‘Did you sleep okay?’ she asked.
Gideon smiled. ‘Did you?’
And she smiled, realising that he must have seen her fall asleep too. One thing bothered her and she wanted it cleared up straightaway. ‘You spoke English in the night.’
‘My mother is English,’ he said, inverting the truth, inventing a lie. ‘Maybe that’s why, when I’m in bed, being cared for, I revert to it.’
‘But you’re on our side …’
‘My father is Dutch. There is good reason people talk about a mother tongue but a fatherland.’
True, she thought. ‘Will you be able to get up today?’
He thought about that. ‘Yes, but I seem to be naked.’
Her mother had helped her strip him the day before, admonishing her not to look anywhere below the chest. They hadn’t been sure what injuries he had and which blood stains came from Matzdorff. ‘I’ll go see what we can find for you. Keep an eye on him.’ She gestured towards her other patient, lying comatose or sleeping.
The twitter of sparrows and the jolly call of red-chested cuckoos – piet-my-vrou, piet-my-vrou – filled the early morning air. A sole pink cloud, thinly stretched, awaited its fate.
Esther was tired, but satisfied. Mr Matzdorff was still alive. She had prayed that he would live till morning, secretly believing that if he could survive the night, he would survive the wound. He was still feverish and did spit blood, but that awful gurgling through his wound had stopped. She didn’t know much about medical matters, but assumed that he had at least stopped damaging himself further and that now the healing could begin. There was another source of optimism, a small buzz of excitement that danced like a spinning top on the figure of the Dutchman, this Gideon Doncker. She’d keep an eye on that.
Enquiries at all the family shelters revealed two sets of clothes that could fit the Dutchman. One was the coat and tails Mrs Naudé’s husband had got married in. She was understandably reticent to let a stranger have that. Esther thought it would look comical anyway. The only other alternative was a khaki uniform such as the one that gave their enemies their nickname. The Van Wyks had one that used to belong to an enemy soldier who had made his way to their farm only to die on the doorstep. Mrs Van Wyk had been thinking of cutting it up to make clothes for her two young boys, but she could never bring herself to dress them in the enemy’s cloth. She had washed it, though, and stripped it of all insignia. Giving the uniform to Esther spared Mrs Van Wyk further agony.
‘It’s the best I could find,’ Esther said as she handed Gideon the clothes.
Gideon took the folded uniform, feeling the familiar cloth, the bulbous metal buttons. ‘The Khakis would kill me if they caught me wearing this.’ Uniforms had become another bone of contention in this war. As the Boers’ clothes wore out, many of them took to wearing captured uniforms, which beat going around half-dressed. The British saw it as devious, a ploy to confuse them by impersonating their personnel. They decreed that all Boers caught in khaki would be executed as spies.
‘It’s just for the time being,’ said Esther. ‘I know it must be hard for you to wear something that symbolises everything you’ve been fighting against, but … What else can we do? You don’t want to wear the natives’ old rags.’
He watched her go, closing the tent flap behind her, and slipped into the uniform. His fingers found the buttons instinctively. He was reminded of the first time he put on the khaki, at Newtown Park outside Wellington. It had felt as if he was assuming a new identity, not just Gideon any more, but Trooper Lancaster. The recruits all looked at each other, beaming with pride, fussing with little adjustments, hoping they looked like real soldiers, men among men who’d put the fear of God into the enemy. There was a lot of banter, the obligatory comment from some joker that the crotch was too tight. (‘But I’m not showing them my equipment … They might get confused and put a saddle on me.’) Yeah, right. Gideon wondered if the guy was still alive – Dave King. It was never established if his member was, indeed, of unusual dimensions. It wouldn’t have helped him one way or the other in this war. What mattered was how much hardship you could take and how good your aim was. Not much else counted. Military life was simple, enjoyable despite everything, because your mind was so completely unencumbered. You could listen and do with half a brain, use the rest for whatever took your fancy. Only in battle did you need to engage fully. This spying business was different from ordinary soldiering though: it occupied both halves of the brain but not in the unifying way battle did. As a spy, one part of your mind was devoted to doing what’s expected while the other part policed the first. Everything happened at two levels all the time, who you were and who you pretended to be. Wearing the uniform of his army while pretending to be on the other side added another confounding layer. He found it unsettling, the extent to which your behaviour depends on the identity you assume. Should he run into a British officer now, he might not know whether to take aim or snap to attention. Of course, he didn’t really expect to see anyone but Boers today.
The dreams that had plagued him in the night, of being back among the British, even of being back home, were only dreams. Dreams of New Zealand had been with him ever since he set foot in this country, confused him as he woke up and first had to ascertain where, and even when, he was. His dreams were often of the future, of being back in Auckland after the war. But last night a new element had appeared. Even as he dream-walked in the Antipodes, he felt he was betraying someone in Africa. He was in New Zealand, but wasn’t meant to be there. In the light of day, the opposite thought occurred to him, that he was in Africa, but betraying the ones he loved in New Zealand. He was jostled in the maelstrom of unmet expectations.
Every bit of his body ached after the previous day’s exertions. His neck, his chest and arms, his back, stomach, backside, thighs and calves. Only his ankles seemed free of pain. The back of his head was still tender and swollen, a strip of bandage circled his left forearm and a squared pad, held in place by bandage, covered the bruised, grazed area in front of his right shoulder. But the discomfort that bothered him most was more mundane: he had to relieve himself and soon.
Matzdorff moaned and his eyes opened, looking around frantically. He swore once in what sounded like German and sank back into unconsciousness.
Gideon stuck his hand through the split in the canvas, pushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside.
Esther was waiting outside and took him by the arm to steady him. ‘Are you sure you can walk?’
‘I’m just a bit sore. But I’m fine.’ The ravine was a strip of paradise, the way the world must’ve looked on the first morning of creation. ‘Where’s the latrine?’
‘The boys go up there, behind that outcropping.’
He nodded and set out in the direction she had indicated. He was in his own boots, but apart from that just about everything felt strange and uncomfortable. The pants chafed his inner thighs and he had to undo the top buttons of the tunic to be able to breathe easier. His body itself moved like it had been stitched together by Dr Frankenstein overnight. Even his thoughts were strange. He wondered if he could see into the future, because there were all these domestic scenes with Esther Calitz that he seemed to remember – conversations around the dinner table, drinks near the fireplace, pillow talk in the dead of night.
Some of the kids had noticed him and drew closer, staring at the awkward man in their midst, a Boer hero in enemy clothing. He hoped he wasn’t going to have an audience at the loo. When it became clear where he was headed, they stopped at a discreet distance and waited. Their numbers had swollen when he returned. He smiled and waved. He had not seen children close up for a long time, except the day before when he was half delirious. He marvelled at their large heads, smooth skin, the odd combinations of teeth they have at different ages, now revealed variously by grins or open-mouthed apprehension. The black and white divide that ruled the adult world was not evident here, with boys and girls of different races standing together, some even hand i
n hand, boys with boys and girls with girls. The racial division, significantly, came with sexual maturity. Gideon did not find this strange. He doubted any of his school classmates back home would marry a Maori. He had met people of mixed race, but you stick with your own type. The difference between the situation here compared to Europeans and Maoris back home was the power relationship. The natives here were more subservient, seemingly accepting of their status as the underclass. He had seen the Africans’ resignation, whether receiving punishment or kindness, both of which Gideon had seen dispensed to an astonishing degree. Yet the lives of the different races were more interconnected here than at home. You could live in New Zealand and largely ignore the Maoris, especially in town. They were marginalised and few in number. Here, the indigenous people were everywhere, involved in white people’s everyday lives, providing support even in their homes and their wars.
It was a black boy who approached him first, being pushed forward by his white friend. A startling white smile flashed as the kid said, ‘Môre, baas!’
In this country every white man was boss. ‘Good morning to you too.’
The safe signal had been given and now the kids swarmed around Gideon, firing questions. Did you kill many Khakis? Does your head hurt? Is it true you come from overseas? What happened to your horse? Did you see our house, was it burnt down? Do you know any stories? Will you be staying long?
He answered the easiest questions and let himself be led from dwelling to dwelling, taking a guided tour of the new surroundings. He met the Naudés, supervised by a prim matriarch who reminded him of his mother’s friends; the affable Van Wyks and the Bredenkamps, who seemed a somewhat backward lot, suspicious of strangers. They had the same flat faces and piggy eyes as Mrs Bredenkamp’s father-in-law, who Gideon knew from the commando. Her husband was a prisoner of war on St Helena. Then there were the Calitzes – a wizened grandmother, the mother who dressed his wounds, and Esther.
It occurred to him that he might be related to some of these people, albeit distantly, through his forebears on his mother’s side. The southern tip of Africa used to be part of the Dutch empire. This country got its name from the Orange River, which in turn bore the name of the Dutch royal family. The country of his birth was named after a Dutch province. But for a few quirks of history he might have been on the Boer side for real … Gideon toyed with these thoughts, tangling the strands into an untidy knot.
Esther awaited when he got back to the tent. ‘I see you’ve made some friends.’
‘Everyone is very kind.’ He meant it too.
‘They’re good people.’
He probably should’ve left it at that. A week or even a day before he would’ve, but not now. Maybe, at some level, he was already thinking about life after the war. ‘Most people are, even the Khakis. If there wasn’t this war and you met one, I’m sure you could like him.’
She gave that some thought. ‘But now there is this war, so … I’m not going to be any Englishman’s friend.’
Like most Boers, she used the term to refer to English speakers rather than people from England. For her, Gideon Lancaster would be an Englishman even though he had never set foot in England.
‘I still think they’re not necessarily all bad. People tend to do the things expected of them by those they are closest to. If you’re among the English, you do what they do.’ It was something he had touched on with Major Bryce. When they had been rehearsing the Boer version of how this war had started, they both recognised the strength of the argument. It didn’t matter, the officer had said: something larger was at stake – the Empire and its mission to impress British values on the globe. It was not something they should be questioning, being British subjects.
‘So, you think if I were born on the other side of the Orange River, under British rule, I’d support them even though their cause is immoral?’ Esther asked. ‘That’s just nonsense. I mean, here you are, coming from the East Indies to fight against these people because you believe in the righteousness of our cause.’
He couldn’t argue with that, not without the risk of revealing his true identity.
‘Why are you staring like that?’ She touched her hair, feeling if everything was in place.
‘You look …’ Dare he speak his mind? Would it be polite? He remembered the night before, all those feelings he had had. Perhaps, if he said it lightheartedly, with a smile. ‘You look very … fetching … when you’re worked up like this.’
She wanted to be flattered, but reminded herself that men will do anything to avoid acknowledging that she’s right. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Miss, you are right, and also very beautiful.’
It was the same morning, but the air had changed. It vibrated as if fanned by countless cicadas, though they hadn’t yet started up in earnest.
Esther felt the stirring of the air on her lips and drew it in with her breath. This man had bled for the cause, wore a half-unbuttoned Khaki uniform, and looked at her with no sense of decorum.
Gideon let the image of her face burn into his consciousness – the eyelids, cheeks, hair, mouth, that unfathomable expression like someone staring at the horizon, trying to discern what the distant dust kicked up by an approaching horseman might herald. However you can analyse, measure or otherwise reduce this feeling – the quickening of the pulse, the dilation of the pupils, shallower breathing, clammy palms – Gideon had to acknowledge that love probably had God’s touch.
‘I’ve brought you breakfast.’ It was Esther’s mother talking to him. ‘Do you want it out here or in the tent?’
‘Thank you, I’ll have it here.’ He took the plate with a mound of pale white porridge and a clod of yellow butter melting in the middle, sparkling with sugar.
‘Esther, you can go eat with Grandma and then take a rest. I’ll go check on Mr Matzdorff.’ Mrs Calitz sat down on a fallen tree trunk next to Gideon, noticed him looking at Esther walking away. ‘That daughter of mine surprises me. They grow up so quickly in times like these. I wanted to look after your friend last night, but she insisted. I think keeping him alive is her way of fighting the Khakis. She wants to preserve the life we had. For her, it’s all part of a mission. I wonder what she would’ve done if the war hadn’t broken out. It’s a terrible thing to say, but sometimes I think this war might be the best thing that could’ve happened to her.’
Gideon was only half surprised by the confidences shared by Mrs Calitz. The imminence of loss and death changes the social contract. ‘And for you?’ he asked.
Mrs Calitz formed a little smile. ‘You mean was the war good? Not for me.’ She shrugged. ‘But my life is over and it’s your turn now, you young people, to make something of this world and your life. Esther’s father fought the redcoats at Majuba, back in ’81. It bought us nearly twenty years of peace. We set up our farm, had the children. Then this war started. It took my son … I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’
‘You can talk.’
‘No, I must go look at Mr Matzdorff. I hope he pulls through. He’s always been very fair to us.’
29 October 1901
Jacob Eksteen rode into the Lost Lamb late that morning on a horse that had picked up an annoying limp in the approach. He dismounted just after the narrow entrance to the ravine and led the animal further, although it felt more like pulling the damn thing. He did not believe in fate or he would’ve suspected it of conspiring against him. These were all just random events that tested his ability to overcome – from the way the war had been going over the last year, to the failed attack, to a lame horse this morning.
A hesitant black youth with a spear appeared from behind a bush, torn between his assigned duty as guard and his conditioned deference to the white man. Jacob recognised him as one of the Calitzes’ herders.
‘Where can I find Miss Esther?’ He looked where the herder was showing and then asked the boy to take his horse to the water, while he set off to the white tent.
The women had a good set-up
here, the tents and wagons near trees, with the latrines and native huts higher up on rockier parts. There was a fountain and meandering creek for water, good grass for the animals. If it hadn’t been such a hard place to get to, it would’ve made a good homestead for someone of modest ambition.
He encountered the grandmother first, dressed in black and humming a hymn. She gave him one look and hurried away as if she’d seen the devil in the flesh. The old lady had always been a bit batty. Then he saw Mrs Calitz.
‘Jacob! It’s been so long.’ She hugged and kissed him more heartily than her daughter ever did. With the passing years comes a certain boldness. Once babies have been born from you and people have died in your arms, it’s easy to show physical affection more freely. Your body is no longer such a sacrosanct temple, more of a well-worn inn. ‘Esther will be happy to see you.’
‘I’m here to see my wounded men.’
‘Esther did such a good job of looking after them. Mr Matzdorff is still delirious, but the other one is up and about.’ She led Jacob to the white bell tent. ‘Don’t leave before I’ve given you something to eat.’ Then, holding the tent flap open, ‘Esther, look who’s here!’
Jacob was struck by Esther’s appearance. She had changed in the forty-eight hours since he had last seen her; exhaustion and upheaval had aged her. The vestiges of the pigtailed teenager that had always haunted her features, making it impossible for him to see her as someone fit for manly attention, had fallen away. It was a woman who looked up at him from the little camp stool, her appeal enhanced by cares and weariness. She said his name and here in the privacy of the tent did what she couldn’t do last time – she came to embrace him, but it proved awkward. He was unsure where his hands should go and if he should say anything. She stepped back and let him breathe.
‘Is everything okay?’
She nodded.
‘And with the men?’
‘This one …’ Matzdorff lay with his head back and his mouth open, his face pale and clammy. ‘I hope he’ll make it. Gideon …The Dutchman seems fine.’
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