Fire Across the Veldt (19 page)

Suddenly, all was bedlam as firing began from all around the edge of the kraal.

‘The horses, dammit!’ shouted Simon. ‘Get the horses!’

He was dimly aware that the Boer ponies in the kraal were rearing and screaming with fright and that Jenkins and the two sergeants were in their midst clutching at their bridles. Out of the dust and the gunsmoke – for it was clear that the remainder of the troop were now firing into the kraal and that the Boers inside it were firing back – a huge burgher lurched into sight. He raised his rifle butt and brought it down, aiming at Fonthill’s head. Somehow, Simon, on one knee, lurched to the right, losing his grip on his revolver, which clattered away. The gun butt crashed into the ground near his foot, its stock shattering. The Boer kicked out blindly at Fonthill, catching him in the breast and sending him sprawling.

Flat on his back, his good hand clawing at the ground to give him purchase, Simon saw the giant burgher loom over him and reach down. Then, seemingly from nowhere, a figure leapt onto the man’s back, a muscular forearm appeared around his throat, the butt of a hand under his chin and, with a terrible jerk, the Boer’s head was snapped back and his neck broken. Slowly, the giant sank to the
ground, Jenkins still fixed to his shoulders, as though welded there, and then the man lay still in the dust, his eyes wide and still glaring in anger.

‘The horses!’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Have we got the horses?’

‘Bugger the bloody horses,’ Jenkins shouted in return. ‘Yes, we’ve got ’em. Are you all right, though, bach?’

‘Yes. Just winded.’ Simon was suddenly aware that the crackle of gunshots all around had ceased, although there were others sounding much farther away up the hill. He crawled to his feet. Some fifteen Boers were standing sullenly by the kraal wall, their rifles cast aside, their hands in the air. Six other burghers lay dead or wounded at their feet. A ring of rifles threatened them from the other side of the kraal.

As he stood gasping for breath, Fonthill saw the ridge above him suddenly crackle into life as, to his right, the door of the farmhouse burst open and a handful of Boers ran out, firing their rifles as they did so. Within seconds they were all brought down.

Twisting his head to look higher up the slope to where the second dam was surrounded by willows, Simon saw the flashes of rifle fire and white smoke rising through the grey-green leaves. Was Cartwright holding his own? He gestured to the young subaltern commanding the troop surrounding the kraal.

‘Carter. Get the surrendered men out of here and put them under guard. Have you lost any men?’

‘Only one man with a flesh wound, sir. We were upon them before they could organise any defence.’

‘Good. See if we can do anything for these Boers wounded here.’ Then, to the two sergeants: ‘Well done, you two. Make sure the
horses are locked in the kraal. 352, come with me. Cartwright may need help.’

‘What about the people in the farmhouse, bach sir?’

‘I doubt if there are any Boers left in there, though there might be women and children.’ Simon winced as a shaft of pain shot through his injured arm. He turned back to Lieutenant Carter. ‘Send six men into the farmhouse to make sure it’s safe. Tell them to take care. I am going to see if Captain Cartwright needs help.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Fonthill found his pony and, with difficulty, mounted it. As he and Jenkins turned to climb the slope, where the rest of the squadron still ringed it, he extended his hand to his old comrade. ‘That must be the seven thousand, eight hundred and ninety-first time that you have saved my life, my dear old 352. I can’t thank you enough. That chap was a bit big for me.’

Jenkins tugged at his moustache. ‘As a matter o’ fact, bach sir, ’e was a bit big for me, too. I’m gettin’ a bit old for this game, I reckon.’ Then he looked across shyly. ‘Glad I was able to ’elp, though. Thank God I can still be a bit useful to you, instead of drinkin’ meself silly during the night, like.’

Simon nodded in mock severity. ‘So am I. So am I.’

Reaching the lip of the hollow he called the troopers down from where they still trained their rifles on the kraal and farmhouse below. He nodded to the subaltern in command. ‘Good firing, Marlowe. Send an NCO down there with a couple of men to help Carter with the wounded and the prisoners. Then mount up with the rest and follow me to find Captain Cartwright. He may have bitten off more than he can chew.’

Indeed, the firing that could be heard from the clump of willows seemed now to be more intense and Fonthill dug his heels into his pony’s side and urged him around in a wide sweep to seek Cartwright. He found him with his troopers spread around three sides of the willow clump, the men spreadeagled behind the little cover they could find, and firing sporadically at the Boers seemingly well entrenched in the coppice.

‘We’ve prevented ’em riding through us,’ reported Cartwright. ‘And they’re in there with their horses. But I haven’t enough men to charge ’em nor enough to encircle them completely. I am worried that they will burst out through there,’ he gestured, ‘where I can’t quite complete the circle.’

‘Any casualties yet?’

‘’Fraid so, sir. Two dead and three wounded. The Boers are shooting damned well.’

‘Damn! Well, we may have to try a bit of bluff. Have you got a white handkerchief?’

‘What? Oh, well. It’s a bit grubby. Will this do?’

‘That’s fine. Now, give me a rifle.’

Fonthill tied the handkerchief to the end of the rifle and gestured to Marlowe who had now ridden up with his men. ‘Spread out along to the left here with your men.’ He indicated where the gap in the encirclement was evident. ‘Then, when I give the order, I want all of the men to blast off with about three minutes of rapid fire. I want bullets to crash through that copse there. It doesn’t matter particularly whether you hit anybody or not. It’s the effect that matters. Right. Go and give the order and then report back to me.’

Puzzled, the two officers nodded and slipped away. They returned minutes later, their mission completed.

‘Right.’ Fonthill raised his voice. ‘
RAPID FIRE
!’ he screamed. Suddenly it seemed as though the clump of willows had been hit by a hailstorm. As the rifles crashed out, pieces of bark were plucked from the trees and fronds of spidery willow leaves floated down. It seemed as though all hell had been let loose on that coppice for a thunderous three minutes or so.

Then: ‘
CEASE
FIRING
!’ roared Simon. Slowly, he rose to his feet, waving the rifle with its flag. Then he began walking towards the willows.

‘Gawd,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘The fall from the ’orse ’as affected ’is thinkin’.’

Fonthill halted about one hundred yards from the edge of the trees.

‘I’ve come to parley,’ he shouted. ‘Who is in charge here?’

Slowly, the bushes parted and a tall, thin burgher stepped forward. His beard was black as night and cordite marks could be seen on his right cheek. He carried a British Lee Enfield and he was wearing what appeared to be a British army tunic. ‘What do you want, Khaki?’ he called.

‘I am Colonel Simon Fonthill, commanding Fonthill’s Horse,’ shouted Simon. ‘I have five hundred men with me and you are now completely surrounded, as that last burst of firing demonstrated. We have captured the farmhouse down below and the horses and the men in the kraal. If you don’t believe me, send one of your men to look down into the hollow. You are completely outnumbered and, if you wish to stay and fight it out, then I am happy to accommodate you, but it would be a worthless waste of life. If you do not surrender, then I shall call up artillery from our main column, which is only two miles away, and we shall have no alternative but to blast you to eternity.
I am sorry, but you have fought well and it is pointless to continue. What do you say?’

The tall man stood in silence for a moment. ‘Wait,’ he called and turned back and disappeared into the trees. Simon remained standing out in the open. He hoped that the Boer had sent someone to confirm that the farmhouse had been captured. If they still resisted it would be hard work to overcome them. Genuinely a stupid waste of life.

It was five minutes before the burgher reappeared. ‘We will surrender, English,’ he said, ‘on one condition.’

Fonthill’s heart sank. ‘What is that?’

‘We hear that you have started to shoot Boers that you find wearing British army uniforms. We have little clothing of our own left and have had to wear your miserable tunics. Will you give me your word that we won’t be shot for this, eh man?’

Fonthill nodded. ‘Of course. We don’t shoot defenceless men. Come out with your rifles held above your heads. Give me three minutes to tell my men.’ He turned and walked back to the squadron.

‘They’re coming out,’ he told Cartwright. ‘Tell the men, no shooting.’

‘Will do, sir. Bloody well done.’

Three minutes later, some thirty bedraggled Boers came reluctantly across the open ground, leading their horses and with their rifles held in the air. Fonthill, Cartwright and Jenkins walked to meet them. ‘Do you have wounded?’ asked Simon.

‘Ja.’ The Boers eyes were tired. ‘We have thirteen men in there who can’t walk. More dead. Do you have food we can have? We were about to go down to the farm to find food.’

‘Of course. Cartwright, see what you can do. Sarn’t Major.’

‘Sir.’

‘Get back to the farmhouse. Send a rider to Major Hammond to say that we shall be bringing in prisoners. Oh, and see who is in the house. If there are women and children in there they will have been terrified by all the shooting. Then begin the business of bringing out the furniture etcetera. We shall have to burn the blasted place, I’m afraid.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Fonthill’s head was now spinning and his shoulder hurting like hell, although a quick inspection showed that the wound had not reopened. Leaving Cartwright to look after the Boers from the coppice, he slowly allowed his horse to wander down the slope back to the farmhouse, a scene of great activity, with the Boer horses being taken by handlers, the rifles gathered from the ground in the kraal and the prisoners being ushered away. Simon studied the little house as he rode. It was certainly a cut above the usual Boer dwelling, with its freshly painted shutters and the neat curtains hanging inside the windows, and he sighed at the prospect of burning it. But there was no question of riding away and leaving it. It had harboured Boer fighters and his orders were clear on this point. It could not be left standing.

Simon painfully swung down from the saddle and met Jenkins coming out of the farmhouse door. A strange-looking Jenkins, though, whose eyes were fiercely alive and his face agitated.

‘I think you’d better come inside, bach sir,’ he said. ‘There’s someone you should meet.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Come inside. You’ll see.’

Frowning, Fonthill removed his hat and strode into the interior of the house. It was dark after the sunshine outside, but Simon could see that the room was well furnished, with dark mahogany chairs and a large table gleaming dimly and chintz fabrics lending a cosy look.

Crouching on a settee at the back of the room was a woman with her arms round two young girls, perhaps ten and twelve. The woman was attempting to comfort the girls who were sobbing and, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, Simon could see that she was strikingly beautiful. She was of mixed race for her skin was
coffee-coloured
and her hair, though streaked with grey, a glistening black. But her face was not Negroid: her nose was small and straight and not flared at the nostrils, her cheekbones were high and her lips not bulbous in the manner of Kaffir women, but sensuously curved. Under dark, curved eyebrows her eyes were black. It was clear that the shooting, particularly as the Boers had rushed outside, firing as they went, had terrified all three, but now the girls’ sobbing had been reduced to snivelling as their mother comforted them. She looked up as Fonthill stood, gazing at them. Then she stood, urging her girls to do the same, and revealed a small, lissom figure with a full bosom.

‘Hello, Simon,’ she said, extending her hand.

Fonthill lowered his head and peered at her, still frowning. Instinctively he took her hand, then his face lit up. ‘Nandi! Nandi, for goodness’ sake!’ And he pulled her to him and embraced her.

Jenkins, his face beaming, stepped forward and indicated the girls, almost proprietarily. ‘An’ these are ’er daughters,’ he said. ‘Er … Simone and … er … Cyrilla, I think it is.’

The two girls were of lighter complexion than their mother but shared her dark eyes. Wonder had replaced fear in their faces now as they stood and gave Simon a brief curtsey each.

Solemnly, he reached out his hand and shook each of theirs. ‘I am very pleased – yes, very pleased indeed to meet you.’ Then he turned back to Nandi. ‘But, it must be nineteen, twenty years, since last we met. What are you doing here? Is this your house?’

‘Yes. I am sorry that you had to arrive here like this and cause all this killing and shooting.’ Her hand trembled as she raised it to replace a stray strand of hair and she gave a rueful smile. Simon remembered well how white and small her teeth were, but there was a tear in the corner of her eye now. ‘I would like to offer you food and drink, but those men took all I had. And there was precious little to start with.’ The tear welled and then slid down her cheek. ‘I wondered if I would ever see you and Mr Jenkins again. Now I have but I am sad that it is …’ she waved a plaintive hand ‘… like this. I am sorry.’

‘Oh, Nandi.’ Simon put his arm around her shoulder. ‘We don’t need anything. Come on. Let’s sit down. We must talk. Pull up a chair, 352.’ They all sat. ‘Now, I had not realised you had married. Where is your husband?’

Nandi put the corner of a white lace handkerchief to her eye. ‘I married a Boer farmer. This is our home and, of course, these are our children.’ She smiled through the tears. ‘They are good girls.’

Simon did not like to ask, but Jenkins leant forward. ‘An’ where is ’e now, then, love?’

‘He was killed at Ladysmith – what is it … well over a year ago now. We have been struggling to manage and I heard that the British
were burning all the farms and I have been dreading your troops arriving, but these Boer commando men came instead. And now you have come…’ She burst into tears. ‘It is all too much for me.’