The Regiment

by Christopher Nicole

  They broke camp at dusk and moved out. Of course Sheikh Rahman saw what they were doing, but that was not important; the noise of the cavalry setting off hid the despatch of the rider back to the brigade—he had been instructed to walk his horse for-the first two miles then to go hell for leather—and the squadron was almost immediately between the sheikh and anyone to whom he might wish to send a message.

  Having taken the risk of advancing in the darkness, however, Murdoch was not taking any more chances that night. He sent up an advance guard of twelve men, under Squadron Sergeant Yeald, who was about the most experienced and reliable man he had. With them went Hassan to do the tracking. A quarter of a mile behind them was A Troop, guided by the shaded lantern Yeald carried; Murdoch himself was with Knox. Another quarter of a mile back was an intermediate party, again of twelve men, commanded by Squadron Sergeant-Major Hanley. A similar distance back was Peter Ramage’s B Troop, and then there was a rearguard of a last twelve men, commanded by Troop Sergeant Withers. Each group was in contact with the one behind them by the lanterns, which shone only in that one direction. And while between them they covered more than a mile of country, they were still close enough to lend instant support to all the others should it become necessary.

  In fact they encountered no one during the night, although the tracks of Mulein’s horse, which had now joined those of the main body, were simple to follow. At dawn they were approaching higher ground, and Murdoch called a halt for breakfast. The squadron closed up, sentries were posted, and the machine gun mounted, while Murdoch inspected the hills in front of them through his binoculars.

  ‘Rather like South Africa, sir,’ Yeald remarked.

  ‘Oh, those are definitely kopjes,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘How far do you think we are ahead of the brigade now, sergeant?’

  ‘Oh, must be forty miles, sir. Maybe more. They wouldn’t have marched through the night.’

  ‘Hm,’ Murdoch said. To march throughout the night, following the tracks from the attacked village, was exactly what he had requested Brigadier-General Hardie to do. But he had no means of knowing if the general had accepted his recommendation, or had dismissed it as impractically over-enthusiastic. Nor had he any means of finding out; if the brigade had not marched, they were now too far away to be contacted; if they had marched, he had specifically requested them not to attempt to contact him by heliograph until he sent the first message—he had no wish to alert the Mullah as to what he was doing.

  But as yet he had seen no sign of the Mullah’s army. Only the tracks, leading onwards into the maze of kopjes he remembered, and feared, so well, indicated that there was a large body of men in front of him. He could not halt now.

  ‘We’ll continue, gentlemen,’ he told the lieutenants and NCOs. ‘Mulein can’t be far ahead of us now. But, same order as before.’

  The squadron remounted and went on its way. Within an hour Yeald and his men had disappeared into a ravine between two of the hills, and Murdoch felt his heartbeat quicken. But no shots were heard, and a little while later A Troop debouched from the same ravine to find themselves in a long, wide valley, hemmed in by hills to either side, but open to the south-west for perhaps four miles. Yeald’s advance guard could easily be seen, proceeding slowly as Hassan followed the tracks. A Troop followed them, and within another half an hour, both the centre guard, B Troop, and the rearguard had all entered the valley.

  ‘Real Charge of the Light Brigade country,’ Tom Knox muttered. He was as keen a student of military history as Murdoch himself.

  ‘Ah, but we’re heavy cavalry,’ Murdoch said as cheerfully as he could. ‘And their charge at Balaclava was successful. Anyway,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘so far as I am aware the Mullah doesn’t have any cannon.’

  ‘Something’s up,’ Knox commented, reining his horse and holding up his arm to signal the troop to do the same. The jingling of harness ceased, and they watched a trooper from the advance party spurring back towards them.

  ‘Sergeant Yeald says to tell you, sir,’ he panted, ‘that the tracks we have been following break off and lead over there.’ He pointed due north, at the hills which rose rather sharply to their right, but were traversed by sufficient gullies and ravines to conceal a regiment of cavalry.

  ‘Hm,’ Murdoch said, and cantered forward to join Yeald and Hassan. ‘What about the main body?’

  ‘They have scattered every way, effendi,’ Hassan said. ‘I do not like it. It is my opinion that we should withdraw and wait for the brigade.’

  ‘Hm,’ Murdoch said again, and listened to three rifle shots. That was the agreed signal for trouble. He turned in his saddle; the shots had come from behind him, and now he watched the rearguard galloping towards B Troop, while behind them, the entry to the valley had become filled with mounted men.

  ‘Good God,’ Knox muttered. ‘There must be five hundred of them.’

  ‘Sound recall, bugler,’ Murdoch said.

  The boy put his trumpet to his lips, and spluttered.

  ‘Spit, boy, spit,’ Yeald commanded.

  A moment later the notes echoed across the valley, and B Troop broke into a canter.

  ‘Now,’ Murdoch said. ‘We’ll have to...’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Yeald said, the faintest of tremors in his voice.

  Murdoch turned back to face west. The exit from the valley was also filled with several hundred men.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Knox said. He was looking neither east nor west, but north, where another good five hundred horsemen were descending from the high ground.

  ‘We’ve uncovered the Mullah’s whole bloody army, sir,’ Yeald said.

  Murdoch knew what he would see as he turned to the south: more horsemen descending from the hills.

  B Troop had now come up, as well as the centre guard. ‘Do we form a perimeter, sir?’ Sergeant-Major Hanley asked. ‘Unlimber the Hotchkiss?’

  ‘This is bloody Custer country now,’ Knox growled.

  ‘No, sergeant-major, I don’t think that would do,’ Murdoch said. ‘We can probably hold them back until the brigade comes up, but they would have the option of with-drawing whenever they felt like it.’ He did not tell them he had no idea if the brigade was coming up.

  ‘Then what do we do?’ Ramage asked, his voice also beginning to tremble; there could be no doubt that they were outnumbered by more than ten to one.

  Murdoch used his glasses, first of all to inspect the slowly advancing horsemen, who seemed to be waiting to see what the white men were going to do, and then to inspect the hills and especially the western exit to the valley. Strangely, he was not afraid, although he was aware of the vigorous pumping of the blood through his arteries; he was more interested in the problem which faced him—how to hold the Mullah here until the brigade arrived.

  ‘There,’ he said.

  The western exit to the valley appeared to be somewhat narrower than the eastern. And half-way up the northern slope which bordered the exit, he picked out a cluster of trees and bushes emerging from what seemed to be a slight dip in the hillside. There would be water, he was certain—according to what he had been taught since arriving in Somalia—even if they had to dig for it. And it suggested a sound defensive position, which could be held; if the Mullah wished to leave, he would have to take his army beneath the muzzles of the squadron’s rifles and machine gun, while if he chose to leave by the eastern exit, he would be marching in the direction of the approaching brigade. In other words, far from having followed Mulein into the trap she had laid, he had the opportunity to entrap the Mullah and force him into that pitched battle he so urgently needed to avoid—always supposing the brigade was actually marching with all speed in this direction.

  ‘We’ll make for that gully,’ he said. ‘And form a defensive perimeter up there.’

  With respect, sir,’ Hanley protested, ‘there must be a thousand of those devils between us and the pass.’

  Murdoch levelled his glasses at the mass of horsemen who were blocking the w
estern exit, and were now walking their horses slowly forward. ‘At least a thousand,’ he agreed.

  ‘They won’t let us pass.’

  ‘They will, you know, if we charge them. There were fifteen thousand Baluchis outside Hyderabad in 1843, and only four hundred troopers. We have much better odds here.’

  They gazed at him.

  ‘We’d be going the wrong way, sir,’ Tom Knox ventured to point out. ‘If we’re going to charge anywhere, shouldn’t it be back towards the Brigade?’

  ‘That is exactly where we do not wish to go, Mr Knox,’ Murdoch reminded him. We want the brigade to come to us. Signal the men to close up,’ he commanded.

  The troops came closer, until they formed a cluster in the centre of the valley—still watched by the Somalis, who had now ceased advancing altogether, although the men to each side were inclining towards the rear, to join those blocking the eastern exit; they had no inkling that the British might go the other way.

  ‘Join me,’ Murdoch shouted. He drew his sword and pointed it at the sky; with an enormous rasp, the other hundred and seventy swords left their scabbards. ‘“May the great God of battle, who has guided the fate of this famous regiment on many a hard-fought field, and never failed to lead it to distinction, grant that on this day, faced as we are with a host of enemies of our King and our country, every man will do his duty, so that should we fail in our ordained task, it will yet be said of us, they were the Royal Western Dragoon Guards, who fought and died according to the ancient valour of their regiment and their blood.”’

  The words, spoken by every man of the squadron, rippled across the valley like a growl of thunder, and when Murdoch had finished, the Amen seemed to hang on the still air.

  Murdoch wheeled his horse to face his men. ‘Mr Knox, Mr Ramage, command your men to form two lines. Mr Knox, A Troop will compose the first line, Mr Ramage, B Troop will follow Bugler Andrews, Corporal Reynolds, you will ride behind me. Sergeant-Major Hanley, Sergeant Yeald, you will flank Reynolds and Andrews. Should I fail, Mr Knox will take command. Hassan, you ride between Andrews and Reynolds.’

  The guide was shivering with fright.

  The horses milled about and dust rose into the air, partially concealing their intention. As it cleared, it could be seen that the two troops had formed a double rank, each presenting a solid mass of some eighty horsemen. Now the Somalis realised what they were about to attempt; behind them the kettle drums started to beat and the cymbals to clash.

  Murdoch rose in his stirrups and looked over his command. ‘Squadron will use swords,’ he ordered. ‘Our objective is that tree-lined gully behind and to the left of those people over there.’ He settled himself in his saddle, checked the chinstrap for his topee, made sure the sword cord was looped round his wrist, then pointed at the Somali horsemen. ‘“Gentlemen,”’ he called, ‘“there is your enemy.”’ He lowered his voice. ‘Bugler,’ he commanded. ‘Sound the charge!’

  *

  The notes of the bugle spread across the valley and echoed back from the rock walls to either side. The hundred and seventy men of Mackinder’s Squadron, Royal Western Dragoon Guards, walked their horses forward, hooves sounding clearly on the sun-dried earth. Then Murdoch touched Buccaneer with his heel and moved into a trot. The squadron followed, harnesses jingling. Murdoch could still feel the blood pounding in his temples as he gazed at the dark mass in front of him, still fluffing about, still unable to believe that they were to be charged at such great odds; naturally they could know nothing of the history of the Royal Westerns.

  He resisted the temptation to turn his head to see what the rest of the Mullah’s forces might be attempting; he concentrated on those in front and beyond the gully which would provide him with a natural fortress. The drumming of hooves told him that the squadron was where it should be, at his heels. Now he quickened his pace again, from a trot to a canter; the men in front of him were only about half a mile distant. They had begun to fire—rifles or muskets, he supposed. He could see the puffs of smoke, but they did not appear to be doing any damage. They were also trying to form a line, but were not moving at any speed.

  Four hundred yards, and he urged Buccaneer into a gallop. Now the whole valley was filled with sound, the drumming of hooves, the banging of the drums, the clashing of the cymbals and the shrill cries of the Somalis quite overpowering the shouts of the dragoons and the snorting of their horses. Murdoch’s sword arm was extended, his wrist turned and locked, his thumb firmly embedded in its grip. The Somalis began to jostle about; some of them urged their horses forward to meet this small khaki-clad wedge, but more were pulling to either side, and some were retreating.

  He could see their faces now, hooked noses and flashing teeth beneath their burnouses, shrouded in their beards and moustaches. One of them levelled his musket and fired at close range—directly at him, Murdoch was sure—but he felt and heard nothing. Then he was smashing into their midst. The man who had fired the musket took his sword point in the face. The jar travelled up Murdoch’s arm and nearly unseated him, but the man had disappeared, and so had his mount, shoulder-charged by the careering Buccaneer. Murdoch swung the sword to his right and knew from the fresh jar that he had hit someone else, then he was cannoned into from the left and felt a sear of pain across his shoulder, but Buccaneer miraculously kept his footing and hardly lost speed, and the assailant fell behind them. Another muscle-jarring swing of the sword was accompanied by a blow on the head which made him see stars, but then he was through and galloping towards the now exposed exit of the valley, using the rein to incline Buccaneer to the right and up the first of the slope to the gully; the horse gasped and panted, but was still game.

  Having gained the slope, Murdoch sheathed his sword, with some difficulty, as his right shoulder was a mass of muscular pain, while his left was still burning, and dragged on the reins with both hands, bringing Buccaneer to a halt, while his men flooded past him, yelling and cheering, waving their bloodstained swords.

  ‘To the gully,’ he shouted. ‘Sergeant-Major Hanley, as you get there, unlimber the gun. To the gully.’

  The squadron surged up the slope, all except for Hassan, who kept on going, straight through the western exit and out on to the plain beyond; he had clearly had enough of the Royal Westerns. Murdoch followed the last of his troopers to safety. The Somalis had scattered to left and right, while the remainder of the Mullah’s army, having witnessed the charge in amazement, were only slowly approaching. The dragoons urged their exhausted horses up the now steepening incline, and threw themselves under cover, while the Hotchkiss gun was set up to cover the approach.

  ‘Hold your fire until they come at us,’ Murdoch commanded. ‘Sergeant-major, I want a squad to dig behind those bushes back there; we may need water. Lieutenant Ramage, form your men to the right. Lieutenant Knox... He checked. Tom Knox was not to be seen.

  *

  The troop sergeants held a roll-call, while he put Hanley in command of A Troop and left the water patrol to Yeald. In fact, casualties had been amazingly light; there were only six men missing, and both Reynolds and Bugler Andrews had followed him through the enemy cavalry without receiving a scratch. Reynolds wanted to fuss over his wounded shoulder, but he shrugged him away—because one of the missing men was Knox.

  He could only pray that they had all been killed instantly, but he got out his binoculars and crawled on to the outer escarpment of the gully to study the valley where they had ridden. The actual clash with the Somalis had taken place only about half a mile from their new position, and he could make out the heaps of white cloth, some lying still, some moving painfully and slowly, which denoted dead and wounded Somalis. Now he saw the other horsemen, scattered by the impetuosity of the British charge, returning to the succour of their wounded, the collection of their dead. And the torment of their enemies? He could see two heaps of khaki. Then he picked out a third, trying to move. But as he watched he saw that three of the Arabs had surrounded the fallen man and were dragging him awa
y. The trooper was clearly badly wounded; his tunic was a mass of blood and he was unable to resist them. The temptation to open fire was enormous. But they were at extreme range, and he would almost certainly kill his own man while killing the Somalis. Would that not be better? He chewed his lip in indecision, while sweat trickled down his cheeks, and his shoulders seemed to redouble their pain.

  Then he saw Knox. The lieutenant did not appear to have been wounded at all, only unhorsed and dazed by his fall. He was getting up and fumbling for his revolver; he had lost his sword. But he too was now surrounded by Somalis, and after a brief scuffle led away—not very far, Murdoch surmised, for they had gathered on the right-hand side of the valley, where there was some shelter. The main body remained beyond range.

  ‘You’re wounded,’ Peter Ramage said. ‘Your left shoulder is all bloody.’

  ‘A scratch,’ Murdoch told him, still looking through his glasses at the rocks and bushes behind which Knox had been dragged. His belly felt curiously light at the thought of what his friend must be feeling.

  ‘Well, what about your head?’

  ‘My head?’ Murdoch released the chinstrap and took off his pith helmet, the top was completely bashed in. ‘Good Lord! I never felt that.’

  ‘There’s no blood,’ Ramage said.

  ‘So there’s nothing the matter with me. How about everyone else?’

  ‘We’ve twenty wounded, but only a couple seriously. And six missing. Have you spotted Tommy?’

  ‘Yes,’ Murdoch said grimly. ‘He’s alive.’

  Ramage swallowed and licked his lips as he gazed at his captain.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Sergeant Yeald. ‘I think I have contact with the brigade.’

  ‘Have you?’ Murdoch scrambled to his feet incredulously. ‘How on earth...’ He looked at the hills ringing the valley and effectively shutting it off from the plain beyond, he would have thought.