One Hundred and Four Horses

by Mandy Retzlaff

  It was with a pleasant surprise, then, that I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line, vaguely distorted as it made its way halfway across the world.

  “Hello, Mandy.”

  “Hello . . . Charl.”

  Charl and Tertia had been settled in New Zealand for some weeks, and it occurred to me now how much I missed them.

  “How’s Biri Farm?” Charl asked.

  It was a good feeling to share some positive news. I told him about Brutus and Jade, the other foals who had come from John Crawford. I did not tell him that Pat still believed some of these horses might be restored to their rightful homes.

  “How about you, Charl?”

  “It’s . . . difficult, Mandy. I won’t complain. I’m glad we came. It’s . . .” He paused. “Work’s hard to come by, that’s all. But we’re not the only ones in this boat.”

  “Are you working, Charl?”

  “I am,” he replied. “I’m on a cattle lot.”

  I had to ask him to repeat it. I thought I had misheard.

  “Charl, you’ve been a farm manager for twenty years! Surely . . .”

  “It’s for the kids, Mandy. That’s all that matters.” He meant it, but I could still hear a hint of defeat in his voice. “But I didn’t call to complain. There’s something else—and, with all these horses Pat’s collecting, maybe I called at just the right time . . . Tell me,” he went on, “do you remember a mare called Princess?”

  How could I forget? I rode Princess’s half brother, Grey, almost every day. I vividly remembered seeing them as foals on Two Tree, a family of noble half-Arabians, and watching them grow. I remembered, too, the day we had been riding across Two Tree, only to see Resje being thrown from Princess’s back and, her foot caught in the stirrups, trailing wildly behind.

  “Charl, has something happened?”

  “Ormeston’s gone,” Charl replied. “It’s where I sent her, after the accident.” His voice trailed off. “We sent her there, and now the war vets have it. Isn’t it the stupidest thing? I haven’t thought about Princess in years, but since I heard . . .”

  “It isn’t stupid at all.”

  “I suppose she might be gone already. But . . . it doesn’t seem right not to know. You and Pat have already done so much . . . but you have Grey and Fleur and the rest. If Princess is still alive, it seems she should be with them.”

  An image hit me: Pat sneaking onto another occupied farm, but this time without Charl. I was not sure how to feel about that; at least, together, Pat and Charl had been able to cover each other as they moved through the darkness.

  “Charl,” I said, “let’s make a plan.”

  Ormeston had been jambanjaed some weeks previously, and its owners had not been back to the land since. That night, I called the CFU, hoping to hear that Pat and I would be safe going onto the farm in search of Princess. The news I heard was grave: settlers had moved onto Ormeston in droves, the farm was already being partitioned, and under no circumstances could we risk sneaking on.

  “Not even under cover of night?”

  I looked at Pat, willing him to stop. I shook my head.

  The next morning, I telephoned a local member of the SPCA. It seemed a strange contradiction, even in this most contradictory of countries, that the same war vets who had calculatedly slaughtered farmers’ dogs just to cultivate fear might let the doughty, often white, women of the SPCA onto the farms in order to rescue domestic pets—but, if there was a way of getting Princess out safely, this was our only hope.

  “She’s a horse,” a flinty voice explained. “Our purview is domestic pets only. We don’t have dispensation to take livestock.”

  Livestock were considered part of a farm, so no longer belonged to the farmers who had raised them for generations. It was part of the reason that countless farmers had taken to slaughtering their herds as soon as they realized they would be evicted. With the market flooded by such wholesale slaughter, the price of beef and lamb had suddenly plummeted; generations of breeding were lost, and all for less than ten cents per kilogram of flesh. In the new Zimbabwe, it was hardly worth the paper it was written on.

  “Princess wasn’t a working horse,” I explained. “How can she be livestock?”

  “It’s a gray area, I’ll—”

  “They’re not even classed as agricultural livestock, they’re domestic animals—”

  I realized I was talking over the SPCA member.

  “Mandy,” she said, “let’s see what we can do.”

  February 2002, and the parliamentary election was only a month away. Coming back into Biri Farm one afternoon, Pat and I saw an unfamiliar truck sitting outside the farmhouse. Instinctively, Pat eased his foot off the accelerator. We crawled along the track, the horse paddock just coming into view over the next ridge of red.

  “Who is it?”

  At first, I did not venture a reply. Then, I saw a horse trailer decoupled from the wagon and breathed a sigh of relief. “I think it’s Princess . . .”

  We drew into Biri Farm’s yard and climbed out of the car. A man was standing at the edge of the trailer, tall and black, wearing khaki shorts and a simple plain shirt.

  “I thought nobody’s home!”

  “Why didn’t you ask the labor and get her in the paddock?” Pat asked, trying not to sound aggrieved. “She’ll be burning up in there . . .”

  “Boss, they said you should do it.”

  Pat climbed up into the trailer, disappeared for a minute, and then returned, leading the statuesque Princess by a lead rope. As her head emerged I saw the same Arabian features that her brother, Grey, displayed. It had been more than five years since I last saw her, but she seemed so familiar: her shining bay hide, her dark, flowing mane.

  Then she was out of the horse trailer, and what I saw left me without words.

  Princess’s withers were dressed in gauze that had once been white, now stained a horrible red and yellow, as blood and pus seeped out of some unknown wound at the base of her mane. The dressing was huge, the wound it buried bigger than a clenched fist. Wordlessly, Pat led her around and I saw that the same dressing was applied to her other side.

  Pat ran his hands along Princess’s flank. His fingers came a foot away from the dressing and she shifted in pain, straining against her lead rope.

  Pat whispered, “Let’s get her in the stable.”

  We had turned to lead Princess off when the driver called out.

  “Boss, you’re forgetting . . .”

  Pat passed me Princess’s lead rope and turned, as if to bawl at the driver, when he saw another face appearing from the darkness in the trailer. A tiny chestnut mare emerged, blinking into the light. She must have been less than a year old. Except for the wound on Princess’s withers, this foal was a perfect replica of her.

  “She’s called Evita,” the driver explained. He began to chatter on, but the words were lost. I approached the tentative foal. She cringed back into darkness.

  “Come on, girl,” I said. “You’re home now.”

  There had already been stables when we arrived at Biri Farm, but our laborers had built more stalls between them, simple things where the horses might be led for feeding or veterinary care. We settled the dainty Evita in one stall; in the one next door, Pat calmed Princess.

  Then, gently, he began to peel back the dressing.

  It was a long operation, the dressing matted to Princess’s hide. Inside, the wound had been packed tightly with gauze. Pat lifted a corner and teased it out. As far as it came, it seemed there was always more to come. Layer by layer, the wound revealed itself, deeper and deeper. Sinew started to show. Nerves were exposed. I stroked Princess’s muzzle as Pat crossed the stall and began to tease at the dressing from the other side.

  At last, the wound was open to the air. Pat stooped, stared along the length of the festering wound.

  “It’s a gunshot wound,” he said. “Somebody has shot her.”

  I watched in growing horror as Pat extended his arm t
oward the wound. The gaping maw swallowed his whole fist. Were it not for her exposed nerves and raw muscle, he could have put his arm straight through Princess’s withers and out the other side.

  “The bastards,” Pat whispered.

  “What are we going to do?”

  In the next stall, Evita shifted, as if sensing what we were doing with her mother.

  “I’m not going to put her down,” said Pat. “I know that. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction.”

  “Darling, she’s—”

  Pat’s eyes blazed at me. “She’s Charl’s horse. Resje’s horse.” He reached for his medicine bag, fumbled inside for an antiseptic spray and packs of gauze. “I’m going to make her well again. She’s going to be so strong I could ride her from here to Victoria Falls and back. And, most of all”—he began to pack the wound with gauze as I steadied Princess’s muzzle and looked into her dark, sad eyes—“I’m going to pray this election’s lost. Mandy, it has to be the MDC.”

  Grey and I cantered along the line of the dam. I could hear the thunder of his hooves, feel the wind raging in my hair. It was enough to make me forget.

  I was urging him to a gallop, and could already sense his excitement at the challenge, when I saw two figures appear on the horizon, back in the direction of Biri farmhouse. Instinctively, I teased the reins, and Grey, acknowledging the gentle request with the barest bowing of his head, slowed back from a canter to a trot. We glided around and headed across the open field.

  Pat rode toward the dam, Deja Vu beneath him, and we came together in the middle of the field. It did not seem right to stop, so as the horses acknowledged each other, we turned and followed my trail back along the shore of the dam.

  “Mugabe won” was all Pat said. “It’s ZANU-PF.”

  I had, I supposed, been stopping myself from asking the question all day. The champagne we had optimistically earmarked would stay in the storeroom tonight. There would be no popping of corks, no glasses raised in celebration. There would be no midnight dreaming of returning to Crofton.

  “How bad?”

  “Only just,” Pat replied, “but fifty-six percent is still a majority.”

  It should not have been this way. Instinctively, I squeezed Grey. He gave a burst of speed, but then he dropped back to a slow, languorous walk. Like me, he knew there was nowhere to run to.

  “It should have been like the referendum,” I said aloud, thinking back to that moment in which the land invasions truly began. “Eighty percent against. The MDC . . .”

  “Were robbed,” Pat interjected. “Is it any wonder? We’ve seen what they did to our labor. On Palmerston and Braeside and . . . They knew what they were doing. Driving us off our farms was never about us being white. It was about votes, pure and simple.” Pat edged Deja Vu on. “He wasn’t going after us. He was going after our labor. What do the votes of a few white people count against all that?”

  We came almost as far as the Crawford farm before we lapped around to make the long ride home. Along the way, we barely exchanged a word. Only when we came back toward Biri, saw the rest of the herd in their paddocks, did I break the silence.

  “When we took John’s horses in,” I began, “you said we would send them back . . . when it was over.”

  Pat nodded.

  “Well, it’s already over, isn’t it? It was over a year ago. We just didn’t want to admit it. There isn’t any going back home, is there, Pat?”

  I did not know if I was saying it in anger or relief, but it was relief that flooded me when Pat nodded. I did not like the idea of his hope being lost, of Patrick Retzlaff having abandoned the wild-eyed optimism that had seen him rampaging into a bar brawl on the very first day we stepped out together, but somehow it was consoling to think he believed it properly, for the very first time. We would not, I knew, stop taking in horses—but at least now we knew what we were letting ourselves in for. The rules of the game had just been forcefully declared. Now all we had to do was play.

  “Let’s make a plan,” said Pat.

  Back at the farmhouse, I found my mother asleep over a book. I roused her gently, placing a cup of steaming tea in front of her.

  “Mum,” I ventured, “did you hear?”

  She nodded absently.

  “You’re not surprised?”

  Granny Beryl shrugged. “It happens, dear.”

  I could not believe she could be quite so sanguine about it, but suddenly all the sourness of our ride home lifted from me in waves.

  “What are you thinking, Amanda?”

  I was thinking about Paul, our last days on Palmerston, of taking him to the airport and waving good-bye. I was thinking that there were places in the world better than this—and if Pat and I could not go there for fear of leaving our horses behind, perhaps there was yet a way of seeing my mother safe and comfortable in her old age. Mum had been born in England; perhaps there was a home for her there, a place to spend her twilight years without the fear of Mugabe’s panga hanging over her head.

  “I’m thinking,” I said, “that it’s about time we got you out of here. How would you feel, Mum, about going back home?”

  Photo Insert

  Frisky, my husband Pat’s beloved horse and childhood companion, was with us when we came to Crofton, but by that time she was more than thirty years old. This picture was taken earlier, in the late 1970s.

  Author collection

  A much older Frisky at Crofton in the mid-1990s. By this time she no longer lived up to her name and had become much more gentle and quiet in her advanced years. We will miss her always.

  Author collection

  Pat riding through the surf in Vilanculos on Jade, whom we rescued in Zimbabwe from our friend John Crawford’s herd.

  Courtesy of Wrenne Hiscott

  www.wrennehiscott.com

  Here I’m riding Bridle, Pat’s father’s horse, and Pat’s cousin Roy is on Frisky. This picture was taken in Enkeldoorn, where Pat grew up, at the paper chase in 1979; it’s one of the few photos we have from that time.

  Courtesy of Anita Brukjackson

  My two boys with their sister in the middle in 1988. Pictured from left: Jay, Kate, Paul.

  Author collection

  As a young boy, Jay hated leaving the farm. Here he is with Pat on his way to boarding school. As you can see, he doesn’t look too happy at the prospect.

  Author collection

  Jay and Kate dressed in their school uniforms at Crofton with our dog Opal, a harlequin Great Dane.

  Author collection

  A view of Crofton during happier days in the mid-1990s. Our mango tree is visible, the round-topped tree to the left of the house.

  Courtesy of Ben Young

  My middle child, Jay, looking at what remained of Crofton farm on a return trip we took there in 2012. Everything we loved was now gone, burned by the war vets who took it over. You can see Jay’s despair as he stares in disbelief; he had loved roaming the wild African bush as a boy.

  Courtesy of Madeleine Pacheco

  My two high-spirited boys in the early 1990s. Paul is driving with Jay on the back. They loved to ride Dad’s motorbike around the farm.

  Author collection

  Deja Vu, who was born on Crofton, waiting patiently for her food bucket on Zimofa farm, 2005. A most loving and gentle horse, she came to a tragic end in Mozambique.

  Courtesy of Heather Trezona

  Our faithful Fanta. She has blessed the lives of so many children, in both Zimbabwe and Mozambique, who learned to ride on her. Here she is in the Chimoio riding school, 2007.

  Courtesy of Stefaan Dondeyne

  My husband, Pat, the avid horseman, riding Duke while competing in the gymkhana we held for our riding school children in Chimoio, 2006.

  Courtesy of Stefaan Dondeyne

  Here I am with Squib and little Sebastian, 2006, at the Chimoio riding school. We are indebted to the parents, both NGO workers and ex-Zimbabwean farmers, who supported our school there.

  Court
esy of Stefaan Dondeyne

  Ramazotti, Pink Daiquiri’s beautiful foal, in 2005. Both horses were taken by a corrupt farmer who claimed they had destroyed his wife’s soybean crop. These sorts of false claims were part of the nightmare we had to endure on our journey.

  Courtesy of Heather Trezona

  Pat with Fleur, the day after arriving in Vilanculos. He was worried that the horses would be terrified of the sand and sea, but with the temperature a scorching 113 degrees Fahrenheit, the horses immediately took to the water.

  Author collection

  The beautiful Lady, named after her mother, Lady Richmond, by our friend and neighbor Charl. Here she is sticking out her tongue, waiting for a treat after a riding lesson in Vilanculos, 2011.

  Author collection

  My beautiful daughter, Kate, with Tequila on Benguerra Island, off the coast of Vilanculos. Tequila, a determined but lovable horse, stays on the small island because of his expensive escapades; he is forever trying to return to his home in Zimbabwe. On the island he has tried on three occasions to do the same, but found no way off.

  Courtesy of Benguerra Lodge

  www.benguerra.co.za

  Pat and Tequila enjoying a swim on Benguerra Island the day after we arrived in January 2008.

  Courtesy of Benguerra Lodge

  www.benguerra.co.za

  Our longtime worker and loyal friend Jonathan Mazulu, who helped us on our journey and remains with us to this day.

  Courtesy of Wrenne Hiscott

  www.wrennehiscott.com

  Martini, from Umboe Estates, Chinhoyi. Here he is up to his hocks in lush green grass and looking a little chubby on Benguerra Island, 2012.

  Courtesy of Robyn Dunne

  Tequila (left) attempting to remove Slash’s halter. He is an expert at this, and Slash is always a willing partner. They both remain on Benguerra Island.