Sweethearts and Wives (The Regiment Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  It was ten o’clock in the morning on the twelfth of March when they assembled in front of the commander’s tent.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘Osman Digna, whom we thought we had defeated here thus avenging the annihilation of Baker’s force, was not with the Sudanese that we engaged. As a matter of fact, the enemy we engaged represented only a small portion of his force. I have, as you well know, had reconnaissance parties out for over a week. I am happy to be able to tell you that we have discovered Mister Digna’s whereabouts. He is at present lying in the area around the village of Tamai.

  ‘This is important, for Tamai controls the route from Suakim to Berber on the Nile. Berber is held by an Egyptian garrison, but its rear is exposed as long as Osman Digna lies between us and the garrison. So you see, it is of great importance that the road is opened and the Egyptians’ rear is safeguarded.

  ‘Our job then is to remove Digna from Tamai. The men should be rested now. In fact, from my own observations, they are probably more than rested and could do with a spot of action. Tamai lies to the west of us, about three or four hours’ march. If we march out at dawn tomorrow we should be able to engage the enemy before midday.

  ‘The enemy is in considerable strength. Our intelligence reports that they number more than nine thousand. That is odds of over two to one. He has, however, few modern weapons. Though whether or not he has any of Baker’s ordnance left, or machine guns, we just do not know.

  ‘I propose to split my force into two brigades. One will be under the command of General Buller, and the second brigade will be under General Davis. The cavalry will be under my personal command. Both brigades will advance in squares. General Davis will be in the van and engage the enemy, with General Buller lying in reserve in echelon to his right and close enough to give supporting fire should that prove necessary. About five hundred yards would seem to me about right. Agreed, General?’ he said, turning to Buller, who was seated on his right.

  Buller, a tall, square-faced man who sported a large moustache and heavy eyebrows under his pillbox cap, tugged at his sideburns and nodded his agreement.

  ‘Good,’ continued Graham. ‘To General Davis’s left, I shall deploy the cavalry to deal with any attempt to get around that flank.

  ‘The task would not be too difficult but for one unfortunate piece of topography which lies between us and the enemy. That is a deep, sandy-bottomed ravine which is situated five hundred yards north of the village of Tamai. However, I trust that we shall be able to clear this obstacle, take the village, and most important of all, destroy Osman Digna’s force. If we succeed in this, then the road between Suakim and Berber will be clear and offer an alternative supply route. Berber is important because with General Gordon in Khartoum, and the Nile constantly under attack, it is most important to secure this route to ensure his supplies.

  ‘I fear that I have kept you for quite a long time, but I wanted all officers to be aware of what we are doing and why we are doing it. Now I would appreciate it if all senior officers ensure that their commands are all ready to move off at dawn tomorrow. Are there any questions?’

  ‘Sir,’ called a voice from the rear of the group. ‘Who exactly is Osman Digna?’

  ‘I can tell you a little about him,’ replied Graham, ‘but there’s not a great deal known. He is a most unsavoury character. The Mahdi is a religious fanatic but this fellah Digna is a slaver, or at least he was until he thought he could do better by open rebellion. He’s killed an awful lot of Egyptians ‒ and never forget the Egyptians are our allies! ‒ Baker Pasha’s force was wiped out by him; and the entire garrison at Sinkat was massacred. That’s about all I can tell you. The only other thing I want to know about him is that he’s dead.

  ‘Anything else? No? Very well then, gentlemen, thank you for your attention and good hunting tomorrow.’

  ‘When’s there goin’ tae be mair fechtin’?’ asked Private Leinie.

  He and Private MacTavish were seated outside their bivouac, cleaning their rifles. They seemed to do little else; the sand got into everything and it was a constant battle for the men both to keep it out of their equipment and avoid swallowing it. They were sitting beside their bivvy, one of the many little white ridge-tents arranged in neat straight lines. The army seemed to have a passion for geometric forms. Everything was in straight lines and squares, except around the flagpole which they erected whenever they bivouacked for more than a day. There the senior officers’ tents were deployed, and they were in a perfect circle.

  ‘It will nae be lang noo,’ was the reply. ‘Ye can bet your boots that when the officers hae a conference and Frankie Gibson comes aroond and tells us that there’s a rifle inspection at six o’clock the night, the fechtin’ is nae far off.’

  ‘Och, I’m nae sae sure,’ replied the other. ‘But I hope that it’s true. Fechtin’s great, is it no?’

  ‘Youse have changed,’ said MacTavish. ‘I mind the wee laddie whae was scairt o’ a fight.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose that I was at first,’ said Leinie, gazing wistfully out into the yellow desert. ‘But it’s ‒ different after yees have done it once. I kilt quite a few o’ them buggers, ye ken.’

  ‘I suppose that it is a medal that you’ll be wanting next?’ said MacTavish.

  ‘And why not?’ said Leinie, looking down at the bare left breast of his tunic. ‘It would look fine there.’ And he patted his chest.

  ‘Medals dinna come that easy, laddie.’

  ‘I might even get a Victoria Cross. Ye get ten pound a year if ye get yin o’ them.’

  ‘If ye go on talking like that, it’ll be a posthumous yin, that’s what ye’ll get.’

  ‘What’s a poth ‒ poth ‒ what ye said?’

  ‘It means,’ said MacTavish, ‘that yer deed and buried afore ye get it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Leinie was silent for a while.

  ‘Look ye here,’ said MacTavish, ‘you’ll dae weel tae tak’ a wee bittie advice from a auld sodger.’

  ‘What advice?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell ye. A soldier is best if he daes what he’s telt tae dae and he doesna’ try to dae anything other than stand in the line and keep himsel’ alive.’

  ‘Och, that’s daft talk, you dinna get medals for that.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said MacTavish, ‘you’ve only been under fire the once. We were lucky, we didn’t lose a single man. You’d nae be talking like that if half your marras were deed or mebbe worse. I’ve watched men dying aroon me and it’s no funny. You watch Sergeant Gibson. When he’s in action, you’d think that he was on the parade groond; or the R.S.M. They dae it all according tae the book. They’s the sort that lives. If ye gan trying tae get yersel’ a medal and all o’ that nonsense, we’ll aye be awa’ home tae Scotland wi’oot ye. Though I have nae doot that yer mither would be proud o’ ye and hae a guid cry when they sent her your medal.’

  With the prospect of action the following day, Gordon Bruce finally screwed up sufficient courage to go and talk to his brother. He waited until after the evening meal, then walked down the lines under the black velvet sky of the tropical night. He went into his brother’s bivvy and found Donald sitting on his cot, just looking blankly at the white canvas wall in front of him. His face was lit by the guttering candle in a beautiful silver candlestick which looked incongruous against the background of a discarded tunic, spattered with sand, which lay on the groundsheet at his feet.

  ‘Mind if I come in, Donald?’

  ‘No.’ But there was no welcome in Donald’s voice.

  ‘Thanks a lot. I’ve scrounged a bottle of whisky from Farquhar. You know, he’s a remarkable chap. He always seems to be able to get supplies brought up when nobody else can get them.’

  ‘He’s very rich,’ said Donald, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s why,’ replied Gordon, and he poured out two whiskys. ‘Donald, I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not about me, it’s about
you. Donald, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? Nothing.’

  ‘No, Donald, something’s very wrong. I know that I’m speaking out of turn. After all, you’re a captain and I’m only a second lieutenant. But you are my brother and you did so much better than I did at Sandhurst. Well, I’m sorry, but I just felt that there was something wrong.’

  ‘Thanks, Gordon.’ Donald gave a wry smile. ‘It’s nice to know that you care. But I’m afraid that it’s nothing that you can do anything about.’

  ‘Are you quite sure? You know I’m a bit stupid and all that sort of thing, but it’s not hard to tell that you’ve got a problem. Perhaps if you could talk about it, even to me, it might help.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Donald. ‘Not to anybody.’

  ‘Please, Donald. You know that we’re going to be in action tomorrow, and I don’t want to go in worrying about you.’

  ‘Why should you worry about me?’

  ‘Donald, I saw what happened here a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I could have understood it if you’d run away. But you didn’t. You just stood there, just as if you wanted that man to kill you. Please tell me. I may not be able to do anything, but if you could just tell me, it might help.’

  ‘I wonder. You see, Gordon, I should never have been a soldier.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense. You won the Sword of Honour.’

  ‘Games, Gordon. Just games.’

  ‘Donald, it’s frightfully cheeky of me to say this, but are you afraid?’

  ‘No, not really. That is, I’m not afraid of anything that might happen to me. It’s just that I cannot do it.’

  ‘What is this thing that you cannot do?’

  ‘I can’t shoot a man. It is impossible for me to point my gun at a man and kill him. I found that out four months ago. You heard about Jimmy Grigor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that I was in charge of the execution detail.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did anybody tell you that I funked giving the order to fire?’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Grigor gave the order himself. I was a coward; not in that, but in not resigning my commission there and then. I wrote it out, you know. Then I took it to Father and let him persuade me to tear it up. Now we’re out here and, of course, I cannot do it.’

  ‘Well, you could,’ said Gordon. ‘If that’s the way you really feel. I’m sure that Ron Murray would understand if you put it to him.’

  ‘Gordon, I can’t run to Ron tonight and say, “I’m sorry, there’s going to be a battle tomorrow so I’m going to resign my commission”!’

  ‘No, I suppose you can’t.’

  ‘Besides, do you think that he would understand if I were to say, “I’m not afraid of being killed, but I’m terrified of killing anyone. I’m only afraid of having a man’s death on my conscience”.’

  Gordon’s expression became very solemn. ‘It’s worse than I thought.’

  ‘How is it worse?’

  ‘Well, if what you say is true, there’s nothing that you can do about it.’

  ‘I know. If I get home, I shall leave the army. So far as that is concerned, my mind is quite made up. If I get home.’

  It was a quarter to seven in the evening and Frankie Gibson, with R.S.M. Macmillan and a couple of other senior N.C.O.s, were sitting on the dusty earth. They regarded their rations of hardtack ‒ biscuits which, it was rumoured, had been used for the building of a fort ‒ with disgust. The drill was that you broke a bit off, if you had the strength, and dipped it into water until it was softened enough so that you could eat it without breaking your teeth.

  It was very quiet now. Along the lines small groups of men were gathered outside the neat rows of white tents. Some of them, those who had been fortunate enough to find some sort of fuel, had lit fires to guard against the cold desert night, and the flicker of these could be easily distinguished against the now gathering gloom. The men seemed, with the near certainty of action the following day, to have lost their bravado along with the daylight, and they talked, if they talked at all, in little groups, in subdued voices, and mostly they talked of home, their faces being brought into sharp relief whenever the fire flared as one of their number tossed on another piece of carefully husbanded fuel. The bits of wood they burned, and the dried grass, were hard to come by in that desert, and much of each man’s spare time was spent in hunting for it, because, though the days were hot, when the sun went down the chill air was enough to make you shiver and huddle over whatever warmth you could find.

  The night also gave rise to another pest, or series of pests. The flying beetles, huge heavy things that seemed to lack any sense of direction and would hit you in the face or land on your piece of hardtack just as you were about to put it into your mouth. Then there were crawling things, ‘Bugs wi’ footba’ boots on,’ Private MacTavish called them, that walked all over the exposed portions of your flesh, waking or sleeping, and most of them seemed to regard the British soldier as a sort of mobile lunch counter. For an area that appeared devoid of life, there seemed to be one hell of a lot of inhabitants.

  The little group outside the R.S.M.’s bivouac were grumbling quietly about their dinner when Frankie Gibson cocked his head on one side.

  ‘Hald your whist,’ he whispered.

  ‘What is it, Frankie?’ asked Macmillan.

  ‘Shut up, I canna hear a thing if youse keep talkin’.’ He paused, ‘Aye there it is again.’

  They were silent for a moment as Frankie listened intently.

  ‘What are ye on tae, Frankie?’ asked one of the others.

  Frankie turned to them, a broad grin on his leathery face. ‘Hoo would yees like some real meat for your supper?’

  ‘Eh???’

  ‘Hae ye got your dirk there, Mac?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Macmillan.

  ‘Gie it here. Get the fire gannin’ guid. I’ll be back in a wee whilie.’

  Frankie slipped the dirk into his stocking top and left the group, heading out through the lines in the direction of the village.

  ‘Halt, who goes there?’ It was the sentry whom Frankie had posted himself about twenty minutes ago.

  ‘Shut yer gob or ye’ll wake the whole bloody camp.’

  ‘Sorry, sarge. Didn’t recognize you.’

  After he had passed the sentry, Frankie walked a few paces, then lay down close to the ground, listening. Yes, there it was again, the faint bleat of a sheep or a goat. Frankie Gibson, stalker supreme, and poacher without parallel, grinned as he started to creep towards the sound.

  About twenty minutes after he had left, Frankie returned to his comrades with the corpse of a small goat slung across his shoulders. He was greeted with much joy.

  ‘Well done, Frankie,’ said the R.S.M. ‘Twa o’ ye get it skinned and intae the pot.’

  ‘The puir bloody beast didna hae a chance. Some rotten black bastard had tied it up.’ He watched the men struggling with the carcass. ‘It’s a shame we havena any onions.’

  Hugh Grant was duty officer and at nine o’clock started on his rounds. He did not expect to find anything, and if he did and could ignore it, he most certainly would. However, he could not ignore the appetizing smell which seemed to be emanating from the direction of the R.S.M.’s bivouac.

  He approached the group sitting around the fire. They seemed to be arguing among themselves as to whether ‘it’ was ready.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Grant.

  ‘Jest cooking up the hardtack, sorr,’ said Frankie, his face expressionless.

  ‘Smells better than ours.’ He was sniffing rather pointedly.

  ‘I suppose it does, sir,’ said R.S.M. Macmillan, rising to his feet.

  ‘All right, Sergeant-Major, at ease. What have you got there?’

  ‘Weel, sorr,’ said Frankie, ‘it’s like this. I was just taking a wee walkie into the desert for ‒ weel, you ken what I mean. And this b
eastie just walked right onto ma dirk. Well, we couldna throw guid meat awa’, so We’re cooking it.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ replied Grant. ‘That sounds a jolly good idea. I hope you have enough.’

  ‘Och, aye, sorr,’ said Macmillan. ‘We could even manage a bittie for yourself if you had a mind tae it. But dinna go telling everybody.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Sergeant-Major, thank you.’

  ‘A wee dram would go doon afu’ well wi’ it,’ said Frankie. ‘Sorry, haven’t got a drop.’

  ‘Oh, that’s verra sad.’

  ‘But I do happen to know where there is some if you think you could manage two extra portions.’

  ‘I think that would be all right,’ said Macmillan. ‘Eh, Frankie?’

  ‘Oh, aye, we could dae that, all right.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ said Grant, all thought of his duty round now forgotten at the prospect of fresh meat.

  Captain Grant hurried along to Alex Farquhar’s bivouac where he found that worthy deep in conversation with Ian Maclaren.

  Ian, no longer intent on a hero’s death after his discovery at the battle of El Teb that life was sweet even without Naomi, had come along to Farquhar’s tent to discuss tactics for the morrow.

  ‘You know,’ Farquhar was saying, ‘that Gatling is a damned good weapon, but if there’s no wind tomorrow, we’re going to have the same problem all over again.’

  ‘You mean the smoke?’ said Ian.

  ‘Of course I mean the bloody smoke,’ replied Farquhar. ‘Why the hell they cannot invent some sort of smokeless powder beats me.’

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Ian. ‘And I might have got an answer.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, let’s have it.’

  ‘It sounds a bit daft. It’s really so simple.’