Bayonets Along the Border

by John Wilcox

  Immediately, there was a whoop from the troopers as the notes sounded out and the horses, as one beast, gathered themselves and launched into the charge. Fonthill drew in a great gulp of hot air, lowered his head and dug his heels into the side of his mount. He had little need to have done so for the beast flared her nostrils and thundered forward with the rest. As the column charged, so its leaders slightly fanned out so that a broader front could be presented to the enemy to the front.

  Fonthill hardly had time to see where the charge was leading them until he was suddenly in the middle of a mass of scattering figures in white-and-dun-coloured clothing, some who were kneeling and firing their rifles, others who were standing defiantly, sword in hand, to meet the charge and more who were now simply attempting to flee.

  Bending low and desperately gripping with his knees, he rode down one man, which nearly unhorsed him, but the beast recovered and bounded forward and he just had time to fire with his revolver into the breast of a Pathan who had his sword raised. He felt himself slipping from the impact but a firm hand from the right pressed him back into the saddle and he became aware of Jenkins riding close beside him. Then they parted in the melee and Fonthill was bending low and firing at a succession of figures who tried to bring him down and desperately urging his horse on until, blessedly, he was through the attackers and into open space on the other side.

  He reined his horse around and found Jenkins, bleeding from a sword wound in his thigh, galloping towards him, grinning and waving his revolver. As he watched, others emerged from the fray and, there was the colonel, Major Darwin at his side, blood oozing from his calf, waving his sword and ordering the bugler to sound the re-form.

  Somehow, the regiment began to make a coherent formation again and Fonthill realised, with relief, that there were very few riderless horses among them. The pace and force of the charge had taken the tribesmen on their flank and carried the cavalry straight through them, leaving scores of lifeless figures on the plain behind them.

  A cheer sounded from behind the low wall of the Crater and it was immediately answered by the tribal cry of the Pathans – the Pathans, that is, who formed the Guides’ cavalry, who were now waving their sabres at their colonel and forming up into some kind of formation.

  Wiping his brow, Fonthill realised that, for the first time in his life, he had taken part in a cavalry charge in earnest – and he had survived. What’s more, so had Jenkins. He took out his watch. The whole thing, from the moment they had cantered down from the brow of the Pass until now, had taken just three minutes! He realised that he was trembling.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ he called to Jenkins.

  ‘It’s nothing. The tip of the bugger’s sword just caught me before I got ’im. ’Ardly worth patchin’. But blimey – what a ride, eh!’

  ‘352. Thank you for pushing me back. I think I would have regained the saddle, so it was not necessary to nursemaid me, you know. But thank you, anyway. Damnit, you’re always there, aren’t you?’

  The Welshman, perspiration trickling down into his wide moustache, had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Ah, bach sir. I don’t mean to be pissin’ in your pocket, so to speak. But it’s me job, look you. What else would I be doin’, now?’

  A sudden crackle of musketry from the hills to their right caused the colonel to raise his sword and shout, ‘Back to the Crater now, at the gallop!’ As he led, so the whole column, now strung out less than tidily, followed until they were all safely through the wooden gate that was swung back for them.

  Safely inside, Fortescue was warmly welcomed by the officer commanding the post, a fiercely moustached Colonel Meiklejohn, of the 20th Punjabis, who shook hands all around. It was clear that he was vastly relieved to have reinforcements.

  ‘Are your infantry on their way as well, Fortescue?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Right behind us – though I don’t expect them to arrive for about another nine hours or so, poor blighters. It was bad enough for us but it will have been worse for them. But they will get here, don’t you worry. Here, come and meet someone interesting.’

  He walked Meiklejohn over to where Fonthill was attempting to bandage Jenkins’s thigh. ‘This is Fonthill – you may have heard of him. You were at Kandahar with Roberts, I know. Fonthill was there too, and he’s the chap, with his man here, Jenkins, who got through to Gordon in Khartoum and then was nabbed by the Mahdi as he tried to get back. They’ve already shown they’re damned good fighters, as if we didn’t know already.’

  ‘Good Lord, yes.’ Meiklejohn held out his hand. ‘Heard of both of you and I’m delighted to meet you at last.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘Don’t quite know what you’re doing here charging around with this superannuated cavalryman here, but you are most welcome. Welcome then, from the frying pan to the fire.’

  Everyone smiled and Fortescue briefly related Fonthill and Jenkins’s reasons for visiting Marden.

  ‘You must have had a tough time of it through the night, Colonel,’ observed Simon.

  ‘Yes. They just kept coming at us, throwing themselves forward almost onto our bayonets, so to speak. We have made some bayonet charges straight back at ’em in counter-attacks through the dark hours and that’s shaken ’em a bit. But they have still kept coming in the darkness and there has been a lot of hand-to-hand stuff.’

  He turned back to Fortescue. ‘I have deployed men to extend our defences out behind stone sangars along the ridge up to the fort on our right. The Pathans haven’t shown much interest in the fort, so I’ve taken some of the two hundred 24th Punjabis defending it to man our perimeters.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘We’ve taken a fair number of casualties through the night, including some of my officers, but now that you’re here I’m sure we can hold out. I doubt they will attack us during the heat of the day, but they are showing no sign of retreating.’

  Fonthill nodded. ‘Who are they? I mean, what tribe?’

  ‘They’re Swats, from directly north of here. We are just about in their territory.’ He gestured up the road. ‘But there are new fellers arriving in considerable numbers, as you can see. They’re the chaps dressed in brown coming from the hills to the left. They’re Bunerwals from the west. We’ve not had trouble with them since 1863, but obviously the word has got out that there is rich pickings to be had and the vultures are gathering for the feast.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Trouble is … see that little mud-walled building beyond our defences on the road that forks to the north-east?’

  The three men nodded. ‘That was our serai, where we held our ammunition reserves. There was no time to evacuate it with the ammunition, so it was held by one of our subedars and a handful of sepoys for six hours during the night. Most of them were killed but the subedar and five men were just able to get away in the final onslaught. Wonderful chaps but they couldn’t bring the ammo with them. So I’m afraid we are running low. What have you brought, Fortescue?’

  ‘Enough to share with you, and the infantry will have reserves.’

  ‘Splendid. Now, the attacks have eased since you have come, so get some rest and perhaps we can talk about deploying your men. Are you happy, old chap, to put yourself under my command?’

  ‘Of course. It’s your show.’

  The two men walked away in deep conversation and Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances.

  ‘I’d say, two of the old school, bach sir,’ observed Jenkins.

  ‘Yes. Better than at Isandlewana. Just as brave but with more sense, it seems to me.’

  ‘Well, I do ’ope so. It all sounds a bit Rorke’s Drift to me, look you – though you were there and I wasn’t.’

  ‘No. Not as bad as the Drift. We’ve got the best part of a brigade here. There, we had only a company of half invalids, although the Zulus only had a handful of rifles, of course. This lot seem to have a veritable arsenal supplying them. Ah well, never mind.’ He tightened the bandage. ‘Now, how’s that? Too tight? It’s stopped bleeding, anyway. Do you want to see the doctor?’

>   ‘Gawd no, thank you kindly. I am now once again a splendid example of a Welsh fightin’ machine. Though a bit tired, look you.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can find a bit of shade and curl up somewhere. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

  They found a patch of shade behind one of the huts in the centre of the Crater, unravelled their poshteens and were soon blissfully asleep, in spite of the sporadic rattle of rifle fire from the low hills around them.

  They woke, some three hours later, to eat what was left of their sandwiches and drink water from their canteens. Some of the Guides were now manning the perimeter wall of the Crater and Simon could see others lining the stone sangars up the ridge to the right. Fonthill unslung his field glasses and focused them up the roads that wound down and round to the right and left after they split just down below the Crater. He frowned. The narrow gaps in the hills from both directions were filled by masses of tribesmen, advancing towards the defences of Malakand. He put down the glasses and shook his head. How could this badly mauled post hold out against such numbers?

  He beckoned to Jenkins. ‘See if the horses are all right. Then find the colonel – either one will do – and ask where they would like us. Oh, and see if you can find a couple of bayonets from somewhere. I would feel much happier with lungers on the end of the Lee-Metfords.’

  ‘Blimey, so would I.’

  Inevitably, Jenkins – the indomitable forager – returned within the half-hour carrying two bayonets, two mugs of hot tea and a fistful of chapattis, concealing something hot and spicy. Then the two took up their positions with the native troops manning the east side of the abattis. These were just hastily positioned poles of wood fixed at just below shoulder height and topped by strands of barbed wire.

  There they crouched through most of the afternoon, ducking their heads as an occasional bullet thudded into the abattis or pinged overhead.

  Towards late afternoon a bugle sounded from high on the Pass and a cheer went up from the fort, then echoed by the defenders in the Crater, as a line of khaki-clad figures could be seen cresting the kotal. There they paused and the sunlight glinted off steel as bayonets were fixed. The Guides’ infantry had arrived!

  The line of troops manning the stone sangars up to the fort set up covering fire to protect the infantry and no attempt was made by the Pathans to attack as they marched wearily but solidly down to the Crater. There they were dispersed inside the defences to get some rest before the inevitable night attack, for they had marched for nearly eighteen hours, with only brief breaks, and they were exhausted.

  As the sun set, however, drums began beating from the hills and the cries of the tribesmen began to rise to a crescendo that made the defenders manning the abattis feel that they were caught in the centre of some kind of crazily discordant orchestra, conducted by the devil himself.

  ‘What they tryin’ to do, burst our bleedin’ eardrums?’ shouted Jenkins.

  ‘Save your breath,’ grunted Fonthill. ‘They’re creeping nearer and, as soon as the sun goes down, they’ll be at us over this bit of open ground in their thousands. We’ll need to fire as fast as we can, so lay out your spare magazines.’

  So it proved. No sooner had the last rays of the sun flickered away over the jagged hilltop then the cries changed to screams and the earth shook as thousands of sandals thudded across the beaten ground. As Fonthill and Jenkins levelled their rifles and squinted down the barrels a solid mass of figures, waving swords, emerged from the gloom, startlingly close.

  Immediately, the wall of the abattis was lit by the flashes of the rifles. There was no need for the defenders to aim. So massed were the attackers and so short the range that it was impossible to miss. The complete front rank of the charging tribesmen fell, bringing down with them those immediately in the rear. But the following lines jumped over the bodies and ran on … into the wall of death produced by the line of Martini-Henrys, firing and being reloaded as fast as brown fingers could ram the cartridges into the breeches.

  Despite the speed with which the sepoys could fire and reload their single-shot rifles, the ten-shot magazines of the Lee-Metfords at the shoulders of Fonthill and Jenkins could more than treble the firepower of the older rifles and, working the breech bolts feverishly, they were able to cut a noticeable swathe in the phalanx of attackers immediately in front of them. Nevertheless, it was more than ten minutes before the tribesmen, now seriously hindered by the bodies at their feet, paused and then – as was their custom – began retrieving their wounded and the corpses that littered the earth before retreating.

  ‘No firing,’ shouted Meiklejohn. ‘Save your ammunition. Let them collect their dead.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Jenkins wiped his mouth and moustache with the back of his hand, spreading the smudge of cordite across his cheek. ‘I thought they’d never stop comin’. They’ve got guts, I’ll give ’em that.’

  Fonthill slumped down, his back to the barricade. ‘They think that if we kill ’em, they’ll go straight to Paradise.’ He grunted. ‘The pearly gates are going to be a bit crowded by the time this night is over.’ He looked up. ‘You all right, 352?’

  ‘Just about, thank you. ’Ow long will they keep chargin’, d’yer think?’

  ‘Well, there are certainly enough of them out there to keep attacking all through this night and then the next. How’s your thigh?’

  ‘Ah, stopped bleedin’ ages ago. It was just a scratch.’

  ‘Good, but you will have lost a bit of blood, at least. Close your eyes for a minute. I’ll keep watch.’

  ‘Thank you, bach sir. Best keep lookin’. They come out of the darkness so quick, bless you, that they’re ’ere before you’d know it, see.’

  Further down the line, the abattis had been breached after intensive hand-to-hand fighting and a handful of Pathans had broken through. The small reserve that Meiklejohn had stationed in the middle of the Crater, however, rushed forward and the intruders were killed within seconds, after which anxious hands restored the barrier.

  The respite after the first charge lasted only long enough for the tribesmen to clear away their dead and wounded, before more beating of drums announced a fresh wave of attacks. Once again, the Pathans rushed forward in a maniacal desire to get to close quarters where their swords and knives could take effect. And once again, the crashing volleys brought them down in untidy lines, like piles of seaweed left high on a beach to mark the highest of the tide.

  So it went on through the night until dawn brought succour to the exhausted defenders. Immediately, the officers began checking the casualties.

  Fonthill wandered over to where Meiklejohn and Fortescue were crouched, sipping from tin mugs of coffee.

  ‘Thank you, Fonthill,’ said the former, raising his mug. ‘I watched you. You and your chap have done sterling work through the night. Sorry we can’t put you in charge somewhere but, to be honest, your sharp shooting with those Lee-Metfords are more valuable to us than having you charging around waving a sword.’

  ‘Of course he’s useful,’ grunted Fortescue. ‘He’s a Guide – even if only an honorary one.’

  ‘Have some coffee, my dear chap,’ offered Meiklejohn, ‘you’ve earned it.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, Colonel.’ Simon accepted the mug. ‘It seemed touch and go through the night. Tell me, have we suffered many casualties?’

  Meiklejohn extracted a scrap of paper from his pocket and consulted it. ‘Bad enough. Forty-two casualties in all. Not as bad as the night before, though. We lost three officers killed then and three wounded. Of the men, there were twenty-one killed and thirty-one wounded. If these losses continue we shall be in trouble. One good thing, though – just before daybreak I was able to get parties out on both sides of the Crater with bayonets and screw guns to clear the foothills. They had trouble at first but we managed to beat back the devils near to us, so the sniping during the day should be less dangerous.

  ‘Now.’ He threw away the dregs of his coffee. ‘You must excuse me. There is much to do.’


  Indeed there was. As before, there were no direct attacks during the day and the sorties just before dawn had cleared the close foothills of snipers, although spasmodic firing continued through the day at long range. The tired defenders were put to work repairing the defences. Trees were cut down to thicken up the abattis, the breastworks were strengthened and the barbed wire entanglements renewed. The wounded were tended and then, when the perimeter was judged to be suitably improved, the men were marked off in sections to gain sleep in preparation for another night of attacks.

  Once again, at dusk, the bugles sounded the stand-to and, as the light faded, the drums increased their tempi and now the voices of the mullahs could be heard urging their men forward, promising everlasting life for every infidel they killed. And, once again, as the darkness descended, the tribesmen attacked, screaming derision and waving their swords, banners and long daggers.

  The Pathans’ tactics never changed during the long hours of darkness. Broken only by spells during which they carried back their dead and wounded, the tribesmen kept hurling themselves forward, supported by their riflemen firing from the positions they had been forced to evacuate during the day.

  For Fonthill and Jenkins this second night descended into a cauldron of robot-like firing, reloading, cooling their rifles with precious water whenever there was a lull, and – on two heart-in-mouth occasions – thrusting with their long bayonets at the wide-eyed figures who had managed to approach the abattis and were hacking at them with their long swords. The Guides’ troopers on either side of the pair lacked bayonets, which could not be fitted to their shorter carbines, so they had to resort to slashing with their sabres, sword on sword, taking the conflict back, in Simon’s heightened imagination, to the days of the Crusades.