Jigsaw on the Khyber (The Soldier's Son Book 4)

Book summary

Amidst the intrigue of the Great Game in 1895, Andrew Baird is sent to the Northwest Frontier of India to counter Russian threats. With conflict brewing and a British garrison under siege, Andrew must navigate treacherous alliances and uncover deeper schemes. The stakes grow higher as danger looms in the Khyber Pass.

JIGSAW ON THE KHYBER is a historical war novel set in 19th-century British India.

Excerpt from Jigsaw on the Khyber (The Soldier's Son Book 4)

CHAPTER ONE

BERWICKSHIRE, SCOTLAND, JULY 1894

“I rather like Rudyard Kipling, you know,” Mariana said, placing a finger in her book to mark her place.

Andrew looked up from scrutinising his newspaper. “Even better than Tennyson?”

“He’s different to Tennyson,” Mariana said. “More contemporary, yet he has written about Arthurian themes. Have you read Sir Galahad? It’s one of his earlier pieces.”

“I’ve never read it,” Andrew admitted.

“How Kipling writes about India and the Northwest Frontier is so romantic,” Mariana said. “It reminds me of Walter Scott and the Border Ballads, with the Border Reivers and Bold Buccleuch, except it’s Barrack Room Ballads and the Guides.”

“Ah, I see,” Andrew nodded. He returned to the paper, scrutinising an article about cattle disease in the farming column.

“Kipling even writes about Mandalay,” Mariana said. “You were at Mandalay when I was in Rangoon.”

“I remember it well,” Andrew admitted. “I had to leave in a hurry when King Thibaw’s soldiers murdered half the prisoners and rioted through the streets.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss Mandalay?” Realising he would not get peace to read his newspaper, Andrew folded it carefully and placed it on the table. “No, I can’t say I do miss Mandalay.”

“Not so much Mandalay as the adventure,” Mariana asked. “Do you miss the excitement of it all?” She put her book face-down on the table and held Andrew’s gaze.

“I am quite happy in our house, with our wee bit land, thank you,” Andrew said. He did not mention his growing desire to ride long distances again or the pull of the hills.

“I miss it,” Mariana told him. “I miss travelling and seeing new places, the spicy smells, and different people.”

Andrew stood, stepped to the window and stared out. He could see the ancient Corbiestane Tower fifty feet away, the blue surge of the Tweed and the couple of hundred acres he called home. “We’ve built this place up over the last eight years,” he said.

Mariana joined him at the window. “We’ve done it well, haven’t we? It seems just like yesterday when we stood at the altar. I can’t believe that was eight years ago, Andrew. The time has flown past. I think we deserve a change, a bit of adventure, and seeing something different.” She linked her arm to his. “You feel the same.”

“Do I?” Andrew asked.

Mariana led him to the second of their three glass-fronted bookcases. “Read the subjects of your books,” she said.

“Why?” Andrew asked again and read out the nearest titles in the bookcase. “Joshua Slocum’s Sailing Alone Around the World, Robert Louis Stevenson’s An Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes, William Curtis’ The Capitals of Spanish America, and The Land of the Nihilist: Russia: It’s People, It’s Palaces, It’s Politics. A Narrative of Travel in the Czar’s Dominions.”

“That’s enough,” Mariana held up her hand. “They are all travel and adventure, Andrew,” Mariana told him. “Your feet are getting as itchy as mine.”

“Perhaps,” Andrew said. He had been married long enough to understand his wife’s reasoning. “How long were you thinking of being away?”

Mariana shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted with a smile. “Quite some time, I thought. We’ve no children, and I doubt any will come along after all this time.”

Andrew nodded. He would have liked to have a son or daughter to follow him, but their once-enthusiastic efforts had not produced any heirs. The Windrush-Baird-Maxwell line seemed destined to end with them. He tried to hide his disappointment. “I think you are right.”

Mariana looked downcast, for she desperately wanted children. “We’re in a bit of a slough just now, Andrew, doing the same thing, meeting the same people. Maybe a change will make things happen.” She patted her belly. “Are you listening in there?”

Mariana is still hopeful of having children. “Maybe,” Andrew agreed cautiously.

“It’s worth trying, surely,” Mariana said.

“Maybe,” Andrew said again. He opened the glass door of his bookcase and ran a finger across the spines of his favourite books. Mariana was correct; they were all about travel and adventure. That woman knows me well, but does she want to travel because she is bored or to get herself with child?

“You have this all worked out, don’t you?” Andrew said.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Mariana admitted. “And I’ve been watching you take longer rides each week.”

Andrew nodded. He had taken to riding over the Cheviot Hills and across country, wandering the lonely paths of the Borders and riding to hounds, although he disliked hunting for fun. “That’s true,” he said. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Mariana smiled at him. “I notice everything about you.” At thirty-two, she had matured without losing the vitality of youth, while Andrew, three years older, was as athletic and vigorous as his active lifestyle could make him. “What do you think, Andrew?”

“Our factor will keep the farm running,” Andrew decided. “Maybe you are right. Maybe a few months away from the same old routine will be good.” He grinned. “It will be like the old days, except without people shooting at us.”

“That’s always a good thing,” Mariana agreed solemnly. “No Zulu Impis, no Boer commandos and no dacoits to chill your blood.”

Andrew smiled as the idea began to appeal to him. “Find a map of India, and we’ll work out where you want to go.”

Mariana laughed. “How strange,” she said. “I happen to have one here.” Opening a drawer, she produced the most recent Bartholomew map of India, folded to reveal the northern section and with half a dozen places already circled.

“You are remarkably well prepared for a woman who just had an idea,” Andrew remarked.

“Call it a woman’s intuition,” Mariana said as she cleared Andrew’s newspaper from the table and spread open the map.

“Call it anything you like,” Andrew said, peering over her shoulder. “So we’re going to Peshawar, are we? The city of a thousand and one sins. My father knew that town well.”

“I’ve already written to him,” Mariana replied.

“Was that a woman’s intuition, too?”

“Not at all,” Mariana shook her head. “That was Mariana’s foresight.”

Andrew shook his head. “Have you booked tickets on the boat as well?”

“Good Lord, no,” Mariana said. “That would be terribly presumptuous of me.”

“Oh, terribly,” Andrew said, grinning. “I presume you’d like me to do the hard work?”

“Of course,” Mariana said. “Isn’t that what I employ a husband for?”

“I can’t think of any other reason,” Andrew agreed solemnly. “I’ll arrange the passage; you arrange the packing.” He knew Mariana would only take the essentials, with everything expertly stored to occupy the minimum of room.

Mariana smiled. “I’ve trained you well,” she said.

After some consideration, Andrew booked them first-class tickets for India at £55 each, rather than the £42 second-class, and endured Mariana’s curtain lecture about wasting money on luxuries.

“We can afford it,” Andrew told her, “and two weeks is a long time to exist in a cramped cabin with no outside portholes.”

Mariana nodded reluctantly. “If you say so,” she said. “I don’t want to return from India a pauper.”

“Nor do I,” Andrew said. “But I do want you to enjoy the trip.”

Mariana looked at him. “I know you do,” she said softly. “I promise that I will.”

They took the train to London and boarded the P and O steamer for Bombay. The voyage lasted slightly less than a fortnight, with the ship leaving London on Saturday and arriving in Bombay on a Friday morning.

“Here we are then,” Andrew said as they stood at the rail, watching India unfold before them.

***

Bombay was busy, bustling and hot. The ship was three hours late, and by the time they arrived, Mariana was tired, hot and irritable.

“Welcome to India,” Andrew said as they hurried to the train station to catch their up-country train.

The station master greeted them anxiously. “I’ve held the train for the P and O ship,” he said. “Please hurry up!”

“We’re hurrying,” Andrew assured him.

He saw a window open in one of the first-class carriages, and a whiskered face leaned out to glare at them. “Why are we delayed? Get the damned train moving!”

“That’s Colonel Neville,” the station master said. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Mariana stopped on the crowded platform. “Look, Andrew. Are these what I think they are?”

Andrew looked through the open door of the guard’s carriage of their train. “Coffins,” he said. “I believe most trains in India carry a coffin or two in case a passenger dies on board.”

“That’s reassuring,” Mariana said. “I didn’t read that in Murray’s Handbook,” she held up her well-thumbed copy of the recommended guide to India and its railways.

“Murray must have left that part out,” Andrew said. He shooed away the gaggle of beggars who clamoured for attention, money or anything else the travellers could provide. “This place is even busier than London King’s Cross.”

Mariana glanced at the people in saris and dhotis, in ragged loincloths and scarlet uniforms, in yellow robes and dirty turbans, and stiffly formal European suits. She nodded. “India is how I imagined it,” she said contentedly. “Except for the coffins.”

Andrew nodded. “Not quite what one would expect on the North British Railway.” He gestured to the station master. “Excuse me, sir! Where is our carriage? The name’s Baird.”

“You are Captain and Mrs Baird?” the station master asked.

“We are,” Andrew confirmed.

“You are very late,” the station master said.

“The ship was late,” Andrew reminded the man, “and we couldn’t find a porter.” He saw the testy face of the impatient colonel watching through their first-class windows.

“Who the devil are we waiting for?” the colonel asked. “Who are you?”

“Captain Andrew Baird, sir,” Andrew told him. “Late of the Natal Dragoons.”

“The what? You’re a junior officer from a damned colonial unit! I’ve never heard the like!”

“Come on, Mariana,” Andrew encouraged.

The station master ushered them into their carriage, and the train emitted a gush of steam, a loud chuffing, and the creaking of woodwork. Andrew waited for Mariana to sit before he joined her.

“I rather liked Port Said,” Mariana straightened her skirt and sat opposite Andrew on the dusty train. “I had forgotten how noisy it was out East.”

“After the quiet life we’ve led these past few years, it was a bit of a shock,” Andrew replied. He looked out of the window. “At least we’re moving again.”

“Slowly,” Mariana said. “I think Africa begins in Alexandria, and the East begins at Port Said or Suez. Those bumboat men were very entertaining.”

Andrew nodded. “They throw up the basket on a rope, we put in the money, they retrieve the basket and pile in bananas or oranges,” he reminded her.

“And the gully-gully men with their magic tricks,” Mariana said. “Why didn’t we go ashore there?”

“It’s not a place for ladies,” Andrew told her. “You’ll notice that even the men went ashore in groups.”

“I’m not a blushing virgin,” Mariana said. “After the Zululand Frontier and Burma, I’m hardly likely to be shocked.”

Andrew smiled. “No, but Port Said is notorious for casinos, dirty pictures and brothels. I would not like you taken for one of the ladies of the night.” He ducked away as Mariana threw a cushion at him.

“Oh, you pig, Andrew Baird!”

Andrew laughed. “It is better that you retain an appearance of respectability, Mariana. I know the truth, but to the outside world, you are a quiet, well-brought-up British wife.”