Hero of the Empire: The Boer War, a Daring Escape, and the Making of Winston Churchill Read Online Free
Author: Candice Millard
Tags: General, History, Biography & Autobiography, Military, Political, Europe, Great Britain
a bayonet, Churchill, unable to sleep, peered intently at the stars overhead. As he listened to nearby soldiers tensely coughing and shifting in their trenches, yearning for the night to end, he contemplated “those impartial stars, which shine as calmly on Piccadilly Circus as on Inayat Kila.” Bindon Blood had ordered the men to march into the mountains the next morning, burning homes and crops and destroying water reservoirs. Reveille would sound at 5:30, and the Pashtun, they knew, would be waiting.
When the soldiers and officers of Blood’s brigade climbed out of their trenches on the morning of September 16, not one of themcould be sure he would live to nightfall. Whatever unspoken thoughts they might have harbored of home or even the relative safety of their trenches, however, they had little choice but to face the Pashtun. Among them, only Churchill could have turned around and left at any moment, and he had no intention of going anywhere but into battle.
Buttoning a padded cloth onto the back of his uniform to protect his spine, straightening the chain-mail epaulets on his jacket, meant to shield him against the slash of a sword, and adjusting his khaki-covered cork pith helmet, Churchill knew that many of the young men surrounding him would perform acts of striking heroism on the battlefield that day. He also knew that very few of them would be seen or, if seen, remembered. Where his own future was at stake, he was determined to even the odds.
As Blood divided his thousand men into three columns, Churchill quickly attached himself to the center column, a squadron of Bengal Lancers that was headed deep into the valley on a mission of destruction guaranteed to provoke the Pashtun, and to give Churchill plenty of opportunity for conspicuous bravery. The squadron, however, also appealed to him for another reason: It was part of a cavalry regiment, which allowed him to do something that, although it stunned every man in the brigade, would guarantee that he, at least, would not be forgotten. Gripping the side of his saddle, he swung a leg, wrapped in leather from his riding breeches to his boot, over the back of a gray pony.
Churchill had acquired the pony on his way to Malakand, at the same auction in which he had bought his blanket from the effects of a young soldier killed in battle. His plan, he would later tell his brother, was to ride “about trying to attract attention when things looked a little dangerous,” hoping that his “good grey pony” would catch someone’s eye. Although it was much more likely to catch the eye of a Pashtun tribesman who would kill him before anyone had an opportunity to admire his courage, Churchill was willing to take that chance. “The boy seemed to look out for danger,” an article in Harper’s magazine would later marvel. “He rode on a white pony, themost conspicuous of all marks, and all the prayers of his friends could not make him give it up for a safer beast.”
Churchill understood that he could very easily be killed in the battle that lay before him, but he did not for a moment believe that he would be. “I have faith in my star,” he had written to his mother just days earlier. “That I am intended to do something in the world.”In fact, soon after arriving in India, he had told a fellow officer that not only did he plan to leave the military soon for a seat in Parliament but he expected to be prime minister one day.
As he rode out with the cavalry on his gray charger, like a bright fish in a sea of khaki and brown, Churchill took great satisfaction in the knowledge that, if nothing else, he would be impossible to miss.
What struck Churchill most forcefully that morning as he entered the valley, cloaked in the mountains’ deep shadows, was the pervading silence. Every village the cavalry passed was deserted, all the plains empty. The men knew that thousands of Pashtun were watching as they rode farther and farther from camp, but they could neither see
When the soldiers and officers of Blood’s brigade climbed out of their trenches on the morning of September 16, not one of themcould be sure he would live to nightfall. Whatever unspoken thoughts they might have harbored of home or even the relative safety of their trenches, however, they had little choice but to face the Pashtun. Among them, only Churchill could have turned around and left at any moment, and he had no intention of going anywhere but into battle.
Buttoning a padded cloth onto the back of his uniform to protect his spine, straightening the chain-mail epaulets on his jacket, meant to shield him against the slash of a sword, and adjusting his khaki-covered cork pith helmet, Churchill knew that many of the young men surrounding him would perform acts of striking heroism on the battlefield that day. He also knew that very few of them would be seen or, if seen, remembered. Where his own future was at stake, he was determined to even the odds.
As Blood divided his thousand men into three columns, Churchill quickly attached himself to the center column, a squadron of Bengal Lancers that was headed deep into the valley on a mission of destruction guaranteed to provoke the Pashtun, and to give Churchill plenty of opportunity for conspicuous bravery. The squadron, however, also appealed to him for another reason: It was part of a cavalry regiment, which allowed him to do something that, although it stunned every man in the brigade, would guarantee that he, at least, would not be forgotten. Gripping the side of his saddle, he swung a leg, wrapped in leather from his riding breeches to his boot, over the back of a gray pony.
Churchill had acquired the pony on his way to Malakand, at the same auction in which he had bought his blanket from the effects of a young soldier killed in battle. His plan, he would later tell his brother, was to ride “about trying to attract attention when things looked a little dangerous,” hoping that his “good grey pony” would catch someone’s eye. Although it was much more likely to catch the eye of a Pashtun tribesman who would kill him before anyone had an opportunity to admire his courage, Churchill was willing to take that chance. “The boy seemed to look out for danger,” an article in Harper’s magazine would later marvel. “He rode on a white pony, themost conspicuous of all marks, and all the prayers of his friends could not make him give it up for a safer beast.”
Churchill understood that he could very easily be killed in the battle that lay before him, but he did not for a moment believe that he would be. “I have faith in my star,” he had written to his mother just days earlier. “That I am intended to do something in the world.”In fact, soon after arriving in India, he had told a fellow officer that not only did he plan to leave the military soon for a seat in Parliament but he expected to be prime minister one day.
As he rode out with the cavalry on his gray charger, like a bright fish in a sea of khaki and brown, Churchill took great satisfaction in the knowledge that, if nothing else, he would be impossible to miss.
What struck Churchill most forcefully that morning as he entered the valley, cloaked in the mountains’ deep shadows, was the pervading silence. Every village the cavalry passed was deserted, all the plains empty. The men knew that thousands of Pashtun were watching as they rode farther and farther from camp, but they could neither see
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