The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘I am sorry to be late, lord,’ said the Sikh, bending over Simon and carefully raising his head. ‘It does not do to fight these men so. They do not play cricket. They do not fight fair. Is the sahib recovered?’

  Simon grabbed the big man’s arm and shakily regained his feet. ‘My God, W.G.,’ he whispered, feeling his throat gingerly, ‘I am glad you arrived. Thank you. You saved my life.’

  The Sikh’s teeth flashed. ‘It is absolutely nothing, lord. I am thinking it was a sticky wicket you were playing on there.’

  ‘Quite so. Where’s Sergeant Jenkins?’

  ‘He is in the next room, lord.’

  ‘Can we fire into the square from here?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  Next door, Jenkins had installed himself well back from the window, his rifle resting upon an upended table. He was firing coolly and carefully, inserting his single cartridges slowly to avoid overheating the Snider.

  He glanced up. ‘Got the place to ourselves, ’ave we?’

  ‘We have now. Let me take a look.’

  The window commanded the roof of the Residency, part of the interior courtyard and some of the houses facing the square. The attack on the building had only been in progress for ten minutes or so, but already three Guides were sprawled dead on the roof and a further ten lay crumpled behind the gate. The fire from surrounding buildings might not have been accurate, but it was so heavy and close that the defenders stood little chance if they showed themselves. It was also clear that the dried mud of which the Residency was constructed could not withstand a bombardment at such short range. Already the walls were pitted like a colander and the masonry round the windows was breaking, revealing the interior.

  ‘Have we been seen yet, do you think?’ Simon asked Jenkins.

  The Welshman sniffed so that his moustache rose in an arch under his nose. ‘Don’t think so, but it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Right.’ Simon gestured. ‘Aim your fire at the snipers in the buildings across there, but switch to the square as soon as there is a frontal attack.’ He turned to the Sikh. ‘You too, W.G. We will take a room each. Back from the windows like Sergeant Jenkins.’

  ‘Very good, lord.’

  Simon returned to the room where the two dead Afghans lay. He stood for a moment and looked at them, massaging the place on his neck where the Pathan had gripped him. Both men lay on their backs, their sightless eyes seemingly studying the ceiling. A year ago, he reflected, such a sight would have horrified and disgusted him. In fact, a year ago he could not have killed. But Zululand and Afghanistan had brought home the reality of soldiering. At the end of the day, it was about this - not sitting a horse correctly, nor wheeling a column of fours quickly into line, nor passing the port the right way in the mess - it was about killing men.

  He knelt down and gently closed the eyes of both men and crossed their hands upon their breasts. He then took up his position back from the window and began firing, taking aim with care.

  For more than an hour the three men kept up their sniping, staying well back in the shadows and taking steady toll of the Afghans firing from the houses opposite and those at the back of the square. It seemed that they were undetected, for no answering fire came their way. Nor was any attempt made to enter their stronghold. It also appeared that the Residency was holding out. Somehow, the defenders were returning fire from their windows and from loopholes cut in the mud walls. Twice, as the attackers rushed to the gates, Cavagnari led forays of Guides, bayonets levelled, to dispel them. The second time, the young English subaltern was among the bodies left behind in the square as the sallying party, its job completed, withdrew into the Residency.

  Then the door leading on to the roof opened and men appeared carrying furniture and timber which, under fire, they somehow erected as a form of shelter at the leading edge of the roof, opposite the square. It was an obvious attempt to command the square and so repulse the attacks across it. Simon recognised Cavagnari leading the operation. He appeared almost languid as he directed the positioning of the protection, occasionally raising his revolver and firing at the snipers, as though at target practice on Salisbury Plain. For the first time, Simon’s heart went out to the man. His courage was superb. But his cause was hopeless.

  The protection was quite inadequate, given that much of the fire was coming from above the roof. As Simon watched, one bullet took Cavagnari in the shoulder, spinning him round. Then another hit him in the breast and he collapsed. As he lay, further shots thudded into the blue-clad figure and other near-misses sent up spurts of hard mud at his side, as though the marksmen were trying to trace his body outline in the dust. It took only a few more minutes before the little party on the roof were all killed.

  Then a boom rose above the crackle of musketry. ‘Artillery,’ called Jenkins from the next room. ‘Where’s this Amir bloke then?’

  Looking across the square, Simon saw that a cannon had been hauled up the narrow street immediately facing the Residency gates and that its first shot had crumpled the wall at the side of the gate. As he watched, a second crashed through the main building and immediately a tongue of flame came from the interior, taking hold on a wooden window frame and licking quickly along the Residency’s façade. Whoever was directing the fire knew his business, for a third shot brought the wooden gates crashing to the ground.

  Simon’s thoughts raced. Until Cavagnari’s death there had somehow seemed hope for everyone in the Residency - and, indeed, for Simon and his companions. The defenders were well armed and, despite recent happenings in Zululand, the British and Indian armies always won in the end. The prestige of these soldiers resounded throughout the Empire. At least the Zulus at Isandlwana were disciplined, well-trained warriors. Here, however, the attackers were a rabble, perhaps as many as three or four hundred of them, but a rabble for all that. The Guides could not, must not, be overrun by these people. And yet . . . His heart in his mouth, Simon ran into the little corridor behind him. He caught Jenkins’s eye. The Welshman did not look frightened - fear seemed to be alien to him - but Simon could see that he was concerned now, all right. There was perspiration on his forehead and his black eyes seemed to be gleaming unnaturally. The thought did not help Simon. ‘They will try and storm the building now,’ he cried. ‘Aim at the leaders as they run across the square.’

  He regained his position, and as he did so, the first wave of Afghans ran towards the gap where the gates had been. Simon fired at the same time as Jenkins and W.G. so that their shots sounded as one. Immediately three men in the front rank of attackers fell. But Simon and his colleagues were not the only marksmen. The first two rows of assailants seemed to crumple away as the front of the Residency lit up with rifle fire, and the remainder of the attackers ran for the shelter of the buildings surrounding the square. Then the cannon boomed again and a spurt of flame broke through the roof of the besieged building. The fire was gaining hold rapidly.

  ‘Try and pick off the men servicing the gun,’ shouted Simon to Jenkins above the tumult.

  ‘Can’t get a line on the devils, look you.’

  It was true. From where the three were firing, only the barrel of the cannon could be seen. It fired again into what was now becoming a blazing mass. The structure of the Residency still held, but the roof was crackling with flames and tongues of fire licked upwards from every window. The heat was so strong that Simon and his companions were forced back from their windows for a moment.

  Jenkins and W.G. joined Simon. In horror they watched as sparks flew high from the roof and timbers fell inwards with a crash.

  ‘Poor devils,’ murmured Jenkins. ‘No one can have survived in there.’

  But he was wrong. What was left of the door at the front of the building crashed open and a little band of Guides ran out - perhaps twenty in number. They were dishevelled, with scorch marks and dust staining their tunics, and several displayed wounds. They all, however, carried rifles or carbines and their discipline and bearing seemed quite unaff
ected. Led by a jemadar of the Guides, they trotted to the centre of the square and formed a loose crescent in two ranks, the front rank kneeling, the second standing, facing the cannon and the surrounding buildings. At a command, the kneeling Guides fired a volley and coolly began to reload as the second rank fired.

  For a moment there was a lull between the volleys and Simon saw a tall Afghan run into the centre of the square with arm upheld. He shouted something to the jemadar and then held both hands low, as though in supplication.

  ‘What’s he saying, W.G.?’ yelled Simon.

  ‘The Pathan is saying that Afghan people have no quarrel with fellow Musselmen, lord. He says that if they will surrender, no harm will come to them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the honourable jemadar, sir, has told him that his mother was a camel and the Guides do not do business with camel shit.’

  As the three watched, the Pathan made a derisive gesture with his hand and walked back with dignity to the edge of the square. The Guides punctiliously withheld their fire until he had reached the protection of the buildings. Then they recommenced their volleys.

  Simon put his hand to his mouth and found that tears were coursing down his cheeks. ‘Magnificent,’ he murmured. ‘Bloody stupid, but magnificent.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Back them up. Quick. Rapid fire.’

  The others ran back to their windows and they all fired as quickly as their single-shot Sniders would allow. How effective they were they would never know, but it was clear that the little band in the square, enfiladed from the flanks, could not last long, despite the obvious inaccuracy of the Afghan fire. Eventually - it seemed an age but was probably only about three minutes - the jemadar looked round at his men, of whom some two thirds were now lying in the dust. He gave an order and the remainder fixed their bayonets. Another shout and the Guides charged across the square, bayonets levelled, straight at the crowd of Afghans who bunched in front of the cannon.

  To Simon it seemed as though the mob opened up and then simply swallowed them. He was reminded of fish food being tossed into a crowded pool: there was a swirl of bodies, a flash of swords and then - nothing.

  Simon pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped both perspiration and tears from his eyes. ‘So much for the Amir keeping to his engagements,’ he said softly. Then the first bullets began to thud into the wall near his window.

  ‘We’ve been spotted,’ shouted Jenkins. ‘An’ there’s a bunch of them comin’ across the square to get us.’

  Simon ran into the corridor. ‘Jenkins. Drag out chairs and beds and whatever and block the staircase. It might give us a minute or two. W.G.’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘See if you can find a way up on to the roof.’

  Thrusting a cartridge into his rifle, Simon ran down the narrow stairway, doubling round on the first landing and then straight down to the half-open door. It was rickety but the key remained in the lock on the inside. As he reached it, so too did the first of the Afghans who had run across the square. To Simon, the man seemed huge, filling the frame of the doorway, all black eyes, white teeth and curved sword. But the narrow entrance prevented him from swinging the blade and Simon fired again from the hip. The explosion sounded like a cannon shot in the narrow corridor, but somehow, thanks to Simon’s unsteadiness after running down two flights of stairs, the bullet missed. The flash, however, was enough to make the Afghan flinch and pull back momentarily. Simon thrust the Snider like a spear into the man’s face and he fell backwards, into the path of his followers. This gave Simon just enough time to slam the flimsy door shut, turn the key and run back up the stairs.

  On the top floor, Jenkins had already wedged beds, mattresses and chairs across the head of the stairs, leaving a small space for Simon to climb through before the barricade was completed.

  ‘Where’s W.G.?’ demanded Simon.

  ‘Disappeared to long bloody leg or somewhere,’ said the Welshman. ‘Honestly, he’s a lovely boyo but I think he’s a bit mad. Rushed down the corridor saying it was time to change the bowlin’ or somethin’.’ He shook his head sadly.

  From below came the splintering of wood. Simon’s eyes widened. Oh God! Was this the end? How could they possibly get out of this? He gulped and shook his head to overcome the shaft of fear that ran through him. He must concentrate and give leadership. ‘It won’t take them long to get up here,’ he shouted. ‘Quick. Help me drag these natives out.’

  With Jenkins’s help, he pulled the dead Pathans into the corridor, and clumsily propped them behind an upturned chest, their jezails at their shoulders, seemingly ready to fire down the corridor.

  Jenkins nodded approvingly. ‘There’s a lovely idea, bach sir. That might give us another ’alf a minute, just time to get on the roof. Or somewhere,’ he added plaintively, looking along the little corridor.

  Indeed, there seemed nowhere to go. There was no skylight, no other stairway or ladder and no aperture in the whitewashed ceiling. The three rooms all faced on to the narrow street running into the square and a crowd could be heard milling below. Of W.G. Grace, there was no sign.

  With a crash the door below was pushed in and Simon and Jenkins heard the sound of many feet rushing up the stairs. The two men rushed to the barricade and levelled their rifles. Jenkins’s bullet took the first Afghan to round the bend immaculately between the eyes as the man squinted up the stairs. He fell back on those behind and Simon’s shot shattered the shoulder of the second man on the narrow stairway. It was enough to gain respite as the attackers retreated for a moment behind the turn of the stairs.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Can’t stay ’ere all day, look you.’

  The answer came from behind them. In a shower of plaster, whitewash and mud, the ceiling at the end of the landing crashed in, bringing with it the dishevelled figure of W.G. Grace, dust coating his face, beard and turban. He picked himself up quickly. ‘Back to pavilion now, lord,’ he said, gesturing to the roof above him. ‘Bowling a little too hot down here, I am thinking.’

  ‘W.G., you’re brilliant,’ shouted Simon. ‘How did you get up there?’

  ‘Through window, lord, and out on roof. We can get away across rooftops but I have been seen climbing up. They will come after us.’

  At that moment, they heard the scrape of a ladder against the window frame in the middle room. Jenkins ran into the room, fired quickly at the Afghan about to climb over the windowsill and, as he disappeared with a cry, grasped the ladder ends. Bending his short legs, he expanded his chest and twisted the ladder round, despite the weight of the three men already on it. Then, with a flick of his shoulders, he hurled the ladder and the men into the crowd below. A shout arose from the street and bullets smashed into the wall near his head.

  Simon ran to the barricade and extricated a chair. He fired off a shot at a turban peering round the stair bend and threw the chair at Jenkins. ‘You and W.G. get up on the roof. I’ll hold them off here and at the windows until you’re away. Then pull me up.’

  ‘No, bach,’ shouted Jenkins. ‘Let Gracey pull you up. I’ll stay. I’m stronger and a better shot. I can get up quicker.’

  Simon let off another round down the stairwell and ran to one of the windows. ‘No. Do as you’re told. Go now. That’s an order.’

  His appearance at the window evoked a howl of rage and a ragged fusillade from the crowded street below, but no attempt was being made to reposition the ladder. Simon sprang back to the barricade and, from the corner of his eye, saw Jenkins being pulled up from the chair through the hole in the ceiling. The attackers on the stairway were not showing themselves around the bend, but he could hear their hoarse whispers. He looked behind him. Jenkins had disappeared, and from the head of the stairs Simon could not, of course, command the windows in the three rooms. It was impossible to defend all four positions at once. A trickle of perspiration ran into the corner of his mouth. He was quite alone. He felt again that once-familiar lurch of the stomach and drying of the mouth that attended the onset of
fear. But why hadn’t he felt it before? He closed his eyes and considered for a moment. Too busy. That was why.

  ‘For God’s sake, bach sir. Come on.’ The voice seemed to come from far away - and from the heavens. Simon blinked and saw the arm and head of Jenkins hanging down from the hole in the ceiling. ‘They’ll be through the winders in a minnit, look you. Come on.’

  Simon turned from the barricade and, as he ran, sensed rather than saw the rush up the stairs. He hopped over the dead Pathans, who were still maintaining their silent vigil, and climbed on to the chair. As he did so, the first of the Afghans crashed through the barricade and turned into the corridor. Immediately, seeing the raised muskets seemingly poised to shoot at him from behind a second line of defence, he threw up his arm to warn his followers and fell back. In doing so, he gave Simon twenty precious seconds to throw up his rifle and grab Jenkins’s beseeching hands. The first bullets cracked down the corridor as his legs wriggled through the hole and on to the roof.

  ‘Gawdstrewth, bach sir. What were yer doin’? Daydreamin’?’

  Simon scrambled to his feet and picked up his rifle. ‘Something like that. Sorry. Where’s W.G.?’

  Jenkins gestured. The roof was quite flat, though dotted here and there with crudely plastered chimney pots. At the far end the Sikh stood, calmly holding a plank of wood. Beyond him, the roofs stretched away, providing a bizarre second level of city, uninhabited and crossed with narrow canyons, like fissures in a rock face. Simon and Jenkins ran towards him and he laid the plank across the parapet. It was just long enough to span the gap.

  ‘Oh no! Not me. I can’t stand heights.’ Jenkins had blanched under his dyed skin. He turned despairingly to Simon. ‘I’ll just’ang about ’ere and stop them fellers from following us and meet up with you later.’

  ‘Rubbish. Get over. Just hold my hand and don’t look down.’