The Covenant

by James A. Michener

  De Groot judged that swift movement on his part might halt the rout, but as his men approached, the English commander unleashed a unit which up to now had been held in reserve: four hundred lancers roared onto the plain, sweeping toward the confused Boers. When they spotted the arrival of the Venloo Commando, half the force broke away and came directly at the new target.

  The Boers rarely charged an enemy on horseback; they usually dismounted, tied their ponies, and fought on foot. Nor did they like the idea of one white man stabbing at another with bayonets and lances; to them, decent warfare permitted only bullets, with stabbing a savage tactic resorted to by Zulu and Xhosa. But now here came the English cavalry, galloping like fiends across the open space, their lances flashing in the sunlight that broke through the clouds.

  It was a dreadful affray, those huge horses coming at the Boers, those long, sharp lances jabbing at the disorganized burghers caught unprepared in the open. Van Doorn narrowly escaped when a lance smacked into his saddle, jarring his pony to a deathly stop and tossing him to the ground. Luckily, he made it on foot to some rocks, but watched as a score of his fellow Boers were cut down. Because of the nature of a cavalry charge—fifteen, twenty, forty mounted men thundering one behind another along a single path—any Boer who was struck by one lance was apt to be hit by a dozen others, so that a dead body could be riddled.

  The Venloo Commando was broken and scattered, which encouraged the Englishmen to launch a second and third charge. On and on they came, yelling and shouting and spewing obscenities; Van Doorn heard one young officer cry, ‘What a glorious pig-sticking!’ His khaki uniform was splattered with blood; this was a grand battue all over again, a wild and savage slaughter.

  Aside from the group of rocks in which Jakob hid, along with five others, there was no cover for any Boers who lost their ponies, so the razor-sharp lances were free to pick them off at will as they ran screaming across the veld. Some of the commando did manage to escape on their ponies, and these closed ranks with De Groot; their rapid fire from the saddle diverted the English cavalry from destroying trapped men like Van Doorn, but nothing could stop the butchery of the Venloo men.

  At last the victorious lancers withdrew, having lost only a handful of their men; but when ashen-faced Van Doorn inspected the bloodstained veld he found more than seventy Boers slain, most with more than six deep gashes in their bodies; one young fellow caught in the full path of the first and third charges had been punctured eighteen times. When De Groot saw this lad—the one who had dared to dance with Sybilla, who had kissed Johanna van Doorn in the barn—and witnessed the obscene manner in which he had been stabbed, he stood over his young fighter and swore an oath: ‘I will destroy the English cavalry.’

  He got his first chance during the ensuing battle for Ladysmith. Having learned his lesson, he used the best scouts available: Micah Nxumalo and two other blacks, who reported accurately the movements of the English cavalry. He moved his commando as close to the lancers’ position as he could, praying that they would accept the bait he was about to throw before them: ‘They’ll never catch us in the open again. But let the swine think they can eat us up like they did before.’

  Like an old and practiced spider, he spun his web. On five successive days he changed his guard an hour before dusk, instructing his men to walk from their posts slowly, as if weary from the November heat. Replacements were to arrive tardily and to appear listless. Six men or seven were to be visible between the tents, and there was to be desultory movement. Everything was to look like a poorly managed Boer camp, and for five days absolutely nothing happened. So he prolonged the drill, inventing new pieces of activity which would help create the illusion, and on the eleventh day the English cavalry came out again, with nearly two hundred men.

  The roles given the forward actors were perilous indeed, for the thundering cavalry was allowed right into the heart of the encampment, with enough Boers running distraught to maintain the illusion, and these must be adroit enough to escape death from the stabbing lances. Two failed, and with great cries of triumph, the cavalrymen hacked them to death.

  But when the sortie had passed through the camp, it found itself enfiladed not only by the survivors of the Venloo Commando but also by one hundred burghers from the Carolina contingent borrowed for this occasion, and from those grim Boers came a withering crossfire, aimed not at the lancers but at their horses. And as the beasts went down or ran wild in fury, Boer marksmen calmly shot any surviving cavalrymen. Only those who surrendered instantly were spared, and not all of them.

  The Englishmen who made it through the fusillade regrouped at the far end of the camp and wanted to speed back to save their grounded comrades, and some daring horsemen tried, but when they were mowed down by concentrated rifle fire, their companions realized that this day’s battle was over. In a wide sweep they galloped away from the laager, returning to Ladysmith a sadly depleted force.

  There was other bad news for the English. After the fall of Dundee, many thousands of Boer horsemen had been released to join the assault on Ladysmith, and when the English infantry marched out to give battle, they were sorely thrashed, the Boers capturing more than nine hundred prisoners. This meant that henceforth the troops in the town must stay on the defensive. The English could hold on, but they could not swing over to the attack.

  It was a notable victory for the Boers, but at the moment of triumph a fatal weakness manifested itself: the Boer generals began squabbling among themselves. Paulus de Groot, epitome of the daring commando leader, repeated his request to ignore stalemated Ladysmith and gallop south in wide, swinging raids, dashing right into Durban before reinforcements could be landed, but other commandants, who were frightened at the idea of leaving a redoubt in English hands, insisted that brash De Groot stay with them, help them mount a siege, and gradually wear away the English defenders.

  ‘We must strike while we’re free!’ De Groot pleaded.

  ‘Paulus,’ the old commandant-general said, ‘if God extends a finger to us in this great victory, we mustn’t grab for His entire hand. He would not like it if you galloped off to Durham.’ De Groot was ordered to remain, to dig in, and passively watch the English in Ladysmith.

  That night he met with his veldkornets. ‘I am sorely worried. Commandos were born to move, we should be galloping south.’ When no one spoke, tears came to his eyes. ‘I can see us roaring into Durban. Taking the port. Throwing the English back into the sea.’ Still no one spoke. ‘Once we let them land, they’ll be like bulldogs. They’ll never let go.’ The Venloo men knew he was right, but they had their orders and there was nothing they could say, and again tears trickled down his beard. ‘We sit here tonight, losing the war.’

  Then came exhilarating news which assured the Boers that victory was still within their grasp: Boers on all the other fronts had won stunning victories, which encouraged De Groot to urge once more a dash to the sea that would end the war. This time permission was granted, but he was forestalled by precisely what he had feared: thousands of English troops had sailed into Durban harbor and were already entraining for the north. This mighty force would quickly lift the siege of Ladysmith and go on to destroy the Boers.

  The preponderance of power would rapidly become so overwhelming—five, sometimes ten well-armed professional soldiers against one fighting Boer, ten heavy guns to one—that the Anglo-Boer War should have ended well before Christmas. In this opinion all the foreign military experts concurred.

  It was the custom in these years for any army in the field to invite uniformed observers from friendly nations to march with it, observe its performance, and report to their own headquarters the quality of this army’s fighting men. German officers rode with the Boers, and French and Russian and some South Americans, while the same nations sent other officers to report on the English.

  At the end of 1899 these cautious experts concluded that despite initial Boer victories, the English on the Natal front would rather quickly lift the siege of Ladysmith a
nd then, in an orderly fashion, bring in so many troops through Durban that victory was assured. But in early 1900, after an opportunity to assess the remarkable general London had dispatched to do the job, they became confused.

  Said the German observer in his cable to Berlin: ‘With this man the English will be lucky to win in four years.’

  But the French major wired in code to Paris: ‘He’s the type who gives the enemy much trouble, the traditional English bulldog who holds on with every muscle in his body.’

  Wrote the Russian: ‘If this man is what the English War Office considers a general, I suggest you terminate our proposals for a military treaty with England.’

  But the American reported: ‘Do not underestimate him. He’s the type of general who holds the British Empire together. The Boers will defeat him six times in a row, then realize with dismay that he has won the seventh, and final, battle.’

  Sir Redvers Buller, scion of the noble family that had given King Henry VIII two of his queens, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, was sixty years old, something over two hundred and forty pounds in weight, and chair-bound at headquarters for the past eleven years. His appointment as commander-in-chief of the English effort in South Africa had been bitterly opposed by one faction in the War Office and the cabinet, somewhat tepidly supported by another faction that wanted a no-nonsense man in the field. He himself, when he heard of his impending selection, wanted to avoid it, judging himself to be inadequate, for he had never commanded a full army, but in the end he had accepted on the sensible grounds cited by many another man called to assume major responsibilities: ‘I’m as good as any of the others.’

  Prior to embarking on his great adventure, he had the bad luck to make an observation which would haunt him: ‘I doubt I shall have to do much fighting against the Boers in the field. My only fear is that everything may be ended before I get there.’

  But as his ship neared Cape Town, a passing vessel moved close, and without stopping, hung out a huge blackboard with alarming news about the confusion on the Natal front, so that when Buller reached Africa he was a much-sobered man, determined to do his bulldog best.

  The troopship put into Cape Town about an hour after dusk on 30 October 1899, in a driving rain. Since this was too late for a gala entrance, the passengers slept fitfully while those ashore prepared to greet the man they relied on to protect them from the rampaging Boers.

  Early next morning Cape Town was aflutter with excitement, thousands of citizens having gathered at the docks to greet their hero. Gangways threaded with ribbons led to the ship’s deck, where a monstrous cinematograph was being worked by four men in cloth caps: the arrival of the great man would be recorded in motion pictures. Bands played, little girls carried flowers, every government official was present, and a bishop offered prayer.

  Precisely at nine in the morning trumpets sounded, drums rolled, and Sir Redvers Buller stepped forth to command the war effort in Africa. He was of medium height, with an enormous belly, and had a strange head which once seen could never be forgotten. It was shaped like an eggplant, heavy and triple-chinned at the bottom, rising almost to a point at the top. His small eyes almost touched at the bridge of a very large nose, which guarded a huge, bushy mustache that smothered his weak upper lip. As if he sought to accentuate the odd shape of his head, he favored a small, tight military hat with a long visor that obscured his vision.

  When he spoke, his one conspicuous asset manifested itself: his voice rumbled with deep, masculine authority, but what it said was rarely understood, for a rambunctious horse had kicked out his front teeth. An irreverent Capetowner, startled by Buller’s appearance, whispered, ‘He looks like a distressed walrus,’ but a reserve officer who knew Buller’s record for extreme bravery replied, ‘Sir, you are wrong. He looks like John Bull.’

  General Buller proceeded directly to Government House, where he was briefed on the shocking prospects facing the English forces, for as the local officer explained: ‘We are threatened on two fronts. On the west our troops are besieged at Mafeking and the diamond town of Kimberley. On the east they can’t break out of Ladysmith. And we hear rumors that the Cape Afrikaners are about to rise in rebellion.’

  So instead of occupying a relaxed position in Cape Town and directing his subordinate generals to dash this way and that, subduing the obstreperous Boers, Buller was faced with the awesome necessity of splitting his army into two parts and taking field command of one of them. ‘I’ll need time to study this,’ he said, and forthwith he established his headquarters in a small house on a side street; for his living quarters he chose rooms in the Mount Nelson Hotel, and early one morning a tall, handsome man in a newly purchased uniform of major in the local corps knocked on his door.

  To provide Buller with maximum support, Her Majesty’s government in Cape Town had scurried about to find some young man with strong business experience to serve as economic liaison, and upon the advice of several older men, Frank Saltwood was chosen.

  The men who selected him for this important post advised: ‘You must find out as much about Buller as you can. Always helpful to know how a man’s mind works.’ For the past two weeks Frank had been doing just that, and like the military observers at the front, he was getting conflicting reports.

  ‘Most important,’ an English official said, ‘he’s of noble lineage. Duke of Norfolk, and all that. True gentleman, but of the rough sort.’

  An English military man said, ‘Enjoys the absolute confidence of the General Staff. Good Old Buller, they call him. He’s welcomed at court, and Queen Victoria rather dotes on him.’

  But it was a South African of Dutch-Huguenot descent who contributed the first important bit of information: ‘Never forget that against the Zulu in 1879 he won the Victoria Cross. Bravery beyond description. Just set his jaw and walked right through enemy fire to rescue a group of wounded men. A man of extreme bravery. Proved it again in Egypt.’

  The encomiums continued, explaining why he had been selected and constructing the portrait of the classic English general, and it was not until the third or fourth day that nagging details began to surface. One enlisted English soldier told Saltwood, ‘You must remember, for the past eleven years it’s been mostly chair duty for that one.’

  Another soldier who had seen Buller at the War Office in London contributed: ‘He’s past sixty, I think, and gotten frightfully fat. Must have weighed eighteen stone when I saw him.’

  A major newly arrived said, ‘Only hearsay, but I believe the Staff was sharply divided about accepting him. Some wanted younger, harder drivers like Kitchener or Allenby. Others wanted trusted older men like Lord Roberts. There was grave suspicion that Buller might not be up to the challenge.’

  ‘Then why was he chosen?’ Saltwood asked, scribbling rapidly to keep up with the flow of words.

  ‘It was the general impression,’ the newcomer said, ‘that he was a good fellow who deserved a shot at high command.’ He coughed, then added, ‘He’s never led an army, you know.’

  ‘Why would they give such a man so important a job?’

  ‘Well, he had been around a long time and it was his turn.’

  A young Englishman who knew considerable about his country’s military system, and who was obviously perplexed by the appointment of Buller, said reflectively, ‘It just occurred to me. Take all the leading generals assigned to this campaign. Not one has ever led his troops against an enemy that wore shoes.’

  This extraordinary statement produced a thoughtful silence, broken by Saltwood, who asked, pen still in hand, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’ve fought barefooted Afghans, and barefooted Egyptians, and barefooted Sindi. “Shoulder-to-shoulder, men, and drive the pagan blighters back to the hills.” I know nothing about the Boers, but I believe they wear shoes.’

  ‘They do,’ a South African conceded. ‘But essentially they’re a rabble. Buller should have no trouble with them.’

  ‘But a rabble with shoes,’ the young Englishman wa
rned.

  It was an older English officer who gave Saltwood the most helpful information: ‘I knew him in England, after his days of glory in the field. He had only two objectives. Build the best army possible. Do everything to protect the welfare of the troops. I’m told in recent letters that he wasn’t the unanimous choice of either the War Office or the cabinet, but he was a good choice. He had many Boers in his unit when he fought out here against the Zulu. He’ll respect them.’

  It was with this body of conflicting opinions that Frank Saltwood approached Buller’s room that October morning, and before he had been with the general two minutes, he realized that all his research had been useless. Frank’s major problem was understanding what the general was saying, for he had trouble pronouncing words because of his missing teeth, and those he did say were often lost in his mustache. Frank wondered if he had heard the opening words correctly.

  ‘Glad to have you, young fellow. What I mean … hhmmph … you’re to fetch me an iron tub.’

  ‘Did you say iron tub, sir?’

  ‘What I mean, if I have to go to the front meself. Man must have his bath, what?’

  ‘You mean a tub to carry with you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, damnit, what I mean, a man can’t go dirty on bivouac, can he?’

  He also wanted a mobile kitchen so large that it would require an entire wagon and eight mules. He wanted a feather bed with extra blankets: ‘Don’t want the cold to impede us, do we, hhmmph?’ After a whole morning of this, in which Saltwood jotted down enough items to fill a small store, the general asked abruptly, ‘How far to Stellenbosch?’

  ‘The train might get you there and back in a day. But there are no troops, enemy or …’

  ‘Damn. Well, you know, in London and all that.’