by John Wilcox
‘Sorry, Simon.’ Hardy’s voice was now fully reflecting his weariness, and blood was oozing down his chin. Jenkins wiped it away. ‘In my imagination, that is. Yer see . . .’ He tried to sit up, but Simon gently pushed him down again. ‘Yer see, always loved the American West. A pal who emigrated from Batley sent me them dime magazines from New York. Yer know - Custer, Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill Hickok an’ all that. Then in Bradford I met a Texan who spoke with this Southern twang. I loved it an’ copied it - I was always good at amateur dramatics in Skipton. So when I sold the shop, I decided to become a Custer scout. ’Ad the buckskins specially made in Leeds, bought the pistols from a fancy shop in London and decided to tek a trip through Africa . . .’
His voice tailed away and Simon wiped another dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t say anything more, Al,’ he said. ‘To us you epitomise the American prairie, and always will.’
‘But Al.’ Jenkins had gripped Hardy’s hand in earnest enquiry. ‘I must just ask you . . .’
‘No.’ Simon shook his head. ‘Let him be, 352. He doesn’t need to say anything more to us.’
The wounded man managed another lopsided smile. ‘Think I do, actually, Simon.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘Why didn’t I go to America?’
Jenkins nodded.
‘Because I knew I’d be found out over there. Anyway, I knew all about it, in my head that is. Knew Bighorn off by heart, though you, Simon,’ he turned his head, ‘found me out a couple of times. North ’n South, moose an’ all that.’
Simon summoned a smile.
‘But the shootin’, Al.’ Jenkins was insistent. ‘You’re so bleedin’ good at it. Springin’ out from those rocks, drawin’ from your ’olsters an’ shootin’ down those Boers. ’Ow did you learn all that?’
‘Practice, lad. Night after night in t’ summer, up on t’ moors, firin’ away. But those blokes I killed . . .’ He swallowed hard and then coughed up more blood. ‘ ’T were first time I’d tried it for real. Nearly died, I was so frightened. That’s why I was a bit slow a-drawin’.’
He nodded to Jenkins, but his voice was now no more than a whisper. ‘You tek Custer an’ look after ’im, and you, Simon, ’ave me Colts. I always meant to tell yer one day but never got around to it. You’ve given me the time of me life . . . loved every minute of ridin’ with yer . . . Don’t forget to write to me . . .’
The voice died away and gradually his eyes hardened and then set, looking unseeingly beyond them to the smoke drifting across the bright blue African sky.
Macdonald’s voice rang out once more. ‘Here they come again. Back to the rim.’
Swallowing hard, Simon closed the dead man’s eyes, seized his rifle and scrambled back to the rim. As he did so, he realised that, of Macdonald’s platoon, only a handful were left - insufficient to man it. The lieutenant himself had jettisoned his pistol and drawn his great basket-handled claymore. As he and Jenkins reached the edge, two carbine barrels were poked in their faces, and suddenly the rim was full of Boers scrambling it, their rifles levelled.
On his hands and knees, Simon saw Macdonald raise his sword, only to have it knocked from his hand by a carbine barrel. He glimpsed the fiery little Scot swing a fist and then be felled by a rifle butt. Simon dropped his head and said, ‘Put down your rifle, 352. It’s all over.’ Wearily the two men regained their feet and raised their hands above their shoulders to face the row of rifles.
‘Those two there. Shoot them now.’ The voice came from behind Simon and he turned to face, once again, Baron von Bethman. The German’s arm was no longer in a sling, and he was impeccably dressed in well-cut black jacket and riding breeches and boots, although his face was blackened by powder from his rifle, which he was now hurriedly attempting to reload. He had obviously taken a full part in the fighting. ‘I order you to shoot them,’ he shouted as he fumbled. ‘You see they wear no uniform. I know them to be spies. Execute them now.’
A dozen rifle muzzles were raised - if a little uncertainly - and pointed at Simon and Jenkins. ‘ ’Ere,’ shouted the Welshman, ‘you can’t shoot men in cold blood. We’ve just surrendered, look you. It’s against the rules of . . . whatsit . . . civilised warfare, see.’
Jenkins’s cry made the Boers pause for a second. Then von Bethman levelled his rifle. ‘If you don’t, then I will.’ He slid the bolt to thrust the round into the breech, and Simon looked down the rifle barrel into the distorted face of the man who had shot Anna Scheel.
‘Stop.’ A voice rang out from the edge of the kopje top. Then followed a command in Afrikaans that made the Boers lower their rifles.
A large man, bearded of course, and with lank greasy hair hanging down from under his hat, climbed on to the summit and pushed down von Bethman’s rifle. ‘We Boers don’t kill men who have surrendered,’ he said.
‘But I am accredited to the Boer command here,’ said von Bethman. His voiced exuded authority as well as irritation. ‘I know these men to be spies. They should be shot immediately. I order it.’
‘You don’t order my command to do anything. These men are my prisoners. I know them to be British scouts.’ He turned to his men and spoke quickly in Afrikaans, so that they indicated to Simon, Jenkins, Macdonald and the remaining Gordons to precede them down the awkward slope of the kopje. Below them, the acrid smoke was clearing and the bowl at Majuba’s top was littered with the bodies of the British dead.
Simon, his heart still pounding, looked hard at the Boer commander and then recognised the grim features of the man whose head he had cradled in his lap as he wiped away the blood from the wound caused by a horse’s hoof in a gully in southern Transvaal.
‘Hello, English,’ said Gideon ter Haar. ‘Now we are even. The next time we meet I have the right to kill you. But let’s hope we are not fighting then. It would be a pity, ja?’
Chapter 15
On the main field of battle, the dejected group picked its way over and between the bodies towards the centre of the plateau, where the rest of the prisoners were being herded. The scene was heart-wringingly distressing to British eyes and ears, for rows of inert infantrymen lined the ridge, tracing its configuration in the tortured postures of the dead. Here, it was difficult to place a foot without treading on the remains of some poor creature, and Simon estimated that about sixty or seventy corpses lay in small groups where a stand had been attempted. Many more sprawled beyond, marking the path of the flight to the southern lip and testifying to the accuracy of the Boer shooting. Groans and cries for help from the wounded accompanied the little party’s progress towards the centre. They passed the prostrate figure of General Colley, his head shattered by a bullet fired at close range.
Ter Haar nodded. ‘Your general, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Simon. He frowned in a conflict of emotions. ‘Not a good general, I fear,’ he said, ‘but a good man.’
The Boer grunted. ‘He was not a good man to start a battle on a Sunday and defile the Sabbath.’
‘I don’t think he wanted to fight today. He just wanted to take the hill.’
‘Ja. But he was stupid if he thought we would let him sit up here. So he started the battle. Stupid and wrong, and the Lord has punished him.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Simon was surprised at Jenkins’s unusually deferential tone. ‘Those are our things there. Would you mind if we picked up our bedrolls?’
Ter Haar shrugged. ‘All right. You will probably be sleeping in the open tonight. But take nothing else.’
Jenkins broke away and picked up his and Simon’s rolls, slung them under his arm and then rejoined the group.
‘Why did you—’ began Simon.
‘Oh, we’re goin’ to need these, bach.’
Simon looked around for von Bethman and caught a glimpse of the German in the middle distance talking to the tall figure of General Nicholas Smit, who was wearing his distinctive white jacket. As he watched, they were joined by a man incongruously riding a white pony, which presumably must have climbed the face of t
he mountain carrying its rider. Simon recognised the man he had seen on his first reconnaissance of Laing’s Nek, the Boer commander-in-chief, General Piet Joubert, and he wondered anew at the relationship the baron had forged with the Boer high command. He was obviously close to the leaders and had been allowed to take part in the assault with the rest of the burghers. Was he some sort of official delegate from the German government, or merely what he claimed to be: an arms dealer? If he was the former, then his views must carry weight with the Boer leadership. If, however, he really was merely an armaments salesman, then perhaps it would be just his word against Simon’s.
Now von Bethman turned and gestured towards the little group of Highlanders. Was he again demanding that the scouts be shot out of hand as spies? Simon realised that he was trembling. To be shot in cold blood would be a pathetic end to this miserable adventure.
There was no further intervention, however, and the group joined the main party of prisoners, who were told to squat on the ground in the centre of the basin. The baron and his companions had now disappeared, but a line of Boers was now strung along the southern perimeter, taking leisurely shots at targets down below - presumably British troops who had been flushed out of hiding places among the bushes and crags. The cheers that went up reminded Simon of the shouts of joy when a well-aimed ball toppled a coconut at the local fair he visited in Wiltshire as a boy. He felt sickened as he watched. Then he remembered that Colley had left two separate contingents of troops on the long climb up Majuba. They had been instructed to dig in. Would they be able to offer succour to the fleeing survivors, and would they be strong enough to fight off the Boers who would surely now be organised to offer pursuit?
Jenkins sniffed. ‘What do you think they’ll do with us, bach sir?’ he asked gloomily.
‘Well, I can’t see Smit or Joubert allowing von Bethman to have us shot.’ Simon spoke reassuringly but he was far from confident. The German certainly seemed to possess some kind of standing with the Boer command, and the spy story carried a grain of truth in that they had operated behind the enemy lines in the Transvaal, so to speak. But he noted that Colonel Stewart was among the captives. If the worst came to the worst, he would surely confirm their status as scouts and therefore combatants, even if they did not wear uniforms.
‘Why did you make such a fuss about our bedrolls?’
Jenkins gave a half-smile. ‘I stuffed poor old Ally’s pistols in me trousers under me jacket, see. Bloody things were stickin’ out all over the place, so I’ve tucked’em between the blankets.’
Simon groaned. ‘Oh lord. Let’s hope they don’t search us.’ Yet he felt a spasm of hope. If they were sentenced to be put up against a rock face and shot, at least they might be able to go down fighting.
Eventually the captives were made to stand and the march down the mountain to the Boer lines at Laing’s Nek began. Simon realised that it was, indeed, a much easier route than that taken by the British, although, of course, the close proximity to the enemy’s encampment would have made it impossible to make the ascent that way. It now began to rain, and as they stumbled down the steep hillside, Simon felt his heart wrench at the plight of the wounded - they had all looked to be British - left on the mountaintop. The Boers had seemed to have no medics among their numbers and Simon had noticed only one English doctor attempting to tend those of the fallen still alive. The other doctor had presumably been killed.
The Boer lines were reached and the prisoners were herded together in what appeared to be a horse compound at the rear of the trenches. This time, Simon was able to look around him at leisure and was surprised to see the rubbish that littered the Boer positions - another painful reminder that this British column had been beaten not by trained, disciplined soldiers but by civilians, men who almost seemed to be out on a camping holiday. He sighed.
‘Mr Fonthill? Mr Jenkins?’
The enquirer was a boy, surely no more than fourteen years of age, although he was dressed as a Boer guerrilla in miniature: baggy jacket, dirty flannel trousers, large boots, slouch hat, bandolier slung across his breast, and carrying what was very much a full-sized Westley Richards rifle.
Simon stood. ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘Captain Fonthill and Sergeant Jenkins.’ It could be important to stress that they retained the right to be addressed so - although, strictly speaking, Jenkins did not.
The boy was not impressed. ‘The general wants to see you. Come now.’
‘Which general?’
‘General Smit, of course.’
Simon felt a small surge of relief. At least he was known to Smit, who would remember him as Colley’s messenger. And he recalled that Colley had maintained a high regard for his Boer opponent. An ‘honourable and fine man’ would surely not have them shot out of hand.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Lead on.’
The two followed their diminutive guide through the lines until they reached Smit’s tent. Simon noted that Jenkins still carried their bedrolls under his arm and was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. If they had to fight for it, then Al’s pistols would be their only hope - perhaps they could grab a pair of horses and flee. On the other hand, a quick search could make them appear to be assassins.
He turned his head and whispered to Jenkins. ‘Once we are inside, just place the blanket roll on the ground. We don’t want to provoke a search.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
They were led to the same tent where Simon had delivered Colley’s letter to General Smit. Inside were a group of some eight or nine Boers, all standing, most of them middle-aged or elderly, with long beards and broad-brimmed hats. On the right of the group stood a bare-headed Gideon ter Haar, appearing much younger without his hat, and in the centre, General Smit with Baron Wilhelm von Bethman at his side. Simon caught his breath. But for the absence of chairs and tables, it could have been the setting for a court martial. Nevertheless, he forced a wry smile.
‘Congratulations on your victory, General,’ he said. ‘I have to admit it was overwhelming.’
Smit nodded. He looked a most incongruous general, with his beard ragged and falling on to the rumpled waistcoat worn under his white jacket. ‘Your people cannot shoot,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘I am told that we have captured or killed two hundred and eighty of your soldiers for the loss of only two of our men killed and a handful wounded.’
The figures made Simon wince. How could such an expenditure of ammunition by trained soldiers produce such poor results? He remembered the rifle sights, set at four hundred yards. Von Bethman was staring, his pale grey eyes seeming almost transparent.
Simon inclined his head. ‘With respect, General,’ he said, ‘I must remind you that you have won a battle, but not the war. General Sir Evelyn Wood will shortly be arriving at Mount Prospect with reinforcements. The forces of the empire will be arraigned against you.’
‘Yes, Captain, but we have the Lord of Hosts with us. It was He who provided this victory for us on His day, the Sabbath, and He will not desert us. But,’ his countenance became even grimmer, ‘I have not called you here to gloat. The baron here has laid charges against you and your companion and has demanded your execution. I wish to hear what you have to say in your defence.’
‘Then I must first hear the charges.’
‘Of course. Baron?’
Von Bethman took a pace forward and half turned to face the silent group behind him. ‘This man,’ he said, gesturing towards Simon, ‘is a spy who organises the gathering of intelligence for the British. He calls himself a captain but he wears no uniform and operates behind your lines. This other . . .’ he groped for words to describe Jenkins, ‘this peasant, masquerades as his servant but is really his bodyguard. I discovered their true identity at Bloemfontein, where Fonthill seduced my sister-in-law and persuaded her to pass information to him about Boer movements.
‘You will remember, Herr General,’ he continued, ‘that when you took a force to cut the British lines of communication at Ingogo, a B
ritish armed column met you there, instead of the usual mail picket. I am ashamed to say that they had been warned of your intentions by the Countess Scheel, my countrywoman, under the influence of this man. I followed her and saw her leave the British camp and conduct a meeting with her . . . her . . . spymaster here.’
Von Bethman was now standing with legs far apart, like a bantam, his face flushed. ‘I realised that she presented a continual source of danger to your cause. They were about to ride to the British camp, no doubt conveying further information about the siting of your positions on Laing’s Nek, and I fired at the Englishman. Unfortunately, the countess stepped in front of her lover and was killed. The bullet was intended for him.’ Dramatically, the German now pointed a finger at Simon. ‘This man was to blame and he should now pay the penalty.’
A silence fell on the gathering, and somewhere in the distance the sound of hymn-singing could be heard. The Boers were paying thanks for their victory. Simon felt a gentle nudge at his elbow and realised that Jenkins had not put down the bedrolls.
‘Well, Cap . . . Mr Fonthill?’ Simon realised that the craggy visage of General Smit could have been the model for a hundred Victorian paintings of Jehovah.
He cleared his throat. ‘It is Captain Fonthill, sir,’ he said evenly. ‘It is true that I am no longer a serving officer, having resigned my commission. My companion is not a peasant,’ he spat out the word, ‘but a very brave soldier who has fought by my side at Islandlwana and throughout the recent campaign in Afghanistan, and earned the rank of sergeant. We are not spies but bona fide scouts for the late General Colley, having been commended to him by General Sir Garnet Wolseley, who I believe is known to you. Our role can be confirmed by Colonel Stewart, General Colley’s chief of staff, who has unfortunately also been captured.’