by John Wilcox
Fonthill and Jenkins, together with all of the men who remained in the curved line, scrambled to their feet. Simon stole a quick glance behind him to see the twenty men of the Reserve also on their feet, their carbines at their shoulders. He gulped and grabbed the handle of the sabre still protruding from the soil ahead of him. At his side, he was conscious that Jenkins had ignored his sword and was now standing, legs slightly bent, his long knife glinting in his right hand, his left extended before him in that well-remembered posture, as though he was going to negotiate with his opponent.
Then the line of the Khampas was upon them. Fonthill just had time to note that it was a ragged line, showing that the cruel firing of the Lee Metfords had had its effect, before a bearded warrior lunged at him with his sword. Simon parried desperately and slashed at the man’s face in return, missing as the Tibetan pulled away.
Damn! Don’t slash, thrust with the point – even with a sabre! The old mantra from his Sandhurst days flashed across his mind as he parried again, this time twisting his wrist to deflect his opponent’s blade away and sliding his own point along its length until, with a final lunge, it sank into the man’s stomach. He extracted the blade with a twist and swung it horizontally at the neck of the man who was flailing his sword at Jenkins. The warrior sank to the ground with a sigh, blood gushing from his half-severed head.
‘Watch out, bach. On your right!’
Fonthill just had time to twist his body out of the way of another sword thrust and he countered awkwardly, missing the man as he danced past him, only to meet the knife of a bloodstained Jenkins who, kneeling, thrust his knife into the warrior’s groin, immediately retracting it to plunge it into his stomach.
‘Are you all right, 352?’ gasped Simon.
‘Never been better, bach. Watch out. ’Ere’s another lot.’
Simon looked up and presented his sabre – already beginning to feel double its original weight – at a huge Tibetan who made the mistake of swinging his great curved sword horizontally in huge sweeps. Dropping his point, Fonthill ducked under the flashing sword and then lunged forward. The end of the sabre took the man lightly in the breast but the impetus of his charge still carried the warrior forward, so that he impaled himself completely on the sabre, until it protruded from his back.
Unable to extricate his blade, Simon collapsed under the giant so that the hilt of his sabre hit him in the chest, winding him. He thought for a terrible moment that his adversary was still alive, for, face-to-face, as they were, it seemed as if his eyes were rolling and his teeth were clenched in a demonic grin. But his expression was a death mask and the two fell together, Fonthill underneath.
As he struggled to throw off the man, he was aware of Jenkins astride the two of them, bloodstained knife in hand, weaving from the waist like the bare-knuckle champion, Tom Sayers, but not leaving his position, parrying several sword thrusts and thrusting back adroitly.
At last Fonthill was able to squirm from under his man and struggle to his feet. ‘Get yer bloody sword, quickly,’ shouted Jenkins.
Simon did so, pulling it out just in time to meet yet another Khampa who came, this time, more circumspectly – so circumspectly, in fact, that, after three half-hearted thrusts, he turned and ran. Trying to regain his breath, Fonthill turned to find Jenkins now down on one knee, sucking in air himself.
‘Are you all right, 352?’
‘Yes. Just a bit winded. But I think they’ve got through, look you.’
Turning quickly, Fonthill saw that a small group of Khampas had broken through a gap in the Mounted Infantry line. He raised his arm and waved to where he could still glimpse the Reserve group. ‘Reserve,’ he shouted, surprising himself at the high pitch of his voice, ‘Advance and fire.’
Immediately, the muzzles of the Reserve’s Lee Metfords flashed with flame and, once again, a volley sounded by the banks of the river, and then another and another.
‘Behind you, bach,’
Jenkins’s voice again made him whirl round, to see the Welshman, now back on his feet again, catch the blade of a sword on his knife, swing it upwards and kick his boot into the unprotected groin of the assailant. The man bent over with a groan and Jenkins, bloodstained but as agile as a monkey, danced around him and sank his bloodstained knife into the back of the Tibetan.
‘Thanks, 352.’ Simon suddenly realised that the words pitched out into what was now a comparative silence. He squinted through the smoke that drifted past him from the Reserve’s volleys and glimpsed dun-coloured figures, in twos and threes, running and limping away from the line. He turned and saw the bodies of the Khampas who had broken through the line, scattered on the ground, some moving and groaning from their wounds, but the majority lying still. Looking down the line, he saw that it now had more gaps but the men who still stood were waving their sabres and cheering.
He turned to his old comrade, ‘My God, we’ve done it, old chap. We’ve beaten ’em.’
Jenkins was grinning, but was back kneeling on one knee, blood dripping down the side of his face and from the end of his great moustache from a gash in his stubbled hair and more blood oozing from a scarlet patch on his thigh.
‘Course, we ’ave,’ the little man gasped. ‘Never doubted it. You’re the best general in the British army.’ Then, very slowly, he toppled over and lay on the ground.
Fonthill ran to his side, pulling out a handkerchief. ‘Sword wounds or bullets?’ he asked, surprised at his own coolness.
‘Ah. Only sword cuts. They just ’urt a bit when I laugh, nothin’ more.’
‘Good.’ Simon looked round. ‘Give me your first-aid kit,’ he demanded of a nearby Sikh who was wiping his sabre. ‘Quickly, now.’
Tearing away at the cloth surrounding the leg wound, which seemed the worst of the two, Fonthill dabbed a little iodine onto the open cut, pressed a felt pad onto the wound, which was now bleeding profusely and clumsily bound a bandage tightly around the thigh. ‘Lie there,’ he said. ‘Don’t get up.’
‘Oh, I was just thinkin’ of runnin’ after the enemy,’ growled Jenkins.
The words reminded Fonthill of his duty. He stood and saw a tousle-haired Ottley running towards him.
‘Glad you’re all right, sir,’ said the Irishman. ‘Congratulations. That’s the best-ordered defence I’ve ever been in, considering we were on open ground. Now, I think we’ve got enough men left to go after those bastards and the horses haven’t been hurt. Permission to pursue, sir?’
‘Very well, William. Well done. Yes, go after them. They must be taught a lesson, but don’t ride too far. Don’t pursue in more than company strength for I shall need men here in case there is another attack. Ride for say a couple of miles and then return here. We must tend to the wounded and we won’t be strong enough here to try and make it back to the column without you. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir. Daffadar!’
The horses were brought up, Ottley rounded up some fifty men and then rode off to where, in the far distance, the tiny figures of the remnants of the Khampas could just be seen riding and walking away.
‘I think I can stand, bach sir, if you give me an ’and, like.’ Jenkins’s voice sounded less than strong.
‘No. Sit there for a bit and get your strength back. It looks as though the bleeding from your leg and your head has stopped. But it would be silly to take risks.’ Simon looked down at this giant of a little man, who sprawled before him. If he had ever fleetingly doubted his old friend’s capacity to fight, that doubt had disappeared completely now.
‘I don’t know how many times you have saved my life, 352,’ he said, ‘but you did it again today, several times, in fact. So, thank you once more. You remain a magnificent fighter. And you are certainly not an old man.’
The Welshman sat up, hands on knees, and gave a crooked smile. ‘Well, you’re a fine one to go around thankin’ people. If you ’adn’t chopped off the ’ead of that big bugger, I wouldn’t be sittin’ ’ere, look you, enjoyin’ myself so much. So
I reckon that the thanks are even.’
‘All right. Now stay sitting there. I must make sure we’re looking after the other wounded. Don’t try and stand and be heroic any more. Disregard what I just said, you’re far too old for that.’
Fonthill set about the sad task of counting the dead and ensuring that the daffadars were tending to the wounded, as best they could, for there was no doctor with the Mounted Infantry. In all, nine had been killed and a further seventeen wounded, but only one seriously, a sword swing having almost severed his arm. Clean water was used to wash the wound and then a daffadar who had studied a little medicine set about sewing up the gash with needle and thread, while the Gurkha clenched his teeth and uttered not one whimper, although he did take a mouthful of brandy from Simon’s flask.
The Gurkha dead were buried by the riverbank and enough driftwood was found to burn the bodies of the three Sikhs killed, in accordance with their religion. The Khampas’ dead, numbering more than sixty, were left to lie where they had fallen, Fonthill feeling that their bodies would deter any other hostile Tibetans in the vicinity – and, in any case, he did not wish to burden his weary troops further.
Ottley and his men rode in some three hours after they had set off, causing Fonthill to frown, for he was anxious to set off back to join the main column before night fell. They had pursued the Khampas until what was left of them had disappeared into foothills. Despite the fact that the mounts of Ottley’s men were tired, Simon insisted on moving back along the riverbank.
He arrived at the main camp just as dusk was falling, to find that Macdonald had made camp as soon as the two Mounted Infantry messengers had ridden in, setting up a defensive position by the riverbank. He listened, drawing on the inevitable cigarette, as Fonthill made his report.
‘It sounds as though you did exceedingly well, despite your comparatively heavy losses,’ he coughed.
‘We had no cover at all,’ Simon responded warmly.
‘Yes, quite so. I wasn’t sure, from what your riders said, about the size of the Tibetan force attacking you and, indeed, whether they would bypass you and come on to us. So I felt it judicious to set up a defensive position here, hoping that you would fall back on us. I couldn’t put the main column at risk, of course.’
‘No. Of course not.’ But Simon felt that the deliberate irony in his tone had escaped the Scotsman.
Fonthill had expected that Alice would be waiting for him when he rode into the camp, but there was no sign of her. He sought out the officer who had taken on the role of Major Bretherton as controller of transport and supplies.
‘Aren’t you expecting a supply train in at any time now?’ he asked.
The man shook his head. ‘No. Nor do I expect one soon. Why do you ask?’
Fonthill felt his heart sink. ‘But my wife left several days ago, probably with her young Tibetan, to go back to the cable point with one of your supply columns.’
‘Sorry, old man. We haven’t sent a column back for nearly a month. We are more or less living off the country now until we get to Lhasa – and I haven’t seen Mrs Fonthill for some time.’
Thanking him, Simon strode off to the small tented area where the correspondents were housed. The story was the same: no one had seen Alice for quite a few days now. They all suspected that she had ridden off with her young companion chasing some story or other.
It was when walking back from there that a rather embarrassed coolie stopped him and handed him Alice’s second note. ‘From memsahib again, sahib,’ he said.
Simon seized it, and when he reached the phrase I intend to see the Tibetan high lamas and persuade them to stop this war he threw back his head and roared with anger. The coolie hung his head and stepped back a pace. ‘When did she give you this?’ Fonthill demanded, his face white.
‘Several days ago now, sahib. I was told to wait for a week before delivering this, but I think you should have it sooner. I am sorry, sahib.’
Simon frowned and swallowed hard. ‘No. You did right,’ he said. He fumbled in his pocket, gave the man a handful of rupees, thrust the note into his pocket and strode away to find Jenkins.
He found the Welshman, newly bandaged at head and thigh, sitting in his tiny tent, drinking an inevitable cup of tea. Fonthill threw the note to his friend and stood drumming his fingers on the tent pole as Jenkins laboriously read the message. Then 352 looked up, a slow smile spreading across his battered face.
‘You’ve got to admire the lass, bach sir,’ he said. ‘You really ’ave. Pushin’ off by ’erself – well, with old Sunshine – to end the war, all by ’erself, so to speak.’
Simon sighed and sat awkwardly on the end of Jenkins’s trestle bed. ‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it,’ he said. ‘Another way is to conclude that this is a certain way to have herself and young Sunil killed.’ He threw back his head and stared at the low canvas above. ‘Doesn’t the woman know that females are not regarded highly – if at all – in this damned country and that Lhasa is a sacred city? She is more likely to be thrown into a deep pit and left to starve as to see the bloody Dalai Lama – or Santa Claus, for that matter.’
Jenkins put his head on one side and stroked his moustache. ‘Ah now, bach. She’s cleverer than that, an’ you know it. She’s been in as many difficult situations as we ’ave an’ she’s usually got out of it on ’er own. I reckon she’ll be all right.’
A silence fell within the tent, broken only by a distant bugle call and the creaking of leather as mules were unharnessed nearby.
‘What do you propose to do now, then?’ asked Jenkins.
Simon frowned at his friend. ‘Do? Well, go after her, of course, and bring her back – if it’s not too late.’
‘Very well. I’ll come with you.’
‘Of course you won’t. You are not fit to ride.’
Jenkins sighed. ‘If you think that I’m goin’ to let you ride off after the missus on your own, then you don’t know Sergeant Major 352 Jenkins, just about the best wife-finder in the whole of bloody Tibet. Of course, I’m comin’ with you. But we shall need more than two of us.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure about that. I’d better go and find the General – and Younghusband, for that matter. We can’t just push off on our own. Now you rest a while. I promise I won’t ride without you.’
‘I should bloody well think not.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alice awoke on the morning after her arrival at Chung Li’s house to hear goats bleating and, for a second, couldn’t remember where she was. Then she recalled the nature of her mission and her heart sank. Considered now, with some of the indignation that had prompted it receded, it loomed as something quixotic, with success improbable and, indeed, danger quite certain. Why the hell had she embarked on such a ridiculous journey?
Then, as she lay back on the straw-filled pillow, she recalled the sad landscape of the Tibetan bodies strewn, half frozen, after the so-called ‘battles’ and she saw again the desperate waving of Major Bretherton’s arms as the current took him away. Yes, little chance of success but, dammit, it was worth a try!
She washed with the little tablet of soap she had brought with her in the bowl of cold water provided, dressed and tentatively walked down the stairs. Chung Li was sitting by what appeared to be a peat fire in the main sitting room but, on seeing her, he rose, bowed briefly and left the room. His wife bustled in, tongue out in greeting, and indicated that Alice should sit at the table.
Tea was produced and a kind of porridge, which was sweet and nourishing, followed by coarse bread and some form of meat dripping which was excellent. Alice thanked her and asked, ‘Sunil?’
The woman nodded and within moments Sunil had arrived to sit by her side. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Alice.
‘Oh yes, memsahib. I been grooming horses.’
‘You are a splendid chap, Sunil. Thank you.’ She took a spoonful of porridge. ‘Have you had chance to talk to your uncle?’
Sunil frowned. ‘Yes, I tell him wh
at you want. To be taken to meet the big lamas here and maybe even Dalai Lama. He say Dalai is away and not possible to see him anyway. Nobody see him. He don’t know about the boss lamas. He is going to take advice.’
Alice met his frown. ‘Hmm. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The fewer people who know about me being here the better. But I suppose we have no choice. We are in the hands of Chung Li.’
‘Yes, miss. I think he want to help but I am not sure.’
Alice looked at him sharply. ‘Why aren’t you sure?’
Sunil lowered his eyes. He was clearly embarrassed.
‘I don’t know, memsahib,’ he said, studying the floor. ‘I have feeling …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Yes, go on.’
‘I have feeling that he don’t like British much. There are stories about us killing Tibetans on march into this country …’
Alice nodded. ‘Well, that’s certainly true. But, you see, that’s why I want to stop the fighting and persuade the lamas to sit down and negotiate with Younghusband Sahib, so that the killing will stop. I am sure I can persuade them. Perhaps I can talk to your uncle myself?’
‘Of course, if you want. I ask when he returns.’
The old man was away for several hours, leaving Alice uncomfortable, with nothing to do but smile at the women, who smiled and bobbed at her in return. She was not at all happy that Chung Li had gone to consult someone on how to answer her request but all she could do was wait and see what would ensue.
She was in the little paddock, with Sunil, feeding the ponies when she heard a commotion in the house. Women’s voices were raised in what sounded like indignation and then she heard male voices replying in what undoubtedly were tones of authority. She hardly had time to exchange a troubled glance with Sunil before four unusually large Tibetans with long hair and with sheathed swords hanging from their belts burst through the door, followed by Chung Li’s wife and one of his daughters with tears running down their faces.
‘Khampas!’ The word came from Sunil who stood, his eyes wide, as two of the warriors roughly seized Alice, pinned her arms behind her back and pushed her towards the little gate in the paddock. Sunil shouted something to them in Tibetan, only to receive a fierce backhanded slap from one of the men, which sent him reeling to the ground.
