Dust Clouds of War E-Book

John Wilcox

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Simon Fonthill
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 508

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

1914. Simon Fonthill, a fit 59-year-old, is visiting his farm in Northern Rhodesia when the Great War breaks out. With him, as always, is his wife Alice, but also his old comrade and former batman, 352 Jenkins, holidaying with them after the marriage of his two step-daughters in South Africa. Fonthill immediately cables his old boss Kitchener, the newly appointed Minister for War in the British Cabinet, offering his services in the fight against the Kaiser's Germany. However, he is instructed to remain in Africa in case of warfare in German East Africa. When war does break out, Fonthill proves his worth in a battle that proves to be equally frightful to the one in Europe and, indeed, to last even longer than that on the Western Front.

Leseprobe

DUST CLOUDSOF WAR

JOHN WILCOX

For Betty – for the last time

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENAUTHOR’S NOTEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

The border between Northern Rhodesia and German East Africa, September 1914

The three men stood motionless on top of the hill, looking down onto the sleepy little border town of Abercorn beneath them. To the north, the rays of the rising sun caught the southern tip of Lake Tanganyika some forty kilometres away, causing little silver reflections to bounce back and speed the retreating darkness on its way.

It was to there that the middle of the three now pointed. ‘When they come, they will come from there,’ he said.

He spoke in the soft, ululating tones of the black African but he and his companions were dressed alike, in the casual, loose garments of white men farming on these high, fertile plains: cotton shirts, open at the throat, well-worn riding breeches, high boots and wide-brimmed slouch hats. But they each leant on a British Army rifle and were markedly different in stature.

The black man was slim and by far the tallest. As he took off his hat to wipe his forehead – for they were only eight degrees south of the equator and although it was only a little after dawn, the sun was already hot – he revealed a tightly curled head of snow-white hair. His face was completely black but his features were not negroic. His nose was long, with flared nostrils and his lips were thin. There was an air of nobility about him and he pointed again.

‘Yes, definitely from that way.’

‘Are you sure they will come, Mzingeli?’ The man on his right spoke as he adjusted his field glasses to focus better into the mid distance towards the lake.

‘Oh yes, Nkosi. They already on their way. They come from Bismarkburg on the great lake.’

‘Blimey!’ The man on the left who completed the trio sniffed. ‘The bleedin’ war ’as only just started, look you.’

His voice carried the unmistakable cadence of the Welsh valleys and his sentences ended in an upwards inflexion, as though he was in a perpetual state of indignation. Which was roughly true of 352 Jenkins, holder of the Distinguished Conduct Medal and Bar and late of the 24th Regiment of Foot, the Queen’s Royal Corps of Guides and the bosom companion of the other two. ‘It doesn’t seem right to come chargin’ in straight away, now, does it? There should be a bit of a chat, an’ all that, first see.’

‘No time for that.’ Simon Fonthill spoke almost absent-mindedly as he slowly turned the focussing wheel on the field glasses. ‘The Germans have already attacked and taken the port of Taveta, a dozen miles inside British East Africa. They’re bound to attack this border. It’s comparatively small and lightly defended.’

He put down the glasses and turned to Mzingeli. ‘But you say they are already on their way?’

‘Oh yes. My boys tell me this. News here travel fast in the bush. They are coming down this way,’ he pointed again, ‘along German shore of big lake. Should be here soon.’

‘How many of them? Do you know?’

‘They say about three hundred and fifty.’

Jenkins gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Not exactly what I’d call an invadin’ army, look you. Nothin’ really.’

Mzingeli allowed himself a rare smile. ‘Ah, but these are the Germans’ black askaris. Very fierce men. They say some are cannibals. Germans have trained them well. They good soldiers. Mostly come from north-west of German Africa land.’

‘Hmm.’ Fonthill raised his binoculars again and trained them now on the little town that straggled along the plain below them. ‘Do you have any idea if we have any troops down there, in Abercorn?’

‘Don’t think any. Maybe a few farmers, that’s all.’

Jenkins sniffed. ‘Well that’s a bit different. Three hundred and fifty sounds a bloody great army now.’ He turned to Fonthill. ‘What are we goin’ to do, bach sir? Go down, the three of us, an’ throw pebbles at the Boche?’

‘Something like that.’ Then he threw back his head in consternation. ‘Aaargh! I’ve just remembered. Northern Rhodesia is administered by the British South African Company, as opposed to the Colonial Office. As such it is not allowed to maintain a standing defence force. There might be a few policemen down there, but that’s all. Come on. Let’s get back to the horses and go down and see. Obviously, if Mzingeli’s boys are right, we haven’t much time.’

They turned and, lengthening their stride, made towards where they had left their horses tethered to a thorn bush, mounted and urged their mounts along the well-worn path down the hill towards the little town.

Jenkins, at about 5ft 4ins tall, but as broad and muscular in stature as a prize fighter, fitted into his saddle with the greatest ease, for it was clear that he had ridden since childhood. There were startlingly white shoots of hair now amongst the jet-black thatch that stood up straight from his skull, like a broom bottom. A still-black moustache stretched away under his nostrils, as though some small rodent had crawled there and died. At 63, he was the oldest of the trio and his face was now so lined that, after years of campaigning under the hottest of suns, it looked like cracked leather. But the eyes, black as buttons, shone with good humour and danced now with the thought of the fight ahead.

Simon Fonthill glanced at him with affection. Aged 59, Fonthill eased himself in the saddle awkwardly, for, unlike Jenkins, he was not an instinctive rider and arthritis was just beginning to attack his joints. At 5ft 9ins his height placed him exactly between that of his two companions. A thick sweep of grey hair was pushed back above each ear but he sat erectly enough and, although his shoulders were broad, his body was slim. It was clear that age and a touch of infirmity had only slightly reduced an athleticism honed, like Jenkins, by years of campaigning in the far corners of the British Empire, broken occasionally by work on his farms in Northern Rhodesia and Norfolk, England.

His eyes were a soft brown and he would have been remarkably handsome if it were not for the nose, broken by a Pathan musket high in the Hindu Kush many years before, which had left it slightly hooked, giving Fonthill a predatory air that belied the gentleness of his expression, which in turn was unusual in a member of the British upper class foraging and hunting on the far borders of Empire.

Jenkins he had first met when the Welshman had acted as his batman in that regiment. He was always known to his intimates as 352, the last three digits of his regimental number to distinguish him from the other Jenkinses in the 24th of Foot, that most Welsh of Regiments. Since then they had served together throughout the series of ‘Queen Victoria’s Little Wars’ that had studded the closing quarter of the nineteenth century, Jenkins earning his two DCMs and Fonthill a Companionship of the Bath and membership of the Distinguished Service Order – the second time for his services on Colonel Younghusband’s invasion of Tibet, ten years before.

Their service, however, had rarely been conventional. The two had formally left the British army after the second Afghan war, preferring instead to work as scouts, often behind enemy lines or riding far ahead of advancing troops. The exception had been during the Anglo–Boer War, fourteen years before, when Kitchener had persuaded Fonthill to take command of a British cavalry unit. Their comradeship – forged with each saving the other’s life in constant combat – was unusual in Victorian and Edwardian times in that it crossed the class divide. Although rank and education separated them, respect and even a platonic love had long since united them.

Mzingeli had originally been employed as a tracker and guide when, with Jenkins and Alice, his wife, Fonthill had entered Matabeleland on a hunting trip in 1889. They had all become embroiled with Cecil Rhodes, however, when the latter had sent in his men to take the land by force and create Rhodesia. At the end of that conflict, Simon had bought land in the north of the new territory and installed Mzingeli as farm manager, where he had stayed ever since, only leaving to join the other two in the war against the Boers.

After the marriage of his two step-daughters in South Africa, Jenkins had joined Simon and Alice on the Rhodesian farm for a brief holiday when they all realised that the invasion of Belgium by the Kaiser, and the subsequent outbreak of the war in Europe, had suddenly thrust them into the front line here on the Northern Rhodesia–German East Africa border. Alice, semi-retired as a veteran war correspondent with the London Morning Post, had immediately offered her services to her editor in London and had left for Mombasa to join up with British forces rumoured to be planning an invasion of the German colony.

Simon himself had cabled his old commander, Lord Kitchener, now installed in Whitehall as Minister for War, to offer to travel back to Europe to fight, but K’s response had been typically to the point. It read: ‘AGE AGAINST YOU STOP KEEP POWDER DRY AND REMAIN AFRICA STOP COULD BE USEFUL IF WE FIGHT IN GEA STOP WON’T FORGET YOU STOP K’

As they approached now the wooden houses that marked the outskirts of Abercorn, Fonthill frowned. He might be involved in fighting the Germans before most of the British army had even crossed the English Channel! His farm was some forty miles away from the border and they had ridden through the night to reach Abercorn, a town he had never visited, in the hope of discovering the state of the defences of the border. It looked very much now as though there were none.

They passed a white man ambling along what appeared to be the main street and Fonthill hailed him.

‘Is there a police station here?’

‘Aye. Just up ahead on the right. Although you might find nobody there. It’s a bit early.’

Simon nodded and resisted the temptation to warn him against the impending attack. Better not spread panic at this point. And whatever policemen were in Abercorn, perhaps they were already preparing defences, although, looking around him, he could not see at this point how the town could be defended, sprawling, as it did, in a series of little side streets ending in the open bush.

If the streets seemed semi-deserted, however, the police station was buzzing with excitement, with bare-footed black policemen, neatly dressed in the dark-blue jerseys and khaki shorts uniform of the Northern Rhodesian police force, running in and out of the door leading onto the building’s stoep or verandah.

‘Who is in charge here?’ called Fonthill.

One of the men stopped and pointed inside. ‘Lieutenant McCarthy, baas.’

The three men tied their horses to a hitching rail and walked inside. The police station seemed gloomy after the brightness of the early morning outside, but Simon could make out a tall black sergeant and a white man in officer’s uniform bent over a map pinned to a desk.

‘Mr McCarthy?’ he called.

The officer looked up. He was clearly young, probably in his early twenties, with fair hair and a rather flushed face, and he looked harassed.

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘My name is Simon Fonthill and I farm about forty miles due south of here. These are my associates, Jenkins and Mzingeli.’

Jenkins gave the lieutenant the benefit of one of his great, wrap-around smiles and Mzingeli nodded briefly. The young man’s eyebrows rose at the black man being introduced as ‘an associate’, then he frowned.

‘Good morning to you all. Can you tell me your business quickly? We are rather busy here.’

‘You certainly are, bach,’ said Jenkins affably. ‘Place is buzzin’ like a bee ’ive and the sun’s ’ardly up, like.’

Simon intervened. ‘You have obviously heard the news that the Germans are on their way to attack Abercorn?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know exactly the way they will come or how many there are of them. My sergeant and I were just trying to see which way they would attack.’

Gesturing towards Mzingeli, Fonthill said, ‘My farm manager here knows more or less everything that is happening for miles around this border. His black boys tell him that there is a force of German Askari coming along the German side of Lake Tanganyika heading directly this way. There are about three hundred and fifty of them. We believe them to be travelling due south, which means they will attack this town as the main border crossing.’

The young man’s frown deepened. ‘Did you say three hundred and fifty?’

‘Yes. How many men do you have here and what training have they had?’

At first McCarthy’s features took on an air of truculence. Then that disappeared as his face brightened.

‘Did you say Fonthill?’

‘Yes, Simon Fonthill.’

‘Ah, forgive me, sir. Of course I know you now. You got through the Mahdi’s lines to reach Gordon, I remember. And gave the Boers a bloody nose down south, fifteen years or so ago.’

Fonthill gave a half-smile. ‘All a long time ago, Mr McCarthy. But now to the present. How many men do you have?’

‘Ah, about forty in all, sir. And I have sent riders to bring them all in from the nearby villages along the border.’

‘Forty!’ Jenkins voice carried a note of derision. ‘Blimey, sonny, we are goin’ to ’ave our work cut out, look you. Old Jelly ’ere,’ he gestured towards the silent figure of Mzingeli, ‘says that the lot that are comin’ down from the lake are a pretty savage bunch.’

McCarthy drew himself to his full height. ‘Yes, well. I suspected that we would be outnumbered, but my chaps have had military training and are good shots. We can defend this place.’

‘I am sure you can.’ Fonthill drew up a chair and leant forward to look at the map. ‘Have you made any plans for defence yet?’

‘No, sir. To start with, we didn’t know which way the Hun would be coming. But I have sent three scouts out to the north, as that seemed the obvious way. How we are going to defend the town, though …’ His voice tailed away.

‘Scouts are a good first move. Now, let’s look at the map.’ He suddenly looked up at the young man. ‘I hope you don’t mind me making the odd suggestion, if I can?’

‘Good lord no, sir. I have only been out here for some eighteen months and have had nothing like your experience. Most of our time here is spent cracking down on thieving farmhands and the like. Please do take charge.’

‘Very well. Now, Mzingeli, you know the area. Come and look at this map. Is there anywhere we could intercept the Germans and ambush them before they reach the town?’

‘Don’t need to look at the map, Nkosi. I know the ground. Road to north is straight and ground is flat. Not much cover. Only bushes and short trees.’

‘I’m afraid he’s right.’ McCarthy rubbed his jaw ruefully. ‘I was just looking to see what options we had.’

‘Have you sent for help?’

‘Yes. Sent a man galloping just before dawn south to Kasama. I understand that there is a small force there.’

‘Good. What weapons do you have?’

‘Well, we have a rather aged Maxim machine gun and the men are armed with .303 Martini–Enfield with triangular bayonets. They are good with the bare steel, as you’d expect.’

Jenkins sniffed. ‘The Metfords are only single shots, though, aren’t they?’

‘Afraid so. I see you’ve got the magazine Lee Enfields. Wish we’d got them.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘We brought them back with us after the Tibet show. Shouldn’t have kept them but I had a feeling they might come in handy up here so I brought them with us. Mind you, they are a bit ancient, too, but at least they are not single shot.’ He stood. ‘Now, we haven’t much time. Have you alerted the local people and called all available men up?’

‘Sorry, no. Just haven’t had time.’

‘Right. Send someone – any magistrates here?’

‘Yes, a good man. I have already sent a boy to alert him.’

‘Then I suggest you send him knocking on doors, telling women and children to stay inside and keep their heads down, and the men to come here quickly bringing whatever arms they have. Your sergeant should stay here to tell him that. Now, perhaps you can show us the lie of the land.’

The lieutenant barked a series of orders to his sergeant, then he joined the others as they stood outside looking up the long, straight, dusty road that led to the north. They began to walk along it. Fonthill focussed his field glasses but could see no sign of life … except, yes, there were three tiny figures in the distance, seemingly approaching the town. The German advance patrol or McCarthy’s men coming back? They would soon know.

He handed the glasses to the lieutenant. ‘Yes,’ McCarthy held them steadily to his eyes. ‘They’re my boys coming back. It looks as though they’re trotting. They can cover miles like that.’ He handed the glasses back. ‘I couldn’t see any sign of anyone behind them.’

‘Good.’ Fonthill pointed to a large, red-bricked, windowless building at the end of the town. ‘What’s that?’

‘Our prison. Quite new. Our pride and joy.’ He gestured. ‘Those horizontal glass slits in the walls along the top are the nearest we get to windows.’

‘Do they face all round?’

‘Yes, except back towards the town.’

‘Can you get men up there to fire through them?’

‘Yes, we can put ladders and tables into the cells.’

‘Right. We will make it our fortress. Put in ten men to man it, but – and this is important – I don’t want them to poke rifles through those windows until they are told. Understand?’

‘Yes, I get your drift.’

Fonthill looked around him. ‘The problem is going to be to defend the town on all sides with so few men. There is no time to erect barricades, even if we could find the material. Let’s hope the Germans haven’t bought field guns. I suspect that, if we lie very low, the Huns will try a direct frontal attack at first, probably coming fast down the north road and into the main street here.

‘If they do,’ he pointed up ahead, ‘we will need two small, concealed trenches, sufficient to hold, say, three men each and back from the road on either side by about two hundred yards each. If they keep their heads down, we might be able to direct enfilading fire and knock a few of them over before your chaps can hare back here.’

McCarthy nodded. ‘I see. Then what?’

‘Depends how many men we can summon up. The town is open on most sides, with the streets just emptying onto the bush. Is that right?’

‘Not quite. On that side,’ McCarthy pointed, ‘the bush peters out into our little lake, Lake Chila. The ground is very swampy there. If they try to attack on that side, they could get literally bogged down, so I doubt if they will try it.’

‘Well, that’s one small blessing. Now, let’s see. If we put six men out into the trenches there and ten in the prison, that leaves us with twenty-four police, plus us three and whoever we can pick up from the town’s inhabitants. Let’s say …’

Simon pushed back his hat and wiped his brow. ‘Let’s say something like thirty-five or so defenders left to cover the sides and back of the town.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘And we shall need a small mobile reserve to reinforce any area that is under the greatest attack.’

A silence fell on the little group. Somewhere in the tiny gardens attached to a few of the houses a group of cicadas began their scratchy chirping.

‘With respect, bach sir, for your generalship an’ all that,’ said Jenkins, ‘I don’t see ’ow we can do it, I really don’t.’

‘But the alternative is to let the Boche walk straight into the town, ransack it and rampage through into the heart of Northern Rhodesia.’ McCarthy was standing ramrod straight now and his voice was resolute. ‘And I am not having that.’

Fonthill smiled. ‘You are quite right, McCarthy, and neither am I. But I do have a plan – of sorts. Get all your chaps into the police station as soon as possible, plus the able bodies you can get from the houses. I will brief them there. Do that now, at the double, for we have little time.’

‘Very good, sir.’ McCarthy was about to salute, then thought better of it and doubled away, calling to his men as he went.

Jenkins wiped his moustache with a very grimy handkerchief. ‘I ’ope it’s a bloody good plan, bach sir, otherwise I’d say we don’t ’ave much of a chance.’ But he spoke with a grin and Fonthill grinned back.

He raised his binoculars once again and focussed them along the road. ‘Well, it’s not much of a plan, but I reckon—’ He broke off and concentrated.

‘There’s a small cloud of dust beyond McCarthy’s returning chaps,’ he murmured. ‘Must be the Germans. Here, Mzingeli, look and tell me how long we’ve got.’

The black man took the glasses. ‘They still a good way away. Perhaps we have an hour and a bit. Not much more.’

‘Blimey!’ Jenkins shouldered his rifle. ‘Better get going.’ He made to walk back to the station but Simon stopped him. ‘I’ve got a rotten job for you two,’ he said. ‘But it’s important.’

‘Ah yes. Do we get extra pay and automatic VCs, then?’

‘Guaranteed. Now, listen. We three are the only men with fast-shooting magazine rifles. I shall need mine in leading the mobile reserve. But I want you to grab a couple of shovels and go out into the bush, about two hundred and fifty yards that way,’ he pointed, ‘just in front of those foothills. Dig yourselves a small trench, disguise it with scrub, take as much ammunition as you can find, and settle in there out of sight and wait.’

‘What we wait for?’ asked Mzingeli.

‘Wait until the Germans have passed you to attack the town from your side. Then, when they have settled, open fire as fast and as accurately as you can, so that they think there is a platoon dug in behind them. When it gets too hot for you, escape into the foothills and make your way back into town under cover of darkness. Is that clear?’

‘Oh, it’s clear all right.’ Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘But won’t you need us in the town? At least you know we can shoot, and you don’t really know that about these black coppers. Personally, I never knew a copper of any sort who was any good at anythin’.’

‘Come, 352,’ grunted Mzingeli. ‘We don’t have time and we need cartridges and shovels from station.’

‘Don’t much fancy diggin’ in this ’eat.’ Jenkins pulled up his belt. ‘But if the pay rise an’ the VCs is guaranteed, we’d better get goin’. Now you be careful, bach sir. If somethin’ ’appens to you, it’ll be me that gets it in the neck from Miss Alice, not you.’

‘Oh, get on with it.’

The two hurried away, and Fonthill took another glance through his field glasses then followed them towards the police station. He passed six policemen trotting towards the northern end of the town.

‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.

His air of command brooked no argument and a lance corporal replied. ‘We goin’ to dig two trenches either side of road, baas,’ he said.

‘Good. I am a British army officer. Lieutenant McCarthy has put me in charge here. Dig your trenches well back from the road, so the Germans don’t overrun you. Disguise your mounds of earth and put stalks of brush in front of you so that the Germans can’t see you there. And, for goodness’ sake, take off those fezes when the Germans are near. Do not, I repeat, do not fire until either we open fire from the prison there, or unless you are discovered and are fired upon. Understood?’

‘Ah yes, baas.’

‘Double back to the town when you hear the bugle.’

‘Yes, baas.’

The station was crowded when Fonthill regained it, with a handful of weatherbeaten men of the town, bearing hunting rifles, drifting in to mingle with the policemen.

‘Right, Mac, are all your chaps here, with the exception of your scouts and the six digging the trenches?’

‘Yes. Including those away and with twelve of the townspeople, we have forty-three armed men.’

‘Splendid. If I may, I would like to explain the plan, such as it is.’

‘Of course, sir, go ahead, but let me introduce you first.’

The buzz of conversation in the crowded room fell silent as McCarthy, his cheeks glowing, held up his hand.

‘As most of you know by now,’ he said, ‘we have about three hundred and fifty Germans and black askaris coming to attack the town from the north. If we let them take our homes without a fight, then we let them march through to ransack Northern Rhodesia, and our names will be mud throughout the Empire.’

No one spoke.

‘So we will fight – and we are lucky to have with us a most distinguished soldier who has great military experience and will lead our defence. This is ex-Brigadier Simon Fonthill, CB and DSO, formerly of the British army, who will explain his plan to us now.’

The buzz returned as Fonthill stepped forward.

‘We have very little time,’ he said, ‘because I believe that we will probably be under fire within the hour. I have already made some dispositions out in the bush to halt the Huns’ stride, at least, but we have much to defend with few men to do it. I shall ask Mr McCarthy to take ten of his policemen and man the prison at the northern end of the town. That will be our fortress.

‘Then I shall ask him to deploy five of his men to be under my command in the centre of the town, ready to double to whichever part of the town is under the greatest attack to reinforce that position.’ Simon drew in his breath and a pin could be heard to drop within the station, so intently listening were the members of his audience.

‘Now, I want those of you who are not policemen to listen carefully. I want you to go back to your homes and go to the ends of your streets that open out onto the bush and dig a small trench, deep enough to offer you protection, throwing up the soil to act as firing positions for your rifles. Dig these in a v-shape, with the point of the v pointing out onto the bush. This will enable you to direct enfilading fire onto the enemy on either side of you. I would like each of you to take up a position in a trench – as near as possible to your dwelling – and I shall reinforce you with policemen, as best I can.’

He looked around carefully at the wide eyes staring back at him. ‘I am confident that we can throw the Germans back across their border.’ He smiled. ‘Let me tell you why. We have the greatest military advantage that any force can have: that of surprise. You will not show yourselves – any of you – until you hear the first shot fired by us, probably from the jail, so the Boche will think that the population has fled the town. We will show them that we have not.

‘Now go to your positions, always obey my or Lieutenant McCarthy’s orders when they are given, tell the wives and children to lie low on the floors of the houses – and good luck to you all.’

He nodded and the white townsmen nodded back and began turning away to leave. But one man, burly, bearded and with a strong South African accent, stepped forward.

‘I reckon, Brigadier, or whoever you are, you are leading us into a death trap.’ He glowered and Fonthill recognised a strong vein of Boer truculence in his voice. ‘Ach, these police here,’ he gestured, ‘are not soldiers and neither are we. These Germans will kill us all if we try and resist. Best to negotiate with them and let them march on south without giving resistance, if they agree to by-pass the town.’

McCarthy shook his head. ‘We can’t do that, Mr de Wet. There is a substantial British force coming up from Kasama; we only need to hold off the Germans for, say, thirty-six hours, and we shall be reinforced. And you’re wrong about my policemen. They have all been trained by the army. We must hold off the Germans until help arrives and stop them spreading out in Northern Rhodesia.’

‘Umph!’ The Boer spat on the wooden floor. ‘Your fellers are black and black men don’t make good fighters. And they’ve only got single-shot Metfords, which were no match for our Mausers fourteen years ago. We should think of our women and children.’

Jenkins snorted. ‘Listen, bach,’ he said. ‘The brigadier and me was at Isandlwana and, although I went down, the brigadier went on and fought at Rorke’s Drift. What we both saw there showed us that black fellers can fight, all right. I got a knobkerrie, or whatever you call it, on me ’ead, which put me out. Oh yes, them Zulus could fight all right, and they’re black fellers.’

‘Mr de Wet,’ Fonthill spoke softly but everyone could hear him, for silence had descended on the room and those who were about to leave had paused to hear the outcome. ‘I have great respect for the fighting qualities of South Africans – of whatever colour – but we will not force you to fight. If you wish to leave then do so, at once, and take your family with you. Those who are left will do our best to defend your home.’ He looked at the others. ‘Anyone else who wishes to leave may do so, but go very quickly now. The Germans will be here soon.’

Everyone’s gaze now was on the Boer. Eventually, he stiffened his back. ‘No, English. We Boers don’t run away. I will stay.’

‘Good man. Now, townsmen, back to your homes quickly and start digging. Policemen, stay here. Jenkins and Mzingeli go to your positions.’

Within moments, McCarthy had allocated his men, when a cry came from outside. ‘Scouts back, baas.’

The three dust-coated scouts came trotting down the main street without changing their loping stride, then came to a halt and saluted McCarthy.

‘Report quickly,’ said the lieutenant.

‘Germans coming all right, baas,’ the tallest of the three spoke, with no sign of the exertion caused by his marathon trot. ‘More than three hundred, I think. And they have big cannon.’

‘Oh blast!’ Fonthill stepped forward. ‘Just one big gun? And did they see you?’

‘Just one big gun, baas. We keep hidden and then creep away into bush and then run. They don’t see us or fire at us at all.’

‘Good man.’ Simon lowered his voice and addressed McCarthy. ‘I had hoped they would have no artillery. If they stand off and just shell us, we could have a difficult time.’

‘Hmm.’ The young man now spoke softly, too. ‘Would it be best, do you think, to parley with them – white flag and all that? Explain that the town is defended but say that women and children are sheltering in the houses and that they should not shell us.’

Fonthill wrinkled his nose. ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance, I would say. The rules of war, as I remember them, are that the town should lay down its arms and completely surrender if they wish to avoid being fired upon. If there is a Hun in charge, then he will probably be a Prussian and he will know that. We either surrender completely, or we stand and fight. Which do you want, Mac?’

The young man’s high colour seemed to darken in the sunlight. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We stand and fight, sir.’

‘Good. The artillery piece is obviously slowing them down and giving us more time.’ He raised his glasses. ‘Yes, they seem to be moving quite slowly. Send everyone to their positions, Mac, and give me the chaps you promised. You take the Maxim. I told your chaps out in the trenches there that you would recall them with a bugle call after they had fired. We mustn’t leave them to be overrun.’

‘Of course not.’ McCarthy barked more orders and the policemen split into groups, the largest standing by Fonthill. He looked out towards the foothills and saw mounds of earth being carefully deposited out where Mzingeli and Jenkins were digging.

‘When do we start firing?’ asked McCarthy.

‘That is your decision, Mac. Your chaps out in those trenches either side of the road have orders not to fire until you do from the jail. So the first shot will be yours. You will be the nearest. Stay hidden until the Germans are as near as you can let them come without them splitting up to surround the town. Then surprise them – and the rest of us will follow suit. Got it?’

‘Got it, sir.’

‘Good. Good luck.’

‘And to you.’

The young man doubled away with his ten men and the remainder grouped around Simon. He numbered off five of them. ‘You will stay with me at all times,’ he ordered. ‘We will act as a running reserve to support whichever part of our defences are under most pressure. The rest of you come with me and I will allocate you to your positions. Do you all have full bandoliers?’

‘Yes, baas,’ the chorus was supportive, as were the great smiles that now split the black faces surrounding him.

‘Good. Let’s go.’

The trench digging was well under way – with some small boys helping – as Fonthill toured the town. He left one policeman with each trench, so giving him seven to defend the rear of the town, in addition to his own ‘flying squad’ of five. The seven he placed at strategic points – on roofs, behind walls, in hastily dug foxholes – until he was satisfied that his tiny force had been distributed as strategically as possible. Then, with his five men, he returned to the jail at the northern end of the town, taking care to avoid being seen by German field glasses.

Inside the jailhouse, the few prisoners had been herded into one cell and McCarthy’s ten men had been posted high up at the now open windows, with the Maxim securely balanced to fire due north, covering the entrance to the town. Fonthill swept the bush with his own binoculars and was relieved to see that that the six men on either side of the road were well hidden, as were Jenkins and Mzingeli.

‘Now all we can do is wait,’ he muttered to himself.

He focussed the glasses again on the advancing Germans. They came into view clearly now. Leading the column on horseback rode three men wearing European pith helmets, followed by a string of black Askari troops wearing khaki uniforms topped by fez-like hats. It could have been a unit of the King’s African Rifles. And yes, there, in the centre, was a field gun, being hauled by a team of black porters. The dust-shrouded column came on, slowly but menacingly.

Fonthill bit his lip. Could his little force of policemen and shopkeepers hold off this advancing corps of professionals? They must try.

He called, ‘Good luck, Mac. Hold your fire as long as possible. I will be in the centre of the town by the station.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Simon slipped away, dodging with his men from doorway to doorway to avoid detection, until he reached the police station. There the little group waited in the dark room, leaving the door open.

‘Don’t fire yet, Mac,’ muttered Fonthill to himself. ‘Don’t fire yet.’

He stole a glance round the corner of the doorpost and caught a glimpse of what seemed like a solid phalanx of soldiery stretching across the road and edge of the bush about a hundred yards from the entrance of the town. The officers had dismounted and, cautiously, revolvers in hand, were leading the advance.

Simon turned and was about to cry jubilantly to his men, ‘They’ve taken the bait!’ when the Maxim suddenly chattered into life and rifle shots could be heard from the bush up ahead. He couldn’t resist shouting, ‘Don’t fire yet, 352,’ when the jail up ahead seemed to blaze with flame and gun smoke and he saw the leading ranks of the advancing Germans fold and fall. At the same time, a bugle call rose above the firing from the jailhouse.

His men behind him in the police station began to push towards the open door, but Fonthill held them back.

‘Wait until we see if the enemy manage to avoid the jailhouse and rush down the main street,’ he said. ‘Then, on my command, spill out and fire at will. But wait now.’

Simon eased the bolt on his Lee Enfield and slipped a cartridge into the breech. He looked out between a gap in the houses opposite and could see the little line of shrub that Jenkins and Mzingeli had erected to conceal their trench but could see no rifles protruding through. Good. That meant that the Germans had not diverted yet to circle the town.

He took another look up the main street. Yes, a group of askaris were running, heads down, past the jailhouse but close to its walls so that the defenders could not fire down on them.

‘Out now!’ he cried, leading the way. ‘At the enemy in front, FIRE!’

The volley rang out and five askaris immediately fell, one of them clutching at his thigh. Somewhere, from one of the houses, a woman screamed. ‘Fix bayonets,’ screamed Simon. ‘Charge!’

It was not exactly a full-scale, regimental charge: just six men, one of them bayonetless (because Simon did not possess this vital accessory), but it was enough for the remaining askaris, who turned and fled to the end of the road, melting away into the bush.

At the jail, Simon shouted up, ‘Mac.’

The lieutenant’s face appeared at the window alongside the barrel of his rifle. ‘Yes?’

‘Get your men to fire at the cannon’s crew,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let them unlimber it to fire. Kill any man who goes near it.’

‘Very good, sir.’

From out towards the foothills, Fonthill now could distinctly hear the sound of quick-firing Lee Enfields. That meant that the Germans had broken up to try and attack the town from the sides and that his two comrades had now been brought into the conflict. A sudden thought struck him. Jenkins was now 63. He could still shoot like a Bisley champion, ride like a jockey and fight like a Dervish when he had to. But could he – would he – run quickly enough when the Germans spread out to surround them? He swallowed hard at the thought of losing his old comrade. But there were other pressing matters now. Firing was coming from one of the streets running off the main road – from the side where the marshland was supposed to stop any attack from that direction.

He waved to his men. ‘We’ll leave the fort to hold the northern entrance. Back this way, now.’

One of the side trenches had been dug facing the lake, ‘just in case’. Now, the policeman and two of the townspeople were firing as fast as they could reload, towards where a group of German askaris were advancing on them, picking their way gingerly through the unfirm ground.

Fonthill touched two of his five on the shoulders. ‘Go down there and help those three in the trench,’ he shouted. His reserve of six was now reduced to four. He looked across to the other side of the road. Firing was coming from ‘the Jenkins side’ of the town, but, as far as he could see, the men in the trenches were holding their own.

‘Back towards the southern end of town,’ he cried. As he ran, puffing beside his three men, who easily fell into their miles-consuming jog, he wondered if his gamble of leaving the bottom of the road comparatively badly defended had failed. Had the enemy been able to avoid the enfilading fire from Jenkins, Mzingeli and the men in the side trenches to circle the town and attack it from the south?

The answer became clear as the rattle of single-shot musketry sounded from where he had positioned the last of his men, scattered among the houses at the southern end of town. He was about to hail one of them, on a rooftop, when the man jerked, groaned and slid towards the guttering, falling over the edge into the street. At that moment, six black askaris appeared from round the end of the last house in a group across the main street. They immediately presented their bayonets to Fonthill and his men and, uttering a shrieking war cry, ran towards them.

Simon quickly glanced to either side. This is where, he thought, we live or die. Would his policemen run?

They did not. Coolly, each took aim and immediately brought down four of the advancing six. Simon himself took aim and missed his man. He worked the bolt of his rifle quickly, fired again and, this time, hit his target squarely in the chest. Amazingly – proving Mzingeli’s point about the fighting qualities of these black askaris – the last man continued to charge towards them until a bullet fired from one of the houses brought him down.

Simon turned and saw Jenkins, with Mzingeli behind him, lower his smoking rifle and wave to him from a side street.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ called Fonthill. ‘Come with us to the bottom of the street. We’re going to need you there.’

The little party, the policemen having reloaded, trotted down warily to where the houses ended. Peering round the last house and scanning the bush, Fonthill could see no sign of the enemy. He called to a policeman who was taking shelter behind a low wall: ‘Any more of them come this way?’

‘No, baas. Only them six. They came round corner before I could shoot.’

‘Well, be quicker next time. There will be more.’ He turned to Jenkins and Mzingeli. ‘What happened to you? How did you manage to get back so quickly?’

Jenkins sniffed. ‘We were able to fire real rapid, like, an’ we brought down about ten of the bastards. That stopped ’em comin’ down that side of the town, so I thought we’d better bolt for the ’ouses, before we was cut off. An’, by the look of it, it was just as well that we did, eh?’

‘Absolutely. Thanks for that shot. Now, can you support this chap behind the wall, because I think they might try and break through at this end before long.’

He sniffed the air and looked up. The sky was a bowl of unbroken blue and the sun blazed down so brazenly that patches of the bush seemed to be cracking open in the heat. He wiped the sweat that was trickling down onto his eyebrows and arched his back so that his sodden shirt parted from it. Wasn’t he just a bit too old for all this now? Probably, but there was nothing to be done about it for the moment. Suddenly he stiffened. Something had changed. Then he realised that the firing had ceased and a strange stillness had settled on the little town.

‘I’ll leave these chaps to help you,’ he called to Jenkins. ‘I’m going to find McCarthy and see what’s happening.’

He turned, ordered his three men to remain and set off back up the street until he reached the jailhouse. He shouted, ‘Mac, I’m coming in,’ darted to the door and wrenched it open. Inside, the heat was intolerable and the stench of gun smoke and cordite filled the air, immediately settling on his lips and making them taste sour. Huddled behind the Maxim, McCarthy turned and shouted.

‘Your plan worked. We’ve beaten them off – at least for the moment. They’ve retreated, by the look of it. Here, come and take a look.’

Fonthill climbed up and peered along the machine gun barrel out into the bush. The field gun sat where it had been abandoned by its crew, several bodies lying around it – a tribute to the firepower of the jailhouse. Further out, however, there was activity.

‘Damn!’ Simon frowned. ‘They’re digging in. It looks as though they are making trenches just out of range of our Metfords – but just in range of their Mausers, or whatever they’ve got.’

He turned his sweating face to the lieutenant. ‘They are going to besiege the town, by the looks of it. They won’t be able to reach that gun while it’s daylight but, after dark, they might be able to pull it back, set it up out of range of our rifles and the machine gun and start shelling us. How long before help comes from Kasama?’

‘God knows.’ The strain was beginning to show on McCarthy’s cordite-streaked face. ‘It’s about a hundred miles from here. We telegraphed, of course, as well as sending a rider. But I can’t see any reinforcements arriving within the next twenty-four hours. So we will have to fight it out. Have they got into the town from the sides and back?’

‘Not so far. And we have already given them a bloody nose.’ He clapped the young man on his back. ‘You’ve done a damned good job. That’s why they are treating us with respect. And it won’t be much fun for them, stuck out on the plain in this heat. Will they risk a night attack? I doubt it. It’s full moon and there’s not much cover out there. They are more likely to stay back and trust to their field gun.’

McCarthy frowned. ‘How can we stop them pulling the gun back?’

‘Well, we could try and cut it out, I suppose … run at it at twilight under covering fire and plant charges. Do we have any explosives?’

‘No … well, wait a moment.’ The young man creased his brow as he pondered. ‘Yes. I think I could find a couple of sticks of dynamite; they’re all that are left from our attempts last year to blast foundations for the new boathouse by the lake.’

Fonthill’s face lightened. ‘Dynamite would be ideal. Can you get them?’

‘Yes. They should be in the station. But who is going to crawl out there in the semi-darkness and try and plant them?’

‘Don’t worry about that. We just need two men – and plenty of covering fire. Jenkins and I can do it.’

McCarthy blew out his cheeks. ‘With great respect, sir, you are not as young as you were when you crept through the Mahdi’s lines at Khartoum. No. I insist. My sergeant and I will do it. Now, let me go and get the sticks.’

Simon grinned ruefully. ‘Good man. I must confess I’m not much of a crawler these days. Get the sticks and we’ll wait until the sun dips and the shadows lengthen. It’s quite a short twilight in these parts now and we must be ready.’

McCarthy was away some time and Fonthill kept watch, swivelling the nose of his Maxim to follow his gaze. The enemy was still there, seemingly just out of range and merrily digging a ring of trenches. He didn’t envy them their task under this sun.

The afternoon had worn on, marked only by desultory sniping, when the lieutenant returned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t find the bloody things.’ He held up the two sticks, looking like candles, but with long fuses instead of wicks. ‘Should do the job, I would think. They’re all we’ve got, anyway.’

Fonthill inspected the dynamite. ‘Don’t know much about these things,’ he muttered, ‘but they look all right. Trick is to make absolutely sure that the fuses are burning all right before you run away. Fuses can go out and then you have to go back to relight the damned things. Best place for them, I would think, would be the barrel of the gun. It’s facing this way, so the gun shield itself should give you a little protection. Pop ’em straight down the muzzle, make sure they’re burning and then hop it.’ He grinned. ‘Easy, really.’

McCarthy returned the grin, but only half-heartedly. ‘Have you … er … done this sort of thing yourself, sir?’

‘Oh yes. During the Boxer Rebellion. Nearly blew my legs off and got knocked unconscious, but I had two bundles of the damned things and you should be all right with just two sticks.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I reckon we’ve got just about an hour before the sun slips away. I will use that time to make sure my men dotted around the town are all right. Then I will be back.’

He nodded and then was gone. He found all his men in place, with the exception of the policeman who had fallen from the roof. He had been shot neatly through the forehead. Some of the women from the houses had brought food and drink to the men in the trenches, who all reported that the only activity in the bush was coming from isolated snipers.

‘Be particularly watchful at dusk,’ warned Fonthill. ‘There just might be an attack when the light fades. And take it in turns to stand watch during the night. They might just come then.’

Standing by Jenkins at the southern end of the town, he looked at his watch. ‘In twenty minutes time,’ he said, ‘I want you and Mzingeli to make a diversion by blazing away at whatever you can see out there that might house a sniper. Try and keep it up for about five minutes if you can. Do you have enough ammunition?’

‘Still got pockets full, bach sir.’

He felt happier at leaving Jenkins in charge of the defences at the rear of the town and, just when the shadows were lengthening, he hurried back to the jailhouse. McCarthy and his sergeant were waiting for him.

‘I suggest you take one stick each,’ he instructed, ‘just in case one of you gets hit. Do you have tapers and matches?’ They nodded.

‘Good.’ Simon looked at his watch. ‘We will give it another quarter of an hour. I have arranged for a diversion to be created at the other end of town, so when you hear that firing you can start crawling. We will not begin firing here, because it could attract attention to you. But, if we see you have been spotted, then we will blaze away. I suggest you slip in the sticks, crawl a few yards away – far enough to be out of range of falling bits of iron and steel from the explosion – then when the gun goes up, stand and run for it. We will cover you.’

The young lieutenant gulped and nodded, but the sergeant gave a flashing white-toothed grin. Fonthill then briefed the men whose firing positions faced to the north. ‘Don’t fire until I give you the order,’ he said, ‘then direct your fire at the trenches you can see now. Mark their positions now, because the light will have faded by the time you come to shoot. The lives of the lieutenant and the sergeant could be in your hands.’

The following fifteen minutes seemed endless for the men crouched together in that airless room. Then Simon nodded. ‘Go to the door. As soon as you hear firing from the southern end of the street, start crawling. I hope the attention of the Germans will be diverted to that end of town and they’ll not see you. Good luck, lads. Move slowly and don’t draw attention to yourselves.’

Dusk was falling when the rapid firing from Jenkins’s and Mzingeli’s magazine rifles suddenly broke the semi-silence. Watching from the Maxim’s post, Fonthill caught a glimpse of two dim forms crawling from the edge of the town, from bush to bush, edging towards the gun, which could now just be seen in the gloomy light.

Simon had a sudden apprehension. What if the Germans had left a guard crouching behind the gun’s metal plate? He shrugged. Too late to worry about that now. McCarthy and his sergeant would have to deal with him when and if the danger occurred.

The two figures had disappeared into the twilight when suddenly a shout rose from the German lines and two rifles began firing. ‘Fire at those flashes,’ shouted Fonthill and he pressed the triggers of the Maxim so that its sound was deafening in the stifling room. He swung the barrel round in an arc, hoping to clip the top of the enemy trenches, or, if they were out of range, at least to spurt dirt and dust into the defenders manning the firing line, so making them keep their heads down.

Most of the riflemen in the jailhouse were now joining in and the noise within the room was deafening. It was now impossible to see if McCarthy and his sergeant had reached the gun but, with an explosion that lit up the landscape, the dynamite thrust down the barrel of the gun detonated and, for a brief moment, exposed in that terrible light, Simon saw the barrel split open, like the petals of a flower opening up at a speed multiplied by a factor of at least a thousand.

He heard himself shout ‘Run for it!’ and opened up his Maxim again, swinging it round in an arc. The noise continued deafeningly until a voice from below shouted, ‘They’re back, baas,’ and two black faces, blacker even, it seemed, than those of the policemen surrounding them, beamed up at him.

‘Thank God for that, boys,’ he shouted. And letting his Maxim swing round on its own impetus he leapt down and pumped the hands of the two men. ‘Well done. I think you have removed the main threat to Abercorn, but we shall have to wait and see.

‘Now,’ he addressed McCarthy, ‘you go and see if you can snatch a little sleep. You have been under great stress.’

The young man wiped a grimy finger across his face. ‘Not necessary, sir,’ he smiled, a trifle wanly. ‘Now that little job is out of the way I can carry on happily, thank you.’

They were interrupted by a cry from above. ‘I think they attack now, baas.’ And once again the fortress-prison resounded to the sound of the defenders all firing at once, until: ‘I think they go back now, baas,’ shouted the lookout. ‘Had enough, p’raps for time being …’

And so it proved. Fonthill quickly doubled back down the main street and inspected his trenches. No movement was recorded from any of them. The attack was, Simon realised, a kind of knee-jerk reaction from the Germans at having their prized gun, their main weapon, destroyed right under their noses. Would they now retreat back to the border?

It seemed not, however, for throughout that night and the following blisteringly hot day, sniper fire rained down upon the defenders of Abercorn. Dogged tired now, Fonthill suspected that there would be at least one other frontal attack until, at approximately three o’clock in the morning, some thirty hours since the town had been invested, he heard a thin cheer from its southern end. Minutes later, exhausted and hardly able to put one foot now in front of the other, a British major arrived with one hundred troops.

They had marched ninty-nine miles from Kasama in just sixty-six hours and they were quite exhausted. But the Germans were not to know this and, as dawn broke, they could be seen marching back to the north, towards the border with German East Africa.

‘Get after the devils,’ shouted Fonthill to McCarthy. ‘Get the prisoners to carry the Maxim. Harass them all the way back to the border. Dammit man. You have won your first battle. Show ’em that you’re a proper soldier, now, because, by George, you are, Lieutenant.’

McCarthy gave him a weary smile and began organising his men for the pursuit. As they marched out, Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli sat down and drank black coffee.

‘I think it only fair to sit this one out, see, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, putting up his feet. ‘After all, we’re nearly bloody pensioners, all three of us.’

Simon raised his mug in silent salute to his two comrades.

Jenkins took a reflective sip and mused: ‘I wonder what Miss Alice would think of all these bleedin’ antics.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I know what she’d say, o’ course. She’d say we were too old for these capers. And you know what? She’d be right an’ all, look you.’

CHAPTER TWO

Alice Fonthill, known, however, to her employers at the Morning Post, all her competitors in Fleet Street and to a wide range of senior officers in the British army by her maiden (and professional) name of Alice Griffith, was furious.

The fleet which had lumbered across the ocean from India to invade German East Africa had arrived off Mombasa, its jumping-off point, on 31st October. Alice had joined the convoy there with a handful of journalistic colleagues, all of them Afrikaners who had journeyed up from South Africa to cover the invasion, which was confidently expected to meet with little resistance.

Now, however, as she stood on the deck of Homayun, the largest of the transports that had brought the troops from India, in the late afternoon of 3rd November, she was alone. To the west, she could clearly see the peaks of the Usambara Mountains rising up from the coastal plain to where the lighters carrying the invading troops had disappeared towards that horizon the previous day.

Alice stamped her foot and swore loudly. Those lighters were also carrying her journalistic colleagues – her competitors – who were being taken ashore to observe the triumphant landing at the German East African port of Tanga and the expected frenzied departure inland of the port’s inhabitants. She had been told she must remain on board, because it was possible that the landing could be opposed and that it could be ‘no place for a woman’.

She scowled at the memory. The order had been conveyed to her from Major General Arthur Aitken, the commander of the 8,000 troops making up the invading army, by a young subaltern on his staff.