by John Wilcox
MacPherson had spurred ahead to join the head of the column now that they were nearing the enemy, and Simon pulled out to follow him. He was in no mood to exchange banter with Jenkins, for the riding was once again triggering that dull ache in his loins that told him he was not a whole man. Where once his mind would have been filled with apprehension about the fighting ahead, now it groaned once again with the thought that he was impotent. He was sure of that now. The days of riding in the hills had hardened his hide but not his sensitivity to the well-remembered ordeal and to what must be the result of his injuries. The pain had retreated and lost its sharpness so that he could stay in the saddle well enough, but the ache of doing so was a constant reminder of his loss. Try as he might in the privacy of his tent to conjure up exotic memories from the past, nothing stirred his reddened, scarred member. As he cantered forward to catch the Brigadier, he passed three subalterns of the 67th Foot, young men roughly his own age, sitting easily in their saddles, khaki-clad backbones as straight as rifle barrels, teeth flashing in sunburned faces as they laughed at some obscenity. They were fit and potent, without a care in the world. He cursed and spat into the dust. So Lamb thought he had changed! How little he knew!
Brigadier MacPherson at the head of the column had halted the advance and was standing in his stirrups staring at the conical-shaped hill through field glasses. As Simon quietly joined the little group surrounding the Brigadier, MacPherson swung the glasses and scoured the broken country to his left and left rear. What he saw made him lower the glasses and turn to the colonel at his elbow.
‘The enemy in front is not waiting for us, George,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re waiting to join up with that very considerable army that is on its way through the Paghman and Chardeh valleys there.’ He nodded to his left. ‘They must have got through Baker somehow.’ He raised the glasses to the front again. ‘If I don’t send these Kohistanis flying quickly, we shall be caught between two fires.’
He lowered the glasses and turned to the colonel again. All traces of the jovial buffer had now gone and been replaced by a taut air of command - that of a professional who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.
‘Right. You take one company of the 67th, five companies of the 3rd Sikhs and two guns and hold the ridge here to protect our rear. Arnold,’ he swung to a lieutenant colonel of the Sikhs, ‘go with the remainder of your Sikhs and harass the enemy’s left flank. The bits of cavalry we’ve got will form a screen there to protect you and also threaten their line of retreat. The mountains will stop an escape to the right. I shall make a frontal attack now with what we have left.’ He beckoned to a subaltern. ‘Tell Morgan to advance with his guns in close order and shell that damned hill ahead as soon as he is able. Then, as we attack it, he is to direct his fire behind it to catch them as they run - as run they will.’
For the first time he noticed Simon. ‘Ah, just the man. You heard all that?’ Simon nodded. ‘Very well. Gallop back with your two men - you may need them and your disguise if scouts from that lot on our left get behind us - and tell the General at Sherpur exactly what has happened. Explain that I have found the Kohistan army and am engaging it immediately. But tell him that I have glimpsed what I think is the advance guard of the column from Ghazni to our south-west. If all goes well I should be able to defeat this northern column and prevent the two forces joining together. Then I shall turn and face the other lot. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Then bugger off. Bugler, sound the advance.’
As the clear notes of the bugle echoed from the surrounding hills, Simon spurred his horse, beckoned to Jenkins and W.G. and began the journey back down the now well-beaten trail to Kila Aushar and then Kabul.
It took three hours of hard riding to raise the familiar ramparts of Sherpur, but the journey, though difficult, was uneventful. If the Ghazni patrols were out, they had not advanced far enough to cut off the route back to the capital.
Simon found General Roberts conferring with Lamb and three other senior officers. His news was received in silence. If Roberts was disappointed to find that the two Afghan armies were near to joining, he showed little sign. He squinted at the darkening sky through his window. ‘We can do nothing more tonight,’ he said. ‘MacPherson will have done the job by now, I am sure.’ He pulled a piece of paper to him and began scribbling. ‘Baa-Baa, make sure that Mac has this by just after dawn tomorrow. I want him to link up with Baker and I shall send Brigadier Massey to command the Horse Artillery and the cavalry left at Aushar and move them out to act with MacPherson in confronting Mohamed Jan. But timing is the essence. We don’t want to be picked off piecemeal, we are outnumbered enough as it is. We must consolidate before we take on this Ghazni army.’ He looked up at Simon, standing once again in that small, neat office, looking outlandish in his dishevelled, dusty garments.
‘You were right, Fonthill, in your intelligence. You did well. I shall ride out to take command myself in the morning. I want you and your two men to ride with me. We will leave at dawn. Gentlemen, I have much to do. You will receive your own orders within the hour. Good evening.’
The early departure of Roberts’s small party confirmed the imminence of the Afghanistan winter. It was bitterly cold and the breath of horses and riders rose to the dark, star-twinkling sky as the little column of some fifty men took the now familiar road to the north-east. Simon, Jenkins and W.G. took position on the left flank of the General’s escort and once again muffled themselves against the keen air, even Jenkins riding slouched in contrast to the upright posture of the cavalry.
The Welshman sniffed beneath his scarf. ‘I’ll tell you what, bach sir. I’m gettin’ a bit fed up with this bloody road. It’d be nice to see another part of this country, look you.’
Within the hour, he had his wish. A section of cavalry, their horses perspiring despite the cold, galloped in from Kila Aushar with a message from MacPherson. Roberts read it eagerly and allowed his face to crease into a half-smile. ‘Good. MacPherson has broken the Kohistanis.’ Then, as he read on, the smile disappeared. ‘But Massey with his cavalry and guns has not linked up. Where the hell are they?’ He looked to his left into the growing daylight. ‘I hope to God he’s not fighting Mohamed Jan on his own.’ He turned in his saddle. ‘Captain Fonthill.’
‘Sir.’
‘Can you find the Ghazni road across the country from here?’
Simon’s heart sank. From the corner of his eye he saw W.G. give a brief nod of his head.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Gallop on. Reconnoitre the ground that way - but with care. Don’t run into the Afghan cavalry. Look for Brigadier Massey’s force. I have a feeling that he may have strayed to the west. If you find him, tell him to halt until I come up. On no account must he engage with the enemy on his own. I will follow as soon as I have sent messages to MacPherson and back to Sherpur. Now go quickly.’
Simon pulled a compass from beneath his coat, nodded to Jenkins and W.G., and the three set off to the west as fast as their horses could move across the broken ground. The Sikh pulled abreast of Simon. ‘On this course, we should hit the road within the hour, lord,’ he said. ‘We should see in the dust if a column has gone that way.’ Simon nodded, and the sun low behind them cast their shadows far ahead as they picked their way, galloping where they could, between the rocks and thorn scrub.
In the event, they had no need to scour the ground for tracks because they heard the sound of gunfire long before they found the Ghazni road. As they crested a small ridge, they looked down on open ground and a vista that brought a gasp of ‘Blimey!’ from Jenkins. Ahead of them, extending for about two miles across the plain, an unbroken line of Afghan infantry was advancing at a steady, disciplined pace, long green and white banners borne aloft and the early sunlight flashing and glinting from spears and the long, distinctive Pathan swords. On the left flank of the army a small group of Afghan cavalry was keeping pace. The mass seemed to extend back to infinity.
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bsp; Facing them, no more than two hundred and fifty yards below, stood Massey’s force. In comparison to the Afghan horde, it was pathetically small. He had two hundred of the 9th Lancers and forty Bengal Lancers, all dismounted, carbines at the ready. On the right, at a little distance, a mounted troop of 9th Lancers were watching the enemy’s cavalry. Massey had thrown forward his four guns, which had unlimbered and were now shelling the Afghans - ineffectually in that, although it was impossible for the cannon to miss, the shells did nothing to halt the approach of the army. As each shell exploded in an eruption of flame, smoke and dust, the mass ahead simply absorbed it, like waves closing over a thrown pebble.
Simon turned to W.G., but his mouth was so dry he could only croak. ‘Gallop back to the General and tell him that Brigadier Massey seems to be engaging the whole bloody army. How many would you say?’
The Sikh pulled at his beard. ‘Perhaps twelve thousand, lord.’
‘Nah,’ said Jenkins. ‘More like fifteen to twenty. That bunch o’ lads down there will never stop ’em, see. Just like fartin’ against thunder.’
‘I agree,’ said Simon. ‘Get off quick, W.G., and find the General. Tell him he’ll need every man he’s got.’
As the big man galloped off, Jenkins turned to Simon, his eyebrows raised lugubriously. ‘What about us, bach?’ he asked. ‘I don’t fancy ’angin’ about down there. Two of us are not goin’ to make much difference, look you.’
Simon swallowed. ‘Can’t help it. We can’t ride off. Come on.’
The two men dug in their heels and galloped down to join a small knot of officers grouped behind the second rank of kneeling soldiers. As they pounded down the slope, a carbine was fired at them and the officers tugged at their revolvers. Simon waved a cloth.
‘Captain Fonthill and Sergeant Jenkins, Guides,’ he shouted as they dismounted in a cloud of dust.
A small, bearded man, in faded blue uniform and wearing a conical pith helmet and green pugree, stepped forward. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’ve come from MacPherson? He must be near.’
‘No, sir. From Sir Frederick. MacPherson’s force is at least five miles to the north-east. The General is not far behind us. He is looking for you. He had expected you to link up with Brigadier MacPherson’s force by now.’ Simon looked at the advancing Afghans and the gunners as they coolly reloaded and fired. ‘My orders, sir, were to tell you not to engage the enemy but to fall back on MacPherson’s column.’
The Brigadier puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s all well and good but I couldn’t find the damned column. I intend to delay the Afghans’ advance as best I can.’
‘But Brigadier,’ Simon could hardly keep the disbelief from his voice, ‘you will never stop that army with this small force. You will be engulfed . . .’
Massey slapped his breeches with his riding crop. ‘I will thank you, sir, to keep your opinions to yourself. Now fall into line here and make yourself useful with your rifles.’ He eyed the Afghan dress of Simon and Jenkins with disparagement. ‘If you know how to shoot, that is.’ He turned his back on Simon and eyed the Pathan army, the advance guard of which was now almost within rifleshot. Cupping his hands, he called: ‘Limber up the guns there. Quickly now. Retire five hundred yards and recommence shelling. Colonel Cleland.’
‘Sir.’
‘Have your men begin volley firing as soon as the enemy is within carbine range. Four volleys from each rank in sequence. Then mount and retire to the guns.’
Simon felt a tug at his sleeve. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘But I think that brigadier is fuckin’ barmy. This is goin’ to be as bad as that Zulu thing, at Ishandwinney or whatever it was. I don’t want another bleedin’ spear in me back. You told me we wouldn’t ’ave to be in the army proper again, yet ’ere we are, standin’ in line like bloomin’ dummies.’
As he spoke, a native orderly came forward and took their horses to the rear. From ahead, the noise of the Afghan drums and long trumpets was becoming deafening and the long line was beginning to curl to take the little British force from sides and rear. There was an indefinable smell in the air: a combination of dust, heat, bazaar and perspiration, perhaps. He knew what it was - the fragrance of fear. The dryness in his mouth now made his tongue feel like a balloon. He was afraid, all right, but not, he reflected with gratitude, with that swooning fear which disconnected his brain and made his legs tremble. He could fight.
‘Don’t talk rubbish, 352,’ he said. ‘The Brigadier has done this before. We’re all mounted. We can delay them and fall back. That’s his tactics.’
Jenkins scowled and, with a thumb, deposited spit on to the foresight of his Martini-Henry for luck. But internally, Simon was far from sanguine. Fall back - yes, but to where? There was only Roberts with fifty men between them and an under-garrisoned Kabul. Unless MacPherson could bring up his column, there was no way to prevent Mohamed Jan from reaching the capital and combining with the other Afghan forces approaching from the south. In any case, their fallback now relied upon being able to retreat faster than the Afghan infantry could advance; yet the Afghans had cavalry too, and as he watched, he saw them fan out to the right, their long curved swords sparkling in the sun, preparatory to an attack on the thin screen of Lancers which faced them.
The British six-pounders had now ceased firing and the gunners were busy limbering them up to their trains. As they saw the horses sweep round and begin to pull the guns, bouncing and rattling behind them, to the rear, the Afghans let out a great roar of derision and triumph and their van began to break into a trot. They were still out of range of the British cavalry carbines. But not of a Martini-Henry. Coolly, Jenkins nestled his cheek against the stock of his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The distance was all of eight hundred and fifty yards, but the waiting troops saw a white-robed mullah in the centre leap and fall as the bullet took him in the chest.
‘Who fired that shot?’ Brigadier Massey, now on horseback, was standing, purple-cheeked, in his stirrups. ‘I said only volley firing,’ he roared. ‘Sergeant Major, put that man on a charge. Begin firing only when ordered.’
A huge Lancer warrant officer detached himself from the line and walked to Jenkins. He took out a small pad and a stub of pencil. ‘Right, let’s ’ave your name, you little black bugger,’ he demanded.
Simon intervened. ‘His name,’ he said evenly, ‘is Mazr Ali, rissaldar in the Punjab Light Horse. He is therefore senior to you and not a little black bugger. What’s more, I am a colonel in the Royal Corps of Guides and nephew to the Commander-in-Chief, Major General Sir Frederick Roberts. If this man is put on a charge I shall see to it that both you and that arsehole of a brigadier of yours are court-martialled. Now let’s get on with this war, shall we?’
The sergeant major looked down into Simon’s thin face, with its hooked nose and burning eyes. He licked the end of his pencil and smiled. ‘Very good, sir,’ he said. ‘Now ’ow would we be spellin’ Mazr, then?’
Before Simon could reply, the command of ‘Front rank aim, front rank fire!’ rang out and a hundred and ten carbines roared into action. A second later a thud of hoofs from the shale behind them made all the officers whirl round. Roberts appeared on the rise, completely alone. He sat immobile for a second, taking in the scene below. He then trotted down the incline and, without expression, spoke to Massey briefly before whirling his horse round and disappearing over the crest again.
Immediately, all was action among the British cavalry. Massey barked orders, the horses were brought forward, one more volley was fired into the mass ahead and the small British force mounted and rode back up the hill and over the rise. Instinctively, Simon looked to the right, where the Afghan cavalry were now cantering towards the troop of 9th Lancers, who were outnumbered by four to one. As he watched, Roberts’s own escort of forty Bengal Lancers, their lances held high, came into view from behind the ridge and trotted forward to join their British counterparts. As though on a parade ground, the combined force of fewer than a hundred men d
ressed their line, lowered their lances and charged at the Afghan horsemen ahead of them. Within less than ten seconds, the two forces had clashed in a storm of dust.
‘I don’t think we’d better stop and see the show, look you, because these fellers in the nightshirts will be at us in ’alf a minute.’ Jenkins was standing next to Simon, the reins of their horses in his hand. The Welshman’s face was beaming. ‘I do like it, bach, when you’re lyin’, see. Nobody does it as well as you. But come on, Colonel Roberts, or we shall be skewered.’
The two mounted their horses. The Afghan infantry had now been launched into the attack and were only two hundred yards away. Bullets from rifles and musket balls from jezails thudded into the sand on the rise behind them. Simon and Jenkins dug their heels in and rode for their lives.
At the top of the rise, Simon could not resist reining in for a brief moment to look back at the cavalry clash. He saw that the Lancers had cut a great swathe through the Afghan cavalry, who were scattered in all directions. Some thirty or forty of the natives were lying on the ground and Simon counted nine or ten of the blue-coated Lancers among them. Riderless horses were prancing and galloping, and as he watched, the British troop re-formed, lowered their lances again and charged at the last group of Afghan riders still in formation, who broke and fled. Below him, however, the advance guard of the mass of infantry had reached the rise and were bounding up the slope.
‘For God’s sake, come on,’ shouted Jenkins. Simon put his head down and galloped away.