by John Wilcox
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. Now, while out on the veldt the rule is that only officers are allowed to carry alcoholic drink with them and that warrant officers, NCOs and other ranks will only drink such stuff when a general issue of rum is made. Is that not so?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any idea, then, where the sergeant major obtained his whisky bottle?’
‘No, sir. I suppose he brought it with him in his kit.’
Fonthill nodded and turned to the captains. ‘Any further questions, gentlemen?’
Again the negative shakes of the head.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Return to your duties.’
Jenkins had been following the proceedings with an air of intense interest, occasionally opening his mouth to intervene but thinking better of it. Now his eyes widened with surprise as he heard Simon say, ‘I understand, Captain Cartwright, that you have a witness whom you think could shed a little light on this case?’
Cartwright nodded. ‘Yes, sir. As you know, Sergeant Major Jenkins bedded down with my C Squadron that night. I would like to call one of my troopers to give evidence.’ He looked up. ‘Sergeant, will you find Trooper Blackshaw at my squadron? He will be standing by, waiting for the call.’
Fonthill turned once again to his captains. ‘Gentlemen, I don’t wish to waste time, because we have a river crossing to make. So while we are waiting for this soldier, may I suggest that we hear Sergeant Major Jenkins’s own evidence.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Very well. Now, Sergeant Major, you have heard the charge against you and the evidence. What is your reply?’
Jenkins stepped forward and took a deep breath. As he spoke, a small trickle of perspiration crept down the side of his face and disappeared into his great moustache. But, as instructed, he spoke clearly. He had, indeed, drunk the bottle of whisky while in his bedroll during the night. But he was used to strong drink and it had not affected him. On leaving his bedroll, he had stumbled a little because the ground was uneven but he was not drunk, he had not staggered and he was not unable to carry out his duties. He did not deny that his breath probably smelt of strong liquor but he was definitely not drunk.
Fonthill regarded him steadily. ‘Did you bring the whisky with you from Johannesburg?’
‘No, sir. I had never seen it before when I found it tucked into my bedroll when I crept in at lights out.’
‘Why, then, did you drink it?’
‘Because, sir, I was freezin’ cold, see, an’ me legs was achin’. I didn’t stop to wonder where it’d come from, except to think that maybe a kind friend – perhaps one of the officers’ orderlies – ’ad slipped it into me bedroll. Anyway, I just drank it through the night when I woke up occasionally with the cold, look you … er … sir.’
‘So you have no idea how the whisky came to be in your bedroll?’
‘None at all, sir. On me mother’s deathbed, I swear that.’
The escorting sergeant cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, sir, but Trooper Blackshaw is here.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Bring him forward. Captain Cartwright, this is your witness, I believe. So please question him.’
Cartwright nodded and addressed the young trooper who now stood, a little apprehensively, before them. ‘Blackshaw, you are in my C Squadron, are you not?’ Fonthill had to disguise a half smile at the magisterial tone adopted by the young captain.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell us what you saw on that night two weeks ago when we camped last on the banks of this river.’
‘Well, sir, I was layin’ out me bedroll when I saw the sergeant major doin’ the same about a coupla yards away from me. Then he went off and said he was goin’ for a pee.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I crawled into me own roll and tucked meself in well because it was a proper awful night, see, cold an’ drizzling.’
‘Was it dark?’
‘Sort of, sir. Gettin’ dark, anyway. Sort of very dusky.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was tucked in well an’ truly but then I saw someone come back to the sarn’t major’s bedroll. I thought it was him at first, but then I see it was a trooper. I couldn’t see his face but he had the flashes of A Squadron on his shoulder. He was carryin’ a bottle of something, I could see that. Then he put it in the sarn’t major’s bedroll and sort of slunk away. I thought it a bit strange but I was dog-tired and went to sleep more or less straight away. I saw nothing more until I was awoken at reveille and saw the sarn’t major bein’ arrested.’
A silence descended on the little court. Suddenly, a sakabula or widow bird, with a long, undulating tail, swept low over them and caused a start of surprise. Then Fonthill intervened.
‘Trooper, when Sergeant Major Jenkins was led away, was he staggering or in any way looking unstable?’
‘No, sir. He looked a bit … well … fed up, but that was all.’
‘Thank you. Get back to your duties.’ He looked at the senior escorting sergeant. ‘Take Mr Jenkins away, Sergeant, and wait with him, both of you, behind that tent over there. We shall call you back in a moment or two.’
‘Very good, sir. Sergeant Major, sir, cap on. Attenshun! Right wheel quick march, leff right, leff right, leff right.’ Then they were gone.
Simon removed his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Let us review the evidence. But first I must not sail under false colours in this case. You all know that Jenkins and I served together as scouts with various elements of the British army intermittently over the last twenty years and, in that time, he became my comrade. He received the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his service with me in the Sudan some years ago, and I must tell you that I have recommended him for a bar to that medal for the initiative he displayed several weeks ago in our engagement with de Wet’s commando at Bethulie, when he took over command of A Squadron after I was wounded and … ahem … after Major Hammond’s departure. General Kitchener himself requested that I bring Jenkins with me when I accepted this commission. This all says something, of course, about Jenkins’s character and ability as a soldier, but it also reveals my relationship with a man I call a friend. In fact, you could well say that I am not the most objective man to lead this tribunal.’
The two captains regarded him keenly but made no comment. So he continued.
‘Nevertheless, this is my command and it is my duty to hear this charge. But I have asked you to help me in this task because there are unusual elements to it and I am anxious to ensure that I could not be accused later of being less than impartial in judging Jenkins in this matter.’
Captain Forbes, the older of the two squadron commanders, frowned. ‘I am not quite sure that I follow you, sir,’ he said. ‘Unusual features …?’
Fonthill nodded. ‘I am afraid so. Firstly, the charge has been brought by someone of senior rank in this column, Major Hammond, my second in command. Normally, his word would carry overriding weight to that of the accused. But there are conflicting elements here.
‘For instance, he said that he was making his rounds with the sergeant of the guard, but that was not true. The sergeant had already made his rounds. Major Hammond took the sergeant directly to where Jenkins was sleeping, as though he had some reason to do so.’
Forbes slowly nodded in agreement. ‘Then,’ Fonthill went on, ‘he said that he smelt Jenkins’s breath but he did not, he asked the sergeant to do so. These are details but details are important on such a serious charge. It goes on. He said that the sarn’t major was staggering drunkenly, but we have two witnesses, Sergeant Wilkins and Trooper Blackshaw, who disagree.’ He looked at his notes. ‘“Just a bit wobbly” were the sergeant’s words and “a bit fed up” were those of the trooper. The charge of being drunk in the face of the enemy certainly does not stand, for to face the enemy Jenkins would have had to travel something between ten and fifteen miles.
‘Now, Jenkins does not deny that he drank the whisky during the course of
the night. The question arises, how did he get it? He denies carrying it with him and says that it was slipped into his sleeping roll. We now have Trooper Blackshaw’s words that, indeed, he did see someone from A Squadron put the bottle into the sleeping bag.’
Forbes’s frown deepened. ‘Of course, sir, Jenkins could have bribed someone to steal a bottle – or indeed buy it – from one of the officers, and not necessarily from A Company.’
‘That is true, Colin. However, there is also the possibility that someone – someone with a grudge against the regimental sergeant major, someone who had heard of Jenkins’s occasional weakness for drink – could have arranged, or ordered, the bottle to be placed there.’ He sighed. ‘You see, gentlemen, what I meant when I said that there were unusual elements to this case.
‘I must tell you frankly that I cannot convict this man on this evidence. Please remember that being drunk in the face of the enemy is a capital charge and could lead to the firing squad. Normally, in a case of this severity, one would bring a character witness for the defendant. Today, I must be that witness, for no one – probably on earth – knows him better. I assure you that in twenty years, I have never known him tell a lie. I have known him to be drunk, but only after a consumption of alcohol that would kill a mule, not merely one bottle, and never, never, when on duty. He is a splendid soldier whom this column would miss terribly if we found him guilty.
‘Now, gentlemen, those are my concerns. What are your views?’
Cartwright spoke first, the earnestness of his expression echoed in the fact that he did not try now to hide his flat, Midlands accent. ‘I agree with you, sir,’ he said. ‘There are too many strange … what is the word … anomalies, I think it is, in the evidence to convict Jenkins. I also am impressed by your statement concerning his character. Although I think the putting of the bottle in his bedroll is strange, if you say that you have never known him to tell a lie, I don’t see that we can suspect otherwise, given the other circumstances.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘Thank you, Cecil. And you, Colin?’
Forbes, however, clearly remained perturbed. ‘I am worried, sir, about your mention of someone having a grudge against Mr Jenkins and deliberately planting the bottle.’ He raised his head and looked squarely at Fonthill. ‘That could only be Major Hammond, by the sound of it. Are you accusing him, sir?’
‘No, I am not.’ Simon inwardly congratulated the man on his integrity and decided to speak frankly. ‘I have no evidence and I must leave it at that. To bring such a charge would demand such an exercise in establishing evidence that it would break this column in two. We would, for instance, have to check the number of whisky bottles each officer took in his pack and attempt to establish if one was missing. I do not wish to embark on such a divisive undertaking while we are in the field.
‘However, neither am I happy at such a senior warrant officer being convicted of a capital offence on such flimsy and conflicting evidence. At the moment, we are two in favour of acquittal – although, if we ultimately decide on that, it will be delivered to Jenkins with a severe warning about further drinking, I can promise you that. But, now, Colin, do you wish to make the acquittal unanimous or to submit a minority report recommending conviction. You must decide now.’
Fonthill clenched his buttocks in tension as Forbes frowned and considered his position. A two-to-one decision in favour of acquittal would seriously compromise the report he would have to make to French on the subject. A unanimous verdict would make his task so much easier.
Eventually, Forbes lifted his head. ‘On reflection, sir,’ he said gloomily, ‘I must make it unanimous, in view of the unusual contradictions we have heard. But I would be much happier if you could assure us that no charges will be brought against Major Hammond in this matter, official or otherwise.’
Simon sighed. ‘I will give you that assurance, Colin,’ he said, ‘unless, that is, further evidence emerges – cast-iron evidence, mind you – that would mean I had no alternative but to do so. Will you accept that?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Very well, gentlemen. Thank you for your time.’ He raised his voice. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Sir.’
‘Please bring Sarn’t Major Jenkins here. Do not march him!’
‘Very good, sir.’
Jenkins came to attention in front of the three, an expression of such anxiety on his face that Simon felt nothing but sorrow for his old friend. However, he adopted a stern expression and ordered the two escorting sergeants to fall out and to return to their duties. When they had departed, he addressed the Welshman curtly.
‘Mr Jenkins,’ he said, ‘we have found you not guilty on the charge brought against you and that charge is now dropped. However, you did admit drinking a whole bottle of whisky while out in the field with the column and we all consider this to be symptomatic of what could become a serious problem, if you allow it. Any further transgression of this nature will be dealt with most severely. Now, dismiss.’
Jenkins’s moustache began to twitch but the Welshman immediately smothered the embryonic grin. Instead, he looked sternly ahead and barked, ‘Thank you, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you.’ He saluted, turned smartly on his heel and was gone.
The three rose. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Fonthill. ‘I will break the glad news to Major Hammond, and will you now get your squadrons across this bloody river as quickly as possible? We still have work to do.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alice was not at all surprised to find, on her return to Pretoria after waving Emma goodbye at Bloemfontein, a message at her hotel asking her to call on General Kitchener at ‘her earliest convenience’.
Her round-up story of the camp visits had pulled no punches this time and she had cabled a vivid picture of the fetid conditions there and of the growing death toll. Her hope was that, at the very least, the War Office in London would have asked questions of its commander-in-chief in South Africa. But she had no intention of meekly accepting a dressing-down from the formidable Kitchener of Khartoum. She had some questions to ask him!
She sent a quick message to his headquarters to enquire what time would be convenient and by return was told to come ‘at once’. Ah, the battle lines were being drawn! A quick thought persuaded her to change into a floral dress with workmanlike but pretty pumps and she tied a well-worn but much loved apple-green scarf around her throat and brushed her hair. She applied a little face powder to soften the tan but nothing more outré by way of cosmetics. Alice wanted to appear feminine to the great commander – she hated the masculine pose adopted by some women journalists of her acquaintance – but she certainly was not going to flirt with him. From what she had heard, anyway, such tactics were a waste of time with the man.
At the door of the hotel, she was handed an envelope. Tearing it open, she read:
I hear you are back. Why didn’t you write to me? I have missed you so much. Can we meet tonight for dinner?
James
Alice sighed and waved away the messenger. ‘No reply,’ she said. She tucked the envelope into her bag. He must have bribed someone at the hotel to let him know as soon as she returned. A little frisson ran through her. Dinner tonight! It was tempting. Then she tossed her head. She would think about that later. She had things to do first.
She hired a pony and trap to take her to Kitchener’s HQ, for she didn’t want to arrive looking dusty or less than her best. Alice realised that Kitchener had the power to order her removal from the corps of accredited correspondents in South Africa and that would never do. She was determined to fight her corner but she mustn’t go too far. If just a touch of feminism might detract the great man from sending her home, then she wasn’t above deploying it.
The guard at the gate of the unpretentious house gave her a big grin and a smart salute, which earned him a warm smile in return. Then she was ushered directly into the great room, with its objet d’art clutter and walls covered with pin-studded maps. Kitchener advanced to meet her with, to her sur
prise, a wide smile stretching his great moustache.
‘Welcome back, Miss Griffith,’ he said, gesturing her to a chair facing his desk. ‘My, but you have been busy.’
Alice gulped. A charm offensive was not what she had been expecting. Then she remembered: Kitchener was renowned as a soldier, of course, but he was building a reputation also as a shrewd negotiator. She must be careful not to be sucked in.
‘I have indeed, General,’ she smiled. ‘And I am so grateful to have the chance of discussing with you the question of the camps.’
‘I am at your disposal, madam. Alas, we don’t get the Morning Post out here, of course, but the War Office has sent me the gist of what you have been writing. This Miss Hobhouse seems to be a most formidable lady. I am sorry that I did not have the opportunity of meeting her. Now, let us have some tea.’
He reached out a large hand and tinkled a small bell. ‘China or Indian?’
‘China, please, with a little milk but no sugar.’
The request was conveyed to an orderly and Kitchener settled into his chair. ‘Well, you have certainly given us a rough time, Miss Griffith – ah, I should have asked. Forgive me. How is your husband? I knew that he had been wounded and that he plunged back immediately into the fray in the south. Have you had news of him?’
Alice felt herself flushing. This would never do. She had not realised that the morose, allegedly misogynistic Lord Kitchener could turn on the charm so effortlessly. Perhaps this was the calm before the storm? ‘Thank you. I am afraid I have not heard from him for some time. We both have been moving about the country rather a lot, but in different directions and in different degrees of comfort, I fear.’
Kitchener nodded. ‘Well, from what I have heard, he is doing good work on the border. He has nearly pinned down the elusive de Wet – you will remember him, of course – several times. I am delighted that he decided to join us in this miserable war.’
Ah! Alice realised that a door had been pushed slightly ajar. She jumped in.
