Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

the months that they’d been together in Afghanistan, the two had got to know each other as well as any native and British officer could. They’d ridden together in the Helmand valley last year and fought side by side at Khusk-i-Nakud, but still Keenan was uncomfortable with the relationship. Singh was over thirty, one of the new generation of native officers who had received a viceroy’s commission based on merit rather than age and length of service; he had a depth of experience far beyond the young Irishman’s. They wore the same badges of rank, were both addressed as ‘sahib’ and commanded troops of about twenty men. Yet they lived in different messes and Keenan was the senior, for he was a British officer, the most junior of whom was superior even to the rissaldar major, the most senior native officer in the regiment. His thoughts unaccountably flicked to his brother. Keenan smiled to himself and doubted that Billy would cope in his plodding, stiff old 66th with the extra layer of officers who were at the heart of the regiment yet weren’t really officers at all.

      Singh spoke incomprehensibly to one of the four men on morning duty at the stables before turning to Keenan. ‘Butt Mohammed believes that one of the remounts may be developing surra, sahib, but we’ll soon see.’

      Not only could Singh speak English a hundred times better than he could express himself in Pashto or Dari, Keenan marvelled, but he also had a practical knowledge of an ailment of which he himself had no experience whatsoever. But then, he supposed, that was what years in the 3rd Scinde Horse taught a man. As they walked briskly along the straw-strewn floor through the horsy fug, he consulted his Field Service Pocket Book (India) in its supposedly waterproof cover. ‘Isn’t that mainly a camel and donkey disease, sahib?’ he asked, freshly knowledgeable.

      ‘It is, sahib, but read on a bit further and you’ll see that it can affect horses too,’ answered Singh, with a smile.

      With the trooper stroking the horse’s nose to calm it, both men looked for signs of ‘. . . repeated attacks of fever during which the animal is dull and off feed, gradually loses condition, gets swelling, spotted membranes, pot belly and finally dies’.

      ‘No, sahib, this is not surra. I have seen it before and it is dreadful. Horses cannot recover, and that is why the men are so worried about it, especially when their animals are around filthy camels and asses.’ Singh spoke again to Butt Mohammed before patting the horse gently on its admittedly bulbous belly. ‘I think it’s no more than a touch of colic.’ Keenan thought about that phrase and knew that he would be reduced to charades if he was trying to express such a thing to the men.

      That was the only problem to worry any of the men, but the two officers continued their inspection, lifting mares’ tails to look for thrush, digging sawdust and muck out of hoofs to check for cracks and mud fever, peering up nostrils for a hint of glanders, and for sores around the saddle area that might indicate farcy.

      ‘What of Ayoob Khan, sahib?’ The rissaldar was smoothing down the hairs on a horse’s flank having examined an old ringworm site. ‘The soldiers say he is bound to march on Kandahar once the weather gets a little cooler.’

      ‘Perhaps, Rissaldar sahib. But I only know what the colonel sahib tells us and he tells you the same. Do any of the soldiers have any contact with Ayoob Khan’s people?’ Keenan asked.

      ‘Of course, sahib. Many are Pathans from the same tribes who soldier for Ayoob Khan and they have kinsmen here in Kandahar who travel far and wide. Indeed, a caravan arrived from Herat two days ago and brought family news to many of our jawans, and grand stories of the headman’s bragging about what he will do to any of “his” people who are taken in the service of the gora-log,’ answered Singh.

      ‘Does that worry them, sahib?’

      ‘No, Keenan sahib, they don’t give a donkey’s cock about such things. All that most want is a chance of more fighting and looting – you know our sowars,’ replied Singh, making Keenan wonder just how well he did know the men with whom he could hardly converse. ‘But, sahib, don’t run from this talk – you must know, for does your father, the general sahib, not tell you?’

      ‘No, of course not, Rissaldar sahib. He’s the chief and I’m nothing but a worm. Why should he tell me anything that he does not tell you?’ Keenan realised now that every last sowar must look at him as the receptacle of great knowledge and influence. If only that were true.

      ‘Because he is your father, sahib. He is a general, certainly, and that is why he has gathered both his sons about him to go to war and seek glory. Of course he will tell you and your brother his secrets,’ Singh answered evenly.

      Keenan snorted with amusement at he idea of Billy and himself being summoned by his father for some sort of ramasammy. He had a picture of Father sitting cross-legged next to the wali, both men pulling at pipes while he and that pup Billy made deep salaams and prepared to advise the elders on what should happen next. But that was what Rissaldar Singh and all the others thought. He must seem horribly naïve in their eyes when he tried to grapple with their tribes, castes and religions.

      ‘And, why, sahib, does your father allow your poor brother to walk to war when he has given you horses and saddles and found you a place in a regiment like the Scinde Horse? Has your brother done something wrong? Has he displeased Morgan sahib yet still bears his name?’

      Singh had never asked such questions before, thought Keenan. ‘No, Rissaldar sahib, my brother, my half-brother, can do no wrong in the general’s eyes and that is why he walks to war and I ride. You see, sahib, I have a horse or two, but that is all I will ever have from the general. I will never bear his name or inherit his house and fields . . . but enough of that! This creature has been rubbed a little by its heel rope, hasn’t it?’ The native officer had got quite close enough for now.

      It’s always the way. Something happens or someone says something that causes a bit of heat at the time, but you soon forget it, only grasping its true significance later on. So it was with that conference two months ago – back in May. From that moment on neither the other two brigade commanders nor I had any faith in Primrose. True, he’d sent out the odd patrol, and we’d had some time to manoeuvre in the field – turned a lot of live ammunition into empty cases on the rifle range – and the guns had had some useful practice, but there had been no attempt to improve the town’s defences.

      Worst of all, the distrust between Primrose and McGucken had become obvious to everyone. I was there four weeks ago in early June when the news reached divisional headquarters that the wali was so worried by intelligence he’d received that he was preparing to march out of Kandahar towards the fords on the Helmand. There the Wali, game old bugger that he was, intended to fight Ayoob Khan well forward, as far away from Kandahar and its skittish tribesmen as he could mange. Not surprisingly, he wanted some British troops to help him. Now, we’d all heard that Ayoob Khan had left Herat some weeks ago and was picking up volunteers from the tribes by the hatful as he headed our way, but Primrose seemed genuinely surprised by the sudden rush and fuss among the local troops as they prepared to take the field. It wasn’t as though it was difficult to see what was going to happen. A few days before the wali left, McGucken had given me a carefully translated copy of Ayoob’s proclamation, which was being distributed by his vanguard.

      Then, after a month’s dithering by Primrose, we’d marched out of Kandahar in order to catch up with the Wali. Now, as I sat on Rainbow’s sweaty saddle, my brigade stretched about me in a fog of dust and grit, I got the proclamation out from my map case to reread it:

       Soldiers of the true faith! We march to the conquest of our city of Kandahar, now in the possession of our bitter enemy the Feringhee, whom we will drive back with our steel and win back the capital of the south. The garrison is weak and we are strong; besides, we are fighting for our homes and native land and our foe is not prepared for us with either food or ammunition for a siege. The bazaars are full of British gold and this shall be the prize of the conquerors when we have chased away the invaders from our soil. Let us march on then, day by day, with the determination to conquer or to die.