‘I took that for granted,’ Vere told him with a smile. ‘He’s special, isn’t he?’
Just before eleven they all walked across to the track, the lion-coloured dog at their heels. Sudden constraint descended and Simon squatted to fondle his pet’s ears as if seeking something to do during the waiting. Vere smiled down at Kitty as he assured her that it would not be long before they were together again.
Her golden-brown eyes regarded him with a hint of teasing mixed with the frankness he so admired. ‘I still say I am the wrong woman for you. Your bride should be a spinster from your own world; a beautiful young creature of impeccable breeding.’
‘You’re quite wrong, dearest. I was once engaged to someone fitting that description.’ The sound of a whistle in the distance caused him to look back along the track, where a shimmering dark shape was now visible.
‘Why didn’t you marry her, Vere?’
He turned back, his thoughts on the days ahead. ‘She fell in love with my older brother.’
She said with swift sympathy, ‘How very painful for you … and for him, whether or not he returned her affection.’
The rails had begun to sing the advent of the train and he knew minutes were precious. ‘Vorne was killed in eighty-six. Annabel was entranced by nothing more than a heroic legend.’ He smiled to show how little this fact now affected him. ‘Perhaps she’ll find a living hero to adore as a result of this war.’
Kitty’s expression was now such that he longed to be able to hold her once more, demonstrate his love for her, but all he could do in this public place was to say, ‘We’ll be apart only for a short time. The war will be over in a matter of weeks. Then I’ll take you home.’
She appeared not to have heard his last words, for she asked almost in accusation. ‘You are your grandfather’s heir?’
‘To his great disappointment.’ As the train trundled inexorably nearer, conversation had to be surrendered for farewells. Vere called to the squatting boy, ‘Goodbye, Simon. Take care of Kimber until we meet up again soon.’ Gripping Kitty’s hands, he said with emotion, ‘You have made me into a giant taller than any other man in my family. I’ll explain that remark when you join me in Ladysmith, darling.’
He began to trot alongside the train watching for a handle to seize, then hauled himself on to the step of a truck laden with sacks of flour. When he looked back at Vrymanskop, Simon was waving madly but Kitty stood like a statue. Then she began to run towards him beside the train, her face pale and curiously tense. Her words reached him above the rattle of the wheels.
‘Don’t try to be a perfect warrior again. Not ever!’ He waved acknowledgement a split second before the jutting hillside took away all sight of her. He felt instantly bereft, but consoled himself with the thought of making her his wife very shortly. He could not guess that it would take three months and the loss of seven thousand men before Ladysmith was freed.
*
Val lay on his stomach beneath the meagre protection of a clump of thorn and studied the ridge through field-glasses. It was half a mile distant and higher by several hundred feet than the one he was on, almost bare of vegetation and greatly serrated. It was tremendously hot on that rocky ledge beneath midday sun. He had constantly to wipe from his eyes perspiration that dripped from beneath his pith helmet. He had been watching for more than fifteen minutes without spotting a giveaway glint of sun on a rifle or one brief glimpse of movement. Yet he knew the enemy must be there in force. It was the type of position favoured by the Boers who had used them to devastating effect over the past two months.
After several horrendous battles, the Kimberley relief column was no nearer to the besieged city. The same fate had befallen those who were attempting to reach Ladysmith. Everyone had stopped referring to ‘the farmer army’ for, although the enemy counted among its ranks many professional soldiers and officers from European armies who had been former foes of the British, no one any longer doubted the fighting skills of the Boers themselves.
In a curious way, this helped to banish Val’s sportsman’s reluctance to use his own skills against men he had believed were an unequal foe, but he had had no opportunity to do so yet. The 57th had been engaged in fruitless patrols and outlying picquet duties while their comrades-in-arms had been courageously obeying the orders of incompetent leaders in a vain attempt to reach Kimberley. The martial fire burning within Val almost consumed him; his yearning for a chance to earn a commission in the field was now scarcely containable.
Wiping his eyes once more with the back of his dust-covered hand, Val told himself Audley Pickering would pay for this present discomfort, along with every other score to be settled, when the opportunity arose. The patrol was out to look for small bands of Boers on the move and engage them in arms, if possible. They had seen none, so the foppish lieutenant had ordered his prime adversary to scale a precipitous shale-covered hillside to discover whether or not the distant ridge was manned, while he and the other troopers took a welcome rest within the shade of a large overhang. Val gave Pickering credit for enough sense to realize the Boers were unlikely to betray their presence by picking off a single man clearly visible from their position, but this hazardous and unnecessary reconnaissance was yet another thorn driven under his skin by an officer determined to break a sergeant who constantly cast him in the shade.
Enmity between Val and the subaltern with royal connections had been instant and mutual. Pickering had disliked the new member of the regiment because Trooper Havelock’s natural military flair far outshone his own. Val had resented his officer’s inadequacy to fill a rank he, himself, had been denied by Julia Grieves. With that envied rank to protect him, Pickering had embarked on a campaign of persecution until his victim had been unable to resist hitting back. That brief rebellion last year had robbed Val of the thrill of representing the 57th in a riding display and earned him instead twenty-eight days in detention. When released, Val’s determination on revenge had governed his refusal of the offer to transfer to another squadron away from Pickering. But the incident had increased the troopers’ championship of Martin Havelock and deepened their united hatred of Pickering — a dangerous juxtaposition in time of war.
The monocled subaltern now had less opportunity openly to punish a sergeant, so he used more subtle means such as this today. Little did the man realize that his constant efforts to expose Val to danger were actually enhancing his chances of putting himself on the list of the regiment’s officers — a goal so tantalizingly out of reach due to lack of participation in all-out combat. When Val was on equal footing with Pickering he would be in a position to deal the fop a blow from which he would never recover. That desire was almost as strong as the one to make Sir Gilliard accept his true worth as a member of the family.
After final fruitless study of the ridge, Val wriggled backwards from beneath the thorn bush to start his descent. His neck prickled with apprehension as he snaked across an exposed stretch, sending stones rattling down the sheer north face. His brain told him he was safe; his body tensed in readiness for the pain of bullets entering his flesh. When he reached the gentler slope up which he had climbed he breathed more easily, confidant of seeing Christmas Day dawn tomorrow. Fresh doubts of that arose during his downward progress, however. He lost his footing and slid some yards before seizing a handhold that steadied him until his boots found purchase on some rocks. When it happened several times more his jaw locked in determination. He would not give Pickering the pleasure of seeing him break his neck. Going more carefully he frequently set lizards darting from their sunny spots on minute ledges, while the eternal aasvogels circled in the cloudless indigo above. A lone man spreadeagled on a baking, barren hillside suggested a future meal to these scavengers of the veld. A harsh, relentless country this!
The troopers made no secret of their relief when their sergeant appeared around the curve of the hill, dishevelled and covered in a fine film of dust. Pickering merely got to his feet and drawled, ‘Well, what have you to report?�
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Val studied the man’s thin features adorned by a drooping, greasy brown moustache and hoped dislike showed in his expression while saying in confident tones, ‘Not a sign of them … but they’re there.’
The familiar sneer curled thin lips. ‘You can see through rocks, can you?’ Conscious of a ring of sunburned faces watching this confrontation between himself and a man universally hated by the rank and file, Val used his best tactic on these occasions. He smiled. ‘In a manner of speaking … sir.’ Pickering rose to the bait. ‘I do not require “a manner of speaking”, man. I want facts.’ Although it was cooler beneath the shade of the overhang, Val longed for a drink. Dust clung to his damp face and lined his throat, so he reluctantly decided to cut the business short.
‘The facts are that the ridge is a facsimile of those used by the enemy in every engagement so far. It provides perfect cover while commanding the approaches to the nek in both directions. This is the route we must use to regain Kimberley, so my instinct tells me the Boers have to be there in force.’
‘Yet you saw no evidence of them?’
‘They made sure of that.’
The subaltern’s pale eyes showed momentary satisfaction. ‘Your comment suggests that you knew they were aware of your presence. My orders were to make a secret reconnaissance.’
Val smiled again. ‘That was impossible, I’m afraid. If you had come up there, sir, you would have seen the lack of cover. From that ridge they would easily have witnessed our approach this morning and, once we move out from beneath this overhang, it will equally be possible for them to watch our departure.’ He walked to his horse where the water bottle hung over the pommel. ‘I’m sure you share my view that we’ll be safe enough. They’ll not risk confirming our suspicions of their presence until an army of us is about to march through the nek. It’s the way they fight.’
He unscrewed the stopper and drank thirstily, before pouring water into the palm of one hand to dash over his face. It felt so good he yearned for the shower he would enjoy on reaching camp. The sergeants had erected an ingenious mechanical douche which was immensely popular, particularly with those returning from patrols such as this.
Pickering’s insubstantial voice was soon lost in the vastness of the approaches to the nek as he gave the order to mount and return to camp. The troopers glanced questioningly at Val, but he smiled and nodded to reassure them that they were safe enough as he swung into the saddle. Although the subaltern was visibly apprehensive as he quitted the protection of the jutting rock, the men trusted their sergeant’s judgement and rode in column behind him with every confidence. Val reflected fleetingly that he could have murdered Pickering a moment ago, and every man of them would have supported a tale of their officer being shot by an enemy sniper. Killing was too kind a fate, however. Val would not be happy with anything less than the total public humiliation of his enemy at his own hands — something completely foreign to his nature. But twenty-eight days behind bars had scarred him deeply.
They left the area unmolested, only the ring of hooves on stony ground and the occasional cry of circling vultures breaking the somnolent silence of that sweltering afternoon. It would take them three hours to reach the Modder River camp, where a huge force sat demoralized after two disastrous battles that had decimated their ranks. At Christmastime men were melancholy enough away from home and loved ones, but at this last holy festival of the nineteenth century they were further saddened by the loss of comrades whose graves stood as a constant reminder in row upon row of crosses against the bright horizon. There had been no real victory yet in this war against the Boers. It seemed inconceivable that what was regarded as one of the finest armies in the world should have been outwitted and out-manoeuvred so frequently. The British public was apparently up in arms; the Government desperate to avert a defeat leading to the possible loss of South Africa from the empire. Other great nations were watching in the manner of aasvogels, ready to swoop in at the kill and seize this rich land.
Any army fighting abroad must be at a certain disadvantage against those men of the country, and much had been made of the awesome terrain, the heat and the scarcity of water, the lack of maps, the poor Intelligence and the un-acclimatized horses. However, every soldier who had seen battle here knew the British troops had faced these obstacles and triumphed in spite of them. Around camp fires, in tents, in hospital beds and everywhere several men were grouped together, it was muttered that those in command had caused the costly defeats through their incompetence. Some went so far as to condemn officers of all ranks. There had been tales of several ordering their men forward to certain death in a bid to gain laurels for themselves, but there were as many stories of their immense personal courage under fire to rescue their troops. There were good and bad officers in every regiment, as A Troop were well aware. Val dreaded the moment when Audley Pickering was faced with a life or death decision. Fortunately, the other troop officers were efficient, responsible men he would back to the hilt in any fray.
They had not yet actually faced the enemy head on. The 57th had been kicking their heels at Brookman’s Bridge throughout November to prevent it being blown. Then they had been patrolling the area for sight of any large gatherings of commandos along that front. These had, instead, been marching further west to Modder River station. Called in to join the main column after its attempt to cross the river had resulted in a furious battle during which British troops were pinned down beneath a killing sun for an entire day — almost a carbon copy of the disaster at Colenso — the 57th were held as reserves during the subsequent debacle at Magersfontein.
Val had been detailed as a galloper during that desperate encounter — almost certainly at Pickering’s nomination, but with the full approval of Captain Wheeler. This duty undertaken by those known to be skilled horsemen was not an enviable one, in Val’s opinion. Carrying messages from one part of the battlefield to another at full gallop could be extremely hazardous. There was no opportunity to return fire as one rode flat out with a written order often issued too late or ignored by the recipient. Two gallopers had been shot before reaching their destination and the orders were never delivered.
On that unforgettable day Val had chosen Colonel Beecham’s stallion Riptide as his mount. Vivienne had been true to her promise to persuade her father to give the animal to A Troop, but Val had been spared the obligation of thanking her. It seemed that she and her mother had been unable after all to persuade Max Beecham to grant their wish to follow behind the army, which was as well since it had not advanced anywhere. The pair had instead gone to stay with friends in Kimberley, little guessing the fate about to befall the Diamond City. The 57th therefore had an additional incentive to lift the siege and free the wife and daughter of their popular colonel.
Taking Riptide from the lines to ride to Magersfontein, Val had fleetingly worried about the red-haired girl’s ordeal in Kimberley. When he had been in hospital recovering from burns after the stable fire last year, she had written him the most entertaining letters to keep up his spirits. If she would only stop trying to trap him into giving away his true identity he might more readily accept her friendship, for she could be reasonably pleasant when she chose and maybe she really led a lonely life as the colonel’s daughter. Yet instinct told him her interest in him was a danger. Not only was she determined to solve a mystery that could jeopardize his career, her penchant for using her status to tease him into uncomfortable, personal situations smacked too much of her cousin Julia.
Thinking now of his housemaster’s perverted wife as he rode along the desolate, undulating track, Val wondered how he could ever have been so great a fool. He had matured to manhood in the 57th and vowed never again to be degraded by the lure of a female body. Vivienne Beecham was unattractively thin and freckled, unlike Julia with her curves, huge eyes and shining nut-brown hair, but the girl nevertheless made no secret of her fascination with his strength and physique in the way her cousin had. In consequence, his every sense resisted her advanc
es, verbal and physical. The pleasure to be had with a woman was far outweighed by loss of pride, he had discovered. While he hoped Vivienne was not suffering in Kimberley, he would be more than happy if her experience led to her departure for England when the siege was lifted.
Back at the camp, Val doused himself with water that had been used by four others before hitching a towel around his waist to walk across to the tent he shared with Toby, who watched from a folding chair as he dressed in fresh shirt and breeches.
‘You have some impressive bruises,’ Toby commented. ‘Don’t tell me the Boers have run out of bullets and have taken to slings and stones.’
Val told him how the bruises had been inflicted during his descent of the hill, and expressed his reluctance to advance with the column through the nek he had studied from the ridge. ‘We haven’t a hope of getting to Kimberley by that route unless the Boers are driven from there,’ he said with a heavy sigh.
‘How would you suggest we do that?’
Val sank into their other chair and took up a mug of ale. ‘Pound the ridge with artillery for several days, then send a well-armed force through the nek under cover of darkness ready for an attack from both sides at dawn.’ Toby pursed his lips. ‘Might work.’
‘That’s the crux of all our problems out here. There’s no certainty of any tactic being successful.’ Val drank thirstily, then wiped froth from his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Here’s one certainty. It’s damn good ale.’
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Toby advised. ‘I heard from the R.S.M. that extra supplies have been sent up for Christmas, but there’ll be no more for a while now. A mistake at Tilbury resulted in crates of bullets being loaded aboard in place of comforts for we gallant lads.’ Val tilted his head back and closed eyes weary from the glare of sunlight on barren stony ground. ‘How careless! Whatever would we gallant lads want with bullets?’ After a moment, he added casually, ‘I could have easily put one through Pickering’s skull out there today.’
A Distant Hero Page 18