He handed the field glasses back. ‘They must have moved over the Transvaal border for safety, like many others.’
‘That makes it an ideal place for mobile riflemen,’ murmured Giles studying the farm again. ‘I’ll wager the Dutch owners left food enough for their military brethren.’
‘If they’re there they will have spotted us by now.’
‘Umm. It might well be empty.’
Val said nothing. He knew they could not return without searching the place, but the ground before it would leave them completely exposed as they approached.
‘Bit of a poser, eh?’ said Giles in a low tone the men would not hear.
Val nodded. ‘They’ll be expecting us to split and come up on each flank, yet if we made a head-on dash for it their sense of surprise wouldn’t last long enough. Either way we shall lose men.’ He looked the other in the eye. ‘Mr Pickering would suggest a strategic retreat.’
‘Would he!’ The subaltern was lost in thought for a moment or two. ‘Pity we couldn’t make a surprise approach from out of the sun — as our predecessors burst from the fog. They might be dazzled long enough for us to get amongst them.’
Val thought about that. ‘If we go back below this rise it might be possible to ride on beyond the farm, remaining out of sight. Then we could turn and rush them with the sun at our backs.’
‘It’s a long chance, man.’
‘It’s our best one, don’t you think? They might even be duped into thinking we had made a strategic retreat.’
‘Umm! That still might be the best course of action.’
Val replied heatedly. ‘If we find the rise peters out too soon, so that we’d be exposed before we pass the farm, we can think again. Let’s at least try it!’
Giles gave him a deliberate look. ‘I said retreat might be the best course of action; I did not advocate following it. Tell the men what we plan to do. Once we get below the rise we’ll take a rest. The sun’s going down. A delay will give us even greater advantage because it will be fully in their eyes by then.’
The troopers were eager finally to have a crack at the enemy and expressed their hope that the farmhouse was full of them.
‘The buggers ’as larfed at us too frequent,’ declared Jim Mudd, a likeable but somewhat slow member of the troop.
‘I’ll give ’em larf!’ growled the giant Deadman, whose life Val had saved during last year’s stable fire. ‘When I gets ’old of ’em there’ll be nuffink left ter bury.’
‘The Colonel wants prisoners, not crumbling remains,’ Val pointed out as he sat on the ground beside men with whom he had once shared a barrack room.
‘Orl right, Sarge, I’ll put a pair of ’em in me pocket and keep ’em reel nice so’s you kin dust ’em down and present ’em ter the Colonel when we gets back.’
Val grinned. ‘That’s very good of you, but you have Mr Manning’s permission to do what you wish with the rest. Isn’t that right, sir?’
Giles looked tense. He was unable to sit and join the banter which helped men to relax before action, and Val once more realized the penalty of entering a regiment as an officer without personal experience of life in the ranks. This pleasant, intelligent young man was forced to make a decision which could cost lives. His status kept him aloof from camaraderie which eased anxiety, and the lack of rapport made him uncomfortable.
‘I think we should move, Sergeant,’ he said in clipped tones. ‘If we wait much longer we’ll be riding back to camp in the dark.’
Val jumped to his feet. ‘Right, into the saddle, lads. You know the plan, but if Mr Manning thinks it won’t work we’ll try something else. No talking from now on. We want to surprise them if we can.’
They went at a gentle trot. Their plan initially rebounded because the lowering sun now so blinded them it was difficult to see ahead. Val cursed the fact. He was keyed up and eager. The gods had smiled on him today by sending him with Giles Manning, for Pickering would never have agreed to this. He was confident they would continue to smile. As if to echo that the higher ground curved away in the direction of the farm, making their advance easy. Giles cast Val a look and nodded his satisfaction. Val grinned back. Everything was going their way.
With the sun then on their right they were better able to see what lay ahead. The ground began to level about three hundred yards off, and they could only guess at how close they were to the farm. Giles halted them, dismounted, and snaked his way up the slope to peer cautiously over the rim of it. He slid down to say quietly to Val, ‘We’re presently more or less level with the building. Beyond it the ground is covered with tall rotting stubble impossible to ride through at speed. There’s still no sign of life.’
‘It must be deserted, sir. There’d be horses in evidence if anyone were there. How disappointing!’
Giles frowned. ‘Yes, indeed. We’ll still approach with the sun behind us to make certain. There might be provisions worth commandeering.’
After a swift discussion on tactics they then rode at a fast pace to where the rise petered out, wheeled sharply until their backs were turned to the reddening glare of the sun, and galloped for the farmhouse whose windows seemed almost to be on fire with the reflection of it. Val rode close at the subaltern’s heels, his gaze sweeping from side to side and they neared the area of stubble. The total peace of the place told him there was nothing to fear, yet instinct insisted that the tall rotting stalks could hide patient marksmen. His heartbeat accelerated, his nerves grew taut. Samson’s hoofbeats on the dry ground combined with the rest to create a thunder that must betray their approach to anyone unable to see more than a dark horde against the burning disc behind them. An awesome sight, he hoped.
They reached the stubble unhindered. The farm looked as it had throughout. Speed had to be sacrificed as the horses picked their way through tough stalks reaching to the top of the men’s boots. Although they weaved from side to side so as not to present too easy a target, such progress was unnerving. Val’s throat grew dry; his eyes ached from intense scrutiny of the scene. Doors and windows were all shut. No poultry roamed the yard between the house and a large barn. Where he would expect to see wood stacked there was none. The atmosphere was one of desertion.
The patrol rode into the yard and dismounted, carbines at the ready. There was no sound save that of their boots on the beaten earth. The men from a cool, green island home were now used to the wild majesty of this land they were in, but there was something particularly spine chilling in that silent isolation beneath a blood red sky. Val was immobilized by it.
Giles turned to him, his face running with perspiration, a muscle jumping at the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, no one here. Take some men and search the barn and outhouses. I’ll look inside the house. If there’s anything worth confiscating we’ll load it up and get going.’
Before anyone could move, a hinged door in the upper half of the barn crashed open and a hail of bullets rained on them. Those still on their feet dived for whatever shelter they could find and prepared to return fire, but the moment they ventured to take aim they were exposed to the enemy and paid the penalty. Val raced for the house and now flattened himself against a side wall, fighting for breath. Dear God, they had walked straight into a trap. How could they possibly survive to escape it?
From where he stood Val could see Deadman and two others crouching behind a crude forge. They dared not raise their heads above the stonework. Other members of the patrol must have found some kind of shelter, but they were outside Val’s range of vision and, presumably, equally impotent. As he tried to come to terms with the situation, Val heard moaning from the yard. Whoever was still alive out there would not be for much longer if the marksmen heard those moans. He risked a look around the corner. Bullets whistled past his face to bury themselves in the wall, making him hastily dodge back, but not before he had seen Giles Manning lying ten yards away, his face twisted in pain. An attempt to bring in the officer must be made, and it was his duty to do it. But how?
; While Val tried to think, he called softly, ‘Keep quiet! If they think you’re dead they’ll leave you alone.’ His message must have been heard because the moans ceased. Although Val knew the troopers were pinned down, the Boers had to be kept occupied while he ran out to attempt a rescue. Looking again at Deadman and those others behind the forge, he waved to attract their attention. Then he went through an elaborate series of gestures indicating that he wanted concerted covering fire while he ran out to the yard. Deadman nodded understanding, then repeated the gestures to others concealed out of Val’s vision. After a few minutes, Deadman signalled that all was ready, and the trio raised their carbines. Leaving his own on the ground, Val braced himself.
A nod at Deadman, a deep breath, and he shot out from a crouching start as if taking part in a race. The late afternoon quiet was shattered by rifle fire as the British troopers aimed at the opening in the loft, keeping the enemy from it long enough for Val to check other bodies before picking up Giles to carry him over his shoulders to the relative safety of the house. Yet again he was glad of the physique he had deliberately built up, for the subaltern was also a sturdy six-footer. With chest heaving, Val raised his hand to stop the firing, then set his burden on the ground. There was a hole in the man’s chest, and another in his abdomen. Both wounds were bleeding profusely. Much of it now stained Val’s tunic. Giles needed attention fast.
Taking the officer’s pistol from its holster, Val walked the length of the side wall and around to the rear of the house where he found a narrow door. He flung it open with a jerk, gun at the ready. The dim room was empty, but there was evidence on the table of a recent meal. Smouldering ash lay in the stove which was hot to his touch. A pitcher still contained water. Cautiously, he penetrated further: the house was deserted. It was mystifying. If the Boers had only split their number between the house and the barn, the patrol would now have been dead to a man. It suggested that they had been at least partially surprised.
It took Val little time to carry Giles inside, strip off his own bloodied tunic to stuff inside the other man’s then bind it tightly with his Sam Brown in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. The officer had passed out with the agony of being shifted, but he had to be left in the greater urgency of the situation. Val moved to look from a front window, then gave a cry as the glass was smashed by a bullet that entered his upper arm. All he had heard of the enemy’s brilliant marksmanship was being borne out here. Grunting with pain as he lay back against the wall, and too well aware of blood oozing from his wound, Val told himself their only hope was to wait for darkness. Yet night would also cover the enemy’s movements and they could get clean away. Next minute, a fresh burst of firing followed by an English oath uttered in panic sent determination flooding back. His brother Vorne had defied danger in the Sudan to take the slenderest chance. Where was his own Ashleigh pluck?
Wincing from the shooting fire in his left arm and shoulder, he tried to recall all the stories told by elderly warriors around the table at Knightshill. They could relate reminiscences of every campaign since Waterloo. Wiping his wet face with his sleeve he collected his wandering thoughts. One phrase had been oft repeated. We had to flush them out before we stood a fighting chance. Sliding down the wall to a sitting position, he racked his brains for a means of following this move. What chance did he have of making his enemies leave the barn and come into the open?
Into his fevered thoughts floated the scene as they had come through the rubble. These windows had reflected the sunset as if the house were afire within. Hope sprang. If Boers were regularly using this farm there should be fodder in the barn. Giles Manning carried matches in his pocket. All he must endeavour to do was cross to the barn unscathed. Struggling to his knees he risked a swift glance over the sill. Sinking back he faced facts. There was only one way to go from this building to the other, every foot within sight of the men in the loft. The idea had taken root, however, and he could not abandon it. With fire raging below, the Boers would have to jump out or descend the ladder he would cover until the others joined him with additional fire power.
Noticing with dismay how much blood he was losing Val considered his chances. If he failed to try, the troopers might all die at this remote farmhouse. If he made the attempt he might die. This in no way compared with Vorne’s sacrifice, but it was there waiting to be done and he was Ashleigh enough to risk doing it.
Deadman spotted him as soon as he emerged around the corner of the house. One of the troopers with him was now lying flat with an arm flung out as if to reach for the rifle blown from his hand. Any lingering doubts flew and Val again gestured for covering fire while he made a dash for the barn. Deadman signalled his wish to go for it, too, but Val made motions to suggest striking a match before indicating his hope to send the enemy leaping from the loft. The huge trooper’s rather ugly grin appeared as he nodded understanding, then passed on the information to those of his colleagues left alive around that yard.
Clutching Giles’ revolver, Val fixed his eyes on the lower door of the barn and raised his hand to show that he would now go. With the tattoo of shots filling his ears, Val left the comparative safety of the house. It was far removed from a rugby pitch, but his favourite sport at Chartfield had taught him speed and evasive tactics, so he used both now. Leaping bodies, he zig-zagged across that yard in Natal knowing his life, not a silver cup, was at stake this time. Something thudded against his pith helmet; something else rushed past his leg with an acute burning sensation. But he was almost there. He was there.
Bursting into the barn he pulled up short. This lower level was full of horses saddled and packed ready to leave. He then knew that the Boers were about to ride off when they were surprised by the patrol approaching out of the sun. It was why they had failed to take advantage of also manning the house. Gasping with pain and shortage of breath Val tried to count the beasts. It was difficult, but he guessed there must be around twenty-five men upstairs. A difficult decision then had to be made. His love of horses urged him to fling wide the door and drive them out before starting the fire; his military instincts told him their resultant panic at the sight of flames would dissuade the Boers to attempt escape down the loft ladder. He chose to compromise.
With pain dogging every step, he fought his way through the tightly packed beasts to reach piled straw beside the ladder, watching for any sign of a man at the top of it. Once there he had to steady himself before holding the box in his teeth to strike a match with an arm fast turning numb. Tossing it and several more amongst the straw he propped himself against the timber wall of the barn and pointed the revolver at the ladder.
The blaze grew quickly — too quickly. The ponies took fright and Val feared that he would be crushed by their shifting bodies. There was thumping overhead and shouts of alarm as smoke billowed upward. Gunfire continued outside, as Val tried desperately to cross back to the door when the foot of the ladder began to burn. No one would use it now. Coughing and choking he found his own escape blocked by the press of animals. Their squeals smote him, so he put fresh energy into fighting his way through by shouting instructions to calm them. He forgot they would be used to a language other than English.
Very soon the timbers above were ablaze and flames were creeping along the wall towards him. He remembered that other fire last year and how it had felt to burn. The memory overrode other pain to give him almost impossible strength. Retching, his eyes watering, his heart pumping, Val clawed at the warm hides surrounding him. He was not ready to die. There was so much still to be done.
Then, miraculously, cool air swept in when the doors opened ten feet away. The animals bolted to freedom knocking him against wood not yet eaten away by the flames. His path clear, Val stumbled towards his own freedom in a daze. A giant stood just outside watching him.
‘You daft sod!’ Deadman cried heatedly. ‘Yer should’ve let me come wiv yer. We did it tergevver before, din’ we?’
‘Thanks,’ rasped Val
‘You like bein’ burned?
’ the other challenged.
‘Shut yer bloody gob!’ Val returned in the man’s lingo.
Deadman grinned, then indicated two bearded men lashed together beside a rotting ox- wagon. ‘Saved two for yer, like I promised.’
The yard was littered with bodies, but Val was not yet able to take command. He barely had command of himself. Stumbling to the support of the farmhouse wall he uncorked his water bottle and drank thirstily. Then he gazed out across the stubble standing tall against the last few rays of the sun.
‘It’s a start, Grandfather,’ he said silently.
*
They arrived back in the dead of night, a sombre cavalcade of exhausted men led by a sergeant keeping upright in the saddle only because of a man called Vorne Ashleigh. Some troopers led horses with bodies draped across them, others had veld ponies in tow. Several of the captured animals were dragging a crude stretcher bearing wounded whose condition had worsened through rough travelling.
The outlying piquets challenged men looming from the darkness, then exclaimed in excitement when they saw evidence of some kind of engagement. Val hardly heard their comments. Loss of blood made him feel sick and giddy. His head appeared to be spinning. His left arm was now useless; his right thigh throbbed from the flesh wound inflicted during his dash to the barn. Every yard seemed a mile, but he was determined to bring in the patrol as its leader.
After handing over the dead and wounded Val prepared to report to Felix Wheeler, but the medical officer detained him.
‘You’re staying here, man. I’ll get word to Captain Wheeler. Sit yourself on one of those chairs until I’ve examined Mr Manning and these others.’ He signalled a young orderly. ‘Fetch Sergeant Havelock some tea, then cut off his shirt and breeches.’
Sometime during the next hour Val lost consciousness. When he came to he was in bed with bulky bandages swathing his shoulder, and more around his thigh. He still felt sick and giddy, thankful to lie quietly beneath the canvas roof. First light was dawning; an orderly dozed in a nearby chair. Val was too weary to think, yet there was a curious contentment within him as he lay between waking and sleeping.
A Distant Hero Page 21