Mad Mullah

Chapter 1

Charles Hadleigh

The Hadleigh family had been farmers in Suffolk since the days of Oliver Cromwell and the English Civil war. They farmed the rich mid Suffolk soil and over the years had proven to be successful and prosperous in both arable and livestock. The centre of Hadleigh world was located at Jamaica Hall in the village of Stonham St. Peter some ten miles northwest of Ipswich. Robert Hadleigh was the head of the family and he and his wife Alice had three sons and one daughter.

Robert had taken over the small estate from his own father nearly thirteen years ago. Robert was a quiet man of vision and fully embraced all the recent advances made in Victorian farming. He had been successful as a farmer and had now even opened his own small engineering factory in the nearby town of Stowmarket. The Hadleigh seed drill and other agricultural implements were now becoming popular items throughout the county and beyond.

The Hadleigh family played their part in the strict society of the time. Everyone had their place and those that were wise remained there. There was order to everything. The first son would always inherit the land and title. The second would pursue a career in the army. And the third, perhaps a career in the Church or the law. This was an appealing proposition as long as you were the first son. Unfortunately for Charles Hadleigh he was the youngest of three brothers.

Charles was fortunate to get on well with all of his brothers. His only sister Emma was five years younger than him and was always known affectionately as ‘Emmy’.

Charles’s eldest brother James had been groomed since birth to one day take over the estate from their father Robert. James was well suited to this role as he was identical to Robert in so many ways. Albert (Bertie) was the middle son and was now in his third year in the army. Young officers of his caliber were always in great demand. There was always a war to be fought somewhere and Bertie was certainly the man for the task. During his last leave in Suffolk he retold amazing stories of his adventures in the Sudan. He had fought at Omdurman against the Dervishes and in the eyes of young Charles was a complete hero.

Then there were the colourful stories told by old great uncle Fredrick. He was well into his seventies now and mad as a box of frogs. He had spent most of his life in India and fought in the Crimea and the great Indian mutiny of 1857. His tales of pluck and derring-do had a big influence on the imaginations of the young Bertie and Charles.

It was not that surprising then that Charles had decided that the army would be the career for him. He had no interest in a career in the Church and although he did possess somewhat of a skill with numbers, his father’s recommendation of Accountancy seemed such a dull choice of an occupation.

Robert’s reaction was one of sheer disbelief at first. Since Charles was a small boy he had noticed that his son had a keen eye when it came to numbers and was always the brightest in the class when it came to mathematics. He had encouraged and developed the skills of Charles by asking for him to assist the estate manager with any mathematical task on the farm. Be it how many fence posts that would be required for the West meadow or how much feed the hens would require for a month. Charles would always be able to quickly and correctly calculate the figures.

At 18 Charles was not exactly Army material. He still had some growing to do. He was slightly short sighted and wore spectacles for reading. His skin looked very pale and contrasted dramatically with his fine head of blond hair. He was always known as a ‘sickly child’ when he was young and had also suffered with mild asthma since he was ten.

In the spring of 1899 Charles’s approaches to the army were not well received and he was told in a polite manner that he was not quite what the army required at this present moment in time. For Robert Hadleigh his view that Charles was most suited to a career in Accountancy was vindicated and he continued with his arrangements for Charles’s future career with an old friend who operated a practice in the county town of Ipswich.

The arguments between Charles and his father grew ever fiercer. It was not the thing for a son to challenge his father in such a manner. For most fathers such disobedience would normally result in a thrashing of their son. But Robert was mild mannered man who would never raise his hand to any of his children.

Charles’s devoted mother Alice could see that the present situation was tearing their family apart. It was Alice who thought of a solution to the impasse which would ensure that honour was satisfied on both sides.

The solution came in the unlikely form of Robert Hadleigh’s younger brother, Archie. They say that all families have a black sheep, and Archie was as black as a sheep could be. At that time Charles knew very little about his uncle. Charles had seen two or three faded photographs of him in uniform when he was young but nothing at all recent.

Archie Hadleigh had served in the Ashanti, Zulu and Transvaal wars with distinction and had a promising career in the army ahead of him. However, certain indiscretions with a number the wives of fellow officers led to him being drummed out of his regiment in disgrace.

For a few years Archie had wandered around Africa acting as a guild or scout for whoever would pay. In the late 1880’s he moved to British Somaliland and went into the import and export business. Exactly what products he traded in was a mystery. However, by all accounts had been very successful, married and had achieved much during the ten years that he had lived in British Somaliland.

However, the success had been blighted by the death of Archie’s wife in childbirth and the lost of their new born son a few years earlier.

Archie and Robert Hadleigh rarely corresponded and so it was Alice who had made the initial approaches to Archie Hadleigh. Correspondence with that small outpost of Empire was painfully slow. At that time there was no telegraph line to Somaliland. The nearest telegraph station to British Somaliland was two days camel journey to Djibouti in French Somaliland. The nearest British station was some 200 miles away in Aden. Any mail to Somaliland was first carried to Aden on the regular steamship services to India. Once at Aden there was usually a delay of a few days until a Merchant ship or Navy vessel was in a position to complete the last leg of the journey to Somaliland.

Following the exchange of a number of letters Alice Hadleigh hatched a plan that would prove beneficial to all.

Robert Hadleigh agreed that Charles could spend two years working for Archie in Somaliland. During this time Robert hoped that his head strong son once bought face to face with the reality of the hardship of life in the Colonies would see the error of his ways and take up the career in the Church or in Accountancy when he returned to England. Charles hoped that the two years away from England would provide him with the adventure that he so craved and allow time to contemplate his own future career.

For Charles at last it seemed like his destiny was about to unfold.

Robert Hadleigh sat anxiously on his own in the first class carriage staring out of the window at the Suffolk countryside. His train from Ipswich was halted on the bridge over the river Gipping in the village of Great Blakenham just three miles from is home station of Needham Market.

A fence had fallen down and a herd of cows had decided to make good their escape and were now wandering about on the track just a hundred or so yards ahead of the train. The fireman and guard of the train were assisting the farmer and his son to round up the wayward beasts.

It was not Robert’s fence or his own cows on the track so he was not unduly concerned about the unfolding events. Robert was concerned however that his train would now be delayed in arriving at Needham Market and consequently he would be late for his appointment with his son Charles at 4 O’clock sharp.

Robert was a real stickler for good time keeping and he hated tardiness with a vengeance.

The engine of the train stood restlessly on the embankment noisily hissing steam eager to proceed with its journey. The engine driver leaned out of his cab laughing deeply with tears rolling down his cheeks at the free spectacle taking place in front of his train.

Robert blinked as he felt the full strength of the July sun on his carriage window. He could feel the perspiration soaking through his shirt. Robert attempted to loosen his stiff, starched collar on his shirt but at the last minute changed his mind.

He looked down at the clear meandering water of the river Gipping enviously. It looked so cool and inviting.

Slowly from under the bridge a young man led a horse out along the canal tow path. The horse casually plodded along the narrow path pulling a loaded barge behind it on a tow rope.

Everywhere there was green. Trees, fields, hedgerows and reeds along the banks of the river. A score or more of different species of bright wild flowers peppered the landscape all around in their hundreds.

It all looked so peaceful. Almost perfect. On days like this a person should be enjoying the wonders of the English summer in the countryside. But Robert was feeling very ill at ease today.

Today Robert had been to Ipswich to make the final arrangements for Charles’s trip to Somaliland. After visits to the main bank, a shipping agent and a gentleman’s outfitter’s all the final arrangements had been successfully made.

But if he was honest with himself he was far from happy with the situation. Twice now he had organised junior positions with accountant firms for his son Charles. His son had always been excellent with figures and book keeping. It was a talent that he thought should be harnessed and developed.

Charles had only worked a few weeks at each post. But it was clear that Charles’s heart was not in his new career. It was not that he was lazy. It was simply that Charles wanted more from life than just numbers. He craved excitement and adventure.

Robert had hoped that following his son’s rejection by the army he would at last knuckle down and concentrate on a career in Accountancy. But unfortunately this was not to be the case.

It almost seemed that Charles was trying his utmost to defy him and refuse to accept that his true path was with numbers and not with the military.

By rights Robert should have thrashed his son for such outright disobedience. It was what society expected, perhaps even demanded. But Robert had never been a violent man and still had vivid memories of savage beatings from his own father many years before.

Robert had vowed that if he ever had sons he would never beat them. Then there was the fact that at nearly nineteen Charles’s days of being a boy were rapidly disappearing. He was nearly a man. A man who would soon be able to shape and create his own destiny.

Also despite his advancing years there were still glowing embers deep inside Robert’s own soul that remembered the desire for excitement that only the young truly possess. He could, in part understand his son’s wishes.

Robert formed a tight fist with his right hand and pounded the empty seat next to him in his carriage a couple times in frustration.

Damn this train!

He would be surely late for his appointment with his son now.

Robert looked across the fields. The road to Needham Market was less than three hundred yards from the train. It was then only perhaps an hour’s walk along the road to the station where his horse and trap would be waiting for him.

He toyed with the idea for a few seconds of climbing down from his carriage and crossing the fields to the road and then finishing his journey on foot.

Robert soon decided against the action. It was not the distance that dissuaded him but more the mental image of himself hauling himself down from the train only to be reprimanded by the guard in front of whole train of passengers that had persuaded Robert to remain seated.

Then to Robert’s relief the peacefulness of the afternoon was shattered with the sharp whistle of the restless engine. There was a sudden jolt and creaking as the train began to move. At last they were on their way!

Robert took out his watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked down. Perhaps he could still make it in time after all?

Charles sat in his father’s study waiting for him to arrive rather like a schoolboy waiting to see the head master. His father had traveled into Ipswich to visit his bank and attend to a number of business matters.

Charles nervously fidgeted on the chair. Looking out of the window across the lawn he could see old Tom the gardener attending to the rose bushes and he could hear his younger sister Emmy playing on the terrace.

The large clock on the mantle piece ticked monotonously, its minute hand hovering just before the twelve to mark the hour of four. Charles stared at the minute hand trying to see it move. He blinked. And in that blink the hand jumped onto the twelve and the hour chimed out almost making Charles jump.

He counted in his head. One, two, three. On the fourth chime with an almost mechanical precision Robert turned the handle of the door and entered the room.

Charles jumped to his feet in the expected expression of respect for his father. Robert put on his best business smile and almost sounded surprised that his son was waiting for him.

‘Ah Charles. How was fishing in the pond today?’

‘Sorry to say father I caught absolutely nothing. But Emmy caught a little tidier with her net and she has it in one of Cook’s big jam jars.’

Robert forced out a small laugh. It was an awkward situation for both men and it was a meeting that he had guessed both parties had not been looking forward to. It was not that Robert was a bad father. It was just a case of his own father had been rather distant and as a result he did not always cope well with the more personal aspects of parenting.

Robert walked over to the large window and stared out of the window for a couple of seconds to collect his thoughts. He placed his hands behind his back and cupped his right hand inside his left.

He then turned to face Charles.

‘Please be seated.’

Charles sat down. He could hear his heart pounding away deep inside his chest and could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

Robert cleared his throat.

‘As you know your mother has been in correspondence with my brother Archibald in Somaliland.’ He paused for a second still not fully believing what he was about to say.

‘We, rather I mean I have come to the conclusion that you shall travel to the colony as recommend by my brother and work for him for a period of two years. You will carry out such duties as my brother sees fit and you will of course obey him as you would me. After that time I will expect you to make a firm decision on your future career.’

‘Are you quite clear on the situation?’

Charles had been informed by his mother in the morning that this was the decision that his father had already made. But its announcement in person was still a shock to the young mans ears.

‘Yes father. I fully understand. And I wish to thank you for your decision and for the opportunity. I will endeavor to replay your faith in me and make both you and mother very proud of me.’

A somewhat relieved Robert sat down heavily on his chair and breathed out a sigh that was louder than he would have wished for.

He smiled. This time a more warm genuine one. ‘I know you will Charles. I have made all the arrangements and booked the tickets. You will sail from Southampton in two weeks.’

Charles sat on the chair opened mouth. He had not expected to travel so soon.

Robert continued.

‘My brother will provide you with a salary of sorts. I have however arranged for a small sum to be available to you in the bank at Aden.’

Robert opened a draw on his desk and produced two large envelopes.

‘In each envelope is one hundred pounds. One is for you now to purchase all necessary clothes and equipment before you depart. The other is to finance any addition requirements you may face on your journey. I trust you to spend it wisely.’

Charles was left rather shocked by his father’s generosity.

‘Thank you Sir.’

He stood up and moved forward to shake the hand of his father.

Robert had always found it difficult to express affection to his sons. He shook his son’s hand politely and lightly patted him on the shoulder with his left hand.

‘You have a great deal of preparation to carry out young man before your departure. I suggest you start straight away.’

Charles smiled.

‘Yes father. Thank you again.’

Charles turned and left closing the study door behind him. Robert stood looking at the empty chair before him. He could feel a sadness building up deep inside him and almost a tear in his eye. He sniffed and looked out the window once more. The deed was done. He hoped to God that he had made the right decision.

Charles was almost skipping down the hallway to speak to his mother on the terrace. His sister Emma jumped out in front of him taking him by surprise.

‘Well brother. What news?’

Charles gave perhaps the biggest smile of his life to date.

‘I am off to Africa Emmy in two weeks.’

Chapter 2

Havildar-Major Singh

Havildar-Major Majid Singh dragged the rear of his right hand across his forehead in attempt to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was of course another unbearably hot day in Somaliland. He reached inside his khaki tunic and pulled out the primitive map that he had tucked away. He had known for several months that he was a few too many inches round the waist now and that he was carrying several extra pounds. He was unfit and what was worse was that he was getting too old for being a soldier in the Army of Queen Victoria’s Raj.

Singh was a large man well over six feet and broad shouldered. But age was beginning to catch up with him and he always seemed to be tired now. His impressive beard once jet black had more grey hairs now than he cared to count. He rubbed his fingers and thumb over normally impeccably turned out beard. It was mattered with sweat and spots of blood from the wounds of his men.

Singh studied the map for a few moments and then turned to face his exhausted Sepoys who were sitting in the limited shade of a few gorse bushes. Now they looked very much the worse for ware. Their once smart khaki drill kurta uniforms and loose fitting trousers were battered and torn with each man having buttons missing and several holes and tears.

Each man had always taken great pride in maintaining the shine on the Indian version of the Slade-Wallace pattern leather accruements and three ammunition pouches. Now the shine had gone. Pouches were ripped or lost and all were precariously close to being empty of rounds.

Boots and puttees were caked in thick dust and the once immaculate yellow fringe of the regimental facing to each man’s khaki pagri was filthily through sweat and dirt. And most now had at least one wound that had been bandage.

Most of Singh’s men were young. In their early twenties with young families. They had been lured away from their home postings in India by the extra pay service in Somaliland provided. All of the men were of the highest quality. The British in India only picked the best of the local population for its Army. So Singh could ask for no better troops to lead.

Singh and his men had now been on the retreat now for two days and nights. They were the remains of the British garrison from the town of Burao some seventy miles inland from the capital of the Somali colony Berbera. Although, garrison was rather a grand term to describe the eighteen men and one Naik that made up Singh’s command.

The force in Burao had been little more really than a token Police force that had to rely on the goodwill and support of the pro-British tribes in order to venture out of the small fort. The Burao fort had no communication method with the rest of the colony and did not even possess a British Officer or NCO. The small handful of Europeans in the town had steadily been dwindling as word of the Mullah’s rise spread through the area.

Three days earlier loyal illalo scouts reported the Mullah at the head of some five thousand Dervishes was approaching Burao rapidly. Faced with such odds the two remaining British officials in the town ordered the withdraw to Berbera to begin. A pair of Singh’s men on the fastest Somali ponies were ordered to ride like hell to Berbera with news of the Mullah’s advance.

There were not even a hundred troops in Berbera so there was no hope of a relief force coming to aid of Burao. But with the warning of the two riders from Singh’s command at least Berbera would be able to prepare its defence and request assistance from British forces in Aden and further a field.

Singh opened his pocket watch. Three more hours to sundown he thought to himself. It was the hours of darkness he most feared. It was in the darkness that the Dervishes would most likely come to finish off his small command.

It was only two days ago that Singh, his seventeen men and the British officials left Burao in the early hours in attempt to evade the Dervishes. They were joined by only six illalos. Many once loyal locals were now of the opinion that neutrality at least was the best option with the Mullah so close to the town.

All of this small force was mounted on sturdy Somali ponies and each man carried as much water and ammunition as he could. Singh had hoped to put at least a whole morning’s ride between his men and the Dervishes. But after only eight miles from Burao the small force was ambushed by at least fifty Dervishes. It was fortunate for Singh that his enemy were only armed with old flintlock muskets. Their aim was not great, but it was clear that the Dervishes were aiming for the ponies from the outset. It was far easier to hit a pony than a man and the Dervishes knew enough of the character of the British trained Indian troops that they would always do their up most to avoid leaving any unhorsed man behind.

It was strength of the British, but at the same time a weakness that the Dervish would exploit. As the ratio of ponies to men decreased the speed of the retreat would drop gradually to a painfully slow walking pace through rough terrain with the remaining ponies carrying the wounded. Such a slow moving unit would be easy pray for the Dervishes.

The opening fire of the Dervishes killed six ponies and one of the British officials. As Singh and his men tried to both return fire and retrieve unhorsed riders the remaining official was shot through the head and a further four ponies fell.

Somehow Singh had managed to rally his men and all unhorsed riders were picked up by their comrades. The force charged off but with now eight of the ponies carrying an extra man the force was at a great disadvantage.

The scene was now set for a tortuous game of cat and mouse. Singh and his men managed to put a couple of miles between themselves and the Dervishes. It was most likely that Dervishes were more interested in looting the items left behind on the dead British officials and ponies then chasing fleeing Indian troops. The Dervishes would then fight and argue amongst themselves for which warrior would take which prized item of booty.

There was only one real track to Berbera. It was a track though difficult terrain with a million and one places where the small force could be cut to pieces in an ambush. But years of service on the North West frontier of India had given Singh a wealth of skills to draw on.

His men would lay their own ambushes and snipe at the chasing Dervishes at every opportunity. Singh’s command would zigzag across the trail. Cover their tracks by sweeping the sand across their footprints. Lay false trails. And even occasionally turn about and double back on their selves.

It would be a slow process. But it would ensure that the Dervishes would never be sure exactly where their enemy would be.

Singh also had an Ace up his sleeve. Ten of his men were issued with the new Lee Metford Magazine rifle. These were normally jealously held back by the British military for use solely by the white troops. But the precarious nature of the situation in Somaliland and the lack of numbers of troops meant that an exception had been made.

The eight round magazines increased the rate of fire, made it