Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  Burns looked like saying something, his mean, peaked face savage, but he was prevented from uttering by a roar from the Regimental Sergeant-Major. Cunningham said, “We’ll do as the rebel says, lads. All of us. We’ll leave this to Mr. Ogilvie. I for one believe he’ll get us out of here and honourably too—and he’s the only one who can. If we let the officer be shot, then it’ll all be up with the lot of us. You’ll all now follow my example. That is an order.”

  It was, Ogilvie thought, almost grotesque. Cunningham moved away from the native soldiers forming his escort, came across Ogilvie’s front, halted, turned left, saluted. Formally he said, “Permission to carry on. Sir!”

  “Yes, thank you, Sarn’t-Major.”

  Another salute, smartly returned by Ogilvie, and the R.S.M. turned about, swinging his kilt grandly around his legs. Then, stiff and straight, he marched towards the shallow trench, halted, removed his pith-helmet, placed it carefully on the ground, and lowered himself into the trench, lying flat on his back with his arms down his sides. The remainder of the prisoners, white-faced, shaken, muttering, urged on by the rifles, did likewise. When they were all lying still Ahmed Khan nodded at Faiz Gheza, who turned back to his key, inserted the iron bar again, and slowly closed the metal cover, sliding it back across the chests of the men. There were cries and gasps as the iron rasped over their uniforms, over their bodies, closing out the air and the light of the day. Ogilvie was watching Cunningham. The R.S.M.’s face was expressionless, the mouth firmly clamped, eyes stoically open to watch the progress of the coffin-like lid. It cleared that massive chest by no more than a quarter of an inch, then moved on over his face and settled back in its slots with a slight but audible clang.

  Ogilvie looked at Ahmed Khan with bitter loathing. He said, “I suggest we don’t delay now. If you allow those men to die, there’ll be no peace in Afghanistan until you’ve been taken through the Khyber and hanged as a common murderer outside a civil jail in India.”

  Ahmed Khan looked furious for a moment, then waved a hand.

  “Words, mere words,” he said. “However, we shall not delay. I am as anxious as you are for speed.” He called to Faiz Gheza to mount his squadron. Faiz Gheza acknowledged the order, returned the key of the trench to Ahmed Khan, and despatched one of the infantrymen, who doubled across the courtyard. Within the next few minutes Ogilvie heard horses’ hooves. Eight cavalrymen with tall lances came up at a walk, two of them leading saddled mounts, big black stallions both. Faiz Gheza took the reins of one of these and swung himself up agilely. Ogilvie was told to take the other animal, which he did. When he was mounted Ahmed Khan looked up at him and said, “A word of warning, Ogilvie sahib. Major Faiz Gheza speaks English equally as well as I myself. He will be listening carefully to all you say to your father. You will confine yourself strictly to what already you know you have to say. You will say nothing else, you will answer no questions not pertaining strictly to the terms you will be offering, you will in fact volunteer nothing whatever. You will make no mention of my punishment trench. If asked, as no doubt you will be, about your men, you will say that all the soldiers are safe and well and that naturally they and you will be released at once when my terms have been accepted by your Government and your armies are removing them-selves through the Khyber Pass. You will make no mention of my source of information in the British lines. Is all this quite clear, Ogilvie sahib?”

  “Quite clear.”

  Ahmed Khan nodded at Faiz Gheza. The order was given to move out. Ogilvie rode towards the gatehouse, his kilt nicked up uncomfortably around his waist, the back of it trailing over the stallion’s rump. He must look a curious sight, he thought. With the squadron in close escort around him, he rode past the quarter-guard and out into the slinking alleys of the town, past the mud walls once again, past the bastions and out into the shifting sand-hills, heading west towards those distant peaks held by the British and Mahrattas, towards the line of rebel troops which with their artillery were waiting to keep Ahmed Khan’s supply route open against the time, soon now, when the replenishment train would move through the valley.

  *

  The courtyard of the fort grew intensely hot as the sun climbed a clear, metallic sky. There was little wind, no more than a gentle zephyr to ruffle the rebel standard flying from the battlements. Quite soon the iron cover over the trench began to absorb heat, acting as a kind of kettle in reverse, warming that restricted area from above instead of from below. The effect was no less wicked. The stale air grew staler and more foetid, more sweat-laden. The men beneath the cover could scarcely find room to move a hand or a foot. Insects crawled over them, over the exposed areas of their skin, and they were powerless to brush them away. Flies gathered, buzzed and bit, moved unimpeded over lips and into nostrils. Small scuffles and cries indicated the presence of rats. R.S.M. Cunningham was thinking that if ever they were released they would surely have the plague upon them after this. He had tried to lend the men strength by talking to them, but even his voice didn’t seem to carry properly in that enclosed dead atmosphere and so he had stopped, feeling thoroughly dispirited himself in any case. Soon he felt the burning heat of the iron pass into the metal pieces on his uniform to say nothing of the fact that his chest and stomach, when he breathed, made direct contact with the cover. He lay there as inert as the others, trying not to hear Private Burns, who was next but one to him in the line, keeping up a continuous low whining dirge of fear and of hate against everybody in his universe.

  *

  Under the white flag fluttering like a guidon from the lance of the right-hand man of the leading pair of riders, Ogilvie and his escort moved across the desolation of the plain, coming up behind the rebel line thrown across the valley. There was no sign of life from the hilltops on either side, but as they neared the advanced rebel position Ogilvie saw a mounted party cantering out from the mouth of the valley under a large white flag. He was surprised to see cavalry, since the brigade had brought no horses, but supposed this was his father’s personal escort as Divisional Commander in the field. A couple of hundred yards from the rebel line, the British party halted. There were four officers and eight men—the same size escort as their antagonists. As his own party came through the line and neared the British riders, Ogilvie watched the square figure of his father in the centre. An A.D.C. was alongside him; no General Staff officers. On either side of the pair were Lord Dornoch and Andrew Black. The cavalry escort, he saw, were men of the Guides. His own party slowed as they approached the British group, halting ten yards away. Faiz Gheza saluted; Sir Iain Ogilvie returned the salute punctiliously, then without any preamble snapped, “Well, sir? What do you wish to say to me?”

  Faiz Gheza said, “General sahib, I represent my leader, His Highness Ahmed Khan, Amir in Jalalabad—”

  “Amir in fiddlesticks.”

  “As you please, General sahib. May I ask, General sahib, to whom I have the honour of speaking?”

  Gruffly Sir Iain answered. “The Lieutenant-General Commanding, 9th Indian Division.”

  “I may take it, General sahib, that you represent your High Command?”

  Sir Iain seemed to rise in his stirrups and said haughtily, “You may take it that I represent, for all present purposes, Almighty God—through the person of Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria, Empress of India, good friend and ally of your ruler, the Amir of Afghanistan. I repeat, what do you wish to say?”

  Whilst this exchange had been taking place Ogilvie had been studying the British officers. His father’s face was stiff and formal and at the same time hot with anger and disdain; he clearly had no liking for any parleys with the enemy, with rebels, and especially with a subordinate, a mere commander of a cavalry squadron. Ogilvie was as certain as he could be as to what his father would answer to the terms—at least as to the content of that answer. The language he would use was the only matter for surmise, and even that wouldn’t be much of a guess. Yet Ogilvie knew he had to convince him, both on account of the men below the cou
rtyard at the fort and because he felt in his bones that the acceptance of the terms meant the only hope of lasting peace. He looked at the other officers. The Colonel, he felt, was more concerned with Ogilvie himself than with the formal establishment of the status of the opposing representatives. Dornoch was studying his face as if trying to assess his conduct in captivity and to read his mind. It made Ogilvie feel uncomfortable, and he looked at Black, but Black was withdrawn and sardonic and was refusing to meet his eye. Ogilvie didn’t like anything about this meeting.

  Faiz Gheza answered his father’s question: “I come with terms, General sahib.”

  “Terms?” The General started, glared. His face went purple, seemed to swell over the top of his collar. “I have neither the authority nor the intention to discuss terms with a rebel!” Then he added, “What, pray, are these...terms?”

  “General sahib, your son will tell you this.” Faiz Gheza moved his horse a little aside, giving Ogilvie room to move past.

  Sir Iain snapped, “My son—hey? Why—why him?”

  “General sahib, he wishes himself to do so, because he believes them to be worthy of acceptance.”

  “The devil he does!” Sir Iain was thoroughly put off his stroke, that was obvious. “What the devil does he know about it?” He opened his mouth again, but Dornoch leaned across to him and whispered in his ear and he said ungraciously, “Oh, very well! Let Ogilvie speak for himself, then, but no damn nonsense, Ogilvie, mind that!”

  Ogilvie said, “Sir, I wish to—”

  “Wish? Wish? Don’t you mean you’re commanded—commanded by that damn rebel—hey?”

  Ogilvie hesitated for a second, felt himself going red, then said firmly, thinking of his responsibilities towards the men in the fort, “No, sir. I wish to put Ahmed Khan’s terms to you. May I have permission to do so?”

  Sir Iain seemed incapable of speech. He glanced fractionally at Lord Dornoch, then at the A.D.C. He opened his mouth, shut it again, then nodded his head wordlessly. Ogilvie said, “Briefly, sir, Ahmed Khan’s terms are as follows. If the British forces are withdrawn, there will be peace—”

  “Peace! Peace, in which the rebel will defeat the duly authorized ruler of his country?”

  Ogilvie, very conscious of Faiz Gheza’s close proximity, broke out in a sweat. He would never, never bring this off successfully, never make his father understand. He said hoarsely, “No, sir, I don’t believe that will happen. I believe Ahmed Khan is sincere. Certainly he wishes, and so do his people, to depose the present Amir. That is part of the terms offered. I gather the Amir is regarded as—as a British puppet, and—”

  “May I remind you, sir, that you are, or have been, fighting on the Amir’s behalf?”

  Ogilvie nodded. “I know, sir. I know how all this sounds, but I believe we have to face the facts. Ahmed Khan has a very strong following—”

  “So he says.”

  “Yes, sir. But he has already drafted an agreement which in fact the Amir is ready to sign—”

  “I know nothing of this!”

  “No, sir,” Ogilvie said patiently, “no one does, except Ahmed Khan and the Amir. But the Amir is willing to abdicate in favour of Ahmed Khan, peacefully, provided the British Government agrees and does not try to mount a punitive expedition against his country. For his part, Ahmed Khan will maintain the peace afterwards.”

  “You say this agreement exists already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what the devil are you talking about, boy? This is bluff—sheer damn bluff!”

  “I don’t think it is, sir. I believe what Ahmed Khan has told me. It all sounds—logical.”

  “Logical, does it? Ha! What the devil’s logic?” Sir Iain’s mouth was a thin line like a trap. “Well? What’s the alternative to all this—this damn fiddlemetits?”

  Ogilvie said, “The entry of Russian troops into Afghanistan, sir, and their march on the Khyber.”

  Sir Iain said, “Good...God.” Ogilvie could see the amazement and the consternation and the fury in his father’s face. The effect on the other officers was equally electric. There was a hurried, whispered conference. Black was apart from this, a superior and sardonically bitter smile twisting his lips as, at last, he looked straight at James Ogilvie. Meanwhile an argument was developing, and Sir Iain was tending to bluster; the A.D.C. was looking worried, as well he might; so was Dornoch, who seemed disapproving of something the General had said. Then suddenly Sir Iain looked across at his son and raised his voice. He said coldly, “I want some clarification of the threat regarding the Russians. You needn’t bother to go into the overall political situation for my benefit, Ogilvie. I think we’re all well enough aware the Czar would welcome Afghan cooperation in pushing his forces to the Khyber. What else is there?”

  Ogilvie said, “Ahmed Khan has another agreement in his possession. This is with the Czar. It permits a full-scale entry into Afghanistan...that is all I can say, sir. Except that they’ll clear the country of our forces and then garrison the passes to keep us out. And if that’s allowed to happen, it means a war.”

  “I’ve worked that out for myself already, thank you!” Sir Iain gnawed at the ends of his moustache. “It means a war all right—bloody war. The immediate committal of all troops in the Murree and Ootacamund commands—and massive drafts from home, which’ll take time to arrive. Too much damn time!” His father stared at him keenly. “Why does the rebel think you can persuade me to recommend his terms be granted?”

  “I’ve said already, sir...because I think he means what he says. He has persuaded me.”

  “Of what?” The voice was like a whiplash.

  “That a great deal of bloodshed would be avoided by accepting the inevitable, sir.”

  “Accepting the inevitable?” The General’s whole body seemed to quiver. “Now you listen to me, boy! There’s never been any damn inevitability about the British Army—except that it’s always going to win a victory! We shall win this one too!”

  “Perhaps, sir. But with a colossal loss of life if the Russians come through. I believe Ahmed Khan when he says he has the support of the vast majority of his people, that it is only the British that are keeping the Amir on the throne. And what is to be gained by winning a victory for a people who forever after must be kept subdued by force? Why should we do this?”

  This time Sir Iain did stand in his stirrups as he shouted, “Because your Queen and country order us to—that’s why! As a reason, it’s good enough for me. It should be that much the better for a damn subaltern! What’s that man done to you, boy? Turn you into a damn traitor—or a eunuch for his pleasure?”

  Ogilvie started as though hit with a bullet. “Father!” he said, going crimson.

  “No damn father—your Divisional Commander, to whom you have the impertinence to speak treason!” Sir Iain, with obvious difficulty, took a grip on himself. “My father would turn in his grave to hear you talk like this! Now—let me tell you a thing or two. You’re still wet behind the ears—all damn subalterns are! You’re a baby—a baby in military matters. You don’t know a thing, not a damn thing, about fighting, or about the Frontier. You’re not alone in that, of course. None of the damn Staff in Whitehall know a damn thing about the Frontier either! They sit on their arses and talk, and have the effrontery to tell us what to do and how to fight our troops. Damn popinjays, the lot of them, strutting up and down outside the Palace, going to garden parties and doing their fighting in bed with the wives and daughters of the peerage! Meanwhile, I’m in command out here before Jalalabad and I take my orders from Sir George White in Calcutta and no one else. Now listen to this: whatever strength the rebel may think he has in the rest of Afghanistan, he’s powerless unless he can get it through to him here, because if it doesn’t come through, we’re going to crush him and then it’ll be too late—hey? We’ve ringed him in—except for that gap behind me.” The General waved an arm to the rear. “That’s our
job—our one and only job, d’you hear me, boy?—to close the gap and complete the circle. Then we have him! This campaign depends not upon terms, but on one thing and one thing only: the stopping of that supply column. After that, Jalalabad is as good as fallen to my Division. Understood?”

  Dully Ogilvie said, “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope it is,” his father snapped. “Behave as a man now! Go back to Jalalabad—tell the rebel all I’ve said. Tell him I reject his terms out of hand, that I’ll have no trading with him—”

  “Sir,” Ogilvie broke in with desperation, thinking, as he had been thinking all along, of the men in their plight beneath Ahmed Khan’s courtyard. “You’d not consider passing his terms on to Calcutta?”

  “Certainly not,” Sir Iain answered promptly. “His terms are sheer impertinence, designed only to cause a division of opinion among the politicians—which will have the immediate effect of weakening our whole military effort. The next thing I knew, I’d be ordered to hold my troops back—even let that damn supply column through, I shouldn’t wonder—while they thought the matter over! So the answer’s no!”

  Ogilvie tried to reach his father through his eyes and his expression, to make him understand that he had other reasons, reasons that he could not express, for being so insistent; but it was too late. Already the General was turning away with an air of finality. Ogilvie tried once more. He called out, “Sir, I would appreciate a word with my Colonel, if I may.”