Bayonets Along the Border (6 page)

‘Once over the summit, we will now pass the fort and instead canter down to the Crater and reinforce our people there. Now mount and draw sabres.’

Fonthill drew out his watch again. It showed 8.30 a.m. They
had been on the road for just over ten hours. Now they must fight. He nodded to Jenkins and they removed their long rifles from their saddle buckets and strapped them to the saddle pommels. They both checked their revolvers to ensure that the magazines were full and then, exchanging nervous grins, they dug their heels into their mounts and gently moved forward behind the colonel and Major Darwin.

As they crested the brow of the Pass a compelling vista met their gaze. The Malakand Valley unfolded beneath them in a series of broken-topped, undulating hills towards a purple and mountainous horizon. The road fell steeply down, past the small, primitive fort on its left, from where, down the hill, it forked left and right just before the tents, shacks and surrounding wired perimeter that was the Crater. Beyond that, in the mid distance, were the remains of the forward camp, through which tiny, white-clad figures could be seen swarming, setting fire to buildings and tents. It looked as though the fort itself had not suffered attack – surprisingly, because the Pass looked down on it. The Crater itself was crowded with defenders.

It was clear, however, from where the attacks had come, for the low hills to the north, east and west of the Crater and surrounding it were alive with figures – brought into focus through field glasses as turbaned, rifle-carrying and sword-bearing Pathans – all swarming now towards the defenders of the Crater. Fonthill brought his binoculars to bear further up the road to the north-east and saw an indistinct mass of men moving towards the action.

‘God!’ he whispered to Jenkins. ‘There must be thousands of them coming in—’

He was interrupted by the colonel, who raised his sabre and turned his head back. ‘Bugler, sound the advance. To the front, cantaaah!’

Then, in columns of fours, the regiment rode down towards the Crater, receiving a thin cheer from the defenders of the fort as they passed. The canter seemed to Fonthill to be a rather stately advance, with the horses moving in an unhurried rhythm as though on parade and their riders sitting erect, with their sabres raised vertically aligned to their bodies, as though ready to salute their sovereign at a presentation of their colours at the Horse Guards in London.

Then things changed.

From the foothills to the right, tribesmen began breaking cover and pouring towards the protecting
abattis
surrounding the Crater. Fonthill, riding directly behind the colonel, could feel the joy in the little man’s posture as he noted this and then turned and pointed forward with his sabre, his face agleam, and shouted ‘Bugler, sound the … Chaaaaarge!’

Immediately, there was a whoop from the troopers as the notes sounded out and the horses, as one beast, gathered themselves and launched into the charge. Fonthill drew in a great gulp of hot air, lowered his head and dug his heels into the side of his mount. He had little need to have done so for the beast flared her nostrils and thundered forward with the rest. As the column charged, so its leaders slightly fanned out so that a broader front could be presented to the enemy to the front.

Fonthill hardly had time to see where the charge was leading them until he was suddenly in the middle of a mass of scattering figures in white-and-dun-coloured clothing, some who were kneeling and firing their rifles, others who were standing defiantly, sword in hand, to meet the charge and more who were now simply attempting to flee.

Bending low and desperately gripping with his knees, he rode down one man, which nearly unhorsed him, but the beast recovered and bounded forward and he just had time to fire with his revolver into the breast of a Pathan who had his sword raised. He felt himself slipping from the impact but a firm hand from the right pressed him back into the saddle and he became aware of Jenkins riding close beside him. Then they parted in the melee and Fonthill was bending low and firing at a succession of figures who tried to bring him down and desperately urging his horse on until, blessedly, he was through the attackers and into open space on the other side.

He reined his horse around and found Jenkins, bleeding from a sword wound in his thigh, galloping towards him, grinning and waving his revolver. As he watched, others emerged from the fray and, there was the colonel, Major Darwin at his side, blood oozing from his calf, waving his sword and ordering the bugler to sound the re-form.

Somehow, the regiment began to make a coherent formation again and Fonthill realised, with relief, that there were very few riderless horses among them. The pace and force of the charge had taken the tribesmen on their flank and carried the cavalry straight through them, leaving scores of lifeless figures on the plain behind them.

A cheer sounded from behind the low wall of the Crater and it was immediately answered by the tribal cry of the Pathans – the Pathans, that is, who formed the Guides’ cavalry, who were now waving their sabres at their colonel and forming up into some kind of formation.

Wiping his brow, Fonthill realised that, for the first time in his life, he had taken part in a cavalry charge in earnest – and he had survived. What’s more, so had Jenkins. He took out his watch. The whole thing, from the moment they had cantered down from the brow
of the Pass until now, had taken just three minutes! He realised that he was trembling.

‘You’re hurt,’ he called to Jenkins.

‘It’s nothing. The tip of the bugger’s sword just caught me before I got ’im. ’Ardly worth patchin’. But blimey – what a ride, eh!’

‘352. Thank you for pushing me back. I think I would have regained the saddle, so it was not necessary to nursemaid me, you know. But thank you, anyway. Damnit, you’re always there, aren’t you?’

The Welshman, perspiration trickling down into his wide moustache, had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Ah, bach sir. I don’t mean to be pissin’ in your pocket, so to speak. But it’s me job, look you. What else would I be doin’, now?’

A sudden crackle of musketry from the hills to their right caused the colonel to raise his sword and shout, ‘Back to the Crater now, at the gallop!’ As he led, so the whole column, now strung out less than tidily, followed until they were all safely through the wooden gate that was swung back for them.

Safely inside, Fortescue was warmly welcomed by the officer commanding the post, a fiercely moustached Colonel Meiklejohn, of the 20th Punjabis, who shook hands all around. It was clear that he was vastly relieved to have reinforcements.

‘Are your infantry on their way as well, Fortescue?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Right behind us – though I don’t expect them to arrive for about another nine hours or so, poor blighters. It was bad enough for us but it will have been worse for them. But they will get here, don’t you worry. Here, come and meet someone interesting.’

He walked Meiklejohn over to where Fonthill was attempting to
bandage Jenkins’s thigh. ‘This is Fonthill – you may have heard of him. You were at Kandahar with Roberts, I know. Fonthill was there too, and he’s the chap, with his man here, Jenkins, who got through to Gordon in Khartoum and then was nabbed by the Mahdi as he tried to get back. They’ve already shown they’re damned good fighters, as if we didn’t know already.’

‘Good Lord, yes.’ Meiklejohn held out his hand. ‘Heard of both of you and I’m delighted to meet you at last.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘Don’t quite know what you’re doing here charging around with this superannuated cavalryman here, but you are most welcome. Welcome then, from the frying pan to the fire.’

Everyone smiled and Fortescue briefly related Fonthill and Jenkins’s reasons for visiting Marden.

‘You must have had a tough time of it through the night, Colonel,’ observed Simon.

‘Yes. They just kept coming at us, throwing themselves forward almost onto our bayonets, so to speak. We have made some bayonet charges straight back at ’em in counter-attacks through the dark hours and that’s shaken ’em a bit. But they have still kept coming in the darkness and there has been a lot of hand-to-hand stuff.’

He turned back to Fortescue. ‘I have deployed men to extend our defences out behind stone sangars along the ridge up to the fort on our right. The Pathans haven’t shown much interest in the fort, so I’ve taken some of the two hundred 24th Punjabis defending it to man our perimeters.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘We’ve taken a fair number of casualties through the night, including some of my officers, but now that you’re here I’m sure we can hold out. I doubt they will attack us during the heat of the day, but they are showing no sign of retreating.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘Who are they? I mean, what tribe?’

‘They’re Swats, from directly north of here. We are just about in their territory.’ He gestured up the road. ‘But there are new fellers arriving in considerable numbers, as you can see. They’re the chaps dressed in brown coming from the hills to the left. They’re Bunerwals from the west. We’ve not had trouble with them since 1863, but obviously the word has got out that there is rich pickings to be had and the vultures are gathering for the feast.’

He lowered his voice. ‘Trouble is … see that little mud-walled building beyond our defences on the road that forks to the north-east?’

The three men nodded. ‘That was our
serai
, where we held our ammunition reserves. There was no time to evacuate it with the ammunition, so it was held by one of our
subedars
and a handful of sepoys for six hours during the night. Most of them were killed but the
subedar
and five men were just able to get away in the final onslaught. Wonderful chaps but they couldn’t bring the ammo with them. So I’m afraid we are running low. What have you brought, Fortescue?’

‘Enough to share with you, and the infantry will have reserves.’

‘Splendid. Now, the attacks have eased since you have come, so get some rest and perhaps we can talk about deploying your men. Are you happy, old chap, to put yourself under my command?’

‘Of course. It’s your show.’

The two men walked away in deep conversation and Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances.

‘I’d say, two of the old school, bach sir,’ observed Jenkins.

‘Yes. Better than at Isandlewana. Just as brave but with more sense, it seems to me.’

‘Well, I do ’ope so. It all sounds a bit Rorke’s Drift to me, look you – though you were there and I wasn’t.’

‘No. Not as bad as the Drift. We’ve got the best part of a brigade here. There, we had only a company of half invalids, although the Zulus only had a handful of rifles, of course. This lot seem to have a veritable arsenal supplying them. Ah well, never mind.’ He tightened the bandage. ‘Now, how’s that? Too tight? It’s stopped bleeding, anyway. Do you want to see the doctor?’

‘Gawd no, thank you kindly. I am now once again a splendid example of a Welsh fightin’ machine. Though a bit tired, look you.’

‘Let’s see if we can find a bit of shade and curl up somewhere. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

They found a patch of shade behind one of the huts in the centre of the Crater, unravelled their
poshteens
and were soon blissfully asleep, in spite of the sporadic rattle of rifle fire from the low hills around them.

They woke, some three hours later, to eat what was left of their sandwiches and drink water from their canteens. Some of the Guides were now manning the perimeter wall of the Crater and Simon could see others lining the stone sangars up the ridge to the right. Fonthill unslung his field glasses and focused them up the roads that wound down and round to the right and left after they split just down below the Crater. He frowned. The narrow gaps in the hills from both directions were filled by masses of tribesmen, advancing towards the defences of Malakand. He put down the glasses and shook his head. How could this badly mauled post hold out against such numbers?

He beckoned to Jenkins. ‘See if the horses are all right. Then find the colonel – either one will do – and ask where they would like us.
Oh, and see if you can find a couple of bayonets from somewhere. I would feel much happier with lungers on the end of the Lee-Metfords.’

‘Blimey, so would I.’

Inevitably, Jenkins – the indomitable forager – returned within the half-hour carrying two bayonets, two mugs of hot tea and a fistful of chapattis, concealing something hot and spicy. Then the two took up their positions with the native troops manning the east side of the
abattis
. These were just hastily positioned poles of wood fixed at just below shoulder height and topped by strands of barbed wire.

There they crouched through most of the afternoon, ducking their heads as an occasional bullet thudded into the
abattis
or pinged overhead.

Towards late afternoon a bugle sounded from high on the Pass and a cheer went up from the fort, then echoed by the defenders in the Crater, as a line of khaki-clad figures could be seen cresting the
kotal
. There they paused and the sunlight glinted off steel as bayonets were fixed. The Guides’ infantry had arrived!

The line of troops manning the stone sangars up to the fort set up covering fire to protect the infantry and no attempt was made by the Pathans to attack as they marched wearily but solidly down to the Crater. There they were dispersed inside the defences to get some rest before the inevitable night attack, for they had marched for nearly eighteen hours, with only brief breaks, and they were exhausted.

As the sun set, however, drums began beating from the hills and the cries of the tribesmen began to rise to a crescendo that made the defenders manning the
abattis
feel that they were caught in the centre of some kind of crazily discordant orchestra, conducted by the devil himself.

‘What they tryin’ to do, burst our bleedin’ eardrums?’ shouted Jenkins.

‘Save your breath,’ grunted Fonthill. ‘They’re creeping nearer and, as soon as the sun goes down, they’ll be at us over this bit of open ground in their thousands. We’ll need to fire as fast as we can, so lay out your spare magazines.’