by John Wilcox
‘Oh yes. Now that we are at Maidan, I intend to keep the general to his word and allow us go out and find the mullah.’
The smile disappeared from Alice’s face. ‘What? Just the three of you?’
‘If he will let us go alone, yes. You said yourself that we now make good Pathans and my dialect has improved considerably under Inderjit’s tuition. We can now move in these hills without creating much suspicion. Why, we were even fired upon the other day by a British patrol up in the Arhanga.’
‘But it will be terribly dangerous, Simon.’ A quick shudder ran through her. ‘That man is a monster and he is not to be taken lightly. He is no coward. He stormed through the defences of the Khyber fort leading his men. His sword was bloodstained …’ Her words died away. ‘Please don’t go. This could be one mission too far.’
Fonthill exchanged glances with his two companions. Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh, ’e’s determined to go, Miss Alice,’ he said. ‘And so are we two. This moollah bloke seems to ’ave an ’abit of escapin’ from big armies, see. We think it’s goin’ to take us three,’ he grinned, ‘the finest Pataaanis in the ’ole British an’ Indian armies, to nab ’im. But we’ll do it, you’ll see.’
Alice turned her glance back to her husband. ‘All right, then. If you go, you really must take me with you.’ As her husband drew in his breath to speak, she leant forward and put a hand on his knee. ‘Look, the Post has sent someone out to help in reporting on the campaign. It’s stupid having two of us attached to the general’s staff. I am not needed. But, Simon, I could be really useful to you. No one will suspect you if you have a woman with you who looks as native as you three.’
Simon scowled. ‘You have made that point before. There is absolutely no question of you coming, Alice,’ he said. ‘Don’t pursue the matter, darling. That’s the last word on it.’
Silence descended on the tent. Outside somewhere a campfire spluttered and a horse stamped his foot and snorted. ‘Very well,’ said Alice. ‘I shall apply for a widow’s pension from the general straight away.’
Three days later, Fonthill was summoned to the command tent of General Lockhart, who was sitting with an old acquaintance, Colonel Fortescue of the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides. The colonel’s jaw dropped when a ragged-robed Pathan loped through the tent opening.
‘Good Lord, Fonthill,’ he gasped. ‘Have you joined the enemy?’
‘Thought about it a few times, Colonel, in the last few weeks. You get better food than in the British army.’
The two shook hands and then Lockhart outlined the task ahead of Fonthill. He was to ride out east, along the Waran river, but with a squadron of Guides Cavalry – whose regiment had just ridden in to join the field force – and ascertain the whereabouts of the mullah. Then they must return as quickly as possible, without engaging with the enemy, to lead in a larger force to capture him.
‘I suggest,’ said Fortescue, ‘that you ride with Appleby-Smith’s squadron. You did good work with them in going out to Kabul and back and at least this means that Daffadar Singh can be reunited with his troop.’
Simon’s heart sank. He had no wish to join forces again with that pompous, hesitant soldier. If he was to go out into the Waran Valley to flush out the mullah with a protective force, then a squadron of Guides would be the optimum unit to accompany him: not too large and cumbersome, but big enough to fight off any force that did not outnumber them hugely. Most of all, it would be nimble and mobile enough to get out of trouble quickly. And he had never fancied combing the valley for the mullah on foot.
But Appleby-Smith …!
He realised that his silence was proving awkward. He cleared his throat. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘I presume and hope that young Buckingham and his troop are still part of the squadron?’
Fortescue seemed not to have noticed his hesitation. ‘Oh indeed,’ he said. ‘Daffadar Singh can slip right back into his unit.’
‘Good. Now, General, do you have any intelligence about the exact whereabouts of Sayyid Akbar?’
‘I’m afraid not. He’s out there to the east, somewhere. You tell me he’s built a house somewhere in the valley. I suggest you slip away from the squadron and see what you can pick up from the villages. But, take care, Fonthill. Take care.’
‘Very well, sir. We will leave as soon as the squadron is ready.’
That evening, Alice joined the three of them again in their tent. Inderjit seemed less than joyous at the news that he would be returning to Appleby-Smith’s unit.
‘I can say, bach sir’ – he had taken now always to emulate Jenkins when addressing Fonthill – ‘that this sahib not the most popular officer in the Guides. He not sure of himself in action, which is bad for us all. You know what you do, although you no longer a regular soldier. This man does not know.’
Alice frowned. ‘Ah, I can see, Inderjit, that this must be the last thing you would want.’ She turned to Simon. ‘Can’t you ask to ride with another squadron, darling – put some excuse forward? If you are riding into the lion’s mouth, you need to be with a good lion-tamer, I would have thought. Oh goodness, I shall worry even more now.’
‘Oh don’t fret, Alice. Appleby-Smith’s number two, Dawson, is a sound enough fellow and Buckingham is first rate. We shall get along.’
Alice’s gaze rested on Inderjit. The Sikh had a habit of melting somehow into the background in discussion. He rarely offered an opinion unless directly asked. She realised that she had no idea about his personal situation.
On impulse, she asked, ‘Are you married, Inderjit?’
The Sikh’s grin immediately seemed to light up the interior of the tent. ‘Oh yes, memsahib. Two children. Boy and girl. Boy already good cricketer like his grandfather. They live in Marden.’
Simon immediately looked disconcerted. ‘Good Lord, Inderjit. I had no idea. We have taken you away from your family. Does your wife complain about that?’
The grin disappeared. ‘Wife died two years ago. Of the cholera. But regiment is very good. Children are looked after while I am away.’
It was Jenkins who broke the resultant, awkward silence. ‘You obviously like goin’ a-soldierin’, Inja. What about the killin’ bits? Does that worry you?’
The Sikh looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘In battle, it does not matter. It is you or them. But I did not like killing that man in the Pathan camp. You call it “in cold blood”, I think. It seemed unfair.’
Simon was about to interupt, but Inderjit continued, ‘But then I think that they were threatening,’ he cast a shy glance at Alice, ‘to kill the memsahib. So it had to be done. And I am a soldier, after all.’
Simon exchanged glances with his wife. The tall Sikh was clearly a man of some sensitivity as well as ability, even though he said little. But the reflective turn that the conversation had taken now was enough to cast a touch of gloom over the company and, shortly afterwards, Alice exchanged a goodnight kiss with her husband and the little party broke up.
Early the next morning, Appleby-Smith brought his officers to report to Fonthill. The captain, erect but seemingly a little more portly now, looked askance at the native dress of Simon and his companions.
‘Good gracious,’ he muttered. ‘Is it necessary for you to look like that, Mr Fonthill? You will be riding with us, after all.’
Simon exchanged a surreptitious grin with Buckingham. ‘Sorry to shock you, Clarence. But it may be necessary for the three of us to leave you from time to time to see if we can pick up information. Either that, or we may decide to join the mullah.’
The jest passed by Appleby-Smith, although it brought obedient chuckles from the officers. ‘When do you wish us to leave, sir?’ he asked. ‘We are at your disposal.’
‘Not until after dark. This camp will have many eyes on it, passing information on about the comings and goings from it. We will slip away as soon as night falls. We will follow the river to the east and pull away from it to camp. It will be necessary to post double picquets, Captain.’
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sp; For nearly two days the squadron rode out east, following the line of the Waran river along the Waran Valley. Fonthill was less than happy with the outdated Martini-Henry short-barrelled carbines and sabres with which the men were armed, but the Guides were a native regiment and that was the issue, so there was no choice there.
Nevertheless, the 160 men of the squadron were well mounted and they looked a fine sight as they trotted along the riverbank in their smart, lightweight khaki tunics and riding breeches, set in place by tightly wound puttees. Their turbans were equally tightly wound and were of dark blue and cream cloth.
‘Smart lot, this,’ confided Jenkins. ‘And bloody marvellous to be back in the cavalry, after walkin’ all over this bloody country.’ Simon nodded. The valley of the Waran was, as Lockhart had predicted, less mountainous than the country of the south, but he was becoming a little surprised and slightly anxious that they had met no inhabitants on their ride so far. He looked up quickly, then, towards the end of the second day, when Inderjit, who had been riding with the rearguard, came galloping up.
‘I think, bach sir,’ he reported, ‘that we are being followed.’
‘How many?’
‘Just one tribesman, on horse, which is unusual. He keeps well back from us but he is following for some time now. He seems to be alone.’
‘Inform the captain and ask that the man be brought in for questioning.’
Within the hour, the squadron had halted and a trap set for the tribesman, who had put up no resistance, and was brought in and told to dismount. He was a man of small stature, riding a good horse but wearing the anodyne dress of a typical Pathan. Yet he stood defiantly before Fonthill, albeit with downcast eyes of the greyest hue.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Alice,’ sighed Simon. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’
‘I am following you, husband,’ responded his wife. ‘And I could do with a cup of tea or something. And I have been very cold sleeping out at night and rather frightened. So I am glad that you have discovered me – and too far out for you to send me back, so there!’
‘Don’t be too sure of that. Where on earth did you get those clothes, and the horse, too?’
‘Clothes in the street market and I begged the nag from the horsemaster. I have to return it in good order. He thought I was only going for an afternoon hack with one of the correspondents. But I have bought a solid Webley revolver, strictly illegally.’
‘Oh Lord! Jenkins get her some tea and see if we can rustle up a little bivouac tent from somewhere. Now, we must ride on and find a campsite before dark. Alice, you are going to be an infernal nuisance and I shall sue for divorce when we get back.’
‘And I shall grant it. On the grounds of you deserting me back there in Maidan.’
That night brought sniper firing onto the camp for the first time, forcing Appleby-Smith to give orders for the dousing of all fires and making Simon thank God that Alice had been discovered and brought in when she had. ‘Did you see any sign of anyone spying on us when you were out there?’ he asked her the next morning.
‘No. But I was too scared to fall back too far from the column.’
‘Hmmm. I can’t think we have got this far undetected. I sense an attack coming.’
And so it proved. The river had curled away a little to the south to meet the Mastura and the squadron had pulled, on Simon’s instinct, to the north and was riding towards a narrow defile, when shots were heard from it. The forward outriders came galloping back, one of them riding closely beside his comrade, supporting him in the saddle.
‘We should retreat,’ cried Appleby-Smith, riding to Fonthill’s side. ‘Bugler! Sound the—’
‘No! Take the scout’s report first. 352, ride at Alice’s side.’
The trooper reported that shots had been fired down on them from high up on the right of the gulley. One of their number had been killed outright and another wounded. They had been unable to ascertain how many men were hidden behind the rocks.
Dawson joined Appleby-Smith and Fonthill. ‘It sounds like a trap,’ said the captain. ‘They want us to ride in and then ambush us. We should retreat.’
‘No.’ Fonthill spoke firmly. ‘I agree it might be a trap. But we cannot leave one of our men and allow his body to be defiled. And, besides, I am tired of riding without seeing anyone. We need to take a prisoner to gain information. Take the squadron back, Clarence – not too far, mind you – and form a defensive position. Give me Buckingham and ten men and we will dismount under cover of that overhang there and try to go in on foot above them and take them from the rear. 352!’
‘Bach sir!’
‘Hand Alice over to Inderjit and come with me and Buckingham.’
Appleby-Smith, of course, was nominally in command of the squadron and Fonthill sensed that, just for a moment, the captain was considering countermanding his orders. But then the man obviously thought better of it and turned away.
‘Simon, be careful.’ Alice was watching with wide eyes.
‘Stay with Inderjit and try your best to be quiet.’ Simon grinned at his wife to offset the harshness of his words. The squadron trotted back and then, as the track curved and the overhang approached, Fonthill and his little party pulled away, dismounted and left their horses in the care of two troopers.
‘I knew we’d soon be back hoofing it,’ growled Jenkins.
‘Come on. Up this rock here. There’s plenty of footholds.’
The thirteen-man party began to climb and Fonthill cursed inwardly for not instructing the troopers to leave their sabres behind. The long swords hung down from their owners’ waistbands and clattered on the rock face. ‘Be quiet,’ he hissed.
They climbed upwards quickly until they found a narrow goats’ path leading them directly towards the defile at a height of about sixty feet above the track. Fonthill led the party in single file along the path, his Lee-Metford rifle carried at the trail. Jenkins was close behind him, attempting not to look down, and the others trailed back, perspiration dripping down everyone’s face.
At last, the path turned a corner and Simon held up his hand as, on hands and knees, he looked around the bend. Immediately, he turned back and put his mouth close to Jenkins’s ear. ‘They’re down below,’ he said. ‘Pass the word to crawl forward.’
They found themselves looking down on a party of about thirty or more Pathans, all spread out among the rocks, their rifles aimed down at the track some forty feet below. They seemed quite unaware of the men above them.
‘Seems a shame to pick ’em off from here,’ whispered the lieutenant.
‘No, it isn’t. All’s fair in this bloody war. 352, when I say the word, put a bullet through the shoulder of that chap there, the nearest one to us. Tell your men, Duke, to shoot to kill at the rest of them, as soon as Jenkins fires. I want to take that wounded man prisoner, if we can, and send the others packing.’
As soon as the word was passed, Fonthill nodded to Jenkins, who snuggled the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, took careful aim and pulled the trigger. Immediately, the man clutched at his shoulder and rolled over and the hillside broke into flame as the troopers began firing systematically.
It was impossible to miss at that range and, if the Guides had possessed the Lee-Metford magazine rifles instead of the single-shot Martinis, then few of the Pathans could have survived. As it was, some eight or more of them managed to disappear as if by magic into the rock-strewn terrain as the troopers paused to reload, leaving at least twenty bodies behind them.
‘Send two men to get that wounded man to bring back with us,’ Fonthill ordered Buckingham. ‘Get another two to retrieve the body of our own chap lying down there on the track. Then we’d better get the hell out of here. We’ll just have to leave their wounded. I am sure that there are more of the enemy about. They wouldn’t attack us with just thirty men.’
Within twelve anxious minutes the little party was back under the overhang and were reunited with their horses. To Simon’s fury, there was no
sight of the squadron. ‘The bloody man would have heard the shooting,’ cursed Fonthill. ‘The least he could do would be to send a section back in case we needed help.’
Buckingham made a face and shrugged his shoulders. It was clear that nothing about Appleby-Smith could now disappoint him. In fact, the captain had halted the squadron about a mile away and had dispersed his men among the rocks. The prisoner, his eyes wide with fear as well as pain, was brought before the officers, one of whose number began tending to the wound, while Inderjit translated.
‘Tell him,’ said Fonthill, ‘that we will dress his wound and not kill him. We will, however, shoot him here and now if he does not help us. I want to know where the Mullah Sayyid Akbar is. I know he is near here. Where is he and how big a force does he have? We will know if he lies.’
The man’s reply shocked them all.
‘He say,’ translated Inderjit, ‘that mullah is in his big house over next hill directly ahead and very near. He has several hundred men with him. He has been following our progress along river and is about to attack us. Ambush was attempt to weaken us while he gathers more men.’
‘Ah!’ Appleby-Smith’s ejaculation was one of great relief, mingled with alarm. ‘Good. Now we have what we have come for and we can ride back to Maidan.’
‘Certainly not!’ Fonthill’s tone was crisp. ‘I intend to attack the mullah as soon as possible. If we cannot capture him then we must kill him. We need five good scouts out ahead immediately to reconnoitre the way to the house and to spy out the Pathans’ encampment. When this man has been treated release him when we ride out. Tell him, Inderjit, that if we see him again with the mullah’s men he will be shot immediately. Now, we have little time before those chaps in the defile reach the mullah. So we must move quickly. I fancy this is going to be some fight.’
‘Mr Fonthill,’ Appleby-Smith’s face had turned a shade of puce. ‘I am in command of this squadron and I must protest. Our orders were clear: we should locate the mullah and return to Maidan so that a proper attack can be mounted on him.’