Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  Sir Iain stopped his horse. He waved an arm. “If Lord Dornoch’s willing, I see no reason why not,” he said distantly.

  Dornoch rode forward.

  His eyes seemed to search Ogilvie’s face as they had done earlier. His own face was anxious as before, and he was frowning, and there was a willingness in his expression to read and learn, as though all along he had felt something had been left unsaid. “You must not worry about your situation, Ogilvie,” he said simply. “You were taken in battle. There is no dishonour attaching to that.”

  “Thank you, sir. I…I think my father has been a little hasty, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think Ahmed Khan’s terms should be referred to Calcutta.”

  Dornoch studied him closely, frowning still. “You are very insistent, James,” he said at last. “Is there anything you wish to add to what you have told your father?” There was no answer, but he could read in James Ogilvie’s eyes that there was indeed more and he had a fairly good idea as to what it was. He asked, “How have you been treated, James? You look well enough.”

  “I am well, sir.”

  “And Mr. Cunningham—and the men?”

  There was a slight pause, a meaningful one to Dornoch, then Ogilvie said, “They are well too, sir.”

  “Not badly treated—no rough measures?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see. You will, of course, bear in mind, James, that even if they had been, and I believe you when you say they have not—it would not be possible for that to be taken into account?”

  Ogilvie’s face fell, though he nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” Dornoch had understood, at least; but he had rebuked him. A commander could not allow a campaign to be altered, much less abandoned, for the sake of a mere handful of soldiers. They would be avenged later, naturally, but for now they had ceased to exist in the military mind. He should have known, of course; and in fact at the back of his mind he did, but had been hoping for a miracle; further, he had gone rather more than half way in quite genuinely seeing Ahmed Khan’s viewpoint. Now his mind was a muddle and he felt that his father might be right and he’d been a traitor and a fool as well. He hung his head; Dornoch stared at him a while longer then turned his horse and walked the animal back towards the waiting British group. There was a longish conference, and his father seemed at first angry, then more amenable. Ogilvie caught a word or two here and there: a mention of there being no option, that terms had been proposed and could not be rejected out-of-hand...things like that. It all took some time. Ogilvie brooded, conscious all the while of the presence of Faiz Gheza and the native cavalry, of the guns in the native lines behind and the concealed British artillery on the heights. Soon now those guns would be in action again, more men would die or end their lives as helpless cripples selling matches in the streets, begging, playing music-hall songs to the crowds in Piccadilly for the contemptuously-tossed halfpennies. The Imperial arrogance of the old lady in Windsor Castle; the inflexibility of parliament; the stupidity of generals; the ‘patriotism’—vengeance might be a more appropriate word—of the British man-in-the-street—all these would be the really blameworthy things, but no one in Britain would in fact blame them. They would blame Ahmed Khan, of course. He was a native. But this, after all, was Ahmed Khan’s land, its own peoples’ land, and this was a stupid war. An agreement honourable to both sides might well bring more lasting peace than any number of campaigns such as this one. Fighting would break out again and again if they did not sign a treaty. Surely a soldier’s job was finished when he had reached the point of possibility of a negotiated peace formula?

  At last the conference ended and Lord Dornoch rode towards the rebel squadron. Sir Iain had pointedly turned his back and was now staring towards the British-held hills, but Ogilvie had caught sight of his face and had seen a gleam of something like triumph in it, and a kind of slyness too, which wasn’t like him. Reaching him Dornoch said steadily in a loud voice, “The General orders me to say that Ahmed Khan’s terms will be forwarded to higher authority, but he offers no guarantee of a quick answer,” then, without another word, he turned and rejoined the others, and the party retreated at a gallop towards the British position. Faiz Gheza gave orders to his own squadron and they swung round for Jalalabad.

  *

  “They’d be rejected out of hand,” the General said contemptuously as he spurred his horse, “if White was allowed his way! Trouble is—he wouldn’t be! He’d have to forward ’em. That’s when the trouble starts the weak-kneed vacillation, the insidious thoughts that perhaps peace is better than war after all. Damn buggers! There’s only the one thing for it, Dornoch.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve agreed to forward ’em, therefore forwarded they must be, of course. Some day. I didn’t say when I’d forward ’em—did I?”

  “I don’t think I quite understand, Sir Iain?”

  “Don’t you, my dear fellow? Then I’ll explain. The field telegraph is needed for urgent messages and can’t possibly be cluttered up with long signals detailing terms. Neither can I possibly spare a detail to ride back through the Khyber. A little delay, Dornoch, a little expedient delay—until we’ve wiped out that confounded supply column!”

  “I don’t think I can approve of that.”

  “Not approve?” The General looked sideways, face set. “Who the devil asked you your damned approval? I didn’t! I gave an order. And who are you to disapprove, man? Damn it all, when I commanded the 114th you were a damn company commander! Confounded impudence!”

  Dornoch cleared his throat. “Then let me put it differently, General. I’m not sure it’s wise.”

  “Wise—hey? Fiddlesticks. I’m not an academic man, Dornoch. Never read a book in my life, except military history. Wise—ha. I have to make decisions, all too often on insufficient knowledge, I agree. I distrust wisdom—damned if I don’t!” He pulled at his moustache. “Why don’t you think it’s wise?”

  “I’m thinking of those men in the fort. As I said, I’m convinced they’re being made to suffer, and probably atrociously. That was what Ogilvie was wanting to tell us. When Ahmed Khan sees no results from his talk with you—they’ll suffer more.”

  “I know. I think of the men too, Dornoch. I’m not entirely insensitive to the fact my own flesh and blood’s there with ’em.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No need to be sorry, or to feel you have to apologize. It’s your privilege to consider your men, Dornoch. I no longer have that privilege. I often wish I were just a battalion commander again. No, my job’s to accept the sacrifice when I think it necessary for the good of the majority. My brother, the one who went into the Navy, can’t think why, once served under a Captain on some hell-hole of a foreign station—West Africa. I remember him telling me...some man asked for a posting home because the climate was killing him. Medical Officer backed this. But d’you know what the Captain said, Dornoch? He said he would willingly send any man to his death if he thought it was for the good of his country. That’s what he did. He didn’t grant the request and the man died. That’s all. I may be in the same position as that naval Captain.”

  *

  Ogilvie and his escort rode back into the fort, past the quarter-guard. The sun was high now; the time was past noon. The courtyard sweltered in the grip of that sun. Men moved about lazily. There were no guards on the dungeon or the trench outside it. Ogilvie fancied he saw a shimmer of heat rising from the metal plate.

  Faiz Gheza gave the order to dismount outside the cellar entrance. Stiffly, Ogilvie climbed down from his horse. He dreaded what he must see when Ahmed Khan gave the order for the trench to be opened. As he looked around he saw Ahmed Khan approaching, on horseback now, from the direction of the battlemented tower. Mounted, the man appeared more imperious than ever; he made a very striking figure, and he was looking expectant. Nearing Ogilvie, he reined in his horse and looked down, raising his eyebrows. “Well, Ogilvie sahib?” he asked.

  “My fathe
r will forward the terms.”

  Ahmed Khan glanced at Faiz Gheza. “This is correct?”

  “It is correct, Highness.”

  “Good, excellent!” Ahmed Khan’s keen gaze swept Ogilvie again. “Your father will keep his word—you have convinced him that what I have said about the Czar is no bluff?”

  Ogilvie said, “My father is a British officer, and will keep his word. He understands that you’re not bluffing about the Russians. He knows the politics of the Afghan borders, Ahmed Khan. But I am bound to add that he can offer no guarantee that an answer will come quickly.” He paused, expectant himself now. “Well, as you can see, I’ve done what I agreed to do. Will you now do your part?”

  A slight smile on his face, Ahmed Khan produced the key of the trench-cover. He held it aloft. “Ogilvie sahib, you have carried out your part of the bargain as you say. I also am a man of honour. The men will be released, but remember this, if there is no sign from the British that my terms are being favourably considered, it will be easy to return them to the trench again. For now, Ogilvie sahib, you will release your soldiers yourself.”

  He reached down with the key, a mocking look in his eyes now. As Ogilvie took the key Ahmed Khan said, “I believe the British will treat with me rather than risk the Russians. While you were parleying, Ogilvie sahib, a runner reached me after making his way through another part of your British line, a lightly-held and hilly sector through which he passed with ease. I am informed that my supply column is approaching and will move through the gap between the hills, under cover of the darkness...not tonight, not tomorrow night, not the night after that—but the following one. This is a little sooner than I expected. From that time onward, this fort will no longer be under any serious threat. With the replenishment of arms and food and men, I shall, if I wish, be able to break out and force the British line virtually wherever I want, and once that line is cut, your regiments will be decimated. This, your high command will know. Now—release your men.”

  Ogilvie turned away with the key. Faiz Gheza handed him the iron bar. He walked around the trench-cover, pushed the key home into its hole, felt it engage over a metal spigot. He inserted the iron bar through the ring, and began turning, using all his weight in the effort. He felt the tremor of the ground beneath his feet as the heavy cover began to slide away under the wall. It took him ten minutes. When the key jammed at full open he let go of it and turned about, looking down into the trench. He met blank stares from puffy, sweat-streaked faces. There was little strength left in the soldiers; all energy had been sweated out of them and the lack of air had had its effect as well. Cunningham was the first to move. He reached out an arm, felt vaguely for the lip of the trench, and pulled himself to a sitting position. He was soaked with sweat and he moved stiffly, like an animated corpse. His face set, Ogilvie went towards him and knelt by his side, reaching out to give him support.

  “This is damnable, Sarn’t-Major,” he said.

  The voice was a whisper and Ogilvie bent closer to catch it. “I have a stronger word for it, Mr. Ogilvie. If it happens again, however...Mr. Ogilvie, I would like a word with you if it can be arranged—the bastards are watching now. Help me out, if you please, sir.”

  Ogilvie did so; held him for a while till he could stand on his own, then went to the assistance of the others. Some had taken it more easily than their comrades and were able to help the less fortunate. One man lay still. Ogilvie went to him and bent to run a hand beneath his tunic, feeling for the heartbeats. The man was dead. One by one, his small force was being whittled away. He felt a terrible sense of foreboding and helplessness. It was unnerving, but he fought it down. He straightened, and walked away from the trench towards Ahmed Khan. Standing by the rebel’s stirrups he said, “Ahmed Khan, you have killed three of my men since we have been held prisoner. I—”

  “This is war, Ogilvie sahib. It is not a way of my own making that is to say, your British involvement was never sought by me. This you know. I regret the deaths, but you must think yourselves lucky you are not all dead.”

  “I know this is war, Ahmed Khan. Facilities for decent burial are also a part of war. You would wish your own men to have proper burial. I now ask the same for mine.”

  Ahmed Khan stared down cynically and gave a short laugh. “When you kill my men in battle, Ogilvie sahib, do you always give them proper burial?”

  Ogilvie flushed. All he could find to say was, “Your ways differ from ours. We do not always know what sort of burial a man of the hill tribes would consider proper and fitting.”

  “Therefore you take the easy way, and leave them to the vultures, who alone along the frontier welcome the British, for providing them with their meals.” Ahmed Khan regarded him critically and in silence for a while, then shrugged. “I shall not have it said that Ahmed Khan was guilty of any lack of magnanimity in approaching victory. You shall have your decent burial, Ogilvie sahib. I shall give orders to that effect and you will be informed when it shall be—but you will excuse me from personal attendance,” he added sardonically. “I have other affairs that need my attention.” There was a sudden change in his tone then, and he looked grave, almost kingly, as he went on, “Do not think, however, that I have no respect for your dead. I have no personal approval for my countrymen’s customs in regard to enemy dead. I always respect a soldier who has fought well, whichever side he is on. Perhaps, after the acceptance of my terms, such bloodshed will cease to be necessary...though I have no doubt but that the British will find other peoples upon whom to sharpen their swords!”

  He swung away before Ogilvie could say anything more, riding at a walking pace back towards the tower. Ogilvie called after him, and he turned. “Yes?”

  Ogilvie asked, “May I have permission for my men to attend the burial, Ahmed Khan?”

  “No, Ogilvie sahib. You alone shall go.”

  “May I take my sergeant-major, Ahmed Khan?” Fresh sweat broke out, running down his face and body. “He’ll want to be present.”

  There was a pause. Then Ahmed Khan gave a wave of his hand, a dismissive gesture before turning away again, this time finally. “Very well, then, your sergeant-major, no one else.”

  Ogilvie waited while the released men filed down the steps into the cellar and the guard was re-set—and he recalled that both the iron-covered trench and the cellar door had been unguarded on his return. That could be worth bearing in mind. Ahmed Khan evidently felt his trench was secure enough in itself. Ogilvie could find no use for the knowledge but he had had the idea Cunningham was on to something, and every chink in the fort’s armour was worth thinking about. When the men had been locked in again Faiz Gheza snapped an order and four of his squadron formed up, two on either side of Ogilvie and Cunningham, who were marched back to their respective quarters. Soon afterwards Ogilvie had a meal brought to him, but he still had little appetite and once again ate only so as to retain his strength. He was extremely worried now; his situation seemed utterly without hope. In three nights’ time Ahmed Khan’s supply column would arrive, would probably catch the brigade on the hop since it was so far ahead of schedule, and would quite likely break through and join Ahmed Khan’s advanced line thrown across the valley. Then, since there would hardly have been time for Ahmed Khan’s terms to be considered and acted upon, the real holocaust would start. Ogilvie knew his father would press home an attack on the supply column even as far as the gates of Jalalabad itself. Ahmed Khan must know that too, and was apparently not worried. No doubt he had his good reasons for that! Ogilvie was also very conscious of the fact that he might well be the only Briton who knew with certainty when the column would come down through the valley—he could not assume that the political officers operating behind the rebel lines would find it possible to get any messages through from now on; which left him in the position of being in duty bound to get word through himself. But how could he? A breakaway from the forthcoming funeral party might be a possibility, if an unlikely one, but in any case he still had his men to consid
er. Or should he be considering them now? He knew well what both his father’s and his Colonel’s answer would be to that question. And he was under no parole. His clear duty was still to rejoin his regiment at the first opportunity; the fact of the flag-of-truce meeting earlier made no jot of difference to that, and no more would it be altered by the fact of terms being under offer. He paced his apartment restlessly, hour after hour; and his head was aching with the concentrated effort of trying to find his way clear when Faiz Gheza came into the apartment just as the sun was going down the sky.

  The native officer said, “All is ready for the burial of your dead, Ogilvie sahib.” He stood erect beside the door. “You will come, please. His Highness has given orders that all respect shall be shown, and it is desired that you yourself should commend them to the mercies of their God according to their own belief.”

  “Thank you,” Ogilvie answered. He moved for the door and went out in front of Faiz Gheza. Descending the great steps he made his way down the courtyard and saw the burial party drawn up near the gatehouse. There was a handcart with two loinclothed and turbaned bearers in the shafts, and three humps under—of all things—a tattered Union Flag that Ahmed Khan must have taken in battle in the past. Six of Faiz Gheza’s cavalrymen were mounted in rear of the handcart, six more in front—too strong an escort altogether to make a break from. The Regimental Sergeant-Major, as smart as paint, was standing at attention immediately behind the handcart.

  Ogilvie fell in beside him.

  Cunningham. said no word but remained looking straight ahead. Cunningham was thinking of Invermore. There at the depot of Royal Strathspeys, under the lee of the Monadhliath Mountains, a Scottish soldier would have gone home to rest to the beat of muffled drums, sad drums swathed in black crêpe, and the pipes of the battalion playing Flowers of the Forest, and then the volley over the bare grave, and finally the quick-march back to barracks, the lively music from the band that would take the thoughts of the men away from death and its corruption...but the black-hearted bastards of heathen tribesman would not be understanding all that...