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up for our use and a report from Colonel Rimington had

  praised our previous performances, which he had said were

  carried out under difficult circumstances; therefore, we could

  justifiably be proud of the service we had rendered. He

  finished by saying that today we were to wash and in the

  morning we should present ourselves to the commissariat if we

  required replacement clothing.

  Next day, a team of veterinary officers inspected our

  horses, of which almost half were deemed to be unfit for

  service. Poor things, their ribs stuck out and they were as

  starved and weary as we were. Choosing replacements and

  breaking them in was the priority of the next couple of days,

  but while that was in progress a surge of activity seemed to

  take place at the railway station after a train pulled in. It wasn’t

  until a couple of hours later that we were told that Lieutenant

  Colonel Redfers Porter had arrived and he and his retinue had

  taken up residence in the Royal.

  It was also rumoured that the upper-class blonde who had

  watched from the upstairs balcony was none other than his

  daughter, Lady Sarah Porter-Hurst. Speculation as to who she

  was had been rife already and now that her identity was

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  known, there was more speculation as to what she was doing

  here.

  Two days later, the camp was in uproar. Sergeants were

  striding about with clipboards and barking out orders.

  “You there! Drop those tents and re-erect them in a straight

  line – and by that I mean a straight line. Understood? Get to

  it!” The tents were pulled down and re-erected, some only

  inches from where they were before. We polished our boots for

  the first time in months; rifle bores were double cleaned and to

  hide scratches and dings, the stocks were brightened with

  linseed oil that had been thinned with meths.

  That afternoon nearly three thousand men from a number

  of British and colonial regiments paraded, while in the

  background a brass band played to highlight the occasion.

  Lieutenant Colonel Porter walked up and down the ranks,

  followed by a pair of aides with gloves who were holding up-

  turned swords. Four steps behind came Lady Sarah Porter-

  Hurst, also escorted by an aide with a sword. Her presence was

  a surprise to everyone and she provided the greatest interest.

  She was about twenty-five years of age and was attractive

  in a frightfully complex and expensive-looking dress. Her face

  oozed pedigree, while her bearing was that of one who was an

  aristocrat from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She

  spoke to no one and walked, or should I say glided, in stately

  fashion, with a tasselled and embroidered silk parasol resting

  over one shoulder to provide some relief from the sun. As she

  approached along the ranks I stared straight ahead with fixed

  gaze, dutifully oblivious to her presence, when to my surprise

  she slowed momentarily to give me a look of undisguised

  contempt; a look so frosty it could have withered grapes from

  the vine. She had done that deliberately; it wasn’t an accident.

  She must have been looking for me, singling me out to do that.

  It could only be revenge for grinning when we entered town,

  an indiscretion she obviously viewed as intolerable.

  Next morning I was approached by one of Matlock’s aides

  and given a message that Matlock wanted to see me.

  Mystified, I wondered if Mrs. High and Mighty had lodged a

  complaint. The thought of that made my blood pressure rise

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  and I had to remind myself that whatever this was about did

  not necessarily have anything to do with her.

  I approached Matlock’s tent and informed the duty picket

  the reason for my presence and he escorted me in. He saluted,

  stated my name and left. Matlock pointed to a chair, so I sat

  down.

  “I’ve got something that should interest you, Wilson. You

  are aware no doubt, of the presence of Lady Porter Hurst.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, we need to get her to Cape Town at the earliest

  possible convenience. Unfortunately, that is easier said than

  done. Her husband, Lord Wilton Hurst, wants her back so they

  can return to London with all possible haste, which presents us

  with a certain dilemma.

  “Due to a considerable increase in enemy activity in this

  area in the last ten days, there is also a proportional increase in

  the risks involved in attempting to move her. As you know, all

  railway trains have been appropriated by the military and there

  is no place on one for her. There is nothing available but high-

  sided steel wagons and cattle cars, which may be acceptable

  for our use but are definitely inappropriate for her. That

  seriously limits our options, but notwithstanding, we have a

  plan, which I will get to in a minute.

  “There is also an additional problem, which further

  complicates matters. The Boers are aware of her presence and

  therefore, may have an interest in capturing her. Were they to

  do that, they could easily demand a twenty thousand pound

  ransom from her husband and I need not tell you how

  embarrassing that would be for us; for an uproar would ensue

  from the international press about the ineffectiveness of the

  British Army. The reverses and tribulations Britain has suffered

  so far have already given the Europeans plenty of scope to

  ridicule Britain and we don’t need any more.”

  As he spoke his eyes bored directly into mine and left me

  in no doubt at all about the seriousness of it.

  “If that were to happen, the negative publicity would be as

  bad for Britain as the death of the Prince Regent of France was

  during the Zulu war of ‘78. Therefore we need to whisk her

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  back to Cape Town quickly, but with as little publicity and fuss

  as possible.”

  I could scarcely believe it. All this drama over some snot-

  nose blonde. I could suggest a solution; put her on a horse and

  spank her if she failed to co-operate.

  “Now, this is where you come into it. I have put a plan to

  Lt. Colonel Porter and in essence he has approved it.

  Essentially, in order to keep her movements quiet, a small

  group would succeed where a large one would not. Since our

  arrival in Africa we have established ourselves as a leading

  force, so with that in mind I have recommended to Colonel

  Porter that a detachment of New Zealanders could move her

  across the most troublesome part to Duntroon. From there, a

  British cavalry unit will escort her to Naauwpoort junction,

  where she can be taken by railway carriage to Cape Town.”

  “That’s good sir, but where do I fit into this?”

  “Elementary Wilson, you’ll be the non-com in charge of

  our men.”

  “What? But sir, I’m not an officer.”

  “You are now Wilson.” He reached into his pocket and

  produced a pair of stripes, which he dropped on the table in

  front of me.

  “You are no
w temporary Lance Corporal Wilson, second

  class. Quick, eh?”

  “But sir, I don’t…”

  “No buts Wilson. Do you think I drew your name out of a

  hat? Certainly not. We have been watching you for some time

  and we have noticed how the men follow your instructions

  when there’s an absence of officers. Senior NCOs have already

  recommended you as good material, a view that I endorse.

  Since I cannot afford to sacrifice one of my standing NCOs at

  this time, it will be you. Until further notice, dismiss.”

  That was it then, protest hadn’t done me any good. I was

  now the official nursemaid of an upper-class snob with

  enormous potential for causing trouble. Less than pleased

  about the outcome, I stood, saluted and left. That night, under

  the glow of a paraffin lamp, there was a briefing held in

  Matlock’s tent where we were introduced to Warrant Officer

  Arnold Blenkinsop. He was an imperial officer from the peak

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  of his cap to the tips of his excessively polished boots and was,

  we were informed, to have overall command of our party. I

  cringed inwardly. I had already endured my share of these

  upper class fools and was convinced he would prove to be a

  liability.

  Earlier in the day, I had recruited eight of my fellow

  troopers from One Company that were keen on the mission

  and together with Blenkinsop, we were clustered around a map

  of the region which Matlock had spread on his table.

  “Now,” said Matlock, pointing with his staff. “We are here

  and Duntroon is there, forty miles to the west. In between is a

  labyrinth of dirt roads, so to get there you need to roughly

  make your way along through this area here. Realise that as

  soon as you leave Rensburg, you are on your own. You may

  have to revise any or all decisions made here at any time if you

  are to successfully reach your objective. We cannot look into a

  crystal ball and see if you will run into trouble, but if you do

  you will be required to form your own plan as circumstance

  allows.”

  Matlock paused, his eyes roving over each of us as if to be

  certain that the point had sunk in.

  “In order to create as little attention as possible, you will

  need to leave here in the hours of darkness and arrive in

  Duntroon that night, if at all possible. We have requisitioned a

  light wagon from the stables for the conveyance of m’lady, so

  you, Wilson, will be required to drive it and stay close to

  m’lady at all times – is that clear? Here are some additional

  maps to distribute to the men and you can draw a couple of

  pairs of binoculars from the Quartermaster. Each man is to take

  an additional horse as replacements and you are to be ready

  outside the Royal at 0300 hours. Everything clear? Good.

  Good luck!”

  Good luck – that’s a joke. Now I’m stuck with her. I’m

  sure she will be thrilled about that. It’s the only good part and

  should be entertaining when she finds this out.

  We arrived outside the Royal at five past three to meet

  Blenkinsop, who awaited us alone. He was dressed in his

  standard campaign uniform that included a Wolseley helmet

  and his only armaments were his Webley revolver and a

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  cavalry sabre suspended from his saddle. By comparison, we

  were dressed in our old campaign clothes and we had three

  cartridge bandoliers. That gave us one hundred and fifty

  cartridges each; usually enough to supply us for a week of

  normal campaigning, for which we were expected to take a

  day.

  We came to a halt in front of Blenkinsop, who didn’t look

  amused – he just stared and slowly shook his head. We didn’t

  do things by regulation unless we were on parade. Our job was

  to fight and parade-ground nonsense had no bearing on how

  we did that. If we liked our bandoliers worn a certain way then

  that’s how we wore them, and each of us was different.

  Even our hats were individualised. Some poked the crown

  right out and others had pulled the brim down on each side, or

  had folded it up at the front. They even hated the way we rode.

  No ramrod-straight backs here. We were mostly farmers and

  we rode as farmers do, casual and loose. There was no

  Imperial Horse tradition to uphold where we came from, so if

  perchance we looked unmilitary, then so be it; we didn’t really

  care. He made no comment – what could he say? Now was not

  the time or place.

  Then, m’lady and Lieutenant Colonel Porter appeared.

  Porter was still attired in a dressing gown and m’lady wore a

  ‘Gibson Girl’ travelling suit. They were followed by a couple

  of night guards who carried her luggage. She hugged her father

  in the lobby, while the guards put her luggage in the back of

  the wagon and lashed a dust cover over it.

  As she was about to be assisted aboard she suddenly froze.

  She had noticed who her driver was. She looked back at her

  father as though about to protest, then seemed to change her

  mind. Without a word she dropped herself onto the seat and

  stared fixedly ahead, her back straight and her arms folded

  rigidly across her breasts. That was just fine with me so I

  ignored her. By now, Blenkinsop had re-installed himself at the

  head of our column and turned in the saddle.

  “Companyyy, forrrward,” was the catch-cry in his public

  school accent. We were off.

  Daylight found us on a large plain, with only the odd hill to

  break the monotony of the landscape. The hills were

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  essentially nothing more than large piles of boulders that were

  scooped into jumbled mounds, while around them the plain

  seemed to stretch off into infinity, dotted all around with

  intermittent waist high scrub and the occasional spindly tree

  until it eventually blended itself into the sky.

  We pushed along at a good trot, for the air at this hour was

  still relatively cool. Soon, we would be obliged to reduce our

  speed to a walk in order to conserve our horses, for it was far

  from certain that they would get a rest or a drink of water

  along the way.

  Off to the east, the fiery orange glow that marked the

  slowly rising sun had changed to a dazzling golden yellow that

  hugged the distant horizon, bathing everything with its

  brilliance and heralding yet another blistering day. Silt-like

  dust covered some of the land, where rocks of all sizes

  randomly protruded, while the grass was ankle length and

  alternated between brown and a limp shade of green. Ahead of

  us lay a road that was nothing more than a continuous line of

  wagon wheel ruts that had compacted with time and use, where

  from the passage of our wheels there rose small clouds of dust.

  Typically, Blenkinsop was in front and making himself

  conspicuous. I’ll say this for British officers, they’re as brave

  as lions; unfortunately, they’re so full of public school

  nonsense about the importance of being gentlemen that they
<
br />   are defective. The European view is that you do not knowingly

  kill the officers of an opposing army – they are the aristocracy

  and therefore, should be spared in order that they may

  surrender their swords as dignified gentlemen do.

  The Boers, on the other hand, have no such chivalrous

  notions about the sanctity of the ruling classes and would

  quickly exploit every opportunity you gave them. It would be

  obvious from afar that he was an officer, simply by his bearing

  and the fact that he was the only one wearing a Wolseley

  helmet. He was, no doubt, acutely aware of that and wouldn’t

  have it any other way. He was a gentleman and the leader,

  which the Boers would be required to know. They would make

  a special effort to pot him first and in my view, his chances of

  surviving a surprise attack were slim.

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  When the war started the idiots insisted on wearing their

  braid, shiny buttons and polished silver helmet emblems; a

  veritable death warrant it turned out, for they were

  systematically picked off in droves. Since British soldiers were

  never allowed the independence to think for themselves, they

  were helpless when their leaders were gone; a concept that was

  plainly understood by the crafty and practical Boers, but not at

  all, it seemed, by the pompous, self-indulgent leaders of the

  British Army.

  Of course, by now they had become wiser about the shiny

  button thing, but were still inept in many ways. He would be

  safer if he rode with us and wore a slouch hat like the rest of

  us, but that would be far too sensible. The humiliation of

  having to disguise himself as a lower class of soldier would be

  an insufferable affront to his dignity.

  113

  Chapter Thirteen

  RENSBURG, Cape Colony. South Africa

  M’lady didn’t speak. Soon after leaving Rensburg, she

  removed a shawl from a carryall at her feet. It had fringed

  edging complemented by tasteful embroidery and she draped it

  deftly around her shoulders. Other than that, she did nothing

  except wriggle to relieve the cramp in her butt.

  “Comfortable are we?” It was an attempt to break the ice.

  “Perfectly,” came the clipped reply. She didn’t look at me

  but gazed pointedly ahead. That irritated me.

  “Do you usually travel through the wilderness while a war

  is in progress?” I was perhaps a trifle tactless.