The Heart of the Empire

by Philip McCutchan

  Buller returned the salutes punctiliously as the guns and infantry moved past. Ogilvie studied the Scots column more closely. Many men had fallen since he had left — that was all too obvious. There seemed to be some new colour-sergeants, obviously promoted in the field to replace casualties. Two at least of the subalterns were not to be seen. The Gods of War had, of course, to be fed with their sacrifices.

  *

  “Young Templeton’s gone too,” Dornoch said, passing a hand wearily across his eyes. “There’ll be letters to be written to wives and mothers — I hate that job, James. I’m particularly sorry about Templeton — his mother’s only son, and she a widow!” He stood staring across Buller’s camp, at the rows of tents being erected in the regimental lines. Ogilvie knew well how the Colonel regarded the men of his battalion: he was a kind of father to them, in the old clan way. He felt each loss keenly. Henry Templeton had been only a short time with the regiment, having joined by transfer from an English regiment serving at the Curragh in Ireland. He was himself an Englishman, something of a rarity for the 114th, and Lord Dornoch had tended to regard him as an honoured guest rather than as a blood-member of the clan; thus in a sense his responsibility was the greater. And Templeton had been a first-class soldier and officer, keen, competent and a splendid example to the men, foremost in action, the very epitome of the English gentleman and that military caste that for generations had woven its thread into English life as had the old clan chieftains into that of Scotland.

  Dornoch turned from his contemplation of the settling-in scene. “Now to the future,” he said briskly. “I’ll not ask for details of what you’ve achieved. That is for higher authority. But from what you’ve told me, James, I gather you’re not exactly rejoining us yet — that is, your special mission’s not complete, is it?”

  “Not really, Colonel. I imagine I’ll have to report to Major Haig again, or Major Allenby perhaps. I dare say I’ll be informed … and then there’s Maisie Smith. That’s important to me, Colonel.”

  “Yes, indeed — you’ve given your word.” There was a smile lurking somewhere around Dornoch’s mouth. “Dangerous — you must be careful, James!”

  “Oh, I’ll manage, Colonel. The biggest difficulty will be finding her, I think — ”

  “My dear James, I wasn’t referring to the physical dangers.”

  Ogilvie’s eyebrows went up. “Colonel?”

  “Matrimony, James! The dangers of being caught on a hook! You must beware. I understand this man Opperman is something of a moralist. If you should be taken prisoner, he’ll send you to the altar with a gun in your back!” Dornoch laughed, and clapped Ogilvie on the shoulder. “However, first things first. How are you to conduct this business — this sending back of information by heliograph? If you don’t do so, then the girl will suffer — isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, Colonel, I’m afraid it is. It’s essential I make some reports. I can always send back false information — with your permission, of course, Colonel.”

  Dornoch shook his head. “Not mine alone. That’s for the General. I think Buller will have to be more closely informed, James, but you can leave that to me. I’ll have a word with the Chief of Staff, and let you know what happens.”

  *

  “Captain Ogilvie, sir!” Left — right, left — right, left. Stamp, bang, swing, salute. “I’m glad to see you back. Sir!”

  “Thank you, Sar’nt-Major. How’s it been with you?”

  “Very much on the go, sir.” Cunningham’s waxed moustache gave a twitch. “You missed something at Magersfontein Hill, Captain Ogilvie, sir. It was bitterly fought, was that! Bitterly fought, and I’m sorry to say the English regiments showed up some of the Scots, aye, and us included.”

  “How was that, Sar’nt-Major?”

  Cunningham said, “Sir! I said to you once, this would be a different war. We’ve grown too accustomed to the Frontier fighting and the Frontier enemy. The regiments from home … they haven’t to unlearn the past in the way we have, coming direct from India. Sir! There were sectors of the front at Magersfontein where the Boer marksmen made our lads run for it, and that I do not like to see. There was great bravery shown that day — but as God’s my judge, sir, there was cowardice as well! The Guards were splendid — the Grenadiers and the Coldstream … so were the Lancers, and the English line regiments. But the Scots that day were in retreat, sir. Terrible! Poor Colonel Kelham of the H.L.I. was trampled underfoot, and killed in the stampede aye, and stampede it was!”

  “But the bravery, Sar’nt-Major?”

  Cunningham’s bosom swelled. “Piper Mackay, sir, of the Argylls, for one. When he played ‘The Campbells Are Coming’ … why, they became good soldiers once again.” He rose and fell on the balls of his feet. “Ah, we’re no’ so bad! I dare say we’ll survive the war, and even win it — maybe. And now if ye’ll excuse me. Sir!”

  Swing, salute, crash, about turn. Left … left … left, right, left. Ogilvie watched the swinging kilt vanish towards the lines of white tents, the pace-stick held rigid and exactly horizontal beneath the left arm while the right swung to the step. Bosom Cunningham had his own built-in pipe band, his own personal parade-ground in his massive head. Nothing would ever shake all that; Cunningham’s military foundations were secure as the Rock of Ages. But, if such a man as R.S.M. Cunningham could speak of Scots turning tail and running away from action, then there must indeed have been sad sights at Magersfontein Hill, and that didn’t augur well for the future. Ogilvie sighed; the Colonel had said nothing of any cowardice and now he felt depressed by Bosom Cunningham’s report. During the afternoon he prepared his own written report of his experiences; and that night, there was a convivial party in the Officers’ Mess tent, with guests present from other regiments in Buller’s command. There was a plentiful supply of spirits and wine and Ogilvie had his share of both: so had Black, who indulged his liking for whisky to the extent that he staggered off to his tent a little after eleven p.m. a good deal the worse for wear. In the lines, after Lights Out, there was a good deal of uncharitable comment from the privates: it was fine for the gentlemen with their champagne and caviar, but for the poor bloody O.R.’s there was just one bottle of luke-warm beer, and tins of bully beef, and army soup, and a little, a very little, stale bread. And the gentlemen were not quiet, either: their laughter and their songs, and the pianos which some of the officers brought with them as part of their substantial and very heavy field equipment, chased the sleep right away from the suffering men until the party was over. The party would have kept going for a long while longer if the Colonel had not, somewhat pointedly, left fairly early with a quiet request to the Mess President that the guests be speeded on their way.

  *

  Next morning Ogilvie had a bad head, a head that threatened to burst asunder in protest at the pressure of his Wolseley helmet. Breakfast was no more than black coffee and a piece of dry bread. After breakfast a runner came to the Mess tent.

  “Captain Ogilvie, sir. The Colonel’s compliments, and General Buller wishes to see you immediately, sir, at Division.”

  “Right — thank you.”

  The man saluted and turned away smartly. Ogilvie, going out into more rain and clinging, sucking mud, made for his tent and found his servant. “My horse, Garrett,” he said. “I’ve to ride to Division. Have it brought round at once, please.”

  “Sir!” Dropping bedding and blankets, Private Garrett slammed to attention and departed, at the double, splashing through the downpour. Within minutes the horse was ready, and Ogilvie, covered with a waterproof cape, mounted and rode out of the lines, bearing his aching head manfully, hoping the exercise would shake up his liver and bring him some comfort.

  16

  DIVISION, OUT HERE AT BULLER’S FORWARD BASE, WAS not a spectacle of grandeur: Division was a mere tent, with the blazon of the Divisional insignia floating from the top of the tent-pole and a rain-drenched, miserable-looking sentry outside with a rifle which he would shortly have the task of
cleaning and drying with many, many wads of four-by-two. But there was something indefinable in the air that morning, something that Ogilvie was not yet able to lay a finger on. There was expectancy amounting almost to a feeling of drama, of big decisions and big forward movements against the enemy. Grooms and orderlies stood about, holding horses while the steady rain soaked into them and the mud rose, as mud always seemed to, up their boots and puttees even when not in motion. Horrible, clinging, sticky mud, the mud of the South African veld — there could be no worse in all the world, surely!

  Outside Division, Ogilvie dismounted into that mud. A man came forward to take his horse, an officer wearing the red tabs of the Staff detached from a group of damp-looking colonels, and lifted an eyebrow at Ogilvie.

  “Captain Ogilvie, 114th Highlanders, with orders to report to General Buller.”

  “Just follow me,” the red-tabbed officer said. Ogilvie advanced behind him, across a duckboard and was duly announced. Buller’s voice called, “Send him in, if you please.”

  Ogilvie went through the flap, bending his head. Buller was seated behind a monstrous desk, an article of furniture that must surely have impeded anybody’s advance by its sheer size and awkwardness. Beside Buller sat Major Douglas Haig.

  “So we meet again,” Haig said abruptly, giving Ogilvie a direct stare. “I’ve been hearing good reports of you.”

  “Thank you, Major.” Bidden by Buller to sit, Ogilvie took a folding camp-stool set before the great desk. “I have my written report for Lord Kitchener — ” He broke off, flushing at his indiscretion: Buller, presumably, was not intended to hear of Kitchener’s involvement even now.

  Douglas Haig, however, laughed and said, “Oh, that’s all right, I’ve been instructed to confide in General Buller. Lord Kitchener, by the way, is now in Cape Town with Lord Roberts, and I shall be going there immediately from here. I’ll take your report, Ogilvie … and also — ” He broke off, looking keenly at the Scots officer. “The Red Daniel. You have it safe?”

  “Yes — ”

  “Then I’ll take that to Cape Town too, with your report.”

  “If you don’t mind, Major, I’d prefer to hand it to Miss Gilmour personally.”

  Haig looked irritated. “Don’t be a damn fool, Ogilvie. You’re liable to be in action shortly, and a battlefield’s no place for a diamond of such value. If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll give it to me and I’ll hand it to Lord Kitchener for safe keeping.”

  “But — ”

  “No buts,” Haig said crisply. “You’ll hand it over.” His tone softened, and all at once there was the hint of a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll put it to Lord Kitchener that we aren’t all such misogynists as he. I’m sure he’ll be only too glad to leave you to give it personally to Miss Gilmour.”

  “Then on that understanding, Major — ”

  “Yes, yes, you have my word.”

  Ogilvie brought out the wash-leather bag from a pocket and handed it to Douglas Haig. “Sensible fellow,” Haig said. “Now: your full report, which we’re all anxious to know about, of course, is for the eyes of Lord Kitchener alone in the first place. I’ll not question you too closely on that. However, Lord Kitchener will approve if you’ll give General Buller the gist of such strategical knowledge as you’ve gained — as I would presume you have concerning this particular sector. Any such knowledge may affect his plans for the immediate future. Well?”

  Ogilvie turned to Buller. He told the General of the Boers’ plans to fall back on Greytown and Pietermaritzburg if they should be forced to abandon Ladysmith to the British; Buller, listening courteously, appeared confident enough that a small redisposition of his forces would meet any thrusts in that direction. If such should develop after he had relieved Ladysmith, he said with assurance, he would cope accordingly. Ogilvie went on to report that the Boers were ready to meet any attack on the siege line and that Christian de Wet in fact intended to mount a diversionary attack on General French.

  Haig took him up on this. “General French, as who should know better than I, is on the Central Front. Is this to be a feint?”

  “Yes, Major. Botha hopes this attack will make us withdraw troops from this sector, and reduce the pressure on Ladysmith — even remove any threat to the siege lines until they’ve had time to recruit and train more of their burghers. They’re suffering a good deal from leave-taking — from abstention on the part of quite large numbers of their available forces. At the same time, Botha intends to concentrate what forces he has, and they’re not large, at Potgeiter’s Drift on the Tugela, and at Trichard’s Drift as well. He’s also intending to position a strong force near Spion Kop.” Ogilvie hesitated. “There’s one more thing I should perhaps mention, sir, if I shall not seem to presume.”

  “Go on,” Buller said.

  “Sir, the Boer field craft. Their use of camouflage in particular … because of this, because of their ability simply to melt away when they wish, their casualties are ridiculously smaller than ours. The Boers’ forces, sir, may be comparatively small, but their use of the terrain has the effect of making them equal to our larger ones.”

  “Yes, yes.” Haig paid close attention to this, but Buller seemed scarcely to be listening; frowning, he drummed his fingers on the top of the desk and said in a rumbling voice, “Potgeiter’s, Trichard’s, Spion Kop. Well, now. My intention’s been to send my force straight across the Tugela, using in fact Trichard’s, and then take the plain beyond Spion Kop. There’s a crescent-moon shape of hills … ” He opened a drawer and brought out a map, which he unrolled and laid flat. Douglas Haig got up and peered over his shoulder. Buller stabbed with a finger. “There — beyond Mount Alice, d’you see, Major? The Rangeworthy Heights westward, Brakfontein and Spion Kop in front. The direct route to Ladysmith runs through there.” He frowned again, and pursed his thick lips. “But, you know, if Spion Kop is to be at all strongly held — ”

  “The more Boers you shall kill, sir!” Haig gave a cold smile. Buller seemed uneasy: there was a curious driving force about Haig, an air of ruthless efficiency that showed little time for bumbledom. Haig went on, blatantly addressing his remarks now to Ogilvie: “I believe you’ve already told General Buller that you’ve to pass back false information to Botha. You’ll have to satisfy Botha’s desire for news, misleading him all you can, of course, whenever there’s any sun to make the use of the heliograph possible. General Buller will give you your orders in that direction, in the light of his own factual plans.” Haig paused. “Anything you yourself want to ask, Ogilvie?”

  “One thing, Major: Kimberley — and Mr Rhodes’s false reports through me, that a surrender was likely.”

  There was a gleam in Haig’s eye. “Yes?”

  “Did this make any difference to the conduct of the campaign, Major?”

  “Scarcely,” Haig answered with a harsh laugh. “With the exception of … shall I say some alarm on Lord Methuen’s part when certain rumours reached him before Magersfontein, no further attention was paid to the fulminations of Mr Rhodes. Under all the circumstances — you understand me, I think — I was able to say where these rumours originated. We all know Mr Rhodes rather too well, Ogilvie, and you may rely upon it, the sympathies of the high command are all with Colonel Kekewich. Be assured that Mr Rhodes will never be allowed to dictate our strategy — by rumour or any other means! Does that answer your question?”

  “Very fully, Major,” Ogilvie said with a smile.

  “Good! We shall relieve Kimberley without Rhodes’s prodding. Now then: what’s all this I hear about a woman?” Haig’s eyes had narrowed. “You’d better explain that rather more fully, I think — h’m?”

  Ogilvie did so. “I’ve promised to get her out when General Buller advances,” he ended.

  Haig stared. “My God, you damn fool!”

  “Major?”

  “I think you heard what I said. You’ll have to break your promise — that’s all!”

  “But I’ve given my word — ”

&
nbsp; “Possibly. But let me speak for Lord Kitchener, my dear Ogilvie! He’ll have no woman interfering with his plans, or holding up his officers in action with any damn fool ideas of chivalry — be quite assured of that!”

  “Major,” Ogilvie said firmly, “she’s been of great help to me — ”

  “Help? I thought you said she’d blackmailed you — and nearly married you into the bargain!” Haig gave a harsh laugh. “I wouldn’t call that help! Is there anything further, Ogilvie?”

  “Only that I wish to keep my word, Major Haig — that’s all!”

  Haig breathed hard down his nose, and his eyes held more than a hint of ice: there was the reflection of K himself about the man. He said, “At your peril, Ogilvie, at your peril, you damn idiot!”

  *

  Later that morning, after the departure of Douglas Haig with his detailed report in writing, Ogilvie attended a long conference with Sir Redvers Buller and his staff. Agreement was reached on certain misleading items that could be passed back by heliograph to the Boer command across the Tugela without danger to the British, even possibly with some advantage. As soon as this was settled, Ogilvie rode back to the Royal Strathspeys’ lines through another downpour, and in no time his horse was coated with thick, slimy mud. The weather was appalling for an advance, but it had been obvious at the conference that the General considered he held all the cards in the pack. After all, had he not 24,000 infantry, plus almost 3,000 horse, with eight batteries of Field Artillery and ten guns of the Naval Brigade, with 700 wagons — and even a handful of traction-engines driven by steam? And the burghers of Louis Botha? Ogilvie recalled that his estimate that Botha could put little more than 2,000 of his burghers into the line appeared to be supported by Buller’s own information.