by John Wilcox
‘Hey,’ shouted Jenkins, ‘I’m supposed to protect your back.’ But Simon was gone.
He ran to the east wall, jumping over the carcasses of the dead horses, to find that the rickety five-barred gate was now the scene of a heaving mass of fighting men, as the ghazis attempted to push it open to let the cavalry through and the Punjabis, using their carbines as clubs, desperately defended it. In the centre, balancing awkwardly on his good leg, Covington cut and hacked with his sabre, using a retrieved Afghan shield to fend off sword thrusts. The Pathans’ very advantage in numbers handicapped them, however, for as the host behind them pressed them forward, they could find little room to swing their weapons, whereas the Punjabis were able to stand back from the gate to swing their rifles.
Simon pushed to Covington’s side and lunged with his long lance. He heard the scream as it found soft flesh and, dimly remembering the technique of the Zulu warriors, he twisted the lance and pulled back, hearing on the retrieval that sucking noise, iklwa - the name the Zulus had given their assegais. A curved sword swung at his head and Covington thrust forward his shield to parry it, allowing Simon to thrust again and then again and again into the mass of figures beyond the gate. Another sword swung, and this time Covington was only able partly to parry it, deflecting the back of the blade on to his own head. He went down immediately, half stunned, at Simon’s feet, and two Pathans immediately took the opportunity to climb on to the top of the gate. Simon stood astride the fallen Colonel and speared the first tribesman but was unable to retrieve the lance in time to stop the second from leaping on to him, and the two went down together, falling across Covington. Simon, momentarily winded, stared up into a face that exuded hate. He struggled to find the man’s throat, but his wounded arm was now quite useless and the uneven contest would have been over in a second had not a shot rung out and Simon felt the Pathan go inert above him. Covington and Simon crawled from under the Afghan together and were helped to their feet by Jenkins, revolver in hand.
‘Thanks, 352,’ gasped Simon.
‘Not me,’ said Jenkins, nodding over his shoulder and then coolly taking aim. ‘You try keepin’ ’er in the trees. I couldn’t.’
Alice was standing a few paces back from the mêlée, thrusting cartridges into her Colt. She twirled the revolving magazine, levelled the gun and fired again into the crowd.
‘Back into the trees, Alice,’ shouted Covington, sucking air into his lungs.
‘Go to hell, Ralph,’ she retorted, shooting again.
Suddenly, there was a crack as the top bar of the gate split. Jenkins immediately picked up his rifle and pushed into the middle of the Punjabis. He thrust the Martini-Henry straight into the midriff of a ghazi attempting to scale the gate and the man bent at the middle like a mattress and collapsed backwards. Simon, his left arm now virtually useless, short-handled his lance and thrust away with it across the broken wood. A ‘Confound you, you black devil’ from his side told him that Covington had rejoined the fray.
Yet it was now clearly hopeless. Firing had petered out at the walls of the compound and it was obvious that the defenders’ ammunition had been exhausted and that, all around the perimeter, they were now reduced to fighting with their rifles as clubs. It could only be a matter of minutes before the Afghans would make a breach and attack from behind. Then it would all be over.
The series of crumps that now came surprised everyone, attackers and defenders alike. Beyond the crowd still thronging the gate, Simon saw a red-cored column of earth and stone erupt vertically; and then another and another. The thud of the gunf ire came a second after the shells exploded. The first overshot and landed behind the cavalry who were milling at the rear of the ghazis attempting to force the gate. But the second and third fell among the mounted men, causing havoc as horses reared and bodies were hurled to the ground.
‘They’ve brought up their artillery,’ Simon cried in despair.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ growled Covington. ‘They’re our seven-pounders. Screw guns. Knew they’d come. Saw a flicker from their heliograph, before our signaller was shot.’ He wiped the back of a blood-stained hand across his moustache. ‘Left it a bit late, though. Get Alice under cover. Go on, man. They may drop short.’
Chapter 13
Simon winced as the medical orderly pulled the two ends of the bandage together on his forearm and fastened it just below the wound. He was sitting on a camp stool outside the Commander-in-Chief ’s tent, under the walls of Kandahar. For a man who had never been on the general staff, he reflected, he had spent an inordinate amount of time on this campaign waiting to see General Rober ts. Now, as he watched the sun slipping down behind the peaks of the Baba Wali Kotal, he was dog tired and wanted no awkward interrogation from the Commander-in-Chief - just the chance to crawl under blankets and forget the happenings of an horrific day. The deaths of W.G. and, to a lesser extent, John Campbell had saddened him, but he was also perturbed at the way the conflicts of the day had reduced Alice to a shrunken, uncommunicative figure, huddled and shrouded in a blanket in an ammunition cart as they had been escorted back to Kandahar by the battalion that had rescued them from the orchard.
Roberts, he had been told, had been suffering from fever for the last week of the march to Kandahar. Nevertheless, he had led his force over three hundred miles of mountainous, hostile territory to arrive at the besieged city in twenty-two days. It was a march that was to make him famous throughout the Empire. Now, however, he had arrived to find the defenders of the city huddled behind their thirty-foot-high walls, still cowed by the defeat at Maiwand and too despondent even to hoist the Union Jack until the relieving force was in sight. Weak with fever, furious at the inertia of the garrison, he had immediately thrown out reconnaissance parties to discover the deposition of the Afghan army and prepared, weak as he was, to lead the attack on it as soon as possible.
Simon knew that the little general would have been less than pleased to be forced to dispatch a battalion of his tired troops to rescue his main scouting party, but he was past caring. Covington had exchanged not a word as they had ridden back to Kandahar and the Colonel had been closeted with Roberts for at least half an hour now. After a brief word with a puzzled but less than welcoming Brigadier Lamb, Simon had been told to get his wound dressed and wait until the C-in-C was ready to see him.
Shivering as the cold descended with the twilight, Simon rose from his stool and pondered what he should tell the General. The main objective was to protect Alice and to prevent her from being further censured for following the army. He suspected that, despite her despondent state, she would be determined to report the imminent battle. But Roberts would be more than likely to put her under guard in Kandahar and ship her out to India without giving her the chance to file a word. How to stop that . . .?
His reverie was interrupted by Lamb, who put his head round the tent flap and gestured. ‘Come in, Fonthill.’
Sir Frederick Roberts, deep rings under his eyes and his usual pink complexion reduced to a dull grey, was sitting at a camp table, a greatcoat hunched over his shoulders. An ADC was bustling with an orderly at another table, laying out maps. To Roberts’s right sat Lamb, and at his left sprawled Brigadier MacPherson, red face glowing in the fading light. At the end of the table sat Covington, his wounded leg thrust straight out.
Wearily, Roberts gestured to Simon to pull up a folding chair. ‘How is the arm?’ he enquired.
‘Just a scratch, sir.’
‘Hmnnn.’ Despite the air of fatigue, the General’s blue eyes retained that look of familiar icy penetration. His voice was equally cold. ‘Now, tell me what you were doing five miles to the west of Kandahar, wearing native dress and accompanying Miss . . . what’s her name . . . Griff ith, when you left Kabul three weeks ago to return to India. I have to tell you, Fonthill, that I find your behaviour increasingly irritating - if not disturbing.’
Simon took a deep breath and shot a glance at Lamb. But the Brigadier’s face showed no trace of friendl
iness. Only MacPherson wore a half-smile of - what? Sympathy, amusement? - on his lips.
‘Well, sir,’ began Simon, ‘after I resigned my commission I heard about Maiwand and the fact that you had been ordered to form a flying column to march across the hills and relieve the siege of Kandahar. I talked with my two colleagues - you will remember my Welsh sergeant and our Sikh guide?’
Roberts nodded.
‘We agreed that we ought to be able to help you, knowing the country as we do . . .’
The General cut in sharply. ‘So why didn’t you re-enlist or just offer your services to me?’
Simon sighed inwardly. He had known this would be the difficult part. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I knew that that would mean serving under the command of Colonel Covington here, and I did not wish to do that. So we decided to act independently. We reasoned that Ayub Khan would not attack you in the passes or on the march but would confront you here, on the plain beyond Kandahar. So we resolved to loop north through the hills, come down behind the city, take a look at the Afghan positions and meet you here and tell you what we could. We were on our way this morning when we fell foul of an Afghan patrol and were cornered in an orchard. It was there that Colonel Covington found us.’
It was clear that Roberts was intrigued, despite his initial disapproval. ‘I have to say, Fonthill,’ he said, ‘that I find your story remarkable - if it is true. But what on earth was Miss Griffith of the Morning Post doing with you?’
‘She heard of our plan just before leaving Kabul and begged to be allowed to come with us. We are old childhood friends, you see - our fathers served together in the 24th Regiment - and I knew how desperately she wished to be present at the forthcoming battle. So we blacked her up and disguised her as a Pathan boy. It worked until this morning when we fell in with this Afghan patrol.’
Lamb now spoke for the first time. ‘You came all this way, over a most difficult and dangerous route, to discover the Afghan dispositions? Well, what did you find?’
‘Ayub Khan seems to have centred his main force in and around the village of Gundigan on your left, sir. He will have fortified the villages across the plain, but that is not the real danger.’
‘What do you mean?’
The tent was now silent, and even the ADC and his orderly were openly listening. The faint air of incredulity with which Simon’s story had first been received had now vanished. He cleared his throat. ‘The Afghans have dragged guns up into the Baba Wali Kotal range to your right. They are positioned to fire down on to you as you attack up the valley towards Gundigan. It is, then, a kind of trap. You will need to clear those guns before you launch your main attack.’
‘How many guns?’
‘Sixteen or seventeen. Enough to cause a lot of damage.’
Roberts turned to Covington. ‘Did you see these guns, Covington?’
‘No, sir. Don’t believe a word of it. Doubt if it is possible to haul artillery up there anyway.’
‘It is virtually impossible to see the emplacements from the plain,’ said Simon. ‘We came down from the north, from the higher hills, and looked down on them. They are positioned to fire virtually south-east, towards the Gundigan approach. It will take time to haul them round, so it should be possible to attack them before they can be turned to fire on a force climbing up towards them. There are good tracks.’
As Simon spoke, Lamb had been making notes. Roberts turned and looked at the Brigadier, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. He then turned to MacPherson, who scratched one red jowl. ‘This young feller served me well to the north of Kabul,’ MacPherson said. ‘I understand that he also did well at Sherpur. Give me a brigade first thing in the morning, Sir Frederick, and I’ll spike all those guns.’
Roberts smiled for the first time. ‘Very well, Mac.’ He turned back to Simon. ‘Young man, you will stay in camp tomorrow.’ The General held up a hand as Simon began to intervene. ‘No. I think you have had enough adventures to last you for a while. We shall not need you to guide us to the Baba Wali Kotal - Brigadier MacPherson can see plainly where it is, and anyway, you should nurse that wound. Go and get some rest now and we will talk further when I have sent the Afghans running. And get out of those rags.’
Simon stood and paused uncertainly. ‘Am I still under arrest, sir?’
The General’s eyebrows rose. ‘Who placed you under arrest?’
‘I did, sir,’ said Covington. ‘Two charges. Firstly I was under the impression that Fonthill had deserted from the India Column in the face of the enemy, though perhaps I was wrong on that count. But the other charge remains, that of attacking a fellow officer on the frontier a little under a year ago.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Roberts. ‘What else is there to learn about this young man? Who was the officer?’
‘Captain Barlow, 8th Foot.’
‘And where is that officer now?’
‘Dead, sir. Died in the orchard this morning. A single shot took him in the head.’
‘And were there any witnesses to the assault a year ago?’
‘No, sir.’
Roberts waved a dismissive hand. ‘Then the charge no longer has substance. Dismiss it. I have a battle to fight, gentlemen. Fonthill, you are no longer under arrest. But don’t go wandering off.’
‘No, sir. Er . . . General. May I make one request?’
Roberts wiped a weary hand across his forehead. ‘If it is quick and relevant, you may do so.’
Simon took a deep breath. ‘It concerns Miss Griffith, sir.’
The General’s brows descended like thunder. ‘What about her?’
‘Sir, she felt she was only doing her duty by coming with us. She knew that she did wrong in . . . er . . . evading the censorship rules and now regrets it, but she is desperate to serve her newspaper and her readers and she risked everything - including her life - to get here. Sir, she fought like a soldier back there in the orchard. Will you please allow her to join the other correspondents tomorrow in reporting the battle?’
Roberts’s face remained expressionless. ‘I will consider it,’ he said. ‘You are now dismissed, Fonthill.’
‘Sir.’ Simon turned and bent his head to exit through the tent flap, but Roberts’s voice brought him back.
‘Speaking of fighting like a soldier,’ said the General drily, ‘and referring to your obvious dislike of Colonel Covington here, you should know that the Colonel has commended you and your man for the way you fought this morning. You should remember that, Fonthill. Good evening.’
‘Thank you, sir. Good evening.’ Simon looked quickly at Covington, but the Colonel, his face drained of colour, no doubt by the pain from his wound, was considering the texture of the timber of the tent pole by his head.
Outside the tent, Simon blew out his cheeks and pulled in a draught of cold twilight air. Had they believed him? It seemed like it. But had he helped Alice? He doubted it. He now felt a tide of weariness lap his brain. His wounded arm was throbbing again after the tightness of the bandaging had worn off and he realised that he was very, very hungry. The cold was now almost visible in the half-light. Camp fires glowed and all around him there was bustle and purposefulness and that kind of quiet apprehension that soldiers exude on the eve of a battle. Except that he would not be fighting that battle. He did not feel sorry. But where to now? He remembered that the doctor had said that a tent had been allocated for him and Jenkins, but where? And where was Alice?
A shout made him turn. The unmistakable figure of Jenkins was walking towards him: a Jenkins who had shed his tattered Pathan cotton and was now attired in a linen suit of uncertain fit but of some respectability, which was let down a little by the Afghan sandals on his feet. Jenkins stopped and waved. ‘Come on, this way. The kettle’s boiling.’
Slowly Simon walked towards him. ‘Three five two,’ he said, stopping and laying a weary hand on the little man’s broad shoulder, ‘you look like a Calcutta stage door masher - if there are such people. Where did you get those clothes?’
Jen
kins’s eyes twinkled. ‘In the bazaar, in the town.’
‘But you don’t have any money.’
‘Gave ’em me rifle. ’Ad good reason to lose it, but the bloody thing’s jammed anyway. Over’eated again. They’re always doin’ it, them Martini-Horaces.’
‘You’ll get shot for selling an army rifle.’
‘No I won’t. We’re out of the army now - until you put us back in again, that is, of course - and if asked, I shall say I lost it in the bloody battle. Anyway, it was a good trade. I also got a suit for you, a kettle, a cookin’ pot, some rice and a chicken, see. Oh, and some tea, look you.’
Simon shook his head and, with his good hand on the shoulder of his friend, walked with him down the tent lines. ‘You’re what’s known in a good officers’ mess as a bloody marvel, Jenkins,’ he said. ‘Do we have somewhere to sleep?’
‘Nice little bell tent. It’s by the ’orse lines, so it’s a bit pongy, but I didn’t think you’d complain. Got two bed rolls’an all.’
‘Where’s Alice?’
‘Ah.’ The Welshman’s ragged moustache drooped as he frowned. ‘The doctor took ’er off somewhere, look you. She didn’t look too good, see, but I felt she would be in better’ands with ’im than with us, if you get my meanin’.’
Simon sighed. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘I forgot to ask you about the General. Are we goin’ to be court-martialled again? ’Ung like them poor bastards in Kyball?’
‘All in a minute.’
They were now on the edge of the lines, where horses were tethered and munching oats. In front of a small bell tent, a fire was blazing under a cooking pot and a kettle. Simon pulled out a bed roll from the tent, laid it in front of the welcoming blaze and lowered himself on to it with a sigh. As Jenkins busied himself making tea, he told him of the interview with Roberts. By the end, he had finished his tea and was almost asleep.