women and children and a lot of wagons parked in groups.
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 poin
tless 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
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