by Wilbur Smith
Fresh squadrons streamed out from the rocks to swell their depleted ranks. They massed, shouted to God, and came again, tearing across the trampled field where so many of their comrades already lay. Charging in to break the British square.
But a British square does not break. The sergeants called the timing of those regular rolling volleys. The barrels or the Nordenfelt machine-guns began to glow like horseshoes in the blacksmith’s forge.
Osman Atalan had told Salida, “It is necessary to feed them corpses to stop up their mouths.”
The Nordenfelts gorged on human flesh, choked on it and one after another jammed. As their staccato chatter ceased so the Dervish cavalry pressed closer, right on to the thicket of bright bayonets. Still the volleys crashed into them. They struggled forward and were chopped down, until even their courage and resolve were exhausted. At last they shrank away and rode back to the cliffs.
Salida looked down on the unbroken square from the heights. “These are not men,” he said, ‘they are jinn. How does a man kill a devil?”
“With courage and the sword,” replied Rufaar, his eldest surviving son. Two other sons older than him had been killed in raids and tribal warfare, and one had died in a feud over a woman. That death was still to be avenged.
Rufaar was thirty-three, a child of the warrior blood. With his own sword he had killed fifty men and more. He was as his father had been at the same age: his ferocity was unquenchable. Three of his younger brothers stood behind him. They were of the same brood, and in their veins also Salida’s blood ran true.
“Let me lead the next charge, revered father,” Rufaar pleaded. “Let me shatter these pig-eaters. Let me cauterize this festering sore in the heart of Islam.”
Salida looked upon him, and he was pleasing to a father’s eye. “Nay!” He shook his head. The single word of denial cut deeper than any enemy blade ever had. Rufaar winced with the pain of it. He went down on one knee and kissed his father’s dusty foot. “I ask no other boon but this. Let me lead the charge.”
“Nay!” Salida denied him a second time, and Rufaar’s expression darkened. “I will not let you lead, but you may ride at my right hand.” Rufaar’s face cleared. He jumped to his feet and embraced his sire.
“What of us?” His other three sons joined the chorus. “What of us, beloved father?”
“You puppies may ride behind us.” Salida glowered at them to hide his affection. “Perchance Rufaar and I may throw you some scraps from the feast. Now fetch my camel.”
tret cher-bearer!” The call came from a half-dozen points around the outer wall of the square, where troopers had been hit by random Dervish fire. Quickly the wounded were carried into the centre and the gaps were closed. The doctors operated amid the dust and flies, sleeves rolled to the elbow, blood clotting swiftly in the heat.
The wounded who could still stand came back in their bandages to take their places in the square once more.
“Water-boys!” The shout went around the little square. The boys scurried about with the skins and spilled water into the empty felt-covered bottles.
“Ammunition here!” The quartermasters moved along the sides of the square, doling out the cardboard packets.
The gunners struggled to clear the blockages of the machine-guns. They splashed precious water over the barrels to cool them. It boiled off in clouds of hissing steam, and the metal crackled and pinged. But the actions were locked solidly, and though they hammered and heaved they would not budge.
Suddenly in the midst of all this frantic activity the bugle rang out again. “Stand to!” shouted the sergeants.
“They are coming back.” The Dervish cavalry rode out from the fastness of the hills. Like a great wave building up beyond the surf, they lined up again along the foot of the hills, facing the square.
“There is your enemy.” Penrod murmured to Yakub. The red banner waved in the centre of the line, carried by two Dervish striplings.
“Yes.” Yakub nodded. “That is Salida in the blue turban. The mangy jackal beside him is his son, Rufaar. I must kill him also. Those are some of his other brats carrying his flag. There will be no honour in killing them, no more than popping fleas between the fingernails, but it must be done.”
“Then we still have much work to do.” Penrod smiled as he broke open another paper box of cartridges and filled the loops of his bandolier.
“Salida is a clever old jackal,” Yakub murmured. “By the sweet breath of the Prophet, he learns quickly. He saw how we broke their first charges. Look! He has hardened his centre.”
Penrod saw what he meant. Salida had changed his formation. His line was not evenly distributed. The flanks were only two ranks deep, but in his centre Salida had formed a hammer, a solid knot of six closely packed ranks.
On the other side of the square General Sir Herbert Stewart studied the emir through the lens. “He appears very old and frail.”
“He is old, but not frail, sir.” Hardinge assured him. “With only fifty men, he led the charge that broke up Valentine Baker’s Egyptians at Suakin. That was less than two years ago. The old dog still has teeth.” “Then we shall have to draw them for him,” Stewart murmured. “Here he comes, sir.” “Here he comes indeed,” Stewart agreed.
The Dervish ranks rolled forward, the horses trotting and the camels pacing steadily, the men upon their backs brandishing their weapons and chanting their war cries. The dust storm trailed behind them. They crossed the half-way line, and broke into a canter. The lines bunched up like a clenching fist. Ahead the ground was littered with their own dead. They lay thickly as cherry blossom beneath the windblown trees of an orchard. Their harlequin jib has bore fresher, darker stains than the decorative patches, and the blue flies rose in a cloud as the thunder of the charge shook the earth. The hoofs of the front rank trampled the corpses, scattering the bloody heaps into fresh confusion, and they came on without check.
In the centre Salida leant forward in the saddle of his grey camel. His rifle was still in its boot beneath his knee, but he handled the heavy broadsword as lightly as if it were a toy. He shouted no war cry, reserving his scant breath for the main business. His expression was ecstatic; the rheum from his bloodshot eyes ran down his cheeks into his silver-grey beard. He was an obvious target for the rifles that lay ahead. The first volley crashed into them, and men and animals were shot down. But Salida and his sons rode on untouched. Men pushed forward from the rear ranks to fill the gaps, and they were just in time to receive the next volley, and the next. But Salida rode on.
On the left flank a Nordenfelt machine-gun opened up, slicing through the front of the Dervish charge with bullets. Then, almost immediately, it jammed again -and fell silent. But the Martini-Henrys crashed out in unison, keeping their terrible unhurried beat. Camels bellowed as they were hit and went down. Horses plunged, reared and fell backwards, crushing their riders. But in Salida’s centre new men rode forward, keeping up the impetus of the charge. Salida reached the point twenty feet in front of the wall of the square where each of the previous charges had failed and floundered. Rufaar’s knee touched his own, his other sons backed him almost as closely. Although three ranks of the Dervish centre had been shot away, brave men still poured forward to give the hammer weight as it swung towards the frail wall of the square.
“This time we will break these dogs.” Rufaar laughed.
But the British line never breaks. Now it gave a little, as a blade of Damascus steel will bend, but it did not shatter. A wave striking the solid coral reef, they washed over the front rank. Khaki-clad figures fell under the swinging blades, and the Dervish fired down into them from the backs of the camels. But gradually Salida’s hammer lost its momentum. It slowed and stalled and at last spent its weight and fury against the second rank of the little square. The big men in sweat-soaked khaki tunics held them, then hurled them back.
The Dervish cavalry turned and streamed away towards the cliffs.
Salida was reeling on the saddle. A bayonet thrust ha
d gone in deep above his hip bone. He might have fallen, but Rufaar reached across and, with one arm around his shoulders, steadied him and led him back to the shelter of the wadi. “You are sore wounded, Father.” He tried to lift him to earth.
“The battle has only just begun.” Salida struck away his son’s hands. “Help me bind up this little cut, then we will ride back and finish the task that God and the Mahdi have set us.”
With his own long blue turban they bound up the old man’s wound, so tightly that the flow of blood was stopped; and the bandages stiffened his back so that he could sit tall in the saddle once again.
“Start the drums,” said Salida. “Sound the ombeya. We are going back.”
Osman Atalan rode up on Sweet Water, Hulu Mayya. His Beja division had been waiting in reserve, ready to ride in and exploit when Salida and his Jaalin forced the breach. “Revered and warlike Emir, you have done more than any man before you. Now let me take in my Beja to finish the work you have begun so well.”
“I will force the opening,” Salida told him firmly. “You can follow after me, as we agreed.”
Osman looked into that haughty face, and saw that there was no merit in argument. If they delayed here another minute the day was lost. The British wall had almost broken. If they struck again in the same place before it could recover, perhaps they could carry it away.
“Ride then, noble Emir. I will follow close behind you.”
The entire Dervish army, two full divisions, poured out from the hills and advanced upon the little cluster of men on the open plain. In the van rode the emaciated figure in a bloody jibba, bareheaded, his grey hair covering his shoulders. His eyes glittered feverishly, like those of a saint or a madman.
Gentlemen,” Stewart addressed his staff, ‘we will move our station across to meet these fine fellows. I had not expected them to pound away at our rear wall like this. However, it seems that they are coming back for more of the same.”
They moved off in a group, just as Hardinge rode up to report. “The Dervish did some damage with that last charge, sir. We suffered fifty-five casualties all told. Three officers killed Elliot, Cartwright and Johnson. Another two were wounded.” “Ammunition?”
“Still in good supply, but all four of the Nordenfelts are out of action.” “Damned rubbish. I asked for Gatlings. What about the water?” “Running low, sir. We must reach the wells before nightfall.” “That is my intention.” Stewart pointed at the massed Dervish cavalry, drawn up along the foot of the hills. “It looks as though they are about to attack with everything they have. A last desperate throw of the dice. I want you to pass the order to the three other walls to have the quarter columns standing in reserve. Just in case these fellows get inside.” “Oh, they’ll never get in, sir.”
“Of course they won’t, but see to the quarter columns nevertheless.” During the battle the Dervish had hammered away at the northern wall of the square. The men in the other three walls had received only the very first charge. Since then they had taken little part. They were restless and frustrated. Now, ia the face of this new threat, the sergeants strode down the ranks detailing the quarter columns. If the enemy broke one wall, the square must not be allowed to collapse in upon itself. The other three walls must stand firm, while every fourth man, the quarter columns, rushed to stop the gap and shore up the broken wall. Before they were ready the war drums began their frenetic rhythm, and the ombeyas brayed and blared. The Dervish cavalry rolled forward yet again.
With no troops under his direct command Penrod had time enough to squint up at the height of the sun through slitted lids. It’s after noon, he thought, amazed. We have been in play for three hours and more.
Beside him Yakub was fretting: “If Salida does not come to me, someone else will kill him first.”
“That will never do, gentle Yakub.” Penrod lifted his helmet, swabbed his brow with his kerchief and settled the helmet again at a rakish angle. Then he looked ahead as the rumble of hoofs and the babble of
Arab voices swelled into the deafening overture of battle. They swept up to the threshold of the square.
“First rank, rolling volleys. Fire.” The sergeants began their chant and at regular intervals the massed gunfire thundered out. The ranks of cavalry shuddered and shook as the volleys raked them, and their advance slowed under the dreadful punishment, but they came on and on, struggling over the last few yards until they struck the wall for the second time. Like raging bulls the two sides locked horns, swayed and pushed, thrust and hacked.
The British gave a little, then heaved themselves back. The white soldiers were adept with the bayonet. These weapons were longer reaching and quicker to recover than the swinging broadswords. For the second time that day Salida’s division began to crumple. The soldiers plied the bayonets at close quarters, and some went down under the heavy crusader blades, but the rest tightened their grip and the Dervish gave ground more rapidly.
Then Osman Atalan rode in at the head of his fresh reserves. He came up behind Salida, and threw his full weight into the balance. His Beja were an avalanche and nothing could stand before them.
“They are in!” Along the British ranks a terrible shout went up. The unthinkable had happened. A British square had broken. The Dervish poured in exultantly. They drove back the khaki line and chaos descended on the dense maul and ruck of struggling men. Isolated British soldiers dropped and died under the Dervish blades, and were trampled beneath the hoofs.
“There is but one God!” the aggagiers shouted, as they killed and killed again.
The troopers of the shattered north wall were swiftly broken up into tiny groups of three and four men under the weight of Osman Atalan’s aggagiers. As they were pushed back, Penrod ran forward to meet them, and gathered some of the strays to his own command. “Form on me, lads. Back to back, shoulder to shoulder,” he shouted.
They recognized his authority and presence, and fought their way to him. As they came together they hardened into a cohesive whole, a prickly hedgehog of bayonets in the fluid fury of the fight.
Other officers were rallying the scattered troopers. Hardinge had gathered up a dozen, and the two bands melded. They were no longer a pair of tiny hedgehogs, but a fierce porcupine rattling steel quills.
An Arab on a tall black camel smashed into them, and before they could cut him down, he had lanced Hardinge through the belly. Hardinge dropped his sword and seized the lance shaft in both hands.
The Arab still had hold of the butt. With a single heave Hardinge plucked him off his saddle. They fell in a tangle together. Penrod snatched up the sword Hardinge had dropped and rammed the point between the Dervish’s shoulder-blades. Hardinge tried to rise, but the lance tip was deep in his guts. He tried to pull it out, but the barb held. He sank down again, bowed his head and closed his eyes, clutching the shaft with both hands.
Penrod stood over him to protect him and his troopers closed the gaps on either hand. It was good to have a fine sabre in his hand again. The blade had wonderful balance and temper: it came to life in Penrod’s hand. Another Dervish rushed at him, swinging overhand with the broadsword. Penrod caught the heavy blade high in the natural line, and deflected it past his shoulder. It sliced open Penrod’s sleeve but did not break the skin beneath. Before the Dervish could recover Penrod killed him with a thrust through the throat. He had a moment to glance round: his little group was standing firm. Their bayonet blades were dulled, and their arms black with clotted Arab blood. “Forward, lads,” Penrod called to them. “Close the breach!”
“Come on, boys. Let’s see these fellows off!” a familiar voice piped at Penrod’s elbow. Percy Stapleton was beside him. He had lost his helmet and his curly hair was dark with dust and sweat, but he was grinning like a demented ape as he cut and thrust at another Dervish then hit him cleanly in the chest. Penrod saw at once that Percy was a practised natural swordsman. When a Dervish swung low at his knees, Percy jumped lightly over the blade and cut the Arab across the side of the neck, ha
lf severing it. The man dropped his broadsword and tried to grab at his throat with both hsthds. Percy killed him with a quick thrust.
“Well done, sir.” Penrod was mildly impressed.
“You are too kind, sir.” Percy flicked his hair out of his eyes, and they both looked round for another opponent.
But, quite suddenly, the Dervish charge ran out of momentum. It slowed and hesitated, heaved forward again, then ran up against the mass of couched camels of the British baggage train, and stopped dead. The two opposing sides clinched and leant against each other like exhausted boxers in the tenth round, too weary to throw another punch.
“Quarter columns, forward!” General Stewart took command of his reserves at this crucial moment when all hung in such fine balance. They wheeled in behind him. Sword in hand, he stalked ahead on long legs like a marabou stork. He led them round the bulwark of kneeling baggage camels and they took the stranded Dervish in their left flank. The scattered and exhausted bands of British troopers saw them coming,
took new heart and hurled themselves back into the fray. The ruptured square began to contract, and repair the tear in its outer fabric.
Osman Atalan, with the sure instinct of the warrior, recognized the moment when the battle was lost. He turned his mare back, then he and his aggagiers fought themselves clear before the jaws of the trap could close on them. They galloped away to the safety of the hills and left Salida and his sons enmeshed in the British square.
Salida was still sitting high on his camel. But the wound above his hip had burst open again and blood was streaming down his legs. His face was yellow as the mud of a sulphur spring and the sword had fallen from his trembling hand. Rufaar sat up behind him and, with an arm round his waist, held him upright, despite the camel’s terrified plunges. Salida was dazed by the lethargy of his wounds, and the shock of watching his younger sons die under the British bayonets He looked for them in childlike bewilderment, but their broken bodies were lost under the trampling hoofs.
