Fire Across the Veldt (24 page)

‘Jenkins was still in a coma in a hospital bed at that time,’ he concluded, ‘and could not give evidence. If Nandi had not heard of my plight and come forward, I might well have been shot for cowardice.

‘Gentlemen, I promise you that that was not a happy prospect for a young subaltern. So I owe my life to this young woman and I am grateful that I was able to help her, back in 1880, when she ran into grave trouble with a party of Portuguese diamond smugglers near the Mozambique border, and now, when I was forced to burn her home.’

He held up his hand as French opened his mouth to interrupt. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘but it is my turn now. The money for purchasing her house here came from the joint account of myself and my wife, which, of course, can easily be confirmed. So my wife was party to the purchase and was as anxious to help Mrs de Wath as I was – surely not the act of a woman who was being deceived.

‘Now, concerning the charges concerning my RSM and the burnings. Well, I must plead guilty, I suppose. You said yourself, General, that this policy is controversial. I am afraid, sir, that to the men who have to do it, it is worse than that. It is hateful. We are used to fighting the enemy but not to evicting their wives and children
from their homes and then burning them. We all understand why it has to be done but we hate being employed to do it.’

Fonthill was well aware that he was on dangerous ground here and he ploughed on before either of the generals could interrupt. ‘You are quite right, sir, that I always have my men help the women and children bring out their belongings and I do not allow looting, as I believe is done in some regiments. It is also true that I allow the families to ride off with their furniture. I reason that, if they make for the nearest town, then they will probably have people there who will help them, so that they won’t be a further burden on the camps. If they join a commando, then that will restrict that unit’s mobility and probably do us a good turn. So I saw no reasons to change my practice.’

Simon gulped in air and hurried on. ‘The farm was burnt as soon as the family had left it. My scouts were out so I was fairly certain that there were no more Boer fighters in the area. As for Jenkins’s role in all this. He was entitled to leave, having served non-stop for some six months, so I granted him three weeks to help take Mrs de Wath to Pretoria and I felt I could spare the trooper that went with them. Yes, we were on active duty at the time, but the absence of two men did not denude us.

‘Finally, General, you were kind enough recently to approve General French’s recent recommendation of the award of the DSO to me and a bar to Jenkins’s DCM. I can only interpret this as the approval of both of you to my and his recent actions in the field – enough, I would have thought, to overcome any lingering doubts about these recent absurd accusations.’

A silence fell upon the room. Then, slowly, Kitchener replaced
his spectacles, picked up the paper from his desk, briefly ran his eye over it once more and then, equally slowly, tore it into fragments and deposited it into his waste-paper basket. He stood, walked from behind his desk and held out his hand to Fonthill, who, puzzled, grasped it.

‘My apologies, Colonel,’ Kitchener said. ‘We both felt that this was nonsense, but we had to give you the opportunity of telling us so. Obviously, the matter will be taken no further and I would like you to apologise to Mrs de Wath for any pain or inconvenience that she has experienced. Now, I want you to put this completely from your mind and get back to the good work you are doing. Go into the room, a couple of doors along here, and French will tell you of your new assignment. Please give my compliments to your wife. Now, you must excuse me. I have much to do.’

‘One moment, sir.’ Fonthill released Kitchener’s hand and frowned heavily. ‘These charges have obviously been put forward by someone who seems to have been close to me in my column and has obviously been …’ he sought for the right word ‘… spying on me. I would like to know who that was and have him removed.’

‘He will be removed and French will see to that. You have our apologies for this matter and I don’t want you to take it any further. We will certainly not. I won’t have witch-hunts. Now, good day to you, Fonthill.’

Simon inclined his head. ‘Good day, sir.’

French and he walked stiffly to the nearby room. The general closed the door behind them and gestured to two chairs placed at a small table.

He sat opposite Fonthill and eased his tunic. ‘I extend my own
apologies to you, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘I fear that much of this is my own fault. You see,’ he leant forward, ‘I have to confess I was not in favour of your appointment. I did not think it either wise or fair to appoint to your position someone with as little experience of regular army command as you had, and also your … er … forgive me, clear record of, what shall I say, disenchantment with the army and all its faults. I felt that was asking for trouble, but K overruled me.’

Fonthill sensed French’s genuine embarrassment but couldn’t quite let him off the hook that easily. ‘So you appointed Hammond to spy on me? Forgive me, sir, but it was not exactly the action of a gentleman, if I may say so.’

French’s florid countenance flushed an even darker shade of puce. ‘You certainly may
not
say so, Fonthill. You will
not
use that language to me. I was merely doing my duty as I saw it. And, I suppose, Hammond was merely carrying out orders. Although,’ the general’s manner quickly ameliorated, ‘I have to say that he carried them out with a zeal that showed he seemed to have very little respect for you.

‘And,’ French continued, ‘I was a trifle worried when you reported that his horse had bolted at that sharp engagement when you nearly nabbed de Wet. Such a strange thing to happen to such a splendid horseman. But I couldn’t bring myself to think of him as a coward, because I had seen him in action.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘I was suspicious, but I agree now that he is not a coward. But how could he continue to give me deference and report on me to you?’

‘Quite so. In fact, I told him some time ago that I did not need to receive these sort of reports in future because I was more than satisfied with your performance.’ French jerked his head towards Kitchener’s
office. ‘This stupid business came out of the blue and he obviously devoted his leave to find evidence to incriminate you. However, look here. You have received apologies from both of us now and there the matter must rest. As soon as I leave here I will order that Hammond be transferred immediately. So don’t pick a fight with him – and that’s an order.’

Fonthill inclined his head. ‘Very well, sir.’

French stood and extended his hand. ‘Let us shake hands, forget this matter and get on with the bloody war, eh?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Fonthill had an irreverent thought and could not but grin at it. It was like being forced to shake hands at school after an affray in the schoolyard. Childish, really. But, he reflected, the British army was rather like a public school in many ways:
ivy-covered
practices, stern morals, outmoded rules and regulations. He sat down again and composed himself to listen to French.

‘Now,’ French stroked his greying moustache and put a stubby forefinger behind his shirt collar to ease it. Simon noticed again that the man had a prodigious bull neck. ‘You will know,’ he said, ‘that Kitchener’s policy has to be one of attrition. We are building blockhouses across the veldt and linking them with barbed wire and literally driving the Boers into these vast compounds. It is hard and slow work but it is paying off.

‘The Boers know this, of course, and they cannot afford to lose men and they are running out of time. So, once again, they are trying to ease the pressure on the two main States – the Transvaal and the Free State – by attacking elsewhere. You played a large part in chasing de Wet out of the Cape Colony. There are small bands of commandos down there still and some of them have penetrated to the coast. But
they are being hounded and they are failing to raise rebels in the Colony to support them. But a new threat has emerged.’

Fonthill leant forward with interest. ‘De Wet again, in the centre of the Free State?’

French shrugged. ‘Well, he is certainly still there and we expect him to become active again at any moment. But there is only so much harm that he can do out in those great grasslands. He is not what I am talking about. It is Botha – I think you clashed with him early on, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. I think I had a slight advantage then, but there wasn’t much in it.’

‘Quite so. K has great respect for him and considers him probably the best strategic thinker of all the Boer generals. Well, we believe that he is planning to attack Natal, maybe through Zululand, maybe not. Our intelligence is very sketchy, but if he does get through, then he could do untold damage.’

Fonthill’s interest was stimulated. Tackling Botha was far more challenging than farm burning. ‘You want me to go down there with my column?’

‘Yes. The border is pretty well defended on the Natal side but he will certainly probe it and he will be looking to cross the Buffalo River. We think he will have about one thousand men with him, so, of course, he will completely outnumber you. What’s your strength now?’

‘About two hundred.’

‘Yes. Now, remind me, Fonthill, of your approach to these Boer hunting trips of yours. I’ve read your reports, of course, but I have read dozens of others, too. Do you take artillery?’

‘Good Lord, no. It would slow us down completely.’

‘What about provisions? Wagons?’

‘Certainly not, sir. If we are to do our job properly, then we have to move fast. If we get the chance, my motto is: ride by night and strike at dawn. The Boer is a fearsome fighter on horseback. Catch him before he gets into the saddle and he can be a very different proposition. He likes to be able to ride away from trouble if things get too hot.’

French smiled. ‘My sentiments exactly. But come back to provisions. What and how do you take them?’

‘If I reckon we shall be scouting away for, say, a couple of nights, then we can take the basics – water, tea, biltong, even a pouch of flour apiece – behind our saddles. If we’re to be away longer, then we have mules. They are five times as fast as wagons with oxen, of course, and better than packhorses in that they can climb mountains, as we found in the Colony, trying to step on de Wet’s shirt tail.’

‘Excellent. Just what I wanted to hear. If we are to pin down Botha it has to be by using a column like yours to catch up with him and bring him to the fight. If you can hold him for a time, we can get reinforcements to you. Now, there’s a freight train that is leaving for the Natal border from Jo’burg the day after tomorrow. Get your men and horses, mules etcetera on it. I’m afraid it’s open cattle trucks, but I know that you are used to hardship.’

‘Where is Botha now?’

‘I wish I knew. We know he slipped out of his hunting grounds on the remote eastern border of the Transvaal. We believe that he left behind what was left of his artillery and all of his wagons. Hence my point about moving fast. He is marching light and quickly with pack mules and packhorses to support him. The open veldt of the
south-east Transvaal has been relatively untouched by the war so far and Botha set up a pace that was too hot for the columns we thought we had on his trail – again – hence my questions to you. Our chaps seem to have just two paces: plod and slow plod. You, I know, are different. Hence my telegram to you.

‘We think that Botha is heading for the British camp at Dundee, ten miles on the Natal side of the river. He would probably hope to get fresh food and horses there, and then cut the railway at Glencoe, on the main line between Durban and Pretoria and, of course, one of the two main arteries of the British army. But, apart from us, he will have problems with the weather. It has turned really sour down there: cold and wet and the rivers will probably be in spate. Not much fun for you, Fonthill, either, of course, but worse for him, because he will have had a hard ride from the north and fodder will be scarce.’

Fonthill looked thoughtful. ‘When we find him, you want us to hold onto him until our heavy stuff comes up?’

‘Exactly. You will be outnumbered, so don’t tackle him head-on. Outbluff him if you can and delay him. Finding him is going to be difficult, so you may have to float a bait for him to rise to. Fisherman, Fonthill?’

‘Used to do a bit, sir. On the Wye, Welsh Border country.’

‘Good trout there. Experience should stand you in good stead. Now, remember, above all, you must not let Botha get into Natal. He knows the territory like the back of his hand so it won’t be easy. But I think you’re the man to do it. I shall be following you down. You will continue to report to me. You have the telegraph address.’

‘Well, thank you for your confidence. We will do our best.’

The two shook hands again and Fonthill took his leave, walking
out into the cold wind of the high veldt and wondering just how much colder and wetter it would be on the Natal border, which he remembered depressingly well from the Zulu war. He shook his head at the memory. At least not a bloody court martial this time, he hoped! Just clean, straightforward stuff, like finding a slippery Boer, ducking and weaving in his own territory and then fighting him with a force outnumbered by something like four to one. He groaned to himself. Easy!

Fonthill took advantage of his presence in Pretoria to pay a brief visit to his wife before catching the train for the quick journey back to the camp south of Johannesburg. She was immediately interested in the news about Botha.

‘Now for goodness’ sake, Alice,’ Simon interjected quickly. ‘You can’t use that. Word could get back so quickly to Botha and he would know we were on to him. And I would get sacked for telling you.’

She pouted. ‘And is London so full of Boer spies that they would read my piece and cable it back to him so quickly?’

‘Well, I think the answer to that is probably yes. So … I repeat: don’t use it.’

‘Oh, very well. But,’ her face lightened, ‘let me come with you. There is absolutely nothing to write about here at the army’s headquarters. The press corps is fed the odd scrap or two of so-called
news from the general’s table but we might as well be reporting on a vicar’s tea party.’

Simon held up his hand. ‘No, darling. I’m sorry, but you can’t come with me. There are two good reasons. Firstly, army headquarters says where journalists can and can’t go on active service and, secondly, it’s too damned dangerous. I can’t have my wife flitting about at my elbow when I’m trying to fight one of the best Boer generals in the whole of South Africa. It would distract me. Sorry, but no.’

Alice scowled. ‘So I distracted you when the Pathans attacked us in the orange grove in Afghanistan, did I? I killed at least one of them myself. And what about when we had to laager and the Matabele surrounded us? Who manned – or rather, womanned – one of the wagons, with just a hunting rifle? And who shot that Boxer in the shoulder in China when he was about to butcher you, eh? And who killed the awful Gerald in Peking when he had taken a bead on you with his rifle? Who? Why me, of course. Your dear little frightened wife. That’s who. Distract you, my foot. I wasn’t in the way, then, now was I?’

Fonthill looked at his wife’s flushed face and couldn’t help but grin. He held up his hand again, in supplication this time. ‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I concede that you are twice the fighter I am and probably almost as good as Jenkins. I didn’t mean to impugn your courage or your value in a fight when the chips are down.’ His grin turned to a frown. ‘But don’t you see? If we are attacked I have much greater responsibilities now and you would add to them. I
would
be worried about you and you
would
be a distraction. I am sorry but I’m afraid you must stay here and report on K’s tea parties. Now kiss me and let me go. I have much to do.’

Still scowling, Alice put her arms around him and kissed him soundly. ‘Go then,’ she murmured into his ear, ‘but if you get yourself killed and I’m not there I shall never forgive you and I shall certainly never let you sleep with me again. So there.’ She poked her tongue out. ‘Off you go and I hope you never find bloody Botha.’

Back in the camp, Fonthill found that Jenkins had arrived before him. The Welshman came bustling over. ‘’Ere,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘Great news. ’Ammond ’as gone. Packed ’is gear and buggered off. Without so much as a goodbye kiss or farewell word to me. The word is that ’e’s gone back to some fancy cavalry lot, see.’

Simon grinned and nodded. ‘Yes, I know. Although I didn’t think it would be as quick as that.’ Then he recounted his conversations with Kitchener and French.

‘So ’e was be’ind the police visit to Nandi.’ Jenkins’s eyes narrowed. ‘The bastard. Telling all them lies, look you. An’ frightenin’ Nandi, as well.’ He spat. ‘I’ll ’ave ’im for that. You’ll see. ’E’s a genuinely nasty piece of work. I’ll see ’e pays for it.’

Fonthill put his hand on his old comrade’s shoulder. ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind, 352,’ he said. ‘The commander-in-chief specifically ruled out any witch-hunts or reprisals. We are well rid of him. Now, go and ask Captain Forbes to see me. I shall promote him; he will command A Squadron and we can get on with the war.’

Shortly before dawn the next morning, the column paraded and loaded horses, mules and men into the open rail trucks and set off under a leaden sky towards the south-east. Rain was in the air and the atmosphere was cold, so Fonthill ordered the issue of rum to every man. Somehow, the issue seemed to have been exceeded in the
case of C Squadron, under the command of the irrepressible Captain Cartwright, for there was loud singing from their wagons as the engine spluttered into life. Fonthill let it go. It was going to be a long and uncomfortable journey.

The journey from Johannesburg to Glencoe, where Fonthill had decided to detrain, was some two hundred miles. Uncomfortable, certainly, because the trucks, of course, were open and the weather cold and wet, but the line was clear and the little train rattled along at fifty miles an hour so that it was early afternoon when it wheezed to a halt at Glencoe. Fonthill had chosen the place as a central point near the Transvaal-Natal border from which he could ride quickly to confront Botha, once he had news of him. In consequence, Mzingeli and his trackers with their horses were the first to leave the train, with orders from Simon to spread out along the frontier immediately to bring back news of the Boer raider.

The rest of the column were descending in a confusion of noise from horses, mules and men when Jenkins, a wry grin on his face, found Fonthill.

‘I think you’d better come with me, bach sir,’ he said. ‘Up to the steamer locomotive, like.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the problem now?’

‘You’ll see. Come on.’

They made their way through the throng of men and animals to the head of the train, where they were just in time to see the driver, his grin cutting a white swathe across his grimed face, handing down from the footplate a lady in riding boots, breeches and serviceable jacket, a familiar apple-green scarf at her throat but with a smudge of coal dust across her cheek.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said, bestowing on the man the most gracious smile. ‘That really was a most enjoyable journey.’

‘Alice!’ screamed Fonthill. ‘What the hell …? How dare you disobey my orders.’

‘Oh hello, Colonel,’ replied his wife sweetly. ‘I do hope you and the men didn’t get too wet. I had a lovely ride, I must say. I was allowed to pull the steam whistle at Newcastle. It was great fun.’

Simon refused to smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can just turn around and get back up there on the footplate and ride back to Johannesburg. You are not staying here.’

Alice smiled at the driver who handed her a much battered leather valise. ‘Ah, thank you.’ She turned back to her husband. ‘Oh, don’t be such a grouch, Simon. You may be in the army, dear, but I am not and if you won’t let me stay with your column, then I shall just buy a horse and ride out onto the veldt and find Botha for myself. From what I have read, he is a perfect gentleman and should make good copy. Apart from which,’ she sniffed, ‘I have to confess that that steam has ruined my hair, and much as I enjoyed the ride, I am damned if I am going to get back on that train just yet awhile, thank you very much.’

Jenkins coughed. ‘I’ll find ’er a tent an’ bedroll, bach sir. Better I think.’

‘What? Oh, very well, dammit. Oh, Alice. What on earth am I going to do with you?’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, dear.’ She took his arm companionably and walked him away from the hissing steam. ‘Just let me camp by myself on the edge of the column – as I did, incidentally, when Chelmsford crossed the Buffalo and invaded Zululand not far from
here. I shall stay out of your hair and look after myself – I have bought provisions – and all I would require is that you would let me know when something is about to happen, so that I can be there to report on it. Now, that’s not a lot to ask, is it?’

‘Alice, I hate it when you are arch. What is French going to say when he hears that I – seemingly – took my wife with me on this mission?’

‘Well, darling, he need never know. Threaten to shoot any of your men who look as if they are going to tell him.’

Fonthill shook off her arm. ‘Now you’re being arch again.’

‘No I am not. If the matter comes out I shall certainly explain that I hitched my own lift here – actually, it cost me twenty pounds but I shall not claim on the army for that. And, Simon, of course we will not live together out here. I shall keep my distance. I am not your wife, I am a journalist for the
Morning Post
accredited to Lord Kitchener’s army out here. And I sense that there is going to be a good story here. So stop making a fuss, there’s a good dear.’

‘Very well. But I warn you, Alice, life can be – no, it will be – hard with a column like this. We ride roughly and we sleep in the open when we are out on the veldt. You will get no favours from me.’

Alice smiled beguilingly again. ‘Accepted, Colonel. Well, just one little favour, please, when you … er … we ride out. I shall need a horse, dear, otherwise I doubt if my legs will allow me to keep up with you.’

‘You shall have a horse, but don’t call me “dear”.’

‘No, darling.’

‘Alice!’

‘Sorry, sir. Just joking.’

‘Well, don’t!’

‘No, sir.’

Fonthill suddenly realised that their conversation had been observed by a ring of grinning troopers, some of whom were clearly assessing Alice admiringly. He frowned.

‘Get about your duties,’ he shouted. ‘Do you have no orders?’

Sheepishly, they disbanded and Simon was relieved when Jenkins came back with a pony, already saddled and bridled. ‘’Ere we are, Miss Alice,’ he said. ‘’E’s a nice little beast. Your tent is bein’ pitched for you on the edge of A Squadron over there,’ he pointed. ‘But not too near ’em,’ he added hastily. ‘The colonel is not too far away – and neither am I, if you want anythin’, that is.’

‘352, I would kiss you, if I was allowed to. Thank you very much. Au revoir, Simon. Oh, would you care to have dinner with me in my tent tonight, dear?’

‘Alice!’

‘Sorry, just joking.’

She picked up her valise and led the pony away, nodding and smiling at the troopers as she made her way to the lines of A Squadron. Simon and Jenkins exchanged glances.

The Welshman bent his huge moustache into a great smile. ‘I’ve said it before,’ he said, ‘and I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ it again, bach sir, but she’s a magnificent woman, your missus. A wonderful lass.’

Fonthill gave a rueful smile. ‘That may be so, but she can be a bit of a handful when she wants to be. Like now! Come on, fetch Forbes and Cartwright and let’s visit the resident military and see if there’s news of Botha.’

There was, indeed. In the poky office of the artillery captain who was commander of the garrison at Glencoe they found a scene of great activity. A telegraph was chattering in one corner of the room and the captain was scribbling at a tiny desk, while subalterns and runners were toing and froing all about him.

He looked up with a frown as they entered. He stood and extended his hand. ‘Welcome, Colonel, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Sorry I was not at the siding to meet you but news has come in that Botha has struck just along the way, so to speak.’

‘Really.’ Fonthill stepped forward. ‘Where? Do you have a map?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry I can’t ask you to sit down. No seats.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Show me.’

The captain unrolled a large map and jabbed a grimy finger to an unmarked spot just north of the town of Vryheid, some fifty miles almost due east of Glencoe. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s near the main crossing point of the Buffalo River on the border.’

Fonthill grunted. ‘As you say, damned near to us. What happened?’

‘Well, I don’t have all the details but it seems that Major Hubert Gough had been newly arrived with his battalion of mounted infantry to help guard the frontier at the crossing at de Jager’s Drift. Botha caught him by surprise, in filthy weather, outflanked him and completely cut up his right-hand company. Gough had two field guns but the Boers captured them and Gough himself was captured, although he escaped during the night and made his way to the nearest British patrol.’

‘So. What was the result?’

‘It seems that Gough was completely beaten. One captain and nineteen men killed, five officers and nineteen men wounded, six
other officers and two hundred and thirty-five men taken prisoner. But there’s more: Botha captured one hundred and eighty Lee Metford rifles, thirty thousand rounds of ammunition, two hundred horses and the two field guns.’

‘Blimey!’ Jenkins whistled.

Fonthill frowned. ‘It would be the horses that would be most precious to him. Did he keep them?’

‘That seems to be the only good news. It seems he found the British horses useless because Gough had ridden them to death. And the field guns were too ponderous for him, so he sent them, the horses and the prisoners – stripped, of course – back to the British lines.’

‘Yes, but where is he now? Did he cross the Buffalo?’

‘No. It was in spate, so he couldn’t. Nobody knows where he is now. He could be coming towards us or he could be just probing along the Buffalo, looking for a crossing.’

‘Hmmm. Are you reasonably strong here?’

‘Yes, sir. We have enough men, although we have called up reinforcements.’

‘Good. Let me look at that map again.’

Fonthill took it, swivelled it around and called Forbes, Cartwright and Jenkins to look over his shoulder. He traced the course of the river to the east and looked up at the captain. ‘What are these two places?’

‘Ah. Fort Prospect and Fort Itala. They are two British camps astride the Buffalo, virtually in Zululand.’

‘Are they garrisoned?’

‘Yes, sir. But I don’t know at what strength.’

Simon looked up at his subordinates. ‘I have a feeling in my water
that that’s where he will strike next. He will want to cross the border, of course, but he would love to do it with a flourish, not skulk across it in the middle of the night. And even if the river is too high here, he would love to follow up his success over Gough by knocking over these two camps, before he has to retreat back into the Transvaal. They seem to be comparatively remote, well away from the British forces here. They look vulnerable.’ He thumped the table. ‘I gamble that’s where he will strike next. Gentlemen, let us give our chaps one fairly dry night under canvas, after their wet rail trip, and then we move out first thing in the morning. Even if Botha is not planning to hit this way, perhaps we can entice him. Thank you, Captain. Look to your defences, just in case I am wrong.’