by Peter Rimmer
Alone in the wilderness of Africa he made himself a fire and boiled a pot of water for his morning tea and drank it without sugar or milk while the pony, free of saddle and rifle, drank at the river.
On the second day they reached the Limpopo River, brown and muddy, more pools than river waiting for the new rains to send it flowing smoothly to the east. The crossing was easy and James was back on British soil.
For Sir Henry Manderville there were more important things than politicians arguing with each other to protect their political turf. The crate containing Mr Crapper's invention had arrived three months earlier and mysteriously sat alone in the centre of the vacated rondavel that had once been his home. Young Harry had looked at the wooden crate many times, asked many questions and received but one reply: 'wait and see'. Soon after the arrival of the crate a hole had appeared in the back of the bathroom wall, in the house that had once belonged to Tinus Oosthuizen, and then for some time nothing further had happened. Three weeks before the Boers moved into Natal and the Northern Cape a trench had appeared behind the hole in the wall that led to a deep pit, oblong in shape that was filled with large rocks. Next to the trench a wooden tower grew to the height of the thatch with a platform and on top of the platform after considerable effort and with the help of every black man on the farm Harry's grandfather had plonked a tin tank. For the first time Harry was told a secret 'that tank's going to contain five hundred gallons of water.' 'But how, grandfather, are you going to get the water into the tank?' 'Wait and see.'
The scene of the action for Harry then moved down to the river where a hand pump had been installed as long ago as Harry could remember to pump water to the compound five hundred yards away up through the bush, the stockade and between the msasa trees ringed by the flower beds, a laborious process but better than carrying up buckets of water. Down by the river another wooden tower had taken shape and on top of this one, again with great difficulty, Harry watched his grandfather plonk a contraption that went round and round for no purpose every time the wind blew. 'Wait and see', was all he got. A series of cogs and chains, this time Harry judged with extreme difficulty, were built up the tower and down to the water pump: many strong arms had worn the wooden handle smooth by pushing the long piece of wood from right to left for two hours each day to give the households water. When the chains were attached to a cog that protruded from the centre of the contraption going round and round another cog at the bottom of the tower, just above the pipe went round in sympathy and at the same time James Brigandshaw was removing his false beard with difficulty having had a swim in the Baby River without being eaten by a crocodile, Harry's grandfather connected the last chain to a new piece of machinery he had connected to the pump instead of the handle.
"Come and see young Harry, come and see."
Together they strode up the path while the wind squeaked the cogs and chains behind them and when they got to the ground level water reservoir, centre of the three main houses and to the right of the rondavel, water was spilling in spurts into the tank.
"But whose pumping the water?" asked Harry.
"The windmill," said his grandfather gazing up at the tank behind his house with satisfaction. "Today we are going to open the crate."
"Wow," said Harry. "Can I go and tell mummy?"
"Of course you can."
It was obvious to Harry that his grandfather felt very pleased with himself.
Everyone had been invited to the opening of the crate that had now been brought out onto the lawn from the rondavel. Harry looked around bursting with excitement. His eight-year- old sister Madge was trying to look bored with her plump arms folded in front of her chest while George was running after the fox terriers one of which had lifted a leg against the crate when it was first put on the lawn. The dog had then lost interest. The ridgebacks were lying down in the mottled shade of a msasa tree only their eyes moving to catch everything that was going on. Two of the cats had gone up a tree to keep out of harm's way. Aunty Fran was looking vaguely interested but distracted as Uncle Gregory had still not come back from Fort Salisbury. Harry wished he was six years older so he could go off to the war with Uncle Gregory, still not sure which army he wished to join. Harry's father was watching the proceedings with mild amusement and his mother was more concerned with three-year-old George running off with the dogs: looking at his mother, Harry was sure he was soon going to have another brother or sister but no one had told him anything as usual.
A crowbar was inserted into the wood behind one of the nails by Harry's grandfather and with a mighty crack a piece of wood broke off from the crate. The only new thing Harry could see was straw but as the crowbar swiftly did its work the wood came apart, the straw was pushed aside and a white, porcelain tub was brought out of the wreckage and stood on the lawn in all its glory. At the back at the bottom Harry noticed there was a large pipe in the shape of a 'U'. The other side of the crate revealed another porcelain piece with a separate white lid and to the side in a slim compartment were two round pieces of wood, one with a large hole in the middle. Then everyone went off and had tea. The biggest anti-climax in young Harry's life was over and twice he gave his grandfather a filthy look.
For two days Harry's grandfather was closeted in the bathroom with two of the blacks. Out went old bricks and earth that had made the bathroom floor and in went the bowls along with piles of river sand and cement. On the second day the 'U' pipe appeared out of the hole in the wall at the back of the bathroom where it looked down the trench. A new water pipe was taken in through a small hole in the wall. The water pipe from the river was changed and connected to a pipe that went up to the tank on its stilt and just before lunch Harry heard water splashing into the tank high up on its tower. Harry was nothing short of astonished.
Just before tea the whole family was called into the bathroom. Above the big bowl the smaller white bowl with the lid was fixed high up on the wall with the small, outside pipe bending into the top at the side and a larger pipe leading down underneath. A chain hung from the other side on its own. Harry's grandfather was looking very smug.
"Witness, everyone, the first pull and let go in the whole of Rhodesia other than the one's in Mr Meikles Hotel." And without any further ceremony Harry watched his grandfather pull the chain and water rushed down the pipe into the bowl and flushed out the back through the 'U' pipe. Only then was Harry Brigandshaw truly impressed for the first time in his young life. Everyone else began to clap.
That evening on the veranda soon after the sun had gone down Harry perceived his grandfather to be tipsy. The whole evening turned out almost as festive as Christmas.
By the time the new invention by Mr Crapper had flushed its first wares into a freshly closed French-drain, James Brigandshaw arrived in Salisbury on a very tired pony.
"I say, old boy, you really do look a mess," said Gregory Shaw before James could even unsaddle the pony of its burden. "Bit of incognito? Did that myself in Afghanistan. Must been '76. No, '75. Damn tribesmen wanted to infiltrate British India. Easier of course. Put a thing that looked like a sheet over your head and off you went. Surly bunch those Afghans: never said much so language wasn't a problem. By the time they came up the Khyber Pass we had the guns trained on them. Always been a one for military intelligence after that. Usually gives the enemy a nasty surprise."
"Gregory, what on earth is that uniform?"
"Ninth Bengal Lancers. Number two, of course. The number one was too tight under the armpits. Put on a bit of weight."
"We'll have to change that uniform."
"Into what?" said Gregory, doubtfully.
"Mashonaland Scouts, I thought we'd call them. Colonials. All Colonials who know the bush. Tommy out from England in his new 'khaki' uniforms will be no match for the Boers who have hunted the land all their lives whatever the War Office wish to think. General Sir Redvers Buller the new G.O.C. should know. He fought with the Boers against the Zulus when the white tribes of Africa knew that to divide themselves was sui
cide…You give me a hand with this pony. How long have you been waiting for me?"
"Two weeks and a day. Came into Salisbury moment the ultimatum expired. You mean, I can have my commission back?"
"Not exactly. The Scouts will all be troopers. Like the column you came in on with Sir Henry Manderville. I am going to raise them like a Boer commando where the leader gets elected by the rest of the men…You think that young brother of mine will join? Apart from Frederick Selous he probably knows the bush better than any other Englishman. He may be the black sheep of our family running off with Em and all that but we'll need him in this war. And the other Rhodesians. I'm going to mount them on ponies just like this one and push right into Boer territory. Rather like those wild tribesmen were trying to do to you in India before you got on top of them. Can you imagine the information we'll send back to military intelligence?"
"Your brother won't join."
"Why not?"
"Doesn't like killing animals any more, let alone people."
"This is war."
"You've forgotten one big thing, Major Brigandshaw."
"What's that?"
"His best friend and mentor is a Boer."
"Don't be silly, Tinus Oosthuizen is a British subject."
"But he's a Boer. Like a lot more of them here, in the Cape and Natal."
"Don't be ridiculous. They won't fight for Kruger. Far too well off."
"Your nephew, young Harry, wants to join the army if he was only older. Heard him tell his mother. What was chilling was the boy asking Emily which side he should fight on, the Boers or the British. His best friend is Barend Oosthuizen, apart from a black kid called Tatenda, and Barend has sworn an oath with your niece to marry Madge when she turns sixteen. No, I don't think Sebastian will join your Scouts. The worst kind of war is a civil war and that's what this one is going to be…This poor horse is whacked, old boy."
"So am I," said James, "Let’s get a drink before I report. The pony can stay at the water trough and have a rest."
"You going to drink like that?"
"We'll go to Annie's. She won't mind. I had a bath in a couple of rivers. You should have smelt me coming over the Limpopo. Could even smell myself, old chap."
Annie's shack was full. Instinctively, in the face of war, men were looking for women with whom to reproduce themselves.
Having left the pony free of its burdens, the saddle on the pole next to the hitching post, the saddlebags slung over James Brigandshaw's shoulder, the rifle under his arm they had walked the last half mile.
Now he looked around the whorehouse and smiled to himself. All men had the ability to appear what they were not, to lie about the truth, to give the impression they were people anyone would wish to know. But James, smiling to himself, knew better. At the end of the bar was a man masquerading as a gentleman. Talking to him was a man who James should arrest for deserting the British army. Three semi-drunks down the long bar was the ex-administrator of the territory, back from Kimberley and looking for a job who had been the lover of the wife of the man in the strange uniform who, even though he was too old, was going to be a scout. And to James's total surprise, alone and drinking whisky sat the baronet who had sold his daughter and known the bitter taste of retribution.
Jack Slater saw Gregory Shaw and despite the strange uniform recognised him and looked away: how strange, James thought that husbands were always the last to know.
The cuckolded husband's eyes were elsewhere.
"Leave him alone, Greg," said James restraining Gregory. "Henry has his problems."
"What's he doing here?"
"Getting drunk, probably. And if he sees us he'll ask himself the same question. War does different things to different people. The young want to fight them, thinking of glory and gratitude…Probably their ancestors have bred into them that getting old is not a good thing though they don't know that yet. The lonely think of companionship. The men, women scorn, think of medals that by some miracle will make them attractive. Some are just nasty and like to kill. That Jeremiah Shank over there saw the money before most of us saw the war: he'll be even richer at the end of all this. He owns more horses than any man in Africa. His strong arm is Jack Jones who hopes, misguidedly, that I know nothing about him and he would like to run away but can't. War changes things and in change there is opportunity. And loss. Oh yes, Gregory, there is loss. Lots of loss, always loss and still man has gone to war for as long as he can remember. Why do we do it? Who knows? A flaw in man? Is there a God, Gregory, who made us and made us with a flaw? Or is Darwin right: we evolve and war wrinkles out the weak and makes the species stronger, more able to survive? Twice on this journey, alone from Johannesburg, under the stars of heavens, I thought too much of the meaning of life and the more I thought past all those stars in heaven to the black universe the more numb I made my brain. Once I thought my mind had left my body and gone to the stars but then a night jar called and brought me back and I don't think I will be able to do that again and if I do I will never come back and that will be the end of my body. Can a mind live on its own? Are there millions of minds up there on their own thinking away? You see, this is what war does to me. It makes me think. And makes me nervous. Now, to your health, sir and to the Mashonaland Scouts. Ah, here comes Henry. Do you think he will want to join the Scouts?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"Sir Henry Manderville, how are you?"
"A little drunk and a little lonely. Thank God for a familiar face."
"Do you wish to join the Mashonaland Scouts?"
"Probably. Being among so many strange people makes me more lonely than being on my own. Is it a sign of weakness to be lonely? Or a sign of guilt? I am very lonely tonight and very glad to see you both. I have been thinking of my wife. Have a drink gentlemen. A beer to slate the thirst and then a drink. The piano player is going to play again and he is very good. We’ll drink to the piano player and, as the saying goes, 'please don't shoot him as he is the last one we have got'. Even a bad piano player is better than no piano player. Like most things in life we never get what we want but make the best of it. No one wants this war except those foolish youngsters over there but we'll make the best of it. It will be another part of our lives whether we like it or not…Now, listen to that. Isn't he terrible? Maybe we should shoot the poor man and put him out of his misery. Maybe not. Blood on the piano can dampen the spirits. Let the appalling thumping noise continue and allow me to buy my friends a drink. My friends! Such lovely words. Very possessive. As if you belong to me. Which you don't. Annie tells me it is cheaper to buy the whisky by the bottle and if you get one with the top uncorked you may get what you are paying for instead of the gut rot that tastes the same after the fourth drink. Knew a man once who swore he could identify any whisky away from the bottle. Man was a liar of course. Mr BARMAN!...Give us a bottle of whisky for my friends. Gregory, old son, that uniform is too bloody small for you but have a whisky. When the world goes potty there's only one thing a man can do. Get drunk…Isn't that my friend Mr Shank over there. The friend who tried to put young Seb in jail. My fault of course. Always my fault. Haven't you always found, Major Brigandshaw, that when it comes to the bottom of anything it is always your fault. And poor old Jack Slater. Now he's no longer the top dog he drinks alone. Unfair, Gregory. Go and ask the poor man over for a drink. No. Now I remember something. Leave him alone to stew in his own juice. Do you think it is possible to stew in one's own juice, Gregory? Ever since I sold Em to the Pirate I've been stewing in mine. Yes, I'll join the Mashonaland Scouts whatever they are just to get away from myself. First we'll drink the bottle. Have a party…Stupid, really as no one has ever been able to run away from themselves however hard they try."
Chapter 2: November and December 1899
Karel Oosthuizen felt inside the back of his trousers and scratched his hairy arse. After a few moments of intense pleasure he levelled his mauser rifle down at the mining town of Kimberley and fired a random shot. At midday even the dogs w
ere off the streets. From a thousand yards it was too far for him to hear the whine of the ricochet. Down the Boer line someone else fired a shot, followed by complete silence.
"Why don't we attack the place, man?" said Karel in the Taal to the man three yards away.
"'Cause khaki will stick a bayonet in your fat belly. They can't get out and we can't get in without a lot of dead burghers. We wait. Soon they run out of food and come and talk to us. I have a cousin who worked on the mine. Maybe he's down there."
"The whole khaki army will arrive soon and chase Piet Cronjé out of the Cape. Come, man, we got to fight this war and, not scratch our arses. Tiens went off this morning. Just left. Wants to plant his mealies."
"We're all free men. We volunteered. Man has to plant his crops. What's the point of having the land if we don't plant the mealies?"
The siege of Kimberley was in its fifth week. From behind the Boer artillery, two cannons fired over their heads and both men raised their heads to watch the explosion. Satisfied with the plume of smoke, followed by the explosion, Karel rolled onto his back, got his hand inside his trousers and scratched his balls. From down in the town came a second explosion and a shell screamed over their heads and crashed in open ground five hundred yards behind them.
"Where'd they get ammunition," screamed Karel. "They don't have any more ammunition."
"There've been rumours," said the burgher on the other side. "Rhodes had his explosive people at De Beers making him shells. Looks like for once a rumour was right. Maybe we dig a trench. Nothing else to do. You miss your wife, Karel?"
