The Regiment Page 3

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Goodnight, Mackinder. You spoke the prayer splendidly.’

  The colonel walked off towards his house, leaving Murdoch gazing after him. He had just been read a lecture because the old blighter had undoubtedly overheard some of the conversation at the foot of the table. Go out and visit the whores, the colonel had been telling him, because your fellow officers are doing that, and comradeship is everything. He wondered if Father, had he still been alive and therefore colonel of the regiment, would have told him to do that?

  He went to bed.

  *

  The regimental band played the march from Aida as the Royal Western Dragoon Guards disembarked in Cape Town. For two days they had had the spectacular beauty of Table Mountain in view, and had been given an opportunity to recover somewhat from a very rough passage down the African coast, while preparations were made for their arrival. A long sea voyage with horses, especially when there was bad weather, was a trying business. Murdoch thought it was a tribute to Colonel Edmonds’ efficiency that only half a dozen animals had been lost. The colonel might be a little too much of a father figure to inspire confidence in his ability to take hard decisions in battle; but that he was an experienced and capable soldier could not be doubted.

  Officers and men and horses were all sorely in need of exercise; yet they put on a brave show, clad in their khaki tunics and topees—with the regimental flash stuck in the hatband—over their blue breeches and black boots, as they led their horses down the gang-plank. Each mount was fully accoutred, sword hanging on the left-hand side in a brown leather scabbard, rifle in a matching scabbard on the right, for the dragoons had begun life as mounted infantry, and even nowadays were trained to fight on foot with a facility equal to charging behind levelled swords. The troopers had bayonets on their hips, as the officers carried holstered revolvers at their waists, and they looked what they were: six hundred highly trained professional soldiers who had campaigned wherever the British Army had been employed during the previous two hundred years. Only the regimental ensign was missing; since the disaster of Majuba Hill in 1881, when the colours had been lost, the ensigns were never taken by regiments serving abroad; those of the Western Dragoons had been stored for safe-keeping in Bath Abbey.

  Murdoch, standing to attention in front of his men, was very aware of the huge crowd which had turned out on the quayside to watch the disembarkation. There were men, women and children, white, black and brown; and a good number of them, judging by the heavy beards of the men and the plump fairness of the women and children, were of Dutch extraction. Whether they were Boers and therefore qualified as potential enemies it was impossible to say.

  ‘Prepare to mount.’

  The men turned to their horses.

  ‘Mount.’

  The regiment swung into its saddles, and the crowd clapped its appreciation of the precision with which the manoeuvre was carried out. The band struck up another march, Colonel Edmonds raised his arm and in a long double column the three squadrons walked their horses on to the road and began their parade through the streets of the city. These too were lined with people, most cheering now at the sight of these first representatives of the might of Great Britain arriving to protect them from any invaders. Outside Government House it was eyes right for a salute to the Governor himself. Then, mercifully—for now it was all but noon and the sun was blazing down—they were beyond the houses and into the encampment. The long rows of orderly white tents gleaming in the sun had been organised by Craufurd and Hobbs and the regimental commissariat, who had gone ashore the previous day.

  Here Murdoch surveyed the eighty-odd men of his command. ‘That was smartly done,’ he said. ‘My congratulations, Sergeant Bishop.’

  ‘Sir!’ The sergeant came to attention. He was a large, heavy man with considerable service behind him, and in the beginning he, like the troopers under his command, had been more than a little suspicious of the young officer, a tyro with a famous name who would no doubt wish to behave in a famous way.

  There had been little time for the men to get to know their new officer before leaving England, but on the voyage out they had begun to appreciate some of his worth, at any rate. They could not help but respond to his care for them, the way he minutely inspected every aspect of their quarters and their food, listened to their complaints, spent a large part of every day with their horses making sure all was well and, in the storm they had encountered off the Guinea Coast, had indeed spent two whole days helping to calm the terrified animals. They had been less appreciative of his insistence that every day the whole troop should turn out for physical exercises on the well deck, pointing out in low grumbles that none of their comrades were exposed to quite such treatment. But Murdoch had refused to be deflected from his determination to have the fittest troop in the regiment, and they had had to accept the situation.

  Now that they were ashore, and actually on a campaign, however, they were again regarding him somewhat quizzically; they knew more about this business than he did.

  ‘Once the horses have been rubbed down and staked, sergeant, the men will take their tents,’ Murdoch said. ‘I will hold an inspection this afternoon at four. Commencing tomorrow morning at dawn, we will exercise the horses.’

  ‘At dawn, sir?’

  ‘The coolest part of the day, sergeant. Rifle practice and sword drill can come later. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Very good. Troop dismissed.’

  He saluted his men as they turned to their left and fell out, leading their horses to the water troughs and then the picket lines. Murdoch’s batman, Trooper Reynolds, was waiting to take his mount.

  ‘Don’t know what living conditions are going to be like here, Mr Mackinder,’ he said. He was a small man with a huge moustache, who, having served under Fergus Mackinder, had virtually adopted Murdoch from the moment of their first meeting. With his experience and his innate good humour and common sense he was a very valuable man to have around, Murdoch discovered; he was, he supposed somewhat ruefully, the nearest thing to a friend he possessed in the regiment. ‘There seems an awful lot of creepy-crawlies,’ he remarked.

  Bugs and Boers and black bottoms, Murdoch thought, recalling the regimental dinner. ‘I imagine we will have to learn to live with the bugs, Reynolds,’ he said, and went across to the large headquarters tent, above which the Union Jack was already flying. Here Colonel Edmonds was surveying his officers and, beyond them, the country, which was undulating, green and altogether attractive.

  ‘It won’t be like this up-country,’ he warned, somewhat gloomily. ‘From all accounts it is brown and arid, and very hilly. Now, gentlemen, our original orders were to proceed to the rail junction at De Aar, close to the frontier of the Orange Free State, in order to reinforce the garrison there, just as rapidly as possible. However, the Governor has seen fit to countermand these; he wishes us to remain here for a while, both to reassure the population and because he is afraid that any strengthening of the garrison at De Aar would offer provocation to the Boers. I have to say that I would have thought provoking the Boers is the very last thing we should be worrying about, but there it is; we must keep the civil authorities happy. And a short stay here will enable us to get the men and the horses back into peak condition.’

  ‘What is the news, sir?’ asked Lieutenant Morton. ‘Is there going to be a war?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ the colonel replied. ‘I don’t see even Kruger being fool enough to take on the British Army. But this is not to say that we can regard ourselves as being on holiday. I want every troop in the field tomorrow, exercising those horses. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.

  ‘But for the time being,’ Edmonds grinned, ‘it will be permitted to take a look at Cape Town.’

  ‘Which is what I am going to do this evening,’ Johnnie Morton confided as the junior officers dispersed. ‘Some of those girls cheering us this morning, damn it, they were just juicy. I don
’t suppose you noticed, Mackinder.’

  ‘No,’ Murdoch said. ‘I didn’t.’

  Morton walked away with Chapman and Fielder; Murdoch went towards Trooper Reynolds, who was waiting with his gear before the tiny tent that he was apparently to call home for the foreseeable future.

  *

  Murdoch understood that he had become an object of contempt to his fellow officers, even if he felt he was beginning to earn the respect of his men. But that respect remained grudging, even on the part of Sergeant Bishop, because he had not yet led them into action. Did he wish to do that? As a professional soldier he would have to, eventually, so probably the sooner the better. Yet he felt an odd reluctance actually to engage the Boers. He tried to remind himself that this was because there would hardly be any glory, as Colonel Edmonds had suggested, in leading his men against a handful of farmers who knew nothing of modern warfare and wished only to preserve their lands and their way of life—even if they had once destroyed a poorly led British army. Had it been the Afghans now, traditional enemies of the British in India, or the Dervishes in the Sudan, or even a European enemy, like the French...he wasn’t sure that he would be able to attack the Boers with the certainty and determination that would be required. On that test would lie his ability to win his men.

  And his place amongst his fellow officers? That he doubted. He had set out to establish himself as a person from the first moment inside the depot near Bath, but he would admit that he had chosen a hard and sometimes despairing, path to follow. Being entirely friendless in the midst of several hundred men was an intensely lonely business. He was not given to too much introspection, feeling that it led to depression, but it was none the less galling to be deliberately left out of all group activities shared by his brother officers—even those he would have enjoyed—simply because he would not partake in those he felt distasteful.

  The colonel’s remarks on the evening of the regimental dinner had stuck in his mind. When they finally went into action it would certainly be a splendid thing to feel that Johnnie Morton would be thinking with the same mind. Professionally, of course, they would do so. They had both gone through the same training, studied the same books. And Morton was certainly respected by his men; he had been with them in India and had been under fire, too. Yet it was impossible to feel any affinity for him, as either a man or an officer; he left the care of his people to his sergeant and seemed interested in soldiering only as a means to enjoy life.

  Yet he was the most popular officer in the regiment, so no doubt Colonel Edmonds was right after all.

  That evening Murdoch almost surrendered and asked if he could accompany Morton, Chapman, Hobbs and Fielder when they set off for the city. He didn’t, partly because he still did not wish to compromise his principles—and in any event had no desire to be thrust forward as a sacrificial virgin by his fellows—and partly because he suspected they might refuse his company. So he remained in the camp and read his history of South Africa, and tried to envisage what the country to the north of Cape Town, with its ‘drifts’ and ‘kopjes’ might be like...and found himself wondering what the happy, jolly, plump Dutch girls of Cape Town might be like as well. It was the first time in his life he had ever really had a yen to go out and find himself a woman. And he simply did not know how to begin.

  *

  Over the next few days, exercising the troop and the mounts, he was keenly aware that he was under the constant, distant, supervision of both Colonel Edmonds and Captain Holt. It was hot, exhausting work in the semi-tropical sun, but he kept his men at it longer than any other subaltern. Quite apart from wishing to occupy himself, he was certain they were going to need absolute fitness to campaign in the rough country that lay up north. The men grumbled, but he just smiled at them and made them do it all one more time.

  He was surprised at the end of the first week when he found Captain Holt waiting for him as he finally dismissed the troop. ‘I would take things just a little more easily, Mackinder,’ Holt remarked. ‘You have a fine body of men there, but it is possible to hone them to too sharp an edge, as one can do with a sword; the blade begins to wear away.’

  Although Colonel Edmonds had suggested back in Bath that Holt was pleased with his work, this was the first time that the captain had ever addressed more than half a dozen consecutive words to him, and Murdoch was considerably taken aback. He knew, of course, that Holt seldom spoke to anyone. Nevertheless, he had been just a little disconcerted at his captain’s apparent lack of interest, and now, to be told off for working his men...

  ‘We must assume we are here to fight a war, sir,’ he said. ‘That is hardly a matter one can take lightly.’

  Holt frowned at him. ‘We’re not at war yet, Mackinder,’ he pointed out. ‘But you want to take it more lightly, certainly. Next thing you’ll be down with heat exhaustion, and we can’t replace officers all that easily. Not good ones,’ he added.

  Murdoch turned his head sharply.

  Holt grinned at him. ‘I gather you prefer your own company,’ he said. ‘However, if you can stand it, I’m going into Cape Town this evening for a jar or two. Care to join me?’

  Murdoch hesitated only a moment; Holt was as different as could be from Morton, therefore his tastes would be different too. ‘I’d be delighted, sir.’

  ‘Then have a shave and put on your undress, and meet me at the gate in an hour.’

  They rode remounts. Murdoch had had to come to grips with a strange horse when he joined the regiment and settled for Edward IV, a powerful black gelding who rode like a steeplechaser; but Edward had been out all day with the troop and needed a rest. Besides, they were going to explore Cape Town, not take it by assault.

  Holt led him on a tour of the saloons, less interested in drink than in conversation about the place and the people and their prospects. Cape Town was still very much a frontier town, although with some pretensions to beauty, and with some long-established residential areas as well. These apparently did not attract Holt, who preferred to investigate the commercial centre, surveying the various bar patrons they encountered with his sardonic expression.

  ‘It seems odd,’ he remarked, ‘that we should have been sent here to fight against the Boers, perhaps, and here we are surrounded by them. Of course, you have the same thing in India, where you never really know whether the johnnie you are speaking to in the street is an Afghan or a Pathan waiting to stab you in the back. But somehow one expects it to be different, where white people are concerned. I wonder how loyal these people would be if it were to come to blows.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll come to blows?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘I think it very well might,’ Holt said. ‘We’re not inclined to learn by our mistakes, unfortunately. We provoked the American colonists to armed resistance, a hundred and twenty-five years ago, and got a bloody nose. Of course, we seem to be taking things a little more seriously this time, and when Buller gets his army corps assembled here in the Cape things may look different, but it’s entirely possible the Boers do not realise the force that is being mustered against them.’

  ‘So if they start something, it’ll be murder,’ Murdoch suggested. ‘I mean, I know they licked Colley at Majuba Hill in eighty-one, but, well...’

  Holt grinned. ‘Don’t be too afraid to speak ill of your betters. Colley was incompetent. Oh, indeed he was. Let us hope Buller is not.’

  ‘I understand Buller is very highly thought of.’

  ‘Oh, indeed he is. Victoria Cross, experience in Africa, but fighting darkies armed with spears and muzzle loaders, unfortunately...we shall have to see. Have another beer.’

  ‘Mine this time.’ Murdoch signalled the waiter, feeling more at home than at any moment since he had first joined the regiment. He noticed a young man looking at him, only a couple of years older than himself, he estimated, tall and powerfully built, with broad, strong features topped by a mass of curly yellow hair. Now the young man realised he had been discovered, and gave a brief bow, moving his feet alm
ost as if he would have clicked his heels.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, speaking English with just a hint of an accent. ‘I was admiring your uniforms.’ Both Murdoch and Holt wore the pale blue undress jacket of the regiment. ‘May I say that they do not look British?’

  ‘Well, they are,’ Holt said.

  The young man came closer. ‘So I have heard. The Royal Western Dragoon Guards, recently arrived from England. A very famous regiment. My name is Paul Reger.’

  ‘Murdoch Mackinder,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘Tom Holt,’ Holt grunted. ‘Are you Dutch, sir?’

  ‘No, captain. I am German. But I am on my way to Johannesburg.’

  ‘To earn your fortune,’ Murdoch suggested.

  ‘I hope so. But really, my uncle has a share in a gold mine there,’ Reger told them. ‘Which I have been appointed to look into. But I am interested in military matters. I have done my service with the colours. Do you mind if I join you?’ He signalled the waiter to bring more drinks.

  Holt shrugged his agreement. Murdoch was more obviously welcoming; he rather liked the look of this young man.

  Reger sat down, and paid for the next round. ‘I too served with the cavalry, in Germany,’ he said. ‘The 9th Uhlans. Perhaps you have heard of them.’

  ‘I have heard of the Uhlans,’ Holt said. ‘A famous body of men.’

  ‘But you have left them?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘Well, I have done my service. Now I am in the reserve.’

  ‘Oh, I see; you were a conscript.’ The concept was foreign to his way of thinking. ‘Then you mean that if there was a war, you would be recalled to the colours?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yet you have been allowed to go off to remote corners of the globe, like Johannesburg?’