‘Why didn’t you?’ asked his friend, with great interest.
‘We would all have been obliged to say a Boer was responsible, then he’d have been hailed as a hero who gave his life for Queen and country.’
‘Ah, of course. Don’t want that, do we?’ There was a pause before Toby added, ‘There are enemies enough without having them in our own ranks. Why don’t you transfer to another troop, Martin?’
‘He’d see it as moral victory,’ Val murmured, still resting his eyes. ‘I can take whatever he deals, until my moment comes. Whenever he attempts to humiliate me, I smile. He can’t cope with that and the situation rebounds on him, because the men back me to the hilt quite openly.’
‘Well, they would. You were one of them until a few months ago. I don’t understand this business with Pickering, though. You’re the easiest fellow to get on with; enormously popular throughout the regiment and more intelligent than most of us. Why are you so obsessed by hatred of the poor fool? Not because he put you behind bars for a month, surely. The punishment was justified, or Captain Wheeler would never have ordered it.’
Lost in recollection of that evening when he and Pickering had unreservedly expressed their contempt for each other before four junior officers, Val spoke without thinking.
‘He has what should be mine by right, and he abuses it. I’ll break him, as he’ll never succeed in breaking me, but I hope to God I manage it before half the troops are killed through his inadequacy.’
He was still away on the wings of vengeance, when Toby’s voice brought him back to earth. ‘I’ve always known, of course, that you’re not an orphaned stable-boy generously educated alongside his son by the owner of a large estate. That tale’s all right by me. You’re a damn good friend, especially in these times, and that’s all I care about. But when you were galloping back and forth through shot and shell at Magersfontein, it struck me that there must be someone somewhere who you’d like to have your things if you are killed.’ As Val sat up and looked across warily, Toby hastened to say, ‘Strictly between you and me. I don’t need to be told anything except an address.’
Val was caught unawares. He had no ready answer for a situation that had arisen from his oblique comment that he had every right to be an officer of this regiment. He gazed at the beefy, dark-haired young man who had given undemanding and loyal friendship from the day he had become a sergeant, and knew he owed Toby some explanation.
‘You receive letters,’ his friend continued almost apologetically, ‘so there are people at home who would … well, perhaps they’d appreciate some words from me if you go.’
‘I’m not going to go,’ Val murmured with an absent smile, casting around for the right words. Things had changed since he enlisted and claimed to have no next of kin. After Max Beecham had discovered his real identity and promised him a commission in the field if it became possible, Val had felt sufficiently confident to write to Margaret, little knowing that she had left Knightshill with Nicolardi. The letter had brought a reply from Vere instead, and they had been in correspondence ever since.
Margaret had written to him as soon as she was able, so he was in regular contact with his favourite sister. Now Charlotte had taken it into her head to write a friendly letter. The cloud of disgrace appeared no longer to hang over him; he was doing well as a sergeant. The only thing preventing open reconciliation with his family was his own signature on an enlistment paper swearing that everything on it was the truth. If he ever revealed that he was, in fact, Valentine Martin Havelock Ashleigh, he would be court martialled and kicked out of the regiment to earn further, more public, disgrace. Toby had just touched on the single blight to his sense of achievement and he had no idea how to respond to his friend’s offer.
It was impossible to nominate his grandfather as the person to be notified of his death in battle, yet Val felt it should be Sir Gilliard who first learned that he had, at least, died with honour. He had not replied to Charlotte’s letter, although he supposed he should. It was difficult to know what to write to a disapproving sister who had unexpectedly sent warm good wishes, and he had never been a keen correspondent. There was always so much else he would prefer to be engaged in rather than sucking the end of a pen while trying to think of words to fill an empty page. Vere was good with words. Val supposed his brother was the best person to be told if he became a casualty. Although he was attached to the Ladysmith relief column as a civilian, Vere would probably ride over to collect personal effects. At that dark thought Val realized he had nothing of any worth for Vere to collect. He had lived on his meagre wage since joining the 57th, so his possessions were few and basic. The several sporting trophies he had won were held by the regiment, with his two middle names engraved on their plinths in praise of a man who did not exist. His family would have to cherish those things he had left at Knightshill if he did not survive this war.
Toby was patiently waiting and Val knew a rush of friendship such as he had felt for no contemporary since Clive’s death at Chartfield. ‘You’re a good sort, Toby,’ he said quietly. ‘There is someone who would appreciate a note from you, if the worst happens. His name is Vere Ashleigh.’
‘Isn’t that the artist fellow you told me about … the one who went to the Sudan when a girl turned him down?’
‘Good Lord, I thought you were half asleep when I told you that,’ Val said in surprise.
‘Fooled you, then,’ Toby joked in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘I remember thinking he was yet another of us taken in by a glowing, innocent face hiding a heartless personality.’
Val thought of Julia and veered from the subject of female complexity. ‘He’s with Buller’s column. Don’t bother to send a package of my nondescript things; just give him the details of how it happened.’
Silence descended on them for a while, then Val said briskly, ‘For God’s sake stop looking so damned gloomy, you’re not going to bury me at sundown today … and before I “go”, I have to deal with Pickering.’ He forced a grin. ‘If he and I should happen to be mown down by the same Maxim, promise you’ll ensure that my grave is as far from his as possible.’
The subject of dying was not raised between them again, but it had stirred in Val memories that remained with him during that emotive Christmas Eve. Midnight services were conducted for those of all beliefs during a mutual ceasefire. The bands of every regiment massed to play familiar hymns and carols for the troops, who found comfort in singing lustily to beloved tunes from their homeland. As Val stood bareheaded beneath brilliant stars on a chilly plain near the river where men had agonized and perished in vain, his martial spirit gloried in the sight and sound of this army around him. Yet, when the padre began speaking of the country they were representing, his thoughts crossed the sea to the parish church of Dunstan St Mary where he had sat in the family pew with the others on every earlier Christmas Eve he could remember.
Ned always had carriages or sleighs waiting to take them up to Knightshill after the service. Sometimes there were stars overhead — never as bright as veld stars — but more often it rained or snowed, and they sat close together for warmth. On reaching home they enjoyed hot punch and spicy cakes around a log fire in the great hall, where Vere always erected one of the tall firs from the estate and decorated it with candles and sweetmeats. Earlier in the evening carolers from the village had traditionally come up on a cart to sing for family and staff before returning with gifts of produce from the home farm.
Christmas Day had always been happy and noisy in those early days before Philip Daulton became obsessed with teaching the heathen, and Vere had gone away to the Sudan thinking never to return. Timothy and Kate had wanted games. Val, whom they regarded more as a brother than their uncle, had chased them around in hunt the slipper, helped them with their puppet show and played spillikins with as much enjoyment as they. There had been other games in which his brothers and sisters had joined — oranges and lemons, blind man’s buff, bagatelle, musical chairs and Brother John.
Visions of Knightshill faded to return Val to the cold starlight of a camp near the Modder River, as he sadly acknowledged that his standards so far had been less than exemplary. He had committed adultery with his housemaster’s wife, been thrown out of Chartfield School, sworn false testimony on enlisting, and was the only Ashleigh ever to serve sentence behind bars in military detention.
The wave of reminiscences revived his unbearable yearning to earn forgiveness from the grandfather who had provided stability, and a pattern of behaviour to follow. Vorne had done it with great glory. Vere had defied his limitations to find his own brand of glory in the Sudan. Val knew he could never erase what he had done, but war gave him the chance to earn laurels so bright they would dim his past forever. Each day of inactivity here could bring news of Sir Gilliard’s death; each day denied Val the opportunity to prove himself a true Ashleigh. Every fruitless patrol left him open to the risk of death from the bullet of a hidden sniper. His stomach knotted at the thought of dying unsung before he had participated in real battle. When they were eventually ordered to advance through the nek on the way to Kimberley, he must seize any means to achieve distinction before he fell among the carnage that was sure to result.
Val and Toby turned in at one a.m. in reflective mood, their thoughts their own. In the morning they were both engaged in issuing Christmas luxuries to men who had lived rough, fought hard and gone without for three months. Tins containing chocolate and a greeting card from Queen Victoria were given to the rank and file, and there were cigarettes, tobacco, biscuits, cakes, socks, soap and ointment, much of which had been provided by titled women who had badgered their wealthy friends to subscribe to a fund handed over to a group of manufacturers for shipping goods to South Africa. Best of all were letters brought up the track which the Boers had not blown in deference to the holy festival.
Val was kept busy, with his fellow sergeants, serving Christmas dinner to men seated at trestle tables beneath a makeshift awning. There was a great deal of chaffing and ribaldry permissible on this day of the year between troopers and those who usually commanded respect, and Val gave as good as he got from those he knew and liked as former comrades. At such times, he was always aware that when he eventually gained the coveted commission, he would have more understanding of the men he commanded than did officers who had never suffered what they ordered others to do. Carrying plates and tankards back and forth in the blazing sun, he felt happy and confident again. Midnight’s regrets had fled with daylight. This life fulfilled him whichever insignia he wore on his tunic. He was principally a cavalryman on active service and would play his designated role as any Ashleigh would.
With his horse to tend it was not until late afternoon that Val had time to line up for the privilege of a tepid shower, then relaxing with a tankard of ale prior to dressing for the Sergeants’ Mess special dinner. Toby had collected their mail from the mess tent and was engrossed in reading a batch of letters from his family. Pleased to see that there was one for him from Margaret in South America, and another from Vere, Val first took up a third envelope bearing an official stamp like the one on his brother’s. Who else would write to him from the war zones? Slitting it open he took out several large sheets of coarse paper covered in closely spaced lines of handwriting he did not instantly recognize. When he began to read, a sense of mild shock touched him.
Dearest Havelock,
We are each allowed to send one Christmas letter out with a civilian galloper, who has been granted safe passage through to your camp. Mama has written to Father, which leaves me free to do as I please. We were told of the serious reverses you have suffered, but no casualty lists are available to us. I pray each day for your safety and I refuse to believe my words have gone unheeded. I know you are certain to do something very brave, because you are that kind of person, but please promise to be still with the 57th when they march into Kimberley.
Shells come over almost every day. Many of them fail to explode, or they land harmlessly in open areas. It’s the noise they make as they pass overhead which is unnerving those who have little faith in survival. Our troops here are splendid. They make constant sorties beyond the perimeter barricades to harry the enemy, even though they have little sleep and their food is strictly rationed. Poor Colonel Kekewich is trying to command his men despite gross interference from Mr Rhodes. It really is a ludicrous situation — or it would be if it were not so dangerous.
Vivienne went on to describe how Cecil Rhodes, who considered Kimberley to be under his personal supervision, overrode the military commander’s orders and sent his own signals to the relieving troops giving contrary information to that supplied by Colonel Kekewich. There appeared to be a war within a war inside the city. Val understood very well the feelings the military man must hold for he likened it to his own reactions to Audley Pickering. The ineffective lieutenant had influential connections, as had Rhodes, and as little understanding of military tactics as that great empire builder.
He read the rest of the letter with great interest, finding Vivienne’s words unexpectedly affecting. Although she wrote of life within the besieged city in plain terms, the lack of her normal flippant attitude told him more of the strain she and other residents were under than did the words on her page. Their hopes of relief had been dashed several times, and they waited daily for the news that would give the signal to their own troops to set up a counterattack from within. The guns of the relieving force had sounded so close during the disastrous battles, it had been easy to believe that they were almost at the city gates. Vivienne then mentioned plans to kill horses for food, and the storm of protest they had raised.
I know what feelings this desperate measure will arouse in you, so please, dear Havelock, tell them to battle through to us very, very soon.
After outlining to him Cecil Rhodes’ contingency plans to lower women and children into the diamond mines if the Boers launched a bombardment prior to rushing the city before it was relieved, Vivienne ended her long letter with the fact that the galloper would be given safe passage back to Kimberley on New Year’s Eve.
A new year; a new century! What do you think it will bring us? One thing I have learned here is that there are many ways of looking at life, and it is a person’s character rather than their circumstances one should consider important. I hope you agree, and I look forward to the return of the galloper with replies to the letters we have sent out.
Your very special friend, Vivienne
The letter affected Val strongly. He was appalled at the prospect of horses being slaughtered and eaten all because this huge force around him had failed to win its way through after two months of fighting. He took on the guilt of an entire army as he re-read the girl’s words, and guessed at the condemnation from suffering civilians and troops who could not know of the wholesale sacrifices being made in the attempt to reach them. He longed to vindicate the profession he loved, defend his own regiment, erase the disparagement of those within the beleaguered city. For once, he was quiet and unresponsive around the dinner table, and no amount of camaraderie put him in the mood to enjoy the excellent Christmas dinner served up that evening. When he finally treated several of his irrepr
essible fellow sergeants to an uncharacteristic outburst of temper, they wisely left him alone.
He slept badly, dreaming of dead horses being torn apart by starving women and children. Morning found him irritable and impatient of those set on continuing their festivities between the monotonous round of duties. During the pressing heat of early afternoon Val was unable to rest on his camp bed and finally rolled from it to find paper, pen and ink. After writing ‘Dear Miss Beecham’, he sucked the end of his pen for some while wondering how to continue. Then he wrote swiftly and impulsively.
Activity is building here daily, so you can be certain your situation will be eased very soon. Although our ranks have been greatly decimated, we are full of pluck and determination. I’m sure you are confident of that and know we are doing everything possible to reach Kimberley. Although the regiment has only so far been engaged in patrol duties, we’re all standing ready for the big push in a day or two. Yes, a new century sounds very grand, and we’ll celebrate it by marching in triumph through the streets of Kimberley. Don’t let anyone kill the chestnut gelding for meat. He’s too fine a beast.
Martin Havelock
A few hours after the galloper had departed for Kimberley with the bag of letters, news arrived from Headquarters. Due to the costly failure of both relief columns to lift the sieges of Ladysmith and Kimberley, two new generals had been appointed to take over command. Lords Kitchener and Roberts were highly experienced, thorough and revered by the troops for their military achievements. Kitchener had, of course, recently reclaimed the Sudan and Khartoum in triumphant manner. Roberts, whose dashing young son had been killed in a heroic attempt to rescue the guns at Colenso, had earned acclaim with his astonishing march from Kabul to Kandahar against the Afghans. The greatest of their virtues was that they were brilliantly successful leaders.
A Distant Hero Page 19