Blunted Lance

by Max Hennessy

  ‘You can’t go on fighting your silly Zulu War for ever,’ Lady Goff pointed out.

  ‘It wasn’t so damn silly from where I was standing,’ the General growled.

  ‘You know very well what I mean. And Elfrida isn’t the offspring of your wretched Aubrey Cosgro. She’s Claude’s child. And she’s Robert’s wife now and we’ve got to give them the chance to be happy.’

  Morby-Smith was still angry at the confusion over the regiment’s baggage and the General was in no mood to be forgiving.

  ‘Not exactly the most brilliant disembarkation in the world,’ he observed.

  However, the men had a sleek lean look and, eager to see them, he shook his head as Morby-Smith indicated the waiting officers.

  ‘Men first,’ he said.

  The Regiment was drawn up on foot waiting for his inspection, and he moved along the lines, remembering faces and old actions.

  ‘Trumpet-Major Sparks,’ he said, as a resplendent individual with four upside-down stripes under crossed trumpets snapped to attention. ‘You made it to the top, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sparks agreed. ‘Twenty-five years to the day.’

  ‘I remember you joining. You had a black eye.’

  Sparks grinned. His uncle had sounded the orders for the General’s squadron at Balaclava.

  The officers were waiting in the mess tent and Dabney noticed there was a younger Morby-Smith, too, now, the Colonel’s son. Robert’s potato face flushed as he faced his father. Somehow, he’d missed both his father’s and his mother’s good looks, but he had a strong body and uniform became him, and there was a staid look about him now.

  The General paused. ‘Looking forward to the war, Robert?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  To Dabney, standing alongside, the words didn’t have the eagerness his father seemed to be expecting and he saw the old man give his brother a sharp glance. Robert seemed to realise he hadn’t come up to scratch and tried to make up for it with a show of enthusiasm.

  ‘We’ll give the Boers pepper, sir, you mark my words.’

  ‘And you mark mine, my lad,’ the General said. ‘Don’t underestimate Brother Boer. One or two people are tending to. Just remember he’s crafty. Make sure he doesn’t lure you into a trap and give you a bloody nose. I can speak frankly because I’ll be going home. The army won’t want an elderly inspector general on its back.’

  Six

  As it happened, it didn’t work out like that.

  With Buller’s army corps broken up and sent to different parts of the country, it began to be clear that the serious fighting was not very far away.

  ‘Supply and transport are now running freely here, Coll,’ Buller said, as he stood with General Goff in Cape Town station alongside the train that was to carry him north. ‘I think I can now take over the armies in the field with safety. I shall head for the Tugela for the relief of Ladysmith.’

  Standing behind his father with Ellesmere, Dabney watched Buller climb aboard. What Buller was being forced by circumstances to do seemed to him, despite his youth, to be entirely wrong. The war could never be run effectively from the banks of the Tugela River.

  Buller’s head reappeared through the window. ‘I shall want the cavalry to go into action at once, Coll,’ he said. ‘The Boers are mobile and we shall have to be, too. I was hoping the cavalry in Ladysmith could be sent to Colenso to operate on the Boer flanks and rear but John French ought to be energetic enough to foil any attempts to advance into Cape Colony. The one thing we need, Coll, is horsemen. We don’t keep up enough of this arm in peacetime. Perhaps we could consider mounting more of the infantry. We have plenty of horses.’

  ‘They aren’t yet acclimatised,’ General Goff pointed out. ‘They left England in their winter coats and they’re arriving here green as grass in the heat of the South African summer after being at sea in pretty rough conditions. Now they’re being pushed before they’re ready into crowded wagons and sent to the front where they’ll be overloaded and over-marched. It takes a pretty tough horse to stand that kind of treatment. They should be kept in depots for at least a month.’

  Buller frowned. ‘We can’t wait that long, Coll. Wars cost money.’

  The Cape was looking forward to victories, and the army did its best to provide them.

  Lord Methuen, in command in the west, worried as he clung to the railway line that ran north along the border of the Orange Free State by the shrill cries of help from Cecil Rhodes in Kimberley, clashed with the Boers at Belmont where he drove them from their position. Striking again at Graspan, he seemed to be advancing with reasonable success, though he appeared to be inflicting more casualties on his own force than upon the mobile Boers who held their position on the hills until the British had reached the foot then bolted down the other side. Then, at the end of the month, he walked into a trap on the Modder River and his men were obliged to lie in the blazing heat of the sun all day, unable to move. Despite their casualties, they were nevertheless ready to resume the fight the following morning, only to find the Boers, following their usual methods, had withdrawn. It was another pyrrhic victory.

  By December, however, French was beginning to worry the Boers with his cavalry and the last units of the army corps were being disembarked. Though the hopes of victory by Christmas had long since faded, there seemed nothing to worry about when, as Dabney sat with his father at breakfast, Ellesmere appeared with the newspaper.

  ‘Seen this, sir?’

  His face was enough to make the General snatch the paper from his hand. Dabney caught a glimpse of the headlines – ‘SERIOUS REVERSE TO GATACRE’S FORCE.’

  General Goff looked up. ‘What’s that idiot been up to now?’ he said.

  ‘I took the trouble to find out, sir,’ Ellesmere said. ‘GOC, Cape Town, received a letter from him saying he’d been misled by guides and found the ground impracticable.’

  ‘That’s not enough to create a serious reverse.’

  ‘I’ve made further enquiries, sir. It seemed he believed he could launch a vigorous attack after a long march through difficult country with troops just arrived from England.’

  ‘Sounds exactly like Gatacre,’ the General growled. ‘Go on, Ned.’

  ‘Circumstances appear to have been against him, sir. He had about three thousand men, together with a few engineers, artillery and local volunteers. He was trying to throw the Boers out of Stormberg and over-estimated the ability of the new troops. He decided on a night march—’

  ‘Damned hazardous with new troops.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He entrained them at Molteno – in open trucks.’

  ‘In South African sunshine, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. It seems also that neither he nor his staff took the precaution of reconnoitring the roads he intended to follow and he trusted local guides who lost their way. The men were exhausted by the extra distance and were actually in columns of four when they came within range.’

  ‘Good God, will we never learn?’

  ‘Three companies got up the steepest part of the Boer positions but they were too exhausted to be of any use. Those who retired were accidentally shelled by our own artillery. General Gatacre and most of his force were back at Molteno by midday the next day.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘Twenty-five killed, one hundred and ten wounded, six hundred prisoners – mostly caught while they were fast asleep from exhaustion.’

  There was a great deal of indignation and anger at Cape Town Castle and they were still wondering what to do about Gatacre when Ellesmere brought news of another defeat. There had been a big battle on the Modder River at Magersfontein where there had been heavy losses, chiefly in the Highland Brigade. It had followed the usual pattern, with the Boers holding the hills, but this time, instead of building their trenches on the heights,
they had built them at the foot. With the ground rough and a steady downpour changing the veldt into mud, Methuen, it seemed, remembering previous disasters to night marches, had had his men march in quarter columns so they didn’t lose touch with each other among the boulders and clumps of mimosa, and the Scots, caught in the act of changing from one formation to another, had been decimated.

  There seemed no light in the gloom, save for a report from Lourenço Marques that Winston Churchill had managed to escape from his gaolers and had made his way to Portuguese East Africa.

  ‘Thank God there’s someone who seems to know what he’s doing,’ Dabney observed.

  Another blow came almost immediately. Buller had been defeated at Colenso in an attempt to cross the Tugela and this time the casualty list was even higher and included the son of Lord Roberts, one of the country’s most distinguished soldiers. Buller had decided on yet another of the suicidal frontal attacks which had been so successful in the native wars earlier in the century and, thanks to the inexperience and over-enthusiasm of the officers under him, had got the Irish Brigade trapped in a bend in the river and had lost a whole battery of guns. Unnerved, despite the fact that a little moral courage might have changed defeat into victory and relief for Ladysmith, he had quailed before the prospect of more casualties and called off the action.

  ‘Come on, Ned,’ General Goff snapped at Ellesmere who had brought the news. ‘I can tell by your face that there’s more.’

  ‘I fear there is, sir. Hildyard might have rescued the guns after nightfall but Buller refused to allow it, and Lyttelton, who was ordered to support the Irish, was sent too late. Tom Baring, of his staff, has arrived in Cape Town and he says one of the most astonishing features of the battle was that the Boers were so well hidden neither he nor Lyttelton saw a single one of them all day until it was all over. It’s a new kind of war, he said. They’re using smokeless ammunition and it makes it a fight against an army of ghosts.’

  The defeats of Black Week were causing great delight in Europe, and anti-British feeling seemed to be running high everywhere.

  ‘Plain jealousy,’ Dabney growled. ‘Everybody wants to see the greatest empire in the world humbled.’

  Worse followed. Forestier-Walker who was in command at the Cape, had called a conference and as General Goff arrived with his staff, he immediately laid down a sheet of paper.

  ‘I think Buller’s gone off his head,’ he growled. ‘He sent a message to White in Ladysmith suggesting he should make terms with the Boers.’

  General Goff snatched at the message, read it and passed it to Ellesmere. Buller’s defeatism seemed to have run riot and he seemed to be wanting to besiege Colenso instead of pushing on to Ladysmith.

  ‘Is the man well?’ Forestier-Walker asked. ‘The army’ll be the laughing stock of the whole of Europe. White was so bewildered he heliographed back that he thought the Boers were trying to mislead him. He finally told Buller he mustn’t think of giving up. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a commander-in-chief being reproved by one of his generals.’

  Two days later the news came that Buller had been superseded as commander-in-chief by Lord Roberts and there were a few lighter hearts in Cape Town.

  There was no question but that the Boers’ tails were up. They were convinced that the war of 1881 was repeating itself. Then, after two insignificant defeats, Gladstone’s government had thrown in its hand and given them the Transvaal. This time, however, the government was in a different mood and, with the appointment of Roberts, the decision had clearly been taken to go on fighting.

  ‘He’s got Herbert Kitchener as his chief of staff,’ Forestier-Walker said. ‘They’ll make a good team.’

  ‘They’d be better,’ General Goff observed, ‘if Kitchener were married and Roberts hadn’t got the rudest wife in the army.’

  The news that escaped from Ladysmith by Christmas indicated that dysentery and enteric fever were increasing and early in the new year with the first days of the new century, the Boers made a determined effort to break through the defences and very nearly succeeded. The rest of the front remained quiet, except for the Colesberg area where French’s cavalry was active.

  ‘At this moment,’ Ellesmere said, ‘French’s the nearest thing to a successful general we’ve got.’

  By the time Roberts arrived in Cape Town, General Goff, his job in South Africa finished, was packed and ready to leave for England. Dabney faced his father uncertainly, because he had no wish to go with him.

  The General, who was stuffing a case with papers, looked round at his son with a knowing glance. ‘I know what you’re after, my boy,’ he said. ‘You want to go back to the Regiment.’

  Dabney grinned. ‘Yes, sir. I do.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got an active command and I’m due for retirement so I can hardly blame you.’

  ‘Sir—’ Dabney hesitated, unsure how to put his case ‘—I wangled this job—’

  ‘I know damn well you did! And your mother did a little wangling, too, on your behalf.’

  Dabney smiled. ‘It was never my intention to use it as a cushy billet, though, sir. I wanted to learn.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A lot. And I’m grateful. But, I have no wish to avoid the fighting. I think I ought to go back to more active duty.’

  The General nodded. ‘I quite understand. Wait till Bobs arrives, though. He’ll want to know what’s going on and both Ellesmere and myself have learned to rely on you. I’ll let you go as soon as Bobs lets me go.’

  Lord Roberts had other plans, however. A small party was thrown for him by Forestier-Walker at the Castle and all three staffs were present.

  Roberts shook General Goff’s hand and drew him quietly to one side, a small neat square figure with white hair and a white goatee beard, still wearing on his sleeve a black band in memory of his dead son. His impassive face was made striking by expressive eyes which twinkled despite his loss and the seriousness of what lay ahead.

  ‘Hello, Coll,’ he said. ‘You know Kitchener, of course.’

  Standing behind Roberts with an aide, big, solid, heavy-moustached and with cold blue eyes, Kitchener nodded briskly, not an atom of friendliness in his expression.

  ‘I thought I’d better await your arrival,’ General Goff said. ‘I was just preparing to go home.’

  ‘Not yet, Coll,’ Roberts said. ‘There’s too much to do. White’s got to go. Methuen, too. Probably even Buller. I might need you here.’

  General Goff gestured. ‘You always said a general should be under fifty if possible. I’m older than that.’

  ‘I’m sixty-seven,’ Roberts snapped. ‘And I need you.’

  General Goff’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing.

  Roberts drew a deep breath. ‘White ruined everything by pushing forward and it’s clear now we shall need more than just the Regular Army plus the reservists. The Fifth Division’s already here and the Sixth and Seventh are on the way, and as you know we’re already raising volunteer companies. Militia units are also to be asked to volunteer for service. I think Britain’s alive at last to the fact that we can’t fight a mounted enemy with infantry. We have to match mobility with mobility. At the moment we seem unable to move away from the railway line. What’s your view, Coll?’

  General Goff frowned. ‘The same exactly,’ he said. ‘We need cavalry – but the sort of cavalry who’re prepared to dismount to fight if necessary.’

  ‘Go on, Coll.’

  ‘So far, it seems to me that quite small parties of mounted Boers are holding off whole brigades of horsemen because they haven’t been taught to fight except from the saddle. It’s been my task while I’ve been out here to insist that commanding officers should learn interception but, of course, they’re hampered all the time by that half-baked carbine they carry, which is about as useful against a Mau
ser as a popgun.’

  ‘We can change that. You think that’s what we need?’

  ‘I do, sir. But you’ll not retrain the cavalry in a hurry. There are too many thick-headed commanding officers.’

  ‘We could unstick a few.’

  ‘You’ve also got to get rid of the idea they have that fox-hunting and polo are all the training that are necessary. We’re not only the worst horsemasters in South Africa, we’re also the worst scouts.’

  Roberts was listening carefully and the General went on quickly. ‘We’ve got to get rid of the glitter. We spend more time cleaning up than we do training and, what with burnished mess tins, scabbards and metal mountings, when the sun catches them on the march it’s like a brass band arriving. They can be seen miles away.’

  Roberts frowned. ‘This is a big country, Coll,’ he pointed out. ‘I need horsemen.’

  ‘Then ask for volunteers from the infantry and teach ’em to ride. You’ve got to do that before you can risk ’em against the Boers.’

  Roberts smiled. He looked hard at General Goff, his eyes twinkling again, the serious expression on his face fading. ‘I think, Coll,’ he said, ‘that you’re going to be very busy.’

  When Dabney arrived at the Mount Nelson Hotel, his mother was reading a letter from Robert, who was now with General Crawford’s column near Donotsfontein.

  Dabney grinned at her. ‘You’d better start unpacking, Mother,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever for?’ Lady Goff’s violet eyes widened.

  ‘Father’s in the war. Roberts wants him to organise his horsemen. He’s tickled pink.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m to rejoin the Regiment at Donotsfontein.’

  Lady Goff looked at her younger son, her eyes troubled. She had already seen too much of war in her life, and Dabney looked so young.

  Within a week, in a burst of ferocious energy that left his staff gasping, General Goff’s scheme to form mounted schools was on paper. Horses were pouring into the country in enormous numbers and, setting up a camp on grazing ground along the Cape Flats, he assembled them in depots to become acclimatised before shipping them up country.