The Regiment

by Christopher Nicole

  Holt punched him on the shoulder when they got outside the tent. ‘That was well done. Now tell me, what was your reaction to the first shot?’

  ‘To shoot back. Thank God I didn’t hit anyone.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Next time you’ll bring your man down. But now you don’t have to worry about your reactions any more.’

  His fellow subalterns were less pleased with him. ‘Trying to, be a hero, are you?’ Morton inquired coldly. ‘It’s the regiment you want to think about, young Mackinder. Not your own bloody glory.’

  Murdoch as usual ignored him, and was delighted with the reception he received from his troop, who all wanted to congratulate him, having been regaled with stories of his coolness from Reynolds and Yeald. He did not recall being particularly cool. In fact, he was aware of a strange mixture of emotions: elation at having survived his baptism of fire without letting either himself or his name down, mingled with an understanding that he had endangered his entire little force—and lost Edward IV.

  But more than anything he was anxious to get back at the Boers who had ambushed him, and he was up at dawn the next morning exercising the remounts. Sergeant Bishop and Reynolds were with him to help him make a choice; they finally settled on a grey named Lucifer, with some reason, for he was considerably more lively a mount than Edward had been.

  After breakfast the brigade advanced on the kopjes in force. But this was mainly an infantry operation, and the dragoons were kept in reserve, a squadron on each wing. Soon the entire force was surprised by the bursting of several shells over their heads, whining out of the broken country in front of them. Colonel Edmonds immediately called a halt to the advance and brought up his own artillery to smother the kopjes with fire. This went on for some time, and Murdoch, standing his horse beside Holt and Morton and watching through field glasses, found it difficult to believe that anyone could survive such a holocaust of exploding iron. Certainly the Boer fire diminished and then ended altogether, and the British moved forward, expecting to find a shambles.

  They found nothing at all. There were one or two stains on the ground which could have been blood, but not a single body, and certainly no abandoned weapons, although there were spent cartridge cases in abundance. In the distance they could make out the Boer wagons trundling to the north. Clearly, if they had suffered any casualties, they had taken both their dead and their wounded with them, and far from being driven out of their defensive position, had equally clearly withdrawn in perfect order.

  The only positive gain was the return of Murdoch’s sword and scabbard, still hanging from the saddle of the now decomposing Edward IV. ‘Pongs a bit,’ said Lieutenant Fielder, who brought it in. ‘But I expect you can find a use for it.’

  ‘Just shows what contempt the Boers have for our weapons,’ Morton remarked.

  ‘Good defensive country,’ Holt mused, stroking his chin as he gazed at the rocks. ‘And good defensive fighters, who engage when they want to, and disengage in perfect order when they don’t feel like fighting. I’m beginning to understand what Sir George White found himself up against, especially where they have artillery as well. Let’s hope Lord Methuen has thought out how to cope with them.’

  *

  Next day a reconnaissance made by Fielder’s troop reported that the Boers dislodged from the kopjes had united with a considerable force just south of the Modder River; he thought there might be several thousand of them. Colonel Edmonds therefore determined to fall back to the Orange River and await the arrival of the division. This was galling to the men who had fought for the kopjes, but they had now carried out their orders and ascertained where the main Boer body was. As the enemy lay across the line of the advance to Kimberley, there could be no doubt that they would have to be defeated before any relief of the beleaguered town could be attempted.

  Colonel Edmonds therefore waited at the river, sending despatch riders back to report on what he had found. A couple of days later Lord Methuen caught them up again and the rest of his division arrived soon after. This was the first time that Murdoch, for all his military background and the number of times he had attended reviews and tattoos, became truly aware of the feeling of strength that went with being part of a division; he felt enormously proud standing with his troop to form a guard of honour as the men came in.

  The division was headed by the Guards Brigade, compromising the 2nd Grenadiers, the 1st and 2nd Coldstreams, and the 1st Scots Guards, probably the three most famous regiments in the British Army; they were commanded by Brigadier-General Sir Henry Colville. The Second Brigade, commanded by Brigadier-General Fetherstonhaugh, consisted of the 1st Northumberland Fusiliers, the 2nd Northamptons, the 2nd King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, half a battalion of the 1st Loyal North Lancashires—burning for a fight as the other four companies of the regiment were part of the besieged garrison in Kimberley—and two companies of the Munster Fusiliers. Supporting them was a small naval detachment—looking very odd in khaki instead of blue, and wearing enormous straw hats—who were principally intended to man the two huge four-point-seven-inch guns which had been brought up from the coast, but there were in addition three batteries of field artillery, giving a total of twenty guns in all. For cavalry, there were some volunteer companies, together with the 9th Lancers and of course, the Dragoons.

  In all the force numbered a good ten thousand men, and there was much toing and froing, blowing of bugle calls, officers’ conferences, daily parades and training sessions. A good deal of hospital drill was ordered for the men who had not yet become acclimatised after being rushed out from an English autumn. They had not been allowed the breaking-in period the Westerns had enjoyed outside Cape Town. The Westerns themselves looked on with some condescension, as they now regarded themselves as veterans.

  Meanwhile, Lord Methuen and his officers studied their maps, listened to Colonel Edmonds’ reports and considered their strategy. Which was, obviously, to force the passage of the Modder River, thus opening the road to Kimberley, a few miles further on. It was, however, necessary to fight their way even to the river, as by now the Boers had advanced again and reinforced their position above Belmont, which Lord Methuen determined to carry by frontal assault.

  To Murdoch’s surprise and concern—his head being filled with all he had studied of Napoleon and Frederick, Marlborough and Wellington—the general made his dispositions without undertaking any personal inspection of the ground to be covered, relying entirely on what he was told by Colonel Edmonds and the commander of the Belmont garrison. The dragoons were not involved in this battle and could only watch from a distance, chafing, as the infantry went forward following a tremendous bombardment. Yet it all seemed to work. The advance began at three in the morning, dawn on the high veldt in summer coming about three quarters of an hour later. By six the kopjes had all been secured and the Boers had withdrawn, as usual in a most orderly fashion. Their wagon laager could be seen trekking across the plain to the north, and Murdoch could not understand why the cavalry, which had not so far been committed, were not loosed against them.

  ‘Because we’d be cut down by their bullets,’ Morton said scornfully. ‘Cavalry can’t charge repeating rifles, young Mackinder.’

  ‘Cavalry can always have an impact on retreating troops,’ Murdoch argued stubbornly.

  But Methuen seemed content with the limited victory he had achieved. He delighted in taking the war correspondents who had accompanied the division up from the coast over the battlefield, and explaining to them how the Boer morale was undoubtedly shattered. He could not play down the cost of the operation—fifty-one men had been killed and two hundred and thirty-eight wounded during the brief battle—amongst the dead being both Brigadier-General Fetherstonhaugh and Lieutenant-Colonel Crabbe, commanding the Grenadiers. But he explained that casualties were always high in a frontal assault, and he had opted for that form of attack in order to establish moral supremacy over the Boers, which he had no doubt he had achieved.

  The army was left
in an unsettled state by all this, as again there was little concrete evidence of the Boers having suffered any casualties; all the dead and wounded as usual had been taken away, together with every gun. The men were becoming aware that, however it was presented to the correspondents, the victory, like those trumpeted by Sir George White in Natal the previous month, was actually nothing more than a tactical withdrawal on the part of the Boers, who were happy to fight for as long as it suited them, and then equally happy, unconstrained by military manuals or regimental traditions, to steal away and leave their enemies to occupy barren ground. It was also becoming apparent that the British rank and file no longer possessed absolute confidence in their officers, who, while displaying a great deal of rather absurd gallantry—which was what had led to the high casualty rate amongst the brass—were revealing no matching tactical ability.

  From this, happily, the dragoons were for the moment exempt, being well pleased with the leadership of Colonel Edmonds and his subordinates. And there was no doubt that they would be given their chance when it came to forcing the Modder River.

  *

  There was another sharp encounter at Graspan before the Boers retreated again and the army came in sight of the river at last. From a distance it appeared as surprisingly small, winding its way through low bluffs and backed by high purple mountains to the north. However, it was only twelve miles from Kimberley, and spirits immediately rose; by heliograph they could now communicate with the garrison, who were apparently eagerly awaiting their arrival.

  More important yet, it did not, after all, appear to be heavily defended. Lord Methuen and his staff, with an escort of B Troop, the Royal Western Dragoons, rode forward to reconnoitre the crossing, while the rest of the army bivouacked some miles to the rear. The men were really exhausted, having marched a considerable distance and fought two fair-sized battles in five days, and not all of them were in as good physical condition as B Troop of Holt’s squadron. Now Murdoch sat his horse to the rear of the staff as he surveyed the river through his binoculars, as indeed did every officer. There was no sign of movement, either on the banks of the river itself or in the kopjes behind it. The railway bridge had been blown up by the Boers at the commencement of the war, but not very successfully, and presented an odd picture of tangled girders drooping over the fast-moving water.

  The river itself appeared to pose little obstacle to a successful crossing. It was about thirty feet wide and unattractively brown—its name, the Modder, or Muddy, was aptly descriptive. Apart from the stony bluffs at the riverside itself, the country to either side was flat and sandy, with only occasional thorn bushes as vegetation. Immediately beside the railway station, however, on the far side of the river, quite a little village had grown up, built around some farms and an imposing-looking hotel, in the garden of which were to be seen swings and slides and tree arbours.

  ‘They say this village is quite a holiday resort for the people of Kimberley, in more peaceful times,’ Tom Holt observed; he had as usual accompanied Murdoch’s troop.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone there now,’ Murdoch said, continuing to study the apparently deserted buildings. But even as he spoke there was a shot, followed .by several others, and spurts of dust flew from around them, causing the horses to move restlessly.

  ‘Mr Mackinder,’ called one of the staff officers with the general.

  Murdoch rode forward. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Mr Mackinder.’ Methuen gazed at him for a moment. ‘I knew your father.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I’m told you’re quite a chip off the old block when it comes to drawing enemy fire. Would you then be so good as to approach the river with your troop, wheel to your left and proceed at a canter for the space of five minutes.’ He pointed. ‘As far as that bluff over there. You may take shelter behind that rise.’

  Murdoch saluted, and returned to his troops. ‘We’re to let the general count guns.’

  ‘Then I will come with you,’ Holt said, and they led out their men past the general, who saluted them, and then down to the bluffs overlooking the river. Immediately there was a burst of fire from the vicinity of the hotel, and one of the troopers grunted in pain.

  ‘Fall out,’ Murdoch told him, ‘and return to camp for attention. Troop will wheel left and canter.’

  They swung to their left and proceeded along the bank, maintaining a brisk speed, while the firing from the other side became more general. Despite their pace, two other men were hit, although not seriously, and it was intensely frustrating to be under fire and not able to reply. As they approached the low hill behind which they would be sheltered the bullets started to come from behind them. ‘What do you think?’ Murdoch asked Holt, who rode beside him.

  ‘Doesn’t appear to be more than a few hundred men,’ the captain replied. ‘But you never can tell with the Boers. It could be a...’ He gave a little gasp, and fell forward over his horse’s neck.

  Instinctively Murdoch leaned across and grasped his bridle, reining his own horse as he did so.

  ‘Maintain your order,’ snapped Sergeant Bishop at the men behind him. ‘Maintain your order.’

  Holt was bleeding very badly from a wound in the back of his right shoulder, and Murdoch had to grit his teeth to proceed to the bluff, still leading the captain’s horse. There he reined his men out of sight of the enemy, who continued to fire in a desultory manner, and looked over the troop. Seven men were wounded, one or two barely able to sit their saddles.

  ‘Corporal Yeald,’ he said. ‘Take ten men and escort the wounded back to camp. Take Captain Holt immediately to the surgeon. Sergeant Bishop, maintain the troop here until I return.’ He left the bluff and galloped back to the staff, who were slowly withdrawing out of range, then drew rein and saluted.

  ‘That was well done, Mr Mackinder,’ Methuen said. ‘Kindly congratulate your men for me and give them my thanks. The enemy have revealed their dispositions, and now we know what needs to be done. Were any of your people hit?’

  ‘I have suffered seven men wounded, sir.’

  Methuen nodded. ‘Those people are fine shots, you must give them that.’

  ‘And Captain Holt.’

  ‘Holt?’ The general frowned. ‘He had no business to be with you. That was careless of him. You’ll bring me a report on his condition, Mr Mackinder. Dismissed.’

  Seething with anger, Murdoch saluted and galloped back to the bluff to collect the troop, then returned to camp. After dismissing them, he hurried over to Surgeon Major Deardon’s field hospital to see to the wounded. And to find that Tom Holt was dead.

  3 – The Orange Free State, 1900

  Captain Holt was buried that evening, and General Methuen himself attended the funeral, together with several of his staff, and of course all the officers of the regiment. ‘Brave man,’ the general remarked after the padre had finished the service. ‘But he should not have been there.’

  Colonel Edmonds escorted the general to his horse, then returned to where Morton and Murdoch waited.

  ‘Mr Morton,’ he said, ‘General Methuen has approved your promotion to brevet captain in command of the squadron. I’m afraid you will have to double as troop lieutenant until a replacement is received.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Morton said, saluting. Plainly delighted, he looked at Murdoch, who remained staring at the grave as it was filled in and the captain’s sword was stuck into the soft ground at the head, his topee placed over the haft. He was realising that he had never thought deeply enough about the business of soldiering before. That it might be a dangerous career, or that it might involve the taking of life, had always appeared as an abstract—one would hardly know the man one was killing; and one never truly considered the possibility of one’s friends being killed any more than one considered the possibility of dying oneself—to do so would have made it impossible ever to advance against an enemy.

  His instinctive reaction, as a human being, on that first day amidst the kopjes north of Belmont, was thankfuln
ess that he had not actually killed any of the Boers who sought to take him prisoner, because he had seen their faces. But poor Tom Holt had not seen the face of the man who shot him. He had not even been advancing against him.

  ‘What a waste,’ he said. ‘What a God-damned waste.’

  ‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Morton said.

  ‘And you are in the right place at the right time,’ Murdoch said bitterly.

  ‘Why, my dear fellow, that is the key to success. Beats spit and polish or physical jerks, eh?’

  Murdoch did not sleep; he walked to and fro outside his tent while the camp glowed with light, especially from the direction of the headquarters tent, where Lord Methuen and his staff were examining their maps with Colonel Edmonds and all the other regimental commanders.

  Murdoch could not get the waste of it out of his mind. Holt had been his friend. His only friend—apart from Trooper Reynolds, who was waiting patiently in the door of the tent, with a cup of tea. Murdoch’s sole aim in life at that moment was to get a bearded Boer face in his sights and shoot it down. He would not hope to miss this time.

  Apparently Holt’s death had served a purpose. Edmonds returned to the regiment just after midnight and called an officers’ conference.

  ‘It is General Methuen’s opinion,’ he said, ‘based on the information we gained for him this afternoon when poor Holt bought it, that the river bank is not held in any strength. We know there are Boers in the village, but there is no evidence of them anywhere else, and the general estimates that there can hardly be more than a thousand so concealed. They have been caught napping, it would appear, by the rapidity of our advance.’

  Murdoch pulled his ear; he had observed nothing particularly rapid about the advance.

  ‘On the other hand, there can be no doubt that there are still considerable forces between us and Kimberley, and that these will be concentrated in the near future, once their commanders are aware that we have brought the division up to the Modder. It is therefore the general’s intention to force the river crossing immediately. We march off at three o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In two hours from now.’