‘If we call their bluff in November, we’ll be in Johannesburg and Pretoria by Christmas,’ claimed Toby with alcoholic bravado.
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Val warned. ‘They have the advantage of knowing their own country, and how to move around it. Forbes maintains they have been preparing for months to take us on. He says he was told by a reliable source that arms have been arriving from Germany, France and Ireland so that there is now a veritable arsenal of weapons ready for them to use.’
‘I heard that story, Havelock,’ sneered a sandy-haired former boxer. ‘The Boers have put it out to scare us. There’s no truth in it.’
‘It’d take more than that to scare the 57th, eh lads?’ boomed one of their members well on the way to intoxication.
So the evening passed until the Mess began to empty. Toby and Val lived in adjacent rooms, and were heading for them when Val noticed a letter lying on the table by the door.
‘Forgot to tell you about it, Martin,’ mumbled Toby. ‘It’s for you. That writing looks like a girl’s, you old slyboots!’
The handwriting was that of his sister Charlotte. Val picked up the envelope with a sensation of dread. There could be only one reason why she should write to him after all this time. Grandfather was dead! Waves of regret washed over him. That grand old man would never witness the redemption he had been promised, would not learn of Val’s valiant attempt to regain the respect of his family and honour the name of Ashleigh. He might have to do it as Martin Havelock, but he would still be upholding an inbred obligation to live up to the memory of his brother Vorne. Sir Gilliard would surely have recognized that and been mollified.
Val tore open the envelope and began to read. In growing confusion he scanned the three pages. It appeared to be no more than a friendly letter from the sister with whom he had often argued and who was almost as unforgiving as Sir Gilliard. He could not make head or tail of it. She wrote as if nothing had happened between himself and his family, as if he had never been sacked from Chartfield. The tone of the letter was too generous for the Charlotte he knew, yet it was certainly her handwriting. There seemed to be no reason for sending it other than to tell him news of Knightshill and the family.
Val already knew Vere was in Italy; there had been a letter from him a month ago after he had met up with Margaret. He also knew Kate had been ill — Margaret had written, too — but he had not realized how ill. Poor little girl! He could not imagine a silent Kate. She had always let her tongue run away with her. It was news to him that the Nicolardis were sailing for South America and leaving Kate with Charlotte. His sister wrote that Grandfather had been angry initially when she arrived with Kate, but had bowed to the inevitable because he could not refuse his great-granddaughter a home. The letter ended on the same loving note used throughout by wishing him well and asking him to reply when he found the time. Totally mystified, he was brought back from his thoughts by Toby.
‘Your expression suggests that you’ve lost a shilling and found a sixpence.’
He looked up. ‘That’s a good description of how I feel. I’m either drunk or I need to sleep off the effects of today’s surprises. Come on, let’s turn in.’
Sleep did not come immediately. Val’s head spun with all manner of thoughts as he stared at the ceiling washed by moonlight. The letter from Charlotte revived memories of Knightshill in a way those from Vere and Margaret had not. His brother and elder sister were away from home so their news was of other countries and their exploits there. The unexpected olive branch from a sister who had been swift to condemn even his mildest indiscretion unsettled him. He saw his home so clearly and was startled to recognize an ache of homesickness. That brief moment during which he had believed his grandfather was dead remained with him. If the old man went before he had proved himself a worthy successor to the hero who had been lost outside Khartoum, all he did from then on would surely be empty of glory.
Time was against him. Sir Gilliard was eighty-nine and his weakening heart had already once caused him to collapse. Rolling from his bed, Val stepped across to the window to gaze out at the moon-washed veld. He must put aside any scruples he might have about an unequal foe. When this conflict began he would fight the Boers as a true Ashleigh, sparing no one, least of all himself.
*
Two weeks later the 57th Lancers received orders to move north to Ellinsdorp beside the Orange River, where a consignment of tents would be sent up to the nearest railway halt to await their arrival. The Mariensberg outstation was to be taken over by a regiment coming from India. Colonel Beecham was advised to buy as many provisions as possible to take with him on the three-day march. Ellinsdorp apparently had few, and supplies from Cape Town were likely to be late due to preparations to receive an influx of additional troops. The orders concluded with the notice that khaki uniforms were to be issued as soon as they were available to all British regiments already in South Africa. This news brought war a step nearer. The men of the 57th were elated. They longed for action. They also welcomed the move from an outstation where there was little to do and where time dragged. Val was eager to experience the mysteries of full-scale battle, which his forbears had known and endured. The advance towards Boer territory was the answer to his prayers. With his own equipment packed, he went to A Troop lines to see how his men were faring. It was an unusually warm afternoon for September and there were a few grumbles about how stifling it was indoors. Val walked between the two rows of beds, as hot as anyone in his serge uniform, but his spirits were too high to be dampened by discomfort.
‘Come on, lads, you’ll have to get used to temperatures higher than this,’ he said cheerfully. ‘When summer comes you’ll know what heat really is.’
‘You’re a proper Job’s comforter, Sarge,’ commented the troop pessimist. ‘We’ll be dead before summer comes. I heard as how they’ve got a good arsenal of guns hid in the heart of one of them flat-topped hills, and there’s more’n five thousand veld ponies in a corral in Johannesburg.’
Val stopped beside the man’s bed, laughing. ‘If you believe that, Potts, you’ll believe anything. In Johannesburg they are too busy digging up gold to look after five thousand horses, and if you had ever ridden to the top of a kopje, as I have, you would know they don’t have hollow centres in which to hide field artillery.’
‘I ’eard it was six thahsand ’orses and ’eavy cannons used by the Rooshans at Sebastopol,’ said a wiry man named Jakes.
Several others gave details of the versions they had been told, then the comedian of the troop said solemnly, ‘I can tell you all wot was told ter me by Kruger, personal like. They got twenty-seven spades, eighteen pitchforks, thirty-nine milking-stools and five ’undred moo-cows. It’s the troof, honest.’
By the time the laughter died down, Val had reached the end bed covered with the kit of a giant named Deadman. As rough as they come, the man nevertheless had a curious bond of comradeship with someone he had once cruelly persecuted for being too gentlemanly. During the stable fire last November, Val and Deadman had between them saved most of the troop horses. Having been pulled away from danger by Val just before the building collapsed, the massive trooper would now defend with his life the young man who had become his sergeant.
Val smiled at him. ‘I suppose you have been taking bets on all these ridiculous stories and will rake in a fortune.’
The ugly features registered innocence. ‘Wouldn’t do nuffink like that. Get meself on a charge for that, I could.’
‘I’m glad you realize it.’ Val’s smile broadened. ‘Just ensure that you collect your winnings when I’m not around.’
After five more minutes of light-hearted banter with his former barrack room fellows, Val walked out into the sunshine wondering if there really was any truth in the stories circulating the area. He asked Jonathan Forbes during a farewell dinner at his home that evening, but the doctor’s son would not commit himself to more than a guess that there might be some substance in the rumours. Val was sorry to say goodbye to
the Forbes family, and to several others who had made him welcome in their homes. They all wished him well and vowed he would be back round their tables to celebrate Christmas or, certainly, to herald in the twentieth century.
The regiment left Mariensberg at first light. They had no maps of the route so had to rely on a civilian guide who knew the terrain between the town and Ellinsdorp. It was a cumbersome procession that set out across rough veld, where giant anthills and stunted bushes erupted like blemishes on harsh skin. The distant hills were further off than they looked. These would be encountered on their second day’s march. Beyond that the nature of the country was unknown, although the guide assured them that it would be easy going all the way. They were to discover that what a man of South Africa regarded as easy going was considered arduous by soldiers in thick uniforms whose horses were burdened with their weapons and all the necessities for bivouacking.
The first day’s march was long because the overnight halt must be made near drinking water for the animals. There were almost two thousand. Aside from six hundred troop horses, there were a number of remounts, several hundred pack mules, and teams of oxen that pulled the wagons. It was always a tricky business trying to control very thirsty animals. The narrow stream soon darkened and grew cloudy as hooves tramped through it in their thousands. Everyone was weary and ready for a meal, but it took time to light fires and prepare food which had inadvertently been loaded in the rear wagon. Stars were starting to show in the translucent blue-grey sky overhead before stomachs were full, and the quietness which always fell when men relaxed aching limbs and faced the coming night on a blanket beneath the sky descended on soldiers and animals alike.
Val drank ale seated on the ground beside Toby in companionable silence. He knew a sense of destiny awaiting him and was sobered by it. How would it feel to settle thus, when there were men nearby determined to put an end to one’s life? He gazed around at the silvered shadows and told himself there would soon be figures creeping silently through the moonlight intent on killing. What was it like to run a lance through a human body instead of straw? Why did he suddenly feel very alone surrounded by an entire regiment?
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Toby quietly.
Val continued to look at the emptiness beyond. ‘Quite possibly.’
‘It’s a funny sort of sensation, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm,’ agreed Val, lost in it. Then, after a short silence, he said, ‘I know a man who was an artist; a gentle, laughing person who loved beautiful things and to whom killing must have seemed utterly repugnant. He had been an invalid all his life and none of us expected him to survive beyond thirty.’
‘So what about him?’ asked Toby.
‘He joined Kitchener’s army in the Sudan, fought at Atbara and Omdurman, then returned home to become an artist again having survived everything the desert produced.’
Toby drained his tin cup and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Seems a funny thing for him to have done?’
‘Mmm, wasn’t it.’
‘Well, why did he?’
Val sighed. ‘For the sake of a girl.’
‘Ha! Might have known.’
‘I was just thinking that if he could do it, so can I.’
‘Ah, I was wondering about the point of the story.’ Toby lay back on his blanket and belched loudly. Val was still sitting up when his friend asked a few minutes later, ‘Who is he, this artist fellow?’
‘Vere Ashleigh.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Toby, and soon fell asleep. The second day’s march took them up to the hills. To go around them meant a detour of many miles and the guide assured Max Beecham that there were easy tracks which would take them over the ridge to a pleasant stretch beyond. The 57th had their first real taste of the challenge South Africa offered strangers. The ‘easy’ tracks presented problems to heavy cavalry chargers and proved impossible for ox-wagons to negotiate. Steep paths wound tortuously upward. They were so narrow, in parts, they allowed only single files through cuttings bordered by giant spiky aloes, and the stony surface made progress slow. On the descent, animals frequently slid on the loose shale and caused temporary panic by cannoning into those ahead. In every man’s mind was the sobering thought of crossing such hills with an enemy in the vicinity; in every man’s mind was repugnance for such terrain. Cavalrymen charged at the foe, lances dipped, and the combined thunder of two and a half thousand hooves added to the awesome sight of grim expressions above a mass of wickedly sharp points were guaranteed to instil terror. Crossing hills like this would put them at the mercy of an enemy with every advantage. They were extremely unhappy.
Colonel Beecham had sent the wagons on the long route around the hills, which meant the men would have to wait for a meal until they arrived. There would be ample water from the stream and that was more essential than food. He was beginning to question the loyalties of his guide, but had to use him because there was no other. It was coming home to them all that they would have two enemies in the coming conflict — the Boers, and the country they had claimed as their Promised Land.
The wagons rolled in long after the troops had fallen asleep. Cooks set about preparing a double-sized breakfast instead, but no sooner had fires been lit and pots hung over them on the tripods than it began to rain. It cascaded down to put out the fires and waken the sleepers, who could do no more than crouch beneath their cloaks until dawn brought pale sunshine. Soaked to the skin, hungry, and facing another long march, the men of the 57th wore doleful expressions as they ate thick tinned-meat sandwiches washed down with water from the stream.
‘If this is peacetime in Sarth Afreeka, Gawd ’elp us when war comes,’ was an oft-heard sentiment as the men saddled their wet horses and prepared to move off.
Val was thoughtful as he rode beside Second-Lieutenant Manning at the head of A Troop. He was still hungry and felt uncomfortable in his wet uniform. He was also beginning to amend his assessment of the coming conflict, which he had likened to a sporting contest. The other side might well be inexperienced and ill equipped, but the British could find themselves batting with the sun full in their eyes on an unfamiliar pitch full of lumps and dips. It might not be easy for him to earn the commission Max Beecham had promised him. The training he had received, the inborn warrior instincts, the advice on manoeuvres and tactics his family had given him during his childhood years might well be of little use to him in the days ahead.
During that final long ride over terrain as flat and dry as a desert, Val tried to find optimism. Time was passing; Sir Gilliard was an old man. If no opportunity to be a hero in this war presented itself he might never regain his grandfather’s recognition and blessing.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed the young subaltern beside him, just as the sun was starting to go down. ‘That surely can’t be Ellinsdorp.’
Val glanced up to see no more than a dozen tin-roofed dwellings along a shallow riverbank. At the end was one with a bell-tower which marked it as the inevitable church. ‘That can’t be all, sir,’ he said with conviction. ‘They wouldn’t send us to defend a cluster of native huts occupied by the black people of the town. The main part of Ellinsdorp must be a little further on.’
He was wrong. Their new garrison was a mere hamlet containing eight white families, a handful of black workers, a store and a church. What was more, the river here was no more than a trickle of water on the stony bed.
5
WHILE VERE WAS voyaging down the east coast of the African continent, the British were presented with an ultimatum demanding withdrawal of their troops from the borders of Transvaal and the Orange Free State, both areas under Boer jurisdiction. It also demanded the return of all reinforcements newly arrived or aboard troopships bound for South Africa. This move was designed to instigate the war for which Boers had been secretly preparing throughout their winter months.
It was October. Spring weather would be perfect for men of the country to take on those unused to soaring temperatures in
vast, unmapped areas offering little or no shade. British military horses lacked the stamina of veld ponies, so mounted troops would be less effective in this terrain. British guns were impressive, but unsuitable for hauling great distances across a country boasting few roads and scored by rivers with bridges that would be difficult to defend. The fords, known locally as drifts, could be treacherous when rivers rose during sudden storms. Roads which wound between flat-topped hills whose slopes were covered by tall spiky aloes turned to mud when it rained. A lone horseman, even a small group on lightweight beasts, could travel on them with care. Battalions of infantry and cavalry, accompanied by heavy cannon and commissariat wagons forming long columns, would flounder in the mire. Riflemen hiding in surrounding hills would be able to pick them off with ease. Yes, the God-fearing Boer pioneers knew October was the perfect time to confront their hated neighbours.
The British had no alternative but to refuse the ultimatum, playing the hand their enemies wanted. Within two weeks the British public was stunned by news that the so-called ‘farmer army’ had driven Queen Victoria’s soldiers from their borders and held them under siege in the garrisons of Mafeking, Kimberley and Ladysmith. Not only was this a humiliating reverse for one of the best armies in the world, it rendered ineffective many thousands of crack troops and left the British states of Natal and Cape Colony only thinly defended. Reinforcements were still arriving and relief of the beleaguered garrisons could not be organized until regiments and stores were ready to be moved from dock areas.
As Boers surrounding the three towns gave no immediate sign of intending to overrun and capture them, and as the commanders of each invested garrison signalled assurance of adequate supplies, it seemed reasonable enough to take time over the formation of columns which would march across country to lift the sieges and rout the enemy. Generals estimated that it would take only a week or so to set free regiments presently cooped up in settlements which were little more than clusters of tin-roofed huts bordering dust roads. Once the Boers faced the massive numbers which would then oppose them, the war would be over swiftly. Britain would be celebrating final settlement of this gold and diamond dominion when she heralded in the new century, the generals assured the Government and their officers. The officers passed the message to their men and everyone relaxed.
A Distant Hero Page 10