Bayonets Along the Border (29 page)

‘What? Do you mean that the hilltop will have to be taken all over again?’

‘Precisely. The advance begins tomorrow. And I am going with it, as part of the press contingent.’

A silence fell on the little room. It was broken by Jenkins. ‘Well, bach sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll fight this mullah bloke meself with me bare ’ands if I ’ave to, but, with great respect, I’m not goin’ up that cliff path again, even if the good Lord was to give me wings, see.’

Fonthill looked at his wife. ‘Well, if you are going with the advance then we will, too. But unless God is going to make an angel of Jenkins, I think we will sit out this second assault on Dargai. Now, however, if you will excuse me, I am going to see the general before he leaves.’

The force which set out for Dargai the next morning marched imbued with a grim air of determination. Fonthill noted with approval that the same troops were not being asked to repeat their climb of two days before and Brigadier Kempster’s brigade, which had formed the rearguard on the retreat down the cliff, was assigned to make the assault. On arrival, Kempster scanned the cliff top with his binoculars. ‘As I thought,’ he muttered, ‘Afridis. This is not going to be easy.’

The press corps remained with the commanding general, now Yeatman-Biggs, observing the action from the hilltop of Samana Suk – much to Fonthill’s relief – but he and Jenkins were asked by Kempster to guide the attacking force once again along the spur to the edge of the saddle, although they were not requested to take part in the climb. This time it was the 3rd Ghurka Scouts who were given the honour of leading the attack, backed by the 1/2nd Goorkhas, with the Dorsets and Derbys under cover behind and the formidable 1st Gordon Highlanders still further back, among the rocks, in reserve.

Once again Fonthill and Jenkins crouched with the Ghurkas on the edge of the open space of the saddle, on the ledge away from the rifles of the Afridis above, as the protecting barrage opened up. Then the whistle blew and the little brown men surged over the edge. They were met with an immediate hail of bullets from above and men fell but most of the Scouts were able to reach the momentary safety of the cliff overhang. The second rush of men, however, drew even more intensive fire onto them, and Simon, watching with Jenkins from behind a rock, winced as men fell screaming.

A Major Judge led the next charge and was immediately shot in the eye. He continued to stagger forward, however, to be shot dead in the centre of the killing field. Lieutenant Colonel Travers, the CO of
the 1/2nd Goorkhas had somehow managed to reach the cliff face and yelled back orders to stop further runs across the saddle but, in the din, he was not heard. Within ten minutes the Scouts and the 1/2nd Goorkhas had sustained seventy-one casualties and attempts to bring in the wounded were being thwarted by the sharpshooters up above.

‘This is murder,’ growled Jenkins. But there were insufficient men at the foot of the cliff path for an ascent to be begun. The Goorkhas had shot their bolt so now it was the turn of the Dorsets. These were not hillmen, like the Gurkhas or the Afridis themselves and they had only recently marched to the Border from the peaceful pastures of regimental cantonment life in southern India. Back along the spur, they had been attempting vainly to direct fire up to the cliff top to help their comrades. Now, without pausing they jumped down from the ledge and into the overhead fire.

They ran in company sections and they fell as they ran, the officers picked off first by the Afridis up above, many of whom had served as sepoys and knew how to distinguish the leaders from the men. Tears came to Fonthill’s eyes as he witnessed many individual acts of bravery as men attempted to bring back the wounded and were themselves brought down. Some were able to find poor shelter at an outbreak of rock halfway along the spur but once there they were trapped, as were the men crouching at the bottom of the cliff path.

Of the Dorsets, only two officers and a handful of men dashed right across or reached the halfway rocks. There was now a crush of men huddled with Fonthill and Jenkins on the ledge of the spur, either wounded or waiting for some opportunity to run the gauntlet. A second attempt by the Derbys was made and it, too, failed. Their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Dowse, suggested to the Dorsets’
colonel, Piercy, that he should move his men back so that the other Derby companies could try a rush across in mass. To this Piercy would not agree, nor would he allow his remaining four companies to run into the hail of bullets. It was now 2 p.m., four hours after the attack had begun. It was also stalemate on the spur.

‘What the ’ell are we goin’ to do?’ hissed Jenkins, forced, like Fonthill, to watch the butchery without being able to do anything to alleviate the cries of the wounded. To move away from the ledge onto that open ground was to invite death or a fearful wound.

Simon shook his head. ‘God knows.’

But Brigadier Kempster had one last card to play. From behind the men crouching along the ridge came the skirl of bagpipes and cries of ‘Step back, step back, make way for the Gordons’. These were the men who had marched in two days before from the west with Kempster. All Highlanders and therefore hillmen and possessing the dubious advantage of having formed the rearguard on the retreat two days before, and so knowing the ground, they were veterans of many years fighting the Pathans along the Border. They came now, pushing their way through, kilts swinging, men with stern, set faces, for they knew what lay before them.

Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances.

Somehow, the Scotsmen formed up along the edge of the saddle as the English soldiers fell back along the ridge to make way. Their CO, a white-haired colonel with a comfortable paunch showing above his kilt, thrust his way to the front and surveyed the scene. He then gestured for his men to close up. Not for Lieutenant Colonel Mathias of the Gordon Highlanders the failed rushes by sections or companies. His men were going to charge across that body-strewn space in full battalion order.

Then, the batteries began firing up above, all twenty-four guns firing in unison to rain shells on the peak. Mathias stood, tugging at his moustache, until the barrage ended. Then he held up his hand and cried, ‘Highlanders. The general says that the position must be taken at all cost. The Gordons will take it.’ A bugle blew, the pipers struck up ‘Cock o’ the North’ and the colonel, with Major Macbean on his right and the appropriately named Lieutenant Gordon on his left quit the safety of the spur and led the charge across the saddle.

Once again all hell broke loose and Fonthill and Jenkins watched in awe as the full battalion doubled en masse across the open space through the hailstorm of bullets. Piper Findlater immediately went down, shot through both ankles. He hauled himself to a rock, however, wedged his back against it and continued to play throughout the attack, urging the Highlanders onwards. Major Macbean fell, shot through the shoulder, five more officers were killed at once and many more men collapsed and fell. So thick were the numbers running across the open ground that it seemed impossible for the Afridis to miss.

And yet, whether it was because they were running out of ammunition or aghast at the impetus of the full battalion charge, the defenders’ fire began to lessen. The sound of the pipes, the cheering of the men and the sight of the Gurkhas now running up the cliff path with the Gordons close behind them, were too much for the mixed bag of English infantrymen still pressed back on the ridge. They, too, now cheered and began running across behind the Gordons, skipping between the wounded and the inert bodies.

‘Can’t stay here, 352,’ cried Simon. ‘Come on. Up that damned cliff.’

‘’Ang on. Don’t go without me. I’m right be’ind you.’

Just before the summit, the two comrades came up behind Colonel Mathias, now puffing and being pushed up the climb by an NCO. The colonel turned, nodded at Fonthill with a grin and observed to his colour sergeant – in words which would go down in Border lore – ‘Stiff climb, eh, Mackie? Not so young as … I … was … yer know.’

To which the NCO slapped his commanding officer on the back in comradely fashion and replied, ‘Never mind, sir. Ye’re gaun vera strong for an auld man!’

To Simon and his old comrade, the sight at the top of the cliff was reminiscent of that of two days before. In the distance could just be seen the backs of the tribesmen – now, it was confirmed later, a mixture of Afridis and Orakzais – being fired at triumphantly by the victorious Indian and British soldiers.

‘Ah damnit, no sign of the mullah,’ panted Fonthill.

‘Well, we know ’e’s not the type to ’ang around, now, is ’e? I doubt if we’ll ever see the bugger again, look you.’

Simon narrowed his eyes and looked after the retreating tribesmen. ‘Oh yes we will,’ he muttered. ‘I’m going to sort it out with Lockhart. We’re going after him.’

The Welshman’s face gradually broke into a weary grin. ‘Well, that’s good news, that is. No more climbin’ bloody cliffs. I’ll sign up for that, bach sir. I’ll sign up for that all right, look you …’

This time there was to be no vacating of Dargai, so expensively captured, and the Goorkhas and the Dorsets were posted on the Heights and the remaining battalions around Chagru Kotal. The cost of the second attack had been high. In all, 197 casualties had been sustained by the units taking part, more than three times more than those received during the first attack.

The journalists, including Alice, set themselves to singing the praises of the regiments involved, particularly the Gordons – always a favourite of the public back home – and there was some criticism of Lockhart’s decision to abandon the Heights after the first success. Even so, when General Lockhart rode into Chagru Kotal the next day, looking refreshed after his brief sojourn in the fresh air of Fort Gulistan – or was it merely relief after the success of the second attack on Dargai? – he shook Simon’s hand warmly.

‘You would have been up for a decoration for your part in leading the attack on the first day, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘but in the eyes of the army you are a civilian, I’m afraid, so that’s ruled out. But I will see what I can do in some non-military area.’

‘No thank you, General.’ Simon shook his head firmly. ‘I seem to have gained enough notoriety already. Jenkins and I were just happy to do what we could. But there is one way in which you can help me, sir.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I want your permission to go after Mullah Sayyid Akbar. I caught a glimpse of him on the cliff top and I am sure that he was responsible for riding off to rally support to the Orakzais and bring up the Afridis—’

Lockhart raised a hand to interrupt him. ‘You are quite right. Our intelligence, such as it is,’ and he turned his eyes to heaven, ‘confirms this. The feller has escaped somewhere to the north. This revolt will never be put down completely, Fonthill, until he is in custody or hanging from the gallows.’

‘Quite. So you will release me to go after him?’

‘Yes and no. We have just had a success here, albeit an expensive one, but impetus is important, so we must get on to take the two passes up ahead, the Sampagha and Arhanga. They are the gateways to the Tirah itself and, of course, to Maidan, the heartland of the Zakka Khel Afridis, the toughest nuts on the whole of the Frontier. I expect to be harried all the way, with perhaps another battle at the Sampagha Pass. You will be needed to go ahead and guide us until at least there.’

‘And then?’

‘The word is that the mullah is headed for the Waran Valley. There is a river of that name that runs east from Maidan.’

‘Where he has built a grand house?’

‘Exactly. When we are nearing Maidan I shall unleash you, but not until then. But Fonthill …’

‘Sir?’

‘I shall want you to find the damned chap and then come back and tell me where he is. No heroics. I understand that he travels with a fairly large bodyguard so don’t tangle with him. Once we know his whereabouts we can go in to get him. This will not be a personal vendetta. Understand?’

Fonthill closed his eyes for a second. There was no way he was going to offer promises at this stage about what would happen if he came within shooting distance of Sayyid Akbar. But that could wait, so he nodded obediently and said, ‘Very good, sir.’

As soon as provisions had come up from Shinawari and the line of communication back to the fort had been consolidated, Lockhart’s great caravanserai continued its march to the north, passing Karappa and climbing now continuously but meeting only sniping, particularly at night when camps had been established.

Ranging far ahead of the van, Fonthill, Jenkins and Inderjit were able to confirm that the Pathans had gathered at the 7,000ft-high Sampagha, approached by a valley three-quarters of a mile wide and guarded on either flank by spurs running down from the main ridges. These spurs had been occupied by the tribesmen, who had built stone sangars along their sides, so dominating the approaches to the Pass.

It was, reported Fonthill, a task for the guns.

Lockhart sent them forward in a meticulously planned operation
during the hours of darkness, so that the batteries could open fire at a range of 1,850 yards as soon as the first rays of the sun streaked down from the mountain tops. As the barrage exploded onto the loosely stacked stones, the Pathans withstood it for twenty minutes before breaking and running. Under cover of the guns, the 2nd Brigade advanced and the barrage was lifted to attack the higher sangars around the summit of the Pass. Within minutes, all of the enemy – who turned out to be the Orakzais – had fled and the first of the gateways into the Tirah heartland had been forced, with the loss of only twenty-four casualties.

Anxious to exploit the success, Lockhart descended down into the fertile little Mastura Valley, and then pushed on again to the north. towards the second ‘gateway’, the Arhanga Pass. Once again hardly any opposition was met and the Pass was taken, with only two men wounded. By the next evening, the Tirah Field Force was camped at Maidan. The ‘purdha curtain’ had been torn aside. Would the Orakzais and Afridis now submit?

It was a question discussed by Fonthill, Jenkins, Inderjit and Alice, who joined the trio in their tent late that night for warming cups of tea. Simon had seen little of his wife during the advance, for she had been esconced with the Fleet Street contingent, moving with the general’s staff, and he, with his companions, had been out from morning until dusk, scouting ahead of the main army.

‘Does the general feel the job is virtually done, Alice?’ asked Simon.

Alice sipped her tea and shook her head firmly. ‘I understand that there are signs,’ she said, ‘that the Orakzais, whose territory has been completely traversed by our march from the south, are beginning to think of submission. But my old friend the mullah is said to be doing
his stirring up to the east, in the land of the Zakka Khel Afridis.’

‘Ah.’ Fonthill’s eyes lit up. ‘Will they oppose the general, full on?’

‘He thinks not. The thinking is that it is now going to mean constant harassment as the winter comes on. A guerrilla war, in fact, which indicates a long slog while the army scours the whole Tirah region.’

Alice looked around her as they huddled together by the light of the solitary oil lamp in the little tent. She grinned involuntarily at the three men, all sitting cross-legged, steam rising from their mugs of tea. She could, she reflected, be deep in the heart of the Afridi camp.

The beards of all three were now fully grown so that they reached down to their chests and their eyes glowed in faces burnt almost black by the sun and winds that had scourged the passes. In their loosely wound, dun-coloured clothes, ‘pile-of-washing’ turbans sitting atop high-cheekboned faces and with bare toes protruding from their sandals, they looked every inch tribesmen of the North-West Frontier.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I hardly recognise any of you. You have really
become
Pathans.’ She turned to Simon. ‘So now, husband of the hills, what do you propose to do now? Will there be any role for you three in this guerrilla warfare?’

‘Oh yes. Now that we are at Maidan, I intend to keep the general to his word and allow us go out and find the mullah.’

The smile disappeared from Alice’s face. ‘What? Just the three of you?’

‘If he will let us go alone, yes. You said yourself that we now make good Pathans and my dialect has improved considerably under Inderjit’s tuition. We can now move in these hills without creating much suspicion. Why, we were even fired upon the other day by a British patrol up in the Arhanga.’

‘But it will be terribly dangerous, Simon.’ A quick shudder ran through her. ‘That man is a monster and he is not to be taken lightly. He is no coward. He stormed through the defences of the Khyber fort leading his men. His sword was bloodstained …’ Her words died away. ‘Please don’t go. This could be one mission too far.’

Fonthill exchanged glances with his two companions. Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh, ’e’s determined to go, Miss Alice,’ he said. ‘And so are we two. This moollah bloke seems to ’ave an ’abit of escapin’ from big armies, see. We think it’s goin’ to take us three,’ he grinned, ‘the finest Pataaanis in the ’ole British an’ Indian armies, to nab ’im. But we’ll do it, you’ll see.’

Alice turned her glance back to her husband. ‘All right, then. If you go, you really must take me with you.’ As her husband drew in his breath to speak, she leant forward and put a hand on his knee. ‘Look, the
Post
has sent someone out to help in reporting on the campaign. It’s stupid having two of us attached to the general’s staff. I am not needed. But, Simon, I could be really useful to you. No one will suspect you if you have a woman with you who looks as native as you three.’

Simon scowled. ‘You have made that point before. There is absolutely no question of you coming, Alice,’ he said. ‘Don’t pursue the matter, darling. That’s the last word on it.’

Silence descended on the tent. Outside somewhere a campfire spluttered and a horse stamped his foot and snorted. ‘Very well,’ said Alice. ‘I shall apply for a widow’s pension from the general straight away.’

Three days later, Fonthill was summoned to the command tent of General Lockhart, who was sitting with an old acquaintance, Colonel
Fortescue of the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides. The colonel’s jaw dropped when a ragged-robed Pathan loped through the tent opening.

‘Good Lord, Fonthill,’ he gasped. ‘Have you joined the enemy?’

‘Thought about it a few times, Colonel, in the last few weeks. You get better food than in the British army.’

The two shook hands and then Lockhart outlined the task ahead of Fonthill. He was to ride out east, along the Waran river, but with a squadron of Guides Cavalry – whose regiment had just ridden in to join the field force – and ascertain the whereabouts of the mullah. Then they must return as quickly as possible, without engaging with the enemy, to lead in a larger force to capture him.

‘I suggest,’ said Fortescue, ‘that you ride with Appleby-Smith’s squadron. You did good work with them in going out to Kabul and back and at least this means that
Daffadar
Singh can be reunited with his troop.’

Simon’s heart sank. He had no wish to join forces again with that pompous, hesitant soldier. If he was to go out into the Waran Valley to flush out the mullah with a protective force, then a squadron of Guides would be the optimum unit to accompany him: not too large and cumbersome, but big enough to fight off any force that did not outnumber them hugely. Most of all, it would be nimble and mobile enough to get out of trouble quickly. And he had never fancied combing the valley for the mullah on foot.

But Appleby-Smith …!

He realised that his silence was proving awkward. He cleared his throat. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘I presume and hope that young Buckingham and his troop are still part of the squadron?’

Fortescue seemed not to have noticed his hesitation. ‘Oh indeed,’
he said. ‘
Daffadar
Singh can slip right back into his unit.’

‘Good. Now, General, do you have any intelligence about the exact whereabouts of Sayyid Akbar?’

‘I’m afraid not. He’s out there to the east, somewhere. You tell me he’s built a house somewhere in the valley. I suggest you slip away from the squadron and see what you can pick up from the villages. But, take care, Fonthill. Take care.’

‘Very well, sir. We will leave as soon as the squadron is ready.’

That evening, Alice joined the three of them again in their tent. Inderjit seemed less than joyous at the news that he would be returning to Appleby-Smith’s unit.

‘I can say, bach sir’ – he had taken now always to emulate Jenkins when addressing Fonthill – ‘that this sahib not the most popular officer in the Guides. He not sure of himself in action, which is bad for us all. You know what you do, although you no longer a regular soldier. This man does not know.’

Alice frowned. ‘Ah, I can see, Inderjit, that this must be the last thing you would want.’ She turned to Simon. ‘Can’t you ask to ride with another squadron, darling – put some excuse forward? If you are riding into the lion’s mouth, you need to be with a good lion-tamer, I would have thought. Oh goodness, I shall worry even more now.’

‘Oh don’t fret, Alice. Appleby-Smith’s number two, Dawson, is a sound enough fellow and Buckingham is first rate. We shall get along.’

Alice’s gaze rested on Inderjit. The Sikh had a habit of melting somehow into the background in discussion. He rarely offered an opinion unless directly asked. She realised that she had no idea about his personal situation.

On impulse, she asked, ‘Are you married, Inderjit?’

The Sikh’s grin immediately seemed to light up the interior of the tent. ‘Oh yes, memsahib. Two children. Boy and girl. Boy already good cricketer like his grandfather. They live in Marden.’

Simon immediately looked disconcerted. ‘Good Lord, Inderjit. I had no idea. We have taken you away from your family. Does your wife complain about that?’

The grin disappeared. ‘Wife died two years ago. Of the cholera. But regiment is very good. Children are looked after while I am away.’

It was Jenkins who broke the resultant, awkward silence. ‘You obviously like goin’ a-soldierin’, Inja. What about the killin’ bits? Does that worry you?’

The Sikh looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘In battle, it does not matter. It is you or them. But I did not like killing that man in the Pathan camp. You call it “in cold blood”, I think. It seemed unfair.’

Simon was about to interupt, but Inderjit continued, ‘But then I think that they were threatening,’ he cast a shy glance at Alice, ‘to kill the memsahib. So it had to be done. And I am a soldier, after all.’

Simon exchanged glances with his wife. The tall Sikh was clearly a man of some sensitivity as well as ability, even though he said little. But the reflective turn that the conversation had taken now was enough to cast a touch of gloom over the company and, shortly afterwards, Alice exchanged a goodnight kiss with her husband and the little party broke up.

Early the next morning, Appleby-Smith brought his officers to report to Fonthill. The captain, erect but seemingly a little more portly now, looked askance at the native dress of Simon and his companions.