this bucko, Sar’nt Kelly?’ Morgan asked, distracting him from Thompson.
‘Buggered if I know, sir,’ Kelly noted the deference with which the people seemed to treat the man, ‘but these bastards all seem to know him.’
The lofty newcomer paused for a moment and took in the little knot of the 66th, who had now gathered round their stabbed comrade in a loose, defensive ring, their rifles and bayonets pointing at the crowd. Then he strode over to the boy’s corpse. Morgan had noticed that the child seemed to have shrunk in death; now he was just a tiny pile of stained and dust-soiled rags, whose beaten face lay in a rusty puddle. The tribesman crouched over the body and swiped away a cloud of flies. The mob was still hushed, but as the man stood and turned towards the troops, Morgan found himself gasping almost as audibly as the crowd. Three or four men, all similarly dressed and armed, had jostled to the front; they looked towards their tall leader, apparently waiting for him to give orders.
‘Seems to have brought his gang with him too, Sar’nt Kelly.’ Morgan found himself shuffling backwards towards the others. Now the patrol were practically back to back, facing the surrounding crowd, Thompson moaning softly in their midst.
‘Aye, sir, an’ ’e don’t look too pleased about that nipper we’ve just turned off. Should we load, sir?’ Kelly, so far, had been utterly in control, whether in routine barrack matters or on patrol, available to give sage and discreet advice to his young officer. But now, Morgan realised, as the officer he had to exercise total judgement and leadership. Despite his lack of experience, the men required him to fill the role that his brass stars and station in life suggested. He licked his lips and searched his mind for what Sandhurst might have taught him to do in such circumstances.
The answer was simple: nothing. They’d been told about conventional war, about victories over French and Russians; they’d been shown how to deal with howling masses of ‘savage’ spear-wielding natives, to read maps, to control artillery, and even how to sap and build bridges. But of operations among supposed friends who were actually foes, of how to deal with fanatical, murderous children in the middle of a crowd of civilians while a critical press corps hovered close by, not a thing had been said.
But Morgan was given no more time to ponder. The big warrior turned to his friends, broke the silence with a gabble of words, then dropped his hand to the bone hilt of his foot-long knife and began to draw it. Morgan didn’t even answer his sergeant’s question for he knew that if he was going to act he had to do something fast and decisive. Launching himself over the few yards that separated them, the young officer went as hard as he could for the tribesman, knowing he had one chance only to defeat the bigger man. Once that knife was clear of its sheath, his enemy would strike fast and hard – and that would not only be the signal for his henchmen to attack but for the rest of the crowd to swamp him and his men.
The hours of sword training that Morgan had received were ignored. Fencing at school, then cut and guard under the skill-at-arms instructor, even the first fatal thrust he’d just delivered, were instantly forgotten. Instead, visceral instincts took over and he smashed the hilt of his sword as hard as he could into his opponent’s face, catching him by surprise and sending him sprawling into the gutter next to the cooling child, a welter of limbs and flying robes. Unwittingly, Morgan had done just the right thing. A neat, deft blow might have dealt with his opponent, but he would have fallen with a dignity that inspired the others. This brawling assault made the tribesman look foolish; he dropped almost comically, which gave the patrol just enough time to seize the initiative.
‘Move, Sar’nt Kelly. I’ll hold ’em!’ But even before Morgan had said this, Kelly was leading the others hard into the throng, making for the gate, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, bayonets pricking those who were slow to move, while Thompson was half dragged, half carried with them.
The people were mercifully slow to react. Morgan’s impression as he dashed and turned, sweeping his sword blade from side to side to keep the Kandaharis at bay, was of a cowering bank of flesh and cloth that pressed itself against the town’s walls as he and his men scrambled down the street.
‘Let’s not wait, Sar’nt Kelly, they’re hard behind,’ gasped Morgan, as he caught up with his clutch of men, who had paused to get a better hold on the barely conscious Thompson.
‘Aye, sir, I can see that . . .’ and, as if to reinforce what he knew already, a shower of stones, fruit and whatever else came to hand bounced around Kelly and Morgan as the mob surged up the street in pursuit.
‘So, hardly the most glorious start to an officer’s career, Mr Morgan?’ I knew that all four of those listening, Galbraith, Sergeant Kelly and Heath would be expecting me to show some sort of favouritism to my son. In truth, I’d have been a damn sight less hard on a young officer I didn’t know than I was going to have to be on Billy – if I’d been in that horrid situation, I suspect I’d have made a right bloody hash of things and got the whole patrol kicked and stabbed to death. What worried me, though, was how matter-of-fact Billy had been about killing a child.
‘No, sir, I know that, but I was fortunate to have a good set of men around me. If they’d got out of control or fired into the crowd, I suspect we wouldn’t be here now, sir,’ Billy answered confidently, Galbraith nodding his approval almost imperceptibly.
‘Quite so, young man. I gather that Private Thompson should recover, but you were lucky that the whole thing didn’t turn very nasty indeed. Who d’you suppose the maniac child was?’ I asked Billy, but Sergeant Kelly responded.
‘Ghazi, sir. Pretty young one, but a Ghazi beyond doubt,’ he said, with total conviction.
‘What – at twelve years of age? The only possible attraction I can see for being a bloody Ghazi is the dozens of virgins they’re promised in eternity if they butcher one of us. Can’t see how that would influence a twelve-year-old unless he’s a very early starter.’ The idea of using children as assassins was preposterous, wasn’t it? But, then, the very concept of committing certain suicide in the name of religion was also pretty odd – yet that was what was happening.
‘Well, sir, he was dressed all in white.’ Billy had taken up the narrative now. ‘Apparently he was yelling, “Din-din,” though I didn’t hear that myself. He was quite demented and went for Thompson with a knife rather than a firearm.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t get a jezail or a pistol.’ I still found it hard to believe that anyone could bend a child’s mind to do such a thing.
‘Ten a penny in the metal-workers’ quarter, sir,’ Kelly added quietly.
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ I’d not yet been into the teeming bazaars of Kandahar, the same bazaars in which I was asking boys like Thompson to risk their lives. ‘Well, you two, it seems our enemies’ beastliness knows no bounds, yet you’ve come out of this remarkably unscathed. I have no doubt that the mullahs will get to the press vermin and that you’ll read all about your own atrocities, but let me handle that side of things.
‘Heath, I want a full account of this new tactic that the Ghazis are using sent to all commanding officers – and I’ll need to take a copy of it with me when I report to General Primrose, so don’t drag your heels.’ My brigade major adopted his customary harassed expression as he scratched in his notebook.
‘Have either of you anything more to say?’
Both Billy and his sergeant gave me a regulation ‘Nosir.’
‘Sar’nt Kelly, you should have known better than to let a patrol get into a mess like this and, Mr Morgan, if I hear about any more errors of judgement, then I’ll
