TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
By
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living and dead are intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 13

THE BUFFALO RIVER

BUFFALO RIVER, SOUTH AFRICA, NATAL. The deadline for the ultimatum issued to Cetshwayo, King of the Zulus came and went. The ultimatum issued by Sir Henry Bartle Frere then Lieutenant-Governor and Lord High Commissioner of Natal purposefully including numerous intolerable and unacceptable terms. It seemed that Zulus incredulously viewed themselves as the sovereign controlling power in the region, and were not so docile as to capitulate under the threat of the Crown and colonialism. Thus, Lieutenant General Fredrick Augustus Thesiger 2nd Baron of Chelmsford crossed the Buffalo River and invaded Zululand on 25 December 1878. Lord Chelmsford, eager to pick a fight, was relentless. Never a moments rest, not ever so much as a pause, not even on Christmas day―for the Army that is. Lord Chelmsford himself, he remained ensconced back in Port Durban, in his palatial colonial estate with his family, his servants his plum pudding, his Happy Christmas, brandy and cigars. While we the Army, slogged in the mud, pushed on, past the traditional borders of Natal, across Buffalo River deep into the kingdom of Zululand.

We were now at war, the British Empire, and the Zulu nation.

While Lord Chlemsford made himself quite merry back in Port Durban, this left Colonel Anthony Durnford in actual command of the Column. I should think the crossing of the Buffalo River was one of the most difficult endeavors in my entire military career. The river was wide, muddy, but not quite so deep as to warrant a pontoon bridge, but immediately upon venturing into its murky depth, a pontoon bridge was exactly what was required.

Sharp shooters were positioned on either bank to keep watch for Crocodiles. I for one found this plan less than reassuring, considering the actual capabilities of the average soldier whom the army awarded “sharpshooters.” I kept a watchful eye over my own men, Sargent Bourne’s revolver tucked in my belt at the ready. I had not been so busy with my own section; I think I might have volunteered to keep vigil. I am sure I could have bagged more than a couple of ‘gators in an hour’s time. I heard they were good eating.

I personally, was responsible for the crossing of my own section. That included me, troopers Ward, Ferrier and Burlingham. We had three pack mules in tow that carried our additional gear.

Ward and Ferrier were both good men. Burlingham was a slacker; he continued to be a challenge, insubordinate at every twist and turn in the most puerile ways. He tested me at every opportunity. I had to watch his every move. I now had three pack animals to keep track of as well as an incompetent and contentious trooper.

We faced the muddy swells of the Buffalo River. A three ton ammunition wagon was stuck in the river mud blocking the whole column. The water-buffalo strained, and the African porters chanted and pulled hard on the ropes. The wagon heaved, moved forward and promptly stuck itself hard on the river bottom.

Burlingham sneered, “So, what ‘cha going to do now ya little todger!”

My face burned hot. How dare he call me a “little todger.” It was a wretched insult; I was no “boy.” I may have looked like a boy to him, but the Queen saw fit to commission me as an NCO in her army.

“IN TO THE WATER, BURLINGHAM, WARD, FERRIER! ALL OF YOU, PUSH!” My section plunged into the muddy waters of the Buffalo River.

"I will not get into the water and slave like a worthless black!" Burlingham looked to the other lads to see if they were with him.

I responded to this mutiny by drawing Sargent Bourne’s revolver. I inserted three more cartridges into the cylinder and snapped the weapon shut.

"You can and you will!" I was quite pleased with the demonstrable effect the revolver had on my leadership prowess. Evidently, girls with guns, even girls who merely look like boys, with guns, have a profound effect on the motivation of the common soldier. "Put your backs into it Lads! Push!" The men pushed and the wagon broke free of the river's suction and staggered forward.

The Buffalo River on the other hand was not so easily quelled. It remained a dangerous dark unforgiving stretch of water. It was called a “drift” that Afrikaans term turned out to be in name only. The fact was it was a muddy river bottom, entirely unsuitable for a military crossing. The more men and animals that crossed, the worse it became. Even though the overall water was never more than six feet deep, the river current, the muddy embankments made crossing with men and animals treacherous to the point of deadly. I was so preoccupied in getting the ammunition wagon moving in the churning river current that I failed to notice what appeared to be an innocuous log floating in the river.

The Africans saw it first, a cry went up, "INGWENYA! INGWENYA!" The Bantu word for crocodile. The porters scattered like little children, they made for the river bank in a frenzied mad dash to escape the jaws of the living dinosaur. The the ropes went slack, the load, too much for the animals to hold, the wagon lurched backwards, pinning Ward under its wheel. The river swallowed him up in a suction like quicksand.

I drew the Webley and pulled the hammer back and fired. Once, then twice more. The heavy .455 bullets tore into the animals hide, the crocodile rolled in the muddy water and floated to the surface belly-up, dead. I dismounted Star and splashed over to where I saw Ward go under the water.

I plunged into the river's depth and slogged over to the wagon. I got Ward's head above the water, choking, unconscious. I pulled with all my strength. I wasn't strong enough to extirpate him from underneath the wagon.

"Burlingham, help me!" I pinched off Ward's nose, covered his mouth with my own and breathed. Ward choked, vomited, river water gushed from his lungs. As I struggled there alone, in churning mud, in water that swirled to the height of my collar bone. I clung to Ward in a desperate attempt to hold his head above water, he started to breath again on his own. Ironically, there I was, knee deep in the dead, I remembered poor Lilly, how her life slipped away in my arms. "Don't you die on me soldier!" Burlingham, he did nothing.

By this time, Lieutenant Fry, and more men came to assist me. Ward was transported to the rear of the column by ambulance his broken leg. The crocodile was retrieved and several black porters carted it off amidst great excitement. The ammunition wagon was freed and the crossing continued without a second thought.

My own mules staggered, brayed, eventually I had to employ a gang of a dozen blacks to pull them up on to the bank. I was glad I didn’t have any more wagons . . . We were across; I looked back at the sea of men, wagons and materiel that was yet to cross. I was very glad to be out of the water and out of that river. I was exhausted to the core. I learned a very important lesson that day, if I hadn't known it before, Burlingham was a slacker nothing but a ner-to-do well coward. I hoped I was never placed in a position where I had to depend on him for my life.

I looked out across the vast expanse of the scrub brush and prickly vegetation of the African veldt. Directly in front of the column, rising to some five-hundred feet was an enormous escarpment. One could see movement on top, someone or some thing was waiting, watching our every move. Then he appeared. It was my first glimpse of a real Zulu, an African warrior in a great headdress, spear and a buffalo hide shield. I saw him, he intended for us to see him. We watched him transfixed. He was magnificent; he raised his spear and shield, then in a voice, so clear, in near perfect English.

“WHY HAVE YOU COME TO THE LAND OF THE ZULU?”

As quickly as that, he was gone. Absolute chills went down my spine. I'll admit, I was spooked. What kind of people are these? Afterwards I felt silly. All the other officers and men laughed as if it were a lark. There were fifteen hundred men in this column. We were the greatest most modern army on the face of the earth. We had rifles, cannon, bombs, what did we have to fear from some aboriginal African tribesmen armed with spears? How little then did I know.

* * *

It was Christmas night, we made camp, yet there was no cheer, nothing about which to be happy. The whole column was soaked to the bone; we were caked with soggy mud and desolate. I had mud in places that modesty prevents me from mentioning. The camp fires burned, the promised food was late, cold, wretched, nothing more than ship biscuits, beans and salt pork. Not even a tot of rum. It’s fair to say the whole column was in a state of miserable melancholy.

It was Christmas night after all; something had to be done to lift the spirits of the boys. I signaled one of the lads, who knew how to play a merry tune on the fiddle to follow my lead. I stepped forward and sang in my high clear soprano.

♫ Christmas is a comm’n and the goose is getting fat!
Who’ll put a penny in the old man’s hat?
If you haven’t got a penny, than a hay penny will do
If you haven’t got a hay penny, then God bless you!

God bless you
God bless you

If you haven’t got a hay penny then God bless you! ♫

Before I finished, I had the whole camp singing, we sang there along the banks of the Buffalo River. We sang, “Oh, come all ye faithful,” “Joy to the World” and we finished with “Silent night.” I think it was the most spiritual Christmas night I had ever experienced. I looked across the fires, over to the bivouac where I thought my Henry must be.

“Happy Christmas, Henry, my love.”

* * *

The next morning on Boxing Day, Ferrier, approached me. Ferrier was the spokesman, not Burlingham he skulked in the distance. “Me’n the lads we got together Sir, we thought maybe we wuz a bit hard on you Sir. We know how cut up you wuz when your mate Marty, died ‘n all. Some of us thought you wuz being a bit poofy’n all, but done all right yesterday, the crossing'n all, you saved Ward's life. You’re one straight arrow Corporal Sir, We’z proud to be in Section B, Sir. Ward'n me, we got you something, Sir.”

I tore open the brown paper wrapper, it was a holster. A proper officer’s holster, a fine black supple leather holster with shoulder strap and bullet case, I slipped Sargent Bourne’s Webley into its confines and closed the flap. At the risk of being perceived once again as a bit “poofy,” I fought back tears. It was a fine Christmas present. I was overwhelmed. I had know idea the lads thought so much of me. For the first time I fully comprehended, how very much they looked to me for leadership, I a girl, not quite fourteen-years-old, and three men looked to me to lead them into battle.

“Thank you men, I will wear it with pride. I promise I won’t let you down.”

* * *

THE ACTUAL, PHYSICAL CROSSING OF THE BUFFALO RIVER, however symbolic even after Lord Chelmsford himself finally chose to grace us with his appearance and wade the muddy brook himself some two days later, was militarily insignificant. This army was a ponderous unwieldy thing. One cannot imagine the bulk and weight and shear volume of military equipment. Of course, the horses and cannons take center stage, but there are the barges of troops and the wagons, the endless train of wagons. It could not have been done, not without the thousands and gangs of black laborers.

I stood on the hilltop and watched the spectacle. I found myself feeling very sad for these African people. I felt for the first time that “I” was the oppressor, after a lifetime of being the oppressed; I can tell you it didn’t feel very good. That I had finally succeeded in finding a group of people whose sorry lot in life was worse than mine. We crossed a point in the Buffalo River called “middle drift” a “drift is Afrikaans term for ford, or a place in the river that is less muddy where crossing can made without a bridge. Since there are no bridges across the Buffalo River, the only realistic time for a military campaigned is during the summer after the spring floods when the river has subsided to a somewhat muddy ditch.

We were very much an army on the march. The riders of the Light-Horse were kept very busy indeed. We road up and down and between the columns. It seemed our primary mission was messenger. We shuffled between Major and Captain and on down to the Lieutenants back up to Colonel Carlton. The army corp of engineers pretty much put a stop to that, winding out literally miles of telegraph wire, across the Buffalo River, so that the font lines could stay in constant contact with the Colonel.

Occasionally, we were called upon to probe deep ahead of the column.

My own problems, my own particular disaster began innocuously enough with Ward back in hospital. Then Ferrier reported that his horse, “Blackie” had a thrown a shoe, and requested permission to return to the rear of the column for a new mount. All this happened with in the first ten minutes of revelry and I had yet to finish my breakfast tea. My section was reduced from four men, four horses, and four rifles to myself, and one man, and that one man was Private Davy Burlingham. It was then I receive orders to report to the command tent. Not just regular orders mind you, command orders from Major Steele who presumably received his orders from Colonel Durnford.

“This is great, just fucking great!”

I entered the command tent filled with loath, my stomach was queasy, fearful I was about to receive a reprimand for the past days accident. Instead, I found the mood in the command tent congenial. Inside was a collection of Captains, Lieutenants and Sergeants smoking cigars, all clustered around a map table. I felt a bit “under-ranked” as I was the only Corporal, but I was in command of section of Light-horse, and I unfortunately, had earned a reputation as the “Go to" section. I always got the job done. It was my misfortune to be what you call dependable. In reality, what that meant was I always got the “shit jobs.” When things really went tits-up, Major Steele invariably barked, “Where’s Claiborne!”

The problem was the column was ponderous, we were moving more slowly than expected. Lord Chelmsford was not happy. We were doing our best, but we were weighed down with equipment. The decision was made to leave behind the twelve-pounders, the Nordenfeldts and most of the baggage and proceed into Zululand on foot.

"We heard you shot a croc yesterday, Claiborne," Colonel Durnford remarked, he puffed on his fat cigar. "Capital, simply capital!" He opened a mahogany cigar case and held it out. He was offering me a cigar. When I shook my head, the other ranks all laughed and joked. "The lad doesn't smoke." There was another great outburst of ribald laughter. At first, I wasn't sure, if I was the object of ridicule or if it was all in good-humor.

Major Steele recognized my predicament and relieved the tension, "Jolly good soldiering Claiborne. I hear Ward is doing quite well in hospital. You never cease to amaze me Claiborne. That's why I have something for you. Lieutenant Blakely will brief you."

I found myself; dispatched on a most vital of military reconnoiters, to a farmhouse, some twenty-five miles west of the column to a derelict station, a Boer dwelling, the Hendricks farmhouse. The information was the Zulus had attacked and massacred the Hendricks family. I was to secure the area, rescue any surviving civilians, seize all available livestock, engage any hostiles, and report to the quartermasters (presumably with the cattle I had seized). I found the whole assignment incredibly absurd; the fact that my section under normal circumstances consisted of four men and I now I was reduced to two was ironically irrelevant.

“Corporal Claiborne!” Lieutenant Blakely called after me.

“Sir!”

“Major Steele says you deserve these, with the Major’s compliments.”

I could not believe my eyes; he held in his hand my Sergeant’s stripes. I left for my own bivouac. I paused long enough to sew my new rank on my duty-blouse. While I sewed, I though of Color Sargent Bourne, he would be so proud! There was no time to write him. I grabbed an extra Martini-Henry and a full-fledged lunger; I left with as much ammunition as I could carry.

“BURLINGHAM, TO ME!”

Much to my satisfaction, the blaze of my new rank had the desired effect. Burlingham's face soured like a man who just drank a great glug of curdled milk. I didn’t care; I didn’t have time to gloat. “Burlingham! Get your rations and as much ammunition as you can carry. Extra water too!” In regards to extra water, I wasn’t going to trust that particular detail to a dolt like Burlingham. I filled three extra canteens. I considered this a dangerous reconnoiter, we were venturing far a field of the regular column. I had no one to count on except Burlingham, and that was worse than having no one at all. The veldt of South Africa was a dry, unforgiving place, where water remained the most precious of all resources. Then there were the hostiles. The other soldiers, the command, indeed the hierarchy from the Governor General on down tended to discount, to underestimate the power of the Zulus. I myself, found them to be a noble people, a brave people, and I knew very well that it was "I" who was the invader.

"How come we get all the shit jobs?" Burlingham scowled.

"Because we're dependable." I said, "Quit your complaining and finish packing,” I cinched down my own kit. “We still have six hours of daylight. I intend to make a good start."

"I hate being dependable, mate."

At four O’clock on the December 27, I rode out of camp, with Private Davy Burlingham; on a straightforward simple reconnoiter, twenty-five miles west of the column. Little did I know how this event was to change my own life. How could I have possibly known how this event was to shape the course of the British Empire.

CORALINE, Sneak peak

I have to confess, I was never that excited about Neil Gainman's gothic CORALINE. This Dakota Fanning voice project has been on the back-burner for a year-and-a-half now. Now that I see the cool animation, I am more enthusiastic. It looks fantastic. You can really hear Dakota's voice when she said "Who's there."

Is it just me, or does it appear that the animators have imbued some of Dakota's facial features in the face of the cartoon character Coraline? I thought it looked vaguely like Dakota. Maybe it is just wishful thinking on my part, maybe I am reading too much into the animators intentions. In any case, we are anticipating a Christmas 2008 release for CORALINE.

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living and dead are intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 12

RMS CARDIFF MAID

AT SEA, W. coast Cadiz, Spain.

My Dearest Sargent Bourne,

This is the first occasion I’ve had to write since our departure from Portsmouth a fortnight ago. How much has transpired in those few short days! I wrote you in my last letter how very much I was looking forward to this deployment and my first sea voyage. Ocean travel is nothing like what I expected, what a disaster! I have been dreadfully sick every since our departure, confined to my hammock. I think I must have turned several shades the color of green seawater. For the first three days, I was unable to keep anything down. I am feeling better now. I think I’ve finally gotten my “sea-legs.” These past few days I’ve felt well enough to venture up on deck. Everything is very exciting; the ship is a bustle of activity. I have never been to sea, let alone on a great ocean going ship.

We are nearing the headlands of Cape Trafalgar; at eight bells, the Captain is planning an assembly for all hands, a ceremony to mark Lord Nelson’s great victory over the French. By tomorrow afternoon, we will make passage through the straights of Gibraltar where we are expecting a rendezvous with a cutter, to transfer an injured sailor, receive orders from the admiralty and of course, most importantly of all mail call. So, I naturally wish to get this letter posted.

The Mediterranean is supposed to be calm and beautiful. I am looking forward to sunny days and warmer weather. We are due to make passage through the Suez Canal; I expect we all owe a great debt of gratitude to Ferdinand de Lesseps for digging his great ditch, as it cuts nearly a month off our journey. We are scheduled to dock in Port Durban, South Africa on 25 November.

I should tell you about my ship. The Cardiff Maid is enormous! I remember one of the sailors told me when I came on board she is a three-masted two-hundred and seventy-four feet-long sidewheel steamship. The ship is so big it takes almost a half an hour to walk all around her deck! There is always a constant din of activity; sailors seem to have a great deal of work to do. Sometimes you have to watch where you step or you’ll get under-foot, and sailors are not hesitant about telling us lubbers to get out of the way. We soldiers don’t really have any regular duties, except in the morning when we muster for roll call. Most of the lads pass the time gambling and gossiping like old women, there’s rat baiting and occasionally one of the sailors hauls out a fiddle and we sing and dance. I like the singing, being Welsh, singing is in my blood. We sing our Regimental song, you must have sung it many times, I wish you could be here.

♫ Men of Harlech stop your dreaming

Can't you see their spear points gleaming

See their warrior pennants streaming

To this battlefield Men of Harlech stand ye steady

It cannot be ever said ye

For the battle were not ready ♫

I can still manage a respectable soprano, so the lads appreciate my voice. I always could carry a tune. Other than that, I keep to myself; I pass the time by going down to the hold to visit the horses. Star is doing well, she is a patient horse, but I think she is anxious for the sea voyage to be over.

The Cardiff Maid is a steamship, yet we spend most of the voyage under sails. The sails flap, and make a cracking sound in the wind like a whip as I sit here and write this. On morning watch, I overheard the Officer-of-the-Watch say we were making eleven knots. I’m not exactly sure what that means but I can tell you it seems very fast, the sea spray rises and falls over the bow, the Maid cuts through the water like a thoroughbred. The great sails carry us most of the way, however the Maid is a very modern ship; there is a constant drum-drum-drum of the machinery down below. It takes some getting used to. The steam engine is occasionally called upon to turn the great sidewheel paddle that provides power when the wind fails us.

Now that I feel better, I spent a great deal more time up on deck. There are schools of fish and yesterday I caught sight of a family of porpoise! Each day I borrow the spyglass from the Officer-of-the-Watch to catch a glimpse of the Dwight Fry, our companion ship on this voyage. My good friend, Henry Hawkins is on board, along with the rest of the Regiment. I wrote to you about my friend Henry.

It’s so exciting to be on board a steamship bound for South Africa. My own quarters are not so much quarters as a twenty-four inch allocation of space from left to right, a place to hang a hammock and nothing more. The food on board is not so good, very monotonous. Lots of ship biscuits, and salt-pork and gallons of tea, once a day we get a ration of rum. Since I don’t drink rum, I trade my ration for what I need. The toilet facilities on board ship are first rate, an actual head with fresh seawater running underneath. I wrote to you in my last letter and told you I am dreadfully shy. I am a very private person; I find living in such close quarters with so many men and boys to be difficult for me. I was delighted to find the Maid possessed such a jolly good loo! As long as I don’t have to hang my arse over the side of the ship I am good.

We are due to cross the equator soon. There is all kinds of talk about a visit from King Neptune. We soldiers and sailors alike who have never crossed the equator, we’re nothing but “polliwogs,” the old salts, the ones who have made the crossing are considered “shellbacks.” Apparently, this is all a great “good-natured” celebration and a rite of passage. I can’t help but be a little bit nervous, I will write you and tell you how this all went down when it happens.

I have had no more trouble with Private Burlingham. I followed your advice and placed him on report. When he refused my directed orders a second time, Major Steele fined him twenty shillings. After the incident with the bayonet, he spent fifteen days in the stockade for in subornation. I think he respects me now.

I can’t really think of anything else to write. I will write you again as soon as we make Port Durban.

Your loving son,

Thomas

* * *

LAND FALL, South Africa, Port Durban, 25 November 1878.

South Africa, is, well nothing like I expected. I’m not sure exactly what I expected; my first surprise was how hot it was. We left Portsmouth in the dead of winter, with ice flows in the harbor, and we arrived at Port Durban at the height of the African Summer. I will tell you it is bloody hot. Not a single cooling sea breeze, just suffocating African heat, I guess I'm an incredibly ignorant girl, but I had no concept of the flip-flop of the seasons. Chalk it up to “I must have been absent that day,” but it seems to me that that particular piece of salient information that January is the equivalent of July back home, might have possibly warranted a mention? Africa is even hotter than I ever imagined, the soil is so dry, there is no moisture it. Every stick of wood is eaten by ants, this is termite country. Compared to the lush green valleys of my home country Wales, I've never seen such a dry, desolate, parched landscape.

Yet people do live here, flourish even. A Dutch people, sometimes called the “Boers” which is Afrikaans for farmer, they have made their home here. More importantly, this is also the land of a Bantu people, the land of the Zulu. A militant kingdom of African warriors whose armies numbered in the 50,000 who rule the lands beyond the Buffalo River.

After the Cardiff Maid docked, there was the unloading. Before we left Portsmouth, absolute gangs of dockworkers swarmed over the ship, these men toiled day and night to load our horses, and thousands of boxes of supplies, tents and ammunition. Six twelve pounder cannon descended into the cavernous hold, along with a battery of Congreve rockets (of “Rocket’s Red Glare” fame), and three rapid fire fifty-caliber Nordendfelt guns. All the associated caissons and assorted sundry military equipment for an army on the march. Once in Port Durban, there was no gang of dockworkers to do the unloading. The local warlord demanded £ 200 for the use of black labor. Major Steele called it extortion, and refused to pay. Therefore, it fell to us, the common solider to unload the ship. All the lads complained bitterly, I didn’t mind. I never shirked from hard work, and besides, I was a Corporal. I could stand there and give orders. I made damn sure Burlingham did his days work. He hated me for it; I found it all very satisfying to drive him like hell. The Dwight Fry was still two days from in docking, and I had to wait for my Henry.

* * *

I FOUND MYSELF REUNITED WITH HENRY on Sunday. I had my first Corporal’s pay in my pocket and a pass for two days leave. Henry admired my stripes.

"I suppose now this means I have to do what ever you say?" Henry said facetiously.

"Don't you always?"

We set out together a little bewildered at first as to where to go or what to do. I was fascinated. I had never seen a black person; Port Durban was a crowded chaotic mass of humanity. A mix of old-world colonial architecture meets the Wild West and the ever-present African mud brick structure. The streets were unpaved and a quagmire of ruts and wagon tracks, there were as many water buffalo as horses. I had never seen such a sight. Neither one of us spoke Afrikaans, even though we were not what you might call particularly sophisticated or cosmopolitan, when compared to London, Port Durban was very much a backwater.

We had to be careful, as we were still in uniform; just a couple of blokes about town on a two-day pass. We found a pleasant little Indian restaurant owned by a colored couple who spoke English. We had some delicious food. They had no written menu; they took us directly into the kitchen and pointed to various bubbling pots. The whole kitchen smelled of lamb and curry. We pointed to what we wanted to order. I think I ate some goat, and coconut, yams and peanuts and lots of hot curry and stuff we never had back home in Wales. As we sat there in the open-air cafe, Henry seemed nervous. He took my hand and when nobody was looking slipped a gold ring on my finger. The wedding band was modest, so ordinary; I should think any girl who didn’t really love her man might have scoffed. I knew it was the best Henry could afford. I didn’t care if it cost a hay penny; it was the most beautiful ring in the entire world! It was all I needed.

“Tessa, I love you. Will you marry me . . .?”

I bit my lip; but I found myself over whelmed by the romance of the whole scene. I pretended to put on airs. “Why Mr. Hawkins, I do declare, I hardly know you. Are you asking me to be your wife?”

Henry knocked a spoon off the table, under the pretense of picking it up he got down on one knee, “Tessa, I'm asking you. I want you to be my wife.”

“Yes, Henry, a hundreds times yes!” I laughed; it was the most romantic experience of my life.

We ordered a couple of pints and toasted the good health of the newlyweds, "To Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hawkins!"

The first hotel we went to didn’t have a bath. I insisted on a bath. I didn’t want to start out married life as a demanding shrew, but rank does have its privileges and after a month and ten days on board a ship. A girl does want a bath. Henry obliged, the second hotel offered hot baths. It seemed a little more expensive, but at that point, who really cares? We were both about to embark on a campaign into to the African bush, across the Buffalo River, against the greatest military power in all of black Africa. Under the circumstances, who is going to quibble over a couple of shillings?

Henry did insist on one point of decorum. We both registered in separate rooms under our own names, he as Henry Hawkins and I as Thomas Claiborne. I thought it silly, who is going to double check hotel registrars when you have an army of 50,000 bloodthirsty black Africans on the loose? Henry seemed to think it was important; I was not going to second-guess my husband. The two extra shillings it cost seemed like a reasonable compromise.

Even still when faced with the reality of my vacant room, I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself. I stamped my foot. "This is so stupid!" I was determined not to sleep by myself, not tonight; I decided to take my bath.

I walked down the hall to the baths, where I found an attendant with a cheerful black face and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I was unaccustomed to servants; all my life, I was the help. This presented several awkward moments. Mbhali was so kind so helpful. I think she was genuinely surprised when I took off my duty-blouse. I finished getting undressed.

"O my wat'n preety lil' kind ye r." Mbhali exclaimed in her Afrikaans pigeon.

I don't think Mbhali quite put two and two together, the dichotomy that I was a soldier in the Queens Army and I was a woman. I tried not to pay any attention to her, even though one might assume off-hand that modesty was never my forte, having spent previously hundred of hours crawling around on the factory floor in various stages of undress, now that I was older, it seemed a bit off to get undressed like that in front of a complete stranger. I gave her a penny and told her "I require nothing more."

I lowered myself into the confines of the luxurious porcelain bathtub. Growing up as a child in Wales, galvanized tin was the best we could manage, and it was nothing more than cold water left in the afternoon sun to warm, bath time was a chaotic free-for-all between me and my three youngest brothers. Here, I sat alone, for the first time in my life, in the warm oh-so-soapy water, I felt like a queen! I doused my head. I soaped my body and just lay in the all-consuming warmth of a hot tub. I don’t think I ever felt so much a woman or so clean or so alive. My ecstasy, my five-penny rapture, my glorious bubble bath was rudely interrupted by a knock on the door.

"WHO IS IT?" I was sure it was that meddlesome bath attendant. I was immediately sorry to be so cross, it was Henry, my shy, insecure, my beloved Henry.

“Tessa, if you want, I can get into the tub with you . . .,” I reached for a towel. I think at the time the water only realistically swirled up to my waist. It was the first time Henry ever let me see him in any state even approaching naked. Even still, he was very modest as he lowered himself into the sudsy pool. We had the best time! I scrubbed his back, we laughed and splashed until the water-cooled and became cold. It was time to towel off. It was good to be scrupulously clean.

I walked passed my own door and followed Henry as if I was to the manor born. Henry protested, but I insisted. "What if I promise to muss up my own bed in the morning?"

“Wait!”

“What is it now?”

Henry, it turned out could be quite romantic. “I want to do this proper.” Henry scooped me up, all 94 lbs. of me and carried me into “our” hotel room. “Mrs. Hawkins, your boudoir.”

We blew out the lamp, climbed under the mosquito netting. The heat of the South African night was oppressive. Henry, he wore his nightshirt. I didn’t have any proper clothes and after ten minutes, of sweating like a pig. I tore back the mosquito netting.

"Blast!” I sat up in bed and stripped off my duty-blouse, and tossed my government issued long johns in a heap in the corner. “That’s better.” I climbed back in bed, cuddled up next to my Henry this time properly naked.

“I love you Henry.”

I felt the need to show it. My hands first explored his broad fireman chest. I caressed his stomach; my advances were met without objections. I boldly followed the contours of his body until I crept underneath the confines of his nightshirt. To my surprise, Henry was ready.

Sally had explained this one thing to me . . . in graphic detail. I should think if Sally hadn’t been so willing, so expert, so proficient, we both very well might have starved at WSPFS. I didn’t believe it at first that it could be so simple. Now here I was, practically on the other side of the world, lying next to my Henry, exactly as Sally explained.

“Henry, I love you.”

“Tessa, don’t.” He pushed my hand away. “Please don't do that.”

“I want to Henry―I’m your wife.” Henry didn’t protests again; we lay that way together for the longest time. Henry and I. We rocked back and forth in unison, until I felt him hot against my hand.

“Oh god Tessa! I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh, Henry, love, its okay, I wanted to do it. I’m your wife.” I got out of bed and matter-of-factly washed my hands in the pitcher and basin.

I bounced back into bed and cuddled up next to him. I lay next to my Henry, all that night. I tried to put out of my mind the hollow ache I felt in my own loins. I felt very grown-up and supremely satisfied. I never felt closer to another person in all my life.

I smoothed his hair; I kissed his ear. “Henry? Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

"Hundreds of times."

This time, I expect, we both slept soundly until morning.

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 11

THE DEVIL CAME ON HORSEBACK

EVERY REGIMENT, the Twenty-fourth Regiment of Foot included, had a small detachment of mounted infantry assigned, the Light-Horse detachment was exactly that. We numbered only twenty-four riders and were technically not considered cavalry we were mounted infantry. We had no sabers; we were not expected to “charge” into battle, bugles blaring. It was nothing like the Light-Brigade of Balaclava fame. We dismounted, every fourth man held the horses; we assumed a firing line like regular infantry.

The differences lay in our mobility, our tactics and our weapons. I was issued a .455 Martini-Henry carbine. The Carbine was exactly like the standard issue Martini, except it was nearly 20 inches shorter and considerably handier. It was a great deal easier for me to wield, bring up and point, being a girl and all. It came with a D-shaped brass carabiner and a wide leather strap that looped round your shoulder so you did not drop it while on horseback. Instead of the usual triangular bayonet, as a member of the Light-horse, I was issued a “sword bayonet.”

We wore the standard issue white pith helmets of the regular Regiment, and the same signature red tunic of the other soldiers except our trousers were solid blue and we had white “X” cross webbing on our chest, gold braid, and smart brass buttons and red piping.

The only bad thing about being in the Light-Horse, indeed the worse thing about being in the Light-Horse was that Private Burlingham followed me into the cadre. How I came to deserve such a misfortune, I do no know, but my heart sank when I first laid eyes on him. He flipped me off. Later at mess, he jostled me; he jeered and said I was a “fairy boy.” He said my boyfriend died like a squealing pig. My heart filled with hate, Mr. Squeers, Mr. Smith, and now Burlingham, they all will burn in hell! Because Burlingham was an asshole, Marty was dead. I resolved then and there; Whatever it took, I was going to fix his big swinging Liverpool arse for good.

Despite the fact, we were not cavalry, our mobility our ability to project power anywhere on the battlefield at a moments notice proved irresistible to any commander. We still found ourselves called upon to fulfill many of the traditional roles of cavalry, as scouts, messengers, and ultimately as shock troops.

As results of the success of the Polish lancers, a sort of European revival came about for that most anachronistic and medieval of all mounted infantry weapons the lance. We trained with the 1868-pattern lance, which called for a sixteen-foot shaft of male bamboo, differing from the female bamboo in that it has practically no pith and is of solid wood straight through. At the lance’s point of balance, was a rawhide sling, through which the lancer’s hand was placed, enabling him to retain the weapon in combat. The steel head was fitted with a triangular stabbing point. We practiced skewering straw fascines at a full gallop. It was quite lethal, providing your opponent did not posses firearms. I still found myself wondering, was it all worth it? I could shoot the bugger at twenty yards and still get the job done. The hierarchy of the British Empire was not to be deterred; we continued to train like medieval knights.

I remained the best shot in the Regiment, much to my satisfaction. I out shot, out scored Burlingham on three separate occasions, once in prone, on the firing line and finally on horseback. I took to riding horses a little like the proverbial “a duck-takes-to-water.” I’ve long had an affinity for animals, and my government issued horse, was a three-year-old white mare, with a dark blotch on her nose. Horse number 3980, I named her “Star.” Star and I became a team.

With the help of Star, I out rode Burlingham on the obstacle course, Burlingham cheated and didn’t jump all the gates, but Star was so much faster than his horse “Duke” that we beat him on the straightaway. The next day was the mount and dismount fire exercise. We were issued twenty rounds and expected to ride, dismount, and fire at a variety of targets, mount and fire from horseback. I remained the smallest trooper in our detachment, at thirteen and three-quarters; I was only a little over half an inch or so over five feet tall and weighed a slight 94 lbs. Size didn't matter. I was still the better shot, in many ways my small size was to my advantage, it was never a challenged for Star and I to outride a dumb hulking Liverpool bloke like Burlingham.

The best part about being in the Light-horse was I no longer had to drag around all that gear. I now had saddlebags to stow my kit. It was up to Star to carry most of the weight; I in return, took good care of her. I always made sure she had plenty of good oats, and I curried her down every night, even before I went to supper. The saddle itself was nothing like what you might think. No polished leather, no “Western” style horn. The saddle was made of wood slats and quite utilitarian. The lads complained that it was uncomfortable apparently; it pinched their “bollocks.” I didn’t know anything about that―what I did know was riding was still better than walking.

* * *

“Private First Class Claiborne, reporting as ordered, Sir.” I saluted smartly, and snapped to my best ram-rod attention. I found myself summoned to the Command tent of Major Steele. I wasn’t exactly sure what this was all about; I’d never been summoned before a Commanding officer. I couldn’t imagine why my commanding officer wanted to see me. A hollow spot welled up in the pit of my stomach. I could only imagine, I was soon to find out. I had a sinking feeling, Burlingham, he was behind this, as sure as shit! Burlingham discovered I was a girl; I was to be court-martialed for sure.

“As you were, Claiborne, at ease.” Major Steele continued to look over some papers; he clenched a bent-apple pipe in his teeth and puffed absentmindedly. His adjutant a Lieutenant Blakely hovered over his every move. Major Steele read with a deliberate compass. I think he enjoyed keeping me standing there, waiting, watching me sweat; it was all part of process. Finally, he set aside his papers and fixed his gaze on me, he peered over his spectacles, he seemed skeptical as he looked me up and down.

The coal glowed in the bowl of his pipe, smoke blew from his nostrils, finally he spoke. “Lieutenant Blakely advised me that you were very small.”

“Sir.”

The Major shuffled some papers. “I have here in my hand a letter, a letter from the Charring Cross London recruiting office. Tell me Private Claiborne, do you know what it might contain?”

I was genuinely puzzled; I thought it might be a trick. “No, Sir. I do not. Sir.”

“I have to make a decision Claiborne, in the next couple of days; we ship out, the whole regiment to South Africa. I expect on our arrival, we’ll see action. Lord Chelmsford is desperate to put down a native rebellion. Did you know that?” As if to emphasized the point he stabbed the bit of his pipe in my direction beore resuming his smoke.

“Sir.”

Steele allowed himself a thin smile; he continued to puff on his pipe. The tent filled with aromatic plumes of smoke, I coughed. “Claiborne, I have here in my hand a letter, from Color Sargent Angus Bourne, recruiting office of the 24th Regiment of Foot. Do you know him?”

“Sir, yes Sir. He was my recruiting officer, Sir.”

“Claiborne did you know that a Color Sargent is the highest rank that a non-commissioned officer might obtain in the Queen’s army?”

I fidgeted, “No Sir.”

“Evidently, this particular Color Sargent thinks very highly of you Claiborne . . .” Steele referred to the letter in his hand, “Color Sargent Bourne states unequivocally in his letter that I should give you every consideration. Do you have any idea why he might write that?”

“Sir, the Color Sargent and my father, First Sargent Chard Claiborne served together in the Crimea, at Balaclava, Sir.”

“A friend of the family, then?”

“No Sir, I never met Color Sargent Bourne, not until the day of my enlistment, my father never spoke of him.”

“Hmm,” Steele scratched a few notes. “Evidently the Color Sargent thinks very highly of you. On his recommendation, I’m going to take a chance on you Claiborne. Despite your small size, you’ve done very well here, you’ve shown spirit.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Steele flipped through a few more papers, when he couldn’t find the exact salient report he was looking for, the ever-efficient Lieutenant Blakely slipped him the exact paper he wanted. It made him look bloody brilliant. “Your service record is excellent; it says here that you are a proficient horseman. You qualified as both marksman and sharpshooter. I have a note here; a Lieutenant Fry cites your leadership capabilities, Fry takes the liberty to add a anecdotal note that you once shot a shot a deer in full flight at seven hundred yards?” Steele allowed himself a rare chuckle, “That’s jolly good shooting Claiborne.”

“Sir.”

“Claiborne, I'm going to cut to the chase. I need good men. I need qualified non-commissioned officers to lead my men. Effective immediately, I am promoting you to full Corporal.”

I was dumbfounded; I think I managed a weak, “Thank you, Sir.” I left Major Steele’s tent in a state somewhere between shock and incredulity. I do remember Lieutenant Blakely chasing after me, pressing into my hand my Corporal stripes, which I was to sew on my blouse. That’s all I remember.

I looked down at the duty roster. Ward, Ferrier, Burlingham. “SHIT! Fucking shit!" I did an about face. I didn’t know what to do, I was panic struck. “Lieutenant Blakely, I need to go back, I need to speak to the Major at once."


Blakely was not predisposed. “What is this all about, Corporal Claiborne? You have your promotion, now get on with it.”

“There’s a problem, Sir, the duty roster Sir. There’s been a mistake.”

Blakely snatched the duty roster from my hand and examined it scrupulously, any accusation of a mistake he took as a personal affront. “There’s no mistake that's your section.”

“Burlingham, Sir, he can’t be in my section.” I was desperate.

“Why not?” Blakely was exasperated.

“We don’t get along, Sir. We have a disagreement.”

“Corporal Claiborne. There are twelve hundred men in this regiment. You can’t possibly expect to get along or like all of them. The duty roster will not be changed, especially not because you have some petty quarrel with one of your men. I absolutely will not allow you to trouble the Major on this trivial issue. Be grateful he even gave you those stripes." Blakely took special pains on that point. "I advised the Major against it, your too puny Claiborne, you'll never make it in the Light-Horse. Now I advise you to get along Claiborne, get about your duties.”

“Yes Sir.” My heart sank. I was screwed; this was going to be harder than I thought. As I took the long way back to my own bivouac, I began to feel angrier, more confident, why was I allowing Burlingham to intimidate me? I am in command. “Fuck Burlingham!”

While ostentatious pride or boastfulness is not a personal characteristic that I admire, or ascribe, I will tell you that I made damn sure that Private Burlingham got a good close look at my new Corporal stripes.

That was how I earned my Corporal stripes.

Which meant that upon deployment, I not only out ranked my Henry, but I, a girl of thirteen was now in command of a section of three horsemen in the Twenty-fourth Regiment of Foot. The whole regiment was due to ship out to Africa in two weeks. To some nameless-faceless, God-forsaken point on the globe called Natal, to a place I’d never heard of called Cape Town. Apparently, there was some trouble down there with the Dutch settlers and some black African King named Cetshwayo. I couldn't imagine how some cowardly naked blacks armed only with spears could cause so much trouble in the empire. The situation was now dire; once again, it fell to us “Red Coats” to sort the whole mess out.

* * *

On the last day of November, the day before we shipped out, at mail call.

“Claiborne, Thomas!”

Mail for me? Who was writing me? Mama never wrote. No one even knew I existed. The mystery deepened, it wasn’t just a letter, but a brown paper parcel. I couldn’t imagine who was writing me, let alone sending me packages. I hefted it the package it was heavy. I feverishly tore open the brown paper, scarcely able to contain my curiosity. Inside, I found, nestled in crumpled wads of the London Times, a revolver, not just any revolver, a proper officer’s side arm, a .455 Webley, and two boxes of ammunition. There was note, in a bold simple hand.

"For Thomas, I want you to have this; it served me well at Balaclava. You are the son I never had. Good Luck lad.” ―Signed, Color Sargent Angus Bourne.

A tear fell on my cheek . . . "God bless Color Sargent Bourne." There was a P.O. I resolved to write Sargent Bourne everyday.

TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

CHAPTER 10

BIVOUAC

IN THE ARMY, a mess consists of six soldiers, a squad, two squads make a platoon, and Corporal Boggs commanded my particular squad. It is always said that the mess is the tightest most cohesive unit in the Army and I believe that to be true. Your messmates are your brothers. You have no secrets; you do everything together (except for me, I did have one secret). I for whatever reason, fate, providence, or just plain good luck had the five best messmates in the entire 24th Regiment of Foot. I was the youngest, and smallest and weakest of my five mates. To their credit, those five men never held it against me, I was relegated to the unenviable role of “boy” in the squad, but I always did my best. We were a team.

Marty and I, we slept together. With in the confines of a pup tent you get to know a person really well, that means we slept together, our flesh touched. It was inevitable, long after, even after Marty knew my secret, that I was a girl, I lay beside him; I waited with morbid trepidation, Marty, he never once made any sexual advances towards me. Marty knew I was a girl to the point that he became an active participant in my conspiracy. In the morning, within the privacy of our pup tent, he helped me bind my chest; he daubed spirit gum on my upper lip and fixed my mustache. Marty was my best mate.

I made up for it in other ways. I always made sure the boy’s had a fire, that morning tea was hot and ready. I was a scrupulous “mother-hen” when in came to the mess rations. Army rations were issued by mess, a typical day’s mess consisted of a pound of tea, a couple of quarts of peas or beans, flour, sugar, salt, ship biscuits, sometimes we were issued cornmeal. Meat consisted of slab bacon, salt pork or canned “horse” meat. Occasionally there were pickles or dried apples. That was mess. Most of the boy’s were clueless as to what to do with this confusing stack of food. I observed other messmates, forlornly eating cold horse meat out of a tin. I, fortunately, after years of cooking for eight brothers, knew a thing or two about how to cook. I earned quite a reputation in my squad, and then I ended up cooking for the entire platoon. On Friday nights, when we had collected enough bacon fat, I mixed a dough of corn meal. Each soldier took a ball of dough and wound it into a snake around his bayonet, and toasted it over an open fire. That was called “Sloosh.” It was a favorite in my mess. Corporal Boggs wrote in his report that I was the best cook in the army.

The problem was I didn’t want to be a cook. I wanted to ride horses, I wanted one of those smart blue uniforms; I wanted a Martini-Henry carbine.

In the morning, after assembly, Lieutenant Fry announced that we were to deploy on a twenty-five-mile exercise that was to include an overnight bivouac. Full packs, full combat gear. We set out and it was already raining. It rained in our faces, it rained down the back of our necks, in rained until our boots squished. Still we marched on; our destination was the Grovely Woods. A military and strategic target of monumental proportions I am sure. The worst part was, the scuttlebutt was that Colonel Carlton was to meet us there. He wanted to see how the new M-Henry preformed under “adverse” circumstances.


A Twenty-five-mile march in soggy conditions was every bit as unpleasant as anyone could have imagined. Aside from the physical ordeal of marching in full pack, in inclement weather, the prospect that Colonel Carlton wanted us upon our arrival to assume a firing line, it was almost too much to contemplate.

We marched for so long and so hard that I don’t think it was possible that I could have attributed any special wetness in my knickers to anything but rainwater. As we trudged, mile after mile, a weird feeling welled up deep inside my gut. I stuck my hand in my pants, it came out wet, and sticky, it wasn’t rainwater.

“Oh gawd, it’s started.”

I was in so much trouble, why now of all times? I signaled to Corporal Boggs for permission to fall out of line. I headed strait for the bushes, I pulled down my trousers, dug into my knickers and cried. There was no time to squat there feeling sorry for myself. I cleaned myself up best I could with water from my canteen bottle. I stuffed my cunny like Abigail showed me, hoping beyond hope to staunch the flow. I pulled up my trousers on closer inspection; it didn’t seem like I had made too big a mess of myself. I hefted my rifle, and hustled to resume my place in the march.

This was a bivouac. We pitched our tents and crawled into the sanctity inside, I blurted out my troubles.

“Marty, I got a problem . . .”

Marty, I couldn't have asked for a better mate. He started a fire; we ended up boiling my pants and knickers in lye soap. We hung them up to dry. That took care of the stain. Nobody said nothing. It seems that boiling ones britches immediately after a twenty-five-mile march in a rainstorm a was perfectly mundane activity, of which no one of any note took any particular notice. It seems my secret was still secure.

The next morning, Marty drew sentry duty. I packed him a lunch of fresh biscuits and ham, a clean handkerchief and a flask of cold tea in his Harvard sack. Colonel Carlton it seemed was still back in Wiltshire HQ. Evidently, it was too wet for the pompous Colonel to venture forth. There was to be no line fire demonstration today. The weather had cleared, except for the serious business of picket duty; the camp took on a carnival atmosphere. Which pretty much left us to our own devices.

The Grovely woods, was exactly that, a still pristine, dense packed English forest. Devoid of the coveted oak or spruce, the Grovely woods were home to a vast forest menagerie of wildlife and woodland creatures. Including wild pigs and the “King’s Deer” of Robin Hood fame. It was one of these deer thrashing in a thicket that caused the commotion. Colonel Carlton was still scheduled to come to the camp before nightfall, and Lieutenant Fry took it into his head, that he might impress the Colonel with some fresh venison roast.

“Private Claiborne! Private Gibbs!”

“Sir.” We came to attention. He called us Private, even though we had not graduated and technically were still recruits.

I was the best shot in the regiment. Gibbs, he was well huge, mean with a bushy handlebar mustache, a colossal bear of a man probably 21 stones if an ounce. I hefted my rifle and ventured into the woods, I probably weighed 94 lbs. soaking wet followed by Gibbs, we foraged into the thicket looking for deer. I don’t think Gibbs much liked the fact that he was in subordination to me. He kept trying to push ahead of me. I told him, clearly, Fry had appointed me point man, and I was the shooter. He was to follow me . . . he was the “help.” Gibbs didn’t like it; I think if he had known I was a girl, he would have exploded. It gave me great satisfaction.

There was a sudden rustle in the thicket up a head.

I drew down the lever on the Martini-Henry and inserted a shinny brass .455 cartridge into the receiver. I brought the weapon up to my shoulder and drew down on the sound. Gibbs stepped on a branch. The crack sounded like a rifle shot. I thought at first I had discharged my weapon. The deer, spooked came charging out of the thicket straight at me. I was veritably bowled over; I came crashing out of the woods, arse-over-tea-kettle. The deer leaped over me and ran into the clearing. Somehow, bandoleer, webbing, pure dumb luck or training. I held on to the Henry rifle. I brought the weapon down, squeezed the trigger and *BANG* in a thunderous roar and a swirl of white smoke . . . black powder smoke, counter intuitively is white. I brought down the deer, shot through the lung and heart. It seemed Colonel Carlton was in store a roast venison feast after all.

My gut felt woozy. I told Gibbs to get the deer, take it back to camp. Giving orders was easy. I think I liked being in charge.

I made my way towards a quiet pool. I was dirty, I needed to wash, take care of myself. It was quite a lovely pool, deep and quiet, the ferns smelled earthy and good. The water was still, black and icy cold and pure, the river mud oozed between my bare feet. I lowered myself into its inky blackness and felt for the first time in weeks a cleansing wash, such a joyous ablution I had not even a memory to enjoy. A school of minos came to join be they swirled about my body and tickled my bare toes. I had a bar of soap in my pack and I suds myself down, I washed my hair, and I doused my body in the fresh water.

I swam, I played in that pool until I lost track of time. It was in the midst of this cleansing ecstasy that four recruits from F Company came jostling out of the woods. I was in H Company, three companies made up a regiment. In this case F, G and H. For whatever reason, F and H were considered bitter rivals. It didn’t help any that I was reputed to be the best shot in H Company. To make matters worse, I had just shot a deer through the heart at seven hundred yards. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was considered quite the money shot. Recruit Burlingham, was standing at the waters edge, backed up were his three best mates. They were loud, rude and boisterous. I saw a bottle, they were drunk.

"Shit!" I was caught, naked as a jaybird; my only concealment was the black water of the pool that circled my neck. I treaded water in fearful trepidation.

“OY! Claiborne, why don’t ‘cha come up ‘err and make that shot again.” Burlingham was supposed to be the best shot in F Company, and he didn’t like me and he especially didn't like competition.

“I don’t want too.” I looked to my rifle. It was on the bank out of reach.

“You’re a bloody fairy boy. I know you.” One of the men jeered, they kicked my kit, my clothes scattered.

"What's say we 'ave some fun with this little fairy boy, this little bloke, eh?" Burlingham un-did the buttons on his fly and hefted out a substantial willy.

“You like that, Claiborne?” As if on cue, the other mate’s on his crew pulled out their willies and they began to urinate in unison.

“Yeah, swim in piss you soggy bink!”

"GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!" I splashed water in their direction, a lot of good that did. I felt like crying, I knew that was to get me nowhere.

Now things really went tits-up. Burlingham slogged into the water after me, with the clear intent to drag me bodily out of the pond. The jig was up, eventually the four of them would over power me, drag me from the water, discover I was a girl. Then mongrel dogs would rape me. I was resigned to my fate. I was terrified.

It was then, from behind, from overhead, came a rifle shot, a cloud of white smoke, and the telltale ca-chink, of the glossy lever action of a Martini-Henry, followed by the smooth insertion of fresh brass.

It was Marty. His bayonet gleamed, then flicked.

“Clear out lads! Leave Thomas alone!”

“Aye! Easy lad!" Burlingham, the consummate bully, now found himself cowed in the face of an angry Marty and a bayonet.

"We wuz just ‘av’n a bit of fun wit the little fella. Oy, be a mate.”

"You've had your f-f-fun, now clear out. NOW!" Marty brought his rifle up to the ready; I do think he might have shot them. The boy’s from F Company obviously thought so, because they cleared out real fast.

“Bog off! Wuz just ‘av'n a bit of fun.” Burlingham flipped Marty the back-wards "V" and jerked his head, with that he and the crew from F Company sauntered back to camp.

I waited until long after I was sure that they were gone. Marty helped me out of the water, and toweled me off. As I got dressed, I was then struck with the awfulness of what he had done. Marty was assigned guard duty.

“Marty, you got to go back. Fucks sake, Marty, you got to git, right now!” My face was ashen.

“It's Okay Thomas.” Gentle unassuming Marty did not grasp the consequences, the awfulness of his selfless sacrifice. He may have just saved me, in the process, his own fate was uncertain. If caught, dereliction of duty was a capital offence.

“No, it’s not okay Marty, that Colonel Carlton; he’ll line you up and shoot you for sport. Marty, go right now, maybe it’s not too late.”

“Thomas?”

“I’m okay, you go now. RUN!” Marty took off back towards his post. It was not okay. It was never okay, it was already too late. As I made my way back to camp, fear and trepidation welled in my heart. I could already see the din of excitement, the commotion of a drum-head-court martial in full proceedings. Lieutenant Fry he was in his glory, presiding with relish. In a final act of revenge, it seems that F Company made sure, that recruit Martin Crawford was caught. Just two weeks from graduation, Marty found himself accused under Article 86 of the Military Code of Justice of Desertion of his Post, of Dereliction of Duty. Technically, I think the penalty was death by firing squad. However, because we were on maneuvers and in the field and because Marty was a recruit, the court found room for leniency. The penalty handed down was four dozen lashes. Sentence to be carried out at sundown.

The entire regiment was to witness punishment.As further punishment, it fell to his squad, his messmates, to truss him up.I was the last to leave him. The look Marty gave me sticks in my mind. This look of shock and desperation and a sort of terror, really. Lots of things in that single look. Marty he tried to be brave, he looked to me, even with a gag in his mouth, he managed the words, “Thomas, I love you."

"I know, Marty.” I whispered. "Be strong."

That was what I said. What I meant to say, what I should have said, what I didn’t have the presence of mind to say was, "I love you." I just couldn't make the words come out, that all. In our last moment together, I was so cruel as to begrudge Marty the comfort of a simple "I love you." I was torn between my feelings for Marty, and my sense of guilt and disloyalty inherit in telling two different men that I loved them. I think the truth was, I loved Marty, and I loved my Henry. How is that possible? To this day, I cannot explain my feelings. I do know my heart ached.

The entire regiment turned out to witness punishment. We stood in ranks at perfect attention. Colonel Archibald Carlton then chose to make his grand appearance. He strode out on an enormous champing white charger, his medals weighed down his chest, his helmet, a veritable crown of glory, complete with tassels and all manner of military regalia, glinted in the failing sunlight of the parade ground. The commanding officer of the 24th Regiment of Foot deliberately inspected his troops.

We stood there stock still, I didn't dare move, I hardly dared breathe. I was emotionally numb. I did steal a sidewards glance over to G Company, to the ranks where I thought my Henry must be. I couldn't pick his face out in sea of red tunics and white helmets.

"REGIMENT ASSEMBLED, READY TO WITNESS PUNISHMENT, SIR!" Lieutenant Fry said.

Carlton's mount stamped, Carlton held the reins with his impeccable white riding gloves. In a pompous gesture that summed up all that was Victorian and correct in military culture, he impassively saluted with his riding crop.

"Commence!"

"SARGENT-OF-ARMS, DO YOUR DUTY!"

The drums rolled like thunder.

I closed my eyes. The burly Sargent brought down the cruel whip hard against Marty's bare back. He did not cry out.

"ONE!"

I flinched, my whole body quaked, I wanted to vomit. The drum cadence continued on incessantly throughout the punishment. I thought I was going to go crazy with pain, grief and guilt.Eternity is a long time, I expect. It must be equal to the number forty-eight. When punishment was over, when they finally cut him down, Marty collapsed in a heap. He was lashed to ribbons. We carried him back to our bivouac on a stretcher. I laid him on his bedroll and washed his face with cool water.

I whispered next to his ear, "Marty, I love you." It was too late, he was beaten unconscious and couldn't hear me.

One other lads summoned the help of the Surgeon Reynolds. The Surgeon came later that night and did what he could. He arranged for an ambulance to take Marty back to Wiltshire HQ in the morning. I laid next to Marty all night and prayed. Marty died sometime before sunup. It was the second time in my life I had lain next to a person who died. I wept. There was only a simple funeral.

* * *

Graduation day felt hollow and empty without Marty.

We received our PFC stripes, our first military pay, and a pass for three days leave. Most importantly, I was reunited with my Henry. Henry and I had not seen each other in eight weeks. It seemed like forever.

I wanted to kiss him, hug him, smother him. Of course I couldn't, I didn't. We could only shake hands. We were just two fellow blokes greeting each other. We walked off the train station platform in a stiff awkward silence. I finally broke the ice.

“Henry, they killed Marty . . . beat ‘im to death.” I hissed.

Henry I think was right jealous, 'cuz he didn't say much, “I was there, I heard he left his post . . ."

"Henry, he saved my ass. At least be greatful to Marty for that! I'll be shipped out when I get back. Major Dupont signed the papers, I am assigned to a Light-horse detachment. I’m going to learn to ride, Henry, I get one of those smart blue uniforms. I get a carbine!”

“That's great news, Tessa, the 24th is going to Africa, Cape Town, Natal some god cursed country. There's some kind of trouble down there between the Dutch and the niggers. Its left to us Redcoats to straighten things out. I expect there'll be shooting, the blacks are on the march.”

“We're comming too, the Light-horse is still part of the 24th, we're comming too. We just need a little more training, that's all. Henry? What's the matter? I'm going to join the Light-horse!"

"I heard things, I heard you and Marty were close like, more than mates."

I felt my stomach go hollow. I never knew until the actual moment that I left Marty, trussed up against that tree, that I loved him. Was I really so wrong? Now confronted with the facts, denial was my only alternative.

"That's not true! Marty and me, we wuz just mates, I had feel'n for him, sure. Marty, he done good by me. But Marty, we wuz just regular mates. Henry I love you!"

"Shhh, Tes . . . Thomas." Henry was still mad. Marty was dead, but the mere thought that Marty and I had lain next to each other in a pup tent and what might have transpired, what could have transpired, made him crazy with jealousy.

I Finally I tried a different approach. "Henry, there was never noth'n between me 'n Marty. We wuz just mates. That's all. Henry, I love you. You were my first love, you're my only love. Please stop think'n these crazy thoughts. You'n me we gotta look out for one another. We got to look to our future. Listen, Henry, you ain’t got no one―me, I sure as bloody hell ain’t got no one. Henry, you and me, we is all we got. We ain't just best mates, we're like family."

Henry looked at me, "Yeah, Tess, we're family."

“Henry, why can’t we be a family together?" I squeezed his hand.

“What does that mean?”

I think Henry was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't waste any time. I dropped a clodhopper . . . “Henry, why can't we get married? Will you marry me? I want to get married."

* * *

I SHOULD THINK A GIRL'S wedding night is the thing that dreams are made of. Every girl, woman, dreams of the day she gives herself wholly over to her husband, the day they become one. A man and a woman, they are partners in life, joined for better or for worse, for richer, or in our case, we we’re poorer. My wedding, my wedding night was nothing like I ever imagined. The first Vicar we approached refused to marry us because Henry did not have my father’s permission, even after I explained that papa was dead, and I was abandoned. The Vicar still refused to marry us; he said I was, “I was too young.”

“I’m old enough to know my own mind.”

We finally found a Vicar with a fondness for the bottle; I think he’d already uncorked a few that mornings. For a shilling, and a couple of parishioners for witnesses that I didn’t even know, the ceremony was certainly bare bones.

“Do you or don’t you, will you or won’t you, I now pronounce you man and wife.” With that, Henry and I were married. I was now for better or worse, Mrs. Henry Hawkins.

I don’t want to make it sound like the whole affair was bereft of any exiguous trappings. Henry wore his full Private’s dress uniform, white gloves and I think he polished his boots black until he wore a hole. He was so nervous. I wore a white dress I found and a second-hand-shop. I cost me a whole bob but I wanted it, it was so beautiful. The woman who owned the shop was very kind when she found out I planned to be married in the dress, she insisted I take a lovely hat for no additional charge. She made a veil for me in the shop. I found out later, she had a daughter exactly my age that had died of cholera. I was glad to have the hat; I was so ashamed Henry had to marry me with my boyish haircut.

I held a modest bouquet of Lilly-of-the-valley; we bought on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral from the many flower vendors there. I always loved the way they smelled, and they were my Mama’s favorite flower. I had made peace with my mother at this point in my life, and my only wish was that she could have been there. I wrote her later, and told her what I had done, and gave her my Army P.O. Mama never wrote me back.

Our wedding cake amounted to some tea and biscuits at a small shop. Henry wanted to celebrate with a couple of pints of beer. I told him beer was two pennies a pint, what was I saying? I was already starting to sound like a nagging wife. We sat in the park, and drank our beer. We joked around and talked about how much fun we used to have. It was one of those uncomfortable situations where you talk about everything but the obvious. Our conversation lapsed into an awkward silence; we sat there not saying much. I missed Domino, and I knew Henry was thinking about his brother.

I reached over and took Henry’s hand.

“Henry, how much money do we have left?”

“Fifteen pence.”

“Is that enough?”

“We need a place to sleep. Our pass runs out tomorrow . . . We have to report to our units in the morning. Henry, it’s our wedding night.”

Henry was reticent.

“Henry?”

“It’s enough, Tessa, it’s enough, alright!”

We found ourselves a flophouse, a room for ten pence, that left just exactly enough money for tea in the morning. The man who ran the flophouse, wore one of those green visors; I never knew for sure exactly what they were for, he was smoking a Turkish cigarette. I found myself nauseated, overcome with revulsion. I was filled with irrational inexplicable hate for this man and the dangling ash of his cigarette. I could not shake the horror caused in my life by the sight, the smell, the thought of a single cigarette smoldering in a dustbin. We could not have gotten our room soon enough; Henry, I will say for his part, did sign the registrar Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hawkins.

The room was small and not very nice; there was a bed, a washstand, a lamp and not much else. Henry checked the bed first to make sure it wasn’t “ticky.” It was private, and we were alone and I was no longer a girl, I was his wife. I will tell you up front my wedding night was a whole lot less satisfying than what I imagined and much less than what I expected. It was in short a disappointment. By the next morning―I was still very much a girl. I was Mrs. Henry Hawkins in name only; my marriage to my Henry remained unconsummated.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I took off my clothes; I dutifully crawled into bed, I lay next to my Henry, naked. My flesh next to my Henry . . . While I lay there, I couldn't help myself. My body, my mind filled with urnings, my mind flashed back to the hundred of thousands of hours I had spent crawling under thunderous power looms, smeared in grease, my lungs choked with cotton dust, naked. I crawled under these monstrous hecatonshires of machine-works that sought to grab my body and tear my flesh. I remembered poor Lilly; her body caught, crushed, mangled by a soulless clockwork mechanism that cared neither whether it chewed flesh or wove cotton fabric. Now, I lay naked, warm, cuddled next to the man I loved, my Henry, my husband. Naked for the first time in my life with the purpose for which nakedness was intended. I offered myself freely. Henry didn't even try.

"Tessa, I love you, I really do love you.” He kissed my cheek, he kissed my lips, and then he turned away, he shrugged, he pushed my hand away, as if to say it was time to go to sleep.

“I love you too Henry.” I said quietly, I was crying inside.

We went to sleep. The next morning, we both got up, got dressed as if we were bunkmates. Henry shaved, I dutifully bound my chest, my boobs, for all the good they had done me. I daubed my fake mustache, I put on my uniform, Henry checked to see that I was smart. This was an important day for me, I was to be acepted into the Light-horse brigade. Henry he put on his uniform.

I laid out my wedding dress on the bed for the last time and wept.

“You know you can’t take that with you.”

“I know.” I smoothed the dress one more time. “I just wanted to remember how beautiful it was . . .”