Cameron watched him go and the transformation was not lost on him. ‘We will not see many of his kind in the future, Sarn’t-Major, ’he said, swinging himself into the saddle. ‘Theirs is a world that has not changed for the better.’
‘If you say so, sir, ’Mulligan replied noncommittally.
That night as he tried to find sleep under his blanket Cameron thought of those they had left behind for the scavengers of the veld. He wondered what would become of the Gil family, whoever and wherever they might be. It was a harsh land under any circumstances, but the death of a husband and son would make it even more demanding for any women and children they had left behind.
The name given to him by the young Zulu had not gone unnoticed. Ibhubesi – lion. Cameron liked it.
The journey had taken Torben longer than anticipated, due to the volume of military traffic transporting supplies to General Buller’s forward position near Newcastle.
As instructed, he left the train at Glencoe junction only to learn that there was no regular service to the branch line railhead at Talana. Fortunately, a post-cart had been awaiting the train’s arrival and Torben managed to bribe the African driver into giving him a highly illegal ride for the fifteen-mile journey.
Now he stood beside a jumble of railway huts and construction materials clutching the single small case, his other hand holding down a ridiculously out-of-place straw boater lest it be swept away by the winter wind that swirled around the desolate station.
Already Torben was regretting the mission and wondered why he had accepted the cryptic invitation to this out of the way place. Between him and the Transvaal capital lay General Buller’s force of over ten thousand men. Soon they would be following the main line north towards the mining city of Johannesburg. Torben was still in Natal but close to the Transvaal border, with not a single soldier in sight.
Although he carried a derringer pistol for personal protection, it was not the most reassuring choice – should he actually have to use it. However, standing alone except for a handful of hungry natives lounging around the corrugated iron building that was the station, Torben was glad to have the weapon close at hand. They seemed to be eyeing him with undue interest considering how little he had. Turning his back to them he stared east, into the empty distance beyond the end of the tracks.
The note had said they would meet him on this day and at this place, he nervously reminded himself. Was it a trap? Perhaps they knew he had been procuring armaments for the British. Was the secretive letter smuggled to him from Johannesburg simply the bait to lure him into Boer territory and exact revenge for his role in supporting the hated English? Torben was feeling a chill from the inside and unconsciously patted the pistol in a pocket of his trousers. He turned, noticing that the Africans who had been lounging around the station were no longer there. Torben’s fear turned to outright terror. ‘Dear God, ’ he heard himself utter, ‘protect me.’
Three riders leading a saddled horse had materialised in the distance. Torben could see that they were watching him with a spyglass. He was carrying the suitcase he had been instructed to purchase from a specific maker of portmanteaus at an address in New Germany. Placing the case between his feet he waited. The signal would be understood only by those who had made contact with him.
Obviously satisfied, the strangers cantered towards him. As they drew close, Torben judged from their appearance that they were Boers from the Transvaal.
‘Your name, Englesman?’ one of the bearded men asked menacingly, a Mauser carbine resting casually on his hip.
‘Torben Petersen, ’he replied, eyeing the three men with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘My name is Danish, not English, ’he added, hoping that identifying with his mother’s family might help him in some small way.
‘Get on the horse, Petersen, ’the same man said without any sign of welcome, a fact which did nothing to allay Torben’s growing regret at having accepted the curiously worded invitation. It was greed that had lured him to this desolate place and put his life in the hands of these wild-looking individuals. ‘You ride with us.’
And so, some hours later, Torben found himself sitting in the book-lined library of a larger than average farmhouse well beyond the Transvaal border, in his hand a crystal glass of fine Madeira sherry. His unnamed host appraised him studiously across a solid stinkwood desk. Torben’s fears had lessened somewhat with his more hospitable reception and a second glass of the fortified wine.
The man spoke perfect English but with a slight Afrikaans accent. He was in his mid to late fifties, clean-shaven – unlike most Boer men – and well groomed, dressed in an expensive European suit so different from the usual apparel of his Afrikaner kinfolk. Torben instinctively sensed a fellow not unlike himself and took the mysterious man to be a financier or banker.
‘Cigar, Mister Petersen?’ his host asked, pushing a wooden box across the desk towards Torben, who raised a hand politely declining the offer.
‘You have my name, sir, but I do not know yours, ’he said.
‘Names are of no consequence, ’ the man responded, leaning back in his upholstered leather chair. ‘What is important is that I know all about you and your dealings with our deceitful enemy.’
Torben felt the chill return as hairs on the back of his neck seemed to rise of their own accord. His initial fears had been confirmed.
‘I can see that you look somewhat concerned at my statement, Mister Petersen. Fear not. Your proven success in the arms business is the very reason why we need your help. Having said that, I should provide you with some background as to why you were singled out with an invitation to come here.’
‘That would certainly help, ’Torben replied, sipping his excellent sherry in silence while his host trimmed, licked and lit a long Dutch cigar.
‘Are you a reader of history, Mister Petersen?’
Torben shook his head. For him, reading was restricted to newspaper reports of stock markets and commodity prices.
‘Well, I most certainly am and I suggest that we would do well to learn from the civil war which not so long ago divided the states of America. Man for man the Confederates were more God-fearing than their counterparts from the north but they still lost the war. The reason was simple. Defeat boiled down to basic economics. Lincoln’s Yankees came from a strong industrial economy with unlimited resources of men, money and materials. Very much like those from the southern states, we Boers are mostly farmers and face the same problems. You see, Mister Petersen, I do not share the belief of my volk that we can beat the British lion on the battlefield. Queen Victoria has an empire to draw on and a navy quick to discourage any European nation from coming to our aid. At the moment we still hold Johannesburg and control what the British want most – our goldfields. It needs no crystal ball to know that the city will soon fall. In fact, the good Doctor Krause, who is in charge at the moment, has already concluded a deal with Lord Roberts to hand over everything without any damage to the Rand mines. By way of exchange, we will be allowed twenty-four hours in which to withdraw our komandos. We shall of course take much more than men, but the Little Man can have his victory parade through the streets.’
‘Sir, I must ask why you should trust me with such information, or for that matter whatever else you have in mind?’ Torben sensed that the answer was probably beyond his wildest imagination.
‘Your father may be Scottish but you owe no allegiance to Queen Victoria and have a wife who is one of us.’ The man leaned forwards, releasing a stream of blue cigar smoke that added to the eye-watering atmosphere of the dimly lit room. ‘I also happen to know that Dallas Granger-Acheson is no longer willing to underwrite your more ambitious enterprises.’
‘And you suppose such knowledge is sufficient to contract my loyalty?’ Torben countered, suddenly feeling more confident.
‘Certainly not, Mister Petersen. The future of your daughter – Alice, I believe – not to mention what I am about to place in your possession are much more persuasive reasons
for assisting our cause. You are a man like me: a man who understands that the world of entrepreneurs does not know the meaning of national boundaries. When this war is over the true survivors will be those who profited from the stupidity of weaker men motivated by vague ideals of loyalty and causes which will soon be forgotten in the annals of history. We – the bankers of this world – have but one master. I have no doubt that you understand my meaning.’
Torben did indeed understand what this cultured Afrikaner was saying. Yes, he had suffered the ignominy of crawling to his family for money. The secret arms deals had given him an opportunity for future investment, but he always seemed to need more cash. Perhaps the answer lay in this smoke-filled room.
‘I suspect that what you may propose will suit us both, sir.’ Torben noticed the flicker of satisfaction on his host’s face.
‘In that case, Mister Petersen, I will tell you more – at least as much as you need to know to carry out our mutually beneficial mission. Have you ever heard of the Broederbond?
‘Rumours, but that is all, ’Torben answered truthfully.
‘It is much more than that, I can assure you. If we lose this war, as we are bound to do, it will be the most powerful force left to us in South Africa. Already it lies dormant at every level of our society ready to feed on the British concept of democracy and use it against them to establish an independent nation led by those chosen of the volk. As we know from the American civil war, success demands massive levels of finance. In the years ahead you can be one of those who establishes the means for us to achieve that objective.’
Stunned, Torben felt the blood drain from his face. This would be dangerous work and could easily be construed as treason. ‘Am I to be a part of the Brotherhood?’ he asked, almost whispering.
‘No, Mister Petersen. It is best that you are not linked to us in any way at all. You will continue to run your own, most successful business while at the same time acting as our financial agent. A very simple arrangement with little or no risk attached. You are a man known to deliver what he promises. I refer to your arms dealing, of course.’
Torben wondered how much more this man knew.
‘So you see, any transactions conducted by your companies would be above suspicion. Needless to say, should you be foolish enough to entertain any ideas of betrayal, we have the ability to reach out and destroy not only you but also those you hold dear.’
The quietly delivered threat was not doubted by Torben, who knew he would be making a pact with the devil. In his mind, reward outweighed the risk. ‘Why would I jeopardise the goose with the golden egg?’ he countered.
‘Sometimes people get hungry, ’the man replied. ‘Your role in our sacred cause will become too valuable to tolerate failure. Do I have your word?’
After a slight hesitation, Torben leaned across the desk to take his host’s hand. ‘You do, sir, sworn on the life of my newborn baby.’
The gesture was accepted.
‘We will be leaving the Transvaal’s coffers all but empty. What the British will never know is how much we have spirited out of the country into international bank accounts. Gold is the universal pacifier and knows no loyalty other than greed.’ The man reached into his desk and withdrew an envelope. ‘This is a down payment on your first commission, ’he said, sliding it over the highly polished surface.
Torben broke the wax seal and his eyes widened in shock. He dared not ask if the promissory note were real.
‘One hundred and fifty thousand pounds drawn on the Bank of England, ’his host said, delighting in Torben’s avarice. ‘I am sure that this will be the first of many payments if our trust in you is rewarded.’
Torben sat staring at the neatly written numbers. This was, indeed, far beyond his wildest expectations.
‘Future instructions will be relayed by the man from whom you acquired your portmanteau. He will provide the necessary funds and tell you how they are to be disbursed. Do you have any questions?’
Torben shook his head.
‘Then that is all. Food and a room have been prepared for you. Sleep well, Mister Petersen. At first light my brothers will take you back to the railhead at Talana.’
With the completion of their business the two men rose, shook hands and walked to the door. Waiting outside was an armed youth of no more than fifteen, his face scarred by some unidentifiable skin condition. He eyed Torben suspiciously before speaking in Afrikaans to the older man, who nodded and said, ‘I am sure you understood most of that but it would appear Lord Roberts has annexed the Free State for his distant Queen and renamed it the Orange River Colony. A bit presumptuous of him, don’t you think? Lekker slaap, Meneer Petersen, Lekker slaap.’ With that he turned back into his study and closed the door.
‘Come, ’the boy said to Torben, indicating that he should follow. His room turned out to be small but comfortable. Brown bread smeared with dripping, cold boerewors and a glass of milk were set out by the bed. Torben hated the spicy Afrikaner sausage, hot or cold.
He lay awake in the sagging bed until an overenthusiastic rooster shattered the pre-dawn silence. Torben fumbled to find the chamber pot, used it, then poured ice cold water into a basin and splashed his face. Dressed, he sat and waited. The door was locked.
No words were spoken as the four men rode back towards the Natal border. Of his host, Carl Johannes Venter, there had been no sign.
Torben was terrified lest he lose the envelope and regularly placed a hand in his pocket to reassure himself that the money was still there. He was already thinking of ways he would invest it for himself and Gerda. Oh yes, given the golden opportunity which the Broederbond had provided he could become the richest individual in South Africa. That the deal had made him a traitor to the British crown was not a consideration. True entrepreneurs rose above petty conflicts. It was they who really ruled the world, and now he had been admitted to their ranks. Did not the bank cheque drawn on one of England’s most prestigious institutions prove that? A twinge of guilt touched the edge of Torben’s conscience. By accepting the contract he was betraying a family who had given their all for Queen and country. Frazer – his half-brother – had died doing his duty. But all families had dark secrets, he consoled himself. His decision would have to become one of them.
What Torben had failed to grasp was that President Kruger’s deal with Lord Roberts would allow the unhindered evacuation of an army destined to wreak havoc on his occupying forces in the weeks and months ahead. The war was far from over.
Soon after Lord Roberts crossed the Vaal River on 24 May, the Fairfax Scouts reported that Louis Botha’s komandos, chased by Buller from Natal, had joined forces with the ever-elusive Koos de la Rey and were entrenched in the hills south-west of Johannesburg.
While British infantry pressed forwards following the central railway, two cavalry brigades under Ian Hamilton were sent west to engage the enemy. This they did at Doornkop, the very place from where Doctor Leander Starr Jameson had launched his ill-fated attack on the Transvaal five years earlier. The success was costly but by 30 May, Johannesburg had been surrounded.
Cameron knew that Winston Churchill was with Hamilton, though their paths hadn’t crossed. He heard that his friend from the Natal campaign had ridden a bicycle through the suburbs to inform Lord Roberts that the road ahead was now clear. Typical, he thought, wondering if the two men had patched up their differences.
As British troops triumphantly entered the city hauling two huge artillery pieces known as ‘Jumping Ginger’ and ‘Pale Mable’ – each drawn by thirty-two oxen – Boer komandos, led by Piet de Wet, attacked, and after a fierce fight, either killed or captured over five hundred Irish Yeomanry in supposedly safe territory near Lindley. Those not wounded were marched off to prison camps in the eastern Transvaal. That night, the lions enjoyed an unexpected meal of the bodies left behind.
It was another four days before a Union Jack flew over the Transvaal capital and British prisoners of war held in Pretoria could be released. Preside
nt Kruger and his government were already gone, smuggled out of the city to Machadodorp, a hundred and forty miles to the east along the same railway line that Winston Churchill had made good his escape just over a year earlier.
Lord Roberts honoured his agreement allowing safe passage to Louis Botha and his men, still believing that the fall of Pretoria meant a virtual end to hostilities. He also extended amnesty to any rank-and-file burghers who would sign an oath of neutrality and return home. Eight thousand did but by then the Little Man realised he had been tricked. The Boer coffers were well and truly empty.
Despite a trail of men left to guard the central railway and other key installations, attacks on Lord Roberts’s supply column were becoming serious. On 4 June Christiaan de Wet had pounced on a convoy near Heilbron, capturing fifty-six wagons and taking one hundred and sixty prisoners. Two days later he attacked Roodewal station, seizing a large quantity of ammunition and forcing the surrender of almost five hundred inexperienced militia before blowing up the railway bridge along with anything he couldn’t carry away. All attempts to capture de Wet failed and the renamed Orange River Colony became a symbol of Boer resistance.
With renewed enthusiasm, Louis Botha used the British expectation of an unconditional surrender to form a new front sixteen miles east of Pretoria, centred on high ground near the railway at Diamond Hill. With him were over five thousand fighting men and twenty-three heavy guns, mainly the dreaded Maxim pom-poms.
Will Green had never been so bored in all his life. He was not a man to make friends easily and found his mind turning more and more to the trading store he owned near Nsoko in Swaziland. The war should have been a golden opportunity to make money – good money – but he very much doubted that his wives had done any more than maintain a supply of mealie meal and a few basic necessities. They would be brewing beer, of course, and providing the hospitality that traditionally went with its consumption.
Footprints of Lion Page 26