‘But she cannot go back to them.’ Again Murdoch wanted to shout in despair.
‘That is a matter between her and her family.’
‘And you would be making me break my sacred oath.’
‘I am endeavouring to prevent you making a colossal fool of yourself. My dear boy, believe me, I understand the circumstances entirely. You found it necessary to undertake certain actions, make certain promises, in order to persuade this woman to help you. Do you really suppose that makes her a fit consort for a man who has an enormously bright military future, a great family tradition to uphold? Have you thought of your mother and the girls? Has it not occurred to you that a girl who could give herself to a man she can only have known a couple of days can hardly be better than a whore? I’m afraid I must not only refuse to consider any proposal you may have made to her, but I must forbid you to attempt to see her again.’
Murdoch stood up and came to attention. ‘Then sir, I must request to be relieved of my commission.’
‘You what?’
‘I cannot remain in the army, sir, if I am forced to abandon that girl. I will not abandon her. I will do everything in my power to obtain her release, and then I will marry her.’
Edmonds leaned back in his chair. ‘You must have a touch of the sun. A Mackinder, resigning his commission? I have never heard such nonsense. In any event, I refuse to accept your resignation.’
‘Then I will walk out,’ Murdoch declared.
‘You really are ill,’ Edmonds said. He stood up himself. ‘Lieutenant Mackinder, as of this moment you are confined to your quarters until further notice. I will have Dr Grahame examine you, and I have no doubt he will prescribe rest and a sedative. When you have recovered your senses, you may return here and we will attempt to have a reasonable discussion.’
‘I refuse to place myself under arrest, sir,’ Murdoch said. ‘I am going to leave the Army.’
Edmonds stared at him. ‘If I do not have you placed under close arrest this minute,’ he said evenly, ‘it is because I admired and respected your father, as up to this moment I have admired and respected you, almost as a son. I am also aware that you saved my life above Klip Drift and that you are a hero. But you are also a soldier. Now listen to me, boy. Nothing that has happened or been said in this room need go on your record. If you will now obey me and return to your quartets and have a rest—and put this girl out of your mind—not a soul on this earth will ever even suspect what has happened here today. I most earnestly beg and entreat you to do as I ask.’
Murdoch remained at attention. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might find its way out of his chest. He knew he was adopting an indefensible position in the eyes of any soldier. But he also knew what he had promised Margriet Voorlandt, what he had felt as he had lain with her in his arms. ‘I am afraid I cannot do that, sir,’ he said, just as evenly as his commander. ‘I feel that I am bound to Miss Voorlandt by honour and by gratitude, and by sheer humanity. And by love. You are condemning her virtually to death. I would never be able to look myself in the face again were I to accept that decision.’
Edmonds sighed. ‘Then I am afraid you leave me no choice.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Captain Morton,’ he said. ‘I order you to place First Lieutenant Murdoch Mackinder under arrest, escort him to his quarters, using force if you have to, and see that he remains there until further orders.’
Part Two –The Captain
6 – Bath, 1902-06
The band played ‘Here the Conquering Hero Comes’, and the crowd on the quayside at Southampton cheered and became almost hysterical as the liner slid into the dock. Murdoch gathered from the ship’s officers that this was the reception every troopship received on returning from South Africa, but it was none the less impressive and stimulating. The crowds, the band, Mother and Rosemary and Philippa standing with the other officers’ wives and families...these were all meant to make those returning from the battlefields believe that it had all been worthwhile, that whatever the rest of the world might say, these were men who had upheld the integrity and the glory of the Empire—and suffered in doing so.
The SS Union Castle was indeed very much a hospital ship. She was filled with rank and file who had contracted various fevers, mainly enteric, and had therefore to be invalided home, accompanied by those who had actually taken a serious bullet wound in a conflict with the guerrillas, or those who had succumbed to the venereal complaints which were rife in Africa—also described as suffering from enteric fever. And then there were those who had fallen victim to the pressures of living and fighting in South Africa, and waging a remorseless war against apparently defenceless women and children. Such men were described as suffering from exhaustion—and possibly enteric fever—and were to be pitied even more than the actual casualties. And amongst them Murdoch numbered himself.
‘Well, sir, there’s no place like England, even if it is raining,’ remarked Trooper Reynolds.
Murdoch was not sure whether Reynolds had volunteered to accompany him to escape further service in Africa, or had been appointed some kind of watchdog, or most likely, simply sent off because as batman he knew the inside story of Murdoch’s ‘illness’. Reynolds had never once trespassed on that taboo ground, and had indeed been his unfailing cheerful and faithful self throughout the voyage.
He was right, Murdoch thought. Even the sight of the Isle of Wight, appearing mistily green through the wintry murk of a December morning—indeed, the blast of cold air which solidified their breaths, the slate grey of both the heavens and the sea—testified that they were home, far away from bullets and Boers, brilliant sunshine and scorching heat. With not a spot of African dust left on them. For Murdoch, a glittering future lay ahead; a visit to Buckingham Palace, no less, for an investiture with his country’s highest military award. Unless he turned his back on the whole thing and returned to South Africa...to nothing. He would not be able to see her, to reclaim her. He did not even know if she was still alive. Certainly she would not have forgiven him for his betrayal. English scum, she had once called him, and she had been proved right. There had been too many factors involved; family and tradition and glittering prizes were only a part. It was his own weakness that he would never be able to come to terms with. His life had been left with a hideous scar slashed across it.
At first he had seriously considered mutiny. He had even considered attacking Johnnie Morton and Billy Hobbs as they escorted him to his quarters...but breaking free would have accomplished nothing. There had been no way to gain access to Margriet, no way to avoid being retaken and tried as a mutineer.
Everyone had been so very helpful. Even General Kitchener. He had wanted to know about the Boer commando, about conditions in the laager—questions which Murdoch had answered as best he could: his only hope of ever seeing Margriet again was a speedy end to the war. Kitchener had listened and made notes, the eyes above the flat moustache as cold as ice. Then he had said, And now you are to be invalided home. You are fortunate, Lieutenant Mackinder. Many a man would have come out of an experience such as yours with far less a reward than that.’
Which was as far as Kitchener would go in censure. Apparently the announcement that he was to receive the Victoria Cross had already been released to the newspapers. To have such a hero charged with insubordination and cashiered, and possibly even shot for collaboration with the enemy, had been unthinkable. Clearly he had been ill. Dr Grahame and the padre had whole-heartedly supported that theory. Here was a man who in a moment of heat-exhausted, fever-ridden madness might have refused to accept the diktat of his superior officer—but he had also stood across the shattered body of that same officer and defied the Boers, and had then escaped from captivity...why, there was a young journalist named Winston Churchill who had also been captured by the Boers, while with Buller’s command in Natal, and had gallantly escaped, and was now commencing to build a political career upon that very feat. Of course, Mr Churchill had been more fortunate, or more thoughtful of the f
uture: he had made his escape without the aid of a Boer maiden. But even there, a young officer could be forgiven for having lost his head when exposed to the wiles of such a siren. Certainly he was more to be pitied than condemned.
So he had taken the coward’s way out and written Margriet a letter, which Hobbs had promised would be delivered. In it he endeavoured to explain both his horror and disgust at what had happened to her, and his total helplessness: he tried to suggest that a future might still be possible for them if they could both practise patience. There had been no reply. But had he really expected one? To Margriet Voorlandt he had to be a betrayer of her love and faith, and of the sacrifice she had made for him; no matter what kind of a hero the world might call him. That was what he had to live with for the rest of his life.
The only good thing about the whole disastrous episode was that he had been shipped out quickly and secretly—escorted straight from the train to the ship without spending more than half an hour in Cape Town itself. He wondered if Rosetta would endeavour to contact him in England.
But after Margriet, behaving dishonourably to Rosetta in telling her that he could not and would not ever marry her, and had never considered himself engaged to her, would present no difficulty at all.
*
Mother was in his arms, Philippa was clinging to his shoulder, Rosemary and her Major Phillips were shaking his hand. Phillips had been returned on an earlier ship; Murdoch wondered what had been his particular brand of sickness.
‘We were so worried,’ Mother said, ‘when we heard you had been wounded, and then had got sick...but you look quite well.’
‘There’s nothing like a sea voyage,’ Murdoch told her. ‘Besides, I had Trooper Reynolds to look after me.’
Reynolds beamed contentedly.
There was a great deal to be done. There were photographs to be posed for, and newspaper reporters seeking interviews—at which nothing could be said which might be the least derogatory to the Army or to the famous soldier who was directing its fortunes in South Africa. Then there was a call to be made, at his request, on Lord Roberts and his wife at their home in the Isle of Wight, again to be congratulated.
‘How sad that you will not receive your medal from the hands of the Queen,’ said Lady Roberts. ‘Do you know, she came to see me herself when poor Fred was killed. She drove over from Osborne to hold my hand and tell me how sorry she was. It was so very nice of her. Then, just before she left, she gave me a little parcel and said, “I have this present for you, but I do not wish you to open it until after I have gone.” So I didn’t, and when she had left, I untied it, and there was the box, and inside the box was the Victoria Cross. I cried and cried. It was so very sweet of her.’
Lord Roberts took Murdoch into the study. ‘How are things in South Africa?’ he asked.
‘I think we are winning, sir,’ Murdoch said. ‘Slowly.’
‘Are the rumours one hears true?’
‘I do not know what the rumours are, sir.’
Roberts gazed at him for several seconds, the old eyes bright and lively as ever. Then he said, ‘You have old eyes, Murdoch. Do you know, all soldiers who have seen combat come home with old eyes. I suppose living with death does that to a man. But I have noticed that those coming home from this war have older eyes than any I have seen before. And you...you did not return to England when you were wounded. You stayed, and returned to your regiment as soon as you could, and have now been invalided out over a year later. There are many officers like you. War is always a beastly business, but sometimes it is more beastly than others, depending on who is controlling affairs.’
Murdoch was well aware that there was no love lost between Britain’s two greatest soldiers; but Lord Roberts had retired, whereas he had surrendered to Lord Kitchener. So he merely said, ‘Yes, sir.’
Roberts smiled. ‘You are a good and faithful officer, Murdoch. Your father would be proud of you. You will not leave the Army?’
‘I have nowhere else to go, sir,’ Murdoch told him. And that was the plain truth.
*
But he had a month’s convalescent leave, and could accompany his mother and Philippa and Rosemary—and Major Phillips—down to Broad Acres. There the talk was entirely about the wedding, which would be taking place at Easter. Invitations were being prepared, as were gowns; Philippa was of course to be maid of honour, and two other friends would be bridesmaids. Murdoch was thankful Phillips had arranged for one of his brother guards’ officers to be best man, but Murdoch would of course have to give his sister away.
He just wanted to enjoy the peace and the prosperity of his home. ‘By the Lord, sir,’ Reynolds remarked, ‘what would some of the lads in B Troop give to be here with us.’
Reynolds made a strange sight in a brown tweed jacket and a flat cap; but then, Murdoch supposed, his hunting pink and silk hat must look equally strange to the batman. In fact, everything had felt strange to Murdoch himself—abandoning khaki for sky blue on the voyage home, then abandoning uniform altogether for the clothes of a country gentleman; riding across fields, here green despite the chill, there black earth, with not a speck of red dust or a vulture to be seen. But both he and Reynolds instinctively drew rein whenever they saw a low, tree-covered hill or a rocky outcrop, half expecting to hear the crack of a Mauser rifle and have to dive for shelter.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘How I wish they could be here.’ Because that had been another concomitant of his secret—he had not even been allowed to bid farewell to his troop.
*
In the new year the family went up to London for the investiture. There were several soldiers there, as well as civic dignitaries who were to receive awards, but as the only Victoria Cross recipient Murdoch went in first. He shook hands with the portly, bearded man in the brilliant red uniform jacket with the pale blue sash of the Garter across his chest, who was now King of England, and beside him, his small, dainty Danish wife.
‘You are a soldier’s soldier, by all accounts, Lieutenant Mackinder,’ King Edward said. ‘A proud upholder of a proud tradition. We salute you.’
Clearly the Army had secrets which it hid even from the monarch.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Murdoch said, stepping back and saluting in turn, looking down at the crimson ribbon which showed bright against the sky blue of his jacket, at the dull gun metal of the cross beneath it, with the simple inscription For Valour. Then he was being shown out to receive the congratulations of his family, before taking them off to a champagne lunch at the Café Royal. How proud Margriet would have been to stand here and be a part of his glory, he thought. He dreamed of her every night and deliberately relived in his mind every second of that unforgettable sun-scorched day when they had escaped the laager. Her image remained as bright in his mind as if he had seen her yesterday, and had still the power to provoke despair—more than ever on such an occasion.
The next day he answered a summons to the Horse Guards, to meet Sir John French, who had also returned from South Africa.
‘Sit down, Mackinder,’ French said. ‘That ribbon sits very nicely on your chest. My congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I imagine it is good to be home.’
‘It is, sir. But I look forward to rejoining the regiment.’
‘In South Africa? I don’t think that would be a wise move. In any event, I imagine the regiment will soon be coming home. We have heard that Botha has been making overtures and may well be prepared to lay down his arms. Well, it is about time. They have fought hard and long, and in the main honourably, but the stringency of Lord Kitchener’s measures have forced them to their knees at last.’
Murdoch saw no reason to keep secrets from French, who undoubtedly knew them anyway. ‘You are aware of what those measures consisted, sir?’
French looked into his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Whether I would have had the determination to impose them I would not like to say. But in war, it is winning that counts. You should never forget that, Mackinder.
’
‘I shall endeavour not to, sir,’ Murdoch agreed, wondering just how much French knew about him.
‘And looking over one’s shoulder never does any good,’ French went on, ‘except as a means of correcting one’s course.’ The General had spent four years in the Navy as a boy before transferring to the Army. ‘In this regard, we have a good deal of course-correcting to do, in my opinion, if we are going to guarantee the future security of this country. Do you know how many men the Boers had under arms at any one time? Hardly more than forty thousand. We had five hundred thousand in South Africa when Lord Roberts handed over his command, and there are not far short of that number now. So we won in the end. We had to, with such a preponderance of men and matériel. That does not alter the fact that our army was caught lacking in a great many respects. A century of fighting colonial wars is no adequate preparation for facing a determined, skilful and well-armed enemy. God alone knows what would have happened had we found ourselves in the middle of a European war. Or were to do so, now. This is something that must be put right, and quickly—and it is men like yourself who have to do that. You will be returning to Bath next week, as your leave is now up, and there you will take command of the training squadron.’
Murdoch sat up. ‘The squadron, sir?’
French gave a brief smile. ‘Why, yes, Captain Mackinder.’
‘Why, sir...thank you. I am deeply honoured.’
‘You mean you are deeply experienced and, I believe, have the intelligence and the military mind to make the changes that are necessary. What I want you to do is train your cavalrymen to fight a modern war; to learn from your experiences in South Africa and pass those experiences on to your men. Always remember that you are a VC, and therefore will be an object of great respect to those less fortunate than yourself.
‘Now there were three things above all else in which the Boers were undoubtedly our superiors, and they were the things which have kept this war going for far too many months after it should have been won. The first is mobility. This above all else is a cavalryman’s business in modern warfare. It should be the business of the entire army. The Boer army was composed only of cavalrymen, but they nearly always fought on foot; their horses were used to convey them rapidly from one place to another.
The Regiment Page 14