The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  Then their lieutenants came to talk, downcast and trying hard not to be. In fake attitudes of indifference or severity, they told the men they would not be going into Pretoria tomorrow. They had orders to stay out. Talking to his troop, Hugh Davidson claimed it all made sense. The Royal Canadian Regiment was going to represent Canada in the triumphal parade, and what Canadian outfit had suffered more or lost more men? Just think of that burning hill at Doornkop.

  No one begrudged the infantry, but was that the issue? Wasn’t the real question how many British regiments were going to be marching the streets of Pretoria, receiving Lord Roberts’ thankful salutes? A damn sight more than one.

  For something to do on celebration day, Frank and some others climbed to Ft. Klapperkop. They thought they could listen to the brass bands and pipers from there. Fred Morden was with them, and Kerr and the Miles boys. Tommy Scott, who evidently held no grudge against the British war effort, came too. On the way up, Frank asked Fred Morden if he was disappointed about missing the parade. Frank assumed he would be and was surprised when he said he wasn’t.

  “If we’d really fought for it and won, I’d want to be there,” he said.

  From the top, they could hear some of the music. The brass instruments sounded tinny, but the skirl of the bagpipes, over all those miles, was clear. Some Irish Fusiliers were at the fort, looking at the guns the Boers had left behind. They were supposed to provide powder blasts for the celebration, but the guns were antiques and they were afraid to fire them. When the first helio signal came, they blew up a bag of gunpowder and called it good.

  Next day was June 6, and Pretoria was ready for the mounted Canadians. Still filthy from battle and crawling with lice, the Canadian MI rode in on weary mounts. Ovide chose to lead both the Basuto and the Boer gelding. As it seemed like a long time since Frank had done anything to help his friend, he invented a problem with one of Dunny’s shoes and stayed back as well. Dunny hated walking behind. Every hundred yards or so, she whacked Frank with her head.

  Greasy Griesbach’s horse had chosen this moment to throw a shoe, and he too was forced to the rear as they entered town. Greasy provided a tour of this place he’d never seen. When they passed between a park full of well-tended flowers and a fancy white mansion flying a flock of Union Jacks, Greasy said that must be the house Roberts had been given for a headquarters. A local merchant named Hay whose family was in Europe had offered it.

  A while later, they entered Church Square, where they caught up with the men who’d ridden. The square was a few acres of grass with Pretoria’s sombre law court and post office on its sides. It was already stuffed with soldiers and horses. At the centre was a plinth for a statue, but no statue.

  As they stared in bushed wonderment, a dozen or so Boers entered the square from a side street and came running at them holding rifles. A few of the boys pulled their Colts, for which they were heartily jeered by a bunch of Tommy Atkins, lying on the grass.

  “They’re trying to surrender, you stupid gits,” said the Brits.

  The Canadians might have argued or offered to fight, but the Tommys looked like they’d had a tough war. They were as dirty as any Canadian, and looked far more hungry. Yet they seemed happy. Laughing at everything. Going wild every time a woman happened by.

  A few black youngsters were wandering the square selling a one-page newspaper. Griesbach bought one and, after he’d read it, offered a possible explanation for the Tommys’ filthy state and happy attitude.

  “Prisoners of war,” said Griesbach. “A bunch were just set free.”

  In the whole square, only the black people were actually cheering. Some danced along in big groups. They looked shabby and poor, but Frank noticed by contrast how tidy the Boers in the crowd appeared. These might look sad or angry, or afraid, but they were well fed and groomed. The uitlanders in the square also did not appear to have gone hungry.

  “I bet they don’t have lice,” said Harry Gunn, summing up what many felt.

  Tommy Scott, who was an inveterate gambler, inspired several to bet on the empty plinth. Whose statue had been there? Several put their money on Queen Victoria. They reckoned she wasn’t there because the Boer rebels had pulled her down. Griesbach bet against this, and because a lot of people (not just Ovide) considered Greasy smart, there was a lot of blind money on his choice, which was that it was a Boer pioneer. The Boers had trekked in here, he said, fought the blacks, and many had died. So their pioneers were their heroes. The reason the statue wasn’t there, in his version, was because British soldiers had pulled it down yesterday.

  As soon as all the money was bet, Greasy scorned the silly buggers on the other side. Why would there be a statue of Queen Victoria in a Boer republic that had never in its history been governed by Britain?

  But he still had to prove his contention to win, and so Greasy went around, in his confident way, stopping all the well-heeled Boers until he got his answer. They were actually all wrong. No one could win the bet because there had never been a statue on the plinth. A bronze one of Paul Kruger in a top hat had been commissioned by a coal and whisky millionaire named Sammy Marks. When the war broke out, the bronze was still in Rome.

  The Mounted Rifles’ orders for the day were to pass through Pretoria to a camp on the east side called Silverton. They were to stay there until further notice, screening the city from the rebels. There was no authorization from higher up for any leave in the city, but, perhaps because of yesterday’s snub, the Mounted Rifles officers declared one. A two-hour leave, starting now. Because somebody had to protect the horses, the number threes did not get the leave. If they’d got off lightly in a battle or two, this was their penance. The rest could go where they wanted, but the officer said they might want to visit Paul Kruger’s house, which was a couple of blocks north.

  Frank spent the first twenty minutes of his leave trying to convince Ovide to vacate the square. They could buy a loaf of bread, he said; a pound of butter. Milk and an egg. Ovide said he did not care for an egg. Frank tried other arguments. Ovide parried them. It was irritating because Frank knew Ovide did not trust Eddy Belton to guard the horses. Some Pretoria sharpie would trick Eddy and make off with them. Eddy’s brain power aside, this was stupid. There were probably five hundred horses stuffed into this square. Why would anybody steal a Basuto pony, a Boer gelding, or a cayuse?

  Frank argued himself hoarse and was about to leave on his own when Ovide relented. He gave Eddy a litany of final instructions and presented himself to Frank.

  They started on the road that had the most traffic. It was the direction in which their officer had gestured when he mentioned Kruger’s house. If there had not been a bunch of soldiers already gawking at it, Frank and Ovide might have walked by. Kruger’s place was a Boer farmhouse, peculiar only for being in the city. Low and long, gables on the ends, iron roof across the middle. Two more gables on the street side framed a door and window. The only hint that it was more than a prosperous farmer’s place were two stone lions on opposite sides of the path to the door. The lions were lying down: one attentive, the other half asleep.

  Thinking there might be more in back, they slipped around the side. But the rear of the house was plainer still. The Krugers had some shrubs and rose bushes in winter dormancy. A black gardener was scratching debris from the lawn with a rake.

  They returned to the front and stood by the gate. A British sergeant and a few Tommys were guarding the house.

  “Quiet, please,” the sergeant bawled every little while. “Mrs. Kruger is believed to be inside. Mr. Kruger has left for parts unknown.”

  The soldiers filing by the house, especially the prisoners of war, were in a rough mood. They cursed and spat. Despite the amount of spitting, Frank thought quite a few looked unsure of how they felt. They were trying on moods—angry, satirical, sly—seeing what fit. The prisoners of war put on the best performance. At least they knew why they were angry, and who at.

  Ovide made a motion back toward the square and the ho
rses, but Frank pointed across the street. There was a church there and a massive tree that threw down a patch of dark shade. Seeing Frank’s intention and Ovide’s resistance, the sergeant intervened.

  “Your friend’s right, you know,” he said to Ovide. “Should go over and look at the church. Herr Kruger prayed there every day and preached on Sundays.”

  This extra urging got Ovide across the track, though neither of them cared where Paul Kruger prayed or preached. Frank sat on the ground in the shade. It was sweet smelling and cool and, at once, the white gleam beyond was difficult to look at. Ovide sat too, but was skittish. He had divined Frank’s purpose and saw no merit in it.

  “If Jeff was here, it was yesterday” he said.

  It annoyed Frank that Ovide had figured out his thoughts. More irritating that he was right. Jeff probably had been here yesterday, if he had ever been here at all. Frank ignored him and squinted at the line of men coming up the street.

  After half an hour, Morden’s four came along. They looked over Oom Paul’s house. Two of them cursed and spat at it. Then they spotted Frank and Ovide under the tree and came to share the shade. They had gone shopping. Kerr had a loaf of rye bread, half-eaten. He offered the torn end and Frank and Ovide broke off chunks. It was dry. They asked about other kinds of food, but the Pincher boys said there wasn’t much. The Boers had cleaned the place out before leaving. Particularly sad was the absence of eggs.

  The shade was soporific. The Miles brothers lay down on their sides and were soon asleep. Frank was resigned to the fact that Jeff was not coming when something hove into view that was more amazing. Four riders approached and stood out, for they were not soldiers or Boers, nor anything else commonly observed in these parts. The lead horse was an appaloosa stud, snow white and chocolate brown. Its face blaze was a white triangle. On the chocolate hip was a splash of pearls, black-rimmed so they stood out like spheres dancing above.

  That horse belonged to Pincher Creek rancher Lionel Brooke. There could not be another like it in the world.

  Brooke sat atop his stud, looking costumed more than dressed. The brim on one side of his hat was slapped up and tied to the crown, Australian-style. His wool jacket was Civil War blue, with dark patches where insignia had been removed. Breeches baggy at hip and thighs funnelled into tight brown boots. His monocle was tweezed between a bushy white eyebrow and his cheekbone. His beard was freshly trimmed into a neat white spade.

  Behind Brooke was the one in the group that Frank did not know: a pencil-thin, clean-shaven man. His jacket was a dull British red, as if weather and time had bled it of its cruelty.

  The two bringing up the rear were Jimmy Whitford and Young Sam, both riding cayuses and leading pack mules.

  Frank had no idea why any of them were here, but if you accepted Brooke’s presence, Whitford’s made equal sense. Jimmy had worked for Lionel for years, except for when Lionel’s money ran out. Jim was a Montana Halfbreed like Frank’s mother, except his Indian half was Crow and the rest American. He was said to have been in the U.S. Cavalry, and Frank had heard more than once that he had survived the Custer massacre, even though it was broadly known that no one had.

  Young Sam was a Nez Perce whose family squatted near Pincher Creek, having come north after the Chief Joseph war. His father was in Stony Mountain Penitentiary for killing another Indian. Young Sam and his brother lived in a tent with their grandfather Old Sam, who did errands for Pincher Creek women.

  The other soldiers under the tree were by now aware of the strange arrival. Those asleep had been wakened. Brooke rode by them initially and went to the Kruger house. He asked a question of the sergeant, produced a piece of paper and a pencil from his breast pocket, and made a note. Then he turned his appaloosa into the street and crossed to the shade tree. He had seen them all along.

  Brooke dismounted and tied his tall horse to a branch. He took a green bottle out of his saddlebag; drew the cork and threw it away. Then he nodded to each of them, spoke their names, shook their hands, and offered a drink.

  “Where’s Redpath?” he asked.

  Fred Morden explained about Reg Redpath’s rupture, and how he had stayed in Kroonstad. Brooke huffed as if disappointed in Redpath’s showing.

  “This is Allan Kettle,” he said, waving a long hand at the stranger. “He’s English. Friend of mine from school.”

  Kettle shook hands all around. His hand was light-boned but callused and curiously strong. It snapped onto Franks wider mitt and ground the bones.

  Something occurred to Brooke. He returned to his horse and drew two things from the saddlebag. One was a pair of moccasins. These were for Ovide.

  “From Mrs. Jughandle. Marie Rose. They’re double-soled moose hide. I could not convince her that I’d never find you.”

  The other present was a wallet for Morden.

  “From your father.” Handing it over, Brooke said, “I believe there’s money inside.” Morden spread the wallet, thumbed the money, and poked for something else.

  “Your girlfriend sends only her tears,” said Brooke.

  Morden had not received letters for some time. The mail had suddenly dried up and Boer sabotage was suspected.

  Ovide sat on the ground. He had his rotten boots off and the moccasins on. He looked very pleased. Nothing had been said yet about Brooke’s reasons for being here. Finally, Morden asked.

  Brooke looked insulted. “I told you in the Arlington Hotel, the day you left, that I was coming with a small independent force. Here we are.”

  Fred laughed. He looked both amused and delighted, but Robert Kerr, standing beside him, was in a darker mood.

  “A few things have happened since,” said Kerr, his tone unfriendly.

  Frank thought things over and decided he was irked too. A lot bad happened, and Brooke’s acting like he was here to save the situation was annoying.

  Tom Miles wanted to know if Brooke had come by train from Cape Town. He was trying to make sense of the good condition of the horses.

  “Durban, actually,” said Brooke. “From there, I hired a private boat to bring us to Lourenço Marques.”

  Lourenço Marques, in Portuguese Mozambique, was the Boers’ main source of supply. None of them had ever heard of a non-Boer coming through it.

  “I’ve pretended to be pro-Boer. A journalist from England. I have a letter from one of the more liberal rags in Britain, saying I work for them. Actually, it’s the truth. I intend to scribble something and send it off once in a while to maintain the deception.”

  “But why?” It was Kerr again.

  “I’ve been studying the war since you left,” Brooke said. “I’ve concluded that General Roberts’ army is useless—no offence. He marched right past De Wet, failing to understand that De Wet is the head that must be struck off if there is ever to be a victory. It’s what we’ve come to do.”

  Kerr’s anger multiplied. Red spots showed above his patchy beard. Frank saw Fred put a hand around Kerr’s arm.

  Brooke yawned. He turned his head and squinted in the direction of the street and Kruger’s house. He looked suddenly tired or bored. The bottle had come back to him and he took a drink and thrust it at Kerr, his usual response when he had caused annoyance.

  “You won’t find De Wet here,” said Kerr, unappeased.

  Brooke continued to look away. “I realize that. I expect to find him in the Orange Free State. We’ll collect more intelligence here, rest our horses, then head south.”

  This was more than Kerr could bear. He shook off Morden’s hand and walked behind the tree. Its girth eclipsed him.

  Morden shrugged for Brooke’s benefit. “It’s about Redpath,” he said. “Kerr and Redpath are close.”

  “What on earth did I say about Redpath? I asked where he was.”

  “It’s the rupture business. People tend to think it’s, well, less of a real problem than a wound. You appeared to think that.”

  Brooke made a face that caused his monocle to drop. He caught it expertly. “! suppos
e I might have. Oh well.”

  Frank and Ovide went to visit with Jimmy and Young Sam. The two were loosing cinches and checking under saddles and packs for rub. Ovide asked Jim questions about horses back home. Which of Jughandle’s had foaled? Had he sold any? Were there race results?

  Then Jim Whitford turned to Frank. This was a surprise, for Frank was not sure the old scout even knew who he was. Frank knew Whitford by sight and name, because everyone did. He was a legend.

  “Your mother’s mad at you,” Whitford said. He dug in the pocket of his coat and pulled out something that Frank would have recognized at twenty paces: a pair of knitted socks, designed the way his mother knitted everything. The sight, then the feel of the socks, made his eyes wet.

  Brooke and Morden had drifted back to the appaloosa stallion. They looked like they might be talking about the horse. Then Brooke untied his stud and drew him into the sunshine. He grabbed the saddle horn and fished high for the stirrup with his boot toe. He stood to his full height in the stirrup and stayed that way, theatrically, before he swung over.

  Kettle mounted too. Frank saw how he jumped up without effort, hit the stirrup in flight. Though not young, the fellow was an athlete.

  “Boys?” called Brooke. Whitford and Young Sam were already moving. Yanking cinches. Mounting.

  The strange suite of riders was soon around the corner and gone. Had it not been for the socks in his hand, and the green bottle lying empty in the sand, Frank might have thought he’d had a dream—the kind you wake from admiring the strangeness of the mind.

  Silverton/Diamond Hill

  In their camp at Silverton, the Mounted Rifles could not help but believe the war was over. They had seen so many Martini-Henrys and Mausers piled up on Pretoria’s Church Square. So many fawning Boers wanting to surrender. Right now, if they chose to, they could ride a few miles east to Sammy Marks’ fancy country estate and capture most of the Transvaal leaders. But an order from on high had told them to leave them alone. General Roberts wanted the Boer brass to have all the time they needed, over at Sammy’s, to contemplate their hopeless situation. Meanwhile, tucked in front of a big fireplace at Melrose House, with a comfortable rug over his knees, Lord Roberts awaited news of his victory.