The two groups of cavalry had moved forward with dusk, leaving the rest of the column behind them. Ahead they could see the Kwathamba Hills and for a long time the two groups moved side by side.
Leading as guide, Dabney rode alongside his brother who was leading a half-squadron in front of the left column. Robert looked grey-faced and unhappy, and for a long time they rode together just ahead of their men, drawn together to talk.
‘Do you enjoy soldiering, Dab?’ Robert asked suddenly.
Dabney’s head turned. ‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Father, I suppose. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. All the other Goffs back to the year dot. I imagine it must be in me. I’ve never questioned it. Why?’
Robert’s head moved unhappily. ‘I’m not sure I feel the same way. I prefer desk work to this sort of thing.’
Dabney shrugged. ‘There’s always a place for a good desk man. Especially these days. The idea of a general staff’s growing. This little lot’s shown the need for men who can organise things.’
‘I don’t mean that sort of organisation. I mean as a civilian.’
Dabney’s head turned. ‘You mean, send in your papers?’
‘I’ve thought of it more than once. Elfrida’s not keen on me being a soldier, anyway – frightened and all that – and Lord Cosgro’s offered me a position in his organisation.’
‘That was merely to get a dig in at Father. It’d please old Walter no end to entice one of the Goffs away from the Regiment.’
‘No. It’s not that. He said I had the ability, and I think I have.’
Dabney looked puzzled. ‘Well, that’s a licker, if you like. A Goff in business.’
‘Surely to God you’re not going to be snobbish about it!’ Robert’s voice was harsh and irritated. ‘The idea that gentlemen don’t go into business just doesn’t hold water any longer.’
‘Oh, gosh, no, old man!’ Dabney hurried to correct a false impression. ‘I wasn’t thinking of
that!
Just of a Goff not being in the Regiment. They’ve been in the Regiment ever since it was founded.’
Robert gave a little snort. ‘Then it’s about time they did something else,’ he said. ‘We’re in danger of becoming bores about this bloody Regiment.’
As dusk came, Morby-Smith rode forward to join them. ‘I think this is where we part company,’ he said, and the two columns separated, two and a half squadrons of the Lancers moving westwards under Morby-Smith, the other half-squadron under Major Johnson, followed by the North Cape Horse, moving towards the Graafberg. As the horsemen bore away across the Boer front, the firing flared up in the darkness to the east. Johnson, at the head of the right column, cocked his head.
‘Trim’s certainly drawing attention to himself,’ he said.
They were hidden now by an area of monkey thorn, mimosa and low trees and scrub, and Dabney suggested they should stop to make sure of their bearings.
‘They’ll never see us, sir,’ he advised. ‘We ought to stay here now until the infantry move. They’re bound to have scouts out looking for any attempt to get round them.’
Pushing forward on the other flank, Morby-Smith had also drawn rein. Staring ahead into the darkness, he motioned Robert forward with his half-squadron.
‘Scout up in the western end of the hills,’ he ordered. ‘Make sure the way’s clear. Make no mistake, though, and be careful. I want you to find us a spot where the horses won’t be seen. Some sort of dip where the horse holders can wait, with a rise in front where we can enfilade the Boer position.’
Moving forward with his squadron, Robert shivered slightly. The night was cool and very soon the sky would begin to pale. There was a sliver of moon and, through the darkness, he could just see scanty grass and scrubby bushes. The plain was seamed with gullies and ravines which were offshoots of the dried river bed that the Boers were holding in front of the hills. He didn’t consider the job a difficult one but he was terrified of making a mistake. His fear sprang less from the thought of danger than from the knowledge that his father had been an expert scout – he’d heard the story a thousand times of how he’d led a Confederate regiment round a whole Federal cavalry division in the American Civil War and how he’d commanded the North Cape Horse in Zululand – and he was certain that his brother Dabney had the same gift. He himself would never have offered to lead a column round the back of the Boers because he would have been terrified of going wrong, and he was conscious that in the trotting files behind him was Morby-Smith’s son.
His little column moved slowly, silent except for the faint clink of harness or sword scabbards. A horse snorted and Robert turned nervously.
‘Keep that damned horse quiet,’ he snarled in a harsh whisper.
‘Sir—’ it was young Morby-Smith who spoke ‘—aren’t we a little too far forward?’ He jerked a hand. ‘I think the rise we’re supposed to occupy is over on our left.’
Worried about making a mistake, Robert was resentful of the interruption. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ he snapped.
Morby-Smith didn’t reply and Robert pushed on, worried. Ahead, there seemed to be another slight rise and he was convinced that this, not the one Morby-Smith had pointed out, was their goal. He glanced over his shoulder to his right. There was no sign or sound of the infantry or guns getting into position, and he realised nervously that he was on his own. Waging war in darkness, he decided, not knowing where the enemy was, was a nerve-racking business. Then he saw a chink of light on his right and halted the squadron.
‘That must be the infantry getting into position,’ he said.
Morby-Smith shook his head. ‘Sir, I feel sure we’re ahead of the infantry. It couldn’t be the Boer position, could it?’
‘We can’t have come that far, for God’s sake!’
The little column halted and the men were told to dismount. Nerves on edge, Robert was dying for a cigarette.
‘The men may smoke if they wish,’ he said.
‘Sir—’ Morby-Smith ventured to protest ‘—I thought—’
‘We’re all right here.’ Robert turned sharply. ‘They won’t be watching this place, and anyway the order applied to the infantry in front of the Boer trenches.’
A few cigarettes and pipes were lit and there was a quiet murmur as the men smoked, their muttering interspersed with the soft snorting of horses and the scrape and clink as they pawed at the stony ground.
‘Soon be daylight.’ Robert glanced at the sky. ‘Have someone look out for the infantry. When they move, so do we. Any sign of the rest of the regiment?’
Morby-Smith, who was still mounted, stared to the east. ‘No, sir. I still suspect we’re perhaps a little too far—’
‘For God’s sake, Morby-Smith!’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
But as the sky paled and the first flicker of light appeared, bringing with it the reddish-brown colour of the grass and bushes, what Morby-Smith had tried to tell Robert proved to be correct. The light they had seen was in the Boer position and they could see the line of scrub and trees where the infantry were waiting almost half a mile in their rear, with no sign of the rest of the regiment.
‘Dammit, where are they?’ Robert snapped, aware as he spoke that he was trying to justify his mistake by suggesting everybody else was wrong.
Lifting his glasses, he tried to study the plain. But there was no sign of infantry or guns, or of the North Cape Horse at the south end of the Graafberg. He was just about to lower the field glasses when a single shot came, the echoes clattering among the slopes and krantzes of the hills. Morby-Smith cried out, and, turning, Robert saw him slipping from his saddle, blood pouring from his throat. He tried to grab him as he fell but he was too late and the boy crashed to the ground. Immediately, the squadron was thrown into confusion as the men watched the sergeants, and the sergeants turned to Robert for orders.
The single shot was followed by others and as Robert gave instructions to lift Morby-Smith to the saddle, it changed to a regular fusillade. One of the men trying to hoist the wounded boy clutched his knee as his leg buckled under him, and another staggered back with a grunt, sat down, then flopped over on his back like a rag doll. Morby-Smith slid off the saddle and fell on his head on top of him.
‘Mount!’ Robert yelled. ‘Mount, for God’s sake! We’ve been ambushed!’
He knew he had not been ambushed, because the Boers were still in their trenches several hundred yards away, but had failed to heed advice and led his men too far forward. Behind him, along the face of the slope they occupied, he could see their retreat would be under fire every bit of the way. In his panic-stricken mind, the only thing to do seemed to be to destroy the Boers who were killing his men.
‘Mount!’ he yelled. ‘Draw swords! Squadron into line.’
From a vantage position among the trees, the General heard the first firing.
‘What in God’s name is happening?’ he snapped. ‘The infantry aren’t in position yet.’
‘Sir!’ Ellesmere swung round, his binoculars in his hands. ‘The Lancers are moving forward.’
‘Great God and all His pink angels!’ The General reached for his glasses. ‘What the hell’s Morby-Smith up to?’
‘Sir, it’s a single half squadron. The rest of the regiment’s moving up to support them.’
‘For God’s sake, Ned, get the infantry moving! Those fools have started before we’re ready!’
Furiously angry that his plan had gone wrong, the General watched Ellesmere send a galloper across to where the infantry were waiting among the trees and scrub. Out on the veldt, Trim’s little fight was still going on unabated and even seemed to be attracting more Boers, but his casualties, according to the latest information, were heavy and it had required a steady nerve to leave him to his fate to make sure the infantry were at their start line at the right time.
Ellesmere’s galloper came back at full speed on a lathered horse. ‘The guns aren’t in position yet, sir,’ he announced.
‘We’ll have to do without them.’ The General tapped the pommel of his saddle in irritation. ‘The blasted Boers’ll be able to bolt before we’re on to them now.’
He lifted his glasses, frowning as he saw the half squadron of horsemen on his left front wheel into line and begin to move forward. The rest of the regiment was galloping up on their right in support and, as the single squadron broke into a gallop, the greater mass of men swung behind them to form a second, longer line.
Looking back, Robert saw that Morby-Smith had got the rest of the 19th into position to support him, but they were a long way behind. In front, he could see puffs of smoke coming from the end of the Boer trenches. There was little to be seen of the men who were firing, however, beyond a small group standing by a group of rocks, and what looked ominously like a gun. Even as he ordered the Charge, he was aware that he had made a mistake but that it was now too late to do anything about it. With his men dismounted, despite the indifferent shooting of British soldiers, he could have silenced the group by the rocks, but the sudden fusillade had panicked him and the only thing he could think of was to attack.
The first glint of the sun appeared between a gap in the hills in the east. It was in his eyes and made it difficult to see the Boers. He drew a deep shuddering breath. They were committed now.
The drumming of hooves increased and at that moment he saw a flash and a shell burst among the horses. From the corner of his eye he saw animals go down and he held his sabre more tightly, his thumb pressing the back of the hilt in line with the blade, alert to grip more firmly at the moment of impact. The hooves about him beat a steady rhythm, but the excitement was getting hold of the riders now and the horses were almost out of control. The gun fired again and there was another crash as more horses and riders went down.
The pace had quickened and they were almost at a gallop, the reins loose, the horses’ rumps bunching together.
‘Give points!’ he yelled. ‘Give points!’
He had been concentrating so hard on the single gun, he had not noticed the increase in the musketry and it dawned on him now that bullets were whipping and cracking all round him. Turning to check his command, he realised riderless horses were breaking away across the slope now and several men were already stumbling to the rear on their own two feet.
Then he saw the gun fire again and the flash at the muzzle seemed to coincide with another flash just in front of him. His horse pecked, stumbled forward and wavered and, as he hauled at the reins to keep its head up, its forelegs buckled and it crashed to the ground. Flying over its head, he slid on his side, his sword and helmet gone, the hard shape of his revolver jabbing into his middle until, blinded with dust, his mouth full of grit, he came to a stop against a small boulder.
On the other side of the front, Dabney was watching through his glasses. The half-squadron advancing on the Boer trenches seemed to have disappeared, and the supporting line two squadrons long to be scattering in retreat, a few of the riders taking cover in one of the gulleys and trying to keep up a fire on the Boer trenches.
Johnson was watching the hills for the flash of light from his signallers. In Dabney’s opinion, Johnson wasn’t the most imaginative of men. Brave, bigoted, hide-hound, a prodigy on the polo field or at steeplechases, he was a firm believer in ceremony and seemed lost in front of the enemy. Yet it was obvious something ought to be done at once because Dabney could see the infantry trying to push forward in a sleet of rifle fire and finding it difficult.
‘I think, sir,’ he attempted, ‘that we ought to be on the move.’
‘I’ve had no signal,’ Johnson said.
For God’s sake, Dabney thought, a cavalryman was supposed to have an eye for this sort of thing, was supposed to know the exact moment to launch his men! It seemed clear that, with the little attack at the far end of the line brought to a halt and the infantry still struggling, a hammer blow on the opposite flank couldn’t be anything else but useful.
‘I suspect we might not get a signal, sir,’ he said. ‘The infantry might not even get going unless we give them a bit of help.’
Johnson looked worried and Dabney gestured.