by John Wilcox
‘That sounds reasonable, Colonel. Will you ride after them?’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. They still probably outnumber us and I doubt if we’ve got sufficient ammunition to fight a pitched battle. Also, of course, our men are still fairly new to this kind of thing. Although I think they’ve done remarkably well, I wouldn’t want to expose them again just yet. For one thing, we lack medical support and that must be remedied.’
There was a murmur of agreement, then Captain Cartwright spoke. ‘That Boer chappie who asked for the truce and who seems to be their leader.’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, sir, I have a feeling that he’s General Botha, the chap that gave us such a hiding at Colenso and Spion Kop. I saw a photograph of him in the Illustrated London News before I came out and he looks remarkably like him. Quite a distinctive figure, don’t you think, among that bunch of farm labourers, what?’
Fonthill’s interest was immediately roused. ‘Yes, indeed. Well, let me investigate. I may be able to learn something.’
‘Careful, sir.’ For the first time Hammond showed some concern. ‘These Boers can be a tricky lot. Here, take my revolver.’
‘Thank you, Philip.’ Simon tucked the Webley into his belt, then looked at his watch. ‘Eight minutes to go. If they shoot me, then make bloody sure that we fire back, eh? And make sure our wounded are being treated.’ He smiled and strolled out behind the fringe of the circle towards where the Boers were kneeling, tending their wounded.
Immediately, the Boer leader strode towards him.
Fonthill held out his hand. ‘Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Colonel.’
‘I am Louis Botha,’ the Boer said, more formally. ‘How do you do?’
‘Ah, General Botha. I have heard so much about you and I am delighted to meet you, although I could have wished for more sociable circumstances.’
Botha smiled faintly. His English was perfect. ‘And you, I believe, are the Fonthill who was on Majuba Hill all those years ago. I heard that you had arrived in South Africa. So Lord Kitchener has set you to catch us, yah?’
Simon marvelled at the speed at which news spread in the Boer ranks. He made a mental note that, although the commandos in the field acted individually, they obviously had an efficient system of inter-unit communication. He grinned. ‘Well, it seems that I have succeeded, although,’ he looked around, ‘I am not sure who has caught whom, exactly.’
‘Quite so.’ They stood in silence for a moment and Fonthill had the impression that the Boer general was a man of few words. He drew out his watch. ‘Forgive me if I leave you soon, General,’ he said. ‘The truce will be over in a moment, so I should return.’ He looked quizzically at the rather well-rounded figure before him. ‘How long do you think this stupid war will continue?’ he asked.
‘Until, Colonel, you leave our country. We shall continue to fight as long as you deny us our freedom.’ He stood looking at Fonthill with a level gaze.
Simon nodded. ‘But your main army has been defeated,’ he said, ‘and the capitals of both states have been occupied. You are completely outnumbered in the field. Don’t you think that it is an unnecessary waste of life,’ he gestured at the bodies around them, ‘to continue with this guerrilla warfare?’
‘No, sir, I do not. While there are British troops in our country we shall continue to harass you. You don’t seem to understand. Your professional soldiers occupying our states here live to fight. We fight to live.’ He gave a half smile. ‘Colonel, you are outnumbered and surrounded. I suggest it is you who should think now of saving life and surrendering to us. That would be no discredit to you.’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘We have plenty of ammunition, General, and I must tell you that your shooting today has not lived up to its reputation.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘And I should add that, before you appeared from behind that kopje, I had sent off my regimental sergeant major and our chief tracker scout back to Johannesburg to suggest to General French that he should reinforce us, as we had heard that you may be in the vicinity. So I am content to stay here until relief comes.’
This was a ploy. If Botha had captured Jenkins and Mzingeli, they would have taken their horses and their rifles and turned them loose on the veldt, for the commandos rarely took prisoners. If this had happened, then Botha would surely tell him that his messengers had been taken and that relief, therefore, was not to be coming. But the Boer merely smiled and shook his head.
‘We will stay too,’ he said. ‘Now, good day to you, sir. Please rejoin your men.’
They exchanged courtly half bows and, with one look around to assess the Boers’ strength, Fonthill strode back to his circle.
‘What have we been able to do for the wounded, Philip?’ he asked of Hammond.
‘Just applying field dressings, that’s all, I fear. But there are surprisingly few, after all. The Boers shoot to kill, so although we’ve picked up nine dead, including poor Wills, the ratio of wounded to fatalities is surprisingly low.’
‘Very well. I estimate that we have inflicted more casualties on the enemy than they on us, but we are still outnumbered. Their commander is, indeed, Botha, so they are well led. They will probably hang on for a while, trying to further reduce our numbers and/or make us run out of ammunition. So we must be prepared.’
As though to underline his words, a shot rang out from the Boer positions, hissing past Fonthill’s head. He and Hammond immediately fell to the ground and Simon crawled to where Forbes was lying, with B Squadron.
‘Are you all right, Forbes?’ he asked.
‘Right as rain, sir. If we keep our heads down, I reckon we should be all right.’ He paused for a moment, then: ‘Pity we’ve lost the RSM. I hear he was a rare fighter.’
Simon felt his stomach move again. ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve lost him.’ His words sounded hollow to him but he pressed on. ‘Something must have happened, or he would have been with us. Perhaps he lost a horse on this rough terrain.’ He pulled clear his field glasses and tried to focus on the veldt, in the direction from which Jenkins had ridden out. He could see nothing and risked exposing himself for a second to scan the kopje ahead of them. Was it his imagination, or did he catch a glimpse of movement in the taibosch shrub, about a third of the way up the rock? It was difficult to see and certainly not possible to stay focusing more sharply, for the Boers had resumed firing.
The thought of losing Jenkins and Mzingeli now closed in on him, as he lay fumbling in his bandolier for more cartridges. Perhaps Botha had, indeed, come upon the Welshman and the tracker and the two had put up a fight, ending in their deaths. This would be typical of Jenkins. The Boer might well have chosen not to admit this – particularly if Mzingeli had survived and they had executed him for being armed. Simon shook his head, slipped the rounds into his magazine and tried to sight his rifle.
Then a cry from further along the line made him turn his head. A trooper was pointing at the kopje. ‘Firin’ from up there, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure of it. It looks as though the Boers ’ave climbed up to get a better shot at us.’
‘No, sir.’ The trooper’s neighbour shook his head. ‘Whoever’s up there is fightin’ at the bleedin’ Boers. Look.’
Fonthill rolled over onto his back and attempted to focus his binoculars up the rock. Then he saw it. Two gun flashes. Then, two more from positions a little way to the right. He counted ten seconds and then two more shots were fired from different positions. He scanned the Boer lines. He saw the barrels of two rifles elevated upwards from behind an anthill. The Boers were indeed firing back at whoever was attacking them from up the kopje. And yet six men seemed to be firing down. Who could they be?
Hammond’s voice called across to him. ‘Colonel, I think they are leaving. Look.’
Fonthill rose to his knees. In the mid distance he saw horses being brought up and Boers mounting them. As he watched, one of the horsemen fell from his mount as a gun flashed from the kopje up above. He now saw the backs of the enemy as
the Boers scrambled back; they were slipping away as silently now as when they had crept up to encircle the troopers.
‘They are retreating,’ Simon shouted. ‘Fire as you see them. Take out those horsemen at the back. Don’t let them get away unscathed.’
Once again a scattered cheer came from the British lines and it seemed to be echoed faintly from a little way up the rocky flanks of the kopje. Some of the men in the ring were now standing the better to aim and others were waving their hats in triumph.
A moment of doubt flashed through Fonthill’s mind. Were the Boers mounting to gallop to the base of the kopje, to climb it and dislodge the men firing down on them? But no. They were now streaming away to the east, in the direction from which they had first appeared. And they were riding fast, heads down, whipping their ponies. In minutes they had disappeared, not circling away round the base of the kopje but stretching away, across the veldt.
Simon nodded his head. Botha had believed his story about sending for reinforcements and must have thought that the little party up on the kopje were the advance guard for French’s approaching force. But who were the marksmen up on the rock? Too many to be Jenkins and Mzingeli. He must find out. He called for his horse.
Disregarding cries of warning from Hammond and any thought of Boers still remaining to act as a rearguard for the main body, he galloped towards the kopje. At its base, he reined up and looked up.
‘Who are you?’ he called.
A familiar voice answered. ‘We’re fifteen battalions of the old 24th Regiment of Foot and we’re all dyin’ for a beer, look you.’
‘Jenkins! Where the bloody hell have you been? And who else is with you up there?’
‘’Ang on, bach sir. We’ll come down and all will be revealed in a minute, see.’
A feeling of huge relief surged through Fonthill as he sat in the saddle, grinning like a clown and trying to catch a glimpse of the figures above him. Eventually, just as Hammond joined him, he saw first Jenkins and then Mzingeli emerge from the belt of scrub and scramble and slide down the remainder of the rock. They presented a sorry sight, for their clothing was torn and their hats seemingly lost. Perspiration poured down their faces but they each still carried their rifles.
Fonthill dismounted and, with Hammond present, resisted the temptation to embrace them both. Instead, he shook their hands.
‘Where are the others?’ he asked.
‘What others?’
‘There were at least six men firing. I saw the shots.’
A great smile split Jenkins’s face. ‘Ah bless you, ba … er … sir. I remembered one of your old tricks. So old Jelly an’ me fired an’ moved, fired an’ moved, to give the impression that we was more than just two, look you. It affected our shootin’ a bit, ’cos we only downed about four of the bastards, but we ’ad to be quick, see.’
Fonthill exchanged looks with Hammond, whose normally solemn face was now carrying the trace of a smile. ‘Well, you fooled me and the Boers. They must have thought you were a relieving force. So what happened to you out on the veldt?’
‘Ah yes.’ Jenkins’s jowls seemed to sag for a moment. ‘Sorry to be late back reportin’ like, sir. My ’orse broke ’is forelock when ’is foot caught in one them rat ’oles or whatever they are and I ’ad to shoot ’im. We also ’ad to give up our chase of them springbuck animals. Jelly’s pony ’ad to carry the two of us and we was on our way back when we ’eard shootin’ in the distance. We ’id the ’orse round the back there and climbed a bit of a way up the koppey thing to ’ave a look and saw that you were in a bit of a mess. So I made old Jelly ’ere an ’onery member of the 24th Regiment and we decided to attack. So to speak. But, before you say anythin’, sir, I would like to point out that we didn’t get lost.’
‘No,’ said Fonthill dryly. ‘You had Mzingeli with you. Come on, let’s get your horse and rejoin the column. We have wounded to get back to our base.’ He nodded to the tracker. ‘Well done, Mzingeli. We seem to have lost the three scouts I sent out. Any idea where they might be?’
‘No, Nkosi. I hope Boers do not meet them.’
‘So do I. Come along. We must move.’
In recovering Mzingeli’s mount they discovered a small pool surrounded by a few stunted trees, so Fonthill ordered the horses to be watered there. The Boers had ridden off without their dead and, as usual, their wounded, for they knew that the British would look after them. A burial party was mustered to bury the enemy dead, after their bodies had been searched and their identity noted so that their relatives could be informed, but the British were wrapped in capes and slung across horses to be taken back to Johannesburg for interment. The lightly wounded were ordered to ride back but those who could not were carried on makeshift stretchers, made from wood from the trees near the poolside and slung between two horses.
This mournful task completed, the column turned back for the base that had been established for it at the mine outside Johannesburg, but this time Fonthill took care to set scouts riding far to the front, on each flank and the rear. They had been on the move for an hour before the first of their black trackers rode in and, in quick sequence, the second and then the third. The third, who had been riding point, far ahead of the column, on the march out, reported that a Boer commando had been seen riding fast to the east.
‘Humph!’ snorted Hammond. ‘Now he tells us.’
They eventually reached their base just before dusk. The wounded were taken into care and the men were dismissed. Fonthill scribbled a quick note to Alice, in Pretoria, and then settled to write his report, not without some anxiety. He had seemed, after all, to have ridden into a trap and had not set out conventional vedettes to safeguard his column against just such an attack. As a result, nine of his men had been killed, including a squadron commander, and thirteen wounded, some eighteen per cent of his command. In addition, he had lost five horses, taken by the Boers before the handlers could regain the ring when first attacked.
However, he made the best of it. The Boer dead totalled eighteen, with a further seven left wounded. The enemy had, indeed, had slightly the worst of the engagement and had left the field first – an important factor in judging in military terms the success or otherwise of an encounter. He commended Jenkins and Mzingeli for their initiative and his men for their coolness under fire. At least there had been no panic.
He completed his report by candlelight in his tent, late that night, adding a request that a doctor plus two medical orderlies should be added to his column, put it in an envelope and sealed it. But to whom should it be addressed? Lieutenant General John French was his immediate superior officer but he had no idea where he was located. He sighed, scribbled French’s name on the envelope and was about to retire when he heard a familiar cough outside his tent flap.
‘Come in Sergeant Major,’ he called.
‘Saw your light on, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, ducking through the narrow opening, ‘and thought I’d just come and wish you goodnight, see.’
‘Pull up that canvas stool. The bottle is underneath it. I think we’ve both earned a dram. Here are two glasses.’
‘Ah well, if you insist.’ Jenkins uncorked the bottle and poured two generous measures. ‘What’s next then, for us?’
‘We await the pleasure of General French. But I have no orders and don’t know where he is.’
‘Ah well, bach sir. I can tell you that. I ’ear that ’e is due to arrive on the train tomorrow midday. I expect ’e will want to thank you personally for putting the wind up that Botha bloke.’
Fonthill sighed. ‘I doubt it. But I suppose I shall have to report myself to him. You know, 352, I’m not sure I like being back in the bloody army, after all.’
They sat in silence for perhaps a minute and then Jenkins drained his glass and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Ah well. If you remember, like, I did express a mild doubt about it myself.’
‘So you did. So you did. But time to turn in now. I am probably going to be carpeted by a Brit
ish general tomorrow for the first time for … what? Oh, nearly twenty years. It will seem like old times. Goodnight, old chap.’
‘Goodnight, bach sir.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Alice had decided that she would prefer not to join the rest of the foreign correspondents under canvas in the cantonment that had been reserved for them in Pretoria, near the chief of staff’s headquarters, and she had retained the hotel room she shared with Simon in the heart of the little town. She was not daunted by discomfort and it was, of course, more expensive, but she wanted to preserve her independence and have somewhere for Simon to stay when he was not riding out with his column. Luckily, money was no concern because the Morning Post had agreed very acceptable terms with her and, anyway, she and Simon had been left well endowed following the deaths of their respective parents some two years before.
She had cabled her first story, describing the brush with General de Wet and painting a word picture of the Boer commando: their bucolic rusticity clashing with the militancy of their rifles and bandoliers; the paucity of their provisions lashed to their saddles; the incongruity of de Wet’s Prince Albert’s watch chain linked across his tunic and the civilian briefcase tied to his saddle pommel. She had led her story, of course, with his hint that the Boers would be looking to infiltrate the porous border with the Cape Colony. To her surprise, the official censor – a rather pompous little major – had let it through without demur. She made a mental note that he would probably be in hot water for that but she tossed her head at the thought. That was his problem. She had received a congratulatory cable back from her editor, welcoming her and demanding more.
More to the point, Alice now sat sucking her pencil to report on her meeting with Lord Kitchener. Predictably, he had played his cards close to his chest but his decision to ‘clear the veldt’ of the farms supporting the commandos had become common knowledge and she questioned him closely on this.
