Blunted Lance
Page 8
The mules came in shiploads from America, Spain and Italy and the horses from Britain, South Africa, the United States, Hungary, Canada and Australia. As the depots grew, necessities such as forges, shoes, head ropes, head stalls, fodder and veterinary services were gathered, rough-riding schools were organised and willing infantrymen, already trained as soldiers, were being pushed through the scheme in numbers by the end of fourteen days.
‘They’ll still not be cavalrymen,’ the general pointed out grimly, ‘but they’ll be able to sit a horse without falling off. And though they’ll never be expert horsemasters, with a few good sergeants they’ll get by.’
He found a major of the 5th Lancers who’d been wounded at Elandslaagte and contacted Morby-Smith at Donotsfontein to obtain Trumpet-Major Sparks, who was close to retirement age, and, together with Ellis Ackroyd and one or two of the older men he knew, the bewildered infantrymen were chivvied at once with the age-old clichés.
‘Sit in the saddle, you silly man, not on it! And get your legs round your mount, don’t just dangle the buggers down its side! Now trot and sit straight! Grip with your knees! Head up! Heels down! AND SIT STILL! You’re darting about like a fart in a bottle!’
Some of the newcomers didn’t take too happily to the rough-riders’ ministrations, but at least they were learning to get about the country fast, to dismount and use their rifles, and to hobble their horses and sleep alongside them with an arm through the reins. Firmly believing that the elementary bull’s-eye course, considered adequate by the army, was useless, General Goff also introduced such innovations as head and shoulder targets which moved and disappeared, and though a lot of ammunition vanished into the hills a lot more targets were being hit.
Then, with the men learning to fight dismounted, he set about dispensing with some of the things ordinary cavalry carried about their persons, so that they could ride light and move faster for longer distances. His plans were firm. Carbines were exchanged for rifles and horse furniture was revolutionised. Regimental bits were discarded and plain hunting bits substituted. White head ropes and picketing pegs were done away with and replaced by knee-haltering gear. The panelled colonial saddle took the place of the cavalry saddle and a blanket the place of a saddle pad. The pipe clay so reverently sponged on at home was sandpapered off. They were drab soldiers now, even mess tins given a khaki cover.
‘Acts of true courage, sir,’ Ellesmere smiled.
‘Forget all the cavalry dogma you’ve ever been told,’ the General informed his instructors. ‘Forget all this business of rising in the saddle. The Boers sit like sacks. Rising just wears out both man and horse over long distances. At home we spent hours learning to trot without stirrups and hold a sword at the gallop. A trot’s fit only for a cab horse and riding without stirrups is the best way I know to give a horse a sore back.’
Since Roberts had arrived, a breath of fresh air had blown through the cobwebs and he was already making plans to move north when Buller made another blunder at Spion Kop.
The Boer forces had thrown up half a dozen natural leaders who were already beginning to take the places of their elderly generals like Cronje and Joubert who had fought in the last Boer War. Men like Botha, De La Rey, Martinius De Hoog, De Wet and Beyers were young and moved more swiftly, and they were ruthless enough and intelligent enough not to miss their chances. But, surrounded by an excessive amount of military paraphernalia, Buller had advanced so slowly they were able to watch him every bit of the way. Spion Kop had ended with another disaster, and a casualty list bigger than for any of the other battles.
Even as the news was received in Cape Town, more defeats followed. At Vaal Krantz, the furious Lyttelton, frustrated by Buller’s hesitation, had ignored his orders to retreat from the hill he had captured the day before and had felt his battle won when Buller had ordered a complete withdrawal. Once more they were back where they started, with a great many unnecessary dead and wounded and a public exasperated to learn that yet another hill had been captured and then abandoned. Almost immediately afterwards, Crawford’s column, moving between Gatacre and Buller, was caught in the open and driven back in confusion, with the 19th Lancers fighting a rearguard action and acting as whippers-in to a host of stragglers.
‘It won’t be long,’ General Goff told his wife in disgust, ‘before British generals won’t dare put their noses in the streets.’
It was well known in Cape Town that Roberts was due to leave for the north at any moment with Kitchener. They had been making their plans quietly but there was no visible sign of action and no indication of what they were thinking when a message came to say that Roberts was due to dine at the Mount Nelson and would General Goff make a point of being available for a talk?
The General found Roberts, looking worried and angry, alone in his room with Kitchener, who was wearing his usual bull-at-a-gate look.
‘Coll—’ Roberts came to the point at once ‘—tomorrow I’m going to the front. I shall be boarding the northbound train at Salt River just outside the city. How’s your training scheme coming along?’
‘Excellently, sir. We shall be turning out plenty of mounted men within another week or two. I was even hoping I might request permission to take some of them north myself.’
Roberts’ expressive eyes glinted then he smiled. Without a word, Kitchener poured a drink and handed it to the General.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Roberts said. He moved to a map spread out on the table and beckoned the General across. ‘Instead of rushing up to Natal to relieve Ladysmith, I’m going to go for a flank march along the western railway to Kimberley, then strike out towards Bloemfontein.’
General Goff smiled. ‘It’s against all War Office doctrine, sir.’
Roberts shrugged. ‘It’ll relieve Kimberley, silence Rhodes and capture the Orange Free State capital. It’ll also draw large numbers of Boers from Natal and reduce the pressure on Ladysmith which, for the time being, can be left to Buller. French will be the spearhead and I’m going to give him some hard work to do. But he’ll have the greatest chance he’ll ever get with cavalry, because Kimberley must be relieved. I’m going to send him on a detour to cut the railway north of the town. You were with Stuart in the States. You know how it’s done. Can French do the same?’
‘It’s different country,’ the General said. ‘And water and grazing are more of a problem. But I know the area and, if he makes his plans properly, yes, he can. The Boers are afraid of British cavalry and if he gets them in the open and makes an example of them, it can even have tremendous moral effect.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Roberts turned from the map. ‘Well, Christopher Crawford’s column’s now near Rosanna. He was near Jacobspoort on his way to take Donotsfontein from the Boers when De Hoog fell on him and pushed him all the way back to Bester’s Nek. Awful show. Disgraceful. All this you know. Well, now we’ve heard he’s been chucked out of Bester’s Nek, too. We need Donotsfontein, Coll. It’s a railway junction and will simplify supplies. Have you got a good man who can take over your scheme?’
‘Ellesmere could handle it.’
‘Not Ellesmere,’ Roberts said. ‘I’ve other plans for him.’
‘Well, there’s Major Nicholas. He was sent to me because he was hit at Elandslaagte. He’s quite recovered now and he’s energetic, intelligent and full of ideas.’
‘We’ll push him up to half-colonel. I have a job for you. But you’d have to drop a rank temporarily. I want you to take over Crawford’s column.’
The General’s heart thumped in a way that he’d almost forgotten. He’d long since come to the conclusion that he was too old for active service but Roberts, who was older, didn’t seem to be and he didn’t seem to consider General Goff was either. He offered a warning.
‘Crawford’s younger than I am, sir.’
‘There are some men who were old when they were second lie
utenants,’ Roberts pointed out dryly. ‘You’ll need a good chief of staff.’
‘I can think of no one better than Ned Ellesmere.’
Roberts smiled. ‘That’s what I thought. You’ll have three battalions of infantry – two of them newly out here, mind, and far from being the best – the 19th Lancers, the North Cape Horse – the outfit you led in Zululand – and units of the Royal Artillery and Royal Engineers. By the time you reach there, you’ll also have some local volunteers, who are more enthusiastic than skilled, two more batteries of artillery and a few other miscellaneous groups. But Crawford’s scattered them all over the countryside and he never got much unity into them, anyway. It’ll be up to you to change all that.’
Roberts paused, looking keenly at General Goff. ‘I want someone up there who knows how to handle mounted men, Coll. Gatacre’s defeat’s left a gap and Buller will never move if he thinks the Boers might fall on his left. I want someone who’s willing to probe forward, even get himself attacked, in the hope that the Boers will draw men from Buller so he can be chivvied into a move. I expect you to make an opportunity.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Roberts frowned. ‘But no more defeats, Coll,’ he said. ‘We’ve finished with defeats. The situation’s got to change. It’s up to you.’
Seven
Crawford’s column was strung out over several miles of veldt to the north of the little town of Rosanna. As the train steamed in, the General saw horses and wagons stretched across the plain as far as the eye could see. It was hard to decide just what Crawford was hoping to do because there wasn’t the slightest chance of surprising the Boers as the column moved laboriously along, fully exposed to the eyes of the scouts who were quite obviously just over the horizon.
A line of ragged trees marked the little town, with, away to the north, the stumps of two small kopjes like broken teeth against the sky. The station seemed devoid of life. A group of black men were dozing like bundles of old rags in the shade near a group of parked carts, their dogs stretched as if dead in the dust. Near the water tower, a few soldiers in grey-back shirts, their necks burned red by the sun, and a few army horses flicking their tails at the flies were all that showed the place was occupied. For the rest, it seemed empty, silent and still. As the train drew to a halt, however, a small cavalcade of horsemen appeared, trotting forward in a small cloud of dust to halt and dismount.
The General frowned. ‘Seems a lot of sloppiness around here, Ned,’ he growled. ‘Chrissie Crawford’s let things go.’
As he climbed from the train to the dusty boards that did duty as a station platform, followed by Ellesmere and Ackroyd, the officer from the little cavalcade that had arrived stepped forward and saluted.
‘Major Trim, sir,’ he announced. ‘GS02 to General Crawford. I was detailed to meet you. General Crawford’s with the column.’
‘Surely he should be here,’ Ellesmere observed tartly. ‘He knew General Goff was on this train.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Ned,’ the General murmured. ‘It isn’t every day you get the sack and have somebody arrive to take your place.’
It had been raining for nearly two days and Crawford’s wagons were axle-deep in mud. His column consisted of a long line of cavalry, infantry and guns, interspersed with wagons of all kinds, drawn by teams of sixteen oxen or ten mules, the Kaffir drivers energetically whipping them on. There were wagons carrying ammunition, wagons carrying pantries and kitchens, wagons carrying rations and fodder for the animals that pulled the wagons, and wagon after wagon carrying tents. In between the wagons and the fighting men came an endless procession of those who served on the fringe of the army – doctors and stretcher bearers, signallers with heliographs and flags, bakers, cooks, farriers, paymasters and clerks. There were pontoons, a traction engine, a searchlight, even a balloon.
Everything had been painted the colour of the veldt. The wagons, the guns, the kitbags, the water bottles and other equipment were all khaki – even the quick-firing Maxim guns were wrapped in drab canvas greatcoats. Only buttons and accoutrements shone and, in the heat of the sun, the veldt was drying and the dust clouds that were lifting to the sky were dulling even those.
The infantry were clearly finding the webbing for their greatcoats uncomfortable to wear and many had thrown it away and were carrying the coats en banderole instead, tramping sullenly forward, unshaven and tired-looking, their puttees encasing their legs with tubes of yellow clay. They were covered with dirt, their uniforms in tatters, and they were loaded down with kettles and firewood for their bivouacs. While the tail of the column was still toiling across the veldt, the wagons of the leading elements were already drawing into a circle, and a hopyard of tent poles was being raised.
‘How many wagons do they use for tents?’ General Goff demanded as they rode past.
‘I can’t say sir,’ Trim answered briskly. ‘A lot, I dare say.’
‘I think you’d better find out,’ the General growled. ‘By tonight. What’s the speed of the advance?’
‘Can’t say that either, sir.’
‘That’s something else you’d better find out by tonight.’
The column was just descending into a spruit, a sunken watercourse alongside a broken bridge, and two wagons had overturned. Mules were fighting to free themselves from their tangled harness, spare teams of oxen were lumbering up to drag gun carriages out of the mud, Kaffir drivers were wildly flogging their animals, and bored fatigue parties were spreading rushes they had collected in the hope of making a firmer surface for men and vehicles. A cry went up for pontoons and more teams of oxen were hurried up to help with the loads.
‘This looks bloody slow and tedious to me, Ned,’ the General growled to Ellesmere. ‘In future, I want the column split. Infantry and cavalry will not cross where the wagons cross. I see no reason why they should struggle on their hind legs through mud caused by horses, mules and oxen. Make that your first job.’
They reached Heidelberg Springs, where General Crawford had set up his headquarters, just as the sky was changing to green and orange and a last violent red in the west where the sun had set. A few clouds striped the bowl of the heavens with black as it slowly began to take on the luminous light of night. The place was small, and was silent and dead but for a few yellow lights in the windows of the shabby tin-roofed houses. A soft breeze from the veldt carried the low cries of oxen from where the wagoners struggled as the column neared the town. Horses were tethered outside the hotel, snorting softly above the witless chatter of crickets and frogs. Across the dusty square was a store with the single yellow lantern illuminating a group of Kaffirs sitting on the step. Behind it the veldt stretched out in a great prodigality of space, and overhead the tall African stars picked out the scattered gum trees and peppers and the fan of a dwarf palm rusting into thin whiskers, its spikes mirrored in a horse trough where grass grew round a dripping tap.
The bar of the hotel was the biggest single room in the little town. It stretched the full length of the building from the entrance hall to the dining room and the shelves of bottles were interspersed with the skulls of springbok, eland and the magnificent kudu with their ponderous spiral armament, relics of the days when they could be shot at the end of the main street. The men at the bar were dusty and shabby, many of them Boers who were watching the billiard room door, a hotch-potch of glass like the porch of a chapel in coloured cubes and lozenges.
Dismounting, the General tossed the reins to Ackroyd and stamped into the hotel, knocking the dust from the folds of his uniform. Ellesmere and Trim followed immediately. Seeing the uniforms, the owner of the hotel came from behind the bar.
‘In the billiard room, sir,’ he said.
As the loose panes of coloured glass in the door clashed, the men studying a map spread on the billiard table looked up. In the middle of the group was an elderly officer, tall, thin and lugubrious-looking.
‘General Crawford?’ General Goff cleared his throat, aware what an embarrassing business it was relieving a man of his command. Crawford waited, making no attempt to move forward, his face hostile, his expression disapproving.
Very well, the General thought, if that’s how he wants it, that’s how he can have it. There were half a dozen ways of superseding another officer and, if only for good manners, it was usually made easy by the man who was being superseded. Crawford clearly resented the General’s arrival.
‘Field Marshal Lord Roberts has sent me,’ the General said briskly. ‘I’m to take command of the column.’
Crawford blinked. ‘I received the information on the telegraph at the station at Rosanna this morning,’ he said. ‘I’d better introduce my staff – I beg your pardon, your staff. This is General Cook, who has the 12th Brigade, and this is General Grierson, who has the 7th. Colonel Windham, my GS01. My GS02 you’ve already met. This is Captain Pemberton, GS03; Colonel Mortimer, CRA; Colonel Smith, AAQMG…’
General Goff waited silently, nodding as the officers were introduced. He had heard of one or two of them, had even met Cook in India, and had not been impressed. They seemed an indifferent bunch and there were far too many because the troops didn’t like to see a lot of red tabs about. He would probably have to replace one or two of them, he decided, though perhaps the unsticking of Crawford might do the trick for him. The poor bugger was obviously too old for an active command.