Temptation (Avon Red)

by Leda Swann

  Anstruther peered down his nose as if he were examining a speck of dung on his boot, and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “The land is as flat my mother-in-law’s chest. If the Boers try anything foolish, we shall see them come riding up to us from a mile away.”

  “But—”

  Anstruther cut him off before he could finish pointing out that the ground was deceptively uneven. “Boers got you rattled, have they?” he asked condescendingly.

  Percy was too angry at the insinuation that he was a coward to reply.

  “There’s no need to worry about them,” Anstruther continued, quite oblivious to Percy’s fury. “They are like the toothless old collie dog I left in England—their bark is worse than their bite. They’ll soon learn we’re wise to their bluster.”

  “And if they take advantage of the uneven ground and attack?”

  “Then we fight them off. We have ten times their firepower. They are no match for a well-trained group of Englishmen.” He gave Percy a barely veiled look of disdain that indicated how little he thought of his junior officer’s fears. “Now, off into line with you.”

  Percy saluted slowly, wondering how he could convince the lieutenant-colonel that real danger lay ahead of them. As an English officer, he could not disobey a direct order from his commander, but every nerve in his body screamed that they were heading into a trap. “If you are quite sure that the Boers have no plan whatsoever behind their bravado,” he said stoutly, “then I will be happy to fall back into line at your express order.”

  The older man paused for a moment at the hint of insubordination in his tone and gave a brief glance at the road in front of him. Then he sat up fractionally straighter on his horse, a slight frown creasing his brow. “I suppose it would do no harm to give the order for the ammunition to be passed out before we continue our march. It will give the men confidence and cheer their spirits to think they might have a chance to engage with the enemy.”

  That was at least something, though not the order to take out a scouting party that he had been hoping for. He saluted again, rather more smartly this time, and kicked his mare into a trot.

  The ammunition wagon was toward the middle of the column, where it could easily be protected if they were surprised. The company quartermaster grumbled morosely as he wrestled the heavy covers off the wagon. “Four hours time and all this lot will have to be put back again. I wonder if the colonel thought of that when he gave the orders to unpack it all.”

  “I expect he thought more about the danger his soldiers could face if they were to cross the veld without any bullets in their guns,” Carterton said, in a voice that showed how little he thought of the man shirking in his duty.

  The quartermaster muttered a few curses under his breath about goddamned officers sitting up on their high horses and expecting foot soldiers to do all the work, but there was little heat in his words. Despite his grumbling, he had the covers off the wagons as smartly as any commanding officer could wish, and was handing out the rifles with an ease born of long practice.

  Even so, a good half hour had passed before the column of troops was once more underway.

  Carterton swung back into line with the sergeant-major. His mare was favoring one of her hind legs once more. With a sigh, he reminded himself that the welfare of an officer’s horse came before his own comfort. He dismounted, grimacing as his feet hit the packed earth with a thud that scraped needles of pain across his heels. Yesterday’s march had been long and painful. Today’s was going to be worse.

  Walking on and on, across a never-ending plain, put his mind to sleep. His feet followed the steps of the man in front of him without him consciously willing them to while his mind drifted off into a waking dream. Once the war in South Africa was over, his regiment would return to England, victorious.

  He would marry Beatrice as soon as he could arrange for the banns to be read. As his wife, the wife of an officer, she would be able to follow the regiment when they were next posted out of England. In addition to his captain’s pay, he could, if he chose, draw a significant income from the family’s estate. He had taken pride in accepting nothing from his brother all these years—not even what he was legally entitled to. Once he was married, that would change. His wife was more important than his pride. Beatrice would not want for anything—he would delight in spoiling her.

  Once they were married, he would never have to be parted from her again. They would have a parcel of children, girls as pretty as their mother, and boys with all her courage and dedication…

  When the first shots rang out over the veld, he did not immediately realize they were under attack. The first thought that crossed his mind was that one of the less disciplined soldiers had spied a buzzard and decided to pick it off to add to his supper that evening. He looked around the men with some irritation, hoping it wasn’t one of his who had broken ranks. Such an infraction would have to be punished, and though he knew it was essential to keep order in the ranks, he disliked having to punish the men under his command.

  Not until one of the soldiers several paces in front of him staggered in his tracks, gave a gurgle of distress, and dropped to the ground, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, did he understand. The man had been shot.

  Sweat coated Carterton’s hands, making it hard to hold his rifle, and despite the heat, his skin was cold and clammy. The shot had come so unexpectedly, out of nowhere. One moment the man had been walking across the veld with the rest of them, and now he was on the ground.

  Carterton stopped dead, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes could see. The man in front of him twitched once, and then lay still. Dead.

  It was as he had feared all along—they had walked straight into a trap.

  A trumpet blast from the rear of the column sounded an alarm, but the trumpeter was cut off in midblast, his warning ending abruptly when another couple of shots rang out over the veld, finding their targets with unerring accuracy.

  Fear hit him with the force of a bayonet to the chest. Were all his hopes and dreams going to end here, on the high veld of South Africa, done to death by a Boer bullet?

  “Shoot the bastards,” he yelled at his men. He dropped to one knee, bracing his rifle against his shoulder, blinking furiously to get the dust out of his eyes, the dust that was making them water and blurring his vision. “Aim at their hearts. If you’re a poor shot, aim at their horses.” Damn it, but the trumpeter had been barely out of his teens. Far too young to die in the dirt like a dog.

  It was harder to follow his own instructions than he had thought. The Boers had picked a perfect time and place for their ambush. They rode singly, rather than keeping in formation. In their mud-colored clothes, riding dun horses, they merged into the veld as if they were a part of it. He had to squint into the lowering sun to pick them out.

  Just as he got one in his sights and pulled the trigger, the bastard would wheel away and his shot would be wasted. Though he was one of the best marksmen in the regiment, the best he could do was to bring down a horse or two, and take their riders out of action that way.

  Few of the men under the other captains had the good sense to aim with any care. They were firing volleys into the air in the general direction of the attacking Boers, counting on the frequency and denseness of their fire to thin the number of attackers. But the Boers were already spread so thinly across the vast landscape that such tactics were utterly useless.

  Carterton wanted to scream in frustration as volley after volley of British fire slammed harmlessly into the ground, while every Boer bullet found its mark in the heart of a British soldier. “Aim, you fools,” he shouted at them until his voice was hoarse. “Don’t just shoot. Aim.”

  It was over almost as soon as it had begun. He had barely drawn half a dozen breaths before three quarters of the British soldiers were dead or dying on the veld, and the white flag was rising from the ruins of what remained.

  He dropped his rifle and rose to his feet again, the horror of the massacre
around him pulling at his soul. The Boers had picked off those riding horses first—to get rid of the chain of command. Barely a single officer was left standing, and those who were still alive were bleeding from half a dozen wounds.

  Beside him, the sergeant-major had sunk to the ground, his face white and etched with pain. One of his legs was bent at an awkward angle beneath him. Young Teddy Clemens was bending over him. “It’s broken.” His voice was hoarse with gunpowder smoke, and he cleared his throat with an awkward cough. “He needs a surgeon.”

  Carterton questioned him with a glance, glad to see the lad still on his feet. “And you?”

  “Not a scratch on me.” The usual laughter in Teddy’s voice was absent. “I must have the luck of the devil.” He looked up and immediately jumped to his feet, ripping off his jacket as he did so. “You’re bleeding.”

  Carterton looked at the boy in surprise. “I am?” He had not felt a thing while the shooting was in full swing, but now that he looked down at himself; he could see that his right side was covered in blood and his arm felt as though it was on fire.

  With deft hands, Teddy tied a tourniquet around his arm to stop the blood flow. “Thank God for Beatrice, who told me what to do about stuff like this,” he muttered as he tied it in a tight knot. “Or I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do.”

  Once he was bandaged up and the bleeding had stopped, the two of them splinted the sergeant-major’s leg as best they could and half carried, half dragged him to the surgeon’s cart. The Boers were too busy looting the supply wagons to pay the survivors of the massacre any heed.

  “Take care, old fellow,” Carterton said with a cheerfulness he did not feel, as he and Clemens left the sergeant-major in the shade of the wagon with a flask of water. “The surgeon will have you put to rights in no time.”

  The effort of carrying his friend to the surgeon had caused his arm to start bleeding again. The makeshift bandage Teddy Clemens had tied around him was heavy with blood. Despite feeling dizzy with blood loss, he followed Teddy back out into the heat to see who else of their regiment they could salvage from this bloody disaster of a battle.

  So much for their glorious homecoming, Carterton thought savagely to himself later that evening, as he collapsed exhausted on to the ground. Too, too many of his men were dead, and he had done what he could for those who were hurt. It was up to God and the surgeon now whether they died of their wounds or no.

  Teddy handed him a canteen of water and he drank it greedily.

  The Boers, reluctant to burden themselves with prisoners, had ridden off again, after first plundering the wagons of as much food and ammunition as they could carry and extracting from the severely wounded Lieutenant-Colonel a promise that he would lead no more men into battle with them. Those left alive were not prisoners, but their situation was precarious nonetheless. They had scores of wounded men to transport, little ammunition, and not enough water to last the distance.

  Come morning, they would have to bury their dead, load as many of the wounded into carts as they could, and limp back to camp, defeated.

  Six

  Beatrice twisted her fingers together as she stared down at the letter in front of her. Captain Carterton had written it to her the night before his regiment had been sent away on extended patrol. Both he and Teddy had been on the front for weeks now. Since she had received the letter the evening before, she had been up most of the night, worrying.

  News from the front had been reaching England from telegraphed messages sent from South Africa. The news was all bad for the English. One by one, they had lost every battle in which they had been engaged. The casualties on the English side had been horrific. Every day, more telegraphed messages arrived with the names of the dead inscribed in them.

  Word was that the Boers had lost barely a handful of men. They were invincible. The best regiments of English soldiers had been set against them, but not all the might of the English regiments could defeat the handful of ragtag Boer farmers.

  And both Teddy and Captain Carterton were charged with fighting them.

  Would Teddy ever come home, or would he find a grave in the barren South African lands, along with so many of his fallen comrades? And the Captain? Would this be the last letter she ever received from him? Would her fantasies be buried out there in the veld along with his body?

  Their names hadn’t yet appeared in the lists of the dead, but she hardly dared hope they were still alive. So many new names were added each day. In times of war, the life of a soldier was so precarious.

  A tear fell, blurring the ink on the paper in front of her. She blotted it carefully with the tip of her finger. These might be the last words she ever received from the captain. She would not let them be spoiled.

  Bronkhorstspruit, Transvaal, November 1880

  Dearest, lovely Beatrice,

  Truly you have a wonderful spirit to write such a daring letter. I read it every night and every morning, I’m sure I could recite it word for word without a glance if I did not enjoy so much holding in my hands the paper which you yourself have also held.

  And the small lock of hair! What a wonderful, wonderful gift. I have carefully placed it in a small envelope that I made especially, and keep it in my breast pocket so that it is directly over my heart. I save it for special occasions when I am alone (I’m sure you know what I mean) and brush my lips with its softness. I imagine I can smell your scent on it, lingering long after it was cut.

  It is just past sunset and there is not much light in my tent, my haste and the darkness are combining to cause my penmanship to be not to its usual standard. I fear things are getting a bit sticky here. We have been given orders to pack for a march and assemble in a column at dawn tomorrow. I should be seeing to my men, but I have taken a few moments to scribble a last letter to you, for I do not know the destination of our march, nor do I know for how long we will be absent from our base.

  The Boers are making noises of independence and resent our presence. I feel sure there will soon be some sort of uprising where blood will be spilt. I guess that our marching orders were given to neutralize a new Boer threat. Of course we shall win, with our superior tactics and discipline—the Boers are merely a bunch of ragtag farmers with old hunting rifles.

  Worry not for me, my love. My rifle is clean and ready, my ammunition pouches are filled with live ammunition, and my kit is packed ready for the morning with your letters safely wrapped in an oilskin cloth. But I do often wonder at the reason we are here.

  If it were not for English hubris in claiming this scrubby desert land we would be at home with our families, I am sure. What do we English want with this land? It is fit for nothing, and scarcely allows the Boers, who have made it their home, to maintain a livelihood. If they will attack, we shall repel, and who will be the losers in this? I’ll tell you who, it’s the mothers and fathers who lose their sons, and the daughters and sons who lose their fathers. They will be the real losers.

  Centuries ago the Dominican priest Aquinas wrote of three rules for a war to be just. It must be started and controlled by the authority of state, there must be a just cause, and the war must be for good, or against evil. This impending fight (call it a war, for what else is it when men kill each other in large numbers) does not, in my opinion, seem to meet all of Aquinas’s rules. We English are fighting for dominion over a wasteland that no one but a people as desperate and unsociable as the Boers could possibly want. How can this then be a just war?

  Of course I will do my duty, and fight for Queen and Country, but I cannot help but wonder at the justice and the waste of such actions. Surely diplomacy and negotiation are far cheaper in both money and lives.

  Oh, what a depressing line of thought! If this is indeed my last letter for a while then what a miserable one it is! I shall dwell no longer on such negative thoughts, and in my last minutes of private time I shall think of you, of our lives together in a halcyon future.

  I dream we are in a comfortable bed, the sheets are in disar
ray, and the eiderdown has half fallen to the floor. The curtains are open and the warm sunshine falls on our naked bodies. Outside it is a lovely summer morning, the hills are green and the air is peaceful and quiet.

  I can’t tear my eyes away from you, your eyes are closed and your breasts rise and fall with your soft breathing. But I don’t think you are asleep. Earlier you woke me with a kiss to my cock, I was hard within seconds of your soft mouth engulfing me. I tasted and nuzzled you, and your smell was just as I imagined from that small lock of hair you sent me a lifetime ago.

  Alas I must leave my dream there, the light has all but gone and I have things I must do before we march at dawn. By the time you read this it is likely my life will be different. Most probably there will be a battle with the Boers, and most probably I will have killed someone’s son, or I will take the life of some poor child’s father. But I pray not, and I pray that reason will prevail.

  My next letter will tell of a peaceful resolution or of a violent one. Until then I will be thinking of you every hour of every day.

  All my love,

  Percy

  By the time she had finished, her eyes were awash with tears. The sun was bright now, but her spirits were heavy. Wearily, she threw off her dressing gown and put on her uniform. Though she was exhausted in mind and body, there were patients at the hospital who needed her.

  Her first patient of the day was a badly burned young man. She put up a screen around him before she pulled back the covers to wash what was left of his mangled body. The poor man deserved some privacy for his hideous burns, received from an accidental blast at a gunpowder factory where he had been working. He had been carried in to the hospital on a makeshift stretcher by his workmates the day before, more dead than alive.