The Great Karoo

by Fred Stenson

  “I have been told by soldiers who have been through this camp that it is utterly without discipline. You seem to feel you have no need to be careful; that, because nothing has happened, nothing will happen. Why not have a cricket game in the noonday sun?”

  He let that sit with them, then continued. Did they actually think Christiaan De Wet would stop his sabotage and his raids along this railroad when they had been so successful? Wouldn’t a good general go on attacking until something stopped him—something like a wide-awake, prepared, and vigilant enemy?

  Every man’s head was down, staring at his dusty boots. Nobody wanted to meet Major Sanders’ eyes. But Frank found old questions poking through his shame.

  Why the hell was Christiaan De Wet having all this success anyway, when, according to Lord Roberts, the war had ended weeks ago? How, in such a short period of time, had the war changed from a walkover to a thing they were being beaten at?

  Frank looked up, and Major Sanders was looking maybe not at him, but in his direction. When the major continued, his tone had changed. Now he was speaking to them as if they really were soldiers, and as if they could be trusted to understand what he was saying.

  “Now that Britain controls Johannesburg and both Boer capitals, it is a different war. Diamond Hill was probably the last big fight you’ll see. The Boers have broken into small units and are making good use of their mobility and their knowledge of the country—the two things they have that we don’t. Rather than be sorry, let’s be grateful it did not happen months ago, when there were twice as many Boers in action as there are today.”

  That was it. Sanders had said what he’d come to say. He rode out with his escort, probably to deliver the same speech to other slack camps.

  The major had not wanted Frank to feel good, and Frank did not. For two days, he went around with touchy skin. Particularly when he was on patrol or standing at a Cossack post, he felt itchy between the shoulder blades, sure that someone’s field glasses were focused there, or that he was wedged in the sights of a marksman’s gun.

  But it did not last. The gigantic prairie skies, silent save for the frosty wind, washed the lesson from his head. The nights, ice cold and starry, froze his mind and kept all thoughts from moving. The struggle to stay warm and fed and not overrun by lice sifted his wariness under.

  When they were so busy scouring from an empty land, working hard to make it emptier, it was simply difficult to conceive of the place as crawling with Boers.

  On June 22, at a frigid stand-to in the black dark, they were told that firing had been reported from the direction of Honing Spruit station. No word yet as to what kind of attack or if there were casualties, but it was clear the Cossack posts must be extra vigilant today.

  Ingles’ C Squadron was again responsible for the posts on the horseshoe kopje. D Squadron’s job was to man the railway posts. There had been grumbling of late because the kopje posts had shade and the railway posts had nothing. The railway posts’ defence and shelter was the railroad embankment: one foot high, sometimes rising to the immensity of two feet.

  Though picked for railway duty, Frank felt good. He and Ovide and the Beltons had drawn the north post, and it had a thorn tree. Winter naked, the tree still made a spot of porous shade if the sun got hot and was something to stand behind if the wind was sharp. Morden, Kerr, and the Miles boys had the southern post, which Frank knew from experience was bare.

  Before they left, Frank sidled over to Morden and teased him. As always, Fred had an answer. He reminded Frank that the north post was miles closer to last night’s firing. Though a joke, it made Frank’s nerves shimmer.

  Ingles with his eight pulled out for the kopje. Hugh Davidson led his eight toward the northern railway post. This choice of taking all of them north before he took half south was in case the Boers were still lurking.

  When they got to the thorn tree, Davidson reminded Frank, as acting corporal, to take extra care and not to let his men and horses go to the creek. Then Davidson and Morden’s four rode off. It was still dark, the idea being to have all of the Cossack fours in place by first light.

  For the first half-hour, Frank’s four hopped around in their greatcoats trying to get warm. Pete argued for a fire and Frank said no. They mustn’t give the Boers a target.

  “Whatever you say, Acting Corporal Adams,” said Pete.

  “Thank you, Private Belton.”

  “What if I say hell with you and light a fire anyway?”

  “I’ll order Eddy to sit on you.”

  When the world started to reveal itself, the prairie was a sea of hoarfrost. Even the thorn tree was dressed in white fur. Then they heard guns. After some quarrelling, they agreed it was not from the north but from the direction of the kopje. Rifles.

  Frank’s acting rank suddenly meant something. He told Pete and Ovide to lie five feet part on the west side of the rails, aiming east. He told Eddy to get a firm hold on the horses’ reins and stretch out flat beside his brother. Frank stayed on the east side of the rails looking north and west.

  The horses ripped up tufts of grass that grew from under the rails and were soon dragging on Eddy’s arms trying to expand their range. Frank told Eddy to take off his hat and keep his big stump of a head down below the steel.

  Frank knocked his own hat off so it hung on his back by the stampede string. He sat on his heels and watched.

  The sound changed. Rather than random rifles, it was now artillery. Two guns shelling in a long-beat rhythm, and a sharper crashing sound. Frank knew what that crashing meant. Boer riflemen would bunch up and point high, firing together on signal. The bullets would go much farther that way than they would straight. Near the Klip River, Frank had seen an English cavalryman, trotting along, drop off his horse stone dead. When they searched his body, they found him punctured by half a dozen Mauser bullets.

  The regular rhythm of the artillery meant only one side was firing. The British gunners were holding off until the man in the crow’s nest said there were Boers close enough to hit. It also meant the Boer guns outranged the Armstrongs.

  Later, the drumming of the Boer guns was torn into by opposing sounds. The guns of Katbosch had finally kicked in. A solid cloud of smoke and dust hung over top of the camp. Out on the prairie, the lyddite plumes were all over the place. The Shropshire battery had no target and was firing by guess.

  Eddy squirmed on the ground. He was shirting away from the rails to allow the horses more grass. They were getting thirsty and yearned toward the creek. To keep from being dragged, Eddy had to sit up and brace his heels.

  Eddy asked permission to take the horses to the creek, but Frank said no. They might be doing nothing here, their rifles stone cold, but at any minute the prairie could grow heads and flying manes. They could be fighting for their lives and must stay together.

  In the afternoon, the artillery fire on the Boer side seemed to double. It was as if their guns had given birth. Soon, two horsemen came ripping north, tearing funnels of dust. Frank drew a bead even though he was fairly sure they were theirs. When they came close, Casey Callaghan and Charlie Ross hauled in their lathered mounts.

  “Davidson says come.”

  Then they planted their spurs and charged north.

  Frank’s four got ready to ride. He told them to go quick but save a burst for the end. When they were in sight of camp, they spurred their mounts for all they had and waved their Stetsons lest they be confused for Boers and shot.

  Once inside camp, they put their horses on the lines. Back at the perimeter, Frank found a trench where four would fit. The man on Frank’s right was Tom Scott. Whenever he reloaded, Tom told Frank things. The Boers had been reinforced an hour ago. They had at least three more field pieces than they’d had earlier, including a pom-pom. Katbosch was badly outgunned and the Boers were making a push.

  Tom yelled across Frank at Ovide and the Beltons to stop gawking and start firing. Ingles was shot and Davidson was in charge. He’d brought them back for their firepower
. Then Lieutenant Davidson himself came and told Frank and Ovide to come with him. He wanted them somewhere else where his firing line was thin. They crossed a wedge of camp, Davidson walking fast and stumbling. Beyond the camp and the railway tracks, a horse was running, dragging its guts in the grass. There was a big hole in the roof of the Red Cross tent. A lineup of wounded soldiers was aimed next door, at the officers’ mess.

  Frank wondered if the Red Cross tent was an accident. He’d heard that De Wet had put shells into the Red Cross hospital at Paardeburg.

  “Any of ours hit?” Frank asked.

  “Ingles is bad,” said Davidson. “It’s how this mess started. Ingles ran into them on the kopje. He made a fighting retreat and was shot. Aspenall got it in a couple of places. Birney’s shot through his foot. Those three came back, but five are missing.”

  Frank saw Henry Miles sitting in the dirt on the shade side of the mess tent. His hand was bloody.

  “Is Morden back, then?” Frank asked, pointing at Henry. “Fred’s four?”

  Davidson shook his head and staggered. “No. Just Henry. Boers attacked them and Henry was hit early on. Fred sent him back with the horses. I’ve tried to get out there all day.”

  Davidson flung his hand at the things preventing it. Shell holes, blasted shacks, mules blown in half.

  Frank was trying to see through the shack town to the horse lines. He had just spotted Dunny through a gap when a shell hit and a plume of dirt rose. The horses came racing through the tent alleys, dragging their picket line. The black horse orderlies were running in their wake.

  Frank and Ovide left the lieutenant and went to help. They spread out and grabbed ends of the dragging picket line. By the time they had most of the runaways contained, Davidson was gone. They found a half-empty trench and dropped into it. Even Ovide was aiming and firing today, having identified a cause worth his effort. While reloading, he said, “Out there all day.”

  Frank was thinking it too. He left his rifle and scuttled to the tent wall where he’d seen Henry Miles. Henry had not moved. His bloody hand was cupped on his knee, not even bandaged. The back of the hand was torn open. It looked like the inside of a piano. But Henry wasn’t looking at his hand. He was looking at nothing and with great intensity, as though, if his attention broke, something would get away.

  “When’d you come in, Henry?”

  “Fred saw Boers coming. He said they meant to cross the tracks and go north and hit our camp in the ass. We had to take them. I was horse-holder.” He lifted and dropped his bloody hand. “I got shot, so Fred said take the horses. Told me to tell Davidson they could hold out.”

  Henry looked at Frank, his eyes bloodshot and afraid. “It was a lot of Boers, Frank.”

  Lieutenant Davidson came up with a plan against the Boer push. The Boers had a low tolerance for casualties, so Davidson reasoned that if he could wound a few, the rest might be called off. He sent the sergeants and corporals to the trenches and told each four-man group to pick an anthill they thought might have Boers behind it. They were to keep shooting at that target until the Boer flushed or the hill blew apart. By that means, they winged a few. The strategy did not end the battle but did cause a retreat.

  Then, as the sun was crouching fat on the horizon, igniting the white grass and streaming in the direction of the Boers, the enemy began to peel away and run to where their horses were cached. Soon, they and their artillery were nothing but a road of dust in the sky.

  A quarter of an hour later, Casey Callaghan and Charlie Ross rode in from the north at the head of a mixed regiment of scouts and MI. The Boers’ own scouts must have relayed the news that they were coming, and that had been the cause of their departure.

  Hugh Davidson put together a relief party for Morden. Most everyone in the troop wanted to go. The ones whose horses had been shot or blown up rode in a wagon. Henry Miles was on the wagon seat between the black driver and Harry Gunn. Harry had tied his horse behind and was holding Henry, lest he faint and fall off.

  Frank’s and Ovide’s horses were tired from the race into camp, and they arrived at the Cossack post later than the rest. The sun was down and the sky losing colour. There was nothing, not even dust, to signify a battle. Beside the railway track, a half-circle of men stood, backs to them.

  Frank and Ovide dismounted and tied their reins over the horses’ necks, left them to graze. They went to where the others were and found a place to peer in. Davidson was down on one knee with his ear to Tom Miles’ mouth. Miles was propped against his saddle, covered in blood. It seemed to come from high on one shoulder. His shirt and saddle were black with it. His face was an awful colour you would not associate with human. Still, he was alive and whispering.

  Fred Morden was laid out on his back. He had bits of gravel and coal grit on his face, so must have pitched forward when he went down. In his forehead was a hole. Below his frowning brow, his eyes glared.

  Robert Kerr was beside Morden. His side was bloody, but he had a cleaner, smaller wound in his chest that had killed him.

  Except for Davidson talking with Tom, and the medic trying to stop Tom’s shoulder from bleeding, nobody moved or spoke. Frank shifted to see Henry Miles. Harry Gunn was holding him up, for suddenly the boy could not stand on his own. He swayed and stared at his brother.

  A face pushed in between Ovide and Frank, and Frank saw it was Jeff Davis. The first thing Frank felt was a wash of relief, as if everything would be all right now. Then he felt stupid, because obviously it was too late for things to be all right. There was a strip of animal fur tied around the crown of Jeff’s hat. He locked a hand on Franks arm, the other on Ovide’s, and drew them away.

  When they were distant from the group, he said, “I need your help. Right now, before it gets dark.”

  He pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket. On them, he’d drawn horseshoes, life-sized. He pointed at a little split on the top of one, and at a dark spot on the tail of the other.

  “We’ll go where the Boers were shooting and look for these.”

  “What’s this?” Ovide asked, pointing at the dark spot.

  “Lump of iron. It shows as a dent in the print.”

  Jeff started for The Blue, who was standing with Dunny. But Frank grabbed him. After a month and a half, and with Morden and Kerr lying dead, Davis wasn’t acting right. Frank was offended by the lack of ceremony.

  Jeff looked at where Frank’s fist gripped his sleeve. “We’ve got to hurry or it’ll be dark.” He pulled his arm away.

  They mounted their horses. Jeff rode east two hundred yards and jumped off. He ran around in the fading light and made circles and sweeps with his hands where he wanted them to look. In the course of searching, they found piles of spent cartridges and spots of blood.

  Then Jeff hailed them. He’d found where the horses had been held. It was a stew of prints. He told them to go to the edges, where they’d be cleanest. Back along the railway, the wagon was leaving. Tom Miles lay in the back with the dead men. Henry rode on the wagon seat, leaning against Harry Gunn. The rest lined out behind.

  It was close to dark when Ovide shouted. Jeff went down on hands and knees where Ovide was pointing. Frank left what he was doing and ran there too. Jeff slapped the ground beside the print. It was the one with the split top. He reared and smiled.

  “Villamon,” he said. “I knew it was him.”

  They waited and watched his face.

  “What’s a Villamon?” Frank asked.

  “That split shoe’s on Villamon’s horse.”

  “Small shoe” Ovide observed.

  “Basuto horse, same as yours,” said Jeff.

  “But who is he?” asked Frank.

  “He scouts for De Wet. Villamon, Scheepers, and Danie Theron are the best Boer scouts. Villamon’s a bastard. If he sees you, he’ll kill you. I don’t know why the Miles brothers are alive.”

  Frank looked closer at the split shoe print. Jeff continued to talk.

  “De Wet and Froneman blew up track
and trapped a train at Honing Spruit last night. Then Olivier led this attack on Katbosch. It was De Wet who brought the extra guns this afternoon. Villamon must have been circling to attack Katbosch in the back or side.”

  Frank was surprised at himself. Surprised that he was bristling mad. For all the relief he’d felt at seeing Jeff, he was angry at him now. Boer generals and scouts. All these strangers’ names, when Morden and Kerr were dead.

  Davis noted Frank’s mood.

  “I’ll make him pay,” he said. “I was after Scheepers, but I’ll go after Villamon now.”

  The picture in Frank’s head was of Jeff riding around with his bunch of scouts, every man with an animal skin on his hat, chasing enemy scouts who chased them back. Each one with a special enemy he’d vowed to kill.

  In his head, Frank saw that. Then he saw Morden pitch forward on his face, the back of his skull blown off like a chunk of anthill.

  Then Ovide reared out of the grass and pointed east. “They went out that way.”

  Jeff nodded at where the Pincher men had died. “They did well to keep Villamon away from your camp.”

  Frank did not like that either. It was as if Jeff was saying that Morden and Kerr’s story was over; on its way to forgotten already. Their killers were what counted now. Frank turned and faced the spot where they’d died, as if that showed superior loyalty. Jeff moved so Frank had to look at him.

  “Villamon’s all I can do.”

  “You’ll stay with that other bunch, then?”

  “Not my say.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “No.”

  That’s when they noticed they were not alone. As if risen from the ground, Pete and Eddy Belton were there with their horses. They did not speak. They would not speak unless spoken to by Jeff.

  That night in camp, the Mounted Rifles settled what they could. They talked of finding barnboards to build coffins. They imagined the grey ugliness of that and decided to bury the dead in their bedrolls. They rolled the corpses into the blankets; put the oil sheets on the outside. Ovide volunteered some slim horsehair ropes he’d braided. Tied at intervals, the bundles were at least human-shaped.