Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  “What does she say about our field hospital?” Barrister asked.

  The woman spat out a few furious words.

  A light red spread over Tracy’s narrow face. “I don’t know if—”

  “You go to hell,” screamed the woman.

  Barrister rubbed his forehead. “Good, so the lady does speak some English. No matter, we’ll nonetheless be dealing primarily with you, Miss D—”

  “No,” the girl said. “Do not expect any help. Neither I nor my siblings will accommodate. We—”

  “We know, we know,” Barrister replied. “You expressed yourself quite clearly before. Nevertheless, please show me the farm. As I already told you, we do not wish to disturb you more than necessary. We’re interested in your barns—straw for provisional sickbeds, perhaps some fresh victuals if you can spare anything. Is the oven out back? It smells so wonderfully of fresh bread.”

  “Choke on it,” Doortje spat.

  Barrister tugged on his earlobe but remained polite. “I take it you no longer have any livestock?”

  “You people stole the animals.”

  “Lies,” McAllister noted to Kevin as they followed their reluctant guide outside. “The relief force didn’t requisition any ponies, guaranteed. The cavalry has its own horses, and the kitchen and supply wagons were hitched long ago. Mijnheer van Stout probably took the animals. The blokes simply take their horses and join up with a commando. It’s all frightfully undisciplined. Everyone comes and goes as he pleases. But they’re fearless—and they surprise you over and over. That’s why they had their successes at first. But we’ll win in the end.”

  Kevin nodded, but he wondered how long it would take before the last of these commandos surrendered. It wasn’t so much one country at war with another but more like a great army against thousands of little groups. And what could the Crown do with a colony in which even such small children opposed it so vehemently?

  Chapter 3

  Over the next few days, a few of Doortje van Stout’s claims would prove false. For example, a few of the orderlies caught Nandi with a pail of fresh milk. Apparently, the family’s black workers had not fled, and they were tending the hidden dairy cows somewhere in the hilly veld.

  Kevin, whom the men informed of their discovery, did not, however, denounce the Boers to Barrister. He could understand why the people wanted to keep their property—and, after all, the English were not exactly suffering from starvation. On the contrary, a kitchen wagon was immediately made available when it became clear the van Stout women truly refused to extend the slightest courtesy to the doctors. Barrister tried a peace offering. He invited the van Stout family to dine with his officers. Doortje, however, took umbrage when he briefly requisitioned the van Stouts’ kitchen.

  “Please, miss, let our cook work his magic. General Buller counts him among his best. But a genius can’t prove himself in a wagon.”

  Doortje, Johanna, and their mother listened silently, cleared out with sour faces, and withdrew to the river to wash.

  But the little boys went straight for the kitchen, sniffing the air hungrily. On the van Stout farm, no one went hungry, but there had no doubt been no meat for a long time. True, the women might have hidden some hogs and oxen, but with the British Army around the corner, they would hardly risk a slaughter.

  The scent of the lamb roast was irresistible, but none of the van Stouts appeared at the festively set table that had been moved to the veranda.

  “I tried,” sighed Barrister, and uncorked a bottle of wine. “But I should have known better. This Doortje is a tough cookie, and her mother and sister no less so.”

  “What’s more, the sister’s a tattletale,” added Tracy. “She has eyes in the back of her head, and if the little boys or one of the blacks show us even an inkling of cooperation, she runs to tell Doortje. Then she rains fire and brimstone on them. Poor Nandi’s afraid the angel with the flaming sword is lurking behind every hill.”

  “That poor, sweet girl,” said Kevin.

  In the meantime, Nandi’s brother had returned to the farm, and the two siblings worked in the fields from dawn to dusk. Doortje drove them mercilessly, but she worked herself and her family hard as well. Johanna mostly assisted her blind mother in the kitchen, but the little boys had to help with the harvest. Nandi seemed completely exhausted when she returned from the fields in the evening, but she was still expected to serve meals, haul water, and perform extensive household chores. It was often late at night before she was able to prepare herself something meager to eat. The van Stouts, Kevin noticed, never shared their own food with the black workers.

  “Well, well,” McAllister laughed, wagging his finger at Kevin. “Someone’s not falling in love with the curly-haired black, is he? Well, I’ll warn you—they say these Zulu women aren’t very passionate.”

  The doctors had learned that Nandi was a pure-blooded Zulu. And her name was not a malapropism of Nancy, as Kevin had first supposed. In fact, she had confided that she was named after the mother of the legendary king Shaka Zulu.

  Kevin raised his brows in astonishment. “Nandi? Please, she’s still a child.”

  Dr. Tracy, who abstained from bawdy remarks but had proven himself a sharp observer, smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Dr. Drury’s comportment is above all reproach.” Tracy took a long sip from his wineglass before continuing. “But he does have eyes for Miss van Stout.”

  Kevin almost choked on his lamb. He coughed violently and hoped the other men would think that the cause of his blushing.

  “Doortje?” scoffed McAllister. “That’d be like making love to a razor blade.”

  “Colonel! Is that any way to speak of a young lady?” Major Barrister chided.

  The men fell silent, and Kevin was relieved not to have to say more. He could not have explained his attraction to Doortje van Stout. Her face was pretty, sure, as was her flaxen hair. But he’d known women of greater beauty. What was it, then, that drew him to her? Her unbridled energy? Her passion? Or was it her obstinacy, her deep convictions, which, though Kevin did not share them, fascinated him nonetheless? He had known himself to be rather superficial, and had sought out complementary companions—Juliet, for one, was a butterfly that flitted from flower to flower. Doortje, however, was unwavering, true, and serious.

  Kevin shook his head at himself. When had those ever been attributes he valued in women?

  “The young lady is doubtlessly a challenge,” remarked Tracy.

  He was about to say something else, but was interrupted by the sound of hooves. A man on horseback paused in front of the house, spoke with one of the orderlies, then rode around to the rear veranda where Barrister and his officers were dining.

  The rider, a young Australian, blurted out his message without dismounting.

  “Major! The first encounters with the enemy occurred outside of Wepener with two wounded. You’re to please man the first-aid tent and get the field hospital operational. The battle will begin tomorrow.”

  Major Barrister disbanded the table at once and gave assignments. He would head to the front himself to provide first aid.

  “Dr. Tracy will assist me for the first ten hours, then Drs. McAllister and Drury will relieve us. I’d like every new doctor to first work alongside doctors with front experience. Later, the assignments don’t matter. Perhaps even one doctor will suffice then, and the others can operate here. We’ll see how bloody it gets.”

  “What’s this supposed to be, a crash course in surgery?” Kevin asked McAllister as Barrister and Tracy rode away. The two of them were to prepare the beds and once more look over the operating rooms in the makeshift hospital. They would not be getting much sleep the next day. “I’ll admit it’s not my specialty, but what can you really teach me in ten hours?”

  McAllister smiled bitterly. “You learn quickly here—the hard way, especially for the patient. I’m convinced I killed my first ten amputees. But it’s not what this is about. It’s more about you learning to see blood, Dr. Drury, mo
re blood than you ever dreamed of in your little city practice. What’s your first name, again? I’m Angus, but call me Gus.”

  Kevin was lying in his bed of straw in the barn, still thinking about McAllister’s words, when he heard crashing and the splintering of wood. Alarmed, he leaped up—it sounded as if someone were plundering the house. Had some marauding Boers fallen upon the field hospital? He reached for his rifle.

  Angus McAllister, however, was already coming toward him. The Scotsman had likewise jumped out of bed, but he was now grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s not the war, Kevin, just your future sweetheart. Miss van Stout is smashing the family porcelain. And the chairs in the dining room. Tainted by British fingers and arses. Unthinkable that a van Stout should eat from the one, let alone sit on the other ever again.” He laughed. “And now you’ve seen a Scotsman in his underwear. I hope she calms down before she claws her own eyes out.”

  Kevin slapped his forehead. Yet he could not stop himself from picturing Doortje as he fell asleep. A blonde angel of vengeance smashing dishes and furniture—and then kissing him with the same passion.

  The next morning, they awoke to the sound of fighting. Previously, shots had sometimes rung out, but sporadically. They had sounded more like practice than a battle. Now, however, grenade explosions followed weapon salvos. The sound was loud even on the van Stout farm. It must have been infernal at the front.

  Dr. Barrister’s representative, Dr. Willcox, arrived at the field hospital. He had been in the first-aid tent at the front, treating minor injuries. Yesterday, things had gotten serious, but both wounded men had survived the night. One was only lightly wounded. Willcox had immediately operated on the other—he had already finished when Barrister and Tracy arrived. Now he was escorting the two invalids to the hospital.

  “The next transport will likely follow in an hour at most,” Willcox declared. “The battle’s been raging since dawn. The first casualties were arriving as I rode off. Get ready.”

  Fortunately, the first two patients were in good condition and properly bandaged, resting comfortably in one of the three transport wagons. The orderlies needed only to transfer them to the straw beds in the barn.

  Then, however, the second transport arrived, and Kevin got a glimpse of how things must be at the front. It was unimaginable that just two doctors and a few orderlies had provided first aid to this many wounded, but the quality of the treatment testified to it. Wounds had been provisionally covered, and limbs in need of amputation had been tied off, but that was all. The men lay packed together in the too-small wagons. Some screamed, moaned, or wept.

  “These two first,” Dr. Willcox directed, pointing to a man with a bloody stump for a leg and another with a shredded arm. The first was unconscious, the second whimpering. “Ever taken someone’s leg off, Drury? I see the answer’s no. But you do know how to use a saw, right? Don’t turn green, man. Grab the surgical instruments and assist me.”

  Kevin fought down his disgust. He had never had reason to amputate in his private practice, and he had operated little during his residency in a Dunedin hospital. Kevin liked interacting with people and had preferred general medicine to surgery. Nevertheless, he was a skillful and determined medical professional. Once he had gotten used to being soaked in blood, he worked quickly and efficiently.

  Willcox seemed satisfied. “Just don’t let the screams get to you when the opiates wear off,” he said. “We’re actually well supplied, but in the heat of battle, it’s hard to gauge the right dose, and you have to work quickly.”

  And work quickly they did. On Willcox and Kevin’s operating table, one patient followed another and another. The orderlies changed them so quickly, the doctors didn’t have a moment to catch their breath. On the second table, McAllister was working with an Indian orderly. The two of them took care of the lighter cases—and did a sort of screening. By his fifteenth patient or so, Kevin wondered aloud how he and Willcox had so far managed to save everyone.

  “The worst cases don’t make it to us,” Willcox explained, gesturing toward McAllister with his chin.

  Kevin’s eyes widened. “But that’s monstrous. We should treat them first.”

  Willcox shook his head. “Young man, if we try to save one like him”—he pointed to a boy shot through the lung—“we’d be at the table at least two hours, and three others would die in the meantime. For maybe a fifteen percent chance of success. It doesn’t work that way in war. It makes me sad too.”

  The man who’d taken the bullet to his lung looked so young that he must have lied about his age in order to enlist. Willcox looked him over regretfully. “They should have just let him die at the front. But Barrister sometimes has a soft heart.”

  For Kevin, the first ten hours flew by. He was still operating when the last transport arrived at nightfall, accompanied by Dr. Tracy, who would not be dissuaded from immediately assuming Kevin’s place at the table.

  “You’re to ride for the front at once, Drury. Barrister could use help. McAllister will follow you in two hours. By then, things should have calmed down.”

  “But you should rest,” Kevin said.

  Dr. Tracy still held himself like a gentleman, but he looked horrible. His uniform, spick-and-span the night before, with perfectly ironed pleats, was filthy and drenched in blood. His face looked gaunt. His eyes lay sunken in his skull, and his gaze had changed. Dr. Tracy seemed to have looked into the abyss.

  “We all need rest,” Tracy said curtly, and Kevin wondered whether he looked as bad as his colleague. He still felt quite alert, however—probably he wouldn’t truly feel his exhaustion until the work was done.

  “Besides, I’d like to save someone for once,” Tracy added. “If I—if I see any more dead men, then—” He squared himself and swallowed what he obviously wanted to say. “Then—then I might lose my composure.”

  He reached for the scalpel. Kevin bowed his head and handed it off.

  Before heading to the stables, Kevin quickly checked the condition of his patients. The orderlies—the Indians as well as the recently trained New Zealanders—were acquitting themselves well. The wounded lay on clean straw beds, and the orderlies went from one to the next, encouraging them and giving them water and soup. One of the new orderlies sat next to the boy shot in the lung, speaking to him and praying. Kevin thanked him and wondered whether there was a pastor who should be doing this.

  He asked another of the orderlies about the van Stouts. Perhaps all the suffering that day had touched even this family’s heart, and they would finally treat at least the doctors and orderlies more amicably. The orderly shook his head. The van Stouts had not shown themselves all day.

  “They’re not in the field either,” another reported.

  The cook, whose assistant had just hauled a large pot of stew into the barn, snorted.

  “They’re praying,” he declared, filling a bowl for Kevin, who only then realized how hungry he was. “For hours now. I don’t understand their gibberish, but if you ask me, it’s for the Boers’ victory. Can’t we put a lid on that, Doctor? It drives me crazy.”

  Kevin smiled tiredly between rushed spoonfuls of stew. “That is probably their aim. Better just to ignore it. You’ll have to put your faith in God. He doesn’t listen to everyone, you know. By the way, this is delicious—where did you say your restaurant was? Melbourne?”

  Kevin conversed a bit more with the cook, then reluctantly went to leave—and, to his amazement, caught sight of Nandi’s brother stealthily placing a bucket of water at the entrance of the barn. His masters seemed not to know that he was helping.

  “He’s been bringing us water all day,” an orderly said. “An enormous help. We all had our hands full here. And the Zulu woman brought half a bucket of milk earlier. I think they’re on our side, the blacks. They don’t like the Boers either.”

  Kevin thought to himself that the native people did not have much reason to like the British either. After all, the Crown didn’t have to recognize t
he Boer republics and their slave holding in the first place. They should have fought for the blacks when they first took over the country, not just after gold turned up. Then, however, he thought of Doortje. As he rode past the house, he heard her resonant voice. She was speaking in Dutch, or Afrikaans rather, and she seemed to be reading from a prayer book. In the light of the gas lamp, he saw her slender silhouette and that neat bonnet. She seemed never to take it off. He would have to ask someone if there was a reason. Kevin imagined loosening the bands and watching her hair fall in soft waves down her back. Like gold but without the metallic shimmer. Doortje’s hair was like the soft gold of grain.

  Kevin thought it might be worth fighting for that gold.

  Quiet prevailed in the British Army camp when Kevin arrived, deathly tired. It was just as he’d supposed: the exhaustion had come as soon as he stopped moving. A few orderlies sat smoking in front of the first-aid tent. Next to them lay innumerable long bundles wrapped in canvas. Kevin averted his eyes.

  “Dr. Barrister?”

  One of them gestured to the tent. “Still operating. A few serious cases who’ve held out so far. Go on in.”

  Barrister was just as dirty and bloody as Tracy. He looked exhausted but not as devastated as his younger colleague.

  “Come on, Drury, lend me a hand. Stomach wound, no great chance of survival. But he hasn’t died yet, so we’ll try. Were you able to help the boy shot in the lung?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Dr. Willcox—”

  “Will give it a go tonight if the boy’s still alive. But we should get at least two hours of sleep. It’ll be the same tomorrow. The Boers in Wepener aren’t about to surrender. They’ll fight to the last bullet. And their position is excellent. It could be two or three days till we take back the town.”