‘Through that gap, sir,’ Yeald explained, pointing. Murdoch followed the direction indicated, and saw that the hills were not actually a solid mass, but were split up by various valleys and ravines, much lower than the surrounding peaks. And between two of the peaks, to the east, there was definitely a light flashing. If it was the brigadier, then he was letting his nerves get the better of his common sense—but it was still very reassuring to know he was there.
‘What is the message?’ he asked.
‘They just want to know where we are, sir. Or if we are anywhere.’
‘Well, set up your equipment and tell them. Tell them we have a large enemy force opposed to us here in the valley, and that we will try to keep them busy until they can get up. But speed is essential.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Yeald said, and got to work.
Murdoch returned to the perimeter and looked down.
There was a great deal of activity: horsemen galloping to and fro between the advanced party and the main body, tents being pitched and camp fires being lit.
‘They think they have us holed up here,’ Ramage suggested. ‘And all they have to do is wait.’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch agreed. Which seems to indicate they as yet have no idea the brigade is out there. Any joy with that water, sergeant?’
Troop Sergeant Connolly had taken over with the digging squad to free Yeald for the heliograph.
‘Not as yet, sir.’
‘Perhaps there isn’t any,’ Ramage said. ‘And the Mullah knows that.’
‘Perhaps,’ Murdoch said, wishing he would shut up. He wasn’t really worried about the water situation at the moment, but Ramage’s constant pessimistic chattering was indicative of a high degree of tension.
‘Begging your pardon, Captain Mackinder.’ Hanley had come across to join them. ‘What about those chaps?’
Murdoch swung his glasses to look in the direction indicated, east along the high ground beside the gully, where several Somalis could be seen, dismounted and clambering into the hills.
‘They mean to enfilade our position,’ Ramage said.
‘Yes. Well, as soon as they come within range, sergeant-major, give them a burst of machine-gun fire. Lieutenant Ramage, tell the men to go easy with their water bottles; we will have to stay here for a while.’ He looked at the sun, which was just climbing noon high. It was very hot. And there would be several hours of this before dusk. His fingers curled into fists. How casually they had joked about the Mullah’s women, never for one moment suspecting one of them might be captured. Even worse was the realisation that down there somewhere would be Mulein, who considered Tommy Knox to have insulted her.
Ramage was watching him anxiously. ‘There is nothing we can do, sir,’ he ventured.
Murdoch did not reply but continued to study the Somali camp through his binoculars. The advanced position was just within rifle range, he reckoned, but it would be difficult to be accurate. The main part of the Mullah’s army had remained in the valley itself; where they were certainly making themselves comfortable. They were about a mile away, and he estimated there could be five thousand men down there, with their dogs and their camels...and their women. And Tommy Knox.
His duty, he knew, was to stay here and make sure they did not go away. Leading another charge to attempt to rescue the six missing troopers would not only be a dereliction of duty, and a direct disobedience of orders, it would also be utterly impractical: the horses were too blown, and he would certainly lose at least another six men.
A shot rang out, and then another. The bullets whined into the gully and ricocheted from rocks, but without hitting anyone.
‘I’d say they are within range, sir,’ Hanley called.
‘Then spray that hillside, sergeant-major,’ Murdoch told him.
‘Yes, sir,’ Hanley acknowledged with pleasure, and a moment later the deadly chatter of the Hotchkiss gun filled the morning, one trooper firing while his mate fed the belt of cartridges into the chamber. Pieces of rock and clouds of dust flew from the area where the Somali marksmen had taken shelter, and two men came tumbling out of concealment to go rolling down the slope and lie still.
‘Cease fire,’ Murdoch commanded, and the remainder of the sniping party could be seen hastily scrambling back out of range.
‘That gave the bastards something to think about,’ Hanley said with satisfaction.
‘I wonder what they’ll try next,’ Ramage speculated.
As if in reply a scream drifted up the hillside. A piercing, agonised wail...and it had been uttered in English. ‘Damned bitch!’ it shrieked, through all eternity.
The squadron seemed to ripple, and Murdoch licked his lips.
‘You’d think they’d take them to the camp,’ Ramage muttered.
‘They wanted him close enough for us to hear, sir,’ Hanley pointed out. ‘That’s part of their game.’
Another wail mounted the hillside, but this time the words were unintelligible, although they could hear a babble of conversation and shouts of laughter from within the ravine where the advanced party was sheltering.
‘Can you see anything?’ Ramage asked, his voice trembling.
‘No. You have a look.’ Murdoch’s fingers were clammy with sweat. He turned away from the ledge and slid back down into the gully. That had not been Tom Knox’s voice, he was certain. There were two others still unaccounted for.
‘Lunch, sir,’ Reynolds said, bringing him two slices of tinned corned beef, the army’s emergency rations—bully beef, the soldiers called it—and two biscuits, together with a cup of water.
‘Do you really think I can eat anything?’ Murdoch demanded.
‘You have to, sir,’ Reynolds said seriously. ‘You’re in command. You cannot allow yourself to become weak.’
He had already become weak, Murdoch thought, as he made himself chew and swallow, or perhaps he had never been strong—else he would have commanded his men to fire while they had the chance, and kill their comrade as well as a few Somalis. He finished his meal and went to where Yeald was still catching the rays of the sun on his mirrors and sending them bouncing in Morse code across the hills. ‘Any reply from brigade, sergeant?’
‘Just come through, sir. The mounted infantry, the Lancashires, will be here by dusk, with four machine guns. The KAR will be up by midnight.’
Not much more than six hours, he thought. Soon enough to avenge, but not to save.
‘I reckon they’ve guessed what we’re up to, Captain Mackinder,’ Hanley called.
Murdoch returned to the perimeter and studied the main Somali camp. They had certainly seen the heliograph flashes; horsemen were being sent to the eastern exit of the valley to discover what was happening on the plain. ‘Tell your men to rest, sergeant-major, Mr Ramage,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a little while before they make a move.’
Not until their patrols come back, he thought. So there was nothing to do but wait, and watch the vultures hovering overhead, anxious to get down to where so much feasting awaited them if the human beings would just stop making so much noise...and listen to that noise, the continued babble of conversation, like a stream running through the valley, and then some more screams, fainter than before. At every whisper of torment the troopers grasped their rifles tighter, and those who had been pretending to sleep opened their eyes, and it seemed that their tunics became more darkly stained with sweat.
Murdoch watched the eastern exit, and about three in the afternoon saw the Somali patrols returning. He followed them right into the camp, where there was immediately a great hubbub.
‘Stand to,’ he said. ‘Quietly. If they are going to chance their arm, they will do it now.’
It appeared the Mullah was going to chance his arm; his scouts had obviously made contact with the brigade, and he now knew he had some three thousand disciplined soldiers breathing down his neck. Murdoch watched four rows of horsemen issuing from the camp, about seven hundred men, he estimated. They advanced slowly until they were just within range of
the gully, and there paused, while their commander walked his horse, a magnificent white stallion, up and down before them.
‘Do you think that’s the Mullah, sir?’ Ramage whispered.
‘I very much doubt it,’ Murdoch told him. ‘Here they come. Hold your fire,’ he bellowed as the men stirred.
The horsemen cantered to the slope, and then urged their horses upwards as fast as they could go. At the same time another several hundred men, who had advanced unseen through the rocks and the bushes, opened fire from the side. But their weapons and their cartridges were too poor to do any damage accept at very close quarters. Murdoch ignored them and concentrated on the charging horsemen. He waited until they were within five hundred yards before he gave the command to fire; he had no fears as to the outcome. Quite apart from the machine gun, each Lee-Metford had a magazine of five cartridges. The rifles were not automatic—as each bullet had to be rammed into the chamber—but the magazine could still be emptied in seven seconds.
The entire hillside seemed to explode as the squadron fired as one man, and then went on firing. Each trooper had selected his target, as Murdoch had taught them to do back at Bath, and their aim was gruesomely accurate. Men and horses pitched this way and that, cut to ribbons by the flying lead. The charge lasted barely a minute, and then the remnants of the Somali force were fleeing back down the hillside, leaving at least a hundred of their number, with a similar number of horses, dead or dying amidst the rocks. The screams of the horses was horrifying, but Murdoch could not help but feel a sense of elation, of revenge, even, for the poor devils who had just been tortured to death. The feeling was evidently shared by the entire squadron, as a burst of cheering broke from their ranks.
‘They’ll not try that again in a hurry,’ Sergeant-Major Hanley remarked.
Murdoch agreed with him. ‘Stand your men easy, sergeant-major, Lieutenant Ramage,’ he commanded. And indeed he stood himself easy for a few minutes; he was exhausted, his shoulders both remained extremely painful, the one dull and the other sharp, and his head was gonging from a combination of the heat and the blow he had received.
Another hour passed, in which he almost fell asleep, and then was awakened by an urgent summons from Peter Ramage. ‘Captain Mackinder, sir.’
Murdoch climbed back up on to the escarpment to be beside the lieutenant. Ramage had his binoculars focused on a point at the foot of the slope, and Murdoch did the same, catching his breath. Beneath them was Tommy Knox. He had been forced out of the ravine by four men, and was being held facing his comrades. He had been stripped naked, and his white body gleamed in the sun. There were bruises and even some bloodstains on his chest and shoulders. But he looked whole—at the moment.
‘Dragoons!’ The voice wailed up the hill. ‘Dragoons! Captain Mackinder! Can you hear me?’
‘No reply,’ Murdoch snapped.
‘For God’s sake,’ Knox shouted. ‘The Mullah invites you to surrender. He says there is no hope for you. There is no water where you are. For God’s sake, he will give you safe conduct out of the valley. In the name of God, reply to me.’
The squadron lay silent, but the men were stirring restlessly, and more than one hand slapped a rifle butt in anger. Ramage lowered his glasses. He and Knox had been even closer friends than Murdoch.
‘Please,’ Knox wailed. ‘Help me, Murdoch. If you do not, they will cut me up. For God’s sake...’
Murdoch watched his friend and the Somalis around him. They were staking Knox out on the ground, driving thick tree branches into the earth, to which his wrists and ankles were secured, reminding Murdoch of pictures he had seen of Aztec sacrificial victims waiting to be slit open and have their living hearts torn out.
‘Help me!’ Knox screamed. ‘For God’s sake, help me!’ Murdoch had to swallow hard before he could speak. ‘Sergeant-Major Hanley,’ he said, quietly.
‘Sir!’ The sergeant-major knelt beside him.
‘What do you think the range is to those men down there?’
Hanley squinted, and Murdoch gave him the glasses. Hanley looked and caught his breath. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ he muttered.
‘The range, sergeant-major.’
‘Ah…not less than eight hundred yards, sir. Could be more.’
That was about as far as a rifle could possible carry, with any accuracy.
‘Who is the best marksman in the squadron?’
‘Ah…Trooper Matheson, sir.’
‘Bring him here.’
Hanley hurried off, and Murdoch continued to watch Knox. His belly was light, and his genitals too, but his brain was clear. Tommy Knox was already dead. If he had succumbed to the terrible threat and attempted to lure his comrades to their destruction, that was neither here nor there. He could at least be spared an agonising and humiliating last hour.
Stones trickled beside him, and Sergeant-Major Hanley returned, accompanied by Trooper Matheson, a young man of only twenty-one, Murdoch remembered—the same age as Ramage and Knox—with no previous experience of action. His face was pale, and his hands were trembling.
‘Matheson,’ Murdoch said. ‘I want you to fire into those men down there.’
Matheson peered at them.
‘Now look through the glasses.’
Matheson obeyed. ‘Holy Mary Mother of God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, sir...’
Murdoch took the glasses back. The men had finished their work and withdrawn some distance, leaving Knox spreadeagled and waiting. And as he watched, three women came out to stand beside him. Women...Murdoch’s jaw clamped shut like a steel trap. Even at this distance he could recognise Mulein—she was not wearing her yashmak today. ‘Can you hit Mr Knox?’ he asked. ‘And the women as well. Hit them all.’
‘Eight hundred yards, boy,’ Hanley said. ‘That’s no distance to you.’
‘But, sir... Mr Knox...
‘Is going to die,’ Murdoch snapped, his voice harsh. ‘Those bitches are going to cut him before our eyes. Hit him, boy, and hit that damned bitch, too, and I swear I will get you a medal.’
Matheson licked his lips and looked at the sergeant-major, who nodded encouragingly. The boy nestled the rifle into his shoulder, peered down into the valley and wrapped his fingers around the trigger guard. Murdoch raised the glasses again and looked. Mulein was standing beside Knox, talking to him, stroking him, making him respond to her...she was surely a fiend in human form.
There was no sound from beside him, and he turned his head; Matheson could have been turned to stone.
‘What is the matter?’ Murdoch asked.
Matheson did not reply for a moment, then he gave a sob and his head drooped on to his rifle. ‘I can’t do it, sir,’ he wept. ‘I can’t shoot Mr Knox.’
Murdoch looked above the boy’s head at Hanley. The sergeant-major’s face was a picture of distress. ‘Mr Knox’s men are very fond of him, sir,’ he explained.
‘Is there no one else?’
‘No one as good as Matheson, sir. And with respect...I don’t think we want too many of the men to see what’s happening down there.’
Murdoch knew he was right; nerves were already strained to breaking point—his own amongst them. ‘All right, Matheson,’ he said. ‘You may stand down. Remain here for a while.’ He didn’t want him blurting out what he had seen, or been asked to do.
Matheson slid back down the reverse slope and sat there, a huddle of shattered nerves.
‘You any good with a rifle, Peter?’ Murdoch asked.
‘Me? Good God...shoot Tommy? I...I couldn’t hit him, anyway.’
And Murdoch knew he couldn’t either; he had never taken rifle shooting seriously enough. Nor dared he ask the sergeant-major. To have Hanley unable to carry out an order could mean the disintegration of his entire command. His head jerked as there was a scream, and he levelled his binoculars again. She had done something to him, because his body was jerking to and fro. But the blood was on his face. He thought she might have cut off the end of his nose.
‘Peter,’
he said in a low voice.’
Ramage had also been watching through his glasses; now he lowered them. His face was thick with sweat.
‘You understand the situation,’ Murdoch said. ‘Hardie should have the eastern exit blocked by dusk. The squadron must hold this position until then, blocking the Mullah’s escape route at all costs. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ramage said. ‘But...’
‘Just remember that it has to be done, Peter, by whoever happens to be in command. If I am hit, that command devolves upon you.’
Ramage realised what he had in mind. ‘But,’ he protested, ‘the orders...the risk...’
‘Damn the orders, and damn the risk. I don’t aim to get captured. Buccaneer has had a rest. It will take me no more than a minute to get down that slope, and maybe three back up. You will give me all the cover you can, without actually hitting me. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ramage said. And hesitated. ‘Why not let me go?’
Murdoch grinned at him savagely. ‘Do you really want to?’
‘Well...no. Do you?’
‘He’s my second in command,’ Murdoch reminded him.
When Corporal Reynolds was told to bring Buccaneer forward, he appeared with his own mount as well. Murdoch shook his head. ‘No, corporal.’
‘But, sir...
‘The job only requires one man. Why risk two?’ He checked his revolver to make sure it was fully loaded, loosened his sword in its scabbard and mounted. ‘All the cover you can give me, Lieutenant Ramage,’ he called. ‘On the way back up.’
He walked Buccaneer to the edge of the perimeter. Perhaps Knox was already dead, although he doubted that; Mulein, obviously aware that she was just beyond effective rifle range, would be in no hurry. He dared not let himself think about the coming five minutes. It would be only five minutes, at the end of which time he would have regained the squadron—or he would be dead; he had no other possibilities in mind.
He drew a long breath, urged Buccaneer through the waiting, silent troopers, and then sent him cantering down the slope. There was a shout and a shot from one of the nearby gullies, where the Somalis had maintained an advanced look-out position, but he was going too fast to be hit, and immediately there was a burst of fire as the squadron gave him cover to either side. Now he was half-way down the slope and amidst the shattered remains of the earlier attack; here a horse kicked or a dying man stirred. But Knox was now clearly visible only a few hundred yards away.
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