No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (e

  It was Mr Rhodes who was the problem, raged Colonel Kekewich to his subalterns. Mr Rhodes who was stirring up trouble. And now the relief, the army, was shuddering to a halt.

  Three sudden blasts on the steam hooter.

  Toot-toot-toot.

  They had 30 seconds.

  Way up high, on a gantry on the main mine’s headgear, the spotter was waving and pointing. Pointing west. There was a whirl of bodies. Parisian finery was sent scuttling for the shelters. The band played on.

  The bunkers that had been constructed on every street had been reserved for white folk. Mbutu took his chance in a ditch.

  Someone complained about the Boers shelling on a Sunday. They had never done so before. Was there no decency left in warfare?

  They could say all they liked about Long Tom, the Boers’ siege gun. At least it was predictable. It announced itself without fail.

  Six, five, four …

  The incoming whistle grew louder.

  Three, two, one …

  Silence. An explosion. A muffled crump from the other side of town.

  More likely the shell had landed in the soft slag heaps. It often did. He was sure the Boers were pulling their punches – fostering fear. Kimberley’s value was as a hostage, not a conquest.

  Sheet music had been scattered. Pages were gathered up. The audience re-appeared, straightening neckties, smoothing down voluminous skirts, brushing off the dust. African servants rushed to attend.

  In the distance, the bell clanged on the fire engine. People craned their necks to see the pall of smoke. There was none yet. Maybe a dud.

  Then the conductor tapped his baton. There was polite clapping. And they began again, this time with the audience joining in, heartily.

  “Rule Britannia,” they sang, “Britannia rules the waves.”

  On the shaded verandas of the stores – closed on the Sabbath – men in cloth caps and waistcoats leaned on the rail and smoked. A Coloured vendor wheeled a handcart selling ‘siege soup’, a penny a pint. It was Rhodes’ personal idea, people had marvelled. What genius!

  And then a boy weaved through, a white boy, little more than an urchin, passing out handbills. A man was hammering one to a telegraph pole.

  Mbutu retrieved one from the dirt. There was to be a public meeting in the Town Hall, it said. Tonight. Seven o’clock. It would be addressed by Mr Rhodes himself. All were welcome.

  Not all. In Kimberley … in South Africa … all were definitely not welcome.

  * * *

  There was a buzz of expectation. Though the blackout was in force, light seeped round the door’s thick crepe curtain.

  The Boers had had two months to find their range, mused Mbutu. Did it really make any difference?

  In their droves they had come – the men, the ladies, their servants, clopping up in their gigs and buggies or strolling through the dusk from the Kimberley Club.

  The servants and drivers took their place on the steps, milling about with the others – the blacks, Coloureds, Indians, Cape Malays and the Chinese, the ‘coolies’ who ran the laundry, the fortunate non-whites not locked up in the compounds.

  There came clapping from inside. A man was speaking from the stage, making an introduction. Tumultuous applause and then a hush. A black man on the door waved his arms. On the steps everyone was shushing.

  “He’s coming. He’s coming!”

  And then they could hear him in full flow, castigating the army for its failure to break through and relieve the town.

  For a big man, a powerful man – such a high voice. Rhodes sounded like a girl.

  Was it really that hard to smite this rag-tag of Boer peasants? The people of Kimberley were his personal responsibility. At night, he was going to make the mines available for shelter.

  Mbutu laughed. So the white man was going underground after all.

  Amid the cheers there came a tap on the shoulder and Mbutu turned round. There were two men, two white men.

  One – older, fatter, bespectacled – had a tweed suit and a walrus moustache; a watch chain hung on his waistcoat. His bowler hat seemed too small for his head. The other – younger, leaner – had a better milliner.

  They flashed badges. “Agents,” they said. “Of the Crown.” Would he kindly come with them?

  Were they sure?

  “Don’t argue.”

  Had they discovered that Mbutu had stolen milk from the Kimberley Club kitchen? Milk for his son. He didn’t see how anyone could know. No one was there.

  They were leading him now, away from the hall, across the street. He didn’t like it. They took him behind the general store, away from the crowd. It was rough ground – gravel and clumped scrub. Crickets chirped. Rats scrabbled in the rubbish. On the perimeter, the searchlights were on. Great white cones of light swept the land.

  “Johnny Fleetfoot?” asked the younger one, his voice not from the Colony but from England.

  “My name is Mbutu,” he said, proudly. “Mbutu Kefaleze.”

  “Says here Johnny Fleetfoot,” the man queried, passing a piece of paper to his colleague.

  That was what they called him, Mbutu explained. It was a nickname. He was a runner. He was fast.

  He was contemplating giving them a demonstration right now.

  “And that’s why we need your help,” said the older one.

  Help? An unusual request. A white man seeking a black man’s assistance.

  “We have it on good authority that you’re a reliable man.”

  “And loyal to the Cape,” added the younger one. “To the Empire.”

  Mbutu sighed. In a white man’s war, the black man would lose either way. But he knew better than to say it.

  From behind a sage bush stepped another man, a man in khaki – an army officer. A lieutenant. Mbutu recognised the insignia. On his shoulders the badge said ‘Northumberland’. He had red hair, looked strong, and, even in the orange twilight Mbutu could see he had blue eyes, piercing blue eyes. He remained five yards away.

  “How well do you know this country?” the older man was asking him now.

  “Well,” said Mbutu. “Better than any.”

  Was this the right answer?

  He had worked in the survey gangs he told them. He had covered the ground right up the to the Free State border.

  “Can you get this man through?” asked the younger one, pointing to the army officer – the officer who still said nothing.

  Delivering a man?

  “To the Free State?” asked Mbutu, puzzled.

  “To the British lines,” said the older man. “Just north of the Modder. Absolutely imperative.”

  “Imperative?”

  “Important.”

  “I know what the word means.”

  Mbutu scratched his head. The lieutenant watched him intently.

  It was eight miles at least, Mbutu explained. They would have to run the gauntlet of the Boer positions, the Boer sharpshooters. They would have to skirt the two big ridges. It was dangerous. And if they hadn’t made it by sun-up—

  “And that’s why you must leave right now,” said the young man. “This instant.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  There was silence.

  The young man pressed a small cloth bag into his hand. Coins.

  “Ten shillings …” he said. “Five here. The rest when you return.”

  He shook hands formally.

  “Agent Rutherford,” said the younger.

  “Soames,” added the elder, keeping his hands firmly in pocket.

  The silent, nameless, red-haired officer swung a pigskin of water over his shoulder, approached, and thrust another at Mbutu.

  “Here.”

  He had biltong, dried meat, he gestured. And a map.

  The British and their maps.

  He had a rifle, a Lee-Metford, as well as a revolver. Though, Mbutu noted, he wasn’t sharing out the hardware.

  From the heliograph station, the arc light was switched on, its beam fizzing
high into the sky, about to commence its nightly flashing of coded Morse messages.

  “Ten shillings,” reiterated Rutherford.

  “Come on,” said the lieutenant, and strode off into the brush.

  Chapter Five

  Save for the removal of his boots, Finch fell onto his bed in the very clothes he had stood up in. Though at the point of exhaustion, the sleep was frustratingly fitful, his mind too active. Vivid images and noises flashed through his head.

  Once more Finch writhed in fear. His sweat seeped through his shirt. And then the artillery barrage boomed, the monstrous shells raining in. The explosions grew louder … louder … louder … till suddenly, Finch realised, the sound was an intrusion from the outside world. Someone was knocking on his door.

  He squinted up. Through bleary eyes, his batman was looming over him. He was proffering a mug of tea.

  “Sir?”

  “What the devil time is it?” Finch croaked.

  “Half past nine, sir.”

  Barely three hours. His head was spinning.

  “Sorry sir. An order.”

  Bloody orders.

  “A retreat.”

  “Retreat?”

  “Whole shebang. Pulling back to the Modder.”

  Finch hauled his weary body into a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes. He took the tea.

  “You sure?”

  Jesus, he was tired. Please God, let this be the last of it.

  “Absolutely. Down to the last hobnail.”

  Not two weeks previously, significant carnage had ensued in ousting the Boers, their soldiers having dug themselves into the Modder’s banks.

  There were weeping willows, Finch remembered from crossing it, bobbing mallards. There was an elegant hotel with tethered rowing boats, a curious anomaly amid a killing field.

  Traversing the river had been trumpeted as a great stride to the symbolic relief of Kimberley. To return 15,000 men back there was a hell of an undertaking, a hell of a capitulation.

  “No sugar, sir. Spoonful of Golden Syrup. Thought you could use it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Major’s been told to get us rolling by 1100 hours.”

  Finch could hear it now: the shouting of men in the yard; the scrape of hooves and cartwheels; the crunch of boots; equipment being loaded.

  “Very good, Clough.”

  The batman left.

  He hobbled to the first-floor window. Awkwardly, he pulled back the heavy horse blanket he had rigged up as a curtain. He raised a hand to shield his blinking eyes, then yanked up the stiff and squeaking sash panel. The heat, the noise, the smell smacked his senses.

  Down below, orderlies stripped to their grey, collarless undershirts, sleeves rolled up, were rushing about, great dark stains on their backs and underarms. The lightest of the casualties were being helped across the yard, blankets or tunics round their shoulders. Crates were being stacked. Cox was barking instructions.

  The sky was blue, cloudless. Across the plain to the south, amid a cloud of dust, a train of ox carts was plodding towards the farmstead, the black African drivers swishing their whips.

  Finch afforded himself some rudimentary ablutions, hitched his braces and, with difficulty, descended the creaking stairs. He limped out into the yard. Already it was hot. By noon it would be roasting. He was dripping sweat again. Annoying black flies danced around his face. He swiped at them to no avail.

  “Morning Captain,” boomed the major.

  Cox explained the situation – Methuen feared the 1st Division being cut off; they simply hadn’t got the manpower; too many officers lost; General Wauchope had bought it. Better to pull back and consolidate.

  The conclusion did not have to be spelt out. It was a military disaster.

  “And the men in our care?” asked Finch.

  “Those that can stand it, come. The most critical cases will be handed over under a white flag. Taken in as POWs.”

  Usually, the morning after battle, up to a quarter of those who’d survived the bullets wouldn’t have lasted the night. The early morning shift had taken care of business. On the hillock, the one on which Finch had stood not four hours earlier, a team of squaddies, stripped to their waists, was hacking into the earth with pickaxes and shovels.

  The cogs were whirring in Finch’s head. To move an entire army was a huge undertaking. Such a decision was not a snap one. It must have been made hours ago … yesterday. How on earth would a train of ox carts have lumbered up here?

  The ‘redeployment’ would surely have been commanded well before the second wave of the assault went in – in which case what a pathetic, gratuitous waste.

  Was that what Cox’s telegraph message had been about?

  “Sir, if I might ask—?”

  “Morning Jenkins,” Cox was bellowing now, turning away to Finch’s comrade, similarly dishevelled, squinting under the sun.

  “Finch will fill you in,” said Cox and turned on his heel. “1100 hours, gentlemen. 1100 hours.”

  Finch and Jenkins looked at each other. In near symmetry they raised eyebrows and exhaled.

  “C’mon,” the Welshman beckoned, dark, narrow eyes flicking towards the mobile canteen, a mule-drawn wagon, which appeared to be shutting up shop. The urn was still steaming. They requisitioned bacon sandwiches, more tea, eating as they walked. It was the first food Finch had had in the best part of a day – last night’s grub had never materialised.

  Their ‘butcher’s shop’ had been sloshed down, its whitewashed walls scrubbed, the drainage channels sluiced. In the middle of the room, at a lone trestle table, the RAMC sergeant and the staff sister were poring over paperwork.

  Their reliable staff had already taken inventory of their supplies, tallying the wounded, identifying which ones could survive the journey and which, they estimated, could probably not.

  Thirty-two had not survived the night, the ones the burial detail were now interring. The sergeant chimed in with details about the field ambulances at their disposal, the number of mules and carts and how the casualties were going to be arranged.

  Finch understood the thinking behind the evacuation – get as many wounded back and rehabilitated, ready for action again. But the journey would be no picnic – a long, slow, slog in an un-sprung wagon over stony ground. No cover from the harsh noonday sun. Little water. There would be an uncomfortable, improvised overnight bivouac once south of the Modder. But it was still a further 50 miles to the railhead at Hopetown, from where the wounded would be transported on to Cape Town, 500 miles away. Not all of them would make it.

  “Captain Jenkins. If I might have a word?” asked Finch.

  The two men rose, went to the corner and conferred. Finch reasoned it out – it was surely better to leave, rather than take, as many wounded as they possibly could. He had been impressed by the Boers’ attitude. They had good doctors. There was a modern hospital in Bloemfontein, a fraction of the distance to the Cape. As physicians, they would be acting in the best interests of their patients.

  “The major wouldn’t like it,” Jenkins added.

  “But how would he know?” whispered Finch.

  Jenkins nodded.

  “And another thing,” said Finch. “I’d like to be the one to effect the transfer … the one left behind. Someone will have to do it. An officer.”

  “After all that happened yesterday?”

  “Because of what happened yesterday.”

  “Whatever you say, Ingo. Whatever you say.”

  They shook hands.

  “See you at the river,” said Finch.

  “And watch that knee.”

  A volley of gunfire cracked through the air. The dead were receiving their final salute.

  Finch shambled out into the sun again. The pace had picked up. Men were running now. A bugle was sounding. Two dithering privates were being screamed at by a red-faced corporal.

  The army observation balloon, which had hovered behind the British lines – requisitioned from a carnival and
slopped over in olive paint – was being winched in on a great sagging cable, its nervous occupant gesturing emphatically to those down below.

  The familiar rumble resumed. The naval guns. Across the veld, starbursts of dust began crowning the hills, the kops, even though every last soldier knew that the Boers had not taken refuge in them.

  Finch rounded the farmhouse and lurched his way past rushing bodies up to the wooden hut. The MFPs on the door had gone. So too had the young lieutenant within.

  Chapter Six

  Annie stood on the so-called recreation deck – a small chained-off area ahead of the rear funnel that afforded an unbroken stroll of a paltry ten paces – and gazed off to the port side. Given the position of the sun, they must have changed course.

  She was sure of it. Looking towards the stern, she saw the churning wash now arcing away.

  They had been at sea for over two weeks – 16 days to be precise. Word aboard was that today was the day. Someone, one of the stewards, a kindly older man who’d been at sea since he was 14 he told her, had tipped her off about the swing to the northwest. When that happened, you could be sure you would be putting in to Cape Town.

  No one had told them anything officially. There was a war on, didn’t they know? There was secrecy. A ship must not betray its position to the enemy.

  “But the Boers don’t have a navy,” someone pointed out.

  No matter, came the reply. They have friends and allies at sea, spies in the ports. The movement of troops and transports was something of vital intelligence. And don’t think that this thing might not escalate. What if the Germans decided to lend Kruger a hand? What then?

  In the middle part of the passage, amid the dark foreboding hillocks of the Indian Ocean, they had gone days without seeing another vessel. To glimpse one was an incident of great excitement.

  But, in the last two or three, there had been a marked increase in traffic, the other boats now of largely yawning irrelevance. Yesterday, though, they had been passed by a Royal Navy warship – a great, grey, ugly brute, turrets bristling with guns, its upright funnels like industrial chimney stacks, belching black filth into the azure sky.