Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

the way that my brigade major, Heath, talked about them. He’d been their adjutant, after all, and whenever we discussed them he would mention nothing except their steadiness on parade and the various complicated devices they used to ensure that they all took a graduated pace when each company wheeled from column to line. He never mentioned their musketry or their ability to cover miles without a man dropping out and seemed oddly ignorant about which tribe and caste each man came from.

      But that was better than the open suspicion that swirled around the other battalion, the 30th Bombay Native Infantry, or Jacob’s Rifles. They had made quite a good start in my eyes, being more ready for the field than their counterparts, yet they were a new regiment, having been raised after the Mutiny, and had no battle honours to hang on their colours. On top of this, the vast majority of their recruits were Pathans, the very same folk from whom we had most trouble in Kandahar. As was the way with the Army, someone had decided that the loyalty of Jacob’s Rifles was in doubt, so everyone treated them like pariahs, yet Sam’s 3rd Scinde Horse – also mainly Pathani – were never criticised for the same thing, not in my hearing, anyway.

      Whatever the rights and wrongs of the composition of both battalions, I was more concerned with how they would perform in a fight. Since the Mutiny, it was our habit to keep the Indian units equipped with the last generation of small-arms rather than the most modern. So it was that the Grenadiers and the Jacobs both carried the .577 Snider-Enfield conversion rifles. These were the old muzzle-loaders that I had known in my young day, with a trap affair let into the breech and a metal cartridge and bullet fixed together as one neat round. The result was good enough in well-trained hands, allowing six volleys to be fired per minute with accurate individual fire up to about six hundred paces. But the Snider was prone to jam and fouling and it took a lot of practice before a soldier became really proficient with it. Also, many of our Afghan enemies had the same weapon, which meant that the only advantage we might enjoy would come from stern discipline and plenty of practice.

      My strongest card, for sure, were the six guns of E Battery, B Brigade Royal Horse Artillery. The men were smart and sharp, every horse I saw was beautifully groomed and a proper source of pleasure to its driver, while the rifled nine-pounders were lethally well kept.

      ‘Them fuckers’ll soon sort out Johnny Afghan, sir.’ I let Lynch, my trumpeter, who was on loan from E Battery, regale me with the tools of his trade. ‘Aye, we can hit a sixpence up to three an’ a half thousand paces with high-explosive or shrapnel rounds, we can, sir.’ Lynch was bursting with pride, delighted to be back among his pals with ‘his’ general under his wing. I allowed him to think that I was a complete tyro in such matters. ‘An’ the lads can get off four rounds a minute once they’ve found the range.’

      Lynch was right to be proud of his guns and his battery, but our nine-pounders were still muzzle-loading and slow compared with the new breech-loaders that were coming into service. Now I’d seen what well-handled guns could do, especially to native troops, but there was a nasty rumour that Ayoob Khan had rifled guns like we did, and further intelligence to suggest that Russian advisers were to be seen openly in Herat. I preferred to forget how bloody good the Russian gunners had been in the Crimea.

      Whatever the strengths and weaknesses of this lot, I managed to get them out of cantonments for two full man oeuvres by mid-May, and saw that they seemed to be settling down. I was still fretting over the compatibility of my two native battalions with my British one when rumours began to filter into the lines of a bloody little affair in which the 29th Baloochis and some of the 66th, who were detached, had been involved near Khelat-i-Ghilzai. I was called to Primrose’s headquarters with the other brigade commanders to be told what was in the wind.

      ‘Gentlemen, three days ago, on the second of May, a wing of the Twenty-ninth Bombay and a half-company of the Sixty-sixth under Tanner’s command were ambushed on Shahbolan Hill. They’d been out on a punitive expedition along the lines of communication towards Kabul and were returning to Khelat-i-Ghilzai when they got bounced. Now, as it happened, none of our men was killed and we found fourteen enemy bodies.’ I hated the way that Primrose strutted about while he told us this. A starched white liner stuck out above the collar of his neat khaki drill while he paced to and fro, hands clasped behind his back, apparently relishing the idea of sudden death. ‘But there’s far more to this little skirmish than meets the eye. McGucken, would you take over, please?’

      ‘Aye, General, thank you.’ The political officer stood up from his camp chair, towering over the scrawny form of our commander. I hadn’t seen much of Jock in the intervening weeks for we’d both been busy. I’d knocked into him as he was riding out towards Kabul with an escort of native troopers, himself wearing Afghan dress and looking very much the part with the beard he’d grown, but we’d had no time for the ‘swally’ we’d been promising each other.

      Now he cleared his throat in a way that took me back more years than I cared to remember, swept the room with an uncompromising eye and continued. ‘Gentlemen, I canna pretend that intelligence is as reliable as I would like. Simla has been insisting that Ayoob Khan’s troops are as good as useless because they continue to have major differences with one another. Sadly, however, this affair up near Khelat-iGhilzai is the first real proof I’ve had that Simla’s talking rot.’ McGucken’s suggestion that our headquarters in India was incompetent – which we all suspected – raised a chuckle. ‘No, this was a determined attack by Herati troops. It was well planned but was dealt with by Colonel Tanner’s quick thinking and the determination of our men. Some of the bodies are believed to be from one of the Afghan regular units that were involved in the murder of Sir Louis Cavagnari last year.’ This prompted an uneasy muttering among the audience. ‘It’s the first real demonstration of how far afield Ayoob Khan’s men are able to operate – and his intention to destabilise the situation here in Kandahar even further.

      ‘You’ll all be aware of the guns that we presented to the wali recently.’ McGucken looked round the brigade commanders to assess their reaction: there had been all sorts of moaning about the decision to give Sher Ali Khan a battery of brass smooth-bores. Primrose had backed McGucken, whose idea it had been, suggesting that the guns would be seen as a gesture of trust that might lead to greater co-operation from the wali, but I thought back to my brief meeting with Sher Ali last month and his own lack of confidence in his troops. I didn’t like the idea of giving away gun-metal that might very well be turned upon its donors. ‘Well, that ordnance seems to have served as a key that’s unlocked our host’s lips. I always suspected that those who might be persuaded to talk to us were being told to keep their traps shut by the rebellious elements in the wali’s forces. Well, the wali gave the guns into his son’s safe keeping and that young fellow, some of yous gentlemen’ – McGucken’s speech dropped back into pure Glasgow only occasionally – ‘will have met him already, has suddenly become much more talkative. He tells me that Ayoob Khan plans to move out of Herat in the middle of June, in about five weeks’ time. He will try to make us believe that his forces will skirt north of us and go on to Kabul, where he and several thousand troops will then do a spot of gentle lobbying. His real intention, however, will be to fall upon Kandahar.’

      ‘You say several thousand troops, McGucken. What does he actually have?’ Nuttall, the cavalry brigade commander, voiced my question.

      ‘Well, sir, we don’t know for sure and we won’t until he marches – and we don’t yet know if his mind’s fully made up. Anyway, the wali intends to send a body of his troops up here to the fords over the Helmand river.’ McGucken pointed on the map at an area that I could see was a natural convergence of several different roads near Khusk-i-Nakud, seventy-odd miles away, where Sam and the Scinde Horse had drawn first blood more than a year ago. ‘He’s still getting his own house in order and, as we all know to our cost, Kandahar will only become more volatile with a reduction in the wali’s garrison, while the troops themselves are not dependable. I have no doubt, General’ – I saw the flash of dislike in McGucken’s eyes as he turned to Primrose – ‘that he’ll ask for some of our regiments to accompany his forces to act as a stiffener.’

      ‘I’m sure he will, McGucken, and as you and I have discussed before, I’m reluctant to diminish what strength I have here in Kandahar for the reasons that you’ve just outlined. On top of that, I