Read Online A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frances Brody
Tags: Crime Fiction
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trench? If the Boers were anywhere, they would be in the hills. Scouts had gone ahead and would signal back when the sun rose and the heliograph messaging could be put to use.
Captain Wolfendale had entered that state of pretending, that he is riding along an English country lane, easy enough with the poplars and the river to his right. And now his horse needs rest in the shade of an English oak. It is ninety degrees in the shade. In the absence of an English oak, the captain halts the column by the foot of a kopje. The sergeant spreads his groundsheet. The captain sits down, takes a swig of water, pulls a clean hanky from his pocket.
It was when the riders led the horses to water that the firing began. At first it was not clear where the shots came from. A hail of bullets ripped the air. The captain jumped to his feet. A bullet sent him staggering. The sergeant leapt at him, shoved him to the ground shielding him with his body.
A dark patch stained the captain’s trouser leg and the shoulder of his jacket. The sergeant saw both stains. One, at least, must be blood. ‘Stay down!’ The sergeant gave the order now. ‘Lie flat.’ The sergeant squashed himself into the ground, rifle at the ready, looking for a target.
An Irish corporal made a sudden dash for the river, his horse as cover. Both horse and man fell. Not only was the Boer invisible on the mountains, armed with Mausers that shot at a range of a mile, he was invisible by the river bank.
With no rocks, no sandbags, no wagons for cover, the soldiers were living, breathing target practice, sitting ducks, only they were not sitting but lying flat, some hiding under their blankets.
With the butt of his rifle, his hands, his nails, the sergeant began to dig a dip. The ground was sandy here. If they could survive till nightfall, hold on until dark . . . He urged the captain into the hollow, helping him, so that for a moment they looked like two boys playing on a beach. The shelter was poor but if the captain lies still, the sergeant told him, he may escape another more deadly bullet.
Then the sergeant crawled on his belly away from the river. He passed crafty Corporal Milner, sheltering between the carcass of a dead horse and the body of a fallen comrade.
Bullets bounced from the ground like hailstones. One bullet skimmed Lampton’s hair as he edged his way down a dip in the terrain. Smoke and dust dimmed his sight. His throat burned. He blinked and cringed for what he believed would be the last time. It was not supposed to end like this. He should have made NCO, earned a few more bob, respect, not doing the captain’s bidding thirty hours out of every twenty-four. A twisted length of railway line crashed through the air and landed by his side. Invisible Brother Boer was north, south and east, but there was a lull to the west.
The sergeant touched the twisted metal of the railway line, for luck.
Shouldn’t have left the captain. Must get back to the captain
.
Ahead, a young face looked at him, popping up from the camouflage of a trench. For a moment, the young
Boer and the sergeant stared at each other in surprise. Split seconds, rather than the long minutes it felt like.
The sergeant’s Lee-Metford has a ten-round firing capability, but the British Army, in its wisdom, has fitted a plate so the soldiers don’t go mad and discharge ten rounds at once. Sergeant Lampton can fire one bullet at a time. Is it loaded or not? He can’t remember. The sergeant caresses his rifle, and presses the trigger. A moment later he is diving into the trench beside the dead Boer.
Under cover of darkness, he dared to come crawling out again. Miraculously, a shocked horse let him lead it to be tethered. The sliver of a moon obliged, refusing to be more than candlelight in the black sky.
Then the moon did the favour of hiding. Stooping low, the sergeant found his captain. Shoulders tearing, arms pulled to breaking, Lampton carried Wolfendale to the horse and helped him
Captain Wolfendale had entered that state of pretending, that he is riding along an English country lane, easy enough with the poplars and the river to his right. And now his horse needs rest in the shade of an English oak. It is ninety degrees in the shade. In the absence of an English oak, the captain halts the column by the foot of a kopje. The sergeant spreads his groundsheet. The captain sits down, takes a swig of water, pulls a clean hanky from his pocket.
It was when the riders led the horses to water that the firing began. At first it was not clear where the shots came from. A hail of bullets ripped the air. The captain jumped to his feet. A bullet sent him staggering. The sergeant leapt at him, shoved him to the ground shielding him with his body.
A dark patch stained the captain’s trouser leg and the shoulder of his jacket. The sergeant saw both stains. One, at least, must be blood. ‘Stay down!’ The sergeant gave the order now. ‘Lie flat.’ The sergeant squashed himself into the ground, rifle at the ready, looking for a target.
An Irish corporal made a sudden dash for the river, his horse as cover. Both horse and man fell. Not only was the Boer invisible on the mountains, armed with Mausers that shot at a range of a mile, he was invisible by the river bank.
With no rocks, no sandbags, no wagons for cover, the soldiers were living, breathing target practice, sitting ducks, only they were not sitting but lying flat, some hiding under their blankets.
With the butt of his rifle, his hands, his nails, the sergeant began to dig a dip. The ground was sandy here. If they could survive till nightfall, hold on until dark . . . He urged the captain into the hollow, helping him, so that for a moment they looked like two boys playing on a beach. The shelter was poor but if the captain lies still, the sergeant told him, he may escape another more deadly bullet.
Then the sergeant crawled on his belly away from the river. He passed crafty Corporal Milner, sheltering between the carcass of a dead horse and the body of a fallen comrade.
Bullets bounced from the ground like hailstones. One bullet skimmed Lampton’s hair as he edged his way down a dip in the terrain. Smoke and dust dimmed his sight. His throat burned. He blinked and cringed for what he believed would be the last time. It was not supposed to end like this. He should have made NCO, earned a few more bob, respect, not doing the captain’s bidding thirty hours out of every twenty-four. A twisted length of railway line crashed through the air and landed by his side. Invisible Brother Boer was north, south and east, but there was a lull to the west.
The sergeant touched the twisted metal of the railway line, for luck.
Shouldn’t have left the captain. Must get back to the captain
.
Ahead, a young face looked at him, popping up from the camouflage of a trench. For a moment, the young
Boer and the sergeant stared at each other in surprise. Split seconds, rather than the long minutes it felt like.
The sergeant’s Lee-Metford has a ten-round firing capability, but the British Army, in its wisdom, has fitted a plate so the soldiers don’t go mad and discharge ten rounds at once. Sergeant Lampton can fire one bullet at a time. Is it loaded or not? He can’t remember. The sergeant caresses his rifle, and presses the trigger. A moment later he is diving into the trench beside the dead Boer.
Under cover of darkness, he dared to come crawling out again. Miraculously, a shocked horse let him lead it to be tethered. The sliver of a moon obliged, refusing to be more than candlelight in the black sky.
Then the moon did the favour of hiding. Stooping low, the sergeant found his captain. Shoulders tearing, arms pulled to breaking, Lampton carried Wolfendale to the horse and helped him
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