to a trot and rode away to rejoin his aggagiers.
The square opened to let in Penrod, Yakub following. He rode up to the officer and slid to the ground.
“Good morning, Major.” He saluted, and Kenwick stared at him in astonishment.
“Ballantyne, you do turn up in odd places. You might have got yourself shot.”
“Your arrival was at a most appropriate moment.”
“I noticed you were having a spot of bother. What in the name of the Devil are you doing out here in the middle of the blue?”
“I have despatches from General Gordon for General Stewart.”
“Then you are in luck. We are the advance guard. General Stewart is with the main body of the relief column, not more than an hour behind us.” He looked out over the camels and the kneeling men at the front of his square. “But first things first. Who was the Dervish bounder chasing after you?”
“One of their emirs. Fellow called Osman Atalan, head of the Beja tribe.”
“My solemn oath! I’ve heard of him. He’s a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. We had better deal with him.” He strode away towards the front of the square. “Sergeant Major! Shoot that fellow.”
“Sir!” The sergeant major was a burly figure with a magnificent pair of moustaches. He picked out two of the his best marksmen. “Webb and Rogers, shoot that Dervish.”
The two troopers leant across the backs of their couched camels and took aim. “In your own time!” the sergeant major told them.
Penrod found he was holding his breath. He had told Kenwick of Osman’s position and rank to discourage just such an order. He had vaguely hoped that some chivalrous instinct might have dissuaded Kenwick from shooting down an emir. At Waterloo, Wellington would never have ordered his sharpshooters to make Bonaparte their target.
One of the troopers fired but Osman was riding steadily away and the range was already over five hundred yards. The bullet must have passed close for the mare swished her tail as though to drive off a tsetse fly. But Osman Atalan did not deign even to look back. Instead he deliberately slowed his horse to a walk. The second trooper fired and this time they saw dust fly. Again the bullet had missed by very little. Osman continued to walk the mare away. Each marksman fired two more shots at him. By then he was out of range.
“Cease firing, Sergeant Major,” Kenwick snapped. Then, in an aside to Penrod, “Damned fellow has the luck of the fox,” he was smiling thinly, ‘but you have to admire his cool performance.”
“We will almost certainly be treated to other virtuoso performances in the near future,” Penrod agreed.
Kenwick glanced at him, sensing the note of censure in his tone. “A sporting sentiment, Ballantyne. However, I do believe that one should not accord too much respect to the enemy. We must bear in mind that we are here to kill them.”
And vice versa. But Penrod did not say it aloud.
In the distance they watched Osman Atalan join up with his aggagiers and ride away southwards towards Abu Hamed.
“Now,” said Kenwick, “General Stewart will probably be pleased to see you.”
“And vice versa, sir.” This time Penrod voiced the thought.
Kenwick scribbled a note in his despatch book, tore out the page and handed it to him. “If you wander around the countryside dressed like that, it’s likely you’ll be shot as a spy. I shall send young Stapleton back with you. Please inform General Stewart that we’re making good progress and, apart from this Atalan fellow, we have made no other contact with the enemy.”
“Major, please do not be lulled into believing that happy state of affairs will persist much longer. For the last several days I have been riding in company with a vast concourse of the Dervish. All of them are coming this way.”
“How large a force?” Kenwick asked.
“Difficult to say for certain, sir. Too many to count. However, I would estimate somewhere between thirty and fifty thousand.”
Kenwick rubbed his hands with glee. “So, all in all, you might say that we are in for an interesting few days.”
“You might indeed, sir.”
Kenwick called over a young ensign, the lowest rank of commissioned officer. “Stapleton, go back with Captain Ballantyne, and see him through the lines. Don’t get him or yourself shot.”
Percival Stapleton gazed at Penrod with awe. He was not much more than seventeen, fresh-faced and eager as a puppy. The two rode back, with Yakub, along the ancient caravan road. For the first few miles Percy was struck dumb with hero-worship. Captain Ballantyne was a holder of the Victoria Cross, and to have the honour of riding with him was the pinnacle of his sixteen months of military experience. Over the next mile he summoned up his courage and addressed a few respectful remarks and questions to him. He was highly gratified when Penrod responded in a friendly fashion, and Percy became relaxed and chatty. Penrod recognized him as a prime source of information, encouraged him to speak freely, and quickly picked up most of the regimental gossip from him. This was highly coloured by Percy’s pride in the regiment, and his almost delirious anticipation of going into action for the first time.
“Everybody knows that General Stewart is a fine soldier, one of the best in the entire army,” the youngster informed him importantly. “All the men under his command have been drawn from the first-line regiments of guards and fusiliers. I am with the Second Grenadiers.” He sounded as though he could hardly believe his good fortune.
“Is that why General Gordon has been waiting so long in Khartoum for your arrival?” Penrod needled the boy with surgical skill.
Percy bridled. “The delay is not the general’s fault. Every man in the column is as keen as mustard, and spoiling for a fight.” Penrod lifted an eyebrow, and the boy rushed on hotly: “Because of the haste with which the politicians in London forced us to leave Wadi Haifa, we were obliged to wait at Gakdul for the reinforcements to reach us. We were less than a thousand strong and the camels were sick and weak from paucity of fodder. We were in no fit state to meet the enemy.”
“What is the position now?”
“The reinforcements arrived only two days ago from Wadi Haifa. They brought up fodder, fresh camels and the provisions we were lacking. The general ordered the advance at once. Now we have men enough to do the job,” he said, with the sublime confidence of the very young.
“How many is enough?” Penrod asked.
“Almost two thousand.”
“Do you know how many Dervish there are?” Penrod asked, with interest.
“Oh, quite a few, I shouldn’t wonder. But we are British, don’t you see?”
“Of course we are!” Penrod smiled. “There is nothing else to say, is there?”
They topped the next rise and on the stony plain ahead appeared the main body. It was advancing in a compact square formation, with the pack camels in the centre. There appeared to be many more than two thousand. They came on at a good steady rate, and it was clear that they were under firm command.
With young Percy in uniform to smooth the way, the pickets let them into the marching square. A party of mounted staff officers was coming up behind the front rank. Penrod recognized General Stewart. He had seen him at Wadi Haifa, but had not been presented to him. He was a handsome man, stiff-backed and tall in the saddle, exuding an air of confidence and command. Penrod knew the man at his side rather better: he was Major Hardinge, the Camel Corps senior intelligence officer. He pointed at Penrod and spoke a few words to the general. Stewart glanced in Penrod’s direction and nodded.
Hardinge rode over. “Ah, Ballantyne, the traditional bad penny.”
“Penny now worth at least a shilling, sir. I have despatches from General Gordon in Khartoum.”
“Have you, my goodness? That’s a guinea’s worth. Come along. General Stewart will be pleased to see you.” They rode back to join the staff.
General Stewart motioned to Penrod to fall in alongside his own camel. Penrod saluted. “Captain Penrod Ballantyne, 10th Hussars, with despatches from General Gordon in Khartoum.”
“Gordon is still alive?”
“Very much so, sir.”
