Half of One Thing

by Zirk van den Berg

  They moved out under the gaze of half-dressed men grateful that they had a lazy day ahead, others on duty who were confident at least that they’d still be in one piece come tomorrow. Only a handful of new boys wished they could be part of the column. The blacksmiths and barbers, the butchers and bakers who plied their trade to keep the army going didn’t have time to watch all the comings and goings. There was work to be done.

  Gideon was at the front of the column, riding with Major Bryce and an Australian captain by the name of Trevelyan. There was also a Lieutenant Farrell, an Englishman who looked uncomfortable in the saddle. Gideon had been introduced to him, but it wasn’t clear how he fitted in the picture. Lower-ranking Australian officers moved up to talk to their captain, falling back to their men afterwards. Outriders were out scouting, but no signals of danger came. The column kept moving at a good clip. The comments that livened up the trip at the start became fewer as the hours passed. The men fell silent and concentrated on their surroundings, their mounts or their thoughts. One horse developed a lame leg and had to be left behind. They stopped at a drift for a late lunch. The horses drank and the men stretched their legs for half an hour. The men who had been eating dust at the back took their positions at the front and the column got moving again. The sun was hot on their shoulders. Gideon’s shirt, formerly Triegaardt’s, clung to his body. Months of wear through sun and rain had bleached the linen to nearly white. The ride was hot and tiring, but there was an undeniable thrill to the procession.

  For Gideon it was only two years earlier that he had marched in a group like this through Wellington, ready to ship out to war. Their contingent was cheered on by people lining the streets, waving handkerchiefs and Union Jacks. Among them was Premier Seddon himself, who had promised his countrymen’s services to the Crown even before the war was officially declared. The boys were off to fight for the Empire and the honour of New Zealand.

  Compared to this ride through the veldt, the procession to Lambton Quay had been a pageant, a foolish parade. Everyone here had heard the din of battle, smelled blood and fought fear. Over time, they had learned to fear discomfort and death rather than the veldt and the enemy; what had been abstract before had become concrete to them, and personal. They knew how to make others experience the things they feared themselves, to harass the enemy into increasing discomfort, to deal death, and do it all with pride.

  During the afternoon, a wind rose from the south-west, blowing over their sweat-stained shirts, cooling them down. A man near the back fell asleep and keeled out of the saddle, getting caught by his mates just in time to prevent a serious fall. The story spread up the ranks, funny enough to be repeated, not funny enough to be laughed at. It could’ve happened to any of them, had happened to some. By late afternoon, they left the road, heading into broken country, Boer territory.

  At nightfall, the captain called halt. Sore bodies dismounted, hobbling about on stiff legs, complaining about their lot.

  ‘My arse feels like bully beef.’

  ‘Lucky you. I can’t feel mine at all.’

  ‘I’m numb all the way from the neck down.’

  ‘That’s strange, usually you’re just numb from the neck up.’

  The men were told to unsaddle and tend to their horses, then eat and get a few hours’ rest, to sleep if possible. It was going to be a long night and they had to be sharp in the morning.

  Major Bryce had the pack horses brought up and instructed a couple of men to take to the blankets with knives, cutting them into small pieces. Every rider had to take narrow strips and muffle everything that jangled on their kit, putting plugs of blanket into rings and buckles. Everyone also received four larger squares and string to tie around the hooves of their horses later on, when they got close to their objective, so they could move about more quietly. ‘Take care to do this properly – it could save your life. If we achieve complete surprise, we can get this whole thing over without the enemy taking one shot at us.’

  Gideon doubted it would be quite that easy, but dutifully played along.

  Bryce gathered the officers around and pored over a map he had prepared with Gideon’s help. He pointed out the enemy camp and positions his men had to take. Complete encirclement wasn’t practical given the numbers, but they would be able to place stopper groups in good positions. ‘Our information is that there is likely to be only one tent in the Boer camp. That’s where our man will be. Whatever happens, I don’t want anyone firing at the tent. He’s worth much more to us alive than dead. Is that clear?’

  ‘Is it De Wet?’ Captain Trevelyan had to have an answer to the question that had been bothering him all day. They were clearly going for an important person, but he didn’t know if it would be the general himself, if the prize could really be that big.

  ‘A good guess, Captain … If we pull this off, you and your men will be famous.’ Not as famous as he would be, thought Bryce, but famous.

  ‘Can I tell the men?’

  ‘If you think it will help.’

  Gideon could see the news spread, men coming together and animated discussions starting up. The soul-destroying acts of vandalism that had been their lot for much of the year, burning farms and slaughtering livestock, were cast aside. This was exciting, daring in a way even an ordinary battle could not be. This would be a story to dine on for years to come.

  The air of anticipation in the column had the opposite effect on Gideon. He dreaded the morning. He had made some judgement calls and he wasn’t nearly as confident about them as he had led Major Bryce to believe. He wanted to be alone and found a sandy spot that would be comfortable and less likely to harbour snakes, scorpions and the like. He swept it clean with a rolled blanket as he had done when he was with the Boers, unrolled the bedding and lay down with his head propped against the saddle. Stars flickered above the horizon.

  ‘You look comfortable.’ Major Bryce stood by Gideon’s feet. ‘Those Boers taught you well.’

  ‘One learns to adapt.’

  Bryce knelt and dropped his voice. ‘I hope to God you’re right about everything.’

  ‘I’m sure enough.’

  ‘I wish I knew what that felt like, being sure enough … I tell you, you and I were very nearly out of a job. If this thing hadn’t come up, they were going to shut us down. If we succeed, though, we’ll show them the value of good intelligence. And don’t you worry – I’ll look after you. Your efforts will not go unrewarded.’

  ‘Thank you, Major.’

  ‘I’m the one who needs to thank you.’

  Gideon wanted the conversation to end. ‘Why don’t you get some rest?’

  Bryce went to where the other officers were and found a place to lie down. He didn’t expect to sleep or even relax. He kept thinking there was something he had overlooked, some vital aspect of the operation he should’ve thought through more thoroughly. In his mind, he walked through the planning step by step. Of course there are always unforeseen developments, men who don’t quite get where they’re supposed to be when they’re supposed to be there, some idiot who compromises everything through wilfulness or ignorance, or a freak occurrence. If the plan is good, you can deal with stuff like that. If the plan is bad, though, it would take a lot of luck for things to turn out well, more luck than anyone should rely on. Darkness had settled on the land. Clouds blocked out galaxies of stars.

  Gideon and Bryce both stared at the same sky, watched the stars shift in the heavens and clouds blowing on the wind.

  At eleven o’ clock that evening, the sentries walked through the ranks, gesturing to those who were awake, nudging those who weren’t. They had to get going in half an hour, preferably with no noise at all. The men drank water, saddled up and led their horses into a close formation, nine abreast and keeping in a tight group. Two horses could not continue, one a mare whose rider had somehow failed to notice before that she was about to foal. A muted discussion came to the conclusion that the noise of a horse in labour was not something they wanted to risk, and her
life was ended with a swift cut across the throat. The foal would die without having been born. The mare’s rider put his saddle onto one of the pack animals and they were ready. The captain gave a signal and they proceeded at walking pace, the men in front picking their way between rocks and bushes, the others looking beyond them to pick up distant light or movement.

  Gideon found it quite eerie, so many men moving with so little noise. He rode in front, picking landmarks to guide the group. Left of that clump of trees, then between the kopjes and over the ridge, down that long slope to the creek at the bottom, then slightly to the right, skirting the tree line, a short detour to avoid the native settlement, then a climb. Going was slow and it was four hours before they got to the place where the column had to split up. This was where everyone got off and tied the blanket socks over the hooves of their mounts. It made the animals skittish and there was a lot of urgent whispering into the ears of horses, most men opting to lead the animals for a while to get used to the strange feeling before getting back on. Captain Trevelyan moved from group to group, giving final instructions and pointing them along their way. Everyone knew what had to be done. First priority, be quiet. Second, get in position. Third, get ready and wait for the signal to fire. It was supposed to all happen twenty minutes before sunrise, but things could change; they had to be alert.

  After a while, everyone had left except Gideon, Major Bryce, Lieutenant Farrell and an Australian lieutenant called Wade with his thirty men. Theirs was the most dangerous task.

  Jacob had the strange sensation that the earth was moving, as if a heavy load was passing not too far away. He was lying on his back, on the floor of the ruin that used to be Esther Calitz’s home. He could’ve pushed on and made it back to the commando the night before, but wanted to take some time out for himself, just to be on his own for once. So he stopped here just after nightfall and made himself a bed in what used to be Esther’s room. He had been in there once before, when she showed him a dog that had just had puppies there the previous day. The room had an iron bed then, black pipes with a white bedspread and an embroidered cushion. It was only simple, but far more fascinating to him than those little blind dogs. And now he was back here. Esther was gone and the bed was burnt and the dogs had probably all died or run off, but something of that experience remained. It wasn’t that long ago, but they were both so very young then.

  She seemed to have given her heart to the Dutchman. He had recognised a pang of jealousy when he had seen her go to Gideon Doncker the other day, giving him bread and sitting with him all those hours. Was that why he had asked the man to go with him to see De Wet? Was it to take him away from Esther so the two of them could not be together for those few days? He hated to think he was that petty. It was hard to admit to feelings other than those inspired by noble principles. He certainly couldn’t do it in front of others. For this night, though, he’d indulge himself between the walls of Esther’s room, staring at that square of sky where the roof used to be. He thought of space that looked so very deep, deeper than love or loyalty or despair, a depth that sucked you in, that sucked at the entire earth, all that dirt and life tumbling around in a cold, dark vacuum. He took a battered book of poetry from his saddlebag and looked at the white pages by starlight. He couldn’t read the words, but knew them by heart, those sonorous passages he couldn’t understand bit by bit, but grasped in their totality like the heavens. His eyelids burnt, he really had to sleep, but his soul was stirred and he was letting it happen. Pain, longing and loneliness had to be brought from their warm womb sometimes, to play like puppies and root against your ribs … as long as you drown them before morning.

  At sunrise he had to go the last few miles, rejoin the commando and put a bullet in the brain of that Matzdorff man. One should not let these things drag, he had come to realise – they only get harder. Make a decision, act and move on. Kill and live.

  The clipping of small hooves came down the passage and made him sit bolt upright, covered in a sudden sweat. A goat stuck its head around the door frame, ghostly white, and bleated pleadingly.

  30 November 1901

  Half an hour before sunrise, Gideon Lancaster bade Major Bryce farewell and spurred his horse over the crest line and down to where he knew a Boer sentry would stop him. He rode at a canter, fast enough to look in a hurry, slow enough so it wouldn’t look like he had just set out. He was on his way up the next incline when the call came to halt. Gideon reined in the horse and sought the source of the command. There he was, a man crouched next to a sage bush.

  ‘I’ve come with an urgent message … I’ve ridden through the night; it can’t wait.’

  ‘Go right on through then.’

  ‘Where do I find the man in charge?’

  The sentry sighed and got to his feet. ‘Come with me.’

  This was what Gideon had hoped for, to get the man away from his post. They walked into the hollow of sleeping men. He eyed the tent as he walked past, saw the guard silhouetted against the white canvas.

  ‘There’s your man, the one sleeping by the bush.’

  Gideon went further along and knelt by the sleeping man the sentry had pointed out. ‘Wake up,’ he said. ‘Something urgent has come up.’

  The man had an old tail-coat bundled around his neck. He rolled onto his back, felt around for the edge of the cloth and pulled it aside. He was fully dressed and was sitting upright before he even opened his eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘I take it you’re in charge now?’

  Field Cornet Liebenberg felt around for his boots to put them on. ‘Until the commandant gets back. What’s the word from him?’

  ‘It’s not from him.’

  ‘Directly from General De Wet?’

  Gideon didn’t answer. ‘Just get all the men together. Do it quietly. It’s best everyone hears this at the same time.’

  ‘Are you sure this is necessary?’

  ‘It’s a matter of life and death. You start this side and I’ll go the other. Get everyone to wake up the others and tell them to assemble here.’

  Liebenberg got up and stamped his feet to get the blood flow going, and then got the rest of his body moving.

  There was lots of murmuring, a few muted coughs and swear words, the trundling of sluggish feet. Ten minutes later they were all there. Gideon saw young Steyn and nodded a greeting.

  Liebenberg got onto a rock. ‘Thanks, men. Our friend Mr Doncker here has an urgent message for us from General De Wet.’ He stepped down and showed for Gideon to take his place.

  Gideon’s legs wobbled ever so slightly as he hoisted his weight onto the rock. He looked down to secure his footing, and then over the forty figures gathered in the gloom. Many of them looked half asleep, some of the others more so. He wondered for a moment if he had another choice, even at this late stage. Could he say anything different to steer events into a new direction, perhaps?

  ‘C’mon, Cheesehead, we don’t have all day.’

  Gideon didn’t see who urged him on. ‘I have important news and we must all remain calm.’ He took a deep breath. His voice had to be steady. ‘The war is over for us.’

  There was no response for a moment. Breytenbach, ever the joker, asked, ‘So the Khakis surrendered?’

  ‘I know it’s difficult to hear, but we are surrendering.’

  ‘Who says? Surely not De Wet.’

  ‘No … I say.’

  ‘And who the hell are you?’

  The question was about his authority, not his identity, but Gideon used the opportunity to come clean. ‘I am Trooper Gideon Lancaster of the First New Zealand Mounted Infantry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Liebenberg was incredulous.

  ‘I am a soldier of the Empire, doing my job.’

  ‘If that’s true …’ Du Plessis, the former field cornet, stepped forward. ‘You look like one of us. If we wear Khaki uniforms we get executed … I think we should shoot him now, boys!’

  Gideon raised his hand. ‘Wait! You should know that the ca
mp is surrounded by Empire forces. Listen to this.’ He pointed his rifle into open ground a few feet away and fired a shot.

  Within seconds another shot sounded in the distance, and then more, one after the other. The Australians had been told to each fire just after the man to their left. The sound subscribed a giant counter-clockwise circle around the camp.

  The Boers listened, some turning around to follow the sound. One or two sought the solidity of the earth, choosing to sit on the ground. A few clutched their rifles, aiming loosely at the invisible enemy. To Gideon’s left, the tent flap opened and Esther came out, wearing a white nightdress, her hair loose. She stood on bare feet, face raised, listening.

  ‘They’re all around and ready to shoot. There’s no sense in getting yourself killed now. Lay down your arms and you’ll be back to your homes and farms soon. This war cannot last much longer.’

  The Boers remained motionless, at a loss. It was a momentous event, they knew, but it felt unreal. Nobody had imagined their war might end like this, with this sickening betrayal.

  A group of armed riders appeared over the ridge, coming from the side where Gideon had lured the sentry away. The morning sun lit up their faces. Major Bryce rode in front, flanked by the two lieutenants and followed by a line of thirty riders under Australian bush hats, holding their Lee-Enfields by the handgrip, stocks against the saddle, barrels pointing forward. ‘Are we going to have trouble here?’ called Bryce.