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.