Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  Kevin was surprised by Albany’s inviting coast, its beaches, and forested slopes. It was hard for him to imagine a terrible prison in this bright sunshine. Various troop transports already lay at anchor in the well-tended natural harbor. The Australians, too, were sending more troops to South Africa.

  The unit tarried in Albany just long enough to take on more provisions and make small repairs to the ship. But Kevin and his new friend, Vincent Taylor, a veterinarian, managed a quick expedition to town to restock their whiskey and do a short nature hike. The fauna of Australia fascinated Vincent, but Kevin had little appreciation for snakes, spiders, and stinging bugs. He was relieved to make it back from the bush alive.

  “Africa’s not lacking in the like,” Vincent teased. “Lions, rhinos, cheetahs . . .”

  Kevin laughed. “I’m fairly certain they won’t be coming into my hospital tent. Which you can’t say about the critters here. That black snake—what’s it called again?—is almost everywhere, you know, and monstrously poisonous. By the way, can you take another look at my horse later? Its gait seemed a little unsteady. That might be my fault. I’ve inherited the fear of stepping on snakes.”

  For the crossing to Africa, Vincent secured Kevin’s horse a space on deck alongside his own.

  “Maybe they’re more likely to spook there, and it’ll be uncomfortable in strong winds. But the stalls belowdecks are intolerable. I’ve already made complaints. It’s far too stuffy, especially in the heat we’re expecting. But of course, command says what’s good enough for the men is good enough for the animals. They do pack the men in like sardines. Only, the horses didn’t volunteer.”

  Vincent himself didn’t seem all that enthusiastic to be there either. He’d been driven to sign up by financial troubles and, as he confessed to Kevin on their third night crossing the Indian Ocean, an unhappy marriage.

  “I didn’t marry her for her money, certainly not, though I didn’t say no when her father wanted to finance my practice. I probably should have been more skeptical about his generosity.” Vincent took another mouthful of whiskey. “In any case, she gave me cuckold’s horns that would have made any ram jealous. At first, I didn’t even notice. I worshipped her. She was a beautiful girl, a sheep baroness. But in the end, half the city was talking about it. Mary Ann just couldn’t turn any man away, from her father’s shepherds to the merchant around the corner. I suppose it was pathological. With mares, you call that sort of thing ‘continual heat.’” Vincent downed his whiskey in one gulp.

  “With people, it’s called nymphomania,” Kevin said.

  Vincent, a tall, blond man, shrugged his shoulders. “She never got pregnant, anyway. Thank goodness. That made the divorce a great deal easier. Unfortunately, her father was not pleased when his promiscuous princess came back to him. I was ruined, so enlisting seemed my best option. It does fill the coffers a bit. And believe you me, lions, cheetahs, and rhinos don’t scare me. Not even snakes. Compared to Mary Ann, vipers are cute.”

  As officers, Kevin and Vincent were comfortably lodged, bunking together in a first-class cabin. Vincent focused all his attention on the horses. He went from one to the other, scratching them and talking to them.

  Kevin observed this with concern. He’d heard that the Boers did not treat their animals well and especially hated the large English horses. Their own horses, though they apparently acquitted themselves brilliantly, were small, and were outmatched in combat by the English cavalry’s Thoroughbreds. For that reason, the Boers applied themselves expressly to injuring and killing their opponents’ mounts. Vincent might soon have more patients than Kevin, and it would not be easy for him to watch his cherished friends die in a hail of bullets.

  Kevin himself used the voyage to educate himself about the equipment of the field hospitals. Beyond that, he was obliged to provide the men with first-aid courses.

  “In the veld, the South African plains, you will have to rely on one another,” Kevin said, repeating what he had been told during training. “Enemy raiding parties like to retreat there, and you won’t have a field hospital at hand every time you pursue them. So, pay attention. This course might save your or your comrades’ lives.”

  Kevin had everyone splint limbs and apply tourniquets. He found this training sensible—much more so than the rudimentary shooting exercises in training camp. The farm boys had learned nothing new, and the workers from the city had learned far too little to survive a battle. Kevin observed that four of those who’d been hopeless with guns handled themselves ably in the first-aid course. He was determined to request them as medical assistants as soon as the field hospital was manned. All of his superior officers had proved to be reasonable men, at least so far.

  “But you all realize that, when we get there, we’ll have to deal with English career officers, right?” one sergeant pointed out at a gathering. “And some of them aren’t all there. This Buller, for example, the commander, you hear the craziest things about him. Apparently, he travels with a whole hotel kitchen, requisitions wine by the gallon from the local vineyards, and leads herds of animals with him for slaughter, just so no one goes hungry. But then he’ll go and use a few thousand soldiers as cannon fodder just to take some meaningless hill that no one cares about the next day. We’ll have to watch out for our men.”

  Mostly, though, the news was encouraging. After the Boers’ early successes in seizing several towns, the British offensive was picking up speed. Most of the occupied towns had been liberated, and the English were advancing into the Boer republics. The New Zealand contingent, too, was celebrating its first victories. After suffering heavy casualties at Jasfontein, the men had pulled themselves together and fought like lions. On January 15, they had valiantly beaten back a Boer attack. The hill on which the fighting took place received the name New Zealand Hill in commemoration.

  “The country can’t be all that well settled if they still have to name the hills,” remarked Vincent as the officers on the ship gleefully toasted this victory. “If you think about it, back home, each one’s already got two names.”

  “The first settlers there surely have their own place names too,” said Kevin. “It’s just the Boers can’t be bothered to care. They don’t even know what the tribes call themselves. Or do you really think they dubbed themselves Hottentots and Kaffirs?”

  “What I’d like to know is which side the tribes are on.” Vincent arched his brows.

  “They’re trying to stay out of it,” explained a sergeant. Sergeant Willis was one of the few career soldiers in their unit, but he’d never seen action and was hopeful that, with this deployment, bullets would finally be whizzing past his ears. “What’s more, the English want them to stay out of it. That’s why we’re not sending any Maori regiments, even though their boys are beating down the recruitment office doors. It seems the Crown doesn’t want to make things any more complicated than they already are.”

  After five weeks at sea, Kevin’s unit reached the small town of East London. Originally, they were supposed to land in Bera, like the contingent before them, but while they were still at sea, a radiogram arrived for Major Jowsey, the troop commander, explaining riders were needed in the Orange Free State, one of the rebellious Boer republics. There had been unrest in the south and east and, most importantly, attacks on the train lines.

  East London itself seemed peaceful—and much more manageable than its great namesake. It lay along an exceptionally beautiful coast where sandy beaches alternated with hills and reddish rocks. The city consisted of a fort and a collection of well-kept, whitewashed buildings and farms. The climate was subtropical, the streets sewn with palms and colorful flowers. The Buffalo River flowed to the sea here, making it the only river port in South Africa.

  Kevin joined Vincent, who was overseeing the unloading of the horses. The young veterinarian was highly pleased with the condition of his charges, especially his own mare, Colleen. Kevin led his gray, Silver, from the ship himself.

  “I thought they spoke Dutch her
e,” Kevin said to one of the officers receiving the new troops, “but these people’s English is perfect. And I imagined the natives with darker skin.”

  Colonel Ribbons laughed. “East London is an English settlement,” he explained to the young doctor. “Originally a military base against the Xhosa—a formidable native people. Then, German settlers came after the Crimean War. They already knew how to speak English, too, from serving in the British German Legion. Boers don’t like to live on the coast anyway. ‘Boer’ means farmer, and you can take that literally. They live off the land, don’t like strangers, and they only go to school long enough to learn to read the Bible. There’ve been lots of settlers in East London.”

  “And the natives don’t have any objections? About all the immigrants, the change of ownership?” Kevin was still looking at the light-skinned workers.

  “Depends on the tribe. Around Cape Town, where I’m from, they’re supposed to have always been very cooperative—although they were almost exterminated by the Dutch there. The workers you’re staring at are actually from India, auxiliaries for the army. They also work as medical assistants. We’ll assign you some. Very willing, efficient, and handy.”

  Kevin furrowed his brow. “You mean there aren’t any native blacks anymore? But aren’t we partly here to liberate them?”

  “You could say that. And, of course, there are still natives. But the Xhosa here and the Zulu around Durban don’t make good laborers. If we recruited them, they could massacre the Boers in a heartbeat. Command is probably afraid that, once that was done, they’d make short work of us too. Farm work, on the other hand, like cutting sugarcane on the plantations around Durban? They’ll only do it if someone forces them, which is still common. As you said, it’s . . . among the reasons for our presence.” Colonel Ribbons smirked ironically. “That and what’s hiding in the ground, right? Around here, in any case, we don’t force anyone under the whip. We let the people do what they want. Most of them live inland and do their own farming and husbandry.”

  They were joined by Vincent and Sergeant Willis.

  “When do we move out?” Kevin asked.

  “Not for a few days,” Willis reported happily. “It seems they learned from the disaster with the first contingent, practically sending them straight from the ship to the battlefield. That means we have time to prepare. I’d like to arrange a training exercise on horseback for tomorrow.”

  But Vincent shook his head firmly. “Sorry, sir, but I must insist the animals get a little time to adjust too. If we want them to serve us well in battle, it’s better if they slowly regain their land legs without riders. I’m told there are large paddocks around the barracks where they can rest.”

  “Here, they’re called ‘kraals,’” Colonel Ribbons explained. “As are the natives’ villages.”

  “That gives us a good idea of what they think of the blacks in this country,” Vincent replied. “Imagine what our Maori would say if we went around calling our animal pens marae.”

  Ribbons shrugged. “It’s true, we don’t live very peacefully together. As a rule, everyone fights with everyone, at least in the aggregate. On a purely personal level, close relationships sometimes form between black and white families. Most of the Boer regiments have black trackers—and they’re both outstanding and completely loyal. Just like those on the English side. Granted, officially there are no black auxiliaries, but some officers can’t take a step without their ‘boys.’ A few even serve in the officers’ mess. Why don’t I take you there now? We’ll toast to your safe crossing—and if you want, tomorrow or the day after, when your horses are fit again, I’d be happy to take you out into the veld for some sightseeing.”

  Over the next two days, Kevin and two other doctors assembled their field hospital, while Vincent tended the horses. At the time, he was the only veterinarian in all of East London, so the neighboring farmers rushed to consult him, and he proudly reported birthing calves and saving horses from colic.

  “I heard about some Boers with an injured pony, but they didn’t want my help,” he said sadly as he rode with Colonel Ribbons and Kevin into the bush on the third day of their stay.

  “The Boers?” asked Kevin. “I didn’t think there were any here.”

  Ribbons nodded. “Hardly any. They coexist pretty peacefully with the English, like the Cape Boers where I come from. On rare occasions, there’s even intermarriage.”

  Kevin had to laugh. “Rare occasions?”

  Ribbons, however, was deadly serious. “A Boer girl who marries into an English family is an abomination for these people, almost as bad as if she’d taken a black lover. Not that the fathers have to lock their daughters inside. They look at us English like we’re the devil himself. It’s more common for a rebellious young man to lose his head over an English girl. The parents handle that better, but it can be difficult as well. My brother-in-law is a Boer, a vintner, so I know firsthand. We don’t have anything against Pieter, but since Joan married him, we hardly see her. I’d bet his family gives him hell whenever he visits his in-laws. They tolerate Joan in his village as long as she doesn’t speak a word of English. And they snub Pieter in church. Now, these folks are the most moderate. They’re not even taking sides in the war. The others—”

  “At any rate, they did not let me treat their pony,” Vincent said regretfully. “Their English neighbor wanted to take me there. He has to see the poor thing every day with its swollen leg. A puncture wound—it needs to be wrapped in a cast with carbolic acid. The Boer treats it by peeing on it. That’s not entirely wrong, but it still needs to be put in a cast, and the wound needs to be examined. If it’s really deep, then none of the, uh, fluid is getting to it.”

  Kevin and Ribbons laughed.

  “The Boers do have their home remedies,” said Ribbons. “And hardly any real doctors. It’s not just the horses that die of treatable diseases. Can you imagine, they take their wives with them to war? I’m serious: the wives drive their oxcarts behind the troops and doctor their husbands—even doing amputations. They’re a tough people, the women too. And religious. When in doubt, they pray.”

  Kevin was fascinated. He could hardly wait to meet these strange Boers in person. For the time being, he got to know some of the country’s four-legged residents. What they called the “veld” was primarily overgrown grasslands. There were also clusters of trees, some of them in bizarre shapes, and low shrubs. Kevin was completely taken aback when he saw a small brown antelope emerge from a thicket—followed by a whole herd.

  “Impalas,” Ribbons whispered. “The Boers call them rooibok.”

  A few minutes later, Kevin’s horse, Silver, almost panicked when a giraffe appeared between two trees, its mouth full of leaves.

  “Unbelievable,” Vincent said. “Are there lions here too?”

  “Rhinos,” Ribbons replied. “But for them we’ll have to ride farther inland. They’re very fast, you know. Don’t ever get too close, lest they attack.”

  Kevin preferred to spare his horse more encounters with strange animals. He knew that the giraffe posed no threat, but it was still uncanny to ride right past wild animals without the protection of fences. Kevin felt for his weapon whenever something stirred in the bush while Vincent excitedly identified various kinds of antelope.

  Finally, they also passed a real kraal, a native village. It seemed less developed than the Maori villages in New Zealand, but it was much warmer here, of course, and there was less need of extensive buildings. The village, consisting of circular huts, was surrounded by a perimeter wall of thornbushes to keep the wild animals at bay.

  “It was also a decent defense against spears,” Ribbons said, “but not much good against firearms. Once, there were army camps, too, much larger than these little villages. But now the blacks are just happy when we leave them in peace.”

  That seemed to be true enough in this case. Though the people in the kraal eyed the riders skeptically, they made no move to welcome or frighten them off.

  “This
country,” Vincent raved that evening, “it’s paradise.”

  Kevin kept quiet. South Africa was no doubt beautiful, but he did not feel at ease. Perhaps the British would get things sorted once and for all, improving conditions for the native people and getting control of the mines. But did they really know what they were doing?

  Chapter 2

  “Tomorrow, we move out. We’re going to help liberate Wepener,” Major Jowsey told his officers the next day. “And, in case one of you still hasn’t heard of that backwater”—the men laughed—“it’s a small settlement three hundred miles north on the Jammerdrif, which is a tributary of the mighty Caledon.” More laughter. Apparently, no one was much interested in South African geography. But Major Jowsey, a short, agile man with a big mustache, would not be deterred. “It’s a central point for the local agriculture,” he explained, unfolding a map and pointing to the tiny town on the border of Basutoland.

  “I hear that’s all Boer country,” Kevin offered. “Farms, fields, cattle, and it’s where the enemy settlements are. So, don’t ride to the nearest farm if you’re wounded. The local colonel I’ve been talking to says the women are as good a shot as the men.”

  The men laughed again, but the major nodded. “Listen to the doctor. He’s entirely right. Wepener lies on the edge of the Orange Free State, and it’s a nest of rebels. For a week now, it’s been held by a British garrison of two thousand men. We’re among the troops meant to relieve the garrison. The people there are waiting for us. So, we ride tomorrow at daybreak, and we ride fast.”