Fire Across the Veldt (17 page)

Fonthill nodded. ‘Thank you, Cecil. And you, Colin?’

Forbes, however, clearly remained perturbed. ‘I am worried, sir, about your mention of someone having a grudge against Mr Jenkins and deliberately planting the bottle.’ He raised his head and looked squarely at Fonthill. ‘That could only be Major Hammond, by the sound of it. Are you accusing him, sir?’

‘No, I am not.’ Simon inwardly congratulated the man on his integrity and decided to speak frankly. ‘I have no evidence and I must leave it at that. To bring such a charge would demand such an exercise in establishing evidence that it would break this column in two. We would, for instance, have to check the number of whisky bottles each officer took in his pack and attempt to establish if one was missing. I do not wish to embark on such a divisive undertaking while we are in the field.

‘However, neither am I happy at such a senior warrant officer being convicted of a capital offence on such flimsy and conflicting evidence. At the moment, we are two in favour of acquittal – although, if we ultimately decide on that, it will be delivered to Jenkins with a severe warning about further drinking, I can promise you that. But, now, Colin, do you wish to make the acquittal unanimous or to submit a minority report recommending conviction. You must decide now.’

Fonthill clenched his buttocks in tension as Forbes frowned and considered his position. A two-to-one decision in favour of acquittal
would seriously compromise the report he would have to make to French on the subject. A unanimous verdict would make his task so much easier.

Eventually, Forbes lifted his head. ‘On reflection, sir,’ he said gloomily, ‘I must make it unanimous, in view of the unusual contradictions we have heard. But I would be much happier if you could assure us that no charges will be brought against Major Hammond in this matter, official or otherwise.’

Simon sighed. ‘I will give you that assurance, Colin,’ he said, ‘unless, that is, further evidence emerges –
cast-iron
evidence, mind you – that would mean I had no alternative but to do so. Will you accept that?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Very well, gentlemen. Thank you for your time.’ He raised his voice. ‘Sergeant.’

‘Sir.’

‘Please bring Sarn’t Major Jenkins here. Do not march him!’

‘Very good, sir.’

Jenkins came to attention in front of the three, an expression of such anxiety on his face that Simon felt nothing but sorrow for his old friend. However, he adopted a stern expression and ordered the two escorting sergeants to fall out and to return to their duties. When they had departed, he addressed the Welshman curtly.

‘Mr Jenkins,’ he said, ‘we have found you not guilty on the charge brought against you and that charge is now dropped. However, you did admit drinking a whole bottle of whisky while out in the field with the column and we all consider this to be symptomatic of what could become a serious problem, if you allow it. Any further
transgression of this nature will be dealt with most severely. Now, dismiss.’

Jenkins’s moustache began to twitch but the Welshman immediately smothered the embryonic grin. Instead, he looked sternly ahead and barked, ‘Thank you, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you.’ He saluted, turned smartly on his heel and was gone.

The three rose. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Fonthill. ‘I will break the glad news to Major Hammond, and will you now get your squadrons across this bloody river as quickly as possible? We still have work to do.’

Alice was not at all surprised to find, on her return to Pretoria after waving Emma goodbye at Bloemfontein, a message at her hotel asking her to call on General Kitchener at ‘her earliest convenience’.

Her round-up story of the camp visits had pulled no punches this time and she had cabled a vivid picture of the fetid conditions there and of the growing death toll. Her hope was that, at the very least, the War Office in London would have asked questions of its
commander-in-chief
in South Africa. But she had no intention of meekly accepting a dressing-down from the formidable Kitchener of Khartoum. She had some questions to ask
him
!

She sent a quick message to his headquarters to enquire what time would be convenient and by return was told to come ‘at once’. Ah, the battle lines were being drawn! A quick thought persuaded her to change into a floral dress with workmanlike but pretty pumps and
she tied a well-worn but much loved apple-green scarf around her throat and brushed her hair. She applied a little face powder to soften the tan but nothing more outré by way of cosmetics. Alice wanted to appear feminine to the great commander – she hated the masculine pose adopted by some women journalists of her acquaintance – but she certainly was not going to flirt with him. From what she had heard, anyway, such tactics were a waste of time with the man.

At the door of the hotel, she was handed an envelope. Tearing it open, she read:

Alice sighed and waved away the messenger. ‘No reply,’ she said. She tucked the envelope into her bag. He must have bribed someone at the hotel to let him know as soon as she returned. A little frisson ran through her. Dinner tonight! It was tempting. Then she tossed her head. She would think about that later. She had things to do first.

She hired a pony and trap to take her to Kitchener’s HQ, for she didn’t want to arrive looking dusty or less than her best. Alice realised that Kitchener had the power to order her removal from the corps of accredited correspondents in South Africa and that would never do. She was determined to fight her corner but she mustn’t go too far. If just a touch of feminism might detract the great man from sending her home, then she wasn’t above deploying it.

The guard at the gate of the unpretentious house gave her a big grin and a smart salute, which earned him a warm smile in return.
Then she was ushered directly into the great room, with its
objet d’art
clutter and walls covered with pin-studded maps. Kitchener advanced to meet her with, to her surprise, a wide smile stretching his great moustache.

‘Welcome back, Miss Griffith,’ he said, gesturing her to a chair facing his desk. ‘My, but you have been busy.’

Alice gulped. A charm offensive was not what she had been expecting. Then she remembered: Kitchener was renowned as a soldier, of course, but he was building a reputation also as a shrewd negotiator. She must be careful not to be sucked in.

‘I have indeed, General,’ she smiled. ‘And I am so grateful to have the chance of discussing with you the question of the camps.’

‘I am at your disposal, madam. Alas, we don’t get the
Morning
Post
out here, of course, but the War Office has sent me the gist of what you have been writing. This Miss Hobhouse seems to be a most formidable lady. I am sorry that I did not have the opportunity of meeting her. Now, let us have some tea.’

He reached out a large hand and tinkled a small bell. ‘China or Indian?’

‘China, please, with a little milk but no sugar.’

The request was conveyed to an orderly and Kitchener settled into his chair. ‘Well, you have certainly given us a rough time, Miss Griffith – ah, I should have asked. Forgive me. How is your husband? I knew that he had been wounded and that he plunged back immediately into the fray in the south. Have you had news of him?’

Alice felt herself flushing. This would never do. She had not realised that the morose, allegedly misogynistic Lord Kitchener could turn on the charm so effortlessly. Perhaps this was the calm before the storm?
‘Thank you. I am afraid I have not heard from him for some time. We both have been moving about the country rather a lot, but in different directions and in different degrees of comfort, I fear.’

Kitchener nodded. ‘Well, from what I have heard, he is doing good work on the border. He has nearly pinned down the elusive de Wet – you will remember him, of course – several times. I am delighted that he decided to join us in this miserable war.’

Ah! Alice realised that a door had been pushed slightly ajar. She jumped in.

‘I suppose all wars are miserable, Lord Kitchener – you will know this better than anyone. But this one certainly seems to be particularly cruel, not only in conventional terms but in the way Boer civilians have suffered. These camps, you know, are a disgrace.’

Kitchener sat back in his chair and put his fingers together. ‘So, it seems, you have written.’ A pause ensued and Alice wondered whether he was waiting for her to build her attack, but then the general leant forward and continued.

‘You and I, of course, have discussed before my reasons for clearing the farms and, although you may not agree with them, they were one of the few strategies I could adopt for ending this war, which is costing so many lives and, indeed, considerable expenditure by the British Treasury. In fact, I have to tell you that it is now beginning to work. More and more of the Boer fighters out there on the veldt are being caught in our net, as we corner them. You see, they no longer have their homes to fall back on to give them comforts and essentials. As a result, these commandos are hungry, riding
broken-down
horses and wearing threadbare clothes. It is gruelling work but we are wearing them down.’

‘But you don’t seem able to catch de Wet, Botha, de la Rey and the rest. The veldt may be burning, but they still ride it.’

‘And they are splendid fighters, there is no doubt of that. They are fighting for their homeland, they know the terrain far better than we do and they have courage and skill. But they cannot win. We outnumber them and are closing in on them all the time.’

Alice sighed. ‘But the camps, sir, the camps. I understand that you now have ninety thousand white Boers behind the wire and some twenty-four thousand blacks. And the women and children are dying like flies.’

Kitchener nodded solemnly. ‘Quite. Enteric fever. It’s also causing more deaths among our troops than Boer bullets or shells. You would have thought that these sturdy Afrikaner families would have been more resistant to it, used, as they are, to outdoor living with crude sanitary conditions. But it seems they are not.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of tea and the general presided over its pouring with the fussy attention of a parson’s wife. Then he resumed.

‘Miss Griffith, I have to confess that I got this wrong. I believed that we – the army – could handle the camps without too much effort. Goodness, we move vast forces around the country and set them up in temporary accommodation all the time. We are good at it. But we seem to have got these internment camps all wrong. We have overlooked the detail involved in housing these families.’

He shook his head and the general looked suddenly weary. Alice had a brief insight into the weight of responsibility being carried by this famous man – ‘K of K’. She remembered hearing that this master of detail and logistics (he was, of course, a Royal Engineer)
found it difficult to delegate. He went on: ‘We left too much to be decided locally and did not set up a proper administration to establish adequate rations, cooking equipment, water supplies and sanitary arrangements – all the things you have written about.’

Alice, her head buzzing, scrambled in her handbag for notebook and pencil. ‘May I quote you on this, General?’ she asked.

‘Only if you report what I am doing to rectify the situation, madam.’

‘But of course. Do tell me.’

‘My masters in London have agreed that we should transfer the establishment and running of the camps – and we can’t, of course, pull them down because, despite their faults, they are effective – I repeat, to transfer their complete administration to the civilian authorities. Lord Milner, therefore, is leaving Cape Town and moving up to Pretoria to take responsibility for the camps and, indeed, the civilian administration of the country. His talents in this area are well proven and immediate improvements in the camps, including the replacement of tents by wooden buildings to give greater protection to the families, will be undertaken. This will allow the army to get on with the prosecution of the war.’

Kitchener, his face now wearing a weary smile, leant forward. ‘And I have another piece of news for you, Miss Griffith,’ he said. ‘General Botha, who now seems to have taken over the complete Boer leadership in the Transvaal, has agreed to talk to me about establishing an armistice.’ He held up his hand. ‘Now this certainly does not mean the end of the war. Botha is probably the most amenable of the guerrilla leaders to an armistice, for his State, of course, contains more uitlanders than all the others put together and the Free State
people in particular, who were the last to come into the war, seem now the most determined to continue it. So Botha will have his work cut out to get all the Boer leaders to the table. But, my goodness, it’s a start.’

His smile widened. ‘So there you are, madam. Two – what do you call ’em – scoops, isn’t it, in one day.’

Alice did not immediately reply, for she remained scribbling, her head down. Then she looked up and gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster.

‘Two pieces of good news, sir. You have made my day, in more ways than one. Now, please excuse me, for I must cable my people in London. I will, of course, pass my story through the censor here. I presume I will have no problems with him?’

‘Certainly not. Fire away.’ He stood and extended his hand. ‘Perhaps you might find a way of implying that I am not quite …’ hesitantly, almost bashfully, he searched for the right word ‘… the
monster
that I am sometimes painted. Now good day, madam. Oh, and do give my good wishes to your gallant husband when you next see him.’

‘I will, sir. I will. And thank you.’

Alice walked down the wooden steps from the veranda, astonished the sentry outside by patting his shoulder, and greeted the blue sky above with a great grin. Then she examined her fob watch. Good. She had time to get her story on the wire to catch tomorrow’s edition. And what a story! If it was true that Kitchener had given her these two pieces of news exclusively then she did, indeed, have page lead copy here. She climbed back onto the trap, which she had kept waiting, and began scribbling straight away.

Halfway back to the hotel she looked up from her notepad. James! Well, she reckoned she would be able to write and cable her story and still have time to join him for dinner. She hugged herself with glee.

The two stories, which, of course, she put together as one, virtually wrote themselves and she had plenty of time to take them to the censor’s office – where she met with a raised eyebrow but no difficulties – send a message to Fulton in the journalists’ compound and then return to bathe and make herself ready for dinner. She felt no sense of betrayal at agreeing to see James over dinner. It presented itself as a civilised and, she confessed, pleasurable opportunity to tell him that whatever there had been between them was now over. They would continue to be friends, of course, but she was a happily married woman and that would be that.

Relieved at resolving a course of action to solve the problem that had been hanging over her for weeks, Alice dressed with care. She selected her only other dress, a well-cut apple-green, rather formal garment, made of the finest Egyptian cotton and cut low at the front to reveal a touch of décolletage. It was Simon’s favourite and she felt a tremor of unease at wearing it, but, what the hell, tonight would be her last evening with James Fulton so she cast aside any insipient feeling of guilt. She slipped her only pair of high-heeled shoes on her feet and applied face powder and, this time, a touch of rouge. Alice had to admit that, looking at herself in the mirror, she felt deliciously naughty.

Fulton arrived at the hotel a little early and carrying a bouquet of veldt flowers: mimosa, ericas, maidenhair ferns, picked, he said, by himself that very afternoon. She accepted them with a light kiss to his cheek and inwardly marvelled at how handsome he looked, with
his dark-tanned face and black wavy hair set off by white ducks and lightweight jacket. Despite the heat he had paid her the compliment of wearing a stiff white collar and brightly striped tie – old school or regiment? It didn’t matter but she couldn’t help speculating for a second or two on its provenance. After all, she knew nothing about his background.

‘Dinner?’ she asked. ‘That sounds very grand for Pretoria. Surely there are only the stuffy old clubs and hotels. Where are we going?’

He flashed his teeth. ‘Certainly no hotel or club. I have found a delightful little restaurant on the edge of town. Kept by two Chinese. Best food in the whole of South Africa. I promise you will like it. And they know their wines. Come on, I have hired a carriage.’

The carriage was open but he had provided a parasol, for the evening sun was still comparatively high. Pretoria was a pretty little town and as they drove through its leafy suburbs, with their imported eucalyptus trees and bayonet-erect aloes hedging the gardens, Alice felt relaxed and replete, after the strain of virtual non-stop travelling and recording the miseries of the camps. As they drove, they began to leave the little wooden houses behind and headed towards the yellow veldt. Overhead larks and pipits sang and the regal pow bird sailed swiftly through the sunlight, a patch of colour against the blue.

Alice felt so elated that she had to share her good news about her interview with Kitchener. Fulton was impressed. ‘Don’t use it, though, James, will you?’ she begged. ‘Kitchener gave them to me exclusively. But I am telling you now so that you can have ample time to follow it all up tomorrow, if you wish.’