He was quite startled to hear the drumming of hooves behind him, and turned to see Tom Holt cantering up. ‘Do you mind if I ride along with you, Mackinder?’ the captain asked. ‘Strictly for the exercise; it’s your show. But I find that train unbearably warm.’
‘I’d be obliged, sir,’ Murdoch said, even if he knew Holt was really here just to oversee his progress on this first day. Well, he was not altogether sorry to have his senior with him, just in case.
They rode into the hills, exchanging Hankers every hour to keep in touch with the advanced riders. They paused for luncheon on a hummock, looking back down at the track and the train, almost a toy behind and below them as it crawled up the escarpment.
‘It really is a joy to be alive,’ Murdoch said, looking up at the perfect blue of the sky only occasionally dotted with hovering white cloud. ‘Even the heat is just about perfect.’
‘This has got to be the best defensive country in the world,’ Holt observed. ‘Very like the North-West Frontier, in fact. Let’s hope the Boers don’t shoot any more straight than the Afghans.’
‘What’s it like?’ Murdoch asked without thinking, immediately wishing he had kept quiet.
But Holt showed no embarrassment, either personally or for the innocence revealed by the question. ‘It’s like nothing,’ he said. ‘Right now, if you knew those hills were filled with Boers, and that you were the party sent out to draw their fire, your throat would be dry and you’d have wind.’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch agreed, because that exactly described his physical state at that moment, and he had to suppose the hills were empty.
‘But as soon as your first shot is fired,’ Holt told him, ‘all that goes. Then you become a machine, remembering only your training, what needs to be done.’
‘Does everyone react that way?’
Holt glanced at him. ‘No. Not everyone. There is a sour apple in every barrel. Sometimes two.’
‘But no one knows he’s a sour apple until the actual moment.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ He slapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Murdoch. Not with your pedigree.’ He finished his coffee and handed the cup to the waiting Reynolds. ‘Let’s move out.’
*
Two days later, after penetrating the mountains and passing beneath the strangely shaped peak called the Horseshoe, they crossed the Brak River, itself a tributary of the Orange River, and arrived at De Aar junction, to the great relief of the small garrison there. This consisted of four companies of the Lancashire Regiment, unsupported by any cavalry or artillery, and yet obliged to guard not only the vital junction, from whence branch lines ran off to the east, but also a vast quantity of military stores and equipment.
‘I tell you, colonel,’ said Major Wilmot, ‘I am only amazed that the Boers have not come down here and seized the junction and us with it. Or blown us out of existence.’
‘Do they have that kind of artillery?’ Edmonds asked.
‘Oh, indeed. They have some Creusot guns, twenty-four pounders. And of course there is no question but that the population around here is wholly in sympathy with them. The sooner we get Buller’s entire force up here the better.’
As there seemed no doubt that the Boers were going to defend the line of the Orange River, Colonel Edmonds determined on a reconnaissance, and out went Captain Rodgers’ squadron, with Lieutenants Chapman and Fielder. Murdoch was disappointed at being denied this first opportunity to exchange fire with the enemy. He waited anxiously with the remainder of the regiment for the return of their comrades. especially when they heard the sound of rifle-fire to the north.
The squadron returned the following day with the news that they had encountered a Boer commando, albeit a small one, and exchanged fire; three men had been wounded, and Rodgers claimed that several of the Boers had been hit, but the firing had been at long range and both sides had withdrawn. More important, the captain reported that the track had been torn up in several places, but he suspected this was more likely to have been the work of local, officially British, Boers rather than the enemy.
But they were in touch at last. That night there was high expectation in the British camp, the more so as news arrived via the telegraph from Cape Town that the rest of the army corps had at last arrived in South Africa, and a victorious advance could now surely be anticipated.
Murdoch used the first spare time he had had in a fortnight to write to his mother and sisters. He did his best to describe the vast country over which he had travelled, to give them some idea of the heat, and of the first black people he had encountered. They seemed amazingly docile, and he found their attitude difficult to reconcile with what he had learnt at Sandhurst of the campaigns against the Zulu and the Matabele, hardly a generation before, which had involved some .of the hardest fighting in British history; certainly the Africans seemed determined not to become involved in this entirely white war.
He also considered writing to Rosetta Dredge, whom he felt he owed some kind of an explanation. But he had no idea how to begin what would have to be some kind of a love letter, and decided to shelve it for a few days more. Before he got around to it, the entire situation changed; the whole plan had been dissipated. Instead of moving forward up the railway in a vast compact mass of forty thousand men, against which surely the Boers would be unable to stand, Sir Redvers Buller had allowed himself to be distracted by the cries for help from the Government of Natal. Committing the most elementary of military errors, he had divided his forces, taken the bulk of the corps on to Durban to effect the relief of Ladysmith, and left one of his subordinate generals, Lord Methuen, to take command of a single division and move up the railway to the relief of Kimberley and then Mafeking.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Colonel Edmonds told his officers, ‘we must assume that General Buller knows what he is about, and I personally am confident that Lord Methuen will have ample forces with which to chase these farmers back where they belong.’
Or so we must hope, Murdoch thought. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Holt, with whom he was now firm friends.
‘That Buller has made a mistake,’ Holt agreed. ‘But at least we are going to see some action at last.’
*
They saw action sooner than they had expected. Lord Methuen arrived at De Aar a few days later, and even Murdoch, prepared to be sceptical about any commanding officer after Buller’s flagrant disregard of the rules of war, had to be impressed by the tall, powerful-looking, soldierly figure. The general was a champion fencer and boxer as well as a superb horseman, and had seen much service in India. He summoned his colonels, for he now had command of some ten thousand men, even if the main bodies had not yet arrived, and listened to Edmonds’ report on the situation.
‘Very good, colonel,’ he said. ‘It would appear from what you say that the Boers have wholly committed themselves to their campaign in Natal, or there would surely have been more activity in this theatre. Our first task must be to take advantage of this weakness in their dispositions, and as soon as the whole division is concentrated, I propose to push up to and seize the line of the Orange River, from which a march on Kimberley should be feasible. However, from everything I have heard about these Dutch gentlemen, it would seem that they are capable guerrilla fighters and may well be hoping to surprise us.
‘We will therefore begin with a reconnaissance in force. Brigade strength will be necessary, I think, and as you are already acquainted with the situation here, I wish you to command it. You will take two squadrons of your regiment, two companies of mounted infantry, and three guns. An armoured train will support you, and will contain engineers, as I wish the line repaired wherever necessary. Your objectives will be any sizeable Boer force, or failing that, the Orange River and then the Modder. Once we are across the Modder, Kimberley is only twelve miles away. Should you encounter an enemy force considerably stronger than your own, however, you will not engage, but will fall back on the division; when we fight these fellows we want to smash
them once and for all. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Edmonds acknowledged, delighted at having been given brigadier rank, however temporarily. So was Murdoch; as it had already exchanged fire with the enemy, Rodgers’ squadron was the one left behind on this-occasion—and Holt’s and Shortland’s were taken, together with two companies of the North Lancashires and the half battery.
‘Great stuff,’ Johnnie Morton declared, also in high spirits at the prospect of the fight. ‘We are going to have a few scalps.’
Supposing there were any scalps to be found, Murdoch thought, for the country once again appeared deserted as they moved north; the commando with whom Rodgers and his men had exchanged fire was nowhere to be seen. Even the Orange River crossing was undefended, save by a few sharpshooters, who very rapidly disappeared when they realised the strength of the force approaching them.
Having sent despatches back to De Aar, Colonel Edmonds then, in accordance with his orders, led the brigade across the river and up the line as far as Belmont Station, which had been held since the beginning of the war by a small British garrison. Remarkably, as with De Aar, this had not yet been attacked, although the commander reported considerable Boer activity during the preceding week. But the line was unbroken as far as the station, and not a Boer was to be seen. So the brigade continued its cautious advance. The cavalry preceded the mounted infantry, forming a wide screen, and the artillery and the armoured train travelled in the centre.
That night they bivouacked at Fincham’s Farm, a little to the north of Belmont itself. It was a superb evening, and as Murdoch walked the pickets with Tom Holt, he felt a tremendous glow of anticipated elation. But there was not a sound to break the silence of the starlit night. ‘You wouldn’t believe there could be an enemy within a hundred miles,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there isn’t.’
‘They’re around,’ Holt said. ‘I hope it is occurring to Colonel Edmonds, and will also occur to General Methuen, that there has to be a reason for the Boers not to have seized Belmont and De Aar when they could have done so with a few hundred men. I have an idea they want us to keep on coming until we reach the position they have already chosen to fight us. The point is that, unlike them, we can’t live off the country and therefore have to follow the railway. That means they know exactly the route we have to take—and the country, which we don’t.’
The next day they reconnoitred in every direction about Belmont, again without finding any trace of the enemy, and so Colonel Edmonds decided to carry out the final part of his instructions and move up as far as the Modder River itself, sending another despatch rider back to De Aar to inform Lord Methuen that the country appeared clear at least as far as Belmont. The brigade then set out as before, B Troop of Holt’s command taking the left advanced guard, D Troop of Shortland’s the right, while the train pulled along behind with the mounted infantry to either side. Murdoch realised that Holt could very well be right in his somewhat sinister prediction; quite apart from the railway line, the noise of the train would certainly warn the Boers of the approach of their force long before they would be able to see their enemies.
As usual, Holt rode out to accompany Murdoch, and they studied the undulating country through their glasses. ‘Damned good defensive country,’ Holt remarked again. ‘See those kopjes?’ He pointed to the low hills immediately in front of them. ‘One could conceal an entire brigade up there and we’d not know a thing about it. Murdoch, I’m going to have to ask you to take a squad up there and have a look amongst those rocks. I’ll hold the troop here until you signal they’re clear.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch said, and summoned Sergeant Bishop. Corporal Yeald was signalled forward, and with a dozen men Murdoch cantered towards the undulating ground, discovering Trooper Reynolds at his elbow. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he inquired.
‘You might want a brew-up, Mr Mackinder,’ Reynolds pointed out.
Murdoch was actually glad of his company. He felt more exposed than at any moment in his very brief career, the more so because, while he and his dozen men were now a good way out in front of the rest of the brigade, he was at the same time overlooked by them all, and he had no doubt that Johnnie Morton and Hobbs and Craufurd, as well as Colonel Edmonds and Tommy Holt, were all watching him through their glasses. Of course, he told himself, the chances of there actually being Boers concealed amidst the rocks ahead was remote in the extreme, judging by their scarcity during the preceding week. But still it was an uncanny feeling to be riding right up to the kopjes, the only sound the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves.
The morning was shattered by a single shot from in front of them. No one was hit, but the patrol drew rein as one man, and Murdoch gazed at the tumbled natural ruin in front of him. There was so little evidence of where the shot had come from that he was almost wondering if it had been their imagination.
‘Boers,’ said Corporal Yeald, very definitely.
‘Or a single Boer,’ Murdoch commented.
‘Where there are...’ Yeald hesitated. He had fought in India and his officer had not.
‘If there is only one, or even two,’ Murdoch said, ‘we might be able to nab the blighters; I am sure Colonel Edmonds would appreciate some positive information. Corporal Yeald, you will take four men and skirt to the left. Trooper Williams, you will advance into the centre of those rocks with four men. You others will come with me to the right. We’ll rejoin here in ten minutes. And remember, we want prisoners.’
He wheeled his horse and cantered off to the right, Trooper Reynolds riding behind him, and the other four men immediately behind Reynolds. The rocks became even more tumbled, and they soon had to slow to a walk, picking their way through the outcroppings. Murdoch noted that Holt had been entirely right and this was indeed superb defensive country; the brigade was now lost to sight behind the rocks beneath them.
He was so keyed up he did not even feel surprise when the fire came. What he had not expected was the amazing accuracy. The first Mauser bullet shattered the brains of his horse. Edward IV fell like a stone, his blood flying up over Murdoch’s face and shoulders. Undoubtedly this saved his life, because the second bullet whipped the topee off his head, and if he had not dropped so abruptly he would certainly have been shot as dead as the horse.
He found himself on his hands and knees, for a moment totally uncertain as to where he was or what had just happened. Dimly he heard the drumming of hooves, and looking over his shoulder, discovered that the four men who had accompanied him were hastily withdrawing behind the rocks, chased by Boer bullets. Only Reynolds remained close by, holding his horse under control, an expression of horror on his face as he supposed that his officer had been killed.
Murdoch shook his head to clear his brain and waved to the batman to get out of the line of fire, at the same time scrambling to his feet and drawing his revolver. Up to then he had not seen an enemy, but now he discovered several men galloping towards them. They were certainly Boers, judging by their full beards and their scraggy ponies—but it was hard to consider them soldiers, for they wore very rough civilian clothes and slouch hats; only the rifles and the bandoliers across their chests gave any indication of a military purpose.
‘Surrender,’ one of them called in English. ‘Surrender.’
Murdoch levelled his revolver and fired. He was still shaken by his fall and missed his target, but the riders veered off and dismounted, unslinging their rifles as they did so.
‘Here, sir,’ Reynolds shouted, trotting up to Murdoch’s side and extending his arm. ‘Up behind me.’
Murdoch grabbed the arm and was swung into the saddle behind the batman. As he did so a swarm of angry bees seemed to be whirring about his head, but remarkably none hit; the Boers had clearly fired too soon after throwing themselves from their saddles. Then Reynolds was galloping down the slope, joined now by Corporal Yeald and Trooper Williams and their men, and hurrying back towards the brigade, which, having heard the shots, had already begun to deploy.
; ‘By God, Reynolds,’ Murdoch gasped. ‘But I think you saved my life.’
‘Oh, they wanted to make you prisoner, Mr Mackinder,’ the batman said. ‘But if I may say so, sir, by God, but you’re a chip off the old block.’
Murdoch looked down at his hand; it still held his revolver. As he thrust it into his holster, it touched each side of the leather, he was shaking so.
*
‘Indeed, Murdoch, Trooper Reynolds shall be recommended for the Military Medal,’ Colonel Edmonds said. ‘And I would like you to know that I think you came through your baptism of fire admirably. But I must point out that you endangered the lives of Trooper Reynolds, your patrol and yourself, and lost a good horse, quite unnecessarily. It is quite remarkable that no one was killed.’
‘With respect, sir,’ Captain Holt said. ‘If Lieutenant Mackinder had not ridden into the kopje, he would have been able to tell us nothing more than that there were people in there. They could have been civilians.’
‘That was all he was required to tell us, captain,’ Edmonds said. ‘Once a shot was fired, then the brigade would have carried out its primary task of reconnoitring the kopjes. Remember that for the future, Murdoch. However...’ He smiled. ‘I would rather have an officer who went too close to the enemy than one who would not approach them at all. Dismissed.’
The Regiment Page 5