The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  The intensity of the pain caused Simon to faint. But a re-application of the brand and the ensuing agony ended that brief, merciful oblivion and he screamed again, his body arching and his head thrashing from side to side.

  Then came the first rifle shot. It was high above the rock face but clear and distinct, coming seemingly from the cleft at the far end of the valley. It was followed by a second shot, and a third. The women turned their heads and one pointed in alarm. In the cleft, some two or three hundred feet above the valley, glowed a fire - perhaps a camp fire.

  Immediately the camp came alive. Men came running from the fort and from the huts surrounding the grazing land. A rough command scattered the women, who then joined the men running towards the far end of the valley. All except the crone. She rose to her feet with difficulty, lifting her brand as though it would help her to see through the darkness to the flickering light high in the hills. Through the pain that consumed him, Simon realised that he was alone with her. He pulled desperately at the cords that bound him to the pegs, only succeeding in tightening them on his wrists and ankles, and drawing her attention back to him once more. She frowned and mumbled, and then turned and picked up a long-handled wooden shovel that stood propped against the hut wall. With a toothless grin she gestured to the fire and to his genitals, then began to load burning embers on to the shovel.

  ‘No!’ shrieked Simon.

  An Afghan loomed up out of the dusk and shouted something to the woman. She lowered the shovel and turned to him.

  ‘I said,’ whispered the Afghan, as he reached her, ‘ ’alf a minnit, missus.’ Then, with one expert movement, Jenkins whirled the woman round, put one hand on her mouth and slit her throat with the knife in his other. He gently lowered her to the ground by the side of the fire, thrust one end of the shovel which she had been holding into the ground and the other sharply into the folds of skin under her jaw, wrapped her hands around it and propped her up, as though she was sitting contemplating Simon.

  The Welshman looked around quickly. All attention seemed to be directed towards the far end of the valley. His actions had gone unobserved. Quickly he kicked dust on to the fire to reduce the glare and then cut Simon free.

  ‘Ah, bach. I’m sorry I’ve taken so long. Quick, can you walk?’

  Simon tried to speak but could not. He lifted his head but a fresh wave of pain overtook him and it fell back again.

  Jenkins looked down at the young man. Simon’s genitals were red raw and the remnants of his pubic hair were black stubble, and from him came an acrid smell the like of which the Welshman had never experienced before. ‘Ah,’ he wrinkled his nose in disgust, ‘you poor young bastard. What a mess.’

  He looked around in desperation, seeking inspiration. Then, from childhood, back over the years, came the memory of a very young boy running to his mother across the earthen floor of the kitchen, crying and holding his burned finger.

  ‘Butter. That’s it. Butter!’

  He spun on his heel, ran into the hut and reappeared a moment later with a gourd. ‘It ain’t butter, bach, but it’s some sort of fat, so it’ll ’ave to do, see. Now excuse me, but I’ve got to get a bit familiar, like.’

  With care, he lifted Simon’s naked buttocks and began smearing the fat around his genitals. Simon had lapsed into unconsciousness again but Jenkins’s rough ministrations renewed the pain and he whimpered, his eyes wide open.

  ‘Good,’ said Jenkins. ‘No sleepin’ on the job now, there’s travellin’ to do, see.’ For the first time he noticed Simon’s blood-encrusted face. ‘Gawd. They’ve bashed your face in too, the bloody ’eathens. Now, we need something to wrap your bum in.’

  Gingerly he lowered Simon to the ground again and looked up the valley. He could see the fire, high in the cleft, burning lower now, and small figures climbing up the rock face towards it. There had been no further firing but it could not be long before some of the tribesmen returned. He began to peel the shawl from the shoulders of the crone but heard a gasp from Simon.

  ‘Not from her,’ he said. ‘I’d rather freeze to death.’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘Right you are. Probably crawlin’, anyway. I’ll use this.’ He unravelled his turban and, pulling Simon to his feet, wound it round his midriff. ‘Good. You look like one o’ them fakeer blokes now. But can you walk?’

  Simon attempted a step but his knees began to buckle and Jenkins caught him.

  ‘No matter. I can carry you. Look you, lean forward over my shoulder. Now. Go.’

  Simon had no difficulty in leaning forward - in fact he collapsed like wet washing across Jenkins and the broad little man lifted him easily and slipped quickly out of the fire’s arc of light into the shadows by the rock face. He moved swiftly but deliberately along its edge until he found the fissure down which he had entered the camp.

  Simon bit his lip to stop himself from moaning as the fabric of the turban rubbed against his burned skin.

  ‘Now,’ whispered Jenkins, ‘we’re goin’ to do a bit of climbin’. You’ll know I’m not very good at ’eights, so it’s just as well it’s dark. In fact, between you an’ me, bach, I couldn’t ’ave come down ’ere in the light. But it was no good me nippin’ off to light that fire. I would ’ave lost me way in no time, so Gracey ’ad to do that bit. Now . . .’ He sucked at his moustache and looked up into the darkness of the fissure above them. ‘I shall need both ’ands, see, so you’ll just ’ave to clasp yourself round me neck, ’ang down me back and ’old on for your life. All right?’

  Simon nodded. As an afterthought, Jenkins secured the turban cloth round Simon’s waist with the cord remnants he had taken from the pegs and tied a hitch around his own midriff. Then he bent his legs, heaved Simon on to his back and they were off.

  The fissure, in fact, was not a difficult climb. It was a three-sided chimney up the rock face with plenty of foot- and hand-holds, but the night was pitch black, Jenkins, although strong, was no climber and they kept having to stop when unconsciousness threatened Simon as bursts of pain overtook him. Somehow, however, they reached a scrubby plateau about one hundred feet above the valley. Here, tethered behind a rock, were the two horses.

  Jenkins lowered Simon carefully to the ground and brought him a water bottle. The Welshman’s face was covered in perspiration. ‘Gawd, I don’t want to ’ave to do that again. I dursen’t look down, otherwise we should ’ave been finished.’ He glanced with horror towards Simon’s groin. ‘I could see what they were doin’ to you, see,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I couldn’t get down there till old Gracey ’ad fired his shots at the other end of the valley to create a diversion.’

  Simon raised his head. ‘Thanks, 352. You saved my life. Not for the first time. But how is W.G. going to get away? The whole tribe will be after him.’

  Jenkins’s teeth split the gloom. ‘Ah, bach, don’t you worry about ’im. ’E’s like a mountain goat in these rocks. No.’ The smile disappeared. ‘We’ve got to worry about us. Look, I know you’re badly injured, but you’ve got to keep aware now, see, because you’ll ’ave to ’andle this compass thing. I can’t make ’ead or tail of it, as you know. Gracey tells me that we’ve got to keep as near as we can to due south, though we shall ’ave to follow whatever trails we can find to make it easy for the ’orses. They’re bound to come after us and we must ride to outdistance them.’

  Simon sighed. ‘I don’t think I can manage to sit a horse. I’ve been . . . burned, you see.’

  ‘Bless you, boyo, you’ve got to. We’ve got to make speed, see. Look, as a special treat I’ll let you ride the Arab and I’ll take the dobbin’. ’Ow’s that, then?’

  Simon forced a smile. The pain in his loins consumed him. It was as though he was on fire, and every touch of the turban was agony. But he saw the point. The horses were their only chance. ‘All right. Get me up and help me mount. But stay close in case I fall.’

  A strong moon had now risen: a blessing and a curse, for though it made it easier for the horses to pick their way a
mong the rocks, it would also help their pursuers. Simon had no idea how long it would be before his escape was discovered, but he did not much care. The motion of the horse and the friction of the saddle sent surges of pain through him. He removed the turban and tucked it under his bottom, and the cool air brought - or seemed to bring - some relief to his burned flesh. The need to concentrate on the compass bearing to ensure that they did not ride in a circle helped somewhat to divert his mind from the pain, and they certainly made better time than they would have done on foot. Luckily, the ground was too stony and grassless for them to leave tracks to aid any pursuers.

  Just before dawn they reached a high pass, and Simon realised that it was time to stop. It was clear that he had developed a fever and the burning now seemed to consume his body. Twice it was only Jenkins’s arm that had prevented him from tumbling from the saddle.

  ‘A cave, that’s what we want,’ muttered Jenkins, peering about him in the grey light. ‘A bloody cave. Just like coppers. They’re never about when you need ’em.’

  But they did find a cave. Not much of one, admittedly, in that it was impossible to stand upright within it, but, more importantly, it was well hidden. They discovered it only when Simon’s water bottle fell from his hand and Jenkins dismounted to scramble after it. A boulder half concealed the entrance and a stunted bush gave further cover. The entrance was only about four feet high, but the cave ran back double that distance and it was dry. Vitally, a mountain stream was gurgling nearby.

  Simon half fell from the saddle into Jenkins’s arms, and the Welshman carried him awkwardly through into the dark recess, squatting to lay him down, his head to the opening. Simon had now begun to shiver and Jenkins took off his cloak and wrapped it round the shaking man, laying Simon’s rifle - left behind when he set off on the mule - by his side.

  ‘Sorry, bach, we can’t afford to light a fire. ’Ere, ’ave some water.’ He held the canteen to Simon’s lips and then, taking out his handkerchief, drenched it and tied it round Simon’s forehead. ‘Can’t do much more now, see,’ he said, half to himself. ‘But what am I goin’ to do with the bloody’orses, eh?’

  He crawled to the entrance and peered through the bush. The rising sun had thrown the mountain peaks to the east into black relief against a rosy sky. The air was crisp and clear. It was the beginning of a perfect day. He looked behind him into the cave. Simon was sleeping deeply now. As good a place as any to see the fever through, thought the Welshman. As long as I can keep him warm. No bloody flies, anyway.

  Jenkins carefully poured a little water from the canteen into his cupped hand and then dipped his fingers into it before gently rubbing at the blood on Simon’s battered face. The blood was congealed and crusted, however, and the ministrations had little effect. For a moment the Welshman stayed kneeling by the side of his charge, affected by an emotion that was, if not new to him, at least still somewhat alien. Then he patted the sleeping man’s head, rose and began looking for the horses.

  They had hardly moved from where he had left them, grazing tiredly on the sparse grass that poked between the rocks. The animals were a betrayal of their presence. They had to be hidden. But where? Then his eyes fell on the stream. It gurgled round a bend from a gentle slope in the mountain-side some fifty feet from the cave mouth. It flowed fast but shallowly. Leading both horses, Jenkins took them upstream, splashing through the water for ten minutes before he stripped off the packs, leaving the saddles in case they needed to depart hurriedly. Then he hobbled the horses and returned warily to the cave.

  The sun was now peeping above the jagged peaks but the morning remained quiet. In the distance, a bird cawed as it wheeled overhead, down the valley, but there was nothing else. With some difficulty, Jenkins dragged both packs into the cave, rearranged the bush to hide the opening and, rifle at the ready, lay down on his side with his head to the cave mouth.

  He had no idea how long he had slept, but the sun was now well clear of the hilltops; he could tell by the absence of shadows on the track. But something had woken him. He listened intently. There it was again, a footstep, a soft rattle of stones.

  W.G. or Afghans? If the latter, it was only a matter of time before they found the cave. Was it better to fight from the cave or outside it? Jenkins sniffed. Depended on the number of the enemy. He raised the Snider and sighted down the barrel. As he did so, an Afghan came into view. He seemed to be a Ghilzai - same nondescript dress, same bearing, same feline tread as the men he had watched in the camp. The Pathan carried a jerzail in one hand and led Simon’s horse with the other. He walked slowly, quietly, his head turning from side to side. Jenkins followed him with the rifle foresight until man and horse disappeared behind the boulder.

  Then another Ghilzai appeared, leading Jenkins’s own horse with equal caution. Jenkins let him go and waited, watching as another three Afghans loped by. Five in all. But that did not mean there were no more. If it was a search party, they would be spread out, examining every nook and cranny, looking behind every boulder, now the horses had been found.

  As the thought occurred to him, a shower of stones fell down from above the overhang to the cave’s entrance, a few inches from Jenkins’s nose. They were followed by a pair of sandals that dangled for a moment before the legs were lowered, landing in a half-jump in front of the Welshman’s gun muzzle. Jenkins found himself looking at the rear view of an unusually tall Pathan, his back criss-crossed by bandoliers, his cotton pantaloons soiled by his descent.

  The man did not look behind him but paused by the boulder, his head turning as he scanned the terrain. Suddenly his body stiffened and he half turned so that he was hidden behind the rock. Slowly he raised his jezail to his shoulder. He had obviously found an enemy. Jenkins’s jaw dropped for an instant and, involuntarily, he took a quick glance at Simon in case, somehow, his comrade had crawled out of the cave. But the young man still slept, his breaths slow and even.

  Slowly the Pathan pulled back the flintlock on his piece, carefully sighting it at a target Jenkins could not see. The man’s finger tightened on the trigger, and as soon as the first small explosion occurred in the priming pan, Jenkins pulled his own trigger, so that the two main reports sounded as one. The Snider’s bullet took the Ghilzai in the back of the head, shattering it and sending a mass of red and grey matter splattering along the wall of rock.

  Jenkins quickly waved away the smoke from his gun barrel and slipped another round into the breech. He waited tensely and jumped as a hand closed on his ankle.

  ‘Zulus, is it Zulus?’ Luckily Simon was speaking in a whisper. Jenkins looked down at him. The sick man’s eyes were red-rimmed and staring, and perspiration rolled down his face.

  ‘No, bach. Nothing to worry about. Bit of firin’, that’s all, see, at pigeons. Somethin’ to eat. Try and get some sleep now.’

  As he spoke, he heard the distinctive crack of a Snider and in answer the characteristic coughs of two jezails, followed, after loading time, by another shot from the Snider.

  Jenkins edged forward. ‘Sounds as though there’s a bloody war goin’ on out there,’ he murmured.

  Rolling over on to his back, he inched himself awkwardly out of the opening, his rifle at his chest, looking above the overhang in case there was another Afghan following the first. But there were only the rocks and the brazen steely-blue sky. He turned back on to his front and crawled through the bush. Avoiding the dead Pathan, he put a cautious head around the boulder. He was in time to see both horses, some way down the track, break into a canter, the two Ghilzais who had been leading them lying seemingly dead in the middle of the path. A jezail sounded again, and Jenkins saw the turbans of the other three Pathans behind rocks on his side of the track. Who they were firing at remained unclear, but it was obvious that the target had been sighted by the man whom Jenkins had killed. The Welshman withdrew his head and glanced about him. It looked as though he and Simon had not been discovered. But were there more of the Ghilzais scattered in the rocks, and who the hell were the
y firing at? W.G.? Whoever it was, they were on the other side of the track. This meant that Jenkins should be able to get behind the Afghans.

  He dropped on to his belly and began squirming around the boulder, using the high shoulder of the track as cover as he wriggled towards where the three Pathans were spread out behind rocks a little higher up the hill, where the track climbed and wound around a bend. Slowly he climbed, cradling his Snider in his arms, working his way upwards on elbows and knees, freezing from time to time to locate his position.

  The firing had now ceased, and Jenkins wondered why. He lifted his head and saw that one of the three, the man furthest away from him, was himself crawling away to his left, obviously trying to outflank the enemy. And then the Welshman saw W.G. The big Sikh had taken cover on a ledge that overlooked the track on its opposite side. As Jenkins watched, the Afghan nearest began to crawl from rock to rock towards him, so that he could outflank the Sikh from the other direction.

  But were there only three Afghans left? Jenkins sucked in his moustache and looked carefully around him. No sign of other life at all. Certainly, as he lay on his ledge, W.G. presented a good target to anyone following up from this side of the track, and if there were more of the Pathans lurking behind the rocks above Jenkins, they were showing remarkable forbearance. The Welshman risked another quick look at the nearest man. He, not realising his danger, had eyes only for the Sikh, and was edging along, on his belly, through the shale towards Jenkins.

  Still Jenkins waited. He had to be sure of the number of the enemy. Two to two was easy - even three to two. More than that, however, and it could be difficult, given the cover for riflemen provided by the rocks, and the Pathans’ obvious knowledge of the terrain. He wiped the sweat from his face and slowly counted to ten. Nothing. No sound, no movement from behind or above him. Then a slither of stones came from the other side of the boulder behind which he sheltered - disturbingly close. He couldn’t wait any longer. Jenkins shortened his grip on the Snider and presented it around the boulder - almost into the ear of a Ghilzai who was nestling his cheek into the stock of his jezail as he sighted along the slim barrel towards W.G.