by John Wilcox
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?’
Fonthill nodded. ‘Something like that.’ Then he took a bite of his sandwich and fell immediately asleep again.
CHAPTER FOUR
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:
My Dear Fonthill,
We have not met and this alone gives me cause for unease in writing to you in this fashion. I was anxious to invite you to Simla, for I have long admired your distinguished career in various parts of the Empire.
