He had only been unconscious for seconds, coming round to the screams of his friends. Bumby’s arms were gone, one leg ripped off at the knee, he died before Probyn was only half conscious. But the screaming continued. A piece of the shrapnel that Queen had so recently pocketed as a souvenir had ripped through his thigh, but it wasn’t him who was screaming, he just sat there staring back at Probyn with an amazed gawp on his face. The soldier who screamed was only a youngster. With others tending him, Probyn examined himself and found that his shirt had been completely ripped off his back, the shrapnel leaving nothing more than a long scratch across his shoulders that made him wince when he touched it. There was no time to ponder on his luck. Trying to organize those around him, to separate the walking wounded from the tangle of carnage splattered over the rocks, he hurried them to safety, back across the Tugela.
* * *
In the lull there came guilt. Until now, Probyn had managed to protect those under his care from harm but this time there were severe losses, men that he had come to know well. In the light of such carnage, to maintain his optimism would take a tremendous amount of faith.
On Sunday a partial armistice was agreed in order to bury the dead and remove the wounded, some of whom had lain there for two days and were a buzzing mass of flies. The cease-fire might lend credence that this was the Sabbath, once the wounded had been removed the silence was almost deafening, but there was little leisure to be had, most of their time taken up with digging graves.
As ever, it was the blacks who did most of the digging, Probyn supervising the excavation, watching impassively as one mutilated, fly-blown corpse after another was interred. Poor old Bumby was amongst them, but it did not pay to dwell on identities. There would doubtless be many more friends gone before the war was over. Whilst his natives dug, so the Boers instructed theirs likewise, both sides eyeing each other suspiciously, neither inclined to talk.
Later though, with the bodies underground, a British officer called a greeting to a gnarled old Boer, extending a leather wallet of tobacco, this encouraging other bitter foes to sidle closer, and eventually they came together in conversation.
They were an undisciplined lot, thought Probyn watching them, not yet ready to make the move himself, their clothes that of peasants rather than soldiers. Young or old they seemed to treat each other as equals, looking to no one for authority. At the sound of honking, Probyn lifted his eyes to see a skein of geese and watched them for a while, wishing he could fly away himself. It struck him suddenly that it was his father who had taught him how to identify geese from their V formation flight, this in turn sparking remembrance of other talents his father had conveyed. He thought of his own unborn child and wondered whether he would be around to teach it things.
‘This is my family!’ A filthy walnut-coloured hand interrupted his reverie, thrusting a photograph under his nose.
Startled, Probyn glanced at the speaker who was somewhat younger than himself, then his equally filthy fingers came out to hold the snap. ‘Very nice. Your son? He’s very like you.’ He produced his own photograph of Grace and as the Boer looked at it, he took the opportunity to study his enemy at close quarters, envying his broad-brimmed headgear that was more suited to the climate than his own.
With the brim of the hat pinned up at one side, he could see that the young man’s hair was the colour of straw, whilst his wispy beard was almost ginger. His eyes were deep-set and determined and his skin like soft kid leather.
‘No children?’ The slits of eyes looked up from the photograph.
‘One on the way,’ Probyn told him proudly. Grouped around him, Boer and British were sharing similar moments, eagerly filling pipes from an adversary’s tobacco pouch. For the moment the enemy seemed not very different to himself.
But then came the reminder of why he disliked them so much. The tanned finger tapped Grace’s photograph. ‘She is pretty, but not so pretty as mine, I think.’
Insulted, Probyn retrieved the snap wanting to tell the boaster that his wife had a head like a turnip, but had never been one to make such derogatory statement. ‘She’ll do for me,’ he said, and turned away to seek a more pleasant conversation partner.
‘They can’t bloody help themselves, can they?’ he muttered in an aside to Private Snowball. ‘Always trying to out-do you.’ But in fairness he had to admit that the British boys were doing their share of this, unlike him seeming to take great pleasure in the rivalry and insults.
‘Why don’t you just give up now so we can all go home?’ asked an English voice, cheerfully impudent. ‘We’re bound to beat you.’
‘We will never give up, rooineck,’ came the answer.
Probyn feared this was not mere bravado. Despite not liking the Boers as a race he had been forced by events to admire their guile and courage. Spotting a youngster standing alone, he wandered across the grass to talk to him.
‘Hello.’
The young man glanced up at him, a look of undiluted hatred in his eyes. ‘God rot your teeth,’ came the Irish mutter.
Taken aback, Probyn stared into the twisted face for a brief second, then wasted no further time and wheeled away.
Intending to make his way to his tent, he passed another who explained, ‘The English shot his father.’
He paused and turned to the speaker. ‘You’re not Dutch.’
‘How very perspicacious,’ replied the British Uitlander.
Probyn was still angry over the Irishman. ‘Then what are you doing with this lot?’
‘Because I hate the meddlers in Downing Street who tell us how to run our country and have never been here.’
‘But old Kruger won’t even grant you the vote!’ scoffed Probyn. ‘That’s what we’re fighting for, to get you it.’
‘But then you’d give it to the kaffirs too,’ came the reply.
Probyn was too tired to argue, and merely shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you people.’
The other smiled, not in any way mocking. ‘And that, my friend, is why we are at war.’
Probyn sighed and nodded and stood there for a while, saying nothing, whilst the other smoked his pipe. The crickets had begun to chirp. The sky was mottled with rose and the breeze carried the fragrance of mimosa. It must surely be time for the armistice to end, and indeed it soon appeared to be so, for the Boers began casually to withdraw into the dusk.
Saying goodbye to the Uitlander, Probyn moved off too, as he did so catching sight of the one to whom he had originally spoken.
‘Good luck,’ called the young Boer as he departed for his lair.
‘Thanks but we don’t need it,’ volleyed Probyn, his voice joined by cheers.
The tanned face creased in an arrogant smile, his eyes had a fanatical shine to them like two bright blue sapphires. ‘Remember Majuba, Khakis, it is almost the anniversary!’ And so saying the rag-tag army withdrew to their lair on the hill.
* * *
The artillery began again at ten o’clock that evening, from when recommenced the battle for Pieters Hill.
But Probyn was to be informed that there would be an altered plan of attack to the one which had decimated his ranks. On the following night the pontoon was taken up and relaid at a new site and it was here at the end of a five and a half hour march that the York and Lancasters crossed the Tugela yet again at midday on Tuesday and bivouacked with the 11th Brigade at the foot of the high and precipitous hills which rose abruptly from the river bank.
Before sending his troops into action, General Buller assembled them for a short address. After the last debacle they were warned to ignore all bugle calls to Retire or Cease Fire and also white flags which the Boers had employed as trickery. There would be no withdrawal this time and no quarter given. There was then a more poignant note. ‘Now as most of you will be acutely aware today is the anniversary of Majuba …’
Amongst the apprehensive khaki mass, Probyn looked briefly at his boots, not wanting to be reminded of this infamous defeat, especially after suf
fering so many of his own these last two months.
‘But that was a long, long time ago, and I must urge you to put it from your minds. For those of you who find that too hard a task, then I have a piece of news which should help to raise your spirits considerably: I have just heard that General Piet Cronje has surrendered with his army of eleven hundred men at Paardeberg.’
An enormous cheer arose, echoing around the kopjes, the mood at once transformed, Private Mutt lending his bark to the din then whizzing around and around after his own tail.
‘That’s right, let the Boers hear it!’ rallied the General to even louder cheers.
And Probyn raised his voice to the heavens too, his heart soaring with it, but for him the rest of the general’s speech was a blur, that one sentence imprinted on his heart and helping to restore his enthusiasm for the crucial task ahead. When the order came to advance he was carried forth on a wave of renewed determination.
In companies the regiment moved off, the left half being under Lieutenant-Colonel Kirkpatrick, the right under Major Lousada whom Probyn had known and respected since his arrival as a raw recruit at the depot almost ten years ago. Under cover of heavy artillery fire which pounded and churned the slopes ahead, he and the rest followed their commander in single file along the edge of the river, through a thicket of aloes and jagged red boulders where butterflies abounded, a gradual ascent being made over rocks and scree until they had almost reached the railway line. Here the major crouched to take stock.
There was a party of Boers strongly entrenched on a small kopje some five hundred yards away, with an open stretch of ground between them. The major blew his whistle and with a tremendous cheer the first company spilt over the crest, immediately coming in for heavy fire and many of them went down but their places were to be taken by others, in their hundreds they came like a stone wall towards the enemy trench. Ignoring the zippp of bullets that peppered the ground all around them and filled the air with a huge hornet whine, Probyn and his comrades went streaming across the trampled grass, yelling their intention as they launched themselves upon the enemy, overrunning his lines with bayonets, jabbing and slaying, wreaking vengeance for the slaughter at Spion Kop, until the panicked Boers came tumbling out of their trenches waving white flags and the kopje was taken. There was to be no stopping now, no disheartening turning back. Almost opposite Pieters Hill, Probyn and his comrades wasted no time in scaling the heights, raked by sharp fire and shells bursting all around them, the air a choking cloud of gunsmoke, but on they pushed, wave after wave the long lines of infantry went shinning up the hill, calling to the Boer in their north country burr – ‘Majuba! Majuba!’ – and racing for the summit, finally, gloriously, to take Pieters Hill.
There were ten wounded but to an exhilarated Probyn the victory was worth it. All his faith in General Buller had been repaid. No more would they be sent splashing back across the Tugela, the key to Ladysmith was well and truly won, now to be endorsed by a triumphant announcement from their commander. ‘Not Majuba Day, boys – Ladysmith Day!’ And a rousing cheer went up, ricocheting off the towering red crags to deal the retreating Boer a parting shot.
Such cries of victory were to be heard throughout that day and on into the next, surpassed by even louder cheers when the news came across the mimosa flats that General Buller had entered Ladysmith. But the eclipsing moment was yet to come, that moment for which every man had strived so long: the triumphal march through town. The fact that it was a miserable looking town could not detract from the ideal for which they had fought and suffered, represented in the hordes that came out to salute them. Between battered rows of tin-roofed houses marched the victorious parade to an eruption of wild cheering from the delirious throng, those courageous defenders with set, dogged faces, heroes every one, even the wounded coming out of hospital to applaud their general, and once more Probyn felt tingling through his soldier’s heart the rush of pride that had suffered so many blows of late. No more the laughing stock of lesser beings, he and his doughty Young and Lovelies had helped to restore the honour of the glorious British Empire.
19
After three days at Ladysmith the regiment entrained for Pietermaritzburg, but were to be here less than three weeks. Though the siege had been raised the contest for South Africa was by no means over and with reports of renewed Boer aggression around Ladysmith orders came for Probyn and his fellows to strike tents, pack kit and return immediately.
Yet when they did it transpired that there was to be little action other than trench-digging that first week, the Boers, as was their talent, having disappeared into thin air. There was, however, still much to contemplate. Along with the boxes of chocolates from the Queen they were presented with the sombre news that General Woodgate had finally died from his wounds at Mooi River. To Sergeant Kilmaster the general’s demise came to symbolize the whole drawn-out nature of the war. It was, he feared, to be a long lingering affair.
That first week, camped at Surprise Hill to the north of Ladysmith, was to pass quietly. From the top of the hill was a superb view looking south and west over Spion Kop right across to the Drakensberg and north as far as the Biggarsberg Mountains, reminding him of what he loved about South Africa.
But, there were other things he did not love: the Australian troops who were tall and tanned and undisciplined, whose idea of a joke was to gallop their horses through the British camp knocking down tents and causing general mayhem; the constant moving about from place to place, responding to commando raids upon the native population whose kraals were burned and looted in retaliation for helping the British; the march, march, marching over rough grassland, soft sand, shingle, rock, up hills and over spruits while an army of vermin crawled over them; the clothes that were falling apart; the Boer shell that would unexpectedly land in the middle of parade, sending them all scattering to unpeg tents that had only just been erected, the flies that crawled over one’s food, the tepid water, the long days and cold nights that brought on aches and pains, the dread of enteric that was rife; the murmur of the wind over the mealie fields that had them leaping for their rifles thinking there was to be an attack … he just wanted to go home.
And yet for all this he could not help but admire the enemy who kept him here. Self-reliant, formidable, brave, cunning, excellent horsemen, and with no officer to accuse them of desertion they could leave off the fighting for a while to go and plant their crops. Even with their leaders capitulating the stubborn Boers held on. After the surrender of General Cronje, an offer had come from Presidents Kruger and Steyn to make peace, though only on terms of keeping their independence. This was anathema to the British government which had stated its intention to annex the former republics to the Empire. Such news was music to Probyn’s ears. Even so, the Boers were to continue the struggle in guerrilla fashion.
Came the first nip of African frost and still there was no hint that the war was nearing an end, though the British were making great progress and had now forced their way into the Transvaal.
The summit of the Drakensberg wore a mantle of snow. June passed and then July. The letters from home became more urgent. Had he not promised he would be here to see his child born, asked Grace?
Well, there was no chance of that, even if he were to go now.
How much longer would it go on, she asked also? As if he could tell her.
He missed Grace dreadfully, not just because he loved her but the sheer physical ache produced by the absence of sexual contact. For some, celibacy proved no hardship; Sergeant Kilmaster was not of that ilk. Such nagging emptiness began to remind him of his time on St Helena. But there would not be another Emily here. As the man responsible for sending out a patrol every night to prevent Tommies consorting with the native women for fear it would lower their dignity in the eyes of the Dutch, he could not be so hypocritical as to submit to his own weakness. But, dear Lord, the thought of it almost drove him mad.
By the end of August with his child now surely born, he himself remained a
top an isolated hill, the only thing to look forward to being the next delivery of tinned rations and biscuits. Such lack of food was now exacerbated by the numerous surrenders from outlying districts, those giving themselves up half-starved, their horses bags of bones for all the grass was dry and burnt up. Presented with such pitiful spectres what could one do but share the meagre rations with them.
That the receivers’ attitude had not been one of total appreciation, rankled with the giver. ‘You people should be grateful we give you anything at all!’ Probyn was goaded into retorting to a Boer farmer who bitterly complained about the meanness of his family’s ration.
‘Grateful?’ The man turned on him, outrage in his blue eyes. ‘You are not the only one to count himself a loyal subject of the Crown.’ And from the cart containing all his worldly goods he tugged a picture of the Queen which he brandished under the sergeant’s nose.
Thus, rendered momentarily dumb, Probyn was given time to digest this salutary lesson: the distinct enmities that had been present in his mind at the outbreak of hostilities now becoming blurred. There were no clear-cut lines in this war. Dutch, British and African, the horrors were equally distributed.
The misery went on, dust storms filling the tents with grit, driving mist and cold winds. Probyn’s moustache through lack of wax hung limp and walrus-like, his clothes and boots in tatters – which made it all the more fantastic to receive the order to entrain for Durban with an outgoing draft of those whose time had almost expired; he was to go home!
But the best news of all was almost to elude the delighted sergeant as he prepared to march off to the station. A backlog of mail arrived, amongst it the letter he had been awaiting for weeks. Ripping it open, his fingers fumbling with excitement, he read that his wife had given birth to a son in July, a few days short of his own birthday.
Thence, all the hardships merged into nothing as he bestowed those around him with a wide grin, his announcement quiet but proud. ‘Eh, I’m a dad!’
Family of the Empire Page 50
