The Challenging Heights (32 page)

It was silent outside now but as MacAllister and his staff sat round the billiard table discussing their plans, there was a shout from the stairs.

‘Your Excellency’ – it was one of the Indian servants ‘ – the Rezhans are breaking in!’

Scrambling to his feet, Dicken reached for his revolver and they all raced for the stairs. A crashing of glass and the splintering of woodwork came from the back of the Legation and, through a gap in the boards that barred the broken windows, they could see moonlight and the sheen of snow. Then the door flew open and framed in the opening they saw half-a-dozen heavily-armed men wearing tall Kabul-made caps and carrying rifles and swords.

As the light caught the men inside, the intruders stopped dead, clutching their weapons, then MacAllister stepped forward, and began to address them in Pushtu. Previously his appearances had been sufficient to quell both rebels and King’s men, but this time it didn’t work. These men looked like strangers and one of them yelled something, and lifted his rifle. A shot whistled across the room, so close that MacAllister involuntarily ducked his head. At the second shot one of the handsome young men behind the Minister clutched his forearm and cried out, but they all remained in a group, looking vaguely like the pictures Dicken had seen of General Gordon and his followers facing death on the steps at Khartoum. Suddenly the whole thing irritated him.

‘This is bloody silly!’ he snapped and pulled the trigger.

The man who had fired disappeared backwards through the doorway as the rest surged forward. A huge double-barrelled pistol appeared and for a moment Dicken found himself staring at what looked like twin cannons, then there was a flash and a crash. Only one barrel had fired but the heavy bullet hit the table, sending up splinters and scoring a groove before striking a decanter, and Dicken reeled away, his face specked with red where splinters had struck him. As he did so, however, the handsome young men came to life at last. One of them picked up a heavy chair and brought it down with a crunch on an unprotected head. Another picked up a dropped rifle and started swinging it by the barrel. The man Dicken was wrestling with had his feet kicked from under him and somebody hit him with a heavy bronze candelabrum. The last intruder was about to run off when Father O’Buhilly’s great fist felled him like an ox.

Dicken stared round angrily. ‘It took you long enough,’ he growled.

MacAllister, still standing in a heroic posture with his chest out, one foot forward, one arm across his chest, suddenly came to life and turned away with a frown. His secretary, Forsythe, brushed his sleeve and smiled. ‘The old blazing eye and stiff upper lip technique seems to have run out of steam,’ he said.

He gave a bark of laughter as though the break-in had suddenly made them all shed the icy British diplomat image.

‘We’d better get rid of these people,’ Forsythe said briskly, indicating the limp forms at their feet. ‘If their friends find out what’s happened to them they’ll probably come back, and the Pathans like their blood feuds too much. Henry–’ he gestured at the Transport Officer ‘ – go to the bathroom and bring some of the weapons down. Arthur–’ one of the other young men stiffened, as if he were on parade ‘–I’ll leave it to you to barricade this door again. Lionel, will you be so kind as to inform the ladies that there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Squadron Leader–’ he looked at Dicken ‘–I think we should get the rest of the women and children to the airfield at once. I think the Minister would be glad if you’d ask for aeroplanes tomorrow morning.’

MacAllister’s young men, their diplomatic coolness gone, were suddenly behaving resolutely, calmly and briskly. With Babington upstairs by the transmitter, they up-ended a heavy table against the door and Dicken turned away, his hands still red with blood, to see Marie-Gabrielle staring at him with wide horrified eyes.

Making him sit down, she carefully arranged a circle of candles round him and began to pick splinters from his cheeks. Her eyes were glistening with tears.

Babington appeared. ‘Every aircraft they can raise’ll be coming in tomorrow, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve informed them that we expect the Legation to be overrun and that the palace, the city and the airfield might fall in the next few days.’

They assembled the remaining women, British, Indian, American, Syrian, Swiss, Afghan, Rezhan, as well as an unexpected Roumanian who had turned up from somewhere, then, with MacAllister’s young men properly armed at last, they prepared to leave. The remaining donkeys were brought from the dairy where they’d been housed when the stables were destroyed and the radio sets lashed on their backs.

MacAllister looked round. He was wearing his heavy fur-collared overcoat and grey homburg and carrying his gold-topped stick. As they were preparing to leave he disappeared and there was a momentary panic until he returned carrying the Legation’s flag. He studied the women. Some of them looked enormous with several layers of clothing because, although it had been stipulated that no luggage should be carried, no one had said anything about how many clothes might be worn.

‘Shall we go,’ he said.

With servants leading the donkeys and Babington hovering near to make sure his precious sets came to no harm, they set off in a long straggling file, the men on the outside and all armed. For the first time, Dicken felt they could look after themselves.

As he walked alongside Marie-Gabrielle, he felt her slip her hand into his. As they passed the German Legation they were joined by the German contingent, and then, as they passed the French Legation, the French contingent. There were enough of them now to look like a regiment on the march. On the outskirts of the city, there was another group waiting for them, guarded by a company of the King’s troops – Persians, a Syrian, several Afghans and a few terrified Rezhans. A long dark file of frightened human beings stumbling in the snow, as they neared the Italian Legation a group of cars passed them, heading north.

‘That’s the King, sir!’ The voice was Forsythe’s. ‘I saw him quite clearly! He’s bolting!’

As they drew closer to the Italian Legation, a fleet of horse-drawn ‘growlers’, such as had graced London’s streets at the turn of the century, passed them, carrying officials in frock coats and top hats but without ties, the last traces of the King’s modernisation campaign.

The Italians added their fleet of cars to the procession and they set off again through the snow. The aircraft were flying in even as they arrived, four Victorias and the Hinaidi and half a dozen DH9s. One of the top-hatted, frock-coated tieless diplomats was arguing with MacAllister. The King had bolted with his luggage, two of his wives and their children and the Foreign Minister and his family, leaving the rest of his harem and their children and his agonised officials to face the mob.

The Hinaidi was just turning as they reached her. The pilot had a rim of ice attaching his moustache to his scarf but, with a grin, he produced a bottle of beer which he’d brought for Dicken. It had frozen on the way, however, and they had to break it with a spanner and distribute the pieces of iced beer to anyone who wanted one.

The airfield was several inches deep in snow, so, threatening, arguing, disputing, pleading, Dicken, Hatto, MacAllister and Father O’Buhilly and all the young men persuaded everybody who could walk to tramp up and down the landing strip to flatten it for aircraft to take off. Even the top-hatted ministers added their weight and soon there was a horde of people moving up and down.

The King’s harem left first. They were shrouded from head to foot, not even their eyes showing, and they climbed into the interior of the Hinaidi like a troop of ghosts, not speaking, doing exactly as they were told. They refused the proffered blankets and sat in silence like huddled bundles of dirty washing. When they were all aboard there was room for two more so the German Minister, who was very fat and had a history of heart trouble, was pushed in after them with his wife. They were enormous under the layers of clothing they were wearing, the Minister’s wife even wearing three hats, one on top of another, and the door seemed to be an insuperable obstacle but, with the aid of a shoulder behind them, they were successfully injected inside.

As the women began to enter the Victorias, Marie-Gabrielle refused to leave Dicken’s side but the machines finally took off full, leaving only thirty of the women behind until the next day. The top-hatted ministers were stuffed with their luggage into the rear cockpits of the DH9s and the fleet of aircraft began to manoeuvre round the field, until with a roar, the engines opened up and they slid away over the tightly packed snow to lift off one after the other and head for the hills.

The night was very dark because the moon was late rising and they made a point of fortifying the few sheds near the hangars in case of an attack, but, with the King gone, the rebels had poured into Ambul, looting, raping and murdering. Part of the city was in flames, the strong breeze wafting the fires across the ancient, wooden-framed buildings. From midnight until the next morning, they could hear firing going on, long rattles of musketry and machine gun fire as the King’s troops, knowing what their fate would be, tried to hold out.

Dicken spent the whole night sitting next to Father O’Buhilly with his revolver in his hand, his arm round Marie-Gabrielle. She said nothing, merely huddling against him until she fell asleep. They were awakened by the sun in their faces and almost at once they caught the low hum of aircraft and soon afterwards saw the first Victoria appear over the mountains to the south.

‘This time you’ll have to go,’ Dicken said as it landed and swung to face the breeze.

Marie-Gabrielle nodded. ‘Yes. I understand. I’ll go now.’ She turned and, putting her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on the mouth.

He watched her climb into the Victoria and saw her take a seat where she could look through the window. Other women were pushed aboard and the door slammed. The idling engines roared, the tail swung and the window framing her pale face disappeared. Seconds later the Victoria was roaring off the ground and heading south.

As Dicken stared after it, a hand gripped his shoulder. It was Father O’Buhilly.

‘I think you’d better pray for me, Father,’ Dicken said quietly. The Rezhan air force commander was looking nervous by this time because he’d heard that the Bachi’s troops, having destroyed the city, were now heading for the airfield. They watched anxiously, one eye on the south, the other on the road from the city. People were moving in the distance and they could even make out their individual shapes, black against the snow, when the first of the Victorias reappeared.

As soon as it touched down, MacAllister gestured to twenty of the refugees to be ready. As it swung round and the door opened, the twenty clambered aboard, and as it started to move again, a second Victoria arrived. As it did so the mob appeared on to the edge of the field, surrounding one of the sentries. In a moment they were hammering him with rifle butts and they finally started tossing him into the air and catching him on bayonets as he came down. His screams died as MacAllister signalled to the second batch of refugees.

‘Let’s hope,’ one of his young men said, ‘that none of the aeroplanes conks out.’

When the last Victoria arrived, there were still over thirty of them left, Dicken, Babington, Handiside and the ground staff, MacAllister and his young men, the airfield commander who was clearly taking no chances, and several of his pilots. The pilot this time was Hatto and he didn’t hesitate. ‘Shove ’em all aboard,’ he said. ‘We’ll manage.’

The mob were streaming across the field now, their chests criss-crossed with bandoliers of bullets, and they halted in a long straggling line about a hundred yards away. Agitators were shrieking abuse and demanding that they attack the aeroplane, but the mob stood watching, the line broken now into scattered groups.

There was a gap in front of them and Hatto shouted out. ‘Hold your hats on,’ he said.

As he opened the throttles and the Victoria began to gather speed, Dicken found MacAllister clutching the Union Jack he had rescued and looking at him with apprehension.

Dicken managed a smile. ‘The usual procedure at a time like this, sir,’ he said, ‘is to cross all disengaged fingers and hope.’

The Victoria was rumbling towards the scattered line now, until it seemed it was going to plough into them, but at the last moment, realising what would happen if one of the whirling propellers hit them, the mob began to scatter, yelling with fright. A few slow movers flung themselves flat and one of the agitators flung a stick. It bounced off a strut then the rocking wings steadied, and, as the tail came up, Hatto pulled back on the control column.

For a minute the wheels continued rumbling beneath them and Dicken could see the end of the field with the hangar rushing towards them. Then as the shaking stopped, he realised they were airborne. For a long time, Hatto held the machine down, allowing it to build up speed until it seemed they were going to fly straight through the hangar, then Dicken felt it lift, agonisingly slowly until the roof of the hangar flashed past beneath them, no more than a few feet from the wheels. There was a yell from the cockpit and Hatto’s voice came, elated and joyful.

Looking back, Dicken saw the mob had reached the ancient DH9s belonging to the Rezhan air force. The remaining Russian pilots were in a group, clearly intending to defend them, but the mob swept over them and the sticks, swords and guns rose and fell as the mob surged over them. Fragments of clothing flew through the air, then the bloody wreckage of what had been men was hoisted up on the bayonets and he could see the open mouths of the howling mob.

MacAllister’s face had grown stiff and taut, as though he were watching the end of a world, a world of grace where the prestige of the British Empire had been important enough to stop a war and protect its citizens. For a while it had worked, then it had all fallen apart, and the butchery seemed to go to his heart like a dagger thrust.