Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Geoff Lawson

  “Usually in better company,” she countered, equally

  tactless and rising to the occasion.

  “You would be wrong about that. You are surrounded by

  the best fighting men in the British Army.”

  “There’s only one gentleman here and he’s out front.”

  That annoyed me too. “Oh, you mean that over-educated

  buffoon, don’t you?”

  She visibly stiffened. “You are an impertinent cur. Don’t

  you colonials defer to your betters?”

  “That depends on what you think is better. I see eight of

  the best fighting men in the British Army and one drawing

  room plaything that has only mastered the art of sipping tea.”

  Her face went scarlet. She turned, her eyes were furious.

  “And you are no more civilized than the savages you have

  subdued in your own country!”

  I took that in. Then I shook my head and smiled. She was

  good, no doubt about it. I had the feeling this could go on all

  day. Then she gave me the most venomous look imaginable. I

  could see that she thought I was mocking her.

  “Sorry m’lady, I’m not laughing at you. I’m merely

  acknowledging that you are a worthy opponent. You give as

  good as you get.”

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  Some of the hostility subsided from her face. Only some.

  She looked away without saying a word and pointedly studied

  the horizon. That set the tone, so we plodded on in silence. I

  now began to realise just how wide the cultural divide between

  us was. She was upstairs and I was downstairs; no, even lower

  – I was mucking out the stables and only here to serve. I would

  have preferred to be sociable, but she had been appalled by my

  apparent lack of deference for the social order she represented

  – she was a Lady and I was from the Antipodes, therefore too

  uncouth and ignorant to even know that my place was under

  the dung heap.

  The lifestyle of a gentleman automatically confers the

  right to lead and where she usually lived that may be how it is.

  This however, was a different world. Here, an encyclopedic

  knowledge of art, Greek history or philosophy wouldn’t keep

  you alive. You needed sharp wits, sharp eyesight and basic

  survival instincts the world of academia would never

  comprehend – the very reason that so many British generals

  were so damn useless.

  Take General Buller for example. They say he is a direct

  descendent of William the Conqueror, which on the face of it

  would appear to be the only qualification he has. Although his

  lineage may be impeccable the truth is, as a general he is dim

  and inept. Too much has changed since the time of William the

  Conqueror.

  Likewise, m’lady was accustomed to having men fawning

  over her, obediently patronizing her every whim. I, on the

  other hand, didn’t give a damn. I needed her trouble like I

  needed a bullet hole in the head and the sooner I was rid of her

  the better. Meanwhile, I represented the unthinkable – perhaps

  for the first time, she had encountered a man she could not

  charm and control. No small wonder she hated me!

  By mid-morning the geography had changed. We were

  now in rolling hill country and the risks had increased. Out on

  the plain we could see the approach of enemies from a

  considerable distance, but now the visible horizon had shrunk

  and the chance of a surprise attack had doubled. Fitzy and

  Steele had been sent to scout ahead on our flanks while Walsh

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  and Carter had dropped behind to keep an eye on our back

  trail, in case of an attack from our rear.

  The sun was now higher and the heat more intense. It was

  well for m’lady that the wagon had a folding canopy that

  provided some relief. We continued on in strained silence. An

  hour later, Walsh and Carter came up in a hurry. They pulled

  up quick to tell us there were about thirty horsemen behind us

  and they were slowly gaining.

  “They’re Boers,” said Carter. “They have no pennant and

  their formation is loose. They are probably four or five miles

  behind and will be upon us in an hour.”

  I looked at Blenkinsop. “Well Blenky, what are we going

  to do?”

  He looked disapprovingly at me. I doubt that he liked the

  familiarity with which I had addressed him. Equally

  unforgivable, I hadn’t called him sir.

  “I think these two heah should race on and bring in the

  other two. We can all meet theah, at yonder hill. We could hold

  the Boers off and keep theah attention while you and m’lady

  get away from heah as quick as you jolly can.”

  I didn’t have a better suggestion. Right now, we were not

  brimming with options. I looked at m’lady.

  “Right oh, we’re off. Hayaaa!” I flicked the reins and the

  wagon bounded forward. Soon we were out of sight of the

  others as the road ascended a slight rise and dipped into a

  hollow, along which we continued at the best sustainable pace

  we could.

  Half an hour later, we heard an outbreak of firing behind

  us, which soon dwindled to a few sporadic shots from time to

  time. The sound of gunfire carried great distances out here,

  where the reign of silence in this huge emptiness was absolute.

  We said nothing to each other; we both knew what it meant. I

  sensed that the yawning chasm that represented our cultural

  divide had been partly bridged by our shared predicament.

  I pushed the horse along at a good trot to put as much

  distance between us and the shooting as possible, but now the

  brute began to show signs of fatigue. Really lousy timing, but

  the horse couldn’t help that. The poor devil had been hauling

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  the traces since we left Rensburg and was overdue for a rest, so

  I pulled up and stopped.

  “I’ll change the horse and we’ll be on our way.” I vaulted

  out of the wagon, moved to the front and began to unclip the

  harness.

  As soon as the horse was free of reins, traces and draw-

  pole straps I moved it to the rear and after fitting a set of

  standard reins on it, I tied the ends to the tailgate. Then I

  removed the rest of its harness and transferred it to the spare

  horse. As I led the replacement forward I heard m’lady speak.

  “Don’t look soldier, we have guests for dinner.”

  I looked up, pausing to wipe sweat from my eyes, and

  followed the line of her gaze.

  A group of Boers had just crested a rise about a half-mile

  away and had stopped to study us. As I watched, they spurred

  their mounts into motion, brandishing their rifles in the air, and

  headed directly towards us. There were four of them and I

  thought of the chances of making a fight of it.

  The carbine was resting against the front transom of the

  wagon and I had enough ammunition to keep a fight going for

  days, but it was useless. We were sitting ducks on this roadway

  and if I chose to fight our lady would be right in the line of

  fire. I looked around us and saw three more Boers co
nverging

  on us from behind. I wasn’t surprised. They had been circling,

  looking for us. That was it then, the game was up. There was

  nothing more I could do.

  I didn’t speak as I walked past m’lady and began the

  business of harnessing the fresh horse to the draw poles. It was

  nearly done by the time the Boers pulled up around us and I

  didn’t look up, I just finished the job.

  “Greetings Englishman.” The speaker was the older of the

  Boers. At a guess he was pushing fifty and didn’t look

  particularly athletic. He was dressed in a threadbare suit that

  was sprinkled with dust and a wide brimmed hat provided

  some shade for his deeply lined and heavily bearded face.

  All had beards, as was their custom, which combined with

  their travel-stained condition made them appear rather

  villainous.

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  “You are our prisoners, yes,” he spoke in heavily accented

  English. “Who are you?”

  I looked up. “I am Richard Wilson, New Zealand Mounted

  Rifles and this is my sister.”

  M’lady meanwhile, glared at the Boer with an expression

  that was a mixture of abhorrence and apprehension.

  To her intense displeasure he edged his horse closer to

  study her more intently. After a second or two a smile spread

  across his face, exposing yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth.

  “She is not your sister,” he stated emphatically. “She is

  that English lady. What was her name? Lady something or

  other – am I correct?”

  I didn’t bother to answer; he knew he was.

  “I saw her a week ago on a balcony in Rensburg, did I

  not?”

  I still didn’t answer, what was the point? Typical wasn’t it?

  The Boers knew all about her and had even seen her basking

  on the balcony of the Royal and sipping iced lemonade in full

  view of the public. So much for secrecy!

  As we were having this one-sided conversation, one of the

  Boers moved to the other side of the wagon and lifted my

  carbine out by the barrel.

  “If you have other weapons you hand them over. We will

  also relieve you of your ammunition if you don’t mind.”

  ‘Ever the gentleman,’ I thought tersely, as I peeled my

  ammunition bandoliers off and handed them to the nearest

  Boer. I was not having a good day.

  At this point one of them said something in Afrikaans and

  they all looked back down the road, where another Boer rode

  up in a hurry and came slithering to a halt. An animated

  conversation then ensued that involved pointing back down the

  road and drawing circles in the air while pointing over to the

  south, all the while holding the attention of our captors. Then,

  they went into a huddle of sorts and it was clear they were

  discussing what they would do with us.

  It was evident that there was some dispute about this, for a

  good deal of argument continued until the one who spoke

  English finally yelled at them. Their haggling stopped while he

  drummed his fist into his other hand and pointed to one of

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  them and then to us. I sidled up beside Lady Sarah, who was

  still seated in the wagon.

  “Don’t worry m’lady, they’re only trying to decide

  whether to hang us or shoot us.”

  “You are a bastion of optimism aren’t you?” She looked

  more than a little nervous.

  “They may make us draw straws to decide who goes first.”

  I had a smirk on my face.

  “Remind me to recommend you as the next court jester.”

  She returned a nervous smile, the first one to date.

  The argument among the Boers finished and the leader

  came over.

  “Some of your forces are a bother down the road and we

  must leave. Jacob here will escort you away and you will obey

  him implicitly. If you do not, he has orders to shoot. Do you

  understand?” I nodded.

  “Good, you will fold the cover on the vehicle so Jacob can

  see what you do.”

  Then they all mounted but one and left in the direction that

  we had come from. Jacob slowly sidled over and said

  something while pointing to the top. I folded it down and

  clambered up into the seat, next to m’lady.

  He mounted, taking up a position behind us, then

  motioned that we should go, so I flicked the reins and we were

  on our way. We plodded along, eddies of dust rising from our

  wheels while the Boer followed, his right hand holding his

  Mauser rifle while the forearm rested on the neck of his horse.

  He also carried a British service revolver, tucked into the

  waistband of his trousers. I could see that it was a Tranter and

  somewhere along the line, he must have acquired it as a trophy.

  By all appearances he couldn’t speak English, which at least

  gave us the opportunity to plot his downfall, without him being

  explicitly aware of it.

  “We’re in trouble here.”

  “So you noticed that. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing yet. We need to make him think he’s winning. If

  we can do that, he may let his guard down long enough for me

  to jump him.”

  “That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?”

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  “Do you have a better idea?”

  An hour went by. We came to a fork in the road and our

  escort called out in Afrikaans. I looked around and he pointed

  to the right hand fork, so I took it. We continued on for perhaps

  another hour when the same occurred again.

  “I’ll never get to jump him at this rate. I need to decoy

  him close enough for me to grab him.”

  “I have an idea,” was all she said.

  Soon she began to roll her head. She kept doing it and

  making little sighing and moaning noises. Initially, I was left

  wondering what the hell her game was, but then I began to

  catch on.

  Meanwhile, the sun was high overhead and at its most

  intense. She produced a lace-trimmed, embroidered hanky and

  began to dab her face and neck, while making an ostentatious

  show of it, tilting her head back as she dabbed her throat. I

  handed her the canteen of water that lay at our feet and she

  splashed some on her face, then continued to dab her neck

  some more.

  “Are you all right?” I said it louder than necessary, to

  ensure the Boer would hear me.

  “Yes, yes,” she gasped in an abstracted way and dabbed

  her face with the hanky. Then she began to feign a stupor in a

  manner that would have made a professional actress proud.

  The express wagon bounced and jolted and as it did so,

  she began to sway. I looked to her with an expression of

  concern, when all of a sudden she collapsed against me in an

  apparent dead faint. I was surprised and the next step was not

  entirely acting on my part. I tried to grab her while holding the

  reins and failed. She slid right down across my front and

  finished sprawled over my lap. I stopped the wagon and

  attempted to prop her up.

  Behind us, our captor began complaining in Afrik
aans, but

  I ignored him. I managed to get her partly upright, but the

  minute I let her go she slid back on top of me. I wriggled out

  from under her and stood up, leaving her draped over the seat

  like a rag doll. I turned towards the Boer and glared.

  “This is your bloody fault. It was your dumb idea to fold

  the top down.” As I admonished I pointed at the folded top,

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  then pointed towards the sky. “She is English and ill-equipped

  to deal with the heat of your sun.”

  He gaped at me.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, come and help me!” I beckoned

  him to come closer. Scowling, he gave me a look of intense

  suspicion and hesitated, lifted the muzzle of his rifle up and

  flicked the safety off. He appeared to be in a state of

  indecision.

  With my hands under her armpits I heaved her upright and

  propped her up in such a way that she remained upright for

  now. Her arms hung limply, her mouth partly open and her

  head lolled. I looked at the Boer. I pointed to Sarah and mimed

  picking her up and lifting her down to the ground. I scooped up

  her hat from the floor and proceeded to fan her with it, and as I

  did, I could hear the sound of our captor’s horse slowly

  approaching on Sarah’s side of the wagon.

  He held his Mauser around the wrist with the muzzle up

  and his reins in his other hand. He pulled up adjacent to Sarah

  and leaned over to take a closer look, when she sprang like a

  cat. His rifle was only an arms-length away and she grabbed it

  with both hands and twisted. For a brief moment, he was

  forced to try and regain control of it and dropping his reins, he

  grabbed the rifle with both hands and wrenched it from Sarah’s

  grip. At precisely that moment I put my foot on the front

  bulkhead and launched myself in a tackle that would have

  made any rugby coach proud.

  Catching him around the chest with both arms, the

  momentum of my charge threw him right out of the saddle, the

  two of us landing head first on the ground. The sudden impact

  with terra firma broke my grip and I did a complete loop to

  land on my back. On the way down he lost his hold on his

  rifle, but in an instant he had his hand on his revolver and

  pulled it out. As he did I swung around and grabbed the barrel

  with both hands while I desperately attempted to wrest it from

  his grip. We were both on our knees and locked in a life and

  death struggle, when the darn thing went off.