While the infantry of both brigades remained halted at Ghosam, near
Manda, the cavalry made daily reconnaissances in all directions.
Sometimes the object in view was topographical, sometimes military,
and at others diplomatic, or to use the Indian application of the term,
"political."
On the 10th, Major Deane visited the various chiefs in the Jandul
Valley. I asked and obtained permission to accompany him. A change from
the hot and dusty camp was agreeable to all who could be spared, and
quite a party was formed, among whom were some whose names have occurred
previously in these pages--Major Beatson, Major Hobday, and Lord
Fincastle. A squadron of the 11th Bengal Lancers acted as escort.
The valley of the Jandul is about eight miles long and perhaps half as
broad. It opens out of the main valley, which extends from the Panjkora
to Nawagai, and is on all other sides surrounded by high and precipitous
mountains. The bed of the river, although at the time of our visit
occupied only by a small stream, is nearly half a mile broad and
bordered by rice fields, to which the water is conducted by many
artfully contrived dykes and conduits. The plain itself is arid and
sandy, but at the winter season yields a moderate crop. The presence of
water below the surface is attested by numerous groves of chenar trees.
This valley may, in natural and political features, be taken as typical
of the Afghan valleys. Seven separate castles formed the strongholds of
seven separate khans. Some of these potentates had been implicated in
the attack on the Malakand, and our visit to their fastnesses was not
wholly of an amicable nature. They had all four days before been
bound by the most sacred oaths to fight to the death. The great tribal
combination had, however, broken up, and at the last moment they had
decided upon peace. But the Pathan does nothing by halves. No black
looks, no sullen reserve, marred the geniality of their welcome. As we
approached the first fortified village the sovereign and his army rode
out to meet us, and with many protestations of fidelity, expressed his
joy at our safe arrival. He was a fine-looking man and sat well on a
stamping roan stallion. His dress was imposing. A waistcoat of gorgeous
crimson, thickly covered with gold lace, displayed flowing sleeves of
white linen, buttoned at the wrist. Long, loose, baggy, linen trousers,
also fastened above the ankle, and curiously pointed shoes clothed his
nether limbs. This striking costume was completed by a small skull-cap,
richly embroidered, and an ornamental sabre.
He sprang from his horse with grace and agility, to offer his sword to
Major Deane, who bade him mount and ride with him. The army, four or
five rascally-looking men on shaggy ponies, and armed with rifles of
widely different patterns, followed at a distance. The fort was an
enclosure about a hundred yards square. Its walls were perhaps twenty
feet high and built of rough stones plastered together with mud and
interspersed with courses of timber. All along the top was a row
of loopholes. At each corner a tall flanking tower enfiladed the
approaches. At the gate of this warlike residence some twenty or thirty
tribesmen were gathered, headed by the khan's own cousin, an elderly man
dressed in long white robes. All saluted us gravely. The escort closed
up. A troop trotted off to the right out of the line fire of the fort.
The advance scouts, passing round the walls, formed on the farther
side. These matters of detail complied with, conversation began. It was
conducted in Pushtu, and was naturally unintelligible to every one of
our party except the two political officers. Apparently Major Deane
reproached the two chiefs for their conduct. He accused them of having
seized the bridge across the Panjkora and delivered the passage to
the fanatic crowds that had gathered to attack the Malakand. This they
admitted readily enough. "Well, why not?" said they; "there was a good
fair fight." Now they would make peace. They bore no malice, why should
the Sirkar?
It was not, however, possible to accept this sportsmanlike view of the
situation. They were asked where were the rifles they had been ordered
to surrender. At this they looked blank. There were no rifles. There
never had been any rifles. Let the soldiers search the fort and see
for themselves. The order was given; three or four sowars drew their
carbines, dismounted and entered the great and heavy gate, which had
been suspiciously opened a little way.
The gate gave access to a small courtyard, commanded on every side by an
interior defence. In front was a large low room of uncertain dimensions:
a kind of guard-house. It simply hummed with men. The outer walls were
nearly five feet thick and would have resisted the fire of mountain
guns. It was a strong place.
The Lancers, accustomed to the operation of hunting for arms, hurriedly
searched the likely and usual places, but without success. One thing,
however, they noticed, which they immediately reported. There were no
women and children in the fort. This had a sinister aspect. Our visit
was unexpected and had taken them by surprise, but they were prepared
for all emergencies. They had hidden their rifles and cleared for
action.
The two chiefs smiled in superior virtue. Of course there were no
rifles. But matters took, for them, an unexpected turn. They had no
rifles--said Major Deane--very well, they should come themselves.
He turned to an officer of the Lancers; a section rode forward and
surrounded both men. Resistance was useless. Flight was impossible.
They were prisoners. Yet they behaved with Oriental composure and calmly
accepted the inevitable. They ordered their ponies and, mounting, rode
behind us under escort.
We pursued our way up the valley. As we approached each fort, a khan
and his retainers advanced and greeted us. Against these there was no
definite charge, and the relations throughout were amicable. At the
head of the valley is Barwa, the home of the most powerful of these
princelets. This fort had belonged to Umra Khan, and attested, by
superiority of construction, the intellectual development of that
remarkable man. After the Chitral expedition it had been given by
the Government to its present owner, who, bitterly hated by the other
chieftains of the valley, his near relatives mostly, had no choice but
loyalty to the British. He received us with courtesy and invited us to
enter and see the fort. This, after taking all precautions and posting
sentries, we did. It was the best specimen of Afghan architecture I have
seen. In this very fort Lieutenants Fowler and Edwards were confined in
1895, when the prisoners of Umra Khan. The new chief showed their room
which opened on a balcony, whence a fine view of the whole valley
could be obtained. There are many worse places of durance. The fort
is carefully defended and completely commands the various approaches.
Judicious arrangements of loopholes and towers cover all dead ground.
Inside the walls galleries of brushwood enabled the defenders to fire
without exposing themselves. In the middle is the keep, which, if
Fortune were adverse, would be the last stronghold of the garrison.
What a strange system of society is disclosed by all this! Here was this
man, his back against the mountains, maintaining himself against the
rest of the valley, against all his kin, with the fear of death and the
chances of war ever in his mind, and holding his own, partly by force
of arms, partly by the support of the British agents, and partly through
the incessant feuds of his adversaries.
It is "all against all," in these valleys. The two khans who had
been arrested would have fled to the hills. They knew they were to be
punished. Still they dared not leave their stronghold. A neighbour, a
relation, a brother perhaps, would step into the unguarded keep and
hold it for his own. Every stone of these forts is blood-stained with
treachery; each acre of ground the scene of a murder. In Barwa itself,
Umra Khan slew his brother, not in hot anger or open war, but coldly and
deliberately from behind. Thus he obtained power, and the moralist
might observe with a shudder, that but for the "Forward Policy" he would
probably be in full enjoyment to-day. This Umra Khan was a man of much
talent, a man intellectually a head and shoulders above his countrymen.
He was a great man, which on the frontier means that he was a great
murderer, and might have accomplished much with the quick-firing guns
he was negotiating for, and the troops he was drilling "on the European
model." The career of this Afghan Napoleon was cut short, however, by
the intervention of Providence in the guise or disguise of the Indian
Government. He might have been made use of. People who know the frontier
well, say that a strong man who has felt the grip of the British power
is the best tool to work with, and that if Umra Khan, humbled and
overawed, had been reinstated, he might have done much to maintain law
and order. As long as they fight, these Afghans do not mind much on
which side they fight. There are worse men and worse allies helping
us to-day. The unpractical may wonder why we, a people who fill some
considerable place in the world, should mix in the petty intrigues of
these border chieftains, or soil our hands by using such tools at all.
Is it fitting that Great Britain should play off one brutal khan against
his neighbours, or balance one barbarous tribe against another? It is
as much below our Imperial dignity, as it would be for a millionaire to
count the lumps in the sugar-basin. If it be necessary for the safety of
our possessions that these territories should be occupied, it would
be more agreeable to our self-respect that we should take them with a
strong hand. It would be more dignified, but nothing costs more to keep
up than dignity, and it is perhaps because we have always been guided
by sound commercial principles in this respect that we have attained our
present proud position.
After looking round the fortress and admiring the skill and knowledge
with which it was built, we were conducted by the khan to the shade of
some beautiful chenar trees, which grew near a little spring not far
from the walls of the fort. Here were a number of charpoys, or native
bedsteads, very comfortable, but usually full of bugs, and on these we
sat.
Remembering Maizar, and many other incidents of frontier hospitality,
sentries were posted on all the approaches and a sufficient guard kept
under arms. Then we had breakfast--a most excellent breakfast.
The arrangements for the comfort and convenience of the troops of the
Frontier Force are unequalled. They live more pleasantly and with
less discomfort on active service than does a British regiment at the
Aldershot manoeuvres. Whether the march be long or short, peaceful
or opposed, whether the action be successful or the reverse, their
commissariat never fails. In fact it is only just to say that they have
always lances and bullets for an enemy, and sandwiches and "pegs" for a
friend.
On this occasion, our provisions were supplemented by the hospitality of
the khan. A long row of men appeared, each laden with food. Some carried
fruit,--pears or apples; others piles of chupatties, or dishes of
pillau.
Nor were our troopers forgotten. The Mahommedans among them eagerly
accepted the proffered food. But the Sikhs maintained a remorseful
silence and declined it. They could not eat what had been prepared by
Mussulman hands, and so they sat gazing wistfully at the appetising
dishes, and contented themselves with a little fruit.
Very austere and admirable they looked, almost painfully conscious of
their superior virtue. But I could not help thinking that had we not
been spectators the chenar trees might have witnessed the triumph of
reason over religious prejudice.
During the heat of the day we rested in this pleasant grove, and with
sleep and conversation passed the hours away, while the sentries pacing
to and fro alone disturbed the illusion that this was some picnic party
in a more propitious land. Then, as the shadows lengthened, we started
upon our return to camp.
On arriving, the political officers were pleased, and the soldiers
disappointed, to find that the tribesmen were determined to accept the
Government terms. A hundred rifles from the Utman Khels had already been
surrendered, and now lay outside Major Deane's tent, surrounded by a
crowd of officers, who were busily engaged in examining them.
Opinion is divided, and practice has followed opinion as to whether,
in a tale of travel or of war, it is preferable to intersperse the
narrative with conclusions and discussions, or to collect them all in
a final chapter. I shall unhesitatingly embrace the former method. The
story shall be told as it happened, and the reader's attention will be
directed to such considerations and reflections as arise by the way. It
will therefore be convenient to make a digression into the question
of the supply of arms to the frontier tribes, while a hundred rifles,
probably a representative hundred, are piled in the main street of the
camp at Ghosam.
The perpetual state of intestine war, in which the border peoples live,
naturally creates a keen demand for deadly weapons. A good Martini-Henry
rifle will always command a price in these parts of Rs.400 or about
25 British pounds. As the actual value of such a rifle does not exceed
Rs.50, it is evident that a very large margin of profit accrues to the
enterprising trader. All along the frontier, and from far down into
India, rifles are stolen by expert and cunning thieves. One tribe, the
Ut Khels, who live in the Laghman Valley, have made the traffic in arms
their especial business. Their thieves are the most daring and their
agents the most cunning. Some of their methods are highly ingenious. One
story is worth repeating. A coffin was presented for railway transport.
The relatives of the deceased accompanied it. The dead man, they said,
had desired to be buried across the frontier. The smell proclaimed
the corpse to be in an advanced state of decomposition. The railway
officials afforded every facility for the passage of so unpleasant an
object. No one checked its progress. It was unapproachable. It was only
when coffin and mourners were safe across the frontier that the police
were informed that a dozen rifles had been concealed in the coffin, and
that the corpse was represented by a quarter of "well hung" beef!
I regret to have to state, that theft is not the only means by which
the frontier tribes obtain weapons. Of a hundred rifles, which the
Utman Khels had surrendered, nearly a third were condemned Government
Martinis, and displayed the Government stamp. Now no such rifles
are supposed to exist. As soon as they are condemned, the arsenal
authorities are responsible that they are destroyed, and this is in
every case carried out under European supervision. The fact, that
such rifles are not destroyed and are found in the possession of
trans-frontier tribesmen, points to a very grave instance of dishonest
and illegal traffic being carried on by some person connected with the
arsenal. It need hardly be said that a searching inquiry was instituted.
Another point connected with these rifles is that even when they
have been officially destroyed, by cutting them in three pieces, the
fractions have a marketable value. Several were shown me which had been
rejoined by the tribesmen. These were, of course, very dangerous weapons
indeed. The rest of the hundred had strange tales to tell. Two or three
were Russian military rifles, stolen probably from the distant posts in
Central Asia. One was a Snider, taken at Maiwand, and bearing the number
of the ill-fated regiment to which it had belonged. Some had come from
Europe, perhaps overland through Arabia and Persia; others from the arms
factory at Cabul. It was a strange instance of the tireless efforts of
Supply to meet Demand.
The importance of the arms question cannot be exaggerated. The
long-range rifle fire, which has characterised the great frontier
war, is a new feature. Hitherto our troops have had to face bold sword
charges but comparatively little firing. Against the former, modern
weapons are effective. But no discipline and no efficiency can stop
bullets hitting men. This is a small part of the question. In the matter
of fighting, what is good enough for the tribesmen should be good enough
for the soldier. A more serious consideration is raised than that of
casualties, which are after all only the inseparable concomitant of
glory. Transport in mountainous countries depends entirely on mules and
camels. A great number are needed even to supply one brigade. At night
these animals have to be packed closely in an entrenched camp. It is not
possible to find camping grounds in the valleys which are not commanded
by some hill or assailable from some nullah. It is dangerous to put out
pickets, as they may be "rushed" or, in the event of a severe attack,
shot down, by the fire of their main body. [This applies to Swat and
Bajaur, where the sword charge is still to be apprehended.] The result
is that the transport animals must be exposed to long-range fire at
night. The reader will observe, as the account proceeds, that on two
occasions a large number of transport mules were killed in this
way. When a certain number are killed, a brigade is as helpless as a
locomotive without coal. It cannot move. Unless it be assisted it must
starve. Every year the tribesmen will become better marksmen, more
completely armed with better rifles. If they recognise the policy of
continually firing at our animals, they may bring all operations to a
standstill. And so by this road I reach the conclusion that whatever is
to be done on the frontier, should be done as quickly as possible. But
to return to the story.
The next day, the 11th of September, the troops remained halted at
Ghosam, and another squadron was ordered to escort the Intelligence
Officer, Captain H.E. Stanton, D.S.O., while making a topographical
reconnaissance of the passes into the Utman Khel country. The
opportunity of making fresh maps and of adding to and correcting the
detail of existing maps only occurs when troops are passing through the
country, and must not be neglected. The route lay up the main valley
which leads to Nawagei. We started early, but the way was long and the
sun high before we reached the entrance of the pass. The landscape was
one of the strangest I shall ever see. On the opposite bank of the river
were the dwellings of the Utman Khels, and in an area seven miles by
three, I counted forty-six separate castles, complete with moats, towers
and turrets. The impression produced was extraordinary. It suggested
Grimm's fairy tales. It almost seemed as if we had left the natural
earth and strayed into some strange domain of fancy, the resort of
giants or ogres.
To reach the pass, we were compelled to traverse a large village, and
as the situation in the narrow, winding streets was about as awkward
for cavalry as could be imagined, every possible precaution was taken to
guard against attack. At length the squadron passed safely through and
formed up on the farther side. The steep ascent to the passes became
visible. As there were two routes to be reconnoitered, the party was
divided, and after a hasty breakfast we commenced the climb. For a
considerable distance it was possible to ride. At every difficult turn
of the track sowars were posted to secure the retreat, if it should be
necessary to come back in a hurry. The head man of the village furnished
a guide, a cheery and amusing fellow, who professed much solicitude for
our safety. But no reliance could be placed on these people, and on the
opposite side of the valley numerous figures could be seen moving along
and keeping pace with our advancing party. At length the horses and the
greater part of the escort had to be abandoned. I accompanied Captain
Stanton, and Captain Cole, who commanded the squadron and was also
Reuter's correspondent, with a couple of troopers to the top of the
pass. The day was intensely hot, and the arduous climb excited a thirst
which there was nothing to allay. At length we gained the summit, and
stood on the Kotal.
Far below us was a valley, into which perhaps no white man had looked
since Alexander crossed the mountains on his march to India. Numerous
villages lay dotted about in its depths, while others nestled against
the hills. Isolated forts were distinguishable, while large trees showed
there was no lack of water. It was a view that repaid the exertions of
the climb, even if it did not quench the thirst they had excited.
While Captain Stanton was making his sketch,--one of those useful
view-sketches, now taking the place of all others, in rapid cavalry
reconnaissance, we amused our fancy by naming the drinks we should
order, were a nice, clean European waiter at hand to get them. I forget
what my selection was, but it was something very long and very cold.
Alas! how far imagination lags behind reality. The vivid impressions
which we conjured up--the deep glasses, and the clinking ice--did little
to dissipate the feelings of discomfort.
Our guide meanwhile squatted on the ground and pronounced the names of
all the villages, as each one was pointed at. To make sure there was no
mistake, the series of questions was repeated. This time he gave to each
an entirely different name with an appearance of great confidence and
pride. However, one unpronounceable name is as good as another, and the
villages of the valley will go down to official history, christened
at the caprice of a peasant. But perhaps many records, now accepted as
beyond dispute, are derived from such a slender authority.
The sketch finished, we commenced the descent and reached our horses
without incident. The squadron concentrated near the village, and we
heard that the other sketching party had met with more adventures than
had fallen to our lot.
It was commanded by Lieutenant Hesketh, a young officer, who was
severely wounded at the storming of the Malakand Pass in 1895, and who,
having again volunteered for active service, was attached to the 11th
Bengal Lancers. At the foot of the pass he dismounted his troop and,
taking a few men with him, began the climb. The pass was occupied by
tribesmen, who threatened to fire on the party if they advanced farther.
The subaltern replied, that he only wished to see the country on the
other side and did not intend to harm any one. At the same time he
pursued his way and the tribesmen, not wishing to bring matters to a
crisis, fell back slowly, repeatedly taking aim, but never daring to
fire. He reached the top of the pass and Captain Walters, the Assistant
Intelligence Officer, was able to make a most valuable sketch of
the country beyond. It was a bold act and succeeded more through its
boldness than from any other cause; for, had the tribesmen once opened
fire, very few of the party could have got down alive. Making a detour
to avoid the village, which it was undesirable to traverse a second
time, the squadron returned and arrived at the camp at Ghosam as the sun
was setting.
The service camp of an Anglo-Indian brigade is arranged on regular
principles. The infantry and guns are extended in the form of a square.
The animals and cavalry are placed inside. In the middle is the camp of
the Headquarters staff, with the tent of the brigadier facing that of
the general commanding the division. All around the perimeter a parapet
is built, varying in height according to the proximity and activity of
the enemy. This parapet not only affords cover from random shots, but
also makes a line for the men to form on in case of a sudden attack.
Behind it the infantry lie down to sleep, a section of each company, as
an inlying picket, dressed and accoutred. Their rifles are often laid
along the low wall with the bayonets ready fixed. If cavalry have to be
used in holding part of the defences, their lances can be arranged in
the same way. Sentries every twenty-five yards surround the camp with a
line of watchers.
To view the scene by moonlight is alone an experience which would
repay much travelling. The fires have sunk to red, glowing specks. The
bayonets glisten in a regular line of blue-white points. The silence of
weariness is broken by the incessant and uneasy shuffling of the animals
and the occasional neighing of the horses. All the valley is plunged in
gloom and the mountains rise high and black around. Far up their sides,
the twinkling watch-fires of the tribesmen can be seen. Overhead is the
starry sky, bathed in the pale radiance of the moon. It is a spectacle
that may inspire the philosopher no less than the artist. The camp is
full of subdued noises. Here is no place for reflection, for quiet or
solemn thought. The day may have been an exciting one. The morrow may
bring an action. Some may be killed, but in war-time life is only lived
in the present. It is sufficient to be tired and to have time to rest,
and the camp, if all the various items that compose it can be said to
have a personality, shrugs its shoulders and, regarding the past without
regret, contemplates the future without alarm.