Chapter 12

It was summer in Afghanistan, but as soon as the sun touched the edge of the peaks to the west, the temperature dropped by twenty degrees and continued to fall with the dusk, so that by the time the little party of four, high in the mountains, had crawled under their blankets, it was at about zero. The unfortunates who drew the middle and late watches of the night had to be swathed in sheepskins so as not to give away their location by the chattering of their teeth. It was Simon’s turn for the latter duty, and he pulled a blanket over his head and tried to wriggle further into the rock crevice that overlooked their camping site as he waited for the dawn. Below him, the inert forms of Alice, Jenkins and W.G. radiated like the spokes of a wheel from the remnants of the fire on which they had cooked a meal of kid and rice. They slept like dogs, worn out by nineteen days of riding and scrambling along a series of goat tracks that climbed and fell relentlessly, shouldering the peaks that loomed over them to the north.

Their escape from the column had been easier than expected. Simon had gambled that, if they chose their moment correctly, they could easily evade the column’s flanking cavalry. The problem would be the Pathans who would be watching the troops from the hills. Accordingly, they had decided to go not after dark, when the jackals with their jezails would be lurking behind the rocks, but just before dusk, when all was hustle and bustle: the mounted pickets were in and everyone was busy with unlimbering horses, pitching tents and preparing the evening meal. Under cover of the activity, they had slipped, one by one, into a copse of trees that came down low to border the road. It climbed high enough to give them cover for about two hundred feet, after which they could scramble upwards, leading their horses, undetected. Simon knew that Jenkins, W.G. and he would not be missed. They were on no roll-call and were no one’s responsibility. But Alice was another matter. She had been invited to dine with the lieutenant colonel commanding the column that evening, and although she had declined, pleading tiredness from the march, her absence would soon be revealed the next morning. The question was: would the column commander send out a search party to look for her? Simon decided that it would be unlikely, but they pressed on in the darkness for four hours anyway before they camped. As important as leaving search parties behind was to get away from the road and the inevitable screen of Afghans who would be shadowing the column. But their luck had held and they seemed to have been undetected. Simon estimated that they had put about ten miles between them and the soldiers by the time they rose at dawn after snatching a brief rest.

Simon and W.G. had decided that their best hope of getting through the hills without running into trouble was to go into the barren heights, away from the settlements that huddled in the valleys. The strategy had been successful in that they had only encountered one goatherd with his flock and ridden through two hamlets of mud and earth huts, from where they had been able to purchase goat’s milk and eggs. They excited a sullen curiosity from the old women who seemed the only occupants, but the crones seemed to accept W.G.’s story that they had become lost on their way from the north to fight for Ayub Khan at Kandahar.

Most days, they rode above the bold birches whose edges signalled, as though with a ruler, the end of the flora and fauna that stretched down to form indistinct purple valleys far below them. Grey eagles sometimes wheeled high above them, and once, they saw a bear, distantly grubbing and rooting at the hillside. Most of the time, however, they could have been the only living things on the planet. Usually they were able to follow a distinct track, sometimes as wide as six feet across, which led roughly in the direction they wished to follow. At other times, however, they had to dismount and lead their horses across rocks and through glissading streams that delayed their progress and induced aching weariness. It was hard, very hard work.

By the light of the moon that half illuminated the flat clearing amidst the rocks where they had made camp, Simon could just make out Alice’s fair hair peeping out from beneath her blanket. Despite their protests, she had refused to have it dyed and had promised to keep it coiled at all times within the loose cap she wore. In fact, with her slim form and lithe grace, she made a good-looking Afghan boy - as long as she remembered to keep her glance lowered to hide her grey eyes. She rode like a trooper, even though W.G. had insisted on changing her fine Punjab mount in the bazaar for a sturdy Afghan pony. Cupping his chin on his hand, Simon could trace the sensuous curve of Alice’s body beneath the Afghan sheepskin cover. He tingled as he remembered its warmth as she had pressed close to him that night in Kabul and recalled again, as he had a hundred times, the delicious roughness of her tongue and the softness of her lips. Hell and damnation! Why hadn’t she left him alone to forget her in India!

She had, of course, been a cheerful, uncomplaining companion to them all on the journey, taking her turn at cooking, strapping Jenkins’s ankle when he had turned it in a crevasse and insisting she should stand night guard - although here she had been over-ruled. As she rode, she attempted to make notes of the geography and conditions of the trail, for use, she explained, as background colour when she came to write her articles.

Simon sighed as he looked down at her - though not completely from unrequited love. How the hell were they going to link up with Roberts, if and when he had been able to fight his way through to Kandahar? If the city had resisted attack, it would be surrounded by Ayub Khan’s army and Afghan scouts would be out for miles around, attempting to locate Roberts’s advancing force. How could they slip through these patrols - and what sort of welcome would they get from Roberts anyway?

His reverie was interrupted by the briefest flicker of light from the tip of the surly, dark peaks to the east. Shivering, he threw away his blanket, climbed down and kicked the smouldering fire into life, so that they could have hot tea, at least, before starting the day’s journey. Within the half-hour, they were all mounted and riding to the west, as the newly emerged sun brought some warmth. When they came to a wider part of the trail, Simon dropped back and walked his horse alongside Alice’s pony. She had been strangely quiet the previous evening and had uttered no word since resuming the journey. Simon smiled at her but, her eyes downcast, she did not return the smile or look at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid that it’s been hard pounding, Alice, but we should not have far to go now.’

Alice did not reply for a moment. Then she looked up and gave him a half-smile, and he realised that her eyes were moist. ‘Oh, Simon,’ she said. ‘I have been thinking, and I realise that I have been so foolish and selfish. Making you undertake this journey and . . . and . . . exposing you all to so much danger, just because I want to save what I call my career.’ She spat out the last two words. ‘How could I have been so thoughtless? I realise that once we approach Kandahar we shall be entering the lion’s den and I will have been responsible for putting all of your lives at great risk. Is it not too late, even now, to turn back?’

There was no trace left now of the Alice who had so confidently forged a general’s signature, who had used her body like a Parisian courtesan, and who had observed executions clinically. That feisty, strong woman seemed to have been blown away, like an autumn leaf, by the hot wind that whistled through these heights. The eyes brimming with tears belonged to a young girl out of her depth for the first time in a harsh world. Simon felt pity and love for her anew, and he reached out and took her hand.

‘I don’t quite know what to do to comfort you, Alice, except to say that what you did for me showed that you are the most unselfish and caring person in the world. If you can do that for someone you don’t love, then you will surely suffocate with unselfishness the man you truly do come to love.’

She smiled at him through her tears.

‘I am afraid that we have gone too far to turn back now,’ said Simon. ‘We have been lucky to have travelled so far undetected and I doubt if we could retrace our steps and keep our luck. Anyway, it would mean returning to the Kabul road, which is unsafe to follow without an army escort. We are not far from our destination now. In less than two days, I judge, we can turn south and go down to look for the valley of the Arghandabad River, which should take us just north of Kandahar.

‘And look,’ he added, ‘it is a career worth saving. None of us would be here if we did not believe that.’

Alice sniffed and nodded her thanks, not sure that she could speak. But as the day wore on, her smile returned.

They rode with more caution now, picking their way round the villages they encountered more frequently and shivering without a fire that night. The wood smoke, they felt, would betray their position. W.G. had ridden these hills before, but many years ago, and Simon backed the Sikh’s recollections with rough compass bearings. His plan was to find the Arghandabad River, follow it for a few miles north of Kandahar and then loop south to the west of the city. W.G. remembered a flat plain that extended to the south and east of Kandahar, and it was Simon’s guess that the Afghan general, whether or not he had taken the city, would draw up his army to receive Roberts there. The Afghans, he knew, were traditionalists when it came to large battles: the British were the invaders, therefore it was they who must attack the fixed positions of the defenders. It was seemly so to do. It was unlikely that Ayub Khan would advance up the Kabul road to confront Roberts in those cramped passes. If this were so - and if Simon and his companions had indeed out-marched the British army - then the four could, perhaps, observe how the Afghans were drawn up, outflank them and ride into Roberts’s advance guard and explain the enemy dispositions, so winning the General’s grateful forgiveness for Alice’s indiscretions. Perhaps, perhaps . . . and perhaps pigs would fly. Simon shrugged his shoulders as he slouched wearily in the saddle. It was the only plan he had, anyway.

 

Just under three weeks after leaving the column, they turned their horses’ heads south at last, down towards the valley far below them, where the real danger lurked. That evening they encountered the shallow, bouncing waters of the Arghandabad and made an uncomfortable camp by its shores, tucked away within a copse of deodar that was feathered and plumed with ferns. They knew that if they followed the river westwards, they would hit the Kabul road on the far side of Kandahar. They also knew, however, that this was the most dangerous part of their journey, for if the Afghans were still laying siege to the city, they would probably have forces to the north as well as to the south, where lay the plain, and to the east, from which direction Roberts was still presumably marching. So, with great caution, they proceeded, W.G. in the lead, Simon ahead of Alice, and Jenkins at the rear, their cocked rifles carried athwart their saddles but with cotton folds across the trigger mechanisms to conceal their British origins.

Inevitably, they encountered a Pathan patrol. They saw them coming from perhaps half a mile away: a group of five horsemen, dressed in the dull khaki of Afghan cavalry, picking their way slowly but purposefully between the boulders fringing the river. The four quickly established that flight would be inadvisable: the stone-strewn track was the last place for a gallop. They decided that they would stick to their original plan, trusting that the men of the patrol would be locals and unfamiliar with the Afridi dialect.

As the two parties closed, W.G. and Simon lifted their hands in greeting and called, ‘Allah kerim!’ The leader of the patrol, a hawk-nosed man with black eyes that scanned them all in a second, replied similarly and directed a flow of fluent Pushtu to W.G., who had ridden forward to meet them. The two stayed in conversation for three minutes or so - although it seemed an eternity to Simon, Alice and Jenkins, who leaned wearily on their saddle pommels and gazed about them with what they hoped appeared to be disinterest. The sun was at its height and the heat made the tension worse. In fact this helped them, for it was clear that the patrol did not wish to linger on such a day interrogating three men and a boy who, it was quickly apparent, were not outriders of the approaching British column nor had information about it. From under lowered brows, Simon saw the patrol leader gesture with his rifle ahead and then to the south, and then wave them on. With a nod of thanks, he urged his horse forward and the four of them walked by, feigning nonchalance and a fatigue which was not altogether assumed.

Once out of sight of the Pathans, Simon called to W.G. and the three of them gathered round the Sikh.

‘It was not a problem, lord,’ said W.G. ‘I explained that you were headman of a village near the Khyber Pass, with your son,’ he nodded to Alice, ‘and a villager, and that I had been hired to take you to Ayub Khan to join his force. But I said that we had got a bit lost in the outfield, so to speak, in avoiding the British Army.’

Simon nodded. ‘Well done, W.G.’

Jenkins snorted. ‘Sounds all a bit simple to me. Not proper soldiers, them, not at all.’

The Sikh acknowledged the point with a grave inclination of his head. ‘Precisely so, Sergeant bach. But they were tired, like us, and you forget that they are blasted Afghans. Not clever at all, I am saying. Also,’ he bowed slightly to Alice, ‘the presence of the memsahib helped considerably. We could not be gora-log spies, or disguised British patrol, with such a young boy riding with us.’ He grinned broadly. ‘Very good show, miss, I am thinking.’

‘Good.’ Simon nodded ahead. ‘What were the directions he was giving you?’

‘Ah, lord. He said that Kandahar has not fallen and that Afghan general has withdrawn his forces to the south and the west of the city to wait for the British, who are, perhaps, one day’s march only away. He tells me that there is a ford just ahead where we can cross river and then go down to Afghan army. I am thinking, lord, that we do not wish to do this.’

‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘No fear.’

‘I am not so sure,’ mused Simon.

‘Now come on, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, his eyebrows nearly meeting his turban fringe in exaggerated surprise. ‘I think we’ve used up just about all of our nine lives so far in marchin’ straight into enemy camps. We’ve got none left, look you. What would we want to do it for, anyway?’

Simon shook his head. ‘No. I don’t intend to walk into Ayub Khan’s camp, thank you very much. But I would very much like to take a peek at his disposition so that if - no, sorry, when - we find Roberts we have something to bring him, so to speak.’ He smiled at Alice. ‘A sort of peace offering. A present to turn away his wrath.’

Alice smiled back. She had regained something of her composure and had resumed taking notes of the terrain. ‘Do whatever you think is right, Simon. But do not do this for me. I do not wish to lead you all into any further danger.’

Jenkins snorted. ‘Don’t worry about that, miss. We’ve bin in the fryin’ pan so long that I don’t think I’d notice if we jumped into the bleedin’ f ire . . . er . . . beggin’ your pardon, that is, miss.’

They found the ford soon enough, splashed through the shallows and, staying with a narrow trail, immediately began climbing a spur of hills the summit of which, as the day wore on, seemed to recede before them, so that they were forced once again to dismount and lead their horses. The slow progress annoyed Simon, who, with Roberts only a rumoured day’s march away, began to fear that they would arrive too late for the battle. Accordingly, they camped late and rose before the dawn the next morning to continue their climb.

Some four hours later, they crested the range and were rewarded with a panoramic vista spread below them, a sight that reminded Simon of the trestle-mounted sand reconstructions of great battle sites that he had studied at Sandhurst. Far to their left, half concealed behind a spur of the hills, they glimpsed the ochre-coloured smudge that, from its size and the heat haze that shimmered above it, was undoubtedly Kandahar. Leading to it, and disappearing into the distance beyond it, was the black, winding road back to Kabul: no traffic on it and certainly no British Army in sight. Directly below them, as W.G. had promised, lay the plain, featuring a large village and gridded, here and there, with low stone walls surrounding cultivated vegetable and fruit patches. Two roads, straight as a die and running roughly east to west, broke the plain and passed out of sight behind a line of rugged peaks to their right.

W.G. indicated with a long forefinger. ‘That, lord, is the village of Gundigan, and that line of little mountains there is the Baba Wali Kotal. You see that the Afghan scoundrels are based around the village.’

Indeed they were. Ayub Khan seemed to have drawn up his army on the plain, as Simon had expected, and had used the walls of the village on which to base his right wing and to site artillery. They could see the village teeming with tiny figures, like an anthill. The figures were also to be seen scurrying across the plain, setting up positions behind the walls. It was no country for cavalry, though the two main roads seemed wide and to provide good enough conduits for a two-pronged attack on the Afghan position. Then a flash of light from the Baba Wali Kotal below them and to their right drew Simon’s attention. He shaded his eyes.

‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s put artillery in those hills. The cunning bastard.’

Somehow, the Afghans had manhandled what seemed to be quite heavy pieces of ordnance up the steep sides of the hills and had positioned the guns on ledges and cols so that they commanded the plain below. From their vantage point, Simon and his companions could clearly see the gun emplacements and the white-robed ghazis pushing and hauling the pieces into position. From the plain, however, they would be difficult to see. Any force attacking the village and its outlying walled gardens would be vulnerable to this flanking fire from above. It was a perfect trap - another Balaclava.

Simon turned to the others. ‘He knows what he’s doing, this chap. Our people will be blown away unless those hills are cleared.’

‘Yes, well.’ Jenkins blew his nose with great ostentation. ‘Shall we just nip down and do that before the General arrives, look you? He might be quite glad to see us then, see.’

Alice did not speak, but frowned in consternation as she sketched the scene below in her notebook.

Not for the first time, Simon wished he had a telescope or binoculars. ‘W.G., you have the best eyes. Can you see any sign of the British coming down the Kabul road or moving to the city?’

The Sikh turned his head and remained perfectly still for a moment in concentration. He shook his head. ‘Nothing I can see, lord.’ Then, very slowly, he raised a hand. ‘Wait . . . I think there is something. Can you see - beyond the city, where the road disappears into mountains? Can you see?’

They all shielded their eyes and desperately tried to focus on the indistinct end of the black line where it snaked away to the east.

‘Either you’ve got eyes like an eagle, Gracey, or you’ve got a touch of the sun,’ said Jenkins, his nose wrinkled in concentration so that a flash of white teeth appeared behind his moustache. ‘As far as I can see, there’s bugger-all out there.’

‘No, no, there is something.’ Alice spoke softly, as though she would lose that far-distant something if she raised her voice. ‘There is something . . . moving out there, just where the road comes down to the plain. Can you see it?’

The others could not at first, but then, after twenty seconds or so of concentration, they spotted it: a tiny brownish block, moving very slowly at that distance. Then a brief flash, another, and yet another as the sun caught something burnished and bright and sent its reflection in an instant some twenty miles across the plain.

‘Good.’ Simon dug the heel of each hand into his eyes, now watering from the strain of focusing so far. ‘That’s got to be Roberts. The old devil has done the march in three weeks. Fantastic!’

‘But Simon,’ said Alice, ‘could it not be an Afghan patrol, returning from a scouting mission to look for Roberts?’

‘Don’t think so. Even at this distance, that looks like the vanguard of an army to me.’ He turned to W.G. and Jenkins. ‘What do you two think?’

‘Wouldn’t they be comin’ from the other way, then?’ asked Jenkins, gesturing to the right. ‘Ah, no. Perhaps not.’ He squinted upwards. ‘If the sun’s just there, then, that means the left’s the north . . . or do I mean the south? Sorry, I’m not much good at this. Can’t really tell me arse from me elbow. Oh, sorry, miss.’

The Sikh had never relaxed his gaze on the Kabul road. ‘I think, lord,’ he said, ‘that it is cavalry coming slowly. Perhaps, indeed, it is the advance screen of Punjabis leading the column.’ He spoke with proprietorial satisfaction.

‘Right.’ Simon looked up at the sun. ‘If it is Roberts, he will go straight to the city and probably camp just outside it for the night. If I know him, he won’t waste any time. He will send out patrols to reconnoitre Ayub Khan’s position and attack him as soon as possible. They will be running low on supplies at Kandahar now and the General will want to lift the siege right away. W.G., how long do you think it will take for the column to reach the city?’

It was the Sikh’s turn to squint up at the sun. ‘He will reach it just before nightfall, lord, I believe.’

‘Is there a way down from the top here to Kandahar behind us, or will we have to go straight down on to the plain and ride back that way?’

‘I am being fairly certain, lord, that we must travel back many miles before we can take a pass down to the city. This is the quickest way.’ W.G. gestured forward, where they could see the trail winding downwards until it was lost between the rocks.

‘Very well. We will make our way down and find somewhere reasonably hidden to camp before we reach the plain. If we are discovered, we will tell our usual story. Then we must be up just before dawn and ride towards the British position. I suggest that we keep as close to the edge of these hills as possible. Those two roads will be full of Afghan patrols, or even perhaps a sizeable portion of Ayub Khan’s army. You see,’ Simon turned to Alice, ‘he will want Roberts to attack him at these villages below. He may well try to lure him on by making a feint. Then, as Roberts advances along the valley, the guns in these crags below will give him hell.’

Alice nodded gravely. ‘I quite understand. You feel we must go and warn him against being drawn into the trap.’

‘Absolutely.’

A sigh of great and histrionic weariness came from Jenkins. ‘Ah well,’ he said, munching his moustache. ‘ ’Ere we go again. ’Eroes of the Queen an’ all that. An’ we’re not even in the bleedin’ army any more. Oh dear, oh dear.’ But he pulled his horse’s head round and led the descent into the valley.

 

That night they camped some way off the trail amid rocks and scree about two hundred and fifty feet above the plain. It was uncomfortable, with no fire to provide warmth or hot food, but they were undisturbed and rose well before the sun to begin picking their way down to where the trail broadened out to meet the plain. It was still dark when their descent ended and they turned their horses east, towards Kandahar.

For Simon, blowing on his hands against the pre-dawn cold, it was an anxious time. He looked around at the shadowy figures behind him. They slouched in their saddles and their mounts stepped forward with no enthusiasm. They had all been on the road too long. There was no way they could out-run Afghans on brisk little ponies if it came to a confrontation. Yet they had no story now to explain why they were heading away from the Pathan army and towards the British. It was doubtful if even W.G. could talk his way out of that one. Simon licked his lips and tasted again the dust - the dry, gritty particles that lodged between the teeth and in the corner of the eyes and that would remind him of Afghanistan for ever. In this grim, unforgiving country he was taking his little party into great danger; placing it right between two confronting armies. He must be mad! And yet what else could he do? His gaze took in the slight figure of Alice, riding now with less style, her head bowed and her body arched. What would happen to her if they were captured? He drew in his breath sharply. At all costs he would see that that did not happen.

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 from 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 devoted 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.

‘Are you all right?’

She didn’t speak, but her face had blanched under the dust and cheap dye. She looked at him for a brief moment, her eyes wide, then switched her gaze to the dead man. Slowly she shook her head in some kind of disbelief and the revolver in her hand swung down to her waist, as though it was now too heavy to hold. Simon put his arm around her and gently pushed her to the ground, her back against the wall. He rammed another cartridge into his rifle and shouted to Jenkins: ‘Face your front. They may be charging us.’

His arm sent a frisson of pain through to the shoulder again and he realised how useless he would be in a face-to-face encounter, but he levelled his rifle and rose above the parapet to face the new attack. Instead of the expected assault, however, he saw five of the Afghans running back to their horses. Would it be a mounted charge, then? As he watched, they climbed on to the animals, turned away from the orchard and began riding back across the plain towards the outbuildings of Gundigan. Five of them? He ran back to his original position, from where he had fired his first shot. One brown foot, its curled slipper lying by the side, protruded from behind the boulder. He had killed his man.

Elated, he turned away from the wall. ‘They’re retreating,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve seen ’em off. Well done. Oh, bloody well done!’

Jenkins smiled and, his eyes narrowed, gestured behind Simon. ‘I don’t think it was us, bach sir. More likely that lot, isn’t it?’

Simon turned and saw a squadron of Punjab cavalry, pennants fluttering from their lances, galloping across the plain from the direction of Kandahar. They were headed straight for the orchard, and as they neared, Simon saw that they were led by a tall officer, riding awkwardly with his left leg straight and stiff, the boot thrust into a stirrup extended to its full length. Slightly behind him rode a man in the khaki clothes of a civilian, slouch hat on his head.

‘Alice, look,’ he cried. ‘It looks as though we’ve found the bloody army at last.’

But there was no elation in Alice’s gaze. On her knees, she stared at Simon with lacklustre eyes and, with a gesture almost of contempt, let the Colt fall from her hand. Leaning forward, she lifted the head of the Afghan at her feet, looked into his sightless eyes for a second, and then lowered the head back on to the ground. Once again she shook her head slowly.

Simon knelt down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘We are saved, Alice,’ he said. ‘There is a squadron of cavalry coming. We are going to be all right. There’s no need to worry any more.’

‘Oh, Simon.’ She looked up at him. ‘I am so tired of all this . . .’ she gestured with her hand, ‘all this killing. Poor W.G., such a good man. What a waste! This man here was trying to kill me. And I have killed at least two men myself.’

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smudging the dust and so heightening the urchin impression. Big eyes looked up at Simon. ‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’ Simon shook his head. ‘The worst thing was . . .’ Alice blew out her cheeks and sighed, ‘that I was beginning to enjoy it all for a moment back there. For God’s sake - what are we doing here?’

Simon opened his mouth to reply, although he had no idea what answer to give to such a rhetorical question, when an exclamation from Jenkins made him turn. The Welshman had gone to the east side of the compound and was opening a rickety wooden gate to welcome the cavalry when he shielded his eyes and cried: ‘Blimey. It’s the Colonel!’

The squadron clattered in among the trees, perspiration glistening on the horses’ flanks and harnesses all a-jingle. Colonel Covington looked down at Jenkins and Simon, turned to a stout officer riding immediately behind him and barked, ‘Barlow, place these two men under arrest.’

Captain Barlow of the 8th Foot smiled down at the two men he had last seen in a train compartment at Khushalgarh and smiled. ‘With pleasure, sir,’ he said. He turned and gestured to two troopers. ‘You two. Dismount and take their weapons. Bind their hands.’

‘What the hell . . .’ Simon levelled his rifle at the two Punjabis as they approached. ‘Stand back. I’ll not be arrested by you, Covington, or anyone else. We’re not in the army now.’

Covington lifted an eyebrow and adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet. ‘Really? I’d say that’s a moot point. But I am not here to argue.’ He gestured to the troopers. ‘Arrest him and the other man. They will not shoot.’

Slowly, uncertainly, the two troopers advanced until the leading man was able to take Simon’s rifle. The second did the same to Jenkins, who had not taken his eyes off Simon. Captain Barlow slid off his horse. ‘Give me cord, quickly,’ he snapped. Two straps were handed to him and, roughly, he pulled Simon’s hands behind his back, sending a shaft of pain up the injured arm, and buckled the strap tightly round his wrists. He did the same for Jenkins. Then he put his face close to Simon’s. ‘We’ll see now whether you can go around kicking people off trains.’

Simon smiled into the face a few inches from his own and lifted his chin. ‘Fuck off, you fat prick,’ he said.

Alice had remained where she was when the squadron had entered the orchard, kneeling with her back to the wall. Now she rose and walked to Covington. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing, Ralph?’ she said. ‘These men have saved my life several times within the last few weeks. You have no right to arrest them.’

Covington looked down on Alice, as though seeing her for the first time. ‘I have every right, Alice,’ he said. ‘These men were suspected of abducting you, but then it became clear that you had left the India column of your own will and had ridden off with them in wilful disobedience of the General’s orders—’

‘I can do what I like. I am not a soldier.’

‘You cannot do what you like in a country bound by martial law. I—’

He was interrupted by the civilian, who had been dismounting at the rear of the party and who now pushed his way forward and made towards Alice. He took her hand in both his own. ‘My dear Alice,’ he said, ‘thank God you’re safe. We have all been so worried.’

‘Hello, Johnny,’ said Alice, grinning rather shamefacedly. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

Campbell took off his wide-brimmed hat. ‘The Colonel here allowed me to ride with him on his scouting party. We are reconnoitring the enemy’s position. The General intends to attack at dawn tomorrow.’

‘That’s enough, Campbell,’ interrupted Covington. ‘The General’s plans are his own concern and should not be bandied about. Now, Barlow, for God’s sake help me to dismount, there’s a good fellow.’

For the first time, Alice, Simon and Jenkins realised that Covington had been wounded. The once-so-tight trouser on his left leg had been slashed down the side and revealed a glimpse of a now not-so-white bandage that seemed to run from ankle to kneecap. The corpulent Barlow hastened to put his hand under Covington’s armpit as the big man gingerly raised his injured leg over his horse’s mane, disengaged his other foot from the stirrup and slipped to the ground, grimacing as his wounded leg took the strain.

Alice frowned. ‘Ralph, you have been wounded . . . how . . .?’

Covington blew out his cheeks. ‘It’s not much but it’s deuced uncomfortable, though I can just about still ride and do my job.’ He glowered at her. ‘If you must know, my girl, this is your doing.’

‘My doing?’

‘Yes, when the word came that you were missing, I took a small party and followed your trail, as best we could. It took a lot of damned hard talking to get the General’s permission, but he allowed me four days. As it turned out, I didn’t need that long. On the second day, up in those blasted hills, we were ambushed by a bunch of Pathans and I got a ball in the leg. Had to limp back to Kabul and then catch up with the General as best I could. Damned annoying, I can tell you.’

‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. But you must rest. You shouldn’t be riding.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. I wouldn’t miss the battle for all the tea in India. In any case, I’m in charge of scouting and intelligence. I’ve got to be here. Now.’ He looked around him. ‘Barlow, detail a troop under a subaldar to stay here with Miss Griffith and the two prisoners, while we ride on up the valley and see exactly where Ayub Khan is positioned.’

‘You don’t need to do that, Covington.’ Simon, whose face had become increasingly grim as he had witnessed, first, Campbell’s easy informality with Alice, and then her concern at Covington’s wound, nodded behind him. ‘We’ve done the job for you. The Afghans’ main position is based on the village of Gundigan, back over there. But the major problem is—’

‘Fonthill.’ Covington took two painful steps towards him. ‘If, as is highly unlikely, I should ever want your advice on military or any other matters, I will ask for it. Until then, keep your damned mouth shut. You are under arrest for attacking a brother officer back in Khushalgarh and for deserting in the face of the enemy. This time, I shall make sure that you are convicted at court martial. Now.’ He turned and hobbled towards his horse. ‘Mount up and . . . oh, damn to hell and blazes . . . Barlow, help me up again, confound it.’

Alice stepped forward and touched the Colonel’s arm. She addressed him in a low voice. ‘Ralph, you should listen to Simon. If the General attacks directly up the valley, he will be riding into a trap. Simon can tell you exactly—’

Covington grabbed the pommel of his saddle and leaned on Barlow as the latter inserted the boot of his good leg into the stirrup. ‘Alice,’ he hissed, ‘I admire though cannot understand your loyalty to this good-for-nothing. But, I assure you, Fonthill can tell me nothing. Nothing at all. Do you understand? Now wait here in this orchard. I shall be only an hour.’ He beckoned to Campbell. ‘Come if you’re coming. We can’t wait around, man.’

Campbell, with a reluctant look at Alice, crushed his hat on to his blond hair and took up the reins of his mount. As he did so, Jenkins, hands bound behind his back, ambled over to Covington.

‘With respect, Colonel bach,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere.’

‘What - what the blazes do you mean? How dare you address me like that.’

Jenkins’s turban had never been the most secure headgear seen in Afghanistan and had only achieved a touch of respectability with W.G.’s careful ministrations night and morning. Now, after the exertions of the last few hours, one end hung down to his waist and the rest was coiled precariously on the side of his head. But his face wore that special beam reserved for correcting senior officers.

‘Looks to me, see,’ he said, ‘as though the whole bleedin’ Afghan army is trottin’ out to surround us. Look you, Colonel, over there.’ And he nodded behind him, through the fruit trees, towards Gundigan.

Without a word, Covington rode forward round the edge of the wall and looked to the south-west with his telescope. The others ran to the wall but they needed no telescope. Riding fast to the east, a group of Afghan cavalry - perhaps three squadrons or more - was already wheeling round to cut off their retreat to Kandahar. Running towards them across the plain from the network of outbuildings to the village were hundreds of white-robed ghazi militia, the sun glinting off their spears and shields. As they ran, they fanned out to surround the orchard. Covington’s squadron was outnumbered by six or seven to one.

The Colonel twisted in his saddle to gauge their chances of galloping back to Kandahar, but he was already too late. Their escape route was cut off by the Afghan cavalry who now straddled the two roads back to the city. Covington snapped his telescope shut and sauntered his horse back into the compound. Simon realised for the first time why the man had built a reputation for coolness in command in the face of the enemy. He seemed completely unperturbed by their predicament.

‘Signaller,’ he called.

A trooper pushed his way forward.

‘Will your heliograph thing reach Kandahar from here?’

‘I am not sure, sahib, but I will try.’

‘Well it had better. Signal: “Am surrounded and am in need of urgent assistance.” Do it now.’

The trooper dismounted and dismantled an elaborate mirror device from the large haversack behind his saddle. With many a look at the sun’s position, he mounted it upon a wall, stood behind it and worked a handle so that the sun was reflected from the mirror’s face towards the distant smudge that was Kandahar. He began clicking away.

‘Right.’ Covington’s voice rang out loudly. ‘The squadron will dismount and we will defend this compound until reinforcements arrive from Kandahar. Tether the horses to the trees in the middle, and Barlow.’

‘Sir.’

‘Divide the men so that each wall is equally defended. Position the ammunition reserves in the centre of the orchard and detail a dozen men to stay with me in the middle as a reserve should we need to make a counter-attack.’

‘Fonthill.’

‘Yes, Covington.’

‘Do I have your word that you and your man will make no attempt to escape?’

‘You do.’

‘Very well. Untie them, Subaldar, and give them back their rifles. Can you shoot, Campbell?’

‘Er - yes, if I have to.’

‘Then take this.’ He removed the Webley revolver from his holster and threw it to the journalist. ‘Alice, you will stay in the middle of the orchard with me and you will lie down, out of the line of fire.’

‘I will do nothing of the sort. I have a revolver with seven cartridges left and I can take my place on the wall.’

‘She’s knocked off about seventeen of the black bastards already this morning, Colonel bach,’ said Jenkins, ‘an’ she hasn’t really been tryin’, see.’

‘Don’t address me in that fashion,’ said Covington coldly, but his face softened as he turned back to Alice. ‘No, my dear. You must not help to man the wall. Stay in the middle and protect me. I’ve got a gammy leg and only a sword. Now, who the hell is going to help me down off this horse?’

As he spoke, a shot rang out and the signaller turned slowly on the wall, leaned over his equipment and, almost in slow motion, brought his heliograph crashing to the ground with himself on top of it, a bullet hole in his back.

‘To the walls, quickly,’ shouted Covington, and half lowered himself, half fell on to Barlow’s stout shoulders.

It was as if the bullet which killed the heliograph operator was a signal in itself, because a fusillade of shots now hit the orchard from all sides. As Simon ran to the west wall with Jenkins at his side, he reflected that if the Afghans had attacked immediately, they must have swept the defenders away, for the walls were poorly manned in those first few moments. Within the orchard all was confusion, as the mounts were tethered among the trees to give them some sort of protection, men ran stooping to their positions and the squadron’s few boxes of ammunition reserves were piled into the centre of the compound, where Covington was setting up his command post. Here, the tall man stood on an ammunition box and shouted above the din: ‘Keep your heads down. One man only on each wall to watch the enemy - subaldars detail him. Then, when they attack, stand and fire volleys in sequence, odd then even numbers. Subaldars number the men.’

Jenkins, kneeling next to Simon on the western wall, grinned. ‘Seems to know what ’e’s doin’, all right. That’s one good thing, ain’t it?’

Simon nodded. ‘He’s a good soldier, no doubt about that. But if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with us, none of us would be in this mess. Good soldiers should watch the enemy at all times.’

Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘True, true. I’ll ’ave a word with ’im about it when we’ve finished.’

Rifle bullets and balls from the jezails were slamming into the stone wall with such ferocity that Simon wondered if they could withstand such hammering. Then, suddenly, everything fell quiet on their side of the square until a high-pitched Punjabi voice called: ‘Attack on west wall,’ and was followed almost immediately by another: ‘Attack on south wall.’

Simon and Jenkins rose and presented their Martini-Henrys. Across the plain, rushing towards them, was what seemed like a solid mass of ghazi militiamen, swords held aloft and green banners swinging from high spears. A subaldar touched Simon’s shoulder. ‘Even,’ he said. And then to Jenkins: ‘Odd. Volley fire when ordered.’

To Simon, it seemed an interminable time before the order to fire came. Holding the heavy Martini-Henry sent throbs of pain through his wounded arm and he was forced to kneel on a stone and rest the barrel on the wall. Whoever was ordering the volleys certainly had nerves of steel, for the attackers were now no more than a hundred and fifty yards from the wall and Simon, squinting down the long barrel, could see the distortion on the face of his target as the man shouted in - what? Exultation, hatred? - as he ran, waving a long curved sword which flashed in the sunlight. As he waited, Simon heard in quick succession, ‘Attack on east wall,’ ‘Attack on north wall.’ It was, then, an all-out assault. Could this small group withstand an attack on all fronts? The muzzle of his rifle drooped for a moment, until, with an effort, he re-focused on his target.

Then, Covington’s loud voice sounded over the din: ‘Volley firing commence on order. Even numbers, FIRE. Even numbers, reload. Odd numbers, FIRE. Odd numbers, reload. Even numbers, FIRE . . . reload . . . FIRE. Reload . . . FIRE . . .’

For three minutes or more, the volleys crashed out, shrouding the wall in a vapour of blue smoke and thrusting the sting of cordite on to the dry lips of the defenders. The concentrated fire from the men behind the walls, rolling out in a series of crashing volleys, could not miss at that short range, and through the blue smoke, Simon could see gaps appearing in the mass in front of him. But the gaps kept being refilled, and although the advance was halted for a moment, it came on again. Would they reach the walls? Simon snatched a glance behind him. Through the trees he could see Covington, still standing on an ammunition box, controlling the volleys, and beyond him a line of khaki figures lining the far wall. There was no sign of Alice. There seemed to have been no breakthrough, thank God. To his right, Jenkins was standing, the butt of his rifle nestling into his massive shoulder, firing and reloading with a half-smile on his face, the perfect fighting machine. Simon coughed at the cordite and forced another cartridge into the breech.

‘Cease firing.’ Covington’s voice rang out again. The smoke cleared and Simon saw that the Afghans were retreating, loping away unhurriedly but leaving behind scores of bodies lying in the dust, shields scattered, spears, jezails and swords strewn among the stones. But this was no disorderly rout. The attackers of the west wall were regrouping just out of range of the Punjabis’ carbines, although not of Simon and Jenkins’s infantry rifles. They were deploying on the flanks and linking with other Afghans, who now began to crawl nearer and direct their own rifle fire on the defendants.

‘They ain’t pushing off, then,’ said Jenkins, wiping his brow with the end of his turban.

‘Get your head down,’ muttered Simon.

The comment was echoed by Covington from the centre of the grove of trees. ‘Heads down,’ he shouted. ‘One man to look-out on each wall. Subaldars to check on casualties and ammunition stocks and report to me within three minutes.’

Simon squinted through the trees to catch a glimpse of Alice, but there was no sign. Instead, back bent, head down, John Campbell was scrambling towards him.

With a sigh he sat down between Simon and Jenkins. ‘Phew,’ he said, wiping his face with a bright red handkerchief. ‘I wouldn’t want to go through that again.’

‘Where were you?’ asked Simon.

‘In the middle with Covington and Alice.’ He smiled shyly and Simon noticed that his hand was shaking. He gestured to his Webley. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not much good with this. I’ve only ever shot at grouse and then I missed most of’em. I think Covington wanted me to stay in the middle to keep an eye on Alice if . . . if they broke through.’ He looked quizzically at Simon. ‘Gosh. I wish I could stay as cool as you. To be honest, I think I’m a bit of a coward.’

Simon looked at him sharply. Was he being sarcastic? But the young man’s gaze was open, though his eyes looked haunted. ‘You’re not a coward, Campbell,’ he said. ‘Nobody enjoys this - except possibly 352 here.’

Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh yes. I’m ’avin’ the time of me life, I am, see. I’d much rather be ’ere in among these nice fruit trees than paddlin’ in the sea at Rhyl, where it’s really dangerous with them nasty waves.’

Campbell smiled and, turning to Simon, lowered his voice. ‘I ought to get back but I just wanted to ask you something, Fonthill. You see . . .’ he wiped the perspiration from his top lip with the back of his hand, ‘I’m very fond of Alice, you know.’

Simon stiffened. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. And I think you are too. Am I right?’

Simon looked away. Why the hell was this stranger asking him personal questions, questions which went right to the centre of his being and to which he was not sure of the answers himself ? His background, his training, the reticence he had developed as a kind of cocoon to protect himself as a child - they united in giving him discomfort at the directness of the question. A bullet clipped the top of the wall and ricocheted away, causing stone splinters to fall on to their hair. Perhaps this was no time for propriety.

‘Well, yes. Yes. I suppose I am.’

‘Good. I thought so. You see, I think Covington’s picked the wrong man to protect Alice. If they break through, I don’t think I shall be much good, though I will do what I can.’ His voice dropped even lower. ‘I would do anything for her, Fonthill, but I am not a fighter. If a wall is breached, will you look after her?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thanks. Good. I’d better get back.’ Bent double to keep below the level of the wall, Campbell scrambled away, back to the centre of the grove, where Simon could now just see Alice, dispensing ammunition to the men.

‘What was all that about, then?’ asked Jenkins.

Simon frowned. ‘I guess he’s a bit scared and wanted some moral support.’

Jenkins’s teeth flashed beneath the moustache. ‘Ah well, then, he’s come to the right place. We know all about that, don’t we?’

‘Look, 352. If they do get over the wall, it could be a bit awkward. These Punjabis don’t have bayonets and neither do we. I shall make for Alice to look after her. Will you protect my back?’

‘Don’t I always?’

‘Always.’ Simon smiled. He could not imagine Jenkins ever being afraid. It was not that the Welshman lacked imagination; in fact, Simon had several times glimpsed a Celtic sense of wonder and romanticism behind the little man’s prosaic exterior. No, Jenkins possessed a strong sense of belief in his powers of survival - a belief based on experience and strengthened in scores of conflicts from childhood onwards. He was a fighter who knew his strengths and always played to them. Simon knew that even now the Welshman would be calculating how they could best fight hand-to-hand with only long-barrelled bayonet-less rifles as weapons.

In fact, Simon was wrong. Jenkins had long since worked out that the best way to use the Martini-Henrys in personal conflict would be to thrust with them, just as if a bayonet was on the end. Such a lunge could wind an opponent long before he could bring his sword down. What was occupying his mind now was how to kill Captain Barlow without being detected. The Welshman could see the stout officer on the end of the south wall, popping his head up and down to observe the enemy. One bullet would do it, but it would have to wait until there was another attack and all the defenders were occupied. Then there would be no question of a court martial for Captain Fonthill, not if the main witness for the prosecution was dead. Yes, one bullet would do it.

‘Attack on east wall.’

The volley firing commenced from the other side of the compound and Simon tensed as he waited for the call to defend the west wall. It did not come until the firing from the east had subsided. Then the attack was of a desultory nature, almost like a feint, with a screen of ghazis rushing forward, only to retreat after the first couple of volleys. The same happened in sequence at the other walls.

‘I think they’re testing our firepower,’ said Simon. ‘There’s someone out there who knows what he’s doing. He’s probing the weakest spot.’

‘Humph,’ said Jenkins. ‘There’s our weakest spot, look you.’ He nodded towards where the west wall met the southern stretch. Along the southern side, the wall had crumbled somewhat and a few pieces of timber had been stretched to bridge the gap. It could be scaled easily and Covington had been forced to leave it unprotected because there was insufficient cover there from rifle fire. ‘That cavalry we saw would be over that and in amongst us in a flash, see.’

‘You’re right,’ mused Simon. ‘I wonder why they don’t send them in? Unless . . . yes, of course.’ He slapped his rifle butt in realisation. ‘How much ammunition have you got?’

Jenkins fumbled. ‘Only about a dozen rounds.’

‘That’s it. The Afghan commander knows that cavalry patrols carry hardly any reserves of ammunition for their carbines. They are not equipped to get involved in anything but charges, pursuits and skirmishes. He’s just drawing our fire to exhaust our ammo. Then he will charge. Clever bastard.’

‘Why doesn’t old Covey just tell us to mount and make a break for it - charge through ’em?’

‘Well, he could have tried it earlier, but then, I suppose, he felt that their cavalry was too much for us. Now he’s lost so many of our horses that there wouldn’t be enough mounts for us all. And he wouldn’t want to leave any of us behind.’

Jenkins snorted. ‘Oh no?’

‘Stay here. I’ll go and have a word with him.’

Simon slung his rifle over his shoulder and, on hands and knees, crawled towards the sparse shelter provided by the bunch of low trees in the middle of the compound. He winced as the effort caused the blood to seep through the bandage on his arm again. In the middle, Alice, her back to a tree, was handing out cartridges to the last of the subaldars. She looked up and smiled at him - but her eyes had that inanimate expression which he had come to fear. It was as if something inside her had died.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, slumping down next to her. ‘We should be getting help from the city soon.’

Her smile disappeared. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it had better come soon because I have now handed out all the reserves of ammunition.’ She put a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. ‘Simon, I cannot help feeling that we are all about to be killed.’

‘Nonsense. There are—’

‘No. I know the situation. Look.’ She pointed to the carcasses of horses killed in the crossfire. ‘We have few horses left and I have heard the reports of the wounded - we have lost about a quarter of the men. If they break in, we are finished. Listen, my dear, I want you to know how sorry I am that I have led you to this and how deeply grateful I am for all that you have done.’

The tears were now back, brimming in her eyes. ‘If it had not been for me, W.G. would still be alive and you and Jenkins would be safely back in India. I am ashamed of myself, of my selfishness. I am so sorry, my dear.’

‘Fonthill. Get back to the wall.’ Covington came through the trees, limping heavily and using his sabre as support. ‘Back to your post, man.’

‘Very well, but I need a word with you first.’

‘No time. Get back to the wall.’

Simon rose awkwardly to his feet and pulled Covington away from Alice. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the Afghans are luring us into using all our ammunition by making these dummy attacks. Then they will come at us and send their cavalry in over that breach in the wall.’

The blue eyes stared at Simon. ‘How very kind of you, Fonthill, to tell me my job. You will be staggered to hear that I have given orders for us to hold our fire.’ His lips curved into a smile but his eyes remained cold. ‘But you are right about the breach. Take your Welshman and fill it immediately. Stand and fire as soon as they charge. Bring down the leading horsemen and make the rest veer away.’

‘But there’s no cover. It would be suicide.’

‘Frightened again, Fonthill?’

Simon clenched his fist for a moment and then sighed. ‘You really are an arsehole, Covington,’ he said. But he turned away, stooped and scrambled back towards the wall. As he went, he caught Alice’s frightened eye. Campbell had come to kneel beside her and was slipping a cartridge into his revolver.

Jenkins watched Simon approach. ‘It’s gone a bit deathly quiet, like,’ he said as Simon dropped to one knee beside him. ‘Either they’ve all gone off for a beer, see, or they’re pullin’ up their knickers before comin’ in on us ’ard, like.’

‘Oh, they’ll be coming in all right. Come on. We’ve been ordered to defend the breach.’

The Welshman’s big eyebrows rose. ‘Oh, how simply splendid,’ he lisped in the manner of a young officer. ‘Shall I stand in the middle and ’it the ’orses with me rifle as they ride by?’

‘Something like that. Come on.’

Together they crawled to the breach, Jenkins jumping across to take one side, Simon crouching at the other. The gap was about eight feet wide, with the remains of the wall rising to an irregular two feet or so and with two poles stretching across some four feet high, like a practice jump in a riders’ field for beginners. Simon studied it carefully. It was an easy jump for any competent horseman but it was too narrow for two to take side by side at speed. If snipers didn’t get them, he and Jenkins could easily bring down the first two riders, but the second and third would probably be through before they could reload their single-shot rifles. Jumping . . . jumping. Jumping meant landing.

‘Look,’ he called across to Jenkins. ‘Get as many of these rocks as you can find and push and scatter them just where the horses will land. If they don’t cause them to shy, at least they might bring them down when they’re over. Don’t go into the breach to fire until the horses charge. Then jump away at the last minute.’

Jenkins nodded, and they began desperately to scrabble about in the debris, pushing and throwing the sun-bleached stones so that they were strewn haphazardly on the ground beyond the breach. They had had little time to build an effective deterrent, however, when the cry of ‘Attack on the north wall’ caused them to seize their rifles and huddle behind the wall. The volley firing - less closely synchronised this time - had hardly begun before the defenders of the other three walls were called into action. Simon shot a glance backwards. He could not see Alice, but he caught a glimpse of Campbell, one arm around a tree, the other hanging at his side, revolver in hand, staring wide-eyed at the north wall. Simon raised his heavy rifle with an effort and rose above the wall. He realised that he was frightened but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

The wave of Pathans ahead of him seemed somehow thinner, less impenetrable, and he soon realised why. As predicted, they formed only a thin screen for a body of horsemen who were trotting at their rear, lances held high, shields on their left forearms. He had time to reflect for a second that Alexander’s spearmen must have been confronted with the same sight when they came through these passes two thousand years before. Then he took aim and fired.

Almost immediately, the white-robed ghazis in front of him parted and were replaced by the vanguard of the cavalry. It was a splendid and terrifying sight. With a shout which could be heard above the firing, the horsemen formed into a V, led by a man wearing a black-fringed sheepskin cap and carrying a shield and a lance which he now lowered as he urged his horse into a gallop. The other horsemen slipped into line behind him as they headed for the gap in the wall. As they charged, they kicked up thick dust that rose behind them like smoke from hell. To the defenders on the wall, they seemed to be the very angels of death.

Simon ran a tongue around lips that felt like blotting paper as he slipped another cartridge into the breech. Only five more bullets lay on the wall beside him. ‘Aim for the horses, bach,’ called Jenkins.

The leader of the charge was soon brought down, in the flurry of dust and rolling eyes from his beast, and so too were the second and third, and then the fourth and fifth as the fire of the defenders of the south wall took effect. But there were no volleys now, only sporadic firing, and the riders did not flinch from the fire nor veer their horses away from the wall. With impeccable discipline and courage they kept on coming, aiming for that narrow, jumpable gap in the wall, their lances levelled, their heads down over their horses’ manes.

Simon fired his last bullet at point-blank range and brought down the mount of the first horseman attempting the jump. The rider wrenched his horse’s head away at the last minute, so leaving room for the man behind him to take the jump. As this man urged his horse into the leap, Jenkins’s bullet caught him on the chest and he slumped away in the saddle so that, in mid-jump, his head caught the side of the wall.

‘Fall back into the middle,’ shouted Simon. He threw his now useless rifle at the next horse, causing him to shy, and then doubled back towards the trees, turning his head to see Jenkins, his white teeth bared under his moustache, running after him. To the right, he saw that there was hand-to-hand fighting at the wall, although no Afghans had yet been able, it seemed, to climb it. As he approached the trees, twelve Punjabi cavalrymen, in impeccable order, emerged with Covington in the centre, sabre in hand. He raised his sword. ‘Present,’ he shouted. The Punjabis levelled their carbines.

‘Down, Jenkins, for God’s sake,’ screamed Simon and threw himself to the ground. The volley thundered over his head. Then the two men picked themselves up and scrambled forward to push through the rank of riflemen. ‘You could have killed us,’ Simon gasped to Covington.

The big man, blood now trickling down his injured leg on to his boot, paid no attention. ‘Present,’ he thundered. ‘Fire!’ Another volley crashed out and Simon turned and saw that the breach in the wall was now completely closed by the bodies of horses, some of them with legs still thrashing. The terrible mound rose higher than the wall on either side and could not be jumped. Cavalry could be seen milling around beyond the wall.

‘They will come to the gate in the east wall,’ shouted Covington to his reserve. ‘Move there at the double. AT THE DOUBLE, I SAID.’ His men turned and ran through the trees and he limped after them, sabre in hand, without sparing a glance for Simon or Jenkins. The Punjabis on the south and west walls, at least, were still holding fast, firing with care. Simon ran back to the breach and retrieved from the ground one of the Afghan lances, its green pennant still attached. He now had a weapon, of sorts - and lighter than his rifle. Jenkins, he noticed, still had his gun. ‘How much ammo do you have left?’ he asked.

‘Just the one,’ said Jenkins. ‘Savin’ it for a bit, see.’

‘We’d best help at the gate, then,’ said Simon. ‘If Alice is all right, that is.’

Alice was where they had last seen her, but now she was on her knees, kneeling beside the prostrate body of Campbell, cradling his head and wiping his face with a tattered handkerchief.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Simon, lowering himself to her side.

‘A bullet took him in the chest as he was trying to fire his revolver. I think he’s gone.’ She spoke without emotion, in a flat monotone. Her action with the handkerchief seemed quite redundant, for as Simon took the young man’s hand to feel for the pulse, it was quite cold. The bullet had entered his chest just by the heart. He was no longer breathing and his eyes were staring at the sky, with that slightly puzzled look of the dead.

‘I am afraid you are right,’ said Simon, leaning forward and gently closing Campbell’s eyes. ‘He would have been killed outright. You can do no more, my dear.’

She looked at him expressionlessly. ‘Very well,’ she said flatly. She drew her Colt revolver from the cummerbund round her waist. ‘Then I shall go to the wall and fight.’

Jenkins interrupted. ‘Bach, sir. I think they’re overwhelmin’ us at that gate. We’d better go and ’elp the Colonel.’

‘No.’ Simon turned to Alice. ‘Keep your pistol and stay here among the trees. Here.’ He bent down and retrieved the Webley from the ground near Campbell’s body and opened the magazine. There were four cartridges left. He threw it to Jenkins. ‘Stay with her. There’s a bit of cover among the trees. If they break through, I’ll run back.’

‘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.’