ON THE FRONTIER IN THE 'FIFTIES.
The Guides were now two years old, and, as an outward and visible sign
that they had won their spurs, they were by the orders of the Government
considerably augmented. Hitherto with one troop and two companies they
had established an honoured record; they were now raised to three troops
of cavalry and six companies of infantry.
To the general historian, who can of necessity deal only with great
events, peace reigned in India from the conclusion of the Sikh Wars to
the outbreak of the Mutiny; but there was no peace for the Guides during
those eight years. Their history is full of hardy adventure, of forced
marches, and night attacks; of the wiles of the border free-lance, met
and overcome with equal strategy and greater skill; of brave deeds and
splendid devotion. The conscientious scribe is tempted to enlarge on
each and all of these; but perhaps our purpose in giving the story of
the Guides will be well enough served if we content ourselves with
taking only two or three of these exploits, thus hoping to throw some
light on the life led by a regiment on the Indian frontier in those
rough days.
Dipping haphazard into the ancient records, we chance again on our old
and gallant friend Fatteh Khan, Khuttuk; and once again we find him a
man not easily taken aback in a sudden emergency. It was towards the end
of 1851 that the British Government, having undertaken the surveying and
mapping out of the Peshawur Valley and Yusafzai, deputed Mr. James, of
the Survey Department, to superintend a portion of the work. For his
protection during this duty, amongst a people fanatically opposed to
anything in the shape of a map or a survey, a party of thirty of the
Guides' cavalry was detailed under Ressaldar Fatteh Khan. This
detachment was ordered to meet Mr. James at a small village named Gujar
Garhi, about two miles from Mardan. Here, therefore, Fatteh Khan
encamped to await the Sahib's arrival; but the day passed, the night
fell, and still there were no signs of him. Thinking that there must
have been some mistake in the dates, all turned in, and the camp was
soon wrapped in slumber, the silence disturbed only by the stamping and
roaring of the stallions at their standings, and by the crisp alert call
of the sentries as they challenged.
It was past midnight, when a sharp-eyed Pathan sentry espied mistily
through the darkness what looked like a large body of mounted men
approaching. Instantly a sharp peremptory challenge rang out: "Halt! Who
goes there?" Equally promptly floated back the answering watchword,
"Friend." "What friend?" the sentry shouted, suspicious still. "Sahib,"
came back the disarming reply. Whereupon the sentry, coming to the not
unnatural conclusion that the long-expected Sahib had at last arrived,
and that he saw before him Mr. James with a large escort, sloped his
sword, and gave the usual right of way: "Pass friend,--all's well."
At this moment Fatteh Khan awoke, and hearing the word _sahib_, jumped
up, ran out of his tent, and hastened down to the end of the camp to
meet the Sahib. He had, however, no sooner arrived there, than he at
once noticed that the advancing horsemen were armed with matchlocks. Now
our own cavalry in those days carried swords and lances, but not
firearms, therefore these midnight visitors could not belong to any
regiments in our service. To a man like Fatteh Khan, born to wars and
alarms, who takes little for granted in daylight and nothing at night,
this was sufficient to place him on his guard. With instant presence of
mind he shouted, in a voice to be heard throughout the camp: "Rouse up
everyone! Draw swords! The enemy are upon us!"
Scarcely had he ceased speaking when the enemy, throwing off further
disguise, gave a yell and dashed at the camp, firing heavily as they
rode. But though taken at a great disadvantage, and with odds of seven
to one against them, the Guides made shift to be ready for the
onslaught. There was naturally no time to get to horse, or into any
regular formation, and therefore the attack had to be met on foot with
sword and lance, in some hasty serviceable formation. Fatteh Khan
therefore shouted to all the non-commissioned officers, who carried
lances, to dash to the front and hold the outskirts of the camp, while
the rank and file who were armed with swords should fall into knots of
five or six, and prepare to defend themselves.
Against this hardy improvised defence the fierce attacks spent
themselves like stormy waves against outstanding rocks; yet as a proof
of the heavy fire, no tent escaped with less than ten or twelve
bullet-holes. When once, however, the first fusillade was over, matters
were on a somewhat more equal basis, for a matchlock cannot be reloaded
on horseback; yet the odds were still great, and it took the Guides all
their time to hold their own. But the surprise, as a surprise, having
failed, the Swati cavalry, finding so stout a resistance, began to
weaken in their endeavour. Catching the tide on the turn, the Guides
dashed forth, and became themselves the attackers, hamstringing the
horses, and so hewing, cutting, and thrusting, that, finding this no
pigeons' nest, but rather a swarm of angry hornets, the whole two
hundred horsemen scattered and fled.
The loss of the Guides in this staunch little affair proved, when all
was over, to have been altogether insignificant; while the enemy on
their part, besides leaving many dead men and horses in camp, carried
off also, as was afterwards ascertained, a goodly number who would never
throw a leg over a horse again. The leader of the attack was the
redoubtable Mukaram Khan, one of the most daring and notable free-lances
on the border.
In consequence of this and other raids it was determined to take
measures, on a considerable scale, to discourage further efforts on the
part of the border tribes. Consequently a brigade of all arms, under Sir
Colin Campbell, moved out from Peshawur, to punish the lawless, and to
exact retribution from those who had erred from the strict path of
peace.
Amongst the various strongholds that were on the black list, and which,
unless they surrendered at discretion, were destined to be attacked,
captured, and sacked, was the Utmankheyl fortified village of Nawadand.
Opposite this the British force sat down with the studied deliberation
of old-time warfare, when contending armies might encamp for weeks and
months within a stone's throw of each other. During this dignified
pause, while doubtless supplies were being collected, and negotiations
proceeding with the enemy, the British outpost line lay in full view of,
and only "one shout's distance," as the Pathans expressively call it,
from the enemy. And outside the line of infantry outposts lay a cavalry
picket of twenty men of the Guides.
Thus it happened that one fine morning, in the month of May, 1852, the
enemy, whether with intent to surprise, or merely fired with the nervous
irritation of one who can no longer stand the strain of awaiting an
impending blow, determined to hasten the issue by taking the offensive.
So collecting his rough and ragged legions, stout of heart and stout of
arm, carrying weapons not meanly to be compared with our own, the outlaw
chief, Ajun Khan, marched out to attack the British, and to take them
unawares in their tents.
The movement was at once reported by the British outposts, but troops
take some few minutes to arm, equip, and form up in line of battle;
while the Affghan border warrior moves with a swiftness that may well
cause panic and dismay. A young subaltern of the Guides, Lieutenant G.N.
Hardinge, seeing how matters were trending, rode out to the outlying
picket of the Guides' cavalry, and there took his stand. It was an
anxious moment. Behind him was the hastily arming camp, humming with the
bustle of preparation; and before him, advancing across the stony plain,
moved a line of skirmishers backed up by closed supports, and followed
by great hordes of shouting warriors.
The motionless troop of the Guides stood foremost to meet the shock. On
came the hardy tribesmen swiftly and relentlessly; but still, as he
looked anxiously back, it was plain to the British subaltern that his
comrades were not yet armed to meet the coming storm. "We can only give
them one minute more," he said, and stout and steady came the answer:
"Yes, your Honour, one minute more." And as they spoke each stalwart
trooper gripped his sword still tighter and, shortening his reins, laid
the flat of his thigh hard on his wiry neighing stallion; for as of old,
so now, the war-horse scented the battle from afar.
The time passed very slowly, a minute seeming an eternity to the
impatient soldiers. Fifteen seconds--twenty seconds--thirty
seconds--for--ty-five seconds--six--ty!
"Carry swords," in a serene and conversational voice remarked the young
subaltern; equally smoothly and quietly came the order, "Walk, march."
Then, as the troop moved forward, followed the slightly more animated
command, "Trot"; and as the excitement of coming conflict coursed with
the wild exuberance of youth through the boy's veins, "Gallop! Charge!"
he yelled, and back came an answering shout, "Fear not, Sahib, we are
with you!" And thus was launched on the flood of death a little band of
heroes, that they might save an army.
But ever since the day when David slew Goliath, the God of Battles has
not always sided with the big battalions. A few staunch hearts hurled
fearlessly at the foe may still, like the ancient slinger's stone, lay
low the giant. So on this occasion the effect of the bold attack was
magical. Through the thin line of skirmishers, heedless of the
spluttering fire, went the troop, like a round shot through a paper
screen, and fell like yelling furies on the clumps of swordsmen,
pikemen, and any-weapon-men, who formed the supports. These they killed
and wounded and scattered like chaff to the wind. And then,--their
mission was accomplished! The enemy's advancing masses wavered, halted,
hesitation and dismay replacing the confident sling-trot of a few
minutes before. The surprise had failed, the camp was saved. Then
Hardinge, his work accomplished, himself sore wounded, the enemy's
standard in his hands, rallied his pursuing troop, and clearing to a
flank left displayed the British force drawn up and ready to receive all
comers.
To see the right moment and to seize it, to balance the profit and loss,
counting one's own life as a feather in the scales, to strike hard and
bold whatever the odds,--such are a few simple soldier lessons, learnt
not from the scribes, but from a gallant British subaltern.
* * * * *
While Lieutenant Lumsden was in England in 1853 the command of the
Guides was given to Lieutenant W.S.R. Hodson. This book would not be
complete without relating the story of at any rate one of the many
occasions on which this gallant officer, afterwards so famous, showed
his fine metal. The fight about to be described was one, too, in which
the many brave and devoted officers who have been surgeons to the corps
have displayed the greatest gallantry.
For high crimes and misdemeanours it was decided to punish the large and
important cluster of villages named Bori, in the land of the Jowaki
Afridis, not far from the present military station of Cherat. A brigade
of all arms, consisting of the 22nd Foot, 20th Punjab Infantry, 66th
Gurkhas (now the 1st Gurkha Rifles), the Corps of Guides, a squadron of
Irregular Cavalry, some 9-pounder guns on elephants, and a company of
Sappers, the whole under Colonel S.B. Boileau, was detailed for the
undertaking. The Bori villages lay in the valley of the same name
enclosed by high and rugged mountains, making both ingress and egress in
face of practised mountaineers a most difficult operation.
The advance was led by the Guides, who, themselves active as panthers in
the hills, drove the Afridis before them through the Bori villages and
up the precipitous mountains behind. The main body then set to work to
burn and destroy the villages with all the food and fodder therein, and
to drive off the cattle. So far, as is often the case in fighting these
mountaineers, all had gone well; but now came the crucial time. Afridis
may be driven all day like mountain sheep, but when the night begins to
fall, and their tired pursuers commence of necessity to draw back to
lower levels for food and rest, then this redoubtable foe rises in all
his strength, and with sword and gun and huge boulder hurls himself like
a demon on his retiring enemy.
At one of the furthest points ahead was Lieutenant F. McC. Turner, who
with about thirty men of the Guides had driven a very much superior
force of the enemy into a stone breastwork at the top of a high peak.
Here the British officer was held; not an inch could he advance; and now
he was called upon to conform with the general movement for retirement.
To retire, placed as he was, meant practical annihilation, so sticking
to the rocks like a limpet he blew a bugle calling for reinforcement.
Hodson, who himself was faced by great odds, seeing the serious position
of his friend, sent across all the men he could afford to extricate him,
but these were not strong enough to effect their purpose. Then it was
that Dr. R. Lyell, the surgeon of the Guides, took on himself to carry
forward the much needed succour. In reserve lying near him was the
Gurkha company of the Guides, and also a company of the 66th Gurkhas
under a native officer. Taking these troops, with great dash and
personal gallantry he led them to the attack, drove back the already
exulting enemy, stormed their position, and extricated Lieutenant Turner
and his party from their perilous position. It was a noble deed, nobly
and gallantly carried out; and when it had been achieved, the brave
fighter returned to the tender care of the wounded, and to alleviate
the pains of the dying.
And now Hodson had got together the threads of his retirement, and using
one to help the other, gradually and slowly drew back, covering the
brigade with a net of safety. Thus quietly falling back, and meeting
wild charges with ball and bayonet, he kept the open valley till all the
force had safely passed the defile of exit. Then, while the last of his
infantry got safely to commanding posts on the lower slopes, he himself,
with the ready resource of the born fighter, changed his game, and from
the patient rôle of the steady infantry commander, became a cavalry
leader. Mounting his horse and calling on the Guides' cavalry to follow
him, he suddenly charged the astonished enemy, and hurling them back
with slaughter secured for the rest of his men a peaceful retirement.
But before they laid themselves on the hard ground, this paladin of the
fight and his staunch warriors had spent eighteen hours in desperate
warfare with little food and no water.
So far as the records show this was the first occasion on which Hodson
had led a cavalry charge, and was an auspicious opening to a cavalry
career of remarkable brilliancy,--a career which was brought to a brave,
but untimely end, only four years later before the walls of Lucknow.
Amongst other historic figures who watched this fight, and who added
their generous meed of praise, were John Lawrence, the saviour of the
Punjab, who later, as Lord Lawrence, was Viceroy of India, Major Herbert
Edwardes, now Commissioner of Peshawur, who as a subaltern had won two
pitched battles before Mooltan, and Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Napier,
afterwards Lord Napier of Magdala and Commander-in-Chief of the Army in
India.