by John Wilcox
The position gave him a panoramic view of the battle for Sekukuni’s city. Below him, down in the valley, the walls of the outer perimeter had been broken, but a screen of blue smoke, gently drifting away along its top, only to be constantly renewed at the bottom, showed where fierce fighting still marked the inner ring of stone fortifications. To his right, the swelling mound of the kopje was isolated, with the majority of Wolseley’s reserve clearly to be seen surrounding its base, while the occasional flash of shell bursts threw splinters of stone from the higher sides of the granite pile. The shelling seemed to be having the effect of keeping the defenders’ heads down, for no flashes of rifle firing could be seen offering response from the somnolent fortress. Up above Simon, where the huts of the upper town meandered up the mountainside to end in another series of stone-wall defences, he could see that equally savage fighting was taking place. Covington’s four companies of red-coated British infantrymen were now mingling with the Swazis in savage hand-to-hand fighting at the walls. It was obvious, however, that the greater numerical advantage possessed by the Swazis was taking effect, and even as he watched, he saw the line break and scores of black warriors, brandishing their assegais and frightening in their leopardskins and plumed headdresses, pour through the gap in pursuit of the running bePedis.
Simon reached down and helped Jenkins to join him on the thatch. Together they crawled to the flat rock and lay side by side, rifles at the ready. At one point, Jenkins raised his weapon to sight on a bePedi warrior running down the track below them, but Simon laid a restraining hand on the barrel. ‘No, 352,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve done enough killing for a while. There will be more to come. Let’s wait for that.’ Jenkins gave him a quizzical glance, but then nodded and slowly laid down his rifle.
Their position on the rock, some hundred feet above the valley floor and tucked away in the cleft, above and to one side of the trail leading to the mountain ridge, removed them from the battle itself, or rather from what had now become a rout. The Swazis were pouring down into the town, and even though firing continued along the southern rim of the defences, it could only be a matter of minutes before the last organised resistance broke. As they watched, the first burst of flame came from huts in the centre as the Swazis torched them, and soon great columns of smoke began to rise above the once-proud township. Simon hoped that the little boy had been able to get away, with his sixpence, before the fierce attackers swept through. For the first time for some hours, he thought of Alice and offered up a quick prayer that she had stayed out of gunshot range and that she would be prevented from venturing too close to the kopje.
He looked up at the sun. It was still only mid-morning. The battle for Sekukuni’s capital had been won. That for his fortress, the Fighting Kopje, had yet to begin.
Chapter 15
An hour later, Simon and Jenkins - the latter, as always when officers were present, keeping a diffident pace behind his captain - joined the little group of officers milling around Baker Russell on the valley floor just out of rifle range of the kopje. All around the base of the fortress hundreds of the invaders swarmed, forming a motley, seething gathering of blue-black Swazis, brown-corded Colonials and perspiring British infantrymen, their faces as red as their jackets. Behind them all, the Sekukuni township was now well ablaze and Swazis could be seen extracting cattle from their miraculous hiding places in the storage hill. The Colonel noted this with irritation. He beckoned his young aide-de-camp.
‘Jackson,’ he ordered, ‘gallop across to that damned place. There will be bePedi women tending those cattle. See if you can find Colonel Covington, or, better still, Captain Macleod. Tell them that the Swazis can have the cattle but not, repeat not, the women. That was our arrangement with them. Understood?’
‘Very good, sir.’
Baker Russell now addressed his staff. ‘Now, gentlemen, our battle has only just begun.’ He swung round and stared up at the kopje. As he did so, another shell from the horse artillery exploded high up among the granite slabs. ‘As you can see, they are quite impervious to artillery up there, in their caves and trenches. Our guns might have managed to keep them from popping off at us as we attacked the town, but once we start climbing we won’t be able to use them and they will come out of their holes and give us hell. Now, I shall . . . Ah, here’s the General. Morning, sir.’
Wolseley, erect as ever on his giant grey, cantered up and raised his riding crop in languid acknowledgement of the salutes. ‘Good morning, Russell, gentlemen. Well done so far. You cleared the township well enough. Casualties?’
‘I have not had the final report, sir, but quite low, I think. Certainly not many of our chaps. More among the Colonials and, obviously, the native levies. But overall, very acceptable.’
Simon exchanged a sardonic raised eyebrow with Jenkins.
‘Good.’ The General gestured up towards the top of Sekukuni’s mountain. ‘What delayed the Swazis? Has anyone seen Covington or Macleod?’
‘Not yet, sir. Your scout chap . . . er . . . Fontingbridge or whatever—’
‘He’s right behind you. Morning, Fonthill.’
‘Good morning, Sir Garnet.’
‘Ah yes, Fonthill. Well, Mr . . . er . . . Fonthill believes that the Swazis were waiting to see how hard we fought before pitching in. Is that right, Fonthill?’
‘I believe so, sir. But in the end they seem to have pitched in with a will.’
Wolseley nodded. ‘Right, Russell. Make sure that every last damned hut in that township is burned to the ground. I want these bePedis to be taught a lesson that will stop them raiding farms around here for generations. They must realise that they live on land which is under the jurisdiction of Her Majesty and of Her Majesty’s Government.’
Baker Russell nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’ He gestured to where a thick pall of smoke hung over the site of the King’s former citadel. ‘The job is being done now.’
‘Good. No sign of the King, I suppose?’
‘No, sir. We believe him to be up on the kopje with his court and some of his best warriors.’
‘Right. Well, pluck ’em out, Russell. Pluck ’em out.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Baker Russell turned back to his staff. ‘Right, gentlemen.’ He swept his arm around to indicate the mass of warriors and soldiers. ‘Sort out this mess and take your units to their positions. Each of you will report to me when you are in place. I want the attack to spring from all points around the kopje as soon as the signal rocket hits the top of the hill. I myself will lead on this side and every member of the staff is free to lead his unit personally.’ He smiled. ‘There will be a chance of glory for us all this day, gentlemen.’
His remarks were greeted with a cheer and the group broke up. ‘Fonthill.’ The colonel beckoned Simon towards him. ‘You heard those orders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, the officer commanding the bloody Swazis did not. Will you please ride immediately to Colonel Covington and relay them to him. He is obviously somewhere in the township. Both he and Captain Macleod know where these black chaps are to be positioned and he must move them down here immediately. I cannot attack until they are here. If you can’t find Covington, give the orders to Macleod. He knows the Swazis better, anyway. You can’t miss him, the feller will be wearing a kilt.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Nodding to Jenkins to follow, Simon strode off to find his horse, and together they rode towards the base of the smoke. The township, once home to four thousand people, was now a mass of cinders, for the huts, with their brittle, sun-dried timber and thatched roofs, had provided perfect fuel for the flames and nothing could stop the conflagration. As the pair neared the smoke, they were forced to wrap handkerchiefs around their mouths and pull low the brims of their hats as protection against the blown ashes.
A tall Swazi, his spear bloodied and his shield holed, gave them a blank glance as they approached.
‘Where is Colonel Covington?’ shouted Simon, in the hope that the man
spoke English.
His hope was rewarded. ‘Don’t know him, baas,’ came the reply, ‘but Captain Macleod, him over there.’ He pointed with his assegai to the northern edge of the town, where a group of Swazis were busy fetching and carrying.
It proved to be a casualty clearing station, and they found the captain, with his face, his Macleod tartan and his jaunty bonnet all covered in soot and a spear tear in his once-white shirt, supervising with great care the loading of three wounded Swazi warriors on to stretchers.
Simon flung himself off his horse and gave the Scotsman Baker Russell’s instructions. ‘Aye,’ said Macleod. ‘I’ll get them along there directly but it may take a while.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘These chappies can’t just be ordered about like that, you know - particularly when there are cattle about.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Tell the colonel that I will be in command because Colonel Covington has been wounded, I am afraid. He has been taken to the forward hospital and is being well looked after. Now you must excuse me.’
Simon held his arm. ‘Wounded? How badly?’
‘I’ve not seen him, but I understand that it’s a pretty bad wound, though not life-threatening as far as I know. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must get on. There’s much to do.’ And he strode away, gesticulating to a group of native warriors who were herding away a cluster of long-horned cattle.
Simon and Jenkins exchanged glances. ‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘Nothing trivial, I hope.’
‘Now then, 352, enough of that. We have work to do. Come on.’ But Simon’s brain was working hard. A severe wound? How bad would that be, and what would Alice make of it? He shook his head.
They rode back towards the kopje, where some sense of order was being restored to the masses of troops around its base. They eventually found Lieutenant Colonel Baker Russell and Simon gave him Macleod’s message. If the colonel was concerned by the news of Covington’s wound he gave no sign. ‘I just hope Macleod gets here within the next half-hour,’ he grunted, and strode off.
Simon now looked for Alice, but as far as he could see, none of the press corps was in evidence on this side of the kopje. No doubt they would be on the far side, probably with General Wolseley. Should he make an effort to find her and tell her about Covington? He cast a quick glance towards Jenkins. The Welshman obviously harboured no concern about their former CO, for he was scanning the upper reaches of the kopje, his hand shielding his eyes. At the moment, Jenkins 352 had only one thought in his mind. Simon sighed. No, dammit, he would not go hunting for Alice among the many hundreds of soldiers now filling the valley floor. She would have enough to do in reporting on the battle and he saw no reason to divert her now with news of her fiancé. She would find out quickly enough. He fumbled in his saddle bag for his field glasses, focused them on the slopes of the conical hill and slowly traversed his gaze along its rocky ledges.
‘Any sign of ’im?’ croaked Jenkins, wiping the soot from his face.
‘No. All I can make out are rows of heads above the rocks and rifle barrels poking through them too. The fact that they have all been quiet up there doesn’t mean that they are not going to fight. They’re waiting for us all right.’
‘Well, the sooner we get started the better. What’s the plan then, bach sir?’
Simon lowered his glasses and licked his dry lips. ‘We’ve no way of knowing where the hell he is, so I guess we will just have to go up with the first wave of troops. As always, let’s stay together. It’s going to be a hard climb.’
‘It’s them bloody bees as is worryin’ me, look you.’
They did not have long to wait. Dense masses of Swazis had now joined the British infantrymen, the Colonials and other black irregulars swarming around the base of the kopje, and the British officers, line commanders and staff alike, had forced their way to the front, swords in hand, waiting for the signal to advance. The first rocket, telling everyone to make ready, hissed overhead, arcing over the kopje and what remained of the smouldering township and extinguishing itself against the side of the mountain. The invaders on the valley floor stiffened and waited. Then the second rocket signalled the advance and the artillery sent down a last barrage against the giant rock slabs and grey boulders before falling silent as the attackers began their steep climb. Silence, however, did not reign. The higher slopes of the great hill exploded with rifle cracks and flashes and that demonic, high-pitched howl as the bePedis once again expressed their defiance. It was joined this time, however, by the skirl of Highland pipes as well as the clacking of the Swazis’ hollow bones and the thud as these warriors crashed their knees, Zulu-style, against the inside of their shields. And yet the Swazis made no attempt to begin the attack. In a dense black mass, they stood back and watched as the British and Colonials, heavily burdened by their battle packs, rifles and bayonets, began scrambling and slipping among the scree at the base of the steep hill.
Simon looked down as he heard a familiar voice. General Wolseley had ridden up to the Swazis and, riding crop in hand, was shouting at them. ‘Come on, you fellows. Come on. Is there no one to make them understand?’
But the General’s urging and the sight of the soldiers beginning their climb demanded no interpreting. The Swazis had seen enough. The white men were not going to leave the fighting to the blacks. They surged forward and, carrying only their assegais and shields, their bare feet finding amazingly easy purchase on the rocks, the warriors soon overtook the booted and heavily laden white men and swarmed up ahead, booming their own battle cry.
For Simon and Jenkins the arrival of the Swazis was almost certainly a life-saving intervention. Unhampered by packs, they had made easier work of it toiling upwards, so had left the troops behind and were attracting much of the attention from the defenders up above. Bullets were pinging into the rocks all around them, sending granite chips flying and forcing them to stop every few yards to seek cover as well as to regain their breath. Now, however, the swarming bodies that overtook them, darting like black rams on a mountain, provided some sort of screen for them as they slipped, scrambled and hauled their way upwards. Perspiration was now almost blinding Simon and there was certainly little he could hear above the frightening din of battle. The howling of the opposing warriors’ war cries, the crack of the rifles, the screams of the wounded as the bullets found their mark, and above it all the high-pitched skirl of the pipers from down below created a mind-numbing cacophony that he would remember for the rest of his days. His senses shattered, he continued to climb doggedly and blindly, numbly aware that Jenkins was still at his side.
At last the two comrades managed to scramble into a shallow trench that had been scratched out from the stones about halfway up the kopje. It was empty of defenders, although two bePedis were lying on their backs nearby, sightless eyes staring at the sky and blood draining from terrible assegai thrusts in their chests.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ gasped Jenkins. ‘I can’t do much more o’ this. ’Ow the ’ell are we goin’ to find our bloke in all this?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Simon, his breast heaving, ‘but surviving is the main thing.’
As though to emphasise his words, two bePedi warriors suddenly burst from a cleft in the rocks to their right and fired their rifles at them. It was virtually point-blank range but both warriors, hampered anyway by the assegais they carried, fired too hastily and the bullets sang over the heads of Simon and Jenkins. The bePedis had no time to reload their single-shot rifles so they discarded them and, raising their assegais, hurled themselves at the two white men. The abortive shots, however, had given Simon and Jenkins just enough time to scramble to their feet, and although the chambers in their rifles were empty, they were able to present their bayonets to their attackers.
The bePedis carried no shields, which was to their disadvantage, for they had no secondary weapon with which to evade the much longer reach of the white men’s bayonets. Jenkins, his short legs giving him a low centre of gravity, easily parried the thrust of his assailant and slipped his lunge
r’s point around the shaft of the spear to rake the warrior’s forearm. With a cry of pain, the man turned and ran out of sight around a bend in the trench. His companion, who had been parrying the thrusts of Simon’s bayonet with increasing desperation, now found himself presented with two adversaries, and he too suddenly turned and sprinted away, howling derision at the white men.
Jenkins slipped a round into the breech of his rifle. ‘I must say, bach sir,’ he said, ‘you’re gettin’ to be quite ’andy now with the old lunger.’
‘Don’t be so bloody patronising. Be careful. There might be more of them round that bend.’
They advanced with care and found that the cleft in the rock was in fact a cave, about five feet in height and some four feet wide. It was black and uninviting and the decision about whether they should investigate its depths was quickly made for them when a flash of flame from deep inside sent a bullet passing between them. At that point, a party of panting men of the 94th came over the lip of the trench.
‘Be careful,’ Simon shouted to them, ‘there are armed natives in this cave. Sorry, we’ve got to get on.’ And, without waiting for a reply, he and Jenkins recommenced their climb.
The pair were no longer in the lead, and looking up, Simon could see red coats up ahead of them and, further towards the summit, Swazis engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat with an enemy not in view. Nor had the defenders’ fire died away. Bullets now seemed to crash into the rocks around them with greater intensity and boulders came tumbling down the forty-five-degree slope, creating an additional hazard. Bodies were now slipping and sliding down the hillside, some of them crying out in anguish from their wounds, others with the set expression of the dead on their faces.
