Along with this fresh initiative at the highest level would come massive reinforcements. Unfortunately, generals and troops had to travel to South Africa before a big push could be made. The weary, demoralized men already encamped there saw the delay as a welcome chance to recoup their strength. One did not. Val found it tremendously hard to accept that no advance would be made for several weeks yet. Urgency consumed him. An old general’s life was ticking away as he waited for that moment in battle which would put Valentine Martin Havelock back up there with other Ashleighs. Each passing day was one nearer to the introduction of horsemeat in Kimberley. Did no one but himself consider that?
8
THE KIMBERLEY RELIEF force sat tight for the whole of the first month of the twentieth century, and on into the second week of February. Lord Roberts would have no repeat of the slaughter prior to Christmas. He was determined to be prepared fully before he made the great push through to the Diamond City. This involved very thoroughly resting those who had already suffered the horrors of battle, and acclimatizing reinforcements straight from a cold, grey England. Even those from Australia, New Zealand and India needed a period of adjustment. It also involved gaining the reliable intelligence reports imperative for success. A great air balloon was brought to Modder River camp and this was launched almost every day, a pair of Royal Engineers armed with field glasses in the basket dangling below. In addition, an armoured train made frequent journeys down the track to the river. The men packed inside fired through the rifle slits at suspected Boer positions, but their rate of success was never apparent. The enemy were past masters at concealment.
The most consistent attempt to gain information on numbers and the positions of those defending the route through to Kimberley was through reconnaissance by cavalry patrols. They were given instructions to cover a wider area than before, flush out Boers, and chase them with the object of taking a prisoner or two who might be persuaded to give away valuable information. Day after day, the troopers left their infantry comrades resting in the shade whilst they rode in ever increasing temperatures across terrain on which grass was withering and shrubs wilting beneath the scorching sun. The Boers mostly played their famous trick of lying low, so that the weary, sweating cavalryman had the humiliating suspicion of being watched from just a short distance away by knowing men waiting for their perfect moment to kill. Sometimes, small groups of enemy horsemen were spotted in the distance and chase was given. They were always too fast and seemed to melt into the landscape before their pursuers’ aching eyes.
Patrols occasionally fell foul of a trap and lost men in a sudden hail of fire from a concealed donga, or from a low hill which gave no hint of being occupied. As January gave way to February, the cavalry regiments felt they were being used merely as human decoys to tempt the Boers into betraying their positions. They hated this brand of warfare and longed for the full-blooded charge which had gained them so many battle honours in other wars. In truth, the troopers and their officers sensed that these forays were making them look ineffectual and impotent in the eyes of their countrymen.
Throughout this period Val’s desire for action ruled him, making him edgy and intolerant to the point of inviting a warning from Felix Wheeler, his squadron captain. The officer fell in beside him as he rode through the lines one evening after another tiring patrol along the river bank earlier in the day, which had led to a confrontation between himself and Audley Pickering that had grown dangerously close to a military offence. Captain Wheeler was a good and popular officer, but he was also tired and dispirited which made him less amenable than usual.
‘I want a word with you, Sergeant Havelock,’ he said somewhat grimly, as his black gelding closed in on Val’s grey.
Val saluted. ‘If it’s about today’s patrol, sir, I sent Phipps to your tent with my report over an hour ago.’
‘It’s about a little matter I’m sure you’ve not mentioned in your report. Mr Pickering included it in his, however.’
Val’s mouth tightened. Trust that weak bastard to bleat about something between just the two of them — something they both knew would be settled only when one had removed the other from the scene for good. Val was damned if he would bleat about it, too, so he said nothing as they rode on between rows of tents where men were gathering up their tins ready to collect supper from the cookhouse.
‘I know you are an honest man, Havelock,’ Wheeler said heavily, ‘so I’d like to know if you have some personal problem. We have all noticed your shortness of temper and an unusual tendency to prefer your own company of late. The men need all the support and encouragement they can get right now, and you are unexpectedly letting them down. If you have a problem with your health, see the Surgeon. If you have worries of a different nature go to the Chaplain, or confide in me. I know you have no family, but there might be someone about whose safety you are concerned — someone in Kimberley, perhaps?’
To his fury Val felt his colour rise. Damn Wheeler! Damn Vivienne Beecham for making her friendship for him so obvious! But his captain was mistaken. It was not that girl’s fate but the condemnation of an entire besieged city which bothered him. And the slaughter of horses for human consumption. By the time they reached Kimberley there would not be a beast left alive, and marching through streets filled with starving, contemptuous people would be an empty triumph.
‘No, sir,’ he muttered.
‘Drop that mutinous expression, man. I’m not speaking as your senior officer, but as someone older and more experienced offering advice … if you want it.’ After riding in silence for a few yards, Wheeler added, ‘I continually ask the gods why they chose me to be your commander. You’ve been a thorn in my side since the day you joined the regiment and that damned pride of yours doesn’t make my job any easier.’ He sighed. ‘If you choose not to confide in me, for God’s sake get it off your chest to Sergeant Robbins. You share a tent and seem friendly enough.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wheeler sighed again. ‘You made it clear as a trooper that you’d not be happy until you gained command of this entire regiment. Colonel Beecham saw fit to give you swift promotion to sergeant, but you’ve a long way to go yet and must take on only the responsibility your rank demands. When Mr Pickering decides there is little point in pursuing the enemy during a patrol, your place is to accept his judgement. If you feel you must put forward an opinion, it should be done out of earshot of the men and in a calm, reasonable manner. Is that clear?’
Val continued to gaze ahead. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I sincerely hope it is, Sergeant, because you stand in danger of losing those stripes you were proud to earn unless you listen to sense.’ Wheeler reined in to give Val serious scrutiny. ‘I allowed you to remain with A Troop after that affair last year because you assured me that you would do your utmost to treat Mr Pickering with the respect you show other officers of this regiment. If I receive just one more complaint from him I’ll have you transferred, if not reduced in rank.’
Val had also reined in, and he fought pent-up anger and frustration while listening to this warning. Wheeler was making a rare gesture. Many would have transferred him as far from Pickering as possible after his detention last year, in spite of the fact that the little pipsqueak with royal connections had few friends among the commissioned ranks. Wheeler only ever heard one side of the story. He knew nothing of the vindictiveness Pickering used, or of the man’s faint-hearted approach to the patrols. This morning they had flushed out a small group of Boers who had been unwilling to stand and fight. Pickering had let them go, despite Val’s heated suggestion that they could be turned and trapped if the patrol split up and rode flat out. Such was his frustration, Val had very nearly overruled the subaltern and set off after the enemy. The men would have followed him, he knew. Had he done so not only would he now be in very serious trouble, Pickering would have scored again. Even Felix Wheeler’s tolerance would be exhausted, and Colonel Beecham would reconsider his promise to commission him as soon as possible. V
al was growing dangerously impatient for that moment, but it would never come unless he kept in sight the two things he most wanted: the rank of second-lieutenant and the complete downfall of Audley Pickering.
He looked across at Felix Wheeler now and said, ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’m letting the men down, sir. I think very highly of them.’
‘As they do of you … but it doesn’t help their present situation to have you questioning orders on which their lives might depend.’
‘It won’t happen again. Thank you, sir, you’ve been very decent about it.’
Wheeler gave a rueful smile. ‘I said you are a thorn in my side, but you’re such a likeable fellow I only feel the pain occasionally. How old are you, Havelock?’
‘Twenty-one next week, sir.’
‘Ah, well, you’ll grow wiser with age, I trust.’ He began to turn his horse in the direction of the officers’ lines. ‘Tell them to give you a party in the Mess if we’re still here then … and if you’re still a sergeant. Don’t be a fool and throw it all away. Life’s too short and uncertain in this game we’re playing.’
What was meant as sound advice only highlighted Val’s urgency to achieve his aims before he fell in the carnage certain to come.
*
Lord Roberts put into operation on Sunday February 11th his plan to relieve Kimberley with speed and guile. The cavalry regiments were formed into a ‘flying column’ with orders to fight their way through to the stricken city no later than Friday. False messages were sent out to suggest that the British force had decided to abandon Kimberley and instead march on Bloemfontein. To support these, orders were issued to all troops to move out and head south-east. Many truly believed the besieged city was to be left to its fate, but others with more military sense and confidence in ‘Bobs’, as Roberts was affectionately known, guessed he was playing a crafty hand.
Val was elated by positive action at last. He and Toby packed their gear telling each other they would be inside Kimberley when it was next used, for they had orders to proceed without transport carrying just essentials on their horses.
‘My word, I’ve never known anyone so keen to fight as you are, Martin,’ said Toby as he hooked the strap of his pith helmet beneath his chin and joined Val at the entrance to their tent. ‘That moody, truculent fellow I’ve shared quarters with for the past two months has been replaced by a firebrand.’ His eyes beneath the jutting khaki peak grew speculating. ‘I suppose your eagerness has nothing to do with our colonel’s daughter.’
Val treated him to a phrase from a trooper named Deadman, which he found particularly effective to counter awkward remarks. ‘Shut yer bloody gob!’
‘Ha! Touched on a raw spot have I?’ crowed his friend. ‘She wrote to you at Christmas — I couldn’t help seeing the signature at the bottom of the letter. Did you reply?’
As Val walked away, Toby fell in beside him totally unabashed. ‘You look for trouble, you do. First Pickering, who could have you shot for insubordination at time of war, and Miss Beecham who could make you emulate that artist you know just to prove how brave you are. Don’t be a fool and throw everything away because of them.’
That echo of Wheeler’s words prompted Val to say, ‘Whatever I do during the next few days will be for the sake of an old man who expects more from me than anyone else.’
‘Your grandfather?’
After hesitation, Val said, ‘Yes.’
‘In his bad books, are you?’
Walking between tents where men were preparing to depart on a journey many of them would never complete, where the sights and sounds stirred him as no others did, Val felt closer than he had ever been to this young man who respected his deception and had been a true and loyal friend. Because of that, he now confided in Toby.
‘I made an idiot of myself over a woman. He can’t forgive me. That’s why I have to destroy Pickering and take his place.’
‘He’s asking a hell of a lot of you.’
They were nearing the horse lines now. The smell of hay and warm hides filled Val’s nostrils, adding to his sense of anticipation. ‘No, he isn’t. He’s never asked of any of us more than he has achieved himself. If he dies before I’ve shown him I’m worth his regard … ’
The sentence was never finished because a groom accosted him to say that several troop horses were showing symptoms of ‘flu and should not be ridden. Some minutes elapsed before the two sergeants were mounted and ready to fall in with their men. Riding slowly side by side each of them took from their pockets envelopes, which they exchanged and put away. It was a ritual they followed each time one or the other took out a patrol. Toby’s envelope contained a letter to his parents and one or two small personal items; Val’s held short messages to Vere and Margaret. The friends would return their respective packets if they met up in Kimberley.
Once on the plain where the flying column was assembling, Val and Toby parted to ride towards their own troops.
‘Good luck,’ Toby murmured.
‘And you,’ said Val as they both veered.
‘Martin,’ the other called over his shoulder, ‘you only have to prove your worth to yourself, you know.’
Val ignored that. ‘See you in Kimberley … and Toby, stop reading the signatures on my letters. It could end a friendship.’
It was a splendid sight as around eight thousand men and horses, together with batteries of artillery, set off in full view and headed south away from Kimberley. Hooves beat the dry ground in a thunderous tattoo, the guns bounced over grassy hummocks with squeaks and rattles, and dust arose in an enormous cloud to coat everything moving beneath it.
Val looked at his companions and reflected that the regiment, nicknamed The Ghost Lancers, was presently living up to that description. It originated from an incident during the Peninsular war when the 57th, in their all-grey uniforms, emerged from the fog to take by surprise the encamped French who believed they must be apparitions. Right now they certainly resembled creatures from beyond the grave, their faces so thickly coated they were much the same shade as their khaki tunics, riding well-rested horses and with lance pennants fluttering in the breeze. He hoped the sight of them would demoralize the Boers as it had the French, but he hoped even more fervently that he would finally come face to face with them in combat.
That hope was not realized until three days later when, the deceptive manoeuvre completed, they had doubled back to the river, crossed it at a drift and shocked a large enemy force into hasty retreat leaving behind all but their guns. The food and forage was welcome after a very long march of twenty-seven miles, and so was the general order of a day’s rest prior to the final dash to Kimberley. Piquets nevertheless had to be posted, and patrols sent out to scour the surrounding terrain. At two p.m. Val went on one of these under the command of Giles Manning, a subaltern who could easily become a friend if rank could be forgotten, for they had a great deal in common. Perhaps Felix Wheeler had been diplomatic when arranging the patrols. Val preferred working with this efficient, sport-loving man only two years older than himself than with the vindictive Pickering, especially in a tense situation.
There had been constant firing since dawn, the Boers targeting them with a gun from distant hills. It proved more of a nuisance than a serious threat. More dangerous was the rifle fire from snipers who moved around before they could be flushed out by British cavalry. The prime objective of the patrols was to put these roving groups out of action before the next day’s march. One patrol had succeeded in capturing some enemy wagons, but the Boers themselves had fled. The rest reported failure, as usual.
Val commented on the fact as he trotted beside Giles Manning, screwing up his eyes against the blinding light. ‘Small wonder they sit laughing at us. They always take up a position in the path of the sun so that we have to ride in its glare. They’re off and away before we draw near enough to see them, much less charge.’
Giles nodded. ‘You can’t charge at the devils, however. The only way to get them with the lance is to
encircle them then close in. Guns are more useful, but we’ve not been trained to fire from the saddle so they have the advantage every time.’
‘What I’d give to trap a group of them and show what we can do with a lance,’ said Val bitterly.
They trotted in silence for a moment or two, then the officer said casually, ‘It’ll be rather different running it through a human body instead of a practice target, I expect. Can’t say I’d like to be on the receiving end.’
Without thinking, Val said, ‘My grandfather says you don’t consider anything but preventing the enemy from killing you first. It’s afterwards that the human element catches up to bother your sleep.’
His companion turned in surprise. ‘I thought you had no family.’
‘He … said that a long time ago. I was very young,’ Val said, hoping to cover up his mistake.
‘Aren’t you from farming stock?’
Val tried to laugh off the question. ‘He used to read about Napoleon and Waterloo, and then spoke as though he had been there himself. You know how old men are.’
‘I know how my grandfather is,’ Giles said with a grin. ‘One would imagine he personally set up the legal system in England. Oh … hallo, what’s that ahead?’
Their attention suddenly concentrated on a dark blob that became visible as they breasted a slight rise. Still dazzled by the sun, they halted and signalled the men to do the same. Giles took out his field glasses and studied the distance.
‘Seems to be a farmhouse — quite a modest affair. Take a look, Sergeant.’
Val focused the lenses on the far-off construction. It was certainly typical of the isolated farms in the area, but there were no grazing animals, no laundry hanging to dry, no sign of occupancy.
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