by CL Skelton
If he ever managed to satiate his overwhelming lust for vengeance, he would be able to leave this God forsaken land, live wherever he chose. He would be wealthy. And he could spend the rest of his life trying to forget.
Suddenly he was awake, alert and lethal. His reactions were automatic. The Mauser was in his hands, there was a cartridge in the breech; there was always a cartridge in the breech. He was lying in the regulation prone firing position, looking up the dried bank of the river towards the point from which the sound had come.
They came down towards him, down the bank towards the river. There were four of them and they were blacks. But they were not ordinary blacks ‒ the man could tell that at a glance, for they were wearing neat white linen shorts. They were wearing nothing else, but the shorts themselves told him that there were whites in the neighbourhood. Though what the neighbourhood was and who the whites could be the man had no idea.
The blacks were unarmed and one of them waved a hand in his direction. Slowly the man got to his feet, keeping the muzzle of his Mauser pointed at them. The four men stopped. One of them, the man who had waved, spoke, and much to the man’s surprise, he spoke in English.
‘You Afrikaan?’ he asked.
‘No, I am not.’ He almost spat the words.
‘English?’
‘It’ll do.’ He was not prepared to enter into a discussion about the Scots being a separate nation.
‘Me Paul ‒ Peter, John, Thomas,’ the black man added, indicating the others.
Well, the names were British enough. They sounded like mission boys.
‘You name?’
‘Bruce.’
‘I don’t know Saint Bruce, do you?’ he looked at his companions who responded by shaking their heads.
‘Where do you come from?’ demanded Donald.
‘Over there,’ said the black, pointing towards the river bank on his right. ‘Not far. Maybe you need food?’
For a moment Donald did not reply. But the mention of food had made him aware of the gnawing hunger in his gut.
‘Yes,’ he said at length, ‘I am very hungry.’
‘Come with us then,’ said the black cheerily.
‘Why?’ Donald said, suspicious. ‘Why do you want to feed me?’
‘Because Jesus say, “Feed the hungry.” You are hungry, so we must feed you.’ His tone was very matter of fact, as if the reason should be obvious to a child. ‘You come with us now, Bruce. No need to point your gun. Look,’ he spread his arms and opened his palms wide. ‘We not kill anybody. Perhaps some day somebody kill us for Jesus. That will be very good for us.’
Wondering, Donald allowed himself to be led away over the opposite bank. When he got to the top he could scarcely believe what he saw. There in front of his eyes lay a neat wooden building, planked and painted white and looking cared for and cherished. There was a broad flight of wooden steps which led to the arched front door. Above this and rising from the gabled roof there was a little tower about three feet square, open sided and containing a bronze bell. Above the bell a tiny four-sided spire rose for about another five feet and this was surmounted by a cross. The paint on the building looked fresh and did not have any of the flaking and blistering which was so common in even the best-kept buildings in that part of the world. Around it the ground had been cleared and there was even a patch of green lawn and a few trees. It was of course a church. Set around it, in a circle, as if paying homage to the large building, were native huts. There was nothing unusual about them. They were the same as could have been found anywhere in the area, small, straw beehive-like structures about fourteen feet in diameter. He found it strange that he had spent nearly twenty-four hours within yards of this little village and been unaware of its presence.
‘Father he feed you as soon as he see you and you have nice bath, take away bad smell,’ said the one who had been introduced to him as John.
Apart from the wooden church it could have been a native village almost anywhere in Africa. The usual sights were in evidence, the women sitting outside their huts grinding corn or cooking over smoky wood fires, and a few milk cows foraging around the huts for whatever they could find. There were a lot of children around and they were having great sport dragging a cow away from a hut which it had decided was good to eat.
Paul led Donald to one of the huts; they were all identical. Paul stuck his head through the door and called inside.
‘Father, I find a white man and he’s hungry.’
‘Ah, b’God, the poor fellow,’ said a rich Irish voice from the dark interior.
‘Shall I bring him to you, Father?’ asked Paul.
‘Well, of course you bring him in,’ said the voice, and as it did so, the owner appeared. He was a rotund little man wearing a white soutane and with a greying fringe of hair around his balding pate.
‘This man smell a lot,’ said Paul. ‘Perhaps he should have bath first.’
‘That’s no manner to be talking to a guest,’ said the priest. ‘Away wi’ youse before I box your ears. I’m sorry, they take everything literally and I keep tellin’ them that cleanliness is next to godliness. I’m sorry, Mr …?’
‘Bruce, Donald Bruce,’ he replied.
‘Tis a Scotsman you are, then,’ said the priest. ‘I’m Father Xavier O’Mally, and you won’t be surprised to hear that I’m Irish. We’ll get you something to eat in a few minutes.’ He sniffed rather pointedly. ‘You can be after having your bath while I get it ready for you, if you like.’
‘That sounds a good idea, Father,’ said Donald, who did not know how he was expected to deal with this situation.
‘Well, me tin bath is right inside there and you can put all o’ that stuff in me hut unless you’re thinking of having a private war before your dinner,’ he said, indicating Donald’s weapons. ‘And there’s little game around here, and in any case we’ve got plenty of meat. When did you last eat?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘Ah, b’God, you must be starving and me keeping you talking here as if I had nothing else to do except pass the time of day.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Ah, well, we’ll feed you and then we’ll be able to sit and have a talk. I think I might have a drop of the cr’ature left to loosen our tongues.’ Then he shouted out something in a language which Donald did not understand. Two small boys rushed up, grabbed two large zinc buckets each, and ran off in the direction of the river.
‘I have soap,’ said Father O’Mally, ‘so if you’d like to go in and take off your clothes, I’ll not embarrass you by standing watching you. It’s beside the tub. I hope you don’t mind, it’s carbolic. Away you go and give yourself a good rubdown while I get one of the women to cook a meal for you.’
As he was speaking, the two boys returned with their buckets brimful of water which they took to the priest’s hut and poured into the zinc bath. Donald followed them into the dark interior. As he did so, Father O’Mally stuck his head through the door.
‘There’s a towel lying on the end of me cot. You’d better use that. It’s the cleanest one I’ve got,’ he called.
Donald stripped off and bent his long frame into the tin tub. He scrubbed and scrubbed until the air reeked of carbolic.
After his meal, which consisted mainly of hard, round, tasteless cakes of some sort of unleavened bread, and a piece of springbok which had been roasted and tasted very good, Donald sat with the priest outside his hut.
‘Well now, young man,’ said Father O’Mally, ‘do you want to talk about yourself or would you rather not?’
Donald looked at him inquiringly.
‘Oh, there’s a lot o’ people these days who don’t want to talk about themselves. Sometimes because they’re a little bit ashamed about what they’ve done. Sometimes because they’re not quite sure what they’ve done, and sometimes because they don’t really know why they’ve done it. There’s a terrible war going on all around us, but here we try to ignore it, apart from helping people if they
come our way. Are you a soldier?’ He smiled. ‘You don’t have to answer that.’
‘No,’ said Donald, ‘I’m not a soldier. I was one once, but that was a long time ago,’ he added almost wistfully. Then he hesitated and added, ‘I left the army. I was working in Kimberley when the war started.’
‘Well, you haven’t come very far, have you?’
‘You mean I’m near Kimberley? Oh, my God.’
The priest looked at him for a moment as he put his hands over his face. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘have you no idea of where you are?’
‘None.’
‘Well, if you went east for about forty-five miles, you’d find yourself in Kimberley. Of course, the Boers are in Kimberley. At least that’s the last I heard.’
‘In it?’ said Donald, as thoughts of his children, Harry, Susan, and Johnny, flooded his mind.
‘Well, all around it, anyway, what’s the difference? But come now, I promised you a drop of the cr’ature.’
The priest went into his hut for a moment and then returned with a bottle of John Jameson. There was just about an inch left in the bottom of it. He carefully measured out the whiskey into two small glasses, making sure that the portions were equal, and that he got every last drop out of the bottle.
‘I was saving this for Easter. It was me Christmas bottle, and I usually do. But as this is a special occasion, we’ll drink it now. Good health to you, young man, and good luck, whoever you may be.’
‘And to you, Father,’ said Donald, and there was a catch in his voice as he experienced emotions which he thought had left him forever.
‘What would you be after wantin’ to do with yourself now?’
‘I don’t know.’ replied Donald. ‘How exactly do you mean?’
‘Where are you going from here?’
‘I think that I would like to get out of Africa. I’ve done terrible things here.’
‘Well, I won’t ask you what they are, but in those clothes you won’t get out of anywhere. I’ll see if we can find you something decent to wear. We have quite a lot of clothes about the place. People send them out to us. Can you imagine somebody sending a heavy topcoat with an astrakhan collar to wear in this climate?’
Donald laughed for the first time in many weeks.
‘Oh, ’tis true enough. They do it, God bless them, and we’re grateful for it.’
‘That’s damned nice of you. I’d be very grateful if you could manage to fix me up with something to wear,’ said Donald.
‘I hear,’ said Father O’Mally, ‘that the railway is running practically up to Kimberley. If you were to head southeast from here … have you got a compass?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t worry about that. I can let you have one. If you go southeast, you should be able to get onto a train. Have you got any money?’
Donald’s hand went automatically to the little package around his neck. ‘Nothing negotiable,’ he said.
‘Ah well, we might be able to find you a bit of that. Would you be all right after you got to the Cape?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Donald. ‘I’d be all right after I got to the Cape and I’d be able to return anything you lent me, if you’ll tell me where to send it.’
‘You don’t have to, but if you do, just hand it in to any Jesuit house and tell them that it is for me.’
‘I’ll do that. You cannot imagine how much I want to get away from here.’
‘Get away, or run away?’
Donald ignored the question because he knew that it was true: what he really wanted to do was to run and he wanted to run because he was ashamed. ‘I think I’ve had enough,’ he said.
‘Is it home that you want?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think I shall ever be able to have it.’
Father O’Mally was silent for a while. He did not want to pry, but he knew that the man sitting with him was suffering and he wanted to help.
Donald sat there thinking. Of course he wanted home, but where was home? How could he ever face his children, or his mother, after all that he had done? He had deserted them, he had become a murderer; that was really what he was, not the avenging angel which he had claimed to be to justify his behaviour. He did not know that he had the right to see his family again. They were in Kimberley, besieged, but even if he could get to them, he would only be an added encumbrance to the beleaguered town. No, the priest was right; he wanted to run away because he was a coward. He was a coward even if he could ever manage to justify his actions. If it were possible, he would wipe his mind clear of the memories of what he had done, but it was not possible, and he would have to live with it for the rest of his life. He would go away, to London possibly; Scotland was not for his kind. He could try to start again, but he could never escape himself. The first thing was to get out of Africa. Perhaps some divine inspiration would come to him and tell him what to do.
‘Now, me boyo’ ‒ the priest was speaking again ‒ ‘you’ll stay with us until you are properly rested, and when you’re ready, we’ll start you off on your way towards the railway. With a little bit of money in your pocket to get you to the Cape, and God go with you.’
‘Why do you do this?’
‘Because you need it. A man who’s spent as many years in the confessional as I have knows a soul in torment when he sees one.’
‘Father, I ‒’
‘No, don’t say anything. Perhaps we’ll talk again before you leave. When you’ve had a good night’s sleep, I’ll listen if you want me to. If you don’t, that’ll be all right as well. You know, somebody told me something once which was a great comfort to me and has been all my life, so I tell it to you now and hope it will be a comfort to you.’
‘What is it, Father?’
‘Always remember that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future. Now, away to your bed. God bless you, Donald.’
Chapter Ten
On the afternoon of the fifteenth of February, French and his staff rode into the town of Kimberley and the siege was at an end. Kekewich was not there to greet them. When he realized that relief was imminent, he had gone out with as many mounted men as he could still spare. They were attempting to capture Long Tom. Long Tom was the name that Kimberley had given to a huge Boer gun which had been shelling them continually during the last weeks. His mission was, however, to prove fruitless, as by the time they arrived at the emplacement, the Boers had gone, taking their gun with them.
French rode through the streets to a remarkably subdued welcome, stopping at the entrance of the Sanatorium Hotel. There they found the mayor and Cecil Rhodes waiting to greet them.
Maud Bruce’s little hospital now had four occupants, women who had sustained minor injuries during the shelling; the more serious cases were naturally held at the town hospital itself. She had been busy in the ward when she heard the sound of horses. They knew, of course, that relief was at hand, and Maud and one of her volunteer nurses rushed to the front door to see French and his staff pass. They all looked dusty and saddle weary as they trotted down the main street. Suddenly Maud’s heart leapt; she could hardly believe her eyes. Could it possibly be true? Was it really him? Yes, it was! Riding just behind the general was her own son Gordon. She waved frantically, but he was already past and did not see her.
‘That’s Gordon,’ she said, addressing the nurse beside her. ‘That’s my son. Please, look after things for me, I must find out where they go.’
Without pausing for an answer, she went flying down the street after the riders.
At the hotel French and his staff dismounted with that weary stiffness which comes after days in the saddle, and presented themselves to the mayor and Rhodes.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Rhodes, booming and magnanimous. ‘Come in, come in, all is prepared, all is prepared.’
Good God, thought Gordon, does he say everything twice?
‘I am sure that a good meal would not go amiss at this point,’ Rhodes continued.
French glanced around at his aide
s. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we take advantage of this generous offer?’ He was already starting to move into the hotel alongside Rhodes. ‘I thank you, sir, but should we not bring our own rations? After all, we have not been under siege.’
‘We have been prepared for today for a long time,’ said Rhodes, and there was a note of censure in his voice. ‘Come in, come in, all of you,’ he boomed, ‘and let us toast the victors.’
‘I say, Westlake,’ said Gordon, ‘do you think I could disappear for a while? I want to see if I can find my mother.’
‘Better come in for a little while,’ replied Westlake. ‘I’ll have a word with the old man as soon as I can.’
So they trooped into the hotel dining room. Gordon, all of them, were amazed at the sight which met their eyes. A buffet had been laid out. It contained every conceivable kind of meat, game, and poultry, bottles of wine without number, and sweets, and so on and on; if you could think of it, it was there.
Major Douglas Haig, French’s chief of staff, looked quizzically at the magnificent spread. ‘Hardly think they can have suffered much privation,’ he murmured.
‘No, sir,’ said Rhodes who had overheard the remark. ‘We have been saving this for this very moment of this day. Come and enjoy yourself. There is champagne and any other sort of wine you care to mention. Anything you do not see, just ask one of the waiters.’
Gordon, like all the men who had ridden with him, was hungry. So he decided to get some of the food inside him before he set out in search of his mother. He was busy eating a cold chicken leg when the door to the banqueting hall opened and a member of the hotel staff came into the room. The man went to Major Haig and had a short whispered conversation, after which Haig came over to Gordon.
‘Bruce,’ he said, ‘there’s a lady outside and she’s asking for you.’
‘That will be my mother,’ said Gordon, putting his plate down on a convenient table. ‘Do you think that I can get away?’