overrun.
At one point, as they dismounted and walked their horses to rest them for a brief spell, Fonthill asked the colonel about the insurgents. Did they have one overall leader on the Frontier?
The CO wiped his brow with a soiled handkerchief and shook his head. ‘They will never be that organised,’ he confided. ‘What I estimate is happening is that this is a jihad – a holy war – and it is being whipped up all along the Border by a series of holy men, preachers – they call ’em mullahs. It like a series of bush fires, yer see, with the flames leapin’ over the passes and running down the valleys from mullah to mullah as though blown by the wind.’
‘The preachers – we know of the one in the Malakand area and we call him the Mad Mullah – will be promising their followers that this is the chance to rid the hills of the infidels once and for all. They will tell ’em that anyone who is killed will go straight to Paradise and be welcomed by houris and lustin’ virgins. So they’ll have absolutely nothing to lose by hurling themselves at our guns. Oh, yes.’ His mouth was set in a grim line. ‘It’s going to be a tough one, this.’
Fonthill drew in a deep breath. The colonel was only a couple of years younger, if that, and certainly seemed stouter and in less goodcondition. Yet the little man was riding as though he was a subaltern.
‘What about reinforcements?’ asked Simon.
‘Well, I have telegraphed down the line to Peshawar and told my commanding officer there that we were on the way and that we would need help. He is organising a larger column, of course, to follow us but it will take time to get it together, so we shall be on our own for a fair bit.’ He grinned again. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, mind you. Chance for glory and promotion, eh what, Fonthill?’
‘Of course, sir. I wish you luck.’
‘Thank you. Wish this bloody moon would go in, though. Makes us exposed. Feel as though I am walkin’ through these hills in me pyjamas.’
So they continued this gruelling ride, pushing mounts and men as far as they could, short of exhaustion. The darkness brought little relief from the heat, despite the altitude, and the troopers in the rear of the column suffered excessively from the dust kicked up by the horses in front of them. Fortescue, the thoughtful commander that he was, changed the line of march so that the lead squadrons changed places for those in the rear from time to time to alleviate this problem. In the centre of the column rode ten mules, carrying two dismantled mountain guns, or, as they were known, ‘screw guns’, so called because they could be screwed together. With well-trained crews, these could be assembled within minutes to fire a 2.5 inch, 7lb explosive or shrapnel shell over a maximum range of 4,000 yards and they were much feared by the tribesmen.
Fonthill noticed, however, that, despite the high reputation that the Guides enjoyed within the Indian army, they, like the rest of the native troops, were issued only with the out-of-date, single-shot Martini-Henryrifles, as used by the British army nearly two decades before in the Zulu War. Only the British regiments serving in India carried the new, quick-firing, ten-shot Lee-Metfords. He reflected ruefully that, with memories of the Mutiny still fresh after forty years, the Raj still did not
quite
trust its native sepoys.
Dawn broke while they were still some seven miles or so from their objective, all riding now, slouched in the saddle, with dry throats and lips and half blinded by the dust that still accompanied them. Simon hoped to God that the outriders remained watchful, for the main column would find it hard to resist a sudden attack. He looked back at the long, weary trail stretching behind him. As far as he could see or hear, there had been not one single rider who had fallen out of the column through the night. Now the sun’s rays were burning through the dust to increase their
At one point, as they dismounted and walked their horses to rest them for a brief spell, Fonthill asked the colonel about the insurgents. Did they have one overall leader on the Frontier?
The CO wiped his brow with a soiled handkerchief and shook his head. ‘They will never be that organised,’ he confided. ‘What I estimate is happening is that this is a jihad – a holy war – and it is being whipped up all along the Border by a series of holy men, preachers – they call ’em mullahs. It like a series of bush fires, yer see, with the flames leapin’ over the passes and running down the valleys from mullah to mullah as though blown by the wind.’
‘The preachers – we know of the one in the Malakand area and we call him the Mad Mullah – will be promising their followers that this is the chance to rid the hills of the infidels once and for all. They will tell ’em that anyone who is killed will go straight to Paradise and be welcomed by houris and lustin’ virgins. So they’ll have absolutely nothing to lose by hurling themselves at our guns. Oh, yes.’ His mouth was set in a grim line. ‘It’s going to be a tough one, this.’
Fonthill drew in a deep breath. The colonel was only a couple of years younger, if that, and certainly seemed stouter and in less goodcondition. Yet the little man was riding as though he was a subaltern.
‘What about reinforcements?’ asked Simon.
‘Well, I have telegraphed down the line to Peshawar and told my commanding officer there that we were on the way and that we would need help. He is organising a larger column, of course, to follow us but it will take time to get it together, so we shall be on our own for a fair bit.’ He grinned again. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, mind you. Chance for glory and promotion, eh what, Fonthill?’
‘Of course, sir. I wish you luck.’
‘Thank you. Wish this bloody moon would go in, though. Makes us exposed. Feel as though I am walkin’ through these hills in me pyjamas.’
So they continued this gruelling ride, pushing mounts and men as far as they could, short of exhaustion. The darkness brought little relief from the heat, despite the altitude, and the troopers in the rear of the column suffered excessively from the dust kicked up by the horses in front of them. Fortescue, the thoughtful commander that he was, changed the line of march so that the lead squadrons changed places for those in the rear from time to time to alleviate this problem. In the centre of the column rode ten mules, carrying two dismantled mountain guns, or, as they were known, ‘screw guns’, so called because they could be screwed together. With well-trained crews, these could be assembled within minutes to fire a 2.5 inch, 7lb explosive or shrapnel shell over a maximum range of 4,000 yards and they were much feared by the tribesmen.
Fonthill noticed, however, that, despite the high reputation that the Guides enjoyed within the Indian army, they, like the rest of the native troops, were issued only with the out-of-date, single-shot Martini-Henryrifles, as used by the British army nearly two decades before in the Zulu War. Only the British regiments serving in India carried the new, quick-firing, ten-shot Lee-Metfords. He reflected ruefully that, with memories of the Mutiny still fresh after forty years, the Raj still did not
quite
trust its native sepoys.
Dawn broke while they were still some seven miles or so from their objective, all riding now, slouched in the saddle, with dry throats and lips and half blinded by the dust that still accompanied them. Simon hoped to God that the outriders remained watchful, for the main column would find it hard to resist a sudden attack. He looked back at the long, weary trail stretching behind him. As far as he could see or hear, there had been not one single rider who had fallen out of the column through the night. Now the sun’s rays were burning through the dust to increase their
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