by John Wilcox
As though she had sensed his thoughts, Alice lifted up her head, reached into her saddle pack, extracted her Navy Colt revolver and tucked it into her cummerbund.
The light found them making their way over broken ground where the hills to their left rose from the plain. It was difficult going and Simon was forced to veer to the right, on to the plain itself, where the terrain was level. It was a risk, of course, because they became clearly visible once away from the undulations of the foothills. At first, as the sun emerged from a peak ahead and immediately transformed the temperature, they seemed to have the valley to themselves. Ahead of them, Kandahar was tucked out of sight behind a spur, but there was no sign of an encampment, no tell-tale trail of dust from mounted men. Nothing but the flat, seemingly endless plain, pockmarked with stones and, here and there, the low stone walls marking little cultivated squares. Then, far to their right, they could see hundreds of Afghans streaming out from the village of Gundigan going . . . where?
‘No, they’re not after us,’ murmured Simon, in response to the obvious concern of the others. ‘I think they are coming out to man those garden walls to bring down the patrols that Roberts is bound to send out early.’
‘Yes, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘But what about them lads?’ He nodded behind them. At a distance of some three hundred yards, a group of about a dozen mounted Afghans were trotting purposefully towards them, jezails and, by the look of it, more modern rifles nestling stocks-down against their thighs, muzzles in the air, like pictures of desert Touregs that Simon had seen in picture books as a boy.
W.G. looked at Simon, his eyebrows raised.
‘Tell them,’ said Simon, his brain racing, ‘tell them, as before, that we are Afridis from the Khyber, on our way to buy horses from Kandahar. Tell them that we lost our way in the hills and that we did not know the city was under siege. Just do what you can, W.G. Play a straight bat for all you’re worth.’
‘Very good, lord.’
‘Let’s cock our weapons, but no firing unless we have to. We shall be severely outnumbered. Just keep plodding on. No nervousness, now.’
Within minutes, they were overtaken by the Afghans. Unlike the previous patrol, these were not in uniform. They looked more like brigands in their flowing cotton robes, bandoliers, and arrogantly curled slippers. Some wore skull caps instead of turbans and they all carried long knives or curved swords tucked into their cummerbunds. Two of them had round studded shields, worn on their forearms in medieval fashion. They were not, surmised Simon, regular cavalry, and those who did not carry jezails, he noted with relief, were bearing muskets rather than modern breech-loading rifles. Their leader, a small man, his beard flecked with grey, addressed Jenkins, who rode at the rear.
Smoothly, W.G. interjected and began speaking quickly in Pushtu. Simon caught the patrol leader’s eye and nodded gravely. While the conversation continued, however, he noticed that one of the Pathans was staring fixedly at Alice. Gradually, the man edged his pony forward until he was by her side. Alice, realising the danger posed by the colour of her eyes, continued to look down, as in a mixture of tiredness and indifference.
Simon was aware that the conversation between W.G. and the leading Afghan was not going well. The man was now raising his voice and gesturing forwards to Kandahar and behind him, presumably to the lines of the Afghan army. W.G. was nodding slowly and shrugging his shoulders, and despite the immediacy of the danger that faced them all, Simon could not help but reflect on the debt they all owed to the Sikh. Without him - his linguistic ability, his knowledge of the country and his cool head in a crisis - they would be like children on a battlefield.
But it was clear that W.G. was losing the argument. The Afghan leader was gesturing back towards Gundigan and the Sikh shot a quick glance of appeal to Simon. Simon weighed the options: could they retreat to the Afghan camp and attempt to talk their way out of there, or should they make a dash for it, across the plain, to what hopefully were the British lines?
The question was answered for him by the man who had edged alongside Alice. In a quick movement, he reached across to tilt her head upwards with his hand under her chin. Instinctively, she knocked his hand upwards but his fingers caught on the edge of her cap, sending it to the ground and releasing her mass of golden hair. For a moment, all action was suspended as everyone looked at Alice, her brown-dyed face incongruously set against her yellow hair. She was no longer a Pathan youth, there was no doubt about that, and a low murmur of, at first, amazement and then anger rose from the Afghans.
For a splendid moment, whatever action was about to be taken by the patrol was diverted by Jenkins. He rose in his stirrups, held up his hand and shouted: ‘Now just a minute, boyos, there’s good chaps.’ He urged his horse forward to that of the leader and addressed him with a huge grin. ‘Now, Grandad.’ He put a companionable hand on the man’s shoulder and pointed back to the village. ‘Why don’t you and these black gentlemen all fuck off back to that miserable hovel over there and let us get on our way? Yes?’ His grin grew even wider. ‘Goodness, we don’t want to spoil this lovely day with fightin’, do we? Not with a lady present, anyway. Eh?’
The look of surprise on the Afghan’s face gradually changed to fury, and he reached for the knife at his waist. But Jenkins was quicker. His hand on the man’s shoulder slipped to the back of his turban, and in one swift movement he pulled the Afghan’s face sharply towards him and head-butted him on the nose. The crack as the nose was shattered echoed clearly on that still morning. Jenkins half lifted, half twisted the leader from the saddle and threw him, with a shrug of his strong shoulders, towards the second Afghan in line, who was fumbling with his musket. The two fell to the ground as a shot rang out - the distinctive, high-pitched crack of a Colt revolver. From the corner of his eye, Simon saw the young Afghan next to Alice crumple as he attempted to pull her from the saddle by her hair. Then a musket ball whistled past Simon’s head and he fired instinctively from the waist with his Martini-Henry as his horse bucked. The shot missed his assailant but hit his horse, sending them both to the ground.
To the front, Jenkins and W.G. had had no time to aim and fire their rifles, but both were locked in close combat, using their guns to fend off sword thrusts from three Afghans. It would have been an unequal contest, but the Afghan ponies were rearing, their eyes white with fear at the gunshots, and the thrusts were clumsy and easily parried. Simon had had no time to reload his rifle and he watched impotently as he saw an Afghan pull away from the mêlée, raise his musket and take a sight on Jenkins’s back. Then the revolver rang out again and the rifleman clutched at his stomach and slid slowly from the saddle. Alice had pulled away, and although her own pony was excitedly twisting its head, she was coolly reining it in hard with one hand and endeavouring to take aim with the Colt with the other. She put a bullet through the shoulder of one of the men fighting Jenkins and then missed with a fourth shot as her pony reared. She had only two bullets left.
Simon heard a rifle shot as W.G. at last was able to bring his Martini-Henry into play, then, immediately, the double cough as a jezail was fired. As in a tableau, he saw the Sikh rise high in the saddle, pause there for a moment, an expression of great surprise on his face and a small black hole in the centre of his forehead, just below his turban, before pitching to the ground.
‘No, no!’ Simon cried out in a mixture of anger and horror. Then he seized his rifle by the barrel and, swinging it round his head, charged into the knot of Afghans who were attempting to get a bearing for their muskets on their plunging targets. He crashed into them, scattering them by the force of his charge and knocking one from his saddle. At the same time, he felt a thump on his left forearm as a musket shot tore through the flesh. He saw the blood and wondered, for a split second, why no pain came, before a misdirected swing of a sword sent his turban flying. He turned and pushed the sharp muzzle of his rifle hard into the midriff of the Afghan, whose sword swing had left him exposed. The thrust sent a sharp pain surging up f
rom forearm to shoulder and the rifle sagged from his one good hand. But he had unseated the Afghan and given himself a respite for a second so that, breast heaving, he was able to look around at the conflict for the first time.
W.G. lay on the ground, dead, blood oozing from the neat, black-rimmed hole in his forehead. Three Pathans were also dead or badly wounded, while four others, including their leader, from whose shattered nose blood was gushing copiously, were either grovelling on all fours or trying to re-mount their excited ponies. The four remaining members of the band were slightly withdrawn, attempting to calm their mounts so that they could reload and aim their muskets. Alice, revolver in hand, was sitting watching Simon, wide-eyed. To Simon’s amazement, Jenkins was gently trotting his pony away from the scene.
The whole confrontation had taken no more than two minutes, yet at least four men had almost certainly lost their lives.
Simon regained his composure. ‘Alice,’ he shrieked, ‘ride like hell to that little compound over there. We may be able to hold them off there. Go now!’
He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and followed Alice, who was riding like a fury. He shouted at Jenkins: ‘Follow us, man. Where are you going?’ Jenkins, however, raised a languid hand, waved and then turned his horse round so that he faced the little knot of Afghans, who, for a moment, were unsure whether to pursue Alice and Simon or Jenkins himself. They were also detained for a second or two by their leader, who had found his horse and was shouting orders to them, incoherently because he was attempting also to stem the bleeding from his nose with the end of his turban.
‘Jenkins. Come on, for God’s sake!’ Simon shouted as he galloped, his head craned round towards the Welshman. As he watched, he saw Jenkins calmly raise his rifle, fire and bring down the Afghan leader. Suddenly, the little man was galvanised into life. He kicked in his heels, let out a high-pitched screech, put his head down, levelled his rifle as though it was a lance and charged into the Afghans.
There was no time to see more, because Simon’s horse had to take the stone wall in a leap which nearly unseated its rider and made him drop the rifle from his injured hand. Alice, already dismounted, seized the reins and held the trembling horse as Simon slid to the ground.
‘Did you see that?’ gasped Simon. ‘Where is he? Where’s 352?’
‘What? No. I was getting in here. Oh, you’ve been wounded. Here, let me see.’
‘No, it’s only a scratch.’ He pushed her away and turned his head. ‘What’s happened to . . . Oh, thank God. Here he is now.’
The Welshman, head down and rifle trailing from one hand, was galloping towards them. He took the stone wall gracefully, wheeled round and dismounted, slipping to the ground with a grin. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ he said, his cheeks blowing out with exertion, ‘that was a bit warm, isn’t it? Thought we’d all copped it there for a minute, see. Well done, though, you two.’ His grin changed to a frown as he saw the blood dripping from Simon’s arm. ‘Look you, you’ve been wounded.’
‘No. It’s just caught the flesh. What the hell were you doing there?’
The grin came back. ‘Thought a bit of a cavalry charge was the only way to give us time to get ’ere. It always works. Takes ’em by surprise, like. An’ all that shoutin’, it frightens their horses, see. They prance around an’ split up an’ nobody gets a chance to get a shot in. I was off before they knew whether it was Tuesday or pay day.’ He looked round. ‘ ’Ere, where’s old Gracey?’
‘I am sorry, 352, but he’s dead. He took a slug between the eyes.’
‘Ah.’ Jenkins pursed his lips and was silent for a moment. ‘Now, that is bad, man.’ He spoke quietly, as though to himself. ‘Bowled middle stump, you might say. Well, ’e might say, anyway. In fact, that’s what he would say. Lovely bloke.’
‘Simon.’ Simon turned to Alice, down whose cheeks two distinct tears were running. She gestured with her head. ‘I think they’re coming again.’
Simon ran to the low wall. What remained of the Afghan patrol - the seven uninjured men - were trotting their ponies towards the compound. As he watched, the little party split into two groups to encircle the enclosure. They now walked their ponies with caution, giving respect to the marksmanship of the defenders. But their determination was evident. They had a score to settle.
They were within range, but Simon resisted the temptation to shoot. Ammunition was limited and he had a feeling that this could be a long haul. He looked around. The walls consisted of roughly piled stones, only about four feet high in most places. They were stout enough, but there would be as much danger from flying stone chips as from bullets. The compound itself was small, about thirty yards square, and contained a little orchard of fruit trees in the centre, which themselves provided a little cover. He caught himself wondering how it was irrigated on this arid plane. With only three of them, it would be difficult to defend four walls. And how long before the shooting attracted more of the Pathans from the village?
He swallowed hard. ‘Right. They are going to surround us, of course. Jenkins, can you get these horses to lie down. Alice, can you lie with them and keep them down. If they are shot we shall never get out of here.’
Alice shook her head. ‘No, Simon. You will need me at one of the walls. I have reloaded my revolver and I have another dozen bullets for it. We must just tie the horses’ heads to the trees. I can shoot as well as a man.’
‘Better than most, I’d say,’ said Jenkins, who was already smoothing the neck of Simon’s horse with a practised hand and then persuading it to lie, its head close to the trunk of an orange tree.
‘No, Alice.’ Simon tried to sound authoritative but it was clear that Alice was not to be ordered. She stood, legs slightly apart, facing him. The tears had traced two rivulets through the dust on her cheeks, but her eyes were bright and she was not crying now. Simon wrinkled his brow. ‘Oh my dear. Don’t give me trouble.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Oh, very well. You take this wall.’ He put both hands on her shoulders. ‘Keep your head down and keep moving along the wall every time you fire so that they can’t get a bearing on you. And Alice . . . don’t get yourself killed. Whatever would I say to your father?’
She smiled. ‘He would understand, I know he would.’
The cough of a jezail made them kneel.
Simon gestured. ‘Three five two, you take that eastern wall. I’ll dodge between the other two.’
‘I’ll dodge with you. I’m a better shot than you. You couldn’t ’it an elephant if it was sitting on your knee.’
‘Don’t be impertinent.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Alice crawled towards Simon and fumbled with her cotton shirt. She put one end between her teeth and tore off a rough strip. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘let me see your arm.’ She inspected it without a grimace. ‘Looks only a flesh wound but we should stop the bleeding.’ She began winding the cloth tightly around the wound. ‘Sorry, we can’t clean it now, but we must as soon as we can. Can you use the arm?’
‘Yes thank you, nurse.’
The smack of a musket ball into the peach tree above their heads ended the dialogue, and Simon raised his rifle with his good arm and poked it cautiously over the wall. Another slug into the stones was his reward, but a puff of smoke marked where the sniper lay, between two rocks, out on the plain. Simon withdrew and crawled ten paces along behind the wall, then levelled his rifle again and waited, gambling on the inaccuracy of the jezail, although he knew that the Afghans were good shots, despite the age and the waywardness of their weapons.
The musket coughed again and the slug whistled over his head, but this time he was able to send a shot straight back into the puff of smoke. He fancied he heard a moan, but could not be sure. Both Jenkins and Alice were firing now, pacing their shots. How long could they all hold out? If only W.G. . . . The pace of events had been so fast that he had had no time to think of the big Sikh. As he scrambled along awkwardly, keeping his head below the edge of the wall, he mourned the man who had d
evoted his life to the cause of the nation that had defeated his own: a man of morality, resource and complete and utter loyalty. The Sikh had had higher standards than most of the officers who commanded him. If they came out of this mess, Simon resolved, he would make sure that W.G.’s wife and children were well cared for. W.G. W.G. . . . how ridiculous! What the hell was his real name? Lamb would know.
A bullet pinged on to the stone where Simon’s rifle barrel showed above the parapet. They were shooting more accurately now. Would they attempt to charge the compound? It was seven against three and the Afghans would know the odds.
He called: ‘Have either of you managed to hit any of them?’
Alice shook her head. ‘Think I’ve winged one of ’em,’ shouted Jenkins. ‘Hey, look out.’
Simon whirled and fired at a white-swathed figure who, sword raised, had jumped a low part of the wall and was running towards Alice. He fell just before her, face down on the stony ground, his sword clattering to a halt at the girl’s feet. Blood seeped from under the body and began to form a pool in the dust. Simon scrambled to Alice.