Bayonets Along the Border (4 page)

The Guides’ mess that night was warm and inviting. Low, candled chandeliers had been lit and their yellow light was reflected in the wooden panelling of the room, with its many trophies of the hunt – heads of tigers, buffalo and large-horned mountain goats – studding the walls. The Guides had not yet accumulated the mass of silverware possessed by the older, great British regiments of the Line, but there were sufficient examples lining the centre of the
long table to lend a kind of baronial magnificence to the gathering.

Simon, who had consistently rejected attempts over the last two decades to lure him back into the warmth of regimental life, remembering the stupidity of the British officer class displayed at Isandlwana in Zululand and at Majuba Hill in Natal, felt an unfamiliar sense of collegiate belonging engulf him. Damnit, he and Jenkins had once been part of this strange, irregular unit many years before! He saw a sparkle in Alice’s eyes, too. She
was
a brigadier’s daughter, after all. It was difficult to ignore the sense of tradition and past sacrifices and glory that imbued the gathering in this remote corner of a very savage land. He raised his glass happily, then, and joined the others in toasting the Queen and the Regiment.

At dinner, he sat on the left of the colonel, with Alice on the CO’s right, and both of them, albeit with an anxious eye on Jenkins, who was growing increasingly garrulous further down the long table, began a gentle cross-questioning of Fortescue about the state of the hill tribes along the Border.

The colonel frowned. ‘It’s been strangely quiet for some time, yer see. Perhaps the pot had to boil over sooner or later, given the temperament of these chaps. But what has just happened,’ he lowered his voice, ‘was quite strange and very unsettling, doncher know. Just a few days ago, Lieutenant Colonel Bunny of the 1st Sikhs, part of the Punjab Frontier Force, as are we – delightful chap, by the way, an excellent, experienced officer – led just over a hundred of his troops to a small village called Maizar in the Tochi Valley, not so far from here, as an escort to the local political officer. It was a fairly low-key little outing, so to speak, so that the PO could settle some dispute with the locals about the non-payment of a fine.’

Fortescue wiped his moustache with his napkin but his eyes were sad. ‘Everything was peaceful, with women and children millin’ about as usual and the local Waziri headman suggested that the ideal resting place for the troops would be under some trees, with running water nearby. He also proposed that a meal, then being prepared, might be acceptable to the Muslim sepoys of the escort while the business was done. Dear old Bunny accepted this, of course – it was all part of the ancient Pathan tradition of offering hospitality to guests, their word for it is
pakhtunwali
.’

The whole table had now fallen silent as the colonel continued. ‘The troops were squatting about, trying to find shade, and Bunny, being the sort of chap he was, ordered his bagpipers to give the villagers a tune, which they did. The PO went off to a nearby village to do the business, which was about getting reparations for the murder of a Hindu clerk, and returned with it all sorted happily. The Muslim sepoys were in the middle of the meal, the Sikhs were eating their rations under the trees and the bagpipers were playing again, by popular request, when suddenly, on a nearby rooftop a Pathan appeared waving a sword.

‘At this,’ Fortescue’s voice suddenly hardened, ‘the villagers suddenly scattered and two shots were fired, hitting one of Bunny’s lieutenants in the thigh. More shots followed and suddenly the whole unit was under fire. Bunny himself took a bullet in the stomach and, although in great pain, managed to rally his chaps and retreat with them. The trouble was that the opening salvoes from the tribesmen had been directed at the six British officers. They were all hit and eventually unable to give orders, so it was left to the native officers to take command.

‘They did a capital job – as you would expect from the Sikhs, of
course. They led a fighting retreat for about three miles, pressured all the way. The sepoys carried their wounded officers until some sort of defensive position was established and that’s where dear old Bunny died from his wounds. Somehow, word was got back to Datta Khel nine miles away, and a relief force managed to get to Bunny’s men just before dark when they were down to five rounds of ammunition per man.’

The colonel shook his head. ‘A miserable business all round. The Sikhs lost three officers and twenty-four men killed and twenty-eight wounded. It seems that they were attacked by more than a thousand tribesmen. You will see, then, that this was not yer usual sniping or a stealthy hit-and-run attack on sentries to steal rifles. It was quite an affair – and the worst thing about it was the treacherous nature of the ambush: the defiling of the Pathan code of hospitality and all that. What’s more,’ Fortescue’s voice had now risen in indignation, ‘it was found later that not only had the dead Sikhs’ bodies been mutilated – which was to be expected, of course – but so had those of the Muslim sepoys. Unheard of, damnit. Absolutely unheard of!’

Fonthill nodded his head slowly. This was not what he had wanted to hear. ‘So perhaps the attack on us today was some sort of fallout from this business?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be sure of that. Wazirs in both cases, of course, but this is a huge tribe, containing many different clans. And Maizar is in a different sector, yer see.’

‘I presume that some sort of punitive action will be taken against these Pathans?’ asked Simon.

‘Oh, indeed. It is being mounted now. A field force, no less, given the strength of the uprising.’

The colonel took a reflective draught from his claret glass and the
gathering gradually began to buzz again as down-table conversation resumed. Alice leant forward.

‘But what do you think caused this sizeable attack?’ she asked. ‘Would it be part of a growing unrest at the establishment of the Durand Line?’

Fortescue shot her an appraising glance. ‘Ah, I see you’ve been doing some homework, dear lady. Yes, I would think it extremely likely and it is worrying me.’

‘Alice knows more about this than I do,’ said Fonthill. ‘I know a little, but do tell us more.’

Fortescue sipped his wine again and then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. ‘It’s fairly straightforward,’ he began, ‘but I’m afraid that it reflects badly again on our politicians in Delhi. Didn’t think the damned thing through. Here’s what happened.

‘The border between India and Afghanistan had never been exactly defined – awfully difficult to do, anyway, in this rough, tangled country of mountain passes and difficult slopes. The whole business of trying to improve the defences of India by extending roads and railways and so on had caused friction between Kabul and Delhi and the question of who was responsible for which Border tribe had never really been resolved. So …’ The colonel drew out the word, as a good storyteller should. ‘So,’ he repeated, ‘some sort of agreement was reached between the Amir in Kabul and the British Indian government. It was supposed to have been amicable but it seems clear that the Amir was not completely in agreement with the line that was established, but went along with it.’

‘So there was an actual line?’ asked Alice.

‘Yes. Well, not exactly on the ground but pillars being knocked
in to mark it – much to the local tribesmen’s disgust. From 1894, it formally extended the area of British responsibility into Afghanistan and as a result the lands of Chitral, Bajaur, Swat, Buner, Dir, the Khyber, Kurram and Waziristan all became under British protection, although not, it should be said, under as close a control as in India. No, a more loose arrangement, whereby these places became tribal territories, supervised – not governed, you understand – by British agents who would become close to the tribes and wean them away from violence by a mixture of inducements and threat of punishment.’

‘Hmmm.’ Alice, predictably, was frowning. ‘It sounds as though the Amir of Afghanistan lost out in this.’

‘Not really. He was given a slice of land in the north, next to the Russian frontier. To be honest, the word is that he didn’t really want it because he knew that we were really looking for him to administer it as a kind of neutral buffer zone between us and the Ruskies. And he didn’t really lose much, except on paper, with the transfer of the Border tribal regions. The tribes didn’t really ever formally acknowledge their fealty to him, though they would always side with him against the British if it came to a fight.’

‘And Durand,’ asked Fonthill. ‘Who was he?’

‘Indian government’s foreign secretary at the time. He’s the chap, supposed to be on the spot, who didn’t think it through, damnit.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, d’yer see, in theory we extended our defences and area of influence into the Border territories. Pushed out the famous North-West Frontier, if yer like. But in practice, these territories are virtually ungovernable. The tribes won’t swear allegiance to anyone – well, they might swear it to get some rupees out of us,
which they do, but they will never really toe the line.’

‘But, Colonel.’ Alice was frowning again. ‘Why should they? Just because they are not one conventional, integrally knit nation, why should they allow their lands to be carved up between two larger powers?’

Fortescue smiled, not without pleasure. ‘Ah, dear lady, that is a perfectly logical and acceptable question you pose. And encapsulates, if I may say so, the Liberal Party’s position on this back home. I suppose the answer to it is our acceptance of some sort of lofty responsibility for trying to teach these undoubtedly warlike and, by our standards, immoral people – witness their quite unprovoked attacks on you this afternoon – a better way of life.’

Alice drew in her breath to respond, but a warning frown and raised forefinger from Simon behind the colonel’s head made her keep her silence, allowing him to move in. ‘You mentioned, Colonel,’ he said, ‘the problems that came from not thinking this policy through. What has ensued, then, as a result of the establishment of the Line?’

‘For the first couple of years, nothing but trouble. Attacks all the way along the Frontier on the working parties putting in the damned poles. We had to send in three brigades to put down the Mahsud country. Then, far to the north, at Chitral, the political agent and a small force were penned in to the fort there for two months by armed tribesmen, while two army columns, from the east and south, had to fight their way through hugely difficult country to relieve them. As a result we had to establish a new garrison at the Malakand Pass, near here, and forts along the Khyber. We’ve got a new Pathan regiment, raised locally, like the Guides, to man ’em and keep the peace along the Pass. They’re called the Khyber Rifles.’

Simon noticed that Alice was now discreetly scribbling notes on a pad on her lap. ‘What about these new political agents?’ he asked. ‘Were they effective?’

‘Yes and no. I believe that they were just beginning to work – particularly along the Khyber Pass, which, as you know, is the main route through into Afghanistan and Kabul. There, the Afridis and our friends the Waziris are among the most warlike tribes but the agent there, Colonel Robert Warburton – the son, by the way, of a British officer and an Afghan mother – has done a remarkable job in winning their respect. He’s reaching the end of his career, alas, and in fact, I think he’s just gone on final leave, so I don’t know what will happen when he’s gone for good.

‘But it seemed as though things had definitely quietened down over the last two years, as I said. Now, though, we’ve this nasty business in the Tochi Valley, with an uprising that ain’t exactly small in size, Fonthill. So I have to confess that I have a bit of an itchy feeling in me breeches, if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am. That’s why I sent young Buckingham out to bring you in.’

He raised his glass again and took a healthy mouthful then turned and addressed Alice and Simon on either side of him. ‘But, look here,’ he chortled. ‘I am being very miserable. This is an old warhorse speaking, who is quite possibly wrong in sniffing from his stable a gallop that is not on the cards. Let us enjoy ourselves while we can. Not a bad drop of Bordeaux, eh? What do you think, Mrs Fonthill?’

Alice hid the pencil in the folds of her dress and raised her glass. ‘Delicious, Colonel,’ she said. ‘It’s like finding pure spring water in the Sudanese desert.’ She sipped. ‘No. Better than that. It’s elixir!’

The three raised their glasses and, from down table, a beaming
Jenkins, his face glowing like that of a well-scrubbed schoolboy, raised his too and another silent toast was drunk to the company, to the great British Empire and to its dumpy, widowed sovereign so far away.

So the dinner wound on its amiable way, with the voices of the young subalterns at the lower end of the table increasing in volume as the excellent claret was consumed from a line of silver jugs. White-jacketed Pathan servants, red sashes looped diagonally across their chests, brought a succession of scrumptious local dishes: curried lamb and what appeared to be goat with its skin crisply roasted; rice containing eggs and chillies; chapattis; a selection of green vegetables, no doubt raised with care from the allotments surrounding the bungalows; and fresh fruit that caused Simon to wonder how these barren lands could produce such fine fare.

He gently introduced to the colonel the question of when they might be able safely to leave the haven of the cantonment in the valley; to amble on, so to speak, to enable them to view the beautiful lakes of Kashmir and attempt a little climbing on the lower slopes of the Kush. They did not wish, he emphasised, to make demands on the escorting duties of the Guides, who might well have much more important things to do shortly.

Happily, Fortescue was not offended. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘let me get some further information along the telegraph line to see how things are going further north and east. Should be better in that direction, I should have thought. You are most welcome to stay here for a day or two to get your breath back, so to speak, and then …’ He was interrupted as a khaki-clad orderly bent deferentially, whispered in his ear and presented a telegram to him.