There was a voice in the darkness, close by, and Gideon sank back to his haunches, listening. Then he heard the moan again. He made his way from rock to rock and then saw a boot sticking out behind a bush. It was Matzdorff, alive but barely conscious. He had a chest wound; there was lots of blood and it gurgled as he breathed. Lung. Just the one wound. These modern steel bullets went right through a man, ripping a hole that mostly closed up behind it. It was enough though, the man could die. Gideon had seen these wounds go both ways. Matzdorff could be headed for a grave or suffer nothing but shortness of breath six weeks from now. What seemed certain was that he needed medical attention. Gideon covered the wound with a piece of blood-soaked cloth from the man’s shirt. The army had taught him to do that with sucking chest wounds, to prevent the lung collapsing. He ran through his options. He could just walk away. If Matzdorff were lucky, the Khakis would find him in the morning and he’d receive the best medical care available. If not, the man would die. Gideon felt he couldn’t take this chance. This was odd in a way, given that a few months before he would’ve shot to kill Matzdorff, and perhaps even did fire at the man. The rules of the shooting match were not the rules of ordinary conduct and he couldn’t let the man die now. He could try to get Matzdorff back to the commando, but that held a greater risk of the wounded man dying. It would also mean stealing a horse from the New Zealanders, as their own horses had probably run off with the rest when the Boers had fled. The best thing seemed to be to go down and get the Khakis, even if that meant risking or possibly ruining his mission. He was sweaty all over and the night air felt cold against his skin. Ever since coming to the interior of this country, he’d been amazed by how cold it could get at night after scorching hot days. His mission was worth more than any one life, Major Bryce had said. A few hours ago, that was enough to make him aim at a stranger and pull the trigger. But he could not pull the trigger, metaphorically speaking, on this man whose name he knew and whose problems he’d heard. At the level of nations, his mission had to take precedence. At the level of individuals, it couldn’t. Maybe one day he could discuss this with some wise man, or in the absence of wisdom, with a learned one. He’d better get moving. No point sitting here trying to make a decision while Matzdorff may be dying.
Gideon was hardly on his feet when Matzdorff asked, ‘Who’s this?’
‘Shh.’ Gideon dropped to his knees again. ‘It’s me, Gideon, the Dutchman.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘You’ve taken a bullet. Just lie still. I’m going to get help.’
Matzdorff grabbed his sleeve. ‘Where’s everyone?’
‘They’re gone. It’s just you and me.’ Gideon gave him some water.
Most of it spilled down Matzdorff’s cheek, but some must’ve found its way into his mouth. He coughed, winced and closed his eyes for a while. ‘Where will you find help?’
‘The Khakis are just down there.’
‘Don’t do this.’ Matzdorff spoke with difficulty, but his mind seemed clear.
‘They’ve got the best doctors. They even have this machine that can look inside your body, find any bullet splinters. They’ll fix you up. And it’s no trouble for me, my government will get me out.’
‘I don’t want to be captured.’
‘I thought you wanted out of the war anyway.’
‘The Khakis will send me to a camp. I have to get home … Please.’
‘We have to get you to a doctor.’
‘Take me back to the commando. Labuschagne can patch me up.’ Frans Labuschagne had been studying to become a vet before the war and was the commando’s resident medic.
‘You know how far we’ve come; it would be a hard trip going back. You might not make it.’ Gideon could not conceive of anyone feeling that way, willing to lose their life for anything. Surely survival is the most basic need, without which nothing …
‘Promise me you’ll take me.’
The wounded man’s head rolled back. For a moment Gideon thought he might be dead. He put his ear to the man’s mouth. Matzdorff was still breathing.
Here he was again, about to help a wounded man. And where would it lead this time, would it be like that business with the escaped Boer prisoner all over again, thinking he was righteous when he was foolish?
Time to move. Gideon’s own chest felt stiff and sore, but he could walk fine. He picked his way down towards the Khaki camp. It would be dangerous trying to steal a horse from the New Zealanders, but that was neither here nor there. He wasn’t doing this inspired by a heroic impulse or a noble surge of emotion – anything but. What he experienced was a lack of feeling. He knew that some emotions have to be killed in infancy, before they become the agents of your destruction. He could never give himself wholly to movements or moments, because he was constantly aware of another reality – the chasm of meaninglessness sucking at him from the side. One had to act despite despair.
The New Zealand column had no fires going, but when the moon broke through the clouds he could form an idea of the layout of the camp. Most of the men were beside the road, near the carts and wagons. The draught animals and horses were corralled some distance away. He spotted one or two sentries, but knew there would be more. He moved around at a safe distance, heading towards the horses, staying in cover where possible. There were a few bushes, larger rocks and hollows to follow. There were two sentries near the horses. Gideon went down on his haunches, watching them. He thought about the different ways to steal a horse – stealth, cunning, force. He wasn’t confident he could do it any of those ways, but perhaps, if he combined them …
He stripped down to his underwear, which was damn difficult to do with one stiff shoulder and an arm he could hardly move. His clothes would give him away as a Boer. In underwear, he had no obvious nationality and looked about as unthreatening as a man could be. He kept his boots on, because of the rocky terrain. He slipped around the sentries, keeping his distance, and using the available cover and the darker shadows when a cloud moved in front of the moon. He worked his way almost halfway back to where the rest of the men were sleeping. Then he straightened up and walked brazenly towards the sentries, softly singing ‘Boys of the Southern Cross’, a song that had become popular back home in New Zealand. The sentries turned around, rifles at the ready. ‘Kia ora,’ he greeted in Maori. ‘Don’t shoot a mate now.’
At the sight of his countryman in long johns and boots, the younger sentry lowered his rifle. ‘You gave us a fright.’
The older man changed his grip on his rifle, but didn’t lower the barrel completely. He’d be the one to watch out for, Gideon realised.
‘Are you new?’
‘I’ve been in hospital for a while. Just came back.’
‘Looks like you need one again.’
‘Yeah, I took some splinters today, but I’ll be all right … I was wondering … My clothes are sticking to the wound and I need something to cut it. I didn’t want to wake anyone … Do you guys have a pair of scissors or a knife, something I could use?’
‘I’ve got a knife.’ The younger man had been whittling on a piece of wood. ‘It’s not the sharpest.’
‘As long as it can cut cotton.’ Gideon took the penknife from the young man and started hacking at his undershirt. ‘Ouch!’ He dropped the knife and squatted down to pick it up. He was right on the older sentry’s shoulder, so close that the man’s rifle pointed past him. He pretended to stumble and fell half on top of the man.
‘Hey, careful!’
‘You be careful,’ Gideon hissed. He pushed the blade against the older man’s throat and turned so that the younger one could see what’s going on. ‘No sound! I’ll cut his throat, I swear.’
‘You’re nuts,’ the man in Gideon’s grip groaned.
Gideon took the opportunity to say something he’d been bottling up for hours. ‘Not as silly as killing sheep and burning houses … Is that what it’s come to? Is that how we’re supposed to protect the Empire? Is that why you joined up?’
&
nbsp; ‘They attack our supply lines, we attack theirs,’ said the young man. ‘Anyway, they’re the ones who first waived the rules of civilised war. Sometimes they come at us under a white flag and then suddenly start shooting … You know this as well as I.’
The man in Gideon’s grip started squirming. ‘Goddamn, I’ve got a knife to my throat and you’re talking politics.’
The man had a point. ‘I want a horse,’ said Gideon. ‘The bigger the better … You, go get it for me. Take the hobbles off and get a saddle on.’
‘If you’re planning to desert, they’re going to get you,’ the younger man protested. ‘If not our people, then the Boers.’
‘You’d better make sure your mate here doesn’t get a bad case of blood throat. Just do what I say, damn it.’
‘There aren’t any saddles around here.’
‘Get me the bloody horse, this one on the left, with the white blaze. Leave the rifle right where it is.’ He talked in the older man’s ear. ‘You let go of your rifle too.’ Then to the younger man. ‘Put a hackamore on her if you don’t have anything better.’
While the young man was getting the horse ready, Gideon looked around. The rocks and grasses still in the starlight, animals sleeping in the dark. He wondered how long it would be to the next change of guard. ‘Hurry up!’
‘Here’s the horse.’
‘Now, listen both of you, I’m not a deserter or a traitor. I don’t expect you to believe me and I don’t have time to explain. I need this horse and I need you …’ He prodded his hostage with the knife. ‘I need you to come with me, as insurance until I get far enough. If nobody comes after us, you’ll be back here in the morning, fit as a fiddle. In fact, nobody needs to know this even happened, how you two let a wounded, unarmed man in his underwear get the best of you.’
The younger man nodded. The hostage didn’t dare move his head. The cutting edge wasn’t far from his jugular.
‘Now, we’re going to go through a delicate stage here and I’m a tad nervous, so let’s not do anything to make the blade slip, ay?’ Gideon got up and helped the hostage to his feet, all the while keeping the blade on the man’s throat. ‘Put the rifles across your shoulders and take the hackamore,’ he told the hostage. ‘And you, lie down on your face.’ The young man obeyed. ‘That’s good. We’re going to walk away now. If I look back and see you as much as move, your friend here will be paralysed for life. One little stab in the spine is all it takes. Do you understand?’ Gideon wasn’t sure he was entirely convincing, but the man on the ground muttered assent.
The awkward procession moved off into the dark, the hostage carrying the two rifles and leading the horse, Gideon hobbling behind, holding the knife to the man’s back. He was feeling light-headed and realised he could not keep this up for long. They had gone a quarter of a mile or so when he told the man to stop. Gideon made the hostage lie down. He gagged the hostage using one of the man’s own socks and tied him up with his own belt, bootlaces and one of the rifle slings. ‘I’m going to leave you here, but you should be fine. If you work at it, you’ll be free in a while. I’m going to leave the rifles out there somewhere, not far away. Just look and you’ll find them. Think about what I’m doing too, before you decide what to do. If I was on the Boer side, I’d take the rifles, don’t you think? So just let me get on with my job in this war and you get on with yours. If your conscience bothers you, go talk to Major Bryce in Bloemfontein. Remember the name, Bryce.’ Gideon got on the horse and rode some distance away before he dropped the two rifles. They clattered onto the rocky ground and for a moment Gideon thought it would wake everyone. But no.
He kept going in the wrong direction and only another half a mile further veered left, to where he had left Matzdorff. Riding bareback was no fun. He tried to align the horse’s spine with a buttock to prevent bone bouncing on bone without some padding at least. At the same time, he held his injured shoulder high, as if being further from the point of impact would make the jarring less painful. The contortions, together with his outfit, created a rather quixotic effect. Thus he hobbled along between starlight and rocks, serenaded by crickets and owls.
‘You came back.’ Matzdorff sounded surprised.
Gideon got off the horse, his legs numb. ‘Somebody has to save your Jewish arse.’ He wanted to give the wounded man some water, but realised he had left his canteen with his clothes. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? The Khakis are just down there. You can attract their attention in the morning or I can go call them if you’re worried about losing consciousness or something. You’ll get the best treatment.’
‘Take me to the commando.’
‘You’re making a massive mistake. It could be your last one.’
‘Help me up.’ Both of them winced and groaned, but they managed to get to their feet, clinging to each other like drunken dancers. Matzdorff’s chest shook as he tried to suppress a cough. ‘Oh, God, get me on that horse before I faint.’
Gideon pushed and shoved him, putting his healthy shoulder under the man’s behind, then pushing against the man’s thigh and knee until Matzdorff was on the horse, lying against the animal’s neck. This was like that Coomey fellow again, the one who wasn’t really Coomey. ‘Hold on.’ He had to let go of Matzdorff and the man teetered while Gideon led the horse to a rock he could use to hoist himself up. Once on the horse, he shifted until he was right behind the Jew and pulled the man up against him. ‘Lean back against me.’ He stuck his arms under Matzdorff’s and took hold of the hackamore. ‘Here we go.’
The horse walked heavily under the double load. Gideon steered the animal down the slope and back in the direction of the farmhouse they had passed the day before. The two men swayed with every step. Blood soaked into the layers of clothing between them. Gideon guessed it came from Matzdorff, but couldn’t be sure, as their wounds lined up. Matzdorff held himself upright for a while, but gradually slumped. His head lolled back onto Gideon’s healthy shoulder. With the extra dead weight, Gideon had to work hard not to lose his balance. He clamped his legs around the horse and tried to draw Matzdorff as close as possible to him to keep their bodies together and upright. If they fell off, he doubted he’d have the strength to get them both mounted again. It would be a miracle if they got to safety, a miracle if Matzdorff survived it. For all he knew, the man was already dead or dying.
The knock on the head, exhaustion or blood loss addled Gideon’s brain. Strange thoughts, fragments of dreams, tore loose and sailed through his mind like windblown rags. There he was, a child being wrenched from his mother’s arms; then playing, sliding down a cable strung between two giant kauri trees; lightning turning distant clouds into a theatre set; his first, furtive kiss not quite on the mouth of Victoria Trengove with her permanently encrusted eyelashes; a pukeko stepping along the shore at St Mary’s Bay, taking clumps of grass into its elongated claws and pecking at it; the knowing look on the teacher’s face when he handed back one of Gideon’s essays that smacked too much of Wordsworth; a livid Maori man with fully tattooed moko on his face, being taken to the Mount Eden Prison in chains; then he was that man, breaking loose, making his getaway on a stolen horse.
An owl flew overhead with a rustle of feathers that alarmed the horse. Gideon willed the animal on. His butt was taking a terrible pounding. Jesus, he thought, help me make it through the night.
28 October 1901
Esther lay tangled in her bedclothes, listening to her mother and grandmother sleeping. With every breath, her mother made a clicking noise in her throat. Her grandmother snored occasionally. This was supposed to be her moment of triumph, saving all these women and children from falling into enemy hands. If the stories she had been hearing about the concentration camps were true, she was very possibly saving their lives, perhaps the virtue of the younger girls. There were rumours that some Boer girls were forced into brothels for the enemy soldiers.
Given all this, why did she not feel triumphant? Was it because the things they had lost were more important tha
n she had realised? Perhaps, to truly live, you have to be in the place of your choosing, surrounded by the things, people and activities you have gathered around you over time. Her people, though alive, had lost their lives. She couldn’t prevent that. In fact, by preparing for this, the day when the enemy would come raze their farms, did she bring it upon them? People say if you fear something, it happens. Is this God’s way of punishing them for their fearfulness?
She had to get up, she decided, and rid herself of these thoughts or she’d be committing blasphemy before dawn. She crept out of the tent and stood looking at the morning star, a blanket wrapped around her. The earth was cold under her bare feet. Faint wind stirred her hair, which hung loose and wild from all the twisting and turning in bed. The edges of the cliffs around the ravine blacked out the night sky. It wouldn’t be long before dawn. The next day. She could not remember this common phrase ever carrying such a solemn meaning. This was their life now, and it was hard to bear. They had lost too much. It occurred to her that maybe everything hadn’t been destroyed on the farm, maybe there were some things left. She had to go look. She dressed quietly and quickly, got her horse from the makeshift corral and had it saddled by the time a red rim had started glowing above the eastern cliffs.
As she led the animal past the Naudé family’s shelter, where Klein Steyn had bedded down, he sat up and reached for his rifle. Life in the veldt had honed his senses.
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