Fire Across the Veldt

by John Wilcox

  He summoned his officers and Jenkins to gather around him as they rode and he explained his plan. There was a flash of teeth in the semi-darkness from the younger men. Predictably, Hammond frowned.

  ‘How will we know which one is de Wet?’ he asked. ‘These damned burghers all dress the same. How are we going to pick him out in the middle of the night?’

  Fonthill nodded. ‘It is not going to be easy. But Jenkins and I have met him and we know what he looks like. We all ride for the centre of the camp but the two of us will lead. Once we have identified de Wet we will capture him – knocking him on the head, if necessary, and slinging him over a horse. The rest of the column must protect us and then we all ride off, like blazes. Back the way we came. Understood?’

  There was a mumble of agreement, although Hammond remained silent. The column rode on, the horses’ hooves now sliding through mud.

  Suddenly, without warning, there was a guttural cry from directly ahead and the night was temporarily lit by a score of gun flashes. Fonthill’s horse reared as a bullet crashed into its breast, throwing him to the ground and, as he lay, winded, he was aware of men falling around him. He tried to struggle to his feet but his boots slipped on the wet earth and he felt Jenkins’s arm thrusting him back onto the ground. As he lay, he realised that the attempt to capture de Wet had failed before it had been launched, for he and the Welshman were the only two who could recognise him.

  Then he heard Jenkins shout: ‘Dismount. Handlers, take the horses to the rear. The rest take cover. Squadrons select your targets and fire to the front. Fire at will!’

  Hell! Why wasn’t Hammond taking command?

  Fonthill scrambled onto his hands and knees and felt a sharp thump on his shoulder which knocked him flat again and suffused him with pain. Bullets were hissing into the ground all around him and somehow he crawled to take cover behind the shape of his horse which lay inertly to his right. He lay there panting and looked around him to take his bearings. He could see very little, but enough to know that the men of the column were lying flat in the rain and robustly answering the fire that came from a slight ridge ahead of them. Except that, now, that fire had slackened and, as he watched, it flickered away and ceased altogether.

  ‘Fix bayonets.’ Jenkins’s voice came from immediately to his right. ‘Charge!’

  Shadowy figures rose all around him and lumbered forward out of his vision. Simon dropped his cheek onto the mud and thought that he felt the thud of horsemen riding. Then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drop into oblivion.

  He came to what seemed like only seconds later and realised that Jenkins’s arm was around him, gradually coaxing him to sit upright. The wounded shoulder jarred and he cursed with the pain.

  ‘Ah, good. At least you’re alive, bach.’ The Welshman’s voice expressed huge relief. ‘Thought you’d gone for a minute, see. Nasty one on the top of the arm. Now, tuck your ’and inside your tunic, like that. Lovely. Now, we’ve got to try an’ get you on this ’orse and get out of ’ere. Because when old Wetpants sees ’ow few we are, ’e’ll come back after us, as sure as God made little apples, particularly now that the bloody rain’s stopped. Now. Foot up. That’s right.’

  Fonthill gasped. ‘Where’s Major Hammond?’

  ‘Don’t know. Not dead or wounded, as far as I can see. Captain Cartwright ’as taken charge. Now, make an effort. Up’s a daisy. Loverly. Now ’ang on, ’cos I’m comin’ up be’ind you, see.’

  Somehow, through a mist of pain, Fonthill remained seated in the saddle until he felt Jenkins mount behind him, reach forward to grab the reins and then hold him steady with his other arm. In this fashion, the Welshman turned the horse and led them away, following other dim, mounted figures ahead of them.

  One of them turned and came back. ‘You’ve got the CO, Sarn’t Major? Good. Well done.’

  Simon recognised the nasal, Midlands twang of Captain Cartwright. ‘Cecil,’ he asked. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Afraid we rode straight into their rearguard, which was well positioned. A Squadron out in the front caught it well and truly. My squadron and Forbes’s were further back and, thanks to Sergeant Major Jenkins’s initiative in taking charge at the front, we were able to deploy and return their fire. Then, when we charged, they’d gone – and from what we could see, so had the whole commando. Buggered off in a flash as soon as the firing started. But we had lost too many men to follow. I thought it best to fall back onto General Knox’s main column in case the Boers turned round and came after us. If they do, we’re in no state to put up much of a show.’

  Fonthill nodded his head. ‘Quite right. Where is Hammond?’

  ‘Don’t know. As far as I know, he’s missing. The only one, as far as I can see, for he’s not among the dead or wounded.’

  ‘How many men have we lost and what about the wounded?’

  ‘A Squadron pretty well decimated, I fear, sir. They’ve taken all the casualties. Twenty-two killed and five wounded, not counting Major Hammond. Luckily, the wounded are all able to ride, although we’ve lost horses, of course. Afraid we couldn’t stop to bury the dead. Just taken their name tags.’

  Simon felt his head swim. Half of his lead squadron wiped out – including, by the look of it, their commander! He swayed in the saddle and felt Jenkins tighten his grip. He tried to concentrate. ‘We should be able to come back and bury the dead when we meet up with the main column. Have you posted a rearguard?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Although how anybody can find anybody in this bloody weather, I just don’t know. It’s come back raining harder than ever. Could be Birmingham.’

  ‘Or bleedin’ Rhyl, see.’ Fonthill felt Jenkins’s hot breath on his neck and forced a grin. ‘I think, Cecil, that as soon as we can find a kopje or clump of rocks, we should halt and form a defensive ring. If de Wet does decide to counter-attack, rearguard or no rearguard, we will be pretty vulnerable strung out like this.’ A sudden stab of fear struck him. ‘Did Mzingeli survive? Is he still with us?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I’ve posted him with the rearguard at the back.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Fetch him back and send him ahead to find a decent place for us to stop and regroup.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Fonthill and Jenkins rode in silence for a while. Eventually, the Welshman spoke in a growl from just behind Simon’s left shoulder. ‘Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, bach sir?’

  ‘How would I know, until you tell me what you’re thinking?’

  ‘Where was bloody ’igh an’ mighty Major ’Ammond, when the shit was flyin’?’

  ‘Don’t be disrespectful. Anything could have happened to him in this dark and rain.’ But the same thought had been going round in his head. Hammond had been right behind him in the van as they approached the Boer lines. Could he have been hit in that first fusillade? If so, why wasn’t his body found when the wounded and dead were assessed? He hoped to God that, somehow, he had not been overlooked and was not lying back there, wounded and in pain.

  Within half an hour, Mzingeli had ridden back to suggest they deviate to the right where rocks had been strewn across the veldt, fringing a declivity which would offer protection for horses and men if they were attacked. It was an ideal defensive position and Simon dismounted with a sigh of relief. Immediately he was tended by the column’s doctor, who had left his practice in Manchester to volunteer to serve in South Africa. He bent his greying head and examined Fonthill with care in the growing light.

  ‘You’ve been lucky, Colonel,’ he said. ‘The bullet has gone clean through the top of the arm without hitting the bone, although it’s made a bit of a mess of your sinews there, hence the pain. As far as I can see, there is no need to operate. Just rest the arm in a sling and keep the wound clean. It should repair itself.’

  ‘Good. What about the other wounded?’

  ‘The only serious one has a shattered leg. I have bandaged the others and, in my opinion, they can stay and serve. With the Boers’
shooting, it seemed it was either kill or slightly damage, with killing being the favourite. Luckily the light wasn’t better.’

  Shortly before dawn, the defensive ring heard a distant halloo and two horsemen approached. The first was one of the pickets posted far out to warn of surprise. The other was Major Philip Hammond.

  The latter rode straight to where Fonthill was sitting, his arm strapped in a sling. He saluted and dismounted, with his usual air of sangfroid. His uniform showed no sign of wound or dishevelment, although his mount was mud-strewn.

  ‘Terribly sorry about this, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Damned horse bolted as soon as the firing started and just couldn’t control the beast. God knows where he took me but, in the wet and darkness, I had no idea where I was and I was soon out of distance of the firing and had nothing to direct me. I hear we’ve had a bit of a pasting, what?’

  Fonthill examined him wryly. ‘Very much so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that half of your squadron have been killed and five others wounded. De Wet got clean away again and, as you can see, we are waiting here until the general comes up. We’ve not exactly covered ourselves with glory, I fear.’

  ‘Aw. Damned bad luck, sir. Bad luck.’

  ‘Quite so. Now, Philip, go and find yourself something to eat. Once it’s properly daylight we will move to meet Knox.’

  Hammond flicked his helmet with a forefinger and strode away, leaving Fonthill to muse how a trained cavalry officer, who would surely have ridden all kinds of horses from boyhood, could find no way of controlling his mount once the firing had started.

  Within the hour, Simon had ordered the command to saddle up and they were wending their way wearily across the veldt when they came up to Knox’s advance guard. Fonthill could not resist looking at his watch. How far had the general advanced and at what pace? He shook his head wearily. Since reporting to Knox this second time, he had tended to give the man the benefit of the doubt about the speed of his movements. He had clung doggedly to de Wet’s tail in the preceding months as the Boer had twisted and turned across the Free State, even catching up with him once or twice, despite his need to move heavy guns and supply wagons on the trail of the lightly equipped enemy. But, once again, he had failed to come up quickly enough to present de Wet with overpowering numbers in open conflict. Would the regular army never learn, he wondered?

  ‘You shouldn’t have attempted to attack, Fonthill,’ said Knox when the two met. ‘Your job was to stay on the blighter’s tail and send for me.’

  ‘I was afraid he would move on before I could make contact, sir. And, to be honest, I didn’t attack. In terrible weather conditions – wind, utter darkness and strong, driving rain – we blundered into his rearguard.’

  The general nodded and twisted one end of his waxed moustache. ‘Quite understand. We’ve done quite a bit of that these last few months. Sorry you’ve been wounded. Been seen to?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I hear you’ve lost quite a few of your chaps.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. Twenty-two dead and five wounded. We need to go back and bring back the bodies or bury them.’

  ‘We’ll move on and see what we can do. No hope of catching bloody de Wet, I presume?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. He moved very quickly, as usual, and with our casualties and in the darkness, I’m afraid I have no idea which direction he took. But, in this weather, he will have left spoor. Let me send my black chaps out and see if we can track him.’

  Knox sighed. ‘Very well. But I don’t hold out much hope. Bloody man could be across the Orange by now. Never mind, send out your hounds, there’s a good chap. And take a bit of rest. You look all in.’

  In fact, Fonthill was immediately recalled to Johannesburg for medical treatment and for a meeting with French, who himself had been busy in the Transvaal, chasing the tails of Botha and a formidable new guerrilla leader who had emerged there, de la Rey. Major Hammond was left in command of the column and, before he boarded the train north, Simon had a heart-to-heart talk with Jenkins as they stood together on the station platform.

  ‘Now, for goodness’ sake,’ he warned, ‘don’t give Hammond cause to criticise you. So, no drinking, and behave as the splendid senior warrant officer you are. Treat him with deference and respect …’

  ‘Even if ’e is a stuffed shirt who gallops off when the firin’ starts.’

  Fonthill grimaced. ‘Now, 352, that is most unfair. He may well be a stuffed shirt but he has reached a good rank in the service and French obviously rates him. We have no evidence at all that he is a shirker, so serve him well and look after the men. I hope to be away for only a couple of days or so and will catch you up wherever the column moves. Good luck, old chap.’

  The two shook hands, but Jenkins looked decidedly glum as he waved his old comrade away.

  Alice met Simon at the station in Johannesburg when he alighted. She was accompanied by a handsome young man with a slim moustache and a flashing grin.

  ‘Darling,’ said Alice, introducing them, ‘this is James Fulton of the Daily Mail. We have ourselves now returned from being with French in the Transvaal and I have only just been handed your telegram at the station as we got back here.’ She looked a little flustered and seemed only to take in Simon’s wounded arm in its sling as an afterthought. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said. ‘Your telegram said it was only a scratch, but you are all strapped up. How bad was it?’

  Fonthill reached out with his good arm and pulled her to him. ‘As I said,’ he murmured into her ear, ‘it’s only a scratch.’ He kissed her and then released her and held out his hand to Fulton. ‘How do you do,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve been looking after Alice?’

  ‘Certainly not, sir. She’s far too independent to let anyone look after her. I have just been trying to learn from her.’ He flashed his teeth in that confident grin. ‘Here, let me take your bag.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Simon turned back to his wife. ‘I hadn’t realised that you had been away. I haven’t had a letter for well over two weeks.’ He realised that this sounded like a rebuke and hastened to correct it. ‘But, of course, we have been out on the veldt and we probably missed our post.’

  Alice flushed again. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t written for two weeks, my dear. We … I … have been riding pretty hard, too, with French, you know. There has been quite a contingent of press people with him. But he never pinned down any of the Boer commandos, so we haven’t had much to write about.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, I’m glad that you were able to wait at the station for me. Not too long, I hope?’

  ‘No. Just half an hour or so.’

  Simon realised that their conversation was ridiculously stilted. They were addressing each other with a studious politeness which was normally completely alien to them. This wooden formality, of course, was caused by the presence of Fulton. One couldn’t exhibit one’s normal loving exuberance while a complete stranger looked on. And yet … he felt uncomfortable.

  Fulton intervened. ‘I hear that you had a lively brush with de Wet, Colonel,’ he said. ‘I would be most grateful to hear about it when you have a moment.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But first I would like to have a cup of tea with my wife. It’s been a long journey. I presume we still have our room at the hotel, Alice?’

  ‘Yes, I have retained it, of course. Let us get a Hackney here at the station. Will you join us, James?’

  For a moment, Fonthill thought that Fulton was going to accept. That would have been intolerable. But there was something in Simon’s tone that even the brashest of men could not have ignored.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ he said, ‘but no thank you, Alice. I must get back to the compound and think what on earth I am going to cable about our gallivanting so uselessly over the veldt.’ He seized Alice’s hand and bowed low over it. ‘Thank you for your company, Alice. I have enjoyed it immensely.’ He turned to Simon and gave a half bow. ‘Delighted to have met you, sir. I bid you both good day.’

 
He turned and walked away.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Alice. ‘You were a little peremptory with him, Simon. I hope he has not been offended.’

  Fonthill looked at her quizzically. ‘Surely not. Any chap with sensibility would know that, after a long absence, a man would want to be alone with his wife for a while.’

  Alice coloured again – most unusually, for she was not coquettish, and certainly not with her husband. ‘Yes, well … It’s just that he’s been very helpful to me out on the veldt when hunting with the pack.’ She smiled at him, a great improvement he thought. ‘Perhaps I’m getting a bit too old for this lark. Come on. Let’s get back to the hotel and that cup of tea.’

  There, she questioned him about the latest brush with de Wet. ‘I am determined to get this fellow, you know, darling,’ Simon confided. ‘It’s probably becoming a bit personal now, you know. Nearly had him twice, dammit, and he’s always slipped away. Third time lucky, perhaps.’

  Alice shook her head. ‘It mustn’t get personal, darling. It might affect your judgement. Remember Ahab and the great white whale.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Captain Ahab in that wonderful book from America, Moby Dick. He becomes obsessed with hunting down a great whale and it leads to his death. Don’t let it happen to you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the book but I can’t quite equate de Wet with a white whale, somehow. Anyway, what’s your next great story?’

  Alice put down her teacup. ‘There’s a woman out here, a Miss Emily Hobhouse. By all accounts she’s a rather dumpy, middle-aged spinster who has appeared from nowhere, but she is tackling Kitchener hard on the subject of the concentration camps that he is setting up to house the Boer refugees from his despicable farm-burning policy. This is close to my heart, so I want to meet her and find out what she is up to. If she stands up to scrutiny, then I want to help her. Give her as much publicity as I can.’