have a whole company of the Guides doing that, by the sound of it. And I know the colonel could do with an extra couple of guns. He jumped at it, in fact. Sorry, darling, but I must go – if only to look after Jenkins. You know what an old frump he is.’
He leant forward and kissed his wife, who, knowing when she was beaten, nodded and glumly returned his embrace. Then she turned to Jenkins. ‘Look after him, 352. If you both get killed I shall hold you personally responsible.’
‘Very good, Miss Alice. I shall wrap ’im in cotton wool. Come on, bach sir. We’ve got to get packin’. We can’t keep the whole of the Indian army waitin’, now, can we?’
C HAPTER T HREE
It was, of course, quite dark as Fonthill and Jenkins lined up on the parade ground with the rest of the cavalry and, behind them, the serried ranks of the infantry. The heat of the day had diminished but it was still hot, with the dry air clinging to them all like the breath of a furnace. The densely indigo cover of the Indian night hung over them, with the stars pricking through it like sequins and the emergent moon lighting the scene as though it was day.
As Simon looked at the horsemen, sitting erect with their eyes bright in their dark faces, he could not help but feel exhilarated at being part of such an impressive gathering. He was about to ride with arguably the best regiment in the Indian army. He stole a glance at Jenkins and sensed that the Welshman shared the exaltation. They exchanged grins.
Fonthill looked over his shoulder but there was no sign of Alice.She had helped him prepare for the ride – although there was little to take: his rifle, freshly oiled; a revolver in its holster; a bandolier of ammunition; one change of shirt, socks and underpants; a
poshteen
sheepskin coat tightly wrapped in a groundsheet, to serve as a sleeping bag and for warmth in case they had to fight in the high passes; his water bottle; and slices of lamb wrapped in chappatis. They had said their goodbyes in his room. She was dry-eyed but she clung to him for at least ten seconds before he was allowed to go.
A bugle sounded and four mounted pickets galloped out to range widely ahead of the main column. A second call was sounded, the colonel raised an arm, pointed forward and the cavalry moved out from the cantonment at the walk, four abreast.
Fortescue beckoned for Fonthill and Jenkins to join him and Major Darwin at the head of the column. ‘It’s goin’ to be a hard ride, this, Fonthill,’ he growled, adjusting the chinstrap of his helmet. ‘We are going to have to climb 2,000 feet up to the Malakand Pass right at the end, when we shall be feeling damned tired. And despite the altitude, it will remain hot, damned hot, with plenty of dust.’
‘Do you think you will be attacked on the way?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised. But not until we get near Malakand, I would think. The tribesmen from here will be massed there. I just hope we will be in time.’
‘Will we arrive before dawn?’
‘Good Lord, no. Not a chance. It’s just a trail really, not a proper road, and very rough underfoot. Trouble is, we must keep goin’. Can’t afford to take proper stops for rest. Our chaps on foot will have the worst of it, of course, and they will arrive long after us. Still, can’t be helped. Just got to grin and bear it and then …’ he turned and grinned mirthlessly … ‘witha bloody great fight at the end. What could be better, eh?’
Fonthill gulped but returned the grin.
So began one of the most arduous nights and rides of Simon Fonthill’s life. Most of the time, the colonel restricted the pace of the riders to a walk, but he interspersed spells of trotting and cantering on the level ground to maintain their progress. Simon had no idea how many men were defending the fort and post at Malakand, but it was clear that the colonel knew that they would be facing overwhelming odds and it was vital to arrive in time before the defenders were
He leant forward and kissed his wife, who, knowing when she was beaten, nodded and glumly returned his embrace. Then she turned to Jenkins. ‘Look after him, 352. If you both get killed I shall hold you personally responsible.’
‘Very good, Miss Alice. I shall wrap ’im in cotton wool. Come on, bach sir. We’ve got to get packin’. We can’t keep the whole of the Indian army waitin’, now, can we?’
C HAPTER T HREE
It was, of course, quite dark as Fonthill and Jenkins lined up on the parade ground with the rest of the cavalry and, behind them, the serried ranks of the infantry. The heat of the day had diminished but it was still hot, with the dry air clinging to them all like the breath of a furnace. The densely indigo cover of the Indian night hung over them, with the stars pricking through it like sequins and the emergent moon lighting the scene as though it was day.
As Simon looked at the horsemen, sitting erect with their eyes bright in their dark faces, he could not help but feel exhilarated at being part of such an impressive gathering. He was about to ride with arguably the best regiment in the Indian army. He stole a glance at Jenkins and sensed that the Welshman shared the exaltation. They exchanged grins.
Fonthill looked over his shoulder but there was no sign of Alice.She had helped him prepare for the ride – although there was little to take: his rifle, freshly oiled; a revolver in its holster; a bandolier of ammunition; one change of shirt, socks and underpants; a
poshteen
sheepskin coat tightly wrapped in a groundsheet, to serve as a sleeping bag and for warmth in case they had to fight in the high passes; his water bottle; and slices of lamb wrapped in chappatis. They had said their goodbyes in his room. She was dry-eyed but she clung to him for at least ten seconds before he was allowed to go.
A bugle sounded and four mounted pickets galloped out to range widely ahead of the main column. A second call was sounded, the colonel raised an arm, pointed forward and the cavalry moved out from the cantonment at the walk, four abreast.
Fortescue beckoned for Fonthill and Jenkins to join him and Major Darwin at the head of the column. ‘It’s goin’ to be a hard ride, this, Fonthill,’ he growled, adjusting the chinstrap of his helmet. ‘We are going to have to climb 2,000 feet up to the Malakand Pass right at the end, when we shall be feeling damned tired. And despite the altitude, it will remain hot, damned hot, with plenty of dust.’
‘Do you think you will be attacked on the way?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised. But not until we get near Malakand, I would think. The tribesmen from here will be massed there. I just hope we will be in time.’
‘Will we arrive before dawn?’
‘Good Lord, no. Not a chance. It’s just a trail really, not a proper road, and very rough underfoot. Trouble is, we must keep goin’. Can’t afford to take proper stops for rest. Our chaps on foot will have the worst of it, of course, and they will arrive long after us. Still, can’t be helped. Just got to grin and bear it and then …’ he turned and grinned mirthlessly … ‘witha bloody great fight at the end. What could be better, eh?’
Fonthill gulped but returned the grin.
So began one of the most arduous nights and rides of Simon Fonthill’s life. Most of the time, the colonel restricted the pace of the riders to a walk, but he interspersed spells of trotting and cantering on the level ground to maintain their progress. Simon had no idea how many men were defending the fort and post at Malakand, but it was clear that the colonel knew that they would be facing overwhelming odds and it was vital to arrive in time before the defenders were
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