RENSBURG, South Africa. Early February
1900
The word was out. The entire New Zealand contingent was
required to entrain for a destination that was to remain a secret.
The rumours were rife that this was part of the big push to oust
the Boers from Cape Colony and begin the invasion of Orange
Free State. It was known that Brigadier General ‘Bobs’ Roberts
and General Kitchener had landed in Cape Town and these two
were going to set things right. According to the rumours, there
wouldn’t be any more drawing room generals to muck things
up, so the Boers had better watch out.
At the railway station, we began loading our horses into
cattle wagons. The poor beasts were jam-packed and we were
little better. We were sandwiched into high-sided wagons and
just had to make ourselves as comfortable as our crowded
circumstances would allow. The train pulled out and crawled
slowly westwards, the plume of smoke from the locomotive
going straight up into a windless afternoon sky.
As usual, we baked in the open-topped wagons, made
worse by being tightly packed in. After sunset the temperature
began to drop, becoming cooler as the hours progressed, until
inevitably we had cooled off enough to be glad of the nearness
of each other. The train stopped every seventy or eighty miles
to refuel and while its bunkers were filled with coal and water
we got out and stretched some stiffness from our limbs.
Finally, at midnight on the second day of travel we reached our
destination. We of course had no idea where we were, but next
day it became apparent that we had arrived at Orange River
Station.
This was the well-known starting point of Methuen’s
disastrous campaign to relieve Kimberley some two months
before. All of Cape Colony north of this point was in the hands
of the Boers, who had come sweeping down the Western
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Railway from Mafeking. Led by the infamous Cronje and
‘Koos’ de la Rey, they had surrounded Kimberley, the ‘City of
Diamonds’ and now controlled all of British Cape Colony
north of Orange River Station, a distance of three hundred
miles to the Rhodesian border.
In spite of being pounded by Boer artillery, the garrison of
Kimberley continued to hold out and made newspaper
headlines around the world. Then Lieutenant General Methuen
attempted to march from Orange River to relieve them, only to
be defeated by Cronje at Magersfontein and have to bunker
down himself.
Despite the hour when we arrived, we unloaded our horses
and equipment. We seemed to be in a large camp, for even in
the dark we could see acres of tents and scores of freight
wagons parked nearby. Next morning the size of the camp was
more readily apparent, for there were thousands of British,
Canadian, Australian and Indian troops all bivouacked here
and the most staggering array of freight wagons we had ever
seen.
That afternoon, army vets inspected our horses again and a
further ten were declared unfit. Shortly after, I was summoned
to Matlock’s tent and was surprised to find both Matlock and
Major Watermeyer of Army Intelligence waiting for me.
“Congratulations on making Sergeant,” said Watermeyer,
shaking my hand. “Sergeants are the glue that holds the army
together and no one has earned it more than you.”
Then he motioned with his hand. “Come and sit over here,
I’ve got a few things to tell you.”
We sat down and he pulled a folded piece of newspaper
from a breast pocket.
“Here, I’ve brought this from Cape Town. I’m sure you’ll
find this interesting.”
I unfolded it; it was a page from the ‘Cape Town Times’
and on one side was a news item ringed in pencil that caught
my eye.
“Enemy agent dies in dramatic shootout: Notorious agent and
saboteur Erich von Smidt was shot dead in a hotel gunfight ten
days ago. According to army spokesman, one Major Anderson
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Watermeyer, the notorious villain was cornered in a hotel in
Duntroon and game to the end, had died in a hail of bullets.
Watermeyer confirmed that the British Army’s ‘most wanted’
was indeed dead and great courage and resourcefulness was
displayed by all those involved in bringing this formidable
enemy to justice.”
I lowered the piece of paper.
“You can have that. There’s something else you may like to
know.” He handed me a small velvet box.
“That’s yours. You may open it.” I raised the lid and inside
lay a silver medal. “I read the reports made by Colonel
Saunders and Colonel Porter of your part in the affair and both
could not praise you enough. Lady Sarah turned up at Army
Group in Cape Town and threatened merry hell if we didn’t
reward you adequately, so it was decided to give you the
Distinguished Service Medal. It goes without saying that you
wholeheartedly deserve it…if Smidt had got away with
abducting her, he would be internationally famous by now
while the British Army would have become the butt of ridicule.
There are not enough adjectives to adequately describe the
value of what you have done.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I could use a handy fellow like you. You would make a
splendid operative for the Intelligence Bureau. There would be
more than enough excitement to go around and when in the
field you would be entirely responsible for yourself – your
own boss in effect. Would you be interested in making a
transfer? I can arrange it at the stroke of a pen.”
I still didn’t know what to say – this was an unprecedented
opportunity but still, I wasn’t that sure. He could see my
hesitation. If I transferred, my term of enlistment could be
considerably extended; did I want that? Part of me said I did.
He looked at me appealingly.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I’ll have to give that some
thought. I have a girl back home and I’d like to get back to
her.”
“I understand. If you decide to accept, talk to Matlock and
all will be arranged.” He offered his hand again. “If there is
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anything I or the bureau can do for you don’t hesitate to
contact me.”
I hesitated, trying to absorb what he said. I realised I
couldn’t tell anyone about the medal; if I did, the questions
would come thick and fast. All I could do was post it home
along with the two handguns and in the meantime, forget that I
ever had them.
“Well, sir, there is something you could do. As well as this
medal I have Smidt’s Mauser pistol and a Tranter revolver.
Could you take them with you and see that they are posted to
my folks?”
“Certainly, my boy. Leave them with Matlock and I’ll pick
them up.”
Then we stood and after saluting, I returned to my duties.
A trip to the post wag
on that afternoon produced an excellent
result; I received a letter from Rachel. That alone was more
than enough cause for joy, so I was doubly surprised to find a
lot more news than I bargained for – inside was a wad of
neatly folded newspaper clippings which told a story of Rachel
having been abducted and that a big time fight had erupted
outside the Purdue house when the police arrived.
The letter that was included explained things more clearly
and the part about Albert being the principal cause of the
whole sorry saga was not lost on me. Disappearing the day
after he borrowed money from the loan shark tells me he never
intended to pay it back; instead, he used it in part, or perhaps
the entirety of it, to leave the country on the first leg of his
journey here. That meant there was a lot more to this story than
had yet been adequately explained.
It would seem the bounder had left all kinds of trouble in
his wake and probably neither knew nor cared about the mess
that was the aftermath. Unfortunately, none of it explained the
cause of it all, so I was still none the wiser about the precise
nature of his disappearance from Christchurch.
Later that afternoon I decided to seek him out. Call a truce;
confront him with the newspaper cuttings and his sister’s letter
to see his reaction – he may be moved to confess his duplicity,
whatever that may be, then I could write to the Purdue family
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and relate what had happened to him. I knew that the
Australian group he was with would be somewhere in this
camp, so I wandered the rows, enquiring here and there, until I
came across Stanley. He was squatting on an empty ammo box,
a smoking pipe in his mouth and engrossed in cleaning his
rifle. A Lee Enfield, less the bolt, was balanced across his
knees, while an oil bottle had been removed from the butt-trap
and with cap unscrewed, was placed on the ground between his
feet.
“Well, if it isn’t ol’ Stanley; you been off hunting ‘roo’s
again?”
“Well hang the crows, a fellow tourist. What brings you ‘ere,
cobber? ”
“Came to have a chat with, ah, what’s ‘is name; you know,
your favourite Lieutenant.”
“Oh ‘im. Well you won’t rake ‘is dander like you did the
last time – he was madder than a rhinoceros in mating season
after you left.”
“That so? Such a shame. What’s happened?”
“He’s not with us anymore, he’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s vanished, that’s what. We went out on patrol the day
after you last saw him and he disappeared in the dark on the
way ‘ome. No one knows what happened to ‘im. He’s
officially listed as ‘missin’ in action’ although it weren’t quite
like that. He could have deserted, been captured by the Johnny
Boers or got ‘imself lost and ended up in the Holy Land for all
we know.”
“Well, stone the crows! Couldn’t have happened to a nicer
bloke – must be having Easter with baby Jesus.”
“An’ guess what, Richard ol’ cob? I think you know why.”
“Not me, mate. Look at this face; do I look like a bloke that
would know anything about that?”
He did a little laugh. “Yeah, since you ask I reckon you do.
From the time you left he had the sulks until he shot through.”
“Oh dear, was it something I said? I only wanted to grope
his sister.”
“Perhaps he’s gone home to see if she’s all right?”
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Somehow, I don’t think so. That Albert sure has a talent for
disappearances. Could he still be lost after this amount of
time? Not on your nellie; he’s done another runner or my name
is Sally Lunn. Whatever he’s hiding must be a good deal more
than newsworthy to make disappearing a second time worth
his while. I had hoped to rattle his cage, but it seems I was far
more successful than I could have imagined. Anyway, at least I
could tell Rachel that he was alive, even if I didn’t know where
he was.
A couple of days went by and I received some news of a
different sort. I was again summoned to Major Matlock’s tent.
“I have a job for you Wilson. Tonight there will be a
massive exodus north by wagon train and that will include us.
However, there are ten whose horses have failed muster and
they will remain behind. Here is a list of their names. They will
require someone to keep an eye on them and that will be you.
This afternoon you are to round them up and get them started
at breaking in more horses. Tomorrow, you and your group
will begin training the Welsh Borderers in the dark and
mysterious art of how to ride. Cape Town has acknowledged
that we don’t have enough mounted infantry and have decreed
that we must train regular infantry in the basics of riding. The
officers of the Welsh Borderers will be your commanding
officers until you rejoin us, so you will liaise with them on all
matters concerning your men. Understood?”
I saluted and left. That was marvellous, now I’m to
nursemaid a bunch of bleeding Welshmen. I sought out the ten
on my list and told them the score. They weren’t particularly
happy, but duty is duty and that’s the end of it. Then we visited
the quartermaster’s tent in search of remounts.
“Well m’lads, the best ‘orses ‘ave been taken, an’ all’s
that’re left are some pretty wild Argentines that sod-all else can
ride.”
“Can’t be that bad mate, there’s no such thing as a horse
that can’t be rode.”
“Well son, you hadna’ seen this lot yet. They’re the wildest
nags anyone ‘as ever set eyes upon.”
“Do they have four hooves and a tail?”
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“Sure an’ they do an’ it’s a wonder they doesn’t ‘ave horns
as well!”
We were taken to a makeshift corral that contained about
fifty horses and invited to take our pick. They were a pretty
scruffy looking lot, but a horse is a horse, so we got on with
the job of cutting them out. That night, General French left
Orange River with a huge convoy of wagons and an equally
impressive escort that included the New Zealanders.
We were left on our own.
After breaking in the new mounts it was time to begin the
task of teaching the Borderers how to ride. The Welsh were
infantry who had never been on a horse and couldn’t ride to
save themselves, so it was hilarious trying to teach them to
canter, gallop and trot. They would be bobbing about all over
the place and falling off, while we were laughing our heads
off.
After two days of hilarity they were deemed to have
absorbed enough about riding to be operational, if not
altogether proficient, and were entrained for Graspan. It took
hours to get their horses loaded, for the Welsh had absolutely
no idea how to handle them.
The previous day General French had su
ccessfully
launched an audacious attack around the Boers at
Magersfontein Hill to break the siege of Kimberley. Now,
multiple convoys of wagons were required to follow his route
and keep the vanguard supplied. At Graspan, two hundred
wagons had been assembled and the Borderers were to be the
escort. We were staggered by the size of the column, for in line
of two abreast the wagons stretched across the veld for a
distance of over five miles. None of us had seen anything on
this scale before and now, in addition to teaching the Borderers
the advanced points of riding, we would have to teach them
how to scout before they ‘lost their hair.’
The morning after our arrival at Graspan, the column moved
out, first destination de Kiels Drift on the Riet River. The lads
assembled for a briefing after we had received our day’s
orders.
“Right boys, I’ve had a talk to the brass and each of you
will be assigned a group of Borderers, which you’ll take out on
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flank guard or ahead of the column. This will be vital
experience for the Borderers and you must urge them to scan
the horizon for signs of the enemy and the foreground for the
tracks of enemy ponies. As the eyes and ears of the column the
Borderers will be required to learn this quickly and well.”
When we were on our way, I posted two groups ahead of
the column and the rest were spread down each side as either
rearguards or flank guards. This was a big task, as the column
was a very tempting, slow-moving target and we had a
perimeter of ten miles to patrol if we were to successfully ward
off an enemy attack.
We hadn’t been on the road that long when we passed a
cairn, as we crossed from Cape Colony and began to move
deeper into Orange Free State. We stared solemnly as we
plodded past the pile of carefully mounted stones, for we
clearly understood its significance. We were now officially
invaders. For the first time, after four months of fighting, we
were taking the war to the home of the enemy, where every
farm labourer, land owner and town dweller we encountered
would be shooting at us.
As we passed the cairn I looked down on it thoughtfully. It
was incongruous in this eternal silence in the middle of
nowhere; a misshapen pile at odds with its surroundings.
Squat, unremarkable and foreboding, it seemed to say ‘beware
you who enter here.’
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