CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DISPUTED DISPATCHES

I’m not sure what time Fahran left our embattled redoubt but he can’t have been gone for more than an hour before he returned around midnight at the head of two Companies of the 35th Sikhs. This was half the same force that Jeffreys, on my wretched advice, had dispatched earlier. Their Company Commander, Worlledge,125 wasn’t about to admit it – and we survivors weren’t about to complain - but I’m reasonably sure that the silly bugger had got lost on his way to the base camp. Whatever the truth of the matter, Worlledge claimed that, when he heard our guns firing, he turned around his men to lead them to our rescue and that shortly after he started his march towards our gunfire, Fahran, who was riding like a Bengal Lancer, almost ran him down. Worlledge didn’t explain why only half of his command performed the About Turn and Fahran told me later that he had collided with the rear of the Sikhs not the front. But I was in no mood - and Jeffreys was in no state - to quibble.

The volley fire of sixty well-armed Indians made all the difference and it wasn’t long before the Mamunds declared that rain had stopped play and withdrew to their pavilion (I can’t think why I’m using cricketing analogies – I loathe the bloody game). Sad to relate, one of their last shots drilled a neat furrow along the line of my parting, I spun on the spot and was pretty much out for the count (boxing – that’s better) until Cole and the Relief Column arrived. And after that? Well, later that morning, with me sporting a rather fetching bandage and a raging headache, we staggered into the base camp, wounds were tended and the dead buried. It had been the bloodiest engagement and our biggest set-back in India for many a year.

That said, as Blood informed me in a private message, he was determined in short order to expunge the disaster with a victory so that I could report (and ensure that Churchill reported) a triumph rather than a calamity of Anglo-Indian arms. I’ve always known on which side my bread is buttered and I was happy to comply, which I duly did when, on the 18th September, Jeffreys once again led his men back into the Mamund Valley. This time he did not divide his somewhat depleted force. Instead, in a series of daily sorties which lasted until the 23rd - all of which were hotly opposed by the tribesmen – the Anglo-Indian force reduced several Mamund villages to smoking ruins and delivered to Blood and, via my dispatches, the breakfasting British public the requisite Imperial triumph.

In my opinion, Jeffreys should have been Court Martialled, or at the very least relieved of his command, for the appalling balls-up on the 16th September which cost the lives of nine British officers, four native officers and one hundred and thirty-six soldiers killed or wounded: some twenty per cent of his Brigade. However, thanks to my efforts with the pen, Jeffreys ineptness with the sword was rewarded with a message of sympathy for the wounded and satisfaction at the conduct of our troops from no less a personage than the Widow of Windsor herself. And that’s as much as I’m going to say on the subject of the Malakand Field Force.

…

With this royal accolade at the completion of the punitive expedition, I told Fahran to expect a move back to London. But six months later we were still in India, although we’d moved to Bill Lockhart’s HQ at Peshawar.126 Why? The answer is quickly told.

For a start, although the wound I’d received in the Mamund Valley was slight and didn’t, at first, prevent me from censoring Churchill’s literary output and writing my own series of glowing dispatches lauding the campaign, it became infected. Had it not been for Fahran’s intensive care, I might easily have succumbed to the fever that held me in its grip for the next month or so.

When I was fit enough to move, I was sent (with Fahran) for rest and recovery to Simla, which was sadly no longer the home of Margery Haddon nor, for that matter, any other grass widow willing to stroke an old man back to full health. Eheu fugaces and all that Greek, eh what? From there I should have been sent back to England with the thanks of the Sirkar. However, fate intervened in the shape of a tribe called the Afridis, a pestilential mob of religious fundamentalist wogs situated in an inaccessible valley to the north of Peshawar and east of the Khyber Pass. Despite my scribblings, which related in plain English that the Malakand outing had been a huge success, it seemed that the Afridis had not read them (or, perhaps, they couldn’t read). Whichever was the case, the feisty and bloodthirsty sods joined in the Mad Mullah’s Mohammedanist-inspired crusade (that can’t be right – jihad, that’s the right word) just as Blood thought he had the situation back under control.

The upshot was that, at the tail end of October 1897 whilst I was sipping beef tea in Simla, Bill Lockhart led a Division of three Brigades, some thirty-five thousand men in total, from Kohat, through the mountain passes and into the Tirah Valley. Thus far he had no problems, nor did he encounter the sort of resistance we had experienced in the Mamund Valley whilst he set about burning, blowing up and generally dismembering the Afridis’ civil and military infrastructure. The Division’s return march back to Pehawar in mid-December, by which time I was on my feet and looking for trouble of the carnal variety, was a different story. In a nutshell, Bill’s boys were given a drubbing and were lucky to get back to camp with only moderate casualties. As Imperial episodes go it was not one that covered the Raj in glory and that, also in a nutshell, was the background to why – as I will explain - I was still in India.

You see, my success in spinning victory out of defeat for Blood had not gone un-noticed in Calcutta. ‘Send for Speedicut!’ was the order and it was my misfortune that the bastards on the Indian General Staff caught up with me in Bombay, just as Fahran and I were about to board a steamer for home. With great courtesy, and considerable firmness, they dragged me back to Peshawar to be War Correspondent-in-Chief for the Tirah Expedition which was licking its wounds and preparing for a ‘Spring offensive’ to recover some Imperial dignity. This was to be achieved, at the second asking, by crushing utterly the Afridis ability to threaten the wretched Forward Policy. Actually, I’m sure the Afridis couldn’t have given a bugger about our ‘policy’ – or the Mad Mullah’s jihad, for that matter - they just enjoyed having thousands of British and Indian soldiers provided as target practice. It was a lesson we never learned.

Anyway, by the end of January 1898, I was established in a spacious office next to that of Bill’s ADCs, an attractive bunch of boys who seemed to think that I needed to be cossetted and teased in equal measure; I certainly didn’t complain about the cosseting. The senior ADC was, however, a serious sort of fellow called Aylmer Haldane,127 a good looking Gordon (if that isn’t an oxymoron), who was said to be ‘close’ to Lockhart (some said too close). Whilst Haldane was clearly ‘not the marrying kind’, as C-G would have said, I didn’t think that Bill, who was married, played for the OWs – but, of course, one could never be sure what goes on behind a bedroom door unless one had been there. Anyway, whatever the after-hours state of the pitch, no one was in any doubt that - during office hours - there was only one access route to the GOC and that was via Captain Haldane.

As my sole objective was to ensure that I remained in Peshawar whilst Bill bimbled off to bash up the Afridis, I decided to cultivate the Jock. Add to that the fact that he was easy on the eye and readers will understand why I decided to make him my new best friend. I quickly found out that Haldane was wont to take a solitary walk every morning after breakfast and, as my pins were still fully functioning, I decided that two was company. Of course, I was a (relatively) senior and highly experienced (for that read long in the tooth) officer, so he could hardly tell me to sod off and he didn’t. We were pacing the gravel early one morning when he suddenly stopped.

“D’ye ken a hoo-zar called Churchill, Colonel Speedicut?”

“Not Winston Churchill?”

“That’s the mon.”

“As a matter of fact I do. We served together last year on Blood’s Staff. The last I heard of him, havin’ copped a Mention for his efforts in the Mamund Valley, he was back with his Regiment in Bangalore and spendin’ every free moment playin’ polo. Why do want to know?”

“Hamilton’s sent him tae see me.128 He arrives the morn.”

“He must be after somethin’.”

“Ye are richt, Colonel. He wants tae join yon Expedition.”

“In what capacity?”

“Ony.”

“Well, if the GOC takes him on, tell him to give the little bugger any job save that of a War Correspondent.”

“Why d’ye moot that, Colonel?”

“Because I’m sick to death of correctin’ the ill-educated bastard’s prose and, besides which, he can’t be trusted not to slip somethin’ past me that’s critical of the GOC’s conduct of affairs. I know full well that he places controversial stuff anonymously, thanks to his extremely persuasive mama who has a way – if you know what I mean - with the Fleet Street Editors,” I ended with an arched eyebrow.

“Y’dinnae sae?”

“I do. And I gather that, even though he still enjoys Wolseley’s support – thanks again to his mama - Kitchener and others are fumin’ about Churchill’s new book on the Malakand Field Force in which, as a mere subaltern, he makes all kinds of pronouncements on strategy, tactics and policy.”

“I see…”

Haldane thought for a moment and then recommenced his walk with me trailing at his elbow. We’d gone about another twenty paces when he again stopped dead and looked me straight in the eye.

“D’ye ken gif yon wee mon micht hae scrieved a clype fae a jurnal called ye Fortnightly Review?”

Frankly, I could hardly understand what the man was saying when he slipped into Scotch, which he tended to do when he was deep in his boggy or misty highland thoughts, but I had a guess.

“You think Churchill has written somethin’ for the Fortnightly Review?”

“Aye – that’s whit a’ sayed.” Really? Well, you damned near fooled me, I thought to myself.

“I haven’t seen the latest edition. What the article about?”

“It’s a fell creeticism of ye haivins o’ last year’s expedeetion intae yon Tirah Valley – and it’s creetical, in parteecular, o’ ye General.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, even if Churchill did write the offendin’ piece, it will be damnably difficult to do anythin’ about it now that it’s been published.”

“I gree wi’ ye – but oor Chief o’ Staff has clarked a hale ree-futation of ye dittay.”

“I hope to God he hasn’t sent it to the journal.”

“Why for no?”

“Because it don’t do to have a slangin’ match in the press. It’s undignified, a sign of weakness and the War Office won’t like it at all. Besides which, it’s the politicos job to defend our action’s not the Chief of Staff of a field command.”

“Och mae Guid.”

“Nicholson hasn’t sent the article, has he?”129

“Itsel gang in yestereen’s post… whit’s t’dae?”

“I think you’d better arrange for me to see Lockhart.”

“Richt nou?”

“Aye,” I said, inexplicably slipping into his boggy patois.

“Gang wi us.”

Half-an-hour later I was seated in Bill Lockhart’s comfortably appointed office; Haldane, who in the meantime had reverted to an English accent, lurked over my left shoulder. Lockhart was another bloody Jock, but a reasonably civilised one who spoke The Queen’s English with a laird’s accent (although he was actually a son of the manse). He’d been an Indian Army wallah all his service career and I think we’d overlapped during the Mutiny, and in the second Afghan business, but I couldn’t have said then that I really knew much more of him than his reputation, which was good.

“Captain Haldane has told me of your opinion that it would be detrimental to, shall we say, the health of this command if General Nicholson’s article was to be published in the Fortnightly Review.”

“That is my considered opinion, General,” I said with as much authority as I could muster, “based on my not inconsiderable experience of these matters.” Actually, I had no such experience – my view was just common sense - but he didn’t know that.

“So what’s to be done?”

“My advice, General, in my capacity as your War Correspondent-in-Chief, is for General Nicholson to immediately send a telegram to the Editor of the wretched rag and inform him that he does not wish his article to be published.130 He should appeal to him as a gentleman, which the damned fellow is almost certainly not, to respect his wishes.”

“And if he replies that he won’t comply?” That was a tricky one. I thought for a moment then decided to play for time.

“Let’s wait and see.”

We didn’t have to wait long. Almost by return a telegram arrived from the Editor of the Fortnightly Review, which I was summoned by Haldane to read in Lockhart’s office.

REGRET UNABLE TO COMPLY STOP COURTNEY

“What’s to be done now, Colonel Speedicut?” demanded the GOC. To be honest, I hadn’t a clue: where the hell was Searcy when one wanted him? Then the answer came to me in a flash.

“Could I ask that Captain Haldane leave the room, General?”

“What? Is it essential?”

“It is,” I replied firmly. Lockhart nodded at Haldane who did as I’d asked. Once the door was closed I said: “I am acquainted with…” How far could I go without compromising the secrecy of the Brotherhood, I wondered? “… that is to say, a friend of mine,” that was one way of describing my brother-in-law, I supposed, “belongs to an organisation – it’s more of a network really - with some influence behind the scenes.”

“Oh, you mean The Brotherhood of the Sons of Thunder?” Lockhart interjected. I was so surprised by this that I nearly fell out of my chair. “If what I know about them is true, they could certainly help.”

“How do you know about the Brotherhood?” I couldn’t help asking.

“I overheard a chap talking about it last year.”

“Really? Where?”

“In Paris. I was, err, on leave in the city prior to returning here.” No need to ask how he’d spent his time in the City of Sin. “Sitting at the table next to mine - in that new place on the rue Royale, Maxim’s I think it’s called – was an elderly and rather raddled looking Englishman with old fashioned cavalry whiskers.” Who the hell was that? It sounded like Flashy, but it couldn’t have been, or so I reasoned to myself. “He was clearly in his cups and out to impress a flighty looking bint who was dining with him.” God, it could have been me, but it wasn’t. “Anyway, he was boasting in a loud voice about an organisation of that name which, so he claimed, manipulated the British government and I don’t know what else besides. The chap was clearly drunk and I didn’t take much account of his boasting at the time, but your remark has brought the whole thing back to my mind – and now you’ve confirmed that what I heard was true.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, I don’t really know any more than I’ve told you,” I blustered, “but I will send my friend a telegram to see if he could arrange for this, err, organisation to speak to the publishers and get them to lean on Courtney.”

“Splendid. Well, let’s hope that your friend can pull a rabbit out of the hat or Nicholson and I may find that our next posting is to benches on the sea front at Hove.”

I did as he asked and sent a telegram to the GB. The next thing anyone heard was a telegram to Nicholson from Courtney and, in its wake, I was summoned by Haldane once again to attend upon the GOC. This time, the Gordon didn’t even wait to be asked by me to leave the room.

“It seems that your pals in the Brotherhood have pulled our nuts out of the fire, Speedicut,” he said, handing me the latest telegram. It read:

ARTICLE SPIKED STOP COURTNEY

“I’m damnably glad and would do anything within reason to show my appreciation,” Lockhart went on.

“If you mean that, General, then a one way, First Class ticket to London would be much appreciated.”

“Consider it done.”

“But don’t you need me for the Spring Campaign?” I rather uncharacteristically replied. Well, I didn’t - after all I’d been through - want it to appear as though I was shirking my duty.

“Spring Campaign? There ain’t going to be one. I heard this morning that the Afridis are suing for peace…”

Which just left the question as to who was the sozzled old gent in Paris who was shouting the odds about the Brotherhood. It was a damnable breach of security but it was Flashy’s bailiwick, so I told him about it in my next report for the Brotherhood.

…

Fahran and I got back to London by early June where, shortly after I’d settled back into the 1898 Season and my customary routine at Stratton Street, over breakfast one day I read in my morning rag that the arch-fiend Bismarck was on his death bed.131 The only pity was that bloody Ignatiev wasn’t sharing it with him.132 That’s was the good news. The bad news, which came hard on its heels as it always does, was a letter from Brother Salisbury requesting my presence at the Foreign Office ‘at your earliest convenience’.

That same night, whilst C-G was out playing bridge with a crowd of coroneted dowagers, I dined at Pratt’s with Johnny Dawson. In the sitting room at the foot of the stairs I found Johnny prosing with Bill Beresford,133 Charlie B’s younger brother.

“… and young Churchill is very keen to go,” I heard Beresford say.

“What’s that about Churchill?” I asked as I gave a food and drink order to George. “Where does he want to go?”

“It seems,” said Johnny, “that Master Winston once again wants to abandon regimental soldiering and join Kitchener’s mob to retake Khartoum.”

“Bloody medal hunter,” remarked a uniformed Dragoon lounging next to us.

“Self-advertiser, more like,” chimed in the Lancer who was with him.

“Yes, yes,” said Beresford soothingly to the room in general, “that’s all very well, gentlemen, but the lad is keen to prove himself and I don’t see why he shouldn’t. Besides which, he has the enthusiastic support of his dear mama.” Ah, ha, I thought, so she’s had you too: was there no limit to where that woman spread her charms (and her well-fleshed legs) in pursuit of her eldest son’s interests? “… and that of the Commander-in-Chief.” No surprise there, I thought.

“So what’s Churchill’s problem?” asked Johnny.

“Kitchener won’t have him at any price. Even Lady Randolph has tried writing to the Sirdar.” That’s one man with whom her charms definitely would’t work, I thought.

“That must be it then: no swanning up the Nile for young Winston,” said Johnny.

“Quite right, too,” chorused l’arme blanche.

“Not so fast, gentlemen,” said Beresford. “There are still two avenues open to him.”

“Which?” demanded Johnny.

“The PM for a start. I sent the old boy a copy of Winston’s book on the Malakand business; he’s read it, liked it and asked to see the author. Winston went around to the Foreign Office earlier this week, the meeting went well and the upshot was that Salisbury instructed Schomberg MacDonnell to telegraph the Sirdar.”134

“And?” the entire room asked in unison.

“He hasn’t yet heard.” At that moment George announced that our meal was ready, so Johnny and I trooped into the dining room.

I’d forgotten the whole conversation by the following morning when I went to get my marching orders at the FO direct from the PM. It quickly emerged that, ‘in recognition of my excellent service on the North-West Frontier’, he had requested (for that read ordered) Wolseley that I join bugger Kitchener’s Anglo-Egyptian Expeditionary Force which was, at that very moment, proceeding in leisurely stages up the Nile with orders to retake Khartoum, to break the Mahdist forces once and for all, and to re-establish Egyptian (for that read British) control of the Soudan. Within the week, so Brother Salisbury informed me, I was to leave for the land of pointy things, awful food, murderous fuzzy-wuzzies and comely youths: as if I hadn’t spent enough of my life trying to keep the sands of the bloody Nile out of my arse.

And what was my role to be on this Imperial jaunt to mow down hordes of lunatic Mohammedans with Mr Maxim’s latest model of machine gun? It was, so Salisbury said, a newly created and previously untested job entitled ‘Head of Expeditionary Force Propaganda’. Apparently, the role had been created and given to me largely thanks to my success with the Fortnightly Review business in Peshawar. All I was required to do was join Kitchener’s Headquarters Staff and ‘control the news’. That meant acting – with Brother Salisbury’s explicit authority – as a very strict governess to the attached War Correspondents. It also meant, so Salisbury instructed me, that I was to censor their dispatches and to make sure that neither Kitchener nor any of those under his command said or wrote anything stupid. Self-evidently, it was going to be an Herculean task on all fronts.

Salisbury had just about finished marking my card when there was a tap on the door and MacDonnell entered bearing a telegram. He passed it without a word to Salisbury who read it. Once MacDonell had withdrawn, the PM looked up at me.

“That’s a shame.”

“What is, Brother Salisbury?” I asked. He waved the telegram.

“Kitchener won’t take on Randolph’s boy in any capacity – not even as a War Correspondent.”

“That’s a relief,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Why do you say that Brother Speedicut?” queried Salisbury.

“Because he’s a damned liability. Thanks to his mother, he seems able to place stories wherever he likes. He’s impossible to control and would make this task you’ve just given me completely undeliverable.”

“I see. Well, there we are. The Sirdar has just made your job a whole lot easier…”

I wouldn’t be so sure about that, I thought, as I took my leave.