Fire Across the Veldt (20 page)

Simon took her hand and his mind fled back twenty-three years, when he had first met this young, beautiful half-caste Zulu girl, the daughter of an Irishman named John Dunn and his second wife, herself the daughter of a Zulu induna, or chief, in the heart of Zululand, just before the outbreak of the Anglo-Zulu war. In attempting to gather intelligence for the British army about the warlike intentions of the Zulu king, Fonthill and Jenkins had been captured and imprisoned by King Cetshwayo. It was Nandi who had contrived their escape and, later, her evidence at a court martial after the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift that had led to his acquittal on a contrived charge of cowardice. Then, two years later, their paths had crossed again when he and Jenkins had answered her appeal for help when she had been abducted and held prisoner by Portuguese diamond smugglers in Kimberley. A couple of letters had been exchanged in the long years in between but the peripatetic lifestyles of Simon, Alice and Jenkins had ended any regular correspondence. For Simon, Nandi had become just a pleasant and rather erotic memory – for, although they had never been lovers, the half-caste girl had aroused the most tender emotions in him all those years ago.

Now, as he sat listening to her story in her comfortable little house and looking at her children, he remembered that it was his duty to burn down that house …

‘And how is Alice?’ asked Nandi, desperately trying to remember the niceties and struggling to sound as though they were taking tea in
a country garden in Norfolk. ‘I was so pleased that you had married her in the end.’

Simon cleared his throat and attempted to go along with the formalities. ‘Thank you, Nandi. She is well and, indeed, she is here in South Africa, still writing for the
Morning Post
in London. She is now, I think, in Pretoria. You must meet her.’

‘Oh yes, please. Perhaps she can come here and meet my children. That would be nice. But you never married, Mr Jenkins?’

‘No, miss … er … missus. Call me 352. You always used to.’

As the niceties were exchanged, Simon’s mind raced. How on earth could they throw out this beautiful woman, who years ago had done so much for him and Jenkins, and have her stand by as they set fire to her house? And she, still presumably grieving for her husband! He thought hard. There was no way round it. The prisoners were evidence of the fighting here and he would have to submit a report on it all, of course. If he refused to burn the house, there would be trouble and he would probably have to resign his commission. And after all that, the general would just send another patrol to torch it.

He cleared his throat again. ‘Nandi, I hate to have to say this to you but I am afraid I must burn your house.’

‘Oh, blimey!’ said Jenkins.

Nandi put a stricken hand to her face. ‘Oh no! Simon, not you. Not you, burning my house. Oh, how could you do that?’

The two girls were now regarding him with equal horror, their eyes wide.

Jenkins opened his mouth to speak but Fonthill held up his hand. ‘There is no way round it, my dear, I’m afraid. Any house which has harboured Boer fighters must be burnt …’

‘But I didn’t invite them. They just rode in.’

‘Yes, but those are my orders. If I do not obey them, then another British troop will just come and do the job. But listen. All is not lost. Do you have a good wagon with mules or oxen?’

‘Yes. In the barn at the back. No oxen now, but I have two mules.’

‘Good. Now, I want you to pack everything you can take with you and mark all the furniture that can go on the wagon. When you have done this, my men will load the wagon.’

‘But where shall I go? We have no money, I have no husband and nowhere to stay. The Boers took all our cattle ten months ago and they gave me an IOU for them, but I think it is worthless.’

‘Don’t worry. I … we – that is, Jenkins and I – intend to look after you.’

Jenkins nodded eagerly. ‘Quite right, bach sir. Quite right. I ’ave some money saved up. I can—’

Simon shook his head. ‘Thank you, 352, that won’t be necessary. The one thing I don’t lack is money. But you, my old friend, can help Nandi in a different way. You are hereby granted three weeks’ leave. When the wagon is loaded, I want you to sort out three of the captured Boer ponies for the three ladies here.’ He turned. ‘Can the girls ride, Nandi?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good. Then, 352, get one of the troopers to drive the wagon and you accompany the party to Pretoria to look after them. Go straight to Alice at her hotel at this address.’ He scribbled on a piece of paper from his notebook. ‘I hope to God she is still there but I think she is. Book Nandi and the girls into the hotel and tell Alice that the cost will go on my private account. Then – are you remembering all this?’

‘O’course.’

‘Good. Then put the furniture in store and then you go
house-hunting
with Nandi. Because of the war, there should be plenty of properties going quite cheaply. Find a good house, and install them in it. Ask Alice to draw money on our joint account and pay for it.’ He scribbled another note and gave it to Jenkins.

‘Give this to Alice and explain the background. She will understand and want to help. She always loved Nandi. This note is asking her to set up an account at a bank in Pretoria on which Nandi can draw.’

Nandi had listened to all of this with an open mouth. ‘No, Simon,’ she said, her voice betraying bitterness. ‘I do not understand why you must burn my home but I cannot accept all this from you.’

Fonthill shook his head. ‘Nandi, no one hates the thought of destroying your house more than I, but I fear it must be done. Look, this war is not going to go on foever – in fact, I heard a rumour recently that Lord Kitchener and General Botha are getting together to talk of an armistice, although I will believe it only when it happens. I promise you that I will look after you and the girls until this stupid war is over. Then I will make sure that you come back here – I presume this is your land …?’

‘Yes. We have about two hundred hectares.’

‘Good. I promise that you will come back here and we will rebuild your house so that you can farm again. My dear, it is the least I can do. And don’t worry about the girls. We will see that they go to a good school.’

Gradually, Nandi lowered her head and simply let the tears flow. Immediately Jenkins sprang up to sit beside her and take
her hand, as Simon retained the other. And the three sat together for a while, the two children looking on with ashen faces. Then, eventually, Nandi straightened her back, extracted her hands and blew her nose.

‘Thank you both very much. I am really most grateful. You must excuse the tears because, you see, this is our home and we were all happy here.’ She sniffed hard. ‘But if we have to go, then we have to go. Come along, girls. Pack your toys and then help me mark the things we have to take.’

The oldest girl looked anxious. ‘Can we take Freddy?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ Nandi turned to Simon. ‘He’s our dog. We locked him in the outhouse when the commandos came.’

‘Oh, you must ’ave a dog,’ said Jenkins, his great moustache bending round in a grin. ‘I always ’ad a dog, look you, back ’ome on the farm in Wales. You can’t get by without a dog, now can you?’

She smiled at him, squeezed his hand and rose, shooing the girls before her.

Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances. ‘What a bloody mess,’ said Simon. ‘What a bloody war! Come on. You’d better get that wagon hitched and organise a work party to take the furniture out. Oh, and I hope to God that Nandi can find the way to Pretoria because I don’t suppose you can.’

A surprisingly confident Jenkins shook his head. ‘Oh, we’ll get there. Don’t you worry, bach sir. We’ll get there.’

Ninety minutes later, Fonthill sat on his horse and watched the specks that were the wagon and four riders disappear in the distance. Then he gave the order for a corporal to toss a stick of dynamite through the door. The house exploded and he caught a glimpse of the
pretty blue shutters cartwheeling high into the air before the building collapsed into a roaring mass, sending sparks and flames high into the darkening sky.

Simon sat for a moment, his heart and head full of sadness, before pulling round his mount’s head and urging it away.

His troopers were standing, mouths open, watching the conflagration and he rounded on them. ‘What the hell are you gawping at?’ he shouted. ‘Mount up and move off. There’s a bloody war still to fight. Mount up, d’you hear?’

Before they could move off, however, there were graves to be dug and the prisoners to be set off under guard on the march to the main column. Fonthill knew that his haul of just under fifty captured Boers, plus some twenty who had been killed, would be regarded as ‘a good bag’, for Kitchener was now marking the progress of the war by how many of the enemy raiding across the veldt could be imprisoned or shot. His attempts at arranging a truce with Botha had ended in failure, mainly thanks to the intransigence of the Free Staters. Reducing the number of men serving in the commandos was now the only way to end the conflict. Nevertheless, as Simon rode with his little convoy, he felt dispirited. Reaction from the few, intense minutes of hand-
to-hand
fighting and the ache from his injured upper arm and shoulder were not the only cause, he knew. Nandi re-entering his life brought back so many memories of his early days in Africa, capped then by
the reality of having to burn her home – she of all people, who had so entranced him all those years ago and who had stepped in to help him when he needed it so – all of this sent a keen pang of disquiet through his tired body.

The sight of the tall figure of Major Hammond sitting astride his horse, ramrod straight, as they rejoined the march north did nothing to help his state of mind. Hammond, of course, was unwelcoming and equally not congratulatory on the success of the excursion. His moribund nature reminded Fonthill that, sooner or later, he would have to be dealt with. But not now. Not now, when his brain was in turmoil at the cruelty of this ugly war and his body aching for respite from the saddle and from combat.

So Fonthill and his men rejoined the turgid, military amoeba that plodded northwards, attempting to round up or crush the active bands of Boers riding the veldt in this part of the Transvaal. It was frustrating work now acting as a cavalry screen for the army, involving as it did many false alarms and excursions to follow tracks that might or might not be those of a commando. Luckily, there were few farms that needed to be destroyed and where they were met, Fonthill continued his practice of allowing the occupants to load their possessions and make their own way, either to one of Kitchener’s camps or to join one of the guerrilla bands. If the former, he argued, then at least they would be looked after. If the latter, they would be a drag on the manoeuvrability of the commandos.

Alice wrote to him warmly, delighted, as she said, to be of help to Nandi and her girls and assuring him that she and Jenkins would find somewhere suitable for them to live. The Welshman, she confided, seemed to have become a new man, revealing a skill at crude conjuring
tricks that delighted the girls and dancing attendance on their mother. In fact, Jenkins rather overstayed his leave and it was nearly a month after being sent on his mission that he rejoined the column, happily describing to Simon the little house they had found for Nandi that sat on the edge of Pretoria, near a church school which the girls were to attend.

‘They’re a lovely little family,’ he confided. ‘I started to teach the girls Welsh, but I could only remember a few words, see.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘As long as you don’t teach them barrack-room English, that should be fine.’

‘Another thing.’ What seemed dangerously like a blush lit up the Welshman’s weathered features. ‘Did you notice the girls’ names?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The names she ’ad given ’em.’

‘Can’t say that I did.’

‘They’re yours an’ mine, see. Simone for you an’ …’ he paused for a moment in embarrassment ‘… Cyrilla for me, although I don’t think that’s a proper name for a girl. She must ’ave made it up, look you.’

Fonthill grinned. ‘Cyrilla, for Cyril! I thought you never told anyone your first name. Not anyone but me, that is. How did she find it out?’

Jenkins tugged at his moustache. ‘Dunno. Must ’ave come out years ago …’

Before the big column had reached its destination, Fonthill was summoned to one of his rare meetings with General French, to whom he formally reported. This time the meeting was quite cordial – no adverse reports this time, then, thought Simon, from Hammond?

‘Several bits of news for you, Fonthill.’ French gestured for him to sit at a camp stool. ‘Firstly, I have approved your recommendation for a second DCM for your man, Jenkins, a bar to his first. It’s a bit irregular and I didn’t like the sound of Hammond’s charge – it certainly doesn’t do for a 2IC to have concerns about the unit’s senior warrant officer – but I have chosen to support you on this occasion.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Secondly, Lord Kitchener has approved of the award to you of the DSO.’

Fonthill looked puzzled. ‘DSO?’

‘Yes. Distinguished Service Order. Came in in about 1886 for senior officers. Not been awarded much but it rewards exactly what it says, distinguished service in the field. In your case for the good work you did at Bothaville, your unrelenting pursuit of de Wet on the other side of the Orange and, indeed, in this recent skirmish at that farm. Good work, Fonthill. Congratulations.’

The two men shook hands. ‘Well, thank you, sir. I confess I hadn’t heard of the decoration.’

A sly smile crept across French’s features. ‘I confess it got a bit of a bad reputation in the first half of this damned war, under Buller. It became known as “DSO – for Dukes’ Sons Only”. You’re not the son of a blasted duke, are you, by any chance, Fonthill?’

‘Good God no, sir. Just a humble major.’

‘Good. All the better for that. Now, I know you will be glad to hear that I am taking you off this escort and farm-burning work.’

‘I am indeed.’

‘Thought you would be. Facts of the matter are that we think that we’ve stopped the Boers’ attempts to cause revolt in the Cape Colony.
The two commandos that did penetrate to the south have not been able to raise their compatriots to rebel and we’ve been able, as you well know, to throw de Wet out of the Colony. Trouble is that Botha and de la Rey are proving fiendishly effective at guerrilla warfare in the Eastern and Western Transvaal and the whole bloody country now seems aflame – and I don’t just mean from our farm burnings.’

The general frowned. ‘Kitchener is deploying all the troops he can but frankly, Fonthill, we could be in danger of losing this second phase of the war, despite our superiority in numbers, artillery and so forth. We are being stretched until our lines of communications and supply are twanging. Back home, after the recent death of our dear Queen, the government have been forced to raise income tax by tuppence and issue another, cheaper war loan. I tell you, this damned war with these farmers will bankrupt us if it keeps going and the public don’t like it. But enough of all that.

‘Now, to come back to you. Your friend de Wet has been lying low for a while after his attempts to invade the Colony. But our intelligence tells us that he has split his command into smaller sections. That means no more large confrontations but an increase in his harassment, because these smaller commandos will be more mobile. In fact, he has just caught a bit of a bloody nose at a place in the south with an unpronounceable name.’ He jabbed his finger onto a map laid out on the trestle table. ‘Here it is, look.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Verkijkersdorp.’

‘Well done.’

French grinned. ‘We think de Wet had linked up momentarily with de la Rey. A laager of women was being transported by us and the Boers attacked the escort. De Wet had to pull away without freeing
the women and he received heavy losses. But he knocked over about fifty of our chaps and also got away with over a thousand head of cattle, enough to keep him going for many weeks, dammit. This feller remains a formidable fighter, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘We are told that he has parted from de la Rey, who is back in the Transvaal, and he is headed – with his boss and great friend Steyn, the President of the Free State, plus members of the State Cabinet – back to his old hunting ground here, in the middle of the Free State. I want you and your small column to get down there as fast as possible. It’s a big area, of course, and ideal for cavalry. God knows where he is, exactly, so get down there and put out the black chaps that you think so highly of and see if you can find him. This is the home territory of de Wet and Steyn, of course, so the people will be against you. So don’t start the fox until you’re ready for him.’

Fonthill studied the map and nodded. ‘Yes, it looks pretty wide open. But if he’s there, we’ll find him.’

The two men shook hands again. ‘I don’t need to tell you,’ said French, ‘what a great contribution it would be to the war effort if we could capture the Free State President, his Cabinet and his general in one fell swoop, so I do hope fortune favours you. Now, off you go … Oh, dammit, I forgot. Here, take the medals with you.’ He handed Fonthill two small, flat boxes. ‘This is yours and this is for your man. You’ll probably have to hand ’em back when you get to England so that the King can present them to you formally. But we’ve got no time for that sort of thing down here. Now, get riding!’

On his return, Fonthill gathered together all his officers, plus Jenkins, and gave them the news. There was universal relief that
they were to be spared further farm burning, although, as usual, Hammond expressed neither pleasure nor regret. Simon indicated on the map their destination.

‘We’ll make for just outside Reitz,’ he said. ‘It’s obviously a small town, situated in what looks like good grazing land. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles to the south-east of here and maybe ninety miles or so from the border with Natal. But it’s right in the middle of de Wet’s homeland and somebody down there will have some idea of where he is, if, indeed, he is there.

‘I want our black trackers to ride fast ahead of us, under Mzingeli, and then to spread out and pick up what they can about the whereabouts of this party. If they have Free State politicians with them then somebody should know. If we can define this, then we can ride in before dawn and catch the lot … well, perhaps! These chaps are as slippery as eels. Now, Sarn’t Major, please bring in Mzingeli so that I can brief him. Major Hammond, prepare the column to begin the ride south an hour before dawn. I don’t want to waste a second.’

When Jenkins returned with Mzingeli the three hunched together companionably for a moment in Fonthill’s tiny tent, as they had so many times years before when they had ridden with Jameson in the invasion of Matabeleland. Simon presented Jenkins’s new medal to him and showed them both his own white cross. Then he produced a bottle of whisky and he and 352 each drank a congratulatory glass, with lemonade for Mzingeli.

‘Give me your tunic,’ said Jenkins, ‘and I’ll sew your new ribbon on it. Should it go above, alongside or under the CB?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But you shouldn’t be doing that. RSMs with two DCMs shouldn’t be sewing like a bloody housemaid.’

‘Give to me,’ said Mzingeli. ‘One of my boys do it. Ready for morning. People should know you are both great warriors.’

They all laughed and raised their glasses to each other.

Mzingeli and the black trackers rode off in the darkness some two hours before the column itself struck camp. For Fonthill, it was a blessed relief to be up in the cold, crisp air, riding with no pain now from his wounded arm, with Jenkins at his side and a freshly delivered, brief but tender letter from Alice tucked into his pocket, to be reread when the column stopped for breakfast. The prospect of another encounter with the shrewd and determined de Wet filled him full of excitement. This was proper soldiering, not raising fires across the veldt! And would he be able this time to stop the Great Escaper escaping again? He gritted his teeth. He would give up his fancy new Order – and the CB, for that matter – to pin the man down at last.

Fonthill faced the old problem of pushing his column as fast as possible to catch the Boers before they moved on again, while not exhausting his horses. It was, then, nearly five days before they camped well outside Reitz, tucked in behind a kopje. There, they were found by Mzingeli and one of his trackers who had worked on a farm in the district.

The two men crouched in Fonthill’s tent in the darkness before dawn to report to him as he rolled out of his sleeping bag.

‘Steyn man is in a house in centre of town,’ said Mzingeli. ‘He stay there with his Cabinet people. About seven or eight.’

‘Is General de Wet with them?’

Mzingeli shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Maybe. We kept watch but did not see him. But saw Steyn man. Old man with beard.’

‘Where are the rest of your trackers? I hope you didn’t alarm anyone by hanging around the place?’

‘No. They out in country seeing if we find de Wet man. They come back here soon.’

‘Good work. Thank you, Mzingeli. Now go and get some breakfast.’

Fonthill studied the scrap of paper that Mzingeli had thrust into his hand. In untutored scrawl it read: ‘Corner of Uniefees Street and Kerk St, near church. Wooden house, one floor.’ He presumed that meant that it was a bungalow. He thought hard as he pulled on his boots. Better to go and see for himself to plan the attack. Whether or not de Wet was there, there would be a presidential guard of some sort. But he didn’t want a bloodbath. Surround the house and take them all quickly and quietly, preferably at dead of night. He peered out of his tent and saw that the darkness to the east was lightening. Better reconnoitre now and attack tonight.

Two hours later, three Boers and their Kaffir servant rode out of the camp towards the town of Reitz. Scruffily dressed, as farmers rather than fighters, Simon, Jenkins, Mzingeli and one trooper, a uitlander from Johannesburg who spoke good Afrikaans, made for the centre of the town, riding easily, as though they had come in for provisions.

‘That the place, there,’ said Mzingeli, as they rode by a pleasant but unpretentious, cream-painted bungalow on the corner of two unmade roads, towards the edge of town. They rode straight past but Fonthill scanned the building from under his wide-brimmed hat. Three men lounged on the
stoep
and another could be glimpsed sitting outside at the back of the house. They all wore bandoliers and carried rifles. Half a dozen horses were hitched to the rail and,
through a window, Simon could see what appeared to be a room full of people.