The days that followed brought no attack and, although it remained bitterly cold, no deterioration in the weather. Younghusband did, indeed, find grass and fuel by sending foraging parties out across the plain, escorted by Fonthill’s Sikhs, although it became increasingly difficult to find sufficient yak dung to keep the precious fires burning. Nevertheless, life became not exactly unpleasant for the defenders of Tuna.

Colonel Younghusband, that lover of the mountains, seemed quite unfazed by the lack of progress of his mission. He spent much of each day lying out on the rocks, warmly muffled, writing letters home or reading poetry.

The rising sun struck the top of the tents every morning promptly at 7 a.m., climbing into a sky that was cloudless except for a soft wisp of haze. From the little river that supplied water to the troops a soft mist rose and, as the sun climbed higher, the bare brown base of the surrounding mountains toned into a pastel delight of purples and pinks, while the snow summits turned into an ethereal blue. On the plain, plump little larks and finches ignored the cold and scurried about looking for food. Moles could be seen basking in the winter sunshine at the mouth of their holes.

‘I quite like this postin’,’ confessed Jenkins to Fonthill one day, ‘now that I’m not fallin’ off the bleedin’ mountains. And I’m gettin’ quite good at this fishin’ lark. What’s more, you’re gettin’ to be almost adequate at ridin’ on these ponies – almost, but not quite, that is.’

‘Don’t be impertinent, or I’ll have you demoted to dung clearer.’

‘Well, with respect, bach sir, we’re all almost that now. We’re not cavalry. We’re collectors of ’orse shit.’

‘Better than sliding near the edges of precipices.’

‘Very, very true. When d’yer think we’re goin’ to advance?’

‘Well, I hear that supplies are building up at Phari and it can’t be long now. If we don’t move soon those Tibetans will think we’re here on holiday.’

Alice had become the most restless of the quartet. There had been less and less to write about as the days passed and she and her colleagues had become increasingly irked by the double censorship imposed by Macdonald on the press corps. This had arisen because the task had originally been handled by the mission staff, but Macdonald had insisted that the army should be involved so that the press telegrams were scanned twice.

‘It is not as though anything that is published in London,’ fumed Alice, ‘is going to be eagerly read in Lhasa. The place could be on the moon as far as reading about the outside world is concerned.’

Her frustrations, however, had become ameliorated to some extent by the growth of her friendship with Sunil. The two had now become inseparable and Alice always showed him the text of her telegrams, explaining to him how the abbreviations worked, saving precious pennies, and the subtleties of the grammar.

Her main story during these inactive months came when disaster struck one of the convoys bringing up supplies from New Chumbi to Tuna. Amazingly, her story was allowed through by the censors despite her graphic description, gathered when she interviewed the survivors:

Alice was particularly pleased that her disgusted revelation that the officers were found rations to eat while the sepoys were denied food somehow slipped through the censors.

It was clear to her that the two companies of Pioneers deployed in escorting the mule-train were almost certainly below strength and that a sizeable part of the convoy was diverted from its main purpose by the need to carry the kit, rations and spare ammunition of the escort. Alice had cultivated Younghusband, and his simmering resentment of the caution of Macdonald in insisting on what he considered to be excessively large escorts had rubbed off on her.

‘The bloody man is so scared of risking a black mark on his career,’ she confided to Simon, ‘that he won’t raise a finger unless it is surrounded by three companies of sepoys. We will never move the sixty miles to Gyantse at this rate, let alone reach Lhasa.’

Fonthill smiled but shook his head. ‘The man is cautious, I agree, my love, but he carries a heavy responsibility. We are invading a completely unknown country in foul weather, with a line of supply and communications stretching behind us about four times the length of the fighting head. You must remember that.’

Alice scowled. ‘He’s supposed to be a general, isn’t he? And generals are supposed to fight, aren’t they? Nobody’s had to fire a shot in anger except at mountain goats for months. What’s he afraid of?’

The tension that had built all around, however, was relieved at last when, on the evening of 29th March, Macdonald arrived with his main body from New Chumbi prepared to advance on what he called another ‘reconnaissance in force’. The following day, however, a piercing wind swept across the plain and engulfed the camp with what Alice described in her telegraph to London as ‘a hurricane of tingling grit’. She reported that the discomfort of the men was increased by the orders of General Macdonald to strike their tents and to ‘conceal themselves’ in case Tibetan spies were observing their deployment from the surrounding hills.

‘How can 1,000 men,’ she complained to Simon, ‘with mules, ponies, guns, ammunition supplies and other stores, disappear into a naked plain? The man is an idiot.’

At 8 a.m. on the 31st March Macdonald’s army paraded in six inches of snow to begin the march on Guru. Because of the scarcity of ammunition, each infantryman was issued with no more than thirteen rounds. Nevertheless, the morning was bright, the sky was blue and everyone, including the little press contingent that marched with the column, was in good heart and relieved that, at last, the mission was on its way at least to Gyantse – and perhaps even to the forbidden city of Lhasa?

Despite the lack of ammunition the column was an impressive unit. It consisted of the two Pioneer regiments (misnamed in this context because these Sikhs had proved to be strong fighters); the 8th Gurkhas; two companies of Fonthill’s Mounted Infantry, which had now grown to be a hundred-strong; two ten-pounders of the 7th Mountain Battery (a British unit), the Gurkha-manned seven-pounders, ‘Bubble and Squeak’; the two Maxims of the Norfolks, also manned by British troops; and various ancillary units. The total strength of the column was just over 1,000 men, mainly made up of Indian sepoys, with British personnel numbering less than 200.

The destination was Guru, the little hamlet that Younghusband had visited, about ten miles away. But two miles to its south was the wall blocking the road that Fonthill had scouted while Tuna was being set up. This would have to be circumvented in the face of the Tibetans manning it.

As always, Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry rode on ahead of the column, fanning out in a wide screen between one and two miles to the front and flanks to protect the main force from a surprise attack. The fact that the Tibetans knew that they were on the march was confirmed when emissaries twice approached the column, repeating their old demands that the British should retire to Yatung. Both times, Younghusband sent them back with a message to their general, saying that the column was bound for Gyantse and would soon reach Guru and that if he wished to avoid a fight then he and his troops should clear the road and let the British through.

Implacably, the advance continued until Simon and his men drew near to the wall. He found that, as before, its top was lined with armed Tibetans and that the sangars overlooking the road were also well manned. He galloped back to report to the main column.

This halted about half a mile away from the wall and the guns – ten-pounders carried on mules and ‘Bubble and Squeak’ by coolies – were assembled and made ready for action and the troops lined up. Immediately, a small party, led by two generals and riding ponies, cantered around the end of the wall and approached the British lines. They were met by Younghusband, Macdonald, Fonthill and, of course, O’Connor, all sitting their ponies underneath a large Union Jack that crackled in the strong wind. Rugs were laid on the ground, the main participants dismounted and the latest parley began.

Alice, notebook and pencil in hand, edged forward and began making notes. She could not hear what was being said, although she could only presume – what was, indeed, confirmed later – that the old litany of ‘Go back’ and ‘No’ was being repeated. But she could describe the scene that lay before her. The wall in the background, the gravel-studded ground and the rocks that climbed steeply to the left, were all of a characterless grey. But the Tibetan deputation provided a bizarre splash of colour.

The general from Lhasa wore a high, domed and embroidered hat and both he and his fellow general wore gay yellow and green coats and carried long swords with richly worked hilts. The civilian notables squatted in equally colourful robes of purple and blue, their strange, fork-butted guns embossed with turquoise and coral; and their little ponies, fretting and stamping in the background, had saddlecloths worked in swastika patterns, filigree brass headbands and wide, moulded iron stirrups. It was, scribbled Alice, like a scene from the Arabian Nights, dropped into a slate-grey Himalayan amphitheatre.

Fonthill had remained in the saddle as the negotiations continued and, realising that they were once again going to end in stalemate, he edged his pony away to join Ottley and Jenkins, waiting at the head of the mounted Sikhs.

‘This is going nowhere,’ he whispered. Then he nodded ahead, to the right of the stone house that marked the end of the wall. ‘The way is clear through there,’ he said, ‘but there are hundreds of armed Tibetans well beyond the rear of the wall up in the rocks to the right. When we advance, as I am sure we shall, they could enfilade our men. I intend to suggest to the General that we gallop through there, past the men manning the wall, and clear those chaps out. But we must be careful that we don’t fire first. This whole thing may still just end peacefully and I don’t want to start a battle. So, William, have the men ready.’

‘Very good, Simon.’

Fonthill dismounted and walked back to where the little group still sat cross-legged on the sheepskins, the Tibetans talking garrulously, O’Connor listening and nodding sympathetically, while Younghusband and Macdonald, the latter smoking his cigarette, sat stony-faced. He stood back from the gathering and edged towards Alice, who was still writing quickly, Sunil, his rifle slung from his shoulder, at her side.

‘What’s happening?’ she hissed.

‘Usual stuff, by the look of it, neither side giving an inch. It’s getting ridiculous and very boring.’ He nodded towards the wall, the top of which was lined with what appeared to be matchlocks and strange tubes, resting on tripods, which represented the nearest approach the Tibetans had to artillery. ‘We will probably have to use our guns to knock down that wall, although I am not sure they will be very effective at this range.’

He turned to Sunil. ‘Make sure you take the memsahib away behind those rocks if the firing starts,’ he said. ‘It could turn very hot here in this defile.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Simon,’ snorted Alice. ‘I can look after myself. I have to get a good view of what’s going on. Although I do hope there is not going to be a battle. It could be a massacre, you know …’

Before she could explain a massacre of whom she was interrupted by the end of the palaver. With a grunt and wave of his hand, the Tibetan general scrambled to his feet and stalked away haughtily to his pony, followed by his entourage. They all mounted and, talking animatedly, urged their mounts into a ragged gallop back to the wall.

Fonthill approached Younghusband and Macdonald, who were in earnest conversation. ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

Younghusband sighed. ‘It’s been like talking to that damned wall over there. I have told them we want no bloodshed but that we are determined to continue on to Gyantse and they must let us through without firing. I don’t know what the hell they intend to do. I have given them fifteen minutes to clear the wall.’

‘It would be safer to bring up our guns and reduce the wall.’ Macdonald’s Aberdeenshire brogue sounded somehow deeper in the defile.

‘No, Mac. Give them time to make up their minds to clear out.’

Fonthill explained his intention of riding through and clearing the Tibetans at the rear.

‘Very well,’ grunted Macdonald, ‘but wait until we advance.’

The next fifteen minutes seemed an age to the three as they stood, staring intently at the enemy lining the head-high lines of stones ahead of them and in the sangars above and to the left. The Tibetans remained behind their weapons, chattering and gesticulating as though inviting the British to advance.

Eventually, Macdonald drew out his timepiece. ‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘Do we fire?’

Younghusband’s face was a picture of despair. ‘No. Give them a minute or two more. I don’t want us to fire the first shot.’

Despite the grimness of the situation, Fonthill could not but give an inward smile. The normal state of the relationship between the two men seemed to have been reversed. Here was the ploddingly cautious General itching to attack the enemy, while the usually impetuous Younghusband was reluctant to move.

Eventually, Macdonald grunted. ‘We can’t stay here forever. I must bring up the artillery.’

‘No, Mac. Get your men simply to advance on the wall, withholding their fire until they are fired on.’

‘What, walk into the face of that lot? They will be advancing into the muzzles of about 1,000 guns. We shall present an unmissable target. We could be slaughtered.’

Younghusband’s normally placid features twisted further to betray his agony. ‘I know. But I promised that we would not come with aggressive intentions. We must not fire the first shot. Go ahead, Mac. Don’t bring forward the guns, but order the advance and give instructions that the men must not fire until they are fired upon.’

Macdonald whirled round and barked a series of orders to his colonels, who doubled away to their waiting men. Whistles shrieked and, slowly, the khaki line began to move forward towards the waiting guns.

Fonthill swallowed hard. It seemed an act of ridiculous folly, also of courage, comparable to that of the Light Brigade at Balaclava just fifty years before when they charged into the Russian cannon. He mounted his pony and urged it to where his mounted Sikhs were waiting. Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of Alice mounting a rock to get a better view and angrily gestured for her to take cover, but she shook her head defiantly.

He came abreast of Ottley. ‘William, when our chaps reach the wall, we charge round the end of it and to the rear. The orders remain the same, however: don’t fire or use sabres until we meet resistance. We just shepherd those men off the rocks at the back there. If they fire, then we let them have it, but not until. Explain to the men.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Jenkins joined Fonthill and looked down on the troops plodding forward, keeping their lines perfectly straight as though for The Trooping of the Colour, their regimental colours streaming back in the wind behind the large Union Jack. ‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ he muttered. ‘They’re marchin’ right up to them gun muzzles, look you. ’Ave you ever seen anythin’ like it?’

Still the Tibetans refused to fire and the air of farce was complemented by the sight of the Lhasa general, with his bodyguard and staff, sitting in front of the wall, with his back to it, muttering to himself and waiting sullenly, it seemed, for events to take their turn. Had he given any orders? It seemed not.

Eventually, the front rank of the sepoys reached the wall and Simon and Jenkins moved their ponies forward and took their places at the head of the two companies of mounted Sikhs. Fonthill nodded to Ottley, raised his hand and shouted, ‘Charge!’

In an instant they had rounded the end of the wall, where the stone house marked its edge, and were thundering over the stone-hard ground, scattering grey-clad Tibetans to either side as they headed to where figures could be seen peering over the rocks on a spur that jutted out to the right of the trail.

Still no shots were fired at them and they reined in, spreading out below the rocks. Here, for a moment, farce reigned again, as the horsemen sat, steam rising from their steeds, staring at the Tibetans who showed no sign of either firing or moving.

‘Move, you stupid bastards,’ shouted Simon, waving his sabre to indicate that the riflemen should leave the safety of their rocks and come down to the road. The Tibetans stared blankly back at him, so he urged his pony up between the rocks and slapped the nearest man on the back with the flat of his sword, pointing down to the road. He was aware that Jenkins was by his side, equally shouting and waving.

It was the turning point in the affair. The man, flinched, flung down his matchlock and turning, ran down onto the road. In an instant he was followed by the rest of the Tibetans who straggled down between the rocks onto the trail, some of them still carrying their muskets, but clearly having no intention of using them.

‘That’s it, lads,’ shouted Jenkins, easing his pony down onto the trail. ‘Yes, bugger off.’ He pointed along the track with his sword. ‘That way, you useless lot. Call yourselves soldiers! I’ve seen better in a school playground at Rhyl, look you. Go on. Piss off. No one’s goin’ to ’urt you.’

‘William,’ shouted Simon. ‘Make sure they clear off. Get the men to ensure they dump their weapons and shepherd them back down the trail out of harm’s way. I’m going back to the wall. Come on, 352.’

He looked ahead and realised that hundreds of Tibetans were thronging behind the wall, stretching back to the frozen lake that bordered the road to Guru and, beyond, Gyantse. They were standing, staring and gesticulating. Most of them carried flintlocks or waved long swords, but no shot was fired nor were the swords used menacingly. They appeared, he thought, like a Welsh rugby crowd who disputed the referee’s decision on the field but could do nothing about it.

Up ahead, to his right, he saw sepoys of the 23rd Pioneers and the 8th Gurkhas moving among the sangars, shepherding the musketeers behind the rocks down to the road, like good-natured policemen. There, the Tibetans joined the ranks of the erstwhile defenders of the wall who milled about aimlessly. Now, the rifles of the 23rd Pioneers were lining the top of the wall, pointing down at the throng and the Maxims were trained on the crowd. But still no shot had been fired.

Fonthill reined in by the stone house and turned to Jenkins. ‘Thank God,’ he exclaimed. ‘This looks as though this has been an absolutely bloodless victory. Younghusband will be delighted.’

He walked his horse to where the head of the mission and his general were standing, in conclave.

‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘we have cleared the men off the rocks down the road and looks as though the way ahead to Gyantse is virtually cleared. Congratulations, General.’

‘Hmmm.’ Inevitably, Macdonald had lit a cigarette and he exhaled blue smoke into the clear, cold air. ‘Well done, Fonthill. But this mass behind the wall show no signs of moving nor putting down their weapons. We can’t advance leaving this lot behind us. We must get the men to remove their rifles.’ He turned and gave an order. Immediately, sepoys began moving among the Tibetans attempting to remove their weapons.

It proved to be easier ordered than done. Their guns were obviously the men’s own property, presumably mainly used for hunting, and they were certainly not going to relinquish them to the Indian troops. There were shouts and blows were exchanged as the Tibetans wrestled to retain their guns. All was confusion. Screams of abuse rose and stones were thrown.

It was at this point that the Lhasa general, still on the British side of the wall, decided to mount his pony. He screamed imprecations and forced the horse forward, round the wall, towards the melee. A tall Sikh barred his way and attempted to grab his bridle. The general drew a revolver and shot the sepoy through the jaw.

Immediately, the confusion that had marked the scene before, changed to one of deadly killing. The Pioneers lining the top of the wall opened fire on the crowds below them at point-blank range; volleys rang out from the escarpment above the wall and from the plain to its right; shrapnel from the British guns began to burst above the heads of the Tibetans at the rear of the melee and, most menacingly of all, the rattle of the Maxim was heard in earnest for the first time in Tibet.

Amazingly, the Tibetans, under such close fire, did not break and run. Instead, they turned their backs on the firing and walked away from it, with a strange and almost oriental dignity.

‘My God,’ screamed Fonthill, ‘this is a massacre. Order the ceasefire, someone.’ He lifted his voice. ‘Cease firing, damn you! Cease firing!’

But the damage had been done. With only limited ammunition, the infantry, it was later learnt, fired only an average of twelve rounds per man. The two Maxims expended 700 rounds each, enough for just ninety seconds firing each. The Tibetan army, estimated at between 1,000 and 1,500 men, left between 600 and 700 dead on the field, among them their general. It was enough. One hundred and sixty-eight of their wounded were treated by British doctors and only twenty died. The army of the Raj sustained only half a dozen casualties.

When the firing had stopped, Fonthill surveyed the scene, tears in his eyes. ‘There will be hell to pay back home when the news reaches London,’ he muttered. Then, a sudden thought struck him and, calling to Jenkins, he dug in his heels and urged his pony past the wall towards the rear where his men had been urging the Tibetan riflemen along the road, away from the conflict.

He found Ottley on his knees beside several inert Sikh bodies.

The young man looked up, his face ashen. ‘Our bloody shrapnel has killed three of our chaps,’ he said. ‘And we’ve lost two ponies.’ He shook his head. ‘Not from the Tibetans, mind you, Simon. But from our artillery. Damn them. They were firing over the enemy’s heads to the rear. They must surely have known we were here.’

Fonthill dismounted and knelt by his side, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think they did, William.’ He sighed. ‘It was all panic back there for just five minutes.’ He looked up resignedly to where the mountains towered over them. ‘All the frustration of those months shivering on the plain at Tuna or ploughing through the snow over the passes must have built up and exploded. That’s bloody warfare for you. I think I’ve already had enough of it.’

He rode back and found an ashen-faced and trembling Alice, scribbling away, while Sunil stood over her, his Lee Metford in his hands.

She looked up. ‘Oh Simon, it was a massacre. Some of the Gurkhas were firing at a range of twenty yards down into the mob. I saw them. Machine guns against muskets. Macdonald and Younghusband should be ashamed of themselves.’

Fonthill sighed. ‘Yes, it was a tragedy, darling, but go easy with your report. Younghusband and Mac held off for as long as they could, taking a huge risk in advancing without firing a shot. It was just a horrible accident that it all went wrong. Please be balanced in what you write.’

‘Balanced! I’m lucky to be alive. If it hadn’t been for Sunil here preventing me, I would have run to that bloody wall. Did you know that Candler of the Daily Mail was cut down by Tibetan swordsmen? His hand was completely severed and he received seventeen other wounds. He was only saved by his thick poshteen. There but for Sunil go I …’ She burst into tears.

Fonthill dismounted and knelt beside her, putting his hand around her shoulders and pulling her to him. He looked up at Sunil and raised his other hand to him in acknowledgement. He mouthed ‘Well done.’

Alice pushed him away and blew her nose. ‘Sorry to be emotional,’ she sniffed. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been close to a massacre. Must be getting old. Now, do leave me to get on with recording these horrible details.’

Simon nodded, stood and, trailing his pony behind him by its reins, walked away to find Jenkins. He found him helping to load the three dead men of the Mounted Infantry onto small wooden carts.

He looked up. ‘Can’t bury these poor buggers,’ he said, ‘because they’re Sikhs. Got to be burnt, it seems, although God knows where we are goin’ to get the wood from.’

‘Any more of our chaps wounded?’

‘Seems not. Captain Ottley is just checking.’

Feeling at a loose end, Fonthill turned and walked with his pony back to the wall. The firing had lasted only a matter of minutes but the carnage was there for all to see. The bodies of the dead Tibetans lay where the volleys had cut them down, sprawled together in a mass of twisted, contorted shapes, alongside their weapons. A long line of bodies lay, marking the line of retreat for half a mile. The biting wind was already beginning to freeze them. Some of the Sikh Pioneers were picking their way between the bodies and applying their own first-aid dressings to the wounded.

He met O’Connor, the Tibetologist, and asked, ‘For God’s sake, Frank, was all this necessary?’

The Captain shook his head sadly. ‘Not the governor’s fault,’ he muttered, ‘nor Mac’s, for that matter.’ He put his hand on Fonthill’s shoulder. ‘You know, old chap, I have studied the ways of Tibetans as best I could for the last few years. Got to know the language, and all. But they are still almost a book of blank pages to me.’

He nodded to where a doctor in the Indian Medical Service was picking his way between the bodies, leading a small team of orderlies, looking for the wounded. ‘Austine Waddell, there, knows ’em much better than me. He’s the principal medical officer of the mission but he’s much more of a Tibetologist than I am. He has always pointed out that just because Buddhism is supposed to be a religion of pacificism, that doesn’t mean that the Tibetan leaders are not militaristic. They have a standing army, for instance, which, with its national territorial backup, hugely outnumbers the men under Mac’s command.

‘The Dalai Lama, of course, does not rule the country. The most powerful figures are the lamas, the monk priests, who have considerable power and run the country entirely in their own interests. This is not the gentle Buddhism of India. This is a Vajrayana form, which consists of idol worship and subjects the people completely to its power.’

He nodded again to where Dr Waddell was kneeling beside a wounded Tibetan. ‘According to Austine, the priests are not even ecclesiastics, they never preach or educate the laity and they keep the country closed in ignorance for their own benefit. They are far more aggressive than the generals. That’s Austine’s view – and I am inclined to agree with him.’

O’Connor wiped the wind-tears from his cheeks. ‘If it had been left to Depon Lhadang, the general who came to talk with us and who, tragically, started this bloody massacre, we could have negotiated, as Younghusband wished, and peacefully marched on to Gyantse or even Lhasa. It was the priests who wouldn’t let him. As a result,’ he jerked his head over his shoulder, ‘we had this stupid stalemate, as dangerous as a tinderbox on Bonfire Night. And, as we saw, it only took a single spark to ignite it.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Got to go. Got to help poor old Y to write his report.’

Fonthill thanked him and, deep in thought, began to lead his pony back to where his men were re-forming. He was stopped by Macdonald.

‘A sad business, Fonthill,’ he said. He looked over Simon’s shoulder to where the trail to Guru led away into the distance. ‘But I’m not sure it’s over yet. You’ve lost some men, I hear.’

‘Yes, friendly fire, I’m afraid. Our own shrapnel killed three of my Sikhs and two of our ponies.’

‘Ah, damned sorry. That’s the trouble with shrapnel. Can’t quite control it, yer know. But look, quite a few of the Tibetans have retreated to Guru, a couple of miles away. Will you take a patrol and see if there is any evidence of them making a stand there in the village? We will have to march onto there and I don’t want to be caught napping.’

‘Very well, General.’

Simon mounted his horse and trotted to where Jenkins and Ottley were deep in conversation. ‘William,’ he called, nodding to where the three bodies were lying on the cart, ‘make sure that these chaps are burnt properly. Get a company mounted and formed up, 352. We must go ahead to make sure that the Tibetans have not retreated to Guru and are not waiting to repulse us there.’

Within minutes, half of the Mounted Infantry were trotting along behind Simon and Jenkins as they moved up towards the little village two miles north of the wall. On the way, they passed the remnants of the wall’s defenders, who completely disregarded them, walking on stoically.

Guru came into sight as soon as the horsemen rounded a bend and it soon became apparent that the village was occupied and that the Tibetans there, at least, were certainly going to dispute the way ahead. One shot rang out and then a fusillade as Simon and his men came fully into sight.

‘Blimey,’ swore Jenkins as they reined in. ‘I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any fight left in them lads. Looks as though they’ve been waitin’ for us.’ He pointed ahead.

Muskets, rifles and more of the strange tube-type blunderbusses could be seen poking through windows and above walls from the houses that lined the entrance to the village. Soon bullets and musket balls were flying over the heads of the mounted men as they paused uncertainly.

Fonthill frowned. He didn’t want his to be the only command that suffered more fatalities. He turned in the saddle, pointed and shouted, ‘Back round the bend. Quickly, now.’

The company galloped back the way they had come, accompanied by the jeers of the village’s defenders. There, they halted, the breath of their ponies rising in the cold air.

‘What now, bach sir?’ asked Jenkins.

‘Take six of the best marksmen in the company, get them behind whatever cover you can find round the bend and then open up fire on those chaps firing from the village. I will give you five minutes to make ’em get their heads down. Then I shall lead the rest of the company in a charge to clear the village. Understood?’

‘Oh yes. Make sure you grip with your thighs when you charge, though. I’m not goin’ to be with you to keep you in the saddle.’

Fonthill sighed. ‘Oh, get on with you. Now, Daffadar.’

‘Sahib.’ A giant Sikh NCO, whose huge turban was precariously kept in place on his head by a scarf tied under his chin, edged his pony forward.

‘Line the men up across the road, out of the sight of the enemy, with sabres drawn. As soon as Company Sergeant Major Jenkins has kept up fire on the enemy in the village for about five minutes, I shall lead a charge with the remainder of the company. As we charge, we will shout like hell. Tell the men that.’

The daffadar’s teeth flashed white behind his beard. Every cavalryman, whether Mounted Infantry or not, reflected Simon, loved a charge. ‘Oh yes. Very good, sahib.’

‘Wait. There is more. The enemy will be behind cover in the buildings and behind walls. So we will charge straight through the village, cutting down anyone who is in our way. When I give the order, we will halt, dismount, the handlers will take the horses and then the rest of us, with our carbines, will run back and clear the enemy on foot from behind their defences. Understood?’

‘Yes, sahib. Very understood.’

Fonthill watched as Jenkins, with his six men, began to crawl around the bend in the road, until they had disappeared from sight. He looked at his watch and marked the time as soon as he heard their first shots. Then he remounted his pony, urged it into the centre of the road and waited as the daffadar lined up the company – some forty-six men – across the track behind him.

Sitting there, listening to the sharp crack of the marksmen out of sight ahead, Simon realised that his mouth had gone dry. He had never been a cavalryman but he remembered enough from his training as an infantry subaltern to know that cavalry did not charge riflemen firing from cover, unless the situation was desperate. He gulped and wished, for a brief moment, that Jenkins was with him. The situation was always less desperate if his old comrade was by his side. But there was no alternative today. There was no way to outflank the village, so it would have to be a direct charge and Jenkins, as the best shot by far in the unit, would have to lead the sniping. He was banking that the Tibetans in the village would not be trained soldiers and that they would not fancy tangling with nearly fifty men thundering down on them, shrieking and waving their sabres.

He took out his watch. One minute to go. Jenkins and his marksmen were still firing. Fonthill turned and looked behind him. The company was lined up, stretching across the road two deep. He could not resist a grin. The men sitting their ponies, eyes gleaming and grinning back at him, looked more like a band of brigands than soldiers. Most had now wrapped their scarves round the lower part of their faces, bandit-fashion; their long poshteen sheepskins draped down either side of their saddles, making their wiry little ponies look even more diminutive; and their sabres glistened in the cold sunlight. Simon was reminded of Wellington’s remark about his raggle-taggle army facing Napoleon’s troops in the Peninsular War: ‘I don’t know what they do to the enemy, but, by Gad sir, they frighten me.’

He looked at his watch again. The correct tactics for a cavalry charge, he seemed to have read somewhere, were to begin by trotting gently, then to canter and then, when near the enemy, to break into a gallop for the charge. But, what the hell! Now he was near enough to the enemy and he wanted to instil terror into them as soon as he and his men rounded the bend. So now, he slowly filled his lungs, raised his sabre, pointed it straight ahead and screamed: ‘Charge!’

He dug in his heels, tugged on the right rein to wheel his pony round the bend and put his steed to full gallop. He caught a glimpse of Jenkins on his feet to his right, waving him on, and heard the thunder of hooves behind him. As he rode, head down, he saw rifle flashes from a wall to his left but heard nothing. A man with what appeared to be a pike lunged at him but he crashed it aside with his sabre. Then another appeared directly ahead of him, waving a long Tibetan sword. He pulled his pony to the left and cut at the man, slashing his arm. Then he was in the middle of what appeared to be a completely deserted village.

He allowed the pony to fall back into a trot and realised that he had been concentrating so hard on keeping his seat that he had forgotten to yell. Looking around, he saw that the buildings seemed to be untenanted. Had the villagers – or soldiers, if that was what they were – all congregated at the entry to the village? He held up his hand to halt his company and called for the horse handlers. Slipping the sabre back into its saddle sheath, he half fell from his horse and threw the reins to the trooper who ran forward. He drew his revolver and stood for a moment scanning the buildings on either side. Nothing.

In moments, he was surrounded by his men. ‘Daffadar,’ he shouted.

The big man materialised at his side.

‘Any casualties from the charge?’

‘No, sahib. No one hit. All here.’

He sighed with relief. ‘Good. Ensure your carbines are loaded. Yes? Good. Now, at the double, back to the end of the village. Run. NOW!’

Although beginning in the lead, Fonthill was soon overtaken by long-striding Sikhs who ranged out ahead of him. A musket poked over a wall and the man behind it was immediately brought down by a carbine shot. The Sikhs soon disappeared into the houses and grey-shrouded Tibetans began pouring out, their hands upraised. One tall man, with long Manderin-moustaches – a priest lama, perhaps? – sprang from a doorway and swung his sword horizontally at Simon, who ducked instinctively and fired his revolver directly into the man’s chest. Not waiting to see if the man fell, Fonthill ran on. Then he realised that he had reached the end of the village and saw Jenkins and his marksmen trotting up the road to meet him.

‘Ah,’ puffed Jenkins. ‘Thank God you’re all right. You was never exactly good at chargin’ on ’orseback wavin’ a sword, bach sir. I’m amazed you did it without me.’

Fonthill put an arm on the Welshman’s shoulder and leant on him, trying to regain his breath. ‘I was never much better running up a Tibetan street at some ridiculous altitude, either,’ he panted.

He turned. The Sikhs led by the daffadar were rounding up scores of terrified Tibetans, who soon began grinning as they realised that they were not to be killed out of hand. Then, sheepishly, women and children, all muffled to their chins, began dribbling out from the dwellings, putting out their tongues in signs of friendship.

Down the trail, a company of Gurkhas, their pillbox hats jauntily showing above their greatcoats, were trotting towards the village, their rifles at the trail.

‘Well,’ grunted Jenkins, ‘I reckon that’s the bloody end of that funny old battle, look you.’

‘I reckon it is,’ said Fonthill. ‘Thank God for that.’