Man Of War

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 nearside please?’

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.

In a quarter of an hour they were ready to move, the bodies of Corporal Allott and Private Parks lashed across the saddle of Parks’s trooper, the lead rope in Armstrong’s hands, with another around the captive. Then came Somervile leading Wainwright’s mount, with Piet Doorn fifty yards behind, and Corporal Hardy scouting the same distance ahead.

It would be scarcely true scout work, though (Armstrong was only too aware of it). In any sort of country, let alone such trappy country as here, the leading scouts needed twice the space to do their work properly. The same went for the rearguard. And there were no flankers. All Hardy would be able to do, at best, was give the others a few seconds in which to take aim or throw up a guard. A few seconds. To Armstrong, however, it was better than nothing: a few seconds might allow him to get to Somervile’s side, before turning to fight off the attack. What more to it was there than that?

He raised his right arm and motioned to Corporal Hardy to advance. Turning to Somervile, he smiled grimly. ‘Very well, sir, just a couple of miles.’

Somervile nodded.

Serjeant Wainwright’s face was bereft of all colour, even the browning of the summer’s sun, but he was conscious enough to gather up the reins – no doubt instinctively, Somervile supposed.

The hoofs sounded like so many drums on that parched earth. A little flock of Cape starlings left a nearby kiaat tree noisily. They must have sat out the Xhosa attack, or else alighted soon after, he reckoned; why did they take off now? He was certain that in India the branches would by this time be full of vultures.

A weasel ran across the track between him and Armstrong a dozen yards ahead, its white-striped back arched like a cat at bay.