Bayonets Along the Border (15 page)

Alice realised that the kitchen was being used as a rough-and-ready
medical centre and that several wounded men were lying groaning on the tables.

‘You can help here, miss,’ said Khan. ‘These men not good nurses and we have no doctor here. I must get back to the walls.’ He rapped out an order. ‘Thank you, memsahib. I tell them to do what you say. You good woman – and brave too.’ Then he ducked through the doorway and sprinted across the open ground, holding his wounded arm, to reach the partial cover of the stone stairway set in the wall.

Alice sucked in her breath as she looked around her. Two sepoys, who had obviously been acting as medical orderlies, were looking at her expectantly. Their faces and hands were filthy and they were using dirty strips of kitchen waste as bandages. At least seven wounded men were lying on the tables.

Alice’s heart sank. She had never received any medical training and retained only the most fundamental notion of first aid. She gulped. What had been Nurse Nightingale’s mantra in the Crimea? Ah yes. Cleanliness, that was it. At least they could clean and bind the wounds and, hopefully, prevent too much loss of blood.

‘Do you speak English?’ she asked.

The two men shook their heads.

‘Oh,’ sighed Alice, ‘now that’s just splendid.’ She gestured to the cooking bowls and to the primitive cold-water tap that stood in one corner. She ran across and filled one bowl. Then picked up a coarse piece of soap and went through the motions of washing and indicated that the sepoys should do the same. Then, while they washed, she laid out her bandages and pads and began inspecting the wounds.

It was miserable work. There was no morphine or other drugs to staunch the pain and all that she could do was to wash the wounds
and apply the pads and bandages. She gestured to the orderlies to watch her and then do the same for some of the others. But they were able to do little to help three of the wounded who had serious gunshot wounds, in the chest or head, from having been exposed to the snipers on the ramparts.

The four of them worked hard through the day as more wounded were brought in and Alice hardly noticed when dusk fell, except that suddenly there was an influx of hurt men from the walls. The darkness meant that they could limp across the square – sometimes helped by their fellows – without fear of being hit, and make it to the cookhouse door.

Getting some of the fit men to lift the corpses and lay them outside, Alice indicated that the newly wounded should take their places on the tables and she carried on with her work of washing and bandaging, although now she began to feel a sense of hopelessness, realising that, so often, something more radical was needed if the wounded men were to survive.

She had hoped that the end of daylight would mean some diminution in the wave of attacks. But the noise of the shouting, the beating of the drums and the awful cacophony of the firing continued through the night. Exhausted, at about 3 a.m., Alice gestured to her orderlies to stop their work and to find something to eat, while she brewed tea. For a precious few minutes, the three of them squatted on the floor of beaten earth, sipped their tea and ate chapattis, smeared with strawberry jam, amidst the groans of the wounded.

Alice eventually realised that there was now little more they could do in their crowded makeshift hospital, for they had no more bandages or pads left and the numbers of wounded demanding attention – those
that had been able to reach the dubious safety of the cookhouse, that is – were increasing, so that many were forced to sit outside the open doorway. She must seek help, so, as dawn was breaking, she dipped her hands in the red water in the bloodstained bowl, wiped them on her jodhpurs and ventured outside to find the
subedar major
, while she was still able to cross the square.

She grabbed the arm of a sepoy. ‘
Subedar Major
Khan?’ she asked, pointing up at the firing step running behind the battlements.

The man shook his head. ‘Dead,’ he said.

Alice put her fist to her mouth. ‘Oh, God,’ she exclaimed. For a brief moment, she wondered if the bullet that had killed him had been fired by one of his sons. She hung on to the sepoy’s arm as he tried to pull away. ‘The other
subedars
?’ she demanded, whirling her arm around to emphasise the question.

‘Dead. Fort finished.’

Then the man slipped away. Alice looked around her in growing anxiety. She realised, then, that the firing step above her was littered with inert bodies and that very few sepoys were still lining the embrasures and firing. There was a furious banging on the outside of the great gates. How had the attackers been allowed to get that close to the entrance?

She ran up the steps to the battlements and, picking her way over the dead and wounded, found the embrasure outside her room where the old
havildar
had been. He was now half hanging, head down, through the gap in the stonework, the top of his scalp torn away. Then she stole a glance over his body. The base of the wall was now a mass of tribesmen, all jostling to get towards the gate of the fort. She looked along the firing step. No one – not one single sepoy – was left manning
the embrasures. Those that were left were now trotting down the steps towards the inside of the gate.

She realised with horror:
they were going to open the gates!

‘NO!’ screamed Alice. ‘NO. NO!’ Drawing her revolver from where it had slipped down inside her cummerbund, she ran after them down the steps. She saw that some of the soldiers were attempting to lift the heavy bar of timber that lay across the door. She clawed at the sepoy nearest her at the back of the crowd, but he pushed her away violently. The bar was being raised. What to do?

Alice immediately thought of the wounded. She had heard of the cruelty of the Pathans and how they would mutilate whoever of their opponents survived. She therefore ran to the cookhouse. The two orderlies had abandoned their post, so Alice slammed the door and fumbled around for a key, but there was none. Biting her lip and trembling, she therefore stood beside the nearest wounded man, one hand on his bandaged chest, the other levelling her revolver at the door. Waiting …

She could tell by the howling from outside that the gates to the fort had been opened and she heard the pounding of hundreds of feet across the square of the fort. There was a splintering of wood as doors leading to the barracks were smashed open and then, with a crash, that to the makeshift hospital was thrust aside.

Alice raised her revolver and shouted, ‘Stop, or I shoot.’

She realised how pathetic she sounded for her voice could hardly be heard above the din, but the sight of this bloodstained woman levelling her revolver at them was enough to freeze the three Pathans who were jammed in the entrance. They looked at her with jaws dropped and Alice had a momentary impression of wild, exultant,
black faces and eyes that regarded her with amazement, and then, puzzled amusement. Slowly, they looked her up and down and then, equally slowly, raised their curved swords.

Alice pulled the trigger of the Webley but nothing happened. The revolver had jammed. She closed her eyes and prepared to die.

A voice suddenly screamed a command in what Alice presumed must be Pushtu and she opened her eyes. The men jamming the doorway were being pulled back and a tall figure, dressed in white robes that were of a quality and richness that emphasised his difference in rank to those surrounding him, pushed through. He carried a bloodstained sword.

His black eyes looked directly into those of Alice and then he said, in impeccable English, ‘Good heavens. And who might you be, pray?’

With that, overwhelmed with hunger, exhaustion and shock, Alice fainted.

Alice had no idea how long she lay unconscious but it was a pungent smell of burning that first penetrated her senses and then a great noise, of people shouting, timber crackling and crashing and rifles being fired. She opened her eyes and looked up at the blue, Punjabi sky, now streaked with smoke. Ah, so she was not dead!

She tried to sit up but found that she was roughly bound and seemed to be tied to some sort of litter that was lying on the ground. She craned her neck and realised that she had been deposited high on the hillside and that she was looking down on Fort Landi Kotal, now well ablaze. Tribesmen were milling all around her and drums were still beating, obviously in triumph.

And yet, she could see that the fighting was not yet over and not all of the sepoys had capitulated to the tribesmen. Down below, a group of the soldiers had somehow formed a square and fought their
way through the gates and, still in a rough square formation, were marching along the road towards Peshawar, under the command of what appeared to Alice to be a
subedar
– so there was at least one left! – and occasionally firing at a few of the Pathans who still accosted them. It seemed that they had been allowed to escape, for the tribesmen were far more interested in looting and then destroying the fort.

Alice frowned and let her head fall back. It throbbed and her mouth and tongue seemed to be made of sandpaper. She tried to marshal her thoughts and make sense of it all but the hard work and anxieties of the previous day and night brought back her exhaustion and she allowed herself to slip back into an uneasy slumber.

She awoke to find herself being carried by two men, one at her feet and the other at her head, so that she looked up past his considerable stomach into the underside of his beard. As best she could see, they were typical Pathan tribesmen. The man ahead was wearing a skull cap and a loose
angarka
. He had a bandolier crossing his breast and back and Alice realised that the weight she could feel on her feet were those of the two men’s rifles. Feeling her move, the man at her head looked down and gave her a broken-toothed grin. He was wearing a loosely wound turban and she recognised her revolver pushed into his belt. Fat lot of good it would do him, she reflected sourly. The bloody thing didn’t fire when it was needed!

The man grunted to the other bearer and she was lowered to the ground. Then a rough arm was thrust under her head to tilt it forwards and a leather gourd put to her mouth. The water was lukewarm but it tasted sweet to Alice and she gulped greedily. The turbaned bearer produced a scrap of cloth and, with surprising gentleness, wiped away
the water that ran down her chin. Then he stood upright and the journey began again.

Alice mouthed ‘thank you’ and then, more loudly, ‘Do you speak English?’

The turbaned one gave her some reply in dialect then shook his head. Alice noticed that his face was pockmarked and his face bore a vivid scar across the left cheek. She tried to look around her but all she could see were one or two other tribesmen loping along and the inevitable rocks and scree. They seemed to be walking along an established track because the litter was tilting neither to left or right.

She tried again to think rationally. The fort had obviously been virtually overrun and, perhaps, some sort of deal done with some, at least, of the defenders: the tribesmen – probably related, like the lamented
subedar major
, to the soldiers in the fort – promising to spare their lives if they opened the gates. Then, she recalled, with a start, the apparition that had appeared at the doorway of the cookhouse, just when she was about to be butchered. Did she imagine it, or did he speak to her in perfect English?

Alice shook her head. She must have imagined that – working throughout the day and the night in the heat, amongst the blood and cries of the wounded, amidst constant noise, and with no rest and little to eat or drink – her mind must have tipped for a moment. She was at her wits’ end and expecting a brutal death. The man must obviously have been some sort of leader and spoke to her in Pushtu or even Hindi. She must have fantasised his appearance and voice.

So … she had been captured and her life spared. Why? The Pathans usually killed and mutilated their prisoners. Her thoughts turned to the wounded in the cookhouse. Had they been spared too? Highly
unlikely. Tears trickled down her face as she recalled the brown eyes of the sepoys she had tended and their smiles of thanks. Ah, but this was a harsh, cruel country!

But why was she still alive – and obviously being cared for in some way? Was she to be a hostage, a bargaining pawn in some further negotiations? Her eyes closed again and she was suddenly back in the fort, amongst the flames and then, through the door, appeared Simon, dressed in fine Persian robes. He swept her up, carried her outside and then, very tenderly lowered her down.

She awoke to find that, indeed, the litter was being lowered to the ground but, alas, not by Simon. She realised that it was nearly dusk and she was in some sort of encampment, though still in the hills, for they could be seen rising beyond a row of tents. Then the litter was raised again – this time roughly – and she was carried into one of the tents. There she was left and she struggled to break free from the bonds that bound her to the makeshift stretcher.

She had managed to free one of her wrists when Scarface reappeared. He was carrying some sort of tray containing a dish heaped high with rice and studded with what appeared to be some sort of meat. Alongside were two oranges and a beaker full of milk. The man bent down and picked up the ends of the cords that had bound her wrists, waved them about disapprovingly under her nose, shaking his head. Speaking to her in dialect, he untied the rest of the cords and helped her to sit up. Then he pointed to the tray and made eating gestures with his fingers, before indicating the entry to the tent and shaking his head again negatively, taking out a knife and drawing it across his throat. Clearly, she was not to venture outside.

Alice nodded her head. ‘I won’t run,’ she said, ‘even if I bloody well
could.’ She summoned up the ghost of a smile, picked up the milk and raised it to him in thanks. He nodded, repeated the gesture with the knife and then left the tent, returning quickly with an oil lantern that he deposited on the floor.

Looking around her, Alice realised that the tent had what looked like a comfortable divan in one corner, piled high with cushions, and a low table in the other. The milk halfway to her lips, she paused. Oh God! Was she about to be raped? Was this what it was all about – taking her from the fort, giving her sustenance and now laying her down by a lush bed? And was the milk drugged?

She took a cautious sip. It tasted delicious. Quite creamy and slightly warm. Probably fresh from a goat. Was she now, then, in the headquarters or even the tent of the fabled mullah, what was his name? Sayyid something, or something Sayyid?

Cautiously, Alice dipped her fingers into the rice. Warm and also delicious. The meat was probably goat but it was tender and succulent. If she was in the mullah’s lair, then he obviously travelled with a good cook. And, she reflected, if she was about to be defiled then better that it happened after she had eaten well. If rape was to be on the menu, she certainly would not be acquiescent. And a good meal would give her strength for the fight!

She put her hands to her face in a moment of despair. Had it come to this? No. She took a deep breath. She certainly
would
fight! Then she looked down at herself. Her fingernails were edged with black – whatever would Miss Nightingale think? – and her hands were bloodstained, as were her jodhpurs and blouse. She was not, she reflected, exactly rape material.

Alice forced a grin and ate the rice and meat and then the oranges
hungrily and drank the remnants of the milk. Then, a little unsteadily, she rose from where she sat cross-legged on the litter and walked to the door of the tent. Gingerly, she drew apart the folds of the entry and looked out. The darkness outside was broken by a series of fires that had been lit before other tents and they must have climbed into the hills for the air was cold. Tribesmen could be seen tending to pots hung above the fires but no guards seemed to have been posted outside her door.

Alice took a deep breath of the air, so keen and cold that it made her eyes water, then she withdrew back into the tent. She stood indecisively for a moment. Could she just walk away? Yes, but walk to where – and how could she slip through the village without being detected?

She felt herself stagger for a moment and perched on the edge of the little table. She had been asking herself just too many questions over the last thirty-six hours and providing no answers. She attempted to take stock. Where was she? No idea, but wait … She had been looking down at the fort from quite high on the hills on its northern side and it would have been unlikely that her captors would have taken her down to the road again and carried her up the other side. Ergo: if she could escape now and hide amongst the rocks until the morning, she could gauge the south by the position of the sun when it came up and then walk down to the Pass and follow the road to the east towards Peshawar until she reached one of the other forts.

She smiled at her naïvety. Barton had said that the other two forts were sited less well, defensively, than Landi Kotal. If the latter could fall, how could the other two survive? And how the hell could she walk undetected through miles of mountainous country teeming with rebellious Pathans?

Alice looked around the tent. Apart from the roughly made stretcher that had brought her here there was only the bed with its … ah – blankets!

She pulled away the top one and wound it around her. The scarf which she had tied around her head as protection from the sun hours ago had long since slipped down to her neck, so she untied it and rearranged it as some kind of head cover. God knows if she looked like a Pathan woman – or even if the camp housed any women – but she was damned if she was going to stay in this tent and wait for … for whatever fate lay in store for her. She must make a bid for liberty.

Tucking the blanket round her, she shuffled to the tent opening and pulled back the flap.

‘Ah, good evening, Mrs Fonthill,’ said the tall, bearded, richly caparisoned man who stood there, a drinking vessel in each hand. ‘I’m so glad you have recovered. But this night air is much too cold for a walk. Look. I’ve brought you a brandy. I thought it might … oh dash it, what is the English expression? Ah yes, I thought it might perk you up a bit.’

Alice felt her jaw drop. ‘So you’re not a figment of my … my … my imagination?’ she gasped, involuntarily.

‘Well, do you know, no one has ever accused me of being that before. Shall we go back inside and take a nightcap?’ She saw white teeth gleam behind the beard. ‘And frankly, my dear, you look vaguely ridiculous in that blanket. You might pass as the wife of an impecunious blanket weaver but not as a native of these parts.’

Alice took three steps backwards. ‘Who are you and how do you know my name?’

‘All in good time. Now, do sit … Ah. No chairs. Just one moment.’
He held out the goblets. ‘Do you mind holding these for a moment or two? Thank you.’

Then he disappeared back into the night and left Alice holding the brandy, feeling distinctly stupid as the blanket slipped from her shoulders and hung from her arms, making her look like some kind of waitress in a country alehouse.

He was back, carrying two large, soft cushions under each arm. ‘Now, he said, ‘let’s try and be as comfortable as we can in these … ah … rather spartan surroundings.’ He threw the cushions onto the floor and relieved her of the brandy, placing the cups on the table. ‘Do sit down. Ah, good. You have eaten. I hope it was to your taste. Alas, I couldn’t join you, for there was much for me to do after the capture of the fort.’

Slowly, Alice lowered herself onto the cushion and felt a ridiculous desire for some powder to dab onto her cheeks.

‘I think you had better tell me who you are and how you know my name,’ she said.

‘Certainly. But do take a sip of this cognac first. It is French, you see, it cost me a fortune and I think it will do you the world of good after the, ah, miseries you have been through. Pick you up, as it were.’

Alice stayed silent and unmoving, watching him intently.

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I see. You suspect me of some dastardly plot to drug or murder you. Not so, look.’ He picked up one of the cups and sipped from it before handing it to her. ‘There, you see. No harm done. In fact,’ he chuckled, ‘it’s doing me no end of good. Now, do come along. Here we go. Cheerio.’ And he raised a cup to her in salute.

Slowly, keeping her eyes on his, Alice picked the cup up and took a sip. Immediately, she shuddered as the fiery liquid burnt through her,
leaving a warm glow behind. The taste and the words that this man – this Pathan? – were using reminded her of her favourite and very English, old-world uncle, when he had first introduced her to a very fiery
digestif
, one Christmas, aeons ago.

She gulped, caught her breath and nodded. ‘Thank you. Now, who are you? You are not the mullah something or other, are you?’

The teeth flashed again and he shook his head. ‘No. As a good Muslim, he doesn’t touch these … ah …. better things in life. No. My name is … No. If you don’t mind I won’t tell you that. It may turn to my disadvantage later.’

‘But you are not English, surely?’

‘No. In fact, I am from Rajasthan, in India, a good way south of here. So, you see, I am very much an Indian – although not Red, as you can see.’

‘But … but … your English is impeccable. You could pass as an Englishman anywhere.’

‘How kind of you. But I don’t think I could pass as one of your fellow countrymen. I am … what shall we say … a little too sunburnt for that.’ He smiled again and Alice realised that he was an incredibly handsome man, with high cheekbones, smooth, brown skin behind his beard, very white teeth and eyes of soft brown. Rather like Simon’s, she thought for a brief moment. But the Indian was still speaking.