Staring at the four blocks of darkening blue sky, he wondered about a great many things. What did their pantry smell like at home? Onions, yes, but seldom peaches and never coriander, as far as he could remember. Bananas from the islands sometimes. His mother made a fine lamb stew. She often seemed unhappy. She was stoic, but clearly resented the life that had befallen her. If his father had noticed this, he never let on. Perhaps he couldn’t, all would fall apart if the tensions were brought out in the open. Gideon found he could think about this without emotion, his life before this war had become something remote, not just in time and distance, but also in his mind. Lying in this hot cot, waiting for whatever would happen without knowing how it would turn out, one fact stood out and thinking about it didn’t change a thing: the next day or two were make or break for him.
There were new noises outside, voices and footsteps. The latch was lifted and the door pulled aside to reveal the imposing figure of Major Bryce. Gideon tried to rise and salute, but struggled to find his balance in the tight space between bed and wall.
Bryce returned the gesture half-heartedly. ‘Lancaster, is that you behind that beard?’ He had a chair in one hand, swung it round and straddled it backwards, his forearms leaning on the back, sitting right in the doorway. ‘I haven’t heard from you in a long time. I was beginning to think you had forgotten which side you’re on.’
‘No chance of that, Sir.’ As Gideon said it, he knew Bryce saw through the lie. The major still looked as Gideon remembered him, but it was is if a net had been thrown over him. There were lines on his face and his movements were constrained. The once expansive gestures faltered halfway through.
‘What have you got to report? I assume that’s why you came in.’
‘I know where De Wet will be on Saturday morning.’
‘Saturday … You realise it’s already … what? Thursday?’
Gideon nodded. ‘My commandant is supposed to meet him.’
‘Your commandant?’
‘I mean Eksteen, Sir.’
Bryce nodded as if he understood more than what was said. ‘We have thirty-six hours and probably won’t be able to start for at least another twelve. Does it leave us enough time to get there?’
‘Mounted troops could make it.’
‘You’ll show us the way?’
‘Of course.’
Bryce looked at the bony-chested man sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still mussed by sleep. ‘Give me the details,’ he said.
Outside, flags were struck and tired men used the last light of day to scribble a few lines to the folks back home, to smoke cigarettes or try titbits from food parcels. Some of the younger men got a quick soccer game going, the bare-chested versus the shirted team. A perfectly groomed corporal on his way to inspect the guards spotted a speck of mud on his boot, whipped out a pristine handkerchief and stood around with one foot raised, looking for a place to rest it so he could wipe off the offensive blot. His choice fell on the edge of a nearby rubbish bin and he gave a few hops that way. When he put his foot on the metal rim and leaned forward with his cloth at the ready, the weight on its side caused the bin to tip over, burying his other beautifully polished boot ankle-deep in food scraps. Onlookers did their best not to laugh at the irate corporal, bent over with one foot still raised, hopping about in the rubbish. They did not succeed. Further from the parade ground, a completely bald stoker from Leeds started to strum a guitar, launching into a mournful song. He was a simple-minded man, blessed with a voice that could carry the souls of the dead to heaven. Others gathered around him to pamper their heartache.
When Major Bryce emerged from the commandeered house, he had Trooper Lancaster with him. He pointed Lancaster to the ablution block. ‘See if you can have a wash. Your smell may be bearable in the open veldt, but it’s not for closed spaces.’
Bryce headed to the officers’ mess. He found Lieutenant Farrell there, freshened up and smoking a thin cigarette. The mess consisted of a couple of large tents pitched side by side with their adjoining panels removed to create an elongated room. The chairs and tables were all military-issue folding models and the floor was nothing but swept earth, still they managed to infuse the space with an air of grace. The latest local and older London papers lay on tables around kerosene lamps and a dapper young trooper carried a silver tray with real glasses, offering port and gin. It was rumoured that a shipment of whisky might be coming within the week.
Bryce felt in his element in such gentlemanly hangouts. They allowed for a certain theatricality of style, affected what-whats, back slaps and brazen laughter. You could be quite absurd under the guise of camaraderie and still be tolerated. ‘Here you are, old chap!’
Farrell jumped to his feet. ‘Major!’ He looked flushed and somewhat unsteady, fatigue and a quick gin or two having had an effect.
‘At ease, at ease.’ Bryce signalled for the other officers to carry on as before, then saluted one who outranked him. ‘Colonel.’
The colonel waved two fingers intersected by a fat cigar, the smoke trail drawing Arabic letters. He had the attention of those around him and wasn’t going to let his story be interrupted.
Nobody took any notice when Bryce leaned forward and whispered to Farrell. The two men left shortly afterwards. They walked out and away from everyone, past the last row of tents and the horse corral, out into the veldt. The sky in the west was turning purple and the evening star was out, but you could still make out the contours of the landscape.
‘It is beautiful out here.’ Farrell looked around as if he hadn’t noticed it before.
‘This war gives us opportunities, Lieutenant. You must use them. It will be over one of these days and you’ll never see these sights again. Nothing lasts … Isn’t that grand?’
‘I don’t know, Sir.’ Farrell was never sure how to respond to Major Bryce’s philosophical musings. Was there a message in this for him, some coded reference to his role in the imminent change in the major’s assignment?
‘I have seen my man Lancaster. He claims he can give us De Wet.’
‘Do you believe him?’
Bryce removed his cap and combed his thick fingertips through his thinning hair. ‘I have no reason not to. We have to move quickly, get six-hundred men, ride fifty miles in twenty-four hours and be ready to fight at the end of it.’
‘Did you say six-hundred men?’
‘He said we could do it with fewer, but I don’t want to take chances.’
‘Sir, if you forgive me for saying so, getting six-hundred men to go on an expedition that would last three days at least, there and back, based on nothing but the say-so of one informant, one who’s never given you a shred of useful information before … That’s taking a risk. Do you have any corroborating evidence?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘I can’t believe you’re even considering it. If he’s wrong, it will ruin your career.’
‘Ah, but my dear young man, you and I both know it wouldn’t be such a loss … I have taught Field Marshal Kitchener most of what he knows about intelligence work, and he thinks he can spy on me without me knowing? Shame on you both.’
Farrell thought about feigning ignorance, but only for a moment. ‘I’m just following orders …’
‘I’m not blaming you. The old man should’ve known better, that’s all.’
‘You still have his respect. You’ll just get reassigned, with full rank and everything. But if you do this thing and it doesn’t end well … Major, I have too high a regard for you not to say this, but you could lose rank, privilege, your job even. Where will you get six-hundred men anyway and how will you mobilise them? Who will approve it?’
‘I’ll do it off my own bat.’
‘You can’t! If it doesn’t work, you can … It can mean disgrace.’
‘But if it does work … I’ll be The Man Who Captured De Wet.’ Bryce walked a few steps, waving to acknowledge the applause of imaginary onlookers.
‘You’re quite mad.’
‘Perhaps. But what are the alternatives?’ Bryce dusted his cap and put it back on. ‘I refuse to be ordinary or have a life devoid of distinction. If I cannot be famous, I’ll be notorious. And you’re going to help me.’
‘Please don’t expect that of me, Sir.’
‘Lieutenant Farrell, you will follow orders. It is a defence that gave you comfort before and it will do so again.’ Bryce started walking back to the base. His mind had not been made up when they were coming this way, but amid Farrell’s objections, he became convinced that he had to forge ahead despite his misgivings, which were the very ones Farrell had raised. Reason is not the only reason for doing what we do. He had the sneaky feeling that Lancaster was not being completely honest with him and even entertained the possibility that he was being set up for an ambush, but he could see no justification for it. If Lancaster had really turned against his people, there were surely more damaging things he could try. No, Bryce decided, he was just being paranoid. It happens when you involve yourself in the shady world of spying. Now that he had decided on a course of action, he had to assume that he was right in doing so. Doubts had to be banished. If it was the wrong decision, he would not make it less wrong by doing it half-heartedly, and if it was right, he had to give it every chance of success.
Through the split between the tent flaps, Esther saw a spire shape sparkling with stars. She shifted on her mattress of dry grass and tried to recognise the constellations. It wasn’t so easy to do without the wider context. It was so strange that she was being kept in the camp when neither the man she had come to visit nor the one she had pretended to come for were here. Jacob didn’t want her to stay; now she was being held here on the assumption that he would want it. Field Cornet Liebenberg had explained that it was beyond his power to let her go: the commandant had to deal with the person who had helped Matzdorff escape. That first time when Jacob had told her she had to leave, she resented it. When Gideon had asked her to go, she was adamant she wanted to stay. Now that she was made to stay, she felt like leaving … Was she just being hopelessly contrary?
They had discovered her in Matzdorff’s clothes not even an hour after Gideon had left. Mouton, the snake killer, had come to relieve Swiegelaar. He had taken a closer look at the prisoner and had raised the alarm. Esther had tried the story about being overpowered by Matzdorff, but had dropped it the first time she was asked to explain again. She had just come clean. Liebenberg, as acting commandant, had said he understood, but it was a matter for Commandant Eksteen. Swiegelaar had remembered that the Dutchman had been there and had not alerted him to the true state of affairs. Esther had offered an excuse of sorts, that Gideon had had to leave with Commandant Eksteen immediately on an urgent mission and didn’t want to do anything that would waste time. Besides, he knew she would be discovered soon enough anyway. She wasn’t sure if anyone had accepted it, but it didn’t seem to matter. They were so focused on her and what she had done.
They were nice to her though, trying to make her comfortable in Jacob’s tent and apologising at every opportunity. She had to be under guard at all times. Every new man who came to do his guard duty brought her gifts of food or cloth they had liberated from the enemy wagons. Nobody criticised her about her treacherous deed. In fact, the consensus seemed to be that Matzdorff deserved the break more than he did the proposed punishment. Maybe they were just trying to be nice, but Esther appreciated it. She could hardly believe that anyone would think differently in any case, though Liebenberg’s concerned response made her think that perhaps Gideon’s prophesy of doom had some merit. Jacob had changed, that was sure, but so had everyone and who was to say that he had been affected more negatively than anyone else? The war scarred everyone and a scar could be tender or numb; you couldn’t tell just by looking at it … Was that the tail of the scorpion, that line of stars?
‘Miss Calitz, may I come in?’ A voice in the dark.
She sat up, clutching a blanket about her. ‘Yes.’
A silhouette blackened out the stars and Klein Steyn ducked into the tent. ‘I’ve brought you some hot cocoa. It’s an English drink, a bit like coffee. Tastes different though.’
‘I know cocoa, thank you.’ She accepted the warm tin cup and brought it to her lips. She hadn’t tasted cocoa since just after the start of the war. It reminded her of winter evenings at home. ‘It’s delicious.’
Steyn blurted out what had been on his mind for hours. ‘What’s going to happen to you?’
He saw a flash of white teeth. ‘Maybe nothing.’
‘I was the one who captured Mr Matzdorff, you know. I didn’t want him to be killed though. I felt so bad. I was glad to hear he got away, but now … I don’t want anything to happen to you either. It’s even worse.’
‘Don’t worry about me. It’s not your problem.’
Steyn squatted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. How could he tell her all these things he felt, the guilt and the fear and the thoughts he had about her before he fell asleep, not to mention the sinful ones that aroused him in the morning. ‘I want to help you.’
‘Gideon wanted to do it too, you know. He wanted me to flee from Jacob.’
‘It would be safest.’ Steyn was excited by the prospect that perhaps he could achieve what the Dutchman couldn’t, that he could get the girl to safety. He whispered, ‘I could help you get away.’
‘Then you’ll be in as much trouble as I am.’
‘I’ll come with you. We’ll go away together.’
‘You’ll do that for me?’
‘I’ll do anything for you.’
‘You are a dear, dear boy.’
‘I’m not a boy.’
She looked at him, a shape in the dark. ‘No, you’re a man. You’re a dear man.’
Nobody had ever said anything as precious to him. He was a man and a dear one at that. Steyn steadied himself with his hand on the ground. He felt bolder now. ‘The commandant is not expected back before Saturday at the earliest. I can organise things so we can leave before then, maybe tomorrow night. I’ll take our horses into the veldt and then I’ll swap duties so I’ll be the one to guard you. With nobody else around, we’ll simply walk away, get on our horses and ride off. It will be hours before they discover we’re gone. What do you think?’
‘I can see you thought about it already.’
‘The commandant shot someone the other day, a man named Tromp who probably deserved it. It was the scariest thing I’ve seen in my whole life.’
She understood that this was meant as an explanation, but the only thing it made clear to her was that something really strange must’ve happened to Jacob to affect the other men this way. ‘I have to think about it.’
‘I need some time to arrange things, so don’t leave it too late.’
‘I really appreciate this.’ She handed him the empty cup. ‘The cocoa was wonderful too.’
‘I’ll save us some for the ride.’
She smiled. ‘Don’t get carried away just yet.’
‘I want to do the right thing.’
‘Don’t we all? I just don’t know what that is yet, I need to think about it. We have time.’
Gideon slept on a stretcher in a British military-issue tent, covering himself with a sheet for the first time in three months. It was supposed to be more comfortable than sleeping under the stars on the bare ground, but somehow he kept waking up. His sleep pattern was messed up by being awake through the night before and then sleeping in the day, but there was more to it than that. The tent heaved in the wind. Some of the pegs holding the sides down were missing, and the canvas scraped along the ground. It was as if Gideon were inside the lungs of an asthmatic creature. There was all this organisation around him, thousands of men, bound by compelling tradition and discipline. He longed for the open veldt. Having lived with danger for so long, he couldn’t stop being on edge and his mind sprang to full alert at every small, unexpected sound. Once awake, he was tortured by thoughts.
Gideon hoped it was
true that lovers have a mystical connection that transcends time and space, so he could beam his thoughts and feelings directly to Esther, to tell her that he was doing what he had to do, he could explain it all later. How would she respond to the truth about him? Would love, this emotion that supposedly conquers all, be able to overcome that? Yes, he thought. Yes, it was the ultimate, the most important thing anyone could do, the sense of life and point of it all. You find your love and all else pales by comparison.
He had to get some sleep. From the morning, they’d be on the march for twenty-four hours to get to their target, then back again. His bed was softer than he’d had in months, but it was narrower than the bedroll he had become used to. He turned on his side and put the pillow on his head, covering his ear. Cushioned and quiet, he could sleep, perhaps.
29–30 November 1901
Morning was trumpeted before first light even glowed through the canvas. From neighbouring tents Gideon heard coughs, farts and yelping yawns. An Irish voice lamented: ‘If I could cuddle up behind the wife’s white behind right now …’
‘I’ve been there, she’s not that great.’
‘Hey, keep your mouth off my wife!’
‘It’s not my mouth you need to worry about.’
‘Shut up, you two!’
Gideon lay back with his hand behind his head. Men are the same everywhere. He dared not think about lying against a woman’s body. It’s too soon to think about a thing like that, he said to himself, but part of him recognised that it was way too late not to. Sweet, sad and noble as love was, what tugged the heartstrings stirred the loins.
There’s the bugle again. Time to get up.
By eleven o’clock that evening three-hundred men of the Third New South Wales Mounted Rifles were lined up on the road, ready to go. It was only half the number Major Bryce wanted. Their commander, Colonel Remington, promised that another three-hundred would be ready to come to their aid the next day, as soon as they were back from escorting a wagon train coming from Winburg. Their officers had been briefed and orders were passed on to soldiers who were perfectly used to plans that changed from day to day. So they were making a detour to the eastern Free State, travelling light, rather than going fully laden to the eastern Transvaal as they were supposed to. What’s the difference? The men and horses were lined up in threes. A couple of pack horses, carrying bundles of blankets, brought up the rear. The column was strung out over more than three-hundred yards of road. This would stretch even longer as they travelled.
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