Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  They had much to endure yet.

  As the trench gradually cooled, so their imprisonment, though not their raging thirst, became a little easier to bear and Ogilvie, with the pain from the lashes now receding into a background of discomfort, however acute, was better able to concentrate. In a whisper he spoke to Cunningham: “Sarn’t-Major?”

  “Sir!”

  “How long d’you think the men can go on like this?”

  “As long as they have to, sir. They’ll be in no worse state than you or I, Mr. Ogilvie, will they?” He added, “I’d not like to see you scrabble around too much till you’re fit, sir.”

  “I’ll be fit as soon as the time comes to make a move—don’t worry! I suggest we wait another four hours or so—it’ll have to be by guesswork, of course—”

  “By counting, sir. One—pause—two—pause—three. That’s three seconds.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “It’ll be a wearisome business, sir, but it’ll give us something to do at least!”

  “All right,” Ogilvie said. “Then I’ll try to break through. If I can do it, the men can take turns to go down for spells in the cellar. If anybody’s going to open up, we’ll get enough warning, I imagine, to get two or three men up here again in time. How does that sound to you, Sarn’t-Major?”

  “Fair enough, sir. And after that, what?”

  Ogilvie said, “We’ll have to wait through two more days. Once the sun’s gone down on the second day, we all climb into the cellar together. Then, soon after the column moves out from the fort, we come out of the cellar door.”

  “And do what?” The R.S.M.’s earlier optimism had gone.

  “Cause a diversion. God knows how...but that’s what I’m going to try for.”

  “A diversion where, Mr. Ogilvie?”

  “Why, right behind Ahmed Khan’s advanced line, up by the defile! If we can make enough racket we might sound like an attack from the rear, an infiltration from another sector of the British lines—a kind of outflanking movement, don’t you see?”

  Cunningham gave a low whistle. “By God, if only we could, sir! It just might give the brigade its chance if we timed it right.” There was excitement in his voice at first, but it didn’t last. “We’d never get there, though. There wouldn’t be a hope in hell!”

  “It’s still worth aiming at, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “I’d not hold out any hope at all, sir. There’s too much ground to cover and we’d stand out like sore thumbs, especially if there’s any moon at all. We’d not even get through the streets of the town, let alone cross the nigger’s territory to his forward line, sir! They’d have us before we could move a dozen paces from the gatehouse—and even before that, there’s the quarter-guard to be considered. No, Mr. Ogilvie, the odds are far too great against us.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure. This morning...when I was spread out against the battlements...I looked down through the embrasure. On the other side of the fort, the side away from the gatehouse, the ground rises towards the wall. If we could get to the top of the wall, there’s not too long a drop to the open country—and it is open country, Sarn’t-Major! Wide open. The fort seems to be built into the actual town wall itself—so on that side there isn’t any town—d’you see? That battlemented tower is in a sense I suppose a sort of guard-point for the northwestern corner of the town wall. We’d be right out in the open, and we wouldn’t even have to worry about the quarter-guard or the gatehouse.”

  “Is that so? Well, then, Mr. Ogilvie, maybe that makes a difference, always provided we were not seen from the battlements, of course.” Cunningham’s reaction was cautious but there was a note of rising hope now. He was silent for some while then he said, “Aye, it seems the best we can aim for at the moment, as you said.” And then he added, “You’ll be assured of a good turn-out from the men, sir, I’ll be seeing to that.”

  “Thank you, Sarn’t-Major.”

  They spoke little after that, as they waited for full night to come down upon Jalalabad. When there was no sound from above beyond the distant clamour of the guns, and after he had counted his way through an approximation of the four hours—Ogilvie said, “I’m going to try to breach the wall now, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “Very good, sir. Take care of your back now.”

  Ogilvie said, “Give me a hand, then. You, too,” he added to the man on his left. He reached out, groping until he had taken each man’s hand. Then pulling hard against them, he managed to slide his body forward a few painful inches until his feet had some leeway to press against the wall. Drawing his legs back until his knees met the iron lid above, he rammed them back against the hard-baked mud. He felt a slight give and there was a rattle as small pieces dropped into the dungeon below. He stopped moving; every man held his breath. But nothing seemed to have been heard outside. He pushed again. This time his feet met solid resistance. He went on pushing, with all his effort behind his thrust, but nothing shifted beyond a few more small pieces. Sweat poured from him, mingling with the dirt of the shallow trench. “Keep it up, sir,” Cunningham said encouragingly. “You’ll get there if you keep it up.”

  Ogilvie was very near exhaustion in fact, after the day-long heat and dehydration and the claustrophobic effect of the close confinement; but he summoned all his will and he kept on thrusting out with his feet, trying as best he could to keep his back flat and unmoving on the earth, for still every move of his shirt against the flesh sent pain through his whole body and he felt the wetness of blood beneath him. At last he could move no more and he lay dazed and motionless. Cunningham spoke to the man next to him on the left, a man who had been trying unavailingly to smash away the section in front of his own boots. He said, “Try to get your legs across the officer’s, Taggart, and see what you can do, all right?”

  Heavy boots rasped over Ogilvie’s legs and started banging away at the wall. After an age, as it seemed to the waiting men, Taggart, attacking from a fresh angle and with more strength, sent a whole chunk of the mud wall flying inwards. There was a heavy clonk from below and again every man held his breath. Still nothing moved out in the courtyard. By this time Ogilvie had recovered some of his own strength and was able to push again. When a second large chunk was heard to fall Cunningham said, “That may be enough, Mr. Ogilvie. If you feel able to move yourself ahead, I think it’s time to try if you can get down.”

  Ogilvie squirmed painfully towards the hole they had made. He felt his feet go through. He moved his legs apart and felt the width; there was room and plenty for his body to pass through. Soon his legs were dangling down into the cellar; it was going to be a tricky drop. All at once he thought of Sandhurst, of that nightmare process that the newly-joined Gentlemen Cadets were forced to undergo, the ordeal of being herded down the impedimenta-strewn staircase. Possibly that hadn’t been such a pointless exercise after all! At least he knew what it was like to trip over a chair and go headlong to the bottom. He pushed himself farther out, easing his torso into the gap. He heard Cunningham call out in a restrained voice, “Mr. Ogilvie, take a hold of my boot with one hand as you go through, then try to turn yourself to face the wall. You’ll go down easier that way—and you’ll not need to worry about pulling me through with you, for I’m stuck tight, I’ll be bound, till the hole’s widened out a good deal more!”

  Ogilvie took Cunningham’s advice. Just before his body went through, he reached out with his right hand, found Cunningham’s ankle, and gripped it. He slid through, along with a shower of rubble. He fell back against the wall of the cellar. Then he slewed himself round, got a grip with his free hand on the lip of the hole, shifted his grip on Cunningham, steadied himself, and let go.

  He slid down the face of the wall. It sloped a little so that in his slide he was able to check his descent, and he landed square on his feet without much difficulty. He moved around carefully, trying to locate the steps, tripping over loose stones, disturbing rats and strange slithering creatures that he felt upon his boots. Finding the steps at last, he climbed them. He pushed gen
tly against the outer door. There was no movement. It was shut solid. They were locked in as firmly as if they had never bothered to make that hole at all.

  It was a bitter disappointment.

  Ogilvie went back down the steps almost weeping now with frustration. He was unable to find the hole in the wall until he heard Cunningham’s voice directing him; he followed the sound and told the R.S.M. what he had found. Cunningham said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Ogilvie, there’ll maybe be a way yet for all we know. At least we can get down for spells as we planned and that’ll keep us all fitter than being up here. With your permission, I’ll send down three men right away.”

  “Right, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “Then stand away below, sir.”

  “I can guide them down if they—”

  “Better not, Mr. Ogilvie, unless you wish a boot in the face. They’ll go down the same way as you.” Ogilvie stood back against the opposite wall, thinking about the locked door, feeling a vicious bitterness against fate. He heard the sounds as the men came down.

  “I’m over here,” he said. “Keep as quiet as you can.”

  The men moved across. One of them said, “Sar-Major says, sir, if we have to go back up quickly, one of the lads’ll be there to reach a hand down.”

  “Right,” Ogilvie was wondering what the next move could possibly be. They were really no farther ahead, in spite of Cunningham’s easy acceptance of that locked door. Ogilvie sat with his head in his hands while the men went back towards the hole and, assisted by those from above, who could now move much more easily, widened out the gap. Then at last he fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep, and remained asleep while at intervals the men changed over. Cunningham had given orders that the officer was not to be disturbed until he woke of his own accord; and when he did wake Ogilvie insisted upon going back into the trench after the Regimental Sergeant-Major with some difficulty come through the hole and landed in the dungeon for his own respite.

  During the next day there were many alarms when voices were heard from the courtyard. On one occasion the men below made it only just in time before the iron lid was wound back a little way and, under a strong guard, water was passed to them and a little food. They drank greedily; there was no stint of the water. Evidently Ahmed Khan still had a use for them—no doubt hostages could even now be useful in some way. There was hope of a sort in that; hope that death was not due to come just yet anyway. The door leading to the dungeon itself was not opened at all. The sudden alarms apart, they all got through that day a good deal easier, and even Private Burns recaptured enough energy and interest in life to start a low but bitter tirade against authority during his spell below. This time Ogilvie, who was below with him, found his nerves stretched to almost unbearable limits. He aimed a blow in the direction of the voice, which was close by him, and his fist landed fair and square on Burns’s jaw. Burns gave a startled yelp but before he could give away their presence Corporal Brown had an arm round his mouth. “Shut your bloody racket!” the Corporal said. “If you open your mouth when I let go o’ ye, Burns, I’ll squeeze the life out o’ ye—for the good of us all—and I mean that.”

  He let go. Burns said in a savage hiss, “Soon’s we get back I’ll have yon Ogilvie on a Court Martial, see if I don’t!”

  “That’ll be a sight to see, all right,” Brown said, “and we’ll no’ be seeing it, because nothing at all happened beyond the fact you stumbled and hit your face on a stone. Right, lads?”

  A murmur of assent told Burns beyond all doubt that it was quite right. Muttering mutiny, he subsided. Ogilvie found it an encouragement that even Private Burns was instinctively thinking in terms of ‘getting back’.

  *

  The hours passed, slowly; the day’s heat faded once again. There was one more night and one more day to get through before there could be any thought of action, and in the meantime there was the first problem to be resolved: how were they to break through the locked door of the dungeon?

  “All I can think of is trying to batter it down with some of the bigger stones,” Ogilvie said to Cunningham, “but of course the noise stops that. Not that we’d be able to make much impression on it anyway, I suppose. If only we had some explosives!”

  “Explosives make a lot of noise too,” Cunningham said dryly.

  “But with much more concentration! I mean...we could be out and away, and in hiding, before the rebels realized what was going on.”

  “Well—maybe, sir. But begging your pardon, sir, ifs and buts are not helping us now. We have to find a way with what’s available.”

  “Which is just nothing, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “We have our hands, sir.”

  “You mean dig our way out?”

  “Aye, that I do, sir. With the buckles on the men’s belts, and with boot heels, we should be well able to make some impression on the mud wall around the door. If we could break through near the bolts and the lock, we may be able to push the door open easily enough when the time comes.”

  “And be seen in the digging.”

  “Not necessarily, Mr. Ogilvie. If we start the digging by day, and not break through the outer skin of the wall till we’re nearly ready to come out—that’s to say, at night—we’ll have a very good chance of not being spotted. It’s a risk we have to take in any case, the way things have turned out.”

  “Possibly.” Ogilvie sat with crossed legs, his head in his hands, turning the proposition over and over in his mind. His thoughts were hard to concentrate now; he was weary mentally as well as physically. His mind kept going back to the regiment, to the men under that sustained bombardment on the hill top. “How d’you think they’re doing, Sarn’t-Major?” he asked suddenly after a long silence.

  Cunningham gave a slight start in the darkness. “Who, sir?”

  “Why—the regiment.”

  “Oh—yes, sir. You’ll forgive me...I was wandering. I think they’ll be doing fine. The 114th never have given ground easily, sir. Never. There’ll be casualties and heavy ones as like as not—but they’ll be there when we join up with them.” He sounded confident but Ogilvie believed it to be no more than a surface confidence; all at once he felt there wasn’t quite the buoyancy in Cunningham’s voice that he normally had, that he had had all through until now.

  Tentatively Ogilvie said, “Sarn’t-Major, you spoke of wandering. Is there anything you want to tell me?” He sounded diffident.

  “It doesn’t concern you, sir.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, Mr. Ogilvie.” The Regimental Sergeant-Major reached out and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry too, for I didn’t mean it that way. I meant only that you’re not able to help. You’ll appreciate the fact that a married man in this kind of situation faces worries that a single man does not. Mrs. Cunningham, sir, is a woman who worries a good deal.”

  “I’m sure she does. I imagine one could say the same of any soldier’s wife at times. But she’ll be in good hands, back in Peshawar, won’t she, Sarn’t-Major?”

  Cunningham gave a sound of irritation. “Aye, that she will, sir, of course. That doesn’t stop a woman worrying, nor the bairns either. For a long time it’s been in my mind that a soldier has no business marrying at all. It’s terrible for the women and the bairns. If a man leaves them behind in Scotland, he’ll never see them for years and years. If he brings them, why—if he dies out here, it’s ten times harder for them than if they were back home.”

  “They’d always be looked after, Sarn’t-Major.”

  “True, sir, but with all respect, the Colonel and the Padre are not the same as a woman’s own kin at such a time. Look, sir. I have to get back to the lines. It’s not just my regimental duty. It’s Mary too.” The R.S.M. seemed to be fighting his emotion. A few moments later he went on, “You’ll pardon all I’ve said. It was nothing but a momentary weakness. And we’re going to get back, make no mistake about it.”

  They sat in silence till it was time for Ogilvie to resume his place in the trench so that
Corporal Brown could come down for his spell. Ogilvie thought about the R.S.M. He didn’t in fact know as much about Cunningham as perhaps an officer should know of the Regimental Sergeant-Major. He knew Cunningham had three children, that he came from Invermore town, that his father had served in the 114th Highlanders and had finished his time as Colour-Sergeant, knew that he himself had three more years of service left before he went out on pension; and he had met Mrs. Cunningham at regimental dances and found her a pleasant, happy little woman still in awe of her husband after fifteen years of marriage. But he had not known her name was Mary. It was a small enough thing, and totally unimportant and irrelevant to their situation now, but he felt it gave Cunningham and himself a shared link if a few points were stretched. For one of the extraneous things still on his mind was the fact of Mary Archdale’s existence; the girl haunted him and he wondered if she was aware of what had happened, whether the fate of a subaltern would make news enough for word to reach her. Probably it would, in the case of the Divisional Commander’s son. He had felt quite strongly that she had reacted to him, had been drawn to him as he had been to her. But what of that? She was still married, even though she hated her husband. She was forced to accept the social conventions of the day and she would be unable to show any overt feeling for Second-Lieutenant James Ogilvie. Even a clandestine affair would leak sooner or later in the Indian hothouse, and invitations to parties and balls would very soon cease once the rumour ran that a Brigade Major’s wife was seducing a raw, green subaltern of the line. There were the well-established conventions of sin as well as of rectitude; ranks and ages tended, on the whole, to stick together unless the man was the older of the liaison parties. And naturally, such a liaison would have the poorest possible effect on Ogilvie’s career, while if his father should ever get to hear of it the results could well be catastrophic.. .