Hart of Empire (37 page)

George listened hard and could just make out a swishing sound, like a sledge. 'What do you think it is?'

'They might be bringing ladders closer to the wall.'

George shivered again and this time it wasn't the cold. He knew, as did every defender in the improvised fort, that if the Afghans broke in they would give no quarter. It was Isandlwana all over again, only this time they knew an assault was imminent, and from which direction. 'If the princess is correct,' said George, 'they'll attack the south wall first, but their main effort will be against us. Why is it that we always find ourselves in the thick of the action?'

Barely had George spoken than the garrison clock struck the hour, its six chimes heralding the near approach of dawn. George looked again to the Asmai Heights away to the south-east. On the topmost crag he could just see the spark of a tiny fire. Fed by oil, or ghee, and brushwood, it quickly grew until it was a blazing beacon, its flames and sparks shooting skywards and casting a reflection upon the fort below.

'That's the signal, Ilderim,' said George. 'Tell Havildar Singh.'

Ilderim sprinted across the rooftop and down the steps. Within minutes the battalion had been roused and a hundred tall Sikhs and Punjabi Muhammadans were pouring into the loopholed lower rooms of the native hospital and onto its roof. The hurried spectacle was being repeated across the cantonment as the bulk of four British and twelve Indian regiments hurried to their allotted places on the perimeter. All of the 'martial races' so beloved of the British were represented - Sikhs, Pathans, Gurkhas and kilted Highlanders - and the majority of the best regiments, the 28th included, had been placed on the southern and eastern walls.

As the Punjabis fell in on either side of George, each man cocking and loading his Snider with practised ease, a single rifle shot rang out from the direction of the amir's garden, a walled enclosure just a few hundred yards from the south wall that had been occupied by the rebels a few days earlier. More shots came from the villages on the south-east and eastern flanks, and one or two whistled over the top of the hospital, causing George and others to duck their heads.

'Hold your fire until I give the order,' bellowed Havildar Singh, an imposing figure of a man with a long black beard and a ready smile. But he needn't have worried, because it was still too dark to see individual objects and the first attack, as everyone knew, would come from the south. It was heralded by a rolling thunder of musketry against the south wall as thousands of Afghans, hidden behind every conceivable scrap of cover, opened a covering fire designed to keep the defenders' heads down.

Then, from the amir's garden and a fort to its right, came the sound of sandals slapping against snow as small groups of men with huge ladders broke from cover and made for the centre of the southern wall, a sector held by the dismounted troopers of the disgraced 9th Lancers and the 14th Bengal Lancers. The cavalrymen held their fire until star shells had lit up the battlefield, revealing numerous clusters of Afghans as they closed in on the walls. At last the order was given and the south wall exploded in a storm of carbine and howitzer fire, the bullets sweeping the open ground and the shells targeting the strongholds beyond. Scores of Afghans were hit, while their comrades ditched their ladders and sought cover behind broken walls and in ditches.

So much for the diversionary attack, thought George, as he watched from the hospital roof. The star shells were still arcing up into the night sky and throwing an eerie light onto the now empty battlefield in front of the south wall. There was a brief lull and then the storm broke with increased ferocity on George's sector.

It began with a mighty roar as ten thousand Afghan throats shouted their battle cry '
Allahu Akbar!
' ('God is Great!') and a storm of fire was opened onto the unfinished wall, the field hospital and the entrenchment that linked it to Bimaru village. Then, as the two sounds mingled in a deafening clamour, the Afghans attacked in human waves. At first George found it hard to distinguish the attacking masses in the grey dawn, but as they got closer he could see they were led by fanatical Ghazi warriors dressed in white and waving green standards, and backed up by tribesmen in black and former soldiers in red. The majority seemed to be heading for the shallow trench system and wooden stockade on George's left that covered the four-hundred-yard gap between the hospital and Bimaru village.

'Wait for it! Wait for it!' shouted Havildar Singh.

George squinted down the sights of his Snider, the trigger cold against his finger. The nearest Afghans were four hundred yards away, and well within range, but still the havildar waited because Roberts had ordered the troops to hold fire until the very last moment. George glanced to his left, past Ilderim to the trenches beyond, and wondered what the Guides were thinking as thousands of Afghans bore down on their exposed position. George himself was in a relatively secure spot, behind a parapet twenty feet above the ground, yet his mouth still felt dry and his palms sweaty. He wiped his trigger hand on his trousers and took a last swig from his water bottle. The liquid tasted brackish and he spat it over the parapet.

On raced the Ghazis, and the range was down to a hundred and fifty yards or so, and virtually point blank, when the havildar bellowed, 'Fire!'

George gently squeezed the trigger and felt a buzzing in his ears and a sharp pain in his shoulder as the rifle recoiled, throwing the foresight off the big Ghazi he had been aiming at. For a few seconds his view, and that of his neighbours, was obscured by a thick wreath of smoke from the black cartridges they had fired. As it cleared he could see no sign of the Ghazi and assumed he was one of many lying prone in the snow, their gaping wounds staining the white landscape with vivid patches of red. But for every casualty another twenty warriors were racing towards the east wall, determined to get to grips with the hated infidel.

At Singh's command, the men on the hospital fired successive volleys into the onrushing mass, as did the troops on either side. Shell fire and case shot from the artillery on the heights added to the maelstrom of flying lead and steel. Yet still the attackers kept coming, though they had resorted, like the Zulus at Isandlwana, to short rushes from one piece of cover to the next, while others used their marksmanship to pick off the defenders.

George was leaning forward to load his Snider when a bullet ricocheted off the parapet in front of him and into the neck of the soldier on his right. The man tried to staunch the flow of bright red arterial blood with his hand, but it kept spurting between his fingers, spraying George and even Ilderim beyond. George tore open a dressing and clamped it on the wound, only to find a much bigger gash on the back of the man's neck where the bullet had exited. A second dressing was applied, but by now the soldier was choking on his blood, his frightened eyes pleading for help. George wanted to lay him down, to comfort him in his last few minutes of life, but he was reminded of the harsh realities of war by Havildar Singh.

'Leave him and pick up your rifle, you bloody fool! If those buggers down there get a foothold in the fort, we're done for,' he shouted, drawing his hand across his throat.

Horrified by the havildar's callousness, George was about to tell him to go to hell. But then he remembered that the havildar was, for the moment, his military superior and, more importantly, he was right. This was no time for sentiment. So he held his tongue, wiped the dying man's sticky blood from his face and resumed his place on the parapet.

The noise of battle was, if anything, even louder, yet the smoke from the defensive fire had drifted across the battlefield, making it hard for the defenders to target their foe. Many Ghazis had taken advantage of this and George could see groups of the white-clad warriors emerging from the obstacles of telegraph wire that had been placed just thirty yards ahead of the trench to their left. He snapped off a shot and missed as more Afghans broke through the obstacle and raced for the barrier of trees that protected the trench. 'Havildar, look!' shouted George, pointing towards the danger. 'The Guides are about to be swamped. Let me take thirty men to reinforce them.'

The havildar swivelled his head and, for just a moment, considered the seriousness of the situation. George fully expected him to refuse permission and a row to ensue. But the havildar surprised him. 'Go, and take every other man from the parapet. We're safe enough here.'

George called out the order and the men fell in. 'Shall I come too,
huzoor
?' asked Ilderim who, by the havildar's calculations, was supposed to stay.

'Of course you must come,' said George, with a grin. 'I doubt I'd survive without you.'

George led the twenty or so men down the steps to the rear of the hospital where they joined one of the covered walkways that criss-crossed the cantonment and gave protection to the soldiers as they moved from one point to another. They soon came to a door that was roughly opposite the centre of the trench and George flung it open. Bullets were tearing up the ground all around, and smacking into the plastered wall on either side of the door, and it seemed the height of madness to leave the cover of the walkway. But one glance at the trench ahead was enough. The Ghazis had broken through the wooden barricades and were fighting hand-to-hand with the hard-pressed Guides in the trench, their curved
tulwar
s slicing easily through bone and flesh.

'Fix bayonets!' howled George, as he drew from the scabbard his own triangular bayonet, just under two feet long, and fixed it to the muzzle of his Snider with a snap of his wrist. Satisfied that Ilderim and the men had done likewise, George led them out of the doorway with a yell. The centre of the trench, the scene of the heaviest fighting, was barely a hundred yards distant. Yet ten Punjabis fell crossing the exposed ground, and George felt his lungs might burst as he sprinted the last twenty yards, almost grateful to join the struggling mass and escape the hail of fire above ground.

He slithered into the shallow trench, little more than four feet deep with an earth parapet facing the enemy, and saw to his right two Ghazis about to despatch a fallen Guide with their Khyber knives. He quickly raised his Snider and shot one, causing the other to turn on him. With no time to reload, he lowered the weapon and skewered the charging Ghazi on his bayonet. But as he did so he saw from the corner of his eye another Afghan with upraised sword. Hauling his bayonet free, he swung round and parried the blow, the sound of steel on steel ringing out above the din and the impact jarring his arm. His wiry opponent glared at him and uttered an oath. George saw hatred in the Ghazi's eyes, and the complete absence of fear he would witness only in a religious warrior who believed he would go to Paradise if he fell in battle. George was far less sanguine about the afterlife and had no desire to find out the truth sooner rather than later. But as he made his move, thrusting his bayonet with as much force as he could muster, the Ghazi stepped deftly to the side and raised his
tulwar
for the killing blow. With no time to parry, George tensed his muscles in anticipation of the razor-sharp blade cutting into the unprotected flesh of his shoulder. But before the Ghazi could strike, his body stiffened and the sword fell from his lifeless fingers. Ilderim had shot him from the rear lip of the trench.

George waved his gratitude as the rest of their party leapt into the trench, tipping the balance the defenders' way. As the last Ghazi was cornered and killed, his body thrown from the trench, George felt his hand grasped by that of a young subaltern with a blond moustache and ice-blue eyes. 'I'm Lieutenant Duggan. You saved my life.'

'You were the soldier on the ground?'

'I was, and about to meet my Maker when you intervened. I'm very grateful.'

'Glad I could help.'

Dawn had broken at last and, with the repulse of the Ghazis' determined attack, a temporary lull seemed to have settled on George's sector of the battlefield. It was as if the Afghans were gathering their strength for a final effort and many of the defenders, George included, were fingering their trigger guards nervously as they peered over the earth parapet to the corpse-strewn ground beyond.

When the attack was resumed ten minutes later, it was directed not against the trench but against the fortified village of Bimaru to its left, and another small village called Khatir, only lightly held, that occupied the tactically vital gap between Bimaru and the heights above it. Looking north, George could see thousands of tiny figures advancing on both objectives, and he and the rest of the trench's defenders fired into the enemy host as fast as they could load. But so numerous were the attackers that this counter-fire had a negligible effect and it seemed to George that the assault must carry all before it. He held his breath as wave after wave of Afghans neared and then recoiled from the loopholed houses on the edge of Bimaru village, shot down in their hundreds by the rifles of the Guides.

Further north at Khatir, though, the attackers appeared to have gained a foothold. This was confirmed a short while later by Colonel Jenkins, the Guides' commander, who had come down to the trench from his command post in Bimaru village to thank the Punjabis for their timely intervention. 'Who's commanding the Twenty-Eighth here?' asked Jenkins.