"Never trust anyone on the Frontier" an ...epic NWF Campaign

[Storm Wolf]

Shiiiiiiit! Sod being hit by one of those buggers That's a fair old chunk of lead

[Rhingyll]

Beside a ruler to give idea of size.

[Umra Khan]

A big BonBon with a terrifying stopping power !

[Umra Khan]

Photo of Martini Henry Cartridge and cardboard box containing 10 bullets. I have ammo but no rifle.Story of my life I guess.

In italy will be not allowed to have ammos without the rifle

[Sakuragi Miniatures]

Thanks for sharing that adventure with us!

[CPT Shanks]

Issue one of the Abbottabad Bugle From the Black Mountains to Attock, your trusted source on the frontier.

[giorgio]

Front Page of the Peshawar Tribune, April 3rd, 1892
FOR THE DISCERNING KHAN AND THE CONCERNED COLONEL ALIKE
“General Furthings in Peril! Mulehead Prepares a Gambit?”
The celebrated Sharif the Ghazi, self-proclaimed Hammer of the Empire, has captured British General Archibald Furthings. With him, the dreaded Habibullah the Butcher sharpens his knives, and Suleiman Khan — the so-called “Voice of the Sharif” — stirs the crowd with wild sermons and Russian-purchased firepower, including a Maxim gun crewed by mutinous Indian deserters who were spared in exchange for loyalty.
In response, the enigmatic Mulehead has raised a force and split it in three columns. Command has been entrusted to:
•   Malik Abdul Ghafoor the Merciful – a noble of old blood, uneasy with Suleiman’s rising popularity, yet burdened by a hatred for Mulehead nearly equal to his contempt for the Sharif.
•   Hakim Nurzada Khan, Falcon of Ghazni – a fierce tactician with little patience for sub-tlety.
•   Jalal Khan, second son of Abdul Ghafoor – brave, but not exactly a torchbearer of bril-liance.
As war drums echo through the valleys, one must wonder: what is Mulehead’s true plan?
Is he leading a rescue mission… or orchestrating a distraction?
While swords clash and alliances fray, whispers on the wind speak of a hidden scheme. And Mulehead, sly as a desert fox, remains ever calm — even amused.
Could it be that while all eyes are on the battlefield... something else is already in motion?
To uncover the truth, subscribe to the Peshawar Tribune — the only journal brave (or mad) enough to print where angels fear to tread!

[CPT Shanks]

Surely the maddest of them all.

The Mad Guru sits astride his ass contemplating another year of delivering the Sword and the Flame to the faithful by his word and presence and to the heretics by churrah and jezzail. Another year passed fighting the Raj in the land of the Bunerwhals and Swat. How old was he now? Who could say, but what is age in a lifetime of spreading the truth.

[giorgio]

THE PESHAWAR TRIBUNE
Volume 2, Issue 1 – Founded 1872
“THE ONLY NEWS THAT'S FIT TO PRINT”
Wednesday, April 18th, 1892
 
Editor’s Note – April 18th, 1892
From the Desk of Mr. Reginald Winkle, Editor-in-Chief
It is with a mixture of grave concern and not inconsiderable pride that I present to our readers the latest field dispatch from Mr. Mortimer Harrington, our man in the North-West Frontier. Presumed missing for ten days, Mr. Harrington has once again defied both nature and bullets to deliver a report that is as vivid as it is perilous.
The courage shown by our correspondent — filing copy from a goat-sodden hut amidst the tribal uprisings of Kurram — is the very stuff of Imperial legend.
Though we fear for his safety, we cannot deny the surge in subscriptions that follows each of his dispatches.
May Providence preserve him.
And may his next article require fewer bullets.
— R. Winkle, Editor
 
[FIELD REPORT – CENSORED PRIOR TO PUBLICATION]
Approved by Lt. Col. Horace Blevins, Military Intelligence
Filed: April 12th, 1892
From: M. Harrington, Correspondent at Large
Location: Classified (Presumed – Upper Kurram Region)
 
Field Dispatch – April 12th, 1892
"There are times when the Empire forgets her sons. And there are times when we remember why."
To Whom This May Find,
Filed from the heights above a grim valley, in a house that smells of goat sweat and rifle oil.
The Pass burns with unrest. Below me sprawls the ragged camp of Mulehead, the self-styled Khan of the Waziri — a man neither savage nor civilised, but carved from the very stone of these hills. They follow him not for flags nor faith, but because he never flinches.
 

Opposing him lies the rebel Sharif the Ghazi, whose name is etched on bullets and blades alike. His voice speaks through two vile instruments: Habibullah the Butcher, a fiend in human shape, and Suleiman Khan, the Voice of the Sharif — whose sermons can ignite a village or bring it to its knees.


Both despise the ferenghees with a fury that time cannot quench. Yet Mulehead, fierce as he is, plots the liberation of one particular officer — Major-General Furthings, held in the hills, more token than trophy.
 
Mulehead's motives are his own. He fears not the Queen’s wrath, but the khaki-clad retribution that would spill into his precious valleys, disturbing his smuggling routes, his feuds, and whatever shadows he trades in.
I, Mortimer Harrington, once an esteemed Peshawar Tribune reporter, now merely a shadow in this land, observe it all. One would call this fate. I call it witness.
The rebel machine gun — cursed be its tongue of lead — commands the valley crossing. Mulehead’s ancient cannon, a rusting beast dragged by tired mules, waits for revenge. The warbands stretch and growl across the pass like a thundercloud clawing down the gorge.
From the house where a shepherd — whose name I shall never know — found me bleeding among the rocks and thorn, and nursed me with prayers to the Most Merciful, I watch the living myth of this land unfold. The kindness of that hillman, rough-handed and silent, is the only reason these words are written.
 
From the crags above Kurram Pass, I see them gather. Not in ranks, but in ripples — like a flood summoned by old gods. Waziri columns descend from the ridges with grim determination. This is no parade-ground war. It is movement born of memory and grievance. Men with rusted muskets and gleaming eyes, mules piled high with powder kegs and tins of opium, veiled women with rifles slung beneath shawls — all move as one breath, one storm.
Through field glasses, the sight is biblical: a pilgrimage of war. Porters bear crates and bundles like holy relics, beasts of burden trudge as if yoked to prophecy. This is no mere raid. This is the mountain’s fury, clothed in flesh and steel.
 
Their numbers swell with every hour. All signs point toward the rebel redoubt where the English general is held. If Mulehead means to free him, it is not for love of Empire, but to avert a reckoning that would scorch these valleys to ash. He may curse the Union Flag — but he curses more the boots that might trample his kin in its name.
The hills are restless.
The vultures circle early.
And the only law here is written in jezail smoke and the blood of old grudges.
God Save the Queen — if She still remembers.
— Mortimer Harrington, somewhere above Kurram Pass
 
Verses of Fire from Mulehead’s Camp
A Barracks Ballad by Reginald Winkle, Editor
Composed at the Peshawar Pressroom, 18th April 1892
In the heart of dust, beneath the golden sky,
Where the wind whispers and the echoes roar,
Three Khans stand tall, hearts of stone,
With gazes that defy both death and life.
The Khan of the peaks, the Khan of the sand,
The Khan of the river that never halts,
Fire burns in their fierce eyes,
Minds of war, hearts of lion.
In the center, the cannon, the heart of iron,
With its roar that shakes the earth,
A beast of death, armed with flames,
Under Mulehead’s hand, always ready.
The mules graze, patient and deaf,
Their shadows stretching across the barren ground,
Loaded with provisions, laden with strength,
Filled with life coursing through the sands.
The jezails fire in the twilight’s silence,
Smoke of powder, lightning in the wind,
Each shot a promise, an oath,
Each shot a lament that the night listens to.
The chora strikes, its edge keen and sharp,
As the blood of the rebels stains the earth,
Vengeance long awaited, now in full swing,
The Khans who turned must pay with their lives.
The banners rise, the call to arms,
The winds carry the cry of the fallen,
And soon, the English general, chained in shame,
Will taste the dust, freed by Mulehead's wrath.
The chora plays, sweet and bitter,
As dawn rises between the mountains,
And the caravan of camels and goats moves forward,
Under the watchful eye of the Khans, ever on the march.
 
 
Final Scene – The Clash
By the time this issue is printed, the battle will have been fought. And with it, the fate of General Furthings.
Between them, like a stone in the current, stood Mulehead, and with him, the Span Mules. They bore his red banners. Only scars and powder barrels. And that ancient cannon, blackened and rebored, which they called “The Old Mule.”
He did not shout orders. He nodded once — and wheels began to turn.
“Let Sharif pray to his machine gun,” said Mulehead, loading the first shell.
“Let the Ghazi see what fire truly means.”
The rebels had the range, but the loyalists had the will.
The cannon barked — a deeper voice than any jezail.
The time for words had passed. Now only powder would speak.
And as for the captured English general, they say his ears heard the first thunder, chained in a cave not far from the smoke.
And he smiled — for he knew that Mulehead had arrived.

[giorgio]

THE HILLS STIR — KHANS MUSTER FOR BATTLE NEAR KURRAM PASS

Special Dispatch from the Frontier
By Our Correspondent in the Field
(Filed from Fort Gulistan, April 11th, 1892)

SHEWA NORTH-WEST FRONTIER — There is thunder on the wind and steel in the air. The high places of the Wazir Hills, so long silent but for the cry of hawks and the clatter of goat bells, now echo with the drumbeat of tribal musters. War, it seems, is not coming — it has come.
At the centre of the gathering storm stands the grim and weather-bitten figure of Mulehead Khan, Wazir chieftain of storied repute, whose defiance of both Crown and crescent has made him a leg-end to some, a menace to others. Camped at the head of the pass, Mulehead has drawn to his ban-ner three khans of varying ilk, each a blade in his hand, or possibly a thorn in his side.

Foremost among them is Abdul Ghafoor Khan, an elder statesman of the frontier, whose wisdom has, more than once, defused blood-feuds and brokered peace among unruly clans. Known for his measured speech and unshakable honour, he brings not only his tribe, but a rare calm to the war-council fires. He deeply hates Sharif Khan, seen as possible competitor for controlling the prov-ince.
By contrast, Jalal Khan, Ghafoor’s second-born, remains something of a puzzle. Tall, earnest, and prone to interpret military signals as poetry, Jalal is beloved by his men for his courage and baffling charm. When ordered to guard a ford, he once posted sentries at a fig tree — because, as he explained, “that is where the spirits spoke.” Still, in the chaos of skirmish, few fight harder, nor laugh louder, than Jalal.
Lastly, there is Hakim Nurzada Khan, known across Ghazni as "The Falcon," though his wing-span often seems to stretch toward things not his own. Sharp of mind and sharper of tongue, Ha-kim tolerates Jalal with the practiced civility of a man who would gladly exchange his cousin’s life for a clean pair of boots. He is brave, yes — but ambition smoulders in him like a coal be-neath the ash.

Across the ridges, hidden behind veils of smoke and sermon, the rival banner of Sharif the Ghazi has risen. The self-proclaimed Saint of the Mountain, Sharif preaches a fierce and fiery doctrine — one in which Empire, infidel, and even fellow tribesmen are all but shadows against the sun of his vision.
His host is led by two pillars of zeal: Habibullah the Butcher, whose name is neither exaggera-tion nor insult, and Suleiman Khan, sometimes called the Voice of the Sharif, a lean-faced orator whose tongue has lit more bonfires than his rifle. Habibullah leads with the scimitar; Suleiman leads with the Word. Together, they are fire and oil.

And between these tides of fury and vendetta, in a squat mud-brick house, its roof patched with tin and prayer, General Archibald Furthings awaits an end he cannot yet name. His chains are iron, but his gaze, they say, remains unbent. He has taken to speaking Pashto with the cook, and humming old regimental marches in the evening. Whether he dreams of escape or judgement, no man knows.
What is known, however, is this:
The province of Shewa is no longer a place of transit. It is a place of reckoning.
And in these hills, reckoning often rides a horse and speaks in gunpowder.


Few readers are questioning about a presumed hagiographic mood of our articles about Mulehead Khan. I can officially deny that  and the voices about consistent quantity of silver generously given to Peshwar Tribune by anonymous in Wana...

[CPT Shanks]

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET!

Patrolling through the gauntlet, a severe hookpin canyon south of Abbottabad,  a squadron of the 10th Bengal Lancers enroute to Shewa come sporadic fire from unnamed and unseen foes.  The forward scout is the first to be taken down, as the patrol closes on him the rate of fire from the woods increases,  hitting two more lancers. Jezzail rounds slap solidly into tack and harness, one round sheering the commanders reigns. Their only chance to escape disaster is to push through. Rounding the hook they lean into their mounts, no time to engage the unseen enemies. Rapidly approaching the mouth of the canyon they are set upon by four pathans breaking from cover, ready to make a name for themselves. One man breaks from the pack and slashes his tulwar across the trailing lancer's horse. Sending horse and rider to the ground. Instantly the stalwart warrior pounced on the rider and dropped the hilt of his tulwar into his temple knocking him cold. Another gift for the malik. The remaining lancers continued to ride out of the canyon, their mission to save a general, to stop for their fallen comrades.

The Guantlet!

The 10th Bengals to the rescue

Rounding the first bend

The scout goes down!

A clean shot Abduhlamin!

The commander is grazed!

Rounding the second bend, three lancers downed!

The home stretch, no sun reaches this canyon floor!

The pathans' mad charge into the lancers!

I'm about to make a name for myself!

The butcher's bill! Three dead lancers and one to be cut to ribbons at the maliks leisure!

On rode the rest of the squadron to Shewa, the life of one general worth at least the four they left behind.

[giorgio]

The blood of the 10th Bengal Lancers is but the first coin paid in the steep ransom that the rescue of the General shall exact.

Through thorn and shadow, a scant band of His Majesty’s finest advance — guided, perhaps by Providence, perhaps by coin, through a lattice of native whispers and watching eyes.

Drawn from the hard ranks of the First Brigade — handpicked for their mettle and cunning — these men march not for glory, but for duty. And of those few who walk into the jaws of the hills… how many shall walk out again?

[giorgio]

THE PESHAWAR TRIBUNE Special Dispatch from the Front
 
THE BATTLE IN THE VALLEY
By Our War Correspondent, near the Sharif's lines

At dawn, the valley trembled with the low, drumming thunder of Ghazi war-tambours, echoing like a death chant through the crisp air. Down they came — zealots to the bone — to meet the warbands of Abdul Ghafoor, whose lines held steady beside an old but faithful cannon. Beside him, across the lower ridge, waited the fierce ranks of Hakim Nurzada, the Falcon of Ghazni, cloaked in silence and resolve.

To his son Jalal — ever bold, ever reckless — Ghafoor had given one command (or so it was be-lieved): let the Ghazis pass through the gorge where he lay in wait, then strike their flank with fire and steel.

But Habibullah the Butcher had more than just faith and fury. He brought jezail sharpshooters, a machine gun bought with Russian gold, and deserters from the Raj, well paid and cruelly quiet.
Across from Hakim and Abdul Ghafoor stood the hill tribes and marksmen of Suleiman Khan, the Voice of the Sharif. Ghafoor’s warriors seemed still, waiting — biding for the trap to spring — yet Jalal, instead of striking, galloped headlong toward his father.

Mulehead narrowed his eyes. Was this treachery... or idiocy? But Jalal’s mad dash spared the cav-alry from the hail of bullets: Habibullah’s Maxim had been trained on the mouth of the gorge like a tiger poised to strike. So, who had betrayed whom?

Jalal's riders slammed into one of Suleiman’s units, sending it reeling into the rocks — but paid dearly, caught in the crossfire of jezails and the grinding teeth of the Maxim gun, quickly reposi-tioned.

But the second cavalry unit charge home defeating Sharif’s warriors


— until Habibullah, snarling like a prophet-possessed, unleashed his Ghazis. One wild unit surged forward, shattering a company of Ghafoor’s Pashtun and sending another fleeing into the wind.

But Ghafoor, calm amidst the storm, turned his cannon — and took them in enfilade. The scream of iron silenced the charge... and with it, Habibullah, torn down in a storm of shrapnel.



Then Ghafoor pressed forward, halting the charge of the second Ghazi wave bearing down on Ha-kim’s line.

Meanwhile, Ghafoor’s second band rallied. With their Khan at the fore, they swept behind the Maxim’s position, butchered its gunners to the last man in a crimson rite of vengeance.



Now Suleiman’s forces, unnerved by musket crack and wild shrieks rising from their own camp, withdrew in haste.


 The field was left to Mulehead — though no clear victory had been won.


And yet, upon his weather-worn face lingered that same sly smile. What had the old Waziri fox prepared while the world watched elsewhere?
 
"The Shot That Broke the Ghazis"
It was the old gun — rust-cankered, mule-drawn, and devilishly heavy — that turned the tide. A single, thunderous report from that iron relic had shattered the Ghazis' charge, snatching victory from Sharif’s outstretched hands in the very breath of triumph.
Mortimer had seen it with his own dust-bitten eyes. The ground lurched, the hills echoed like emp-ty drums, and the rebel line broke as if the mountain itself had spat in its face.
And now, silence. That long, uncertain silence that settles only after the last bullet has lost its echo. He stared eastward, toward the passes — eyes searching for meaning in rock and mirage.
What trap waits next in these godforsaken hills? The land is thick with riddles, its dust stirred by whispers and schemes. And Mulehead — that weathered wolf in Waziri garb — he moves through it all with the patience of stone and the cunning of smoke.
Whom would he serve now? The Queen's coin? The Crescent’s cause? Or merely the echo of his own name, whispered in fear from fort to village?
Whatever game was being played, Mortimer knew this much: the next shot had already been load-ed, somewhere beyond the ridgeline.

[Mad Guru]

From one end of the Empire to the other...

And all across the Frontier...

Around the world from Sikkim...

To Savile Row...

Inquiring Minds want to know:

...BUT WHAT OF THE GENERAL??? ...WHAT OF THE GENERAL?? ...WHAT OF THE GENERAL? ...THE GENERAL... ...THE GENERAL... THE GENERAL...

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

[bc99]

Well written and engaging as always! Thanks for the inspiration.