Bayonets Along the Border

by John Wilcox

  He paused for a moment, but Alice did not respond. What was the point? Then he continued, in emotionless, matter-of-fact terms.

  ‘Your husband, by the way, is dead.’

  ‘What!’ Alice felt that a dagger had been thrust through her heart. She swallowed hard, then sat for a moment, breathing hard. ‘You lie, of course. It would take more than a man sent down from Cambridge to kill my magnificent husband.’

  The thrust had obviously gone home, for she saw him start for a moment. ‘Oh, I assure you. It is quite true. I decided that it would be a waste of time attempting to get him to persuade the Amir to help us – and, indeed, we do not need the troops of that feeble old man. We have more than enough men to send Lockhart scuttling back to Peshawar. No, my dear Mrs Fonthill, I sent a unit of my troops into Afghanistan to intercept him and cut him down. They were successful.’

  Alice swallowed again. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Whether you believe me or not does not concern me.’ He moved for the first time and paced around the interior, a tall, dark, threatening figure, despite the whiteness of his robes.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘you can still be useful to me. We are quite prepared to negotiate with General Lockhart, who, by the way, is well known and quite respected in these parts, on the question of relinquishing some territory that we have captured – Pathan territory, of course – back to the British if they are prepared to spare both sides much bloodshed and relinquish their plans to invade Tirah.’

  He stopped his pacing and stared down at Alice again. ‘Let me explain. The Tirah is about 900 square miles of territory shared by the Afridi and Orakzai tribes and is found about midway between the Khyber and Kurram valleys. It is cut off from Peshawar by the great Safed Koh range. No invader has ever penetrated this upland territory but our spies tell us that General Lockhart is assembling a great force to do just that.’

  Ali smiled, so that his dark eyes lit up. ‘He knows – and we know that he knows – that this invasion is going to be extremely difficult for him. This is mountainous country that is unmapped and he will have no safe lines of communication. What is more, we can put between forty and fifty thousand rifles in the field to stop him. As I say, there will be much bloodshed.’

  Alice had listened with great care. She frowned. ‘But where on earth do I come in?’

  ‘You can stop this invasion. At the moment, it is our estimation that Lockhart will stop at nothing to avenge the loss of his precious forts in the Khyber. They seem to have an iconic value to the stupid people of England, fuelled by the jingoistic press of Fleet Street. To regain them would placate the great British public.’

  Alice’s frown deepened. ‘So why should Lockhart invade this difficult territory that you describe. Why not just storm up the Khyber Pass and retake the forts?’

  ‘Ah. Two reasons. Firstly, he knows that this will not be easy. The Afghans were able to hold up General Sir Sam Browne’s invading force in the Pass two decades ago and we are rebuilding the forts and they will be difficult nuts to crack. The second reason, however, is the main one. Lockhart understands that this so-called Pathan Revolt is something more than just another local uprising. He and his government have decided to advance into the heart of Pathan territory, the Tirah, and cut that heart out of the Pathan nation, so to speak. A conclusive victory – not some local triumph, such as the recapture of the forts – is what they require. They want to stamp out any further uprisings in this way.’

  ‘Under certain circumstances,’ Ali went on, ‘we might concede, say, the forts, back to the British Raj. But we know that Lockhart will never negotiate with what he regards as a wild bunch of Pathan savages.’

  ‘I don’t blame him.’

  ‘You are being stupid, Mrs Fonthill. You are also being hypocritical. We are well aware that, in your writings for the … what is it? Ah yes, the famed Morning Post, you have been less than supportive of the British Raj with its occupation of the Frontier country after the establishment of the Durand Line.’

  ‘Well … yes. But only moderately so.’

  ‘Maybe, but we know that the Post is very much a Tory newspaper and jingoistic at that. It is read by,’ he hesitated and his voice took on a sneering note, ‘the great and the good of Great Britain. We want you to write a more opinionated piece, based on an interview you have secured with the Mullah Sayyid Akbar, the most influential leader of the Pathan so-called rebels—’

  Alice interrupted. ‘I would genuinely get to meet him?’

  ‘It could be arranged. You would put the viewpoint of the Pathans, including – what is very important – our religious views. If we approved it, we could make arrangements for it to be cabled directly to your newspaper in London.’

  Alice sighed. ‘I am afraid that you are very naïve, Ali. My newspaper would see through this in an instant and recognise it as propaganda written under duress – even if I was prepared to write it. Which I definitely am not.’

  The silence that followed hung over the interior of the tent, seeming somehow to increase the heat already present. Then Ali nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I anticipated that response. Our second request is more important and you will not refuse it.’

  Alice drew in her breath. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You will write to General Lockhart, explaining that you are in our hands. You will explain the reasons against invading the Tirah, that I have already given to you. You will refer to our agreeing to begin negotiations. And, you will say that, if he does not agree to meeting with us, you will be executed by us.’

  ‘He won’t care.’ Alice shook her head. ‘What is the life of one woman against the strategy of the British government? He will say that if you go ahead with your threat, you will be hanged when your armies are defeated, as they undoubtedly will be, given the greater firepower of the British. He will do his duty. If you know the British, you will know that. And, in any case, he will want proof that “my” letter is genuine …’

  Her voice tailed away as she realised that she had given Ali, perhaps literally, a hostage to fortune. The black eyes gleamed again. ‘Ah that is no problem, Mrs Fonthill. We will sever your ringed finger and send it to the general as proof of the letter’s origin. And if you still refuse to write the letter, then we shall cut off a finger a day, until you do. Remember, madam, there is no anaesthetic. And we shall saw. Not chop.

  ‘However, if you agree to our request, you and the general will be informed that you will be released to the British at the site of the meeting. Now,’ he paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps you do not believe that we would carry through all of this. Well, I am afraid that you have already seen that this is a cruel country. And a determined one. Let me demonstrate.’

  He shouted in Pushtu and immediately two large tribesmen entered. As Alice retreated in horror, one seized her arm and held it down while the other pushed her down onto the bed by the throat. In almost the same moment, Ali drew a long knife from the scabbard at his belt, inserted the tip of the blade into the soft flesh below the bend of her arm and drew it down quickly for some six inches.

  Alice cried out at the pain and the blood spurted out onto her bed.

  Ali nodded and the two Pathans released her. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘that is only a flesh wound. The pain of cutting through bone will be considerably greater. You have just two days to reflect on this, for I have to be away on urgent business. This time you will not escape because your tent is surrounded. Writing materials will be brought to you. Think about it, Mrs Fonthill, and begin writing your letter …’

  He turned on his heel and left the tent with his attendants, leaving Alice weeping at the pain and in frustration and trying to staunch the flow of blood with the scrap of fabric that was her towel.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fonthill and his two companions crossed the Border without knowing it, until Inderjit, looking back over his shoulder to the right, pointed to one of the boundary posts that could just be seen in the distance behind them.

  ‘W
elcome back to the Pathan States,’ muttered Simon, adjusting his unusually flamboyant red and green turban. He wiped his forehead and cursed. It undoubtedly had become hotter as, leaving behind them the fertile plain of Afghanistan, they began to climb up into the hills.

  They were trudging now by compass bearing, for Fonthill was wagering that the tribesman’s estimation of the Pathan encampment being some two miles due north of Fort Landi Kotal was roughly accurate. They had long since left behind the Kabul road, the extension of the Khyber Pass, whose towering sides they had glimpsed to their right, but dared not risk approaching the fort to gain a precise bearing. So Simon was now leading his little party on a north-easterly direction and, of course, upwards.

  ‘What exactly is the plan, then, bach sir?’ enquired Jenkins. Because of his thick thatch of black hair that stood, broom-like, vertically from his scalp, the Welshman had never been able to keep any sort of cover on his head for longer than ten minutes or so. Now, predictably, his turban had become unravelled and the end was trailing down his back.

  ‘The first objective is to get you looking something like a pukka Pathan again,’ hissed Fonthill. ‘Here. Let me try and fix that damned turban.’ He began rewinding it. ‘You’ve got to have something on your head to avoid heatstroke, although I doubt if anything would penetrate that skull of yours.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much, I’m sure.’ He stood submissively as Simon began trying to retie the turban and then handed the job over to the more skilled daffadar. ‘If it was left to me, I’m sure I could lead us straight to the heart of these Patroons, or whatever you call ’em.’

  ‘Humph. If it was left to you we would walk straight into the only bar in the whole of India. Now, as to a plan, I don’t have one, except,’ Simon nodded upwards, ‘to keep climbing this mountain until we find some sort of trail. When we do – and Inderjit tells me that there are one or two villages somewhere about here, higher up, and villages need tracks for their livestock – we will follow the track to the right. We will either then meet a village and ask where the encampment is, explaining that we have come to join the army of the Mullah Sayyid Akbar, or come to the camp itself, because that many men will need a good-sized track.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Jenkins nodded thanks as the turban tying was finished, ‘but what do we do then?’

  Simon’s eyes clouded for a moment as he gazed again up the hillside. ‘We find Alice – if she’s still alive – and rescue her. Exactly how, I don’t know. We must just react to the circumstances. If Alice is still alive, we get her out. If she is not, I will find the man who killed her and you two can slip away in the general confusion. Come on. That’s enough talking. We can’t waste time.’

  They trudged on, sometimes slipping backwards as the shale became more fragmented and the climb steeper. Once, they thought they heard a sound off to their right and immediately stopped, covering the ground with the muzzles of their rifles. But nothing appeared and they continued their wearying climb, until night fell and they were forced to lie where they had halted, wrapped in their poshteens to ward off the cold that set in as soon as the sun had disappeared.

  With the dawn, they made tea over a tiny fire of brushwood and chewed on the provisions they had brought. As they prepared to continue the climb, Inderjit caught Fonthill’s arm.

  ‘I have been thinking, sahib,’ he said.

  ‘Blimey,’ muttered Jenkins, ‘personally, it’s somethin’ I try not to do. I find it makes your ’at fall off.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Go on, Inderjit.’

  ‘If we are questioned by Pathan soldiers, I think it best we say we come from Persia by way of Kabul. Because we are wrong end of country now to have travelled here from Persia. Better we say we had some reason to be in Kabul. And why do we walk? People from Persia would have come by horse.’

  ‘Hmmm. Yes. I should have thought this through.’ He frowned. ‘Been worried about Alice, I suppose, which doesn’t help anyone. We had better think of a plausible story to explain why we are walking about the Hindu Kush in old clothes. Do you have any suggestions?’

  ‘I am not sure. But I am Sikh and Sikhs are famous throughout Border country for being horse-traders. Some of best horses are from Persia. Two go together.’

  Jenkins nodded his head. ‘Good thinkin’, Inja. I was just goin’ to say that.’

  Simon closed his eyes in thought. ‘Yes.’ He spoke, his eyes still closed. ‘We bought horses from you in Persia and then, with you, travelled to Kabul to sell them, via contacts you had there. We were on our way back, hoping to go through the Khyber and buy more horses in Peshawar, when we were ambushed by Afghan brigands, of whom there are plenty. They took our clothes and money and they were going to kill us but we regained our guns and fought them off but not before they had taken our horses …’

  ‘So,’ asked Jenkins, ‘what are we doin’ ploddin’ about up ’ere amongst these lovely rocks, instead of walkin’ along that nice an’ level Khyber Pass, then?’

  ‘Well … we killed several of them and took their clothes. We heard that the forts were taken and, without horses or money and with only our guns, we decided that we would join the Mullah Sayyid Akbar and offer him our services in the fight against the British, hoping that there would be loot from his victories that we could share in. We are looking for his encampment which we had heard was up here in the hills.’

  ‘Not bad, bach sir, not bad. It might just work.’

  ‘Can you think of something better, Inderjit?’

  ‘No, sahib. We all know there are plenty robbers in Afghanistan. It sound … er …. plossi … plussib …’

  ‘I think,’ said Jenkins with an all-embracing smile, ‘that “plissible” is the word you’re searchin’ for, old chap.’

  ‘Or even “plausible”,’ said Simon. ‘Right, that’s our story. If we are stopped, Inderjit will do the talking. Only call on me if you think you must and if you think my Pushtu will pass. But don’t call me “sahib”.’

  ‘Sorry, sah— Ah, sorry.’

  Fonthill kicked the ashes of their fire away and covered them with stones, then they picked up their rifles and continued their climb. They found no real trails, only goats’ tracks, and they camped that night again amongst the rocks.

  They had been climbing for perhaps two hours the following morning when they met the boys. There were two of them, about fifteen years of age, tending to a small herd of scraggy goats grazing on a level scrap of sparse, yellowish grass that was sustained by a stream. At first they looked frightened as the three emerged suddenly from below but their apprehension disappeared as Inderjit gave them a wave and addressed them.

  Fonthill and Jenkins hung back and sat on a rock, looking uninterested and chewing on a piece of dried meat as the conversation ensued. Eventually the Sikh ruffled the hair of the larger of the two and gestured to his two companions to continue the climb to the right. Out of earshot, he explained.

  ‘Boys say their village is up ahead,’ he said, ‘and we can buy food there and fill our water bags. The Mullah Sayyid’s camp is only about an hour’s march from the village, up ahead and to the east. We just need to follow the trail. Climb no more.’

  ‘Anything more – about the camp, I mean?’ Simon tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

  ‘Ah yes, sah … Lord. Yes, most important of all. Older boy says it is common knowledge that white woman is kept captive in camp. Nobody knows why but villagers have delivered food for her.’

  Fonthill closed his eyes in relief and let out a huge sigh. ‘Thank God for that,’ he exclaimed. ‘If they are feeding her then she must be all right and they are not harming her …’ He shot an anxious glance at both of his companions. ‘Well, I can’t think why they would be harming her, can you?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Inderjit.

  ‘Course not,’ chimed in Jenkins. ‘I told you they wouldn’t. Did they say, Inja, where she was bein’ kept, like? In an ’ut or somethin’?’

  ‘He thought it was a tent, a
t far end of village.’

  ‘Good.’ Simon nodded, his face now a picture of relief. ‘A tent. Good. That gives us a chance.’

  ‘Can’t quite see why, though,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘What are we goin’ to do? Stride up an‘ ’uff an’ puff and blow it down?’

  ‘If we know she’s all right, we can afford now to wait until darkness. Perhaps cut our way into the tent …’

  ‘Which is bound to be guarded,’ sniffed Jenkins.

  ‘Of course. But whatever we do, we will have to do it stealthily. And that means under cover of darkness. As I said, we will need to react to the circumstances. Let’s get food and drink from this village because we will need it if we manage to get away with Alice. We will see also if our story goes down with the villagers. If it doesn’t, we’ll just have to think of something else. Inderjit, see if we can learn something more about the camp – how many men there, how well it is guarded, and that sort of thing. But whatever you do, don’t arouse suspicion.’

  The village was little more than a cluster of small dwellings, built of random stones and huddled together in the lee of the mountainside on a rare patch of level ground on either side of a wide trail that led east to west through the hamlet. It seemed that the young men had been swept up by the mullah when he had stormed down from the north and west through the valleys, a few days ago, swelling his army by the force of his rhetoric as he preached jihad against the British. It was clear as they approached the village that a multitude had come this way, for the ground was flattened with rocks pushed away and the scree stamped down by thousands of feet.

  The elders were only too happy to sell eggs, meat and unleavened bread to the travellers and allow them to replenish their water from a well. As Inderjit talked to the adults, Fonthill and Jenkins played with the children, the Welshman causing squeals of delight as he mutely produced coins from the ears and mouths of the little ones, crouching in the dust.