Harrington eyed the platoon as it
formed up into firing line astride the trail. "Come along, come
along! Let's be having you. Georgie G'wunda won't wait on your
dilly-dallying!"
One of the deadliest implements of Victorian warfare - the Thin Red Line.
The platoon had advanced across the
savanna in skirmish order, but on approaching the objective Captain
Pike had ordered it into firing line. Harrington glanced at the
Captain where he stood examining the distant hill through his
binoculars, with Bugler Bates and anthropologist Dr. Emil Beckenbaur
of Hetzenberg University beside him. Fred's sniffing the wind.
He's developed a nose for trouble in his time out here.
Harrington looked over to the right, where the Volunteers were
closing on the wood. And I hope that silly ass Tuck-Poynter
doesn't find it first!
The presence of the Volunteers, all
ten of them, had been a sore bone of contention for the platoon.
Amateurs to a man, the Volunteers were led by Harrington's old
Harrovian bête noire, Nugent "Brickie" Tuck-Poynter. A
mixture of social classes, they’d proven game and quick to adapt to
conditions in the field, which drew Harrington’s grudging
approbation. The rest of the platoon had scoffed in the way old
soldiers do. It would take a lot more action on the Volunteers’
part to win their approval.
“Sarn’t-Major?”
“Sir?”
Harrington ran over to Pike who handed
him the binoculars. “Take a look at that hut on the forward slope
of the hill.”
Harrington soon found the object,
adjusted the focus and scanned the humble dwelling. A number of
western goods stood outside the door, and he could make out the squat
form of a well to one side. On the other side a small field of millet
waved in the north-westerly breeze. “No sign of life, sir.”
“No. It appears the Reverend Tyler
has quite vanished.” Pike rubbed his left thigh, an unconscious
gesture he made when thinking deeply. He’d suffered a wound there
in a fierce skirmish when the regiment had first come to Africa in
search of a missing merchant. Now on their way north, they searched
for a missing missionary...
“Orders, sir?”
Pike took back his binoculars.
“Something’s in the wind, Sarn’t-Major.” He looked to where
the Volunteers approached a small wood. They’d been ordered to
scout it, but they did so with every appearance of trepidation. “If
those chaps want to play soldier, we’ll let them do so.”
“Sir!” A shout came from the left.
Harrington saw one of the new men pointing urgently at a stand of
scrub some yards away. Birds flew up from the cover, shrieking their
alarm calls. Dark figures moved there.
Pike looked at the assembling mass and
nodded, as if he’d been told the cricket score at Lords. “Well
spotted... ah, Barlow? Good eyes,
that man.”
“Yes,
George Barlow, sir. New recruit.” Harrington came to attention. “Permission to take post, sir?”
“Please do, Sarn’t-Major. I intend
to left wheel and face those fellows.”
The bugle sounded. Under the urging of
Harrington and the other non-coms the platoon wheeled to face the
burgeoning threat. Harrington checked the Volunteers. They’ve
made little progress into the wood, but at least they’ll act as a
tripwire should anyone come at us from that direction.
After that he turned his attention to
the oncoming tribesmen. Menace filled their very being. A small
shiver ran down his spine in recollection of the platoon’s first
foray into G’wundaland. At least we’re now familiar with these
gentlemen and their ways.
Pike eyed the
diminishing distance. When he judged the moment right, he raised his
arm and barked his orders. “Platoon! Five rounds rapid! Make ready!
Fire!”
The deadly volleys
crashed; the Martini-Henry bullets harrowed the oncoming warriors,
cutting great swathes through their number. Men fell and the warband
shuddered and stopped. Through the smoke Harrington could see a
leader waving his spear not at the Barsetshires but to the rear of
his band. Slowly, reluctantly, the natives withdrew. One last volley
and the bugle blew cease fire.
“Good work,
men.” Pike’s voice sounded loud in the sudden silence that
followed the last volley. “You’ve seen them off. Sarn’t-Major,
realign across the trail. Keep an eye on those fellows in the wood.”
“Sir.”
Harrington resumed his position on the right of the line, the better
to check the platoon’s alignment and watch the activity in the
wood. It wasn’t long before trouble started with a rustling in the
scrub just north of the little patch of woodland. “Sir!”
Pike shouted back.
“I see ‘em! Saints alive, the Volunteers are in for a hot time!”
Native appeared
out of the brush, ghosts become flesh in the afternoon heat. They
moved with cunning, flitting into the wood before the platoon could
get a bearing on them and give fire in support of the Volunteers.
Harrington's heart gave a lurch as a wild scream rang through the
sultry air. Dark shapes rushed through the streams of light coming
through the trees and within seconds the sounds of combat arose.
Harrington had
been in combat enough times to know how time seemed to dilate when it
came to fisticuffs. The fighting in the wood went on a long time by
his measure.
Eventually a single figure emerged from the wood,
bloodied and staggering, new clothes torn, broad brimmed hat still on
his head but skewed at a rakish angle. Harrington waved. “Brickie!
Over here man!”
The Old Harrovian
swayed, peered like a drunkard in the CSM’s direction then tottered
over to the platoon on unsteady legs. “They’re dead,” he
mumbled as he came up, slurring like a drunkard too. “They’re all
dead.” Tuck-Poynter’s eyes streamed with tears as Harrington took
his arm. “My men fought like demons but there’s too many of ‘em.
I...”
Corporal White
glanced at Harrington and offered his canteen to the broken man.
Knowing White, Harrington suspected it contained something a little
stronger than water but declined to comment. Tuck-Poynter accepted
the offer and drank deep. After a few moments he seemed to regain
some of his composure. Handing the canteen back with a grateful nod
to White, he resumed his tale. “I was the only man standing. The
natives... they made to surround me. I remembered what the old
gymnastics master at school told us, Horrible.”
Harrington winced
inwardly at the use of his old nickname. White tried to hide a smile. His face turned blank when Harrington gave him a hard glance. “Old ‘Smasher’
Smethurst?”
“The very same." Tuck-Poynter grinned manically. "‘If faced by a bully, then face him like a man!’ I faced the leader of that band, challenged him by
signs to fight me man-to-man. I think I surprised the fellow but he
was game.
“We squared off.
He came at me with arms wide but I tapped him, one-two Marquis of
Queensbury fashion, and he went down on his arse.” Tuck-Poynter
giggled, a note of incipient hysteria in his voice. “He and his
chums looked so surprised I took my chance and hoofed it!”
Harrington gripped
his old school chum’s shoulder. “Have some more of Corporal
White’s medicine, Brickie. You’re safe now.”
George White
looked a little embarrassed at Harrington’s dig, but gamely offered
his canteen again.
Pike came up.
“What news, Sarn’t-Major?” Harrington filled him in. “Ah,
bad show, that.” Pike looked at the wood where dark forms lurked,
his expression grim. “We’d better address the matter. Left wheel,
Sarn’t-Major.”
Harrington took
over. “Platoon! By the left, wheel!”
He and Captain
Pike watched as the left flank of the platoon marched forward at a
steady pace until the line faced the wood. “Platoon, halt!”
Feet crashed, dust
rose, and the line of Barsetshire men faced the enemy. Pike raised
hand and voice. “Five rounds rapid... fire!”
The volleys
crashed out, gunsmoke drifting away down the line as bullets slashed
through the wood. Screams and cries rose and Harrington could see the
natives recoil under the impact. Within minutes they’d fled the
wood, leaving a few bodies behind. “Cease fire!” he shouted.
Pike scanned the
area, assessing the situation. “Right wheel!”
The platoon
responded like a well-oiled machine, wheeling by the right to face
north-west and the scrub to one side of the rudimentary track. Pike
pointed to the western side of the steep knoll, beyond the scrub. A
mass of men appeared to be gathering there. “There’s our next
threat. We’ll deal with them, by-the-by. Stand easy a moment, men.
Drink some water.”
Harrington saw
Tuck-Poynter had calmed down after his near-death escape. Whilst he
felt sorry for his old school-fellow, there were other issues to take
care of. He went down the line, ensuring the corporals were seeing to
their men and that ammunition was ready in sufficient amount. When
satisfied he returned to his position on the end of the line, ready
for Pike’s next order.
It wasn’t long
coming. “Atten-shun!”
The platoon
hastily dropped their canteens on their slings and came to attention.
The native mass, a threatening body of some fifty or so were moving
toward the platoon through the scrub, menace plain in their bearing.
Pike waited until the main part of the warband had emerged from the
scrub before barking his next order. “Shoulder arms! Present arms!
Load!” Up and down the line twenty-four thumbs pressed fat
cartridges home into twenty-four breeches. The natives came on. “Make
ready!” The range dropped to scant thirty yards. “Volley fire, by
command – fire!”
Rifles blazed, dun
colored smoke gushed and the volley tore through the warband. It
recoiled, but Harrington’s experienced eye told him only a few
fell. “Fire!”
Shock mounts up fast in the G'Wunda warband, stopping it in its tracks.
Volleys crashed,
one after the other. The native horde seemed to shiver and came no
further. More men fell there. The Men of Barsetshire perspired as
they rammed cartridges into their Martini-Henrys and plied their
weapons to telling effect. Eventually, with evident reluctance, the
warband retired back into the scrub.
Harrington
squinted, his eyes stinging with gun smoke. The bugle called the
cease fire and the world fell quiet.
“Is that it?”
someone in the ranks asked.
“Quiet there,
Moss,” Harrington said without heat. “Thank your lucky stars they
didn’t come to grips.” Now his ears ceased ringing he could hear
the moans and cries of the wounded natives.
Pike came up and also
looked in that direction. “We’ll attend to those poor devils
shortly.”
“Right sir. We
didn’t see any of their musketeers or archers this time.”
“No.” Pike
rubbed his jaw. “Colonel Trollope told me there’s a rumor the
Belgians are active to the west of G’Wundaland. Perhaps the tribe
is busy with those. In any case, now the area is clear we can
investigate the Reverend’s hut over there and see if we can find
any trace of him.”
The hut proved
empty of humanity but showed evident signs of systematic looting. A
plain wooden cross had been smashed and discarded at the foot of the
wall where it once hung. As Harrington and Pike looked around the
one-room dwelling Harrington spotted something odd. Stooping, he
moved a bed pallet aside and picked up a long scarf of bright scarlet
silk which had been partially covered by the bedding. A delicate
perfume filled the air around it. “Sir? It looks like a woman was
here.”
“Really” Pike
examined the article, fingering the smooth material. “Arabic, if
I’m any judge.”
“Yes, sir. It’s
what I think.” He looked around again at the few pathetic remnants
of a hard religious life lived on the edge of tolerance. “Something
tells me the G’Wunda tribe aren’t responsible for this.”
Pike nodded, his
expression thoughtful. “I think you’re right. This looting, the
broken cross, all bear the hallmarks of slavers. And that scarf...
Y’know, Albert, the Al-quadi’s daughter is still missing. Too
much of a coincidence should this scarf prove to be hers, do you
think?”
“It’s
possible, Fred. It’s dashed odd they’ve kept her as a hostage
when her old man said they wouldn’t.”
“Hmm, quite.”
Pike sighed. “Well, we’d better move on, do what we came here
for. Perhaps the Reverend and the young lass will turn up yet.”
Harrington nodded.
‘We can but hope.”
The command party meet atop the hill to confer.
Will Tyler's Knoll solve the British army's G'Wundaland headache?
* * * *
The cold still lingers but I'm feeling much better. Thoughts on the game and how it played out soon.
