‘Yes, it will, but the bastard’s convinced we can take the hill,’ said Anscombe, his face white with rage. ‘Get them ready.’
Appalled, John could see in his mind’s eye the dead and dying spread over the ground between the rocks and the base of the kopje. ‘Haven’t we got another column northeast of here?’ he asked, then pointed back towards the horses and wagons. ‘Couldn’t someone back there be sent to fetch them?’
Raynor shook his head. ‘The column’s more than a hundred bloody miles away. Two riders have gone, but we could all be dead by the time they get here. And we’re pinned down. We can’t get to our horses now, either.’
‘Why don’t we just wait until it gets dark?’
Raynor shrugged and indicated his head towards the Lieutenant-Colonel, who was now arguing with one of his own officers. ‘Ask him,’ he said as he crawled away to break the news to his men.
John sat back on his heels. There were three medical officers with the column, and a handful of enlisted men who had volunteered as stretcher bearers; the medical wagons were well behind them, safely out of the way but unreachable. The dread that had been growing in the pit of his stomach threatened to engulf him as he scuttled behind the rocks to find Beale and Carter, the two British MOs. They would have to be ready.
They thought they were, but in the end there was little anyone could have done. The first wave of thirty men ran straight into a solid wall of bullets. A quarter fell while the rest managed to scramble back behind the safety of the outcrop, some wounded and all disoriented. Kendall bellowed at them to go back out, but his order was ignored. Incensed and screaming at his officers to ready the troops for a second charge, the Lieutenant-Colonel threatened the column with court martial and kicked wildly at the men near him. John suddenly realised the man was mad with fear and watched in horrified fascination as Kendall slowly stood to his full height and raised his arm to give the order to charge. No one moved to stop him.
Kendall was shot instantly, crumpling to the ground clutching the left side of his chest, dark blood spurting through his fingers. John scrambled over but it was obvious he had been mortally wounded. He placed his hand over the hole in the man’s chest and applied as much pressure as he was able, but could do nothing more as Kendall’s life pumped out of his body and soaked into the dusty ground. After a minute John took his hand away and moved back, thinking how peculiar it was that natural justice was delivered in such strange but sometimes logical ways.
The second charge had been aborted the minute Kendall had hit the ground. The Boers on the kopje stopped firing. John went into a huddle with Carter and Beale as they considered how best to retrieve the wounded, whose cries of pain and confusion could be clearly heard. After a brief discussion it was decided a heavy fusillade would be laid down to cover the medical officers and volunteers as they tried to reach the wounded. The Red Cross flag had been raised, but there were few illusions about what protection it might afford. John was to take the right-hand section while the two British medics would take the middle and left-hand sections.
As instructions were relayed down the line of men behind the rocks and they reloaded and positioned their rifles, Major Anscombe asked John if he was ready.
‘No,’ John replied. ‘But then I’ll never be ready for this sort of thing.’ He took his watch off and handed it to Anscombe. ‘If anything happens, can you make sure my eldest boy gets this? Raynor has a letter for my wife.’ He shook his head glumly. ‘She’ll be so annoyed with me if I get myself killed.’
‘Then don’t,’ Anscombe said gruffly. ‘Straight out, pick up the live ones, and straight back in. The dead can wait. And if gets rough, turn around and come back. No point losing more men.’
John nodded and swallowed. His mouth was bone dry, his heart beat wildly, and his anus was clamped shut; although terrified, he had no intention of shitting himself. He looked at Beale and Carter, who appeared as frightened as he was, and raised his eyebrows. When they nodded, Anscombe passed the message down the line to Jarvis, the British major now in command, who looked at his watch, counted down, then gave the order to fire.
The near-silence exploded as almost a hundred troops simultaneously fired up at the kopje. Although the Boers responded instantly, their aim was hampered by the intensity of the British fusillade. John immediately scrambled over the rocks and sprinted for the nearest body. He could hear nothing over the incredible noise but sensed two of the volunteers close behind. The first man he reached was dead, shot through the neck, and he hurried on to the next, moving erratically in the vain hope he might be able to dodge the Boer bullets. The next man was alive and John signalled for him to be picked up and taken back.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Carter and Beale and their quartet of volunteers dashing madly from body to body. He almost laughed; they looked absurd, like deranged ants scurrying across a vast tablecloth snatching up crumbs.
The next man was also still breathing, although the pulpy, bloody mass extruding from the side of his head suggested he wouldn’t be for much longer. John left him. As he bent to inspect a man lying only a few feet further out, the prone body jerked as it was riddled with bullets. There was no new explosion of blood and John was briefly thankful the man was already dead.
It was when he was turning back towards the shelter of the rocks that he was hit. He felt no pain but was aware of being propelled forward, as if he’d been violently shoved by a giant, invisible hand. He landed face first, bounced slightly, then lay still with his arms outstretched and his head skewed uncomfortably to the right. He couldn’t tell exactly where his legs were, but for some reason that didn’t seem to be important. And he couldn’t hear anything, only a heavy, ringing silence. Had it been a bullet, or an artillery shell? He hadn’t seen a big gun on the hill. And why could he smell oranges?
He blinked. There was grit in his left eye and a good handful of it in his mouth as well. He saw a pair of brown boots going past his head, then a blur of faded khaki as someone seemed to float to the ground only feet away. More silence, and now everything was fading to a fuzzy grey. There was still no pain.
John felt his pulse dropping far too quickly. He knew he should get up, but he was too tired. He closed his eyes and muttered, ‘Oh Riria, I’m so sorry.’
A single tear ran across the ridge of his nose and plopped into the dust. Then, as he began to sink into blackness, he sighed once, and let himself go.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ roared Anscombe as he watched John go down. It was not his usual habit to swear in front of his men, but fuck it. His revolver clicked on an empty chamber and he flung it viciously towards the kopje.
‘God, what a cock-up,’ he spat at Raynor. ‘We get five back but lose three more. I’d kill that bastard Kendall if he wasn’t dead already!’
Raynor said nothing; he was too stunned. Was John still alive? Captain Beale obviously wasn’t; the top of his head seemed to be missing. John lay motionless and Raynor’s eyes were riveted to the pool of blood beneath him; it was no longer spreading. He shook his head, blinked back tears and tried to get a grip on himself.
‘So what do we do now?’ he asked, his voice thick and painful in his throat.
‘I don’t know,’ said Anscombe wearily, rubbing his dirty face with even dirtier hands. ‘I’ll go and talk to Jarvis. Tell the men to sit tight and not waste their bullets.’
He moved off and Raynor passed the word along the line, although most had stopped firing when the last volunteer staggered back in. Then he sat and stared at nothing in particular while he waited for Anscombe to return. The attempt to rescue the wounded had been a disaster. And they were still pinned down.
Anscombe came back. ‘We’re waiting until dark, then we’re retreating. At least Jarvis seems to have a brain. Have half the men stand down and the other half remain at their posts.’
The men settled in, making themselves as comfortable as they could behind the protection of the rocks. Most broke open their dry rations or li
t cigarettes, but there was not much water. Captain Carter tended the wounded as best he could. The afternoon heat increased, the air still and hazy and the raw sun blazing down; everyone kept their hats on despite the sweat pouring down their dusty faces.
In less than an hour, the vultures came. Their huge wings flapping lazily, they circled low above the flat ground between the kopje and the rocks and the troops could see the bright blue of their long, bare necks. These were Cape vultures, the second largest in Africa; they fed on the carcasses of large mammals.
As one bird swooped down and landed on the body of a dead trooper, several men cried out in disgust and fired. Word was passed immediately that ammunition was not to be wasted, and the men had to satisfy themselves with hurling rocks and curses. The big, ugly birds went away eventually, but there was little doubt they’d be back.
The day dragged on, the Boers apparently in no hurry to move. The troops wondered what would happen when the sun went down. It was unlikely they could slip away unnoticed as the Boers would surely be waiting. Would there be another furious fire fight in which more of them would die? None of them believed they would not get away; there were too many of them for that, but not enough to keep charging the kopje until every Boer had been killed. And what would be the point? What value was there in taking one rock-strewn, scrub-covered hill in the middle of bloody nowhere? No, it made more sense to sit it out and wait for night, even if that meant lolling for hours in the stinking sun, listening to flies buzzing around dead mates and letting the anger and frustration build until it could be harnessed and directed at either the Boers on the hill, or the next lot they came across.
Gradually, the air started to cool as the sun slid down the sky. It would take time for the heavy black night to roll over the land, and the troopers were anxious to minimise any activity that might suggest they were preparing to move, but did what they could. Each walking wounded was allocated a man to help them and crude litters were fashioned from belts, shirts and jackets for those unable to help themselves. One man died during the afternoon, which made the load lighter.
The dead would have to be left where they were. As soon as the Boers departed, and they would probably be gone one way or another before the sun rose too high tomorrow, a party would collect the bodies so they could be afforded a decent Christian burial back at the camp.
As the rich purple shadows of early evening lengthened and merged into blackness, the troops were ready.
By now they’d all had nervous pees, quietly gathered their things, fastened down anything that might make a noise, carefully folded rags into the mouths of the wounded to prevent them from crying out, and checked and reloaded their rifles. One by one they began to move silently from the rocks, walking slowly with their shoulders hunched, expecting to hear Boer fire at any second. The wounded went first followed by the bulk of the enlisted men, then the officers, all moving quietly and trying not to stumble.
Only minutes after the last man had crept away from the shelter of the rocks, the darkness relinquished a handful of small four-legged shadows that moved stealthily towards the bodies left behind. They made thick snuffling noises and carried the foul stink of the carrion that sustained them. Soon, the snuffling turned into the sound of something heavy being dragged, then the gentle, almost liquid noises of tearing and chewing.
When the evacuating column reached their horses, they finally dared breathe normally. Some offered up silent prayers of thanks, while others leaned against their mounts and swore in muffled relief. They had no way of knowing the Boers had themselves used the cover of darkness to evacuate the kopje an hour earlier, and were now miles away. They had numbered less than two dozen, and would have been unable to maintain anything more than a very minor skirmish with the British, come daylight.
When the sun rose, the retrieval party was already on its way back to collect the bodies of the fallen troopers. Dick Raynor lead the small group, and his orders were to circle the hill from a safe distance to ascertain whether the Boers were still there or not, and if they weren’t, then the bodies were to be picked up and brought back to join the main column. It would be an unpleasant job as the dead men had already been lying in the full sun for at least half a day, and decomposition set in quickly in the intense heat. There was a pile of heavy shrouds in their wagon, but Raynor expected no one would be riding down wind on the long trip back to camp.
When they reached the kopje, it was clear the Boers had gone. Raynor signalled to his men to close in, but as they approached the area in front of the rocks, every man pulled up his mount and stared, slack-jawed and uncomprehending.
On the ground were a handful of dark, glistening, buzzing mounds. Raynor was unable to grasp what he was seeing until he suddenly realised the shimmering black carpets were alive. He cried out in horror and millions of blowflies rose up, hovering in the air with a sickening, teeth-rattling drone. Where they had been lay a strew of human bones, mostly stripped white but blemished here and there by shreds of dark, drying flesh.
Raynor leaned over and vomited onto the dirt, splattering his horse’s front legs. Behind him he could hear several of his men doing the same, then someone asking him what should they do.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and, unable to take his eyes off the horror in front of him, snapped, ‘How the hell should I know? What do you suggest?’ He was heartily sick of this war and desperately wanted to go home to his gentle wife and his safe, undemanding public servant’s job.
‘We could collect ’em all up, sir, and sort ’em out later.’ Private Biddle had a cast iron stomach, and sensibilities to match.
Raynor hesitated, retching behind his hand at the thought, then agreed. ‘Fetch the shrouds. We’ll have to jumble the lot all in together — one of the MOs can organise them when we get back.’ Then he remembered there was only one medical officer left. The other two were here.
He got off his horse and cautiously approached the mess on the ground. The stink was faint but it was there, the meagre flesh left on the dismembered skeletons fetid already. He got his handkerchief out and held it over his nose and mouth, then turned to help the men lay a large shroud next to the bones.
When nobody moved, he said through his handkerchief, ‘Come on, gather them up!’
Biddle said cheerily, ‘Aye, they won’t pick ’emselves up, will they?’
Raynor gave him a dirty look, motioned towards the scattered bones and snapped, ‘Get on with it.’ He himself stood back, unable to even contemplate touching the remains.
When all of the bones, buttons, watches and other items had been collected and placed on the shroud, someone pointed out that there weren’t enough skulls.
‘What?’ snapped Raynor. Was there no end to this hideousness?
‘There should be eight of ’em, sir,’ replied one of his men uneasily. ‘Two went down when we first got ambushed, then eight in the first wave, five got brought back in, then three more went down. That makes eight. There’s only seven ’ere, sir.’
Raynor closed his eyes.
‘Filthy, scavenging bloody animals,’ muttered Biddle, offended at last.
All of this Dick Raynor recounted to Joseph when their paths crossed many weeks later. Private Deane seemed to fold the information into himself, whether to examine it later in private, or to leave it there forever, Raynor could not tell.
He said, ‘John talked of you and your mother often, so I thought you would like to hear what happened. Perhaps you could relate the … more palatable bits to Mrs Adams. I’ve already sent John’s letter to her, and there will be the official notification. Major Anscombe is writing to her as well, I believe.’
Joseph nodded. ‘Yes, John was one of my mother’s very good friends. Has been for years.’ He looked the other man in the eye. ‘He didn’t have to volunteer. He did it because he thought he could help.’
‘I know,’ agreed Raynor, looking at his hands. ‘And he could have gone home whenever he wanted to.’
There seemed to
be nothing else to say. Joseph thanked Raynor and watched him walk away. He wondered if Riria knew yet. And what about his mother? How would she take the news? Would she, as he had done, squash the anger and the hurt down inside herself, or would she sob and rant and rail and lash out at someone in her grief? Either way, he would not be there to help her.
Kenmore, April 1901
‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.’
Andrew reached across the table for the large meat dish. He lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Whew!’ he said theatrically. ‘What’s that smell?’ He narrowed his twinkling eyes and scrutinised each of the children until he came to Thomas. ‘It’s you! It’s your oxters!’
Thomas sniffed his armpits. ‘No it isn’t!’ he retaliated indignantly.
‘Oxters! Oxters! Stinky, stinky oxters!’ taunted James, giggling.
‘They’re not stinky!’ wailed Thomas, his face crumpling into tears.
Whoops, thought Tamar, he’s in one of his sensitive moods. ‘Leave him be, Andrew, and you be quiet, James. You’re upsetting him.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t be such a sook,’ complained James, helping himself to minted peas.
Andrew patted Thomas’s thin shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, son. It’s not you, it’s Mrs Muldoon’s mutton stew.’
‘Andrew, don’t be silly,’ rebuked Tamar, trying to keep the smile off her face. ‘Mrs Muldoon makes a lovely stew.’
Andrew winked at Thomas, who brightened at his father’s attention.
‘Da,’ said Ian, five now and recently graduated to eating at the dining table. ‘Why’s it called a oxter?’
‘An oxter,’ Tamar corrected.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Andrew. ‘I suppose it’s a Scottish word. My da used to say it all the time. Did yours, Lachie?’
Lachie nodded.
‘Why? Did he have stinky oxters?’ Ian asked.
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