AFGHANISTAN.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
The Seventeenth Hussars were duly forwarded to the frontier, and found
that their final destination was Dabaule, where there was a good supply
of grass and water for their horses.
Owing to the approach of winter, there was an utter stagnation of
military operations, and in spite of occasional small raids on,
and from, the neighbouring Afridis, the time passed monotonously
enough. The weather was cold and cheerless, but the officers of the
Seventeenth, headed by their junior major, did their very best to
provide exercise and entertainment for their men and for the camp in
general.
Football, hockey, penny readings, and theatricals were set going
with remarkable success, and helped to repel the encroachments of
idleness and _ennui_. The surrounding scenery was quite different to
the tiresome succession of parallel ridges presented by the ranges
near the frontier. Here hill and valley were thrown together in the
most admirable confusion, and clothed with short stunted shrubs and
wild olives; gloomy pine-woods marked out some of the hills in bold
black relief; the distant mountains were capped with snow, and the
cold at times was most intense. During the suspension of hostilities
there was ample leisure for correspondence, and letter-writing was a
frequent resource on a dull gray afternoon. The following is one of Sir
Reginald’s contributions to the mail-bag, written on his knee by the
light of a small bull’s-eye lantern in the retirement of his seven-foot
tent:
“Camp Dabaule.
“MY DEAR MARK,
“It is not my fault that there has been such a tremendous gap in our
correspondence. I have written to you again and again, and I once more
seize the opportunity of the mail-dâk passing through to send you a
few lines, and hope they will meet with a better fate than my other
effusions, not one of which appears to have reached you, judging by
your incendiary letter. Doubtless they are in the hands of those
beggars the Afridis, who rob the mails and cut the telegraph-wires
continually. We are all flourishing--men in good spirits, horses in
capital condition; the only thing we ask is to be up and doing. Cold
weather has closed the passes to a great extent, and there is nothing
whatever going on. To come into our camp you would never dream that
you were in an enemy’s country, we have made ourselves so completely
at home, although our accommodation is not magnificent. We have all
small hill-tents, weighing about eighty pounds, in which there is
just room enough to turn round, and no more. We all wear thick fur
coats, called poshteens, and fur caps, quite the Canadian style. You
would have some difficulty in recognising me, I can tell you, were you
told to pick me out from among a dozen of fellows sitting round our
favourite rendezvous--the camp-fire. There is snow on the ranges all
round, and we have lots of ice without troubling the ice-machines, but
hot grog is more the fashion than iced champagne.
“We arrived here six weeks ago, _viâ_ the Khan Pass, and brought in,
among other prisoners, Hadji Khan, a notorious robber and unmitigated
rascal. We have him in camp now. He has the most diabolical expression
I ever beheld; nevertheless, the length and frequency of his prayers
are absolutely astounding. He spends more than half the day on his
marrow-bones, no doubt consigning us, in all generations, to Gehenna,
if you know where that is?
“The Afghans, take them all in all, are a fine-looking set of
men, with bigger frames and fairer skins than the natives of
sunny Hindostan. Their physiognomy is decidedly of the Jewish
caste--piercing black eyes and hooked noses, set off by a resolute,
not to say savage, expression of death and extermination to all the
Feringhees!
“Now, this cold weather, they are wrapped in poshteens, with or
without sleeves, of very dubious cleanliness. A good serviceable
garment descends from generation to generation. An enormous dark-blue
puggaree encircling a little red cap forms their turban. But the
headman of a village, in a richly-embroidered poshteen, ‘the woolly
side in,’ like the immortal Brian O’Lynn--magnificent gold and
blue turban, and long silver-mounted matchlock, is as handsome and
picturesque a looking fellow as you could wish to see.
“I have not as yet had an opportunity of beholding an Afghan
lady. Some of the common women labour in the fields unveiled, a
weather-beaten, bold-looking set, but the lady of the period conceals
her charms behind a long white arrangement, that covers her from head
to foot, like a sheet; two holes cut for her eyes, and covered with
white net, give her a most ghostly and ghastly appearance. She looks
like a she-‘familiar’ of the time of the Inquisition.
“We have a capital mess here, and to find such a dinner as our head
kansamah serves up, after whetting our appetites by a twenty-mile
ride, is a joy no words can express. After the snows break up we
are sure to have a short bout of fighting, and then the campaign
will be over. The English charger I got in Bombay has turned out
first-class--as hard as nails and up to any amount of work. Many
thanks to Helen for the Cardigan jacket and mittens. My love to her
and the _Limbs_.
“Yours as ever,
“R. M. FAIRFAX.”
In April there was a general move on. The camp at Dabaule was broken
up, and everyone was delighted to stretch themselves, as it were, and
resume the line of march.
Very shortly afterwards a severe engagement took place between the
brigade and a large body of Afghans. It resulted in the total defeat
of the latter. Their loss amounted to one thousand, whilst the
English force had only three hundred killed and wounded. The Afghans
occupied a large plateau protected by walls of loose stones, and held
an extremely strong position. The English brigade consisted of the
Seventeenth Hussars, Fifth Goorkhas, Twenty-seventh N. I., Fortieth
Sikhs, and a battery of artillery. The enemy behaved with the most
determined courage, rabble horde as they were; some merely armed with
long knives and yataghans, some carrying the dear familiar Jazail, and
some--oh, proud and happy men!--the British Enfield rifle. They were
led by a man on a powerful black horse, who wore a prodigious green
turban, and had his face whitened with ashes or some such substance.
He was a very holy moolah, and harangued the multitude with an energy
and vehemence only surpassed by his wild and frenzied gesticulations.
Beside him stood his standard-bearer, carrying a large green flag with
a red border and red inscription; and in spite of a heavy fire from the
infantry, this enormous force of undisciplined fanatics advanced with
the utmost steadiness and resolution. The order to charge was given
to the hussars, who bore down like a whirlwind, led by Sir Reginald
Fairfax--the colonel was _hors de combat_ with typhoid fever--who,
mounted on a gallant English thoroughbred, cleared the low wall, and
was soon laying about him in all directions.
He wrested the standard from the hands of its bearer, and striking him
a tremendous blow with its iron pole, laid him low, but was speedily
surrounded by some furious fanatics, resolved to regain their colours
at any cost. His horse was shot under him; however, quickly disengaging
himself, sword in hand, and still grasping the green flag, he made
a valiant stand against half-a-dozen moolahs, with his back to some
broken masonry. It would have gone hard with him had not some of his
men charged down to his rescue and beaten off the moolahs, who in
another moment would have made a vacancy in the Seventeenth Hussars
and left Lady Fairfax a widow. Rid of his immediate adversaries, Sir
Reginald seized a riderless horse, and making over the standard to a
gunner, was soon pursuing the flying enemy, who, unable to withstand
the cavalry charge, had wavered, broken, and fled; being, moreover,
utterly demoralised by the loss of their standard, which they looked
upon as their “oriflamme,” and as a kind of holy talisman, the
very sight of which alone would make the hearts of the Feringhees
quail. So much had been promised on its behalf by an aged fakir,
who had delivered it over to his countrymen with many prayers and
profound solemnity. And it was gone--taken from their very midst by a
black-hearted Kaffir, who fought like the Prince of Darkness himself.
The flying Afghans, scattered all over the plain, were pursued and
ridden down by the cavalry; but the prize all sought to capture--the
fakir on the black Turcoman--set every effort at defiance, and, thanks
to his magnificent horse, effected his escape with almost provoking
ease. Yaboos, laden with dead Afghans, were driven off the field with
miraculous celerity, and within an hour from the firing of the first
shot the plain was deserted.
For the capture of the standard “and displaying conspicuous gallantry
on the field of action,” Sir Reginald was recommended for the Victoria
Cross, a distinction his friends granted him ungrudgingly.
He was a born soldier, that was very evident. The Fairfaxes had always
had a drop of wild blood in their veins. With him it took the form of
fighting, instead of--as in his ancestors’ times--dicing, drinking,
and duelling. His men worshipped him, and would willingly have followed
him at any time and to any place, were it to the very gates of Hades
itself.
“It’s the good old blood that tells in the long run,” remarked a
trooper to his comrade over his beer and pipe. “Such a glutton for
fighting as this ’ere major of ours I never did see.”
At any rate, whatever was the reason, such an officer in camp and such
a leader in the field inspired their utmost devotion and enthusiasm.
* * * * *
Although Hafiz Khan and his hordes were defeated and dispersed, they
speedily rallied sufficiently to be a ceaseless thorn in the flesh to
the brigade now permanently encamped within a few miles of the late
scene of action. Hafiz was a striking illustration of the saying,
“He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.” He was
a fakir--exceptionally holy, having made the blessed pilgrimage no
less than thrice--notorious alike for his zealous piety as for his
abhorrence of the accursed Kaffir. Scandal whispered that he had not
_always_ been such a devoted servant of the Prophet; that for years
he lived in ill-odour among his neighbours, owing to his constant
appropriation of their flocks and herds. Whatever may have been the
truth, he was now an ardent patriot, and preyed on the Feringhees
instead of on his friends. He was a most daring and successful raider,
and covered himself with glory, notably on one occasion when he carried
off seven hundred head of cattle from Jellalabad.
He cut off more convoys and slaughtered more grass-cutters and
camel-drivers than any other leader between Cabul and the Khyber; and
his depredations were so secretly and skilfully carried out, that his
very name alone inspired the stoutest-hearted camp-follower with terror.
Invariably mounted on his superb black Turcoman, he gave chase or
effected his retreat with a speed that set everything at defiance. His
horse was known by the name of “Shaitan,” and was supposed to be in
direct communication with the Evil One, being imported expressly from
the lower regions for the purpose of hunting down the infidels. The
rider of this desirable mount was an elderly thick-set man, wearing
a gigantic green turban, so large as almost to conceal his features.
Still his hooked nose, fierce hawk eye, and bushy beard were visible;
and the treacherous, cruel, malignant expression of his face was such
as a devil might have envied. Armed with a pair of horse-pistols and a
formidable yataghan, he headed a band of followers varying from fifty
to two thousand, and infested an area of many miles in extent. His
patriotic zeal had no bounds; he was known to have recently butchered
an entire village, merely because the headman had supplied (under
strong pressure) cattle and grain to the English commissariat; in
short, his name far and near was a byword for ferocity and fanaticism.
* * * * *
One evening, Sir Reginald and his two friends, Captain Vaughan and Mr.
Harvey, went for a short ride in the neighbourhood of their camp, the
former mounted on his first charger, an unusually large, powerful Arab,
the two latter on stout Yarkundi ponies. All were clad in Karki suits,
and carried (a most necessary precaution) revolvers in their belts. The
country around was reported clear. Hafiz and his faction were said to
be miles away. Certainly nothing had been heard of them for two whole
days. It was a lovely evening, and tempted by the odd wild scenery
they extended their ride farther than they had previously intended. At
sunset they found themselves close by a straggling Mohammedan cemetery,
whose large square tombs were thickly crowded together, some of them
richly carved, some of them poor and plain. The graveyard was planted
with magnificent cypresses, now casting long, long shadows in the
setting sun. A solemn melancholy silence hung around the place; even
the mud hovel, usually inhabited by the guardian fakir, was empty--a
huge Afghan dog, with closely-cropped ears and tail, lay in front of
the open doorway, sleeping on his post.
“Do you know that they say there is a Christian grave somewhere quite
close to this?” said Sir Reginald, looking round. “I wonder they buried
him so near to these people,” nodding his head in the direction of the
cemetery.
“Yes,” returned Mr. Harvey; “but it was probably done with an idea that
he would like some company.”
“Defend me from the company of an Afghan, dead or alive,” returned his
brother-officer, walking his horse on to where he commanded a view of
the fourth side of the graveyard. His two friends followed him, and
another second brought in sight a grave and plain stone cross, about
a hundred yards to their right. Standing beside it was the fakir,
in close and earnest conversation with no less a person than Hafiz
himself--Hafiz, mounted as usual on his black Turcoman, and _alone_!
Both had their backs turned to the cemetery, and stood facing the
setting sun, deeply absorbed in conversation, which they emphasized
from time to time with vehement and almost frenzied gesticulation.
Evidently they were hatching some evil deed.
“Hafiz, by all that is lucky!” exclaimed Sir Reginald, drawing out his
revolver and putting his horse into a sharp canter. But between him and
the fakirs ran a deep nullah, and ere he reached its bank they were
both aware of the presence of the three hussars.
Hafiz paused for a second to glare at the intruders, then raising one
arm to heaven, with a loud invocation to Allah, he turned and spat
on the cross beneath him with a gesture of the utmost abhorrence and
contempt, and wheeling his horse half round, with a derisive farewell
to his foes, he started off at full gallop. This outrageous insult to
their faith and nation affected the three Englishmen variously. Captain
Vaughan, who was of rather full habit, became absolutely purple with
passion; Mr. Harvey relieved his feelings with several round oaths; Sir
Reginald said nothing, but his lips tightened under his dark moustache
in a way that was ominous enough. With a vicious dig of the spurs he
forced his horse down the rugged sides of the nullah, up the opposite
bank, and away across the plain in hot pursuit of the holy man. The two
Yarkundis, urged to the very top of their speed, joined neck and neck
in the chase for a short distance, but endurance, not pace, was their
_forte_, and they soon ceased to answer to the repeated applications of
their riders’ spurs and Annamullay canes, and began to lag behind the
free-going Arab.
“It’s no use, Fairfax,” shouted Captain Vaughan, pulling up; “you’ll
never overtake him.”
“I will!” he returned, looking back for a second. “I’ll catch him and
kill him, if I follow him to Candahar.”
His friends’ remonstrances were given to the winds; he had already
distanced them by a hundred yards, and soon he and the far-receding
fakir became mere specks in the distance, and rounding the spur of a
hill, were completely lost to sight.
The two officers waited impatiently for the sound of shots, but the
silence that reigned around them remained unbroken, save for the
distant cry of the jackal setting out on his nightly career, and
seeming to say more distinctly than usual: “I smell dead white men, I
smell dead white men.”
The whistle of a kite sailing homewards was the only other sound that
broke the dead surrounding stillness. The sun had set; ten minutes
previously it had vanished below the horizon in the shape of a little
red speck; gray twilight was rapidly spreading her mantle over hills
and plains, and our two friends, finding they had completely lost sight
of their hot-headed companion, reluctantly turned their ponies’ heads
homewards, and retailed their adventure to their comrades round the
camp-fire. These listened to it with many interruptions of surprise and
dismay.
“Fairfax was splendidly mounted; that Arab of his was one of the best
horses out of Abdul Rahman’s stables, that’s some comfort,” remarked
one.
“Yes, he was evidently gaining on the Turcoman when we saw the last of
him,” returned Mr. Harvey; “but, for all we know, Fairfax has galloped
straight into the Afghan camp.”
“I had no idea he was such a Quixotic fool,” growled a grizzly-headed
colonel, angrily kicking the logs in front of him. “It would not
surprise _me_ if we never saw him again.”
Some said one thing, some another, but all agreed in feeling very grave
uneasiness on behalf of their brother-officer.
The mess-bugle sounded and was responded to, dinner was disposed of,
and still Fairfax did not appear. Meanwhile Sir Reginald, once lost
to sight, had been, as Mr. Harvey remarked, overtaking Hafiz at every
stride. The Turcoman had done a long day’s march, and, though urged by
his rider to great exertions, was no match for the well-bred Arab in
his wake. The distance between them diminished gradually but surely.
The black horse was only leading by thirty yards when Hafiz turned
and glanced over his shoulder. It _was_, as he had fancied, the very
selfsame Kaffir who had taken the sacred standard. They were within
half a mile of the Rohilla headquarters, and Allah had surely given
him over for a prey into his hand. But his horse was failing, and the
Feringhee would soon be at his girths. Best finish the matter at once.
Reining up suddenly, he faced the approaching horseman with astonishing
celerity, and drawing a pistol, which he aimed for half a second, he
fired at him point-blank. The bullet missed its intended destination
and buried itself deep in the brain of the Arab charger, who with one
frantic convulsive bound fell forward dead on the sand, and the fakir,
with drawn yataghan, charged down on the dismounted hussar, determined
to have his life.
But, Hafiz, your evil star was in the ascendant. Had you but known, you
would have been far wiser to have ridden off and left your foe to find
his way back to camp on foot, and to take his chance of being murdered
by your prowling countrymen.
With an expression of fiendish hatred the fakir rode at Sir Reginald,
his uplifted weapon ready to descend with fatal effect. But he had to
contend with a man of half his age and ten times his activity, who
sprang at him and seized his arm, and in so doing broke the force of
the blow, which, instead of sweeping off our hero’s head, as intended,
merely inflicted a flesh wound in his shoulder, and before Hafiz had
time to recover himself, a bullet from Sir Reginald’s revolver found
a lodging in his breast. Swaying heavily backwards and forwards, his
powerless hands dropped reins and weapon, and he fell from his saddle
like a sack; and our hussar, catching the Turcoman by the bridle and
disengaging his late master from the stirrup, sprang on his back,
turned his head in the direction of the English camp, and rode off at
the top of his speed.
His practised ear had caught the sounds of approaching hoofs, attracted
doubtless by the shots; but still he had a start of fully a quarter
of a mile, and made the very most of it. Infuriated Pathans rode hard
upon his track, and it was not till he was well within the lines of
the English picket, and saw their camp-fires blazing, that he ventured
to draw rein and allow the exhausted Turcoman to proceed at a walk. It
does not often happen to a horse to have to carry two successive riders
flying for their lives within the same hour. Shaitan’s drooping head
and heaving sides bore witness to a hard day’s work, as he was led by
his new owner within the bright circle of light thrown by the officers’
camp-fire.
Exclamations, remonstrances, and questions were volleyed at Sir
Reginald as once more he stood among his friends, bare-headed and
ghastly pale, with the bridle of the notorious black charger hanging
over one arm. Very brief were the answers he vouchsafed to half-a-dozen
simultaneous interrogations.
“Hafiz was badly wounded, if not dead. He was not likely to trouble
them for some time, if ever; his own charger was lying on the plain
with a bullet in his brain, and affording a fine supper for the
jackals. Yes, he had had to ride for it coming back, and the black was
pretty well done.” Here, as he came nearer to the logs, it was seen
that one sleeve of his Karki coat was soaked in blood. Questions were
immediately at an end, and he was hurried off by the doctor to have his
wounds looked to, in spite of his urgent disclaimers and assurances
“that it was a mere scratch.”
The Turcoman, the sight of which acted on the Afghans as a red rag to
a turkey-cock, soon became accustomed to an English bit and an English
rider, and made his new master a most valuable second charger. Many
were the attempts to recover him, to shoot him, to get him from his
abhorred Kaffir owner at any price, but all efforts were futile, he was
much too well guarded. When Sir Reginald was invalided home, he was
sent down to Bombay with his other horses, and sold for a very high
price to a hard-riding Member of Council; and doubtless the destination
of the once feared and honoured “evil one” will be to end his days in a
Bombay buggy.