Bayonets Along the Border (27 page)

‘’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 formidable 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.

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.

This army meant business. Long lines of baggage supported the marching men. Simon learnt that Lockhart – the seasoned veteran of many campaigns in all seasons on the Frontier – had ordered that each man should be provided with a waterproof sheet, three blankets, a cardigan, a knitted ‘Balaclava’ helmet or nightcap, his home service blue serge trousers, mitts, a spare flannel shirt, socks and boots, all carried for him in the supply train. The soldiers themselves carried a rifle, 100 rounds of ammunition, a haversack containing the day’s rations and any personal items they could cram into it, their water bottle, mess tin and, strapped under the waistbelt, a rolled-up ‘Guthrie’ or khaki serge over-jacket. The general knew that the hot days of summer, demanding khaki cotton drill, sun helmets and puttees, would soon be behind them high up in the mountain passes that lay ahead.

On the third day, at 4 a.m., Brigadier Kempster’s 3rd Brigade marched out of the fort and began their long and demanding march to launch the main attack on the Dargai stronghold from the west. At Fonthill’s suggestion, Inderjit went with them as guide. Shortly afterwards, the larger column snaked out and took the partly widened road to the north, splitting into two as the track divided. Simon and Jenkins marched with the general’s party in the van, their destination the Chagru Kotal Pass.

Mountain batteries had been sent on ahead beyond the Pass to a north-south ridge called Samana Suk, protected by units that had marched in over the hills from Forts Gulistan and Lockhart to the east. Their task was to ‘soften up’ the Pathans on Dargai Heights. On arrival, though, it was clear that, at this extreme range, the little ‘screw guns’ brought up in dismantled form on the backs of mules, were largely ineffective against the rocks and sangar defences that bristled on top of the Heights, some 3,500 yards away. They barked away, but to little obvious effect.

Lockhart and his staff had joined the guns at Samana Suk but had bequeathed command of the frontal attack down below to Brigadier Westmacott whose 4th Brigade were under strict orders not to attack until Kempster had arrived to launch the main attack from the west.

It was clear that, as Fonthill had reported, Westmacott’s men, now poised on the spur below, would face a most formidable task in attempting to cross the open ground at the foot of the cliff and then climbing upwards along the narrow path that zigzagged diagonally along the cliff face.

‘Damn it,’ swore Lockhart, sweeping the top of the Heights with his field glasses, ‘where the hell is Kempster?’

The Pathans at the top of the cliff could clearly be seen firing tokenly on Westmacott’s men out of range below them and offering derisive gestures, inviting them to climb up the path. Fonthill, at Lockhart’s side, suddenly felt Jenkins dig him in the ribs.

‘Top of the bleedin’ cliff, bach sir,’ he whispered. ‘Standin’ on top of them rocks, look you.’

Simon shaded his eyes and peered across the divide. He could only see tiny figures atop the rocks, individually indistinct at that distance. He turned to one of the general’s ADCs. ‘May I borrow your binoculars for a moment?’

He focused along the ridge of the sangars. Nothing. Then he stiffened as into focus came a familiar figure: tall, turbaned and clad immaculately in long white robes. He caught a flash of white teeth in the dark face as the man hurled abuse down at the soldiers below. The Mullah Sayyid Akbar in person!

The general turned to his staff. ‘I’m not waiting any longer,’ he said. ‘We can’t be caught up here in the dark without the Heights being taken.’ He scribbled a note to a subaltern. ‘Take this down to Brigadier Westmacott. He must attack at once.’

Fonthill sucked in his breath. For Westmacott to advance across that open plateau at the foot of the cliff and then climb upwards in the face of the fire from above seemed suicide. Then he focused on the white-clad figure again. The man’s grin seemed to extend a personal invitation even at that distance.

He handed the glasses back and stepped forward to the general. ‘May I have your permission, sir,’ he said, ‘to join Brigadier Westmacott in his advance? I may be able to give him some assistance on the spot.’

‘Me too, General bach,’ echoed Jenkins.

‘What? Oh, very well. But take care, both of you. I don’t want to lose you.’

Fonthill seized a rifle from a startled trooper standing near, as did Jenkins to the man’s companion. ‘Lungers too, sonny,’ grinned the Welshman. ‘No time to give you a chit, but we’ll bring ’em back, see, I promise. Yes, the bayonets, as well. Two of ’em. General’s orders, look you.’

There had been no opportunity at the fort for Fonthill and Jenkins to be issued with European clothes or uniforms and they still wore the Pathan clothing in which they had travelled. So if it was unusual to see two bearded tribesmen standing in the general’s circle and conversing easily with him, it was even more startling for the two soldiers to have their rifles seized and be spoken to in the thickest of Welsh accents. Fonthill and Jenkins had been issued with armbands marked with the emblem of a Union Jack, to mark them as ‘friendly’ should they become involved in the battle, but they did little to reveal their European identity.

Grabbing the rifles and fixing the long bayonets at their muzzles, the two ran to the rear and began descending, in leaps and bounds, the steep slope that wound down to where Westmacott and his officers were standing on the spur. His brigade were strung out behind him to the little village of Mamu Khan, out of rifle shot from the Pathan defenders, although a section of the 2nd King’s Own Scottish Borderers were deployed where they could open volley fire at a distance of about 750 yards onto the cliff crest.

Panting, Fonthill and Jenkins joined the little group of officers just as Westmacott was reading the general’s orders.