‘At Fashoda we had a considerable force and some useful artillery,’ Ross pointed out. ‘The French consisted merely of a handful of men who had hoisted a tricolour over a collection of mud huts and claimed them for their country. Faced with our cannon they could do little else but take the flag down when Kitchener ordered them to. In South Africa we’re confronting an entire race of Dutchmen, not a handful. They are challenging us over their own territory, not a tiny native village in a land miles from their own.’
‘It’s not a challenge, it’s a bluff,’ declared a captain of the Camel Corps, puffing at his cigar.
‘They may find themselves deep in a strategy which rebounds if we decide to take them seriously,’ a darkhaired subaltern pointed out.
‘No chance of that,’ the captain returned. ‘The Boers are farmers who live by the word of God. We would never take up arms against such people.’
‘We did just that not so long ago,’ the senior officer reminded them. ‘My brother was at Majuba Hill. He almost died of shame when his regiment was cut down by armed civilians and forced to retreat.’
‘But they were at the greatest disadvantage, sir,’ protested the subaltern. ‘They should never have been ordered to advance uphill in red coats through spiky aloes, when riflemen in dun-coloured clothes were easily hidden at the crest.’
The greying major sipped his brandy, then nodded. ‘Yes, they were at the very worst disadvantage. Even so, Boers used a recognized military tactic to supreme effect. We should not dismiss them too hastily. I believe it must come to war before we can settle harmoniously with them in a country more than large enough for both races.’ Vere heard all this with growing disquiet. While he had been lotus-eating in countries with little interest in possible war at the tip of the African continent, a situation which would certainly effect his young brother had developed. For six months he had drifted in search of elusive fulfilment, and finally saw where it was to be found. Artist, he might be, but it was with these men he knew accord. It was not Cairo, not the desert, which had been beckoning to him, but the company of others who had known war in all its unforgettable guises. The beauty of Mediterranean vistas had failed to inspire him because he was seeking subjects which fired his true talent. He was inspired already. A group of men around a table, talking of distant heroes and past glories, as fans circled slowly above a starched cloth littered with glasses and cigar-ash. Paint this scene with another canvas of these same men around a table set up in haste near some battlefield, their warriors’ uniforms now stained and torn, their faces lined by fear and exhaustion, and Vere would have a pair of pictures worthy of those which had been so highly praised last year.
He encouraged further discussion on the subject of South Africa. ‘If, as you say, the confrontation has arisen over the Boers’ refusal to allow foreigners the right to citizenship in their province of Transvaal, is it not a political rather than military dispute?’
The senior man crushed out his cigar before answering. ‘Yes, Ashleigh, but politicians seem unable to solve their difficulties without lining up soldiers in neat rows opposite each other. When enough of them are dead, agreement will be reached. It was ever so.’
Ross poured himself another brandy. ‘You have no doubt that it will come to exchanging shots, sir?’
‘None at all. I heard last night that the Government has ordered reinforcements to the count of ten thousand to be hurried there. Regiments from India are favoured because of their proximity, but others are being shipped from home stations.’
Unable to reveal that his brother was serving under a false name with the 57th Lancers in a small garrison town in Natal, Vere asked, ‘Is that fact, or merely a contingency plan?’
‘A fact. Our ambassador was informed through diplomatic channels.’
Ross turned to Vere with a wry expression. ‘Now, that’s the war we should have chosen rather than struggle through the Sudan and its horrors to recapture a city in ruins! I’ve heard the country is stunningly lovely with clean air, civilized cities boasting social amenities of high standard, an abundance of excellent food and wines, ladies who appreciate gentlemen of refinement like us and, best of all, the most marvellous hunting terrain teaming with antelope.’
‘With a parcel of farmers to fight, the affair would soon be settled,’ drawled the Camel Corps captain.
‘Not so,’ put in a staff officer who had remained on the periphery of the discussion. ‘The Boers are people of great determination. They believe the Good Book has decreed that they should seek and settle in their Promised Land. South Africa is it, in their opinion. There is no enemy more unpredictable and dangerous than one driven by the belief that the Lord is on his side. Good God, you fought just such a one last year.’
‘And thrashed them soundly,’ Ross pointed out.
‘Only because Dervish weapons were antique and tactics badly executed,’ Vere reminded his friend. ‘Their courage was outstanding.’
‘So was their faith in Mohammed’s participation in the battle, or they would never have continued to advance when their comrades were falling in thousands before your guns,’ said the staff-captain. ‘The Boers have more than religious faith to spur them on, however. They have been attempting for two hundred years to settle peacefully down there, and I fear we have followed behind them every time they moved north away from our rule. They are set on making a stand to establish a national territory. God and Justice on its side makes a foe more formidable than the fanatics you took on last year, Majors.’
‘Quite possibly,’ said the irrepressible Ross, ‘but I would still give anything to receive orders to proceed southward to Pretoria.’
‘And I,’ chorused the two younger officers.
Vere regarded them all with a smile. ‘As the only civilian amongst you, I am not governed by orders, gentlemen. The Illustrated Magazine is eager to publish any pictures I do of military campaigns. If all you have told me about gathering war clouds is true, South Africa seems to be the ideal country for me to visit next.’
4
WHILE TROOPS LOADED a wagon with supplies that had come up on the train from Cape Town, their sergeant led a dozen horses one by one down the ramp from an open truck, inspected them thoroughly, then took them across the railyard to where the regimental horses were tethered. Leaving a corporal and a brawny trooper watching over them, he crossed to the office to sign for several sacks of mail which were as vital as supplies to men far from home. Four soldiers went to collect them and heave them into their wagons now waiting to leave. With two men on the box of the vehicle, the remaining twelve swung into their saddles and each took one of the remounts on a leading rein.
The small procession set off through a South African town no larger than an English village. At its head was the sergeant who sat his tall stallion with an air of élan. He was young and powerfully built with a broad, deeply tanned face made particularly striking by clear, vivid blue eyes; an impressive figure in a smart uniform in two tones of grey with the cap set at a jaunty angle on his thick blond hair. The people of Mariensberg were used to the sight of British soldiers for they had been garrisoned there for some years. They either admired the troops or cursed them, but the burghers walking in the main street could not help but watch this sergeant who rode past in the manner of a general. Young girls were dallying by their front doors to await his return from the station, but their eager blushes faded when he rode past without a glance in their direction. Their only consolation was that he had held aloof from them all throughout the eight months that his regiment had been stationed there. Whoever it was that he remained faithful to in England must be a truly exceptional person, they thought, and envied her such loyal devotion.
Val Ashleigh’s thoughts were far from romance as he rode back to the garrison occupied by the 57th Lancers. The remounts he had collected were splendid beasts, but he would have preferred a dozen sturdy ‘whalers’ from Australia to these cavalry horses straight from home. The regiment had come to realize that the South
African terrain better suited animals with shorter legs and greater staying power than those bred to carry large men, heavy equipment, and lances weighing almost five pounds. In this country horsemen travelled light. Distances between hamlets were vast and to linger on the veld was dangerous. It was a land of undeniable splendour, with sobering vistas and exciting wild creatures, but these could kill as well as charm and the lure of clear unhindered views could deceive a man into seeking horizons which were further off than they appeared.
Their progress along the main street raised dust that would hang in the still air long after they had passed. Winter had been dry and sunny, pleasantly warm by day and cold during nights with skies full of stars. Spring was almost here. According to several young men of Mariensberg who had become Val’s friends, the coming season would bring storms to turn dust roads to mud and swell rivers so the drifts, where men were able to cross in winter, often rose by as much as eight feet within a short time. Many had drowned at these deceptive, treacherous fords, their horses with them. As spring lengthened into summer, temperatures would soar and the veld would bake beneath the sun. Those obliged to travel during summer did so with a good supply of water and emergency rations. They also learned in advance the vagaries of the terrain and the location of isolated farms where help could be sought. There were few maps of this tip of Africa, so the only travellers who went forth with confidence were those who knew the veld and respected it.
The troops left the town and followed the narrow track leading to their military outstation. The wagon creaked as its wheels crossed ruts, and the horses began picking their way with care over uneven ground. Val studied the cluster of tin-roofed stone buildings lying beneath a cloudless azure sky and wondered if there would be a war. It was what he had yearned for. Only on a battlefield would he have the opportunity to redeem himself, as he had vowed to do. Only if war came could he wipe out the shadow over his past and earn the right to be where an Ashleigh should be. The usual pang of regret over forfeiting his identity touched him, reminding him that no matter how heroic Martin Havelock became, Sir Gilliard might never accept him in place of V. M. H. Ashleigh.
The affair at Chartfield School had brought Val humiliation, dishonourable dismissal, and the burden of knowing that he had badly let down a family of which he was inordinately proud. Julia Grieves, the young second wife of Val’s housemaster, had coaxed from him the confession that he was determined to join the cavalry in spite of his grandfather’s threat to use his influence to prevent him from doing so. Then she had revealed that her uncle was about to take over command of the 57th Lancers. She had offered to recommend Val to Max Beecham as a prospective officer of his regiment. His gratitude and eagerness to earn her continuing help had unwittingly led Val into her cat and mouse game until she seduced him on an evening when he was shattered by the tragic death of his closest friend.
Luring him with the promise of an introduction to her uncle, Julia had intensified her campaign for total control. Somewhere along the way Val had lost sight of the 57th Lancers and become sexually obsessed with her. That was when she had played her ace. Too late he had recognized the true nature of her plan to strip him of all pride and self-respect. When he had turned from her in horror and disgust, Julia had cried attempted rape.
Believing that Sir Gilliard would find his presence at Knightshill a constant distressing reminder of his disgrace, Val had lived rough for several days, nursing his pain and coming to terms with the loss of all he held dear. Longing to hit back at Julia, he had thought of a means to do so. He would join the 57th Lancers; gain the prize she had promised him. Unable to use his real name because Max Beecham would know him as the senior prefect who had assaulted his niece, Val had taken his two middle names and enlisted as a trooper. Julia remained the victor, however. When Colonel Beecham had offered Martin Havelock the chance to go to Sandhurst and take a commission, Val had had to admit his true identity. It had then become clear to him that Max Beecham had never been approached by Julia on his behalf, nor had he heard of the Chartfield scandal. His alias had been unnecessary. Giving as his reason for it Sir Gilliard’s vow to prevent him from joining the cavalry, Val had won Max Beecham’s silence on his false enlistment — a court martial offence — and a promise to give him commissioned rank in the field if Val proved himself deserving of it in battle. Even as a sergeant, Martin Havelock could not forget his right as an Ashleigh to be an officer, nor could he forgive Julia Grieves for robbing him of that right. As a result, he viewed the entire female sex with cynicism and deep mistrust.
Glancing over his shoulder to check that all was well with his men, Val’s thoughts returned to a more welcome subject. His ancestors had fought in wars all over the world, and he had been inspired from childhood by their exploits. He longed to emulate them, but had never imagined the kind of situation that politicians were creating here in South Africa. Daydreams had invariably had him facing hordes of fanatical natives, or the disciplined ranks of crack European troops. There was a brand of glory in that concept but, in Val’s eyes, the Boers did not constitute an acceptable enemy. They had no professional army as such; they lived alongside settlers from many nations. How did a soldier distinguish an enemy when he was surrounded by friends? How did he challenge and fight him under such conditions? For decades the British had conducted their wars in the lands of their foes, but South Africa was peopled by many races with whom Britain had no dispute. Val was uneasy about the notion of loosing his professional aggression against civilians; of charging, with his nine-foot lance, men who farmed the land and lived by the word of God. Many of the 57th Lancers shared that unease.
They reached the perimeter and turned up the track leading to the stores. Half-way along it those men handling the remounts branched to the right, heading for the horse lines. Val went on with the wagon to hand over the mailbags. They often contained official communiqués or items of value, so he must sign a guarantee that the sacks which had travelled up from Durban under armed guard had been in his sight from the moment he had received them. Once this had been done, he mounted Samson and headed for the horse lines. So keen was he to claim for his own troop two he had judged the best of the twelve remounts, he defied regulations and rode at a speed that sent dust rising to the open windows. Cries of protest from inside merely made him grin. He had cursed sergeants in his days as a trooper.
Almost leaping from his saddle, Val tossed the bridle to a soldier and crossed to where the Sergeant Roughrider was squatting beside one of the animals he wanted. The man glanced up and smiled.
‘I thought you’d be here like a shot. I know what you’re after.’
Val squatted beside him. ‘As I collected them, I’m entitled to first choice. This is one.’ He nodded to the left. ‘That’s the other.’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘It’s up to the officers to choose which they want, not sergeants with too much cheek. Mr Pickering is coming to look them over shortly.’
‘He doesn’t know a horse’s head from its arse,’ Val claimed in disgust.
‘Watch that, young Havelock. It’s well known you have it in for a certain subaltern who had you consigned to the cells for twenty-eight days last year, but it’s a wise man who keeps a still tongue in his head. You have more to lose now. He could break you to the ranks.’
Val was engrossed in studying the animals which were the major passion of his life. The man’s warning went over his head. Running his hands over the glossy flanks of the chestnut gelding, he thrilled to the feel of muscles beneath its warm coat and the smell of straw and sweat which clung to it. He was a skilled horseman, one of the best in the regiment, and was at his happiest on or with the beasts with whom he felt as one. He wanted this one badly; wanted it for men who liked and trusted him. The other gelding he could bear to lose, but this creature was a beauty.
He straightened and went to gaze into intelligent brown eyes, presently betraying confusion. ‘It’s all right, boy,’ he said softly, stroking the animal’s cheeks with his
square brown hand. ‘You’re with friends. Steady, steady! No more travelling, no more rattling rail trucks. A few days for you to rest and get used to this place, then you and I will explore the great paradise you can see stretching away into the distance.’
The Riding Master came alongside him, his thin, dark-moustached face showing exasperation. ‘Never give up, do you, Havelock!’
‘It’s the only way to secure what one wants,’ said Val turning and saluting Lieutenant Tomms.
‘I heard you had gone to meet the train today. You had no ulterior motive in volunteering for the duty, I suppose.’
‘You malign me,’ he cried in mock protest. ‘I didn’t volunteer.’
Tomms grinned. ‘My mistake. You invariably do when the duty concerns horses. Well, have you sized them up?’
The three men talked for a while about the qualities of the beasts they had been sent, agreeing that ‘whalers’ would have been preferable. When Val rode back to his quarters he had persuaded the Riding Master to ask Colonel Beecham to request some of the Australian animals. He might manage a miracle. All that Val could hope for otherwise was that his own troop captain would select the chestnut gelding before someone else did.
His servant brought him a cup of tea in the single-storey block he shared with three other sergeants, and he stretched out on his bed for half an hour before going to supervise evening ‘stables’. It was a routine he loved and when it was time for dinner he reflected on his present situation as he washed and dressed in mess kit.
Life was full and satisfying. His longing for officer status was tempered by the knowledge that his forced enlistment in the ranks had enabled him to learn his profession most thoroughly. The nine months he had spent as a trooper had taught him an appreciation of the men he hoped one day to lead as their commander. He had suffered the rigours of day-to-day life, and learned the difference made to it by good or bad officers. An invaluable experience. After a deeply hostile initiation, Val had been accepted by his rough and ready companions. They had quickly made him their hero after he led the rescue of their troop horses from a burning stable. In a cavalry regiment, any champion of the regimental animals was regarded a hero. In return, Val had grown to like and understand men from backgrounds vastly different from his own. As their sergeant, he still earned their respect, and returned it. He knew it would be the same when he eventually gained the commission he so wanted.
A Distant Hero Page 8