The Heart of the Empire

by Philip McCutchan

  The moment he stood up, pandemonium took charge. There were loud cheers, shouts of “Bravo, bravo!” and both men and women came forward to shake him warmly by the hand. He was taken aback by this demonstration, tried to smile but felt almost hysterical at his own treachery and duplicity. The welcome, the pleasure, was so genuine, so sincere, so spontaneous, yet he was here to do these people immense and perhaps fatal damage. Helplessly after a while he turned to Opperman. Old Red Daniel rose at once, laid a hand on his arm, and turned a smiling face to the excited audience. He held up a hand, commanding, peremptory, when the noise didn’t stop.

  “Friends, friends!” he roared. “You are embarrassing Mr Bland. Please go back to your seats, all of you — and listen to what he has to tell you.”

  The immediate response was a loud rendering, in very throaty English, of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’. After this, sobriety and propriety returned and the meeting settled down to listen. Throughout, as he stumbled and stuttered his way through his speech, Ogilvie was aware of an extremely pretty young Amazon who didn’t take her gaze from his face once. There was a vague familiarity about the girl that he found tremendously disturbing and the result was a poor delivery of an uninspiring speech — or so it seemed to himself.

  He was evidently wrong.

  At the end of it there was another demonstration, this time of hand-clapping, and foot-thumping that made the boards hum. Both the chairman and Opperman pumped his hand in turn, smiling and happy. Opperman said, “You sounded so honest and true, Mr Bland. You have helped us enormously. There will be many more such occasions. You have put much heart into the burghers by your description of the miseries of Kimberley and the feeling of the people there. Wonderful!”

  Ogilvie said nothing. There was a vote of thanks, and then he watched the meeting disperse while the committee members congratulated each other on the big success. In his mind’s eye he saw those good, solid Boer farmers speeding along to the recruiting centre to take up arms against the British. He could only hope Kitchener would find it all worth while. As they left the church hall, Old Red Daniel suggested that Ogilvie should ride out with him to visit one of the commandos exercising to the south of the town.

  “Yes, I’d like to.”

  “Then opzaal — saddle up, Mr Bland! To the ponies!”

  Outside by the door, the young woman Ogilvie had been aware of earlier was waiting. She was wearing a black dress, with a white shirt-like garment beneath it, the high collar of which gave her a very clean-cut look; but the wide-brimmed hat shielded her face a little, so that it was in shadow. As Ogilvie passed she touched him lightly on the arm with a riding-crop.

  “May I be allowed to congratulate you?” she asked, in an upper class, purely English accent. “That was a splendid lecture, and very, very stirring!”

  “Thank you, Miss — er — ”

  “Do I understand your name is — Mr Bland?”

  There had been something faintly mocking and sardonic in her tone. Aware suddenly of some possible danger, Ogilvie nodded. Then Opperman, to his immense relief, took his arm and drew him away. He felt the girl’s gaze on his back, mocking still. Opperman said, “Many people will want to talk to you now — you will need to be strict with them and with yourself, even to the point of rudeness if necessary.” Then he chuckled. “A well-built young woman, that! Tall and sturdy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a pretty face.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “And you are a man, and young. Oh, well, a man has always had a way with a maid … but be careful, Mr Bland.”

  “Is she one of your fighting women, Commandant?”

  Opperman shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know her, I’ve never seen her before. I’ve not been long in Reitz in any case.” He added warningly, “I said — be careful! Keep your heart inside your body, Mr Bland, for there are sterner things to do now than attend women’s tea parties and suchlike. Women are distractors of men, they prattle and make silly noises, and expect to have attendance danced on them. But this I dare say you know without my telling you.” Old Red Daniel seemed a human enough man, but yet there was a sort of moral stricture in his tone — the emergence once again of the native puritanism of the Boer, with his hatred of ungodliness and anything remotely pertaining to womanising. There was, as Allenby had remarked one day, a very curious juxtapositioning of the Bible and the gun in the Boer way of life.

  Ogilvie and Opperman rode out together on ponies, making their way over sunbaked country for some two miles out of town. There had been a light rain during the night, and the scent of the mimosa was strong. Ogilvie asked about the training of the commandos and what their state of readiness was. When Opperman answered that he would shortly see for himself, he remarked, “The Orange Free State itself is pretty peaceful, isn’t it? I mean, you have no British troops in your territory?”

  “No. There have been raids, and the British have stolen our cattle and our sheep, sometimes our grain has been destroyed and farm buildings set on fire. It is possible that this devastation may grow worse, Mr Bland, as the British begin to sense defeat! But in the meantime we must always be ready for them to invade us. You see, they can come in from Griqualand or the Cape routes — or, with more difficulty perhaps, they could cross the Drakensberg from Natal. There are strong forces in Natal — and Buller’s there in person, as perhaps you’ve heard. Buller intends to relieve Ladysmith himself — but I shall be there to stop him with my commandos!”

  Ogilvie grinned. “And General Botha?”

  “Oh, I shall find Louis Botha’s help invaluable!” Old Red Daniel gave a broad wink. As they jogged along, not hurrying unduly, Opperman grew a little mysterious, looking intently ahead, seeming excited and in a high good humour, judging from his anticipatory smile, but said little, answering Ogilvie’s questions in a preoccupied manner. In due course they began to come up to some low hills, lying stark and purplish beneath a high sun. Before the hills there was low, scrubby bush and a few ragged trees dotted about at random. Nothing stirred anywhere: there was no wind to shake the trees and bushes, there were no animals even to bring movement to an utterly lethargic scene. But all at once, as they came up towards the scraggy bushes, and rode in among them, the veld exploded into action. From those unlikely pieces of sorry cover, men materialised as though raised by some magician’s wand — a horde of them, shirt-sleeved, waistcoated, aiming rifles at the two riders, who were completely surrounded. Had those rifles been aimed with intent, a much larger body of men would have been cut up long before they had had a chance to open fire themselves.

  The Boers moved in, grinning, as Opperman and Ogilvie pulled up their ponies. Opperman was shouting with laughter. “My good Mr Bland, you didn’t see a thing till they came out, did you, eh?”

  “Not a thing! It’s unbelievable.” Ogilvie was indeed mightily impressed by the Boer field craft. “How do they do it?”

  “We know our country, Mr Bland, we know it better than the British ever will. We are a pioneering people, and we have lived hard, and lived close to the land.” Opperman lifted an arm in greeting to a field-cornet who approached his pony, a rifle held in the crook of a sun-browned arm. “Hullo there, Jan Kloops.”

  “Good morning, Commandant. I think we scared your friend. Who is he, eh?”

  “Mr Bland, from Kimberley.”

  “The one who saved your life yesterday?”

  “The same.”

  Jan Kloops reached up and shook Ogilvie’s hand, grinning at him from a black-bearded face. It was a hard face, tough and square above a thick chest crossed with heavy belts of cartridges. He and Opperman spoke together in Afrikaans for a while, then the field-comet went back to his men, who began streaming away towards the hill behind. “Going for the ponies, who carry the commissariat,” Opperman said. “Jan Kloops is going to get a meal ready for us — we’ll eat out here, in God’s good fresh air. All right, Mr Bland?”

  “Fine.”

  “Jan Kloops gave
me some news,” Opperman said.

  “Yes?”

  “The Modder River battle was some days ago now, as you know. Kloops has fallen in with a man from that battle, one of our Free Staters who was slightly wounded and had decided to return home — this is one of our greatest difficulties, our burghers being men of independent mind — they insist on taking leave when they feel like it, chiefly when their own affairs need their attention, you understand. However — this man brings news, Mr Bland: General Cronje and Commandant de la Rey are going to hold Lord Methuen finally at the Magersfontein hills. They’re digging twelve miles of trenches — four feet deep, narrow as a protection against shrapnel, and well forward from the hills so that the British are expected to waste their artillery bombardment on the sangars behind — and well camouflaged. I warrant Methuen will not cross those trenches, Mr Bland, but will lose most of his men in an attempt to do so — frontally! He won’t have the wit to try to outflank. I tell you — ” Opperman broke off. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve told you before. I’m still British.”

  “It does no good, to hide your head in the sand.”

  “Perhaps, but there are still things I’d rather not see, Commandant, or hear about either. All I want to hear is that this senseless war has come to an end!”

  Opperman gave him a shrewd sideways look. “It’ll do that, my friend, if God smiles on our plans.”

  “What plans?”

  “Plans for a quick victory.”

  “I can’t see it being quick. You’re very heavily outnumbered, aren’t you?”

  “Surely!” Old Red Daniel gave a hard laugh. “Much outnumbered, Mr Bland, but we have that inestimable advantage of knowing our country as you have just seen — and therefore of being able to surprise the British troops in an ambush. We fight by hiding — the British fight always in regimental formations! I’ll tell you another thing: our intelligence is good.”

  “Better than the British?”

  Opperman laughed again. “For the British, it scarcely exists. They’ve never paid enough attention to that side of the war, you see! For the British, soldiering is a game, the sport of English gentlemen. They sneer at subterfuge — you see this physically illustrated by your Lord Methuen and his obstinate love of frontal attacks — don’t you? To attack from the front, where you can be seen, that’s sporting and gentlemanly. Only sneaks go round the side or the back! Or tradesmen — to the tradesmen’s entrance! Well, Mr Bland, we Boers are not gentlemen, we are tradesmen, and that’s why we shall win, and quickly!”

  “For my part,” Ogilvie said, “I wish you luck in regard to the speed if not the killings. But what’s the overall plan of campaign to be?”

  Opperman said promptly, “We haven’t one. Not in the field, that is. Mr Bland, we were speaking of intelligence. Do you know what intelligence consists of?”

  “Well, obviously, knowledge, on the part of a commander, of the enemy’s intentions.”

  “Broadly, yes, but what does this break down to, do you suppose?”

  Ogilvie checked a too-ready answer. Instead he said, “I was only a private soldier, Commandant. You tell me.”

  “Very well, then.” Opperman shielded his eyes against the sun, looking into the long distances of the veld. “Any commander, to be wholly successful rather than merely lucky, must know this: the disposition of the enemy’s front-line troops, the enemy commander’s strength, his supply position, the morale of his men, the kind of terrain over which the battle is likely to be fought, the number, position and availability of reserves, the character and outlook of the enemy commander himself — which latter enables your commander to assess the probable conduct of the battle on the part of the enemy — their reactions, their tactics in various situations and so on. You understand?”

  “Oh, yes, I think I do. But are you telling me you know all this about the British?”

  Opperman said, “In the present areas of battle, yes. We’ve talked of poor Methuen. Who else is there? Buller, White, Gatacre. Let us take Gatacre, who is very much the opposite of Methuen. Now, Gatacre believes among other things that attack is the best method of defence — he can always be relied upon to attack even when to do so is unsuitable — and more often than not his attack is not frontal but flank. He is a bungler, a man for whom things go wrong accidentally. He fails to keep his officers fully informed — this is a common failing among the British, of course, and we ourselves are sometimes guilty of it. More important perhaps, Gatacre puts too great a physical strain on his men and exhausts them long before battle is joined — he doesn’t spare himself either — takes twenty-mile rides before breakfast! His men call him General Backacher.” Opperman gave a deep chuckle. “My good Mr Bland, from studying the generals a lot may be learned, believe me!”

  “I take your point,” Ogilvie said. Looking ahead towards the low hills, he saw the Boer commando starting to re-appear over the crest of the nearer one, bringing up the ponies with the commissariat. Hunger stirred within him. He asked, “Suppose the British know your leaders just as well, Commandant? What then?”

  “They don’t,” Opperman answered with assurance, “and they never will. We have so many smaller leaders, local leaders if you like, and they tend to change quite often — more often than your British generals who have been generals for so long they have forgotten what it is like not to be generals!” He paused. “Did you ever hear my name for instance, mentioned in Kimberley?”

  “Only by Mrs Gilmour.”

  “There you are, you see! Besides, we are only Boers, farmers whose unmilitary minds are not worth the effort of studying! If the British did study us, and if they could master our field craft, then they might beat us with their superior numbers.”

  “But whatever you said a little while ago, Commandant, you must have some kind of plan, surely — and this could become known?”

  Opperman said, “For now our plan is only this — to take the three main towns at present under siege. We look no further ahead than this — and if we have no field plan, Mr Bland, how is anybody ever to find out our secrets?” He winked broadly, in high good humour. “Our broad strategy will be found not so much upon the field as upon … let us just say, upon other scenes, Mr Bland.”

  *

  More than this, Opperman would not say; and Ogilvie decided not to press. It was early days; he had yet to insinuate himself much deeper into the Boer leader’s confidence; but, as the appetising smells of cooking meat came to him from the camp-fire that had now been lit, he pondered a good deal on the possibilities inherent in Opperman’s remark about ‘other scenes’. Naturally enough, the first thing that came to mind was the political scene, but Ogilvie could find little help there. Of course, it was common knowledge that there was a fairly strong pro-Boer movement at home in England, and the home-grown pro-Boers could well be gaining some more support as a result of the British casualty lists and the failure of the generals in South Africa to secure the hoped-for speedy victory. But Mr David Lloyd George, perhaps the leading pro-Boer, was, despite his heretical opinions about the morality of the war, still basically a patriot. Ogilvie could. not remotely envisage him being involved in any underhand bargaining with the enemy, though no doubt he could prove a powerful mouthpiece for Oom Paul Kruger, a mouthpiece set right upon the doorstep of Whitehall …

  “You don’t seem hungry, Mr Bland. Don’t you like our food?”

  Ogilvie brought his thoughts back from their speculative wanderings. “It’s very good,” he said, “and I’m hungry enough, Commandant. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “What about, eh?”

  “Home.”

  “Homesickness, Mr Bland?”

  “Perhaps, yes. It’s hard — not to go back.”

  Opperman finished munching a thick cut of steak. Watching this joyous mastication, Ogilvie found himself thinking of the tins of bully beef that would be the main luxury of Methuen’s rank-and-file just now. The mouthful finished, Opperman said, “Don’t weaken,
Mr Bland. I understand your feelings for home, but don’t weaken.”

  “I can’t anyway. I’m committed. What I did … it’s irrevocable, final.”

  “Yes. Where’s your home?”

  “In Scotland.” It was useless to prevaricate; his knowledge was of Scotland. Except for Sandhurst, and a few periods in London, he had little experience of England. “My family come from — near Carrbridge in Inverness-shire.”

  “Your father, what is he?” Opperman gave one of his deep laughs. “Apart from being, as you said, a gentleman?”

  “He’s a factor. He manages estates, as an agent.” This description would scarcely fit Sir Iain Ogilvie, still commanding the Northern Army of India in Murree; but it should pass Old Red Daniel.

  “There are soldiers from Scotland fighting with Methuen,” Opperman observed. “Among them, the Scotch Guards.”

  “Scots Guards. Yes, so I’ve heard.”

  “Those terrible bagpipes, and they call the British civilised!”

  Ogilvie said with a snap, “It’s a matter of opinion.”

  “You like the sound of the bagpipes, Mr Bland?”

  “Yes, very much.” At that moment, Captain James Ogilvie would have given almost anything just to hear those wild, strange notes in the distance, closing, coming nearer and nearer across the sun-drenched veld, to see the kilts a-swing around brawny highland knees as the Scots came over the hill and poured down, yelling, with bayonets shining, to cut up this over-confident commando! The sounds of home and victory, even victory on so small a scale, would have been very, very pleasant. Much more pleasant, he thought wryly, than the sound of the Boer songs that the men of the commando sang when the meal was finished and they were lying back, puffing lazily at their pipes, watching the smoke from them and the now dying camp-fire spiral up into a clear, windless sky. After this open-air impromptu smoking concert, Ogilvie and Opperman rode back into Reitz with the commando. Opperman was at its head, and Ogilvie rode by his side. He had the feeling that already the Boer was looking upon him as a kind of lieutenant, an aide-de-camp whom ultimately he might even persuade to fight, though this was something Ogilvie would refuse resolutely to do, Kitchener or no. They rode into the little township, past the hotel, past shops — a general store with ironmongery, a haberdasher’s, a pharmacy — for the church hall where recruiting had been in progress. That day, no less than seventy-two new men had been enlisted under Opperman’s command, and he was mightily pleased about that. As the commando dispersed, the men going to their own homes, he took Ogilvie almost affectionately by the arm.