Fire Across the Veldt

by John Wilcox

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Simon had the letter forwarded to him as his column camped on the Free State side of the Orange River, licking its wounds after the hard riding and often hard fighting involved in chasing de Wet. He opened the envelope with a frown, expecting the worst, but his face softened as he read the letter. Alice gave no indication of what had happened to her with Fulton but she apologised for appearing ‘perhaps a little distant’ when last they had met and explained that her frustrations had mounted with the seeming endless nature of the war and the privations imposed on the Boer civilian families. She realised, however, that the strain was even greater on Simon and that her heart was with him all the time and she yearned for the time when next they would meet.

  Immediately, Simon felt the ache in his shoulder virtually disappear and that in his heart melt completely away. He could face anything, as long as he knew he retained the love of his wife. He was even jovial, later that day, when he met Hammond. His second in command had taken the news of Jenkins’s acquittal with a stony face, revealing no emotions at all. Fonthill had given him the reasons for the acquittal equally unemotionally, explaining that the decision had been unanimous and that, given Jenkins’s seniority, his fine fighting record and the disturbing inconsistencies in the evidence against him, there could have been no other decision. Hammond had merely nodded and had not attempted to protest or argue.

  However, Simon realised that the man had now declared himself as an enemy. For a moment, he had considered writing to John French, asking for Hammond to be transferred to another unit – preferably back to one in the regular army – that would suit him better.

  Then he resolved to keep him in the column. Given the man’s obvious closeness to French, it would be better to keep him where Simon could keep an eye on him, rather than leave him free to cause trouble from afar. Besides, Simon was intrigued to find out if the man really was a coward. There would surely be opportunities soon to test him further under fire.

  In giving French his report on the two hectic weeks in the Cape, Simon had tacked on a brief summation of the charge against Jenkins and his dismissal of the charges – taking care to record that Forbes and Cartwright had joined him in considering them and that the verdict had been unanimous. Jenkins seemed to have slipped back into his duties with the column without discord and Fonthill ensured that their former, formal relationship was resumed without interruption, for his RSM was a vital link between officers and men in preparing the column for its future work. For now, they were resting, but General Knox was shortly to return to the Free State from the Cape Colony and Simon knew that they would be riding again shortly.

  In fact, the orders came not from Knox but from French, out in the Transvaal. The general curtly congratulated Fonthill on chasing de Wet back across the Orange but ordered him to bring his column north, to Standerton in the Transvaal. Another big push was being prepared to net as many Boers as possible between the forts that were being built across the veldt. Fonthill’s Horse would be needed to protect the flanks of the troops from attack from de la Rey as they plodded northwards. ‘Some farm clearance will be involved,’ he added and Simon’s heart sank.

  He checked the map and found that Standerton was too far south of Pretoria for him to visit Alice and he cursed. He welcomed the chance to grapple with de la Rey, who was proving to be as formidable a fighter in the Transvaal as de Wet was in the Free State but he relished not at all the miserable task of farm burning. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins when he heard the news. ‘Can’t they get the fire brigade to do that?’

  Ten days later they were riding out on the right flank of a formidable force of regular infantry and mounted infantry as it plodded north across the undulating veldt. It seemed that comparatively little had been learnt from the last advance of this sort in which Fonthill and his men had been involved. A stream of supply wagons still slowed down the pace and Simon could not understand why this miniature army could not move without taking a contingent of heavy artillery with it. There were no sieges to be mounted. Why, then, trail these heavy guns with them?

  Riding out on the open veldt, however, providing a screen for the right front flank of the main column, was pleasant enough work and Simon was hoping that this comparatively unpopulated corner of the Central and Eastern Transvaal would provide little opportunity for farm burning and that, if they did come across a homestead, it would be empty, or at least barren of any obvious source of supply for the Boers and therefore not eligible for torching. He had decided once again that he would eschew farm burning if he possibly could.

  He put his men out in a screen, fan-shaped, to pick up quickly any traces of enemy activity. It was a dreamy afternoon, with patches of cotton wool balls of cloud gambolling lazily across the blue arch of the sky and, in truth, Simon had difficulty in not drifting off to sleep as he slouched in the saddle. His upper arm now seemed to have suffered no further injury from the reckless pace set by de Wet and his body and mind were at peace as his head nodded with the rhythm set by his pony’s walk.

  Then he was made instantly awake by a shout from Jenkins. ‘Rider coming in, sir!’

  One of the troop sergeants could be seen galloping towards him from far out on the right, alternately disappearing and then reappearing as he approached across the swelling downs of the veldt.

  Then he slowed his horse to a canter and then a walk as he neared the column.

  The sergeant approached. ‘I’m with the lead troop in C Squadron, sir,’ he said, removing his hat and wiping his forehead. ‘Farmhouse about a thousand paces over to the right,’ he said. ‘Occupied, by the look of it, and there are Boer horsemen there. I saw their horses.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Couldn’t be sure, sir. Maybe six or twelve, maybe twenty or more.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘Fairly certain not. Kept well down from the skyline.’

  ‘Good. Have you told Captain Cartwright?’

  ‘No, sir. He is about a quarter mile behind me, so I thought it best to report to you.’

  ‘Quite right. Well done, Sergeant. Rejoin your troop and keep well out of sight of the enemy. Major Hammond.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘This may be a trick to lure us out so that a Boer commando can attack the main column. So deploy your squadron out thinly along the flank here and, when you meet Forbes’s squadron, instruct him to do the same south of you. I say “thinly”, but make sure that the flank is protected. I will take the rest of C Squadron and see if we can pull these Boers in. Sarn’t Major!’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Ride out to where Captain Cartwright and the rest of his squadron are patrolling.’ He paused, seeing that familiar expression of near panic appear in Jenkins’s eyes at having to find his way alone anywhere. ‘You’ll find him out there.’ And he pointed. ‘Tell him to bring his squadron in to meet me at about five hundred paces that way.’ He pointed to where the sergeant could be seen disappearing. ‘Quickly, now.’

  Jenkins galloped off.

  ‘Hammond. You’re in charge of protecting the column while I’m away. If you’ve not heard from me in an hour, alert the general that there could be an attack on his right flank. But I hope to be back by then.’

  Fonthill half expected to hear a ‘good luck, sir’. But Hammond merely nodded and turned his horse away to give his instructions for thinning out the protecting screen. Simon cantered away, following the sergeant’s path, until his own course met up with Cartwright and his squadron, plus a beaming Jenkins, so pleased that he had found his way there and back.

  Fonthill briefly explained the situation to Cartwright and his two subalterns and ordered the squadron – about sixty men – to follow in column of fours behind him as he trotted forward, Jenkins at his side. After about five minutes, they were halted by the sergeant, who slid down a hill and then ran to meet them.

  ‘The farm is just over the brow of that hill, sir,’ he reported.

  ‘Where are your chaps?’r />
  ‘Spread out in a half circle, but they’re well hidden.’

  ‘Lead on, Sergeant. Come on, Cartwright and Jenkins. Let’s take a look.’

  They dismounted and crept to where, at the brow of the hill, there was a scattering of rocks, which offered cover to the troop keeping watch, and the three joined them, crouching low. Some three hundred yards below them, in a little hollow, sat a small mud-walled farmhouse with a familiar corrugated iron roof, a plain gable, a stoep, a cramped flower garden and, to the right, a low Kaffir kraal built of stone and now containing some twenty horses, all of which were being watered from a well-filled dam by a handful of Boers.

  Fonthill focused his field glasses on them. They were commando riders, all right; the wide-brimmed hats, the bandoliers, tattered waistcoats and, most revealing of all, a dozen or more rifles piled pyramid-style well within reach, all betrayed them. Further to the right was a bunch of willows clustered by another dam. More horses and men could be glimpsed among them. Switching his gaze to the farmhouse, Simon noticed, first, the pretty, green Venetian shutters covering the windows and then the door to the house, which was painted the same colour and was firmly shut. He swung the glasses round. He could see no sign of cattle or fruit trees. Nevertheless, it was clear that the farm was occupied and, judging by its neatness, owned by someone with a touch, at least, of taste and sophistication.

  It was obvious that no British troops had passed this way.

  Fonthill lowered his glasses and muttered to himself. ‘Damn!’ The rules were clear. If a farm was occupied, however temporarily, by Boer soldiers, it would have to be burnt. Yes, but first the Boers would have to be dealt with. He turned and spoke to the others.

  ‘It could well be a trap but the only way of finding out is to attack. Now, trap or not, the Boers hate to be surrounded. They like to be able to ride off as quickly as possible if they lose a fight. So, Cecil,’ the young man nodded, ‘I want you to split your squadron and take half of it round to the right there, well beyond that clump of willows. Ride out wide and then spread out wide and, whatever, you do, don’t let them see you. But particularly keep your eyes open to look for a larger commando, who might be lurking out there somewhere ready to attack us when we take the bait. If you see them, then fire three shots and ride back here.’

  ‘Very good, sir. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I shall give you ten minutes to take up your position and then take the other half of your squadron and lead a troop which will dash in and try and cut out those horses to prevent the Boers riding off. The other troop will line up here, dismounted and just below the ridge, and ready to open fire and support us. There may be other Boers in the farmhouse who could come out shooting. Now, don’t fire until you hear our first shots. Make for those chaps in among the willows, dismount and see if you can encircle them and flush them out. I am particularly anxious to stop the buggers getting away this time, so make sure they can’t mount and ride through you. Understood?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘Good luck. Off you go.’

  At the bottom of the hill, Fonthill gathered his two troops around him and explained what he wanted. The first dismounted troop would spread out wide, along the ridge surrounding the farmhouse, and direct fire on anyone firing from within the house. The other would ride in with him. He, Jenkins and two sergeants would leap the kraal walls and cut out the horses. The remainder would ring the kraal and fire on the men inside if they offered opposition. ‘But for God’s sake,’ he added, ‘let us go in first. Surprise is the main weapon here. They obviously have no knowledge that we are here. So we shall rush them. But no one is to fire unless they fire first or the four of us do. Understood?’

  They all retired to get their horses and Jenkins sidled up to Fonthill. ‘Did you say, “jump the kraal wall”, bach sir?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry. It’s only about four feet high. I’ll be alongside you in case you fall off.’

  But Jenkins didn’t smile. ‘Just remember to grip with your knees,’ he said, ‘and lean forward as you take off and back when you land.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant Major. But I’m much better than you think these days.’

  ‘Umph!’

  Fonthill watched as Cartwright quietly trotted off with half of his squadron well below the crest of the hill and disappeared around a bend to his right. He waited for eight minutes then directed one of the remaining two troops to disperse as widely as possible around the hollow but on the reverse slope of the ridge. Then he ordered the remaining troop to mount, took a deep breath, drew his revolver and gestured for the troopers to follow him over the ridge.

  Just before they reached the edge he looked around him. Jenkins was by his side, with a sergeant on either side of them. Behind them ranged the remainder of the troop, some fifteen in all. He licked his lips. Was it enough to charge the kraal? There was only one way to find out. He lifted his arm and gestured forward in the signal to gallop.

  They crested the hill in a shower of stones and sped down the other side, their boots thumping their horses’ flanks, their heads arched forward. Fonthill squinted ahead at the kraal. All of the Boers, it seemed, were concerned with their horses but then the drumming of the charge reached them and they looked up. With cries they ran to where their rifles were stacked and Simon realised that it was a race against time. Would he and the others reach the stone wall before the Boers had time to claim their rifles, work the bolts, aim and fire? God! He realised it would be a close-run thing.

  He levelled his revolver, pulled the trigger and shouted, ‘Fire!’

  There was little hope of him and his men finding their targets as they fired from the saddle at the gallop, but even so, Fonthill saw one of the Boers drop, clutching his breast. The man cannoned into the pyramid of rifles, scattering them. It gave Simon a few seconds’ grace. Suddenly, the kraal wall was upon him and he desperately hauled back on the reins, leaning forward as he did so. The little Basuto pony took off like a bird and cleared the stones with ease. As he was thrown forward by the horse’s momentum he pulled back – but just too late. He fell to the ground with a crash that momentarily winded him and sent a shaft of pain up through his shoulder from where his wounded arm hit the hard ground. But he retained his grip on his revolver and, squirming round, he fired at a burgher who was about to level his retrieved rifle at him. The bullet caught the man in the chest and he went down.

  Suddenly, all was bedlam as firing began from all around the edge of the kraal.

  ‘The horses, dammit!’ shouted Simon. ‘Get the horses!’

  He was dimly aware that the Boer ponies in the kraal were rearing and screaming with fright and that Jenkins and the two sergeants were in their midst clutching at their bridles. Out of the dust and the gunsmoke – for it was clear that the remainder of the troop were now firing into the kraal and that the Boers inside it were firing back – a huge burgher lurched into sight. He raised his rifle butt and brought it down, aiming at Fonthill’s head. Somehow, Simon, on one knee, lurched to the right, losing his grip on his revolver, which clattered away. The gun butt crashed into the ground near his foot, its stock shattering. The Boer kicked out blindly at Fonthill, catching him in the breast and sending him sprawling.

  Flat on his back, his good hand clawing at the ground to give him purchase, Simon saw the giant burgher loom over him and reach down. Then, seemingly from nowhere, a figure leapt onto the man’s back, a muscular forearm appeared around his throat, the butt of a hand under his chin and, with a terrible jerk, the Boer’s head was snapped back and his neck broken. Slowly, the giant sank to the ground, Jenkins still fixed to his shoulders, as though welded there, and then the man lay still in the dust, his eyes wide and still glaring in anger.

  ‘The horses!’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Have we got the horses?’

  ‘Bugger the bloody horses,’ Jenkins shouted in return. ‘Yes, we’ve got ’em. Are you all right, though, bach?’

  ‘Yes. Just winded.’ Simon was sudden
ly aware that the crackle of gunshots all around had ceased, although there were others sounding much farther away up the hill. He crawled to his feet. Some fifteen Boers were standing sullenly by the kraal wall, their rifles cast aside, their hands in the air. Six other burghers lay dead or wounded at their feet. A ring of rifles threatened them from the other side of the kraal.

  As he stood gasping for breath, Fonthill saw the ridge above him suddenly crackle into life as, to his right, the door of the farmhouse burst open and a handful of Boers ran out, firing their rifles as they did so. Within seconds they were all brought down.

  Twisting his head to look higher up the slope to where the second dam was surrounded by willows, Simon saw the flashes of rifle fire and white smoke rising through the grey-green leaves. Was Cartwright holding his own? He gestured to the young subaltern commanding the troop surrounding the kraal.

  ‘Carter. Get the surrendered men out of here and put them under guard. Have you lost any men?’

  ‘Only one man with a flesh wound, sir. We were upon them before they could organise any defence.’

  ‘Good. See if we can do anything for these Boers wounded here.’ Then, to the two sergeants: ‘Well done, you two. Make sure the horses are locked in the kraal. 352, come with me. Cartwright may need help.’

  ‘What about the people in the farmhouse, bach sir?’

  ‘I doubt if there are any Boers left in there, though there might be women and children.’ Simon winced as a shaft of pain shot through his injured arm. He turned back to Lieutenant Carter. ‘Send six men into the farmhouse to make sure it’s safe. Tell them to take care. I am going to see if Captain Cartwright needs help.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Fonthill found his pony and, with difficulty, mounted it. As he and Jenkins turned to climb the slope, where the rest of the squadron still ringed it, he extended his hand to his old comrade. ‘That must be the seven thousand, eight hundred and ninety-first time that you have saved my life, my dear old 352. I can’t thank you enough. That chap was a bit big for me.’