The Story of the Malakand Field Force | Page 6

may derive a
more lively impression of the sombre mountains, and of the peoples
who dwell beneath their shadow.
The tale that I have to tell is one of frontier war. Neither the importance
of the issues, nor the numbers of the combatants, are on an European
scale. The fate of empires does not hang on the result. Yet the narrative
may not be without interest, or material for reflection. In the quarrels of
civilised nations, great armies, many thousands strong, collide.
Brigades and battalions are hurried forward, and come perhaps within
some fire zone, swept by concentrated batteries, or massed musketry.
Hundreds or thousands fall killed and wounded. The survivors struggle
on blindly, dazed and dumfoundered, to the nearest cover. Fresh troops
are continuously poured on from behind. At length one side or the other
gives way. In all this tumult, this wholesale slaughter, the individual
and his feelings are utterly lost. Only the army has a tale to tell. With
events on such a scale, the hopes and fears, the strength and weakness,
of man are alike indistinguishable. Amid the din and dust little but
destruction can be discerned. But on the frontier, in the clear light of
morning, when the mountain side is dotted with smoke puffs, and every
ridge sparkles with bright sword blades, the spectator may observe and
accurately appreciate all grades of human courage--the wild fanaticism
of the Ghazi, the composed fatalism of the Sikh, the stubbornness of
the British soldier, and the jaunty daring of his officers. He may remark
occasions of devotion and self-sacrifice, of cool cynicism and stern

resolve. He may participate in moments of wild enthusiasm, or of
savage anger and dismay. The skill of the general, the quality of the
troops, the eternal principles of the art of war, will be as clearly
displayed as on historic fields. Only the scale of the statistics is
reduced.
A single glass of champagne imparts a feeling of exhilaration. The
nerves are braced, the imagination is agreeably stirred, the wits become
more nimble. A bottle produces a contrary effect. Excess causes a
comatose insensibility. So it is with war, and the quality of both is best
discovered by sipping.
I propose to chronicle the military operations of the Malakand Field
Force, to trace their political results, and to give, if possible, some
picture of the scenery and people of the Indian Highlands. These pages
may serve to record the actions of brave and skilful men. They may
throw a sidelight on the great drama of frontier war. They may describe
an episode in that ceaseless struggle for Empire which seems to be the
perpetual inheritance of our race. They may amuse an idle hour. But the
ambition I shall associate with them is, that in some measure, however
small, they may stimulate that growing interest which the Imperial
Democracy of England is beginning to take, in their great estates that
lie beyond the seas.
CHAPTER II
: THE MALAKAND CAMPS
Ibam forte via sacra.--HORACE

The town and cantonment of Nowshera was the base from which all the
operations of the Malakand Field Force were conducted. It is situated
on the India side of the Cabul River and is six hours by rail from Rawal
Pindi. In times of peace its garrison consists of one native cavalry
regiment, one British, and one native infantry battalion. During the war
these troops were employed at the front. The barracks became great

hospitals. The whole place was crowded with transport and military
stores; and only a slender force remained under the orders of Colonel
Schalch, the Base Commandant.
The road from Nowshera to the Malakand Pass and camps is
forty-seven miles long, and divided into four stages. Usually there is an
excellent tonga service, and the distance is covered in about six hours;
but while the Field Force was mobilised so much traffic and so many
officers passed up and down the line, that the tonga ponies were soon
reduced to a terrible condition of sores and emaciation, and could
hardly drag the journey out in nine, ten, or even twelve hours. After
leaving Nowshera, and crossing the Cabul River, a stage of fifteen
miles brings the traveller to Mardan. This place--pronounced
"Merdane"--is the permanent station of the Corps of Guides. It is shady
and agreeable, though terribly hot in the summer months. It boasts an
excellent polo ground and a comfortable rest-house. The passer-by
should pause to see the Guides' cemetery, perhaps the only regimental
cemetery in the world. To this last resting-place under the palm trees,
close to the fields where they have played, and the barracks in which
they lived, have been borne the bodies of successive generations of
these wardens of the marches, killed in action across the frontier line. It
is a