by Lark, Sarah
“Looks like we’re done, at least for now,” he declared. “We’ll have to see how things develop. If we have bad luck, we’ll have to give it another go tomorrow.”
In the barn, Cornelis lay recovering on a straw bed. Morning light was already spreading, and Kevin knew that he really ought to lie down if he wanted to get a little rest before the arrival of the first wounded soldiers. But then he saw a muted light in the front room and so crossed once more to the house. Doortje would want to know how the operation had gone.
And indeed, Kevin could see her through the window, sitting at the table and studying the Bible by the light of a candle stub. Kevin opened the door slowly and as quietly as possible—he did not want to startle her nor, heaven forbid, alert anyone else to his presence.
“You’ll ruin your eyes,” he whispered, pointing to her book, “reading in such bad light.”
Doortje did not look surprised. Perhaps she had expected him.
“If God wishes to punish me with blindness, then—” She broke off. “How is Cornelis?”
“He’s alive, and we hope he’ll be able to keep his leg. But please don’t come at us with knives if we do have to amputate. His leg went a long time without blood. Now, at least, you have a real reason to pray.”
Kevin would have liked to sit next to the young woman, but he did not know how she would react to that, and so remained standing. Doortje looked up at him. She looked wan, exhausted.
“That is what I was doing this whole time,” she said. “We, we are not like you. For us, God is not a last chance. He is with us always.”
Kevin shrugged. “He’ll be leaving your people in Wepener today. They’re still fighting, against all reason, but it’ll be over today. Soon you’ll get your farm back. And hopefully won’t think too badly of us when we’re gone. We did save your cousin, after all. Maybe your God sent us.”
Kevin bit his lip. But the expected outburst did not come. Doortje was silent.
The morning once again brought an onrush of wounded men, but only a few very serious cases. The besieged seemed to have run out of ammunition. They were now trying to beat back the attackers with sabers, knives, and clubs. Around midday, the transports from the front stopped completely. The last of the lightly wounded who’d come to be bandaged reported a victorious entry into town.
“But there wasn’t much to conquer,” one New Zealander explained. “The men in the garrison were half-starved. They had broken off pieces of the mill to strengthen their barricades. The houses are shot up. Really, you’d need to rebuild the whole town—the Boers can do that after the war.”
“The Boers really are getting it all back?” Kevin marveled. “The whole town?”
Barrister rolled his eyes. “Of course they’ll get it back, Drury. What does the Crown want with this backward hill town? And we don’t intend to drive out the Boers either. They just need to submit to British law, recognize a governor—maybe even learn English. It’ll be the official language, anyway. Until they accept that, we’ll man and hold fortifications like Wepener. As soon as there’s peace, we’ll withdraw. Spare us your musings about it all. Here, at least, there’s a town at stake. A few weeks ago, our men and just as many Boers died for a hill, a stupid little hill no one needs. That’s war, Drury. It’s a matter, as you said yesterday, of principle. Anyway, you can go see your favorite patient now. He’s awake. And maybe you can even entice your favorite shrew to come in and visit her cousin. Miss van Stout’s been slinking around the barn like a ghost.”
Kevin wasn’t sure whom he should go to first. His heart pulled him toward Doortje, who was surely going through a hard time. The women in the house would now spurn her, yet she was, without a doubt, determined to continue hating the British. Kevin decided he’d best leave her be. Her family would surely hold any contact with him against her. So, he went to Cornelis. The young man looked markedly better that morning and provided a surprise when Kevin introduced himself: he smiled.
“I owe you my life. You and Doortje. I really thought it was the end. Thank you. Truly, thank you.”
Kevin returned his smile. “I had rather expected curses,” he confessed. “After all, we weren’t sure if we were acting against your will.”
Cornelis Pienaar looked him straight in the eye, and Kevin recognized deep pain in his watery blue eyes.
“I’m nineteen years old,” said the boy. “I’d like to go to college. I’d like to be a teacher or doctor, or most of all, a veterinarian. But if I have to, I’ll till my family’s land. As for dying, I don’t want to do that for many years. But I know I’m a coward. I’m a disgrace to my people. That’s how they’ll see it. They’re all volunteers, you see. You are too, aren’t you? The English are all volunteers.”
Kevin shrugged. “The New Zealanders and Australians are all volunteers,” he said. “Though, if you ask me, we’re all just running away from something. So, we could argue about who the coward is here. Your cousin, in any case, isn’t one. Thank her—and if it comforts your mother, tell her that the ladies scared the hell out of our people. The whole British Army hadn’t the guts to pull you out of that house against their will.”
Cornelis nodded. The sadness in his eyes seemed still to grow. “I understand,” he murmured. “I know my mother.”
Doortje did not dare visit Cornelis that day, and she did not exchange a word with Kevin either. In the end, he asked Nandi to inform her that her cousin was out of the woods. The black girl reported that, in contrast, the condition of the other wounded Boer, baas Willem, had dramatically worsened.
At that, Kevin made his way to the house once more and tried to talk to the women. Little Johanna van Stout sent him packing with wild curses in rather bad English.
“There’s nothing you can do,” said Barrister. “This time it is the clear will of the affected, alas. And your Doortje won’t dare another affront, if only because the man is hardly as close to her heart as her cousin. Did you think to ask if he might be her intended?”
Kevin felt the question like a needle to the heart. Until then, he had not considered whether Doortje van Stout might already be promised to a man. He had better get away from here before he could fall deeper in love with the steely woman. The hospital would be disassembled as soon as the serious cases were ready for transport. Willcox and Tracy were already preparing rooms in Wepener where the men could receive further treatment.
The worsening of Willem DeWees’s condition meant, at least, that the women in the house didn’t have time to be furious with Doortje. By evening, she was even allowed to lead the Bible reading again.
And when Cornelis came around that evening, Kevin couldn’t stop himself from asking gingerly about his relationship to Doortje.
“Adrianus van Stout would never dream of me as a son-in-law.” He shook his head, smiling. “Even if Doortje and I loved each other. But, no, we’ve been like brother and sister since childhood. A van Stout girl could never marry a cowardly bookworm like me. I don’t have an office in the church either, and our farm isn’t particularly big. Martinus, on the other hand, is already a land owner. He’ll be called to the council of elders as soon as he’s started a family. His farm borders this one and—”
“Martinus?”
The wounded man nodded and tried to find a comfortable position. Kevin helped him and was grateful that Cornelis couldn’t see his face while he continued his story. “Doortje’s intended. Old Voortrekker nobility. His great-grandfather trekked with Doortje’s great-grandfather. They’re distantly related, somehow. In any case, it’s always been certain that Doortje and Martinus would marry. It was planned for this year. Of course, Martinus and Adrianus were the first to go to war. Doortje would have followed them—as my mother and Antina did—but it would not have been proper for a girl so young to go alone, and Aunt Bentje needed help at home because of her blindness. Now, they’re waiting for Adrianus and Martinus to come back.”
Kevin sighed. “Martinus is probably also a daring rider and excellent sho
t.”
Cornelis smiled. “You sound jealous, Doctor.”
Kevin did not answer at first. Then, however, he thought he might as well ask the question, since everyone saw his feeling anyway.
“Mijnheer Pienaar, your cousin Doortje, well—Martinus, does she love him?”
The field hospital on the van Stout farm remained operational for almost another week. It took that long before the last seriously wounded men were ready for transport or had died. Besides, the units and staff doctors were waiting for new orders.
Doortje van Stout avoided Kevin studiously. Nor did she seek out Cornelis any more than his own mother did. Kevin worried what would come of the boy when they left.
Cornelis answered all of Kevin’s questions about South Africa and its people. He described the Boers from a completely different point of view than Ribbons and the English at the cape, such that Kevin even came to enjoy the long-winded stories about the Voortrekkers.
“They were uncommonly brave—the way they moved off into the unknown with their oxcarts and families. No one had ever been on the other side of the mountains, you see. Nature was treacherous: the plateaus, the deserts. You had to get past those first. And then there were the natives.”
“Who didn’t want their land stolen for, oh, inconceivable reasons,” Kevin said.
Cornelis nodded. “That’s how you see it. But those people, the Voortrekkers, they saw themselves as successors of the Israelites, entering God’s promised land. They were completely surprised by the Zulu attacks—insulted, really. And they felt themselves pursued on all sides: the English at the cape, the blacks inland. So, they built a wagon fortress and lashed out on all sides.”
“With great success, I’ve heard,” Kevin objected. “Three thousand dead black warriors in a single day.”
“Before that came a few hundred dead Boers caught in an ambush. Neither side was squeamish. You shouldn’t think of the Zulu as a naive people living in tiny villages. It was a kingdom with a well-functioning commonwealth and an exceedingly powerful army. Just as brave in the face of death as the trekkers. Their downfall was that the Boers had guns, and they didn’t. I bet it wasn’t any different in New Zealand. You have darkies, too, don’t you?”
Kevin waved this away. “Our Maori are Polynesian. And peaceful, for the most part. They didn’t have anything against the white settlers. At least not at first. Later, there were some conflicts, of course.”
Cornelis grinned. “That’s a nice word.”
“A true word,” Kevin said defensively. “There was shooting, there were dead on both sides, but never on this scale. They were local skirmishes. Wrong was without a doubt often done to the Maori, but now they’re seeking recompense legally. I don’t mean to say everything is perfect. Still, the Maori sit in our Parliament, they have the right to vote, they own land. Marriages between Maori and pakeha are not exactly common, but nor are they so rare.”
“Marriages?” Cornelis asked in amazement. “Between black and white?”
Kevin nodded. “What’s more, there was never slavery. The way you treat your black servants here—”
Cornelis raised an eyebrow. “Maybe your Maori are more civilized. Our blacks are like children. They need guidance. And they are truly subservient to us. Forty Kaffirs fought with our commando alone.”
Kevin blinked rapidly in disbelief. “Children? And yet they had a kingdom, a country, cities, an army. Is a person an adult only when he holds a gun?”
Cornelis was considerably more enlightened than the other Boers Kevin had met. But when it came to the treatment of the native population, he could be no more reasoned with than Doortje or her family. All logical contradictions aside, he was utterly convinced of the inferiority of dark-skinned people and did not trust them. Kevin pointed out to Cornelis repeatedly that this was a contradiction in itself, since he never grew tired of emphasizing the servility of black workers. After a few conversations with Pienaar, Kevin became convinced that the Boers actually feared them.
“It’s not courage that drives them on, but a sort of fear that causes them to lash out,” he explained to his friend Vincent.
The veterinarian had arrived at the field hospital with three wounded horses, asking Kevin for help.
“They’ve got bullets stuck in their large muscles, Kevin. They need to be cut out, but I can’t manage it alone. They won’t hold still either. Please, could you help?”
At first, Kevin wanted to refuse this “interdepartmental cooperation,” but the haggard face of the young veterinarian made him change his mind. Vincent looked as if he had aged years in the three days in the field. His friendly, trusting face had crumbled into a mask of grief and incomprehension.
“It was horrible,” Vincent told him as Kevin first opened a bottle of whiskey. “They—they—until now, I always thought men waged war, well, against men. Yes, a horse will get hit now and again, but you shoot at the rider. And these Boers, you’d think they loved horses. They all ride beautifully. So, to see how they aim for our horses, massacre them. Five of our unit’s horses are dead, Kevin. And so many others. Totally senseless. These people are—they’re—”
Kevin forewent informing him of the equally senseless loss of human life. Vincent would presumably have argued that the soldiers had volunteered to fight. Instead, he’d opted to share his observations about the Boers.
“They’re afraid of the blacks and what they’ve inflicted on them, so they lash out, like frightened dogs.”
Vincent smiled weakly. “That may well be. But does it change anything?”
Kevin shook his head. He thought of Doortje, whom he preferred to understand as misguided and fearful rather than greedy, evil, and belligerent. But he could not possibly tell his friend that.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he said. “But it frightens me. For these people, the war will never end. But come, let’s see about those horses. I wonder what Barrister will have to say about this.”
Two of the three horses survived the surgery. Vincent seemed a little happier when he returned two days later to check on the animals. He also took the opportunity to relay the New Zealand contingent’s new marching orders.
“We won’t stay together. The New Zealanders are being placed under Major Robin, some of the Australians as well. The new regiment now has an official name: the Rough Riders. The English seem impressed by our cavalry.”
“Cavalry” was one name for the thrown-together band of mounted New Zealanders. Mostly, they were young men from the plains who grew up in the saddle. They did not have much aptitude for rank-and-file exercises, and did not particularly like following orders. Yet the British leadership saw that as an opportunity, not a deficiency. In essence, the generals decided, the cloddish Kiwis were not so different from the Boers. It was a great deal easier for these sheep farmers to comprehend the locals’ way of thinking than it was for professional British soldiers. As a consequence, the Rough Riders were not assigned to a relieving or attacking force but to the guarding of trains in the Transvaal province. Their assignment was fighting against marauding Boer commandos, inspecting remote farms that often served as hideouts, and the general pacification of the area.
“Keep our rear safe,” was the order from Field Marshal Lord Roberts, who had now overtaken supreme command along with General Kitchener.
Vincent was assigned to the Rough Riders as their veterinarian, Kevin Drury and Preston Tracy as their doctors. They would transport their improvised hospital with them on two packhorses. Both were loath to part from Barrister, Willcox, and McAllister, who were riding with the troops in the direction of Bloemfontein.
Barrister thanked the men for their work. “You’ve both proved that you can handle the sight of blood. You’ll get along fine on your own.”
“And maybe we’ll see each other again,” McAllister said. “The war’s supposed to be over soon, but you never know. Besides, maybe you’ll be staying here, Kevin. It would be romantic for you to return to your Doortje victorious.”
Kevin laughed along with the others, but he wanted to howl when he thought of Doortje. She’d continued to keep her distance, and he was coming to accept that he must mean nothing to her. Cornelis’s answer to his question about Doortje’s feelings for her fiancé still rang in his ears: Love has nothing to do with it, Doctor. Doortje and Martinus—they’re of one tribe, one blood. Not literally, but in their beliefs, their wishes, their dreams. I wouldn’t call it “love,” but neither Doortje nor Martinus probably thinks about that. They suit each other admirably. They’ll have wonderful children.
Cornelis’s gaze had taken on a yearning quality, and Kevin had felt sorry for the young man. Cornelis was different, and he stood by his convictions. Nevertheless, he clearly wanted nothing more than to belong.
Kevin went to him one last time before the doctors rode off to unite with their regiment in Wepener.
“Are you sure I should leave you here?” he asked doubtfully. “We can take you along to Wepener for further care.”
Cornelis shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but no. Once you’re gone, my mother will take me back.” He sighed. “She’ll claim you operated on me against my will, no matter how I deny it. And Antina, maybe she’s softened a little since Willem died.”
The older man had passed away after a long struggle with gangrene. Antina DeWees had laid him in his grave with curses against the English and their allies.
“Okay, then. Give my regards to Doortje,” Kevin said. “I thought we might be able to talk once more, but she—”
“She can’t,” Cornelis told him. “The others would never forgive her. But I’m sure she thinks of you as a friend.”
Kevin smiled sadly.
A short while later, as he mounted his horse, he saw Doortje standing at the well with Johanna and Nandi. Nandi smiled shyly at the men riding away, Johanna acted as if she didn’t see anything, and Doortje only raised her eyes once, briefly. Kevin’s heart beat faster when he saw no hate therein, but something more like regret.