Red Runs the Helmand by Patrick Mercer

Author:Patrick Mercer [Mercer, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007432516
Google: ggU7B_ruK-cC
Amazon: B004VM64FS
Barnesnoble: B004VM64FS
Goodreads: 11710325
Publisher: HarperTorch
Published: 2010-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

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‘And what else did that owl-shit have to say, Keenan sahib?’ Daffadar Sayed Miran’s English was good enough to understand most of H Company’s ribaldry. ‘Are they not our brothers? Do we not fight the same enemy? Why, sahib, most of these jawans’ – he looked to either side of him at the bearded faces of the troop, all of whom were now tense in their saddles as they trotted forward, lances still upright, scanning the desert for targets – ‘are fighting for Victoria against men of their own blood. Why should they mock us?’

‘Daffadar sahib, I will explain the ignorance of these fools when we have a little more time.’ Keenan was furious, and humiliated by the actions of his brother’s company. He recognised the friction caused by Rissaldar Singh’s murder and that nonsense over the terrier a few days ago and he was also aware that neither his nor Billy’s behaviour was suitable for an officer. But that comment about the ‘Runaway Horse’ had bitten deep. Thank God, he thought, that no one had yet connected his troop with this morning’s débâcle caused by Maclaine’s guns. ‘Let’s just give some of these badmashes the opportunity to meet the death they desire.’

Almost as he spoke, the bugle signalled the ‘trot march’ as a clutch of turbaned, dark-robed horsemen suddenly fled at the sight of the squadron. What these men had been about, Keenan never knew, but they were skulking around, hidden by some dense thorn bushes. They had obviously been concealing themselves, hoping that the lancers would not see them, when something had made them decide to bolt. Now they burst like a flock of partridge, on handy little ponies that seemed to respond to a touch of rein or spur far more readily than one of the whalers upon which many of the Scinde Horse were mounted. Keenan saw their flying robes, their soft leather boots and an assortment of carbines, swords and long Khyber knives, and knew at once that he was chasing tribesmen who had rallied to Ayoob Khan’s colours. What these men lacked in formal discipline they more than made up for in raw horsemanship and cunning: they were among the finest irregular cavalry that he and his men were ever likely to meet in battle.

Keenan was suddenly breathless with excitement. A trooper was thrown to the ground as his horse pitched into a rat-hole, and another fell to a lucky artillery shell, but nothing checked the lancers as they bore down on their foes. The Afghans galloped in all directions, heels kicking hard at their horses’ flanks, hoping to throw the sowars from the chase – but they had left it too late. Keenan watched lance heads flicker and jab as men were speared from the saddle. But the man he had selected for his own attention was mounted better than the others. This man had decided to break away and run alone – he was ten yards from the others when Keenan put his spurs to Kala’s flanks and flexed his sword arm ready to strike.

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