Fire Across the Veldt

by John Wilcox

  ‘I suppose all wars are miserable, Lord Kitchener – you will know this better than anyone. But this one certainly seems to be particularly cruel, not only in conventional terms but in the way Boer civilians have suffered. These camps, you know, are a disgrace.’

  Kitchener sat back in his chair and put his fingers together. ‘So, it seems, you have written.’ A pause ensued and Alice wondered whether he was waiting for her to build her attack, but then the general leant forward and continued.

  ‘You and I, of course, have discussed before my reasons for clearing the farms and, although you may not agree with them, they were one of the few strategies I could adopt for ending this war, which is costing so many lives and, indeed, considerable expenditure by the British Treasury. In fact, I have to tell you that it is now beginning to work. More and more of the Boer fighters out there on the veldt are being caught in our net, as we corner them. You see, they no longer have their homes to fall back on to give them comforts and essentials. As a result, these commandos are hungry, riding broken-down horses and wearing threadbare clothes. It is gruelling work but we are wearing them down.’

  ‘But you don’t seem able to catch de Wet, Botha, de la Rey and the rest. The veldt may be burning, but they still ride it.’

  ‘And they are splendid fighters, there is no doubt of that. They are fighting for their homeland, they know the terrain far better than we do and they have courage and skill. But they cannot win. We outnumber them and are closing in on them all the time.’

  Alice sighed. ‘But the camps, sir, the camps. I understand that you now have ninety thousand white Boers behind the wire and some twenty-four thousand blacks. And the women and children are dying like flies.’

  Kitchener nodded solemnly. ‘Quite. Enteric fever. It’s also causing more deaths among our troops than Boer bullets or shells. You would have thought that these sturdy Afrikaner families would have been more resistant to it, used, as they are, to outdoor living with crude sanitary conditions. But it seems they are not.’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of tea and the general presided over its pouring with the fussy attention of a parson’s wife. Then he resumed.

  ‘Miss Griffith, I have to confess that I got this wrong. I believed that we – the army – could handle the camps without too much effort. Goodness, we move vast forces around the country and set them up in temporary accommodation all the time. We are good at it. But we seem to have got these internment camps all wrong. We have overlooked the detail involved in housing these families.’

  He shook his head and the general looked suddenly weary. Alice had a brief insight into the weight of responsibility being carried by this famous man – ‘K of K’. She remembered hearing that this master of detail and logistics (he was, of course, a Royal Engineer) found it difficult to delegate. He went on: ‘We left too much to be decided locally and did not set up a proper administration to establish adequate rations, cooking equipment, water supplies and sanitary arrangements – all the things you have written about.’

  Alice, her head buzzing, scrambled in her handbag for notebook and pencil. ‘May I quote you on this, General?’ she asked.

  ‘Only if you report what I am doing to rectify the situation, madam.’

  ‘But of course. Do tell me.’

  ‘My masters in London have agreed that we should transfer the establishment and running of the camps – and we can’t, of course, pull them down because, despite their faults, they are effective – I repeat, to transfer their complete administration to the civilian authorities. Lord Milner, therefore, is leaving Cape Town and moving up to Pretoria to take responsibility for the camps and, indeed, the civilian administration of the country. His talents in this area are well proven and immediate improvements in the camps, including the replacement of tents by wooden buildings to give greater protection to the families, will be undertaken. This will allow the army to get on with the prosecution of the war.’

  Kitchener, his face now wearing a weary smile, leant forward. ‘And I have another piece of news for you, Miss Griffith,’ he said. ‘General Botha, who now seems to have taken over the complete Boer leadership in the Transvaal, has agreed to talk to me about establishing an armistice.’ He held up his hand. ‘Now this certainly does not mean the end of the war. Botha is probably the most amenable of the guerrilla leaders to an armistice, for his State, of course, contains more uitlanders than all the others put together and the Free State people in particular, who were the last to come into the war, seem now the most determined to continue it. So Botha will have his work cut out to get all the Boer leaders to the table. But, my goodness, it’s a start.’

  His smile widened. ‘So there you are, madam. Two – what do you call ’em – scoops, isn’t it, in one day.’

  Alice did not immediately reply, for she remained scribbling, her head down. Then she looked up and gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster.

  ‘Two pieces of good news, sir. You have made my day, in more ways than one. Now, please excuse me, for I must cable my people in London. I will, of course, pass my story through the censor here. I presume I will have no problems with him?’

  ‘Certainly not. Fire away.’ He stood and extended his hand. ‘Perhaps you might find a way of implying that I am not quite …’ hesitantly, almost bashfully, he searched for the right word ‘… the monster that I am sometimes painted. Now good day, madam. Oh, and do give my good wishes to your gallant husband when you next see him.’

  ‘I will, sir. I will. And thank you.’

  Alice walked down the wooden steps from the veranda, astonished the sentry outside by patting his shoulder, and greeted the blue sky above with a great grin. Then she examined her fob watch. Good. She had time to get her story on the wire to catch tomorrow’s edition. And what a story! If it was true that Kitchener had given her these two pieces of news exclusively then she did, indeed, have page lead copy here. She climbed back onto the trap, which she had kept waiting, and began scribbling straight away.

  Halfway back to the hotel she looked up from her notepad. James! Well, she reckoned she would be able to write and cable her story and still have time to join him for dinner. She hugged herself with glee.

  The two stories, which, of course, she put together as one, virtually wrote themselves and she had plenty of time to take them to the censor’s office – where she met with a raised eyebrow but no difficulties – send a message to Fulton in the journalists’ compound and then return to bathe and make herself ready for dinner. She felt no sense of betrayal at agreeing to see James over dinner. It presented itself as a civilised and, she confessed, pleasurable opportunity to tell him that whatever there had been between them was now over. They would continue to be friends, of course, but she was a happily married woman and that would be that.

  Relieved at resolving a course of action to solve the problem that had been hanging over her for weeks, Alice dressed with care. She selected her only other dress, a well-cut apple-green, rather formal garment, made of the finest Egyptian cotton and cut low at the front to reveal a touch of décolletage. It was Simon’s favourite and she felt a tremor of unease at wearing it, but, what the hell, tonight would be her last evening with James Fulton so she cast aside any insipient feeling of guilt. She slipped her only pair of high-heeled shoes on her feet and applied face powder and, this time, a touch of rouge. Alice had to admit that, looking at herself in the mirror, she felt deliciously naughty.

  Fulton arrived at the hotel a little early and carrying a bouquet of veldt flowers: mimosa, ericas, maidenhair ferns, picked, he said, by himself that very afternoon. She accepted them with a light kiss to his cheek and inwardly marvelled at how handsome he looked, with his dark-tanned face and black wavy hair set off by white ducks and lightweight jacket. Despite the heat he had paid her the compliment of wearing a stiff white collar and brightly striped tie – old school or regiment? It didn’t matter but she couldn’t help speculating for a second or two on its provenance. After all, s
he knew nothing about his background.

  ‘Dinner?’ she asked. ‘That sounds very grand for Pretoria. Surely there are only the stuffy old clubs and hotels. Where are we going?’

  He flashed his teeth. ‘Certainly no hotel or club. I have found a delightful little restaurant on the edge of town. Kept by two Chinese. Best food in the whole of South Africa. I promise you will like it. And they know their wines. Come on, I have hired a carriage.’

  The carriage was open but he had provided a parasol, for the evening sun was still comparatively high. Pretoria was a pretty little town and as they drove through its leafy suburbs, with their imported eucalyptus trees and bayonet-erect aloes hedging the gardens, Alice felt relaxed and replete, after the strain of virtual non-stop travelling and recording the miseries of the camps. As they drove, they began to leave the little wooden houses behind and headed towards the yellow veldt. Overhead larks and pipits sang and the regal pow bird sailed swiftly through the sunlight, a patch of colour against the blue.

  Alice felt so elated that she had to share her good news about her interview with Kitchener. Fulton was impressed. ‘Don’t use it, though, James, will you?’ she begged. ‘Kitchener gave them to me exclusively. But I am telling you now so that you can have ample time to follow it all up tomorrow, if you wish.’

  ‘Of course I won’t use it.’ He took one hand away from the reins and squeezed her fingers. ‘Well done. You know, Alice Griffith, you are the prettiest woman in the whole of South Africa. And you’re damned good at your job, too, blast it.’

  Alice threw back her head and laughed. ‘Stop flattering me, James Fulton. I am far too old for all that stuff.’

  His grin disappeared and he leant towards her. ‘Oh no you’re not. And you know it.’ He stole a kiss on her cheek and then quickly flicked the whip over the horse’s neck. ‘Won’t be long now. It’s just on the edge of town.’

  The restaurant was little more than a hut on the edge of the veldt but it was comfortably furnished and two candles were glowing on the stoep, where a table had been set for two and covered in the crispest white cloth. Alice had developed a taste for oriental cooking in China and the two venerable Chinamen, who seemed to be the only staff, had prepared a meal of chicken, rice, pork and mixed vegetables that promised to be nothing short of delicious. The white wine, from the Cape, was crisp, cold and fruity on the palate.

  They had just finished their first course, a noodle soup, when James put his napkin to his lips and rose from the table. ‘Sorry, Alice,’ he said, ‘but I must ask you to excuse me for a moment. Mr Chang here has promised to order me some wine but I like this much better, so I am going to ask him to change the order. It may mean going through the catalogue for another choice out at the back. I won’t be more than five minutes.’ And he leant across and filled her glass.

  Alice shrugged but put her nose into the wine glass and allowed the bouquet to rise through her nostrils. Then she settled back comfortably in her chair and raised the glass to her lips. Nothing much mattered tonight. She had sent her newspaper two good, exclusive stories that would undoubtedly make a page lead and she savoured the moment. Of course, she would tell James of her decision to break off their relationship but it could wait until the end of the meal – or perhaps even tomorrow? The warm, gentle evening, the wine, the company of a handsome, attentive man – it was all to be enjoyed for the moment. Goodness knows, she had been working hard enough over the last six weeks or so. Surely she could be allowed a little indulgence? Her thoughts turned to Simon, down there on the border with his injured shoulder, and she hoped that he was out of harm’s way. She would write to him in the morning, a warm loving letter.

  Fulton returned full of apologies and immediately refilled her glass as the main course arrived. Somewhere, a horse galloped away through the night and a bird screeched. He ordered chopsticks and she, still comparatively fresh from Peking, instructed him on how to use them. Their fingers touched as she did so and, once again, that frisson of excitement ran through her.

  As they ate, they spoke about the camps and Alice recited her experiences of travelling with Emily Hobhouse. Fulton expressed his admiration for her initiative in finding the little woman and strongly supported her indignation at the internment of the Boer families and the conditions in which they were kept. While she had been touring the camps, he had remained with the press contingent who had spent most of its time with French chasing Botha and de la Rey in the Transvaal. Alice realised that she had so much in common with Fulton: their love of newspapers and the written word, their dislike of the war and, of course, Kitchener’s farm clearance policy.

  When the meal was finished, James leant across and said: ‘There is a lovely garden at the back. Shall we take a cognac out there?’

  Alice looked at her watch. ‘Why not? It’s such a beautiful evening.’

  Fulton ordered the cognac – ‘French, mind’ – and they then strolled arm in arm round the corner of the little house to find what was, indeed, a charming little terrace and garden at the rear, shaded by shrubs and with magnolias in flower casting a strong enough perfume to combat the odour of cooking from the kitchen. Mr Chang himself brought out balloon glasses containing the delicious liquid and they settled on a swing couch perfectly placed under trees at the bottom of the garden.

  There they sat, silently looking at the stars and sipping their brandy.

  ‘You know I’m in love with you, don’t you?’ Fulton put his arm about her shoulders and pulled her towards him.

  Alice did not resist but snuggled her cheek against his breast. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘It’s the bloody wine, the brandy and the moonlight. So don’t exaggerate. Journalists must be objective.’ Then she ruined it all by hiccupping.

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Then he put down his glass and carefully took hers too and placed it on the ground. Then he kissed her, thrusting his tongue questioningly into her mouth. Alice froze for a moment – the moment of truth that she knew would be coming. Then she responded ardently, all the anxieties, the hardships and the self-questioning disappearing in a trice as she felt passion and, yes, lust swelling within her.

  Fulton pushed her back and began unbuttoning her dress with practised fingers and then removing her undergarments. She lay back and let him undress her until he was caressing her and gently kissing her nipples. Alice closed her eyes and let the warmth of his embrace and the fumes of the alcohol sweep over her. She realised that she was being penetrated but she didn’t care and she rose to meet his thrusts, all thoughts of morality and propriety dropping away from her as easily as her clothing.

  At the finish, they both lay breathless and Alice realised that they were now lying on the grass. Suddenly, she felt cold. She looked up at him and saw that he was grinning at her, not smiling, but his face wreathed in a kind of animal grimace, showing satisfaction and, yes, mastery. She pulled away and reached for her clothing and began trying to dress with both haste and dignity. She achieved neither and Fulton burst out laughing.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ he said.

  ‘No, thank you. I can manage. Oh, James. I am not sure we should have done that. I am beginning to feel ashamed.’

  ‘Ah, no, you mustn’t, my love. It was all very satisfying, I would say, and we must do it again.’

  Alice shook her head violently. ‘No. No. I feel … I don’t know what I feel. Yes I do. I feel … like an animal. Oh God!’

  His grin widened. ‘Well, that’s not a bad description, Mrs Fonthill. You were rather like a tigress, I would say.’

  Alice felt a tear start and immediately produced a scrap of handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘Please take me back to the hotel, James.’

  He reached across and picked up her glass. ‘Oh, come now. Finish your cognac. It’s cost the earth.’

  ‘Thank you, no. I have certainly had enough to drink for one night, thank you very much. Do please take me home.’

  ‘Very well. Let me settle the bill.’

&nb
sp; They drove back through the now much cooler evening without exchanging a word. At the hotel, Alice stepped down and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t help thinking that you took advantage of me, James,’ she said. ‘But I do not blame you. I blame myself and I have to confess that I feel ashamed. I have never before committed adultery and …’

  Fulton leant down and touched her cheek with his finger. ‘That may be so, my dear, but you enjoyed it, now didn’t you? Admit it.’

  Alice looked at him and this time could not prevent the tears coursing down her cheeks. Without another word she turned on her heel and fled into the hotel. In her room, she flung herself on her bed and sobbed. It was a long time before she stirred herself to wash and undress, before crawling under the bedclothes, shuddering from the cold.

  In the morning, as she breakfasted with a stony face, a cable was handed to her, delivered from the post office. It ran:

  CONGRATS ON YOUR STORIES STOP SPLENDID WORK STOP NOT QUITE EXCLUSIVE AS YOU SUGGESTED FOR DAILY MAIL CARRIED MAIN THRUST OF THEM IN THEIR STOP PRESS BOXES LAST EDITIONS STOP BUT STILL GOOD WORK STOP KEEP IT UP STOP WOKINGHAM EDITOR

  Alice’s jaw dropped and she slowly put down the cable. Then picked it up and read it again. How could he have …? Then she remembered the brief absence to change the wine order – and the sound of a horse galloping away in the night, the rider obviously carrying his scribbled stop press story, just in time to catch his last edition.

  The bastard! She shook her head slowly and then lowered it into her hands. She had behaved like a young, stupid, impressionable girl!

  She felt used and abused – and she had no one to blame but herself.

  Then, slowly, a smile stretched across her face. What cheek! What audacity! And what charm! But never again.

  Ah well. She had been taught a lesson that she would never forget. But could she now write that letter to Simon? To her husband, who now stood out in her mind as some brave, shining beacon of morality and courage. She gulped. No. Not today. She couldn’t bring herself to write to him today, while she was so … unclean. Tomorrow, though. Yes, she would write to him tomorrow. The warm, tender letter that he so deserved.