When Vere’s ship approached Durban he was on deck, anxious for his first sight of the port. After the sweltering heat of a voyage through the Red Sea, along the fever coast and down past Zanzibar, he found the balmy pre-dawn air wonderfully refreshing. His restlessness had been replaced by energy waiting to be released. News he had heard en route confirmed the wisdom of his decision to head south from Cairo: a cable from The Illustrated Magazine received at Zanzibar told him a contract for all his war sketches would be drawn up ready by their representative in Durban.
Vere gazed shoreward as he leaned on the rail, straining his eyes as the sky began to lighten. A sudden inexplicable sensation of coming excitement touched him as he heard the engines slow, and it quickly consumed him. He had experienced a similar, curious premonition once before in the Sudan. There, it had taken the form of violent reluctance to go ashore to visit Vorne’s grave. On reaching the spot he had found it desecrated, the bones scattered among those of his brother’s enemies. The sense of foreboding had been fully justified. Today it was quite the reverse. He was overwhelmed by eagerness to set foot on this tip of Africa which had beckoned his artistic soul.
As Durban slowly materialized in the gilded dawn, his sense of excitement doubled. A city of considerable size with impressive colonial-style buildings, highlighted by a cloudless aquamarine sky, and fronted by commercial docks, it was a pleasing sight as the ship stood-to a short distance off. Due to the late arrival of a troop-ship still alongside the jetty, disembarkation could not take place until early afternoon, so Vere returned to the deck after luncheon to watch the milling confusion of khaki-clad troops, black labourers off-loading stores and artillery, and wagons criss-crossing ceaselessly as they set off burdened and returned empty. It was a familiar sight to a man who had lived as a fighting soldier for almost two years, and his sense of still being a part of it surprised Vere.
When the gangplank was eventually lowered, he went ashore with the thought that he was once more setting foot on a land one of his brothers had trodden before him. Val had been here for almost nine months with the 57th Lancers. Vowing to seek out the regiment as soon as possible, Vere knew it would be good to meet up with the boy he had last seen at Chartfield School before leaving for Cairo. He had then given Val the responsibilities of being Sir Gilliard’s heir to Knightshill in the belief that the desert would cover his own bones as it did Vorne’s. Now he had resumed the rôle that was his by right of birth, it was only fair to apologize to his young brother.
Threading his way through the military mêlée, Vere stopped to question several young officers grouped beside a laden wagon. Two had arrived only that day and could be of no help. A third had been in Durban two months and knew something of the deployment of regiments, but he could not say where the 57th Lancers were at the moment.
‘Everything happened so fast, we were all taken by surprise,’ he explained above the noise of winches and irate commands. ‘Most of our smaller garrisons were awaiting orders when the Boers swept across the borders and set three sieges. So far as I know, they could all still be awaiting them. Until we sort out this influx of men and equipment, no orders can be issued. Luckily our enemies seem happy enough to sit tight in the hills surrounding the besieged towns.’ He turned away to instruct a wagon driver, then called out as Vere moved off. ‘Try the Transport Office. Someone there might know where the Fifty-seventh is.’
Vere had a long wait before a carriage was free to take him to a hotel overlooking a deserted bay ringed by wild shrubs in flower. Their perfume hung on the early evening air, and the gentle aromatic shoreline was soft on the eye of someone who had gazed at endless sea for too many days, his only glimpses of land showing desolation beneath harsh, relentless sun. This southern area of the great African continent was green and benign. Small wonder it was coveted by those who had settled here and brought civilization.
So charmed was Vere by this haven that he wandered paths within the hotel grounds to watch birds with the most glorious plumage and liquid song as they indulged in courtship antics. The artist in him longed to paint the exotic plants and shrubs, the aesthete was fired by the vivid shimmering feathers, the heady scent of blooms he could not identify, and by a strange sense of having come home to a place he had never before visited. He felt a strong harmony with his surroundings which had been absent in those Mediterranean countries that traditionally inspired artists. Curious contentment for a man seeking war.
Morning brought a continuation of Vere’s mood. He walked for an hour, descending to the sands patterned by trails of tiny footprints left by yellow and buff birds who ran over the tideline searching for food. The tranquillity was enchanting enough to keep him from the breakfast table until it was almost too late. By mid-morning he was in a carriage heading for the centre of town, where the office of The Illustrated Magazine was sited. Broad streets were busy with parties of mounted troops and military wagons which mingled with the more elegant vehicles of residents making morning calls or transacting business. Soldiers whose rosy cheeks betrayed them as new arrivals from England, and others browned by the Indian sun, walked amidst ladies in pale muslins or silks and gentlemen wearing lightweight suits. There was an air of festivity rather than purpose, as if the war were merely a distant diversion to be discussed only when drawing-room conversation had palled. It almost made nonsense of the frenzied activity at the docks.
The tiny office of the magazine for which Vere would work was in a side street, next to a ramshackle store selling cheap, brightly coloured cloth by the yard. The stern, bewhiskered man who gave Vere a contract to read and sign treated him to an impassioned speech on the evils of war while he did so.
‘I read that your kinsmen have lived by the sword for thirteen generations, Mr Ashleigh. To kill is a sin against the scriptures, yet your family parades it as a virtue.’ Vere glanced up at the face glowering with self-righteousness. Although he had never regarded soldiering as a sin, he had once deplored those who lauded the profession. Experience had honed his opinion on many things.
‘All we parade as a virtue is sympathy for our fellows, sir. When I and my family see them being mercilessly massacred in the name of some madman’s bid for power, we are prepared to defend them. Is that a sin?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who is being massacred in the name of a madman here?’
Dropping the pen on to a desk stained by printer’s ink, Vere got to his feet. ‘I hope to God there will be no massacre. I have a close relative in the cavalry who is committed to serving Queen and country.’
‘Pah!’ came the explosive comment. ‘He is serving the madman Cecil Rhodes, who aims to rule the whole African continent. Your queen is merely his pawn.’
Vere pocketed one copy of the contract and prepared to leave. ‘Africa is a huge continent. I have just travelled the length of it. No man in his wildest ravings could believe in its entire conquest. Mr Rhodes is by no means mad, and he is a loyal subject of Queen Victoria, I assure you.’ At the doorway he turned. ‘You referred to her as my sovereign, which suggests that you are not her loyal subject, sir. I read that your kinfolk are God-fearing, peaceful farmers. Why, then, are they bombarding civilian residents in Ladysmith, Kimberley and Mafeking in an attempt to starve or frighten them into surrender, and parading that as a virtue? Good day to you.’
The mild shock of finding a Boer running the office of a patriotic British magazine brought home to Vere the uniqueness of a war where people continued to live side by side while their compatriots were killing each other. In the Sudan, Dervishes had slain anyone in their path and had, in turn, been slain on sight by their foes. The incident impressed upon Vere how integrated the two warring races here had become. It was tragic that the discovery of gold and diamonds might put an end to peaceful dual existence in this land of rich promise. Whatever the outcome of hostilities, it must create between neighbours a rift that would be difficult to heal.
The Transport Officer was not only disinclined to give his precious time to
a civilian, he made it clear that a man waving at him a paper commissioning paintings of military activities was highly suspicious. Vere was advised to report to an address in town used as a temporary headquarters where he should ask for Captain Harmesworth. Telling the driver to head back to the main street of Durban, Vere settled in the carriage seat resigned to travelling to and fro all day. Last year he had been an active member of the army he portrayed in his pictures. He suspected that he might not be so willingly accepted by the military now. This was confirmed the moment he entered a large stone house with a facade of tall pillars and a balustrade depicting leaping antelope. A pink-faced subaltern glanced at Vere’s card, but refused to take it through to his superior.
‘We are at war, Mr Ashmead,’ he said, still seated at his desk. ‘Captain Harmesworth has no time to consider purchasing your paintings.’
‘I have yet to create them, by courtesy of the military authorities,’ Vere told him. ‘And my name is Ashleigh.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said the young man in relief, finding a way to rid himself of this artist fellow. ‘Why don’t you come back when you have something to show us? The war will be over by then, and Captain Harmesworth will have more time.’
Used to this breed of rather pompous junior officer, Vere knew he would get nowhere until he spoke to Harmesworth, or to someone else in authority. He was also aware that civilians were not welcomed by uniformed men conducting a war. Having been one he appreciated their point, so he walked to a chair giving a view of Harmesworth’s door and settled down to wait. While he did so he took out his sketch-pad to record a scene he found interesting. The interior of this imposing entrance hall suggested a woman’s touch. Walls washed in pale lilac bore several large canvases of interiors featuring ladies in silk gowns wonderfully conveyed by use of light and shade. The chair upon which he sat, and others dotted around the open area, had gilded legs with lilac and cream upholstery. The marbled staircase curved away from Vere’s scope of vision, but the lower steps were enhanced by a carpet of rich dark green.
Whilst sketching the elegance marred by military intrusion, Vere grew aware that a man was standing beside the subaltern who had been watching him with covert suspicion. The pair were clearly discussing him, and it seemed likely that the captain was Harmesworth. Next minute, Vere recognized someone he had seen only once and then more than a year ago. Yet he remembered their meeting with clarity, and crossed to the desk with a smile.
‘Had I known it was you I would have insisted on seeing you right away, Harmesworth,’ he said warmly. ‘Your name had slipped to the recesses of my mind.’
Having heard part of his junior’s story, the fair-haired captain was clearly resistant to Vere’s approach. ‘Yours has done likewise, sir.’
Vere quoted the man’s words to him on the jetty at Berber as they had both awaited a steamer rumoured to have been captured by the enemy who had slaughtered all passengers. ‘Only a bally fool would wait here with just a sergeant if a boatload of Dervishes was about to arrive.’
Harmesworth’s brow furrowed as he studied Vere’s face. Then recollection dawned. ‘You had a packet to send up to Wad Hamed in the military bag!’
‘Sketches I had made of the terrain between there and Berber.’
Harmesworth glanced again at Vere’s card, picking it up with growing interest. ‘Didn’t I ask if you were related to Vorne Ashleigh of the West Wilts?’
‘That’s right. I was prevented from answering at the time but, yes, I’m his brother.’
The subaltern rose, his pink cheeks deepening to red. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. You spoke about paintings, so I had the impression that you were an artist.’
Vere felt sorry for the boy. He had only claimed brotherhood with a supposed hero in the hope of gaining Harmesworth’s assistance. ‘I am an artist, Mr … ?’ He glanced at the name-plate on the desk, ‘Mr Frankham. I resigned my commission in January.’ He turned back to the senior man. ‘The Illustrated Magazine has asked me to make a pictorial record of a war which will be vastly different from the one in which we both fought two years ago. I was hoping to learn from you where best to find the forward troops, in particular the Fifty-seventh Lancers. I have a cousin in the regiment.’ That lie had to be told for the sake of ‘Martin Havelock’.
Harmesworth’s memory was working hard. ‘Of course, you did those pictures that caused such a stir at home! My fiancée was terribly impressed, especially by that large one showing the released captives sitting beside the Nile with a gunboat in the background. Its poignancy brought tears, she told me.’
‘Your fiancée clearly has a compassionate nature.’
‘She is now my wife,’ Harmesworth revealed with a grin. ‘Her ship docked last month and we married a week later.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Vere, thinking of Sir Gilliard’s tale of regimental marriages in China. He should have had this man as his heir.
‘Have you plans for luncheon?’ Harmesworth asked. ‘If not, be our guest. I’m off home now. It’s just a short walk away. Join me and we’ll have a chat as we go along.’ Thanking God for that fleeting encounter in Berber, Vere accepted the invitation and went out into the bright day knowing his path would be eased by this chance reunion.
‘The Fifty-seventh were at Ellinsdorp when war was declared,’ Harmesworth said as they reached the bottom of the steps. ‘The Boers moved so fast on Kimberley they were in danger of being encircled, so they were told to fall back and make a stand at Brookman’s Bridge. I suppose they’re still there waiting to be augmented by troops arriving almost daily. It’s a nightmare, Ashleigh.’ He grinned. ‘A worse nightmare than wondering if the steamer would arrive filled with Dervishes.’
Vere grinned back. ‘I also wondered that, at the time. If it had we would now be two piles of bleached bones.’
‘There appears to be no real plan of campaign yet,’ Harmesworth went on in more serious vein. ‘Our commanders have an astonishing attitude of “tomorrow will do”.’
‘More haste, less speed, perhaps,’ Vere suggested as they turned a corner leading to a line of grand houses with wrought-iron balconies.
‘We have no knowledge of the damned terrain, that’s half the problem. It’s impossible to estimate how long it will take troops to march from camp to camp. Local guides give distances in the number of days’ riding, which is scant assistance to heavily laden cavalry and even less to men on foot.’
‘What about the railway?’ asked Vere.
‘The Boers keep blowing it up. It has its limitations.’ Once again Vere was reminded of Sir Gilliard, who did not approve of trains. Yes, Harmesworth should have been his heir, without doubt.
‘They blow the track in a cutting, or where it runs close beneath the hills, then lie hidden from view so that we are at every disadvantage trying to repair it. It’s impossible to defend the whole damned line, and they dash from spot to spot on small strong horses. Your cousin is in the Fifty-seventh, you said? I don’t envy him and his fellow officers trying to lead cavalry in a war like this.’
Vere did not elaborate on details of his supposed cousin, but he heard the man’s comment with anxiety for Val. It would be his first experience of battle and the dice appeared to be loaded against him.
Harmesworth’s bride was young and pretty, with much common sense. Vere envied her husband his good fortune and wished he could also find a woman to captivate him so completely. During the light meal, Peter Harmesworth revealed that General Buller was setting up his headquarters at Frere, a small town twenty miles from Ladysmith, and suggested that it might be the best destination for someone seeking the centre of military activity. He promised to give Vere a docket for a seat on one of the troop trains, providing he travelled light and saw to his own equipment and accommodation. At the end of a very pleasant hour of conversation with a charming couple who treated him as an honoured friend, Felicity Harmesworth then disconcerted her departing guest.
‘Goodbye and good luck, Mr Ashleigh. I look forward to see
ing your work in The Illustrated Magazine, but I confess to being rather puzzled. You claim to have resigned your commission because you are an artist, yet you converse with Peter like a dedicated soldier. Are you quite certain that is not what you really are in your heart?’
*
Vere went up the line two days later on a troop train fully laden with Riflemen, horses and stores. Harmesworth’s permit allowed the holder to occupy a seat in a carriage reserved for officers, for which Vere was initially grateful. He felt sorry for troops packed into open wagons. Rolling stock was scarce as the Boers now prevented passage of trains in both directions through the major junction of Ladysmith. Equipment, horses and men had to be transported in goods-wagons shunted back and forth between the port and various garrisons. Officers were fortunate to find a normal passenger carriage attached to the train. Many had to travel like their men, but in less cramped conditions.
Taking a seat in a compartment with five junior officers, Vere was quickly dismissed by arrogant young men who had little time for a civilian in the employ of a popular magazine. Incompatibility was mutual, so Vere left them for the solitude and peace of an observation platform at the rear of the carriage.
The sense of excitement which had been subdued during preparations for the journey returned in full as Vere studied the passing scene. This was a spectacular country in all its aspects. The lushness of the coastal belt gave way to open, rolling terrain quite soon. Small settlements were scattered and comprised no more than several huts around a large farmhouse. Yet there was a grandeur in the uninhabited vastness, in high ridges and long valleys, and in meandering rivers which the railway crossed and re-crossed over a series of bridges. Vere understood Peter Harmesworth’s statement that it was impossible to defend the track. It would take an entire army to do it. Yet he saw how easily a few horsemen could destroy a bridge or section of line in the most vulnerable spot, and gain military advantage over troops crammed into open trucks which made them sitting targets for snipers. Even so, it was difficult to dwell on death and destruction in this present perfect peace.
A Distant Hero Page 11