by John Wilcox
‘I am so glad to see you,’ she said. ‘I have just been moving into the little hovel they have given me. Much cooler than a tent and at least it’s my own. Do come and see it.’
Simon followed her through the house into a courtyard, off which several doors led. She ushered him through one and he sat on the only chair, while she sprawled on the narrow camp bed.
‘Did you manage to sleep well, after all your work?’ Simon enquired.
‘I rested a little, thank you. But I have been up for a couple of hours now, sorting myself out and . . . er . . . seeing a few people. It seems I am now forgiven and they are letting me stay on for a short while, to cover the installation of the new amir and so on.’ She smiled that sad smile again. ‘My editor liked my story of the battle and I have also received a cable of thanks from the Standard, so, for once, it seems I am in everyone’s good books, though I don’t suppose that will last long. Now, how about you? Has the arm recovered, and how are you feeling, my dear?’
‘I am quite well now, thank you, Alice.’ Simon felt a slight sense of annoyance at the formal way the conversation was developing, as though Alice was erecting a barrier of convention between them. This was not the way he wished to introduce the matter he had come to put to the lovely woman sitting opposite him, her chin now resting schoolgirlishly on her knees.
‘Alice,’ he began hesitantly, ‘I have something I wish to—’
Alice held up her hand to interrupt. This was the moment she had been dreading. Telling Simon.
The filing of her stories had perforce taken her back again into the minutiae of the battle. She had had to discover and then break down the numbers of the killed and wounded and then to report the detail dispassionately. On previous occasions this task, while never pleasant, had not fazed her, for she had been able to retain a professional distance when writing about carnage. Now, however, she could not help recalling Campbell’s dead face, and the cries of the Afghans as her own bullets had hit their targets. The memories pressed heavier when, after sending her dispatches, she lay down for a precious moment or two of rest. Sleep evaded her and she began to feel a deep and personal responsibility for those she had seen killed in the compound. They would not have perished, brown and white, if she had not insisted on evading Roberts’s edict and persuading Simon and his friends to take her to Kandahar.
Alice was never short of confidence and by nature she was not introspective. But the events of that day had been cathartic. They had forced her to examine her motives and attitude to life. Was she not completely selfish and, indeed, self-centred? The answer, of course, was yes. Yet, as she lay looking at the white fabric of her tent and tasted the dust of the army camp on her tongue, she realised that she could not change her personality simply by the exercise of self-analysis, like Mesmer clicking his fingers to bring someone out of a hypnotic state. Nevertheless, it was necessary - it was vital - to alter the direction of her life.
Alice had allowed herself a half-smile: the change of course need not lead to a nunnery exactly but certainly towards something which would contain an element of sacrifice and yet still be creative and, perhaps, of some use to others. Slowly an idea began to form in her mind, one that would take her away from all that now revolted her but which would be not at all unpleasant . . . In fact, it would relieve the pressure on her. But - and here she had frowned - it would not please Simon. Simon, her dear friend for whom she felt so much gratitude and affection. Nevertheless, that could not be helped. It offered the best solution.
In consequence, now she flushed slightly as she stopped Simon. ‘May I interrupt you?’ she asked. ‘For I have something to tell you and wish you to be the first to know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well.’ Alice’s eyes left his and roamed over the ceiling, as though looking for something to help her begin. Eventually, they returned to his face and Simon realised that whatever she had to tell him would not please him. She seemed almost ashamed of what she was about to say. ‘You know how much gratitude I have to you and to Jenkins and poor W.G. for enabling me to reach this place and to report the battle?’
He nodded.
‘And I know that it was you who pleaded with Roberts so that I was allowed to go out yesterday. So I am doubly grateful.’
He remained silent, his eyes fixed on hers, willing her to get on with whatever it was she found so difficult to impart.
‘Yes, well. I think you also know that I have found the violence of the last few days to be very . . . disturbing. Oh, Simon.’ Now she reached across impulsively and took his hand, and her eyes regained that expression of intensity that he remembered so well. ‘I killed W.G. and Johnny Campbell as surely as if I had pulled the trigger. I killed others, too - more directly. I never thought that I would ever do that.’
She shook her head as though to dispel the memories. ‘I have been thinking of that and I realise that I must never put myself again into that position of kill or be killed. That is a soldier’s world. A man’s world. I was wrong to have strayed into it.’
‘But Alice.’ Simon found himself searching for words. ‘You knew all this when you set out - even, perhaps, when you decided to become a journalist, a war correspondent. To get your story you had to take that risk. It’s what a man would have done.’
Alice looked away again for a moment and her voice was low. ‘Yes, well, perhaps I should never have done that. And I have decided not to run that risk again.’
Simon waited, and then was forced to break the silence. ‘So . . . what are you going to do?’
She turned and looked him full in the face. ‘I am going to resign my position and marry Ralph Covington.’
The silence in the little room hung over them both. Slowly, unbelievingly, Simon repeated: ‘You are going to marry Ralph Covington? To marry that man? For God’s sake, why?’
Alice relinquished his hand and sat back on the bed, as though in retreat. ‘Because . . . because I think I love him. And he offers me the chance of doing something else. Of running a large estate, of doing something worthwhile with his land and the estate employees. Of having money, and children, and bringing them up as I believe they ought to be raised. Of . . . of . . . oh, I don’t know.’ She gestured wildly. ‘Of getting away from all this.’
Simon ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You - staying at home and bringing up children! That’s not you. Anyway, the man’s a bully and a monster. He would have had me court-martialled on a trumped-up charge.’
‘I don’t believe he would have gone on with that. And anyway, he is also a gallant soldier and a brave man. And he loves me.’ She stared almost defiantly at Simon.
A feeling akin to nausea ran through Simon. A large estate, money - he had none of those things. Whatever he had to offer could not match what she had accepted. The nausea turned to anger - to marry Covington, of all people! Never, for one moment, had he imagined that competition would come from that quarter, nor that Covington’s feelings would be reciprocated. Was Alice out of her mind? He opened his mouth to remonstrate further. She was watching him closely, defensively, expecting an argument and bracing herself for it. There was that familiar look of determination now in her face. A stubbornness he knew he could not shift. He realised, with deep, deep sadness, that there was nothing he could do.
He rose and put out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Alice. I hope you will be very happy. Whatever I think of Covington - and I would be a hypocrite if I said I liked the man - he is indeed a gallant soldier and a brave one.’ His words, he knew, sounded stilted even to himself and he made an effort to appear more gracious. He pulled her up from the bed when she took his hand, and embraced her gently. ‘You deserve only the very best, my dear. Let me know where I should send the rubies and diamonds as your wedding present.’
She laughed for the first time and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are the first person I have told. Both you and Jenkins will be invited to the wedding.’ She pulled back with an expression of remorse. ‘But I forgot. You c
ame to tell me something and I have been prattling on about myself as usual. What was it?’
‘Oh.’ Simon paused for a second and cleared his throat. ‘Only to say that Jenkins and I are being thrown out of Afghanistan by Roberts. He has given us a derisory extra month’s pay for our efforts and told us that we must be with the column of wounded who are leaving for India at dawn tomorrow. I believe he thinks we are troublemakers. I came to say goodbye.’
A look of righteous indignation flooded Alice’s face. ‘The old bastard! After all the lives you saved at Kabul and here. I will not let him get away with that.’ She took his arm. ‘Please let me write about it. I will see that questions are asked about it at home.’
Simon shook his head. ‘No thank you. Jenkins and I don’t give a damn really. And I would not want you to get back into hot water again. No, my dear, we shall slip away quietly tomorrow. But thank you all the same.’
The hurtful sadness deepened into a real sense of loss as he looked into the concerned face a few inches from his own. The beautiful grey eyes were full of feeling for him, he could tell, but what sort of feeling? Certainly not love. She knew, of course, what he had been about to ask her when she interrupted him, and she knew he had been wounded. But - what the hell! He had to get out of there. He kissed her quickly, chastely, on the lips, then turned and left.
Shortly after Simon arrived back at the tent, Jenkins came staggering in, loaded down with two bulging kit bags. ‘Well,’ he puffed, ‘we’ve done well. I’ve been to the bazaar and traded in the army boots and the shirts they gave us and I’ve got some fine cotton stuff . . .’ His voice trailed away as he looked at the mournful face opposite him. ‘Ah. We’re not gettin’ married, then?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Your face is as long as the Severn.’
‘How did you know I was going to ask her?’
‘Call it an old soldier’s institution . . . intwit . . .’
‘Intuition.’
‘That’s what I was goin’ to say. Anyway, you’ve been moonin’ about since we stopped fightin’ the fierce Pataan. I guessed you was screwin’ up your courage, look you. ’Ard luck, bach.’
‘She’s going to marry Covington.’
‘Blimey!’ The look of, first, surprise and then disgust on the Welshman’s face almost made Simon’s disappointment worthwhile.
‘Well,’ said Simon, ‘he’s rich and has land and much to offer.’
Jenkins sat down slowly and sucked in his moustache. For a moment or two he considered the proposition. ‘She’s a fine lass, that’s for sure,’ he said eventually. ‘But she’s old enough and, by golly, brave enough to make her own bed. Now she must lie on it.’ He shot a quick glance at Simon. ‘So what are we going to do now?’
Simon looked across at the familiar face opposite, now wearing an apprehensive, even wistful expression. Somehow, he felt better. ‘I’ve been wondering about that. I think we should go to my home - just for a short while. What do you think?’
‘What - to Wales?’
‘Yes. I would like to see my people again.’
Jenkins screwed up his face. ‘Aw, they wouldn’t want somethin’ rough like me about the place.’
‘Rubbish. They will love you. Particularly my father. Don’t forget he was a soldier. He respects good soldiers.’
Jenkins’s habitual beam returned. ‘Are you sure? Back to Brecon?’
‘Yes, but only for a while. While we decide what to do next.’
‘And what will we do next?’
Simon linked his hands behind his head and lay back on the narrow bed. ‘I haven’t had much time to consider it, but I can’t help thinking that people ought to do what they’re good at. I will never make a farmer or a businessman, and I have a few pennies of my own, so we don’t need a big income. What we are good at is soldiering. No, no.’ He held up his hand to stop an incredulous Jenkins interrupting. ‘I don’t like the army and we could never be line soldiers again. But I realise that the army needs people like us . . . sort of freelances who operate on the edges as we have been doing. Scouts and that sort of thing.’ He lifted his head. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘Suppose so. I must say, I should miss a bit of excitement. But I don’t want no more salutin’ and that sort of stuff, see.’
‘Of course not. But I can see things boiling over rather in South Africa sooner or later, and perhaps in Egypt. We could be of use in places like that - as long as there were no strings attached to the brass. We would have to keep a degree of independence. But first, a spell at home. What do you think?’
Jenkins blinked and turned to one of the kit bags. He pulled out a shirt and began smoothing it with his big, broad hand. ‘I’ll go anywhere you go,’ he said. ‘Somebody’s got to look after you, after all.’
Author’s Note
The Road to Kandahar is a work of fiction, of course, but the flesh of the story has been hung upon a skeleton of fact. The events leading up to the second Anglo-Afghanistan War, related in the novel by Colonel Lamb, are as accurate as I can make them, relying upon the work of respected historians, as, too, are the details of the battles described in the book. The leading characters - Fonthill, Jenkins, Alice, Covington, W.G., Colonel Lamb, et al. - are all fictional. But the mullah very much existed, as did the other named Afghan leaders, and also Sir Louis Cavagnari, Brigadiers Massey and MacPherson, and John Dunn. Sir Frederick Roberts, of course, remains one of Britain’s best-loved Victorian generals, dying a field marshal in 1914 and revered for his long but rapid march on Kandahar. Many of the opinions expressed by Roberts in the novel and by Cavagnari to Simon have been taken from the field marshal’s memoirs, Forty One Years in India (first published by Richard Bentley and Son in London in 1897). I am also indebted to these recollections for much of the military and logistical detail contained in my account of the war. The spelling of Afghan place names has changed bewilderingly over the years. For the sake of consistency, I have stayed in the narrative with the version used in the map of the time, included at the front of this novel.
Alice’s evasion of Roberts’s censorship and her subsequent banishment from Afghanistan are based on fact. They happened to the London Standard’s reporter accredited to Roberts’s army. The indictment of Roberts’s vengeful hangings, contained in The Bombay Review and The Friend of India and cited by Alice in her defence, were printed in those respected journals and were quoted by the London Times at the time.
A punctilious student of historical chronology might cock an eyebrow at Alice reporting the first stage of Gladstone’s Midlothian campaign in late November 1879 and still being able to arrive at Kabul shortly after the Battle of Sherpur in late December of the same year. I can only hope he might allow me a few weeks of poetic licence.
If the idea of a woman war correspondent in 1879 jars, then I must cite - as does Alice to John Campbell over dinner in Edinburgh - Frances, Viscountess de Peyronnet (born in Suffolk plain Frances Whitfield), who reported the siege of Paris for the Times of London in 1871, seven years before Alice began filing her stories from the Cape. Then, in 1881 - the year after Alice reported from Kandahar - the grand Morning Post, Alice’s own newspaper, sent Florence Dixie to the Transvaal to cover the first Anglo-Boer War. Even in Victorian Britain, you couldn’t keep a good gel down!
J.W.
Chilmark
1 Gladstone was not yet the ‘Grand Old Man’. Although he was seventy, an ex-prime minister and had been a member of Parliament since he was twenty-two, his great rival Disraeli, the Prime Minister, was his senior by five years.
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