The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She didn’t speak, but her face had blanched under the dust and cheap dye. She looked at him for a brief moment, her eyes wide, then switched her gaze to the dead man. Slowly she shook her head in some kind of disbelief and the revolver in her hand swung down to her waist, as though it was now too heavy to hold. Simon put his arm around her and gently pushed her to the ground, her back against the wall. He rammed another cartridge into his rifle and shouted to Jenkins: ‘Face your front. They may be charging us.’

  His arm sent a frisson of pain through to the shoulder again and he realised how useless he would be in a face-to-face encounter, but he levelled his rifle and rose above the parapet to face the new attack. Instead of the expected assault, however, he saw five of the Afghans running back to their horses. Would it be a mounted charge, then? As he watched, they climbed on to the animals, turned away from the orchard and began riding back across the plain towards the outbuildings of Gundigan. Five of them? He ran back to his original position, from where he had fired his first shot. One brown foot, its curled slipper lying by the side, protruded from behind the boulder. He had killed his man.

  Elated, he turned away from the wall. ‘They’re retreating,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve seen ’em off. Well done. Oh, bloody well done!’

  Jenkins smiled and, his eyes narrowed, gestured behind Simon. ‘I don’t think it was us, bach sir. More likely that lot, isn’t it?’

  Simon turned and saw a squadron of Punjab cavalry, pennants fluttering from their lances, galloping across the plain from the direction of Kandahar. They were headed straight for the orchard, and as they neared, Simon saw that they were led by a tall officer, riding awkwardly with his left leg straight and stiff, the boot thrust into a stirrup extended to its full length. Slightly behind him rode a man in the khaki clothes of a civilian, slouch hat on his head.

  ‘Alice, look,’ he cried. ‘It looks as though we’ve found the bloody army at last.’

  But there was no elation in Alice’s gaze. On her knees, she stared at Simon with lacklustre eyes and, with a gesture almost of contempt, let the Colt fall from her hand. Leaning forward, she lifted the head of the Afghan at her feet, looked into his sightless eyes for a second, and then lowered the head back on to the ground. Once again she shook her head slowly.

  Simon knelt down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘We are saved, Alice,’ he said. ‘There is a squadron of cavalry coming. We are going to be all right. There’s no need to worry any more.’

  ‘Oh, Simon.’ She looked up at him. ‘I am so tired of all this . . .’ she gestured with her hand, ‘all this killing. Poor W.G., such a good man. What a waste! This man here was trying to kill me. And I have killed at least two men myself.’

  She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smudging the dust and so heightening the urchin impression. Big eyes looked up at Simon. ‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’ Simon shook his head. ‘The worst thing was . . .’ Alice blew out her cheeks and sighed, ‘that I was beginning to enjoy it all for a moment back there. For God’s sake - what are we doing here?’

  Simon opened his mouth to reply, although he had no idea what answer to give to such a rhetorical question, when an exclamation from Jenkins made him turn. The Welshman had gone to the east side of the compound and was opening a rickety wooden gate to welcome the cavalry when he shielded his eyes and cried: ‘Blimey. It’s the Colonel!’

  The squadron clattered in among the trees, perspiration glistening on the horses’ flanks and harnesses all a-jingle. Colonel Covington looked down at Jenkins and Simon, turned to a stout officer riding immediately behind him and barked, ‘Barlow, place these two men under arrest.’

  Captain Barlow of the 8th Foot smiled down at the two men he had last seen in a train compartment at Khushalgarh and smiled. ‘With pleasure, sir,’ he said. He turned and gestured to two troopers. ‘You two. Dismount and take their weapons. Bind their hands.’

  ‘What the hell . . .’ Simon levelled his rifle at the two Punjabis as they approached. ‘Stand back. I’ll not be arrested by you, Covington, or anyone else. We’re not in the army now.’

  Covington lifted an eyebrow and adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet. ‘Really? I’d say that’s a moot point. But I am not here to argue.’ He gestured to the troopers. ‘Arrest him and the other man. They will not shoot.’

  Slowly, uncertainly, the two troopers advanced until the leading man was able to take Simon’s rifle. The second did the same to Jenkins, who had not taken his eyes off Simon. Captain Barlow slid off his horse. ‘Give me cord, quickly,’ he snapped. Two straps were handed to him and, roughly, he pulled Simon’s hands behind his back, sending a shaft of pain up the injured arm, and buckled the strap tightly round his wrists. He did the same for Jenkins. Then he put his face close to Simon’s. ‘We’ll see now whether you can go around kicking people off trains.’

  Simon smiled into the face a few inches from his own and lifted his chin. ‘Fuck off, you fat prick,’ he said.

  Alice had remained where she was when the squadron had entered the orchard, kneeling with her back to the wall. Now she rose and walked to Covington. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing, Ralph?’ she said. ‘These men have saved my life several times within the last few weeks. You have no right to arrest them.’

  Covington looked down on Alice, as though seeing her for the first time. ‘I have every right, Alice,’ he said. ‘These men were suspected of abducting you, but then it became clear that you had left the India column of your own will and had ridden off with them in wilful disobedience of the General’s orders—’

  ‘I can do what I like. I am not a soldier.’

  ‘You cannot do what you like in a country bound by martial law. I—’

  He was interrupted by the civilian, who had been dismounting at the rear of the party and who now pushed his way forward and made towards Alice. He took her hand in both his own. ‘My dear Alice,’ he said, ‘thank God you’re safe. We have all been so worried.’

  ‘Hello, Johnny,’ said Alice, grinning rather shamefacedly. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  Campbell took off his wide-brimmed hat. ‘The Colonel here allowed me to ride with him on his scouting party. We are reconnoitring the enemy’s position. The General intends to attack at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s enough, Campbell,’ interrupted Covington. ‘The General’s plans are his own concern and should not be bandied about. Now, Barlow, for God’s sake help me to dismount, there’s a good fellow.’

  For the first time, Alice, Simon and Jenkins realised that Covington had been wounded. The once-so-tight trouser on his left leg had been slashed down the side and revealed a glimpse of a now not-so-white bandage that seemed to run from ankle to kneecap. The corpulent Barlow hastened to put his hand under Covington’s armpit as the big man gingerly raised his injured leg over his horse’s mane, disengaged his other foot from the stirrup and slipped to the ground, grimacing as his wounded leg took the strain.

  Alice frowned. ‘Ralph, you have been wounded . . . how . . .?’

  Covington blew out his cheeks. ‘It’s not much but it’s deuced uncomfortable, though I can just about still ride and do my job.’ He glowered at her. ‘If you must know, my girl, this is your doing.’

  ‘My doing?’

  ‘Yes, when the word came that you were missing, I took a small party and followed your trail, as best we could. It took a lot of damned hard talking to get the General’s permission, but he allowed me four days. As it turned out, I didn’t need that long. On the second day, up in those blasted hills, we were ambushed by a bunch of Pathans and I got a ball in the leg. Had to limp back to Kabul and then catch up with the General as best I could. Damned annoying, I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. But you must rest. You shouldn’t be riding.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. I wouldn’t miss the battle for all the tea in India. In any case, I’m in charge of scouting
and intelligence. I’ve got to be here. Now.’ He looked around him. ‘Barlow, detail a troop under a subaldar to stay here with Miss Griffith and the two prisoners, while we ride on up the valley and see exactly where Ayub Khan is positioned.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that, Covington.’ Simon, whose face had become increasingly grim as he had witnessed, first, Campbell’s easy informality with Alice, and then her concern at Covington’s wound, nodded behind him. ‘We’ve done the job for you. The Afghans’ main position is based on the village of Gundigan, back over there. But the major problem is—’

  ‘Fonthill.’ Covington took two painful steps towards him. ‘If, as is highly unlikely, I should ever want your advice on military or any other matters, I will ask for it. Until then, keep your damned mouth shut. You are under arrest for attacking a brother officer back in Khushalgarh and for deserting in the face of the enemy. This time, I shall make sure that you are convicted at court martial. Now.’ He turned and hobbled towards his horse. ‘Mount up and . . . oh, damn to hell and blazes . . . Barlow, help me up again, confound it.’

  Alice stepped forward and touched the Colonel’s arm. She addressed him in a low voice. ‘Ralph, you should listen to Simon. If the General attacks directly up the valley, he will be riding into a trap. Simon can tell you exactly—’

  Covington grabbed the pommel of his saddle and leaned on Barlow as the latter inserted the boot of his good leg into the stirrup. ‘Alice,’ he hissed, ‘I admire though cannot understand your loyalty to this good-for-nothing. But, I assure you, Fonthill can tell me nothing. Nothing at all. Do you understand? Now wait here in this orchard. I shall be only an hour.’ He beckoned to Campbell. ‘Come if you’re coming. We can’t wait around, man.’

  Campbell, with a reluctant look at Alice, crushed his hat on to his blond hair and took up the reins of his mount. As he did so, Jenkins, hands bound behind his back, ambled over to Covington.

  ‘With respect, Colonel bach,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere.’

  ‘What - what the blazes do you mean? How dare you address me like that.’

  Jenkins’s turban had never been the most secure headgear seen in Afghanistan and had only achieved a touch of respectability with W.G.’s careful ministrations night and morning. Now, after the exertions of the last few hours, one end hung down to his waist and the rest was coiled precariously on the side of his head. But his face wore that special beam reserved for correcting senior officers.

  ‘Looks to me, see,’ he said, ‘as though the whole bleedin’ Afghan army is trottin’ out to surround us. Look you, Colonel, over there.’ And he nodded behind him, through the fruit trees, towards Gundigan.

  Without a word, Covington rode forward round the edge of the wall and looked to the south-west with his telescope. The others ran to the wall but they needed no telescope. Riding fast to the east, a group of Afghan cavalry - perhaps three squadrons or more - was already wheeling round to cut off their retreat to Kandahar. Running towards them across the plain from the network of outbuildings to the village were hundreds of white-robed ghazi militia, the sun glinting off their spears and shields. As they ran, they fanned out to surround the orchard. Covington’s squadron was outnumbered by six or seven to one.

  The Colonel twisted in his saddle to gauge their chances of galloping back to Kandahar, but he was already too late. Their escape route was cut off by the Afghan cavalry who now straddled the two roads back to the city. Covington snapped his telescope shut and sauntered his horse back into the compound. Simon realised for the first time why the man had built a reputation for coolness in command in the face of the enemy. He seemed completely unperturbed by their predicament.

  ‘Signaller,’ he called.

  A trooper pushed his way forward.

  ‘Will your heliograph thing reach Kandahar from here?’

  ‘I am not sure, sahib, but I will try.’

  ‘Well it had better. Signal: “Am surrounded and am in need of urgent assistance.” Do it now.’

  The trooper dismounted and dismantled an elaborate mirror device from the large haversack behind his saddle. With many a look at the sun’s position, he mounted it upon a wall, stood behind it and worked a handle so that the sun was reflected from the mirror’s face towards the distant smudge that was Kandahar. He began clicking away.

  ‘Right.’ Covington’s voice rang out loudly. ‘The squadron will dismount and we will defend this compound until reinforcements arrive from Kandahar. Tether the horses to the trees in the middle, and Barlow.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Divide the men so that each wall is equally defended. Position the ammunition reserves in the centre of the orchard and detail a dozen men to stay with me in the middle as a reserve should we need to make a counter-attack.’

  ‘Fonthill.’

  ‘Yes, Covington.’

  ‘Do I have your word that you and your man will make no attempt to escape?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Very well. Untie them, Subaldar, and give them back their rifles. Can you shoot, Campbell?’

  ‘Er - yes, if I have to.’

  ‘Then take this.’ He removed the Webley revolver from his holster and threw it to the journalist. ‘Alice, you will stay in the middle of the orchard with me and you will lie down, out of the line of fire.’

  ‘I will do nothing of the sort. I have a revolver with seven cartridges left and I can take my place on the wall.’

  ‘She’s knocked off about seventeen of the black bastards already this morning, Colonel bach,’ said Jenkins, ‘an’ she hasn’t really been tryin’, see.’

  ‘Don’t address me in that fashion,’ said Covington coldly, but his face softened as he turned back to Alice. ‘No, my dear. You must not help to man the wall. Stay in the middle and protect me. I’ve got a gammy leg and only a sword. Now, who the hell is going to help me down off this horse?’

  As he spoke, a shot rang out and the signaller turned slowly on the wall, leaned over his equipment and, almost in slow motion, brought his heliograph crashing to the ground with himself on top of it, a bullet hole in his back.

  ‘To the walls, quickly,’ shouted Covington, and half lowered himself, half fell on to Barlow’s stout shoulders.

  It was as if the bullet which killed the heliograph operator was a signal in itself, because a fusillade of shots now hit the orchard from all sides. As Simon ran to the west wall with Jenkins at his side, he reflected that if the Afghans had attacked immediately, they must have swept the defenders away, for the walls were poorly manned in those first few moments. Within the orchard all was confusion, as the mounts were tethered among the trees to give them some sort of protection, men ran stooping to their positions and the squadron’s few boxes of ammunition reserves were piled into the centre of the compound, where Covington was setting up his command post. Here, the tall man stood on an ammunition box and shouted above the din: ‘Keep your heads down. One man only on each wall to watch the enemy - subaldars detail him. Then, when they attack, stand and fire volleys in sequence, odd then even numbers. Subaldars number the men.’

  Jenkins, kneeling next to Simon on the western wall, grinned. ‘Seems to know what ’e’s doin’, all right. That’s one good thing, ain’t it?’

  Simon nodded. ‘He’s a good soldier, no doubt about that. But if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with us, none of us would be in this mess. Good soldiers should watch the enemy at all times.’

  Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘True, true. I’ll ’ave a word with ’im about it when we’ve finished.’

  Rifle bullets and balls from the jezails were slamming into the stone wall with such ferocity that Simon wondered if they could withstand such hammering. Then, suddenly, everything fell quiet on their side of the square until a high-pitched Punjabi voice called: ‘Attack on west wall,’ and was followed almost immediately by another: ‘Attack on south wall.’

  Simon and Jenkins rose and presented their Martini-Henrys. Across the plain, rus
hing towards them, was what seemed like a solid mass of ghazi militiamen, swords held aloft and green banners swinging from high spears. A subaldar touched Simon’s shoulder. ‘Even,’ he said. And then to Jenkins: ‘Odd. Volley fire when ordered.’

  To Simon, it seemed an interminable time before the order to fire came. Holding the heavy Martini-Henry sent throbs of pain through his wounded arm and he was forced to kneel on a stone and rest the barrel on the wall. Whoever was ordering the volleys certainly had nerves of steel, for the attackers were now no more than a hundred and fifty yards from the wall and Simon, squinting down the long barrel, could see the distortion on the face of his target as the man shouted in - what? Exultation, hatred? - as he ran, waving a long curved sword which flashed in the sunlight. As he waited, Simon heard in quick succession, ‘Attack on east wall,’ ‘Attack on north wall.’ It was, then, an all-out assault. Could this small group withstand an attack on all fronts? The muzzle of his rifle drooped for a moment, until, with an effort, he re-focused on his target.

  Then, Covington’s loud voice sounded over the din: ‘Volley firing commence on order. Even numbers, FIRE. Even numbers, reload. Odd numbers, FIRE. Odd numbers, reload. Even numbers, FIRE . . . reload . . . FIRE. Reload . . . FIRE . . .’

  For three minutes or more, the volleys crashed out, shrouding the wall in a vapour of blue smoke and thrusting the sting of cordite on to the dry lips of the defenders. The concentrated fire from the men behind the walls, rolling out in a series of crashing volleys, could not miss at that short range, and through the blue smoke, Simon could see gaps appearing in the mass in front of him. But the gaps kept being refilled, and although the advance was halted for a moment, it came on again. Would they reach the walls? Simon snatched a glance behind him. Through the trees he could see Covington, still standing on an ammunition box, controlling the volleys, and beyond him a line of khaki figures lining the far wall. There was no sign of Alice. There seemed to have been no breakthrough, thank God. To his right, Jenkins was standing, the butt of his rifle nestling into his massive shoulder, firing and reloading with a half-smile on his face, the perfect fighting machine. Simon coughed at the cordite and forced another cartridge into the breech.