Bayonets Along the Border

by John Wilcox

  Cautiously, Alice dipped her fingers into the rice. Warm and also delicious. The meat was probably goat but it was tender and succulent. If she was in the mullah’s lair, then he obviously travelled with a good cook. And, she reflected, if she was about to be defiled then better that it happened after she had eaten well. If rape was to be on the menu, she certainly would not be acquiescent. And a good meal would give her strength for the fight!

  She put her hands to her face in a moment of despair. Had it come to this? No. She took a deep breath. She certainly would fight! Then she looked down at herself. Her fingernails were edged with black – whatever would Miss Nightingale think? – and her hands were bloodstained, as were her jodhpurs and blouse. She was not, she reflected, exactly rape material.

  Alice forced a grin and ate the rice and meat and then the oranges hungrily and drank the remnants of the milk. Then, a little unsteadily, she rose from where she sat cross-legged on the litter and walked to the door of the tent. Gingerly, she drew apart the folds of the entry and looked out. The darkness outside was broken by a series of fires that had been lit before other tents and they must have climbed into the hills for the air was cold. Tribesmen could be seen tending to pots hung above the fires but no guards seemed to have been posted outside her door.

  Alice took a deep breath of the air, so keen and cold that it made her eyes water, then she withdrew back into the tent. She stood indecisively for a moment. Could she just walk away? Yes, but walk to where – and how could she slip through the village without being detected?

  She felt herself stagger for a moment and perched on the edge of the little table. She had been asking herself just too many questions over the last thirty-six hours and providing no answers. She attempted to take stock. Where was she? No idea, but wait … She had been looking down at the fort from quite high on the hills on its northern side and it would have been unlikely that her captors would have taken her down to the road again and carried her up the other side. Ergo: if she could escape now and hide amongst the rocks until the morning, she could gauge the south by the position of the sun when it came up and then walk down to the Pass and follow the road to the east towards Peshawar until she reached one of the other forts.

  She smiled at her naïvety. Barton had said that the other two forts were sited less well, defensively, than Landi Kotal. If the latter could fall, how could the other two survive? And how the hell could she walk undetected through miles of mountainous country teeming with rebellious Pathans?

  Alice looked around the tent. Apart from the roughly made stretcher that had brought her here there was only the bed with its … ah – blankets!

  She pulled away the top one and wound it around her. The scarf which she had tied around her head as protection from the sun hours ago had long since slipped down to her neck, so she untied it and rearranged it as some kind of head cover. God knows if she looked like a Pathan woman – or even if the camp housed any women – but she was damned if she was going to stay in this tent and wait for … for whatever fate lay in store for her. She must make a bid for liberty.

  Tucking the blanket round her, she shuffled to the tent opening and pulled back the flap.

  ‘Ah, good evening, Mrs Fonthill,’ said the tall, bearded, richly caparisoned man who stood there, a drinking vessel in each hand. ‘I’m so glad you have recovered. But this night air is much too cold for a walk. Look. I’ve brought you a brandy. I thought it might … oh dash it, what is the English expression? Ah yes, I thought it might perk you up a bit.’

  Alice felt her jaw drop. ‘So you’re not a figment of my … my … my imagination?’ she gasped, involuntarily.

  ‘Well, do you know, no one has ever accused me of being that before. Shall we go back inside and take a nightcap?’ She saw white teeth gleam behind the beard. ‘And frankly, my dear, you look vaguely ridiculous in that blanket. You might pass as the wife of an impecunious blanket weaver but not as a native of these parts.’

  Alice took three steps backwards. ‘Who are you and how do you know my name?’

  ‘All in good time. Now, do sit … Ah. No chairs. Just one moment.’ He held out the goblets. ‘Do you mind holding these for a moment or two? Thank you.’

  Then he disappeared back into the night and left Alice holding the brandy, feeling distinctly stupid as the blanket slipped from her shoulders and hung from her arms, making her look like some kind of waitress in a country alehouse.

  He was back, carrying two large, soft cushions under each arm. ‘Now, he said, ‘let’s try and be as comfortable as we can in these … ah … rather spartan surroundings.’ He threw the cushions onto the floor and relieved her of the brandy, placing the cups on the table. ‘Do sit down. Ah, good. You have eaten. I hope it was to your taste. Alas, I couldn’t join you, for there was much for me to do after the capture of the fort.’

  Slowly, Alice lowered herself onto the cushion and felt a ridiculous desire for some powder to dab onto her cheeks.

  ‘I think you had better tell me who you are and how you know my name,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly. But do take a sip of this cognac first. It is French, you see, it cost me a fortune and I think it will do you the world of good after the, ah, miseries you have been through. Pick you up, as it were.’

  Alice stayed silent and unmoving, watching him intently.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I see. You suspect me of some dastardly plot to drug or murder you. Not so, look.’ He picked up one of the cups and sipped from it before handing it to her. ‘There, you see. No harm done. In fact,’ he chuckled, ‘it’s doing me no end of good. Now, do come along. Here we go. Cheerio.’ And he raised a cup to her in salute.

  Slowly, keeping her eyes on his, Alice picked the cup up and took a sip. Immediately, she shuddered as the fiery liquid burnt through her, leaving a warm glow behind. The taste and the words that this man – this Pathan? – were using reminded her of her favourite and very English, old-world uncle, when he had first introduced her to a very fiery digestif, one Christmas, aeons ago.

  She gulped, caught her breath and nodded. ‘Thank you. Now, who are you? You are not the mullah something or other, are you?’

  The teeth flashed again and he shook his head. ‘No. As a good Muslim, he doesn’t touch these … ah …. better things in life. No. My name is … No. If you don’t mind I won’t tell you that. It may turn to my disadvantage later.’

  ‘But you are not English, surely?’

  ‘No. In fact, I am from Rajasthan, in India, a good way south of here. So, you see, I am very much an Indian – although not Red, as you can see.’

  ‘But … but … your English is impeccable. You could pass as an Englishman anywhere.’

  ‘How kind of you. But I don’t think I could pass as one of your fellow countrymen. I am … what shall we say … a little too sunburnt for that.’ He smiled again and Alice realised that he was an incredibly handsome man, with high cheekbones, smooth, brown skin behind his beard, very white teeth and eyes of soft brown. Rather like Simon’s, she thought for a brief moment. But the Indian was still speaking.

  ‘In fact, I think I would be called a nigger, wouldn’t you say, or more like niggah, if it was a well-educated English chap describing me.’ Alice realised that the smile that lingered around his lips had not reached his eyes.

  ‘Oh, certainly not,’ she said immediately. ‘That would be incredibly rude.’

  He lowered his head in acknowledgement and took another sip of the brandy. ‘Well, my dear Mrs Fonthill, that is what I was called many times at Winchester – such an old-fashioned English school, you know – and by the hearties at Cambridge.’

  ‘You were educated at Winchester and Cambridge?’ Alice’s jaw dropped again.

  ‘Oh yes, as well as at school here in India.’

  ‘But what are you doing here, in this … this wilderness, with these tribemen – and fighting with them, against us, the British?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps it is time to reveal all, as they say in th
e best plays in London. But only if you drink your cognac. I do insist.’

  She took another sip and he nodded in approval.

  ‘I know your name because when we were … er … I think the word is sacking the fort, we found your belongings in a room by the ramparts and your bag was brought to me. And I must say, Mrs Fonthill, that you do travel light for an English memsahib. Oh, I must reassure you. I have the bag in my own tent and I couldn’t carry it and the brandy, you see. I will fetch it presently, so that you can change and retire here for the night, without molestation, I assure you. Oh, and some water and soap, etcetera, so that you can wash. But in the circumstances, you see, I felt the brandy took priority.’

  He smiled again and Alice could not refrain from returning it. As he was speaking, her eye was taking in every detail of his appearance. He had been forced to duck very low to enter the tent so he must, she estimated, be very tall, perhaps six feet two inches, certainly tall for an Indian, yet he was obviously not a Sikh. The coat he wore was of calf length and seemed to be a mixture of cotton and silk, for gold threads lined the edges so that it glittered in the lamplight. He wore high boots of some soft leather, worked into a pattern along the calf, and a high-buttoned, collarless jacket reached to his neck. A cummerbund circled his waist and from a belt hung a long, curved dagger that seemed to have jewels in the hilt. She seemed to remember a coloured turban when he came through the cookhouse door but he was not wearing it now and his hair was black and long, curling up over his collar at the back. Two large rings glittered from his fingers. He was a man, Alice decided, of some standing and with more than one or two rupees to his name.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I am now beginning to enjoy the cognac. And,’ she gestured down at her bloodstained blouse and riding breeches, ‘I would welcome the chance to wash and change.’

  She checked herself. What on earth was she doing exchanging drawing room pleasantries with a man who had taken part in – maybe even led – a savage attack on British/Indian sepoys? She made her voice take on a colder, more disapproving tone.

  ‘What happened to the wounded in the cookhouse?’

  He shrugged. ‘They were killed, I am afraid. It is the way here, you know, in these hills.’

  ‘Yes. So it seems. But you are clearly a civilized man. What makes you take part in this … this … butchery? I saw your sword. You had taken part in the fighting.’

  ‘Oh. It is very simple. I hate the English, you see.’

  Alice stared at him, her mouth open.

  Then the Indian stood and slightly bowed his head. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘if you will excuse me for a moment, I will leave my brandy here and fetch your bag and ensure you have water and a washing bowl. Then I hope you will be more comfortable.’

  She watched him stoop and slip through the tent flap. Who on earth was he, this articulate, well-mannered Indian, who looked like a maharajah, sounded like an English aristocrat and carried a sword like Genghis Khan? She shook her head, absent-mindedly raised her brandy glass and then, without drinking, threw the contents onto the earthen floor with a sudden gesture of disgust. To hell with this! She had to get out of this place.

  Alice started for the tent flap and then sat down again abruptly. How stupid! She was still unsteady on her feet and, anyway, he – whoever ‘he’ was – would be back in a moment and, even if she was able to slip through the encampment unnoticed, he would raise the alarm. She took a deep breath. Better to wait until the camp was asleep and, anyway, she must find out more about this man who was her captor.

  There was a flurry of movement at the tent flap and then Scarface bustled through carrying a pitcher of water, soap and a rough, loosely woven cloth to act as a towel. He was followed by an Indian carrying her bag.

  ‘It was only opened,’ he said, gesturing to the bag, ‘to establish your identity. Ah, I see you have finished your cognac. Good. I took the opportunity of bringing in what was left.’ He raised the bottle he was carrying. ‘I thought we might as well finish the bottle together.’ He gave her his disarming smile. ‘I don’t often have the opportunity of indulging in interesting conversation these days.’

  Alice lifted up her hand to refuse the cognac but he refilled her glass anyway. He gestured around him. ‘I have been living rather roughly, as you see, for some days.’

  She gulped. ‘What … what has happened to the other forts in the Pass?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

  ‘Take a sip and I will tell you.’ He gestured with his glass.

  Reluctantly, she did so, beginning to feel that she was playing some exotic – erotic? – game, here in these savage hills with this smooth, educated barbarian.

  ‘Well done. The forts? Oh, we took the other two quite easily in the end, although you will be glad to hear that I was instrumental in us allowing the garrison of Fort Maude to retreat to Jamrud, after they had surrendered the fort. Some of the garrison at Ali Masjid were allowed to get away too. So, you see, I am not quite the butcher that you seem to think I am.’

  ‘Hmm. The wounded at Kotal – and your sword was bloodstained?’

  For a moment, his voice lost its urbanity. ‘I had to fight into the fort there with the Pathans. But I personally do not kill wounded men, madam. Now,’ his words resumed their level tone, ‘at last, the Pathans have regained control of the Khyber Pass, their Khyber Pass, after it has been in the hands of your countrymen for so long. The main road into Afghanistan, then, you see, is back in the hands of the people whose country it is. Right and proper, don’t you think?’

  Alice suddenly thought of Simon and her heart almost missed a beat. Would he hear of the Pathan victories here and find some other way back to Peshawar? Her brain offered up an unspoken prayer and then she went on: ‘Yes, but why do you hate the English so? You were brought up, it seems, in our country?’

  His mouth eased into his mirthless smile again and he gestured to Alice to drink her cognac. She lifted the glass to her lips but allowed only the smallest drop to enter her mouth. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that that is one of the reasons. Your country, madam, or at least your class, has the most distasteful attitude to what they call the coloured races, you know. Oh, they like young Ranji – that’s Kumar Shri Ranjitsinhji, a distant relative of mine, by the way, who was at Cambridge with me – because he’s good at cricket. But I hated the stupid game and …’ he paused. ‘Come to think of it, one MCC member called Ranji a “damned dirty nigger” last year, even though he had just scored a century against the Australians for England. So there you are. You see, madam, it is easy to hate someone who calls you that, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course.’ Somewhere a drum had begun to beat again. Did they never stop? Alice thought quickly. Although she shared the views of the Indian about the English upper classes’ ethnic snobbery, she was damned if she was going to appear sycophantic by agreeing with him. ‘But your own race, you know, is quite as bad,’ she said. ‘Your caste system is nothing more than snobbery, now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah. It is much more than that, but that is too complicated a matter really to go into now. And, anyway,’ he took another sip of the cognac, ‘my hatred of your people is more fundamental.’ He leant forward. ‘After fighting over India with the French, like two dogs over a bone, the English have occupied my country and subjected its people, using them to prop up your empirical economy, sending back to “the mother country”,’ he spat out the phrase, ‘our cotton yarns, our cloths, our spices, our dyes, everything that can be squeezed from India at rock-bottom prices to be converted into high-priced merchandise at places like Manchester and London and then exported to the rest of the world.’

  His eyes were now flashing and his lip curled with disgust. ‘And, what is more, madam, you have put Indian against Indian. You push our poor people into your so-called “Army of the Raj” and make us police the country for you. And when they revolt – as they did in the fifties – you stamp out the insurrection with great cruelty.

  ‘Now, you
have acquired new territory in these hills by laying down some arbitrary line, established by some idiot from Calcutta, and telling the Amir of Afghanistan, a friendly ruler of a so-called independent nation, that he must like it or … or … limp it.’

  ‘Lump it,’ corrected Alice distantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think the phrase is like it or lump it.’

  ‘Ah yes. Well, the same thing. So, having learnt a little of your ways – and also of your military strategy at Sandhurst …’

  ‘Good Lord! You were there, too?’

  ‘Yes. But I never served in your imperial army. So having acquired your so-called wisdom, I came back to my country …’

  ‘Your country, sir? Is this actually your country? Surely, you would argue that this is Afghanistan, in truth?’

  She saw a flash of petulance in his face and realised that he was not used to being corrected. ‘I came back to my country, I said,’ he continued, ‘and decided to help the Pathans here by putting something of my acquired military skills to good use. These people, you see, are brave, fine fighters, but they lack strategic and tactical ability – attributes needed to overcome well-defended forts like these in the Pass.’

  Alice nodded slowly. She remembered seeing how the tribesmen had spread up into the hills so that they could fire down on the defenders of Landi Kotal. Someone, she had noted, was in charge of this rabble.

  A silence fell on the interior of the tent. It was as though the Indian had spent his passion in argument and, indeed, that Alice, who had long argued against the Raj’s exploitation of cheap labour in India to fill the coffers of the merchants of London and the cotton spinners of Manchester, could find nothing to say in opposition.

  Then she cleared her throat. ‘I – and there are many others in England in the Liberal Party there – who agree with much of what you say, Mr … Oh, do come along. You know my name. I must know yours. What shall I call you?’

  The Indian’s expression softened slightly. ‘Ah, so you are a Liberal. Good. Call me Ali. It will do.’