Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  To my surprise one of the men barked in effective (if accented) English “Atten-Shun!” and the mustered men did just that. The call to “Presen’ Harms!”, while not quite of Aldershot standard, was also performed to adequate effect. Basir dismounted, then came and offered a hand to help me down.

  “Captain Larburgh, absolutely splendid to see you.”

  I turned to see a young native standing in the open gateway. He was dressed in remarkable fashion. I say remarkable, because he was wearing crisp cricket whites and a straw hat. At his waist a striped tie served as a belt. He advanced, smiling, sharp of nose, with a clipped moustache.

  “Was your trip incredibly tiresome?” He put out his hand. “I am Jamal, my father is the Rajah. My formal title is fully sixteen words long, but you may call me Jamal.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said. I told him about Gahez.

  A pained look came across his face. “Hazuks,” he said. “On the roads we cannot move for pot shots. You’ve been dashed lucky.” Then he added, “Come inside old man. We’ll have a spot of tea and you can tell me all about it.”

  The astonishment on my face must have been apparent, for after a pause he clapped me on the back and said, “I’ll show you to your chambers.”

  We proceeded through the arch and into a courtyard with Jamal chatting, pointing out features and goings on, for all the world as if we were in a Surrey garden and not high in the furthest reaches of the Kush.

  “How did you like the garrison? Not too bad eh?”

  “Pretty good.” I agreed. “I’ve seen sloppier drill down on the plains. Who trains them?”

  Jamal paused by a covered well and placed his hands on the bricks.

  “I have commissioned two grand fellows, both ex-sergeants of your regular army – dash about sorts. No doubt, you’ll see them in while.”

  The courtyard was full of people going about their daily business. Women were cooking under an awning. A grubby dwarf was mending tin pots. A boy held a cow by the halter while a woman milked her. Chickens scrabbled in the straw.

  “The Rajah. When may I see him?” I asked as Jamal took me to the foot of a wooden staircase.

  He interrupted me. His expression was light and merry.

  “Oh father’s sleeping just now. It will be best to see him at supper, when he awakes. I suggest you unload your things, refresh yourself and then you and I will have that tea.” He placed his hand on the banister and said, “Up here.”

  He led me along a gallery that went right the way around the courtyard on the first floor. Latticed screens let in shafts of cool sunlight. Here and there were large doors all girded with black iron bands and locks.

  “Your chamber is here. I’ll leave you for a while. Basir will bring your luggage.”

  He walked away followed by a tall servant with a hare-lip. Inside I found a large, dark room. Swathes of silk curtained a large charpoy which was piled high with berry red cushions. It was rather too opulent for my tastes; more like the apartment of a royal courtesan than a stiff legged Englishman.

  I was at the back of the fortress and my un-glazed window gave out on the blind end of the valley. There was a stretch of pasture and then rocks mounting rank on rank. I could see why the Raja’s ancestor’s had built here; no one could come at it from behind.

  I found a copper jug and bowl and washed. I changed into my last fresh shirt and suddenly feeling rather fatigued, I lay on the charpoy. I must have drifted for a while, for I had a quick sliding dream of the faceless Stafford Barclay.

  I awoke to a knocking. I wondered if the agent had stayed in this very room on his visits. Had he washed away the dust of his journeys in the same copper bowl?

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