KIT KITTREDGE: AN AMERICAN GIRL

KIT KITTREDGE: AN AMERICAN GIRL (2008) a movie based on a doll? My skepticism meter was off the scale, as I investigated further I realized with the production of each doll, AMERICAN GIRL has carefully authorized an entire back-story to go along with each doll. Kit Kittredge (Abigail Breslin) is indeed a viable story, a story worth telling, and in these uncertain economic times a story with a resonance and priceless timeless quality. Growing up in America's heartland in the 1934 Cincinnati, Kit is an eleven-year-old aspiring newspaper reporter; Kit spends her days in her room, tapping out her stories on an old typewriter. Her father (Chris O'Donnell) owns a car dealership and her mother (Julia Ormond) is the perfect mom, she takes care of the Kittredge home where she often hosts garden teas. However, world events in the form of the Great Depression are about to descend up Kit and her idyllic life. Mr. Kittredge finds himself thrown out of work and with the family destitute and with no prospects, is off to Chicago to look for a new job. Meanwhile, Mrs. Kittredge in a desperate attempt to make ends meet decides to take in boarders, including a magician (Stanley Tucci), a mobile librarian (Joan Cusack), an uptight mother (Glenne Headley) and her young son. Also arriving on the Kittredge's doorstep are two young hobos, teenager Will (Max Thieriot) and little County (Willow Smith). These latter two youngsters will do any odd jobs in exchange for food and Mrs. K. welcomes them over the objections of neighbors. But, will the Kittredge family save their home? Also, will Kit see her fondest wish and get published, all the while solving the mystery of who took her family's safety box of money and other valuable possessions. This is a wholesome film for American families about a brave headstrong girl who is both smart and self-sufficient and a good role model for young girls. Blond-haired Abigail Breslin is one of our foremost young movie actress is forever enchanting in the title role of ambitious headstrong Kit. As an aspiring writer myself, I'll admit a little affinity for Kit's character. The supporting cast is likewise up to the task, with O'Donnell as the sensitive father and Ormond, doing a terrific turn as the beautiful, courageous mother. All of the other supporting cast members previously mentioned, along with Wallace Shawn as a stuffy newspaper editor, fulfill their roles handily, too, with special mention extended to young Willow Smith for her nice interpretation of the part of a young drifter with a big secret. Directed by Patrica Rozema with a screen play by Valerie Trip (author of the original Kit Kittredge stories). The film looks sensational from the Kittredge's gorgeous home to the costumes to the wonderful cinematography, including the musical score and a surprising rendition of “It’s only a Paper Moon” not heard in movies, since, well, PAPER MOON. As to the script, KIT Kittredge is a nice combination of history-lite, intrigue, and the triumph of the human spirit, especially the hope and new possibilities that children bring into the world. In short, KIT is a lovely family friendly film for young girls and everyone else, with abundant laughs, lessons, and love. Do make time for Kit and company.

DAKOTA IN THE DESERT

Thursday

October 16, 2008

USA TODAY—Dakota Fanning, 14, will receive the Rising Star Award at the 20th Palm Springs International Film Festival's annual awards gala January 6 in California. Fanning stars in the movie THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES, which opens on Friday.

DAKOTA IS A CHEERLEADER!

Saturday October 4, 2008

WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT? When the rumor first surfaced, as to Dakota being a cheerleader I'll admit, I was among the chief skeptics. It's TRUE! Home schooled through the eighth-grade, Dakota made the decision this year to attend the private UC Santa Barbara High-school, the school was willing to accommodate Dakota's special needs involving filming and promotions. Indeed, Dakota had to cut short a promotional stint of THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES on Thursday at the opening night of the 31st annual Mill Valley Film Festival. She had to catch a flight back to Los Angeles so that she could be back in class on Friday as she had a game on Friday night. Where Dakota is a member of the Varsity cheer leading squad where she is a "flyer." I think it’s fantastic that Dakota has the opportunity to pursue a normal life. Three cheers for Dakota for the humility, unpretentiousness, déclassé, to just want to be an ordinary kid . . . To go to high-School, to do what every other kid in America does in high-school. Be a cheerleader, join the drama club, hot lunch, homecoming, run track. Go Vikings! As always, I am forever indebted to my friend Marcela at LOVELY DAKOTA.

DAKOTA'S PROMISE

Tuesday

September 16, 2008 Dakota Fanning promises to live a good and clean teenage life.

American child actress Dakota Fanning, 14, has made a promise to live a clean and trouble free teenage life. She insists that she will not have an unwanted teen pregnancy, get any tattoos or piercings until she turns 18.She says that she has even sealed the pledge with a handshake in front of her mother, publicist, agent, and friends in this respect. Though the agreement was made in a playful way, the star of THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES insists that she meant every word she said.

“I swear I won’t do any of those things!” Fox News quoted Dakota as saying.

The teen star has shown in so many ways that she is a serious actress, and her poise and comportment in “Bees” is such a revelation that she’s likely to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actress this year.

OUR NEW FAVORITE PICTURE

Saturday

September 13, 2008

I AWAYS THOUGHT I'd be hard pressed to ever find a picture of Dakota that I liked better than this one:

For me this will always represent the quintessential Dakota, baby teeth intact, the "cute" factor is off the scale. However, in some of the recent pictures to come out of Toronto Dakota is absolutely "drop-dead" gorgeous. I dare say this picture below, is now my new favorite Dakota picture:

Isn't she absolutely stunning? What a beautiful girl Dakota is turning out to be. She's not beautiful so much in a classical sense as in a pure fresh faced "Girl-next-door" sense. I hate to say "I told you so," but "I told you so." Dakota is destined to be one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood.

DAKOTA WOW!

Saturday

September 6, 2008

TORONTO—Yes Sir, that's my baby, no Sir, I don't mean maybe. Oh, WOW! Dakota Fanning seen here on the red carpet at the Toronto Film Festival for the world premiere of THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES. Looking absolutely lovely in a basic black dress, Dakota seems immune to what some might call the "awkward years." Dakota first captivated our hearts in 2001 as an adorable seven-year-old in I AM SAM, and as a fresh face pixie in UPTOWN GIRLS, MAN ON FIRE and CHARLOTTE'S WEB. Now that she's hit her teen years, Dak's ability to enchant our hearts and mind continues unabated. I dare say she just get's prettier every day, what a charming, lovely young lady she has become.

THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES, Sue Monk Kidd's acclaimed Civil Rights-era novel about a troubled South Carolina teen (Fanning) who finds redemption in an unlikely place, opens nationwide on October 17th.

WOW!

NIM'S ISLAND

Monday

August 11, 2008

NIM’S ISLAND (2008)—The latest family fantasy-adventure offering from Walden Media, stars the always adorable 11-year-old Abigail Breslin, Jodie Foster and Gerard Butler, co-directed by Jennifer Flackett and Mark Levin. Nim's Island is the story of a young girl who inhabits an isolated island with her scientist father and animal friends, who inadvertently co- mmunicates with a reclusive author who just happens to be the author of her favorite book. All sounds very interesting, while the movie is long on cute due to the irrepressible presence of Breslin, the comedy aspects of this movie and worse of all the adventure quotient is decidedly lacking. Alexandra (Foster) spends far too much time in her farcical but ultimately boring agoraphobic transit to Nim’s Island. Once she gets there, other than Nim’s initial shock that she is in fact not Alex Rover (Butler) the adventurer of her novels, but Alexandra Rover the author, there isn't much for Foster to do. Nim on the other hand is kept busy re-wiring the solar panels after a lacklustre tropical storm and faces the unconvincing threat of island invasion by hapless Aussie tourist. Nim fights back by summoning her “inner Tarzan” complete with zip-lines through the jungle, and flinging lizards through the air like a one girl “ewok” army. Nim further astounds us by rolling boulders placed conveniently yet precariously from a cliff face like a 6th grade Quasimodo, all we lacked was a good lusty eleven-year-old yell of “SANCTUARY” and the scene would have been complete. Yet when given the opportunity, the director/writers fail to connect with the real drama potential of this story, in fact, they seem particularly adept at setting up interesting plot-elements and then ignoring their outcome altogether, e.g. Alexandra never satisfactorily fulfils her mission as ersatz hero. Her hereto all consuming agoraphobic-soup fetish inexplicably vanishes and she is last seen running blissfully on the beach holding hands with Jack (Butler) caught up in some kind of implausible island induced romance. Nim fails to confronts her real fears, or learn the life-lesson that the "real hero" is the hero inside. The whole meeting the Aussie boy, a plot element originally more crucial when Nim still possessed her imaginary friends, is cast off as a meaningless throwaway scene.

I could not believe how badly the direction team of Flackett/Levin missed the mark. The idea that Nim has imaginary friends from classic literature is a great deal more interesting than much of what actually ended up on film. Furthermore, Nim’s potential confusion over the cruise ship for a pirate ship is another missed opportunity, the explanation is that Nim has an adversarial relationship with the imaginary Long John Silver, this crucial clarification is left on the cutting room floor, and we are left just confused. When you consider the potential; the lively scene of Nim lying in bed while reading the latest Alex Rover book, the adventure takes place in the theatre of her mind. These fantasies provide a further juxtaposition between Alexandra Rover's own schizophrenic imaginations of Alex rover the hero. The encounter with the Aussie boy could have been more poignant, Nim pokes him with her finger to see if he's real, but again, Flackett/Levin fail to pursue this plot-line to any meaningful conclusion. Instead, Nim's encounter with Edmund is so much wasted celluloid, reduced to the farce of Edmund’s two clueless parents. The whole point of the story was skewed. What Nim should have learned was that Alex Rover, Huck Finn, and even a scalawag like Long John Silver exist only in books. That people are more important that imaginary friends, and that heroes in real life are just ordinary people like Alexandra Rover. I know I’m re-writing the movie, I just think there was so much missed potential.

DAKOTA STUCK IN TRAFFIC

Thursday

July 24, 2008

SAN DIEGO, CA―PUSH, starring Chris Evans (Nick), Dakota Fanning (Cassie), Djimon Hounsou (Carver), Camilla Belle (Kira) and director Paul McGuigan (LUCKY NUMBER SLEVIN) will present a first look at footage and answer questions about the film. In this futuristic sci-fi thriller set in Hong Kong, a group of young American ex-pats with extraordinary psychic abilities must band together and use their different talents on a final mission to escape a clandestine government agency. In her first action heroine role, director Paul McGuigan reveals Dakota even gets drunk and swears. Yes, our little girl is indeed all grown up. PUSH is scheduled for a February '09 release. Dakota Fanning was scheduled to appear for the PUSH preview and Summit Entertainment panel discussion at Comic Con 2008, but was stuck in traffic for 7 hours due to an accident. She did make a brief appearance at the end of the panel just to say “Hi” and tell her fans she was sorry to be so late.

* * *

I’ve attended the San Diego Comic Con numerous times over the past years and it’s a wild and fabulous four days―if you enjoy comic books, super-heroes, sci-fi or anime. The San Diego Comic Con is your destination of choice. I have many fond memories of oil can size beers, buckets of crab legs and late night parties at the Hotel San Diego. I was doing a little reminiscing about back in the days when I did do stuff like pack my bags, jump on a plane and head west to the Con. I happened to think about what “IF” I had gone this year. What if I had attended the Con not for comics, artist sketches, or hentai porn. What if I flew out to San Diego for the express chance to see Dakota Fanning live at the Summit Entertainment panel. I thought about the roller coaster ride of emotions. First, there’s the whole plane, taxi, hotel experience, then there’s the usual excitement of just being at the Con, catching up with old friends, making new friends, you meet have dinner. It’s a blast!

Of course everything amounts to a mere distraction. The whole time there is this nagging anticipation, excitement, the real reason why you’ve come: To see Dakota Fanning LIVE. I have my ticket; I’m sitting in the audience. At this point, just the chance to see Dakota, let alone meet her is only an unrequited fantasy. Yet in twenty minutes, now just five minutes, I find the suspense unbearable! I am in the same State, the same city, the same ballroom as Dakota Fanning. It’s possible . . . then come the various announcements about how “Dakota is going to be late,” then the disastrous news that “Dakota isn’t coming.” I thought about my own disappointment upon learning that Dakota (through no fault of her own) is unable to attend the Summit panel. Then I leave the ballroom in a state of utter despair, my hopes dashed, only to learn the next morning that if I had only stayed on a half hour longer that Dakota finally came. That she bounded on the stage, as big as life to say “Hi” to her fans and how sorry she was for being late. I discover, its always possible to feel worse. I missed her! The bitter irony is, even though I wasn’t there, this didn't happen, this is just my luck . . .

Dakota not cast in CHARLOTTE DOYLE

July 16, 2008

Danny De Vito to direct CHARLOTTE DOYLE drama w/Pierce Brosnan & Morgan Freeman.

IT'S BEEN SIX YEARS since Danny De Vito climbed into the director's chair. Six years since DEATH TO SMOOCHY, the disstrously received but actually pretty-gosh-darn-funny Ed Norton/Robin Williams comedy that tanked at the box office. But now the little big man is back. He’s signed on to direct a cracking cast – Morgan Freeman, Pierce Brosnan, Saoirse Ronan – in an adaptation of the best-selling book, The True Confessions Of Charlotte Doyle, an adventure for young adults about a young girl who makes a daring transatlantic crossing from England to America in 1830, only to find herself torn between a mutinous crew and a tyrannical captain. Ronan – so impressive, and Oscar-nominated, in ATONEMENT – will play the title character. We’re not sure if Brosnan or Freeman will play the captain, but all will be revealed in time. De Vito won’t be appearing in the film, which starts lensing in September. But he’ll hope that this movie is as successful as MATILDA, his last foray into kids’ movies.

* * *

TERRIBLE NEWS! This feels like THE GIRL WHO LOVED TOM GORDON all over again. Some loyal Dakota fans may recall back in '04 the infamous Steven King novel that was rumored to be a Dakota project and then inexplicably canceled. I have always felt that TOM GORDON represented Dakota's greatest missed opportunities (Well, aside from playing Alice in the canceled Spielberg ALICE IN WONDERLAND). If this article is to believed, and it does contain at least one factual error, once again it appears that Dakota has bailed on what I thought was her perfect project. This is the one Dakota movie I was most looking forward. CHARLOTTE DOYLE is a wonderful book and an excellent part for a young girl. I am very disappointed that Dakota turned down this project, its a very physical role, I should have liked to have seen Dakota dress in 19th century frilly dresses, and then climb the rigging in her bear feet! I am sure Soairse Ronan will do a fine job she is a wonderful actress.

Dakota Makes-A-Wish come true

TWO AWARDED FOR WORK WITH AILING HIGHLAND PARK TEEN Girl’s wish was a doozy, but they made it a reality July 13, 2008

CHICAGO, IL―(Chicago Tribune). Two years ago, George Giddens and Debra McWright sat down for a brainstorming session with a Highland Park teenager battling life-threatening cancer. As volunteers with the Make-A-Wish Foundation, they helped Yali Derman, 17, plan her wish. On Saturday, the foundation's Illinois chapter presented Giddens of Highland Park and McWright of Vernon Hills with the “Wish of the Year Award” for their work with Yali.

When a child is medically approved to participate in the Make-A-Wish program, a volunteer typically visits the child and helps them plan their wish. Other wishes have included visiting Japan and the San Diego Zoo and recording a song and performing it in front of a group.

Rachel Herstein, 17, of Buffalo Grove New York who has intractable epilepsy, worked with Giddens and McWright to plan her day with actress Dakota Fanning. She traveled to Los Angels in 2006 and spent the day with Fanning. The day included eating lunch, shopping for a dress at the Betsey Johnson boutique and seeing the movie CHARLOTTE’S WEB.

“I was the first to be with Dakota for a wish, and that's probably why I was with her the whole day,” said Rachel, who had brain surgery last fall.

Giddens and McWright said their work is difficult when one of their wish recipients dies. But they said the children's strength can be extraordinary. “I get so much inspiration from talking with them,” McWright said. “It’s amazing that they can go through so much.”

DAKOTA BOUND FOR TORONTO FILM FESTIVAL

July 11, 2008

A STAR-MAKING TURN for Dakota Fanning is confirmed at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival. THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES, based on the bestselling novel set in the American South, will see Fanning step into a new role as an adult actor when the film has its world premiere in Toronto, says festival co-director Cameron Bailey. “Dakota Fanning has a career-defining performance. I think we'll see her as an adult star,” Bailey says. “This is her Jodie Foster moment, where she turns into a genuine adult actor.” Based on the bestselling novel THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES is set in South Carolina in 1964, the film is the moving tale of Lily Owens (Dakota Fanning), a 14-year-old girl who is haunted by the memory of her late mother (Hilarie Burton). To escape her lonely life and troubled relationship with her father (Paul Bettany), Lily flees with Rosaleen (Jennifer Hudson), her caregiver and only friend, to a South Carolina town that holds the secret to her mother's past. Taken in by the intelligent and independent Boatwright sisters (Queen Latifah, Sophie Okonedo and Alicia Keys), Lily finds solace in their mesmerizing world of beekeeping, honey and the Black Madonna. THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES is a Fox Searchlight Pictures presentation.

HOUNDDOG RELEASE PUSHED BACK

BEVERLY HILLS, CA—(Marketwire - June 13, 2008) - Empire Film Group, Inc. One of the first releases to benefit from the Empire - Tradewell venture is "Hounddog," opening at theaters on September 5, 2008. "Hounddog" stars Dakota Fanning, Robin Wright-Penn and David Morse, and is slated for release in the top forty U.S. markets.

Sadly, it seems Empire films has pushed back the release date for HOUNDDOG. HD is no longer scheduled to hit theatres in July as originally promised, but in September. I don't know whether to interpret this as a good thing (from a strategic marketing perspective) . . . perhaps Empire Films has determined in their imminent wisdom that HD stands a better chance of a successful release in September. All this has certain logic to it, HD is a small movie, despite a cloud of controversy, most of the furor has blown over and is relegated to the dustbin of “yesterdays” news. To further up the ante, Dakota hasn't had a movie released in two years. In the mean time Abigail Breslin has become the reigning Hollywood “IT” girl.

Therefore, it seems the strength of Dakota's Star power will have to be tested. Perhaps this is the smart move on Empire's part, as a small independent film, HD runs the risk of being swamped by some of the summer blockbusters. On the other hand, this move could represent just one more sign of trouble for what has been from the start a very troubled and controversial movie. *Sigh* Oh, well, boys and girls, it looks like its going to be a long hot summer . . .

n.b. Empire Films has announced due to conflict with booking because THE DARK KNIGHT has been held-over, HOUNDDOG's release date has been pushed back again, to September 19th.

Dakota continues her charity work

May 20, 2008

LOS ANGELES, CA—First Star, a leading national advocacy group dedicated to improving life for child victims of abuse and neglect, will hold its fifth annual Celebration for Children’s Rights event on June 7 at the Wilshire Ebell. Families from the Los Angeles business, entertainment, medical and legal communities, along with many celebrities, will join First Star in honoring this year’s award recipients—Ryan Kavanaugh, CEO of Relativity Media, LLC; Peter Levinsohn, President, Fox Interactive Media; and Stephanie Sperber, Executive Vice President, Universal Studios Partnerships—for their humanitarian efforts on behalf of children.

The evening’s theme, “Come Be a Kid Again,” brings us back to the place of joy and wonderment that is childhood. The unique, casual event includes live entertainment, carnival games for people of all ages and catering by Los Angeles’ finest, plus a special performance by members of the Los Angeles cast of the musical Wicked. Award-winning actress and First Star Youth Ambassador Dakota Fanning is scheduled to attend the event.

Fanning made her film debut as Lucy in “I Am Sam,” for which she received a Critics Choice Award for Best Young Actor and became the youngest person ever nominated for a SAG Award. Since then, she has appeared in such films as “Uptown Girls,” “Man on Fire,” “Hide and Seek,” “War of the Worlds” (which earned her a second Critics Choice Award), “Charlotte’s Web” and “Hounddog.” Fanning can next be seen this fall in “The Secret Life of Bees.” Additionally, Fanning does work for charity at the Mattel Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles and recently appeared in the “RED” Gap ads to benefit AIDS in Africa and attended the eighth annual 2008 Lupus LA Orange Ball charity for Lupus disease.

DAKOTA FANNING Autograph!

WHAT EXACTLY IS A NICE DAY? People tell you to have one all the time, my bank teller invariably says to me without fail, “Have a nice day.” Does he mean it? Of course not, he doesn’t know me he doesn’t care. Do you often ever really have one? . . . Most of my days qualify as crappy if you want to know the truth. “Have a crappy day.” is probably more apropos. Have a nice day, that social catch phrase is so over worked, trite, and clichéd that it has lost all vestige of any real meaning.

Well, guess what? Yesterday, I had what qualifies as a bonafide NICE DAY! Aside from a pleasant lunch spent with my friend Richard, you'll never guess what I received in the mail! When I got home, let the dogs out, I absolutely couldn’t believe it, underneath a mundane stack of bills, junk mail and Netflix. There was this ubiquitous white envelope marked with a return “Universal City.” I felt electric. I just knew what it was the second I saw it. I was flabbergasted, pleased, and happy all at the same time! I should think I danced around the living room most foolishly, and for a brief moment my excitement was such, I couldn’t lay hands on my $100 Cutco® paring knife so I could slit open the envelope. I was that delighted!

I wrote Dakota for the first time shortly after MAN ON FIRE and received her b/w autograph “Age 10.” I wrote her again in October 2006. It has been so long, I’d long since abandoned any expectations. I figured she wasn’t signing as much as she used to and since I’d already received one autograph, it was too much to hope to be so lucky to ever receive a second autograph. No age, but she still does her cute little heart exclamation points.

Dakota is so cool; she is so awesome to her fans!

TESSA CLAIBONE

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 20

PIETERMARITZBURG

THAT WAS HOW I EARNED MY Dis-tinguished Conduct Medal. I had no idea my little rec- onnoiter was to generate such furor and curiosity from Colonel Pulleine on down. I guess I would have been just as happy to get about my duties and let the whole thing be forgotten. I returned to camp, to the number three column sometime in the afternoon on the fifth of January 1879. I immediately reported to my commanding officer Captain Fredrickson. I told my story three times, each time in greater detail, each time in greater fear and trepidation.

Ah, Captain Fredrickson, I don’t think I ever properly introduced him. First, he was an excellent officer, in his mid-fifties. Honest, fair, straightforward, what he said was exactly what he meant, lenient when he could be, strict when he had to be. I really never knew my Papa, not as a military man. Fredrickson was the kind of officer I imagined my Papa was, the kind of officer I wanted to be. I admired him very much. When I first joined his command, I thought he was a queer crippled creature. His jaw was perpetually frozen in this macabre left-facing twisted leer. You could never be for certain what he was thinking, because he always looked like he was smiling even when he was angry. He later revealed, that a musket ball shattered his jaw in India, during the first Sepoy rebellion in 1857. Even once you got to know him, even after you knew the reason why, Fredrickson always presented this comical grimace.

I made my report first to Fredrickson. I filled out a detailed written report. There were numerous details of which I had to account for. The Quartermaster was quite preoccupied with the missing rifles and ammunition, I was determined not to surrender the bayonet, it was burnt, tarnished and blacked, of no value to anyone else but me, I had too much emotional baggage invested in it to give-it-up, especially to a military pencil pusher. The teamsters demanded I account for the lost mule and a missing horse. I don’t know what happened to the mule, the horse, Burlingham; I suppose stole the damn animal.

I told Fredrickson everything, everything, I only omitted Burlingham's attempted rape and the ‘naked’ aspects of my rescue.

Fredrickson was very grave, I thought I must be in big trouble when he brought me before Major Steele. Where I again had to account for every detail of my story. Steele was not a sympathetic audience; he was piercing and critical. It seemed the worst breech of military protocol I committed was the decision to supply a rifle to an already insubordinate soldier. On that point, I was adamant in my own defense. I explained that we were under assault. How I had just shot and killed three Zulu warriors, that I had no way of knowing how many Zulus were out there. My primary objective was incomplete to locate and ascertain the fate of the Hendricks’ family. Despite his assault, his in- subordination, I still had no indication up to this point that Burlingham’s intent included out right mutiny and desertion . . . We argued over water rations. I said, a basic instinct. On that point, I caught myself in the unenviable position of defending Burlingham’s actions.

"Yes Sir, I left him with a rifle to defend himself, Sir. While I went on to reconnoiter the station, I still needed to locate and ascertain the fate of the Hendricks' family, Sir. Upon my return, that was when he fired on me." I conceded this was a mistake.

“Yes Sir, I did in fact give Private Burlingham a rifle a second time.”

“Am I to understand that you gave a loaded rifle to an insubordinate mutinous soldier not once but twice?” Steele seemed incredulous.

“Yes Sir, we were under direct Zulu assault, Sir. A rifle that isn’t loaded isn’t good for much, Sir. The harvard sack with the remaining cartridges and the other rifles were depot in the barn, Sir. I had twenty carriages left, Sir. I had two choices. Give Burlingham a rifle, or die, Sir . . . as you can see, I’m still here, Sir.”

“That will be quite enough dramatics out of you, Claiborne!” Lieutenant Ashley, Major Steele’s adjutant snapped.

Major Steele waived his hand and puffed on his pipe. His eyes narrowed to evil judgmental slits, I felt naked, scrutinized like an amoeba under a microscope. He wasn’t there, he didn’t know, yet he stood in judgment of my actions. I was fucked. I was certain at this point; I was headed for a stint in the stockade.

I returned to my unit, sullen, dejected, confident that if I was lucky, the only consequence of my misadventure was a letter of reprimand. My section, it seemed had been taken over by a Corporal Smyth. I took an immediate dislike to him, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I was back, I was the Sargent here, and these were my men, I was in command. I refused three days light-duty, and set right to work reestablishing my authority. Private Ward, Ferrier they did their best to welcome me home. I had a new recruit, a Private Joseph Leutyn, a Dutchman, a son of a Boer national and an English woman, he spoke Afrikaans. A valuable fellow no doubt, the question was could he ride and shoot?

I didn’t have long to wait, the day-after next, on the 11th of January, 1879, coinciding exactly with the expiration of the thirty day ultimatum to the Zulu King Cetshwayo, the first real engagement of the Anglo-Zulu war began as a fight over sheep; it took place at an insignificant locale, a place called Sihayo’s Kraal.

I got my answer, the Light-horse was sent on ahead to encircle and scout. Leutyn could ride, the Boers were born horsemen, we found that out less than ten years later, I'm getting ahead of myself (that's the rest of our story). We weren’t involved in the thick of things it was mostly the infantry. It was all over in a half an hour. The only real consequence of the action was we all had mutton for supper.

The following day I found myself summoned to the command tent of Colonel Pulleine, commander of the number three column. My heart sank, this wasn't nothing, you don't get yourself summoned before the Colonel for nothing . . . I was doomed. To his credit, Captain Fredrickson accompanied me, I wasn't sure if he came to support me or witness the spectacle of my disgrace. Fredrickson off-handedly did his best to reassure me. Even still, I felt like a lamb led to the slaughter.

We found Colonel Pulleine the commander of the number three Column casually smoking a cigar, a late breakfast lay untouched on a tray. Pulleine didn't even acknowledge our existence; he was quite preoccupied with what presumably were more important matters. His adjutant, a Lieutenant Parker, waited on his every whim. Pulleine continued to pour over some maps and charts. I stood there stock-still, overcome with fear and loathing, feeling very much like a naughty schoolboy summoned before the headmaster. After what seemed like an eternity, Pulleine looked up.

“Ah, Fredrickson! Jolly good of you to come, you’ve brought the, err, candidate?”

“Sir.” Fredrickson snapped to attention, saluted smartly, his face frozen in his characteristic perpetual grimace.

“Is something funny, Fredrickson?”

“No Sir, musket ball . . . “

Pulleine didn’t even have the good grace to perceive he’d been wretchedly rude. He continued. “Sargent Thomas Claiborne . . ."

"SIR." I took one step forward, saluted, and snapped to my best attention.

"Claiborne, I’ll make this brief, as I don’t have much time for such niceties. On behalf of Lord Chelmsford, the Army and our beloved Queen Victoria, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! I hereby by do confer upon you and so do award etcetera, etcetera the Distinguished Conduct Medal for gallantry above and beyond that which is expected of an English soldier in the service of the Empire.” Pulleine perfunctorily, absently, handed the medal over to Fredrickson, who smiled (well, he was always smiling). It was left to Fredrickson to pin the half-ounce hunk of ribbon and silver on my chest.

That is how, without fanfare or ceremony, I became Sargent Thomas Claiborne, DCM.

I still had one problem though, (well, I had lots of problems, this is the one that was foremost on my mind.) One nettlesome little problem that only I knew about. I could have easily just done nothing, instead, on the walk back to "C" Company, my conscience finally got the better of me. I confided in Captain Fredrickson.

“I am not a thief, Sir.”

I presented Fredrickson with the pocket watch, Mrh. Hendricks’ pocket watch. I had formed a great deal of affection for the time piece, it pained me when faced with the prospect that I had to give it up.

“I took it from a dead Zulu Sir; I am not a looter, Sir.”

Fredrickson looked at me long and hard, finally he smiled, as much as he was capable, what passed for a smile still looked like a twisted grimace. “Claiborne, you are the most extraordinary soldier I have ever known.”

“I only want to do what’s right, Sir.”

“And that is why I am going to do what is right. The Hendricks, they are a prominent Dutch family. I will speak to Major Steele, I’m sure he will agree to grant you three days leave, for purpose of going to Pietermaritzburg, finding whoever, whatever heirs there might be who could lay claim to that pocket watch and returning said watch to the same. Do you and I understand each other, Claiborne?”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”

* * *

I WALKED THE THREE-QUARTERS of a mile over to where one of the Quartermasters directed me—over to where ‘G’ Company bivouacked. Over to the camp where I believed my Henry must be.

"Henry Hawkins, I'm looking for Private Henry Hawkins . . .?"

The camp of the number three Column was a huge sprawling bustling affair, twelve-hundred men and what seemed like an equal number of African levies all going to-and-fro engaged in a bewildering array of activity military or otherwise. I had a great deal of difficulty making my way in and around the vast numbers of men, horses, oxen and wagons, even a collection of “camp followers” loose women come down from Pietermaritzburg to show the lads a good time. Everyone it seemed was going somewhere or doing something. What struck me as odd, what I found most peculiar and this is coming from me, a relative novice at military tactics. Is how everyone was going about their business doing everything but the obvious.

There were no pickets, no entrenchments, the wagons were all in disarray, parked haphazardly, rather than pulled into cohesive defensive laagers. Our host, the Boer teamsters protested, as they considered the laagering of wagons an absolute essential defense in a hostile Zululand. Our command of course knew better and dismissed the Boers as provincials. I observed precious little if any meaningful military preparation going on of any kind. Oh, sure, every rifle was stacked according to military regulation in a neat quadrangle, at the ready. There were the twelve-pounders and the rocket artillery batteries, but none of that seemed to matter very much. It was as if the war didn't exist. It seemed everyone was engaged in doing everything except the business of war. The feeling in the air was less like an invasion and more like a summer lark. As if, the entire British military was on a collective holiday. Evidently, Cetshwayo and the threat poised by his fifty-thousand Zulu warriors was the furthest thing from anybody's mind. The number three Column camped lazily, ensconced at the foot of this enormous escarpment that seemed to rise up from nowhere in the African plain. It loomed mightily, foreboding, it dominated the entire landscape. What Bromhead had facetiously called a “hill” that was an understatement. The spur sat on a gradually rising plain, like a great sphinx, this was no hill, it was a mountain. Our maps identified it as escarpment no. 235. The Zulus called it—Isandlwana.

* * *

“Hello Henry.”

Private Henry Hawkins dropped what he was doing, whirled around and looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost.

“TESS . . . Thomas . . . err, Sargent Claiborne! We thought you were dead! SIR.” Henry came to attention and saluted me.

“Shhh, Henry, I’m not dead.” I smiled broadly, “You can cut out the ‘Sir’ crap Henry, it’s me, Thomas.” I’ll have to say, I did look pretty darn smart, all crisp and laundered, in my full parade regalia of my Sergeant’s uniform, with my shinny new DCM medal pinned prominently on my chest.

“Aren’t you glad to see me Henry?”

Henry smiled weakly, “Of course, Thomas, you'n me, we're best mates." Henry eyed me critically, "You look terrible; you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

I did look terrible.

“I’m mostly unscathed.”

Henry, he wasn’t so sure, he tipped back my helmet, gently brushed my wind burned hair out of my face revealing the extent of my injuries. I was battered and bruised; my lips were parched and burnt. My cheek was busted where Burlingham struck me. I was pretty bodged up. I shrugged my shoulders, “Okay, so I’m a little bit scathed . . . not too badly scathed.” I said self-consciously.

"Thomas, you've been decorated, you're a hero!" Henry said with a nod and a wink, he acknowledged my shinny DCM medal pinned prominently on my chest.

"Not really, Henry, it's nothing . . . I don't deserve it. I’ve done so many terrible things. I'm so ashamed. Isn’t there somewhere we can talk, in private?”

Henry reluctantly pulled open the flap of his tent. “In here.”

I didn’t want to talk; talking was the last thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was hold him, kiss him, smother him, and love him. Henry my love, my husband. I didn't of course, we shook hands like a couple of regular blokes. I maintained my composure.

We had barely entered the confines of the tent flap before I was on him. “Oh, Henry love, it’s been so long. I missed you so much.” I kissed him full on the mouth; I began to unbutton my duty blouse, revealing the white muslin that bound my chest, I looked every bit the part of a boy. The purple welt just below my belly button was clearly visible. When I pulled his hand to my breasts, he jerked away, as if he were a naughty child who'd just touched a red-hot stove. That was when I realized something was wrong. Henry pushed me away.

"This isn’t a game, Tessa, get off me! Buggery is a flogging offence!”

I stopped what I was doing, my unbuttoned duty-blouse, my muslin bound breasts agape. I looked at my husband, I wanted my husband. Yet there was fear in his eyes. “This isn’t buggery, Henry," I said softly, "I’m a girl, a woman, I’m your wife!”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that! When they find out, when they find out you’re a girl, you’ll be disgraced! They’ll strip you of your rank, your medal; they’ll haul you before a tribunal and have you court-martialed. They’ll parade you in front of the whole regiment, with their drum roll and pomp and circumstances. Oh, they’ll pretend they’re carrying out military justice, but they know better. Four dozen lashes, that’s a death sentence—they’ll flog you to death Tessa, just like Marty."

I was thoroughly sobered by Henry’s narrative. I knew what he said was true. I still wasn't exactly sure if the high command was actually prepared to beat a girl to death for impersonating an officer—but I watched Marty die for a lesser crime, the prospects scared me straight. I finished buttoning my tunic back up.

“All right, we’ll get leave. Get a hotel in Pietermaritzburg. Henry I love you.”

“I love you too, Tessa . . . it’s just that . . . Tessa, I think we made a mistake.”

“What do you mean, Henry?” I was in shock. My face full of tears my heart was choked. This couldn’t be happening to me, not now, not after all I’d been through. Henry could not possibly know my own personal anguish, my wicked infidelity. Now, I found my own purgatory, I was to be punished for my inkling of disloyalty. My lips drew tight. I was determined not to cry, I was determined to be brave, yet I was already crying inside.

"Henry?"

“I love you to Tessa—I really do, it’s just that I don’t love you in the same way you want me too. Not like that. You’re thirteen years-old . . ."

"I'll be fourteen in April!" I interjected weakly, as if I thought that might make any difference. "Henry, please, don't do this to me!"

". . . It doesn't matter Tessa, I’m seventeen, you’re more like my kid sister than my wife. When I married you, I did it because I wanted to help you—I felt sorry for you, but now . . . look at you—you’re already a Sargent, decorated for valor, you don’t need my help anymore. I want you to understand.”

“No, I don’t understand . . . I love you Henry, but if that's the way you want it . . . I never thought I'd be shoved off, not like this, not by you.” I buttoned the last button on my tunic, deliberately. I straightened my uniform with all the military decorum I could muster. My face burned hot, bitter bile welled in my throat. I was so ashamed.

Henry's face was pained, "Tessa, please, I don't want to hurt you."

"Well, you have Henry . . ." I bit my lower lip. This was my comeuppance. I was to be punished. I acknowledged my crimes. I thought about the five dead udibi boys I left behind, murdered in the desert. I thought about Private Burlingham, my own wicked heart, and about my Henry. Phfft, I scoffed. "Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I'd died in the bush." I said in a whisper.

I snapped open the canvas flap of the tent in a blind rage. Tears stung my eyes. I was so angry, I didn't want to look at him again, (I couldn't.) I found myself in an even worse state than poor Lot's Wife, there was to be no oblivion in a pillar of salt for me—my fate was far worse. My anguish was such that if I even so much as glanced back at him, the tears already welled up inside me would burst forth in an uncontrollable torrent and I'd start balling like a little girl. I was determined not to let that happen. My chin quavered, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and allowed myself one pitiful sob.

"Tessa!" Henry scrambled out of the tent after me.

I resorted to my command voice, “PRIVATE HAWKINS! WE ARE THROUGH HERE. DISMISSED! I HAVE BUSINESS IN PIETERMARITZBURG!" I left Henry behind, grim faced and alone. I was confused; I was crying inside, I was more wounded in my soul than I ever thought possible. I was betrayed, abandoned, my Henry. Oh gawd! Then that teensy-weensy wicked voice returned, the same treasonable reprehensible voice that spoke the most deniable and unthinkable of all thoughts: I should have given myself to Burlingham; at least he wanted to have me.

* * *

PIETERMARITZBURG. When compared to Port Durban, the poor entry port of South Africa was nothing but a backwater; Pietermaritzburg was the South African capital of Europe. We were defending this city from the Zulu threat. Such a city I had never seen. Vienna, Paris, Rome, these cities I had never seen, Pietermaritzburg was a jewel in the crown, worthy of the title of capital of the entire Southern hemisphere.

I picketed Star in a livery stable and took the streetcar. What a wonderful modern marvel! I was facinated, the trolly "ding, dinged" at every stop. I should think I rode the streetcar most of the afternoon just admiring the city.

I stopped only for tea, as I was famished. I should think I liked walking about the city, a first Sargent, DCM in the Queen’s army; everyone was polite, deferential even. I a poor peasant girl as such from South Wales, I was unaccustomed to such respect.

I walked the streets most of the rest of the afternoon. I bought a couple of penny novels one about Wild Bill Hickock, and another about infamous Confederate guerilla fighter Nathan Bedford Forrest.

After that, I had my photo took. In all my thirteen-going on fourteen-years, I’d never had my photo taken. I don’t think anyone in my whole family ever had their photo taken. I passed a photographic studio in downtown Pietermaritzburg. I don’t know what ever possessed me; chalk it up to passing vanity. I entered the photographic studio and before I knew it, I was sitting for a photograph. They put your head in this sort of vice or brace so you don’t move. The photographer encouraged me to draw my pistol and brandish the weapon; he said the pose was all the rage in the Colonies. The photographer fussed over me, quite impressed with my DCM medal. I should think I looked most fierce and military, I a girl—a Sergeant in the Queen’s army, now quite the infamous Zulu killer.

It cost me ten bob. I paid for two prints of which I collected the following day. I mailed the first to Angus Bourne, and the second to me mum, Mrs. Robert Chard Claiborne of Glamorganshire, Wales. I am quite sure she'll never recognize her own daughter; I enclosed in the envelope a five-pound note, more than two month’s wages, just for spite. I sent it without a letter, just me, my photograph. I snickered to myself; it serves her right, now she shan’t know who sent it. I am not her daughter now.

I stayed at this very respectable boarding house, owned by a Mrs. Fullam. She seemed cheerful, cosmopolitan; I entered her house caring my traps including a Martini-Henry Carbine, and a full bandolier of ammunition. This caused some raised eyebrows, but she knew I was a soldier, so nothing further was said.

"You be staying long?" Mrs. Fullam inquired.

"A couple of days."

"We don't get many English soldiers, but you're not English."

"Mmm . . . No ma'am, I'm Welsh."

The room was light and airy, the bed springy, and smelled of fresh hay. There was a wash stand with pitcher and basin. A fine room.

Supper was plain, ordinary, but better than army fair. I dressed down for supper, opting only for my plain duty-blouse without insignia. Supper its self consisted of a delicious Sheppard’s pie, green beans, fried apples and onions and a peach cobbler for desert. I should think I stayed longer than I intended, the conversation and tea was altogether enjoyable. For a person who was used to being regarded as an insignificant nobody, at this supper table, I was regarded as a somebody, people talked to me as if I were important. The feeling was intoxicating! There was a variety of people at the dinner table, a couple of newlyweds, a schoolteacher, a judge, and of course me, obviously a soldier, there was however this nosey busybody, a Mr. Blair, a newspaperman for the TIMES of London.

“So you’re a soldier come from the column, across the river?”

I looked up; my face was full of food. “Who told you that?” I almost spat my cobbler in his face.

“DCM Claiborne, you’re a war hero, right?" You seem so young; you’re nothing but a boy.” He pointed at me almost accusatory.

I looked scathingly, I didn't like him calling me a boy. “Sir, for your information, I hold the Queen’s NCO, Who wants to know?”

“Begging your pardon, Bobby Blair here, TIMES of London. Well, for starters, the people of London want to know. This war is news, big news, you are DCM Claiborne, are you not?”

“Yes . . . How’d you find out my name?”

Blair chuckled, “Bligh’s photographic studio. You should learn to be more careful, Mr. Claiborne, if you wish to remain anonymous . . . So, now that we’ve had our introduction Mr. Claiborne, how about you and I having a little chat?”

“Bog off!” I stood up indignant, threw down my napkin and turned to leave, not before I deliberately or (sub- consciously) flashed just a hint of blackened steel that was the heavy frame of the Webley revolver, tucked in my waistband. The effect was electric. Blair knew right then and there I was a gunfighter. From my way of thinking, I had scared him shitless; I figured that was the last I would ever see of him, the little todger. How wrong I was.

“MR. CLAIBORNE! Please.”

A persistent little bastard if nothing else, he followed me out onto the veranda. I turned around, a big mistake.

“Have you killed many Zulus? You must have—the Crown doesn’t hand out DCMs for nothing. Mr. Claiborne, please, tell us, did you kill a lot of Zulus?”

I stopped. I paused. “Is that what you really want to know?”

Blair was excited, pen and paper hung on my ever word.

“What would you say if I told you I killed three Zulus?”

“I’d say Right-o, go on.”

“I shot them with this.” I drew my revolver. I didn’t exactly point it at him, but ordinary people, who aren’t used to firearms, are a skittish lot. Blair flinched. I had his attention; I looked him straight in the eye. “What would you say Mr. Blair if I told you I killed six more Zulus? I shot them with my Martini-Henry rifle; it’s a good rifle, sighted out to four-hundred yards. I was holed up in a storehouse, the Zulus charged and I shot them down."

"I say Capital! Go on Mr. Claiborne, what happened next?"

"What would you say if also I told you that I killed five more Zulus?”

Blair was visibly excited. "I had know idea Mr. Claiborne you were so dastardly."

Dastardly wasn't the word for it, the word was "Murder." That was when I added the clincher. “These Zulus I killed they were nothing but boys, not one of them more than fifteen years-old. I shot them down—with this." This time I should think I did point my revolver at him, I pulled back the hammer, the cyinder rotated, I flaired the revolver, I am pretty good. "I shot them Mr. Blair, none without so much as a stick for a weapon. I looked them straight in the face, I saw their fear, and I killed them. That’s why they gave me this medal . . . for murder. War does funny things to people. You wanted the truth Mr. Blair. Print that!”

I saw the look in his eyes, that look of revulsion, I was a monster. Blair didn’t pester me again after that. Apparently, the murder of children, even black African children, enemy children of the empire, was apparently more than Mr. Blair or the London TIMES public was willing to stomach. The unmentionable truth remained. That is what I did—that is what I am. I had to live with myself.

* * *

I LOCATED AND WENT STRAIGHT AWAY to the County Court house the next morning. I went straight to the office of the registrar and deeds. I looked smart, in my Queen’s scarlet, my crisp Sergeant’s uniform, pistol on my hip, DCM medal pinned prominently on my chest. I was treated with great respect, deference, a very great change from my humble origins as a poor Welsh coal miner’s daughter an indentured factory worker. I wondered to myself, if they knew the truth, that I was just a girl, a fraud, a murderer. How would they treat me then?

A very nice little old lady helped me in the office of deeds and registrars, a Mrs. Edith Hall. I don’t remember too much about her except she had white hair and the sharp click, click, click that her heels made once I made my inquiry known, she was off, deep in the racks the labyrinth tomes of the registrar. There no way I could have found what she found me. To Mrs. Hall, it seemed my request; there was nothing more important to her. With in two hours we had traced and located Pieter Hendricks’ only living sister, residing here, on the outskirts of Pietermaritzburg. Elisabeth (Hendricks) Van Dyke, I was particularly taken, as that was my Christian middle name—I was baptized, Theresa Elizabeth . . .

I thanked Mrs. Hall; I offered her two bob, which she indignantly refused. I thanked her again. Armed with this information and nearly two O’clock worth of daylight, I gently nudged Star, and she and I set out the five miles or so to the Van Dyke farm. I had know idea what I would find.

I rehearsed in my mind what I planned to say. Of course, all my words flew straight out of my head when I actually knocked on the door and was confronted with Mev. Van Dyke. She was an older woman, at least as old, probably older than me mum was. She was from good honest hard working Dutch Voortrecker stock, with a lined face, and full broad smile.

“Het hallo, wilt wat u?”

My Afrikaans was pretty bad. I straightened to ramrod attention. “Sargent Thomas Claiborne, 24th-Regiment of Foot, Light-Horse detachment, ma’am. I’ve come to see you about your brother ma’am, Mhr. Pieter Hendricks.”

“Mijn broer?”

“I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t speak Afrikaans. It is my duty to inform you ma’am, your brother is dead. The whole Hendricks family is dead, massacred, ma’am, your niece, your nephews, your sister-in-law, all dead ma’am. The Zulus ma’am, they killed them.”

I saw the strength fail Mev. Van Dyke’s eyes. English or Dutch, the meaning of my visit was clear. It was a few minutes before I eventually managed to work myself inside. I found myself sitting in a well-appointed parlor. I may have been the bearer of bad news but before I knew it, I was the recipient of renowned Dutch hospitality. I had a cup of tea and numerous choices of delicious cakes to choose from. Mev. Van Dyke had regained her composure and wanted to know as many details about her brother. Between her broken English and my near non-existent Afrikaans. We managed to communicate.

I explained to Mev. Van Dyke that I came upon the station too late, that the Zulus had already attacked, and massacred the whole family. I told her how I had buried them, done my best to give them a final Christian burial. I even sang for her a few bars . . .

♫ Far away, a voice is calling,
Bells from memory do chime
Come home again, come home again,
They call through the oceans of time.

This land of song will keep a welcome
and with love that never fails,
Well kiss away each hour of hiraeth
when you come home again to Wales. ♫

I think on that point she was grateful—it was in that moment we connected. All of this brought me to the real reason why I had come. I presented her with Mhr. Hendricks’ pocket watch. I explained how I had taken the watch off the body of a dead Zulu. I made sure to tell her how I had used it through out my long and difficult journey in the bush, how it had served me faithfully and probably saved my life. I’m not really sure how much she understood, but she listened intently. Mev. Van Dyke smiled at me, she took a hold of my hand, with her other hand she touched my face.

“Het horloge van Pieter is goed." Mev. Van Dyke pressed the pocket watch back into my hand. "Hij zou willen dat u het hebt, Mhr. Claiborne."

My Afrikaans is so bad, I had no idea what she just said—but regardless, that's how I came away from Pietermaritzburg with Mhr. Hendricks’ pocket watch still in my possession.

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 19

RORKE’S DRIFT

THREE DAYS—THREE DAYS PAST since I left Hendricks' station. I know three days doesn't seem like such a very long time in the telling, but when you are in the thick of things, traipsing aimlessly alone in the African wilderness; to me it seemed like an eternity. My world was as a matter of fact turned upside down and inside out, the crossing of the Buffalo River, the Central column, Captain Fredrickson and the immediate urgency of exactly WHY I was sent on this reconnoiter seemed a distant memory. I left behind the five graves of the poor dead Hendricks' family, their burned out farm, the Zulu camp, the ants, the five dead udibi boys, and one Private Davy Burlingham. Cast adrift, I spent three wretched days a fugitive, lost in the forlorn African bush with no water, little food and nothing but Star, the prickly pines and my own wretched conscience for company.

Such was my misery. I realized later that the privation of my trek didn't quite amount to any epic suffering when in comparison to the annals of history. Surely, the wandering forty years in the wilderness endured by Moses, and the Children of Israel, was greater. It sure did feel like a long time. To add to my adversity, I didn't dare stop. I was forced to stop, but that was only for a few hours and only to rest Star. I was desperate; the solitary silence of my own desolation only heightened my fears. I felt more like a recreant fleeing the scene of a crime than a retreating British soldier. I was paranoid, certain every little skittering pebble, and even the sound of a twig breaking under my own foot amounted to Zulus! I was certain the Zulus were on my trail, they lurked behind every prickly bush, rock and shadow. Their cruel black faces, crazed with blood lust, eager to Wash their spears, to exact vengeance upon me for what evil I had done.

My heart was heavy. I tried to reassure myself that I had fought a desperate action. The Zulu were the enemy; I was out numbered, out classed. If the Zulus had caught me, they surely would have shown me no mercy. I did what I did because I was compelled. Even still, the killing of the five udibi boys weighed heavy on my mind. I could still see their faces, their terror, the smell of smoke and flesh. I didn't feel good about myself.

Amazingly enough the Zulus did not pursue, if they did, I never saw them again. Late in the afternoon of the third day, I finally hit upon civilization. It was a good thing too; I don't think I could have survived another night in the bush. My canteen, my water ran out the first day. Poor Star was so emaciated, I didn't dare ride her, she, and I walked in shared suffering. I staggered; I dragged myself the last couple of miles to the drift. I saw it first as a little smudge of blue, red and white, fluttering there stalwart amidst a ramshackle collection of low-slung thatched buildings. The union jack flew, a little bit of England, here in the desolation of South Africa. I urged Star on; we made it at last!

The sentry challenged me.

“HALT!”

I must say I couldn't say I blamed him. I must have looked a mess, in my Boer slouch hat, my sunburned, exhausted state, covered in a weeks worth of grime and filth. My Queen's scarlet now three shades of gray. It was Jones, Private Robert Jones, 716. I wondered at the time why he told me that, 716? I found our later there were three other Jones' in "B" Company; they called each other by number just to keep things clear. I guess I had my Papa to thank for that, Claiborne; at least it gave me distinction.

“BRITISH SOLDIER, Help me!” I staggered forward and collapsed. I have to admit I was a bit of a touchy, uncooperative rescue. Ever cognizant that I was a girl, I didn't want my would-be rescuers poking and prodding too close to identifies my sex. I refused all efforts to see the Surgeon-Major. On that point, I was adamant, terrified, I was sure to be found out. I just asked for water, I must have drunk half the Buffalo River. Star was thirsty too. After a long luscious drink, I walked into the Drift on my own.

Rorke's Drift was an insignificant little hole of an outpost nestled under the Osscarberg heights, originally a trading post built by James Rorke in 1849; the Drift afforded an important fording point on the Buffalo River. Now occupied as a mission station operated by the Swedish missionary Otto Witt, the Drift was converted to a temporary staging area garrisoned by Company “B” Warwickshire, 24th Regiment of Foot. Welshmen! The commanding officer was one Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead; he was a little bit of a foppish dandy, but after you got to know him, not at all a bad chap.

“Lieutenant Bromhead.” He saluted me with his crop.

I snapped to attention. I must have looked a sight, I brushed my uniform, dust flew. “Sargent Thomas Claiborne, Sir, Company 'C' 24th Regiment of Foot, Light-horse detachment.”

“The 24th Light-Horse? Jolly good! I understand you've had a rough go of things Claiborne? Draw what you need from the commissariat, Sargent Dalton will assist you.”

“Sir, my Commanding officer is Captain Fredrickson, Sir. I need to report.”

“Ah, Fredrickson, a jolly good chap. I'm sure he won't mind. The 24th, Oh dear, the rest of the lot, they've moved on, I'm afraid, left us behind. Off towards that hill, Isandl-something-or-other, Blast these African names! Why can't they have the decency to name stuff you can remember?”

“Isandlwana, Sir.” Corporal Allen dared interject.

“It's a hill, damn you! It's not like a real place, not like Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly or whatnot. Fifteen miles, across the drift, you'll find your unit camped there, Sargent Claiborne.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I saluted smartly, and figured that was all, I'd grab a quick mess and make the last fifteen miles before nightfall. Corporal Allen cleared his throat.

"Sir," Allen hissed under his breath.

“Ah, Sargent Claiborne, I'm forgetting my manners. It's getting on to five O'clock, why don't you billet here for tonight and get a fresh start in the morning. I'm sure Colonel Pulleine and Captain Fredrickson can make do with out your dreary report another twenty-four hours?"

The offer came as a relief; I didn't realize how exhausted I really was. "I'd like that Sir, if you think it's OK.”

"Oh, pish-posh, a few Zulus here, a few Zulus there, I'm sure whatever dramatics you spied, it won't make one whit of difference, I'll write you a report, that you spent the night here in hospital. Corporal Allen here will see you are properly billeted. "

“I should like that Sir; I should like a bath, Sir.” I blurted out, I felt foolish and girlish, but I was so dirty, I couldn't help myself.

“A bath you shall have. Make it so.” Gonville turned to Corporal Allen . . . “Are you sure you're not hurt; we have an excellent Surgeon-Major here?”

“I'm tickety-boo, Sir, just a bath, Sir, maybe some clean clothes, Sir, and something to eat, I'll be fine.”

“Jolly good. Ah, Claiborne . . . there's one more thing."

"Sir?"

"I realize this might be a bit irregular—Officers and ranks don't normally frat, but you seem to be something of a minor celebrity, I for one am absolutely board out of my skull this dreary post, the whole bloody rot. I should be most curious if you might see fit to regal us with your tales of savage Zulus . . . will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner? I'll get one of the lads to clean your kit, I'm sure that Dalton chap can get you some decent clothes from the commissariat.”

"Sir, I'd like that, Sir. Not much left I'm afraid, just these." I was embarrassed; I brushed my thoroughly disheveled uniform as I nervously tried to present my best. "Please don't trouble yourself, Sir." I was caught off guard; did Bromhead just invite me to mess in the officer's quarters?

"Oh, it's no trouble at all old boy, it's not like I'm going to clean it myself. It's all settled then, supper at eight O'clock?" Bromhead saluted me imperiously with his crop. "Cheerio.”

I'll have to admit, for being a bit of a backwater post; the men at the Drift did me up proper. Before I knew it, I was neck deep in a sudsy bath. Before suppertime I was clean as a whistle, they found me a spiffy new shell jacket and one of the lads sewed on my stripes. I felt very much like a soldier again.

Lieutenant Bromhead was every bit the congenial host. Evidently, not much happened at the Drift and I was treated as a conquering hero. He offered me wine, but we finally settled on a pint of beer. Bromhead wanted to know every detail of my adventure. I wasn't exactly sure how much I should tell him, since I had not actually filed my report with my commanding officer. I ended up telling him most everything. I left out only the most salient details . . . The rape, the ‘naked' aspects of the rescue.

I should say I didn't know it was possible to be quite so hungry. I made a pig out of myself. There were bangers, pork chops, guinea fowl, and fried apples, heaps of mashed potatoes, biscuits, real flour baked biscuits, with gravy and peas, and a yellow sweet tangy tinned fruit for desert. I found out later it was called pineapple from Indonesia. Real tea! Oh, God, for a cup of tea! I never knew tea could taste so good! Lieutenant Bromhead continued to be fascinated with my story.

“So you killed three Zulus on their initial assault?”

“Yes Sir, I shot them Sir, with my revolver. We made our way to Hendricks' station, the whole family, was dead, massacred, Sir. I made the decision to hole up in this storehouse at the station.”

“And that was when Private Burlingham perpetrated his initial mutiny?”

“No Sir, he was already under arrest, we argued the night before over water rations, that was when he struck me, Sir.” Bromhead continued to be interested in my story.

“Ah, yes, you did say something about that. After he struck you, forced you to the ground, threatened your life. You subsequently gave him a rifle, why?”

“The Zulus, Sir, I didn't have very many choices Sir; we were under assault.”

“So, you perceived the Zulu threat greater than the potential threat of giving a rifle to an insubordinate soldier? A very grave breech of regulations, Claiborne. Queen's regulations clearly state . . . ”

“Yes Sir, I understand that, Sir. Like I said, I didn't have many choices, Sir. It was a mistake, Sir. That was when he fired on me.”

Gonville Bromhead leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. “Cigar?" I shook my head. "Oh, you don't smoke. After all, of that, you still went back for him? I can't say I could have stomached the same. You are simply extraordinary Claiborne. I should very much like you on my staff. Yet you seem so very young—just how old are you Claiborne. Fifteen, sixteen?”

“Sixteen, Sir.” I lied.

“Sixteen years-old and you're already a Sargent in the Queen's army. Capital! Not just any Sargent, but a bonafide Zulu killer, what is it Claiborne, is you're father a General?”

“No Sir, I come from plain poor Welsh folk, Sir. My Papa is a coal miner; he was a first Sargent in the Crimea War, Sir. 24th Regiment of foot, Colonel Webster, October 1854, the Charge of the Light Brigade, Sir, if that's what you mean.”

Bromhead smiled weakly, “You are simply extraordinary Claiborne, there's nothing wrong with the right family connections, my Grandfather fought at Waterloo . . .”

I made a presentation to Bromhead of one of the three mangled boxer-Henry cartridges that saved my life. He seemed genuinely pleased. "I wouldn't be so cut up about shooting those lad in the baggage train, this is war Claiborne, your did what you had to do. I shall write you a report. You've done well, Claiborne."

I found myself billeted in regal style. The lads took to me right away. We drank (well, they drank,) we sang and celebrated into the night. It was good to be with fellow Welshmen again, we laughed, told stories and sang in Welsh. We were all singing and having a jolly good time, when I must have hit a high note because everyone stopped singing, and I was caught short. I was the only one left singing . . .

"Where did that come from laddie?" Private Owen, the company choir director exclaimed. He immediately saw I was embarrassed, his face was full of kindness. I was among friends. "Oy, no need to be bashful son, you sing beautifully. Please, Sargent Claiborne, do us the honor."

I shook my head, "Oh, no I couldn't."

Before I knew it, Owen had hoisted me up and carefully stood me on the mess bench in the center of the men. (Considering my previous week of privation, I'm sure I didn't even weight 94 lbs.) I really hated being the center of attention, all the men looked to me with en- thusiasm. "Please.” Owen said.

"Here, here, Thomas, give us a song!" All the lads of Company "B" roared.

"All right." I looked to their expectant faces, I looked to the fiddler. I chose one of my favorite songs, "Ar hyd y nos," (All through the night.) I sang in my native Welsh, my high clear soprano filled the barracks. The words go something like this:

♫ Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant
Ar hyd y nos
'Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant
Ar hyd y nos.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch
Ar hyd y nos.

O mor siriol gwen a seren
Ar hyd y nos
I oleuo-i chwaer ddae ar en
Ar hyd y nos.
Nos yw henaint pan ddaw cystudd
Ond i harddu dyn a'i hwyr dydd
Rhown ein goleu gwan i'n gilydd
Ar hyd y nos. ♫

As I sang I became more confident, on the next verse, Owen joined in with his rich baritone, followed by William Jones, 593, the company top tenor. The whole barracks was filled with music. The sound of our merry making drifted out across the compound of the still African night to the command quarters where a solitary lamp burned in the window. Bromhead quit writing and looked up from his desk.

"The lads seem to be enjoying themselves."

"Aye, that they are." Corporal Allen said.

The next morning, I set out, feeling smart. Washed, laundered, in a crisp new shell jacket, a proper white pith helmet. I was refreshed. I mounted Star, she was handsome, well taken care of, and it seemed she did well in a proper stable. Together, we headed off towards that hill, Isandl-something-or-other. I guess I should be grateful to Lieutenant Bromhead, as he inadvertently provided me with a “dress rehearsal” for my statement before Captain Fredrickson. He also gave me a letter of report.

“CLAIBORNE!”

“Sir?”

Bromhead chased after me, when he realized his enthusiasm caused him to look less than official; he slowed to a stately deliberate canter. “Claiborne, you've got no holster for that infamous revolver of yours, I wanted to give you this . . . it’s a bit bodged-up I'm afraid, but if you would take it, I’d be honored. There are some cartridges in the kit.”

“Yes Sir, Thank you Sir.”

Before I left the Drift, the only other favor I asked of Lieutenant Bromhead was for some decent paper, pen and ink.

I set right to work.

* * *

4 January 1879

Rorke's Drift, Natal

Color Sargent Angus Bourne, DCM

My dearest Sargent Bourne,

So much has transpired since I wrote you last; I don't know where to begin. You are my savior, my hero. I say this without conviction or reservation. It is no exaggeration to say that the only reason I am here, today, to write you is because of your kindness, your foresight, your generosity, I should not be a soldier, without your gift of this revolver. I already would be dead.

I found myself attacked, stabbed by a Zulu warrior, if it were not for providence, and the stalwart workmanship of English mercantile, I would surely be dead. Let me explain, due to circumstances beyond my ability to control, the hazards of crossing the Buffalo River reduced my section from four soldiers to one. My one remaining trooper and I were dispatched by Captain Fredrickson to reconnoiter and ascertained the fate and whereabouts of a prominent Boer family, the Hendricks'. I genuinely thought I was prepared for my mission, but it turned out my orienteering skills were not up to the task. I got myself lost in the wilderness, worse yet, my one soldier was Davy Burlingham. You know my past troubles with Burlingham. He is a malignant malingering barracks barrister who mutinied on me. He assaulted me; struck me. I placed him under arrest. Angus, you were always in my thoughts, I always asked myself “What would Angus do?” Unfortunately, circumstances spiraled out of control. I ended up giving Burlingham a rifle, he fired on me, tried to kill me, Angus! I ended up coshing him on the head with the butt of your pistol. I am glad; I had it, as it saved not only my life, but my authority, not once but numerous times. I found myself holed up in a storehouse on the station under Zulu attack. We had only a few cartridges. That was the second time I gave Burlingham a rifle. I made a run for the barn. I was set on retrieving the rest of the ammunition and weapons. I was out in the open, when I was most vulnerable, when the Zulu attacked me. He was bigger than I, stronger. I drew my revolver I shot and killed him. I shot him in the face. Oh, Angus, please tell me that I am not a murder. I do not kill these people because I am cruel or remorseless. The man I shot, I drew and fired, before I knew what I had done, he was dead. I really didn't mean to shoot him, it wasn't as if I knew him or hated him, or had any reason to kill him other than he was there, he was the enemy. He stabbed me Angus. Providence caused me to stuff my pockets with cartridges, if it were not for my greed, my avarice, I would be dead. What choice did I have?

The second time I used your revolver, I am not so proud. Truthfully, I am ashamed. I used your revolver to kill five unarmed boys. These boys were the same age as me. They were no threat; they were no bigger or stronger than I was. I looked in their faces and saw terror. I was on horseback; I appeared as the devil. They cowered before me—yet I shot them down with out mercy. I killed them. I killed them not because they were a threat, but because they were black, and I was afraid. I was afraid of their Zulu masters. I was afraid the Zulus would rise up follow me and kill me. Now, I am sorry.

I read in an American newspaper that the American General, Robert E. Lee said, “It is good this war is so terrible—less we learn to love it too much.” I do not love this war, Angus. I never set out to be a bad person. I do not think of myself as cruel, merciless or as a murder—yet this war; this is what I have become. Please forgive me Angus, I did not mean to betray your trust. I really do want to be a good soldier

Your loving son,

Thomas