‘With respect, sir,’ Murdoch said, ‘that will hardly give the men time to breakfast.’
‘There will be no breakfast,’ Edmonds told him. ‘Quiet and stealth are essential. The men may have a cup of coffee. The river will be in our hands by six, and they can breakfast then. Now, gentlemen, the 2nd Brigade will assault by the railway bridge, the 1st to their left, flanking the village and the Boer position. The lancers will force a crossing below the bridge. We have been given the task of crossing the river on the left of the guards. I’m afraid I can promise you little glory, as obviously there will be no Boers to oppose us, but his lordship’s plan is to make the crossing with as few casualties as possible. We will therefore establish ourselves on the north bank, whence we will enfilade the entire Boer position and simply roll them up from the west. Once we are in position it is doubtful they will attempt to maintain themselves. However, our assigned task is essential to the victory of the division, and I am sure all officers and men will carry it out with diligence and determination, remembering the death of Captain Holt. Now, the men must be awakened with as little noise as possible. We will walk our horses to our position, in case we need them to pursue the fleeing enemy. The actual crossing of the river will be made on foot. Mr Mackinder, B Troop will remain in reserve to guard the animals until they are required. The other five troops will form the assault force.’
Murdoch opened his mouth, and then closed it again. ‘Very good, gentlemen. I wish the men fallen in by two thirty. You have one hour and a half.’
‘Colonel’s boy,’ Fielder grunted as they walked back to their tents.
‘Oh, I suspect the old man is afraid poor Mackinder may still be affected by Tommy Holt’s death,’ Morton said, not unkindly. ‘You’ll be able to tell us where we go wrong, Mackinder.’
Murdoch summoned Sergeant Bishop and gave his orders. The troop was awakened by a touch on each shoulder rather than a bugle call, the horses were unpicketed and brought into line.
‘Don’t we breakfast, sir?’ Reynolds asked, as he gave his lieutenant a cup of coffee.
We breakfast,’ Murdoch said savagely, ‘on the other side of the river.’
*
With a huge, stealthy rustle, the division got on the move. Despite the instructions for absolute silence to be maintained, there was a steady clanking of equipment and muttered curses as stones were kicked and men stumbled. The guards brigade and the 2nd moved up towards the river, and the lancers and volunteer cavalry trotted off to the east. The artillery was wheeled into position with squeaking limbers, and the dragoons walked their horses away to the west. It was impossible to doubt that the Boers were awakened by all this, but if there were only a thousand or so of them in the village there was very little they could do about it.
But they certainly meant to try. The regiment hadn’t gone very far when there was a rifle shot, and then another, and then the whole river seemed to burst into flame, continuous fire being poured across the water at the advancing British, who taken by surprise at the reception—which indicated several thousand rather than a few hundred men—they immediately went to ground and replied as best they could, although without any idea of where to aim their shots, supported by the artillery, who concentrated on the hotel. The dragoons kept silently on their march, ignoring the cacophony to their right and rear, until Edmonds decided they had reached their allotted position. By now it was obvious that the river was indeed held in far greater strength than General Methuen, with his extremely abortive reconnaissance, had considered possible; Boer artillery was replying to the British, hardly suggesting that they had left only a rearguard to contest the crossing. Neither the 1st nor the 2nd Brigade had got near the river as yet; they were pinned down by the blanket fire which was coming from the far side. As the sun rose, they were left in a very exposed position, while they still lacked targets at which to aim, the Boers being concealed amongst the kopjes and rocks of the far side. Edmonds therefore gave his men the command to advance on the double, as clearly their turning movement would now be vital to the success of the entire battle.
Murdoch was left with his troop in charge of the several hundred horses, watching in impotent fury as the dragoons, playing their part as riflemen now, hurried forward towards the river bank—to be met by a sudden wall of fire. Gazing through his binoculars, Murdoch saw Fielder fall, and Major Craufurd, and several men. The regiment recoiled from the shock and tried to advance again, only to be sent to ground by the continuing fire from the Boers, who did not indulge in volley fire as such, and yet, with each man loading and firing as fast as he could, seemed to be delivering volley after volley. What was far more serious, Murdoch observed, was that the main part of the enemy fire came from the south, or near bank of the river; the Boers were actually entrenched down there, as it now became apparent they were right along the battle front, preventing the British from getting near the water at all. And they must have been there all the time, although they had resisted the temptation to fire upon B Troop as it cantered by above them yesterday morning. So much for Methuen’s reconnaissance, he thought angrily, which had discovered nothing except what the Boers meant them to discover, and had cost the life of one of the few competent officers in the entire army, in his opinion.
The wounded were brought back; Craufurd was shot through the leg. Fielder had apparently died instantly. Hobbs, who as paymaster had remained with Murdoch, was walking up and down and slapping his leg with his cane in agitation. The sun was swinging high into the sky now, and the day was growing intensely hot—and the men’s bellies were rumbling. They had been going to breakfast on the far side of the river. If they were really going to wait for that, Murdoch thought bitterly, they would all starve to death.
But there seemed nothing to be done. With his glasses he could look to his right along the sweep of the British army, and see that every brigade was pinned down by the Boer fire; the artillery roared ceaselessly, huge plumes of dust and earth rose from the far bank, the hotel disintegrated into shattered timbers, swings and arbours thrown left and right—but still the Boers replied, and still the British could not move, while almost every minute someone fell and had to be taken to the rear. There seemed a total lack of direction about the whole thing. No movement could be seen amongst the British, save where someone was hit. There was no adjustment to the plan, presumably because there was no alternative plan. The men just lay and fired, and the Boers fired back. It was impossible to believe that this was a battle being conducted by the product of twenty years’ professional soldiering-and learning about soldiering; it appeared an entirely senseless exercise, lying in the sun and shooting off one’s rifle at an invisible target—save that one was being killed while doing it.
And he could not even take part in it, while he watched his comrades being shot down, one after the other. It was the longest and most terrible day of Murdoch’s life, and at last in the afternoon he could stand it no longer. ‘I want forty volunteers,’ he said.
The troop stepped forward as a man.
‘I’m afraid you will have to remain here with the horses, Sergeant Bishop,’ he said. ‘And I want you here as well, Reynolds. Corporal Yeald, Corporal Compton, you’ll accompany me.’
‘You have no orders,’ Hobbs objected. ‘You’ll be cashiered.’
‘Not if I can get across the river,’ Murdoch told him, and led his men away from the protecting hillock, veering to the left of the regiment’s position. They were seen immediately and fired upon, but they advanced slowly from cover to cover until they actually reached a bluff which looked down on the river. Below them the bank appeared to be empty, and the river itself, which was obviously quite deep in places, here tumbled over some shallows.
‘Do you suppose we could get across there, Yeald?’ he asked.
‘Nothing to stop us, sir,’ Yeald replied.
‘Because if we can, and enfilade their position along the south bank...
‘Just to get across, sir, would be a tonic to the army.’
‘You’re right. Let’s go.’
They crept down the far side of the bluff and there paused to check their position. There was no means of letting the rest of the regiment know what they were intending, which suited Murdoch, as he rather felt he might be forbidden to try it. The remarkable thing was that, like the commanding general, Colonel Edmonds was apparently so concerned with dislodging the men in front of him at whatever cost, that he was not paying any attention to the possibility of outflanking them. It was therefore a case of taking his career in his hands, as Hobbs had warned; but Murdoch reckoned he had nothing to lose—he had already disobeyed orders by leaving the horses.
‘This has got to be on the double, Yeald,’ he said. ‘We will approach the bank, volley fire along it against any Boers who may be visible on this side, cross the river and take up our position in that nearest kopje, immediately enfilading the Boer position. We will maintain ourselves there until the regiment crosses to our support. Understood?’ He looked from one corporal to the other.
‘Yes, sir,’ they answered enthusiastically.
‘Then, at the count of ten.’ He counted slowly, while the men checked their rifles. ‘Ten!’ he snapped, leapt to his feet and ran down the slope; he had left his sword with Lucifer and carried only his revolver.
Instantly the Boers spotted them again, and discerning their intention, directed a heavy fire on them. He heard a cry from behind him, but there was no time to stop. He reached the embankment, slid down and turned to look along it. Several Boer riflemen were perhaps a hundred yards away to his right, only now turning to face him. But most of his troopers had come down the slope behind him and they opened fire: three of the Boers fell, and the remainder withdrew behind the next bluff.
‘Across,’ Murdoch panted, and plunged into the brown water. It was deeper than he had supposed, and he was immediately immersed to his waist, while splashes rose all around as the Boers fired at him. He heard shouts from behind him, but never looked back as he strode through the water, once or twice dipping to his shoulders, having to brace all his strength to resist being swept away by the current, which was also faster than he had supposed. Only moments later he was splashing up the far side and throwing himself down amidst the rocks to reload his revolver.
There he was joined by thirty-two men; two were drifting down the river, either shot or drowned, and several more had fallen on the south bank. But they were in position, and they commenced firing as fast as they could reload—they could now see the Boers quite clearly on the south bank, sheltering amidst the bluffs and bushes as they fired at the British army.
The troop’s success brought the full wrath of the Boers upon them, however. Although they certainly killed or wounded several men and sent the remainder huddling further down the bank—thus opening an even wider exposed area to a British crossing—the rest of the regiment was apparently too exhausted, after several hours of lying in the sun with neither food nor water, to take advantage of the situation, while the Boer command reacted both vigorously and violently. Within seconds one of their guns, which had been shelling the British position south of the river, was re-aimed and its first shot struck the water, causing a huge splash which soaked them all over again. The next shell was even closer, and Murdoch realised that he must advance or retreat, or be blown out of the water. All his instincts called on him to advance, but at that moment he heard the notes of a bugle from the south bank, signalling recall. This was a direct order. Again he looked back at the regiment, but although they were firing as vigorously as ever, there was no indication of any movement to their aid.
‘We’ve no choice, Corporal Yeald,’ he said. ‘We will have to retire.’
‘But sir, we’ve established ourselves across the river,’ the corporal protested.
‘We can’t take on the whole Boer army,’ Murdoch pointed out. ‘Nor can we disobey orders quite so flagrantly as to try. Back over, boys. We’ve proved it could be done.’
Muttering curses, the dragoons returned into the water. Three more fell before they regained the south bank.
*
The firing died down with the coming of darkness; the men were at last able to rise from their improvised shelters and have something to eat and drink, and count the cost. Murdoch accompanied Colonel Edmonds to divisional headquarters, where Methuen and his other general officers were waiting for them. Morton, as squadron captain, came along too.
‘I should have thought that you, Lieutenant Mackinder, would have been the last man in this army to act without orders. In disobedience of orders, in fact.’
Murdoch stood rigidly to attention. ‘I felt it was a justifiable act, sir,’ he said. ‘I had received no orders at all for several hours. I had no knowledge of whether or not Colonel Edmonds or Acting Captain Morton might have been hit. I only knew that the regiment was pinned down and unable to move, and it appeared to me that I might be able to turn the enemy’s flank or at least divert him sufficiently for an advance to be made, in accordance with our original orders.’
‘I would like your opinion on that, Colonel Edmonds,’ Methuen said.
‘I believe Lieutenant Mackinder acted in good faith, sir,’ Edmonds said. And perhaps to good purpose. His error was in not sending a messenger to inform me of his intention in time to enable me to make something of it. As it is...’
‘Quite,’ Methuen said. ‘We have another six men to add to our considerable casualty list, and a generally bloody nose to report. Thank you, gentlemen. I am sure you are all as weary as I am of these insidious Boer tactics. Second Lieutenant Mackinder, I intend to indicate my disapproval of your action in my despatch, and this will of course have to be entered on your record. Perhaps, in future...’ He turned his head at the sound of hooves. ‘Who is that?’ he snapped.
One of his staff officers stepped outside into the darkness and returned a moment later. ‘Captain Lindop, sir, returning from reconnaissance.’
‘Bring him in. Well, captain?’
Lindop, of the lancers, looked excited, panting as he saluted. ‘I have to report, sir, that the Boers have evacuated their positions both on the river and in the town.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain, sir. I rode with my men right down to the water without being fired upon, and then crossed the river and went right up to the hotel, without encountering anyone. I saw the canvas of their laager in the distance as the wagons withdrew. It is my opinion that they have evacuated the entire position.’
‘By heaven,’ Methuen said. ‘Now there is a stroke of fortune.’
‘Ahem,’ Colonel Edmonds remarked.
Methuen looked at him.
‘May I suggest, sir,’ Edmonds said, ‘that the Boer withdrawal may have been caused, at least in part, by the realisation that if some of our people could cross the river even under their very heavy fire, then the whole army might well manage to do likewise, tomorrow?’
‘Hm,’ Methuen said. He snapped his fingers. ‘We have beaten the bastards, by sheer grit and determination. By God, this’ll please the newspapers. I thank you, gentlemen. I thank you all,’ he said, looking at Murdoch. ‘Now you must attend to your wounded and get some rest.’
‘You were damned lucky,’ Morton pointed out as they rode back to their cantonment. ‘If the Boers hadn’t had enough...’
‘Do you really think they have had enough?’ Murdoch asked, adding ‘sir’ as an afterthought. ‘A victory, by God. To please the newspapers. This army is being led by the nose, and God knows where they are going to take us yet.’
‘I would keep that opinion to myself, if I were you,’ Morton recommended. ‘Or you could wind up being one of the newspaper johnnies the general is so anxious to please.’
*
At least he had won the hearts of his men, Murdoch realised, as they crowded round him to congratulate him on the boldness of his action. Even the wounded members of B Troop expressed their pride in their officer when he visited the field hospital. The rest of the regiment,
like indeed the rest of the army, was less happy about the events of the day. Casualties had been severe: four officers and sixty-eight men killed, and nineteen officers and three hundred and seventy-seven men wounded. Fielder was buried next to Holt the next morning, while Major Craufurd’s wound was so severe he had to be sent back down the line. Hobbs was given brevet rank of captain and made adjutant; the regiment was now becoming seriously short of officers, and there were no sign of any replacements from the depot at Bath. Troop strength too was down to an average of sixty, which meant that regimental strength had been almost halved since leaving Cape Town.
Murdoch was holding his normal morning inspection the following day, still awaiting orders from Lord Methuen to cross the river in force, when he was greeted by a horseman in civilian dress, although his breeches and jacket were very well cut and he wore a topee. ‘Hi there, mind if I have a word?’
‘In a moment.’ Murdoch dismissed the troop, while the stranger dismounted and held out his hand.
‘Name’s Harry Caspar, New York Globe. I just got here in time for the battle.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Murdoch remarked. He was not in the mood to discuss the failure with an American.
‘Quite an experience,’ Caspar said. ‘Say, aren’t you the lieutenant’—he pronounced the word ‘lootenant’, which made Murdoch wince—‘who got across the river?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Murdoch said.
‘Then allow me to shake your hand,’ Caspar said, and did so. ‘I’ve been learning one or two things about you, Mr Mackinder. Would you object if I did a little piece on you? The fact is, the folks back home don’t know too much about this war or the people who are fighting it. If I’m going to get it across to them, I have to give them names, personalities, they can latch on to. Get the idea? And I think you just fill the bill. How about it?’
The Regiment Page 7