bowed and her body arched. What would happen to her if they were captured? He drew in his breath sharply. At all costs he would see that that did not happen.
