Farewell To Afghanistan E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Afghanistan, 1880. Major Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot is given a mission to convince Batoor Khan to support the new Amir. However, when a rival to the Afghan throne, Ayub Khan, appears to threaten a British garrison, Jack joins the army sent to restore order.

From that point, Jack’s time in Afghanistan descends into chaos. From major battles and savage skirmishes, family feuds, an enigmatic woman and a mysterious Timuri, Jack finds that Afghanistan continues to be a dangerous place.

In the tenth book in the Jack Windrush series of historical military novels, can Jack survive one of the most famous marches in Victorian military history, and finally gain promotion?

Leseprobe

FAREWELL TO AFGHANISTAN

JACK WINDRUSH BOOK 10

MALCOLM ARCHIBALD

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Next in the Series

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2021 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Cathy

March, march, march away.

March for you’ll be victorious.

Abul Fazl (1551-1602)

(Grand Vizier of the Mughal Emperor Akbar)

“What shall we do to save these?”

Second Lieutenant Honywood’s last words as he held up the Queen’s Colours of the 66th Foot, Battle of Maiwand, 27th July 1880.

CHAPTERONE

Kandahar, Afghanistan, June 1880

“Everyone plays polo out here.” Captain Inkerrow drew on his cheroot. “If you don’t play, the Royal Malverns won’t accept you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Major Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot said.

“The high season is in cold weather, of course,” Inkerrow gave a well-bred laugh. “This hot weather polo is a low standard affair. One only plays to get exercise, with slow chukkas.”

Jack nodded without listening. He was more interested in Inkerrow’s attitude than his opinion.

“How many ponies do you have, Major?” Inkerrow raised his eyebrows as he asked the question.

“None,” Jack said.

Inkerrow looked away in disdain. “I take it the 113th is not a polo regiment.”

“No,” Jack said. “The 113th is a fighting regiment." He paused for a moment. “And in the 113th, we address our senior officers as sir.”

Inkerrow gave a short laugh. “Yes, sir.”

Jack walked his horse away from Inkerrow in an attempt to find some shade. Sweat rolled from his forehead and trickled down his face. It formed a small globule on his chin before finally dripping to stain the hard leather pommel of his saddle. Jack blinked into the distance, hardly noticing the eight players engaged in the fourth chukka of the match. Around him, forming an armed escort for the polo game, a dozen mounted men slowly patrolled the outside edge of the dusty pitch. All the guards were soldiers of the Scinde Horse, the unit whose men made up one of the contending teams. The opposing team was formed of officers from the Royal Malverns, with Second Lieutenant William Windrush, known as Crimea, prominent. Crimea was the son of Colonel Windrush, Jack’s half-brother. He rode easily as he swung his mallet to crack the ball forward to the Scinde’s goalmouth.

“Good shot,” Jack murmured as the ball hurtled towards its target. A Scinde rider intervened, using his mallet to deflect the ball.

Crimea jabbed in his spurs, trotting forward on the line of the ball, while two opposing players charged alongside, hoping to reach the ball first. As one of the Scinde players hooked Crimea’s mallet to block the shot, the other leaned over from his saddle and passed the ball to a third Scinde rider. From that point, the Scinde horsemen cantered up the pitch, exchanging the ball in a series of short, accurate passes that the Malvern’s team could not intercept.

Two of the Malvern riders galloped towards their own goal, shouting as they strove to prevent the Scinde men from scoring, with one fair-haired subaltern thrusting out his mallet to block the shot.

“That’s the way, Walter!” Crimea encouraged, kicking in his spurs as his horse’s hooves kicked up dust from the hard ground.

Second Lieutenant the Honourable Walter Sarsens laughed as the ball clicked against his mallet and fell crookedly to the ground. Pushing his horse into the Scinde trooper, Sarsens tapped the ball to Crimea, who trapped it forward expertly and passed it back to Sarsens.

“Pass!” Crimea yelled, pushing his horse to find a scoring position. “Pass, you Griffin, you blasted Johnny Raw!”

Instead of passing, Sarsens tried a long-range shot, with the ball trailing dust as it rose from the ground.

A Scinde rider intercepted the ball with a deft movement of his mallet, turned like a centaur and cracked the ball to a wiry team member.

“You should have passed!” Crimea criticised, spurring furiously in the direction of the ball.

Jack admired the wiry Scinde rider’s skill as he lifted his mallet and hit the ball as it moved. The Malvern riders could only watch as they lost another goal.

“That’s five goals to nothing,” the umpire shouted, to the delight of the Scinde players and open dismay of the Royal Malverns.

“We’ve still got time to strike back!” Crimea said. “You should have passed, Sarsens.

“It was more fun trying the long shot,” Sarsens said. “Calm yourself, Crimea. It’s only a game!”

“We want to win!” Crimea roared. “For the honour of the Royals!”

Jack smiled. Eighteen months in Afghanistan had physically matured Crimea, adding width to his shoulders and firmness to his face, but he retained his spirit and regimental pride.

My brother William should be proud of his son.

“There might be trouble, Major Blackwood sahib!” The risaldar in charge of the escort galloped to the umpire. “Riders are approaching from the north. It may be Ayub Khan.”

“Ayub Khan is supposed to be north of the Helmand River.” Jack joined the umpire. Ghazi Mohammad Ayub Khan was a late Amir of Afghanistan, Governor of Herat Province and was now tilting for the throne. In the disturbed state of Afghanistan, any dust cloud could mean a lashkar- tribal army- or merely a trading caravan of camels.

“That’s where he’s supposed to be, Windrush.” The umpire, Major Henry Blackwood of the Horse Artillery, scanned the landscape, narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare. “He may be anywhere from Herat to the outskirts of Kandahar. That’s as much trust I place in our spies. They’re all born liars.” He studied the dust clouds to the north, a sure sign of somebody approaching the city. Although they were only a few hundred yards outside Kandahar’s walls, the polo players and their escort were wary of an attack. “We’ll call the match a win for the Scinde Horse,” Blackwood decided. “Best not take chances.”

“We can finish the game,” Crimea said.

“Yes, sir,” Sarsens urged the umpire. “We still have a chance to score for the honour of the regiment.”

“Back inside,” Blackwood repeated. “What do you think, Windrush?” He appealed to Jack for support.

Jack pushed his horse closer. “Major Blackwood is correct,” he said. “We don’t know who is under that cloud of dust.” He raised his voice. “Players, change and head for the Shikapur Gate! Don’t dally! Escort, you’re the rearguard!” He waited until the polo players shrugged on their uniforms and headed back towards Kandahar before he joined the escort, nodding to the risaldar in charge. The sowars - Indian cavalry troopers - formed a loose screen, watching the approaching dust cloud while not appearing to retreat.

Jack rode forward, touching the butt of his revolver as he approached the dust. He sensed the sowar at his back and knew he might be putting the man in peril. Both men tried to see what the cloud concealed.

“What do you think, sowar?” Jack asked in Pashto, the local language.

“I think it could be dangerous to linger, sahib,” the sowar said diplomatically.

“You could be right, sowar.” Jack accepted the rebuke and pulled his horse away. “We’ll get back to the barracks.”

The polo players were safe, and the risaldar had lined his men outside the Shikapur Gate with their swords balanced on their right shoulders.

“Thank you, Risaldar,” Jack said as he passed through the arched opening, and the risaldar followed them. The Royal Malvern sentinels at the gate and on the wall above hefted their Martini-henry rifles in expectation. If the officer in charge thought it prudent, he would close the gate; at present, it remained open for merchants and citizens.

“Keep alert, men,” Jack advised.

The corporal in charge saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Unlike most British regiments in Afghanistan, the Royals still wore their traditional scarlet, with gleaming white sun helmets decorated with the Royal Malvern’s badge. They were red-faced and hot but as immaculate as if they guarded Buckingham Palace rather than a city in southern Afghanistan.

Once inside the city walls, Kandahar closed around them with its narrow streets, clamorous population, and myriad smells. Jack glanced over the polo players, frowning as he noted that one of the Royal Malverns rode without his sword.

Second lieutenant Sarsens newly joined from England. My brother will have to tighten up his discipline, Jack thought. An unarmed British soldier in Afghanistan is only a target.

The Kandahar people watched the horsemen ride past. One or two men muttered curses under their breath while one heavily veiled woman turned away as if scared the infidels might contaminate her. Her husband, a bearded Pashtun with a jezail slung across his back, glared at the horsemen.

“We’re not wanted here, sir,” Blackwood said.

“No, we’re not.” Jack shook his head. “I know the powers-that-be hope to extend the borders of British India to include Kandahar, but it will take some work to persuade the locals to accept us. This city is as different from India as India is from London.”

They rode on, ignoring a gaggle of small boys who threw stones at them as they traversed the city to reach the citadel at the opposite side, beyond Topkhana Square and next to the Eedgah Gate. The sentries at the citadel gate slammed to attention once they recognised the ranks of the riders.

Dismounting at the stables, Jack threw the reins to a waiting servant, gave orders in fluent Pashtu, and walked straight to the officers’ mess.

“How was the game, Windrush?” Major Baxter of the Royal Malverns asked, snapping his finger for a khitmagar – a waiter.

The man came at once, soft-footed, and efficient.

“Two brandy and sodas,” Baxter ordered. “Jildi!”

“The Scinde Horse were far too strong for your boys,” Jack accepted the brandy and sipped at his glass, “and the game was interrupted by a dust cloud. We weren’t sure if it was a raiding lashkar or the viceroy come to visit.”

“Better safe than sorry out here,” Baxter said. “I heard that a young ghazi attacked two men of the 66th in the bazaar only last week. The ghazi was only about ten years old. He pulled a knife and ran at them from nowhere and stabbed one man in the forehead before the swaddies subdued him.”

“We’re certainly not popular in Kandahar,” Jack agreed. “Was the soldier badly hurt?”

Baxter shook his head. “No. It was only a superficial cut.”

“What happened to the youngster?”

“The provost marshal has him.” Baxter finished his brandy and signalled for another. “I’ve no idea what will happen to the little reptile. We can’t hang a child, although God knows he deserves it.”

“I’ve only arrived in Kandahar recently,” Jack said. “Are such attacks normal?”

Baxter nodded. “The Royals have been in garrison here for a month, as you know, Windrush. We don’t know what’s happening. One day the politicians say we’ll evacuate Afghanistan, and the next, we’re keeping Kandahar to ourselves.” He sipped at his fresh brandy. “I’d say there has been one such incident every week, with ghazis attacking lone soldiers or unprotected servants. We’re not under siege as such, but we’re certainly not popular with the locals.”

Jack looked around the officers’ mess. As he would expect from the Royal Malverns, everything was in impeccable taste, with numerous khitmagars and the best selection of wines and spirits between Calcutta and Valetta.

“You’re here for the durbar, I believe,” Baxter said. “We’re all hoping the local tribes will support Sher Ali,” he raised his voice and glass. “Sher Ali Khan, Wali of Kandahar, God bless him!”

Two other officers joined in the toast, with Inkerrow downing a chota peg – a single whisky - in one swallow and demanding another from the khitmagar.

Jack smiled. “We’ll see what happens.”

Baxter leaned back in his chair. “We have a choice, Windrush. Either we reinforce the garrison in Kandahar and come down hard on the tribes and ghazis here, or we withdraw completely and hand the entire country over to Abdur Rahman Khan, the soon-to-be new Amir. Having Sher Ali in charge is inviting disaster.”

Jack agreed but allowed Baxter to continue. “Do you think Sher Ali is that bad?”

Baxter smiled. “He is the veriest puppet that ever danced to political music, and I read that in The Times of India, so others share my opinion. If we leave Kandahar, Sher Ali won’t last a day or half a day. He is a marionette, without power or influence. Rahman will be a martinet, of course, a despot of the worst kind, but he’ll keep his house in order and not allow the Ruskis to intervene.”

Jack nodded. The British in India had constant nightmares about a Russian presence in Afghanistan.

Baxter signalled for another drink. “You’re new in Kandahar, Windrush, so let me tell you the local news. Some ghazi fires at Captain Garrett and wounds him. Sher Ali makes big promises to find the assailant. Nothing happens.”

Jack nodded.

“A well-known troublemaking mullah encourages a band of famous badmashes – evilly disposed fellows - to murder Major Wandby. Sher Ali fails to capture a single one but instead hangs three wretched brutes who were probably miles away at the time. Now, Windrush, how will such a man hold Kandahar if we return to India and the people rise against our placemen, as they will?”

“He won’t,” Jack said softly. “It takes a hard man to control this country.”

“Exactly,” Baxter agreed. “Sher Ali will either join Ayub Khan, flee, or somebody will find his body in a ditch, minus the head. Walis or Amirs here must rule by fear. The people are semi-human savages, and the British papers tell us they love us and welcome our presence.” Baxter finished his brandy. “And by that principle of bunkum, the deluded British public believes we will hold Afghanistan.”

Jack understood the bitterness.

“If we divide the country,” Baxter said, “we’ll invite a civil war, which seems the natural state in Afghanistan anyway.” He eyed Jack shrewdly. “If I recall correctly, you’re a friend of that Afridi fellow, Batoor Khan.”

“That’s correct,” Jack agreed. “Batoor’s taking a risk coming here, well out of his tribal territory.”

Baxter grunted. “We all take a risk every time we step out of doors in this blasted country.”

Jack finished his brandy and turned down another. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get ready for the durbar. There’s an informal gathering first, then the durbar in the evening.”

“Good luck, Windrush,” Baxter said, lifting his glass for another refill. He sighed as Sarsens and Crimea Windrush entered the mess. “That’s an end to our peace and quiet. Sarsens arrived from England last week and thinks he’s a veteran. He teamed up with the colonel’s arrogant young pup, treats the natives like slaves and swaggers around as if he’s a sixth form prefect.” Baxter shook his head. “I don’t know why young Crimea has latched into him. He should know better.”

Jack nodded. “I know the type. A few weeks in Afghanistan will teach Sarsens manners. We all have to learn.”

Jack stood erect as an efficient private of the Royal Malverns made the final adjustments to his dress uniform. Private Pawcett stepped back to inspect his handiwork, then took a small brush and removed a minuscule speck of dust from Jack’s collar.

“There you are, sir,” Pawcett said.

“Thank you, Pawcett.” Uncomfortable in the tight scarlet, Jack turned to look at himself in the long, free-standing mirror.

The brilliant scarlet of the 113th full dress uniform showed his slim figure to perfection, while the array of medals on his left breast told the story of his experience.

“You’re looking fine, sir,” Pawcett said, applying his brush once more. “You look very impressive, if I may say so.”

“You may not say so,” Jack growled. He knew his comment was unfair to a man who could not retaliate, but he hated wearing full dress and wished that Donnelly, his long-time servant, was with him.

Pawcett retreated into silence.

Jack immediately apologised. “You’ve done a good job with most unprepossessing material,” he said. “Thank you, Pawcett.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What were you in civilian life, Pawcett?”

“I was a valet, sir.”

“A very good one, I would imagine,” Jack said, wondering why any man would throw up such an excellent position to enlist in the army. No doubt Pawcett had fiddled his master’s books or got a servant girl pregnant. It was unlikely Pawcett had enlisted for any love of queen and country. Jack grunted; although the army was more selective than it used to be, a fair selection of ne’er-do-wells still joined the ranks.

“Thank you, sir.” Reading his officer, Pawcett relapsed into silence and stepped back.

Both men looked around when the door opened, and Helen Windrush walked in. Jack sighed. Helen was the wife of William Windrush, Colonel of the Royal Malverns and Jack’s half-brother.

“Good afternoon, Jack.” Helen gave a mock curtsey.

“Good afternoon, Helen. Should you not be with your husband?” Jack replied. As usual, Helen was impeccably dressed. Her sweeping dark blue skirt nearly touched the floor while her light blue top opened at the neck to reveal a gold chain, from which hung a single emerald that reflected the light.

“Oh, William’s too busy to talk to me.” Helen perched herself elegantly on one of Jack’s chairs and examined him. “Besides, you have more medals than he has.”

Jack nodded. Knowledgeable people could read half a soldier’s life by the medals he displayed. “Perhaps so, but he has a higher rank.”

Helen smiled. “I always thought that was unfair. The army should have promoted you years ago. What are all these medals for?”

Jack glanced down at his chest and shrugged. “Twenty-odd years of undetected crime.”

“What’s this one? I don’t think William has this one.” Helen touched a dark blue and red ribbon.

“I’m sure he has. That’s the Indian General Service medal,” Jack said.

“You have two clasps.” Helen was persistent, examining every detail. “Pegu 1852 and Umbeyla 1863.”

“I know,” Jack said. The Burmese War of 1851-2 had been his first campaign when he was a very raw subaltern, and the Umbeyla campaign his first visit to the North-West Frontier between India and Afghanistan. “They were years ago.”

“William has this one.” Helen slid her finger along the row of ribbons.

Beside the Indian General Service lay the pale blue and yellow Crimean ribbon, with claps for Inkerman and Sebastopol. Jack’s 113th Foot had found their soul at Inkerman, facing the massed Russian battalions. There was no clasp for the Redan, for that had been a defeat.

“I know William fought in the Crimea,” Jack said. “I met you there, too.”

Helen smiled. “These were stirring times, Jack. If things had been different, who knows what might have happened.”

“Who knows indeed,” Jack said. “But you married my half-brother, and I married Mary,” he reminded her of their respective positions.

Helen looked away. “I’d have liked to be married to a good man,” she said quietly.

Jack ignored her words. He and William were not close, but he refused to discuss his half-brother.

“I think William has this one, too.” Helen realised she could not draw Jack.

Next to the Crimean ribbon was the scarlet and white Indian Mutiny medal, which Jack considered the most bitter war he fought. His two clasps for Lucknow and the Defence of Lucknow could not convey the savagery of the fighting or the sense of tragedy and loss when he fought British-trained Sepoys.

“That’s where I first met Mary,” Jack’s eyes darkened with memory. “The only good thing to come out of that bloody war.” He remembered the horror of the Mutineers’ attack on Gondabad when the world turned upside-down, and certainties altered to betrayal and suspicion.

“Sorry, Jack.” Helen realised she was stirring old feelings. “I don’t know this one.” Her finger rested on the yellow and black ribbon.

“Ashantiland,” Jack told her. “My only campaign in Africa.” The single clasp was for the capture of Kumasi, deep in the forest. Jack touched the coloured silk, remembering the blood, sweat, and horror of each campaign, as well as the courage and bravery of the British and Indian soldiers and their adversaries.

Helen appeared quite settled on Jack’s chair, watching as Pawcett buckled on Jack’s sword belt with the hilt of the Wilkinson’s Sword blade appearing worn in comparison to the splendour of his uniform.

“It’s time you got a new sword,” Helen said.

“This one has served me well for years,” Jack told her. “We are old friends, and I prefer a blade with which I am familiar.”

“Maybe for fighting,” Helen said. “You won’t be fighting today. You should be wearing a sword of honour, complete with a gold hilt and scrollwork on the scabbard.”

Jack grunted as Pawcett made minute adjustments to his belt. “We’re in Afghanistan,” he said. “We could be fighting at any time.”

“We’re in the citadel of Kandahar, surrounded by the British Army.” Helen stood up and strolled to the window. “General Primrose knows what he’s doing.” She paused for a significant moment and glanced at Pawcett. “I hope.”

“I would wish you were elsewhere.” Jack had not been in Kandahar sufficiently long to comment on General Primrose.

“Oh, Jack.” Helen faced him. “Don’t you like me anymore?”

“Afghanistan is not safe for women.”

“Afghanistan is not safe for men, either,” Helen pointed out, “yet you are here.”

“I must do my duty.” Jack knew he sounded pompous.

“So must I,” Helen said softly. “I am the Colonel’s Lady, and I must look after my women and men.”

Jack could not think of a suitable reply. “That’s me set.” He grasped the hilt of his sword. “I’d better attend this nonsense, and I’d advise you do likewise, Mrs Colonel’s Lady.”

“You wish I were elsewhere, Jack, and I wish you and William were better friends. You’ve been in the Royals’ barracks for two days, and you and he have not exchanged a word.”

Jack nodded. The rift between the two Windrush half-brothers was nearly three decades old and showed no sign of easing. “If it keeps you happy, Helen, I will send him a note inviting him to visit my quarters.”

“Would you, Jack?” Helen put a hand on Jack’s sleeve. “Any sign of conciliation would help. I’d like my husband and my best friend to act as brothers again.”

“I will,” Jack promised, “although I doubt it will do any good.”

Helen rubbed his arm. “You were watching Crimea play polo today, Jack. I saw you.” She smiled. “He’s a good boy.”

“He’s a promising young officer,” Jack said and relented. “You’ve got a fine son there, Helen. I can see a lot of you in him.”

Dropping into a curtsey, Helen smiled. “It was good to see you again, Jack.” She left in a swirl of satin and silk, leaving a lingering scent of her perfume in the room.

“Will you require me again, sir?” Pawcett had been a mute observer to the meeting between Jack and Helen.

“No, thank you, Pawcett. You are dismissed.” Jack watched as Pawcett withdrew. Within the hour, half the Royal Malverns would know every detail of his conversation with his sister-in-law. Garrison life was like living in a small village, with everybody aware of everybody else’s business. It was tedious, and one had to be careful. Touching the hilt of his sword, Jack had a last glance in the mirror and left the room.

CHAPTERTWO

The first thing Jack noticed about Major-General James Maurice Primrose was his fashionable side-whiskers and neat hair. The second thing was his clear eyes and gentle face that did not sit well with his position as commander of Kandahar, a city in the south of Afghanistan and surrounded by some of the most intractable Pashtun tribes.

Are you the right man to command the garrison, General Primrose?

Britain’s war in Afghanistan had started in 1878, two years previously, when perceived Russian interference in the country alarmed some British politicians. Jack and the 113th Foot had been part of General Roberts’ force that had won a series of battles and occupied Kabul. Now, as Britain prepared to install a friendly Amir to rule Afghanistan, the military was slowly evacuating the country. However, politicians in Britain spoke of retaining Kandahar and the south as a buffer to protect British India.

What the devil am I doing in Kandahar? Jack tugged at his too-tight collar. I should be with my regiment in Kabul, not here with the Royals. He recalled the brief telegram that had summoned him to Kandahar.

Major Windrush. Accompany Royal Malverns to Kandahar. Persuade Batoor Khan of the Rahmut Khel to support the British. Hook.

Jack had sworn when he read the telegram. General Hook was head of British military intelligence and had known Jack for years, but although Jack regarded him as a friend, his messages usually presaged a dangerous mission. Jack preferred to work as a regimental officer rather than dabbling in politics.

The music started as Jack looked over the large, airy room in which General Primrose had gathered the British and Indian officers, close allies and Afghan maliks – tribal leaders - before the durbar. Tall, pointed windows allowed in light, while Persian script and abstract designs ornately decorated the walls. Every British officer wore their dress uniform while the guests, both Afghan and Indian, dressed in the clothes they thought best fitted the situation. Sher Ali Khan, the wali of Kandahar, was the guest of honour, a heavy-featured man with a shaggy beard and fine clothes.

Jack looked around the room but failed to see Batoor. I hope you have come, Batoor, or I’ve wasted a long journey.

General Primrose seemed perfectly at home amidst the glamour, talking easily to the Wali, Pashtun maliks, the Wali’s officers, British officers, and women alike. Smooth and debonair, he smiled as his officers swirled around the floor. A staff officer and administrator rather than a fighting soldier, his diplomacy graced the room.

Standing with his back to the wall, Jack sipped an atrociously bad wine and watched everybody. He saw William Windrush, Colonel of the famous Royal Malverns and his half-brother, talking to Brigadier-General George Burrows and Colonel James Galbraith of the 66th Foot. They seemed animated, ignoring Helen, who drifted away, glass in hand, to seek more entertaining company. Jack watched her for a moment, then drew a deep breath when she stopped to talk to a group of Afghan maliks.

Batoor Khan stood in the centre of the group, as comfortable in the middle of the meeting as he was in battle or his own valley. With his karakul hat of Astrakhan fur and the ivory-and-silver-hilted pulwar- the curved Pashtun sword - at his waist, he looked as dignified as any of the guests. As Jack watched, Batoor laughed at something Helen said, leaning forward to touch her shoulder.

Thinking he had better pursue his duty, Jack stepped forward, sliding through the crowd.

“Ah, here you are, Jack,” Helen said. “Batoor Khan here was regaling me of tales of Afghanistan.”

“I’m sure he was,” Jack said.

“Do you two know each other?” Helen asked.

“We’ve known each other for years,” Jack said. “We fought side by side in the Mutiny and again in the Umbeyla campaign.”

Batoor grinned, with his brown eyes alight. “And against the Russians,” he said until Jack shook his head to silence him. He could not reveal his most recent campaign.

Helen glanced from one to the other. “You did not tell me you knew such a personable Pashtun malik, Jack,” Helen said. By using the term malik, she was demonstrating her knowledge of the local culture.

Batoor bowed with as much aplomb as any Eton-educated British aristocrat. “Thank you, Lady Windrush,” he replied.

“I do not have a title,” Helen said.

“The British are at fault, then,” Batoor said, “for by neglecting you, they are weakening their position.”

Helen curtseyed in acknowledgement. “I will leave you men together,” she said. “I’m sure you have much to discuss.” She glided away to talk to Major Baxter.

“You were very gallant, Batoor,” Jack said. “Where did you learn such manners?”

Batoor grinned. “You and I are similar, Jack. You are British and move among the Pashtun. I am Pashtun and move among the British.” He touched his pearl earring. “You had better be careful with your sister-in-law. I am looking for a new wife, and a woman like that would make a splendid addition to my household.”

Jack smiled, although he was unsure whether Batoor was joking. “Her husband would not appreciate that.”

“Perhaps not,” Batoor said. “I already have a younger woman in mind, but to marry a memsahib like that,” he smiled. “Your brother is a fortunate man.”

“He certainly chose a good woman,” Jack agreed.

“You had also better be careful with these men.” Batoor nodded to a small knot of maliks who stood at the edge of the room, watching everything through suspicious eyes.

“Who are they?” Jack asked. All three were large men with heavy beards and dark turbans, and all carried the ugly Khyber Knife at their waist.

“Babrakzai Khan, his cousin Zamar Khan and Hyder Ali.” Even in Batoor’s voice, the names sounded flat. “All from the Nazar Khel of the Zirak Durrani.”

“Durrani? You are Durrani.”

“I am.” Batoor touched his pearl earring. “We are not friends. Babrakzai is my neighbour from the Bolak valley and constantly raids my herds. Zamar Khan and Hyder Ali are his cousins. Zamar belongs to this area and Hyder from Helmand.”

“I think I’d better talk to these three gentlemen,” Jack said. “Would you care to join me, Batoor?”

“Only if you wish me to kill all three,” Batoor replied without a trace of humour.

“Not today.” Massacring our guests would not endear the British to the local Pashtun tribes. “I’d best go alone.”

With one hand on the hilt of his sword, Jack walked across to the three maliks. They eyed him from across the room and stood, unsmiling, until he arrived.

“I am Major Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot,” Jack introduced himself.

The Pashtuns nodded briefly, with Zamar Khan’s lip’s curling into what he may have intended as a smile. “Where is General Primrose?” Zamar had a very steady gaze.

“He’s over there.” Jack saw Primrose in the centre of the room, talking to William and Galbraith. “I’ll take you to him.” What the devil is Primrose thinking, inviting a trio of Pashtun maliks and not treating them as honoured guests? Is the man looking for trouble?

General Primrose smiled as Jack introduced the three Pashtun maliks. “Welcome to Kandahar,” he said while Sher Ali Khan and the maliks exchanged wary looks.

Zamar Khan thanked Primrose with a nod, while Hyder and Babrakzai Khan stared at the general as if he did not exist.

Trouble. Jack thought. These three will be carrying arms against us soon.

Flanked by William Windrush and Colonel James Galbraith, General Primrose appeared the epitome of British military confidence, Smiling and urbane, he stood in the brilliant scarlet of his full-dress uniform with the light glittering on his gold braid and the row of medals on his chest. For a moment, Jack saw Primrose talking to the three Afghan leaders, a contrast between a general of the leading imperial power on Earth and men whose beliefs had scarcely changed in the last thousand years, and then a servant passed between them. When Jack looked again, the image had altered. Hyder had moved sideways, and William Windrush had shifted away.

Galbraith nodded to Jack. He was a distinguished-looking man, with bushy side-whiskers and slightly pouchy eyes under his balding head. He looked surprised when William Windrush spoke sharply to Jack.

“You may leave us, Major,” William Windrush said. “This meeting is for senior officers.”

“As you wish, sir,” Jack bit back his angry retort. William was perfectly entitled to order a junior officer away. He was aware of the maliks watching as he withdrew.

“Your brother does not care for you,” Batoor joined Jack.

“I know,” Jack agreed.

“I had a brother like that, once.” Batoor touched the silver hilt of his Khyber knife. “I killed him.”

“We don’t do that in our culture.” Jack did not force his smile. “Sometimes, I think the Pashtun way is better.”

“It is more honest,” Batoor said. He met Jack’s smile. “Why are you here, Windrush? Your regiment, the 113th Foot, is at Kabul.”

“General Hook thought I might be useful,” Jack said.

“General Hook thought you could persuade me to aid the British, support Sher Ali, and help Abdur Rahman Khan become Amir,” Batoor said.

Jack nodded. He was not surprised that Batoor had worked out General Hook’s reasoning. “Do I need to persuade you?”

Batoor touched his earring. “I will keep neutral,” he said. “I’ve little time for Sher Ali, but the new Amir won’t need my support. Once he’s properly in power, Rahman Khan will rule Afghanistan with an iron fist.”

“What’s Rahman Khan like?”

Batoor angrily rebuffed a mess waiter who offered him a glass of wine. “I am Muhammadan!” and returned his attention to Jack. “Rahman Khan is about forty, not tall, overweight, courteous when he chooses and with a good brain. He’ll match the British and Russian politicians for intelligence and outdo them for ruthlessness,”

Jack grunted. Batoor’s assessment agreed with that of Major Baxter. “A weak man doesn’t last in Afghanistan.”

“That is so,” Batoor agreed.

Both men looked up as Colonel Primrose gave an order, and everybody filed through to the durbar room.

The atmosphere altered in seconds. The room was smaller, with a raised dais on which Primrose and Sher Ali sat, with everybody else sitting on couches or chairs below. Jack moved to the rear of the room, with Batoor at his side and the three maliks remaining near the door. British and Afghan officers and officials of Sher Ali’s court filled the remainder of the room.

“Welcome all,” General Primrose spoke in Pashtu and English and began a long speech to inform everybody of the current situation in Afghanistan. Jack thought him a good speaker, if a little flowery. The British officers soon looked bored, while the Afghans listened with attention. Zamar and Babrakzai spoke quietly to each other, with Hyder looking around the room, taking note of everybody present.

These three are not here to discuss current affairs, Jack thought. They are spying on us, checking our strengths and weaknesses.

When General Primrose stopped talking, Sher Ali stood up. He raised his hands as if in prayer as he addressed the room, speaking in rapid Pashtu.

“Wait!” Primrose lifted a hand. “We’ll need a translator.” The job was evidently beneath the dignity of a general officer. “Major Windrush! Translate for the benefit of those who don’t speak the language.”

Jack mounted the dais and repeated Sher Ali’s words. The Wali was extolling the benefits of a British alliance and telling everybody present of his power and control of the city and province of Kandahar. As he spoke, Jack saw the three maliks listening intently until Hyder Ali slipped away to talk to one of the Wali’s officers.

Trouble.

When the Wali sat down, Jack expected General Primrose would ask for comments from his audience, but instead, he seemed content to finish the durbar. The officers left, some complaining that the whole thing had been a waste of time.

“Thank you, Major,” Primrose said formally.

Batoor joined Jack in the outer chamber, where the informal gathering resumed.

“Where are the maliks?” Jack asked.

“They left immediately after the durbar finished,” Batoor said.

“Are you staying?” Jack looked up as the door opened and a clutch of garrison wives entered, each one searching for her husband among the scarlet uniforms.

“I am not staying,” Batoor said. “You may tell General Hook that your mission was a success, and Batoor Khan of the Rahmut Khel will support the new Amir and will not lead his men against the British.” Batoor grinned. “Or not until it suits him.”

Jack met Batoor’s smile. “Thank you, Batoor.” He watched as Batoor slipped out of the door.

Major Baxter approached with a glass in each hand. “Here you are, Windrush. I didn’t know you were fluent in Pashtu.”

“I’ve served in this area before,” Jack said.

Baxter glanced at Jack’s medals. “So I see, Major.” The use of Jack’s rank held an implied question. Why have you not been promoted? Baxter was asking.

“Do you know what my men are complaining about?” Baxter changed the subject to routine regimental matters.

“No,” Jack said. As a guest officer from the 113th Foot, he had no contact with the rank and file of the Royal Malverns and missed the day-to-day conversation and worries of the men.

“There is a shortage of rum,” Baxter said solemnly. “More is on the way, but at present, the men are forced to drink the local spirits.” He grinned. “Forget the politics and whoever the Amir is this week; the Tommies have more immediate concerns.”

Jack smiled. “The swaddies may have the right idea.”

Baxter continued. “The Kandaharis, non-drinking Muslims to a man, make the local concoction from raisins, and it tastes foul. The Tommies call it Billy Stink, which it does, and choke it down with reluctant gusto.”

Jack knew British soldiers well enough to know they would drink anything alcoholic. “If the lads are complaining about Billy Stink, it must be a truly vile mixture.”

Baxter held up his glass for a refill. “That is one great advantage of a commissioned rank, my boy. We may have great responsibilities, but at least we can drink decent brandy. I intend to remain drunk until we leave this foul country.”

“So I see, Baxter,” Jack said.

“On to less immediate matters,” Baxter said. “I heard there is more trouble up north. Ayub Khan has stirred things up in Herat direction and is heading south.”

“There’s always trouble in Afghanistan,” Jack said. “Excuse me, Baxter, duty calls.” He followed Batoor outside.

Morale in Kandahar was low, Jack saw, and despite the British garrison, the population was restless. As well as the constant threat of assassination from local ghazis – fanatics – there was a more distant danger in the north. Ayub Khan was the governor of Herat, Abdur Rahman’s cousin and a claimant for the throne. If he stirred up the tribes, the British withdrawal from Afghanistan could be more difficult. Jack sighed, hitched up his sword and pushed the matter from his mind. Worrying about events could not change them. As he marched across the citadel, he noticed a Timuri merchant watching him behind a kafilah, a string of camels but walked on. Jack planned to compose a letter to Mary, his wife, that evening, so Ayub Khan and all of Afghanistan would have to wait.

When Jack reached his quarters, he saw the folded paper lying on his bed. He broke the simple seal and unfolded the paper. The message was brief, William’s reply to Jack’s attempt at reconciliation.

“My compliments, sir, and be damned.”

Jack sighed and dropped the note into the wastepaper bin. He had expected nothing else.

CHAPTERTHREE

Jack heard the noise before he realised the reason. William’s voice was raised in anger.

What’s annoyed my brother? I must find out.

Jack pushed William’s door open with his foot and waited outside, peering through the crack. William stood behind his desk, shaking his fist at Second Lieutenant Sarsens.

“You’re in Afghanistan, not bloody Aldershot!”

“Yes, sir,” Sarsens said.

Colonel Windrush took a deep breath and increased the volume of his rebuke. “Have you read the standing orders? If you had, you’d be aware they state, and I quote, anywhere from Peshawar westward, British officers will not move without carrying arms.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarsens said again. “But we’re inside a British garrison.”

“You were outside the citadel and outside Kandahar, damnit!” William lifted his fist again so that Jack thought he might strike the young Second Lieutenant.

“We had an escort, sir,” Sarsens said. “A dozen sowars of the Scinde Horse.”

William lowered his fist and his voice. “I’ll tell you what it is, young man. You may go without your breeches, but dammit, sir, you shall carry your sword!”

“Yes, sir,” the subaltern said.

“You’re now the duty officer, damn your impudence, and the first chance I get, I’ll send you on active service to introduce you to the reality of life in Afghanistan. That’s all. Dismissed!”

Jack moved away from the door before the subaltern escaped. For once, he agreed with William. Any British officer, and any British soldier, who took chances on the North-West Frontier or in Afghanistan, was seeking trouble. Of all the enemies Jack had faced, he considered the Pashtun warriors the most consistently dangerous. Courageous in attack, tenacious in defence, they had all the patience and skill of a hunting cat and more dexterity with sword and jezail than any warriors Jack had known. Young fools of subalterns, fresh from Sandhurst or Eton, were fair game for a Pashtun warrior.

Smiling as he remembered his impetuous youth, Jack walked on with his opinion of William heightened.

“I hear the ghazis were causing trouble again.” Baxter sipped at his brandy and pointed to an article in the Kandahar News. “Four of them running amuck in the bazaar. They wounded General Tytler, no less, and a few rank and file.”

“What happened to them?” Jack asked.

Baxter shrugged. “Some of the 66th got them with the bayonet. Neat work, but it’s a bit worrying. One never knows who’s going to turn ghazi next. One cannot trust anything these people say or do.”

“They’re not all like that,” Jack said. “The Pashtun have a unique code, Pashtunwali, and they abide by it rigidly.”

“Is that so?” Baxter said. “I heard that there is only one Afghan who never told a lie, and he was deaf and dumb from birth.”

“Every Pashtun is a warrior, a theologian and a politician,” Jack contended. “I think most have family feuds.” He sipped at his whisky. “My wife, who knows such things, compares them to the Scottish Borderers as portrayed by Sir Walter Scott.”

“I’ve read Scott,” Baxter said. “Lay of the Last Minstrel. I can’t remember him writing of ghazis, though, or of men running amuck.”

“Nor can I,” Jack agreed. “I think amuck is a Javanese word. It means to kill.”

“Lovely people.” Baxter waved his glass in the air. “It’s time that Deen Mahomed took things in hand. He’s the chief of police here. I heard he did catch a few thieves in the Sudder Bazaar, but I’d prefer him to stop the ghazis.” He nodded to a large plate of apricots on the adjacent table. “Or stop the natives selling these damned things so cheaply. Half the men have diarrhoea.”

“Better an upset stomach than the clap,” Jack said. “It’s more easily cured.”

“Little chance of the clap here,” Baxter said. “Touch one of the Kandahari women, and half the men will be her cousins and hunt you down with their dirty great pulwars.” Both men looked up as the door opened, and two people stepped in.

“Guest in the mess!” Major Bryant, the regimental adjutant, was ten years younger than Jack and infinitely better connected. He spoke with the confidence of a man sure of his position in the world. And why not? Jack thought. Bryant was a senior officer in one of the best regiments in the British army, a scion of Eton and Sandhurst. Despite all Bryant’s advantages, Jack could not dislike him. Bryant was a friendly, open-faced man, popular in the ranks.

Jack looked up as Helen walked in at Bryant’s side. Elegant as always, she greeted the officers with a smile and accepted Bryant’s invitation to a drink.

“The Malverns have long had a tradition of hospitality,” Bryant explained. “We allow in female guests to the Mess, as long as they are announced, and insist that they do not part with a farthing.”

Helen nodded solemnly. “That is a good tradition,” she agreed. “I promise not to spend even an anna in your mess.”

“And the colonel’s lady is always welcome,” Bryant continued.

Helen sat on one of the padded seats, keeping her back straight and her knees pressed together. Noticing Jack sitting alone at a table, she raised her glass in salute. Jack acknowledged and sat back, wondering when he could return to the 113th in Kabul.

This journey has been a waste of time and effort. Batoor will do as he pleases, whatever I said or didn’t say.

“What the devil?” Major Bryant nearly dropped his glass as the mess door opened again, and Second Lieutenant Sarsens entered. He wore his undress tunic with a sword buckled around his waist, with no trousers, so he was naked down to his boots. A second later, the door opened again, and Crimea Windrush followed, similarly attired.

“Good God!” Baxter said, then smiled and looked away.

Jack half rose from his seat, then settled back down. He was not a member of the Royals’ mess and had no right to interfere with what happened.

The two subalterns settled in a seat and ordered their morning drinks, seemingly oblivious to their state of half nudity. Helen glanced in their direction, let her eyes slowly drift over each man, smiled, raised her eyebrows to her son, and shifted her attention back to Bryant.

You did not turn a hair, Helen. Full marks to you.

The subalterns spoke together for half an hour before Sarsens broke into a popular song.

“We don’t want to fight

But by Jingo, if we do,

We’ve got the ships,

We’ve got the men,

And got the money, too.”

“Enough of that!” Major Baxter shouted with an apologetic glance at Helen. “This is the officer’s mess, not a blasted infant’s school. Get out and make yourselves decent!”

He glowered as the subalterns hurried away. Helen ignored them, lifted her eyebrows in Jack’s direction, shook her head, and continued her conversation with Bryant.

“Major Windrush sahib?” A soft-footed Indian servant approached Jack.

“That’s me,” Jack confirmed.

“Brigadier General Burrows sends his compliments, Sahib, and requests your presence at your earliest convenience.”

Jack nodded. “Thank you, please convey my regards to General Burrows sahib, and inform him, no, hang it.” Jack stood up. “I’ll come right away.” Placing his empty glass on the table, Jack said his farewell to Baxter, lifted a hand to Helen, and left the mess.

I’ve never met General Burrows, but I’d better attend directly, although it will be some trivial detail, no doubt.

Burrows was in his quarters, issuing orders to senior officers. “Ah, Major Windrush!” He looked tired, a middle-aged soldier, more used to administrative posts than active command in the field.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard the latest news?”

“I’ve heard that Ayub Khan is causing trouble up by Herat, sir,” Jack said.

“He was causing trouble up by Herat,” Burrows said. “He has since marched south and is approaching the Helmand River.”

“Are we doing anything about it, sir?”

“The Wali has ordered a mixed force of some twelve hundred men to Grishk,” Burrows said, “and he’s preparing a larger force of regulars, with artillery we handed to him.”

Jack nodded. From what he had heard of the Wali, Sher Ali, he would need a great deal more than 1200 men to challenge Ayub Khan.

“If Ayub Khan crosses the Helmand,” Burrows said shortly, “he’ll be within a few days’ march of Kandahar.” He looked worried. “According to our spies, he has eleven regiments of infantry, thirty-six guns and a powerful cavalry force, plus a lashkar of unknown numbers of Durrani tribesmen.”

Jack calculated figures. “Depending how many soldiers are in each regiment, that could be five thousand men or more, plus the lashkar.”

Burrows gave a weak smile. “That was what I thought. A fellow named Luinob commands the advance force. I don’t know much about him, but I’m told he was once Governor of Turkistan. Do you know him?”

Jack shook his head. “No. I’ve never heard of the man.”

“A pity.” Burrows sighed. “My people say that Ayub Khan is encouraging his warriors by telling them they can have all the loot and women in Kandahar once they have driven out the British.” He shuffled some of the papers on his desk. “I know the Afghan mind, Windrush. Ayub won’t trust his troops not to mutiny unless he keeps them occupied and attacking the infidels will be well received.”

“That is so, sir,” Jack agreed. He waited to see why Burrows wished to see him, although he already guessed the answer.

Burrows removed his revolver from its holster, checked the chambers and replaced it before he returned to the matter in hand. “The closer Ayub Khan comes to Kandahar, the more he’ll unsettle the ghazis in the city and the tribesmen around.”

Jack nodded. “That is true, sir.”

“General Primrose has ordered me to take a brigade out to teach Ayub Khan a lesson. As you have a great deal of experience fighting the Afghans, Windrush, I want you with us.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t have any men with me. I came with an escort of Guides for the Durbar, and my regiment is still in Kabul.”

“I am well aware of that, Windrush,” Burrows said. “Gather what you need and join my column.”

“Yes, sir. When are we leaving?”

“General Primrose gave me my orders this morning, Windrush. I intend to march the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack stood up. He was too experienced in Afghan conditions to expect peace to last long. As soon as he had heard about Ayub Khan’s advance from Herat, Jack guessed the British would have to fight him, for he had little faith in Sher Ali’s ability to defeat Ayub Khan. “How large a force will you command, sir?”

“It’s not fully decided yet, Windrush, but we’ll advance in coordination with the Wali. Probably a battery of Horse Artillery, a couple of regiments of native cavalry and two regiments of native infantry, plus a British battalion.”

Jack nodded. “About three thousand men, sir.”