The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Cease firing.’ Covington’s voice rang out again. The smoke cleared and Simon saw that the Afghans were retreating, loping away unhurriedly but leaving behind scores of bodies lying in the dust, shields scattered, spears, jezails and swords strewn among the stones. But this was no disorderly rout. The attackers of the west wall were regrouping just out of range of the Punjabis’ carbines, although not of Simon and Jenkins’s infantry rifles. They were deploying on the flanks and linking with other Afghans, who now began to crawl nearer and direct their own rifle fire on the defendants.

  ‘They ain’t pushing off, then,’ said Jenkins, wiping his brow with the end of his turban.

  ‘Get your head down,’ muttered Simon.

  The comment was echoed by Covington from the centre of the grove of trees. ‘Heads down,’ he shouted. ‘One man to look-out on each wall. Subaldars to check on casualties and ammunition stocks and report to me within three minutes.’

  Simon squinted through the trees to catch a glimpse of Alice, but there was no sign. Instead, back bent, head down, John Campbell was scrambling towards him.

  With a sigh he sat down between Simon and Jenkins. ‘Phew,’ he said, wiping his face with a bright red handkerchief. ‘I wouldn’t want to go through that again.’

  ‘Where were you?’ asked Simon.

  ‘In the middle with Covington and Alice.’ He smiled shyly and Simon noticed that his hand was shaking. He gestured to his Webley. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not much good with this. I’ve only ever shot at grouse and then I missed most of’em. I think Covington wanted me to stay in the middle to keep an eye on Alice if . . . if they broke through.’ He looked quizzically at Simon. ‘Gosh. I wish I could stay as cool as you. To be honest, I think I’m a bit of a coward.’

  Simon looked at him sharply. Was he being sarcastic? But the young man’s gaze was open, though his eyes looked haunted. ‘You’re not a coward, Campbell,’ he said. ‘Nobody enjoys this - except possibly 352 here.’

  Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh yes. I’m ’avin’ the time of me life, I am, see. I’d much rather be ’ere in among these nice fruit trees than paddlin’ in the sea at Rhyl, where it’s really dangerous with them nasty waves.’

  Campbell smiled and, turning to Simon, lowered his voice. ‘I ought to get back but I just wanted to ask you something, Fonthill. You see . . .’ he wiped the perspiration from his top lip with the back of his hand, ‘I’m very fond of Alice, you know.’

  Simon stiffened. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. And I think you are too. Am I right?’

  Simon looked away. Why the hell was this stranger asking him personal questions, questions which went right to the centre of his being and to which he was not sure of the answers himself ? His background, his training, the reticence he had developed as a kind of cocoon to protect himself as a child - they united in giving him discomfort at the directness of the question. A bullet clipped the top of the wall and ricocheted away, causing stone splinters to fall on to their hair. Perhaps this was no time for propriety.

  ‘Well, yes. Yes. I suppose I am.’

  ‘Good. I thought so. You see, I think Covington’s picked the wrong man to protect Alice. If they break through, I don’t think I shall be much good, though I will do what I can.’ His voice dropped even lower. ‘I would do anything for her, Fonthill, but I am not a fighter. If a wall is breached, will you look after her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks. Good. I’d better get back.’ Bent double to keep below the level of the wall, Campbell scrambled away, back to the centre of the grove, where Simon could now just see Alice, dispensing ammunition to the men.

  ‘What was all that about, then?’ asked Jenkins.

  Simon frowned. ‘I guess he’s a bit scared and wanted some moral support.’

  Jenkins’s teeth flashed beneath the moustache. ‘Ah well, then, he’s come to the right place. We know all about that, don’t we?’

  ‘Look, 352. If they do get over the wall, it could be a bit awkward. These Punjabis don’t have bayonets and neither do we. I shall make for Alice to look after her. Will you protect my back?’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  ‘Always.’ Simon smiled. He could not imagine Jenkins ever being afraid. It was not that the Welshman lacked imagination; in fact, Simon had several times glimpsed a Celtic sense of wonder and romanticism behind the little man’s prosaic exterior. No, Jenkins possessed a strong sense of belief in his powers of survival - a belief based on experience and strengthened in scores of conflicts from childhood onwards. He was a fighter who knew his strengths and always played to them. Simon knew that even now the Welshman would be calculating how they could best fight hand-to-hand with only long-barrelled bayonet-less rifles as weapons.

  In fact, Simon was wrong. Jenkins had long since worked out that the best way to use the Martini-Henrys in personal conflict would be to thrust with them, just as if a bayonet was on the end. Such a lunge could wind an opponent long before he could bring his sword down. What was occupying his mind now was how to kill Captain Barlow without being detected. The Welshman could see the stout officer on the end of the south wall, popping his head up and down to observe the enemy. One bullet would do it, but it would have to wait until there was another attack and all the defenders were occupied. Then there would be no question of a court martial for Captain Fonthill, not if the main witness for the prosecution was dead. Yes, one bullet would do it.

  ‘Attack on east wall.’

  The volley firing commenced from the other side of the compound and Simon tensed as he waited for the call to defend the west wall. It did not come until the firing from the east had subsided. Then the attack was of a desultory nature, almost like a feint, with a screen of ghazis rushing forward, only to retreat after the first couple of volleys. The same happened in sequence at the other walls.

  ‘I think they’re testing our firepower,’ said Simon. ‘There’s someone out there who knows what he’s doing. He’s probing the weakest spot.’

  ‘Humph,’ said Jenkins. ‘There’s our weakest spot, look you.’ He nodded towards where the west wall met the southern stretch. Along the southern side, the wall had crumbled somewhat and a few pieces of timber had been stretched to bridge the gap. It could be scaled easily and Covington had been forced to leave it unprotected because there was insufficient cover there from rifle fire. ‘That cavalry we saw would be over that and in amongst us in a flash, see.’

  ‘You’re right,’ mused Simon. ‘I wonder why they don’t send them in? Unless . . . yes, of course.’ He slapped his rifle butt in realisation. ‘How much ammunition have you got?’

  Jenkins fumbled. ‘Only about a dozen rounds.’

  ‘That’s it. The Afghan commander knows that cavalry patrols carry hardly any reserves of ammunition for their carbines. They are not equipped to get involved in anything but charges, pursuits and skirmishes. He’s just drawing our fire to exhaust our ammo. Then he will charge. Clever bastard.’

  ‘Why doesn’t old Covey just tell us to mount and make a break for it - charge through ’em?’

  ‘Well, he could have tried it earlier, but then, I suppose, he felt that their cavalry was too much for us. Now he’s lost so many of our horses that there wouldn’t be enough mounts for us all. And he wouldn’t want to leave any of us behind.’

  Jenkins snorted. ‘Oh no?’

  ‘Stay here. I’ll go and have a word with him.’

  Simon slung his rifle over his shoulder and, on hands and knees, crawled towards the sparse shelter provided by the bunch of low trees in the middle of the compound. He winced as the effort caused the blood to seep through the bandage on his arm again. In the middle, Alice, her back to a tree, was handing out cartridges to the last of the subaldars. She looked up and smiled at him - but her eyes had that inanimate expression which he had come to fear. It was as if something inside her had died.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, slumping down next to her. ‘We should be getting help from the city so
on.’

  Her smile disappeared. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it had better come soon because I have now handed out all the reserves of ammunition.’ She put a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. ‘Simon, I cannot help feeling that we are all about to be killed.’

  ‘Nonsense. There are—’

  ‘No. I know the situation. Look.’ She pointed to the carcasses of horses killed in the crossfire. ‘We have few horses left and I have heard the reports of the wounded - we have lost about a quarter of the men. If they break in, we are finished. Listen, my dear, I want you to know how sorry I am that I have led you to this and how deeply grateful I am for all that you have done.’

  The tears were now back, brimming in her eyes. ‘If it had not been for me, W.G. would still be alive and you and Jenkins would be safely back in India. I am ashamed of myself, of my selfishness. I am so sorry, my dear.’

  ‘Fonthill. Get back to the wall.’ Covington came through the trees, limping heavily and using his sabre as support. ‘Back to your post, man.’

  ‘Very well, but I need a word with you first.’

  ‘No time. Get back to the wall.’

  Simon rose awkwardly to his feet and pulled Covington away from Alice. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the Afghans are luring us into using all our ammunition by making these dummy attacks. Then they will come at us and send their cavalry in over that breach in the wall.’

  The blue eyes stared at Simon. ‘How very kind of you, Fonthill, to tell me my job. You will be staggered to hear that I have given orders for us to hold our fire.’ His lips curved into a smile but his eyes remained cold. ‘But you are right about the breach. Take your Welshman and fill it immediately. Stand and fire as soon as they charge. Bring down the leading horsemen and make the rest veer away.’

  ‘But there’s no cover. It would be suicide.’

  ‘Frightened again, Fonthill?’

  Simon clenched his fist for a moment and then sighed. ‘You really are an arsehole, Covington,’ he said. But he turned away, stooped and scrambled back towards the wall. As he went, he caught Alice’s frightened eye. Campbell had come to kneel beside her and was slipping a cartridge into his revolver.

  Jenkins watched Simon approach. ‘It’s gone a bit deathly quiet, like,’ he said as Simon dropped to one knee beside him. ‘Either they’ve all gone off for a beer, see, or they’re pullin’ up their knickers before comin’ in on us ’ard, like.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be coming in all right. Come on. We’ve been ordered to defend the breach.’

  The Welshman’s big eyebrows rose. ‘Oh, how simply splendid,’ he lisped in the manner of a young officer. ‘Shall I stand in the middle and ’it the ’orses with me rifle as they ride by?’

  ‘Something like that. Come on.’

  Together they crawled to the breach, Jenkins jumping across to take one side, Simon crouching at the other. The gap was about eight feet wide, with the remains of the wall rising to an irregular two feet or so and with two poles stretching across some four feet high, like a practice jump in a riders’ field for beginners. Simon studied it carefully. It was an easy jump for any competent horseman but it was too narrow for two to take side by side at speed. If snipers didn’t get them, he and Jenkins could easily bring down the first two riders, but the second and third would probably be through before they could reload their single-shot rifles. Jumping . . . jumping. Jumping meant landing.

  ‘Look,’ he called across to Jenkins. ‘Get as many of these rocks as you can find and push and scatter them just where the horses will land. If they don’t cause them to shy, at least they might bring them down when they’re over. Don’t go into the breach to fire until the horses charge. Then jump away at the last minute.’

  Jenkins nodded, and they began desperately to scrabble about in the debris, pushing and throwing the sun-bleached stones so that they were strewn haphazardly on the ground beyond the breach. They had had little time to build an effective deterrent, however, when the cry of ‘Attack on the north wall’ caused them to seize their rifles and huddle behind the wall. The volley firing - less closely synchronised this time - had hardly begun before the defenders of the other three walls were called into action. Simon shot a glance backwards. He could not see Alice, but he caught a glimpse of Campbell, one arm around a tree, the other hanging at his side, revolver in hand, staring wide-eyed at the north wall. Simon raised his heavy rifle with an effort and rose above the wall. He realised that he was frightened but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  The wave of Pathans ahead of him seemed somehow thinner, less impenetrable, and he soon realised why. As predicted, they formed only a thin screen for a body of horsemen who were trotting at their rear, lances held high, shields on their left forearms. He had time to reflect for a second that Alexander’s spearmen must have been confronted with the same sight when they came through these passes two thousand years before. Then he took aim and fired.

  Almost immediately, the white-robed ghazis in front of him parted and were replaced by the vanguard of the cavalry. It was a splendid and terrifying sight. With a shout which could be heard above the firing, the horsemen formed into a V, led by a man wearing a black-fringed sheepskin cap and carrying a shield and a lance which he now lowered as he urged his horse into a gallop. The other horsemen slipped into line behind him as they headed for the gap in the wall. As they charged, they kicked up thick dust that rose behind them like smoke from hell. To the defenders on the wall, they seemed to be the very angels of death.

  Simon ran a tongue around lips that felt like blotting paper as he slipped another cartridge into the breech. Only five more bullets lay on the wall beside him. ‘Aim for the horses, bach,’ called Jenkins.

  The leader of the charge was soon brought down, in the flurry of dust and rolling eyes from his beast, and so too were the second and third, and then the fourth and fifth as the fire of the defenders of the south wall took effect. But there were no volleys now, only sporadic firing, and the riders did not flinch from the fire nor veer their horses away from the wall. With impeccable discipline and courage they kept on coming, aiming for that narrow, jumpable gap in the wall, their lances levelled, their heads down over their horses’ manes.

  Simon fired his last bullet at point-blank range and brought down the mount of the first horseman attempting the jump. The rider wrenched his horse’s head away at the last minute, so leaving room for the man behind him to take the jump. As this man urged his horse into the leap, Jenkins’s bullet caught him on the chest and he slumped away in the saddle so that, in mid-jump, his head caught the side of the wall.

  ‘Fall back into the middle,’ shouted Simon. He threw his now useless rifle at the next horse, causing him to shy, and then doubled back towards the trees, turning his head to see Jenkins, his white teeth bared under his moustache, running after him. To the right, he saw that there was hand-to-hand fighting at the wall, although no Afghans had yet been able, it seemed, to climb it. As he approached the trees, twelve Punjabi cavalrymen, in impeccable order, emerged with Covington in the centre, sabre in hand. He raised his sword. ‘Present,’ he shouted. The Punjabis levelled their carbines.

  ‘Down, Jenkins, for God’s sake,’ screamed Simon and threw himself to the ground. The volley thundered over his head. Then the two men picked themselves up and scrambled forward to push through the rank of riflemen. ‘You could have killed us,’ Simon gasped to Covington.

  The big man, blood now trickling down his injured leg on to his boot, paid no attention. ‘Present,’ he thundered. ‘Fire!’ Another volley crashed out and Simon turned and saw that the breach in the wall was now completely closed by the bodies of horses, some of them with legs still thrashing. The terrible mound rose higher than the wall on either side and could not be jumped. Cavalry could be seen milling around beyond the wall.

  ‘They will come to the gate in the east wall,’ shouted Covington to his reserve. ‘Move there at the double. AT THE DOUBLE, I SAID.’ His men turned and ran through
the trees and he limped after them, sabre in hand, without sparing a glance for Simon or Jenkins. The Punjabis on the south and west walls, at least, were still holding fast, firing with care. Simon ran back to the breach and retrieved from the ground one of the Afghan lances, its green pennant still attached. He now had a weapon, of sorts - and lighter than his rifle. Jenkins, he noticed, still had his gun. ‘How much ammo do you have left?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the one,’ said Jenkins. ‘Savin’ it for a bit, see.’

  ‘We’d best help at the gate, then,’ said Simon. ‘If Alice is all right, that is.’

  Alice was where they had last seen her, but now she was on her knees, kneeling beside the prostrate body of Campbell, cradling his head and wiping his face with a tattered handkerchief.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Simon, lowering himself to her side.

  ‘A bullet took him in the chest as he was trying to fire his revolver. I think he’s gone.’ She spoke without emotion, in a flat monotone. Her action with the handkerchief seemed quite redundant, for as Simon took the young man’s hand to feel for the pulse, it was quite cold. The bullet had entered his chest just by the heart. He was no longer breathing and his eyes were staring at the sky, with that slightly puzzled look of the dead.

  ‘I am afraid you are right,’ said Simon, leaning forward and gently closing Campbell’s eyes. ‘He would have been killed outright. You can do no more, my dear.’

  She looked at him expressionlessly. ‘Very well,’ she said flatly. She drew her Colt revolver from the cummerbund round her waist. ‘Then I shall go to the wall and fight.’

  Jenkins interrupted. ‘Bach, sir. I think they’re overwhelmin’ us at that gate. We’d better go and ’elp the Colonel.’

  ‘No.’ Simon turned to Alice. ‘Keep your pistol and stay here among the trees. Here.’ He bent down and retrieved the Webley from the ground near Campbell’s body and opened the magazine. There were four cartridges left. He threw it to Jenkins. ‘Stay with her. There’s a bit of cover among the trees. If they break through, I’ll run back.’