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  does this attack bring to mind?”

  We looked at each other. Eric von Smidt? It had all the

  hallmarks of something he would do if his reputation was

  anything to go by.

  “ang on now,” said the constable with the stripes. “I knows

  where I saw the fella in the picture – it were out at the

  crossroads just north o’ town. I went to Herrick’s place t’

  investigate a disappearance o’ one ‘orse like, when I sees this

  fella at the crossroads talking to a couple other fellas. Don’

  suppose it were ‘im that stole the ‘orse now, do you?”

  That morning, we repacked our equipment and left for Illwe,

  taking the most direct route south by traversing the Stormberg

  Ranges along the way. We had chosen Illwe as our next

  destination because Illwe was the closest place to Jamestown

  with rails leading to it and therefore, the most logical place for

  the wreckers to go if they wanted to blow up trains. The train

  wreckers would have used their head start well and there

  would be little likelihood of our being able to catch them.

  There would also be no sabotage or train wrecks along the

  way, because there were no tracks to Illwe from Jamestown.

  That they could disappear so completely was not entirely

  surprising. The South African regions were easily the size of

  France and with fighting occurring on three fronts, there was

  plenty of scope elsewhere for plying their trade. We had failed

  to establish if Eric von Smidt was involved, or Shaun Blaine

  either for that matter, and we were never likely to find out who

  murdered Futile Ferg, although my gut instincts told me that

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  Eric von Smidt would be at least partly responsible. The

  residents of Jamestown would have to pay for Ferg’s burial and

  a plain whitewashed wooden cross at the end of a pile of rocks

  would be all he would get.

  The ranges were a steep, hill-studded upland that stretched

  for more than a hundred miles, and were at least twenty miles

  across, depending on your point of entry. The hills were high

  with rock-strewn tops that were extensively rounded from

  erosion over the millennium, creating wide, grassy valleys that

  weaved and turned for miles. Once elevated, it would be

  possible to see anyone coming from a long way off.

  Only two groups of travellers had passed us and each was

  shown the picture of Smidt, although no-one from either group

  remembered seeing him. There was not much point in scouring

  the ranges without direct confirmation that Smidt was there for

  we could go round and round for months on end and find no-

  one, so we went straight to Illwe, the end of the rails on the

  Stormberg – Illwe branch line.

  Illwe was around the same size as Jamestown but lacked its

  civic order. It had two main streets connected by cross roads

  and looked like it had been built in a hurry. It was a town that

  had expanded recently, for half the buildings were relatively

  new, no doubt in response to the arrival of the railway and the

  greater economic opportunities it brought. It lacked the

  Englishness of Jamestown with its solid brick and stonework

  buildings because it was mostly built of cheaper adobe mud

  brick; there was a frontier boomtown feel to it.

  There were more Boer people here, the rural ones dressed

  in the requisite brown felt hats and corduroy, while the more

  affluent ones wore summer-weight suits. Most were large and

  walked with their slow, casual gait, while black people drove

  ox wagons, cleaned streets and did other casual work. One

  black wagoner had found a discarded top hat, complete with a

  hole in the crown, but nonetheless wore it proudly.

  The railway station was right in the middle of town and we

  set ourselves up in a single storey accommodation house

  across the road; an ideal location as the police station was half

  a block one way and the telegraph was an equal distance the

  other. We decided to avoid hotels from now on. The

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  accommodation was always on the floor above, so if we were

  attacked, we couldn’t easily escape by opening a window and

  leaping out.

  Due to the war there were no railway carriages available in

  the war zones, simply because bullets could easily pass

  through them; consequently, civilians were not allowed to

  travel by train and the accommodation business was all but

  dead. Which meant that there were always rooms available and

  most of the time we could choose which ones we wanted. The

  front entrance to the building was reached via a small

  courtyard flanked by an accommodation wing on either side,

  so we brought up the horses, unpacked them there and stored

  our saddles, packsaddles and packs in the room next to the

  ones we would sleep in, so we would be able to hear anyone

  who attempted to ransack our gear. When finished, we walked

  the horses to a stable on the west edge of town where we put

  them up.

  Returning to our digs we washed, changed and shaved.

  Then we walked to the telegram office and this time, there was

  a telegram from the ‘British South Africa Cattle Company.’ It

  confirmed that they had received the last message and that

  there was no fresh news to hand concerning E.v S., so we

  should keep looking. It was signed John G. Watermeyer, Esq.,

  company President. Colonel Anderson penned a reply

  confirming we had received the message and we left.

  Next port of call was the police station, where we did a re-

  run of what went down at Jamestown, before visiting the

  dining room at the King James hotel. The King James was a

  narrow wooden structure of two floors, clad with corrugated

  iron and with verandahs and a stone façade on both levels

  across the front. The dining room was on the right of the main

  hallway while the bar was directly opposite, the double doors

  to the dining room being panelled with glass and a large Royal

  crest hung above them.

  As we dined on pork pie we discussed what our activities

  would be tomorrow.

  “I have a hunch I’d like to play on,” said I, while the others

  raised more food to their mouths.

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  “And what might that be?” said Potts, having swallowed

  his before the others.

  “Well, I noticed at Jamestown that they seem to like

  clandestine meetings at crossroads.”

  When the sun came up I was nestled between the headstones,

  back in my old army gear less the bandolier, simply because at

  any distance I would be harder to see. I was in the Illwe

  County cemetery about a mile from town, skulking behind a

  headstone while the Metford lay on the grass beside me.

  I looked at the scripting on the stone – ‘Here lies Angeline,

  only seventeen. Gone early to God’s kingdom. 12th October

  1887’. The cemetery was situated on a knoll of some two or

  three acres in size that gave me, along with all due respect to

  Angeline, an unprecedented view of the roadway east from
/>   Illwe, which was no more than a quarter of a mile away.

  The cemetery itself was divided into different sections.

  Typically, there was one for Catholics, another for the Church

  of England, another one for Methodists, Presbyterians etc., and

  yet another for the Dutch Reformed Church of the Boer

  residents. I never saw any headstone with a black name on it –

  although there was another section with some graves that were

  unmarked. With my binocular cord around my neck, I steadied

  the edge of the binoculars against the side of Angeline’s

  headstone as I scanned the roadway and the junction where the

  eastwards road and the turnoff to the cemetery intersected.

  Behind me, to the north, the Stormberg Ranges dominated

  the skyline, the foothills of which began some ten miles away;

  while off to the south and east, undulating hills snaked their

  way towards a purple and far more distant horizon. To the West

  lay Illwe, a mere one mile away, from where I could watch

  anyone who ventured forth and lingered.

  From my eyrie, I could see the backs of buildings and

  washing lines laden with clothes that flapped listlessly in the

  breeze, while elsewhere, a woman beat a rug with a spade to

  remove the dust. There were dogs milling around, their barking

  audible even from here, and long drops with their doors wide

  open in a perpetual struggle to reduce the smell. Above it all,

  the smoke from coal ranges continued to rise upwards towards

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  the great blue yonder of the sky which seemed to stretch

  endlessly over our heads.

  It was bound to be a long day. My horse was tethered on

  the far side of the mound and I had three large canteens of

  water. Deftly wrapped in paper was a pile of sandwiches made

  for me by the landlady, so I was well prepared for the task. I

  lay back, my hands behind my head, while the flies droned

  around, settling here or there, only to flex their wings and

  drone off somewhere else, hopefully to be eaten by a lizard or

  a bird.

  I had seen some lizards, little things mostly, mottled grey

  or brown with silvery bellies; geckos I suppose. Then there

  were sparrows. Yes, English sparrows of all things. It seems

  the English take them everywhere, although you only see them

  around the towns. There are too many predators in the

  countryside, there being kites, hawks and falcons as well as

  other birds of prey. Everything in Africa eats something else.

  The morning dragged by. Occasionally someone would go

  past in a wagon or on a horse, but nobody stopped at the

  crossroads. I opened my sandwiches and ate one that was

  pickled beef and mustard, washed down with a draught of

  water. Today, the others were going to walk the town with

  Smidt’s picture. I wondered how they were getting on.

  I lay back again. By now the flies had given up buzzing, it

  was getting too hot; they would land on the shadow side of a

  tombstone and remain motionless for an hour or more. They

  were in some torpid state I suppose, like me; at least while they

  were like that they weren’t so annoying.

  Potts was a funny bugger. I couldn’t honestly say that I

  liked him. He was all bristling, officious. I suppose you have to

  be like that to be a good policeman and he obviously was. He

  was scary to watch when he was grilling Fergy, even though it

  transpired that he was not severe enough. I don’t know about

  his threat to shoot Ferg in the back of the head though – I

  suppose it was just bluff. I hope it was bluff. There was no way

  in hell I’d want to be a part of that sort of thing, although as

  things turned out it wouldn’t have made any difference to Ferg

  if he had.

  70

  Ferg’s murder had been a shock. One would think he

  would be as safe as houses being locked in a jail, but

  apparently not. Whoever did it had the cheek of Ned Kelly and

  more gall than Spring-heel Jack. I couldn’t get over how easily

  the killer had achieved it and how callous it was. It was

  chilling to realise that this was the sort of men we were up

  against.

  Floyd was a bit of an oddity too. He was always on the

  outside of things; part of the group without actually being part

  of the group. Perhaps he had been around black people too

  much as a kid for he was like a ghost without a foot in either

  camp. We hadn’t seen much of his tracking skills, although to

  date there hadn’t been much opportunity. Towns were too full

  of other people’s tracks to be able to successfully isolate the

  trail of a suspect and follow it.

  Colonel Anderson was something entirely different. The

  complete opposite of Potts, who was a townie and full of

  bluster and talk. Anderson was a plainsman through and

  through; the prince of forest and mountain pass. Like most

  outdoor men he had a quiet, almost leisurely way of doing

  things, not prone to talk at all unless there was something

  relevant to talk about. When he did speak though, it paid to be

  listening as there was always something of value in what he

  said. He didn’t turn his head to look at things the way ordinary

  men did, in fact his head moved very little and even then only

  in a measured, leisurely way – like an Indian I imagine. It was

  his hooded, steely eyes that did the work, roving slowly,

  missing nothing; his face a pleasant, smiling mask that hid a

  mind that was always turning over information; outwardly

  composed and calm, inwardly never at rest.

  I shifted my weight and my thoughts drifted to the war,

  which wasn’t going all that well. General Methuen was

  supposed to save Kimberley but had ground to a halt after his

  defeat at Magersfontein and to date had failed to make any

  more headway. The New Zealanders had done well though,

  having been commended in dispatches a couple of times for

  quick thinking and staunchness under fire. There was much

  ado and singsong after Matlock had distinguished himself at

  New Zealand Hill; he rallied our boys after taking command

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  and mounted a bayonet charge that repulsed the Boers, saving

  the Brits from being over-run.

  Then, there was that other hill. It was Matlock to the fore

  again. After the senior British officer was hit five times and

  had to be carted off, our boys counterattacked the enemy in the

  flank and swept them away. The Boers were disadvantaged in

  having to attack uphill and weren’t game to give it another go,

  so the crisis had passed.

  “God bless the New Zealanders,” said the wounded

  Colonel, as Matlock and the boys crept by on their way to the

  summit. The press had made a feast of that.

  Meanwhile, I was missing it all. Lying here doing nothing, just

  as torpid as the flies. When I wasn’t doing this I was being hit

  on the head with a sock full of sand and getting a headache for

  my trouble. Mind you, the rations were far superior to what the

  boys were getting and the workload less; I may have even put


  on weight. I reached for another sandwich.

  I shifted again and noticed that someone was approaching

  from the town. I locked the field glasses on him and studied

  him, fine-tuning the focus while resting the glasses against the

  edge of Angeline’s headstone. He was a big fellow with a

  beard and wore one of those dust coats that Boers like to wear

  – the ones that came down to the knees, always open at the

  front and split up the back, while his head was covered with a

  dark brown wide-brimmed hat.

  My interest sharpened when he stopped at the intersection

  of the turn-off to the cemetery. He climbed down and looked

  up briefly at the sun as if trying to estimate the time. He

  waited, looking a trifle impatient, and I waited with bated

  breath. I idly wondered why they preferred to meet in daylight,

  then I realised that at night they would never know if there was

  an ambush about to take place until too late. In daylight, they

  would be able to see from afar whether anyone else was about,

  although not today. They would have no idea that I was lying a

  short distance away among the headstones, waiting and

  watching.

  I swung the glasses eastwards along the road and lo, there

  were two men on horseback approaching, dressed and

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  appearing much the same; brown cord pants and boots, brown

  coats, with their heads covered with brown felt hats. Their

  horses were decked out for travel, with blanket rolls, bags and

  canteens suspended from their saddles. Our boy hadn’t seen

  them yet and still waited impatiently, not having the advantage

  of being elevated like I was. Soon, they united, the latest

  arrivals swinging down; grins on faces and shaking hands. I

  lay low and watched, absorbing every detail of their dress and

  features, until after fifteen minutes or so, they all mounted up

  and headed for town.

  My vigil was over and with no one in sight I sprinted back

  to my horse, slipped the Metford back into its scabbard and

  slung the canteens around the pommel, before I headed after

  the three men who were now plodding casually along at least

  half a mile ahead. I spurred my horse into a canter and was still

  trying to close the gap when they reached the outskirts of town

  and turned to follow the loop road that went around it. I slowed

  to a walk. So far everything was going well and it wouldn’t do