Even today Chitral has lost little of its remoteness. In the great empty valleys surrounding it, the only sounds to be heard are the melancholy cry of the eagle, the occasional whine of a jeep, and the perpetual thunder of the glacier-fed torrents as they race through the precipitous gorges. But in the days of the Great Game, a more ominous sound sometimes met the traveller’s ear – the crack of a matchlock. For this was a land where strangers were unwelcome, and into which Europeans did not venture except at the ruler’s invitation, and then only with an armed escort.
Just getting there is still something of an adventure. From Gilgit, to the east, it can only be reached after a hair-raising, 200-mile drive by jeep, most of it in bottom gear, along a narrow track just one vehicle wide, and with sickening views of the valley floor hundreds of feet below. Even this route is often severed for days on end when sections of it break away and plunge into the abyss. The rewards are great, however, for the journey takes one through some of the most stupendous mountain scenery anywhere. In winter the road – if it can be so described – is closed, unless one is prepared to struggle waist deep through the snow which blocks the 12,000-foot Shandur Pass, the highest point on the route. The only other way, except by air, to reach Chitral is from the south, via Swat, along a road which cost 500 lives to construct. Even so, in winter, the telegraph poles are sometimes buried in snow to within a foot of the wires. But whichever way he comes, the traveller is in no doubt when he has reached his destination. For there, set dramatically on the bend of the river, is the great fortress of Chitral, once the palace of its rulers, and in which much of the action in this chapter occurred.
On the death of Aman-ul-Mulk in August 1892, the first of his heirs to seize the throne was his son Afzul, who happened to be in Chitral at the time, and who immediately set about murdering his numerous half-brothers lest they try to unseat him. But his principal rival was the real heir to the throne, his elder brother Nizam, who was away hunting in Yasin. He now set out with a large armed following in search of Nizam, intending to dispose of him also. Nizam was too quick for him, though, and fled to Gilgit where he sought British protection. This was granted, while the British authorities awaited the outcome of the struggle. At that moment a third contender entered the fray. He was the late ruler’s brother Sher, who had long been living in exile in Kabul, as the guest of Abdur Rahman, who had a close interest in neighbouring Chitral. Encouraged by Abdur Rahman, who was anxious to see his own candidate on the throne, Sher now made his way secretly to the capital with a small band of supporters. There, by means of a trick, he lured Afzul to the gates of the fortress-palace, where he shot him dead. Thereupon, the Chitralis switched their loyalty to the new claimant to the throne, though not for very long.
On hearing in Gilgit of the death of his younger brother, Nizam immediately set out for Chitral to try to wrest his birthright from his uncle. In this he now enjoyed the support of the British who had by this time decided that they preferred him to Sher, or to anyone else. As he advanced westwards he was joined by large numbers of followers, including 1,200 Chitrali troops sent against him by Sher. Already, during the latter’s brief reign, they had begun to see through his extravagant promises of houses, land, riches and beautiful wives for all. Seeing that his prospects of retaining the throne were hopeless, Sher fled hastily back into Afghanistan. On reaching the capital, the triumphant Nizam immediately proclaimed himself his father’s rightful successor. His rule was officially recognised by the British, relieved to see their own man on the throne and stability once more restored to Chitral. Another door leading to India had been slammed in Russia’s face.
Calcutta’s relief was destined to be short-lived, however. Within a year Chitral had been plunged yet again into turmoil. This time the victim was Nizam himself, assassinated by his teenaged half-brother Amir while they were on a hunting trip together. Nizam had, in fact, wanted to dispose of Amir in time-honoured fashion, but had been dissuaded from doing so by the British. The reckless Amir now proclaimed himself Chitral’s fourth new sovereign in little more than two years, a role for which he was hopelessly ill-equipped. At the same time he demanded immediate recognition by Calcutta via the political officer, Lieutenant Gurdon, who had been based in Chitral at Nizam’s request. Aware that this would never be granted to Nizam’s assassin, Gurdon played for time, declaring that only the Viceroy could make so important an announcement, and that he was awaiting his reply. Simultaneously he warned Gilgit that serious trouble could be expected when it dawned on Amir that retribution and not recognition would be forthcoming. Indeed, it was rumoured that he was already seeking allies against the British.
Fortunately, it was not to the Russians that he turned, but to his southern neighbour, Umra Khan, ruler of what today is called Swat. Word soon reached Gilgit that Amir’s supposed new ally was preparing to advance into Chitral with an army of 3,000 Pathans. Ostensibly coming to Amir’s assistance, he was, it was whispered, in fact intending to annex Chitral to his own kingdom. Whatever his motive, however, one thing was clear to the British. The door to northern India was once more dangerously ajar, if the Russians chose to take advantage of it. In Gilgit, the nearest British outpost, the senior British officer was now Major George Robertson, an army doctor turned political, who had succeeded Durand. Realising that Lieutenant Gurdon was in grave danger, as was the stability of this strategically crucial state, Robertson at once set out for Chitral with 400 troops, all he could muster. On reaching the capital he removed the feckless Amir from the throne, replacing him temporarily with his youngest brother, an intelligent boy of 12. At the same time he sent a stern warning to Umra Khan, ordering him and his troops to turn back. If he had not done so by April 1, 1895 – four weeks hence – a powerful British punitive force would advance northwards through his own domains from Peshawar and evict him from Chitrali territory. This force, he was advised, was already being mobilised in case it proved necessary.
It was at this moment that events took a turn for the worse for Robertson and his men. Quite unexpectedly, Sher returned to the fray from Afghanistan, this time as the unlikely ally of Umra Khan. The two men had agreed that if they succeeded in driving the British out of Chitral, they would divide the kingdom between them. Sher would occupy the throne, while Umra Khan would receive territories in the south which he had long coveted. Whether either of them intended to keep his word to the other is another question, but their combined armies represented a serious threat to Robertson’s small force at Chitral. Seeing the danger, Robertson moved his troops into the fortress as the best place in which to withstand a siege. In so doing, he was to cause profound offence to the Chitralis, for the stronghold also served as the royal palace, harem and treasury. To see it overrun by European officers and their Kashmiri and Sikh troops was extremely humiliating. At first Robertson had enjoyed the support and sympathy of most Chitralis, who had no love for Umra Khan and his warlike Pathans, and certainly had no wish to be occupied by them. However, by commandeering the royal palace, he had forfeited their goodwill.
Hostilities began on March 3, when word reached the fortress that Sher was approaching Chitral with a large party of his supporters. As Robertson had little idea of the strength or capacity of the forces ranged against him, or of Sher’s precise intentions, he decided to send out a reconnaissance party. Being a political officer himself, and not a professional soldier, he had placed Captain Colin Campbell in charge of the garrison’s defences. Campbell, who led the party, gravely underestimated the strength of the advancing foe. After a fierce engagement, he and his Kashmiris were driven back into the fortress with heavy casualties. Campbell himself was badly wounded, while another officer subsequently died from his injuries, a Victoria Cross being awarded to the young army doctor who, under fierce fire, carried the mortally wounded man back to the fortress. In all, it had cost the British twenty-three lives and thirty-three wounded, an expensive way of gauging the enemy’s strength, and a severe blow to the garrison’s morale.
Nor was that all. Unknown to Robertson, a small party of Kashmiri troops led by two British subalterns was on its way from Gilgit bringing him badly needed ammunition when it was ambushed by Chitralis. After losing a number of men, the party managed to reach the temporary safety of a cluster of stone houses. For several days they remained there under siege. Then, under a white flag, a messenger arrived claiming that he had been sent by Sher with orders to stop the fighting. He told the two British officers that, following a clash with Robertson’s troops at Chitral, amicable relations had now been restored, and that Sher guaranteed them a safe onward passage. A ceasefire was agreed, and a meeting took place between the senior of the two subalterns and the enemy commander at which the latter and other leading Chitralis solemnly assured him of the genuineness of the offer. As a gesture of apparent sincerity, they even supplied the defenders with much-needed food and water. Aware that they could not hold out indefinitely, and that help was unlikely to be forthcoming, the two British officers knew that they had little choice but to trust the Chitralis.
A bizarre piece of Central Asian treachery now ensued. The Chitrali commander announced that in order to celebrate the new-found accord his men would give a display of polo, their national game, on a piece of open ground before the British positions. The two officers were invited to watch this as guests of honour. Not wishing to risk offence, they agreed, but carefully placed themselves where their troops could cover them in the event of duplicity. The game took place without anything untoward happening. But the moment it was over, the Chitralis began to dance, as was their custom. For a few brief seconds some of them came between the two subalterns and the marksmen covering them, temporarily blocking the line of fire. It had been carefully planned. The two officers were seized and quickly bound hand and foot. Seeing what was happening, the Kashmiri troops opened fire, though too late. Dragging their two captives with them, the Chitralis dashed for cover behind a stone wall. Deprived of their officers, the Kashmiris were soon overrun and most of them slaughtered. There being no time to destroy the ammunition intended for Robertson, this now fell into the hands of the enemy. Before very long they would be putting it to alarming use.
Meanwhile in Chitral the situation was worsening. Robertson and his men now found themselves under heavy siege from a greatly superior force armed with modern rifles, though not, fortunately, with artillery. In addition to 5 British officers and nearly 400 native troops, Robertson had with him in the fortress more than 100 non-combatants, including servants, clerks and some Chitralis who had thrown in their lot with him. All had to be fed, and as there was only enough food to last a little more than a month, everyone was put on half rations. Furthermore, ammunition was short, there being barely 300 rounds per man. The fortress itself, eighty yards square, stood on the Chitral river, which ensured them a ready supply of water. Constructed from heavy blocks of stone, its walls were twenty-five feet high and eight feet thick. At each of its four corners rose a square tower, twenty feet higher than the walls. A fifth tower, built to protect those carrying water, jutted out towards the river, and a covered way was now built from this to the water’s edge, a distance of twenty paces.
Such were the fortress’s strengths. However, it also had a number of serious weaknesses. Surrounding it were clusters of tall trees from which snipers could easily fire down into its interior. Those manning the far walls were thus vulnerable to being shot in the back, and to protect them bullet-proof shelters had to be constructed from earth-filled boxes and thick wooden doors. There were also a number of mud-built outbuildings standing close to the fortress walls which both obstructed the defenders’ lines of fire and provided the attackers with cover. Nor had the fortress been planned with modern rifles in mind, for it was within easy range of the towering crags which overlooked it from across the river. Another weak point was the amount of timber used in its construction, making it extremely vulnerable to incendiary attacks. Fire pickets and patrols were organised among the non-combatants, and the men always slept with their filled water-skins beside them. To boost morale, and to signal the garrison’s defiance to the enemy, a makeshift Union Jack was stitched together and run up on one of the towers. In the meantime, amid great secrecy and at dead of night, trusted messengers were dispatched to alert the nearest British posts to the garrison’s plight.
Apart from continuous sniping, which took a number of lives, the enemy made no major assault on the fortress during the first month. At one stage, peace talks even took place, but with Sher demanding that the British evacuate Chitral under a guarantee of safe passage. Aware of the great numerical superiority of those surrounding them, and the weakness of their own position, Robertson played along with this, hoping thereby to give a relief force as long as possible to reach them. Furthermore he deliberately leaked it to the enemy that, although well supplied with ammunition, the defenders were growing seriously short of food. He hoped thus to persuade Sher and Umra Khan, who had by now joined forces at Chitral, that the fortress could fairly quickly be starved into surrender. But soon his purpose became apparent to the enemy, and contacts ceased abruptly. A number of determined attacks were now launched against the fortress, including several attempts to set it on fire. However, these were successfully beaten off by the defenders. Even so, all the time the Chitralis were gradually pushing forward their sangars, and getting closer and closer to the walls. By April 5 they were in possession of an old summer-house only fifty yards away, and on the following day constructed asangar from heavy timber only forty yards from the main gate.
Then came the most serious threat so far to the fortress. On April 7, under cover of a diversionary attack on the covered way down to the river, and heavy fire from marksmen hidden in the trees, a small party of the enemy managed to creep up to the far wall unobserved. With them they bore incendiary materials. They chose their moment well, for there was a strong wind blowing. Within minutes the south-east tower was blazing fiercely, largely due to its timber joists. Robertson could see that if it were not extinguished quickly it would collapse, leaving a large gap in the wall which would be almost impossible to defend against such superior numbers. Directed personally by Robertson, every man who could be spared was brought in to fight the flames. A heavy concentration of fire was directed against them as they worked, killing two and wounding nine others, including Robertson himself, who was hit by a bullet in the shoulder. But after five hours the flames were out.
It had been a close shave, though an even closer one was to follow. Four nights later the defenders heard the sounds of revelry coming from the summer-house, now occupied by the enemy. The loud beating of drums and the cacophony of pipes was at intervals interrupted by screams of derision directed at those in the fortress. The clamour was repeated on each successive night, but it was some time before the defenders realised what the enemy’s game was. It was almost certainly intended to drown the tell-tale sounds of a tunnel being dug towards the nearest point of the wall. The besiegers had found a good use for the explosives captured from the British ammunition party. That night one of the sentries reported hearing the faint sounds of a pick being used underground. The officers were unable to hear anything, but by the following morning there was no mistaking it. The Chitrali miners were within twelve feet of the wall. Normally the threat would have been dealt with by means of a counter-mine, but the tunnel was now far too close for that. There was not a moment to lose lest the enemy realise that they had been detected and ignite the mine. There was only one thing to do. The summer-house would have to be stormed immediately, and the tunnel destroyed.
Forty Sikhs and sixty Kashmiris, led by a British subaltern, were chosen for the task. At four o’clock that afternoon the eastern gate of the fortress was opened swiftly and silently, and the assault party raced out, making straight for the summer-house. The enemy were caught by surprise, only managing to kill two of the attackers. Within seconds the assault party was inside the house, whose thirty or so occupants fled out of the back at the sight’ of the British bayonets. While some of the party positioned themselves to fight off any counter-attack, the officer and the others began frantically to search for the entrance to the tunnel. They soon found it, behind the garden wall, and from it no fewer than twenty-two Chitralis were dragged blinking into the daylight. There, one by one, they were bayoneted to death by the Sikhs. Two, however, were saved by the subaltern, for he had orders to bring back prisoners for interrogation. The explosive charges left by the enemy were then detonated, destroying the tunnel, the violence of the blast knocking over the officer and singeing the beards and turbans of several of the Sikhs.
Now came the most hazardous part of the operation – getting the party safely back to the fortress through murderous enemy fire. Miraculously, thanks to the covering fire maintained from the walls, this was achieved without further loss of life. In all the raid had cost the British eight lives, though undoubtedly it had saved many more, perhaps those of the entire garrison. As the men poured back through the gate, Robertson, who had observed the operation from one of the towers, hastened down to congratulate them. ‘The Sikhs,’ he wrote afterwards, ‘still raging with excitement, crowded forward to recite the numbers they had killed, and to exhibit their stained bayonets and splashed faces.’ They had, he noted, ‘the ecstatic look of religious fanatics’. By now the garrison had been under siege for forty-seven days. Not a word of what was going on outside had reached them, or even of whether any of their messengers had got through. Food, ammunition and morale were running dangerously low, and many of their rifles, far from new at the start, had ceased to function. Robertson and his officers knew that if help did not arrive soon they would be forced to surrender, or be overrun. However, with the destruction of the tunnel had come a slender ray of hope. Interrogation of the two prisoners revealed that there had been fighting of some kind on the road from Gilgit. Could this mean, everyone wondered, that a relief party was on its way at last? The answer was to come very shortly.
Although the defenders had no way of knowing it, two British forces were at that moment racing to get to Chitral, one from the south and the other from the east. When word of the garrison’s plight first reached India, preparations for an expedition to Swat and Chitral had been proceeding at a somewhat leisurely pace, for Robertson was not thought to be in any immediate danger. The enemy, moreover, had been given until April 1 to withdraw, which it was rather assumed they would. But as intelligence began to come in that Robertson and his small party were now under siege, and that the ammunition convoy from Gilgit had been ambushed, leaving two officers in Sher’s hands, this complacency turned to something little short of panic. The vision of a handful of British officers, with their loyal native troops, holding out against overwhelming odds in a remote and picturesque fortress, brought to mind the recent tragedy in the Sudan. ‘It is Khartoum all over again,’ declared The Graphic. Those with slightly longer memories remembered Burnes, Macnaghten, Cavagnari, Conolly, Stoddart and other victims of oriental treachery beyond India’s frontiers. With dread visions of the main relief party arriving too late, as had happened at Khartoum, the defence chiefs decided to send ahead a second, smaller column from Gilgit.
There were by now growing fears in Gilgit that the troubles might spread eastwards from Chitral. The only troops therefore who could be spared from garrison duties were 400 Sikh Pioneers. Although mainly used for road-building, these sturdy men were also trained soldiers who had shown themselves to be formidable fighters. Furthermore, they were commanded by an extremely able and experienced frontier soldier, Colonel James Kelly. Even so, despite the addition of forty Kashmiri sappers and two mountain guns, it was a pitifully small force for so crucial a mission. However, the day was saved by the unexpected offer of 900 irregulars by those erstwhile adversaries of Britain, Hunza and Nagar. ‘Splendid men,’ one of Kelly’s officers called them. ‘Hardy, thickset mountaineers, incapable of fatigue.’ The offer was gratefully accepted, and in Gilgit they were issued with modern rifles. So that they would not be mistaken for the enemy, each man was given a strip of red cloth to wrap around his cap. One hundred of them wereattached to Kelly’s force, while the rest were deployed to guard the passes while British backs were turned.
Kelly had little or no time in which to prepare his force or make any plans. His orders were to leave at once, for if Robertson and his men were to avoid the fate of General Gordon, every day, perhaps every hour, was crucial. Ahead lay a forced march, often through deep snow and across some of the harshest terrain in the world, of more than 200 miles. Every man’s hand would be against them, and every pony-track and gorge commanded by sharpshooters from the heights above. Kelly’s force, which took no tents to enable it to travel at maximum possible speed, left Gilgit on March 23. One week later, the main relief column, 15,000 strong and commanded by Major-General Sir Robert Low, marched northwards from Peshawar. The race for Chitral was on.
Accompanying Low’s force was Captain Francis Younghusband, who had served for a while in Chitral as a political officer, and who had been invited by The Times to act as its special correspondent with the expedition. After some hesitation the authorities had agreed to this, as he was officially on leave at the time. Unlike some, Younghusband did not suspect the Russians of being behind the crisis, but he regarded the expedition’s mobilisation as a rehearsal for crushing any future Russian moves against India’s northern frontiers. The force, consisting of three infantry brigades, two cavalry units, four batteries of mountain guns and numerous smaller units, was regarded by many as unnecessarily large and unwieldy for a task in which speed was more crucial than fire-power. Nonetheless it made rapid progress once it had started, overwhelming several strongly defended enemy positions in a succession of swift engagements. On April 3, Low’s men stormed the 3,500-foot Malakand Pass, leading into Swat, and held by 12,000 of Umra Khan’s Pathan warriors. The latter were taken partly by surprise following a feint attack made against a parallel pass further to the west. They fought with great ferocity and bravery, but they faced some of Britain’s finest infantry regiments, including the King’s Royal Rifles and the Gordon Highlanders, and were finally forced to flee, leaving behind many dead and wounded. British casualties in this key engagement amounted to only seventy killed and wounded.
Two days later a squadron of Guides Cavalry caught a party of 2,000 of the enemy out in the open, cutting down many of them and putting the rest to flight at little cost to themselves. On April 13, a battalion of Guides Infantry engaged a far stronger enemy force, killing 600 of them for the loss of only a dozen of their own ranks, although these included their own colonel, shot through the stomach while standing in full view of the enemy issuing orders. Four days after that, their morale rapidly crumbling, Umra Khan’s followers prepared to make a stand at his palace-stronghold at Munda. However, finding themselves facing overwhelming odds, they soon melted away into the hills. Inside the fortress, Low’s officers came upon a letter from a Scottish firm based in Bombay offering Umra Khan, in Younghusband’s words, ‘every luxury in the way of arms and ammunition, from Maxim guns at 3,700 rupees, down to revolvers at 34’. None, in fact, had been delivered, for British political officers had got wind of it, and the firm had been ordered to leave India.
Worryingly, there was still no news of the beleaguered garrison at Chitral. For all anyone knew, Robertson and his men might already have been slaughtered. Nor was there any word of the progress of Colonel Kelly. However, with Munda now in their hands, the only remaining obstacle between Low’s triumphant troops and their objective was the 10,000-foot, snow-filled Lowarai Pass, the southern gateway to Chitral. Once they were across that, then it would merely be a race against time, not to mention against Kelly’s little force advancing from the east. For, with the entire nation looking anxiously on, Low and his officers were determined to be the first to reach Chitral.
All this time, Kelly and his men had been painfully making their way across the mountains. At first they had not encountered any opposition, the Chitralis never suspecting that anyone would attempt this formidable route at that time of year. On March 30 the column crossed the snowline, 10,000 feet up, and the going began to get progressively worse. As they trudged on upwards, amid heavy snowfalls, the men were issued with tinted glasses to prevent blindness. At night, having no tents, the troops slept in the open. This was too much for the coolies who had been hired to carry the expedition’s rations, and during the first night in the snow they deserted, together with their laden ponies. However, they were forcibly rounded up and from then on kept under close guard. Still there was no sign of the enemy.
Two marches ahead lay the first real test – the 12,000-foot Shandur Pass. To cross this, with their two mountain guns, everyone knew would prove an awesome, perhaps even impossible, undertaking. At their first attempt they were driven back, for the exhausted mules carrying the guns and ammunition soon found themselves in difficulties. Already two of them had nearly been lost, together with their vital loads, after rolling down a 100-foot decline into deep snow. For the men things were little easier. Already soaked to the skin, and some of them beginning to suffer from frostbite, they found themselves sinking into the snow, in places up to their armpits. Had the Chitralis been guarding the pass, the entire force might well have been massacred. Two days later, on April 3, they tried again. This time Kelly divided the column into several parties. First to head for the snow-blocked pass were 200 hardy Sikh Pioneers. Their job was to cut a way through for the guns. These were to follow next day, borne on makeshift sledges fashioned by Kelly’s engineers. Late that night, after an anxious twelve-hour wait, word came back that the Sikhs had got through. It had been an appalling journey, and it left the force temporarily divided on either side of the pass, and therefore extremely vulnerable. Early next morning began the slow and hazardous task of dragging the guns over. At times they had to be lifted from the sledges and borne physically through the waist-deep snow. But by nightfall it was done.
It was a remarkable feat, accomplished by sheer grit and fine leadership, though not without cost, for the following day Kelly’s doctors treated no fewer than fifty-five cases of snow-blindness and frostbite. Miraculously, however, there was still no sign of the enemy, and two days later the rest of the force was safely across the Shandur Pass. They were now only sixty miles from Chitral, but from here they would have to fight every inch of the way, for the following day the enemy suddenly became aware of their presence. Hitherto the Chitralis had devoted all their efforts to the siege, and latterly to the threat posed by Low’s advancing force. Kelly’s mountain guns were to more than prove their worth in the struggle which followed, and by April 13 he had driven the enemy from their two main positions on the approach route to Chitral. Five days later, although there was still no word from the beleaguered garrison, his men found themselves within two marches of it, and with every sign that the enemy had fled.
Meanwhile, inside the fortress, things had reached a very low ebb, with no news of a relief expedition being on the way. Many of the troops were ill or wounded, and the officers were reduced to eating their horses to keep up their strength. No one could escape the appalling stench of putrefying animal carcases and the faeces and urine of the several hundred inmates. Then, quite suddenly, it was over. The first that Robertson knew of the enemy’s collapse was on the night of April 18, when it was reported that a man had crept up to the wall outside and had called out, though no one caught his words. The man then retreated into the darkness, evidently fearing that he would be fired at. A little later, though, he returned, and this time the troops manning the wall did hear what he said. ‘Word flashed through the fort that all our besiegers had fled,’ wrote Robertson in his account of their ordeal. But he was taking no chances that night, suspecting it almost certainly to be a trick.
At first light the next morning he sent out a heavily armed party to ascertain the truth. It did not take them long to confirm that the enemy had indeed vanished – nor to discover why. A message was hurriedly sent off to Kelly, and that night a reply was received from him saying that he hoped to reach Chitral the following day. Even after his column had crossed the Shandur Pass, the Chitralis had remained convinced that so small a force would never be able to drive them from their strongholds, which they considered to be unassailable. Umra Khan, moreover, had promised to send Sher 2,000 more of his Pathans so that they could together launch a final assault on the fortress, but these had not materialised, being desperately needed in the south. With that Sher and his remaining followers had fled. The siege, which had lasted a month and a half and cost the lives of forty-one of the defenders, was over.
Kelly’s force marched into Chitral on April 20 to find Robertson and his men resembling ‘walking skeletons’. The Gilgit column had won the race, for the vanguard of General Low’s force was still struggling over the Lowarai Pass. Although the enemy had fled, no one doubted that it was Kelly’s bold dash across the mountains, and his brilliantly fought engagements, which had forced the Chitralis to abandon the contest. When word of the garrison’s relief reached London, Kelly’s feat was lauded by the newspapers as ‘one of the most remarkable marches in history’, a judgement with which few would disagree. The first to reach Chitral from the south, just one week later and riding far ahead of Low’s troops, were Captain Younghusband, temporarily of The Times, and his friend Major Roderick Owen, representing the Lucknow Pioneer. They had carefully avoided seeking Low’s permission to ride thus through hostile territory, knowing full well that this would have been refused. That night they dined with Robertson and Kelly over a precious last bottle of brandy in the house which had been Younghusband’s own residence back in Aman-ul-Mulk’s day, and more recently had served as Sher’s headquarters. The fanatical bravery of the enemy, especially of the Pathans, was highly praised by the British officers. But the real heroes, all agreed, were the sturdy Sikh Pioneers, men of the lowliest caste, who, serving under both Robertson and Kelly, had fought with extraordinary fortitude and professionalism. The worse conditions had become inside the fortress, and the heavier the enemy’s fire, the keener the Sikhs had been to get to grips with them. It was they, Younghusband wrote later, who had really saved the garrison.
Not long afterwards word reached Chitral that Umra Khan, too, had fled the field. Accompanied by eleven mule-loads of treasures from his palace, he had crossed safely into Afghanistan, out of reach of his pursuers. Before doing so, though, he had freed the two British subalterns who had been seized at the polo match and entrusted to him by Sher. They had been well treated, and he had even apologised to them for the devious way in which they had been captured. ‘Umra Khan’, observed Robertson, ‘had behaved like a gentleman.’ He was, moreover, to prove luckier than his Chitrali ally Sher. Ten days after fleeing his capital, Sher had the misfortune to run into one of his foes, who starved him into surrender before handing him over to the British, together with 1,500 of his followers. He was marched off to exile in India, where he was to declare bitterly of Umra Khan: ‘I don’t ever want to set eyes on him again. He destroyed us with promises – and fled like a fox.’ Needless to say, from his bolt-hole in Afghanistan, Umra Khan had much the same to say about him.
At home the nation was euphoric over the news from Chitral, for everyone had been fearing the worst. Surgeon-Major Robertson, the doctor turned political, was at once rewarded with a knighthood by an overjoyed Queen Victoria. Kelly was recommended for one, but instead was made ADC to the Queen and given a GB. Even if he failed to get the knighthood which many believed he deserved, Kelly will always be remembered among soldiers for his celebrated forced march across the mountains with his ragtag army. In addition, eleven DSOs were awarded, not to mention the VC won by Surgeon-Captain Henry Whitchurch for carrying back a dying fellow officer after the disastrous reconnaissance at the outset of the siege. Finally, there were decorations and awards for a number of native officers and men who had distinguished themselves, while all ranks who had taken part in the affair were given an extra six months’ pay and three months’ leave. It may only have been ‘a minor siege’, as Robertson modestly subtitled his own account of it, but those who took part in it included one future field-marshal, at least nine future generals and a number of knights. From a career point of view, Chitral was clearly a good place to have on one’s CV.
The crucial question now arose of what to do with Chitral. Should it be annexed like Hunza, or be restored to independence under a ruler friendly to Britain? The issue was to become the subject of heated debate in military and political circles, with the forward school inevitably at loggerheads with those who favoured masterly inactivity. Hunza had been occupied to keep it out of Russian hands, and so had Chitral. But even during the previous month or so circumstances had changed dramatically in the Pamir region. Going almost unnoticed amid the drama surrounding the siege, London had concluded a deal with St Petersburg which finally settled the frontier between Russian Central Asia and eastern Afghanistan. The Pamir gap, moreover, which had for so long worried British strategists, had at last been closed. With Abdur Rahman’s approval, a narrow corridor of land, previously belonging to no one and stretching eastwards as far as the Chinese frontier, now became Afghan sovereign territory. Although no more than ten miles wide in places – the closest that Britain and Russia had yet come to meeting in Central Asia – this corridor ensured that nowhere did their frontiers touch. Admittedly it left the Russians in permanent possession of most of the Pamir region. But the British were aware that if St Petersburg decided to seize this area, they were virtually powerless to prevent it. At least, from Britain’s point of view, there was now an officially agreed frontier beyond which St Petersburg could not advance – except, of course, in time of war.
This settlement naturally had a close bearing on the question of Chitral. The forward school argued that because the new frontiers brought the Russians even closer to the passes leading to Chitral and northern India, the need to hold on to the territory was greater than ever. The Indian government also subscribed to this view, informing London that it proposed to establish a permanent garrison in Chitral, and build a strategic road to it across the Malakand Pass from Peshawar. For the only other way of getting troops from India to Chitral in the event of a crisis was via Gilgit, and even in late spring, as Kelly had found, this route was still blocked by snow (as indeed was the road leading up to Gilgit from India). However, despite these arguments in support of retention, the Liberal Cabinet of Lord Rosebery had made up its mind not to become entangled again with Chitral. It therefore overruled Calcutta’s decision, decreeing that neither troops nor political officers were to be stationed there. Among the reasons given for this was the enormous expense of maintaining such a garrison, and also of building and protecting a road which would run for nearly 200 miles through hostile, Pathan-controlled territory. Furthermore, London argued, such a road might prove to be a two-edged weapon, serving invader as well as defender.
Then, less than two months later, the ruling was abruptly reversed as the Liberals fell from power and Lord Salisbury was back once more in Downing Street. More important perhaps for India, Curzon was appointed Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Strongly urging the Prime Minister to retain Chitral, he warned of the likelihood of the Russians seizing it if Britain withdrew. Even if they did not, a British withdrawal would be viewed by the frontier tribes as a sign of weakness, especially following Russia’s gains in the Pamirs. Already serious trouble was brewing among the tribes in parts of the north, and such a move would only encourage them into believing that the British could be driven out. Curzon’s arguments prevailed, and it was decided to retain Chitral. A permanent garrison was to be maintained there, consisting of two battalions of Indian infantry, mountain batteries and sappers, while two further battalions would guard the Malakand Pass and other points on the route northwards.
The hawks had won the day, and subsequently it emerged that very likely they were right in urging the retention of Chitral. In the spring of 1898, while on a ‘shooting expedition’ in the Pamirs, an officer of the 60th Rifles – Captain Ralph Cobbold – learned from a Russian frontier officer he met there that they had orders to take immediate possession of Chitral if the British evacuated it. ‘Very complete plans’ had been drawn up for this eventuality, and a Russian officer had visited Chitral in disguise in order to examine its defences and approach routes. Cobbold’s informant added that plans for the invasion of Chitral ‘are a matter of common discussion at the dinner table of the Governor of Ferghana’, while other Russian officers told him that they looked upon the present frontier with Afghanistan as a ‘purely temporary arrangement’ and ‘by no means permanent’. Cobbold was much impressed by how well informed they were about the British and Afghan side of the frontier. This he put down to ‘the extensive system of espionage which is encouraged by the Russian Government along the Indian frontier’. He added: ‘Trusty men in disguise are constantly coming and going between the Russian frontier, Kabul and Chitral, and these are encouraged to gain all the information possible compatible with their own safety.’ The Russian officers he met ‘all look forward to war with the greatest eagerness’, he reported.
Russian officers serving on the frontier had long been given to such bellicose talk, as we have noted before. Its encouragement was one way of keeping up morale, while the preparation of invasion plans, and the gathering of intelligence, was merely part of a staff officer’s routine in most armies. Allowing word of it to reach British ears, moreover, was an effective way of encouraging them to keep more troops in India than they would otherwise have needed. That was all part of the Great Game. Whatever the truth of this Pamir gossip, in the event St Petersburg was to stick firmly to the agreement, making no further moves towards Afghanistan or India. The Russians had got pretty well what they wanted. Not only had they secured their long southern frontier, but they had also placed themselves advantageously if ever it came to a war with Britain. After the best part of a century, the Tsar’s empire in Central Asia had finally reached its limits. But the British, so often hoodwinked in the past, were still far from convinced. The last round of the Great Game was about to begin. Once again the play moved eastwards – this time to Tibet, a secretive land long closed to foreigners, and protected from the inquisitive by some of the highest mountains on earth.