The Regiment

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘What will you do now?’ she asked, when his head rested on her shoulder.

  ‘You mean if you were not to come with me? Why, go home, I suppose.’

  ‘Back to the Army?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I came with you, would you leave the Army?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  Her head turned; her chin brushed his forehead.

  ‘If you wanted it, I would leave,’ he explained. ‘But I really have nothing else to do with my life. I know that now. Without the Army I would be only half a man.’

  She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said, ‘Will you become a famous general?’

  ‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I have the will, the guts, if you like, to become a famous general. Perhaps it would be better for me to leave.’ He sat up. ‘Margriet, I have a compartment booked on the train to Cape Town tomorrow morning. If you could bring the children to town tonight, we would be away by eight. Or I could meet you on the veldt.’

  ‘I cannot,’ she said, and sat up in turn.

  He frowned at her. ‘You mean you are not coming?’

  ‘I cannot,’ she said again.

  ‘Because of the Army?’

  ‘That is part of it. I would always be an outsider, an outcast, in fact. Then there are my children. They too would be fish out of water, away from Africa. And I would be abandoning my home, my dog, my horses...my wealth. Reger may beat me, but he also buys me everything I wish, everything I require for the children.’

  ‘Do you not think I could do that as well?’

  ‘He is a very wealthy man,’ she said seriously. ‘Or he will be, one day. His uncle is a Prussian junker. Perhaps you did not know that.’

  ‘Perhaps I did not,’ Murdoch agreed, balls of lead seeming to form in his stomach. But they were balls of anger as well.

  ‘This uncle is childless, and Paul is his favourite nephew,’ Margriet went on. ‘It is possible—probable, even—that Paul will be returning to Prussia to inherit all of that wealth, thousands of acres of land, in a few years’ time. And I will be his wife.’ She smiled. ‘You once told me he should take me to Berlin. Well, he is going to do so.’

  ‘And that is why you wish to stay with him? Not the children?’

  She gave a little shrug; ten minutes ago the sight of that movement, while she was lying naked on his pillows, would have aroused him all over again. ‘Life, decisions about life, are made up from many things.’

  ‘Then tell me something. Your mind was made up before you came here today?’

  ‘There was never any question of making up my mind,’ she said, and rested her hand on his arm. ‘I told you that, at the house two days ago. I told you I could not come.’

  ‘And I did not believe you. Not when you agreed to meet me.’

  She made a moue. ‘I thought that was what you wanted, more than anything else. I thought that was what you came all this distance for.’

  ‘And you were prepared to jeopardise all this happiness, this prosperity you claim to enjoy, just for an outside fuck?’ He got up and started to dress.

  She sat up. ‘Now you are angry with me.’

  Now I could strangle you, he thought. But he said, ‘Just surprised.’ And also disappointed, and crushed—but those were very private thoughts.

  ‘I do love you, Murdoch,’ she said. ‘When I think what I risked for you, I am amazed. But I was only a girl then. And you did turn my head with your talk.’

  ‘You mean you would not risk that much again now?’

  ‘You are angry.’ She got out of bed, uncoiling her legs, and stood against him, her arms round his neck. ‘Because I have been honest with you?’

  He sighed. ‘Because I have dreamed of you, and feared for you, every night for four and a half years.’

  ‘And now you have possessed me again, in a way no man has ever had me before or ever will again. Does that not please you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not if I cannot have you again, or have my son.’

  She said nothing, until she had finished dressing, rearranged her pompadour as best she could and adjusted her veil. Then she said, ‘You had best forget me. Forget both of us.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I had best do that.’

  She smiled at him. ‘But I will not forget you, my dear Murdoch.’ She blew him a kiss, opened the door, and was gone.

  8 – Somalia, 1907

  ‘Welcome back, my dear fellow,’ said Lieutenant-Colonel Walters. ‘How was Italy?’

  ‘Italy? Oh...ah...very interesting,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘And the Italians?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘Very interesting people. Sort of...exciting.’

  ‘Good. Good. And you’re quite fit again? I must say, you look very fit.’

  ‘I feel absolutely in the pink, sir,’ Murdoch said. Physically, that was no lie. And mentally? It was over. He had to be determined about that, allow himself no more dreams. He had fallen in love with a mirage, a woman who had never really existed, except in his imagination. The woman who had come to his hotel in Johannesburg had been a totally selfish, totally sensuous creature. How Colonel Edmonds’ words came back to him—once so hotly rejected—that she could be nothing better than a whore to have yielded to him so quickly.

  That she was the mother of his son was irrelevant. He did not even know if that was true. She had been in the camp for more than ten months. And she could have been pregnant when she escaped with him: which might have been part of the reason for that so ready acceptance of his proposal.

  What really made him boil was the way he had considered, once again, abandoning his career and his position and his future for her. And he was a soldier who might possibly one day become a general.

  There had been a letter waiting for him from Marylee Caspar, telling him of Harry’s and her adventures on the continent, a witty, chatty, informative letter, the letter of one friend to another; as a well-brought-up Baltimore young lady she could hardly write in any other way. And she wanted him to tell her about South Africa in turn, how it had changed. But he had no desire to write to her at all, or risk anything further developing between them. He had no desire ever to become involved with any woman again.

  ‘That’s splendid news,’ Walters said. ‘Are you in the mood for some active service?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch said with genuine enthusiasm. He certainly wanted to fight somebody. ‘India? The North-West Frontier?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, the regiment is being sent to India, yes.’

  ‘Oh, that is splendid,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘Of course, it was where your father earned his reputation. But...I’m afraid I have been instructed to second a squadron for other duties first.’

  Murdoch frowned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Somalia.’

  ‘Somalia? Somaliland?’

  ‘That’s what they call it, yes. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Well...on the Red Sea, isn’t it?’

  ‘The coastal strip is on the Red Sea, yes. It actually is quite a large area east of Abyssinia, so far as I have been able to make out, and next door to Italian Somaliland. That’s one of the reasons why I am sending you, as you have been to Italy and know the people. I imagine you even speak something of the language. eh?’

  Murdoch opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then opened it again. ‘You are sending me to Somaliland, sir?’

  ‘With one squadron of the regiment, yes. It appears there has been some bother there for the past ten years or so. Oh, the Italians stirred it up. They had designs on Abyssinia itself. You must remember that dreadful business at Adowa in ninety-six. Or was it ninety-four? No matter. An entire Italian army got chopped up by the fuzzy-wuzzies. Really nasty. Now, of course, we don’t wish to get involved in any war with Abyssinia. But the Italians have also stirred up some Somali holy man, chap called’—he glanced at the notes on his desk—‘Muhammad Ibn Abd Allah, who regards himself as some sort of offsh
oot of the Mandi, you know, and has been making life difficult for everyone for some time now. Well, we may not agree with the Italian point of view, but British Somaliland is, well, British, and we can’t have some local lunatic causing trouble. He is a lunatic, you know. The newspapers call him the Mad Mullah. Perhaps you’ve heard something of him.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch said, his mind still reeling at what his deception had got him into.

  ‘Well, he’s becoming more obstreperous all the time, raiding villages and caravans and generally trying to stir the people up against us. So we are going to take a somewhat more offensive stance against him, and it is felt that a squadron of dragoons, especially with the South African experience of the Westerns, will be just the chaps to seek and destroy these brigands.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch agreed unhappily.

  Walters could see he was disappointed at not going to India, and hurried on. ‘Once you have captured this Mullah, why, then you will be sent on to India to join us.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t only choose you for this job because you speak Italian, you know,’ Walters said. ‘It was necessary to give one of my captains an almost independent command.’ He paused, gazing at Murdoch. ‘And I have selected you. I would regard that as a compliment, if I were you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch said. ‘I do.’

  ‘It will be a great opportunity for you to prove your skill as a leader of men. You will, of course, be under the overall direction of Brigadier-General Hardie, who is in command out there. But he has always been an infantryman, and I imagine he will leave you very much to yourselves. He has a battalion of the Lancashires and another of the King’s African Rifles, together with a contingent of armed police and a battery of artillery, but what he has always lacked is cavalry, and the mobility which cavalry will provide. You will supply that want.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch said, somewhat more enthusiastically. If it had always been his dream to serve in India, the thought that he had been singled out, ahead of either Morton or Chapman, as the man most likely to succeed, was exciting. And if the campaign could be settled quickly enough, he would be in India before very long.

  ‘However,’ Walters went on, ‘I must warn you that according to the report I have been given’—he flicked the folder on his desk—‘this is an unpleasant place and an unpleasant business you are becoming involved with. The country sounds like somewhere God forgot—it’s very close to the Equator—and these Somalis appear to be the most unpleasant people on earth to fight against. Some of the things mentioned in that report are quite blood-curdling if they are true, which I must confess I take leave to doubt. However, you must study it and circulate its more relevant details to every man under your command, so that no one is in any doubt what he is up against. On the other hand, it must be treated as absolutely confidential. If a word of it was ever leaked to the newspapers, it would be very unfortunate.’ He held out the folder. ‘Understood?’

  Murdoch took the stiff cardboard. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Well, there is little time to lose. The regiment sails immediately after Christmas. You’ll want to acquaint your men with their destination.’

  Murdoch saluted.

  *

  ‘Oh, dear, Murdoch,’ Mother complained. ‘Just back, and now you are off again.’

  ‘Well, the regiment has been posted, and it will be active service at last, after five years of these pointless manoeuvres,’ Murdoch pointed out. ‘And an independent command. If I don’t come out of it a major, I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘In Somaliland?’ Philippa demanded. ‘I don’t even know where it is.’

  ‘The Horn of Africa,’ Murdoch explained, although clearly that did not make her greatly the wiser.

  ‘Who on earth are you going to fight in the Horn of Africa?’

  ‘The Mad Mullah. Chap called Mohammad something. You must have heard of him. He’s really just an outlaw chieftain, so far as I can gather. My brief is to capture him. Should be a piece of cake.’ He didn’t want them to start asking too many questions; he had only just had the time to dip into Colonel Walters’ confidential report on conditions in Somalia, and he did not like what he had been reading.

  Fortunately, Mother was more interested in the past than the immediate future. She came into the study after dinner. ‘Murdoch... you haven’t really talked about South Africa.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t much to talk about, really.’ Only that you are now a grandmother, he thought; but I could not tell you that, even if I knew for sure it were true. ‘They seem to have recovered remarkably well. With our assistance, of course.’

  ‘And you...enjoyed yourself?’

  ‘Very much,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I shall ever return there again.’

  Which seemed to satisfy her.

  *

  ‘Somaliland, sir?’ Sergeant-Major Hanley frowned. ‘Sounds hot.’

  ‘It is hot,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘And beastly, from all accounts. I want this report typed up in quadruplicate and circulated throughout the squadron the moment we sail. Until then it is top secret, but before we reach Berbera every man must have read it. It seems these people have a different concept of warfare to us. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hanley acknowledged, more doubtfully yet, and took the folder as if it had been one of the new Mills bombs—grenades—they had all been issued with.

  *

  ‘My God,’ remarked Peter Ramage, turning the pages of the report. ‘Have, you read this, sir?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘Do you suppose it’s true?’

  ‘I should think there must be some truth to it. It is based on eye-witness accounts.’

  ‘You mean British soldiers have actually been, well, mutilated by these people?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So we must tell our men to commit suicide rather than allow themselves to be captured?’ Tom Knox asked.

  ‘I think we must tell our men not to get themselves captured under any circumstances,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘And this bit about the women being worse than the men, and to be shot on sight. Have you ever shot a woman, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Murdoch told him.

  ‘Are those going to be orders?’

  ‘I’ll issue orders when I see exactly what the situation is on the ground,’ Murdoch decided. ‘But if I have to give orders to that effect, I will.’

  He hoped he meant what he said. In his present mood, he thought he could very well be that ruthless—certainly as regards the women.

  *

  The regiment sailed together on board the SS Columbo from Plymouth across the Bay of Biscay, in freezing conditions and heavy seas which made coping with the horses a continuing problem, then down the Portuguese coast to Gibraltar, as it had done in 1899 on its way to South Africa. But from Gibraltar it this time turned into the Mediterranean.

  Murdoch had actually spent far more time studying the Mediterranean, and especially Italy, and endeavouring to master some words of Italian from a phrase book, than he had Somaliland. But his heart sank when he discovered that it was a toss-up whether the troopship called at Naples or Valetta. To his great relief Valetta was chosen, because the winter gales were making Naples roadstead untenable.

  Now there is a disappointment,’ Walters remarked. ‘I was hoping you would be able to act as our guide in Naples, Murdoch.’

  ‘Well, actually, sir,’ Murdoch confessed, ‘I have never been to Naples.’

  ‘What, spent three months in Italy and not seen Naples?’

  ‘See Naples and die,’ Billy Hobbs remarked.

  ‘That’s what worried me,’ Murdoch told him. ‘I was more interested in Venice. Spent most of my holiday there.’ There was no possibility of the troopship being diverted to Venice, or of any British soldier ever finding himself there, he was sure.

  ‘Ah, Venice,’ Colonel Walters said, to his alarm. ‘I was supposed to go there on my honey
moon, do you know. But the confounded Boer War started and I had to abandon the idea.’

  ‘Not to mention Mrs Walters, sir,’ Hobbs put in; he regarded himself as the regimental wit.

  ‘Oh, indeed. I may say that she was not at all amused.’ He paused reflectively, while his officers waited, also reflecting that Judith Walters had not appeared to have been amused since, either. ‘Tell me, Murdoch, is it as romantic as they say?’

  ‘Oh, indeed it is,’ Murdoch said enthusiastically, deciding that the outbreak of the Boer War had not after all been such a catastrophe.

  *

  From Malta, they made their way east, into warmer but no less boisterous weather as they approached Suez. With Italy behind them, Murdoch could get down to the real business of considering what he and his squadron were undertaking. Returning from furlough so soon before their departure, he had not had an opportunity to give the men any idea of what they might expect—he did not really know himself, apart from the horrendous details contained in the report.

  He had not even had the time to become properly acquainted with his new horse, a grey gelding named Buccaneer. Buccaneer appeared a powerful and well-trained mount, so far as he could gather from the few occasions he had been able to put him through his paces; but they did not know each other well enough to embark on a campaign which suggested that a good horse might be a lifesaver. So he spent much of every day in the hold, which had been converted into a stable, talking to the animal, while keeping an eye on the other mounts as well.

  ‘I thought we were done with Africa,’ Corporal Reynolds grumbled; Murdoch had secured his promotion as a reward for his faithful service in South Africa, although he remained his batman.

  ‘I think you’ll find Somalia isn’t the least like South Africa,’ Murdoch told him. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘That’s what’s bothering me, sir,’ Reynolds agreed. ‘Is it true those Somali women like to chop off a fellow’s dingdong?’

  ‘If they can get hold of it,’ Murdoch said. ‘Do bear that in mind, George.’