by John Wilcox
Simon forced a return smile. ‘Well, sir, as I say, it is your decision, but there are another couple of factors you should take account of.’
‘Very well.’
‘Firstly, sir, I believe that the Boers are under the personal command of Commandant General Piet Joubert, one of the triumvirate who have been elected to run the new Transvaal republic. I have no idea how good a soldier he is, but if Heidelberg has sent one of the top men down here to fight you, they really must mean business. It could even be that, having seen you off, so to speak, Joubert will lead his force down to invade Natal.’
Colley frowned in disagreement. ‘Doubt it. I very much doubt it. As I’ve said before, the Boers are not invaders. Anyway, would they have enough men?’
‘This is the second point. I climbed a tree to get a better view of the positions on the second hill. Beyond the trenches I could see line after line of tents, obviously stretching back behind the hill. I should say that Joubert has probably got as many as two thousand burghers up there, so that he outnumbers you.’
‘Hmm.’ Silence fell inside the tent. The two ADCs standing deferentially behind the general - Simon recognised young Elwes - fidgeted. Simon took a deep breath and made one last attempt to sway the general.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I promise you that the Boers have shrewdly placed themselves in a very sound defensive position. Even though they are not regular soldiers, somebody in command there - presumably Joubert - knows what he is doing. In addition, I believe that they outnumber you. Surely it would be better to wait until your reinforcements now at the Cape are able to get up here? Then you could attack with far more confidence.’
Colley gave his sad smile. ‘My dear Fonthill, I do not lack confidence. I believe that, outnumbered or not, British soldiers can defeat an army of farmers, good shots though they may be.’
A murmur of ‘Hear, hear’ came from the ADCs at the rear.
‘In any case,’ the general continued, ‘I don’t really have a choice, you see. If I don’t advance into the Transvaal soon, I believe that our besieged garrisons in places like Potchefstroom will have to surrender.’
He put a kindly hand on Simon’s shoulder. ‘I appreciate your advice and your good scouting work. In an ideal world perhaps one should wait. But I have often said that you may class most men, soldiers especially, as those who see the difficulty of a thing and why it cannot be done, and those who see the way of overcoming difficulties and doing it - and I have always aimed at belonging to the latter class. Now do go and get some rest. I intend to move up to attack in the morning, unless this damned rain makes it completely impossible. I would like you and your two men to attach yourselves to my headquarters staff, so report to me soon after dawn.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Simon nodded to the ADCs and stooped out of the tent. He found that Jenkins and Hardy had pitched their three small tents to form a semicircle and suspended a tarpaulin over their openings, under which they had somehow managed to light a fire. The rain had eased somewhat but a thick mist had descended.
‘So,’ said Jenkins. ‘Attack at dawn, is it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well I’ll be danged,’ murmured Hardy. ‘Could just be another Little Bighorn. Even ah can see that them fellers are in a well-defended position.’
‘I agree. I tried to argue, but the general feels he can show the Boers the bayonet and make them run. He could be right, but it could also be nasty. We’ll have to see.’
Chapter 9
The three rose well before dawn to find that the rain had completely lifted. The camp was abustle. Tents were being struck, fires were being doused and it was clear that the column was going to advance. Simon noticed that the red-coated infantrymen had dyed their once white helmets and cross belts brown with cow dung and coffee grounds but the officers stood out conspicuously with their brightly polished brasses and gleaming sword scabbards. Simon shook his head. They were obvious targets for the Boer marksmen.
The three scouts joined Colley’s small headquarters staff, which was busy allocating about two hundred men and two Gatlings to stay and guard the camp and baggage. The rest moved forward, the men singing the latest song from back home, ‘Grandfather’s Clock’, accompanied by a score of penny whistles. Simon made a quick estimate of the force: there were just under nine hundred infantrymen and about a hundred and eighty mounted soldiers, a great many of whom were sitting their horses with undoubted trepidation. Simon felt a pang of sympathy for them. Accompanying the troops were six cannon and three rocket tubes, but the core of the force consisted of five companies of the 58th Regiment of Foot and an equal number of the 3/60th Rifles, all wearing sun-bleached and patched uniforms of thick serge and carrying full packs in the sun. They looked less than smart and, after their long and hard march from the south, gave out an air of resigned fatigue. Simon remembered that these were the men who had been left behind at the end of the Zulu and Sekukuni campaigns to be garrison troops in South Africa, after their comrades had returned home. They had not been expected to go into action.
The men sweated copiously in their broadcloth and under their packs but they were glad to be marching in sunlight instead of rain, and despite its fatigue the column made good time. It was not long before Colley was able to draw up his force across a grassy plateau and a slight ridge under and about two thousand yards from the Boer positions. The general rode forward and, Simon’s sketch in one hand, spent some time scanning the looming hills with his binoculars. Then he returned and summoned his senior officers. Simon was invited to join the circle.
Colley spoke quietly and exuded an air of complete confidence. The aim, he explained, was to clear the Boers from the two main hills on the right side of the road, since the entrenchments on the slopes of Majuba Hill on the left could only be reached by a precipitous climb. The Boers were spread over a wide area and therefore he intended to mask his intentions - and keep the enemy widely deployed until the last minute - by advancing up the road towards the Nek and then suddenly attacking the second and highest hill, immediately overlooking the Nek, which he considered to be the key position in the Boer defences. Not only did it command the main advance along the road from the south and, to a large extent, the first hill, but it also had a field of fire beyond Majuba to the north and on to the Boers in the entrenchments on the mountain’s slopes.
At this, Simon drew in his breath. Surely it would be better to clear the first and easiest of the hilltop positions, even if it did allow the enemy to deploy? Once the first hill was taken there was a gentler slope up which to attack the main entrenchments on the second, and, of course, there would be no flanking fire to contend with from the men on that first hill. But the general was continuing.
‘Before we make the attack,’ he said, ‘the artillery and rockets will direct their fire on the Boer emplacements on the Nek and the main hill. We will allow about fifteen minutes for the bombardment before attacking.’ He smiled. ‘We may well find that the cannonade will do the trick for us. I doubt very much whether the Boers are accustomed to artillery fire. They could well break and run after a few minutes’ pounding.’
The officers allowed themselves a few polite chuckles.
‘Now, Deane.’ The general turned to the colonel who was in nominal command of the Natal Field Force. ‘You will lead the 58th in the attack on the main hill.’
‘Honoured, sir,’ said Deane.
‘You will be covered, of course, by continued artillery fire until you reach the summit. You will also be protected from flanking fire from the first hill by the mounted squadron at your rear, who, at the first sign of concentrated fire on you, will attack the first hill and clear it. Right, Brownlow?’
‘Delighted, sir,’ acknowledged the young major of the King’s Dragoon Guards in charge of the mounted infantry.
‘I shall push the rockets up as far towards the Nek as I can. I can see a wall from some old farm there that will give them good protection and they should be able to direct
fire on the Boers from a different angle. A company of the Rifles and the Naval Brigade will go with them. The rest of the Rifles and the Mounted Police will stay in reserve with me. Understood?’
There was a murmur of acquiescence and, indeed, approval from the circle of officers and the meeting broke up. Colley beckoned Simon towards him.
‘Stay with me until we have launched the attack,’ he said, ‘just in case I need you. Then you may care to join the fun with the 58th when they advance. I am allowing the staff to go forward.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Simon swallowed. He was not too sure that the opportunity of climbing that hillside into a wall of Boer fire was something for which to thank anyone. But, of course, there was no choice. ‘We will certainly do so.’
The general laid his hand on Simon’s arm and a twinkle came into his eye. ‘One thing, though, my boy,’ he said. ‘Tell that Texan chap to take his white hat off. When they see it, the Boers might think I’m surrendering.’
‘Very good, sir. We’ll bury it if necessary.’
From the top of the ridge, Simon and his companions watched as the Natal Field Force made its advance. First the artillery deployed down the ridge and then opened fire. As it did so, the rockets, with their protective force of rifles and Mounted Police, galloped up the road and quickly set up behind the distant wall. The hiss and sparks of the rockets were soon joining in with the brutal cacophony of the cannon, and fragments of rock could be seen splintering up from the Nek directly ahead and on the crest of the main hill. Under cover of the bombardment, the main force - no singing now and no penny whistles in evidence - marched up the gently rising road into the valley formed by the mountain on the left and the low hills on the right.
‘A fine sight, eh, gentlemen?’ murmured Colley, his field binoculars scanning the tops of the two hills.
There was a low mumble of agreement from the ADCs and runners, but Simon remained silent. His own telescope was focused on the hill crests. From the position on the ridge, it should have been possible to see some signs, at least, of the evacuation of the Boer trenches if the artillery fire was having its expected effect. But there was no movement at all.
‘It looks to me, sir,’ he said, ‘as if the Boers are not being affected by the bombardment. I think that they are staying in their trenches and keeping their heads down.’
‘Humph.’ Then, ‘Ah. Now we should see some results. Deane has let his men off their straps and up the hill.’
It was true. The infantrymen of the 58th had turned to their right and were beginning the ascent of the main hill.
‘But they’re in close order!’ Simon could not but expostulate as he saw the redcoats begin their climb in a tightly packed column of companies, four abreast. They would present a solid target block to the men in the trenches once they reached the summit.
‘Yes. Well. The shells will keep the Boers’ heads down and then Deane will be upon ’em before they can level their rifles.’ But Colley did not sound completely convinced.
In fact, there was no fire on the climbing men from the crest above them, only desultory sniping from Boer skirmishers on the slopes of the first hill, firing at their flank. At a range of about nine hundred yards it was largely ineffective, but its effect on Brownlow was immediate. The men of the 58th had hardly begun their scramble upwards before he pulled his first troop to the right, and without, it seemed, pausing to find the best route to the top, set it and the second troop behind him to gallop straight up the hill by the steepest gradient.
‘By jove, that’s a bit premature,’ murmured Colley, ‘and they’re going up the hardest way.’
‘Permission to join the 58th, sir?’ The request came from Lieutenant Elwes, his voice sounding high-pitched against the crack of the cannon.
‘What? Oh, yes. Off you go. And you too, Fonthill, with your chaps. Good luck and good hunting. Runners, stay with me.’
With Elwes and three other members of Colley’s staff, Simon, Jenkins and Hardy galloped down the ridge and advanced along the road. Pulling his horse back to a canter, Simon watched the development of the attack up the hill on his right. Despite the gradient, Brownlow and his first troop now seemed to be on the crest of the hill, although it was clear that their horses were blown and their swaying, inexperienced riders, swords in hand, had been able to do very little to guide them up the steep climb. Once on the flat summit, however, the folly of setting cavalry - and untrained cavalry at that - to attack well-entrenched riflemen became apparent. Simon pulled his horse to a halt and focused his telescope. He sucked in his breath with a hiss as he heard, even above the cannonade, the sharp rattle of musketry and then saw the leading file of horsemen go down under that first volley. In a second, the hilltop was a mêlée of prancing riderless horses as a second volley followed the first. Then he saw the second troop wheel round and turn back well below the summit and, in ragged disorder, plunge down the hill the way it had come, white-faced riders desperately trying to retain their seats as their mounts hurtled down. Within minutes, the Mounted Squadron’s attack on the first hill had disintegrated into a rout and the 58th’s right flank had become exposed.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ Jenkins and Hardy had appeared at Simon’s side. ‘They were bloody fools, look you, to go up that way in the first place. They stood no chance. No chance at all.’
As if to emphasise Jenkins’s words, a whiff of white gun smoke floated down from the crest and, once again, the smell of cordite - the acrid perfume of battle - touched their nostrils. Simon gulped. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’d better go and catch up the others. The 58th are going to need all the help they can get now.’
The redcoats were still under no direct fire as they slipped and slithered in the wet grass that covered the bottom of the slope of the second hill, for the artillery continued to lay down its curtain of shot along the ridge of the hill and the Nek itself. And indeed, the slope was dead ground. As the three scouts and the others dismounted and tethered their horses to a scrubby bush, however, Simon could see that the Boers on the first hill, having seen off the pathetic charge of Brownlow’s cavalry, were already slipping down from their crest to spread along the upper slopes, the better to direct fire on the 58th.
The gradient that the infantry were climbing was about one in fifteen - not as bad as that tackled so peremptorily by Brownlow - but looking up, Simon was amazed to see that all the officers of the 58th remained mounted, their horses somehow climbing up in a sequence of leaps and bounds and the officers leaning forward, their backs splendidly hollowed in parade-ground fashion, urging their beasts on as though in some three-day event in the Home Counties.
Simon began a mad scramble to reach Colonel Deane, who was in the lead and was barking at his men to retain their dressing as they climbed. Panting after his exertion, Simon eventually caught up with him and pointed to the right and to the rear, where dun-coloured figures could be seen slipping down from the summit of the first hill.
‘Colonel,’ he gasped, ‘the cavalry attack on that hill has completely failed. This has freed the Boers up there to take up positions to fire on you. You will need to detach at least a platoon to face them and keep their heads down.’
‘What? Ah, you’re the scout feller. Right. Thank you. I’ve got it. Major Essex, send out a platoon to stop those snipers from getting near us. Now come on, men. Onwards and upwards. Keep your lines now. Keep your bearing.’
Simon sank down on to the wet grass and shook his head. As he did so, the labouring infantrymen struggled around him, their red faces exuding perspiration as they dug the butts of their rifles into the ground to help their climb. He noticed sadly that some of them had noses redder than their faded coats, still peeling from the hot sun that had interspersed the rain bursts on their long treks up from Cape Town and Durban. Brave men, climbing upwards in close-order formation, keeping their line and keeping their bearing.
Jenkins and Hardy joined him as the sudden cessation of the artillery cannonade showed that the first line of
troops were nearing the summit. Simon noted with relief that the Texan had left his white Stetson down below with his horse and his normally spotless buckskins were now soiled from the climb so that he merged more happily into the landscape. Even so, he attracted amused stares from the sweating soldiers as they stepped around the squatting trio.
One grinning Yorkshireman called out: ‘Eeh, lad, we’m fightin’ Bo-ars, not bloody Indians.’
Hardy was not fazed. He grinned and called back in impeccable moorland dialect: ‘Reet, lad. Ah’ll remember that.’
‘Blimey, Al,’ said Jenkins. ‘That sounded real Yorkshire, like.’
The Texan looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘Met a Yorkshireman on the boat comin’ over,’ he confided. ‘Funny ol’ talkin’ they do.’ Then he cocked a slightly anxious eyebrow towards the summit. ‘Up to the top with the rest of ’em, Simon?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid so, Al. I’m sorry. It’s not your war.’
A slow smile spread across the American’s face. ‘Waal,’ he drawled, ‘ah guess it is now. Come on then. Let’s git up there and go an’ win it.’
The three got to their feet and easily overtook the labouring infantrymen ahead of them, so that they were just behind the first company of the 58th, who, led by Colonel Deane still on his splendid horse, were now cresting the brow of the hill. Among their number were two young subalterns, one carrying the regimental colours and the other with the Queen’s colour. Just behind Simon and his companions, down the hill, a loud chattering revealed the presence of Lieutenant Elwes and his fellow Old Etonian, Lieutenant Monck.
Simon hauled himself over the brow of the hill to gaze on a strangely tranquil tableau as the leading companies of the 58th, still in close order, stood to regain their breath after the climb. The end of the bombardment had produced a surreal silence, broken only by the panting of the exhausted men and, overhead, the cry of a solitary reed cormorant which had risen from the river below. Ahead, Colonel Deane stood in his stirrups to get a better view of the Boer positions. It was as though the gods had cried ‘Halt!’ and the actors in the tragedy had been frozen in their positions for a few seconds, the better to appreciate what was to come.