Fire Across the Veldt (9 page)

‘Very good, sir.’

Very soon Jenkins returned, accompanied by Mzingeli. ‘Boers still there, Nkosi,’ the tall man said. ‘We about three hundred paces from camp. Guards seem to be asleep. My man still watching them. Everything very quiet.’

Lieutenant Colonel Gallais rode up. ‘We’re with you now, Colonel.’ He spoke in a low voice. ‘Was it your intention that we should go in on horseback?’

‘Yes, to create a bit of terror and cut off the retreat.’

‘Understand the thinking. But I would advise against it. My chaps, at least, are not trained cavalry and I’m not sure how easy it would be to regroup them once we’ve charged through the camp, particularly under fire. With respect, I suggest we go in on foot, firing as we go. The surprise should still be as great, if we’re lucky.’

Fonthill thought for a moment. Despite his dislike of the cavalry and his distrust of its methods, he had nurtured a vision of creating havoc as his men thundered through the camp, firing from the saddle. With a larger force, however, the result could well be chaos. He nodded to Gallais.

‘Very well, Colonel. Dismount your men and summon your officers
so that we can brief them here. Make sure voices are kept low and there is no noise from the harnesses. We are little more than three hundred yards away now.’

The group of officers gathered around Fonthill and Mzingeli as the tracker described the enemy layout, as best he could. The Boers, he said, were spread in a large circle around an old stone farmhouse and its outbuildings, with what appeared to be seven pieces of artillery, including two large Krupps guns, stationed within a low stone kraal. The men of the guard outpost appeared to be fast asleep – ah, that indiscipline again! – as were the rest of the burghers, coiled up under blankets on the ground.

‘Now,’ said Fonthill when the black man had finished. ‘Colonel, please allocate a hundred and fifty men to make for the kraal to seize those guns and, as soon as you are able, bring your own guns up to fire on the buildings, because they are bound to harbour men. The rest of us will deploy as best we can around the rear of the camp and, when you hear my whistle, we will all go in firing. Tell your men to have no compunction about firing on sleeping men. As soon as they are awake, they will be a handful, for the Boers sleep with their rifles. If they get to their horses, shoot the horses. We want to reduce the number of men who get away as much as possible. Understood?’

Thirty heads nodded.

‘Right. Good luck to you all.’

Silently, just as the dark sky began to lighten in the east, the British began their advance. There was little to be seen ahead in the darkness, but the smell of woodsmoke showed that a large host of men was camping ahead of them.

Simon’s little band led the way, following the dim figure of Mzingeli
in the van, Fonthill at his side. The officers were walking with their squadrons and troops, but Jenkins paced two steps closely behind Fonthill, his darkened bayonet fixed and his rifle carried at the trail.

Instinctively, Simon turned and grinned at his old comrade, who nodded back, his face set grimly. The grin, however, was not an honest reflection of how Fonthill felt. In fact, his mouth was dry and his stomach muscles seemed as contracted as the ridges of a washboard. It had been a long time – a very long time – since he had led men into an attack and his mind raced. Could this be the end, at last? He knew only too well how fiercely the Boers fought and, despite Le Gallais’s arrival, they were still outnumbered. Was now the time for his luck to run out? His nostrils seemed to draw in the sour smell of cordite. Then he thought of Alice and his heart seemed to miss a beat. He shook his head. Enough of that! He was too old to be frightened and, of course, Jenkins, dear old 352, his friend and survivor from dozens of man-
to-man
conflicts, was only an arm’s length away. He trudged on.

At last, Mzingeli held up his hand. Immediately, Fonthill spread his arms out wide to either side, the signal for his men to deploy. He stood still, fingered his whistle and looked behind him. After what seemed like an hour but which must surely only have been a few minutes, he saw the tall figure of Hammond nod his head. Ah, all in position! He looked to the east. The sun was just beginning to split the dark sky with golden shards of light. Time to go! He blew the whistle, waved his free arm and trotted forward, thrusting his rifle and its bayonet forward. Immediately, a great cheer arose from the men behind him and Fonthill felt his fear disappear, to be replaced by the great and familiarly exalting sensation of battle.

Hoarse shouts arose from ahead of him and he saw figures, half
awake, rise from the ground and turn and run. Others, but only a few, picked up their rifles and tried to fire but were immediately shot down. So much for the posted guard! He crested a low ridge and saw that the great camp ahead of him was in a state of alarm. As far as he could see, men – some of them still half draped in their blankets – were running, seemingly in different directions. It was as though a termite’s nest had been disturbed. Many had made it to where the horses were picketed. There, some just cut the halters and flung themselves onto the backs of their mounts, without attempting to saddle up, and rode away, bareback and bareheaded. Others just turned and ran.

Not all fled, however. Some, like the night guard, had rolled out of their blankets, picked up their rifles and were kneeling and firing, their extra distance from the attackers giving them time to do so. Away to his right, across a cart track, Fonthill glimpsed a low stone wall with some white buildings beyond. From this enclave a more determined fire was beginning to ensue, with the bright flashes of the rifles lighting up the top of the kraal. To the left, only some two hundred yards away, a red farmhouse, also built of stone, was being occupied by Le Gallais’s men, who took shelter in it from the fire from the kraal.

‘Watch out, bach!’ Jenkins’s cry made Simon whirl round, just in time to see a huge burgher, clad only in breeches and dirty grey vest, running towards him, attempting to work the bolt on his rifle as he ran. Fonthill fired from the hip, predictably missing, but Jenkins’s bullet took the big man in the chest and he fell without a word.

‘Thanks, 352,’ gasped Simon. ‘Keep moving forward. We’ve got to find de Wet before he gets away.’

Jenkins, perspiration running down his cheeks, stood still and pointed. ‘Who’s that, then?’

In the middle of the chaos, by the horse lines, a familiar, stocky figure was whirling his mount to and fro, screaming at the men streaming past him. As the two watched, he produced a sjambok – the Boer farmer’s hide cattle whip – and laid about him, attempting to make the fleeing men stand and fight. Then the man, seemingly oblivious to the bullets hissing past his head, pulled his horse round and pursued the horsemen, whirling his whip in a vain attempt to halt the rout.

‘It’s de Wet, all right,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Can you get a bead on him?’

‘Too late, bach sir. ’E’s ’opped it, see, with the rest of ’em.’

‘Blast. He’s got away again.’

But not all of the Boers had fled. Some were lying strewn around the campsite, either inert, or moaning from their wounds. More, however, were now standing dismally, their hands above their heads in surrender, being grouped together by Le Gallais’s men. Fonthill looked around him and saw Hammond leading his squadron forward.

‘Hammond,’ he cried. ‘Get your horses and lead your squadron after those fleeing men. De Wet’s with them and probably President Steyn too. They’re riding to the east. Take a tracker with you. Do what you can to catch ’em up and bring ’em back. I’m going to make sure we take their guns.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The fire being exchanged between the burghers huddled behind the low stone walls which fringed a garden, its attached white building and the kraal beyond, and from Le Gallais’s men in the red farmhouse, was now severe. The Boer shooting was accurate and was sweeping across the site of the camp, making it difficult for any realistic pursuit of de Wet and his fleeing men to be set up.

‘It’s de Wet’s famous rearguard,’ muttered Fonthill. ‘They’re doing their job and protecting their general again.’

Jenkins removed his helmet and wiped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. ‘More than that, bach sir,’ he said. ‘They’re tryin’ to stop us getting at their guns, see.’ He pointed to where men could just be seen manhandling artillery into position beyond the kraal’s stone wall.

‘You’re right. Listen. Go and find Colonel Le Gallais and get him to bring his twelve-pounders up and direct fire onto where the Boers are firing. Tell him to avoid the white farmhouse – there might be the farmer’s family inside. And, of course, avoid the guns.’

‘Very good, bach sir. Er … and where would the colonel be, then, d’yer think?’

Fonthill grimaced. He remembered that 352 Jenkins, now a much respected sergeant major in Fonthill’s Horse, harboured among his few failings as a soldier the fact that he had no sense of direction. ‘Just find an officer and ask him to take you to Le Gallais, there’s a good fellow.’

‘Ah yes. Now what are you goin’ to do, then?’

‘I’m going to direct the fire onto the kraal. Off you go.’

‘Very good, sir. Take care now.’

Fonthill had to crawl on his belly, taking a circuitous route, before he was able to reach the questionable haven of the red farmhouse. The Boers had posted snipers outside the kraal, somewhere near an old pigsty, and they, together with the men behind the wall and inside the kraal, were now shooting with accuracy and intensity. This was making the red house a place of slaughter, which it was impossible to relieve, for bullets were hissing across the open ground all around it.

The doorway was open – in fact, there was no door – and as
Fonthill crawled inside, he realised that it was going to be virtually impossible to get out again, for bullets thudded into the stonework on either side of him, sending out showers of splinters. It was as if small-calibre artillery shells were being fired.

Inside, he found Le Gallais himself sprawled on the earthen floor, a young lieutenant attempting to stem the bleeding from a ghastly wound in his body. The colonel lifted his head. ‘Bit of a bloody mess, I’m afraid, Fonthill,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t get at that rearguard, I’m afraid. They’ve pinned us down.’

‘Don’t talk, old chap,’ said Fonthill. ‘I’ve ordered up your guns. We should be able to dislodge them with your twelve-pounders. Now, lie still.’

Fonthill looked around. The farmhouse was a typical Boer dwelling: one huge living-sleeping room, with galleried sleeping quarters above it. From open windows and loopholes bayoneted out of the stonework, men of Le Gallais’s Mounted Infantry were attempting to direct fire onto the Boers, who were crouching behind their stone walls only some hundred and fifty yards away. Le Gallais was not the only casualty. Seven other men were harbouring wounds, some of them serious. Lt Col Wally Ross, the CO of the 8th MI, was crouching with the lower part of his jaw shot away and Major Williams, Ross’s staff officer, was lying, barely alive, with six bullets in his body.

‘Good God,’ muttered Fonthill. ‘This is like a charnel house.’

The young lieutenant looked over his shoulder from where he was attempting to fix a dressing on Le Gallais’s chest. ‘The Boers are using soft-nosed bullets, sir,’ he said. ‘They’re exploding like bombs on the stonework. They’re bastards. It’s contrary to the Hague Convention.’

‘I’m not sure the Boers have signed that, my boy. Keep your head down. I’ve sent for reinforcements. We’ll soon clear them out of there.’

But it was not to be that easy. The explosive bullets of the Boer rearguard continued to crash into the fragile stonework of the farmhouse until the building itself seemed to shake and gaps appeared above the heads of the defenders. It had become impossible to fire back now and all that the men could do was to lie low, with hands covering their heads from the lethal stone splinters that flew everywhere.

‘Where the hell are those twelve-pounders?’ swore Simon. It was at least an hour since Jenkins had been sent on his mission and it had become clear that the white building and the kraal were protected from attack from everywhere but their front by a stone outbreak above and behind them. So it was not possible to surround the little fortress and direct enfilading fire onto the men within it. The Boers were not going to give up their guns without a desperate fight.

How desperate that fight was going to be became clear when, at last, Fonthill heard the crump of light artillery and the crack of shrapnel shells being directed above the heads of the Boer marksmen.

Simon ventured a quick and dangerous look through the open doorway and, as he watched, saw the little outlying pigsty, which had been sheltering three enemy snipers, suddenly dissolve into a cloud of red dust and stone as a shell landed directly onto it.

Even then, however, the Boers did not surrender. For at least another hour the duel continued, with shells being hurled at ridiculously short range at the men behind the walls and then into the white house behind, where they took shelter, and the Boers replying with their deadly soft-nosed bullets.

‘You have to give it to them,’ muttered Fonthill, lying spreadeagled on
the floor, covered in red dust and stone fragments. ‘They’re brave men.’

‘With all respect, sir,’ growled the lieutenant, still holding the now inert form of his commanding officer, ‘they’re bastards.’

At last it was over. Simon sensed rather than saw or heard that Knox had arrived with his main body. He looked at his watch. It was eight a.m. and the fire on the compound had markedly increased. Was 352 out there? Then he heard a command and from his doorway saw men charging with fixed bayonets towards the Boers across the open ground. Within seconds, a white flag went up behind the kraal wall and what was left of the de Wet rearguard, filthy, bloodstained and half dressed, stood with their hands raised above their heads.

Suddenly a figure appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh God,’ cried Jenkins, ‘are you still alive then, bach?’

‘Almost, 352.’ Fonthill painfully got to his feet. ‘But there are those here who are not. See if you can get a doctor or some medics quickly, there’s a good chap.’