Part 6 (1/2)

CHAPTER IX

THE AFGHAN WAR, 1878-80

The Afghan War of 1878-80 lives chiefly in the memory of all as connected with the rise to fame of one who has since earned a place in English history with Marlborough and Wellington. And coupled with his name remains indelibly engraved the great historic march from Kabul to Kandahar.

Though they took no part in that celebrated march, being so reduced in numbers by the stress of war after two years' arduous campaigning that fresh regiments took their place, yet the Guides look back with the greatest pride to having once served under Lord Roberts, and to having earned the kindly praise of this great Captain. To this day grey-bearded old warriors speak with quiet pride and affection of their fighting days with ”Roberts Sahib” at Kabul; and many an old eye kindles and bent back straightens as they salute his picture in the mess. Some, too, will remember the exact place and date on which he shook hands with them, and congratulated them on some brave deed, as he pinned the star for valour on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

It is given to few men to gain the affection and soldierly respect of all, but Roberts possessed the two great merits in the eyes of the simple Indian soldier. He was always kind and considerate, though firm as a rock, and always brave: kind with the kindness which is never weary of watching over the welfare of all, never forgetting a friend however humble, and always remembering those little soldier courtesies which count for so much; brave not only with the bravery that wins the Victoria Cross, but which, stout of heart, looks clear and undaunted through the dark storm of a winter like that of 1879 at Kabul; and still burns bright when at seventy years of age he goes forth at his Queen's behest to turn back the dark tide of defeat in 1899, and bring back victory to her standards.

To give an instance of this magnetic influence,--one day long after the Afghan War, Lord Roberts, then Commander-in-Chief in India, was pa.s.sing the camp of the Guides, riding quietly along, when the sentry on the quarter-guard, an old soldier, recognised him in the distance, and shouting as in duty bound, ”Guard, turn out!” added unofficially, but louder still, ”Roberts Sahib is coming.” The words spread like lightning down the long lines of horses and rows of tents; and with one accord each man dropped his work at the magic name and dashed to the head of the camp to see their old leader and friend: it was no question of Commander-in-Chief, it was only their old comrade Roberts Sahib. Need it be recorded that when his old soldiers heard that in the day of trouble Lord Roberts had gone to South Africa, they remarked with quiet confidence, ”Ah! now all will be well.”

For the Guides, serving as part of the force under the command of the brave and chivalrous leader of light horse, Lt.-General Sir Sam Browne, K.C.B., V.C., the Afghan War opened with the operations resulting in the capture of the formidable fort of Ali Musjid, which bars the entrance to the far-famed Khyber Pa.s.s. Sir Sam Browne was an old Colonel of the Guides, and to meet again in the field was the meeting of old comrades and friends. Like Roberts, he knew how to use them, and how to get the best out of them; and the glowing words of his despatches show they served him well.

In the plan of operations for the capture of Ali Musjid one brigade was to attack in front, one in flank, and one by a wide _detour_ through the mountains was to cut off the retreat. In this operation it fell to the Guides to accompany General Tytler's column, which was the one destined, after a long night march through the mountains, to drop down in rear of the fort. The column was greatly delayed owing to the difficulty of the country, great mountains of eight thousand feet high intervening; but Jenkins with the Guides and 1st Sikhs pushed on, and by their timely arrival broke the back of the desperate resistance met by the frontal attack. No Afghan or Pathan can stand the strain of being taken in rear; a _sauve qui peut_ becomes at once the order of the day. Most of the enemy fled through the mountains, but a regiment of regular infantry took the road through the pa.s.s and was captured by Jenkins and his men.

Next came a squadron of cavalry, and these bold fellows determined to make a dash for liberty. Scattering therefore and riding at a break-neck gallop many got through, though many lay dead and wounded on the ground; and then, out of the cloud of dust and smoke might be seen, calmly riding at a foot's pace, a solitary trooper. A perfect hailstorm of bullets was falling about him, not the tiny bullets we now use, but great one ounce Snyder bullets, such as would knock over an elephant; but though nearly eight hundred rifles were in action, the serene horseman appeared not the least discomposed, and except for a defiant wave of his sword he rode quietly on.

Then Jenkins, struck with the admiration of one brave man for another, sounded the _cease fire_; and in the dead stillness that followed the Colonel's orderly shouted down to the horseman to ask him who he was, and why he thus courted death. ”Oh, brother,” shouted the orderly, ”who art thou and whence comest and whither goest?” ”I am Bahaud-din Khan,”

replied the horseman, ”and I come from Ali Musjid, which the Feringhis have taken, and I follow those sons of pigs, the Kasilbash Horse, who you saw pa.s.s in such a hurry just now.”

”The Sahib says,” shouted the orderly, ”that surely you must be mad thus to walk your horse through a heavy fire like that.”

”Not mad, tell the Sahib,” replied the Afghan, ”but fearing no man; and I shook my sword at you, and your hundreds of rifles, to show that I cared not that much for you.”

”By Jove, he's a brave fellow!” said Jenkins; ”tell him to come up and have a talk with me.”

”By all means,” was the cheery reply; and dismounting quietly, the man tied his horse to a bush, slipped his sword into its scabbard, and strolled up the hill.

”Well, now tell me all about yourself,” was Jenkins's greeting.

”There is nothing much to tell. I live in Kabul and belong to the Kasilbash Horse, and my father was a soldier before me. But he was a brave fellow like myself; we are no mis-begotten apes, like those sons of perdition who fled just now. They are all cowards and runaways, and no fit company for a warrior.”

Jenkins liked the look of the man, and his courage was beyond doubt, so he said cordially: ”You're a fine fellow and I like you. Will you take on with the Guides?”

”Yes, I will,” said the free-lance without a moment's hesitation.

So there and then, on the field of battle, Bahaud-din Khan, late of the Kasilbash Horse, joined the Guides, and was made a non-commissioned officer on the spot. For two long years, through the many ups and downs of the campaign, through much severe fighting and many a hards.h.i.+p, he did good and valiant service. It was only when the war was over, and the corps was nearing India on its downward march, that Bahaud-din Khan began to lose his reckless devil-may-care bearing; he seemed sad, and dispirited, and out of sorts altogether.

”Why, what ails you, my man?” said Jenkins one day as he chanced across him on the march.

”Nothing, Sahib; I am very happy in the service of the Queen, and I feel it an honour to serve in the Guides.”

”Well, then, why look so doleful? One would think you had lost your best horse, or broken the sword of your ancestors on the head of a buffalo,”

laughed Jenkins.

”The truth cannot be hidden from you, Sahib, so I will tell it,”

ingenuously replied Bahaud-din Khan. ”My comrades tell me that down at Mardan they have to do riding-school and drill, and all that sort of thing. Well, I don't think, Sahib, that is quite in my line. Give me as much fighting as you like, but I'm too old a soldier to go b.u.mping round a riding-school. Therefore, with your Honour's kind permission I think I will take my leave, and return to Yaghistan, the land of never-ending conflict.”

”By all means,” said Jenkins; ”no man stays in the Guides against his will. You are a free man from this moment.”