Tamar (55 page)

It was Raynor who told Joseph, months later, what happened.

The trek to Rustenburg was long, hot and arduous. John treated sunstroke, diarrhoea, saddle sores exacerbated by sweat and made septic by filth, and extracted several rotten teeth. Progress slowed as the condition of the horses deteriorated and their riders were forced to dismount, and by the time they arrived men and animals were profoundly fatigued. There was to be no rest, however, and over the following weeks there were numerous skirmishes between the British and De la Rey’s men, but De la Rey himself, and his equally infamous cohort, General Christiaan De Wet, remained elusive.

In March, John found himself riding at the tail end of a column of New Zealanders just below the border between Cape Colony and Orange Free State. His stomach had still not settled and since December he had suffered a further recurrence of malaria. He was tired and homesick, and had had a gutsful of chasing Boers across the harsh South African veldt. Months ago he had come to the conclusion the British should get out of South Africa, but he knew his opinions would serve no purpose, except perhaps to have him court-martialled. Some of the New Zealanders and Australians might agree, and possibly even some of the British enlisted men, but as far as the British commanders were concerned, John knew his words would fall on deaf ears. They still spoke loftily of military might, of glory, and of essential acquisitions for the Empire, ignoring the bitter, exhausted mutterings of their men and, at times, the outright rebelliousness of the colonials they commanded.

But here they were, a column of around a hundred and thirty British and New Zealand troops, on yet another cloudless morning
with the sun already murderously hot, plodding towards the blue mountains in search of Boer guerrillas. There was very little talk amongst the tired troops, only the clanking of their equipment, the occasional horse snort and the dull, unsynchronised
clop
of hundreds of hooves hitting the hard, baked ground.

John was nearly asleep, hoping for his own sake the rest of the column was alert. Evidently they were, for as the first Boer bullet ricocheted off a rock fifty yards in front of him, he heard Lieutenant Turner bellow ‘
Take cover
’ as the men ahead of him whirled their mounts and scattered. John’s horse bolted without being asked, carrying him behind the shelter of a long, low outcrop of rock. John slid to the ground and crouched low, his heart thudding and blood pounding in his ears, and peered through a gap in the rocks.

They had been approaching a high
kopje
and the bullets seemed to be originating from there. John wondered why the scouts riding ahead had not alerted the rest of the column. Perhaps they were still trotting along half a mile in front, chatting blithely to each other, the Boers having let them pass in order to snare the bigger prize. Or perhaps they were lying dead on the far side of the
kopje
.

The men had recovered their wits and were spreading themselves out behind the rocks to return fire, the British on the left and the New Zealanders on the right. Together with the two medical wagons, their mounts had been moved quickly out of range, and were held in check. The horses had been trained to stand steady during rifle and artillery fire, but occasionally one would bolt and panic the rest, causing complete pandemonium.

Lieutenant Turner and the other New Zealand officers were barking orders and moving the men into better firing positions behind the shelter of one end of the rocks, while their British colleagues did the same behind the other. The barrier afforded by the outcrop was low, but as long as no one stood up straight, they would be relatively safe. However, when John glanced to either
side and then behind, he saw there was nowhere for the troops to go. If they went forwards or to the left or right they would be mown down, and if they went backwards, they would expose themselves to snipers. In front of the rocks was a stretch of open, stony ground about five hundred yards across to the base of the
kopje
, and on it lay two bodies — men who had not moved fast enough. John squinted but could not tell whether they were alive or dead. He could, however, see at least two of the Boer positions on the
kopje
— one halfway up the hill and another nearer the top. They appeared to have selected their firing positions carefully, suggesting this was no hit-and-run raiding party.

In the middle of the troops pinned behind the rocks crouched the senior officers. Lieutenant-Colonel Kendall, and a New Zealander major, John Anscombe, were arguing, both waving their arms and yelling, although their voices could barely be heard above the din of the rifle fire. John crawled on his hands and knees towards them; he had to do something about the fallen men on the off-chance they were still alive, and he would not be able to drag them back himself. As he approached the senior officers, he could hear angry words.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked Raynor, who was sitting against the rocks with his revolver on his upraised knees. He looked stunned.

‘They’re bloody
arguing
, for Christ’s sake!’ Raynor exclaimed incredulously. ‘Kendall wants us to charge the bloody
hill
! God only knows how many bloody Boers are up there! We’ll be annihilated!’

John stared at him in dismay, then turned to watch. The Lieutenant-Colonel had gone red in the face and there was a scum of white foam collecting at the corners of his mouth; John wondered if the man was about to have a fit. Anscombe was shaking his head violently, his teeth almost bared in his anger. Both men were on their knees, looking incongruously child-like as they faced each
other, faces inches apart. Suddenly Anscombe threw up his hands and pulled away. He turned to Raynor and spat through gritted teeth, ‘We’re going over. Get the men ready.’

‘It’ll be murder!’ replied Raynor, forgetting he was talking to a senior officer.

‘Yes, it will, but the bastard’s convinced we can take the hill,’ said Anscombe, his face white with rage. ‘Get them ready.’

Appalled, John could see in his mind’s eye the dead and dying spread over the ground between the rocks and the base of the
kopje
. ‘Haven’t we got another column northeast of here?’ he asked, then pointed back towards the horses and wagons. ‘Couldn’t someone back there be sent to fetch them?’

Raynor shook his head. ‘The column’s more than a hundred bloody miles away. Two riders have gone, but we could all be dead by the time they get here.
And
we’re pinned down. We can’t get to our horses now, either.’

‘Why don’t we just wait until it gets dark?’

Raynor shrugged and indicated his head towards the Lieutenant-Colonel, who was now arguing with one of his own officers. ‘Ask him,’ he said as he crawled away to break the news to his men.

John sat back on his heels. There were three medical officers with the column, and a handful of enlisted men who had volunteered as stretcher bearers; the medical wagons were well behind them, safely out of the way but unreachable. The dread that had been growing in the pit of his stomach threatened to engulf him as he scuttled behind the rocks to find Beale and Carter, the two British MOs. They would have to be ready.

They thought they were, but in the end there was little anyone could have done. The first wave of thirty men ran straight into a solid wall of bullets. A quarter fell while the rest managed to
scramble back behind the safety of the outcrop, some wounded and all disoriented. Kendall bellowed at them to go back out, but his order was ignored. Incensed and screaming at his officers to ready the troops for a second charge, the Lieutenant-Colonel threatened the column with court martial and kicked wildly at the men near him. John suddenly realised the man was mad with fear and watched in horrified fascination as Kendall slowly stood to his full height and raised his arm to give the order to charge. No one moved to stop him.

Kendall was shot instantly, crumpling to the ground clutching the left side of his chest, dark blood spurting through his fingers. John scrambled over but it was obvious he had been mortally wounded. He placed his hand over the hole in the man’s chest and applied as much pressure as he was able, but could do nothing more as Kendall’s life pumped out of his body and soaked into the dusty ground. After a minute John took his hand away and moved back, thinking how peculiar it was that natural justice was delivered in such strange but sometimes logical ways.

The second charge had been aborted the minute Kendall had hit the ground. The Boers on the
kopje
stopped firing. John went into a huddle with Carter and Beale as they considered how best to retrieve the wounded, whose cries of pain and confusion could be clearly heard. After a brief discussion it was decided a heavy fusillade would be laid down to cover the medical officers and volunteers as they tried to reach the wounded. The Red Cross flag had been raised, but there were few illusions about what protection it might afford. John was to take the right-hand section while the two British medics would take the middle and left-hand sections.

As instructions were relayed down the line of men behind the rocks and they reloaded and positioned their rifles, Major Anscombe asked John if he was ready.

‘No,’ John replied. ‘But then I’ll never be ready for this sort of thing.’ He took his watch off and handed it to Anscombe. ‘If anything happens, can you make sure my eldest boy gets this? Raynor has a letter for my wife.’ He shook his head glumly. ‘She’ll be so annoyed with me if I get myself killed.’

‘Then don’t,’ Anscombe said gruffly. ‘Straight out, pick up the live ones, and straight back in. The dead can wait. And if gets rough, turn around and come back. No point losing more men.’

John nodded and swallowed. His mouth was bone dry, his heart beat wildly, and his anus was clamped shut; although terrified, he had no intention of shitting himself. He looked at Beale and Carter, who appeared as frightened as he was, and raised his eyebrows. When they nodded, Anscombe passed the message down the line to Jarvis, the British major now in command, who looked at his watch, counted down, then gave the order to fire.

The near-silence exploded as almost a hundred troops simultaneously fired up at the
kopje
. Although the Boers responded instantly, their aim was hampered by the intensity of the British fusillade. John immediately scrambled over the rocks and sprinted for the nearest body. He could hear nothing over the incredible noise but sensed two of the volunteers close behind. The first man he reached was dead, shot through the neck, and he hurried on to the next, moving erratically in the vain hope he might be able to dodge the Boer bullets. The next man was alive and John signalled for him to be picked up and taken back.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Carter and Beale and their quartet of volunteers dashing madly from body to body. He almost laughed; they looked absurd, like deranged ants scurrying across a vast tablecloth snatching up crumbs.

The next man was also still breathing, although the pulpy, bloody mass extruding from the side of his head suggested he wouldn’t be for much longer. John left him. As he bent to inspect
a man lying only a few feet further out, the prone body jerked as it was riddled with bullets. There was no new explosion of blood and John was briefly thankful the man was already dead.

It was when he was turning back towards the shelter of the rocks that he was hit. He felt no pain but was aware of being propelled forward, as if he’d been violently shoved by a giant, invisible hand. He landed face first, bounced slightly, then lay still with his arms outstretched and his head skewed uncomfortably to the right. He couldn’t tell exactly where his legs were, but for some reason that didn’t seem to be important. And he couldn’t hear anything, only a heavy, ringing silence. Had it been a bullet, or an artillery shell? He hadn’t seen a big gun on the hill. And why could he smell oranges?

He blinked. There was grit in his left eye and a good handful of it in his mouth as well. He saw a pair of brown boots going past his head, then a blur of faded khaki as someone seemed to float to the ground only feet away. More silence, and now everything was fading to a fuzzy grey. There was still no pain.

John felt his pulse dropping far too quickly. He knew he should get up, but he was too tired. He closed his eyes and muttered, ‘Oh Riria, I’m so sorry.’

A single tear ran across the ridge of his nose and plopped into the dust. Then, as he began to sink into blackness, he sighed once, and let himself go.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ roared Anscombe as he watched John go down. It was not his usual habit to swear in front of his men, but fuck it. His revolver clicked on an empty chamber and he flung it viciously towards the
kopje
.

‘God, what a
cock
-up,’ he spat at Raynor. ‘We get five back but lose three more. I’d
kill
that bastard Kendall if he wasn’t dead already!’

Raynor said nothing; he was too stunned. Was John still alive? Captain Beale obviously wasn’t; the top of his head seemed to be missing. John lay motionless and Raynor’s eyes were riveted to the pool of blood beneath him; it was no longer spreading. He shook his head, blinked back tears and tried to get a grip on himself.

‘So what do we do now?’ he asked, his voice thick and painful in his throat.

‘I don’t know,’ said Anscombe wearily, rubbing his dirty face with even dirtier hands. ‘I’ll go and talk to Jarvis. Tell the men to sit tight and not waste their bullets.’

He moved off and Raynor passed the word along the line, although most had stopped firing when the last volunteer staggered back in. Then he sat and stared at nothing in particular while he waited for Anscombe to return. The attempt to rescue the wounded had been a disaster. And they were still pinned down.

Anscombe came back. ‘We’re waiting until dark, then we’re retreating. At least Jarvis seems to have a brain. Have half the men stand down and the other half remain at their posts.’

The men settled in, making themselves as comfortable as they could behind the protection of the rocks. Most broke open their dry rations or lit cigarettes, but there was not much water. Captain Carter tended the wounded as best he could. The afternoon heat increased, the air still and hazy and the raw sun blazing down; everyone kept their hats on despite the sweat pouring down their dusty faces.