The Jam'aah Game

Come on, you knew there'd be a pun in there somewhere, didn't you? ;)

Anyway, I played the Jam'aah Valley game to my usual Sharp Practice (v.1) rules with house modifications, and it went well.

The rules use Blinds for hidden movement, and some terrain features are considered blinds by their nature. I decided the rocky hills either side of the valley were such, but I drew up four cards for slaver forces. Two were for Groups of 12 men, one was a Mob of 24, and the last card was blank. In the game the two 12-man Groups turned up on the first hills the Imperial force came upon. I half-expected the 24-man Mob to show up on the second hill on the right of the valley, but it turned up on the tower hill, raising the strength of the tower garrison to 50 men. Rather a tough proposition!

During the game the British infantry blasted away with rifle fire, and even the askaris performed nicely for a change. The slavers inflicted some shrewd casualties on the British force, which otherwise would've caused them serious trouble, but the Bonus cards appeared quite often in this game where they hadn't in previous ones. In this instance the British got a Stand Fast card while firing on the slaver band upon the hill to the left of the valley. This card allows the British commander to rally off 1d6 Shock points. When the slaver force in the tower let fly they inflicted six points of Shock on the British column. Thanks to the Tiffin card coming up next followed by Captain Pike's card, he was able to rally four points off right away and keep his men in the fight.

No, the Wali didn't have an astroturf lawn laid next to his tower. I forgot to pick up the Blind card in the excitement of the game. ;)

Due to this the slavers didn't fare as well as I expected, even behind fortifications. Shock built up quickly under the incessant rifle and shell fire, and the death and/or wounding of their Junior Leaders didn't help their cause. It's a different matter in hand-to-hand combat, where the slavers count as Wallahs with big choppers. Then they're capable of slicing a British Tommy up like a kipper, as I found in other games where the sides closed to melee. I think on the whole it balanced out.

Speaking of shell fire, I hadn't used the screw gun (or mountain gun; it takes various guises) that often in games, and when I did I found it underwhelming in action.

You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don't get away from the guns! ~ Kipling, The Screw Guns.

Except up to now the enemy had little to fear from this example of the species.

After thinking over the problem I decided the heart of the matter lay in the fact that the rules were written for Napoleonic smooth-bore muzzle-loading artillery, and not the rifled pieces of the 1880s. Yes, it was a bit of a duh! moment. After another bit of thought I uprated the gun to count as Heavy under the rules, allowing it twelve fire dice instead of the usual ten to reflect the power of the explosive shell. To reflect the greater accuracy of a rifled artillery piece, I also gave it +1 to each fire die. This worked nicely in the Jam'aah Valley game, making the screw gun a force to be reckoned with.

So, on to the post-battle campaign book-keeping. Under my campaign system a unit has to perform well for three consecutive games before being uprated on the Sharp Practice chart - Poor to Regular to Good to Elite - or perform poorly to be downgraded. The askaris are fresh recruits and rated as Poor, but they did well in the Jam'aah Valley. If they continue to make good progress over the next two games they'll be uprated to Regular.

The Barsetshires fought their third action as Good troops on this occasion, and are hereby uprated to Elite. They did suffer six men killed in action, a sizable percentage of their strength, but they kept their high morale all the way through so I judged the losses would not affect their being uprated.

They accrue all sorts of nice benefits on the firing and morale charts. As Elites the Barsetshires now count +1 per fire die for every four men firing. The "Cardwell Reforms" I imposed several games ago reduced the section strength from ten to eight men. It gave the company tactical flexibility at the cost of firepower. In most encounters up to now the Barsetshires have had a few rocky moments as a consequence of native or slaver warbands coming into melee with the smaller sections due to the troops being unable to shoot down attacks as easily as they once did. It forced Fred Pike to fight the company as a tactically-stiff Formation in order to deploy useful firepower and melee combat ability. As Elites the company should regain that lost firepower and retain the flexibility.

Morale improves too. They don't recoil as far if they lose their bottle, and it becomes easier to replace Big Men who fall to the enemy, wounded or dead - although I hope Captain Pike and CSM Harrington will be around for a long time yet!

Action in the Jam'aah Valley - 1

The Jam'aah Valley, looking north toward the town.

Captain Pike disposed his troops as planned. Number 2 section under CSM Harrington shook out into skirmish order and approached the first rocky hill on the right as the main body moved up the dirt road into the valley.

In the town, the slavers go about their foul business, watched by the Wali himself.

More goods - human and material - for market; but who's the European man chatting with the slaver?

The Men of Barsetshire see their destination through the heat haze.

They have also been spotted. Native allies of the slavers move through the town, ready to be deployed as the Wali decides.

CSM Harrington eyed the hill. "Be ready, lads," he said. "There's something moving up there."

Over on the far left, Sergeant Rutledge led his askaris toward the western hills. He knew the British soldiers had a poor opinion of the troops he commanded, and was determined to prove the askaris' worth in battle.

A keen-eyed observer keeps watch on the distant Red Soldiers.

As Number 2 section approached the hill, robed figures stood up from where they'd hidden amongst the rocks. A wild fusillade broke out and a man dropped in the Barsetshire ranks. "Fire at will!" Harrington roared. Soon gunsmoke filled the air as a brisk exchange of fire broke out.

A similar scenario played out over to the left. The askaris had better cover than the Barsetshire men, and it proved its worth as they traded shots with the slavers.

To the north the town gates of Jam'aah swung open to allow the tribal warband through. Chief Ngutyana halted his warriors and took stock of the situation opening down the road. The Red Soldiers of the Great White Queen had a reputation for destroying her enemies in brisk fashion, and he thought over ways to counter them.

Harrington's men had difficulty picking out the enemy warriors as they moved nimbly across the rocky hill. Bullets found their mark on both sides - but help for the Barsetshire men was on its way.

Over at the main body Pike seized up the situation. "Form line! Make ready! Preee-sent! Fire!" A regular volley crashed out, peppering the distant figures with Martini-Henry rounds. Close by, Havildar Shukla brought up his gun and unlimbered it on the flank of the main body. Loading the seven pound shell and taking aim took but moments. With a final check that all stood ready, the Naik took up the slack on the lanyard, tugged, and -

- The shell exploded right on target.

* * * *

The account of the Action in the Jam'aah Valley will continue soon.

"You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees,
But you don't get away from the guns!" ~ Rudyard Kipling, Screw Guns.

Of Intelligence Received.

CSM Harrington escorted Fatima bint Daud under the open fly and into Captain Pike's tent. Pike looked up from his folding desk and smiled with relief, which turned to open interest when he saw Fatima.

Harrington saluted. "Reporting as ordered, sir. Our mission was a success. May I introduce Miss Fatima bint Daud."

She made a pretty curtsy. "À votre service, m'sieur le capitain."

Pike got to his feet in a hurry and bowed to her. "Je suis enchanté, mademoiselle." He opened his mouth a couple of times and looked at Harrington with a pleading expression.

Harrington hid a smile seeing Fred Pike had pretty much exhausted his stock of French. "Miss Daud speaks reasonable English too, sir."

"Phew! That's a relief." Fred smiled at the young woman. "Barchester Grammar School failed me in languages, I fear." 

Her lips twitched. "I know the sergeant speaks a little Arabic, so I am sure between the three of us we will manage some'ow, Capitain."

"I'm sure. I trust I see you in good health?"

"Mais oui." She turned shining eyes upon Harrington. "The good sergeant 'ere is très galant."

Harrington blinked. Oh my! He knew feminine interest when he saw it. And by Jove, Fatima's a pretty little thing...

Pike missed the moment, as he bustled about setting out camp stools. "Please, take a pew. Would you like some tea? My batman has just boiled the kettle."

"Most kind."

"What of the Reverend Tyler, sergeant?" Pike asked.

"He's rather distressed, sir. The experience he went though was a harsh one for a chap his age. I took him straight to the medico."

"Good man. I shall trot along and have a chat with him presently."

Pike's batman entered and served tea with a curious glance at the young woman, before taking up his post within shouting distance outside beyond the open tent fly. Pike turned to business straight away. "Now, Miss Daud, I hope those dogs didn't... ah, um, upset you in any way?"

She shook her head quickly. "Oh no. I was too valuable to them. And now I 'ave escaped, I 'ave valuable information for you, capitain."

Fatima reached into a fold of her dress and produced a small calico drawstring bag. Handing it to Pike she sat back with an air of expectation. With a questioning look he untied the strings, opened the neck of the bag and tipped a number of rough crystalline stones into the palm of his hand. Harrington stiffened and his eyes went wide. When Pike looked at him Harrington cleared his throat. "Diamonds, sir. In the rough. You've got a small fortune there in your hand." He made a quick calculation. "Enough to buy Barchester Grammar School outright, sir, and have enough over for Lady Gertrude's Day School."

Pike's expression went wooden. He let the stones trickle back into the bag. "Good heavens!"

Fatima leaned forward, her dark eyes sparkling. "They were in the town 'ouse in Jam'aah, where I was kept prisoner. I over'eard the Wali saying they are to be found in the 'ills in the vicinity of the town. Not only that, there was a white man there. 'e met with the Wali to discuss trading in slaves."

Pike stiffened "Did he, by jingo!"

"Most certainly. They discussed my price." She tossed her head, an effect which Harrington thought would have looked far better had her hair not been covered in a modest way. "Naturally I could not allow the trade to 'appen, so I took the diamonds and, 'ow your soldiers say, I legged it."

"Jam'aah, you say?"

"Oui. It lies beyond the range of craggy 'ills where the galant sergeant and 'is men rescued me. There is a stone tower guarding the pass, but the walls around the town are not strong."

"Indeed." Pike looked into space for a minute then eventually stirred and got to his feet. "Stay here and keep Miss Daud company, sergeant. I had better inform the Colonel of this intelligence. If there's slavery afoot, it needs to be dealt with."

He departed, shouting for the heliograph section to muster. Fatima sipped her tea in a decorous manner, her gaze flicking ever and anon to Harrington. Silence fell in the tent. Beyond the canvas walls the sounds of the camp and the noises of the African veldt could be heard. Minutes stretched, with Harrington feeling more self-conscious by the second. Finally he mustered the courage to speak.

"Miss Daud..."

Pike entered the tent with a smile. "We're under orders, sergeant. Reinforcements are on the way, and we're to attack and capture the town of Jam'aah." His smile faded when he saw the expression on their faces. "I say, I hope I wasn't interrupting anything..?"

* * * *

The next battle featuring the Men of Barchester was played out over the course of three days. A full report will follow soon.

Tyler’s Knoll: Post-game thoughts.

A dramatic shift in fortunes for the Barsetshires this time, with no casualties suffered whatsoever. The same can’t be said for “Brickie” Tuck-Poynter’s poor Volunteers, who died to a man...

As I’ve said before, under the Sharp Practice rules when natives get into hand-to-hand combat it can be very nasty for their opponents. I automatically rate all tribal warbands as Aggressive, meaning +1 to every combat die. So it was all up with the Volunteers, although the dice goddess looked favorably upon their last moments. Three times in succession they managed to inflict equal casualties on the warband in spite of being rated as Poor troops, and by the rules the melee continued. In the end sheer numbers told against them, but Brickie Tuck-Poynter challenged and engaged the warband’s Big Man in fisticuffs. This is quite allowable under the rules, and is the only instance it’s happened in any of my games so far. As single combat between warriors is a tradition with many African tribes I thought his challenge would be accepted. A swift blow according to the Marquess of Queensbury’s rules saw the native Big Man sitting out the match for a while as Brickie scampered off through the undergrowth.

And so to the British firing line. If a warband is deadly in melee, the firing line is deadly in ranged combat. The campaign saw a change to British army organization, with sections reduced from ten to eight men, including an NCO. Up until then the sections operated individually quite well, being large enough to present a good volume of fire and usually large enough to fend for itself in melee. With the reorganization, however, things changed. The smaller sections lost a certain amount of firepower – two dice less for fewer men firing, and as “Good’ troops rate one extra die per five men firing, they lost another die here.

The Barsetshire’s first venture into G’Wundaland showed how dangerous it is for British units to operate in the old-fashioned way. Captain Pike decided the platoon should thenceforth operate as one body (In Sharp Practice terms as a Formation made up of three Groups). This lead to it being somewhat cumbersome, but the firepower increase proved considerable.

In the game, volley fire didn’t inflict a huge number of actual kills on the warbands, but they accumulated Shock at a terrific rate. The Barsetshires benefited from the Breechloader card coming up three or four times in succession, which helped enormously. Five Rounds Rapid indeed. As a solo gamer I try to fight according to what I believe the commanders on the ground would do. In this action I decided the native Big Men would see how things were going and withdraw to fight another day. 

What would happen if the two forces get into melee? No doubt it'll be revealed in another game.

And so to the set-up for the next game. The Barsetshire’s brief is to establish a fortified camp or zariba on the hill-top to act as a way-station and supply base for farther ventures into G’Wundaland. I think the G’Wunda tribe will have something to say about this. The Arab slavers also won’t be too happy with the presence of Law and Order backed by the Red Queen’s Soldiers coming to this part of Africa. The mysterious great lake is still to be found, and there’s also the disappearance of the Reverend Tyler and Fatima bint-Daud, the Al-Quadi’s daughter to solve...

Action at Tyler's Knoll

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.

Post-game thoughts

So, what happened?

The Société belge de commerce africaine's gendarmerie had their collective heads handed to them on a plate. Little went right for them, which is a perfect example of the friction of war generated by the excellent Sharp Practice rules. Out of 24 square feet of available playing area, as the game evolved I used a quarter of that all up one end of the table!

The gendarmerie's deployment onto the field of battle was tardy to begin with. Their Big Man cards emerged from the deck infrequently, whilst the natives were served much better by the cards, deploying and moving in plenty of time. In the rules, the Tiffin card allows units to alter formation, spot for enemies and even fire if they haven't done any of the above that turn. By these terms the gendarmerie could deploy and did so. Although they could fire, no targets offered until the native forces were already dangerously close.

I have a number of Breechloader cards in the deck to reflect the modern increase in firepower compared to that of the Napoleonic era for which the rules were originally written. When drawn the card allows a unit so equipped to fire upon the nearest target. This should have favoured the gendarmerie since they're armed with Albini breechloading rifles - but the cards failed to appear. Added to that the gendarmerie's dice scores were atrocious in all but one combat: Sergeant De Vos' section inflicted almost a third of the G'Wunda warriors' final casualties in their last round of combat before routing.

As far as the G'Wunda warriors are concerned, I rated the two main warband leaders and their men as Aggressive, ready and willing to take the fight to the enemy. Dice rolls showed they lacked the patience to follow the original plan to wait in ambush whilst the musketeers stung the gendarmerie into pursuing them into the trap. Instead they advanced.

It must be said melee in Sharp Practice is nasty, especially when native forces (Wallahs is the term used in the rules) get into hand-to-hand combat. As noted the tribal warriors were already rated as Aggressive, giving +2d6 per Group for an extra four dice in all. In the rules a Big Man can induce Fervour to a unit, exhorting it to fight in melee with well above average ability. This translates as a unit gaining extra d6 in melee per point spent on Fervour. The tribal Big Men played their accumulated Grasp the Serpent cards well to gain a point of Fervour for each warband, which made their attack on the hapless gendarmerie even more brutal.

Oddly enough there were no Big Man casualties on either side.

So in campaign terms what happens now? The gendarmerie routed and the Société's foray into G'Wundaland has come to a dead stop. They may be back - equally their sudden depletion in manpower means the Société's territory has become vulnerable to raids by Arab slavers. It leaves the way clear for the British to try their luck in G'Wundaland once more - but now the native musketeers have acquired fine Albini breech-loading rifles. Interesting times lie ahead...

Washing the Spears

The afternoon had worn on before the intruders made their move. Akhona stood in the shade of the trees and watched the straggling line of blue-clad black men emerge from the savannah. They were led by a white man riding a mule, his blocky figure swaying with the animal's motion, a tall white hat like a beehive atop his head, and a thick greying beard adorning his face. Three other men, all black, walked by his side. One wore blue, the others trade clothing. They seemed to be guides. Akhona could see one other white man, clad in blue with a white hat, amid the black soldiers. A sub leader of some kind?

Dakasa came up alongside Akhona and glanced at him. "When?"

Akhona hefted the old trade musket, the weight solid in his grip, the barrel warm on his skin from the day's heat. "Soon. You know our orders. We fire and retire, draw them onto the war bands."

Dakasa grunted, whether in acceptance or disgust Akhona didn't know nor did he care. The intruders came on, caution in their every movement, the one on the mule dropping back behind the line. Akhona nodded. "Make ready..."

*

Capitain Willem Potgeiter decided to slip behind the skirmish line, the better to see the terrain ahead in some degree of security. He'd hardly done so before an excited shout went up from the askaris on his right. Dark figures emerged from the shadows beneath a stand of trees ahead. Almost at once the edge of the wood blossomed with mustard-coloured smoke. Bullets whispered past his ears, kicked up small spurts of dusty soil. His askaris yelled with shock, Potgeiter noting with unease even in the midst of his own surprise the note of fear underlying the sound. Has the prospect of entering G'Wundaland unnerved them so? "Steady!" he yelled. In front of him Corporal Smets added his own voice to the command, cuffing his men into order. To Willem's relief no-one appeared injured.

"Return fire, damn you!" Potgeiter braced himself for another volley from the woods but it didn't come. Instead the shadowy figures retreated into the copse. Smet glanced back at him, baffled. "That's it, sir?"

Potgeiter scowled. "For now. I think they're trying to draw us in." He rubbed his beard, the bristles rasping under his fingers. "We don't know what lies in wait within those low hills, so we won't oblige them."

He looked over his shoulder. At that moment Corporal Lemmens emerged from the brush at the head of his section, the men formed in a short column. He'd left the bearers further back as ordered. Potgeiter gestured to him to take station on the left flank. Lemmens saluted and began to deploy his men into line. Potgeiter returned his attention to the front and his heart leaped into his mouth. Whilst he'd been distracted a warband had emerged onto the low rise before them. He could count at least twenty warriors, with the possibility of more trending down the reverse slope and out of his sight. Sunlight glinted off a multitude of spearheads, the tribal colours of the bearers glowing proudly beneath. 

Smets saw them too. He uttered an epithet and redoubled his efforts to steady the askari. With an insouciant air the warband began to advance across the hill toward the left flank, where Lemmens attempted to form his men.

Potgeiter glanced anxiously at the copse, but the musketeers had retired into the depths. He wondered at that. Surely they would take the chance to pepper us, perhaps score some hits this time while that war band attacks our left? But no. He dismissed them, turned his attention to the left, where the warband approached at a trot now, menace in every line.

Movement behind heralded the welcome arrival of Sergeant De Vos and his men. The tough veteran looked ahead, nodded to Potgeiter and immediately formed his section into a two-deep firing line. To Potgeiter's annoyance Lemmens was taking too long to form up. "Move, man!" Potgeiter gestured angrily. "Get those men in line now!"

Lemmens pushed the last man into place and shouted the commands. "Ready! Aim! Fire!" The askaris let fly but their shooting was poor. Potgeiter saw one warrior fall on the hill. The others shuddered under the blow then gathered themselves together...

 

*

Chulumacha, war-leader of the G'Wunda tribe, waved his spear above his head. "The weapons of the blue warriors sting but little!" He pointed at the fallen warrior then at the gathering enemy. "Only Combela falls, but we shall avenge him! On, my friends! Drive this scum from our lands! Onward! Onward!"

As one they surged down the slope, dust kicking up at their heels. Chulumacha  ran with his men, his blood singing at the prospect of combat. The blue-clad interlopers stood their ground but fear came off them in waves. He could see they fumbled with their weapons but it was too late. Chulumacha had teased Akhona about it when they'd discussed the merits of musketry. "The musket is a fool - only the spear is wise!" He giggled now at the memory - then raised his shield and slammed into the enemy ranks.

The fight proved one-sided. The blue-clad warriors fought hard with their clumsy blade-tipped muskets but he and all but two of his comrades deftly avoided their puny blows. Within minutes the surviving enemy broke and ran, their white leader first to flee.

Chulumacha turned his attention to the next target, a similar line forming up on the left. As the last of their blue-clad friends won clear of the melee, fire and smoke spurted from the line. Chulumacha flinched and warriors fell - but too few to count. He laughed aloud, exulting in living another minute and in the enemy's ineptness. His men looked around, recovered from the shock of the volley, and shared his laughter. From the expressions on the faces of the blue-clad warriors, the sound was the last they wanted to hear. Chulumacha grinned and pointed his spear at them. "Onward!"

*

A stirring in the copse presaged another advance from native warriors. Potgeiter's heart sank when he saw a second warband emerge, prowling from the shadows with deadly intent. His men had settled down, Smets forcing them into firing line. As the warband drew near Potgeiter drew a deep breath. "Fire!"

The volley roared, to little effect. As the smoke drifted away on the easterly breeze the warband came on, impacting all along the line with a triumphant scream and a crash of arms. Potgeiter drew his pistol and shot into the hacking stabbing mass, uncaring if his own soldiers got in the way. Five of his men fell, but only three tribal warriors. The askaris' morale wavered and they fell back, Smets roaring at them to stand their ground. 

"No!" Smets looked up as Potgeiter shouted, the corporal's face red with fury and fear. Potgeiter waved to the left. "Form up on De Vos!"

The askaris had other ideas. They fell back farther than Potgeiter wished, leaving De Vos' flank open to attack.

A glance that way showed Potgeiter such concerns were no longer necessary. The first warband had smashed into De Vos with furious speed. 

The fight took longer than Potgeiter expected, the askaris fighting with a ferocity born of desperation. Eventually De Vos and his handful of survivors fell back, leaving almost as many G'Wunda warriors dead as they themselves had suffered before the askaris morale wavered.

The end came soon after, the second warband charging home and combining with the first to extinguish any hope Potgeiter had of holding the ground. Turning the mule with main force, he and the pitiful remnant of his command joined the flight back into the bush.

*

As the land fell silent Akhona wandered out of the copse, crossing the bloodstained ground at the head of his musketeers to gaze with curiosity upon the fallen enemy. He noted the tribal scars on the cheeks of the fallen, wondered what tribe would so submit to such weak, pale-skinned leaders. He stooped and rested his musket on the ground, picking up a fallen weapon from a dead blue-clad warrior. The man's eyes stared sightless at the vault of the sky, his life spent. A vicious slash had cleft the red fez he wore in two, the cut continuing into his brain.

Akhona turned the weapon over in his hands, noting the breech-loading mechanism with a stirring of excitement. Dakasa picked up another rifle. He grunted. "They could have done so much better."

"It's good for us they didn't." Akhona sighted along the barrel. "Have the men pick up all fallen weapons, ammunition. We can use these."

Chulumacha walked up, his oiled chest still heaving from the exertion of combat. "We saw them off! They run like antelope back to their lands, and won't return. We'll harass them as far as we can before night, maybe pick up some more booty." He grinned and pointed at the rifle. "Do you still insist that's the best weapon, after witnessing what my warriors did with spears alone this day?"

Akhona smiled. "You did indeed do well, my friend." He slung the rifle over his shoulder by the strap. "One day I'll show you what my friends and I can do."

* * * *

The game, a one-sided affair, was fought to Sharp Practice rules with my own modifications for Colonial warfare. A few thoughts on the game, with the implications for the campaign in general, will follow soon.

The Trek to Fahtah

The Barsetshire company began the march to the river before dawn. Unlike the previous trek into the hinterland the countryside they passed over now undulated. The soil turned into a mixture of silt, sand and dried loam which kicked up a trail of dust beneath the soldiers' boots. Patel the bhisti-wallah was kept busy, dashing up and down the line to supply water from his chaggal to the thirsty men. Captain Fred Pike watched him, and never failed to be heartened by the man's perpetual good cheer.

As for his soldiers, they had about them a solid air of determination. The Barsetshire Regiment was not accustomed to defeat. The reverse of a few days' previous had upset the men for a while, but now they had a gleam in their eyes that spoke of trouble for any who dared to get in their way.

As the day shifted into afternoon the head of the column topped a rise. Pike peered into the distance and saw rooftops shimmering through the heat haze above a fortified wall. Atop the little hill the southerly wind seemed fresher, and held the rich scent of flowing water and vegetation. Pike could just see the gleam of the river beyond the town. He turned his head and called back to the column. "Sarn't-Major? Halt the men and come up here."

The company stopped, and the dust cloud began to settle out of the air. CSM Harrington strode up the slope and came to a halt beside Fred. "Sir?"

Fred pointed to the distant settlement. "Unless I miss my guess, that's Fahtah." Pike allowed a smile to touch his dry lips. "We're nearly home."

Harrington tipped his pith helmet back and mopped his sweating brow with a grubby handkerchief as he surveyed the distant town and the immediate area. "It's right good to know, sir. Even so, we'd best keep sharp." He looked thoughtful as he gestured to the thick belt of scrub that edged the ridge crossing their front. "I don't like the look of that lot, sir."

Pike rubbed his jaw with a rasp of stubble. "I think you're right. Very well, we'll stay sharp. Bring the chaps up in line, and we'll advance when we know what's what."

Harrington saluted and trotted back down the slope. He barked orders and the company shook into line. Farther back the wounded and the bearers waited along with the civilian component of the expedition, District Commissioner Carstairs, his friend Dr. Emil Beckenbaur of Hetzenberg University, and Dr. Lance Armstrong of the Royal Geographic Society. The gentlemen had proved stalwart in the face of adversity, and unlike some civilians Pike had known they'd not caused any kind of fuss. He appreciated it, just as he was fully aware of how his own actions would appear when it came time for DC Carstairs to report to his superiors in government. But that lay in the future. For now, he had to get his command to safety.

The company marched up the slope and over the crest. "Sir?" Harrington pointed ahead. "We've got visitors."

Pike followed the direction he pointed and sighed inwardly. They'd succeeded in evading the Gwunda tribal warrior bands, but now it seemed they had caught up. The scrub looked alive with dark bodies, flitting in and out of the shadows. "Form firing line," Pike barked. Harrington gave the orders, and the company shook out into the classic double rank of the British Line.

As the warband gathered to spring from below, Pike couldn't help but reflect wryly on the formation change forced on him by battle casualties, which themselves had occurred due to the new unit organization handed down from on high. With most of the company formed up in mass instead of by sections, he now had a much beefed-up firing line - which would've saved them in the previous encounter. He glanced speculatively at the warband. It remains to be seen how it'll affect those fellows.

Even as he watched the warriors screamed their war-cry and charged across the little valley. They poured from the undergrowth, and looked to number at least as many as the men from Barsetshire. Harrington nodded in satisfaction and hefted his rifle. "Company-y-y..!" he roared. "Present! Fire!"

The rifles blazed as one and the little valley began to fill with gun smoke. Screams and yells cut through the air, but still the native horde rushed on. Pike drew his sword and pistol moments before the warband crashed into his company.

From the first he saw the native charge lacked impetus. Three of his men fell beneath savage blows, but the rest gave better than they got, plying bayonet and clubbed rifles with fierce determination. After what seemed mere seconds the warband drew off, leaving plenty of dead and dying.

The wind came from the south, bearing wails of pain and fear. It also served to disperse the smoke from the little valley. After some minutes the scene became clear. Harrington stepped up beside him. Pike glanced at the tough CSM and saw he looked annoyed. "What's wrong, Sarn't-Major?"

"I'm going to have to work on our musketry, sir." Harrington pointed into the valley. "The men didn't allow for the downward slope. They fired high and only caught the rear of that band. We should've stopped them cold down there."

Pike smiled. "It wasn't so bad, Albert." He indicated the body of a well-dressed native. "If you look, it seems we did kill their leader. These fellows looked nervous from the first, so that fellow must've been whipping them in from behind. It's just his bad luck that's where our fire struck hardest."

Harrington looked thoughtful then gave a sour grin. "I suppose you're right sir. I'll still have to tighten up our drill, though."

"As you wish, Albert." Pike looked around. "I think enemy's gone far deeper into the bush. Check our men. Those who're dead will have to abide here until we come back. We'll get a move on now."

Harrington nodded and sketched a salute. Under command, the company descended into the valley. They'd scarce reached the bottom before another war-cry split the air. Surprised, Pike shot a look over to the left flank where another war band charged out of the scrub. "Action left!" he shouted, but Harrington had already headed that way.

The fight took even less time than the first, although the men had been unable to fire. Their fighting spirit and the bayonet won out again over the natives, who withdrew sullenly. Harrington turned half the platoon to face them then got on with doing what he did best, directing rapid aimed fire into an enemy. The warband melted under three stinging volleys of Martini-Henry fire. Pike saw Marksman Lewis take careful aim at a prancing figure much like the dead leader lying close by. The man jumped and staggered as Lewis' bullet struck, but he got up and ran away, his fellows close behind him. Lewis shook his head ruefully as the men stood-down and chafed him in good-natured fashion over his poor aim. Lewis still wore a bandage from the wound suffered in the last encounter with the Gwunda tribe, and held this up as mitigation for his poor aim.   

The immediate threat over, Pike gave orders for the company to reform. At that moment a movement on the hill in front drew his attention. "Who on Earth's that?"

The figure raised a hand in friendly greeting and called out something. "What did he say?" Pike asked.

"It sounded like Arabic, sir." Pike held up his hand to the fellow and uttered a brief phrase in the same language, hesitating over some of the words. The fellow nodded and began to walk toward them.

Pike shot an admiring glance at Harrington. "That's rather good, Sarn't-Major. I didn't know you spoke the lingo."

"Just enough to get by in the marketplace, sir. If this fellow wants to talk, I'd suggest Mr. Carstairs should take over. He speaks fluent Arabic." Harrington hesitated. "I do believe the fellow has a monkey on his shoulder."

"So he does! How odd."

Pike sent a runner back to the civilian group, and DC Carstairs came forward as the Arab fellow reached Pike. Greetings were exchanged. Carstairs and the Arab began to converse at a rapid rate. Pike watched the monkey, who picked its nose and gazed back with mild interest.

Eventually Carstairs turned to Pike. "This is Mustapha ibn Daud, the Al-qadi, or mayor, of Fahtah. He wishes to surrender the town to us if we agree to good treatment of his people. I've assured him we have no hostile intent there."

"I should think not," Pike said, but ibn Daud had begun speaking again. Carstairs listened for a few moments then began a simultaneous translation. "Mr. ibn Daud tells me a band of Zanzibari slavers passed through but yesterday. Their leader ordered ibn Daud to muster his men and refuse us entrance, and to fire upon us should we attempt to enter the town." He frowned. "He says they took his youngest daughter Fatima hostage against his cooperation."

"The hounds!" Pike exclaimed.

"Quite." Carstairs listened some more and nodded. "The gentleman thinks a slaver spy is still in the town, so he disguised himself and came out to contact us before we reached there."

"I see. The eye-patch speaks for itself, but the monkey's a nice touch." Pike smiled. "Who'd suspect a fellow with a monkey of being up to no good?"

"Just so. He tells me he'd happily lead the way with us, and his men will keep watch from the walls to ensure the natives don't molest us during the approach."

"That seems fair enough." Pike rubbed his jaw, well aware they still stood on a battlefield. "But what of his daughter? Would the slavers not harm her if ibn Daud breaks his word?"

Carstairs put this question to the Al-qadi, who shook his head in lugubrious fashion and said something. Carstairs shook his head too. "He says his daughter will cease to be of value to them if he demonstrates he will not be swayed. They will not harm her in that case. I only hope he's right, for the poor girl's sake."

Pike sighed. "I see. Can we trust him?"

Carstairs nodded. "I'm sure we can."

"So be it. Let's get moving. The sooner we're in the shelter of the walls the better for the wounded."

Pike ordered the company into a column two men wide and led the way up and over the hill. The column could turn to face either side and be in firing formation at a moment's notice. Stirrings in the bush told of natives still present, so Pike knew his precaution to be sound. "Keep watch, men! Those fellows look ready to make more trouble."

But as they passed, the eerie shriek of a steamboat's whistle reverberated across the land from the direction of the river, and Pike gladly recognized the whistle as that of the steamboat Lady Cynthia. After a moment of shocked silence a terrified wailing rose from the scrub and dark figures could be seen heading away at speed. He gaped at the enemy's rapid flight until ibn Daud grinned a gap-toothed grin and uttered something. Carstairs supplied the translation. "It seems the natives haven't heard a steamboat's whistle before now. They think it an evil spirit rising from the river waters."

"If it saves us and them from more needless casualties, then I'm glad of it!" Pike retorted.

A file of militiamen lined the parapet as the company marched in. Pike stopped by the gate and watched the surrounding area until the wounded and the bearers had passed, but could see no further danger offered. Finally the last man passed and Pike walked through the shadow cast by the gatehouse. In spite of his resolve he couldn't help a shudder of relief passing down his spine as the gates closed, shutting the wilds of Africa safely outside the walls.   

* * * *

And so ends the Barsetshire's Trek to Fahtah. I'll post a few notes on the game at a later date, time and work permitting.

Reflections on the recent game

Time for a spot of analysis on the recent encounter in Gwundaland. The Sharp Practice rules rate troops as Poor, Regular, Good and Elite. With the opening of the campaign in Yabhouti the Barsetshires rated as Good to begin with. The course of time and experience would have raised them to Elite, but I considered the casualties sustained in action coupled with the influx of new men to the ranks kept the Company at Good. 


Big Men are rated in four grades, with 4 being the best. Although the later grade really should only be found in elite troops, I ruled Captain Pike and CSM Harrington to have gained enough experience to raise them a level to 4 and 3 respectively. This slight increase proved vital in the recent game, as Pike and Harrington had enhanced command and control capabilities and were able to pull the fat from the fire.

For the latest game I introduced the Cardwell Reforms that swept the British Army from the 1870s onward. It meant a slight reorganization of the basic section strength from 10 men to 8. This has a telling effect on the firepower, as under the rules Good troops gain +1 to the dice for every five men firing. By reducing the section strength, the Barsetshires effectively lost two firing dice and +5 points - something that gave them pause to reflect in the recent encounter with the Gwunda tribe. Before, their volleys had a good chance of stopping a tribal charge cold. Now, it's all to play for.

Fred Pike regrets the change, but it's what he has to use and he will adapt his tactics to deal with it. He has decided on a strategic withdrawal to the river in order to see his badly wounded to safe quarters, recuperate the surviving troops, and gain reinforcements. Then he'll come on again, 'with blood in his eye,' determined as ever to do his Duty to Queen and Country. But for now, the next game will show what's happening on the other side of the hill...
 

Debacle in Gwundaland

A grey and cloudy dawn saw the Barsetshire company on the march toward the hill country to the north. The native drums had beat steadily all through the night. Every man in the column knew the natives watched their steady progress into the tribal lands. Occasionally warriors could be seen in the distance when the growing heat haze allowed. Every man wondered when the hammer would fall.

They soon found out.

A shallow valley dotted with scrub and stands of elephant grass opened before them. Movement in the scrub and on the distant hill suggested the Gwunda tribe was about to make its move.

On Captain Pike's orders the column began to shake out into skirmish order, with 4 section heading for a copse of trees to scout the elephant grass to the front-left. 1 and 3 sections deployed to face the scrub where something moved in the shadows. Pike himself remained in a central position with the civilians, ready to give orders via bugle call when necessary.

Trouble struck within minutes. As 4 section entered the copse, lithe figures emerged from the tall grass. "By crikey!" Private Brown cried. "They're women - and they're nekkid!"

Lance Corporal Hudson glared at the new recruit. "Mind your business lad! You're not on the fookin' parade ground now!"

Hardly had he spoken than the distant women raised bows and fired a volley of arrows. The deadly missiles hissed through the air and found their mark - two men fell pierced through the heart and Hudson grunted as an arrow buried itself in his left arm.

Over on the right the scrub seemed to burst apart as a Gwunda warband surged out of cover. 3 section under Corporal "Nosher" Powell had time for a single volley before the natives fell upon them. The air filled with screams, shouts and oaths as the men of Barsetshire fell back under the onslaught. 1 section under CSM Harrington was slow to react, but eventually positioned itself on the flank of the warband.

Harrington lead a charge into the warband's flank, inflicting several casualties and slowing its pursuit of the heavily outnumbered 3 section. Over in the copse, another man fell to the archers, who seemed to toy with the hapless men, slipping into and out of cover and firing at will. Return volleys rattled the grass but had no other effect. Some of the women laughed aloud and bent over to show their buttocks in contempt of their enemy.

Harrington ordered a swift disengagement, pulling his section back thirty paces. Here they fired a swift volley into the warband, stopping it in its tracks. A large man in a blue and white feathered headdress yelled and gesticulated for his warriors to stay their course. Even as Harrington watched, Marskman Jack Lewis' rifle barked and the chieftain spun and fell, shot through the head. His men wavered then broke, streaming back into the scrub.

Medical personnel came up from farther to the rear to tend the wounded. Harrington lined his men up to face the scrub, certain sure more trouble would come from it. A bugle call told the injured L Cpl. Hudson to stand his ground. Capt. Pike felt confident the threat from the scrub had ended and he could safely lead 2 section forward to deal with the archers. 4 section's fire had improved. The women no longer capered and scorned the Red Men. Some Martini-Henry rounds drew close enough to make them pay more respect to the modern weapon and those who bore it.

Once in position 2 section opened fire, their bullets flaying the grass and bringing down two archers. The survivors fled back into cover, but they had achieved their objective of drawing-out the White Queen's soldiers. Pike had made a potentially fatal error in leading a quarter of his force to deal with so small a threat, for over on the right another, larger warband burst forth from the scrub.

Even the redoubtable Harrington couldn't stem the tide. The roar of battle rose again as the soldiers volleyed then met the enemy hand to hand. Men fell and the sheer mass of numbers told. The Barsetshires recoiled onto the column. The bearers screamed in panic, dropped their loads and fled. DC Carstairs, Doctors Armstrong and Beckenbaur drew pistols and swords and within seconds were fighting for their lives alongside the soldiers. Azu, Carstair's newly hired askar bodyguard, grinned evilly as he fought. Curiously, although the medics and wounded from the previous engagement lay almost directly in their path, the warriors ignored them, concentrating instead on the enemy still standing.

Pike uttered a string of words that would've earned him a beating from his clergyman foster-father. Turning his men about, he called the survivors of 2 section to join him and led them all into the attack.

Perhaps the warriors were too focused on their potential victims straight ahead, for Pike's charge into their flank inflicted severe damage. Shock piled up, and without an effective leader it proved too much once more. The natives broke away and fled back to the scrub, leaving the field littered with the dead of both sides.

The exhausted men of Barsetshire stood-to for an hour under the stormy sky after the fighting had ceased, watching and waiting for the charge that might finish them. The medics tended the new wounded and dying as details brought them in from the field. At last it seemed the Gwunda tribe had decided enough was enough for the day. The valley fell silent. Capt. Pike ordered scrub to be cut and a zariba fashioned around the camp.

The Queen's colour flies defiantly above the tents as the company draws into the protection of the zariba for the night. 

As the medics do their work, DC Carstairs and Dr. Beckenbaur discuss the day's events, and ponder on what to do next.

 * * * *

Carstairs looked sadly at the blanket-covered forms of the fallen. Something of his Scottish mother's Celtic romanticism came through, for he began to recite quietly.

Oh, mother-mair, mak' up ma bed,

For ma heart is sair wi' sorrow.

Adoon the glen lie seven men dead,

In dowie dens o' yarrow...

* * * *

The end of the day sees a British tactical victory in that they hold the field, having inflicted severe casualties on the Gwunda tribe. Strategically, however, Captain Pike and his men are in a pretty predicament. Seven men lie dead, as many are seriously wounded - almost half the company are hors de combat. His conscience prickles him over the wrong deployment which contributed to the mess, but he pushes the thought aside. A more urgent matter confronts him - what to do now? Should he continue with the mission, or withdraw?