Fire Across the Veldt (14 page)

He watched them with growing interest. These were the men who were leading the British such a merry dance, the men they were fighting; these were the hard core of the opposition, the ‘bitter enders’, as the
burghers who had already surrendered called them. They looked like ruffians with their unshaven faces, blackened teeth, broken hat brims and tattered clothing. These fighters were the reason that British Tommies were burning farms, rounding up women and children and imprisoning them behind barbed wire on the open veldt. These were the enemy: farmers who could outshoot and outride professional soldiers, who prayed and sang hymns at every opportunity and who, not infrequently, flogged their Kaffir servants until their backs ran red with blood. These were the Boers.

Fonthill sighed and, now dismounted, trudged forward as the commando moved out.

He looked upwards to find the sun to give him an indication of the direction in which they were heading, but the sky hung down like a sagging, grey envelope and it was beginning to rain again, not heavily but in a soft curtain which added to everyone’s misery. At least the ground was soft enough to leave plenty of traces for Hammond to follow – if, that is, he
was
following. Simon noticed that many of the burghers were without horses and others were walking and leading their tired beasts. It was clear that the strain of being constantly pursued was telling heavily now.

Sixteen oxen, he counted, were yoked to each of the wagons, which seemed to carry flour and ammunition, and eighteen to the Krupps guns. He thought that de Wet had given up such encumbrances. Evidently not.

Eventually, the commando came to what appeared to be a shallow lake that stretched before them. It was some thousand paces broad and long and offered no easy way around it. It was here, on hearing curses uttered ahead as the commando halted, that Fonthill realised
that about ninety men who trudged in a guarded band before him were, in fact, British. It was clear that they had been captured by the commando and their horses commandeered. The pursuers were too close for the men to be released. Simon realised that he was lucky not to be guarded and decided not to join them. Better to stay loose, if he could.

The lake turned out to be only some three feet deep but the reality was that, in terms of its deterrence, it could have been thirty feet, for the bottom was glutinous mud. It was, in fact, a swamp. Horses and men could struggle through it with difficulty but the wagons and the cannon quickly became bogged down. Men were despatched to help the oxen by pushing the wheels until they too were caked in mud and looked like red-eyed creatures from some horror tableau. De Wet was ever present, screaming orders and laying about him with his whip.

Fonthill realised, from the desperation now written plainly on the general’s blackened face, that he must know that British troops were not far behind him. If he was to escape, Simon realised, this was the time and place to do it.

Thirty oxen were now inspanned to each gun and, eventually, each was sucked through the mud and out the other side of the swamp. But the wagons resisted all efforts to move them and remained firmly embedded just a few yards from the beginning of the swamp. Eventually, de Wet gave up the struggle and ordered them to be pulled back on to firmer ground. He summoned a grey-bearded burgher whom Simon took to be a senior officer and spoke to him urgently, gesturing with his whip to the surrounding terrain.

De Wet splashed back through the churned-up water to the head of the column, most of which had now crossed the swamp. There
he pointed with his whip and pulled away some three hundred men, clearly choosing those with the fittest horses, and gestured for them to join the elderly burgher on the other side of the swamp. Immediately the men dismounted, and led their horses through the quagmire, where the leaders dispersed them among the undergrowth under the eye of greybeard. Ah! Simon realised that the famous rearguard was being mounted, with the aim of holding up the pursuers while the main commando escaped.

For the moment, all was confusion and he decided to seize the moment, idly moving towards where the wagons were still being pushed back, as though to help the men moving them.

Then he deliberately slipped in the brown glutinous water, quickly discarding his identifying arm sling as he did so, and emerged, dripping, covered in mud, looking brownly anonymous, just like the rest of the mud-covered Boers. Quietly, he began to move towards the edge of the swamp, where a thicket encroached into the water. Under its cover, Simon bent low and moved slowly away in a tangent, setting a course to take him around the edge of the rearguard.

Expecting at any moment to hear a shout and then a gunshot from behind, Fonthill moved on with his heart in his mouth, walking, half crouching, sometimes crawling, in a wide arc until he felt it was safe to turn back to pick up the spoor of the commando, which, hopefully, would lead him back to the pursuing British troops. It took him an hour before he came upon the beaten ground that showed where the Boers had passed, then, turning resolutely to the left, he tucked his aching arm into his unbuttoned shirt and marched towards freedom.

It was not long before he heard the snort of a horse and the creaking of well-worn leather. He pulled back into the undergrowth.
It would be just his luck to be shot by a British outrider. In fact, it was the welcome sight of Mzingeli that met his gaze through the tangled leaves. The black man was bending low over his horse’s neck and scanning the ground carefully.

‘Mzingeli,’ he called.

The black man’s rifle appeared as if by magic and was presented to him. ‘Who you?’ he demanded, glaring at the mud-covered, scratched apparition before him.

‘Simon Fonthill, old chap. And am I glad to see you.’

‘Nkosi! Is it really you?’

‘Yes it is. I’ve just been taking a mudbath. How close is the column?’

‘Right behind me. Where you come from?’

‘From de Wet’s commando. Its rearguard is about half an hour ahead of you. I was captured but I escaped. Take me back to the column, there’s a good chap. I don’t want to be shot as some sort of mud monster.’

Mzingeli leant down and extended a hand to lift him onto the saddle behind, but Fonthill shook his head. ‘I’ll walk. I’ve hurt my arm. Lead on. Best be quick, I have urgent news for Major Hammond.’

Within minutes the two met the British advance guard, troopers riding cautiously, spread out across the trail. When they recognised Fonthill, they let out a cheer, which led to Hammond riding forward.

‘Good God! It’s Fo—the colonel.’ He dismounted. ‘Colonel, where the hell—’

‘I’ll tell you all about it in a moment, Hammond.’ Fonthill kept his voice level. ‘De Wet’s commando is about half an hour ahead of you. He has been held up by a swamp that stretches for about a thousand yards either side of the trail and ahead of it. He has got about eleven
hundred burghers through it, with three pieces of artillery, and they are moving on. But his wagons got stuck so he has left them at the edge of the swamp. They will look empty but, in fact, he has deployed his rearguard all around them, probably dug in by now and hidden by the undergrowth, so you could ride straight into a trap.’

‘Ah, quite so, sir. Thank you. And you …?’

‘I was riding to catch you up but somehow got ahead of you and was captured by the Boers. I escaped,’ he grinned, ‘as you can see, in the swamp. Have you been in action with them yet and where is General Knox?’

‘No. No action. Couldn’t catch ’em up because we started about two days behind them, as far as I can see. The general has followed a false trail – obviously laid by de Wet – and is about a day’s march behind us, I would say.’

‘Bloody hell! Now, where can I wash?’

Hammond turned and bellowed orders. A soldier appeared with a sponge, soap, leather fold-up bowl and a canteen of water.

‘Thanks. Hold on for just a moment, while I clean up. Then I shall resume command.’

‘Er … very well, Colonel. I suppose that rearguard won’t go away.’

The mud had dried on Fonthill’s tunic, shirt and riding breeches and he scraped it away with a knife. Then he gestured for the trooper to sponge his back while he soaped his face, breast, and hair and then threw the remains of the water over his head. Towelling himself down as best he could with one hand, he had a sudden thought.

‘Where’s the RSM?’ he demanded of Hammond.

The major fixed his gaze somewhere over Fonthill’s shoulder and replied in his distinctive drawl. ‘I’m afraid he’s under arrest, sir.’

Simon let the towel fall and, with his jaw dropped, regarded Hammond incredulously. ‘What? Under arrest? On what charge, for God’s sake?’

The drawl sounded even more languid in reply. ‘Drunk in the face of the enemy, sir.’

Simon took a deep breath and forced himself to remain silent while he resumed slowly towelling his hair. ‘Where is he now, then?’ he demanded eventually.

‘At the rear, under the care of one of the troop sergeants.’

‘When was he arrested?’

‘This very morning. There has been no time, of course, formally to bring charges.’

Fonthill fought to keep his emotions under control. This was the very thing he had dreaded. But he must not overreact. ‘Very well,’ he said, as coolly as he could manage. ‘I will deal with the matter as soon as we have knocked off de Wet’s bloody rearguard. Find me a horse and a rifle, will you? Then let us advance. Mzingeli!’

‘Yes, Nkosi?’

‘You heard all that. The Boer rearguard is ahead of us, quite near, but dispersed on the edge of a swamp near what appear to be empty wagons. Take two of your trackers and advance carefully on foot. Don’t let the Boers see you. We need to find a way around them on both sides, so that we can attack them there as well as from the front. Find a way. Off you go. Take great care, now.’

‘Yes, Nkosi.’ For a brief moment the black man’s imperturbable expression relaxed into a faint smile. ‘I am glad you are back, Nkosi.’

Fonthill gave him an answering grin. ‘So am I, old chap. So am I. Now off you go.’ He turned to Hammond. ‘Very well, Major. Send
a rider back to Knox and tell him we’ve found the commando. Then put out an advance guard of twenty men, spread out and walking quietly on foot to prevent surprise. If the trackers can find a way for us to disperse to right and left – and the underbrush is not too thick near the swamp – order Cartwright to take his squadron to the left, Forbes his to the right and I will stay with you and A Squadron in the middle. We don’t advance or fire until I give the order. Now pass this on and let us defeat this damned rearguard of de Wet’s.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Fonthill looked behind him and met answering grins from the subalterns and men of A Squadron. They all looked in good, fighting order. He nodded to them all, not recognising some of the faces. Then he remembered. The column had been reinforced and extended. As he watched, Cecil Cartwright and Colin Forbes forced their way through the troopers and held out their hands, broad grins on their faces.

‘Welcome back, sir.’ Cartwright’s Brummagem accent was like a breath of fresh air after Hammond’s languor. Simon’s heart warmed to him. ‘Couldn’t get a bath, then, where you’ve been?’

‘No. The Ritz had run out of hot water. Now, Hammond has orders for you two. Report to him. We’re going to be in action very soon.’

‘Jolly good, sir. Good news.’

A horse, a rifle and a bandolier appeared and Simon busied himself with the saddle adjustment as an excuse while his mind raced. Drunk in the face of the enemy! It was a capital charge that could lead to a firing squad. He shook his head. Oh, 352, what had he done? Then a darker thought struck him. Despite his air of sangfroid, Hammond’s features had carried an underlying but perceptible air of satisfaction
when he reported the news. Jenkins’s presence in the column in a position of such importance had always rankled with him. It had offended his very being as a cavalry officer brought up to see seniority rewarded only after years of conventional service. Could he have somehow contrived Jenkins’s fall from grace? Fonthill frowned. The trouble was that the Welshman wouldn’t need much encouragement to aid and abet such a conspiracy. Drink was Jenkins’s abiding temptation. Well … Simon mounted his horse. At least he had arrived in time. As the RSM’s commanding officer, he would have to make the first judgement on the offence. There would be no summary hearing. But first, there was the little matter of de Wet’s rearguard …

The column moved forward at a walking pace. At least this time, reflected Fonthill, there was no question of attempting to take the rearguard by surprise. It knew they were on their way. No surprise, then, but perhaps if they could outflank the waiting men and enfilade them, there would be the value of shock. For the rearguard was expecting to surprise and even ambush their pursuers. Unless, that was, Simon’s escape had been detected and they would realise that he would have warned the advancing column. Ah well. They would just have to risk it.

After some twenty minutes, Fonthill held up his hand to halt the column, as Mzingeli, escorted by the sergeant in charge of the advance guard, trotted towards him.

‘Wagons just up ahead, Nkosi,’ the tracker reported. ‘Boers there, all right, though not easy to see. But some signs of freshly dug earth. Means they have dug trenches, I think.’

‘Thank you, Mzingeli. Are you sure you have not been seen?’

‘Certain.’

‘And can we disperse to left and right without crashing through thick undergrowth?’

‘Yes. A few paces ahead, there is track that crosses this main path and curves round forward. If men go single file, it should be possible to curve round quietly. But I can smell swamp ahead.’

‘Splendid. Well done, Mzingeli. Now,’ Fonthill turned to Hammond. ‘Major’ – he could no longer bring himself to indulge in the familiarity of calling him Philip – ‘call all the officers forward, please.’

Surrounded by his officers, Fonthill issued his orders, elaborating on those given earlier to Hammond. The enemy was entrenched ahead on the edge of the swamp, he explained. The two flank squadrons were to spread in single file until they extended beyond the positions of the entrenched enemy. Trackers would go with them to indicate when this point was reached. It was unlikely that the Boers were spread widely because they would be expecting the column to advance unsuspectingly, four riders abreast and stretching back down the trail. Each squadron would be given fifteen minutes to deploy. Then, A Squadron would fire and this would give the signal to attack. Two volleys should be followed by a charge with fixed bayonets. The objective would be to eliminate the rearguard, destroy the wagons – which contained explosives – and then continue the pursuit of the main commando.