Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Geoff Lawson

  There was an anxious air about the place and nearly every face

  wore an expression of concern. Not long after, the commando

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  of de Wet appeared from Paardeberg and slowly rode into

  camp. The survivors were gaunt, tired and travel-stained, and

  told a tale of constant stress, shelling and hand-to-hand

  combat.

  They had arrived at Paardeberg from the south and

  occupied a hill that overlooked the battlefield, evicting a group

  of British mounted horse in the process. The British were

  obviously there to hold the hill but were so engrossed with the

  battle to their front that they’d failed to put lookouts to their

  rear. The commandos had crept up stealthily from behind and

  taken them completely by surprise. Routed, the English fled,

  leaving de Wet in control of the hill. He was then able to direct

  his artillery at the British artillery, forcing them to break off

  their participation in the battle in order to meet the threat from

  the east. It was apparent that these marauders must be evicted

  and wave after wave of attacks were made, which were beaten

  off handily by the Boers with considerable British loss.

  Then the British attacked at night and dug in on part of the

  hill, consolidating their position in daylight with a huge

  artillery barrage in support. As de Wet pondered what to do his

  lookouts reported that the British cavalry were encircling them,

  cutting off their rear. They retreated with all possible speed and

  only escaped the dragnet in the nick of time.

  Their ordeals weren’t over yet, though, for French’s

  cavalry mercilessly pursued them, forcing them to fight almost

  all the way back to Poplar Grove, a distance of nearly twenty

  miles.

  That night, the Boers held a meeting and made de Wet

  Commandant General of Boer forces on the Western front.

  While that was going on, Heinrich and I tended the wounded

  that came in.

  “This is hardly London Hospital,” quipped Heinrich, “but

  this is the only hope these men have. We must do our best

  regardless of the conditions we find ourselves in.”

  The operating table was a folding wooden affair with a bed

  sheet draped over it. The operating room was a tent with a dirt

  floor and folding card tables with squares of linen draped upon

  them provided somewhere to lay out instruments.

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  The doctor showed me how to keep the patients sedated

  with chloroform. One had to be careful not to overdo that, for

  if their breathing stopped one would promptly need to pump

  their chests until normal breathing resumed. Equally, one had

  to watch for signs of them waking up too swiftly; if they began

  to twitch or their eyelids fluttered, it would quickly become

  necessary to dose them a bit more.

  One of my many and varied tasks was to keep wounds

  open with forceps while Heinrich used both hands to probe for

  bone and bullet fragments. On one patient it was even

  necessary to amputate an arm. For me, this was a particularly

  sobering experience; the latest in a long line of sobering

  experiences since my arrival in Africa.

  The worst patient was shot through the head and there was

  nothing we could be expected to do. Strangely, he was

  astonishingly lucid, even speaking to us as we examined him

  up until he died. I wiped away blood as Heinrich worked,

  applied tourniquets and iodine to wounds and sometimes held

  patients down. At other times I had to hold a lantern above him

  and do numerous other incidental little things, which allowed

  him to concentrate fully on his work.

  We worked until we had seen them all. We had been on the

  road all day and tending patients all night. By 2am I was

  weary, but by 5am I had shut down. We went to sleep and I

  was too tired to even dream. My admiration went to Heinrich,

  who more than I, had to keep his wits about him and perform

  well. How his thin frame could cope with so much stress and

  concentrate for so long was simply a marvel to behold.

  When we woke the commando of de Wet had gone. They

  had returned to Paardeberg with reinforcements to make a last

  ditch effort to save Cronje. That evening, they returned at

  midnight with a lot more wounded and told of attacking the

  hill without success. This time the English were not napping

  and could not be evicted. The British had occupied the hill in

  force and repulsed de Wet at every turn.

  Heinrich and I were duty bound for another busy night of

  amputating limbs, sewing up shrapnel wounds and treating

  bullet holes. When I finally flopped on my bunk I was totally,

  emotionally exhausted. I longed for home and Rachel. I was

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  beginning to despair that I would ever find my way back to

  her. I could picture her tear-stained cheeks the last time I saw

  her. How I would love to kiss them and hold her now. Instead,

  I was here, trapped in a house of horrors from which there

  seemed to be no escape.

  The next day an atmosphere of gloom had settled over the

  camp, for there was nothing more the Boers could do. Cronje’s

  commando was un-saveable. In the preceeding days, a never-

  ending stream of British artillery guns and troop

  reinforcements had arrived from Cape Town and by now, they

  were numbered in the thousands. The Boers all knew that

  Cronje could not hold on any longer and his capitulation would

  mean their cause was lost on the Western front.

  As if to sympathize with the finality of it, there was a

  major electrical storm that night which left me awestruck in its

  wake. There was lightning so intense that the sky seemed to be

  on fire. Shafts of crackling mayhem pierced the heavens from

  horizon to horizon, lighting the night as if it were day, and the

  thunder that followed was so extreme that I was buffeted by

  shockwaves beyond belief. The sheer, unedited grandness of it

  made the efforts of man seem puny by comparison.

  Then, it rained with a severity that defied comprehension.

  A solid wall of water, the maelstrom flooded the camp and

  surrounding countryside. Every hollow was awash in a minute.

  Anyone in a tent was inundated, with bedding, boots, packs

  and clothing, all swirling around in the raging torrent. It

  seemed that everything in Africa was excessive and the

  weather was no exception.

  Due to the depressed state of the Boers, Heinrich had

  warned me of the danger of wandering about alone, so once

  the sun came out I spent a lot of time sitting in the shade of the

  ambulance. I was doing precisely that, feeling bored and

  grumpy, when I spied a young miss wandering past. She was

  about eighteen and very pretty; she had large ebony eyes in a

  heart-shaped face and an apron was tied around her waspish

  waist. She casually sauntered by, looking to see if I was

  watching. I certainly was. I continued to watch until she

  disappeared, and returned to my pointless daydreams, thinking

  no more about it until a little
while later, when I saw her

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  coming back. This time, she walked straight up to me. She

  looked a little nervous, so I gave her a benign smile, where

  upon she reached into the pocket of her apron and produced an

  apple which she gave to me.

  This unexpected generosity took me by surprise and she

  must have noticed. I took the apple from her outstretched hand

  and looking directly into her eyes, I said thank you as earnestly

  as I could manage. I don’t think she understood English, but I

  am sure she understood what I meant. Her smile widened and

  she walked away. As my eyes followed her retreating form she

  was still smiling and looking over her shoulder.

  Just then Heinrich appeared. “What was that about?”

  “Ooh, nothing,” I took a bite of the apple. “In truth I don’t

  really know, but the apple is good.” I held it out to him.

  “So. How come young ladies give you apples?” He bit into

  it and handed the apple back.

  “I cannot say for want of knowing. It’s probably her

  mothering instinct.”

  “Her mothering instinct?”

  I knew that would get him. Her attentions had distinctly

  brightened me up. I felt foolishly light-hearted for the first time

  since arriving here.

  “Yeah, you know, they love to mother things, especially

  homeless waifs like me.”

  He made a rude noise.

  “I would be most careful if I was you. She will have the

  brother or boyfriend who has no mothering instincts at all.”

  Damn, my light-headedness had taken a hit. I looked at the

  remains of the apple. I knew what he was getting at – I

  suppose it was only boyish irreverence that made me want to

  deny it. Heinrich fixed me with a look of concerned, fatherly,

  common sense.

  “The mood these people are in at this moment is

  particularly dangerous. I do not want your death on my

  conscience.”

  “Look,” I threw back. I was feeling stubborn enough to

  wishfully hope that my irreverence could actually triumph over

  his onslaught of irrefutable sensibility.

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  “I sit here bored to tears, so when a pretty girl smiles and

  gives me an apple, it becomes the highlight of my day – that is

  perfectly reasonable, is it not?”

  He looked as though my stupidity at denying the obvious

  was incomprehensible.

  “Well, be sure it does not become the highlight of your

  death. I do not want to attend your funeral!” Then he laughed

  at my serious face, but I understood his meaning, even though

  it was with some reluctance. My light-heartedness returned to

  a more practical plane with a bump; it was a rapid return to the

  inescapable, all-serious, house of horrors scenario.

  Next day, I needed to go to the latrines and Heinrich

  accompanied me. When we returned to the ambulance we

  noticed that someone had left a pot sitting on the rear step.

  Heinrich’s demeanour changed to one of guarded suspicion as

  he lifted the lid to examine the contents. As he looked into the

  pot his expression didn’t change in the slightest; a good

  indication that his suspicions had been confirmed.

  “It’s a bread pudding. No prize to guess who put it here.”

  Despite a look that said he wasn’t entirely happy, he found a

  pair of spoons and we began to eat. It was delicious too; her

  cooking was distinctly better than what we usually had.

  “You realise now,” he said in between mouthfuls, “she

  must come back to get the pot.”

  “Yes,” I chirped, slipping into a blissful state. “Isn’t that

  wonderful.” He scowled at me.

  “You young men are so foolish!” his tone conveyed more

  than a hint of impatience. “This is not what we want. Trouble

  is easy enough to come without poking it with a stick!”

  That afternoon, Heinrich spent a lot of time hanging around

  the ambulance, evidently trying to make sure he would be

  present when she came back to get the pot. At about four in the

  afternoon she did and there was no hint of nervousness as she

  strolled in our direction. As she approached, Heinrich held out

  the empty pot, which she accepted, smiling and leaving no

  doubt that she had left it there. Then a lively discussion

  ensued, of which I didn’t understand a word.

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  Finally, she gave me the cutest smile and rolled her eyes

  upwards before turning on her heel and striding away with a

  grin on her face.

  “What did she say?” The eagerness in my voice would

  have completely given away the obvious extent of my interest.

  He looked serious, cleared his throat and hesitated a second

  before looking at me.

  “Her name is Nina. I thank her for her generosity and I tell

  her that she should not go to this trouble, for we are most

  adequately fed. She replied that her brother came among the

  first of the wounded we tended. She says her brother is

  adamant that the doctor and his young doctor assistant have

  saved his life. It seems she and her family are most grateful

  and it is an honour to provide something for us. She asked

  perhaps, if we have anything we would like to request for next

  time.”

  “Well good Doctor,” said I, smirking like a Cheshire cat,

  “what are you going to do about that?” He didn’t say a word -

  he just glared.

  Next day, she turned up carrying a tin plate with six small

  cakes on it. By the greatest good fortune, Heinrich was off

  tending his patients and I was home alone. I was sitting on a

  mat and leaning against a wheel when she strolled up and

  motioned that I should make room for her, so I wriggled over

  and she sat down beside me, folding her legs and smoothing

  her skirt around her ankles.

  She was a beauty, no doubt about it. Her smiling doe’s eyes

  were fringed with dark lashes and her generous mouth seemed

  to radiate the sun. She was smiling at me now and I would

  have loved to know what she was thinking. She handed me a

  cake and while we nibbled we studied each other.

  It was obvious that she didn’t perceive me as a threat and it

  occurred to me that her evident comfort in my presence may

  not be romantically driven, but could well be social curiosity,

  for I doubt that she had ever sat with an English lad before. I

  studied her fingers for evidence of a ring but there was none. I

  pointed to myself and said ‘Richard.’ She nodded in

  understanding while her luminous eyes continued to study me.

  Then I took a bite of my cake.

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  “Umm, this is lovely.” I rolled my eyes. She laughed and

  blushed; she understood that as well. We sat and nibbled and

  after a while, she would look at those who passed, making me

  wonder if there was someone she didn’t want to see. A girl this

  charming was bound to have many admirers that she may not

  admire herself.

  She finished her cake and rose to take her leave, placing

  the plate with the remaining
cakes next to me. I smiled my

  appreciation and waved back to her as she walked away,

  watching her retreating form until she disappeared from view.

  Then my mood changed. Heinrich was right, she was a

  danger. It would have been different if she had left the cakes

  and walked off, but she hadn’t. She had chosen to stay with me

  and that had implications. Male jealousy could be violent and

  unreasoning. As an enemy of the state I was already vulnerable

  and if her visits continued, confrontation would be inevitable

  and probably sooner than later.

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  Chapter Twenty-eight

  POPLAR GROVE, Orange Free State. 27th

  Feb.1900

  The following day was Majuba day. Majuba day was the day

  the British surrendered after the first Boer war in 1881 and

  Transvaal became the South African Republic. In Transvaal,

  Majuba Day was a public holiday; an occasion for celebration.

  They would celebrate their great victory as well as their

  national identity and independence, although ominously, on

  this particular Majuba Day the spirit of celebration seemed to

  be missing. The Boers seemed even more sombre than usual.

  In fact, I doubt I will ever see a group as morose as they.

  After Heinrich appeared from his rounds I found out why.

  He was also uncharacteristically downcast.

  “What’s with the long face? Why are these Boers so

  sullen?”

  “Cronje surrendered this morning.” My attention sharpened

  and my spirits lifted. It seemed the inevitable had come to

  pass, although for Heinrich’s sake, I assumed my best poker

  face.

  “I suppose they will regroup, will they?

  “It is worse than that. Five thousand Boers and all their

  artillery are taken prisoner. Any chance of a Boer victory here

  is dashed. Roberts will be in Bloemfontein in under a week

  and after that, he will have the entire state.”

  Wow. Bobs sure knows what he’s doing.

  “Now that the British have the key to Orange Free State,

  they also have the key to invade Transvaal through its

  undefended underbelly.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “All of Transvaal’s forces are already engaged in fighting

  the British in Natal. They do not have the men or the artillery

  to adequately fight Roberts on another front.”

  So that was it! It was all too clear. The defeat of the Boer

  republics was inevitable.