Holding For The Queen (The Soldier's Son Book 5)

A Nation Divided. A Soldier Tested.

South Africa, 1899. As the Second Boer War erupts, Captain Andrew Baird of the Royal Malverns returns to the front lines. The son of General “Fighting Jack” Windrush, Andrew must lead his men through a conflict unlike any before—one where the enemy knows the terrain, the tactics are shifting, and the cost of miscalculation is high.

From the first clashes in Natal to the siege of Ladysmith and the hard-fought campaigns across the Orange Free State, Andrew faces not only the Boers’ fierce resistance, but also internal divisions, shifting allegiances, and a war increasingly defined by irregular warfare and harsh realities. As the campaign stretches on, questions of purpose, honor, and endurance come to the forefront.

HOLDING FOR THE QUEEN is a gripping military adventure grounded in the brutal history of empire and resistance—an unflinching look at the men who fight, the decisions they face, and the high price of command.

Excerpt from the book

Michal Rheeder jabbed in his heels and leapt his horse over the fence, landing with a shower of dust on the far side. He dismounted with a flourish, pushed back the broad-brimmed hat from his long blond hair and strode towards the farmhouse of Soetwaters.

“Hendrik du Toit!” Michal shouted. “Hendrik! Are you there?”

Pushing open the front door, Michal peered inside. The interior was sparse, with little furniture on the beaten earth floor, while the plates on the antique dresser gleamed with cleanliness. The long Martini-Henry rifle on the wall was old-fashioned but well kept, with a faint whiff of gun oil. “Hendrik?”

When he realised the house was empty, Michal left quickly, jumped on his horse and trotted to the fields, acknowledging the servants with a careless wave.

“Hendrik du Toit!”

“Ja?” Hendrik was in his late thirties, but a lifetime spent outdoors, coupled with hard labour and recent grief, had carved deep lines in his tanned face. He lifted his hat politely when he saw his visitor. “Michal? What is it?”

Michal lifted his hat and shook Hendrik’s hand. “A commando!” Michal shouted. “We are raising a commando! Will you join us?”

Hendrik surveyed the younger man briefly before replying with a slow nod. “Ja, I am no warrior, but I will join you. I buried my wife and my son last year, so all I have left is my farm and war. Who are we fighting?”

Michal swept back his hair and grinned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It might be the native tribes or maybe the Rooinecks.”

Hendrik rubbed a hard hand along his jaw before he replied. “Ja, the Rooinecks. I fought them twenty years ago when I was a boy, even younger than you, and we will have to fight them again.”

“Get your rifle, Oom Hendrik, and three days’ supply of biltong and flour.” Michal grinned with excitement. “I have never been on commando before.”

Hendrik sighed. “Maybe it is time you did. It is not a good thing to kill a man or to see men killed,” he said thoughtfully. “Yet sometimes it is necessary to do a little evil for the greater good.”

Michal waited impatiently while Hendrik gave detailed instructions to his servants, saddled his horse, added a second and brought food, his rifle and ammunition.

“Where and when are we assembling?” Hendrik asked.

“Two miles outside Vereeniging,” Michal replied. “Tonight.”

Hendrik glanced over his farm to ensure everything was in order, gave final orders to his servants and turned his horse’s head. “Lead on,” he said, and rode away, leaning well back in the saddle. Hendrik looked to his right as they passed the simple church with the surrounding graveyard where he had buried his wife and son, mouthed a silent prayer and rode on. Hendrik could blame neither the native tribes nor the British for his wife’s death of fever, and he refused to put responsibility on the Lord, yet his feeling of smouldering resentment against the world needed an outlet. Hendrik patted the stock of his rifle. Somebody would have to pay, and the Rooinecks had a history of interfering with other people’s business.

The veldt spread around them, dotted with small farmhouses and decorated with trees, singly and in neat plantations. Above, the abyss of God’s sky stretched forever, cool blue except for a handful of distant clouds.

“Somebody is coming,” Michal nodded to the north, where rising dust indicated a rider. “Three men, riding hard.”