Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer
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and left him dead before he hit the ground.
‘Shukria, bahadur,’ gasped Keenan, as the corpse dropped away. The lance daffadar seemed almost as surprised by the perfection of the blow as the officer was to be in one piece.
The charge slowed and broke, as the horsemen fell upon their enemies, knots of cavalrymen soon surrounded by a sea of Duranis who had quickly recovered from the crashing impact. Keenan found himself in a sandy gully filled with pushing, yelling tribesmen, his own troopers hacking left and right in a desperate attempt to force the enemy swordsmen back.
‘More than we thought, sahib,’ said Miran, almost matter-of-factly. ‘I hope the colonel sahib has got those owls in B Squadron ready to come and help.’ The last few words were said with a grunt – the daffadar had abandoned his lance and drawn his sword. Now the blade sickled through a sheepskin poshteen and deep into the shoulder of an older, bearded warrior, who quit the fight with a yelp of pain.
‘Aye, Daffadar, but they’ll need to be quick – look to Captain Reynolds, won’t you?’ Keenan saw his squadron leader just a few paces further up the nullah engulfed by a dozen attackers. The trumpeter – who was taught to protect the officer when at close quarters like this – seemed to be down. Keenan thought he’d seen one of the horses roll on to its side as muskets and matchlocks banged all around. Then, at first, Reynolds had slashed all about him, driving the Duranis back, but Keenan saw one bolder than the rest who threw down his shield and musket, drew his knife and scrambled forward. The tribesman had come from the captain’s rear, and the long knife poked hard over Reynolds’s rolled blanket and darted into the small of his back. The blade disappeared and re-emerged, stained red, and, in an instant, the officer had gone from a fighting man to a semi-cripple: he dropped his sword and yelled in pain, gripping the pommel of his saddle as the rest of the foe closed in and tried to drag him to the ground.
With no further words, the daffadar had dug his spurs into his mount, the pony kicking up the grit as she surged towards the mob. Keenan did the same, Kala barging one man out of her way with her left shoulder before putting her master right among the struggling throng.
Just in front of Keenan, a young Durani had thrown down his sword and seized Reynolds’s tunic with both hands, dragging at the wounded officer who was feebly kicking out with the toes of his riding boots while trying to control his rearing horse. Keenan was about to strike a living target for the first time but, despite hours of practice, every bit of training deserted him. His victim was facing away from him, intent upon Reynolds in the noise and confusion that overwhelmed them all – a perfect mark for a deep stab with the point of the sword. Such a strike, Keenan had been taught, would be effective and economical, yet blunt instinct took over as he swept his tulwar over his left shoulder and let go a great scything cut that almost unbalanced him.
The carefully sharpened steel hit the foot soldier in two places at once. The base of the blade struck the man just above the left ear, his woollen cap taking some of the power out of the blow, but not before a great wound was opened on his scalp. At the same time, the forward part of the sword sliced obliquely through the Durani’s left hand, neatly cutting off a couple of fingers and carving a wide flap of skin under which the bones showed whitely. The blow had been awkward, clumsy, and his opponent, though hurt and shouting in pain, still clung to Reynolds with fanatical determination.
‘Use the point, sahib, finish him properly.’ Next to Keenan in the plunging mêlée, the daffadar was jabbing at his own countrymen expertly, while remaining detached enough to guide his British officer.
Pulling the hilt of his sword back over Kala’s rump, Keenan lunged hard at his shrieking opponent. The point of the weapon hit the man under his armpit and pushed obliquely through his major organs with surprising ease. One moment the tribesman had been wounded, but alive and dangerous; at the next he fell away, slipping easily off Keenan’s blade into the cloud of dust and thrashing hoofs below, a look of horror on his bristly face.
So, that was what it was like to kill, thought Keenan. He glanced at the corpse – it was already shrunken and shapeless in death – but any pang of guilt had no time to develop as the daffadar bawled, ‘Shabash, sahib!’ at him and ran yet another of the enemy through the shoulder to send the man corkscrewing back behind them and right on to the lance of a sowar riding with the second rank. Keenan knew the lad, a well-muscled youngster who’d come down from Rawalpindi to enlist last year. He was a wrestler and now every bit of sinew was put into a blow that buried his spear deep in the wounded tribesman’s belly, finishing the brutal work that the daffadar had started. Keenan glanced at the cavalryman as he brought his weapon back to the ‘recover’. There was no regret, no sympathy, just a vulpine grin behind his beard – a soldier satisfied with a job well done.
The immediate danger was over. Keenan watched as the Durani infantry loped away from his men, dodging among the brush and trees, one or two pausing to fire but most running hard to regroup among the buildings from which they had emerged. Even as Keenan took all this in, however, even as he looked back at the bundles of dusty rags that had been his enemy and the odd khaki figure sprawled beside them, he realised that a badly cut-about, barely conscious Captain Reynolds was being helped down from his saddle by two soldiers.
‘What are your orders, sahib?’ Rissaldar Singh, the senior of the squadron’s two native officers, stood before him, a fleck of blood on his horse’s neck but otherwise as unruffled as if he were on parade.
‘Orders?’ Keenan answered bemusedly, wondering why one of the other troop officers should have come to him for guidance.
‘Yes, sahib, orders. You’re in charge now that Reynolds sahib is hurt,’ Singh continued calmly.
‘Yes . . . yes, of course I am.’ Despite Keenan’s lack and Singh’s depth of experience, as the only British officer left in the squadron, command automatically devolved upon him. Now he looked at the enemy. He could see a great crowd of them, probably two hundred strong, he guessed, turning to face his troops from the mud-walled hamlet that lay a furlong away over open, tussocky ground. Even as he watched he could see their confidence returning: they had started to shout defiance and fire wild shots towards the Scinde Horse.
‘Let’s be at ’em, then. Get your troops shaken out either side of mine beyond this nullah . . .’ Keenan pointed to the shallow ditch immediately to their front, but stopped as Singh shook his head.
‘No, sahib, we are too few – look.’
Keenan took stock of his new command. Singh was right: not only had the squadron lost its commander and several men, but many of the horses had been cut by swords and knives or grazed by bullets and all were blown. Most of the men had lost or broken their lances and two score simply could not hope to repeat the success of their earlier action, especially now that surprise was lost and the enemy had planted himself among protective walls and enclosures.
‘The colonel will want to finish them with the other squadrons – we must hold them with our carbines, sahib,’ Singh suggested, with quiet insistence.
‘Aye, you’re right, sahib. Trumpeter . . .’ But there was no one to obey Keenan – he’d forgotten that the signaller had been one of the first to fall. ‘Dismount, prepare to skirmish,’ he shouted, the command being taken up by the NCOs who tongue-lashed the dazed troopers off their horses and forward with their weapons.
Keenan looked away to his right where the main body of the rearguard had been concentrated before the fight. Again Singh seemed to have been correct: he could see the remaining two squadrons of the Scinde Horse wheeling amid their own cloud of dust, shaking out into line abreast, while the company of the 29th Beloochis were trotting off to a flank to give covering fire, he guessed, with their long Snider rifles. Their own carbine fire, if quick and accurate, would gall the enemy just as the rest of Colonel Malcolmson’s horsemen charged home.
‘Squadron, load.’ The men had flung themselves down behind any cover they could find and now they rammed cartridges into the breech of their weapons and clicked the breech-traps closed. ‘Two fifty . . . aim high.’ Keenan reckoned the range to be a little less than three hundred yards. The men adjusted their sights. ‘Fire!’ The snub-nosed