‘Noble conduct,’ echoed Somervile. ‘Finest traditions of the cavalry.’
‘Thank you, sir. But what service a shotgun would’ve been!’
‘Indeed.’
Or even one of the double-barrelled Westley-Richards which the Cape Mounted Rifles carried, thought Armstrong; though now was not the time to question why the Rifles were not with them.
‘What do we do, Serjeant-Major?’ asked Somervile, not afraid to confess thereby that he had no certain idea of his own.
Armstrong shook his head, and sighed. ‘I don’t want to leave young Parks and Danny Allott for the vultures, or the Xhosa for that matter. They’ve a nasty way with a blade.’
Somervile was ever of the opinion that a man’s mortal remains meant nothing (nor, for that matter, did he believe there was anything
‘Shall we carry them astride then?’
Armstrong nodded. ‘We’ve no chance of making a mile unless we’re mounted. Not if those Xhosa don’t want us to. We can get Parks and Allott across the one horse, and Jobie here fastened into the saddle. You take Danny’s trooper, sir. And I’ll have Corp. Hardy get up his carbine, and Parks’s.’
‘And the prisoner? I should like very much to interrogate him when there is opportunity.’
A bullet through the head would be the most expedient, reckoned Armstrong, but it would not serve; it had not been the way for years, not even with savages. ‘I don’t see us managing more than a trot, sir: he can keep up on his shanks.’
‘Indeed.’
Armstrong offered Wainwright the flask again. ‘You right enough for the saddle, Jobie, bonny lad?’
‘Right enough, sir,’ replied Wainwright, though shaking his head at the need of help. ‘I’ll maybe want a leg up . . .’
Piet Doorn came back down the track in the peculiar loping gait that was the Cape frontiersman’s – part jogging trot, part native bound. ‘No cattle is past this way in two days,’ he reported to Armstrong, his English heavily accented. ‘But I can smell Kaffir still. A dozen of them maybe.’
Armstrong nodded. ‘Will you ride rearguard for us, Piet?’
It was no part of a guide’s duty to ride behind, let alone to fight off attackers. But Piet Doorn relished the opportunity to reduce the odds for the burghers of the frontier, as the gamekeeper shoots vermin at every opportunity. ‘I will.’
Somervile dabbed at his brow with a red silk handkerchief. ‘But why do they attack us when there is quite evidently no cattle to be had?’
Armstrong shook his head. ‘Don’t know, sir. A mystery to me.’ Piet Doorn had a theory, however, though he shuddered at the thought of it. ‘They wants our guns. Can be no other.’
Somervile shuddered too. It was futile to suppose they wanted them merely for hunting. But if it were so, did the Xhosa intend them against the Zulu or the colonists?
‘Well they’re not having ’em unless they sign for ’em,’ said Armstrong, matter-of-factly. ‘And since these heathens can’t read or write . . .’
That half his troop couldn’t was neither here nor there. What he was saying was that he would part with firearms only – and literally – over his dead body. Others might throw down the weapons, having spiked them first, but these Xhosa, even if heathens and savages, were not incapable blacksmiths, as any who had examined their spears knew: they would soon enough fathom how to put carbines to rights again.
‘When do you ride, Serjeant-Major?’ asked Piet.
‘As soon as I can get Jobie Wainwright into the saddle.’ Armstrong turned to Somervile. ‘Sir, will you call in Corporal Hardy?’
Somervile nodded, realizing he was less use to Armstrong for the moment than was Piet Doorn. Such things were important for a man to recognize, and he was thankful he had learned the necessity of such humility in his early days in Mysore. ‘I had better despatch my mount, too. Is it safe to risk a shot d’ye think?’
Armstrong thought the word ‘safe’ hardly apt, but he saw no objection to a shot. ‘Piet?’
Piet Doorn shook his head, indicating that he too could see no reason to deny the animal a clean death.
Somervile doubled off breathily to recall the remaining able-bodied dragoon, before returning to his stricken mount. The little Arab was quietly pulling at a clump of wild ginger the other side of a bush willow tree, just out of sight of Armstrong and the others, her near foreleg off the ground, the hamstring severed. Somervile detested the business, always. For a dragoon it was, he supposed (and had indeed occasionally observed), a routine of his occupation; but for him it was somehow a debasement. He held no truck with scripture (or rather, he admired much of its poetry while disputing its authority), but he took powerfully the responsibility of dominion, and the horse was, to his mind, the noblest of ‘every living thing that moveth upon the earth’.
He took off the saddle, and then had to check his pistol (he could not remember whether he had successfully reloaded it or not), but the little mare stood obligingly. When he was sure he had got the new-fangled percussion cap on the nipple properly, he took a good hold of her reins, short, on the offside, put the pistol muzzle to the fossa above her right eye, aiming at the bottom of the left ear, closed his eyes and fired. The mare dropped like a stone onto her left side, the reins running through Somervile’s hands while his eyes were still closed, the off foreleg catching him painfully on the shin.
He returned to the others limping slightly. Armstrong was not inclined to draw too unfavourable a conclusion: he had known old hands botch a despatch, and in any case, Somervile had chosen to do it himself rather than ask another. For that he could respect a man – even one who got himself kicked by a dead horse.
‘Well done, sir. Horrible duty to perform. Such a bonny little thing an’ all.’
Somervile cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, Serjeant-Major.’ He had bought the Arab for the endurance that the breed was noted for, but also in truth for her looks. There was not a better-looking horse in Cape Town. ‘I wonder what to do with the saddle.’
It was a good leather-panelled one, worth a deal more than the military issue, but this was not the time to be changing horses, let alone saddles. ‘Sir, I think it best if you leave it be. It might just buy us a minute or so when the Xhosa come on it.’
Somervile nodded.
‘Sir, will you lash up Serjeant Wainwright’s bridle to lead him? Run a rein through the bit ’stead of the halter, though. If he passes out and the horse takes fright it’ll be a deal easier to keep a hold.’
Somervile nodded again, and made to do Armstrong’s bidding, for he understood the purpose well enough (whatever his unacquaintance with the particulars of cavalry work, he was no greenhorn when it came to horses).
He unfastened the bridoon rein on the offside, slipped it over the trooper’s head and under its chin, then back through the offside bit ring, which would leave Wainwright with the curb reins. He presented himself ready for duty with some satisfaction.
Armstrong, having replaced the compress on Wainwright’s wound and bound the barrel sash even tighter, stood up, turned to Somervile, and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I should have said: would you lead from the
Somervile looked puzzled. ‘But I cannot then use my sword and pistol arm so freely.’
‘I know, sir,’ replied Armstrong, as Corporal Hardy hauled Wainwright to his feet. ‘But, with respect, Wainwright here will be able to.’
Somervile’s jaw fell. He was being written off as worse than an invalid – all because he dropped the pistol ball.
‘It’s just, sir, that it’s Wainwright’s job, this. We’re the ones in uniform. We’re the escort.’
Somervile could scarcely credit it. Three dragoons, one of them only half-conscious, and a burgher, a part- civilian – that was what the escort amounted to. And yet Serjeant-Major Armstrong was insisting on the proprieties as if the entire regiment were on parade. Doubtless were there a trumpeter he would have him sound the advance!
But there could be no argument.
