Fire Across the Veldt (15 page)

As he looked at the eager young faces around him, Fonthill involuntarily contrasted them with the mature, gaunt features of the burghers he had seen earlier in the Boer camp – all battle-hardened fighters, bedded down just ahead and waiting for them. He sighed. ‘Good luck, gentlemen,’ he said.

They quickly reached the point of deployment and Fonthill ordered the column to dismount and the handlers to take the horses to the rear. Where, he momentarily thought, was Jenkins now? And then he realised that this would be one of those rare moments in his life when he would go into battle without his comrade at his side. He gulped. Well, there always had to be a first time.

The B and C Squadron troopers loped off to right and left, their rifles at the trail. Then, A Squadron spread out into the undergrowth on either side of the track and slowly, quietly began forcing its way towards the swamp. Soon, the tops of the wagons came into sight and Fonthill waved everyone to a standstill. He stood for several minutes, consulting his watch. As he did so, he shot several glances at Hammond, who was stationed in line, revolver in hand – no lower ranks’ rifle for him! – some ten yards to his left. As far as Simon could see, his second in command looked perfectly composed – or was that a trace of perspiration glistening on his forehead? If it was, it was perfectly understandable, for the proximity of the swamp and the ever-present drizzle made the atmosphere uncomfortably humid. Then, as his watch showed that the quarter hour had passed, Fonthill slipped the bolt on his rifle to move around into the breach and waved for the line to move forward.

Very quickly now, the brush cleared and revealed the wagons drawn up on the edge of the swamp. They seemed empty but the Boers would not have posted men on them because of the ammunition stored there. Trenches, however, had undoubtedly been dug, for lines of earth disappeared into the bushes fringing the swamp and, now, rifles could be seen poking over the mounds, with the occasional Boer hat behind them.

Simon licked his lips. They were reaching the edge of the undergrowth and there were about thirty paces of open ground to cross before the enemy lines could be reached. Amazingly, it seemed that they had not been seen yet. He knelt and carefully rested his rifle on a low branch, for his injured arm prevented him from bringing it properly to his shoulder. Then, very slowly, he aligned foresight and backsight at a dim outline he could see at the end of the nearest Boer gun barrel. Oh, if only Jenkins, sure-shot Jenkins, were here to fire the first shot! That would certainly account for one of the enemy, at least. Then he squeezed the trigger and the sound echoed through the heavy air.

Suddenly, it seemed as though all hell had been let loose. A roar of gunfire rippled to right and left of him along the edge of the bushes, crashing in sequence and causing tiny fountains of soil and stone to spurt up from the earthworks ahead of him. Immediately, however, it was answered by a flicker of flame along the Boer trenches, sending bullets hissing through the undergrowth and causing gasps as they found billets in some of the troops facing them.

‘Two volleys,’ roared Fonthill, ‘and then fix bayonets. Reload. Now. Volley one.’ The sound was deafening in the moist air as seventy rifles boomed as one. Exultation seized Fonthill. ‘Reload. Now, volley two.’ Then, ‘Fix bayonets.
CHAAARGE
!!!’

Thrusting aside his heavy rifle, Simon drew his revolver and scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Boer lines. He was dimly aware of rifle fire spluttering far to his left and right but more conscious of the cheering of the troopers of A Squadron all around him as they pounded towards the enemy. A mixture of perspiration and rain poured down his forehead, half blinding him, and he suddenly
realised that he was mounting the Boer earthworks. He stood there for a second presenting his revolver, half expecting a bullet to crash into him, before he jumped down into the trench. An empty trench!

‘What the hell?’ He whirled round. On either side of him the troopers of his lead company were thundering down into the trench, presenting their bayonets – to no one. Somehow, in the few moments between the firing of the second volley and the arrival of the attackers, the Boers had fled. But to where?

He caught a glimpse of Hammond. ‘Where the hell have they gone to?’ he shouted. The major pointed with his revolver. On the southern side of the swamp, on a patch of higher, firmer ground, the Boers could be seen mounting horses and riding off, their heels digging into their horses’ flanks as troopers from Captain Forbes’s squadron broke cover and ran after them, firing impotently as they did so.

‘Damn!’ Fonthill slapped his thigh. ‘They must have been ready all the time to cut and dash as soon as we appeared. They were off as soon as they heard me shout fix bayonets. And we’ve hardly got any of them, blast it!’

‘Not quite, sir.’ A moustached sergeant pointed with his bayonet. At least a dozen Boers were slumped against the trench wall, the backs of their heads shattered where the British bullets had exited. ‘That’s not bad shootin’, sir, you know.’

Simon gave a faint smile. ‘I suppose not, Sergeant.’

Hammond called across. ‘Do you want to mount a pursuit, Colonel?’

Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. By the time we get our horses up they will be miles away. I would rather blow up these wagons, so they can’t come back for them, and then we must get after de Wet and his
main body. Get some men to lay charges, will you, but take whatever flour they have left in the wagons, if any, for we can probably use it. Organise a burial party for the dead – on both sides – and check on casualties from the squadrons and give me a report. I will see that the horses are brought up.’

Wearily, Simon replaced his revolver in his holster and took a look around the open ground. No British soldiers lay there, but he knew that there would be some in the undergrowth, for there would have been little cover to protect them from the Boer fire. He recovered his rifle and walked along the edge of the bushes where the squadron had delivered their volleys. The medics were already kneeling by the wounded but, as usual, the Boer fire had been accurate and there were more dead with bullets to the head than wounded. He sighed and turned along the track by which they had entered the swamp clearing.

At the rear, where the handlers were still holding the reins of the horses, he saw a pathetic sight. Jenkins, his head bowed, was sitting on a log, his wrist handcuffed before him, and a corporal standing by his side with rifle and bayonet fixed. Simon’s heart fell.

‘Corporal,’ he yelled. ‘Take those damned handcuffs off the sergeant major this minute!’

‘Wot?’

Fonthill realised that he must have presented a strange sight – bareheaded, his tunic covered in half-scraped mud and with his badges of rank quite obscured.

‘It’s all right, Corporal,’ he reassured. ‘It’s Colonel Fonthill. Now unlock those cuffs, there’s a good chap.’

Jenkins was regarding Simon open-mouthed and Fonthill realised that tears were beginning to course down the Welshman’s face. ‘Oh
bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ he said. ‘It’s you! Thank God for that … Oh, I’m sorry, so I am. So sorry, look you. I don’t know what to say. But I’m glad you’re all right.’ He forced a wan smile. ‘You look worse than I do. ’Ow’s the shoulder, then? ’Urt you when you laugh, does it?’

Fonthill looked at the guard. ‘Thank you, Corporal,’ he said. ‘Give me the keys. Tell the handlers to take the horses to the front. That will be all. The sergeant major will be in my care now.’

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’ The NCO marched away, his face a picture of puzzlement.

Fonthill sat on the log beside Jenkins, under the puzzled gaze of the horse handlers, and spoke softly. ‘Now, dear old 352,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better tell me everything that happened. Take your time and don’t miss anything out – not
anything
, understand?’

Jenkins nodded, produced a filthy handkerchief from his breeches and blew his nose noisily. Slowly, and then increasingly quickly, he told his story.

The column had camped two nights ago on the Free State side of the Orange, having ascertained where the commando had crossed but deciding it was unwise to make the crossing in the dim light of dusk. They had forded the river at dawn but then turned right along the riverbank instead of left, because de Wet had carefully laid a false trail that way. Jenkins had heard Hammond berating one of the black trackers. When Mzingeli had gently tried to intervene, Hammond had struck him across the cheek with his riding crop. Jenkins had then ridden up, and without a word to Hammond, led Mzingeli away to avoid him receiving further punishment.

‘I ’ad a feelin’ that the major didn’t like that, see, ’cos he glared
after me, look you. But I took no notice. But, equally, I gave ’im no cheek, see. I just rode away, with old Jelly in tow, so to speak.’

Fonthill felt his ire rise but merely said. ‘Go on.’

Because the trackers had missed the main Boer spoor, the column had wasted more than half a day, so Hammond turned them round and began a forced march in the other direction – the true route taken by the commando. They had still no contact with the Boers, who seemed far ahead, so they camped that night in the rain, with little shelter for anyone. Then, said Jenkins, ‘a most queer thing ’appened.’

‘What was that?’

‘In my sleepin’ bag, when I crawled into it the previous night, was a full bottle of whisky. Now, I give you my word, bach sir, I ’ad never seen that bottle before in all me life, look you. In fact, I ’adn’t touched a drop of the stuff at all on the march because I didn’t ’ave any with me.’

Simon frowned and nodded.

‘But, bless you, sleepin’ out in that wet an’ cold, with the damp penetratin’ me poor old legs, I couldn’t resist takin’ a drop. An’ then another one. I didn’t stop to think too much about where the ’ell the bottle ’ad come from. If I thought about it at all, I thought it was a bleedin’ miracle and I wasn’t about to look that gift ’orse in the mouth, now was I? I woke up in the night feelin’ miserable, the way you do when sleepin’ rough, see, and took another drop. Before I knew where I was, I’d finished the bottle.’

‘Were you drunk this morning?’

‘No, not at all. Not staggerin’ or shoutin’ or anythin’ like that. Just got a bad ’ead an’ bad breath. Not late on parade, or anything. Lordy, it would take more than one bottle to knock me about, you know that.’

‘So?’

‘So, I’d ’ardly got out of me bedroll at reveille when the major rides up with the sergeant of the guard. “That warrant officer is staggerin’,” he says. “Sergeant, smell ’is breath.” Well, o’course, I smelt of drink, so I was arrested then and there and put on a charge for bein’ drunk in the face of the enemy or somethin’. I can’t understand it, bach sir. Honestly I can’t. But I feel I’ve let you down and I’m right sorry, so I am.’

Fonthill was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Where did you put your bedroll before turning in?’

Jenkins thought for a moment. ‘With C Company. Their lines was the nearest, like.’

‘Good. Now, I must think about all this. You will come up before me as your CO, of course – Major Hammond presumably believed that I wouldn’t be back in time to hear the case and that he would do so as acting commanding officer. Now, 352, this is one of the most serious charges in the book and, if found guilty, it could mean the firing squad.’

‘Oh bloody ’ell!’

‘Quite. It’s not going to come to that, if I can help it. But I must tread warily because our past association is known, of course. I must think. You will remain under arrest, of course, but no more bloody handcuffs. Now, stand up, put your helmet on straight and wipe your face. Goodness knows what Alice would say if she saw you like this. Stay here while I fetch the corporal. If you escape I will make sure you
are
shot.’

The sound of the charges exploding on the wagons and the resultant boom as the ammunition within went up told Fonthill that the column should be moving. He instructed Jenkins to remain where he was and found the corporal who had been guarding him. ‘The RSM remains temporarily under arrest,’ he told him, ‘so he remains under your care. But no handcuffs. March at the rear of the column.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Walking back, Simon encountered Captain Cartwright and drew him to one side. ‘Cecil,’ he said, ‘the RSM seems to have got himself into a bit of trouble while I have been away.’

Cartwright looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, Colonel. I know.’

‘He will come up before me, of course, but before he does so I would be most grateful if you could make some very discreet enquiries for me.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘I understand that the RSM bedded down with or near the chaps of your squadron last night. Please get one of your NCOs – someone you can trust – to find out if any of your men saw Sarn’t Major Jenkins with a bottle of whisky before he turned in. Secondly, ask if anyone saw
anybody
else
with a bottle near Jenkins’s bedroll last night. This could be important, Cecil, so I would be glad of your help – and your discretion.’

‘You can rely on me, sir.’

Fonthill regained the head of the column and ordered the trackers out ahead to pick up the commando’s trail, instructing Mzingeli to take great care to ensure that no false tracks should be followed. De Wet’s cannon would surely slow him down and there was a chance that they could catch up with him before his rearguard could re-form and protect his back.

Rough graves had been dug in the marshy ground and the casualty list was handed to him. It made grisly reading. Twelve men had been killed and eight wounded, one of them seriously. The enemy dead numbered thirteen and no wounded had been captured. Presumably they had been taken off with the retreating rearguard

Fonthill lifted his good arm and gestured ahead. Slowly, the column began picking its way through the slime and mud.

The pursuit continued for the rest of that day without any contact being made with the commando. It remained, it seemed, out of sight, out of range and frustratingly just out of grasp – somewhere ahead, moving fast. And Fonthill marvelled at the speed maintained by the Boers. True, they had no wagons now to restrain them, but they were still trundling the Krupps cannon and many of their men, he
remembered, were without horses. They also had to keep their British prisoners moving with them, for to leave them behind would be to betray too much to the pursuers.

On the second day, they found real evidence of the plight of the commando. Their two cannon – the Krupps and a
Maxim-Nordenfeldt
– lay discarded by the side of the trail, hostages thrown to the pursuers, like supplies desperately tossed into the snow from a Russian sledge to distract the wolves close behind it. Fonthill gave orders that the guns should be ignored. General Knox could pick them up and carry them off as trophies – if he was following, that is. Simon scented that de Wet was now only just ahead, almost within reach.

The trail turned south, away from the river, and the going became harder, winding its way upward between a series of high ridges. Fonthill pushed his men hard. His practice now, when possible, was ‘ride through the night, attack at dawn’, his best hope of catching up with the Boer rearguard. This, however, had proved impossible. It became a cat and mouse game, with the Boer rearguard lying in wait and then opening fire, but then slipping away, leaving nothing but a few dug-out weapon pits and cartridge shells as Fonthill’s men deployed to surround them.

So pursued and pursuers played their exhausting game through the broken ground and rivers of the northern Cape. Simon realised that de Wet could have no idea of the size of the column hard on his heels, otherwise he could have turned and crushed the chasing pack. As it was, the Boer slipped and slid in the corrugated terrain, turning and twisting like a trout caught on a fly. Sometimes, Knox’s large and more slow-moving force caught up with Fonthill’s men,
only to fall behind again as the quarry took another evading turn. So the chase continued. At least the wily Boer was prevented from penetrating deeper into the Colony, for Fonthill heard that two other British columns were deploying along the passes to block the passage south.

It was exhausting work with so much night riding, and Simon had no time to convene a CO’s hearing to try Jenkins, and the Welshman, now mounted again, was forced to plod along in the rear. Fonthill missed having his old comrade at his side, as much for his cheerfulness and constant support as for any advice he might have to offer. Views on tactics and strategy were never Jenkins’s strong point. As it was, Hammond seemed to retreat into himself, a sullen and silent presence.

After ten days of gruelling riding, Fonthill felt he had his man, for the trail showed that de Wet was turning back north again, back to the borders with the Free State. Was he giving up his ‘invasion’? That didn’t matter either way, for Simon’s scouts told him that the Orange was high and uncrossable. Surely, with his back to the river, the Boer would now have to turn and fight?

Fonthill turned in the saddle and shouted to the bedraggled band behind him: ‘One more effort, men! I think we have them now.’

They passed Zanddrift, where two weeks before the raiders had crossed into the Crown Colony and it was clear that the Boers had stopped here and attempted to retrace their steps, but the river was running high and the spoor continued along the Colony bank, heading towards where Simon knew a large English force from the south were waiting for them.

And then, at an old, forgotten wagon drift, where the river suddenly appeared to be fordable, the tracks turned into the river
and disappeared, only to reappear on the far bank. There, it could be seen clearly that they widened and dispersed, showing that the commando had regained the comparative safety of its homeland and been swallowed up again in the vastness of the Free State veldt.

Simon leant forward and bent his head over his saddle pommel. His wounded shoulder, now only roughly resting in a makeshift sling, throbbed as though the arm would break off and his whole body ached, protesting at the non-stop riding and the miseries of snatching only brief moments of sleep on the rain-sodden ground. He sighed and shook his head. Then, on impulse, he shouted across the muddy river, lifting his voice so that he felt it could be heard across the whole of the Orange Free State: ‘You’ve got away again, de Wet. But this isn’t the end. We’ll catch you. I promise. We’ll catch you!’

He straightened his back and looked around him in some embarrassment. Hammond glared stonily across the bouncing water but the men of A Squadron nearest to him caught his eye. A trooper in the lead raised his hat wearily and repeated the cry, ‘We’ll catch you! We’ll catch you!’ Immediately, the men behind broke into a ragged cheer, waving their hats and the cheer ran down the column.

Fonthill grinned back and suddenly felt better. He waved his hat in acknowledgement and stiffly dismounted. ‘We will camp here tonight, Major,’ he announced. ‘Break out the tents.’ He nodded to where a little clump of taibosch rough scrub mingled with patches of mimosa and crept down to the river. ‘There should be kindling wood there. Once the horses are fed, let the men light fires and get a good night’s sleep. Post only the lightest guard. We will be safe from attack here.’

Then he handed his horse to a trooper and walked back down the column, nodding to each man and murmuring, ‘Well done, well
ridden. At least we’ve stopped the bastards from invading the Cape. Well done. Couldn’t have asked more of you all. Well done.’

At the rear, he found a weary Jenkins. He nodded to his guardian. ‘Take a break, Corporal. Thank you. Come back in ten minutes.’

Then he and his old comrade squatted companionably on the ground while Simon explained that they had now, at last, been forced to give up the pursuit. Jenkins nodded. ‘’Ow long will they go on fightin’, though, d’yer think?’

‘God knows. De Wet, of course, isn’t the only commando on the loose. There are several small ones still down here in the Cape, although from what I hear, they have not been able to rouse a rebellion. But in the Transvaal there are two sizeable forces under our old friend Botha and a general called de la Rey, and probably others too. It could go on for months yet.’

‘And ’ave you ’eard from the missus?’

Simon frowned. ‘Only one letter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But I couldn’t really have expected more. We’ve been on the move so much.’

A silence fell between them for a while. Then Jenkins spoke, deferentially bringing up what was on both of their minds. ‘When … er … d’yer think you will … er …?’

‘Hear the charges against you? Ah, any day soon. As soon as I can find a key piece of information. Maybe even tomorrow.’ He turned towards the Welshman. ‘When you come up before me,’ he said, ‘I want you to answer all my questions with clarity and tell your story just as you told it to me a few days ago. Deny explicitly that you were drunk and unfit to carry out your duties. And smarten up. Look like a sergeant major and all will be well.’

There was a discreet cough to announce the return of the corporal.
Simon nodded to Jenkins and strode away, walking along the line where the men were unsaddling, slowly erecting their bivouac tents and cutting wood for fires. Eventually, he found the man he was looking for. Captain Cartwright was deep in conversation with one of his sergeants.

Fonthill pulled him to one side. During the hunt for de Wet, Simon had not sought out Cartwright, not only because there had been little time for such an indulgence but also because he did not wish to put too much pressure on him. Now, however, was the time.

‘Any news for me, Cecil, on the Jenkins matter?’

‘Yes, sir. In fact, I was just going over the details with Sergeant Brewster there. I wanted to make sure I had the facts right.’

‘Good. Let me know what you can.’

The two men stayed in quiet concourse for ten minutes, with Fonthill scribbling occasionally in his pocketbook. Then he nodded and walked away. He found Hammond painfully removing his riding boots.

‘Ah, Major. Now that we have time, we will deal with the Jenkins matter in the morning, before we cross. Shall we say seven a.m.?’

Hammond allowed a flash of surprise to cross his features. ‘Ah, very good, Colonel. Usual charge hearing?’

‘No. Not quite. In view of Jenkins’s seniority and of the seriousness of the charge against him, I will not hear the case alone. I would like the two other squadron commanders, Forbes and Cartwright, to sit with me.’

‘And, presumably, with me?’

‘No. As you are a principal witness that would be quite out of order. I shall need you to give evidence, with, of course, the sergeant of the guard with whom you arrested Jenkins.’

Hammond frowned. ‘Sounds a bit … ah … irregular, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’

‘No, it is not. I have checked with army regulations.’ In fact he had not, but he hurried on. ‘I would be grateful if you would inform Forbes and Cartwright and the sergeant concerned accordingly. Seven a.m., then, outside my tent. I shall pitch it on the edge of the camp so that we shall have a degree of privacy, at least. Now get a good night’s sleep, Hammond.’

‘Ah, yes, indeed. Goodnight.’

Promptly at 6.45 a.m. the next morning, as the camp was awake, and bustling, Fonthill adjusted his hat and ducked outside his
one-man
tent and checked that his orderly had arranged three foldable chairs and an equally collapsible table behind the tent. He then sat and waited. It was not long before he was joined by Cartwright and Forbes, who sat on either side of him. Simon addressed them briefly on the form to be taken and nodded good morning to Hammond, who appeared with a slightly uncomfortable sergeant from his own squadron.

‘Would you mind, Major, waiting with your sergeant until you are called, separately?’ Fonthill spoke authoritatively. He was not at all sure that he was handling this hearing in accordance with army law but he was determined that he should remain in firm control at all times. ‘Perhaps you would wait over there, beyond that tent, until you are called to give evidence. I am sorry, but there are no further chairs. I hope, however, that this won’t last too long.’

Hammond glared but touched the peak of his hat in salute and stalked away. Then the thud of boots on the sodden ground announced the arrival of Jenkins, dressed smartly, Fonthill noticed
with relief, and marched between two sergeants, their pepper-and-salt moustaches showing their seniority in age at least.

‘Sergeant Major, sir,’ bawled one of the sergeants, ‘quick march, leff right, leff right, leff right.’ Then when the trio had reached the table. ‘’alt! Cap orf.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Fonthill, as urbanely as he could manage. ‘At ease, the three of you, please. Now, Sergeant, would you please read out the charge against the sergeant major.’

The sergeant produced a piece of paper and read that at six a.m. on the morning of 24th of February 1901, Sergeant Major Jenkins had been found drunk and incapable while on active duty and facing the enemy.

‘How do you plead to this charge, Sergeant Major?’ enquired Fonthill.

‘Not guilty, sir.’

‘Very well. Let us hear the evidence. I believe that Major Hammond and Sergeant Wilkins are the main witnesses. Please call Major Hammond first.’

As though on the parade ground, Hammond marched into the small space in front of the table and stood at attention. ‘At ease, Major,’ said Fonthill. ‘We don’t appear to have a written deposition of your evidence, so perhaps you would give it orally?’

‘Very well, sir. On the morning in question I had cause to visit the lines where C Squadron were bivouacked and—’

‘Cause? What cause, Major?’

Hammond frowned and blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, I, that is, we were making the rounds just after reveille.’

‘I see. And …?’

‘I saw Sergeant Major Jenkins … er … staggering beside his bedroll.’