CHAPTER SIX

Two second-lieutenants came for Harry just after he finished his breakfast of soggy bacon and fried bread. They were big 20–year-olds in checkered side-caps, bum-freezer jackets, and scarlet tartan trews. On the way to HQ, the subalterns chatted about their homes in Scotland, as pleasant as could be, but walked close on each side and had their revolver holsters un-buttoned.

The streets were thronged with soldiers hurrying from cookhouse to duty, eating-irons rattling in tin cups held in the left hand to free their right one for saluting. There were so many squaddies about, the three officers had to windmill their way, returning salutes every few yards. Harry responded to the passing troopers automatically, but was more aware of the civilians they passed.

A lot of Belfast residents were out strolling before the streets got too hot. Women and men alike, these Boer townees were well-dressed, unlike the scarecrow takhaars he fought on the veld. Some Anglos strolled just as elegantly, but most of them and uitlanders hurried about in work-clothes or house-dresses, and none give the Canadian a second glance. The only ones who did pay attention to him were the Afrikaners, watchful even while forever shaking hands with whoever they met.

It was not just his battered Stetson and ill-pressed trousers contrasting with the band-box uniforms of the Scots. The Boers all knew exactly who he was. Most showed it by following him with flat stares, but some of the shabbier bywoners cursed him as a “Moordenaar!”. One lout who looked like he stepped out of a butcher’s shop walked close behind Harry for a while, and a couple of urchins threw stones from a safe distance.

When they reached the commandeered school building, the Scots remarked that Harry was lucky they arrived ahead of the nosy warcos. A large Union flag on a staff in the front garden marked the site of District Army Headquarters, Eastern Transvaal. There was even more bustle than usual about the place since “K of K” arrived yesterday. Two sentries stood on the front steps, their bayoneted rifles at the slope, and a noticeable extra number of military policemen stalked around in pairs. Probably Lt. Scayles would have been among them, but he was being re-examined by the MO in sick-bay this morning.

The sentries slapped palms on their rifle-butts in salute as the subalterns strode up the front steps. The Orderly Officer signed a receipt for Lanyard’s delivery under close arrest, and the Scots took their leave. DHQ had the usual relaxed atmosphere of a British army senior domain, where it would be bad form to show signs of too much professionalism. Red-tabbed staff officers spoke quietly to each other amid the rattle of typewriters and jangling telephone bells, but without any of the usual bursts of collegial laughter.

Under their casual pose, everyone from colonel to warrant officer kept a nervous watch on the door to the Inner Sanctum, where General Kitchener had been at work since 6 a.m. Except for some brief mid-morning exercise on horseback, “K” would be at his desk for the next twelve hours, evaluating reports, planning, ordering the course of the war single-handedly.

Harry was nodded at to wait, while a staff-sergeant announced him through a speaking-tube. He took off his Stetson and closed the hook-and-eye clasps of his high collar. The Basuto had done a good job at polishing his boots and brass buttons, so he guessed he looked as presentable as any accused murderer could. After a half hour, two men came out for him, a good-looking young captain and Smith, the civilian from yesterday.

“Sorry to keep you, Lieutenant,” The captain smiled charmingly and smoothed the middle parting in his hair. “We’ve been making some last-minute arrangements on your behalf. Turned out quite well, actually. My name’s Maxwell, the ADC.” He wore a row of medal ribbons, good ones, including the DSO and a couple of Indian war campaigns. What drew Harry’s eye, though, was the crimson ribbon of the Victoria Cross, Britain’s highest award for bravery, and he stiffened to attention to show respect.

The aide-de-camp gave a modest half-wave, and nodded to his companion, “You’ve already met Colonel Faulkner, I understand. These Field Intelligence wallahs get about everywhere.”

The colonel in mufti nodded calmly, not in the least ruffled about his previous masquerade. “An interesting day ahead for you, Lanyard.”

The gymnasium hall had been made into a command centre, with a half dozen tables smothered in papers, and maps tacked on every wall. A group of staff officers clustered in the corner, taking notes of orders growled by “K” himself. Harry recognized one as being the Canadian railway expert, Colonel Percy Girouard, said to be the only man who briefed Kitchener first-thing every morning.

Something was off here, though. Harry had expected a seated row of legal inquisitors, MP guards, maybe even the traditional sword of judgement lying on a table draped with the Union Jack. Instead, nobody paid any attention to his arrival.

Maxwell led the way to his desk, and opened a buff dossier folder. Though unlikely to be heard over the loud conference voices, Maxwell spoke in lowered tones. “Not to beat about the bush, Lanyard, the CM against you has been dropped. Pleased to say.”

He flashed his practiced aide’s smile. “Turns out those Belgie witnesses have been recalled home. Their government’s not too keen on them testifying, shouldn’t wonder. Actually, some of the things they did say pretty well corroborate your own explanation. So, the general has personally quashed all charges.”

Harry felt the relief flowing through his gut, and realized just how much dread had been stretching his nerves for weeks. But now something else started to bother him. Bank clerking had taught him the skill of reading numbers upside-down, and he could see the date beside Kitchener’s signature.” Great, sir. But, when was this made effective?”

Maxwell went very still, and casually closed the file. Faulkner answered instead. “You’ve Captain Barlow to thank for the reprieve, Lieutenant. ‘Been beavering away on your behalf in more ways than one.”

Harry kept focused on Captain Maxwell. He figured a guy who’d earned a VC would be the most inclined to level with him. “General Kitchener signed me off the hook the day before yesterday, didn’t he, sir?”

When Maxwell pursed his lower lip and nodded gravely, Lanyard turned to Faulkner. “Before you came offering that so-called deal of yours.”

“‘Fraid that was more our chaps’ fault down at Pretoria, Lieutenant,” Maxwell drawled. “GHQ wasn’t quite as quick at passing word to you as we might.”

Faulkner said, “And we were in urgent need to sound you out anyway. Catch your slant on things.”

Harry was about to blurt how he felt about his reprieve being left delayed under English tea-cups, when the Intelligence officer said, “Barlow not only found evidence to wriggle you out of the charges, he learned that Scayles’ rank is only an Acting First Loo. So we can just move you up a notch to substantive First Lieutenant, making you his superior. That suit?”

Harry felt his head spin, trying to come to terms with this sudden turn-around. Faulkner allowed himself a glimmer of amusement. “It seems your new second-in-command was in some sort of fracas at the jail. Refuses to say exactly what about. Anyway, congratulations on your field promotion.”

The telephone rang on the ADC’s desk, demanding that Maxwell deal with some irritated brigadier needing a fresh supply of boots for his footsore troops. During the break, Harry started listening to the steely voice from across the room, dominating the staff officers.

“Done my damndest to ease the train situation for you, Percy. I’ve ordered against taking in any more refugees,” Lord Kitchener was saying. “I wonder how that turnabout’ll go down with their General Botha. He just finished telling the world he’s only too thankful that Boer wives are under British protection. Well, it’s up to you now to take full advantage of any extra carriages available.”

“Thank you, sir. After all, we only have the one single-track rail line, and the enemy still cuts it at least once a week. Never seem to care that delays food to their own families in the camps as well as our chaps.” Colonel Girouard jotted numbers on his pad. “Not needing to transport civilians to the camps could gain us another six percent of rolling-stock. Enough to bring fresh battalions up from Simonstown before month’s end.”

“Should hope so! I need every man for the big drives. We’ve got thirteen columns quartering the field now, so our mass pushes are starting to work. Going well, but all too slow. Still bagging only about seven hundred of the blighters a month.” He waved across the room. “Faulkner here tells me there’s still twenty-odd thousand of them swanning about. At this rate, we’ll wait ‘til Kingdom Come before they’re all rounded up and a finish put to things.”

An infantry colonel murmured that perhaps the gradual method was best, in view of the increasing criticism by Parliament and the British press. Kitchener’s heavy face purpled, “Those bloody women!”.

All started with that busy-body old maid, Miss Emily Hobhouse, who set the world into an outrage against Britain with her exposure of wholesale deaths in the refugee camps. Kitchener had no sooner barred her from re-visiting South Africa, when the Secretary of State For War also started to question civilian concentration policies.

‘Sent his own damned Parliamentary Committee Of Ladies on an inspection tour; formidable society women who were determined to get to the bottom of things, and Heaven help any mere general who dared interfere. Dame Millicent Fawcett’s outspokenly critical report last year had listed measures to improve living conditions in the camps, which an embarrassed Parliament insisted must be applied immediately. Ever since, Kitchener had been the government’s handy scapegoat for how Britain conducted the war.

“Those damn scribbling warcos are as bad, toadying to the do-gooders back home!” A heavy fist bashed the conference table, as Kitchener’s temper burst through the iron mask of calm. He focused his anger on journalists and anti-war protesters, carefully avoiding criticism of his political masters. He had his heart set on being appointed the next C-in-C of India by year’s end, if the secret peace negotiations led to a treaty quick enough.

“The news-rags used to support us, but now they’re forever writing tosh about our gallant foes. True, except for a few white-flag violations, Boers fight clean. Usually treat our prisoners well, as we do theirs. Different matter entirely, those commandos who disguise themselves in our uniforms. There’s the devil of an uproar when we only give them what they’ve asked for.”

The table shook with the general’s pounding and, oddly, a bird somewhere close by made a piercing whistle of alarm. “But God help any blacks the Boers find lawfully wearing khaki, though, or show too much co-operation with our side. Here’s Faulkner’s report on their General Smuts massacring a couple of hundred natives at Modderfontein just last month. Those sanctimonious Friends Of The Boers never mention that, you notice!”

Nobody replied, as it was clear the C-in-C’s outburst signaled the morning conference was over, and the knot of staff officers unraveled. They hurried out with minimum fuss, stern-faced, minds set on their latest orders how to continue the war within the hour.

“Pretty girl! Pretty girl!” Harry stared at the sight of General Sir Herbert Horatio Kitchener, Earl of Khartoum, Commander-in-Chief, British Forces in South Africa, leaning over a bird-cage, making chirping noises. Maxwell looked at his pocket watch. “Tweety’s calling it’s time for your morning gallop, sir.”

Kitchener pushed a stick of toast through the bars to the bedraggled-looking starling. It whistled again, and Harry could have sworn a faint smile lifted the general’s trademark huge mustache. Kitchener grunted and reached for his cap and riding-crop. He was a massive man, well over six foot, thick hair parted in the middle, strange pale eyes glaring under bushy eyebrows.

The three officers stood up when he walked by their table. He waved his hand irritably for them to be at ease, and handed a wad of notes to his ADC. “Cobble these into daily orders, ready for my signature at noon.”

Maxwell sighed comically, “No rest for the weary, sir.” Behind his back, jealous fellow officers called Maxwell ‘the Brat’, because of his easy familiarity with the most feared general in the British Army.

“What else’ll you be up to while I’m gone, eh?”

“Seeing what we can do about Oom Paul’s nest-egg, sir.”

Maxwell introduced Harry by name and regiment, but the general barely acknowledged him beyond a sharp glance. “This the chap we’re sending? The Canadian who was in so much hot water? Don’t know what it is about these Colonials. Their regular contingents put up a good show, none better, but once away from discipline, they turn into hooligans.”

“Actually, sir, we’re recommending Lanyard for his full second pip.”

Kitchener’s porcelain-blue eyes bulged at the faint ink stripes still visible on Harry’s sleeve. “Good God, the man’s nothing more than a jumped-up n.c.o!” His voice quivered with outrage. Kitchener was never known to have ever spoken directly to any other-ranks soldier.

Faulkner made his throat-clearing noise. “He’s a well-experienced officer now, sir. We’re just briefing Lieutenant Lanyard on the Kruger gold business.”

Kitchener made an obvious effort to rein in his temper. “Vital job. Think he’s up to it?’

“Yes, sir. I am.” Harry said levelly, a bit louder than he intended.

“Eh?” The fearsome stare took in this impertinent subaltern, speaking up before he was spoken to. There was a shocked silence, then Kitchener said grudgingly, “Hmm. Like an officer to be confident about his objectives. Tell him, did you, it’s crucial we keep that money out of Boer hands just now? Burger and De la Rey keep making hole-in-the-corner overtures for a peace settlement, but nothing’s come of it yet.”

Lord Kitchener actually looked puzzled. “Damned if I know what to make of ‘em, Faulkner. We’ve offered the same terms we did two years ago, full compensation for war losses, millions of pounds for reconstruction, even self-government like Canada and Australia, but they still won’t give up.”

“Perhaps they’ll have come round by the time we get back to Pretoria tomorrow, sir.” Maxwell was ever the diplomat.

“Hmph! More like I’ll still be cooling my heels in Melrose House while those Free Staters keep haggling. Oddest thing, Bloemfontein never had any grievance with Britain in the first place. The OFS only got into this war because of its defence agreement with Kruger. Yet now they’re holding out for more concessions than any Transvaaler.”

Kitchener searched the three officers’ faces. “But, y’know what’s the real sticking point, gentlemen?” He tapped the side of his nose. “Negroes! The Boers simply won’t agree with our condition that natives must be given the franchise to vote. Those pig-headed burghers never will consent to that, mark my words.”

The general clapped on his side-cap, “Still, they’re poor as church mice now, so keeping funds out of their hands’ll speed up our victory.” He nodded curtly at Harry. “That’s where you come in, Lieutenant. Good hunting!”

Thought of an early triumph made him almost cordial, and he said to his aide, “Looking forward to coming back to India, my boy?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Maxwell glanced fondly at the desktop photograph of his wife and little daughter. “With time for some England, home, and beauty first.”

“‘Course.” Rumour had it that years ago then-Lt. Kitchener had been engaged to an 18-year-old girl, but she died on him. He never did marry, and as far as anyone could tell, career success was his only passion since. “Carry on, gentlemen. Orders typed by noon, mind, Frank.”

Maxwell nodded towards the rising babble of war correspondents outside. “Perhaps you’d prefer to avoid them through the back door, sir.”

“Hah!” Lord Kitchener slapped his leg with the crop, and strode into the front lobby. Everybody in the building could hear him calling upstairs for his horsy companions to get a move on.

“Actually, you stood up to His Lordship rather well, Lanyard.” Maxwell chuckled, and sat back for Colonel Faulkner to take over.

”Now you’re back on duty, it’s no longer a question of volunteering, of course. Written orders for the patrol will be issued, but for secrecy’s sake it’s best you don’t carry them.” Faulkner smoothed a map on the table, screwed in his monocle, then traced the railway east from Pretoria.

“All along Kruger’s line of flight to Mozambique last year, his train kept stopping for him to make never-surrender speeches. Middleburg, Machadodorp, Waterval Onder.” A nicotine-yellowed finger tapped the rail-line close to the Crocodile River. “He delayed longest there, at Nelspruit Siding. Five days. Plenty of time for Schwartze to unload gold onto ox-carts and squirrel it away.”

Harry took in the familiar ground, where Farm Vincennes sprawled at the foot of mountains. “Rough country up there, all canyons and jungle and fever before the upland plain. Local settlers die like flies from malaria every summer. That many ravines, it could take a year to find the Bank of England itself.”

“Yes, that’s why we’d rather like to get a move on, Lieutenant.” Faulkner said casually, “Early tomorrow, say?”

An outburst of men’s voices sounded from the front steps as the scrum of war correspondents barred Kitchener’s way. One louder than most called, “Horace Skulnik, New York Herald-Tribune, General. Your scorched-earth policy burned thirty thousand Boer homes. Now you’ve finally stopped it, can you explain to the U.S. public what all that destruction was intended to achieve?”

“Hah! Can you explain to them why just this month your own government’s set up a Congressional Committee to investigate American military atrocities in the Philippines?”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, General. My readers need to know if your recent cancellation of farm-burnings is admission you were wrong to start them in the first place.”

“They’d be better off reading the circular sent out by Commandant-General Botha two years ago. It ordered his commandos to do everything possible to prevent burghers from laying down their arms. He warned any Boers who surrender that he’d confiscate everything they own, burn their houses, and leave their families on the veld. And so he has ever since!”

Choking fury at having to explain himself to newspaper reporters made Kitchener’s loud voice go almost shrill. “I personally offered him that if the commandos would spare harm to neutral or surrendered burghers, I would leave undisturbed all families of Boers who were out on commando. Commandant Botha refused, so I had no option but to sweep inhabitants into the protection of our lines.”

“Protection’s a funny word to use, General,” another voice called in Cockney barrow-boy tones. “Edgar Wallace, here, London Daily Mail.”

“I’m well aware of your scurrilous personal attacks on me, Wallace,” Kitchener snapped. “From what I hear, you’d be better off scribbling penny-dreadful thrillers than muckraking for scandal-sheets!”

“I’ll keep that advice in mind, sir, but my question remains. What action have you taken to stop the continued deaths of over a thousand Boer women and children every month in your camps?”

Captain Maxwell winced at Harry as they heard Kitchener’s bull-throated roar, “Idiot, that’s the Civilian Refugee Department’s bailiwick, not mine! I’m more concerned that a thousand of my soldiers still die every month on the veld! Now, out of my way, you damned swabs!”