Distracted, his bayonet poised for more slaughter, Probyn lifted his eyes from the abyss to watch the rocket’s path. When he lowered them again the enemy was on the retreat and another weird sound was reverberating amongst the hills; the siren-like wail of a war horn calling up reinforcements.
But for the Matabele the battle was over. By now the Cape Boys had worked their way round to the enemy’s right as far as the third and fourth ridges. Crazed by bloodlust, Probyn and his squad raced in hot pursuit, whilst Beresford’s 7th Hussars directed shell after shell at the high ridge to the rear over which the impis retreated, dispersing them into long black strings, like shattered ebony necklaces.
‘Most excellent pig-sticking!’ Probyn heard the observation of one bright-eyed young officer to another as he himself bent over to recapture his breath.
By turns exhilarated and revolted by his own deeds, he stood for a moment resting on his knees, before raising his panting face to check on the casualties. Sad though they were, the British losses appeared to be minuscule in comparison to the number of black corpses littering the scene, almost two or three thousand he estimated.
In time, Colonel Plumer came by congratulating the men, though he was obviously most sad at the loss of his friend and right-hand man Major Kershaw.
Searching for his own close friend, Probyn could not at first find Greatrix and was to feel great concern until a deep voice behind him growled, ‘Eh you’ll never guess what time it is!’ And he wheeled around to see his pal.
‘Three o’clock!’ Greatrix projected amazement. ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself?’ But despite the flippancy his expression concealed a nightmare of images, and there were spatters of dried blood upon his face.
‘Well, I’m right glad to see you’re unscathed, Trix!’
‘Unscathed? I nearly had me arse blown off!’ And he attempted to show Probyn the massive bruise where the stone wrapped in lead from a large bore gun had hit him.
‘I’ll take your word for it! Did you lose any lads?’
‘No, all intact thank the Lord.’
Probyn, too, voiced gratitude that none of his platoon were amongst the dead, and few wounded. ‘Janny’s still in one piece too. He’s indestructible that one.’
They were not to talk for long as the columns were then re-formed for marching back to camp, the fifteen wounded being taken on stretchers by the Cape Boys.
As they moved slowly, burning everything as they went in the way of huts and long grass, they could see small parties of enemy going about the field picking up their dead and wounded. However, they were not prepared for the large impi that appeared on the horizon just as they were leaving the hills, an impi obviously uninvolved in the previous fighting for their demeanour was too fresh, too energetic, knobkerries banging their shields in warlike defiance.
A worried murmur rippled through the ranks, until it became obvious that the only things to be thrown were jeers.
‘Go home and sow your crops you lazy dogs!’ A rebel voice bounced from rock to rock.
‘We’re not sowing!’ retaliated a British voice. ‘We’re harvesting – your blokes!’
Another yelled from the ranks. ‘Why don’t you come and konza, make peace and save your skins while it’s not too late?’
Greatrix added his own insult. ‘Where’ve you been, lads? You’re too tardy, the war’s over!’
‘You think it is over? We shall show you who is the victor!’ And the impi followed them, dancing along the ridge and slinging more insults.
But there was no attempt to attack and, dealt a parting long-range volley, they hurriedly dispersed leaving the victors to proceed to the safety of the open veld and, in time, to the twinkling campfires of their base.
Welcomed by the loud cheers from those left behind to act as guards, they rode in singing heartily, ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’, ending the day with a delicious mug of cocoa.
And as he laid his weary head down, Probyn was to marvel yet again, what an enviable role it was to be part of this mighty Empire.
* * *
During the weeks that followed, apart from sporadic attacks by individual groups of rebels, it became evident that the war was indeed almost over. The old lady who had previously been captured, being of high status, was sent into the hills to draw the chiefs into peace negotiations. Towards the end of August, under a white flag, a meeting was arranged in the Matopos between the rebel leaders and Cecil Rhodes, though as yet no treaty had been made.
For Probyn, life had slipped back into dusty boredom and he watched enviously as Greatrix prepared to take out a patrol this bright sunny morning. ‘Jammy blighter.’
‘Now now, no sulking.’ Bouncing into the saddle, Greatrix called his men into formation, then moved off, dealing Probyn a cheery wave as he left town. ‘I’ll bring you back a stick of rock!’
Hours later, at the call from the lookout on Eiffel Tower – ‘Patrol coming in!’ – Probyn went expectantly to meet his friend.
But the patrol came in unsupervised. ‘Sorry, Sergeant!’ One of its number made swift apology in response to the sergeant’s query. ‘Lance-Corporal Greatrix just didn’t come back.’
‘What do you mean, not come back?’ Probyn elbowed his way through the knot of men.
The young soldier explained. ‘Private Welburn’s hat blew off as we were crossing a drift and went sailing off around the bend. Lance-Corporal Greatrix went with him to find it, but Welburn said they parted company for a second or two and when he turned round Lance-Corporal Greatrix had just disappeared. We searched high and low for him but—’
‘You shouldn’t have come back without him!’ With a curse, Probyn turned to the sergeant, asking to be part of the search party.
This quickly organized, he rode out of Bulawayo fully expecting to see his comrade’s disgruntled face coming down the road to meet him, and onwards to a distance of ten miles, but at no point along it did he see any sign.
The drift was little more than a muddy trickle at this time of year. There was no chance that Greatrix and his horse could have drowned. An exhaustive search of every kopje along its banks produced nothing more than a startled old warthog who made a half-hearted squealing charge at the group before running off. No matter how desperately Probyn urged his horse into every cranny, how keen his eyes, Greatrix had indeed vanished into thin air.
Reluctantly, the lieutenant who led the patrol ordered a return to the garrison.
‘Please, sir,’ Probyn begged his superior, ‘we can’t just leave him.’
‘Then where do you suggest we look?’ demanded the lieutenant. ‘We’ve searched every damned inch of – hang on!’ He became alert and stood in his stirrups. ‘I saw movement over there.’
Hardly had he uttered this than Probyn was splashing across the muddy trickle, forcing his horse up the steep bank and galloping across the rocky outcrop to a tangle of euphorbias to where the lieutenant had pointed.
But when he arrived there was no sign of anything. When the others galloped up he had dismounted and was lashing about furiously in the bushes.
The lieutenant admitted his mistake. ‘It must have been a dassie. Come along, we can’t waste any more time.’
Probyn’s horse had wandered off. With a last desperate whack at the bushes, he took a few forlorn steps towards retrieving it when the ground beneath him suddenly disappeared and he found himself sliding into a donga. In a cloud of dust and rock he came to rest on his buttocks, grunting in pain, and then gave a yell of alarm as he laid eyes on the two surprised men that were staring back at him.
His disappointment that these were only natives was put aside as they made a hasty scramble to escape. They might be responsible for his friend’s disappearance! The fact that they were armed giving credence to this, he lunged for them. Trapped, the natives raised their rifles but were immediately encircled by a dozen gun barrels as more soldiers jumped down into the donga, and were forced eventually to lay down their weapons,
though they did so with great surliness.
‘Show me your tickets!’ barked the lieutenant.
‘We not need tickets, we soldiers.’ There was a hostile edge to the reply.
‘To whom are you attached?’
‘We are at Bulawayo—’
‘You’re lying. Corporal, take them in!’ With no further ado the natives were seized and had their hands bound.
‘Sir, maybe they can tell us where Lance-Corporal Greatrix is!’ Probyn reminded him.
The lieutenant addressed the captives again. ‘Tell us what you know.’
A casual shrug. ‘We know nothing, maybe a lion got him.’
‘Come! You are to be hanged anyway.’
Their facade was immediately replaced by defiance. ‘Your friend will not be planting his crops again!’
Probyn gasped, then flew at the speaker. ‘Where is he? You black devil, I’ll kill you!’
‘Desist!’ The lieutenant ordered him.
‘But it was them, sir! They’ve admitted it!’
‘And they’ll hang,’ said the lieutenant firmly, looking for an adequate branch but finding none.
‘But we can’t just leave him!’ came the plea.
‘Lance-Corporal Kilmaster!’ berated the hot and bothered officer. ‘Your friend is dead, we must accept that. There is nothing more we can do except bring his murderers to justice.’ And with that he ordered his men to remount and, dragging the two prisoners, the patrol set off for Bulawayo.
Driven almost insane by the most awful images, Probyn was compelled to mount and follow, as he rode seeing over and over again the cheery wave that Greatrix had dealt him as he’d left that morning, knowing that he would never be able to strike it from his memory. Nor would he ever be able to stamp out the guilt over his absence at his friend’s time of need.
16
Poor Greatrix. His demise was a reflection of his whole pathetic life: no one knew where he’d come from; no one knew where he’d gone.
It took a long time to accept that his friend was dead. With few to mourn, Probyn took Greatrix’s death upon his own shoulders, the magnitude of his guilt driving him deeper than he had ever been before. Even seeing the murderers dangle at the end of a rope made not an ounce of difference to his mood. Who had been the one to persuade them to let Trix out of hospital? Who had waved him off to his death? First his father, then Emily, now his best friend. How many more losses could a man take? When the year finally came to an end he was thoroughly glad to see the back of it.
Mercifully, the new year was to unfold on a more optimistic note. Lance-Corporal Kilmaster was to be transferred to the 1st Battalion and, whilst others went on to India, Probyn sailed home to an English spring.
It was a wonderful but confusing time, the air pungent with cherry blossom and lilac, every sense assailed by the strange familiarity of it, sweet and spumy hawthorn hedgerows adorning the fields with bridal wreaths, blinding acres of golden rape that filled his nostrils with a stench like ammonia, huge and ancient polls of copper beech shimmering like his sisters’ hair, outspread arms of horse chestnut weighed down with pink candles, earth the colour of rich chocolate, grass like thickly-piled velvet, a gentler sun that did not burn but threw him into quandary with its position. It would take him a long time to reacclimatize himself to the northern hemisphere.
Landing in Dover, and shortly promoted to full corporal, he was to be stationed in the south for six months during which time he wrote to inform his stepmother that he was home, also sending letters to Aunt
Kit and Meredith. It would have been easy enough to catch a train up to Yorkshire and he could not explain his own reluctance to do so. Had he not been wanting to go home for years?
Finally though, he was precipitated into making the move when the battalion was ordered north.
Kit was tidying her autumn garden when she saw a man with a moustache coming along the dirt track that led to her gate. He raised an arm in greeting, causing her to frown long and hard before realizing that it was her nephew.
‘Why, it’s our Probe!’ Calling for her little son to follow, she hurried to the gate, hardly able to believe that this was the youngster she had last seen five years ago. He had not altered greatly in stature, but the face was no longer that of a boy. ‘I saw this man with a tash coming towards me and wondered who on earth it could be!’ As they came together she touched his blond moustache in fond amusement, hugged him, then held him at arms’ length again to exclaim, ‘I can’t believe how you’ve changed!’
Whatever the extent of his aunt’s shock it could not be as great as the one Probyn received. From being voluptuous, Kit had grown incredibly fat, even her once nimble fingers bulging out like little cushions on either side of her wedding ring.
There came teasing accusation from his aunt. ‘Well, fancy waiting to come home until now. You’ve missed all the fun!’
Momentarily whisked back to the savagery, Probyn wondered if he would ever have fun again, but he continued to smile as his aunt announced:
‘We had a lovely Jubilee party, didn’t we, Tobe?’
Unused to strangers, the little boy hid behind his mother’s vast bulk, though chanced a smiling peep at the soldier who winked at him.
‘I went one better, saw the Queen herself,’ Probyn affected to don airs and graces, telling them his battalion had been chosen to line the streets for the parade.
Kit showed suitable admiration, then bent to instruct her son. ‘Well, you’d better go fetch your father. Tell him there’s a soldier come to – oh no, don’t tell him that, he might think we’re under attack. Just tell him Probe’s home!’
Toby rushed off in the direction of the stable, then tripped, scattering hens and causing Kit to rush over and pick him up to smother him in kisses. When the child seemed unhurt, she set him on his way, watching fondly for a second. She and Worthy had hoped for more children but they had just never happened. Toby had become the centre of their world. Yet no matter how precious her son, there were always two empty spaces in Kit’s life where her little girls should be.
Emerging from her reverie, she whirled back to the visitor, still extraordinarily agile for one so huge. ‘Come on inside then, Probe!’
He uttered a grateful laugh. ‘I thought you’d never ask. I can’t seem to get warm since I got back.’
‘Have you seen anybody else yet?’
‘No I thought I’d come and visit my favourite aunt first.’ Probyn followed her into the kitchen, quite amazed by the enormous width of her hips.
‘Eh, always the flanneler!’ The kettle on, Kit began to pile buns on a plate, corsets creaking with every darting move. ‘We were a bit worried till we got your letter, we thought you might have been aboard that ship that went down.’
‘The Warren Hastings?’ Probyn shook his head. ‘No, thank the Lord. That was on its way to India. The only things that were lost were folks’ possessions and the regimental silver. Bad enough, but at least none of the lads drowned. That’s the most important thing.’
‘It certainly is.’ Her whalebones still groaning, Kit made the tea and thrust the plate of buns at her nephew.
Toby came dashing in then followed by Worthy, at which there was much joking over Probyn’s moustache, all of it good-humoured.
Waiting for his tea to cool, Probyn spoke to the youngster who, after initial shyness, was now hovering by him like a shadow. ‘By you’ve grown a big lad, Toby! How old are you now?’
‘Seven!’ The little boy looked delighted to be addressed.
Probyn shook his head in disbelief.
Kit voiced her own incredulity. ‘It doesn’t seem five minutes to me since you were his age, Probe. How old are you now, is it twenty-four?’
He had to think about this himself, never marking time by birthdays, only by events. ‘Aye, almost a pensioner.’
‘So, are you home for good now?’ asked Kit and answered her own question. ‘I suppose it depends if the natives behave themselves. We had one of their kin
gs over here you know, his picture was in the newspaper, wasn’t it, Worthy? I didn’t know they dressed like us.’
Probyn smiled benignly. ‘Most of them don’t. That’d be King Khama one of the friendly ones.’ He shoved aside the nightmare vision of stabbing blades, and said, ‘I think I’ll be home for a while now. They’ve moved us to Strensall so I’ll be able to visit you more regular.’
‘Oh, grand!’ A chicken had wandered in through the open door, Kit chased it out amid an indignant cackling. ‘Your stepmother will be pleased to see you too.’
Probyn became subdued, and sat for a while gazing into his tea. The longer he left it the harder it would be to visit his father’s grave. ‘I’ll maybe go next Sunday.’
‘Are you planning to see anybody else?’
‘Only Merry. Not much point trailing miles to have the door shut in me face.’
‘Oh, I don’t think they’d do that to you now.’ Kit spoke with confidence. ‘A lot of water’s flowed under the bridge.’
‘Well, maybe …’
Kind-hearted as ever, she offered encouragement. ‘I was thinking of inviting everyone over for a big reunion at Christmas. Now that your father’s not with us any more I feel as if it’s my duty to keep the family together. Don’t worry I’m not inviting Aunt Gwen. My charity doesn’t stretch that far. Will you join us?’
He did not have to think about this. ‘Miss one of your dinners, Aunt? Never!’
* * *
There were nerves, of course, at the thought of meeting them again. It was no good telling himself that it was ridiculous to feel like this after the terrible ordeals he had been through, nothing could erase the fact that he was, and always would be, the youngest child.
Family of the Empire Page 42