Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  “Just one?” whispered Vincent.

  “The first one cuts through the barbed wire at the curve,” the soldier, a corporal, explained. “When he’s done, the others come with the dynamite.” He pressed himself deeper into the cover of the blockhouse’s shadow.

  “Shouldn’t we take him prisoner?” asked Vincent.

  The corporal shook his head. “No. We stay here and wait until they’re all inside. Why catch one when we can get five or six? Or more. I’m certain that’s the commando unit Major Coltrane is after.”

  Kevin and Vincent exchanged a look. If these men could be captured before Coltrane arrived, perhaps they wouldn’t have to die.

  Spellbound, their weapons at the ready, the men observed how the first Boer struggled through the barbed wire with pliers and then gave a hand signal, at which more of his countrymen began to creep through the hole in the fence—eight in total. The corporal had, in the meantime, put out word, and the crew in the next blockhouse behind the bend in the tracks was ready. As soon as the Boers set to work on the tracks, they would attack.

  “They’ve got two guards. We’ll have to take them out,” whispered the corporal. He gestured to the doctors’ guns. “Know how to use those?”

  Kevin and Vincent nodded.

  “Good, follow me.”

  The men stalked noiselessly forward. The Boers were so focused on their work, they didn’t notice anything. Only the two guards kept watch.

  “Drop your weapons!” called a soldier from the next blockhouse. “Surrender.”

  Flashlights lit up, blinding the Boer gunmen. They fired in the direction of the English, who returned fire at once, taking them down. The corporal next to Kevin took out another man who was reaching for a gun. A fourth attempted to detonate one of the mines, but a muzzle flashed from the second blockhouse and the man collapsed over the dynamite. Three attempted to flee—one by trying to climb the barbed wire on the other side of the tracks, two by running along the tracks. The soldiers stopped them from running farther by shooting the ground in front of them. British soldiers ran forward to cut off their path. They had no chance. Reluctantly, they stayed where they were, apparently ready to surrender. Only one, a lanky young man, had immediately thrown down his tools and raised his arms—he clearly did not intend to sacrifice himself to the “Boers’ holy matter.”

  Kevin approached and shone his flashlight in the man’s face.

  “Cornelis!” he cried.

  “Greetings, Dr. Drury.” Cornelis sounded almost cheerful.

  The young Boer began to limp toward Kevin. And then all hell broke loose. Shots whipped through the night. Their noise mixed with the hoofbeats of galloping horses. Kevin pulled Cornelis down to the ground with him and covered his head as a panicked Boer pony leaped over the two prone men.

  “Into the barrel! Drive them into the wire!”

  Kevin ventured a quick look up and caught sight of more ponies stumbling over the tracks with their riders. Behind them followed the Rough Riders, firing from the saddle. And not just at the fleeing Boers. Horrified, Kevin saw the men who had already surrendered fall. The crews of the blockhouses screamed—they were afraid, and not without reason, to be taken for Boers and likewise cut down. Kevin remained prone and held a dazed Cornelis down. The screams and shots were now moving farther away, but the combat did not abate. Kevin could imagine what was happening. One of the traps had been prepared a few hundred yards beyond the blockhouse—the Boers would find an apparent escape route, but it would be sealed off. They could then surrender or stand and fight. He dropped his face to the ground.

  “Kevin! Is everything all right?” The veterinarian pointed his flashlight at his friend. “Did that horse trample you?”

  Kevin stood up. “No, it leaped clean over us. The Brits should requisition it. That pony has potential in a steeplechase. But I thought I’d better stick to cover. Besides—”

  He pointed to Cornelis, who now struggled to his feet.

  Vincent shone the light on him. “The patient from the van Stout farm? What are you doing here? Your leg has hardly healed.”

  The young man looked at him with a mix of defiance and shame. “I’m a Boer,” he said wearily. “A Boer laughs at a lame leg. At least, it doesn’t stop one from riding when God and country call him to arms.” Cornelis smiled wryly.

  “Then this is Adrianus van Stout’s unit?” Kevin asked. “This far north of Wepener?”

  Cornelis shook his head. “This was Martinus DeGroot’s unit. Adrianus van Stout died two months ago. Martinus took over command—and recruited me. Just a month after you patched me back together.” He rubbed the dirt from his face.

  Slowly, the alarm of battle fell silent. The Boers had either escaped or, more likely, been killed or captured by Coltrane’s regiment.

  “But weren’t you a prisoner of war?” Vincent asked. “Let’s go to the blockhouse and set up the hospital tent, Kevin. Patients will quite certainly be arriving any minute—if again only British ones.”

  Kevin looked to the corporal with whom they’d stopped the saboteurs. He was now inspecting the men who had surrendered and then been mown down. He shook his head in Kevin’s direction. No need for the doctor to examine them.

  “My mother and aunt smuggled me out,” Cornelis explained. “Right after you moved out.”

  “With the operation still fresh?” Kevin asked. “With the artery that could have torn open again at any time?”

  Cornelis shrugged. But then he looked more closely at the fallen Boers, and a raspy, shocked sound came from his throat. It was the man who had attempted to escape through the barbed wire. The tall blond had died from a bullet to the back.

  “Martinus,” Cornelis whispered incredulously.

  Kevin stared at him. “Martinus?”

  Cornelis nodded.

  Kevin and Vincent helped him to extricate the body of Doortje van Stout’s fiancé from the wire barricade.

  Chapter 3

  One month later, Kevin Drury stood before Major Robin, to whom all the regiments from New Zealand had answered since the beginning of the war. Two other soldiers acting as accessors had heard Kevin’s complaint against Colin Coltrane and now listened to the major’s response.

  “Major Coltrane is unaware of any blame,” Robin declared. “I understand he was approaching at a full gallop. Furthermore, it was night. The riders could not tell whether the saboteurs on the tracks had surrendered.”

  “They had their arms raised,” insisted Kevin.

  “If that was the case, Major Coltrane and his men missed it. The man they shot in the back was attempting to flee, was he not?” Robin moved papers around in front of him.

  “The man was stuck in barbed wire. He was no longer capable of fighting, nor was there any chance of escape. It was completely unnecessary to shoot him. And it was just as unnecessary to shoot fleeing riders.”

  “That lot offered a firefight,” one of the accessors, a lieutenant, noted. “Major Coltrane had no other choice than to fire back. After he had demanded they surrender, of course.”

  “And the fact that they were all dead?” asked Kevin. “Not a single treatable injury? My colleague and I looked at the corpses. Some of the bullets seemed to have been fired point-blank.”

  Robin raised his arms. “Dr. Drury, you’ve been here for months—you know the Boers. They fight to the death, and more than one of our soldiers has paid with his life for bending down to help an injured Boer. You keep your gun ready, if you have any experience. And fire it too. Point-blank. To imply that the men purposely finished off prisoners . . .”

  “Besides, you weren’t there,” the other lieutenant added.

  Kevin rubbed his forehead. “And all the other assaults, burnings—”

  “Everything within the bounds of high command’s orders,” Robin remarked. “Lord Kitchener’s strategy may not please us—I’m sure Major Coltrane does not like waging war against women and children. But he’s conducted himself completely correctly. Your i
ncriminations are without merit, Dr. Drury; accept that.”

  Kevin swallowed and clicked his heels. “As you say, sir. However, I cannot accept it, and if you must, punish me, but I cannot reconcile my conscience further to serving under Major Coltrane.”

  “Colonel Coltrane,” one of the men said. “He was just promoted.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” said Robin. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Kevin took a deep breath. “I refuse to serve further under Colonel Coltrane. Reassign me or lock me up.”

  The British officers inhaled sharply, but Major Robin remained calm. Kevin’s behavior might have been inconceivable for the British Army, but Robin thought it a waste to arrest often brave and, particularly in this guerilla war, valuable insubordinates just for disciplinary reasons.

  “As luck would have it, I’ve already thought of a new post for you.” He smiled. “Perfect for someone who still has friendly feelings toward the foe, in a manner of speaking.”

  Kevin stiffened. “I don’t have any intention of fraternizing—”

  Robin, a powerful man with graying hair, shook his head. “We don’t mean to insinuate that either. On the contrary, we appreciate your sympathy for the Boer women and children. For that reason, I would like to offer you a post where you could truly offer help. Medical Officer Drury, from now on, you will oversee one of the refugee camps in Transvaal.”

  “Refugee camp?” Dr. Barrister laughed. “Dear Lord. You should hear Emily Hobhouse on the subject. She calls them ‘concentration camps,’ sometimes ‘death camps.’”

  “I hear the lady exaggerates,” Kevin responded.

  He had heard in Robin’s command post that his former superior officer was running a military hospital in Pretoria and had sought him out. Dr. Barrister had been delighted by the reunion and invited him at once to the officers’ club to eat. Kevin enjoyed an excellent if somewhat exotic dinner, at which lion steak was served.

  “Personally, I find her quite levelheaded,” Dr. Barrister declared, taking a drink of wine. “An agitator, sure, but I’ve spoken with her myself; I know the family. And the numbers can’t be denied: almost eight hundred dead, just in the past month. The conditions are supposed to be execrable. And ‘refugee camp’ is surely not the right word. The women aren’t going of their own volition. On the contrary, they’re dragged in and held under armed guard. It doesn’t much matter what you call the camps. According to Miss Hobhouse, inhuman conditions prevail there, which is unsurprising—they lie at the bottom of the priority list, so to speak. They only receive the food and medicine that the troops, offices, hospitals, and city populations don’t need. And those supplies are bad to begin with. To think we’ve burned the grain fields of an entire country.”

  Kevin looked stricken. “You mean to say I ought to decline the post?”

  “Certainly not. Then you’ll risk disciplinary measures. Although the camps have newly been placed under civilian administration, so strictly speaking, you won’t be going as a medical officer. Nevertheless, after your complaint against that Coltrane fellow, you won’t have a leg to stand on with the army. And in principle, Major Robin’s right. Someone has to do the job. So, better they send someone who still has fellow feeling, in general or personal. Have you heard any news of our cantankerous Mejuffrouw van Stout?”

  Kevin shook his head. “We didn’t exactly exchange addresses,” he said with a wry smile.

  Barrister sighed. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t have mattered. Miss van Stout won’t have an address anymore. You said it yourself: her father and fiancé were commandos.”

  “They’re dead,” Kevin told him.

  Barrister nodded. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the family came to the army’s attention. If things went the way they always do, her farm must have been burned.”

  Kevin leaned forward. “You mean Doortje is in one of the camps?”

  Barrister shrugged. “If she didn’t die when they cleared out the farm. You know her, Drury. Not much for surrender.”

  Kevin bristled. “Then my decision is clear. I’ll accept management of the camp—yes, I know, there are many, and Doortje is probably somewhere else entirely. But if she survives the war, I’ll still be able to look her in the eye. No one’s going to die in my camp.”

  “For my part, I’m happy to assign the man to you.”

  Lord Alfred Milner, the new civilian manager of the concentration camps in Transvaal, proved amenable to Kevin’s request to appoint Cornelis Pienaar as his translator and prisoner liaison. No one wanted to take on management of the camps, so Milner was grateful for every qualified man, and Kevin was even allowed to choose where he wanted to work. Three of the new sites lacked overseers.

  “It’s cheaper than sending him to Saint Helena,” Milner continued. Most of the male prisoners of war were now being deported to camps outside of Africa. “But are you sure you’re doing him a favor?”

  Kevin furrowed his brow. “I should think so, sir. Mr. Pienaar and I always got along. He’s one of the few reasonable people on the Boer side. I’m sure he’d be happy to come and will do good work.”

  Milner shrugged. He had received Kevin in his well-appointed Pretoria office and generously offered whiskey and sandwiches. Kevin eyed the expensive furniture with dismay. If the lack of supplies was really so great in the camps, luxury should not be flaunted here.

  “I don’t doubt that the young man is willing,” the lord replied. “But you’re not thinking of the mood in the camps. These Boer women, yes, yes, according to the papers, they’re dying like flies and can hardly stay on their feet, but in reality, they have plenty of energy to spit venom. Whenever they get hold of a reporter, they give statements encouraging their menfolk to fight on. They resist anything and everything: medical care, schooling for their children, and when one deviates and concedes even a little to camp management, she becomes a target.” Milner took a sip of whiskey. “A few weeks ago, we tried to lodge a few male prisoners of war in Chrissiesmeer. It proved impossible. The women cursed the men as cowards for surrendering instead of letting themselves be shot. In the end, we had to remove the men before those harridans could rip them apart. Think hard about whether you want to subject Mijnheer Pienaar to that.”

  Kevin nodded. “With his liberal mentality, Mijnheer Pienaar would probably stand out in the men’s camps as well. But I do appreciate your concern. It might help if he were with people from his own region. Could you tell me where the Boers from Wepener were sent? And whether that camp might happen to need an overseer?”

  Karenstad reminded Kevin more of his homeland than the savannahs he had crossed with the Rough Riders. The town lay in the foothills. It was not nearly as hot as in the plains, and the air seemed wonderfully fresh, the mountains jagged, and the luscious pastures inviting. Surely there were fish in these streams. Kevin and Vincent felt they were on a fishing excursion again when they bivouacked alongside one such stream. Coincidence—and Kevin’s choice of the camp—had brought the friends back together. Vincent, just like Kevin and Preston, had testified against Coltrane, and Major Robin had them both reassigned. Preston ended up in Barrister’s hospital in Pretoria, while Vincent was sent to Karenstad as its veterinarian. So, the men rode together, while Cornelis Pienaar was brought on a prisoner transport.

  “It’s absolutely impossible for him to ride with you,” Milner had declared when Kevin suggested taking his future liaison with him. “The women would assume that he’s entirely on your side. If he comes on a normal transport, at least he has a chance.”

  “It really is pretty here,” Kevin said as they approached Karenstad, looking with regret on the ruins of a burned-out farmhouse. It had been log-cabin style, similar to his parents’ home, but now nothing more could be discerned. “I like it better than the veld.”

  Vincent laughed. “You’re just assuming there are fewer lions and rhinos here,” he teased his friend. “But look, it’s not lacking in antelopes.”

  A herd of animals was just then
moving across what had once been a cornfield. Nature was already reclaiming the farmland.

  “Then I wonder why they don’t have any meat in the camps,” said Kevin. “They could certainly go hunting here.”

  But the closer the men came to town, the fewer wild animals they saw. No wonder—Karenstad was surrounded by train tracks, which were moreover secured with barbed wire. Undoubtedly that frightened off the antelope.

  And the men, too, were leery of their new offices. Karenstad was hardly more than a collection of tin huts. The original town had been a railroad hub and camp for military deliveries. There had been hard fighting for the area, and most of the farms were destroyed at the beginning of the hostilities. Thus, Karenstad had filled with refugees, but the British military didn’t relish hundreds of Boers camping out near a British munitions depot. So, they’d requisitioned the village houses for the supply camp garrison, and a concentration camp was created. At first, they penned in the local families, then also the displaced from elsewhere. The town itself bustled with the English. Several cavalry brigades were stationed here, and additional units passed through, provisioning themselves for deployments. As a consequence, a constant coming and going prevailed around the town, with soldiers galloping heedlessly over the unpaved ground.

  “My lands, they do kick up dust,” Vincent remarked, coughing. A cloud of it lay over the town like fog. “It’s terrible for the horses.”

  Kevin squinted. “And no better for the people. And the camp’s downwind. The people there must be suffocating. I’ll have to see to it that they institute a rule about riding at a walk.”

  Vincent laughed. “Good luck with that.”