Fire Across the Veldt (6 page)

In fact, Simon was far less sanguine than he sounded. With eight men dead and eleven wounded, his force had already been severely reduced. To be pinned down on the open veldt behind inadequate cover and under fire from the finest marksmen in the world was not exactly the best way to exercise his untested men. The longer this situation lasted the more his force would be eroded by the enemy fire. He did a quick estimation. Perhaps they could hold out for a couple of hours more, but it all depended upon how long the ammunition lasted. He had ordered that each man should ride with at least fifty rounds, but Hammond did not sound at all sure that this order had been carried out. And where the hell were Jenkins and Mzingeli? He grabbed his field glasses and raised his head to risk a quick scan of the kopje and surrounding veldt. Nothing. Had they been taken by the Boers? His heart sank at the thought. Then he shook his head. Not Jenkins. He was indestructible.

A second thought struck him. He had not given a thought to the native trackers he had sent out as scouts. They would surely have encountered the commando, or at least seen evidence of their presence on the veldt. It would be difficult to hide the tracks of two hundred men or more. He was thankful that he had resisted the impulse to arm the trackers, for, if they were taken, the Boers would surely shoot them. But would the enemy recognise their ponies as being Boer mounts originally? That could well be the signal for executions. Well, he had other things to worry about for the moment.

Fonthill crawled back to where the depleted B Squadron were lying, reasoning that this was the weakest section in the ring. He found a declivity in the ground, nestled his rifle stock to his cheek and sighted along the barrel. The Boers, of course, were using smokeless ammunition, as they had done since virtually the beginning of the war. As a result, it was incredibly difficult to pick them out, so good were they at maximising whatever cover the veldt could offer. Then he saw a small black object move about a hundred and fifty yards ahead. He fired but had no idea if the shot had found a target, for he had to duck his head quickly as several answering bullets hissed over his hat.

Would the Boers try and rush them? That’s what British troops would do. But then the soldiers of the Queen were trained to use the bayonet …

As if on cue, he heard a guttural command in Afrikaans and then the Boers rose from their positions and began to half stumble, half run towards the British positions. They were alarmingly close, far closer than Simon imagined they could have reached, given the fire that B Squadron had been able to mount. Obviously, however, it had not been severe enough and he cursed the order he had given for ammunition to be preserved.

He screamed: ‘Select your target. Rapid fire!’

Having deserted their cover, however, this time the Boers presented easy targets at such short range. The rapid fire of the troopers decimated the front rank as it picked its way between the potholes and, without hesitation, the men behind turned and ran for their lives.

‘Keep firing, dammit!’ shouted Fonthill, as his men raised a feeble cheer.

He turned towards where Captain John Wills was lying. ‘Good shooting, John,’ he cried. ‘I don’t think they’ll try that again.’ But Wills did not respond. His head had fallen to one side and a neat black hole had appeared in the centre of his forehead, from which a thin trickle of blood was oozing.

‘Oh, hell!’ He crawled to the man’s side, but Wills, the seasoned survivor of the massacre at Colenso, was quite dead. Fonthill looked round. ‘Lieutenant Forbes,’ he called. One of the newly promoted
ex-sergeants
, lying further away in the ring, raised his head.

‘Sir.’

‘Captain Wills has been killed. Take command of B Squadron. Please check casualties and let me know how many men you have left and the state of your ammunition. Keep your voice down. I don’t wish the enemy to hear—’

Then he was interrupted by a voice from the Boer lines. ‘English,’ it cried. ‘A truce for half an hour while we bring in the wounded. Yah? What do you say?’

Fonthill looked up. About one hundred and fifty yards ahead of him – still infuriatingly close – a rather portly man was standing with a white handkerchief tied to his rifle. He looked at first glance remarkably like one of Simon’s men in that, unlike the majority of the Boer burghers who dressed like farmers, he wore a smart,
high-buttoned
khaki tunic, riding boots and a wide-brimmed hat, turned up to the crown at the side. His beard, again unlike that of most Boer soldiers who seemed to emulate biblical figures, was neatly trimmed into a European-style Van Dyke cut.

Simon rose. ‘Very well,’ he called. He pulled out his watch. ‘We will resume hostilities at 11.15 a.m.’ Then he turned to his men.
‘Squadron commanders. Nominate six men from each troop to tend the wounded. Leave the dead where they are for the moment.’

He had heard, however, that the Boer guerrilla commandos had begun to trick the British troops by donning captured British uniforms and even firing under cover of white flags. He added, therefore: ‘Do not send the men out, however, until the Boers begin to retrieve their own wounded. The rest of your squadrons should watch their front at all times.’

There seemed no subterfuge at play here, however, for the Boer lines immediately came to life with burly, tweed-suited men advancing to where their wounded were lying, many of them now beginning to cry pitifully. The British wounded, of course, had not left their lines but the cruel enemy fire had prevented anyone reaching them where they lay behind anthills and rocks and now it was possible to give them first aid.

Fonthill made a mental note that his command, designed to move fast and be self-contained, possessed no medics – no one trained in even elementary first aid, let alone more sophisticated medical treatments. He kicked himself. His lack of experience as a field commander in the regular forces was beginning to show!

He called to his officers to gather round him. They stood, a silent group in the middle of the ring, where the horses were now beginning to become restive, rearing their heads, neighing and shaking off the administrations of their handlers. Looking at them, Fonthill was glad to see that, despite the heavy shooting, not one of the animals seemed to have been hit – another testimony to the Boers’ accuracy.

‘Any further casualties?’ he demanded. Since the last count, two more men had been hit, in addition to Wills, although not seriously.

‘Good,’ he responded. ‘I had expected more.’ He looked closely at his officers. He had led them into what could well have been a trap and he felt his inadequacy keenly. No one, however, seemed to regard him critically, although Hammond, as usual, did not catch his eye but was staring away into the distance. ‘What is the state of the men’s ammunition?’

All reported that an average of some fifteen to twenty rounds per man had been expended, leaving each with thirty to thirty-five cartridges.

He nodded. ‘We don’t want to be caught in this way again. It will have to be seventy rounds per man the next time we ride out. However, gentlemen, my estimation is that we have given as good, if not better, than we have received and that the Boers have taken a bit of a hiding. They certainly will not try to rush us again. I believe that, once the wounded have been gathered in, they will keep up a more desultory fire and slowly withdraw until they mount up and ride away. What do you think, Hammond?’

‘That sounds reasonable, Colonel. Will you ride after them?’

Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. They still probably outnumber us and I doubt if we’ve got sufficient ammunition to fight a pitched battle. Also, of course, our men are still fairly new to this kind of thing. Although I think they’ve done remarkably well, I wouldn’t want to expose them again just yet. For one thing, we lack medical support and that must be remedied.’

There was a murmur of agreement, then Captain Cartwright spoke. ‘That Boer chappie who asked for the truce and who seems to be their leader.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, sir, I have a feeling that he’s General Botha, the chap that gave us such a hiding at Colenso and Spion Kop. I saw a photograph of him in the
Illustrated London News
before I came out and he looks remarkably like him. Quite a distinctive figure, don’t you think, among that bunch of farm labourers, what?’

Fonthill’s interest was immediately roused. ‘Yes, indeed. Well, let me investigate. I may be able to learn something.’

‘Careful, sir.’ For the first time Hammond showed some concern. ‘These Boers can be a tricky lot. Here, take my revolver.’

‘Thank you, Philip.’ Simon tucked the Webley into his belt, then looked at his watch. ‘Eight minutes to go. If they shoot me, then make bloody sure that we fire back, eh? And make sure our wounded are being treated.’ He smiled and strolled out behind the fringe of the circle towards where the Boers were kneeling, tending their wounded.

Immediately, the Boer leader strode towards him.

Fonthill held out his hand. ‘Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Colonel.’

‘I am Louis Botha,’ the Boer said, more formally. ‘How do you do?’

‘Ah, General Botha. I have heard so much about you and I am delighted to meet you, although I could have wished for more sociable circumstances.’

Botha smiled faintly. His English was perfect. ‘And you, I believe, are the Fonthill who was on Majuba Hill all those years ago. I heard that you had arrived in South Africa. So Lord Kitchener has set you to catch us, yah?’

Simon marvelled at the speed at which news spread in the Boer ranks. He made a mental note that, although the commandos in the field acted individually, they obviously had an efficient system
of inter-unit communication. He grinned. ‘Well, it seems that I have succeeded, although,’ he looked around, ‘I am not sure who has caught whom, exactly.’

‘Quite so.’ They stood in silence for a moment and Fonthill had the impression that the Boer general was a man of few words. He drew out his watch. ‘Forgive me if I leave you soon, General,’ he said. ‘The truce will be over in a moment, so I should return.’ He looked quizzically at the rather well-rounded figure before him. ‘How long do you think this stupid war will continue?’ he asked.

‘Until, Colonel, you leave our country. We shall continue to fight as long as you deny us our freedom.’ He stood looking at Fonthill with a level gaze.

Simon nodded. ‘But your main army has been defeated,’ he said, ‘and the capitals of both states have been occupied. You are completely outnumbered in the field. Don’t you think that it is an unnecessary waste of life,’ he gestured at the bodies around them, ‘to continue with this guerrilla warfare?’

‘No, sir, I do not. While there are British troops in our country we shall continue to harass you. You don’t seem to understand. Your professional soldiers occupying our states here live to fight. We fight to live.’ He gave a half smile. ‘Colonel, you are outnumbered and surrounded. I suggest it is you who should think now of saving life and surrendering to us. That would be no discredit to you.’

Fonthill shook his head. ‘We have plenty of ammunition, General, and I must tell you that your shooting today has not lived up to its reputation.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘And I should add that, before you appeared from behind that kopje, I had sent off my regimental sergeant major and our chief tracker scout back to Johannesburg
to suggest to General French that he should reinforce us, as we had heard that you may be in the vicinity. So I am content to stay here until relief comes.’

This was a ploy. If Botha had captured Jenkins and Mzingeli, they would have taken their horses and their rifles and turned them loose on the veldt, for the commandos rarely took prisoners. If this had happened, then Botha would surely tell him that his messengers had been taken and that relief, therefore, was not to be coming. But the Boer merely smiled and shook his head.

‘We will stay too,’ he said. ‘Now, good day to you, sir. Please rejoin your men.’

They exchanged courtly half bows and, with one look around to assess the Boers’ strength, Fonthill strode back to his circle.

‘What have we been able to do for the wounded, Philip?’ he asked of Hammond.

‘Just applying field dressings, that’s all, I fear. But there are surprisingly few, after all. The Boers shoot to kill, so although we’ve picked up nine dead, including poor Wills, the ratio of wounded to fatalities is surprisingly low.’

‘Very well. I estimate that we have inflicted more casualties on the enemy than they on us, but we are still outnumbered. Their commander is, indeed, Botha, so they are well led. They will probably hang on for a while, trying to further reduce our numbers and/or make us run out of ammunition. So we must be prepared.’

As though to underline his words, a shot rang out from the Boer positions, hissing past Fonthill’s head. He and Hammond immediately fell to the ground and Simon crawled to where Forbes was lying, with B Squadron.

‘Are you all right, Forbes?’ he asked.

‘Right as rain, sir. If we keep our heads down, I reckon we should be all right.’ He paused for a moment, then: ‘Pity we’ve lost the RSM. I hear he was a rare fighter.’

Simon felt his stomach move again. ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve lost him.’ His words sounded hollow to him but he pressed on. ‘Something must have happened, or he would have been with us. Perhaps he lost a horse on this rough terrain.’ He pulled clear his field glasses and tried to focus on the veldt, in the direction from which Jenkins had ridden out. He could see nothing and risked exposing himself for a second to scan the kopje ahead of them. Was it his imagination, or did he catch a glimpse of movement in the taibosch shrub, about a third of the way up the rock? It was difficult to see and certainly not possible to stay focusing more sharply, for the Boers had resumed firing.

The thought of losing Jenkins and Mzingeli now closed in on him, as he lay fumbling in his bandolier for more cartridges. Perhaps Botha had, indeed, come upon the Welshman and the tracker and the two had put up a fight, ending in their deaths. This would be typical of Jenkins. The Boer might well have chosen not to admit this – particularly if Mzingeli had survived and they had executed him for being armed. Simon shook his head, slipped the rounds into his magazine and tried to sight his rifle.