Lafferty's Last Ride

by kiwisteveh

‘Twas the age of grand adventure, of sailing ships and steam,
When radio and airplanes were a visionary’s dream;
When men were men and women swooned to hear their heroes tell
Of battles waged in far off lands and perils that befell.
For the distant empire beckoned, like a Siren’s song of old
With tales of martial glory, and streets that gleamed with gold;
And the Queen would pay a shilling, for better or for worse,
To each soldier that enlisted, like the subject of my verse.

They called him Michael Lafferty, from Dublin Town he came,
Living proof that humble origin’s no obstacle to fame.
His mother was a working girl, his father no one knew,
But that fact was never mentioned with Lafferty in view,
For his temper it was legend and his knuckles cut and scarred;
As a rough and tumble fighter, he was held in high regard.
While the few that earned his friendship were proud to sing his praise,
His enemies were quick to learn the error of their ways.

Now Lafferty forsook his home, the country of his birth;
The British Army took him to the far ends of the earth;
For Victoria was Empress, and Victoria was Queen
Of the greatest empire known to man, the greatest ever seen.
From Singapore to Swaziland, New Zealand to the Nile,
This little Windsor widow ruled in unassuming style;
And the redcoats took their rifles and their Gatling guns as well
And they civilised the natives or they sent them all to Hell.

The regiment sailed for India where Lafferty learnt his trade,
Parade ground drills in crippling heat, one hundred in the shade.
The officers had their bungalows and punkah wallahs too,
While the Tommies in the barrackrooms were lathered to a stew.
Then finally he saw action and acquired the finer skills,
Shooting Afghans in the dusty plains and Pathans in the hills.
And he learnt the native lingo and their funny little ways,
A lesson that would serve him well when the land was set ablaze.

For the sepoys, they grew restless, said they didn’t like the taste
Of the cartridges, and were they made with some defiling paste.
Now your Muslim don’t like pork fat, and your Hindu won’t touch beef,
And this small misunderstanding caused an awful lot of grief.
The soldiers who refused to fight were shuffled off in chains,
But rebellion spread like wildfire through the mountains and the plains.
The mutineers took Delhi, there was slaughter at Cawnpore,
Where the wells were choked with bodies and the Ganges ran with gore.

At Lucknow Lafferty was trapped within the compound wall;
For five long months they waited for the garrison to fall.
Five months of desperation, five months of grim defence,
Five months of valour told to youth a hundred years hence.
Five months of slow starvation, of shrapnel, shells and fear,
Till finally the joyous word, relief was drawing near.
But the rebels held the city in a vice-like grip of steel;
A lack of local knowledge meant attack had scant appeal.

Then gallantry was called for and Lafferty volunteered;
He would venture through the siege-lines, past the enemy so feared.
With blackened face and native garb he plunged into the night,
Facing death at every instant of his deeply risky flight.
Through the murky maze of alleyways and streets that dripped with gloom,
Our hero stole on stealthy feet, avoiding certain doom.
Of a sudden, rang a challenge, crying, “Halt!” and “Who goes there?”
Four English words, one English voice, and Lafferty was clear.

Then the Officer Commanding shook his head in some dismay
At this ragged apparition who was sent to save the day,
But with Lafferty to guide them, the column swiftly marched
To bring relief and bully beef to those so starved and parched.
They fought their way through rebel lines with Lafferty at their head,
And broke the siege asunder, these heroes dressed in red.
After months of bitter fighting, when order was restored,
A VC for Lucknow Lafferty was his justified reward.

From India to Africa, a continental shift,
Meant Lafferty was stationed next at a place called Rorke’s Drift,
Where colonial expansion would soon bear bitter fruit,
As the warlike Zulu nation were provoked into dispute.
Then despite quite clear instructions to avoid all such disasters,
The local Governor, Bartle Frere, ignored his distant masters;
And he sent an ultimatum, which he knew would be ignored;
With arrogance the redcoats crossed the Buffalo River Ford.

In their homeland of KwaZulu a great army was displayed;
The Zulu King led out his men, the impi were arrayed.
Thirty thousand warriors were itching for a fight;
With assegai and cowhide shields, they travelled fast and light;
And they caught the British napping, and they taught them that conceit
Was the surest route an army had of marching to defeat.
Then the lookouts at the mission saw the Zulu fighters swarm
And the garrison sought shelter from this savage, screaming storm.

For they rained down on the hospital and set the roof ablaze,
So that Lafferty and his comrades thought they’d seen their final days,
But they stood, a band of brothers, and they stemmed the raging tide,
Daring death to do his utmost versus plucky British pride.
Then the Zulus breached the ramparts, so they fought them hand to hand;
To the stockade they retreated, there to make their final stand.
While the enemy scrambled over the bodies of their slain,
The valiant contingent battled on through fear and pain.

As a storm tide spends its fury, crashing on a rocky shore,
So the Zulu onslaught weakened, and the fighting raged no more.
Before the sullen sunrise cast its beams upon the dead,
The savage hordes had vanished, taken to their heels and fled,
And the battered British heroes, in wonderment and awe,
Could scarce believe the carnage and the slaughter that they saw.
Now their names live on in legend, and their valour is a gift
To those who praise the men who fought, defending Rorke’s Drift.

From South Africa to Egypt our hero travelled next,
Then by camel train with Gordon to Sudan, a country vexed
By a growing Mahdist army with their strict Islamic creed
And a hatred for the British who had made their country bleed.
Now even Pasha Gordon, who in China rose to fame,
Who had dined with Kings and Presidents, made glorious his name,
Could see that isolation must surely lead to doom,
As the Mahdi and his followers surrounded old Khartoum.

But for Lafferty, our hero, came a joy he’d never known,
In battle undefeated, but by love quite overthrown.
Zalika was the gentle maid who stole a soldier’s heart;
As the siege grew ever stronger, they swore they’d never part.
Inside his chest a dove of peace grew wings to freely soar,
As Lafferty the warrior vowed he would fight no more.
And they sprinkled lotus blossoms in the waters of the Nile;
As their love is consummated, let us turn aside a while.

In far off England’s Downing street the P.M. stood alone,
Deaf to the country’s pleading and the urging from the throne.
Till at last Gladstone relented and he ordered the relief,
But alas, too late, too little, and the nation moaned in grief.
Two days before fresh troops arrived, the starving city fell,
For the Mahdi knew their movements and he planned his onslaught well;
And when Gordon’s head was carried to the victor of Khartoum,
Lafferty was hiding safe within Zalika’s room.

And the year that followed after was the best one of his life,
As Lafferty learned Arab ways from his lovely Arab wife;
But as storms will follow sunshine and sadness follows mirth,
His heart was rent in two. Zalika died while giving birth.
Our hero cursed remorseless fate and shook his fist at God,
Then he set out on a journey only desperate men have trod.
Across the vast Sahara ever t’ward the setting sun,
He rode, to leave the world behind, the world he meant to shun.

An oasis fringed by palm trees was where he lay his head,
And as he lay there musing on his love who now was dead,
Came a quiet, whispered counting, a monotonous refrain,
That drove him to distraction as it echoed in his brain.
“Will you stop that cursed counting? I’m trying to get some sleep!”
When the quiet chant continued his rage burnt dark and deep.
Then a madness overtook him and his fury ran white hot,
He dragged his faithful servant out and killed him on the spot.

As the desert stars shone fiercely in the velvet desert sky,
Lafferty woke again from sleep with a sudden, savage cry.
The relentless voice was counting, like pebbles dropped on stone;
Who could it be that sing-song voice, that eerie dreadful drone?
In a flash the answer struck him, the camels were to blame;
As he gunned them down he shouted, “That should stop your little game!”
Then the gunfire echoes faded, while he stood there mute and shocked,
By the night sky’s vastness taunted, by the silent sand-dunes mocked.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... eight.... and nine.... and ten,”
Imagine just how Lafferty felt when the counting came again.
Tormented by the men he’d killed and the loss of his sweet wife,
He resolved in that bleak moment to end his wretched life.
His mind made up, a blissful peace engulfed him like a wave,
“One cigarette before I go will help me to be brave.”
And there upon the packet, in bold print it did announce,
“The finest leaf you’ll ever taste – the tobacco, that’s what counts!”

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I am pleased to revive this rather lengthy but worthwhile piece. If you make it to the end you may be able to help me by advising whether I should change the ending which is based on a rather feeble joke my father used to tell. The shocking truth is that I wrote the whole thing just to get Lafferty out in the desert with camels and a comrade so that I could create the punchline. What do you think?

Somewhat of an epic - thank you for making it this far!
Please note that variations in the meter are deliberate. In a work this long, to have pefectly regular rhythm would be incredibly monotonous and would produce a sing-song effect.

As far as possible I have kept historical accuracy for the three great battles referred to. Some dramatic and poetic licence has been used, so not too much nit-picking please.
Here are links to further information.

Indian Mutiny http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Rebellion_of_1857

Siege of Lucknow http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Lucknow

Zulu War http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Zulu_War

Rorke's Drift http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Rorke%27s_Drift

Siege of Khartoum http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Khartoum

I have used a few words that may puzzle the average reader:

punkah wallahs - Indian servants employed to manually operate a fan
Tommies - low rank British soldiers
Pathans - Indian hill tribe
Sepoys - Indians serving in the native regiments of the British army
Impi - regiments of Zulu warriors
Assegai - short thrusting spear

Historical Notes: It is a little unlikely that one soldier fought in all three of these battles, but it is possible. I am reminded of the lovable if somewhat despicable rogue Harry Flashman in the books by George MacDonald Fraser. 'Flashy' not only fought in these same three campaigns, but also on both sides in the American Civil War and more!

Although the causes of the Indian Rebellion/Mutiny are complex, one flashpoint was the introduction by the British of a new type of cartridge sealed with tallow (animal fat). Because the loaders had to bite the end off the cartridges, this was deeply offensive to both Muslim and Hindu soldiers.

At Lucknow, I have credited Lafferty with the valiant deeds of Thomas Henry Kavanagh, one of only five civilians to ever win a VC http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Henry_Kavanagh

... or more amusingly here at
http://greatbritishnutters.blogspot.com/2008/02/lucknow-kavanagh-carry-on-civil-servant.html

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Three sieges, one hero...

A chapter in the book Steve's Story-Poems

Lafferty's Last Ride

by kiwisteveh

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