by John Wilcox
Inderjit arrived back three days later, uncomplaining about having to turn around and make the return journey so quickly. Troops continued to arrive in the town, trebling its population, so that the streets were choked with horses, wagons and marching soldiers and causing dust to rise everywhere. Fonthill sought the aid of the wife of one of the senior officers in shopping for Alice and he and his two companions spent the rest of their time gathering equipment together.
Once again they became Pathans, loosely dressed in homespun garments, criss-crossed with bandoliers and under precariously wound turbans. They were issued with modern Lee-Metford rifles but Fonthill eschewed the offer of horses. Pathans rarely possessed them and although they were esteemed by the natives as symbols of wealth, in practice they were often a hindrance in the rough scree and rocks of the hills.
Lockhart included Fonthill in his briefing and planning meetings. There, Simon learnt that the Orakzais had now undoubtedly been roused from their torpor by the mullah and had moved forward in some strength in the lower reaches of Tirah – just the route by which the general proposed to begin his invasion. Isolated outposts on the Samana Ridge had been attacked already, producing acts of outstanding courage by sepoys, particularly Sikhs.
In one engagement at Saragarhi, on a 6,500ft-high ridge, a remote signalling tower defended by just twenty-one sepoys of the 36th Sikhs under a havildar, held out for seven hours against huge odds before being engulfed. The defenders were all killed and mutilated, one being burnt alive. Nearby, the little fort of Gulistan then became besieged and held out for forty-eight hours before rescue came just as the garrison was running out of ammunition. The fort was commanded by a Major Des Voeux, whose problems were compounded by the fact that his heavily pregnant wife and two children were within the fort. Mrs Des Voeux gave birth immediately after the fort was relieved.
The tale of both these heroic defences were eagerly seized on by the hardened veterans of Fleet Street who had now gathered in Peshawar to report on the Pathan Uprising and their stories were to form part of the rich pageant that always shrouded the history of India’s North-West Frontier.
The prodigious efforts involved in sending relief forces to Fort Gulistan and other outposts under attack also provided Lockhart with proof, if any were needed, of the difficulties he must overcome in terms of providing his troops with provisions, particularly water, as they penetrated deeply into the barren wastelands of the Tirah.
Alice eventually left hospital and joined the ranks of the war correspondents gathering in Peshawar. Despite her absence from their ranks for several years, she was welcomed by the other veterans there – a welcome tinged with respectful suspicion, for her name had long been linked in the profession with a string of exclusive stories cabled back over the years from far outposts of the Empire.
That suspicion was also fuelled by the fact that she did not stay with the rest of them in the tented compound provided for the press just outside Peshawar, for she preferred to remain with her husband in their small hotel. ‘What is that woman up to?’ was a frequent question asked around the card tables and over the whisky in the compound. But nor was this an easy time for Simon, Alice and their two companions in the hotel.
‘Why the hell doesn’t the bloody man advance?’ demanded Alice of her husband one morning at breakfast. ‘If he waits much longer the mullah will die of old age.’
‘And snow will have closed the passes.’ Simon nodded. ‘But it must be one hell of a job provisioning an army of this size for such an undertaking. For one thing, Lockhart can’t get enough mules and for another he has to solve the problem of carrying water in this climate over broken terrain. He tells me that he has been attempting to round up more than forty-two thousand pack animals – mules, donkeys, horses, even camels – to carry all the provisions and equipment that his two divisions will need. You can’t exactly get these sort of animals overnight. And I know that he is worried that some of troops from the plains are going to have difficulties in fighting in mountains with slopes as steep as the sides of a house.’
He stopped because Alice had begun scribbling quickly in her ever-present notebook. ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you all this, Alice,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t take advantage of me.’
‘Oh stuff,’ his wife muttered. ‘How many animals did you say? Was it forty thousand?’
‘Something like that. As you know, the general is concentrating his troops in the south at Kohat, which has the benefit of being served by a reasonable road from the east, although the nearest railhead is miles away at Khushalgarh. He has pushed his advance force further west, some forty miles or so to Shanawari on the Samana mountain range. It looks as though that is going to be the jumping-off point for the penetration into the Orakzai heartland. I don’t think it will be long now before the invasion proper starts.’
Nor was it. Within days, Lockhart had moved his staff on to the Shanawari fort and it was there, on a late afternoon in early October, that he called on Fonthill to join him on the ramparts of the fort. He lifted his arm and pointed between the hardened mud battlements to the north, where the road wound upwards and disappeared into the hills, now coloured mauve as the sun began to sink.
‘That’s the way we will be going, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘I am hoping that road will lead us right over the Samana range and into the central Orakzai tribal lands at Maidan. So get out early in the morning, with your two chaps, and scout ahead as far as you can go within the next few days. I want to send the whole of my second division up there – and you know that that’s a hell of a lot of troops to move along one road. The Pathans know we are here, of course, and they can probably guess which way I am going to move. So I need to know if the road can take us and the sort of strongholds they are likely to hold ahead. Use your soldier’s eye and prospect for me. Be back within a week.’
He took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief and his pale-blue eyes now looked directly into those of Fonthill. ‘But for God’s sake,’ he continued, ‘be careful, my dear fellow. Those mountains are bristling with Pathans and I don’t want to lose you just days before the advance. Set off well before sunrise so that you can get into the hills before you are seen leaving the fort.’
Fonthill looked up into the line of the hills, now rapidly turning from mauve into a deep blue as the sun dipped behind the distant high peaks of the Hindu Kush. Those hills seemed empty but, somehow, full of menace. Overhead a crow croaked.
There seemed nothing to say except, ‘Very good, sir.’
That evening Simon left a note for Alice who was due that day to begin the move from Kohat to Shanawari with the rest of the correspondents, and then, shortly before 3.30 a.m., he, Jenkins and Inderjit slipped out of a little post gate at the rear of the fort and began walking up the road to the north. They carried with them their rifles, sleeping bags slung over their shoulders, water bottles filled to capacity and enough dried meat, biscuits and hard-skinned fruit to last a week.
As the sun came up, the road divided and, with no map to guide them, Fonthill mentally tossed a coin and decided to take the right fork. Very soon after, they left the road abruptly, took shelter by its side and ate breakfast. Mainly, however, they sat in silence and listened. No one, it seemed, was following them and nor did the road disgorge any travellers journeying the other way. The hills, indeed, did seem to be empty.
They trudged on, always climbing until, in the distance, they saw an old man tending scraggy sheep grazing on the hillside.
‘’E’s wastin’ ’is time,’ grunted Jenkins. ‘There’s not enough fodder in this place to feed three gnats an’ a tortoise.’
Without breaking the rhythm of their steps, Fonthill turned to Inderjit and nodded ahead. ‘Let’s not alarm him, so keep walking towards him steadily. When we’re abreast of him call up to him and tell him our old story – we’ve walked from Persia to join the Mullah Sayyid Akbar to fight the infidels. Ask him if he knows where his camp is.’
The Sikh nodd
ed and they continued their plodding pace. The shepherd seemed completely unconcerned by their approach and grunted a greeting as Inderjit climbed up the few paces off the road towards him and offered fruit. They conversed for a few minutes with much gesticulation from the old man to the north, before the Sikh nodded, saluted and fell into step with the other two as they continued their march.
‘He say,’ said Inderjit once they were out of earshot, ‘that big army is up ahead. Many of them come from the fighting at Fort Gulistan off to the right there, about five miles. We have big climb to do …’
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ interjected Jenkins.
‘… over Chagru Kotal Pass, when we are in mountains proper. Once over Pass, road which forked to left behind us rejoins this one. So both forks go in same direction, like a loop. Soon after Pass there is big hill to the left, called Dargai. It overlooks road. He say that Pathans are massing there to stop British going by. From what he say, Dargai is strong position.’
‘Very well. Where does this road take us? Did he know?’
‘Oh yes. It go all the way to Maidan. But long way. After Dargai road crosses Khanki river, just past place called Karappa.’
‘Is the river fordable?’
‘If no great rains soon, yes. But difficult later in year.’
‘Go on.’
‘Then we go very high over Sampagha Pass, then cross another river, the Mastura, but it smaller. But then another pass, the Arhanga Pass, which will be blocked with snow before too long. Then road takes us down to Maidan. After that he don’t know.’
‘Well,’ growled Jenkins, ‘that sounds like a nice little stroll, look you. Just what my feet need just now.’
‘What about the mullah?’ asked Fonthill. ‘Did he know where his camp is?’
‘He think the Mullah Sayyid is with Pathan fighting men waiting for British at this place Dargai. They expect to fight British there.’
They trudged on in silence for a moment. Then Simon asked, ‘Is there any way around Dargai without having to take it?’
Inderjit frowned. ‘Shepherd not soldier, so could not give answer to military questions. Did not like to question hard on this in case he become suspicious of us.’
‘Quite right. You did well. Thank you.’
‘Right then,’ puffed Jenkins. ‘What next, bach sir? ’Ave we learnt enough, d’yer think?’
‘Certainly not. One thing is for sure. Lockhart is going to need his sappers to work on this road if it is going to take a whole division. But we need to know more. On to this pass, over it and then we must assess the situation at Dargai. It sounds as though it will be the key to Lockhart’s advance, or at least the early part of it. No. Onwards and upwards.’
‘Oh, bugger it. I liked it when we were in the cavalry.’
They toiled on with the ever-present sun beating down on them from a canopy of blue and the heat of its rays reminding them of why Pathans wore such clumsy but effective head coverings. All around them the brown, jagged-topped hills towered above with not another living thing in sight, except for the occasional lizard that scuttled out of sight as they approached.
Eventually, the road steepened to form a narrow defile before it fell and curled away, revealing a vista of more jumbled hilltops stretching before them.
‘Why the ’ell would the general want to bring ’is bloody army this way?’ panted Jenkins. His turban had become unwound, of course, and one end trailed down his back. ‘There’s nobody livin’ ’ere except earwigs an’ snakes.’
Fonthill leant on his rifle and wiped his brow. ‘This must be the Chagru Kotal Pass,’ he said. ‘We must be getting near to the top of the Samana Range.’ He pointed far ahead and to the left, where a succession of rocky billows seemed to end in two peaks, one sharply pointed and nearest to the road, forming the near horizon and shimmering in the heat. ‘That must be the Dargai Heights. From here they look completely deserted.’
Inderjit squinted into the distance. ‘Too far to tell,’ he said. ‘But plenty of rocks everywhere. Could hide an army …’
Simon nodded. ‘Hmm. But they are just about within range of artillery based on that hill ahead.’ His gaze turned to Jenkins. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Inderjit. Would you please tidy up his bloody turban? No self-respecting Pathan would walk around looking like that.’
He had hardly finished speaking before a rifle cracked and a bullet sang past his head. Then another hit the top of a boulder by Jenkins’s shoulder, sending splinters of rock spinning upwards, one of them cutting his cheek.
Fonthill spun round. ‘Off the road,’ he cried. ‘Behind the rocks quickly.’
The three ducked and ran as two more shots rang out, their echoes dancing back from the rocky walls around them.
‘Where the hell are they?’ demanded Simon.
‘There are four,’ replied the Sikh. ‘High up on the right, there.’ He pointed to where two wisps of smoke could still be seen hanging to a patch of scrub about fifty feet above them on the steep hillside.
Jenkins wiped his cheek. ‘The buggers don’t bother to shout “Oo’s there, friend or foe?”, do they?’ he growled. ‘I could ’ave been Ali Barber comin’ up with the beer ration.’
Inderjit gave his slow smile. ‘They don’t care who we are,’ he murmured. ‘They want our rifles. Perhaps wrong to bring these Lee-Metfords. They much prized in these hills.’
‘Well, they’re not goin’ to get mine.’ The Welshman took off his turban, bent on his hands and knees and crawled away to the left. Then he propped his turban just below the edge of a high rock, so that only its top showed. He levered a round into the breech of his rifle and knelt before carefully aiming his Lee-Metford round the side of the rock. Two reports sounded as one, as Jenkins and the Pathan both fired at the same time.
The turban jumped as a bullet caught its top but a cry rang out as the Welshman’s round found its target. A figure slumped and crashed into the shrub before rolling down the hillside and coming to a stop just above them.
‘Good shot, bach,’ said Inderjit, the Welsh term sounding alien coming from his bearded lips. Then he stood, released a shot and crouched down again.
‘Damned if I can see them,’ grunted Fonthill. ‘Are you sure there are only four of them?’
‘Only three now,’ replied the Sikh. ‘Odds even now. But don’t expose yourself, sahib. They good shots.’
‘Not as good as old 352, here, though.’ Simon gestured to his right. ‘Look. You two get ready to shoot because I’m going to make a run across here to draw their fire. They will have to expose themselves to have a go at me.’
Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘Not a good idea, bach sir. I don’t want to ’ave to carry you all the way back to the fort, now do I?’
‘Well, we can’t stay here all day. I’ll count to three and then I’ll go. Ready? One, two, three.’ And, head down, Fonthill scuttled away and was just able to reach the shelter of a rock barely large enough to shelter him when two bullets cracked into it, showering rock fragments everywhere.
Two other shots rang out from Jenkins and Inderjit at the same time, however, and cries showed that they had found their marks.
‘Well done, lads,’ cried Simon. ‘Now, Inderjit, shout to whoever is left to come out with his hands raised, holding his friends’ rifles above his head. If he does that, we will spare his life. Otherwise, it will be only a matter of time before we get him.’
The Sikh nodded and raised his voice. There was no reply but moans could be heard coming from the rocks above them.
‘Let’s give him a volley to make up his mind,’ said Fonthill. ‘Right. Now – fire!’
The three stood and delivered six shots into the rocks fringing the shrub. The bullets cracked into the stone and then ricocheted away down the Pass, their echoes thundering back as though a company of troopers had fired them. ‘Shout to him again,’ said Simon. ‘Repeat the offer, but tell him it’s the last time.’
After a few seconds, a ragged figure emerged, holdi
ng three rifles above his head and shouting something in dialect.
‘He say,’ interpreted Inderjit, ‘two others are wounded and cannot shoot. Fourth rifle is lying on body of man Jenkins bach killed.’
‘Very well. Ask him to come down to us. But keep him covered. Jenkins and I will cover the other rocks.’
Slowy, the Pathan began slipping and sliding awkwardly down the scree covering the steep slope, his eyeballs showing white in his black face. He came to a stop before the three and threw the rifles onto the ground. He made a poor sight, for his clothes were ragged and torn and his cheeks sunken.
Fonthill lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Ask him how badly hurt are his friends.’
‘He say one bullet took man in head and he is dying. Second man hit in shoulder. First man killed.’
‘Right. 352, hand me the first-aid kit from my bag. I will climb up and see what I can do. You come with me. Inderjit, tell this chap we are going to help the wounded but then question him and ask why they shot at us and what they are doing here. Try to find out if there are any of the Pathan army around here.’
Simon had brought a very basic medical kit with him and he and Jenkins now scrambled upwards carrying it. They found one man now clearly dead, with a bullet hole in his cheekbone, and the other lying in the shale, clutching his shoulder and moaning softly. His eyes widened as Fonthill took out his knife and he flinched backwards as the knife cut into his clothes at the shoulder. Simon revealed the wound and found that the bullet had gone completely through the shoulder and out the man’s back. It was an ugly but clean wound.
‘Bloody shoulder is the worst part to try and bandage,’ muttered Simon as he cut away scraps of cloth from the wounds. He bathed the ugly holes with water, applied antiseptic ointment to two cotton wads and, as Jenkins helped him, he began bandaging them in place. After several attempts he managed to tie the bandage around the shoulder, watched all the time by the wounded man, whose eyes never left Simon’s face. They gave him water from Jenkins’s flask and left him lying in the shade.