There was a moment of utter confusion.
All around Dornoch men and animals fell screaming. The column swayed and broke. Neither Dornoch nor his officers could make themselves heard. Then a somewhat astonishing thing happened. A bugle sounded stridently and Dornoch saw Major-General Fettleworth charging down the line for the van, alone, scattering men to right and left, shouting something out, his face red, his sword lifted high, the bloodlust in his eyes.
He charged straight for the enemy, who were forming now in the middle of the pass ahead of the column. His sword flashing he cut right into their centre. The hill men reeled back from the General’s horse, leaving their dead to be trampled into the ground. The effect upon the British infantry was immediate and almost magical. Training and discipline reasserted themselves and the men steadied, and then surged forward towards their Divisional Commander, giving a kind of baying cheer as they did so. But even as he went forward with his Highlanders, Dornoch knew in his heart that it was a useless endeavour, a purposeless and potentially dangerous display of courage on Fettleworth’s part that was going to lead to immense and wasteful killing. A quick reconnaissance told him that the Staff were nowhere to be seen. He caught Hay’s eye and beckoned him on, then he pressed forward towards Fettleworth, who was still laying into the tribesmen, and had still not himself been so much as lightly wounded, by some miracle ; but who was visibly tiring. Dornoch came up beside him, with Major Hay on the other flank
‘You must fight back to the column, Sir!’ Dornoch said. ‘We’re standing by you. We must not lose the Divisional Commander whatever happens!’
Fettleworth appeared not to hear. Shoulder to shoulder with him, Dornoch and Hay, sweating blood, fought off the tribesmen and, almost without his knowing it, Fettleworth was urged back towards the protection of the infantry as the men surged, milling and cheering, around his horse. There was still no apparent sign of the Staff. Dornoch yelled at his men. They were in hand now, the company officers and N.C.O.s taking charge. Dornoch ordered them to scramble behind what cover they could. They did so, and began to return the rifle fire of the hill men. The leading machine guns, the Maxims, were also in action now. From the rear the following regiments, with no orders to hold back, pressed on until lack of space alone forced them to a standstill, and the Division became, in effect, wedged in solid upon itself. It was a grotesque situation. Dornoch, widely separated from Fettleworth by now, was firing point-blank with his revolver into a press of advancing tribesmen who were still keeping up their rate of fire in face of the bullets from the head of the column. Whilst metaphorically with his back to the wall he saw the Staff trying to press through the ranks to reach Fettleworth, who seemed unperturbed at what was going on around him. The native casualties were in fact immense from the rifles and the Maxims; the hill men were taking no cover now, were coming blindly on, but, their numbers seemed not to grow any less. There was evidently an endless reserve somewhere behind the crests. Meanwhile the British casualties were mounting fast. Dornoch was in a furious temper as he saw his Highlanders fall around him; the enemy seemed in a fair way to destroying the whole Division, and if that should happen, then Fort Gazai with its women and children was lost. Fettleworth had refused to heed the advance warning and here was the result of his folly. Fettleworth’s recent plunge down the line into the battle had been one of extreme personal bravery and Dornoch was the first to admit it, and for what it was worth, admire it too. But it had not helped the action. It had committed the infantry too soon, when in fact Fettleworth should have stayed where he was in the centre, halted the column way back when MacKinlay had spotted the lookout man, and sent the guns ahead, followed up by the cavalry. Had that been done, there would have been a very different story told.
Dornoch made contact again with Hay. Hoarsely he shouted in the Major’s ear, ‘John, I want you to take over. I’m going to try to reach the General.’
Hay nodded, his revolver pumping out bullets. Dornoch turned away, took over his horse from his servant, and rode through the massed ranks of men towards Fettleworth, scattering infantrymen as he went. Here, where the main body was not yet in action, the confusion was still evident, was if anything worse than the initial confusion that had hit the van. Officers and sergeants were shouting contradictory orders, horses were rearing up in fright, the commissariat and ammunition packs were being scattered from the backs of the milling mules and ponies. The native muleteers were jabbering away nineteen to the dozen and in the distance, to the south, Dornoch could see a swarm of coolies beating it fast for safety and taking their laden ponies with them. It was a disastrous and disheartening sight and when Dornoch reached the General his temper was worse than ever.
He rode straight up to Fettleworth, pushing his horse unceremoniously through the surrounding Staff.
Hotly he said, ‘Sir, you have seen for yourself what conditions are like in the van. In the rear your coolies are deserting and your mules stampeding—’
‘The devil they are! Cornforth-Jarvis.’
‘Sir.’ A dandified young Captain wearing white cotton gloves moved forward and saluted.
‘The rear, Cornforth-Jarvis. Go and take charge.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Looking down a long nose, the Staff Captain rode away. Dornoch addressed the General once again. He said, ‘the situation is worsening in the van, Sir.’ He could scarcely make himself heard at all above the continual volleys of fire from the rifles and machine guns, and the screams of men and horses.
Fettleworth shrugged. ‘You should expect no less, Lord Dornoch, no less at all. As it is, I have given orders that the regiments behind you are to press on with all dispatch—’
‘They’ll do no good!’ Dornoch snapped. ‘There’s literally no room to fight. The tribes on the hills have it all their own way, General. To send in more men...is only to increase the target for the attackers!’
‘It is all I can do,’ Fettleworth said calmly, almost, Dornoch thought, smugly. ‘Casualties must be expected in war, Colonel, you know that—’
‘I am not throwing away my Highlanders uselessly, Sir. I realize you have no personal fear for yourself—neither have my men. But with respect, Sir, I suggest you use your imagination and accept that this is a situation for tactics rather than physical bravery alone. I beg you, Sir, to order me and the other forward battalion commanders to withdraw and reform to the rear.’
‘Fiddlesticks! I shall do no such thing!’ Fettleworth’s obstinate face had reddened dangerously. ‘By your own admission there is no room, so how can you proceed to the rear without—’
‘I did not mean to—’
‘Kindly listen to me, Colonel. The van is to fight it out—this must be so. It will be supported by all means in my power.’
‘All means, General?’ Dornoch took up his words with vehemence. ‘Sir, in my opinion the infantry should be withdrawn in toto and reformed in rear of the guns. The guns should then be sent forward ahead of the cavalry, and should put down a curtain of shrapnel as heavily as possible and then—’
‘Hoity-toity! So we have a brilliant tactician...an infantry Colonel, instructing his Divisional Commander in the art of war!’ Fettleworth puffed out his cheeks. ‘Artillery, Colonel? Damme, I shall not use the artillery! The artillery is there merely to blow down walls and pierce forts. It is not to be used in open action, in column...God bless my soul!’ Fettleworth seemed to bounce on his horse. ‘What the devil next?’ He glared round at the Staff.
Dornoch, hanging on to his temper, said, ‘it’s the only hope, General, the only way to get the column through, do you not see? Every minute, every second, is counting at this moment and we must not delay. So far only one thing has saved us at all—and that is, a tactical error on the part of the tribes. If they had deployed themselves along the pass, and waited for the whole column to move into the trap, we’d have been cut to pieces by now.’
Distantly Fettleworth said, ‘I’ll not use the artillery. Battles are won by infantry and cavalry alone. Besid
es, the ground is really scarcely suitable for the deployment of artillery—’
‘That can be quickly remedied. If you will order the sappers to lay tracks, we can move the guns quite fast enough.’
‘I do not agree. No, Dornoch, no. No artillery.’
Dornoch, in desperation, swung round on the Staff. ‘Is there not one of you, gentlemen, who’ll support me?’ He addressed the Chief of Staff. ‘Sir, I beg of you to reason with the General before he loses the whole Division!’
The Chief of Staff shrugged. Stiffly he said, ‘Colonel, you forget yourself. You will be good enough to re-join your regiment at once.’
‘But—’
‘That is an order, Lord Dornoch. Disobey it at your peril. Remember you have left your post in action.’
‘By God, so he has!’ said Fettleworth.
Dornoch started in sheer surprise, his face darkening with fury at the slur. He was about to open his mouth when he saw the fractional closing of the Chief of Staff’s left eye and read the message plain on his face. He said no more, but gave a stiff salute and turned away, riding back towards the hard-pressed vanguard.
After he had gone the General said pettishly, ‘Really! I always distrusted the Scots. Terrible lot—no damn discipline. Mere killers the lot of them. Clans...little to choose between them and the damn tribes, what?’
The Chief of Staff said, ‘A disrespectful officer, Sir. But he has made a valid point nevertheless. You will recall, Sir, that I advised precisely the same thing?’
‘Yes!’ Fettleworth said, surly. ‘No, Forrestier.’
‘I am aware of your dislike of using guns, Sir. If you cannot overcome this dislike, I suggest that in place of the guns you send forward four squadrons of the cavalry to clear the ground, in the meantime withdrawing the foot. The foot to advance again in the wake of the cavalry.’
‘But the ground is totally unsuitable for cavalry! Too damn rocky! They cannot fight to advantage.’
‘I disagree, Sir. The pass is quite open enough for that. If they can move at all, they can fight.’
‘Oh, dear.’
Forrestier, his hands shaking with frustration, persisted. ‘The action is going remarkably badly. I know you do not wish to fail to reach Fort Gazai, Sir.’
‘Hmm. You think we may?’
‘It is not a question of thinking, General Fettleworth.’ The Chief of Staff suffered something like a rush of blood to the head. ‘For God’s sake, Sir, do something before it’s too late!’
Fettleworth pretended he had not heard that. He was thinking furiously. Calcutta would be most upset at failure; Whitehall would be more so. And there was the Press—so damn scurrilous! Half-pay was a nasty prospect; Fettleworth thought anxiously of Bath and Cheltenham, and all the other retired warriors who would know precisely why he was joining them. ‘Oh, very well, very well,’ he snapped. ‘Have it your own way, do.’
***
As Dornoch re-joined his men he was vastly relieved to hear the bugles sounding the Retire for the infantry. As quickly as possible the 114th were withdrawn, running and sliding away from the terrible advance, leaving too many dead behind them, dead that were overrun within minutes by the triumphant tribesmen from the hills. Then, as the infantry regiments pulled back off the track to the rear, a trumpet sounded the Cavalry Charge. There was a wonderfully heartening rattle of equipment and a jingle of harness and, as a band somewhere broke into ‘Bonnie Dundee’, two squadrons of the Guides swept thunderously past, supported by two squadrons of the Bengal Lancers, their guidons fluttering out along the pass and their sabres glinting in the sunlight.
A tremendous cheer broke out, all along the ranks of infantry, as the horsemen charged into the tribal mass. The hill men, taken by surprise now, scattered to right and left, running, climbing the steep sides of the pass, fleeing from the hooves and from the sabres that slashed and tore. When the charge had passed through, the cavalry turned to deal with such of the natives as were left on the track, supported now by another squadron coming up from the rear. Now the slaughter was the other way round; as the cavalry charge ended, Fettleworth ordered the infantry in. The bugles sounded the Advance; and they advanced, with sheerly murderous intentions. Rank upon rank of men climbed the hillsides, fast behind the enemy, among them the Royal Strathspeys wielding broadswords and bayonets savagely and without mercy or quarter, and using their rifles with devastating effect on the turned backs of the tribesmen. After that it was all over quickly; the native horde, leaving their many dead behind them, fled over the crests and away and the column began to sort itself out again.
The wounded were tended and handed over to the doolie-wallahs, the stretcher-bearers, where necessary. The water bottles were opened. Fettleworth, disinclined to linger now, gave orders that the dead were to be left unburied. Ogilvie and Black, though they had made all possible speed with their men to come up the column and overtake the 114th, had missed the action; but the considerable delay while the column was reformed and the pack animals recovered gave them the time to join up again and Black at once made his report to Lord Dornoch.
‘The patrol brought safely back, Colonel, less the casualties which occurred before my arrival. I think Mr. Ogilvie will have some observations to make on that.’
‘Thank you, Andrew. You will resume your normal duties, please. We shall be marching again at any moment.’
‘Very good, Colonel.’ Black hesitated. ‘There is nothing further you wish of me just now?’
‘No, Andrew, thank you. Not unless you have anything else to report?’
Black’s cold face darkened. ‘Here is the man Makepeace, Colonel. I—’
‘Quite so. What’s his story, Andrew?’
Briefly, Black passed the details. When he had finished Dornoch said, ‘A most remarkable thing. Did you make the...shall I call it, the reception of this man?’
‘No, Colonel. Mr. Ogilvie bears the full responsibility for the patrol, and the man was apprehended before my own arrival.’
‘Apprehended?’ The Colonel gave him a shrewd look. ‘The exact word will be a matter for an inquiry, I fancy, Colonel.’
Dornoch’s face was expressionless as he said, ‘I see. Very well, Andrew, then that’s all for now.’ As Black went off with his long stride, calling for his servant, Dornoch turned to Ogilvie. ‘Very quickly, please, James—how did you get on?’
Ogilvie made a full and honest report, leaving out nothing except the personal behaviour of Colour-Sergeant Barr. Dornoch said, ‘you might perhaps have investigated a little more closely from the fissure and found the enemy had left their positions.’
‘I’m sorry, Colonel.’
Dornoch smiled kindly. ‘Oh, don’t worry too much about it. You did very well indeed in the circumstances. I’m only sorry the patrol turned out to be unnecessary in the end, James. However—that can’t be helped now,’ he went on briskly. ‘Tell me—what d’you make of this Sergeant of Artillery?’
‘I’m impressed by him, Colonel.’
‘You believe his story?’
‘Absolutely.’ Ogilvie added with a touch of diffidence, ‘Colonel...the fact he’s handcuffed leaves him defenceless if we’re in more action.’
‘Which undoubtedly we shall be! I’ll have a word with the adjutant about that,’ .the Colonel promised. ‘All right, James. Off you go and re-join your company. I’m glad to have you back.’
‘Thank you, Colonel.’ Ogilvie saluted and turned about. Before he had taken a couple of paces Dornoch called .him back. ‘One moment, James. How did Colour-Sarn’t Barr behave?’
Ogilvie knew quite well what the Colonel meant. The eyes of the two men met and after the briefest hesitation Ogilvie said formally, ‘He gave every satisfaction, Colonel.’
‘No complaints?’
‘None, Sir.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. All right, James, thank you.’ As Ogilvie saluted once more and went towards B Company, Dornoch thought : He’s damn loyal to his men, even when they’re not over
loyal to him. Stupid in a way, but a very excellent quality in a young officer all the same. But Barr would have to be watched...Dornoch sent once more for Black, and with asperity ordered Sergeant Makepeace to be freed of the handcuffs. The most he would permit, he told Black, was an escort. Before the column moved off along the pass Dornoch went himself to talk to Sergeant Makepeace. He questioned the old man about the Pathan, Shuja Khan, but quickly realized that Makepeace had no information to offer. that would be of help to Division. Nevertheless he sent back a report to the General in case Fettleworth should wish Makepeace brought before him. The march was then resumed through the shadow of the peaks and crags towards the greater freedom of movement offered by the Swat valley and that evening the Division poured out from the Malakand Pass and made camp in the open beneath the stars, with the mountains rearing skyward behind them. A cold wind was blowing, refreshingly after the day’s heat, but becoming hard to bear after a while. Word came down the column to the 114th that General Fettleworth wished words with the man Makepeace. Lord Dornoch waited himself upon the General, along With Black and Ogilvie and Makepeace’s armed escort of kilted Highlanders. Fettleworth questioned the old man closely and competently in their presence, and came to the same conclusion as had Dornoch regarding Makepeace’s scanty information about the rising.
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