The Story of the Guides | Page 9

Meanwhile the headquarters of the Guides, under Lumsden, were
hastening down from Lahore to give Edwardes that invaluable support
which, however meagre in numbers, stout hearts, whose loyalty is

above suspicion, afford to a harassed commander. Joyfully were they
welcomed, as one sweltering day in June the Guides joined the little
force which was besieging an army of equal or perhaps greater strength
lying behind the growing ramparts of Mooltan.
Nor were the new arrivals long in showing their mettle. The camp was
then pitched on the right of the nullah at Suraj Kund, and in this
position was much annoyed by twelve pieces of ordnance, placed in
position round the Bibi Pakdaman mosque. These Lumsden offered to
capture and silence and, if possible, bring away. The service was
carried out with much dash and gallantry, and the guns were captured
and rendered useless, though it was found impossible, in face of the
heavy odds, to bring them off.
But the siege of Mooltan, in so far as the Guides were concerned, was
chiefly memorable for bringing prominently to notice the gallant and
romantic figure of Fatteh Khan, Khuttuk. This noble fellow was one of
those Bayards of the East who know no fear, and as soldiers are
without reproach. Born of a fighting stock and fighting tribe, cradled
amidst wars and alarms, he developed the highest qualities of a brave,
resolute, and resourceful partisan leader. Always ready, always alert,
nothing could upset his equanimity, nothing take him by surprise, while
no odds were too great for him to face. With the true instinct of the
cavalry leader he struck hard and promptly, and upheld in person the
doctrine that boldness, even unto recklessness, should be the
watchword of the light cavalryman. Yet this paladin of the fight could
barely write his name. It is not every soldier who has the opportunity
nowadays, as in the days of champions, to perform a historic deed in
the open with both armies as spectators. Yet so it happened to
Ressaldar Fatteh Khan one hot day in August, 1848, before the walls of
Mooltan.
Lumsden was absent on some duty; indeed, there were only three
British officers, and these took turn and turn about in the trenches,
when a messenger galloped into the Guides' camp to report that a
marauding party of the enemy's cavalry, some twenty strong, had
driven off a herd of General Whish's camels which were grazing near

his camp. Fatteh Khan, as ressaldar, was the senior officer in camp, and
at once gave the order for every man to boot and saddle and get to
horse at once. The little party, numbering barely seventy, led by Fatteh
Khan, followed the messenger at a gallop for three miles to the scene of
the raid. Arrived there they suddenly found themselves confronted, not
by a marauding troop of horsemen hastily driving off a herd of camels,
but by the whole force of the enemy's cavalry, some twelve hundred
strong. These veteran swordsmen and lancers, of whose skill and
bravery in battle we had had ample proof during this and previous wars,
had been sent out to intercept a convoy of treasure expected in the
British camp. Having, however, failed in their mission, they were
leisurely returning to Mooltan, when a little cloud appeared on their
fighting horizon. Some returning patrol, no doubt, they thought, some
frightened stragglers driven in perhaps, some stampeding mules or
ponies. But no! the little cloud now discloses a little line of horsemen,
tearing along as if the devil drove. The whole mass of cavalry, like
startled deer, halted and stared at this reckless onslaught; and while
thus standing, transfixed with astonishment, Fatteh Khan and his
gallant troop of Guides were on them.
Yelling fiercely, with lance and sword the Guides clove their way
through the huddling mass of the enemy. Then clearing, they wheeled
about, and with unabated fury fell again upon the benumbed and
paralysed foe. Not yet content, the heroic Khuttuk again called on his
men for another effort, and, rallying and wheeling about, the weary
troopers and still wearier horses once more rode down into the stricken
mass. But "God preserve us from these fiends," muttered the
demoralised Sikhs, and, assisting their deity to answer the pious prayer,
the whole mass broke and fled, pursued up to the very walls of Mooltan
by "that thrice accursed son of perdition, Fatteh Khan, Khuttuk," and
the remnants of his seventy Guides.
Through the intense heat of the summer of 1848 the little cluster of
English officers who stood for British dominion kept heart and energy
in the siege of Mooltan. As Edwardes described the position, it was
only a terrier watching a tiger; but it was at any rate a good
stout-hearted English terrier, and the tiger