KRUGER’S
GOLD
A novel of the Anglo-Boer War
Sidney Allinson
Copyright ©Sidney Allinson 2011
Smashwords Edition
South Africa, 1902 – Canadian Lt. Harry Lanyard, British Army, leads a mounted patrol of hard-bitten troopers into the veld to recover $15 million worth of gold bullion hidden by Transvaal President Paul Kruger during the Second Anglo-Boer War. Lanyard battles enemy commandos, murderous bandits, and an enemy spy sworn to kill him, while striving to regain love of his American-Boer sweetheart allied with a ruthless Russian secret agent.
In loving memory of my aunt,
Nursing Sister Dorothy Maddison,
who tended soldiers in two wars,
and
Pte. William Wilfred Collins,
19th Hussars,
who rode far across the veld.
Wars pass, but the human soul endures;
the interest is not so much in the war itself
as in the human experience behind it.
—Jan Christian Smuts.
GLOSSARY OF UNFAMILIAR WORDS
Afrikaans: Boer-Dutch language
Afrikaner: Afrikaans-speaker, of Boer stock
assegai: stabbing spear
baas: master
biltong: dried meat
bint: young woman
bittereinder: fighter to the bitter end
Blighty: England
Blighty-one: serious wound, invalided home
Boer: farmer, Afrikaner
boojer: army slang for Boer
braai: barbeque
buckshee: obtained free
burgher: citizen
Canuck: Canadian
cobber: friend, buddy
Commando: military unit, individual member
Creusot: French artillery gun
Digger: Australian
donga: ravine
doolali: insane
dorp: village
fizzer: offence charge-sheet
funk: fear
Geordie: born in County Durham
Gerries: Germans
glasshouse: military prison
gun-cotton: cellulose explosive
hensopper: hands-upper, surrendered Boer
Hoosier: born in Indiana
Johnnies: Boers
joiner: Boer in British service
Joodje: Jew
Judge Advocate General: army legal corps
kaffir: black African
kakie: British soldier
khaki: colour of British uniforms
Kiwi: New Zealander
kleinbaas: young boss
knocking-shop: brothel
koppie: hill
Krupp: German artillery gun
laager: defensive camp
lekker: nice
mamba: venomous snake
mampara: fool
Mauser: German rifle
meisie: pretty young woman
MG: machine-gun
moordenaar: murderer
MP: Military Police
mufti: civilian clothes
mujik: peasant
n.c.o.: non-commissioned officer
Okhrana: Russian Imperial Secret Police
Oom: uncle
opzaal: mount up
Out Of Bounds: forbidden to enter, off-limits
penkop: under-aged boy commando
pom-pom: automatic light cannon
Pommy: Englishman
predikant: church minister
prottie: Protestant
Provost Marshal: military police chief
PW: prisoner-of-war
quid: one pound sterling
roer: rifle
RSM: Regimental Sergeant Major
schantze: rock shelter
scouser: Liverpudlian
sheila: young woman
shebeen: drinking-den
shell-shock: nervous breakdown, battle-fatigue
sjambok: whip
skelm: villain, crook
slim: crafty
smous: Jewish peddler
snoep: stingy
Springbok: South African (also, antelope)
squaddie: low-rank soldier
stoep: verandah
subaltern: lieutenant
Swart Gevaar: Black Peril
Tommy: British soldier
Transvaal: across the valley
uitlander: foreigner
veld: open plain
veld-cornet: commando-leader
verraaier: traitor
verkenner: reconnaissance scout
Vierkleur: Transvaal flag
volk: people, nation
Volksraad: Boer Parliament
vrede: peace
vrou: wife, woman
wit baasskap: white supremacy
CHAPTER ONE
“Aaaaaak!”
Frantic screams rasped from the tall Boer woman. She stamped in a small circle, tearing hair out of her scalp and throwing tufts towards the burning farmhouse. Her shrieks pierced the roar of crackling wood and flapping sheets of flame that were almost invisible in the clear African sunlight. Dry as straw, the white-painted walls fueled the pyre, destroying a lifetime of hope in minutes, mesmerizing the vrou.
Her glazed stare could not focus even on the small girl who crouched at the steps, cradling a gut-shot brown dog, kissing it’s muzzle. All that existed was this sudden evil that descended at daybreak an hour ago; the raiders’ bullying voices, yells for Henk to stop being a cowardly hands-upper and come out on commando duty. Though they ransacked every room and shed, her husband was not to be found, having ridden off when he heard them coming.
So they dragged poor Jessoo the houseboy into the yard and beat him with sjamboks to make him betray where his baas had gone. The black could not tell, so they tired of the sport, and took Jessoo out of her sight. The veld-cornet brought Henk’s bible from the house, pressed it into her hands, and explained carefully why she could keep nothing else.
Her husband’s stubborn refusal to obey the Transvaal Military Service Law that required every burgher between 16 and 60 years of age to fight made him a traitor, so all his worldly possessions were now forfeit. They torched the homestead, slaughtered all livestock, then shot three kaffir field-hands and the family dog. The job was all done when a verkenner came with warning of a British patrol on the way, and the Boer commandos left.
Only minutes later, soldiers rode in from three or four directions at once, over forty of them. Some came galloping fast, others slow and cautious, watching for ambushers. The first two thundered ahead on big horses, spinning to abrupt halts in the yard, recklessly close to where she stood. They were off their saddles in a blur, standing back to back, hefting Lee-Metfords, eying the outbuildings. She began shaking, no longer ashamed to show fear of the Volk’s enemies, keeping her head down but glancing to take in everything.
They were clean-shaven young men, in chocolate coloured shirts, whipcord riding britches, and high boots laced at the ankle. Each bore a leather bandolier across his chest and two holstered pistols. Their khaki Stetson hats had the crown pinched to a high point and a bronze maple-leaf badge in front. These soldiers’ hairless faces looked boyish compared to the fully-bearded men she was used to, but she had heard many stories of how dangerous the British could be. Perhaps they would turn even worse now without a woman over them, since their old Queen Victoria died last month.
Harry Lanyard could feel the heat from here, and wondered how the kid could stand it so close. The other Scouts spread out quickly among the farm buildings, looking for Boers or loot. So he slung his rifle, nodding at Piet van Praage that the coast looked clear, and trotted over to the stoep. His move startled the woman to notice her child again, and she called pleadingly for him not to hurt her. Piet calmed her with a few words of Afrikaans, but told her to stay where she was.
“Come on, honey. Best be moving.” Harry smiled and tried to keep his voice gentle to reassure the child, but had to pitch it loud against the roaring blaze. Yet he could hear her quite well, a tiny voice crooning a lullaby to her pet. Wisps of smoke were coiling off the back of her dress, so he started to move her away.
She cried, “Ne! Ne!”, pulling against his hand, still cuddling the whimpering dog. The roof collapsed suddenly, folding the house inwards and roiling thick smoke into the azure sky. A flare of heat struck the child’s back, crisping her dress, and her scream mingled with her mother’s. The kid slid up one step, and the agonized dog dragged itself after, trailing thin blood across her bare feet.
Harry stroked the mutt’s head, looking into its stricken eyes. “Okay, feller,” he said. He gently turned the child’s face away, unholstered his Colt .44, and shot her dog behind its ear.
The little girl flinched, then she skipped up the steps, screaming, fleeing crazily along the flame-licked verandah.
“Watch yourself, buddy!” Everybody started yelling, trying to call him back, but he jumped after her without thinking much.
His boots thumping behind seemed to scare her more than the fire, and she scampered to the far end before he caught up. He pushed her below the flames, ignoring his hair frizzling and an arm starting to blister, busy slapping at the burning dress. He scooped her up and rolled over the charred rail, falling hard on his rifle but managing to cradle her landing.
Five or six troopers pulled them to safety, checking to see how the kid was. Others flailed with their tunics at his smouldering shirt, while Jiggy ran to fetch a bucket of water. Everybody got out of the way when the vrou pushed forward to tend her daughter.
Harry felt foolish being rolled over and over in the dust, and stood up to show he wasn’t on fire. The woman was yelling again, frantic while she ripped off what was left of her girl’s pinafore, and some skin came away with it. The kid was pretty brave, barely made a sound.
“Oh, Christ!”, Jiggy Mendip called out, not about the child. He was leaning over the well wall, shading his eyes to look down inside. “We can’t use this now.”
Piet caught on right away, and detailed a native Auxiliary to guard the well. Harry unslung his water-bottle and gave it to the couple of RAMC orderlies treating the burns with zinc oxide cream from their wound kits. The medics’ care seemed to calm the mother and she finally stopped her racket, holding the infant’s head in her lap, humming a psalm quietly. For the first time, she looked the soldiers straight in the face. She still knew all kakies were accursed of God, but these ones did show some Christian feeling.
Ned Coveyduck brought a bandage for Harry’s arm, and said that was enough of playing silly buggers, seeing as he didn’t fancy a slice of barbied Canuck anyway. Being the biggest trooper in the outfit, Ned towered over Lanyard, who was a medium-sized man.
Coveyduck gave Harry his canteen back, though there wasn’t much left in it. Harry gulped a few mouthfuls, until Ned held up his hand. “Better save it, mate. They tell you Jiggy found a blackie down the well?”
Lanyard corked the bottle and glanced over at the guard standing shaded by the well canopy. “That’s a new one.”
“Main column’s taking its own sweet time, as usual.” Ned squinted up at the sun. “Only a day since we left Derby, and the Boojers’ve hit-and-run three times already.”
“Poor bastards.” Lanyard meant the straggling column of weary British infantry; 1400 men humping 50-pound packs under the brutally hot sun, marching steadily over rough ground for ten hours a day.
All along their route, soldiers fell out to the side, either collapsed with enteric fever or squatting miserably, trousers down, straining with dysentery. Scores of dead and dying horses littered the line of march, piteous victims of over-work, neglect, or starvation.
In the army’s wake, a dozen pillars of black smoke roiled up to form clouds across the windless sky. They marked where farms had been set afire in Kitchener’s new scorched-earth policy to starve out Boer guerilla fighters. The column of troops moved slowly from valley to valley, herding away cattle and sheep, looting and burning, and turning out women and children to weep in despair beside the ruins of their once beautiful homesteads.
Heads down, close to exhaustion, the plodding Tommies were easy meat for snipers and darting flank attacks by burgher horsemen. A few quick kills, then a short gallop away into the rock labyrinths before infantry could react.
“Gat’ll turn us loose sure enough today.”
“Better we got a move on, sharpish. Ride the buggers down before they gain a lead.” Ned laughed quietly. “Charlie’d never dare to send us off ahead, though. Gat’d go doolali if he missed a fight.”
“Crikey.” The big Australian looked at the ruined house and stopped smiling. “Never ever get used to this part, do we?” Harry just shook his head. They had both burned their share of farms lately, but seeing Boers do the same thing didn’t make him feel any better about it.
“Makes you wonder why these bitter-enders don’t just pack it in,” Ned shook his head. “Old Oom Paul’s been snug in Holland nearly a year since his government surrendered. ‘Cleared out the banks while he ran, they say. Nice work if you can get it.”
“Kruger left his sick old wife behind, too, without a pot to piss in.” Ned squinted at the surrounding hills, alert for movement. “No better off than those crazy commandos roving the veld with their arses hanging out of their pants. Too stubborn to give up, even while we herd their families into those bloody camps.”
“They still manage to run rings around us, though.” Harry gave them due.
“Well, round Pommy generals, anyway.” Coveyduck pulled a face. “They’re thick as planks when it comes to anything not laid down in King’s Rules And Regulations. Strewth! My cobber Breaker always says Rule Three-O-Three’s the only way to deal with Boers.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Harry didn’t see much point in mentioning that a few Canadians in his old regiment held the same opinion. Word had it some of Lord Strathcona’s Horse lynched six Boers at Twyfelaar after they put up a white flag then shot two Canadians coming to take their surrender.
Ned slapped his knees and stood up. “It takes wild Colonial boys like you and me to really hurt guerillas. Mind you, Aussie’s moved out of the colony category now.” He was still full of the news that the Australian colonies had Federated into a new nation just a few weeks ago.
Harry joshed, “Canada beat you there by thirty-odd years.” Ned grinned and faked a punch with his over-sized fist. He loped off to check for heliograph messages and see if there was anything tasty in the way of tucker.
Harry went to his horse, standing by the stone shed where he left her, reins down. She whickered softly, bunting his chest. He stroked her satiny flank. “Still got a long day ahead of us, gal.”
He dug in the blanket-roll for his spare khaki tunic. Like the other, it had no sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeves. Boer snipers watched for badges of rank, shooting officers and n.c.o.s first, so he’d inked three faint lines on a sleeve, to just show up close.
He stripped to the waist, sun-tanned face and hands contrasting with his pale torso. After months on horseback, he was pared to lean muscle. Harry slathered some ointment on his burned arm, bandaged it, changed shirts and folded the ruined one.
He patted Molly’s neck, fed her half his breakfast apple, and loosened the big California saddle he brought when he left the Strathcona’s. He gave her sleek coat a quick rub-down, and checked for back-sores or ticks. To finish, he unsheathed the Enfield bayonet from his boot, and scraped grit off her hooves.
He wet his bandanna to squeeze a drink for the big chestnut, and moistened her mouth. It was just past eight o’clock but the sun was fierce already, so the polluted well caused a big worry. Without the tank-wagon, no fresh water was to be had for the long ride ahead.
Everybody read the same signs, and took care of their horses quickly, as there wouldn’t be much time after Gat turned up. They chatted casually, easily confident, not at all concerned that enemies were nearby. With sentries at alert, native lookouts on nearby hills, and signalers watching for flashes from the main column, the anti-guerillas were able to relax for now.
You could see their self-reliance in their gait and swagger, the way they held their heads up and looked straight at you when they spoke. They were Howard’s Canadian Scouts, and didn’t give a shit for anybody; certainly not Johnny Boer, or even General bloody Kitchener himself.
Howard recruited his new unit mainly from demobilized Canadian soldiers, but welcomed any man who could ride well and shoot straight — Australians, New Zealanders, British, plus Springboks from the Cape, some renegade Boers, and a few Americans. Valued as one of the few outfits able to fight Boer commandos on their own terms, all troopers in the unit held the rank and pay of sergeant. At Colonial rates, not Imperial, that came to a buck-seventy-five a day.
Harry saw Charlie Ross had ridden in, and stood with Jiggy questioning a scared-looking native girl. Even from here, you could see she was barely able to talk, rolling her bulging eyes towards what else the commandos had done.
In the cow-pen, three natives lay in a row. Two men and a woman it looked like, but their head-wounds and ragged clothing made it hard to tell for sure. Behind them, a few cattle lay dead as well, and the raiders had taken time to carve sides of beef from some. A big bull ox knelt on its knees, lowing in agony through his slit throat.
Charlie waved for the two senior sergeants to come over, and Harry joined Coveyduck at the wall. “Housemaid. She managed to run and hide, but says there’s about fifty of them. Headed towards Rusplaats farm.” Charlie jerked a thumb at rugged hills behind the Basuto girl.
She was no more than sixteen or so, face greyed with shock, tears running through grime on her cheeks. Her dress was badly torn, no more than rags, and Jiggy was smirking at the glossy patches of skin that showed here and there.
The dying ox was so loud, Charlie couldn’t hear what Jiggy was translating, so the captain went over to put the beast out of its agony. It took two shots. During the interruption, Harry caught the little man living up to his nickname with the maid. “Like to jiggy-jig with me, darlin’?” Then he mumbled something oily in the Sotho language, and slid his hand inside a rent at her front.
Lanyard gave him a nasty look, and the Yorkshireman stepped back, palms up mockingly. “Easy on, Harry. We all enjoys a bit-of-the-other where we finds it.” He laughed, “Shagging a Boojer bint, yourself, I hear.”
Lanyard would have decked him, but Ned stepped between. “Watch your mouth, short-arse.” His finger jabbed Mendip in the chest. “And it so happens the lady’s Dad’s a septic.” At Harry’s puzzled glare, Ned grinned, “Just Aussie talk. Septic tank -- rhymes with Yank!”
“Cut it out, guys!” The captain sounded more tired than mad. He reloaded a couple of .303 rounds into his rifle. “She really sure about how many and where?”
“Yes, sir,” Mendip was ex-British cavalry, and more inclined to military courtesy than most of the Scouts. “Says they split into two parties, up both sides of t’valley.”
“We’re getting close to the Swaziland border.” Ross turned a recently-issued map to show their position. “Too strongly patrolled for them to go that way, so they’ll try to get around Derby and cross the Combies River.” He traced the red dots snaking west from the town of Piet Retief. “Some of those new-fangled blockhouses are just beyond, so maybe we can drive the commandos against the line.” He caught the sergeants’ faces, and nodded, “Yeah, if they don’t dance around us as usual.”
“What about that helio report of gunfire?” Harry asked Jiggy.
The apple-cheeked soldier was in charge of unit signals, though he looked too young to have been out here two years. He addressed the captain, “In t’valley directly behind us, sir. Stopped as soon as it started.”
They heard sentries yippee-ing, and the clatter of wheels. A four-wheeled water wagon came rattling up the track, with Gat waving his hat at the lead. Close behind, rode his orderly, Sergeant Northway, a couple of troopers, and some armed native Auxiliaries. Another black drove the surviving two horses in the traces, straining at pulling the water tank with a machine-gun carriage hooked behind. Everybody came running, grinning like idiots in relief to see Gat was okay after all. They crowded around their commander, who stayed mounted so everybody could hear him.
“Sorry I’m late, boys, but a sniper got my lead horses.” Major Arthur “Gat” Howard, DSO, slapped the Colt machine-gun’s breech and chuckled, “Took half a beltful to settle his hash.” The troopers laughed like schoolboys. Old Gat was indestructible, for sure.
Unassuming as ever, he wore a private’s uniform, with no crowns of his rank on the shoulders. “Looks like more hot work for us today, too.” He took in the corpses and burning house at a glance. “But, first we’ll need to borrow some nags from you, Charlie!”
Everybody roared at the dig, Ross being well known for collecting captured horses and cattle to sell illegally on the side. While native handlers ran to get fresh mounts, Charlie explained the whereabouts of the enemy. Howard listened impatiently, often standing in his stirrups to peer across the terrain like the old Indian-fighter he was.
He looked the part; wearing his gray hair long these days, with a white drooping mustache like Buffalo Bill Cody. Howard was originally American himself, having served in the U.S. Cavalry on the frontier for six years before retiring. He’d still be a Saturday-night soldier with the Connecticut National Guard if he hadn’t fallen in love with the Gatling, the first machine-gun. Howard brought three up to Canada to demonstrate them in action during the Riel Rebellion of ‘87, then settled in Quebec and never went back to the States. People called him “Gat” ever since.
Captain Ross told his plan of herding the Boers towards the blockhouse line, careful to make it sound like just a suggestion. Howard tapped his map-case and nodded, ahead of events as always.“Looks like we can scupper the whole damn pack of ‘em, lads.” At fifty-four, he had a chesty, old-man’s way of talking. Gat was way over the official age-limit for active service, but the Royal Canadian Dragoons were glad to accept him, and he soon earned the Distinguished Service Order for bravery.
“Don’t want to scare ‘em away before we get there, though.” He laughed deeply, and waved for the horse-wranglers to get a move on. “I’ll just ride ahead with Dick and take a look. Soon as you’ve watered the mounts, follow up on both sides in a pincer movement.”
“Hell, Gat, shouldn’t you just hang on ‘til we’re all ready to come?” Charlie didn’t look too pleased with the plan, and a few others murmured support. “Remember how the Crees jumped those two Mounties out on their lonesome?” Ross had soldiered alongside Howard in Canada years ago, and they shared many a hairy experience.
Gat did not respond to the reminiscence, just hitched his belt, checking his two six-guns were snug for the ride. He seemed more interested in how quickly the native handler fetched his horse a drink than discussing tactics. “Ready, Dick?”
Sergeant Northway hesitated, not wanting caution to seem chicken-heartedness, then spoke in his modulated English way. “Yes, sir, but more than likely they’re watching us through opera-glasses right now.” He had two prior years in country with the Canadian Mounted Rifles, and respected Boer alertness.
“True enough, Sergeant, but they’ll pay more attention to our gun’s location than just a couple of riders.” Gat’s switch to using formal rank showed his irritation. “Let’s go.”
He called out, “Listen here, fellers! Captain Ross’ll lead up the valley to catch the Johnnies between you and the gun. Keep an eye peeled for my signal to attack.”
As always when leaving, Gat Howard stood in his saddle to wave and call, “Good luck, boys!” He cantered off ahead of Northway and the Auxiliary. As they disappeared over the rise, Harry wondered how many Boer binoculars were paying particular attention to that black man with a rifle on his shoulder. Nobody thought to warn the three females, so they jumped and screamed when Coveyduck’s gun-cotton charge exploded with a hollow clang to seal the well-shaft. Lucky they didn’t know the houseboy was down there.
Lanyard felt badly about the kid’s dog, and got a shovel to bury it. Then he tore the charred sleeve off his shirt and took it over for the little girl. She was sitting in the shade, with nothing more than bandages on her upper body. Her mother looked up from her Bible, straight-faced, and took the shirt from him without a word. She put it around her daughter and whispered something. The little girl squinted up at the horseman, and said solemnly, “Dankie, rooinek”.
“Shhh!” The vrou was as worried at seeming impolite as about how the soldier might react to the insult. Harry just smiled and waved farewell. The kid had picked up the word, with no idea “redneck” was the Afrikaans sneer at all British settlers and soldiers.
The Royal Army Medical Corpsman shrugged when asked how things looked for the little girl. She’d probably be all right, so long as her burns got treated every few hours and she was able to rest. Not much chance of either though. They both knew how rough a cart journey it would be to the nearest refugee concentration camp, at Barberton, a hundred miles away.
Charlie put Lanyard in charge of the Colt m.g., telling him to take five men as gun-crew and escorts. He picked Art Furby and Terry Bramah for Number One and Two, with Piet and two ex-cowpunchers as outriders. He made a quick check to see the Dundonald cart’s two wheels were well greased and that six boxes of belted ammunition sat snug in the panniers. Everybody had a lot of faith in the American Colt. It was air-cooled and seldom clogged, unlike a tetchy water-jacketed Maxim.
“Okay, move out fellers!” Captain Charlie Ross never was much for correct military orders. The Canadian Scouts rode away in column of threes, breaking into a canter without being told to. They set off fast, keen to catch up with Gat and nail the Boers before they got away again.
Lanyard had a couple of steady men for his gun-crew. Bramah was the only fat guy in the outfit. Nobody knew how he kept all that weight on, with their diet of Maconachie’s canned stew. Art Furby was a hard-faced Alberta rancher from up Peace River way. He could handle the wildest stallion that ever bucked, so to get over his boredom with a placid draft horse this morning, he was riding it bare-back. He kept the gun-cart close behind Lanyard, clattering along the farm track until they reached Piet Retief road.
Harry waved them to a trot, making good time to be in position for close support-fire. Piet brought up the rear, while the two point men loped ahead on each side, well away from the road, heads turning all the time. They mostly watched the higher koppie to the east, where mist still hung in shadowed clefts, but they had to also watch the open ground that sloped gradually ahead. Boers were so clever at concealment, they could be lying anywhere in the sniper-pits they favoured.
After a while, though, the peaceful scenery reminded one of the Alberta cowboys of riding the range back home, and Bronco Fontaine started to yodel.
“Moseyed down to Calgary, to see my gal,
Found that already she’d married my pal.
Singing ki-yi-yippee, yippy-yi, yippee-yay,
Ki-yi yippee, yippee-ay.”
Harry shouted at him to put a sock in it, so the rest of them could listen out for trouble. Since that insinuation by Mendip, it was hard enough for Lanyard to keep his mind on the enemy. He thought of Beth. Her beauty, laughter, and sweet lips. She could help birth a cow as well as she played the piano. He used to ride in to the Blenkarn farm every chance he got off patrol. Harry told her he loved her, wanted to marry her.
That last night in the garden, she let him get as amorous as long skirts would allow. Addled with lust, he chuckled and whispered, “This what ‘hands-upper’ means?”
Fiercely, she pushed him apart, flouncing her petticoats down. “That’s no joke to any Afrikaner!” She spat, “The most hateful word of all. And just what our friends would call me and father if I married a kakie. I was stupid to get involved with you in the first place!”
Before long, they were arguing bitterly, and Beth sent him away. She made it clear there could be nothing more between them until the war was over or he quit Kitchener’s army for good. When he left the next morning, she would not even come out of the stable to kiss him goodbye.
Now, Harry jerked from his reverie as a crackle of rifle shots sounded. The distinctive pick-pock of Mausers. Somewhere nearby, their exact location muffled by folds in the ground.
Lanyard punched his fist ahead, signaling to ride towards the gunfire. Sergeant Furby hauled reins left, whipping his horse to a gallop. The carriage wheels bumped over ditches, hit open country, then clattered up the slope after Harry. Already, Piet van Praage had raced to join him, yelling he’d spotted a few Boer horseman coming around behind them. The Canadians halted just before the crest, below the skyline. Lanyard crawled forward with van Praage to look along the valley.
“There!” Piet pointed at where four wagons were parked under trees, no horses or men to be seen nearby. Right then, the first of Captain Ross’s troopers charged over the opposite hill, curious about the deserted laager. They were only 20 yards away when Boers sprung their ambush. Shots rippled from trees near the wagons, emptying a half-dozen army saddles by close-range shooting from concealment.
Without spotting any enemy yet, Harry shouted over his shoulder, “To me! Unlimber!”
Furby steered to the crest, unhitched his horse, and ran it aside. Bramah stamped the gun’s recoil-plough into the ground. Harry opened an ammo box, and his Number Two latched it to the Colt’s left side. Lanyard flipped the breech open, laid the tip of a canvas ammo belt in place, and racked the cocking-handle.
Mausers kept cracking, but he could still only see faint puffs from smokeless powder down there, “Come on, Number One!” he yelled. He whirled, “What the hell’s keeping you?”
Bullets spanged off the gun-shield, and one caught Art Furby in the open, halfway back to his post. He moaned “Mother!”, then blood gushed from his neck and he lay down to die.
Bronco and the others started firing at a couple of Boers sniping somewhere from the rear. “See to ‘em, Piet,” Harry called, and straddled the Colt’s iron seat. “There’s a lot more buggers down here!”
He waved Terry Bramah to take Number Two position at the Colt. They crouched low, flinching while lead splattered the shield. Lanyard span the elevation wheel, tilting the barrel to bear on the distant trees. He guessed the sights at 500 yards, squeezed the brass pistol-grip, and loosed off ten rounds rapid. Tak-tak-tak!
“Fifty short!” Bramah reported yards, calm as if at training practice.
Gat’s gravelly instructor’s voice sounded in Harry’s mind. “A machine-gun’s like a garden hose, son. Ignore how the stream arcs, just watch where the tip touches down.”
Gauging from dust puffed by his test rounds, Harry tilted up the muzzle slowly. He triggered five-round ranging bursts to kick up dirt, gradually marching his shot-fall towards the hidden ambushers.
“Target gained!” Terry Bramah bent to feed the chattering belt.
The Colt settled into a steady yammer, 600 rounds a minute in short aimed bursts, as Lanyard raked the trees with suppression fire. Leaves and branches and flesh tore, men screamed, gray shapes slumped out of bushes, then other Boers darted in retreat from this copper-jacketed rain. Even through the gun’s racket, he heard Molly squeal in agony.
He turned to look behind, and a Mauser slug cracked where his head had been. More rounds vibrated close, and the Colt stopped dead. He yanked the cocking-handle but it was jammed solid, the ammo-belt fabric smoldering where a bullet had hit. Rifle-fire stopped down below anyway, so Harry ran to his horse. She whickered when he arrived and petted her to be calm. Molly had a neat hole punched through one ear, and a long gouge along her ribs, but was still steady-legged. He wiped most of the blood from her eyes, but had to get to the scrap in a hurry. He rode her pretty roughly, kicking her ribs, plunging down the slope, a six-shooter in his fist.
He was halfway there when one of the column officers, Major Beatty, galloped towards him, waving his arms. “Too late! They’ve got Gat!”
That couldn’t be true, but Harry used spurs on Molly for once, raking her in his agony of mind. While she raced towards the wagons, skipping to avoid a dozen Scouts and horses on the ground, Lanyard could see Captain Ross standing with a bunch of men.
Up close, he saw some were crying over two still bodies at their feet. Major Gat Howard and his native scout. Both had been shot several times, at close range judging by powder-burns on their clothes. Harry’s throat hurt as he knelt and touched Howard’s dead face, just to convince himself.
He looked up dazedly, and saw Ned nearby giving a drink of rum to Dick Northway, propped against a wheel. There was blood all over the Englishman’s stomach, ripped by a dum-dum, but he managed to speak clear enough.
“Laager looked deserted. Gat wouldn’t wait. Insisted we look in the wagons. He was just pocketing a buckshee box of matches when they shot us.” Rum bubbled back into Northway’s mouth, and he sucked it weakly.
“Pinked Gat first crack, wounded. I got off a few rounds before they downed me. Pack of ‘em came up and riddled Sambo with his own gun. Thought I was a goner, so they rolled Gat over, still alive. All started to jabber, somebody recognized him, I think.” Dick’s voice faded, “Rotters pumped him full of lead, point blank.” Troopers wiped away tears, growling in their throats, and barely noticed that Northway died.
“You heard, guys.” Charlie Ross called in a flat voice. “Gather round and raise your right hand. I want you to make a solemn oath. Repeat after me.”
So on the afternoon of February 17, 1901, Howard’s Canadian Scouts stood bareheaded and vowed
together, “Because of what was done here today, this outfit never takes another Boer prisoner alive.”
CHAPTER TWO
The subaltern caught another fly. He watched one hover close within reach, then snatched it out of the air, quick as a mamba. He cupped the blue-bottle buzzing in his fist, stepped over to the high window, and threw it to freedom between the bars.
After four weeks’ practice, Harry Lanyard was getting good at fly-catching. The un-glassed window let every kind of winged pest come swarming in, day and night. Maybe they were attracted by the warmth and smells. The square three-storey blockhouse was put up only a month ago, an afterthought to protect the railway station long after there was much danger. Its offices, barracks rooms, and cells alike were filled with the stink of creosote, sawn wood, and fresh concrete baking in the unseasonably high temperatures.
Late April, autumn here, but summer heat hung on, baking the dusty streets. After the morning train arrived, there was not much sound outside, just the occasional rattle of a supply-wagon or crunch of boots when a platoon marched by. Belfast was a dead-and-alive hole. ‘Bit like me, Harry thought.
He caught the despair seeping in, and glanced at the narrow army cot, but started to pace the room instead. Back and forth, nine steps between the outside wall and the barred corridor. He did this a few times every hour, a break from lounging in stupefying boredom. He scratched his brownish hair, kept cropped short against lice for a year, but growing in now he was off patrol. His ordinary-looking face was losing its deep tan, too; more like the tennis-court sunburn on the scores of young officers who lounged around town.
Harry stopped pacing, but resisted lying down for a spell. When he was first put in here, he used the bunk a lot. After living rough on the veld, he rediscovered the simple pleasures of a comfortable bed and sleeping undisturbed all night. Pent-up combat strain and exhaustion, followed by arrest, had knocked him out, so that he slept twelve hours at a time. Even then, he tossed and twitched, shouting himself awake, holding his ears in pain at explosions still heard, cheeks wet with tears he could never admit.
When rest eased his shell-shocked nerves and he finally caught up on sleep, the hopeless brooding began. He lay on the bunk by the hour, hands behind his neck, staring at the raw ceiling. He saw the faces of dead friends; over a score more comrades gone during the year since Gat had been killed. Even Molly was taken from him, probably ridden to death by now. The remorse came back; that young Boer, Beth lost forever, concern for his mother and father in Victoria when they eventually heard of his disgrace. Word had not reached Canada yet, though. He could tell that from today’s routinely nasty letter from his sister in Montreal.
“You should be ashamed to be a soldier there,” Dora wrote. “Every day, we hear evidence of the horrid atrocities you Imperialist marauders are committing in South Africa. Burning the roofs over those innocent housewives’ heads, disgraceful accounts of mass assaults on women’s virtue, and deliberate extermination of helpless mothers and babies in your concentration camps. All just to protect those mittel-European mine-owners who exploit slaves to gouge wealth out of the Rand’s native soil.”
Speaking of which, Dora, he thought, Britain’s stated aim was to abolish racist laws in the Transvaal’s Constitution which forbade any equality between blacks and whites, either in church or state or employment. Once, he had tried to explain to her there was more to the Afrikaners’ cause than a romantic crusade for independence. They were also fighting to keep foreign immigrants excluded from citizenship, claim a larger share of goldmine profits, and preserve Boer tyranny over the natives. That view only infuriated Dora even more, and in the end he stopped replying to her angry letters.
This time, his sister’s passionate idealism engraved her blue pencil-point into the paper. “Eye-witnesses from South Africa address our public meetings of the Friends Of The Boers, showing lantern-slides of children like little skeletons. They display ground glass and fish-hooks they swear had been discovered in prisoners’ rations. Surely proof that British doctors are waging genocide against the Boer nation.” There was a lot more along the same lines, but he had just crunched Dora’s letter and thrown it in the bucket.
Boots clattered upstairs, and a Cockney voice bawled instructions across the orderly-room; the army unable to even push paper without making a noise. Harry pulled the wool undershirt over his head, and started doing some Swedish drill. Twenty-five knee-bends. Stand hands on hips, swivel left and right repeatedly. Flop down, body and legs stiff, sideways one-arm pushups. Up, down.
“Well, wonders never cease!” Acting First Lieutenant Glendon Scayles, Army Provost Corps, called ahead through the outside door. That big Regimental Police corporal was behind him as usual, the faithful pit-bull. The Redcaps strode down the corridor, firm-heeled, in perfect step, uniforms crisply starched.
“Up and about for a change.” They cracked to a halt in front of the cage. “Healthy exercise is good for a chap.” Scayles waited, expecting some response to his rare approval. Harry ignored them, flipping to change arms so he faced away. Up, down.
“Dammit, Lanyard, get to attention when I address you!” The lieutenant was a beefy, rugby-playing sort of young man, not used to being defied. “Or should I just knock some respect into your thick Canadian skull?”
Harry stopped in mid-press, still not looking. He had enough trouble already, but couldn’t resist saying, “You could try, I guess.” Transferring his weight to tips of his fingers on one hand, he held the body-slant and twisted to look up. “Two of you.” He glanced at the big Webley in the corporal’s holster. “Armed.”
The two-striper screamed, “No insolence when you talks to an officer!”
Harry got up. “I could say the same to you, Corporal.” He toweled his armpits, and pulled on his tunic. The RP glanced at the single pip of a second lieutenant on the jacket shoulder, but sneered anyway.
Scayles sounded a mock-groan. “Corporal Gudger has too much regular army service to respect a Colonial amateur like you. In a scallywag mob of irregulars at that. And it’s well known you Canadians are the worst looters in the entire army.”
He nodded at Gudger to use his keys. “Likely be losing that pip soon, Lanyard, anyway. You’re due for the firing-squad, like those murdering Australians.”
“Morant was English. Like you.”
“Well, he lived Down Under long enough to act like an Aussie. Finally wrote a confession note to Reverend Canon Fisher just before he was executed. Morant was guilty as sin!”
The recent executions of two Australian officers in the British-run Bushveld Carbineers had caused an uproar. Three lieutenants were tried by court-martial and found guilty of killing 12 Boer prisoners and a German missionary who witnessed things. Their defence was that General Kitchener himself had ordered any Boers caught disguised in British uniforms be shot out of hand. Truth be told, Lieutenant “Breaker” Morant had gone on a rampage of revenge, half-crazed with grief after his best friend had been kicked to death by Boers while their prisoner.
General Kitchener was already in political trouble at home over reports of other excesses by anti-commando units, mainly Colonials, and he refused to commute the death sentences of Lts. Morant and Hancock. The other accused, Lt. Wilton, was sent to serve a long term in Gosport Military Prison, where he confessed that Morant had in fact ordered the killing of PWs. But pride was wounded in the newly-formed country of Australia. Most Diggers started to believe the executed men were scapegoats, sacrificed as a sop to soft-hearted critics of the war in Britain.
Now, Lanyard was facing a similar charge, but it was obviously being kept quiet, judging by the silence from Canadian authorities. He could expect no help from them, anyway, as they probably considered it best to leave his predicament as a British affair. His only hope was that Kitchener’s fury over yet another undisciplined Colonial would be curbed by reluctance to face some more criticism.
The barred gate clinked open, but Scayles gestured for the prisoner to stay well back. “For some reason, I was told to personally keep a special lookout on you. Can’t imagine why. I’ve put in to go back to the Mounted MPs, and wish I was out on the veld, again. Troops’re getting away with too much there. Insolence, desertion, looting.”
“Not to mention burning.”
“You’ll laugh on the other side of your face, soon! The brass have come for you at last.”
“Can’t say I’ll miss your company, bud.”
“I’m your superior officer, Lanyard, and you’ll address me as ‘sir’!”
“Respect goes both ways — Scayles.”
The MP glowered and rubbed his heavy jaw, shaved pink and smooth. He looked around the barely furnished cell with a jailer’s distaste. The cement floor was swept clean, and there was nothing on the walls but a 1902 calendar with black mourning-crepe around Queen Victoria’s picture. “Pigsty. You’ll see nobody until you get that unmade bed squared away.”
He stood at the cell gate while Harry took apart the three mattress biscuits, stacked them at the bed-end, and folded blankets tightly around the sides. Scayles wrinkled his nose, and snarled at Gudger to have the sanitary bucket changed. A barefoot Basuto fetched a replacement from the storeroom next door, and sidled out with the used one. The native cringed each time he passed Gudger.
Lt. Scayles eyed the taut bedding. “Bit of an improvement. Now if you’re smart, you’ll mind your manners for once.” The policemen stamped away.
A few minutes later, Scayles led in two men, one in a new-looking uniform and carrying a dispatch-case, the other a middle-aged civilian. They stood in Harry’s cell, looking around for a place to sit. There was only two chairs beside the small table, and the civilian indicated the officer should take one.
The captain said, “Do, sit down, Mister, er, Lanyard.” He looked at the policeman hovering in the passage. “Thank you, er, Lieutenant.”
“This officer’s still under close arrest, sir. I’ll post a man just outside, in case.”
A crumpled green packet of Wild Woodbines was on the table. Harry pulled the remaining fag out and tapped it on his thumbnail. “I’m not allowed matches.” He looked meaningly at the captain. The man did not offer a light, just frowned, but Harry didn’t feel like asking for permission. This wasn’t the regimental dining room. Besides, he suspected now would be an appropriate time to smoke his last cigarette.
The civilian leaned over and flicked a gold lighter. Harry nodded thanks, the pair of them weighing each other up through the smoke. The older man was immaculate in a well-cut suit of gray barathea, with a high stiff collar, striped tie, and a monocle dangling from his lapel.
The captain said, “My name is, er, Barlow. I’m with the, ah, Judge Advocate General.” He had thick glasses, a moon face, and a small slit of a mouth. “This is Mister, er, Smith. An, ah, observer.” He waved at the smoke. Woodbines were five for tuppence and they smoked awful, but Gudger claimed no other brand was available.
Harry blew out another long plume and tapped ash into his palm. “Are you my Prisoner’s Friend, defence attorney, or whatever they call it?”
“Good God, no!” Barlow looked shocked. “I’m here only to be sure you fully appreciate the gravity of your, ah, legal situation.”
Harry spat a tobacco flake off his lip, “Near as I figure, my situation is I get a fair trial then be taken out and shot.” The legal officer leafed through a buff file. “You are facing very serious charges. Pretty, ah, beastly ones.” He paused when the Basuto padded in silently, carrying an extra chair. Smith remained standing, watched the black leave, then nodded for Barlow to go on.
“Your alleged offences include murder of a wounded enemy prisoner, contrary to the rules of war.” Barlow’s mouth went tight as a hen’s arse. “Committed in a barbarous manner. What puts a particularly bad light on things, the alleged incident was witnessed by two Belgian military attaches.”
“In the middle of all that shellfire? Even if they’d been close enough to see what I did, they could never hear why.” Harry walked over and threw his fag-end into the bucket.
“Have a care!” Barlow stammered. “It’s best you don’t make any, er, incriminating comments at all. This isn’t a privileged conversation, so we could be called to witness against you.”
“Won’t make much difference, with everybody else so keen to swear my life away.”
“No question, you are in very difficult circumstances, indeed. Facing summary court-martial for a capital offence. With apparently overwhelming evidence, unbiased believable witnesses, and past association with similar, ah, proclivities.”
Harry knew the lawyer meant those prisoners rumoured to have been lynched by his old regiment. He was about to point out that nothing had ever been proved about the incident, when Barlow went on. “And of course, the unfortunate, er, blood oath you took.”
“That was in the heat of the moment. Christ, we’d just found our C.O. shot out of hand!” He tried to get the man in civilian clothes to say something. “You’d understand, sir.” Despite the Burlington Bertie get-up, Smith had British Army written all over him.
The stubble mustache twitched, and he spoke for the first time, “It’d be helpful if you let Captain Barlow finish.” His voice was quiet, precise, but with a steely edge of command.
“I want to make clear just how strong the case is against you.” The lawyer would look anywhere but at Harry. “Most of your original regiment have returned to Canada, and you subsequently served in two different units.” He glanced at the file and frowned suspiciously, “After you received a commission, Howard’s transferred you to Rimmington’s Scouts for some, ah, reason.”
“Normal procedure. The army doesn’t like new officers to stay in the same outfit where we’ve served in the ranks. Afraid the men might act too familiar.”
“Ah, I daresay, but both units have been re-organized since. So, any defence lawyer would be unable to locate character witnesses in your favour.”
“Hell, just call Charlie Ross up from Cape Town! He knows I never condoned his reprisals.”
“Captain Ross has also returned to Canada”, Barlow cut in. “Rather quickly. To avoid prosecution on charges of stealing Crown property, um, cattle-rustling.”
Loud mechanical noises jangled outside, as the morning train from Komati Poort passed close by the cell window. In the quiet that followed, Mister Smith strolled to the gate and looked left and right along the corridor. He came back and offered a black-lettered cigarette tin. “Perhaps you’d prefer one of these.” Harry took it, a Balkan Sobranie. He nodded thanks, and the pair of them lit up.
Smith, or whoever he was, sat down and pushed the round tin of fifty close to Harry, along with a box of Swan Vestas. The lawyer turned his attention to straightening papers in the dispatch-case.
“I hear you were engaged to a nice young local gel, Lieutenant.” This cool Englishman seemed hardly the type for idle conversation, but Harry decided to just enjoy the rich tobacco.
“Almost, but it didn’t come off in the end.”
“Oh, too bad. Someone mentioned you used to visit her father’s place every spare moment.” Smith turned the lighter end over end on the table, and said casually, “Enormous spread, near the Mauchberg Range. What was it called, now?”
Harry said, “Farm Vincennes.”
“Ah, yes. I understand you were based around there for some time, chasing Johnny. Probably know the ground well.”
He flicked ash towards the bucket, and went on in a harder tone. “Lieutenant, we wanted you to know first how badly it could go for you at any field court, before we offered a possible alternative.”
Harry nodded slowly, “I catch your drift. Something to save Kitchener the embarrassment of executing another Colonial. Maybe I agree to plead guilty, and get off with a mere ten years’ hard labour in Gosport?”
“Listen to me, man. I’m offering you a chance to avoid the firing-squad!” Smith bit each word for emphasis.
Despite himself, Lanyard felt the hope rising inside. This guy seemed straight enough, and anything would be better than being shot at dawn for a shameful crime. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to show his sick, almost squirming, relief at the possibility of reprieve. To gain time to think, he carefully stubbed out the Sobranie on his boot-sole. Nothing came to him, though, so he met Smith’s waiting stare.
“Well, okay, what is the offer, sir?”
Barlow answered instead, speaking formally. “Er, all charges to be dropped, contingent upon you being reduced to the rank of private, and guiding one last patrol.” He read wording carefully from a slip of paper. “Also, should you, er, return, you will be released from His Majesty’s service and, ah, repatriated to Canada without delay.”
“That’s it, your wonderful deal?” Somehow, Harry felt more disappointment in Smith than he did about the shabby terms. “Bust me, deport me, after I do some dirty-work?”
“Perhaps we could look at things more from a soldier’s perspective.” Smith’s comradely tone excluded the legal officer. “Consider, the patrol we propose could help save a lot of lives, on both sides. And you’re best equipped to pull it off.”
“Yeah, as a private, facing dishonorable discharge!” The scorn in Harry’s voice made Barlow recoil. “Listen, I volunteered to get into this war, remember? All the way from Victoria, British Columbia. A pokey little corner of the Empire you probably never even heard of!”
His outburst seemed to embarrass Barlow more than anything, but Smith took in every word when Harry went on. “I even signed up with a new British unit, Strathcona’s Horse, when his Lordship’s recruiting agents came over to Canada. Our regiment cost him half a million as his personal donation to the British Army.”
“A fine regiment, of course.” Smith jerked an approving nod. “Hear one of your Strathcona chaps got a VC at Wolve Spruit.”
“Yeah, and he’s back home in bed, now!” Harry laughed shortly. “If I’d wanted a short war, I could have just joined the Victoria Field Artillery for a one-year tour. When the Canadian contingents left, I stayed on instead, and joined Howard’s Scouts. I’ve been in the thick of it for over two years, and I Goddam-well earned my lieutenant’s commission!”
“No-one denies you’re a good soldier, Lanyard,” Smith said quietly. “Though you made a bit of a black mark when you did away with that prisoner.”
“Speaking of which, Kitchener’s own orders for shooting prisoners are posted on the orderly-room wall upstairs.”
“Ahem,” Barlow chimed in. “They specifically refer to the lawful, er, execution of enemy caught disguised in British uniform, or with expanding bullets in their possession.”
“Yeah, sure, circumstances alter cases. Except for me.”
“Not entirely,” Smith said. “Hear me out, and perhaps it’ll change your mind.”
“Sure, when pigs fly!” Then Harry stopped himself, sat down, and reached for another fancy fag.
Smith laid something on the table with a hard click. “Know what this is?”
Harry turned it over idly in his hand, a small smooth disc that looked like gold. It could have been a coin, except for its lack of any embossed design. “Haven’t the foggiest.”
“Kaal ponde, the Boers call ‘em. Naked pounds, because they’re unmarked.” Smith bounced the disc in his palm. “Thousands of these have started turning up all over Europe, then recently in South Africa. First clear signs we’ve had of Kruger’s gold. You were out here when he did a bolt. ‘Must have heard all the talk at the time.”
“Yeah, Oom Paul’s treasure.” Harry sucked his cheek mockingly. “That story’s so old, it’s got hairs on it.”
“His gold’s real enough, Lieutenant!” Smith snapped. “Filched all along his escape-route. President Kruger cleaned out the Jo’burg mines, the National Mint, and every bank vault between Pretoria and Machadodorp. A fortune in blank sovereigns like these, plus veld ponde stamped coins, bullion bars, and paper currency.”
“Sounds like a ton weight. How much dough are we talking about?”
“All indications are, he decamped with well over three million pounds Sterling aboard his private train.”
Harry blew a silent whistle. “Fifteen million dollars!” A huge sum of money; nigh impossible to even imagine when ten dollars a week was considered a good wage.
“Quite. You can imagine our interest.” Smith said dryly. “We ferreted out a chap who rejoices in the name of P.J. Raubenheimer, one of the ex-train guards. He turned over to us a receipt signed by Senhor Machado, the Portuguese station-master at Lourenco Marques. It was dated the twentieth of May, Nineteen-Hundred, acknowledging the import into Mozambique of three million in Transvaal state gold. For a goodish time, we assumed it all went with Kruger aboard the Gelderland, that cruiser the Dutch sent to take him into exile.”
Harry shrugged, “So it’s long gone.” He wondered where this conversation was headed.
“Most. But by no means all.” Smith held up his hand for a moment, ear turned towards the corridor, before continuing. “A German ship-chandler in Delagoa Bay now informs us that around the same time up to fifty cases of gold were also put aboard two German liners there, consigned to Dresdner Bank in Hamburg.”
“Rhodes’ financiers, how about that. Cashing in from both him and the enemy.”
Smith ignored the comment. “Granted a million quid’s worth of the loot’s been spent in Europe for Boer military supplies. And though Kruger’s living comfortably enough in Europe, he has just fifty thousand in his own bank account. So we asked, where’s the rest, pray?”
He lowered his voice to a half-whisper. “From what Intelligence has pieced together, perhaps half the total loot was left behind, hidden here and there before his train passed through Komati Poort.”
“Could be the Boers’re pulling somebody’s leg. They do that a lot.”
The flinty eyes glinted with irritation, but Smith managed to go on calmly, “Last week, our agents located a chap called Schwartz, who was Kruger’s personal coachman. He boasted that while the Presidential train was at Nelspruit, Kruger personally ordered him to take two ox-wagons loaded with gold and bluebacks and bury the lot somewhere near the Devil’s Knuckles.”
Smith paused for emphasis. “Schwartz refused to say exactly where, and he’s managed to disappear on us again, before we could, ahem, question him a little more forcefully. Best indications are, though, it’s hidden on or near that Vincennes place. Your old staging-grounds.”
“Anyone who thinks those crafty locals wouldn’t have sniffed it out long ago must be pretty stupid.” Harry didn’t care about military courtesy anymore. What else could they do to him now?
Smith waved impatiently. “They haven’t, yet. More to the point, imagine the ramifications if President Burger, say, or General De Wet, got their hands on even a fraction of that much money. It could prolong the war for Lord-knows how long. Help them buy new weapons and provisions, not to mention bribing politicians and newspapers for Boer support all over the shop.”
“If.”
The unruffled way Smith kept taking all Harry’s lip hinted there was still something left unsaid. “Plenty of German and French arms salesmen certainly think it exists. Including some British scum, too. Just the hint of new Boer funds has brought them all flocking back to Mozambique in hopes of profit from smuggling supplies across the frontier.”
He rubbed a tiny mopane fly out of his eyelid, then said reasonably, “You know every mile of the region where the treasure is. You can find it if anyone could, and help knock Johnny out of the war.”
“How big a patrol would a private command?”
“Over-large a force would draw too much attention. Eighteen men with two officers should do it. We’ve rounded up some chaps who were in the Scouts with you. Pick anyone else you think’ll be useful as well.”
Smith cleared his throat. “You’ve already met your assigned patrol leader. Lieutenant Scayles.”
Harry slapped the table hard, and scraped to his feet so fast the chair went flying. “So that’s the nigger-in-the-woodpile you’ve been hiding!”