Gallipoli, 16th July 1878
The summer sun beat down on the barren hills of the Gallipoli peninsula as Sir Garnet Wolseley sat astride his white charger, 45 years old and the very model of a modern Major-General.
The hero of the Red River and Ashanti campaigns, Wolseley had landed at Gallipoli on 10th July in command of a British and an Indian Army division. They had advanced rapidly and now the key to the whole peninsula lay before them, the crucial road junction in the village of Bulair.
This is what Wolseley was now looking at through his field glasses. Behind him the men of the 1st battalion of the Inniskilling Regiment rested in the heat. Next to him was a fellow Irishman, Sir William Butler, a member of the famous 'Wolseley Ring' and his Chief-of-Staff.
Suddenly a shell exploded in front of them, scattering dust over the two officers.
Down below in the village, General Mikhail Dmitriyeich Skobelev put his telescope to his eye and looked back at the British officers on the hill in front of him. 34 years old, he was almost the only general to emerge from the bloody debacle of this war with Turkey with his reputation enhanced. Probably no other officer outside of Prussia had more experience of modern warfare than he did. He awaited the British attack with glee. He would defeat them here in Turkey and then the Csar's armies would march on India.
The Great Game was afoot!
Straits of Otranto, 12th September 1878
Admiral Friedrich von Pock stood on the bridge of his flagship, Kaiser Max. Behind steamed the seven other ironclads that made up the Austro-Hungarian fleet. As the only European power to have fought a fleet action with ironclads, he was confident that both his ships and his men could take on any navy in the world. Many of his older sailors, and his two oldest ships, had indeed fought at the famous Battle of Lissa, where the outnumbered Italian fleet had been decimated by Pock's illustrious predecessor, Admiral Tegetthoff.
A little over six weeks previously over 80,000 men of the Austro-Hungarian Empire had invaded Bosnia and Herzegovina, which was to be their share of Turkey's rapidly collapsing European empire. The campaign had been expected to be a walkover but had been anything but. The Austrians had been engaged in fierce street fighting and guerrilla warfare in the hills as they faced Turkish regular troops, local irregulars and, it was rumoured, British soldiers landed in secret on the Dalmatian coast.
It was to stop any foreign involvement that the emperor had placed Pock and his ships in the straits. Great Britain had demanded the right of free access to the seas, but Franz-Joseph had told Queen Victoria that if the Royal Navy entered the Adriatic, it would be regarded as an act of war. Pock now waited to see what the Queen's navy would do. Few people expected the Royal Navy to respond, but Pock didn't share their optimism.
A cry from the crow's nest was the first indication that Pock had been right. On the horizon two columns of smoke had appeared. As they drew nearer the silhouettes of warships could be seen through the mist. Pock checked them against his memory, the silhouettes of these vessels were almost as familiar as those of his own fleet: Alexandra, Temeraire, Achilles, Devastation, Swiftsure and Hotspur. He looked at the other column: Minotaur, Rupert, Defence, Thunderer and Monarch.
So, he was outnumbered. Well, Tgetthoff had been outnumbered too, but still Austria had been victorious. No doubt she would be again. He prepared to signal his fleet to engage.
Khyber Pass, 21st November 1878
The elephants strained at their harnesses as they dragged the 40 pounder guns up the pass. Around them swirled the polyglot forces of the Raj: British and Bengal infantry, Gurkhas, Sikhs, blue-eyed Pathans of the Guides, cursing British redcoats from Yorkshire, Lancashire, Leicestershire and all parts of the Celtic fringe, and camp followers from every corner of the sub-continent. Above them fierce Afridi tribesmen glared down from the hills above, each had a a loaded jezail in his hands, and a khyber knife on his belt. Their hatred was clear, their allegiance was not.
In front, the fort of Ali Masjid dominated the horizon. Officers scanned its ramparts with their glasses, nodding and muttering to themselves. One word spread through the army - Cossacks.
The Russians had got there first.
Inyezane River, 22 January 1879
Ntshingwayo kaMahole of the Khora looked down from the ridge at the British camp below him. The red soldiers had crossed the river ten days before but had done little since then. Ntshingwayo had fought the Boers, who always laagered their wagons to defend their camps. By contrast the British appeared to be asking to be attacked.
His orders though were not to attack, but to wait. Ntshingwayo cursed Cetshwayo for his cowardice. However today not looked like he wouldn't need to wait much longer. A column was moving out of the camp, towards the ridge where his 20,000 warriors waited, thirsting for battle.
Today they would get their wish and wash their spears.
Helmand Province, 27th July 1879
Captain Slade kept firing for as long as he could. Ahead of him the great waves of Cossack and Afghan horsemen circled. Behind the more columns of Russian and Afghan troops could be seen moving up. However, he had to hold then back to allow the brigade to deploy, so his men loaded round after round into their guns, scarcely needing to aim.
Finally, he realised he couldn't stay anymore, the enemy horse were almost up him. He gave the order and the guns limbered up, racing to safety. But the Cossacks were upon them, racing in amongst the galloping horses with their sabres drawn. Captain Slade drew his Webley and prepared to flee.
Mukta, 20 September 1879
Colonel Fettishaw-Freak marched out to inspect his regiment, drawn up in two lines on the parade ground. They had been there for over an hour, in the midday sun, but Fettishaw-Freak liked to make them wait. He also liked to lecture them, and today he had plenty to say, about the glorious victories of Her Majesty's armies around the world, about the triumphs of those who followed the one true God, and about how lucky they were to serve the Empress of India rather than the Russian Czar.
The colonel nodded to the havildar, who shouted the order for the men to stand to attention. nothing happened. The havildar looked anxious. He shouted again. Still nothing happened. Fettishaw-Freak glared at him, his face becoming even redder than usual. A massive vein on his thick neck started to throb.
Suddenly there was a cry in Hindi from the ranks. Fettishaw-Freak turned to stare at the miscreant but was stunned by what he saw. 600 Snider rifles were staring back at him. He opened his mouth and was about to speak, when the guns all spoke as one.
It had begun.
Bronkhurstspruit, 12th April 1879
It had been a year to the day since the Union Flag had been run up the flagpole in Pretoria. During those twelve months the Boers had lobbied and campaigned, organised and planned. Some had pinned their hopes on Gladstone and the Liberals, but others had advocated more direct action. Now, with the bulk of the British forces in South Africa in Zululand, and surely no chance of reinforcements from Britain, this was their chance.
The little column of red soldiers had halted on the road. The men hadn't even bothered to lie down. This would be easy. All the burghers needed was the order to fire.
