He chose not to mention later that he was beginning to regret his own participation, for his arm became so rigid that he could scarcely use it, and the fact that there was little to do gave one time to dwell on the discomfort. To stave off self-pity, he concentrated instead on Grace, who had never been far from his thoughts and was especially present on Christmas Day as he sat listening to the band playing carols and hymns.
But another was to creep into his mind as they passed St Helena, and he wondered what Emily was doing, whether she too had found anyone else. Had Wedlock’s intervention truly prevented the marriage from being legal? It was best to believe it had for if not then he was now a bigamist. Assailed by a prickle of shame and guilt, he drove her from his thoughts, glad that he would not be landing there.
Being vastly superior to others that had made this voyage, the ship took only twenty days to reach Durban, arriving on the first day of January 1900, although an extra three days was spent in having to unload everything onto lighters, the ship being too large to cross the harbour bar.
Durban was packed with refugees from the Transvaal, its wharves crowded with transport and soldiers, horses and wagon wheels and crates of arms. Cramped amongst all this, the new arrivals were ordered to spread out their kit for inspection. Then it was time for a march through cheering crowds of English patriots and the usual heaving mass of blacks in every manner of dress – shabby European suits, gaudy blankets, knitted helmets – all delighted to see the soldiers before they entrained for Natal.
Packed into open trucks, they spent thirteen hours at the mercy of flies and fleas and mosquitoes, dust and grilling heat, the train whistling and grunting its way up the steep winding mountain railway of the garden colony, alarming large apes that scrambled away from the iron monster and bounded onto rocky ledges. It was much hotter than Probyn remembered, but such discomforts were tempered by the knots of smiling, grateful people who waited at every stopping place with gifts of tea and fruit and cigarettes. It was marvellous to be so feted.
Early on Thursday morning they arrived at Estcourt, once a mere village now a vast city, the plains around its old sandstone fort lost in a sea of white bell-tents. Here they were met by Lieutenant-General Sir Charles Warren and their Brigade Major, Captain Vertue, and welcomed as the last regiment to complete the 5th Division. There had recently come the news that General Buller had been replaced as commander-in-chief by General Roberts though Buller retained command of the Natal army. Probyn was glad of the latter, having great admiration and faith in General Buller despite the recent setback.
From then on, the next five days were spent in practising a new scheme of attack in extended order – the folly of advancing in close formation having been learned at Colenso – and camouflaging the light-coloured parts of their uniforms with earth from ant hills. With the officers being required to exchange their Sam Brownes, swords and revolvers for the buff belts and rifles of the rank and file, it was hard to distinguish them and frequent insults occurred, tempers exacerbated by the climate.
Three years had passed since Probyn had last been in Africa and this time he found it difficult to readapt. The current heatwave had turned the waterways to little more than muddy runnels, the shortage forcing him to go unshaven and unwashed which he detested, and even worse was the choking cloud of dust stirred up by manoeuvres.
But within days came a refreshing breeze signalling that rain could not be far away and his affection for Natal was rekindled. In this lovely country with its clear golden light, the fluid birdsong and the soothing chant of African labourers in the fields, it would have been difficult to imagine the enemy was just beyond the terrace of hills, had it not been for the distinct sound of bombardment that periodically ruined his idyll.
‘Hang on, Ladysmith, the Young and Lovelies will soon be there to rescue you,’ he announced cheerily for the benefit of his platoon who had grown increasingly frustrated at being kept from the fighting.
Though he was not so jaunty a few hours later as he saw a sheet of blackness looming towards the camp, turning day to night, and rain came lashing through the line of bell-tents, the ensuing deluge almost washing them away.
From being smothered in dust, the soldiers were now up to their ankles in mud. Yet at least there was to be no sitting around in it for the order came to strike tents and with it a great surge of enthusiasm. Regiment by regiment, the 5th Division began to move off towards the Tugela, a fifteen mile long column of heavy artillery, thousand upon thousand of white troops, native levies, turbaned stretcher-bearers, ambulances, great spans of mule and ox-wagons, and it was with a confident air that Sergeant Kilmaster and the rest of the 11th Brigade answered the bugler’s call to join the convoy at four o’clock on that January morning, each man having great faith in his leaders, and relegating General Buller’s initial failure to relieve Ladysmith to a mere aberration.
Heavy rain made that first day’s march an arduous one, the meandering road extremely slippery, wagons being delayed for hours in trying to cross the swollen spruits, the constant yells from the Zulu drivers and the cracking of their bamboo whips as the poor beleaguered oxen became bogged down time after time, rain streaming over their ebony flanks, it was a most dreary trek. It was not until nine-thirty in the evening that they eventually squelched into Frere and pitched tents, by which time Probyn was exhausted, his previous role of mounted infantry and his lack of footwork in England leaving him ill-prepared for such ordeals.
But the army did not make concessions. Under orders to move off at noon on the following day, this diligent sergeant ensured that all was packed and ready by then, he and his men eager to respond to the shells they could see erupting from the garrison at Ladysmith, which made it all the more galling to be told they would now not be moving until evening. Left to the mercy of the broiling sun without any form of shade, Probyn could only order his frustrated zealots to be calm. Thenceforth, he and they were compelled to sit and examine their surroundings now that the tents were packed, all that was left being the stationmaster’s house bearing scars of a Boer raid, a Union Jack on a pole, three corrugated iron buildings, and the usual detritus of an army on the march, acres of churned up mud littered with empty cans.
Night clouds brought relief, but this feeling was short-lived for with the march came sheets of rain, men constantly slipping and jumping aside to avoid obstacles, sometimes falling into an unseen donga. Moreover, the wet season had given birth to a variety of insects.
‘I’d forgotten what a joy this was,’ muttered Probyn to Corporal Queen who marched nearby, both caked in mud.
A miserable Queen agreed. ‘What I want to know is, why hasn’t our stint at mounted infantry been put to use?’
Probyn did not know the answer, saying only, ‘Ours not to reason why.’ Then, coming to another swollen spruit, he advised his men, ‘Take hold of the rifle of the man in front and keep your eyes on the officer with the lamp!’ A staff officer stood on the far side of the rushing stream with a lantern to pinpoint where it was shallower to cross. In the shaft of light termites danced like strips of silver.
Forming his men into a chain linked by rifles, Probyn embarked on the route indicated – only to find himself completely submerged. Helped by a laughing Corporal Queen and another, he shook the water from his head, retrieved his helmet and waded forcefully towards the other bank as if nothing had happened, urging them to follow, whilst privately furious at being made to look an idiot in front of those under his care, cursing the staff officer and his ilk.
At two in the morning they were called to a halt, whence they lay down at the side of the road and slept, despite the rain and the rumbling, whip-cracking din of ox-wagons passing within a few feet of them.
Oblivion reigned for a few blissful hours, and then it was on again.
For countless miles they were to suffer similar privations: torrents of rain both hot and cold, alternating with oppressive heat, rheumatism giving way to sunstroke, more and more was to be heard the call from
a debilitated man – ‘Permission to fall out, sir!’ – hundreds collapsing along the roadside. Oh, what rejoicing was to be heard upon reaching Springfield and in the quiet breathing space that followed, their tents being returned to them along with the opportunity to dry their clothes and to enjoy a bath in the Little Tugela, whilst they pondered the task that lay ahead.
Though far from happy with his limp moustache, it was a refreshed Sergeant Kilmaster who organized his men for Church Parade that Sunday and in the evening, to the sound of a Zulu concertina and the croak of frog and toad, he took out his violet pencil and wrote a letter to his wife.
My dearest Grace,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and hope you are enjoying better weather than we have suffered of late. It has been one long quagmire this week, except when the sun comes out then the mud sets like cement. Still, mustn’t grumble, we managed to get in a game of cricket today and as I write the sky is such a palette of colour as you would never imagine – peach, pink, oyster and gold against the violet mountains. I wish you were here to share the beauty of it with me. I sit here contemplating those poor beleaguered souls in Ladysmith who are depending on us, under siege and starving, yet gallantly holding the town and keeping at bay the thousands of Boers who encompass them. Those Boers surely don’t know what they have started. I cannot begin to describe the magnificence of our own force. Suffice to say we are certain to turn the tables and wipe Magersfontein and Colenso off the slate. I know you will have read of these setbacks in the newspaper but I cannot impress upon you strongly enough that you have nothing to be concerned about. I myself have every faith in our great General Buller. Once we are over that ridge it will be downhill all the way to Ladysmith.
Well, I had better get my head down now. You are always with me, Grace. I look forward to hearing from you.
Your loving husband, Probyn.
Spirits renewed, it was time to meet the great struggle for the line of hills commanding Ladysmith, to throw themselves at the fortresses which the Boers had built for protection and defence along the heights. To Probyn and the men under General Warren fell the task of attacking the Rangeworthy Hills. Departing Springfield, the column of ten and a half thousand infantry, two thousand mounted troops and thirty-six guns embarked on another gruelling ten hour march, finally coming at two in the morning to Ennersdale south of the Tugela. En route, they had been afflicted by yet another thunderstorm, but this one was pronounced a godsend for, afraid of being cut off by the rising water level, the Boers had evacuated the south bank, leaving the way clear for pontoons to be laid at Trichardt’s Drift. Intelligence reported that there were no more than six hundred guarding the hills for which General Warren was heading. It was all very encouraging.
In preparation of the battle, the regiments were drawn up in lines, the South Lancashires being first, then the Lancashire Fusiliers and behind them the York and Lancasters. Then followed a four hour wait in the cold wet night without greatcoat or blanket, their only comfort being the knowledge that their hardship was contributing to defeat the enemy.
Huddled against the icy shards of rain, his ears filled with the river’s roar, Probyn grew nervous, as indeed he always did at such a critical time. He tried to remind himself that once battle was in motion, like an actor taking to the stage, all his jim-jams would disperse, boosting himself with the thought of those under siege who were relying on him, his main desire being that he would not let anyone down, might even distinguish himself.
Darkness began to filter from the sky, the early morning cooing of doves suddenly shattered by the boom of big guns. Shells from his own artillery began whizzing in a great arc to explode upon the opposite bank churning up huge colonnades of red earth and rock. The noise was tremendous, black clouds of lyddite turning the air acrid. Holding his men at the ready, Probyn tensed, awaiting the order to move, contemplating the great red ramparts that arose from the northern bank. As the bugle gave voice so did he, yelling encouragement to his men urging them towards the boats and pontoons, and the armed multitude began to cross the brown, fast-flowing water.
Upon reaching the northern bank, he and his company scrambled on for two miles to take possession of the foothills, whilst behind them the long caravan of men and horses, wagons and guns proceeded to trundle with excruciating slowness across the wooden planks of the bridge.
For two whole days they came, days of baking sun, throughout which Probyn and his men with nothing to eat other than the rum and biscuits which he served out for breakfast, lay spread-eagled on their kopje, grumbling about General Warren’s lack of urgency and surveying the fortress of hills over which they would have to cross once the advance began. Overhead in the bright sky hung a war balloon, its silken skin shimmering like a giant silver onion. Probyn did not need such a lofty observation point to tell which way things were going. Yesterday upon arrival they had seen atop the opposing ridges a small number of their enemy digging trenches and fortifications. Over the hours the number of Boers had swelled considerably, and all Probyn and his fellows could do was watch, itching to be at them.
At last the final wagon was hauled onto the northern bank, all save one unfortunate man having arrived intact. A relieved Probyn was removed from his oven-like kopje, if only to suffer another long march in fearful heat. But at least by the time he bivouacked that evening below the heights called Venter’s Spruit Hills he was equipped with the information upon which he had been waiting. Tomorrow, the battle would really begin.
* * *
They were up and under arms at two-thirty, the stars still twinkling when their guns began to shell the enemy trenches. Stomach taut with nerves and hunger, Probyn watched and waited for the order to advance, offering reassurances to the young men who looked to him for guidance. There had been no breakfast, the only waterhole being at a distance and that was bad. It looked like it was going to be another hot day but he tried not to think of this, fixing his mind on the task ahead. The ground which they were poised to attack was like a huge open hand with an unremarkable mound called Spion Kop being the thumb and the main Boer position a wrist. Probyn’s battalion was to aim for the spurs which formed the third and fourth fingers, long ridges of rough ground with deep valleys running up between them and all converging onto the plain which sloped up to the enemy’s location. He had engaged such a hand before in the Matopos, and had every confidence that they could loosen the Boer’s grip. Still, it was a nervous wait.
As yet there was no hint of movement. Probyn had learnt enough to know that, safe in his bombproof shelters, the wily foe would not make himself seen until it was time to defend his trenches against the attacking infantry. The artillery were having similar difficulty in locating their target, though they pounded the hillsides relentlessly, setting the grass ablaze.
After massive bombardment of the enemy’s supposed position, thick smoke rising like a wall before them, the infantry finally moved off at six o’clock. With the spur on their left being attacked by the Devons and West Yorkshires, the Young and Lovelies moved off in attack formation, their advance slow but determined, intent on pushing the Boers back across the succession of crest lines.
Hours passed. Advancing gradually across the kopjes towards the Boer position, Probyn finally scrambled into position, deployed his men along a slab of rock and conveyed the officer’s order. ‘Lay down and fire at the skyline!’
‘But I can’t see anything to aim at, Sergeant!’ objected Private Juggins.
‘You will do. Just keep firing, it’ll vex the tripe out of them and draw them out from behind the hill, then you’ll have something to shoot at.’
Cool and calm now, Probyn lay down alongside and began to fire at the ridge.
Though this had the desired effect, it also brought them under fire themselves, and with the Mauser’s smokeless powder making it impossible to see where the Boers were hidden, it was a hair-raising time, in addition to which the sun was rising higher and it had become ferociously hot.
; With more hours passing and no order to press forward, the question was bound to arise.
‘Are we going to sit here all day, Sergeant?’ fretted a scarlet-faced Juggins.
‘The poor blighters in Ladysmith have sat there for weeks,’ replied Probyn. ‘If it was that easy to break through somebody would have done it by now. These things can’t be rushed.’
But he too was growing impatient and fought to suppress a sigh that would infect the men. Lying on this slab of rock, being baked to a biscuit, his puttees set like drainpipes around his calves, he looked to his leader for any hint that they might press forward, but none came. And there he and his men waited, getting hotter and hotter, under attack not only from bullets but from hordes of mosquitoes who seemed unusually voracious today. Dealing one an irritated puff to dislodge it from his lip, he risked a quick look around him. Through the stinging trickles of perspiration he glimpsed a swarm of locusts moving over the countryside, settling in a white blanket, before rising again as a cloud to devour a fresh patch of crops. Wishing he was at home, he shifted from his uncomfortable position, sucking in his breath upon receiving a burn from the exposed rock. Where had all the fun of soldiering gone, the rush and thrust and swift capture of a savage enemy? All he seemed to do nowadays was lie about doing nothing, at the mercy of the elements.
For a few brief seconds came diversion in the shape of a young lizard, barely an inch long from nose to tail but exquisitely striped with bronze, its tiny feet skittering across the lump of rock under Probyn’s nose where it rested to imbibe the sun. Keeping perfectly still, he marvelled at its minuteness. Only when he reached out a finger did it scurry into a crack, leaving him at the mercy of boredom and the relentless heat.
Family of the Empire Page 47
