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over ten hours. Now they must fight. He nodded to Jenkins and they removed their long rifles from their saddle buckets and strapped them to the saddle pommels. They both checked their revolvers to ensure that the magazines were full and then, exchanging nervous grins, they dug their heels into their mounts and gently moved forward behind the colonel and Major Darwin.
    As they crested the brow of the Pass a compelling vista met their gaze. The Malakand Valley unfolded beneath them in a series of broken-topped, undulating hills towards a purple and mountainous horizon. The road fell steeply down, past the small, primitive fort on its left, from where, down the hill, it forked left and right just before the tents, shacks and surrounding wired perimeter that was the Crater. Beyond that, in the mid distance, were the remains of the forward camp, through which tiny, white-clad figures could be seen swarming, setting fire to buildings and tents. It looked as though the fort itself had not suffered attack – surprisingly, because the Pass looked down on it. The Crater itself was crowded with defenders.
    It was clear, however, from where the attacks had come, for the low hills to the north, east and west of the Crater and surrounding it were alive with figures – brought into focus through field glasses as turbaned, rifle-carrying and sword-bearing Pathans – all swarming now towards the defenders of the Crater. Fonthill brought his binoculars to bear further up the road to the north-east and saw an indistinct mass of men moving towards the action.
    ‘God!’ he whispered to Jenkins. ‘There must be thousands of them coming in—’
    He was interrupted by the colonel, who raised his sabre and turned his head back. ‘Bugler, sound the advance. To the front, cantaaah!’
    Then, in columns of fours, the regiment rode down towards the Crater, receiving a thin cheer from the defenders of the fort as they passed. The canter seemed to Fonthill to be a rather stately advance, with the horses moving in an unhurried rhythm as though on parade and their riders sitting erect, with their sabres raised vertically aligned to their bodies, as though ready to salute their sovereign at a presentation of their colours at the Horse Guards in London.
    Then things changed.
    From the foothills to the right, tribesmen began breaking cover and pouring towards the protecting
abattis
surrounding the Crater. Fonthill, riding directly behind the colonel, could feel the joy in the little man’s posture as he noted this and then turned and pointed forward with his sabre, his face agleam, and shouted ‘Bugler, sound the … Chaaaaarge!’
    Immediately, there was a whoop from the troopers as the notes sounded out and the horses, as one beast, gathered themselves and launched into the charge. Fonthill drew in a great gulp of hot air, lowered his head and dug his heels into the side of his mount. He had little need to have done so for the beast flared her nostrils and thundered forward with the rest. As the column charged, so its leaders slightly fanned out so that a broader front could be presented to the enemy to the front.
    Fonthill hardly had time to see where the charge was leading them until he was suddenly in the middle of a mass of scattering figures in white-and-dun-coloured clothing, some who were kneeling and firing their rifles, others who were standing defiantly, sword in hand, to meet the charge and more who were now simply attempting to flee.
    Bending low and desperately gripping with his knees, he rode down one man, which nearly unhorsed him, but the beast recovered and bounded forward and he just had time to fire with his revolver into the breast of a Pathan who had his sword raised. He felt himself slipping from the impact but a firm hand from the right pressed him back into the saddle and he became aware of Jenkins riding close beside him. Then they parted in the melee and Fonthill was bending low and firing at a succession of figures who