Sweethearts and Wives (The Regiment Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon when they docked, and the dry, baked mud of the earth burned its way through the soles of their boots until they felt that they were walking on hot bricks. Some of them, those who had been out east before, either aired their superior knowledge with blood curdling warnings of snakes and scorpions, or simply viewed the whole scene with listless resignation.

  At last they were all ashore, standing in two ragged lines, still sweating under their packs and leaning on their rifles.

  ‘I say, are these the Maclarens? Pretty scruffy lot, what?’

  Frankie Gibson eyed the speaker balefully. He was a young cavalry lieutenant wearing an immaculate uniform and an enormous blond moustache. Frankie knew the type, though it always astonished him how they could look so beautiful irrespective of the conditions. He would be the younger son of some great family, sent out here so that he could return home and thrill the debutantes with tales of cavalry charges and other heroic doings, while all the time his commanding officer was under strict instructions not to expose him to anything that could be construed as danger. Frankie made a grimace of contempt, which was unfair because the young man, popinjay though he might appear, had already been wounded twice.

  The lieutenant was addressing Major Murray, looking down his nose at him, when he noticed the crown on Murray’s collar. He added, ‘Sir’. But he managed to make it sound like an insult.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Murray, eyeing him without enthusiasm. ‘Where do we billet?’

  ‘What have you got here? The general would like to know.’

  ‘Three companies of Highlanders,’ replied Murray. ‘We are supposed to be joining another company from India and the C.O.’

  ‘’Fraid they aren’t here. You’ll just have to soldier on without them.’

  Murray was not surprised. Things never worked out as the planners intended.

  ‘You’re joining Major-General Buller, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that we are expected,’ said Murray.

  ‘Yes, well, he’s bivouacked just north of the town. I suggest that you make your way there. Can’t really miss them. Find the lines and report to his A.D.C. Have you got your own biwies?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Murray. ‘They’re unloading now.’

  ‘Any transport?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a damned nuisance. I’ll have to see if I can rustle up some mules and wagons for you. If you could detail a platoon off to bring the gear, you can be on your way.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Murray.

  Murray went in search of a subaltern. He spotted Ian Maclaren deep in conversation with Captain Farquhar and he went over to them.

  To say that Ian was an unhappy man would be an understatement. He was utterly and completely miserable. After his interview with Willie Bruce he had seen Naomi only once. The following day he had gone down to the Priory Inn to meet her as they had arranged days ago, but she had not come. In the next few days he spent most of his time going to places where he felt she might pass, but he did not see her. Feeling unable to call, after what the colonel had said, he sent notes over to Cluny Cottage, but he received no reply. Wallowing in self-pity, he did not notice that the colonel never once mentioned his request for transfer. It was only a few days before they were to leave that he went to see Willie and tell him that he wanted to withdraw his application. Willie showed no surprise at this and simply tore the document up in front of him and flung it into the wastepaper basket.

  Ian had found it impossible to believe that all was over between himself and Naomi, and yet he was beset by doubts and dark thoughts. The moment things got awkward, she had dropped him. Did she not know that he would have done anything for her? Did she not know that he would happily have sacrificed his career, or even his life, just to be with her? He would have done, too, if only she had given him the slightest encouragement; though how they would have lived was a question that had never occurred to him. A slave to his fantasies, he wondered if there could be another man; but he could not believe that, for they had given themselves to each other so completely.

  If only there had been someone, anyone in whom he could trust and confide; he felt so alone. Finally he decided that the only course left open to him was to go overseas with the regiment, and there, he hoped, he would find the sweet oblivion of death. In his innocence, he never believed, not for a single moment, that Naomi might be doing this for him, and that she might be as unhappy as he was.

  ‘Mr Maclaren,’ called Murray, ‘I’ve got a job for you. Fall out your platoon and wait here. Alex,’ he said, turning to Farquhar, ‘we’ve got to be on the move.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied Ian, ‘what am I to wait for?’

  ‘That clothes-horse over there,’ said Murray, indicating the young cavalry lieutenant, ‘says that he will get you some mules and carts. When he does, you can load the baggage and bring it up.’

  ‘To where, sir?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure myself yet. We’ll find the lines and I’ll send an N.C.O. back to direct you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Amid a great deal of shouted commands and noise and bustle, the Maclaren Highlanders moved out of the little town. It was hot and they were sweating and every time they put a foot to the ground the dust rose with it and found its way into their nostrils in a choking cloud. The streets were littered with animal dung, carpeted with flies of every variety and hue that could be imagined. The little town stank like a byre that had not been cleaned for a year or more. But they were still smarting under the obvious contempt of the cavalry officer and as Ron Murray placed himself at the head of his men, he called out.

  ‘Piper!’

  The sweet sad notes of the pipes sounded alien on the tropical air, but they reminded the men of what they were. They squared their shoulders and, proud and tall, marched out of the town. Not that it impressed the natives ‒ hardly a one looked up. The British were a fact of life to them, they always did stupid things in the heat of the day when a man should be lying in the shade and waiting for the sun to go down.

  Within minutes of leaving the town, they were on a vast empty, yellow plain; at least the stench had been left behind.

  ‘Look at it,’ said Peter Leinie. ‘Just look at it.’

  ‘Look at what?’ said MacTavish who was marching on his right.

  ‘There’s nothin’.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied MacTavish. ‘Ye’ll see plenty o’ nothin’ oot here.’

  Half an hour out of the town they found the neat lines of tents of the encamped force that they had been detailed to join. It was all very clean and military and extremely boring.

  They sweated it out there for over a month until on the twenty-ninth of February, 1884, just before dawn, General Graham gave the order to march.

  They formed square. It was the most massive square that any one of them had ever seen. Graham’s force numbered four thousand men; so, with a thousand men a side, two seven-pounder guns and a Gatling at each corner, and the transport animals with ammunition and medical supplies in the centre, it made a huge mobile fortress walled with the flesh of the soldiers who formed it.

  For a month now they had been practising manoeuvres, wheeling and turning in large square formations. It could have been the same today except that their centre, which in practices had been left empty, was now full of baggage and supplies. This looked like the real thing.

  The three companies of the Maclarens were to the right of the forward side of the square. At their corner, beyond which marched the Black Watch, was their Gatling gun with Captain Farquhar in command and at his side Lance-Sergeant Smith.

  ‘Pity the poor bastards at the rear, sir,’ said Smith.

  ‘Yes, a bit rough on them, eh?’ said Farquhar, glancing back at the rear ranks, who were enveloped in the clouds of yellow dust which the front ranks were raising. ‘Charming country though, doncher think?’

  ‘It’s bloody awfu’. Sir, I never believed that there could be sae m
uch o’ nothingness.’

  ‘Plenty of flies.’

  ‘Aye, bugger them.’

  ‘This mass of men was marching out over this barren uphill wasteland in the direction of a little village called El Teb. It was there, under General Baker, five months previously, that a force of some four thousand, mostly Egyptian, had been wiped out by the Sudanese. These Sudanese had fought with incredible bravery because, for them, this was a holy war. The Mahdi, they believed, was divinely appointed to purify Islam and rid the lands of all infidel governments. In only four years he had become a real threat to the entire presence of Britain. His followers did not care what risks they took for if they died in the Mahdi’s cause, their eternal salvation was assured.

  Graham had also under his command a squadron of the 10th Hussars. These rode forward in a scouting expedition to ascertain the dispositions of the enemy, whom they expected would be entrenched around El Teb, only a dozen or so miles distant.

  Captain Donald Bruce, marching to the rear of A Company, which he now commanded, was gazing at the barrier of human flesh which would stand between him and the enemy spears when the fighting started. He was trying hard to persuade himself that he was not a coward, and hating every step he took. It was to Donald, as it was to so many of them, the first time. He could not see the sense of it. What difference would it make if those who died today were still alive tomorrow? What benefit would be bestowed upon the British Empire by their sacrifice?

  He had been at the officers’ briefing the night before, and he realized that this was just like one of the punitive expeditions on the Northwest Frontier, only it was much bigger and many more would die. The enemy had cannon. They had to have, because Baker had had two Krupp guns which were now undoubtedly in the possession of the Sudanese at El Teb. It all seemed so bloody pointless to Donald, and yet here he was marching along, obeying orders, and expected to reduce living, breathing, thinking human beings to the state in which he had left Jimmy Grigor.

  In the second rank Peter Leinie had contrived to get himself next to Frankie Gibson. Frankie seemed to have taken a liking to the boy and Leinie believed that if only he could stay close to Frankie, he would be safe.

  ‘Where are we gannin’, sarge?’ he asked. They were marching at ease and a limited amount of conversation was permissible.

  ‘How the hell dae I know?’ replied Frankie.

  ‘Will there be fechtin’ today?’

  ‘Aye, it looks verra much like that there will.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ asked the boy.

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘Weel, when the fechtin’ starts. What’s it like just standing here and getting shot at?’

  ‘Och, dinna worry yersel’ aboot that,’ said Frankie. ‘They’ll nae get close enough tae dae us any real harm, and if they miss ye, ye’s got naething tae worry aboot.’

  ‘Aye, but what if they dinna miss me?’

  ‘Then,’ said Frankie, ‘ye’ll hae even less tae worry aboot. But you’ll get through, laddie. It’s always like this the first time. It’s always a bittie like this every time.’

  ‘I’m scared, sarge.’

  ‘That’s nothing tae worry aboot. Everybody’s a bittie scared. I ken I am. Why, the colonel told me himself that he’s frightened every time he goes into action.’

  ‘Colonel Bruce?’

  ‘Himself. But once it starts you’ll be too bloody busy tae think aboot being scared.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, sarge.’

  ‘Just stay close tae me and you’ll be all right.’

  Ian Maclaren, temporarily in command of C Company marched silently, his head erect, his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, and an expression of fixed grim determination on his face. He had resolved that he would die today. Perhaps this news would prove to Naomi that his was a great and true love, without which life was meaningless. Several times he fingered the letter which he had written her. He had left it in his sporran for them to find when the deed was done. They would find it and send it to her and she would weep for what might have been.

  In front of him the two big men, Anderson and MacTavish, lumbered along together.

  ‘Hey, Jamie,’ said Anderson, ‘hoo many wogs are you ganna get yoursel’ today?’ He grinned, showing a line of yellow stained teeth with a gap in the middle, the legacy of a barrack room brawl.

  ‘I shall dae what I have tae dae,’ said MacTavish, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation.

  ‘Aye, and mind ye dae it right,’ replied Anderson. ‘Remember that you’re next tae me and I like tae feel that I can trust the mannie on my right.’

  ‘Well, I only hae ma left tae worry aboot,’ said MacTavish.

  ‘I’ll sort you oot when this lot’s over. Dinna turn your back on me, that’s all,’ rumbled Anderson.

  ‘Stop chattering in front there and look where you’re going.’ Ian’s thin voice put a stop to their conversation.

  It was approaching noon and the sun was baking them with a relentless, steamy heat. They must have been less than a mile from El Teb and here and there, dotted around them, were the rotting remains of Baker’s force, stinking to high heaven and making the more susceptible retch. They had got to within about half a mile of the village and the wells which they had to take that night ‒ for if they did not take them, they would be out of water ‒ when there was a puff of black smoke on the horizon. This was quickly followed by a crack and a series of high-pitched whistles, and two men to the rear of the square fell.

  ‘Shrapnel,’ said Frankie Gibson.

  ‘What’s that, sarge?’ asked Peter Leinie, who had nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the first shot.

  ‘Shrapnel, laddie. Ignore it,’ replied Frankie. ‘The general will ken what to do.’

  Indeed Graham was already wheeling the square to the right, bringing the Black Watch into his van.

  ‘See that,’ said Frankie. ‘We’re no in the front line, noo. We’ll be going aroond their flank. I could nae ha done it better myself.’

  The square was halted and they opened fire with their seven-pounders. While the barrage was on, those of them who had seen it all before lay down and relaxed, while the men who were seeing action for the first time waited tense and expectant for the shrapnel bullet with their name on it. The few wounded were being treated in the centre of the square. Usually there was nothing done for them beyond a rough bandage or if the wound was bad a rapid amputation and a dollop of tar to stem the flow of blood. A body wound meant a fifty-fifty chance of death as it was more than likely that gangrene would set in before the wound had been cleaned up enough to prevent it.

  Within fifteen minutes the enemy’s guns had been silenced and the men were on their feet again. The Maclarens were again in the front ranks. They moved forward shoulder to shoulder towards the enemy’s flank.

  Less than a quarter of a mile from the first line of entrenchments ‒ now clearly visible as dark lines upon the yellow earth ‒ Graham halted his square. As he did this, the air was suddenly filled with an incredible high-pitched yelling and wailing. The front rank knelt in firing position, their rifles loaded and ready, with the second rank standing behind them awaiting the order to fire.

  ‘Christ, sarge, what’s a’ that noise?’ There was a tremor in Peter Leinie’s voice.

  ‘That’s them, laddie,’ replied Sergeant Frankie Gibson. ‘Dinna worry yersel’, they’ll be coming oot soon.’

  As if in response to Frankie Gibson’s words, a mass of figures appeared over the top of the entrenchments. They were all black-faced, stark against the dirty white cotton of their clothing.

  At the corner of the square Captain Farquhar busied himself with his gun crew, checking the range, ripping open another box of ammunition, and awaiting the order to open fire. Private Anderson drew his dirk and started slicing the heads from his bullets.

  ‘What are ye doin’ there?’ demanded Private MacTavish.

  ‘These’ll stop the bastards,’ said Anderson.
<
br />   ‘Ye dirty pig.’

  ‘I told ye, sodger, I’ll sort ye oot after this is aye ower.’

  Anderson was not alone in what he was doing. Many of the men, those of greater experience, knew that within minutes those thousands would be upon them. A rifle bullet making a clean wound, though it might kill, would not stop a man in his tracks. The dumdum, which splayed out and made a hole that you could put your fist into, would stop a man dead when it hit him.

  Closer and closer came the horde of black faces, howling and yelling as they came, brandishing spears and long-bladed swords. At last the order came.

  ‘Fire at will. Pass the word.’

  Frankie Gibson calmly licked his thumb and damped the foresight of his rifle. He took a quick glance at young Peter Leinie.

  ‘Dinna hurry yersel’, laddie. Yees’ll be a sight quicker that way. Allus aim at the yin that’s nearest tae ye.’ Then he fired. ‘That’s yin that’ll no be worryin’ us.’

  On their right the staccato chatter of Farquhar’s Gatling started up. And soon in the still air the smoke from the black powder was obscuring friend and foe alike. But not before Donald Bruce had watched, horrified, as the machine guns swathed down line upon line of his fellow creatures. He tried to close his eyes and choke back the nausea that was rising within him, but when he did this, all he could see was Jimmy Grigor’s torn body sagging at the post, streaming blood.

  Now the men were firing as fast as they could reload their Martini-Henrys, and it seemed to Ian Maclaren that it was impossible for anyone to survive that massive barrage of fire. He fired off all six shots from his Webley and calmly set about reloading, waiting for the Sudanese to break into the square, waiting for the thrust that would end it all.

  A few of the Sudanese, perhaps twenty or thirty, charged through the pall of smoke and broke through into the square itself. They had forced the line on the left of C Company. Donald Bruce suddenly found himself confronted by a giant of a man wearing nothing but a dirty white loincloth. The Sudanese’s lips parted, revealing to Donald two rows of blackened teeth as he swung back his heavy cross-hilted sword. Donald raised his revolver. His hand was shaking as he tried to force himself to find the will to pull the trigger. But it was no good, he could not do it. He stood there waiting for the blow to fall when suddenly a great glob of blood welled out of the man’s mouth as he coughed, spattering the liquid onto Donald’s hand. The tip of a bayonet appeared through the front of the man’s chest and he sank to his knees in front of Donald, as if in supplication.