The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Alice sighed. She tried one more ploy - at least audacity seemed to faze the men opposite, if only for a moment.

  ‘I am sorry, General, but I am afraid I cannot do that.’

  ‘What!’ For the first time Roberts seemed to lose his temper. He was unaccustomed to being defied.

  ‘I understand that the British Army has sustained a heavy defeat at Maiwand and that you will shortly be taking a flying column out across the hills to march to Kandahar to fight Ayub Khan. I must accompany the press correspondents who are going with you. It is my duty. The readers of the Morning Post have a right to know what is happening in western Afghanistan.’

  ‘That is not possible, madam. By your actions - by your deliberate defiance of very necessary rules established by the commanding officer of a British army in the field - you have negated whatever rights you have in this respect. Your editor will be told so. Now, I must ask you to leave and prepare yourself for the journey back to India.’

  ‘I cannot do that, General, for the reasons I have explained. I have work to do here. You cannot expel me from a country which, in any case, is not yours to govern.’

  From the corner of her eye, Alice noticed Covington flinch and shake his head at her.

  Roberts stood. ‘Ah, but I can, young lady. And I will. If you deliberately disobey me I shall have you arrested and placed in the guardhouse until your departure, when you will be transported under guard back to India. In fetters, if necessary. Do you hear and understand me?’ The little man’s tone was quietly furious.

  Alice sighed. ‘Oh, very well, Sir Frederick. I do not wish to add to your considerable burden at this time, when you have so much that is important to do. I am sorry if I have upset you.’ She stood. ‘But I must give you a warning also.’ She saw Covington in the background shake his head again imploringly. ‘I shall find some means of reporting this campaign, because, you see, I have my duty.’

  ‘I do not accept that. If you defy me further, I shall have you arrested. Now please leave. We have much to do. Good morning, madam.’

  Alice inclined her head to them all. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  She strode out of the room, her cheeks burning. Damn them! Damn them for their smug authority and hypocrisy. Damn them for interfering with her work, just when she was establishing a reputation. Damn them, in fact, for setting back her career. For that, she realised with sinking heart, was what her inability to accompany the flying column would mean. Cornford and the directors of the Morning Post would be furious that their correspondent with the army was being sent out of the country in disgrace, just when one of the most romantic and dangerous expeditions of the whole war was being mounted. She knew that Roberts would have to march through the mountains to get to Kandahar, through a country roused against him. This time there would be no elephants and heavy artillery; all that had been sent back to India. His would truly be a flying column, travelling light and quick - just the sort of march, whether a success or failure, which would set alight the jingoistic public back home. And she would not be here to record it!

  Alice held her head high as she walked back through the pale sunshine, but her thoughts were in her boots. Cornford, she knew, had protected her before from criticism from the high Tories on the board. As editor, he had occasionally shaved away some of the more iconoclastic passages in her copy, but he had always allowed the main thrust of her articles to remain. Now he would have few grounds for defending her, even if he wished to. Defying the Commander-in-Chief and forging his initials would, she knew, leave her completely vulnerable to her critics. She was in disgrace.

  As she walked through the pale winter sunshine, however - and her stride lengthened as her mind raced - her resolution grew. She would not be dictated to by officers of the British Army, however high their rank. She was a civilian working in a neutral country and she would stay in Afghanistan to complete the task assigned to her. But how? She would have to keep up with Roberts’s column if she was to get her story, but, clearly, the army would not allow her within its fold and she knew, from travelling with Gough’s force up through the passes, that any straggler hobbling along behind the rearguard would be pounced upon and cut to pieces by the tribesmen who lurked on the fringes of the advance. She remembered with a shudder seeing the mutilated bodies of two cooks who had been brought in one morning after straying beyond the pickets. There was no way that a woman could travel independently behind Roberts’s column.

  Alice entered the Bala Hissar, disregarding the salute of the sentry at the gate, and her mind turned back to Covington’s intervention during her interrogation. She smiled at the thought. He had tried to be brave - as one would expect of him - but his gallantry could not go very far. Yet perhaps he could help her travel with the column: in disguise, maybe . . .?

  Her reverie was interrupted by Campbell, who put a concerned arm through hers and escorted her to her room. ‘Are you going to be shot at dawn?’

  ‘No. Worse than that. I’ve been sacked. I am to leave Afghanistan with a force which is going back to India in two days’ time. The bloody man won’t let me go with the Kandahar column.’

  Alice sprawled on her bed and Campbell drew up a chair and sat. He leaned forward, his elbow on his knee, his fist supporting his chin. ‘Look, I’ll do all I can to help. Perhaps I can send my copy back to you at the Frontier and you can rewrite and telegraph on—’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’ Alice shook her head in disgust. ‘I can’t rewrite someone else’s copy. I must be with the column and write my own story. You must see that.’

  Campbell lifted his eyebrows. ‘Well, I can see that all right, Alice. What I can’t see, my dear, is how you are going to do it. Trying to smuggle yourself into a fast-moving show, as this is bound to be, will be impossible. You must realise that. Not to mention the danger.’

  ‘I know. I just have to find a way. Perhaps Covington will help me.’

  ‘I don’t see how. He will have a war to fight.’

  As if on cue, a firm hand rapped on the door and a voice called, ‘Alice, I must see you.’

  Alice rose and opened the door to reveal a stern-visaged Covington. His scowl deepened further when he saw Campbell.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the Scotsman. ‘I’m just going.’ He stood and smiled at Alice and nodded to Covington. At the door, as he brushed past the tall soldier, he whispered, ‘Don’t be too hard on her.’

  Alice gestured to the empty chair and raised a hand in defence. ‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been foolish. Well, it’s not for the first time and I expect it won’t be the last.’

  Covington sat and, without a word, adjusted the impeccable crease in his trousers. They sat in silence for a moment or two, then, gradually, the Colonel’s face relaxed into a smile and he shook his head.

  ‘My darling Alice. Foolish is not the word. Stupid is more like it, but, by God, I like your spirit.’ He pushed the chair back until, familiarly, it was balanced on its two back legs. His blue eyes beamed at her above his magnificent moustache. ‘You certainly gave those little pricks what for, I’ll say. I would give a thousand guineas to hear you call Roberts’s hand again with those bloody newspaper articles from India. Never heard him speechless before. Then you told him it wasn’t his country to throw you out of . . . Bloody marvellous. Wish you were a soldier and I had you in my regiment. We’d knock these Pathans over on our own. What!’

  Alice smiled, despite her gloom. Covington, traditional, conventional, dyed-in-the-wool Victorian Covington, could be magnificently unpredictable. He had a mind of his own - and guts, too. Not for the first time, she realised that this was a man she could love: strong, loyal and attractive. But now he must help her again. He would help, she knew.

  Suddenly, as though he had read her mind, Covington brought his chair down again with a thud. He reached across and took her hand, raised it to his lips for a moment and then retained it in his own. All trace of laughter had disappeared. ‘Now, my dear,’ he said, ‘there has to be no nonse
nse about this. I have been put in charge of making sure that you do leave in two days’ time.’ A half-smile returned for a brief moment. ‘Shrewd old bugger, Roberts. I think he suspects that I’m soft on you. So he’s given me orders to be hard on you. And so I will. You will leave in that India party. I will see to that.’

  ‘But Ralph, I can’t go. You must see that. My career depends upon it.’

  Covington increased his grip on her hand but his voice softened somewhat. ‘My dear, I have a terrible feeling that your career is probably over. You were very stupid to break the rules set up by an army commander in the field. I am afraid you behaved arrogantly, and there is no one in the army, either here or back home, who would say differently. You will never get accreditation again. But, my love,’ he cupped her hand in both of his and leaned forward, ‘it is of no matter. You have had your fling. Marry me now. You will be mistress of a fine estate back home. There will be good hunting, and children, and even . . .’ he waved his hand expansively, ‘opportunities very occasionally to accompany me in the field - though not on dangerous postings, of course. I promise you there will be wonderful compensations for this nonsense. I will make it up to you. You’ll see.’

  Alice smiled into the earnest face so close to hers. She put up a hand and brought his head down so that she could kiss the great moustache. Instinctively, he held her close, but she pushed him away.

  ‘Ralph, you know I do not wish to marry anyone, at least not at present.’ She raised his hand and put it to her cheek. ‘You also know how fond I am of you. But, just as your career is everything to you, so is mine to me. I know that you think that unusual and wild-headed, but that is the way I am made.’ She smiled but there was more than a hint of sadness in her face. ‘I do not accept that my career is over and I intend to fight to see that it is not. Please, please, can you help me with that?’

  Covington withdrew his hand sharply. ‘Help you. How?’

  ‘I will not go back to India. Will you help me travel with the column to Kandahar?’

  ‘Good God. What? How?’

  Alice leaned forward and spoke quickly and with emphasis. ‘I have not the faintest idea. But you will know. Disguise me as an Indian woman to travel with the cooks, or something. You know I am hardy and strong. I will work and keep up. But I must be in Kandahar to file my story when the battle comes. I must. I must.’

  Covington rose to his feet slowly and stood looking down at her. Then he broke the silence. ‘You know I would do almost anything for you, Alice. But not this. There are several reasons why not. Firstly, it is far too dangerous. Do you know where the main casualties occur when a column goes on active service on the frontier?’

  Alice shook her head.

  ‘It’s always with the Indian cooks and baggage train. However we try and protect them with a rearguard, they are always vulnerable. They’re so easy to pick off, particularly at night. But there’s another reason. I too have my duty to do. And at the moment, it includes making sure that you are in that column returning to India. My dear, I shall carry out that duty, even if it means losing you. I suggest that you begin packing.’

  Covington held her gaze for a moment, then, with a half-bow, he turned and left, leaving Alice staring at the door with tears brimming in her eyes. She stayed that way for a while, cursing her weakness, before lying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling through half-closed eyes. Then, her mind made up, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her cloak and set off for Sherpur.

  Simon, Jenkins and W.G. were in their room, beginning their preparations for joining the India column in two days’ time, when Alice knocked on the door. She smiled at them all. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I come in?’

  Three answering smiles welcomed her and Jenkins and W.G. competed to push forward the solitary chair. She sat and nodded her thanks. ‘Mr Jenkins and Mr Grace, would you think me impertinent if I asked if you would be so kind as to leave us so that I can talk privately with the Captain for a moment?’

  ‘Of course not, miss,’ said Jenkins, giving Simon as meaningful a look as he dared, and even W.G.’s customary dignity departed him for a moment as his head bobbed up and down in earnest agreement.

  As the door closed behind them, Simon regarded Alice rather as a rabbit might a fox - so much so that Alice burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s all right, Simon,’ she said. ‘I am not here to attack you again.’

  Simon gave a rueful smile in return. ‘Well, I’m not sure whether I am sorry or glad. No. I do know. I am sorry.’

  ‘Oh, good. I will take that as a compliment. Now, tell me. How have you been?’

  ‘Oh, fit as a fiddle - thanks to you. I am much better now. In fact, I believe that I am completely recovered; in mind as well as body. Jenkins and I are getting out of the army and W.G. is going back to his regiment. We are all returning to India the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alice’s heart sank immediately and her face showed her disappointment. Her last chance had disappeared. ‘Oh dear. I am glad for you, if that is what you want. I really am.’ She paused and looked aimlessly around her: at the rifles leaning in a corner, the clothing strewn on the beds, the remnants of the light lunch still on the table.

  Simon followed her gaze and, for a moment, his spirits leaped. She was sorry to be losing him. Her face showed it, there could be no doubting it. She must, she must, care a little! Then came disillusion.

  ‘I came to see if you could help me, but I fear you cannot now.’ Alice did not record the disappointment that flashed briefly across Simon’s face at her words, for she felt herself giving way to despair. All of the humiliation of the interview with Roberts, the disappointment of Covington’s rejection and the realisation that her career was ruined pressed in on her, and as she looked into the brown eyes set in the battered young face opposite her, her own eyes filled with tears. She looked down but it was too late. Her shoulders began to heave and she collapsed into great sobs.

  Immediately, Simon sprang from the bed, knelt at her side and enfolded her in his arms. She wept on his shoulder like a baby and he, like a father with a child, rocked her to and fro, stroking her hair and murmuring, ‘Shush, shush. It will be all right. You’ll see. Whatever it is, I will help you. You’ll see. Don’t cry, Alice. Don’t cry.’

  But cry she did, uncharacteristically openly, happy to be comforted, all traces of the sophisticated woman-of-the-world completely departed, until, eventually, she pushed him away and groped for her handkerchief.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it bloody that whenever a person cries, her nose runs too. Please forgive me. I must look a complete wreck.’ She dabbed at her nose and swollen eyes with her handkerchief.

  Simon returned to the edge of his bed. ‘You look fine to me. Now, tell me what has happened. I shall help you, whatever the cost. I owe you everything.’

  Alice smiled through her tears. ‘No you don’t. I didn’t come here debt-collecting, and anyway, now that you are out of the army, I don’t see how you can help me.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Alice blew her nose and regained her composure. Then she related the events of the day. Simon said not a word, although he could not resist a smile when Alice spoke of her evasion of the censoring procedure. At the end she said, ‘So you see, I presumed that you would be going with the column to Kandahar and that, somehow, you could take me with you in your scouting party, or whatever it is you do.’

  Simon pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Sorry. We are out of the army now, and frankly, I don’t see that Roberts would take us back even if we asked him. He will have made other arrangements for scouting and intelligence-gathering now and, frankly, I don’t think he’s the sort of man who takes kindly to being turned down and then told that we have changed our minds.’

  Alice nodded ruefully. ‘I can see that.’

  For a moment the two regarded each other. To Simon, Alice looked heart-wrenchingly vulnerable. That firm chin was now wobbling slightly as sh
e tried to restrain tears, and the air of cool self-confidence, which, even if it was assumed, had so daunted him when she came to his bed, had been replaced by one of complete and supplicatory dependence. She looked young and quite, quite innocent. It took an effort of will to recall the woman who had, well, seduced him. The memory reminded him of his debt.

  ‘Alice, is this really terribly important to you - I mean, even to the point of risking your life?’

  She nodded, her eyes widening as she glimpsed a ray of hope. ‘Oh, Simon, yes. You see, my work has meant everything to me. Before I became a journalist I was a complete misfit - a girl with a good mind but with nothing to apply it to. I did not wish to marry and join the breeding circuit and I certainly could not spend the rest of my life helping Mama with good works and arranging fêtes. Writing for the Morning Post, I have been good at what I have done. For the first time in my life I have been completely fulfilled. But if I do not have the chance of redeeming myself for this . . . foolishness, I will be finished. Can you, will you, help me?’

  ‘Alice, I don’t know, but perhaps I can. Certainly, I will try to help you. However, the point is that it would be so much easier if Jenkins and W.G. were involved too, which means that their lives would also be put at risk. I cannot order them in this situation.’

  Alice hung her head for a moment. ‘I realise I am asking so much.’ Then she looked up and held his gaze with that directness he remembered so well. ‘Do you think that I am a spoiled brat, Simon, a selfish bitch? Do you?’

  Slowly he smiled and shook his head. ‘No. A spoiled brat wouldn’t have done what you did for me, both here and in South Africa. Stubborn, maybe, but neither selfish nor spoiled. Now, we don’t have much time, and even if the others agree, there are practicalities to consider. Can you come back here, say, in two hours?’