Simon Hawke - Khyber Connection

"How the hell do you find something you can’t see"" he said to himself. "And how do you find it without stumbling into it"" He looked around nervously. "I’m liable to turn a corner and wind up in another universe. That ought to be good for a few laughs."

"Your Holiness," cried the tribesman, out of breath from having run all the way from his observation post, "lancers approach!"

The man named Sadullah, known to the British as the Mad Mullah, slowly raised his head to stare at the Ghazi sentry. His deeply sunken eyes were dark and their gaze was indeed mad. They never seemed to blink. His dark skin was etched with lines of age and his hair was long, almost to his waist, and utterly white. His head was bare, as were his feet. He wore a long white robe and many amulets and charms around his neck. He sat cross-legged on a rug inside his tent, which was filled with the fumes of bhang. His eyes glittered.

"How many"" he said, his voice soft and low.

"Three, perhaps four squadrons, Your Holiness," said the sentry. "You have but to give the word and we shall sweep down upon the infidel firinghi and destroy them before they can arrive at the Malakand fort!"

"No," said Sadullah.

The sentry was taken aback. "But Your Holiness, if we do not attack now, they shall surely reach the Malakand fort! Then they can join forces with the firinghi soldiers there and march to relieve Chakdarra! "

"I want them to reach the Malakand fort," Sadullah said.

"But … why, Your Holiness""

"Do you question me"" Sadullah said, his voice deadly.

The sentry dropped down on all fours. "No, Your Holiness! You speak with the voice of the Prophet! It is not for one so humble as I to question your methods. I only seek understanding."

"It is well," Sadullah said. "All men should seek to understand, though few succeed. Understand this, then. When the time is ripe, I shall destroy the British. I will not require the help of followers such as yourself. You may all do as you please. Your faith shall be judged in Paradise. Come the Night of the Long Knives, I shall call forth and the heavens shall open. A great host shall descend and slaughter the infidel to the last man, woman, and child. They shall be driven from our land and their blood shall nourish the soil. Those who join with me in that great, final battle shall win their way to Paradise. They shall be invulnerable. With one wave of my hand the bullets of the British will turn to water. With another their shells shall disperse upon the wind. Only those who lack true faith will be struck down. The pure of heart shall be immune to death. Thus it is written, thus it shall be.

"In the meantime, let the lancers pass. Let them ride on to the fort at Malakand, and with them, the foot soldiers who will surely follow." Sadullah slowly raised his hands and cupped them. "The Malakand is a great cup. At its bottom, there lie the infidel firinghi. At its rim, all around upon the cliffs, are we. Let the soldiers go into the cup, together with those who are already trapped there. When they are all together in one place," he slowly raised his hands to his mouth, "we shall take this cup … and drink."

"I do not understand," said Winston Churchill. ‘We have made almost our entire journey unimpeded. Where are the mujahidin of the jehad" Why have they not tried to stop us""

"They’ll be up there in them bloomin’ rocks, sir," said Mulvaney, "starin’ down at us an’ smirkin’ up their sleeves."

"Smirking"" Churchill said. "I fail to see what there would be to smirk about, Private. Sixty-eight hundred bayonets, seven hundred sabres, and twenty-four guns would hardly seem a smirking matter."

"Begin’ your pardon, sir," Mulvaney said, "an’ if you don’t mind me speakin’ frankly, not meanin’ to sound insubordinate-which ain’t ‘ardly on me mind — but I’d say your green was showin’. "

Churchill frowned. "My green" Explain yourself, man. "

"Well, you’e a mite young, me son-sir, I mean," Mulvaney said. "It’s all very fine to get yourself a transfer from the 4th ‘Ussars so you can write up this here campaign for the London Daily Telegraph-nice way to get a bit o’ action an’ pick up an extra quid or two, if I say so myself-but there’s a world o’ difference between writin’ dispatches and anticipatin’ Pathans, sir. For the one you need a bit o’ learnin’, which you seem to ‘ave done plenty of, sir. For the other you need experience, which you ain’t ‘ardly old enough to ‘ave received very much of. Now me mates and I ‘ave been out ‘ere for so long our skin’s startin’ to turn brown, an’ we’ve learned a thing or two about your Pathan fightin’ man. ‘E ain’t no fool, that’s what, sir."

"Meaning exactly what, Private Mulvaney"" Churchill said,

"Meanin’, sir, that "e" s got a bloody good reason for not ‘avin attacked us by now," Mulvaney said.

"There’s been plenty o’ opportunity for ‘im, but ‘e ain’t done it, so why’s that, I ask meself" Because Vs got ‘imself a better opportunity ahead, and like as not we’re walkin’ right into it."

"But we’re almost at the Malakand fort," said Churchill. "It would seem to me that our strength has intimidated him, otherwise he would have attacked before we could have an opportunity to join forces with the troops at the garrison. "

"Or ‘e’s waitin’ to knock off two birds with one stone, sir," said Mulvaney.

"I’m afraid Mulvaney’s got a point, sir," said Learoyd. "Put yourself in the Mad Mullah’s place. You’ve got some of your men pressing the Chakdarra garrison, others harryin’ the fort at Malakand. Here comes a large relief force on its way, and in order to attack them, you’ve got to split your own troops further to take them on. The Malakand is situated in a large depression, sort of a valley ringed by cliffs. If you can command the heights, why not wait until the relief has arrived and then ring them ‘round, cuttin’ them and the garrison off from Chakdarra""

"Rubbish, man," said Churchill. "I’ve seen the map of the area. In order to command the heights around the Malakand, it would require a very large force indeed. Thousands, I should say."

"Now you’re catchin’ on, sir," said Mulvaney. "You can be sure you’ll ‘ave yourself a bloody entertainin’ dispatch to write before too long."

The terrain they were covering was rough, extremely difficult for a large detachment with pack animals and guns. They had made good time, but making good time in the Hindu Kush range still meant going slow. Nevertheless they were within sight of the garrison at Malakand before too long, and throughout the entire journey they had encountered no resistance whatsoever, not even so much as one stray shot, which was unusual in the extreme.

Lucas and Andre travelled at the middle of the column, slightly behind Churchill. They rode on horseback, moving along at a slow walk since they were travelling with mostly infantry. Din, their Hindustani attendant, was just behind them, proudly leading their pack mule and keeping so ramrod straight a posture in his brand new khakis that it looked as though his back would break. He had managed to obtain a battered bugle somewhere, which he carried proudly and clutched to himself protectively whenever anyone came near.

"Something’s wrong," said Lucas in a low voice, so that only Andre could hear him.

"I know," she said. "You’ve been preoccupied throughout the entire journey. It’s this Churchill fellow, isn’t it" You keep staring at him."

"This Churchill fellow"" Lucas said.

"Yes. What’s so special about him""

"Good Christ, you really don’t know."

"Should l""

"Well, actually, you’d be about the only one I could think of in the service who’d have a good excuse. He’s not a part of your history. You went straight from the 12th century to the 27th. That leaves one hell of a big gap, though you still ought to know about him. I find that puzzling."