by John Wilcox
In the centre of the square stood a small group of officers. Simon recognised Roberts, MacPherson, Massey, Lamb and, with a little start of surprise, the tall figure of Covington. He seemed larger, somehow, than Simon remembered him. Away to the right, in a discrete group, stood a group of civilians whom Simon presumed to be journalists from the way that several were scribbling in notebooks. Of Alice there was no sign. To the left of the officers, one man - a colonel, perhaps, from his uniform, age and bearing - was reading aloud from a large piece of paper. It was difficult to hear what was being said but it was of no matter. No one listened. The death sentence was immutable and the justification was irrelevant on that day. Above everything arched a metallic-grey sky.
‘Nice day for it,’ murmured Jenkins.
Eventually the officer was silent. Slowly, he rolled his document, turned and nodded to a subaltern, who, in turn, barked an order. From behind the gibbets a drum rolled, increasing the beat until, with a suddenness that was startling, it stopped. At that moment, the rickety platforms on which the prisoners were standing were kicked away and the forty-nine men dropped and jerked spasmodically. A low sigh came from the crowd, but there was no other noise or movement. After a few desultory kicks, the figures swung slowly in the windless air, like dolls on a string. As theatre, it had been impeccably produced and professionally performed. All that was missing was applause from the audience.
‘Poor bastards,’ said Jenkins.
‘Yes, Sergeant bach,’ muttered W.G., keeping his eyes on the hanging figures, ‘but they broke their word, you know. They did not play the game.’
‘They’re still poor bastards, all the same.’
‘Come on, let’s get back before we’re detailed to bury’em,’ said Simon.
The three men turned and began walking quickly back to Sherpur. Simon had taken a decision of his own and wished to discuss it with them, but not while the picture of those swinging dolls was so fresh in his mind.
In his little room he sat on the edge of the bed, Jenkins took the chair and W.G. stood, deferentially, until Simon gestured to him to sit beside him on the bed. It was to the Sikh that he spoke.
‘W.G., I am afraid that I never did know your regiment. Which is it?’
‘Ah, lord, I serve with one of the Punjabi infantry battalions, though I have been seconded to Guides. But battalion is not here. When last I am hearing, it was on garrison duty on the Frontier in India.’
‘When last you heard?’
‘Yes. You see I have been away on special duties for so long that I am losing touch with them.’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Let me see, I have been with you for nearly six months now. Before that, with Lieutenant Cavendish I was away for more than a year.’ He shrugged. ‘I am not being in touch very much, you see, lord.’
Simon smiled. ‘Long time since you hit a four through the covers, then?’
The Sikh leaned forward confidingly. ‘You are hitting the ball precisely on the head, sir. I am becoming a little worried that I will lose talent, you see. It is important to keep in practice. Even the great Dr Grace can be losing his eye, so to speak, sir. I heard last night—’
‘Yes, yes, I follow you.’ Simon stood and stretched his arms above his head. Jenkins looked up at him and wondered again at the change that had taken place within just twelve hours. Today there was no sign of melancholy, no lack of confidence: the Captain seemed at ease with himself for the first time since his capture in the hills. It was reassuring and puzzling, but so welcome that Jenkins did not wish to waste time on pondering the cause. It was enough that it had happened. Now he sensed that some new change was in the air.
Simon took four paces around the small room and then addressed them both. ‘I think our work is done here,’ he said. ‘The campaign is almost certainly over and I cannot see that we shall be needed further. I undertook to do a specific job for Colonel Lamb, and as far as I can see we have done it and no one can now hold us here if we wish to move on. Do you agree, 352?’
Jenkins nodded. ‘Let’s get out of this bloomin’ place as fast as we can, says I.’
‘Would you be happy, W.G., to go back to your regiment and practise your cover drive?’
The Sikh’s face broke into a grin. ‘Oh, absolutely, lord. I would very much like to see my wife and children again, isn’t it?’
Jenkins looked at the Sikh in amazement. ‘ ’Ere, Gracey, you’re never married, are you?’
‘Oh yes, Sergeant bach. I have wife, two boys and two girls.’ He smiled proudly. ‘Biggest girl is good fast bowler.’
‘Well I never. An’ there’s me thinkin’ that you was a bachelor for life, like the Captain an’ me.’ Jenkins leaned forward. ‘Gracey, I’ve bin meanin’ to ask you. Are you a Hindee or a Musselman?’
The Sikh looked shocked. ‘Neither, Sergeant bach. We Sikhs follow teachings of first guru, Guru Nanak, which means that we are not holding with caste and class but live by principles of truth, justice and freedom. All our women are called Kaur, meaning princess, and all men Singh, meaning lion—’
‘And is that why you never cut your ’air, then, ’cos you don’t, do yer?’
W.G. nodded gravely. ‘That is so, Sergeant bach. Our signs of the Rehatnama, our code for life, are the five Ks: kesh, or uncut hair, kirpan, the sword, kanga, our wooden comb, kachera, the breeches, and karra, our iron bracelet. They were introduced in your year 1699 by Gobind Rai, our tenth guru. He—’
Simon interrupted. ‘Well thank you, W.G., for that potted history. We are both grateful, but we must get on.’
Jenkins looked hurt. ‘No, bach sir. But it is interestin’, look you.’ He turned back to the Sikh with a solemn face. ‘I suppose that if you spelled cricket with a ‘k’ that could be your sixth code thingamijig, couldn’t it?’
Simon coughed quickly. ‘That will do, Sergeant. Now, I propose that I will submit my resignation to Colonel Covington.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘I shall have to buy you out again ...’
‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘What with?’
‘Money you can lend me.’
‘I see. I think we’ve had this conversation before. Anyway, I will buy you out. W.G., I have no power to order your return to your regiment, but I will submit a report to the General explaining how splendidly you have performed while with us and recommending that you now go back to India and receive a long leave, so enabling you to return to your family for a while.’ He extended his hand to the Sikh. ‘I can’t tell you how much you have earned my admiration, my gratitude and my respect.’
The big man rose to his feet and looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, it was nothing, lord.’ He shook hands with Simon. ‘I have learned much from you and the sergeant bach.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘Though I am still not understanding why they do not play cricket in Wales?’
‘Oh, but they do, Gracey. Trouble is, it’s the mountains, see. Because of the slopes, all the teams ’ave to be picked from blokes with one leg shorter than the other. That’s all right when they’re facin’ all the same way, but when the ball—’
‘Oh for God’s sake, 352,’ said Simon. ‘Do shut up. Now, out of the way. I must go and see Covington.’
The Chief of Staff’s office was empty. Simon borrowed pen and paper, sat down and scribbled his resignation. Briefly he explained the terms under which he had accepted Brigadier Lamb’s offer of a commission in the Guides, and stated that the task he had undertaken had been completed and that it was now his intention to return, with Jenkins, to civilian life. He felt it necessary to add that Brigadier Lamb would confirm all that he had written and that it was his intention to explain the circumstances of his resignation to the Brigadier personally. His cheque for Jenkins’s buy-out would follow.
He had been back in his room for less than an hour when an orderly called and requested that he return to see Colonel Covington immediately.
‘Ah, good,’ said Jenkins. ‘You’re goin’ to get your Victoria Cross at last.’
‘I doubt it v
ery much. Smells like trouble to me.’
But the Colonel was surprisingly accommodating. As Simon entered the door, Covington looked up with a smile and, in a well-remembered gesture, put both hands behind his head and leaned back so that the chair balanced precariously on its back legs. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘My God, you’ve gone completely native.’
‘That was my job.’
‘It seems that you have entered into it so completely that you now omit to address senior officers as sir.’
‘That was my job, sir.’
‘Hmmn.’ Covington picked up Simon’s letter. ‘Running away again, I see, Fonthill.’
‘My job is done, Colonel. My arrangement with Brigadier Lamb was that my commission with the Guides should be a short-term one. I have the right to resign and to take my man with me, as you know. Should you attempt to stop me, I shall take the matter up with the General and—’
Covington held up a languid hand. ‘Stop you? Stop you? Why on earth should I want to stop from leaving a man who, when last I saw him, was threatening to put an assegai in my back at our next meeting?’
‘No, not your back. I didn’t specify where.’
‘Ah, chest, was it? How very untypical of you. But to return, I won’t stop you leaving the army. I certainly don’t want to have a man like you working for me.’ He let the chair come crashing forward. ‘And from what I hear from ...’ he paused theatrically, ‘journalistic sources, not much of a man at that. So you can go, Fonthill. And good riddance.’
The words stung Simon like a slap across the face. Not much of a man . . . journalistic sources . . . Could Alice have ...? He knew that she had been somehow close to Covington in South Africa. Could she have told him of his injuries and - even worse - of her treatment of them? Of course not. There could be no question of Alice betraying him in this way. No, Covington must have heard a rumour about the way he had been hurt; there had been plenty of gossip in Sherpur about it, he knew that.
The thoughts were racing through Simon’s brain, but he kept his face completely impassive. He would not give this man the satisfaction of knowing that his words had wounded.
‘I think my record in Afghanistan will show that I have performed my duties creditably . . . sir.’ Simon’s voice was quite emotionless.
Covington’s urbanity now disappeared in a flash. His face scowling, he waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, get out of here, Fonthill. I want to have nothing more to do with you. The sooner you go back to India the better. Get out.’
Simon gave a curt nod of his head, leaned forward and pushed his letter forward as a reminder, and turned on his heel.
His heart felt lighter as he walked through the labyrinth of passages that led him to his tucked-away quarters. Once there, he penned another letter. This one was to General Roberts, informing him of his decision and putting into words his commendation of W.G. and his recommendation for leave for him.
Then he sealed the envelope, leaned back in his chair and considered his position. Resigning, he knew, had been an emotional reaction to the hangings outside the old Residency. Part of him realised that Roberts’s brutal action had been necessary and, indeed, proper. It was right that those who had broken the terms under which the mission had been accepted at Kabul and who had killed Cavagnari and his staff should be punished and seen to be punished. Nevertheless, the act of judgement had been military, not judicial, and the mass public hangings, with their elaborate ritual designed to impress the crowd, had been almost as barbarous as the events that had prompted them. The British were supposed to be a civilised race, for God’s sake!
At the same time - and Simon frowned at the recognition - his resignation had also been a reaction to Alice’s breath-taking initiative in demonstrating that he would not have to live with sexual impotence for the rest of his life. He shivered at the recollection: Alice holding him, Alice pressing her delightful breasts against him, Alice kissing him and sliding her mouth . . . ah! Surely she could not have done such a thing out of pure altruism? There must, there must, be some feelings of love for him, however deeply buried they might be beneath her woman-of-the-world demeanour and her protestations of only platonic affection.
He sighed. His mind had taken this path so many times over the last few hours that he felt exhausted at facing again the conflicting evidence his memory provided. No. He definitely had to go. To be away from her, to let her live her own life and allow him to sort his out once and for all. So . . . what to do? There would be plenty of back pay in his account at Simla, plus an accumulation of his allowance from home. There would be sufficient funds for him and Jenkins to live well for a time, before deciding on the next move. Tea-planting in India, perhaps? Ranching in America? He stretched his hands above his head, interlinking the fingers. Plenty of time. But, oh, Alice, Alice . . .
The next morning, surprisingly, there came a message to report to Lieutenant General Roberts. Simon did so with some trepidation. Was this some last order or trick to keep him in the army? He entered the well-remembered room and saw, to his relief, that Covington was not present, only the General and Brigadier Lamb. Roberts gestured towards a chair. Ah, a good sign!
‘I have your letter, Fonthill,’ said the General, stroking the end of his silver moustache, ‘and I have seen the letter of resignation that you have submitted to Colonel Covington.’ The blue eyes held Simon’s. ‘Now, tell me, pray, why you want to give up what is a promising career serving Her Majesty. Neither of these letters is clear on this matter.’
Simon cleared his throat. How far to go? ‘Well, sir, as Brigadier Lamb knows, I do not feel cut out to be a regimental officer and I don’t suppose I can continue to serve in this ...’ he gestured down to his Afghan garb, ‘irregular manner - and nor would I want to. I therefore believe that I should submit my resignation and return to civilian life while I am young enough to carve out some other career.’
‘What sort of career?’
‘I am not sure yet, sir. Perhaps tea-growing in India or something of the sort.’
‘Wouldn’t you find that rather dull after the kind of life that you have been leading lately?’ For the first time a smile - almost kindly - had been allowed to steal across Roberts’s features.
Simon allowed himself a half-smile in return. ‘It would probably be a welcome relief, sir. As a matter of fact, I don’t take easily to fighting and I am not sure I have the qualities that are needed to lead men in action. Although I don’t think that I am a coward, exactly.’
‘Look here.’ The General leaned across his desk. ‘Lamb has filled me in on your background.’ He coughed. ‘South Africa and all that. It could be that the army has been a little . . . harsh with you. But life is not always easy and I am not going to apologise for that. The point is that you came through in a capital manner. I can assure you that there is not the slightest doubt about your character. You did an extremely brave thing in allowing yourself to be captured and . . . er . . . so on. Your work here has been outstanding and I shall always be grateful that, thanks to you, this garrison was prepared for the attack when it came. Eh, Lamb?’
The Brigadier nodded vigorously. ‘Quite so, sir.’
‘Now.’ The General leaned back. ‘We don’t want you to go. As a matter of fact, we both think that you are extremely well suited to this . . . er . . . irregular work, and I want you to stay with us in India, here on the Frontier, and continue with it. If you will withdraw your resignation, I intend to recommend you for a decoration - can’t say what yet, but I can say that you will receive an immediate majority and we can make your Welshman a warrant officer. Oh, and yes, I have already promoted your Sikh to the rank of subaldar, long overdue anyway. Now, what do you say?’
Simon’s heart sank. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this. Confident smiles were playing across the features of both the General and the Brigadier; they were men not accustomed to having their largesse refused. They were expecting gratitude, not rejection. Simon shifted on his chair.
&n
bsp; ‘That is extremely kind of you, General,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it and I am grateful. But I still feel that I must go. You see, I am not in tune with life in the army - I don’t always agree with the things which, I suppose, we have to do in places like this and I do not wish to be part of them.’ His voice tailed away rather lamely. ‘That’s how I feel, sir. I am sorry.’
‘Right.’ The General’s eyes had become cold again. ‘Shan’t argue with you. Not going to plead. I am afraid that there will be no question of a decoration now. Can’t give one to a man who’s resigned. Your back pay will be waiting for you at the Guides HQ at Simla. You may keep your weapons until you get back there. I’m afraid you won’t be able to go yet. The passes are still not safe for small parties and it will be some time before we shall be sending back larger units. When we do, you shall join them.’ He nodded. ‘That will be all, Fonthill.’
Chapter 11
Simon had established that the small party of journalists was quartered at the Bala Hissar, but he made no attempt to go there and seek out Alice, and he saw nothing of her, although he did meet a newspaperman one day, as he and Jenkins were walking in the Sherpur compound. A young European in mufti - not a particularly unusual sight in Kabul, where many ethnic types now intermingled - passed as he and Jenkins were deep in discussion. On hearing fluent, colloquial English spoken by two seeming Pathans, the young man paused, turned and overtook them.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘You must be Captain Fonthill and Sergeant Jenkins.’
Simon regarded the man with interest. He was wearing a dark top-coat and astrakhan hat, riding breeches and boots - standard wear for a civilian in Kabul. But the hair that hung down from the fur hat and the moustache and beard were golden, and the eyes blue and alive with an open curiosity. The stranger held out his hand.