Chapter 17
Transvaal, South Africa, June 1901
All day long Rom had been scouting alone on the veldt, fobbed off with one of the third-rate Argentinean mules assigned to the volunteers in contrast with the better mounts used by Imperial officers.
Throughout the day random Boer snipers had fired occasional shots from the camouflage of the kopjes as if to signal they were aware of his presence but wouldn’t bother to take him on. The sounds of a far-off exchange between a British ‘Long Tom’ naval gun and the Boers’ Mausers had long since died.
Now as he lay shivering under his single blanket in the cold of night, no trace of the day’s conflict lingered except the sickly smell of lyddite carried on the wind.
He patted the rifle beside him, glanced at his horse sleeping a few yards off, then ate the last mealies of the day’s rations before drifting off to sleep.
Rom was startled awake in the pitch blackness by the sound of a horse’s whinny. A sniper? He reached for his rifle, his heart beating fast. It sounded again. Proof positive.
Not just any horse. Goldie! I’d know her voice anywhere.
He peered into the darkness but could see nothing. Yet she sounded close at hand. Suddenly there she was. As clear as moonlight, golden-brown, weary and shrouded with black dust. Goldie pawed the ground with one hoof, nodding her head as if to reassure him.
‘You found me, Goldie. Clever girl!’
She lay down awkwardly a few feet away, as though the effort cost her dearly. Her eyes never left his face, willing him to come to her.
It was then that Rom saw it. His blood ran cold. The ragged flesh wound on her side was so deep he could see through to the bone. No hope of a cure.
Letting go of his rifle he crawled on his belly to her side, helped her drink the water from his pannikin. He laid his head against her neck and stroked her, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice.
‘Nothing can keep us apart. Time for our next adventure, eh? We’ll stick together to the bitter end.’
When he nuzzled her, the soft sound she made was knowing, trusting him to do what needed to be done.
His thoughts were in chaos. There’s nothing I can do for her. Only one act of kindness left – she mustn’t see it coming.
As he reached for his rifle, careful to conceal it from her line of vision, he defied God. Keep my hand steady.
‘There’s no better horse in the world, Goldie. You’re the pearl of them all,’ he whispered. Then pulled the trigger and felt her warm blood on his hands.
Against all logic Rom lay with his arms around her to keep her warm. Remembering his first ever sight of her . . . that morning on the road to Hoffnung . . . Goldie suddenly appeared through the bush, shining in the sunlight, but bearing the tell-tale signs of abuse . . . and they both knew she accepted him as her new master . . .
Along with the memories came the tears he had never shed as a kid, no matter how badly they beat him in the Boys’ Home . . .
• • •
At sun-up the distant sound of snipers’ fire signalled that the war had been reborn with the new day.
No time to bury Goldie as properly as she deserved. The ground was rock hard. No trees, no branches to cover her. So Rom scrounged around for rocks and stones to cover her as best he could.
He felt hollow. Nothing left inside him but a ragged lump that choked his throat. He glanced up at the high blue vault of the African sky and said the words with a shrug.
‘I know you don’t exist. But Goldie found me against all odds. If I wasn’t an atheist I could almost believe something led her to me.’
Riding off, he kept one eye on the lookout for Johnny Boer as he headed in the direction that might lead him back to Beatson’s flying column . . .
• • •
For the past two days and nights Rom had been alone scouting on the blackened veldt. His frustration was near boiling point forced to ride his useless Argentinean mule.
The loss of Goldie, her intelligence and the bond between them was to Rom an added bitter pill.
Hunger was never far off at the best of times. Right now he had nothing but a water bottle and a diminishing supply of food. Sick and tired of the usual diet of mealies and biscuits, he reminded himself they were better than an empty gut. No farms in sight for days. No chance here to live off the land in what had become the Australian bushmen’s accepted way to supplement their minimal rations, unofficially ‘commandeering’ absent Boer farmers’ eggs and vegetables, even stealing a chicken or pig if luck was with them.
Rom absently patted the pocket containing Clytie’s photograph and her latest cheering letter that the train had brought from Johannesburg. He returned to the business at hand, scouring the horizon for the slightest sign of Boer activity. Their devilishly clever method of guerrilla warfare reminded him of the way Yankee backwoodsmen had sniped at the King’s redcoats and helped turn the tide in winning the American War of Independence in 1814.
It was a distinct relief to Rom that he was now cut adrift from any contact with Beatson’s flying column. Like all volunteers in the 5th V.M.R. he had expected to serve under some Australian officer who understood them, their skill as horsemen and marksmen, their bushcraft and not least their peculiar sense of humour. Australian officers knew how to get the best out of them.
The frank letter he had half-scribbled to Clytie said it loud and clear:
Some Imperial officers admire our Colonial daring. Others are appalled by our lack of British military discipline. God help me, I’ve copped one of the latter, a former Indian Army cavalry officer, Major-General Beatson. He’s dead keen on discipline but has far less understanding of the veldt than we do. Hasn’t the faintest idea how to handle Colonials – does everything by some manual called the Red Book. We’ve had him on our backs ever since the long trek from Pretoria to Middelburg. I’m not whinging. It’s great to get a taste of freedom, out scouting alone. I can do what’s second nature to every Australian from the cradle – find your way home when you’re lost by following the stars at night and the sun by day. Or helped by the flashing lights of the heliograph. Would you believe that scouts aren’t issued with field-glasses? The only ones available are reserved for the bigwigs miles from the Front. Where’s the logic in that, I ask you?
He weighed the odds against Clytie receiving his letters. Many of their mailbags were looted by the Boers when they blew up trains carrying British supplies, forage and ammunition along the 900-mile railway line from Johannesburg. Bags of letters were abandoned on the veldt, of no interest to the Boer Commandos unless they contained money. Sometimes a stray page from a love letter from Australia, Britain, Canada or New Zealand was found floating across the veldt. Never to be identified, never to find its intended recipient hungry for news from home.
Rom was reminded of Jarrod Currey’s solo grave on the earliest Hoffnung diggings. And Mary, the girl in England who waited for the lad who never returned.
He decided to number his letters in future so that if any went missing it would prove he had written others to her. He prided himself he had kept his word to Dolores.
I never told Clytie I loved her. So why feel guilty? I’m like any other bloke, hungry for a woman’s body. But right now I’d trade a few years of my life for one of Clytie’s letters.
By day the veldt was Rom’s kind of country – majestic, hot, dusty with the kind of towering blue sky that reminded him of Australia. It wasn’t hard to imagine how beautiful this lonely landscape must look without this chaotic war puncturing its hide.
In contrast to the hot, windswept days that gave him a heightened sense of adventure patrolling on the veldt, the nights were cold and heavy with frost. Lying alone, huddled under a blanket just before sun up, Rom watched the interplay of colours of the heliogram and the observation balloons, and speculated about the distance between him and Beatson’s flying column. But who could predict how close some Boer Commando lay, perhaps only a few yards out of sight? They expertly played
their landscape as they moved stealthily undercover, observing their enemy – him, from the kopjes – firing their Mausers from unnervingly close range then disappearing without trace. What they called guerrilla tactics – the new face of warfare. The already legendary Ben Viljoen’s Commando was known to be master of the game in this part of the Transvaal.
Rom lay shivering, cursing the stupidity of the benighted military planners who denied each man a tent, instead rationing them with two blankets and, if they were blessed, a waterproof for bedding. Rom had no such luck.
As the sun struggled to rise, it was no surprise to discover his top blanket had turned white overnight, rigid with frost.
His second pair of socks were harsh worsted wool but having had the foresight to sleep on top of them, his body heat ensured they weren’t frozen rigid.
It was unsafe to light a fire and there was no firewood on the veldt anyway, so Rom took care of the mule’s needs, then ate his last remaining day’s rations, straining his imagination to translate each mouthful into the taste of the final home-cooked meal Dolores had cooked for him and Clytie. Before I bolted.
Desperate to hear the sound of another human voice, he talked to his unwanted companion, the Argentinean mule.
‘There’s nothing for it, mate, but to link up with some of our mob, and keep our heads out of sight. You know what the Boers say.’
To amuse himself he attempted a Dutch-Afrikander’s accent. ‘Ve shall vin dis war mitt der help off Got und der Mauser.’
Rom saddled up. ‘No argument from me. The Mauser’s a mighty effective weapon. But both of us claim God is fighting on our side. Place your bets, gentlemen! Two bob each way – you can’t lose.’
• • •
It was June 10th by Rom’s pocket diary and late afternoon when his solo scouting patrol paid off. He linked up with a flying column of some three hundred and fifty Victorians under Major Morris, an Imperial officer said to have fought in India with Beatson.
Rom joined a small campfire beside a half dozen V.M.R. lads. Their faces were unfamiliar but their flat, laconic accent made him feel at home. Most of the others were already dossed down beside their saddles.
Fox, a red-headed butcher’s son from Geelong, shared his tobacco pouch with Rom and brought him up to date with the news. That morning they had received a helio message from Beatson.
‘His column was then some twelve miles away at Vandyke’s Drift. Major Morris passed on the order not to proceed further south. He sent a company to meet the food and forage wagons and we camped here around 5 pm.’
‘Any bother from Boer snipers?’ Rom asked casually. ‘I’ve seen a few signs of them today.’
‘Yeah, plainly visible all day. Small parties of ’em only a couple of hundred yards away. A fair bit of sniping, just to make their presence felt.’ Fox shrugged. ‘But no casualties on our side.’
Rom hated to admit it. ‘Where are we exactly? Frankly, I’m bushed.’
‘Some twenty miles south of Middleburg, along the Ermelo Road, near a sort of creek called Steenkook Spruit. It seems we’re close to a farm named Wilmansrust – or William’s Rest.’
‘How far from Beatson’s mob do you reckon?’
‘Maybe fifteen miles or more by now.’
‘Sorry to hear it,’ Rom said drily.
There was a mutual snigger of contempt. ‘Be careful what you wish for. Morris is Beatson’s white-haired boy, does everything by the book.’
Rom gave a short laugh. ‘Shit! That’s canned it. Just my bloody luck.’
The truth of his words was soon apparent. Rom could not fail to notice that although the camp’s observation posts were meant to be replaced at sundown by the main pickets, despite the fact the night pickets were chafing at the bit, Major Morris kept them within the camp dressing rifles and saddles. This prevented the change-over taking place until seven o’clock.
Rom felt the tension mounting. The camp was only about a hundred yards square and rested on a slight rise surrounded by a deep donga that looked like the dry bed of a creek at home. In the background was a higher ring of kopjes – the hills offering effective camouflage to snipers.
Two pom-pom guns, their prized weapons, stood side by side like Darby and Joan, fully loaded but covered by canvas with the muzzles protruding.
The next thing Rom saw left him speechless, beyond swearing.
Close to the pom-poms, Morris had ordered all the V.M.R. rifles to be stacked in piles to comply strictly to drill regulations that Rom knew were rarely observed at this stage of the war. Had Morris gone barmy?
Rom was alert, his senses heightened by he knew not what. He told himself to stay calm, that the pickets were now in place. Many of the men had settled down for the night, sleeping beside their saddles and bridles near the horse lines.
Rom sat hunched over one of the remaining low campfires, tempted to re-read Clytie’s letter. For one vivid moment he was right there in Hoffnung, walking hand in hand with her. He could smell the eucalyptus in the air, the tangy aroma of the bakery, the sweet smell of Clytie’s hair. He heard her teasing laughter, felt the warmth of her breast pressed against his arm.
The moment was shattered by the shrill blast of a whistle. All hell broke loose.
In the dim patches of firelight he saw a mass of bodies. A blur of khaki hurtled forward through the haze of smoke created to camouflage them until they were right on top of them, bearing down on the camp from all sides. Boers were firing from the hip – yelling like mad men. Rom was trapped, confused – some of the enemy didn’t even look like Boers.
Many of his comrades were killed instantly as they slept. He saw some crawl out of their blankets towards the stack of rifles – only to be shot down before they could reach them. Several lads tried valiantly to bring one of the pom-poms into action. Mowed down instantly by bullets, their bodies lay straddled across the guns.
Cut off from any weapons, Rom crawled along the horse lines that were piled with dead horses that had reared, stampeded and trampled their own unarmed soldiers. Dead and wounded lay everywhere. He heard an Australian officer’s voice calling out, ‘Don’t shoot – you could be killing your comrades!’
Rom felt ice cold. It’s true! Some of those Boer bastards are wearing our uniforms.
There were flashes of khaki, blood wherever he turned. Australian or Boer, who in hell could tell them apart through the smoke screen, the flickering light of campfires and the blazing guns?
The carnage seemed to last forever. Yet in ten minutes the ‘battle’ was over.
Rom saw the shadowy outlines of scores of Australians escaping into the darkness. Good on them. My luck’s run out.
He lay low, his breath rasping from his throat. Waited, counting the seconds as the Boers rounded up some fifty or more prisoners. He lost count.
Helpless, impotent, he watched the victors cart off the precious pom-pom guns and all the weapons, carts, wagons and hundreds of horses that had survived the carnage.
Close enough to overhear the Boers’ disparaging comments, he was surprised by one of them saying in slightly accented English, ‘This is the most miserable collection of animals I have ever seen.’
That unidentified voice was one he would never forget. Was it General Ben Viljoen himself? No knowing.
Rom was in no mood to argue the toss about the quality of horses.
I’m alive. But who knows for how much longer?
He joined the tail end of a line of prisoners, marched at gunpoint a mile across the darkened veldt.
His body was trembling violently but he tried to harness his imagination.
They’re unlikely to shoot prisoners – not the Boer’s usual style.
Knowing there was a fair chance he would be stripped of his clothing and valuables, he shifted the envelope containing Clytie’s letter to him inside the back of his underpants. There was no time to remove her photograph from his jacket before he felt a gun prodded between his shoulder blades.
Shocked into a state
of heightened awareness, he took note of the wide range of accents he identified within the Boer Commando. Despite the occasional guttural Dutch, most spoke English. He recognised American, Irish and other European accents he suspected came from irregulars who had crossed the oceans to fight the British on account of their own national agendas rather than the Boer cause. They were unlikely to be disgruntled Ouitlanders, the foreigners who had worked here in the mines for years, feeling discriminated against in terms of taxation and long-delayed legal status. Ouitlanders, whatever their nationality, tended to join the Imperial cause – but there were no hard and fast rules.
One English-speaking Boer appeared as calm and well-mannered as if he had been skipper of a cricket team and was too much of the gent to boast about his team’s victory.
Rom faced him with the same air of sportsmanship. ‘I take it you’re one of Ben Viljoen’s Commando?’
The young Boer corrected his pronunciation to what sounded to Rom’s ears like ‘Veelyern’.
‘He must be celebrating his victory tonight. Was he in charge?’
The gentlemanly burger avoided direct eye contact. ‘Fighting General Muller,’ he said.
Rom wondered if his imagination was playing tricks. Was the young Boer faintly embarrassed by his victory?
‘You are a Colonial? Canada, yah?’
‘No mate, not us. We’re Australians – the Victorian Mounted Rifles.’ Rom added, ‘What’s left of us – and our horses.’
‘No shame. You are brave. But why are you here? It is not your war. You are like us. You have fought against the British at –’ He clearly failed to pronounce the word, so added, ‘on your goldfields, yah?’
‘You mean the Eureka Stockade? No, that wasn’t against the British, mate. It was against the police and a bloody unjust law – unfair tax on diggers, whether they found any gold or not. There’s a big difference.’
‘You lost!’ The Boer shrugged.
‘We lost on the day,’ Rom corrected firmly. ‘But the diggers had a moral victory. It got the law changed. And no jury convicted the rebels. Our leader, Peter Lawler, was elected Speaker in the Legislative Assembly.’
Golden Hope Page 17
