by John Wilcox
Then, on the Sikh’s return they nodded their farewells and moved away to the south-east, following in the footsteps of the mullah and his men.
‘They seemed to accept your story?’ asked Simon.
‘Yes. Without question. People are coming from far to serve under the mullah’s flag.’
‘What about the encampment?’
‘Some of the mullah’s army is down in the Pass, rebuilding the forts, with more marching to the west and south to face General Lockhart’s force when it leaves Peshawar. Mullah has gone with them with his main followers and the camp is only lightly guarded, for there is no danger to it at the moment after the capture of the forts.’
‘Splendid. Did you learn anything more about Alice?’
‘A little bit. A rumour had reached village that lady had escaped and only been found this morning on hillside and taken back today to camp.’
‘God bless her pluck,’ cried Jenkins.
Fonthill produced a ragged handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I just hope they didn’t punish her for that,’ he muttered eventually. ‘Come on. I don’t want to waste time.’
The road to the camp was well marked, of course, and they reached its outskirts by mid afternoon. They paused as they saw a straggle of animal-skin tents, stretching out up and down the hillside on either side of the road and ending, distantly, in the beginning of a rare and bold cluster of birches, standing out like an artist’s smudge from the pastels of the surrounding rocks. If it was an encampment, however, it had the air of a ghost town for very few men were to be seen. The mullah’s army, it was clear, had left its base, leaving behind the barest minimum of guardians.
Two of them now approached the trio as they trudged into the encampment: tall Pathans, unusually dressed overall in black and carrying what appeared, equally unusually, to be modern Lee-Metford rifles, not the older, conventional Martini-Henrys. They held up their hands and two pairs of dark eyes ranged over the bedraggled appearance of the trio.
‘Allah Kerim …’ Simon and Inderjit spoke the greeting in unison and Jenkins nodded and mouthed something indecipherably but all three raised their hands in greeting.
The taller of the two Pathans grunted something in Pushtu and the Sikh hurriedly intervened, speaking fluently in the language with many a gesture to his companions. The big man listened impassively, running his eyes over the very second-hand garments the trio wore, then, to Simon’s relief, an obvious air of disinterest came over him. He nodded curtly to Inderjit, spoke briefly to him and waved the three of them through to the interior of the camp.
‘Did they accept our story?’ asked Simon tersely, once out of earshot.
‘Oh yes. It seems there are many stragglers with strange stories limping into the camp to join the mullah. We just another three. He confirm that the mullah has led his men to the east to face General Lockhart if he tries to advance along the Pass. We are to stay with the rest of the stragglers who have come in and camp here until the mullah returns.’
‘He did not say anything, of course, about Alice?’ Simon’s voice was anxious.
‘No. I do not ask.’
‘Quite right. Where are we to camp?’
‘He did not say. Just waved us into camp. I suppose we must find a level piece of ground.’
‘Good. Let us go as far as possible to the far end of the camp, by that distant clump of birches. That’s where I think Alice will be.’
Their heads down, they trudged on along the trail that led through the centre of the tented village until they saw, at the far end of the camp, three slightly larger tents set somewhat apart on the edge of the wood: one black and gaudily marked, and two others, still larger than the skin-dwellings but, like the black one, made of canvas. One of the canvas pair was guarded by a tall Pathan standing at its entrance and the shoulder of another could be glimpsed guarding the rear.
‘Alice has to be in that tent,’ whispered Simon. ‘Let’s camp reasonably near but not too near.’
‘I wouldn’t call it campin’,’ sniffed Jenkins. ‘We ’aven’t got a tent, look you.’
‘Well, sleeping out of doors hasn’t killed us so far. We can …’ Then Fonthill’s voice tailed away as, from the corner of his eye, he saw a compound near the wood. Turning his head, he counted six well-groomed horses within it, nuzzling bags of oats. He knew that the Pathans rarely owned horses and that they invariably attacked on foot. These, then, must surely belong to the mullah and, presumably, his senior lieutenants. Simon’s eyes lit up.
‘Look,’ he said, indicated the compound with a slight movement of his head. ‘That has solved one problem, anyway. I have been worried about getting away from here with Alice on foot. Now we have transport. Let’s make a fire, over there, near that compound.’
They were able to find adequate kindling among the birches and they laid down their blankets surrounding the blaze and brewed tea, under the disinterested gaze of the man at the opening of what hopefully was Alice’s tent. There Fonthill sat, covertly looking around him as he frowned, deep in thought. Then finally, putting down his cup, he gestured to the others.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Getting Alice out of that tent and this camp isn’t going to be easy. Thank God the place is pretty well empty but, even so, I should think that there are at least a hundred Pathans here, so we need a plan.
‘Now, we need to establish that Alice is, indeed, inside that tent. This is what we do. I will go into the wood again on the pretence of getting more fuel for the fire. Inderjit, if you can engage those two guards in conversation somehow – and it is essential that you get the guard at the rear of the tent to come to the front – then I will steal up to the back of the tent and see if I can whisper a message to Alice. If she is inside, she will answer and I can prepare her for a quick exit later.’
Jenkins nodded. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘take ’em each a cup of green tea. That’ll be a kind thing to do before we ’ave to kill the buggers.’
The Sikh nodded.
‘Good idea,’ agreed Simon. ‘Now, we shall make our attempt in the early hours of the morning when, hopefully, most of the camp will be asleep. The tea idea is a splendid one. There is nothing a guard on duty during the night welcomes more than a bit of refreshment. So, make another brew at about three o’clock, ostensibly for us because we are sleeping out of doors and it will be damned cold. Make sure the guards see you doing this. Then make another couple of cups and you two take them over, one for each guard. Also make sure there is no one else about. If the coast is clear then use your knives to kill them.’ His voice became a low growl. ‘It’s a rotten job, killing a man in cold blood, but it’s the only way.’
Jenkins nodded. ‘What are you goin’ to do, then, bach sir?’
‘While you are giving them the tea I shall creep back into the woods, ostensibly to get more firewood, and approach the tent from the rear. I shall then call to Alice and cut a hole in the rear of the tent and pull her out. There is one proviso, though.’
‘What’s that, then?’
Simon jerked his head in the direction of the horse compound. ‘At the moment,’ he said, ‘there is no guard on the horses. But they might well place one there during the night. He could well be stationed in full view of Alice’s tent and the guards, so he could see you attack them. If that is so, I will go to him, with a third cup of tea …’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘Blimey, we might as well set up a canteen ’ere, then.’
‘… and put him out of action. Then I will double back and extricate Alice.’ Simon frowned. ‘Obviously, none of this is going to be easy and, if there are tribesmen walking about at that time, then we must either wait until the coast is clear or think of another plan. But it is absolutely vital that whatever we do, we make no noise in doing it. The guards must all be killed quietly.’
‘An’ with great kindness, I suppose.’
‘Now, listen. I haven’t finished. When the guards have been … er … taken out, you must drag them out of sight – the woods is th
e obvious place – and cover them with branches or whatever. It must be done quickly. I will take the place of the guard at the front just in case someone notices his absence – we needn’t bother with the chap at the rear, because he can’t really be seen. You two are good horse handlers, so you then go to the horse compound, fix leading reins to them all – there are bound to be ropes about the place – and lead them into the woods.’
Jenkins pulled a face. ‘What? All of ’em? We will only need four.’
‘No. All of them. I don’t want to leave any behind so that we can be pursued.’
Inderjit nodded. ‘Do we stop to put on saddles and bridles? It will be difficult to ride quickly without them.’
Jenkins grinned. ‘An’ you, bach sir, will fall off, that’s for sure.’
‘No. No saddles or harness. There will be no time. We shall just have to ride bareback. And that includes me. Now, any more questions?’
The Welshman’s face suddenly became grim behind his half-grown beard. ‘What if Miss Alice isn’t in that tent? What the ’ell do we do then?’
Fonthill shook his head slowly and sighed. ‘I just don’t know. But I am gambling that she will be. We have heard that a white woman is in the camp somewhere and this seems to be the only tent that is guarded. Please God I am right. Very well. Now, Inderjit, please be mother and make the tea and ingratiate yourself with the guards. If we have to make a change in the plan we will do so. Otherwise we stick to it. All right?’
The two nodded their heads. Simon threw another branch on the fire and Inderjit washed out their cups from their water bags and began making more tea. Surreptitiously, Jenkins began to sharpen the blade of his knife on a stone.
The hours before nightfall seemed to be the longest Fonthill had ever spent. The Sikh’s services as tea-boy were gratefully received and the camp remained remarkably quiescent. Once, an old woman arrived carrying something covered with a cloth on what appeared to be a tray and was admitted to the tent. The three watchers exchanged glances. Food for Alice? It seemed so, for the woman immediately reappeared without the tray and shuffled away to disappear among the tents. That seemed to confirm it and Simon bit his lip. He was clearly within hailing distance of his wife! Yet he must remain patient.
He looked up, away to the north. Snow-capped peaks could just be seen in the far distance, sparkling like triangular diamonds on a pink setting in the late afternoon sun: the Hindu Kush, offering beauty and serenity far away from this brutal war – the mountains that had promised some gentle sport to them all not so long ago! He doubted if any of them would see them now.
He turned his gaze to the west, to where the sun was already starting to slip away behind a darkened hilltop. As far as he could see, the broad trail that ran through the camp did not dip down into the Pass. Inderjit had not known if it continued, clinging high up to the hillside, in a straight line to Peshawar. If it did, hopefully they could follow it all the way in comparative safety. If it led down to the Pathan-occupied Khyber, they would have to release the horses and revert to scrambling over rocks away from the road, so negating the advantage of having transport. They must wait and see.
Nervous with the waiting, Fonthill studied the camp. As the temperature began to dip with the approach of dusk, there were undoubtedly far fewer tribesmen to be seen between the tents. The two Pathans who had questioned them on arrival seemed to be the only guards to have been stationed and it looked as though they had remained at the far end of the camp. Could there be others posted on the trail at the far side of the wood? Simon gave an involuntary shrug of the shoulders. If there were, then there would be no question of killing them silently, unless they were asleep. Another case of wait and see.
Then, he suddenly realised that he had overlooked the possibility that the guards at the tent, who had been on duty all day, would be relieved for the night shift, so undoing Inderjit’s good work in befriending them. Again, there was nothing to be done about that now and he sat watching anxiously as the night began to close in on them. Replacements, however, did not materialise. Nor, to his great relief, were guards placed on the horse compound.
They ate an evening meal and, as the temperature fell, Inderjit placed their battered kettle onto the embers of the fire and tea was made. As the Sikh took two cups towards the guards, Fonthill rose and tramped into the birches for more firewood, taking a slightly circuitous route. Treading cautiously, to avoid stepping on dead wood, he approached the rear of the tent. Yes, Inderjit was doing his job splendidly and was chatting affably with the two Pathans at the front of the tent.
Simon bent low and crawled to the rear of the tent. Luckily, there was a slight gap at the bottom. He lifted it but could not see inside. Instead, he called softly: ‘Alice. Alice.’
He felt rather than heard a movement inside. And then a cracked voice – unrecognisable as that of his wife – whispered: ‘Simon. Oh my God! Is that you, Simon? Tell me I am not dreaming.’
‘Yes, but be quiet, darling. We will come for you in about four hours’ time. Be dressed. Be very quiet.’
‘They told me you were dead.’
‘Not true. No more now. Be dressed and waiting.’
‘I am chained. The guard at the flap has a key.’
‘Good. Later.’
He was attempting to crawl back into the wood when he heard a voice raised at the tent entrance and then repeated from within the tent. Immediately, his heart in his mouth, he froze. Then he heard Alice’s voice, still hoarse but lifted, obviously for his benefit, as she cried out in English, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, can’t a girl have a pee in privacy?’ And she banged on something – the equivalent of a chamber pot?
Still trembling, Simon gained the darkness of the wood, piled together several of the branches into his arms and re-emerged. He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Inderjit still in conversation with one of the guards, while the second was rethreading the tent flap entrance, seemingly unperturbed.
Fonthill threw some of the branches onto the fire to make a reassuring blaze. His heart fell, however, as he saw a tribesman – elderly, for he sported a snow-white beard – shuffling towards the horse compound. Then he realised that the man was carrying a pile of horse blankets which, having entered the compound, he threw over the beasts, fastening them roughly with ropes. To his relief the old man did not stay but threw a loop over the gate to close it and marched away into the innards of the camp.
As Simon unrolled his poshteen and laid it on the ground near the fire, Inderjit rejoined them. All three exchanged glances and Fonthill nodded and whispered, ‘She’s there all right. She’ll be ready when we come for her.’ He looked up at the Sikh. ‘Was there a problem there for a moment?’
‘No. Man heard a noise inside but,’ he grinned, ‘lady was taking a pee, that’s all.’
Simon returned the grin. ‘Good old Alice. Did you promise them tea during the night?’
‘Yes. They miserable because no one relieves them until morning. Glad of tea.’
‘Good. Now let’s try and get a bit of sleep. I will awake you in about three hours’ time. If guards are to be relieved in the morning, better to start a bit earlier, I think.’
‘No need to wake us, bach sir,’ growled Jenkins. ‘We’ll be ready. Bloody cold will wake us up, anyway. An’ better to ’ave a nice cup of tea, look you, before you kill anyone, I always say.’
Nodding, Simon threw another branch on the fire, lay down on his poshteen and wrapped a blanket around him. He found that, despite the warmth from the fire, he was shivering. Exuding affability and then, under its cover, killing two men in cold blood was not something to look forward to. Sleep eluded him and he stayed awake, recalling details of his wedding to Alice – pregnant then with their son – in their tiny little village church in Norfolk. He bit his lip again when he recalled the exhaustion in her voice a moment ago. God! – had they done anything to her? The worry added to his anxiety and he fumbled to extract his old silver Hunter from the depths of his disguise and l
ay with it near his face to ensure that he did not sleep on.
At 2.30 a.m. he looked up. Both Inderjit and Jenkins were awake and caught his eye. He nodded and the Sikh threw away his blanket, threw more kindling on the dying fire and waved to where the guard by the tent flap was flapping his hands together to keep warm. The man waved back in gratitude and called to his comrade at the rear of the tent.
The kettle was soon singing. Fonthill looked around him. It was a dark night and the mountains were only visible now as deeper shades of blackness. He focused his eyes. No one seemed to be stirring in the camp. And the horses, still unguarded, were standing quietly, huddled in a group at the far side of the compound. It was cold and Simon shivered. It must have been just such a night when Macbeth slew his king.
Inderjit poured tea into the two cups and handed one to Jenkins. Simon threw aside his blanket, pulled on his sandals and nodded to his two companions. Carrying the tea, they strolled towards the two guards, now standing together at the entrance to the tent. Kneeling, Fonthill watched what happened next as though transfixed.
The two handed over the cups into the outstretched hands of the guards, then half turned their backs and, in a flash of action, drew their daggers, whirled back and thrust the long blades into the sides of the Pathans as they stood, the cups raised to their mouths. Simon caught a glimpse of the look of surprise on their faces as, slowly, they crumpled to the ground. The whole action, from the assassins leaving the fireside to their victims collapsing, took less than twenty seconds. And not a sound was emitted.
Simon turned away in disgust mingled with relief and looked around. Nothing else stirred and the darkness remained all-pervading. He rose to his feet, picked up his rifle and ran to where his comrades were dragging the bodies of the dead men towards the edge of the woods.
‘Stop,’ he hissed. ‘We need a key. Which was the guard at the entrance?’
Jenkins nodded to his man.
Fonthill knelt and fumbled with the man’s clothing. Nothing was fixed to his belt except his sword and there seemed to be no pockets in his cloak or poshteen. Then he found the key tucked into the man’s cummerbund. Nodding to Jenkins, he doubled round to the back of the tent.