by John Wilcox
Cartwright looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, Colonel. I know.’
‘He will come up before me, of course, but before he does so I would be most grateful if you could make some very discreet enquiries for me.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I understand that the RSM bedded down with or near the chaps of your squadron last night. Please get one of your NCOs – someone you can trust – to find out if any of your men saw Sarn’t Major Jenkins with a bottle of whisky before he turned in. Secondly, ask if anyone saw anybody else with a bottle near Jenkins’s bedroll last night. This could be important, Cecil, so I would be glad of your help – and your discretion.’
‘You can rely on me, sir.’
Fonthill regained the head of the column and ordered the trackers out ahead to pick up the commando’s trail, instructing Mzingeli to take great care to ensure that no false tracks should be followed. De Wet’s cannon would surely slow him down and there was a chance that they could catch up with him before his rearguard could re-form and protect his back.
Rough graves had been dug in the marshy ground and the casualty list was handed to him. It made grisly reading. Twelve men had been killed and eight wounded, one of them seriously. The enemy dead numbered thirteen and no wounded had been captured. Presumably they had been taken off with the retreating rearguard
Fonthill lifted his good arm and gestured ahead. Slowly, the column began picking its way through the slime and mud.
The pursuit continued for the rest of that day without any contact being made with the commando. It remained, it seemed, out of sight, out of range and frustratingly just out of grasp – somewhere ahead, moving fast. And Fonthill marvelled at the speed maintained by the Boers. True, they had no wagons now to restrain them, but they were still trundling the Krupps cannon and many of their men, he remembered, were without horses. They also had to keep their British prisoners moving with them, for to leave them behind would be to betray too much to the pursuers.
On the second day, they found real evidence of the plight of the commando. Their two cannon – the Krupps and a Maxim-Nordenfeldt – lay discarded by the side of the trail, hostages thrown to the pursuers, like supplies desperately tossed into the snow from a Russian sledge to distract the wolves close behind it. Fonthill gave orders that the guns should be ignored. General Knox could pick them up and carry them off as trophies – if he was following, that is. Simon scented that de Wet was now only just ahead, almost within reach.
The trail turned south, away from the river, and the going became harder, winding its way upward between a series of high ridges. Fonthill pushed his men hard. His practice now, when possible, was ‘ride through the night, attack at dawn’, his best hope of catching up with the Boer rearguard. This, however, had proved impossible. It became a cat and mouse game, with the Boer rearguard lying in wait and then opening fire, but then slipping away, leaving nothing but a few dug-out weapon pits and cartridge shells as Fonthill’s men deployed to surround them.
So pursued and pursuers played their exhausting game through the broken ground and rivers of the northern Cape. Simon realised that de Wet could have no idea of the size of the column hard on his heels, otherwise he could have turned and crushed the chasing pack. As it was, the Boer slipped and slid in the corrugated terrain, turning and twisting like a trout caught on a fly. Sometimes, Knox’s large and more slow-moving force caught up with Fonthill’s men, only to fall behind again as the quarry took another evading turn. So the chase continued. At least the wily Boer was prevented from penetrating deeper into the Colony, for Fonthill heard that two other British columns were deploying along the passes to block the passage south.
It was exhausting work with so much night riding, and Simon had no time to convene a CO’s hearing to try Jenkins, and the Welshman, now mounted again, was forced to plod along in the rear. Fonthill missed having his old comrade at his side, as much for his cheerfulness and constant support as for any advice he might have to offer. Views on tactics and strategy were never Jenkins’s strong point. As it was, Hammond seemed to retreat into himself, a sullen and silent presence.
After ten days of gruelling riding, Fonthill felt he had his man, for the trail showed that de Wet was turning back north again, back to the borders with the Free State. Was he giving up his ‘invasion’? That didn’t matter either way, for Simon’s scouts told him that the Orange was high and uncrossable. Surely, with his back to the river, the Boer would now have to turn and fight?
Fonthill turned in the saddle and shouted to the bedraggled band behind him: ‘One more effort, men! I think we have them now.’
They passed Zanddrift, where two weeks before the raiders had crossed into the Crown Colony and it was clear that the Boers had stopped here and attempted to retrace their steps, but the river was running high and the spoor continued along the Colony bank, heading towards where Simon knew a large English force from the south were waiting for them.
And then, at an old, forgotten wagon drift, where the river suddenly appeared to be fordable, the tracks turned into the river and disappeared, only to reappear on the far bank. There, it could be seen clearly that they widened and dispersed, showing that the commando had regained the comparative safety of its homeland and been swallowed up again in the vastness of the Free State veldt.
Simon leant forward and bent his head over his saddle pommel. His wounded shoulder, now only roughly resting in a makeshift sling, throbbed as though the arm would break off and his whole body ached, protesting at the non-stop riding and the miseries of snatching only brief moments of sleep on the rain-sodden ground. He sighed and shook his head. Then, on impulse, he shouted across the muddy river, lifting his voice so that he felt it could be heard across the whole of the Orange Free State: ‘You’ve got away again, de Wet. But this isn’t the end. We’ll catch you. I promise. We’ll catch you!’
He straightened his back and looked around him in some embarrassment. Hammond glared stonily across the bouncing water but the men of A Squadron nearest to him caught his eye. A trooper in the lead raised his hat wearily and repeated the cry, ‘We’ll catch you! We’ll catch you!’ Immediately, the men behind broke into a ragged cheer, waving their hats and the cheer ran down the column.
Fonthill grinned back and suddenly felt better. He waved his hat in acknowledgement and stiffly dismounted. ‘We will camp here tonight, Major,’ he announced. ‘Break out the tents.’ He nodded to where a little clump of taibosch rough scrub mingled with patches of mimosa and crept down to the river. ‘There should be kindling wood there. Once the horses are fed, let the men light fires and get a good night’s sleep. Post only the lightest guard. We will be safe from attack here.’
Then he handed his horse to a trooper and walked back down the column, nodding to each man and murmuring, ‘Well done, well ridden. At least we’ve stopped the bastards from invading the Cape. Well done. Couldn’t have asked more of you all. Well done.’
At the rear, he found a weary Jenkins. He nodded to his guardian. ‘Take a break, Corporal. Thank you. Come back in ten minutes.’
Then he and his old comrade squatted companionably on the ground while Simon explained that they had now, at last, been forced to give up the pursuit. Jenkins nodded. ‘’Ow long will they go on fightin’, though, d’yer think?’
‘God knows. De Wet, of course, isn’t the only commando on the loose. There are several small ones still down here in the Cape, although from what I hear, they have not been able to rouse a rebellion. But in the Transvaal there are two sizeable forces under our old friend Botha and a general called de la Rey, and probably others too. It could go on for months yet.’
‘And ’ave you ’eard from the missus?’
Simon frowned. ‘Only one letter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I couldn’t really have expected more. We’ve been on the move so much.’
A silence fell between them for a while. Then Jenkins spoke, deferentially bringing up what was on both of their minds. ‘When … er … d’ye
r think you will … er …?’
‘Hear the charges against you? Ah, any day soon. As soon as I can find a key piece of information. Maybe even tomorrow.’ He turned towards the Welshman. ‘When you come up before me,’ he said, ‘I want you to answer all my questions with clarity and tell your story just as you told it to me a few days ago. Deny explicitly that you were drunk and unfit to carry out your duties. And smarten up. Look like a sergeant major and all will be well.’
There was a discreet cough to announce the return of the corporal. Simon nodded to Jenkins and strode away, walking along the line where the men were unsaddling, slowly erecting their bivouac tents and cutting wood for fires. Eventually, he found the man he was looking for. Captain Cartwright was deep in conversation with one of his sergeants.
Fonthill pulled him to one side. During the hunt for de Wet, Simon had not sought out Cartwright, not only because there had been little time for such an indulgence but also because he did not wish to put too much pressure on him. Now, however, was the time.
‘Any news for me, Cecil, on the Jenkins matter?’
‘Yes, sir. In fact, I was just going over the details with Sergeant Brewster there. I wanted to make sure I had the facts right.’
‘Good. Let me know what you can.’
The two men stayed in quiet concourse for ten minutes, with Fonthill scribbling occasionally in his pocketbook. Then he nodded and walked away. He found Hammond painfully removing his riding boots.
‘Ah, Major. Now that we have time, we will deal with the Jenkins matter in the morning, before we cross. Shall we say seven a.m.?’
Hammond allowed a flash of surprise to cross his features. ‘Ah, very good, Colonel. Usual charge hearing?’
‘No. Not quite. In view of Jenkins’s seniority and of the seriousness of the charge against him, I will not hear the case alone. I would like the two other squadron commanders, Forbes and Cartwright, to sit with me.’
‘And, presumably, with me?’
‘No. As you are a principal witness that would be quite out of order. I shall need you to give evidence, with, of course, the sergeant of the guard with whom you arrested Jenkins.’
Hammond frowned. ‘Sounds a bit … ah … irregular, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’
‘No, it is not. I have checked with army regulations.’ In fact he had not, but he hurried on. ‘I would be grateful if you would inform Forbes and Cartwright and the sergeant concerned accordingly. Seven a.m., then, outside my tent. I shall pitch it on the edge of the camp so that we shall have a degree of privacy, at least. Now get a good night’s sleep, Hammond.’
‘Ah, yes, indeed. Goodnight.’
Promptly at 6.45 a.m. the next morning, as the camp was awake, and bustling, Fonthill adjusted his hat and ducked outside his one-man tent and checked that his orderly had arranged three foldable chairs and an equally collapsible table behind the tent. He then sat and waited. It was not long before he was joined by Cartwright and Forbes, who sat on either side of him. Simon addressed them briefly on the form to be taken and nodded good morning to Hammond, who appeared with a slightly uncomfortable sergeant from his own squadron.
‘Would you mind, Major, waiting with your sergeant until you are called, separately?’ Fonthill spoke authoritatively. He was not at all sure that he was handling this hearing in accordance with army law but he was determined that he should remain in firm control at all times. ‘Perhaps you would wait over there, beyond that tent, until you are called to give evidence. I am sorry, but there are no further chairs. I hope, however, that this won’t last too long.’
Hammond glared but touched the peak of his hat in salute and stalked away. Then the thud of boots on the sodden ground announced the arrival of Jenkins, dressed smartly, Fonthill noticed with relief, and marched between two sergeants, their pepper-and-salt moustaches showing their seniority in age at least.
‘Sergeant Major, sir,’ bawled one of the sergeants, ‘quick march, leff right, leff right, leff right.’ Then when the trio had reached the table. ‘’alt! Cap orf.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Fonthill, as urbanely as he could manage. ‘At ease, the three of you, please. Now, Sergeant, would you please read out the charge against the sergeant major.’
The sergeant produced a piece of paper and read that at six a.m. on the morning of 24th of February 1901, Sergeant Major Jenkins had been found drunk and incapable while on active duty and facing the enemy.
‘How do you plead to this charge, Sergeant Major?’ enquired Fonthill.
‘Not guilty, sir.’
‘Very well. Let us hear the evidence. I believe that Major Hammond and Sergeant Wilkins are the main witnesses. Please call Major Hammond first.’
As though on the parade ground, Hammond marched into the small space in front of the table and stood at attention. ‘At ease, Major,’ said Fonthill. ‘We don’t appear to have a written deposition of your evidence, so perhaps you would give it orally?’
‘Very well, sir. On the morning in question I had cause to visit the lines where C Squadron were bivouacked and—’
‘Cause? What cause, Major?’
Hammond frowned and blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, I, that is, we were making the rounds just after reveille.’
‘I see. And …?’
‘I saw Sergeant Major Jenkins … er … staggering beside his bedroll.’
‘Staggering?’
‘Staggering, indeed.’
Fonthill put his pencil to his chin. ‘Perhaps he could have lost his balance on just emerging from his bedroll. It often happens, I would think. Wouldn’t you?’
‘What? No. Oh no. The man was drunk.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I ordered the sergeant of the guard, who was with me, to arrest the sergeant major for being drunk.’
‘Yes, but how do you know he was drunk?’
‘I could smell whisky on his breath.’
‘But from what you have said, you ordered his arrest before you had smelt his breath. I repeat: how did you know he was drunk?’
‘Ah, no, sir. My mistake. I recall now that I ordered the sergeant to smell his breath and when he confirmed the smell I ordered the arrest. We found an empty bottle of whisky in his bedroll.’
Simon made a note. ‘Did the sergeant major resist arrest?’
‘No, sir. He seemed … ah … unsteady and unsure about anything, in fact. He was, of course, quite drunk.’
‘I see. Where were you when this occurred?’
‘What? Oh, in camp.’
‘Yes, I know that. But where?’
‘Well, not far from here, actually. We had crossed the river at Zanddrift but followed the wrong tracks of the Boers and wasted much of the day before we turned back. We camped overnight at an unnamed place on the riverbank.’
‘And the enemy was where?’
‘Ahead of us, somewhere.’
‘How far ahead?’
Hammond looked annoyed at the obvious irrelevance of these questions. ‘Well, probably ten or fifteen miles or so. It took us quite some time to come up with their rearguard at the swamp.’
Fonthill made another ostentatious note and then looked up again at his second in command. ‘So, when you arrested Sergeant Major Jenkins it was not exactly “in the face of the enemy”, as you stated in the charge? The enemy was some fifteen miles away.’
‘What? Oh, well, I suppose so. But we were very definitely on active service.’
‘Quite so. But there is a difference, Major. The accused could go to a firing squad on that difference. All of us in South Africa are on active service, but not all are serving “in the face of the enemy”. However, let us leave that for the moment. Now, is there any evidence that Sergeant Major Jenkins has been under the influence of drink at any other time during his service here?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Very well.’ Fonthill turned to his captains. ‘Do you have any questions for the major, gentlemen?’
; The two shook their heads negatively.
‘Anything further to add on this charge, Major?’
‘Er … No, sir. I think the evidence is clear-cut.’
‘Very well, thank you, Major Hammond. We won’t detain you from your duties further.’
His face set in a permanent scowl, Hammond saluted, turned smartly on his heel and strode away. Fonthill gestured to the senior sergeant. ‘Call Sergeant Wilkins.’
Fonthill smiled at the new witness. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. At ease, please. Now,’ he looked at his notes, ‘I understand that, on the morning when you arrested Sergeant Major Jenkins, you were making your rounds as sergeant of the guard with Major Hammond?’
The sergeant looked puzzled. ‘Yes, sir. Well, not exactly, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had ordered reveille and I had made my rounds when the major rode up and asked me to come with him.’
‘And where did you go?’
‘Directly to where the sergeant major had just got out of his bedroll, sir.’
Fonthill shot a quick glance at his companions at the table. ‘So the two of you were not making the rounds?’
‘Well, no sir. I’d just done mine, anyway.’
‘And when you arrived at where Mr Jenkins had been sleeping, what did you find?’
‘Well, sir, the sergeant major was just getting up from his bedroll and he was a bit unsure on his feet, like.’
‘Did he seem unfit?’
‘Unfit? Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly, but he was a bit wobbly.’
‘How wobbly? Did he look as though he was about to fall over?’
The sergeant looked uneasy at the precision of the questioning. ‘Well, sir, I wouldn’t say that exactly. He was a bit unsteady, like.’
‘And the major ordered you to smell his breath. How bad was it?’
The sergeant ventured a smile. ‘I’ve known worse, sir. But I would say that he had definitely been drinking.’
‘And the major ordered you to look in his bedroll and you found an empty bottle of whisky inside it. Is that correct?’
