There was some consternation in the quaint-looking, five-towered fort at Chitral on the evening of the 3rd of March 1895. Sher Afzul, the usurping chief of the little mountainous state in the north-west of India, was approaching with a large force, and some two hundred of the 4th Cashmere Rifles had gone out under Captain Townshend to try conclusions with the rebels. After several hours’ brisk fighting in the villages nestling at the foot of the hills, the troops had withdrawn to the fort, but some men of one section still remained to be accounted for.

Captain Baird, with about a dozen Ghurkhas, had not returned. He was lying somewhere out in the darkness, on the hillside, where the white-robed Chitralis were still firing. And with him was Surgeon-Captain Whitchurch, who had bravely hastened to his assistance on hearing that the captain was wounded.

“Where is Whitchurch? Where is Baird?” Captain Gurdon and the other members of the little garrison asked the question of each other anxiously from time to time, hoping that the missing men had found their way into the fort. The surgeon especially was needed, for Captain Townshend’s reconnoitring party had brought many wounded back with them. But the answer still came, with an ominous shake of the head, “Not in yet.”

In the meantime, while the occupants of the fort set about preparing for the expected siege, the few stars that were beginning to peep out of the clouded sky looked down upon a strange scene in a little orchard nearly two miles away from the fort. There, under the trees, a wounded officer was being bandaged by the skilful hands of another who bent over him, a dozen sepoys and four stretcher-bearers standing patiently by.

The operation finished, the sufferer was lifted tenderly into a dhoolie. Then two bearers raised it from the ground, the escort ranged itself alongside, and the little party started out for the road leading to the fort.

“Feel any easier now, old chap?” asked the surgeon, who was striding by the dhoolie.

“Yes, thanks, Whitchurch; much easier,” replied Captain Baird, suppressing a groan as one of the bearers stumbled over a stone.

Contrary to the general opinion expressed at the fort, neither of the two missing men had been killed or captured by the enemy. When Baird had fallen with a bullet in his side, his men had carried him quickly to the shelter of an orchard close at hand, and here they had escaped notice. All around them, however, lurked the Chitralis, on the look-out to cut off any stragglers from the retreating force.

In a few minutes Whitchurch’s party had filed down the hillside and reached the road, but a cry of warning from the native officer in front pulled them up short.

“We’re cut off, sahib,” he exclaimed, as the surgeon hastened to his side. “The enemy have got in front of us!”

It was, alas! too true. Although he could see nothing through the gloom, the shouts and occasional shots that reached his ears told Whitchurch plainly that the Chitralis were on the road ahead. What was to be done?

A sudden thought occurred to him. “Isn’t there a way round to the fort by the river, Bidrina Singh?” he asked of the officer.

The other nodded affirmatively. There was a track along the river bank, he said, but it would take them a mile out of their way and across some very difficult ground.

“Never mind,” said the surgeon briskly. “We’ve got to get to the fort to-night. So pull your men together, Bidrina Singh, and make for the river at once.”

From his dhoolie Captain Baird called Whitchurch over to him, and begged that he would consider his own safety first. “I’m badly hit, old chap,” he said; “I know I’m done for——” But Whitchurch shut him up quickly. While there was breath in his body he meant to stick to his comrade; there was to be no talk of running away. So, picking up the wounded man again, the native bearers took their place in the middle of the escort, the latter closed up, and on they moved across the polo ground towards the river on their left.

Thanks to the dense darkness, they made good progress on their way for a quarter of an hour or so. Then a scouting party of Sher Afzul’s followers suddenly appeared in front, and with a joyful shout gathered round them. At Whitchurch’s quick word of command the sturdy little Ghurkas closed in and fired a volley into the midst of their foes. There were yells of pain which told that some of the shots had taken effect, but the yells drew other Chitralis who were prowling near, and the answering shots of the enemy became more frequent.

Whitchurch’s revolver spoke more than once with good effect, and his “Steady, men! Aim low,” rang out encouragingly above the din. The Chitralis, thank goodness, were firing somewhat at random, not knowing the strength of those opposed to them; but one bullet at last found its mark. A bearer dropped his end of the stretcher with a cry, and tumbled over backwards, dead. The jolt of the fall wrung a groan from poor Baird, in spite of his iron nerve. Then another stretcher-bearer stepped forward and lifted the dhoolie, and on the little party pressed again.

Firing steadily in volleys, the gallant Ghurkas gradually cleared the way before them. The Chitralis had no wish to stand in the way of those deadly levelled barrels, preferring to circle round their prey and drop in a shot as opportunity offered. Two more bearers were killed, together with two or three sepoys, and the surgeon now took one end of the dhoolie himself.

They had gone nearly half the distance when the enemy rallied in stronger force and barred the track ahead. Things were beginning to look serious. “Fix bayonets!” Whitchurch called out, and there was a rattle of steel in the sockets. “Charge!” And with a cheer the Ghurkas dashed at the cluster of white-robed figures, sending them scattering right and left, while a few lay writhing on the ground.

That charge taught the Chitralis to keep at a more respectful distance, but a little later some daring spirits ventured nearer, and the last of the bearers fell shot through the body. Whitchurch put the dhoolie down and lifted up the wounded man in his strong arms. The Ghurkas were wanted, every man of them, to protect Baird with their rifles; not one could be spared for bearer-work.

Again, it is said, the captain implored Whitchurch to leave him and make a run for it to the fort. Perhaps he felt already that his wound was mortal. But again the brave surgeon refused to hear a word. With Baird in his embrace, he struggled gamely after the sepoys.

Along the rough, rock-strewn path the party stumbled, working their way ever nearer and nearer to the fort. A low wall confronted them thrice, a wall behind which the enemy were quick to post themselves. But jumping over with the surgeon to lead them, the nimble Ghurkas swept the way clear each time, and Whitchurch, having returned to pick up Baird, half carried and half dragged his weighty burden to the more open ground.

At last, after another fifteen minutes’ struggle, a dark mass of trees loomed up ahead. It was the grove of cedars by the eastern wall of the fort. They were within sight of safety now. Still the Chitralis hovered round, however, and a chance shot hit Baird as he hung limp in the surgeon’s arms.

“Make for the garden entrance!” cried Whitchurch; and the Ghurkas turned to pass through the grove. On their right, by the main gates, was a confused sound of shouting and firing. The enemy had already gathered in force there.

As they neared the entrance in the garden and gave a ringing cheer, the sentries saw them. In a minute the gate was unbolted, and the little party scrambled through, but not before Baird was yet a third time hit—on this occasion in the face, as his head rested on Whitchurch’s shoulder. How often has it happened in similar rescues, that the wounded has been the target for the enemy’s bullets, while the rescuer has escaped scot free! It was the story of “Dhoolie Square” repeated again, the story of McManus, Ryan, and Captain Arnold.

Inside the fort enclosure the officers gathered quickly round Whitchurch as the glad cry went up, “They’ve brought Baird in!” And tenderly, very tenderly, for he was suffering greatly from his hurts, the wounded officer was carried to the hospital, where without any loss of time the surgeon followed to save, if possible, the life that was so dear to them all.

I should much like to add that he was successful; but fate willed otherwise. Captain Baird lived only a few hours, and the fort that he had helped to defend so gallantly served as his grave.

Chitral was relieved about the middle of April, when a British column succeeded in fighting its way to the fort through the mountain passes. Three months later the London Gazette contained the welcome announcement that the Victoria Cross had been awarded to Surgeon-Captain Harry Frederick Whitchurch, of the Indian Medical Service.

Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself pinned the Cross on the brave surgeon’s breast at Osborne, with warm words of praise that were echoed by every one who had heard the story of that plucky night-rescue in far-off Chitral.