Now, all around them, spread over miles, were the black, rocking shapes of vessels, some merchant, some naval, all heading to or from the same place.
The ship was slowing. Annie was sure of that too. The hum of the engines had dropped in tone, just marginally. She could now hear the hiss of the water in their wake and the squawks of the gulls that hovered on the breeze, scanning the frothing ocean for silvery titbits.
She had already learned that, when a ship slowed, it ceased riding high. Sure enough it began to pitch, the bow rising and falling as it crashed through the rollers. And the wind had changed. The spray slapped up and caught her mischievously in the face, raising an involuntary chuckle.
This was it.
* * *
It had all happened so remarkably quickly. Within days of the declaration of war, there was a rush of young Australian men to volunteer for service, supplementing the regulars being mustered for departure.
Women too. The New South Wales Army Medical Corps had wasted no time in posting advertisements around the Sydney Hospital requesting the service of nurses.
Annie had simply gone to the recruiting desk set up in the main hallway and expressed her interest – initially by way of enquiry, but transformed by a sudden flourish of enthusiasm that had been seized upon by her canny enlisters, into a confirmed act of volunteering.
The cheery, flattering sergeant and staff nurse from the Corps had applauded her patriotism, asked questions about her skills, whether she was single (‘yes’) and enquired as to whether or not Annie had any dependents. (None, she had replied. Parents both dead; a brother, two years younger, who was more than capable of looking after himself.) In which case, she was just the kind of young woman they were looking for.
They also warned her, in sombre terms, that it would be demanding work in a completely alien environment. She would be required to sign up for a minimum of 12 months and, even then, might spend most of that time stationed right there in New South Wales. She would be unlikely to depart for South Africa until January at the earliest, by which time the fighting most probably would be over.
It was fine, she said. She was sure. She had thought about it deeply (she hadn’t). And when they blotted the ink on her signature, she knew her life had changed forever.
Within a week she was summoned by the ward sister, who called her into the office and informed her that her request to serve in South Africa had been accepted.
The very next day, Annie reported for duty at Corps headquarters, was fitted with a coarse uniform and thrust into a classroom with 11 other girls. There, an enthusiastic lecturer extolled the virtues of the new anaesthetics they would be using in the field hospitals and of the scientific wonder that was the X-Ray machine, a futuristic contraption that they would be operating to locate bullets in a wounded soldier’s body.
The training did not last long. Five days later, the new army nurses were informed that they were to set sail imminently, prompting a great deal of soul-searching on Annie’s part and the penning of her epic, terminal epistle to fiancé Edward.
To a military band, an explosion of coloured streamers and the cheers and tears of thousands – including her brother, who embraced her so tightly she thought she would crack a rib – the 12 New South Wales nurses, along with a contingent of the NSW Mounted Rifles, boarded the steamer SS Melbourne at the Woolloomooloo docks.
The voyage was calm at first. But, a week out, the Indian Ocean cut up rough, the ship pitching, rolling and yawing in a way that several thousand tons of steel would not, according to the laws of physics, have seemed possible. Annie did not suffer from sea-sickness, but plenty did.
It was the first time the nurses had been let out of their quarters. There, they had been quarantined from the four hundred men on board, making their pathetically small recreation deck, up high, an object of immense fascination for those men below, who, while performing their daily PT routines, would strain their necks for the merest glimpse of petticoat, the wolf-whistlers dealt with harshly by the drill sergeants.
With the outbreak of sea-sickness, the nurses were dispatched below decks to tend to the men. In Sydney, Annie had been seconded, for a while, to the Darlinghurst Gaol. The sights, the sounds, the smells, were not dissimilar to that of a prison. Nor were the men much different. There were polite men, rude men, smooth men, coarse men, patient men, angry men, naked men, priapic men.
* * *
Now, on the main deck, those same men, in their grey undershirts, were conducting their physical jerks. Arrayed in ranks, swinging their arms and touching their toes at the barking of the sergeant.
“Land!”
The cry came from somewhere up the front, the bows.
She saw the sudden swivelling of heads, felt the electric thrill of excitement.
“Stand to bloody attention the lot of you!” screamed the instructor. “You miserable shower of shit!”
“Can you see it? Is it true?” squealed Nurse Sullivan as the others gathered, one hand shielding their straining eyes, the other clamped reflexively onto their wind-blown boaters.
There, on the horizon, was a thin smudge of brown.
“Africa,” yelped Sullivan.
“How exciting,” chimed in ApThomas. “Lions and tigers!”
Sullivan rolled her eyes. Annie smiled.
The same old steward, the kindly one, appeared. He bore a tray with mugs of tea. He’d never seen this many ships, he said. Be warned, docking would be hours away. They might have to remain at anchor for a day or two.
The bell was rung. The sister appeared to usher the nurses back below. They groaned. But the decks must be cleared, they were told. Annie was in no rush. She lingered.
“Might I remind you, Nurse Jones, this is a working ship,” snapped the sister, “not a pleasure cruise.”
Chapter Seven
Finch stood alone in the courtyard. Save for the odd cough or groan from the barn, the farm seemed as empty and quiet as it would ever be – eerily so. Bandages trailed through the dirt.
In Finch’s hand was a walking stick that he’d found – a birch staff with a crook handle. A ripped square of white sheeting hung from it, tied with two large knots.
Finch patted his left shoulder and ensured that his armband – white with a red cross upon it – was clearly visible. His head was bare and he had removed his belt, lest it be perceived to hold a holstered weapon – there was still debate about whether medical officers should exercise their right to bear defensive arms.
Behind him, a hundred yards away at the southern gate, an ox cart waited with its twin beasts of burden and an African driver sitting patiently. A hastily-made white flag fluttered over it, too. On board were three wounded, bewildered Tommies.
The strange calm did not last for long. On the plain to the north, a dust cloud was forming – a broad brown streak of air was advancing towards the farm, travelling at some speed.
And then Finch felt it … a visceral thunder – hooves, hundreds of hooves. The rumble grew louder, louder. His stomach lurched. He raised his makeshift flag and spread his arms wide, unambiguously. He braced himself.
The Boers were into the farmyard in a flash, a great whirlwind of man and steed that rendered the air thick with dirt, as if an earthen smokescreen had been laid down. The wall of grit hit like a sandstorm and stung Finch’s eyes. He reflexively turned his back, coughing and spluttering. About him now, men were shouting in a guttural tongue, springing from their mounts, cocking rifle bolts, rushing from building to building.
How alien their soldiering was – men who were as comfortable with a gun on horseback as they were on the ground; no identifiable regiments or rank; an egalitarian force in which officers, even generals, were said to perform the most menial of duties alongside the men.
Finch had also heard of something unthinkable to Her Majesty’s armed forces – strategic decisions taken by the men themselves on a simple show of hands.
The dust began to settle and he wheeled round to face his
foe. Two burghers approached him, skin leathered, eyes bright, Mausers raised. They snapped at him to drop his flag and keep his hands high. One crept close. He began patting him down. The man smelled of soil, of leather, of days-old sweat.
The broad-brimmed slouch hats were practical, so were the bandoliers, the belts of cartridges that crisscrossed their torsos. But there was something unnervingly Biblical … Old Testament … about these men, too. All but the young ones had full, untrimmed beards, not unlike the Hassidic Jews he had seen in the East End of London. They wore not uniforms nor farm-wear but three-piece suits, as if donning their Sunday best was a way of giving thanks to the Lord for deliverance from bullets.
The Boer turned to his colleague. He seemed satisfied that Finch had no weapon.
A strong voice barked in Afrikaans and the two men stood back. A man with an uncharacteristic clipped beard swung his leg off his well-groomed palomino gelding. He was aged around 30. His mid-blue suit was of a fine corduroy. The brim of his hat had been pinned up on one side, like that of an Australian, adorned with the stub of a bright red feather. A gold watch chain hung on his waistcoat. There were links in his shirt cuffs. Unusually, he wore riding boots.
“Good day to you, Captain,” he said, striding forward, confidently.
He thrust out his hand. Finch shook it. On either flank Finch could see horsemen charging across the veld still. Disconcertingly, he could hear distant gunfire.
“Pieter Swanepoel, Kroonstad Commando,” the man announced.
His English was impeccable. His accent light. He pulled out a silver case, finely engraved.
“Cigarette?”
Finch nodded. The Boer officer flipped the lid. They were British smokes. Capstans.
There was a commotion from within the barn. Finch could hear sick men protesting. He did not like it.
“Hier,” a Boer was yelling. “Hier binne.”
“My men—” Finch protested.
“… will not be harmed,” Swanepoel cut across. “You have my word.”
Without looking up, the Boer commander uttered another order. The shouting stopped.
He seemed in no hurry. He struck a match, cupped his hands round the flame and lit first Finch’s cigarette, then his own. He exhaled casually. He looked up at the sky.
“Warmer today, is it not?”
Finch didn’t know what to say. He simply nodded. The strength of the cigarette caught him unawares. His head spun.
“It is high ground here,” he continued. “Very flat. The weather can change …” he clicked his fingers “… like that.”
He had got the measure of the British, thought Finch, opening with a meteorological meditation.
“It does take some getting used to.”
Swanepoel smiled.
“So … Captain …?”
“Finch. Ingo Finch. Royal Army Medical Corps.”
Finch saluted. There was no return. He felt stupid.
“… back to the Modder, eh?”
He was not prepared for discussion of military strategy. It was beyond his remit.
“By the terms of Geneva Convention, I’m not obliged …”
Swanepoel gave a mildly contemptuous snort.
“Come, come … Please, Captain. Relax. It’s hardly a secret. This is open country. Natural barriers are few and far between. Little cover. You can’t hide … plus, we have good intelligence. Eyes in your camp.”
It would be no surprise, thought Finch. The army moved so ponderously and with so many hangers-on, its dealings were an open book.
Finch explained about the casualties. There were 63 men to be handed over. He gave a brief synopsis of the range of injuries.
“They will be well cared for,” Swanepoel promised. “We have doctors with us. As soon as the Front is secure, they will be transported by rail back to Bloemfontein. The track is open behind our lines.”
“Thank you.”
Never before had armies been so dependent on railway lines, or so vulnerable to derailment. The Boers had thwarted the entire British advance by the simple act of dynamiting a set of points.
Finch gestured to the small hillock, the mass grave. He handed Swanepoel an envelope.
“The particulars. I would be grateful if you could erect some kind of marker. Then, when this is over—”
“Our presbyter will take care of it.”
The commander tucked the envelope into his breast pocket.
There was shouting, an altercation. At the south gate, a small knot of Boers had surrounded the ox cart. They had demanded raised hands from the wounded Tommies, who were struggling to comply. A Boer had climbed onto the tailgate.
“Three casualties plus a driver. All unarmed,” declared Finch. “You have my word.”
Swanepoel shouted. The men stopped immediately. He exhaled more smoke.
“Two of my men will escort you to within a mile of your rearguard.”
Finch nodded at the barn. Swanepoel gave permission for him to explain the situation to his men. He hobbled to the building and went in. A Boer soldier accompanied him.
The first thing to hit him was the smell – of bodies, misery, sweat, excrement and the unmistakable tinge of rotting flesh. There was a constant drone – the damned flies. He tried not to gag.
They were a sorry sight – a row of men along each wall huddled in filthy horse blankets; no beds, just stained tarpaulins over the straw. Some men were without an arm, others a leg or both, some blinded. Amid the greying bandages and festering wounds he thought he recognised Urquhart, but was not sure. Several were unconscious. What use was operating on them if they ended up like this?
The Boer soldier spoke, his accent heavy.
“Doctors. Good. They come,” he told Finch.
There was not a single objection from the men as Finch informed them of their situation, their sad eyes acknowledging.
Back outside, Swanepoel was holding two enamel mugs.
“Tea, Captain Finch? Your custom.”
Finch took the mug and sipped the milk-less brew. It was unfamiliar but pleasant to taste.
“Rooibos. Redbush,” said Swanepoel. “Come …”
The Boer commander led the way. The two men ambled up the hillock where the earth was dark and fresh, Finch using his walking stick now in the way it was intended. They stood for a moment in silence.
“You know I lived in England,” he said. “Cambridge … Trinity. Passed the bar, then on to Kaapstad … Cape Town. Moved back home to Bloemfontein when the lines were being drawn.”
“It is a beautiful country you have here,” Finch mumbled, then regretted such a trite offering.
He reached inside his tunic to share his hip flask. It was empty.
He sighed. “It was a good one. Sorry.”
“Next time,” said Swanepoel, patting Finch’s forearm. “Next time.”
One of Swanepoel’s men was calling him. The Boer officer shook his dregs onto the ground. He nodded towards the ox cart.
“Captain. Your carriage awaits … Here.”
He passed Finch a small wax bag. Loose tea leaves. The rooibos.
“When you drink it, you will think of me.”
Finch smiled. They shook hands. The commander strode off.
* * *
At the gate, Finch did his best to climb onto the ox cart. It was a painful exercise.
The three men on board were all Argylls – one had his hands bandaged, the second had a dressing over his left eye, the third lay shivering under a blanket. All were filthy. A curiosity of yesterday’s battle was that a substantial number of the wounds had come in the form of sunstroke.
Pinned down by the enemy guns, many of the Highlanders had been forced to lie absolutely still, face down for hours in the heat of the African sun, unable to make the merest movement which would have attracted the Boer marksmen who could shoot a man dead at a thousand yards. The sun had roasted the backs of necks and bare white legs.
At Finch’s signal, the African driver smacked
his stick on the rear of the two oxen and, slowly, the cart trundled off up the dirt road.
Behind, two Boers followed – one middle-aged, with a full beard, the other young, notably clean-shaven. They were treating the slow pace as rest for their horses, which were encouraged to stop and chew on vegetation whenever they felt like it. The Boer horses were small, more like ponies, but they were lean and muscular, skew and piebald – working animals, cattle wranglers. The riders rode with a long stirrup.
A while later, as they came to the brow of a low hill, the Boer with the beard rode up and instructed the African ox driver to stop. There was contempt in his tone. The cart halted. The younger, smooth one, with a ruddy complexion, trotted ahead, dismounted and crept forward, ducking behind some acacia scrub. He extended a small telescope and viewed what Finch assumed to be the retreating British column.
Finch could see in the distance a huge swirling cloud, not just the dust of an army on the move but the smoke of a vast encampment, the huge tent city that would have started forming beyond the thin line of trees that marked the banks of the Modder. There would be an endless line of wagons waiting, queued up to cross the lone, rickety pontoon bridge the Royal Engineers had built to replace the one the Boers had blown up.
The young man rode part of the way back down. His companion sauntered up to confer. When they had spoken, Finch was invited to step down and join them. He made heavy weather of it. Fifty yards away a male ostrich bounded along with its loping stride.
“It is safe to proceed,” faltered the bearded one, pressing tobacco into a clay pipe.
The added, more fluid announcement by his colleague that ‘They’re at least two miles ahead’ was remarkable less for the information than that it was delivered in an unmistakable southern Irish brogue.
The man saw Finch startle and relished his confusion.
“MacBride’s Brigade. Volunteers,” he said.
“But—”
“But what, Captain?”
No Ordinary Killing Page 4
