Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  When the remaining members of the First Contingent joined up with the Rough Riders, Joseph and Jimmy Malone were erecting their tent when Joseph heard his name called. Turning around, he saw a uniformed figure standing behind him. When he finally recognised who it was, he leapt forward to shake the other man’s hand.

  ‘Dr Adams!’

  Joseph was shocked. Normally, the doctor was in rude health; today, he was as white as a ghost, shiny with sweat, and extremely thin. John caught Joseph eyeing his baggy trousers and the way the collar on his khaki jacket gaped.

  ‘Good to see you, Joseph,’ he said, shaking the younger man’s hand enthusiastically. ‘I’m here with the Fourth, but only temporarily. God only knows where I’ll be tomorrow, or even tonight for that matter. And I’m Captain Adams, for the duration, but please call me John.’

  ‘I’m not allowed,’ Joseph replied. ‘You’re an officer.’ John noticed how the boy’s rather formal pronunciation was relaxing. Must be the influence of his scruffy bloody mates, he thought. Actually, he was rather enjoying the loose, casual attitudes of many of the New Zealanders he was working with. They were rough and rude and often had foul mouths, but they were easygoing and as honest as anyone else in this godforsaken place, providing they were treated fairly. Their lack of respect for their superiors, and particularly for the British officers, was refreshing and something he shared. He didn’t mind the casual way the men spoke to him, and thought the other officers shouldn’t be bothered by it either.

  ‘You don’t look well, Captain Adams, if you don’t mind me saying,’ commented Joseph.

  John got out a large, dirty handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘It’s John, and no, I’m not, really. When we were stuck at Beira almost everyone had dysentery and malaria and of course I picked the bloody things up as well. It’s not too bad now, but the malaria recurs on and off. And I don’t think my stomach will ever be the same, but perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing — I was putting on too much weight.’ He didn’t add he was often forced to spend hours in the latrine, doubled over in agony until his bowels cleared. He changed the subject. ‘But you’re looking well, Joseph. Army life must suit you. Oh, and your mother sends her love. I’ve a letter for you in my tent. I’ll dig it out for you later, unless you want it now?’

  Joseph shook his head. ‘Just when you have a minute, thanks. I got one from her the other day.’ John looked as if he was going to keel over at any minute. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Water or something?’

  ‘No, I’ll be right. It’s just a touch of fever and it goes away pretty promptly.’ He looked at his watch, hanging loosely around his bony wrist. ‘Damn, I’ve a meeting with the other medics. About the flies in the latrines. Should be exciting,’ he said dryly. ‘I’ll drop in later and catch you up with the news from home. And I’ll bring that letter.’

  Joseph nodded and watched as John walked away. He walked slowly as if he was in pain. Joseph thought he looked closer to sixty than fifty. He’d obviously been very sick and Joseph wondered why he didn’t pack it in and go home. He probably could, as he’d volunteered and wasn’t a member of the regular New Zealand Army or the Volunteers.

  After the evening meal was over and Joseph had been to check his horse had been fed and watered, he returned to his tent to find John and Jimmy Malone sitting outside sharing a large bottle of brandy only vaguely camouflaged by a canvas bag. Drinking in the lines wasn’t allowed, but it happened. Pulling up a box, Joseph accepted a drink. He’d rarely drunk alcohol before South Africa, mainly because of the dreadful experience at the Blue Lady all those years ago, but he’d had his share of morning-after headaches since he’d volunteered. John Adams looked a little better, now the sun had gone down. It must be hell having a raging fever in the heat of the day.

  In little over an hour the bottle was empty. Joseph was feeling fuzzy-headed and Jimmy Malone had a silly grin plastered across his face. John was almost asleep on his box, his head lolling then jerking upright at regular intervals. He’d informed Joseph and his mate that his capacity to drink had diminished drastically after his illness, and now he was proving it. Getting drunk was unwise, but they were relatively safe here and at least he’d get a decent night’s sleep. He missed Riria desperately, and his children, but he refused to succumb to whatever parasites had taken up residence in his body. His job was to patch soldiers up or, if they were really ill, arrange for them to be sent to a hospital, and home if necessary, but he was buggered if he was going to lie down and be carted off himself.

  He looked up as he became gradually aware of someone standing in front of him — khaki riding breeches tucked into a pair of long, brown riding boots polished to an extremely high gloss. A riding whip was being tapped slowly against the left one.

  With exaggerated care he finally said, ‘Major Walbridge. Good evening.’ Joseph and Malone were busy studying the ground between their boots.

  ‘Captain Adams,’ said Walbridge briskly. ‘Everything all right?’

  Major Walbridge was British, a cavalry officer, and not at all popular. He made unwise decisions in the field, wouldn’t take advice from anyone, including his noncommissioned officers, disapproved strongly of colonials, and insisted he be saluted at all times. The New Zealand and Australian enlisted men took turns walking past him in camp and saluting him so he would have to continually salute back in the hope that his arm would eventually drop off and he would be invalided back to England.

  John made an effort to sit up straighter. ‘Yes, thank you, Major. Just catching up with old friends.’

  ‘Is that alcohol I can smell?’ asked Walbridge, leaning forward, his nose twitching like an over-sized rabbit.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied John earnestly, squinting to bring the two images he could see of Walbridge back to one.

  At that moment Malone’s wooden box broke under his weight, pitching him backwards into the tent behind him. All three distinctly heard him say ‘Fuck’ as his head hit the tent pole with a loud crack. This was followed by giggling, which rose until it resembled the strange, hooting barks of a hyena.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Walbridge.

  ‘Bad case of sunstroke,’ replied John without missing a beat. ‘I’m thinking seriously of hospitalising him.’

  Walbridge’s mouth puckered in distaste. ‘Hmm, well, you’d better do it soon then, hadn’t you?’

  He remained standing in front of John and Joseph, as if waiting for something else untoward to happen. Eventually he said, ‘Well, goodnight then, Captain Adams,’ but made no move to go.

  John suddenly realised what was required and saluted so hard he almost knocked himself off his box. Joseph followed suit.

  ‘G’night, Major Walbridge,’ said John, except it came out sounding like Walbitch.

  The major disappeared from sight between the rows of tents.

  ‘What a bastard,’ said John. ‘And on that note, my boy, I’d better be heading back to my own tent. Good to catch up with you.’

  ‘And you, John,’ replied Joseph.

  They both stood unsteadily and shook hands. John looked around cagily, took two wobbly steps forward, said, ‘You look a lot like your father, you know, but you’ve definitely got your mother’s eyes,’ then wandered off.

  Joseph never saw him alive again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Early the following morning, John was woken by someone shaking his shoulder. ‘What?’ he mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. He didn’t feel well, although his fever seemed to have departed, thank God.

  ‘Wake up, John,’ said the voice, urgent now. ‘Get your gear together right away. You’re coming with us. Mellor’s orders.’

  John opened his eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you, Dick,’ he muttered and sat up slowly, feeling bilious and painfully aware of his pounding head. He blinked blearily at his friend. ‘Are there wounded?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dick Raynor, a lieutenant with the New Zealand mounted infantry. ‘But Mellor
wants to see you.’

  John sighed and disentangled himself from his grubby blanket. God, his tent smelled like a distillery. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he mumbled.

  He staggered out of his tent five minutes later, splashed water over his face and head and pulled up his braces. The sun wasn’t even over the mountains, but the camp was bustling. Something was obviously in the wind. He headed off for Major Mellor’s tent.

  Major Mellor oversaw the medical care of several British regiments as well as a number of the New Zealand and Australian units. He was a surgeon with the regular British army, but John considered him good at his job and generally not a bad sort. He’d decided not all British army officers were twits, but those who were certainly let the team down, and unfortunately they were often the ones with the most responsibility.

  ‘Good morning, Adams,’ said Mellor, standing behind his desk. For some reason he hardly ever sat down: John suspected haemorrhoids. As usual, the major looked wide awake, smartly turned out and cheerful, despite the early hour. ‘Indulge in a spot of liquid refreshment last night?’

  John nodded gingerly, mindful of his sore head.

  ‘Well, a man’s entitled to his relaxation,’ Mellor said. ‘Some of your boys are coming with us after General De la Rey. Apparently he’s at Rustenburg. You and a couple of the other medical officers will be going with them, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Kendall.’

  Mellor looked John in the eye, the expression on his face as empathic as his rank allowed. Lieutenant-Colonel Kendall was an odious, incompetent fool.

  John nodded. He had come to South Africa to provide New Zealand troops with medical care, and he wasn’t particularly bothered about which contingent; he’d been with the Fourth and Fifth for the last seven months, now it looked as if he’d be with the Second and Third.

  Mellor moved papers from one side of his desk to the other. ‘Good-oh. You’ll be leaving in an hour. And have a decent breakfast, you look like a dog’s backside. How’s the malaria — causing you much trouble?’

  ‘The odd recurrence of fever, Major, that’s all. Annoying but not life-threatening. I’ll be on my way, then. No doubt I’ll see you again, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you will,’ agreed Mellor with a half-hearted salute. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, Major.’ John returned an equally limp salute and went outside.

  He’d have time to write a quick letter to Riria, then gather his things and stow them in one of the medical wagons. As usual, he would be travelling on horseback, unless a patient in one of the wagons needed attention. It was not necessarily the trauma of their wounds that killed the men, but often the protracted journey to the nearest military hospital. The journey could take days in crippling heat infested with the ever-present flies, infecting wounds and spreading disease. The luckier ones were wounded near the railway on which the Red Cross hospital train shuttled between Pretoria and Cape Town; while they ran the risk of Boer attacks, at least the journey was quicker.

  John had worked for a fortnight in Bloemfontein General Hospital, assisting with rudimentary reconstructive surgery, and after only twenty-four hours he’d already decided that if he were ever wounded, he’d rather take his chances on the veldt where at least the air was clean. The hospital had been appallingly overcrowded with triple the patients it was equipped to handle, many of them victims of the enteric epidemic. The staff were overworked and exhausted, the wards had been seething with body lice and filthy, despite the efforts of the orderlies, and there had been a serious water shortage. He’d also been to the huge No. 4 General Hospital at Mooi River Camp in Natal. The entire facility was under canvas, with staff forced to live in gumboots when it rained because of the mud, but at least the conditions were less crowded, and more hygienic because the air was able to circulate more freely.

  As the Third mounted and headed out onto the veldt, John sought out Dick Raynor and, as was his custom, gave him the letter for Riria. He never let himself dwell on the idea he might not come home from South Africa, but before every major operation he felt an overwhelming compulsion to write and tell her how very much he loved her.

  It was Raynor who told Joseph, months later, what happened.

  The trek to Rustenburg was long, hot and arduous. John treated sunstroke, diarrhoea, saddle sores exacerbated by sweat and made septic by filth, and extracted several rotten teeth. Progress slowed as the condition of the horses deteriorated and their riders were forced to dismount, and by the time they arrived men and animals were profoundly fatigued. There was to be no rest, however, and over the following weeks there were numerous skirmishes between the British and De la Rey’s men, but De la Rey himself, and his equally infamous cohort, General Christiaan De Wet, remained elusive.

  In March, John found himself riding at the tail end of a column of New Zealanders just below the border between Cape Colony and Orange Free State. His stomach had still not settled and since December he had suffered a further recurrence of malaria. He was tired and homesick, and had had a gutsful of chasing Boers across the harsh South African veldt. Months ago he had come to the conclusion the British should get out of South Africa, but he knew his opinions would serve no purpose, except perhaps to have him court-martialled. Some of the New Zealanders and Australians might agree, and possibly even some of the British enlisted men, but as far as the British commanders were concerned, John knew his words would fall on deaf ears. They still spoke loftily of military might, of glory, and of essential acquisitions for the Empire, ignoring the bitter, exhausted mutterings of their men and, at times, the outright rebelliousness of the colonials they commanded.

  But here they were, a column of around a hundred and thirty British and New Zealand troops, on yet another cloudless morning with the sun already murderously hot, plodding towards the blue mountains in search of Boer guerrillas. There was very little talk amongst the tired troops, only the clanking of their equipment, the occasional horse snort and the dull, unsynchronised clop of hundreds of hooves hitting the hard, baked ground.

  John was nearly asleep, hoping for his own sake the rest of the column was alert. Evidently they were, for as the first Boer bullet ricocheted off a rock fifty yards in front of him, he heard Lieutenant Turner bellow ‘Take cover’ as the men ahead of him whirled their mounts and scattered. John’s horse bolted without being asked, carrying him behind the shelter of a long, low outcrop of rock. John slid to the ground and crouched low, his heart thudding and blood pounding in his ears, and peered through a gap in the rocks.

  They had been approaching a high kopje and the bullets seemed to be originating from there. John wondered why the scouts riding ahead had not alerted the rest of the column. Perhaps they were still trotting along half a mile in front, chatting blithely to each other, the Boers having let them pass in order to snare the bigger prize. Or perhaps they were lying dead on the far side of the kopje.

  The men had recovered their wits and were spreading themselves out behind the rocks to return fire, the British on the left and the New Zealanders on the right. Together with the two medical wagons, their mounts had been moved quickly out of range, and were held in check. The horses had been trained to stand steady during rifle and artillery fire, but occasionally one would bolt and panic the rest, causing complete pandemonium.

  Lieutenant Turner and the other New Zealand officers were barking orders and moving the men into better firing positions behind the shelter of one end of the rocks, while their British colleagues did the same behind the other. The barrier afforded by the outcrop was low, but as long as no one stood up straight, they would be relatively safe. However, when John glanced to either side and then behind, he saw there was nowhere for the troops to go. If they went forwards or to the left or right they would be mown down, and if they went backwards, they would expose themselves to snipers. In front of the rocks was a stretch of open, stony ground about five hundred yards across to the base of the kopje, and on it lay two bodies — men who had not moved fast enough. John
squinted but could not tell whether they were alive or dead. He could, however, see at least two of the Boer positions on the kopje — one halfway up the hill and another nearer the top. They appeared to have selected their firing positions carefully, suggesting this was no hit-and-run raiding party.

  In the middle of the troops pinned behind the rocks crouched the senior officers. Lieutenant-Colonel Kendall, and a New Zealander major, John Anscombe, were arguing, both waving their arms and yelling, although their voices could barely be heard above the din of the rifle fire. John crawled on his hands and knees towards them; he had to do something about the fallen men on the off-chance they were still alive, and he would not be able to drag them back himself. As he approached the senior officers, he could hear angry words.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked Raynor, who was sitting against the rocks with his revolver on his upraised knees. He looked stunned.

  ‘They’re bloody arguing, for Christ’s sake!’ Raynor exclaimed incredulously. ‘Kendall wants us to charge the bloody hill! God only knows how many bloody Boers are up there! We’ll be annihilated!’

  John stared at him in dismay, then turned to watch. The Lieutenant-Colonel had gone red in the face and there was a scum of white foam collecting at the corners of his mouth; John wondered if the man was about to have a fit. Anscombe was shaking his head violently, his teeth almost bared in his anger. Both men were on their knees, looking incongruously child-like as they faced each other, faces inches apart. Suddenly Anscombe threw up his hands and pulled away. He turned to Raynor and spat through gritted teeth, ‘We’re going over. Get the men ready.’

  ‘It’ll be murder!’ replied Raynor, forgetting he was talking to a senior officer.