The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  Colonel Alderson appeared out of the smoke and dust, tootling on a brass hunting horn. He lowered it and yelled, “Get out as best you can!”

  The riders sprayed from the smoking hole, dodging rocks and shell holes. Everybody was trying to stay away from everyone else. Frank had Ovide twenty feet on his offside. The Beltons must be behind because he could not see them. The plain was worse footing now than yesterday, chopped to mud and slippery with frost.

  Toward the bridge, the fan of riders started to funnel. Frank looked at Ovide, who bunted his head toward the river. That’s where they went. They urged Dunny and the Boer gelding into the yellow water, praying for a bottom that wouldn’t suck them down. Frank looked at everything that might not be water, lest a stick turn crocodile. The horses’ eyes were wild, heads jerking. Then they were bucking and lunging through the ice fringe on the opposite bank, flanks streaming, trying to shake the water off beneath their loads. Frank looked back and the Beltons were coming, Eddy on his lumbering war horse, Pete on an Argentine. The four crossed the brush at the river’s edge and faced the second plain. Entered it at a gallop.

  They did not stop until they reached the first British cow gun. A dozen African bullwhackers were forcing dozens of oxen to turn it. A Tommy Atkins came over, a small bustling man. He was a bombardier and treated them like tourists. He explained the gun and its range, and how they aimed it.

  “Now you see over there?” Because he was looking through field glasses and did not offer them, they could not see. “See that puff of smoke on the ridge? You might think that’s one of Johnny Boer’s. But it isn’t, see? They blow up a bag of gunpowder, even flour. Hide their guns behind the hill. Move them around. To make my life difficult.”

  Fred Morden arrived leading his blown horse. The black’s face was white with froth and ash. Fred heard the last part about how it was hard to locate the Boer guns.

  “We use Canadians for that,” he said.

  “Good idea,” said the Tommy, dropping his field glasses onto his chest. He walked off, unaware there’d been a joke.

  More of Hutton’s brigade gathered by the cow gun. Out of the Mounted Rifles, Stevens, Dore, and one other—the wounded men—were brought together and a red cross flag placed over them. Frank stared at Stevens, who had it worst. Likely even he would live, so the luck of the Mounted Rifles was holding. They had still not lost a man in battle. Rations were issued, and the Rifles were told to fill their water bottles from a barrel on a wagon. It suggested their day of fighting was not over.

  A British major rode up. Speaking on behalf of Alderson, he explained what was next. On the west end of the Boers’ ridge was a rocky feature called Doornkop. The infantry were going to take it by frontal assault. While the Boers were occupied, the cavalry and mounted artillery would hook around the Boers’ right. The major pointed to where Doornkop was.

  “It’s the one that’s smoking. The Boers have lit it on fire. Doornkop’s where Dr. Jameson surrendered in ’95. We must take it.”

  Seeing the blankness of their faces, he shrugged and rode away, his fat horse farting on every jolt.

  Morden’s four rode east beside Frank’s. Frank asked Morden who Jameson was.

  “I don’t know about Jameson,” said Fred, “but the Jameson Raid was something Cecil Rhodes paid for. Policemen from Rhodesia rode down to take Johannesburg. The uitlanders were supposed to rise up and help them. When they didn’t, the Boers trapped Jameson and his raiders on the Doornkop.”

  When the Canadians got to where the cavalry and other MI were massing, all of the riders were facing north and studying the Doornkop. Lieutenant Davidson let his troop take turns with his field glasses.

  The smoking flank was black to its rocky crest. The downhill edge was rimmed with fire. The Gordon Highlanders—“men in dresses,” as the Boers called them—were climbing the burn in well-spaced lines. The Royal Canadians were at the same height, to the Highlanders’ right. A soldier would pop up every once in a while, having stepped on a hot coal with a thin boot. When a soldier was shot, the others marched past as if they could not see him.

  The climbers reached a necklace of stone near the top. Frank could see that the crest the infantrymen were below was not the top. Beyond it, the hill went up again and they would have to climb that to reach the Boers. Finally, the infantrymen scaled the rocks and began to spill over. They disappeared into whatever it was.

  By then, the Mounted Rifles were moving again, part of a long line of riders aimed west of the Doornkop, headed for the Boers’ flank. Frank questioned why they had not gone earlier, before the infantry climbed the hill. Why not turn the flank, then charge the Doornkop? This time he found he did not need Fred Morden to answer.

  Because some mad British bugger had invaded here before and been captured. Because Roberts and Hamilton were not content to force the Boers into another retreat. Because Empire pride was involved and a show of blood was wanted.

  Throw some foot soldiers on the fire. Show these Boer farmers what mad bravery Britain could summon from the ends of the earth.

  Johannesburg

  The Rand was a repeating thing. At intervals not quite random stood iron chimneys and tall wooden buildings full of engines and winding gear. From the headframes, long rattling tongues of conveyor buckets descended. A maze of rails ran along the ground, and two pug engines were moving cars of ore. At one building, black men holding spades, picks, and wire-handled lunch cans waited to be wound down into the earth—while the war went on around them.

  The Mounted Rifles passed through the mine works and the crushed mounds of blue and yellow reef slag. The thousand-horse thing they were part of split and reduced from time to time. They saw the Dragoons go pelting off, said to be chasing a stranded Boer convoy. Others went toward the city. Their own orders were to continue north. Johannesburg, the fabled golden city, slid by.

  The long day ended at a dynamite factory. Far in the distance, Johannesburg was aglitter with bonfires, and, sitting by his troop’s fire, Frank wondered how the city would celebrate its liberation. Pretty black women handing out flowers? Liquor flowing freely? It seemed doubtful given how much of the population had already left. Just today, hundreds of Boers had been streaming away along every road and trail.

  After his fury at not being allowed into the plague town of Bloemfontein, Andy Skinner stared through the darkness at the lights of another Sodom and Gomorrah denied to him. Unlike last time, the cowboy faced his disappointment in silence. When the bugler blew lights out, Frank was thankful to throw his bedroll down; to try to sleep before the fire’s warmth left him. In the night he woke to the sound of a horse galloping, and said to himself, “Andy.” He was asleep again before he could worry about it.

  Next morning’s reveille was delayed, in honour of the past two days of fighting. When they rose, it was almost dawn, and Frank took a walk around the camp before chores. He remembered the horse running in the night and hoped someone might explain. When no one did, he asked Gil Snaddon, who bivouacked with Skinner. Gil’s beardless face was blue from cold and wore a look of fear. Andy was gone, he said. That’s all he knew.

  The sergeants were soon busy, letting the camp know that today was another marching day. Sergeant Brindle returned later and said Lieutenant Davidson wanted a word with them. When they found him beside a fire, Davidson looked like he had missed sleep and was not happy. His lips moved before he spoke.

  “As some of you probably know …” He stopped and took a sharp look around, trying to catch someone who did look like he knew.

  He began again. “As some of you probably know, Andy Skinner rode into Johannesburg last night. Without permission. British MPs picked him up and threw him in jail. His court martial for desertion will take place today.”

  Davidson took a rest and looked at them again. Accusation. Their fault, not his.

  “Good old Andy, you’re probably thinking,” Davidson continued bitterly. “What a wild one. I want you to know that I am 100 percent sure Andy Sk
inner’s war is over. I am 90 percent sure he will go to jail, and not just for the duration of the war. It will be a long time before any of you see Andy Skinner again.”

  The men looked offended. Andy was no deserter. He wanted a piece of tail and a game of cards. He would have come back.

  “I don’t think most of you understand still. Obedience is not optional in a war. Neither is being here. You gave up your freedom when you enlisted. We insist on that because an army doesn’t work if thousands of men run around doing as they please.”

  Frank had heard other versions of this. They all had. They were waiting for him to get to the important part. Something like, I’ll go see what can he done for him. But Davidson wrapped up without saying it. He told them to get to their horses and be ready to move.

  The horses were not much benefited by the single night’s rest. They were tired when they left the dynamite factory, and they grew more tired as D Squadron pushed north. They started to falter and cripple, and to walk stupidly in ways that did not see the thorn, the rock, the hole in the path. Both the Boer gelding and Ovide’s Basuto were favouring a leg, and Ovide switched back and forth between them.

  The officers’ attitudes toward horses had hardened. Like Ovide’s cutting mare, most of the horses from Canada were dead by now. The Rifles were riding a first or second remount, some Argentine cull. It was as if the officers were saying, Get busy and ride that thing to death. Then go fetch another. Ovide lacked the language to curse this evil.

  During the day, the Mounted Rifles joined a massive army, the one moving north toward Pretoria, driving the Boers off the hills. While French’s cavalry probed ahead, the Rifles were part of his rear guard—until French’s horsemen rode into a sink near the Crocodile River and were surrounded by a Boer commando. The Rifles were called forward then to help. They and several units beat the Boers back to reduce pressure on the hole, where French’s horsemen were trapped and milling.

  In the end, it wasn’t the massacre it might have been. But while the hole was draining of cavalry, the Rifles had to stay on a ridge, even as day turned to night. Another frozen night without blankets, and by morning several men were too sick to go on. They were left coughing and with fevers for the Red Cross ambulances to find.

  After that, it would have made sense to camp and let the men and horses recoup energy, but the officers, in their man-burning, horse-burning mood, said they must go on. Their orders were to be on the final hills before Pretoria by tonight.

  They dragged into that camp long after dark. As soon as the horses were put up, the soldiers rolled into their blankets and slept, not bothering to eat. No one noticed that Tom Scott was missing. He had fallen behind and was stone asleep when he got to camp. His horse’s abrupt stop caused him to fall, but instead of waking completely, he crawled into a bush and slept some more. The horse did what it always did: went and found its place on the line.

  During the night, the Boers crept close to a Canadian outpost on the hill above and opened fire. The men in the camp were whistled awake and told to mount up and give support. They climbed the hill, and there was a dangerous fight in the dark. Though Tom Scott slept through it, his horse did not. In the moonlight, the men pursuing the Boers saw Scott’s horse with an empty saddle and reins dragging, running in the thick of it.

  After the Boers were chased off, the riderless horse was caught and identified as Tom’s. Frank was among those who thought the worst, that Tom must by lying somewhere, shot. But a private who knew the horse said he’d seen the gelding down at the bottom of the hill, at the start. The saddle had been empty already then.

  They searched for Tom closer to the camp, but were ordered to stop and get some sleep. When they started looking again at dawn, Tom came wandering out of the brush and asked them what the fuss was about.

  It was a great joke and, over breakfast, everyone took his turn telling the part he’d seen. They laughed and laughed—until two military policemen appeared and put Tom under arrest. Two British officers had been in camp overnight. One, a captain, observed the fuss and heard about the riderless horse. When he inquired, he found out about Tom being asleep. It struck the captain as clear-cut dereliction of duty—asleep while under attack. Men had been shot for less.

  That morning, the Mounted Rifles stood together in their greatcoats, smoking cigarettes. The officers who happened by were asked what would happen to Tom. At first, the lieutenants, and higher ranks like Moodie and Macdonnell, pooh-poohed the danger, ridiculing the men for their concern. But when these officers tried to get an audience to plead for Scott, they were refused. Proceedings were under way, the British told them. Influencing those proceedings was no longer possible. Attempting to was illegal.

  Frank was watching when they pulled Tom from his prison tent and marched him to his court martial. His hands were tied behind him, as if he were dangerous and might try to run. When he saw them watching, Tom tried to fashion a plucky grin, on a face grey from lack of sleep and worry.

  Scott was marched into the officers’ tent. Guilty. No argument there. The question was sentence, and all around him the faces of the British officers were not reassuring. He was pushed to a table where a man sat staring at a piece of paper. On it were the known facts. This officer looked up and he and Scott stared at each other.

  The last thing Tom expected in this tent was to see someone he knew, but there before him was an acquaintance. For a time when he was young, he had lived at Ft. Macleod and done barn work for the Mounties. An inspector named White-Fraser had liked how he handled horses and slipped him coins to exercise his string. Now, holding Tom’s fate in his hands was the same White-Fraser.

  The major recognized Tom too, though he said nothing. It was just there briefly in his eyes. He returned to examining the papers, then tore them end to end.

  “Don’t waste my time with this,” he said.

  When Scott walked out and back to the Mounted Rifles’ end of camp, he was rubbing the blood back into his hands. This time, his grin was genuine.

  At the end of another day of hill-sweeping, Gil Snaddon came to Frank and whispered, “Secret meeting at the horse lines. Waldron Hank says.”

  As before, Frank attended and Ovide did not. It was mainly Ft. Macleod and Pincher Creek cowboys. As in the Great Karoo, Fred Morden showed up and was the only man ranked higher than private. Tom Scott was there, sitting next to Waldron Hank.

  “Thing is,” Hank said, the minute they sat down, “if Tom here wasn’t lucky enough to have White-Fraser as his judge, this could be a wake. Who else is apt to be that lucky? Now that they’ve done what they’ve done to Andy, and what they almost did to Tom, we’ve gotta rethink what we’re doing here. The way these Brits are going at it, one wrong move—caught asleep or looting a chicken—and, hell, one of us could get shot.”

  “What are you saying, Hank? No more rustling grub?”

  “I’m not saying that. Most days, it’s rustle or starve. What I’m trying to say is going to sound like treason, so keep your damn mouths shut. Pete Belton, that means you.”

  After having been quiet for a couple of weeks, Pete had returned to form after Andy Skinner’s arrest. He saw it as an attack on the American-born: “If the sonsabitches didn’t want us, why’d they let us enlist?”

  Hank continued. “All along this push, it’s been our job to draw fire. We’re told it’s an honour. I notice few British regiments get that honour.”

  Hank, normally clear, was going off in all directions. Tom Scott turned to him and socked him on the shoulder.

  “Come on, old son. We’re listening but we don’t want to be here long.”

  “Well, goddamn, Tom, it’s that I never thought I’d have to say such a thing. But I gotta say it. I don’t think these Brits are on our side. It’s like they decided the war’s almost over, they got it won, and we’ve got to be shown our place. If I’m right, I say we should be damn careful which orders of theirs we obey.”

  There was grumbling in the dark. Several present
were English-born or sons of English parents. They were here based on the assumption that the British and Canadian sides were the same.

  “So if they tell us to charge,” said Tom Scott, “and we think it’s stupid, we don’t charge?”

  Hank paused. In the bit of light, Frank could see he was slumped forward. “If they order it, we have to. But maybe we don’t go hell for leather. Maybe, instead of trying to win a medal, we just try and survive.”

  The meeting had nowhere further to go. For Frank, there was not much revelation. Waldron Hank was suggesting everyone fight the war how Ovide and he had always done it.

  But he knew that some did want to be heroes. For whatever reason, Jeff Davis did. If Hank was right and the British did not care as much about colonial lives as British ones, it implied that Jeff must be in danger all the time. What could be more colonial than an Indian in a troop of British scouts?

  Another who wanted more stripes and maybe a medal on his chest was Morden. Fred was sitting beside Robert Kerr and seemed to be looking at Kerr’s foot. His only comment was to scoop up some soil and pour it into a hole in Kerr’s boot toe.

  Pretoria, June 1900

  The last two hills before Pretoria were giant twins flanking a deep notch. On top of one was Ft. Schanzkop; on the other, Ft. Klapperkop. Forts built by Kruger in the years after the Jameson Raid. But as the great army approached, all was quiet. Every minute, it seemed that the hilltops should explode and rain down fire, but nothing came. When they got to the forts, they were empty. All the useful guns had been taken.

  Pretoria, capital of the Transvaal, was being surrendered without a fight, just as Kroonstad and Johannesburg had been. To surrender a big whorehouse like Johannesburg was one thing. To surrender your last capital, home of Oom Paul, leader of all the Boers, was quite another. It smacked of defeat.

  It was doubtful that even Waldron Hank or Pete Belton could have thought up the next humiliation in store for the Canadian Mounted Rifles. On the eve of Pretoria’s liberation, they were camped below Ft. Klapperkop, close enough to see the road by which Lord Roberts would enter the city. They were looking forward to taking part in that parade.