CHAPTER ONE: STEADY FROM STROKE TO BOW

It was damned inconsiderate of Wills to sentence Wilde to pick oakum ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’ right at the start of the 1895 Season. Thanks to the wretched trial, London’s clubs, dinner tables and parks were devoid of well-bred pansies, post boys were in short supply and, in consequence, the capital had become decidedly dull.1 To avoid boredom, and any further involvement with the woes of the Wales’, I decided that Jameson was right and that an extended break in Cape Town was in order.2 So I asked my secretary, Searcy, to telegraph the agent and enquire if the Vergelegen estate was available; he heard by return that it was and booked it.

It’d been a few years since we’d last rented the place - back in ’80 I seem to remember – which unfortunately coincided with that absurd dust up with the Boers.3 That, however, wasn’t enough to put me off, particularly as it appeared from a conversation that I’d overheard in the club that, unlike the Southern States of America, our Cape Colony had remained largely unchanged since my last visit; the natives, whilst not exactly slaves, were still ready to do one’s every bidding for very small coin. I found that very reassuring, given that everything else in the world seemed to be in a state a flux as we headed towards a new century.

Despite the abundance of servants to be had there, and thanks to my ample De Beers dividends, it had been my intention to take our whole household to the Cape. In the event that was an impractical idea, as my wife, Charlotte-Georgina, stated with considerable firmness after luncheon at Stratton Street; I’d just told her that I’d signed the lease on the estate and that, as she knew full well, there was room there for all our London employees, some of whom – I had Searcy and Khazi, my coachman, in mind when I said this - were in need of leave.

“Absolutely, NOT, Jasper. Stratton Street is a large house and will require at least a skeleton staff if we are not to find it occupied by Suffragettes or Nihilists on our return. Besides which, Mr Searcy needs to attend to his business and, 4 as you will be on an extended holiday, you will not require his services. I have also agreed with him that your valet, Ivan, may remain in London…”

“You’ve done what?”

“… to further improve his English…”

“But he’s absolutely fluent and has been for years.”

“That’s not what Mr Searcy says, Jasper.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“What do you mean by that, Jasper?”

“Nothin’, m’dear, nothin’,” I prevaricated. If C-G didn’t by now understand the state-of-play between my private secretary and my Russian valet I was not about to enlighten her.

“But,” I continued, “if I’m to lose my manservant for the duration then I insist that we take Khazi and both of his eldest boys. We’ll each need a coachman and Crichton can train up Fahran to look after me. Of course,” I said provocatively, “your maid will have to stay here to keep an eye on the rest of her brood.”

“Out of the question, Jasper! Prissy’s the only person who understands my hair and she is quite indispensable to me.”

“So who’s goin’ to look after the Khazis’ brats?”

“Mrs Ovenden says that, as she will only be cooking for a small staff, she’s perfectly willing to do so.”

“You seem to have it all worked out, m’dear. I can’t think why I even raised the subject.”

“Nor can I, Jasper – besides which, it’s what wives are for,” she reposted with some asperity.

“That’s not what Mrs Pankhurst thinks,”5 I said as a further provocation and in revenge for the loss of Ivan.

“That bourgeois creature! She’s undermining the whole standing of women in our society. In my view, before she persuades the government to reduce women to the level of mere men, she should be locked up and the keys thrown in the Thames …”

And for the next thirty minutes I was subjected to a well-rehearsed tirade by my wife on the subject of women’s suffrage, and other sundry equality measures, to which C-G was emphatically opposed.

“The next thing you know,” she ended, “there will be women Members of Parliament, women High Court Judges and, you mark my words, women in the military too.”

“You go too far, m’dear. Gals in politics and the law I can almost believe, but as soldiers or sailors – never. The Queen may be our Head of State, which some would argue rather strengthens the Suffragettes’ position, but she is not head of the Armed Forces – that’s a job even she recognised can only be handled by a man.”

“So you hope, Jasper – but if you once let women out of the boudoir, the nursery and the kitchen you’ll find it difficult to draw the line. It’s the thin end of a very large wedge – and I speak as a real woman – so you should tell your friends at the Verulam and elsewhere that they have been warned. Give women the vote and the next thing you knows they’ll be propping up the bar at White’s.”

As I didn’t want to prolong this discussion, and anyway I agreed with almost all that C-G had said – aside, that is, from her preposterous prognostication about women in uniform - I made an excuse and headed for my study where I rang for Searcy. Seconds later he appeared.

“It seems,” I opened, “that Her Ladyship has already decided as to who’s to go to the Cape and who’s to stay.”

“I know, Colonel,” he replied, as I knew he would, “and I’d like to thank you for agreeing to allow Ivan to remain here.” As if I’d had any choice in the matter. “I would, of course, have preferred to have accompanied you but the business, in which you still have a share, Colonel, really does demand my attention. Besides which, Mo and his boys will look after you. Anyway, I know that you’re not planning any adventures and are on leave from the Brotherhood.”

“So I won’t need you to get me out of the shit, eh? Well, let’s hope not. As you seem to know who’s goin’ and who’s staying’, you’d better get the passages booked. Dr Jameson says he’s takin’ the Dunottar Castle:6 apparently, it’s the ‘last word in luxury’, holds the record for the trip to Cape Town and sails at the end of the month. If you can reserve enough berths for our whole party then let’s take that tub.”

“I’ve already made the reservations, Colonel. Will there be anything else?”

…

During the voyage out, I got to know Jameson rather better than I’d had the chance to do back in London.7 He was an interesting cove, full of charm and a great friend of Cecil Rhodes,8 whom he held in high esteem. Quite how far that friendship extended it was hard to judge for, unlike Oscar Wilde, Rhodes has never – as far as I knew – taken his preference for male company to Oscar’s extremes. Indeed, there had been times over the years when I’d wondered whether or not Rhodes had ever dropped his trousers: this despite the fact that he obviously preferred the company of handsome young men to that of anyone else. In that, as an Empire builder, he was not unusual. From the frequent observations I’ve made on the subject over the years, my readers (if I still have any) will know that I firmly believe that Vicky’s mighty Empire had been built by enthusiastic bachelor followers of Plato, Aristotle and Socrates, as exemplified by the then Sirdar of the Gyppo Army to name but one of many.9

As for Jameson himself, he too was a confirmed bachelor but a hard one to read. Of rather less than average height, with a receding hair line and an unattractive droopy moustache, he nonetheless exuded a powerful aura tempered by an analytical approached to, and extreme cynicism about, virtually every subject under the sun. He was clearly devoted to Rhodes, who turned him from medicine to colonial administration, and was signed-up in full to the mining-magnate-turned-politician’s dream to extend the British Empire from the Cape to Cairo. However, on the outward leg of the journey he devoted much time to quizzing me on my military career. It was only when we hit the Equator that the conversation shifted to Rhodes’ African ambitions. This was a subject to which Jameson, who ran Rhodes’ territorial interests north of the Limpopo River, devoted most of his conversation as we headed for the last fifty-thousand furlongs to Cape Town.

“The problem, my dear Colonel,” he opined as we took an after-dinner turn around the deck together, “is simply put: it’s gold.”

I queried this extraordinary statement whilst the moon peeked out from behind a cloud and threw a long silvery streak onto the limpid tropical waters, broken only by a school of dolphins who’d taken it upon themselves to give us a Tins-style escort across the Equator.

“How can the shiny yellow stuff be a problem? It’s not as though we’re short of it,” I asked.

“Because it’s in the wrong place.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Simple. The gold fields are in the Transvaal, which is Boer territory run by that bloated old bigot, Kruger.”10

“So what?”

“So Kruger and his Boers are sitting on probably the largest gold reserve in the world.”

“What does that matter?”

“Simple. It matters because, whilst the other Great Powers don’t give a damn about a republic that comprises millions of acres of grazing land, they do care about the political control of the world’s principle source of its reserve currency. And they won’t like it if that control becomes British. Anyway, for Rhodes that’s not the real issue.”

“What is?”

“The Transvaal lies across the proposed route of the Cape to Cairo railway line, which will link Britain’s interests in Africa or, to be more precise, the Cape and Natal colonies with the assets of the British South Africa Company.”

“What’s that?”

“A Chartered Company established and managed by Rhodes to hold and control our interests from the Limpopo to the Great Lakes. Think of it as the African equivalent of John Company.” It was not a happy thought when one remembered what that had led to.11

“I see. And the Transvaal is the fly in Rhodes’ imperial ointment.”

“Precisely.”

“And, because Kruger and his farming chums are now sittin’ on the stuff that lies behind the Great Powers otherwise worthless paper, Rhodes can’t send in the Cape Grenadiers.”

“That’s a fair summary of the situation, Colonel. We’ll make a politician of you yet!”

“I think not - and what’s the solution, if there is one?”

“We’re not yet sure, but there may be a democratic one.”

“I didn’t think you chaps were very keen on that as a concept.”

“Not at all, Colonel, providing it works in our favour. You see the gold fields have drawn in a far larger number of British citizens into the Transvaal than we ever saw in the development of the diamond fields. Today, the white Uitlanders – as the Boers call them – outnumber the Dutchmen two-to-one.”

“So what?”

“Simple. Kruger recognises the danger within and is denying the settlers any political rights.”

“But doubtless taxin’ ’em?”

“Indeed. And ‘no taxation without representation’ is still a valid and powerful axiom and one that the Great Powers (with the exception of Russia) generally respect. Besides which, Kruger has also started imposing high tariffs on the railway from Johannesburg to the Cape.”

“Well, there’s your causus belli, as the Greek beak at Rugby used to say: Britannia’s Cape cousin will have to give Johnny Boer a bloody nose, tell him to behave himself and to give our boys the vote so that they can elect to join the Empire.”

“That is the desired outcome – a change of political control through the ballot box – but unfortunately Whitehall would not, on this subject, agree that the ends justify the means; and, as a British colony, we can take no offensive military action against a foreign sovereign state without London’s approval. Sadly, Ripon doesn’t share your views or wish to antagonise the other Great Powers.”12

“Damned Liberals. Let’s pray for a change of government,” I said with some feeling. Rosebery may have been a Liberal Imperialist and, as I’d heard in the Verulam, be monstrously well endowed, but he’d proved to be as limp in office as he was reported to be rampant in the bedroom.

“A sentiment to which I wholly subscribe,” said Jameson with warmth, “and it’s one that may shortly come about if the Liberal Unionists split Rosebery’s government on the Home Rule issue and make common cause with Salisbury’s Conservatives. As the Liberals most committed imperialist, Joe Chamberlain should get the Colonial Office. If he does, then things will be very different and we’ll get the political support – and, if required, the green light for military action – that we need.”13

“Politics ain’t really my indaba, as the Zulus say,” I went on, “I leave that to my brother-in-law. I’m just an old soldier who wishes he was younger and could get involved on the front line. But, whilst on the subject of the cabinet, I would have thought that, as a successful Brummagem manufacturer, Joe will go to the Exchequer.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Jameson thoughtfully, “Cecil and I want him where he can do us some good.”

Shortly before we berthed in Cape Town, Jameson got his wish.14 But as the moon shone down on the Equator and we headed for our respective state rooms that news was yet to come.

“What do you see in that common little man, Dr Jameson?” C-G asked as I slipped between the sheets in our stateroom.

“See? I don’t see anythin’, m’dear – but he’s a chum of Rhodes’…”

“Oh, that awful man.” C-G had never liked Cecil Rhodes.

“… And he’s an excellent conversationalist and very well informed. You should listen to him; you might learn somethin’.”

But before she could reply, I decided to see if I could encourage her into a conversation of an entirely different kind and I made a play for her top hamper.

“Jasper, whatever do you think you are… Aah! Do that again… And again. Ooh! Not too hard with your teeth… A bit lower… lower still. Aah! ”

…

A week later we were in Cape Town with a stable full of horses, blacks as far as the eye could see, a delightful climate and the prospect of a life of ease and leisure at little expense until we returned to London in the New Year of 1896. We also had a stack of invitations on the fireplace including one from Rhodes to call on him at his estate, Groote Schuur.15 As the man didn’t believe in social visits, it was probably something to do with my mining investments – or perhaps he wanted me to lead an invasion of the Boer republics, I joked to myself.

In due course, Khazi drove me to Groote Schuur to see Rhodes. It was a large spread with a Cape Dutch house that was being converted by some damned fool architect into the fashionable Arts & Crafts-style which threatened to ruin much of North and South West London. The place was full of ugly colonial furniture, surrounded by lavish and rather gaudy gardens and had its own private zoo or game reserve, as they were called in the Cape. Rhodes used it as a residence-cum-office. Being on the other side of city from Vergelegen, it was a longish drive but my carriage was comfortable, the weather was excellent and the almost constant view of Table Mountain utterly delightful.

On arrival I was shown into Rhodes’ assegai-lined study by a well-tended male secretary called Jourdan.16 The room overlooked the equally well-tended roses, hydrangeas, cannas, bougainvilleas and fuchsias. Jameson had told me that this handsome bloom – the secretary not the roses - was the replacement for Rhodes’ long-term assistant, Harry Currey,17 who the great man had summarily sacked last year when the boy announced that he was getting married. Need I say anymore?

I found Rhodes very changed from the last time I’d seen him. He’d aged, looked haggard and had put on a shocking amount of weight: indeed, he resembled nothing so much as a moustachioed cross between Bertie and a Buddah,18 although without the beard of the former and the droopy earlobes of the latter. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his casual, not to say unkempt dress sense. Oh well, if you’re a multi-millionaire, and a Prime Minister to boot, I suppose you can set your own dress code: Salisbury was the scruffiest man in London. To my surprise, Rhodes was not alone; with him was a very dapper chap whom I thought I recognised but couldn’t put a name to.

“My dear Speedicut,” said Rhodes in his strange falsetto voice as he extended a podgy paw, “welcome back to the Cape. I think you know Alfred Beit.”19

Of course, I said to myself, the other man was Rhodes’s bachelor business partner (I’ve said enough on that subject: unless, that is dear reader, you want further proof of my theory as to why the Empire is coloured pink on the map). Beit was a Hamburg Jew who I’d last seen twenty years previously when the two of them were running a mine pumping racket in the early days of the diamond fields – a racket which, I might add, eventually gave the two bachelors control of the mines and made them two of the richest men in the world.20 I hadn’t done badly out of it either.

“I gather you’ve been seeing rather a lot of Dr Jim.” Already confused by the sight of Beit, I couldn’t for a moment think about whom Rhodes was talking until I realised that it must be Jameson. I said that I’d found his company congenial. “A view I share with you. He has a fine brain and is a great patriot. His loss to medicine has been a tonic for our plans for the continent.”

“Ve are delighted zat you also are going to help us,” chipped in Beit in his heavy German accent. What was that? “Ze services of a highly experienced soldier such as yourself vill be invaluable – not to say ezential - in the delivery of our…”

“Forgive me, Beit,” I interrupted, “but what gives you the idea that I’m goin’ to help you to do anythin’?”

“You said as much to Dr Jim,” said Rhodes, “at least that’s what he told us.”

“I don’t recall sayin’ anythin’ of the sort,” I retorted to the pair of them.

“So you didn’t say that you were ‘an old soldier who wishes he was younger and could get involved on the front line’?” queried Rhodes.

“I may have said that,” I blustered, “but that’s a long way from sayin’ that I want to ‘sharpen swords’ again.”

“Who said anything about fighting?” asked Beit.

“Well, I assumed…”

“It may not come to that,” said Rhodes, “but if the opportunity arose to serve your Queen and her Empire?”

“I’d be on the first steamer home,” I said getting up. “You’ve done well for me over the years, Rhodes – and you too, Beit - and I’m damned grateful for my De Beers dividends; but I’ve reached that time in my life when I want to enjoy the fruits of my labour from the comfort of my library, not from a service saddle.”

“My dear Speedicut,” Rhodes purred, waving me to sit, “I quite understand. It never occurred to me to ask you to commit yourself to active service; I fully realise that is quite out of the question. No, what I want and need is your advice on our military strategy – from the comfort of your library at Vergelegen.”

I thought for a moment before replying. Frankly, what I knew then or now about grand strategy could have been written on the head of a pin or a very small postage stamp. But in over fifty years with the Colours and with the benefit of having worked with some of the biggest asses in the business – Raglan, Cardigan, Maximilian and Louis Napoleon to name but a few - I had picked up some military knowledge. At least, I knew from experience what it paid not to do. If that was of use to Rhodes and his empire building pals - well, he could have the benefit of my experience.

“In that case, for what it’s worth, you can have it – but nothin’ more than advice, you understand?” Then I added for good luck. “And nothin’ that would put me on the wrong side of the law.”

“You have my word on it,” said Rhodes; Beit looked out of the window.

“Very well: how can I help?”

“I believe that Dr Jim has outlined to you the problem we have with Kruger…”