Bayonets Along the Border (8 page)

Fonthill nodded. ‘Something like that.’ Then he took a bite of his sandwich and fell immediately asleep again.

The fighting, however, was not quite over. About ten miles up the road to the north, some two hundred men of the 45th Sikhs and 11th Bengal Lancers were garrisoning a small fort overlooking a bridge at Chakdara. It was from this direction that the Mad Mullah had led his hordes and there was considerable anxiety among the defenders of Malakand about the safety of this small outpost. Just two words had been received from them – ‘Help us’ – via the heliograph. Meiklejohn had immediately despatched a captain and forty men of the 11th Bengal Lancers to reinforce the post, but nothing had been heard since.

Now that Malakand was safe the relief of Chakdara became an urgent priority and Meiklejohn immediately organised an additional force of Lancers and Guides’ Cavalry to ride to Chakdara. Colonel Fortescue bustled over to Fonthill to inform him of the plans.

‘No need for you two chaps to go,’ he said. ‘You have done more
than enough here and I am sure that you will want to get back to your wife and make plans for the rest of your … er … holiday.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘Fine start you have had to it, that’s for sure.’

Simon returned the smile. ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think we will sit out this next bit, thank you. I am becoming just a little concerned about Alice because she will be worried about us, of course. So we will return to Marden, thank you.’

‘Good. Now, I hear that a pretty large body of troops – a field force, no less – is on its way here to teach these Swats and Bunerwals a lesson they will remember, so you should be safe on the way back. Nevertheless, I will send Buckingham and his troop back with you as an escort …’

‘Oh, thank you, but it sounds as though that won’t be necessary, sir.’

‘No. I would rather. We can spare them now and I would hate to have some random Pathan sniper pick you off on the way back after all you’ve been through these last five days. I will detail them now and you leave as soon as you wish. The ride should be easier than when we came.’

He held out his hand. ‘You must forgive me if I go now. I have much to do. Thank you, Fonthill – and please thank Jenkins on my behalf. You two made a most valuable contribution to the defence of Malakand and it has been a pleasure to serve with you. I am only sorry we have ruined the start of your holiday.’

The two shook hands and Simon went off to find Jenkins and prepare for the journey back to Marden. He was not sorry that they were not expected to continue fighting. His shoulder was bruised from the constant recoiling of the Lee-Metford through the four nights at the
abattis
and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Was he
too old for adventuring now? He sighed. Yes – well, perhaps too old for intensive soldiering at this level, anyway. And it would be good, so good to see his wife again.

It was a very relieved Alice who threw her arms around him and embraced a rather embarrassed Jenkins similarly as they dismounted after riding into the compound at Marden two and a half days leisurely days later. News of the successful defence of Malakand – and the later successful relief of Chakdara – had already reached her so her anxiety had been virtually dissipated.

‘Nevertheless,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know whether you would have volunteered for some other ludicrous expedition. We were supposed to be doing a bit of gentle climbing, remember? Now, let me get my notebook. I want to know all about the defence of Malakand. The
Morning Post
wants me to send a full follow-up story, giving all the details. You see, I took your advice. I am a working girl again.’

So Simon gave her a blow-by-blow account of the battle at Malakand – Alice particularly enjoying the juicy tit-bit about the Afridis in the Punjabis pretending to join their Swat kinsmen on the other side of the
abattis
– and she then began writing a long colour piece that she knew would delight her editor back home, for it would be exclusive.

Nevertheless, Fonthill was uneasy about the excitement and self-satisfaction she was clearly enjoying as a result of her return to active journalism. If these insurrections along the North-West Frontier grew to be of serious proportions, would she insist on staying in the Border territories to report on them?

That first evening, she gave an intimation that this could be so.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘the government back home is taking all this very seriously. They have sent out a senior man, a really hardened old sweat, to take charge of three brigades which are making up this Malakand Field Force. He’s the delightfully named General Sir Bindon Blood. Do you remember him? He was at all the places we were: Zululand, Afghanistan and Egypt.’

Simon nodded. ‘Yes. Quite a character. Didn’t one of his ancestors, Colonel Blood, try to steal the crown jewels in Charles the Second’s time?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know that, but he is supposed to be on his way to Malakand already, ahead of his army.’ Alice sniffed and put down her knife and fork. ‘What’s more, I’ve heard from London that somebody called Winston Churchill – he’s the son of the old Tory Chancellor, Sir Randolph, and he’s been home on leave from his regiment in the Indian army – has pulled strings and is on his way out here to join the field force and report on the campaign for the
Daily Express
and also the Indian paper,
The Pioneer
, Kipling’s old rag.’

She looked down at her plate. ‘So there’s going to be a bit of competition around in terms of reporting on this little war.’

Simon drew in a breath to ask her what her own intentions were, but then thought better of it. He certainly did not wish her to resume her former career, which, knowing her, would certainly put her in harm’s way. Better to let the matter lie for the moment and defer the inevitable argument that would ensue until it had to be faced.

In the meantime, they all relaxed within the cantonment and continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Guides. The three of them went riding with Buckingham and Inderjit Singh, exploring the valley and the foothills that surrounded it. It was pleasant to deepen the
friendship that had already sprung up between them all and Alice and Simon in particular admired the unusually close relationship that obviously existed between young subaltern and his
daffadar
, two men of roughly the same age but from very different backgrounds. It was quite uncommon for such a bridge to be built across the race divide that existed in the Indian army.

It was a tranquil few days that was shattered by a telegram that arrived for Simon. He read it with a frown and looked up to Alice.

‘It’s from someone called Elgin in Simla,’ he said, ‘asking me to report immediately to Peshawar where a long letter awaits me. Who the hell … wait a minute. He’s the Viceroy, isn’t he?’

‘He certainly is, my darling. He’s
Lord
Elgin, in fact. He is going to want you to do something extremely stupid. I can feel it in my bones. Let me implore you now – whatever they ask, don’t do it!’

‘Well, I certainly have no great desire to get caught up in what is obviously turning into a great mess along the Frontier.’ He frowned. ‘But equally I am rather intrigued at what they want of me. I had better ride back into Peshawar right away. It all sounds rather urgent and one can’t keep the Viceroy waiting, can one? After all, he represents the Queen here, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know that, my dear. And there is no question of you riding back to that miserable place on your own. Jenkins and I will come with you – and the Duke of Buckingham and his merry men, too, if they can be spared.’

The young subaltern immediately insisted on escorting them back to the provincial capital. ‘My orders were to look after you, sir, so of course we shall come with you.’

In fact, the thirty-odd miles of riding back the way they had
so uncomfortably journeyed some two weeks before were quite uneventful, except for the sun that beat down on them, the rays of which seemed to increase in intensity as they bounced back from the rocks that towered above them on either side of the track. Simon envied the apparent disregard of the heat exercised by the Guides as they jingled alongside their charges.

In Peshawar the trio booked into the little hotel where they had stayed on their recent arrival and Fonthill immediately washed, changed his shirt, brushed his hair and set off for the headquarters of the Punjab Frontier Force, of which the Guides formed part, situated in the heart of the town. He declined the offers of Alice and Jenkins to accompany him. ‘It would be like taking my mother and father to see the headmaster on arriving for the first day at a new prep school,’ he explained. On reflection, however, he did invite Buckingham to join him. The presence of the young officer, he felt, might give him just a touch of military respectability. He had suffered before at the hands of the British Raj’s bureaucracy.

In fact, he need not have worried. He was met at the Guard Room by Commissioner Udny who apologised for the absence of the general commanding the PFF, who was away upcountry with General Blood. ‘There’s a hell of a lot goin’ on at the present, Fonthill,’ said Udny. ‘We have the letter waiting for you – in fact, there are two. Come into my office, both of you. It’s slightly cooler there, though not much. My punkah wallah has been working overtime.’

The punkah wallah was a small Indian who sat on the floor with his back to the wall of the colonel’s office, with a long cord attached to his big toe which he languidly twitched to rotate the blades of the fan set in the ceiling. If he was working overtime, reflected Simon, then it
would be interesting to see his normal work rate, for the fan did little more than stir the air which hung like swamp fever in the little room.

‘Excuse me now if I leave you to it,’ said the commissioner. He handed Fonthill a paperknife and then left the room.

Buckingham stood. ‘Would you like me to … ?’

‘No. Stay where you are. This chap in the corner might be a Pathan mullah in disguise. I shall need you to protect me because I’m too bloody fagged in this heat to raise a finger. In fact, I might have difficulty in opening this letter.’

He disregarded that which was addressed to him and looked with interest instead at the second envelope, which was addressed in an ornate script to ‘His Highness, the Amir Abdur Rahman, The Royal Palace, Kabul, Afghanistan.’ In the bottom corner had been inscribed, ‘By Hand of Special Bearer,’ and the envelope had been closed on the reverse with the heavily embossed red seal of the Viceroy of India.

‘Ah,’ muttered Fonthill. ‘It looks as though I am being asked to play postman.’

‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed Buckingham, ‘what a strange request.’

‘Indeed.’ Simon tore open the similarly sealed envelope addressed to him and began to read: