Fire Across the Veldt (5 page)

The officers and Jenkins had been given small bell tents each to themselves at the mine site in Johannesburg while they were recruiting, with slightly larger, communal tents being allocated separately to the sergeants and the corporals. That evening, Fonthill sent a message asking Jenkins to visit him at his tent after the evening meal.

Simon had uncorked a bottle of Scotch when he heard a familiar cough outside the tent flap. ‘Come in, old chap,’ he shouted.

‘Evenin’, sir,’ said Jenkins deferentially. ‘Difficult to knock on a canvas flap, ain’t it?’

‘Pull up that camp chair. And, when we are alone, I would prefer “bach sir” to “sir”, any day. Now that I’m loftier than God as a colonel and commanding officer, however, when others are present I’m afraid it will have to be just “sir”. I do hope you understand, 352 … er, sorry, S’aren’t Major, sir.’

‘O’course I understand, bach sir. Good Lord, does that ’appen to be a bottle of whisky in the Colonel bach’s ’and, by any chance?’

‘Yes it does. I don’t suppose you’d care for a dram?’

‘Well, only a taste – to see if it’s all right for you, like.’

Fonthill poured out two heavy measures and raised his glass to Jenkins. ‘To Fonthill’s Horse and all who ride with them.’

The Welshman reciprocated: ‘To Fonthill’s Horse and particularly to their commanding officer and regimental sergeant major.’ The two raised and clinked their glasses. Jenkins downed his in one gulp.

‘Which reminds me,’ said Simon refilling his glass. ‘For God and my sake do
not
get drunk on this posting, 352. Particularly with Major Hammond about. In fact, I need to tell you about him …’ And he related his conversation with his second in command.

‘Ah, yes.’ The Welshman wiped the fringe of his moustache and nodded his head. I ’ad a bit of a feelin’ about ’im. Probably a bit of a discipline … disciplinity … discap …’

‘Disciplinarian?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Yes, I think he probably is. I can handle him all right and everything depends upon how he behaves once we are in action. But he is undoubtedly a conventional cavalry officer and they can be the worse reactionaries, you know.’

‘I think I know what that means, but I’m not sure.’

‘Dyed in the wool. Of the old school.’

‘Ah yes. That’s what I thought.’

‘But there is something else. Lieutenant General Sir John French is in charge of the cavalry arm under Lord Kitchener and I am to report to him, which doesn’t exactly delight me, because I am insisting that Fonthill’s Horse are not cavalry. I haven’t met French yet and he certainly sounds like a fighting soldier. The general obviously thinks so and the man has added to his reputation considerably by dancing round the main Boer army and capturing Kimberley behind their backs, so to speak.’

‘So …?’

‘So I have a feeling that French might just have placed Hammond with us to keep an eye on me, so to speak. If that is right, I don’t like the sound of it at all and I shan’t tolerate it. But I don’t want to look for trouble with the man, for Hammond could be very useful to me as a second i/c, given his experience. But – and here’s the point – stay on the right side of him, 352, because he might use you to get at me, if you know what I mean. Don’t stray out of line. And we must observe the niceties in public, you and I, so please remember that too.’

Jenkins nodded slowly. ‘Very good, bach sir. I know you was goin’ to offer me another drink but, given the ah … niceties … I shall refuse it, see.’ He rose to his feet. ‘So goodnight, Colonel bach. And good luck in this blasted war. I shall be looking out for you, as always, look you.’

‘Good luck to you, my dear old 352 – and I shall be looking out for you, too, be assured of that.’ The two comrades shook hands and Jenkins ducked his head and left the tent.

With more than a hundred men to assess, the horse trials began shortly after dawn the next day. A temporary ring had been cleared on the outskirts of the mine and twenty or so of the tough little Basuto ponies, captured from the Boers, had been gathered together and saddled. Already waiting and under the care of two of the sergeants were a line of recruits. Arriving equally early, Fonthill walked down the line, engaging every third man or so in a brief conversation. A little later, keeping out of sight, he noted the arrival of first Jenkins and then Hammond, whom Simon was glad to see that 352 saluted smartly. Then the two men began talking earnestly, obviously planning the equestrian tasks to be set. Fonthill breathed a sigh of relief. At least the day seemed to have begun equably.

The men to whom he talked were a strange mixture. Mostly they were incomers to South Africa: British, Canadians, Australians and a smattering of New Zealanders, mainly of farming stock but who had come to earn better money in the gold mines of the rand – typical uitlanders, in fact. All claimed to have grown up on horseback and with hunting rifles in their hands and with a strongly acquired dislike of the Boer burghers of the Transvaal who had denied them a vote in their new home. They welcomed a chance at last to fight them. The newest arrivals, however, were the most interesting. They had sailed at their own expense from Britain to Cape Town and travelled north to army headquarters to enlist. Some were ex-officers and wished to enlist as ‘gentlemen rankers’ and, as they said, to ‘fight for the Empire’. Fonthill made a mental note of them.

Then he took up his position behind a tree and watched as Hammond, Jenkins and the sergeant put the men through basic exercises to test their horsemanship. Fonthill had agreed that the tests should be fairly elementary for there was much to do in just a couple of days. The men were asked to mount and dismount, walk, trot and then gallop their mounts around the ring and then take a couple of low hurdles. It soon became clear that most of the
would-be
recruits’ claims to be horsemen were honest and only a few were weeded out. Fonthill was satisfied with what he saw and hoped that the shooting trials would be equally rewarding. He had insisted that the foot drill and other conventional army training should be kept to a minimum. He wanted his men to be in the field as soon as possible and he desired them to prove to be an elite force, specialised in what they were asked to do: track down the Boer commandos and then corner them. He had communicated this to his officers, which had
met with immediate approval from his captains and a glassy stare and brief nod from Hammond.

That afternoon he travelled back to Pretoria to consult the quartermaster about supplies and also to see Alice. She had been accredited to the group of journalists who were attached to army headquarters and he met her back at the hotel at the end of the day.

‘They’re a hard lot,’ she said, flopping on the bed. ‘Not a woman among them, of course, but I’m used to that. Battersby has been here for the
Morning Post
since the start but I’ve yet to see him. God knows where Churchill is. I think he’s a bit of a free spirit, coming and going as he likes. I don’t think he’s much liked by the others. They say that his mother –
his mother
– has arrived in Cape Town, would you believe it! There’s Steevens of the
Mail
and Bennet Burleigh of the
Telegraph
– them I have met before and I respect. Melton Prior is here, drawing for the
Illustrated London
News
and then there’s Henry Nevinson, of the
Daily Chronicle
.’

‘And how do they regard you?’

‘Well, the older ones know my name from the early campaigns, of course, and they’ve all read what I wrote from China, so I think there’s a grudging respect, but,’ she pulled a face, ‘there’s a touch of “what the hell is a woman doing out here?” about them, despite all that. Mind you,’ she grinned, ‘when they read that I’ve already met and interviewed de Wet and had a good session with Kitchener they will have to stick their prejudices down their riding boots.’

‘Quite. How
did
you get on with the general?’

Alice sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. ‘Haven’t seen him yet but it sounds as though he’s a stuff box, of course – very
correct and he clearly hates the press, just as Wolseley used to. I don’t think I can tell him much about de Wet, because we didn’t have much time with the man, but I would think he is going to send French back down to the Crown Colony, in case there is another attempt at invasion there.’

‘Sounds plausible. I suppose that could involve my column.’

‘Indeed. Have you had orders yet?’

‘No. I am waiting to meet French, who is somewhere down in the south.’

‘So you don’t know when you will take to the field?’

‘No. We are not ready yet, in any case. We have only just begun recruiting and training. But we will not have time for the luxury of polishing and honing the men. Kitchener wants us out and riding soon, probably within less than a month. There is much to do.’

Alice nodded sympathetically. Then she frowned. ‘Simon, you will be careful, won’t you?’

‘Careful? Well, of course I will. What do you mean, exactly?’

She looked at the ground for a moment and then directed her level gaze back at him. ‘My darling, I cannot think of anyone more brave or capable than you, but riding as a two-man army – just you and Jenkins – way out on your own, acting on your own initiative, is one thing. Commanding a regular army unit in the field is another. It will demand skills and attributes which will make new demands on you, my love. So be cautious, I beseech you.’

Fonthill stiffened slightly. ‘I am aware of the problems, Alice, thank you. I shall act with … ah … care, I assure you.’

‘Of course you will.’ She smiled. ‘And you will end up as one of the most unlikely field marshals the British army has ever seen. Now.’
She leant forward. ‘What of your regimental sergeant major? How is dear old 352 shaping up?’

‘Remarkably well, I think. But there could be a problem or two there.’ And he related his first brush with Major Hammond.

Alice listened carefully and nodded when he had finished. ‘Tread warily, my love. It won’t help you if I upset Kitchener, so
I
will step carefully in that direction myself. I suppose the days of our old freedom are over. We shall just have to buckle down, won’t we?’

The next three weeks passed in a blur of activity for Fonthill, preparing his command. One hundred and twenty men were selected from the volunteers who had presented themselves and they were divided into three squadrons, each consisting of two troops. Simon soon realised that his three officers were insufficient for the needs of the unit and he immediately commissioned all of his sergeants to be subalterns and commanders of the six troops, under the squadron leaders. Hammond immediately protested against this but he was overruled by Fonthill, who repeated that he wanted battle-hardened men for this role, whatever their backgrounds, and explained that there was no time, anyway, to transfer men from elsewhere.

The column moved out onto the veldt, camping out in the rain, sleeping without tents and living on basic rations of bully beef, biltong, biscuits and only the water that each man could carry in his bottle. The ponies proved to be sturdy, good-tempered and able to move quickly over the bad ground. They existed on eight pounds of fodder a day – oaties, mealies or compressed grain – compared to the twenty pounds that the larger, less equable British cavalry mounts demanded.

Given that the men were all virtually new recruits, Fonthill was
happy with the way they performed during the exercises. But he was particularly delighted when, on their return to Pretoria, Mzingeli produced his native scouts. There were twelve of them, mainly from the Transvaal but four from the Free State. Mzingeli said that, between them, they covered an area almost as big as the two states and were familiar with the terrain. Most were in their thirties, tall and stringy, like Mzingeli himself, with a handful in their early twenties. Each one, however, spoke good English, as well as Afrikaans and his own dialect, and all were eager, happy to have their own pony and to be free to ride with the unit and, of course, to receive pay far higher than what they could earn on farms and on the mines.

‘They can all track, too, Nkosi, I have tested them. When do we ride?’

‘In a week’s time. General French is arriving here in a few days’ time and will probably want to inspect us all. So I am taking the command out onto the veldt for one last exercise to sharpen them up before he gets here. I shall want you and your boys to ride with us.’

The black man inclined his head. ‘Very well, Nkosi. We will be ready.’

For the exercise, Fonthill set a course to the south-east of Pretoria, well past the urban sprawl of Johannesburg and out onto the high veldt, away from the roads and railway tracks. They left just before dawn and, despite the early hour, Alice came to wish them well, fluttering her handkerchief in response to the salute from each squadron as it rode by.

In the van of the column rode Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli, the latter with a blanket casually thrown over the butt of the rifle protruding from its saddle bucket. Behind, Hammond, Wills and Cartwright led their squadrons within which the subalterns rode ahead of their individual troops. The black guides brought up the rear, except for three of their number whom Simon had sent ranging far ahead to ensure that the veldt was clear. This was not merely for training purposes, for he knew that he was riding into the territory
of General Louis Botha, and he had no wish to fall in with a Boer commando before his command was fully trained.

They had been riding for nearly two hours when, at last, the sun peeped out from between two violet banks of storm clouds and immediately revealed the great circle of the horizon and turned orange the coarse grass that covered the plain. This was still early in the rainy season and there was little green to be seen. As they rode south now, several of the isolated kopjes were revealed, however, pointing upwards like stumpy dumplings, the tough taibosch shrub on their flanks giving a blue tinge to the sandstone. The sun had roused a couple of turquoise-headed bustards from their nests and they sailed regally by high above while, at the feet of the horses, a score of kittiwitties, tame tiny birds, sported about in the sand. The sun’s rays bestowed welcome warmth on the riders and Fonthill turned in the saddle to look back at his men.

They were riding in column of four abreast and although there were no cavalry-type pennants to be seen – Fonthill had declined their use – they presented a fine sight, keeping a tight formation and the early sun lighting up their sunburnt faces.

Despite all his apprehensions – was he the man to be leading a hundred and twenty men into a war? He respected the Boers, why was he fighting them? How to reconcile a tight-arsed cavalry officer with a free spirit like Jenkins? – he tingled with the glow of the now fine morning and the pride at leading such a good-looking body of men. Being back in the regular army had its compensations after all. He felt an unaccustomed deep sense of satisfaction, of sublimation to all that surrounded him: the rolling miles of plain, the jagged kopjes, the glimpses of exotic wildlife.

‘Look!’ A cry from Jenkins made him turn. To their right, two springbucks, the lightest and fastest of the deer and antelope that dotted the veldt, were running with long, springy leaps. Sighting the column, they turned and bounded away, showing the pear-shaped patches of white that tapered down from the middle of their backs to their tails, the annulated horns that crowned their heads nodding as though to give them greater speed.

‘Permission to hunt for the pot, sir?’ asked the Welshman.

‘Very well. Keep the column in sight as best you can. Mzingeli, you go with him.’ And then in a low voice, ‘Make sure he doesn’t get lost.’ Jenkins, bravest of soldiers, with the firm seat of a jockey and the accuracy of a marksman, notoriously couldn’t find his way from A to B if the trail stretched before him like a railway track.

The two men gave their reins the lightest of tweaks – the Basuto ponies were remarkably sensitive – and, to the cheers of the men, Jenkins and Mzingeli were off in the hottest of pursuits. The troopers were not merely cheering the hunt. They knew that, if the two were successful, there would be fresh meat instead of bully beef at camp that evening.

In no time, the two were out of sight and Simon called to Major Hammond. ‘Philip. I know it’s early, but I think we’ll take a tea break to give those two a chance of getting back to us without trouble. The men may smoke.’

The major opened his mouth to speak but merely frowned and nodded. ‘Very good, sir.’

After fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of Jenkins and Mzingeli and Fonthill could catch no glimpse of them through his field glasses. He cursed inwardly but reassured himself that even 352 could not get
lost on the veldt with Mzingeli with him. So he gave orders for the column to mount again and continue its journey.

Hammond pulled alongside him. ‘I hope you don’t mind mentioning it, Colonel,’ he said, ‘but don’t you think it would have been wise to have put vedettes out to front and sides as a precaution against being taken by surprise?’

Fonthill nodded. ‘Normally, yes. But I have posted the natives out; one to the front and one either side of us. In addition, we can see for miles out here and we should be able to sight any body of men long before they come upon us.’

‘Quite so, sir. It’s just that these damned Boers can materialise in a flash – from a depression in the ground or from behind a kopje. And I wonder whether the Kaffirs will be as reliable as our own men as vedettes, don’t you know?’

‘I appreciate your point, but I think we can rely on these black scouts well enough. Ask the officers, though, to keep a keen watch, will you?’

‘Very good, sir.’ But Hammond rode back with a disapproving frown on his face.

The column continued its ride out into the veldt, with the sun climbing higher. Eventually, Fonthill held up his hand to halt it and called for his officers to come forward.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, nodding to a small kopje that lay in their path, about half a mile away. ‘The RSM has not returned yet, but never mind. I want to conduct an exercise. We will attack that kopje as though it is an enemy camp, well entrenched. We will gallop towards it and then, on my command, we will halt, dismount and disperse by squadron, with each squadron in open order to right and
left of me and then taking the best cover available. A Squadron will disperse to my right, B and C Squadrons to my left. Every fourth man, as usual, to take the horses to the rear. I want the whole action to take place within five minutes, from mounting, the charge, the halt and dispersal. I shall be timing it. Understood?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. Take your posts with your men.’

Simon watched the officers resume their positions with their squadrons and troops and then shouted, ‘Column will dismount. Dis … mount. Stand by your mounts. Prepare to mount. Mount. To the front, walk march.’ Then after a few paces, ‘To the front, gallop,’ and then, ‘
CHARGE
!’

This was the first time that he had given such a heroic order and Fonthill felt slightly ridiculous, as, gripping tightly with his knees, he led the charge, hoping to God that his nimble little pony could pick its way safely between the potholes that pitted the surface. He had enough to do steering his mount between the red, conical houses of the ants, some of which stood four feet high and, made of compacted mud and grass, posed a frightening obstacle to a galloping horse. So he was relieved, then, when he was able to hold up his hand, stopping the charge some four hundred yards from the kopje.

‘
HALT
!’ he shouted. ‘Dismount and disperse in open order. Horses to the rear.’

He took out his watch and began timing the exercise, watching the men run to right and left of him and fling themselves behind whatever cover they could find. He frowned, for the operation was going by no means smoothly, with B Squadron at first mistakenly scurrying to his right before Captain Wills screamed at them to turn around and run
to his left, which forced them to scramble around C Squadron, which was already spreading out to take up firing positions.

Fonthill looked up and shouted, ‘Not good en—’ And stopped. Streaming around the kopje was a stream of Boer horsemen galloping in pairs and fanning out to surround the tangled column before them. Sucking in his breath, Simon did a rough estimate: a hundred and fifty, at least. No – more, for they kept coming. His column, dispersed out front in a single line, was outnumbered and shortly to be taken from both flanks and in the rear.

At the top of his voice, he bellowed a stream of orders. ‘B Squadron, double to the rear and link to the others to form a circle.
AT THE DOUBLE, QUICKLY NOW
! End men in A and B Squadrons bend round to complete the circle. Horse handlers, double back and get your mounts to lie down in the middle. Trackers go and help them. A Squadron at the enemy at front,
OPEN FIRE! FIRE AT WILL
!’

Were they in time? He watched, heart in mouth as the horse handlers ran, pulling their horses behind them, and with the trackers slapping the flanks, into the centre of the rough circle formed by the rest of the troopers, who were half running, half scrambling to close the ring. Then, blessedly, the men of A Squadron, who had been the first to their positions, opened fire on the rapidly closing enemy.

Simon blessed his luck that the Boers had appeared from round the furthest point of the kopje, so that in splitting to encircle the column, a line of the horsemen had to ride parallel to where A Squadron were lying. The range was comparatively short and the fire from the prone men immediately brought down a dozen or more of the Boers. Even so, enough of the horsemen thundered by to rein in, leap from their saddles just where the defensive ring was being
linked together and to open up a devastating fire on the men of B Squadron.

The other file of horsemen were firing as they galloped round to complete the encirclement and bullets hissed by Fonthill’s head as he stood desperately trying to direct the movement of his men. But, fine marksmen as they were, even Boers could not accurately fire from the backs of galloping horses and he remained unscathed, standing long enough to be sure that the defensive ring had been completed, albeit with gaps on the farthest side of the ring, where B Squadron were lying.

Hammond appeared at Simon’s side. ‘Get the men to take cover behind the anthills,’ Fonthill shouted to him. ‘Bites are better than bullets and the Boers will pick ’em off if they are lying in the open. Did each of the men ride out with fifty rounds?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Well, I bloody well hope so. That was the order. The Boers are not going to rush us now that we are in some sort of defensive position. They will try and outshoot us, creeping nearer all the time. Tell Wills and Cartwright to tell their men to husband their ammunition and keep their heads down. Fire only when they see a target. The enemy will try to make us expend our ammunition.’

‘Very good, Colonel.’

The major doubled away, crouching. The horse handlers had done a good job and only a handful had been cut off by the Boers. Amazingly, in the middle of the shooting, the horses were lying still, their handlers lying among them, soothing them. Fonthill knew that the Boers would take care to avoid hitting the ponies, for they would be anxious to take them as prizes.

Head down, rifle in hand – Fonthill was grateful that he had decided not to carry the Webley revolver that was the officer’s formal side arm – he hurried to where Wills, the commander of B Squadron, was crouching.

‘How many men have you lost, John?’ he asked, trying to adopt a matter-of-fact tone. He had no idea of how these men would react to what was clearly a tight situation and it was important to set a good example.

‘About ten, so far, sir. I think five of them fatally, as best I can see.’ Wills replied in an equally sanguine tone. Simon looked at him sharply, then remembered that the man had spent a whole day lying on the veldt in the hot sun at Colenso, where the Boers from their trenches had shot any man who lifted his head or arm more than six inches. ‘It’s the wounded that’s the problem, though, Colonel. The Boers are keeping up  …’ he ducked his head as a bullet thudded into the anthill behind which he lay ‘… a pretty heavy fire as you can see. We just can’t get to the hurt chaps.’

‘Damn! Well it can’t be helped. The Boers won’t rush us while we have ammunition, so conserve it. They won’t enjoy lying out here in the sun any more than we will.’

He nodded and crawled on, dodging between whatever cover he could find, until he came up to Cartwright. ‘Casualties, Cecil?’ he asked.

‘Not too bad, sir, so far. One man killed and another two wounded, although only lightly.’ The young man grinned. ‘I thought the Boers would be better shots than that.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘Don’t underestimate them, my boy. See that your men return the fire but take no risks. It will probably be hard
pounding for the rest of the day, but I think they’ll ride off when they find that we are not easy pickings.’

Simon continued his circuit of the ring, exchanging words with each man he passed and stopping to talk a little longer and encourage the subalterns. They, all ex-sergeants and survivors of several actions, were cool and composed, he was glad to see.

Eventually, he was back to A Squadron and crawling up to its commander, Major Hammond. ‘Casualties, Philip?’ he enquired.

‘Two men dead and four wounded, one of them badly, I fear.’ The drawl was still languid, although perspiration was slipping down the major’s forehead as he lay, his revolver poking round the side of an anthill. ‘Pity we’ve lost our regimental sergeant major, though, Colonel, don’t you think?’

Fonthill nodded his head. He recognised the comment for what it was, an implied rebuke. But he did not rise to the criticism. ‘Jenkins will be back,’ he said, ‘and hopefully bringing fresh meat for dinner when we’ve sent this lot riding back from where they came. But it will be hard work until then. The point is that although I estimate that we are facing a whole commando out there and we are outnumbered, the Boers cannot afford to take heavy casualties. So far in this war they have avoided this whenever they could. So once they see we are determined and have plenty of ammunition, I believe they will ride off.’

‘Well, I hope you are right, sir. But we are not exactly in a good position, I fear. Not too much cover, don’t you know. They can pick us off.’

Fonthill glanced around. ‘Hmm. Can’t see a better position that we can move to, under this fire. And I don’t see anyone riding to our
aid. So we will just have to stick it out. My feeling is that the Boers might try just once to rush us – they’re not exactly bayonet men, remember – and then ride off when they fail. So we must try and preserve our ammunition until then. We won’t be here all day.’