*
The battle for Colenso, a tiny settlement housing families whose simple lives were in no way concerned with the political issues being contested, was to begin before daylight on December 15th. Vere slept little that night, unable to forget Edward’s advice to keep well to the rear — advice never before given to an Ashleigh. His ancestors had traditionally gone into battle at the head of their men, and an inner voice repeatedly told him that was where he should be during the coming engagement.
In the early hours of the morning the sound of boots swishing across grass told Vere that men were on the move. He rolled from his camp bed and lifted the tent flap. Dark shadows bobbed for as far as the eye could see against the paler darkness of pre-dawn. Twenty thousand troops and half as many beasts were getting into their positions, ready for the sunrise.
A surge of fear-excitement took hold of Vere as he recalled being part of such a manoeuvre before his very first battle at Atbara. The urge to join these men was irresistible. Having lain on his bed in shirt and breeches, he pulled on boots and the drab jacket, then took up his slouch hat and made his way through the press of men to where his two horses were tethered with the regimental remounts. A groom swiftly saddled one — a sturdy grey gelding — and Vere mounted to join the moving battalions, the only unarmed man among them.
The tide of troops flowed ever onward, occasionally concertina-ing when front ranks unexpectedly halted, then surged forward again. All around Vere cigarettes glowed in the growing light, men coughed nervously and horses blew through their nostrils as they sensed the tension. His throat grew dry as he wondered what he was doing where he had no right to be, yet he knew he had to be there. The air was cold enough to set him shivering, or perhaps it was anticipation of battle. His Ashleigh blood was stirred by the sounds of tramping boots, the squeak of saddles, the groaning of laden wagons as infantry, cavalry and heavy guns moved into battle positions to await the dawn.
When it broke, Vere gazed around at the terrain that had slumbered beneath the sun for the past few days. It was now smothered with khaki dots in neat ranks facing the River Tugela. Away to the left the railway ran down a gentle slope to the blown bridge. Motionless on the track, steam drifting from its funnel in a thin spiral, stood an armoured train filled with troops ready to advance in defence of that flank. Even further off to the right Vere could make out masses of cavalry, positioned ready to storm the hill from which any Boer marksmen remaining there could pick off infantry attempting to cross the single ford giving access to the town below.
The Tugela ran between high banks which cut off all view of the water. Those banks, together with British ignorance of the present depth of the Tugela, made the ford the only probable means of successfully capturing Colenso. It was, therefore, essential for any enemy snipers on the hill to be captured or driven off. As Vere studied the waiting cavalry, his thoughts flew to his brother, and to Edward’s comments on the difficulties for mounted regiments in this country. Poor Val! Not for him — or for these poor devils — the advantage of a full-blooded charge at the enemy. Vere did not envy them their dangerous job of flushing out, with carbines rather than with the more usual cold steel, an enemy hiding among the rocks.
His gaze then travelled on to where a formidable army of artillery had been sited on several slight rises across the plain. To the rear was a long line of wagons. Some bore a red cross, some carried supplies of water, a few contained staple rations, but many more were laden with ammunition. The entire scene simultaneously stirred and sobered Vere. If the optimists were right, Colenso would be in British hands by noon. If they were wrong, and the Boers had not been driven away by the daily bombardment, these waiting men might soon face the bloodbath Edward predicted. Totally exposed to the surrounding high ground, they could be mown down without mercy when they rushed that river. Yet it had to be crossed to take Colenso.
With that thought in his mind, Vere jumped nervously as nearby artillery began to bombard the hills once more. Shells burst all along the ridges, sending up showers of red dust until the heights disappeared behind a pall of smoke and debris. The thunder of guns continued relentlessly until it seemed they must have blown the hills right away, and still there was no return fire. The troops sitting patiently on the ground began clapping each other on the shoulder with glee. The Boers must certainly have vanished overnight or they would be joining the battle now.
Knowing all too well that bombardment usually preceded a general advance, Vere’s heartbeat began to accelerate when it ceased to leave an unnerving silence across a morning already growing warm from early sunshine. The sudden stillness was quickly broken by a chorus of sharp commands. The khaki horde rose in a concerted movement, then set off across the sloping plain towards the river. Despite general confidence, the troops approached in textbook manner, making a succession of short advances, dropping to the ground between them for several watchful minutes, then rising to move on again.
Sweat sprang up on Vere’s brow as he watched ruler-straight ranks cover the ground unimpeded, the only sounds now being the orders of officers and N.C.O.s whose tense voices carried on the still air. He was there in spirit advancing with them. He shared their fearful eagerness, knew the unbearable tension and the tautness of every nerve as one waited for the first shot from an unseen enemy. Yet they flowed on towards the high banks they must scale to reach the river, and there was no opposition. The optimists were right. Colenso had been vacated.
The advance regiments were mere yards from the river when all hell suddenly broke loose, turning the morning into a deafening massacre. Heavy guns opened fire in the hills sending shells down one after the other into their midst. Vere’s blood grew cold as he watched the plain disintegrate into rising spirals of earth containing the bodies of men who had fallen into the deadly trap set for them. The ranks began to thin, then broke up, as troops fell like ninepins to leave huge gaps in the lines which nevertheless relentlessly rolled onward, urged on by those commanders left alive.
Most of these then fell as a hail of thunderous rifle fire suddenly descended on them from Boers hiding in the hills giving excellent views of the Tugela. Confusion replaced confidence. Those of the advance regiments who had reached the river and mounted the nearest bank were then met by concentrated fire of enemies hidden behind the rim. The Tugela became a complete deathtrap within minutes. Soldiers were falling as soon as they appeared at the top of the rise. Some pitched backwards into those following up the slope, causing further confusion. Many tumbled to drown in the river, others were mown down as they attempted to retrieve the wounded. A few survived long enough to reach the far bank, only to die from the bullets of snipers hiding in Colenso itself. Unable to assess the full danger, commanders of rear regiments continued to advance so that strategic retreat was impossible and the area approaching the Tugela became covered by a seething, bewildered mass of men under attack from all directions.
Sickened by this evidence of disaster, Vere turned away only to witness another on the right flank. Several big guns had been moved forward within range of the river, their teams being unaware that the new position was close to a concealed trench filled with Boers. Once they were in position, the hidden marksmen rose and opened fire. Gunners and horses dropped dead before a shell could be fired. Replacement teams galloped out only to join those sprawling lifeless beside the guns.
Vere watched with a sense of angry helplessness. It was clear the position was untenable, yet the cannon could not even be withdrawn while the enemy occupied that trench. Successive attempts to limber up and bring them to the rear failed, yet gallant men continued to try and paid the ultimate price. A lump formed in Vere’s throat as he thought of Vorne Ashleigh wrongly revered as a hero. The true heroes were dying here before his eyes.
As the day progressed it became intensely hot with a scorching clarity that enabled him to identify numerous further failures because of superior tactics by the Boers. The forward guns now stood in danger of falling into enemy hands, the fe
w artillerymen left alive sheltering in a donga, unable even to raise their heads without drawing rifle fire. To the far right the cavalry were being driven from the hill they desperately needed to take; driven in greatly depleted numbers. Infantry regiments were still pinned down on the lower slopes of the plain without water and shelter from the merciless sun. It was impossible to withdraw. To move at all meant certain death.
As Vere observed all this through eyes aching from the blinding sunlight and the irritation of cordite and smoke, a pain grew in his chest. To watch battle was far worse than taking part in it. In the Sudan all his senses had been in hiatus until the fighting had ceased. He had seen the outcome of aggression after it had happened. The full agony and glory being enacted before him now made each and every one of his senses suffer while an unwelcome feeling of shame that an Ashleigh should stand aside and do nothing rose to unbearable proportions.
There was a sudden rush of activity behind him and Vere turned to see a small group of sturdy, sun-browned men, dressed much as he was in drab coats and breeches, and with slouch hats. Without a doubt they were members of one of the English-speaking South African volunteer companies fighting the Boers. Their veld ponies were restive, rearing and sidling while their riders halted briefly in heated argument. Their leader, a huge swarthy man with a resonant voice, yelled at them above the noise of battle.
‘That wagon must be brought off, I tell you.’
‘It’s certain death, man,’ argued another giant. ‘Two teams have already fallen trying to dislodge it.’
‘He’s right,’ averred a third, wiping his wet face with his sleeve. ‘It’s more important to stay alive and fight another day.’
Their leader was furious. ‘If those Boer bastards get it they’ll use the stuff against us, and you won’t live until sundown today. How would you rather die, bravely or as a sitting duck? Get moving!’
The men turned and swept off across the plain, their beasts covering the ground with long strides. Before he had time to think, the martial side of Vere Ashleigh obeyed instinct. His gelding had been inactive for too long and moved off only slowly in pursuit, but it valiantly pounded the grass with accelerating speed as Vere urged it onwards. All sounds other than the thunder of galloping hooves and his own heartbeat faded. Images floated past him as if unreal and part of another world. Vere saw only the reality of those men he chased with the inbred urge to join them. When they swerved to fan out and surround a covered wagon tilting at a crazy angle on a small rock, Vere hauled on the reins to bring his gelding to a skidding halt near to where the bodies of other volunteers lay scattered after their abortive attempts to free the vehicle.
The leader leapt from his saddle shouting orders. ‘Cut the traces and drag the live beasts clear.’ He swung round and pointed to a hefty lad no older than sixteen. ‘Detach those two dead oxen as quickly as you can. We can’t do anything until they’re out of the way.’
The boy jumped to the ground and crossed to two animals which were now no more than bloody pulped flesh hanging from the crossbar of the yoke. After only brief hesitation Vere did the same, driven by a continuing undeniable instinct. The boy showed no surprise — there was no time for anything save the gory task in hand — when Vere embarked upon it as if acting in a bizarre kind of dream over which he had no control. The others were doing the same with four more oxen badly injured, while the two beasts left alive were unyoked and led aside. Still as if in a dream Vere worked fast, his hands growing slippery with ox blood, his clothes slowly becoming stained with it. Then, just as it was possible to swing the yokes free of the carcases, the boy beside him gave a terrible cry and keeled over to sprawl face down over one of them. Vere bent quickly to help him up, then froze as he saw a broad stripe of blood oozing through the tattered khaki jacket. The young, vital stranger was dead.
The dreamlike quality vanished; awareness returned to Vere with a deafening rush. The world around him was no longer silent. Guns were thundering in the hills, the rattle of musketry was everywhere. Horses were screaming in pain, dying men were crying with the anguish of their wounds and of defeat. Bugle calls echoed in every direction in a confusion of contradictory commands and the very ground beneath Vere’s feet shuddered from the force of continuous explosions. The peace-loving artist realized he was in the thick of battle. Only now did he hear the whine of shells passing overhead and recognize the whistle of bullets raining down upon them. Only now did he see that the wagon was laden with ammunition. Dear God, one shell finding its mark and they would all be blown sky high.
The swarthy madman, set on dragging off the wagon before it fell into the hands of the Boers, strode across with a set face to pick up the body and drape it across the lad’s own saddle. Then he stood beside Vere to seize the heavy yoke and help him to drag it clear of the carcases.
‘Soon as we can, we’ll harness up the horses and pull the wagon to level ground,’ he said, accepting Vere’s presence with no sense of surprise. In war, strangers replaced comrades as soon as they fell. ‘Get over there and help with the two ponies that are nervy. They’ll bolt if we don’t calm them down.’
Working alongside men who believed he was one of their number, Vere struggled under fire to help replace the useless oxen with their own horses. Sweating, breathing laboriously, incredibly tense and far too aware of the dangerous load within the wagon, he obeyed all orders until they were ready for the bid to shift the wagon. One horse had been slightly wounded in the neck, another was bleeding profusely where an ear had been shot away, but they were finally harnessed as a team with two oxen. They would be encouraged to drag the heavy wagon while four men — two of them extremely powerful — would try to prevent the vehicle from overturning as it came off the rock. It would be a tremendous feat if successful … and if they were not all blown up in the process.
Alongside three of the South Africans, Vere put his back against the wagon and braced his feet on the blood-stained ground as they all prepared to take incredible weight. I am the weakling of the Ashleigh family. I wonder if they are aware of that, he thought wildly, trying to forget the ammunition on the other side of the canvas cover at his back.
Heaving, straining, and nervously watching shells passing overhead, they all shuffled sideways as the animals began pulling the load to which they were harnessed. There was an ominous scraping sound as the rock scored the underside of the wagon, but it continued slowly to move forward while they all fought to keep it upright. Vere thought his back would break beneath the impossible burden, that his knees would surely fold, but the example of the rest kept him going in superhuman fashion.
When the wagon cleared the rock, the horses panicked and one slipped because the vehicle progressed with a rush into the rear beasts, who then cannoned forward into the pair in front. A few minutes had to be spent calming them for the next phase, then Vere and his companions moved behind the wagon to add their strength to the effort of getting the precious ammunition out of range of Boer shells. Their route lay uphill across ground covered with shell craters and the bodies of men who had believed Colenso was theirs for the taking.
Vere pushed on his outstretched arms, while his boots found purchase on the rough ground for each laboured step as the wagon rolled upwards towards safety. A few minutes later, one of his companions slid to the ground either dead or wounded. The remaining two closed up on Vere and they continued to push the tiny vulnerable arsenal with all their combined might.
It then became clear that the Boers had spotted what was happening. Shells began falling much nearer, and more frequently. The horses fought to free themselves of the yoke. They had not been trained for draught work and hated the restriction under such dangerous conditions. The man leading them yelled for assistance, and Vere was then left with only the massive, determined leader to help him push from the rear.
Those leading the curious team of oxen and frightened horses had to swerve to avoid craters, only to find another opening right ahead as shells continued to explode just off ta
rget. Progress was agonizingly slow as the sounds of heartbreaking defeat continued all around them. Vere began to believe they would never reach safety. He seemed to have been pushing or heaving for an eternity. Would he ever again see something other than the rear flap of a wagon, or his own dusty boots moving painfully one after the other? His elbows had surely locked and would never bend again; his knees would never straighten. His head was pounding, his eyes were sore and filled with dust. He was so exhausted he could surely go no further. A shell exploding just to his left so deafened him that the tumult of battle ceased. He was just comforting himself with the thought that he would be spared the thunder of the ammunition wagon exploding, and thus would end his life in blessed silence, when a roaring hurricane knocked him off his feet and he began falling into gathering darkness.
*
Vere lay gazing at stars faintly discernable in a sky which was starting to darken. He felt no pain, but the slightest movement of his head set everything whirling in sickening fashion. Men lay on stretchers all around him. Most of them also lay still and silent. Only the mortally wounded, and the young frightened ones, moaned softly as they waited for their names to be called by doctors in tents being used for emergency treatment or operations. Vere had no idea why he was there.
Orderlies constantly moved among the wounded. It was from their conversation that Vere learned the battle for Colenso had been a costly failure which had included much individual heroism, but many gross errors of judgement at the highest level. Guns had been left unspiked to fall into Boer hands after a number of valiant attempts had been made to bring them in. Among those killed beside the guns was the young son of Field Marshal Lord Roberts, a much revered commander whom, according to the medical orderlies, would have led them so wisely they would have been occupying Colenso tonight. Rumour had it that prisoners had been taken by the Boers, who had walked unmolested back to the places in which they had been hiding prior to the battle. It was impossible to guess their losses.
A Distant Hero Page 15