CHAPTER TWENTY: ONCE MORE UNTO THE BUSH

However, with no Brotherhood business and no wars to speak of for most of the year that followed the Omdurman outing, I had nothing much to do other than make a small fortune out of a large double on the results of the 2,000 Guineas in April and the Derby in June. I pulled off this coup entirely thanks to an overheard conversation in Pratt’s: old Westminster,169 who not too long afterwards snuffed it, was bragging that his horse, Flying Fox, would win both races - and it did. On the proceeds of the wager, I finally succumbed to Atash’s lobbying and followed Bertie’s example by buying a motorised carriage made by Daimler in Coventry. Algy St Albion tried to persuade me to buy a Benz, but I wouldn’t have been seen dead – an eventuality that was all too likely given Atash’s bravura performances behind the wheel - in something made by the Krauts.

My success with the bookies was not repeated in July which was uneventful, excepting an unexpected invitation – doubtless because of my ducal connections - to stand as godfather to the Holland’s first blob. As our acquaintanceship had been, to say the very least, slight I was minded to decline. However, Charlotte-Georgina, spotted the invitation lying discarded next to my breakfast tea cup and demanded to see it. She read it, thought for a moment and then, maddeningly, remembered that I’d told her that the Hollands knew her late sister’s boy, Charles Hadfield. As she’d never met this nephew, she insisted that - even if I wouldn’t agree to be godfather – we would attend the christening north of the Park. In the event, Hadfield didn’t make an appearance and we had to sit through the tedium of Master Charles Lionel Jasper Holland bawling his head off for half-an-hour. What little I could see of the mite, he had fair skin - so I assumed that he was not a by-product of Sibella’s dalliance with Fahran on the Italian coast.

We spent the second half of August slaughtering grouse on the GB’s estate, September at the house in Wrexham with Lizzie and her grandchildren, and returned at the start of October to Stratton Street to find that Johnny Boer had issued an ultimatum to Salisbury on the 8th which had crossed with one in the post to them from Chamberlain. I heard about this on our first night back when I bumped into Johnny Dawson at the Cavalry Club (I was not a member but the ancient porter, who’d served with me in the Crimea, pretended not to know that).

“The Boers have demanded that we both cease our troop build-up on their border and send Tommy Atkins back to Cape Town, Poona and Aldershot,” he said, handing me a glass of B&S. “It seems that ours demanded full political equality for British citizens resident in the Transvaal.”

You, dear readers, already know that - thanks to the gold mining industry - there had for some time been more Brit miners scooping out the shiny stuff from under the velt than Boers farmers scraping a living off it. So, if Botha had acceded to our ultimatum it would have meant the end of Boer rule north of the Vaal River.

“It sounds to me, Johnny,” I said, “like a replay of the situation that led to the Jameson Raid fiasco of unhappy memory.”

“You’re right. The main players – and their plots – are exactly the same as they were three years ago. This time, however, Salisbury and his team are not staking their claim on the back of private enterprise: even politicians learn their lessons - sometimes.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said, “because I don’t fancy gettin’ involved.”

“Is there any chance that you will be if it comes to a war?”

“I wouldn’t put it past Wolseley.”

“Speaking of whom,” said Johnny, “I’ve heard that he’s positively incandescent with rage at young Churchill’s new book. Have you yet bought a copy.”

“I didn’t know it had been published. Anyway, I don’t need to buy the bloody thing as I already know what’s in it. Oh, Lor’ - well, if we do take a pot at the Boers it’s now a certainty that I’ll be involved.”

However, my prediction that Brother Joe would immediately exact unjust revenge for The River War by sending me off to the Vaal River appeared to be misplaced, at least initially, for my peace was undisturbed by a message from Whitehall on the 8th or the 9th and I started to relax. I was enjoying a quiet smoke in my study on the morning of the 10th when Searcy entered.

“Have you heard the news, Colonel?” he asked.

“What news?”

“The Boers have crossed the border. In response, Lord Salisbury is sending an Expeditionary Force to the Cape, under the command of General Buller.”170

“That’s a damned waste of tax payers’ money,” I replied. “Buller’s a drunken incompetent and, anyway, Stuart White has a Division at Ladysmith that’s more than enough of a match for a bunch of scruffy farmers.”171

“You may be right, Colonel, but this has also just come for you.” He handed me a telegram on a salver. With a premonition that it did not contain the news that I had won the Franfurt Lottery, I slit it open.

YOU ARE APPOINTED HEAD OF PROPAGANDA NATAL FIELD FORCE WITH IMMEDIATE EFFECT STOP REPORT BULLER DUNOTTAR CASTLE TODAY STOP WOLSELEY

I handed the flimsy to Searcy.

“Where the hell’s Dunottar Castle?”

“It is, I believe, Colonel, a ruined medieval fortress on the north-east coast of Scotland just south of Aberdeen.”

“Why on earth is the Natal Field Force headquartered there?”

“I think, Colonel, that the Dunotter Castle in question is a Royal Mail steamship belonging to the Castle Line which plies the Cape Town route, as you may remember having sailed on her several times before – most recently, on your way to the Matabeleland business.

“Oh, that Dunottar Castle.”

“The very same, Colonel. The vessel in question is currently berthed in Southampton and due to sail…”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, Colonel.”

“What? Shit!” I exclaimed, not bothering - for obvious reasons - to ask Searcy how he knew all this.

“Indeed, Colonel. I have already instructed Fahran to pack your campaign kit. I have also reserved seats for you and Fahran on the train leaving Waterloo after luncheon. Her Ladyship is in the morning room. Will there be anything else?”

“Not unless you can think of a damnably good reason for me not to have to undertake this duty.”

“I have already given it some thought, Colonel, and I’m afraid that I have not found one.”

“Well, at least I’ll be home in time for Christmas. Or perhaps I’ll take Vergelegen again and we can have a winter holiday in the Cape.”

“That’s assuming, Colonel, that it is all over in time for the festive season.”

“Look, Searcy, this ain’t goin’ to be a replay of the last two debacles: Pomeroy Colley’s dead,172 Jameson’s discredited, Stuart White’s no fool and we’ve been preparin’ for this dust up all year. Besides which, the Boers are a bunch of ill-disciplined yokels armed with not much more than pitch forks.”

“As to the latter, Colonel, I hope you are right - although you have had first-hand experience to the contrary - and, even if you hadn’t, there seems to be plenty of evidence that they are well-equipped and well-armed.”

“Says who?”

“The Morning Post, Colonel.”

“That infernal rag. Thank God that fucker Churchill won’t be writin’ for it this time as he’s no longer a soldier.”

“Soldier or not, Colonel, there’s also a report in that newspaper this morning that Mr Churchill has been appointed their principal War Correspondent. I believe it is for that reason you have received this telegram.” I was too angry at this simply appalling news to say anything, so I hoofed off to find C-G to give her the glad tidings.

“I’m so pleased that Lord Wolseley has once again recognised that no foreign military campaign is complete without you, Jasper. Perhaps this time…”

“I wouldn’t bank on it, m’dear. Anyway, I’m sure it’ll all be over before we dock in Cape Town. If it is, I’ll send you a wire and perhaps you’ll come and join me there?”

“No, I think I will take the opportunity to visit Dorothea.”

“Really? I thought you said at Wrexham you wouldn’t be goin’ to Russia again until next year.”

“I did, but…”

“Do reconsider, m’dear. It’s been a while since we were in the Cape and the weather should be perfect. Rhodes is out of office but I’m sure he’ll look after us.”

“That man! I can’t think what you see in him, Jasper.”

“Let’s just say that it’s thanks to his De Beers company this house is fully staffed and I don’t have a seizure every time you get a bill from Worth or Crichton gives me the cellar account.”

“Money is not everything, Jasper.”

“Let’s hope you’re never in the position where you don’t have any of it, m’dear.”

At this C-G abruptly changed the subject back to her intention to visit Dorothea and the twins in St Petersburg. Apparently, some Grand Duchess or other had ‘discovered a marvellous new starets with healing powers’. All such tosh, but if it kept C-G quiet I wasn’t going to protest.

At that moment I heard the front door bell ring and, shortly afterwards, George Wyndham – who I’d got to know quite well through Rhodes - and his much older wife, Lady Sibell (the formidable ex-daughter-in-law of old Westminster and not to be confused with the loose-hipped Sibella Holland of happy memory), were announced.173 The events of the morning had driven their arrival completely out of my mind but, as he was one of the politicos at the helm of the War Office, his presence at our luncheon table could not have been more timely. As we tucked into the smoked salmon I told him of my summary recall to the Colours and my view that it would all be over before it had begun.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Jasper,” he said gravely. “The Boers are thoroughly well-prepared and are acting to a definite plan.”

“Yes, but they’re just a herd of pony ridin’ peasants,” I said.

“Don’t under-estimate them,” he replied. “Besides which, I would have thought - given your experience - that you would think otherwise.”

“That’s what my secretary, Searcy, says.”

“He’s a wise man, then. Mark my words, Jasper, this fight is not going to be a pushover. The Boers are well armed. Did you know that they’ve acquired a large number of the new heavy one-inch Maxim? Even we don’t have that.”

“Yes, but they won’t know how to use them, surely?” asked Mrs W.

“I think you may be mistaken there, Sibell. I’ve already said that the Boers are well prepared. It’s my belief, but I’m a lone voice in Whitehall, that the Boers will attack us at a number of different points at the same time using their superior mobility and fire power to prevent us concentrating our forces for a march on Pretoria. If I’m right, then we could well find that, instead of being able to mass our superior numbers, our forces will be split, isolated and under siege.”

“You’re unduly pessimistic, George. Mark my words, it’ll all be over before Fahran’s unpacked my bags in Cape Town or Billy Gerard’s popped a single one of those bottles of fizz he was given last night.”174

“Yes, I heard about that. Didn’t Bertie’s Jew banker, Cassel, throw a party for him and the Prince at the Carlton Hotel?”175

“He did – and apparently the forty or so present each pledged a crate of fizz or cognac to ensure Buller’s comfort.”

“How do you know, Jasper?” asked C-G. “You weren’t invited and you hardly know Lord Gerard.”

“Searcy told me – it seems that one of his pals at the Nehemiah organised the whole thing.”

“Knowing the Commissariat Department, Lord Gerard would be well advised to label the crates ‘castor oil’, if he wants to see them again,” said Wyndham. “Anyway, I hope you’re right about the hostilities, Jasper,” he added, looking doubtful. “Now tell me about your new motor…”

Several hours later, Fahran and I arrived at the Castle Line’s departure shed in Southampton beyond which was berthed a white painted, twin-funnelled and three-masted tub that had been part-requisitioned the previous day by the War Office. Below decks, as I vaguely remembered, she was comfortably enough appointed and, thanks to a sov I slipped to the Purser, I had my inside cabin exchanged for one on the Promenade Deck that was being held for a Brigadier General who I assured the lad would not be turning up. Fortunately for my comfort, he didn’t and - at least initially - equally fortunately for my after-hours entertainment I discovered that I was berthed next to the barking-mad Polish Princess, Catherine Radziwill.

In the three or so years since I’d last seen her, La Barking had hardly changed at all, although she had become even more eccentric and a pronounced anti-Semite. Her obsession with the Chosen Race was, in my experience, not untypical of a Polish aristocrat but ridiculous none the less: they probably all have Jewish blood, which is what makes them such bigots. As she ranted-on endlessly at the Captain’s table about the Jews, and how she had a plan to trigger a global pogrom that would see them out of existence,176 I remembered old Reuben Sassoon telling me once, possibly at Tranby Croft, that actually the Jews of Europe and Russia were nothing of the sort – just the descendants of a central European tribe that had converted in the first century and thereby brought down eighteen-hundred years of prejudice onto their ringleted heads. In Reuben’s views, the only true Jews were the ones in the Ottoman Empire, all of whom – like him - could trace their families back to Exodus or before: the rest, so he assured me, had as much familial connection to Moses as Vicky and her mob had with the crown of Ethelred the Unsteady. Speaking of whom, the Jews that is, La Radziwill had remarked with contempt (and I’d noted with considerable respect) that Solly Joel, the multi-millionaire Randlord nephew of the late Barney Barnato who, until he chucked himself in the drink off Madeira, was Rhodes’ greatest rival, had refused to budge from Johannesburg.177 But I digress (I blame increasing old age for this distressing trait).

The voyage to the Cape was unremarkable except for the general frustration felt by all at the lack of news – and, for me, by La Radziwill, concerning whom more in a moment. After a particularly unpleasant spell in the Bay of Biscay, during which most of the Staff and all of the civilian passengers were confined by mal de mer to their quarters, we docked at Madeira where we expected to hear of a Boer defeat. But there was no news. In the ten long days that followed I managed to avoid Churchill, who I should have mentioned had arrived on board minutes before the gangplank was drawn up at Southampton and fresh from being routed at Oldham (as I’d correctly predicted). However, in avoiding the fruit of Lady Churchill’s well-lubricated loins I had the pleasure of getting to know Billy Gerard. He was a really delightful chap and I passed on to him Wyndham’s warning; Gerard said he would have the crates of champagne re-labelled before we landed in Cape Town. I also did my best to avoid Buller, who I knew only too well from the Gordon expedition. Instead, I rekindled an old acquaintanceship with Fred Burnham, who I’d last seen during the Matabele business. He’d made the mistake of being in London at the wrong moment and been appointed Chief of Scouts.

“How do you find him?” I asked.

“Who? Buller?”

“That’s the fellow.”

“Very keen on his home comforts,” was the Yankee’s somewhat unexpected response.

“Of the liquid variety, if I remember rightly. You know he was as responsible as anyone for the Gordon Relief cock-up.”

“Really? How?”

“By allocatin’ fifty of the Camel Corps’ best beasts to carry his fizz and Fortnum’s supplies. Why Wolseley ever forgave him I’ll never know. Any idea what he’s plannin’ once we land?”

“None whatsoever. All we’ve had out of him in Staff conferences is half-a-dozen grunts, several shrugs, a nod or two and a great deal of silence. That said, until we land and find out what’s happening, it’s difficult for anyone to know what’s to be done.”

“But surely he must have a strategy. Dammit, he’s deployin’ a whole bloody Army Corps.”

“Well, ye-es. I understand we’re going to reinforce the border. By the way, Buller did actually say something at this morning’s conference.”

“What was that?” I asked, assuming that Buller had demanded a stock check of the refreshments in the hold.

“He asked where you’d got to.”

“Me?”

“Yep. It seems that he knows you’re here to protect his reputation and, with Churchill on board, it’s going to need some protecting. Buller may have the charm and the conversation of a bison, but he’s not completely stupid. He’s seen what Churchill did to Kitchener and I think you’ll be finding that you only have one task in the weeks ahead…”

“I know, I know – keepin’ the lid on Churchill’s prose. God! It’s a repeat of the bloody Omdurman business. Does Buller have any idea that controllin’ the little bugger’s dispatches is about as easy as fuckin’ whilst standin’ up in a hammock?”

“That easy, eh?”

“Actually, a great deal more difficult and even riskier to one’s health and happiness.”

“Well, let me mark your card, Speed: Buller’s minded to put the boy journalist in harm’s way in the hope, I suppose, that he’ll stop a bullet before he stops Buller’s chances of a peerage.”

“But that means that I’ll be in the firin’ line too.”

“’fraid so. The only way to stop a Boer from lining you up in his sights is – between now and when we land – to make yourself so God-darned useful to the C-in-C that he decides he can’t be without you at his side.”

“And how do you suggest I achieve that noble aim? I may be Chief of Propaganda but until we hit Cape Town I’ve got sod-all to do.”

“Frankly, Speed, I haven’t got a clue – but you could start by appearing at the daily Staff conference.”

So I did and deuced boring they were too. Buller’s contributions to the discussions would have made a Trappist monk seem garrulous, although his equally silent contribution to the Scotch whisky industry was on an epic scale.

Meanwhile, when not being bored to death by Buller I was in danger of being rogered to death by La Radziwill. I’ve already mentioned that we had adjacent state rooms but, until we left Madeira, the Polski harpy hadn’t paid me much attention – beyond acknowledging my existence and our previous acquaintance – as she was too busy trying to lure the younger members of Buller’s Staff into her bunk. In this she was notably unsuccessful, probably because she was either too old or her racial views were too extreme for the ADCs. Whatever the reason, by the time we were chugging our way down the African coast I was very much in her sights. Now you know me: I don’t turn away pleasure when it’s on offer and so, on the second night out from the Portugoose island, I unlocked the connecting door to my cabin after La Radziwill had given me a broad hint to that effect as we rose from dinner.

Sure enough, Fahran had only just finished seeing me into bed when the door between my cabin and the next opened to reveal mittel-Europa’s answer to Messalina clad in nothing more than a gauzy dressing gown. Before I could even ask her to come in she strode over to my bed, slipped off her robe, pulled back the top sheet, undid my pyjama cord, hauled down the silk and straddled me. Fortunately, I rose to the occasion almost immediately and, in less time than it takes to tell, she was riding me as though we’d been entered in the Pardubice. Somewhat strangely, all of this had happened in total silence. However, as she upped the rhythm she not only started to moan but kept calling me Cecil.

“My name’s not Cec…” I started to say, but she leant forward and clamped a be-ringed hand over my mouth whilst she continued to address me as though I was a Salisbury.

“Cecil my love – harder – no harder still… Cecil – that’s good, my darling – now, Cecil, let me take you in my mouth.” She abruptly dismounted, swung around on the bed, took a firm grip of my principal asset with her lips whilst obscuring my view of the porthole with one that had an altogether different function. Anyway, with her mouth full, she stopped calling me Cecil. However, this didn’t last for long as, before I could bring the matter to a conclusion, she had rolled onto her back, split her legs and demanded that I complete the course in the missionary position. Unfortunately, this gave her the chance to resume addressing me by another man’s name until, that is, I could stand no more of it, buried my tongue in her throat and, without further ado, brought us both over the finishing line.

“Thank you, Cecil. We will consummate our love again tomorrow night…”

As I gasped in amazement, she swung her legs off the bed, picked up her flimsy nightrail and disappeared back to her cabin. It had been an above average experience and one that I was happy to repeat, but I confess that I lay awake for quite a long time puzzling over why she’d called me Cecil. Of course, I knew that she was a candidate for Bedlam, so was it, I wondered, some kind of a bizarre fetish or a fantasy? I had no idea and eventually I fell asleep. It was only when Fahran woke me the following morning that I remembered a letter I’d had from Rhodes about a year before. In it, he’d remarked that he’d wished to God that C-G and I had never introduced him to Princess Radziwill because, ever since then, she’d been pursuing him – despite the fact that Prince R was still in the land of the living - with offers of marriage. As Rhodes abhors women, the coroneted Polack’s determination to march him up the aisle was bound to fail. However, it seemed that, to satisfy her yearning for the porky miner-turned-imperialist, anything in a pair of trousers would do as a substitute. Indeed, after the third post-dinner steeplechase she demanded that I impersonate Rhodes after breakfast and luncheon as well…

By the time we were two days out from Cape Town I was not only heartily sick of the woman using me to work off her frustrated love for the ex-Prime Minister of the Cape, but I was also no nearer to finding an opportunity to make myself indispensable to Buller. It was only when I started to despair of both that my chance to shine occurred. It happened as follows.

In order to avoid the demented attentions of ‘I love you, Cecil’, I was taking a turn on the bridge thanks to an invitation from the jolly tar at the helm of the tub. There was nothing to see and I said as much.

“Take a squint through these, Colonel,” said the matelot, as he handed me a pair of nautical field glasses. I took them and gave the horizon my Nelsonian best. I was about to hand the glasses back when I spied a tiny plume of something where the blue of the sky met the black of the ocean.

“Is that smoke comin’ from Cape Town, Captain?”

“Lord bless you no, Colonel, we’re still two days out from our anchorage there.”

“So what is that?” I said, pointing in the direction of the wisp of whatever.

“Give me the glasses.” I did as he asked. He peered through them, thought for a while and then said that it was a steamer headed straight for us.

“From Cape Town?” I queried.

“Most likely,” he replied.

“So they’ll have news of the war?”

“Aye, they may have.”

“Well, Captain, when they’re in range use your signal lamp to tell them to heave to.”

“I couldn’t do that, Colonel.”

“Why ever not, for heaven’s sake?”

“We are not in distress and, if we delay their passage, my employers – or more probably the government – would be liable for any expenses incurred through time lost on their voyage. It might also be construed as piracy.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Captain. This is an emergency.”

“How do you reckon that, Colonel?”

“I’m in charge of news for the NEF and what we don’t have at the moment is any of that very precious commodity. I have the authority,” I said improvising wildly, “to order you and the other vessel to stop so that there can be a proper exchange of information.”

“I don’t know about that, Colonel. But I’ll consult with the Purser and see what he says – and, perhaps, in the meantime, you’d be good enough to get me the General’s written authority.”