Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  “Yes.” Ogilvie hesitated, then said in a low voice, “I’d give a good deal to know what my father’s thinking now!”

  “Nothing adverse to you, would be my guess, sir. The General’s experienced in frontier fighting.”

  “And in frontier ways. He’ll have a pretty good idea of what we might be in for, won’t he?”

  There was a brief hesitation. Ogilvie wondered if the same thought was in Cunningham’s mind as in his own: there might be no time for waiting to garner useful information before the rebel leader had them put to death—or worse. Then the R.S.M. said, “I’d not be at all surprised, sir. Aye, he’ll have a shrewd idea. But I have a feeling that wasn’t quite what was in your mind, Mr. Ogilvie, when you spoke of his thoughts about you.”

  Ogilvie gave a rather high laugh. “Damn it, Sarn’t-Major, it wasn’t.”

  “Then what was, sir?”

  Ogilvie said bleakly, “I was wondering, actually, if he’d order out a punitive expedition from Brigade.”

  “To rescue you, sir?”

  “And all of us,” Ogilvie said quickly.

  “Of course, sir. Now, you’ll know your own father well enough, so I think you can answer that for yourself.”

  “Not well enough even to try, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “Is that so, sir? Well, then, I’ll try myself, for I know him quite well enough. I served many years under him as a corporal and platoon sergeant when he commanded the 114th, Mr. Ogilvie, indeed I’ve served under him up here on the frontier itself. Sir Iain’ll not be sending any expeditions from Brigade or anywhere else, sir, and it’s my guess he’ll give specific orders to the Colonel that he is not to take it upon himself to do so either. He will put out of his mind that you are his son. If you put yourself in his position, Mr. Ogilvie, you’ll see he has no other course open to him.”

  In the darkness Ogilvie nodded without giving an answer. Cunningham was right; he always was. To Ogilvie it seemed that he himself could prove an incubus to his comrades in captivity—if the fact was that his father would have ordered out a force to get them back had his son not been one of them. But further reflection told him that any rescue operation was in fact highly unlikely. No small force could hope to penetrate as far as this fort, and anything more ambitious than a sortie would have to wait for the main assault, the final tightening of the circle. Twenty-odd lives could not be allowed to disturb the overall strategy of a campaign.

  Cunningham’s voice broke into his thoughts. The R.S.M. said in a whisper, “It’s going to be a race against time, sir. I do not myself believe that the rebel will have any ideas of a quick end for us. He means to make use of us first. If we’re lucky—and on the assumption Brigade has taken the peak—Division may tighten the circle and come in for the kill before he’s made that use of us.”

  That, Ogilvie knew, was designed merely for comfort; even Cunningham couldn’t believe his words really. As soon as Ahmed Khan got wind of any tightening circles, he would almost for a certainty despatch his prisoners. But Ogilvie played along and said, “It’ll be up to me to dream up all the delaying tactics I can, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “Aye, sir, that’s about the sum of it, and in the meantime we can no’ but wait and see what happens.”

  After that, Cunningham moved away and spoke to the men, doing what he could to keep their spirits up. Ogilvie tried not to think about Private Grant. There was a renewal of the foul-mouthed whining from Burns, who was once again silenced by Cunningham. The R.S.M. threatened him with all manner of punishment as soon as they got back to the British lines. This effectively put a stop on Burns, at any rate for the time being; the regiment and its iron-hard discipline was still too close a thing to be disregarded. Ogilvie found himself wondering how long that would hold. It was action that held a body of men together; action was excitement and lust and even a kind of fulfilment once you had the enemy in your sights or beneath your sword. Captivity led to lack of hope, and if hope should go, discipline would follow at once. It was Ogilvie’s task to keep the hope in being, to act as Commanding Officer while Cunningham fulfilled his traditional role of ramrod to maintain the discipline. But Ogilvie wondered, too, how he himself was going to face the kind of death the Pathans dealt out and how he would react in the waiting period.

  From beyond the thick door, dimly, they heard sounds after a while. Those sounds were of shouted orders and of the jingle of harness, and the heavy roll of limber wheels along the courtyard above. To Cunningham’s experienced ear the sounds were those of elephant-drawn guns, the heaviest of all batteries. A little later there came the sound of tinny drums and trumpets, and after that gunfire sounded in the distance. No one could tell what it might mean but Cunningham made a guess that the British had taken the peaks and either Ahmed Khan was mounting his counter-attack or Brigade had sent out an exploratory sortie to test the fort’s offensive spirit.

  They all wanted to believe the R.S.M.

  *

  The news had begun as a ripple, but, ripple-like, it spread. First of all to Division, where it was quickly reported to Sir lain Ogilvie by his Chief of Staff that both the peaks had been taken with heavy losses to the British and Indian units, but that it had not been possible to extend across the entry to the valley, which was very heavily held by rebel forces; and that twenty-five of the Royal Strathspeys could not be accounted for. There was the faintest twitch of a muscle in the Divisional Commander’s face, following a tug at the heavy moustache, when his son’s name came up; and that was all.

  Sir Iain said evenly, “I’m damn sorry about the casualties—it’s bad, bad! Hewlett gone—poor Hewlett! His wife’ll take that hard. He didn’t appear to have the strength of a flea in his body, but he kept that rapacious woman well satisfied whenever he was close enough to do so...Confirm to Lord Dornoch he’s to regard himself as acting in Hewlett’s place temporarily, without extra rank or pay of course. That feller Hay can have the 114th on the same terms for the time being, though he’s a damned old woman in my view. Like someone’s maiden aunt.” He blew his nose loudly. “Got a sister like him myself. Congratulate the Brigades on both peaks on the successful outcome of the assault itself—and add that I expect the defile to be closed as soon as possible. Tell Dornoch, I’m to be informed immediately when it’s known what’s happened to the missing officer and men. The loss of the Regimental Sarn’t-Major is especially to be regretted.”

  Not a word about the son until the Chief of Staff prompted gently, for there were aspects of that relationship to be considered. The Chief of Staff said quietly, “I’m very sorry, sir, about your son.”

  “Hey—hey? Of course—thank you, Trevelyan. I assume they’ve been taken prisoner.” His hands clenched on the table-top that he was using as a makeshift desk. “Only hope to God the boy has the wit to try to conceal his identity—that’s all!”

  “You have the possibility of hostages in mind, sir?”

  “I have!” Sir Iain snapped. “Haven’t you? If you haven’t, you damn well ought to have. I’d have thought it obvious enough...when that damn rebel finds out he’s got his filthy hands on an Ogilvie, he may well consider he has an ace, Trevelyan.”

  “Yes, sir.” Brigadier-General Trevelyan, late of the Sappers, spare, sallow, thin-faced and, in his General’s rancid opinion after a few days’ experience of him, too clever by half, was out of his depth; he had not encountered such a situation before. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry you may well be, blast you, and so am I! It’s confounded unfortunate—damned awkward.” Sir Iain got up abruptly from the bare table and stood with his back to the Headquarters tent and the Chief of Staff. Using field glasses, he stared for some moments towards Jalalabad, churning over the unwelcome fact that he was unable to report to the Commander-in-Chief in India that the rebel’s supply route had actually been cut. Lowering his glasses sharply he ordered, “Send Brigade’s report through at once to Peshawar and add that I want the 88th to join me soonest possible. They can damn well double through the
Khyber! Those casualties were too damn heavy, Trevelyan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can’t you find anything else to damn well say, except ‘Yes sir,’ like a damn parrot?”

  The Chief of Staff sighed inwardly. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Oh, God give me strength!” The General lifted his arms, let them drop again. He had a feeling he might be needed at Brigade in person, but if he went, he would go with only an aide-de-camp and leave the rest of the Staff behind at H.Q. He preferred to deal direct with his field commanders, the real fighting men. “Now I’ll have my breakfast. Where’s that blasted servant of mine—hey?” He swung away and as an after-thought added over his shoulder, “Trevelyan, there’s one other thing...my wife. She’ll have to be told, and before the damn Press gets hold of it, what’s more! I’ll add a personal message before you send the signal to Peshawar.”

  And so the news went out to Peshawar and on to Northern Army H.Q. in Murree. From there it reached the Commander-in-Chief India and went on via Calcutta by urgent cable to Whitehall and then to Fleet Street. All over Britain in due course the newsboys called it from the street corners. The country, though it was growing tired of the continuing Afghan involvements, was disturbed. To be sure, Afghanistan was far, far away and the valorous taking of a couple of peaks in the foothills of the Hindu Kush was a small thing and no more than was expected of British soldiers; it scarcely affected the lives of the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker; but John Bull was affronted because British soldiers were languishing in some stinking rebel stronghold in the lee of those distant alien hills—The Times newspaper and other journals published small maps that indicated the geography—and this meant somebody had to do something about it, fast. If the military couldn’t or wouldn’t, then the politicians should prod them into it. James Ogilvie became national news, became of national concern. The Prime Minister himself saw the Queen, hurrying by train to Windsor where a brougham from the castle met him and his bag of documents. Her Majesty expressed her wishes in the matter contradictorily: the soldiers must be got out but the overall campaign should not be compromised in the doing. An officer must not be subjected to indignity, especially since he was the son of a lieutenant-general wielding the personal authority of the Queen-Empress in his district of action. Her Majesty ended by saying, acidly, that perhaps more common sense might prevail if everything was left strictly in the hands of the military on the spot; and in vain Lord Roseberry pointed out that political considerations—especially vis-à-vis His Imperial Majesty the Czar of All the Russias—were involved on the frontier and that the military themselves had asked for guidance. When he returned again to Downing Street the Prime Minister was suffering badly from dyspepsia brought on by the Royal tea-scones. The Duke of Cambridge left the sanctuary of the Horse Guards and waited upon him in something of a ferment, managing when admitted to talk garrulously in a series of short, sharp, military barks while his face grew redder. When Lord Roseberry spitefully suggested that the best way out might be to relieve Sir Iain Ogilvie of his division, at any rate for the time being, His Royal Highness almost burst a blood-vessel.

  “Damn fool!” he was heard to mutter thickly. “There’s not a blasted General Officer of suitable seniority in all India from Murree to Ootacamund that’s damn well capable of lifting his blasted backside from an easy chair, let alone taking over from Ogilvie!” He ruminated for a moment, chewing his lips. “Damn good mind to suggest to Her Majesty that I go out myself.”

  The Prime Minister stared at him in alarmed dismay, then gave a sardonic snort after which he terminated the interview as briskly as was compatible with tact.

  *

  Below those distant Kafiristan hills the prisoners heard, at last, the sounds of a key being turned in the lock of the door and the bolts being withdrawn. Daylight came down the steps, daylight and fresh air to dispel the stench to which, in fact, they had become accustomed by this time. As a figure appeared Ogilvie called sharply, “No one move!”

  The figure in the doorway said something in his own language. Ogilvie answered, “I do not understand you.”

  “He’s speaking Pushtu, Mr. Ogilvie,” Cunningham whispered. “He says to come up singly. You first, sir. Do as he says. I’ll be behind you.”

  Ogilvie got to his feet. As the man at the top moved back, sunlight came down in a broad band. Flies rose in a swarm, coming from Grant’s body. The sun shone on the faces of the men; they were unshaven, drawn, tired and anxious. But that of the Regimental Sergeant-Major was like a rock still. Ogilvie moved slowly for the steps, and climbed. He emerged into the courtyard, blinking in the strong sun, feeling the day’s tremendous heat strike through his uniform in sharp contrast to the dank fug of the cellar. The man who had opened the door stood waiting. He was a massively-built fellow, a Persian Ogilvie fancied, not an Afghan, with a bare chest and baggy trousers of scarlet looped at the ankles, and he carried a long leather whip in his right hand. In front of the cellar entrance a dismounted guard was drawn up, wearing uniforms that were at once filthy and splendid—splendid in their lavish colourings and ornaments, but worn and soiled. They carried curved swords, heavy ones that reflected the sun, and they wore turbans of sapphire blue. An order was given in Pushtu. One man left the guard and, marching up to Ogilvie, placed a sword against his neck so that he could feel its cutting edge nick the skin above his adam’s-apple. Nothing more was said, but as each of the British prisoners came up, another man moved out of the line and held him at sword point. When they were all up from the cellar the native guards moved around behind them, placing the swords against the backs of their necks. Another command was given and the swords pressed, the British were urged ahead in file, with Ogilvie in front following the bare-chested Persian who had unlocked the cellar door.

  They were led across the courtyard towards a battlemented strongpoint, a tower set in the farther wall and coloured rose-red, across bare dusty earth trodden by many men and animals into an almost stone hardness. Around the courtyard there were many trees, a dusty, sun-drenched line of green, and beyond the wall they could see the tops of more trees, but apart from this splash of faded greenery the place was as military and utilitarian as the British lines themselves. The men were marched towards a flight of stone steps rising from the courtyard towards a doorway into the tower, and once inside were led down a long passage. Ogilvie felt a sinking in his stomach, was, as ever, glad of the presence somewhere behind him of Bosom Cunningham. At the end of the passage a spiral staircase, also of stone, twisted steeply upwards. This the soldiers were made to climb. Eventually they emerged on to a wide, flat surface, heavily guarded by more tribesmen and surrounded by the battlements they had seen from below. A tall man turned as Ogilvie came through from the staircase, a man with a thick black beard and a light blue turban with a great diamond glittering in its front, a full-faced, full-blooded man of obvious vigour and strength. This man came towards Ogilvie, smiling.

  In perfect English he said, “Good morning, Ogilvie sahib.”

  This was startling. Ogilvie asked, “You know my name?”

  The man’s smile became broader. “Of course, my dear fellow. I, also, have a field telegraph system—if it is not of quite the same kind as your British one, it works equally well insofar as it sends me the information I require from time to time, and so I happen to know that the General’s son is missing...et cetera!” He shrugged. “It is really a very simple matter, though I confess it is nothing but my good luck that it was you my men captured.”

  “You mean you have spies in the British lines?”

  “Spy is an unpleasant word, Ogilvie sahib. Shall we call them...political officers in reverse?” The smile was very mocking now. “Your country has no monopoly of misleading titles, my good young friend.”

  Ogilvie flushed. He asked, “You are the rebel, Ahmed Khan?”

  “That is absolutely so, Ogilvie sahib. I am the man your father is under orders to destroy, am I not right?”

  “I do
n’t know what my father’s orders are, Ahmed Khan. But to the best of my knowledge no one has orders to destroy you, only to eject you from Jalalabad and to return the town and this fortress to the Amir in Kabul—”

  “The Amir in Kabul? I am glad you make the distinction! I, you see, am the Amir in Jalalabad!”

  “But not for much longer,” Ogilvie said. “The orders will be carried out, Ahmed Khan, you can be very sure of that.”

  The man gave a low, insulting laugh. “You are very British,” he said. “Also, very stupid. You must not believe that British soldiers always carry out their orders successfully. You should read your history books a little more carefully, Ogilvie sahib, you really should! The frontier is signposted by more British defeats than British successes. Allow me to prophesy that Jalalabad will be one more defeat for your British arms.” He reached out and put a hand on Ogilvie’s shoulder. “Come with me now, and look, and then use your mind, and think.”

  He led Ogilvie across towards the battlements to the west, and handed him a pair of field glasses. “Look,” he repeated. Ogilvie did so. At such range—it was around five miles, he remembered, on the maps—he was not able to see much detail on the peaks, but he did notice some considerable movement on the plain across the entry to the valley, where a large force seemed to be positioned. Ahmed Khan, beside him, said, “Allow me to explain, Ogilvie sahib.” He paused, studying his prisoner’s face for a moment. “The British have been quite successful in that they have taken the hills on either side of my supply route. They fought well, and this I concede, and I willingly admit defeat thus far. But it is only a small defeat. The British will not command the valley for long. Already, as you can see, a strong force has gone out from here, and indeed has for some time been deployed across the entry—since before your soldiers had consolidated their positions enough either to stop them or to close the gap themselves. Out there, my young friend, I have cavalry and infantry, sappers, much heavy artillery drawn by elephant trains and supported by lesser guns. In due course, my men will infiltrate to the rear of the peaks and recapture them. Even should they not succeed in this—and failure is most unlikely—my military presence in the gap between the peaks will ensure the entire safety of my supply column, for my soldiers will keep the British very well occupied, and already my artillery is starting to silence their guns, so that there will be none to fire on the supplies. This column is expected quite shortly, and once it is through, the British may as well fold their tents, Ogilvie sahib, and steal softly away before I catch them up! The column brings me many thousands of fresh men, and very many more guns and foodstuffs but this perhaps you know already. There is something I think you do not know, however, and it is this: the Amir in Kabul is willing to treat with me. If I am able to conclude an agreement with him, and I believe sincerely that I am, then you British will be fighting on wholly alien ground, Ogilvie sahib.”