Bayonets Along the Border

by John Wilcox

  He dropped onto his stomach and wriggled his head and shoulders under the low opening at the rear. All was dark inside. ‘Are you awake, Alice?’

  ‘Yes, Simon. I’ve been waiting. But I am chained by the foot. Did you get the key?’

  ‘Yes. I am trying to wriggle in. Hold on.’

  Within seconds he was inside and, still kneeling, holding his wife in his arms. She put her head on his shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably.

  He kissed her tear-stained cheek and whispered into her ear. ‘You are all right now, my love. Jenkins and Inderjit are outside and we have horses – or will have. Now, we must be very quick and very quiet. Where’s this blasted padlock?’

  ‘On my right ankle. Here.’ She lifted it, but couldn’t control her sobs. ‘Oh, darling. I thought you were dead. And I was going to join you tomorrow.’

  ‘Well,’ he tried to grin but tears were trickling down his cheeks now, too. ‘You’re joining me now. Hang on. There. Let’s get rid of this damned chain. Now, can you wriggle out the way I came in?’

  ‘Oh yes. I am sure.’

  ‘Good. I will go first. You slip into the wood and wait a second or two. I must pretend to be the guard at the front. Be strong now.’

  He kissed her again, this time on the mouth and felt how dry and cracked her lips were. Then he wriggled back through the opening and found Jenkins and Inderjit waiting for him.

  ‘Is she all right, bach sir?’ Jenkins’s voice was anxious.

  ‘Not too good. Get to the compound and get the horses out. I will keep guard at the front of the tent. Have you hidden the … er … bodies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take the horses into the woods.’

  Holding his rifle to his shoulder, he strolled as nonchalantly as he could to the front of the tent. He sucked in his breath in relief and adopted the guard’s posture. All seemed quiet and from the corner of his eye he saw his two companions open the compound gate and approach the horses. He could just hear Jenkins talking to the mounts in a low, sing-song voice and remembered that his comrade had been brought up on a farm, amongst livestock.

  Then he saw the two freeze and drop to the ground among the horses as a Pathan emerged from out of the darkness and began to walk towards the compound. Then, the man caught sight of the two crouching among the horses, looked around in puzzlement and then turned and half ran, half stumbled towards Simon. Towards the rear Fonthill could hear low gasps as Alice was attempting to wriggle through the low opening.

  Simon half turned his back to the man and slipped the rifle off his shoulder so that it was hanging, at the trail position, at his side. He heard, rather than saw the man approach him and turned at the last minute, effecting to be startled, and growled ‘Allah Kerim.’

  He recognised the man’s long white beard and realised that he was the guardian of the horses. But the old man did not return his greeting. His mouth dropped as he looked into Simon’s eyes and was about to shout a warning when Fontill swung the rifle round and crashed it into the side of his head. With a whimper the man collapsed onto the ground, only momentarily stunned, and Simon immediately fell onto him and cupped his hand over his mouth, feeling desperately for his knife as he did so. The two struggled for a moment before the edge of the blade slashed across the old man’s throat. He died with a gurgle.

  Fonthill felt momentarily sick and then saw Jenkins and Inderjit rise to their feet in the compound. He looked around. The struggle seemed to have gone unnoticed and the merciful blackness cloaked everything but the immediate surroundings. He beckoned to Inderjit and, leaving Jenkins to begin fixing the leading reins, the Sikh ran over.

  ‘Drag this poor devil into the woods,’ Fonthill mouthed. ‘I must stand guard. Be careful. Alice will be there. Don’t alarm her.’

  ‘Very good, sahib.’

  ‘Don’t call me sahib.’

  ‘Ah, sorry.’

  Wiping blood from his poshteen, Simon walked quickly back to his post. Unless the old man lived alone, it would only be minutes before he was missed and he strained his eyes into the surrounding darkness to pick up any sign of movement. But three men had been killed within the space of five minutes, without, it seemed, disturbing anybody in the encampment. For a moment he felt the stirrings of nausea again as he thought of the killings. Then he recalled the weakness of Alice’s voice and his resolve returned.

  It seemed an eternity before the horses had been roped and led out of the compound. Simon walked back and looped shut its gate. It was important that, at first glance, everything should appear to be as it should. Then he followed the last horse into the wood.

  Alice had her arms around the shoulders of both Jenkins and Inderjit as they attempted to lift her onto the back of the third horse in the line. Simon noticed with a gasp how frail she looked and that she had a piece of bloodstained cloth clumsily tied around her forearm.

  He ran to her. ‘What’s that?’

  She attempted to smile down at him. ‘It’s only a flesh wound,’ she croaked. ‘I will tell you all about it later. Let’s leave this filthy place.’

  ‘Can you sit the horse, darling? As you can see, we have no saddles or bridles.’

  ‘I will be fine, now that you are here.’

  ‘Good. Hold the horse’s mane. We may have to gallop. Now, I will take the lead; Jenkins, you look after Alice and see she doesn’t fall. Inderjit, stay in the rear, about a hundred paces back and gallop up if you hear anyone in pursuit. We can cut out and release the two spare horses once we are well out of the camp. Now, let’s go. Oh, for God’s sake, 352. Help me up on this bloody horse, will you?’

  The strange procession wound its way through the wood, on the now narrowed trail to the west, until the track widened out again and they were out in open country, studded with rocks climbing to their left and falling to their right. There were no guards in sight and a pale moon had now risen fortuitously, sufficient for them to see the way ahead quite clearly.

  Simon turned his head. ‘We’ve got to put time and space between us and the camp and I think we can try to gallop for a bit now if we’re careful,’ he called back. ‘Grip with your legs and heels, Alice.’

  Predictably, it was Jenkins who replied: ‘She’s ridin’ a damned sight better than I’ve ever seen you, saddle or no. But bless you, bach sir, I think we’ve done it. Well planned. We’ve got the lass back. Well done.’

  A weak-voiced Alice joined in. ‘Thank you all. I am proud of all of you.’

  ‘We are not out yet,’ said Simon. He raised his arm and gestured forward. Then, tightly winding a handful of his mount’s mane into one hand, he kicked his heels into the horse’s side and the little party broke into a ragged gallop.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was possible for them to gallop for no more than ten minutes before the moon dipped behind a cloud and the road seemed to narrow, making it difficult to see more than a hundred yards or so ahead. Simon, whose seat on his unsaddled horse was uncertain, was glad enough of an excuse to slow the little cavalcade down to a walk. He turned to look behind him.

  Inderjit had allowed his horse to fall behind and was now out of sight. Jenkins had somehow managed to ride at Alice’s side, but she now looked white and drawn and was shivering under the horse blanket that had been thrown over her shoulders.

  He allowed the two to catch up with him. ‘Are you all right, darling?’ he asked.

  Alice nodded. ‘A bit cold, that’s all.’ She seemed to be looking at him with a strange intensity …

  Simon turned to Jenkins. ‘Cut out the two spare horses, 352. They’re slowing us down. And take their blankets off them and put them round Alice, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘Simon.’ Alice’s voice sounded a touch stronger.

  ‘Yes, my love.’

  ‘That turban. The green and red colours. How long have you been wearing it?’

  ‘Oh, since I took it off a dead tribesman when we were attacked in Afghanistan. I think I picked the wrong turban, though. These
colours look like those taken from a sepoy. Makes me stand out. Not much of a Pathan, wearing the damned thing. Why do you ask?’

  ‘When I escaped from the camp the first time – did I tell you about that?’

  ‘No, but we heard about it. You did so well, my love.’

  ‘No. No. When I was on my own, out in the rocks, oh, several days ago, I saw what I thought were three Pathans looking for me. One of them was wearing a green and red turban, tightly wound, just like yours. I was ready to shoot them but I hid and they went on climbing. Oh my goodness. It must have been you three. If only I had known …’

  Simon grinned. ‘My word. You could well have shot us and we would all then have been considerably worse off than we are now. We must be grateful for large mercies. Can you keep riding? We must press on.’

  ‘Yes. I think so. I just keep feeling woozy, that’s all.’

  ‘I am not surprised …’ He turned as he heard hoof beats, to see Inderjit rounding a bend and riding towards them.

  ‘Are we being followed?’ he called.

  ‘No, sah … Lord. Everything is quiet.’

  ‘Good.’

  Jenkins rode up and carefully arranged two blankets around Alice’s shoulders. She smiled her thanks.

  Fonthill nodded to him. ‘Stay close to her, 352. Now, fast walk, if we can.’ He kicked in his heels and led the way.

  They rode until well after the sun had risen. Turning, Simon realised that Alice was swaying now and being held in position only by Jenkins’s arm. He allowed the two to catch up with him. To the right the land fell away into a vertiginous cliff face, affording them a glimpse of the Khyber Pass far below them. Tiny figures could be seen moving along the road to the west. Tribesmen returning to the mullah’s encampment? Before the edge of the cliff cut off his view, he saw the road below curl sharply away to the south. To his left, up the hillside, a goat’s track wound steeply and disappeared behind rocks.

  He nodded to it. ‘Alice. You need to rest. 352, dismount and see if you can lead Alice and your two horses up there. Find somewhere out of sight of this track where we can stop for a while. I will wait for Inderjit.’

  Within minutes, Alice and Fonthill were squatting on the ground in a little clearing surrounded by boulders, while Inderjit was feeding the horses with a handful each of oats and Jenkins was treading warily back up the goats’ track, carefully obscuring the hoof marks that had been left in patches of dust between the rocks.

  ‘Let me look at that wound, Alice.’ Simon carefully unwound the towel that had been tied round the cut. ‘Hmmm. I don’t like the look of that.’ He poured a little water onto the wound that was still oozing a dark-coloured liquid and dabbed it with what was left of Alice’s handkerchief. ‘Does it hurt?’

  She nodded her head, her eyes closed. ‘Throbs a bit.’

  He put his hand to her brow. It was hot, very hot. He bit his lip. It seemed that she was mounting a fever. Better to keep her warm, even though the day was hot. He replaced the rough-and-ready bandage, gently splashed water onto her face and laid his wife down on her blankets in what little shade was offered. She immediately closed her eyes and was asleep.

  Jenkins joined him. ‘Even if there was a search party,’ he said, ‘I doubt if they’d see we’d gone off the track … Ah – ’ow is she?’

  ‘Not good. I think she’s developing a fever.’ Fonthill turned an anxious face to Inderjit. ‘Have you any idea if this track will take us to Peshawar and how long that could be?’

  The Sikh brushed oat dust off his hands. ‘I see Pass curl away to the right down below,’ he said. ‘That is a big bend in the Pass that I remember. It goes due south and takes road to Fort Maude and meets with Bozai river.’ He nodded to the east. ‘This track look as if it much used and it go straight on.’ A slight smile brought a flash of his teeth behind the black beard. ‘I think this track is good for us. It could go direct to Jamrud Fort, much nearer than Peshawar. Pathans told me this fort not taken then.’

  Fonthill shot a quick glance at his wife. ‘Please God you are right. How long, then, do you think before we reach Jamrud?’

  ‘Maybe one more day riding.’

  Simon exchanged looks with Jenkins. ‘I hope to God she can make it. How are we for water?’

  ‘Enough, if we are careful.’

  ‘Right. Then we must be careful. Alice must take precedence. Now.’ He looked up at the sun. ‘We will just have to risk staying here throughout the middle of the day, when it is hottest, so that Alice can rest. We will take it in turns to keep guard. Obviously, we don’t fire on anyone, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Will the horses be all right, Inderjit?’

  ‘Ah yes. They used to sun. I have more oats.’

  ‘Good. You two try and get some rest. I will take the first watch.’

  They stayed huddled in the rock-bound clearing, while Alice slept, breathing heavily. It seemed that no one had followed them and by late afternoon Simon took the decision to wake his wife and ride on. She was heavy-eyed and damp with perspiration but she nodded and was helped back onto the horse. Inderjit went on ahead to ensure that the way was clear and Simon, leading his own horse, supported Alice as Jenkins led the way down the steep incline.

  They rode on, meeting no one. ‘I thought Inja said this was a busy road,’ called Jenkins but Simon merely shrugged. His mind seethed with worry about Alice. She was still perspiring and only Jenkins’s arm prevented her from falling from the horse. She clearly had a fever but perhaps that wound had produced blood poisoning? And did pneumonia follow a fever? He had no idea but they must get her to a doctor as soon as possible. Would there be one in Fort Jamrud? And had the fort fallen to the Pathans by now?

  They rode for as long as they could see the trail after the sun had set, and then they found cover off the track again, with each of the men standing guard through the darkness.

  On Fonthill’s watch, as he sat in bright moonlight behind a rock covering the track ahead of them towards the fort, he stiffened as he heard hoof beats off to the east and then felt the earth tremble as the horsemen neared. Quickly alerting the other two, he cocked his rifle and the three took cover facing the direction of the oncoming party.

  ‘Don’t fire until I do,’ Simon hissed.

  Around a bend in the road appeared a party of six horsemen, all Pathans and led by an imposing figure. Dressed in white robes and, like his men, fiercely bearded, he rode with his head down at a brisk pace, so that his cloak floated out behind him. A rifle was housed in a saddle bucket at his side and a long curved sword hung down from his belt. Without a look to left or right, he thundered on, leading his party at what seemed to Fonthill a dangerous pace in the moonlight, until he finally disappeared round a distant bend.

  ‘Blimey,’ called Jenkins. ‘Who was that? Old Nick ’imself?’

  ‘Quick,’ said Simon. ‘We must wake Alice and be on our way. They might come back.’

  And so on they rode, sometimes cantering, sometimes as the light improved, galloping for a while, but mainly putting their mounts to a brisk walking pace. They stopped now only for moments, to eat what was left of their unappetising provisions and to give Alice sips of water. She rode now mainly with her head on Jenkins shoulder, slumped sideways, so that it became impossible to gallop or even canter.

  In an attempt to keep Alice awake, Simon told her of the horsemen who had thundered by.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘That would be Ali.’

  ‘And who the hell would he be?’

  She looked across to him with lacklustre eyes. ‘I think he is the mullah’s general, or something like that.’ She held up her bandaged arm. ‘It was he who did this,’ she said.

  Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances. ‘I wish I had shot the bastard, then,’ growled Simon.

  ‘Best you didn’t, though, bach sir. The others might ’ave bin a bit of an ’andful for just the three of us.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘The meeting is postponed, that’s all. I’ll catch
up with him, even if he is Old Nick himself.’

  ‘And I shall look forward to bein’ there as well,’ said Jenkins. ‘You can leave a bit of ’im for me, so you can.’

  Alice said nothing but her head slumped forward and it was time for Simon to ride next to her, her head on his shoulder.

  So they rode on, now with Inderjit going well ahead. The road had been falling away in a steep incline for some time when the Sikh came galloping back, his hand held high, his teeth cutting a white swathe through his dark face.

  ‘We go down to Fort Jamrud now,’ he said. ‘And sepoys are manning the battlements. It not taken by Pathans.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Colours of splendid Sikh Regiment flying from flagpole and sepoys are patrolling outside. No sign of Pathans. Maybe railway running.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ Fonthill gently nudged his wife. ‘Did you hear that, darling? The fort has not been taken and it is just down the hill. You will be taken care of now.’

  Alice tried to lift her head and, from somewhere, summon up a smile. But her head flopped back onto Simon’s shoulder and her eyes stayed closed.

  ‘Oh God!’ exclaimed Fonthill. ‘Better get on quickly. Inderjit, gallop on ahead and warn them we are coming. I don’t want us to be shot on the last lap. And see if there is a doctor who can be summoned.’

  Within fifteen minutes, Fonthill, Alice and Jenkins were escorted by a patrol of Sikhs on horseback through the great gate of the fort and onto the parade ground inside, where Alice was slowly lowered to the ground. An officer Simon recognised as Captain Barton, the former commander of Fort Landi Kotal, hurried to meet them and his face immediately lightened as he recognised Alice.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘Thank God she’s alive.’

  Fonthill scowled at him. ‘No thanks to you,’ he spat. ‘Why didn’t you take her with you when you evacuated the fort?’