A Kind of Courage

by John Harris

  I’ll wager you have, the Sultan thought, maliciously deciding that Rasaul would find it hard going against the hotheads of Al Havra. Rasaul was almost as old as he was himself and he couldn’t imagine Al Havra allowing leftovers from the Sultanate to hold any of the power they coveted.

  ‘There seems to be nothing left to do, sir,’ Rasaul said. ‘Perhaps I might shake hands. In memory of the great times we have seen together.’

  Resolutely, the Sultan kept his hand at his side. ‘I have few memories of such times, Rasaul,’ he observed coldly.

  Rasaul’s eyes glittered and the Sultan went on, his mind already elsewhere. ‘There is one last thing,’ he said. ‘I must also say goodbye to General Cozzens. Please tell my secretary that my car will be needed.’

  When the telephone rang in Cozzens’ office, it was Group Captain Southey.

  ‘Bingo!’ he said. ‘They’re away!’

  ‘Good!’ Cozzens smiled. ‘They’ll be glad of a bit of help.’

  As Southey ran off, Cozzens put down the telephone and sat staring at it with satisfaction. It rang again almost at once. As he picked it up the door opened and one of his aides appeared. He looked shocked. He indicated the telephone.

  ‘I think that’ll be Colonel Steyne, sir,’ he said. ‘They just telephoned from the palace. They’ve got the Sultan.’

  ‘Got the Sultan?’ Cozzens sat with the telephone in his hand, conscious of the meaningless grating of a voice in his ear.

  ‘Assassinated him, sir,’ the aide said. ‘A bomb as he left the palace in his car.’

  Fourteen

  1

  As they formed up outside the fortress, even the Toweidas, cuffed and kicked by the old Fauzan, had managed to make themselves look presentable.

  ‘You skinny sons of pigs,’ Fauzan had told them the night before. ‘You will march out looking like the soldiers you never were. The whores who were your mothers will not recognise you when I have finished with you. You will get your snouts out of the mud and hold your heads up. Reimabassi Pentecost has said we shall march out looking as though we have not been defeated – as indeed we have not – and you will look like it. Do you all understand?’

  They did. In fear of the grim old man they had set to work with brushes and thread and made their uniforms presentable, despite the fact that once the Toweida Plain was Hejri half of them would desert. That was in the future, though, and Fauzan was very much in the present, and by the time they lined up behind the few remaining Civil Guards and the group of grinning Dharwas still on their feet, they were looking like soldiers. Their headcloths were adjusted as Fauzan wanted them, and their girdles, underneath their pouches, were twisted within an inch of each other.

  Still Fauzan wasn’t satisfied. ‘Sons of pigs,’ he said, marching up and down the lines. ‘You would not do credit to a whorehouse! Tighten that belt! Adjust that girdle! Up with that rifle! Reimabassi Pentecost will be proud of you when we march away or I will know the reason why. You may not realise it, you sons of hogs, but you have just won a great victory. A handful of you have held the whole Hejri and Deleimi nations at bay. When you are old and the treasures of your pleasures have shrivelled to nothing, you will remember Hahdhdhah and say “I was with Pentecost.”’

  He moved on, adjusting equipment, pushing rifles straight, watched by the grinning Dharwas. ‘There will be no medals,’ he said, ‘because the politicians do not like defeats. But remember this: You were never defeated. Thanks to Reimabassi Pentecost and your old friend, Zaid Fauzan, together with a little help from the other officers and NCOs, you have become men.’

  The tirade went on as the women and children climbed into the lorries with the wounded and sick. It was a tight squeeze because there were not so many lorries now as there had been and there were more people who had to ride. But there was no longer any equipment. They had taken care to destroy everything of value during the night, and all that was left were Chestnut’s catapult and all the torn heaps of timber, corrugated iron and plastic covers. Gazing round the ruined fortress, Fox realised how close they had come to defeat.

  He looked up at the crescent flag of the Sultanate still flying over the tower and Aziz’s banner among the rubble out of sight. As the crescent flag came down the green one would go up. Fox had arranged it carefully, deciding that Pentecost would not wish to show any sign of defeat. He had attached the green banner to the same shroud as the red and white Khaliti flag so that they would pass in the middle and fly there for a moment together, before the green flag rose to the top. He knew exactly how he was going to do it. He had even arranged a little ceremony of his own, and Nalk Owdi, standing with the cold sun shining on his bugle, had been told to blow as the red and white flag came down. It was meant to be a tribute.

  In his tough unemotional heart, Fox found a tremendous admiration for Pentecost. He had borne himself, as Aziz had said, as the Dharwas at a meeting the night before had told him, like a great warrior, and Fox knew enough about war to know that without him they would not have held out a week.

  Pentecost had not yet appeared from his office and Fox knew he was collecting up his belongings. He and the wounded Dharwa who had been acting as Pentecost’s orderly had been packing half the night. They had put the long report on the siege that he had written and the diary he had kept so carefully, into his bedding roll with his private belongings and his books of verse. With Pentecost out of the room, Fox had sneaked a look at them and discovered with gratification that he, Beebe, Stone, Chestnut, Minto, Lack and old Fauzan had been mentioned with credit, together with a number of Dharwas and a few Toweidas. Nothing at all had been said about Pentecost. It was as though he’d been there only as a spectator.

  The women were beginning to chatter, realising at last that their ordeal was really over, and the children were hanging over the tailboards of the lorries, chirruping like little monkeys, shouting insults at the Toweidas and worse insults at the Hejri lined up across the plain to the south.

  Aziz was there. Fox could see him with his black headcloth and cloak, and he seemed to have routed out all the surviving Zihouni. There seemed to be two hundred or more of them there, sitting their horses in a tidy line that reflected Aziz’s control of them. There were no banners in evidence, as though Aziz had ordered their absence so as not to gloat over the departing garrison, and they remained silent, moving only slightly as a horse edged forward or a man shuffled to a better position to see.

  Chestnut was standing by the gate, near the remaining scout car, white-faced and silent, a taut-faced lean man, his mad eyes flickering about him for any sign of treachery or carelessness on the part of the zaids.

  ‘What’ll ye do when ye get home, Jim?’ he asked.

  Fox frowned. ‘I’ll quit,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough. Nobody’s got much time for us these days. We’re just political pawns. We’ve had it. We’re out of date.’

  Chestnut’s crazy eyes turned on him and Fox gestured. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘How often have you had swaddies up for being drunk saying it was because the girls won’t go out with ’em – because they have to have their hair cut? How often have you been called a Fascist pig by a bunch of students throwing bricks at you?’

  Pentecost appeared at last, neat as the day they’d first arrived in the fort, and with a grin Fox saw he was sporting the headcloth of the Dharwas, and the girdle of the Toweida Levies over his uniform.

  ‘Bit exotic,’ he said with an embarrassed smile. ‘But it’s to let them know I’m proud of them. They’ve done pretty well considering.’

  ‘They’ve done damn’ well, sir,’ Fox said. ‘But they couldn’t have, if you hadn’t been there.’

  Pentecost stared back at the older man, his pale washed-out eyes unwavering. He was a rum customer, Fox decided, always a bit different from the rest of them.

  ‘Thank you, Jim,’ he said quietly. ‘I can say the same about you. Is everything ready?’

  ‘Yessir. Thought you might give ’em a bit of an inspection. It’d
please old Fauzan and it’ll help ’em to march a bit better. Besides—’ he gave a twisted grin ‘—it’ll make the bloody Hejri realise that we’re going in our own time and on our own terms.’

  Pentecost’s smile broke through, surprisingly warming, and he walked ahead of Fox to where the troops were formed up, moving among them, nodding at a man here, complimenting another one there, doing it in leisurely fashion as though there were all the time in the world. At Fauzan, he stopped and shook the old man’s hand warmly.

  ‘Thank you, Fauzan,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you,’ and the Toweida Levies, who were terrified of the grim old warrior, were startled to see his eyes were full of tears.

  ‘Will you be riding in the scout car?’ Fox said in a low voice as they stopped at the end of the lines.

  ‘No,’ Pentecost said firmly. ‘I’ll be marching at the head of the column.’ He paused. ‘I hope Wintle was informed,’ he ended. ‘I wouldn’t want him to take unnecessary casualties.’

  2

  As it happened, Aziz’s message from the north arrived at almost the same moment as the Sultan’s.

  The news that Hahdhdhah had surrendered, shouted from a group of rocks by a Khadari sniper, was carried by a startled Khaliti officer, hardly able to believe his ears after the hard fighting of the last three days.

  ‘It’s a blasted lie,’ Wintle snapped. ‘The bastards are trying to persuade us it isn’t worth trying.’

  But even as he spoke, the Khaliti signals officer from the radio van arrived. He looked startled.

  ‘Reimabassi!’

  Wintle gestured angrily. ‘I’m busy,’ he said.

  ‘Reimabassi—’ the Khaliti thrust forward a message form ‘—this is important.’

  Wintle frowned and snatched the message.

  ‘HAHDHDHAH TO BE EVACUATED,’ he saw. ‘REPEAT EVACUATED STOP TOWEIDA PLAIN To BE GIVEN UP UNDER TRIPARTITE AGREEMENT BETWEEN AL HAVRA NORTHERN LEADERS AND SULTAN OF KHALIT TO BE SIGNED IN NEAR FUTURE STOP HALT FORCES SHORT OF TOWEIDA PLAIN ONLY CONSIDERATION SAFETY OF HAHDHDHAH GARRISON.’

  ‘Who the hell sent this?’ Wintle snarled.

  ‘It’s originated by the Sultan, Reimabassi,’ the Khaliti pointed out. ‘It’s come from his office.’

  ‘It’s a fake,’ Wintle said at once. ‘Have it checked.’

  Suddenly worried, he turned and walked slowly towards the front of his column where the armoured cars were hammering away at a group of Khadari rifle pits on the last slopes of the Pass. The stream of lead was smashing into the rocks and the cold sun was burning the hillside. The Khaliti soldiers were crouched on either side of the road.

  As Wintle lowered himself to the ditch behind the Khaliti officer in charge, a shout came from above.

  ‘Owinda-el! Hahdhdhah has surrendered! They are marching out now. The Sultan is giving up the Plain.’

  ‘The bastards are persistent, aren’t they?’ Wintle said. But he frowned, wondering again if there were really something in it and that they were too late, and that Hahdhdhah had fallen and all its garrison been murdered.

  ‘Hahdhdhah is finished, Owinda-el,’ the shout came again. ‘Aziz has negotiated terms.’

  While Wintle was still trying to sort this one out, the Khaliti officer appeared from the radio lorry once more, and dropped into the ditch. He still looked a little startled.

  ‘It’s genuine, Reimabassi,’ he said. ‘It came from Tafas. It’s from his private signal station. It was sent to Hahdhdhah last night.’

  ‘Good God!’ Wintle said. ‘What’s the old fool up to? Why have we only just heard? Why didn’t the operator pick it up last night? He must have heard it.’

  ‘It was when the sniping was at its worst, Reimabassi. We were having to move the radio van at the time. And the message was not addressed to us.’

  Wintle scowled and the Khaliti went on, looking shaken. ‘That’s not the worst, Reimabassi. The Sultan has been assassinated.’

  Wintle twisted quickly in the ditch to stare, then, realising he had exposed his head, ducked quickly.

  ‘He was on the way to see General Cozzens, Reimabassi, it seems, with the news of Hahdhdhah. It’s in the message.’

  Wintle snatched the message form and, as he read it, his eyes glowed with anger. The thing stank of treachery. With Tafas assassinated Khaswe would go and Khalit would soon follow. He might just as well save his breath, because with Khalit in turmoil, no one, not the Duke of Wellington, Robert E Lee and Napoleon, aided by Lord God of Hosts, would be able to hang on to the Toweida Plain.

  Then he suddenly remembered something he had discussed in signals with Cozzens and he glanced at his watch.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Tafas ever got around to telling Cozzens! If Pentecost’s out of the fort, a few rockets among the Hejri just at this moment might stir ’em up enough to make a disaster.’

  3

  By the gate of the fort, Fox paused, waiting for Pentecost, and it suddenly occurred to him that it might be a nice gesture if Pentecost himself took down the flag. He had done so much to keep it flying, it seemed only fair to ask him.

  He coughed.

  ‘Sir! Occurs to me, you might like the honour yourself of lowering the flag. Something to keep when it’s finished with – trophy, so to speak, to hang over the fireplace in Mrs Pentecost’s dining room, along with Aziz’s muzzle-loader and that ceremonial sword he gave you.’

  Pentecost smiled. ‘It had occurred to me, too, Jim,’ he said.

  ‘If anybody has the right to make a cushion cover of that flag, sir,’ Fox said, ‘it’s Mrs Pentecost.’

  Pentecost smiled again. ‘Uncommon thoughtful,’ he said, ‘but it’s a bit battered for a cushion cover.’

  Fox grinned. ‘Have to hang it in the hall, then, sir. Make it look like the regimental chapel.’

  ‘Mrs Pentecost’s not much of a one for military glory. She prefers help with washing up.’

  They had reached the bottom of the rickety tower now. There wasn’t much of it left but the staircase, and Pentecost stopped and stared across the courtyard. Behind him, the gates hung lopsidedly on their hinges, splintered where the shells had struck and the flying shards of metal had torn into them. The pillars that held them were pitted and scarred with bullet holes, and to right and left the wall had crumbled where it had been hit. Nearby, there was a long gap where several shells had torn it away and they had struggled to shore it up and rebuild the parapet with sandbags. The south-east tower was a mass of rubble, and the water tower, lying on its side, had wrenched part of the south wall down. There were several burned-out lorries at the far end of the courtyard, and the walls were charred and blackened where flames had roared along them. This was where Beebe had charged up with a borrowed rifle and almost shot Chestnut, where Minto, his ankle broken by a falling girder, had dragged himself away, and where Lack and Stone had waited to leave the fort on their fatal sorties.

  Pentecost sighed. Matshed roofing was slapping in the breeze that blew through the gate, whirling fragments of scorched rushes over the pitted surface of the courtyard. Torn and charred records and documents fluttered about, and the splintered timber, the torn corrugated iron and the shed where the plastic covers were kept were all marked by the last bombardments. The place was a wreck, littered with scraps of clothing, empty tins that had once been used for drinking or eating, cartridge cases, Chestnut’s lopsided searchlight surrounded by splintered glass, odds and ends of uniform and equipment, and here and there a coiled bloody bandage that had been stripped off by a man determined to march off with the rest. And it was full now of a graveyard silence that was vaguely oppressive.

  Pentecost’s eyes met Fox’s and the sergeant looked up at the flag. ‘You’d better go first, sir,’ he said.

  4

  Wintle was almost dancing with agitation. Watched by Beebe and Gloag, he waited alongside the radio lorry, slapping his boot with his cane and smoking cigarette after cigarette.

  ‘The
bastards have already left,’ he announced. ‘We’re trying now to contact Khaswe to call ’em off.’

  Beebe’s horror broke out. ‘You’ve got to contact ’em!’ he said. ‘We had this thing made. If it goes wrong at this stage—’ he almost choked with disgust.

  The Khaliti signals officer appeared. ‘Nothing yet, Reimabassi,’ he told Wintle.

  ‘Keep trying.’ As Wintle turned away to light another cigarette, he jerked a hand at the Khadari positions. ‘And let those bastards off the hook for the time being,’ he told his second-in-command. ‘One thing at a time. Let’s get this sorted out first.’

  As he spoke, a sound above him caught his ears, and he snatched the cigarette from his mouth and threw it away. One of his Dharwas saw the gesture and bent to pick it up. Wintle didn’t notice. He was standing with his head in the air, looking towards the south, his dark eyes fierce and angry under the headcloth. Gloag, too, was staring upwards, and beyond him, Beebe, his face grey with horror. The sound increased rapidly, swelling until the whole sky seemed to be full of it, a great iron roaring that echoed in the narrow valleys. A mule neighed and the sharp high laugh of one of the Dharwas sounded above it, but they were sounds that were remote, as though the iron noise from the sky filled the whole of their existence.

  ‘Where are they?’ Beebe said in a low voice. ‘Where are the bastards?’

  The signals officer jerked a hand. ‘There they are, Reimabassi! Swinging round the end of the plain.’

  ‘They’re coming in from the north,’ Wintle said. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he burst out desperately, ‘can’t you contact them?’

  The signals officer’s face was pale. ‘Not a chance, Reimabassi. They use air force frequency.’

  They were all silent again as the iron roar of the two jets filled the Ridhwa, ricocheting backwards and forwards from the cliffs like a ping-pong ball in a narrow passage. Then they saw the aeroplanes pass between two peaks, two small shining machines laying over in a steep bank as they wheeled into position.