The Heart of the Empire

by Philip McCutchan

  When darkness came down over Botha’s laager Ogilvie took his leave of Maisie Smith, giving her into the personal charge of Commandant Opperman. “A trust I’ll honour to the death, Mr Bland,” Old Red Daniel said with sincerity. “When you come back to us, that will be the time for rejoicing, eh?”

  Ogilvie took his hand. “Yes, that’s right, Commandant. Goodbye for now.” He turned away at once, unable to face the red-haired Boer. He had grown to like him; their trust had been mutual. Opperman had so openly discussed Botha’s and de Wet’s battle plans that very day — he had clearly seen no reason not to, with the man who had saved his life. He had given Ogilvie his hand in sincere friendship and now Ogilvie was going to bite that honest hand in no uncertain manner. When he came again to Botha’s laager there would be no rejoicing, no marriage-feast as Opperman so obviously looked forward to: there would be blood and thunder around as the British battalions came in, and detached men to rescue Maisie Smith and start her on her long journey back to Hounslow. Ogilvie left the laager with an escort of four Boer marksmen mounted on ponies, and it was not long before they had the Tugela in sight from the summit of a hill overlooking Colenso, where the British regiments had fought and died only weeks earlier. After a careful examination of the terrain through field-glasses, the leader of the escort gave Ogilvie the All Clear.

  “There’s a drift over there,” he said, pointing. “You’ll use that. We’ll be covering you with our rifles. To the British, if there are any around which I doubt, it will look as if we are firing to prevent your escape. If that happens, we shall charge behind you — but we’ll take care not to catch you. Good luck, Mr Bland, and may God go with you.”

  Another handshake, another act of falsity to an honest man. “Thank you,” Ogilvie said, “and with you also.”

  Leaving the pony with the escort, he scrambled down the hillside, taking from inside his jacket a white flag of truce on a short stick. There was a keen wind, and before he reached the river the rain started. It sliced down, chilling him, soaking him to the skin, a real downpour, turning everything to mud. Reaching the river and finding the drift, he waded across.

  There was silence: no movement anywhere that he could see. Looking back, he saw no sign of the Boer escort. No doubt they were lying low till he was safely over, and after that it would all be up to him. Emerging from the Tugela on the farther bank, wet through and shivery with the intense cold of the South African night, he still found no hindrance. He felt a sense of dismay: surely Buller should have had patrols out, or even established outposts to watch for any Boer movement! It was turning into a curiouser and curiouser war. Roberts, with his North-West Frontier experience, would presumably alter that.

  Using a compass which he was to say he had taken from the Boer whose clothing he was wearing, he advanced with his white flag prominently displayed. He advanced, he believed, for many miles, making a snail-like progress through thick mud. Dawn was not far off and he was feeling as if he must drop dead from the sheer exhaustion brought about by fighting through the mud and the downpour when he heard a sound from ahead: the snick of a rifle bolt.

  He stopped dead and waved his flag urgently. He heard more snicks, though he saw nothing. Then, through the faintly lightening gloom of the dreadful night, he made out a low hill and began to see the heads kept low on its summit, the heads with the British military helmets, Wolseley pattern. The men were manning a schantze, a kind of nest of scrub and boulders.

  He called out, “Friend — hold your fire!”

  There was a pause. Then — “Who are you, friend?”

  He took a deep breath. “A British officer. Captain James Ogilvie of the 114th Highlanders — ”

  There was a hard laugh and a very British voice called back, “Ho, yes, bloody likely I don’t think! Come on in, Brother bloody Boer, and show your ugly bloody brotherly mug, you bastard!”

  Ogilvie had heard tales from the Boers of burghers who had been shot by the British even when under a flag of truce. He had never believed those stories, but when he heard the sound of bayonets being fixed he advanced across the bog-like veld with a loose feeling in his bowels.

  15

  THE EYES WERE STEADY BENEATH THE HELMETS; THE rifles, six of them, were pointed at Ogilvie’s breast as he went forward through the teeming rain. More men closed in from the flanks.

  “Halt! That’s far enough.”

  Ogilvie stopped dead and kept his mouth shut. The British soldiers came on, surrounding him with a ring of bayonet-steel: the Boers, he remembered, never liked the bayonets! He heard heavy breathing from the rain-soaked men, then felt a sudden blow in his kidneys that made him gasp with pain a Scots voice said, “That’s for callin’ yersel’ a Hielander, ye dirty bastard — ”

  “Cut that out, Adie! I won’t stand for any ill-treatment of prisoners.”

  A sergeant pushed through the ring of men, an Englishman from the West Country by his voice: looking at the man as he came close, peering through that first hint of a dirty dawn, Ogilvie saw the insignia of the Devons; the man who had butted him was a Gordon Highlander, a regiment whose recruiting area abutted on that of the Royal Strathspeys. Coolly, Ogilvie turned to the Scot. “You’re lucky I’m from the 114th and not from the Sheep-shaggers,” he said. “If I had been, I’d have cut your throat in return for a coward’s blow!”

  The man gaped: this was a highly personal piece of unofficial military history for a veld-bred Boer to know! Ogilvie looked at the sergeant from the Devons. “Have I your permission to instruct this man a little more?” he asked.

  “All right,” the sergeant said. “You can go on.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Tradition has it that a man of the Black Watch was once seen by a Gordon committing an act of sexual intercourse with a sheep — hence the highly libellous nickname! When the Gordons meet the Black Watch, any handy sheep are driven into the Black Watch lines with shouts of ‘There ye are, Sheepshaggers, they’re ready for ye, come on oot and do yer stuff’ Am I right?”

  The Scot spat on the ground. “Aye, ye’re right,” he said sourly. “So ye’re from the Royal Strathspey — so ye say! What’s their war cry, can ye tell me that?”

  “Craig Elachaidh … Stand Fast, Craigellachie. It’s the war-cry of my own clan, for we’re linked with Grant through Sir Lewis Alexander Grant of Grant — and my regiment’s closely linked with my clan. By tradition we salute inspecting officers with the tune, Riobain Gorm nan Granndach … The Grants’ Blue Ribbon.”

  There was a pause. The sergeant looked at the Gordon Highlander. “Well?” he asked.

  “He knows a wee bit. He may be tellin’ the truth.”

  “He could be genuine?”

  “Aye, he could.”

  “If he is,” the sergeant said, “you’re going to be sorry for striking an officer — ”

  “No, no,” Ogilvie said. “I’ll make no charge — he was not to know.” He laughed. “My own father wouldn’t recognise me just now — ”

  “Your father? Did you say your name was Ogilvie, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father — ”

  “Is Sir lain Ogilvie, commanding the Northern Army of India in Murree.”

  The sergeant gave a long, low whistle. “Private Adie,” he said, “you’re dead lucky it was a gentleman you butted in the rear! Now, sir, I’d better identify ourselves. We’re a mixed patrol from the Seventh Brigade of the Fourth Division under Major-General Lyttleton — ”

  “Of Sir Redvers Buller’s force, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Where do you wish to be taken, sir?”

  “Ultimately to Sir Redvers Buller, but first, I think, to my own Colonel, Lord Dornoch. I understand my regiment has already joined General Buller — or is about to do so?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you, sir. General Buller’s being reinforced by a good many battalions, but — ”

  “Perhaps you’d better take me to your own Brigade Headquarters, then, Sergeant.”

  “Very
good, sir.” The sergeant hesitated. “Sir! I’ve no orders to return early from patrol, so I’ll detach two men as guides and escort — ”

  “One’s enough, Sergeant. I don’t want to deplete you — in case there are any genuine Boers coming across the Tugela!”

  *

  At Brigade that morning, Ogilvie learned that the Royal Strathspeys had not yet joined from Modder River Station, but when they did so — and they were expected at any time — they would be brigaded with the Tenth, composed of the 2nd Dorsets, 2nd Middlesex, and 2nd Somerset Light Infantry under Major-General Coke, thus coming under the umbrella of Lieutenant-General Warren’s Fifth Division arriving from Cape Town. The Fifth was a new division fresh from England, with as yet no battle experience as a force. Ogilvie had words with the Seventh Brigade Commander, Colonel Hamilton. When he had explained his position as fully as he was able, Hamilton telephoned to Division On his behalf; and while he was eating a hurried meal a message came back informing Hamilton that Sir Redvers Buller would see Captain Ogilvie at once.

  On reaching Buller’s forward base at Frere, Ogilvie found the General at breakfast outside his tent, beneath skies now clear of rain. Buller, a big-boned but well covered man with a number of double chins, was doing himself well. He continued with his breakfast after waving Ogilvie to a camp stool. In fascination Ogilvie watched the disappearance of porridge, steak, bacon, eggs, liver, toast and marmalade into Buller’s thick-lipped, capacious mouth. Despite the rigours of recent campaigns, despite many days’ rain and the resulting muddy conditions, Buller was immaculate; even his boots shone with polish. He looked strong, capable and confident: and well he might, even though little success had attended him to date. Colonel Hamilton at Brigade had told Ogilvie that Buller’s force, including the troops at Chieveley and his other bases, would be brought to some 30,000 men once all the reinforcements had reported in.

  Buller listened politely and carefully to all Ogilvie had to tell him, and seemed to understand perfectly when Ogilvie said with his tongue in his cheek that his mission had been undertaken in the general interests of intelligence on behalf of Lord Methuen — for Ogilvie, still mindful of Haig’s and Allenby’s instructions, felt it inadvisable to invoke the name of Kitchener even to Buller.

  Buller said ruminatively, “It seems unlike Methuen — but I shall not press you, Captain Ogilvie. Your orders no doubt came through Lord Methuen at all events — no, I shall not press.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Buller drank coffee and told his servant to fill a cup for Captain Ogilvie: Ogilvie, having breakfasted at Brigade, had already declined the main repast. Buller said, “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to indicate the Boer dispositions, Captain Ogilvie. As you may have guessed, it’s my intention to march on Ladysmith shortly — and intelligence would be most helpful, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ogilvie hesitated in great embarrassment. He had no wish to be hurtful to Sir Redvers Buller, revered throughout the army as a kindly and considerate man, nor to be impolite; but what he had been able to glean from the Boer command was to be delivered only to Lord Kitchener. He went on, “Sir, my orders in fact state that I am to pass any information to one officer only. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Buller nodded, looking away from Ogilvie across the veld, down towards the Tugela, the river itself invisible from where they sat. “Well, well, never mind, my boy. You must stick to your orders. You’ve been away from our lines, of course, but you’ll have heard that Lord Roberts has been appointed in my place — though I still command overall in Natal. I cannot disguise that I am disappointed — but there it is. Sometimes I have the feeling they don’t fully understand at home. But Lord Roberts is a fine general and much loved, and then of course there is Lord Kitchener. He is a forceful officer whom the Egyptians are doubtless most glad to lose — but he is our gain nevertheless! The Boer will quite soon now be in flight, Captain Ogilvie — and your regiment will be one of the pursuers.” He sat for a moment drumming his fingers absently on the breakfast table. “No, I no longer have the high command, my boy. So I repeat, I cannot press, and shall not attempt to do so.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “No need to apologise for keeping to your orders, Ogilvie — no need at all. I understand … when you reach my age and position, you too will understand … and I think you will reach high command one day. I knew your father, my boy — oh, years ago now. As majors, we were in neighbouring brigades in Zululand. A fine soldier, a fine officer, and a gentleman of the old sort. You’re very like him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Buller talked on for a while, rambling a little, seeming to appreciate his listener’s attention. Ogilvie was in truth immensely sorry for the sixty-year-old General, a. courageous fighter who had twice won the V.C. It must be a bitter experience indeed to be downgraded in the chain of command and to continue serving in a junior capacity under one’s successor. Ogilvie had already fancied he had detected a similar sympathy in the attitudes of Buller’s staff officers and in his servant, who had all seemed to lean over backwards to be nice to the old man. But, as Buller talked on, it became very evident that the few words of self-pity he had uttered were the fullest extent of that emotion in himself. His mind was projecting ahead, and his set determination to relieve the garrison at Ladysmith the moment he was ready to march shone out like a guiding star. The relief of Ladysmith was almost an obsession with him. As he drank coffee and munched toast, and talked, his rather protuberant eyes were alight. He gave Ogilvie a broad sketch of what would most probably be his plan of campaign. Once the weather improved — there had been too much rain recently, he said — he would break out across the Tugela, outflanking Louis Botha by making his crossing well west of Colenso towards the foothills of the Drakensberg, below Spearman’s Heights, which had already been occupied by Lord Dundonald’s mounted brigade. On the farther side of the Tugela lay a small mountain called Spion Kop. Beyond Spion Kop lay a twenty-mile stretch of plain that ran practically to Ladysmith.

  Buller’s information was — and this Ogilvie in fact confirmed to him — that only some two thousand Boers were holding Colenso and this force represented virtually the whole Boer strength this side of Ladysmith.

  “We shall make straight across the plain,” he said. “Straight for Ladysmith, as soon as we’re across the Tugela. I anticipate no great difficulty — ” He broke off as a staff officer approached and saluted. “Yes, Major Cummings?”

  “A message by runner from one of the outposts, sir. A battalion is coming in from the south, from Estcourt. The Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, with a field-battery, from Lord Methuen’s column.”

  Buller gave a nod, and smiled at Ogilvie. “Off you go, my boy,” he said. “You’ll want to meet them yourself, I have no doubt … but wait a moment. I shall come with you myself. Cummings, my horse if you please, and another for Captain Ogilvie.”

  When the mounts were brought up, Buller and Ogilvie rode down together, with one of the General’s A.D.C.’s in attendance, to where the Scots and the gunners were coming into camp. Long before they saw the men, they heard from beyond rising ground the pipes and drums beating out ‘The Old 93rd’. There was a lump in James Ogilvie’s throat as the sound of the pipes grew louder, bringing back memories, as ever, of Scotland and the regimental depot at Invermore, and battle memories of the distant North-West Frontier; memories, too, of men who had gone, men who had done their duty to the Queen-Empress and the British Raj and whose bones had been left for all time under foreign skies, men who would never again march behind those time-worn pipes and drums through Speyside and never again pinch the bottoms of the rosy-cheeked lasses of Invermore … He pulled himself up sharply: such thoughts were of no help at all in the present situation. Out here in South Africa there was another war to be fought and won, a war that to date had been going very far from well.

  As the 114th Highlanders marched into sight Ogilvie scanned the ranks of men anxiously. Lord Dornoch was there, ahe
ad of the column, behind his pipes and drums and the rolling limbers of the Royal Artillery with their sun-browned gunner crews, hard-looking men who would soon be dropping their shells on Louis Botha’s burghers. Ogilvie thrilled to the sight of his regiment on the march, to the swing of the tartan, the skirl of the pipes sounding out far from their native mountain passes, the war-music of the clans of old. He saw Major Hay, second-in-command, and Captain Andrew Black; he heard the stentorian shouts that indicated the ubiquitous presence of Regimental Sergeant-Major Cunningham with his inevitable pace-stick. Rob MacKinlay, his friend of long standing, was there still, in front of D Company, his head heavily bandaged. From the corner of his eye Ogilvie looked at Sir Redvers Buller: Buller was beaming with simple pride in his newly-joining guns and infantry, responding, as a soldier almost always did, to the stirring sound of the pipes and the thunder of the gun-limber wheels. Had Bloody Francis Fettleworth been here in Buller’s place, there would have been emotion and moist eyes and much pompous talk about Her Majesty. But Buller was a much more practical, down-to-earth man, and he was seeing now a fine addition to his force and a further promise that he would soon be riding in to Ladysmith.