by John Wilcox
‘Damn good scouting, that’s what I want. I have about eighteen hundred men in the Transvaal, but no regular cavalry at all. Pretoria has a garrison of f-f-five hundred men, with four guns and f-f-fifty horsemen. The rest are scattered about the place, garrisoning six outlying posts at Potchefstroom, Standerton, Lydenburg, Rustenburg, Marabastad and Wakkerstroom. They’re not good men and desertions are constant. They’re all at least two hundred miles from each other and they have no cavalry to operate outside the township walls. If there is an uprising they will probably all be cut off and besieged.’
Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘Sir?’
‘If that happens - and, to repeat, I don’t think it will - I shall have to invade the Transvaal from Natal. You’ve heard me say we don’t have a decent m-m-map in the place. There seems to be only one way to take a military force - can’t exactly describe it as an army - into the Transvaal, and that’s up through Newcastle. I want you to get up there as soon as possible and survey the route, over the border and right through into the Transvaal. Sketch as you go. Particularly note the places where the Boers might try to stop me. I don’t want uniformed soldiers doing this work - even if I had reliable people to do it, which I don’t. And that brings me to one further point.’
Simon noticed that the general’s stutter seemed to have disappeared now as he began issuing his orders.
‘You know the country and you seem to know the Boers - as well, that is, as any European can - and your brain doesn’t seem to have been atrophied by the demands of regimental duty.’ Colley gave a half-apologetic smile. ‘I don’t want chaps in red coats blundering around the Transvaal, because, don’t forget, I have no formal remit for the territory. This is Sir Owen Lanyon’s country and he would be rightly furious to hear that I had sent spies in mufti into his backyard to sniff out the situation. On the other hand,’ the general’s smile disappeared and his eyes grew hard, ‘I don’t want to be caught napping when those potatoes fall into the fire. So, Fonthill, in addition to reconnoitring the ground on the border, penetrate into the Transvaal. Keep your eyes and ears open. Stray off the beaten track and talk to the farmers you meet. Short of riding as far as Pretoria and confronting the Boer leaders there, try to gauge the degree of support for war that exists in the country. I can’t see things coming to a head within, say, the next six weeks, so you can take that long, but then I want you back to report. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’ Simon reflected that, when it came to it, the scholar had a decisive air about him. After all, he would not have been known as the army’s coming man without reason.
Colley stood and offered his hand again. ‘You will receive a captain’s pay and your man that of a warrant officer, but . . .’ he smiled, ‘as I think you would wish, you will not hold rank in the army. You will, my dear Fonthill, be independent. Which means that I can disown you if I have to.’
Simon shook hands. ‘I have no problem with that, sir. Thank you.’
Chapter 4
Simon reined in his horse, cupped his hand over his brow the better to focus and looked at the dust cloud behind them. ‘How many, d’ you think?’
‘Oooh, I’d say twenty, twenty-five.’ Jenkins puckered his brow. ‘Bit too far away to be sure, see.’
‘Well, one thing is certain. If we can see them, they can see us.’
‘Not necessarily, bach sir. We’re not kickin’ up dust like a municipal rubbish cart, now are we?’
‘Hmm.’ Simon concentrated hard. ‘Too many to be farmers and they don’t look like British troops - no sun reflecting off polished brass and that sort of thing.’
Not for the first time, Simon wished he had brought his army field glasses with him. He had not done so because their presence would almost certainly have linked him with the military, but on these vast spaces of the veldt, they were needed. Particularly now, because there seemed something menacing about that dust cloud. The people of the Transvaal moved in ones or twos, or maybe in families. Not in the size of cavalry troops. He made a quick decision.
‘I think we’d better get off this track,’ he said. ‘Quickly, but carefully, so that we don’t raise dust. Let’s drop into that donga over there.’
He pulled the head of his horse round and Jenkins followed, tugging the lead rein of their packhorse. They allowed the animals to pick their way down through the stones until they were below the level of the dried-up watercourse and wound along it until they were away from the track.
Simon looked across at Jenkins and held a finger to his lips. The Welshman pulled a lugubrious face and nodded.
Despite their wide-brimmed hats, the faces of both men were deeply tanned by the African late spring sun and they were covered in dust. They had been on the road now for five weeks and Simon had made the decision to turn back and report to Pomeroy-Colley. They had predictably found that the only route from Natal into Transvaal for a sizeable body of troops lay on the existing south-north road that crossed the border where it narrowed just north of the small town of Newcastle. To the north-east lay Swaziland and to the west the Orange Free State, owing allegiance to Britain but independent enough not to allow British troops to march through it to attack their brother Boers in the north. Simon and Jenkins had trekked along the face of the Drakensberg mountain range but had found no pass to provide a suitable alternative passage to the north.
What they had found, however, was that the conventional route across the border into the Transvaal provided plenty of opportunities for a determined enemy to hamper Colley’s advance. They had also discovered, on ranging across the veldt of southern Transvaal, a unity of opinion among the Boer farmers that the time had come for their state to be independent again and free from the burden of British taxes. In all, in fact, it had been a dispiriting foray for the two men, and Simon had turned back an hour ago with relief, although he was not looking forward to reporting so negatively to the general.
Now they sat wearily in their saddles, waiting for this strange party to pass. Where was it heading and what was its composition? It was not like the Boers, who had no standing army, to send out military patrols, even to police their border, which, in this case, was some fifty miles to the south. Simon decided to let the party go and then trail it until he could discover its destination.
After fifteen minutes or so, he saw the dust cloud pass across the lip of the donga and move away. He was about to pull out to fall in behind it at a discreet distance when a voice came from above, speaking in clipped Afrikaner tones. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’
Simon and Jenkins looked up to see three rifle muzzles pointing down at them. The rifles were held by three Boer horsemen, all dressed typically: battered wide-brimmed hats above seamed long-bearded faces; shapeless black jackets; corduroy trousers; and filthy laced-up boots. Unusually - and menacingly - their jackets were criss-crossed by bandoliers all studded with cartridges.
Surprised as he was, for there had been no sound to betray the approach of the horsemen, Simon retained presence of mind enough to notice that they were not being addressed in Taal, or Afrikaans, the Dutch-based language of the Boers. It must seem clear that they were English so there was no point in lying. ‘Good afternoon,’ he replied.
‘Now,’ said the man in the centre of the trio, ‘would you like to tell me what you’re doing skulking here, hiding from us in this donga?’
Simon allowed indignation to creep into his tone. ‘We’re not hiding from you and we are certainly not skulking. We are English and this territory is under English jurisdiction, so it’s a free country.’
The Boer showed dirty teeth as he exchanged grins with his companions. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we can talk about whose country it is in a minute. But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?’
‘We are running low on water and we came down to see if there was a trickle still remaining from which we could fill our bottles.’
‘Well,’ the man regarded him silently for a moment, ‘if that’s true, you certain
ly don’t know the territory. Everybody who knows the veldt in summer would know that unless there’s been a storm, these dongas run completely dry. Now who are you and where are you going?’
Simon shot a quick glance along the three faces. They were all set hard and the rifle barrels had not dropped. ‘My name is Fonthill and this is Jenkins. We are both English - well, not quite true, because Mr Jenkins is Welsh.’
‘I’m glad you’ve remembered that, bach,’ interjected Jenkins.
‘It’s true that we don’t know the territory, because we are on our way from Durban to Kimberley, to try our hand at a bit of diamond mining.’
The blackened teeth were revealed again behind the beard. ‘Kimberley! Well, man, you are way off trek.’
Simon thought quickly. ‘We were advised not to head directly through Basutoland because the Sutos were not friendly but instead to cross the Free State. But I guess we have come too far north.’
‘Ya. And you with those nice army Martini-Henry rifles, too. Where did you get those, then? From your boss - a fat old British army general, eh?’
‘Certainly not. You can get these in Durban if you know where to go. And we did.’ Simon adopted an indignant frown. ‘Anyway, why the hell are you questioning us like this? What right have you?’
The Boer nodded to his own rifle. ‘These give us the right. Now, very gently, toss up those nice guns of yours and then very slowly walk along the drift until you climb out the way you came in. We shall follow you from up here.’
Jenkins caught Simon’s eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. Almost imperceptibly, Simon shook his head. These men had the air of brigands - Bedawis who spoke English and had better rifles. From their demeanour, they would have no hesitation in shooting if the pair showed any signs of resistance. He slowly withdrew his rifle from its saddle holster and threw it up. Jenkins did the same. Then they turned their horses and climbed out of the donga. About a quarter of a mile down the track, the main Boer party had stopped. Simon realised that they must have been seen from the beginning - what sharp eyes these men of the veldt possessed! The three must have been ordered back to pick them up.
As they cantered their horses towards the waiting group, Simon saw that a covered waggon, unusually pulled by horses instead of oxen, brought up the rear of the little party. All of the men waiting for them were dressed similarly, with crossed bandoliers at their chests and Westley Richards rifles at the ready. But it was the rear of the waggon that made Simon raise his eyebrows. Attached to it was a light field gun. It was of foreign manufacture - German? - so Simon could not define its calibre, but it looked menacing enough as it rested on its large unshod wheels. Standing behind the gun and attached to it by a long rein stood probably the most magnificent horse Simon had ever seen. It was a beautifully proportioned chestnut, with a fine head, arched neck and bulging muscles and tendons in its fore-and hindquarters. It carried a saddle that was a work of art in its own right, with an unusually high pommel, intricate carvings in its leather and silver discs worked into the fringes of the horse blanket underneath. The stirrups were hidden behind what looked like buckskin covers and the bit and bridle were also decorated with glittering silver roundels. At the rear of the saddle hung a long rifle holster, also made of soft buckskin, with fringes hanging from its length. Simon recognised the stock of what was undoubtedly an American Winchester repeating rifle peeping from its top.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins. ‘That could be a circus’orse, look you. But is that a circus cannon, eh?’
The two men were taken round to the head of the group, where the leader of the trio reported in Afrikaans to a small man, dressed like the others except that he wore riding boots and his moustache and beard were neatly trimmed in Vandyke fashion. He nodded slowly and then urged his horse forward, hand outstretched.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Sorry that you have been brought in like this. My name is Schmidt.’
Simon took the proffered hand. ‘Fonthill,’ he said curtly, ‘and Jenkins. May we please have our rifles back?’
‘I am afraid not.’ Schmidt had clear blue eyes and there was an air of command about him. ‘But we will keep them safely for you. Now I must ask you to dismount and get into the back of our waggon. It may be a little uncomfortable - we already have one guest and you will have to sit on top of our supplies - but we cannot afford to run the risk of you galloping away.’
Simon frowned. ‘Why ever not? Who are you? Why are you keeping us in this fashion?’ He did his best to feign total naivety.
‘Ach, arguments now will only delay us, and I want to find a good place to camp before nightfall. You will join us then and all will be explained - including, I hope, what you are really doing here. Now. Please dismount and get into the waggon. Quickly, please. We haven’t got all day.’
With ill grace, the two men slipped out of their saddles and climbed between the canvas sheets that hung down at the rear of the waggon which, after they had entered, were tied together behind them. The pair found places to sit on top of assorted sacks and dimly made out a figure sprawled in the gloom at the far end.
‘Howdy, folks,’ boomed a deep voice.
The man crawled towards them and they realised that he was tall and slim as a beanpole - but an exquisitely dressed beanpole. The hand held out to them was encased in soft leather gauntlets, fringed at the wrist, and the man himself wore the same heavily fringed golden buckskin fashioned into jacket and riding breeches, the latter tucked into finely worked riding boots that had high insteps and heels that boasted spurs with spiked roundels as big across as apples. He had laid aside a white Stetson hat that carried a band at its base in bright geometric patterns. As he moved towards them, Simon saw that slung low below his hips were two empty handgun holsters, the bottoms tied closely to his thighs. A shaft of light caught his face. His hair was long and grey and pulled back into a tail behind his head and the pointed beard and long moustaches appeared to be white.
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s Buffalo Bill! I saw you in a picture book in Shrewsbury, fightin’ the Indians an’ all.’
‘Close, mah friend, but not close enough. Ah ain’t Bill Cody, though ah’ve met him sure enough. No. Mah name’s Al Hardy, from Texas, and ah ain’t never been to Shrewsbury. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Simon suddenly realised that his mouth was hanging open. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, grasping the gloved hand. ‘Simon Fonthill, and this is Jenkins . . . er . . . 352 Jenkins.’
‘Wow.’ White teeth flashed in the semi-darkness. ‘Ain’t never met a feller before with a number ’stead of a name.’
‘Well you would, see, if you ’ad my name. I’m ’appy with my old army number, look you.’
‘Oh, sure. Glad to meet you folks anyway. Guess you’re Limeys, uh?’
‘Limeys?’ Jenkins had never heard the term.
‘Britishers. You don’t sound like them South African fellers.’
‘Yes,’ Simon interceded, ‘we are British. But what on earth is a Texan doing here? And how did these Boers capture you, and why are they keeping you for that matter?’
‘Okay, son. Lotta questions there.’ Hardy eased himself against a sack of flour and made himself more comfortable as the waggon jerked into motion. Simon’s eyes were becoming used to the dim light and he noted that the Texan’s face was open and pleasant, but it was lined and he was probably older than he looked, though his movements in the crowded waggon were lithe enough. ‘Now you guys listen ’cos I got somethin’ important to tell yah. Forget what ah’m doin’ in this heah Africa. That can come later. How I got lassoed by this posse is as follows.’
He spoke now without languor, in a voice low enough so that anyone listening outside the canvas walls would not hear. Two days ago, he recounted, he had been heading east from Pretoria - ‘nasty, stuffy little town, full of guys with long beards’ - towards the mountains which fringed the Mozambique border, where he hoped to hunt. As he camped, a large column of armed Boers had overta
ken him, accused him of being a British spy, and kept him in the waggon. The next day, at a place called Bronkhorstspruit, they had ambushed a British column of soldiers, marching ‘band an’ all’ towards Pretoria. Watching from the waggon hidden in trees, he had heard the Boer commander warn the English colonel that the Transvaal had declared its independence and established a republic and that if the British column of about two hundred and fifty men continued its march then that would be interpreted as an act of war.
At this, Simon frowned and shook his head in exasperation. ‘Ah, so the silly bastards have done it. What happened then?’
‘Colonel said he’d gotten his orders an’ sure as hell he was goin’ to go to Pretoria. Then the firin’ started. Man . . .’ It was the turn of the American to shake his head, but he did so with what seemed like genuine sadness, ‘I ain’t never seen shootin’ like it. Them Boers fired from the trees an’ the Limeys never stood a chance. The shootin’ was so damned accurate that them redcoats never had a chance of formin’ up, takin’ cover or even shootin’ back properly. The killin’ was bad - worst ah’ve seen since the Little Bighorn.’
‘Good lord,’ said Simon.
‘Sounds like a massacre, like,’ whispered Jenkins, his eyes wide.
‘Yup. That’s the size of it. After it was over - only took about three minutes, or so it seemed - ah hollered from the waggon and said ah should help the wounded. So they let me. Not that there was much ah could do,’cos there weren’t many wounded, y’ see. They was mostly dead, often with four or five slugs in the head - in the head, ah’m telling yah. Them boys can shoot right’nuff. Mind you, the Boers were good after it was over. Rushin’ to help the few that were wounded an’ allowin’ a coupla fellers to go to Pretoria to get medical help. Mebbe they was a bit ashamed, y’ know?’
The waggon bumped along in silence for a while as Simon and Jenkins digested the news. So it was war, after all. And what a brutal way to begin it! Simon eventually lifted his head and asked why the American had been detained.