by John Wilcox
‘Delighted to have you escort me,’ said Fonthill. ‘Have you been to Kabul before, Captain?’
‘No. Can’t say that I have. Bit of a dump, I should imagine.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Well, no. It’s a long time since I was there but I remember it as being rather unusually beautiful. Nestling beside the river with lots of flowers and fruit orchards in the outskirts.’ He turned to Jenkins, anxious to demonstrate both his comrade’s status and their joint experience. ‘Wouldn’t you say, so, 352?’
‘Ah, yes indeed, bach sir. Almost as pretty as Rhyl, look you.’
Appleby-Smith lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ he responded faintly. ‘How interesting.’
Fonthill decided to introduce business quickly. ‘When will you be ready to leave, Captain?’ he asked. ‘I presume you will need perhaps a day to prepare for the journey?’
‘Two days, I should think, Mr Fonthill. We have to provision ourselves adequately for the ride.’
‘Ah yes.’ Simon allowed a faint frown to cross his face. ‘Very well. May I suggest that we leave, then, shortly after dawn on the day after tomorrow?’
‘Very good … er … sir. We shall parade shortly after 5 a.m.’ He turned to Buckingham. ‘I presume you are ready to ride, Buckingham?’
‘Yes, of course, sir.’
‘Good,’ affirmed Fonthill. ‘By the way, my wife will accompany us for part—’
‘What?’ Appleby-Smith’s tone was peremptory, his astonishment and disapproval quite clear.
‘Yes.’ Simon replied quietly but firmly. ‘We will go via the Khyber, of course, and we will leave her at the fort at Landi Kotal. She has work to do there. And then, of course, we will pick her up there on our return.’ His tone hardened. ‘I presume you have no objections?’
‘What? Oh no. Of course not.’
‘Good. Now. I hate to stand on formality. My name is Simon and I would prefer it if you would call me that. May I enquire … what is yours?’
It was clear that Appleby-Smith did not, in fact, welcome informality. He cleared his throat. ‘It is Clarence,’ he said, distantly.
‘Thank you, Clarence. Now, tell me. Do you have any news about any possible trouble we might meet with on this journey? Are the Afridis along the Khyber reasonably quiet?’
‘Yes, I believe so, er … Si … Yes, I believe so. But, of course, we shall be prepared to repel boarders at any time, so to speak.’
‘That is good news. So we will leave at 5 a.m., then, the day after tomorrow.’ Fonthill allowed himself a smile. ‘Oh, I am fairly sure that the road to Kabul is straightforward and I hope that I can remember it, anyway. But I understand that Buckingham’s daffadar, Inderjit Singh, is familiar with this part of Afghanistan so we should not get lost.’
Both of Appleby-Smith’s eyebrows rose this time. ‘Who? Oh, the Sikh. Yes. But I doubt if we shall need his help. Good day to you, sir. Buckingham. Come with me.’
As the three officers strode away, Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances.
‘’E’s not exactly a chuckle-face, now, is ’e, bach sir?’ commented Jenkins.
‘Now, don’t be disrespectful to a holder of the Queen’s commission. Come along now. Let’s go and see if Alice has found a hairdresser yet.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun was painting the mountain tops to the east a promising magenta when the little force assembled on the parade ground at Peshawar. Captain Appleby-Smith gave Simon and Alice what could only be interpreted as a reluctant salute and bade them good morning.
‘All present and correct, Mr Fonthill, Mrs … ah … Fonthill. Shall we proceed?’
‘Good morning, Clarence. Yes. Let’s get off and put as many miles as possible under our feet before this blasted sun gets intolerable.’
Orders were issued and the column set off onto the Kabul road. Outriders were despatched to front and rear, sufficiently distanced from the main body to give effective warning of an attack, and the squadron split into two, with Appleby-Smith in the van with Dawson and his men and, perhaps predictably, Buckingham and his troop in the rear. Fonthill, Alice and Jenkins rode, a touch self-consciously, between the two troops, with troopers carrying pennants riding on either side of them.
Alice, serviceably dressed in jodhpurs, riding boots and a simple, long-sleeved blouse, settled a wide-brimmed, soft hat on her head and tugged it down.
‘I don’t much like riding like this in the middle,’ she confided to Simon. ‘I feel like our dear beloved Queen riding out to inspect the troops at the Horse Guards.’
‘Just as well you managed to get your hair done, then. At least we’re not kicking up too much dust at the moment. This could be a problem when we get out of Peshawar proper.’
So it proved. The road was not metalled, of course, and they met plenty of traffic as they wound their way out towards the little town of Jamrud, which marked the end of the railway and virtually the point where the old administrative area of the Punjab ended. Despite the unsettled state of the Border it was pleasing to Fonthill to note the number of trading caravans that were heading towards Peshawar, for the Pass, of course, marked the main route between Kabul and British India.
‘So where is this damned Durand Line?’ asked Alice, when they stopped to breakfast just outside Jamrud. ‘Shall we feel a bump as we cross it?’
‘From what I remember, it is about five miles straight ahead. We should see the marking posts on either side of the road as we cross it.’ He looked up at the hills which now climbed on either side of the road, preventing Appleby-Smith from posting mounted pickets abreast of the column. ‘Forgive me if I leave you for a minute and stroll along and say good morning to Buckingham and Inderjit Singh. I would hate them to think that I am ignoring them now that they are outranked.’
Jenkins was already perched on a rock talking to the two men as he joined them.
‘I trust Appleby-Smith will give your troop a spell at the head of the column to save you from the dust at the rear,’ Simon said.
‘Thank you, sir. A kind thought. But I doubt it.’
Fonthill noted the reply but thought better of pursuing the subject and turned to the daffadar. ‘When did you come this way last, Inderjit?’ he enquired.
‘Oh, I have patrolled this way into Afghanistan many times, sahib. It is not a difficult way into the Afghan state, for we just have to … ah … what is the saying – follow our chins?’
‘Follow our noses, or in the case of 352, our moustaches.’
A grunt from Jenkins greeted this. ‘Better than the last time we came this way goin’… er … east, is it?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No. Almost due west.’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought. West.’ Jenkins turned to the Sikh. ‘We rode this way with your father, old W.G. We was pretendin’ to be carpet salesmen from, where was it, bach sir – Burma?’
‘No. Persia. Nearly right.’
‘Ah yes. That’s what I thought. Persia. Fat lot of good that pretendin’ did us. We nearly got shot for our trouble an’ we had to move out smartly, leavin’ be’ind our very expensive samples.’
Inderjit Singh’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah yes. I never had chance to talk to my father about that. You must tell me what happened.’
‘Another time,’ said Fonthill. ‘I think we are ready to move again.’ He stood and spoke, almost to himself. ‘I must have a word with the captain.’
As the column moved off, he pulled his horse out of line and urged it forward, causing minor consternation to his two lance-bearing attendants, who immediately dug in their heels so that they quickly fell into station on either side of him.
‘Clarence,’ said Simon as he motioned one of his escorts away and drew alongside Appleby-Smith. ‘I would be grateful if Alice, Jenkins and I could ride in the van with you, at least for a while. The dust in the middle of the column is getting rather beastly, I’m afraid.’
‘What?’ The captain glared at Fonthill as though he had suggested a game of billiards. ‘I a
m sorry, but I could not allow that. Your position in the middle of the column is where we can best protect you if we are attacked. You are my responsibility, you see.’
Fonthill smiled. ‘Thank you for your care. I really must insist that we move, though, otherwise your very precious charges, Captain, will die of suffocation before we get into Afghanistan. And, while we are at it, I do suggest that the two troopers riding alongside us with their pennants should be removed. If we are going to be attacked, they make us obvious targets, I would have thought. What do you think?’
‘What?’ Simon reflected that this word seemed to be the man’s initial response to any request. ‘I am not sure that that is a good—’
‘Oh, I think it is,’ replied Fonthill. ‘See to it, please. I don’t wish to interfere with your procedure en route, but I presume that you will be rotating the troops in the line, perhaps by sections, to relieve those in the rear from suffering from the dust all the time? I understand that that is the Guides’ procedure – or at least that is what Colonel Fortescue certainly did when we rode to Malakand. But these details, of course, I leave to you, Clarence. I will fetch Alice and Jenkins now, if I may.’
He touched the brim of his cloth-covered army helmet, pulled out of line and rejoined his wife and Jenkins.
‘What was all that about, darling?’ asked Alice.
‘Oh, I was just giving a little advice on good army manners to what I am afraid is a prig of our escort commander.’
Jenkins nodded sagely. ‘Therefore aliechasin’… alianantin …’
‘Alienating?’ offered Alice.
‘That’s what I said,’ sniffed Jenkins. ‘Alienatin’ our best ’ope of survival on this postin’. Oh dear, oh dear. Oh dearie me. I fear the worst, I really do.’
Simon led his wife and Jenkins forward but no change was made in the order of march for the rest of the column until it had reached the beginning of the Pass, some five miles after Simon had pointed out some white-painted posts set in the hillside on either side of the road, marking the Durand Line. Then, although Buckingham himself was left in the rear, roughly half of his troop was moved into the van. The delay in effecting the manoeuvre, Fonthill noted, was, of course, Appleby-Smith preserving his dignity as formal commander of the column. At the same point, the two troopers protecting Simon were ordered to remove their pennanted lances, although the men themselves remained in position.
The Khyber Pass had already established itself in Border folklore as the main invasion route into India from the rest of Asia. Although there were other passes between Afghanistan and the Punjab, they were of high altitude and often impassable in winter. To the north and east the great ranges of the Hindu Kush and the Himalayas presented an impassable barrier. As a result, the Khyber had offered the easiest way into the subcontinent since Alexander of Macedon had approached it some fifteen hundred years before and led his 120,000 men towards where the mist rose from the valley of the Indus behind the mountains, luring them on. Then, the Pathans had opposed the young conqueror, just as they had stood in the path of every invader from the north for centuries before and since. Alexander, with all the arrogance gained from his twenty-five years and recent defeat of the Persians, had led a small, elite force himself over the Kunar Valley in the north into Swat, swinging down to meet up with his main force as it swept aside the Pathans in the Khyber and pushed on down towards the Indus and the invasion of India proper.
Fonthill, then, looked at the Khyber again with renewed interest. In many places the Pass itself was little more than a defile cut through the Zakka Khel mountain range by the Kabul River, although now the road wound its way some ten miles to the south of the river. At first, at the Peshawar end, it was flanked by green fields set in the valley, but then, as the travellers made their way to the west, the hills ranged formidably and occasionally almost vertically on either side of the road, a mass of brown-grey stone offering virtually no traces of foliage at all. The road twisted round the many projections of the range, disappearing in a series of narrow zigzags into the blue, serrated horizon.
‘Strewth.’ Jenkins sucked in his chinstrap. ‘Ain’t there a level bit of land in this awful bloody country?’
It seemed to Simon that the Khyber itself would present no danger to them, for as Alice had pointed out, the British had recently established three forts along the Pass. These were formidable buildings of brick and stone, built on spurs alongside the road and increasing in size until the last of them, the Landi Kotal, towered at the Afghanistan end of the Khyber. It was here that Alice, of course, had to part company with the column.
Reaching it, Fonthill looked up at the high walls of the fort and the craggy mass of rocks looking down on it and shook his head.
‘Look here, Alice,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that this is a good idea at all. Things may seem peaceful here at the moment, but God knows what will happen if this revolt spreads to the Khyber. This fort looks safe enough, but Buckingham tells me that the troops manning it, the Khyber Rifles, are all Afridis and a comparatively new unit only recently raised and with nothing like the background and tradition of the Guides behind them. It’s not too late to send you back to Peshawar with Duke and a section of his men. It makes sense—’
‘No.’ Alice interrupted him firmly. ‘If you won’t let me come with you, I shall wait for you here.’ She gestured to the walls, towering some fifteen feet above them. ‘It seems to me that this is more secure than the Tower of London, and besides, the commander here is expecting me. It would upset him now if I turn back at his very gate.’ She grinned. ‘He would think he’d offended me. Don’t worry, my love. I will be fine.’
Then her grin disappeared to be replaced by a frown. ‘It’s you who will be in the most danger.’ She turned to Jenkins. ‘Look after him, 352. I am holding you responsible. And don’t let him fall off his horse.’
‘Ah,’ Jenkins returned the smile. ‘That could be the difficult bit, Miss Alice. But I’ll try.’
The massive gates were opened to them and the party was welcomed by the commander of the fort, Captain Barton, once of the Guides Cavalry, who combined the duties of assistant political officer at Landi Kotal with command of the Khyber Rifles. He was delighted to see Alice and confirmed that, since the outbreaks further north, he had strengthened his garrison, arranging for stockpiles of fourteen days’ water and supplies and building up an ammunition reserve of 50,000 rounds.
‘Your wife will be perfectly safe with us here,’ he assured Fonthill.
Simon decided that they would not linger at Landi Kotal and so, the goodbyes made, the column rode on through what remained of the Pass and crossed the invisible border into Afghanistan. The road now led upwards and they passed many tribesmen tending goats and small cattle. The men looked at the column with interest but were unarmed and certainly not threatening.
Fonthill called Inderjit Singh forward. ‘I am told,’ he said, ‘that you speak several languages. Is this true?’
The tall Sikh nodded. ‘Yes, sahib. I speak Urdu and English, of course, and both dialects of Pushtu – the soft, Pashtu, and the hard, Paktu. I know the Persian, Parsi, but I am not so fluent in that. Sorry, sahib.’
‘Don’t be sorry. It sounds a pretty formidable list to me. It’s the Pushtu in both dialects, I seem to remember, which is the main language spoken around here. Is that true?’
‘Very true, sir. Although cultured Afghans will speak Parsi as well.’
‘Good. Well, I suggest, Clarence,’ he turned to Appleby-Smith, who was riding within hearing a little way to the right, ‘that we make the daffadar our interpreter on this mission. Do you agree?’
‘I have no objections, sir.’
‘Good. Consider yourself so appointed. I shall apply to Colonel Fortescue on our return for an appropriate addition to your wage to reflect the additional responsibility.’
‘The sahib is kind. Thank you, sir.’
The air was now becoming markedly less warm, although the sun continued to beat do
wn, as they climbed a little before beginning the descent to the Logar and Kabul valleys. Dusk was beginning to turn the mountains a deep purple so Appleby-Smith ordered that camp should be made for the night.
Guards were set but the hours of darkness passed without incident, except that everyone felt the cold after the heat of the Khyber. Shortly after the fires were lit for breakfast, a party of some fifty or so Afghans appeared, riding ponies and aggressively armed, with rifles – Lee-Enfields, Simon noted – slung across their backs, swathes of bandoliers bristling with cartridges across their breasts and curved swords thrust through their cummerbunds. They wore turbans piled high on their heads, so unlike the tightly wound headgear of the Guides.
They paused just outside the lines of fires and shouted what seemed like a greeting, although their bearded faces expressed nothing but animosity. Inderjit Singh was summoned and, as Fonthill stood by, engaged the leader of the party in conversation.
‘He says,’ interpreted Inderjit, ‘that he wants to know who is entering the Amir’s land so armed and looking like an invading force.’
‘Tell him,’ said Simon, looking directly into the dark eyes of the Afghan, ‘that we bring the blessings of Allah upon him, his children and his children’s children. But that it is wrong to speak of invasion and warfare and against the renowned tradition of Afghan hospitality. We expected welcome, not talk of invasion.’
The Sikh gave a brief nod and a half smile at the fluency of Fonthill’s response and so translated.
‘But, why,’ related Inderjit, ‘do you come with troops if your purpose is peaceful?’
‘These troopers,’ replied Simon, ‘are members of the Queen’s Own Royal Guides and are with me purely as an escort to mark my rank as the envoy of the Viceroy of India, the Queen-Empress’s representative in all of Asia.’
‘He says where do you go and what do you want?’
‘I go to His Highness the Amir’s palace in Kabul for I carry a message to His Highness from the Viceroy which is of the utmost importance.’