The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  But more than the children, it was Elizabeth’s complaints that hurt most. She prided herself on not complaining, but somehow her grievances got out into the world. One of the most prominent notions was that marriage to Butler had been the beginning of the death of her artistic career.

  Bull-necked wives of generals would directly accuse him of it.

  “You must help Elizabeth find time for her wonderful art, William.”

  “Perhaps you are too critical, General Butler. I wouldn’t know but it seems …”

  What came back through friends, who did not necessarily have his best interests at heart either, was that his odd career had damaged Elizabeth by taking her away from London (the art world’s pulse in London’s own estimation). He had lumbered her with his strange opinions, and it showed in her work.

  As for where Butler’s pro-Boer, pro-Dervish, pro-Afghan sympathies showed up in her work, those who liked their war art triumphant often pointed to Elizabeth’s Remnants of an Army, an agonized portrait of Dr. Brydon stumbling into Jalalabad on a dying horse, after the Afghans had destroyed a British army, families included, on the retreat from Kabul. Brydon had half his head missing. There, supposedly, was General Butler’s influence, and Butler never got the opportunity to point out that he hated that bloody painting and wanted it cut up. The thing was abject, and whatever the British army could justly be accused of (stupidity, beastliness, obstinacy, arrogance, vainglory), abjectness was practically beyond it. In his opinion, Remnants was as wrong-headed as Elizabeth’s more recent debacle on the subject of Paardeburg.

  But, whether Butler had caused it or not, Elizabeth’s career was in a mess, no question about that, and this very day owed its miserable beginning to her everlasting grief over it—that and her having hinted, broadly, that she really did hold Butler to blame. Sometimes Elizabeth stood up to him, such as when he had criticized her Paardeburg painting and she had erupted. That was a reaction he much preferred to what she trotted out today: sadness, blackness, bleakness—and awful bloody sighing.

  Such had been her mood as he passed through the house to leave. She was staring out a window, as if unhappy that the sun had risen. At the end of a truly epic, cross-lifting sigh, she said just loud enough for him not to miss a syllable, “Perhaps if I had not gone with you so much. Mind you, there would always have been a household to run, wherever I was. And the children …”

  He had already made the mistake of stopping. He felt his face burning and could imagine his red appearance. Sanguinity—bad for the health, as she liked to point out.

  “Instead of reviewing the past, Elizabeth, why don’t you try painting something in the present?”

  She turned her damp eyes toward him. Her hand hung off the chair as if the arm controlling it had just been shot and killed.

  “That’s all fine, Will,” she said in a voice without energy, the song of another sigh. “And I would almost respect you for saying it, if you did not know perfectly well that there has not been a call for my services since the Paardeburg commission. There has really been almost no interest in me since your disgrace in Africa.”

  “My what? My disgrace? My disparagement, you mean, surely. My dismissal. My destruction, if my enemies had their way. But I’ll have you know that I have done nothing disgraceful. That is, unless trying to prevent your bloody stupid nation from bankrupting itself and sending thousands of promising young men to their death is now disgraceful in your eyes!”

  “Bloody stupid nation. Isn’t that what I’m talking about?”

  “I meant my own country as much as yours. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

  “I suppose I am no longer sharp. Certainly those who laugh at me and call me Roll Call Thompson would agree with you.”

  He could not stand it. He had thrown on his coat, slammed the door, and made for the waiting carriage. The horses had scarcely lurched forward when he was consumed with guilt and sorrow, and the overwhelming wish to be kneeling in front of his wife, kissing her inert hands and begging her forgiveness.

  And here he sat in the court-martial shed. However willing Butler was to apologize for their fight, the truth was that his disgrace, so called, was not the reason Elizabeth’s career as a war artist had failed. In truth, that career had been floundering since the early 1880s, perhaps because of the layoff occasioned by the birth of their children—children who were her choice as much as his. As for his career hampering her, she had greatly enjoyed his ascent to Lieutenant-General, even if it had only happened because of his hanging on tight to Garnet Wolseley’s coattails as they rose. There had been social cachet in being part of the Wolseley Ring. At the time of their marriage, a good many who dictated taste in London had pronounced them a lovely match: the soldier-writer and his beautiful war-artist wife.

  What had defeated Elizabeth Thompson Butler was the same thing that had defeated William Francis Butler, and that was time. Time and change. Butler did not really understand what made smokeless powder smokeless. He hated how noisy lyddite bombs were and how they painted every battlefield the same sickly colours. Nor did he care for the ever-longer howitzers, firing their fifty-pound shells for miles. What was the point of killing an enemy you could not see, who could not see you? You might as well mail him a poisoned biscuit. Eventually, would the guns get so long that the British would simply sit in London and fire at Berlin?

  Butler did not like, or entirely understand, modern warfare, and it had turned him into a homebound general, soon to be an out-to-pasture general. And the same thing had turned Elizabeth Thompson Butler into Roll Call Thompson. Her pictures no longer looked like war to the people in the know. Her critics found Afghan and Ashanti and Zulu touches in what were supposed to be scenes from modern fights. They looked for the howitzers and the lyddite haze and could not find them.

  Worst of all, the bastards who called her Roll Call Thompson—he’d throttle those cowards if he ever caught them—did so because Elizabeth was not jingo enough. Here again, their fates were linked. The gutter press, the war manufacturers, the financiers who owned newspapers, the bribe-taking politicians, the average British punter throwing pints into himself in a greasy pub—they were all crying for war and victories, the bloodier the better. The weaker they got, the more disgusted with themselves, the more blood and death it took to brace them.

  In this shed, redolent of mouse and mildew, it could not have been more clear. Butler felt an excited desire to run home to Elizabeth and lay his findings before her; to tell her how precisely parallel their paths had run; to commiserate and plan the dignified response. But, if he did so, it would not work, and he knew exactly why it would not work. Butler could say all this; every bit of it could be correct; but none of it would make Elizabeth Thompson the centre of attention in the London art world again. None of it could restore her to the pinnacle she had occupied in 1877 when they had married.

  Only that would do, and it did not matter that no one in the world could give her that. It only mattered that Butler could not.

  Katbosch, June 1900

  Past Ovide’s shoulder and out the train window, Frank watched the backward unfolding of his war. They were returning to the Orange River Colony.

  At Pretoria Station, yesterday, the Mounted Rifles had been gathered into their troops, and swapped around by some formula that matched Davidson’s troop with Lieutenant Ingle’s troop from C Squadron. They were told to board the same car and to disembark at the same siding. They would be guarding a stretch of railway against Christiaan De Wet and his Free State saboteurs.

  What intrigued Frank about the arrangement was how it left him squashed in the same half-car with men from home. They had done things as a troop before, but never to the exclusion of others. Now, except for C Squadron in the car’s other half, Frank was with men who knew his landmarks and the gossip of which he was made. It was as if he was home, which was a good feeling, except for Eddy Belton’s damp, high-smelling form wedged against his side and Pete Belton’s breath a little too c
lose behind his ear. Pete was reciting everything he saw.

  “Now this here river, this is way down since we crossed it, wouldn’t you say? Way down. I say it’s way down.”

  The river was the Vaal. They crossed it on a new bridge built by army engineers to replace the blown-up one. According to Greasy Griesbach, all the railway-building in South Africa was under the orders of Maj. Percy Girouard, a Canadian friend of Lord Kitchener from the Sudan war.

  Less than an hour later, the train stopped where some new track curved around a gnarl of blown steel. A sign read KROM ELM BOURG SPRUIT, and the first fifty Mounted Rifles got off, including Corporal Griesbach.

  “Damn smart, him,” Ovide said as he watched Griesbach disappear. “That Greaseback.”

  Ovide’s tone was sad, and it made Frank wonder who their smartest man was, now that Greasy was gone. Who from this more local group could they rely on to think for them in a pinch? Again he wished that Jeff Davis had never left; had resisted his urge to scout. If the trio of Ovide, Jeff, and Frank had stayed together, Jeff could have done its thinking and Frank could have followed. He never would have had to lead as he did too often with Ovide.

  Without Davis, Frank decided the smartest man was Fred Morden, who probably would have been promoted by now except for oversight, and the fact that he had not had a chance to be a hero. Fred was sitting surrounded by his cronies, the Miles boys and Kerr, and all the attention was toward him, not because he was talking but because he might start.

  More sets of fifty got off at Wolvehoek, Vredefort, and Roodewal. Next came Honing Spruit (Honey Creek), where no one got off because it was already defended by British ex-POWs. Quickly thereafter came Katbosch, and Ingles, seeing the sign, jumped up and said, “Okay, boys, this is us!”

  Katbosch was not inspiring; the scenery had barely a ripple, except for one hazy kopje off to the east. The prairie was almost white, bleached by the winter frosts.

  Beside the Katbosch sign, a shack town already existed. Frank thought it might be Africans, miners maybe, but it was actually the handiwork of two companies of Shropshires, and a battery with two fifteen-pound Armstrong guns. A telegraph line passed through the camp, and on a pole near the middle they’d hammered ladder steps up to a platform. It was so fiat here, a fifteen-foot crow’s nest commanded a view.

  There was not much choice but to claim ground and start gathering rubbish for a suburb of their own. After a parley with the Shropshires’ commander, Davidson and Ingles sent patrols to abandoned farms, where an outhouse or chicken coop might still yield a board. As for water, they would have to go to Honing Spruit and haul it back.

  The Shropshire captain told them to be careful while they scavenged. Though nothing much had happened here, the thorn trees and winter grass could still harbour a Boer. A Shropshire scout had found horse tracks of late, and a Boer sniper had offended one of their sleeps.

  Frank found himself perversely fond of Katbosch. The feeling he had on the train of being home stayed with him in the camp, and the feeling of being unsafe without Jeff Davis faded. If he blurred his eyes and did not look at the kopje, the country looked like places he and his father had traversed with cattle, when driving them to market in Lethbridge or Medicine Hat.

  No matter how often Ingles and Davidson lectured them about Christiaan De Wet’s predations, Frank’s thoughts ranged beyond the war. The fact was that whole nights went by with no more disturbance than a hyena’s yell. Every day they set up Cossack posts on the ends of the horseshoe kopje, and two more north and south on the railway—and nothing happened. If they saw a springbok or a family of baboons, it was a big day.

  From time to time, they were visited by the Mounted Rifles scouts. These were led by Casey Callaghan and Charlie Ross, and sometimes by Capt. Tommy Chalmers. Chalmers and Gilbert Sanders had been young Mounties together at Ft. Macleod. Chalmers had very long legs and was nicknamed Scizzors, a title that had travelled with him to this day. A vivid childhood memory of Frank’s was Scizzors and Sanders playing tennis at Ft. Macleod, on a court they had built themselves.

  Being truthful men, the scouts admitted there was not much action right now from De Wet’s rebels. The thing to remember, though, was that De Wet’s favourite target was the railway, so he had to return eventually.

  Frank and Ovide’s days were spent with the Beltons. Frank had been selected acting corporal of their four. After a couple of days in the railway Cossack posts, they were sent on patrol, officially to search for the enemy but unofficially to scavenge.

  Their first find was a patch of Boer graves, soldiers’ graves that had either been dug in a hurry by the Boers or carelessly and shallowly dug by the British. The animals had been at them and the arm and leg bones stuck from the ground like signposts to hell.

  Frank was stunned when Pete jumped down with his bayonet and began to dig.

  “Pete! What the hell are you doing?”

  “This is how Eddy and me found the Boer pistol we gave Jeff.”

  In a trouser pocket, Pete found a Boer coin and some matches. He had hoped for at least a knife or some bullets and was disappointed.

  Farther along was a farm, from which every stick of wood had been stripped. But Ovide found the family root cellar and inside were two bags of oats and one of mealies. There were some sad root vegetables, withered and mouse-chewed. Because their biggest problem would be sustaining a fire to cook these things, Frank figured out a way to bring back wood. The root cellar was built like a mine with timbers holding up its roof. He put his rope on these and let Dunny pull them out, even the last one which brought the roof down as it was leaving. They dragged it all back to camp and were heroes.

  The fuel problem was chronic, and Fred Morden went to visit the Shropshire side of camp late in the first week. He wanted to know how the Shropshires managed to have fire when the Canadians spent most evenings shivering in their greatcoats. Fred saw actual coal being burned and, after polite conversations about horses and lice, he asked how they came by it. No one spoke, and the soldiers looked at each other in a way that suggested a secret. Finally, their lieutenant said, What the hell? Weren’t they all in the same boat here? He told Fred to grab some men and come running next time there was a train.

  A day later, one came. Fred’s Pincher Creek four ran for the siding and found the Shropshire lieutenant and several of his men lined along the track. The lieutenant told Fred to gather stones, throwing size, and to put them at his feet. His friends should do the same.

  The train wasn’t stopping but did slow down. The Shropshires waved at the engineer and stokers, and at the soldiers perched on the tender. It was a loaded coal train and the rest was open cars with black labourers riding on top.

  The Englishmen picked up their stones and started pelting the black men. Though unsure why, Fred and his bunch did too. The black men, having no rocks at hand, picked up lumps of coal and fired back. When the train was gone, there was quite a bit of coal on the ground. Fred thanked the lieutenant for the lesson, and his group brought home their share. The fuel problem was greatly relieved.

  After the first week, men started decorating their shacks. They took their horses off the line and tied them outside their doors. The Shropshires loved cricket, and every evening it was Englishmen against Canadians. Frank took part though he barely understood the rules. Fred Morden was a whiz at it, and Harry Gunn, who was a renowned North Fork polo player, picked it up fast.

  Unfortunately for everyone, a cricket game was in process—and not in the evening but at noon—when Maj. Gilbert Sanders rode in, escorted by Scizzors Chalmers, Charlie Ross, and Casey Callaghan. The major was back in health, back from St. Helena, and back in command of D Squadron; but if Franks troop was glad to see him, he was not glad to see them. They ran from the cricket pitch and gathered before him. He had asked Ingles for permission to address C Squadron as well. He said nothing before all were present.

  He began by praising Chalmers’ scouts, who in short order had produced an accurate pict
ure, not just of what De Wet was doing now, but of what he had done over the last month.

  Since General Roberts had left the Orange River Colony, De Wet had been showing his Boers a new way to fight. Battles that pitted five thousand Boers against twenty thousand British were never going to work. What made better sense was to go after the enemy’s greatest weakness: its extended lines of communication and supply.

  “As well, why not ambush lazy garrisons like this one?”

  De Wet, with six hundred burghers, had surrounded a British convoy on the Rhenoster River.

  “Do you remember crossing that river on the train down? Not far, is it?”

  Two hundred Gordon Highlanders and fifty-six wagons full of loot were taken. Then, De Wet hit the rail station at Roodewal. The garrison surrendered, putting De Wet in possession of bales of British winter clothing, hundreds of cases of ammunition, and stacks of mailbags.

  “If you’re wondering why you haven’t received mail for some time, imagine Boer soldiers rooting through it. Eating your cakes and cookies. Reading your sweetheart’s love notes.”

  Frank looked at Morden, whose face had two bright red spots on the cheekbones. Major Sanders fell silent, so their minds could fill with pictures of what the Boers might have done. A Boer winding your birthday watch. A Boer pissing on a letter from your old mum. Since Frank did not get mail, his thoughts were of Boers putting on clean long underwear and donning a winter greatcoat.

  Then Sanders completed the imagery. Whatever mail the Boers did not want, they consigned to a bonfire. In that fire, they also destroyed ammunition they could not carry. It was said that De Wet did one million British pounds’ worth of damage that day.

  And did they happen to know how many British and colonial prisoners De Wet’s Orange Free State Boers had taken since May? More than a thousand.