by John Wilcox
‘As soon as we get off this accursed mountain. One way or another, this campaign is over, and I can’t see any point in continuing to serve Colley. And anyway, I have a job to do.’
Jenkins frowned. ‘I know what you’re thinkin’, but I don’t see what you can do about that. The bloke’s probably gone back to Germany by now anyway. And if’e’s not, you can’t just walk up to ’im and shoot ’im, now can you? Even in this place there must be laws about that sort o’ thing.’
‘Well he shot her, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, well . . . oh, I don’t know. But just be careful, bach sir. You’re good at doin’ the thinkin’ bit. With respect, you’re not good at the killin’ part - though you’ve done your share, I must say. But think now, eh?’
Simon nodded absently. ‘I know what you mean, but to tell you the truth, 352, I’m getting a bit tired of all this killing. It seems so damned pointless.’
‘Yes, well, don’t worry about tryin’ to kill this baron bloke then. After all, it was a family matter as far as I can understand it.’
Simon shook his head. ‘No. He was trying to kill me. The swine was jealous, that’s all. She didn’t deserve that kind of death. He was a malicious bastard and I am worried that he will take over her child. Anna would have hated that. I owe it to her to stop him doing that.’
The fusillade of shooting from below them on the northern side of Majuba now seemed more concentrated and made them both lift their heads.
‘What’s goin’ to ’appen then, d’you think?’ asked Jenkins. ‘There’s not much point in us sittin’ up ’ere doin’ nothin’, is there?’
‘No.’ Simon scrambled to his feet. ‘What’s worrying me is that the general doesn’t seem to have properly reconnoitred the perimeter. Certainly he hasn’t posted vedettes down the slopes and there’s a lot of dead ground there. I hope we’re not going to be taken by surprise, though we ought to be all right. There are men posted on those kopjes jutting out on our flanks and they should command the last approaches to the top.’
As though on cue, a strong rattle of rifle fire broke out from the northern sector, where the Gordon Highlanders were posted. This time, however, it was sustained and came, it seemed, not from further down the mountainside but from just under the lip. Simon shook Hardy awake and the three of them grabbed their rifles and sprinted to what appeared to be the threatened sector. Running towards them was a young subaltern from the Gordons, Ian Hamilton, who had been put in charge of the Highlanders out on the isolated Gordons’ Knoll. Simon noted that he had bullet holes in his kilt.
‘They seem to have gathered just underneath us,’ he shouted as he ran past. ‘Can’t really see them, but they’re making us keep our heads down with some damned fine shooting. I’ve asked for reinforcements twice. No one seems interested. I’m trying again now.’
The three ran to the brow of the hill on the northern point of the perimeter, where they could look down the narrow saddle which connected Gordons’ Knoll to the main defences on the mountaintop. The handful of Highlanders holding the isolated knoll, who could see further down the mountainside, of course, than the defenders on the top, were obviously being subjected to concentrated rifle fire from, it seemed, the edge of the terrace some hundred and fifty feet below them. The knoll was just a mound of earth-covered rock jutting out from the thin saddle and its little garrison had nothing to protect them from this kind of heavy fire. Four of the Gordons were already lying inert by its edge, but the remainder were doing their best to reply, even though it meant exposing themselves. The Highlanders on the perimeter above could do nothing to help them, for they could not see the enemy firing from below.
Even as the three men watched, however, events took a dramatic turn. At a command which could clearly be heard on the summit, some sixty Boers, rifles at their shoulders, suddenly stepped out from concealment at a point just below the knoll and delivered a volley at point-blank range at the exposed Gordons on the promontory. Simon realised that they must have wormed their way up the mountainside while their compatriots below laid down covering fire. He could not help but admire the skill and soldierly prowess displayed by whoever was in command of the attack. The volley was devastating, and all but three of the little garrison on the knoll were killed. The survivors immediately fled back to the main perimeter along the narrow nek, bullets hissing around them.
Simon, Jenkins and Hardy flung themselves to the earth among the Highlanders who were manning the grassy crest which sloped down to the extended nek and who were attempting to return the Boer fire. But there was little cover and the superior firepower of the enemy below took immediate toll. Some of the Scots received five or six bullets in the head, and lying amongst them, Simon could hear the thump of the bullets striking home all around him, providing a grim accompaniment to the crack of the rifles and the shouts of the wounded. The Gordons were experienced soldiers, fresh from their successes in Afghanistan. Even so, the sudden apperance of a large number of enemy riflemen, followed by the accuracy of their firing at such short range, was too much for them. They scrambled to their feet and, kilts swinging, ran back in confusion towards the ridge behind them and the hollow beyond, almost stepping on the scouts in their hurry to find shelter.
‘Stop!’ shouted Simon, struggling to his feet. ‘Open order. Face the enemy.’
‘It’s no good, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘We’d better ’op it too, or we’ll ’ave to fight the bleedin’ lot on our own.’
The three turned and ran. ‘Up to this kopje,’ shouted Simon, and they turned to their right and scrambled to the top of Macdonald’s Kopje, which commanded a view of much of the hilltop. They were greeted by Lieutenant Hector Macdonald, his revolver in hand, who commanded the Highland platoon manning the kopje.
‘What the hell’s happening to our men?’ he demanded.
‘They’ve just bloody run, bach,’ panted Jenkins. ‘Just bloody run they ’ave, see.’
‘Rapid fire,’ shouted Macdonald to his men. ‘Tek the bastards as they come over the top.’
The three scouts added their fire to that of the Gordons on the kopje but it did little to affect the drama clearly unfolding below them. The flying Highlanders ran straight into the men of Colley’s reserve who were now, at last - and reluctantly - moving towards the northern lip of the summit, urged on by their officers. The resulting chaotic swirl of figures now made easy targets for the Boers, who began pouring over the northern perimeter, shooting from the shoulder as they came, and the whole mass of defenders - retreating Highlanders, infantrymen of the 58th and sailors who a moment before had been sleeping or smoking in the hollow - now stumbled back towards the perceived safety of the ridge. As they did so, many of them dropped as they ran, caught in the back by the merciless bullets of the Boers.
‘God, it’s a massacre!’ Simon shook his head in despair. ‘Why doesn’t Colley rally them?’
In fact, attempts to do so were now being made by the general and all of his officers. Cries of ‘Rally on the right, rally on the right!’ rose up to the kopje’s defenders. These, however, merely added to the confusion, for Colley, Stewart and Fraser meant that the fleeing men should consolidate at the north-eastern side of the ridge, the officers’ right, where a great clump of rocks offered cover. The men, however, swirled towards their own right, at the south-western end of the ridge, where the ground fell away and little cover could be gained. The Boers took advantage of this and poured in their fire.
Great swathes of slate-blue gun smoke now drifted across the depression at the mountaintop, bringing with it that distinctive acrid taste of battle that Simon knew so well. He licked his lips, desperate to remove the stinging dryness. The panic-stricken retreat from the northern face of Majuba’s summit was like nothing he had ever seen before. Even at Isandlwana, where the redcoats were short of ammunition, overrun by the Zulus and outnumbered by forty to one, the soldiers had formed into resolute little bands and stuck together, presenting their bayonets to their assailants and, eve
ntually, dying where they stood. He had never before seen British soldiers turn and run - but then he had never before seen the destructive effect of accurate modern rifle fire, delivered at such close quarters by expert marksmen.
And yet, glimmers of hope began to emerge. Through the gaps in the smoke he could see that many of the Gordons had rallied behind the low ridge and had been joined by men of the reserve. Simon could see officers stooping low and running up and down behind the line, trying to extend it on both flanks. There must have been at least two hundred troops now taking shelter behind the ridge. The Boers, however, now seemed to have been reinforced and they covered the northern summit like a cloud of dun-coloured locusts, standing, kneeling, lying flat and firing, always firing, so that it became instant death for a defender to show his head above the ridge.
The ridge itself extended from Hay’s Kopje, standing above it on the right, almost to the foot of Macdonald’s Kopje on its left, where Simon, Jenkins, Hardy, Macdonald himself and the platoon of Gordons had a good field of fire across the Boers’ position. Even Simon, poor shot as he was, could see his rounds taking effect, and Jenkins, of course, was coolly picking off targets with precision. Yet Simon realised that the shooting of the young men lying around him seemed to be quite ineffectual. He turned to the Highlander at his side. ‘What have you got your sights at?’
The Jock examined the ranging backsight standing up some eight inches from his squinting eye. ‘It’s four hundred yards, sorr,’ he said.
‘For God’s sake, man. Who told you to set it at that? You’re overshooting. Bring it right down.’
‘Orders, sorr. We was all told at the start to fix at four hundred.’
Simon wondered anew at the rigidity of the army system. The British fighting man was trained to behave in battle as a brave automaton: to follow orders without question and to rely on the leadership of his officers. It was drummed into him throughout his training that he would obey orders without a thought. This produced courage and resolution, but it also removed most vestiges of initiative, and on that day on Majuba’s summit, it meant that much of the British firing was completely wasted.
‘Fire on open sights, you bloody fool,’ snarled Simon, ‘and pass the word on.’
Poor marksmanship, however, was not the only reason for the ineffectiveness of the shooting of the Gordons on Macdonald’s Kopje. The position of the kopje should have given the platoon the opportunity to direct heavy enfilading fire at the advancing Boers. The spread-eagled Highlanders, however, were themselves now being subjected to intense and, inevitably, accurate sniping from the western base of Majuba. The top of the kopje was narrow and there was very little room for the men occupying it to take cover from the firing, coming now, it seemed, from all sides, for the burghers in the bowl below were also now shooting at the small group on its top.
The Boers’ fire, in fact, was now ranging across all of what had seemed only minutes ago to be the safe positions of the British. The ground between the ridge and the northern lip undulated gently but the billows of stunted grass contained one distinct depression that was deep enough to conceal crouching men. This swept down roughly parallel to the ridge and it allowed the Boers to take position only forty yards from the British line. In addition, the enemy fire from higher up the slope behind was now overshooting the ridge and finding targets among the men of the 58th on the southern perimeter. As Simon watched, some of these men - already mauled at Laing’s Nek and unnerved by the Highlanders from the northern edge who had swept by them in retreat - now themselves took to their heels, climbed over the edge and plunged down the mountain the way they had come only a few hours before.
‘For God’s sake,’ hissed Jenkins, ‘why don’t the officers down there get bayonets fixed and order a charge?’
‘Bit late for that,’ said Simon. ‘I think the men have all lost their nerve now. They’re just keeping their heads down.’
As if to emphasise the point, it became clear that a separate party of burghers had climbed up the wooded eastern slopes of the mountain and were now subjecting the small garrison on Hay’s Kopje to an intense fire. Simon watched, his perspiring cheek pressed hard against his rifle stock, as one by one the defenders on the kopje slipped away from their post and joined their comrades behind the ridge. He saw officers, swords in hand, berating them and attempting to rally others to retake the kopje, but it was useless. The will to fight seemed to have deserted all of the men now.
Suddenly, as if someone had given a signal, a great shout - more a spontaneous cry of despair than a rallying call - rose from the ridge and most of the troops there turned and ran back towards the southern perimeter and the path they had used to climb the mountain. Their officers, cursing, shouting, sometimes shooting their revolvers in the air, were left powerless to stop the rout, like islands in a fast-flowing stream as their men raced round them.
Whooping, the Boers rushed forward and emerged now, it seemed, from three sides of the summit. They stood, picking their targets and bringing down dozens of the running men as though they were shooting at pheasants in a field. The stricken troops, shot in the back, threw up their rifles and crashed to the ground, forcing their comrades in flight to jump over them as they tried to escape the incessant fire.
‘Oh my God,’ whispered Simon. It was little more than half an hour ago since that first withering volley had struck the Gordons on their kopje, so signalling the beginning of the battle proper. Within that time some of the most experienced troops in the British Empire had been reduced to a rabble. Through the swirling smoke, it could be seen that some knots of the British infantry were holding up their hands and surrendering. One or two desperately tried to direct fire from the top of the ridge but they were soon shot down. Some of the Boers had now reached the edge of the northern rim and were standing silhouetted there, calmly taking aim and firing down the mountainside at the running troops. It seemed that only the remnants of the little platoon on Macdonald’s Kopje remained unbeaten.
‘Where’s the general?’ asked Jenkins, wiping the back of a powder-stained hand across his moustache.
Simon peered through the smoke and caught a glimpse of that familiar straight-backed figure, revolver in hand, standing at his command post behind the ridge. As he watched, he saw him slowly turn and begin to walk back, following his fleeing troops. Then one shot rang out - symbolically individual among the general crackle of musketry - and Colley spun round and fell.
‘Keep firing.’ The call came from Lieutenant Macdonald. ‘They will not take this kopje. We make a last stand here.’
‘ ’E’s mad,’ spat Jenkins. ‘What are we goin’ to do, bach sir?’
For a moment Simon laid his cheek on the turf, not daring even to look at the tumult below, for a large number of Boers had now turned their attentions to the little band on the kopje and bullets were once again cracking into the rocks at the edge of the little knoll. Then he looked up at Jenkins.
‘There’s nowhere to go, 352,’ he said. ‘We make a last stand here.’ He risked a look over the edge. A ring of burghers were now beginning to climb up the little slope to the top of their position, while others were laying down fire to cover their ascent.
‘Rapid fire at those bastards climbing,’ shouted Macdonald. ‘Those below won’t fire for fear of hitting their own men. To the edge now . . .’
The three scouts joined the little ring of Highlanders who now moved to the edge of the kopje and levelled their rifles at the climbing Boers below. But Hardy, who had been coolly firing his Winchester repeater, lying, like the rest, on his stomach, suddenly rose and stood tall on the edge. With one swift and familiar movement he drew his Colt, and fanning the cocking mechanism with his left hand began blazing away at the enemy below. For a brief second, seeing him outlined against the blue sky, Simon marvelled at the heroic figure he cut - tall, slim-hipped, wide-shouldered, the perfect warrior - before he shouted, ‘For God’s sake, Al, get down.’ But it was too late. The first bullet caught the Texan in
his left thigh and the second in his chest. He doubled up and fell back into the comparative safety of the hollow at the top of the kopje.
Simon and Jenkins bent anxiously over the fallen man. He was perfectly conscious but his breathing was already laboured and blood was oozing from the wound in his chest. He smiled.
‘Ooh, lads,’ he said. ‘That’s me done an’ all.’
Jenkins looked puzzled. ‘What’s ’e sayin’?’ he asked of Simon.
Hardy turned his head. ‘What’s t’ matter. Don’t thee know a bit of reet Yorkshire when tha’ ’ears it?’ He was grinning, but the grin turned into a cough and a trickle of blood came from his mouth.
From somewhere near, Macdonald was shouting, ‘Keep at it, lads, they’re falling back.’
‘Don’t talk, Al.’
‘Noo.’ Hardy turned a wan face to Simon. ‘Ah knows an’ thee knows ah’m finished, lad. But got somethin’ to ask of thee afore ah goes. Top pocket of me shirt. A letter. Tek it out.’
Simon did so and went to hand over a blue envelope. Hardy grimaced and shook his head. ‘Noo. Keep it. It’s from me muther. Picked it oop at Newcastle. Never ’ad time to reply. Promise me, lad, that tha’ll write to ’er and tell ’er that ah died fightin’ the Queen’s enemies. She’ll feel all t’ better fer it.’
‘Of course, Al.’ Simon turned the envelope over. Written on the flap in an untutored hand was ‘Mrs Edna Hardcastle, 17 Moorland Road, Batley, Yorkshire, England’. He looked up at the Texan. ‘But Al - your mother is English?’
The drawn face lapsed into a grin again. ‘Aye. Better’n that. She’s Yorkshire. So am I. Never bin to America in me life. Name’s not Al Hardy. It’s Albert Hardcastle. Kept a tripe shop in Skipton.’
‘A tripe shop!’ Jenkins’s voice reeked of indignation.
‘Aye, tha knows. Cow’s stomach an’ all that. Lovely with onions. It were best tripe shop in Yorkshire. Sold it to become a scout with Custer. Got a fortune for t’ place.’
The firing in the background seemed to have receded and Simon realised that Macdonald must have ordered a ceasefire to nurture ammunition until the next attack on the kopje. He turned back to Hardy. ‘But you said you’d never been to America.’