We arrived in Cape Town and immediately took the train over the Great Karroo desert towards the town of Kimberley, where Roberts was to wait for further orders. Roberts had ascended military echelons to the position of colonel, some say because of a lucky misconception that he was a blood connection to the Field Marshal Frederick Lord Roberts, the commander-in-chief of this “white man’s war.” (Our Roberts went on to join the South African Constabulary in the Orange River country, and he would stay on after the war ended. The military was his life. He would re-enlist in 1914 and die in France, his lungs blistered by mustard gas.)
Roberts looked very fine that day in the hot winter of 1901. He and Clark and I had played poker all the way from Cape Town to Kimberley, a journey of about four days because the train kept breaking down, leaving us to bake whether we stayed within the shade of the suffocating compartments or sat out on the coarse, grassy sand. When we finally arrived in Kimberley, Clark and I looked like old socks, but Roberts descended onto the station platform glossy, clear-eyed and wearing a new uniform. The South African inland heat was yellow and dusty and strange. Roberts sailed away like a yacht into a fresh breeze, though the air was rank and still.
Clark and I stumbled after the other men in our battalion. We began to walk. The British army still did not have sufficient access to horses. We marched east, towards Natal, on a meandering path by the Modder River. The mention of a river made my heart ache (a wide artery through our land, small waves raised against the current in an east wind, flooding with broken ice, or in mid-summer, low on the mud bank flanked by willow, wild cucumber and rose). I didn’t know the name of anything around me. Already, I was almost delusional with homesickness. I asked Clark to tell me my name. He combed his moustache with his hand and said, “Your name is Trooper McCormack.” It was no help at all.
We walked for three days, with a thirst that dried us till we looked and smelled like smoked fish, through thorn patches and stunted bush, choking on dust kicked up by the cattle and the wagons. Clark spoke his constant monologue, his cracked mouth chewing on salt beef washed down with the last spit from his water bottle. He was already in love with South Africa. His words kept me pinned to the glassy mirage of that inexplicable land. Such heat in January, such yellow heat, was beyond understanding. Clark told me that it looked just like the desert near home at Carberry. He knew a lot about the hilly country to the west of “our property.” He fondly renamed things with our familiar names. Wild sunflower and Indian grass, wild rye and juniper.
“See?” he said, pulling me up by the elbow. “Yellow evening primrose. Only it’s red. Just like home, Blondie. If winter were hot as Hades in a dry year, it’d be just like home.”
“Smart Dog,” I said to him, gasping for air, “you’re from Ontario.”
“I’m a servant of the Crown, Blondie. I am loyal to Her Majesty.”
“That’s who you’re fighting for?”
“Empire. Yes. Her Imperial Majesty.”
“You’re a good man, Clark,” I said.
“You’re a good man too, Blondie.”
“But you’re an idiot. A fawning, sycophantic, boot-licking lackey of the ruling class.”
“I miss Eli too,” said Clark.
I forced him to stop. Exhausted soldiers flowed around us. A wagon rolled by, driven by a black man, the first black man I’d seen since leaving the docks at Cape Town. “I’ve made a mistake,” I told Clark. He tipped his head. The army crawled over the earth. “Please,” I said, “I don’t love the queen.”
Clark put his hand over my mouth and hauled me to the edge of the column. I saw more blacks, mostly driving carts, unarmed. “What are we doing here?” I was panicking.
With surprise, I realized that Clark was angry. “We are fighting for the British Empire,” he said. “It’s that simple. It’s what we do.”
“It’s not our country,” I pleaded.
“Of course it is! South Africa belongs to Britain!”
“No!” I said. “We’re not at home! We have no right to be here!”
“We have as much right to be here as anywhere,” Clark said. “Anywhere!” A cart passed: a black man, his eyes on us. Clark laughed bitterly. “It is the same here as at home! What makes you feel at home on your farm? Don’t you dare get self-righteous on me. I’m a colonial soldier. Everything else is a lot of hypocritical sh—sugar. I may be… naive in some ways, Blondie. But I’m not stupid.”
“I want to go home,” I cried, clutching his arm.
Clark looked at me with a bit of fear in his eyes. “Our home is the British Empire.” He shook off my hand. “And now it’s time to defend that empire. We are nothing,” he said. “We are nothing! Without loyalty.”
He began to walk away from me, and I dragged on him. “I could be loyal, Clark! Wait! What am I loyal to?”
“You know very well,” he murmured so quietly he could scarcely be heard above the clatter of the carts.
“Can’t we just go back to St. Norbert? You said you loved it there! The smell of clover and all, our own river!”
Clark suddenly turned to face me. To my horror, I saw that he was crying. He waved his arms at the parade of foot soldiers, at the blacks driving carts pulled by the precious horses. “This,” he said helplessly, “is my home. Now! Do you see who I am? I am this!” He turned his back on me and fought his way to the middle of the thirsty column. The last look Clark gave me was one of humiliation.
I stood at the edge of the river of white soldiers and black servants. Clark disappeared from sight.
I COULD NOT GO after him. I was exhausted, pulled by an undertow west to Kimberley. My flesh was a foreign weed twisted right out of the soil, withering. Because I was travelling against the current, I was cut off from any companionship, and it took me perhaps five days to find my way back. I was never lost, because I could feel in my bones the direction that would eventually lead me home. But I had no supplies, and was forced to beg for water and a bit of food. By the time I got there, I think I was nearly dead. My fight with Clark cut away the shreds of my resolve. I didn’t know what to do next. I wanted to go home. But home, now, was in abeyance, a state of suspension. Another colony. Yes. But mine.
Kimberley was in mourning. Queen Victoria had died. Everyone seemed genuinely grief-stricken. I needed to talk to Roberts; he alone was my link with Clark. I found him at the company headquarters. Roberts looked up from some paperwork when I walked in. I was too exhausted to speak. There was a jug of water on his desk. I reached for it, but Roberts forced me to wait while he poured it into a glass. His secretary looked at us oddly. Roberts closed the door.
He turned to me, I saw, with genuine concern. He, of course, knew that I was a woman. I suddenly realized that for such a stuffy man, he’d shown remarkable tolerance. He waited while I drank my fill of water and had calmed down somewhat. Then he poured a glass of whisky, gave it to me, stood back with a fatherly manner and said, “Do you know about the fighting at the Modder?”
“No,” I said. “I turned back.” I threw back the whisky and held out my glass for more. I would get drunk; such are the rules for cowards like me.
“It looks very bad,” he said. He walked to the window, looking out, one hand tucked behind his back. “Very bad,” he said quietly. “We have suffered many losses.”
“Oh, God. Clark.”
“We don’t know yet. We’ll be transporting the casualties here.”
“When?”
“Very soon.” Roberts turned to me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
He took me to the officers’ club. The place was crowded, everyone wearing black armbands, in honour of the queen, I guess, though there were so many dead to mourn. We found a small table, and Roberts ordered a bottle of brandy. He was bitter and sad. “These Boers,” he said, “they fight like… almost like children, vicious children. They don’t obey the rules of war. They sneak up on horseback; you can’t tell who is going to shoot you. They dodge and sneak.”
“Like
Indians,” I said.
Roberts looked up sharply. “Yes. I suppose so.” He nodded to himself. “I hate losing.” He took a healthy drink.
“Roberts,” I said hesitantly. “Have you ever wondered whether we should be here at all?”
Roberts laughed unhappily. “It should never have come to this,” he said. “And the Boers know it. We own South Africa.”
“That’s what Clark said.”
Roberts refilled our glasses, toasted me out of habit and drank quickly. It appeared to clear his head. He looked closely at me. “Why did you come back?”
I hesitated. “I had a fight with Clark. He went on ahead. And I… turned back.” I looked about at the smoky room full of uniformed men and lowered my voice. “I guess I’m not the right kind of man to be a soldier.”
Roberts shrugged. I hadn’t understood before that he was generous. I began to hope that he might help me with my dilemma. I took a big drink and plunged ahead. “Roberts, can I ask you something and you promise you won’t get mad? You see, Clark, he got mad. And hurt.”
Roberts fondly smiled. “Sweet man.” He squinted at me. “I mean that philosophically,” he added brusquely.
“Oh, yes. Clark is a good man. Do you think he’s all right?”
Roberts bit his lip and took another drink.
“Because, see, I feel responsible. For everything. Like, like this war. Could you tell me, and now don’t get mad… What are we doing here?”
“Fighting for queen and country.” Roberts peered at me. “Did you hit your head? Do you feel hot?”
“I’m fine. But what I want to know is, How come Britain owns South Africa?”
He laughed. “We bloody paid for her! Outrageously! Six million pounds to the stadtholder.” He considered. “Of course, that got us some additional South American land.”
“Six million pounds. For their diamonds and their fields of gold,” I said.
Roberts glared at me. “For the right to defend their ignorant masses from slavery.” Again he took a good swig. “The gold too. And the diamond mines. Of course.” He combed his glossy hair with his fingers. “You’re going to argue that this war is corrupt. Men have been arguing that in the British House of Lords, for God’s sake, Blondie. But you just don’t understand. Is it corrupt to use the riches of an uncivilized country? To, what say, take that country out of darkness and into the light? The empire must civilize the world. It is our destiny. And it is our responsibility. That’s what empire does. And I, for one, am proud to be a part of it.”
A tiny fly landed on his glass and perished. Roberts removed it and lifted the glass to his lips, and he smiled as he said, “Besides, my friend, Canada is no different. It was a Scot aristocrat first bought the Red River land, correct?”
“Lord Selkirk,” I said miserably. I could see where this was going. Roberts was starting to have fun.
“Righto!” he said, pouring us more brandy and winking at me. “The mad Scot. What’d he pay?”
“Ten shillings,” I said, and drank.
Roberts leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. “Not so mad after all!” he said. “Course, that was just a lot of land with a lot of Indians on it. No gold. No diamonds.” He shook his head in wonder. “What a whim.”
“Well, sure!” I said. “But we’ve got rich land too! Rupert’s Land, the old Hudson’s Bay Company land? My dad, Peter, says it cost 300,000 pounds. Maybe that’s not a lot of money, but that land is rich!”
“Ha! Spoken like a true colonial! Do you get my point? We bought Canada for, what say, furs, of course, and forests, I suppose. We were somewhat misinformed. Bought ourselves a pack of trouble. But look what we have done for the Indians!” He offered me a cigar, which I accepted, lit them both and laughed again. “Y’know what the Americans paid for Alaska?” He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Seven million dollars.” He fell backwards, laughing. “Seven million for a block of ice! Oh, God, why do we worry about them? Oh, oh my. Fools.”
I was getting the hang of the cigar. “But, Roberts,” I said out the side of my mouth, waving my cigar at the crowded room, “I don’t think you’ve answered my question. This ‘darkness into light’ rubbish”—I blew out smoke—“how do we get away with it?”
“Y’mean, really?” I nodded. He laughed. “Y’want to know the real God’s truth about South Africa, Canada, Australia, India?” I nodded yes, please, sir. He was swelling up with rhetoric and pride. “Why stop with the British Empire? I’ll give you more! What’s got the French so much of Africa? Even the Boer, damn him, but part of me will admire him despite myself. It’s seed, Blondie. The Boer is a mix of Dutch and French. Imagine a great hand dipping into a storehouse of French seed—Normans, Huguenots, émigrés—and sprinkling the nations with la sperme splendide. It has given the Boer soul. Yes,” he said, “I will grant the enemy a soul. France may not have founded any countries, but by God, she’s made every other country the richer by the emissions of the best seed. Seed!” said Roberts, and leaned back, stoking his cigar cheerfully. “That’s what builds empires! That’s what makes us welcome in these uncivilized places! Seed! They’re crying for it.”
Roberts saw my look of disappointment and straightened up. “C’mon, Blondie. Look at Canada! All that land? What were the Indians going to do with it?” He tapped his chest with his fingers. “British seed. The best goes West. Look at you! Your own mother and father came from the Old World!” He pointed at me. “A Scot. You. That’s why I like you. Those potato eaters, those Irish, let ’em go to the States. But you. I like a Scot. You’re one of ours.”
Just then, Roberts’s secretary entered the bar and made his way to our table with such obvious anxiety that those he passed stopped chatting and followed his path to our table. He saluted and waited. “What is it, Dwyer?” Roberts asked.
“The casualties, sir. They’re at the hospital morgue.”
The bar went quiet. Roberts sat up very straight. “The morgue? Are they all dead?”
“They brought us only the dead, sir. The wounded are being treated at the field hospital.”
A soldier at a nearby table overheard the news of casualties, and he rose to his feet and began to sing. The sound of chairs pushed back, every man in the room rising, their voices filling the room, and as I fled, they made a pure and ardent male chorus. “God save our gracious king! Long live our noble king!”
The morgue was full. At first I went to the wrong body, a soldier with thick hair and a moustache like Clark’s, and I sobbed but knew it wasn’t him. I studied the face of the dead soldier till I thought I couldn’t be shocked by the impressive nature of a corpse. I turned to walk away. And saw him. His eyes were open, as if his brain had exploded through some kind of impact that forced the eyes out, hemorrhaging, so they were layered in a white, nictating film, with blood seeping from under the lids. His nose was small and blunt, as it hadn’t looked in life. I said I was sorry. I am so sorry, Clark. I wanted to hold him. I tried to lift his shoulder, but his arm had come away beneath the shoulder blade, neat and hard, with little blood, carved through to the bone. I peered beneath the blade: Clark’s white bone, black blood. I’m so sorry, I said, patting the cloth on his stiff chest.
I sat with him all night. The lights burned brightly in the morgue. I didn’t know it was morning when they came to take away the dead for burial. They put his body on a stretcher. I tried to straighten him, but there wasn’t much I could do. I followed them to the graves.
Roberts was there. The sun was hidden by cloud. Roberts was again stiff and formal, but that did not disguise his sorrow. He gripped my arm briefly. We stood beside one another and waited for the bodies to be safely bedded. Then everyone went away. But I told Roberts I’d stay awhile, and then be along. Even in grief, Roberts had an invincible shine to him, as if he carried about him his own special atmosphere. He nodded and left me there in the graveyard.
It was peaceful among the dead, their freshly rested bodies put out of sight, and so recen
t you could feel they were still dreaming, not quite gone. The cloud drifted off, and in the sunlight the colours were bright, brilliant, the grassy air prickly and green. I began to feel myself, the faint papery sound of my hands when I touched them together, the fine pores of my skin. In the grass beside me was one small blue flower that had somehow escaped being trampled. It was the bluest thing I’d ever seen.
And then I left him there. I took the train back to Cape Town and the ship to Halifax, and then a train back West. I left Clark in the dark garden of the dead in South Africa. I left my friend there, and went home.
CHAPTER SIX
THE TRAIN SLOWED DOWN long enough to let me leap off into dried mud stubbled with tufts of grass. The afternoon smelled of honeysuckle, lilac and thunder. They’d been flooded that spring. Driftwood lay on the east side of the road. Towards the Red River (which was still quite high, though it was the end of May, and a white scar ran along its banks, caused by the water’s sudden retreat), the land was littered with broken wheels and broken dolls, bicycles, all kinds of private belongings that had been swept away. The flood had plucked an elm tree and laid it in the middle of the field, shining, a gigantic chewing bone.
There was enough water in the ditch to grow green stalks of cattails and common rye grass, cutgrass and a fine onion-like blade that looked something like wild rice, with a small burst of seed at its head, sunlight moving over it all, so the green fused and the blue sky shone between. The thunderhead lay off to the east, behind our homestead. A hot sky, edged cleanly by the plum-coloured cloud with twigs of lightning. I shouldered my pack and started to walk down the road towards our house, towards the stand of ash trees and the storm. I carried the message of Clark’s death like a stone under my tongue.
It wasn’t any fun being a man, especially with my face wet, as if I’d lost a layer of skin. When women cry it’s patriotic, a vote for home. But I was a man in uniform. People were cool. The Boer War was maybe the last rich man’s war. A cavalry war. It belonged to men who cut the pages of their books with silver letter openers, knew how to handle a brolly and a shoehorn, a golf club, a tennis racquet, a tiller and the reins—some of which were useful in South Africa. Strangers were unsympathetic; perhaps they figured I had been cauterized by wealth, crying over my gin.
When Alice Lay Down With Peter Page 13
