Chapter 8-2
1033 Words
Faced with the double threat, the Afghans on Peiwar Kotal crumbled. The defenders, so staunch for so long, panicked, abandoned their artillery, and fled.
“Get the screw-guns in position,” Roberts ordered, examining the Afghan camp in the valley beyond the passes. “Chase them back to Kabul.”
The Royal Horse Artillerymen were amongst the most professional soldiers in the British Army. They manoeuvred their mountain guns into position, checked the range and elevation, and opened fire. Jack watched as the shells arced up, fell, and exploded among the Afghan tents, panicking the camels, killing and mutilating men and animals, and helping turn the retreat into a rout. Marksmen of the 8th King"s Regiment hurried from their victory at the Peiwar Kotal to target the Afghan artillerymen. Firing their Martini-Henrys at eight hundred yards, they made good practice among the astonished gunners. For decades, the Afghan hillmen and tribes had ambushed the British from long range, and now the British were the predators and the Afghans the targets. The Afghan jezails outranged the old Brown Bess muskets of the British Army, but the Martinis were better weapons with a more extended range than any jezail.
“Good lads, the King"s,” Jack said. Mindful that his 113th had only played a supporting role in the action, he ordered Lieutenant Harcourt to take a platoon of the finest marksmen closer to the Afghan camp to aid the King"s.
“Yes, sir,” Harcourt said eagerly. “Dunlop! I need you!”
As the shells and bullets wreaked havoc in their camp, the Afghan guards and camel drivers fled, driving their remaining camels before them, with the regular Afghan soldiers only minutes behind.
“The Afghans don"t have a tradition of heroic last stands,” Jack explained. “They find it better to run and fight another day.”
“Perhaps more sensible of them,” Captain Singer said, “if hardly heroic.”
“A dead hero can inspire,” Jack said, “but a live warrior can kill, and kill again.”
“12th Bengalis” Roberts shouted to his cavalry, “now"s your chance. Chase them.”
The 12th Bengalis needed no further orders. As cavalrymen, they had fewer opportunities to show their mettle than the infantry, and now they charged forward in perfect formation to attack the retreating Afghans. The Bengalis proved themselves masters of the cavalry"s forte, pursuing and harassing a defeated foe.
With the sowars – Indian cavalry – in the Afghan camp, the British artillery and marksmen ceased fire to watch the Bengalis at work. Jack experienced sympathy for the Afghans even as he admired the sowars" professionalism.
As the cavalry completed the enemy"s rout, General Roberts led his army over the passes and into the Afghan camp.
“Be careful,” Jack warned. “Some of these dead Afghans may be shamming.”
“Yes, sir,” Harcourt said.
“There"s Old Jack again,” Hancock grumbled. “Afraid in case a dead man bites him. No wonder he"s never advanced beyond major.”
The 113th stared around at the debris left by the retreating Afghan army. Some of the standing tents were burning fiercely, others stood as if waiting for their owners to return, while clothes, food and equipment lay scattered around, together with dozens of dead bodies.
“We won, sir,” Harcourt said. “The general will be pleased.”
“He will,” Jack agreed. He saw the slightly glazed look in Harcourt"s eyes and knew the memories and images of battle would return to him that night. “That was your first action, Harcourt,” he said gently. “It will have affected you. That"s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yes, sir,” Harcourt"s smile was lopsided. “I wasn"t afraid, sir.”
“No, son, of course, you weren"t.” Jack realised he had not seen Trent during the battle. “You did well, Harcourt.”
Amongst the litter were silver-mounted brass helmets that the Afghan gunners wore, and a vast amount of papers. The Afghan army, it seemed, required as much documentation as the British.
“Can anybody read these damned things?” Roberts asked, holding up a printed sheet of paper.
“I can try, sir,” Jack stepped up and scanned the document. Fortunately, it was in Pashto, a language he had painfully learned. “It claims to be from the Amir, Sher Ali, sir, but I would not put much faith in that.”
“What does it say, Windrush?”
“It"s a call to jihad, sir, with promises of paradise to anybody we kill in action, and damnation to those who refuse to fight.”
Roberts glanced up the valley in the direction the Afghans had fled. “No paradise for those lads, then.”
“Not this time, sir.” Jack read further. “Wage a holy war on behalf of God and his Prophet, with your property and your lives. Let the rich equip the poor. Let all die for the holy cause. A foreign nation, without cause or the slightest provocation, has made up its mind to invade our country and conquer it.”"
“The usual nonsense then.” Roberts held up his hand. “That"s enough, Windrush. Bundle the papers up. I"ll send them off to our intelligence boys; they like to read things. It gives them something to do and makes them feel useful.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack sent a squad of young soldiers around the camp to pick up all the documents they could find.
Roberts looked around the battlefield. “Well, Windrush,” he said. “We have every reason to be pleased with ourselves. We have taken a strong position from a more numerous enemy and driven him away. We have captured eighteen guns, killed some hundreds of his men, and all for less than a hundred casualties.” He smiled. “More importantly, we have unlocked the side door into Afghanistan. Let"s see what the Russians think about that.”
Standing in the background, Awalmir remained impassive, while his right hand gripped the hilt of his Khyber knife.
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