by John Wilcox
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I further understand that you have often contravened these orders in that you have often delayed at a farm, had your men take out the occupants’ furniture and other belongings and allowed them to be driven off by the occupants before the house was burnt. So that they often, presumably, were not taken into care in one of our camps.’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘Ah! I see. However, in the case of this …’ Kitchener looked down again at the paper on his desk ‘… Mrs de Wath, you went considerably further. Although when you arrived the farmhouse was occupied by Boer commandos and a lively action then ensued, which involved casualties, you delayed destroying the place for quite some time, although other enemy units might well have been in the area. Then you followed your usual practice of ordering your men to carry out furniture, but you also deputed two men – including your regimental sergeant major – to accompany the family into Pretoria, where your RSM found them a house, which was bought with funds supplied by you. The inference seems quite clear: although you are a married man, there is clearly some sort of liaison between you and this lady.’
Fonthill opened his mouth to speak, but Kitchener held up his hand. ‘Now, your private life, of course, is your own affair, Fonthill, and apart from disobeying the strict interpretation of my orders on this farm-burning business, you don’t seem to have contravened any army regulations, although employing your RSM in this way while on active service sails pretty close to the damned wind, I would have thought. But I must say that your behaviour with this … er … Boer lady is bound to lead to gossip and, frankly, is not the sort of thing that I can condone from an officer of your seniority under my command. Now, let us both hear what you have to say on this matter.’
The C-in-C settled back in his chair and removed his pince-nez expectantly.
Fonthill drew in a deep breath and looked again at French, who was studiously gazing out of the window. Who had supplied this remarkably detailed information? A certain amount of digging had obviously been involved – and then the involvement with the regimental police. Where to start? He tried to concentrate.
‘First of all, sir,’ he began, ‘I don’t wish to give offence but it is ridiculous nonsense to accuse me of being the lover of Mrs de Wath and I am certainly not the father of her children. She is the widow of a Boer burgher who lost his life at the siege of Ladysmith and they are his children. In fact, until we arrived at her farmhouse, I had not seen the lady for nearly twenty years.
‘Both Sergeant Major Jenkins and my wife can confirm these facts because the three of us were all involved with Mrs de Wath, first during the Zulu war and then with General Wolseley’s campaign against the bPedi nation shortly afterwards. In fact, we all visited her the day before yesterday at her house in Pretoria. But let me tell the background to that involvement years ago and why I still feel in her debt to this day.’
He then related how Nandi, as a young girl in her late teens and daughter of John Dunn, the trader who was an adviser to King Cetshwayo, had smuggled a revolver and knife into the hut where he and Jenkins had been kept prisoner by the King at his capital, Ulundi. This had enabled them to escape and so take part in the Battles of Isandlwana and, in his case, Rorke’s Drift, for Jenkins had been wounded at Isandlwana and left for dead there. Fonthill’s story had not been believed and, despite taking an heroic part in the defence of the hospital at Rorke’s Drift, he had been accused of cowardice by his former commanding officer. At the court martial, it was only the evidence, given at the last minute by Nandi and confirming his story, that had convinced the court of his innocence.
‘Jenkins was still in a coma in a hospital bed at that time,’ he concluded, ‘and could not give evidence. If Nandi had not heard of my plight and come forward, I might well have been shot for cowardice.
‘Gentlemen, I promise you that that was not a happy prospect for a young subaltern. So I owe my life to this young woman and I am grateful that I was able to help her, back in 1880, when she ran into grave trouble with a party of Portuguese diamond smugglers near the Mozambique border, and now, when I was forced to burn her home.’
He held up his hand as French opened his mouth to interrupt. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘but it is my turn now. The money for purchasing her house here came from the joint account of myself and my wife, which, of course, can easily be confirmed. So my wife was party to the purchase and was as anxious to help Mrs de Wath as I was – surely not the act of a woman who was being deceived.
‘Now, concerning the charges concerning my RSM and the burnings. Well, I must plead guilty, I suppose. You said yourself, General, that this policy is controversial. I am afraid, sir, that to the men who have to do it, it is worse than that. It is hateful. We are used to fighting the enemy but not to evicting their wives and children from their homes and then burning them. We all understand why it has to be done but we hate being employed to do it.’
Fonthill was well aware that he was on dangerous ground here and he ploughed on before either of the generals could interrupt. ‘You are quite right, sir, that I always have my men help the women and children bring out their belongings and I do not allow looting, as I believe is done in some regiments. It is also true that I allow the families to ride off with their furniture. I reason that, if they make for the nearest town, then they will probably have people there who will help them, so that they won’t be a further burden on the camps. If they join a commando, then that will restrict that unit’s mobility and probably do us a good turn. So I saw no reasons to change my practice.’
Simon gulped in air and hurried on. ‘The farm was burnt as soon as the family had left it. My scouts were out so I was fairly certain that there were no more Boer fighters in the area. As for Jenkins’s role in all this. He was entitled to leave, having served non-stop for some six months, so I granted him three weeks to help take Mrs de Wath to Pretoria and I felt I could spare the trooper that went with them. Yes, we were on active duty at the time, but the absence of two men did not denude us.
‘Finally, General, you were kind enough recently to approve General French’s recent recommendation of the award of the DSO to me and a bar to Jenkins’s DCM. I can only interpret this as the approval of both of you to my and his recent actions in the field – enough, I would have thought, to overcome any lingering doubts about these recent absurd accusations.’
A silence fell upon the room. Then, slowly, Kitchener replaced his spectacles, picked up the paper from his desk, briefly ran his eye over it once more and then, equally slowly, tore it into fragments and deposited it into his waste-paper basket. He stood, walked from behind his desk and held out his hand to Fonthill, who, puzzled, grasped it.
‘My apologies, Colonel,’ Kitchener said. ‘We both felt that this was nonsense, but we had to give you the opportunity of telling us so. Obviously, the matter will be taken no further and I would like you to apologise to Mrs de Wath for any pain or inconvenience that she has experienced. Now, I want you to put this completely from your mind and get back to the good work you are doing. Go into the room, a couple of doors along here, and French will tell you of your new assignment. Please give my compliments to your wife. Now, you must excuse me. I have much to do.’
‘One moment, sir.’ Fonthill released Kitchener’s hand and frowned heavily. ‘These charges have obviously been put forward by someone who seems to have been close to me in my column and has obviously been …’ he sought for the right word ‘… spying on me. I would like to know who that was and have him removed.’
‘He will be removed and French will see to that. You have our apologies for this matter and I don’t want you to take it any further. We will certainly not. I won’t have witch-hunts. Now, good day to you, Fonthill.’
Simon inclined his head. ‘Good day, sir.’
French and he walked stiffly to the nearby room. The general closed the door behind them and gestured to two chairs placed at a small table.
He sat opposite Fonthi
ll and eased his tunic. ‘I extend my own apologies to you, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘I fear that much of this is my own fault. You see,’ he leant forward, ‘I have to confess I was not in favour of your appointment. I did not think it either wise or fair to appoint to your position someone with as little experience of regular army command as you had, and also your … er … forgive me, clear record of, what shall I say, disenchantment with the army and all its faults. I felt that was asking for trouble, but K overruled me.’
Fonthill sensed French’s genuine embarrassment but couldn’t quite let him off the hook that easily. ‘So you appointed Hammond to spy on me? Forgive me, sir, but it was not exactly the action of a gentleman, if I may say so.’
French’s florid countenance flushed an even darker shade of puce. ‘You certainly may not say so, Fonthill. You will not use that language to me. I was merely doing my duty as I saw it. And, I suppose, Hammond was merely carrying out orders. Although,’ the general’s manner quickly ameliorated, ‘I have to say that he carried them out with a zeal that showed he seemed to have very little respect for you.
‘And,’ French continued, ‘I was a trifle worried when you reported that his horse had bolted at that sharp engagement when you nearly nabbed de Wet. Such a strange thing to happen to such a splendid horseman. But I couldn’t bring myself to think of him as a coward, because I had seen him in action.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘I was suspicious, but I agree now that he is not a coward. But how could he continue to give me deference and report on me to you?’
‘Quite so. In fact, I told him some time ago that I did not need to receive these sort of reports in future because I was more than satisfied with your performance.’ French jerked his head towards Kitchener’s office. ‘This stupid business came out of the blue and he obviously devoted his leave to find evidence to incriminate you. However, look here. You have received apologies from both of us now and there the matter must rest. As soon as I leave here I will order that Hammond be transferred immediately. So don’t pick a fight with him – and that’s an order.’
Fonthill inclined his head. ‘Very well, sir.’
French stood and extended his hand. ‘Let us shake hands, forget this matter and get on with the bloody war, eh?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Fonthill had an irreverent thought and could not but grin at it. It was like being forced to shake hands at school after an affray in the schoolyard. Childish, really. But, he reflected, the British army was rather like a public school in many ways: ivy-covered practices, stern morals, outmoded rules and regulations. He sat down again and composed himself to listen to French.
‘Now,’ French stroked his greying moustache and put a stubby forefinger behind his shirt collar to ease it. Simon noticed again that the man had a prodigious bull neck. ‘You will know,’ he said, ‘that Kitchener’s policy has to be one of attrition. We are building blockhouses across the veldt and linking them with barbed wire and literally driving the Boers into these vast compounds. It is hard and slow work but it is paying off.
‘The Boers know this, of course, and they cannot afford to lose men and they are running out of time. So, once again, they are trying to ease the pressure on the two main States – the Transvaal and the Free State – by attacking elsewhere. You played a large part in chasing de Wet out of the Cape Colony. There are small bands of commandos down there still and some of them have penetrated to the coast. But they are being hounded and they are failing to raise rebels in the Colony to support them. But a new threat has emerged.’
Fonthill leant forward with interest. ‘De Wet again, in the centre of the Free State?’
French shrugged. ‘Well, he is certainly still there and we expect him to become active again at any moment. But there is only so much harm that he can do out in those great grasslands. He is not what I am talking about. It is Botha – I think you clashed with him early on, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. I think I had a slight advantage then, but there wasn’t much in it.’
‘Quite so. K has great respect for him and considers him probably the best strategic thinker of all the Boer generals. Well, we believe that he is planning to attack Natal, maybe through Zululand, maybe not. Our intelligence is very sketchy, but if he does get through, then he could do untold damage.’
Fonthill’s interest was stimulated. Tackling Botha was far more challenging than farm burning. ‘You want me to go down there with my column?’
‘Yes. The border is pretty well defended on the Natal side but he will certainly probe it and he will be looking to cross the Buffalo River. We think he will have about one thousand men with him, so, of course, he will completely outnumber you. What’s your strength now?’
‘About two hundred.’
‘Yes. Now, remind me, Fonthill, of your approach to these Boer hunting trips of yours. I’ve read your reports, of course, but I have read dozens of others, too. Do you take artillery?’
‘Good Lord, no. It would slow us down completely.’
‘What about provisions? Wagons?’
‘Certainly not, sir. If we are to do our job properly, then we have to move fast. If we get the chance, my motto is: ride by night and strike at dawn. The Boer is a fearsome fighter on horseback. Catch him before he gets into the saddle and he can be a very different proposition. He likes to be able to ride away from trouble if things get too hot.’
French smiled. ‘My sentiments exactly. But come back to provisions. What and how do you take them?’
‘If I reckon we shall be scouting away for, say, a couple of nights, then we can take the basics – water, tea, biltong, even a pouch of flour apiece – behind our saddles. If we’re to be away longer, then we have mules. They are five times as fast as wagons with oxen, of course, and better than packhorses in that they can climb mountains, as we found in the Colony, trying to step on de Wet’s shirt tail.’
‘Excellent. Just what I wanted to hear. If we are to pin down Botha it has to be by using a column like yours to catch up with him and bring him to the fight. If you can hold him for a time, we can get reinforcements to you. Now, there’s a freight train that is leaving for the Natal border from Jo’burg the day after tomorrow. Get your men and horses, mules etcetera on it. I’m afraid it’s open cattle trucks, but I know that you are used to hardship.’
‘Where is Botha now?’
‘I wish I knew. We know he slipped out of his hunting grounds on the remote eastern border of the Transvaal. We believe that he left behind what was left of his artillery and all of his wagons. Hence my point about moving fast. He is marching light and quickly with pack mules and packhorses to support him. The open veldt of the south-east Transvaal has been relatively untouched by the war so far and Botha set up a pace that was too hot for the columns we thought we had on his trail – again – hence my questions to you. Our chaps seem to have just two paces: plod and slow plod. You, I know, are different. Hence my telegram to you.
‘We think that Botha is heading for the British camp at Dundee, ten miles on the Natal side of the river. He would probably hope to get fresh food and horses there, and then cut the railway at Glencoe, on the main line between Durban and Pretoria and, of course, one of the two main arteries of the British army. But, apart from us, he will have problems with the weather. It has turned really sour down there: cold and wet and the rivers will probably be in spate. Not much fun for you, Fonthill, either, of course, but worse for him, because he will have had a hard ride from the north and fodder will be scarce.’
Fonthill looked thoughtful. ‘When we find him, you want us to hold onto him until our heavy stuff comes up?’
‘Exactly. You will be outnumbered, so don’t tackle him head-on. Outbluff him if you can and delay him. Finding him is going to be difficult, so you may have to float a bait for him to rise to. Fisherman, Fonthill?’
‘Used to do a bit, sir. On the Wye, Welsh Border country.’
‘Good trout there. Experience should stand you in good stead. Now, remember, above a
ll, you must not let Botha get into Natal. He knows the territory like the back of his hand so it won’t be easy. But I think you’re the man to do it. I shall be following you down. You will continue to report to me. You have the telegraph address.’
‘Well, thank you for your confidence. We will do our best.’
The two shook hands again and Fonthill took his leave, walking out into the cold wind of the high veldt and wondering just how much colder and wetter it would be on the Natal border, which he remembered depressingly well from the Zulu war. He shook his head at the memory. At least not a bloody court martial this time, he hoped! Just clean, straightforward stuff, like finding a slippery Boer, ducking and weaving in his own territory and then fighting him with a force outnumbered by something like four to one. He groaned to himself. Easy!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fonthill took advantage of his presence in Pretoria to pay a brief visit to his wife before catching the train for the quick journey back to the camp south of Johannesburg. She was immediately interested in the news about Botha.
‘Now for goodness’ sake, Alice,’ Simon interjected quickly. ‘You can’t use that. Word could get back so quickly to Botha and he would know we were on to him. And I would get sacked for telling you.’
She pouted. ‘And is London so full of Boer spies that they would read my piece and cable it back to him so quickly?’
‘Well, I think the answer to that is probably yes. So … I repeat: don’t use it.’
‘Oh, very well. But,’ her face lightened, ‘let me come with you. There is absolutely nothing to write about here at the army’s headquarters. The press corps is fed the odd scrap or two of so-called news from the general’s table but we might as well be reporting on a vicar’s tea party.’
Simon held up his hand. ‘No, darling. I’m sorry, but you can’t come with me. There are two good reasons. Firstly, army headquarters says where journalists can and can’t go on active service and, secondly, it’s too damned dangerous. I can’t have my wife flitting about at my elbow when I’m trying to fight one of the best Boer generals in the whole of South Africa. It would distract me. Sorry, but no.’
