He paused, as if awaiting the cheers; but the officers were too weary to raise more than a murmur of gladness. Fettleworth continued, ‘the report from the scouting cavalry indicates that the enemy is present in force as I have already told you. The estimate is close to my own—some seventy thousand men including a large force of cavalry. Scarcely any artillery,’ he added, with a glare at his Chief of Staff. ‘This force is spread over a wide area of the plain, or plateau I should say, east of the fort—which they are in an excellent position to cut us off from until we can fight through their lines. I am told they are, or were at the time our cavalry withdrew, still encamped. Thus I can give no forecast, gentlemen, as to what their fighting disposition is likely to be upon our arrival. The tribesmen are, however, intelligently led, it seems, by this young man Shuja Khan, and I therefore expect them to follow broadly British battle tactics—which is to say I expect them to form square with their infantry to withstand any cavalry attack from us, and keep their own cavalry on the flanks for an attack upon our lines. After that—well, we shall see, gentlemen, we shall see. When we leave the trenches we may need to form square ourselves against the native cavalry, as I said earlier I believe.’
For some minutes Fettleworth carried on in similar vein; Lord Dornoch returned to his regiment as filled with misgiving as before. Quite apart from the lack of tactical sense being displayed, there had been rumours that the Staff was falling out—and now Lord Dornoch had seen for himself that there was a most decided atmosphere of bickering and bad temper at Division. This was by no means unusual, but it was always to be regretted, was indeed the curse of the British Army; the fact that it was inevitable under the present system of promotion did not make it any the easier to bear. It was a thundering pity really, Dornoch thought, that Fort Gazai should have that plateau on its eastern flank; without it, in country that was mountainous everywhere else, Fettleworth could never have employed his confounded squares!
After the brief rest the column climbed to its weary legs again and moved on.
Makepeace was riding the limber of Number One gun of the leading battery; there was a new look in the old man’s eye as he came slowly nearer the battle zone, a look of keen anticipation, and he seemed to cast off more and more of his frail weariness as he jogged along with Fettleworth’s despised artillery. The guns were still being drawn along by elephants; in the case of the lighter mountain pieces the guns had been dismantled and were being carried on the elephants’ backs. In the main the gunners were riding on the limbers, or on the elephants, or on the bigger guns themselves. The bullocks plodded along behind, ready to take over the guns in action when required. The ground was treacherous and terrible, and Ogilvie felt that at any moment the guns must fall apart as they banged and rattled and twisted, rising and falling over hummocks and small boulders. Old Makepeace, he noticed, was having quite a job to hang on to the limber; but that old soldier didn’t appear to mind his buffeting now that he was back with his beloved artillery. Ogilvie stumbled along beside him, but there was little conversation between them or between anyone else; they were too puffed. Now and again some of the guns had got stuck down on that difficult ground, wedged solid behind the rock, and not even the strength of the elephants could pull them clear without damage. It was a case of manpower when that happened, all hands to the task of freeing the wheels.
***
Their progress, Ogilvie thought, was damnably slow; they were climbing all the time through the narrow pass and the air was growing colder as they went. The men’s faces had a pinched look as the wind off the distant snows funnelled through the pass—all except Sergeant Makepeace, who was staring ahead all the while with that rapt look in his red-rimmed eyes, pointing like a gun-dog towards the native hordes that waited at the end of the trail, the trail upon which, with an unerringly regained memory and sense of direction, he had himself put the batteries. Now that all they had to do was to go forward in a direct line for the firing position—and keep a close watch all along for any Pathans—Ogilvie was left with time, too much time, in which to think. Thought was inextricably mixed with worry now; he was only too well aware of what he had done and of the possible consequences. Each time he spoke to the Major, he suffered a sense of guilt about the ease of his deception. He had no doubts whatsoever in his mind that the guns would be of inestimable value to Fettleworth’s column when it had fought through to Fort Gazai—indeed, he realized now that if any of the General’s Staff Officers had known of the existence of this route of Makepeace’s, they would almost certainly have advised Fettleworth to do precisely what was being done. But he knew the army structure, the rigidity of the chain of command, the retribution that attended inevitably upon insubordination. Success, of course, was a golden thing; but it was going to be most damnably hard to convince authority that he could have mistaken whatever order it was that Archdale had to convey, for an order to detach all artillery support along a route unknown, probably, to the whole of the British Army in India! That particular thought had not occurred to him before; and it was too late now.
In another kind of panic, Ogilvie thought of Major Tom Archdale. If Archdale had died back there along the main route, many considerations arose. He knew very well that Mary wouldn’t mourn her husband in her heart. She would do the right thing, of course, would retire from the social scene and put on her widow’s weeds of deepest black, would almost certainly go home to England. But not entirely certainly; Mary was an unconventional woman and though even she would observe the rigidity of a year’s full mourning for a military husband who had died a soldier’s death—if she didn’t, she would naturally be ostracized by all military society both in India and at home—she might decide to remain out here until the year was up. James Ogilvie knew perfectly well that she was fond of him, and undoubtedly he was drawn to her in return. But if the question of marriage should ever crop up, he would face some very distracting decision. The match would be highly unpopular to say the least.
Now, however, was not the time to worry about it; and all thought of social considerations died abruptly when a sudden shot rang out from a rifle ahead, echoing with shattering loudness off the surrounding hills. From the corner of his eye Ogilvie caught a movement, then saw a native fall from a peak clutching a long-barrelled rifle.
Ahead, Major Barrington, the artillery commander, lifted his hand and halted the batteries. Wheeling his horse, he rode down the line as the gunners stood by their small arms. Nothing more happened and after some five minutes the Major shrugged and turned his horse again. ‘We never did expect to get through totally invisibly,’ he said with a laugh, ‘and we’re lucky to have got that man before he got some of us. Good shooting. I shall bring this to the attention of Division. Get ‘em on the move, please, Captain Soames.’
The batteries ground slowly on again. Ogilvie wondered if the dead native had managed to pass the word of their advance. Surprise was fifty percent of success, and now, by Makepeace’s estimate, they had only around ten more miles to go.
Fettleworth’s column was now beginning its final leg, the ascent of the last high ridge of hills between its current position and its objective. They were now almost ten thousand feet above sea level, and the thinness of the air at such a height tired the weary bodies even more. Ahead, Lord Dornoch saw the winking heliograph from the signallers sent out with the advanced scouting party, which had reached the crest of the hills. The message told Division that the scouts were within sight of Fort Gazai. The column toiled on, sadly aware of that terrible nakedness without the guns. Reaching the summit, the 114th Highlanders’ depleted ranks, in the van behind the Bengal Lancers, looked down on an awesome sight. Below them was the wide plateau; on its western flank lay Fort Gazai with the brooding mountains of the Hindu Kush behind, snow-capped, formidable, vast, seeming to reach up to grasp heaven by the hand. No wonder, Dornoch thought, that tremendous range had been named the Hindu Kush—the Hindu-breaker. This was the range that had been the physical barrier against the spread of H
induism, the barrier that had kept the main impact of the religion to the east of the Indus River. On the dark tower of the fort itself the British flag fluttered still, and the men of the relieving force could make out the khaki tunis on the battlements, and the pipe clayed belts—the British sentries still keeping their perilous vigil. This was the time for cheering, perhaps, though the men in Fort Gazai could scarcely be expected to hear it. Wave upon wave of sound broke out, however, spontaneously, from the ranks as the regiments marched and rode downward to the plateau; all of a sudden, tiredness fell away like a discarded cloak. General Fettleworth rode pompously along the column, breaking into a gallop with his Staff behind him as the track widened out at last. Reaching Lord Dornoch’s side he said, ‘There you are, Colonel. It’s as I said. We shall soon see if they mean to attack or not!’
Below them, the natives’ levies waited. Massed infantry, massed horsemen, ragged but ferocious men, Chitralis, stiffened by Afridis and other tribesmen from beyond the Khyber Pass. Firing broke out; they could see the puffs of smoke as rifles were discharged, but the range was as yet too great and no bullets reached the column. The firing was due merely to overenthusiasm. As they watched a great standard was unfurled over a horseman, seated between two ranks of a mounted escort. Fettleworth’s field-glasses went up. He said, ‘that must be their leader, Shuja Khan.’
He laid a hand on Dornoch’s bridle. Emotionally he said, ‘Colonel, you shall have the honour of playing us in. I have always admired the pipes,’ he added, forgetting his opinion of the Scots as expressed earlier to his Chief of Staff, ‘and they will stir the men’s hearts. I shall leave the tune to your own choice.’
‘The Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, Sir, always go into battle playing the one tune—‘Cock o’ the North’.’ Lord Dornoch turned in his saddle, looked hawk-like down the line. He sent a runner to Pipe-Major Ross. A few moments later there came the curious familiar sigh as wind was blown into the bagpipes and then the surge of warlike sound swept back over the Division toiling up the hillside as the pipes and drums of the 114th Highlanders beat into full voice to lead the infantry regiments and the squadrons of cavalry down on to Fort Gazai. Dornoch felt a lump rise in his throat; it was moments such as these that made the army so splendid a calling for a man; there was no thought now of bungling, or even of fear for the outcome of the engagement for which they were marching. They were as one now behind their General Officer Commanding. The pipes of Scotland were a promise, a guarantee of victory. Dornoch suddenly swept his helmet from his head and waved it in the air. ‘Follow on, the 114th!’ he called. ‘Don’t leave a man-jack of ‘em alive!’
To go into battle like this, with the twentieth century clutching the nineteenth by the coattails, was in a sense absurd and outrageous; but by God, Dornoch thought exultantly, it was also thoroughly magnificent!
The Battery Sergeant-Major had gone on ahead of the guns with the scouts, and now he came running and sliding back along the pass to report to the Major. ‘Gunfire ahead, Sir,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Rifles, Sir. Distant but unmistakable.’
Barrington nodded, and once again lifted his hand to halt the batteries. He rode down for a word with Makepeace, ‘we’re not far off now, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I believe the Division is already in action. What’s your estimate of the distance now?’
‘If I remember rightly, Sir, we should start to come down on the plateau after we round the bend ahead there.’ The old man pointed along the pass with a shaking finger. ‘It’ll not be far.’
‘Right,’ Barrington said. He backed his horse, stood clear of the guns and called down the line to the gunners. ‘You all know the drill, men. As soon as we clear the pass, the elephants are to be taken out of the traces and the bullocks yoked on. When that’s done we close the plateau until we’re within range—there won’t be far to go, I gather—and then we wheel into line for action. I shall give the order to open, and after that you take your orders from your section commanders. That’s all...except that I wish you all good luck and good shooting. Remember, the whole column will be depending upon you.’
He spurred his horse towards the head of the line of guns and beckoned to Ogilvie. ‘I’d be glad if you’d keep close by me, Ogilvie,’ he called. ‘I may find a use for you suddenly, even if it’s only to take over as a number in a gun’s crew. Can you cope with that if necessary?’
‘Yes, Sir. I’d be delighted.’ Makepeace had fired him with an enthusiasm for the batteries. He asked, ‘what about Sergeant Makepeace?’
Barrington chuckled. ‘Oh, he’s in his seventh heaven! I’ve promised to make use of him as a casualty replacement, and he can’t wait to get his eye behind a gun-sight. It’s a sad thing in a way, Ogilvie. You can see he’s thinking of all he’s lost to those devils—as well as of doing all he can for the people in the fort. It’s going to be his last chance to even the account.’
A few moments later the batteries moved on again, closing the bend in the pass with men standing by to begin loosening the cumbersome, lumbering elephants.
***
The infantry wound down the hillside, making all speed possible for the plateau, under the eyes and rifles of the assembled native force that was still firing wildly in the air. Every man in the column was well enough aware of what the tension must be in Fort Gazai as its defenders watched so helplessly. Almost certainly by this time, the garrison would be too weakened, too depleted in number, to be able to mount any effective support. Indeed, as much was soon confirmed by heliograph from the fort itself ; the besieged commander reported his numbers down to no more than seventy-eight fit men, while there was not enough ammunition left to provide more than five rounds per man. Nevertheless, the commander signalled that he would do all possible to assist if needed.
‘Stout fellow,’ Fettleworth said when this was reported to him. ‘Signal that he’s to remain inside the fort until we march through. I shall require no assistance.’
Brave words, and bravely uttered; but the enemy force was a very formidable one. The British column came down to the plateau and effectively under the fire from the Chitrails and Pathans. Orders were passed from the General that the infantry was to break off and start trenching five hundred yards to the left of the line of advance. The order was obeyed and the men got to work with gabions, pickaxes and bildars, implements largely in use in pre-Mutiny days, scraping and hacking at the hard ground and cursing frustrated as they did so. The trenching operation did not in fact last long and for this there were three reasons, and good ones at that: firstly Fettleworth, in spite of the warning from Captain Hopkiss, had not chosen his ground well and, below a thin topsoil, much of that ground was solid rock and thus impervious to the antique entrenching tools, or any others; secondly the fire of the enemy was causing far too many casualties; and thirdly the Chitralis were making obvious preparations for a combined infantry and cavalry assault.
All this became quite clear to Major-General Fettleworth within half an hour and he at once navigated the trenching and proceeded towards his panacea. Rubbing his hands briskly together and showing his teeth he said, ‘we shall form square, gentlemen. Pass the orders immediately.’
The Royal Strathspeys were on the left of the line, forming up where the advance in column of route had taken them, when the Division turned to face the enemy’s front. Over the squares when they had formed, the colours of the regiments, English, Irish and Scots, floated out along the wind. The enemy horsemen swept down on them like a never ending tide, riding superbly, fighting bravely and with effect. Within minutes the Royal Strathspeys were under very bloody attack indeed; wave upon wave of yelling, screaming tribesmen rode down upon their square, where the horses were impaled on the bayonets of the kneeling Scots in the front rank, or cut up by the sustained rifle fire from the men standing shoulder to shoulder behind. As men in the front rank fell, others moved in to take their places; the steel line of the bayonets held against the charge, blood-soaked but steady. Behind the cavalry, the native infantry ca
me on, running, yelling. So far as it went, the square formation worked. None of the regiments gave an inch, though the casualties were heavy. They much reduced the number of the enemy, but the initial preponderance of the native force gave the enemy the advantage still, and it was clear to Dornoch, and to the other colonels, that time would give them the victory as well if the present formation should be long maintained. Squares were still an effective method of defence; but scarcely of attack. Attack was not in their nature. And this operation was of necessity one of attack, thus the nature of the tactics and the objective were at variance basically. Dornoch groaned aloud as he saw his men fall around him; if only they had the guns with them...and if only Fettleworth would have used them if they had! There was little in the way of enemy artillery, so far as could be seen, and it appeared unlikely now that the Division’s batteries had fallen into the hands of the native army, though God alone knew what had happened to them—and Ogilvie...
***
At Division, the views of the Staff were showing a remarkable accord with those of Lord Dornoch. Fettleworth, though at last showing some signs of anxiety and an awareness that all was not so well as he had hoped, was parrying them. ‘You’ve said all this before, Brigadier-General Forrestier,’ he was saying stiffly, as he sat his horse some distance behind the squares of infantry. ‘You know my answer—you all know my answer, gentlemen. I wish to wear out the enemy so that he is depleted by his useless efforts. Then I shall attack!’
‘There is a distinct danger, Sir, that it will be us who will be worn out first.’
‘Tish! I think, Sir, you underestimate our men. To talk of defeat is not to win wars, Brigadier.’
‘Neither, by God, Sir, is this!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Fettleworth bristled with anger, taking no notice of the shots that came in his direction. ‘What was that?’
Lieutenant of the Line Page 22
