Bayonets Along the Border (28 page)

‘Good day, Brigadier,’ said Simon. ‘Fonthill, sir. The two of
us scouted this position for the general last week and we have his permission to join you on your advance. He thought that perhaps we may be able to help.’

The brigadier, a slim man sporting the conventional florid face and full moustache of an old India hand, looked up from the note and gazed in surprise at the articulate Pathan standing breathing heavily before him.

‘Brigadier Kempster’s brigade has not arrived from the west,’ continued Simon. ‘The general knows that a frontal attack will be difficult but he can’t afford to wait for Kempster any longer in case he is caught out here when night falls.’ He pointed ahead. ‘You can’t see from here, but when this track turns up ahead you will come out onto an open space, plateau-like, which will expose you to open fire from the defenders on the cliff top.’

The brigadier turned to the young subaltern who had delivered the order from the general and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘True, sir,’ said the young man. ‘Mr Fonthill is on the general’s staff and has been with him on the march.’

Westmacott nodded. ‘Very well, Fonthill. Glad to have your help. Yes, I’ve seen that damned open space from up above. Is there any other way around?’

‘No. Your men will have to double across. But once across, at the bottom of the cliff, the overhang will protect you from fire from the top. So you should be able to regroup there before starting the climb. But I’m afraid you will come under fire again about a third of the way up. Then, it will be a case of head up and go. The general will continue to direct fire from the screw guns at the top. We can lead, if you wish.’

‘What? Very well. At least you have reconnoitred this infernal
place.’ The brigadier turned to his officers who had hung back a little to allow him to read the message.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Kempster has failed to arrive so we are ordered to launch a frontal attack on the Heights immediately. As planned, the first battalion of the 3rd Gurkhas will lead, followed by the 2nd Kings Own Scottish Borderers, with the Northamptons in reserve.’ He nodded to Fonthill and Jenkins. ‘These … ah … chaps are the general’s army scouts and they will show the way and lead up the hill.’

He turned to a young Gurkha lieutenant. ‘Benyon. There is a section of the Northamptons back down the spur. Kindly instruct them to begin blazing away at those heathen on the top in …’ he checked his watch ‘… exactly four minutes. The mountain guns will also give us covering fire. Any questions? No? Very well. Join your men, gentlemen, and good luck.’

Within less than a minute, the little brown men of the Gurkhas, in their tightly buttoned lightweight jackets and pillbox hats, began moving forward along the spur. Their rifles remained slung behind their backs but they had all drawn the wickedly curved kukris, with which Fonthill had heard they could sever the head of a buffalo from its body with one stroke.

He and Jenkins shouldered their way to the front, where the Gurkha colonel was waiting with his second-in-command and the lead company commander. They were formed up on a ledge that marked the beginning of the open space but in dead ground from the crest.

‘I suggest, Colonel,’ said Simon, ‘that we charge across this space in companies, not all together, and form under that overhang at the cliff bottom. That will give impetus and unity to the attack.’

The colonel gave him a sharp glance. ‘Very well. Pass the word
back, Major. We will go one minute after the covering fire begins.’

Fonthill slipped the bolt on his rifle to put a round up the breach. He could see the beginning of the path up the cliff and it looked a fearsome climb. He felt hot breath down his neck.

‘Excuse me, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘But you know I can’t stand ’eights, like. I’m goin’ to be terrified up there. When we climb that bloody path, would you mind if I go on the inside, see? It would be better for me.’

‘Good idea. Stay with me.’

‘Mind you, I think these little buggers are goin’ to be sprintin’ up past us by the look of ’em. Bit younger than us, look you, an’ faster.’

Simon turned to Lieutenant Benyon, who had returned to command the lead company. ‘When we reach the top, old chap,’ he said, ‘I’ve been given instructions to capture the Mullah Sayyid Akbar – tall fellow, in white flowing robes – who is supposed to be leading the defence. If you get up before me, don’t let your men kill the bastard. I am supposed to be bringing him back alive.’

Benyon grinned. ‘I’ll do my best, old boy, but it might be a bit hectic …’ His words were cut short by a whistle blown from high above. Immediately, the mountain guns opened up, quickly joined by a succession of rifle volleys from the Northumberlands back along the ridge. Then a second whistle sounded, much nearer this time, and Fonthill shouted ‘Let’s go!’

In later years, looking back on that fearsome charge across the open ground, Simon’s abiding memory of it was the noise. The whistles alerted the Pathans in their fastness, just as they signalled the advance to the attackers, and so to the cacophony of the screw guns firing across the open divide and the volleys of the Northumberlands on the
ridge were added the cracks of the tribesmen’s rifles firing down and the whine and ping of their bullets as they thudded around Simon and Jenkins and the lead Gurkhas. This spur, or saddle, was only some two hundred yards long and thirty yards wide so that it was impossible for the attackers to spread far to minimise the target. Even so, only one man fell as the company raced across the open ground to huddle with Fonthill and Jenkins at the foot of the cliff.

Simon waited until they all had regained their breath and then he yelled ‘Up now’, and the order was repeated in Gurkhali. The ascent was steep, narrow and dusty, but enough rocks showed through the surface dust to give the climbers grip. Despite the narrowness of the track, Fonthill was soon overtaken by a clutch of grinning Gurkhas, who seemed to be in competition to be first to the top. Then a panting Lieutenant Benyon, revolver in one hand, alpenstock in the other, also passed him, attempting to keep pace with his men.

Simon looked around and reached a hand out to Jenkins, who, ashen-faced, had flattened himself against the cliff wall as the little men bounced by. ‘Come on, 352,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t look down. Last one up is a sissy. Take my hand.’

His outstretched hand was grabbed by the Welshman and somehow the two climbed on up, now in the midst of the agile little Nepalese, whose kukris glistened in the sun as they swung on by. ‘Keep going, old chap,’ called Fonthill. ‘We’ve got to get there before that mullah gets away.’

Soon they were out again in full view of the riflemen behind the sangars at the top and the noise of their bullets as they bounced off the rocks and sped off into infinity was even more deafening than the crack of the rifles themselves. The mention of the mullah seemed to
give Jenkins some kind of impetus, because his short, stout legs began to move with power and he now easily matched Simon as the two moved on up the cliff path.

It soon became obvious, however, that the fire from the Pathans had slackened considerably. Looking up, Simon could see now hardly any rifles protruding downwards from the line of the sangars as the first of the Gurkhas broke out onto the crest. He heard their yell of triumph. Had the defenders broken and run?

Soon, he and the sweating Jenkins crawled over the top and saw nothing but tribesmen in full retreat, dodging between the houses of the village and being sent on their way by a handful of kneeling Gurkhas firing at their retreating backs.

‘Can you see the mullah?’ yelled Simon at Jenkins.

‘Can ’ardly breathe, let alone see anybody. But it looks as if ’e’s well and truly ’opped it.’

Fonthill scrambled up to the top of a large boulder and directed his gaze at the retreating figures, most of them now well in the distance. There was no sign of anyone in white, flowing robes.

‘Damn,’ he swore. ‘If only we had cavalry.’

‘Look, bach sir.’ Jenkins, swaying perilously on top of a sangar, was pointing away to the west. ‘That’s why they’ve all ’opped it, look you.’

Simon swung round and shielded his eyes. Far away – perhaps a mile – he could just make out the flashes from the kukris of Kempster’s Gurkha scouts leading in his brigade. Despite their formidable defensive position, it was obvious that the Pathans had become unnerved by the bombardment from below, the sight of the Gurkhas bounding up the cliff path and, then, the prospect of being attacked from the west as well.

Fonthill caught the eye of Benyon. ‘Congratulations,’ he called. ‘I
don’t suppose you saw any sign of my mullah when you reached the top, did you?’

The officer slid his revolver back into its holster. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I think I did, white robes ’n’ all. But couldn’t get near him. As soon as we came over the crest, he was off like a shot on his fine stallion, leading the retreat, of course. Sorry I couldn’t nab him for you.’

Simon gave a rueful smile. ‘Not your fault. I shall just have to stay on his tail – and I will. But you and your chaps did well.’

Benyon shook his head. ‘Not really. If these fellers up here had kept their discipline and continued firing down on us, we would never have made it. They were Orakzais, though, that’s why they left so sharply. They are not fighters, really. If they had been Afridis, we would have had a real scrap on our hands.’

The Gurkha colonel then appeared over the edge and shook hands with Benyon and Fonthill and then, after a brief hesitation, with Jenkins, whose turban was now completely unwound and hanging down his back. ‘Well done, all round,’ he said. ‘Phew. I wouldn’t want to have to do that climb again.’

‘What does the general plan now, sir?’ asked Benyon.

The colonel sat down on a rock and wiped his brow. ‘Well, now that these heights are taken, this means that he can advance over the Chagru Kotal to Karappa and establish both his divisions in the Khanki Valley before forcing the Sampagha and Arhanga Passes further north. Trouble is that his 1st Division is still marching up from Hangu in the east, so I suppose he will have to leave both brigades here to hold this place until it comes up before he can advance.’

The Gurkhas had now arrived in Dargai in force and soon Kempster
rode in with his brigade, Inderjit sitting his horse in the van in some embarrassment.

‘Not my fault we are late,’ he confided to Fonthill. ‘Road so bad that we had to return mountain battery and hospital carried on mules to fort at Shinawari, with escort. Column too bloody big in first place, bach sir. Should not have been sent out so bloody big, you know. Guides would have been here hours ago.’

The Sikh’s obvious disgust and unaccustomed use of bad language – and the adoption of Jenkins’s method of addressing him – forced a grin from Fonthill. He put an arm round Inderjit’s shoulder. ‘Not your fault, old chap,’ he said. ‘Your arrival seems to have frightened off the Orakzais, anyway.’

It was now well past noon and the Scottish Borderers and Northamptonshires too had now climbed the cliff face so that the Dargai Heights were completely occupied by the two brigades. It was, then, a complete surprise when a signal arrived from Lockhart ordering that the position was to be abandoned immediately, with both brigades descending as soon as possible.

Throughout that hot afternoon the retreat went on, delayed to some extent by the need for the wounded – seven of the attackers had been killed and thirty-five wounded – to be carried laboriously by
dhoolies
. Fonthill and Jenkins delayed their own descent for they were anxious to gain information about the mullah from the few Orakzais that had been detained.

With the help of Benyon, who spoke the native dialect fluently, they learnt that the priest had, indeed, fled quickly as soon as the defenders at the cliff top had broken. But to where? Few could be certain, except to offer the opinion that he had gone to rally support from the Afridis
in the north, where he now lived. They were still questioning when shots were heard from that direction, where the ground sloped away through the village.

‘New attack coming,’ shouted an officer of Kempster’s staff. ‘You had better get down the cliff quickly.’

‘Bloody ’ell,’ swore Jenkins. ‘I can’t get down that bloody path quickly, to save me life.’

‘Yes you can.’ Simon grabbed his arm. ‘We can’t stay here to be caught in another battle.’

Clutching hands, they followed Benyon, who soon left them behind, down the winding path to the sound of heavy gunfire echoing behind them over and round the top of Dargai. It was clear that, heartened by the sight of the retreating British, the Pathans had returned – perhaps strengthened by the warlike Afridis – and that what was at first seen as a leisurely, unimpeded retirement from the Heights had been converted into a fighting withdrawal against heavy odds on ground favouring the enemy.

Somehow, through the late afternoon and fast approaching dusk, Kempster managed to remove his brigade down the cliff face and across the saddle as Lockhart’s mountain guns maintained their covering fire at the tribesmen now thronging the Heights. Then began the exhausting march back in darkness to Shinawari. It was 11 a.m. before the rearguard – Fonthill, Jenkins and Inderjit among them – reached the safety of the fort.

‘Why the ’ell did we ’ave to run up that bloody cliff and then bugger off down it again, all in one day?’ asked Jenkins, predictably. The answer came the next day, when the reason for the general’s decision was passed on by Alice, who had attended a press briefing.

‘It seemed that Lockhart felt that once the Heights were taken the Orakzais would not return,’ she said. ‘With his 1st Division still on the march, he could not hold Dargai
and
maintain a long line of communication back to Shinawar with just the 2nd Division, which was provisioned only for a one-day operation. In addition, there was little water en route. What he didn’t bank on was the Heights being retaken. I gather they are being held in force now, not by the Orakzais but by the the Afridis – a much tougher proposition.’

‘What does he intend to do now?’

Alice sighed. ‘Well, I’m afraid that he is going to receive much criticism back home for this, but, you know, he is now quite a sick man. So he has put General Yeatman-Biggs in command of the advance and is moving to Fort Gulistan to exercise overall command from there. It’s higher and should be better for his health. Yeaman-Briggs feels that he cannot go forward without taking Dargai – as you have always contended.’