by Max Hennessy
He settled himself in the corner of a first-class carriage and opened his newspaper. It was beginning, he decided, to look as though trouble was brewing in South Africa. Zulu-Boer disputes over the possession of lands on the Transvaal border were erupting into murders and it was becoming clear that before long something would have to be done about the growing power of the Zulu king, Cetzewayo.
The house appeared to be empty when he arrived. It had been built by his father after Waterloo, a place of no great beauty but one which he held in esteem for the warmth and happiness he associated with it. The drive to the front door crunched under the wheels of the cab he’d hired and as he stepped down, he noticed that the cedar tree in the middle of the lawn looked as though it needed attention. But, with the aid of a farm manager and Tyas Ackroyd, who could speak from the experience of generations, Augusta was making a good job of running the house, the Home Farm and a family, to say nothing of the multitude of charities which claimed her attention.
As he stood, staring round him, taking in the old stone and the wide windows that let in the sun when it appeared, and the draughts when it didn’t, he heard footsteps and turned to see Augusta appear round the corner in riding habit, leading a pony on which his son was seated, his legs kicking at its fat flanks. Immediately, she dropped the reins and the pony came to a stop, refusing to budge despite the flailing feet on its sides, as she flung herself into Colby’s arms.
‘When did you arrive?’
Colby indicated his bag. ‘This minute. A visit to the depot. It gives me until New Year at home.’
Christmas proved a great success. Harriet and her family turned up on Christmas Eve and there was a shoot on Boxing Day, while the whole tribe of them went out with the Braxby Hounds the day after. The weather was bitterly cold after a wet week when the rain had come down like long spikes of glass and, with the pack moving across the fields in a rippling stream, the horses skidded and slid, crashing through the hedges, for a run of six miles. The Braxby hounds were never good-lookers but they knew their job and were lean and fast; as they flowed down the hills in hot pursuit, the horses after them at a flat gallop, the bare trees smelled of fungus and damp earth among the smell of horse-sweat and leather, and the cold air was like ice crystals to the cheeks.
It was exciting, invigorating and edged with danger, and Augusta, mounted on a big high-stepping grey like a tomtit on a side of beef, her cheeks pink, her hair coming down, so enjoyed herself she invited everyone – while they were still purple-faced and panting on steaming horses with pumping sides – for a house party over the New Year.
She couldn’t believe Colby’s warning that it would be a disaster, but Uncle George Goff, she discovered, was known for his coarseness and, like Uncle Hedley, drank like a fish. Uncle Edward talked of nothing but how he nearly went to war in 1845 but didn’t quite, and Uncle Thomas, who had been in the 4th Light Bobs, spent all his time explaining how he just missed Balaclava because he happened to have retired. She also discovered she had invited two cousins who were considered to be beyond the pale because one of them had dared to join an infantry regiment and one had even ‘gone foreign’ and moved to Norfolk.
As dinner finished and Augusta shooed the females out, Colby passed the port and offered cigars.
‘See this new man in South Africa, Shepstone, is getting everybody’s back up,’ Uncle Edward observed, poking at the end of his cigar as if he expected to find gold inside it. ‘Annexing the Transvaal didn’t help anybody.’
‘This Zulu chap–’ Cousin Hedley filled his glass and passed the bottle ‘–Cet – whatever he’s called – he only rules from month to month. No firm policy. It’ll lead to fighting.’
‘Doesn’t like Shepstone, I heard,’ Uncle George said. ‘Wants to blood his warriors. Washing the spears, The Times called it.’
‘Good old Thunderer,’ one of the cousins murmured.
‘Tribal custom,’ George said. ‘Have to kill somebody or they don’t go to heaven – or something. Or is that the Moslems? What’s the latest from the Cape?’
‘Dunno. Usual fog in the press. Can’t make head nor tail of it. Tension’s building up over the whole of Southern Africa. We shall have to go in there and sort things out before long, you see.’
Colby studied them with amused eyes. None of them had ever moved far from home and their attitudes were narrow and parochial. But they were right. The advancing Boers were pushing back the black Africans and there was a clear resentment that they were intruding on tribal domains. There had been yet another Kaffir War, the Secretary of State for the Colonies had resigned, and the commander-in-chief in South Africa had been sacked. The whole business was in the melting pot.
‘They should send Wolseley,’ George said. ‘Our only general.’
Colby shook his head. ‘Wolseley won’t get himself mixed up in this,’ he pointed out. ‘After Ashanti, he’ll want to stay in London in case anything worthwhile crops up.’
When everyone had gone to bed, Augusta kicked off her shoes and stretched in front of the fire with Colby’s arm round her.
‘You were right,’ she admitted. ‘It was a disaster.’
The following day brought a telegram, ordering Colby to report to Whitehall. Reading it slowly, he looked up to find Augusta watching him from the stairs and began to whistle ‘The Yorkshire Jockey’ in a busy dedicated way that didn’t delude her for a moment.
‘A summons from the master?’ she asked.
‘Something of the sort,’ Colby said. ‘Shouldn’t take long. I’ll get the train from York and be back the day after tomorrow.’
She watched him go, desolate and bewildered. When Colby was near her she felt secure, but away from his side she was more lost than she ever let him see.
The weather in London seemed, if anything, to be worse than the weather in Yorkshire. Showers of rain and sleet beat across Whitehall as Colby was shown into an ante-room and told to wait. He had no idea what was wanted of him, but he had an uneasy suspicion that it was another staff job when he was just enjoying being back in the family atmosphere of the regiment. Eventually a porter conducted him along a corridor to a room which carried a map of South Africa on its walls. There were several other officers present and it soon became obvious that they had been summoned as the leading subordinates for a new expedition of some sort.
‘Who’s running the show?’ Colby asked.
‘Thesiger. Son of Lord Chelmsford. Rifle Brigade and Guards. Light on action and heavy with staff duties.’
‘What’s it all about?’
‘South Africa, I suppose. He’s the new C-in-C.’
Evelyn Wood arrived shortly afterwards, followed by Redvers Buller, and it was Colby’s impression that Thesiger had been landed with a lot of men he hadn’t asked for – good men on the whole but devotees of Wolseley who had probably been wished on him. Thesiger himself was a tall lanky man with handsome intelligent features hidden by the thick bush of a spade beard. His personality seemed reserved and, after Wolseley’s fire, he seemed colourless. His speech was clear and to the point, however.
‘I’m not over-excited at the prospect of a sputtering native war at the Cape being thrust into my lap,’ he admitted. ‘That sort of thing’s never likely to arouse enthusiasm in the breast of a British general because too many have broken their teeth on the problem.’
When Colby returned, Augusta greeted the news with unfeigned dismay.
‘South Africa?’ she said. ‘But that’s thousands of miles away. What happens to me?’
Colby looked at her. He was aware of the thoughts racing through her brain and was wary.
‘Same as happens to most soldiers’ wives, I suppose,’ he said.
She was silent and he watched her, worried, conscious of a crisis in their marriage.
‘It’s only four years since you came back from the Gold Coast,’ she pointed out. ‘I want to be by your side.’
He frowned. ‘I can’t refuse,’ he pointed out. ‘Officers who turn down
jobs don’t get asked again.’
‘I’m not asking you to turn it down.’
‘Then what the devil are you asking?’
Her face changed and she grinned at him. ‘They tell me the climate at the Cape is perfect,’ she said. ‘I’m asking you to take me with you.’
Three
There was only one way for Augusta to accompany Colby – on a trooper heading for India via the Cape.
She was still a little dazed by what she’d done as Brosy’s Grace came to see her off.
‘You pregnant again?’ Grace asked, studying her expression.
‘No. Why?’
Grace laughed. ‘Always seems to occur at the first mention of goin’ overseas,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re not. Pleased to be off?’
‘I think so.’ Suddenly Augusta wasn’t sure.
The conditions on the trooper proved to be appalling, though for the women of the other ranks they were an inferno. The washing facilities were dreadful, the sanitation worse, and into the remarkably little privacy Augusta possessed permeated the stench of ammonia from the horses. She had a bunk so narrow it seemed like a coffin and under the mattress were all the clothes she would need on the voyage. All the rest went into the trunk, and whenever they dressed for dinner, Colby in his mess kit, she in frills and furbelows, they had to do it separately because there wasn’t room for both of them.
During the second week one of the other rank children died and, as the coffin was hammered together outside her door, she had to descend into the inferno of the men’s quarters to comfort the weeping mother. As they passed the Equator, the smell of horses and what Colby called the ‘bouquet d’hommes’ grew stronger, but at least there were high blue skies, flying fish and stars as big as florins, and the delight of watching small naked black boys diving for pennies when they put into port. Arriving in Cape Town with the whole family in a reasonable state of health, Augusta considered herself lucky.
Colby departed at once to join Thesiger’s command at East London. Thesiger made his views on tactics clear at once at his staff conference. ‘European troops aren’t much good against mosquito-hordes of Bantus,’ he said. ‘They disappear too easily into the landscape and clear-cut victories will be out of the question.’
There were a few sidelong glances. Evelyn Wood’s pale pop eyes were expressionless.
‘I shall therefore use roving columns,’ Thesiger went on. ‘A single column would never drive the Kaffirs into a corner. They’d just retire before us and sweep round to attack our flanks and rear.’ He looked at Wood, Buller, Colby and the others who had been members of the Wolseley Ring, and made a mild dig at the reformers. ‘I’m also aware that, thanks to the recent changes, the men I’m getting are chiefly new recruits. Apart from the 24th, they appear to have been scraped together and most of them have less than four months’ service, have never fired a musketry course and have not even finished recruits’ drill.’
The army moved north immediately. The Korie Bush, where Colby found himself, was rough hilly country on the slopes leading to the high plateau of Africa and, covered with extensive patches of shrub, was difficult to operate in. The Gcamena tribesmen were armed only with assegais and a variety of ancient firearms which were as much a danger to themselves as to the men searching them out. But in the thick scrub visibility was limited to a few feet, and the business of driving them out to attack them with artillery as they ran for the next patch of scrub was infuriating work, largely profitless and not very dangerous, but never the job for unseasoned soldiers.
Buller, commanding the Frontier Light Horse, a body of volunteers raised at King William’s Town, was just to the north, a strange man with a terrible temper, tremendous enthusiasm, a courage verging on the insane and a curious ability to inspire his men. Tall, strong and wiry, he enjoyed his comfort and carried cases of wine with him on patrol. Evelyn Wood, in command of another column, was his complete antithesis, a short mournful man with a tendency to catch whatever ailment came within a mile of him. He had won the Victoria Cross in the Crimea with the Navy, but, far from being a committed sailor, had eventually transferred to the cavalry, and, no more committed to the cavalry than the Navy, had then exchanged into the infantry. His gift for hard work was legendary.
In command of a unit known as the North Cape Horse, Colby found himself having to adapt to the methods of a group of colonials noted for their independence and not given to taking orders. Inevitably known like the 19th as Goff’s Gamecocks, they wore brown corduroy uniforms with red stripes down their breeches and a red puggaree round a slouch hat. They were an unmilitary-looking lot made even more unmilitary by having accepted anybody who could ride and shoot and bring his own horse. Some of them wore no other uniform than a strip of red cloth attached to any headgear they happened to be wearing, whether it were a slouch hat, a top hat, a solar topee, or a forage cap scrounged from a member of the Imperial forces. They were excellent horsemen, however, and excellent shots, and seemed more than content to have Colby to tell them what to do, if only because he knew something about tactics while they relied entirely on their instincts as hunters. They were used for scouting, for covering the activities of the regulars, or for rounding up the Gcamenas as they were flushed out of their patches of scrub. At this work they were considerably better than the half-company of Imperial troops he had, most of whom were raw recruits.
It wasn’t difficult to lose all count of time and Colby rarely had the chance to think of Augusta and the children, established at Cape Town with Tyas Ackroyd and his wife, Annie, to look after them. Cape Town was beautiful, the climate was perfect, the house they had rented was large and safe, and there were beaches within reach to which Ackroyd could drive them in the hired carriage. Nevertheless, it seemed odd to be going to war with his wife and children somewhere in the background.
The fighting, in fact, spluttered and sparkled like a damp squib, with the Gcamena chief, Gendili, believed to be hidden in the bush at Kammansinga, an area of low flat-topped hills which had become the boundary between the Bantus pushing south and the advancing fringe of the Boer civilisation pushing north. With his column, Colby also had four brass seven-pounder muzzle-loaders commanded by a lieutenant of Royal Artillery and a few native soldiers who wore rags or even loin cloths and carried ancient Snider breechloaders, assegais or merely knobkerries. Fortunately, his North Cape Horse were experienced settlers who were skilled enough with rifles to be capable of drilling the eye out of a springbok without damaging the rest of the meat.
‘Gendili rides a white horse,’ Colby told them. ‘It’s a sign of his status. But he’s deformed, so, if you find an animal with the saddle propped up on one side, then Gendili’s near somewhere.’
As the Imperial troops were brought into line facing the patch of bush, he could see they were nervous. They were very young and their training had taught them to fight in line under the steadying hand of their officers. This new kind of fighting was unsettling work and they were uncertain, while their captain, a hesitant man called Edwards, was not the officer to help them much.
As he reported to Colby that all was ready, Colby gestured. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’
As the soldiers in their high-crowned sun helmets began to move forward, their red coats made a splash of colour against the tawny veldt. In front of them their officers walked slowly, sword in one hand, revolver in the other. The fact that they chose to carry both showed their anxiety, and the men behind them were not hurrying.
The seven-pounders were standing in the open on either side of the bush, their barrels trained on the land between the far edge of the bush and the next patch. Behind each pair of guns waited a squadron of North Cape Horse, drab in their brown and red, waiting for the dash forward when the Gcamenas broke cover.
The sun was hot as the young soldiers entered the bush and were lost to sight. Colby knew exactly what they were thinking. In there, friends and comrades disappeared, and a man found himself alone in tangled vegetatio
n through which he could barely make his way, while behind every bush there was the likelihood of a Gcamena with an assegai waiting to rip open his belly or blow off his head with an ancient weapon as likely as not loaded with old nails. There was an even chance, in fact, that the first he would know of his presence was when he trod on him, and the soldiers were understandably nervous.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that two hours had passed. It seemed to be taking a long time to flush out Gendili and, behind him, the mounted men were growing restless. There were one or two horses with thrush, one or two windsuckers you could hear half a mile away, and several weavers which couldn’t gallop straight enough to stay in a five-acre field, but their riders knew them and they were an enthusiastic lot itching to do something.
The sun was high now and it was bakingly hot, and he could see shimmers of heat rising from the barrels of the little seven-pounders. Cantering slowly to the group on the opposite side of the scrub, he still saw nothing and as the time went on he began to grow worried. Surely to God Gendili and his men weren’t clever enough to swallow up a whole half-company of Imperial troops! He was just turning to speak to the officer in command of the guns when a single shot rang out, echoing among the folds of the hills behind them.
‘Here we go!’
There was a sudden flurry of activity in the bush in front and he saw red coats moving, but, instead of advancing deeper into the bush, the soldiers seemed to be heading back. One of them, his sun helmet lost, emerged without his rifle, holding his hands to his face, the blood running between his fingers. As he staggered about, half-blinded by buckshot, the entire half-company burst out, all apparently trying to help him to safety.
Kicking at his horse’s flanks, Colby arrived in a fury. ‘Get that man to the rear!’ he roared. ‘Two of you! Not the whole damned half-company! Mr Edwards, get your men into line!’