Bayonets Along the Border (7 page)

So it proved. No sooner had the last rays of the sun flickered away over the jagged hilltop then the cries changed to screams and the earth shook as thousands of sandals thudded across the beaten ground. As Fonthill and Jenkins levelled their rifles and squinted down the barrels a solid mass of figures, waving swords, emerged from the gloom, startlingly close.

Immediately, the wall of the
abattis
was lit by the flashes of the rifles. There was no need for the defenders to aim. So massed were the attackers and so short the range that it was impossible to miss. The complete front rank of the charging tribesmen fell, bringing down with them those immediately in the rear. But the following lines jumped over the bodies and ran on … into the wall of death produced by the line of Martini-Henrys, firing and being reloaded as fast as brown fingers could ram the cartridges into the breeches.

Despite the speed with which the sepoys could fire and reload their single-shot rifles, the ten-shot magazines of the Lee-Metfords at the shoulders of Fonthill and Jenkins could more than treble the firepower of the older rifles and, working the breech bolts feverishly, they were able to cut a noticeable swathe in the phalanx of attackers immediately in front of them. Nevertheless, it was more than ten minutes before the tribesmen, now seriously hindered by the bodies at their feet, paused and then – as was their custom – began retrieving their wounded and
the corpses that littered the earth before retreating.

‘No firing,’ shouted Meiklejohn. ‘Save your ammunition. Let them collect their dead.’

‘Blimey!’ Jenkins wiped his mouth and moustache with the back of his hand, spreading the smudge of cordite across his cheek. ‘I thought they’d never stop comin’. They’ve got guts, I’ll give ’em that.’

Fonthill slumped down, his back to the barricade. ‘They think that if we kill ’em, they’ll go straight to Paradise.’ He grunted. ‘The pearly gates are going to be a bit crowded by the time this night is over.’ He looked up. ‘You all right, 352?’

‘Just about, thank you. ’Ow long will they keep chargin’, d’yer think?’

‘Well, there are certainly enough of them out there to keep attacking all through this night and then the next. How’s your thigh?’

‘Ah, stopped bleedin’ ages ago. It was just a scratch.’

‘Good, but you will have lost a bit of blood, at least. Close your eyes for a minute. I’ll keep watch.’

‘Thank you, bach sir. Best keep lookin’. They come out of the darkness so quick, bless you, that they’re ’ere before you’d know it, see.’

Further down the line, the
abattis
had been breached after intensive hand-to-hand fighting and a handful of Pathans had broken through. The small reserve that Meiklejohn had stationed in the middle of the Crater, however, rushed forward and the intruders were killed within seconds, after which anxious hands restored the barrier.

The respite after the first charge lasted only long enough for the tribesmen to clear away their dead and wounded, before more beating of drums announced a fresh wave of attacks. Once again, the Pathans
rushed forward in a maniacal desire to get to close quarters where their swords and knives could take effect. And once again, the crashing volleys brought them down in untidy lines, like piles of seaweed left high on a beach to mark the highest of the tide.

So it went on through the night until dawn brought succour to the exhausted defenders. Immediately, the officers began checking the casualties.

Fonthill wandered over to where Meiklejohn and Fortescue were crouched, sipping from tin mugs of coffee.

‘Thank you, Fonthill,’ said the former, raising his mug. ‘I watched you. You and your chap have done sterling work through the night. Sorry we can’t put you in charge somewhere but, to be honest, your sharp shooting with those Lee-Metfords are more valuable to us than having you charging around waving a sword.’

‘Of course he’s useful,’ grunted Fortescue. ‘He’s a Guide – even if only an honorary one.’

‘Have some coffee, my dear chap,’ offered Meiklejohn, ‘you’ve earned it.’

‘Ah, thank you, Colonel.’ Simon accepted the mug. ‘It seemed touch and go through the night. Tell me, have we suffered many casualties?’

Meiklejohn extracted a scrap of paper from his pocket and consulted it. ‘Bad enough. Forty-two casualties in all. Not as bad as the night before, though. We lost three officers killed then and three wounded. Of the men, there were twenty-one killed and thirty-one wounded. If these losses continue we shall be in trouble. One good thing, though – just before daybreak I was able to get parties out on both sides of the Crater with bayonets and screw guns to clear the foothills. They had trouble at first but we managed to beat back the devils near to us, so
the sniping during the day should be less dangerous.

‘Now.’ He threw away the dregs of his coffee. ‘You must excuse me. There is much to do.’

Indeed there was. As before, there were no direct attacks during the day and the sorties just before dawn had cleared the close foothills of snipers, although spasmodic firing continued through the day at long range. The tired defenders were put to work repairing the defences. Trees were cut down to thicken up the
abattis
, the breastworks were strengthened and the barbed wire entanglements renewed. The wounded were tended and then, when the perimeter was judged to be suitably improved, the men were marked off in sections to gain sleep in preparation for another night of attacks.

Once again, at dusk, the bugles sounded the stand-to and, as the light faded, the drums increased their tempi and now the voices of the mullahs could be heard urging their men forward, promising everlasting life for every infidel they killed. And, once again, as the darkness descended, the tribesmen attacked, screaming derision and waving their swords, banners and long daggers.

The Pathans’ tactics never changed during the long hours of darkness. Broken only by spells during which they carried back their dead and wounded, the tribesmen kept hurling themselves forward, supported by their riflemen firing from the positions they had been forced to evacuate during the day.

For Fonthill and Jenkins this second night descended into a cauldron of robot-like firing, reloading, cooling their rifles with precious water whenever there was a lull, and – on two heart-in-mouth occasions – thrusting with their long bayonets at the wide-eyed figures who had managed to approach the
abattis
and were hacking at them with their
long swords. The Guides’ troopers on either side of the pair lacked bayonets, which could not be fitted to their shorter carbines, so they had to resort to slashing with their sabres, sword on sword, taking the conflict back, in Simon’s heightened imagination, to the days of the Crusades.

So the weary defenders survived another night of continuous attacks. Yet ammunition was now running low and orders were given that there should be no replying to the sniping during daylight hours. The hours of darkness were the threat and, just before dusk, parties rushed from the safety of the
abattis
protected by a ring of bayonets and lit bonfires at intervals round the camp.

If the defenders’ disciplined musketry had wreaked havoc in the ranks of the Swats and Bunerwals – as surely it must have done – then it seemed to have had no effect on their fanaticism because on they came once again in massed ranks, hurling themselves into the gunfire. They were clearly being reinforced by the arrival of yet more tribesmen, fresh to the battle, and this was marked by the increased number of groups who were able to leap over the barricades and the rifles to enter the inner arena.

For Fonthill, the nadir of this night took place at approximately 3.30 a.m. when, fumbling in his pouch for another magazine, his rifle barrel was knocked aside by a Pathan who had reached the barrier. The man swung his sword horizontally and Simon was able to duck underneath it, withdraw his rifle barrel and, using the last vestige of his strength, plunge the long bayonet into his assailant’s chest.

As he was attempting to twist his bayonet and free it, he was only dimly aware of a giant warrior who had leapt onto the top of the
abattis
, his bare feet ignoring the barbed wire that studded it,
and swung his sword vertically down. The blade was met, with a clang of steel, just above Simon’s head, by the bayonet of Jenkins. The Welshman, a covering of perspiration, cordite and grime giving his face the appearance of some devilish gargoyle in the light of the bonfires, twisted the bayonet round, pushing the sword blade upwards. Immediately, he rammed the butt of his rifle onto the warrior’s bare instep, forcing it onto the barb of the wire. The man howled and staggered and Jenkins’s bayonet took him in the groin, hurling him back over the barrier.

‘Thanks, 352,’ gasped Simon. ‘I thought he had me then.’

‘Not while I’m ’ere, bach. Look to your front now. They’re still comin’, see.’

And so they did, all through that fiendish night – although the numbers who were able to break through the perimeter were all quickly dealt with by the bayonets of the reserve companies, who remained through the night, watching for such breakthroughs.

Dawn brought relief at last again and with it, the news of fewer casualties this time: only fifteen. More important, however, was another bugle call from the heights of the Pass. It heralded the arrival of a squadron of the 11th Bengal Lancers, with supplies of provisions and ammunition, and the welcome news that the 35th Sikhs and 38th Dogras, plus more ammunition, were on their way up from the south. It had been another forced march and they were forced to stop ten miles from Malakand, for it was reported that they had lost twenty-one men on the way from heatstroke. Colonel Meiklejohn, confident that he could hold for at least another night, sent a message back that they should stay and rest.

Throughout that next day, eager binoculars from the Crater scanned
the hills to see if there were signs of the tribesmen withdrawing, at last. But they were not forthcoming. Indeed, fresh warriors were seen to be still trickling down the passes. Attention, then, was turned to employing more sophisticated techniques to strengthen the perimeter of the Crater.

During the day, the remains of the native bazaar near to the destroyed
serai
were cleared to improve the field of fire to the front of the camp and the remnants of the
serai
itself were mined so that explosive charges could be exploded by the pulling of lightly buried wires.

It was just as well, for the ferocity of the attacks that night seemed to be greater than before. The east side of the
abattis
, where Fonthill and Jenkins were stationed, had taken the brunt of the fighting so far and Meiklejohn directed that the Guides who had manned the perimeter there, including the two white men, should change their positions and, hopefully, gain some succour by joining the 24th Punjabis on the less pressed west side. It proved to be what Jenkins described, during the night, as ‘an Irishman’s gift’, for the buried explosives were so effective that they diverted the attackers to the west perimeter, putting the Punjabis, who had now been manning the barricades for five nights in succession, as well as the Guides on that side, under great pressure, particularly for a hectic hour from 2.15 when wave upon wave of tribesmen hurled themselves forward.

There was one incident, however, that occurred that brought smiles even to the haggard features of Fonthill and Jenkins. The Afridis who formed the 24th Punjabis were distant kinsmen, it seemed, to some of the Swats who were attacking them. During a lull in the fighting, the Swats called to the Afridis and suggested
that these fellow Pathans and Muslims should lay down their arms and allow the attackers to walk over and jump the
abattis
. Their reward would be to share in the plunder that Malakand would provide. The conversation was relayed simultaneously to a curious – and anxious – Simon by an English-speaking Afridi. The Punjabis immediately agreed and, trustingly, the Swats rose to their feet and walked towards the defences only to be mown down by the grinning Punjabis.

Fonthill and Jenkins observed all this with open mouths. ‘Ah, sahib,’ explained the friendly Afridi, ‘we never like the Swats, you see …’

Once again, the defenders survived the attacks, this time most of them asleep on their feet by the morning. But a rumour spread that the Mad Mullah himself had taken part in the attack on the west side – so explaining the intensity of the fighting in the middle of the night – and been wounded and had to withdraw, so disproving his claim to be personally invincible. It was also said that another mullah had been killed outright. This raised spirits as did the defenders’ casualty count: only one man killed during the night and nineteen wounded.

During that day, it seemed clear that the Swats and Bunerwals had shot their bolt. Long-range sniping continued but the tribesmen confined their activities to taking away their dead and wounded. One seemingly last attack was mounted later that evening after dark but it was easily beaten off. More frenetic was the very last assault launched later in the middle of a dust storm against the 45th Sikhs. Heated while it lasted, the bayonets of the Sikhs took their toll and the last of the assailants on Malakand limped away.

The next day the 35th Sikhs and 38th Dogras were cheered in on
their arrival from Dargai from the south. The siege of Malakand was over at last.

Fonthill and Jenkins slept where they sat that morning, with their backs against the west
abattis
. They were woken by Inderjit Singh, with two steaming cups of coffee and sandwiches containing very old mutton.

‘I watch you during the nights,’ said the Sikh shyly, ‘and if I may say it, you are wonderful fighters, as I remember my father telling me. I am glad you are of the Guides.’

‘Well,’ said Jenkins struggling to his feet, ‘I’m glad we are too. Let’s shake ’ands on it, shall we?’

And they did so, exchanging handshakes and grins, although Simon was too tired to stand.

‘Right,’ said Jenkins stretching his arms above his head and gently shaking his bandaged leg. ‘What’s next, bach-wonderful-fighter-sir – a bit of a gallop up these bleedin’ ’ills and then another charge, eh?’