Bayonets Along the Border (2 page)

The horses were trembling but not rearing as he led them behind the fragile cover of the wagon. He tied their heads close to the side boarding and heard two more bullets thud into their baggage as Jenkins brought in his horse.

‘What are they after, then, bach sir?’

‘Our rifles, without a doubt. They will be worth a small fortune in these hills.’ Fonthill levelled his own rifle over the edge of the buckboard. ‘Ah, I can see where they are now. Alice,’ he called. ‘Keep your head down and keep behind cover. I think we can handle these two if there are no more.’

‘Balls, darling. I’m as good a shot as you. I nearly winged one, then, I think.’ She fired again.

Simon fired and clipped the edge of one of the boulders. ‘Damn!’ He called across to Jenkins. ‘They’ve probably found new cover. Take a good look, old chap. See if you can see ’em move. And particularly, if there are any more of the bastards.’

‘Can’t see ’em. P’raps we’ve scared ’em off.’

But that was not so. Four separate rifles sounded now, still from the other side of the track and about a hundred feet above them. The bullets pinged off the rocks behind them, giving Simon the small satisfaction that these Pathans weren’t quite living up to there reputation as marksmen – at least so far. Yet the original two had moved so quickly and seemingly imperceptibly among the rocks. And now, it seemed, there were four of them.

Both Fonthill and Jenkins were now sheltering behind the wagon but, despite the cover provided by their baggage, it was clear that it was giving inadequate protection, for bullets were now thudding through the bags and woodwork, narrowly missing them.

‘Better get back among the rocks,’ grunted Simon. ‘Spread out a bit. You go first and I will cover you. Then you do the same for me.’

Jenkins nodded. He let off a round and then sprinted behind up the hill as Simon delivered three rounds of rapid fire at where he could see
the faint smoke trails of the Pathans’ gun barrels. Of the men themselves, though, there seemed no sign. It was like shooting at wraiths.

‘Right,’ shouted Jenkins. Simon reached forward from the baggage and grabbed the box of cartridges he had placed on the top, tucked it under his arm and then turned and scrambled, slipping and sliding, up the shale as he heard Jenkins and Alice firing to cover him. Puffing, he flung himself behind a large rock, roughly level with where his wife was crouching.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ he called.

‘Yes, thank you. How the hell are we going to get out of here?’

‘God knows.’ Fonthill turned his head and looked up behind them. ‘We shall be in real trouble if they get behind us to shoot down on us. And we shall be in even worse trouble if we are still here after nightfall. They will creep up, rush us and then we would have little chance of stopping them, I’m afraid.’

‘Hmmm.’ Alice’s voice was cool. ‘Do you think that the Guides might send out a patrol and hear the gunfire?’

‘It’s a possibility.’ He ducked his head as a bullet clipped the rock near his cheek and went pinging its way up the hillside. ‘Damn. They’re getting better at this. I doubt if the Guides would be actively patrolling around here. It’s supposed to be quiet, if you remember.’

‘Yes.’ Four more shots rang out, bouncing and echoing away from hilltop to hilltop. ‘I’ve noticed how quiet it is.’

‘Quite. As long as there are only four of them, we have a chance.’ He lifted his head. ‘352.’

‘Yes, bach sir.’

‘If I were these bastards, I would try to get behind us, on this side of the track. So I think one or two might make a dash for it across
the road to get up the hill on this side. Be alert and see if you can pick them off if they try it. They’ll be in the open and it’s our best chance.’

‘Good idea. Let’s ’ope they try it.’

And they did. Three more shots rang out from the Pathans, and immediately a figure appeared some hundred yards up the track, broke from cover and, head down and rifle at the trail, sprinted across the road. Quick as he was, Jenkins was quicker. Swivelling from the hips as he knelt, the Welshman fired one shot and then, working the bolt smoothly, another. The first brought the man down, his rifle skittering away from him in the dust and blood spurting from his thigh. He tried to crawl to safety, but Jenkins’s second shot took him in the head, sending his turban spiralling away like a Catherine wheel. Then he lay still, as the echoes faded away.

Fonthill blew out his cheeks. ‘Well done, 352. Bloody good shot. Couldn’t have done better myself.’

Alice let out a quiet snort of derision. ‘Do you think this might scare the others off?’ she asked.

‘Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see. Jenkins.’

‘Bach sir?’

‘I don’t intend to hang about here and wait while they pick us off.’

‘What, ride for it, d’yer think?’

‘No. They
would
pick us off as we fumbled about untying the horses, mounting and riding off in full view of them.’

‘An’ you’d fall off if we ’ad to gallop, of course.’

‘Certainly not. I’m much better now. No. I’ve got a better idea … Listen. I estimate that we are only about eight miles or so from the Guides’ cantonment at Marden up the road here—’

Interrupting, Jenkins’s voice now had an underlying note of terror.
‘Ah, no. Not me. You know I can’t find me way anywhere, unless there’s a pub at the end of it. I’d get lost in these bloody ’ills, so I would. You go, bach sir. I’ll stay and look after Miss Alice.’

‘No. It must be you. You will have to ride like the wind in this heat and you’re a much better horseman than me. You can’t possibly get lost because this road leads straight into the garrison. You just follow your nose and bring back a troop of the Guides as quickly as possible.’ He looked up at the blue, unforgiving sky. ‘It’s midsummer. I reckon we’ve got a good eight hours before nightfall. You can do it, I know you can.’

‘Oh, very good, bach sir. Give me some cover while I mount. Ah … er … which way would it be, then, like?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. The way we were heading. Straight up there.’ He indicated to the right. ‘I reckon with only three of them, Alice and I can keep their heads down while you get away. And keep them out until you get back. Throw me your rifle and take this revolver. It will be easier for you to handle from the saddle if you have to. Don’t stop for anything till you get there.’

‘Very good.’ The rifle and the Webley were exchanged in mid-air. Simon threw the Lee-Metford sliding across the scree to Alice. ‘Do you think you can handle this, darling? It will be more effective than that popgun you’ve got.’

‘Yes, I think so.’ She picked up the heavy weapon but she now wore a frown. ‘How many rounds left in this magazine?’

‘Work the bolt and you will see. But Jenkins has fired quite a few so you will need these.’ He pulled out three more magazines from the ammunition box and threw them to her. ‘Now, 352, are you ready to go?’

‘Oh, aye. I’m looking forward to it, look you. Fire off a few rounds while I scramble down. Give me ’alf a minute to free the ’orse and get on it and then blaze away while I ride off.’

‘Very well. Ready, Alice?’

She nodded.

‘Right. Fire!’

The two rifles barked as one and then again. But they did not prevent two guns blazing back from the other side of the track. The bullets, however, hit the scree just behind Jenkins as he leapt and skidded down to the dubious protection of the wagon.

‘I can see where those two are now, Alice, can you?’ called Fonthill.

‘I think so. But this bloody thing is a bit heavy for me. Never mind. I’ll fire away and hope for the best.’

‘Good. Don’t expose yourself unduly, darling. Are you ready, 352?’

‘Got one foot in the stirrup. Right. Let the buggers ’ave it and good luck to you both!’

Jenkins swung himself into the saddle and dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and with a whoop was off, his back lying parallel to that of his horse and his head alongside its neck as Simon and Alice began firing as fast as they could, Fonthill inevitably emptying his magazine before Alice had let off three rounds. Nevertheless, the modest fusillade was heavy enough to provide the precious cover that the Welshman needed and horse and rider rounded the bend to their right and disappeared out of sight, leaving a cloud of dust dancing in the rays of the sun.

‘Thank God for that!’ Fonthill flattened himself behind his rock and cast an anxious glance at his wife, five feet away from him. ‘All right, darling?’

Alice put down her rifle and dashed the perspiration from her brow. ‘I think so, Captain.’ Then she cast an anxious glance at her husband. ‘I’m not sure, though, Simon, that I’m going to be good enough with this damned rifle to support you in keeping these three at bay. It’s a bit heavy for me in this heat.’

‘Don’t worry. Go back to the revolver if you are more comfortable with that, but I think you’d better keep most of your ammunition for the handgun until they get close, because it won’t be too effective at long range. In the meantime I’ll do my best and they will have to cross the open road to get to us. That’s when we can bring them down. But keep behind cover most of the time – and go to the other side of the boulder to keep them guessing.’

‘Do you think there are any of them behind us?’

‘No. They would have revealed their hand by now. Keep under cover and leave the fine marksmanship to this Bisley champion.’

They exchanged grins and Fonthill marvelled once again at the great good fortune that God had bestowed on him in allowing him to find and then marry this magnificent woman: so cool in a crisis and as brave as a guardsman. Their one joint regret over the years of their marriage had been the failure of the pregnancy incurred in the Sudan, after a heavily disguised Alice had found her way over the barren desert sands and then through the lines of the Mahdi’s camp outside Khartoum to rescue him and Jenkins from imprisonment, torture and slave labour there. The miscarriage – it had been a boy – had damaged Alice’s ability to conceive again. But they remained close, each one’s love of adventure and challenge matching the other’s – and that of Jenkins.

Simon licked his lips, which were now beginning to blister from
the heat and the cordite. This would be one of the closest scrapes that they had ever endured. The question was: could they keep these three Pathans at bay long enough for Jenkins – a Jenkins who notoriously couldn’t find his way from A to B if it was lit for him by blazing torches – to bring relief? And would the Welshman meet any further Pathans on the road, waiting to bring him down? On that score, however, he felt more at ease. Jenkins could fight his way out of the tightest corner. He shook his head. Just as well, for he was their only hope!

He stole a glance around the rock, which immediately brought a shot crashing into the stone. This wouldn’t do. If he didn’t keep constant watch, they could creep up on them. And if he continually exposed himself to do so, then he would provide an easy target to men whose shooting was now beginning to match their reputation. What to do?

Fonthill nodded reassuringly to Alice and gestured to her to stay covered. Then he seized a sizeable stone and, keeping low behind the outline of the boulder, tossed it as far as he could to the right. It fell with a crash amongst the scree and immediately produced three shots from across the track, which slammed into the rocks where his stone had landed.

Simon had realised some time ago that the Pathans were firing with old single-shot Martini-Henry British rifles not the rapid-firing Lee-Metford. So he immediately took advantage of their clumsy reloading to scramble high up the hill and seek the shelter of another large rock – there were plenty of them about. This gave him a slight height advantage and he levelled his rifle and took careful aim – Jenkins’s oft-repeated mantra of ‘squeeze gently now and don’t jerk’ ringing in his ears – at the scrap of fabric he could see protruding around a rock opposite. He swore happily as he heard the soft thud
of the bullet hitting flesh not stone and saw a rifle fall from behind the rock and slither down the slope.

‘Think I’ve got one of the varmints,’ he called down to Alice, who looked up and nodded wearily. He realised now that it was like being in a blast furnace, crouching on this hillside among the rocks that were reflecting the heat. It was obviously getting too much for Alice. She had removed her pith helmet the better to fire around the side of the boulder and he became aware that she was in imminent danger of suffering from sunstroke.

‘Pour water over your head from your carrier,’ he shouted. ‘Do it quickly, otherwise you could lose consciousness. Then put your helmet back on. I will keep firing, don’t worry.’

She nodded and complied. Fonthill pulled out the tail of his cotton shirt and tore it off. Dousing it with water from his own bottle he tied it around his head and, poking his rifle around the rock, fired at a quick flash of movement he caught from near the road. Ah, they were inching nearer! He must never relax. Keep watching and firing!

Reaching out, he scraped together a pile of medium-sized stones and made a low rampart. Then, sprawling on his stomach, he crawled out behind it, rested his rifle in a ‘V’ between two large stones and realised that he had a much better protected and viable firing position, giving him cover and a stable platform. Sighting to where he had noticed the movement earlier he waited patiently. Ah, another flash of colour from higher up! Instinctively, he fired, without any obvious result. But it was clear that they were trying to get nearer, using cover as only skilled mountaineers like the Pathans could, slipping between the rocks like eels in a stream. How long, dear God, before Jenkins arrived?

The three Pathans, of course, had the advantage of numbers,
demanding that Fonthill deter each of them from crawling closer. However, now that he was better able to take aim, Simon realised that they also faced his own problem – how to fire without revealing themselves and, additionally in their case, how to move from cover to cover without drawing down fire. The answer, of course, lay in each of them moving at the same time. Would they think of it?

They would and they did. Almost immediately, there was a flurry of movement and Fonthill gained a quick impression of three figures, dressed in dun-coloured long garments and wearing high turbans, wound like dirty washing on top of their heads, breaking cover and sliding down the scree to a last line of rocks near the edge of the track. He fired five shots, working the bolt of the Lee Metford as hard as he could but he was not a good enough shot to hit, although he glimpsed one of the three wearing a bloodstained bandage around his forearm, where his previous bullet had found a home.