She was quite certain that they were still west of the Durand Line that separated the North-West Frontier Province from its warlike neighbour to the east, still under, technically at least, the jurisdiction of the British Government, still the responsibility of Joe and James. Would they try to get her back? She couldn’t believe that they wouldn’t come for her at least. Her romantic imagination conjured up a picture of loyal Bengal Lancers riding knee to knee from the hills, sounding cavalry trumpets. And what about Rathmore, who only had himself to thank for his present perilous position? He was, after all, a Lord and Lords cut ice under the British flag. Hard to believe but she guessed he must be about as important as a US senator and certainly not dispensable, however stupid. The British would turn over every stone to find him. They’d send out the Mounted Infantry. They would muster every available soldier. Lily thought she knew about the British. Her original perception of ‘egotistical bastards’ had, thanks to her dramatic change in circumstances, mutated to ‘chivalrous rescuers’. They wouldn’t just let her be dragged off into the wilderness. They must know by now that she was missing. What were they doing about it? Her hopes of rescue, she found, always centred on Joe. It was Joe’s grim face and tall figure she expected to see around every twist in the trail. He would come.
But in rescue lay another problem. Iskander. She watched him as he moved amongst his men, sharing the menial tasks with them, talking easily, always alert. He appeared quite unfatigued by his night in the saddle, unlike Rathmore who sat miserably slumped, no longer tied up but still under guard on the other side of the fire. And there they had made their first mistake, she thought with a secret smile. To waste energy on guarding that barrel of hog’s grease when they should have been keeping an eye on her showed a rigidity of attitude that could only work in her favour. Iskander, she was certain, knew more about the death of Zeman than he had declared so, by staying close to him, she ought to be able to find out what that knowledge was. He might come to regret taking her with him.
Even as the thought formed she was instantly cast into a dilemma. What would happen if it came to a confrontation between Iskander and Joe? Would Joe shoot Iskander? Could she let that happen? Lily checked herself. She’d heard the tales of white women who’d been captured by Indian tribes in the West and had grown so used to life with their abductors that they had refused to come home again. Briefly the thought was intriguing but – well – that wasn’t going to happen to Lily Coblenz!
At last the meal seemed to be ready and the men were passing out small metal plates piled high with rice and gravy and little discs of grilled lamb. Iskander who, alone of all the men, seemed prepared to look her in the eye, strolled over to her sheltered place and handed her a plate. It was made of tin and it shone with impeccable cleanness. He had spooned rice which seemed to be studded with pistachios and sultanas on to it from a pot and topped it with meat.
‘A small meal to keep you going,’ he said, ‘until we eat again properly at midday. We have not far to go now.’
Certainly the most delicious meal she had ever eaten, Lily decided, scraping up the last bit of rice with her finger and licking it. Custom still pricked her to give a quick look around to make sure no one had seen her poor table manners but, of course, all eyes were averted and for that matter, all were licking their fingers. Basking in the sunshine with a full stomach and weary from her night’s ride Lily was almost asleep. A few seconds more and she would have missed it. As it was, her sharp ears picked up the sound even before the men were aware of it. A low buzzing sound was approaching along the valley from the south-east, a sound which she knew instantly to be the engine of a plane. Iskander rapped out a single word of command and the men froze, their khaki tunics and flowing baggy breeches melting into the rocks and earth. The fire had been doused, the horses were under the overhanging cliff. Lily realized that they were invisible to the plane even if it had been flying directly overhead.
Iskander gave her a narrow-eyed glare which quite clearly told her to stay still. She nodded briefly back in understanding and, reassured, he turned his head, as had all, to look up into the sky, fascinated by the strange sight. Lily looked too. RAF roundels told her it was British and therefore, she estimated, flying from the base at… she couldn’t remember the name but she knew there was such a base about seventy miles south-west of the fort. Joyfully, she figured that this plane must be on its way to Gor Khatri and that her reasoning had been correct: the fort lay to her left. She fingered the shining tin plate which still lay on her lap and looked up at the sun. Helios. James had explained the signalling system to her. A tin plate was no substitute for the complex arrangement of mirrors and reflectors the army used but it would have to do. Swiftly calculating the angles, she waited for exactly the right moment. There would only be a split second available to her.
As she watched, the plane veered from its course and came slightly over towards their position. Had it spotted them? Now! She tipped the plate, catching the rays and bouncing them back at a shallow angle. She held the angle as long as she dared and then flattened the plate again, slipping a fold of her waistcoat over it.
The plane buzzed and hiccuped towards them watched intently by the men. But then, a second later, for no apparent reason, it jinked abruptly, rising and twisting, bridling like a spooked horse and then sliding back on to its original course. Iskander’s head turned and he shot a look of intense enquiry at Lily. Lily didn’t appear to be aware of his scrutiny. Like everyone else she was staring, open-mouthed and hypnotized by the aerial spectacle, her arms hugging her knees.
When the plane was out of earshot once more Iskander gave the order to move off. Rising to her knees, Lily managed to slip the plate between two rocks and strolled, unconcerned, to her horse. Once again she was allowed to ride free and almost unnoticed at the rear of the column. She was tempted but for no more than a second to wonder what would happen if she lagged behind and then turned her horse and rode like the wind to the east. She was sure now that she would get back to the fort and in much less than the thirty miles it had taken them to get this far but the picture of herself galloping down a series of dark defiles, topping a series of razor-backed passes, no clear idea of where she was going and probably shot at by pursuing tribesmen – to say nothing of the threat of the sinister fate that might await Rathmore – kept her riding once more demurely in convoy. She would do her best to get back to civilization, pull every trick in the book – that was every captive’s duty – but only if she could be sure she wouldn’t bring down the scalping knife on Rathmore.
They were entering more heavily populated country, she decided, as time after time they were challenged by unseen men from the hills. Always Iskander called back the same response and Lily guessed that passwords were being exchanged. Certainly the repeatedly called name of Iskander seemed to open all barriers. Usually, after a satisfactorily answered challenge, the challenger would show himself, waving his rifle in greeting. And a terrifying bunch they were too, Lily thought. All young, wild-eyed, grinning, with the general facial attributes of an eagle and heavy black beards. The troop moved smartly on, working their way through the hills and keeping the distant valley always to their left.
Iskander ranged up alongside and said, ‘Five miles more and we shall arrive at our destination,’ and rode off again.