by Paul Almond
Oh well, on to the next. Already he calmed himself with the image of a citizen soldier, a farmer, driven from his quiet life into the thick of battle, leaving a farm wrestled from the recalcitrant desert by the work of many generations. Why would any Boer not want to preserve that? And indeed, protect it from invading armies?
So he tried this approach with the next cot, a sturdy and obviously hard-working farmer, his arm a stump from the elbow down. As Jack sat, the farmer turned and a frown creased the heavy brow.
“I presume you’re a farmer?” Jack began by way of introduction. “I come from a farm myself.”
“You don’t look like it.”
“Well, I did get to University — the first student from my area, a farming and fishing peninsula in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. So you and I both did the same hard and often dirty work.”
“Not likely. Here, Pastoor, we have Kaffirs. They muck out the cattle and they cook our meals. You do that for yourselves.” The large face broke into a grin, revealing some decayed teeth. “Y’see, we know how to treat Kaffirs in this country.”
Jack was taken aback. “Perhaps if you gave the natives proper schooling —”
“Educate a Kaffir! That’s you English all over. The only education they understand is the stick. God Almighty gave us dominion over them so they could help us make a better living — and they benefit from that, too. No damned nonsense — we keep them in their place. You fellows insist on equal treatment? They’ll drive you off your land in a flash. Look at those Zulu Wars. You Imperials come here, interfering and telling us how to live, wanting to take away our land. You’re as bad as they are. Take that message back to your commander.” With that, he rolled over on his side.
Jack felt like heading right for the door; why help such a breed? But again, he remembered the Lord’s words: every man, oh yes, was made in His image, hard though Jack found to stomach that in this case. So he made himself persevere.
After meeting the same treatment a few times, Jack came to sit beside a wounded lad who looked about sixteen. He was shivering, but not with the enteric, Jack thought. Had his wound become infected? His leg and his arm were bandaged. He looked up at Jack. “So you’re a pastoor?”
“I am,” said Jack, “and a Christian like you. I’m trying to do my best to help anyone suffering: anyone who might like to hear of Our Lord, or perhaps welcome another drink of water, or just someone to talk to.”
The boy nodded, his face twitching with pain. “Am I going to live, Pastoor?”
Jack smiled. “Oh most certainly, my lad. I’ve seen men with much worse wounds going home to lead good, productive lives on their farms. You see, I come from a farm just like you.”
“I come from a farm, Pastoor, but what I do now? My vader was shot, and moeder was killed when they shelled the farm. We defend it against those British trying to steal our land. And now they’ve got it.”
“They may have it now,” answered Jack. “But my boy, as soon as this war is over, you’ll be able to go back, because the British are not concerned with farm land — just with your government. They want a different type of administration, installed under Her Majesty. They, and I must say I, believe that this may bring even more freedoms and, indeed, emancipation for your Kaffirs.
“So you don’t think I’m going to die, Father?” the boy asked plaintively.
“No, I certainly do not. And I’m very sorry about your mother and father, that’s one of the beastly things about war, I suppose.”
“But you support it, don’t you Father?” the lad asked .
“I have asked myself that... many times, son. What’s your name?”
“Pieter Lemmer.”
“Well, Pieter, I think my answer right now is that I have come to help the wounded and bury the dead. It’s not a question of being on one side or another, but of being on the side of healing.”
Well, Jack thought to himself, that was well said, and probably well believed, too. One’s spoken word often mirrors one’s soul.
“And tell me, Pieter, where is your farm?”
“We’re up by Ladysmith, sir. It’s a fine farm, hard work in this dry land, as my vader always said. But we make do, we have trees around us, we have a lot of oxen and cattle, and we do well enough. But it’s too big for me alone.”
“Don’t you have any relatives?” Jack asked.
“I have an uncle: Oom Gideon. His last name is Prinsloo. He wasn’t well liked by my vader, or any of our branch. You see, he and his family went with other relatives on their side to live in the British colony. He might be in Cape Town. I don’t know if he wants the life of a farmer now. But that’s the first thing I do, when I get better. I go find him. But I have no money...” The little lad held back tears.
“Well, Pieter, that’s something I could try to do for you. Gideon Prinsloo?” Jack wrote down the name, and the last address that the lad could remember. He promised that he would do his best to seek him out and bring him the message.
And so Jack moved among the Boers all day, taking requests, helping those who welcomed him and avoiding the others.
Being the only clergyman, he also had to bury the dead, a daily occurrence, and do his best to attend to the woes of the officers and men, many of whom, on their deathbeds — even though it was a little-used C of E rite — wanted to confess their sins. Thus Jack heard a good deal more about the vagaries of the human character than he had ever known.
Of course, as he moved among the wounded, little by little he began to notice some anomalies. What about the treatment of enteric fever? And how did the doctors deal with bullet wounds and shrapnel?
“Mauser’s a fine rifle that those Boers use,” explained the younger of the two doctors. He was just out of medical school and had adopted the military moustache; his round baby face belied a fierce intelligence. “Good clean hole. I’ve seen men shot through their arms, their bodies, and the exit hole was not much larger than the entry. You know, those dreadful dumdums, they take half a man’s body with them when they exit. But these Mausers, they’re clean and precise. There’s even, in some cases, not much bleeding. We’ve been able to save a goodly number of lives. Though if the bullet strikes bone, it will tumble and make a bit of a mess.”
Jack nodded. “nd I hope our own bullets are also easy on the Boers?”
“From the Boer casualties we’ve seen, I’d say so. But of course, the majority of the men here are suffering from enteric, the real scourge of armies for the last hundred years.”
“Is that so? I have no experience of military history. In Canada we’ve not fought any foreign war.”
“In the Soudan, 1885, forty percent of the men died from enteric; in the Crimean War, four thousand five hundred dead of wounds but over seventeen thousand from enteric. Over in your part of the world, in the Civil War on the Union side, some ninety thousand dead of wounds — but double that from disease.”
Jack was astonished. “Then why haven’t they vaccinated everyone?”
“Vaccination’s only recently been discovered. Not enough time, or the will, I suppose. I do know that in England the men were offered it, but only on a voluntary basis. Once they observed the reaction, extreme and painful, though it just lasted a day or two, most of them opted out. They may have some vials in Cape Town, but by then it’s too late. No good vaccinating someone who’s already down with it. We’re even running short of castor oil. That’s what we do: a thorough purging followed by Dover’s powder. Or sulphate of magnesia, in drachm doses, frequently repeated. I don’t know what we’re going to do with the next trainload.”
“Then you’ll revert to the other treatment: starving them.”
“Yes, however improper I believe it is to starve a follow who’s only eaten hardtack and bully beef once a day before he gets here. They’ll die of starvation before they die of enteric, but that’s the prescription we’re ordered to use.”
It seemed to Jack rather draconian. And he’d heard of other shortages too.
�
�You see, Padre, I have a lot of ideas about what we could do, even now. But the higher-ups, they don’t want to hear from a uppity young doctor just out of university.”
Jack’s interest grew. “Such as what? ”
“Well, have you noticed how men go out at night to relieve themselves nearby? The latrines, fifty yards away, are too far. Now if you placed slop buckets just outside, to be emptied in the morning, this would avoid men relieving themselves in the dust. That dust blows right onto our food, into our tents, and the flies love it, too. That, I believe, might have an effect. Those damned higher-ups in the regular army pay so little attention to hygiene. That’s the real shocker, because in war nowadays, disease is the real enemy. Proven over and over again.”
Indeed it was. Talking to the young men, day after day, hearing their ills, watching their woes, sitting with them as they passed away, his temper built. He had to do something. Finally at five o’clock, after a long day of rounds beginning at daybreak, he went to see the officer in charge. Kept waiting outside the tent, Jack sat on a barrel in the falling sun to gather his thoughts.
When at last invited in, he greeted the commander who, though harried, was cordial. “I hear you’ve been doing a fine job, Padre, attending to the burials and helping the wounded.”
“Doing my best, sir. But I’ve had an opportunity to see and hear details of what the doctors need. If this were rectified, it might improve the men’s well-being.”
“You know, all of us are under such a strain,” the Major said. “I accept your offer of information with the best of spirits, but that’s what the orderlies and doctors do all day, come in here to complain.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m sure they do, sir. And I’m sorry to be one of them. I don’t suppose, frankly, there’s a place for someone as uneducated as I am about the doings of a hospital.”
The doctor peered at him. “Your reputation has preceded you, Padre. I was told on good authority that you’re not afraid to go in and say what you think to whomever it may be.”
Jack gave a weak smile. “Well, I’m afraid that is true, sir. I guess I was born to be a troublemaker.”
“Then I have an idea for you.” The older man studied Jack. “How would it be if you got involved in our administration? The doctors here are run off their feet, as doubtless you’ve noticed.” Jack nodded. “All they can do is try to keep our wounded alive. The orderlies, too, what with the men having fifteen or twenty bowel movements a day, are badly overworked. So I have no one I can send down to Cape Town.” The Major paused, then nodded. “Tell you what: draw up a list of what the doctors need, and I’ll endeavour to get you a pass for the railway and find some money.”
“Well, I have no funds myself, that’s for sure. Not even a cent since leaving Canada. The government will, I feel sure, issue such orders, but nothing yet.”
“No problem at all. In Cape Town, you’ll manage to find everything we need, I’m sure. Somewhat ad hoc, but that’s how I’m learning to get things done around here. Oh, and Lt.-Col. George Ryerson, the Commissioner for the Canadian Red Cross, is there now. A fine man, he should advance you some funds, so do try to connect. And then you might visit one or two other hospitals on the way back, such as the big hospital at De Aar. After that, I’ve been told you may report back to your regiment.”
Well, this was a new twist. Jack thanked the officer and left. Indeed, another challenge.
Chapter Seventeen
Jack set off on the long train ride to Cape Town. Although the train sped down the incline from the Karoo desert, his journey seemed to take forever. More and more did he look forward to seeing Kelsie, building their meeting in his mind as he was wont to do, convincing himself that chances were good he’d find her at Wynberg. There, of course, he would make contact with Ryerson as well. The trip seemed full of promise, though he decided he must return as soon as possible to rejoin his regiment, which would likely be facing a firestorm.
On arrival he hurried to the old Tudor Hotel on historic Market Square, where Officers in transition were billeted. He was also concerned about the young Boer: How would he ever make contact with young Pieter’s uncle? But the hour was late and Jack had to retire, along with anxieties about how he’d possibly fulfill all the obligations and then get to see his Kelsie, who had the uncanny knack of populating his dreams these nights.
The next morning, Jack dressed and went downstairs to the elegant dining room, a far cry from what he’d been used to. Several officers from various British regiments were sitting about, tucking with relish into the eggs and sausage, tomatoes on toast, relaxing and smoking cigars. The tall, latticed windows admitted a soft morning light through the gauze curtains, and the plain dark mahogany tables glittered with cutlery that swam on their smooth surfaces like icebergs on a midnight sea. Jack sat and took a drink of the fresh, clear water — such a treat — when who should he see entering but Kandinsky, the correspondent.
He lifted up his newspaper, but not quickly enough.
“Ah Padre, what are you doing down here? May I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, Kandinsky came over and sat, waving an arm to attract one of the many Cape coloured, or mixed race, waiters who appeared quickly to take his order.
“Well, this is a happy occasion,” Kandinsky said, beaming.
Jack frowned. What on earth had happened to the man? Indeed, an altogether different and cheerful mood. “I should ask the same question, Mr. Kandinsky. What brings you here? Happy to be removed from the battle areas?”
“If you can call that pigsty up in Belmont a battle area. No, I’ve been down here about a week, digging for news, any news. All one can report from Belmont is disease, rats, lice, drill, nothing our readers want or need. But...” He paused, as the waiter took his order. “In the meantime, believe it or not, I seem to have found a job on the Argus. Fine newspaper, established fifty years ago.”
He did look self-satisfied, Jack thought. “Have you now? Well congratulations!”
“Thank you.” Kandinsky slurped down his fresh water, which had appeared with the waiter. “The Montreal paper sent me in here to see what I could pick up from the Imperials... Damn Boers, they’re a hardy lot. Tough to beat. But the Imperial troops here are building up like the devil. You know,” he leaned forward, “one can pick up a lot of gossip, a lot of background one doesn’t find up there with our abandoned troops.”
Jack nodded. Even on his way from the station, he’d noticed the town more crowded than before.
“I was surprised to find out, Padre,” Kandinsky finished his juice and wiped his mouth, “from a fellow correspondent, that the thieving beggars seem to have some modicum of honour.”
“How so?” asked Jack
“This fellow told me — oh, you’ve heard of Winston Churchill, of course?”
Jack shook his head. “Why should I? Up country, as you know, we hardly get any newspapers.”
“Indeed, and why would some word of a young British war correspondent escaping be of interest? Well, lemme tell you, I met him last week. He’d been captured by the Boers when they ambushed his train.”
“And then they let him go?”
“No siree! I’ll fill you in: the Boers rigged the tracks, boulders of course, derailed the trail, and Churchill went out under fire with a few others to roll the blessed things off the tracks so the train could keep going. That’s how he got captured. But they did succeed in getting the train going.”
“Good for him.” Jack leaned back as a waiter put a plate of eggs in front of him.
“Now this is the point: that Boer commander, once his captives were properly drawn up, was most polite. He greeted them with a very gentlemanly speech.”
Jack began eating as quickly as he could. The sooner he was out of the dining room, the better.
“That Boer commander — he addressed his prisoners, and said he regretted the unfortunate circumstances. Now listen. He complimented the British on their defence, and...” Kandinsky again leaned forward. “...he
trusted his rifle fire had not annoyed them unduly! In fact, he even added that he hoped they’d understand its necessity!”
Jack absorbed that. Unusual behaviour for a scoundrel, he thought. But it would fit in with a farmer’s integrity, certainly.
“So what do you think of that?”
“Most impressive.”
“Sure impressed our Churchill, I can tell you.” Kandinsky helped himself to a piece of Jack’s bread, on which he slathered butter and took a large bite.
“Some half-witted farmer, never been off his land, spends all his time with pigs and cattle, and then behaves like a gentleman.” He shook his head, not noticing how this last remark upset Jack. “But they work hard to scrape a living out of this godforsaken land.”
“And so if Churchill was captured, how did you happen to meet him?”
“Made his escape! Damn brave, I’d say. Whole of the Orange Free State out looking for him. Found his way on a goods train to Durban, and by boat down to Cape Town. Got into all the papers, I can tell you. When my bread comes, you’ll take a slice, of course. Now what are you up to, Padre?”
Jack explained his mission, without adding many details. “Do you happen to know where I might find this Prinsloo fellow?”
“The local outdoor markets. Excellent source of gossip, I’ve found them. Not far from here you can visit one.” He gave directions to Jack.
After his hearty breakfast, Jack headed for the market in question. He passed by the Castle, a huge pentagonal building with arrow-like wings at each corner, reminding him somewhat of Quebec’s Citadel — certainly the old stone walls were almost identical. There, he found the market and wandered in. Much like those seen in Quebec City, he decided. Farmers from the Isle d’Orléans, a few miles down the St. Lawrence, would gather on Saturdays to display their fresh produce. Here as he walked among the stalls, he found similar displays of potatoes, carrots, turnips and such like vegetables, along with peas, corn, and so on. Of course now, February, it was summer in South Africa.