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.