Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Geoff Lawson

  I was glad that Rachel wasn’t around to see me, for now I

  had a bandage wrapped around my head and under my chin.

  My head smelt of iodine, which was to prevent my abrasions

  from becoming infected, but first, von Bok had sterilised my

  wounds by dabbing them with a swab soaked in white meths.

  Christ, that had hurt; eclipsing even the throbbing in my head.

  “Be patient,” he’d said soothingly as my face screwed up.

  “The pain will subside soon.”

  Not soon enough though, I can tell you that.

  Every time the wagon lurched or dropped into a rut my

  head ached and I had to sit leaning forward to ease my back.

  My ribs were covered with bruises, so von Bok had wound

  them with cotton duck to give them some support. Since I was

  the only one on my feet I took it upon myself to keep an eye on

  the other patients, although giving them water was about all I

  could reasonably expect to do.

  By ten that night the horses and mules were exhausted and

  to the relief of everyone the column stopped by a collection of

  adobe mud brick houses. The good doctor arranged for the

  injured to sleep in the largest house and an abundance of

  cooking fires sprang up after the animals had been unharnessed

  and watered from a communal well. By midnight we were fed

  some half-warm stew and bread, the first meal anyone had

  eaten all day.

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  My presence created a good deal of curiosity among the

  occupants, since they had probably heard a great deal about

  how bad British soldiers were, but had never actually seen one.

  Their children were particularly intrigued and probably

  thought we were devils with horns growing out of our heads.

  Sometimes, British soldiers are devils and I hoped they

  wouldn’t have to deal with any more of us.

  That night I tried to sleep on the parlour floor with the

  other patients. Despite my physical exhaustion I couldn’t sleep

  for the aches in my back and head, so eventually I made my

  way outside to limp slowly back and forth in the moonlight. It

  was cooler and any other night I would have found that

  pleasant after the heat of the day, but not tonight. I was angry.

  Frustration welled within me. I was aching, both physically

  and emotionally – far too much to be philosophical about my

  predicament.

  The night sky was a canopy of twinkling stars and all

  around was the flickering glow of camp fires and the dark

  silhouettes of wagons. It was quiet, peaceful even, and after a

  while I sat on the verandah and leaned a shoulder gingerly

  against a post. I felt demoralised. I had felt like this before, but

  never as low as I did now. I was also in trouble and had never

  felt more alone.

  I thought about Rachel. She would be sleeping now,

  thousands of miles away across the Great Southern Ocean. If

  only I could see her for a short while, to know that she is well

  and hold her angelic hands. With an all-new appreciation I

  would ask how she’s keeping and absorb the sweetness of her

  voice. I would bask in the sunshine of her smile like a person

  who is cold would soak up the sun and ask if she had worn the

  green velvet dress lately, or the silver headband that made her

  look like a princess. If only I could. I descended into an acute

  state of melancholy. Eventually I succumbed to emotional

  exhaustion and fell asleep.

  Next day the commando stayed here and farmers from all

  over the region began to arrive. Like the people in this

  community, they were old men and youngsters, as all the able

  bodied men would be ‘out on commando.’ They drove away

  with all the wagons, the intention being to scatter them far and

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  wide to prevent the British from being able to find them. I

  spent the day napping and following the shade as the sun

  travelled its arc across a sky that was dotted with fluffy, white

  clouds.

  The houses here were primitive and would compare with a

  bush crib back home. This was not a place of grand designs or

  aesthetics, but a place that was governed by practical realities.

  Typically, the houses were plain and rectangular, of

  unplastered mud brick with small rooms and one small

  casement window per room. Unlined, they were as spartan on

  the inside as they were on the outside and contained only the

  most essential furniture with little adornment hanging on walls.

  In contrast to some, the house we were in had planked wooden

  floors, the edges hand dressed, and gaps were caulked to keep

  out insects. Lesser houses and outbuildings only had dirt floors

  and nothing here spoke of wealth.

  The girls were pretty. Many had blonde curly hair and large

  blue eyes while the boys were robust, tanned and toughened by

  a land that would provide but was hard to live on. To me, these

  houses and the lifestyles of the people who lived in them

  seemed to be no more advanced than those of our ancestors of

  previous centuries. It was no wonder they were a hardy and

  pragmatic lot.

  No one seemed to be watching me except the children, who

  would observe me discreetly from a distance. I thought about

  escape. I could have easily wandered out of here last night.

  The problem was, where the hell was I? I had no idea, other

  than I was somewhere east of where we were yesterday. Then

  again, where was the British army? They could be anywhere

  within a hundred miles of here. I could wander aimlessly

  westwards for days and find no one except Boers. I wouldn’t

  last that long anyway; in my present beat-up and under

  nourished state I would probably last only one.

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  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Somewhere East of Kimberley, 15/16th

  February 1900

  That night we were eating when an old woman shuffled in.

  After staring benignly in my direction she spoke to the other

  residents; occasionally looking back as if to be certain I was

  still there. Her hair was grey and tied in a bun while her

  homespun mourning clothes looked creased and worn, as

  though rarely taken off. She wore a black crocheted shawl over

  her stooping shoulders and her face was lined and tanned like

  leather from a lifetime of exposure to the sun.

  Slowly she approached, her eyes dulled from age or grief,

  or perhaps both; to stand before me, saying nothing, just

  staring with haunting, wistful eyes. She hovered as though

  undecided about what to do, then she said something in

  Afrikaans and I looked to the doctor to translate.

  “I had a son who was clever and understood things; he was

  like you and had fair hair. He was our only son and would have

  inherited the farm in the fullness of time, but now he is dead,

  killed in the fighting at Modder River. The loss of our son is a

  tragedy for our family; he was our last child and the only son. I

  hated you English for the grief you have brought us. Then I

  read the newspaper; I read of the piles of English dead at

  Magersfont
ein and Spion Kop and I realise that the mothers of

  England are crying too. I cannot hate you now. You are too

  much like the son I have lost. I will pray that you will survive

  this war and return to your mother, for surely she must deserve

  that.”

  The doctor stopped translating and the room was silent.

  Everyone present looked at me, waiting for me to respond. I

  got to my feet.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your loss and I understand, for I have

  lost friends too. There are times when duty to one’s country is

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  a terrible burden to bear. Perhaps I will survive this war if God

  wills it, but if not, then my mother will also weep.”

  For a moment she looked at me with even more sadness,

  then she approached and hugged me as a mother would hug a

  son, while a tear formed in her eye. Then she pulled a hanky

  from a sleeve and she left.

  We watched her go. There was complete silence. No one

  spoke as they thought about the solemnity of her words. I

  thought about them too.

  Later, I couldn’t sleep. My back still ached, so I went

  outside and sat on the verandah. I stared out into the darkness,

  my mind far away, and visions of that woman kept appearing

  in my head, reminding me of my own mother and home. I

  thought about Rachel too. The first thing I wanted to do when I

  got home was marry her. In less than a year I would be a

  father, which also meant that I would need to do better in terms

  of a job. Things change; my carefree days as a stockman would

  be over. I would need to buy a farm or start a business, for I

  was sure my family would inevitably grow.

  Eventually, utter weariness forced any more thoughts from

  my mind; I lay back on the verandah and fell asleep. It was

  summer now and sleeping outside was more pleasant than

  sleeping indoors. I rolled around, trying to find a position that

  reduced my aches, pulled my blanket over me and slept like

  the dead.

  I dreamed about that Zane Grey novel. I dreamt that the

  villains had kidnapped Rachel and I was searching the

  badlands, except it was not the badlands of Arizona, it was

  here, in Africa. I searched the veld to Egypt and back, but

  Rachel could not be found. The dream went on and on, only to

  begin at the start again without any conclusion. I hated that.

  I woke in the cool of predawn and grabbing my blanket, I

  stumbled inside to flop on the floor and go back to sleep.

  When I woke up, something was definitely happening. As I

  went out and sat on the verandah I could see that there seemed

  to be an awful lot of activity underway. The commandos were

  striking camp – fires were doused and thin columns of smoke

  rose vertically into the early morning air. The artillery and

  wagons were being harnessed and everywhere there was haste

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  to be on the move. Von Bok seemed to have disappeared, but

  on his return he had an explanation.

  “The British under French have broken through the Boer

  cordon around Kimberley and the commando of Ferriera is in

  retreat. Cronje is also in retreat, having abandoned

  Magersfontein in an attempt to reach Bloemfontein, but didn’t

  get there – he is surrounded by Roberts at Paardeberg.”

  I blinked in surprise. How could this have happened so

  fast? Yesterday, it was the Boers who were dictating the tune.

  Now, they were routed and on the run. No small wonder they

  were in a panic.

  “Our commando is to go to Cronje’s aid with all possible

  speed. Today you were to be escorted with the injured to

  Bloemfontein, where you would go to a prison camp. That has

  been cancelled and the injured will remain here until other

  arrangements can be made. As for you, you can remain here or

  you can come with me.”

  I arched my brows. “Where are we going?”

  “We must follow the commando. There will be much

  fighting and many casualties. I will be short of hands, as they

  will be bringing the wounded and applying primary aid. Would

  you come to assist me?”

  I was gobsmacked! He was suggesting that I become a

  medical orderly for the enemy!

  “Of course, there will be much danger to you and you will

  need to stay near me. You will need to wear something other

  than that campaign jacket. It is too British. I will provide the

  orderly’s coat and red cross armband to make you less

  conspicuous.”

  “Hang on a minute. What will de Wet have to say about

  that?”

  “I have already spoken and he does not care. He does not

  consider you a threat and if you disappear he would not bother

  to look for you. So there, you see, it is up to you. Do you want

  to hang your heels around here and go off to prison, or come

  with me to God knows where?”

  I thought about that for a minute.

  “But I don’t know anything about doctoring. What possible

  use would I be?”

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  “Lots of use. To be precise, you can hold your finger on an

  artery and prevent a man from bleeding to death while I work.

  You can keep tight pressure on a tourniquet while I cut off a

  leg, you can wash blood from wounds and bind injuries – I will

  teach you. Need I go on? Are you man enough for it?”

  I wished he hadn’t said that. I have butchered animals over

  the years, so the sight of blood and entrails does not concern

  me. Still, this was a little different. But then, I also needed to

  get home; my tour of duty still had eight months to run unless

  the war ended beforehand. What if it didn’t? What if it dragged

  on for two or more years? If it did and I was still a prisoner, I

  would be stuck here and that would never do. I needed to

  escape as soon as possible and failure was not an option. If I

  remained out here, the opportunity to escape would come.

  “All right. I’ll do it on the condition that I am not asked to

  do anything that is military in nature.”

  “Agreed. I have a condition of you also. You must not do

  anything rash that causes you to be shot. I do not wish your

  death on my conscience. Do you understand this?”

  I looked into his eyes. I guessed what he was getting at.

  “Agreed.” I nodded.

  That was it then, I was now an orderly for the commando

  of de Wet. Had I been told this yesterday, I would not have

  believed it.

  I gave von Bok a hand to store some gear aboard the

  ambulance, which was really a mobile medical centre. It had

  two wire-mesh bunks which folded against the walls and the

  rest was all cupboards and lockers, which were full of medical

  paraphernalia that was crammed into every conceivable space.

  We harnessed the mules and off we went, with two orderlies

  following us on the wagon that I’d come here in.

  The commando had left before us and we followed in their

  wake. Three hundred ponies and many wagons leave a lot of

  evidence on the ground, which in certain terrain can also be

  followed by moo
nlight. We travelled until dark and came

  across a group of Boers that had a message from de Wet. We

  were to go to Poplar Grove on the Modder River and set up in

  the camp. There would be other medics there and President

  Steyn and his commando could be about as well.

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  That night we could hear the distant booming of artillery.

  That told me we couldn’t be more than ten miles from

  Paardeberg, so there was no doubt now about what had

  happened to the British army. Since this morning I was feeling

  better. My head had stopped throbbing and my back had

  improved. I thought about escape, but decided against it. It

  would be just my luck to walk all night and get picked up

  again by a Boer patrol.

  Next day, we travelled by a roundabout route to avoid the

  war zone and whenever we met parties of Boers, von Bok did

  all the talking. We shared the driving, which was my first

  experience of driving mules.

  Mules were stupid and stubborn. They could not reproduce

  themselves and were the product of an artificial cross between

  a donkey and a horse. They were donkeys in every way except

  size; they were larger. You could get attached to a horse which

  has far more intelligence than a mule and horses could even be

  affectionate. For all I could see, the only redeeming thing

  about mules was the fact that they were amazingly strong for

  their size and could survive in conditions that would kill a

  horse, without being particularly bothered by it.

  As we travelled, we continued to hear the thunderous

  booming of artillery, so something big was definitely in

  progress and not that far away.

  “The commandos of Steyn, Ferriera and de Wet are

  attempting to assist Cronje,” confided the doctor. “But there

  are so many British, there is every possibility that they cannot

  extradite him. If he does not break out he will be forced to

  surrender in a few days. If that happens, Boer efforts on the

  western front will likely collapse; the door to Orange Free

  State will be open to Roberts.”

  I pondered that for a moment. It appeared that British

  efforts were succeeding at last. Good ol’ Bobs! The rumours

  were true; he had set things straight.

  Late in the afternoon we arrived at Poplar Grove to find a

  large camp already established, with a surprising number of

  women and children and a lot of wagons parked in groups.