by John Wilcox
Before the trap could be closed, the general sent two horsemen galloping back to Mount Prospect with orders for three companies of the 58th to reinforce the Rifles covering the drift. Then he ordered his troops to disperse along the edge of the plateau to take what cover could be found behind the individual sandstone rocks that littered the rolling ground. Simon, Jenkins and Hardy crawled away to find what shelter they could.
No stone, however, was big enough to give cover to the guns. They remained in the centre of the plateau, completely exposed. Simon, lying spread-eagled, his belly pressed to the earth, watched with growing dismay as, one by one, the men servicing the guns were picked off by the Boers, now almost invisible, firing as they were from the cover of the long tombookie grass. Volunteers were called from the infantry to man the nine-pounders, and brave men stepped forward. But as soon as they bent to lift a shell or lay the barrel, they were jerked upright and collapsed to the ground, riddled by bullets. Eventually the guns stood untended. If it were not for the red-coated bodies lying around them, they could have been gaunt sculptures, erected in the centre of the plateau to mark a cause lost many years before.
The sun was now high overhead, and cries of ‘Anybody got water?’ came from various parts of the baking field. Simon crawled to where Jenkins and Hardy were lying behind a large yellow rock, coolly firing either side of it.
‘This is another mess, look you,’ said Jenkins, perspiration trickling down his sunburned face. ‘If they get all around us then I’d say we’re done for, because there’s not enough cover to face every bleedin’ way. If they keep inchin’ round, see, we shall ’ave bullets up the arse as well as in the ’ead.’
Simon nodded. The plateau was about four acres in extent and triangular in shape. In its centre it was fairly level, although studded with outcrops of rock, but it fell away at the edges and the Boers were successfully inching their way around the British in an attempt to surround them completely. Would Colley set up a bayonet charge to stop the encirclement?
He did not - perhaps remembering the gallant efforts that had miscarried so tragically at Laing’s Nek. Instead, he retrieved another failed gambit from the Nek, and Brownlow - still in charge of the handful of mounted infantry - was directed to lead a cavalry charge on the Boers’ flank. It proved equally disastrous, as the burghers’ relentless fire cut down horses by the dozen and sent wounded animals, wide-eyed with pain and fear, plunging around the battlefield, trampling on the wounded, the dead and the living alike. Simon shook his head in despair as the shrieks of the beasts added to the crackle of musketry and the cries of the wounded.
‘They’re goin’ to kill Custer,’ shouted Hardy, looking to where they had left their horses in the centre of this cauldron.
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘They’re only bringing down the cavalry mounts attacking them. Horses are currency to the Boers. They won’t kill them randomly. They will hope to finish us and capture them to use themselves. Don’t worry.’
He looked hard at Al. The American hardly ever expressed emotion, unless something threatened his magnificent horse. This was not his war, but here he was, mollified now by Simon’s reassurance, carefully sighting along the barrel of his Winchester, picking his target and firing methodically. Did he take joy in trying to kill the enemy? Did he feel fear? The answer to both questions seemed to be no. Certainly neither emotion seemed to possess Jenkins, now doing what he did best, coolly firing and reloading, firing and reloading, quite expressionless. They made a fine pair of fighting men, one from the plains of Texas, the other from the hills and valleys of north Wales. Separated at birth by some six thousand miles, but now joined together in combat - and perhaps in death.
Simon sighed and licked his lips. He looked up into a sky that seemed completely blue and benevolent. To the north, the slopes of Majuba seemed more gentle from this aspect and the undulating, mountainous skyline promised grassland walks and bucolic views. Yet here, on the unpronounceable Schuin’s Hoogte, the acrid taste of cordite was once again drying his mouth and sickening his stomach. What a place to die!
The battle had settled down into a musketry duel, the Martini-Henry versus the Westley Richards, and clouds of smoke, constantly replenished from six hundred rifle barrels, drifted across the plateau. The redcoats had found what cover they could and were directing strong, if erratic, fire at their half-hidden assailants. Yet it was not a stalemate, for the Boers could be seen still moving to the east to complete their encirclement of the British.
Simon glanced across to where Colley was crouching behind the dubious cover of a dead horse. Digging in his elbows and keeping his head down - the Boers, it seemed, always went for the head if they could, and they were good enough to find it nine times out of ten - he crawled across to the general.
‘I’m sure you know, sir,’ he said, ‘that they are still trying to get round us. With respect, do you think, perhaps, a bayonet charge . . .?’
‘No. Suicide.’ Colley’s tone was curt, but it was clear that he was aware of the danger - not least because of the increasingly odoriferous presence of Brownlow’s dead horses, reminders of the last attempt to roll up the enemy’s flank.
The general lifted his head and called to where his depleted staff were crouching. ‘Mac,’ he bellowed.
Captain MacGregor, a well-moustached and highly regarded young officer, crawled across to join the general. ‘Sir.’
Colley gestured to an outcrop of rock some six hundred yards away across open ground to the east, untenanted by either attackers or defenders, but only about sixty yards from the nearest Boers. ‘Do you think you can get across there with about seventy rifles and stop these d-d-damned farmers from encroaching further along that way to take us from the rear? It’s clear ground so you’ll lose men, but we’ve got to stop ’em.’
MacGregor’s moustache quivered for a fraction of a second. ‘Of course, sir. Give me a minute.’
‘Fonthill,’ said Colley. ‘You’ve got g-g-good shooters. Take your chaps with Mac.’
Simon gulped. How could anyone survive running across that open ground commanded by the most accurate marksmen in the world? For a brief moment he thought of arguing. What was the difference between a bayonet charge and sending riflemen to take up a position? And what the hell, he wasn’t in the army. He didn’t have to obey senseless, hopeless orders! He tried to clear his throat. ‘Very good, sir,’ he croaked.
He waved to Jenkins and Hardy and the three of them ran at the crouch to where MacGregor was mustering a group of rifles. Somehow there seemed to be a brief lull in the firing. Were the Boers aware of this desperate ploy and just waiting to cut them down as they ran across the grass?
‘Right,’ said MacGregor. ‘Run like hell.’
Heads down, as though their helmets could protect them from bullets, the seventy men ran for their lives into a maelstrom of fire. Incredibly, MacGregor had retrieved his horse and, mounted, led the charge from the front. Inevitably the animal was shot from under him, but somehow he survived, regained his feet and, revolver in hand, continued to lead his men. Simon, Jenkins and Al were wedged into the middle of the charging contingent and this must have served as a protective screen, for the burghers unleashed a curtain of bullets that brought down soldiers all around the three scouts. At one stage Al slipped and measured his full length in a puddle halfway across. Jenkins and Simon immediately dragged him to his feet and the three resumed their desperate dash for the outcrop of rock, jumping over the fallen bodies of riflemen as they ran.
Exhausted, the survivors collapsed behind the safety of the rock as bullets ricocheted from its edges. Simon panted to regain his breath and looked around. No more than twenty of the seventy riflemen had reached the outcrop, and a trail of bodies stretching across the open ground showed the way they had come and the price that had been paid. Yet it was clear that it was a decisive position on the open ground of the plateau. It commanded the downward sloping edge, otherwise protected from the British fire from in the centre and along wh
ich the Boers would have to advance if they were to complete the encirclement. The burghers were near, damned near, but to take the rock they too would have to charge across the sixty yards of open ground. Would they do it? Simon sucked in his breath.
MacGregor seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Boers don’t have bayonets and they don’t like charging,’ he growled, brushing up the ends of his moustache. ‘We’re a bit close, but my bet is that they won’t come at us.’ He turned to the rest of his depleted band. ‘Now, all of you deploy around this damned mountain and find protected positions. Keep your heads down but keep shooting to show these farmers that we’re in position here. You five,’ he indicated a group of riflemen, their cheeks blown out as they tried to regain their breath, ‘keep to the side here and train your rifles on the slope below. If the enemy gets by there I’ll have you court-martialled for dereliction of duty.’ He grinned momentarily. ‘On second thoughts, no I won’t, because we shall all be dead.’
The riflemen grinned back, and one called out, ‘I’d rather be court-martialled if it’s all the same to you, sir.’ Simon felt a sudden surge of emotion at the resilient cheerfulness of the rank-and-file British soldier. Many of the 60th Rifles, unlike the 58th, were old hands and they would know that their position, forced out on the plateau in a position suicidally close to the enemy, was comparatively hopeless. Yet here they were, under a blazing sun without food or water, joking with their officer as they settled down, nuzzling their rifles into their cheeks. There was no hint of resentment towards the general who had led them into this trap.
‘Gaaddamn. Just look at this.’ Al indicated the brown slime that covered the length of his fine buckskins. ‘How the hell can a feller fight a war lookin’ like this? Ah’ll never git this suit cleaned out heah in this gaadforsaken hole, now will ah?’
Jenkins called down from the position he had taken high up the rock. ‘Don’t worry, bach. Where we’re goin’ there’ll be plenty of ’eat to dry it out, and then you can just borrow a trident thing to brush it clean like, can’t you?’
Simon allowed himself a smile and then scrambled to where MacGregor was sitting, his back to the rock. ‘What do you think our chances are, Mac?’ he asked.
‘Well, if they don’t rush us - and as I’ve said, it would be out of character - we could sit here all day, I would think. They can’t get round us, but without food or water we won’t last through tomorrow, that’s a certainty, old boy.’
Simon looked up at the sky. It was still brazen blue overhead but to the south a sullen grey weather front was building. He indicated it. ‘That could play a part. I can’t see the Boers staying out in the open in a storm, somehow. But it could also lead the Ingogo to flood and cut off our retreat.’
MacGregor grinned. ‘Bit buggered all round, old thing, aren’t we?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Ah well. That’s the army for you.’
‘Mac, could I ask you something?’
‘Anything you like, old fruit.’
‘Why on earth did you mount your charger to lead the dash to this damned rock?’
MacGregor frowned. ‘Can’t quite see the point of the question, old boy.’
‘Well, you must have known that you present a prime target. You know the Boers go for the officers first. And you must also have known that your horse would be killed. I can’t quite—’
MacGregor lifted his eyebrows. ‘You must have gone a bit native since you left the 24th, old lad. You know the men like to be led by an officer on horseback. Sets us apart and also sets an example, don’t you know. Sorry about the nag. But we got here, didn’t we?’
Simon smiled. ‘I suppose we did. Some of us, anyway.’ He shook his head, only half concealing his wonderment, and crawled back to his firing position. Had he gone native? Probably. Certainly he found himself questioning more and more the entrenched habits - the inculcated stupidity - of the British officer class. He slotted his rifle through a niche in the rock and took a quick potshot at a slouch hat peeping above the rim of the ravine ahead of him. It helped to relieve his irritation.
Through the long afternoon the firing continued, with the British, behind their poor cover, getting the worst of the exchange. Several attempts were made by the Boers to push around below the eastern end of the perimeter, but the fire of the small party manning the rocky spur provoked their retreat. A kind of bloody stalemate descended upon Schuin’s Hoogte. And then, towards sundown, the heavens opened.
Simon took advantage of the downpour and the growing darkness to worm his way along the ground towards the Boer positions. Taking precious cover from a small rock, he watched as the rain thundered down and saw much activity as sodden-hatted men carefully carried long bundles to the rear. It was a moment or two before he realised what was happening: the Boers were carrying their dead and wounded off the battlefield. But did this presage the retirement of the whole force? A bullet hit his rock and sent splinters into his hair, and he decided he was too close to stay longer.
Back at the outpost, he consulted MacGregor. ‘Do you think they’re getting out of here?’
The young man wrinkled his face. ‘Shouldn’t think so. They’ve got us on toast and they know it. If they are anything like proper soldiers they will stay overnight and starve us out tomorrow. We can’t hold on much longer and they probably know that.’
Simon frowned. ‘Yes. But they’re not proper soldiers. Good fighters but not conventional soldiers. Farmers don’t like staying out all night in the rain. I’m going to see the general.’
‘Very well, but let me have a look first . . .’ MacGregor lifted his head for a moment. A rifle shot rang out and the young captain jerked back and slithered down the rock. Simon pulled him over and saw a small black hole just beneath his helmet. MacGregor’s eyes, wide open, stared back at him, as though in surprise. Simon closed his own eyes for a second, shook his head slowly and then pulled down the dead man’s eyelids.
In the downpour, it was easier to make his way to where Colley still sat, now a forlorn, bedraggled figure. ‘I’m afraid MacGregor’s dead, sir. But the enemy are removing their dead and wounded and I have a feeling that they are preparing to pull out,’ he reported.
Colley sighed. ‘Too many good men . . . too many . . .’ He shook his head, then: ‘I doubt if the Boers are pulling out. If they are, then they’re damned fools. Very well, Fonthill. Tell the senior officers to join me here - and when you’ve b-b-brought ’em, you stay too.’
It was a small group of eight officers who gathered round the general, hunching their shoulders against the driving rain but holding out their helmets and drinking the precious liquid gathered there.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Colley, ‘Fonthill here believes that the enemy may be retiring. If this p-p-proves to be true, we have two choices. We can stay here and throw up earthworks under cover of darkness and fight it out with the Boers - who will surely be reinforced - in the morning. This rain will ease our water shortage and help the wounded, but we have no rations, of course. Or we can try to slip away ourselves. The Ingogo c-c-crossing will be sure to be guarded, but we can attempt to force our passage and get back to Mount Prospect. This will be rough work and an alert enemy could cut us to pieces during the withdrawal. And the two r-r-rivers may be so swollen that the drifts are unfordable. Difficulties f-f-face us either way, but I would value your opinions before making up my own mind.’ The general’s tone was gentle and even, and it was as though he was posing a hypothetical problem to a class of officer cadets at Sandhurst, yet the sun-blackened, rain-streaked faces that regarded him reflected the tension that hung over the gathering.
‘Stay here and fight it out in the morning,’ offered a major of the Rifles. ‘Give ’em a bayonet charge at dawn.’
Colley smiled. ‘Across open ground, against some of the best marksmen in the world?’ he enquired.
‘But the Boers could decimate us as we cross the two rivers,’ said a lieutenant colonel. ‘We would be completely at their mercy - even
if we could find our way in the darkness. And the rivers will be swollen.’
Simon intervened. ‘Let me and my two scouts go down there, General. At least we should be able to find out how heavily the crossings are defended and where the Boers are situated. In retreat, you could perhaps surprise and overwhelm the enemy posts - and don’t forget, you have placed guns and infantry on that knoll on the far side to cover our crossing.’
‘Thank you, Fonthill, that is exactly what I had in mind.’ Colley shot him a quick glance of gratitude. ‘You see, gentlemen, I fear that without what is left of our force, Mount Prospect would not be able to withstand an attack in force by the Boer army from Laing’s Nek. I cannot take the risk that we would be starved out tomorrow or the day after and be forced to surrender. We must fight our way back to Prospect. Go when you are ready, Fonthill.’
Jenkins was less than impressed by the task confronting them. ‘What,’ he expostulated, ‘go down to the river in this pitch black and explain to the Boers that we’re comin’ and would they kindly stand aside? The general must be barmy. But ’e’s already shown that,’asn’t ’e? Oh, sorry, bach sir. No disrespect intended. But we shall be drowned either one way or the bloody other, you must admit that.’
‘Nonsense. It’s less than two miles to the crossings. Come on. We’re supposed to be scouts after all. Al, get the horses and make sure they’re all right. Three five two, check the rifle mechanisms and see if you can dry’em and oil ’em. We may have to fight our way back.’
Within thirty minutes it was completely dark and the three men set out. The rain was still falling and the track was a quagmire, but the passage of the column was still clearly marked, and the three of them spread out in their familiar arrowhead formation, hunched low in their saddles and with rifles at the ready, and began making their way back to the drifts. Simon chose not to take the most direct route, for this must surely be guarded, but instead slipped away from the plateau where the encircling ring had not been completed and then, working on a compass bearing, planned to swing round to pick up the track later. It was nerve-racking work, with a Boer challenge or a bullet expected at any minute as their horses picked their way fastidiously across the terrain that sloped gently down to the rivers.