The sun was almost at its zenith now, those around him gasping for breath, their faces glowing and vexed. Just when it seemed they had been forgotten, the order finally came to advance. All discomfort was shrugged aside in an instant. Probyn urged his men up the rugged kopje, they responded eagerly, scrambling towards the skyline – but the moment they became visible they drew heavy crossfire. Extending the line outwards, his rifle at the ready, the captain increased the pace and led his section onwards and over the crest of the kopje, maintaining this rapid pace whilst descending the slope for they were especial targets here, the pft pft of Boer bullets throwing up little spurts of earth or, worse, flesh and bone.
A man fell to Probyn’s left. Barely stopping, he grabbed a handful of tunic and ran for his life, dragging the unfortunate fellow after him down the slope, bashing and bumping the wounded body over rock and shingle until he reached safety. Depositing his burden, he made an urgent check to see that most were still following him, then grabbed and shoved one after the other of them up the ascending kopje, launching himself with them after the captain. Once more under cover, he was able to retrieve a little of his breath whilst he climbed, running for all he was worth as he pelted over the top and down the other side.
Working in this fashion across a series of kopjes, they got into position in the early afternoon with only two casualties. And here the sweating soldiers were delayed again, fortifying their hard won ground whilst awaiting reinforcements.
Fresh troops arrived, and a drummer came amongst them distributing ammunition. Their stock of bullets replenished, the force advanced to the kopje beyond and set about fortifying that.
But this hillock was turning out to be inadequate for such a large body of men who were packed six deep in places, providing a larger target for the Boers who now gave them special attention.
Firing blindly at the hill from whence the enemy bullets seemed to come and which the British guns were shelling in the hope that it was the right one, Probyn wished he could be as invisible as his enemy, and consoled those around him who had less confidence in themselves by telling them, ‘We’re as good as theirs any day. Give ’em humpty, lads!’
Throughout that day they lay firing from that kopje, under hot shell and rifle-burst without food or water, only too thankful to maintain the action so that they could forget the pangs of hunger in their bellies, their throats clogged with dust and smoke, the sweat that dripped and sizzled on their gun barrels and the desiccating heat of the rocks below, the blazing sun above.
At last the merciful order was received to push on. With an apprehensive glance at the open plain before him, Probyn responded to his captain’s order, giving his men a word of encouragement and leading them from their place of refuge.
A hail of fire erupted. Before they had gone eight hundred yards too many men had been wounded to go further.
‘Take what cover you can!’ yelled the captain, hurling himself face down. ‘We’ll have to wait for reinforcements.’
Trying to blend himself against the khaki grass that afforded little asylum except its colour, Probyn risked a quick examination of the situation, but immediately ducked as a bullet thudded into his pith helmet. However, in his brief inspection he had seen that other British troops had occupied the kopjes they had just left, removing all hope of retreat. They must remain exposed between the two lines of fire. All around him men were groaning, crying pitifully. Amongst them he recognized poor Juggins. The latter within reach, Probyn stretched out his arm along the hard ground until his fingertips made contact with the other’s, feeling the stickiness of blood.
‘Don’t worry, Jugsy, we’ll soon have you out of here!’
But help was slow to come. Pinned down under that merciless sun, bullets coming frighteningly close, those wounded around him becoming weaker and weaker through loss of blood, the flies an added torment. Probyn held on to the hope that God would not let him die before he had seen his child. The hand to which he had reached out clung to him like a vice for an hour. So effectively had it blocked his circulation that he did not at first notice that the grip had become looser. Only with the return of blood to his veins and the accompanying sear of pain, did he realize that Juggins had died.
Then towards late afternoon, either in answer to his prayers or the distressed cries of the wounded, the sun was obscured by cloud, a precursor to heavy showers. The vultures and kites that had been patiently circling overhead were now forced to abandon their hope of a meal as a sheet of darkness moved across the battlefield. Veiled by rain and darkness, the stricken warriors were at last able to regroup and bivouac, those uninjured giving what succour they could to their comrades, though it was a bitterly cold night for those already weak from lack of blood and with only a sip of rum for food and drink it was not surprising that some perished before help finally came. The regiment lost that day eight killed and seventy-four wounded.
* * *
During the next two days, whilst the wounded faced a trying journey of seven hours to Springfield, Probyn and the rest of his regiment made no advance, perched like hapless sea birds on the edge of the plateau, their ranks enfiladed by invisible Mausers and showered with shrapnel from their own guns that had been captured at Colenso. Four howitzers had arrived from General Buller but seemed incapable of dealing with the enemy’s pom-pom, its aggressive barrage resulting in yet more casualties.
Hardened to the barbarity of war, Probyn remained impassive whilst others were physically sick at the sight of a living being suddenly exploded to pulp, he himself being more revolted by the looting of the dead performed by the kaffirs whose kraals littered the veld. And yet he gradually came to accept even this, for, given the chance his own comrades would rifle a dead Boer’s pockets too in the hope of a shiny Kruger rand, and who would condemn them for seizing these small comforts, faced with such hardship themselves? Certainly not the dead. Even so, he sought no personal loot, preferring to cling to the thin veneer that separated himself, a civilized man, from the savage.
When night fell there came a warning to expect firing on their right as the decision had been made to attack Spion Kop. An excited murmur rippled through the ranks, this news being all that was needed to bolster flagging spirits after another day of starvation.
How cruel then to be told later, that the attack had been postponed.
‘Oh ballocks, I’m sick o’ this,’ grumbled Corporal Bumby. ‘What’s stopping us now?’
Probyn had come to realize that swear words meant nothing when it came to a man’s true character; what mattered was his ability to stand firm in battle and defend the pals who relied on him, and he could rely on Bumby. ‘Seems they haven’t done enough reconnaissance.’
‘Well we have only been here four days,’ said their friend Queen sarcastically.
Bumby thumped the ground, dislodging a cricket that somersaulted into the air. ‘It’s so frucking frustrating!’
Probyn thought so too. Above the whirring chorus of the crickets could be heard the humming of Dutch Psalms, drifting across the cold night air from Spion Kop. It was at that moment he began to wonder whose side God was on.
* * *
However, the following day his faith was to be restored. It had started badly, the battalion being in reserve in the valley but by no means at rest, having to undergo half an hour’s drill before the fiery Irishman Major-General Hart as though they were at home on the barrack square, the rest of the day being spent in trying to construct shelters with what few tools they had on the very exposed piece of ground, all attempts failing.
But the sight of General Buller riding into camp on his charger was enough to raise spirits. His heavily-moustached bulldog face, naturally quite red was today livid, forecasting a rough time for Lieutenant-General Warren.
‘Now you’ll see an end to the shilly-shallying,’ Probyn promised those under him.
And indeed they did. News soon came that Warren was finally to launch an attack on Spion Kop.
It was a very
wet evening, but nothing could douse the expectant mood of those who waited in the wings, ready to support General Woodgate in his attempt to take the plateau. In readiness of his night attack, the General moved off into the blackness, two thousand men, a few picks and shovels for the sappers to entrench, and a string of ammunition mules in tow. It was not until midnight that they began to make their ascent.
For those left behind it was hard to snatch anything more than a catnap, waiting to hear above the hiss of the rain a sign that they were needed, yet appreciative of the quietude after the barrage of the day, the only intrusion being the rustle of a meerkat on the hunt or the bumbling jaunt of a porcupine.
By the early hours a thick mist covered the peaks. Still they waited.
And then a human sound. The sound of cheering. ‘They’ve done it!’ laughed Probyn to whoops of jubilation from his own ranks. ‘They’ve taken the ridge!’
Such magnificent tidings after all their set-backs – and there was to be further joy when a message came down later to say that General Woodgate had seized one half of the end plateau of Spion Kop ridge and was now firmly entrenched. Ordered to open heavy fire and hold the Boer right as the attack was pressed home, the men of the York and Lancaster Regiment gladly settled themselves into position, rifles at the ready, to await the signal. Then it came, and the ghostly call of a night bird was immediately suffocated in an eruption of shellfire directed at another of the enemy strongholds and setting up a colossal reverberation from the hills. Kilmaster, Queen and Bumby launched their men into action, they themselves directing their own heavy fire at the mist-covered ridge. Again it was impossible to see a target, but with thoughts that the door to Ladysmith was about to be unlocked, Probyn and his comrades gave furious fire, all anticipating an end to this drawn out affair.
Hour after hour the valiants worked, unable to hear anything save the shrill hissing and horrendous bangs, fingers throbbing with the strain of pulling the trigger, eyes blurred by smoke and lack of sleep, spitting out dust from a nearby shell-burst, until the flush of daylight began to creep across the sky and, finally, exhausted, they were relieved by the Dublin Fusiliers, and fell back into reserve to a more sheltered place behind a spur of the hill.
Belly in spasm from lack of food or drink, limbs aching, Probyn lay smoking one of Queen’s cigarettes as the mist began to clear from the hills, whence it became possible to attain a better view of what he had been firing at. General Woodgate’s attack on Spion Kop appeared to be developing at a splendid rate, seemingly unhindered by the Boer shells that were dropping all over the hills, sending great columns of earth and rock into the air. He ducked himself as another shell came too close for comfort, exploding amongst his own ranks and sending flesh and earth and bone all mingling together in a plume of destruction. Peppered with morsels of men and rock, he was relieved to find himself unharmed, and upon checking that all under his care were unscathed too, he resumed his cigarette and his observation of the battle. In the lull he even heard a skylark trilling its heart out. It was going to be a hot morning.
Some hours later an old black man came by with a can of water, into which Probyn scooped a mug and drank long and deep even though the water was lukewarm, gasping afterwards to the donor, ‘Oh you don’t know how good that tasted, thank you! And pass my thanks to whoever sent you.’
The reply was polite but without the obsequiousness that Probyn had come to expect from the natives, although the speaker did accord the white man his expected title. ‘No one sent me, boss.’
Ever since Greatrix had been slain by the Matabele, Probyn had lost what small regard he had possessed for any black man, whatever the tribe. He did not treat them as animals like some, nevertheless he could not wipe away the fact that their countrymen had killed his best friend and regarded them as not to be trusted. Now he observed this one with genuine respect. ‘Then double thanks for your own kindness. I really appreciate it.’
Feeling the sentiment was authentic, the old man raised a smile then, not the flashing white grin of youth, nor the artificial one from those who feared the jambok, but a slower more dignified response. ‘It is my pleasure, boss. Would you like another drink before I go?’
Saying he had better make the most of it, Probyn supped again.
Waiting for him to finish, the old man chanced a remark. ‘The battle for N’Taba N’Yama is going well, boss.’
Probyn’s face came out of the mug, frowning, then made an assumption. ‘That’s what you call Spion Kop?’ All the hills had several names, it could be very confusing.
‘We black men named those mountains first, long, long before the Boers took them from us.’ There was no air of bitterness, simply resignation.
Probyn supped again, more thoughtfully. Even when the Boers were defeated the black men would not have their Tabanyama or whatever he had called it, but at least they would be treated better than by the tyrannical Dutchmen. ‘You know, it puzzles me in all the time I’ve spent here I’ve never set eyes on an elephant. I’ve seen all sorts of other animals, but I’d give anything to see one elephant.’
The old man shook his head. ‘You will not see one around here, boss. Your British gentlemen are such good shots. They shoot things then expect them to grow again on trees. I have not seen an elephant myself for many a year.’
Probyn gave a wistful sigh, then handed back the mug, leaving the old black man to go on his way.
Throughout the day the air was filled with the sound of guns plastering the hillsides with shrapnel, the thunder of bomb-bursts and the crack of rifle fire. Secreted amongst the wooded slope of another hill, Botha’s guns constantly deafened. Probyn sought shade under a group of mimosa trees, one of which had a huge branch half severed by the machines of war. Miraculously above the noise came a high-pitched peep of a bird and he looked up to see the tiny creature hopping about just over his head. Smiling, he watched it for a while, happily pondering the morning’s success, though occasionally his optimistic eyes would stray beyond it to the crest of Spion Kop, seeking the glint of the heliograph that would signal victory. There had been no new message for hours now.
Night came quickly in the southern hemisphere. Darkness fell upon them at seven, the crash of artillery fading into silence with just the infrequent sputter of rifle fire. Probyn slept.
The moon was still in the sky when he was awoken by a sense of unease. Forbidden the luxury of coming-to gradually as he might at home, he was awake in an instant and on his feet when the rumour reached him.
‘Captain Vertue’s dead!’ said a devastated Corporal Queen.
‘He can’t be!’ said Probyn. Their brigade major had been party to yesterday’s success.
‘He is. General Woodgate’s copped it too!’
‘Dead?’
‘Near as damn it! And they’re not the only ones. There’s been a bloody massacre up there, the Boers have taken it back!’
‘But it was going sailingly! I watched our lads stream up that hill—’
‘Well, they’re streaming down again now! The Boer sneaked up the other bloody side, just about wiped them out. They say we’re going to have to retire.’
Probyn grabbed his arm as men began to gather round. ‘They? Who’s they? Who’s told you this, Queenie?’
‘It’s all over the—’
‘Yes, but is it right?’ Probyn was angry. ‘I don’t want you spouting such dangerous twaddle in front of the lads, where are your facts?’
‘Go ask the captain, then,’ advised Corporal Queen, his face projecting woe and irritation.
‘I will!’ Probyn went off to investigate.
But what he heard brought the cold fingers of defeat to clutch at his heart, and as dawn crept over those impenetrable hills there was to be the evidence of his own eyes. The transport parked some miles to the rear was on the move to the pontoons at Trichardt’s Drift.
With a heartfelt groan, he steeled himself to meet the men, wondering how on earth they were going to take this repugnant news. For
four drawn out days his brave lads had endured continuous exposure to shell and rifle fire, had fought stoically with little more than a burning nip of rum in their bellies, their one saving glory being the thought of winning a way through to Ladysmith. Now it seemed inevitable that they would be told to retire.
Tragically, as the morning wore on, this proved to be, the case. Whilst the medical officers and burial parties performed their hideous duty on the summit, transferring the lacerated bodies to stretchers and those beyond help to the trench that had failed to protect them, headless torsos, ragged fly-infested limbs, General Buller gave his army the order to withdraw.
* * *
After a terrible march through a morass of slime, of hissing rain and pitch blackness, having to dig roads and take their turn in the firing line as they went, the weary and disconsolate troops finally came to the pontoons, though their torment was not over by far. For two days and a night in cold so intense that it reached one’s very bones, they struggled to transfer the immense convoy of ox and mule transport, the heavy guns, a thousand wounded in ambulance wagons and on stretchers, back across the Tugela, whilst in no danger of enemy fire now, assailed by the bitterness of defeat. And for many the blame lay with the man on the charger who supervised the whole affair.
As the General’s horse sloshed alongside the tramping caravan of men and machines with his entourage, Corporal Bumby lifted his head into the driving rain, but only to mutter insolence. ‘There goes Sir Reverse Buller.’ Others echoed his derisive comment.
Probyn made a move to stifle the grousing. ‘Buck up, lads!’ His body racked for the first time with ague, he tried his best to rally those around him. ‘Just look at this as a chance to have a wash and brush-up before we’re at them again.’ Yet his own confidence had been badly shaken. The Boers, with the benefit of their smokeless weapons and their ability to blend into the hillside, were proving a much tougher enemy than the savage ever had.
Family of the Empire Page 48