The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set

by Peter Rimmer

  “How on earth did that lot of twits conquer a quarter of the world?” said Tinus.

  “They may look like twits but they’re going to eat a better lunch than us.”

  “Maybe not. We’ll attack at the end of lunch when they’re all full of food and wine. Karel, I want you to take thirty men upriver; Magnus, you take thirty downriver. I heard it said that at the end of lunch they clear everything off the table and bring out the port and then someone stands up to propose a toast to the Queen. When he stands up, it’s the signal to take out the sentries. When you have their full attention, I’m going to swim across with the rest of the commando. My guess is that’s their divisional headquarters and the fat old fart who came up last for his sherry is General Gore-Bilham.”

  “What about the crocodiles?”

  “Don’t splash. By the time the crocodiles have taken an interest, we will all be across. I’ve checked them all on the sandbanks. Most have their mouths wide open and are enjoying the sun. If one goes for you mind its tail, not its mouth. Kei will stay on this side of the river with the dogs and the horses.”

  Within thirty seconds of the mess vice-president standing to propose the toast to the sovereign, eighteen of the sentries were dead, shot through the head by a marksman who could shoot the eye out of a flying eagle three times out of five. The thorn thicket surrounding the river camp had given perfect cover to the Boers. By the time the officers and their general were aware of what was happening, a giant of a man dripping river water was standing at the foot of the table.

  “Sit down, gentlemen. You are prisoners of war,” he said in perfect English.

  Twenty minutes later, having eaten what was left of the lunch, the Boer commando pulled back over the river. The tents, the general’s caravan and the field kitchen were left burning. The fat general and seven of his senior staff were manhandled across the river, along with thirty of the best horses.

  While the British Army was still pushing towards the Bechuanaland border, Tinus led his men and their captives in the opposite direction, stopping ten miles from the Crocodile River.

  “Take their clothes down to their socks and underwear and let them loose,” Tinus said in Afrikaans.

  From the height of his horse, Tinus watched the British being stripped of their dignity.

  “You are now free to go,” he said to the general in English. Then the mounted Boers and the spare horses trotted off into the bush.

  When he looked back from a rise, the British were still standing in their underwear. “Welcome to Africa,” he said again in English, knowing he was too far for them to hear. ‘They will have sore feet and blistered bodies from the sun but will probably live,’ he said to himself. When taking them prisoner he had taken three British water bottles for each officer. Even in war, there were rules in the African bush.

  Billy Clifford, who was writing a series of stories for the Irish Times on the great British sweep to capture the Giant, was the first to reach the divisional headquarters attracted by the flames that burnt high in the sky, the smoke visible from fifteen miles; the thorn thicket that had allowed the Boer marksman to reach within fifty yards of the sentries had burnt in a rush of heat, the fire feeding on itself in the heart of the dry thorn bush. With the camera equipment that had reached him from Ireland before Christmas, he and three other reporters spurred their horses towards the rising cloud of smoke. The wind that had blown the Boer rifle fire away from their ears turned and brought with it the deep sounds of exploding ammunition boxes. Then nothing. As they rode towards the Crocodile River, there was only the billowing smoke and silence.

  Anything less like a British divisional headquarters was hard to be seen. Even if the officers had thought to ride after the Boers their saddles had been burnt in the fire, their horses scattered in the bush, and the one patrol that crossed the river led by a blue-blooded young subaltern looking for excitement came back with the story that the Boers had split off in seven different directions. They were still waiting for the recalled troops from the Bechuanaland border to pursue the Boers and the captives.

  Billy, being an Irishman with a sneaking sympathy for the Boers, saw the funny side of it: the British were running around like chickens with their heads chopped off amid the sound of grunts and wallowing hippos from the pools. By the time the blood-red sun began to sink into the bush, splashing the flowing surface of the Crocodile River with red, some semblance of order had returned. The fires were out, and the men killed in the ambush had been buried with a brief service by the padre. Everyone, including Billy, was nervous of a second Boer attack under the cover of darkness, the power of Africa enveloping the men far away from the green and safe pastures of England where predators no longer existed. Out in the dark, hyena circled, having long smelt the blood of the dead, their eyes lit up with stark penetration by the one British searchlight that worked, probing the smouldering bush and hippo-grunting river for the enemy. By the time all the light had left the heavens, the screech of the cicadas and river frogs was deafening while far across the river a lion roared and was answered, the sound churning deep fear into Billy’s bowels. The burnt-out camp was dark except for the intermittent probing of the searchlight.

  At close to midnight a troop of mounted dragoons, their horses savaged by riding through the bush in the dark, rode into the camp attracted by the searchlight which identified them before shots could be fired. Then the light gave out and only a lacework of stars, layer after layer, showed Billy there was something else other than the primal dark. No one slept, everyone waiting for the dawn, and when the moon rose at three in the morning, it was only a thin crescent below the stars and threw no light on the darkness. Everywhere the night belonged to the animals. When a voice called from across the river even Billy wondered if it was the spirit of a dead sentry trying to find his way to heaven. Then everyone waited for the Boer attack that never came.

  General Gore-Bilham was not amused. The blisters on his shoulders had burst and his bare feet were bleeding from toe to heel. His senior colonel had been half carried through the bush having been bitten by a black scorpion and was probably going to die. Only the general had stopped his officers blundering across the river in the night. Having told his officers to lie down and find cover, it was the general himself who announced their presence from behind the twisted trunk of an old acacia tree. Then he had stood up with the rest of his officers.

  Billy, standing with his camera on the bank of the river, had a clear view of Major-General William Gore-Bilham on the opposite bank. The man was dressed in his one-piece underwear and did not seem to care who saw his predicament.

  “Someone bring my cloak across, damn you,” he bellowed.

  Billy, sensing his chance of a lifetime and blind to the lurking crocodiles, waded into the water where there was a drift that would take him to within twenty yards of the opposite bank. Having gone across as far as he could with adrenaline pumping through his body and his mind as clear as crystal, Billy took his photographs of the general that were to syndicate around the world.

  In Pretoria two weeks later, Colonel Hickman, Chief of British Intelligence in South Africa, received an order from Major-General Gore-Bilham to meet him at divisional headquarters at two-thirty in the afternoon.

  James Brigandshaw, included in the order, remembered the general well, having been told that British soldiers did not run around the bush without a proper chain of command. On the general’s desk were different newspapers but as they were turned around one by one for army intelligence to read, all of them showed Billy Clifford’s photograph, only the captions changing. All the newspapers were South African except for the Rhodesia Herald, the English papers still on the water.

  “Every paper in England and America will front-page this photograph! How did your censorship allow this out of the country?” Despite his well-peeled nose, the general looked no different to James. “Can you think what my club will say? Improperly dressed, my God. I want that Boer rebel now more than ever. I want him
hunted down. I want him caught. I want him tried. I want him hanged by his neck. Brigandshaw! You mentioned a bushwhacking brother with a lot of dirty linen. You wanted commandos on horseback like the Boers. Trying to catch that damn man in a dragnet is like eating soup with a fork. Every time you get a bit on the fork it dribbles off before you can get it to your mouth. Hunt the man, if that’s what it takes.”

  “How is Colonel Hall?” asked Hickman politely.

  “Dead. Killed by a bloody scorpion. If it hadn’t been for the smoke and the searchlight none of us would have come out alive. Look,” he said and pulled his right foot out from under his desk. “No shoes, dammit. I’m padding around the officers’ mess in a pair of socks with everyone looking at my photograph, of me, sir, in my underwear!”

  “I believe General Oosthuizen left you water,” said Colonel Hickman.

  “Brigandshaw,” shouted the general. “You have a problem, sir. Hunt the man, you hear me. Dismissed.”

  Outside in the corridor and very quickly, James asked a question. “Has anyone in the press found out the true identity of the Giant?”

  “Yes, Martinus Oosthuizen. Why? You can leave for Rhodesia tomorrow. Can’t have the Boers making fools of us, now can we? I liked the one headline: ‘Stripped of more than his uniform, stripped of his dignity’. You do see the problem don’t you, Brigandshaw?”

  “Do you mind, sir, if we find a place for a very private conversation? You see, Tinus Oosthuizen was my brother’s mentor and partner. When I suggested asking my brother to hunt the rebel Boer, I had no idea of his true identity.”

  “Then don’t tell your brother.”

  “Isn’t that dishonest?”

  “Oh, James, come and have a drink with me in the hotel across the street. We all talk about being officers and gentlemen. Most of us even think we are. You and I have a job to do. We have a duty. The filth of war comes in more than one set of clothing. Ask the general.”

  “I can’t lie to Seb.”

  “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about. Don’t tell him. That’s not telling a lie.”

  “And if he catches him or kills him?”

  “Then it will be too late.”

  “He’ll never speak to me again.”

  “I rather gather your family didn’t speak to him either for a long time. Whatever you say about Tinus Oosthuizen, he’s a rebel, a traitor. James, his mother was a McDonald. He lived in Rhodesia under the protection of the Crown. We can’t have people going around biting off the hand that feeds them. He should have stayed at home with his English wife and children. Now, you go and get your brother into the army. And that’s an order. Which is more important, your brother or your country? He also benefits from the Crown’s protection. Now it’s his turn to do something in return. In a society, you can’t have the benefits without a contribution.”

  “Do you think they’d hang Oosthuizen if they caught him?”

  “Who knows? Maybe. Maybe not. Probably not if that helps you. This has gone on far longer than it should have done. Snuff out the Boer hopes and the suffering comes to an end. These camps are a disgrace but the only way to stop the disease is to let everyone out to roam the bush, and that’s equally dangerous for women and children. The way to end their misery is to stop the war quickly. All this Oosthuizen is doing is prolonging the agony and some of the Boer fighters agree and have come across to the British. Only a few. But it’s a start. The damn Boers should have given in when we took Pretoria.”

  “But they didn’t,” said James.

  The next day, and not for the first time, James began the ride that would take him north, over the Limpopo River and through the mopane forest to his brother’s farm on the banks of the Mazoe River.

  The letter from Harry from his school in Cape Town left Sebastian with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Emily had written to Alison telling her the boy was back at school and Harry had waited in vain for his invitation to the farm in Franschhoek. He could only imagine he had said something to offend Uncle Tinus on his last visit, it being difficult to remember Uncle Tinus was really a Boer. Harry had explained his dilemma to his mother in his earlier letters after the railway line south was open and he had been able to go back to school. There had been no word from Alison and both of them had thought the war was the reason: correctly, Alison was taking the side of her husband’s family. The lack of communication was a product of the war which would go away when hostilities came to an end.

  During the Christmas school holidays, Harry, unable to go home because of the dangers of travelling by rail with the trains still being ambushed by Boer commandos and, bored to tears, had persuaded an older schoolfriend to drive out to the farm, Kleinfontein, to at least apologise for what he might have said. Seb, reading the letter between the lines, saw his son was homesick; Alison had been his second mother. Seb even thought Harry’s feelings were hurt, being cut off without a word. The friend’s father had lent them a horse and trap and off they had gone early one morning, knowing that if they were not welcome, they would have to drive themselves back before dark. On a beautiful morning and at a spanking pace the two boys set off for the Franschhoek Valley to find Uncle Tinus gone to the war and Aunty Alison in a state that barely let her give them lunch let alone invite them to stay for a few days which had been their hope. To make it worse, nine-year-old Barend refused to speak English and never even asked after Harry’s sister Madge. Tinka had seemed pleased enough to see him but she was only five years old. With Aunty Alison returning to her room straight after lunch the boys left to drive home, passing the heavily drawn curtains of the room Harry knew to be his aunt’s. Harry said it was the most embarrassing day in his life, and his friend had not been amused having driven all that way just for lunch.

  It was a week of surprises for Seb. His brother, Reverend Nathanial Brigandshaw and his family, paid an unannounced visit. Soon after, the new Mrs Francesca Shank brought her ten-month-old son for her first visit since going to live with Jeremiah Shank, becoming the mistress of Holland Park, the twenty-thousand-acre estate on the Hunyani River. Fran had been full of Lord Holland, Jeremiah’s mentor, arriving for a visit. Politely, Seb had turned down the invitation to take his lordship on a hunting safari into the Zambezi Valley, telling Emily afterwards how strange it was that people popped up in life when they wanted something.

  Three days later James rode through the palisade and Seb was on his guard.

  “What do you want?” he asked his brother pleasantly but bluntly when he, James and Emily were seated in deck chairs under the shade of a msasa tree with the river nicely visible through the trees, the lawn in between cut perfectly, the flowers around the tree trunks blooming in a riot of colour, bougainvillea climbing up some of the trees splashing red, orange and mauve all the way to the top and the clear blue sky.

  “We have a problem with the Boers who won’t give up.”

  “It rather looks that way. Seems one of your generals was made to look a first-class fool.”

  “You read about that,” said James uncomfortably.

  “Yes. We do have a newspaper. Frankly, I thought it rather funny.”

  “One of the colonels died from a scorpion bite.”

  “Should have cut out the poison straight away. Probably a black scorpion.”

  “That’s why we need your help, Seb.”

  “You see, Em, I was right. Whoever comes to see us wants something. Nat was here the other day. Had something on his mind but whatever it was he left without telling us. He didn’t even lecture us on not going to church.”

  “Arthur’s dead.”

  “Arthur!” said Emily, thinking with aversion of the man she had been told to marry after Seb had been sent out of England when he was seventeen years old and Emily pregnant with his child.

  “He got so fat and debauched his heart gave out.”

  “Well, why didn’t Nat say?”

  “You’d better ask him. Arthur only had himself to blame. Too much money without an
y responsibility. And father’s favourite. Poor mother. Poor, long-suffering mother. She’s had a terrible life. All that effort with us children and none of us there to give her hope. She hates your ancestral home, Emily. Did you know that? If mother had her choice, she would go back north to the village where she was born. But now she’s Lady Brigandshaw, the friends of her youth would have nothing to do with her. You can’t go back, you know… Now, let me tell you how I think this war can be brought to a conclusion and how you can help. You’re an Englishman, Seb. You have a responsibility. You can’t run away from your responsibilities in life.”

  “I’m going for a walk with the dogs,” said Emily. “I don’t think I want to hear. When people start talking about other people’s responsibilities, I don’t want to hear. Mostly they are passing the buck, as I believe they say in America. We have a cousin in Canada, somewhere. Heir to Father’s title. Now, why did I think of the lumberjack all of a sudden? Madge, come along. We’re all going for a walk. Go and tell Grandfather and make sure he brings his forked stick for the snakes. Now, where are those dogs?”