Lieutenant Wilson swallowed. He was staring at the most famous episode in the entire history of the Royal Western Dragoons. The picture depicted an enormous number of turbaned warriors, some on horseback, most on foot, milling about a sunbaked Indian plain beneath a brilliantly blue sky, and being charged by about four hundred helmeted horsemen, armed with swords and wearing sky-blue jackets, weapons pointed in front of them as they followed their commander into what seemed certain death.
‘Well?’ Mackinder demanded.
Wilson swallowed again. ‘That was April 1843, sir,’ he said. ‘Just after the Battle of Hyderabad, when Sir George Napier completed the conquest of Sind. Two squadrons of the Royal Westerns were detailed to carry out a reconnaissance towards the Baluchi position. Their commanding officer was Major Ian Mackinder...’ He paused to glance at the man beside him, but Mackinder’s face was impassive. ‘A Scottish officer who had only recently been seconded to the regiment, but was now in command owing to the illness of the lieutenant-colonel. The regiment was led into a trap by their guides, and found itself surrounded by fifteen thousand Baluchis, who summoned Major Mackinder to surrender.’ Again he paused, having run out of breath.
‘Well?’ Colonel Mackinder demanded.
‘Major Mackinder refused to surrender,’ Wilson went on. ‘Instead, he led his men in prayer, and then drew his sword and gave the order to charge. The Baluchis broke and fled, and Major Mackinder took his men to safety with the loss of but thirty casualties.’
‘Now, do you feel capable of repeating that prayer?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Wilson said, and drew a long breath. ‘“May the great—”’
‘Not now, boy,’ his colonel admonished. ‘When the time comes. Just remember it. I think the old man is here.’
The sergeant-major had appeared in the doorway and was signalling urgently. Mackinder, followed by his adjutant and the regimental majors, hurried across as several men entered the room. They all wore the sky-blue jackets of the Westerns, and three of them looked remarkably alike, except for differences in ages. They also looked remarkably like Lieutenant-Colonel Mackinder, who was now greeting them. Wilson knew that they were in fact all Mackinders; with one or two very brief exceptions, the Royal Western Dragoons had always had a Mackinder on their roster since that fateful day in 1843, and the three men who had just arrived, father, son, and grandson, were all past lieutenant-colonels.
Like everyone else in the room, Wilson had eyes only for the man in the centre of the group; because if Major Ian Mackinder had been the founder of a legend, this man, his great-grandson, was the most famous soldier ever to wear the sky-blue jacket of the regiment. It was not merely his exalted rank—Lieutenant-General (retired) Sir Murdoch Mackinder, VC, KCMG, DSO and bar, Légion d’honneur, followed by a host of other honours and decorations which were all displayed upon his breast tonight—which made him memorable; nor even the fact that he was still alive, at the age of one hundred and two, and still stood erect, and moved firmly, if slowly, smiling a greeting here, nodding another there, clearly remembering many of the faces. What had made him into an immortal was the legend of his life, the manner in which he had gained all those decorations. And now, having handed over his helmet to a waiting orderly to be placed beside the others on the table along the wall, he was coming closer. Wilson braced himself and stood to attention, trying to keep himself from shaking with apprehension.
Murdoch Mackinder’s own great-grandson, the lieutenant-colonel, stood beside the famous old man. ‘May I present Second Lieutenant Wilson, sir,’ he said. ‘Just joined.’
Wilson gazed at a tall, very spare man, clean shaven and not, at the moment, anyway, wearing glasses—nor was it easy to suppose that the cool blue eyes ever needed them. His features had the family clipped regularity, which tended again to create an impression of coolness, perhaps even aloofness, but he was smiling as he extended his hand. ‘The new sub,’ he remarked. ‘Are you nervous, Mr Wilson?’
‘I...ah...yes, sir,’ Wilson said.
Murdoch Mackinder nodded. ‘If you weren’t, you’d have reason to worry. We were all nervous when we had to utter the prayer.’ The smile broadened. ‘I imagine even the first Ian Mackinder was nervous.’
‘Were you nervous, sir?’ Wilson could not believe his ears.
‘When I had to utter the prayer? My dear boy, I was shivering like a kitten,’ General Mackinder told him. ‘And many times afterwards, I can tell you. No nerves, no performance. Remember that.’ He turned to his great-grandson. ‘Well, Colonel Mackinder, shall we begin? Dr Crossfield says I have to be in bed by midnight.’
‘Of course, sir. Take your place, Wilson,’ Colonel Mackinder said, and escorted his great-grandfather, flanked by his father and grandfather, to the head of the table, where the old gentleman was seated exactly beneath the picture of the first Ian Mackinder’s charge. The other officers took their places, and the sergeant-major stood to attention at Wilson’s shoulder, at the foot of the longer centre arm, facing both Murdoch Mackinder and the picture, with the regimental standard in his right hand.
‘Gentlemen, the regimental prayer.’
Every officer stood to attention, and then, with a single movement, each drew his sword and pointed it at the ceiling. There were some seventy men present, and Lieutenant Wilson, gazing at the swords held aloft, his own amongst them, had a sudden concept that this was indeed a recreation of the scene on that hot and dusty Pakistani plain, a hundred and forty years before, when Ian Mackinder and his men had accepted the simple choice: victory, or death. ‘Mr Wilson, sir.’ The voice was quiet, as the room was absolutely still.
Lieutenant Wilson took the longest breath of his life. ‘“May the great God of battle,”’ he said, in a high, clear voice, “‘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 Queen 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.”’
There was a moment of silence, then Wilson remembered, and added, speaking quietly as he had been instructed, “Gentlemen, there is your enemy.” ‘
There was a burst of applause as the swords were sheathed with a scintillating rasp, and the orderlies moved forward to relieve the diners and stack the weapons against the wall. The assembly then sat down, but Murdoch Mackinder remained standing. ‘That was well said, Mr Wilson. Well said. The regiment is proud of you.’
There was another ripple of applause, and the old gentleman took his seat, while the waiters immediately began carrying in the meal.
‘When you said the prayer, Great-grandpa,’ Ian Mackinder wondered, ‘where was the dinner held?’
‘Oh, down in Bath, in the mess,’ Murdoch Mackinder replied. ‘It was a much smaller, more intimate affair in those days. Besides, we were under orders to sail for the Cape the next week.’
‘My God, to fight the Boers,’ Ian Mackinder said. ‘That seems...’ He checked himself.
Murdoch Mackinder smiled. ‘A long time ago? It was a long time ago. Different men, different weapons, different enemies. Perhaps a different concept of life. But the same regiment.’
‘I imagine these dinners take you back,’ his great-grandson ventured.
‘They do,’ Murdoch Mackinder agreed. ‘All of those eighty-four years.’ His eyes were misty as he looked into his wineglass.
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The Seeds of Power Page 33