by Ann Harries
As the little group of men and officers move on towards the laager itself, a shadow of black gauze lifts up from it and billows towards them like some avenging Boer spirit. The shadow drops a skein of sound, a hum, a drone, such as the moan some peasants make for their dead. Dear God! screams a man.
Is this what the Bible means by Plague?
Now the shadow has become a net of black flies joyfully attaching themselves to all exposed faces and stinking clothes, and no amount of arm-waving or shouting will dislodge the crust of winged insects whose probosces Patch can feel sucking at his skin. ‘How can people live like this?’ cries out the captain as they gaze at the putrefying bodies of oxen, mules, horses, black servants, all seething with a new and virulent parasite life. The covered wagons are now charred skeletons; faeces and rotting food everywhere, the heavy rainfall of a few days before having contrived to make a rich stew of rancid ingredients beneath their feet. They trample on the Boer flags and banners with their orange stripes and quotations from the Bible. Patch picks up an orange flag stained with shit. Shit’ll wash out alright. He notices a tiny chain of orange words stitched in the flag’s corner. Die Heer is My Banier. The Lord is my banner. He folds the flag into his pocket. He will give it to the Orangeman who saved his life.
No sign of the pom-poms, the dreaded ten-a-pennies the men have been sent to recover. They lie in the depths of the Modder, pushed there by the tattered burghers en route to surrender, and no-one’s going to wade in there and drag them out, thank you, not even the kaffir servants.
By the time they get back, Cronje is having a celebratory champagne lunch with Bobs. The troopers are scandalised by Cronje’s lack of gratitude. This fine lunch (where did they get the chicken and potatoes?), and Cronje just stuffs the food into his mouth like the peasant he is; not a word of thanks, or even conversation. He must know a few words of English, surely? Bobs looks thoughtfully into the middle distance, he’s given up trying to be hospitable.
Then, once the prisoners have been packed off to Cape Town, the troops stagger on towards Bloemfontein. Patch is not feeling well. Since leaving Cronje’s laager he cannot get the rotten smell of the place out of his nostrils, and by extension his throat and bowels. He wonders about the state of the latter and the new type of exhaustion that has overtaken him and all the others. Forty thousand men should be euphoric but most are thinking: what kind of a victory is this against a mere four thousand? The tropical floods have made a mud bath of the veldt and the carts get stuck all the time and the troopers haven’t the energy to push them out. A trail of dead horses and oxen lie behind them, rotting in the heat.
Patch and Cartwright put up a blanket bivouac the first night – two blankets slung over a string – and lie in their greatcoats in the mud. At nine o’clock the lightning starts, with crashes of thunder worse than any they’ve heard on the battlefield, and then the rain comes down solid, like tea pouring out of a million gigantic teapots in the sky. The horses stampede and gallop about the camp over bivouacs, one nearly gouging its hoof into Patch’s face. The blanket bivouacs are beaten flat by the rain in five minutes; in ten, the whole camp is flooded. Patch and Cartwright crawl out, swearing: not a dry spot to be seen.
‘Up a tree is better than stuck in mud,’ says Cartwright gloomily. The two of them wade to a bally old thorn tree on the edge of the camp and sit in its inhospitable branches till sunrise. Cartwright tries to keep his spirits up by telling khaki jokes while the rain streams down all over them. ‘Did you hear about the Tommy running for his life in a shower of bullets?’ He pulls their soaking wet blanket a bit closer.
‘Clever chap,’ murmurs Patch who has grown suddenly hot, and that watery feeling has come on again. Sweat runs down his face with the raindrops.
‘The officer shouts out, ‘Dash you! What the dash are you running for? (Cartwright can imitate a toff’s voice to perfection). Quick as a flash the Tommy shouts back “’Cause I ain’t got no bleedin’ wings!” ’
This feat of repartee causes the thorn tree to shake helplessly with laughter for some minutes and for Patch’s spirits to revive momentarily. ‘Could do with a pair of bleeding wings right now,’ he snorts.
The reveille sounds, a desolate cry in a wet wilderness. Men squelch out of the trees all round, or from under bushes or from out of the mud. No dry wood to boil the Modder water on. Only the old dry biscuit, probably best used as firewood.
Now it’s marching along the river five miles a day. The men, being famished, can’t walk any faster. Half rations of water make them drink the Modder neat. That’s thanks to Bobs’ mishandling of the transport. Next thing there’s another battle at a place called Poplar Grove, with the rumour that President Kruger was there himself giving his men a pep talk. The cavalry are meant to charge with sabres drawn, the mighty arme blanche, but the whole thing fizzles out, with Bobs and his generals blaming each other for a lost opportunity.
The usual chaos has set in with men from all regiments wandering around foraging for food while generals try to decide what to do next. Patch catches a flash of orange hair in the back yard of a deserted farmhouse. He rummages in his rucksack. ‘Bill!’ he calls in a weakened voice.
Bill pulls his hand out of a clay bread oven. ‘Thought there might be somethin’ in there to eat,’ he says in an aggrieved voice. ‘You look terrible, man, what’s up?’
‘Gut ache. But never mind about that. I’ve got something better than stale old bread for you.’ Out comes the flag. Patch unfurls it with as much drama as he can muster.
Bill gazes in rapture. ‘An Orange flag!’ he breathes, as if looking at a famous work of art like that Mona Lisa picture which has mysteriously turned up in Patch’s rucksack. He takes the battle-stained cloth into his reverent hands. ‘What does the stitching say, eh, Patch?’
‘God is my banner. Didn’t help them much in Paardeberg.’
Now Bill is refolding the Boer banner rapidly and burying it in his rucksack. When he raises his head, he has something else in his hands, something made of orange and purple satin with long fringes. He unfolds the fabric reverently. It reminds Patch of that scarf thing the Catholic priests wear round their necks when saying mass. But this garment is embroidered with single eyes, ladders, open bibles. Bill drapes it across his chest, over one shoulder, under the other. ‘Very nice,’ says Patch doubtfully. ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s me lodge sash,’ says Bill. He is stroking the faded glossy fabric. ‘Belonged to me grandpa. It’s the most precious thing I have. I wanted you to see it. I’ll be wearin’ it on July the Twelfth, same as other Orangemen in the troops.’ He takes off the sash and folds it up carefully. He looks troubled. ‘You know, it’s mighty difficult for one Orangeman to fight another. But thank you, Patch. I’m mighty grateful to you old chap for the flag.’
He looks thoughtful; plunges his hand in his pocket. ‘Tell you what, you’ve given me somethin’, now I’ll give you somethin’ too.’
‘I can’t take it,’ says Patch, staring at the music box. ‘It’s your special thing.’
‘Take it,’ says Bill. ‘You can give it back after this bloomin’ war.’
‘You’ve already given me something. My life. For instance.’
‘Och, that’s nothing. Keep this for me.’
Since the rosary, Patch hasn’t received a gift. He is engulfed with gratitude. If only his legs would stand upright. He pockets the little box, swaying. ‘Till after the war then.’
‘Here, hang on, what’s happenin’ to ye?’ Bill watches in astonishment as Patch sinks to the ground, uttering a moan that seems to be ripped out from the pit of his stomach.
Next thing, Patch is in one of those unsprung bullock carts that have replaced ambulances cut back by Bobs and K. He feels a sickening ache in his gut yet when it comes to it, hasn’t been able to shit anything out. His brains burn in sympathy. The sun is beating down but the heat he now feels seems to be radiating out of the unbearable pain in his head – like a gigantic halo, it seems. Is this what saints feel like?
Perhaps this time he really is going to die. He loses consciousness in the middle of an act of contrition.
Sarah’s Diary
14 March 1900
I can scarcely write this, my hand is trembling so. Louise and I have been asked to pack our bags and leave tonight on a civilian train to help out in the hospitals of Bloemfontein! I’m afraid that I pulled a string to get Louise to come with me when I was told the news, knowing that the chief medical officer here has a soft spot for me; I could not bear to think of going to the Front alone.
Having never heard of this Boer capital city, I looked it up in my atlas immediately. It lies right in the centre of South Africa, hundreds of miles away from the oceans that border this country. Apparently it will take at least two days to get there. I now experience such conflicting emotions – real regret to be leaving majestic Cape Town (and in my case, the dear Frangipani Villa with its exotic blooms and pretty wrought iron decorations, to say nothing of dear toothless Sameela and Rushda), and excitement that we are at last moving north to the battlefields of the Orange Free State! I have planted a little frangipani bush at the bottom of the garden and wonder if I shall ever see it bloom.
Louise’s Diary
14 March 1900
Well, really, this order from above to leave tonight!! for Bloemfontein – an extremely dull little town in the middle of a dreadful desert from all accounts – couldn’t have come at a worse time. Apart from the fact that things are just starting to improve at the Number 3, I am now going to have to miss the banquet at the Mount Nelson on Saturday – how exasperating! I had planned to wear my khaki drill evening frock and cause a sensation! The last time David and I went there we had such a hilarious time with the officers who are so bored with having to stay in this stately home of the Cape …
Needless to say, selfless Sarah is terribly excited about going to the front, even though she loves it here – she certainly has perked up since entering the Southern Hemisphere. Someone should write a book about the power of sunlight to change one’s mood.
I had better see how Dolly is getting on with my packing. I hope there is room on the train for my all suitcases.
Three
Extract: Letter from Lieutenant Ronald Charles to his mother
Royal Engineers, Cavalry Division,
Bloemfontein,
15 March 1900
… The town council came out in all their glory of white top hats &c about 10.30 a.m. on the 13th & solemnly handed over the keys of the capital to Lord Roberts, who promised to respect life & property & all the rest of it & the Advanced guard of the British Army marched into Bloemfontein in rather scattered detachments to the accompaniment of the ringing cheers of the inhabitants, black & white. I never heard such cheering, though doubtless many of them were cheering the Boers a week before we arrived. Everyone was wearing tricolour favours, brand new Union Jacks were being flown, people were singing God Save the Queen, Rule Britannia & other patriotic and marshal (sic)airs. I don’t suppose we could be given a more hearty reception on returning home; & mind you we were entering the enemies’ capital as victors not as a relieving force …
Bloemfontein, March 1900
Patch does not see much of Roberts’ victorious march into Bloemfontein. Stacked among others in the bullock cart, he smells drifts of women’s perfume and catches a glimpse of a Leghorn hat with fluttering green ribbons; hears the kaffirs chanting thank you, thank you, but by now spikes of agony are plunging and replunging into his head, agony intensified by the cough that has come from nowhere, so that smells, sights and sounds melt into his hallucinations … he floats in and out of the District: !Xolo the bushman dances on the pavement with his foot-rattles made from the ears of springboks, filled with karee seed; Fancy’s red skirts flash briefly before transforming into a great gush of blood; Mr Feinstein counts his shoes and says reluctantly to Patch I am sorry to say there are three pairs missing. Three pairs missing! sing the Trusty Trio in unbearable harmonies to the tune of Three Blind Mice; then a violent coughing fit shakes him back to consciousness and the cheering crowds. Back to Cape Town, the Island this time, blundering through the fog, an English country garden and a woman at the gate gazing after him hopefully; Dr Simmonds angry because he has thrown away David Copperfield, but has he? Then he screams in agony as the cart begins to jolt into a rough road, and the men around him howl as well, grown men, all crying and whimpering as their bony bodies shake about – the reek of them is vile. And to think they should be in proper horse-drawn ambulances – even in his pain he feels another brief pain: indignation. He moans pitifully, then, through the whimpers, his body tells him the jolting has abruptly stopped.
An orderly crawls into the cart. ‘How’re you doin’, me maties?’ He presses a can of water to Patch’s dry lips but the water slips over Patch’s tongue, grown gigantic with thirst, and slides out as he retreats once more to the Island, a cauliflower from her garden in his hand; a cauliflower that decomposes into a man’s brains that slither into a snake, coiled and hooded …
Now they are being hauled from the cart, the orderlies cursing away, their curses mere blooms on their language, not expressing anger. Carried by their arms and shoulders they find themselves somewhere that isn’t a cart, that has a bed of some sort, into which Patch collapses, his broken boots removed by nimble fingers; then the utter darkness of an endless unlit tunnel, a faint light flickering at the end, towards which he is travelling at top speed.
Sarah’s Diary
17 March 1900
It is now eight o’clock in the evening and in a few hours’ time we shall arrive in Bloemfontein. I am writing this while travelling on a washed, scrubbed and scoured hospital train (perfumed with antiseptic) which we boarded after crossing the Orange River on foot (more of this later as I must try to achieve chronology). I must say these hospital trains, with their fading Red Crosses painted on the outer panels, are very well equipped and looked after: I can hear orderlies bustle about and bottles clink in the pharmacy as we clatter over the rails.
Travelling right into the heart of South Africa has been fascinating. We’ve lived and slept in our own little compartment and brought food supplies made by Rushda, and a spirit kettle so that we could make tea when we wanted to, and thank heaven for that. Because there has been so much sabotage by the Boers, every inch of the railway has been guarded by Tommies, poor things! They are so bored and lonely – many of them have not even seen a glimpse of the enemy, and they can’t bear the solitude of the veldt. At every station they beg us for old newspapers or books – or a ‘mouthful of human speech’, as Mr Kipling puts it – just to relieve the tedium. They long for the excitement of battle, but have found that the reality of war is long, weary waiting and monotony.
I loved the barren Karoo land, and we were treated to a truly apocalyptic sunset. The beauties of this semi-desert were, I’m afraid, rather lost on Louise, who quickly grew bored with the thorn bushes and anthills and kopjes (little flat-topped hills), and expressed the hope that a Boer Commando might swoop down and capture our train. To distract her I produced one of Rushda’s seedcakes, which we sliced and enjoyed with a cup of our home-boiled tea.
After two days travelling, we were confronted by the awesome sight of the broad, calm Orange River, with a ruined bridge dangling over it. The army has built a pontoon bridge while the damage created by the Boers is being repaired. We were obliged to leave the train and walk across this in utter darkness (see above) while local kaffirs carried our belongings. Streams of wounded or sick soldiers on stretchers or hobbling with crutches poured over the bridge from a hospital train on the other side of the bridge in order to embark the train we had just left. They greeted us in delight, not having seen a woman for weeks. Louise cheered up immediately.
Apparently this train will gather a cargo of sick men from Bloemfontein for an epidemic of enteric is ravaging the triumphant army. We are told by officers on this train that many nurses have caught the dreaded disease in the course of their dut
ies. I try not to feel apprehensive about this. It seems we have left the Paradise of the Cape to enter an Inferno of illness – not quite what the British Public expected, responding as powerfully as they did to the image of the bandaged Tommy.
From Lord Roberts to Queen Victoria, 15 March 1900
The Orange Free State south of Bloemfontein is rapidly settling down. The proclamations of an amnesty I have issued are having the desired effect, and men are daily laying down their arms and returning to their usual occupations. It seems unlikely that this State will give much more trouble. The Transvaalers will probably hold out, but their numbers must be greatly reduced, and I trust it will not be long before the war will have been brought to a satisfactory conclusion.
We are obliged to rest here for a short time to let men and animals recover, and provide the former with new boots and clothes.
Sarah’s Diary
18 March 1900
Bloemfontein station, even at midnight, was so crowded with soldiers behaving officiously that Louise and I decided to return to our carriage and cower on the hard seats till daybreak. More and more sick men were being ferried on stretchers into the train so, as soon as the sky lightened, we plunged through the sea of khaki and managed to find a brougham of sorts outside the station. It was very surprising to us that the soldiers could not conduct themselves with more propriety towards two unescorted women who were clearly nurses. They expected us to stand back and make way for them as they rushed about, yet found time to demand, in a most unfriendly fashion, to see our papers, even though we were in full nursing uniform.
As our carriage drew out of the station, day had fully broken and we looked with interest out of the windows. We could see large numbers of Union Jacks hanging out of the windows of kaffir homes to celebrate the arrival of Bobs and his army just a few days ago. Apparently the kaffir population in this republic – which I suppose will soon be declared a British Colony – are absolutely overjoyed by the British victories; they see the British as their saviours and hope to be rewarded with their independence from the oppressive Boer once the war is over. They evidently expressed their joy by looting the shops of Bloemfontein and dancing in the streets, to annoy the Boers, I suppose. It was noteworthy that there were so many armed and uniformed kaffirs in the streets, confirming the Conciliation Committee’s report that many black-skinned men are helping out in this white man’s war. Apparently many of these black men in khaki drill act as scouts; knowing the lie of the land so well they can smell out where the Boer commandos are hiding, though not even they can detect a Boer in a trench six feet deep and barricaded with mimosa bushes.