The Heart of the Empire

by Philip McCutchan

  It was natural therefore that Buller should feel impelled to take his opportunity. Although in point of fact cables from the Commander-in-Chief, whilst Roberts had been in transit from Southampton for the Cape, had urged him to remain on the defensive, it was his present intention to move out for Springfield and Trichard’s Drift in two days’ time. Orders, as Ogilvie made his way back, were already going out to the various Divisional Headquarters to prepare for the general advance. On arrival Ogilvie reported to Lord Dornoch and received the Colonel’s formal approval of the heliographic communication with Botha’s signallers. That afternoon, the rain stopped and the sun broke through. As the men in the regimental lines brought out clothing and bedding to dry, Ogilvie made his way alone with a heliograph to the far side of a hill from where he had a fine view across the river into Botha’s territory. His signal was answered within minutes, just a short flash of acknowledgement which if spotted by the British could have been taken for no more than an accidental twist of a mirror. Botha’s signallers were certainly alert enough. Ogilvie passed his fake message: the British were not expected to move for at least another week, and the gossip among the troops in the lines was that Buller intended obstinately to move east, crossing the Tugela, if cross it he could, in the region of Colenso itself, thus avenging his recent reverses in that sector, and striking where he considered the Boers would be the least likely to expect him. So far, so good; but Ogilvie had to face one bleak fact: when his heliograph deception stood revealed in the blinding light of the advance of Buller’s divisions on a westerly thrust within the next forty-eight hours, the Boers would take their own revenge on Maisie Smith.

  17

  ON 16TH JANUARY BULLER’S FORCE MOVED OUT, SLOWLY and ponderously, towards Springfield and Trichard’s Drift on the Tugela. The cavalry, pushing on ahead of the infantry to Springfield, found it abandoned, and rode on towards Mount Alice a little to the south-east of Potgeiter’s Drift. Here at Mount Alice Sir Redvers Buller decided to set up his headquarters; and here he received fresh reports of the Boer strength: the enemy had doubled their numbers on the other side of Potgeiter’s Drift — and this notwithstanding the recent false signals across the Tugela, a fact that caused Ogilvie a good deal of concern in regard to Maisie Smith. He had words with the Colonel about this.

  “I wouldn’t assume the worst, James,” Dornoch said. “We’ll be across the Tugela shortly, in any case. When we are, I’ll not be looking if you should detach to the young woman’s assistance!”

  “Thank you, Colonel — ”

  “But not too quickly — the fighting may be very fluid. You’d do better to wait till we make our position a little more stable.” Dornoch paused, and a glint of humour appeared in his eye. “We’ll see, too, that Lord Kitchener doesn’t get to hear!”

  “Thank you again, Colonel.”

  Dornoch seemed about to say something further when a horseman galloped up and dismounted. Through the layers of mud Ogilvie recognised a staff officer from Brigade. The officer saluted Dornoch and held out an envelope. “I have your movement orders, sir,” he said breathlessly.

  Dornoch took the envelope and slit the flap. Quickly he read the message, and nodded at the staff officer. “Understood,” he said. The officer saluted again, mounted and rode off; the Colonel tapped the message. — “James,” he said, “tell the adjutant we’re moving out immediately with General Warren. General Lyttelton’s remaining behind to contain Spearman’s, except that he’ll make a feint across Potgeiter’s Drift — which’ll allow Warren to get through by Trichard’s — ”

  “Is General Buller splitting his force, sir?”

  Dornoch nodded. “It seems so — there’s been a change of plan, no doubt because of the current Boer dispositions across the river, James. By my guess, the whole force will join up again beyond the Rangeworthy Heights, for the final advance on Ladysmith — but meanwhile, yes, we’re split. Our own orders are to cross the Tugela during tonight with the main body of men, then go north by way of Spion Kop.”

  “Yes, Colonel. I’ll tell Captain Black.” Saluting smartly, Ogilvie turned away to find the adjutant.

  *

  With the help of Lyttelton’s diversionary attack on Potgeiter’s Drift, Warren reached the river by Trichard’s without interference from the enemy. There was plenty of optimism during the march to the Tugela, and it was fully expected by all ranks that Ladysmith would now be relieved within a matter of days. On reaching the river, Warren, himself a Sapper, personally supervised the bridging work of his engineers at Trichard’s Drift — work that was superbly carried out under guard of the infantry brigades. When the bridging was complete, Lord Dundonald first took his cavalry across, to be followed by the infantry of the line; and after this, right through the night of the 17th, and all the following day, the baggage and supplies made their ponderous way across the river, with the oxen drawing the long lines of wagons over the pontoons. It was an apparently endless procession of supply wagons, ammunition carts, ambulances, and also guns, going heavily down to the bridges by way of channels cut from the river bank behind the advance troops, including the Royal Strathspeys, who occupied Tabanyama Hill north of the Tugela in face of very little opposition.

  “Where the devil are the Boers?” Rob MacKinlay asked as B Company fell out, sprawling on the wet ground of the lower slopes to light pipes and cigarettes and wait for the cooks to start the fires and brew up mugs of tea. “I’ve only seen half-a-dozen heads to take pot shots at, James!”

  Ogilvie stared around the hillside, so apparently empty of all life but for the British infantry. “An ambush?”

  “Of course! I don’t like it. While we’re hanging around here, waiting for that damn baggage train to cross, Brother Boer’ll be bringing up his burgher marksmen — won’t he?” Suddenly, he cocked his head in an attitude of listening. “Hear that?”

  Ogilvie said, “Gunfire. Heavy stuff, to the west.”

  “Right! Either it’s Lyttelton shelling the Boers — or the Boers shelling Lyttelton.”

  Ogilvie listened again to the thunder of the guns in the distance, slow, rumbling thunder that seemed to roll in echoes off the heights of Tabanyama above them. “Doesn’t sound like Creusots — or Long Toms. I dare say Lyttelton’s giving the Boers a trouncing, Rob.”

  “Let’s hope so! They can do with it. They’ve had it too much their own way, right from the start — ”

  “Oh, rot! What about French at Colesberg, Colonel Pilcher at Douglas — and Talana — ”

  “All small stuff. The big stuff’s all gone to the Boers.”

  Ogilvie frowned, and squatted on the soggy earth beside his friend. “You’re not usually so pessimistic, Rob. What’s the trouble?”

  MacKinlay moved restlessly, pulling at his moustache, easing the neckband of his tunic with a finger. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just that we all thought we’d go through these cowpat farmers in five minutes, and we haven’t … or maybe it’s just a premonition.”

  “Premonition — of what, Rob?”

  “Oh, leave it, James, there’s a good chap.”

  Ogilvie opened his mouth to say something more, but thought better of it. He looked down at MacKinlay with concern: premonitions come fairly readily to some Scots, but up to now MacKinlay had never been that sort, and the doleful sound of the man distressed him. Later, however, MacKinlay cheered up: news came through that Lord Dundonald’s cavalry brigade had been in action along the road running from Acton Homes to Ladysmith and, in company with some men of the 60th Rifles, had routed the enemy and taken a couple of dozen prisoners into the bargain. But these prisoners brought unwelcome news: the Boers were now, thanks to the British delay whilst all the baggage was brought across the river, fully alert to the dangers of Warren’s massive crossing, backed up by the main part of Lyttelton’s force still in reserve at Spearman’s. The advantage of surprise, if any had indeed existed, was now quite gone.

  On hearing about the prisoners, Ogilvie sought permission from
his Colonel to speak to them, with Maisie Smith in mind. Just before the Boers were sent back under guard to the rear, permission came through to Dornoch from Dundonald for Ogilvie to interview them. At once he went across to where the burghers were being held, and found them being fiercely harangued by a firm-chinned but chubby-faced young officer wearing the uniform of the South African Light Horse. This officer broke off when Ogilvie came up, turning on him to ask, somewhat peremptorily, who he was.

  “Captain Ogilvie of the 114th Highlanders. And you?”

  “My name is Churchill and I am interviewing these men for my paper — ”

  “Your paper?”

  The chubby officer smiled and waved a hand. “I’m partly war correspondent, partly soldier, Captain Ogilvie. General Buller has commissioned me but is not paying me. The Morning Post is paying me very well indeed — so I am doing their work and interviewing prisoners for them.”

  “Interviewing them, Mr Churchill? I rather thought you were making a speech to them!”

  A laugh came from the captive Boers; Churchill looked peeved. Ogilvie followed up his advantage. “I’m sorry, but the Morning Post must wait. I have more urgent matters to discuss, matters of life and death. And I’d be grateful if you’d be good enough to leave us while I speak to the prisoners, Mr Churchill.”

  “Oh, really? I — ”

  “That’s an order, Mr Churchill.” Ogilvie glanced with meaning at the officer’s single pip, and the chubby young man, flushing darkly and murmuring a remark about insolent young puppies, which Ogilvie, though furious, disregarded, bounced angrily away out of earshot. The armed guards also withdrew a little way. Ogilvie scanned the faces of the Boers: he recalled none of them, but he might well be known to some, though they would not be expecting to see him in the uniform of a Captain of Highlanders. He said crisply, “I’ve not much time before you’re moved off to base, gentlemen, and I want your help. I know you Afrikaners … I know you have a sense of fair play and chivalry towards women. I’m going to ask you if any of you know of a young Englishwoman in General Botha’s head laager — a friend of Commandant Opperman. If you do, I would like to know where she is at this moment. Will you help me?” He added, “Her name is — Miss Maisie Smith, lately from Reitz.”

  There was silence from the prisoners; but Ogilvie saw the curious stares, the nudges that passed between two or three of the unkempt farmers, the whispers; and then a man spoke up. “I recognise you, Captain,” he said in a harsh, ugly voice, a voice of scorn. “You are Harry Bland … Old Red Daniel’s wonder-man from Kimberley! And you’re a dirty traitor — or at best a dirty spy — ”

  “That’s enough — ”

  “No, it’s not enough, far from it!” The man who had spoken lifted big hands towards heaven. “You’ve done a dirty thing, Mr Bland. Old Red Daniel was a splendid leader and a good man, and you have brought shame to him, for he trusted you, and made others trust you, and you have turned on him. I hope your treachery eats into your heart in the years to come! You deserve no peace nor happiness.” He paused, looking found at his fellow burghers. “You ask about the woman, Maisie Smith. Louis Botha has taken care of her! When your army moved, Botha knew your heliographed signals were false, and he got the truth from the woman — ”

  “By force — by torture?” Ogilvie’s fists clenched.

  The man shrugged. “Use your own imagination, Harry Bland! It may not be far from the truth.”

  Sheer anger took over from discretion. Ogilvie moved forward, thrusting into the group of Boers, making for the speaker and confronting him squarely. He said, “Tell me where she is, or I’ll smash your teeth through the back of your throat.”

  The Boer laughed insultingly. “You’re a pretty young man, Harry Bland, and it would be a shame to spoil your good looks, but if you make me, prisoner or no prisoner, I shall make sure your own mother never recognises you again.” He lifted one vast fist. “Now, you see this? Do you know what it is called?”

  “No, nor do I — ”

  “It is called Hospital.” He lifted the other. “And this one, it is Sudden Death. Now, Mr Bland, I shall tell you where the Englishwoman is, for the knowledge will do you no good, and then I shall pay you back for your treachery. The woman is held under guard in a wagon in Louis Botha’s head laager while Botha decides what is to be done with her. She’ll not get away, you may be quite certain of that. Now.” He lifted a fist again, and lunged. Swift alightning, Ogilvie dodged and caught the arm, holding it away from him. Laughing in his face, the big Boer lifted the arm, drawing Ogilvie’s arm up with it, and at the same time struck him a vicious blow in the chest with his free fist. Ogilvie gasped and staggered. As another blow landed he heard a shout from behind. He let go of the Boer and lashed out, catching the man on the side of the head. Someone else struck Ogilvie from behind, and he went down in a mêlée of fists and boots before he heard the crack of rifles and saw the crowding, surrounding feet move aside. Bullets zipped overhead and a moment later Ogilvie was lifted by a bush-hatted trooper of the Imperial Light Horse, and his uniform was brushed down. A sergeant saluted, with apologies: the escort’s attention had been diverted from the prisoners by gunfire to the east. As the Boers were once again rounded up, Ogilvie saw a wide grin on the pugnacious face of Mr Churchill, who was advancing to meet him.

  “I trust I was of some service,” Churchill said in a booming voice, waving a cigar.

  “You?”

  Churchill grinned again. “I gave the alarm.”

  “Oh — thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Churchill gave a mocking little bow, removing his head-dress and sweeping it across his body. “Thank the Morning Post — were it not for them, I’d not be here at all! If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do now, Captain.”

  “Writing up your … er … interview, I take it?”

  “Oh, no,” Churchill replied blandly, “that can wait. I shall now assume my military responsibilities and give a little lecture to General Warren, who seems to me to be acting a trifle slowly — there is far too much delay in advancing. I shall call upon my experiences at Omdurman — which was a swift enough business to be sure! Good afternoon, Captain Ogilvie.” With a broad smile, Mr Churchill turned away. Ogilvie looked after him, shaking his head in wonder at the unmilitary figure and its cloak of total assurance. Winston Churchill was becoming quite a name: a brave but pompous young officer, formerly of the 4th Hussars but now, apparently, holding an unofficial kind of commission whilst carrying out his journalistic duties, he was said to be aiming for a political career and to have something about him that would one day lead him to high office, if he didn’t make too many enemies along the line. Ogilvie in truth thought him a bit of a stinker, and reflected that General Warren, who had a reputation for acerbity, would be put into a fine rage if this newspaperman should attempt to instruct him in the conduct of his campaign.

  Making his way back to where the Royal Strathspeys were bivouacked on the slopes, Ogilvie cast Churchill from his mind with ease: Maisie Smith loomed larger.

  Somehow — and at present only God knew how — Maisie had to be cut out from under the nose of Brother Boer.

  *

  The word came down from General Warren’s headquarters, which he had now set up at Fairview after deciding against the longer route implicit in any westward advance. It came via Division and via Brigade and it reached the Royal Strathspeys next day: forward troops were being brought back to guard Warren’s encampment, as also were Dundonald’s cavalry. Upon their arrival, the heights above them would be attacked and the Boers swept from their entrenched positions along the summit.

  The 114th Highlanders were part of this advance when it was mounted. With an excellently thunderous artillery barrage in support, the Scots moved up the slopes of Tabanyama in short rushes, using what cover they could find among the boulders and in the scrubby bushes and grassy tufts. With the Dorsets and Middlesex, and the Somerset Light Infantry, they gained the crest, ejecting the Boers as pla
nned with surprisingly few British losses.

  Taking a breather at the summit, Ogilvie looked down the glacis. The Boers were streaming to the rear — but only, it seemed, to occupy a second line of trenches.

  Ogilvie turned to find MacKinlay behind him. “I don’t like the look of it,” MacKinlay said gloomily.

  “The glacis? No more do I, Rob.”

  “Any advance’ll be cut to pieces, just simply cut to pieces.”

  This opinion was borne out when the Boers sent up a withering fire, apparently to discourage any indiscretion on the part of the British. The whole glacis was swept with bullets, a hail in which no man would be able to advance so much as a yard. It was a fairly effective demonstration, and it was witnessed by General Warren in person. Word filtered through that he had turned pale and had expressed the view that he could not send his men to certain death; and that his glance had been seen to stray more than once towards his right, in the direction of the great eminence of Spion Kop itself, that vast top-rock of the ridge that stood across the route to Ladysmith.

  “If he’s thinking along those lines,” Lord Dornoch said that night, whilst chatting generally to his officers after a scratch meal in the bivouacs, “then we’re in for a hard task, gentlemen!”

  Black asked, “What do you suppose the plan’s to be, Colonel?”

  “Oh, it’s not hard to guess,” Dornoch answered. He waved a hand towards the summit with the glacis beyond, and the Boer lines beyond that. “If Warren can take Spion Kop and hold it, why, he should be able to enfilade those damn trenches below the glacis, shouldn’t he? We’re held in a vice of a sort, at present. Spion Kop could open that vice, couldn’t it?”

  “I dare say,” Black said. “But the Boers’ll have that in mind as well, Colonel.”

  “You mean — ?”

  “Spion Kop will be well defended.”