Slowly, carefully, as yet unseen, they crawled forward towards the end of the tongue of rock, a tongue that Ogilvie soon saw ran right against the perimeter, in fact pressed into it like a sword against flesh, forming a natural stage for the performance he was about to put on, an apron stage lifted some twenty feet above his audience, with steep, sheer sides falling to the floor of the bowl. Still some way from the end, Ogilvie called a halt. He looked through field-glasses towards what appeared to be the central point of the great arena, where a tent stood. There was a strong guard around this tent and so far as Ogilvie could make out, the tribesmen were being kept back, held outside the ring of guards.
Puzzled, he passed the glasses to Cunningham.
‘What d’you make of it, Sar’nt-Major?’ he asked.
After a long and careful scrutiny the R.S.M. said, ‘It’s hard to say, sir. It could be enthusiasm. But to me it has not quite that look.’
‘Nor me. Let’s have the glasses again.’ Ogilvie once again scanned the scene below, running the lenses over the fires and the farther perimeter and the seething mass of armed, shouting men. Those shouts didn’t seem to be all enthusiasm, either. He said, ‘I’ve a feeling something’s gone a little wrong.’
‘Aye, sir, and so have I!’
‘Then this could be the moment to make it go more wrong still — don’t you think, Sar’nt-Major?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Then have the runner brought up, if you please, Mr. Cunningham. We’ll take him forward between the two of us from here. Have you the matches ready?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Cunningham slid backwards on his stomach, returned within half a minute at a crouch, with the runner ahead of his claymore. The man sat on his haunches, rolling the whites of his eyes and plucking at his beard. Ogilvie, speaking in Pushtu, told him he would be required to make his announcement shortly now. The runner was shaking badly; he was a very scared man indeed, torn between the present threat to his life and the worse threat that would develop if his own countrymen should get their hands on him once he had brought down their high hopes of conquest.
‘Hold tight to him, Sent-Major,’ Ogilvie said. ‘And two men behind him. If he attempts to break away, a bayonet in his buttocks. No firing from any of you, as I’ve said. Not unless I order it, or Mr. Cunningham if I’m killed. We’ll all go forward from here at the run — no more crawling. I doubt if anybody’s looking this way in any case. When I halt you, I want the fire prepared and lit as soon as possible. Are you all ready?’
There was a murmur of assent. Cunningham put the two men behind the runner and Ogilvie gave the word to advance. They went ahead fast, with two shining bayonets pricking into the Pathan runner’s backside and Ogilvie’s and Cunningham’s hands gripping his arms. In three minutes they had reached the end of the jut of rock, and, apparently, had still not been seen. ‘Right, the fire!’ Ogilvie snapped. He was shaking himself now, shaking with impatience and a sudden hope, a feeling that this was going to work out. No one could fail now to recognize the note of anger and dismay in the continuing din below. Quickly the men built up the gathered wood, and Cunningham bent and struck his matches, shielding the flames in cupped hands against the cold wind, trying to catch the smaller twigs. At last, with the aid of a scrap of paper and some of his own filthy clothing, he succeeded. The tiny flames curled upwards through the network of dry wood, growing larger and larger until the whole fire was crackling and throwing out a welcome enough heat. Now it must be clearly seen.
With Cunningham and the runner, and the watchful men with the bayonets in rear, Ogilvie stepped to the edge of the rock, where they were outlined in their native dress against the leaping flames. Lifting an arm, he called down.
‘Men of the tribes. I have word for you!’
There was no response; there was too much din for his words to be heard. He called again and again until he was hoarse with the effort; then the Regimental Sergeant-Major lifted his voice in a parade-ground bellow, with no more effect than Ogilvie as it seemed at first. But a few moments later the racket did seem to die away just a little, and there was some rifle fire, though no shots came close to the men on the jut of rock. In this lull, the R.S.M. shouted again, and they noticed that many faces, more and more of them, were turning in their direction at last and the tribesmen were coming towards their sector of the perimeter.
When there was a little peace, a lull in the vicinity at any rate, Ogilvie repeated what he had called out earlier: ‘I have word for you.’ Below, the interest clearly quickened; the tribesmen gave the appearance of listening intently. Ogilvie shouted, ‘I come from the peak...the peak where the sadhu kept his long vigil. The sadhu is dead. The sadhu died in the moment that the sign was given, struck down because he was misleading you.’
He paused, trying to gauge the effect so far.
Another sound was rising up now; a sound that was hard at this stage to interpret — a low but increasing murmur that could be of concern or could be of hostility. Rifles and swords were brandished; quarrelling broke out. Ogilvie waved his arm again, and he and Cunningham dragged the reluctant runner closer to the edge. He shouted, ‘Peace, O brothers, and listen to the truth. I say again, the sign was wrongly explained by the sadhu. Unguided, you do not wish for war! You wish to live in peace and happiness, that you and your families may not be killed, for assuredly, if you cross the borders with hostile intent, you will be conquered, vanquished for all time, and your race decimated. It is written. You cannot succeed...and as a sign, Mahomet has slain the sadhu. Listen now to the words of the sadhu’s own messenger, who with his own eyes witnessed the sadhu’s death.’
Cunningham jerked the runner’s arm savagely, thrusting him forward, and, with his free hand, slamming his claymore against his spine. ‘Talk, you bastard,’ he said, ‘and talk just as you’ve been told!’
The man opened his mouth. By this time a complete hush had fallen in the immediate vicinity, though there was still plenty of noise from farther off, where their presence had not yet been especially noted. ‘Come on!’ Ogilvie snapped. ‘All you have to do is to tell the truth.’
The man, shaking like a leaf, began. ‘Brothers, what you have been told is true. I saw the sadhu die. As the sign sent by Mahomet faded from the face of the moon, the sadhu was struck down from the peak, to fall and die in the pass far below. Truly, the sadhu is dead.’ There was no doubting his sincerity.
There was a momentary gasp from the mob, followed by another hush; then pandemonium broke out. Men shouted and called out, brandished weapons, fell upon their knees; then broke away to the rear, calling the terrible tidings — the confirmation of the rumour that had already run like wildfire through the mass: ‘The sadhu is dead, the sadhu is dead, and Mahomet is displeased...the sadhu is dead!’
Ogilvie stepped back, his head swimming and sweat pouring from his body like a flood. Within the next ten minutes, the whole arena was a bedlam. The British stood their ground, watchfully, waiting for the next development. As Ogilvie said to Cunningham, they couldn’t leave yet. Someone, surely, was going to demand proof. He was right; soon a mounted pro-cession was seen coming through the yelling, screaming mob, the mob that was so clearly no longer an army in the full control of its leaders. Through the field-glasses Ogilvie recognized the figure of Nashkar Ali Khan, with Healey alongside him, and some of the officials from the palace outside Maizar. They were being hustled along for their own safety but still guarded from the hands of the infuriated tribesmen. They were escorted close to the foot of the rock, where they halted. Nashkar Ali Khan’s eyes blazed up at Ogilvie; his face was still proud and unafraid, arrogant, even splendid in what must be approaching defeat and soon after, most probably, death at his followers’ hands. Captain Healey’s face was impassive, giving nothing away. He was a strange man, and inexplicable Ogilvie thought...Nashkar Ali Khan called up: ‘So we meet once more, Wilshaw Sahib. What is this nonsense about the sadhu? You come with lies to my people, you, who are a British spy! The sadhu, as I
have explained, is safe in my palace, but is old and tired, and cannot come here. Why do you lie, other than to save your British imperialists?’
Ogilvie said, ‘I do not lie. The sadhu is dead. The runner saw this, and confirms all I have said.’
There was a smile on the Pathan leader’s face now. ‘Then where is the body?’ he called in a strong, confident voice. ‘Produce the body, and we shall believe!’
He was game right to the last, Ogilvie reflected. It was a dangerous bluff, for the body could easily enough have been up there on the rock, ready to view. But as it happened, of course, Nashkar’s bluff was a good one. Ogilvie mentally saluted a brave and still wily and dangerous man. He hesitated, then caught Cunningham’s eye. Cunningham nodded and said, ‘I’d let them have it straight, Captain Ogilvie. It’ll all help to addle their minds for them — or maybe sort them out! And a little exaggeration wouldn’t come amiss, sir.’
‘Right!’ Ogilvie lifted his voice towards the tribesmen: ‘You must be patient. Proof will be given soon. The body of the sadhu, destroyed in anger by Mahomet, is on its way. It is being brought by an escort...an escort of four divisions of the British Army who are marching upon you now from your rear, and who will drive you across your own borders into the guns of the British Raj, waiting for you beyond the passes.’
He stopped, and moved back from the edge. There was a burst of firing, probably from the leader’s personal bodyguard, but no one was hit. Before he had stepped back Ogilvie had seen the look of fury in Nashkar’s face, and the curious smile that twisted Healey’s mouth. As they all moved back from the end of the stage, Cunningham said, ‘Now, sir, we’re in for a dirty night!’
*
They formed a watchful square in the old tradition of the British Army, all the rifles facing outwards, ready for attack from any quarter, with the native runner safely in the centre between Ogilvie and Cunningham. They were rock-steady, even Private Mauchline now, as they began the last long wait for the arrival of the battalion or their own deaths. They listened to the noise from the great arena, noise that rose and fell and rose again. From time to time Ogilvie crawled on his stomach towards the edge, and looked down. Each time he saw Nashkar Ali Khan and Healey, in the middle of the loyal bodyguard. It seemed they had not been allowed to move away. Nashkar was maintaining his proud, arrogant bearing, gazing around disdainfully at the tribesmen and their menacing aspect; but it was as clear as the sun at noon that the control had passed right out of his hands. Everywhere fiery, bearded men were addressing the tribes, each with his little, or big, band of listeners. Already some of the men had streamed away, taking no chances on being caught by British enfilading gunfire in the confines of the bowl in the hills. Ogilvie could only guess what theories, what advices were being offered by the various tub-thumpers in the arena. No doubt some would be for waiting to see if the British really did arrive, some would be for Nashkar still, ready to remain and fight to the last man if the divisions came in. Others, like those already gone, would go either soon or when the first British soldier made his presence known. Decisions would be made, and reversed, and made again, and then reversed again, as each would-be leader made his point and lost it to a louder, more appealing voice. It was, and would remain, the most fluid of fluid military situations.
Nashkar’s voice alone was the totally disregarded one now.
The first attack on the British position came at a little after 2 a.m. Ogilvie himself was the first to spot the movement along the inward end of the jut of rock, and was quick to order the rifles into action. The attack was held off, but two of the Royal Strathspeys died. In the next attack, they sustained two wounded, only lightly. In the third, which came after a pause of almost three hours, the native runner was shot through the head and died, and Cunningham received a flesh wound in his upper arm. After this there was some sniping, as the dawn rose in spectacular colours over the eastern rim of the hills. All told the Royal Strathspeys accounted seven men dead, including the two first wounded; and including Mauchline, who thus himself fulfilled his own prophecy in the end. Ogilvie, remembering his threatened ‘prerogative’, was particularly moved by this casualty. The problems and self-recriminations of command were endless, though a good officer, perhaps, would not dwell on the self-recriminatory angle, except in so far as he could learn a little from his heart-searching. Ogilvie had no personal knowledge of Private Mauchline, who was not one of his own company, but he had been a mature enough man to have had a wife and children — somebody, at any rate, who cared enough about a Scottish soldier to have his or her life now laid in ruins by what had happened on this remote Waziri hillside.
‘My God, when’s the battalion coming up?’ Ogilvie asked, and almost failed to recognize the sound of his own voice.
‘They’ll be here, sir, never fear.’ It was Cunningham who answered, Cunningham with a blood-stained strip of shirting tied round one arm. ‘Meanwhile we have another visitor. Look, sir.’
He pointed.
Ogilvie looked. Three men were coming out from the inward end of the rock, one of them carrying a white flag tied to a pole. ‘A flag of truce! Sent-Major, it looks as if we’ve done it—’
‘Not so fast, sir. I’m thinking they want only to talk, to parley. Listen, sir. The man’s calling out.’
Ogilvie listened, a hand cupped to his ear.
The Pathan, a tall man with a heavy beard, called, ‘We wish the Englishman to come back with us alone — Wilshaw Sahib. He will not be harmed.’
‘If I were you, sir, I’d stay right here,’ Cunningham said.
‘Wait. What do you want with me?’ Ogilvie called back.
‘One of our leaders, a malik opposed to Nashkar Ali Khan, wishes to hear your story face to face.’
‘Then why does he not come here?’
There was a pause. ‘This cannot be done, Wilshaw Sahib. Do as we ask and you will be safe. Refuse, and all your soldiers will be killed.’
Ogilvie blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ll have to do as he says,’ he told Cunningham. ‘I’ll not risk the men.’
‘You’ll be foolish to believe the bastard,’ Cunningham growled. ‘I’d not go, sir.’
‘You would if you were in my shoes, Sar’nt-Major, and you know it! I’ve got to go. I repeat, I’ll not risk the men.’ There was still pandemonium below. ‘This may help. If I can persuade one of the maliks personally...’
‘Why not wait for the battalion to come up, sir?’
Ogilvie grinned. ‘I don’t believe the foreign gentleman’s in a waiting mood, Sar’nt-Major, that’s why!’ Without further argument he stood up and moved away from the small, decimated square. He lifted his hands above his head. ‘I come,’ he called out. ‘Alone and without weapons.’
His heart beating fast, he advanced towards the waiting enemy delegation.
*
It was a terrible scene, below in the huge arena. There was fire and death and fighting, wild surgings to and fro of the rival factions. His own escort was attacked more than once, but each time some tribesmen sprang to their aid, and wielded their weapons, and more men died. Over all was the noise, the cries, the shouting. In his heart Ogilvie wished he’d heeded Cunningham’s words of wisdom. He was, in truth, mortally afraid now, and realized he had done a foolish thing, though he had seen little alternative in view of the threat to his small force, if it could be called a force any longer. Away in the distance he could see Nashkar Ali Khan still, surrounded by wild men — and then he saw Captain Healey, leaving the Pathan’s side and fighting his way through on horseback, a sword whirling above his head, laying about him from side to side, savagely.
Healey was coming towards him. There was no sign so far of any malik, anyone who appeared anxious to talk to him. Healey, dripping blood from many gashes, pulled up his horse in front of Ogilvie and his escort. As the animal reared on its hind legs, its front hooves almost beat out Ogilvie’s brains.
‘What are you doing here?’ Healey demanded.
‘I was brought.�
��
‘What for?’
‘To talk to a malik —’
‘You’ll talk to no malik, old boy. Get to hell and gone this minute! Go on, clear off!’
‘Easier said than done, isn’t it — old boy?’
Healey grinned and, from the back of his horse, gave a small bow. ‘Your servant, my dear sir.’ He headed his horse right into the escort, leaned down, and almost nonchalantly sent his sword slicing through one of the necks, then another. The third man, the one with the white flag, threw down his burden and fled. Healey said, ‘It was a trap, old boy. Take your chance now, and get out, back to your men. Here — take my horse.’ He slid to the ground and handed the reins to Ogilvie. Fighting surged around them still; they were in a kind of oasis, if only a temporary and highly dangerous one. ‘Now — ride out, Ogilvie. And don’t worry about me. Rejoin your regiment, and may God go with you till you do.’
Soldier of the Raj Page 29
