Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction
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the centre of it.
We left for Wellington. As The Lady wound her way
around long, sweeping curves, I watched her from my window.
She was the mechanical epitome of Rachel – sleek, articulate;
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spectacular. Her whistle would blast as we thundered through
crossings and she commanded the attention of all who saw her.
Children waved and adults looked in awe as we rolled steadily
by, her driving rods and wheels a blur of never-ending motion,
while wisps of smoke from her glorious funnel trailed
majestically behind. Her grandeur was undeniable. She was a
locomotive fit to haul a queen; nay, she was a queen in her own
right.
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Chapter Seventeen
CAPE COLONY, South Africa. December
1899
We found an abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of
Duntroon where we holed up for the rest of the day, the usual
residents having fled to town where there would be greater
safety in numbers. We didn’t go near the house, but were able
to water the horses from a bore and hide them in the barn,
where we discovered a quantity of horse feed for them to eat.
Once they had finished, they flopped on the ground; the poor
things had suffered more than we had.
I found a pile of empty horse feed sacks and spread a
blanket over them, so Sarah had somewhere to lie down and
rest. It didn’t take longer than a minute before she was fast
asleep; she was so physically exhausted that I doubt she even
twitched. Soon, all went quiet; most of the lads were also
resting.
A couple of hours dragged by before Sarah woke and sat
up; she looked for me through sleep deprived eyes, then slowly
got to her feet. It was an hour before sunset and a deep orange
glow had begun to cloak the distant horizon. The horses were
looking better; they could swish their tails and were holding
their heads up, expectantly watching us as they lounged inside
the shady interior.
Sarah came over and stood next to me, where she stifled a
yawn before folding her arms. I was standing by the door,
staring at infinity, and offered her a drink from my water
bottle. The warm water had been replaced with cool, fresh
water from the bore. She drank and rubbed some on her face,
no doubt feeling brighter for it.
I found a rustic chair and she sat next to me, gazing
solemnly at the imminent sunset, which by now had deepened
with streaks of purple intermingled with the impressive and
predominant red and orange.
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“Well Sarah, your ordeals are virtually over. Tonight, you
will be able to relax with a proper meal and sleep in a bed
again.”
She sighed, her sunken eyes still fixed on the blazing
horizon. “Thank goodness. The last two days have been the
worst ordeal of my life.”
“You have endured this incredibly well – you are a brave
woman. Your ancestors will be proud of you.”
She turned her head and smiled a limp smile. “Obviously,
you are looking forward to returning to London?” I asked.
“Oh yes, I even look forward to seeing my husband again.”
She gave a little laugh. I didn’t say anything.
That was a choice she had voluntarily made. It was the
price one must pay for the privilege of living in a gilded cage.
She may not have the love of her life, but she and the children
she bore would never want for anything else. I could
understand why some women would find that attractive. Their
children’s genes would always be adorned with privilege, and I
suppose it doesn’t really matter who the father is as long as
their children inherit the bounty of life.
Or will they? I suppose that depends entirely on which
bounty we’re talking about. For the boys there is bound to be
excessive pocket money and idle time. Drinking, gambling,
deflowering the land girls as adolescents, (only the pretty ones
of course) practicing for the marriage games that will come
later, the ones that will again decide whose offspring will
inherit more power and wealth. Yes, it might actually be a
good life, if you could live with it.
Only the last rays of the sun remained when we ventured
out of the barn. The doors were swung shut and the horses re-
watered before leaving for Duntroon. Even in the dark,
Duntroon looked shabby. It appeared to be a classic frontier
outpost; in other words, the end of the world. The buildings
were chiefly single-storeyed and most were drab adobe mud
brick or paint-peeled corrugated iron.
The street was particularly wide and only the odd oil lamp
glowed; everything else was dark. We found the only hotel in
the only street and stopped in front of it, noticing that it had
two floors, while above the entrance hung a hoarding with a
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painting of a cave man on it. According to the sign, this was
the ‘Ancient Briton.’
I had Sarah wear a scarf to disguise her blonde hair and
remove her wedding rings for more anonymity. I escorted her
into the lobby and addressed a sleepy-looking night clerk.
“My good man, the miss here requires a room, the biggest
you’ve got. She also requires a bath in double quick order and
the best plate of food you can scrape up.”
Sarah signed the ledger as Miss Emily Nobhouse and we
followed the clerk upstairs to room one. As rooms went it was
spartan and unadorned, but it was still a whole lot better than a
bed of rocks on the veld. The bed was a double and had a
kapok mattress on it, which was a big improvement on the
straw-filled abominations that were otherwise all to be had.
Satisfied, I left Sarah and returned to the ground floor to
organise the lads to take her luggage to her room. She opened
the door and they filed in, placed her suitcases on the floor and
filed out, closing the door behind them.
We stood and looked at each other. We were both tired. She
removed her scarf and allowed her hair to fall, but in spite of
the rest she’d had, her eyes were still dry and there were lines
in the corners that stood out in the dim light.
“Well, Miss Emily, the boys are waiting. I’ve got to go.”
“I know. Promise me you will come back and see me
before you return to Rensburg.”
I smiled and gave her a mock salute. “Yes miss, your wish
is my command.”
She smirked. “You are abominable. Won’t you ever take
me seriously?”
“No miss. See you tomorrow.”
The boys and I continued along the road to the end, where
there was a military camp adjacent to the railway station. I was
ushered into a large tent that was the headquarters of Colonel
Saunders, commanding officer of British forces hereabouts. I
stood to attention and saluted.
“Lance Corporal Wilson, New Zealand Mounted Rifles.
Reporting as instructed by Lieutenant Colonel Porter at
Rensburg sir.”
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individual with thin hair, thin moustache and wire framed
glasses. I handed him a small leather satchel which contained
my written orders and a letter of introduction, both of which
were confirmation of the nature of my business. The Colonel
read each document and slowly removed his glasses.
“At ease Wilson, I’ve been expecting you. Actually,
thought you might be here last night. I was also expecting an
officer of the Lancers, one called Blenkinsop. You can give me
a verbal report of the last forty eight hours.”
I gave him a recital of the outcome of events and the loss of
Jones and Blenkinsop. Saunders listened with considerable
interest.
“That’s bloody good, Wilson. Losing two and evading
capture when faced by those odds is commendable. You and
your lads have done extremely well. Congratulations on a job
well done.” He stood and shook my hand. “Where’s Lady
Sarah now?”
I told him.
“Good, where are your men?”
“Waiting outside sir.”
“Good. I take it that you haven’t eaten anything substantial
since leaving Rensburg then?”
“No sir.”
“Jenkins.” At the other end of the tent an aide looked up
from a typewriter that was positioned under a lamp. “Take
these men to the mess and get them anything they want. Get
someone to take care of their horses and organise some
sleeping quarters. Report back when you finish.” Then he
turned to me.
“There’ll be no duties for you boys tomorrow morning, get
yourselves cleaned up. You can report to me here at thirteen
hundred hours. Dismiss.”
Next morning we washed, shaved and laundered our
clothes. We dressed with them wet and they dried on our
bodies in less than a quarter of an hour. While the lads looked
to the horses I wandered to the medical officers’ tent and had
Sarah’s impromptu bandage removed. The orderly who washed
the wound was surprised to discover the old bandages were
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made from a woman’s knickers and held by another strip of
underwear. He washed the wound to remove dried blood and
after filling the gouge with a preparation of boracic powder, he
re-strapped it.
By eleven, four of us had finished our chores and were
looking for something else to do, so we walked to the hotel.
The bar part of the Ancient Briton was around the back and
separate from the accommodation part. We entered through a
rear door and filed our way through another door marked ‘bar’,
only to find the modest-sized room was full of English soldiers
who had already been there for some time, if the level of
tobacco smoke was anything to go by. As we sauntered up to
the bar the conversation dimmed. It was apparent that New
Zealanders were still a novelty in this part of the world.
While we waited for our beers I cast my eyes around the
room, noting that it was scarred and tired from decades of use.
The floor was wooden and without the benefit of mats while
the bar was panelled and covered in scratches and dings. There
were half a dozen small tables with bow-back chairs arranged
in no particular order and hanging on a wall was a framed and
dusty poster of Lillie Langtry. She was wearing a hat of
enormous proportions, as was the custom for actresses, and her
gown was a good deal lower in front than usual, the better to
display the attributes that she undeniably had.
I casually turned my eyes from one fixture to another
before I noticed a very large and very drunk soldier glaring
with bloodshot eyes. He was leaning with one hand on the bar,
while he stared and glared in our direction.
“Bloody Ostralyians. Thieving bastards.”
Slowly turning my head, I looked at the lads and noted that
they had seen him too. We sipped our beers and pretended
ignorance.
“Mongrels! Yer thievin’ bastards got me money, din’ ya!”
Right about now the conversation in the room suddenly
dipped before it petered out and stopped altogether.
We looked back. He was a giant all right, with a scarred
ugly face and large deformed ears; a sure sign that he was a
bully and a fighter. I’d seen the type before. He could even be
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an ex-pugilist suffering from brain damage who had joined the
army because he was incapable of doing anything else.
These men were dangerous, for their only pleasure in life
lay in drinking and beating others. Because they were
essentially mindless brutes they were without conscience; they
could and did inflict lifelong injuries on their victims, for
whom they cared absolutely nothing.
I looked at the boys and caught their eye. “Listen ’ere, lads,
if any trouble starts, form a circle and shuffle quick as you can
towards the door. Got it?”
“Yeah Ritchie, we got it.”
“Gimme my money!” The gorilla was getting louder. We
blandly ignored him. The bloated toad didn’t like that and
began to yell.
“We’re not Australians.” Fitzy’s voice was laced with
sarcasm. “We’re New Zealanders an’ we don’t have your
bleedin’ money.”
“Liars!” The gorilla stepped closer. “Gimme money or I’ll
break yer worthless necks.” He still needed a hand to steady
himself and wavered as he spoke.
“See what this says?” replied Fitzy, his demeanour
pointedly one of irritation. “N-Z-M-R. That stands for New
Zealand Mounted Rifles, as in , New Zealand – got that
dumbo?”
Those who stood on either side of us suddenly moved to
another part of the bar.
The ugly one was not impressed. With his beady eyes fixed
on Fitzy he slammed his ‘leg of mutton’ hand down on the bar,
upsetting his empty glass.
“I want money,” he roared while facing us down, his
mouth twisted into a grim line.
We eyed each other.
“Ready boys!” We downed our beers while we still had the
chance. Although the other soldiers in the room had moved
away, no one made any attempt to stop him. Obviously, they
had seen all this before. Now it was Walsh who had decided he
had taken enough. The bar was silent when he slammed his
glass down and sneered in contempt at the oversized
troublemaker.
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“Shut your mouth, you bloated turd. It will take more than
a pile of lard like you to get my money. Personally, I don’t
think you’re big enough!”
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then, the gorilla exploded. Walsh deftly darted aside while
Fitzy stuck out a foot. The bleary-eyed monster tripped and
veered off on a tangent, uselessly attempting to regain his
balance; only to collide headlong with a table that had four
men seated around it. Bottles and glasses smashed and fell as
the men jumped to their feet and attempted to get out
of the
way. The small, jaded table groaned under the onslaught of the
drunken giant, who now lay sprawled on top. Then slowly, the
flimsy legs gave way and the whole lot gradually slid over to
crash on the floor.
The four men glared at us. They were less than amused.
“Now look wot you done,” declared one, as his drunken
comrade attempted to rise from the wreckage of the table.
“Time to get out of here,” I mumbled, but Collins had
already grabbed one of the table legs and had wrenched it free,
then brought it down on the gorilla with considerable force.
The gorilla coughed and fell back on what remained of the
table. Instantly, Collins was attacked by two of the table
occupants and taking a punch on the chin, fell backwards into
the arms of Fitzy. Walsh punched one of the other assailants
and all hell broke loose.
Immediately, we became the centre of a struggling mass
trying to get to us. Outnumbered, we grouped into a circle and
tried to move towards the door, but by now the way was
barred. The crowd struggled and heaved while tables flew over
the floor. Glasses smashed and men cursed while I ducked one
punch and sidestepped another.
Fortunately, most of them had been drinking too long and
their aim was less than exact. I struck back, punching one
soldier on the lip after avoiding his swing. The lip burst forth
blood and he fell back against the picture of Lillie Langtry,
shattering the glass and cutting his head before he slid down
the wall. Another found a discarded table leg and picked it up.
He was about to swing it at Fitzy when Collins kicked him in
the groin. With a groan, he fell to the floor. Then the shouting
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grew and I saw that Emmett, Milsom, Carter and Steele had
arrived.
With the element of surprise on their side, they counter-
attacked the crowd from behind. Grabbing their victims by
their shirts they heaved them out of the way, cutting a swathe
through the struggling mass. We now had an escape route, and
grabbing the collars of the others I pulled them towards the
door.
Once we got out we scarpered. We ran across the road and
filed into a hardware shop where we pretended to be interested
in merchandise, while keeping an eye out through the windows
to see what was happening across the road.
“Bleedin’ marvellous,” complained Emmet. “We only just