The tent flap opened to admit Felix Wheeler dressed for riding. ‘I hoped you would be awake,’ he greeted quietly. ‘How are you feeling, Sergeant?’
‘Splendid, sir,’ he croaked.
Wheeler’s mouth curved. ‘As if you would say otherwise! Your report will have to wait a while. Deadman gave me basic details of what occurred. He’s a good, loyal fellow.’
‘The best, sir. How are Mr Manning, Hodges, Greer and Parks?’
‘The last three are holding their own.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid Mr Manning’s chances are very slim.’
Val was upset. ‘He was first rate, sir. Led us in great style.’
‘I’m sure he did. First rule of warfare is to pick off the officers. That doubtful honour goes with the privilege of rank.’ He put on his pith helmet ready to go. ‘We’re off in a few minutes with every confidence of reaching Kimberley by nightfall. I’m sorry you’ll not witness that triumphant moment, but you handled yesterday’s engagement with very commendable qualities of leadership. I’m sure your action won’t go unrecognized by Colonel Beecham and the regiment.’ At the entrance he turned with a smile. ‘I might soon be rid of a thorn in my side. Good luck, young Havelock.’
9
VERE RODE INTO Ladysmith with the bulk of the relief column at the beginning of March 1900 and was deeply moved by evidence of the privations of a long siege. Constant shelling had reduced much of the town to ruins; the roads were broken by deep craters. The people who lined the streets as the troops rode in were not wildly rejoicing at the prospect of freedom. It had been too long in coming and too dearly bought. In the main they were pale, emaciated and withdrawn. Vere had seen the destitute in London but they had not touched him as deeply as these women and children now did.
The first three months of the twentieth century had been the longest he had ever known. During them his two selves had often conflicted, although there had been no repetition of his folly at Colenso. The martial instinct had enabled him to understand those around him and to sympathize with their anguish, frustrations and uncertainties during demoralizing days and nights so near and yet so far from Ladysmith. The soldier in him had shared those long, wearying marches across inhospitable terrain when muscles ached, throats grew parched and eyes burned from the glare of the sun; had shared freezing nights in bivouac beneath glittering stars knowing the hills ahead concealed an enemy who would bring about yet another setback. His warrior blood had raced through his veins when bugles sounded the advance; he had felt as one with exhausted, filthy, victorious men who finally gained command of a kopje at the end of a day. Over the tragedy of Spion Kop, bought with thousands of lives then surrendered again through mistaken orders, this artist had grieved as bitterly as anyone. The spirit of General Sir Gilliard Ashleigh’s heir had fought as hard as the next man to reach Ladysmith.
The artist in Vere had recorded those three months with insight and sensitivity. Not for him the usual patriotic representation of well-built, immaculate heroes winning the day on battlefields arranged to suit the balance of the subject matter. He showed the life of the soldier in stark reality. Vere Ashleigh’s paintings would never be hung on the walls of military messes, or on those of mansions of governors in far-flung outposts of the Empire. Sir Gilliard would never countenance them at Knightshill, but anyone who had ever taken part in the harsh unravelling of war would recognize and be mesmerized by pictures produced by a man with the pain of it in his soul, and honesty in his vision.
An Australian special correspondent had obtained from his newspaper in Sydney a contract for a series of Vere’s sketches featuring Commonwealth regiments within the relief force, and this prompted another from Delhi concerning Indian troops. The men in khaki had come to regard with friendship the civilian who had helped to drag in an ammunition wagon at Colenso, and they frequently sought to obtain one of his sketches to send home. Aside from his commissioned work, Vere painted a series of watercolours for himself — the record of an unforgettable period of his life which he hoped to pass on to his children.
This would be his last war. The Sudan had been terrible enough, but he had then been pursuing an identity by laying the ghost of a supposed hero. It had overridden the greater aspects of what he had done during those eight months. Here in South Africa he had witnessed the profound agony and endeavour of conflict, and this had swamped personal introspection. The long, desperate struggle to free Ladysmith had completed the change in him begun on African soil almost two years earlier. The soldier and the artist now lived in peace with each other so that Vere Ashleigh, gentleman of property and heir to Knightshill, could happily seek out his intended bride and take her home. He had told Sir Gilliard that he was already a man — without the assistance of the West Wiltshire Regiment — but that had been only partially true, he now realized. En route to Ladysmith he had acquired deeper understanding of his fellow man, greater appreciation of the span of human life against the enormity of creation, and his wisdom had gained additional dimensions. With Kitty beside him he could possibly become the giant Annabel had claimed he would never be.
The relief force camped on the plain beside the damaged garrison known as Tin Town because of its spread of tin-roofed huts. The troops were mostly gladdened by the prospect of a few weeks’ rest in a place where there were shops, entertainments and women. The residents quickly recovered their spirits and energy, delighted with the influx of khaki-clad heroes who had given them back their freedom. A few officers regretted General Buller’s long delay in Ladysmith, however. One of these was Edward Pickering, badly wounded on Spion Kop. He expressed his doubts when Vere called at the hospital several days after the town was freed.
‘This is no time to sit back on our heels, man. Roberts no sooner took Kimberley than he marched on towards Pretoria. He won’t stop there. We should also be chasing the enemy until he surrenders. While we relax indulging in morning calls and soirées, Johnny Boer is gleefully regrouping and occupying fresh hills which command the route to Johannesburg. Can’t Buller see that? Does he want a repeat of Colenso or Spion Kop?’
Vere accepted the chair offered by a smiling nurse and sat beside his friend. ‘Fretting is no aid to recovery, Edward. You’d do better to concentrate on the delightful young woman who has just walked off with a twinkle in her eye. Didn’t you once give the opinion that they must be ladies of great compassion and generosity to do such work?’
‘I also gave my opinion of forming an attachment to any female encountered on foreign soil,’ he growled in response. ‘Can you sit there and say you approve of Buller’s tactics?’
‘The men do need a rest.’
‘They need a new leader.’
Vere studied the man lying swathed in bandages who would be shipped home before long, his military career in doubt and long months as an invalid ahead. Edward Pickering’s fate, as much as anything, aided his own decision to go home. He made a blunt change of subject.
‘I am going to be married, as soon as I can arrange it.’
His friend’s lean face now gaunt from pain registered astonishment. ‘Good God, in three days! Don’t be a fool, you can’t possibly form an alliance with someone you have only just met. Ten to one she presently looks upon you as a hero, and adoration is a potent force, but don’t lose your wits like a schoolboy. Remember who you are; the position your wife will have to uphold. You must not surrender to an impulse like this! My dear fellow, do assure me that you have not yet made an offer to this young woman.’
Vere smiled. ‘I have, and she has done me the honour of accepting. No, don’t look so perturbed. The lady is not resident here. I have known her for some while, but my commitment to The Illustrated Magazine has delayed our marriage. It was my intention to send for her when we reached Ladysmith, never dreaming it would take three months. My work is completed; the war is more or less over. I shall now escort her to Durban then sail for England after the wedding.’
‘My word, you kept very quiet about all this,’ said Edward wearily. �
��You should have left me some kind of missive for your fiancée in the event of your death. A fine friend I should have been, unaware that a young creature’s heart was breaking and in need of comfort.’
‘As I said, I hadn’t reckoned on such a struggle to get here. I’m sorry you can’t be at my side for the marriage, but you must visit Knightshill as soon as you are able. You will then meet the exception to your belief that attachments made abroad will never survive at home. Kitty is a widow with a eight-year-old son of intelligence and charm. She by no means regards me as a hero, believe me, and I had to fight for her consent to become the future mistress of my family home.’ He smiled again at his memories of Vrymanskop. ‘Put away your visions of an adoring miss barely out of the schoolroom who has besieged me with her hero worship, Edward. My chosen bride is a lady of great determination and character. She will make previous Ashleigh wives appear pale by comparison. I cannot wait to see the effect she will have upon my irascible grandparent.’
Edward offered his hand with some difficulty. ‘Well, I wish you every happiness with your determined bride. Am I to believe from what you have told me that you have finally decided who you are?’
‘I have decided that I am an impossible mixture of soldier, painter and philosopher,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Acceptance of that truth enables me to take up my inheritance in contented fashion, knowing that I can indulge all three inclinations in limited manner while following the destiny laid upon me by the death of my brother.’ After a pause he asked, ‘What will you do Edward?’
‘I shall write my account of this damned mismanaged war and bombard newspapers with letters demanding a critical review of those who presently command the best soldiers in the world.’
Vere regarded him sadly. ‘Don’t grow into a man like my grandfather at your age. Your impassioned words will be ignored, you know. Human memory is short. We are now lauded at home as the conquering heroes, our humiliating reverses put aside. Will it be long before the Boers are again dubbed “the farmer army” and ridiculed for their effrontery in taking on Queen Victoria’s mighty legions?’
Edward’s eyes grew moist. ‘Someone needs to speak the truth, Vere. My men deserve that from me as the most I can do for them now. I shall miss them — miss the life I’ve wanted from the day I received my first toy soldier.’
‘I know.’ Vere leaned back in his chair. ‘I was an invalid from birth and, therefore, excused the passion for military status all true Ashleighs have. I was supremely contented running the estate and painting until a beautiful young woman I put upon a pedestal told me I was a pygmy among giants. I ran away to the Sudan in an endeavour to at least die in the right clothes. Instead, I discovered life. Coming here has deepened that discovery and made me realize that being regarded a pygmy by any number of people is unimportant if a man is a giant to himself.’ He slowly got to his feet and smiled down at the broken man. ‘Don’t cling to the belief that Edward Pickering cannot exist without a scarlet jacket. It may take a while, but you’ll discover life is full of glorious colour no matter what one is wearing.’
‘My God, it’s clear you’re a man in love,’ Edward said in mock disgust. ‘Heaven save me from the state.’
Vere chuckled. ‘I’ll remind you of that when you bring to Knightshill your radiant fiancée. I advise you to concentrate on the delightful art of dalliance and leave military tomfoolery to Cousin Audley.’
‘Ha! You have it right there. I received another of his infernal communiqués yesterday. To read it one would think he alone freed Kimberley. His assurance that he remained sound in wind and limb did not surprise me. He would have seen to it that danger and Audley Pickering remained well apart. To think that a fop like that will represent the family in wars to come!’
‘But you will have done more during your years of active service than he will achieve in a long career. He sees himself as a pygmy. Why else would he write you such pompous nonsense exaggerating his role in any engagement?’
Edward shook his head on the pillow in affectionate exasperation. ‘Go away, fellow! Methinks your philosophizing wearies me.’
Vere gripped his friend’s hand. ‘Contact me as soon as you reach England. I’ll bring my wife to meet you.’
‘You say you had to fight for her consent to become the future mistress of Knightshill. Knowing your way with words, I’ll wager it was a short fight,’ Edward replied with a smile. ‘Good luck, and every happiness.’
Vere halted at the foot of the bed. ‘One last piece of philosophy. Find yourself a bride and produce a few sons to represent the family in wars to come. A pleasanter pastime than writing your blistering account of this one — and you’re certain to excel the Awful Audley in that direction, also.’
Back in the dusty street, Vere paused to grow accustomed to the glare of the sun, his heart heavy. It did seem a tragedy maybe to rob one man of the active side of a profession he loved and did superbly well, while another remained untouched and incompetent within it. There was no news of Val. Communications between the two contingents had been difficult, but the communiqué from Audley indicated that letters were beginning to get through. Vere had thought most carefully about his next course of action. Although he had written frequently to Kitty, there had been no reply from her. If she had not received the packets he sent down on the train; if, as suspected, they had never been dropped off at Vrymanskop and now lay neglected in some mail office in Durban, she would surely be aware of the protracted campaign to reach Ladysmith and understand his long absence. His priority was to get down the line to her. Having done that it seemed more practical to continue to Durban, where he could book passages home.
His wish to meet up with his young brother was strong and he prayed Val was alive and whole. He would not leave South Africa until he was assured of that, but he was eager for Kitty, eager to place on her finger the ring that would legalize passion between them. He could not take time chasing the 57th around the Kimberley area before going to Vrymanskop. When they reached Durban he would do his utmost to make contact with Sergeant Havelock and persuade him to obtain leave for the marriage. At present, it was vital to secure his own affairs.
By now used to ‘jumping’ trains, Vere thought nothing of climbing aboard one leaving Ladysmith on the following evening prepared to throw his baggage off at Vrymanskop before leaping from it as it slowed around the bend circling the hamlet. He had obtained permits for Kitty and Simon to travel with him to Durban and he had sold his two horses along with the camp equipment rarely used on the march. Most nights had been spent in bivouac beneath the dark, looming hills. All he now carried with him were toilet articles, a spare set of drab clothes, a heavy cloak, a set of watercolours, some perfume miraculously displayed in a Ladysmith store, a kaleidoscope for Simon and a leather collar for Kimber. He would purchase everything they would all need when they reached Durban.
The carriage contained officers going to Durban on leave. This time Vere was welcome in their midst, and he enjoyed their company. They had all seen action since that initial journey which they had broken at Vrymanskop; battle was a great leveller. Soon after eleven, however, Val took his bag out to the platform where one of his companions was smoking a cigar.
‘Your destination near here, is it?’ he asked between puffs.
‘Should be,’ Vere responded, trying to make out the dark scene after the brightness of the carriage. ‘Difficult to recognize anything at night.’
‘Unless it shoots at you.’
‘No chance of that now,’ Vere countered with a smile. ‘Surrender must come within weeks, if not days. But I guess the country will never be the same. Bitterness lingers long after the treaties are signed.’
‘Pity,’ said the other man, exhaling smoke. ‘Stirring terrain. Once it has been fully developed it’ll not fall far short of paradise. If I were a Boer, I’d continue to fight for it.’ He tossed the cigar butt from the train and turned away. ‘Adieu, Ashleigh, and good luck.’
Nights were still cold. Ve
re shivered, uncertain whether it was due to the chill or anticipation of the meeting so long delayed. Kitty would have retired for the night, and he would be unable to resist the passion that must follow when she greeted him in her nightgown. At that thought the hardships, pain and tragedy of the past three months swamped him to increase his longing for physical release in its sweetest form.
Vrymanskop was still lit by a row of lamps in readiness for the last train to go through that day. A small bag containing mail was tossed from the luggage van as it slid past, after slowing around the long curve. The burgher was astonished when Vere first threw his own bag out, then jumped to the ground after it. In the act of retrieving the mail bag, the stout stationmaster stared wordlessly as Vere then snatched up his belongings and made off towards the hotel at a run.
The building was unlit. The main door was locked. Leaving his bag on the ground Vere ran around to the rear and began throwing earth at Kitty’s window. No lamp suddenly glowed within the room. He tried to waken her by this method for several minutes longer, but was unsuccessful. With impatience ruling him he ran back to the main door and began hammering on it in the hope of breaking through her sleep, or even alerting Simon. There was no light, no sound to suggest that anyone heard his tattoo. He paused wondering what to try, then became aware of another presence. The burgher clutching the mailbag was standing in the shadows, watching him.
‘It is closed,’ he told Vere in guttural English, staring in hostile manner.
‘I can see that,’ Vere said heatedly. ‘I’m attempting to awaken the proprietor to let me in.’
‘No one is staying there.’
‘Quite possibly, but I shall if I can only attract Mrs Munroe’s attention.’ He resumed his hammering on the door to no avail, then turned back to the man watching with continued hostility. ‘Have you a ladder anywhere?’
A Distant Hero Page 22