by John Wilcox
‘Absolutely,’ he said, ‘something to tell the children, indeed. Definitely the last lap, 352, and, I hope, the quietest.’
And so the attenuated column with its cavalry eyes and ears far out ahead plodded on. The quietness that Fonthill had hoped for was maintained for the next two days until on the third day, after the river crossing, the Mounted Infantry had been riding for less than an hour, when a dust cloud materialised from the north where Ottley had been patrolling. Simon stood in the stirrups and concentrated his field glasses on the edge of the cloud. At first he could see little, then, as he focussed more carefully, he realised that the cloud was being kicked up by Ottley and his men, who were riding hard towards the rest of the Mounted Infantry.
Were they being pursued or riding back with urgent news? Within minutes Ottley had arrived, he and his company covered in dust.
‘Tibetans,’ he shouted, reining in. ‘The big fellers. They took us by surprise. They’re mounted and coming straight for you.’
‘Are they coming for us or the main column?’
‘For us. And they are moving fast.’
‘Did you sustain casualties?’
‘No. But there were too many of them to tackle so we rode away like hell. They’re right behind us, though.’
‘How many of them?’
‘I’d say about 300 or more.’
Fonthill looked around. There was no cover in the immediate vicinity, apart from the little provided by where the riverbank fell away to the water. He turned to Jenkins.
‘Send two of our best horsemen to gallop right away back to the column. Tell the general that we are about to be attacked by Khampa horsemen and that there may be more Tibetans heading towards him. We will fight them here for there is no time to fall back on the column. Tell the men to ride hard to avoid being cut off. Got that?’
‘Yes, bach sir.’
‘Ottley.’
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t fancy fighting on horseback if we’re to be outnumbered. Dismount the men and get the handlers up and the horses taken down to the river edge, try and find a bank. They’ll get some protection there. Then spread out the men in a crescent with their backs to the river. No firing until I give the order.’
‘Very good, Simon.’
Orders were barked and the two messengers galloped away, back along the riverbank. Fonthill looked back to the north where another and larger dust cloud was nearing fast. Through the field glasses he could see the Khampas clearly now. They were fanning out to cut off his escape back along the riverbank. God – he hoped the two riders would be able to get through!
He withdrew his carbine from its saddle bucket, pulled his sabre from its sheath, dismounted and handed his pony to the handler. Ensuring that the magazine in the carbine was full, he strode to where Ottley was directing the men.
‘Put your company on the right, William,’ he shouted, ‘and command there. I will take the left side. Take out twenty men and have them wait by the riverbank in the middle as a reserve in case the Khampas break through. I will command them. It’ll be carbines now but it could be sabres and kukris later. Good luck, old chap.’
‘And to you, sir.’
Fonthill and Jenkins strode to where the crescent bulged out in the middle and took position among the kneeling men a little to the left of the centre. Seeing that they could not take the British by surprise, the Tibetans had now slowed their ponies to a walk and then they halted just out of range of the Lee Metfords.
Simon looked along the curve of his men. As usual, they looked a completely disreputable bunch: the Sikhs, their turbans kept in place by woollen scarves tied under their chins, looked a head taller than the Gurkhas, whose little pillbox hats poked out incongruously from their poshteens. The Sikhs had thrust their sabres into the ground in front of them, the Gurkhas had loosened their sheepskins the better to reach the broad-bladed kukris hanging from their belts.
At his side, as ever, stood Jenkins, a half smile bending his moustache as he looked at the host facing them. He looked up at Fonthill and winked. There was no sign of fatigue in his weathered face now. 352 Jenkins was now back in his element, facing an enemy that far outnumbered them. ‘Odds about three to one, I’d say,’ he said. ‘Just about fair, look you. And a fine day, too. Now what could be better, eh?’
Simon forced a smile. ‘My dear old 352, nothing could be better.’ Then he raised his voice and addressed the line. ‘From the left, NUMBER,’ he screamed. The voices floated up quickly in reply and in a variety of accents: ‘one, two, tree, fouer, fife …’ and so on around the line until number seventy-seven was shouted, the Reserve, of course, being out of the line at the rear.
‘On my command,’ shouted Fonthill, ‘we will fire in volleys. Odd numbers first, then reload and then even numbers. Now … wait for the command.’
He looked up at the Khampas; they had not dismounted. ‘They are going to charge us on horseback,’ he said to Jenkins. ‘Good. They will have to jump the line.’
‘Better keep our ’eads down then, eh?’
‘Indeed.’ Simon addressed his line again. ‘They will charge us on horseback,’ he shouted, enunciating each word carefully. ‘Those that we don’t bring down with the volleys will have to jump our line. When they do, kneel fast, just bow your heads. The Reserve will deal with them inside our line.’
He turned to the twenty men, kneeling by the riverbank under the charge of a daffadar. ‘Reserve,’ he shouted. ‘Hold your fire until our line is jumped. Then bring down all those that have jumped over. Understood, Daffadar?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill knelt again and worked the bolt on his rifle. ‘Now we wait.’
‘Not too long, I ’ope,’ breathed Jenkins. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. Or, better still, a beer—’
His words were cut short as an order was shouted from the ranks of the horsemen, heels were dug in, whips were slashed against horse flanks and the Khampas raised a scream as they charged against the thin line of kneeling riflemen.
Fonthill stood. ‘Wait for the command,’ he shouted. ‘At 200 yards, in volleys, odd numbers, wait for it … FIRE!’
Nearly forty rifles fired as one and smoke drifted up from the kneeling men. Immediately the front rank of the horsemen collapsed in confusion, horses plunging to the ground, screaming in fear and pain and their riders hurled over their heads to lie still. But the short-barrelled carbines were not the most accurate weapons in the army of the Raj even at short range and many of the bullets sang aimlessly above the heads of the charging horsemen.
Fonthill raised his voice again. ‘Odd numbers reload, even numbers FIRE!’
Again a volley rang out from the crescent and this time, given that the second rank of horsemen had to avoid their fallen comrades and this resulted in a bunching of the attackers, the target was nearer and easier. A swathe was cut through the jumbled horsemen, causing further confusion to those behind.
‘Fire at will!’ screamed Fonthill again above the din.
‘I never could work out which one was Will, you know,’ murmured Jenkins as he closed one eye and carefully sighted his carbine.
The whole line of kneeling men were now pumping their bolt mechanisms and firing as fast as they could into the mass in front of them. Blue smoke drifted up into the cold air, the flashes of the rifles breaking through it and marking where the line of the Mounted Infantry curved.
Simon stood again. ‘Cease firing,’ he shouted. ‘They’re retreating. Save your ammunition.’
Indeed, the riders, their long hair now clearly visible flowing from beneath their skullcaps, had turned and were now trotting away, as though indifferent to the losses they had sustained.
‘Report on casualties, William,’ shouted Fonthill. Then, ‘352, go along our company and give me a casualty report.’
‘Very good, bach sir. But it don’t look like many at this stage.’
‘Never mind. They’ll come again. We may have to shorten our li
ne.’
Ottley hurried over. ‘Just two chaps lightly wounded,’ he reported. ‘The Khampas weren’t able to shoot well as they rode. Do you think they’ve had enough?’
Fonthill squinted to see through the pall of smoke still hanging over the line. ‘It looks as though they are dismounting,’ he said. ‘And what’s more,’ he murmured as he held his binoculars to his eyes, ‘dammit, I think they’ve got rifles. It looks as though they are going to crawl as near to us as they can and snipe at us. Trouble is,’ he looked around at the curved line, ‘we’ve got absolutely no cover here and they can crawl up behind their dead and the bodies of the horses. Well,’ he shrugged his shoulders, ‘we shall see what sort of marksmen they are.’
Jenkins arrived. ‘Just one poor old Gurkha shot clean through the forrid,’ he reported, ‘an’ one other wounded a bit in the shoulder.’
‘Should we retreat to the riverbank, do you think?’ asked Ottley.
‘Problem with that,’ replied Fonthill, ‘is that we could have our flanks turned if they attack in force along the bank at both ends. And there’s not much cover there, anyway. The bank only goes down about a foot in some places. Better hold our ground, I think, as our casualties are light. See what you can do for the wounded, William. Oh, and give me an ammunition report when you can.’
‘Very good.’
He turned to Jenkins. ‘Pick out our best marksmen – you will know them better than me – and see if they can pick off the leading Khampas at this long range as they try to crawl forward. No one else is to fire until I give the orders. I’m worried about our ammunition so I don’t want anybody blazing away at this stage. I’m going to talk to the Reserve.’
Simon walked back to where the daffadar and his twenty men were crouched a little ahead of the riverbank.
‘I am sorry, Daffadar,’ he said to the beaming Sikh, ‘that you haven’t been in the fight yet, but I think you will be soon.’
‘Yes, sahib. We have been itching to fire, you know.’
‘Of course. But you are our last and perhaps the most important part of our defence. I want you to stay here without moving until you are needed. And that will be if the Tibetans break through our line. Now this could well happen because we are thinly stretched. So please keep your eye on me and when I turn and wave I want you to deliver a volley at the enemy who have broken through and then charge with your sabres. Understood?’
‘Oh, very understood, sahib. We kill them all.’
‘Good man. But wait for the signal.’
‘Yes, sahib. Signal will be waited for.’
They exchanged grins and then Fonthill sauntered back to the line, trying to emit a confidence that he did not quite feel. Despite the many engagements he had fought since he and Jenkins had first faced the Zulus, more than a quarter of a century ago, he was never quite able to dispel the doubts about his own courage and fighting qualities that always surfaced when he faced an enemy. Now the Khampas appeared to be regrouping and still, despite their losses, well outnumbering the Mounted Infantry. Had his riders got through to the main column and would Macdonald send reinforcements? He hoped to God they would not be needed.
Ottley and Jenkins came bustling back with their ammunition reports. It seemed that the average number of rounds retained by each man was now only eleven. Fonthill gritted his teeth.
‘I don’t think we are going to be charged again – at least not yet,’ he said. ‘Tell the men to adopt the spreadeagle position and to conserve their ammunition as best they can and shoot only when they are certain they have a sure target.’
Ottley and Jenkins doubled away and Simon was left observing the enemy closely through his field glasses until a bullet whistled over his shoulder and made him fall to the ground. The sniping had begun.
Fonthill attempted to recall what he had heard about these Khampas. He knew that they were a very different breed of soldier from the pressed peasants that had mainly faced the British so far in the campaign. These warriors, virtually mercenaries from eastern Tibet, were arrogant fighters, he knew, who were feared by the ordinary people of the country because of their disregard for personal property and because they did not share the Tibetan regard for the sanctity of life. They were brave and well led – characteristics which they were displaying now.
They were now coming back into range, but, as Simon had forecast, they were crawling along to reach the small protection offered by the bodies of the horses and even those of their erstwhile comrades that lay marking the high tide of the cavalry charge. As yet, they were offering the most elusive of targets and, looking along the Mounted Infantry line, Fonthill was glad that none of the sepoys were wasting precious cartridges at this stage.
A thump at his side marked the arrival of Jenkins. ‘They’ll ’ave to attempt to rush us at some stage, won’t they?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But whoever is in command there knows what he is doing. He knows we can shoot, so he is going to try and reduce our numbers first by sniping – and our chaps have no cover at all. If we had plenty of ammunition, we could keep firing to keep their heads down, but we have to be careful.’
Jenkins pulled a glum face. ‘Did we not have enough rounds per man when we rode out, then?’
‘We did not, because the whole column is short of ammo now. The supply line is thin and stretches back a long …’ His voice tailed away as the mention of the supply line made him think of Alice. Where the hell was she? Had she returned and caught up with the main column yet?
His surmising was cut short as a bullet thudded into the earth at his side. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, ‘they’re getting the range now.’
‘Ah …’ Jenkins caressed the butt of his carbine with his cheek as he gently pressed the stock into his shoulder. ‘I think I can see that bugger. Let’s see if I can reach him.’
He waited for what seemed to Fonthill like an interminable time before, very, very gently the Welshman pressed the trigger. About 300 yards away, a bearded figure suddenly flung up his rifle and rolled onto his back.
‘Good shooting, 352!’
Jenkins grinned. ‘Not bad for a poor old man who keeps fallin’ off mountains, was it?’
‘Pretty damned good, I’d say.’
The shot was like a signal to the defenders, for at least it showed that the Tibetans were now within range, and a ragged volley rang out all along the line. It was not without effect, for the crawling Khampas had not yet reached the dubious protection of the corpses ahead of them and Simon, scanning them with his field glasses, counted seven who jerked and lay still.
‘They’ve got guts, though,’ he muttered as he put down the glasses, ‘they’re still coming on.’
‘Yes,’ Jenkins sniffed. ‘But we’ve got to be better shots than them, look you. We’re trained soldiers after all, see. If it’s a game of long-range shootin’ we’re bound to win it, even though we’re only ’idin’ be’ind three grains of bloody sand.’
‘I hope you’re right. But I don’t have much faith in these damned carbines at any sort of range. If you’re not right, we may have to charge them and I wouldn’t fancy that.’
The sniping duel continued for at least ten minutes and Fonthill became concerned at the expenditure of cartridges by his men. When, as seemed inevitable, the Tibetans rushed the thin line of what were now very disMounted Infantry, the sepoys would need to deliver at least one solid volley before the fighting became hand to hand.
He turned to the man on his right. ‘Pass the word,’ he said, ‘conserve ammunition.’ Then to Jenkins on his left, ‘Pass it on.’
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ muttered the Welshman. ‘I wish I ’ad a lunger.’ No bayonets could be fixed to the carbines, so they had not been issued. He rolled over onto his side and withdrew from his belt a wicked knife that gleamed in the cold sunshine. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘this old friend ’as never let me down.’ And he stuck it into the sandy soil ahead of him.
Fonthill risked kneeling to take a quick look along the line to his lef
t and right. Before a bullet whistling over his head made him plunge down again, he counted five of the Mounted Infantry lying prostrate, their rifles at their sides. Whether they were dead or merely wounded he had no way of knowing, but it was clear that they were taking no further part in the battle. He looked behind him at the Reserve. They had taken the precaution of lying face down, their rifles at the ready, and it looked as though their numbers were still intact.
The sniping continued for at least another quarter of an hour and Simon was becoming increasingly concerned that this attrition – and the fact that the Mounted Infantry’s response had become severely reduced – would be adversely affecting his men’s morale, when a nudge from Jenkins made him look up.
Firing from the enemy’s line had now ceased. ‘I think they’re pluckin’ up courage to come over at us,’ muttered the Welshman. Figures could be glimpsed crawling up to reinforce the men behind the limited cover provided by the corpses.
Simon lifted his head and shouted to right and left. ‘Men of the Mounted Infantry,’ he shouted, ‘the enemy are about to charge us. Empty your magazines into them as they come. Don’t wait for the order. Fire at will. Then cut down the bastards with sabre and kukri.’
A ragged cheer broke out all along the line. It was met by a battle cry from the Khampas, who immediately rose from their cover, brandishing swords that flashed in the sunlight, and ran towards the defenders.
Once again the curve of the crescent was shrouded in blue smoke as the rifles of the Mounted Infantry crashed out in unison. This time, however, there was no volley firing, just a continuous crackle of gunfire as the precious last rounds in the magazines of the Lee Metfords were emptied into the mass of shrouded figures running towards them.
The Khampas fell in droves, for it was impossible to miss at that range, but still the tall warriors came on, their hair streaming behind them, their curved swords flashing above their heads.
