by John Wilcox
Simon had first heard about Major General Sir George Pomeroy-Colley when serving his apprenticeship as a young subaltern in the 24th Regiment, and the picture had been rounded out during his time in Afghanistan, when Colley was acting as Military Secretary to the Viceroy in Delhi. A distant cousin of the Duke of Wellington, Colley had won a reputation as being a brilliant organiser with an intellect far higher than that of most senior officers. He had had a distinguished early career in fighting the Bantus in the Transkei and later serving in the China War of 1860. But he had gained the greatest fame on Wolseley’s staff during the Ashanti War, when he had kept the army supplied through months of difficult campaigning in dense jungle. As a result, he had become a member of Wolseley’s ‘Ashanti Ring’, a small group of officers who had fought with the great man and who had accordingly been marked down by him for preference.
It was no surprise, then, when Colley had been appointed to succeed Wolseley when the latter had returned to London from South Africa, after the successful completion of his Zulu and Sekukuni campaigns, to become Quartermaster General at the Horse Guards. Now Colley - ‘the Pillar of Empire’, as he was known back home - was High Commissioner and Army Commander-in-Chief for South-East Africa. His territory covered Natal and Zululand but he was alleged to have a ‘dormant authority’ over the Transvaal in the north, only to be exercised in case of emergency. How close was that emergency?
Simon had gained some knowledge of the political situation in the Transvaal some months ago at first hand when serving as a scout for Wolseley in the Sekukuni campaign on the Transvaal/Mozambique border. The Boers of the Transvaal, he knew, were regarded as the main ingredients in a simmering pot that was likely to boil over at any moment. He also knew their history.
It dated back to the Great Trek that had begun in 1836, when more than twelve thousand descendants of the original Dutch population in the Cape had abandoned their farms to escape from British rule and consequent taxation. In their canvas-covered waggons and taking their oxen and other cattle with them, they had migrated north into the unexplored hinterland. There some had branched off to form the Orange Free State; others had crossed the Drakensbergs into Natal and Zululand. The biggest group of the trekkers had negotiated the River Vaal and pressed on north to settle in the Transvaal, a vast tableland of veldt rising over four thousand feet above sea level, broken only by the occasional valley or odd shaped kopje - a small, usually cone-shaped hill. To the conventional traveller it appeared to be the very incarnation of desolation. To these Boers, however, it represented heaven - as promised and promising a land as that Zion being settled at roughly the same time by the Mormons in Utah, across the Atlantic.
The British had followed them but granted them a treaty of independence, similar to that which had been accepted by the Orange Free Staters. The Transvaalers, however, made poor administrators and the state eventually lapsed into virtual bankruptcy, from which the British rescued it by annexing it in 1877. Yet fiscal security had brought no happy acceptance of the colonial yoke and the Boers of the Transvaal had been restless ever since. Simon knew that Wolseley’s campaign against Sekukuni had really been launched as a show of power to impress and daunt the Boers of Pretoria, who had themselves failed to quell this marauding chieftain. It had worked for a while, but now, it seemed, the pot was boiling again. Would it boil over into war?
That was the question that occupied Simon’s mind as he and Jenkins rode into Pietermaritzburg on that bright late spring day in November 1880. Certainly, the little town did not seem activated by the threat of conflict. Although this was Colley’s military headquarters, there was no great military presence evident as the pair walked their horses gently down the wide main street with its little white-painted wooden houses gleaming in the sunshine. Here and there horsemen in military scarlet or blue clipped by, their backs erect as ramrods, their tightly trousered buttocks bobbing up and down to the canter. Black levies in nondescript uniforms sauntered in the sunshine. But there was no rattle of mounted artillery, no marching columns, no limbers or army waggons to be seen. This didn’t seem to be a town preparing for war.
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘Bit quiet like, innit? Doesn’t exactly look like they’ve been waitin’ for us, does it?’
Simon nodded slowly. He had to agree. The last time they had been here, after Wolseley had successfully mopped up after the Zulus’ defeat at Ulundi,’Maritzburg had been all abustle with army activity. He frowned. But of course there had been a great exodus of troops after that war. Following the tragedy of Isandlwana, the Empire had heaved itself upright in all its wrath and sent a large army to Zululand to seek revenge. Pride regained, the cost had been counted and London had quickly recalled its forces and sent them back to their duties in India and at home. There would be few enough battalions left in South Africa now. Which posed the further question: would there be enough to take on the hard-riding, sharp-shooting Boers if it came to it?
Once in the main square of the town - big enough, as with most South African townships, to turn round a veldt wagon pulled by twelve oxen - Simon asked Jenkins to find a small hotel where they could stay cheaply and set off in search of the Commander-in-Chief’s headquarters. He found it situated in a modest clapboard house that, if it were not for the sentry and flagpost by the front gate, could have been a bed and breakfast pension. Here, Simon waited in a small anteroom while his name was taken through to Pomeroy-Colley.
He was ushered into the C-in-C’s presence almost immediately. The general stood to receive him, his hand outstretched. Simon had time to take in the fact that the office resembled a study in a country home in that the walls were lined with books, although an unusual feature was the collection of contemporary prints, whose bright colours lit up the room. One of them, behind Colley’s head, seemed to depict a skirmish with the Ashanti.
‘W-w-welcome, Fonthill,’ said the general, revealing his slight stutter. ‘Kind of you to come all this way to give me a hand d-d-down here.’
In appearance the general seemed a gentle warrior. He had the upright bearing of a soldier and his body was short but well proportioned. His features were strong and evenly balanced, with kindly eyes set beneath a rapidly receding hairline which gave him a massive brow. This and the full dark brown beard bestowed upon him the air of an intellectual. He seemed more like a university professor than a professional soldier - or perhaps a successful musician, for the fingers extended were long and delicate. Simon remembered that Colley played the flautina.
He grasped the general’s hand and immediately felt an empathy with this strange soldier of empire. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. I hope you don’t feel that we have rather pushed ourselves on you - my man and I, that is.’
Colley gestured to the button-backed armchair that sat before his desk. ‘Ah, the famous 352 Jenkins. Quite a character, I hear.’
‘Good lord, General. I didn’t know he was famous.’
‘Oh yes. I have heard a lot about the two of you. Mainly from General Wolseley, but also from General Roberts in India. It seems that you both gave great s-s-service to these outstanding soldiers.’ The general smiled. ‘Though I understand that some of your methods were - what shall I say? - perhaps, ah, a little unconventional, eh?’
Simon shifted on his chair. He felt daunted for a moment, particularly remembering his brushes with ‘General Bobs’ on the North-West Frontier. Then a prickle of indignation stirred within him. ‘I am afraid, sir, that the roles we had to play in Zululand, Afghanistan and, indeed, the Transvaal, could not be fitted within the strict bounds of conventional soldiering. We were on our own, you see, often behind enemy lines. We had to establish our own rules of engagement. But,’ he paused for a moment and looked the general directly in the eye, ‘we stuck to them. We did nothing of which we were ashamed.’
The two men regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then the general gave his warm smile. ‘My d-d-dear Fonthill. I did not wish for one moment to impugn your conduct. As I understand
it, you behaved with great courage and resourcefulness in all of these campaigns. In fact,’ he lifted his eyebrows in an infectious display of mock astonishment, ‘Wolseley tells me that you instructed him in how to attack the Sekukuni stronghold, and ’pon my soul, he followed your advice.’
They both laughed. ‘It wasn’t quite like that, sir.’
‘Well, no more of that. Right.’ Colley leaned forward. ‘I can certainly use you down here in just the sort of role that you . . . er . . . seem to specialise in. Do you know much about the situation in the Transvaal?’
‘I know the territory well enough and I was roughly au fait with the political situation with the Boers up there until a few months ago, but I am a little out of date now. Do you think it will come to war, sir?’
‘I v-v-very much hope not. I don’t want it and neither does the Government back home. And as a matter of fact, I still don’t believe that these Afrikaners would dream of taking us on, despite what the papers say. So the odds are against it. But the s-s-situation is a touch tricky all the same. Let me bring you up to date.’
The general walked over to a large wall map and gestured to Simon to follow him. ‘I know you know the Transvaal, but it doesn’t do any harm to take a look at the map. First thing is - the size of the dashed p-p-place.’ His pointed finger described an arc. ‘Huge. Bordered in the north here by the Limpopo, with the warlike Matabele tribe on the other side; by the Vaal in the south, beyond which is, of course, the Orange Free State; a small border here with Natal and a longer one with Zululand in the south-east. Due east we’ve got Portuguese territory and to the west the land of the Bechuanas, with the British protectorate of Graualand West to the south-west. As you can see, damned place has got b-b-borders with everybody and is roughly twice the size of the Free State and respectively Natal and Zululand.’
He sighed. ‘Second thing is here.’ He ranged his finger over the suspiciously white and unmarked hinterland of the state. ‘Nothing. I know and you know that that doesn’t mean there really is nothing there. Place will be full of rivers, kopjes, farms, native villages and whatever. But we just don’t have maps of the Transvaal. If I have to campaign there I shall be lost, metaphorically and ph-ph-physically.’
Theatrically the general raised his hands and let them fall to his sides. ‘Neither the Colonial Office nor the Horse Guards in London can help, so I have had to send to Berlin, of all places, to beg maps. What a state of affairs! Do you know, I have just heard that one of our chaplains was ordered to conduct a service at one post in the Transvaal in the morning and evens-s-song at another five hundred miles away in the evening. That just shows how well we know the country. But enough of all that. Come and sit down.’
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘back to the d-d-dashed politics. The Transvaal state acquired huge debts, as you probably know, from attempting to fight your old friend Sekukuni, the bePedi chief. The Boer president in Pretoria, Burgers, levied a tax of five pounds on every burgher. Most refused to pay, and the national debt reached two hundred and fifteen thousand pounds.’ Colley gave a sad smile. ‘At this point, I understand that the state coffers contained only twelve shillings and s-s-sixpence, so the Transvaal was, in effect, bankrupt. Trouble was, it was surrounded by potentially hostile neighbours and just couldn’t be left undefended. The result was that, in 1877, we bailed ’em out by annexing them. There was absolutely no resistance.’
Simon nodded. ‘But now, just three years later, there is. Why?’
Colley pulled on his beard. ‘A combination of circumstances. By beating the Zulus, we have, of course, done the Boers a favour. This big threat to their south-easterly b-b-border has been removed. Sir Garnet’s defeat of Sekukuni to the east has removed another threat. So two of the main reasons why these strange people were happy to have our protection have been removed. The other thing is the old problem of taxation. Whoever forms their government, these dashed farmers just do not comprehend that they need to pay for the s-s-services that a civilised country must provide for its citizens, such as schools, drainage, a police force of sorts and even a small military presence. In other words, they won’t pay their taxes.’
‘Ah.’ Simon nodded his head. ‘The trouble is, I should imagine, that most of the Boer population are farmers who won’t see the benefit of the services you name. They make their drainage and protect themselves at their own cost.’
Colley shook his head. ‘They live by their guns for their meat. But they have to come into town to buy ammunition. The s-s-same applies to flour and other basic essentials such as clothing. They can’t maintain a completely insular lifestyle.’
‘Yes. I understand that. So what is happening now?’
The general closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair for a moment. Then: ‘Sir Garnet tells me, Fonthill, that you were not just an ordinary army scout. He wrote and explained that you had a fine head on your shoulders and that, despite your insistence on maintaining your independence from the conventional lines of army command, you were capable of understanding strategic matters of some complexity.’
Simon felt himself blushing. ‘That’s very kind of him, sir.’ The feisty little man who was now back home in London and well on his way to becoming the Chief of the Imperial General Staff had certainly never shared this confidence with him.
Colley sat forward again. ‘Look here, Fonthill, can I count on your discretion?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Right. Well. The man nominally in charge of affairs based in Pretoria is Colonel Owen Lanyon. He’s now been given a knighthood and the formal title of Governor. Frankly, I am afraid that he is a bit of a hard hat and is riding rather roughshod over the Boers on this taxation business. I have some sympathy with him, because they must be the most confoundedly awkward people, but I would have applied a s-s-softer rein.’
‘But with respect, sir, don’t you outrank him?’
‘In the army, of course, yes. But he is the civil g-g-governor, and in any case, my military responsibility for the Transvaal is only to be exercised in the case of an emergency. In other words, F-F-Fonthill, I get the worst of both worlds. I can’t stop the potato falling into the fire, but when it falls I must pull it out before it gets burned to bits.’
Simon grinned. ‘From what I’ve heard about you, sir, you’ve had worse jobs.’
The grin - though rather more a rueful smile - was returned. ‘The difference now, though, is that Mr Gladstone is riding on my back and he doesn’t like colonial wars. And the overseas p-p-press is on his back.’
‘Quite. I think I understand your difficulty.’
‘Mind you . . .’ the soldier in Colley returned and he sat upright, a wide smile upon his face, ‘if these chaps do want a f-f-fight I shall certainly give them one and see them off. Everyone tells me that the Boers are really just an undisciplined rabble who will run at the first sight of professional soldiers - just as they did, more or less, at Boomplats in ’48. Our revered C-in-C back home calls them “an army of deerstalkers”.’
Simon frowned. This man was shrewd and far less jingoistic than most senior officers he had encountered, but at the phrase ‘undisciplined rabble’ Simon heard again the doomed colonel at Isandlwana: ‘I hope Johnny Zulu does attack. I’ve got seventeen hundred men here to give ’em a bloody nose.’ He cleared his throat.
‘I am not sure that that is true, sir,’ he said. ‘They may be undisciplined in terms of conventional soldiering and so on, but they are wonderful horsemen - probably the best irregular light cavalry in the world - and magnificent shots. I have stayed on Boer farms. The children are brought up in the saddle with a rifle. A boy will be sent out on to the veldt with only one bullet. If he misses, he won’t eat when he gets home. These boys are trained to hit the small knucklebone of an ox at eighty paces.’
‘Really?’ Colley seemed genuinely interested. ‘What about their weapons?’
‘Well, sir, I’ve seen the modern American carbines, the Winchester repeaters, and some Enfield Sniders, but
mainly they have Westley Richards. They are deadly at up to six hundred yards, but our Martinis should be superior in terms of loading rate and range.’
‘So I have understood. And, of course, they have no bayonets and should be inferior at close-quarter fighting.’
‘Quite so, sir. Their argument, however, is that they can have three of our men down before they get anywhere near them. And when our chaps do arrive to threaten with the cold steel, the Boers just hop on their ponies and get away. They will fight in open country, you see. I suppose you would call it guerrilla warfare.’
Colley grimaced.
‘But you were talking of potatoes, sir. Will they be roasted?’
‘All in all, I think not, because as I say, I don’t think the Boers, for all their talk, will take on the British army. But there is a f-f-flurry in Pretoria at the moment which is proving a little difficult. There is an Afrikaner up there called something unpronounceable - ah yes, it’s B-B-Bezuidenthout; goodness, sounds like a sneeze, eh? Anyway, this Boer has been arraigned for not paying arrears of tax of some twenty-seven pounds. He has been able to prove in court that he only owes fourteen. That’s been accepted but he has been charged costs, which brings the total back to twenty-seven. The d-d-dashed man refuses to pay, of course, so his waggon was seized. Now about a hundred of his countrymen have taken the thing back.’ The general sighed. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? But wars have been started for less.’
‘What’s the present situation, then?’
‘Lanyon is supposed to be sending men to repossess the b-b-blasted waggon. He is assuring London and me that nothing will come of it and that it’s just a storm in a teacup. In f-f-fairness, I believe it probably is. Now, young man.’ Colley straightened his shoulders. ‘This may all have seemed very discursive but I wanted you to have as much background as possible.’
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. But what exactly do you want of Jenkins and me?’