The Heart of the Empire

by Philip McCutchan

  Ogilvie shrugged. “I would like nothing better, speaking for myself. But I haven’t got that far yet! Give me time, Commandant.”

  There was a chuckle, and Old Red Daniel relaxed. He was not a man to hold bad temper long. “Never give a woman time, my good young man! That is fatal. To a woman, time means only an opportunity for a change of mind. They must be taken like a buffalo — with one single shot!”

  “Perhaps — once they’ve actually made up their minds.”

  “Mostly their minds need forcing, though I will admit this — you’ve not let any grass grow so far, Mr Bland.”

  Ogilvie grinned. “She can come, then?”

  “Oh, yes, she can come! I would have preferred she didn’t, but … yes, she can come, with the proviso I have already given.”

  Silently in his heart, Ogilvie cursed the existence of Miss Maisie Smith.

  *

  Three days later, as Opperman left Reitz with Ogilvie and Miss Smith for the Tugela River, the speed of rumour in time of war had achieved its tangible result: word had reached Lord Methuen that the state of Kimberley’s defenders was very much worse than had been supposed and that a fast relief was vital if there was not to be an abject surrender. This word came, boastfully but with every indication of substance, from Boers who had fallen prisoner to the British column; Methuen knew that the moment the news reached Cape Town it would be relayed to him in no uncertain terms from the high command. Thus was Lord Methuen moved to immediate action; and having first pulverised — as he thought the Boer defences at Magersfontein with an artillery bombardment, he sent out his Highland Brigade to march through the night to be in position for a dawn attack on Magersfontein Hill. Four thousand Scots under Major-General Wauchope marched into a heavy drizzle that turned into an appalling storm, lightning-lit, with drenching rain through which the beams of the search-lights at Kimberley, Rhodes’s Eyes, could be seen faintly. At four a.m. Wauchope, his men brought up short by a barrier of thick bush impassable to any large body of men, and with Magersfontein now half a mile away, passed the word for the brigade to deploy. But at once his Scots were enfiladed by a tremendous curtain of rifle-fire that came at them, caught as they were in a perfect trap, from point-blank range close by from all around. The brigade withered and died, caught utterly by surprise: hundreds lay dead in seconds, among them Wauchope himself. Of the rest a large number turned and ran — ran largely into the Boer rifles. Others, advancing, reached the hillside, only to be cut to pieces by the Boer General Cronje. Towards the rear was heard the eerie sound of the pipes starting to fill with air: in a moment they came out full blast and glorious, swelling the hearts of the Scots and sending the Argylls forward to the attack. Through smoke and flame and rifle-fire, the Argylls’ pipers marched and played, their regimental tartan moving bravely towards certain death, the notes of the highland challenge sounding out as though to drive death itself away in awe at gallantry. From behind, the cavalry from Methuen’s main column went forward on foot, together with the guns, advancing with the Guards and the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry upon the Boer centre. But by now time was not on the side of the British. The battle dragged on all through that morning, with Methuen failing to press home a decisive attack; and by two o’clock the line began to crumble. A mob of men streamed to the rear in panic, to be gunned into the ground as they ran. And down upon the broken column rained the Boer heavy artillery, held in reserve until this moment of total defeat.

  On the following noon, Lord Methuen began a full-scale retreat and by four p.m. was camped once more on the Modder, his force more than a thousand men lighter. This was now 12th December. So began the week that was to be written into the annals of British military history as Black Week. Colenso was yet to come.

  *

  With Opperman’s commandos Ogilvie rode towards the Tugela River, on the move by day and at night sleeping by the glowing camp-fires. On two occasions they were attacked, and attacked bravely in Ogilvie’s opinion, by native tribesmen, Zulus wearing scanty rags and waving spears; but the Boer rifles were too deadly, and the attacks were virtually still-born. On that trek Ogilvie and his companions had a little over a hundred miles to cover, and their route led across the Drakensberg Mountains, after which they would drop down, Opperman said, between Ladysmith and Colenso.

  “And Buller?”

  Opperman gave a deep-throated laugh, and spat into the camp-fire, then waved his pipe-stem towards the south. “Buller’s going to have a shock from Louis Botha. Buller’s reported as likely to move north from Frere for the Tugela at any moment — oh, the British think we’re too stupid, militarily, to know their plans — have I not said this already? — but we’re not so stupid, Mr Bland! Buller no doubt expects an easy crossing of the river and an equally easy advance on Ladysmith, but he’ll not get either. I’m told Botha expects General Buller to stick close to the railway line — so he’ll cover all routes around Colenso. Botha’s got about 8000 men to cover them with. No, Buller will be held and soundly beaten, you may be sure!”

  Soon after this, Opperman turned in. Ogilvie sat on by the fire with Maisie Smith, listening, after a while, to raucous snores from Old Red Daniel. He was very aware of the girl by his side, aware of her scent in the night, of the softness of her body, of her warmth. She said suddenly, “I’m frightened. Bloody frightened!”

  “What of? Ghosts, bogies?”

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she said.

  “Well — tell me, then.”

  “I’m frightened we’re going to lose this war, that’s what — ” He put a hand on her arm, suddenly frightened himself.

  “Sssh! For God’s sake, keep your voice down, you fool!”

  “Opperman’s sound asleep.”

  “Others may not be. Use your common sense!”

  “Oh, all right.” She snuggled closer to him, and spoke in a whisper into his ear. “Things aren’t going very well, are they?”

  “Well enough. We’ll get our teeth into Brother Boer before long. It’s early days, you know — ”

  “It was going to be a short war.”

  “Yes, I know. That was a miscalculation, I admit. We’ll win in the end, though!”

  “What makes you think that?”

  He said, and he believed it, “We always do, Maisie.”

  “That’s a laugh. I mean, it’s been true in the past, I s’pose, but it doesn’t have to stay true, does it?”

  “It will. You know the saying — we lose every battle but the last! There’s something in that. Didn’t you pick up any military history in Peshawar?”

  She giggled. “No. Not military history.”

  “Well, don’t worry about the outcome. All we have to do is get our second wind.”

  “All right, if you say so.” She shivered suddenly, as some animal sound came to them from the distance. “My God, it’s lonely out here, isn’t it! Lonely and dark — and bloody cold.”

  “Sorry you came?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not so long as I go in the right direction in the end, and you know where that is.”

  “Yes. Tell me about your baby, Maisie. I don’t even know her name.”

  “Alexandra, after the Princess of Wales. My God,” she added, “what that poor lady must go through, with ’im gallivanting about with all those women! I bet his mum doesn’t like it either. Can you imagine?”

  “It does stretch the mind a little, but I dare say the stories are exaggerated. Tell me about your Alexandra.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m interested, that’s all. Shouldn’t I be?”

  She moved against him. “No reason why not, really. Getting to like me a bit — are you?”

  “I wouldn’t mind wringing your neck, frankly.”

  “Well, that’s nice, I must say!” There was a sound of indignation. “And here’s me thinking you were getting more sort of matey like!”

  He said, “One has to keep up appearances, that’s all.”

  “How d’you mean?”
<
br />   “I’m supposed to be in love with you, aren’t I?”

  “No need to sound so angry about it.” She hesitated, and moved even closer to his body. It could have been for warmth; Ogilvie knew it was not. “Couldn’t we, well, get to know each other better? Couldn’t we? You’re lonely just like I am … and I know what men want. I could make things easier for you, you know, if you’d let me.”

  He said between his teeth, “Maisie, stop making things worse, which in fact is what you’re doing. If Opperman woke up and caught us in flagrant disregard of the Bible, he’d probably shoot us on the spot — or something!”

  “Strewth,” she said witheringly, “it makes you wonder how the bloody Boers ever spawned themselves all over South Africa, doesn’t it!”

  *

  She did talk for a while, before they slept by the fire’s embers, of her baby in the institution so far away in England. A bundle of love, she called the baby without any ironic intent. Sweet-tempered, always gurgling with happiness, and a lovely smile and a dimple. She hadn’t cared a bit about the man who’d fathered little Alexandra, he was just a bird of passage, a satisfier of a need who at the same time had given her something very precious. As they rode on next day, through a damping cold rain now that made Opperman morose and taciturn, Ogilvie thought a good deal about Maisie Smith. For good or ill, she had become his responsibility, and he had to see her through to the end. A confounded nuisance she might be — and was — but she couldn’t be escaped. Nor could she be disregarded. Not only had he, as he had said the night before, to show her what might be called a statutory love, which meant he had to keep on raking up occasions for showing his feelings before Opperman by means of continually dancing attendance on his beloved; she was also in very fact getting, as it were, beneath his armour. James Ogilvie was no ascetic: women he had had, and loved too. Maisie Smith was undoubtedly attractive and made no attempt to be otherwise. His imagination bloomed; in his mind he saw a milk-white body, with softly rounded breasts and a flat stomach. He saw firm buttocks, sleek thighs, a titillating area of soft hair … but always, as soon as he began pondering on them, the buttocks turned into the irritable, Kekewich-prodding face of Mr Cecil Rhodes, and the soft hair into the bristling brush that grew from the face of Lord Kitchener of Khartoum. For uppermost in James Ogilvie’s mind was the successful outcome of his mission. He had to find out the Boers’ advanced plans: nothing must stand in the way of that, but he had a depressing feeling that this was what Maisie Smith would, even if unwittingly, do.

  Meanwhile there was the Red Daniel — the diamond as well as the man. That precious cargo seemed to burn into Ogilvie’s side as they rode on across the interminable veld, coming down on to the mighty Drakensberg through bush and scrub, swamp after rain, the smell of the all-pervading mimosa, hill country and river — and finally into the mountain passes themselves. As well as with Kitchener and Rhodes, he meant still to keep faith with Katharine Gilmour, never mind Haig’s promises of monetary compensation if the Red Daniel should be lost; and he was beginning to feel beset and hedged about with problems of conflicting interests …

  Once through the Drakensberg, they heard the sound of gunfire in the north, heavy artillery. “The Long Toms, bombarding Ladysmith,” Opperman said. Later they heard more rumbles, heavy gunfire to the south, from which Opperman deduced that Buller was engaged on the Tugela. A few more miles after this they saw dust clouds ahead, dust raised by the galloping hooves of ponies. The men of the approaching commando waved hats and rifles as they recognised the red hair of Commandant Opperman, and there were cheers from both sides as the parties met.

  “What’s the news from General Botha?” Opperman called out.

  “The British are upon the Tugela,” was the answer.

  “Buller?”

  “Yes — ”

  “It was his guns we’ve been hearing, then?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He’s bombarding our lines — and much good will it do him!” The man laughed. “His shells are falling nowhere near us, for he can’t see us and doesn’t know where to aim!”

  Opperman seemed to smack his lips. “Where does Louis Botha want us to go?”

  “Down to Colenso, Commandant.”

  Opperman lifted his right hand. His face was alight now, filled with eagerness for battle. “To Colenso!” he roared. As the commando surged forward, as anticipatory as Opperman himself, Old Red Daniel turned his face towards Ogilvie. “Now you’re going to see the British given one damn good beating,” he said.

  *

  Sir Redvers Buller had advanced towards the Tugela from his base at Frere with 18,000 men. Despite a numerical superiority his initial intention had been to undertake a flanking march around the Boer positions at Colenso, for he regarded these positions as virtually impregnable. The news from other fronts — Magersfontein in particular, and Stormberg — which came in as he was about to begin his flanking movement, caused him to change his mind. He halted his column in their tracks and for two days directed a heavy bombardment of artillery against the Boer lines. On the evening of the second day of bombardment he called a conference of his subordinate commanders.

  “Speed’s the thing now, gentlemen,” he announced. “Speed of relief for Ladysmith and those poor fellers of White’s. They’re my first consideration. The flanking march will be totally abandoned, and it’s my intention to force the passage of the Tugela tomorrow morning.”

  Louis Botha, who had correctly assessed the mind of the British Commander-in-Chief, had in fact expected precisely this: and was very ready to meet it, with his strong Colenso entrenchment protected on the flanks for a ten-mile stretch. There were four miles of country between the British and the Boers, the British tents being well visible while the Boers, with their genius for using every scrap of cover to full advantage, were totally concealed — so much so that Buller, trying vainly to find a sign of men or trenches, considered it not unlikely that Botha’s army had taken to its heels in flight already; and next morning, 15th December, he advanced bravely into a situation that was doomed to go wrong from the very start. His tactics were simple: he would mount a three-pronged attack with the 2nd Brigade in the centre, the Irish Brigade on the left, and Lord Dundonald’s cavalry brigade on the right, while his artillery moved along east of the railway. He would take the kopjes by the river, and then fight on the far side. Unfortunately he made his advance without diversionary support from Sir George White in Ladysmith. Initially the attack had been planned for two days later, and White was busily making preparations to march out a field force on the 17th. In the interest of secrecy — Ladysmith was said to be full of spies — Buller’s new intention had not been notified even to Sir George White, who therefore remained biting his nails in Ladysmith when he heard, distantly, the thunder of the attacking guns along the Tugela to the south. Buller’s heavy artillery had moved into position at 5.30 a.m. and three miles from the Tugela, as the marching columns advanced beneath a cloudless, windless sky towards a day of hot sun and red blood, the big guns opened on the kopjes of Colenso. Smoke rose — grey from the explosions, red from the gun-muzzles, and over all the fumes of lyddite. Then the horse-teams moved forward with the field guns. Five hundred men of the Royal Artillery and the Naval Brigade surged ahead of the infantry — thus outraging orthodoxy — under the command of Colonel Long who had led the guns at Omdurman.

  But there was no sign of Botha’s commandos.

  Long’s field batteries were within a stone’s throw of the Tugela when one rifle shot came from the far side of the river — where, for all Long could see, there were no Boers. On the heels of this single shot, however, recent history repeated itself. As at the Modder, as at Magersfontein Hill, a sustained barrage of rifle, machine-gun and heavy artillery fire blazed out. This terrible raking fire cut right through the ranks of sailors and Royal Artillery, killing and wounding. Men fell in swathes. On the left flank, the day was already going badly for Major-General Hart leading the Irish Brigade — 2nd Royal Dubl
in Fusiliers, 1st Connaught Rangers, 1st Border Regiment and 1st Royal Inniskillings — in their intended assault on Bridle Drift, from which they were to cross the river and advance from the west on Colenso. Hart — an old-time disciplinarian who had ordered parade-ground drill before marching, just as though he were back at Aldershot — had kept his men in close order, thus presenting a compact target to the enemy. In addition to this tactical unwisdom, he managed to become lost, for he had no proper maps and was forced to rely on a native guide in order to find a ford. As the Irish Brigade mistakenly approached a great loop in the Tugela, concealed rifles opened on them and, without orders from Hart, they began to deploy. Hart was furious; he ordered the Irishmen directly into the attack. By the time Sir Redvers Buller, watching through a telescope from his headquarters in the rear by the railway line, had sent word through to Hart to disengage and withdraw from a hopeless action, 400 Irishmen had been cut down. Soon after this a report reached Buller that Long’s guns in the centre had been deserted and all the detachments wiped out to a man. Although this was inaccurate, it was enough for General Buller.

  “It’s no good now,” he said, turning a strained face to his Chief of Staff. “No good at all. We must try to withdraw the guns, and then retire.”

  11

  “WHAT DID I TELL YOU, MR BLAND?”

  Sitting his pony on some rising ground below Wynne Hill some two miles north of Colenso, Opperman looked and sounded triumphant. By his side, Ogilvie stared towards the battle. It seemed to him to be total confusion. The British cavalry appeared to be attacking a hill away to the east — Hlangwhane, Opperman told him. “That’ll be Dundonald,” the Boer said. “He’s commanding a composite regiment of horse — Natal Carbineers, Natal Police even … Imperial Light Horse and Mounted Infantry. By God, Mr Bland, just look at that!”

  Looking, Ogilvie felt an appalling sense of hopeless frustration. His knuckles whitened from the intensity of the hand’s grip on the reins. He wanted nothing so much in that moment as to take Old Red Daniel Opperman by the throat and strangle the breath from his body. He restrained himself only by an immense effort — and a thought of Lord Kitchener, whose orders he was following. The scene towards Hlangwhane was one of sheer murder, bloody and insane but touched with heroism. Thundering down on the hill, the British cavalry were brought up short by that peculiarly withering fire of the Boers, as usual in excellent cover themselves and using rifles and the new pom-poms with tremendous effect. Ogilvie watched the men and horses fall, listened to the wicked song of the guns as a field-battery gave brave support to the forlorn and halted charge. Away to the west, another brigade, this time of infantry, seemed to be pulling out, and in the centre opposite the Colenso kopjes the British guns appeared to be in a poor state, many of them lying broken and apparently abandoned.