by John Wilcox
And then the big man saw him. For what seemed to Simon like all eternity, the two stared at each other across the underbelly of the horse. Then the Afrikaner swung his rifle round and fired. Miraculously, in that confined space, the bullet missed both man and horses and crashed into the rock face behind Simon. But the noise of the shot and its proximity sent the horses rearing, wide-eyed. The Boer ducked protectively and shied away, but one of the chestnut’s hooves caught him fully on the side of the head so that he crashed against the wall of the gully and then slumped to the ground, quite unconscious. Simon, fearing for his own life, standing as he was in the middle of the plunging, rearing horses, sought to soothe them with his voice and hands, and eventually he did so, so that they stood shivering, their nostrils flared.
Simon suddenly realised that he had heard no further firing after the shots from, hopefully, the guns of Jenkins and Hardy. Had they found their targets, or were they still trying to discover their positions? And were the two remaining Boers now virtually the other side of the gully, with their rifles aimed ready to put a bullet through his forehead as soon as he showed his nose round that opening? He wiped the blood from his chin and the perspiration from his forehead and took a deep breath. His rifle levelled from the hip, he sprang into the gap - and found himself looking into the startled face of Jenkins.
‘Good God,’ said Simon, sinking on to his haunches. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Been?’ Jenkins puffed out his cheeks indignantly. ‘Been? I’ve been runnin’ round this bleedin’ piece of rock like you told me to till me shirt’s wringin’ wet with sweat, see. I only just arrived in time to pot that feller out there who was about to crawl into the gully, look you. This bloody koppee, or whatever you call it, is miles round, so it is.’
‘Sorry, old chap. I’ve had a bit of a hectic time.’
‘Hey, bach sir, you’re bleedin’. Did they wing you?’
‘No. Looks worse than it is. Just a chip of stone. Where’s Al?’
‘Oh, ’e got the other one out there. But I think ’e’s still tryin’ to climb down this bloody mountain. Where’s the third man, then?’
Simon nodded. ‘In the gully. He got kicked by Al’s horse. We’d better see if he’s all right.’
They found the Boer with blood trickling from a wound in his head, but his eyes were open and he was stirring, trying to regain his feet. Simon removed his rifle, as Hardy appeared, blowing and looking distinctively dishevelled.
‘Did you get your man, Al?’ asked Simon. The tall man nodded - it was now clear that he rarely spoke if there was nothing to say. ‘Right, would you please lead the horses away and give them water. We want to mount soon.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘Three five two, did you kill the other one?’
The Welshman shook his head. ‘Only got ’im through the shoulder, look you, but I took away ’is rifle on the way ’ere an ’e looked as though ’e wasn’t goin’ anywhere.’
‘Right. See how he is and then would you please get a shirt off one of the dead men - pick the cleanest - and bring it here.’
Jenkins’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Blimey, we’re not goin’ to dress up like Boers, now are we?’
‘No. But we’re going to need cloth for bandages and, by the sound of your man, a sling too, and I don’t fancy ripping up our shirts. Now get a move on. We haven’t got much time.’
The Boer had slumped down again, his hand to his head, after vainly trying to get to his feet. Simon now cradled his head and put his water bottle to the wounded man’s mouth and watched him swallow in great gulps. Then he shook out a clean handkerchief from his pocket, soaked it from the bottle and began cleaning the wound. The big man winced but said nothing.
‘Well,’ said Simon, having staunched the flow of blood, ‘it’s a nasty cut with a swelling to match and you’re going to have a headache. But it seems to me that there’s no fracture of the skull, so you’ll be all right.’
The man’s black eyes regarded him with suspicion. ‘Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Don’t really know. I probably should have done, because I saw you vote to have us hanged. To be honest, I’m not much of a killer and I think I’d had enough.’
‘Ach. What will you do with me now?’
‘Bandage you up - and your comrade who was wounded by one of us - and sit you down here to wait for your own people. I presume that they are on their way?’
‘Ja. We had a little trouble limbering up our cannon, but they should be here soon. You should go.’
‘I intend to.’
‘What is your name, English?’
‘Simon Fonthill. What is yours?’
‘Gideon ter Haar.’
‘Sounds very Dutch.’
‘Ja. I will remember you.’ The bearded face broke into a smile. ‘I owe you a favour - just the one. I will repay it before I try to kill you when next we meet.’
‘Thanks very much. Very kind of you.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of Jenkins, carrying a bloodstained shirt. ‘Best I could do,’ he said. Simon tore it into strips and, wringing out his bloody handkerchief, soaked it in fresh water before applying it to the bearded Boer’s head.
‘Here,’ he said to Jenkins, ‘tie this in place with one of these strips. And keep an eye on this chap. He’s still big enough to cause trouble. I’ll see what I can do with the man you hit.’
Seeing the position of the man Jenkins had wounded, Simon realised that the Welshman had intervened only just in time, for the Boer was about to crawl into the gully from the other end. Attacked from both sides, Simon would not have stood a chance. He gulped as he knelt by the injured man. Jenkins’s bullet had entered through the man’s right shoulder blade and emerged through the shoulder. The bone had been splintered but at least the slug did not remain within the wound. Simon did what he could to ease the man’s pain, put his injured arm into a sling and left him in the shade with a water bottle.
Hardy had now watered all of the horses and tied the Boer mounts on to a leading rein behind Custer. They were ready to go - and not a moment too soon, because Simon could see what looked like a dust cloud on the trail to the north. He mounted and called to the bearded Dutchman, now kneeling by the side of his wounded comrade.
‘Mr ter Haar, tell your people that we are sorry that there was no time to bury the dead. It’s something they will have to do, I am afraid. And tell them that there is no point in pursuing us. We have fresh horses that we can ride in rotation and we shall be across the border in a couple of hours. I hope your comrade recovers.’
‘Thank you, English. God go with you.’
Simon pulled on the rein and the little cavalcade set off at a brisk trot towards the south, where the dark blue outline of the Drakensbergs marked the skyline like a jagged set of dentures. They rode, trotting and cantering, for about an hour, keeping a sharp eye behind them to the north. But there was no apparent sign of them being followed and Simon presumed that Kornet Schmidt would have his hands too full now to contemplate further pursuit.
His thoughts now turned to his report to General Colley. Well, the general would already know that he was well and truly at war, for the news of the Boers’ declaration of independence and their obliteration of the British column at Bronkhorstspruit would surely have reached him. At least, Simon reflected, he was returning with seven sturdy Boer ponies, and with good horses selling at thirty pounds a head in Natal, they would be welcome. But there was also much to tell Colley, for the general would certainly want to send troops into the Transvaal as soon as possible to relieve his beleaguered garrisons and Simon had already plotted the best route, together with notes about the obvious places where the Boers would try to attack him. And it looked as though they planned to do so from forward positions in the Transvaal, otherwise why would Schmidt be sent down to the border? How long, he wondered, would it take Colley to mount a viable invasion? Did he have the troops and the weapons available to him in a Natal denud
ed of both since the end of the Zulu War?
The thought of weapons reminded him vividly of Hardy, and he dropped to the rear to ride alongside the Texan.
‘Tell me, Al,’ he asked, ‘why did you take such a terrible risk by stepping out in front of the Boers like that and giving them a chance to kill you before you drew that great pistol of yours?’
For the second time since their meeting, the American showed signs of discomfort. He sniffed and looked up at the sky, now a bright blue and where, behind them, vultures were wheeling - it was just as well that Schmidt’s burial party had arrived in time. Then he examined his richly worked boots for a moment. ‘Waal,’ he ventured at last, ‘ah guess ah just had somethin’ to prove.’
He wrinkled his eyes and stared straight ahead at the distant mountains, now looming a little nearer. He offered no further comment, so Simon decided not to pursue the matter. There was obviously much still to be learned about this tall, slender man with the fast hands and the ability to kill so quickly.
Chapter 5
The three riders pressed on through that hot day, changing their horses twice to maintain the pace. Simon was not now worried that Schmidt and his party might overtake them but rather that they might meet other bands of armed Boer militia ahead of them, reconnoitring the border. He was in no mood for a further fight and it seemed that this was true of Hardy also, if his continued silence was any yardstick. But it was impossible to remain morose for long in Jenkins’s company, and shortly after they crossed the border and slipped under the looming presence of the Majuba mountain, the Texan’s slow smile began to respond to the Welshman’s chatter.
It was dusk before they reached the little town of Newcastle, some thirty-five miles deep into Natal, where Simon had been told before they set out that he would find General Pomeroy-Colley. Originally known as Post Halt Two, and little more than a village, it had been a popular stopover for waggons journeying between the old Port Natal - Durban - and the high veldt of the Transvaal. Now, as the three tired men rode in from the north, it became clear to them that Colley was establishing Newcastle as the springboard for the invasion.
On a bluff overlooking the motley collection of corrugated-iron stores, canvas tents and adobe buildings that made up the township stood Fort Amiel, erected some three years before as a defensive measure in case the annexation of the Transvaal turned sour. It had also been used as a convalescent station for General Wood’s column during the Zulu War. It consisted now of little more than a ditch, a rampart and a low stone wall, enclosing a brick-built hospital and rows of army tents. To Simon’s weary eye, it would not form a serious deterrent to a determined artillery-based Boer attack, but, despite the late hour, there was much military bustle in the town itself, with limbers being pulled through the streets, mounted horsemen riding by in a wide variety of jackets, ranging in colour from scarlet to khaki, and individual infantrymen lounging on the sidewalks in uniforms that had - only just - survived the Zulu and Sekukuni campaigns.
More importantly, Newcastle possessed two hotels, the smaller of which offered them what they were assured was the last available room in town. Luxurious it was not, but it did contain three beds, chamber pots and a marble-topped washstand. They accepted it with relief and Simon decided that reporting to the Commander-in-Chief could wait until the next morning. After eating the best meal the hotel could provide and drinking seven bottles of Bass between them - Jenkins consumed four - the three retired early to their beds. As they did so, a heavy thunder crash broke over the town, lightning illuminated their dusty window and heavy rain began to fall. The Natal- Transvaal summer - the rainy season - had begun.
The headquarters of Major General Sir George Pomeroy-Colley was, in fact, in the larger hotel next door, but even so Simon was drenched by the time he presented himself to the general the following evening.
‘Good lord,’ said Colley, striding forward with hand outstretched. ‘My dear fellow - you’ve been wounded.’
Simon grinned inwardly and thought how very different this caring man was to Roberts and Wolseley, the other two prickly, driving generals he had served. ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ he said, dabbing at the still open wound on his cheek. ‘Just a scratch from a sliver of stone.’
‘Well you look as though you n-n-need a stitch or two in that. First tell me how it happened before you give me the rest of your news. I see, by the way, that you have returned almost exactly six weeks after your departure.’ He smiled. ‘I d-d-do like a man who keeps his word.’
Simon took a deep breath and related how, after their uneventful reconnaissance through the Drakensbergs and into the Transvaal, they had had their brush with Kornet Schmidt’s troop and met Hardy.
‘A field gun, you say,’ mused the general. ‘If it was merely a border patrol they wouldn’t want to be burdened with that.’
Simon leaned forward. ‘Precisely, sir. It is my belief that they were a forward party, sent down hurriedly to establish the best position near the border for the Boers to concentrate their troops to forestall your own invasion. In my opinion, they won’t want you to debouch on to the Transvaal veldt and will stop you by advancing themselves into Natal to take you on just north of here.’
Colley pulled a face. ‘The Transvaalers invading Natal! D-d-doesn’t sound their style at all. My view is that they’ll wait until we actually invade and then take us on on the plain . . . defending their homeland on their own soil in the full view of the world and all that sort of tosh.’
‘No, sir. They won’t invade as such; merely advance across the border to fight us on the best defensive position for miles around.’ He pulled a map across the general’s desk. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
‘You can only take your column into the Transvaal along the main route north here.’ He traced his finger up from Newcastle. ‘Everything narrows down here: you’ve got the Drakensbergs on the left and the Buffalo river on your right, and it’s the only way an army can get through. But about five miles south of the border on our side is the narrowest part of all, with only about a mile or two between the mountains and the river at a place called Laing’s Nek. The Boers will take you there, sir, and as soon as they have gathered their forces on their side of the border, say about here, at Volkrust, they will move down and take up their positions and wait for you. The question is, can you get there and move through before they can establish themselves?’
A silence fell on the room as Colley concentrated on the map. At length he nodded. ‘I know where you’re t-t-talking about. I have had no time at all to look up there myself because I’ve had so much to do trying to gather some sort of column together. Anyway,’ he smiled, ‘that’s why I sent you north. To be m-m-my eyes.
‘To answer your question, I don’t know how fast the Boers can move but I certainly can’t advance for about a month yet. I am working as d-d-damned hard as I can to put some sort of force together to relieve all my garrisons, which are now, as I suspected, under siege. I don’t have the luxury of waiting for troops to come from India again so I have to use the men I’ve got here already to cobble something together quickly. B-b-but it can’t be until mid to late January. Will the Boers be in position before then, do you think?’
Simon sighed. ‘ ’Fraid so, sir. As you know, they don’t have a standing army as such, but from what I’ve been able to learn, they can call up about seven thousand men. All able-bodied males between the ages of sixteen and sixty will have been mustered by now. Each man is a self-contained unit, arriving on horseback with rifle, bandolier full of ammunition and several days’ worth of rations, which will have been packed by his wife. So you see, sir, the entire nation becomes an army and the army is the entire nation. What’s more, they are all cavalry so they can move incredibly quickly. I would think that the slopes of Laing’s Nek will be occupied by Boers within a week.’
‘Artillery?’
‘I don’t know about that, but’ - his thoughts flashed back to time spent in the Transvaal the year befor
e - ‘I know that the Transvaalers are close to the Germans, and I have seen German pieces of ordnance in the north. That light cannon being brought down here was new and almost certainly German. But they will rely on their rifles more than artillery. You know, sir, they really are magnificent marksmen - our poor chaps at Bronkhorstspruit died with several bullets each in the head. And they know how to make good use of ground.’
Both men had been standing, but now Colley gestured to Simon to sit and regarded him steadily for a moment with his soft brown eyes. Then he smiled. ‘My dear boy, I do think that you are being just a bit too pessimistic, you know. The B-B-Boers may be good hit-and-run fighters, or fine at laying an ambush, as at Bronkhorstspruit. But they will lack discipline. Up against professional troops they will break.’
He held up his hand as Simon moved to interrupt. ‘If proper precautions had been taken by the 94th on the march at Bronkhorstspruit then that tragedy would never have happened. I do have respect for the Boers and, indeed, understand their desire to free their homeland, as they see it. I do not wish this war to become a race struggle between the Dutch and the English throughout the colony, and indeed, Fonthill, I have refused offers of assistance from elsewhere in South Africa which might in the long term extend the struggle and array the civil population of the country against one another.’ The warm, confiding smile returned. ‘B-b-but I must carry out my duty and relieve our forces in those garrisons as quickly as possible. I won’t have the largest or best army in the world with which to advance on the Transvaal, but I think it will be sufficient for the job in hand.
‘However, F-F-Fonthill,’ he turned his head to the window and looked out at the rain, much lighter now, and spoke quietly, as though half to himself, ‘I am issuing a general order to try to check the violent vengeful feeling which, unfortunately, is almost sure to spring up in such a war.’ He turned back and smiled again. ‘I know that war cannot be made with rosewater and I am not much troubled with sentiment when the safety of the troops is at stake, but I hate this “atrocity manufacturing” and its effects on the men, tending to make them either cowards or butchers.