Fire Across the Veldt (11 page)

It was hard riding for Fonthill’s little command. Once again, he had eschewed the use of supply wagons and had confined his column to the backs of its horses in complete self-reliance, living off the country. The trouble was that the country was now wet, damned wet.

Heavy rain was marking the end of the old year 1900 when hard news came in at last. Simon, his officers and Jenkins were crouched under oilskins around a hissing fire, chewing biltong in the darkness, when a soaked Mzingeli threw himself off his horse and reported, ‘Boers just the other side of Bethulie, Nkosi. Big commando.’

‘Good.’ Fonthill threw his remaining biltong onto the fire. ‘How far away?’

‘Two miles. Maybe three.’

‘Saddle up, gentlemen. We will attack him at once.’

‘Not on our own, surely, Colonel?’ Hammond rose more slowly than the others.

‘Certainly. We can stop him riding on, if not hold him completely. Sarn’t Major, send a good galloper back to the general at the main camp. Tell him that de Wet is camped just to the east of Bethulie with his main commando and to come on quickly. Tell him that we are attacking him.’

Within minutes, the troopers were mounted, their heads down in the pouring rain, and setting off, following the lead set by Mzingeli and his tracker. Except for the weather, it was a repeat of Fonthill’s attack at Bothaville, and as he rode, he planned his attack, remembering what Captain Steele had told him about de Wet. With his small force, he could not attempt to defeat the commando in a pitched battle. But
there was, perhaps, a chance of capturing the Boer general and riding off with him. Steele had told him that the man usually slept in the middle of his commando. A strike, then, directly into the heart of the camp, crashing straight through the defences, and picking up de Wet and carrying him off in the confusion and darkness. No attempt to exchange musketry with that tough rearguard: a strike, straight to the centre and, if they could not carry off de Wet, then they must kill him. Surely, with the head severed, the snake would die.

He summoned his officers and Jenkins to gather around him as they rode and he explained his plan. There was a flash of teeth in the semi-darkness from the younger men. Predictably, Hammond frowned.

‘How will we know which one is de Wet?’ he asked. ‘These damned burghers all dress the same. How are we going to pick him out in the middle of the night?’

Fonthill nodded. ‘It is not going to be easy. But Jenkins and I have met him and we know what he looks like. We all ride for the centre of the camp but the two of us will lead. Once we have identified de Wet we will capture him – knocking him on the head, if necessary, and slinging him over a horse. The rest of the column must protect us and then we all ride off, like blazes. Back the way we came. Understood?’

There was a mumble of agreement, although Hammond remained silent. The column rode on, the horses’ hooves now sliding through mud.

Suddenly, without warning, there was a guttural cry from directly ahead and the night was temporarily lit by a score of gun flashes. Fonthill’s horse reared as a bullet crashed into its breast, throwing him to the ground and, as he lay, winded, he was aware of men falling
around him. He tried to struggle to his feet but his boots slipped on the wet earth and he felt Jenkins’s arm thrusting him back onto the ground. As he lay, he realised that the attempt to capture de Wet had failed before it had been launched, for he and the Welshman were the only two who could recognise him.

Then he heard Jenkins shout: ‘Dismount. Handlers, take the horses to the rear. The rest take cover. Squadrons select your targets and fire to the front. Fire at will!’

Hell! Why wasn’t Hammond taking command?

Fonthill scrambled onto his hands and knees and felt a sharp thump on his shoulder which knocked him flat again and suffused him with pain. Bullets were hissing into the ground all around him and somehow he crawled to take cover behind the shape of his horse which lay inertly to his right. He lay there panting and looked around him to take his bearings. He could see very little, but enough to know that the men of the column were lying flat in the rain and robustly answering the fire that came from a slight ridge ahead of them. Except that, now, that fire had slackened and, as he watched, it flickered away and ceased altogether.

‘Fix bayonets.’ Jenkins’s voice came from immediately to his right. ‘Charge!’

Shadowy figures rose all around him and lumbered forward out of his vision. Simon dropped his cheek onto the mud and thought that he felt the thud of horsemen riding. Then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drop into oblivion.

He came to what seemed like only seconds later and realised that Jenkins’s arm was around him, gradually coaxing him to sit upright. The wounded shoulder jarred and he cursed with the pain.

‘Ah, good. At least you’re alive, bach.’ The Welshman’s voice expressed huge relief. ‘Thought you’d gone for a minute, see. Nasty one on the top of the arm. Now, tuck your ’and inside your tunic, like that. Lovely. Now, we’ve got to try an’ get you on this ’orse and get out of ’ere. Because when old Wetpants sees ’ow few we are, ’e’ll come back after us, as sure as God made little apples, particularly now that the bloody rain’s stopped. Now. Foot up. That’s right.’

Fonthill gasped. ‘Where’s Major Hammond?’

‘Don’t know. Not dead or wounded, as far as I can see. Captain Cartwright ’as taken charge. Now, make an effort. Up’s a daisy. Loverly. Now ’ang on, ’cos I’m comin’ up be’ind you, see.’

Somehow, through a mist of pain, Fonthill remained seated in the saddle until he felt Jenkins mount behind him, reach forward to grab the reins and then hold him steady with his other arm. In this fashion, the Welshman turned the horse and led them away, following other dim, mounted figures ahead of them.

One of them turned and came back. ‘You’ve got the CO, Sarn’t Major? Good. Well done.’

Simon recognised the nasal, Midlands twang of Captain Cartwright. ‘Cecil,’ he asked. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘Afraid we rode straight into their rearguard, which was well positioned. A Squadron out in the front caught it well and truly. My squadron and Forbes’s were further back and, thanks to Sergeant Major Jenkins’s initiative in taking charge at the front, we were able to deploy and return their fire. Then, when we charged, they’d gone – and from what we could see, so had the whole commando. Buggered off in a flash as soon as the firing started. But we had lost too many men to follow. I thought it best to fall back onto General Knox’s main
column in case the Boers turned round and came after us. If they do, we’re in no state to put up much of a show.’

Fonthill nodded his head. ‘Quite right. Where is Hammond?’

‘Don’t know. As far as I know, he’s missing. The only one, as far as I can see, for he’s not among the dead or wounded.’

‘How many men have we lost and what about the wounded?’

‘A Squadron pretty well decimated, I fear, sir. They’ve taken all the casualties. Twenty-two killed and five wounded, not counting Major Hammond. Luckily, the wounded are all able to ride, although we’ve lost horses, of course. Afraid we couldn’t stop to bury the dead. Just taken their name tags.’

Simon felt his head swim. Half of his lead squadron wiped out – including, by the look of it, their commander! He swayed in the saddle and felt Jenkins tighten his grip. He tried to concentrate. ‘We should be able to come back and bury the dead when we meet up with the main column. Have you posted a rearguard?’

‘Yes, sir. Although how anybody can find anybody in this bloody weather, I just don’t know. It’s come back raining harder than ever. Could be Birmingham.’

‘Or bleedin’ Rhyl, see.’ Fonthill felt Jenkins’s hot breath on his neck and forced a grin. ‘I think, Cecil, that as soon as we can find a kopje or clump of rocks, we should halt and form a defensive ring. If de Wet does decide to counter-attack, rearguard or no rearguard, we will be pretty vulnerable strung out like this.’ A sudden stab of fear struck him. ‘Did Mzingeli survive? Is he still with us?’

‘Oh yes, sir. I’ve posted him with the rearguard at the back.’

‘Thank goodness for that. Fetch him back and send him ahead to find a decent place for us to stop and regroup.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Fonthill and Jenkins rode in silence for a while. Eventually, the Welshman spoke in a growl from just behind Simon’s left shoulder. ‘Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, bach sir?’

‘How would I know, until you tell me what you’re thinking?’

‘Where was bloody ’igh an’ mighty Major ’Ammond, when the shit was flyin’?’

‘Don’t be disrespectful. Anything could have happened to him in this dark and rain.’ But the same thought had been going round in his head. Hammond had been right behind him in the van as they approached the Boer lines. Could he have been hit in that first fusillade? If so, why wasn’t his body found when the wounded and dead were assessed? He hoped to God that, somehow, he had not been overlooked and was not lying back there, wounded and in pain.

Within half an hour, Mzingeli had ridden back to suggest they deviate to the right where rocks had been strewn across the veldt, fringing a declivity which would offer protection for horses and men if they were attacked. It was an ideal defensive position and Simon dismounted with a sigh of relief. Immediately he was tended by the column’s doctor, who had left his practice in Manchester to volunteer to serve in South Africa. He bent his greying head and examined Fonthill with care in the growing light.

‘You’ve been lucky, Colonel,’ he said. ‘The bullet has gone clean through the top of the arm without hitting the bone, although it’s made a bit of a mess of your sinews there, hence the pain. As far as I can see, there is no need to operate. Just rest the arm in a sling and keep the wound clean. It should repair itself.’

‘Good. What about the other wounded?’

‘The only serious one has a shattered leg. I have bandaged the others and, in my opinion, they can stay and serve. With the Boers’ shooting, it seemed it was either kill or slightly damage, with killing being the favourite. Luckily the light wasn’t better.’

Shortly before dawn, the defensive ring heard a distant halloo and two horsemen approached. The first was one of the pickets posted far out to warn of surprise. The other was Major Philip Hammond.

The latter rode straight to where Fonthill was sitting, his arm strapped in a sling. He saluted and dismounted, with his usual air of sangfroid. His uniform showed no sign of wound or dishevelment, although his mount was mud-strewn.

‘Terribly sorry about this, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Damned horse bolted as soon as the firing started and just couldn’t control the beast. God knows where he took me but, in the wet and darkness, I had no idea where I was and I was soon out of distance of the firing and had nothing to direct me. I hear we’ve had a bit of a pasting, what?’

Fonthill examined him wryly. ‘Very much so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that half of your squadron have been killed and five others wounded. De Wet got clean away again and, as you can see, we are waiting here until the general comes up. We’ve not exactly covered ourselves with glory, I fear.’

‘Aw. Damned bad luck, sir. Bad luck.’

‘Quite so. Now, Philip, go and find yourself something to eat. Once it’s properly daylight we will move to meet Knox.’

Hammond flicked his helmet with a forefinger and strode away, leaving Fonthill to muse how a trained cavalry officer, who would surely have ridden all kinds of horses from boyhood, could find no way of controlling his mount once the firing had started.

Within the hour, Simon had ordered the command to saddle up and they were wending their way wearily across the veldt when they came up to Knox’s advance guard. Fonthill could not resist looking at his watch. How far had the general advanced and at what pace? He shook his head wearily. Since reporting to Knox this second time, he had tended to give the man the benefit of the doubt about the speed of his movements. He had clung doggedly to de Wet’s tail in the preceding months as the Boer had twisted and turned across the Free State, even catching up with him once or twice, despite his need to move heavy guns and supply wagons on the trail of the lightly equipped enemy. But, once again, he had failed to come up quickly enough to present de Wet with overpowering numbers in open conflict. Would the regular army never learn, he wondered?

‘You shouldn’t have attempted to attack, Fonthill,’ said Knox when the two met. ‘Your job was to stay on the blighter’s tail and send for me.’

‘I was afraid he would move on before I could make contact, sir. And, to be honest, I didn’t attack. In terrible weather conditions – wind, utter darkness and strong, driving rain – we blundered into his rearguard.’

The general nodded and twisted one end of his waxed moustache. ‘Quite understand. We’ve done quite a bit of that these last few months. Sorry you’ve been wounded. Been seen to?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I hear you’ve lost quite a few of your chaps.’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. Twenty-two dead and five wounded. We need to go back and bring back the bodies or bury them.’

‘We’ll move on and see what we can do. No hope of catching bloody de Wet, I presume?’

‘I doubt it, sir. He moved very quickly, as usual, and with our casualties and in the darkness, I’m afraid I have no idea which direction he took. But, in this weather, he will have left spoor. Let me send my black chaps out and see if we can track him.’

Knox sighed. ‘Very well. But I don’t hold out much hope. Bloody man could be across the Orange by now. Never mind, send out your hounds, there’s a good chap. And take a bit of rest. You look all in.’

In fact, Fonthill was immediately recalled to Johannesburg for medical treatment and for a meeting with French, who himself had been busy in the Transvaal, chasing the tails of Botha and a formidable new guerrilla leader who had emerged there, de la Rey. Major Hammond was left in command of the column and, before he boarded the train north, Simon had a heart-to-heart talk with Jenkins as they stood together on the station platform.

‘Now, for goodness’ sake,’ he warned, ‘don’t give Hammond cause to criticise you. So, no drinking, and behave as the splendid senior warrant officer you are. Treat him with deference and respect …’