by Fred Stenson
Frank closed his eyes and watched the gold light through his eyelids. When a shadow crossed, he looked and Jeff was standing.
“You’re going after Villamon, then?”
“Yup. There’s an expedition. Dragoons and Rifles. Casey’ll lead the scouts. He’s picking me up here in the morning.”
Frank led the way across the small stream, coffee-brown to the Oliphant’s yellow. He started them onto the path that squeezed between the river and the cliff face, watching as they passed under two tall trees. He was looking for a big leisurely cat draped over a branch.
They entered the cleft between hills and climbed. Partway up, Jeff stopped. He was more serious.
“What I hear is that you drink too much and stay with the Africans.”
“I guess I drink with whom I please. As for people saying it, I don’t care what they say.”
Jeff took his hat off, smoothed his hair; dished sweat off his brow.
“If you want to look after horses, why not come look after ours?”
Frank felt a disturbance in his chest. The last time Jeff had offered something and Frank had taken it, Ovide had died.
Frank pretended to laugh. “I wasn’t nice to The General. Casey won’t want me near him.”
“Casey can look after his own horse then. You can look after The Blue.”
Frank was also thinking that his part of the war was practically over. The Rifles had signed on for a year, which was up in December. He said that.
Jeff screwed his hat back on. “You’re going to wait it out, then?”
“Guess so.”
“They might decide we stay longer. If that happens, and you want a place to be, the offer stands.”
Frank had no tent for them to sleep in. He had avoided his and Ovide’s for so long, someone had claimed it. They found a place where the breeze smelled of spring buds and bivouacked.
When the bugle blew the rouse, Frank looked around and Jeff was gone. The edge of camp was swarming. The expedition in search of Villamon had just arrived. Frank went to look for Jeff but, when he did not see him, decided it made better sense that Casey and his scouts had come early and were already gone.
Frank went to the horse yard where a dozen new cripples had been turned in for remounts. Abraham joined him, and they started with a mare whose dangling shoe was threatening to crack a piece off her hoof.
Bankfontein, October 1900
Casey led his scouts north and they found the Boers—a roving hundred. The seven scouts held the hundred until Evans’ expedition arrived. The Boers took a ridge. The Canadian gunners shelled them off it. So it went, ridge to ridge, until the Boers were driven north to their home laager. When the Boers spilled into the bush, Major Evans wisely let them go.
Frank was disappointed to see some of Evans’ men return to Aas Vogel Kranz without Casey’s scouts. Frank’s visit with Jeff had made him feel almost good, and he wanted that feeling again. He had also been thinking about Jeff’s offer. At the time, it had seemed impossible, but the great loneliness that entered Frank when Jeff left made a difference. He was not as sure he belonged here with Abraham and Nandi.
The returning soldiers told their stories of adventure that night. Frank listened for any mention of Jeff or Casey or Villamon. Casey and Jeff were part of the fight that took the trenches, but Villamon’s name was never spoken.
Two days later, a special mail cart came. Sometimes mail would pile up somewhere and later be found. This cart came from Pan and entered camp behind Fat Campbell’s wagon. The corporal in charge of the mail pulled up and started calling names. Sometimes, when he yelled a name, someone in the crowd would answer, “He’s at Night Attack,” or some other camp. The mail corporal flung those letters and parcels into a separate canvas bag with an air of exhaustion. He meant to convey that this breaking up of troops and all this marching around was no fun for him.
When he called Jeff Davis’s name, Frank did not yell “Bankfontein,” but pushed to the front and waited. During a lull, he said, “I know where Davis is.”
“You going to tell me, or is it a secret?”
“He was scouting near Bankfontein. I’m pretty sure he’s camped there.”
The mail officer cursed, as if this was the sliver that made him a cross. “That’s empty, that camp.”
“That’s where he is.”
Lieutenant Davidson was standing by, hoping for a letter from his wife and girls. He heard what Adams said to the mail officer.
“How do you know those scouts are at Bankfontein?” he challenged. “They could be anywhere.”
“I think they would have come back here before they went east,” said Frank.
“They’re scouts,” said Davidson, meaning you could not hope to know where they were.
The mail corporal was studying Jeff Davis’s letter. He showed it to Davidson, indicating the seal.
“It’s from a general in Britain. See here? Aldershot. Says personal and confidential”
Davidson looked at the letter, at Frank. “So what is it you want? To deliver this?”
Frank knew better than to admit it.
Fat Campbell had moved forward, wading through the crowd, his bulk squeezing them to the sides. He watched the standoff between Davidson and Adams. Davidson had the letter and was holding it close to his nose. Then he held it by a corner and fanned himself.
“Give it here.” Fat’s great paw reached in and pinched it away. “I’m making a run up to Bankfontein tomorrow.”
Davidson was not ready to surrender. “How do you know there’s anyone there?”
“Because they sent a rider to Middelburg to say they were hungry.”
Davidson popped his mouth. “Done, then.” Toward Adams, he smirked.
Frank started away, feeling forlorn, but Fat Campbell hustled up behind; reached and caught his shirt. “Whoa there, Sitting Bull.”
The fat man grinned. “You ride there yourself, or you go with me? What’s the difference?”
“Davidson won’t let me do either.”
“We leave early enough, Davidson don’t know.”
Frank tied the ridgling to Fat’s wagon and helped Nandi harness the mules. It was before dawn, drizzly and cold, a mist over everything. When Fat and Frank were on the wagon, they drew an oil sheet across their backs.
They could barely see the greasy two-track, but they followed it north. The hilltops were smothered in mist. As the grey light came and the odd black-rocked kopje glowered out, Frank’s neck hair rose. The idea of Boers lying in those rocks. Fat trusted Frank and seldom looked beyond the working haunches of his mules.
As they squelched along and the wagon yowled and bent itself to breaking point over rock sills, Frank’s mind never stopped working. He was already dreaming the conversation at the trail’s end. He wasn’t expecting answers, news, or wisdom from Jeff; just the voice of a friend.
Jeff and Casey were not at Bankfontein when Fat and Frank pulled in. Casey’s other five scouts were there, plus a few D Squadron men who’d stayed. Casey had left one of the five in charge, and this one was in a tent. The rest were without shelter in the rain and sat in the bush under their oil sheets. At sight of the wagon, they jumped up and pressed forward, anxious for bully beef.
Handing down the cans, Frank withheld each for a second while he asked about Jeff and Casey. The answers were consistent. They had gone north yesterday. They were chasing Villamon.
Frank and Fat stayed the night, sheltering under the wagon. When Fat pulled out next morning, Frank did not—even though the ridgling had kicked another horse and everyone wanted to see the back of him. Frank claimed his horse was injured. He took the pinto a distance away and hobbled him head to knee, then stood in the rain and pretended to be fixing some problem. Come night, Frank bedded down beside his horse.
The morning brought a still heavier rain that hit Franks oil sheet like a cluster of arrows. The scout Casey had left in charge came out to Frank, who was again picking at the muck in the ridgling’s h
oof. The scout told Frank he should go. They were practically out of food again. They could not afford him.
Frank got ready, with all lack of haste. He put the saddle on, cinched it, then un-cinched and pulled it off. He dragged the oil sheet over himself and the saddle and did something noisy with a rasp. He was back in the open trying to think up another form of delay when Casey appeared through the drifting mist, followed by Jeff. Jeff stopped The Blue and hauled on a rope that pulled another horse into view, this one riderless, its saddle black and sopping: a neat coyote-coloured gelding.
The men in camp were intent on staying dry, and, beyond peeking out of their oil sheets, did nothing to celebrate the arrival. Casey unsheathed his rifle. He set the stock on the fat part of his thigh and fired into the air. He pointed the gun barrel at his tent, meaning they should go there. Seeing that the canopy was weighed with water, he used the rifle barrel again to spill it to the side.
Soon, everyone was present, sitting on the side of the tent best guarded against the slant rain. Their oil sheets were tented over their heads. Casey, Jeff, and the scout left in charge were bunched under the awning. Jeff had his back against an oat bag. On the shelves of his cheekbones, his eyes were resting slits.
Callaghan was as avid as Jeff was still. He perched on a camp stool like a child at a piano, his eyes darting, his thick cheeks red blossomed. He had a few things in his lap he intended to use to tell the story. When he knew he had their attention, he began.
Yesterday, in the late afternoon, in hilly country—drizzling, but with better visibility than today—he and Jeff had found a Boer laager. There was no warmth under the ashes. The head of an impala was left from their last meal, and a rack they’d used for drying biltong told of their preparations for travel.
Jeff and Casey were looking for more clues when, bang, a rifle cracked and the biltong rack shattered to the ground. That rack had been not six inches from Casey’s elbow.
The laager was on the site of a dilapidated Boer farm, and they were standing inside the farm’s sheep kraal. Casey ducked down behind the rocks and knocked out a loophole. Jeff was racing the horses away down the slope and behind an old Native hut.
When Jeff crawled back, they waited for the sniper to fire again. They could do nothing until they had some idea where he was. Jeff grabbed Casey’s hat and put it on a stick. He bobbed and skimmed the hat, just barely above the rocks. Finally the sniper let go another shot, just one.
Shifting on his camp stool and winking at his audience, Casey picked his Stetson off his head. His hand disappeared inside and a finger wormed pinkly out a hole. The enemy was a marksman, the demonstration said.
It took an hour to coax enough shots out of the sniper so they actually located a muzzle flash. Jeff saw it and explained to Casey where in that treed hillside the rifleman was concealed. Then, as one, they rose and emptied their magazines on that spot, two lines of bullets converging.
The reward came quickly. Rooted out, the sniper thrashed through the gorse. One of them fired while the other loaded.
“We knew we didn’t have him yet. There was a little draw and he was in it. Jeff guessed he had his horse in there, and the question was: does he come out or is there a way out behind? But he did come—like a bullet, eh, Jeff? He was hanging on the horse’s other side, Comanche-style.”
Jeff had already brought the horses. They mounted and galloped in pursuit. The Boer was well ahead, the gelding’s hooves flinging muck.
The chase was on. All three had good horses. They were going along a pass that divided ridges. The slope to the right was open, so the Boer could not go there without opening up his downhill side. The opposite flank was the shady slope and had thick bush along the bottom and some higher. Casey saw a path into that bush and bent The General onto it. Jeff kept the pressure on behind, so the Boer had no choice really but to keep on straight and through the mouth of the gap.
The gap opened into a broad wetland held in by tapering hills. Tufted, dimpled, wet. The Boer’s pony shattered the rain mirrors in the pocks.
“I yelled for Jeff to stop. Didn’t I, Jeff? We both jumped off. We put the horses into cover and got in among some rocks at the bog’s edge.”
The Boer was slowed by the soggy ground. Then his horse broke through. The front legs shot in up to the chest. The rider flew over his horse’s head.
The Boer got to his feet and ran. At times, his feet caught in the muck and tripped him. He was making for the edge of the bog. He was well within rifle range and knew it. Twice he turned, knelt, and fired. Jeff and Casey were in good cover, and the bullets skipped off the rocks.
“We were almost certain it was Villamon. He was still wearing khaki like he wore when he killed Ratcliffe and Spence. ‘You take him,’ I said to Jeff, because Jeff had sworn to kill Villamon long ago. But old Jeff, he said no. Said we’ll take him together.”
Casey had a glisten in his eye, as if surprised by this turn in the story, at the friendship it showed.
They stood out of the rocks, shoulder to shoulder. Took aim with their rifles and fired five times.
“Five hundred yards and we hit him with three,” Casey bragged. “Last shot was Jeff’s. Got him square in the head. Scattered that Boer’s thoughts on the grass.”
Casey lowered his head as if at the amen of a long prayer. The final line was composed, a bit false, and it rang in the air under the sound of the rain on the canvas.
The story begged three cheers, and the men shouted them. After that, Casey offered the proof to be examined. He had letters from the Boer’s saddlebag: a couple addressed to Villamon; an unmailed one with his name in childish printing at the bottom. The saddle had a V branded into one fender. Each man stuck his head in under the canopy to see.
After the file-by, the men went away to redig their bivouac holes. Only Frank remained. Casey invited Jeff inside for a drink. The scout who had been living in the tent was already in there. Jeff still looked asleep and did not respond. Casey pursed his lips and blew; went inside.
Frank came in under the awning. An edge of the oat bag was open, and Frank sat beside Jeff and leaned there. He dug in his shirt and brought out the canvas dispatch bag in which he’d kept Jeff’s letter. He nudged Jeff with an elbow and Jeff opened one eye and smiled. He had been feigning sleep all along.
Frank opened the bag, pulled out the stone-dry letter, let Jeff see his name and General Butler’s name on the cover. He turned it over so Jeff could see the general’s unbroken seal.
Frank considered not watching Jeff read it. But, finally, he did look. The movement of Jeff’s eyes was rapid. The thin page quivered in his long fingers. Frank saw the blood leave his face. A sheen of sudden sweat appeared.
Jeff read it only once, then leaned his head on the sack and turned to the rain. Every few seconds, the awning on that side filled and released a lacy pour. Frank was concerned for the letter and watched the hand that held it move out along the ground. It went to the border between dry and wet, then crossed that line. The pour from the canopy doused the letter, which draped Jeff’s fingers, weeping black.
Frank still had the envelope. He almost slid it back into the canvas for protection, but leaned it against Jeff’s leg instead.
Nothing else happened, and the moment lengthened into a trance. Frank and Jeff stared at the rain that cabled the low sky to the ground.
Casey erupted through the tent’s flap, waving a rum bottle.
“Davis, come on. Drink.”
As if it were agreed upon, Jeff said he and Frank were going to see Ovide Smith’s grave.
“You’ll get pissed on,” Casey argued.
They rose together, and Frank led the way into the downpour. He walked out of camp and toward the north-facing slope, the pile of rocks. Frank wore his oil sheet over his head, but Jeff had nothing but his tunic and hat. The letter was still pinched in his fingers, a little rag, mostly dissolved. At the grave, Jeff stepped past Frank, pulled a rock from the pile, put the letter in the hole, and presse
d the rock back.
When Jeff turned, Frank tried not to have questions on his face. Jeff gave him an answer anyway.
“Red Crow’s dead.”
They walked away, Jeff leading. He went to Casey’s tent, slapped on its door, and Casey let him in.
Frank went to where the ridgling stood in its solitary confinement, its prison of thorns. He rolled in his oil sheet and spent the next hours in a delirium of wondering. He remembered Jeff’s face as he read the letter, the pallor, the waxy look. He weighed it against the reason: Red Crow’s death. But wasn’t Red Crow an old man? How could his death be so shocking?
He also wondered about the way he had forced himself on Jeff in that moment. Too late, he wondered whether it might imperil the friendship that had become his hope and his anchor.
Next morning, Frank was scavenging oats for the ridgling when Jeff came to saddle The Blue. Frank started tacking the ridgling, but went slow so Jeff finished first, to see what would happen then.
When Jeff switched the halter for the bridle, The Blue took the bit with a lunge. Jeff threw the knotted reins over her coarse mane and shoved his toe in the stirrup. He rose and turned the mare as he took his seat. His face was closed and stayed closed, looking only forward. Frank let him ride away.
Frank led the ridgling to Ovide’s grave, undid the girth, and stripped off the saddle and blanket. He spread the oil sheet over the pieces of tack and let the ridgling graze the old yellow grass in the now more gentle rain.
Aas Vogel Kranz
Toward the end of October, the Canadian mounted infantry battalions were moved under the leadership of General Smith-Dorrien.
Looked at through the new general’s eyes, the situation along the captured Delagoa line was unsatisfactory: both perilous and passive. To play cowboys and Indians with the Boers, on ground they knew, was to let the Boers choose both the game and the rules. What the British had was superior numbers. Why not use them?
