The Heart of the Empire

by Philip McCutchan

  He heard Opperman speaking to him. “Here,” the Boer said, handing him a pair of field-glasses. “A closer look, Mr Bland. It’ll be a lesson for you in how to conduct a battle — or how not to, depending on which side you take!”

  Ogilvie put the glasses to his eyes and scanned the battlefield spread before him. In the distance a stout figure on horseback was riding in the centre of a small group of other horsemen towards a donga behind the silent field-batteries of the Royal Artillery and the Naval Brigade. Ogilvie recognised Sir Redvers Buller. Some way short of the donga a Boer shell exploded close to the mounted party of staff officers. When the smoke cleared Ogilvie saw that at least one of the party had fallen, but General Buller was riding on with a hand held against his side. Opperman, who was also watching through field-glasses, said suddenly, “You know, Mr Bland, I believe Buller intends to rescue the guns! You British, you have a reputation for never abandoning your guns — but we shall see!” He turned to the men of his commando, waving a hand and shouting exultantly. “Charge for the guns, men — we’ll stop the Britishers in their tracks and earn Louis Botta’s gratitude! Follow me to the drift.” He turned to Ogilvie. “Stay beside me, Mr Bland. If there’s any treachery, I’ll shoot you dead, whether or not you saved my life.”

  Ogilvie saw that the Boer was almost beside himself with blood lust and the promise of action, and had no thought but to reach the British guns before Buller could withdraw them. It was unusual in a Boer to choose to fight in the open: cover tactics were better suited to the men of the commandos; but Old Red Daniel seemed to be a law to himself, to reject the tenets of his kind. As for Ogilvie, he had made up his mind that he was going to reject the tenets of Lord Kitchener and rejoin the British troops at the first opportunity. The slaughter had sickened him; the terrible feeling of sitting helplessly whilst fine British regiments were cut to pieces by these surly, Bible-thumping, bearded fanatics had been too much. Buller was among the bravest of the brave, and he was in distress, and he was closer to James Ogilvie than was Lord Kitchener, safe in Cairo. When it came to the point, the hold of blood and comradeship in arms was stronger by far than that distant hold of Kitchener for all his compelling eyes and thrustful chin. Riding on with Old Red Daniel, thundering down towards the drift by which they would cross the river, Ogilvie took in the fact that they had left Maisie Smith behind. For an instant he turned his head, dangerously, and caught a glimpse of the girl sitting her pony and staring after them, looking as though she thought they had taken leave of their senses. Then they were down on the drift, and splashing the ponies through the Tugela River for the far bank — and the disorganised British troops. As they scrambled the ponies on to dry land, the British guns opened from the rear: other Boer commandos, who had been starting to follow Old Red Daniel’s impulsive lead, faltered and then turned back from the river’s bank, running towards a line of trenches on the ridges behind. Opperman and Ogilvie stormed on with the commando — and then, unaccountably, the British artillery fell silent.

  A moment later Ogilvie saw the reason for the cease fire: British troops, two battalions apparently, were streaming down towards the abandoned field-guns. In the distance was Buller, a hand still laid upon his ribs, riding down towards the guns himself. This began to look like the end for Old Red Daniel, who could surely never stand against two battalions of infantry. Ogilvie was scanning the line, looking for his opportunity to make a dash towards his own side even if he had to wave a white handkerchief to ensure his safety from the British, when once again the Boer artillery took charge of the day. As a party of British officers came across, every Boer gun seemed to bear upon the scene and open simultaneously. The terrible racket of the Creusots screamed into Ogilvie’s ears: there was something devilish in the crack and scream and explosion that always came with the firing of those big Creusot guns, with the shell a long way ahead of the sound itself. Often enough, at short ranges, the projectile would hit before men heard its warning note; while at long range — up to five miles or more across a valley — the sound went on ahead as the big shell grew tired in its flight, and then its wretched victims, cowering in the lee of rocks, wondering if the rocks were big enough to shield them from the splinters, would hear first a tremendous crash as of the heavens splitting, then a faint whistle growing quickly to a scream that filled the whole atmosphere around the target. Ogilvie that day was among the crouchers, and the shells flew over his head. Others were not so lucky: many men of Opperman’s commando fell, victims of their own side’s fire; the British, still making for the guns, were cut to shreds, though a party of men did in fact reach two of them, managing to haul them towards the rear. Old Red Daniel, yelling out oaths, hurled himself towards them; Ogilvie followed, getting closer to the British when he could. A moment later his pony was hit by a shell fragment, and died under him. Getting clear of the bloodied animal, he crawled along, keeping in such cover as he could. Some more distant British guns were opening now. Smoke, flame and lyddite fumes were everywhere: on all sides were the screams of horses and of dying men. His own clothing was soon torn to rags, rags reddened by a number of shrapnel wounds, small ones but painful enough. At one moment his crawling progress was halted by a figure on the ground, an officer of lieutenant’s rank, badly wounded and bleeding. Scanning the face as he moved past, Ogilvie felt a sense of shock: that face was remarkably like that of Bobs Bahadur, Lord Roberts of Kandahar … and he had heard that Lieutenant Frederick Roberts was serving under Buller. As he emerged from the battle smoke he saw Buller himself ahead of him, Buller motionlessly sitting his horse, Buller looking pale and shaken and hopeless. He saw Buller turn aside and speak to an A.D.C. and a few moments later, as he struggled to his feet to dash towards the Commander-in-Chief, he heard the British bugles sounding retire. Before the distressful notes had ended, something took Ogilvie a searing blow on the skull and he crashed back to the blood-soaked, sun-scorched ground.

  *

  “Today,” the black-bearded man with the rough cloth suit and the cartridge-filled bandolier said, “the God of our fathers has given us a great victory. This is the message I intend to telegraph to the Volksraad.” He looked down at Ogilvie, smiling slightly. “And this is Mr Bland from Kimberley, eh? Are you feeling better, Mr Bland?”

  Ogilvie nodded. “Yes — it was just a glancing blow from a stray bullet. I’m getting used to that by now! But who are you, if I may ask?”

  “Louis Botha. Commandant Opperman has told me all about you. You are welcome here, Mr Bland.”

  “Thank you.” Ogilvie, lying on a camp bed under canvas, with many bandages covering the minor wounds of the shrapnel, stared up at General Botha, who had sounded cheerful and friendly. He was a good-looking man, and tall, with very bright eyes. Ogilvie, as part of his instructions from Major Allenby, knew something of the man’s life. Botha was partly French and partly Dutch, but had been born in Natal as a British subject. He had left Natal when quite young, to farm in the Transvaal. A man of almost no education, he had turned into an excellent general with an instinctive flair for leadership. “Can you tell me what happened after I was hit, General Botha? I’m told Commandant Opperman personally brought me across the Tugela — ”

  “Yes, that’s right. He saved your life — and has thus repaid your own gallantry, Mr Bland. As to what happened after — well, Buller has pulled back. He pulled back at noon — and at five o’clock our men crossed the Tugela to bring in the guns he had left behind — ”

  “Buller left the guns?”

  Botha nodded. “Your Buller, I think he lost his nerve! He neither blew up the guns, nor gave time for darkness to conceal a recovery of them — and many of them still had their breech-blocks intact. He pulled his whole army back even though only half his troops had been engaged.”

  “And the casualties?”

  “For Buller, almost twelve hundred men. For me — less than forty, Mr Bland!” Botha shrugged. “It is the fortune of war, of course, but if the British had proper leaders they would do be
tter, for there is nothing lacking in the men!”

  “So what’s next, General?” Ogilvie asked.

  Botha said, “I shall give Buller an armistice tomorrow to collect his dead and wounded who are still out there.” He swept a hand around towards the Tugela. “Now, Mr Bland. When you’re fully recovered, I shall want words with you — eh, Daniel?”

  Opperman, standing in shadow to the left of Ogilvie’s bed, nodded. He said, “General Botha wishes you to extend your recruiting efforts, my good friend. If you can do for him what you did for me in Reitz, why, you will be worth your weight in gold … or diamonds!”

  “Diamonds … ” Ogilvie felt a rush of blood to his head. He had forgotten all about the Red Daniel; he felt in his pocket. It was, thank God, still there. He said, “Oh, I’ll do my best to help, of course.” Inside, he was cursing Opperman for unwittingly preventing his escape to the British lines, but that was past history now and had to be made the best of. The collaboration with the enemy must perforce continue. After another friendly word, Louis Botha left the tent with Opperman, and Ogilvie was alone with his temporary nurse: Maisie Smith.

  “Do you want to get up?” she asked.

  “I not only want to,” he said, “I’m going to.” He put his legs out of the bed, and started scrabbling around for his boots. Maisie found them for him, and knelt to put them on.

  She said, “I think you’re a fraud — Mr Bland.”

  “The bullet was real enough.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “So perhaps it was my nursing that made you better so quickly.” Frowning, she looked up at him: her eyes, he saw, were bright and there was an appeal in her face that touched him. She asked, “Suppose you hadn’t been hit, what would you have done? Please tell me truly.”

  “Done?” he echoed. “Why, I’d have come back on my own two feet, I imagine!”

  “Would you?” Her voice was low, little more than a whisper. “I think you would have run for the British troops — and left me to Opperman. I’m right, aren’t I — Mr Bland?”

  He said with a touch of anger, “For God’s sake be careful. I still have a job to do — and may I remind you, your future depends on that as much as mine does!”

  “Yes,” she said. “But across the river this morning, you were going to run out on me and the job, both. I was so frightened — that you would do that, or — or that you would be killed in the fighting. You were right when you said I was dependent on you, James — ”

  “Harry! Harry Bland — for God’s sake remember — ”

  “Yes, all right. I’m sorry.” There was a catch in her voice, and before she bowed her head on his knee he fancied he had seen tears. Her shoulders began to shake a little, and he laid a hand on her. She was warm beneath the thin fabric of her dress, warm and vital and desirable. Gently, he lifted her face, read the mixture of loneliness and hopelessness and desire — desire for support and reassurance, for a strong arm, for love and friendship, for him. Life was becoming intolerable: a lot of her brazen façade had gone, and gone suddenly. Ogilvie believed that the day’s events had shaken her badly. As she had said, she was still a Briton, and patriotic. To see the fighting from across the river, as she must have done, actually to witness the withering of the flower of the British Army, to witness Sir Redvers Buller riding off in defeat, could well have broken her. Ogilvie felt for her, very deeply; there was a strong bond developing between them now, a bond of sympathy that had superseded the bond of expedience.

  “Maisie,” he said, and stopped, his blood pounding.

  “Yes, James?” It was said on a whisper of breath and this time he disregarded the indiscretion.

  “Get up. Don’t kneel. I’m not the Monarch!” He took her waist and lifted her, catching her perfume, feeling her hair, which with a sudden movement she had shaken loose, falling like a cascade about his face. Her breath swept his ear, softly: he felt the feather-light touch of her lips, then, very gently, her teeth came together against his lobe. He felt her hand, warm and soft against his body beneath his shirt, then the pressure of firm breasts, and then, as gently as her own movements, he lifted her away from him and, getting to his feet with her in his arms, laid her down on the camp bed.

  When it was over they lay together at peace, damp with sweat. It had been a vigorous experience: Maisie’s gentleness had soon given way to a healthy abandon to which he had responded with an equal lust, but he had, to her obvious pleasure, been able to extend the act rather than bring it to a swift conclusion. During it, she had spoken words of love and passion that had aroused him strongly in their very indelicacy: he could well imagine that apelike man, Major the Honourable Alastair Duff-Kinghorne, preferring Maisie’s bouncing, uninhibited love-making to that of his spouse, who was also Scots — Ogilvie’s pride in his own ancestry had never blinded him to racial deficiencies, and he knew that Scotswomen were often cold, cold as the snowclad mountains and high moors of their homeland; and he could imagine the Honourable Fiona lying like the Stone of Scone beneath the Major’s pelt.

  Maisie lifted herself on an elbow and smiled down at him. “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Much.”

  “It was lovely, wasn’t it? Really good. I wish you’d been my baby’s dad, honest.” Suddenly she giggled. “P’raps you will be, not that I want another, not out here in this bloody rotten country.” She saw his look of anxiety, and she touched his cheek. “Oh, don’t worry, it doesn’t happen every time, thank God! Cheer up, do. What’s the matter now — want it again, do you?”

  He grinned. “Yes. No. Not now, Maisie. We mustn’t tempt fate — ”

  “Fate!” She was scornful. “Not fate — bloody old Opperman!”

  “All right, Opperman. Suppose he came in and found us like this? He’s got to go on trusting me, you know.”

  “Don’t see what trust has to do with it,” she said, and giggled again. “Or did you promise you wouldn’t do it, swear an oath on the Bible, like? Did you?”

  “Of course not,” he said impatiently. “It’s just that I have his overall trust and I don’t want to shake it in any way at all. It’s important to a lot of people — and I can’t say more than that.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, sitting up. “I agree you’ve got his trust. He’d never have taken you across the Tugela else, even though I heard him threaten you. He seems to like you … ”

  “You’ll help me keep it that way?”

  “Yes, course I will. But don’t you ever get any more ideas of running off and leaving me to Brother Boer, that’s all!”

  *

  It was now England’s Black Week with a vengeance: next day Sir Redvers Buller sent orders — which, fortunately, were disregarded — by heliograph to Sir George White in Ladysmith that he should burn his ciphers, destroy his guns, and fire off his ammunition — after which he should consider himself free to make the best possible terms with the Boers. And at midnight, when Louis Botha’s terms of armistice ran out, Buller packed up his tents and, under a total eclipse of the moon if not of his own military position, retreated to Chieveley. At home in Whitehall, momentous events, foreshadowed for some weeks past, came to their fruition as a result of the Colenso fiasco. In London, throughout Great Britain, all was gloom; sensing the will of the people the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, hastened to London on the Saturday. Ignoring the War Office, ignoring even Lord Wolseley, he tendered certain advice to Her Majesty at Windsor Castle; and on Sunday evening, after an exchange of telegrams with Dublin, Field-Marshal Lord Roberts was appointed Commander-in-Chief in South Africa in Buller’s place, with Lord Kitchener of Khartoum his Chief of Staff.

  12

  “THEY HAVEN’T GOT RID OF BULLER ENTIRELY,” Opperman said, “and in that there is perhaps some comfort! It’s said he’s to remain in local command in northern Natal. But now that Roberts and Kitchener are coming out, things will never go so well again for us — I feel this in my bones!”

  Louis Botha nodded, his own face grave and preoccupied
as he turned to Ogilvie. “How will your English troops see this change of command, do you suppose, Mr Bland?”

  Ogilvie shrugged. “I can’t really say, General. I was a very temporary and unwilling soldier — and for a very short time at that! But I think it’ll put new heart into them. Bobs has a great reputation, and he’s well liked.”

  “So is Buller.”

  “Yes, and I think with good reason. He’s a brave man, General, and considerate to his troops.”

  “But not clever. Roberts is clever, and so is the terrible Kitchener.” Botha got to his feet and moved restlessly up and down. The three men, with others from Botha’s staff, were resting on a hillside north of the Tugela, under a hot sun, swatting at the crawling flies that assailed them continually. “Also, Roberts may be in a vengeful mood! I would not blame him if he were!”

  “How so?” Opperman asked.

  “I have word that his son was among those killed in the battle the other day. He was mortally wounded, and died in hospital at Chieveley after Buller had withdrawn. It’s a sad time for any man to assume the high command, and I am sorry.”