Fire Across the Veldt

by John Wilcox

  ‘When was he arrested?’

  ‘This very morning. There has been no time, of course, formally to bring charges.’

  Fonthill fought to keep his emotions under control. This was the very thing he had dreaded. But he must not overreact. ‘Very well,’ he said, as coolly as he could manage. ‘I will deal with the matter as soon as we have knocked off de Wet’s bloody rearguard. Find me a horse and a rifle, will you? Then let us advance. Mzingeli!’

  ‘Yes, Nkosi?’

  ‘You heard all that. The Boer rearguard is ahead of us, quite near, but dispersed on the edge of a swamp near what appear to be empty wagons. Take two of your trackers and advance carefully on foot. Don’t let the Boers see you. We need to find a way around them on both sides, so that we can attack them there as well as from the front. Find a way. Off you go. Take great care, now.’

  ‘Yes, Nkosi.’ For a brief moment the black man’s imperturbable expression relaxed into a faint smile. ‘I am glad you are back, Nkosi.’

  Fonthill gave him an answering grin. ‘So am I, old chap. So am I. Now off you go.’ He turned to Hammond. ‘Very well, Major. Send a rider back to Knox and tell him we’ve found the commando. Then put out an advance guard of twenty men, spread out and walking quietly on foot to prevent surprise. If the trackers can find a way for us to disperse to right and left – and the underbrush is not too thick near the swamp – order Cartwright to take his squadron to the left, Forbes his to the right and I will stay with you and A Squadron in the middle. We don’t advance or fire until I give the order. Now pass this on and let us defeat this damned rearguard of de Wet’s.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Fonthill looked behind him and met answering grins from the subalterns and men of A Squadron. They all looked in good, fighting order. He nodded to them all, not recognising some of the faces. Then he remembered. The column had been reinforced and extended. As he watched, Cecil Cartwright and Colin Forbes forced their way through the troopers and held out their hands, broad grins on their faces.

  ‘Welcome back, sir.’ Cartwright’s Brummagem accent was like a breath of fresh air after Hammond’s languor. Simon’s heart warmed to him. ‘Couldn’t get a bath, then, where you’ve been?’

  ‘No. The Ritz had run out of hot water. Now, Hammond has orders for you two. Report to him. We’re going to be in action very soon.’

  ‘Jolly good, sir. Good news.’

  A horse, a rifle and a bandolier appeared and Simon busied himself with the saddle adjustment as an excuse while his mind raced. Drunk in the face of the enemy! It was a capital charge that could lead to a firing squad. He shook his head. Oh, 352, what had he done? Then a darker thought struck him. Despite his air of sangfroid, Hammond’s features had carried an underlying but perceptible air of satisfaction when he reported the news. Jenkins’s presence in the column in a position of such importance had always rankled with him. It had offended his very being as a cavalry officer brought up to see seniority rewarded only after years of conventional service. Could he have somehow contrived Jenkins’s fall from grace? Fonthill frowned. The trouble was that the Welshman wouldn’t need much encouragement to aid and abet such a conspiracy. Drink was Jenkins’s abiding temptation. Well … Simon mounted his horse. At least he had arrived in time. As the RSM’s commanding officer, he would have to make the first judgement on the offence. There would be no summary hearing. But first, there was the little matter of de Wet’s rearguard …

  The column moved forward at a walking pace. At least this time, reflected Fonthill, there was no question of attempting to take the rearguard by surprise. It knew they were on their way. No surprise, then, but perhaps if they could outflank the waiting men and enfilade them, there would be the value of shock. For the rearguard was expecting to surprise and even ambush their pursuers. Unless, that was, Simon’s escape had been detected and they would realise that he would have warned the advancing column. Ah well. They would just have to risk it.

  After some twenty minutes, Fonthill held up his hand to halt the column, as Mzingeli, escorted by the sergeant in charge of the advance guard, trotted towards him.

  ‘Wagons just up ahead, Nkosi,’ the tracker reported. ‘Boers there, all right, though not easy to see. But some signs of freshly dug earth. Means they have dug trenches, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, Mzingeli. Are you sure you have not been seen?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘And can we disperse to left and right without crashing through thick undergrowth?’

  ‘Yes. A few paces ahead, there is track that crosses this main path and curves round forward. If men go single file, it should be possible to curve round quietly. But I can smell swamp ahead.’

  ‘Splendid. Well done, Mzingeli. Now,’ Fonthill turned to Hammond. ‘Major’ – he could no longer bring himself to indulge in the familiarity of calling him Philip – ‘call all the officers forward, please.’

  Surrounded by his officers, Fonthill issued his orders, elaborating on those given earlier to Hammond. The enemy was entrenched ahead on the edge of the swamp, he explained. The two flank squadrons were to spread in single file until they extended beyond the positions of the entrenched enemy. Trackers would go with them to indicate when this point was reached. It was unlikely that the Boers were spread widely because they would be expecting the column to advance unsuspectingly, four riders abreast and stretching back down the trail. Each squadron would be given fifteen minutes to deploy. Then, A Squadron would fire and this would give the signal to attack. Two volleys should be followed by a charge with fixed bayonets. The objective would be to eliminate the rearguard, destroy the wagons – which contained explosives – and then continue the pursuit of the main commando.

  As he looked at the eager young faces around him, Fonthill involuntarily contrasted them with the mature, gaunt features of the burghers he had seen earlier in the Boer camp – all battle-hardened fighters, bedded down just ahead and waiting for them. He sighed. ‘Good luck, gentlemen,’ he said.

  They quickly reached the point of deployment and Fonthill ordered the column to dismount and the handlers to take the horses to the rear. Where, he momentarily thought, was Jenkins now? And then he realised that this would be one of those rare moments in his life when he would go into battle without his comrade at his side. He gulped. Well, there always had to be a first time.

  The B and C Squadron troopers loped off to right and left, their rifles at the trail. Then, A Squadron spread out into the undergrowth on either side of the track and slowly, quietly began forcing its way towards the swamp. Soon, the tops of the wagons came into sight and Fonthill waved everyone to a standstill. He stood for several minutes, consulting his watch. As he did so, he shot several glances at Hammond, who was stationed in line, revolver in hand – no lower ranks’ rifle for him! – some ten yards to his left. As far as Simon could see, his second in command looked perfectly composed – or was that a trace of perspiration glistening on his forehead? If it was, it was perfectly understandable, for the proximity of the swamp and the ever-present drizzle made the atmosphere uncomfortably humid. Then, as his watch showed that the quarter hour had passed, Fonthill slipped the bolt on his rifle to move around into the breach and waved for the line to move forward.

  Very quickly now, the brush cleared and revealed the wagons drawn up on the edge of the swamp. They seemed empty but the Boers would not have posted men on them because of the ammunition stored there. Trenches, however, had undoubtedly been dug, for lines of earth disappeared into the bushes fringing the swamp and, now, rifles could be seen poking over the mounds, with the occasional Boer hat behind them.

  Simon licked his lips. They were reaching the edge of the undergrowth and there were about thirty paces of open ground to cross before the enemy lines could be reached. Amazingly, it seemed that they had not been seen yet. He knelt and carefully rested his rifle on a low branch, for his injured arm prevented him from bringing it properly to his shoulder. Then, very slowly, he aligned foresi
ght and backsight at a dim outline he could see at the end of the nearest Boer gun barrel. Oh, if only Jenkins, sure-shot Jenkins, were here to fire the first shot! That would certainly account for one of the enemy, at least. Then he squeezed the trigger and the sound echoed through the heavy air.

  Suddenly, it seemed as though all hell had been let loose. A roar of gunfire rippled to right and left of him along the edge of the bushes, crashing in sequence and causing tiny fountains of soil and stone to spurt up from the earthworks ahead of him. Immediately, however, it was answered by a flicker of flame along the Boer trenches, sending bullets hissing through the undergrowth and causing gasps as they found billets in some of the troops facing them.

  ‘Two volleys,’ roared Fonthill, ‘and then fix bayonets. Reload. Now. Volley one.’ The sound was deafening in the moist air as seventy rifles boomed as one. Exultation seized Fonthill. ‘Reload. Now, volley two.’ Then, ‘Fix bayonets. CHAAARGE!!!’

  Thrusting aside his heavy rifle, Simon drew his revolver and scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Boer lines. He was dimly aware of rifle fire spluttering far to his left and right but more conscious of the cheering of the troopers of A Squadron all around him as they pounded towards the enemy. A mixture of perspiration and rain poured down his forehead, half blinding him, and he suddenly realised that he was mounting the Boer earthworks. He stood there for a second presenting his revolver, half expecting a bullet to crash into him, before he jumped down into the trench. An empty trench!

  ‘What the hell?’ He whirled round. On either side of him the troopers of his lead company were thundering down into the trench, presenting their bayonets – to no one. Somehow, in the few moments between the firing of the second volley and the arrival of the attackers, the Boers had fled. But to where?

  He caught a glimpse of Hammond. ‘Where the hell have they gone to?’ he shouted. The major pointed with his revolver. On the southern side of the swamp, on a patch of higher, firmer ground, the Boers could be seen mounting horses and riding off, their heels digging into their horses’ flanks as troopers from Captain Forbes’s squadron broke cover and ran after them, firing impotently as they did so.

  ‘Damn!’ Fonthill slapped his thigh. ‘They must have been ready all the time to cut and dash as soon as we appeared. They were off as soon as they heard me shout fix bayonets. And we’ve hardly got any of them, blast it!’

  ‘Not quite, sir.’ A moustached sergeant pointed with his bayonet. At least a dozen Boers were slumped against the trench wall, the backs of their heads shattered where the British bullets had exited. ‘That’s not bad shootin’, sir, you know.’

  Simon gave a faint smile. ‘I suppose not, Sergeant.’

  Hammond called across. ‘Do you want to mount a pursuit, Colonel?’

  Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. By the time we get our horses up they will be miles away. I would rather blow up these wagons, so they can’t come back for them, and then we must get after de Wet and his main body. Get some men to lay charges, will you, but take whatever flour they have left in the wagons, if any, for we can probably use it. Organise a burial party for the dead – on both sides – and check on casualties from the squadrons and give me a report. I will see that the horses are brought up.’

  Wearily, Simon replaced his revolver in his holster and took a look around the open ground. No British soldiers lay there, but he knew that there would be some in the undergrowth, for there would have been little cover to protect them from the Boer fire. He recovered his rifle and walked along the edge of the bushes where the squadron had delivered their volleys. The medics were already kneeling by the wounded but, as usual, the Boer fire had been accurate and there were more dead with bullets to the head than wounded. He sighed and turned along the track by which they had entered the swamp clearing.

  At the rear, where the handlers were still holding the reins of the horses, he saw a pathetic sight. Jenkins, his head bowed, was sitting on a log, his wrist handcuffed before him, and a corporal standing by his side with rifle and bayonet fixed. Simon’s heart fell.

  ‘Corporal,’ he yelled. ‘Take those damned handcuffs off the sergeant major this minute!’

  ‘Wot?’

  Fonthill realised that he must have presented a strange sight – bareheaded, his tunic covered in half-scraped mud and with his badges of rank quite obscured.

  ‘It’s all right, Corporal,’ he reassured. ‘It’s Colonel Fonthill. Now unlock those cuffs, there’s a good chap.’

  Jenkins was regarding Simon open-mouthed and Fonthill realised that tears were beginning to course down the Welshman’s face. ‘Oh bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ he said. ‘It’s you! Thank God for that … Oh, I’m sorry, so I am. So sorry, look you. I don’t know what to say. But I’m glad you’re all right.’ He forced a wan smile. ‘You look worse than I do. ’Ow’s the shoulder, then? ’Urt you when you laugh, does it?’

  Fonthill looked at the guard. ‘Thank you, Corporal,’ he said. ‘Give me the keys. Tell the handlers to take the horses to the front. That will be all. The sergeant major will be in my care now.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’ The NCO marched away, his face a picture of puzzlement.

  Fonthill sat on the log beside Jenkins, under the puzzled gaze of the horse handlers, and spoke softly. ‘Now, dear old 352,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better tell me everything that happened. Take your time and don’t miss anything out – not anything, understand?’

  Jenkins nodded, produced a filthy handkerchief from his breeches and blew his nose noisily. Slowly, and then increasingly quickly, he told his story.

  The column had camped two nights ago on the Free State side of the Orange, having ascertained where the commando had crossed but deciding it was unwise to make the crossing in the dim light of dusk. They had forded the river at dawn but then turned right along the riverbank instead of left, because de Wet had carefully laid a false trail that way. Jenkins had heard Hammond berating one of the black trackers. When Mzingeli had gently tried to intervene, Hammond had struck him across the cheek with his riding crop. Jenkins had then ridden up, and without a word to Hammond, led Mzingeli away to avoid him receiving further punishment.

  ‘I ’ad a feelin’ that the major didn’t like that, see, ’cos he glared after me, look you. But I took no notice. But, equally, I gave ’im no cheek, see. I just rode away, with old Jelly in tow, so to speak.’

  Fonthill felt his ire rise but merely said. ‘Go on.’

  Because the trackers had missed the main Boer spoor, the column had wasted more than half a day, so Hammond turned them round and began a forced march in the other direction – the true route taken by the commando. They had still no contact with the Boers, who seemed far ahead, so they camped that night in the rain, with little shelter for anyone. Then, said Jenkins, ‘a most queer thing ’appened.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘In my sleepin’ bag, when I crawled into it the previous night, was a full bottle of whisky. Now, I give you my word, bach sir, I ’ad never seen that bottle before in all me life, look you. In fact, I ’adn’t touched a drop of the stuff at all on the march because I didn’t ’ave any with me.’

  Simon frowned and nodded.

  ‘But, bless you, sleepin’ out in that wet an’ cold, with the damp penetratin’ me poor old legs, I couldn’t resist takin’ a drop. An’ then another one. I didn’t stop to think too much about where the ’ell the bottle ’ad come from. If I thought about it at all, I thought it was a bleedin’ miracle and I wasn’t about to look that gift ’orse in the mouth, now was I? I woke up in the night feelin’ miserable, the way you do when sleepin’ rough, see, and took another drop. Before I knew where I was, I’d finished the bottle.’

  ‘Were you drunk this morning?’

  ‘No, not at all. Not staggerin’ or shoutin’ or anythin’ like that. Just got a bad ’ead an’ bad breath. Not late on parade, or anything. Lordy, it would take more than one bottle to knock me about, you know that.’

  �
�So?’

  ‘So, I’d ’ardly got out of me bedroll at reveille when the major rides up with the sergeant of the guard. “That warrant officer is staggerin’,” he says. “Sergeant, smell ’is breath.” Well, o’course, I smelt of drink, so I was arrested then and there and put on a charge for bein’ drunk in the face of the enemy or somethin’. I can’t understand it, bach sir. Honestly I can’t. But I feel I’ve let you down and I’m right sorry, so I am.’

  Fonthill was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Where did you put your bedroll before turning in?’

  Jenkins thought for a moment. ‘With C Company. Their lines was the nearest, like.’

  ‘Good. Now, I must think about all this. You will come up before me as your CO, of course – Major Hammond presumably believed that I wouldn’t be back in time to hear the case and that he would do so as acting commanding officer. Now, 352, this is one of the most serious charges in the book and, if found guilty, it could mean the firing squad.’

  ‘Oh bloody ’ell!’

  ‘Quite. It’s not going to come to that, if I can help it. But I must tread warily because our past association is known, of course. I must think. You will remain under arrest, of course, but no more bloody handcuffs. Now, stand up, put your helmet on straight and wipe your face. Goodness knows what Alice would say if she saw you like this. Stay here while I fetch the corporal. If you escape I will make sure you are shot.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sound of the charges exploding on the wagons and the resultant boom as the ammunition within went up told Fonthill that the column should be moving. He instructed Jenkins to remain where he was and found the corporal who had been guarding him. ‘The RSM remains temporarily under arrest,’ he told him, ‘so he remains under your care. But no handcuffs. March at the rear of the column.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Walking back, Simon encountered Captain Cartwright and drew him to one side. ‘Cecil,’ he said, ‘the RSM seems to have got himself into a bit of trouble while I have been away.’