No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (epub)

  “Ladies,” boomed Newbold, “please welcome our distinguished guests.”

  Two were RAMC, the others included a braided army high-up and two other officers plus an adjutant sergeant.

  One of the RAMC men, a major, a man of medium height with thick black hair and dark twinkling eyes, stepped forward. His accent was distantly familiar to Annie. From when she was very young. Her great grandfather. The Welshman?

  “No need to stand on ceremony,” he said, addressing them directly. “First of all, I’d like to thank you for the help you’re giving here. Though the most important thing you can assist us with is a bit of practical input. Thought it good to see all this through the eyes of those on the sharp end – you nurses.”

  There was a snort from behind him. A colonel, a rotund man with a white walrus moustache was now looking rather ill behind his surgical mask.

  “Damn good work,” he seemed to mutter. “Damn good work.”

  The sergeant, a thin man with a clipboard who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, announced that they would be taking statements shortly.

  The civilian, meanwhile, continued scribbling furiously. In a brief instant he looked up.

  “John Simmons, Cape Argus,” he said, doffing his bowler.

  A journalist, thought Annie. Clever.

  “The reason you two were selected for this rather unpleasant assignment,” the major went on, “is that, with the reorganisation you were on your way up the line anyway. And what more effective witnesses than the very nurses put forward as mine and the captain’s assistants.”

  Annie and Nurse Sullivan looked at each other. It sounded like recognition of sorts. They should be happy. But with what lay round about them …

  The major took a peek at the sergeant’s clipboard. The colonel next to him was turning a shade of green.

  “Nurse Sullivan?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll be with myself. And Nurse …

  He was prompted.

  “… Jones?”

  Annie did the same.

  “You’re assigned to Captain Finch.”

  An RAMC officer had been staring off into middle distance. At the sound of his name, he turned. He was tall, reasonably trim. He had pale blue eyes, dark brown hair. When he pulled down his surgical mask she saw that he had a clipped moustache.

  She recognised him, but wasn’t sure from where.

  Then the penny dropped. She uttered a word under her breath.

  “Bastard.”

  * * *

  After the questioning of the nurses, Jenkins informed Finch that he was escorting the inspection party back to Paarl. It was a two-hour-plus slog. They should get going. Nurse Sullivan would go with them.

  Jones expressed a desire to stay and help at the camp until the last possible moment, which Finch respected. He felt a moral obligation to do likewise. There would be another wagon along in a while.

  Finch kept a discreet distance as the two women bade a hasty and fond farewell. Finch thought he detected the brief glint of a tear on Jones’ cheek but she wiped it quickly and flashed him a steely glare.

  Finch did not know what to make of her. Amplified by his three-month remove from the social company of women, he judged her to be attractive. She was clearly dedicated to her work but also had a contemptuous air about her.

  He had been warned about colonials and their natural obstreperousness, the Antipodeans in particular, though from his personal experience, professionally he had never found them wanting either as soldiers or as medical personnel.

  Indeed, compared to the average Tommy, the Australians especially seemed a wholesome, superior breed. Their bush troops, adept at firing from horseback and in terrain not dissimilar to that which they were encountering in South Africa, marked them out as most worthy adversaries of the Boer commando.

  Jones’ attention was suddenly turned. From the main tent, a Coloured female orderly was beckoning. She wore a starched headdress exposing only her face, suggesting she might actually be a nun.

  “Excuse me,” said Jones and headed off.

  He noted the lack of a ‘sir’.

  A moment later, after conferring, she turned back.

  “You might want to see this,” she called.

  He deliberately displayed no acknowledgement.

  “Sir…!” she was forced to add.

  Jones moved with purpose. He had difficulty keeping up. She and the nun/orderly led him along another arbitrary walkway towards an awning under which stood the trestle tables and barrels of mealies being stirred by more of Newbold’s flock.

  Another female orderly, a short, flustered white woman with a pinched face and a large crucifix around her neck, was trying to form a queue from what appeared to be new arrivals.

  The short, pinched woman pointed.

  “Down there … Down there.”

  “How long?” asked Annie.

  “About an hour?”

  They proceeded towards a spreading shepherd’s tree under which were gathered some of the new arrivals, squeezed into the retreating shade.

  They were different to the others, Finch noted, the smaller, slighter, lighter-skinned aboriginals, or Khoisan people, once the only human inhabitants of this land. They had long been marginalised, pushed to the badlands.

  The Coloured orderly whispered something.

  “She says they are Nama,” repeated Jones. “From across the Karoo.”

  “They have crossed it on foot,” said the orderly.

  “Jesus.”

  “But that’s not all,” added Jones.

  She led him around the tree. The forlorn rag-tag gaggle was already in the process of assimilation – speechless, lifeless. Sitting amongst the Nama was a black African man. He had a rough beard and wore a ragged blue-checked shirt and a battered bush hat. Sweat stained his clothes and neckerchief.

  And, cradled in his arms, fast asleep, clad in a filthy pinafore dress, was a young blonde, white girl.

  Behind him, Finch saw a white woman – a skinny, crazed-looking individual kneading her hands.

  The black man raised his head and fixed Finch with tired, bloodshot, but kindly eyes.

  “Please, can you help us? We have come a long way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The man was looking down at him. Standing with his back to the sun, it was difficult to make out his features. Mbutu had been told that he was a doctor. When he raised his hand to shield his eyes, he could see the man was also in army uniform, an officer.

  “You speak English?” he was asking.

  “Yes.”

  Mbutu was so tired, so hungry, it took every ounce of willpower to fight the raging desire to lie down and close his eyes. He feared that he might never wake up.

  “The nurse tells me that you crossed the Karoo.”

  Did the doctor not believe him? Or did the doctor not believe her?

  The nurse was kneeling down, attending to the white mother.

  “Three days. On foot,” Mbutu sighed.

  “Is that possible? You have women, children, elderly—”

  “The Nama people are hardy, resourceful, can live off the bush.”

  They are also very trusting. They put their life in his hands. He led them to where? To here? This hell? Mbutu you are a curse.

  The doctor turned to the white woman and addressed her. She flinched and averted her gaze.

  “Madam. Is it true what this man says?”

  The word of a black man counts for nothing.

  She began to quake. She drew up her knees and buried her face in her hands.

  He bellowed his question again.

  “She cannot talk.”

  “Cannot talk?”

  “She has lost her voice. Shock.”

  “Shock?”

  “She … her daughter … these people have suffered a terrible ordeal.”

  The doctor studied him.

  “You are not one of them … not Nama.”

  What did it matt
er?

  “Basuto.”

  “From Basutoland?”

  “From Kimberley.”

  “How the hell did you get out of Kimberley?”

  Mbutu said nothing.

  The doctor officer did his best to crouch down to his level. It was an awkward manoeuvre, stiff, unbending. He had injured his left leg.

  Emily was still asleep, cradled in Mbutu’s arms. The doctor stroked her blonde hair.

  “This girl …”

  He nodded at the white woman.

  “… Her mother… They are from Kimberley too?”

  Mbutu exhaled. He was exhausted enough.

  “Please, sir,” the nurse interrupted.

  Her accent was unusual. Not from the Cape, not British.

  “He’s right,” she said. “She’s mute.”

  The word of a black man counts for nothing.

  “They have endured a lot,” said Mbutu.

  Awkwardly the army doctor got to his feet and walked around the tree, observing.

  “Some of your party, the men … are blind?”

  “Please,” said Mbutu. “Help us. Weakest first. I will explain all.”

  “I will be the judge of such things!” the doctor snapped.

  It was for show, thought Mbutu. The officer pretended to mull over the situation. But he would concur.

  “Right,” he continued, addressing both the nurse and the nearby Coloured orderly. “Run someone over to the food station, fetch them buttermilk, some mealies.”

  He turned back and spoke to them all, not knowing whether they understood.

  “Then you can all get some well-earned rest.”

  “Newbold,” said Mbutu. “I cannot rest until I speak to a Mister Newbold … a church man.”

  “Dean Newbold is busy. He’s gone back to Paarl. Will be there until this afternoon.”

  He seemed uncomfortable in authority, thought Mbutu, insecure, playing out a charade of giving orders.

  “Then, for the sake of these people, I need to speak to someone I can trust.”

  The doctor crouched down and looked him in the eye. No one else could hear.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mbutu. Mbutu Kefalaze.”

  “Mbutu, my name is Captain Ingo Finch of the Royal Army Medical Corps. I am a doctor. You can trust me.”

  * * *

  Only when he was satisfied that his people had been fed and watered did Mbutu speak. He was deathly tired but told the doctor that which seemed prudent.

  Emily awoke but preferred to cling to Mbutu rather than seek succour from her mother or any female attendant.

  In her own childish way, as she sat cuddled up to Mbutu, sipping on some buttermilk, Emily corroborated elements of the tale he told, with Mbutu judiciously silencing her when it came to the parts he would rather remain withheld.

  They had walked over three days, stopping during the midday heat and at night, lighting a fire and keeping watch to maintain safety from predators, he said.

  They had brought the goat with them, which had been milked and slaughtered en route – he did not mention the ample meat the two horses had provided. They had obtained water from surface wells, boreholes and from plant leaves. Miraculously no one had died.

  He told Finch how he, personally, had been tricked out of Kimberley on the pretence of running a message for the army and that he had been forced to ride the train south. He had been turfed out into the wilderness and had been saved by the Nama who were themselves seeking refuge after their villages had been destroyed.

  He explained to Captain Finch that the child’s father … the woman’s husband … was a British missionary named Sutton. He had been one of the casualties. After the attack, the two white females had fled into the Karoo.

  Soldiers, British soldiers, had come after them. Mbutu and a colleague had gone northwest to the villages to validate the Suttons’ story but were chased away by more troops.

  “British soldiers?” asked Finch incredulously.

  “It is the truth.”

  Finch exhaled.

  “My dear fellow, I’m afraid you’re mixing up your combatants. These were clearly Boers.”

  “They wore British uniforms.”

  “They were Boers masquerading.”

  “Doctor, Captain. I heard their voices. Please, I ask you to believe me.”

  “How did you get to these villages? If they’re where you say they are, that’s some distance.”

  Mbutu. You fool. You cannot say by horse.

  Emily looked up at the officer.

  “Please, sir. What Mbutu says is true.”

  Thank you, child.

  Mbutu pulled her in close.

  “This poor creature has seen things no child ought to.”

  He reached behind him for his canvas bag. He pulled out the smashed elephant box.

  “Here …”

  The captain set it before him, opened it and leafed through the contents. He stopped at the photograph.

  “Emily, this is you? Your mother?”

  She nodded.

  He opened the logbook. Mbutu pointed a finger.

  “See … the letter. Dean Ephraim Newbold.”

  The captain rubbed his chin as he picked through the assorted correspondence and telegrams.

  The British. It is only true if it has been written.

  The doctor captain handed the photo to the girl, put the correspondence back, then closed the lid.

  “Mbutu,” he said. “I don’t doubt that you are an honourable man. I don’t doubt, either, that you and your people have endured great hardship. I assure you that we will repatriate little Emily and her mother. But the reality is there are 30,000 people here, very sick people. This is a war, terrible things happen … to everyone.”

  Mbutu had forgotten something.

  “Doctor Captain. What if I told you that before Emily’s village was destroyed, they marched in a column of men, white men … in shackles?”

  “Shackles?”

  “Prisoners. They marched in prisoners. They too were killed by the soldiers.”

  “Now steady on—”

  “They were not killed by bullets.”

  The captain stood awkwardly and turned to go. He beckoned to his nurse. The officer personality resumed.

  “Jones. Once you have completed your duties here, give the Red Cross instructions to pack the two whites on to Cape Town.”

  Mbutu saw her roll her eyes. She did not care for her baas.

  “And whatever did so,” yelled Mbutu, “also blinded these men!”

  He pulled from his bag the hessian headwear, the rough sackcloth material into which had been fastened two round, glass eyeholes with the strange orange rubber beak.

  “Captain. Doctor!”

  He turned back. Mbutu threw it to him. The officer doctor instinctively put out his hands to catch it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  They faced south and watched the wagon creak down the dusty trail. The ever-chipper Newbold bounded out over the tailboard.

  “Captain … Nurse Jones …” he beamed, striding towards them with great purpose, seemingly unbothered by his lengthy round-trip.

  “… I think it is safe for us to be optimistic. By the sounds of it, we are to receive some long overdue material and financial assistance here at our little assembly. We are now officially an army-sanctioned centralisation point – a Concentration Camp. Or as I would rather, Congregation Camp.”

  “He’s a good man, Captain … Major Jenkins,” echoed Finch.

  “Has his head screwed on… “ said Newbold. “And thank you, Nurse Jones. Sterling work, my girl.”

  In truth, Annie did not feel as though she had contributed much at all.

  “You’re welcome,” she said anyway.

  The sarcastic corporal hopped down from the driver’s seat. His boots crunched in the dirt. Reflexively, he went to help Finch, the officer, with his kitbag.

  “Cedric, please … we have ladies …” blurted
Newbold.

  The corporal huffed and hoisted Annie’s bag first.

  Finch informed Newbold that his prediction had already proven correct. The camp had, this very morning, taken in its first white refugees.

  The news caused the smile to drop. On hearing that they were survivors from a church mission to boot, he bade a terse farewell and hastened off down the walkway, stomping round bodies, waving over his shoulder.

  Annie took her last sad look at the amorphous human mass and its apocalyptic black cloud.

  She and the captain then climbed on board the wagon and, with an orchestrated jolt on the part of the tiresome corporal, it set off for Paarl. They were the only two passengers but, for the tiresome journey back through the mountain pass, neither spoke, subject solely to the aural backdrop of the corporal’s whistling and the languid clip-clop of the two mules. The presence of an officer had put paid to the NCO’s rudeness at least.

  She watched as Finch made notes in his leather-bound journal, something she had remembered him doing that day in the coffee shop. Now, as then, he seemed lost in thought.

  He had certainly not remembered her. Or if he did, he had done a magnificent job of hiding it.

  After well over two hours the Paarl rock came into view, followed by the order and neatness of the Dutch colonial town.

  Passing the whitewashed, high gables of the town’s centre, they alighted at the train station. The corporal passed the captain’s bag down and, with a parting shot of petulance, heaved Annie’s over the tailboard.

  When the captain’s back was turned, he could not resist a parting, lascivious gesture – some insinuation that Annie and her new officer ward were going to engage in intimate relations.

  Oblivious, the captain pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, checked the scribble and announced that they still had more than an hour until the next train bound northward. They had a long, uncomfortable, overnight journey ahead of them, he reminded, although Annie suppressed a minor thrill at the revelation that she would, this time, be travelling in second class.

  He pointed to a tea shop across the road with tables on the pavement set beneath bright yellow umbrellas.