Lord Roberts’s stop-start advance through the Free State had taken Kroonstad and on 16 May Mahon’s column moving north met up with Plumber’s largely colonial force coming down from Rhodesia. Together they put to flight a two thousand strong komando under Koos de la Rey.
The following day, a predominantly Uitlander-comprised Imperial Light Horse had the honour of relieving Mafeking, where a deceptively small force commanded by Colonel Robert Baden-Powell had held out for an amazing two hundred and seventeen days. There was nothing of strategic importance about this northern Cape railway town but it had served to tie down significant Boer resources which might otherwise have been better deployed elsewhere.
At home, a war-hungry British public fed on the news as herald of an inevitable victory over the Boer republics. To entertain the middle class as it sat down to breakfast The Times ran stories lauding the garrison’s ingenuity: ‘The Wolf’, a gun fabricated from four-inch steel pipe, capable of lobbing an eighteen-pound shell at targets over two miles distant;‘Lord Nelson’, a 1770 naval cannon brought back into service for Queen and country; dynamite grenades made of empty bully-beef cans; an internal railway system fuelled by cow dung and coal. The British public lapped it up, believing that the war was as good as over. For the men fighting in South Africa, reality was another thing altogether.
Roberts’s main army was about to cross the Vaal. He remained grudgingly respectful of the way de la Rey had kept intact his army of wagons, men and heavy guns, destroying the railway in his wake and burning tinder-dry winter grass to help his snipers pick off khaki uniforms against the blackened background.
In Natal, General Buller had at long last commenced his advance north from Ladysmith, pushing past Dundee to Newcastle, outflanking seven thousand Boers entrenched in the Biggarsberg and forcing their retreat. Again he stopped to consolidate his position.
It had been Cameron’s oft-repeated acts of gallantry both during and after the siege of Ladysmith that had drawn attention in the right circles. Early in May, as part of Ian Hamilton’s division, he had been transferred to Lord Roberts’s army in the Free State. Now he found himself in command of his own troop. Given the rare opportunity to select men from the South African Light Horse, he had done so with specific criteria in mind, choosing mainly those with knowledge of and experience in the veld – farmers, former hunters and one-time traders– all in their own way pioneers of the few little-known places still left on the African continent. Most were Cameron’s seniors and he knew that despite a reputation for success, he was yet to prove his worth as their leader. Out of respect for his age and safety, Will Green was not one of them. Grudgingly, but with no choice in the matter, he remained with Buller in Natal.
Before the war, Sergeant-Major Mulligan had built railways, living rough and leading his own team of track layers. He was in his late thirties. The younger of his two subalterns, Lieutenant Grantley Christison, was a farmer from the Cape and so far seemed to know what he was doing. Two Zulus also rode with the troop, acting as trackers and messengers.
Cameron did not wear any sign of rank in the field, knowing from past experience that should there be any Boer sniper in the area, it would make him a prime target. He also scorned the wearing of a revolver– another sign of a commissioned rank – and carried a Lee Metford carbine, as did his men.
Rising to his feet, Cameron gulped down the remaining coffee before it cooled in the sub-zero temperatures. Rations were consumed cold. The only fire lit that morning had been carefully concealed behind blankets and used only to heat a blackened pot of coffee. Even that might have attracted unwanted attention. Hamilton himself had lost over sixty men in skirmishes since he had chased Steyn from his last provincial capital at Lindley.
The two section commanders came to Cameron as they did each morning before moving out. A winter sun had put in a wan but very welcome appearance and all three men squatted beside a map spread on the ground in front of them. After the briefing, Cameron took questions to clarify any points of doubt then, without fuss, the others returned to their men, who were already mounted and impatient to get going.
It was just another day for Captain Granger-Acheson. As he swung himself into the saddle of his big bay gelding, Cameron had no idea that he was within sight of the kopje where Frazer lay buried. Of the lions there had been no sign.
Torben rose that same day to a typical Durban winter’s morning. It was chilly but not really cold and the kitchen range, which burned all night, warmed the whole house. He slipped from bed leaving Gerda in a deep sleep snuggled beneath a patchwork quilted eiderdown.
Shivering, Torben dressed and made his way downstairs where a pan of porridge bubbled on the hob and fresh paw-paw had been laid out for him. He ate quickly, the early hour’s silence broken only by the soft tick-tock of a grandfather clock standing imperiously in one corner.
Torben removed a fob watch from his pocket and compared the time. It was nearly five-thirty – he had half an hour to catch the train. A note for Gerda would reassure her that his trip north would not put him in peril. Before going to his study he slipped into the nursery. The arrival of his daughter, Alice, a little over three weeks earlier, had been one of the most joyful events of his life. He smiled down at the peaceful sleeping face and adjusted a blanket to keep her warm. Alice had been born on the first day of May and Torben felt the date to be auspicious. In Europe it was the old pagan day of celebration, summoning an abundance of crops and wealth in the coming summer. The birth had been relatively easy for Gerda. She had strong, child-bearing hips – not to mention the determination of tough farming forebears who had smashed the Zulu impis at Blood River during the Great Trek away from British occupation in 1838.
Torben felt a lump in his chest as he stared down at his tiny daughter, who remained blissfully unaware of his presence and slept with her eyes tightly closed. ‘Papa has to go away for a while, my precious, but when he returns, our lives may be very different. All being well, I will make you a true princess. One day you will wear diamonds and gold from the mines of this vast country. It is not without risk, ’ he added sadly. ‘But to give you all that I was denied will be worth every moment of it.’ He leaned forwards, gently kissing Alice on the forehead, smelling her milky scent, and a surge of love rushed through him. From that moment he knew that she had become his world.
Going quickly to the study, Torben scribbled a note explaining that he had been called away on urgent business and would be home in a few days. After stating his love, he blotted and folded the single sheet and left it in the drawing room for Gerda to find. Torben knew that had he attempted to discuss his trip into an area still in a state of war she would have raised objections. He was not willing to argue with his wife. With a newly born baby she would have plenty to occupy her during his short absence.
Unshaven, Torben closed the front door behind him and with little more than a small suitcase, had his waiting carriage take him to the railway station.
Cameron’s day of riding the veld proved hot and dusty, a cloud of choking ash announcing the presence of his men to all and sundry as they plodded through what seemed endless miles of burnt grassland. The occasional farmhouse and outbuildings showed no signs of life. Cameron ensured that they skirted any obvious pockets of European habitation as they were well into what was still considered hostile territory. As far as he could ascertain, they had not been sighted by the enemy. If they had, their nondescript uniforms would have made them look like a Boer patrol – a ruse de guerre but one necessary to carry out their mission.
Cameron rode point, beside him his NCO, Sergeant-Major Mulligan. The others fanned out on either flank, cautiously moving forwards to spy out the country. At night the column would regroup and form a defensive laager until the following morning. The young captain realised that one of his key roles as their leader was to set an example. Although he often wished to call a halt, dismount and light fires in anticipation of the night ahead, he knew that the safety of his men demanded a stoic fa
ce which ignored any personal craving for comfort.
‘We going to risk a fire tonight, Captain?’ Mulligan asked, as if reading Cameron’s thoughts.
‘Only if we are well hidden from prying eyes, ’ Cameron replied. ‘Perhaps a gully with some dry camel thorn which will burn without giving away our position.’
The warrant officer merely nodded. He agreed with the decision, tough as it was. The Boers were just as careful. A fire on the open veld could cost men their lives. Mulligan was yet to see how his commanding officer would react to conflict. He was not a man who accepted reputations without verifying them for himself.
‘Sir!’
Cameron turned to see the youngest member of his patrol pointing off to their right flank where a cloud of dust indicated a rider galloping towards them.
‘I think we have something, ’ he said.
The breathless African pulled up his mount, steam snorting from the hard-ridden horse’s nostrils. ‘Nkosi. Boer patrol. Seven men and one wagon over the next hill. They do not know we are here.’
‘Sarn’t-Major, ’Cameron responded, ‘call in the flankers. We might manage a prisoner or two.’
Mulligan wheeled away to signal the others while Cameron and the black messenger went back to the ridge, dismounted and crept forwards to observe the valley beyond. Sure enough, a small group of armed Boers were escorting an ox-wagon driven by an African. The enemy seemed quite relaxed, slouched in the saddle, rifles slung over their backs. They were moving slowly north and Cameron’s patrol outnumbered them three to one. Good odds for the young captain. He also had the element of surprise.
Cameron glanced over his shoulder and could see his men already grouped under the watchful eye of Sergeant-Major Mulligan. The two men moved back to where their horses were haltered a few yards behind the crest, mounted and rejoined the troop.
Cameron slid from his saddle and used a dusty boot to kick clear a patch of ground. The section commanders joined him in a huddle as he scratched a rough diagram in the dirt. ‘Right. This is the rise up ahead.’ Cameron pointed to the slight slope. ‘We are here, and there are seven mounted Boers with a wagon moving in this direction.’ Using the curved tip of his Bowie knife Cameron drew a mark. ‘Sarn’t-Major, I want you to take six men and move as quickly as possible along a parallel line. Here.’ He made another scratch in the dust. ‘Keep out of sight until you can cross in front of the enemy then turn in from the east and open fire from that position. Do you understand your orders?’
‘Yes, sir, ’Mulligan replied.
‘Mister Christison, ’ Cameron said, looking up at his second in command. ‘You are to hold back in reserve. Keep your men here, behind the ridge, and only engage the enemy on my direct order. Is that clear?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good, ’ Cameron grunted. ‘The rest of the troop will follow me. We’ll take up line abreast and advance right up their arse. Are there any questions?’
Silence was the answer. The orders were unambiguous, his troops ready for whatever lay ahead. Quickly, section commanders briefed those who would be going with them, then, with a wave to Cameron, Mulligan led his men out, keeping well to the west of their target. The others watched their comrades ride away, wondering what the next hour would bring. When the Zulu messengers reported everybody in place, Cameron had his remaining men mount up and form an extended line facing the slope.
‘Walk, ’came his next order. Carbines slipped from leather boots attached to their saddles as they moved slowly forwards, Cameron at the centre. Although his troop outnumbered the Boers, he had deliberately split it into three. Cameron had a sick feeling of apprehension. This was his first real command of men in action where he was solely responsible for the plan. In the past, as a junior officer, he had simply carried out orders, albeit with confidence and courage. Now it was all down to him. If things went wrong he would be held responsible.
Cameron checked to see that his reserve troops were in position. Although an officer, Lieutenant Christison was probably the most inexperienced member of his patrol, taken only on the condition that Cameron could select the rest of his troop. The young man came from an influential farming family near Grahamstown and his father had wrangled a commission with the South African Light Horse. The lad was likeable enough and keen to prove himself. Cameron could see that he had understood his orders and was holding his men just below the crest, out of sight of the Boers.
When Cameron’s attack section reached the ridge, they saw the enemy in a state of confusion, milling around, pointing, not sure which way to turn. Mulligan’s men had cut off the Boers’ advance and now the way back was blocked too.
‘Into them, boys, ’Cameron whooped as his troop thundered down the dusty slope towards an enemy a mere half-mile distant. The fat-spitting crackle of carbines shattered a sleepy Sunday afternoon as the trap closed. Any attempt to fight back was quickly cut short by the scything crossfire. The oxen panicked but with two down in their traces, the wagon was going nowhere. For the Boers there was no possibility of escape as, to a man, they were swept from their saddles. Only the African driver escaped, leaping off the wagon to lie face down in the dirt, hands clasped over his head and ears.
‘Bejesus!’ Cameron heard one soldier swear beside him when they came to a halt next to the scattered bodies of dead or wounded enemy. ‘So quick! Like a bloody surgeon cutting off a leg.’
Cameron knew what the man meant. The attack had started and finished in a matter of seconds. His first action as a commander of men – if only a small skirmish – had gone well, and glancing round he counted all six of the men who had ridden with him. The ambush had been a complete success.
Mulligan rode up and dismounted to check on the wounded. A young beardless boy, wearing dark farming attire and still clutching a Mauser rifle, had been hit through the thigh. He was around fifteen years old and lay on his back, blood pumping from a severed artery that had already soaked the upper part of his trousers with a sticky red stain. The boy’s ashen face was filled with pain and he moaned.
‘This one’s still alive, sir, ’ Mulligan called, glancing up at Cameron. ‘Poor bugger’s just a kid. You want to try to talk to him?’
Cameron dismounted and knelt beside the boy, whose eyes were tightly closed. ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked in a gentle voice, registering the lad’s peculiar appearance. His head seemed far too big for the young shoulders it rested on.
‘Ja, ’ he answered through gritted teeth, opening grey-blue eyes which lacked any hint of emotion.
‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Gil. Erich Gil. Where is my pa?’
Cameron looked questioningly at Mulligan, who silently shook his head. No others were left alive.
‘His father is that one over there.’ The African driver spoke in Zulu. His information escaped the rest of Cameron’s patrol but not him. He nodded, rose and walked to a body lying face down by the wagon. Turning him over, Cameron saw the sightless eyes of Roth Gil staring back at him. The man’s bottom jaw had been shattered, his thick beard already stiff with blood. Mulligan watched with a mix of curiosity and compassion as Cameron closed the dead man’s eyes. Cameron knew there was no easy way to do what had to be done and, taking one of Erich Gil’s huge hands in his, kept his words short and simple. ‘I am sorry, Erich, but your father is dead.’
The boy closed his eyes as tears of despair poured down his cheeks. The life was draining from him. ‘It is God’s punishment, ’ he sobbed bitterly. ‘Today is the Sabbath and God is punishing me for killing Danny Reese.’
Cameron thought the boy was rambling; he knew what had happened to Danny. ‘A lion took Danny, ’ Cameron said gently, still holding the boy’s cold hand.
‘No, it was me. I shot him then left his body for the lions. Now God has punished me by taking my father. I don’t want to die. I ...’ His voice fell to a whisper and with a strangled sigh Erich Gil slipped into a coma, soon to leave this world due to loss of blood.
Came
ron suddenly felt a terrible cold deep inside his body. He had lost a brother to the war and now, whether Erich’s confession was true or not, the Gil family would lose a father and son at his hands. The elation of such a small victory paled in the face of one so young dying in this lonely place on the vast veld of Africa. ‘What a fuck-up, ’ Cameron muttered under his breath.
Mulligan had organised a search of the bodies for papers, to retrieve firearms and ascertain the wagon’s cargo. As it transpired, there was little to be found. The wagon contained only empty ammunition boxes. Where the original contents might be was anybody’s guess.
The two dead oxen were expertly butchered by Lieutenant Christison, who gave each man a piece of backstrap which he could hopefully cook before the meat went off. There was little point in trying to conceal their presence, so fires that night were more than likely.
Cameron intended to take with them the wagon and twelve remaining beasts of burden. The African driver stood off to one side. Cameron turned to him. ‘What is a warrior of Dinuzulu doing working for those who treat him like a dog?’ he asked in Zulu.
The man – in his mid thirties, Cameron estimated – answered in the same tongue. ‘It was not by choice, ’ he said.
‘Then you are free to return to your kraal, ’ Cameron replied. ‘I will give you a blanket and inyama for your journey. Hamba kahle.’
The Zulu straightened and looked Cameron in the eye. ‘You speak my language as one who was born among us. I see you, ibhubesi. Sala kahle.’
Cameron had a trooper provide meat and a blanket for the Zulu wagon driver, who accepted the gifts with dignified gratitude. The soldiers were amused to see the African strip off his European clothes, return to the wagon and from under the seat retrieve an assegai. Without another word he looked up to stare at the sky. For a moment he stood still, as if sniffing the air, then turned south-east and set off, jogging easily towards the distant Drakensberg.
Footprints of Lion Page 25
