DEDICATION
To all the four-legged warriors out there . . .
And those who serve alongside them.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Map of the Russian Federation
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part II
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part III
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part IV
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Author's Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction
Also by the Authors
Copyright
Credits
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Spring 1900
Bechuanaland, Africa
Doctor Paulos de Klerk packed the last of the medical supplies into the wooden trunk and locked the three brass clasps, mumbling under his breath with each snap. “Amat . . . victoria . . . curam.”
Victory favors the prepared.
Or so he prayed.
“So, my good doctor, how goes the effort?” General Manie Roosa’s voice boomed from the fort’s watchtower above.
De Klerk shielded his eyes from the blazing sun and stared up at the bearded figure leaning over the railing, grinning down. Though not physically imposing, Roosa had a commanding presence that made him look seven feet tall; it was in the man’s eyes. The general always looked eager for a fight.
And he was about to get one if word from up north held true.
“Are we ready?” Roosa pressed.
De Klerk returned his attention to the other trunks, cases, and burlap sacks. Though the general’s words had indeed ended with a question mark, he knew Roosa was not making an inquiry. At various times throughout the day their leader had posed the same “question” to almost every Boer soldier under his command, all of whom bustled around the plateau on which the fort sat, cleaning weapons, counting ammunition, and generally preparing for the upcoming march.
With an exaggerated sigh, De Klerk replied, “As always, I will be ready to leave five minutes before you are, my general.”
Roosa let out a booming laugh and slapped the log railing. “You amuse me, Doctor. If you were not so good at your profession, I might be tempted to leave you behind, out of harm’s way.”
De Klerk stared around the bustling fort. He hated to leave its security, but he knew where he was best needed. As primitive as the fort was, with its palisade walls and crude buildings, this place had withstood countless British attacks, making it a bastion for Boer troops. Leaving the confines of its protective walls likely meant he and his medical aides would be seeing a brisk business in the coming days.
Not that he wasn’t accustomed to the horrors of battle.
Though only thirty-two years old, this was De Klerk’s fifth year of war in the past decade. The first Vryheidsoorloë, or freedom war, was fought back in 1880 and had mercifully lasted but a year, ending well for the Boers—the Dutch/Afrikaans word for farmers—as they won their sovereignty from British rule in the Transvaal. Eight years later, the second Vryheidsoorloë started, involving not only the Transvaal but also the neighboring Orange Free State.
Same issues, more soldiers, he thought sourly.
The British wanted the Boers under their colonial thumb, and the Boers were not keen on the idea. De Klerk’s ancestors had come to the savannahs and mountains of Africa to be free, and now the Engelse wanted to take that away. Unlike the first Vryheidsoorloë, this war was protracted, with the British implementing a scorched-earth policy. Though neither De Klerk nor any of his comrades verbalized it, they knew their own defeat was inevitable. The one person who seemed oblivious to this was General Roosa; the man was an irrepressible optimist when it came to matters of war.
Roosa pushed himself away from the railing and climbed down the rough-hewn ladder to the ground and walked over to where De Klerk was working. The general straightened his khaki uniform with a few well-experienced tugs. He was the same height as the doctor, but burlier of physique and bushier of beard. For the sake of hygiene, De Klerk kept himself clean-shaven and insisted his aides did the same.
“So I see many bandages are being packed,” Roosa said. “Do you think so little of my leadership, Doctor? Or is it you think too highly of the Engelse soldiers?”
“Certainly not the latter, my general. I simply know that before long I will be treating throngs of enemy prisoners wounded by our bullets.”
Roosa frowned and rubbed his beard. “Yes, about that, Doctor . . . about supplying succor to the enemy . . .”
It was a sore point between them, but De Klerk refused to relent. “We are Christian, are we not? It is our duty to provide such help. But I also understand that our men must come first. I will only provide enough aid so that a British soldier might survive long enough to be reached by his own doctors. If we do not do that, we are no better than them.”
Roosa clapped him on the shoulder—not necessarily agreeing, but acknowledging the sentiment.
For reasons he had never fully understood, Roosa had come to think of him as a sounding board. The commander frequently shared information with De Klerk that had nothing to do with his medical duties—as if the general also saw him as his own conscience.
Still, he knew there was another reason Roosa took such an interest in his preparations. The men under the general’s command had become his family, a surrogate to his own wife, three daughters, and two sons, all who’d been taken by smallpox two years earlier. The loss had nearly destroyed Roosa and left lasting scars. When it came to bullet and bayonet wounds, the general was phlegmatic and optimistic; when it came to disease, he was frighteningly anxious.
Changing the touchy subject, Roosa pointed to the leather-bound diary that was never beyond De Klerk’s reach. “Cataloging more flowers, I see.”
He touched the worn cover both affectionately and protectively. “Providence willing, yes. If we are going where I think we are going, there will be many species I have never encountered.”
“We are indeed heading north, into the mountains of the Groot. My scouts tell me a brigade of Engelse soldiers are headed west from Kimberley, led by a new commander—a colonel fresh from London.”
“And in a hurry to prove himself no doubt.”
“Aren’t they all? If we leave in the morning, their lead elements will spot us by early evening.”
And then the chase will be on. Though not a military strategist by any means, De Klerk had been with Roosa long enough to recognize the general’s favorite tactic: let the Briti
sh scouts spot them, then draw the enemy north into the mountainous Groot, where the harsh terrain could be used to set up an ambush.
The British preferred to fight on the savannah, where their tidy formations and overwhelming firepower always won the day. The enemy commanders hated hills and mountains and ravines, hated that Roosa and his band of backward farmers refused to fight on their terms. And it was exactly such a strategy that Roosa had used many times to lure the British into murderous engagements. And still the enemy did not learn.
But how long would such arrogance last?
A chill iced through De Klerk as he gathered his research journal and pocketed it away.
The troops were up and on the move well before dawn, traveling northward without incident as the sun climbed higher. Then at noon, one of the Boer scouts overtook the formation from the south, pounding up to them on a sweating, heaving horse. He joined Roosa at the head of their formation.
De Klerk didn’t need to hear the conversation to know its content.
The enemy had found them.
As the scout wheeled away on his horse, the general rode back to the medical wagon. “The British will soon be giving chase, Doctor. Your comfortable cart may see some jostling.”
“I am less concerned with the wagon than I am my delicate internal organs. However, as always, I will survive.”
“Fine mettle, Doctor.”
Minutes slid into hours as the general led their unit north, steadily closing the gap between them and the Groot, whose foothills smudged the horizon, the details blurred by waves of heat rising from the savannah.
Two hours before dusk, another scout appeared. The expression on his face and the posture of his body as he rode past the medical wagon told De Klerk something had gone wrong. After a brief consultation, the scout rode off.
Roosa turned on his horse and shouted back to his leaders, “Prepare the wagons for fast travel! Five minutes!” He then rode back to De Klerk. “This new Engelse colonel is trying to be clever. He has disguised the size of his brigade and split them into two forces—one the hammer, the other the anvil.”
“With us the pig iron in the middle.”
“Or so they hope,” Roosa replied with a broad smile. “But hope fades with the light, Doctor. Especially once we lure them into the Groot.”
With a jaunty wave, Roosa wheeled his horse and rode off.
A few minutes later the general’s booming voice echoed throughout the Boer formation. “Fast travel . . . go!”
De Klerk’s wagon handler snapped the reins and barked a “Hah . . . hah!”
The horses bucked slightly, then broke into a gallop. De Klerk grasped the sideboard and held on, his eyes fixed on the distant Groot Karas Mountains.
Too far, he thought grimly. Too far and not enough time.
And an hour later, his fear proved true.
A trail of dust marked the return of a pair of riders sent north by Roosa to scout the way ahead, but as the dust settled, it became clear only one rider had come back. He leaned askew in his saddle and fell from his horse as he reached the unit, wounded twice in the back by rifle fire.
Roosa ordered a halt, then signaled for De Klerk to come forward. Armed with his medical bag, he rushed to the fallen man and knelt down. Both bullets had torn through vital organs before punching through the front of the young man’s torso.
“Collapsed lung,” he told Roosa, who cradled the man’s head.
The scout, a boy of eighteen, was named Meer. He clutched at Roosa’s sleeve, tried to speak, but coughed up frothy blood before he could find any words.
“My general,” the boy croaked out, “an Engelse battalion . . . north of us. Heavy cavalry . . . with cannons on fast caissons.”
“How far away, son?”
“Eight miles.”
Meer coughed harshly. A fresh gout of blood sprayed from his mouth. His body arched, fighting the inevitable, then went limp.
De Klerk checked him and shook his head.
Roosa closed the boy’s eyes and gave his hair a few strokes before standing up. A pair of soldiers carried Meer’s body away.
De Klerk joined the commander.
Roosa murmured, “All my talk of Engelse arrogance . . . it is I who was the arrogant one. This new British colonel is trying to stop us from reaching the Groot. If they can catch us out here in the open . . . well, then, my good doctor, you are going to have more work than you can handle in a lifetime.”
He didn’t respond, but Roosa must have noted his paling face.
The general gripped De Klerk’s shoulder hard. “This Engelse colonel is clever, but the tongs of his pincer are still wide enough for us to escape through. And soon the night will swallow us.”
An hour later, from the back of the bucking wagon, De Klerk watched the sun’s upper edge dip below the horizon. Night was nearly upon them, but to the east, a plume of dust—red and gold in the setting sun—covered a quarter of the sky. He estimated the number of cavalry horses it would take to create such a cloud.
Two hundred riders at least.
And behind them, wagons upon wagons of troops and cannon-bearing caissons.
God help us . . .
But at least they had safely reached the foothills of the Groot, escaping through the enemy’s pincers. With a final buck, the wagon rattled into a shadowy ravine, and the view of the British forces vanished.
He swung around and studied the broken landscape ahead, a veritable maze of hills, dry washes, and caves. Roosa had extolled many times about the “pocket fortresses” hidden in the mountains, Boer strongholds from which they could wait out any British siege.
Or so they all hoped.
Time ground slowly under the wheels of the wagon and the hooves of their horses. Finally, one of the scouting parties Roosa had dispatched to the south returned. After a brief consultation, the rider took off again, and Roosa ordered the formation to slow.
The general rode back to De Klerk’s wagon.
“We have bought some time, Doctor. But this Engelse colonel is not only wily, but also stubborn. His troops still remain on our trail.”
“What does that mean for us?”
Roosa sighed. He took a rag from his tunic pocket and wiped the dust from his face. “To quote Shakespeare’s Falstaff, discretion is in fact the better part of valor. It is time we hole up. One of our pocket fortresses is nearby. Hidden, but easy to defend. We will tuck ourselves away, wait for the Engelse to tire of the Groot, then attack them from the rear when they leave. You are not, uh . . . what is the word? Afraid of tight places?”
“Claustrophobic? No, I am not.”
“Good to hear, Doctor. I hope the others share the same fortitude.”
For another half hour, Roosa led them deeper into the mountains, eventually turning into a narrow ravine before stopping at a large cave entrance. The men began transferring supplies into the cave.
He joined Roosa at the mouth of the tunnel and asked, “What of the horses and wagons?”
“All will go inside, Doctor. We shall have to partially disassemble the wagons, but there is room enough inside for a small paddock.”
“And supplies?”
Again Roosa offered a confident smile. “I have been stocking this cave for some time, Doctor, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve as well. Unless this Engelse colonel is willing to loiter in these mountains for months, we have nothing to fear. Now, Doctor, if you will, take two men and begin transporting your supplies inside. I want to be safely settled within the hour.”
As usual, Roosa got his way. As the last of the supplies were carried inside under the flickering glow of lanterns, the general oversaw the placement of black powder charges at the mouth of the cave. Having already set up a surgery of sorts in a side cave, De Klerk wandered back to the entrance to watch.
“Good, good!” Roosa called to one of the sappers. “Move that charge on the left a few feet higher. Yes, there!” The general turned as he approached. “Ah, Doctor, are you settled in?”
“Yes, General. But may I ask . . . is that wise? Sealing us in here?”
“It would be distinctly unwise, Doctor, if this were the only entrance. But this cave system is vast, with many smaller, well-concealed exits. I have given this tactic much thought.”
“I can see.”
From outside the entrance came the pounding of hooves. One by one, the marksmen who had been dispatched earlier to harass the British forces entered the cavern, each man leading a lathered, panting steed. The last rider to enter stopped beside Roosa.
“We slowed them considerably, my general, but their scouts are less than an hour behind us. I estimate three hundred cavalry, two hundred foot soldiers, and forty 12-pound cannons.”
Roosa took this in, then rubbed his chin. “An impressive force. It seems the British have put a large bounty on our heads. Well, even if they manage to find us, the fight will be on our terms. And then, comrades, we will see how good the Engelse are at digging graves.”
After blowing and collapsing the cavern entrance, the night passed without event—as did the next day and the six days after that. Most of the Boer troops settled into their new stronghold and went about the business of making the cave system not only comfortable, but as defensible as possible, too.
Meanwhile, Roosa’s scouts used secret exits to slip from the caverns under the cover of darkness and returned with the same report: the British battalions remained in the mountains and appeared to be searching intently, but so far, they had failed to find the hidden fortress.
After a week, a lone scout returned at dawn and found the general sitting in the officers’ mess hall, a small cavern in which one of the disassembled wagons had been turned into a trestle table with benches. Roosa and De Klerk sat at one end, going over the day’s sick report under the glow of a hanging lantern.
Exhausted and disheveled, the scout stopped beside Roosa. The general stood up, called for a water skin, then forced the scout to sit down and waited as the man quenched his thirst.
“Dogs,” the scout said simply. “Bloodhounds. Coming this way.”
“Are you sure?” Roosa asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, my general. I could hear them baying, not two miles away. I believe they are coming toward this position.”
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