Death on a Pale Horse: Sherlock Holmes on Her Majesty's Secret Service

by Donald Thomas

  “Very well, sergeant-major. Loss of what?”

  Tindal was quiet and confidential. Like many of his regiment, his voice retained the low lilt of his Welsh valley.

  “Owain Glyndwr, sir. Missing from the mess-tent, sir.”

  “Nonsense. What the devil would anyone want with him?”

  As even the Natal Volunteers knew by now, Owain Glyndwr was a piece of regimental mythology, the mummified head of an Abyssinian sharpshooter, brought back as a trophy after the storming of Magdala in 1867. Pickled by the surgeon-major, it had become an object of veneration to younger officers in the boisterous aftermath of regimental guest-nights.

  “Not nonsense, sir,” said Tindal quickly. “He’s gone. And Dai Morgan do say someone was creeping about last night when Mr. Pope’s dogs did bark. Perhaps a native spy was out in the hills, sir.”

  Pulleine looked up and scrutinised the sergeant-major a moment longer before replying.

  “Sar’ Major! Inform Private Morgan and anyone else to whom it may apply that the purpose of this expedition is to repulse a Zulu invasion of the province of Natal. I will not have any officer or batman playing the fool at a time like this. If I hear more of this matter, or if I find that Private Morgan has laid his hands on an unauthorised rum-ration again, he and you will be visited as if by the Wrath of God. Is that plain?”

  “Sir,” said Tindal smartly.

  “Very well, sar’ major. Dismiss!”

  Pulleine was still standing in the opening of the tent as the bugles blew “Column Call” and the regimental NCOs prepared to call the names of the men who had fallen in by companies. The colonel shouted across to one of his subalterns.

  “Mr. Spencer!”

  As he watched them casually, the hunter identified Spencer as the fair-skinned young captain who went everywhere with a pet terrier running at his heels. Spencer now crossed to the colonel’s tent and saluted self-consciously, the fair skin colouring a little under the trim line of his ginger moustaches.

  “Mr. Spencer, as orderly officer last night, please explain to me this report of the removal of Owain Glyndwr from the guard-tent!”

  “Sar’ Major Tindal is investigating it, sir. Someone seems to have taken the head from the mess trophy-case in the small hours of this morning.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Spencer.” Pulleine rested his hand on his sword-hilt in the brightness of the African sun. “Be so good as to find the culprit, put him in close arrest, and bring him to me at defaulters’ parade tomorrow morning. Understood?”

  Spencer hesitated. Unlike his brother captains, he seemed a diffident young man who took awkwardly to the self-assurance of professional soldiering.

  “With respect, sir.”

  “Well?” Pulleine released the hilt and adjusted the angle of the scabbard again.

  “The men suspect an intruder in the camp last night, near ‘B’ Company lines.”

  “The devil they do, Mr. Spencer! Then why, in God’s name, was something not done at the time?”

  “Morgan reported a wide-brimmed hat. Whoever he was, he was close to the wagons and the guard-tents.”

  “Mr. Spencer,” said Pulleine softly, “almost every Natal Volunteer wears a patrol-jacket and a wide-awake hat. How could one of them—or more—fail to be in the area? You must do better than that, sir.”

  Spencer was not so easily defeated.

  “Mr. Pope’s men saw something as well.”

  “Mr. Pope is now out on picket-guard. You may speak to him when he’s relieved. Meantime, let me have no more cock-and-bull stories. This is regimental mischief, you may be sure of that. Find the culprit and put him in detention. I have no doubt that he can be named easily enough.”

  Spencer saluted, called his terrier to heel, and marched back to the waiting lines of the parade square.

  The hunter’s curiosity was satisfied. He promised the world that it had not seen the last of “Owain Glyndwr.” Across the camp ground, bugles finished blowing and the NCOs began to call the names of the men who had fallen in by companies. The sun rose higher in the burning-mirror of the sky, its heat shimmering distantly from the stone ridges that overlooked the plain on all sides.

  Presently, a trail of dust drifted from the west, where the Buffalo River marked the frontier dividing Natal from Cetewayo’s Zulu Kingdom. Across this rough terrain moved a column of mounted detachments, a further company of infantry, and a rocket-battery with its strange launching-troughs drawn on limber wheels. The scarlet tunic’d foot-soldiers and the monocled cavalry officers in dark blue were preceded by a regimental band playing Men of Harlech in march time. The sun fired the silver instruments of the bandsmen, giving this support column of Durnford, the junior colonel, the air of a bank holiday carnival.

  Among the horsemen, Durnford was easily picked out by the sleeve of his withered left arm pinned to his tunic. Presently he dismounted on the garrison ground at the centre of the camp and strode across to report his arrival to Pulleine. The patient onlooker waited until he saw Durnford leave Pulleine’s tent twenty minutes later, after a delayed breakfast of beef and porter. The horsemen of the column were formed up again for a sweep across the plain from west to east, to root out any forward positions of the tribes in the foothills.

  Pulleine had every reason to feel confident. The battalions of the tribes carried no arms beyond their shields of animal skin stretched over light wooden frames and their metal-tipped spears or assegais. Looking about him, the colonel saw a park of British wagons holding half a million rounds of ammunition and enough of the latest quick-firing Martini-Henry rifles to equip two thousand infantry. There was a rocket-battery, and a Royal Artillery battery of seven-pounder guns, as well as the new continuous-firing Gatling guns mounted on limber wheels.

  It was the rifles that would stop an attacking formation by a wall of timed-volleys. Even at five or six hundred yards, the aimed and coordinated fire of trained infantry using the Martini-Henry would be lethal to any assault.

  Durnford’s horsemen were moving leisurely towards the eastern foothills. Now it was the senior man of the Natal Volunteers, Boss Strickland, who grinned and elbowed his way through a cheering mob of his men about the guard-tents. Their clothes were shabby by contrast with the spotless white-and-scarlet of the British regiments, but their self-confidence was at a peak.

  The hunter moved aside and remained in earshot by unobtrusive attendance to his tethered mount. He could hear easily enough the loud argument that developed as Strickland entered the colonel’s tent. Pulleine had come to defend Natal, but Strickland and his friends had followed him for booty. These mercenaries were anxious to be off the leash and into the villages. Strickland’s tone was half a drawl and half a sneer. Pulleine’s reply was breathless with exasperation.

  “Once and for all, Mr. Strickland! This camp is to be held securely until Lord Chelmsford returns. Then you may seek his leave to do as you please. Those are my orders—and your orders.”

  “Supposing his lordship ain’t back this side of dark?”

  “He will be.”

  “Supposin’ he ain’t?”

  Pulleine made no reply.

  “All right.” Strickland had moved so that he was now almost blocking the tent-opening with his bulk. “Then supposing I was just to ride my men out. Shoot us in the back, would you?”

  Pulleine swung round.

  “I’ll do better than that, Mr. Strickland. I’ll court-martial you!”

  Strickland laughed as if it was the best thing he had heard in months.

  “No, you won’t, Pulleine. Not me. I ain’t one of your regimental flunkeys. Court-martial me? If you was to do that, my friend, you wouldn’t get back over the Buffalo River alive. There’s fifty men ’d see to that.”

  Strickland showed the manner which had served him so well in the Durban markets and the diamond mining settlements of the Transvaal.

  “I’ll tell you what though, Colonel. I’ll go half way with you. We’ll take a patrol along the north p
lateau presently. No further. From there, we can survey the front of the Conical Kopje and see the back of it. We’ll sit quietly there until Lord Chelmsford comes back safe. After that, we’ll press on. Not before.”

  Pulleine hesitated, but Strickland gave him no respite.

  “Give our fellows a square deal, Pulleine, or I shan’t be answerable for ’em. I daresay this stolen regimental mascot nonsense is up to one of them. I’ll give you that. But let them alone and there’s enough in a quick swoop to keep them happy for a month or two.”

  Pulleine hesitated. Long years of military command had accustomed him to deference and dignity. Men of Strickland’s cut were beyond him. How far did his authority extend over this civilian riff-raff?

  “Very well, Mr. Strickland. The northern plateau and no further. You will take the heliograph. You will respond to all signals flashed from this camp. In the event of a recall being sounded, you will return at once.”

  Strickland pushed aside the tent flap, still grinning. Presently the bearded mercenaries of Pulleine’s Lambs rode two by two towards the north plateau, escorted by Captain Shepstone of Durnford’s mounted detail. They passed the forward line and a red-coated picket of the 24th Foot, commanded by Lieutenant Pope. Presently they caught up with a mounted vedette of the Natal Cavalry on the eastern slope.

  Heat had stunned the plain into silence and stillness. At the western end of the camp, under the great rock itself, the lines between the tents were now almost deserted. Far out across the plain, the pickets and vedettes of the forward posts wilted in the glare. The rocket-battery with its trough-like launchers was almost level with the Conical Kopje as it approached the camp. On the eastern hills and the Malagata range to the south, there was still no sign of Lord Chelmsford’s column.

  The mercenary riders of the Natal Volunteers had begun to pick their way leisurely through the fierce light that shone back from pale stone ridges. They were across the dry and broken course of the river donga, its boulders scattered along the plain from north to south.

  Presently they were far enough forward to look down on the approaches to the Kopje. As they dismounted to wait for Chelmsford’s return, it was possible to see through field-glasses from the camp that Strickland, distinguished by the white band round his wide-awake hat, remained on his horse. Perhaps in the stillness he was puzzled by that strange, unaccountable buzzing of a vast army of bees.

  Presently he could be seen dismounting cautiously and guiding his horse to the sharp edge of the ravine, where it dropped to the level of the lower hills. He walked alone to the lip of the rift, stood on the edge where the ground sloped away, and looked into the narrow gorge.

  A moment later, he was seen with his foot in the stirrup, turning his horse about. He flung himself astride and spurred at full pelt upon the astonished patrol of Pulleine’s Lambs, stretched in the grass, talking and laughing.

  The message, though out of earshot from the camp, was never in doubt.

  “Ride for your lives! The tribes are in the ravine! Thousand on thousand of them! Ride for the camp or we shall all be lost!”

  The puzzled vedettes on the camp perimeter saw through their glasses the Volunteers snatch at their bridles, jump for their stirrups, and gallop in wild retreat down the slope of the plateau. Still Cetewayo’s warriors lay low with perfect discipline while the British camp was quiet and unprepared for an assault. Something like a battle-cry now sounded thinly at this distance. Then the first ranks of the tribesmen rose silently into view along the ridge with their oval shields and assegais. At the two ends of their great line, the horns of the formation forming the Zulu impi were coming down towards either side of Pulleine’s men while the centre pinned the defenders down. Worse still for Pulleine, he was to be trapped with his back to the mountain.

  Watching this across the quiet veldt, the horseman stood by his dappled mare and heard a sharp but distant crackling of rifles, like dry twigs in a fire. It seemed the best thing to be up and gone. As he mounted, Pulleine was in the opening of the tent again, tunic unbuttoned and a towel in his hands.

  “Sar’ Major Tindal!”

  “Firing on the north plateau, sir. Mr. Strickland and the mounted detail riding back!”

  “Mr. Spencer!” Pulleine roared at his junior captain. “Sound the Alarm and the Fall-In. Keep your glasses on the north plateau and report!”

  The colonel turned back into his tent, buckling his belt on, testing the angle of his scabbard and revolver holster. The onlooker knew what must happen next, as surely as if he had rehearsed it all himself. In a final glance, he saw that Pulleine’s eyes appeared set with anger, as surely as they would soon be stilled in death. The colonel was no doubt composing the phrases he would use when Strickland reappeared. Despite the injury that still seemed secretly to burn his flesh, the watching hunter felt no hatred, rather a cold satisfaction at what must happen. The dice had rolled. The outcome was no more to him now than the stars in their courses, the shining masters riveted in the sky. He untethered the dappled mare from the fence and led her away, glancing back from time to time.

  Somewhere among the tents, a boy bugler of the regimental band sounded the Alarm and, after a moment’s pause, the Fall-In. The heat of noon rang with the shouts of NCOs, of troopers cursing as they buckled on their webbing while they ran. In a moment more, the air sounded to cries of “Company, A-ttention! Right dress!”

  “Sir!” Spencer’s words carried as he ran towards the colonel’s tent, his voice steady but its pitch high, “enemy now in force on the north plateau! The ridge is thick with them!”

  “Very well, Mr. Spencer. Companies to their positions on the perimeter. Where are Colonel Durnford and his troopers?”

  “No sign, sir.”

  “He may find himself cut off. He and Lord Chelmsford.” Pulleine’s face was still tense with anger. “I’ll be damned if I don’t have that fool Strickland court-martialled!”

  But his tone of voice and the unease in his eyes suggested that he now thought himself the greater fool of the two. He took his field-glasses from their case again, glancing across to see that the companies of the 24th Foot were doubling forward to their positions. Then he strode off to survey the perimeter defences. Lieutenant Coghill, acting adjutant in the absence of Chelmsford’s party, caught him up.

  Watching from the saddle, the hunter knew that the field-glasses would prove that Spencer had been right. For almost a mile along the edge of the northern plateau, the horizon-line had become a dark undulating mass of humanity. They had come from nowhere, as it seemed, for the night patrol had reported nothing. Metal tips of their razor-sharp assegais glittered in strong light, and at this distance the tawny-coloured animal skins covering their shields seemed to float on their bodies like debris on a tide.

  At the nearer end of the plateau, Strickland’s men were still careering in panic towards the camp in a motley stampede, a retreat as undisciplined as a donkey-race. The rocket-battery would never limber up in time to withdraw. Though well-armed, it was about to be marooned in the centre of the plain. But Durnford’s mounted column was now riding back in good order from the eastern foothills. Its men began to dismount and take up a defensive line just forward of the main camp, where the boulders of the dry river donga offered good cover for the riflemen.

  Pulleine’s voice still carried across the lines.

  “I want Mr. Pope and his platoon brought in now! If the tribes attack down the slope, they’ll be on top of the pickets before we know where we are.”

  Coghill saluted and rode away.

  Strickland and his Volunteers were at last cantering across a flat stretch of plain towards the camp. Durnford’s riflemen were in place, making their forward line of defence among the rocks of the donga. The companies of the 24th and the other regiments still under Pulleine’s command formed a formidable double rampart across the approach to the camp perimeter. With its Martini-Henry breech-loaders, this red-coated infantry presented a constant wall of fire. The kneeling section
s fired first and those standing behind fired over the first rank’s heads while those kneeling reloaded. The aim was sure, disciplined, and regular. Even at quarter of a mile, the effect of such volleys would make a shambles of the close-ranked battalions of the tribes.

  By now, the rocket-battery was isolated. Its launching-troughs on their limber-wheels stood well ahead of the main defensive line. But the camp was secure beyond question. Indeed, at the sight of the double line of infantry, the tribal army at the plateau’s foot appeared to hesitate. The massed bodies swayed a little, side to side, while a hymn-like chant rose slow and mournful to the white heat of the sky.

  “u-Suthu! u-Suthu!”

  Sometimes the warriors would make a brief demonstration with shields and spears, beating the rhythm of a tattoo, only to withdraw. Whatever their chiefs promised, even this phalanx—a mile long and eight or ten men deep—faced slaughter at the hands of mechanised weaponry. The artillery battery was now trained on their approach.

  Pulleine lowered his field-glasses as Coghill returned. The hunter glanced again as his mount rambled on inconspicuously. Chelmsford would be five miles to the south-east by now, following the Malagata range. Coghill had his despatch-book and pencil out. There was only one message to send, and the mounted hunter could echo every word.

  “Return at once with all your force. Zulus advancing in force from the left front of the camp.”

  The hunter had seen and guessed enough. With Strickland’s return, there were scores of men in uniforms identical to his, Natal Volunteers scattered throughout the camp. Once again, no one would pay him the least attention. It was all just as he had calculated. He saw that a mounted messenger and three escorts, one of them a black-coated guide, were making their way to the western perimeter by the foot of the col. He had only to follow at a distance, apparently bringing up the rear as one of the despatch riders. Best of all, Her Majesty’s infantry had been taught that he would not be worth challenging as though he were a British “regular.” The ruffians of the Volunteers did not count as true soldiers.