Bayonets Along the Border (25 page)

Fonthill frowned and stepped forward, putting his head close to Jenkins’s. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘You’ve been drinking again, 352?’

Jenkins nodded. ‘Abshlutely right, bach sir. But not ’eavily. Just a couple of bottles of this pale ale rubbish. Well, p’raps four or five. Doeshn’t affect me, though.’ And he hiccoughed.

‘Well, take another four or five if you must but don’t, whatever you do,
don’t
hit anyone. Get it out of your system today. How would you feel about going on active service with General Lockhart?’

‘Dosh it mean ’avin’ a go at this Ali feller?’

‘I would expect so.’

‘Then count me in. Anyway,’ a dreamy smile came over the Welshman’s unshaven face, ‘I go where you go. You know that. When
do we report for duty? Ah …’ A frown descended upon his face. ‘It don’t mean joinin’ up again, doesh it? I wouldn’t fancy that much, would you?’

‘Not at all. Now go and sleep it off and then shave and generally smarten up, for God’s sake. You look like a Pathan second-hand horse dealer. And you smell like one. I am off to see the general.’

Simon took the opportunity of showering before retracing his steps to General Lockhart’s HQ. This time he presented the general’s letter to the orderly and he was immediately summoned into the great man’s office without further ado.

As he entered the room Fonthill immediately had the impression of order and tidiness. Maps were pinned in what appeared to be a sequence across the far wall and another lay on a table, held down precisely at the corners by four chess pieces. The desk contained papers, but they were stacked in impeccably neat piles and two pens were set precisely in their holders.

The man who rose from behind that desk and advanced towards Fonthill, hand extended, perpetuated the sense of order. His riding boots were polished so that they shone and, despite the warmth in the room, his jacket was buttoned to the neck. The inevitable moustache, now pepper-and-salt in colour, was firmly clipped to an unfashionable stubble and his hair parted exactly in the centre of his head. His spectacles were rimless and complemented the overall spartan appearance.

Simon regarded the man with interest. He knew that the man had risen from an unpretentious background – he was the son of a Lanarkshire clergyman – to become regarded as one of the safest pair of military hands in the whole of India. Indeed, it was said that only
Robert Warburton matched him in his knowledge of the Pathans and the Frontier, in which he had served for many years. He had seen active service in Abyssinia and Burma and was reputed to be a brave fighting soldier as well as a supremely efficient staff officer. The Pathans called him ‘
Amir Sahib
.’

Now, Fonthill, whose relationships with senior British officers in the past had never always been exactly equable, felt a touch of diffidence as he took the hand offered to him. This was immediately dispelled by the general’s warm greeting.

‘Delighted to meet you at last, Fonthill,’ said Lockart, pumping his hand. His voice contained more than a trace of his Scottish upbringing. ‘I can’t think why we haven’t bumped into each other before in some part of the Empire or other. My word, you have had the most interesting and unusual career, my dear fellow.’

Simon returned the warm smile. ‘Not as distinguished as yours, General, I fear,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that I have never quite fitted into the army, since my days as a subaltern in Zululand.’

‘Doesn’t matter. You have served extremely well in your … er … irregular capacity. Now, come and sit down. It’s early in the day, but would you care for a wee dram?’

‘No thank you, sir. Too early for me.’

‘Quite agree. I’ve been recalled from sick leave at home to take this job, so I have to take care. Now. Tell me exactly how you got involved in this damned trouble – particularly this remarkable tale of rescuing your wife. Don’t spare the details. They could be important. I need to know everything you can tell me about the Amir and these Pathans.’

And so Fonthill went through his experience at Malakand, his meeting with the Amir in Kabul, his clash with the Pathans on the
return journey, the story of Alice’s capture, her imprisonment in the camp and their eventual escape down to Jamrud.

At the conclusion, Lockhart leant forward. ‘This Ali chap in the camp, what did he look like?’

‘Well, I only caught a glimpse of him but Alice described him pretty well. Very tall, brown more than black, good teeth, excellent English – he had been educated at Winchester and Cambridge and attended Sandhurst. Rather charismatic by the sound of it, but as cruel as hell, as it turned out.’

‘Did she say that he was always dressed in white, in rather fine garments, hemmed with gold trim?’

‘Yes.’ It was Fonthill’s turn to evince interest. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Not really, but I met him once and heard him preach. The man, Fonthill, was not the mullah’s general. Your wife, my dear fellow, was in the clutches of the Mullah Sayyid Akbar himself.’

‘Good Lord!’

‘And, of course, he was not an Indian, but an Afghan. Never been near an English public school in his life, nor to Sandhurst, although his English is impeccable. The man’s a great liar and tells these stories to impress. But he’s a wonderfully charismatic preacher and not a bad soldier for an amateur. Cruel? I’ll say. The fellow kills without mercy and your wife is lucky to be alive.’ The general sat back, frowning.

Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘Damn! I wish I had shot him when I had the chance. It could have saved us all a lot of trouble.’

‘Don’t worry. He will hang once I’ve caught up with him. It would have been the Amir, by the way, who would have sent him over the Border. Virtually all of the mullahs who have been stirring up the tribes came from Afghanistan. The old man has certainly not sent troops, so
he has kept his word to that extent, but he certainly exported these priests and I would gamble he is sitting back now, thoroughly enjoying the trouble he has caused.’

‘Hmm. What exactly are your plans, General? I would like to join you, with my man Jenkins, if I can, though we would not seek regular army posts.’

‘Hah, the great 352! Delighted to have you both.’ He stood. ‘Come over here and I will show you roughly what I intend to do.’

They moved to the large map on the table. There, Lockhart jabbed a finger to the north of the Khyber Pass. ‘The mullah’s camp was probably hereabouts, but it won’t be there now. When you saw him, he was probably galloping back to move his camp to the south. I think this talk to your wife about negotiating with me was balderdash. He was playing with the lady, I fear. Just amusing himself. But he
would
have cut off her fingers, I think, before killing her. Cruel, you see.’

Silence fell on the stuffy room. It was only broken by the distant scream of an NCO and the rattle of harness as an artillery battery passed by outside.

Then Fonthill spoke softly. ‘The swine!’

‘Quite so. Now listen. Akbar and his army will have moved south of the Pass, while he still controls it, because his spies will have told him that I intend to attack the Afridis and the Orakzais in the south, here, in this vast area. And they will be right. You will note, Fonthill, that the map shows very little in terms of detail. That’s because we have never mapped it. All the approaches to Tirah are encircled by the most formidable logistical obstacles. The routes bristle with physical barriers, from the heights of the passes to the steep defiles cut out by
the rivers, making road construction the most time consuming and laborious task.’

Frowning, Fonthill looked up. ‘Why attack here at all, then?’

‘Blood has cleared up resistance in the north but we have hardly touched the Afridis and the Orakzai clans yet. They are among the largest and most fierce haters of the British Raj. This is their heartland.’ He spread his fingers. ‘Here, the Afridis straddle the Khyber and stretch south almost as far as the Kurram valley, joining up with the territory of their brothers, the Orakzais, whom we have never fought, but whom Sayyid Akbar has been successful in rousing, by the sound of it. If I can cut out the Pathan revolt here in this wild and vast country, that will kill it in the rest of the country, like cutting out a cancer and, by the way, taking back the Khyber as a result.’

The general withdrew his widespread fingers and pointed to an area of the map south of Peshawar and ominously empty of geographical detail. ‘I shall go in here, at the Samana Range, in Orakzais country at the very south of the Tirah. This is the easiest route. But I must move quickly because I want to have wrapped this up before winter comes and snow blocks the passes.’

He moved his finger on the map further to the east. ‘I want to establish my forces here as soon as possible in the Tirah Maidan, in the very heart of the Orakzais’ homeland.’ The general looked up with a smile. ‘Troops of the Raj have never been there, of course, and the tribes boast that the area is concealed like Muslem women in purdah behind a curtain which has never been drawn aside. Well, I intend to tear aside that veil.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘I see. I am happy to help in any way, General, but I am not familiar with this territory. What do you see as my role?’

‘Ah, quite.’ Lockhart walked back to his seat and gestured for Fonthill to sit down. ‘Let’s have some tea.’ He reached across and tinkled a small bell that stood on his desk. ‘How d’yer take it?’

‘As it comes, but preferably with a little milk.’

The tea was ordered from an Indian orderly, wearing the largest turban that Fonthill had ever seen, and then the general began answering Simon’s question.

‘I have,’ he said, ‘intelligence officers – chaps who know, or who say they know, the Pathans – and I’ve got scouts and guides too, as well as thousands of troops, civilian support chaps, artillery and even scores of bloody vets. And I shall need them all, for this is going to be one of the most difficult campaigns in the history of the British army, as far as I can see.’

He sipped his tea and leant forward. ‘Now, nobody knows this area at all so you are not alone in that respect. I do have native informers but I doubt if I can trust any of them. What I don’t have is someone like you and your Welshman: completely loyal men who don’t think in straight lines like my officers, particularly the senior ones; men who have earned their spurs already acting as completely irregular soldiers; and men who can adopt disguise if necessary and go out on their own, live in the hills – as you have done in the last week or so and as you did for Roberts all those years ago.’

‘I see.’ Fonthill sat back. ‘I must warn you, Sir William, that my Pushtu is far from fluent and Jenkins possesses none at all. If it is spies you are after, I am not sure that we are your men.’

Lockhart waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve got spies. They did nothing to warn us that this conflagration was going to break out – damnit, Warburton and I were allowed to go on leave just before it happened!
No. What I need is a mixture of soldiers, who can fight like tigers when they have to – as you did at Malakand and on that road on the way back from Kabul – intelligence officers who can interpret what they see; and scouts who can slip behind enemy lines and melt into the countryside.

‘And there is one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘The Mullah Sayyid is not exactly a commanding officer, as it were. These are tribesmen who owe allegiance only to their local chiefs and often not even to them. But it is undoubtedly he who has stirred up these Afridis and Orakzais and led them into action. I want to find out where he lives – I think it’s somewhere in this area – so that we can hunt him down. You might, perhaps, have a vested interest in helping us there …?’

A slow smile spread itself across Fonthill’s face. ‘I think you’ve just found yourselves two irregular scouts, sir. When can we start?’

The two men shook hands. ‘Not straight away. From what I hear you will need to look after your wife for a wee while, anyway. And you will also need to get into mufti – Pathan mufti. No need for army uniform. I intend to begin the invasion as early in October as I can. So come and see my quartermaster next week sometime – I will warn him – and draw dress and arms. We will also provide horses and written accreditation for you. Now, as to pay …’

Fonthill held up his hand. ‘Not necessary, sir. I have adequate private means to look after myself and Jenkins. And after all, we are supposed to be on holiday.’

Lockhart’s spectacles sparkled as he tilted back his head and laughed. ‘Damned fine holiday you’ve had!’

‘But there is one other thing, sir. There is a
daffadar
in the Guides at Marden, a Sikh by the name of Inderjit Singh. He has been with us in the hills, which he knows well. He speaks native dialects fluently, has the courage of a lion and knows how to kill a man if he has to. He is also the son of a magnificent man who was killed with me during the Second Afghan War. I would like him to be with us on this mission, if he could be released from his duties with the Guides, to which he has returned only today.’

The general made a note. ‘I will see to it.’ He stood. ‘You will be on my personal staff, Fonthill, from next week. I know where you are staying and I shall call when I need you. We shall meet again soon. Now, please give my best regards to your wife for her recovery.’

They shook hands again. ‘Thank you, sir. I hope that we can be useful to you.’

‘I know you can.’

Fonthill returned to the hotel and found Jenkins asleep on his bed, snoring loudly and surrounded by a pile of empty beer bottles. Luckily, he had not shaven, for the embryonic black beard that now mingled with his chest hair and bristled over his vest gave him the appearance of a typical Pathan – albeit a drunken one. Simon sighed, nevertheless, as he regarded his old comrade. Jenkins was a magnificent fighter, in and out of uniform. But alcohol was his abiding vice. Although his threshold to drunkenness was high, once past six or seven pints he became raucous, aggressive and completely lacking in discipline.

Collecting the bottles, Fonthill reflected that at least there would be few opportunities for Jenkins to drink once they began campaigning in the hills with Lockhart. He decided to let his much-loved sleeping dog lie for the moment and went back to the hospital to tell Alice about his meeting with the general.

He found her sitting up in bed scribbling furiously. Predictably, she had found pencil and paper from somewhere. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, hardly looking up. ‘I cabled The
Morning Post
in London and had an immediate reply.’ She waved a cable. ‘They will be delighted to have my own story and have accredited me to Lockhart and his Field Force as their correspondent.’ She grinned. ‘They want me to report on the campaign.’

Simon groaned and perched on the bed. ‘Have they any idea,’ he asked, ‘what you have been through and how ill you have been? I hope you have not accepted. It’s one thing writing from a hospital bed about your own terrible experience in those hills, but it’s quite another going out into incredibly rough country and sharing the hardships of a serving soldier on campaign.’ He shook his head. ‘Alice, you cannot go. You are still too weak.’

His wife frowned and waved her hand dismissively. ‘I’m a bit wobbly at the moment, but I am really feeling better with every minute. By the time old Lockhart gets his damned great army together and gets it rolling I shall be as fit as a fiddle. So of course I have accepted. If you can go off a-soldiering again, then so can I. Oh, sorry, darling …’ She offered him an apologetic smile. ‘Have you seen the general yet? How did you get on?’

Sighing, Simon told her of what had ensued with Lockhart. It then became Alice’s turn to become dismayed. Her jaw dropped, however, when she learnt of the identity of her captor.

‘The great Mullah Sayyid himself, you say! And he was a miserable Afghan and had never been to England in his life! My God. I was completely taken in.’ She slumped back onto her pillow and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she sat up again with a jerk. ‘Do you know,
darling, there was a moment, back there in that blasted tent when I drank his cognac, that I began to find him almost attractive.’

She shook her head. ‘And all the time he was playing with me and intending to kill me …’ She shuddered. ‘What kind of a beast is he, do you think?’

‘Well, he is a religious fanatic, to start with, and you said yourself that he had told you he hated the English. But, if Lockhart is right – and he is supposed to know these people like the back of his hand – then the man was never mistreated by us because of his race or colour. He obviously has charisma, otherwise he would not have been able to persuade so many Pathans to join his jihad.’

Alice frowned. ‘I don’t like this idea of you and Jenkins becoming Pathans again, of disappearing into the hills and trying to track down the bloody man. You will be playing with the devil, my love. He is obviously as clever as hell as well as cruel. Why can’t Lockhart just fight his troops and crush him in the field of battle?’

‘We are not being asked to fight him man to man.’ Simon scowled. ‘Although I wouldn’t mind doing that for a minute …’

‘He’s much younger than you, darling.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’

‘No. No. I didn’t mean to disparage your ability or your courage. You and Jenkins are the bravest men I know. Really. But you will be playing against him in his own backyard. He is cunning as well as cruel. Please don’t try and track him down, my love.’

Fonthill grinned ruefully. ‘Well, I shall have my own army with me – Jenkins, of course, and I have asked for Inderjit to be released again. We couldn’t live for long behind the enemy lines in those hills without him.’

Alice threw down her pencil and paper. ‘Well. Let me come with you. I can black up as well as, if not better than, you. It would help your disguise to have a woman with you. What spy would take his wife with him, eh?’

‘Indeed. He would be mad to do so. Whoever heard of a Pathan woman with the most beautiful grey eyes in the whole world.’

‘No, be serious, darling. I could be a help to you and it would give me a much better story than I’d find just plodding along with the biggest army to serve the Queen in India since the Mutiny. Please let me come.’

Fonthill stood. ‘No, my love. And that is final. The three of us will need to be able to move quickly and unencumbered.’

‘Unencumbered! Well, I like that. What about when I—’

‘That’s enough, Alice. Now you must excuse me. I have much to do.’ He leant forward and kissed her cheek, which was most reluctantly offered.

‘Very well, Simon,’ she said. ‘If you insist on playing the Master of the Household, then the least you can do is shop in the town and get me some decent clothes for the campaign. I shall need some blouses, a lightweight jacket, two pairs of jodhpurs, two pairs of riding boots and some underwear. You know my sizes. Now off you go. I have a story to write.’

He sighed and, despite himself, gave her a grin. As he left, her head was down and, once again, her pencil was flying across the paper.

Inderjit arrived back three days later, uncomplaining about having to turn around and make the return journey so quickly. Troops continued to arrive in the town, trebling its population, so that the streets were
choked with horses, wagons and marching soldiers and causing dust to rise everywhere. Fonthill sought the aid of the wife of one of the senior officers in shopping for Alice and he and his two companions spent the rest of their time gathering equipment together.

Once again they became Pathans, loosely dressed in homespun garments, criss-crossed with bandoliers and under precariously wound turbans. They were issued with modern Lee-Metford rifles but Fonthill eschewed the offer of horses. Pathans rarely possessed them and although they were esteemed by the natives as symbols of wealth, in practice they were often a hindrance in the rough scree and rocks of the hills.

Lockhart included Fonthill in his briefing and planning meetings. There, Simon learnt that the Orakzais had now undoubtedly been roused from their torpor by the mullah and had moved forward in some strength in the lower reaches of Tirah – just the route by which the general proposed to begin his invasion. Isolated outposts on the Samana Ridge had been attacked already, producing acts of outstanding courage by sepoys, particularly Sikhs.

In one engagement at Saragarhi, on a 6,500ft-high ridge, a remote signalling tower defended by just twenty-one sepoys of the 36th Sikhs under a
havildar
, held out for seven hours against huge odds before being engulfed. The defenders were all killed and mutilated, one being burnt alive. Nearby, the little fort of Gulistan then became besieged and held out for forty-eight hours before rescue came just as the garrison was running out of ammunition. The fort was commanded by a Major Des Voeux, whose problems were compounded by the fact that his heavily pregnant wife and two children were within the fort. Mrs Des Voeux gave birth immediately after the fort was relieved.

The tale of both these heroic defences were eagerly seized on by the hardened veterans of Fleet Street who had now gathered in Peshawar to report on the Pathan Uprising and their stories were to form part of the rich pageant that always shrouded the history of India’s North-West Frontier.

The prodigious efforts involved in sending relief forces to Fort Gulistan and other outposts under attack also provided Lockhart with proof, if any were needed, of the difficulties he must overcome in terms of providing his troops with provisions, particularly water, as they penetrated deeply into the barren wastelands of the Tirah.

Alice eventually left hospital and joined the ranks of the war correspondents gathering in Peshawar. Despite her absence from their ranks for several years, she was welcomed by the other veterans there – a welcome tinged with respectful suspicion, for her name had long been linked in the profession with a string of exclusive stories cabled back over the years from far outposts of the Empire.

That suspicion was also fuelled by the fact that she did not stay with the rest of them in the tented compound provided for the press just outside Peshawar, for she preferred to remain with her husband in their small hotel. ‘What is that woman up to?’ was a frequent question asked around the card tables and over the whisky in the compound. But nor was this an easy time for Simon, Alice and their two companions in the hotel.

‘Why the hell doesn’t the bloody man advance?’ demanded Alice of her husband one morning at breakfast. ‘If he waits much longer the mullah will die of old age.’

‘And snow will have closed the passes.’ Simon nodded. ‘But it must be one hell of a job provisioning an army of this size for such an
undertaking. For one thing, Lockhart can’t get enough mules and for another he has to solve the problem of carrying water in this climate over broken terrain. He tells me that he has been attempting to round up more than forty-two thousand pack animals – mules, donkeys, horses, even camels – to carry all the provisions and equipment that his two divisions will need. You can’t exactly get these sort of animals overnight. And I know that he is worried that some of troops from the plains are going to have difficulties in fighting in mountains with slopes as steep as the sides of a house.’

He stopped because Alice had begun scribbling quickly in her
ever-present
notebook. ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you all this, Alice,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t take advantage of me.’

‘Oh stuff,’ his wife muttered. ‘How many animals did you say? Was it forty thousand?’

‘Something like that. As you know, the general is concentrating his troops in the south at Kohat, which has the benefit of being served by a reasonable road from the east, although the nearest railhead is miles away at Khushalgarh. He has pushed his advance force further west, some forty miles or so to Shanawari on the Samana mountain range. It looks as though that is going to be the jumping-off point for the penetration into the Orakzai heartland. I don’t think it will be long now before the invasion proper starts.’

Nor was it. Within days, Lockhart had moved his staff on to the Shanawari fort and it was there, on a late afternoon in early October, that he called on Fonthill to join him on the ramparts of the fort. He lifted his arm and pointed between the hardened mud battlements to the north, where the road wound upwards and disappeared into the hills, now coloured mauve as the sun began to sink.

‘That’s the way we will be going, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘I am hoping that road will lead us right over the Samana range and into the central Orakzai tribal lands at Maidan. So get out early in the morning, with your two chaps, and scout ahead as far as you can go within the next few days. I want to send the whole of my second division up there – and you know that that’s a hell of a lot of troops to move along one road. The Pathans know we are here, of course, and they can probably guess which way I am going to move. So I need to know if the road can take us and the sort of strongholds they are likely to hold ahead. Use your soldier’s eye and prospect for me. Be back within a week.’

He took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief and his pale-blue eyes now looked directly into those of Fonthill. ‘But for God’s sake,’ he continued, ‘be careful, my dear fellow. Those mountains are bristling with Pathans and I don’t want to lose you just days before the advance. Set off well before sunrise so that you can get into the hills before you are seen leaving the fort.’

Fonthill looked up into the line of the hills, now rapidly turning from mauve into a deep blue as the sun dipped behind the distant high peaks of the Hindu Kush. Those hills seemed empty but, somehow, full of menace. Overhead a crow croaked.

There seemed nothing to say except, ‘Very good, sir.’

That evening Simon left a note for Alice who was due that day to begin the move from Kohat to Shanawari with the rest of the correspondents, and then, shortly before 3.30 a.m., he, Jenkins and Inderjit slipped out of a little post gate at the rear of the fort and began walking up the road to the north. They carried with them their rifles, sleeping bags slung over their shoulders, water bottles filled to capacity and enough
dried meat, biscuits and hard-skinned fruit to last a week.

As the sun came up, the road divided and, with no map to guide them, Fonthill mentally tossed a coin and decided to take the right fork. Very soon after, they left the road abruptly, took shelter by its side and ate breakfast. Mainly, however, they sat in silence and listened. No one, it seemed, was following them and nor did the road disgorge any travellers journeying the other way. The hills, indeed, did seem to be empty.

They trudged on, always climbing until, in the distance, they saw an old man tending scraggy sheep grazing on the hillside.

‘’E’s wastin’ ’is time,’ grunted Jenkins. ‘There’s not enough fodder in this place to feed three gnats an’ a tortoise.’

Without breaking the rhythm of their steps, Fonthill turned to Inderjit and nodded ahead. ‘Let’s not alarm him, so keep walking towards him steadily. When we’re abreast of him call up to him and tell him our old story – we’ve walked from Persia to join the Mullah Sayyid Akbar to fight the infidels. Ask him if he knows where his camp is.’

The Sikh nodded and they continued their plodding pace. The shepherd seemed completely unconcerned by their approach and grunted a greeting as Inderjit climbed up the few paces off the road towards him and offered fruit. They conversed for a few minutes with much gesticulation from the old man to the north, before the Sikh nodded, saluted and fell into step with the other two as they continued their march.