Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  “Not, I think, this time,” Ahmed Khan said, shaking his head. “I have not yet told you of the second agreement. This is with the Imperial Russian Court in St. Petersburg, and it provides for me to overthrow the Amir by force with Russian help and then to admit the main Russian armies to march through Afghanistan to the Khyber. Do you understand what this means, Ogilvie sahib?”

  Ogilvie had gone white. But he said, “I understand that this would hardly be the freedom you seek for your country, Ahmed Khan.”

  Ahmed Khan smiled. “It would not be the alternative I would choose, certainly, but if you should force me to choose it, let us say simply that the Russians would not be permitted to interfere in our affairs as the British have been permitted by our present Amir, indeed they would not seek to interfere—provided we allowed them free passage through to India! Or,” he added with something like a twinkle in his eye, “if you prefer to think this of us, let me say simply that it is sometimes possible for other countries to be as two-faced as the British themselves. In any case, if the British will not give their peaceful consent to the one, then I, Ahmed Khan, effective Amir in Jalalabad, will sign the other immediately. You are a very young man, Ogilvie sahib, and a very junior officer in your army, but you have the great honour now of being the only representative of your Queen-Empress with whom I am able to treat personally. You may say, why do I not send my terms direct to Calcutta by means of the telegraph wires, but I would answer once again that I prefer the personal approach. Telegraphed terms would be no more than cursorily considered and then rejected. I wish you to convince your father that I mean all I say and am able to carry it out. The future of the Frontier lies very largely in your hands now. I urge you to consider this matter deeply, and quickly, for time is running out and my people are becoming restless.”

  Throughout, he had spoken quietly and sincerely and with emphasis. When he had finished he bowed and turned away. Soon after he had left the room Ogilvie heard the pipers’ music fading. His mind in a whirl, he went over to a window and looked out. The light was fading as well now, in time with the dying pipes. He saw the pipers halt outside a wooden door in a part of the thick courtyard wall that extended from the outer part of the tower block, and then go inside. A few minutes later they came out, having evidently stowed their instruments. They marched away. They looked a well-disciplined body of men. If all his forces were like that, Ahmed Kahn could probably put his threat into effect and, in giving free passage to the Russian armies, imperil the whole delicate balance of the North-West Frontier. And that, having its repercussions inside India, could even lead to another mutiny.

  Ogilvie felt almost sick with the weight of decision that had fallen upon him. On the face of it, there was really no reason why he shouldn’t agree to going out under a flag of truce; but to plead the rebels’ cause was going to strike, not only his father but also the ultimate command in India, as a somewhat curious act for a British officer.

  Eight

  Ogilvie passed a largely sleepless night. All through the dark hours he heard the rumble of the guns in the distance, the guns that would be firing against the British positions. His thoughts were with the battalion, and no less with the men who endured their captivity in lesser comfort than he. Vicariously he shared their ordeal in that dungeon cellar, knowing too well what they were having to endure; knowing, too, how mutinously Private Burns would be reacting to his own preferential treatment. Burns had applauded him that day off Aden when he had stood up to Andrew Black, but he would not be applauding now. That irresolute moment of weakness might come home to roost in this present situation; men like Burns, as Ogilvie was beginning to understand, often despised lack of firmness in an officer more than did the loyal soldier. It even, in some odd way, exacerbated their class-war instincts—perhaps because it gave point to the notion that officers gained their commissions by birth rather than by ability; a hard argument to refute. And men like Burns were something new to the army—or rather, it would be more correct to say that authority’s reactions to them were new. Every regiment had always had a handful of similar characters but in earlier years they had been tamed by the lash. Men like Andrew Black knew how to deal with them far better than he...

  Restlessly, Ogilvie paced his splendid apartment, for hour after hour, listening to the guns, wondering when Ahmed Khan would come for his answer, wondering what he should do when he did come. And as he thought and worried and paced, he was startled to find subversive ideas creeping like dangerous snakes into his own head. Looked at objectively, a British presence in Afghanistan simply couldn’t possibly be represented to the native rebels as a good thing. They would not be won over, and the peace that would come after a British victory by force of arms would be an uneasy peace. Ahmed Khan’s reasoning, from his own viewpoint, had been right and proper enough, if one disregarded the fact that he was acting against his own legally-ruling Amir. And even that was far from being a unique situation. Oliver Cromwell had rebelled against the King of England, not that Ogilvie approved of that; and the army had subsequently restored the Monarchy by what in a sense had also been an act of insurrection. Many English kings, indeed, had gained the throne by rebellion, mostly in the name of the people, whether or not the people cared. Anything done in the name of patriotism was all right. And Ogilvie had a definite feeling Ahmed Khan was a patriot. There was no doubt at all about the fact that the British presence was the sole cause of the lengthy fighting and the killing, in the sense that they had thrust themselves into a family quarrel in order to gain their own ends; and Ogilvie found himself wondering if the holding of the status quo was justification enough for the deaths.

  *

  In the morning, by which time Ogilvie, succumbing at last to exhaustion, had slept a little, Captain Andrew Black, in the British lines, happened upon an untoward occurrence that made his blood run cold. He had risen early, very soon after the sun had crept in blazing splendour over the eastern horizon to bathe the plain and the hills in gold. He had taken a walk by himself and coming from a hollow a little way down the hillside in front of the defences, he had happened to catch a curious and alarming flash as of a mirror reflecting the sunlight.

  He sank back behind a boulder and kept very still. Again he caught a flash; and then again. Somebody was signalling, and although there were no answering flashes so far as Black could see, it was fairly obvious that whoever was flashing was doing so towards the enemy lines spread across the defile. Black swore to himself. He was unable to read the message, for he was seeing only occasional flashes, as the spy so used his mirror from time to time as to bring it within his vision. He came out from behind the boulder, went fast but silently back the way he had come, and found the Sergeant of the Guard. Quickly he told his story; at once the Sergeant and two file of men set off down the hillside and closed the hollow. They made their capture as the man was coming away. Before breakfast the Divisional Commander, who had now joined the Brigade on the southern peak—minus what he referred to as ‘the damn Staff’—had been informed and had dealt with the matter. Before the spy, having been closely but vainly questioned, was shot upon his personal order, Sir Iain sent for the Brigade Major. When Archdale reached the H.Q. tent he found the General beside himself with rage.

  “You have the damned impertinence to bring what in effect amounts to an unauthorized article of equipment with you, and then cause the cluttering-up of the field telegraph with a damn silly request for a new one after you’ve been damn fool enough to allow it to be destroyed by enemy action. You then cap this with a total lack of appreciation of the need for security...by appointing, as what I’m told is called your bum-havildar, a man who’s in the pay of the blasted rebel! You’ve been harbouring a spy in your monstrous damn commode, Brigade Major—a damn spy! I won’t have it, d’you hear me—I won’t have it!”

  *

  An immense breakfast was brought to Ogilvie; having little appetite, he merely picked at the dishes so as to keep some strength in his body. After the meal h
ad been removed, Ahmed Khan came to him again, accompanied this time by a bearded officer of his cavalry. “Good morning, Ogilvie sahib,” he said. “I trust you have passed a pleasant night?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Also that you have given thought to my proposal.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your conclusion, Ogilvie sahib?”

  Ogilvie said stiffly, “I await further clarification, Ahmed Khan.”

  “I would have thought my words clear enough already. However...” Ahmed Khan shrugged, smiled somewhat enigmatically and walked across towards a window. The cavalry officer remained by the door, his face impassive. Ahmed Khan stared thoughtfully out of the window for some moments, then turned suddenly and said, “Ogilvie sahib, you will no doubt have heard the artillery fire during the night?”

  Ogilvie nodded.

  “It was a very sustained bombardment, Ogilvie sahib, and most of it was concentrated on the northern hill—the one, you will remember, that was taken by another brigade, not your own. I fear the casualties will have been quite exceptionally heavy. The same may occur tonight, but directed towards the hill held by your own regiment.”

  “And your own men, Ahmed Khan? The British did not fire back?”

  Ahmed Khan shrugged again. “There were casualties, but they were light enough not to cause me concern. I understand that quite early in the engagement, your British marauders lost many of their guns—”

  “We’re no marauders, Ahmed Khan—”

  “No, Ogilvie sahib?” The native gave him a long, cool look, his heavy eyebrows lifted. “What other name would you give yourselves, then?”

  Ogilvie flushed, glared. “I don’t think this is getting us very far, Ahmed Khan.”

  “No farther than military action against me is getting your soldiers, perhaps?” There was no response from Ogilvie and the Afghan smiled obliquely, catching the eye of the bearded soldier by the door. “Allow me to introduce Major Faiz Gheza, who commands my cavalry squadron in the fort.”

  The Major bowed; Ogilvie returned this with a stiff nod. Faiz Gheza said in a deep, rumbling voice, “Ogilvie sahib, I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  Again Ogilvie nodded, but said nothing. Ahmed Khan went on, “Faiz Gheza will command the cavalry escort that will take you to the meeting place with your father. You see, Ogilvie sahib, I am assuming you will agree to my proposals, and agree as willingly as I require.” He lifted a hand as Ogilvie started to speak, and his voice grew harsher when he went on, “You will please allow me to finish. I do not wish an impression to be given that you are under duress. I wish you to see my point of view as already explained to you, and to put this convincingly to your father. I am wise enough to know that you British do not treat with anyone until you see an advantage to yourselves—or until you have been made to realize that the alternative to treating is certain defeat for yourselves, even if that defeat will come only in the long term. I think you will do your best to be as convincing as I want you to be.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because of what will happen if you fail to convince your father of the absolute need to make urgent representations to your High Command, your Governor-General in Council—or your Government in London, perhaps, if necessary—to order the withdrawal of all your soldiers.”

  Ogilvie said, “I asked you last night, now I’ll ask you again: what happens if I don’t do this?”

  “You mean, of course, apart from the putting into effect of the agreement with the Czar of All the Russias?” ,

  Ogilvie’s lips felt dry. “Yes,” he said.

  “If you refuse to go out under a flag of truce, Ogilvie sahib, or if, upon your meeting, your father refuses his cooperation, a good deal of unpleasantness will be suffered by...not by yourself, Ogilvie sahib, but by your men now in my dungeon. This, I believe you will be unwilling to permit as a result of any act of omission on your part. I am a good judge of character, Ogilvie sahib, besides which I have been informed as to your demeanour when you were told yesterday that you were to be accommodated more comfortably than the rest of my prisoners. My conclusion, Ogilvie sahib, is that you will not wish to bring trouble upon your men through no fault of their own. Am I not right?”

  Ogilvie took a deep breath and said, “You’re right that I wouldn’t want to. But if necessary...they’ll do their duty, they’ll understand why it is they have to suffer.”

  “Understanding will not make it any easier to bear, Ogilvie sahib, nor will it, I suggest, lessen your own feelings of responsibility. But now, I think, you have a full awareness of what is required of you, and of what will happen if you do not do as I wish. May I have your formal word of agreement that you will go out to meet your Divisional Commander? You see no harm in this, surely?”

  Ogilvie hesitated; ipso facto, there was indeed little harm in a meeting. It was the implications that might be read into his action, as he had feared during the night, that worried him. But had he the right to consider his own future against his men’s present? It seemed to him that he had not, and after a few more moments’ thought he said in a low voice, “Yes. Yes, I’ll go.”

  “I congratulate you. You have made a right decision, Ogilvie sahib. I shall leave you now, and soon Faiz Gheza will return for you, and you will ride towards the British position. You see, anticipating your agreement, I had already sent a message to the British and have had their answer. Because I quoted your name and because it is known prisoners were taken, they have agreed to a meeting, though at this stage no mention has been made of the fact that you will bring terms. As it happens, your father is already with the soldiers holding the peak.” He turned away and, with the cavalry officer, left the room. He was back within an hour, again with Faiz Gheza and this time with two dismounted troopers as well. Ogilvie was led from the room, back along the passage and down the steps into the courtyard. Here all seemed quiet; the gunfire had ceased some while earlier, no doubt to clear the air, as it were, for the two truce parties to meet in what for the time being would be a no-man’s-land between the lines. Ogilvie followed Ahmed Khan across the courtyard towards the guarded entry to the dungeon where the British soldiers were being held. The air was very still; there was a tenseness, an expectancy. Ogilvie’s and the escort’s footfalls echoed out across the dusty space. Ahead an order was given and two of the men who had been standing on either side of the door into the cellar turned to open it up and then stood with their rifles ready as the soldiers were ordered out.

  Led by Corporal Brown, they stumbled up from the pitch darkness. They blinked in the strong sunlight. They were haggard, unshaven, dirty—but they came up like men, like the Scots soldiers they were, with heads high and shoulders straight. Ogilvie’s heart swelled. No one, not even Private Burns, was going to let the regiment down today. Brown, who had seen Ogilvie as he reached the courtyard, waited until the rank and file were in line and then slammed to the salute, fingers quivering at the brim of his helmet. “Ten and a half file of the 114th Highlanders present and correct. Sir!” He was grinning sardonically, but he remained at attention as though awaiting orders.

  Ogilvie was about to speak when Ahmed Khan cut in. He gave a sharp command in Pushtu and the native guards, using their rifles, pushed the soldiers back until they were standing against the wall above the dungeon. There they waited. A few moments later Ogilvie heard marching feet and when he turned he saw the Regimental Sergeant-Major being brought along from the right, and, behind him, a squad of rebel infantry all armed with the long-barrelled rifles.

  Cunningham, like Corporal Brown, saluted as he was marched past, his kilt swinging as though on parade at Invermore. He was lined up with the others. After this Ahmed Khan took a large, curiously-shaped iron key from the folds of his clothing and held it out to Faiz Gheza, who took it, turned about smartly, and marched towards the wall where the men were standing. He reached up, pushed the key into a small hole in the stonework, a hole that Ogilvie had not noticed until now, and turned
it by means of an iron bar which he picked up from the ground and thrust through its ring. As he turned the key, the iron sheet set in the ground immediately to the left of the line of men—the iron that Ogilvie had seen earlier—began moving. A gap formed in the ground, grew larger as the cavalry-men, sweating at the key, moved the iron plate back towards the wall. Faiz Gheza was a man of powerful physique but the effort taxed his strength visibly. Soon, as the iron moved away to slide right under the wall amid a cascade of sandy dust and grit, Ogilvie looked down into a shallow trench, some thirty feet along and six feet wide but no more than perhaps eighteen inches deep. Faiz Gheza stopped his work at the key, turned to Ahmed Khan and said in Pushtu, “All is ready, Your Highness.”

  Ahmed Khan nodded. He said, “Into the trench, all of you. Lie flat, with your feet towards the wall. Quickly!”

  Brown, Cunningham, all of them stood staring, unable, it seemed, to believe Ahmed Khan could have meant what he said. There was a total silence for a moment then Ogilvie said, “You can’t do this, Ahmed Khan. It is...uncivilized, horrible!”

  “Your people regard us already as uncivilized, Ogilvie sahib.”

  “Then I would have thought you’d want to prove them wrong.”

  The rebel shrugged, folding his hands inside his clothing. “Afterwards, yes. For now, it is necessary to use all methods to bring about the results I wish.”

  “If you put the men in that trench,” Ogilvie said, “I’ll not go out under any flag of truce.”

  Ahmed Khan merely smiled patiently. “Oh yes, you will,” he said. “Because they will be put down there whatever you do. Only they will not be released until you have gone, and have come back again to this fort with your mission completed and with a favourable answer—do you understand?”

  Ogilvie sweated; he was in a cleft stick and he knew it. Cunningham and Brown and the others were watching his face; the R.S.M. made a slight movement of his jaw, seeming to set it firmer than ever beneath the great moustache whose points, now unwaxed, were drooping on either side of his lips. His eyes were hard but strength-giving as they stared into Ogilvie’s. Once again there was a silence. This time it was broken by a movement from the British ranks, a surge forward, an almost involuntary movement of the whole made as one. Ogilvie and Cunningham shouted at them to stop and move back, but it was too late already. There was a single shot from Faiz Gheza’s revolver and one of them fell dead. At the same time four rifles swung to cover Ogilvie and Ahmed Khan called, “Remain still or your officer will die.”