The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  “Christ, man! You had better get to a railway station. Your lot are leaving.”

  Twice, they surprised lone-riding colonial soldiers, who said they were dispatch riders but did not look it. It gave Frank a chance to see how other deserters presented themselves; what kind of porous stories they told. If you multiplied these encounters by the size of South Africa, it implied there were hundreds like him, wandering around with cases of amnesia and claims of having been released from Boer custody only yesterday.

  Brooke’s crew moved west far enough to see the railroad tracks. They stayed until they had watched two trains go by, both southbound with soldiers on top and hanging on the sides.

  “Headed for the Cape,” Brooke said confidently. He was happy because he believed these were trainloads of soldiers sent to flush De Wet out of the Cape Colony and drive him back north. Brooke no longer thought De Wet would come to him at De Wetsdorp for assassination or capture; he believed it without question.

  In the Orange Free State, the path they followed was Franks war in reverse. Kroonstad, where Jeff had left them the first time. Honing Spruit and Katbosch, where Morden and Kerr had been killed. The Vet River, where a motion in some reeds gone still might have been the only Boer Frank had shot. Farther south, they saw the chain of big hills around Bloemfontein.

  East of Bloemfontein was a west-east line of British forts. They avoided them by staying north. Every night, Jimmy looked for a way to cross, but came back talking about more forts and outposts, and massed armies. Brooke believed it was a buildup to prevent De Wet from getting back into the northern Free State.

  The closer they came to the town of Thaba Nchu, the more the country rose and broke into small erosion-fluted mountains. Finally, Whitford advised Brooke to forget about passing this road in secret and to start thinking how to do so in daylight. Brooke regarded this as “unsporting” but knew Jimmy would not insist if it could be done otherwise. He allowed Jimmy to guide them to a fort called Springhaan’s Nek.

  Brooke managed to talk in private with the officer in charge. They soon found an old country link between them. That led to heavy drinking, the result of which was an escorted passage. The sergeant who led them through was a British man who had lived his adult life in Cape Town. He told them that the country beyond was dangerous: a place that might show as British on a general’s map but was Boer if push came to shove.

  As they were about to leave him, the sergeant pointed at Jim and Young Sam.

  “The rebels will kill your niggers.”

  Brooke bristled. “These men are not blacks. They are North American Indians.”

  The sergeant’s head made a tick-tock motion, a gesture to convey that it would make no difference to a Boer, and probably not to him either.

  They travelled south-southwest, along the western shore of the boiling Caledon River. Beyond it to the east were little mountains that they’d been told led to bigger ones, and eventually into the mountain stronghold of the Basuto people. Everything on the far side of the Caledon was Basutoland. On their right, west, the broken country tamed quickly into Boer farmland where mealie stands and barley crops were tall and turning yellow.

  Jimmy shot some tiny antelope off the rough slopes, ones who were not babies but adults of a pygmy breed. Their roasts and steaks were so small it was humorous, but the meat was a relief from biltong. Brooke broke out his last bottle of brandy to celebrate. After this bottle, an alcohol drought threatened, which Lionel faced grimly.

  Finally, De Wetsdorp came in sight down the two-track road. They went close enough to see it was not much of a town: a church with a space for turning ox teams; a few gable-ended houses. It looked like the British had not re-garrisoned after De Wet’s victory in November. Nor was there a laager to suggest it was in the hands of Boer rebels.

  They discussed where to camp, and Jimmy left to search for a spot. He rode back after an hour and led them up a muddy crag with a notch below its peak. The notch looked like a shadow until they were there. Then a cave began to show. Old-time Africans had lived here and painted animals on the walls in red. The pictures showed men with spears, giving chase. The roof that jutted over the partial cave was still black from their fires.

  Jimmy had done very well to find this. Its deepest part would stay shady all day, and they could see for miles, including the dorp and its surrounding farms. Up top was a place for the mules and horses to graze or be hobbled. Most important, it had water: a seep that dripped down a dark face in the deepest shadow. It took a minute for a cup to fill but no one would go thirsty.

  Brooke grumbled that he would have preferred something south of town, as that was the direction from which De Wet would come. Whitford ignored him.

  They established this camp in early December and settled in for a longish stay. With nothing to do, they watched cloud shadows march across the valleys and sheets of rain that cooled the baking croplands. It was a drowsy time and they seldom talked, nor moved unless it was necessary. On the night-cooled rocks, they lived like lizards in reverse, moving deeper into the cut to avoid the sun.

  When they needed food, Jimmy went with Young Sam. What the English sergeant said about niggers seemed to have affected Jimmy’s tactics, for he stayed in the broken country of which this crag was the western edge. He strictly avoided the Boer farmland. They brought back more pygmy antelope but never touched a farmer’s sheep or goat, even if these wandered close and seemed unprotected.

  The only disruption in these calm days was when Brooke argued with Jimmy about fire. Brooke pined for fire in this ancient notch, but Jimmy said it would be foolish. He had been careful to bring them here so that no one saw or followed. As long as they made no fire, they would remain invisible and could stay and watch for as long as it took. Brooke was disappointed.

  When the light came in enough to see the walls, Frank looked at the drawings. He wondered if the herds of big antelope were what the painters actually saw on the plain, or if it was a kind of magic thinking by which they hoped to lure them. The voice of Madeleine in his head instructed him to consider whose country it was all these whites were fighting over. That made Frank think of Dakomi, or some ancestor of his, sitting where Jimmy liked to sit on the rock lip. He wondered what kind of thoughts such a man would have.

  After more than a week had passed, Lionel tired of the routine and declared it time for the journalists to work. By work, he meant going to De Wetsdorp to interview locals. Because of her German, Alice had to go along.

  Jim Whitford insisted on taking them north, rather than directly to the village. After several miles, they swung northwest down a bushy coulee that met the road that came from Springhaan’s Nek. By joining the road and going to the village by it, they would look like travellers from the British forts. During the day, Jim would hide himself and the horses, watching for their return.

  When Brooke, Kettle, and Jim Whitford returned to camp that evening, the ground was dark but the sky was pale near the place of sunset. Brooke was in bad temper and drinking from a bottle of colourless liquor he’d bought in town. Though he seemed inclined to quarrel with Alice, she was the one he invited to drink with him.

  Brooke was after Jim again to build him a fire, but Jim would not answer. He went to his place on the rock lip and sat on his heels, watching the dark.

  After Whitford left him, Brooke turned his harangue on Young Sam and Frank. Lacking Jimmy’s force and status, the two were finally worn down and did as they were told. They gathered a pile of sticks and set them ablaze. The smoke curled around the rock roof by its ancient pathway.

  Brooke and Kettle began to argue. They had gone into De Wetsdorp under a white flag and, to everyone he addressed, Brooke had shown his letter from the English newspaper. No matter what he did, Lionel was treated like a spy. Two Boers went as far as threatening him if he did not leave. It only got worse when he mentioned Christiaan De Wet. They claimed that no De Wets lived there at present. Nor did they know anything about the family.

  “No
De Wets in De Wetsdorp. Do they think I’m an idiot?”

  “That was no excuse for what you did,” Alice said.

  “Oh, Christ, not this again.”

  To the others, she said, “He went to a farm just outside of town. The woman there looked half starved, and so did her children. Lionel dangles a strip of biltong in their faces and says, ‘De Wet? De Wet?’”

  “So what does she do?” Lionel asked them. “This old friend of mine?” Brooke pointed to a bruise on his cheek. “Punched me. Blind side. Ambush.”

  “You were being a brute. You deserved it.”

  Brooke was getting drunker all the while. Young Sam brought an armload of sticks and Lionel threw them on the fire.

  “Yes indeed, let’s get captured, if that’s how they want to play.”

  “Go right ahead, Lionel. Risk our lives over your little disappointment.”

  “How could we be more at risk than you and I were in their town today?”

  “That’s ridiculous logic. You’re being an absolute ass.”

  “You are being melodramatic.”

  “You had better not tell me what to do or how to be. You can order Young Sam and Frank around—they’re too young to tell you to go to hell. It does not work on me.”

  “Why don’t you go then, Alice? Go on. Right now. Jump on your horse and go to De Wetsdorp and join a commando. Also, I would remind you of the terms of our being here. Jim and Young Sam are not slaves. They are my partners. Equals, just as you are.”

  “What horseshit you talk, Lionel. One of your partners explained to you why this fire is stupid. But you went ahead and forced the others to light it. You’re making your partners, so called, take this risk without discussion. I’ve climbed mountains with your kind. Germans who said we were equals, then told me what route to take. Bloody men. Bloody tyrants.”

  Brooke took another large drink. The bottle was almost empty. He sucked on his pipe like a starved infant and muttered to himself. Whenever the fire died down he roared for more wood. The others withdrew to their bedrolls and slept. It was Frank’s turn to go above and sleep near the horses. The sparks were still rising past the stone roof when his eyelids grew heavy and closed.

  A whooshing sound woke him, and he saw a sudden cloud of sparks passing the rock roof. The horses were agitated behind him, and the mules were moving in their hobbles. He sat up straight and something knocked his head, something metal. It knocked again and a hand grabbed him and ground into the muscle between his neck and shoulder. Whoever stood behind him showed him the broomhandle pistol’s long barrel, then tapped his head with it a third time.

  “Op-staan,” the Boer said as he grabbed Frank’s jacket and jerked him to his feet. The Boer pushed him to the path that led down to the notch. Maybe a dozen Boers were crowded there.

  Brooke, Kettle, and Young Sam were sitting on a long rock before the fire. The Boer pushed Frank down at the far end beside Young Sam. Each of them was guarded by a Boer. When Frank saw that Jimmy was not present, he felt a release. Jimmy was out in this darkness with his rifle and pistol.

  Beside Frank, Young Sam was rigid and wide-eyed. His eyes darted at every movement. Alice, who had managed to clap on her hat and transform back into a man, sat with her elbows on her knees, slowly rubbing her hands. Brooke, at the far end, was the least at ease. His eyesight, never good, was worse at night. Now, without his monocle, he squinted and his eyes watered.

  A young Boer arrived with wood. When the fire was built up again, Frank had a better view of two older Boers sitting on a bulge of rock beyond the fire. Beyond them, another older Boer, a stout farmer, marched back and forth, into and out of the light, looking furious.

  Of the sitting pair, the closest to Brooke was tall and starved-looking. He had his hat off and was rubbing and scratching in the wiry hair above his big ears. The rest of his peaked and bony head was bald. The face was like a skull, the eyes deep in their sockets. A living cadaver.

  The man beside the cadaver had a squarish head and black beady eyes. He squinted out through slanted eyelids that gave him a sad appearance. His beard was cut short and square.

  Frank decided the latter man was the true leader. The cadaver’s trousers were made of animal hide with tears at every seam. His shirt was some kind of greasy skin as well. The leader had a jacket of good wool and heavy breeches that funnelled into tight boots. His hat was not the usual formless bowl but a town hat with a narrow brim and a short flat crown. Everything was filthy from riding, but you could see the quality.

  The leader stared at the fire and barely bothered to look at them. Now, he groped inside his jacket and brought out a pipe and tobacco pouch. The pipe was the curled kind, with a broad bowl rimmed in copper. He hooked the horn mouthpiece in his lips while he stuffed and lit it.

  “May I smoke as well?” asked Brooke.

  The leader froze. He looked at Lionel as though he had only just noticed him. Brooke pointed at the pipe and mimed putting it in his mouth; pointed at his bedroll. The Boer said, “No,” his voice deep and harsh.

  Lionel had wanted to smoke to establish his seniority. Denied, he began to talk in a forceful way. He told the story about the newspaper in England. He called Jimmy and Young Sam his crew and Allan Kettle his partner.

  Then the cadaverous Boer started talking too, in English.

  “We already know your story from the people in the village. What we want to know is why you are asking about Christiaan De Wet.”

  Brooke squinted past the one who was talking to the one with the pipe. Lionel became excited and pointed.

  “You’re he! You’re Christiaan De Wet!”

  The cadaverous Boer half rose and slapped Brooke hard across the face.

  “You shut up. You never mind who we are. Now answer me why.”

  “No one sent me, if that’s what you mean,” said Brooke, petulant and shaken by the blow. “I wanted to meet General De Wet to interview him for my newspaper. A pro-Boer newspaper.”

  The cadaver grumbled something in Boer and the leader laughed. When the bald one turned to Brooke again, that laugh remained as a snarl.

  “To us, there is no such thing as pro-Boer. Except if the wind is pro-Boer. Or your mules are. Or your generals, especially Kitchener. But don’t tell me about pro-Boers in England.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  He looked like he might slap Lionel again but did not.

  The other, the one who might be De Wet, said a few words to the cadaver, shrugged, and got up. He turned and walked away to where the horses were. The cadaver rose and followed. There was low talk in the dark, then the sounds of men mounting up, and of horses having trouble with their footing on the rocks. The sounds diminished as the party left.

  When the cadaverous Boer returned and sat, Lionel asked him again if the man now gone was De Wet. The bald man paid no attention.

  “Get your things. If we missed any of your weapons, give them to me stock-first.”

  Before they left, Brooke found his monocle and put it back in his eye. Carrying a torch, a Boer led them to their horses and mules and told them to put on halters. Jimmy’s horse was there and the mystery of his absence deepened. The ridgling, who could have done some useful damage for once, was fearful and obedient.

  The horses, mules, and prisoners were led down to a lower shelf where the rest of the Boer horses waited. There, the Boers tied Frank’s hands in front of him. Two men picked him up and put him on the bare back of a pony. He wondered why there was such a long tail on the rope around his hands, but then they tied it around the horse’s neck. They were making it so he could not roll off without getting trampled. By the lit torch, he could see that the others were on horses and tied the same way.

  He heard Brooke say he needed a saddle or his back would be injured. The cadaver told him to shut up. Each prisoner’s horse was led by one Boer. Their own horses and mules were dispersed in the chain of riders.

  They rode steady until they came to the Caledon River. Even
though it was boiling with runoff, they crossed in the dark. Frank had nothing to hang on to but the pony’s mane. The water slashed his face, and each time it startled him, for he could not see it coming. He was coughing water when the pony climbed out the other side. Frank worried about Brooke but saw his tall shape come ripping out of the current on the back of a little horse. Something was hurting Brooke badly and he yelled each time the horse lunged.

  Soaking wet, they climbed mountain trails where the wind bent around the rock edges and chilled them deep. Whenever the trail became wider, the leaders boosted the gait and the wet riders were colder still. The Boer pony’s chopping trot, and his own effort to stay balanced, gave Frank a gut wrench. Brooke was hunched forward and silent.

  Finally, the tall horizon was haloed with coming light. It was enough to show them the mountains they rode among. When the morning took on colour, the valley was orange-yellow, the clothed slopes a smoky green.

  Now that Frank could see them all, the Boers numbered seventeen, including the cadaver, whose bald ugliness was hidden under a slouch hat. Other than the cadaver and the stout farmer, the rest were young men. A half-dozen were boys as young as nine or ten.

  The procession descended and came to a little creek toward which the horses yearned. The Boers would not let them drink, and only when the sun came over the mountains in a burst of heat were they allowed. While the horses drank greedily, the cadaver ordered his two biggest soldiers to dismount. They began to pluck the captives off their horses. When they had them on the ground, the two went back along the line and untied their hands. Frank’s were dark and the rope’s groove on his wrists looked permanent.