by John Wilcox
Simon handed the field glasses back to Appleby-Smith. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s what I thought I saw. Strange you didn’t see it, Clarence. Never mind. I suggest that what we do now is alert the column, but take no obvious action yet. We will continue to advance as though we have not seen any evidence of the ambush. Then, at the last minute, we split the column into two, with Buckingham’s troop peeling off and then galloping up the track to the right, so taking these people from the rear, while we attack them from the front. Would you agree, Clarence?’
‘What? Oh, I am not sure about that. A frontal attack would be very dangerous …’
Taking a deep breath to control himself, Fonthill murmured, ‘Good. I am glad you agree.’ He turned to Lieutenant Dawson, who had overheard the conversation and was attempting to hide a smile. ‘Would you be kind enough to slip back to give the necessary orders, Mr Dawson? Don’t make much of a fuss in doing so. We are probably now being watched quite closely. The rear troop should approach that path to the right at the gallop, climb it and then dismount and attack those fellows with their carbines. Understood?’
Dawson stole an anxious glance at his captain then nodded. ‘Understood, sir.’
Simon turned back to Appleby-Smith. ‘Just a suggestion, Clarence, but I am sure you agree?’
‘Well, I’m not sure—’
‘Splendid. Carry on, Mr Dawson.’
Dawson pulled on his reins and allowed himself to be subsumed into the main ranks of the column as it continued to walk forward. He gave detailed instructions to the daffadars of his own troop, and then to Buckingham riding in the rear. Immediately, there was an air of expectancy among all the troopers and Buckingham’s troop began slowly, almost imperceptibly drawing away to the right.
‘Too soon, damnit,’ murmured Fonthill. He turned to Jenkins. ‘Slip back and tell Buckingham to stay in column until I give the order. He should not break out until the last possible minute …’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
As the column approached at walking pace, Simon pondered the situation. Appleby-Smith was right, of course, it was dangerous to make a frontal attack on an enemy esconced safely behind cover, but he gambled that the diversion made by Buckingham’s gallop to the rear of them would create alarm and confusion and allow the other troop to attack without meeting too much resistance.
He wondered about the origins of these men lying in wait. He turned his head but the plain behind was clear so this was not some concerted pincer movement. Perhaps they were just brigands? Unlikely. They wouldn’t take on a squadron of Guides in broad daylight. So perhaps the Amir had sent a unit of his army out ahead to lie in wait? They could present a more dangerous threat. But this, too, was unlikely. The Amir would not risk attacking a squadron of the British Indian army in his own country and so aggravate his delicate relations with the Viceroy.
Jenkins had now rejoined Fonthill at the head of the column. ‘Everything ready, bach sir,’ he murmured. Simon nodded and stole a glance at Appleby-Smith. The man was undoubtedly uneasy at the prospect of battle. Perspiration was now beginning to show on his face and he kept adjusting his position in the saddle. How on earth had this man survived in command of a squadron on the North-West Frontier?
The column was now some two hundred yards from where the road began to climb and bend around a cluster of boulders that jutted out from the left. The path to the right could now be clearly seen. It was probably no more than a goat’s track and offered only passage for horsemen in single file. Never mind. It would have to do. At least it seemed as though it was completely unoccupied.
Fonthill loosened the sword in his scabbard and hoped that it had been forged to perform duties more demanding than merely ceremonial. He swallowed. This could be difficult work, fighting man-to-man among the rocks. Something for which Afghans and Pathans were better prepared than cavalry, who lacked bayonets.
He licked his lips and nodded to Jenkins, who almost imperceptibly inclined his head in encouragement. Simon realised that he would now have to drop the pretence that Appleby-Smith was in command and he raised his hand to halt the column.
Turning his head, he lifted his voice, making sure that every word was enunciated clearly, for, although he had spent months in Afghanistan years ago as a captain in the Guides, he had never been a cavalry man and was unfamiliar with the formal words of command. And no bugle call could convey the convoluted nature of the orders he wished to convey.
‘Rear troop,’ he shouted, ‘will pull out and approach that path on the right at the gallop and climb it. Front troop will remain at the halt. Now – rear troop, CHARGE!’
Immediately, Buckingham, revolver in hand, pulled his mount out of the column, dug in his spurs and led his troop at the gallop. A scattered volley rang out from the rocks ahead but seemed to have little effect as the troop thundered by, scattering dust and stones.
Fonthill waited just long enough to see Buckingham and his men break into single file and climb the track, now slipping and sliding, before he raised his hand and addressed the remaining troop. ‘Troop will gallop to the front and then halt at the order, take carbines and dismount,’ he shouted. ‘Handlers will take the horses to the rear. Troop will then attack the enemy behind the rocks on foot. Now – CHARGE!’
Vaguely aware that he was ordering a most difficult manoeuvre in the face of the enemy – charging, halting, dismounting and then advancing as infantry – Simon kicked his spurs into the flank of his mount, drew his sword and lowered his head as his horse took off.
He was a poor horseman, but he could not fail to be elated as he led the most exciting act in the cavalryman’s repertoire: the charge. In fact, the elation almost led him too far and the last horseman in Buckingham’s troop was just beginning to climb the path when Fonthill held up his hand and screamed HALT! He looked around in some consternation but Dawson and Jenkins close behind him were slipping from their saddles and, as though on the parade ground, the troopers were pulling their carbines from their saddle buckets, similarly slipping down the sides of their mounts, and the handlers were rushing forward, each man taking the reins of four horses.
The charge had taken the troop to the right, at the foot, indeed, of the path up which Buckingham and his men had disappeared. For the moment, no rifle fire was directed at them, although Fonthill could hear shouts and shots coming from the path above them. Dawson was giving orders for his men to form up in a loose formation and when that was completed he looked expectantly at Fonthill. Of Appleby-Smith there was no sign.
‘Right,’ shouted Simon. ‘Take command, Mr Dawson. Climb these rocks and direct volleys at the enemy.’
He waved his sword and wished that the ceremonial dress – that he had not changed in his haste to leave Kabul – carried a revolver holster. He had no faith either in this fancy sword or in his skill as a swordsman. Nevertheless, he scrambled up the rocks before him and rounded the bend in the road. Immediately he saw that, more by luck than good judgement, they had taken about half of the waiting tribesmen from the side, in enfilade, for they were lined up behind the rocks skirting the side of the road in some confusion, under fire now from Buckingham’s men above them and still waiting for the main column to appear before them. On the other side of the road, rifles could be seen protruding from the cover there.
Dawson had now overtaken Fonthill and he immediately took command of his troop, which was deploying up the slope. ‘Daffadar Kummul,’ he shouted. ‘Take your section onto the other side of the road and attack the enemy there. Climb above them. The remainder, at the enemy ahead, commence volley firing. FIRE! RELOAD! FIRE! RELOAD! FIRE!’
Fonthill lowered his sword and watched in admiration as the volleys rang out, thundering like artillery fire in the narrow defile. There was little response from the men waiting in ambush, for those on the opposite side of the road were attempting to crawl away to avoid being surrounded by Kummul’s men and those on the near side were falling like ninepins under fire both from above and the sid
e.
It was over very quickly. The tribesmen began slipping away, disappearing between the rocks in the manner for which they had become famous, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Simon had a sudden thought. ‘Dawson,’ he shouted. ‘See if your chaps can take a couple of prisoners. They could be valuable. Let the rest go.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Jenkins materialised at his side. ‘Now where d’yer think the captain ’as buggered off to?’ he murmured. ‘Gone to get reinforcements, d’yer think?’
Fonthill grinned. ‘Probably from Peshawar, I should say. Are you all right?’
‘Absolutely fine, thank you. ’Aven’t fired a shot in anger, see. Didn’t need to, really. Felt like a bloody dragoon. Except that I didn’t ’ave a sword to wave like you.’
Fonthill examined his weapon and pushed the point against a rock. It bent like cardboard. He gulped. ‘Thank God I didn’t have to use it. Come on. Let’s scramble up the lane to see how Buckingham’s got on.’
They met Inderjit Singh scrambling down the path towards them. ‘The lieutenant says that the enemy are retreating on foot, sir,’ he said. ‘He will find it difficult to pursue them on horseback among these rocks. Do you want us to risk chasing them on foot?’
‘No, thank you, Inderjit. Tell Mr Buckingham to bring his men back to the horses below and report to me on his casualties.’
The Sikh grinned over his shoulder. ‘Ah, very few, I think, sahib. We caught them with their … er … undertrousers down, I think.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill turned back to Jenkins. ‘A pretty damned good cavalry action, if I do say so myself. Wouldn’t you agree?’
The Welshman pulled a face. ‘Amazin’ you didn’t fall off in that charge, bach sir. I was ridin’ be’ind you, ready to push you back on all the way.’
‘Rubbish. Let’s go and count the losses.’
They were indeed few. No fatalities and only two men with superficial rifle wounds. Simon was congratulating the two lieutenants when a familiar figure came limping in on horseback.
‘Damned horse threw me in the charge,’ panted a dust-stained Captain Appleby-Smith. ‘Sorry. Hurt my shoulder a bit. Couldn’t remount in time to join you.’
‘Oh, hard luck, Clarence,’ said Fonthill, with a straight face. ‘Let Jenkins here have a look at that shoulder. He’s a good man at first aid, though a bit brutal.’
‘Not necessary, thank you. Just twisted it a bit. Damned horse just can’t be relied upon. Sorry to have … er … missed the fun.’
‘Very well. We sustained very few casualties, I am glad to say, and Dawson’s men have managed to bring in a couple of prisoners. I am anxious to interrogate them, but then we must be on our way. I doubt if we shall be attacked again this side of the frontier. Jenkins, would you please fetch Inderjit Singh, we shall need him to interpret.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
The two tribesmen were dishevelled and sullen, clearly expecting to be shot. They were left sitting on a rock, under guard, while Fonthill examined their rifles. They were Martini-Henry army issue, obviously captured.
Simon showed them to Jenkins and the three officers. ‘How did Afghans get these?’ he asked. ‘They haven’t been fighting us, have they?’
The Sikh, who had just joined them, interjected. ‘They not Afghans, sahib. They Afridis, from across the border. So are rest of these men, from what I can see. They all from the Khyber.’
Fonthill frowned and pursed his lips. ‘Pathans, eh? Most of the Afridis are supposed to be fighting their way up the Pass. Why have they crossed the Border? Could it be,’ he looked up at the others, ‘that they were sent over the Border to stop us returning with the Amir’s letter?’ His frown deepened. ‘That would presuppose that someone in that mullah’s rabble knew of our mission – and I don’t like the sound of that at all.’
Appleby-Smith wiped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘If that is so,’ he said, ‘then I suggest we make a wide detour, perhaps to the north, and cross the border well away from the western end of the Pass. There could be others lying in wait for us and we are not sufficiently strong to fight many of them, although we did … er … quite well here …’
His words tailed away as five pairs of eyes regarded him coldly.
‘Let us see what questioning the prisoners brings us,’ responded Fonthill. ‘But I am not prepared to abandon the route back along the Pass, which is, of course, the quickest way to Peshawar, unless we hear that the forts have fallen.’ It was his turn for his voice to drop away as he voiced his concern. He hated to think what might have happened to Alice if the unthinkable had occurred. But then he recalled Barton’s assurance about the impregnability of Fort Landi Kotal and his manner became brisk again. ‘We will question them separately to see if their stories match. Bring the first one here, Inderjit.’
The Pathan was perched on a rock while the five men surrounded him. He looked at them in turn with wide eyes.
‘Right, Inderjit,’ said Simon. ‘Explain to him that we are going to ask him a few questions. If he answers the questions honestly then we shall let him go …’
‘I do think that would be a mistake,’ interjected Appleby-Smith. ‘We should shoot him afterwards otherwise he could rejoin his friends and inform against us. He can see that we are not a strong unit.’
Fonthill sighed. ‘I don’t believe in shooting people out of hand – apart from which, Captain, we are a strong unit and our friend here can see that. Now, Inderjit, tell him that if he lies he will undoubtedly be shot. And we shall know if he is lying. Begin by asking him what he and his friends were doing on this side of the Afghan border.’
As the young Sikh began translating, the look of relief on the face of the Pathan was evident. The daffadar turned back. ‘He says that he will tell truth and that he honours English because he was a former sepoy. He says the party was told to wait here to ambush a squadron of Guides who were returning to Peshawar from Kabul.’
‘Damn!’ murmured Simon. ‘So the Afridis, at least, knew all about us. Ask him who gave the orders for this.’
‘He thinks it was the Mullah Sayyid Akbar himself.’
‘Ask him if the forts in the Pass are still holding out.’
Inderjit lowered his eyes as he translated the response. ‘He say that all three forts – Landi Kotal, Ali Masjid and Maude – have fallen and that Sayyid Akbar and his men control the whole of the Khyber Pass now. Landi was last to fall.’ There was a unanimous intake of breath from the four white men.
‘He could be lying,’ said Dawson.
‘Test him,’ said Fonthill in a low voice. ‘Ask him for details.’
The two men conversed in dialect for some time before the Sikh turned back. ‘He say that he was at Landi when Afridi sepoys opened gates. The white officer Barton was not there and Subedar Major Khan, who he knows from time in army, was in command and was killed. Some sepoys fought their way out of fort and were allowed to march back to Peshawar.’
‘Was there … was there a white woman in the fort when it was taken?’ Fonthill’s voice was now almost a whisper.
‘Yes, sahib.’ Inderjit’s voice was equally low. ‘It sounds like Fonthill Memsahib. He say she was working with wounded in cookhouse when they broke through. She … er … collapsed. But was taken, on litter, up into encampment in hills. He don’t know where.’
‘Yes, but … was she hurt?’
‘He think not. Just fainted.’
A silence fell on the little group. Then Fonthill spoke again. ‘Does he know what they were going to do with her?’
‘He don’t know. But he think they not hurt her. They put her on litter carefully and two men carry her away from fort. Then they set fire to fort. I think he tell the truth.’
Simon nodded, his face drawn. ‘Very well. But press him on the location of the encampment. He must know where the mullah and other leaders have their headquarters. Anything he can tell us will help.’
The daffadar eventually turne
d back. ‘He don’t know exactly where camp is because he not been there. But he hears it may be about two miles in hills directly north of Fort Landi. He say other man don’t know as well. He only joined the attack two days ago.’
Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘Thank you, Inderjit. And thank the man, too. Tell him he and his friend may go, but without their rifles. And tell him that if either of them is caught fighting against the British again they will be shot immediately.’
When this was translated to him, the Pathan’s face immediately lit up. He bowed to Simon and the others, saluted them for good measure and, waving to his companion, began climbing up the path before disappearing out of sight.
Jenkins immediately led his old comrade away from the group and gripped his arm. ‘She’ll be all right, bach sir,’ he said. ‘I feel it in me waters, look you. Miss Alice is as tough as … well, as tough as me, though she’s just a touch better looking. They won’t ’arm a white woman. They’ll probably keep ’er as some kind of ’ostage, see. An’ she’ll fight back at ’em, that she will.’
Fonthill nodded and then whispered through clenched teeth. ‘They mustn’t touch her. They mustn’t touch her.’
‘Course not. She won’t let ’em. Let’s go and find this place and get ’er out of there. We’ve got enough men to do that.’
‘No.’ Simon found and sat on a rock, his head in his hands. ‘There are too many of us to march up to this camp and attack it,’ he muttered. ‘We could not hope to ride through hills swarming with Pathans without being noticed and we would be overwhelmed before we got near it. But …’ He looked up. ‘Maybe three of us – you, me, and Inderjit to translate if we are stopped. Maybe three of us, suitably disguised …’
He looked around at the dead Pathans. ‘There are enough native clothes there for us to wear.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not pleasant, but it’s our only chance.’ He grinned faintly up at his old friend. ‘We’ve blacked up before and got away with it. We can do it again. If only we are in time … If only …’ He stood. ‘Come on.’