1999 - Ladysmith

by Giles Foden

  The rain is a blessing in lowering the temperatures, although it brings its own hindrances, sometimes pouring in under the canvas and washing us out. One day, a boot floated out from under a bed! We have also been struck by lightning, Nurse Rounsel being knocked down by a splintered pole. We have had to put upturned soda-water bottles on the poles as lightning conductors.

  Lately, rations have been very scarce. In respect of this, I must report that I havemet a friend of ours—the young Zulu boy called Wellington, who staggered intoour camp one day with two heavy sacks of condensed milk and dropped exhaustedon the ground. When he rose up, after we had wiped his face with cold water, hesaid, in Zulu, Pelindaba—the end of the story. Bit by bit he told us what hadhappened: how the Boers had sniped at him all the way between the town and us. One bullet was deflected by the cans on his back. He is very brave, and it isto him that I have given this letter for delivery to you.

  I very much hope that I myself will be delivered to you shortly, in the bosom of General Butter’s army: though his arrival has been so long promised and deferred that I am sick of hearing of it. Please both take care from shellfire.

  I am,

  Your most affectionate sister and daughter,

  Jane Kiernan.

  PS: I have drunk the dread Chevril, and to my surprise found it delicious and comforting, though the same cannot be said for the cow-heel jelly made from horse hoof, which is sickly and fermenting—it is also dyed mauve, I suppose as an encouragement.

  Thirty-Three

  Bella’s shell was not the only one to fall on Christmas Day. Two others came in also. These did not explode, however, wooden plugs having been substituted for their fuses. On inspection, it turned out that they had been painted in the Free State colours and engraved ‘With the compliments of the season’. One was empty, the other filled with plum pudding. Another practical joke—the last word in Boer humour—was played by a burgher who crept down to within range of Green Horse Valley and emptied the magazine of his Mauser into it, calling out, “A Merry Christmas, rooineks.”

  Dutch jokes excepted, the main presents exchanged at Christmas were mementoes of the bombardment. These now had a marketable value in the town. A go-pound shell, which must have cost the Boers about £35, would fetch £10 second-hand, which was a considerable sum. These were not the sort of presents likely to make the youngest among the besieged very happy, however, and a scheme was organized by Colonel Rhodes to entertain the two hundred and fifty or so children who remained in the town. Four big trees were erected in the auction rooms and decked with whatever decoration could be found. In the spirit of the Empire, the trees were labelled Great Britain, South Africa, Australia and Canada: they were, respectively, a pine, a thorn, a blue-gum and a fir.

  Moreover, and even though it was 103 in the shade, a Father Christmas was contracted in the figure of Major Mott, who stalked round the town with branches of pine and a red cap covered with cotton-wool. When he came down to the Klip, the children poured out of the burrows by the river bank and trooped up into town after him as though he were the Pied Piper.

  The Natal Mounted Rifles organized a mounted band, swinging a pair of oil-drums across the withers of a horse and making cymbals from the ends of kerosene tins. Other regiments celebrated the festive season in their own particular ways—with championship football and boxing matches, tugs-of-war, donkey derbies, and egg-and-spoon races, as the whim took them. The exigencies of the siege meant that mules were substituted for donkeys, and stones for eggs, but the enjoyment was not diminished.

  That was the official version. Saving the matter of the Hamelin-like children, Christmas 1899 in Ladysmith was in fact characterized by people pretending to enjoy themselves. The lack of rich food and copious drink was keenly felt by all. The Green Horse had a very thin time of it, their experience of the festivities being among those described in a letter Tom Barnes wrote to his sister on New Year’s Day.

  67111 Tpr Barnes, T.

  Green Horse Valley,

  Ladysmith,

  January 1, 1900.

  Dear Lizzie,

  So, Christmas and New Year have passed and we are still imprisoned in this hole. Rather a grim Xmas. We did get so far as making a pudding out of some stewed pears, but it was hardly splendid seeing as it was cooked in our camp kettles and had no sugar in it—a foolish thing from start to finish. I had my last pipe afterwards: precious little tobacco here now until Perry arrives. God speed him and save him from Boer bullets—and me from their shell, which fall every day. I cannot get the hang of this country, burning hot one minute and throwing it down the next, leaving everything underwater. The wet brings thousands of flies into our tents, and sometimes we have to sit on our saddles, such is the flow of water under the canvas. The people who have tunnelled themselves against the shelling are constantly being washed out, including the young lady from the hotel. I am afraid to say that she has not been paying me so much attention lately, but we are all tied up with siegework—which is to say, survival.

  I had a bit of excitement today. While on picket duty I spotted a flashing in a clump of trees. We had been told to shoot on sight when seeing such, as there is a considerable problem with spies in the town. This I did, but as I was aiming at the flashing amongst the greenery I only hit the traitor’s instrument: which I suppose pays tribute to my shooting, but did not please Lieutenant Norris, as I missed the culprit. On reaching the clump of trees, I caught a glimpse of a hefty figure disappearing down the slope. I did, however, discover the broken hand mirror with which he had been signalling, and a distinctive bootprint with a V in the middle. The authorities are on the point of arresting a man through the link of the mirror, but I doubt they have a case on which to convict him.

  A farmer called Grimble died this morning, bombed while he was ploughing, which is not something you can say happens to us in Warwickshire. I had had a talk with him only last week. He said they can and do get two crops of everything here during the year, except tobacco; sad to relate that he will not be getting any more, thanks to Brother Boer. They are slovenly farmers here and very much behind the times as regards implements. Most of the ploughs are of the old-fashioned beam type and have one little wheel like a horse hoe. They just rout, not plough.

  My worst news is that Norris has made me kill my horse Bashful, which is an awful thing to have to do. The blood went over my hands. He was becoming a rather pitiful creature through lack of forage, his ribs sticking out like corrugated iron. He could hardly trot any more, and the feeling of him sighing and giving up under me out of pure hunger was awful. But I could not bring myself to do it, and the Lieutenant threatened me with court martial when I argued. So I did it, and felt like a murderer as I cut him into joints—afterwards being put on a charge for my pains, for having argued with the officer. At least I will not have to eat Bashful myself. I swear that I will touch no horseflesh, all the same.

  There have been many deaths from enteric since we have been here, now over fifty from the Green Horse alone during the last week. Pray for me on this front rather than any other, since I am in more peril from disease than the danger of shellfire. But I shall, I promise, keep myself hale and hearty, in spite of the tribulations Kruger and nature fling at us.

  Your loving brother,

  Tom.

  Thirty-Four

  Early in January, Bella determined that she would go up into town, despite Father having forbidden her to leave the protection of the tunnels. Anyway, it was her turn to go and queue for food at the Commissariat, which one of the women from her tunnel did each week. She was shocked by how dilapidated Ladysmith had become during her enforced absence: many more buildings had been damaged, and everywhere there were piles of rubble and rubbish, as well as the ubiquitous horse dung, invariably covered with fat blue flies. People, too, seemed more damaged: chalk-white, distracted, or plain bad-tempered. When a shell flew over during her journey, she saw a man shake his fist at the sky, as if remonstrating with the gods.

 
She made her way to the Commissariat, and joined the queue. The ration was pitiful: a bagful of slippery, slightly rotten carrots, two cans without labels, eleven brown bottles of the new horse drink, a jar of preserved pears from the late Mr Grimble’s half-destroyed orchard, and a small sack of maize meal. In addition, she received three tiny packets of coffee, tea and pepper, and a flask of vinegar. These last were ‘extras’, the clerk informed her, as if she was lucky to get them. When she said she was from the tunnels and that there were babies there, he reluctantly reached beneath the desk and handed her two tins of condensed milk. Her requests for cheese, jam and bacon were turned down.

  With her dismal load stowed in her suitcase—the same one in which she had brought her clothes to the tunnel (and it certainly felt no heavier than it had done on that occasion)—Bella set off for the hotel, hoping to find her father there. When she rounded the corner, and saw the now only half-familiar building, the sight almost brought tears to her eyes. The place was so derelict it looked as if it had been a ruin not for a fortnight, but for years. She climbed the steps of the veranda and went though into the bar.

  Father didn’t seem to have got much rebuilding done: the beams were still lying in the middle of the room, the flooring still sticking up. There continued to be glass everywhere, too, as well as pieces of collapsed wall and ceiling. She put her suitcase of food down in the middle of the devastation, and called up.

  “Father? Are you there?”

  No reply. And then a voice, which made her jump.

  “He is out, mama.”

  She turned round to see the young Zulu boy, Wellington, leaning against a doorpost.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, relieved. “Are you still here, then? I half thought you might have left. I am glad you are all right—my sister told me about your brave run to Intombi.”

  “Thank you, mama. The nkosi said we could stay here, even though there is little hotel work any more. We have nowhere else to go.”

  “I understand. It’s all right. It’s not as if we have any other guests!”

  The boy smiled.

  “Look, do you know where he is?” asked Bella. “My father.”

  “I think he is at the Town Hall.”

  “I see. Is your mother here?”

  “I will fetch her.”

  Wellington disappeared through the shattered doorway. He looked liked a skeleton, she thought; and all at once realized that if they, the whites, were getting so little food, the Africans must be getting even less. Her suspicion was confirmed when Wellington re-emerged with his mother, who also looked gaunt. The woman curtsied.

  “Hallo, Nandi,” said Bella, trying to sound as cheerful as she could amid the ruined scene. “How have you been managing to keep yourself?”

  “I have been put on to cleaning by the soldiers, mama. It is very bad. I am very happy to see you. Although I am not happy in my soul. I am very hungry and the boy also, and our father is out there with the Mabunu, imprisoned by them.”

  “I did not know—you did not tell me that.”

  At this the Zulu woman started wailing, and got down on her knees in front of Bella, grasping at her skirts.

  “Please, if you can help us…I gave the other mama my best pipe!”

  Bella did not know what to do. She glanced at the boy, who looked embarrassed in return and then came over and began gently to pull his mother away from Bella.

  “She is very upset,” he said, nodding sagely, as if this were all part of normal life. Bella squatted down next to Nandi. There was something about this woman which moved her. She wiped away Nandi’s tears with her handkerchief, and then opened the suitcase and gave her the sack of maize, a couple of bottles of Chevril, and one of the tins.

  Nandi’s thanks were as profuse as her tears. Embarrassed, Bella left them then and, carrying the now lighter suitcase, walked over to the Town Hall. On the way, she saw two things which brought home to her the effect upon Ladysmith of the siege. The first was the sight of a small group of children in tattered clothes scrambling over the ruins of the old dairy; one of them, a little girl in a red dress, was throwing empty bottles at a wall—just picking them out of a crate (by what miracle had it survived the bombardment?) and chucking them against the half-fallen wall, where the green glass exploded into tiny fragments and fell down among the rubble. It seemed so foolish and pointless—but if wise and just generals were doing much the same, it was little wonder that children began to act like this.

  The other scene Bella observed was a flock of crows whirling and fighting over the carcass of a rat. Flapping and pecking at each other as they tumbled about over the body, they seemed to be one creature, a confused mass of black beaks and wings and feathers. It was horrible, but she could not draw her eyes away from it, as the beaks and claws tore into the furry flesh, lifting away portions of grey entrail.

  Finally she walked on, trying to chase the images from her mind. As she did so, someone fell into step beside her.

  “Hallo, my sweet.”

  She turned to see Tom Barnes. He had his cap on, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and looked very much the fierce soldier.

  “Hallo,” she replied, looking at the dusty street.

  “Awful bad luck about the hotel. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come and see you, but—well, they’ve been keeping us hard at it.”

  “So I believe. Still, you might have come and found me. I saw you at the river.”

  “I know. Well, you saw me wave—but that Lieutenant Norris is a terror, and he would have hauled me over the coals if I’d stopped to chat.”

  He touched her back as they walked.

  “Anyway, once things have quietened down, we’ll get together, eh?”

  “We’ll see,” she said, a little primly. “I am not certain it would be leading anywhere.”

  “It’s just the war, Bella. I don’t know…I don’t know what to say. Maybe afterwards…Let me take that.”

  He relieved her of the suitcase and they walked on a few more paces in silence.

  “Where you bound for?” Tom said then, pausing to tighten the rifle’s sling on his shoulder, to keep it clear of the case.

  “The Town Hall. I am hoping to find my father. I have seen little of him, too, since going into the tunnels.”

  “Well, I’m headed there, too. I got into an argument with Norris, so he put me on extra detail guarding prisoners.”

  “What did you argue about?”

  “He put my horse on the butcher’s list.”

  “Not Bashful?”

  Tom nodded glumly, and they walked on in silence for a few paces.

  “What does it involve, your extra duty?” Bella asked.

  “Watching over the suspected spies and Boer sympathizers. There are more to be escorted to the Dopper Church today. I nearly potted a traitor myself the other day, saw him signalling while I was on picket. He got away, but the provosts have now arrested someone on suspicion. I have to be there as a witness too.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he left some bits and pieces behind when he ran off, and they reckon that’s enough to get this chap on. I’m not so sure. I think they are being a bit over-zealous, since the last magazine was hit. They’ll have the whole town in there before they are finished. Your pa sits on the council, doesn’t he?”

  Bella nodded. “I suppose that’s why he must be there.”

  They had reached the steps of the Town Hall. It was a large building, surmounted by a square tower with a clock in it, and a flagstaff bearing a red cross on a white ground, signifying that the place was being used as a hospital. But the fact that one part of it was also used for meetings was perhaps one of the reasons why, since Bella’s short time in bed there, the Boers had felt justified in throwing four or five shells at the tower. The town clerk’s room had been hit, and its stone wall carried out into the street, somewhat undermining the civic grandeur of the place.

  “Better go in sepa
rately,” said Tom.

  Looking around furtively, he handed back the suitcase, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and went up the steps and through the big, woodworm-eaten doors. Bella waited at the foot of the stairs for a few seconds, wondering whether or not they had conducted themselves like lovers. Then she too went inside. The place smelt terrible, and looking across the entrance hall she could see the long lines of beds and stretchers with the nurses moving among them. She stopped and watched for a while, offering up a silent prayer of thanks that her own wound had been minor, and that she was no longer lying there among the injured. Then a man made a horrid noise of pain, and she shuddered, and turned away.

  With the suitcase in her hand, Bella went through the door into the chamber where the council met, to be confronted by a line of four or five despondent prisoners and a guard of soldiers, among whom Tom had taken his place. She did not really look at the prisoners at first, her eye being drawn by the sight of her father sitting in front of them at a table with a green baize cloth spread on it, together with Mayor Farquhar, Major Mott and two other officers. Then she looked back at the prisoners, and was horrified to see the tall, bearded figure of Antonio Torres among them.

  She sat down at the back of the room, her heart beating hard. What had happened? Why was he being arraigned? The answer came soon enough, out of the mouth of Major Mott, who called Torres’s name. The barber stepped forward between two armed soldiers with caps and belts, one of whom was Tom. As the Major read the charge, Bella saw her father frowning, having noticed her.

  “Antonio Torres, in the opinion of the governing authorities of Ladysmith under military law, as represented here by the Legal Board of the Army and observing parties of Ladysmith Town Council, your loyalty to the Crown is called into question. As a Portuguese national, in view of the late activities of certain parties in ostensibly neutral Portuguese East Africa, you cannot in the opinion of the Legal Board be trusted with your liberty. Furthermore, you are called upon to explain the provenance of a looking-glass, of a brand known to be sold in your shop, which was discovered at a scene where signalling to the enemy is suspected to have taken place.”