Fire Across the Veldt

by John Wilcox

  Fonthill returned her smile. They made a handsome couple in their young, healthy, middle age. At five foot nine inches he was broad-shouldered, with only an incipient trace of corpulence now just beginning to break the slimness of a body hardened by years of farming and campaigning. His fair hair was still full, his cheeks as tanned as those of his wife and his brown eyes retained a slightly withdrawn gentleness unusual in a man of good birth who had spent so much time in remote corners of the British Empire. The only obvious evidence he carried of past hardship, however, lay with the nose which, years before, had been broken by a Pathan musket and had been left slightly hooked, giving him a predatory air, that of a hunter, slightly uncertain, perhaps, but one still seeking his prey.

  Opposite the pair Jenkins stood loosely at ease, as befitted an ex-soldier of Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. Lugubrious, perhaps, was the term that best described him. Known usually only as ‘352’, the last three figures of his army number to distinguish him from the other Jenkinses in this most Welsh of regiments, he had met Fonthill at the regimental hospital at Brecon and had become the young subaltern’s servant-batman, mentor and friend, crossing the divisions of class in this most hierarchical of periods in Britain’s cultural history. He was four years older than Simon but no grey strands had had the audacity to push through the thicket of black hair that stood up vertically on his head, nor in the great moustache that swept from ear to ear across his face. Five inches shorter than Fonthill, he was hugely broad, exuding great strength, a fighting machine at home in barrack room, bar and battlefield anywhere in the world.

  The quartet was completed by Mzingeli, who now selected a blanket from the tangled tent on the ground and draped it round the shoulders of Alice, who was beginning to shiver as the sun slipped away. Of indeterminate age – although the white hair tightly curled to the scalp showed him to be by far the oldest of the four – he was also the tallest. Slim as a flagstaff, his name meant ‘The Hunter’ and he looked the part. He was dressed in old corduroy trousers, boots that had seen better days and a loose flannel shirt. His face, under its wide-brimmed Boer hat, was not without nobility, for his lips were thin and his nose long, with flared nostrils. Of the Malakala tribe, his black eyes seemed to carry all the sadness of his race. He had met the other three when they had hired him to track for them as they hunted in the far north of the Transvaal in the 1880s, then sharing in their adventures as they crossed into Matabeleland with Cecil G. Rhodes’s invading force, before agreeing to manage the Fonthills’ farm in the newly created colony of Rhodesia. Summoned by Simon’s telegraph, he had met the others after they had landed in Cape Town, for Fonthill knew that he would be needed in the tasks that lay ahead of them all.

  Mzingeli’s draping of the blanket stung Jenkins into life. ‘Right, then,’ he said, rubbing his hands, ‘better get this bleedin’ tent up, then – ah, sorry Miss Alice. Language again. Sorry.’

  Alice tugged the blanket tighter in frustration. ‘352, if you apologise for your disgraceful language again, I shall scream. How many more times have I to remind you that I am a brigadier’s daughter. As a reporter, I have covered the British army’s campaigns in Zululand, Afghanistan, East Africa, Egypt, the Sudan, the Transvaal and China, so I am well acquainted with army terminology. So do stop bleedin’ apologising. D’you hear?’

  Jenkins had the grace to look crestfallen. ‘Ah, yes, miss – missus. Sorry. I’ll put the ordinary tent up, then.’

  ‘No, don’t do that.’ Fonthill extricated his compass and took a bearing on the horsemen who were fast disappearing in the twilight towards the kopje.

  ‘Blimey, bach sir.’ Jenkins looked woebegone. ‘It’s September, look you, which means the rainy season’s just round the corner. If we don’t freeze ’ere out in this veldt place, we’ll drown in one of them sudden storms. You remember ’em?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I do. And you have a point. But we’re not going to camp.’

  ‘What we goin’ to do, then?’

  The others were now looking at Fonthill in some consternation. The wind that had made Alice shiver was not unusual in this early spring, for the veldt of the Orange Free State stood some five to six thousand feet above sea level.

  Alice pulled the blanket tightly round her. ‘Yes, Simon,’ she repeated. ‘What are we going to do, then?’

  ‘We’re going to get our horses back – and our rifles, too, if we can.’

  ‘What?’ Jenkins’s jaw dropped for a moment and then his face gradually segued into a wide grin. ‘Of course we are,’ he said. ‘Of course we are. I should ’ave known.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Simon.’ Alice stamped her foot. ‘There are probably two hundred horsemen camping behind that kopje. There is no way you can drive this stupid mule cart up there and demand our horses back. This time we will all be shot.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask for them back. I’m going to take them. Now …’ He gazed around him. The sun had slipped down behind the purple cloud and the horizon that it hid and a soft, velvet light had fallen across the plain, deepening as he looked. Only a few other kopjes – black, flat-topped rocky hills that rose vertically – gave features to the plain and they were now slipping out of sight as the darkness grew. They were now quite alone again on this endless veldt.

  His tone sharpened. ‘352, get the revolvers from Alice’s bag. Good thing we hid them. Mzingeli.’

  ‘Nkosi?’

  ‘I’ve got a compass bearing on the kopje so we can find it in the dark. But do you think you can track the horsemen and find where the commando is camped? They won’t be riding on in the dark.’

  ‘Better when moon comes up. But I find them, I think.’

  ‘Good man. But I hope the moon’s not too bright. We will wait until it is properly dark, then we’ll move across to the kopje.’

  ‘Simon!’ Alice looked like some chastising governess as she stood frowning, the blanket wrapped tightly around her. ‘Let us camp for the night and then get in the cart early in the morning and make for that hoped-for train and then get on to Pretoria where I can file my story. For God’s sake, you can’t take on a whole Boer commando with three men, three handguns and a feeble woman.’

  He grinned at her. ‘I can’t see a feeble woman anywhere. And I don’t intend to take them on. We shall steal the horses. Now, put the tent back on the cart and let’s make for the kopje. Then Mzingeli will have to take over. Move now.’

  Mzingeli urged the mules into life and the two men walked alongside Alice as she sat in the cart. There Simon outlined his plan such as it was.

  ‘The Boers,’ he said as they trudged along, ‘are magnificent horsemen, probably the best shots in the world and good soldiers, up to a point. What they lack, however, is discipline – the discipline of a trained soldier. They fight like tigers but I remember from the Transvaal War that on the simple bread-and-butter things of soldiering they fall down. And why shouldn’t they? They’re farmers who fight, that’s all. So I am gambling that they will not have set proper guards on the horses. They will have tethered or hobbled them so that they can’t stray but, hopefully, will have set only one or, at the most, two sentries. After all, they believe that we will be no threat to them and they know that the nearest British force is ten miles at least to the south, trying to fix the broken rails with the armoured train.’

  ‘So …?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘So we leave Alice at the foot of the kopje with the cart and we three steal up on them, put the guard or guards out of action – although no shooting, mind – and lead the horses quietly away.’

  ‘Humph!’ The snort came from Alice. ‘Even if this works, they will find the horses gone, and come after us. And, slowed down by this damned cart, they will easily overtake us before we get to the railway line.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘We won’t go north, towards Pretoria, because they will expect us to go that way. And we will leave the cart and set the mules free. We will go – on horseback, because we can make better time that
way – to the south and rejoin the train. I hear that commandos rarely take black trackers with them so I am gambling that they won’t pick up our spoor until it is too late.’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘Very good, bach sir. That sounds a good plan.’

  ‘Now that’s just fine,’ said Alice. ‘There are four of us and three horses. Tell me, pray. Do I walk?’

  ‘Only if you want to, darling. No, you share a horse with me. Uncomfortable, but we only have about ten miles to go.’

  ‘With respect, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, ‘I think Miss Alice should ride with me. That way she won’t fall off.’

  ‘When you say “with respect”, 352, you damn well don’t mean it. I’m a much better horseman than I used to be.’

  ‘Ummph! But she should still ride with me.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  They proceeded in silence until eventually a wan moon rose, bringing the kopje suddenly into focus before them. It stood like a black, squat thumb rising from the plain but, as they neared, they could see that a track of sorts wound upwards between the fissured rocks. Mzingeli looked at it and at the ground and shook his head.

  ‘Not that way,’ he said. He led them around the base of the kopje until its verticality gave way to a more gentle incline and a much wider track threading its way upwards. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Boers like to camp high so that they have view of plain. We keep very quiet now.’

  ‘Right,’ whispered Simon. He turned to his wife. ‘Stay here with the cart and take this.’ He gave her one of the Webley revolvers. ‘It is fully loaded. But I recommend you don’t fire at the Boers with it. It might annoy them. If we are not back by daylight, make your way back along the railway track the way we came until you meet the train.’

  ‘I’d rather come with you.’

  ‘No.’ He grinned. ‘Can’t have a feeble woman with us. If we are caught, then I doubt if the Boers will shoot us. They don’t like to be bogged down with prisoners, so they will probably slap our wrists and turn us loose again. In which case we shall be back where we started. But I intend to get those horses. Be careful, darling.’ He kissed her quickly and turned away. ‘Lead on, Mzingeli.’

  Treading carefully in the semi-darkness, the three men began their climb. It was not arduous, for it seemed as though the Boers had not dismounted, although, in truth, Simon could see little sign of the party having come this way, for there was no soil or sand lining the track, only shreds of coarse grass struggling through the rocks. It betrayed no indentations. Mzingeli, however, showed no hesitation and continued to stride upwards.

  After fifteen minutes, he held up his hand and waited for the others to join him. ‘Horses up just ahead,’ he whispered. ‘I smell them. I go alone now. Come back and tell you.’ And he was gone.

  Jenkins crouched down next to Fonthill, his knife gleaming in his hand. ‘What’s the plan, then, bach sir?’

  ‘Put the knife away, 352. I don’t want any killing unless we absolutely have to. It depends how many guards there are. If there is only one, I want you to creep up behind him, put a revolver at his head and tell him to be quiet. Here’s a gag and some tent cord. We will bind him and take the horses – but quietly, oh so quietly.’

  ‘An’ if there’s more than one guard?’

  ‘I’ll have to think again.’

  Mzingeli was back, it seemed, almost as soon as he had gone. He slipped down between the two. ‘Camp is on a plateau over the back,’ he whispered, gesturing with his hand. ‘Away from horses, which are nearer.’

  ‘Now there’s a stroke of luck,’ beamed Jenkins. ‘How many guards?’

  ‘Only one I see. He up on right there, on top of path. We must get round him. But I think he sleeps.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fonthill’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. ‘As I said. Bad soldiering. Good. Now, 352, crawl away to the right and get behind the guard. We will go to just below the top and wait until you’ve dealt with the Boer – I know you can do it. Very quietly. Now. Off you go.’

  Jenkins wriggled away like an eel between the rocks and Fonthill followed Mzingeli as the tracker crawled upwards, placing hands and feet with care. As the hunched figure of the guard came into sight, silhouetted against a now star-strewn sky, they froze onto the grass. They kept their eyes fixed on the man, who remained immobile, crouched like some ancient shepherd guarding his flock. Then, as they watched, a figure suddenly rose behind him, putting one arm under his throat and presenting the stumpy barrel of the revolver to his ear. The man attempted to rise and shout but Jenkins clasped a hand to his mouth and whispered to him. Immediately, the guard froze, immobile.

  Simon and Mzingeli were upon him in a flash. Fonthill forced open the man’s mouth and thrust a rolled handkerchief into it, tying it into place with a bandana knotted at the back of his neck. Then they rolled him over and bound his hands behind his back before tying his legs together. The Boer lay looking up at them, eyes bulging.

  ‘Can’t see any more guards, bach sir,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘The camp’s over there,’ he nodded with his head, ‘beyond the ’orses. They’ve ’obbled all the ’orses by binding one foreleg back. I call that bloody cruel. An’ them supposed to be marvellous ’orsemen, look you.’

  Fonthill nodded. Jenkins had been brought up on a farm in the north of Wales and was a superb horseman. He was also a lover of horseflesh.

  ‘Mzingeli,’ he whispered. ‘You and Jenkins see if you can find our horses and bring them over here quietly. The Boers will have got back here in the darkness so there’s just a possibility that they’ve not unsaddled them. Go now. I’ll watch over this fellow.’

  Within minutes the two were back, leading three horses, all fully saddled and bridled. ‘Look,’ said Jenkins, his face expressing disgust. ‘They’ve even put our rifles back in the saddle holsters, see. Lazy bastards. They know nothin’ about ’orses, absolutely.’

  ‘Splendid. Right. Let’s go. Quietly, now.’

  They had retreated some five minutes down the path when Jenkins gave the reins of the horses he was leading to Mzingeli. ‘I’ll just be ’alf a mo’, bach sir,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ hissed Fonthill. ‘Where are you going? Come back. Now.’

  But the little Welshman had disappeared back up the hill into the night.

  Cursing, Simon indicated to the tracker that they should continue the descent but they had reached the bottom and were met by a relieved Alice before Jenkins rejoined them.

  ‘Where the hell did you go?’ demanded Fonthill.

  ‘I couldn’t let them beasts stay up there with one leg tied up,’ he said. ‘So I cut as many free as I could. Too many, o’course, to do ’em all. But enough to let ’em wander about a bit and stray, like. That’ll give them Boer buggers a bit to think about first thing in the mornin’, see. Oh.’ He held up his knife, the point of which was bloodstained. ‘I just poked this into the leg of that guard, see. Not far. Just a bit of a scratch. That’ll teach ’im to sleep on guard and serve ’im right for treatin’ ’orses that way, so it will.’

  Fonthill blew out his cheeks. ‘For God’s sake get on your horse. Alice, you get in the saddle, 352 can ride behind you. Leave the cart and the mules. We must ride hard through the night so that we don’t have a horde of bloodthirsty Boers breathing down our necks. Right. Now ride!’

  Heads down, with Jenkins clinging to Alice for dear life, they rode through the darkness as fast as the horses and the terrain would allow. Just before dawn they reached the armoured train. It was getting steam up, for the sappers had worked through the night to repair the rails. They were just in time to wolf down hot tea and bacon sandwiches before the train snorted into motion, on its journey to Pretoria, the newly captured capital of the Transvaal, carrying them aboard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On the journey, which proved uneventful, Fonthill looked again at the cable that he had received only last month in the half-ruined British consulate in Peking, after the siege of the capital had been raised. He, Alice and Jenkins had been visiti
ng his wife’s uncle, a missionary in China, when the Boxer Rebellion had burst around their ears. The three of them had played a role in the defence and final relief of the besieged consulates in the heart of the city – a role that had been well reported in the world’s press. As a result, General Kitchener, Roberts’s chief of staff in South Africa, had cabled him:

  WE NEVER MET IN SUDAN BUT WARMEST CONGRATS ON YOUR WORK CHINA STOP WAR WITH BOERS HERE FAR FROM OVER STOP DESPERATELY NEED YOU HERE FOR URGENT TASK STOP CAN YOU SHIP TO CAPE TOWN SOONEST STOP LETTER FOLLOWS STOP

  Kitchener had been only a major of intelligence when Fonthill and Jenkins had infiltrated the Dervish lines around Khartoum to reach the besieged General Gordon years before. But Simon knew, of course, of the meteoric nature of the man’s rise to become Sirdar of the Egyptian army and the eventual conqueror of the Mahdi’s forces at the Battle of Omdurman two years before. He was now Lord Kitchener of Khartoum – ‘K of K’ – and rumoured soon to take over from the elderly Roberts as commander-in-chief in South Africa.

  Fonthill, having rather surprisingly received Alice’s approval, had cabled his acceptance but Kitchener’s explanatory letter had revealed little more when it had arrived just before they took ship for the Cape. It merely referred to a need to find ‘a new way of fighting the Boers’, for which Fonthill’s wide experience and ‘unconventional military methods’ would eminently suit him. Simon remembered ruefully that that very unconventionality had brought him into conflict several times years before with General Roberts in the second Anglo-Afghan war and that Kitchener would surely have conferred with his chief before sending the cable. So Roberts had approved of the choice. There could be no more validation of the need for ‘something new needed’. He was undeniably intrigued. Of one thing, however, he was certain – he would never return to the regular army.

  They arrived in the pretty little Transvaal town of Pretoria, final destination of the Boer voetrekkers so long ago, and Fonthill booked them all into a small hotel in the centre – not without a disputatious argument before Mzingeli was accepted as a guest. Then he sent a message to Kitchener’s headquarters, announcing his arrival and requesting an interview. A reply came flatteringly quickly, asking Simon to call at four p.m. that day.