“I agree, Colonel. I hate to say it, but I do agree.”
*
Ogilvie and MacKinlay had already detached themselves and were making their way down the hillside when Thorneycroft, in complete ignorance of the fact that the Boers below him were now in open defiance of their leaders, gave the order to withdraw from the heights. At 8.15 p.m. the regiments were fallen in and, carrying their wounded but leaving their dead unburied, began to retire. No indication of a withdrawal reached the two British officers in their descent towards the Boer lines. They went down fast, running from rock to rock, wondering when they would be spotted by the Boer outposts, chancing bullets. In fact, they advanced into peace and quiet: no bullets assailed them. They had their choice of clothing on the way down: any number of Boer dead lay around the slope, bodies that had had to be left on account of fire from the British on the heights. Chivalry, at Spion Kop, had with a few exceptions run a little thinner than usual. The Scots officers, after their corpse-robbing, continued their journey in the guise of good, solid burghers. In Ogilvie’s mind there was a strong sense of his having come full circle: Kimberley, the Tugela, and now, once again, back to the Boers and Old Red Daniel Opperman. That circle might well remain tight closed … Not far to go now, and they had not been spotted. In fact, though they were almost at the foot of the hill, they had seen nothing moving anywhere; no live Boers in sight, but plenty of evidence of the battle in shell-holes and smashed wagons and the horribly dismembered bodies lying in grotesque attitudes; and over all the very smell of death and war.
They came to a trench, approaching it with caution: it was, however, empty of all but the piled dead awaiting burial. Jumping down, they crossed the corpses and climbed out on the far side, and went on into the night. It was a long walk to nowhere. “They’ve all gone,” MacKinlay said in awe, a noticeable shake in his voice. “They’ve all gone! D’you know, James, I think we ought to go back and report this.”
“Report what? They’ll realise at daybreak, Rob! There’s not much point in reporting a vacuum — poor old Buller wouldn’t advance, he’d order a Bank Holiday! Besides, it could be just a feint.”
MacKinlay nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But where the devil do we go?”
“Straight ahead — until we meet someone. It’s all we can do.” They walked on through the darkness, not seeing even any campfires ahead. It was the eeriest walk of Ogilvie’s life. Nothing stirred but for the aasvogels, seeking their meals, finding them, tearing with great beaks revoltingly. It was a long while seemingly before they heard another sound in the night: a sound of sobbing — heartrending, chilling. It was right ahead of them on their track, and a moment later, through the night’s gloom, they made out the bowed shape of a man, bending over something on the ground. The man didn’t even hear them come: Ogilvie, halting by his side, asked what the trouble was, using the Afrikaans he had picked up whilst with Opperman.
“My son,” the man said.
“I’m sorry. Is he — is he dead?”
“Yes. Torn … torn to pieces by shrapnel from a British shell.” The man bent to the shattered remains, racked again by deep sobs. “Would that God would strike down all the British murderers before our whole land and all our sons are gone!”
“I’m sorry,” Ogilvie said again. “I must disturb you further, I’m afraid.” His Afrikaans had run out now, and he spoke in English, relying on this man having the language, as most of the Boers had.
The man looked up incredulously, and got to his feet. He seemed fortunately to be unarmed. “What’s this? You’re British, you — ”
“Yes, we’re British.” Ogilvie and MacKinlay both had their revolvers levelled now. “We’ve come on certain business with Commandant Opperman. Can you tell us where we can find him?”
The man said something in Afrikaans, a sound as of swearing.
“You must help us,” Ogilvie said, “or I shall shoot you — ”
“Then shoot. I wish only to join my son, killed by your guns, killed fighting for his country and his way of life when only seventeen years of age!”
It was a cold night: but Ogilvie felt the sweat start out all over his body. How did one threaten effectively a man who wished, at any rate in this moment of shock, to die? With a touch of sheer desperation, he improvised. He said, “Listen to me. I’m sorry about your son. He died for his country, and I am sorry. But my friend and I … we come with terms from General Buller. We want to talk to General Botha — but first there is our business with Commandant Opperman. Many fathers’ sons among us British have died too, fighting for what they believed to be right. Perhaps I sound pompous, even unfeeling … but will you not now help your son’s cause by putting us in touch with your leaders — so that more of your men may not die? Would this not be what your son wanted? Or is he, by your act, to die uselessly? The choice is yours, my friend!”
Feeling his fingers trembling on his revolver-butt, he waited. The man bent his head, shaking it slowly, then once again got down on his knees as if communing with his son’s spirit. After some minutes, long minutes, he climbed slowly to his feet.
“This war will end in defeat for your people,” he said in a broken voice, “but if I can save some lives on both sides, that I will do. Yes, I will take you to Commandant Opperman, if he is where. I believe him to be.”
“Thank you,” Ogilvie said with full sincerity.
*
In the laager there was utter confusion: the wagons were being made ready for departure. Trek was in the air — trek back towards Ladysmith or the Drakensberg. It was fantastic and unbelievable. With victory in their very grasp, the Boers were simply melting away, even now entirely unaware of the havoc they had caused in the British trenches. Old Red Daniel himself was a broken man, alone and unguarded in his tent, an easy prey to the guns of the two British officers. He stared with bitter hatred at Ogilvie.
“Mr Bland — or whatever your real name is! You dare to show your face to me! I spit at you.”
He did so.
Ogilvie said, “Believe me, Commandant, I’m sorry. I’ve hated my job all along — ”
“You are a most despicable person. I trusted you. I treated you as a guest, an honoured guest. I am deeply grieved. You have proved a bad omen for me.”
“I repeat, I’m sorry. But this is war, Commandant — ”
“Yes, it is war!” Opperman shouted, getting to his feet and brandishing his fists helplessly. His face was suffused, veins stood out like ropes in forehead and neck. “Oh, it is war, all right!” Shaking, he sank back again on the chair and put his head in his hands. “It was terrible. I could not stop my burghers running. I could not stop them — even I, even Old Red Daniel! They went, and they went in ever-increasing numbers … like an ebbing tide along the sea-shore, and I was powerless — powerless! To think I should have lived to see this … I would have rather been sliced by the British steel, or fallen victim to your own traitorous bullet, Mr Bland — or that of the man who tried in Reitz to kill me — ”
“Remember I saved you from that, Commandant — ”
“You did — you did. I know not whether to thank you now. My Boers defied me to my face. Oh, things were bad, I know! There were terrible mutilations from the British field-batteries on Three Tree Hill, also from Mount Alice — the guns of your Naval Brigade — the heaviest barrage yet seen. That was early in the battle.” Opperman lifted his head from his hands and stared almost unseeingly. “What have you come to do now? To gloat? To kill me?”
Ogilvie shook his head. “Neither. I shall not gloat, Commandant — rather, I would ask your forgiveness if I thought you could give it. We come in peace. All I want is — Miss Smith.”
“I know — now — about Miss Maisie Smith,” Opperman said bitterly. “To think that I could have allowed myself to be so deluded! What do you want with her?”
“To take her back to our lines. Where is she, Commandant?”
“She is here, of course.”
“Safe and well?”
“Safe and well. It was necessary to be a little hard — ”
“If you — ”
‘Yes, yes.” Opperman held up a hand, with a curious dignity in the gesture. “We, also, are chivalrous towards women, Mr Bland. There was no real violence used, I promise you. Go to her and see for yourself. Go to her — and take her out of my sight!”
“You’re prepared to let her go, without hindrance?” Ogilvie glanced sideways at MacKinlay, with a warning in his eyes.
Opperman shrugged wearily. “We don’t want her. She is another mouth to feed, another prisoner to be guarded, and she can do us no harm by going back with you. Besides, I’ve no wish to involve a woman in war when the need is past.”
“I think you’re a good man, Commandant — ”
“No compliments from you, please. Take the woman, and go. You’ll not even need those revolvers you are pointing at me.” He got to his feet again, stumbling a little with the effort. “Come with me. I’ll take you to her, and then bid you goodbye, or good riddance, for ever.”
Ogilvie kept close behind Opperman as he and MacKinlay followed the Boer from his tent and made across the disintegrating laager towards one of the wagons, where a solitary Boer stood leaning against a wheel, smoking a pipe and holding a rifle in his arms.
“Off you go now, Deneys,” Opperman called out. “Back to your farm if you’ve a mind to! There’s no more need of you now, go away from here before the British come!”
The voice was bitter: it was in truth an unnecessary defeat-feeling that crawled worm-like through Opperman’s mind. If his visitors had told him the true state of the British on Spion Kop, that worm would have turned into a ramping lion, Ogilvie thought. Meanwhile Opperman’s voice had disturbed the occupant of the wagon. The canvas at the back parted, and Maisie Smith looked out, in some surprise. As Ogilvie came forward she recognised him, and there was a cry of incredulous relief and joy. “James! Oh, James love, you’ve come for me! Oh, James!” She came out like a cannon-ball and flung herself into his arms. “James, they made me talk, the dirty bastards, but I didn’t tell them anything worth while, I swear I didn’t, I’m still bloody British and able to hold me head up. Hooray for the Queen, I say, and the good old Union Jack!”
As she clung to. him, Ogilvie, looking across her hair, saw in the flickering light of a guard-lantern the look on Old Red Daniel’s face. Opperman was regarding him as if he were carrying the plague, as if he could not wait for uncleanness to leave the remnants of his laager. Grasping Maisie Smith, with Rob MacKinlay at his side, Ogilvie turned and walked away, back towards the retreating British Army, his spirits right down in his boots. War was war, but never had it been as dirty as this.
*
“It’s a bloody long way, James.”
“It’s further to Hounslow.”
“Don’t I know it! Oh God, I hope my baby’s all right — ”
“There’s no war in Hounslow,” Ogilvie said impatiently. “I doubt if baby Alexandra’s under any attack — ”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, you know what I mean! How, much bloody further? I tell you, I’m sore. This bloody pony’s all jog and me bloomers are sticking to me — ”
“We’re doing our best,” Ogilvie cut in. “Don’t you want to reach the British lines?”
“Yes, of course — ”
“Then be quiet, save your breath, and ride.”
There was an indignant gasp. “You’ve changed, haven’t you, eh? I s’pose I’m not good enough for you now — now you’ve joined up with the dear old regiment again.” There was silence for a while. Then, complainingly: “You could have chosen a less bony pony, couldn’t you? The one I rode down from Reitz was like a sofa compared to this!”
Ogilvie said, “I’m sorry. There wasn’t time to pick and choose. There seldom is — when you’re horse-stealing.” That had been the final bitter act against Opperman: war engendered a need for haste, and three ponies were probably fair enough game. They rode on towards the upward slopes that would lead to Spion Kop, moving as fast as they could through the night. As so many times before, Ogilvie noted the absence of the indigenous black population. Naturally, the native tribes would have quickly cleared the actual battle areas faster than they had cleared the other areas, the areas under a general threat of operations as the opposing armies made their dispositions; but it still felt odd to be traversing an Africa devoid of Africans, innocent refugees from a White-made nightmare. Thinking about the Blacks’ plight, Ogilvie felt the sudden pressure of MacKinlay’s restraining hand as his friend pulled up his pony, short and sharp. Ogilvie pulled up likewise. “What’s up, Rob?”
“A sound ahead there.”
“I don’t hear anything, or see anything either — ”
“Be quiet and listen.” MacKinlay cupped a hand over his ear. “Horses. Or ponies — look, let’s dismount and get into cover — over there!”
“Now what is it?” Maisie Smith asked. “I — ”
“Get down quickly — here, I’ll give you a hand.” Ogilvie dismounted himself and reached up, taking the girl’s waist. She flopped down into his arms, gasping. Ogilvie looked around: there were some handy boulders and scrub, leading to a cleft in rising ground to his left. They led the ponies into cover and had hardly vanished from sight themselves before the hooves of horses were heard clearly, horses moving at a gallop: from the cleft they saw fast-moving men storm past and disappear.
MacKinlay gave a whistle. “Someone in a hell of a hurry!”
“I caught a sight of one of them,” Ogilvie said. “I’m pretty certain it was Louis Botha — probably riding to stop the rot!”
“With a report of the true state of affairs?”
Ogilvie nodded. “Very likely. I suppose we should have tried to take him, but — ”
“We wouldn’t have had a dog’s chance. Come on, James, let’s rejoin the battalion before Botha brings his burghers up! At least we can warn the Colonel.”
There was a cry from Maisie. “What if there’s any more?”
“Any more what?”
“Any more Boers, of course — ”
Ogilvie gave a short laugh. “That,” he said, “is something you’ll have to chance, if ever you want to see Hounslow again! Come on, Maisie — mount and ride. It’s not all that far now.”
They mounted and rode out, going fast but keeping an extra watchful eye ahead. Soon after this they made out the distant loom of Spion Kop, rearing upwards through the African night. Told what it was, Maisie breathed a deep sigh of relief and said, “Well, thank God, James, I couldn’t have lasted much bloody longer.” When they reached the start of the slope they dismounted finally, leaving the ponies loose, and began the climb, moving as fast as possible for the heights, with Ogilvie giving Maisie Smith a hand tip in the early stages and carrying her bodily in the later ones. Above them there was silence: total, eerie silence — no patrols out, no outposts, no sentries, no anything. Ogilvie was gripped by a strong and terrible sense of apprehension: the lack of any activity was uncanny, weird, unnerving. Almost in a whisper he said, “Rob, it’s as though they’ve all left … ”
“Yes. God, this is a ruddy mess, isn’t it? Of course, Thorneycroft wouldn’t know Brother Boer’s packing up and going home, but … ” He hissed out air, through set teeth. “James, I’ll take any money we’ve pulled out and cleared the summit. Things weren’t happy when we left … and now the whole place has the smell of retreat. Anyway — we’ll find out soon enough!” He reached out a hand. “Come on, James, let’s get on.”
They climbed again. When they reached the summit they found how true MacKinlay’s foreboding had been. Spion Kop was totally deserted and abandoned, and there was every sign of a hasty and disorderly withdrawal. Ammunition, empty water-bottles, pieces of useless equipment — and the dead. The dead in hundreds, piled three deep along the trenches, shattered by shell-fire, cut to fragments by the enfilading rifles of the Boer marksmen.
It was an appalling sight, and a mo
st tremendous tragedy: there had been so much individual heroism, and it had been all in vain. The three Britons looked around in awe, scarcely daring to speak in the presence of so many abandoned, unburied dead. Ogilvie walked about dazedly, seeing here and there the tartan and badges of the 114th, still clinging to bodies that were hardly recognisable. Scots and English and Irish, all together — regiments whose rivalries, sometimes bitter, sometimes friendly, had all ended in the one line of trenches on Spion Kop.
It was Maisie Smith who put the situation into words: “Each side believed the other was winning,” she said in a high, strained voice, “and each side beat it. Oh, my God, when will the world stop being so bloody stupid, when will it stop making bloody war?”
19
LOUIS BOTHA’S RALLYING RIDE HAD HAD ITS EFFECT: some of the burghers rode back, among them Old Red Daniel and the remnant of his commandos. Opperman waited with his ponies at the foot of Spion Kop while a few men climbed to the heights. After they had scaled that bloody summit, the men waiting below heard two shots fired, one a rifle, the second a revolver. Then silence. Silence, and a long wait, and then the creeping dawn, dawn that showed Opperman two men upon the summit, waving hats and rifles. At first the significance of this escaped Old Red Daniel: then, as with a blinding light, he realised the truth; and at once sent word to Louis Botha. On the far side of Spion Kop Ogilvie, unknown to Opperman, was making his way down with Maisie Smith and the body of Rob MacKinlay, killed by that last Boer shot to be fired in an extraordinary series of engagements for the possession of the summit. Stumbling along down the hillside, passing unused dumps of sandbags and water-containers sent up earlier by General Warren and which, as it turned out, had never been reported to Thorneycroft, Ogilvie and Maisie Smith began to catch up with the straggling files of the retreating army as it made towards the Tugela. They came upon Warren himself — Warren, amazed and aghast at the turn of events: Warren, whose one wish was to reoccupy Spion Kop — Warren, who was about to send off a battalion of the Royals to carry out a reconnaissance when, at the same time as Ogilvie reported, Sir Redvers Buller arrived from his base camp. Buller would have none of it: he was amazingly still buoyant for the future, but had decided to cut his losses for the present.
The Heart of the Empire Page 23
