discomfort.
He exchanged glances with Jenkins, riding at his side. Unlike most everyone else in the column, the Welshman still rode impeccably erect in the saddle, but his eyes were red-rimmed and weary. He wiped his moustache to rid it of the dust. ‘I could do with a beer,’ he muttered. ‘Should ’ave put some o’ that Indian light ale in me canteen before we set off. This water’s fair boilin’.’
Too tired to speak, Fonthill nodded.
‘When we get there,’ continued Jenkins. ‘What d’yer think? Are we just goin’ to charge them ten thousand black fellers? Wavin’ our swords an’ that – though, mind you, we ain’t got any, now, ’ave we?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t try to use your rifle,’ he croaked. ‘These rifle buckets are meant for Martini-Henry carbines. Our rifles are too long for them and they’ll jolt out if we gallop. So tie ’em to the saddle. And, if we do charge, use your revolver only.’
‘Ah, very good, bach sir. An’ you remember, if we do charge, grip tightly with yer knees an’ stay low. I’ll be at your side.’
‘I know. As always.’
Fonthill allowed his horse to slip back until he was able to fall in with Lieutenant Buckingham, leading his troop with Inderjit Singh by his side. The subaltern touched his helmet in a weary salute. ‘Tough going, eh, sir?’
Simon nodded. ‘Not exactly a hack down Rotten Row. How are your men?’
The young man grinned through the dust coating his face. ‘Oh, they’re topping. D’yer agree,
daffadar
?’
The Sikh returned the grin. ‘Oh yes, Sahib. Just a jolly little ride through the hills. With a nice charge and gallop to finish, yes?’
‘Good Lord,’ said Simon. ‘You sound just like your father. Tell me Inderjit, do you remember him well?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I can see him now telling me to keep my left elbow up when I try to play with straight bat. “Keep it up”, he would cry, “then the ball go straight back past bally bowler for four”.’
Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can hear him now, too.’ All three fell silent for a moment. Then Simon asked of Buckingham: ‘Have you ever been in a cavalry charge before, Duke? I mean – one in anger, not just in training?’
For a moment, the young man dropped his eyes and licked his lips. ‘Not exactly, sir,’ he said. Then, looking up, ‘But I’m looking forward to it. Must be exciting, I would think.’
‘Oh, very. I must remember not to fall off.’ Simon touched his once white pith helmet, now stained a very deep khaki by the dust. ‘Well, good luck to you two. I hope to see you later.’
As the morning wore on, Fonthill pulled out his pocket watch. It was seven-forty-five. They must be near now, for the road was getting steeper and climbing towards the Pass. And, indeed, within minutes a faint sound from up ahead – distant firing.
‘Thank God for that,’ cried Fortescue, reining in. ‘They’re still there and defending the place by the sound of it.’ A palpable sense of relief ran through the leading squadrons. ‘Bugler,’ called the colonel. ‘Sound officers to the front.’ He turned to his second in command. ‘George, the pickets need relieving so that they can breakfast, but I want to brief the reliefs before they go out. Have them report to me. Quickly now, we may not have much time. Fonthill, stay close to me with your chap.’
Within seconds, it seemed all of the officers had cantered to the head of the column and gathered round the colonel.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I hope and trust there have been no dropouts while in column. Report please.’
Each troop commander reported negatively.
‘Splendid. As was to be expected. Now, listen carefully.’ The little man eased himself forward in the saddle. ‘We will break here for breakfast and to feed the horses. No more than thirty minutes, but we shall need that after our long ride. Then we shall move up towards the pass at Malakand. There was
He exchanged glances with Jenkins, riding at his side. Unlike most everyone else in the column, the Welshman still rode impeccably erect in the saddle, but his eyes were red-rimmed and weary. He wiped his moustache to rid it of the dust. ‘I could do with a beer,’ he muttered. ‘Should ’ave put some o’ that Indian light ale in me canteen before we set off. This water’s fair boilin’.’
Too tired to speak, Fonthill nodded.
‘When we get there,’ continued Jenkins. ‘What d’yer think? Are we just goin’ to charge them ten thousand black fellers? Wavin’ our swords an’ that – though, mind you, we ain’t got any, now, ’ave we?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t try to use your rifle,’ he croaked. ‘These rifle buckets are meant for Martini-Henry carbines. Our rifles are too long for them and they’ll jolt out if we gallop. So tie ’em to the saddle. And, if we do charge, use your revolver only.’
‘Ah, very good, bach sir. An’ you remember, if we do charge, grip tightly with yer knees an’ stay low. I’ll be at your side.’
‘I know. As always.’
Fonthill allowed his horse to slip back until he was able to fall in with Lieutenant Buckingham, leading his troop with Inderjit Singh by his side. The subaltern touched his helmet in a weary salute. ‘Tough going, eh, sir?’
Simon nodded. ‘Not exactly a hack down Rotten Row. How are your men?’
The young man grinned through the dust coating his face. ‘Oh, they’re topping. D’yer agree,
daffadar
?’
The Sikh returned the grin. ‘Oh yes, Sahib. Just a jolly little ride through the hills. With a nice charge and gallop to finish, yes?’
‘Good Lord,’ said Simon. ‘You sound just like your father. Tell me Inderjit, do you remember him well?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I can see him now telling me to keep my left elbow up when I try to play with straight bat. “Keep it up”, he would cry, “then the ball go straight back past bally bowler for four”.’
Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can hear him now, too.’ All three fell silent for a moment. Then Simon asked of Buckingham: ‘Have you ever been in a cavalry charge before, Duke? I mean – one in anger, not just in training?’
For a moment, the young man dropped his eyes and licked his lips. ‘Not exactly, sir,’ he said. Then, looking up, ‘But I’m looking forward to it. Must be exciting, I would think.’
‘Oh, very. I must remember not to fall off.’ Simon touched his once white pith helmet, now stained a very deep khaki by the dust. ‘Well, good luck to you two. I hope to see you later.’
As the morning wore on, Fonthill pulled out his pocket watch. It was seven-forty-five. They must be near now, for the road was getting steeper and climbing towards the Pass. And, indeed, within minutes a faint sound from up ahead – distant firing.
‘Thank God for that,’ cried Fortescue, reining in. ‘They’re still there and defending the place by the sound of it.’ A palpable sense of relief ran through the leading squadrons. ‘Bugler,’ called the colonel. ‘Sound officers to the front.’ He turned to his second in command. ‘George, the pickets need relieving so that they can breakfast, but I want to brief the reliefs before they go out. Have them report to me. Quickly now, we may not have much time. Fonthill, stay close to me with your chap.’
Within seconds, it seemed all of the officers had cantered to the head of the column and gathered round the colonel.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I hope and trust there have been no dropouts while in column. Report please.’
Each troop commander reported negatively.
‘Splendid. As was to be expected. Now, listen carefully.’ The little man eased himself forward in the saddle. ‘We will break here for breakfast and to feed the horses. No more than thirty minutes, but we shall need that after our long ride. Then we shall move up towards the pass at Malakand. There was
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