The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  He tried to lift his head to look around, but the pain was too intense. With his mouth closed he could not breathe, so, he reflected, that blow to the face had probably broken his nose. He shifted his position as best he could and the resultant pain, though bad, was not agonising; the ribs, then, were probably bruised but not broken. Good, that meant he could walk or even run if he had to. But what about Jenkins and W.G.? Had they heard his shout? Were they still following? His head swung to the rhythm of the mule’s gait and he drifted into unconsciousness.

  He came to as rough hands untied his bonds, lifted him from the mule and threw him on to the ground. Immediately, he was kicked again and jerked to his feet by an Afghan, taller than the rest, who put his face close to Simon’s and then, slowly, hawked and spat on to his forehead. Simon steeled himself not to flinch and held the gaze of the Afghan a few inches away. They stood for a moment, face to face, each quite expressionless, until the Pathan drew away, shouted in Pushtu and then seized Simon’s hands behind his back and tied them at the wrist. A halter was slipped over his head and jerked roughly, and he was led forward.

  The camp that Simon entered had a look of permanence about it. Two hundred or more mud huts were scattered about a small valley that flattened out in the middle into a rough pasture on which scrawny goats grazed. Rock walls on three sides made the place a kind of amphitheatre, although at the far end a very high cleft could be seen. The dwellings were of no sophistication. Unrendered stone poked through the mud of the walls, windows were small and shielded from the wind by scraps of fabric, and smoke curled from a hole in each flat roof. Men, women and children, dressed in anonymous rags, walked between the buildings. Commanding the entrance to the valley was a crude fort, the only two-storey building in the settlement. It, too, was made of mud and stone, but the walls, judging by the entrance, were of considerable thickness and they were holed by rifle slits. Looking behind him, Simon saw that the track up which the mule had carried him was steep and narrow, with room for no more than three or four to walk abreast. Presumably, any attackers would have to approach the village by this route, under the guns of the fort. It was a formidable defensive position.

  A jerk of the halter brought his head round again and he was led into the courtyard of the fort, where a gaggle of women and young children immediately circled him and began feeling the texture of his blood-stained coat and shirt, giggling and digging inquisitive fingers into his stomach and ribs, making him inhale and wince. One bedraggled crone drew laughter from the others by grabbing his genitals and squeezing hard.

  The pain and the barbarity of it all sent terror surging into Simon’s brain. Was he going to be summarily killed? The Zulus had a reputation for cruelty which was, in his experience, quite undeserved. They acted within a code of behaviour which, once understood, was practical and logical. Here, the savagery seemed gratuitous and uncontrolled. Were they going to torture him? Simon ran his tongue over dry lips. This was a childhood horror, and the old doubts about his courage began to invade his mind once again, bringing with them the edges of darkness that he remembered so well.

  Damn and to hell with them! He raised a foot and kicked hard at the crone. Immediately, his halter was pulled hard by his guard, so that the rope burned his throat. But a jezail was thrust forward to gesture the ragged mob away from him. Simon realised with relief that he had won reprieve of a sort from the black horrors within him. Nevertheless, the relief was accompanied by despair and a growing feeling that his gamble had failed. No one seemed interested in holding even the beginnings of a civilised conversation with him, so giving him a chance of extracting the information he desired.

  The pain and the heat from the sun grew worse, and once again he slumped to his knees. Immediately he was hauled to his feet and dragged to an old tree stump in the centre of the compound, with a rock at its foot. He was allowed to sit on the rock but was bound to the tree by body and throat. He lost consciousness again - or perhaps fell into a head-throbbing half-doze, his tongue protruding from between his lips as the rope cut into his throat.

  When he awoke, the sun had almost set and long shadows were being thrown across the courtyard. The pain of his head and ribs was now overtaken by a thirst which clove his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Blood from the wound on his head had dried to form a crust across one eye, blurring his vision there. His broken nose forced him to draw air through a mouth that felt ulcerated and swollen. His distress drew a moan that came from a deep well of misery.

  From behind him came a movement and an Afghan, shorter than the others, with a round, bearded face and eyes as black as a raven’s, appeared and stood looking down at Simon for a moment. Simon tried to speak to plead for water but all that emerged was a faint croak. However, it was enough. Immediately, he felt blessed relief as the coruscating rope around his throat was removed and a pitcher of water brought to his lips. He drank greedily, the liquid coursing down his chin and soaking his shirt and breeches until he had had his fill. He nodded his thanks to his captor and the man disappeared behind him again.

  The sun had vanished completely and Simon was beginning to shiver when a door leading from the compound into the fort opened and a retinue of Afghans appeared and approached him. They formed a semicircle around him and then respectfully made way for an old man, who, leaning on a stick, limped across the courtyard and stood looking down on Simon. A command was given and a chair was brought for the man, who lowered himself into it and then made a dismissive gesture, at which the others sat cross-legged in the dust.

  With his one-eyed gaze, Simon did his best to observe the man carefully. There was no distinction about his dress, nothing to show seniority. He carried no weapons, only his staff, and the same type of robe worn by the others draped his shoulders, the same carelessly swathed turban sat on his head. But the air of command was very evident and the eyes that regarded Simon from within deep sockets were alive and, it seemed to Simon’s aching senses, burning very brightly. A strikingly white long beard contrasted with the darkness of the lined face, and the hand that held the staff was dappled with age spots. Undoubtedly, Simon had found the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam.

  For what seemed like minutes, the mullah remained motionless and silent, his eyes fixed on Simon. Simon returned the stare, resolutely holding his head back, although his neck muscles urged him to let it drop forward. Eventually the mullah turned and gestured to an Afghan sitting on his right. Simon felt that there was something familiar about the man’s jaunty air.

  Then the Pathan smiled and spoke, in perfect English. ‘So you sold your carpets, then?’

  Ah yes, of course, the confrontation with the two Ghilzais in the ravine before Kabul. Simon recalled the arrogant and nonchalant way the jezail had been held skywards, the stock on the hip, the head held to one side. The Afghan’s smile was the same now, enquiring but sneering. Simon thought quickly of maintaining his cover but recalled W.G.’s advice.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That was a pity. I had to leave them in Kabul.’

  For a moment, the insouciance of Simon’s reply appeared to disconcert the Afghan. His smile disappeared. ‘You are not a Persian trader, then?’

  ‘You know I am not. I am an English officer, Captain Simon Fonthill, of the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides.’

  The sneer reappeared. ‘Then why do you dress as a Persian?’

  ‘I carried important dispatches from General Roberts to the Residency in Kabul. The General did not wish to offend the Amir by sending troops to protect me, but, as you know, the Afridis of the Kuram are brigands who will kill all Englishmen, so I was forced to travel in disguise.’

  ‘Humph!’ The Afghan spat in the dust. ‘Where are your two companions?’

  ‘There was fighting in Kabul and the Residency was burned to the ground. We were separated in the fighting and I fear they were killed. I was forced to escape on the mule.’

  ‘So you were running back to your general?’

  ‘No. I had further work to do. I was looking for the M
ullah Mushk-i-Alam. I seem to have found him.’

  The mullah had been growing restive during the exchange, and now, hearing his name, he spoke tersely in Pushtu to the Afghan, who replied at length. The interrogator turned back to Simon.

  ‘My lord, the Mullah wants to know what you want of him.’

  Simon’s throbbing head had cooled somewhat during the interrogation, while his brain raced to keep one pace ahead of his questioner. Perhaps now he had got through this first, dangerous phase. At least he had aroused the curiosity of his captors. He tried once more to ease himself within his bonds and sit erect. This time he directed his gaze at the mullah.

  ‘I bring a message to the Holy One from the Lord General Roberts. The General is about to invade Afghanistan to avenge the death at Kabul of His Excellency the British Resident there, and to punish the treachery of the Amir, who has broken his word to the British Queen Empress.’ Simon paused and ran his tongue over his cracked lips. He was taking a risk here that the mullah was no supporter of the Amir. The interpreter was listening intently, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘The General has no argument with the people of Afghanistan, only with those leaders who broke their word and provoked the attack on the Residency, which had no soldiers to defend it. In particular, he has no quarrel with the Ghilzai or with the Holy One, whom he respects as a great leader.’

  The interpreter said nothing, but Simon nodded to him and to the mullah, as a sign that his words should be translated. It was important to be in control here - and, anyway, he wanted time to think. The Ghilzai spoke quickly in Pushtu to his leader, who remained expressionless.

  Simon cleared his throat and continued. ‘The General values the friendship of the Mullah and, when he begins his advance, he pledges that he will make no attack upon the Ghilzai people. He does not expect the Mullah and his people to take up arms against their fellow Afghans. All he asks is that the Mullah will stay with his people in the hills when the British advance on Kabul and that they will trade, providing fodder for horses and food for which they will receive many rupees. The Mullah will know that the British do not break their word on these matters.’

  Simon paused again while his words were translated. His mind galloped. God, he hoped that he was not overcommitting Roberts! As far as he knew, the Ghilzai had not been involved in the fight at Kabul - indeed, he believed they had not been at the battle at Peiwa Kotal either. Certainly, Roberts would not want them as a hostile force on his flank as he advanced through the hills and along the plain. But whether he had enough rupees in his war chest to bribe the mullah was another matter.

  The mullah was speaking again, guttural and with obvious economy of words.

  ‘How many soldiers does Roberts have?’

  Simon blinked. Roberts’s command was small for an invading army. Obviously there would be reinforcements and other columns coming through from India. He must be careful not to give information which could be helpful. On the other hand, this could be an opportunity to probe the size of the mullah’s own force. ‘Very many thousands,’ he said, ‘with many more in India, of course. More than would be needed to invade and occupy this country, if occupation was necessary.’

  When this reply was conveyed to the mullah, he became agitated for the first time. He spoke quickly and at length, his words emphasised by the stamp of his stick into the dust, his voice rising until, at the end, he was shouting.

  The Ghilzai interpreter bowed his head to his leader and turned triumphantly back to Simon. ‘You talk camel dung,’ he said. ‘My lord knows exactly how many men your General has beyond the Shutargardan: he has seven and a half thousand men and twenty-two guns. He has only two brigades of infantry and one cavalry brigade. He has only eight mountain guns and just two Gatling guns. That is not many thousands. Why do you lie?’

  Simon swallowed. That estimate of Roberts’s strength sounded amazingly accurate. How did they know? ‘I do not lie,’ he said. ‘There are men in close reserve beyond the Shutargardan. But the number of men is not important. These are great warriors with modern guns and great firepower. With much respect to the Mullah, I have seen nothing here or in Kabul which could stand against such troops.’

  As Simon’s words were translated, the mullah became increasingly agitated. Eventually he pushed his staff into the ground and, with its aid, rose to his feet and walked towards Simon. He was not a big man but he seemed to loom over his prisoner, who looked up into a face that appeared in the semi-darkness to be contorted with rage. Simon noticed for the first time that although the beard was white, the eyebrows were jet black. That, with the eyes blazing from their kohldark pits, gave the old man a demonic aspect as he began to rant at Simon, emphasising his words by thumping the butt of his staff into Simon’s chest. Eventually, clearly exhausted by his tirade, he tottered back to his chair.

  The interpreter spoke swiftly, as though anxious to end the charade now. ‘My master says that you speak with the arrogance of all unbelievers. You and your people do not understand the force of the faithful. None of the men of the hills will trade with your general. They will fight him and kill him. The tribes are uniting under the banner of Allah - sixty thousand men will gather about Kabul soon. There are twenty thousand Russian troops on their way from the north to fight with us against the infidels, but they will not be needed. We shall crush your general and his pathetic force and leave their bones on the hills for the crows to pick them clean. But you will not live to see that.’

  While the Ghilzai was speaking, the mullah struggled to his feet and, with a dismissive gesture to Simon, turned and walked slowly back to the fort, his retinue following him. At the end of the translation, the interpreter shouted an order and two Afghans untied the rope securing Simon to the tree and led him out of the compound.

  The interpreter gave Simon a mock salute and shouted after him: ‘Tonight, the women will amuse themselves with you, and in the morning we shall send your ears and testicles to your general.’

  Simon looked around wildly. The women. The women. What did that mean? Oh God. Not torture. What would be the point of that? They had learned as much as they wanted from him. Why inflict pain needlessly? His eyes strained into the surrounding darkness. No sign of Jenkins or W.G.

  He was hauled to his feet and taken to a hut at the side of the valley, close to the rock face. Here the earth was beaten flat and the ashes of a fire smouldered in front of the hut door. Suddenly a musket barrel struck him behind the knees so that he sprawled to the ground with a gasp. Immediately, his bonds were cut, he was rolled over on to his back and his arms and legs were pulled wide so that he was spread-eagled. Women suddenly appeared from the darkness and eager hands lashed his wrists and ankles to pegs that were driven, with some difficulty, into the packed earth. He lay flat, his legs forming a V either side of the ashes of the fire, the warmth of which he could already feel.

  The two Afghans who had led him here looked down at him, quite expressionless. One of them spoke curtly to the crowd, which evoked a gale of laughter from the women, and then the men were gone.

  Simon looked up at the faces that ringed his vision. There was no sign of compassion in any of the eyes that regarded him, only a kind of glee. Everyone was smiling. He clenched his teeth. He had heard of barbarities that had been inflicted on captured Englishmen. The advice he had been given during his brief training was explicit: just don’t be captured. Well, he had gambled and lost. How long would it last? How could it be endured?

  He became aware that fuel was being piled on to the embers between his legs to bring the fire to life again. ‘Bitches,’ he shouted. ‘Hell-fired bitches. Damn you all to hell.’ He pulled at his bonds but they held fast. He was no longer conscious of the pain in his chest and head. A helpless terror consumed him.

  Suddenly the crowd parted and made way for a small, bundled figure. It was the old crone who had grabbed his testicles earlier. Slowly she lifted her skirts and put a foot either side of Simon’s head, then lowered her skirts again, so that he
was enveloped, tent-like, within their folds, and crouched down. The smell was disgusting. Simon realised what was coming and turned his head just in time to avoid the stream of urine which hit the side of his face and trickled on down to the ground. The crowd erupted into a shriek of approval and the trick was repeated six or seven times by other women.

  The fire was now burning again and was beginning to make the insides of Simon’s thighs and calves uncomfortably hot. The elderly crone, who clearly took precedence in this hell’s kitchen, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and gestured an order. Immediately, a knife was produced and was used to tear apart Simon’s trousers and lower garments, so that his loins were exposed. Bound as he was, Simon shrank away as the woman crouched down beside him. He tossed his head frantically. ‘Touch me and you will hang,’ he cried, realising immediately how pathetic his voice sounded in this lost Afghan valley.

  With the stick in her hand, the woman pointed at Simon’s penis and, gums bared, addressed the crowd. The audience roared in approval and urged her on. Slowly she smiled and nodded, and, with the stick, lifted Simon’s member in derision. Then she leaned beyond him to the fire and removed a burning brand, holding it for a while so that the flames died and the brand glowed red-hot. Then she slowly brushed it against Simon’s penis, as a cook would seal a piece of meat.

  Simon’s scream rang through the night and immediately evoked an echoing roar of approval from the women gathered around the scene of torture. The hag nodded her head in approval as a smell of burning flesh rose. With precision she applied the brand to Simon’s pubic hair so that it frizzled and curled.