The Heart of the Empire
Page 3
“Kitchener,” Haig said as the gig went along avenues of laurel and yellow-wood, “and I say this with immense respect, is a schemer. He has no scruples as to means — none at all. He can be barbarous where barbarity pays. He is harsh to the point — almost — of provoking mutiny. But he is without parallel in efficiency, and one of his efficiencies is to know, or attempt to know, the mind and planning direction of the enemy. D’you follow, Ogilvie?”
“I think so. The Red Daniel mission is a spying mission. Right, Major?”
“Right. There’s no deception about the diamond — it exists! And Miss Gilmour, who knows nothing of what I am telling you she knows only that I shall help you to undertake its recovery, nothing else — has told you the truth as she knows it. You will recover the diamond from Kimberley — ”
“But not for Miss Gilmour? You have some other use for it, Major, some spying use?”
Haig said nothing. Looking sideways, Ogilvie saw the tight expression, the set lips. “Come now, Major, you must tell me. From what you’ve said so far, it’s obvious there are plans for the Red Daniel, and — ”
“Oh, very well,” Haig said in a disagreeable tone. “I suppose you’ll have to be told now — least, a little of the story. You’re right — the Red Daniel won’t be handed to me or to my courier. It won’t go to Miss Gilmour — not directly, that is. Eventually it will be returned to her, I give you my word on that, but in the meantime, Ogilvie, there are other plans for the Red Daniel. Lord Kitchener — ”
“Never mind Lord Kitchener,” Ogilvie interrupted crisply. “What I’ve agreed to do, has been for Miss Gilmour. The diamond — ”
“Will go back to her in the end — I’ve said as much.”
“But this is a kind of stealing, sir — ”
“Stuff and nonsense! Kindly don’t be impertinent! I have given you my word as a gentleman. As a gentleman you must accept that, and as an officer you must now obey. If anything untoward should occur to the Red Daniel, which I doubt, then Miss Gilmour will be given its money value to a most generous valuation,” Haig added in a less acid tone. “Again, you have my word on that — and Lord Kitchener’s. Give me credit for not standing by and seeing a lady deprived of what is hers! It was I who insisted that she should not suffer.”
Ogilvie said, “Then I apologise, sir.”
“Thank you!” Haig laughed, sounding relieved. “Now then, please listen to me, Ogilvie. Lord Kitchener, looking southwards from the Sudan, has already assessed which way the wind is likely to blow him, and he is already making his dispositions as it were. I need hardly say how useful it could prove to a young officer … to be in favour with the Sirdar. What are your ambitions, Ogilvie?”
Ogilvie said simply, “To command the 114th Highlanders, sir, as my father and my grandfather did before me.”
Haig gave a chuckle. “A naive young man, I think! But it’s an honourable ambition, though you mustn’t lose sight of the horizons beyond the regiment, Ogilvie. They’re there, you know!”
“Yes, possibly. But shall we discuss the Red Daniel, Major? What’s to become of it? Am I to know that?”
Haig, increasing his pace towards the docks now, said, “In due course — not at this moment. I had not wished to say as much as I have. You’ll be contacted by a friend of mine, Major Allenby — I can’t say exactly when, but it’ll be along the route for Kimberley as taken by Lord Methuen’s column. Allenby will give you your further orders, and as of now they will be orders. In the meantime, you will carry on with your duties as a regimental officer of the Kimberley Relief Force. I’ve no doubt you’ll see your share of action, field action, before you’re called upon to detach and enter Kimberley — which will be in advance of the relief. Understood, Ogilvie?”
“So far as it goes, yes. Can’t I be told the whole story now?”
Again Haig gave his quiet chuckle, as they came down in the yellow lamp-light to the docks. “You cannot! Let’s take this in stages. You could be captured in the fighting — some say the Boers are chivalrous towards prisoners, but I don’t know! The enemy always has methods of making people talk — as you should know! I’m told you’ve undertaken special missions before — what?”
Ogilvie gave a slight smile. “I see you’ve looked into my career quite thoroughly, Major Haig.”
“Part of the job! You’re known to Lord Kitchener as well. It all began with Gilmour, and my friendship with him — that’s the way life goes, Ogilvie. You’ve spied before. You know a little of the game, I think. I decided you were the man for the job, and I informed Lord Kitchener accordingly. Do well — for all our sakes.”
They came to the gateway; once again Douglas Haig’s face was the password. From gates to jetty no more was said. Ogilvie watched the water, dark, flecked with the yellow reflection of the dockside lamps, and spasmodically by a moon half obscured by cloud. The boat from the Malabar was waiting.
Ogilvie got down from the gig. Haig reached out a hand, which Ogilvie took. “Good luck,” Haig said. That was all. He pulled his horse round at once, and rattled off, metal wheel-rims on stone, leaving silence behind, a silence broken only by the soft lap of the South Atlantic Ocean against the weed-covered walls of the jetty. A sudden shiver ran through Ogilvie. Intrigue, spying, war and death … being Kitchener’s man was no sinecure!
He went down the steps into the boat, his fingers touching Katharine Gilmour’s locket. Melodramatic again: he felt like Nelson, leaving the Sally Port at Portsmouth in a small ship’s boat, to board the Victory to fight for England. The thought made him laugh aloud, which was no bad thing. At least, he was learning not to take himself so seriously.
3
IN THE EARLY MORNING THE MIST HUNG LIKE A CLOTH on the flat summit of Table Mountain. The bugles brought the regiment awake at six o’clock, and there was a clatter along the messdecks as the men turned out to wash and shave and take their last more or less comfortable meal before the train journey and the march began. Comfortable was a comparative term: the crowded messes, the air thick with the sweat and breath of so many massed bodies, every available nook and cranny occupied by soldiers struggling with uniforms and equipment, were scarcely as well-ordered as the barrack-rooms of the Peshawar cantonment. During the long, slow voyage from Bombay, the men had learned in retrospect to appreciate what now seemed a placid and nostalgic routine: space to move, space to stow personal belongings, a space of uncrowded leisure before the first parade — if a man turned out of his bed in good time — and after the day’s last muster. And the wonderful morning cool of an Indian summer, the best of the day before the heat struck full.
A ship was a different experience: on deck — when there was space to enjoy it — it was blazing hot or pleasantly cool according to the hour; but below it was always smelly and foetid, the apparently motionless air overlaid with emanations from galley and latrine, and no room anywhere to swing a cat. Also, although this was the fair-weather season in the Indian Ocean, there was the occasional roll that brought soldiers’ stomachs to their mouths most unpleasantly.
At half. past eight the Malabar weighed anchor and proceeded alongside the jetty. The disembarkation gangways were laid in position fore and aft. Captain Black, adjutant of the Royal Strathspeys, followed by the various company commanders, the Regimental Sergeant-Major and the colour-sergeants, walked through the messdecks, saturnine, smart as paint, sniffing and looking as though he couldn’t get on deck fast enough. Probes were made, orders passed down the line of inspection, grumbling Scots were set to last-minute antics of cleaning to satisfy Captain Black.
At nine-forty-five Black reported to the Colonel in his stateroom: “Battalion ready to disembark, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Captain Black. Start disembarking by companies at ten o’clock, if you please. In the meantime, I’d like a word with Captain Ogilvie.”
“Very good, Colonel.” Black saluted and turned about. Three minutes later Ogilvie knocked and entered.
“You sent for me, Colonel?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“And you’ve agreed to do as she asks? You may speak freely, James. I had a long talk with Major Haig on arrival yesterday.”
Ogilvie said, “I have agreed, Colonel. As a matter of fact … I wasn’t given much choice. Major Haig — ”
“Yes, yes, I understand. A good deal of importance is being attached to this business, though I don’t profess to follow it entirely. Damn it, James, I prefer regimental soldiering to intrigue and — and subterfuge!” Dornoch was indeed looking far from happy, Ogilvie saw. “Standards are slipping — there’s no morality left. The Army’s changing fast. However, it’s not up to me to preach, nor to seem to criticise men in high places. I shall give you my full backing, James, come what may.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“I gather a Major Allenby will make contact later.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“And he’ll pass orders. That’s as much as we know.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“I thought,” Dornoch said, “that it might be helpful to you if I were to brief you more fully on the overall plan for the relief of Kimberley, so that you have the background to whatever it may be that you’ll be called upon to do.” He reached into a ready-packed valise and brought out a rolled-up map. This he spread on the table before him. “Come and look, James. Here we are — Cape Town. There’s the railway.” Ogilvie moved to the Colonel’s side and followed the moving finger. The map, he saw, included Cape Colony, the Orange Free State, and Natal; also the southern boundary of the Transvaal. “As you know, we take the Western Railway to Orange River Station, where we join up with Lord Methuen’s column. Look now — you can see the main thrusts of the Boers to date — their invasion routes into Natal only recently. You see the arrows?”
“Yes, Colonel.” It looked a formidable penetration: the spearheads of the Free Staters running from Van Reenan’s and the Tintwa Passes through the Drakensburg towards the Klip River and Ladysmith, another through Botha’s Pass and the Biggarsberg range to drop down on Elandslaagte and Reitfontein, this column being composed of Germans and Hollanders, a Johannesburg commando and the Vrede State Commando, all under the command of the Boer General Koch. General Joubert had led down past Laing’s Nek — where in the First Boer War Katharine Gilmour’s father had saved the life of Old Red Daniel Opperman — making for Newcastle, which was also threatened by a column from Wool’s Drift. Commandant Erasmus had thrust down on Dundee, where he had been joined in victory by Meyer from Jager’s Drift.
“They said they were farmers,” Dornoch said with a bitter smile. “For farmers, James, they make first-class soldiers! But now for our part to come: Lord Methuen expects to have his force assembled at Orange River Station by the day after tomorrow, the 21st, when he will at once strike out towards Kimberley. At the same time, the Ladysmith relief column is expected to march, this column being provided from the Army Corps arriving at Durban. Incidentally, no commander’s yet been appointed for the Ladysmith column. Our own line of advance will most probably be here, here and here — directly along the railway line in fact. There will be difficulties: there’s a cluster of pretty high kopjes that command the line at Belmont, more again near Graspan — there’s the rivers at Modder River Station, and a rather nasty triangle of hills there — at Magersfontein — these command the railway about five miles north of the Modder. No doubt the Boers will bring us to action at all of these points — that’s to be expected. That’s the general picture, then. Somewhere along the way, Major Allenby will presumably show himself, and you’ll leave us.”
Ogilvie said, “I hope it’ll not be for long, Colonel!”
“So do I, but that’s up to Allenby and Haig now. It’s out of my hands, James.”
*
To the skirl of the pipes and the beat of the battalion’s drummers, the 114th Highlanders, the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, marched from the North Wharf to the railway terminus through the cheering crowds of Cape Town. Men, women and children ran forward to clap the Scots on the shoulders, to thrust chocolate and cigarettes into willing hands; strong Highland arms went round pretty girls, swept them up for a smacking kiss whilst on the march, released them laughing and gay: certainly to date the news had not been as good as expected, but now the Army Corps was arriving with every ship that entered, a splendid build-up of splendid men who would win the war in weeks and give Oom Paul Kruger the fine whisker-burning he so richly deserved. Flowers were flung at Ogilvie as he marched ahead of B Company. In rear, Colour-Sergeant MacTrease was having difficulty with his step: there was a young woman boisterously on either arm. Even Lord Dornoch, leading the battalion on horseback, was not immune. Only the Regimental Sergeant-Major, Bosom Cunningham, had a degree of exemption: he looked too formidable as he marched stiff and straight behind his stomach, eyes front and pace-stick rigid as though on the parade-ground at the depot at Invermore.
And at the station: crowds again, women who had already attached themselves to the officers of the regiments who had been a few days in Cape Town, the earlier arrivals of the great Army Corps, or to the officers and men of the local forces who were about to join the corps from Britain and the Empire overseas.
The troop trains seemed to be leaving in a continuous stream, coaches and wagons filled, crammed to capacity with men and horses, stores and ammunition and rifles. Katharine Gilmour was there to see James Ogilvie off for the front.
“Goodbye, James … don’t forget the Red Daniel.”
He would hardly do that! The chuff of the engine, clouds of steam, the surge of movement. Behind Ogilvie — Captain Andrew Black, pulling at his dark moustache.
“You’re still no time-waster, Ogilvie.” Not for Black the brotherly Christian name, traditional to the 114th: Black was, as ever, Black. “Is this why the Colonel singled you out for shore leave last night, Ogilvie?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Oh — is it not? I’ll thank you not to be impertinent, Ogilvie!” Angrily, the adjutant swung away.
*
Later: dust and flies, dust and flies and heat, dust in the food, in the drink, flies that seemed to be crawling on every inch of exposed flesh, heat over all, ubiquitous, insidious, enervating, different somehow from the heat of the North-West Frontier. Around six hundred miles to go, to Orange River Station alone. Through mountains, across the Great Karroo, more mountains. Chuff and pull, dead slow up the inclines, rush merrily downhill: more heat and sand, more flies. Something tells me I am needed, At the front to fight the foe. Discomfort, sweat, no water for washing, little enough for drinking even. The train stank; it was filthy dirty anyway. At first the men had mostly been singing heartily, just a few had made an attempt to write letters for home, to be posted hopefully upon arrival at their destination. Letters might reach Scotland before the war was over, and when it was, then the Royal Strathspeys might well be ordered home at last. So the letters anticipated this, some even hinting at being home for a roaring Scots New Year — for Hogmanay. But after the first two hundred miles the singing had stopped and the scraps of writing paper had been put away. Cunningham and the N.C.O.’s left them alone: They were passengers on a train, they were not on parade. But Black traversed the train, hopping from coach to coach at the stops, looking, issuing orders about unfastened neck bands and shrugged-off equipment, about crowded bodies sprawled in ungainly attitudes. When he was there: grudging obedience. When he had gone: loud insubordination.
“What the bleedin’ fick-fack does the long streak o’ bleedin’ misery think he is!”
“Bluidy loon … gosh, but I’d like fine to see a bluidy Boer shove a bluidy bayonet up the mon’s bluidy arse!”
“Mebbe it’ll no’ be a Boer that does that.”
The colour-sergeants heard nothing: but they grinned widely behind discreet hands.
/> Ogilvie button-holed Black after one foray. “I’d be obliged if you’d leave my company alone,” he said.
“They’re slack, man! Slack and slovenly!”
“So am I. Look at me.”
“Then do yourself up, Ogilvie.”
“I’ll do no such thing. And as B Company Commander, I’ll have my men travel at ease when they can, Captain Black.”
“I happen to be the adjutant — kindly do not forget yourself!” Black was trembling with rage, his eyes staring. “I shall have words with the Colonel — ”
“And so shall I. Meanwhile you will not interfere with my arrangements, internal arrangements, for my company.”
Black chattered: to swing away with dignity in a crowded trooptrain was frustrating in the attempt. His kilt became hooked up on a splinter of woodwork. Grinning, Ogilvie gallantly freed it. Black’s spindly thighs became decently covered again. He thrust through the press of officers, fuming and grim. Ogilvie sighed and went on staring through the window at the passing landscape: the flat, level plain of the karroo, bare mostly but for the mimosa shrubs with their yellow ball-like blossom, or the sheep-feeding karroo bush. The occasional animal bounding away from the steamy monstrosity under South Africa’s clear blue skies — wildebeest and zebra for the most part, some steenbok. When night came down, the temperature dropped considerably: it was time for men to shiver now, in the sudden change characteristic of South Africa. Ogilvie had heard of a good deal of sickness amongst the front-line troops: very possibly it had to do with these sudden shifts in temperature.
Early the following morning the trooptrain pulled in to Orange River Station. First out was the Colonel, to be welcomed in person by Lord Methuen, a tall, stooping figure with a thick red moustache, a Scots Guards officer now embarking upon his first independent command. Nevertheless, Ogilvie knew that Methuen had a good deal of campaign experience behind him.
“I’m delighted to welcome you, Colonel,” Methuen said, holding out a hand which Dornoch took.