by Peter Rimmer
"You haven't cried."
"Oh, I will Harry. I will. I am just too annoyed with my own people to cry just now. He was my friend. Yes, he was my friend. Silly isn't it how the tribes of Africa always want to fight with each other, even the white tribes."
"But they will stop fighting when Africa's civilised."
"What's civilised? You think what we British have just done to a brave man is civilised? I don't think so. I'll give you an article to read written by Billy Clifford. He says war is part of our nature. That it will never stop. Sadly, I rather think he is right…Drive first to the hospital where I am going to discharge myself. Then to your grandmother's hotel. There's nothing more for me to do in this war. My friend’s dead, Harry. My friend’s dead. The bloody bastards hung him. Not even a firing squad. It's a horrible world. I wanted your mother, Harry. And they even tried to take her away from me those long years ago.
Harry Brigandshaw got out of the coach to attend to the horses. Never once before in his life had he ever seen his father cry.
Chapter 3: September 1901
The Boer ponies were in good condition for the first time in more than a year. Good spring rains had turned the highveld a lush green. Kei sitting on a high rock in the middle of an open, green plain, gently stroked Blackdog's head. The bitch lying in the long grass at the foot of the rock was pregnant again and would soon have to be carried on his saddle. Piers had made him drown the last litter and both of them had been sad for days: the pups had not even opened their eyes. The four dogs and the bitch were panting; their tongues hanging out as far as they would go, dripping with sweat. There was no shade for miles around. Ahead, the remnants of Tinus Oosthuizen's commando moved slowly through the new grass. Even to Kei it looked as if they had no known place to go or come from.
Kei was the scout left on the high rock to warn of danger and give the Boers time to gallop from the British. He had an off-white shirt in his saddlebag that he would put on at the first sign of danger. It was Piers's job to regularly turn in his saddle and look for the white shirt.
The hobbled horse grazing the new grass near the bald rock was a Basuto pony with rope for reins, a blanket for a saddle and no stirrups. Twice a British patrol had caught up to Kei on his various vantage points as the war simmered and flared across the veld. As expected of him he looked dumb when approached by the soldiers. He was a black man who had strayed into a white man's war and each time they left him alone.
Blackdog was the first to pick up the lone horseman riding hard towards the Boer commando and Kei focused his stolen British army binoculars on the rider. The man was dressed in rags like the rest of them. His beard was thick and black and even at three miles distance, Kei was sure the man was a Boer. As the sun began to make its drop over the horizon, Kei watched the lone rider close with the commando. As the sun tinged the clouds pink Kei slipped down from his rock followed by Blackdog, untying the hobble, Kei mounted his pony and with the dogs running behind, galloped for the horse before they were lost in the dark. They had not lit a fire for a year.
When he reached Piers talking to Karel, his pony was foaming at the mouth and he gave the animal a pint of his own drinking water. The dogs would have to wait until they found a stream. Most of the men left him alone. Only Karel and Piers talked to him and sometimes Magnus du Plessis the new commander, but that was when he wanted to give Kei an order. If he could have thought of something better to do with his life he would have gone off with the dogs. He kept with the commando more from force of habit. Majuba farm didn't exist. The gold of Lobengula didn't exist.
Piers put a billycan of water down for the panting dogs that Blackdog drank after a brief snapping argument. The three dogs and the bitch sat back on their haunches and watched with resignation. Piers sat down next to the dogs and looked at Kei in the torchlight.
"The British have hung General Oosthuizen," he said in Afrikaans. "General du Plessis and the rest of us want our revenge. There is a dorp ahead with a British garrison. We want you to go into the dorp tomorrow. We will reach a stream in an hour. The land here belongs to Shalk Pretorious. Even without a moon we will find the water. The dogs will be all right. Will you scout the dorp for us, Kei? The day after tomorrow we want to attack before first light so we must know where to look for them."
"Why did they hang the general? He was a prisoner."
"You see, if the British conquer this land they will murder us at will. Boer or black man."
Three weeks after Magnus du Plessis swore on the Bible his oath of revenge the first report came into army intelligence at the Castle; the dorp next to Shalk Pretorious's farm had been annihilated.
The small garrison of twelve men had been forgotten and no instruction given to the sergeant to report his condition and that of his men. Everyone in the dorp knew Shalk Pretorious and all of them were frightened of retribution. Twenty days after Kei had scouted the exact location of each British soldier and the Boer attack had gone ahead a British patrol called in on its way to relieve a blockhouse in the chain set down by Kitchener to flush out the last of the Boers, the Bittereinders, who refused to lay down their arms. The townsfolk had left the bodies where their throats had been cut and the sergeant where Magnus du Plessis had shot him in the middle of the small square. In fear of their lives everyone except the blacks had evacuated the village and left it to the scavengers. The sergeant's bones had been picked clean by the vultures and crows. The blacks gave the British soldiers blank looks and were unable to speak any language the British lieutenant could understand. When he reached Kitchener's fence and blockhouse he handed a full report to the retiring lieutenant who was taking his men to Cape Town on leave.
The bodies of two British patrols were next reported. A blockhouse in the long line of blockhouses across the highveld was attacked and everyone killed. The pattern coming into James Brigandshaw's command centre was exactly the same: no one had seen anything; every one of the British had been killed.
"Are you thinking the same thing, James?" asked Colonel Hickman.
"Exactly the same. This is revenge. An eye for an eye. Most likely General Oosthuizen's commando with someone else in charge. Throughout the entire war there have been wounded after a skirmish. Every one of these soldiers has either died in a firefight, had his throat cut or been executed. The Boers don't seem to care anymore. They are killing British soldiers right under our nose. It's almost as if they want to get themselves killed."
"No man wants to die."
"They do if they feel sufficiently guilty. Tinus Oosthuizen only went to war long after we marched into Pretoria. The pressure must have been enormous. Every farmer in Franschhoek is a Cape Boer. Someone pushed him. It must have been terrible. His mother, a Scot, the mother of his children English. The man had even given up hunting for ivory as he didn't want to kill the animals. Our esteemed General Gore-Bilham in his private hate has killed over one hundred British soldiers. Unless we do something swiftly there are going to be a lot more dead. Hate, guilt and no way out make a powder keg. This is a private war. We must kill or capture this Boer commando. I'll plot each of the attacks and see if there is a pattern. They must have a lair."
Magnus du Plessis prayed to his God on his knees. Every British death was part of his holy war. Hatred and righteousness mixed in his mind to create a fanatic. The obsession to kill British soldiers seethed in his belly and every time he prayed he finished screaming at the heavens.
"I will revenge you, Tinus," he shouted. "I will send you a great host of dead Englishmen. You will see!"
Karel watched the man whose mind had snapped soon after the lone rider brought the news. He looked at Piers and Piers looked away. Both of them were sick to their stomachs of the executions. Kei had stopped talking to anyone and watched the new general screaming on his knees with a mix of fear and, Karel thought, even understanding. Of course they were all going to be killed now as every British unit would be looking for the scourge that took no prisoners.
Karel unwillingl
y played through his mind the first attack and the sergeant, unarmed and with his hands up walking across the small dusty square with a timid smile on his face.
"I surrender," the sergeant said in English and then, just to make sure, he repeated the words in Afrikaans.
"So did my friend," the new general had said quietly in English so again there was no mistake. "You people murdered my friend," he then screamed on the top of his voice and shot the sergeant through the right eye. Three more times the commando watched Magnus du Plessis shoot the dead sergeant on the ground, finally kicking the body.
"How do people hate so much?" Karel said loudly.
"I'm just tired," said Piers. "We can't win but we go on. I want to find a quiet spot away from war and people and find out in my heart if there really is a God. At the moment I am not so sure when I look at Magnus du Plessis."
"He made Uncle Tinus go out for the Boers. I think he has found out it was wrong to force another man to go to war. He wants to wallow in the misery. Drown himself in the blood of his enemy. He can't even see that God forsook him the moment he shot the sergeant in the square. I rather hope for Magnus du Plessis there isn't a heaven or a hell. That God does not exist. My brother; it is time for you and me to ride away. There is evil over there. We will all go tonight with the dogs. Enough good men have died for no good purpose. Soon, the war will be over. We'll each find a wife and have big families and forget what we have done these last few weeks. Uncle Tinus would not have wished this to happen. Revenge and retribution has to stop."
"It never will," said Kei who had been standing behind them for the past few minutes. "But it is good we go from here. Maybe the farm has not been totally destroyed. The land will have been fallow for two seasons. The crops will grow."
"The British won't let us go home," said Piers.
"Then we will go north," said Karel. "Stay deep in the bush until this war comes to an end. I don't want to kill any more. Our new general is mad."
For Magnus du Plessis everything had gone. His friend, murdered. His people scattered in the wilderness. His farm in Franschhoek forfeit if he returned. His family alone. And now they were deserting him. The blood of Tinus Oosthuizen had deserted him and soon, even the power of revenge would be lost to him.
"God," he called in his agony, "Why have you forsaken me? Why have you forsaken your chosen people? We left the land of Europe to follow your word in purity, the purity given to us by John Calvin. In the wilderness, generation following generation, we followed the purity of your word. Why have you forsaken us to the British? Why do they want our wilderness where we pray to you and live by your book? Why did you let them come here? We, dear God, are your chosen people. What have we done for you to forsake us? Oh, God, can you hear me? If you do not help us we will perish. God, they killed my friend. I made him come to war. I made him, God. Make him leave his family. God, I killed my friend and you have forsaken me. There was the word and now there is nothing. Without you there is nothing. No meaning. No before or after. Everything that is life has no meaning. We are as the cattle. Animals. To eat and to be eaten. There is no soul without you and you have forsaken me. Why did you give me life to forsake me? If you be there God, up there, the God my heart so aches for, strike down a bolt of lightning. Kill me and I will be happy. Kill my mortal life and bring me to you, God. Please bring me. If there is a God in heaven strike out my misery. Everything has gone but you God. Prove to me you exist. Strike me down. Dear God, I want to die."
He stood on the rock, his arms to heaven, waiting. Behind, the few Bittereinders watched and heard his agony. And nothing happened. The blue heaven stayed its perfect blue, dotted with perfect clouds. No sound of thunder. No rent in the sky. Nothing.
Most of the men, dressed in rags and hungry, turned away in embarrassment, some even hoped the sky would rent asunder and take them all. They knew the war was finished, like themselves. They had fought and lost. It was the will of God and God punished his people for their sins and the sins of their fathers.
"Khaki!" The shout rang in the clear highveld air. "Up-saddle!"
And from his small mountain, Magnus du Plessis came down from trying to talk to God and ran for his pony. Even without Kei and his white shirt they outrode the British, the power of self-preservation as strong as their belief in God. There were twenty-nine Boers left, galloping through the new grass already up to their knees.
"We will fight another day," shouted Magnus du Plessis who had taken the lead. He had forgotten the lack of God's thunderbolt.
The British patrol watched the Boer dust disappear ahead into the hills. Within half an hour the position of the Boer remnant had been reported by wire to James Brigandshaw in the Castle at Cape Town.
That night, Karel, Piers, Kei and the dogs broke through the fence between two British blockhouses, cutting the wire in the moonless dark, the hooves muffled, the dogs silent. Through the rest of the night they rode slowly north, checking their position from the Southern Cross. In the morning, when the sun paled the sky, the two brothers rode on either side of Kei. In front trotted Blackdog. Behind, like scouts protecting the flanks, coursed the three dogs and the pregnant bitch that belonged to Sarie Mostert.
"We'll ride over the Limpopo River," said Kei, "There's something I have to tell you. Something you can help. And something to show you."
From deep within his right saddlebag, Kei pulled out Zwide's head ring. And as they rode north in the sweet clean air of a day free from war he told them the story of Lobengula's gold, spreading the legend.
"You want us to look for the old king's gold?" asked Piers.
"It exists," said Kei. "The trouble is nobody knows where. No, that gold gave me enough trouble."
"Why does everyone want to be rich?" asked Karel.
"It is in all man," said Kei, "What wouldn't I have done with all that gold."
"What would you have done?" asked Piers.
"I would have found a place and made myself a king. With all that gold I would have bought enough guns to fight off the British."
"And who would have used the guns?" asked Karel.
"There are always people if you promise them enough. Fight for me and I will make you rich. Give you land. Give you women. Never fails. Most people don't have a chance. Any chance is better than none. Sitting, waiting to be robbed of the little you have has never been attractive. You Boers taught that much to us blacks. Promise anyone a better life and give him a gun and he will fight."
"So you are going to look for the gold?" said Piers.
"Maybe."
"And where do you get the guns?"
"Someone will always sell me guns for gold."
"What's the matter, Karel?" asked Piers.
"Someone just walked over my grave."
The map showed the line of blockhouses across the veld that was meant to box in the remnants of the Boer commandos that still refused to surrender. James even knew the name of the man leading the commando that interested him most. For a price, there was always a spy in every community.
"Another Cape rebel and Tinus Oosthuizen's neighbour. Through General Oosthuizen we should have offered the other Cape rebels amnesty. Not hung him. Well, whatever, this du Plessis is trapped between the fence and our new sweep. With your permission, Colonel Hickman, I wish to go north and make sure he is caught but I want General Gore-Bilham's assurance the man will not hang for treason."
"Really, James, you can be ridiculous. The man's a murderer. He kills prisoners."
"But didn't we?"
"The war will be over any day soon and then it will be different."
"Good. Because here is my letter resigning my commission after this last journey north. My father had a warped sense of humour. When Arthur died I became my father's heir. But there are strings attached. Not to the baronetcy, that is the right of the senior surviving son or grandson. Father entailed Hastings Court, that was no problem, but it means it can never be sold or mortgaged. I am sole heir to the rest of his estate after l
egacies to mother and Nathanial. My youngest brother gets not a penny. Fortunately Sebastian has made his own money. Colonial Shipping and its subsidiaries are subject to a separate trust which requires me to run the company in exchange for all the profits of the company. I am not allowed to sell one share and if I do, the conditions of the will may be offered to Nathanial and if he fails to respond the company shall be sold and the entire proceeds given to the Mission to Seamen. Nat and I lose our allowances. As you well know, I could never stay in the regiment without a private income. The higher the rank, the more one needs. Running a shipping company will be like joining the navy. Terrible thought and God forbid but the principles of command are just the same. It would not be fair on Nat to make him choose between his work among the heathen and the business of making money. His wife would disagree but that's another story. So you see, sir, I have to go home. The war as it stands is an irritant. The Boers have lost the conventional war and largely the guerrilla war."
"When are you going north?" asked Colonel Hickman pocketing the letter of resignation.
"Tomorrow on the four o'clock afternoon train."
"I'll miss you, James. So will the army."
"Thank you, sir."
As luck would have it the last evening was a Monday, dining-in night and every officer in Gore-Bilham's command was required to dine in the mess that night. No one ever looked for an excuse unless he wished to stay the same rank for the rest of his army career. With his resignation letter in Colonel Hickman's pocket, James was tempted. The very look of General Gore-Bilham made him sick. But after so many years in the army and with many of his fellow officers his personal friends James dressed up in his number one uniform, took himself across the cobbled courtyard to the mess, took the required glass of dry sherry from the mess steward and walked across to the senior officer in the room to show his respect as required by army protocol.
