by John Wilcox
A glacis-like slope led up to the trenches only a hundred and fifty yards away. The British, on completely open ground, were staring down the barrels of at least five hundred rifles and Simon could clearly see the beards on the faces of the riflemen as they squinted through the sights of their weapons.
Too late Deane realised the trap into which he had led his men. Turning in his saddle, his sword raised, he screamed, ‘Open order. To the right and left. Fix bay—’ But before he could complete the order, his body and that of his horse were riddled with bullets as the line of trenches belched fire and smoke. As Deane had turned, Simon had yelled, ‘Down, for God’s sake,’ and pushed Jenkins and Hardy back over the edge of the ridge, falling to the earth himself as he heard the Boer signal to fire.
In fact, the men of the 58th, lined up ahead of him, acted as a protective screen as the Boer bullets cut through them, scything them to the ground like corn collapsing to the reapers. Lifting his head as the Boers reloaded and the gun smoke partially cleared, Simon saw that every one of the officers who had urged their horses over the brow of the hill and offered so enticing a target, with their glittering scabbards and pristine scarlet coats, had perished. Now their horses were plunging, wide-eyed, across the little plateau. Amazingly, some infantrymen had somehow survived that first searing volley and were kneeling in the open and attempting to exchange fire with the entrenched Boers. Rather more had managed to spread out across the plateau to find individual cover of sorts behind rocks and in shallow depressions, and they too were returning the Boers’ fire. Some had even managed to approach as near as forty yards to the Boer trenches. For tired garrison troops, they were showing remarkable resilience and bravery.
Below him, Simon heard Elwes cry out, ‘Come along, Monck. Floreat Etona! We must be in the front rank.’ Before he could stop him, the young lieutenant had scrambled up over the edge, only immediately to topple backwards over it again with two black bullet holes in his forehead. Simon, his heart thumping, lay with his cheek pressed into the rough sand at the edge of the plateau as he heard bullets hiss across the grass and thud into the body of a young infantryman lying before him. Slowly he edged backwards and was able to slip down over the brow of the hill and join Jenkins and Hardy crouched on the slope. Below them, the rest of the 58th were still climbing.
‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins, blowing out his cheeks. ‘That was a bit ’ot. There’s no way I’m goin’ back up there, see.’
Simon nodded. He ran his tongue over parched lips and realised that he was trembling. He pointed to the right. ‘Let’s edge along there,’ he said. He was aware that his voice sounded quite hoarse. ‘There’s a kind of rock formation over the top which should provide a bit of cover. We might be able to crawl up behind it and give some sort of covering fire to the poor bastards still caught on the top. Come on.’
The three scouts moved along the slope just below the edge. As they did so, they could hear the ping of bullets ricocheting off stone just above their heads and whining out across the valley. Below them, in the dead ground, the infantrymen had paused in their climb, bewildered and leaderless.
Simon halted at where he guessed the rock outcrop was positioned over the lip and cautiously raised his head. He had guessed correctly, and gesturing the others to follow, he scrambled over the edge. There was just room for them on a flat terrace behind the rocky knoll which projected forward on to the plateau. Pathetically, some of the 58th had charged the Boer lines and now lay before them, their bodies inert. Others had managed to find sufficient cover on the plateau to offer resistance and a lively musketry duel had ensued. Even so, it was a contest that could have only one ending, for the Boers - the better shots anyway - were firing from stable, well-protected positions in their trenches and the soldiers were unable to offer concentrated fire from their individual points of refuge.
To Simon’s right, he could define four redcoats sprawled out making the most of a declivity in the ground and offering spirited fire. Further along, two more soldiers were shooting from behind another outcrop of rock. He turned to his companions.
‘Somehow,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to set up sufficient covering fire to enable some of the fellows out on the plateau to crawl back over the edge.’
Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘Only three of us, bach sir. I don’t think we’ve got enough firepower.’
‘I know we haven’t, but we can try. It’s the only way those chaps out there will get back. Let me see if I can get these others to help.’
He called out to the redcoats to his right. ‘You men.’ His voice retained the tone of command and they looked round in surprise. ‘Cease firing. Tell those other two on your right as well. Then, when I give the order, fire on the trenches as fast as you can to give some of the others the chance to retire. Understood?’
‘Er . . . very good, sir.’
Simon sucked in a deep breath. Then, at the top of his voice, he shouted: ‘Men of the 58th out there. Retire when I give the order. We will mount covering fire.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Ready?’
Jenkins had laid a row of cartridges ready to slip into his Martini-Henry, and Al, his eyes wide, was snuggling the stock of his Winchester into his shoulder. They both gave him a quick nod.
Taking in another breath, Simon stood for a moment, revealing himself above the rock. ‘Rapid fire,’ he screamed, ‘COMMENCE. Fifty-eighth, double back NOW.’
The resulting fusillade from the nine men was not the heaviest seen on the field of battle, but at least it was concentrated. Simon was aware that Hardy, in particular, was able to get off shot after shot in rapid sequence from his Winchester repeater, and a number of slouch hats above the Boer trenches slipped out of view and, for a brief moment, the enemy fire perceptibly slackened. As it did so, red-coated figures began doubling back and flinging themselves over the edge of the plateau.
But the covering fire offered by the nine rifles was too weak to give anything but the briefest respite, and within seconds the Boer firing recommenced with even more intensity. A dozen of the fleeing soldiers, those who had paused for a moment before running back, were caught, throwing up their rifles and collapsing as the Boer shots took them in the back.
At this point, however, Simon became aware of a third factor. From the edge of the hill the distinctive crack of Martini-Henry rifle fire began to grow louder, and as he looked, he saw that the second line of companies of the 58th were crawling on to the plateau and beginning to set up a disciplined fire. Scrambling back to the edge of the ridge and looking down, Simon saw that the remainder of the infantrymen were being ordered to climb the last few yards in open order and to spread around the perimeter.
A major from the staff had taken charge and he climbed up to Simon and extended his hand. ‘Essex,’ he said. ‘I’m about the only senior man left.’ He was still short of breath from his climb. ‘Just caught up in time to take charge. Heard you shout and gathered what you were up to. Capital thing. I know you’re a scout. Ex-army?’
Simon nodded. ‘Fonthill. Late of the 24th Foot and of the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides, India.’
‘Ah, yes. Now I’ve placed you. I was at Isandlwana too. Good man. Now, we’ve got to get out of here. The Boers are far too well entrenched and there are too many of ’em to charge, and besides,’ he shot a sad glance at the bodies around them and bit his grizzled moustache, ‘these Dutchmen are damned good shots. We have enough rifles to keep the so and sos in their trenches for a bit, but once we start to withdraw, they’ll be out of there, over here and shooting down at us before you can say God Save the Queen. Can you send one of your scouts down to the general and ask him to lay down an artillery barrage on the top here again as we retreat down this damned hill? Also get him to put forward some of the rifles of the 3/60th to stop the Boers coming at us from the left on the Nek.’
‘Of course.’ Simon thought quickly. Jenkins would never find the general. The little Welshman, brave as a lion and a superb shot and horseman, com
pletely lacked a sense of direction. He would be as likely to wander into the Boer camp as find Colley down below. ‘I’ll send my American,’ he said.
Hardy was briefed and, without a word, began loping down the slope of the hillside like a Cheyenne warrior. Simon took the major’s arm as he was about to move away. ‘The artillery - what about the wounded lying up on the plateau?’ he asked. ‘And the poor devils who are out there still trying to shoot? They could be blown to pieces.’
Essex’s face remained impassive, although his grey eyes flickered for a moment. ‘Can’t be helped, old boy,’ he murmured. ‘For the greater good and all that, don’t you know. But I’m going to try and get some of ’em back now, if we can lay down enough rifle fire - as you tried to do a minute ago. Should stand a better chance now that the extra companies are up. We’ve got to retreat in good order.’
He slipped away and Simon and Jenkins exchanged half-smiles. ‘Good order’ was ever important to the British Army, but in this case it was vital to prevent a rout, a helter-skelter tumble down the hill with the Boers picking off the scramblers from the brow of the hill.
Somehow Essex had managed to get the remaining five companies of the 58th over the brow of the hill and, lying flat behind whatever cover they could find, directing continuous fire on the Boer trenches. The enemy were too well protected for the fire to cause many casualties, but it served to disrupt the Boers’ aim for a while. Then a bugle sounded the retreat and those out on the plateau who could move ran like hares for the security of the lip. As before, some of them were caught as the riflemen in the trenches belatedly realised what was happening, but enough made the edge to cause Essex to order the withdrawal of his three companies on the right of his front. As they did so, and hearing the bugle call, a number of Boers rose from behind their cover to effect a pursuit, but the remaining two companies, firing in ordered volleys, sent them ducking down again behind their sangars.
Simon scrambled back to the edge of the ridge and looked down. Essex had stopped the five retreating companies about two hundred yards down the slope, so that they stood in open order, their rifles pointing upwards to the lip, waiting to cover the retreat of their brothers left behind.
‘Time to go, 352,’ said Simon. Together, the two slipped over the edge and stumbled down the hill to join the line of waiting riflemen. The bugle sounded again and the remaining two companies appeared over the brow and came running down the slope, through the lines, to form their own firing line further down the hill. As they did so, the crest became occupied by Boers, who were immediately sent diving back for cover as a volley from the first three companies crashed out. Then the exercise was repeated as the companies exchanged positions. The boom of cannon from down below and the scream of shells overhead showed that the bombardment had recommenced to cover the retreat. Hardy had got through.
It was a classical ‘retreat in good order’, with the artillery cannonade and the disciplined rifle fire preventing harassment and pursuit of the troops as they fell back. Simon and Jenkins, falling into line with the first three companies and firing and moving when they did, could not but feel stirred at the way it was managed. After the débâcle of Brownlow’s charge and the suicidal attack on the trenches, it was a relief to witness these tired infantrymen - ‘only garrison troops’ - retreating with perfect discipline in the face of a determined and well-armed enemy.
As Essex had predicted, the Boers entrenched lower down on the Nek on the enemy’s right had left their trenches and advanced in an attempt to harass the retreating 58th from the flank. But Colley had ordered forward strong detachments of the Rifles and the Naval Brigade from his reserve and they were driving the dun-coloured figures back up the slope.
At the bottom they met Al Hardy, his white Stetson now firmly back in place. He nodded to them. ‘Looks as though we’ve got them bits o’ flags back too,’ he drawled, indicating the regimental colours and the Queen’s standard, now in the care of a sergeant.
Jenkins grinned. ‘Important that, Al,’ he said. ‘British Army never leaves its colours behind.’
‘Nope. Ah guess so. Only the poor fellers who carry them in, eh?’ It was true. There was no sign of the two subalterns who had taken the colours up the hill.
Simon and Jenkins slumped down on the grass at the bottom of the hill as the remainder of the 58th formed up and began marching up the road in perfect order, as though on parade, back to where they had originally formed up only a couple of hours ago. The midday sun beat down on them with little pity, and Simon wiped his brow.
‘I wouldn’t want to go through that again,’ he said.
Hardy screwed up his eyes and looked up at the hill crest. ‘Better ’n Little Bighorn anyways,’ he murmured. ‘At least your general got most of his men back agin. Custer never did.’
Simon addressed the ground. ‘Maybe, but too many men were left up there.’ He looked up. ‘Come on. Better get our horses and see if the general has got anything for us to do on the retreat.’
They found Colley by the side of the road, standing quietly and watching the men of the 58th march past. His face was set in grim lines but he occasionally called out, ‘Well done, men. I am proud of you. Well done.’
Simon felt sympathy well up within him. Colley had been defeated, there was no doubt about that, and news of defeat was not something that the British public back home was used to receiving from the borders of its empire. Now the British Army had suffered two setbacks within two years: firstly from spear-carrying Zulus at Isandlwana and now from these amateur soldiers from the farms of the Transvaal. It was true that this battle was no massacre, that Colley had been able to withdraw the majority of his troops safely and that he had probably been facing superior numbers. But he had been dealt a bloody nose and his invasion of the Transvaal would now probably have to await the arrival of reinforcements. Meanwhile, his garrisons in the north remained under siege, and, without a doubt, the press at home would be on his back.
‘Anything we can do, sir?’ enquired Simon.
‘What?’ Colley’s eyes looked tired. ‘Oh, Fonthill. Thank you. I hear you and your chaps behaved gallantly. I am falling back to Mount Prospect, of course. I would be delighted if the Boers would attack me there but I doubt very much if they would be so stupid.’ He smiled. ‘I am putting back a strong rearguard and I wouldn’t think for a moment that the Boers would leave their emplacements and try to fight us in the open. But I would be grateful if you and your men would scout behind the rearguard and make sure that we are not being followed in force. I don’t have much cavalry left - at least not in good shape.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Oh, and Fonthill.’
‘Sir?’
‘You were quite right about the strength of the Boers.’
‘I take no consolation from that, sir. But thank you.’
‘Yes, well. We shall have another go at them, of course. And the next time I shall win.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Well done, Fonthill. Please convey my thanks to your other two scouts.’
‘I will, sir. Thank you.’
The retreat back to Mount Pleasant was uneventful, if dreary. As predicted by Colley, the Boers did not venture down from their hilltop emplacements to force another encounter. In fact, as Simon, Jenkins and Hardy ranged behind the rearguard of the column, it seemed that the enemy had not even sent out scouts to observe the retreat.
That evening, behind hastily reinforced entrenchments at his encampment, Colley addressed his force. Typically, he personally accepted the blame for the repulse at Laing’s Nek and totally exonerated the 58th for failing to clear the second hill. There was no mention of Brownlow’s blunder at the first. He concluded: ‘We certainly shall take possession of those hills eventually and I sincerely hope that all those men who have so nobly done their duty today will be with me then.’
‘So,’ asked Jenkins as they walked away from the gathering, ‘what’s ’e goin’ to do now, then?’
‘He won’t want to have another go at Laing’s Nek without new troops, particularly proper cavalry,’ said Simon. ‘I guess he will just wait here, making sure that the Boers don’t even think about invading Natal, until he can get his reinforcements up from the south. By the look of it, he will certainly want a new intake of officers - including senior ones, at that.’
‘Oh, bloody ’ell. Don’t start volunteerin’.’
‘No fear of that.’
Later, Simon walked over to Colley’s headquarters. There, he learned that the day had cost the loss of seven officers and seventy-seven men killed, three officers and a hundred and ten men wounded, and two prisoners. The general’s staff, whom he had allowed to join the assault, had been almost completely wiped out. But it was the 58th which had borne the brunt of the casualties: seventy-four killed and a hundred and one wounded, thirty-five per cent of its total strength. And the Boers? No one knew but they were likely to have sustained very few casualties.
That night, Simon lay in his bedroll, the smell of wood smoke from the dying fire outside pervading his bivouac tent. But it was cordite, the aroma of warfare, of death and of killing, which lingered in his nostrils. He had escaped death again and he wondered how much longer he could ride his luck. Inconsequentially, he thought of Anna, and then of Alice. Would he see either of them again? Almost certainly not. But what the hell did it matter? He rolled over and sought sleep.
Chapter 10
Despite the setback at Laing’s Nek and the losses suffered by the 58th, the mood in the camp at Mount Prospect was not one of dejection. After his tragic charge up the first hill and the shameful rout of his second troop, Brownlow had refused to speak to his men, but Colley had not rebuked him. Word had filtered down that General Sir Evelyn Wood, a much-respected hero of the Zulu campaign, was on his way out to Cape Town to become the general’s second in command. Wood was senior in both rank and experience as a fighting soldier to Sir George, but such was the popularity of Colley within the army that Wood, it was said, had unselfishly agreed to accept the post. The first of the reinforcements had already arrived in the south from India - the 2/60th Rifles, the 15th Hussars (real cavalry at last!) and an artillery battery - and the 83rd and 92nd regiments and a second Naval Brigade of fifty-eight men with two nine-pounder guns were expected any day. The feeling in the camp was that with these reinforcements and with his hard-won knowledge of the terrain, the kind but shrewd Colley would be able to sweep the Boers from the hills and march over the Nek into the Transvaal and then on to relieve his besieged garrisons in the state.