Mulein for the first time realised her danger. She and her two assistants turned to face him, their features twisting in hatred, Mulein’s more angrily than the others as she recognised him. Tommy Knox, bleeding from several wounds, writhed and twisted and moaned behind her—but he was still alive, and he was still whole. He could still even be rescued.
Murdoch rushed them at the gallop, now he had gained more level ground, only just aware that several men were approaching him on foot from the gully to his right. His interest was in the four people in front of him.
Now there were only two; the other women had fled with a shriek at his approach. Mulein stared at him for a moment, then she too gave a yell of pure hatred and turned away from him, to drive the long-bladed knife she carried deep into the left side of Knox’s groin, twisting it and drawing it across his flesh with all her strength, until she encountered sufficient bone to force the blade back out. She turned to glare at Murdoch again, while Knox gave a long wail of the purest agony and horror.
Murdoch drew his sword instead of his pistol. Mulein ran away from the man she had killed, but she was too late. Murdoch was immediately behind her, reaching down from his saddle to grasp her flying hair. He was tempted to take her prisoner and watch her hang, but she still carried her knife, and as she felt his grasp she twisted back, screaming curses in Somali, and attempted to cut at Buccaneer. Still holding her by the hair, Murdoch drove his sword right through her body until it protruded at the back. She uttered a dying wail almost as agonised as Knox’s, and slumped against the horse’s flank. Murdoch kicked his left leg from the stirrup, placed the boot on her shoulder and pushed her body down his blade as he might have removed meat from a skewer; she collapsed in a heap on the ground.
The death of Mulein had taken but a moment, and now he turned back to Knox. The lieutenant had literally been disembowelled, intestines and genitals hanging down from his left side suspended by mere slivers of skin, while his blood poured on to the ground. He would not survive such a wound, even if he would want to, but he would still die in agony.
Murdoch sheathed his bloody sword, drew his revolver and, as Knox raised his head in terrible supplication, shot him through the head.
*
Then it was time to take stock of his situation, which was grim in the extreme. His gallop, and Muelin’s attempt to escape, had carried him to the left of the men on foot, but they were all armed with some kind of firearm, and they were blocking his way back up the hill. Even if the squadron was blazing away with everything they had, most of their bullets were falling short. And now the Somali cavalry had gathered their wits, and Buccaneer was blown. He turned back to consider a charge through the men on foot, who oddly were not firing at him. Other mounted men emerged from every direction, rifles and muskets resting on their hips, staring at him. Like their compatriots, they were not shooting, and not shouting or chanting, while the noise of the drums, which had announced his descent from the hill, had also ceased; in their place was the great rustle of large numbers of men and horses.
Murdoch cocked his revolver. He had five bullets left, but he doubted he dared take the chance of shooting four of the Somalis before himself. So he turned the muzzle upwards, pointing at his own head, while he backed the panting Buccaneer away from Knox’s body. It was a simple matter of resolve now; at the first move from the Somalis, he would fire and end it all.
Strangely, the Somalis made no move. They remained still, gathered in a semi-circle round him, while the tension grew almost unbearable—and communicated itself up the hill, for the dragoons also ceased firing. Then there was the sound of more hooves, and a fresh party arrived from the camp in the valley, riding beneath the black flag and accompanied by two of the kettledrummers. The party halted behind the ring of warriors and engaged in a fairly hot dispute for several minutes more. Then the rank of men blocking Murdoch’s retreat parted and a single horseman came forward, to draw his rein at a distance of about thirty feet. He was fairly tall, Murdoch estimated, and strongly, if slightly, built. His saddle and bridle were richly decorated, as was the hilt of his scimitar, but his breeches and cloak were simple white, like those of his followers, although his boots were kid. His burnous was green, however, and secured with a band of cloth of gold round his forehead.
His face was aquiline, and solemn. There was harshness, in the wide, flat, slightly downturned mouth elongated by the drooping moustache, and in the dark eyes; the chin was hidden behind a straggling beard.
Murdoch felt his heartbeat quicken; he could not doubt who this was.
‘You charged at the head of the horsemen,’ said Muhammad ibn Abd Allah in surprisingly good English. ‘Are you their general?’
‘I am not a general,’ Murdoch replied. ‘But I am their commanding officer.’
‘That was a famous feat,’ the Mullah remarked. ‘My people will speak of it for many years to come. And now you have descended into the midst of my army to kill one of your own men. And one of my women. Have you no fear?’
‘I could not have one of my men tortured to death,’ Murdoch said. ‘It sickens me that your people should do such things, that you permit it. Those are not the acts of warriors, or of men who are guided by God.’
The Mullah stared at him for several seconds. ‘Are your people, then, guided by God, when they bring their smallpox and their tuberculosis to destroy my people? When their priests would rob my people of their ancient ways and turn them against the beliefs of their forefathers? Is a child dying of measles any less to be pitied than a man being robbed of his manhood before he dies?’ He pointed at Mulein’s body. ‘My women make sure that none of our enemies may enter heaven; for how may a man enter heaven without his manhood?’
‘That is a philosophy that ill becomes a leader of men,’ Murdoch told him.
The Mullah stared at him. ‘And you? Are you not desirous of entering heaven?’
‘In my philosophy, a man enters heaven by virtue of his behaviour towards other men,’ Murdoch declared. ‘I have no fear of facing that question, regardless of the condition of my body.’
Another long stare. Then the Mullah half-turned his horse to look up the slope. ‘Your men wish to block one end of the valley? It is the wrong end. Your home lies that way.’ He pointed to the east.
‘But yours lies that way,’ Murdoch said, pointing to the west.
‘And your foot soldiers are coming. My scouts have told me this. I must either fight them, or destroy you. Do you not realise this?’
‘My men are waiting for you to try,’ Murdoch told him. ‘Have you counted your dead from the last assault.?’
The Mullah’s lips parted in a grim smile. ‘You are a very brave man. Would they not surrender if I exposed you to them, stripped and about to be destroyed, screaming for mercy?’
‘No, they would not,’ Murdoch said. ‘Nor would I scream for mercy.’
The Mullah nodded. ‘I believe you. You are a very brave man. And a gallant one. The two words do not always mean the same. I give you your life, Englishman, at least for the time. Go back to your men and tell them that the Mullah means to destroy them if they attempt to prevent him leaving the valley. But if you will withdraw with them through the pass, we will not molest them. Go now.’
Murdoch hesitated. He was not sure he could believe what he had been told. But he would not escape under false pretences. ‘I will tell them to fight to the last man,’ he said. ‘So be it. Go.’
Still Murdoch hesitated, glancing at the men to either side.
‘You have the word of Muhammad ibn Abd Allah,’ he said. ‘I give it to you in the name of the Great Muhammad, who was my forefather. Go now, and prepare to die like the man you are. Or live, as my friend.’
Slowly Murdoch released the hammer on the revolver and holstered the weapon. He looked down at Knox’s body, but he had no desire to take it with him for burial, nor did he have any wish for his men to see it close to. He touched Buccaneer with his heel, saluted the mullah and walked his horse pas
t him. The Somalis parted to let him through, but not all of them agreed with their leader’s generosity—that could be discerned by the lowering glances, the clash of their swords as they loosed them in their scabbards, the restless stir of their horses as they kicked them with their heels. Then he was through, and urging Buccaneer up the slope towards the squadron’s position. He did not want to think until he had regained the safety of his men.
A burst of cheering rose from the gully as they saw their captain returning. Murdoch raised his arm to them. It was at that moment that a gigantic fist seemed to strike him between the shoulder blades.
10 – Bath, 1907
Murdoch’s world became one of shadows, uncertain images flickering to and fro; tremendous heat and yet immense cold as well; pain, which seemed to be trying to break its way out of his chest...and noise. He recognised rifle fire and machine-gun fire, and he thought he could recognise the drumming of hooves, but could not be sure.
Then hands touched his body, stripping him of his clothing. He had no doubt they were the Mullah’s women, and tried to fight them, apparently without success. He gritted his teeth to stop himself from crying out—as he had sworn he would stay silent, no matter what they did to him—but soon there was blessed oblivion.
He awoke to more shadows and more pain, but this time there was absolute quiet, except for the rumbling in his head. And an uneasy motion which made him jerk from left to right, each movement causing fresh agony. He wanted to touch himself, to find out if he was still whole, but could not move his arms. No doubt they had him spreadeagled, like poor Tommy Knox. But strangely, he could not feel the sun beating down on him.
He opened his eyes, and gazed at canvas above him. It seemed odd, as if he were in a tent, except that the tent was shuddering. He wished to turn his head to discover where he was, but could not move. Instead he heard an urgent whisper, and a moment later Dr Grayson was looking down at him. But that was impossible; Grayson had been with the Brigade.
‘By God,’ the doctor remarked. ‘Talk about bloody miracles!’
Murdoch spoke to him, asked him to explain what had happened, but the doctor did not seem to understand. ‘Don’t attempt to move, old man,’ he said. ‘Just rest.’
‘I am so thirsty,’ Murdoch tried to tell him, and this time the doctor might have heard him. An orderly knelt beside him, and something was held to his lips. It tasted foul, but it was wet; and a moment later he was unconscious again.
*
When he awoke he was being jolted again, and the pain was all but unbearable. The doctor nodded grimly as he watched the expressions on Murdoch’s face. ‘It’s this damned track and the damned wagon,’ he agreed. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. We must get you back to the coast as quickly as possible.’
Murdoch licked his lips. ‘The squadron...he whispered.
Grayson smiled. ‘The squadron is fine. And the better for knowing you are alive. Now rest.’ Another sedative was given to him, and he slept. But the next morning he felt stronger and was fed some broth by the orderly, who even propped his head up so that he could look out of the back of the ambulance wagon...at the entire brigade, plodding across the desert. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘You’ll have to ask Dr Grayson that, sir,’ the orderly said.
*
The doctor came to see him that afternoon, along with Peter Ramage, Jimmy Halstead, and Brigadier-General Hardie. ‘Only five minutes, now,’ Grayson warned. ‘He is still very weak. And under no circumstances must he become agitated.’
‘But he’s going to be all right?’ Ramage asked anxiously. ‘Providing he doesn’t contract a fever, yes. The sooner we get him on that boat, the better.’
‘Boat?’ Murdoch whispered. ‘What boat? To India?’
‘No, no, old man,’ Hardie said. ‘Back to England.’
‘To England? But...?’
‘You really are very badly wounded,’ Halstead explained. ‘We did not expect you to live.’
‘Live? Nonsense. Here I am, right as rain, virtually, after only twenty-four hours...’
‘Twelve days, old man,’ the brigadier told him.
‘Twelve days? But...’
Ramage took his hand and lifted it, so that he could look at it. It was difficult to grasp that such a collection of skin and bone belonged to him, or that it had ever grasped a sword.
‘Now he’s getting agitated,’ Grayson said. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I must ask you to leave.’
‘I’ll be more agitated if they don’t tell me what happened,’ Murdoch protested.
Grayson hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Then ask no questions, and listen. And brigadier, do be brief.’
‘Well...ah, yes. To be very brief, although you were shot through the right shoulder—quite smashed the blade, Grayson says—and nicked a lung into the bargain, not to mention a deep sword cut on the left shoulder and, we suspect, a touch of concussion from a blow on the head, you still managed to get your horse back up the hill to your men, who were soon after charged by the Somalis, but cut down so many of them with their fire that the enemy were forced to withdraw, and although the Lancashires were by then approaching the eastern exit to the valley, the Mullah seems to have decided that was his best chance of getting out. So they rushed us—I was with the Lancashires, and Jimmy, here, of course. Well, we formed square and took their charges.
‘It was a damned good show, if I say so myself, but things were getting a little bit tricky, with the KAR still far behind, when blow me, just as the fuzzies were regrouping for another charge, if Ramage here didn’t lead your squadron out of the valley in a counter-attack. That quite discomforted them. He’d had to leave you and the other wounded behind, of course, with just a handful of men to protect you, so as soon as the Somalis dispersed, we proceeded into .the valley and occupied it. Then they thought they had us trapped, and there was a great to-doing and beating of drums, but by dawn the KAR had come up, and that was that. They were again caught between the two forces, and this time they had had enough. We maintained our position for three days, wondering if they’d come back, but they were gone for good.’
‘What happened to the Mullah?’ Murdoch asked.
‘Well, I’m afraid he got away. But we gave him one hell of a bloody nose. He’ll not be back for a while.’
‘I think he will,’ Murdoch said thoughtfully. ‘He struck me as being a singularly determined man. And yet...for all his barbarity, I put him down as an honourable man, too, according to his principles. But then, to shoot me in the back after having given me safe conduct...’
‘Ah, well, he didn’t, actually. It was one of his men, who didn’t agree with letting you go. In fact, before withdrawing, he sent a message to my camp, under a flag of truce, expressing his regrets for what happened and hoping you would survive. He said the man who had shot you had been executed.’
‘Ah,’ Murdoch said. He was strangely glad the Mullah had not betrayed him.
‘He also referred to your courage and determination,’ Hardie went on, ‘and in fact Ramage here has been telling me about how you attempted to rescue poor Knox. You do realise that was entirely against orders? In fact, it was a direct dereliction of duty to abandon your men.’
Grayson coughed warningly.
‘I had my men under control at all times, sir,’ Murdoch said. ‘My intention, in descending the hill, was to negotiate with the Mullah. It was a question of wasting as much time as possible, don’t you see?’
Hardie gazed at him for several seconds, then smiled. ‘Indeed I see. You are to be congratulated, Captain Mackinder. Both your charge, and your decision to seal off the exit of the valley and force the Mullah to accept battle on our terms, were splendid efforts. I intend to give you full credit in my despatches.’
Now, gentlemen,’ Grayson said. ‘You simply must leave Captain Mackinder to rest.’
*
If he found it difficult to grasp that he had apparently lost twelve days out of his life, Murdoch had
to accept the fact that he was terribly weak. The sight of himself in a mirror confirmed the evidence of his hand, and he seemed to possess absolutely no strength in any part of his body. It was all he could do to move his fingers, even by the time the brigade regained Berbera. Reynolds, who had been allowed to commence serving him again, had to feed him and wash him and shave him.
Reynolds reassured him that the squadron had lost very few men, that they were enormously proud of their captain, that Buccaneer was fit and well, and that Peter Ramage, brevet captain until a replacement could be obtained from either India or England, was proving excellent at his job. Ramage himself came to the hospital to report every evening, to discuss the various problems which had arisen during the day and to bring him bits of gossip. He was often accompanied by some of the ladies of Berbera, all anxious to see the hero, as it appeared he was once again.
But Dr Grayson was adamant that he should be sent home, together with the other half-dozen seriously wounded men. He would not be fit for duty again for several months, and although he was making a remarkable recovery, thanks to his immensely strong constitution, there was always the risk of his contracting fever while in such a weak state—and the risk was greater now that the monsoon had finally arrived, bringing constant rain, and constant mosquitoes, too.
‘I seem to spend half my bloody life in bed,’ Murdoch grumbled, but he knew the doctor was right; he was just a liability, lying on his back in hospital in Berbera. Nor did he have any real desire to remain, if he could not command the squadron. Somaliland was a place of too many memories, all of them nightmarish, as he kept seeing poor Knox’s body, Mulein’s face...both of them had been buried in the valley, along with the other dead, the strangest of eternal bedfellows.
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