Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

lungs and heart. Then it was over. One final jab saw the end of the cat’s agony. With a twitch that shook the black body from the point of its tail to the tip of its nose, the panther at last lay still.

      The horses snorted and shook their heads – almost like a last salute to their humbled foe, thought Keenan.

      ‘Well, damn your eyes, you two, that was a neat bit of work, so it was. The pelt will look grand on your veranda, Rissaldar sahib, well done, bahadur! And not a bad show from you, either, my lad.’ Keenan saw his father grinning up at both of them as he jerked his spear from the corpse. The general was dusty, spotted with the panther’s blood, exhilarated and, clearly, pleased with himself. Yet, Keenan realised, his father, who had taken most of the risk, wanted no credit for himself: how little he knew him.

      The day’s chase had quite revived my spirits and I rounded things off by sending my clueless brigade major to check that the Horse Gunners had settled into their lines – that was far too grubby a task for a man of his fine habits. Now I could try to enjoy a supper with my elder son and, after today, I suspected that he’d matured into quite a different person from the lad I’d last known. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years – the last time we’d met passed through Bombay and Sam had invited me to a guest night with his new regiment, the 3rd Scinde Horse. I was just a full colonel on the staff then and he was a fresh-minted cornet, straight out of the factory, all new mess kit and sparkling spurs. But what a different sight he’d been when we were after that cat, and now here he was in the dusty courtyard of my living quarters in Kandahar – burnt as dark as any of his sowars, his tulwar swinging by his side, spiked helmet at a rakish angle and a look of such self-confidence in his brown eyes that it took me a second to realise he was my own flesh and blood.

      Mind you, Sam had been hard at it for more than a year. His regiment had been right through the first campaign in the Helmand valley, serving under that poor, tired old sod General Biddulph, while my newly formed brigade and I had been rotting down on the lines of communication from the freezing mountain passes up here to Kandahar itself.

      ‘General Morgan, sir.’ The boy was exaggerating my new exalted rank. ‘Mr Samuel Keenan, sir, at your command.’ There was a relaxed self-assurance in the way he saluted that I hadn’t seen before.

      ‘At my command, Lieutenant bloody Keenan? If you are, that’ll be the first time in twenty-four years, you scoundrel! Anyway, son, that was a brisk little business today, wasn’t it? You did well . . .’ Actually, he’d done bloody well – but I wasn’t going to say that. The Indian officer had snagged the panther, but if Sam hadn’t struck when he did and hung on like a demon, more would have died than just that poor coolie. ‘I want to hear all about your adventures. I had a look at one of the squadrons of your lot on my way to take command of my brigade and a very fair impression they made. Your officers looked a damn good lot today, especially the Indians – they’ve seen a bit of service, ain’t they?’

      ‘We’re lucky with our native officers and the rissaldar major is a grand fellow . . .’ Sam tailed off.

      ‘I know . . . you’ve no need to tell me.’ His hesitation had told me all I needed to know. ‘Malcolmson, your colonel, is a scrub – tell me I’m wrong.’

      ‘Well, Father . . .’

      ‘No, it was all too clear when he had you drawn up drill-yard style, booted and spurred yet trying to loll over fucking cocktails or whatever fancy nonsense they were. I’ve not seen plunging like that since the Crimea . . .’ Sam was looking blank ‘. . . yes, you know, plungers – don’t you use that word any more? Horrible ambitious types – usually tradesmen’s sons – who think that licking round their superiors and trying to give themselves airs and graces will somehow give them a foot up the ladder. What does he think he commands – the bloody Life Guards? It’s a regiment of native irregulars, ain’t it?’ I saw a slight shadow pass over my son’s face. Without thinking, I’d suggested he might have been consigned to something second rate. ‘And bloody good in the field it is too – we depended heavily on your lot back in the Mutiny, you know.’ I tried to redeem myself. ‘I can see he’s an arse socially, Sam, but Malcolmson’s done well enough on campaign so far, ain’t he? The regiment’s got a good name.’

      ‘I think we’ve done pretty well, Father, but we’ve only had one serious brush with the enemy and the commanding officer was fine, as far as I could see. Is this your mess?’ replied Sam, changing the subject as he ran an approving eye over the single-storey building that stood at the end of the courtyard.

      ‘Yes, it is. Henry Brooke – you know him and his family, Protestant folk from up Tyrone way . . .’ Oh, damn it, there it was again: I’d reminded Sam of the differences between us once more when I was trying to find common ground. ‘As you know, he’s the other infantry brigadier and we’ve been pals for years. Well, he found the place when he arrived in Kandahar a little after you did. Now he’s converted it into a joint mess for both of us and our staff. But you don’t have to be over-loyal in front of me, lad. I’ve seen men like Malcolmson before – a veneer of efficiency that usually hides something much less savoury. Anyway, enough of that. You’ll soon know if I’m right or wrong – and I wasn’t pumping you up in front of Malcolmson earlier. I really do need to know about this country and the folk we’ve got to fight. Sam Browne and Roberts have been poked in the eye a couple of times but seem to have come through it, and you tell me that your lot have crossed swords with ’em, so what are they like?’

      As Sam started to reply I knew I must concentrate, but my mind kept wandering away. I thought how little I knew the young warrior who had so impressed me during today’s hunt. Why, the last occasion we’d spent any time together had been in Ireland and I’d been daft enough to criticise his skill in the saddle. Yet today he’d been like a satyr while the big cat had spat and scratched around the three of us.

      No, I hardly knew him. I seemed to have lavished all my time and attention on his half-brother, William. I had packed Sam off to India as soon as I could into a cheap, but good, native cavalry gang while his brother got the best of schools and a commission in a decent English regiment that nearly broke the bank. Yet, looking at the man, I could see myself a quarter of a century before.

      ‘They’re damn good, Father. They’ll come at you out of nowhere, exploit every mistake you make, carve you up, and are away like the wind. They nearly gave us a hiding at Khusk-i-Nakud – I thought I’d finished before I’d started when we had to charge fifteen hundred tribesmen who had got into our rear.’

      We’d had word of that smart little skirmish when it happened more than a year ago, and I’d been both thrilled and worried when I heard that the 3rd Scinde Horse had been involved. I’d written to Sam immediately, but his reply had been brisk and modestly uninformative and, until now, I’d had no chance to talk to him about his first time in action. ‘Tell me about it, Sam. I want to hear every last detail.’

      ‘Take your squadron up to that bit of scrub yonder, Reynolds. I’ll hold B and C Squadrons and the 29th Balochi lads down here while you move.’ Colonel Malcolmson, commanding officer of the 3rd Scinde Horse, was in charge of the rearguard. ‘Then, when you hear my signal, be prepared to fall back behind that handful of buildings over there.’

      This looks a damn sight more promising than anything we’ve seen so far, thought Lieutenant Sam Keenan. I’ve been here for three months and done nothing but watch other men’s battles, picket till I’m blue in the face and freeze my balls off. I wonder if this’ll develop into anything more than all the other disappointments? He could hear the colonel’s orders to Reynolds, his squadron commander, quite clearly, as could every man in his troop. The sixty or so horsemen of A Squadron waited with the rest of the rearguard in the bottom of the shallow valley, watching the first enemy that they had seen in any numbers since their arrival in Afghanistan. In the low hills above them, dark groups of tribesmen could be seen trotting from cover to cover, firing a random shot or two at the distant British.

      Now the men stood by their mounts, lances resting on the ground, easing girths and harness, as they waited with the prospect of action gnawing at their guts. The horses could feel it as well. Just handy little ponies, really,