by John Wilcox
Simon realised that he had not given a thought to von Bethman during the climb. Well, the swine would just have to wait.
Chapter 14
Once the men had been positioned, Colley ordered a signal to be made to Mount Prospect, from a position out of sight of the Boers, reporting the success of the march. Then, as the officers began sorting out the men into their respective units, the general, accompanied by Colonel Stewart, Major Fraser and the naval officer commanding the bluejackets, Commander Romilly, began a closer inspection of the position. The sun was now just beginning to climb beyond the eastern peaks and it was pleasant in the half-light to be high on the mountaintop on that Sunday morning of 27 February 1881. As the four men picked their way along the springy grass between the rocks, they came upon Simon and Hardy preparing coffee, with Jenkins stretched at their side, fast asleep.
‘Well d-d-done, Fonthill,’ said Colley, nodding also to Hardy. ‘You got us here, and on time too. First class.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We’re taking a look around,’ continued Colley. ‘Come along and see what we’ve got up here. You c-c-come too, General Custer.’
The general was obviously in a high, happy mood after the successful conclusion to the night march, and although Simon was tired and wished nothing more than to finish his coffee and stretch out on the turf beside Jenkins, he felt it would be ill-mannered to refuse. ‘Thank you, General,’ he said, rising to his feet. Hardy followed suit, rather more languorously.
In the improving light, the details of the site could be distinguished more clearly. The ascent had been made up the mountain’s south-west shoulder, and it could now be seen how difficult had been the approach. Looking down, Simon could pick out the terraces and ravines and the rocky escarpment studded with stunted bushes and trees. It seemed almost impossible that troops so heavily laden could have ascended this way in the darkness. But he also noted that the lowest slopes were concealed from view from the summit. An attacking force could gather there without being seen from the top.
The north-eastern face overlooked the Boer positions on Laing’s Nek, and the breakfast fires of the enemy way down below could clearly be seen, pricking the deep purple of the valley like hundreds of fireflies. It was the morning of the Sabbath, and Simon reflected that the Boers would not be looking to take arms on the holy day. They would consider it a sin for any Christian to have aggressive thoughts on a Sunday. Did this mean that they would not fight to regain the mountain if their leaders demanded it? Simon sighed. Who was to know? More significant to the moment, perhaps, was the fact that the mountain sloped quite gently here away from the summit to a brow beneath and seemed more easily climbed. Beyond and beneath the brow, in turn, a wide, flat terrace stretched before ending in a further drop. From the lip of the summit a distinctive knoll projected from its northern point. It was joined to the summit by a narrow saddle less than seventy yards long and standing only just a little lower than the rim. It commanded the last hundred feet or so of the ascent to the summit from this side, and the general directed that a handful of Highlanders, under the command of a subaltern, should be posted on the knoll to defend it and command the final approach to the top. This was immediately dubbed ‘the Gordons’ Knoll’.
The positioning of the defenders of Majuba - if it needed to be defended, for who would dare to attack it? - was now more or less complete. The northern half of the mountaintop was allocated to the Gordons, the 58th were posted along the southern face, and the sailors manned the southern angle of the triangle, including a little projecting knoll there which became ‘Sailors’ Knoll’, of course. Colley had made his headquarters in the lowest, central portion of the saucer, under the protection of the bisecting ridge. The hollow was about two hundred yards long and sixty yards wide, and here he had decided to place his reserve of three companies. Two doctors were now setting up a makeshift hospital there and wells were being dug for water.
General Colley looked around with some satisfaction. He turned to Simon. ‘We could stay here for ever,’ he said.
‘Quite so, sir.’ But what was the point? ‘May I ask, General, what is your intention?’
Colley shot him a quick glance. ‘All I ask of the men is that they hold this hill for three d-d-days.’ He turned to Stewart and the naval commander. ‘I intend to order up reinforcements from Newcastle - the Hussars and the 60th Rifles - immediately. Once everything is settled up here later today, I shall return to Prospect and leave you, Romilly, in t-t-temporary command here until I return.’
Simon caught Hardy’s eye. At last he began to understand. It would take about three days before the reinforcements could come up from Newcastle. Colley would probably haul up mountain guns to the summit tomorrow, and when his fresh troops arrived, he would lead a direct attack on Laing’s Nek, supported by the artillery on Majuba. Caught between two fires, the Boers would break and retreat and be vulnerable to pursuit by the cavalry. But perhaps, faced with being commanded from Majuba’s top, they would withdraw back into the Transvaal before a shot was fired anyway? That would be a triumph politically for Colley, though less impressive militarily.
A shot and then laughter from the north-eastern perimeter ended Simon’s musing. A group of Highlanders were standing on the lip in the now strong morning sunlight, looking down on the Boer positions far below and jeering. One of them was gesturing with the smoking barrel of his rifle. ‘Come on up, yer boogers,’ he shouted.
Colley was unamused. ‘Go and s-s-stop that, Stewart,’ he ordered. ‘I do not want to provoke the enemy unnecessarily.’
The colonel strode away and Fraser, frowning, turned to the General. ‘Sir George, given the amount of dead ground that we can’t command from the top here, don’t you think it would be wise to dig some trenches across the saucer as a defensive resort?’
Colley looked around, wrinkling his eyes against the newly risen sun. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Fraser. If they do get up, they won’t have artillery, only r-r-rifles, and it won’t be necessary.’
Simon sucked in his breath. With ‘only rifles’, the Boers had already inflicted two near defeats on Colley already. Would he never learn?
But Fraser persisted. ‘Very well, sir, but I do feel that we should have fall-back redoubts placed strategically. We can build them easily enough from the rocks lying about the place. I would suggest that we place one here, to overlook the approach of reinforcements from Mount Prospect, another one on Macdonald’s Kopje and a third on the eastern corner, overlooking the Nek.’
Colley sighed. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said, as though placating an insistent child. ‘But the men have had a long march and a difficult climb and they are t-t-tired. Don’t start the work now. Let them rest. There is no hurry.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The general turned to his scouts. ‘As a matter of fact, I think we could all do with some rest. I suggest you f-f-fellows get some while you can. I shall probably want you to come back with me later in the day, Fonthill. Now good morning to you.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
Simon and Hardy returned to find a tousle-haired Jenkins frying bacon on a small fire. The smell was delicious and the three breakfasted heartily, but Simon was withdrawn. He had seen enough of the defences around the perimeter not to share the general’s sanguinity about their position on the mountaintop. It was true that two of the three faces of Majuba looked unscalable in the face of determined fire from the defenders on the summit, but the third approach, that from the Boer lines on Laing’s Nek below, appeared to offer an easier way to the top. The point was that, as Fraser had explained, the climb offered plenty of dead ground that was beneficial to attackers - in other words, much of their approach would not be seen by the defenders on the lip. It offered no field of fire. It was terrain in which climbers could bunch and mount an attack from quite close to the summit. The general did not seem to realise this, for he was making no attempt to deploy his troops to counter the threat. But would the Boers attack?
Good fighters as they were, would they have the stomach for this kind of dangerous, physically daunting climb? Trained soldiers might take it on - the British Tommy certainly would, because he always obeyed orders - but would these farmers, these independent, mercurial burghers do so?
Simon’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry, again from the north-eastern lip of the crater. A Jock was standing there, looking down on the Boer positions, his kilt swirling in the morning breeze, his new-style khaki jacket unbuttoned. ‘Hey,’ he shouted, pointing down, ‘the boogers are pullin’ oot. They’re pullin’ oot, ah tell ye.’
Simon threw down his plate and joined others running to the edge. It was true, or seemed to be. Far below, the Boers - little more than black dots - were driving in their oxen and inspanning their waggons, and the plain was dotted with horsemen. A cheer broke out from the men on the rim. Simon, however, remained silent. He could see that, from the apparent confusion of the camps below, bodies of horsemen were emerging to ride towards the lower spurs of the mountain, disappearing from view as they closed in on it directly below him. The Boers now clearly realised that the British were in possession of Majuba. Was this the beginning of an attempt to retake the mountain?
Simon reported accordingly to the general. But Colley, busily writing, seemed to attach no significance to the development. With his usual courtesy, he thanked Simon without additional comment and continued to write his dispatch.
Thoughtfully, Simon strode back to the edge. The view was magnificent. The great brown and green grass uplands of the veldt stretched far away to the north like a roughly woven carpet, broken by the deep cut of the Buffalo as it curved away into Zululand to the east and dotted with those distinctive table-topped peaks that rose from the plain as though a giant had plucked them up with his fingertips and then tried to press them flat with his thumb. The air was clean, fresh and clear, and looking in every direction, Simon could see no sign of human habitation. Yet here, in this corner of this beautiful, vast, comparatively empty land, the people of two minority white races had chosen to try to kill each other. He sighed and looked again down at Laing’s Nek. Was von Bethman still there, among the Boer encampments? And would the subsequent battle - if there was to be one - allow him to get close enough to settle his debt with the German?
The question caused Simon to take in a deep breath. Kill him? How? Would he steal up on him - God knows how in the midst of the enemy - and simply shoot him down? No. He could never kill a man in cold blood. How then? Another duel? Simon smiled. He had had luck on his side the last time and he doubted if he could survive another display of swordsmanship from this master duellist, even if his sword arm had not quite recovered. Pistols, then? He sighed. His skills in revolver shooting at Sandhurst had earned derision from all his peers. Perhaps he would simply have to break von Bethman’s neck. Not gentlemanly, but par for the course, probably, in this grim, primitive land. He stiffened and took a deep draught of the crisp air. One thing was certain. His resolve to kill von Bethman had not weakened. He owed it to Anna. He would kill the bastard!
Simon walked slowly back to the centre of the hollow and climbed a rock so that he could gain some sort of general view of the defences. He reckoned that, after leaving behind the companies to protect his route to and from the mountain, Colley had just under four hundred men on Majuba. Surely enough to defend the perimeter? His eye followed the rim around. The men were lying in the now warm sun, most of them sleeping following the exigencies of the night, some of them smoking and chatting in a desultory way, others playing cards. The atmosphere was superficially soporific, yet underneath he sensed a tension, a hidden disquiet, an undercurrent of apprehension. The last time he had experienced that feeling of unease was in a British camp, out on a plain in Zululand beneath a giant rock called Isandlwana. He swallowed. It was the waiting, of course, the frustration of not knowing what was going to happen.
He decided that he would walk around the rim in the hope that the exercise would dispel the gloom. Jenkins and Hardy fell into step beside him, the latter, of course, once again attracting questioning looks and the odd whistle. The American took not the slightest notice, slowly striding along, one thumb hooked into his belt, the heel of the other resting on the pearl handle of one of his Colts.
‘It’s all a bit strange, then, isn’t it?’ said Jenkins. ‘What are all these chaps up ’ere for exactly? It’s nice for a picnic, I’ll grant you, but what are we goin’ to do? Sit on the edge an’ fart down on ’em? I don’t understand, see.’
Simon grinned. ‘I’m not sure I do, either. I think the idea is to bring up some guns tomorrow - if the Boers let us, that is - and either scare them off with the threat of bombarding them from up here, or bring up troops and attack them frontally down there under cover of the guns.’
‘And are those gennulmen down there just goin’ to let us stay up heah?’
Simon thought - not for the first time - that on the rare occasions that he spoke, Al usually hit the nail on the head. ‘That,’ he replied, ‘we’ll just have to wait and see.’
The three walked on in silence. One of the riflemen, seeing in Simon’s bearing something of the officer, called: ‘What’s going to happen, sir? What are we going to do up here?’
Simon tried to be reassuring. ‘We’re occupying a key position, commanding the Boer lines. They will probably withdraw as a result.’
‘Umph!’ Jenkins rolled his eyes and then, when out of earshot of the soldier, ‘An’ pigs will fly an’ all.’
A scattered, distant outbreak of firing from below the north-western face brought an instant response from some of the Highlanders lining the rim on that side, and the three scouts hurried over to investigate. So too did a young Scottish subaltern.
‘Don’t waste your ammunition, dammit,’ the lieutenant shouted at his men. ‘You are way out of range and so are they.’
But further sporadic firing followed from the general direction of the Boer lines - or was it nearer and higher up the mountain slopes? Could this be the beginning of the battle? wondered Simon.
‘Well, it shows that the Boers know we are here all right,’ he murmured. ‘But does it mean that they intend to attack us, or are they just letting off a bit of steam before they pull out? Hard to tell really.’ He peered over the lip but could see no telltale wisp of gun smoke or sign of movement among the stunted trees and rocks down below. He shrugged, and the three continued their perambulations around the edge of the saucer.
He noticed with approval that some bluejackets on the southern tip, just above where the troops had first clambered on to the summit, were using stones to build some sort of fortification. Whether this was a piece of local initiative or on direction he could not tell, for no officer was in attendance. Elsewhere, on the Rifles’ section, some primitive low walls of stones had been put together but Simon doubted their efficacy. Given the Boers’ accuracy, and the loose construction of the wall, there would be more damage caused by flying stone chips than bullets. But he held back his criticism. Hell - he wasn’t in the army now! Certainly no work had yet started on the three redoubts suggested by Fraser.
Boer fire had now become more persistent, although it was proving harmless. Some of the snipers had obviously wormed their way up the mountainside, but their rounds were either flattening themselves against the vertical rock walls just below the summit or wailing way overhead. None of the defenders had yet been hit. Perhaps Majuba was the defensive fortress that Colley obviously presumed it to be.
Looking back, Simon saw that the general and Commander Romilly were standing near the Naval Brigade’s position to the east of the southern point of the perimeter, in a hollow that extended to the edge, so lowering the rim of the saucer at that point. Perhaps they were discussing how the redoubt should be built there, for the commander was pointing. Then, suddenly, a shot echoed from down below and Romilly spun around and slumped to the ground. With a cry, Colley knelt by his side and Simon and Hardy - Jenkins had dropped behind to talk to an in
fantryman - sprinted towards them.
They found Romilly murmuring, ‘I’m all right.’ But it was clear that he was not, for blood was spreading quickly from a wound in his stomach and also oozing from a corner of his mouth.
Colley rose and cupped his hand to his mouth. ‘Stretcher-bearers here, quickly,’ he shouted. He knelt again and took Romilly’s hand, and then looked up at Simon. ‘Most amazing thing,’ he said. ‘I saw them, two of them, down there, with their r-r-rifles. They will never reach us, I said. It’s all of nine hundred yards. Then they shot. Amazing.’
The stretcher-bearers took the commander back to the little hollow in the middle of the depression where the medics had mounted their grim paraphernalia and the general returned to his command post nearby and, without a word, curled up and closed his eyes. There was no attempt to issue further orders directing the building of the redoubts. This air of lassitude seemed to be reflected by the soldiers lining the perimeter. Several amused themselves by making an occasional reply to the scattered shots that came from below, but most of them lay at their posts waiting. Waiting for what, though? From the general downwards, the British officers seemed to evince no expectation of an attack. And certainly there was little evidence so far that the Boers were making any preparation to climb the mountain in force. The firing that came from the slopes below showed that they had not retreated back into the Transvaal as, no doubt, Colley expected, but it was spasmodic and, seemingly, lacked direction or disciplined control.
Simon and his two companions, still partly numbed by the sudden shooting down of the commander at such a distance, could not avoid being tainted by the torpor that pervaded the mountaintop. They returned to the ashes of their fire and sprawled at its edge. Hardy immediately fell asleep.
‘I can’t help thinking of home,’ murmured Simon. ‘Perhaps it’s time to go back.’
Jenkins looked around him and sniffed. ‘When will that be, then?’