The Road to Kandahar

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 . . .?

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.

‘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.’

‘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?’

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.’

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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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.’

‘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?’

‘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?’

‘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?’

‘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’.’

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.

He was woken the next morning before dawn by a hand shaking his shoulder. He looked into the face of Alice, a few inches from his own. She was wearing no perfume but he remembered with a little lurch of the heart her warm, feminine smell. ‘I am sorry to wake you, Simon,’ she whispered. ‘But I had to tell you that I am being allowed to report the battle and I am on my way now with the army.’

He struggled to sit but she restrained him. ‘No. Don’t get up.’ She smiled, her face still close to his. ‘I understand that you are to stay here. Covington has told me that it was your intervention with the General that made him change his mind and allow me to go. I came to thank you and to tell you where I was,’ she lowered her gaze for a second, ‘in case you were worried.’ She kissed him quickly. ‘Thank you, my dear. Stay and rest, and if all goes well, I shall see you tonight.’

A black moustache rose for a moment from the bed roll on the other side of the tent. ‘Well,’ said Jenkins, ‘she sounded better’n yesterday, I’ll say that. Let’s ’ope she doesn’t go and get ’erself killed, eh?’

In fact, neither of them could do so. Simon lay watching the tent canvas turn gradually white as the sun came up, and shortly afterwards he heard the sound of firing from the west. He cupped his ear the better to listen. But there was no deep booming from heavy ordnance, only the distant sharp cracks of light artillery: the screw guns that Roberts had brought with him across the mountains and the manoeuvrable cannon that the Afghans had put in place behind the village walls. He was relieved. It sounded as though the bigger Afghan guns up in the hills had not been brought into play.

Jenkins threw back his blanket and pushed his fingers through his spiky black hair. ‘Not until we’ve ’ad some breakfast, bach,’ he said, ‘and not until I’ve dressed that arm of yours. We’ll not be ’avin’ another fever, now, will we?’

The camp had a deserted air. Cooks and a few band boys were preparing strange concoctions in huge cooking pots, ready for the return of hungry troops. A medical post had been set up near the site of Roberts’s HQ tent and everywhere, doolie bearers and other native non-combatants were going about their leisurely business. In the distance, towards the west, Simon could make out mounted piquets moving on the plain. Detachments of men from regiments that he did not recognise - presumably from the Kandahar garrison - were formed up behind primitive defences facing west. Obviously Roberts did not contemplate defeat and he had made no elaborate plans to defend his baggage. The general tenor was that of a base camp on Salisbury Plain whose regiment was away on a day’s exercise.

It was not until well after noon, in fact, before Simon could find anyone with sufficient seniority to allow him to borrow two rather elderly horses to ride out towards the fighting. In their civilian clothing they were not challenged by any of the piquets that were patrolling the plain near the city and they headed towards the distant firing, the intensity of which had now decreased markedly. As they rode, the noise of battle seemed to recede before them until, after they had been riding for less than an hour, it disappeared altogether. They passed several ambulance wagons, carrying wounded back to Kandahar, but no steady stream of such vehicles denoting fierce fighting. A small figure in the distance soon revealed itself to be a horseman, galloping towards them and leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. As he approached, Simon recognised the blond-moustached young ADC who had served him tea in Roberts’s anteroom, and he waved him down.

The young man looked quizzically at the two men in their dusty linen suits and then his eyes lit up. ‘Ah, Captain Fonthill. Didn’t recognise you in your mufti for a minute.’ A broad smile extended his moustache. ‘Great news, sir. Bobs has won the day. I am just dashing back to the city to tell the old ladies of the garrison there that they can stop shakin’ and come out of their boudoirs. Oh.’ His smile disappeared for a second. ‘Sorry. Speakin’ out of turn there for a minute. But,’ the smile returned, ‘I’m sure you know what I mean. What?’

‘Oh yes. Old Mac had no problem. Then the 1st and 2nd Brigades went straight down the plain, and after a bit of a shindig at Pir Paimal and then the back of the Baba Wali Kotal, they advanced on old Ayub’s camp and found that the bird had flown. Buggered off back to Herat with what’s left of his army. The cavalry are out after them still. We took thirty-two pieces of artillery at his camp. A damned good day’s work, I’d say.’ The young man gathered in his reins. ‘Must get on, sir.’

Simon nodded slowly. ‘That surely must be the end of it in this country. The Afghans have had three substantial defeats in different parts of this godforsaken place. They won’t be able to put another army in the field. They’ll probably make old Bobs a field marshal now.’

‘No. I don’t want to be roasted for leaving camp. Anyway, we have something more important to do. Come on.’ He turned his horse’s head to the north, to where the slopes of the Baba Wali Kotal rose from the plain. Soon they passed the orchard where they had so nearly met their deaths the day before, and shortly afterwards they found what they were looking for.

W.G.’s body lay where it had fallen, one arm crumpled beneath him and flies crawling round the neat blue hole in his forehead. Rigor mortis had set in and he was difficult to lift, but between them they were able to wrap the big Sikh in a horse blanket and then lay him across the saddle of Simon’s horse. Simon climbed up behind Jenkins and slowly they made their way back to Kandahar, provoking a few curious glances from piquets and returning ambulances but nothing more. No one queried their mission and they arrived back in the late afternoon to find the camp already buzzing with the news of the great victory.

They rode through the camp until they came to the lines of one of the Punjabi regiments. Here they found an elderly rissaldar, his beard grey and his blue turban faded, but his back straight and his manner courteous. Because of his age, he explained, he had been detailed to remain behind to prepare the reception of the seriously wounded, but so far none had come back from the battlef ield. He nodded to the blanket-swathed figure on Simon’s horse. ‘Is this, sahib, the f irst?’ he enquired with grave dignity. Simon explained a little of W.G.’s background and how he had met his death.

The rissaldar inclined his head again. ‘The body is not important,’ he said. ‘It is merely a shell for the soul. Death is a natural process - even sudden death in war - and it is God’s will. We do not approve of a public display of mourning nor of erecting gravestones. We shall scatter his ashes in the river and begin the reading of the Sri Guru Granth Sahib.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Simon, a little uncertainly. ‘Well, thank you, Rissaldar. It is good for us to know that W.G. . . . er . . . Inderjit Singh - or his shell, that is - is in good hands. We shall join you, if we may, in the morning. In the background, that is, of course.’

The Sikh bowed again and Simon and Jenkins carefully lifted W.G.’s body from the horse and took it to a little cleared area behind the tents. Then, wearily, they made their way back to their own tent. Simon thought of attempting to find the correspondents’ quarters and of seeing Alice, but rejected it. The task of finding W.G. and bringing his body back had induced a feeling of sadness and of rejection of the whole process of warfare - even the reporting of it. He wanted no further part in it, and the sounds of celebration from the lines as the victorious army returned drove him into his bed roll long before dusk fell.

This feeling of lassitude returned in the morning as, just before dawn, Simon and Jenkins made their way to the Punjabi lines. Sixteen other bodies had been brought back from the plain after the battle, and the funeral pyres crackled and lit up the early day as the warriors were committed to the flames. A sepulchral hymn began to be half chanted, half sung, and, feeling out of place, the two crept away, their heads bowed.

At their tent, a small note was handed to Simon. It was written in pencil and had obviously been hurriedly scribbled:

I have returned safely from the battlefield and have been up all night writing my story - or rather my stories. I felt that I had to cover for Johnny Campbell too, so I have also filed a story to the London Standard. It was the least I could do. I am now attempting to get some sleep and hope perhaps to see you later, if you wish. A.

Simon had hardly tucked the note into his pocket when an orderly arrived, asking him to report to Brigadier Lamb. With a sigh, Simon attempted to brush some of the all-pervasive Afghan dust from his new but now-crumpled suit and followed the man through the British lines. Despite the early hour and the fact that he had obviously been in the thick of the battle yesterday - a bandaged hand testified to that - Lamb had clearly been at work for some time. Papers were strewn across his camp table in a fashion Simon remembered well.

Good to be forewarned! Simon frowned. In gaining that information, that forewarning, W.G. had lost his life. Once again the arrogance of this army struck home. The loftiness, the other-worldliness of the officer caste in its dealings with the native troops; its sanguine acceptance of the need to lose life to gain an objective; its extension of the ethics of the playing field to the field of battle (‘good old Mac’) - he hated it all, with the passion of the convert. God, was he becoming a pacifist? No, some fighting was necessary. But was this? He swallowed and looked at the roof of the tent.

Lamb followed his gaze, partly puzzled and partly exasperated at Simon’s lack of enthusiasm at the victory. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the table, as a schoolmaster would to regain the attention of an erring pupil. ‘Now, Fonthill,’ he said, ‘the General believes that you and your Welshman, 362—’

‘The General believes that you have earned some reward for your efforts, even though you have left the army.’ The Brigadier coughed. ‘He has therefore awarded you both an extra month’s back pay. In addition, your Sikh has been promoted with effect from the time that he began working with you, so that his widow will receive a considerable sum - by Indian standards, that is.’

The irony in Simon’s tone was not lost on Lamb. His nutmeg face crinkled into a hatch of lines as he frowned in annoyance. ‘I have to tell you, Fonthill, that the General does not know what to make of you. In fact, he does not like you and has always been rather suspicious of your motives and your methods. He wants you out of Afghanistan as soon as possible.’

Anger began to mount within Simon. ‘Well, that’s fine by me, Brigadier,’ he said. ‘I shall be glad to leave this sad country. But it is damned unfair of Sir Frederick to doubt my motives and my methods. I am here because you blackmailed me to do a job which I did not want - that was my motive. And as for my methods, it is impossible to play by the Horse Guards’ rules of etiquette when your balls are being burned off or when pompous line officers try to throw the best soldier in the world off a train just because he doesn’t wear stars on his shoulder. Anyway, those methods brought the results that the General wanted. He should be satisfied.’

Simon’s anger had prompted him to half rise from the chair, but a twinge of pain as he thrust his hand on to the table forced him to sit again and bestowed a sullen note to his closing sentence, which he immediately regretted. But he held Lamb’s gaze defiantly until, characteristically, the face opposite broke into a smile.

‘Damn me, Fonthill,’ chuckled the Brigadier. ‘I think it’s just as well you’ve left this army, otherwise we would have been forced to shoot you.’ Lamb stood. ‘Look. I’ve told you the General’s view. Now, mine is that you’ve done a damned fine job under difficult conditions, and I would like to thank you and your Welshman, whatever his damned number is.’ He extended his hand. ‘Good luck to you in whatever you are going to do.’

‘Yes. Sorry about the short notice, but Bobs wants you out before you shoot Covington.’ His smile was steely. ‘Start shortly after dawn. See the quartermaster about gear and clothing - he may be able to better that suit. You won’t have to slog back the way we came. The column will march through the Bolan Pass and you can pick up the railway which takes you through to Rohri on the Indus. What are you going to do, anyway?’

Outside the tent, Simon stood for a moment in indecision. His mind was a mixture of emotions. He wanted to get out of Afghanistan and shake off the confines of the army as quickly as possible, but this abrupt departure was redolent of expulsion. He disliked the implication of wrongdoing which that prompted. Also, he wanted to see Alice. In fact, he wanted to see her very much - but what to say to her? He frowned, as his brain tried to be logical and handle the questions that came flooding in. Which Alice would he meet: the warm, worldly and slightly cynical woman, or the frightened, disturbed girl? How should he pose his question? Was this the time? Was it the place? Well, damn it, it had to be. He kicked the soil angrily and strode off back to the tent.

There, Jenkins heard the news of their departure stoically. ‘Time to go is time to go, see,’ he said, with that air of native wisdom he wore on occasions and which always infuriated Simon. Seeing the warning signs, the Welshman sniffed and nodded towards the city. ‘I’ll wander off to see the QM, then, and pick up our ’Avana cigars for the journey. Oh, by the way,’ he turned at the tent flap, ‘the newspaper people ’ave been moved into the city. Their quarters are just off the main gate. Thought you might like to know, see.’ Then he was gone.

Simon waited for two hours, lying on his bed roll, then he threw his few personal possessions into a bag, before washing, brushing his hair and walking towards the massive gate that gave entrance to Kandahar. A sentry showed him the low house that had become the working centre for the correspondents covering the campaign and he sent a note through to ask if Alice was available to see him. He hoped she had recovered from her night’s labours. From the deserted look of the press centre, her colleagues had been similarly employed.

But she came to the door quickly enough and it was clear that she had been up and about for some time. The makeshift dye had been scrubbed away from her face and only traces now showed in thin brown lines under her eyes. She was wearing her hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, wound round with that familiar lime-green scarf, and for once, she had forsaken riding breeches and had somehow acquired a simple shift-like dress of khaki cotton which gave her a girlish air of unsophistication. The haunted look had left her face, though the grey eyes looked strained and sad and there was a slight hint of melancholy in the smile with which she greeted Simon.

‘I rested a little, thank you. But I have been up for a couple of hours now, sorting myself out and . . . er . . . seeing a few people. It seems I am now forgiven and they are letting me stay on for a short while, to cover the installation of the new amir and so on.’ She smiled that sad smile again. ‘My editor liked my story of the battle and I have also received a cable of thanks from the Standard, so, for once, it seems I am in everyone’s good books, though I don’t suppose that will last long. Now, how about you? Has the arm recovered, and how are you feeling, my dear?’

‘I am quite well now, thank you, Alice.’ Simon felt a slight sense of annoyance at the formal way the conversation was developing, as though Alice was erecting a barrier of convention between them. This was not the way he wished to introduce the matter he had come to put to the lovely woman sitting opposite him, her chin now resting schoolgirlishly on her knees.

The filing of her stories had perforce taken her back again into the minutiae of the battle. She had had to discover and then break down the numbers of the killed and wounded and then to report the detail dispassionately. On previous occasions this task, while never pleasant, had not fazed her, for she had been able to retain a professional distance when writing about carnage. Now, however, she could not help recalling Campbell’s dead face, and the cries of the Afghans as her own bullets had hit their targets. The memories pressed heavier when, after sending her dispatches, she lay down for a precious moment or two of rest. Sleep evaded her and she began to feel a deep and personal responsibility for those she had seen killed in the compound. They would not have perished, brown and white, if she had not insisted on evading Roberts’s edict and persuading Simon and his friends to take her to Kandahar.

Alice was never short of confidence and by nature she was not introspective. But the events of that day had been cathartic. They had forced her to examine her motives and attitude to life. Was she not completely selfish and, indeed, self-centred? The answer, of course, was yes. Yet, as she lay looking at the white fabric of her tent and tasted the dust of the army camp on her tongue, she realised that she could not change her personality simply by the exercise of self-analysis, like Mesmer clicking his fingers to bring someone out of a hypnotic state. Nevertheless, it was necessary - it was vital - to alter the direction of her life.

Alice had allowed herself a half-smile: the change of course need not lead to a nunnery exactly but certainly towards something which would contain an element of sacrifice and yet still be creative and, perhaps, of some use to others. Slowly an idea began to form in her mind, one that would take her away from all that now revolted her but which would be not at all unpleasant . . . In fact, it would relieve the pressure on her. But - and here she had frowned - it would not please Simon. Simon, her dear friend for whom she felt so much gratitude and affection. Nevertheless, that could not be helped. It offered the best solution.

‘Well.’ Alice’s eyes left his and roamed over the ceiling, as though looking for something to help her begin. Eventually, they returned to his face and Simon realised that whatever she had to tell him would not please him. She seemed almost ashamed of what she was about to say. ‘You know how much gratitude I have to you and to Jenkins and poor W.G. for enabling me to reach this place and to report the battle?’

‘Yes, well. I think you also know that I have found the violence of the last few days to be very . . . disturbing. Oh, Simon.’ Now she reached across impulsively and took his hand, and her eyes regained that expression of intensity that he remembered so well. ‘I killed W.G. and Johnny Campbell as surely as if I had pulled the trigger. I killed others, too - more directly. I never thought that I would ever do that.’

She shook her head as though to dispel the memories. ‘I have been thinking of that and I realise that I must never put myself again into that position of kill or be killed. That is a soldier’s world. A man’s world. I was wrong to have strayed into it.’

‘But Alice.’ Simon found himself searching for words. ‘You knew all this when you set out - even, perhaps, when you decided to become a journalist, a war correspondent. To get your story you had to take that risk. It’s what a man would have done.’

Alice relinquished his hand and sat back on the bed, as though in retreat. ‘Because . . . because I think I love him. And he offers me the chance of doing something else. Of running a large estate, of doing something worthwhile with his land and the estate employees. Of having money, and children, and bringing them up as I believe they ought to be raised. Of . . . of . . . oh, I don’t know.’ She gestured wildly. ‘Of getting away from all this.’

Simon ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You - staying at home and bringing up children! That’s not you. Anyway, the man’s a bully and a monster. He would have had me court-martialled on a trumped-up charge.’

A feeling akin to nausea ran through Simon. A large estate, money - he had none of those things. Whatever he had to offer could not match what she had accepted. The nausea turned to anger - to marry Covington, of all people! Never, for one moment, had he imagined that competition would come from that quarter, nor that Covington’s feelings would be reciprocated. Was Alice out of her mind? He opened his mouth to remonstrate further. She was watching him closely, defensively, expecting an argument and bracing herself for it. There was that familiar look of determination now in her face. A stubbornness he knew he could not shift. He realised, with deep, deep sadness, that there was nothing he could do.

He rose and put out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Alice. I hope you will be very happy. Whatever I think of Covington - and I would be a hypocrite if I said I liked the man - he is indeed a gallant soldier and a brave one.’ His words, he knew, sounded stilted even to himself and he made an effort to appear more gracious. He pulled her up from the bed when she took his hand, and embraced her gently. ‘You deserve only the very best, my dear. Let me know where I should send the rubies and diamonds as your wedding present.’

She laughed for the first time and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are the first person I have told. Both you and Jenkins will be invited to the wedding.’ She pulled back with an expression of remorse. ‘But I forgot. You came to tell me something and I have been prattling on about myself as usual. What was it?’

‘Oh.’ Simon paused for a second and cleared his throat. ‘Only to say that Jenkins and I are being thrown out of Afghanistan by Roberts. He has given us a derisory extra month’s pay for our efforts and told us that we must be with the column of wounded who are leaving for India at dawn tomorrow. I believe he thinks we are troublemakers. I came to say goodbye.’

A look of righteous indignation flooded Alice’s face. ‘The old bastard! After all the lives you saved at Kabul and here. I will not let him get away with that.’ She took his arm. ‘Please let me write about it. I will see that questions are asked about it at home.’

Simon shook his head. ‘No thank you. Jenkins and I don’t give a damn really. And I would not want you to get back into hot water again. No, my dear, we shall slip away quietly tomorrow. But thank you all the same.’

The hurtful sadness deepened into a real sense of loss as he looked into the concerned face a few inches from his own. The beautiful grey eyes were full of feeling for him, he could tell, but what sort of feeling? Certainly not love. She knew, of course, what he had been about to ask her when she interrupted him, and she knew he had been wounded. But - what the hell! He had to get out of there. He kissed her quickly, chastely, on the lips, then turned and left.

Shortly after Simon arrived back at the tent, Jenkins came staggering in, loaded down with two bulging kit bags. ‘Well,’ he puffed, ‘we’ve done well. I’ve been to the bazaar and traded in the army boots and the shirts they gave us and I’ve got some fine cotton stuff . . .’ His voice trailed away as he looked at the mournful face opposite him. ‘Ah. We’re not gettin’ married, then?’

‘That’s what I was goin’ to say. Anyway, you’ve been moonin’ about since we stopped fightin’ the fierce Pataan. I guessed you was screwin’ up your courage, look you. ’Ard luck, bach.’

Jenkins sat down slowly and sucked in his moustache. For a moment or two he considered the proposition. ‘She’s a fine lass, that’s for sure,’ he said eventually. ‘But she’s old enough and, by golly, brave enough to make her own bed. Now she must lie on it.’ He shot a quick glance at Simon. ‘So what are we going to do now?’

Simon looked across at the familiar face opposite, now wearing an apprehensive, even wistful expression. Somehow, he felt better. ‘I’ve been wondering about that. I think we should go to my home - just for a short while. What do you think?’

Simon linked his hands behind his head and lay back on the narrow bed. ‘I haven’t had much time to consider it, but I can’t help thinking that people ought to do what they’re good at. I will never make a farmer or a businessman, and I have a few pennies of my own, so we don’t need a big income. What we are good at is soldiering. No, no.’ He held up his hand to stop an incredulous Jenkins interrupting. ‘I don’t like the army and we could never be line soldiers again. But I realise that the army needs people like us . . . sort of freelances who operate on the edges as we have been doing. Scouts and that sort of thing.’ He lifted his head. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

‘Of course not. But I can see things boiling over rather in South Africa sooner or later, and perhaps in Egypt. We could be of use in places like that - as long as there were no strings attached to the brass. We would have to keep a degree of independence. But first, a spell at home. What do you think?’

Jenkins blinked and turned to one of the kit bags. He pulled out a shirt and began smoothing it with his big, broad hand. ‘I’ll go anywhere you go,’ he said. ‘Somebody’s got to look after you, after all.’