All three men inside the house had stopped firing and were out of sight, probably mounting up at the back door. Cameron saw two of the Boers who had brought the horses break away and ride towards Henry. It was obvious they intended to thwart his attempted rescue of Lieutenant Christison.
‘Target at twelve o’clock, two riders, ’Cameron roared. ‘Section fire, three rounds rapid ...fire!’ As one, the men held in reserve turned their attention to the horsemen bearing down on Henry and the wounded officer. The range was at least a thousand yards but section fire concentrated so many bullets on the target that one or two would hopefully find their mark. The shotgun effect worked. Cameron watched with satisfaction as one of the Boers was snatched from his saddle, the second reining away and racing to find safety beyond the ridge where his companions had already disappeared.
Henry was heaving and pushing the wounded officer onto his horse and with great difficulty managed to sling him over the saddle, his body hanging limp on either side. Finding a blood-soaked stirrup, the Zulu swung up behind him and headed for the river. A cheer rose from the watching soldiers as they acknowledged the act of sheer nerve and courage. Barring one presumed dead and two wounded, the patrol returned safely. They had been lucky and Cameron knew it.
Two soldiers helped Henry with Lieutenant Christison, placing him gently on the ground. Cameron slid from his horse and slapped his friend on the back. ‘Well done, Henry, that was a brave thing you did out there.’ The call was quickly echoed by others. He knelt beside the young officer whose eyes were open and staring.
‘Had papers saying they’d signed the amnesty, ’ he blurted out, a terrible pain etched on his ghostlike face. ‘Sorry, sir. They tricked us.’ Blood soaked the wounded man’s tunic and suddenly pink froth welled from his mouth, choking off any further report.
Cameron ripped open Christison’s clothing. He had been shot in the back, the bullet ripping through his body and puncturing a lung. The exit wound was enormous. ‘Dumdum, ’Cameron muttered in disgust, aware that the practice of cutting bullets to make them expand on contact had been outlawed by the Hague Convention over a year ago. A bubbling gurgle ended the man’s fight for life.
‘Are we going to have a go at them murdering Dutchies?’ Sergeant-Major Mulligan asked as he hovered over the tragic tableau. ‘Give them a taste of their own medicine.’
‘We will, Sarn’t-Major, ’Cameron replied. ‘But only when I say so, ’ he added more firmly, fixing the man with a steely glare to establish his authority. ‘Do you see that dead ground on the left, where the Boers disappeared?’
Mulligan squinted into the distance, looking at the barely discernible ridge Cameron had indicated. ‘I do, sir. Just this side of the house and maybe two hundred yards out.’
‘If you were their leader where would you position a pom-pom or machine gun?’
‘Right there, sir. With a clear field of fire when we came in to rescue our wounded. In the open nobody would stand a chance.’
‘Precisely, ’ Cameron said, knowing his NCO now understood why he had not issued an order to charge the farmhouse.
‘Sorry, sir, ’Mulligan said softly, trying to keep the exchange between the two of them. It was not his place to question a senior officer’s orders but Irish blood remained Irish blood and sometimes it boiled over.
As if on cue, the sound of a fast-firing Maxim broke the silence and a hail of heavy bullets shredded the trees above their heads. ‘Dismount and take cover, ’ Cameron bawled. His men needed no second bidding as the enemy gunner adjusted his range. He couldn’t see his target but that hardly mattered. There was little shelter save for spindly tree trunks and a few rocks along the river. Cameron’s horse whinnied in terror, collapsing as a shell smashed into its flank and exploded, shards of jagged metal finding the vital organs which until that moment had given it life.
‘You were right, ’Mulligan said unnecessarily as both men rolled behind the dead animal for protection. ‘We would have been slaughtered.’
‘True, but now they’ve trapped themselves – if we can act fast enough.’ Cameron chanced a look at the far slope. Sure enough, the gun was positioned at one end of the distant depression. ‘Smithy!’ he called to one of his men, an ever-cheery Scot who crouched behind a tree a few yards away.
‘Sur?’
‘Ride like hell to the main column. Tell the artillery boys we’ve got a target for them. Here, take this map. Explain where we are then point out the enemy position. I believe there could be as many as thirty Boers up there with that pom-pom.’ Cameron marked his map and thrust it into the waiting soldier’s hand.
‘Nay problem, ’ Smithy nodded, tucking it inside his tunic. Braving the more sporadic incoming fire, he swung into the saddle and splashed back across the river.
The main column was at least ten miles away and Cameron had his fingers crossed that guns could be brought up in time to prevent the enemy slipping away under cover of darkness. He turned to his NCO. ‘This komando is probably low on ammunition and with any luck won’t know our strength. All we have to do is keep them pinned down until the big boys get here.’
Mulligan reloaded his Lee Metford, leaned on the dead horse’s saddle and took careful aim at the tiny target. ‘Fire at will, ’he shouted, squeezing the trigger.
Cameron sent Henry to ascertain the extent of their casualties while he kept watch on the enemy position, hoping the Boers would not try to break out. Whoever led the enemy would be a fool to keep them there. Their attempt to draw in the patrol had failed and under the unwritten laws of guerrilla warfare it was time to leave.
Henry returned to report two dead and three wounded. The horses had been hit hardest.
Cameron was relieved. Turning to the man he had grown up with he said, ‘If you were a regular soldier, what you did out there today would have won you a Victoria Cross.’
‘And white, ’ Henry added. ‘My skin is the wrong colour, in case you hadn’t noticed. Anyway, I didn’t do it for a medal.’
‘Then why risk your life for one of us?’ Cameron queried, knowing that his boyhood friend harboured a deep resentment of the manner in which Europeans had treated the Zulu people.
Henry slapped a full magazine into the receiver under his rifle, pulled back the bolt and fed a live round into the chamber. ‘I’m not sure, ’ he replied. ‘Perhaps it was because I knew you would have done the same.’
It was three hours later when Cameron heard the sound of heavy artillery commencing its bombardment of the enemy position. They were firing from far back across the river, well beyond the effective range of a pom-pom. ‘Here we go, ’he called, raising his glasses and seeing the first shells come crashing down just behind the ridge. An observer signalled the necessary corrections by heliograph and the next salvo fell slightly short. The gunners were bracketing their target. Seconds later came the combined fire of six 12-pounders dropping fused shrapnel shells into the depression itself.
As Cameron’s patrol watched, they saw men and horses spill over the far rim in panicked flight. A cheer rang out along the river as the skilled observer signalled a slight change in trajectory, sending death and destruction to fleeing Boers. Solid steel balls indiscriminately ripped into both men and horses, tearing limbs from bodies, beheading some and disembowelling others.
It was a terrible sight but Cameron dispassionately watched the carnage. Through his field glasses he saw the dry grass changing colour. It had nothing to do with the rapidly setting sun. He felt no pity for the dead and dying – even the death of his young second in command had left him cold. Had it been because he no longer cared, Cameron wondered, realising that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Never before had he lost any of his troops in action. The men were removing saddles and bridles from the dead horses, a bullet bringing peace to those that would be going no further.
Cameron looked around him. None of this would have happened if he was the leader his men had come to expect. He had let them down. It was something Cameron knew he would live with fo
r the rest of his life. It was the stuff of nightmares.
‘What do we do with the farmhouse?’ Mulligan’s voice cut through his thoughts.
‘Burn it, ’ Cameron yelled. ‘Burn the whole bloody lot.’
TWENTY-ONE
A dust devil swirled its way across the garden causing chickens to squawk and scatter in momentary panic. Lorna sat on the verandah, cooling herself with a finely decorated Chinese fan as she watched a sky boiling black with summer rain far out over the Indian Ocean. She could smell the distant storm. It would not be long before the dry ground turned to sticky, cloying mud.
Most days Lorna would spend the hour before dark reading, writing or just watching for anybody coming to the house. More specifically she watched and waited for any member of her family. That was how it had started but as the months passed her vigil became little more than routine: a time to relax and think.
At least letters came but Lorna was often worried by what she read between the lines. Duncan’s words were becoming more and more pessimistic. He wrote of winning the war only to create a legacy of hate in those who were defeated. She understood why her son should be so concerned. Duncan had always spoken out about what he believed, quick to condemn injustice in any shape or form. The burning of Boer farms was a practice he would not condone.
Cameron caused Lorna the greatest concern. Since the war started his letters had been bright with optimism and full of praise for the British. About a month earlier, something had happened which changed that completely. The last letter Lorna received was so brusque she sensed only bitterness and anger. He gave no explanation. As a mother, Lorna knew she could do nothing to help either of her boys until they were home where they belonged.
Only Ellie’s letters brought any glimmer of hope for the future. She wrote that casualty numbers had dropped off considerably and married life with Lindsay was a joy.
Lorna did not expect to receive word from Dallas as he had never been one to sit down with pen and paper. It was Duncan who kept her up to date with his well-being, ending every letter, Father is well and sends you all his love. She always smiled at that, knowing full well that Dallas would not even have been consulted. The paucity of letters from her husband had nothing to do with a lack of love. Lorna accepted that. In his mind she was with him always and nothing had changed. And a fat lot of good that does, she mused, placing Duncan’s letter to one side and watching a rider coming towards the house.
It was Meggie, returning from one of her now quite regular visits to Kingsway. She no longer sought permission as nothing her mother could say or do would deter her from seeing the man she loved and intended to marry. Lorna was only too aware that if she tried to stop Meggie visiting Stanley King her daughter would probably leave home and alienate herself from the family forever– something Lorna could not bear even to think of. Their relationship remained strained, but on the surface both pretended that Stan King was not an issue between them. Dallas still knew nothing of the situation and Lorna prayed that he would soon come home and put an end to the matter once and for all. Meggie was her father’s darling, while she adored and respected him. He was the only person their headstrong daughter might listen to.
It had not taken Lorna long to realise that the attraction Stanley King held for Meggie had a lot to do with his being very much like Dallas. Both were older men who had led fascinating, often dangerous lives. Was it not said that sons often marry mirror images of their mothers; and daughters, those of their fathers?
Meggie was covered in dust. She waved a cheery greeting to her mother. Dismounting, she patted herself down, removed the short Winchester from its leather boot and called a servant to take care of her horse. Wearily she climbed the steps, said hello to the dogs and slumped into a cane chair beside her mother.
‘You’re home sooner than I expected, young lady. Problems in paradise?’ Lorna hadn’t intended sarcasm but the words were out before she could stop them.
‘No, Mother.’ Meggie raised her eyebrows in unstated annoyance. ‘Stan had to go to Durban and I didn’t want to stay there on my own.’ She saw the letter lying on a riempie stool between them and recognised Duncan’s handwriting. ‘I stopped off to see Tanith on the way home. She’s enormous.’
‘The poor wee lamb’s a week overdue, ’Lorna pointed out, putting aside her resentment of Meggie and Stan’s relationship.
‘Duncan must be panicking, ’Meggie said. ‘I hope it’s a girl – they’re so cuddly. Boys do nothing but kick and squirm all the time.’
Lorna laughed. ‘I’ll go over tomorrow and see if I can be of any help.’
Meggie read her brother’s letter while Lorna’s mind drifted. This would be her first real grandchild. Somehow she had not been able to accept Torben and Gerda’s daughter as one – though, of course, her feelings on the matter remained unstated. Duncan and Tanith’s child would be family by blood and Lorna found herself wondering what she could do to welcome their baby into the world. She had followed the pregnancy closely and was slightly concerned that it had gone beyond term.
‘In fact, ’ Lorna suggested, ‘we should both go and see Tanith in the morning.’
‘That would be grand, ’ Meggie replied brightly, sensing a return of their mother and daughter closeness in the shared anticipation of a new family member.
If only Dallas and Duncan could be here too, Lorna thought with sadness. They would be missing the start of a new Granger-Acheson generation.
Torben found himself sleeping less and less each night. There was no doubt he was being followed to and from his plush office at the cemetery end of West Street. Those who shadowed his every move were white, but he had been unable to determine any more than that. When Torben finally summoned enough courage to confront one of them, he did so armed with an umbrella and his two-shot derringer pistol. The fellow simply turned away and disappeared into an area crowded with Indian traders pedalling their exotic wares from a labyrinth of makeshift stalls. Torben decided not to follow. Feeling frustrated, he resumed his walk home.
Even in the leafy street off Musgrave Road where his house, more like a mansion, stood secure behind an eight foot high wrought-iron fence, he could still feel their eyes watching him. It was not a case of being paranoid. Those who hounded him were highly organised, having the resources to draw on so many people that not one face stood out in his mind.
Torben closed the front door behind him, passing his umbrella to a uniformed African maid who had been taught to curtsey when accepting a task from the master or mistress of the house. He found Gerda in the drawing room.
‘Is all well, dearest? You look very pale.’
‘It is nothing.’ Torben shook his head, attempting to avoid any further questions from his rather observant wife. ‘Just the heat.’
‘You really should take the carriage, poppet. This weather is far too hot for you to be walking.’
Mumbling an excuse, Torben left the room and went upstairs to his study. Sitting behind his desk he stared at the wall opposite, reflecting on what had happened since leaving his office. Whoever that man was, he wanted to remain anonymous, Torben thought. At least it confirmed his suspicion that he was under observation. Not knowing why or by whom frightened him more than anything else. Could it be that the Broederbond were keeping an eye on him? Torben struggled to find an answer that made any sense. Were his employers making sure that their agent was doing what they paid him to do? He doubted it. Anyway, these people seemed young, clean-cut and fit looking – more like policemen. That thought really frightened him. What if the British authorities were wise to his double dealings? Although the day was warm, Torben felt a sudden chill in the room. He could be hanged for what he was doing. Adding to his personal wealth was one thing, helping finance the enemy’s war effort quite another.
Torben decided that the risk was worth taking. It would not be long before he was able to assume his rightful place in Durban society, and why stop at Durban? He would be welcomed in exclusive establishments and pr
estigious colonial clubs from Cape Town to Kimberley, rubbing shoulders with the empire builders of Africa. Money bought respectability and opened doors. Even wealthy Jews were accepted, despite their religion or climb to the top, often from the most humble beginnings. Yes, any risk was small compared with the potential rewards, he thought. Rising, he poured himself a generous measure of the most expensive malt whisky he had been able to purchase in Durban. Already two cases of Scotland’s finest were on order, most of which would be used as gifts to favoured business associates, impressing them with his wealth and taste.
A sharp rapping on the door downstairs and the sound of a loud commanding voice snapped Torben out of his growing complacency. For a second he froze in absolute terror, powerless to move. How had he got past the gates? That stupid Kaffir must have left them open again! He could hear the maid arguing with their unexpected visitor. Whoever it was had no intention of going away. Downing the contents of his glass in a single swig, Torben stepped out onto the landing. Gerda was already there, protectively clutching Alice to her ample bosom.
‘What’s going on? Who are those men?’ she asked fearfully.
So there were more than one – that, he hadn’t anticipated. ‘I am about to find out, ’Torben replied calmly. ‘Do not worry, my dearest. The last time strangers came to our door we ended up making a lot of money.’ He laid a reassuring hand on Gerda’s arm and smiled. Inside, his stomach was churning. ‘You put Alice to bed and I’ll see to our visitors.’
Torben descended to the entrance hall where the maid was still holding the strangers at bay. There were three of them, all dressed in ill-fitting dark suits and wearing bowler hats. They looked quite ridiculous and he knew without a second glance that these were no businessmen. ‘Thank you, Sixpence, ’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ The maid needed no second bidding.
‘Mister Torben Petersen?’one of the men asked. He was in his mid forties and spoke with a London accent. His companions were younger. Torben thought them to be in their late twenties and tough-looking. Bullyboys, he decided.
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