Bayonets Along the Border

by John Wilcox

  He grinned and brought a rueful smile to his wife’s face. ‘Very well, Simon. But you and Jenkins must not go on this ridiculous ride. You are both too old to go soldiering again, really you are. Please don’t go. I shall be so worried about you both. Stay here and protect this poor fragile woman.’

  ‘No. You will have a whole company of the Guides doing that, by the sound of it. And I know the colonel could do with an extra couple of guns. He jumped at it, in fact. Sorry, darling, but I must go – if only to look after Jenkins. You know what an old frump he is.’

  He leant forward and kissed his wife, who, knowing when she was beaten, nodded and glumly returned his embrace. Then she turned to Jenkins. ‘Look after him, 352. If you both get killed I shall hold you personally responsible.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Alice. I shall wrap ’im in cotton wool. Come on, bach sir. We’ve got to get packin’. We can’t keep the whole of the Indian army waitin’, now, can we?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was, of course, quite dark as Fonthill and Jenkins lined up on the parade ground with the rest of the cavalry and, behind them, the serried ranks of the infantry. The heat of the day had diminished but it was still hot, with the dry air clinging to them all like the breath of a furnace. The densely indigo cover of the Indian night hung over them, with the stars pricking through it like sequins and the emergent moon lighting the scene as though it was day.

  As Simon looked at the horsemen, sitting erect with their eyes bright in their dark faces, he could not help but feel exhilarated at being part of such an impressive gathering. He was about to ride with arguably the best regiment in the Indian army. He stole a glance at Jenkins and sensed that the Welshman shared the exaltation. They exchanged grins.

  Fonthill looked over his shoulder but there was no sign of Alice. She had helped him prepare for the ride – although there was little to take: his rifle, freshly oiled; a revolver in its holster; a bandolier of ammunition; one change of shirt, socks and underpants; a poshteen sheepskin coat tightly wrapped in a groundsheet, to serve as a sleeping bag and for warmth in case they had to fight in the high passes; his water bottle; and slices of lamb wrapped in chappatis. They had said their goodbyes in his room. She was dry-eyed but she clung to him for at least ten seconds before he was allowed to go.

  A bugle sounded and four mounted pickets galloped out to range widely ahead of the main column. A second call was sounded, the colonel raised an arm, pointed forward and the cavalry moved out from the cantonment at the walk, four abreast.

  Fortescue beckoned for Fonthill and Jenkins to join him and Major Darwin at the head of the column. ‘It’s goin’ to be a hard ride, this, Fonthill,’ he growled, adjusting the chinstrap of his helmet. ‘We are going to have to climb 2,000 feet up to the Malakand Pass right at the end, when we shall be feeling damned tired. And despite the altitude, it will remain hot, damned hot, with plenty of dust.’

  ‘Do you think you will be attacked on the way?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised. But not until we get near Malakand, I would think. The tribesmen from here will be massed there. I just hope we will be in time.’

  ‘Will we arrive before dawn?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Not a chance. It’s just a trail really, not a proper road, and very rough underfoot. Trouble is, we must keep goin’. Can’t afford to take proper stops for rest. Our chaps on foot will have the worst of it, of course, and they will arrive long after us. Still, can’t be helped. Just got to grin and bear it and then …’ he turned and grinned mirthlessly … ‘with a bloody great fight at the end. What could be better, eh?’

  Fonthill gulped but returned the grin.

  So began one of the most arduous nights and rides of Simon Fonthill’s life. Most of the time, the colonel restricted the pace of the riders to a walk, but he interspersed spells of trotting and cantering on the level ground to maintain their progress. Simon had no idea how many men were defending the fort and post at Malakand, but it was clear that the colonel knew that they would be facing overwhelming odds and it was vital to arrive in time before the defenders were overrun.

  At one point, as they dismounted and walked their horses to rest them for a brief spell, Fonthill asked the colonel about the insurgents. Did they have one overall leader on the Frontier?

  The CO wiped his brow with a soiled handkerchief and shook his head. ‘They will never be that organised,’ he confided. ‘What I estimate is happening is that this is a jihad – a holy war – and it is being whipped up all along the Border by a series of holy men, preachers – they call ’em mullahs. It like a series of bush fires, yer see, with the flames leapin’ over the passes and running down the valleys from mullah to mullah as though blown by the wind.’

  ‘The preachers – we know of the one in the Malakand area and we call him the Mad Mullah – will be promising their followers that this is the chance to rid the hills of the infidels once and for all. They will tell ’em that anyone who is killed will go straight to Paradise and be welcomed by houris and lustin’ virgins. So they’ll have absolutely nothing to lose by hurling themselves at our guns. Oh, yes.’ His mouth was set in a grim line. ‘It’s going to be a tough one, this.’

  Fonthill drew in a deep breath. The colonel was only a couple of years younger, if that, and certainly seemed stouter and in less good condition. Yet the little man was riding as though he was a subaltern.

  ‘What about reinforcements?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Well, I have telegraphed down the line to Peshawar and told my commanding officer there that we were on the way and that we would need help. He is organising a larger column, of course, to follow us but it will take time to get it together, so we shall be on our own for a fair bit.’ He grinned again. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, mind you. Chance for glory and promotion, eh what, Fonthill?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I wish you luck.’

  ‘Thank you. Wish this bloody moon would go in, though. Makes us exposed. Feel as though I am walkin’ through these hills in me pyjamas.’

  So they continued this gruelling ride, pushing mounts and men as far as they could, short of exhaustion. The darkness brought little relief from the heat, despite the altitude, and the troopers in the rear of the column suffered excessively from the dust kicked up by the horses in front of them. Fortescue, the thoughtful commander that he was, changed the line of march so that the lead squadrons changed places for those in the rear from time to time to alleviate this problem. In the centre of the column rode ten mules, carrying two dismantled mountain guns, or, as they were known, ‘screw guns’, so called because they could be screwed together. With well-trained crews, these could be assembled within minutes to fire a 2.5 inch, 7lb explosive or shrapnel shell over a maximum range of 4,000 yards and they were much feared by the tribesmen.

  Fonthill noticed, however, that, despite the high reputation that the Guides enjoyed within the Indian army, they, like the rest of the native troops, were issued only with the out-of-date, single-shot Martini-Henry rifles, as used by the British army nearly two decades before in the Zulu War. Only the British regiments serving in India carried the new, quick-firing, ten-shot Lee-Metfords. He reflected ruefully that, with memories of the Mutiny still fresh after forty years, the Raj still did not quite trust its native sepoys.

  Dawn broke while they were still some seven miles or so from their objective, all riding now, slouched in the saddle, with dry throats and lips and half blinded by the dust that still accompanied them. Simon hoped to God that the outriders remained watchful, for the main column would find it hard to resist a sudden attack. He looked back at the long, weary trail stretching behind him. As far as he could see or hear, there had been not one single rider who had fallen out of the column through the night. Now the sun’s rays were burning through the dust to increase their discomfort.

  He exchanged glances with Jenkins, riding at his side. Unlike most everyone else in the column, the Welshman still rode impeccably erect in the saddle, but his eyes were red-rim
med and weary. He wiped his moustache to rid it of the dust. ‘I could do with a beer,’ he muttered. ‘Should ’ave put some o’ that Indian light ale in me canteen before we set off. This water’s fair boilin’.’

  Too tired to speak, Fonthill nodded.

  ‘When we get there,’ continued Jenkins. ‘What d’yer think? Are we just goin’ to charge them ten thousand black fellers? Wavin’ our swords an’ that – though, mind you, we ain’t got any, now, ’ave we?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t try to use your rifle,’ he croaked. ‘These rifle buckets are meant for Martini-Henry carbines. Our rifles are too long for them and they’ll jolt out if we gallop. So tie ’em to the saddle. And, if we do charge, use your revolver only.’

  ‘Ah, very good, bach sir. An’ you remember, if we do charge, grip tightly with yer knees an’ stay low. I’ll be at your side.’

  ‘I know. As always.’

  Fonthill allowed his horse to slip back until he was able to fall in with Lieutenant Buckingham, leading his troop with Inderjit Singh by his side. The subaltern touched his helmet in a weary salute. ‘Tough going, eh, sir?’

  Simon nodded. ‘Not exactly a hack down Rotten Row. How are your men?’

  The young man grinned through the dust coating his face. ‘Oh, they’re topping. D’yer agree, daffadar?’

  The Sikh returned the grin. ‘Oh yes, Sahib. Just a jolly little ride through the hills. With a nice charge and gallop to finish, yes?’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Simon. ‘You sound just like your father. Tell me Inderjit, do you remember him well?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I can see him now telling me to keep my left elbow up when I try to play with straight bat. “Keep it up”, he would cry, “then the ball go straight back past bally bowler for four”.’

  Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can hear him now, too.’ All three fell silent for a moment. Then Simon asked of Buckingham: ‘Have you ever been in a cavalry charge before, Duke? I mean – one in anger, not just in training?’

  For a moment, the young man dropped his eyes and licked his lips. ‘Not exactly, sir,’ he said. Then, looking up, ‘But I’m looking forward to it. Must be exciting, I would think.’

  ‘Oh, very. I must remember not to fall off.’ Simon touched his once white pith helmet, now stained a very deep khaki by the dust. ‘Well, good luck to you two. I hope to see you later.’

  As the morning wore on, Fonthill pulled out his pocket watch. It was seven-forty-five. They must be near now, for the road was getting steeper and climbing towards the Pass. And, indeed, within minutes a faint sound from up ahead – distant firing.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ cried Fortescue, reining in. ‘They’re still there and defending the place by the sound of it.’ A palpable sense of relief ran through the leading squadrons. ‘Bugler,’ called the colonel. ‘Sound officers to the front.’ He turned to his second in command. ‘George, the pickets need relieving so that they can breakfast, but I want to brief the reliefs before they go out. Have them report to me. Quickly now, we may not have much time. Fonthill, stay close to me with your chap.’

  Within seconds, it seemed all of the officers had cantered to the head of the column and gathered round the colonel.

  ‘Right, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I hope and trust there have been no dropouts while in column. Report please.’

  Each troop commander reported negatively.

  ‘Splendid. As was to be expected. Now, listen carefully.’ The little man eased himself forward in the saddle. ‘We will break here for breakfast and to feed the horses. No more than thirty minutes, but we shall need that after our long ride. Then we shall move up towards the pass at Malakand. There was a brigade in there defending the post and the road to the north but God knows how many are left now. The geography there is this.’

  He cleared his throat of dust. ‘Commanding the Pass itself is a fort, on a spur to the left of the road looking north. From this spur the road runs down to a kind of bowl, some six hundred yards in diameter, called the “Crater”, if I remember rightly. Originally there were about two hundred men manning the fort – it’s not much of a place I’m afraid – but the camps of the 24th Punjabs and 45th Sikhs, with some sappers, miners stores and so on are, or were, in the Crater, surrounded by a line of protective abattis and a bit of wire.

  ‘The rest of the brigade – the 31st Punjabis, a cavalry squadron, a mountain battery and the transport – are, or were, camped about thirteen hundred yards away up the north-west road, protected by a low abattis and breastworks. In short, the whole place is a bit of a defensive mess, spread out in three places. Things will have changed now, I suspect, with some integration. But we shall have to see.

  ‘Now. We will probably have to cut our way through, so we will go in at the walk, then, at the order, canter and then, at the order, daffadars will lower lances and other ranks draw their sabres and charge. We will make for the fort as the nearest point, if, of course, it has not yet been taken. If the defenders are still there, they will hear our bugles and open their gates to us. Once inside, handlers take the horses and the rest disperse to the walls. I may need to change these orders in the light of circumstances. Now see to your men and horses and good luck, gentlemen.’

  The relieving pickets had been waiting until the colonel had finished and he now turned to them. ‘You heard all of that,’ he said. ‘I want you to ride ahead now and spy out the disposition of the enemy. I may have to change my plan of attack in the light of what you tell me. Daffadar, when you have seen where the defenders are and how the enemy is placed, ride back and report to me. The rest of you stay on picket to ensure we are not attacked. Had your breakfasts?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel sahib.’

  ‘Good. Off you go.’

  Fonthill and Jenkins, on the periphery of all this, exchanged glances and Simon nodded in appreciation. Colonel Fortescue undoubtedly knew what he was doing – and he cared for his men. The best type of British senior officer and typical, Simon was beginning to feel, of the Queen’s Royal Corps of Guides.

  As anticipated, the 2,000ft climb up to the Malakand Pass proved to be the most demanding sector of the whole march, for horses and men were tired, caked in dust and thirsty. In addition, the climb was now steep and, towards the end, Fortescue felt it necessary to dismount and lead the horses, leaving the column at a great disadvantage should a flank attack be mounted. But none came and the Pass was reached just as the daffadar in charge of the forward picket came riding in.

  He reported tersely to the colonel and Fortescue immediately ordered his officers forward – by gesture this time, for he did not wish to signal his presence yet by bugle call.

  ‘Change of orders, gentlemen,’ he announced, speaking quickly. ‘The good news is that the garrison has held out throughout the night. But the bad is that, while the fort and the Crater have withstood what looks like continuous attacks, the forward camp, up the North-West Road, has had to be abandoned, by the look of it. At the moment, it looks as though the attackers have retired but are massing for a further attack. Our pickets can see a considerable number of tribesmen approaching from the north. There remains considerable sniping, so we must ride through that.

  ‘Once over the summit, we will now pass the fort and instead canter down to the Crater and reinforce our people there. Now mount and draw sabres.’

  Fonthill drew out his watch again. It showed 8.30 a.m. They had been on the road for just over ten hours. Now they must fight. He nodded to Jenkins and they removed their long rifles from their saddle buckets and strapped them to the saddle pommels. They both checked their revolvers to ensure that the magazines were full and then, exchanging nervous grins, they dug their heels into their mounts and gently moved forward behind the colonel and Major Darwin.

  As they crested the brow of the Pass a compelling vista met their gaze. The Malakand Valley unfolded beneath them in a series of broken-topped, undulating hills towards a purple and mountainous horizon. The road fell steepl
y down, past the small, primitive fort on its left, from where, down the hill, it forked left and right just before the tents, shacks and surrounding wired perimeter that was the Crater. Beyond that, in the mid distance, were the remains of the forward camp, through which tiny, white-clad figures could be seen swarming, setting fire to buildings and tents. It looked as though the fort itself had not suffered attack – surprisingly, because the Pass looked down on it. The Crater itself was crowded with defenders.

  It was clear, however, from where the attacks had come, for the low hills to the north, east and west of the Crater and surrounding it were alive with figures – brought into focus through field glasses as turbaned, rifle-carrying and sword-bearing Pathans – all swarming now towards the defenders of the Crater. Fonthill brought his binoculars to bear further up the road to the north-east and saw an indistinct mass of men moving towards the action.

  ‘God!’ he whispered to Jenkins. ‘There must be thousands of them coming in—’

  He was interrupted by the colonel, who raised his sabre and turned his head back. ‘Bugler, sound the advance. To the front, cantaaah!’

  Then, in columns of fours, the regiment rode down towards the Crater, receiving a thin cheer from the defenders of the fort as they passed. The canter seemed to Fonthill to be a rather stately advance, with the horses moving in an unhurried rhythm as though on parade and their riders sitting erect, with their sabres raised vertically aligned to their bodies, as though ready to salute their sovereign at a presentation of their colours at the Horse Guards in London.

  Then things changed.

  From the foothills to the right, tribesmen began breaking cover and pouring towards the protecting abattis surrounding the Crater. Fonthill, riding directly behind the colonel, could feel the joy in the little man’s posture as he noted this and then turned and pointed forward with his sabre, his face agleam, and shouted ‘Bugler, sound the … Chaaaaarge!’