When the morning was well advanced, news that the line was again open was delivered. The troops raised a cheer and the engine driver set about getting up steam. The officers began wandering to the rear to take their seats, but Vere waited half-way between the hotel and the track hoping Kitty would appear to wave goodbye. Only when the burgher who ran the halt single-handedly emerged from his hut with flag in hand was Vere rewarded. He strode towards her thinking how good she looked in a gown of blue and white cambric, but his smile slowly faded when she drew forward a boy of around eight with hair as darkly red as her own.
‘Perhaps you’ll understand why Bill left as he did … and why it would be foolish of you to return,’ she said, as Vere halted a few feet from them.
He had no time to study the boy, or the implication of her words, because a whistle announced the train’s departure. Thrusting the rolled sketch into her hand, he said, ‘I shall be back, and it will be the wisest thing I’ve ever done.’
Turning to run for the step of the rear carriage, Vere hauled himself aboard as the train gathered momentum. Kitty did not wave, but she and her son watched intently until the carriage rattled around the base of one of the hills cutting off all sight of them.
6
BETWEEN FRERE AND Ladysmith lay wild, hilly terrain difficult to cross by an army burdened with the necessity to take with it food, ammunition, stores, accommodation, medical supplies, fodder, field kitchens, and a laundry, to say nothing of several hundred spare horses, and heavy guns requiring eight oxen to drag them at snails’ pace. If Ladysmith were to be relieved the terrain had to be crossed, however, with the added disadvantage of knowing enemies were in the hills determined to prevent the operation.
The road and the railway ran through the vital junction presently rendered helpless by siege. Both crossed the River Tugela at a small settlement called Colenso, a few miles from Frere. The Boers had blown the rail bridge at the end of November, after dispersing a small British force which had managed to escape being driven in to Ladysmith and trapped along with the garrison. That the Boers had then chosen to halt at Colenso, leaving these few thousand troops at liberty in the area, was seen by the British as lack of tactical soundness. They also chose to regard the enemy’s successful investment of three vital garrisons as beginner’s luck.
Even more heartening to the small force still at large was the arrival of almost twenty thousand reinforcements to form a relief column under the command of General Sir Redvers Buller. This much-decorated warrior had been awarded a V.C. in the war against the Zulus twenty-two years earlier, when Boers and British had been allies. Everyone, including Sir Redvers, believed he would enter Ladysmith within a week of assembling his troops into a marching column. A message to this effect was sent by heliograph and by carrier pigeon to the beleaguered garrison, whose commander then made plans for an attack from within in support of the advance. Soldiers who had come from autumn days in dark, gloomy barracks at home revelled in the sparkling warmth of the vast tented camp outside Frere. They provided an air of zestful confidence as they moved about the place in their new khaki uniforms, calling to each other in vigorous cheerful voices. If they knew dread of coming battle, they hid it well.
Vere arrived at Frere to find a variation on an original theme. Instead of desert sands, the familiar neat rows of tents stretched over a grassy plain surrounded by a succession of distant ridges hinting at an impenetrable barrier. There was no lost horizon here as there had been in the Sudan, no clusters of palms, no far-off caravans moving against a brassy sunset, no Nile to provide reluctant fascination. Yet the sounds, the aromas, the disciplined routine and the sight of men in khaki were so familiar, Vere sensed continuation of an experience he had been unable to surrender at Knightshill. It made him wonder uneasily if Felicity Harmesworth had been right in asking if he were not really a soldier at heart.
Contrary to Vere’s reservations he was welcomed by those he had come to paint. The Ashleigh name, and the fact that one of the generals at Frere was a close acquaintance of Sir Gilliard, made it easy for an ex-officer turned war artist to settle into the huge camp as an integral member. His tent was erected in the lines of a Fusilier regiment. He was made an honorary member of the Officers’ Mess, and he was looked after by a cheerful soldier who was also batman to Lieutenant Pickering — the younger grandson of Lord Gamier who was another acquaintance of Sir Gilliard.
Vere struck up an immediate friendship with Edward Pickering, an amiable, well-read man about his own age who occupied a tent facing his in the same lines. The two soon discovered the link between their respective grandparents, but more than a week passed before Vere learned of a second concerning their families. They were riding back from Frere station on a hot afternoon when the subject arose of cavalry finding hilly terrain difficult.
‘I never had the slightest inclination to race into battle with six hundred or so horsemen, striking and slashing with cold steel,’ confessed Edward heartily. ‘The most frightful mêlée ensues so that it appears possible for men to accidentally cut down some of their own number. No, that’s not for me, and I envy them even less out here. The charge at Elandslaagte soon after the start of the war is said to have been effective in that it instilled in the Boers a dread of the lance as a weapon, but cavalry are being issued with carbines now. More useful than steel when hills prevent a full-blooded charge, don’t you agree?’
‘I know little about mounted tactics,’ Vere said, ‘but my young … ’ He remembered just in time. ‘My cousin can quote even the most complicated of them. He’s out here with the Fifty-seventh.’
Edward’s lean face registered amusement. ‘By George, so is mine! Another happy coincidence, although I trust that your kinsman is a finer example of a military man than Cousin Audley. I regret to admit that the fellow is a nincompoop of the first order, who claims connections with minor royalty through his mama’s family. I believe it is true, but there is nothing in the least regal about Audley. The blue blood must have thinned disastrously in his veins.’ He laughed, then said, ‘He has never mentioned an Ashleigh in the Mess. Knowing his penchant for cultivating the acquaintance of anyone with even distant claims to fame or fortune, I cannot understand it.’
Vere regretted having mentioned Val’s regiment. It was an unfortunate coincidence, particularly as Audley Pickering was his young brother’s hated adversary. He hastened to find safer ground. ‘Do you know where the Fifty-seventh are now?’
‘Last week they were at Brookman’s Bridge on the Orange River, waiting for the main force to come up in the push to relieve Kimberley. They were fortunate to avoid being driven into the Diamond City and trapped during the first few days of war. Audley persists in sending me communiqués I have little wish to receive. It’s my fervent hope that a Boer will put a bullet in some part of his anatomy which requires shipping him home at the earliest moment.’
Vere laughed and pursued that topic. ‘I believe a number of high-born ladies have come out from England at their own expense, to assist friends who mean to turn their houses into convalescent homes for officers. If your cousin is a bachelor he might well meet his match before being shipped to England.’
‘Not he! No female of generosity and compassion would accept the responsibility of such a husband, and genteel ladies prepared to nurse the wounded must surely be of that ilk.’
‘Ministering angels? I wonder,’ mused Vere. ‘Could they instead, perhaps, be of my Aunt Maud’s mould with the desire to dominate any man at his most vulnerable? As it happens, I have instructions from my publisher to seek out these paragons of mercy when the chance arises and submit a series of sketches depicting them at work. Would you like me to send you a communiqué so that you can either avoid being wounded, or ensure that you are?’
Edward grinned as he reined in and prepared to dismount at the regimental horse-lines. ‘I have no wish to dally with the fair sex until I return to England. I’ve known too many fellows who found “the perfect partner” in some exotic for
eign posting only to see enchantment vanish on introducing the creature to home and family.’ He handed the reins to an orderly as Vere swung to the ground. ‘It’s a known fact that a fellow’s passions are too easily aroused in hot countries. I aim to keep mine cool, Vere.’ They fell in together to walk to their tents, Edward adding a caution. ‘Bear my words in mind when you seek out and sketch those ladies of compassion. An artist’s emotions are more easily inflamed than most, I’ve heard.’
During the interval prior to dinner, Vere sat at the entrance to his tent watching the surrounding hills change from grey-green to mauve. They reputedly contained enemy lookouts watching every movement of the troops encamped on this open plain. What were they thinking of as they watched the mass of white tents turn into a ghostly settlement in the paling light? Did some worry about the dangers facing a young brother? Did they gaze around at the awesome splendour of this land and wonder what their own destinies would be? Were some minds filled with recollections of a soft voice, a hesitant smile, eyes glowing in the candlelight and an unforgettable face?
In the ten days since leaving Vrymanskop, Kitty had never for long been out of Vere’s thoughts. The story she had told haunted the period before sleep overtook him each night. He was filled with admiration for her courage and longed to tell her so. She had had a hard life; one containing sadness and disappointments, with intermittent wealth. A life which had apparently offered little constant affection. She faced an uncertain future for herself and her son, abandoned by a man who had lacked the strength of character she possessed. In the face of many setbacks, Kitty had survived and triumphed, retaining her Brinley heritage of dignity and good taste while understanding her adopted country and its people with commendable insight.
Each day brought deeper appreciation of her qualities to strengthen Vere’s conviction that he had found the future mistress of Knightshill. Edward’s words about partners from abroad proving to be embarrassments when taken home did not deter him. There would certainly be initial disapproval from Sir Gilliard, and possibly from Charlotte, but Kitty would soon win the love and respect of everyone at Knightshill. In addition, her son would grow happy and strong in the gentle climate of Wiltshire, discovering the family security he had never known.
One aspect of his determination to make Kitty his wife constantly plagued Vere. Before Annabel had compared him with a legendary hero and found him wanting, he had been supremely content as heir apparent to a large country estate. The Sudan had changed him so that he was now uncertain of his true self. On his return to Wiltshire, his home had no longer provided all he sought from life. Revival of the military link had reduced his restlessness; he was at ease with men who travelled the world staring death in the face. When he took up crayons or brush he became alive with the desire to express himself through images that spoke more eloquently than words. Yet, since meeting a woman who advised him to forget her, his thoughts were forever imagining himself with her at that lovely old grey-stone house on a hill in England.
When he asked Kitty to make her future with him what kind of marriage would he be offering her? One in which she must emulate Ashleigh wives in spending years in that great mansion while her husband chased wars in all parts of the world, or one which required her to sit at home while her Bohemian husband was fêted by artisans and wealthy collectors in the cultural capitals of Europe? He was presently a mixture of soldier and painter, enjoying the best of two worlds, but at any time he could receive a summons to return to Knightshill as the new head of the Ashleigh family. He must decide who that man would be before asking Kitty to become his bride. As yet he did not know the answer.
The brooding dusk atmosphere of that plain surrounded by hills containing hostile men presently heightened his uncertainty. To counteract it he turned away from the scene outside, put a match to the wick of his lamp, and wrote a letter to Kitty. It contained nothing more romantic than an account of his life at Frere, but he concluded by stating his intention to travel to Vrymanskop as soon as conditions allowed. He enclosed a small drawing of the regimental goat in his tartan saddlecloth for the boy, then sealed and addressed it in the hope that it would eventually reach its destination. After that he rolled up his completed sketches, inserted them into a tube and addressed it to the bearded Boer manning The Illustrated Magazine’s Durban office. He thought it ironic to be sending his work to one Dutchman while waiting to attack the man’s brethren.
The waiting ended two days later. The Fusiliers were ordered to Chieveley to prepare an advance camp. The remainder of the force would arrive within forty-eight hours for an attack on Colenso, known to be held by an indeterminate number of Boers. Vere rode out with this forward brigade, sharing their relief from inactivity. But, once settled in their new position, there was little to do but wander the limits of the camp. To venture beyond the perimeter was to risk being shot at.
Vere kept himself busy sketching the scene. He did several good watercolours showing the hills stretching away in a formidable array of ridges, with the tiny settlement of Colenso nestling beside the river. Nothing could look more peaceful. The atmosphere was so wonderfully clear he could easily make out the typical tin-roofed buildings and the people walking between them. It was an ideal time for him to embark on a series of sketches around the camp before the big push began. Simple activities such as queuing to collect letters from home, cutting a comrade’s hair, teaching a dog to beg, and men telling yarns around a fire where danger could be lurking beyond the circle of light thrown by the flames; all these familiar things became invested with poignancy beneath his crayon. During these periods he was the complete artist.
When he joined the officers for dinner, Vere Ashleigh became as much a soldier as any one of them. The hush of pre-battle haunted him as it did his companions. He knew their tension, his throat was as dry as theirs, his eyes also strained to catch the flash of sun on rifles in the hills. Then, all at once, he would remember that he must remain behind when his companions went to meet the enemy, and his words to Sir Gilliard smote him. I shall endeavour to bring distinction to the Ashleigh name with the brush rather than with the sword. There’s no dishonour in that, surely. But was there not a touch of dishonour in an Ashleigh watching his fellows being slaughtered so that he could capture their ordeal on paper? It had not seemed so when he had risked his life alongside theirs in the Sudan. But now? This doubt augmented others besetting him while the waiting hours dragged passed.
Prior to the arrival of the major part of Buller’s force, the naval guns in the advance camp pounded the hills throughout daylight hours. The plain reverberated with deafening sound making conversation impossible until nightfall. In the blessed quietness of the second evening, the officers sat in a large tent and ate dinner by the yellow light of lamps. It was a scene familiar to someone who had been Second-Lieutenant Ashleigh until January of that year, and Vere listened with interest to speculations on the absence of return fire.
‘We’ve scared the Boers off,’ declared a young subaltern heartily. ‘They’re not prepared to take what we can deal out to them.’
‘Wait until they see the rest arrive tomorrow,’ said another. ‘The few brave ones who might still be up there will ride out damn quickly. I wager we’ll be in Ladysmith within a week.’
‘I have friends living there with a dashed pretty daughter,’ volunteered a third with a wink. ‘I have high hopes of being greeted as the conquering hero when I have fought my way through to her.’
Edward glanced at Vere who was sitting beside him. ‘I suppose you heard this brand of nonsense in your war, too.’
Disliking the inference that this was not his war, Vere said, ‘They may be right. We’ve been sitting targets here for all of thirty-six hours. If Boers are up in the hills, why haven’t we been attacked?’
‘Because they have more military sense than we give them credit for. Their spies must have told them we are simply a small advance force, so they’re holding their fire until the rest arrive. Then we shall discover
whether or not they have been scared off. My guess is that they have not.’ When Vere said nothing, his friend gave him a shrewd glance. ‘It must be unnerving being a sitting target and having no means of defending yourself. How do you cope with that?’
His friend had touched a sensitive spot. The familiar atmosphere of camaraderie, wine and cigar smoke led Vere impulsively to confess his doubts. ‘I think I possibly made an error of judgement at the start of this year.’
‘When you were faced with a choice between the army and art?’
‘I had the best of both worlds in the Sudan, and I could have had it still in China. I’m finding this very difficult, Edward. I may not be a typical Ashleigh, but I’m enough of one to feel there’s something rather shabby about being here to create pictures while you all get on with the fighting.’
‘Nonsense!’ Edward declared. ‘There are a vast number of men here to cook, and others to launder, while we get on with the fighting. You did your duty when a serving officer. Now you’re here to do something different. If you want my advice, you’ll seek out those ladies of mercy you’ve been instructed to sketch, and keep well away from battlefields.’
‘I’ve committed myself to accompanying you all the way to Ladysmith,’ said Vere heavily.
‘Then keep well to the rear, man, and you might arrive there whole. This business is going to be bloody, believe me.’ He nodded his sleek dark head at a rowdy group nearby. ‘They’re only talking so optimistically because they know it too.’
A Distant Hero Page 14