Half of One Thing

by Zirk van den Berg

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go drop in on Mr Matzdorff, see how he’s going.’

  Gideon had been dreading this topic and here it was. He hated telling her, but realised she’d find out anyway. ‘He’s not so good.’

  ‘His wounds?’

  ‘No … He tried to get away from Steyn yesterday, wanted to go home. He threatened the boy, but Steyn somehow managed to take him prisoner and bring him here. He was sentenced this morning.’

  ‘Poor man. He still had scars from that last time he had to ride the hide, or whatever you call it.’

  ‘This time it’s worse.’

  ‘How worse?’

  Here Gideon wished he could tell her a whole lot of things he couldn’t tell her. ‘Maybe you should ask the commandant. It was his decision.’

  Esther remembered Jacob’s strange reaction when she had enquired about Matzdorff. ‘I expect you to tell me.’

  Gideon caught the slight stiffening in her pose. He couldn’t not tell her. ‘Esther, this … It’s as bad as it can be.’

  ‘Don’t let me drag this out of you.’

  ‘They’re going to execute him at dawn.’

  ‘How do you mean, execute?’

  ‘Shoot him in the head, if you have to know.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Still, it’s true.’

  ‘Jacob won’t let a thing like that happen, not without good reason.’

  ‘It was his decision. He decided what Matzdorff did was treason.’

  ‘Treason, because he wanted to go home? … I’m not going to let it happen.’ She stood up, brushing crumbs off her dress.

  ‘I wouldn’t confront Jacob about this.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I will.’

  ‘I mean if I were you. He … He has begun to feel very strongly about loyalty to the cause. Don’t expect him to be reasonable.’

  ‘I nursed that man back from the brink of death. You were there, you saw it. How many nights did we sit up with him? … I’m not going to let that life end like this.’

  ‘Jacob won’t change his mind, nothing could make him. Not even you.’

  She clenched the cloth of her skirt in one hand. ‘I’m not scared of Jacob.’

  ‘You should be … I know you two have known each other for years, but this is different. The war does things to people. I don’t think you should expect him to behave the way he would’ve before.’

  ‘I’m not going to let Matzdorff die.’ Esther was very sure of this. It wasn’t a matter for argument. There was a rightness to it that couldn’t be denied and didn’t have to be defended. ‘If it is as you say, we can help Mr Matzdorff get away. Are you going to help me?’

  Gideon thought about it for a moment, actually considered this act of madness as if it could be realistic. Of course he couldn’t do it, not through cowardice, but from a sense of duty. He was a soldier. Not only a soldier and not always one either, but this was war and he was in it, and as long as he was he’d have to behave like a soldier, first and foremost, regardless of what he might think or feel as a man. Behind Esther, a man appeared, beckoning him. Gideon got up and dusted his pants. ‘I have to go now.’

  27 November 1901 (3)

  Gideon had to relieve the north-west sentry. Apparently the commando used to have the men stand guard in pairs, but with the shortage of manpower they lightened the load by having two or three solitary fixed sentries and at night one roving guard to keep the others on their toes. Normally Gideon didn’t mind these lonely hours, left to his own thoughts in the veldt, which he still found fascinating. He had come to know the rocks and soil, the grasses and insects and birds. He had seen antelope and baboons – wild and, alas, captured. One time he saw a giant Cape monitor, a lizard five feet long. When he was still in the proper army, letters from home enquired about lions and buffalo, giraffes and crocodiles, but those he hadn’t encountered. The closest he had come to a dangerous mammal was that caracal. This land was not quite as wild as he had imagined, but much harsher. Days could be unbearably hot and nights bone-chilling. Water was scarce. Landforms were often jagged. Compared to this, the area around Auckland where he grew up was spongy, everything soft and soggy, the contours gentle. Here most things were hard; even stalks and steaks were more stringy. There was a lot to marvel at.

  He realised he was happy in a way he had not felt before. Did Major Bryce know this was going to happen when he gave him that first talk about some people thriving in war? Could he know that Gideon would find his place in the world by pretending to be someone else in a foreign country? Gideon wondered if identity is something you get stuck with at birth or if it was possible to seek out or stumble upon another. Was he Gideon Doncker or Gideon Lancaster, or perhaps the pretender strung out between them?

  Having a foot in both camps, so to speak, caused him to think about the rights and wrongs of this war. The Boers settled in this country and imposed unjust laws on foreigners, not to mention the natives. The British claimed to be fighting to right the wrongs done to their subjects, that the riches of the land they sought to conquer had nothing to do with it. No doubt, in time, they would impose their own injustices. If you tried to trace back the roots of injustice, Gideon thought, the cycles of wrongs and retribution go down generations, probably all the way to a caveman who stumbled across another. If you looked hard enough, you could find a reason for everyone to hate everyone. Throughout time, the justification of evil had mesmerised the millions; perhaps it was the most popular pastime of all. Every evil avenged was an evil perpetuated. He realised that history wove such a web of hatred that perhaps he had to look at wrong and right on a more personal scale. It wasn’t so much a matter of whose side he was on, but of what he did as a member of that side. Did he behave morally? Did he personally do evil things? In battle, shooting an enemy seemed justifiable, but not when that enemy was unarmed. What Jacob Eksteen did was evil and would’ve been evil regardless of what army he was in. Gideon decided his own allegiance to the Crown and his sympathies for the Boers mattered equally little, as long as he behaved morally wherever he happened to be. He shouldn’t shoot at the Boers while pretending to fight for them, and vice versa. Be loyal to those who rely on you, and don’t cause hurt if it can be helped. God had Ten Commandments; Gideon could only think of these two, but he was pleased with them. If only he could live by them.

  He looked back to the ridgeline that hid the camp from view, then down the long slope and up to the next rise a mile or so away. His task as sentry was twofold – to provide early warning in case of enemies approaching and to guide friendly arrivals to the commando. He had to remain alert, all eyes, and resist the allure of indulgent notions. Any thoughts of Esther, peace and the far future had to be banished. There was this responsibility, these hours, and his duty to complete his mission. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to capture De Wet, end the war and … Back to Esther again. Discipline now, he cautioned himself. One thing at a time.

  Overhead, the clouds where gathering for the usual summer afternoon thunderstorm.

  Was that a rider down in the hollow? The arrival of a man on horseback could herald action or dread, joy or despair. This is how news travelled, from mere confirmations of the status of familiar places and people to minor incidents and major events. Gideon wondered what it would be this time.

  He lifted the binoculars to his eyes. The rider appeared to be made of dust: both he and his horse had the colour of the dirt its hooves kicked up. They were only going at a steady canter and it looked like they had been on the road a good long while. The man looked around, but without breaking his speed. That set Gideon’s mind at ease. If he had been a scout working for the enemy … Gideon chastised himself for thinking of the Empire forces as the enemy. If the man had been a scout working for the British, he’d slow down, perhaps stop from time to time to scour the environment. No, this one was on his way somewhere. Gideon worked the breech of his rifle to put a round in the chamber and stepped into the open, waving. It took no more than ten se
conds for the man to spot him. Gideon kept waving. The man turned towards him and approached, slower now, rifle held across the horse’s withers. Gideon kept his firearm in one hand, hanging loose by his side, but with his finger on the trigger guard. If needed, he could get off a reasonable shot very quickly. He kept a close watch as the man drew near, and slowed his mount to a halt.

  ‘You seem to be travelling hard. Where to?’

  The horseman was small and wiry, with a prickly red beard. ‘I’m just passing through. A family matter.’

  Clearly the man didn’t trust Gideon. ‘I’m with Commandant Eksteen’s commando.’

  A change of attitude. ‘Can you take me to him?’

  Gideon thought perhaps he should just direct the man rather than leave his post – the camp was close enough. There had already been an arrival that day and there could be more. But he was also curious. ‘Come with me.’ He led the way.

  They found Jacob Eksteen banging the earth with a rock. ‘Scorpion,’ the commandant explained. ‘Rather deal with it now than tonight when I’m trying to sleep … Who is this?’

  He directed his question at Gideon, but the rider answered. ‘Name is Van den Heever. I come from General De Wet. He wants you to come to him.’ The rider got off his horse and walked closer. ‘He said to give you this, to prove the message is really from him.’ He dropped a dried peach in Eksteen’s palm.

  The last time Jacob had seen De Wet, he had given the general some dried peaches. The fruit turned out to be full of worms and he had to face a barrage of teasing for the rest of his stay. The incident had obviously not been forgotten.

  ‘So he wants the commando to join up with him?’

  ‘No, just you for the moment. If you like, you can bring someone along.’

  Liebenberg would be the obvious choice, but someone had to be left in charge of the commando. He could go alone, but thought it would be nice to take someone along. Deep down, he needed someone from the commando to witness his exulted status as one of General De Wet’s confidants. It would be a treat for the boy to go, Klein Steyn. Perhaps, though, there was someone else the general would find more interesting … Jacob turned to the Dutchman. ‘Feel like meeting a real hero?’

  Shortly after Gideon left her to do guard duty, Esther put on her bonnet, fetched her horse where it was grazing with the others, saddled the animal and led it to the side of the camp where Mr Matzdorff was being kept. A decision had come to her with the inevitability of a sunrise; she knew what she had to do. The man was not going to die, not like this, not after all her efforts to save his life. There could be no question of not helping him; the only thing was to work out how she could do it. Her plan, she realised, was far from foolproof. It hinged on a string of uncertainties, a number of things that had to go right or Matzdorff would be doomed. But to hell with it, he was doomed anyway. How much worse could it get? As for her … It didn’t matter. She didn’t think she was at risk of much more than losing the trust of the men around her.

  Matzdorff was being kept in an open cave just beyond the edge of the camp, facing away from them. Liebenberg had decided to keep the prisoner out of sight to spare the other men. They were happy for once and who needed to see a condemned man on a day like this? At the moment, he was being watched by one of the older men, Dik Frik Swiegelaar, whose face Esther recognised as having been one of the elders in her local church. He had lost a lot of weight. His cheeks, which had once been bulging, had become sunken and his beard wilder, but it was the same man. ‘Good afternoon, Oom.’ Her greeting showed both respect and familiarity. She needed the man to have no doubt that her heart was in the right place.

  Swiegelaar got up from the rock he had been sitting on, tilting his hat at her. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you, miss. Such a beautiful child. What brings you here?’

  ‘I brought a food parcel for Jacob … You know, the commandant. We’re old family friends.’

  ‘He’s a lucky man.’

  ‘Would Oom like a loaf of bread?’ This part she hadn’t planned. She was meaning to give the third one to Matzdorff, but realised that to him getting away was more important than getting food.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ Swiegelaar took the bread in both hands, bringing it to his nose to smell. ‘This is the one thing we couldn’t take from the Khakis yesterday. Nobody bakes bread like a Boer woman.’

  ‘You enjoy that.’ Esther looked around, the reins in her hand. Then she saw the cliff face, the hollow with Matzdorff’s legs sticking out. ‘I need to see to Mr Matzdorff’s wounds.’

  This surprised the old man. ‘You know they’re going to shoot him tomorrow?’

  ‘I heard. Still no reason for him to suffer unnecessarily. Condemned men get last meals they’re never going to need. Anyway, I’m his nurse, not an executioner.’

  ‘You’re a good person.’

  ‘No more so than you or anyone … Enjoy the bread!’

  Esther led the horse down to where Matzdorff was and left it standing between the cave and the guard. The bound man looked up at her without speaking. He was glad to see her, as glad as one can be under the circumstances. They exchanged greetings, both uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not half as bad as what’s coming … Would you be able to take a message to my wife for me?’

  ‘It won’t be necessary, not if I can help it.’

  ‘I’m afraid nothing can save me now.’

  ‘I think maybe I can. Just do what I say.’ She knelt by Matzdorff, using a bread knife to saw through the ropes that held him. She peeped out to make sure Swiegelaar was still engrossed in his food. ‘Quick, we need to swap clothes. No questions.’ She turned her back and took off her bonnet and dress. When she turned back, Matzdorff was dancing on one leg, trying to get his pants off. He was stiff after sitting so long. She lent a hand and soon they were both in their underwear. ‘You won’t fit in the dress, but just put it on as best you can. Don’t worry if the seams tear.’ She helped with the tugging that was necessary to squeeze his stocky frame into the dress. Hopefully the sound of cloth tearing wouldn’t raise Swiegelaar’s suspicion. He might think she was making bandages or something. She put the bonnet on Matzdorff’s head and tied the ribbons. He wouldn’t fool anyone who really looked, but at a distance, to a casual observer, he might pass for a woman. ‘Now help me get into your clothes and tie me up.’ She put on his hat and tucked her hair underneath, put on his scuffed boots.

  ‘Thank you for doing this.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll go home and stay safe.’

  ‘It’s what I want more than anything.’ He bound her hand and foot. ‘Is this not too tight?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. I’ll tell them I untied you to dress your wounds and you overpowered me.’

  ‘As if I’d do a thing like that.’

  ‘They don’t know. Go now! Take my horse.’

  ‘You’re sure about this?’

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’

  Matzdorff nodded. Too much had happened too quickly and he had run out of words. He got on the horse. In the woman’s clothes, Matzdorff spurred the horse on and raised his left hand to wave at the guard. He was careful not to look back. He kept it up for a minute and then broke into a gallop. He needed to get away fast, but not suspiciously so. Swiegelaar was known for his bad eyesight and usually stayed at the camp or held the horses when there was fighting to be done. Still the fleeing man felt those eyes on him.

  Swiegelaar had a mouth full of bread. He was a bit surprised to see the girl ride off without coming back past him, but who understood these young people anyway? The prisoner seemed to be in the same position as before, his feet motionless. The bread tasted good. He wondered how his wife was, if she was being fed properly in the concentration camp. Many people died in the camps and there were rumours that the English put crushed glass in their meat. He couldn’t believe a
nyone would do that, not even the damned Khakis. If they gave that woman some flour and things, she could bake a bread that would have you praising the Lord, even better than this one.

  By then, clouds had blotted out every patch of blue sky and the smell of rain hung heavy in the wind. Gideon could see flashes of lightning way in the north-east. So he was finally going to meet De Wet. This was exactly what he had been waiting for, the development he had been trying to engineer for so long. Yet now that it had come, he could hardly believe it. It was his opportunity to get to the general, to fulfil his mission. He could imagine the chain of events – the British get De Wet, the war ends, he gets Esther. Not a bad outcome.

  He had no firm plans. Major Bryce said to play it by ear. They’d prefer to capture De Wet rather than make him a martyr. He couldn’t realistically expect to capture De Wet on his own, but perhaps he could betray the general’s position to British forces in some way, get them to go attack De Wet’s camp. Failing the opportunity to do that, killing the man would be better than doing nothing at all. Gideon had a sealed tin of Dutch almond biscuits, with the second biscuit laced with a lethal dose of arsenic. ‘Offer the second one to others, don’t eat it!’ Major Bryce had repeated time and again. Gideon had a knife for a quick, silent assassination and, of course, a rifle for a loud one that would probably mean his own death as well. He had too much to live for to use that option though. No, if he had to kill the general, he’d have to do it so that he could still escape. It occurred to him that the deliberate killing of an individual who posed no immediate threat to you was something of a different order to what he had been doing so far in the war. It would be a bit like Jacob Eksteen’s executions. He found it abhorrent when the commandant did it. Would he be able to do it himself? There was a major difference though. De Wet was legitimately his enemy, by birth. Whereas Eksteen’s motivations were fear, revenge or frustration, his would be far more noble. He would help end the war, save goodness knows how many lives, and – as in all the best stories – get the girl. You could forgive any man, even yourself, a lot if all that were at stake.