Bayonets Along the Border

by John Wilcox

  Back with Inderjit, Fonthill drew the Sikh to one side out of the Pathan’s earshot, leaving Jenkins with the prisoner. ‘What did you find out?’ he asked.

  ‘They from village near here,’ he said. ‘Not part of mullah’s army, which is at Dargai Mountain waiting for British army. Shepherd I talk with from same village. He go back and tell them that three foreigners walking on road, so they come to shoot at us here on the Pass and kill us and rob us.’

  ‘Humph. Friendly lot. Do they suspect we were spies from the British camp?’

  ‘No. They think we come from Persia to fight the British. He very impressed with our shooting.’

  ‘Ah. So was I. Well done, you two. Where did they get these Martini-Henry rifles?’

  ‘From sepoys killed at Fort Gulistan.’

  ‘Very well. Do you know how far their village is from here?’

  ‘He say about two miles. Not many other villages near here. Nowhere to graze animals.’

  Simon wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t doubt it. Now. I have done what I can for the wounded man, who is more or less able to walk. The other is dead. Tell this fellow that he must cover the dead man with stones and then help his wounded friend to walk back to their village. Tell him that if we see him again we will put a bullet in his stomach and we will surely kill anyone else from his village who tries to ambush us. We are good fighters.’

  The Sikh grinned and nodded. ‘I think he know that.’

  They waited long enough to see the tribesman and his wounded companion limp away back in the direction of Shanawari, then the trio continued to trudge down the road, now gently descending. They met no one else after the attempted ambush on the Pass, although they walked slowly – not only because they were tiring in the hot sun but also so that they could scan the close hills on either side. As the sun was setting, the peak and squat ridges of the Dargai Heights came into sharp relief and Fonthill felt that it would be prudent to camp off the road. If the Pathan army was, indeed, at Dargai, then it would not do to blunder into its outposts in the dusk.

  They found a tiny stream springing from the rocks and they were able to fill their water bottles from it. They chose not to light a fire and, as the darkness fell all around them, causing them to shiver at the sudden change in temperature, Fonthill wound a blanket around him and sat, cradling his rifle, to stand the first watch of the night as the other two crawled under their own blankets.

  The night proved uneventful and as the three huddled together in the predawn, their blankets around them, Fonthill gave his instructions.

  ‘If we carry on along this road we will soon be able to get a good look at Dargai,’ he said. ‘That’s really all I want to do, so, if possible, I want to avoid having to explain ourselves to the mullah or anyone from his army. And I certainly don’t want to join it.’

  Inderjit nodded slowly. ‘So we change our story, yes?’

  ‘We do indeed. Trouble is,’ Simon wrinkled his brow, ‘I’m damned if I can think of an alternative likely tale to tell.’

  Silence fell. Then Jenkins grunted. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘that we should stick to our original story – about comin’ from Persia, with me bein’ deaf and dumb and the village idiot, see, but we change the bit about us coming to join this mullah’s bloody army. Just say we’ve got business, or somethin’, further down the line, so to speak.’

  Inderjit nodded. ‘Yes. Horse-traders from Kandahar who sold our horses in Kabul and then were attacked near Border on way to Peshawar. We fought off bandits and took these rifles from them. We crossed border but lost our way.’

  Simon pulled a face. ‘It’s a bit far-fetched but it will have to do. We met villagers who told us that there were horses to buy in Maidan and that’s where we are heading. Yes, that will give us an excuse for marching on. It will have to do. Come on, let’s go. If we are stopped, you will have to do the talking, as always, Inderjit. We must try and keep the rifles – or at least the magazines – covered so as not to invite envy.’

  The Sikh nodded and they collected their meagre belongings, refilled their water bottles and made their way back to the road. As they walked they had their first close-up view of the Dargai Heights, looming to their left some 2,000 yards away. They could clearly see, at the top of the nearest ridge, hundreds of men moving like ants among the rocks.

  At its nearest point, the road passed within about 1,500 yards of the base of the rocky hill and Fonthill could see that it would be almost impossible for Lockhart’s force to pass it without coming under very heavy fire from the Heights. They increased their pace to obtain a better view when suddenly a group of Pathans, obviously a guard post or picket, suddenly materialised from rocks beside the road and advanced towards them, rifles levelled.

  ‘’Ere we go,’ muttered Jenkins beneath his breath and gripped the trigger of his rifle beneath the fold of his cloak, as the leader of the picket, a towering man with a beard almost reaching his waist, came towards him. Inderjit, however, stepped forward and gave the man a greeting. The two remained in conversation for two or three minutes, while the rest of the tribesmen stood leaning on their rifles in a bored manner, evincing no interest at all in the three strangers.

  Eventually the big man gave a sullen nod and waved them on their way.

  ‘Did our story hold?’ asked Fonthill once they were out of earshot.

  Inderjit nodded. ‘He not very interested in us. He want to know if we see any sign of British army advancing. I tell him we walk by fort at Shanawari and many troops there, but none coming here. He warn us not to go near Dargai Hills but to walk on and get out of way of big battle that is to come.’

  ‘Did he mention the mullah?’

  ‘Oh yes. He say that the priest is on the top of Dargai itself and that while he is there Pathans can’t be hurt by British guns. He say one other interesting thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He say mullah has built very fine house for himself up ahead somewhere in valley to show that he stay with Pathan people.’

  Simon’s eyes lit up. ‘Did he say where?’

  ‘Not exactly, but he think it somewhere east of Maidan.’

  Fonthill made a mental note. ‘I will remember,’ he said quietly.

  Now, however, he had more immediate tasks to fulfil. As they trudged to the north he surreptitiously studied the Dargai position. The village of Dargai itself could plainly be seen perched atop a precipitous cliff, some 600 feet or more high. It was a formidable stronghold. Sangars, walls made of piled stones, had been erected along the crest that was studded in addition by huge rocks. These positions commanded the only track up the cliff, a narrow, very rough path which zigzagged diagonally up the face, although its beginning, at the foot of the cliff, was invisible from the top.

  The base of the track, however, could only be reached by another path which ran from the Chagru Kotal Pass along a narrow ridge or spur for about 1,500 yards. The track ended in an open space or saddle that would have to be crossed under the rifles of the defenders before the upward climb could begin.

  Although no strategist or tactician, Jenkins had the eye of a soldier. ‘I wouldn’t want to cross that place under gunfire,’ he muttered.

  Fonthill nodded. ‘A frontal attack could only be a holding one,’ he said. ‘We must find a way round the back of the Heights.’

  ‘What – now?’ Jenkins’s tone was almost indignant.

  ‘No. We mustn’t attract suspicion. We’ll try on the way back. I want to see what’s ahead for at least a few days.’

  ‘Oh strewth.’

  And so they continued their march, passing through groups of tribesmen walking south towards the great battle, but none of whom paid them the slightest attention.

  That night, they carefully bypassed the little town of Karrapa and camped about a mile outside it on the banks of the River Khanki in a pleasant valley. The river was easily fordable at this point and, Fonthill felt, would present no great obstacle to Lockhart’s division, once it had overcome the for
midable obstacle of the Dargai Heights.

  For the next two days the three trudged along the road to the north, climbing over the Sampagha Pass, much higher, noted Simon, than the Chagru Kotal and presenting another obstacle to an invading army. They crossed the smaller Mastura River and looked up to the Arhanga Pass, set above the city of Maidan, the central point of the Afridi and Orakzai heartland. There, Fonthill decided that they had come far enough and should turn back to Shinawari, for they would already have difficulty in getting back to the fort within the week set for them by Lockhart. And there was the exploring to be done to find a way round to the back of Dargai.

  The two days walking back to Dargai was uneventful, even though they were accompanied at odd times by tribesmen marching to join the mullah’s army. Just north of the stronghold, they found a path to the west which led, a traveller told them, to the little village of Narik Suk, from which a track led over the Samana Range south to Shinawari. They took it and found the village to be little more than a hamlet, now almost deserted for its young men had gone to fight.

  There they bought some fresh meat and milk and trudged on, for Fonthill was anxious to see if there was a track leading off the road to the east, providing a ‘back entry’ to the cliff of Dargai. They found such a route, but it was narrow, predictably humpbacked as it climbed towards a peak that Fonthill could only surmise must be Dargai. He decided to go no further. The track would provide hard going for an attacking force – if, that is, it could be reached from the south and Shanawari fort. And this, too, had to be ascertained.

  They eventually arrived back at the fort, footsore, short of food and one day over their deadline. But they had made it without further mishap, with a bundle of notes and sketches for the general, now itching to launch his great attack, for the days were already beginning to feel perceptibly cooler.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Alice, of course, was the first to greet them on their return. She had been keeping vigil on the ramparts for the last two days, peering up the track to the north into the blue hills. She was surprised, then, to see the weary trio tramping in from the west, following their detour to seek an alternative route to attack Dargai. With a light heart, she ran down the steps and through the gates of the fort to throw her arms around her dust-coated husband.

  ‘You’re late,’ she cried. ‘I’ve been worried sick. And you’re filthy. Do you have to go so completely native on these occasions, Simon?’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ Simon hugged his wife. ‘Jenkins has stopped looking after me. As a batman, he’s become useless.’

  As they stood laughing underneath the fort’s mud battlements, an orderly arrived, saluted smartly and said, ‘General sends his compliments, sir, and would like to see you as soon as … er … you are free. He is in his office.’

  Fonthill, gently thrust his wife aside and nodded. ‘Of course. Alice, are you camped there?’ He nodded to where hundreds of army tents seemed to march from underneath the walls of the fort to the eastern horizon. ‘Where do I find you?’

  ‘No, darling. The general has allowed me a tiny room in the fort. I will wait for you there.’

  ‘Very well. Lead on, soldier.’ Simon gestured to his companions. ‘Come with me. I think we should all go in to see the general together.’

  They found Lockhart sitting at his desk in a room that seemed hot and airless, despite the listless efforts of a punkah wallah, sitting in a corner. Fonthill was surprised to see how unwell the general appeared: his face was grey and sallow, his cheeks were sunken and his tunic was unbuttoned at the throat. He remembered that the man suffered from ill health and had been recalled to lead the campaign from sick leave in England.

  Nevertheless, Lockhart’s eyes lit up at the sight of the three and he shook hands vigorously enough with them all, Inderjit standing rigidly to attention for his first meeting with a general. ‘Thank God you have returned,’ he said, waving to them to pull up three chairs. ‘I was beginning to feel I had sent you on a hopeless mission. Now,’ he picked up his little bell from the table and shook it, ‘let’s have some tea and I want you to brief me as quickly and comprehensively as you can. Start now.’

  Simon took out his notes and rough maps and put them on the old soldier’s desk. Then he recounted their journey, particularly describing the narrow pass at Chagru Kotal, the second and probably more difficult defile at Sampagha Pass, but spending most time on the problem awaiting the general at Dargai.

  ‘You can’t get round it,’ he explained, ‘so you will have to take it. I believe it would be extremely difficult to attack it from the road here.’ He described the cliff face, the plateau beneath it and the sangars lining the top by the village. ‘However, there is a way you can approach Dargai from the west, although the approach is extremely difficult for a large force. If I may, I suggest that you split your command and attack the place from front and back, so to speak. The frontal attack, from the main road, though, will be extremely difficult, so it should just be a holding operation, to draw attention from the main thrust from the west, here. This is the way we have just returned.’

  The general adjusted his spectacles and studied the rough sketch presented by Fonthill. ‘Hmmm. What about the main north road, here? Does it go all the way to Maidan?’

  ‘Yes, although we didn’t have time to penetrate that far. It’s rough all the way and it will be a difficult march for a division-sized force. The road splits just north of the fort and you could send part of your force round on this loop road, so avoiding the Chagru Kotal Pass. But mountain batteries should get up to the Pass and would just about be in range to shell Dargai from the top there.’

  ‘Good. I have been sending sappers out to repair the road but they’ve come under attack and I have had to put out units to protect them, so the work has been slow. But …’ he looked at the rough map Simon had drawn, silent for a moment, his chin resting on his fist. Then he made a decision.

  ‘Yes. I will adopt your plan, Fonthill.’ His finger traced the way that Simon and his companions had returned to the fort. ‘I will send Brigadier Kempster with his 3rd Brigade to mount the main attack on Dargai from the west and the rest of the division will put up a show at the front here.’ He looked up, ‘Any chance of sending a flanking force to come across the hills from Fort Gulistan, here, arriving at the Chagru Kotal from the east?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. We didn’t have time to explore that way, but there seemed to be several tracks entering the top of the Pass from the east.’

  ‘Good. We must move quickly now, for winter is approaching. We shall march in three days’ time. You will be in the van with me, going directly north, Fonthill, to lead the way.’ He smiled. ‘With your two-man army. Well done, gentlemen.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Now go and get something to eat. Ah … one last thing. Did you see any sign of the mullah?’

  ‘No. But we were told that he is at Dargai, ordering the defence. And we heard that he has built himself a large house to the east of Maidan.’

  ‘Splendid. I want to nail this chap, if I can. Cut off the head and the body collapses, you know …’

  ‘Quite so. I would welcome the chance of tracking him down, sir. I have a personal score to settle with him.’

  ‘Of course. I remember. But I wouldn’t want the man assassinated and made a martyr. I want him brought back so that we can try and hang the blighter. Let’s talk about it after Dargai. Now, go and get some food and put your heads down for a while. Thank you for all you have done.’

  ‘Nice old stick,’ said Jenkins, once outside the office. ‘No mention of a VC or promotion to general, though, was there?’

  That afternoon, to a background of thumping feet overhead and the distant barking of army commands, Simon made love to his wife for the first time since they had left the Guides’ depot at Marden, weeks before. Afterwards, as they lay intertwined on Alice’s single bed in her stuffy broom cupboard of a room, near the ramparts, she told him that the story of her
capture and escape had appeared in The Morning Post and that she and he had become household names throughout Britain.

  Simon eased her head off his shoulder with a grimace. ‘I never wanted to become famous,’ he grunted. ‘And would you mind moving, you’re making my arm numb.’

  ‘Sorry. This bed wasn’t made for two. And wouldn’t it have been better if you had had a shower first before crashing into my room like that?’

  ‘Certainly not. The general has rationed the water here, and anyway, it’s time I was granted my conjugal rights.’

  They giggled together and Simon kissed the scar on her forearm. ‘We were told that the mullah is waiting at Dargai to lead the defence there,’ he murmured. ‘I think I have the general’s permission to go after him. Mind you, I intend to get the bloody man with or without Lockhart’s approval.’

  Alice levered herself up from the pillow and looked down at him. There was no laughter in her eyes now. ‘If you do,’ she said, ‘this time I am coming with you, whatever you say. You forget that I have a score to settle with the man, as well.’

  ‘Certainly not. Women are not supposed to settle scores. That’s what husbands are for. Now, can you move over a bit? I could do with just a few minutes of sleep if you will allow me.’

  Jenkins and Inderjit were allocated a small tent together outside the walls of the fort but Fonthill slept with his wife in her tiny room for the next three nights. The encampment around the fort swelled by the day as more troops arrived from Kohat. Simon watched from the battlements as columns of sweating troops marched in from the east: Highlanders, swinging their kilts; Indian cavalry, their long lances protruding from the dust clouds they threw up; Sikhs, anxious to avenge their comrades killed at Saragarhi and Gulistan; jaunty little Gurkhas; and, marching more slowly, battalions of English regiments of the line.

  Fonthill noted with approval that the 2nd Derbyshires had washed all the pipeclay out of their belts, straps and pouches and soaked their equipment in tea to stain it khaki. They had also discarded the shiny black covers of their mess tins and dulled them to prevent them reflecting the sun and so betraying their movements to the enemy.