Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Fitzroy was rinsing his hands and face.

  ‘Pardon me for intruding upon your ablutions, sir.’

  ‘Ah! What news of the feckless Gideon?’

  Withholding the bad news for a moment, Probyn handed his superior a towel, informing him of the witch-doctor’s charm. ‘You’ve never seen owt so putrid, sir! I were nearly sick meself. I can’t believe he thought it would cure him.’

  Fitzroy did not seem surprised. ‘Yes, well, don’t be misled by the fact that they go to church on Sunday. You’ll come to learn that it’s never far below the surface, innate barbarism.’

  After a moment’s thought, Probyn conveyed his news. ‘I have to tell you also, sir, that the piccaninnies have run away in the night, and they’ve taken a load of stuff with them.’

  The captain stopped drying his face, his cheerful air evaporating. ‘Damn! What sort of stuff?’

  ‘Couple of blankets and a bag of mealie and … I’m afraid they took a rifle, sir.’

  The captain was furious. This meant that yesterday’s ten mile trek would now have to be retaken. ‘Well, they shan’t get away with it. Go fetch Sergeant Faulkner then saddle my horse!’

  At first there was amusement from the men at the news of the boys’ abscondment, but when Sergeant Faulkner began to choose a dozen ‘volunteers’, telling them they would be required to go after the escapees, the mood was not so convivial.

  Whilst the rest remained at the camp to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, the captain, Privates Kilmaster, Melody, Ingham, Havron and nine others, retraced the track they had made twenty-four hours ago.

  With the sun at full strength the day became hot and dry and dusty, and was made even more unpleasant by the captain’s urgency to get this done. The miscreants could have been gone twelve hours, even on horseback it would be difficult to catch up with them before they reached the village. They did not stop for some miles, not even for the benefit of the horses, the captain saying they could enjoy an overnight rest when this was taken care of. There was one brief pause at a muddy waterhole, for the water wagon had been left behind in camp, but with an eye on the green scum on its surface the captain warned that it was fit only for animals and told them not to partake, they would have to eke out what was left in their bottles. When the horses had supped the soldiers remounted.

  ‘Permission to fall out and have a slash, sir!’ called Ingham, hanging back, Melody joining his plea.

  Leaving the two, Probyn set off with the rest, but something caused him to turn and he saw Ingham and Melody scooping handfuls of foul water to their lips. Realizing they had been spotted they quickly mounted and trotted after the group.

  Probyn launched a tirade at Mick for his imbecility, though kept his voice low, hissing through his teeth.

  ‘Ingham forgot to fill his water bottle before we left camp,’ explained Mick. ‘So I’ve been sharing mine with him but now it’s all gone.’

  ‘So thanks to big daft Ingham you’ve probably got a bellyful of worms!’

  ‘It tasted all right. Me throat’s parched I couldn’t—’

  But Probyn kicked his horse and trotted away up the column to ride beside the captain.

  ‘Righteous bugger,’ growled Ingham. ‘It’s worse than having your bloomin’ mother with you.’

  Mick was torn between agreement and loyalty to his friend. ‘Ah, maybe, but his heart is true.’

  * * *

  They were to make good time and reached the village well before nightfall, enabling them to perform a thorough search. Despite the protest of the induna that the boys had not returned, Captain Fitzroy demanded to know in which huts they lived and upon answer sent Kilmaster in to search one and Havron the other. The women who lived there stood by watching.

  Crouching, Probyn entered the windowless dwelling and looked around. There was no furniture to move, only a blanket and a few personal items: beads and feathers and the like. The interior was black with smoke and there was a hint of cow dung, but its floor had been polished to a high degree and it was a tidy dwelling. He was about to turn and leave when, after a quick decision to lift the blanket he found the stolen rifle. With a cry of triumph he emerged into the daylight.

  ‘Found this, sir!’

  ‘So, they haven’t been here?’ The captain beheld the induna with scepticism, as Havron came forth bearing army blankets. ‘I shall ask you again. Where are the boys?’

  ‘I have not seen them.’

  ‘Presumably these are their mothers.’ Fitzroy indicated the two women, then directed a final question at them. ‘Where are your sons?’

  At the negative response the officer looked grim. ‘Very well, we will take those.’ He pointed at two young goats which were small enough to be carried over the saddle. ‘And your houses will be burnt. Private Ingham, Private Barnes, do the honours.’

  Ingham looked round for a stick to shove into the fire, but was forced to ignite a rag and threw it atop the thatched roof which was soon ablaze, the other similarly dealt with. Upon seeing what was to happen the two women dashed into their homes to rescue their few belongings, then emerged to stand and watch as the blaze took hold.

  Satisfied that justice had been meted out, the captain gave the order to remount and the soldiers went on their way, taking the goats.

  Whilst admiring the captain for his firmness, Probyn could not help feeling sorry for the mothers who had done no wrong, and was later to voice his misgivings to his friends when they camped for the night.

  ‘It was hardly Buckingham Palace,’ scoffed Havron, trying to turn his biscuit to a more edible mush, ‘just dried mud clagged together with cow shit. They’ll rebuild them in no time.’

  ‘Yes, but however humble, if it were your home—’

  ‘You’re too soft.’ Ingham added his opinion.

  Probyn laughed then. ‘Not soft in t’head though! It weren’t me who forgot to fill me water bottle.’ Having noticed that neither Ingham nor Melody were partaking of the dry biscuits he understood the reason. Turning to Mick he enquired, ‘How much have you got left?’

  ‘Enough to wet me whistle,’ lied Mick whose throat felt like sandpaper. .

  ‘Here!’ Probyn handed over his own water bottle.

  ‘Ah no’

  ‘I’ll have a swig!’ Ingham lunged forth.

  But Probyn held it away, insisting that Mick drink first. ‘Go on, we’ll be back at camp in the morning.’

  Mick accepted gratefully, and afterwards Probyn allowed Ingham to sup too, though he wiped the neck of the bottle afterwards, conscious of the other’s slovenly eating habits.

  After this it was heads down till dawn.

  * * *

  Somewhat dehydrated, they were most thankful to reach the camp by mid-morning and, after slaking their thirst, were even more heartened when the captain ordered one of the goats to be slaughtered to provide dinner.

  They were to remain there until the following day when, fully rested, the homewards trek continued.

  Four days passed, days that varied little in their aridness. But Probyn rarely gave in to despondency, as others might.

  ‘Don’t you ever get sick of it?’ grumbled Mick, looking decidedly under the weather and seemingly irked by his friend’s capacity for remaining cheerful under such conditions, even the tough native horses were looking jaded.

  Probyn admitted with a weary, dust-laden smile that he did. ‘Well, aye, I suppose sometimes I fancy just being able to go down t’chip ’oile for one of each or a bottle o’ pop or see me Aunt Kit.’ But in truth no amount of hardship could quell the sheer joy of being amongst his fellows, his family, under skies that stretched to infinity. For him, nothing would ever be so grim as working down a black hole in the ground.

  In the late afternoon they made camp and, after setting the captain’s table with Huntley & Palmers and pouring him an aperitif, he filled an idle moment by composing a letter to his father. He was eager to tell those at home about the piccaninnies, and tried to include the native words he had
learned, having to write them as they sounded for he was not about to tempt ridicule by asking anyone how to spell them.

  Later there was another goat stew to enjoy, yet he noticed that Melody and Ingham barely touched it, taking to their beds much earlier than their fellows. Concerned, he shouted after them, ignored by Ingham but receiving the answer from Mick that he had a headache. He was about to question them further when the captain called for service, although he made a mental note to keep an eye on their welfare. With the captain relaxing over an after dinner whisky, Probyn stood outside his tent to watch the last remnants of the sunset, never failing to be moved by its magnificent colours. Smelling tobacco smoke, he turned to find the officer at his side and came to attention but was told to relax.

  Whisky in one hand, cigarette in the other, Captain Fitzroy seemed to be enjoying the sunset as much as he. ‘Just think, Private Kilmaster,’ he murmured, a note of wonder in his voice, ‘of this same sun setting at home in hours to come, and across the Atlantic to the West Indies and Canada, then to New Zealand and Australia, and Hong Kong, and on all her Majesty’s territories around the world, until it finally returns here to entertain us tomorrow evening. What a truly enviable role we share in upholding that Empire. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh, I surely do, sir!’ Probyn’s heart soared that the captain had chosen to share this intimate thought with him. They might be on different levels but on this point, as subjects of the glorious British Empire, they met as equals. ‘It’s a wonderful life. I wouldn’t change it for the world.’

  The captain emitted a soft laugh. ‘But you already have the world.’

  And when Probyn thought about it he realized that he had. And he could not have been happier.

  * * *

  At reveille Ingham and Melody had to be forcibly roused from their beds. This was not unusual, but it was apparent to Probyn who kept his eye on them all day that their state of health was not all it should be, and at the first opportunity he demanded to know what ailed them.

  Mick, looking none too happy, fobbed him off. ‘Just a dose of the runs, don’t concern yourself.’ .

  ‘I’ll bet it’s that mucky water hole!’ accused Probyn.

  ‘Shurrup!’ warned Ingham, similarly afflicted. ‘You’ll get us done.’

  ‘You should go and see Mr Bryant.’ The surgeon had accompanied them on the trek.

  ‘And get put on a charge for disobeying an order?’ scowled Ingham. ‘Just keep your neb out.’ And with that he rushed off, clutching his abdomen.

  Mick was close to follow, remaining only long enough to beg Probyn, ‘Keep it to yourself, Pa. We’ll be fine in a couple o’ days.’

  As the soldiers came closer to home their spirits became higher, all talking of what they were going to do when back at Eshowe. Probyn, however, remained concerned about Ingham and Melody who had grown more and more lethargic, neither eating, both obviously very ill, at every opportunity laying on the ground in the shade of their horses. He fought with his conscience: should he inform Sergeant Faulkner or remain loyal to his friends?

  In the end it was not for him to choose. Melody became so seriously dehydrated that he fell into unconsciousness and toppled from his saddle. Even as others rushed to attend him, Ingham followed suit, plummeting headfirst into a cloud of dust. Probyn finally had to convey his worries about the pair to Sergeant Faulkner. ‘They’ve had bad guts for days, Sergeant. I thought maybe it was that goat stew.’

  The sergeant narrowed his eyes then and, remembering the incident with Gideon and the senna pods, turned to Havron. ‘Have you been up to your tricks again?’

  Havron looked insulted. ‘No, Sergeant! I wouldn’t do that to me mates.’

  Knowing full well that this was the result of the infected water, Probyn declined to speak out; the pair were suffering enough. Instead he asked, ‘Shall I fetch Mr Bryant to have a look at them, Sarnt?’ At the sergeant’s nod, Probyn remounted and galloped along the column to inform the captain what was amiss. When it was seen how grievously ill were the pair, a tent was hastily erected and they were carried inside.

  Roused to semi-consciousness, the invalids were questioned, the surgeon coming straight to the point. ‘What are your motions like?’

  Even in this stupor Mick was hesitant to open his cracked lips, but Ingham with his usual delicacy groaned, ‘Pea soup, sir.’

  Bryant turned to the sergeant, obviously annoyed. ‘Didn’t anyone spot them becoming listless?’

  ‘Who’d notice the difference?’ Queen muttered jokingly.

  Probyn shot him a look of rebuke. At any other time he would have made the joke himself but this was a grave matter.

  The sergeant accepted the blame. ‘It’s enteric, isn’t it, sir? I should have noticed.’

  ‘We’ll have to get them back as soon as possible. Put them in the wagon!’

  With a canopy erected over the infected men, the column set off again, their pace more urgent in the need to get to hospital. The days suddenly seemed much longer. Soldiers took it in turns to jolt about with Melody and Ingham in the wagon, draping wet rags on their foreheads to try and quell their raging temperature. Now added to their symptoms a crop of rose-coloured spots crept over their perspiring bodies.

  It was therefore of great relief to all when they arrived back at Fort Nongqayi and the invalids were immediately conveyed to hospital, though it did little to stem Probyn’s guilt over keeping quiet for so long, thereby endangering his friends, and this preoccupation was to offend his superior who, after the long trek, was looking forward to luncheon at the mess and intelligent conversation with his peers.

  The captain gave a yell as scalding water was added to his bath. ‘Aagh! I said a little more hot! What the devil’s wrong with you, Private, you almost ruined my manhood!’

  Probyn was mortified. ‘I’m very sorry, sir!’ And he rushed to compensate with a jug of cold water. ‘I was just wondering how my pals are!’

  ‘A lot better than I am, I sincerely hope!’ But the captain was joking now, and dipped his shoulders under the water in a luxuriating manner. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Probyn became more attentive to the task in hand, pouring the captain a glass of sherry which he periodically handed to him as he bathed.

  Once dried and dressed, Captain Fitzroy asked to be informed by Lieutenant Percy about any reports that had come in during his absence. It transpired that there had been further Matabele raids on the Shona, but more seriously there had been incidents against European settlers.

  As always Probyn eavesdropped on these conversations and, though it was impertinent, could not resist asking the captain later if there was a chance of war.

  Refreshed from his bath and anticipating a hearty luncheon, Fitzroy was congenial. ‘Highly unlikely. Personally there’s nothing I’d like better than to see some action, but we’re not permitted to declare war unless British subjects are threatened. This ruction between the Mats and Shonas is nothing new.’ He became pleasantly thoughtful. ‘Nevertheless I think we shall have to get the men to improve their laagering skills. Three minutes is far too slow. Remind me to have a word with Sergeant Faulkner. Now, I shall repair to the mess. And you, my good fellow may have the afternoon to do as you please.’

  Thanking him, Probyn went to find out whether there had been any news of Mick and Ingham, but no one had heard.

  There was no word the following morning either. After dutifully serving the captain all day, after tea Probyn asked if he might go and check on the invalids’ progress. It seemed absurd to him that his friends should be at death’s door after one sip of water whilst here was Gideon in the rudest of health even after nibbling on putrid flesh.

  There was still no news of Mick but the others seemed not so concerned, too busy catching up with their mail that had arrived that morning and which they had only just had time to open. Probyn, too, found a letter to brighten his life. Forgetting about Mick for the present, he sat down on the step
to open it, a ripple of happiness touching his heart in this pleasant evening. To a background of whirring crickets, the noisy twittering of birds from the forest as they jostled to find a roost for the night, and the pine-scented breeze rustling the palm fronds outside the turreted wall, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

  After wishing him a happy twentieth birthday, Meredith’s letter opened with the news that, following the birth of her son last year, she had just had a little girl, Well, I say little, wrote Merry, she was a ten and a half pounder. I wonder if I’m going to match Rhoda and Alice in having one boy and three girls. Still, I think I’ll wait a while to find out! Smiling, Probyn’s eyes moved on. He had barely reached halfway down the page before emitting a violent exclamation. ‘The bloody swine!’

  ‘Eh, steady on, Pa!’ There was a combined outlet of mock horror, but his face remained deadly serious and his anger was all too apparent.

  ‘A bunch of strikers have been round to me dad’s house and roughed him up. He’s had an apoplexy!’

  They were all ears then, wanting to know more as his horrified gaze raced over the letter, reading aloud as he went. ‘My God, this was written over a month ago, he could be dead!’ So contented had he become amongst his army pals, it came as a jolt that he still had a blood family who might be in urgent need of him. Swamped by guilt that he had not been there to protect his father he stood there completely stunned as others tried to rally him.

  ‘He might just be paralysed,’ said Rook. ‘Me grandma lived for years after she had hers.’

  Probyn remained dazed, unsure what an apoplexy involved. Could his father see or hear anything? Even if he were to send a letter he wouldn’t know what to say, how to comfort him. His army training had not equipped him with such skills. One thing was certain: ‘I’ll have to ask for leave.’