The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘I know.’ The Colonel raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you know who recommended dear old W. G. as your interpreter?’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘The General himself. I haven’t been here long enough to know, but it seems that, whatever else he is, W. G. is not a buffoon. Last year he spent nine months in the north of Afghanistan going through Merv, Bokhara and Samarkand with Lieutenant Cavendish of the Guides, looking at Russian dispositions on the border there. Just the two of them.’

  There was no laughter now in the Colonel’s eyes. ‘Three months ago he returned carrying Cavendish’s body slung across his camel. He’d been shot on the last lap back near Ali Masjid in the Khyber. W. G. himself had a bullet wound in the upper arm.’ Lamb allowed himself a smile. ‘Though it doesn’t seem to have affected his cover drive. More importantly, he had preserved all of Cavendish’s coded notes, written on rice paper. Know how?’

  Simon shook his head again.

  ‘By rolling them in a piece of goatskin and keeping them concealed up his arse in case he was captured.’ He smiled again. ‘Damned uncomfortable riding on a camel, I imagine.’ He took Simon’s arm. ‘I shouldn’t worry about this cricketing Sikh, if I were you. The General tells me that, in addition to Urdu and English, he speaks both dialects of Pushtu - the soft, Pashtu, and the hard, Paktu - as well as Persian Parsi, which you are supposed to speak. He’s as good a shot as your sergeant, by the sound of it, and he once broke a man’s neck in a wrestling match in Balkh. Oh, and he knows the passes and mountain trails around Kabul like the back of his hand - or his cricket bat. Convinced?’

  Simon nodded. ‘Sold, sir. Though you wouldn’t be pulling another dirty trick on me, would you?’

  ‘Get out, Fonthill. Before I confront you with Barlow’s very reasonable complaint.’

  The two men shook hands. Outside the tent, Simon called to the Sikh. ‘W. G., it is good to have you with us. I am sorry, though, that we only have two horses and a loaded donkey. You must walk, I fear.’

  A smile broke the Sikh’s beard. ‘I am glad that you do not have camels, sir. At the moment, I am peculiarly glad not to have to sit on camel, sir, or anything for that matter. I am glad to walk.’

  ‘I think I know what you mean,’ said Simon. ‘Come on and meet Sergeant Jenkins.’

  The party set out shortly afterwards, Simon in the lead on the stallion, looking every inch a dealer in fine Persian carpets; Jenkins behind on his serviceable mount; and W. G. at the rear, walking with long, loping strides, leading the donkey.

  Almost immediately the route led upwards towards the pass of Peiwa Kotal, the only way across the Safed Koh range, which marked the end of the Kuram valley and the entrance to Afghanistan proper. It was here that Roberts had been faced by an Afghan army vastly superior in numbers and shrewdly positioned to deny him passage. The pass itself was merely a depression in the range, some 9,400 feet above sea level and commanded on each side by high pine-clad mountains rising to 14,000 feet. As the track - it was little more than a zigzag goat path, littered with rocks and boulders - approached the summit, it grew precipitously steep, and each short, straight stretch was flanked by breastworks of pinelogs and stones, emplacements for rifles and cannon.

  For the first time, Simon began to appreciate why the General was so well regarded in the Indian Army. While the two senior officers had taken their columns along settled trading routes through the wide, comparatively low passes of Khyber and Kohjak, the little Quartermaster (his substantive rank was only Major) had been allocated this most difficult of paths to Kabul. Meeting these substantial fortifications, he had feinted to attack frontally. Then, leaving his camp fires burning and his tents erect, he had led his main force on a mad night scramble up through the forested mountains to attack the pass from the rear just as dawn was breaking. It had been touch and go through the day but he had eventually sent the Afghans reeling back towards Kabul, leaving their baggage and cannon behind. The detritus of the retreating army was still evident as the three men mounted the crest.

  ‘Glad we missed this one,’ said Jenkins as they picked their way through splintered rock and pines gashed by shot and shell.

  That night they camped just outside the army outpost at Alikhal and then pushed onwards and upwards again towards the Shutargardan, the last mountain range before the descent to the Logar and Kabul valleys. They had passed the high-water mark of the English invasion and were beyond the reach of army patrols. This was now completely Afghan territory, for the tiny English mission at Kabul would not stray from the capital.

  The Shutargardan itself formed a distinct crest and the little party paused to rest and regain breath. Although the Sikh was quite impervious to the altitude, despite the fact that he walked while the others rode, Simon and Jenkins found the pass’s eleven-thousand-foot elevation made breathing difficult. Reassuringly, however, the view from the crest to the north-west showed a fertile valley. The road fell away somewhat into the valley, but not as steeply as the climb to the pass, for they had now reached the central high plateau of the Amir’s kingdom. Nevertheless, it revealed a promising prospect towards the little township of Kushi, which they glimpsed after an hour’s march from the summit.

  Simon chose not to linger in the town, and they picked their way with dignity through the dirty, sleepy streets, attracting only perfunctory glances.

  ‘Looks as though we’re gettin’ away with it,’ hissed Jenkins as they left the last dry-stone wall behind them and headed once again into open country.

  ‘Don’t count chickens,’ said Simon, wrapping his cloak around him. Although it was only September and the sun’s rays cut cheerfully in daylight hours through the thin, high air, a steady wind blew down the valley from the snowy peaks of the Hindu Kush directly ahead of them. It whispered of a cruel winter to come.

  They now followed the Logar river, and camped that night above the settlement of Zahidabad, some fifteen miles from Kushi, taking it in turns to stand watch. But the night, like the days before it, was uneventful. They passed through a pretty little village called Charasia, which nestled in orchards and gardens, and then approached the gorge of Sang-i-nawishta, through which the Logar river gurgled and jumped. As they neared it, the Sikh gently lengthened his stride so that he caught up with Simon in the lead. Diffidently, he tightened a strap on the big horse, and without raising his head, addressed Simon in Parsi, speaking slowly so that the Englishman could understand.

  ‘May I suggest that my lord slowly turns his head towards . . .’here he paused, and then lapsed into English, ‘cover point . . .’ before continuing in dialect, ‘and looks at the two big rocks that stand proud, like virgin’s breasts.’

  Unaffectedly, Simon did so, taking in the large boulders to his right, some two hundred yards away, and then innocently looking up at the sky, back down the trail and to the front again. ‘I see nothing.’

  ‘Two men have been following us on foot since we left Charasia. I saw them regard our carpets as we passed through the square. I believe them to be covetous of them, master.’ The Sikh hardly moved his lips as he spoke. ‘They are moving ahead of us and I expect them to strike as we pass through the gorge.’

  ‘Thank you, W. G. I would not have seen them. You have the eyes of a hawk.’ Simon thought hard for a moment. ‘I do not want to kill unless we must. So let them make the first move. Warn Sergeant Jenkins.’

  The Indian inclined his head slightly and fell back, whispering to Jenkins as he did so.

  Within ten minutes the trail narrowed and became more stony as they approached the gorge. Here the river had carved its own passage through the low range of hills which overlooked Charasia and blocked the passage to Kabul, creating a narrow defile only a hundred yards or so in length, before opening out again to the valley beyond. The road had become little more than a rough path, which followed the course of the Logar, tumbling turbulently fifty feet below.

  ‘This is no place for shaking ’ands and sayin’ ’ow d’yer do politely,’ his
sed Jenkins from the rear. ‘Let’s gallop through with our guns a-blazin’.’

  ‘W. G. can’t gallop, remember. No. Sit it out. They could have fired on us long ago. I have a feeling we are being tested.’

  They had not long to wait. Hardly had the party picked its way through the first ten feet of the narrow path before a bend revealed their way blocked by two tall Afghans. They stood, expressionless, each holding a jezail, stock on hip, long barrel pointing to the sky. Bandoliers were slung around their chests, and swords and daggers protruded from their wide cummerbunds. Their turbans were loosely wound and seemed to be sitting only precariously above their bearded faces. They looked wild but were undoubtedly creatures of the terrain.

  Eventually the taller of the two spoke. With relief, Simon recognised the language as Pushtu, and not the Parsi which a Persian trader would undoubtedly speak. He gestured W. G. to come forward and, in Parsi, loudly delivered the phrase he had rehearsed so well that he could utter it fluently: ‘Give the blessings of Allah to this man and explain that, alas, I cannot speak the language of the Amir, but would ask his wish and how I can satisfy it.’

  W. G. inclined his head and spoke quickly to the Pathan. The two Afghans exchanged glances and remained silent for a moment, their black eyes taking in every detail of the three men, the horses, the donkey and its load. Their muskets remained pointing skywards, however, and Simon mentally calculated the chances of being able to ride the two men down before they could bring their guns to bear. Fifty-fifty, perhaps. Not good odds. Behind him he heard Jenkins cock his rifle, and Simon hoped that the Welshman had the Snider hidden. He didn’t want to precipitate shooting. Then the Afghan spoke again, a little more eloquently this time, gesturing towards the pack animal.

  W. G. turned to Simon and, again speaking slowly and clearly, translated. ‘Master, this man sees that we bring carpets. He says his mullah in the hills here would like to buy. What is your price?’

  Simon raised a hand dismissively. ‘Say we go to Kabul to keep a promise,’ he said, speaking equally slowly and grasping for the Parsi phrases. ‘We cannot trade here, in this place.’

  The Sikh now spoke quite animatedly, swinging his arm around to take in the barren nature of their surroundings and then indicating Simon, clearly describing the high standing of his employer and the worth of his products. Simon maintained a fixed expression of languid disinterest. Inwardly he began to bless Roberts for providing an interpreter with so rich a tongue and so keen an eye. He also prayed that, for once, Jenkins would remain silent.

  The conversation continued for some minutes, with the Sikh now disdaining to translate for Simon and growing increasingly indignant at the delay. Eventually, the Afghan shrugged his shoulders and, gesturing to his companion, climbed a few feet up the slope and allowed the little caravan to resume its progress. Gently digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, Simon nodded and moved away, letting the horse find its own speed among the rocks and keeping his gaze to the front. No musket shot sounded and no ball thudded into his unprotected back as the party wound its way through the gorge and down on to the plain below.

  ‘Phew,’ said Jenkins, edging alongside. ‘You took a risk there, bach sir. Why didn’t you just show ’em our guns and ride straight through ’em?’

  ‘Because, 352, I don’t think that is the way a Persian carpet seller would behave. He would not want to make enemies because he would wish to return this way - it is, after all, his sales territory. He would not wish to upset the locals. And nor did I.’

  Simon let his horse fall back. ‘W. G., well done. What did you say?’

  The big Sikh swatted a fly off his donkey’s rump and his face broke into its wide grin. ‘I explain, sir, that you are very important Persian lord indeed and that we had big contract to fulfil in Kabul. Anyway, I told that we would never do trade in that place. The place, sir, called Sang-i-nawishta, which means “place of inscribed stone”. I say that Persian gods don’t like trade in holy places and please get out of our way plenty quick.’

  Simon allowed himself a smile. ‘Do you think they really wanted to trade?’

  ‘Ah no, lord.’ W. G.’s grin disappeared. ‘They come from Mullah Mushk-i-Alam. He is holy man who lives in mountains above Kabul and hates the British. He wants jihad, or holy war, against you, sir, begging your pardon, sir. The men I think are sent to see if you are really Persian carpet men or gora-log spies.’

  ‘Mullah Mushk-i-Alam. Do you know him?’

  The Sikh shook his head. ‘No, lord. But I know about him. Oh yes. It was his people who killed Lieutenant Cavendish and put bullet through my arm.’ His face clouded over. ‘Very worrying at first, sir. Thought I would not be able to hold cricket bat again, you know. Of very great concern. Oh yes.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry now, lord. Wound is of no consequence, in eventuality. But mullah is very powerful man.’ He gestured to the mountains away to their right. ‘He is a Ghilzai from back near the border, but he lives in those hills now. He very old and a very cruel man. They say even the Amir is afraid of him, sah . . . lord.’

  Jenkins had been listening. He wrinkled his nose with impatience. ‘That’s all very well, Gracey, but do you think we passed the test back there? Will they come back when we’re not lookin’ and cut off our cricket balls? Eh?’

  The Sikh’s grin returned. ‘Not exactly easy to say, sir. Difficult to tell with Afghan. We have a saying: trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot, and a harlot before a Pathan. But we are very much alive, indeed. So far so good, eh?’

  Simon looked behind and around them. The valley had opened out and seemed deserted. ‘So far so good, indeed. Well played, W.G.’

  They rode through pleasant countryside for another hour, skirting a series of villages that told them they were nearing Kabul. Despite the wind, it was a fertile area, and behind stone walls they could see a profusion of fruit growing: mulberries, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, quinces, cherries, pomegranates and even vines. Soon they met the Kabul river, wide and shallow, running over and between hundreds of rocks that caused the water to swirl and foam.

  Then the walls of Kabul itself came into view, looking forbiddingly down on to the river. Jenkins edged his horse alongside Simon. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘We will go straight to the Residency.’ Simon rose in his stirrups. ‘It is near a kind of fortress place, called the Bala Hissar, on the south-east side of the city, so we should see it soon. W.G. knows where it is.’ He smiled at Jenkins.

  Jenkins 352, now sergeant in Her Imperial Majesty’s Corps of Guides, was a fine horseman, a magnificent shot and a soldier with the heart of a lion. But he was notorious for not having the slightest sense of direction. To him a compass was a watch that told no time and the sun a most unreliable point of reference, since it wandered about in the sky.

  ‘Stay close,’ said Simon.

  Jenkins looked sheepish. ‘I shall ’ang on to your ’orse’s tail, bach,’ he muttered.

  W. G. led them through a narrow, high gate in the wall and they followed him and the donkey along a maze of streets lined with houses made of mud, interspersed, here and there, with stone-walled gardens in which grew a rainbow variety of flowers and fruits. Kabul was a city of colour and fragrance, despite its grim exterior.

  It was clear that their disguises were effective. Indeed, it was the Sikh, with his distinctive turban and formidable build, who attracted most glances as they picked their way through the teeming lanes to the Bala Hissar. This massive citadel, not unlike a Crusader’s castle, was set high on a saddle just beneath the Shahr-i-Darwaza heights. The Residency, situated some two hundred yards away from it, was a large, mud-plastered building arranged around a hollow courtyard, with a further open space before it. As Simon painfully dismounted, he noted that the building was overlooked on three sides by the upper storeys of the surrounding houses, some of which overhung the street.

  In heavily accented English, Simon announced th
at he had business concerning carpets with the Resident, and while the others waited, he was ushered without delay into the presence of Major Sir Louis Napoleon Cavagnari, the man who had negotiated the end of the war with the Amir, and who now had the responsibility of building the peace.

  Slim and elegant in a dark blue military uniform whose provenance was unknown to Simon, Cavagnari rose and extended his hand. ‘You are most welcome, Fonthill. I have been expecting you, of course.’

  Simon shook hands and bowed. The face that looked into his bore an expression of faint amusement. The brow was high, like that of a scholar - an impression heightened by the receding hairline - but the mouth, beneath the full beard, was firm and, like the eyes, carried a faint smile. Simon had made it his business, on arriving in India, to discover as much as he could about this man, who had already become something of a legend on the Frontier. Son of an Italian aristocrat and an Irish mother, Cavagnari had been brought up in England and had entered the old East India Company as a military cadet, later being commissioned into the 1st Bengal Fusiliers and fighting throughout the Mutiny. He had switched to the political service in the early 1860s and had spent the last sixteen years on the Frontier, earning a reputation for energy and courage. He had also, however, revealed a ruthless sense of ambition, concealed beneath a smooth air of imperturbability. Now he had become a firm favourite of the Viceroy, Lord Lytton.

  ‘It’s good to be here, sir,’ said Simon, taking the seat offered. He was aware that he was under close scrutiny.

  ‘Well, I must say,’ said Cavagnari eventually, ‘you’ve blacked up well. Look a damned fine Persian to me. Almost inclined to buy a carpet from you.’

  Both men laughed. ‘They’ve got a new dye in Gharghara which seems to last wonderfully,’ said Simon. ‘And Sheram Khan did the rest at Kohat.’

  Cavagnari’s smile was replaced by a slight frown. ‘Sheram Khan. Yes. Good man. I trained him.’ He raised an elegant finger to his cheek. ‘May I suggest you do not mention his name again. He can stay alive and do good work for us as long as it is not known that he is one of our agents.’