Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  Cunningham took over after that. “Strip off the lot of you,” he said briskly. “Bundle up your uniforms to take with you, and when that’s done, urinate on the ground and be quick about it. I want you all as mud-plastered as you can get, so don’t waste a drop, all right, lads?” The operation proceeded fast and when each man had reported himself ready Ogilvie, stripped like the rest, sent a detail to stand face to the wall below the trench, braced to support him on their shoulders. Feeling his way across Ogilvie climbed up and, working entirely by touch, got a grip of the spokes of a large-diameter cogged wheel. The men below him staggered as he threw his weight on the wheel. He forced it over. He felt the inside edge of the iron cover move against his body as he went on turning. He bent down and called in a whisper to Cunningham, just visible now as an outline in the loom of light stealing down through the gap above the trench. He asked for more men to stand in line behind the others, and be ready to take his weight. They were sent forward at once; cautiously Ogilvie stepped backward, feeling for the next pair of shoulders with his feet. He turned the wheel again, went on turning and moving back himself until Cunningham reported there was gap enough. Then he jumped lightly down to the ground.

  He looked up diagonally through the gap. He could see the tower across the courtyard—there was some moon, but it was fitful, and there was a good deal of cloud in the sky, he fancied, low lying and reaching out from the distant Kafiristan peaks.

  “Right, Sarn’t-Major,” he said. “All up now, fast as you like.”

  “Aye, sir. Up you get, lads. Don’t forget the bundles of uniforms.” They went up fast, the first one giving himself a leg up from the shoulders of the men who had supported Ogilvie, then reaching down to give a hand to the next. They took up their positions in the line, lying prone and silent till the order came to move. In the moonlight Ogilvie saw that they looked as ruffianly a bunch of toughs as had ever been entitled to wear the Queen’s uniform. The makeshift turbans and loincloths would look realistic enough at a distance, and they, like the men’s bodies, were mud-covered and filthy. Ogilvie went up last of all, behind Cunningham and Brown. They lay silently for a few more minutes, listening, watching. Ogilvie saw that the courtyard was empty; nothing was stirring anywhere. As he listened he heard something start up that had been lacking the last couple or so hours—the guns along the rebel line—rebel guns, British guns, and possibly now the guns of the supply train as well. It was a loud and sustained bombardment. Well, at least it was going to occupy the attention of the quarter-guard and anybody else who had been left behind in the fort. A few moments later he heard another sound from his left, a more horrible sound than the guns: a baying hysteria rising from the townspeople of Jalalabad outside the gates as they heard the action from the hills. It was an exultant, savage racket that grew with every second.

  “Swine,” Cunningham said flatly in a whisper to Ogilvie. “Let’s hope they’ll shortly be celebrating on the other side of their faces, the black bastards!”

  Ogilvie nodded; then he said, “All right, take it quietly, no sound at all. We move out...now!”

  They went over the top as one, and in total silence, carrying their bundles of boots and tunics and kilts. Gently a light breeze stirred the trees growing by the wall. Ogilvie moved right, Cunningham and Brown waited to bring up the rear as the officer took the lead. Running fast and lightly Ogilvie reached the shadows by the wall, passing out of the moonlight that had unkindly lit the courtyard fully now, passing into the trees. They had not been seen; the whole contingent reached the wall safely and ran on fast. It was almost too easy, Ogilvie thought, soon something must go wrong and someone would find that open, empty trench. But that hadn’t happened yet. Within a minute of coming clear of the trench they were all inside the storehouse in the wall where the bagpipes were kept. Cunningham shut the door behind him as he entered. There was no light in here, not unexpectedly, but, rummaging around, they found the pipes. The place appeared, from the smell of leather and the feel of saddles, to be a harness-room; they could find no arms, or at any rate no conventional arms. It was Ogilvie himself who had the sudden idea, after he had hit his head a crack on a pair of stirrups dangling from saddle-leathers thrown over a beam. He got hold of Cunningham. “Sarn’t-Major,” he said. “This might come in handy. Use it as a kind of sling!”

  Cunningham felt the stirrups. “Why not, sir! I’ll see if we can find some more.” And he did; he found half a dozen pairs. This was armament of a sort, and when they had been through the store as best they could Ogilvie edged the door open. The moon was obscured and if they could reach the shallow wall by the tower quickly, they should make it with ease before the scud of cloud slid past.

  “All out,” he ordered.

  They came out at the run, followed Ogilvie towards the corner where the tower met the outer fort wall. They all made the top in safety and were rolling down the sloping earth at the bottom of a fairly short drop when their luck ran out on them. A single shot echoed across the plain and was followed at once by a flickering line of rifle fire from the battlements. Bullets sang past Ogilvie as he rolled wildly away, and there was a short, sharp cry from one of the men.

  “Get up and run!” Ogilvie called out. “Far away as you can before they reload!”

  Cunningham came up, puffing. “You all right, Mr. Ogilvie?”

  “I’m fine. Carry on going, Sarn’t-Major. Who was hit?”

  “Batson, sir, and he’s dead. I have his pipes. I’ll play them myself if I have the wind.” Then he was gone, with Ogilvie running after him, running in between the piled sand-hills, away from the fort, away from Jalalabad with the Kabul River to the north, heading west for the rebel line. Soon there was more firing from behind, from the battlements, but no shots came anywhere near them and there was, so far, no pursuit from the gatehouse. In a little while they came past the spot where the three dead privates had been buried; and Ogilvie saw a man stop and seize the Union Flag from the ground and run on with it. He saw that the man was Burns and he shouted, “Put it back, Burns, put it back where it belongs!”

  “Och, awa’ wi’ ye, ye great loon!” Burns shouted back at him, his muddied face lacking its outline but his eyes gleaming crazily in the moonlight that now came streaming out across the plain. “Those poor buggers’ve no more use for it, an’ we may as well fight under some sort o’ standard even if it’s half a bloody Sassenach one!”

  So, under the flag of England now, with Private Burns as the unlikely Escort of the Colours, the seminaked band ran on for Ahmed Khan’s rear.

  Nine

  A squadron of cavalry came out from the fort, riding fast. The British heard the horses’ hooves and the jingle of their equipment and went to ground just in time, before the cavalrymen swept past around a high sand dune. The horses pounded on. Ogilvie and the others emerged from the sand once they had vanished ahead. A few minutes later they heard them coming back towards the fort, and again they were able to conceal themselves, but this time the horsemen didn’t come anywhere near them and in the moon they were able to see them sweeping towards the south. It seemed they were not heading out to inform Ahmed Khan that they had lost the prisoners; they had, perhaps, enough instinct for self-preservation to preclude such an unwise action until victory had been won. After this Ogilvie pressed ahead fast, making for the gun-flashes along the line across the valley mouth and on the hilltops to the north and south of it.

  *

  The supply column was fighting its way along that valley and it was making good progress, though in fact its losses were reported to be heavy—heavier, indeed, than Sir Iain had by this time felt he could hope for. Heavy enough now to bring some encouragement to Brigade H.Q., where Lord Dornoch was watching the fighting through field glasses. The mountain artillery from both the British peaks was putting up a good account of itself, as he remarked to the Brigade Major. Archdale agreed, but said, “They’ve only two more miles to go, Colonel. The moment they reach the end of the valley, Ahmed Khan’ll advance
and join up with them.”

  Dornoch shook his head. “It remains to be seen, but I doubt it. He’ll stay where he is and simply go on giving them covering fire from his heavy guns.” There were some very heavy guns in the rebel line, brought up by elephants, as they had seen earlier. The elephants had now been unyoked and replaced by bullock teams, which were less excitable under fire. “If we could put those guns out of action, I’d recommend Sir Iain to send the infantry in to attack the supply column hand-to-hand. As it is—” He broke off; he had heard the whine and both men ducked instinctively as an artillery shell trundled overhead to burst some three hundred yards away against a rock overhang. There were screams from men and mules. Dornoch picked himself up and said savagely, “D’you know, Archdale, I’ve a damn good mind to send two companies of the 114th to try an outflanking attack on that devil’s line. Trouble is—I’m short of officers. How would you care to lead an attack yourself?”

  Archdale said, “Colonel, I’d like nothing better.” His eyes were shining oddly, Dornoch thought. But he added, “I’m bound to say I don’t believe we’d have a hope. We’d be mown down...like flies, Colonel.”

  “But we might draw their fire from our gunners, Archdale.” Without committing himself Dornoch went back to his study of the advancing supply column. Already in the spasmodic glare of the exploding British shells he could glimpse the outlines of covered ammunition-wagons and store-wagons pulled on by bullocks. They seemed . to be without end, advancing out of the battle smoke and extending back as far as the eye could see in those all too infrequent explosions that burst upon them from the hills. In front of Dornoch, and farther down the mountainside, the 114th Highlanders began to get the head of the column in their sights as they waited in cover of the crags behind their long-range rifles. But their fire would be no more than gnat bites. What was needed, Dornoch knew, was what they had not got: more and more artillery, to pound the column into fragments and explode the ammunition-wagons…he looked across once more at Archdale. He still had that idea of withdrawing the 114th from the peak and sending them down to carry out the outflanking manoeuvre. But the Brigade Major, though certainly no coward, was such a confounded fool. He would dash to his death, which of itself wasn’t especially important, but he would carry the battalion with him, and he was probably right in saying they wouldn’t have a hope. They would be seen too soon, that was the trouble.

  *

  “When I give the word,” Ogilvie said, “I want all of you to spread right out across the enemy’s rear—leave say a couple of hundred yards between each man.” They were now within half a mile of Ahmed Khan’s line and they still hadn’t been sighted in that difficult, sandy terrain. “You, Burns, take the left of the line, nearest the southern hill. I’ll take the flag and the Sarn’t-Major will come with me. Corporal, you’ll extend right, and the rest of you in between. All right so far?” He paused, then went on: “The moment I yell, every man will start piping-but will not advance. I want you all to stay in your positions unless and until I say different. I may pass the word to retire. If I do that, you’ll all retire to the southward—to the left, then make westerly towards the hill where the battalion is, and try individually to reach our lines. You’ll carry on piping, but do all you can to keep out of sight—it’s important, obviously, that the rebels don’t get to know how few we are. Now—into your uniforms.”

  The men dropped their bundled kilts and tunics and dressed quickly. When they were ready Ogilvie said, “Start spreading out now. For those of you who can really play the pipes, the tune will be a charge: On Wi’ the Tartan. You all know that one. Play it the best you can. And good luck, all of you.”

  Silently, carrying the pipes tucked beneath their arms, they moved away, fanning out across the enemy’s rear. Ogilvie, holding the flag erect, gave them a slow count of a thousand. At the end of that time he could see only the two nearest men, and those only as darker shadows against the general gloom of the night. He counted again, up to two hundred. Then he put a hand on the Regimental Sergeant-Major’s shoulder. “Here we go,” he said. “Now or never!” He held out a hand, which the older man took warmly. “Here’s my wish you’ll come through, Sarn’t-Major. You’ve been a tower of strength all along.”

  “Allow me to say the same thing to you, Mr. Ogilvie. Are you ready now, sir?”

  Ogilvie nodded.

  “Right, then we’ll give them a real good Highland yell together,” Cunningham said. They did; a primeval cry from Scotland’s heart ripped across to the rebel line and within seconds was repeated to left and right and then the dispersed pipes crashed out into the night, savagely, triumphantly sending out that stirring charge so often used in olden times by the great Marquis of Montrose as he led his Highlanders to victory. Immediately, the firing from the enemy ahead wavered and there was a perceptible movement in the line, an instinctive surge away from the rear. The Highland regiments were renowned all along the Frontier for their remarkably unfeeling use of the bayonet.

  *

  “What the devil’s that?” Sir Iain asked.

  “It’s the pipes, sir! The pipes!” The Brigade Major’s mouth was hanging open.

  “I know that, damn you. I have ears, you fool. Who’s down there—who ordered an outflanking action? I’ll—”

  “Lord Dornoch—”

  “No,” Dornoch cut in. “I had an idea of doing so but I never gave the order.” He stared into the night. “It’s wheezy piping,” he said. “I see nothing. Possibly Division has acted without letting us know, Sir Iain, but—”

  “I am Division,” the General snapped. “Division can’t act without letting itself know—so there! Damned if I know what’s going on, though! Does the G.O.C. not get told anything? How’s the enemy behaving?” He clapped his field glasses to his eyes. A moment later, and just before a soldier dashed up with a report, he said in wonder, “They’re milling around like flies. They’re in confusion! But I’m damned if I can see any of our troops. I don’t understand this! Any ideas, Dornoch?”

  Dornoch said at once, “Somebody’s causing a diversion and it’s up to us to take full advantage of it. We must mount that outflanking attack immediately, to join up with whoever’s coming up in the enemy’s rear.” He waited, impatiently. “Well, Sir Iain?”

  After a moment the Divisional Commander gave a heavy nod. “Very well, Dornoch. I agree. Every man you’ve got—we’ll leave the hill to the gunners. And by God—I’ll accompany the attack myself—damned if I won’t!”

  Dornoch swung away, calling out for Captain Black. A moment later the bugles blew. Within five minutes the 114th Highlanders, supported by the men of the Black Watch and the remnants of the Mahrattas, were storming down the hillside for the plain. Sir Iain was in the lead with Lord Dornoch and Andrew Black and the Brigade Major. As they swept forward behind a rain of rifle fire from the charging soldiers on the flanks, Dornoch saw the General draw his sword and swing it round his head with all the agility of a youth, and in the light of a shellburst below on Ahmed Khan’s line he saw something else: from where the sound of the pipes was still coming a tattered Union Flag was streaming out along the night breeze and the tall figure who was carrying it, a man in the kilt of the Royal Strathspeys, looked remarkably like young Ogilvie. And he was about to be ridden down by a bearded native cavalryman.

  *

  Ogilvie had seen the advance from the British-held hill and was cheering like a maniac when he, too, realized that a horseman was riding for him. With the flag fluttering from its pole, he was—as indeed he should have been—the focal point. He read the fury in Faiz Gheza’s face as the man rode nearer, coming along at the gallop with his sabre lifted high. It flashed through Ogilvie’s mind that he might stand his ground, lower the flag, and use the pole as a lance to topple Faiz Gheza from his horse. But he realized equally swiftly that the pole, rotten with years, would snap like a twig. Then he remembered the stirrup on its saddle-leather that he had purloined from the fort’s harness-room. He brought it out
. He waited as Faiz Gheza came on. As he saw the sabre start its downward cut he threw himself forward, whirled the makeshift sling and sent his body crashing to the ground in the moment that the weighted leather strap wound itself round and round Faiz Gheza’s cutting-wrist. There was a tremendous jolt and his body half lifted, then fell back to the ground with a thud. He heard a cry, heard the pounding feet of the horse as it galloped on towards the rear. There was a lump on the ground beside him. It didn’t move. Neither, for the time being, did Ogilvie. He shammed dead as hordes of natives broke to the rear and fled past him. When he got to his feet he found that Faiz Gheza had his head smashed in, no doubt from a galloping hoof. Then he heard a tremendous cheering from somewhere ahead and saw the remains of his small force march in, still playing their pipes. Cunningham was one of them, Cunningham streaming blood from a great gash in his forehead, so blinded with blood that he could scarcely see where he was going, but every inch the Regimental Sergeant-Major just the same. Burns, completely untouched, was another—a jaunty, cocky Private Burns whose pipes were now playing cheekily, Oh, But Ye’ve Been Lang a-Coming, a Burns who, despite his views, seemed pleased enough to see British officers that night. Four other men came in; and that was all. And as they came, and rejoined the battalion, they saw the rebel guns go into action once again, but this time in the hands of the gunners from Brigade. Now they were turned against Ahmed Khan’s supply train, struggling to get away from what had so suddenly become a terrible situation. It was like the Charge of the Light Brigade all over again; within half an hour the rout was complete, the supply train broken, cut to pieces. Shortly after dawn Lieutenant-General Sir Iain Ogilvie led the Brigade into Jalalabad behind the pipes and drums of the Royal Strathspeys.