Victory on the Veldt

THE Boer called himself the Kaptein. So did his men, and a silence fell as he slid from his pony with a grace belying his size. He strode to where Sergeant Roberts lay in the dust and gazed down at the Englishman. Roberts was moaning softly, fighting the waves of pain that ebbed and flowed through him. He could not see the Boer – the peak of his helmet had slid forwards when he slumped back: felled by an attacker who could fire from the saddle at the gallop.

The Kaptein’s face was a mask as he stared down at the bleeding sergeant. He pulled out a Webley revolver and checked the chambers before snapping it shut with a flick of his powerful wrist. Despite the pain Roberts recognised the metallic click and his hands fluttered weakly over the belly wound that was seeping a dark stain across his khaki tunic. The Kaptein extended a thick arm and fired three times. Roberts’ body jumped with each impact. Gunfire echoed from the surrounding kopjes. Horses stamped.

The smoking Webley, a looted souvenir of the Boer’s last encounter with the British army, disappeared into the pocket of his black frock coat. He turned his gaze to the line of captured soldiers and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. One of the prisoners yelled a curse which was silenced by a rifle butt between the shoulder blades. The Kaptein nodded his approval and his men went to work, chattering excitedly as they busied themselves collecting the British rifles and ammunition, and looting the wagons. The Kaptein lit a pipe and watched impassively as his men delved into the pockets and pouches of the prisoners, helping themselves to watches and wallets as well as bandoliers and bayonets. His gaze fell upon a fair-haired officer who was standing slightly apart from the line of prisoners. Even in defeat the English would ever retain their class distinctions, he mused, striding slowly to the pink-cheeked young officer.

‘Good day to you Englishman.’ He spoke slowly with a heavy accent. ‘I am the Kaptein and it appears that you and your men are my prisoners.’ He turned towards the prone shape of Roberts whose last breaths had left a froth of dark bubbles at his lips. ‘It’s a shame about your sergeant… You are?’

‘Watts. Lieutenant Richard Watts of Her Majesty’s Corps of Royal Engineers.’ The subaltern swallowed nervously and clenched his teeth. He fought his fear as it tried to rise from his stomach like bile. The Kaptein took his pipe from between tobacco-stained teeth and Watts could not help but notice the Boer’s bicep as it strained at the sleeve of his coat. A seam had split beneath the armpit, and the waistcoat beneath shone with grease and dirt, stretching over an extended belly. The Boer’s pale blue eyes bore into him, shining from a tanned face, reminding Watts of a painting of John the Baptist that hung on the wall of his headmaster’s study. The young officer could not help thinking that the battered top hat the man wore added a sense of the sinister rather than gentility.

Watts took a breath. ‘You’ll swing for that. You bloody murderer. That man was wounded in battle. I’ll report…’ The lieutenant’s words turned to a gasp as the Webley banged again. He span, took three shocked, outraged steps then clutched his stomach and collapsed. The Kaptein shook his head then looked from the smoking muzzle of the revolver to the line of dumbstruck soldiers. Again, he raised his eyebrows. Even his own men avoided that piercing gaze. Watts writhed on the ground, sobbing. The Kaptein thrust the Webley into the long coat, took his pipe from between his teeth, and spat. He squinted towards the lead wagon of the ambushed convoy where a small man in a flat cap sat on the seat by the native driver. Unlike the trembling Bantu at his side the man had not turned towards the grim scene that was playing out under the morning sun.

The Kaptein approached the wagon, humming softly. The small man was wiping dust from his spectacles with a soft cloth. He carefully placed them back on his nose and peered at the big Boer over the rims. The Kaptein stared back, running his gaze over the man’s faded wool suit. ‘You are the Dutchman? The man they call Van der Walt?’

‘I am. And you are?’

‘I am the Kaptein. These men are my kommando. I’ve been sent to escort you to General Botha.’

As if to signify a satisfactory conclusion the Boer fished a clay bottle from an inside pocket, uncorked it and took a long draught. He belched and offered the bottle to Van der Walt who wrinkled his nose by way of refusal.

‘I’d only be too happy to see the general. But, first things first Kaptein. Tell me, how is the war going?’

The Kaptein took another swig. ‘We rode through the mountains, beat them at Dundee and followed them to Ladysmith, where we have them surrounded.’

Van der Walt raised his eyebrows in surprise and pushed his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose with an ink-stained forefinger. ‘You have encircled General White’s army?’

‘We fought them at a place called Talana, just outside Dundee. Then they retreated to Ladysmith. They tried to break out of the town but we killed hundreds of them. The British have a great army now on the other side of the Tugela river and are trying to relieve Ladysmith. Botha plans to meet them at Colenso, where there’s a bridge. My kommando has been riding for days so we’ve heard nothing, but I’m sure he will defeat them. The British have no stomach for a fight.’

‘That one did,’ said the small man, nodding towards the sergeant’s body where a cloud of flies swarmed and buzzed on the blood-stained torso.

The Boer followed his gaze. ‘Yes, a stupid man. It’s a shame I had to do that.’

‘Do what Kaptein? Murder him in cold blood in front of witnesses?’

‘He was going to die anyway.’

‘And the young officer?’

The big Boer looked thoughtful and scratched his beard. ‘He was going to attack me. My men were witnesses. He has a gutshot. He’ll die soon.’

Van der Walt sighed. ‘Of course he will, Kaptein. But that sort of behaviour is not something the British are going to forget. It offends their sense of fair play.’

The Boer took his pipe from his mouth, hawked and spat a dark glob of phlegm that clung to the rump of the nearest ox. ‘Who cares? At the rate we are beating the Tommies these two aren’t going to matter to them. Anyway, we’ve been ordered to shoot their officers when we get the chance. Our boys did it at Talana and the rest of the roinecks didn’t know what to do.’

Van der Walt was about to point out that picking off British officers in the heat of battle was a sound military tactic; shooting them in cold blood was a war crime. He bit his tongue. The subject of shooting unarmed men had been pressed far enough with this oaf. ‘I didn’t know that the armies of the Transvaal Republic or the Orange Free State employed the rank of captain.’ The question hung in the air.

‘They don’t. My men call me Kaptein. It’s what they’ve always called me.’ The big man’s eyes glittered. Van der Walt thought it wise not to push the matter further. He had heard of men such as these. It was obvious that this oaf and his rabble were nothing more than a band of cattle rustlers and zulu killers who had earned an amnesty by swearing an allegiance to the Boer flag. They brought a stain to the cause and he would gladly see them dangle from ropes. However, there was a war to be won and the republics needed as many guns as they could muster if the lightning campaign they had launched was going to bring the British Empire to the negotiating table.

‘What now? What are you going to do with the prisoners?’

‘We’ll kill all the kaffirs except one, who we’ll let go to make sure he spreads the word about what happens if the blacks work for the British. We’ll take the Tommies back with us.’

‘When you’re disposing of the kaffirs make sure your men don’t kill my man. I’ve taught him to read and he’s worth a lot of money. And that’s my pony and donkey tethered to the other wagon. Everything else is yours, though I’d suggest General Botha may have use of the equipment in the wagons. Now can we move as quickly as possible? The war is not going to wait for us.’ With that he stared ahead, signalling that the conversation was at an end.

The Kaptein gazed at the small man’s podgy face and soft hands then spat again before stomping off, jabbing the air with his pipe stem and shouting orders. The little Dutchman gave a sigh of relief, dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief and spared a thought for the young lieutenant who had stopped his column to give him a lift when his pony had thrown a shoe just two hours previously. Poor Watts. All he wanted was to return home by March to, how did he put it, ‘Plant out the sweetpeas with his mother in the spring’? Not for the first time he wondered at the ability of the English to, on one hand, conquer a huge swathe of the known world while, on the other, remain obsessed with their plants and their pets. As he tucked away his sweat-stained handkerchief he thought of the gentle wind that had so recently bathed his face in Durban as it blew in from the shimmering Indian Ocean.

He had left the port just a few days ago but already yearned for that breeze. His annual trip to Durban was always made worthwhile by the sights and sounds of the sea. Then there were the other delights. The whores who made their living in the narrow streets. Those sly-smiling coffee-coloured girls knew where to find the chinks in his otherwise Calvinist Protestant armour. A lapse into lustful memory and a fall into sin were headed off by the rattle of Mauser fire and the screams of the Bantu wagon drivers and their sons.

The bullet made a tiny hole in the bush duiker’s chest. At a velocity of 1,250 feet per second the soft lead distorted on impact to tear through the vital organs. The death leap was majestic to watch; a farewell flourish to life before the antelope collapsed to twitch once, twice, then lie still. The crack of the shot sent a pied crow flapping into the air, cawing in indignation. As the noise of its wingbeats faded the silence of the veldt swept back, broken only by the swish of damp grass against Helena van Aardt’s boots.

She strode towards the body, stopping only to eject the empty brass cartridge from her Martini Henry. A trail of smoke marked its fall. Helena stooped gracefully to pick up the warm casing and dropped it into her jacket pocket in one deft movement. In a habit that had become second nature she inserted a fresh round into the rifle and raised the under-lever to close the breech. It was ready for firing again. Good practice when alone on the veldt, especially in these troubled times.

Helena knelt by the animal and laid a hand on its neck to feel the warmth of the body, thanking it for giving its life. It was a ritual her father had taught her and in his memory she had never forgotten it. Once the moment had passed, Helena took out a length of cord and tied the slender legs. Then with the strength of a man she hefted the body across her shoulders and walked effortlessly towards the stand of thorns where her horse was tethered. Her stride was fluid, hinting at a grace and natural beauty beneath the weather-stained corduroy breeches and jacket. As she approached her mount the brown Basuto pony nickered in greeting. Helena smiled, white teeth gleaming in a tanned face the colour of the duiker’s flawless fur.

‘Good girl, Somer. That didn’t take long, did it?’ She heaved the duiker over the pony’s neck. The Basuto fidgeted at the smell of blood. ‘Still now, still.’ Helena slung the rifle over her shoulder, put a boot into the stirrup and swung herself up into the saddle. It was a movement that she enjoyed in the freedom of breeches and one that could not be done in the cloying skirt demanded by Boer society. ‘I’ve got us enough meat to last a week. Mama will be pleased.’ She used her calf to turn Somer towards the dawn canvas of pinks and reds that filled the eastern sky and set off at a steady canter. Helena enjoyed moments like this; alone with her thoughts and the vastness of the veldt in the early morning.

She had stolen out to the stable when the sun was still below the horizon to enjoy her favourite time of day despite her father’s warnings about the dangers of being alone in the dark before the dawn. Helena would not normally go against Papa’s advice, but the hunting trip at this hour was a necessity if she was going to make a kill and be back before her mother awoke. After breakfast with her mother there were the chores to attend to on the farm; work which filled the daylight hours now that her two brothers were away at the war.

As she picked up the track that led back to the farm Helena wondered if there would be news from the boys. It had been two weeks since the last letter and she and Mama were starting to worry. Not that Helena’s mother voiced her anxiety. Sophia van Aardt was not the sort of woman to show weakness. She was a voortrekker’s daughter through and through. Her love of the land for which her parents had fought with the rifle and tamed through the plough flowed through her veins. Strength and dignity were her watchwords. Despite her mother’s stoicism, Helena could read her angst. She could see the crease on Sophia’s pale forehead and the tightened lips as she gazed at the horizon from her bedroom window. It had framed her sons as they rode away to defend their land against the British and she prayed for the day when their figures would appear on the skyline again.

It was the same window that had framed the tragic procession which had brought her husband’s body back ten years previously. It was her window on a world of sadness and it would be the last view of the world that she would ever see. Sophia knew this. She knew she was dying. So did Helena. It was the unspoken truth of every hacking cough that shook Sophia’s thin frame. And it was one of the few things they had ever agreed upon. Since the death of Jacob van Aardt, the mother and daughter had grown apart. With no father figure about the farm to keep her in check and two brothers as a wilder influence, Helena had passed so quickly from a girlhood in skirts to a womanhood in the saddle. To Sophia’s despair.

She had wanted everything for her daughter that she had been denied: embroidered dresses, the piano, flowers on the dining table, soft clothes, suitors with clean fingernails. These were the things that Sophia had yearned for as a young woman. Things which her parents could not lavish on her as they struggled to carve out a new life for themselves in the Orange Free State. It was partly the rigours of that life which were now killing Sophia. That… and a broken heart. Something had died inside her when the only man she had ever loved was brought home slung across his own saddle like a hunting trophy, the flies buzzing around the savage cuts that laced his torso. The Zulu cattle raiders confronted by her husband that day may as well have driven their razor-sharp assegais into Sophia’s heart as well. It was not the first time for her family that such a tragic tableau was played out against the backdrop of that brutal land. It would not be that last.

The death of her father lit the fires of Helena’s independent streak. When she clung to her Mama’s hand, watching his coffin being lowered into the sun-baked African earth, Helena realised that Death could come in many guises and she would have no one to protect her but herself. Since then she had learned to use a rifle and ride just as well as her brothers. She hunted and shot with them through her teens and by the age of twenty-three, with her hardy and sure-footed Basuto beneath her, could outride and outshoot all but the most experienced horsemen in the district.

Helena’s skills with horse and gun were matched only by her beauty and fiery temper. She had her mother’s dark eyes set in an angular face framed by a sleek mane of black hair. Her limbs were toned and lean, and her slender body moved with grace and agility. The young men and potential suitors from the isolated farmsteads in the area nicknamed her ‘die wildsbokke’. The antelope. To which the old men would raise their eyebrows and smile knowingly and the old women tut in disapproval. The old mothers did not approve of the way Helena wore men’s trousers to ride out on the veldt and, even worse, sat astride her horse rather than adopt the demure side-saddle. They would shake their heads and mutter quietly to each other about the place of a Boer woman in the homestead and shudder in sympathetic anticipation of the unfortunate man who would one day have to tame Helena van Aardt as his wife and home-maker. Some had tried, arriving at the Van Aardt homestead with fresh flowers and best suits, only to drift away. At best they lost heart in the face of her polite indifference. Poorer specimens were rebuffed with a sharp tongue and wry comment.

Not that Helena was indifferent to men. She had seen the way they had looked at her since her teenage years. She was aware of the power she had over them but had never felt drawn enough to a man to give up her womanhood. Despite the hints dropped by her brothers such thoughts were put aside while her mother needed care. There was a farm to run, a larder to stock. Love would have to wait.

Helena’s reverie was broken by movement on the horizon. She reached behind to touch the stock of the Martini Henry and reined in Somer. There was someone leading a pony about a mile away, using a track that would eventually lead close to the Van Aardt farm. It could be a passing trader or farmer, but hopefully a neighbour’s husband or son returning from kommando. She may hear news of the war. She urged Somer into a gallop, choosing a route that would cross the traveller’s path. As the distance closed she could see that the horse looked ill-fed and its owner limped. He could only be a Boer returning from kommando. He could have news of her brothers. Maybe a letter.

Helena stopped Somer in a flurry of dust where the tracks met and waited impatiently as the man drew closer. Then her heart sank as she recognised the limp. It was the result of a broken femur; shattered by the kick of a pony to a young boy many years ago. The traveller had not seen Helena but when he did he raised his head and her fears were confirmed. It was Piet Krog. Helena had known him since childhood and disliked him since then. The Krogs scratched a living from the least productive land on the lower slopes of the Drakensberg. Piet was one of at least seven children and by far the least likeable of them. She had not seen him or any of his family for more than two years now and had presumed they had given up their struggle with nature and gone to live in one of the mining towns.

As he came closer Krog recognised Helena. ‘Well, if it isn’t Miss van Aardt.’ He swept off his battered hat with a flourish and gave a mock bow. His greasy hair was plastered to his scalp, there were dark shadows under his eyes and his face badly needed a wash.

‘Hello Piet Krog. I saw you coming. How are you?’ Helena inclined her head and forced a smile. She had always found it hard to look Piet Krog in the eye and as a waft of his unwashed body reached her she flared her nostrils. It was a reminder of why she had spent her school years trying to avoid him. Krog’s dark eyes glittered in their sunken sockets.

‘I am well, Helena. I’m on my way home. I’ve been away fighting the English in Natal.’ At this announcement he stood a little straighter. He ran a grimy hand over the fringe that was plastered to his forehead and grinned at her with crooked and blackened teeth.

‘Good for you, Piet. Which kommando are you with? Did you see my brothers?’ She immediately regretted being too anxious. She did not want Krog to know how much she needed him to give her information.

‘I help the Staatsartillerie. We fire the big guns. It’s a very important job.’

‘I’m sure it is. Well done, Piet.’

‘They gave me leave. I’m on my way home now, to see my mother.’

Helena was not sure if Krog was being evasive or just plain stupid over the matter of her brothers. She put it down to the former. ‘Have you seen Jan or Isaac?’

‘Yes, I saw Jan. It was at Ladysmith.’ A shadow crossed Krog’s face at the thought of Jan van Aardt. It was a memory of the mockery he had suffered as a child at the hands of the Van Aardt brothers and their friends at the church school. The cruelty of his classmates had not extended to Krog purely because of his unwashed and ragged appearance. He was regarded as a sneak and a bully of younger children and was punished accordingly by his peers. Chief among those who meted out playground justice was Jan van Aardt.

‘How was Jan when you saw him? Is he well?’

Krog sensed her anxiety. ‘I was manning one of the big guns that we fired into Ladysmith. We’ve surrounded the English there. They are sending an army to relieve the town, but they have to cross the Tugela first. General Botha will fight them there. We will defeat them.’ He adopted what he thought was a serious expression to go with the important military news he was imparting to Helena.

Helena fought back the urge to scream at the arrogant fool. She took a deep breath. ‘How is Jan? What did he say?’

Krog looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Oh, this and that.’ There was a glint in his eyes.

Helena felt her rage rising but she knew that losing her temper was not the way to handle Krog. She decided to call his bluff and started to tug on Somer’s rein. ‘Oh well. I must go. I have to get this duiker into the larder.’

‘I have something for you.’ Krog was reaching into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. A smug grin spread across his face. ‘I told Jan I was heading home and he asked me to give you this.’

‘How lovely. Thank you Piet.’ Helena nudged Somer round to face Krog and moved the pony closer to him. She put her hand out for the letter. Krog’s smile faded. His gaze shifted from her face and fixed on her thigh where it hugged the saddle. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. A fly buzzed over the bullet wound on the duiker. Helena swiped at it absent-mindedly and shifted uneasily. Somer flicked her tail, sensing Helena’s discomfort.

‘Give me the letter Piet. Please.’ She reached out her hand further, wary of leaning too far out of the saddle.

Krog’s gaze lingered on the swell of her chest then slowly returned to Helena’s face. He was breathing heavily. ‘You’ve grown up a lot since I last saw you, Helena.’

‘Piet. The letter, please.’ Her arm was still outstretched.

‘You are prettier than I remember.’

‘Piet. That’s enough. The letter, if you please.’ Krog’s pony twitched its tail and nickered to Somer. The Basuto pony snorted in reply and stepped away. The letter was now out of Helena’s reach. She dropped her arm and forced a smile at Krog. She knew she had to go along with his game if she was going to get the letter without making a scene.

‘How is your mother, Helena? I was thinking of paying her a visit.’

‘She is as well as can be expected, Piet.’ She stepped Somer closer again. Krog held out the letter. She met his gaze, watching for more trickery, then raised her hand and took it.

‘Thank you, Piet.’

‘You are most welcome. Please pass on my regards to Mrs Van Aardt.’

Helena held Krog’s gaze as she coaxed Somer into a turn. ‘I will tell her you were asking after her. Goodbye Piet. Tot siens.’ Helena dug in her heels and the pony burst into a gallop. Krog shouted something at her retreating back but his words were lost in the rumble of Somer’s hooves. He watched her go and spat into the dust. He had fantasised long and hard about Helena van Aardt during his teenage years and meeting her again had reignited his desire. He had never been with a white woman before, his forays into the mysteries of the female body being restricted to frantic couplings with Maria, the Krogs’ ageing black servant.

He was only two hours from home now. His loins stirred at the thought of taking Maria into the barn that night. He had half a bottle of Cape Brandy in his saddlebag and he knew she would accept a few mouthfuls of it by way of payment for lifting her dusty skirts for him. Krog tugged on the bridle of his flagging mount. His lust gave him new energy. He limped