by CL Skelton
Robert did not spend many nights in mess, but tonight he had to be there. He was orderly officer. He too had been told that day of the impending move. It could not be a bad thing for Robert; at least, outside their catchment area, the likelihood of more green recruits was slender. After all, there would be English girls at Aldershot and English young ladies were remarkably easy prey for a man of six foot four, well built, and wearing a kilt. He reached inside the pocket of his mess jacket and took out a long slim black cigar and lit it. Well, he thought, if they were going to fight the Boers, the sooner the better, as far as he was concerned.
He lay back on his chair and watched the blue smoke of his cigar as it curled up towards the ceiling, just as the peat smoke did from Mahri’s lumb.
On board ship in the south Atlantic a day and a half from Cape Town, Maud Bruce knew little of the impending war, and what she did know meant nothing to her. Within a couple of days she would be with her son again; with Donald in Kimberley. Nothing else really mattered.
In London, Lord Wolseley ordered General Sir Redvers Buller, V.C., to form an army corps of approximately fifty thousand men, and to be ready to sail for South Africa at a moment’s notice.
Buller looked at his old chief. Wolseley was probably the most famous soldier that Britain had had since Wellington. Buller had served with him in 1870 and a year later he had entered the staff college. He had left there as soon as the chance came to join Wolseley again in the Ashanti war of 1873. In 1879, during the Zulu war, Buller had won the Victoria Cross. His entire career seemed to have been linked to Wolseley and always as number two and now he was being ordered on an independent command.
‘Fifty thousand men,’ he said. ‘I don’t want this job, you know that, sir.’
‘I think,’ replied the Commander-in-Chief, ‘you must allow me to decide who is the best man for this operation. You’ll have no trouble raising the men. If you opened the recruiting offices tomorrow you’d have three times the number you need by evening. The whole country seems to be after Kruger’s blood.’
‘It’s trained men I shall need.’
‘I know.’
‘And what about equipment?’
‘I’m sorry, Redvers, but that’s another story. I fear that that is not so good. It’s a damned sight easier to find the men than the supplies.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘For your artillery? Less than two hundred rounds per gun.’
‘That’s not so good, is it?’ said Buller.
‘No. And the Boer has a better rifle than we have.’
‘Damn the politicians,’ said Buller.
‘Amen,’ replied Wolseley. ‘But you’ve got to do it. This talk we have had is off the record. You’ll receive your orders in writing later. Then you can object if you want to. Training is what really matters now. I want you to get down to that right away.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ said Buller, ‘but I don’t like it.’
‘Come and have lunch with me at Boodle’s. We can talk some more over a bottle of claret.’
It was the first of October, 1899.
Chapter Two
At an elevation of over a thousand feet, the town of Kimberley lay about six hundred miles north of Cape Town. It was only a matter of ten miles or so, within the border of Cape Colony, from the Orange Free State. Kimberley had been connected to the Cape by rail which passed through the town on its way to Mafeking and beyond. About thirty miles to the west, across the open veld, was the Vaal River. With only sixteen inches of rain a year, Kimberley was for most of the time hot and dry. There was little in the way of agriculture, and most of the provisions for the town had been transported there by the railway since it arrived there in 1885.
The town was built around a market square, the outstanding feature of which was a stone-pillared and porticoed town hall. The streets were wide, there was land in plenty, and most of the town centre consisted of shops and offices, some of which were stone-built though the majority were still of wood. Nearly all of the buildings had one thing in common, and that was the wooden awning which protected pedestrians from the heat of the almost ever-present sun.
Kimberley was the centre of the most productive diamond mines in the world, and thus a great financial prize for any predator. Kimberley also had within its bounds that high priest of empire, Cecil John Rhodes, who was at that time reputed to be the wealthiest man in the world.
All the diamonds which were mined in Kimberley and its environs were sold by the De Beers group which was effectively under the control of Rhodes himself. It was here that Donald Bruce purchased gem-quality stones in the rough and sent them by courier to Amsterdam for cutting. After that they went to their final destination, Mr Wilson’s shop in Bond Street. It was here, too, that Maud Bruce arrived in the early August of 1899 to see her son, his wife, and the three grandchildren that she had never met.
The heat never bothered Maud; indeed she found it much more bearable than the Highland winters. She had been born in India and had returned there three times with the battalion. Kimberley, however, was not India. In India the army and army life dominated everything. But this was a commercial town, a business community with little time for the military. Of course, it was garrisoned and guarded by a series of forts, but one saw little of the army throughout the normal course of life.
It was Tuesday when she arrived and the day was pleasant enough with the temperature in the upper seventies. But this was early spring, and it heralded heat of well over a hundred degrees by the time summer arrived in November.
Maud got out of the train on to the dusty wooden platform. In some ways it was familiar and reminded her of India, both the natives who hurried about looking for someone whose baggage they could carry, and those who merely held out a plaintive hand in the hope of an offering. There were also one or two well-dressed Europeans going about their business and ignoring the cries of the throng. But in other ways, it was quite different. Here everybody seemed more purposeful, and there was no hint anywhere of social occasion. Maud watched for a moment with ill-concealed astonishment as a man with a straggling beard, obviously a Boer farmer, wearing a battered slouch hat and ill-fitting trousers with flapping shirt, tried to collect his wife, a tired, mousey-looking little woman, and eleven children.
Within a very few moments she had spotted Donald hurrying towards her, immaculate in white ducks and wearing a white pith helmet. Trotting along at his side was Brenda, dressed in the white linen costume and wide-brimmed hat that was almost regulation dress for ladies’ daywear anywhere in the Empire.
‘Welcome to Kimberley, Mother,’ said Donald as he embraced her.
‘It’s good to see you, Donald,’ smiling as she watched her son take his wife’s hand. ‘Hello, Brenda. But where are my grandchildren?’
‘They’re at home,’ said Brenda. ‘Donald wanted to bring them, but I thought it would be better to leave them there while we sorted out the luggage. Just in case any of them escaped, you know,’ she added with a smile.
‘Where is your luggage, Mother?’ asked Donald.
‘In the van.’
‘Keep an eye on her, darling,’ Donald said to Brenda, kissing her. ‘I have a houseboy here. I’ll get him to sort it out and bring it along. How many pieces?’
‘Eight, I’m afraid,’ said Maud. ‘I plan to stay for some time.’
‘It isn’t very far,’ said Brenda as Donald disappeared in search of his servant. ‘But we’ve brought the gig in case you were tired. Did you have a good journey?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Maud. ‘It was most interesting. I find Africa very large and extremely empty. But after thirty hours in a train, even in my most comfortable compartment, one does tend to get a little weary. Especially at my age.’
‘But you’re not all that old, Mrs Bruce.’
‘I’m nearly sixty, you know. And, Brenda, you must stop calling me Mrs Bruce. Mother sounds a bit foolish, so why don’t you just call me Maud?’ She was already warming to this rath
er plain, softly spoken woman, who was obviously so much loved by her son.
‘All right, then,’ said Brenda. ‘Maud it shall be.’
They were rejoined by Donald, who escorted them to the gig, having assured Maud that her luggage had all been safely identified. They drove for a little way along the dusty streets towards the market square.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Donald as he helped his mother down from the gig, ‘we live over the shop. But I am sure that you’ll find that we have ample accommodation. We have a bungalow outside the town, but we do not use it just now. We have been advised to stay within the town limits.’
‘Why?’ asked Maud. They entered, through an unprepossessing front door, a corridor which was flanked by offices, the largest of which had a glass-topped door through which could be seen a heavy safe.
‘It’s all this talk of war, I suppose,’ replied Donald.
‘What are they saying about it in London?’ asked Brenda.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea of what they’re saying in London,’ said Maud, ‘but Donald’s father seems quite convinced that there is going to be a war. He blames it all on Chamberlain.’
‘It’s all so bloody stupid,’ said Donald. ‘They’ll never solve anything with a war. Men’s attitudes don’t change. Anyhow,’ he said, deliberately changing the subject, ‘come on upstairs, the children will be waiting.’
Towards the rear of the building a pleasant staircase led up to the first floor, where there was a bright landing lit by a large oblong window in the rear wall. They went across this and into what was obviously the sitting room.
It was furnished almost entirely by light cane and bamboo furniture, with a profusion of multicoloured scatter cushions. There was a series of large windows running the entire length of the opposite wall. These were open, but covered with screens of fine net, and the floor was tiled for coolness, with a couple of skin rugs placed with careful casualness.
But Maud saw little of this. She had eyes only for the three children who rose to greet her as she entered the room. They were all fair and had the reddish, freckled complexions which stamped them unmistakably as descendants of Willie Bruce. The two boys were dressed smartly in freshly laundered sailor suits, and the little girl wore a white dress with a blue ribbon around her waist, and little lace-trimmed pantalettes which peeped below the hem of her skirt.
‘Children,’ said Donald, ‘this is Grandmama.’
‘How do you do, Grandmama,’ they said in well-rehearsed unison.
‘Now, Mother, this is ‒’
‘No, no, Donald, I must do this myself. Now let me see. You must be Harry,’ she said, giving the tallest of the three a kiss. ‘You are seven, is that right, Harry?’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Harry.
‘You must always call me Grandma,’ said Maud, smiling.
‘And here we have Susan? Hello Susan, you are not quite six? Is that right?’
‘I shall be six on December the second,’ said Susan, anxious that her birthday should be firmly established.
‘We won’t forget,’ said Maud. ‘And this, of course, is Johnny.’
‘Are you my gangma?’ lisped Johnny. ‘Did you bring me a present?’
‘Johnny,’ said Brenda, reproving, ‘that’s very rude.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Maud, laughing. ‘Of course I have brought you a present, my darling. I have brought presents for all of you, and Grandpa has sent you presents, and Uncle Gordon has sent you presents, oh, dearie me, yes. There are so many presents.’
‘Can we see them? Can we see them?’ they chanted, their reserve completely broken down as they clustered around her.
‘You will have to wait, my dears, until Grandma’s luggage has arrived and we unpack. But there is one special bag which you must help me unpack because it has all of your presents in it.’
‘Oh, I can’t wait,’ said Harry, and they all laughed.
There was another occupant of the room, a tall, statuesque young black woman. Her high, firm breasts and her rounded buttocks contoured the thin cotton print dress which Maud was quite sure was all that she was wearing.
‘Nambi,’ said Donald, addressing the native woman, ‘this is my mother, Mrs Bruce.’
The girl nodded silently in Maud’s direction.
‘Would you go and tell cook that we will take tea now,’ said Donald.
‘Yes, Master Donald,’ she replied in a low, husky voice. She walked out of the room with a sort of gliding grace.
‘Nambi,’ said Donald by way of explanation, ‘is Zulu, as indeed all of our servants are. They come here from the tribal lands and work for a couple of years, and then go home and get married. Nambi is rather different, though. Her father was killed in a tribal raid and some friends of ours found her in the bush. She couldn’t have been more than about ten at the time. Well, it was just after we arrived here, and when our friends brought her back to Kimberley, they gave her to us as a housegirl. In the years since, she’s become more or less one of the family, hasn’t she, dear?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Brenda. ‘I doubt if she will ever be able to go back to her tribe now. She’ll probably end up marrying one of the town blacks. It’ll be a pity, though. She’s much too good for them.’
‘Why?’ asked Maud.
‘Well, they tend to be the tribal dropouts. They live in the most appalling squalor around the outskirts of the town and spend most of their time stealing and begging. I should not like Nambi to end up with one of them,’ said Brenda.
‘I see,’ said Maud. She had also seen the way that Donald had looked at Nambi as she left the room and hoped that she was wrong.
Chapter Three
The Boer War began officially at, according to The Times, tea time on the eleventh October, 1899. The following day the man who had been chosen to command all the British forces in South Africa, General Sir Redvers Buller, V.C., broke off preparations for his imminent departure on the Dunottar Castle, which was sailing in three days’ time, in order to grant an interview to a lady. He had done this in response to a request from an old comrade, Major General Willie Bruce.
Buller made no secret of the fact that he was not looking forward to his assignment. He had even again requested the commander-in-chief to find another and, in his, Buller’s, opinion, more suitable candidate for the job. He had had a very gallant career since he had joined the army in 1859. But for fifteen years he had seen no active service. That time had been spent sitting behind a desk in Whitehall. Those fifteen years had added considerably to his waistline. He no longer had the trim, athletic figure with which he was portrayed in the illustrated magazines.
He had accepted the command in South Africa with a great deal of misgiving, having grave doubts about his own fitness for the job. But after much persuasion which culminated in an interview on the fifth of October with the Queen herself, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to go through with it.
There was no more popular soldier in Britain. The rank and file of the army held him in the highest affection and knew him as a general who really cared for his men. The public in general, having been fed through the press with long and glowing accounts of his exploits, had made him their hero. For the last few days he had hardly been able to set foot outside his office or his home without running the risk of being mobbed by the crowds who, imbued with faith in the invincibility of Empire, were thronging the streets, waving Union Jacks and singing patriotic songs.
Buller was a gentle, kindly man who found it difficult to refuse any request. So even in the midst of all these preparations he had agreed to see his old friend’s daughter. None the less he was most determined that the interview would be brief, and, if what she wanted to see him about was what he suspected, unfruitful.
‘Miss Naomi Bruce, sir,’ announced his aide, ushering Naomi into his office.
Buller heaved himself up from his desk, indicating a chair opposite him. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss Bruce? Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Thank you, Sir Redvers,’ the vision replied to his offer. ‘I am here on a matter of urgent concern. I am aware that your time must be at a premium and I have no intention of wasting any of it in small talk or tea party conversation.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ replied the general. ‘I assure you that I appreciate your concern.’
‘I understand, Sir Redvers, that you are sailing for South Africa on the Dunottar Castle the day after tomorrow.’ Naomi paused. ‘Do correct me if my information is not accurate.’
The general raised his eyebrows. ‘No, madam, you are quite right.’
‘So am I.’
‘Oh? You intend to visit the Cape? Perhaps I shall have the honour of meeting you during the voyage. You have relatives or friends out there, I presume.’
‘No.’
‘Then I should advise you to think again before leaving. You will no doubt be aware that there is a state of war between this country and the government of the Boer republics in South Africa.’
‘I am quite aware of that, Sir Redvers. But mine is not a mission of peace. I am sailing to South Africa because of, and not in spite of, the fact that we are at war.’
‘Madam, war is not for ladies. Ladies do not go to war.’
‘Miss Nightingale did.’