Fire Across the Veldt Read Online Free Page B

took ship for the Cape. It merely referred to a need to find ‘a new way of fighting the Boers’, for which Fonthill’s wide experience and ‘unconventional military methods’ would eminently suit him. Simon remembered ruefully that that very unconventionality had brought him into conflict several times years before with General Roberts in the second Anglo-Afghan war and that Kitchener would surely have conferred with his chief before sending the cable. So Roberts had approved of the choice. There could be no more validation of the need for ‘something new needed’. He was undeniably intrigued. Of one thing, however, he was certain – he would never return to the regular army.
    They arrived in the pretty little Transvaal town of Pretoria, final destination of the Boer
voetrekkers
so long ago, and Fonthill booked them all into a small hotel in the centre – not without a disputatious argument before Mzingeli was accepted as a guest. Then he sent a message to Kitchener’s headquarters, announcing his arrival and requesting an interview. A reply came flatteringly quickly, asking Simon to call at four p.m. that day.
    The army HQ was Melrose House, a two-storey, wooden dwelling near the centre of the town, fringed by a conventional African veranda or
stoep
and whose only clue to its militaristic role was the presence of a flagpole bearing a Union Jack, and the constant toing and froing of uniformed men at its entrance. Fonthill presented his card and was asked to wait in an anteroom.
    The wait was short and Simon was ushered into a much larger room. He absorbed a quick impression of map-covered walls and tables holding what seemed to be
objets d’art
of an eclectic variety and he recalled reading somewhere that the soldier was a collector of such things. Then he was confronted by Kitchener himself, who strode towards him, hand extended, seeming to fill the room.
    Fonthill regarded him intently. In a very short time, Kitchener had come to represent the imperial age in a manner that had even eluded such eminent military leaders as Wolseley and Roberts. Perhaps it was the great moustache, which thrust across the man’s upper lip, oiled, clipped yet luxurious and slightly tilted upwards at the end so confidently. He was tall but surprisingly narrow-shouldered, and quite slim. The face behind the moustache was bronzed with purple, heavy jowls and hair slicked back either side of a central parting. It was the eyes, however, which drew the gaze. They were set far apart and there was a curious cast in the right eye. And they were china blue, exuding a kind of intensity that was compelling.
    ‘Good of you to come so quickly, Fonthill,’ said the general. He grasped Simon’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Do sit down.’ Kitchener strode back to his chair but remained standing, holding his visitor’s card in his hand. He indicated it. ‘C.B. eh? Order of the Bath. That was for Khartoum, I seem to remember?’
    ‘Yes, General. Came up with the rations.’
    ‘I’m sure it didn’t. Getting through the Mahdi’s lines, being captured and then escaping was quite a feat. Didn’t your man get a DSM?’
    ‘Yes. Jenkins, the Distinguished Service Medal. That certainly didn’t come up with the rations. Couldn’t have done a thing without him.’
    ‘And is he still with you?’
    ‘Yes, he’s here now. We’ve been together, one way or another, for more than twenty years.’
    ‘Splendid. We can use him, too. Now then. You must be wondering what I have in mind, eh? Don’t suppose my letter helped much?’ Fonthill noted that Kitchener never seemed to smile. His face remained set, despite the modulations of his voice. It was as though it was that of an icon.
    ‘No, sir. But I am anxious to help.’
    ‘Good. The C-in-C assured me you would.’
    Fonthill marvelled at this. The last time he had met the famous “Bobs”, the general had distinctly taken umbrage at Simon’s refusal to rejoin the army. He kept silent now. It was up to