by John Wilcox
The general listened with rapt attention. At Anna’s death he threw up his hands. ‘How tragic. It is terrible enough to have brave young soldiers killed in this terrible conflict, but for it to happen to a woman . . . it beggars belief, Fonthill. That man must be a monster!’ He took off his spectacles and thought for a moment. ‘But what on earth was he doing in the Boer headquarters, eh? And how was it that you so outraged the man?’
‘I have no idea, sir,’ lied Simon. ‘He is a very Prussian Prussian, so to speak, and I think that he just hates the British and everything to do with the British Empire. He was clearly trying to kill me when he hit the countess, as she was pleading with me to bring her here.’
Colley sucked the endpiece of his spectacles. ‘You say she said he was close to B-B-Bismarck. Hmmm. I don’t like that, Fonthill. I don’t like that at all.’ It was clear that, caring man though he was, the general was now becoming more perturbed to hear of the German’s presence in the Boer headquarters and the influence he seemed to exert there, than of the death of an unknown German noblewoman. To Colley, bedevilled by the prevarications of the Gladstone cabinet in London, the possible ramifications of von Bethman’s activities was one more unwelcome factor in the political quagmire in which he was becoming embroiled.
He frowned and shot a keen and not altogether approving look at Simon. ‘You realise that this could involve the Foreign Office and g-g-goodness knows who else? Less significant events have started European wars. You must write me a full r-r-report, Fonthill, and I will consider whether I need to send it to London. As she is - was - a lady of noble birth, we may have to make a full explanation to Berlin. Perhaps not. I will think about it. Of course, the countess will have a full Christian burial here - with the officers, of course. I will see to that. Now, t-t-tell me about the Boer camp. You delivered the letter to Smit, of course?’
‘Yes, sir. General Smit asked me to tell you that he would convey your letter to Vice President Kruger as soon as possible but that Kruger was away from Heidelberg and it might take a little time for the letter to reach him. I, er, got the impression that he felt that forty-eight hours was a rather tight timetable within which to expect a reply.’
Colley snorted. ‘That’s their problem, not mine.’ He stared out of the tent unseeingly and a heavy silence ensued before Simon broke it.
‘I should tell you, sir, that the Boers have dug many more trenches, put up stone emplacements and extended along the Nek up the lower slopes of Majuba. I would say that they have also received many reinforcements. All in all, sir, it seems to me that the Nek would now be a very tough nut indeed to crack.’
‘Improved their lines, eh?’ The general seemed surprised and even annoyed. Simon couldn’t think why. It seemed the obvious thing for the Boers to do, for they would know of the arrival of British reinforcements. ‘Well,’ continued Colley, ‘I don’t intend to sit here like a wet lettuce while the Boers make up their minds about our offer. Tomorrow I shall make a d-d-detailed reconnaissance around the back of the Boer lines, round their extreme left flank, across the Buffalo into the Transvaal. I want to look at the options open to me, if a direct attack on the Nek is out of the question. I shall take a small escort of Hussars and I shall want you and your scouts to guide us. We will leave shortly after dawn.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Simon hurried to the sick bay and found that Anna, in an isolation tent, had already been sewn up in a shroud. He stood looking down at the pitiable bundle, remembering the gown she had worn at Brand’s ball, her vibrancy that evening, the curve of her cheek and . . .
‘How did it happen?’ An army surgeon had crept up behind him.
‘What? Oh, sniper’s bullet. Think it was meant for me.’
‘Really?’ The doctor, blue eyes deep in a seamed face, was looking at him quizzically. ‘Damned fine woman. What the hell was she—’
‘Sorry,’ said Simon hurriedly. ‘I must go. When will she be . . . er . . .?’
‘Within about an hour. Doesn’t do to hang about in this climate. Burial party’s on its way.’
‘Thank you. Now please excuse me.’
Simon set out to look for Jenkins and Hardy. He found them on the edge of the camp, under the shade of a large cypress tree. There, reunited with his Colts, Hardy was once again practising his marksmanship, but this time he was performing before an admiring audience of Gordon Highlanders. As they watched, he stood with his back to his target - two beer bottles perched on a wall overlooking the empty veldt - and, at a shouted command, whirled, drew his revolver and shattered both bottles. The demonstration was repeated seven times and only once did the Texan miss. At first Simon was indignant that Anna’s death should have had so little effect on his companions. Then he too became entranced by Hardy’s skill.
‘Hey, laddie,’ shouted a kilted Scot, ‘can ye do that when yer pissed?’
‘Only when ah am pissed, sonny,’ drawled Hardy.
‘Where did ye learn it, then?’
‘Shootin’ Injuns an’ moose on mah daddy’s ranch in Texas.’
One bearded sergeant reacted to this. ‘Och, surely the moose are further north, up in Canada? I served there fer a time wi’ General Wolseley on the Red River Expedition. You no have them in Texas, I’m thinkin’.’
Hardy spat. ‘Had ’em where ah was growin’ up, that’s fer sure.’
The Texan rejected further calls to show off his skills, pleading wastage of cartridges, and as from the fringe of the dispersing crowd Simon watched Hardy phlegmatically reloading his pistol, he wondered anew about this strange creature who had attached himself to them. The man seemed to have become even more withdrawn and monosyllabic since the Ingogo battle, hardly ever speaking unless drawn into conversation by the garrulous Jenkins. Yet there was much that was likeable about the lanky American. He rarely ventured an opinion but was always happy to do what was asked. His love of the outdoors was palpable and his equable nature and occasional shafts of wit made him an ideal companion. Simon realised that when the frontiersman eventually left to go his own way, as was inevitable, he would miss his company - and his air of mystery.
In this context, and freeing his thoughts for a moment from the memory of Anna, he put a companionable arm through that of the Texan as they walked to their tents and said, ‘Now come on, Al. Even I know that moose are never found as far south as Texas. Were you pulling his leg?’
The tall man was unfazed. ‘Sure ’nuff,’ he said. ‘Gotta keep puttin’ these smartasses down - particularly the Jocks.’
‘You know, Al bach,’ said Jenkins, walking with them, ‘you’re wastin’ your time doin’ all that shootin’ for nothin’. You could be chargin’ for the entertainment, like in a circus, see.’ He turned to Simon. ‘If I got in a bit of trainin’, I could be as good as old Al ’ere, but with me rifle, look you. Probably shootin’ backwards from between me legs. And I could charge a dram for every shot. Now that would be sensible.’
Hardy just grinned and chewed his tobacco.
Simon left them and made his way to the little compound where lay the officers’ burial ground. It was a peaceful spot, from where a clear view could be had of the looming figure of Majuba, with the Nek below it. He was just in time to see the shroud being lowered into the ground by four Zulus, under the supervision of a rather worried-looking padre.
‘Ah, young man,’ said the padre, ‘do you know anything about this lady? I know only her name, and it would be Christian to be able to say just a little more in laying her to rest.’
Simon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Eventually he cleared his throat and said: ‘She was a German countess and a widow and a loving mother. She was also very brave and died brutally a long way from her home. I am sure, Padre, that you will find something appropriate from the scriptures to say. I will stay.’
After the brief service, he gathered together a few drooping wild veldt flowers and put them on the mound of earth. He attempted his own prayer but could think of nothing to say. H
e did, however, detain a corporal of the 58th who was passing and pressed a half-sovereign into his hand. ‘Can you make a good wooden cross?’ he asked.
‘O’ course, sir, yessir.’
‘Good. Make the best you can and put it at the head of this grave. Carve this into the crosspiece.’ He scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘Anna Scheel, killed in action, 17/2/1881. RIP.’ ‘Can you do that? I am away tomorrow but I will return the day afterwards.’
Later, as they sat round a spluttering, dampish fire drinking tea, Simon told Jenkins and Hardy of their assignment for the next morning. As usual, Jenkins was puzzled.
‘Now this bloody war is supposed to be almost over, isn’t it? I thought that the letter we took today agreed to a cestation . . . cissisation . . . ending of ’ostilities for a bit. Why does the general want to go prowlin’ about round the back of the enemy, like? If ’e’s caught by ’em, there’d be a bit of a row back ’ome, wouldn’t there?’
Simon nodded. ‘Probably. The trouble is, you see, I think he’s been getting a bit of a bad press both here and at home. It’s rather unfair in a way, because although he lost a lot of men on the Nek and the Ingogo, he did not have to sacrifice ground or a good tactical position and he withdrew his troops more or less in good order from both encounters. His very presence here has drawn south a large contingent of the Boer army and so relieved pressure on our besieged garrisons in the Transvaal. Having said that, he has not been able to have a definitive set-to with the Boers and - equally importantly - he has not been able to dislodge them from British territory in Natal.’ He prodded the ground gloomily with a stick. ‘I would say that General Colley is itching to retrieve his reputation and also to find some way of getting the Boers to retreat, but London won’t let him. So he’s poking around to find a route out of the impasse.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘Well, beggin’ your pardon, bach sir, but I don’t much fancy goin’ with him tomorrow. This bloke ’as a nasty ’abit of leadin’ us right into the mire, if you ask me.’
Hardy stood, threw away the dregs of his tea and stretched. ‘This chile is hittin’ the hay, if we’re ridin’ at dawn. Good night, boys.’
The others nodded to him, and when the tall figure had slipped away from the firelit circle, Jenkins leaned across and put a hand on Simon’s knee. ‘Sorry about the German lady, bach,’ he said. ‘I could see that you was upset like, but you know, it’s probably all for the best. It wouldn’t ’ave worked, would it?’
Simon frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Well - you and ’er. I wouldn’t ’ave thought she was your cup o’ tea, so to speak. Now, Miss Alice—’
‘Miss Alice is bloody well married and is probably already pregnant with Covington’s child. So that’s that.’ He scowled and rose. ‘No point in talking about it further. Early start tomorrow. Good night, 352.’
Jenkins watched him go. ‘Ah well,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad, at least. Wouldn’t have wanted to live in bloody Germany . . .’
The serrations of the hills to the east stood in purple silhouette against the rays of the hidden sun as the general and his escort rode out the next morning. With the three scouts in the lead in their familiar arrowhead formation, the party headed south and crossed the Buffalo some miles behind Mount Prospect, climbed the Transvaal shore of the river and wheeled to the north until they were to the rear of the Boers’ position on Laing’s Nek. Colley gestured to a high spot and they climbed to it and reined in. Following the arrival of the reinforcements from the south, the general had gained a new chief of staff, Lieutenant Colonel Herbert Stewart, to replace the dead Colonel Deane, and the two men now rode forward and studied the northern prospect of Mount Majuba intensely through their field glasses. They sat apart for at least an hour examining the mountain and the surrounding country, their heads together in earnest conversation, then ordered the return to Mount Prospect.
‘What was all that about then?’ asked Jenkins as they rode ahead of the returning party.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Simon. ‘But I don’t like the smell of it.’
The next day Simon settled down to write his report about Anna. After two pages he screwed them up and threw them away. He would await events before perjuring himself on paper. In the mean time, the general would have enough to do. Later he saw Colley and his chief of staff once again in deep conversation at the northern edge of the camp. At one point a native who lived in one of the neighbouring farms was summoned and was closely cross-questioned by the two men. During the interrogation the black man lifted his arm and pointed towards Majuba, but the general quickly pulled the man’s arm down again. Simon, watching unseen from under a tree, blew out his cheeks. It was clear that what he had feared was about to happen. Colley intended to do the impossible: he was going to try to take Majuba!
Simon retreated to his tent to pick up his own field glasses and covertly examined the mountain ahead. Its every detail was now visible in the clear air of that South African summer, and the morning sun defined its ravines, kloofs, ridges and contours through the magnification of the binoculars as though they were less than a quarter of a mile away, instead of four. From this southerly aspect it could be seen that a lower hill or small mountain, the Nkwelo, was connected to the westerly slopes of Majuba by a nek or saddle, and to Simon this seemed to present the best approach. But the path to Majuba’s summit from the nek looked to be a difficult climb - as, indeed, did all the approaches facing south. The flat-topped mountain seemed to hunch itself upwards at the last in an almost vertical ring of rough, fissured rock. And from what Simon could remember of the view from the north, the same gaunt necklace ringed the throat of the mountain at that side too. Surely, whatever the approach used, no column of troops carrying full equipment could climb that?
Which begged the question, of course, whether they would be forced to do so under fire. Simon focused his lenses on the table at the summit of the mountain. It was well known to all of Colley’s force that the Boers had placed a small piquet on the summit as observers. There they were now - seemingly just one or two familiarly hatted burghers strolling along in silhouette against the blue sky. But was that all there were? And were they withdrawn at night?
The last question made Simon lower his glasses. Surely Colley would not attempt a night ascent? The risk of crossing four miles - probably six if the attempt was made via the north or even the nearest route via the Nkwelo saddle - of hostile open territory in the dark and then scaling a seemingly unclimbable mountain without knowing if it was defended must be too great to be contemplated, even by a general desperate to redeem himself. Wolfe had done something similar at Quebec, but Simon could not recall from his knowledge of recent military history another instance of a night attack being successful in these conditions. He did, however, remember the chaos of night manoeuvres on the Brecon Beacons, with whole companies losing themselves on those hills - gentle and unchallenging compared with the unknown ravines and rocky fissures of Majuba. Then a further, more pleasurable thought struck him. Chaos? If it was like that - and it almost certainly would be - could there be an opportunity of slipping away, down to the Nek below, and finding von Bethman?
The idea prompted a grim smile and he walked back to his tent in deep contemplation.
That evening he was summoned to Colley’s tent. Inside, flanking the general, were Lieutenant Colonel Stewart and a Major Fraser of the Royal Engineers, another newly joined member of the staff. They all wore expressions of suppressed excitement, like boys about to break out of boarding school to raid a tuck shop. After effecting the introductions, Colley lowered his voice and said: ‘I am leading a column this evening after d-d-dark to take possession of Majuba.’
Simon nodded and then remembered to be surprised. ‘Really, sir? Won’t that be interpreted by the Boers and even the people back home as an offensive move during what is virtually a ceasefire?’
Colley glowered and Simon realised that now that the general had a full staff again, his scou
t no longer possessed the privilege of offering advice inherited from the massacre of the staff at the Nek.
‘Certainly not,’ snapped Colley. ‘The Boers have a p-p-piquet up on the mountain that the local Zulus reliably inform me is withdrawn at night. I am therefore merely taking unoccupied Natal territory which belongs to Her Majesty. And anyway, that is none of your business. What will be your business, Fonthill, is to go ahead of the column, with your scouts and two local Kaffirs who know the mountain well. You will guide us in. We will c-c-climb the mountain via the Nkwelo hill and scale Majuba proper along the nek that connects the two of them. I am informed that the top of Majuba consists of a saucer-like depression ringed by boulders and that water can be found not far below the surface.’
His expression softened. ‘Now, I understand your anxiety, my boy. You have had experience of the Boers’ obduracy at first hand. But this move c-c-cannot be interpreted as being aggressive, for if we are right that the piquets are removed at night - and it will be part of your job to ascertain this before we crest the summit - then we can occupy the d-d-damned thing without bloodshed. It will just be a troop movement.’ He chuckled. ‘Of course, I will then be able to look down over the Boer defences on Laing’s Nek and command the approaches to it from the Natal side as well, and this will make ’em feel dashed uncomfortable. It might even persuade them to pull out of Natal and await developments on the political front.’
Simon nodded. ‘I see the point, sir. When do you intend to march?’
‘At ten p.m. The force will not be large - only approximately six hundred men. No one outside this tent knows of my intentions at the moment because I want this move to be carried out in the utmost secrecy. We shall b-b-begin marshalling the troops at about eight thirty, but until then keep this under your hat. We shall march without lights and I understand that it is likely to be a dark evening . . .’
Simon groaned inwardly.