“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to join you.”
Methuen smiled. “Brother Scots, Dornoch. We’ll work well together, I’m sure of that. How are your men?”
“In good trim, sir, and eager to march.”
“They’ll not be kept waiting long. I suppose you know Rhodes is in Kimberley?”
“Yes indeed!” The great Empire-builder, Cecil Rhodes, once Prime Minister of Cape Colony, had got himself into Kimberley aboard almost the last train up from Cape Town, only two days before the start of hostilities: his interest still lay in the Chartered Company that controlled Rhodesia. “I’ve no doubt he’s far from happy!”
“An understatement. Rhodes is said to be in a state of fearful agitation, Colonel. He believes Kimberley to be the key town, the key situation in this war. I fear that his opinion of military strategy is poor, insofar as there has been no relief attempted earlier. There has been a stream of almost hysterical messages — this may have influenced General Buller’s decision in the matter, I dare say — ”
“There’s urgency in the air?”•
“No town’s big enough to hold a Rhodes in confinement, Colonel! Urgency — yes. We march tomorrow at four a.m. I’m sorry for the short notice, but there it is … ”
The senior officers moved out of earshot; all along the track now, men were tumbling out, glad enough to be free of the packed, cramped train, to breathe fresh air. The colour-sergeants and corporals shouted them into line; Ogilvie saw B Company fallen in and mustered and when the battalion was formed up with its animals and its baggage, a corporal of military police guided them to their lines in the encampment, riding ahead of the now silent pipes and drums. On arrival at their allotted ground, the men were fallen out and set to the task of pitching their tents. That day they were left very much to themselves: Dornoch went off with Major Hay and Andrew Black to wait upon Lord Methuen at his field headquarters tent, and that was all. When they returned, no conference of officers was called. The battalion seemed to return, temporarily at any rate, to a degree of normality, like a day of rest in India. Men sat outside the tents that afternoon, yarning and smoking their pipes. The odd song was struck up, and there was the sound of the occasional mouth-organ playing some popular music-hall ditty. After a while Ogilvie heard the first strangled whine as air was puffed into bagpipes, and then saw Pipe-Major Ross coming into view, walking up and down and playing by himself. ‘The Campbells Are Coming’, ‘The Old 93rd’, ‘The Rowan Tree’, ‘The Badge of Scotland’, ‘The Heroes of Vittoria’. Challenging, a sound of war and courage, nostalgic, remindful of Scotland and of India. The men fell silent, listening. Ogilvie studied some of the faces, trying to read the thoughts behind the sun-tanned masks: thoughts of home, thoughts of the morrow, thoughts of who would and who would not go back to Scotland when the war was over? For though the war would be short, men would fall: the casualties had been high already. There was no reason to suppose they would not continue high, and the Royal Strathspeys might well lose more men than they had become accustomed to during patrol activities along the North-West Frontier …
Ogilvie became aware of something approaching an earthquake immediately in front of him: R.S.M. Cunningham, slam-slam to attention as usual. “Sir!”
“Yes, Sar’nt-Major?”
“Nothing special, sir. I just thought to myself, Captain Ogilvie’s looking pensive. Sir!”
Ogilvie grinned. “Perhaps I am, Sar’nt-Major. It’s Pipe-Major Ross’s little effort, I expect.”
“Aye, sir. The pipes do induce it.” Cunningham paused; Ogilvie saw his look straying across the lines of tents, across the sprawling, lazing Scots soldiers, across the dun-coloured, dried-up terrain beyond the fragile-looking railway line that led back to Cape Town and on north the other way to Mafeking and beyond. The R.S.M. expressed something of Ogilvie’s own thoughts, earlier ones and ones that had again entered his mind now. “It’s a different sort of soldiering, Captain Ogilvie, sir. A very different sort.”
“I agree — but why, in your view?”
“A different sort of enemy, sir. A white enemy, men like ourselves. Men with a good standard of living.”
“Basically honest men.”
“Yes, sir, indeed. There are some at home who do not like this war, sir. Politicians and other gentlemen.”
“Plenty didn’t like all we did in India, Sar’nt-Major.”
“Aye, sir, that’s true. Quite true. You’ll never get agreement from everybody, not in this world, and that’s a fact.”
“And you, Sar’nt-Major?”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes. Do you like the war?”
Cunningham said, “If you’re asking me, sir, I’ll say this and say it honestly: I see the Boers’ point of view. It’s their land — ”
“The same applies to India and Afghanistan, Sar’nt-Major!”
Cunningham nodded. “Yes, sir. Yes. But out there, we saved them from murdering each other, and also we tried to teach them our ideas as to honesty and straight dealing and — and truthfulness. I’ll not say we succeeded — but you’ll see what I mean. You’ll see the difference in the kind of man we’ll be fighting soon.” He added, “There’s a difference of terrain, too, sir, and that’ll tell.”
“Yes … ”
“But I’ve a feeling we’ll win. We always do, sir, do we not?”
Again Ogilvie grinned. “We rather tend to, I think, Sar’nt-Major. But I must say I’m surprised at you … for a Boer lover, you’re — ”
“Sir!” Bosom Cunningham’s face was suddenly scarlet with indignation. “Sir! I must ask you — ”
“All right, Sar’nt-Major, all right — only pulling your leg!”
“Sir! I should hope so, sir! See their point of view I may, sir. I still fight for the Queen, sir! Sir!” Slam-slam, salute, about turn, quick march. Ogilvie shook his head at the retreating angry back, the kilt swirling out shocked annoyance. Dear old Bosom, nothing would be the same without him! He was like the Rock of Ages, firm, reliable, tolerant beyond the tolerance of most Regimental Sergeant-Majors. It was a rotten shame to tease the old buffer, really. But Ogilvie had been slightly irritated himself: the Boers were a whiskery set of bastards, say what you liked about it being their land and all that. Ill-fitting workaday clothes, or Sunday-best clothes for the posed photographs of the leaders, high white collars, black coats, wide-brimmed black hats. They were like a gathering of chapel dignitaries. Really, it was a damned insult to think they had stood up to the British Army, thin red line and all. An insult that they had killed so many British soldiers, fighting for the Queen. Not for much longer, though! Ogilvie thought of Major Douglas Haig, Staff Officer to General French. French was a cavalryman, and first-class at his job. Ogilvie had heard that there were two things above all that the Boers were really scared of: British cavalry, and cold steel. Well — French had his Dragoons and Lancers and Hussars; and the Royal Strathspeys loved nothing better than a bayonet charge. Very wild at that, they were!
*
At four a.m. the regiments moved out as planned. There was secrecy in the air: Lord Methuen even left his camp-fires burning behind him, as he advanced on the march up the line of the railway. “We shall be in Kimberley within the week,” he said to Dornoch when he rode down the column. “And I intend to put the fear of God into those Boers!”
The relief force left Orange River Station that early morning in good heart, with 8000 men of the Guards, the Northumberland Fusiliers, regiments from Yorkshire and Lancashire, the Argylls, Black Watch, Royal Strathspeys … a sprinkling of cavalry including the New South Wales Lancers from Australia; they were well supplied with transport animals, many wagons, and lines of artillery; while an armoured train forged ahead of them along the railway track. How could the Boers stand against such a force? Ogilvie wondered. They advanced sweatily and without the uplift of their military music across a hot land, flat country of low scrubby growth with a wealth of thornbush to jag and tear. From time to time they came across the
native populations of South Africa, the black-skinned people, almost naked figures who mostly fled from their dusty approach, people who had the aspect of strangers in their own warring land, a vague and pathetic backcloth to the Whites’ struggle. By the time they had reached Belmont, still south of the Modder River, they had been joined by a Naval Brigade, khaki-clad sailors sadly out of their natural element. They had also been overtaken by a rider with news from the telegraph at Orange River Station: and the word spread down the column that, by the very afternoon of their departure on the march, the Boer newspapers had carried the news that the British were on their, way to the relief of Kimberley.
“So much,” Black said sardonically, “for secrecy!”
This was not the only news: the Boer General Cronje was believed to be heading south from Mafeking with a large army, but on account of deviations and the necessity of forming supply laagers along the Orange Free State border, the blocking of Methuen’s column was being left to one Commandant Prinsloo, with orders to delay Methuen until Cronje had brought down his full strength. At Belmont the column was halted and Lord Methuen called a conference of commanding officers. On his return from this conference, Dornoch assembled his own officers.
He said, “Between here and Kimberley there are three defensive positions available to the enemy — three clusters of kopjes, steep and stony. We’re hard upon the first of these now — it’s over there.” He pointed towards his right. “There are breastworks along the top, and Lord Methuen believes Prinsloo’s holding it. He doesn’t mean to leave his communications exposed, so he’s going to clear the kopje. The Guards Brigade are to lead an attack tonight — using the darkness as cover. We shall go in in support, gentlemen. Detailed orders will be issued shortly. That is all.”
Soon after this, Black held his own conference: a little pep-talk to company commanders and senior N.C.O.’s. “Our first action in South Africa,” he said. “We must acquit ourselves well — and not let down our reputation gained in India. We shall show the rest of the column, the Guards especially, what we can do. Captain Ogilvie?”
“Captain Black?”
“I have noticed signs of slackness in your company, Captain Ogilvie. I — ”
“What signs?”
“Ah … unpressed kilts, boots not decently cleaned, slovenly marching. And a tendency towards bawdy song — ”
“Bawdier than other companies, Captain Black?”
There was a laugh.
“Yes! And I will not have it!” The adjutant swished the air with his hand, angrily. “I shall — ”
“I’ll speak to the men,” Ogilvie said solemnly, his tongue in his cheek. “Clean boots, pressed kilts, no vulgarity. Are there any other action requirements you have in mind, Captain Black? If the men should swear during the attack — ”
“Shut your mouth, sir! You are being insubordinate in front of N.C.O.’s and I will not have it!”
Somehow, Ogilvie kept his face straight.
*
“Quiet, now! Dead quiet, d’ye hear?”
Colour-Sergeant MacTrease crept along at Ogilvie’s side, leading B Company of the Royal Strathspeys, spread out in rear of the Guards. Before the light went, Ogilvie had been sent by the Colonel to reconnoitre the position through binoculars: he had found the kopje a formidable objective, a steep-sided bastion with no cover whatsoever beyond scraggy, leaf-free bush growth and a few grassy tufts and scattered boulders. They moved on, slow and quiet, advancing into total dark, for there was no moon as yet, and total silence also:
Nerve-racking silence.
Absolutely no sound from the Boers. Just nothing. An advance into a vacuum, was what it felt like to Ogilvie. They had covered the distance, surely to God? So damn dark — yet the moon, if and when it came, could prove a disaster unless they had reached the kopje first.
On and on, strung out, long lines of cautious men putting one foot before another and not knowing what it might be descending into. Scrub and rough grass, thorn, small animals that slithered drily away over Army boots, faint rattles from equipment, water-bottles, rifle-slings, bayonets, ammo belts. On and on, wonderingly. Then — a runner coming back, back from the Guards’ commander in the van of the advance, to make contact with Lord Dornoch.
After that, the word spreading: “The bloody maps are wrong!”
Heading the wrong way! No wonder the Boers were doing so well! Ogilvie swore into the darkness, vividly. The Guards altered their direction — only a little, but the error had been enough to have put them dead wrong to date. The next impediment: a fence guarding the railway line — and they had to cross the line to reach the kopje. Methuen had been less than efficient. Had the maps not been faulty, they might have crossed in a better place.
They would need, now, to cut their way through — but there were no wire cutters.
The order came: “Cut down the fences, using axes.”
Fine! But it all took too long. Within two more hours there was the first hint of dawn in the east. And, as that dawn came up, the van of the advance was still a long way from the kopje. And still there was silence, silence broken by the Guards’ commander: “The Brigade will advance in line. company commanders will spread out their men to minimise the target.”
Slow, steady, rifles aimed towards the silent kopje. It was the silence that strained men’s nerves. Ogilvie could almost feel his heart-beats, could smell the sweat of fear emanating from the ranks as they stepped forward through the lightening day, advancing across the open plain. The kopje’s defenders were giving no sign of their occupation: it seemed a deserted place.
“Could they have buggered off in the night, d’ye think, sir?” MacTrease asked in an uneasy whisper. “Will it be a bloodless victory?”
Would it be victory at all?
Ogilvie was about to give some sort of answer to his colour-sergeant when he saw the horse of General Fetherstonhaugh, who was leading the support brigade, suddenly rear up on its hind legs — and then he became aware of the ripple of concentrated fire that ran like a necklace along the kopje’s crest, a killing fire that crackled into sound, raking through the mass of the advance, turning it temporarily into a holocaust.
4
THE ORDER WAS PASSED, AS GENERAL FETHERSTONHAUGH, gallantly but too blatantly riding his horse up and down before the men, fell to the Boer shots: “The Guards will advance — at the double!” What was left of them, after that appalling opening fire, did precisely that — running, stumbling, falling, played bravely on by their regimental band. Behind them, pressing ahead hard and fast, were the pipes of the Royal Strathspeys; and soon the Scots and the Guards were mixed together, running shoulder to shoulder, storming on through the screen of whining bullets for the steep side of the hill. All around Ogilvie men were going down screaming, their bodies mutilated and ripped by the weight of the shot, their khaki uniforms spreading crimson. As the British force reached the foot of the kopje, they paused for breath — and to fix bayonets.
Then, with a mighty roar from the Scots, and the challenging sound of the pipes playing ‘Cock o’ the North’, they climbed on hands and knees up the glacis towards the breast-works above. Many more died as the Boer defenders, black-hatted, shirt-sleeved, collarless, leaned over and aimed at the helmets. Those helmets, falling, rolled back down the hillside, their wearers’ limbs spreadeagled. Ogilvie, reaching the top with his revolver in his hand, shot straight into a gaping, whiskered mouth and saw brief daylight through the back of the throat before the horrible gush of blood came. At once he was set upon by a huge man with a full, sprouting beard, and found himself in mortal personal combat, with the big Boer’s fingers tight around his throat. His assailant fell away when Bosom Cunningham suddenly appeared behind him, and struck with a bloody-bladed claymore.
By now the bayonets had reached the crest: behind those bayonets, grim-faced and blood-lusty, the British soldiers jumped the defenders, falling upon them hand-to-hand, cutting, thrusting, carving flesh that cringed from the shining steel. The
rush, the bayonet charge of the Guards and Scots and their support brigade, carried that kopje and the others. The Boers began a general retreat, fleeing the field on their ponies, to live and fight another day.
Later, in Belmont camp, Lord Methuen issued his personal congratulations. “Complete success,” he said. “Complete success — in spite of the Boers’ dirty weapons, about which I intend to protest most vehemently to Commandant Prinsloo, in writing.”
The ‘dirty weapons’ were the dum-dum bullets — expanding bullets that inflicted terrible injuries, bullets that had been, by international agreement, banned the previous July. Nasty work — but, under certain circumstances, the British had themselves reserved the right to make use of them. This time, used against the British force, the dum-dum bullets had helped to kill or wound three hundred men. Complete success: one set of little hills emptied of Boer farmers, three hundred British casualties!
During the remainder of that day the medical orderlies under Surgeon Major Corton were kept more than busy; so were the burial parties. It was whilst he was concerning himself with the sad business of the dead, with gravediggers and firing-parties and pipers who would play the Highland lament ‘The Flowers of the Forest’ over the forlorn, dun-coloured hummocks, that James Ogilvie was sent for by his Colonel and introduced to a man whom at first he took for a Boer prisoner: a good-looking man of around forty, with a strong chin behind a fringe beard, a man with straight eyes above a straight, dominant nose, a man clad in sweaty shirt, waistcoat and trousers.
Dornoch said, “Major Allenby of the Dragoons.”
Allenby, smiling, reached out his hand. “So this is Captain Ogilvie. You look surprised, Ogilvie!”
“I am, sir — ”
“You took me for a Boer?”
“I’m sorry, yes — ”
Allenby laughed. “No apology required, my dear fellow. It’s a compliment! Now — we’ll not waste time. You know, of course, why I’m here. As a matter of fact, I’m not going to give you your further orders myself, Ogilvie — that’ll be seen to later. But I am going to escort you into Kimberley.” He looked Ogilvie up and down, critically, an amused look in his eye. “For a start, you’ll have to take off the glad rags. No more of the regimentals for a while … you’re Piet de Ruis, and I’m your Uncle Koos … Koos de Ruis, farmer from near Potchefstroom in the Transvaal. I have brought clothing for you.” Allenby glanced towards Lord Dornoch. “If your Colonel will release you to my care at once, we’ll prepare to ride.”
The Heart of the Empire Page 4