Val strode towards the man lounging against a wall of the house watching the scene with sadistic indolence. ‘Did you order this?’ he demanded.
Pickering’s thin features, made more disdainful by a drooping, greasy brown moustache, looked Val over. ‘I thought you were hiding in the barn.’
‘Stop them, for God’s sake! We can take the cattle with us.’
‘You may eat animals fattened on fodder stolen from our camps at the cost of British lives. I don’t.’
‘Then kill them humanely. This is … obscene,’ cried the young man from Knightshill estate, where cattle were treated with care and respect.
‘And rob the men of their hour of revenge?’
‘On whom?’ he shouted. ‘A few chickens and cows?’
Pickering’s lip curled. ‘I always knew you had the courage of a farmhand. Go inside and torch the house if you’ve no stomach for this.’
Breathing hard, Val knew there was no way he could stop what this man had instigated, but he could control the next step. ‘There are two ponies in the barn. Someone must be in the house.’
‘They’ll soon appear when they start to roast.’
‘You’re a bastard, Pickering,’ Val said in disgust. ‘I’m not setting this place alight until I’ve checked each room.’
Pickering followed as Val went inside, revolver at the ready. The kitchen was empty, although dishes and plates piled by the sink showed that a number of people had eaten there a short while ago. It was a pretty room, touched by the hand of a woman with skill in her fingers and home-making in her heart. Bright patchwork cushions enlivened chairs lovingly polished. An intricate rag rug lay before the stove where a kettle stood with steam streaming from its spout. Yellow curtains were confined by chintz bands with frilled edges. Lamps were shaded by matching yellow. This was a family home.
Swallowing his reluctance, Val went from room to room, certain he would find the woman who had put her all into this house many miles from any other. The place appeared empty. As he stood uncertainly in a room containing a wooden crib, a small bed and some toys, he detected the acrid smell of smoke. Running back to the kitchen he found Pickering dragging the rag rug from the stove to fling it, alight at one end, on to the settee covered with cushions. They were soon blazing just beneath the hems of curtains.
Pickering looked across at Val. ‘I shall report that you refused my direct order to do this.’
‘Report what you bloody well like,’ Val snapped. ‘It won’t convince Colonel Beecham that you’re of any value to the regiment.’
Pickering turned ugly as he swept the dishes to smash on the floor in a useless gesture of destruction. ‘The last time you defied me you spent a month locked up like a common criminal.’
‘I was in better company there than I am now,’ Val retorted with contempt, as furniture began to blacken. ‘You’re very brave against china and furniture, aren’t you?’
‘We’ll see how brave you are when I break you, Havelock.’
‘I’ll break you first, I swear.’
‘With what; the help of your fellow stable-lads?’
Across the room fast filling with smoke, Val said, ‘Without anyone’s help. The pleasure will be mine alone.’
He walked across to the door glad to quit the sight of a room starting to blaze. Soon, flames would engulf that room where toys lay scattered. The slaughter continued outside, but beside the corner of the house Toby stood, pale and retching. Val stepped over to him.
‘You, too? Perhaps you now understand my hatred of the man.’
His erstwhile friend glanced up balefully, ‘I always have understood. I simply didn’t think you should risk your career over the bugger.’
‘What’s amiss with you, Sergeant?’ demanded the man in question as he reached them. ‘Why aren’t you with your troops?’
‘A touch of the sun, sir,’ mumbled Toby, and walked away with as much dignity as he could muster.
‘One of your ranker chums, as I recall. No stomach either.’
Val had no chance to counter that because, from the corner of his eye, he spotted two figures appearing from the back of the house and ordered them to halt as he raised his revolver instinctively. When he lowered it he heard Pickering cock his ready to fire.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘It’s a woman.’
‘It’s a Boer.’
As Pickering’s finger tightened, Val brought his clenched fist down hard on the other’s hand. The weapon fired into the ground before falling at his own feet. Putting his right boot over it, Val said heavily, ‘I’ve just thrown away the chance I’ve been waiting for. There’s a big enough outcry over Boer women and children dying in our camps. If I’d let you shoot them in cold blood you’d have been finished, you bastard. Be thankful I’m not prepared to pay for what I want with their lives.’
Kicking the revolver aside, Val walked towards the woman who stood beside a boy of around eight years. The lad had tears running down his ashen cheeks as he watched the animals he had tended being done to death. The woman, also white-faced, surveyed the scene with stony eyes. She turned as Val approached, shocking him with the vitriolic hatred in her whole demeanour.
‘You were sheltering men who continue to be our enemies,’ he said curtly. ‘We had no choice but this. You and your son will be taken to a camp.’
She continued to damn him with her malignant stare, lips shut tightly, but the boy began to shout choked, incomprehensible phrases, apparently fearless. The woman cuffed him around the head, and he fell silent as his eyes swivelled again to watch the orgy of killing which was so distressing him.
Val knew many Boers did not understand English or, if they did, pretended ignorance of the language, so it was useless to waste time on further explanation. On the point of indicating that they should wait beside his horse, he spotted a couple of troopers setting fire to the barn. Yelling to the men that there were ponies inside, he ran across the yard thick with bloody feathers and carcasses, slipping and sliding on the results of earlier carnage. As he ran he was conscious of shots coming from outlying areas where, their initial savagery blunted, troopers were ending the suffering of cattle and oxen with their carbines. Val’s only thought was to bring the horses from the blazing barn — something he seemed fated to do at regular intervals — and he thrust his gun into its holster to have both hands free in a place he had already checked for hidden enemies.
Although the troopers still wore wild expressions, they were cavalrymen, and horses were beasts they loved and respected. They hesitated only long enough to take in what Val shouted at them, before plunging in to the barn which was starting to disintegrate. Coughing and choking, Val ran through the smoke to reach the heads of the panic-stricken animals. In no time he released the tethers and coaxed them from their stalls until troopers were able to lead them through the hot, stifling air to safety. Regaining the yard himself, Val pulled up to stare at the scene with a heavy heart. Dead animals lay everywhere in pools of thick, dark blood. Behind him the barn was crackling and burning. Ahead, the house was engulfed in flames. The sky was full of dark, drifting smoke; the air was tainted with the stench of burning and slaughter. Where men had ridden through infant crops, green shoots lay broken on earth still wet from the storm rains. No one would use this farm again. He sighed, remembering Knightshill’s glorious acres. This was not his idea of military action.
Troopers began coming in to join those standing in and around the yard. Many now looked strained, if not a little sick. Toby and his fellow sergeants were grim faced, knowing they should have tried harder to control something that had run out of hand. Val decided on a swift departure and gave orders to the N.C.O.s to assemble their men, then crossed to where he had tethered his horse. It took his troubled brain a while to accept that Comet was no longer there, and that Pickering’s fine stallion, Erasmus, had also freed himself.
He began to run. It would be difficult to catch them if they had bolted in fright. The veld was endless. Beyond the house, he
prayed he would see Comet a short way off waiting for reassurance from the rider he trusted. His prayer was not answered. The distance lay empty. The two beasts were not even dots against the horizon. Momentarily thrown, he wondered if Pickering had untied them for some purpose of his own. Where was the man, anyway? He then thought of the woman and boy. Where were they?
Hardly had a faint sensation of foreboding touched him than he spotted a white bundle, a short way off on the track along which they had approached. He walked slowly towards it, a sick feeling growing with each step. His throat was dry, his heart thudding as he drew near enough to recognize Pickering in his underwear, bleeding profusely from a chest wound. Val’s heartbeat increased further as he guessed the dread truth. The Boer woman had somehow snatched Pickering’s revolver, forced him to strip off his uniform, then shot him. She and her son must have ridden away on the two stallions, doubtless to join up with her husband’s commando. Only as he squatted to discover whether or not Pickering was still alive did Val recall that sealed envelope Thorn Marley had tossed to the man. Those secret orders were in the pocket of Pickering’s tunic. Foreboding now deepened into a sensation akin to the one he had felt when the headmaster of Chartfield had burst in to his room on the evening Julia Grieves had shattered his future.
*
The court martial of Second-Lieutenant Martin Havelock was held in the small town where he had hoped to swim in the river. Due to the gravity of the charges the trial was accorded top security. A sentry was posted at the door of the local courtroom commandeered for the occasion. Newsmen who, by the mysterious means of their profession, arrived there sensing a story of sensational quality had their suspicions confirmed on being refused access to the courtroom and not even given the smallest facts of the case. The accused officer under house arrest was escorted to and from the white-stone building in a closed wagon.
The case could not have come up at a worse time. World opinion was against the British for waging war against the men who had settled the land with blood and toil over two centuries. Empire builders, they were called in derogatory terms. Their military failures in trying to lift the three sieges had badly damaged the prestige of a famous army, and this would not revive all the time the war dragged on in humiliating fashion. Even the sympathies of the British public had undergone a reversal when hostile newsmen published the death toll from epidemics of women, children and old people in the inadequate camps where they had been confined because their farms had been torched. Of course, these condemnatory people and officials had not been obliged to fight the war, and spoke from the comfort and safety of their armchairs. Even so, the court martial of a British officer on charges which, even singly, could earn him the death sentence was liable to complete growing disenchantment with the integrity of the Empire’s army.
Val lived through those days confined in a small house with Miles Atwood as his jailer. All emotion was mercifully suspended by disbelief at what was happening. He was charged with four of the worst crimes in the Army Act: using violence against a superior officer, disobeying a direct order, disgraceful conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and losing into the hands of the enemy, by neglect, sealed orders for his commanding officer. These charges made at a time of war assumed the utmost severity. Anyone found guilty of them could be taken out and shot.
Day after sweltering day Val sat on a hard wooden chair beside Miles Atwood, and a major of artillery who hailed from a legal family and had initially intended to follow tradition. John Railes undertook to defend the accused officer to the best of his limited ability. A major from divisional headquarters staff acted as prosecutor. Audley Pickering, the principal witness, was brought from the local hospital to give his evidence on the first three charges, but was himself also facing the fourth, that of losing to the enemy secret military documents.
Toby came forward to offer his slight evidence of events at the farm, but all he could say was that he thought Lieutenant Pickering had allowed the men to exceed their duty by running wild, and appeared to enjoy the destruction wreaked as he watched. He had seen both officers emerge from the burning house together because he had been vomiting at the corner of it. Mr Havelock had seemed angry at the unnecessary suffering of the beasts and sympathized with his reaction to what was going on. Mr Pickering had then come up and castigated him for leaving the troops, and that was the last he knew of what was happening at the house itself. No, he had not seen a woman and a child, neither had he seen Mr Havelock knock the revolver from Mr Pickering’s hand. Yes, he supposed he had to agree that he knew the two officers did not like each other — it was common knowledge throughout the regiment. Yes, he had been Mr Havelock’s close friend when he had been a sergeant. So you are not exactly an impartial witness? Toby replied that as he had not witnessed any of the events on which the accused was charged he very clearly must be impartial.
One after the other, various troopers were marched in to give insubstantial evidence. Two said Mr Havelock had run towards them when they set the barn alight, shouting a warning that there were horses inside. Yes, they thought they had seen a woman and a child, but could not say whether or not Mr Pickering held a revolver. Mr Havelock had put his own away as he ran across the yard. Yes, they knew of the enmity between the officers and would prefer to follow Mr Havelock any day. You were not asked to give an opinion. Just answer the questions. Other men, believing they were helping Val, spoke out about the way Pickering had singled out Havelock when he was in the ranks and ordered him to do hazardous or exhausting duties that were often completely unnecessary, but this served only to confirm Pickering’s claim that the accused had refused to set fire to the house, saying, ‘Report what you bloody well like. I’ll break you, I swear.’ Havelock clearly had every motive for wishing Pickering out of his hair for good.
Both counsels knew the case hung on the conflicting evidence of two officers known to have detested each other. With no witnesses as to what had happened at the farm, it left them the unenviable task of making the court decide which man to believe. Havelock had pleaded guilty to striking a superior officer by violently knocking the revolver from his hand, but claimed he had done it to save the lives of a woman and child. While this sounded noble enough, and would have mitigated the charge if the Boer woman had not consequently shot Pickering and made away with his clothes containing military orders, it now availed the young commissioned ranker little. A not guilty plea to the remaining charges would only hold if Havelock’s version of the affair could be proved. His defender did not see any certain way of doing this, yet a man’s very life, as well as his military career, hung in the balance.
Felix Wheeler gave a good account of the accused’s character and dedication to duty, but was forced to agree that he, himself, had sentenced Havelock, when a trooper, to twenty-eight days’ detention for refusing to obey the direct order of an officer. Yes, that officer had been Audley Pickering. Other officers testified to Havelock’s over-eagerness to take command; his intractable desire to make his mark. Yes, they would also concede that he was an outstanding cavalryman who had earned his rank through hard work and loyalty to his regiment rather than by his social standing.
Thorn Marley gave damning evidence which took the defending major by surprise. Havelock was extremely insubordinate and arrogant. Only recently the man had displayed his lower-class origins during a private remonstration on his behaviour, boldly countering advice given with the best of intentions and using threatening language. The young subaltern’s reputation with women was well known. Not content with the ladies in each town they passed, he had been rather too free with other men’s wives. No one should be surprised that he determined to deal with the Boer female himself. Any woman was fair game to him.
Several other officers testified, somewhat reluctantly, to Havelock’s popularity with the female sex, but drew the line at the suggestion that he would consort with the enemy. The flimsy threads were spun, then broken, until there were no more possible witnesses. Colonel Beecham was t
hen called to give witness to both officers’ characters. He said little about Pickering other than that he had a pristine record, which told the court there was neither reprimand nor praise upon it. He said even less about Martin Havelock. (He could not reveal Val’s real identity, or even say he believed him to be a true gentleman formerly involved in scandal. Both would condemn him further, rather than help.) He cited the action which had earned the accused a decoration for gallantry in saving the lives of many of his men, but agreed that Havelock was headstrong and keen for advancement.
In the end it all came down to Pickering’s evidence which, if believed, would lead to the execution of a twenty-two year old who had glittered like a bright star for the short time he had been with an élite Lancer regiment. If Havelock’s own story were true, he would be found guilty on the count of knocking the gun from the other’s hand and of causing, by dint of running away to rescue the horses, the sealed orders to be lost and a fellow officer to be shot. The first could be mitigated on the grounds that he believed Pickering would shoot an unarmed woman with a child, the second on the grounds that he had no reason to suspect the woman could overcome his fellow officer, force him to strip, then ride away. And the documents had been Pickering’s responsibility, in the main.
The court retired to consider their verdict on one of the most distasteful cases they had judged. Havelock was a mystery man. Clearly a gentleman’s son who had enlisted as a trooper. Why, unless he had been involved in something unsavoury? And there was his record as a womanizer. Was he the kind of man who told the truth? Yet, he was a brilliant soldier, a first-class sportsman and undoubtedly fearless in the face of danger. He had saved men’s lives; he had brought horses from a burning stable in Oxford at risk to his own life. He was arrogant and insubordinate. What were they to think? How could they judge this man of many parts?
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