The Damascened Blade Read Online Free
forces which man the frontiers of Empire in this part of the world. Pathan other ranks, British officers . . . very tough men indeed! Best shots in the British Army, best horsemen too. They can run thirty miles under a hot sun, barrampta a village and be back in time for tiffin.’
‘Carrying a mule on their back?’ said Lily, unimpressed. ‘If they were Texas Rangers they could!’
Sir George cleared his thoat and swept her into a tight reverse turn. ‘At all events you’ll find they’re very businesslike. They won’t stand any nonsense!’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Lily apprehensively.
‘I mean what you’re afraid I mean. They won’t let you get away with anything and you’ll have to do what you’re told. Is that understood?’
‘What I’m told? Who’s going to tell me?’
‘The man I just mentioned, the, er, the London bobby as you call him. The man I’m putting in charge of the whole security operation. He’s an officer from Scotland Yard who just happens to be up in those parts.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ For a terrible moment a vision appeared before Lily of a helmeted, confidential, fatherly London Sergeant of Police, possibly with a restraining pair of handcuffs in his back pocket. ‘What’s the good of that? You folks have been lining up to tell me this frontier is wilder than the Wild West. What would I do with a bobby out there? I know about bobbies. He’ll be armed with nothing more than his night stick! . . . This isn’t going to be a stroll down Piccadilly, you know!’ Lily was pleased to return in a starched English accent a phrase she had heard addressed to herself several times over the past few days.
‘This chap is quite a – ah – quite what you’d call “a tough guy”. He’s Commander Joseph Sandilands, DSO, Royal Scots Fusiliers, ex-Military Intelligence.’ Sir George smiled at a happy thought. ‘Joe Sandilands halted the advance of the Prussian Guard for four hours. Single-handed. So – with the aforementioned companies of Scouts, of course – he should be a match for you !’
Chapter Three
Joe Sandilands sat at ease. The day had been spent in the company of a Scouts’ patrol which he had learned to call a ‘gasht’. He couldn’t remember when he’d more enjoyed a day – a day spent happily in all-male company. He’d watched with admiration the meticulous precautions and the well-drilled routine. He’d admired the camaraderie between all ranks and now, at the end of the day, admired and appreciated the comforts of the fort. He was very glad to have a double gin, he was looking forward to a second. Shamefacedly he was glad to take off his boots and wished he was equipped with a pair of chaplis, the stout nailed sandals the Scouts and their officers wore. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and thought a pair of sun goggles would have been welcome.
Hungry, he wondered what was for dinner and if he had time for a swim in the large concrete tank which did duty for a swimming pool. His friend James Lindsay, having dismissed the gasht, came up to join him. ‘Better slip along to the office, Joe, before you seize up – it seems there’s a cable for you. Let me just finish here and then we’ll meet for a swim. Dinner at half-past seven or thereabouts.’
And, unsuspecting, Joe went to read his cable. It was long. It ran to several pages. It was perhaps predictably from Sir George Jardine. It was friendly, it was colloquial, it was lengthy, it was unequivocal. It told him that he’d been awarded the job of looking after a demanding, irresponsible, independently minded, fabulously wealthy and totally infuriating American heiress. ‘She’s coming out from Peshawar tomorrow and you’re to welcome Miss Coblenz to the fort and show her something of the North-West Frontier, Joe. Bit of local colour and excitement, you know the sort of thing. She’s looking for an experience I understand is no longer available to adventurers even in the wilder parts of her
‘Carrying a mule on their back?’ said Lily, unimpressed. ‘If they were Texas Rangers they could!’
Sir George cleared his thoat and swept her into a tight reverse turn. ‘At all events you’ll find they’re very businesslike. They won’t stand any nonsense!’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Lily apprehensively.
‘I mean what you’re afraid I mean. They won’t let you get away with anything and you’ll have to do what you’re told. Is that understood?’
‘What I’m told? Who’s going to tell me?’
‘The man I just mentioned, the, er, the London bobby as you call him. The man I’m putting in charge of the whole security operation. He’s an officer from Scotland Yard who just happens to be up in those parts.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ For a terrible moment a vision appeared before Lily of a helmeted, confidential, fatherly London Sergeant of Police, possibly with a restraining pair of handcuffs in his back pocket. ‘What’s the good of that? You folks have been lining up to tell me this frontier is wilder than the Wild West. What would I do with a bobby out there? I know about bobbies. He’ll be armed with nothing more than his night stick! . . . This isn’t going to be a stroll down Piccadilly, you know!’ Lily was pleased to return in a starched English accent a phrase she had heard addressed to herself several times over the past few days.
‘This chap is quite a – ah – quite what you’d call “a tough guy”. He’s Commander Joseph Sandilands, DSO, Royal Scots Fusiliers, ex-Military Intelligence.’ Sir George smiled at a happy thought. ‘Joe Sandilands halted the advance of the Prussian Guard for four hours. Single-handed. So – with the aforementioned companies of Scouts, of course – he should be a match for you !’
Chapter Three
Joe Sandilands sat at ease. The day had been spent in the company of a Scouts’ patrol which he had learned to call a ‘gasht’. He couldn’t remember when he’d more enjoyed a day – a day spent happily in all-male company. He’d watched with admiration the meticulous precautions and the well-drilled routine. He’d admired the camaraderie between all ranks and now, at the end of the day, admired and appreciated the comforts of the fort. He was very glad to have a double gin, he was looking forward to a second. Shamefacedly he was glad to take off his boots and wished he was equipped with a pair of chaplis, the stout nailed sandals the Scouts and their officers wore. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and thought a pair of sun goggles would have been welcome.
Hungry, he wondered what was for dinner and if he had time for a swim in the large concrete tank which did duty for a swimming pool. His friend James Lindsay, having dismissed the gasht, came up to join him. ‘Better slip along to the office, Joe, before you seize up – it seems there’s a cable for you. Let me just finish here and then we’ll meet for a swim. Dinner at half-past seven or thereabouts.’
And, unsuspecting, Joe went to read his cable. It was long. It ran to several pages. It was perhaps predictably from Sir George Jardine. It was friendly, it was colloquial, it was lengthy, it was unequivocal. It told him that he’d been awarded the job of looking after a demanding, irresponsible, independently minded, fabulously wealthy and totally infuriating American heiress. ‘She’s coming out from Peshawar tomorrow and you’re to welcome Miss Coblenz to the fort and show her something of the North-West Frontier, Joe. Bit of local colour and excitement, you know the sort of thing. She’s looking for an experience I understand is no longer available to adventurers even in the wilder parts of her
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