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  vehicle that could steam around imperviously, harass the

  enemy whenever possible and gather intelligence on his

  whereabouts. I had heard of one that was built in Natal called

  Hairy Mary. They had covered it with thick dangling ropes

  which were supposed to deflect the bullets of rifles. Personally,

  I didn’t think much of its chances.

  This particular locomotive had been covered with sheets of

  wrought iron and was hardly a thing of beauty. It was

  essentially a big, ugly, metal box with a smoke stack

  protruding from it. Even the wheels were covered to within

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  inches of the ground, creating an effective barrier to shell

  splinters and small arms fire. In front of the engine was a high-

  sided wagon equipped with a Maxim gun, while a long-range

  navy artillery piece was mounted on the flat-topped wagon that

  came along behind. “Lady Randolph Churchill” had been

  painted in large white lettering on the flat-top’s sides, she

  being the popular American wife of Lord Churchill and mother

  of the celebrated journalist, Winston Churchill.

  To the rear of the engine were more wagons with built-up

  sides. The first contained an extra-large quantity of coal and

  water to extend the vehicle’s range, while the last wagon of the

  group was equipped with a Maxim gun that was mounted

  facing rearwards. In addition, the sides of the wagons had

  numerous vertical slits cut for the firing of rifles, giving the

  entire assembly a very grim and fortress-like appearance.

  That afternoon, I was summoned with two other non-

  commissioned officers to a meeting in Matlock’s tent, where

  we were introduced to Major Kieran Conrad-Jones from the

  Royal Corps of Engineers. He was a dapper, hardy-looking,

  small-framed man of about forty, with a pleasant social manner

  and unwavering, pale-blue eyes that left you in no doubt that

  he was a capable individual. His impressive service record

  included the Ashanti war, various Afghan revolts that extended

  back several decades and Kitchener’s campaign to Khartoum

  in ’98, where he was employed to supervise the fitting of

  armour plates and artillery guns on a fleet of Nile river

  steamers; effectively creating the water-borne equivalents of

  the armoured train.

  “Well lads,” he said after introductions, “the situation is

  this.” He unrolled a linen map from a leather container on the

  desk in front of us, placing an inkstand on one corner and a

  silver cigarette case on another.

  “A few days back, one of our routine military trains was

  extensively fired upon in this region here, between Albert

  Station and Burghersdorp. As you can see, this area is

  perilously close to Orange River, which is the border between

  Cape Colony and the Republic of Orange Free State; in fact,

  the very next place of any consequence is Betherlie, just over

  there on the Boer side of the river.”

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  As he spoke, he pointed at each spot on the map with a

  drill cane that featured a lavish German-silver cap which

  portrayed the emblem of the Royal Corps of Engineers.

  “Since this incident, telegraph communications with this

  region have stopped and it is certain that the lines have been

  cut. Our main concern is the safety of the station staff at Albert

  Junction and the eighty men of the Dublin Fusiliers who are

  guarding it, so we propose to add forty of your men to the

  garrison of the armoured train and do a reconnaissance of the

  railway at least as far as there. As we go, we will check the

  telegraph and the railway for sabotage and repair what we find

  if we can. We will need two more wagons added to the train to

  accommodate the station staff and the Fusiliers, which we’ll

  add once we get to Burghersdorp. We will assemble at the

  railway station at 0100 hours tonight and shall be on our way

  forthwith. Each of you will be assigned a squad and a wagon,

  which you will be in charge of. Any questions?”

  This was something different and not a horse in sight.

  Chances are it would be a routine reconnaissance and we’d be

  back for tea in a couple of days. We should be pretty safe in

  that iron-plated juggernaut and unless we were derailed, or

  attacked by artillery, we wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.

  The briefing over, the men filed out; leaving me behind

  with Matlock and Conrad-Jones, who smiled cryptically as he

  passed me an envelope.

  “None of what I’ve just said will apply to you, although

  you will join the train with the others. Inside the envelope

  you’ll find written orders that have come direct from the

  Intelligence Bureau. We will be making an unscheduled stop

  along the way, so you can rendezvous with a task force with

  whom you will be working. Good luck!”

  By daylight, we reached Burgersdorp and stopped to water

  and coal up. Burgersdorp was a sleepy little town with a

  population of around a hundred Boer and English residents, the

  majority of its buildings being single storeyed and either of

  sun-baked mud brick or paint-peeled corrugated iron. The

  Boers were typically large in stature and their features were a

  deep brown from a life lived outdoors. There was a leisurely

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  air about the way they did things and the way they dressed,

  with rumpled, wide-brimmed felt hats and well-worn coats,

  corduroy trousers and dark brown shoes.

  After breakfast, the officers and NCO’s assembled on the

  station platform to receive the day’s orders and as the Major

  spoke, two more wagons were added to the train. Since

  coaling-up and re-filling the water tanks had been completed,

  we clambered back on board as soon as the meeting ended.

  Slowly, we accelerated to a leisurely speed and settled

  ourselves in for what promised to be a long, warm day. We

  were now entering no-man’s-land, so additional lookouts with

  binoculars were posted to scan the tracks and look for any sign

  of commandos that may be lurking in the surrounding

  countryside. Bordering the tracks was an undulating plain that

  stretched off into the distance towards a horizon streaked with

  purple and blurred in shimmering haze. Like a lot of rural

  Africa, it always impressed with its vastness and the feeling of

  emptiness to the eye of the beholder.

  Hours later, we came to a small, rural station and stopped.

  This was apparently where I was supposed to get off, so I

  swung down onto the platform and as Conrad-Jones gave me a

  farewell wave I watched the train slowly accelerate away.

  There didn’t appear to be another living soul here. I kept

  watching the train recede, until eventually it disappeared into

  the distance, at which point I took stock of my surroundings. It

  was apparent that this was a long, long way from anywhere. I

  was totally alone.

  There were a couple of small two-roomed houses just past

  the station itself, both of which were shuttered and vacant,

  whi
le beyond them on the other side of the tracks was a siding

  with cattle pens and a chute for loading stock. I spun around,

  my eyes lingering over the station building, the principal

  building of the group. Everything appeared dusty and unused;

  doors were locked and windows barred. The place was

  abandoned and the silence was deafening.

  I wandered back and forth, checking what there was to see

  and eventually decided to sit under the water tower, where its

  open construction allowed a breeze to go through that cooled

  the shade it provided. The tower itself loomed large above me

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  and stood on top of hardwood columns that were strengthened

  by thick, hardwood braces, the whole joined together by

  fishplates of iron and large threaded bolts.

  At the bottom of the tower and facing the tracks was a

  long, tapering, leather hose mounted on a boom that could be

  lowered and swung back and forth, for the pouring of water

  into the tanks of locomotives. Removing the envelope that

  contained my orders, I read through them again and folding

  them, returned them to my pocket. I was supposed to wait here

  for the arrival of a group of agents who were to fill me in on

  whatever it was that I was sent here to do.

  The hours dragged by. All I had was my carbine and the

  uniform on my back, so if no one turned up I wouldn’t exactly

  be able to ride away from here. I know it was silly, but sitting

  here like this among all this emptiness made it hard to believe

  that anyone would ever come along and rescue me.

  By mid-afternoon, I had climbed the ladder up the side of

  the tower and discovered a wonderful vista of the surrounding

  plain. As I sat on the roof I spied a group of horsemen a long

  way off and patiently watched them come closer and closer,

  until some hour or so later I could see that there were three of

  them, each trailing a packhorse or two. Was that all? Only

  three? Well four I suppose, including myself; to capture a

  villain in all this expanse of country? Surely we would need

  more of us to do that? When I returned to the ground I

  continued to sit and watch for them, for there was nothing else

  to look upon and all the while I wondered what the hell I had

  gotten myself into.

  It was late afternoon by the time they arrived and I could

  see that the leading horseman was nearing fifty years of age.

  He sported a neat moustache that gave his face an aristocratic

  appearance, although in every other way his appearance was

  anything but that of an aristocrat. He was tall with the lean, flat

  muscles typical of horsemen and he moved in the saddle like

  he had been born on a horse.

  Approaching within a few feet, he pulled up and swung

  slowly and fluidly down with a grace that belied his age.

  “Hello there, young fella.” He spoke with a silky,

  masculine voice and we shook hands. On his head was a low

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  crowned hat with a wide brim, such as a stockman might wear,

  but with a fancy hatband of tooled leather around the crown.

  He also wore a tan leather vest over a striped collarless shirt

  and pale brown riding breeches were tucked into knee length,

  lace-up boots. It was his face though, that I noticed the most; it

  was thin and hawk-like with a slightly hooked nose. His deeply

  tanned skin stretched across prominent cheekbones and his

  mouth had what seemed to be a perpetual half smile; such as

  only the wise and supremely confident have. His eyes were

  hooded slits which never seemed to blink and appeared to

  pierce me through and through. Instinctively, I knew they were

  the eyes of a gunfighter; a professional man hunter.

  “I’m Colonel Walter James Anderson and you are Richard

  Wilson, I presume.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good lad. Don’t call me sir, call me Walt.” His steely eyes

  softened as he turned towards his companions with a sweep of

  his arm. “This is Ambrose Floyd and Harold Potts.”

  His companions climbed down from their horses and we

  shook hands. I noted that they were also dressed in civilian

  clothes and both were capable looking individuals, although in

  completely opposite ways.

  Floyd was about my age. Athletically slim and sharp-eyed,

  he also radiated the ambiance of someone who had spent his

  life outdoors. Potts was heavier and at least twenty years my

  senior. His florid townie face was getting rounder with age and

  he had a broad nose that had seen a few fights in his time. He

  also had dark brown eyes that challenged from above the odd

  scar and bushy sideboards that crept all the way down his face.

  He wore a dark brown suit and townie hat with white spats

  over brown shoes, while exuding a toughness that ruled out the

  possibility that he might be a businessman, although that was

  difficult to say. Whoever he was, he had the air of someone

  who was accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed.

  There was nothing about any of them that would indicate a

  military involvement and equally odd, they were of distinctly

  different origins. I divined that Floyd was Australian from the

  way he talked and the Colonel could have been Canadian or

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  American. Potts, on the other hand, appeared to be more local;

  perhaps a South African of English ethnicity, or a Rhodesian.

  The Colonel pulled a pipe from an upper pocket of his

  waistcoat while fishing with his other hand for matches and a

  pouch of tobacco.

  “Welcome to the group. We’ll have to get you out of them

  army clothes. For the time being you are going to be a

  civilian.” At this point Potts tossed me a carpetbag.

  “You are now Richard Wilson, out from England these last

  three months and the agent of a consortium of investors. We

  seek to buy land in South Africa for the purpose of establishing

  a ranching enterprise.”

  I was more than a little surprised. I had never been in the

  land grab business before.

  “Wouldn’t it look a bit odd – investors tromping around the

  countryside and constantly in peril, just to buy some land that

  could wait for some better time?”

  “Not at all, lad. Because of the war there is a distinct lack

  of buyers. That means anyone who wants to sell and leave will

  have to accept what they can get, so prices will never be lower;

  a perfect opportunity for buyers that are prepared to take some

  risk.”

  At this point Potts cut in.

  “Inside the bag you’ll find safari clothes and evening wear

  as befitting a gentleman such as yourself.” At this point, Floyd

  and Potts were smirking.

  I opened the bag to see if this was true and sure enough,

  there was at least one summer-weight suit, safari kit, riding

  boots and a pair of black shoes that I presumed would go with

  the suit.

  “And you’ll need this,” added Floyd, passing me a pith hat

  while assuming an affected tone.

  “Can’t have a fine young chap like Mr. Wilson wea
ring a

  battered ol’ army thing now, can we?”

  Removing my campaign hat with one hand and accepting

  the pith hat with the other, I placed it lopsidedly on my head.

  Now was the time for some big questions of my own.

  “So. What is this about? What are we attempting to

  achieve?”

  25

  “We’re looking for spies and saboteurs that have wrought

  havoc with our railway.” By now, the Colonel had his pipe

  smoking satisfactorily and removed it from his mouth, emitting

  a small stream of smoke in the process. He seemed to be

  studying me with those hooded eyes, no doubt trying to gauge

  my worth. I hoped he liked what he saw.

  “We heard about that Hun you ran into. I guess that makes

  you pretty unique among the agents we have.” As he spoke, the

  Colonel evinced a twinkle in his eye. “Not one other living

  soul can honestly say they’ve had the pleasure of that and

  those few unfortunates that inadvertently have are no longer

  with us to tell any tales.”

  “I’m not an agent, am I? I’ve never worked for the

  Bureau.”

  “You sure do now!” came the amused reply.

  “Is all this cloak and dagger justified?”

  “Afraid so,” stated Potts, taking the helm. “These bombers

  are wary. As soon as any army presence materialises they go to

  ground and resurface somewhere else. The army can’t turn up

  without being noticed by all and sundry and neither can they

  guard every single mile of track, so we’ve decided we’ll try

  another tack.”

  “That’s why we are posing as agents for a company of

  investors, which shouldn’t spook our boy should we cross

  him,” added the Colonel. “We’re employed by an investment

  group called the ‘British South Africa Cattle Company’ an’

  that’s what you tell any that ask.”

  “So Eric von Smidt is our man then?”

  “Yes. We thought his handiwork was the actions of Boer

  Commandos or disgruntled Boer citizens. Since commandos

  were the obvious culprits, we couldn’t understand why the

  trains were being sabotaged where no commandos had been

  reported. Recent information tells us that he’s working hand in

  hand with Shaun Blainey, an English-Irish dissident who is

  predisposed to despise his English ancestry.”

  “I presume then, that they are dangerous and I don’t see

  any of you packing arms. How are we to make an arrest should