“How simply splendid to see you, Colonel,” were Jameson’s first words when I caught up with him in a shack that was masquerading as Pitsani’s leading (and only) hostelry. Outside was a large sign proclaiming it to be the Expeditionary Headquarters of the British South Africa Company Police Force. Jameson was dressed in mixed kit that made him look like a cross between a Mexican desperado and a provincial Yeomanry officer.
“Rhodes wired to expect you - I couldn’t be more delighted that you have agreed to lead our force for the advance on…”
“I’ve done no such thing,” I broke in with considerable emotion.
“So why are here?”
“Because Rhodes asked me to join you and my wife insisted.”
“I see. So, what are you willing to do whilst you are with us?”
I thought for a moment.
“I’ll inspect your command, check their weapons and then review your plan of advance. But that’s all.”
“Well, that won’t take you long.”
“Why?”
“Simple. My command, as you so kindly describe it, consists of four hundred men of the Matabeleland Mounted Police, two hundred British volunteers, a dozen Maxims and some light artillery.”
“But Rhodes said you’d have fifteen hundred men: you’ve got less than half that number.”
“But we do have the Maxims. Their fire power is absolutely deadly.”28
“That’s assumin’ that any of your men can operate them: Maxims are more reliable than the old Gardners, but nonetheless they need careful handlin’.” Jameson didn’t respond to that point, which told me all that I needed to know. “Anyway, what’s your plan?”
“Plan?” It was his turn to think for a moment. “My plan is to ride from here to Johannesburg in three days or less.”
“Then what?”
“To restore law and order in the city.”
“And in reality?”
“To join forces with Frank Rhodes and defeat any attempt by the Boers to reassert their control,” he said rather smugly.
“And how are you goin’ to do that?”
“No idea, Colonel.” I raised a finely chiselled eyebrow. “It will depend upon the situation on the ground. We will, as the military manual directs, ‘use our initiative as the circumstances demand’.”
“In my not inconsiderable experience, that’s a damnably dangerous thing to do, Jameson. So when do you set off?”
“I’m waiting for the green light from Rhodes. He’ll telegraph when the uprising starts and that’s our cue to ride.”
“And what opposition are you expectin’ between here and Johannesburg.”
“None.”
“None? That’s a bit optimistic ain’t it?”
“Not really. As far as we know there are no Boer troops between here and Pretoria and, as we’re going to cut the telegraph, Kruger will have no knowledge of our advance until it’s too late.”
“Assumin’,” I added, “that he don’t know you’re here already and what your role is. Have you sent out any scouts to make sure you’re right?”
“Err, no.”
“Well, you damned well should. Today’s the 24th December - Christmas Eve, God help us – and, the last I heard of it, the uprisin’s scheduled for the 29th. That gives you four clear days to carry out a recce of the land between here and Johannesburg. If you’ll take my advice…”
“I don’t have anyone reliable enough for the job,” Jameson rather rudely interrupted me.
“You’re jokin’?”
“I very much afraid that I am not. Besides which, a recce is irrelevant: we are going to ride so fast that the Boers will have no time to intercept us.”
“Unless they are already lyin’ in wait for you.”
“They wouldn’t know where to dispose their troops.”
“No? So how many direct routes are there from here to your objective?”
“Err,” he paused again, “one.”
“Then a recce is essential. Unless, that is, you actually want to be ambushed.”
“No, of course not,” he blustered. “But, as I’ve already told you, I’ve got no one experienced enough to carry out such a reconnaissance, unless…” He stopped dead and looked at me. “You’re highly experienced at that sort of thing: you told me so yourself on the way out to the Cape.”
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve led a recce–in-depth.” The last time was before Majuba Hill in ’81,29 I thought to myself, and we know how that ended.
“But the principles are unchanged.”
“Ye-es.”
“And you can still ride, even at your age…”
“Certainly, I can!” I said with some heat, for he’d touched on a raw nerve.
“So what’s to stop you carrying out the task, which you’ve already said is essential?” I couldn’t think of an immediate response to that and decided to play for time.
“I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I need to check that my chaps have found me a room and stowed my kit.”
“I’ll see you at luncheon then,” said Jameson. “I may even have some news from Cecil or Frank.”
By the time I found Khazi and his son Fahran unpacking my safari kit I’d made up my mind.
“You can stop that,” I said to them both, “we’re not stayin’.”
“Huzoor?” queried Khazi. “We are returning to the burra memsahib by the great ocean?”
“No, old man, we’re goin’ to do some old fashioned soldierin’ before then.”
“But, huzoor, Searcy sahib said that thou were not to,” he scratched his head, “be adventuring.”
“I think you mean ‘have an adventure’, father,” chimed in Fahran. Khazi growled at being thus corrected.
“Searcy sahib,” he went on, as though the fruit of his loins had not interrupted him, “told me most clearly that I was not to permit thee to have such an ad… ven…”
“… ture,” Fahran interjected helpfully and got a stern look from his father for his pains.
“Nonetheless, Khazi, I feel obliged to carry out a small task for the Doctor sahib to prevent him from walkin’ into an enemy trap.”
“But, huzoor…”
“Don’t worry, old chap,” I said airily, “it’s only a recce and there will be damn-all danger in it.”
“But, huzoor…”
“And besides which I’m takin’ you and Fahran along to keep me out of trouble.”
“Verily, huzoor?”
“Verily.”
“And wilt thou swear on the head of the Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, that thou wilt stay away from danger and allow Fahran and me to keep thee safe?”
“I will.”
“I like it not, huzoor, but if it is thy will…”
“It is.”
“And it should be fun, father,” said young Fahran, with a gleam in his eye.
“That depends, my son, on what His Excellency, our master, plans to do.”
“Oh, nothing much, Khazi,” I said. “Just scout out the road between here and Johannesburg to check that there are no Boer forces in between. It’ll be a cake walk.”
“A walking cake, huzoor?” said Khazi, for the first time looking really puzzled.
“An easy job with no danger, father,” exclaimed Fahran.
“I know what His Excellency meant, child. Hold thy tongue if thou wishes to keep it,” growled Khazi. At that moment the old Afghan reminded me so strongly of a bitch of mine, who used to control her pups in the same way, that I damned nearly said ‘heel, Sambo!’.
I decided to keep Jameson on tenterhooks until after luncheon – bully beef washed down with a brace of bottles of the Cape’s best red infuriator – then I told him that I would make the required recce in the guise of a land speculator, accompanied by his personal staff, which should cover me if I was stopped and questioned by the Boer authorities.
“Make sure you’re back well before the 29th,” said Jameson, “because, whether Frank’s ready or not, that’s when we ride.”
“I thought you had to wait for Rhodes’ order – and why do you think Frank might not be ready?” I asked. He ignored my first question.
“My brother, Sam, who’s in Johannesburg, wired as much this morning.”
“So what happens if the signals stay at red?”
“I’m supposed to take this lot,” Jameson said jerking his thumb in the direction of the Peelers’ camp, “back north.”
“What does Rhodes say?”
“He’ll say that he told me not to proceed,” which was a curious answer that did not match my question. Then the penny dropped.
“So you’re goin’ to ride anyway?” Jameson was silent but looked out of the window. “Well, you’ll be doin’ so without me,” I said firmly.
“Fine,” Jameson replied grumpily. “I had hoped that you might, in the end, want to join in the fun.”
“Absolutely not!” I said with considerable finality in my voice.
“Would you do something for me, then?”
“What?”
“Leave one of your men behind to cut the telegraph wires from Johannesburg to Pretoria and Cape Town on the 29th. You’ll see them during your ride and it’s obvious which goes where.”
“Just cut the telegraph?”
“Yes.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“No.”
“And what happens if you don’t ride on 29th?”
“The Boers will send out someone to repair them. Speaking of which, send me a one word telegram from Johannesburg once you get there: ‘Green’ if there are no Boer troops en route and ‘Red’ if there are.”
“Alright; we’ll set off first thing tomorrow mornin’ – what could be more auspicious than Christmas Day? I estimate we should be back on the evenin’ of 28th. Two days there and two days back should be time enough as we’re not travellin’ with field pieces or Maxims.”
“It’ll be tight.”
As it turned out it wasn’t, at least not the outward leg. I’d decided that the sensible thing to do would be to take the route Jameson was planning and to keep a sharp look out for Boer patrols or encampments along the way. There were none. After an early – and practically inedible - dinner on 26th in Johannesburg’s so-called leading hotel, where as usual the talk was all of the uprising or rather the likelihood of it not happening due to disputes amongst our fellow countrymen in the town, I sent Jameson the coded ‘all clear’ from the telegraph office. I was about to turn our horses noses west when I remembered that I’d agreed to leave one of our number behind to cut the wires. I had no intention of doing it myself, as shinning up telegraph poles was something I’d given up long before, so I decided to let Khazi choose whether he or Fahran should stay behind to do the job.
“To cut the wires, huzoor?” Khazi asked.
“Yes,” I replied, pointing to the lines that ran on poles from the telegraph office to the four principal points of the compass. “Two nights hence, one of you must cut the wires that run east and south. Then make your way back to Mafekin’ where I’ll be waitin’ at the train station.”
“I see, huzoor,” he said, although he looked troubled at the thought.
“Let me do it, father,” pleaded Fahran. “I know exactly what to do.” Khazi looked doubtful. “Besides which, father, Mr Searcy would expect you to stay with His Excellency the Colonel.” That seemed to decide Khazi.
“It seems it is written, huzoor. Fahran will stay behind.”
“Good. Fahran, you will need these,” I said, handing the boy a pair of wire cutters I’d stashed in my saddle bag, “and some cash,” I said, giving him a small bag of gold coins. “Stay at the hotel tonight and tomorrow. Then, after sundown on 29th, ride first to the south and cut the line to Cape Town, then ride around the town to the east and cut the line to Pretoria. When you’ve done that, circle the town to the north and make your way back to this track and then ride like hell for the railway station at Mafekin’.”
“It shall be done, Colonel,” Fahran replied with a boyish grin. “I will see thee and father again in time for New Year’s Eve!”
With that he turned his horse and trotted off back towards the hotel, where I had no doubt he would screw the arse off the busty wench who’d served us. How did I know this? Well, whilst she’d placed the slops that passed for a meal in front of us, she’d given my temporary valet a quite unmistakable ‘come hither’ look. I wondered if he’d have to use any of the coin I’d just given him for the pleasure.
In the event, I think the serving girl must have sucked Fahran’s brains out through his dick, because instead of cutting the wire to Pretoria, he cut the one to Mafeking and Pitsani. This was unfortunate as, in consequence, Kruger never lost touch with his forward command posts. Worse still, Rhodes never received the telegram Jameson sent him on the evening of 29th saying he would wait no longer and was riding for Johannesburg on the evening of 30th. But that is to anticipate. Before any of that was to happen, Khazi and I had to make our way back the way we’d come, which we did without incident until, that is, we were about fifty miles from Johannesburg on the west side of a hamlet called Krugersdorp.
“What is that yonder, huzoor?” asked Khazi pointing off to our right as the sun rose behind us. I took out a pair of binoculars and swept the area. At first I could see nothing. Then, out of the corner of one lens, I caught a flash of sunlight reflected off something. I focussed on the area.
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, Khazi,” I said quietly, “there’s a Boer patrol up ahead. We’d better get under cover whilst I take a closer look.”
“Thou art not to approach them, huzoor.”
“Don’t worry. I’m goin’ to use one of those,” I said, pointing to a small coppice off to our left.
We rode off the track and headed for the trees. I’ve never enjoyed climbing up the wretched things, but one of them looked reasonably inviting. With some rather grudging help from Khazi, who said I was too old to be risking my neck in that way, I managed to get myself fifteen feet or so above the velt and took a second look whilst my faithful Afghan held our horses. Thanks to my binoculars, I saw that to either side of the road were the unmistakable signs of a well-laid ambush. Unless I could get to him, Jameson and his men were going to ride straight into a Boer trap.
I started to climb back down the tree when, right below me, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Afrikaans, the guttural and incomprehensible language spoken by the locals.
“Sit jy hande in die lug, kaffer vullis.”30
Now I know for a fact that Khazi, for all his skills at languages, didn’t speak a word of Boer. What he did recognise, however, was an insulting order. Before I could get to the ground to try and prevent anything untoward happening, there was a guttural roar from my head coachman, followed by a single rifle shot.