by John Wilcox
For his part, Simon contented himself with hearing about each NCO’s experience of the encounters they had gone through with the enemy. Here, he was learning as much about how the Boers had comported themselves in the set-piece battles as how these NCOs and the men under them had reacted. From this, it was clear to him that, even in victory – and particularly during the ‘Black Week’ of last spring, when the Boers had been victorious three times within seven days against forces that greatly outnumbered them – they were anxious to mount up and ride off again after their success. Even if they were part of a large army in the field, they seemed involuntarily inclined to fight on the retreat. They also did not occupy high ground, which, in theory, would give them advantages in directing their artillery and even rifle fire. Instead they dug in at the foot of the kopjes and on riverbanks, in soft soil, where the lyddite high-explosive shells from the huge British naval guns did little damage and where their own long-range Mauser rifles could fire devastatingly horizontally. Fonthill made a mental note.
The next day, Jenkins and Hammond were due to assess the riding skills of all those recruits who had passed their medical tests and Fonthill resolved not to get directly involved, but rather to observe where he could not be seen. He wished to gain some personal impression of the men’s riding skills without interfering with Jenkins’s and Hammond’s judgement. However, he also wished to see, unobserved, how the two men got on.
Hammond’s questions about Jenkins had made him face the fact that he and his old comrade now could not continue their long-standing free-and-easy relationship. He was concerned about this, for his ties with the Welshman were close and ran deep, cutting across the divide of class in a manner that a man like the major could never understand. He would raise the matter with Jenkins as delicately as he could – and it would have to be delicate because he certainly would not wish to upset his comrade. Jenkins’s reaction when first hearing that they were both to rejoin the army showed that he, at least, had immediately foreseen the problems. For, however irregular the unit, the relationship between a commanding officer and his regimental sergeant major must not be capable of being misconstrued. Simon realised that he should have considered this more carefully before allowing himself to be bullied into acceptance by Kitchener. However, the die was cast now and throwing Hammond and Jenkins together without a word to the volatile Welshman first could be like putting a flame to dry tinder. But how to do it?
The officers and Jenkins had been given small bell tents each to themselves at the mine site in Johannesburg while they were recruiting, with slightly larger, communal tents being allocated separately to the sergeants and the corporals. That evening, Fonthill sent a message asking Jenkins to visit him at his tent after the evening meal.
Simon had uncorked a bottle of Scotch when he heard a familiar cough outside the tent flap. ‘Come in, old chap,’ he shouted.
‘Evenin’, sir,’ said Jenkins deferentially. ‘Difficult to knock on a canvas flap, ain’t it?’
‘Pull up that camp chair. And, when we are alone, I would prefer “bach sir” to “sir”, any day. Now that I’m loftier than God as a colonel and commanding officer, however, when others are present I’m afraid it will have to be just “sir”. I do hope you understand, 352 … er, sorry, S’aren’t Major, sir.’
‘O’course I understand, bach sir. Good Lord, does that ’appen to be a bottle of whisky in the Colonel bach’s ’and, by any chance?’
‘Yes it does. I don’t suppose you’d care for a dram?’
‘Well, only a taste – to see if it’s all right for you, like.’
Fonthill poured out two heavy measures and raised his glass to Jenkins. ‘To Fonthill’s Horse and all who ride with them.’
The Welshman reciprocated: ‘To Fonthill’s Horse and particularly to their commanding officer and regimental sergeant major.’ The two raised and clinked their glasses. Jenkins downed his in one gulp.
‘Which reminds me,’ said Simon refilling his glass. ‘For God and my sake do not get drunk on this posting, 352. Particularly with Major Hammond about. In fact, I need to tell you about him …’ And he related his conversation with his second in command.
‘Ah, yes.’ The Welshman wiped the fringe of his moustache and nodded his head. I ’ad a bit of a feelin’ about ’im. Probably a bit of a discipline … disciplinity … discap …’
‘Disciplinarian?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Yes, I think he probably is. I can handle him all right and everything depends upon how he behaves once we are in action. But he is undoubtedly a conventional cavalry officer and they can be the worse reactionaries, you know.’
‘I think I know what that means, but I’m not sure.’
‘Dyed in the wool. Of the old school.’
‘Ah yes. That’s what I thought.’
‘But there is something else. Lieutenant General Sir John French is in charge of the cavalry arm under Lord Kitchener and I am to report to him, which doesn’t exactly delight me, because I am insisting that Fonthill’s Horse are not cavalry. I haven’t met French yet and he certainly sounds like a fighting soldier. The general obviously thinks so and the man has added to his reputation considerably by dancing round the main Boer army and capturing Kimberley behind their backs, so to speak.’
‘So …?’
‘So I have a feeling that French might just have placed Hammond with us to keep an eye on me, so to speak. If that is right, I don’t like the sound of it at all and I shan’t tolerate it. But I don’t want to look for trouble with the man, for Hammond could be very useful to me as a second i/c, given his experience. But – and here’s the point – stay on the right side of him, 352, because he might use you to get at me, if you know what I mean. Don’t stray out of line. And we must observe the niceties in public, you and I, so please remember that too.’
Jenkins nodded slowly. ‘Very good, bach sir. I know you was goin’ to offer me another drink but, given the ah … niceties … I shall refuse it, see.’ He rose to his feet. ‘So goodnight, Colonel bach. And good luck in this blasted war. I shall be looking out for you, as always, look you.’
‘Good luck to you, my dear old 352 – and I shall be looking out for you, too, be assured of that.’ The two comrades shook hands and Jenkins ducked his head and left the tent.
With more than a hundred men to assess, the horse trials began shortly after dawn the next day. A temporary ring had been cleared on the outskirts of the mine and twenty or so of the tough little Basuto ponies, captured from the Boers, had been gathered together and saddled. Already waiting and under the care of two of the sergeants were a line of recruits. Arriving equally early, Fonthill walked down the line, engaging every third man or so in a brief conversation. A little later, keeping out of sight, he noted the arrival of first Jenkins and then Hammond, whom Simon was glad to see that 352 saluted smartly. Then the two men began talking earnestly, obviously planning the equestrian tasks to be set. Fonthill breathed a sigh of relief. At least the day seemed to have begun equably.
The men to whom he talked were a strange mixture. Mostly they were incomers to South Africa: British, Canadians, Australians and a smattering of New Zealanders, mainly of farming stock but who had come to earn better money in the gold mines of the rand – typical uitlanders, in fact. All claimed to have grown up on horseback and with hunting rifles in their hands and with a strongly acquired dislike of the Boer burghers of the Transvaal who had denied them a vote in their new home. They welcomed a chance at last to fight them. The newest arrivals, however, were the most interesting. They had sailed at their own expense from Britain to Cape Town and travelled north to army headquarters to enlist. Some were ex-officers and wished to enlist as ‘gentlemen rankers’ and, as they said, to ‘fight for the Empire’. Fonthill made a mental note of them.
Then he took up his position behind a tree and watched as Hammond, Jenkins and the sergeant put the men through basic exercises to test their horsemanship. Fonthill had agreed t
hat the tests should be fairly elementary for there was much to do in just a couple of days. The men were asked to mount and dismount, walk, trot and then gallop their mounts around the ring and then take a couple of low hurdles. It soon became clear that most of the would-be recruits’ claims to be horsemen were honest and only a few were weeded out. Fonthill was satisfied with what he saw and hoped that the shooting trials would be equally rewarding. He had insisted that the foot drill and other conventional army training should be kept to a minimum. He wanted his men to be in the field as soon as possible and he desired them to prove to be an elite force, specialised in what they were asked to do: track down the Boer commandos and then corner them. He had communicated this to his officers, which had met with immediate approval from his captains and a glassy stare and brief nod from Hammond.
That afternoon he travelled back to Pretoria to consult the quartermaster about supplies and also to see Alice. She had been accredited to the group of journalists who were attached to army headquarters and he met her back at the hotel at the end of the day.
‘They’re a hard lot,’ she said, flopping on the bed. ‘Not a woman among them, of course, but I’m used to that. Battersby has been here for the Morning Post since the start but I’ve yet to see him. God knows where Churchill is. I think he’s a bit of a free spirit, coming and going as he likes. I don’t think he’s much liked by the others. They say that his mother – his mother – has arrived in Cape Town, would you believe it! There’s Steevens of the Mail and Bennet Burleigh of the Telegraph – them I have met before and I respect. Melton Prior is here, drawing for the Illustrated London News and then there’s Henry Nevinson, of the Daily Chronicle.’
‘And how do they regard you?’
‘Well, the older ones know my name from the early campaigns, of course, and they’ve all read what I wrote from China, so I think there’s a grudging respect, but,’ she pulled a face, ‘there’s a touch of “what the hell is a woman doing out here?” about them, despite all that. Mind you,’ she grinned, ‘when they read that I’ve already met and interviewed de Wet and had a good session with Kitchener they will have to stick their prejudices down their riding boots.’
‘Quite. How did you get on with the general?’
Alice sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. ‘Haven’t seen him yet but it sounds as though he’s a stuff box, of course – very correct and he clearly hates the press, just as Wolseley used to. I don’t think I can tell him much about de Wet, because we didn’t have much time with the man, but I would think he is going to send French back down to the Crown Colony, in case there is another attempt at invasion there.’
‘Sounds plausible. I suppose that could involve my column.’
‘Indeed. Have you had orders yet?’
‘No. I am waiting to meet French, who is somewhere down in the south.’
‘So you don’t know when you will take to the field?’
‘No. We are not ready yet, in any case. We have only just begun recruiting and training. But we will not have time for the luxury of polishing and honing the men. Kitchener wants us out and riding soon, probably within less than a month. There is much to do.’
Alice nodded sympathetically. Then she frowned. ‘Simon, you will be careful, won’t you?’
‘Careful? Well, of course I will. What do you mean, exactly?’
She looked at the ground for a moment and then directed her level gaze back at him. ‘My darling, I cannot think of anyone more brave or capable than you, but riding as a two-man army – just you and Jenkins – way out on your own, acting on your own initiative, is one thing. Commanding a regular army unit in the field is another. It will demand skills and attributes which will make new demands on you, my love. So be cautious, I beseech you.’
Fonthill stiffened slightly. ‘I am aware of the problems, Alice, thank you. I shall act with … ah … care, I assure you.’
‘Of course you will.’ She smiled. ‘And you will end up as one of the most unlikely field marshals the British army has ever seen. Now.’ She leant forward. ‘What of your regimental sergeant major? How is dear old 352 shaping up?’
‘Remarkably well, I think. But there could be a problem or two there.’ And he related his first brush with Major Hammond.
Alice listened carefully and nodded when he had finished. ‘Tread warily, my love. It won’t help you if I upset Kitchener, so I will step carefully in that direction myself. I suppose the days of our old freedom are over. We shall just have to buckle down, won’t we?’
The next three weeks passed in a blur of activity for Fonthill, preparing his command. One hundred and twenty men were selected from the volunteers who had presented themselves and they were divided into three squadrons, each consisting of two troops. Simon soon realised that his three officers were insufficient for the needs of the unit and he immediately commissioned all of his sergeants to be subalterns and commanders of the six troops, under the squadron leaders. Hammond immediately protested against this but he was overruled by Fonthill, who repeated that he wanted battle-hardened men for this role, whatever their backgrounds, and explained that there was no time, anyway, to transfer men from elsewhere.
The column moved out onto the veldt, camping out in the rain, sleeping without tents and living on basic rations of bully beef, biltong, biscuits and only the water that each man could carry in his bottle. The ponies proved to be sturdy, good-tempered and able to move quickly over the bad ground. They existed on eight pounds of fodder a day – oaties, mealies or compressed grain – compared to the twenty pounds that the larger, less equable British cavalry mounts demanded.
Given that the men were all virtually new recruits, Fonthill was happy with the way they performed during the exercises. But he was particularly delighted when, on their return to Pretoria, Mzingeli produced his native scouts. There were twelve of them, mainly from the Transvaal but four from the Free State. Mzingeli said that, between them, they covered an area almost as big as the two states and were familiar with the terrain. Most were in their thirties, tall and stringy, like Mzingeli himself, with a handful in their early twenties. Each one, however, spoke good English, as well as Afrikaans and his own dialect, and all were eager, happy to have their own pony and to be free to ride with the unit and, of course, to receive pay far higher than what they could earn on farms and on the mines.
‘They can all track, too, Nkosi, I have tested them. When do we ride?’
‘In a week’s time. General French is arriving here in a few days’ time and will probably want to inspect us all. So I am taking the command out onto the veldt for one last exercise to sharpen them up before he gets here. I shall want you and your boys to ride with us.’
The black man inclined his head. ‘Very well, Nkosi. We will be ready.’
CHAPTER FOUR
For the exercise, Fonthill set a course to the south-east of Pretoria, well past the urban sprawl of Johannesburg and out onto the high veldt, away from the roads and railway tracks. They left just before dawn and, despite the early hour, Alice came to wish them well, fluttering her handkerchief in response to the salute from each squadron as it rode by.
In the van of the column rode Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli, the latter with a blanket casually thrown over the butt of the rifle protruding from its saddle bucket. Behind, Hammond, Wills and Cartwright led their squadrons within which the subalterns rode ahead of their individual troops. The black guides brought up the rear, except for three of their number whom Simon had sent ranging far ahead to ensure that the veldt was clear. This was not merely for training purposes, for he knew that he was riding into the territory of General Louis Botha, and he had no wish to fall in with a Boer commando before his command was fully trained.
They had been riding for nearly two hours when, at last, the sun peeped out from between two violet banks of storm clouds and immediately revealed the great circle of the horizon and turned orange the coarse grass that covered the plain. This was still early in the rainy se
ason and there was little green to be seen. As they rode south now, several of the isolated kopjes were revealed, however, pointing upwards like stumpy dumplings, the tough taibosch shrub on their flanks giving a blue tinge to the sandstone. The sun had roused a couple of turquoise-headed bustards from their nests and they sailed regally by high above while, at the feet of the horses, a score of kittiwitties, tame tiny birds, sported about in the sand. The sun’s rays bestowed welcome warmth on the riders and Fonthill turned in the saddle to look back at his men.
They were riding in column of four abreast and although there were no cavalry-type pennants to be seen – Fonthill had declined their use – they presented a fine sight, keeping a tight formation and the early sun lighting up their sunburnt faces.
Despite all his apprehensions – was he the man to be leading a hundred and twenty men into a war? He respected the Boers, why was he fighting them? How to reconcile a tight-arsed cavalry officer with a free spirit like Jenkins? – he tingled with the glow of the now fine morning and the pride at leading such a good-looking body of men. Being back in the regular army had its compensations after all. He felt an unaccustomed deep sense of satisfaction, of sublimation to all that surrounded him: the rolling miles of plain, the jagged kopjes, the glimpses of exotic wildlife.
‘Look!’ A cry from Jenkins made him turn. To their right, two springbucks, the lightest and fastest of the deer and antelope that dotted the veldt, were running with long, springy leaps. Sighting the column, they turned and bounded away, showing the pear-shaped patches of white that tapered down from the middle of their backs to their tails, the annulated horns that crowned their heads nodding as though to give them greater speed.
‘Permission to hunt for the pot, sir?’ asked the Welshman.
‘Very well. Keep the column in sight as best you can. Mzingeli, you go with him.’ And then in a low voice, ‘Make sure he doesn’t get lost.’ Jenkins, bravest of soldiers, with the firm seat of a jockey and the accuracy of a marksman, notoriously couldn’t find his way from A to B if the trail stretched before him like a railway track.
