Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  * * *

  Simon’s Town consisted of little more than a single street which wandered without design along a curving spit of land that formed a natural harbour, yet the declivitous hill behind it garnished with spring flowers drew one’s eye from its plainness and Probyn found it an enjoyable sojourn, especially with the opportunities for fishing. The days were leisurely, this afternoon his only task being to wander up to the hospital and collect some records. Furnished with directions, he strolled down a long avenue, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed eucalyptus, sometimes looking out across the glittering bay, simply enjoying the peace, until he came to a whitewashed building, more like a cottage than a hospital, and he stood appraising it for a moment, dazzled by the sun that bounced from its walls.

  Entering by a door marked Surgery, he adjusted his eyes to the gloom.

  ‘As I live and breath – Pa!’ came an astounded exclamation.

  Still temporarily blinded he was seized by the hand which was shaken boisterously and there stood Michael Melody in the blue and red uniform of a medical orderly, his pillbox hat at a jaunty angle.

  ‘Mick!’ Hardly able to believe his eyes, Probyn uttered many more gasps of surprise before managing to blurt, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Mick was beaming. During the long absence he had added a little weight to his nineteen-year-old frame, but he remained the self-conscious youngster Probyn had known, jabbering to cover his shyness. ‘Well, you know me! I was never out o’ the place and someone sarcastically suggested I take up permanent residence, don’t know why I never considered it before, so I transferred to the Medical Staff Corps, and here I am!’

  Probyn laughed aloud, shaking his head and saying he could hardly believe it. ‘When poor Ingham died of enteric I thought … well never mind, I’m right pleased to see you’re recovered!’

  ‘I am, though it took three months in hospital, had dreadful gastritis afterwards, and now here’s good old Pa come to offer himself as me patient!’ Mick pretended to help the other out of his clothes.

  ‘Not a chance!’ Probyn reeled away still laughing. ‘I’m only here to collect some records.’

  ‘Ah, pity!’ Mick heaved a sigh. ‘Sure, I’d kill for a live patient to practice me skills on. The hours of training, ye wouldn’t believe it, anatomy and stretcher drill and all that stuff, and all I ever get to do here is cut up dead men. For post mortem purposes y’understand.’ He was soon beaming again. ‘Now, come tell me, what sort o’ divilment have you been up to since last we met?’

  ‘Oh, let me think where to start.’ His helmet under his arm, Probyn clutched his forehead, still bowled over by the shock of finding Mick here.

  ‘That much, eh? Then I’d better get you a drink to wet your whistle.’ The young Irishman started to back away, talking as he went. ‘I think we’ve a couple of English beers tucked away for celebratory purposes. We usually just sup the Dutch home-brew ourselves, ’tis cheaper.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The sergeant, meself and another orderly!’ Mick’s disembodied voice emerged from a cupboard. ‘They’re out fishing for the day.’

  ‘What about the patients?’

  Mick reappeared with two uncapped bottles and glasses. ‘I told ye, there’s none here ’cept dead men to cut up. Did ye know that when you saw the top of a man’s skull off it comes away with a pop?’ He poured the beer.

  ‘That bit of information should come in useful some day.’ Probyn reached for a wooden chair.

  ‘Fascinating is it not? D’ye want to sit inside or out?’ When the other said he did not mind, Mick said, ‘Out, I think, in the sunshine,’ and he bade his friend drag the chairs onto the cobblestones just outside the door. ‘Here, get that down ye and give me the crack, then later I’ll take you on a guided tour.’ Sitting with his back to the stuccoed wall, he raised his glass to the man beside him. ‘Slainte!’

  ‘Your very good health.’ Examining the glass, Probyn took a long grateful pull, gasped in pleasure, then took another gulp before setting the glass on the floor.

  ‘Ah, Jesus, don’t put it down there! There’s red ants all over the place, they’ll knock it back quicker than Felix Lennon.’ Mick ripped off his pillbox hat and set it on his lap, enjoying a good rake of his curls.

  Nursing their beers, they shared reminiscences then, Probyn telling Mick all that had happened to him, including his father’s stroke, the trip home and the trek up to Bulawayo. ‘I fear it isn’t yet over with the Mats though. We couldn’t find half their weapons. Did you hear about poor Major Wilson’s patrol being massacred? Felix Lennon was right what he said about the blacks, they’re brutes all right, but at least the Mats are quiet for now and their king’s dead.’

  Mick was astounded. ‘And here’s me stuck here with nought to do!’

  ‘I would’ve thought that’s just up your street,’ teased his friend.

  Mick grinned. ‘And so it is. Here’s to ye.’ He drained his glass.

  ‘Are we having another?’ asked Probyn, smacking his lips.

  ‘Not at a shilling a bottle you’re not! And you purporting to be a teetotaller.’

  After a couple more beers, this time home-brewed, Mick showed his friend round the hospital. The ward had only four beds, which were rarely full, said Mick, being unequipped to deal with serious casualties, the infectious cases going to Wynberg. Between the ward and the dispensary was Mick’s tiny two-bunk room which he shared with another. ‘And that’s about the extent of it.’

  ‘You keep it very clean,’ complimented Probyn, once they were back on their chairs.

  ‘Thanks, but sure I have to do something to earn me bread.’ Mick laughed, then shuffled into a reclining position, closing his eyes and tilting his head back so that it touched the wall. ‘Apart from that there’s only the shopping to do at the general store and the medical supplies to check. After that the time’s me own.’

  ‘So what do you do with it?’ Probyn leaned his own head back against the wall, causing his pith helmet to tip up and down like a lid.

  ‘Sometimes I go fishing—’

  ‘Oh, we’ll have to have a trip before I return to Wynberg,’ cut in Probyn.

  Mick said he’d like that. ‘But mainly I just read. I’ve taught meself algebra and all sorts since being here.’

  ‘To what end?’ asked Probyn.

  Mick opened one eye and gave him a vacant look. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘Well, I thought you meant you were doing it so’s you could get a better job.’ He had his own career mapped out.

  Mick guffawed. ‘What better job can there be than this? The greatest loaf known to man!’

  ‘But why bother to educate yourself if you don’t intend to do anything with your qualifications?’

  ‘Can’t a man do anything for his own enjoyment? What do I want to go getting promotion for?’

  Probyn felt a twinge of annoyance that someone with such talents could waste them so blithely; if possessed of similar gifts he would make it his business to fly through the ranks in no time. But then that was Mick for you.

  An unexpected arrival was to suspend their conversation.

  ‘Looks as if you’ve got a patient,’ observed Probyn, watching two soldiers helping another up the avenue of eucalyptus, the man between them appearing to have an injured ankle.

  ‘Sure, what are they bringing him here for?’ frowned Mick, then donned his hat, slipped the strap under his chin, jumped up and went to meet them. ‘Don’t let the ants get me beer. I’ll be back!’

  Probyn sat there for a while longer, watching a stick insect perform its unhurried movement along a twig, enjoying his ale and listening to the voices inside. Then, seeking a change, he moved his chair to the dim interior and sat back to watch Mick in action, admiring the way his idleness was transformed when tending the sick. Having expertly checked the ankle to announce that there were no broken bones, Mick said with kind authority that he would keep the man here anyway, just for a rest, then helped t
he patient into bed, treating him with compassion.

  ‘Can I be getting ye anything to eat now?’ Mick was heard to ask.

  Probyn could not make out the mumbled reply, but saw the patient handing over a watch which was examined by the orderly.

  More mumbling occurred. Then came a loud objection. ‘But it’s worth five pounds!’

  Mick gave a pleasant laugh. ‘Sure where would a medical orderly get that amount o’ brass? I can give ye twenty-five bob for it, if I starve meself for a week.’

  After much grumbling the man nodded and Mick emerged from the ward to grab a sip of beer.

  ‘Sorry for deserting ye, Pa! I’ll be back just as soon as I get your man something to eat.’ He pocketed the watch and went off to the kitchen, returning some time later with a plate of bread and some meat.

  Probyn watched the man’s face as he examined the butterless bread and reluctantly handed over some of the money Mick had just given him in order to purchase a knob of butter.

  On his return to the kitchen, Mick paused to ask if his friend required any sustenance. Probyn declined with a cynical laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pa, I won’t charge you for it.’

  Shaking his head at the audacity, Probyn said he was fine with the beer. ‘Tell you what, I’ll just grab those records if you tell me where they are, then I’ll come back this evening when you’re not so busy.’

  * * *

  He was to return many more times during his stay, either to go fishing or simply to chat over a beer, for there was no entertainment here other than brothels and saloons. Delighted to renew this friendship, Mick voiced disappointment when the fortnight came to an end and he implored Pa to keep in regular touch.

  They were to see each other sooner than expected, for with the arrival of the rest of his battalion from Durban that same week a grand reunion was proposed.

  Probyn was overjoyed to see his friends again, joining his excited voice with theirs as they rushed to gather around him, Barnes, Bumby, Queen, Rook and the rest obviously as pleased to see him as he was them, clapping him on the back and asking where he had been.

  ‘We weren’t sure what had happened to you when you didn’t come back!’ cried Queen. ‘Thought you’d deserted.’

  ‘Eh!’ Probyn aimed a jocular swipe. ‘While you lot’ve been sat on your bums I’ve been scrapping with the Mats.’

  They were all agog then, demanding to hear about his exploits.

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you later.’ Fending them off, he introduced Greatrix.

  ‘This is the bloke you have to thank for me being here. Trix saved me from getting an assegai in me gizzard.’

  The morose looking young man with the dog issued only a shrug and, as usual, chose not to contribute much to the dialogue that followed, merely nodding or grunting at the appropriate moment.

  Asking about Captain Fitzroy, Probyn was told he had gone down with rheumatic fever. A new man was in charge.

  ‘So how’s your old dad, then, Pa?’ asked Queen. ‘Did you get there in time?’

  Probyn dealt a relieved nod. ‘He’s still with us, though a bit wonky – but thereby hangs another tale, and it’ll have to be told over a beer.’ Counting heads, he sensed someone was missing. ‘By the way, where’s Havron?’

  ‘Cut hisself on a sword palm,’ explained Rook. ‘Got blood poisoning.’

  Probyn gave a subdued murmur and said it was rotten luck to die by such error.

  To lighten the mood Barnes underwent a quick change of hat and exclaimed, ‘What do you reckon to these new field caps, Pa?’ The glengarry had recently been taken out of service.

  Probyn surveyed the big barn door face. ‘Never mind field caps, they should be giving us decent rifles! It’s all very well firing at a bull’s eye but when you’ve got the real thing coming at you it’d be nice if the blasted thing didn’t jam.’

  ‘We’ve got new uns, Lee-Metfords,’ said Barnes.

  ‘Jammy blighters!’ Probyn said he would have to see about getting one. ‘Eh, talking about jammy blighters, did you know Mick’s alive and well and working as a hospital orderly?’

  This caused great mirth, the others saying they must invite him on the coming night out. Probyn said he would organize this.

  ‘You’ll have to get in touch with him quick,’ warned Bumby. ‘’Cause we won’t be stopping long.’

  Probyn had been unaware of this. ‘Aw pity, I’ve right enjoyed being here.’ This was an understatement: in truth he had acquired a deep love for Africa the moment he laid eyes on her. ‘Still, I’ll be glad to see the folk at home.’

  Rook frowned. ‘How come you’re off home and we’re not?’

  Probyn frowned back. ‘Well, I just assumed that they’d sent you back down here ’cause we’re all going home.’

  Queen laughingly advised him. ‘Never assume anything in the army, Pa! No, we’re off to St Helena.’

  * * *

  It had been something of a shock to say the least, and only now after several days on the choppy open sea was the news beginning to sink in.

  The night out that had been organized as a reunion turned out to be a farewell party, farewell not just to Mick, but to his close friend Greatrix, and it was with hollow heart that Probyn had left the rest of the battalion at the Cape, embarked with his company for St Helena, buffeted and battered on a rust-stained craft, and was now heading for a lump of volcanic rock in the South Atlantic Ocean, with no idea how long he would be there.

  St Helena first appeared as a dot on the grey horizon, taking shape at a painfully slow rate, stretching into a flat nobbly worm, then to a mountainous slab of rock. The closer they came the more inhospitable it seemed to Probyn, its steep walls, a cold steely blue against the overcast sky, offering no harbour, rising sheer out of an inky sea, completely lacking in vegetation and not an inch of beach to be seen.

  With soldiers lining its rails, the ship gradually came around, seeking a place to land. The island was indented with coves, though none offered hospitality, jagged teeth holding the interloper at bay. At closer inspection the giant boulder took on a pinkish hue, its surface formed into rugged folds by volcanic excretions frozen in time. A road could faintly be seen snaking dangerously along the sides of a valley and, amazingly, there were cottages balanced precariously atop the cliffs. Paradise, it was not.

  He saw now that there were trees after all, and could make out the tiny settlement of Jamestown nestling in the cleft of huge basalt walls. The harbour was crowded with fishing vessels. Seabirds arose from the crags to flock above the ship, yelping and mewing and diving at the three gulls which had accompanied the vessel since Cape Town. Added to this was the noisy rattle of the anchor chain, the shouts of the master to his crew, the apprehensive murmur of the soldiers who were to live here.

  The Union Jack was run up the halyard. Then, to the soldiers’ wonderment, an old Russian gunboat, adorned in gold paint, steamed out into the roadstead where she dropped anchor and her guns fired a salute to the British flag. Wincing and covering their ears as their own batteries returned the salute, the bangs reverberating from the mountains, Probyn and his friends watched a fleet of small steam pinnaces and row-boats put out from shore, some conveying officials, another bearing soldiers from the detachment who were about to leave the island and seemed very happy about it.

  Ferried ashore, the newcomers prepared to make the hazardous landing, the bumboats at the mercy of the swell. Up and down, up and down, each awaited his chance to disembark, the waves washing over the landing steps. Attempting to keep his balance, Probyn grabbed an assisting hand and made a leap for the wharf, skidded on the slimy step, but managing to right himself just in time. Once secure, he looked around him in bemusement. It seemed that not only the resident soldiers and officials but every single inhabitant of the island had come to meet them, and every one of them displaying warm welcome, lining the stone walls of the quayside the entire way along the seafront. There was no noisy cheering, the people graceful and polite, the wo
men in sedate hats and gloves, but all smiling. Some were darker skinned than others, some were coffee-coloured, some almost white, most had luxuriant wavy dark hair and more European features than Probyn had been used to seeing in the Cape, though there were one or two Africans amongst them.

  There was a short handing-over ceremony between the departing commanding officer and the new incumbent, Captain Galindo. Then the soldiers, still wobbly on their legs, were marched along the quay, over the narrow bridge that spanned a dry moat and through a portcullis gate into a bygone age.

  In the square was a castle with whitewashed stone walls and a coat of arms and close by an old-fashioned police station, on the other side a church. Looking further uphill he glimpsed colourful rows of Regency buildings, pastel yellow and peppermint and bright blue, some with verandahs, and balconies on their upper storeys. It was like being in a fairy tale where time stood still, thought Probyn, somewhat disorientated but much taken with the place nevertheless. Under a pair of lovely big shady trees was tethered a small pack donkey whose lazy flicking of tail signified the relaxed pace of life here. He was still mesmerized by his surroundings when the troops were called to a halt.

  The captain had obviously been here before, speaking genially to another. ‘Right, Colour-Sergeant! Shall we make them suffer the two mile hike or allow them to take the short cut?’

  Colour-Sergeant White cocked his head. ‘Oh, I should hate for them to suffer, sir!’

  ‘Jacob’s Ladder it is then!’ said Captain Galindo brightly.

  Ordered to wheel to their right the troops found that the street ended abruptly in a mountainous wall, a flight of steps cut into it and an iron handrail to either side.

  Probyn could hardly believe his eyes, craning his neck right back to try and see where the steps might take him but they were so numerous and went so high, way, way beyond the rooftops, that they became a single line upon the rugged cliff that seemed to vanish into the clouds. It was not just that there were so many of them but that they were so incredibly steep, almost like a vertical ladder, seeming even to bulge out at one point.