‘You like traipsing back and forth across this bleedin’ river then do you?’ Corporal Queen had come from the rear and fell in beside them. ‘Think it’s a lark to risk your life taking these bleedin’ hills only to be told to give ’em up again?’ For miles ahead he could see soldiers tramping into the distance, and for miles behind, a great ragged muddy column of disgruntled manhood.
‘That’s not General Buller’s fault.’ Probyn retained his faith in his superiors and was a particular admirer of Buller, regarding him as everything a general should be, brave and bold, yet not so proud that he lost sight of his men’s needs.
‘Whose fault is it then?’ demanded Bumby. ‘He’s in charge isn’t he? He wants to get his wife out here and see if she can do any better.’
‘There’s no call for that,’ growled Probyn. After all he had gone through, those big buttock cheeks and that mean puckered little mouth were enough to almost make him lose his temper. ‘Keep your stupid ideas to yourself.’
‘’S’not my idea,’ sniffed Bumby. ‘The captain’s saying the same thing.’
‘I should’ve known. You never had an original thought in your head.’ Probyn regarded such gossip as odious, especially from an officer.
‘I heard him tell Lieutenant Swift he couldn’t understand how old Buller had ever given that duffer Warren command of his army,’ finished Bumby.
‘Course you’d know just what it takes to run an army, wouldn’t you?’ sniped Probyn.
And on they tramped through mud and rain, until the last wagon had arrived on the south side of the Tugela. When the pontoon was rolled up, the roadway planks were so worn that they could barely last another half an hour.
Demoralized, disheartened, filthy and ravenous with hunger, the men were in no mood to be paraded for a speech, and even less so from the man whom some considered to have let them down.
But when the bronzed, burly figure began to speak, almost shyly for such a great man it seemed to Probyn, there were few who could retain their opposition for long.
General Buller cleared his throat, his eyes moving over the sullen army before him, resting occasionally on an individual face, his eyes and voice trying to convey the depth of his feeling. ‘I have called you together today to expressly thank you for your gallant conduct during the last ten days, whether it was before the enemy, or at work in a drift or pulling wagons, every man did his best. No other army in the world could have done as well.’ His emotive words echoed from the kopjes, reaching every patriotic heart and dissolving cynicism, Probyn himself fighting tears. ‘I want you to thoroughly understand that all your hard work and great sacrifice has not been in vain. I can confidently predict that we have got a short road to Ladysmith. There may be some hard fighting on the way but I am sure you will overcome it.’ The tone of his voice imparting his deep faith in them, he paused a moment to let this sink in, then announced, ‘I should like now to read you a telegram from the Queen,’ and he conveyed the monarch’s admiration for the conduct of troops during the past trying week, before rounding off his own address. ‘Once again, I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. By your courage you have given me the key to Ladysmith. We shall be there within the week.’
18
After a bivouac of several hours, the York and Lancaster Regiment was marched eight miles to be stationed in rest camp, the first day spent enjoying a decent meal, burning the lice out of their uniforms and patching up the rents as best they could.
Somehow a sack of mail managed to get through, and though the envelope from Grace was smeared with mud, and water had soaked right through to the letter, causing the ink to run in places, the mere sight of it served to lift Probyn’s mood.
Escaping from the heavy rain into his tent, he was about to read it when a dog sneaked under the flap. They stared at each other for a few seconds, until Probyn asked, ‘Who are you?’
The emaciated dog wagged its tail and came to sniff at him, obviously liking what it smelled for it immediately curled up on the mackintosh beside him.
‘Make yourself at home!’
At the loud tone, the dog ducked its head, fearing that it was about to be ejected. But Probyn merely smiled, thinking of Boney and Greatrix, and allowed it to stay. It was a filthy, lice-ridden creature, but then so was he. With the warmth of its body helping to relieve his ague, he went back to his letter, managing to fill in the gaps caused by the rain.
My own dear husband,
Every day seems like a week without you…
Probyn groaned, his wife’s lament bringing his own sense of emptiness to the fore. Flicking a gold-green beetle from his leg, he read on.
I try to keep busy but your dear face keeps intruding on whatever chore I am doing. Every morning I go to Mass and pray that you’ll soon be home, and I often light a candle for you and try to imagine that you feel its little warm flame in your heart. Dearest, I love you so much the very thought of it makes me cry…
He wondered then whether the smudged writing had actually been caused by rain or tears, and at the thought of his little wife sobbing he paused to trumpet into his handkerchief, then fought to contain his emotions as a fellow sergeant entered the tent. A few seconds were taken up discussing the dog, then, with the other man not seeming to mind, Probyn returned to his letter. Fortunately it went on to tell of more mundane things now: the weather at home, the rush of recruitment, the support of her friend Charlotte who made constant visits and knitted clothes for the expected baby, the hasty marriage of her sister Ellen, the enlistment of brother Fred in the West Ridings.
If you should bump into him, please look after him. Well, I must go now. Oh, I haven’t answered the question you asked in your letter to me. Yes, I am in very good health. My sisters say I look blooming – blooming awful! Take care of yourself dearest. Sorry this letter is so short but I am really just sending it to tell you that a parcel is on its way and a longer letter is in with that. Your loving wife, Grace.
The rain drummed down on his tent, so heavily that drips began to seep through the canvas. After reading his wife’s letter a couple of times he replied to it in violet pencil, gently preparing Grace for the worst, though without mentioning the slaughter, saying only, ‘It might take a bit longer than we thought, but you know my heart is with you.’
The hiss of rain ceased abruptly. The dog uncurled itself, stretched, wagged its tail and left.
‘Call again,’ he said as it went.
And so it was to do, though its frequent visits did not mean that it had chosen him as its owner, for almost everyone in the camp gave it bits of food if they had any, in times of paucity the animal relying on rats or insects. And had there been any misapprehension about it hanging round purely for selfish reasons, the dog was to refute this, seeming to consider itself part of the regiment to the point where it began to attend parades, quickly earning itself the honorary title of Private Mutt and a regimental number.
The antics of the dog, the arrival of his wife’s parcel crammed with chocolate and socks plus other home comforts and a long letter helped to balance the misery of the dreadful stinging insects and the rain. But this was only the first of his fortunes, for Corporal Bumby stumbled across a wild peach tree and came back tunic bulging with the succulent fruits on which the deprived comrades gorged, the juice dripping down their chins. And to cap it all, over the next few days a strong wind sprang up, and this unusual occurrence blew in a procession of Boer farmers and their families wanting to surrender, finally removing all gloom induced by the previous setback. As the mimosa began to blossom so Probyn began to recoup his fighting spirit. When the third attempt to relieve Ladysmith was announced, he was ready for it.
* * *
The battalion moved off from Hastings Farm in the early hours of the third of February, Private Mutt attending parade then moving off with them. They crossed the Tugela at Potgieters Drift half an hour before noon. The road down to the river was very steep and from the top of the hill, the sides of which were covered in m
imosa scrub and aloes and flaming red lilies, Probyn was given a magnificent view of the battle arena. The plain stretched before him with Spion Kop on the left, in front of him Brakfontein and Vaal Krantz, and to his right the wooded slopes of Mount Alice.
On crossing the river the regiment took up positions on three kopjes, where they were to remain throughout that day and the next. Probyn found himself once more in company with the dog who this time was not so welcome, the position being very cramped and very hot, the sight of its lolling tongue and incessant panting reminding him of his own thirst and making for an irksome time.
Early on Monday morning their big guns roared into voice and, under cover of this brisk fire the infantry moved into action again, the York and Lancasters and South Lancashires forming the first line and supported by the Royal Lancasters, advancing stalwartly on Brakfontein to a medley of northern voices.
Once upon the ridge Probyn relayed the order. ‘Lie down, but on no account fire unless you have a proper target!’
Even as he said it it seemed futile, for in spite of being so close to the Boers there was no sign of life along the entire length of the ridge. Within reach, a low shrub sprouted from the rock. Spotting a lone white berry he plucked it quickly and popped it into his mouth, savouring the taste of strawberry.
Three hours later they were still here, lying in the grass whilst their big guns bombarded the hill in front of them.
At midday there was still no sign of the enemy.
The dog had fallen asleep. ‘All right for some,’ muttered Probyn to the soldier nearby.
The middle-aged Private Snowball wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered across at the ridge. ‘I think them buggers over there must have fallen asleep an’ all.’ A heavy smoker, he let forth a tremendous cough, causing his sergeant to avert his ear in discomfort.
‘Blimey, they won’t be after that.’ Probyn cringed. ‘That’d drown out Long Tom that would.’
Snowball emitted a rattling laugh, but his look of boredom soon returned. ‘What’s the name again of this hill we’re supposed to be taking?’
Probyn wondered how the other could so easily have forgotten. ‘Why, Spion Kop, you daft pizzock.’
‘Spion Kop,’ muttered Snowball with a bitter nod. ‘I’d rather Mount Alice.’ Then he gave his raucous catarrhal laugh, making his sergeant aware that he had been used to set up a joke.
‘Less of that vulgar—’ Probyn had no time to finish, for at that instant the Boer guns exploded in a clamorous fusillade. Everyone ducked, apart from the dog who, jolted awake, leapt up and began to dart up and down the ridge barking and snapping and leaping at the shells and bullets.
Corporal Bumby had developed hiccups through laughing at Snowball’s joke. ‘Where the hic hell’s it coming from?’ he yelled to his sergeant, glancing all around him but unable to detect so much as a glimpse of the enemy.
But Probyn could not enlighten him, could only keep his head down under the perfect storm of fire that ensued, the whole plain soon becoming obscured by smoke and dust.
‘Christ that hic bloody dog!’ a complaint spat from Bumby’s round cheeks. ‘As if there isn’t enough racket without hic him!’ The dog, miraculously unharmed, was twirling about in a frenzy of yapping, trying to catch the Mauser bullets that whizzed around his ears like troublesome bees. ‘Will somebody get rid of the bloody voiceterous thing before I shoot it meself. Hic!’
The dog was still leaping around like a dervish when the sudden order came to retire.
‘Oh not again!’ Private Snowball thumped the ground in frustration. ‘If God meant us to keep retreating why didn’t He make us with feet that point in the other direction?’
‘The day’s not yet lost,’ Probyn told him, and ordering the rest to move calmly and steadily, he himself began to withdraw. ‘With a bit of luck we’ve done what we came to do.’
‘What’s that, get our arses shot off?’ muttered another out of hearing.
And indeed it did seem a foolhardy thing to retire so leisurely under such heavy fire. Probyn rushed forward to support the colour-sergeant who had just gone down with a bullet in his leg, he and another dragging him down the slope to find cover.
But before they had gone two more steps his words were to bear fruit. With the wave of British infantry in apparent retreat, the Boers now came out of their hiding places to take advantage and so betraying their position.
‘That’s it, Dutchy, keep shooting.’ Probyn enjoyed a defiant smile as he struggled to support the heavy wounded man. ‘We’ll be back to call on you tomorrow.’
Their feint attack having done all that it intended without firing a shot, the battalion fell back on the north side of the Tugela where they were to remain for the rest of that day and the next. Meanwhile, a battle was taking place for one of the other kopjes, Vaal Krantz. Having helped to locate the Boers’ position, Probyn was keen to see the advantage pressed home and led the cheer as a hurricane of fire from their naval guns exploded the Boer magazine on Mount Alice. It was a truly magnificent spectacle, the sun beginning to descend, the sky adopting the colour of flame and molten gold against the violet-blue escarpment, on every kopje a Boer gun ejaculating puffs of smoke which became more conspicuous as dusk advanced, decorating the fiery mantle with woolly white pom-poms.
With Vaal Krantz won, he went to bed uplifted.
How utterly dispiriting then to receive the captain’s order in the morning, ‘Prepare the men to retire!’
With the constant boom of enemy guns, Probyn thought he had misheard. The other non-commissioned officers gathered there sharing his disbelief. ‘Retire, sir?’
‘Beastly, I know, Sergeant, but Vaal Krantz has proved somewhat smaller than was anticipated. It’s impossible to haul the guns up its narrow ridge and so it’s been evacuated, though it has not entirely been a wasted gesture and you must impress that upon the men,’ the captain sought to uphold morale, ‘the shellfire it attracted gave us an extra chance to gauge the position of the Boer guns. We shall soon have another pop at them.’
Clinging to this shred, a bitterly disappointed Sergeant Kilmaster was once again forced to organize his men for a withdrawal, as he did so cursing the enemy guns, these same guns lobbing shells into the ranks of departing British and their casualties, as yet again the mighty Imperial juggernaut was compelled to retreat over the Tugela.
And still poor Ladysmith waited.
* * *
It was good that others were enjoying success elsewhere, the Boers suffering their own defeats and in some parts surrendering in droves. Alas, for Probyn and his friends the situation in this corner of Natal was to remain stalemate.
Back at Springfield digging trenches, there was some consolation to be had from fresh mutton, fresh bread for breakfast and the chance of an occasional bath in the river, though the water was fetid and the weather was to remain very trying with terrific thunderstorms, on one occasion the camp being flooded out. It was a miracle that such deprivation added to three failed attempts on Ladysmith did not demoralize the troops, but apart from the occasional criticism of those who led them, when the order came that there was to be another push, every man in Sergeant Kilmaster’s platoon seemed eager to try again, to face the enemy with a doggedness only equalled by his own.
This time they were to go via another route. To the north of the Tugela was a range of three hills. These formed a virtually impregnable fortress but, as the Boers there were reported to be disheartened, little opposition was expected. Hence, an attack was launched on Pieters Hill.
Again the Tugela was crossed.
This time the dog was left behind for its own safety. Tied to a tent peg, it pranced about in frustration on realizing it was not to take part.
Under shellfire Probyn deployed his men, scrambling into position and throwing himself down beside Corporal Queen with a thud of dust.
‘Cop this!’ An amazed Queen presented a lump of shrapnel that had embedded itself in his helmet, almost slicing the top off so th
at his headgear resembled a boiled egg. ‘I’m taking that home as a souvenir.’
‘I’m waiting for a piece of Long Tom himself,’ announced a wild-eyed Probyn, ducking as another shell burst among a group of mules blowing them to bits. ‘If we ever get near enough that is.’
No sooner had he lifted his head than another shell burst, nearer this time, and another. It became evident that the hill was more stoutly defended than they had been led to believe, a storm of iron was unleashed upon them, ripping off limbs and heads, indiscriminate in its slaughter, stray shells landing on a kaffir’s hut, blasting black and white together, man and mule.
Averse to another ignominious withdrawal, they tried to struggle on valiantly amid the stench of hot gun oil and cordite and blood but it was plain to see that the frontal attack was a calamitous error. Men were dying rapidly.
A bugle sounded Retire. This having seemed a regular occurrence over the past weeks, Corporal Bumby wasted no breath complaining this time and instead began to lead his squad from the cover of the rocks. They were immediately mown down, but as if unable to believe that they would meet the same fate others were to answer the bugler’s call, all tumbling, their blood spurting over the red rocks, until an officer shouted to Probyn, ‘Sergeant! Get the men back it’s a trick, the Boers have learned our bugle calls!’ And Probyn tried to stop them but like the crazed mules who scattered over the kopje dragging their guts with them the men in his platoon refused to heed, anxious to respond to the sham call of Retire, their bodies amassing in a pile until at last the call to Retire was genuine and Probyn was free to lead what was left of them down the slope. Hopping alongside him amongst the decimated troops were Corporals Queen and Bumby, when another enormous boom threw up the earth in front of them, all were catapulted through the air, Probyn too, and for him everything went black.
Family of the Empire Page 49
