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 16

TESSA’S BIG FIGHT


THE AFRICAN DAWN began with nothing more than a subtle change in the hue of the night stars. The landscape of hardscrabble rock, dongas, scrub brush and prickly plants was imperceptibly transformed by the intangible translucent shades of orange and purple before the great fiery orb of the morning sun first crept then burst forth over the sleepy horizon. December dawn in Zululand was filled with promise, hope and a sense of menace that far overshadowed any prospects of a new day.

I was utterly alone. Twenty-five miles west of the central column, out of contact with my unit, my one and only companion, a soldier in my section, a mutinous malcontent malingerer one Private Davy Burlingham. He had assaulted me, tried to rape me, and subsequently tried to kill me. Wounded, with a raging fever, he was worse than useless. I was trapped here at Hendricks’ station; we were like two scorpions in a bottle, Davy Burlingham and I, the Gingham dog and the Calico cat.

I watched over him all night. He slept fitfully, his fever worsened. I concluded that it was neither humane, nor practical to keep his hands bound behind his back. It was clear that the wound in his shoulder was swelling and it must have caused him great pain. I needed to find an alternative way to restrain him.

I searched the Hendricks’ barn for anything I could use. I located a ten-foot length of “dog chain,” an iron railroad spike and the most spectacular find of all, a working pad-lock. The key, to which I found, nailed to a beam in the barn. It seemed Mnr. Hendricks was if nothing else well organized. His penchant to keep things under lock and key solved at least one of my problems.

Davy Burlingham woke to the sound of me driving the iron railroad spike deep into the storehouse timber floor. He instantly realized that his hands were free. To that end, his brain feverishly went to work to find what mischief he could cause me with his new found freedom. His leg jerked at the end of the chain. Held fast, he was a prisoner, officially under arrest.

“Here, piss in this, next time you feel the urge.” I couldn’t resist a smirk, “You can shit in it too for all I care, just don’t call me.” I plunked down a battered enamelware bucket and some bog paper.

Burlingham jerked at the chain, rebelliously. “Oy, Claiborne, what’cha call this?”

“I call it―You are under arrest.” I gave him a fresh canteen, a plate of food and a steaming cup of tea.

Burlingham drank the tea. He shoved the food to one side. “I can’t eat this shit! Gimme a taste of dat whiskey.”

“No.” I shot him a glance, the last thing I need was a drunken soldier on my hands. “Quit being such a stroppy cow and eat your food.” His indolence was starting to get on my nerves. It was the very same chicken from last night. I don’t know what Davy Burlingham expected, but I am, if I do say so myself, a very good field cook. The chickens were scrawny, but nourishing. “Well then you choose to go hungry. There’s not likely to be anything more until suppertime. You have two choices, ship biscuits or the chicken. Quit your complaining all the time, things could be worse."

"How could things be bloody worse?" Burlingham scowled.

"We could not have the tea." I said wryly. "I’m going to go tend to the horses.”

In spite of being nearly continuously contrary, Burlingham was too weak to move. It appeared like we were stuck here for at least a couple of days. I took stock of my situation. Food was my biggest problem. We were provisioned with several pounds of ship biscuits and a few tins of meat and vegetables. I had not expected to be in the field more than a couple of days and we had already eaten most of the canned provisions. The farm unfortunately yielded very little in the way of useful provisions. Thoroughly pillaged by the Zulus, they carted off everything of any conceivable use. The barn remained stocked with an adequate supply of animal feed, the shear quantity alone proved more than the Zulus could carry. At least the horses wouldn’t go hungry. The Hendricks’ kraal was a well-built stone structure, the horses, Star and Duke seemed quite happy to graze and laze about. We had good clean fresh water. I had three rifles, a pistol, and some four hundred rounds of .455 ammunition, I depot the saddles, rucksack, the two extra rifles and the rest of my traps in the barn for safekeeping, well out of reach of Davy Burlingham.

I put on my straw hat to shield my fair skin from the fierce African sun. Burlingham stirred, he detected I was getting ready to depart.

“Oy, Claiborne, what ‘cha fix’n to do ya little blighter? You ain’t gonna go off’n leave me now are you?”

“I’m just going to scout around, that’s all. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Ain’t you afraid Claiborne? A wee lil’ blighter like yourself, all alone in the African bush, just crawl’n wit wild animals and dem blood-thirsty blacks?”

"I can take care of myself." I said bravely, deep down inside I was afraid, but I wasn’t going to give Burlingham the satisfaction. I ignored him and continued to pack.

“Well you should be . . . you will be, when the Zulus catch you! Do you know what Zulus call young girls like you?”

I knew he was going to tell me. I just waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Ripen at noon.” Burlingham could barely contain his prurience; he continued his misogynistic travails. “See the Zulus dey ain’t never seen a white woman before, let alone a sweet pea like you. When dey catch you, dey’ll strip you naked. Dem Zulu bucks, dey’s all horny as bloody ‘ell. Dey’ll ‘ave der way wit you fer sure, give you a bloody good what’s for.”

“Shut-up Burlingham! You’re trying to scare me!” I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, but my face betrayed my terror.

Burlingham laughed, his face was full of profanation. “When your belly’s full of dem nigger babies, dat when dey ties you out to blister in the sun. Den duh ants and the scorpions come to eat you alive! If you scream, whatever you do don’t scream Claiborne. ‘Cuz if you do dem Zulus dey ‘ate scream'n. Dey takes a stake and pounds it straight up dat sweet hiney of yours.” He jabbed at me with a fork making a vicious twisting motion. He cracked a shit-eating-grin. “What do you say to that, Claiborne?”

“I say you’re a liar, and a bully. For the record, I don’t like you very much.” I hefted my rifle. “If I do run across any Zulus, they better watch out for me.” I sighted down the barrel, “I’m getting pretty good with this.”

Burlingham’s demeanor changed once the realization set in that no amount of scare tactics was going to dissuade me. I really did intend to leave him.

“Claiborne!” Burlingham balled, “Fer gawd sakes don’t leave me like dis! Be a mate, ‘ave a little pity. Don’t leave me chained ‘ere like a dog.” Burlingham jerked on the chain in a futile effort. “‘Ave a ‘eart, Claiborne, least anyways, leave me with a rifle. You can’t leave me ‘ere defenseless; dem blood-thirsty black will finish me for sure!”

“I’ll kill you myself if you don’t shut-up!”

I turned and left without remorse.

“CLAIBORNE! You gob-shite bitch! Come back ‘ere. Please! Please, don’t leave me ‘ere to die!” Burlingham’s plaintive wails trailed off in the distance.

I set off on my trek, my face burned hot with anger. Leave him with a rifle. I snickered at the very thought. How gullible did he think I was? There was to be no repeat of my earlier mistake. I was stupid to have trusted him once; I was not to be made a fool a second time. Burlingham had made his bed, and now he could lie in it. If the Zulus came again, they could tie him out for the ants to eat for all I cared.

The African bush was teaming in wildlife from the speedy springbok, the sleek antelope, warthog, wildebeest and the long horned onyx. South Africa abounded with dangerous animals as well, I had to keep a wary eye out for roving bands of hyenas and the fleet foot cheetahs and silent killers like the leopard. I was no hunter, I had never shot an animal in my life, but hunger necessitated the attempt. I set the sights on my rifle for fifty yards and set out to see what I could shoot for supper.

* * *

I SHOT A SPRINGBOK. In less than two hours of climbing over rocks and foraging dry riverbeds and ravines, the animal presented itself to me at less than fifty yards. I shot it clean through the heart. The animal fell instantly, I squealed with delight, barely able to contain my excitement.

When I was ten, I had watched Papa and my uncle butcher a hog at Christmas time. I set about the gruesome task of cutting up the animal into usable portions. It was sad to waste so much, but I only took the choices portions, as I was limited to what I could carry. I was thoroughly engrossed in my preparation; my anticipation of a delicious supper was palpable.

I was in a secluded donga, an eroded ravine, a sort of dry watercourse that was a raging torrent when the spring rains came. Now, at the height of the African summer, it was nothing but dust. I heard voices, not English voices, African voices, Bantu. I stopped what I was doing. I crept to the rise of the ravine; the sight that greeted me caused my blood to run cold. ZULUS!

I couldn’t count how many, there were a lot, maybe twenty, maybe thirty. Why they didn’t hear my rifle shot, I can only figure it was the luck of the crazy-quilt geography of the landscape, it plays tricks on acoustics. These Zulus were the 33-year-old unmarried men, of the uNokenke kraal, young, eager to wash their spears. It was clear they were spoiling for a fight. The entire Zulu military hierarchy was based on age, and marriage. If were a young warrior, unsuccessful in battle, if you’ve never killed, an enemy “Washed your Spear,” as it were in the lexicon that is the warrior cult of the Zulu. You couldn’t get married. Therefore, there was enormous pressure in the kraals to prove ones prowess in battle. Virtually all young Zulu males were zealous to say the least; the incentive to kill, to kill a white man was all consuming, irresistible.

I was scared. Scared right down to my bootstraps, I think I might have wet my pants. I fled, leaving behind the springbok. I took flight; the Zulus spotted me and took chase. I was in big trouble. There was no fucking way I could out run them. I launched myself down the steep embankment of the donga, slipping and sliding in the gravelly dust. Scared or not, I made a stand behind the only cover I could find, a snaggly prickly pine.

I dropped two of them straight away. The massive .455 slugs tore into their naked bodies, virtually lifting them off the ground. I loaded and fired again. Disheartened by my firepower, the Zulus circled around. I took the opportunity to flee, the whole time I couldn’t shake the terrible specter of ants crawling in my knickers. I ran. I ran the two miles back to Hendricks’ station. I don’t think I ever ran so far so fast in all my life. I burst open the storehouse door, and veritably tumbled in ass-over-teakettle, wild-eyed, and in cold sweat. “Zu . . . !”

“GOT'CHA you little blighter!” I was yanked off my feet. I felt the cold coils of the dog chain loop around my neck and close tight against my throat. My terror was complete. Burlingham pressed the point of the bayonet, the bayonet; I had forgotten the bayonet, the very same bayonet I pushed into the mealie bag the night before. Now its razor-point pressed into my gut.

"You ain’t so smart, who’s in charge now? Leave me ‘ere to die will, ya?” His lecherous hand ravaged my duty-blouse. “Yeah―from here on in, you and me iz gonna be good friends.” Burlingham tightened his grip; he choked me until I thought I was going to pass out. Even with only one hand he was so much stronger that me.

I gasped, I choked, I clutched at the coils around my neck. “ZULUS!”

This one word fell on Burlingham’s ear like a thunder-stroke. His grip went slack. I squirmed and wriggled and finally found myself upside down, I kicked and kicked. I kicked him in the face and rolled free of his grasp.

“Let me go! Let me go goddamn you!”

I pulled the trigger. The report of the revolver within the confines of the storehouse was absolutely deafening.

“Oh, mama, don’t hurt me!”

I scrambled to my feet. “Burlingham, I will fucking shoot you down like a dog! Give me that bayonet!” The weapon clattered to the floor, faced to face with the barrel of the Webley, Burlingham was cowed. I wanted to fucking kill him. I wanted to shoot the sonofabitch more than I ever wanted to kill anyone in my life. I could still feel his filthy hands pawing at my body. Instead, I re-adjusted my disheveled uniform, and with deliberate and correct military decorum. I kicked him in the balls.

“Zulus! They’re here, they’re coming!” I said, breathless. Burlingham’s face went ashen. There was no further, need to impress on him the urgency of the situation. If there was anything Davy Burlingham understood, if he had one fear greater than the prospect of returning to Port Durban to stand court-martial. It was the fear of a Zulu attack. The full weight of our pathetic plight fell on him like a bag of hammers.

"What? What we gonna do now Claiborne?” Burlingham groaned the pain his bollocks was eclipsed by his terror.

"WE?" I scoffed. Since when did I ever figure so prominently in his parti pris? Believe me, there was never any WE in Burlingham's motive. It was always ALL about him. His proclivity for self-absorption was on some level farcical. Mere moments ago he was in the throes of trying to throttle me; this salient fact flew out of his addle brain. Now, beset by Zulus we were miraculously best mates. Just you’n me Claiborne. I found him a despicable avaricious coward; his narcissism was repellent.

“We’re trapped! Trapped like rats in a trap. We’re gonna die in dis bloody hole! Dis is all your fault Claiborne!”

I held up my hand, “Shhh . . .”

There it was again, a sound like a freight train. Two dozen Zulus, moving in unison lock step, the rhythmic chant, the haft of their spears sounded a steady drumbeat against their buffalo-hide shields. Whatever military strategist ever dismissed the Zulus as a mob of undisciplined African savages was horribly misinformed. The Zulus were in fact a highly disciplined, methodical, well-trained military machine. With the exception of their lack of firearms, they were the undisputed masters of all of South Africa.

A fact Davy Burlingham and I were about to learn first hand.

* * *

I'VE NEVER LAID ANY HUBRIS to be a consummate military strategist. I am a simple Welsh girl, from the coalfields of Cardiff. Nothing more, no experience in my short thirteen, going on fourteen-year-old life prepared me for this situation. The potential for disaster was painfully obvious from the very second of our siege. We were holed up in a mud-brick thatched roof shack without windows. I had one rifle, one pistol and at best, forty rounds of ammunition in my two expense pouches. For alternate reasons, that had seemed completely sound at the time. I had depot my remaining weapons and the entire stock of ammunition in a barn some two-hundred yards away. Some fine fat fucking military commander I turned out to be.

I gave the horses up for loss. I barred the door, and set about in a frantic effort to carve loopholes in the side of the storehouse wall. The bayonet was inadequate to the task but it was all I had. In the midst of all my troubles, I had to listen to the constant insipid bellyaching of Davy Burlingham, he whined, moaned, and carried on something fierce. How we were both going to die, how it was all my fucking fault. It was my fault, I’ll give him that much, but his constant grumbles did little to change the situation.

There was no time to worry further the Zulus were upon us.

“USSUTHU!” The Zulus charged.

“HERE THEY COME!” I fired. I worked the loading lever, empty brass cartridge cases tinkled on the ground. I may have described before, the Martini-Henry was a single shot, breech-loading rifle. It fired an enormous forty-five calibre bullet and kicked like a newly shod mule. Ten rounds a minute that was considered a respectable rate of fire. One round every six seconds, in the first two minutes of the Zulu attack I should think I expended twenty-five rounds. The Zulu bodies stacked up like chord wood. My face was covered in smoke and smudge. There was a brief respite in the battle, while the Zulus regrouped. With their initial attack repulsed, already I could see their black bodies skillfully darting back and forth, circling around beyond rifle range.

“What’s going on, Claiborne? . . . I can’t see . . . Dis iz all your fault Claiborne! . . . We’re gonna die, you stupid Berkshire hunt! You got us into this mess! Do something! Burlingham’s constant moans of pessimism in the background did little to help me think clearly in what was already a desperate situation.

I counted six dead. “I KILLED SIX!” I shouted. I don’t know what I was so happy about, I had stung them good for sure, but all I had really succeed in doing was turn their fanaticism into caution. The Zulus it seems are not so easily discouraged. They would be back, and next time there were to be no more frontal assaults. There was no way; I a single rifleman could beat back a coordinated attack. If I didn’t find someway to alter the balance of power in the next two minutes, Davy Burlingham and I were doomed to be overrun.

Papa was always fond of telling the story of a livery stable owner a Mr. Hobson of London who, in order to rotate the use of his horses, offered his customers the choice of either taking the horse in the stall nearest the door—or taking none at all. “Hobson’s Choice.” I really had only one choice, well that’s not exactly true; but the specter of being eaten by ants was not one I was willing to entertain.

“MR. BURLINGHAM! On your feet soldier, that's an order!" Burlingham scoffed at me, the smirk on his contemptuous face was one of So what’cha gonna do now ya little blighter? I so much wanted to wipe the floor with him. I think he was thoroughly enjoying my personal Waterloo. I found myself enmeshed in an inscrutable dilemma. Against my better judgment, against all past precedent, my brain screamed at a feverish pitch, You are fucking crazy girl! I was out of options. I was going to live or die in the next ten minutes; it all depended on a loathsome Davy Burlingham. I was soon going to find out if he possessed even one scrap of moral fiber. I took out the key to the pad lock.

“Burlingham! Listen to me; I need your help. I need those rifles. I need the ammunition. The rifles are in the barn. I need you to cover me. If you can’t do this, we are both going to die.” I tossed him the loaded rifle, and dropped my webbing with the remaining precious cartridges. “Do you think you can be a soldier for ten minutes, can you at least do that much?”

Burlingham took the rifle, grinning from ear to ear like a cat that had just choked on too much cream. I was immediately sorry for my decision. I was certain I had just made yet another stupid mistake, but it was too late now, I was commited. I drew my revolver, and made a break for the barn. Rifle fire crackled behind me. A Zulu body dropped. Burlingham made his boast he was the best shot in “F” Company.

* * *

I RAN A ZIGZAG PATTERN. Growing up in Glamorganshire Wales, we never had any toys as such, not even so much as a game ball. Tag or “dobby” as we called it was a free-for-all chase game. My brothers and I used to play this game for hours on Saturday afternoons. I've always been very fast; I was seldom “It.” Ever since I was very young, I've always been what you might call a rough-and-tumble girl. Dispite being a girl and all, I always kept up with my brothers and gave them a good what's for. I think some people might even have disparagingly called me a "Tomboy," but with eight brothers and no sisters, what choice did I have?

I now found myself in a game of dobby where the stakes were life or death. I made a brake for the barn. Three Zulus spotted me at once, they hurled their light javelin assegais. These are the traditional weapons of the Bantu people. For centuries, traditional warfare among the Bantu peoples involved a great deal of posturing, some spear flinging and very little in the way of actual casualties. The great Zulu King Shaka changed all of that. He took away what he perceived as a weak flimsy weapon, and replaced it with the utterly lethal short-hafted stabbing spear. The Zulu iKiwa, was named, allegedly, for the sucking sound it made when it was withdrawn from the victim. The iKiwa had more in common with the Roman gladius of legionaries fame than a spear. Overnight, Shaka transformed traditional Bantu warfare from spear flinging and posturing, to utter and complete slaughter.

Outmoded or not, I found myself assailed with a rain of throwing assegais. One pierced the heel of my boot. I quickly realized why Shaka had banned them, they were not particularly deadly. Lethal or not, it is mightily disconcerting to have a hail of sharp pointy things swishing all about you. This was in concert with the steady CRACK of the lone Martini-Henry. I counted his shots. I knew exactly how many cartridges he had. To my surprise, I was still alive. Somehow, I fully expected Burlingham to off me, shoot me in the back at his first opportunity. Burlingham laid down a withering fire from the storehouse, he actually provided me with decent cover and I made it to the barn unscathed.

The confines of the barn represented a measure of safety, the smells were earthy and of animals. There were the haymows and the stacks of animal feed, the cattle stalls, now deserted, were a lonely reminder that up until two days ago this had been a bustling farm. A loose goose crossed my path, terrified; she sought refuge in the confines of the shadows. I retrieved the two rifles and fixed the bayonet. I stuffed my pockets with cartridge packets, and picked up the haversack with the bulk of the ammunition. Each rifle weighed nine pounds; the haversack weighed a good forty. It seemed, getting here was the easy part. Getting back in one piece now that was a challenge.

I launched from the barn at a full tilt. The storehouse seemed very small and represented a pathetic shelter from the Zulu onslaught. “HUZZAH!” I shouted, more to buoy my own spirits, than to scare off the Zulus. Weighed down as I was, I was a lumbering target. The safety of the storehouse seemed even farther away than before. Burlingham’s fire had slowed to a trickle, reduced to single isolated shots, and then nothing at all. In all the pother of the past few minutes, I knew he was out of ammunition. With no steady suppression fire to protect me, the Zulus rose up and attacked me at once. I dropped one rifle, along with the the haversack. At this point, I had shifted into pure survival mode. I pulled the trigger on the rifle without even bringing it up to my shoulder, so close was the Zulu to me the muzzle blast seared his flesh; a second warrior instantly beset me. I now had nothing but an empty rifle with which to defend myself. Fortunately, it was the one with the lunger.

The Zulu crashed into me, battering me with his buffalo shield. He delivered a classic Zulu underhand thrust with his stabbing iKiwa; the killing blow aimed at my loins came up only inches short. I whirled and bashed him with the butt of the rifle. The blow glanced harmlessly off his shield, I succeeded in driving him back just enough to give me maneuvering room to bring the bayonet into a textbook rifleman defensive posture.

“HA!” I lunged at him with the bayonet. I now had the advantage of reach, but his hand-to-hand combat skills were well honed. The warrior expertly parried with the shield, I found myself locked in a deadly ballet of death.

He was a handsome specimen, powerfully built with strong features and a shiny black face. His broad white teeth gleamed in the morning sunlight. I must have struck a pathetic figure, all 94 lbs. of me soaking wet, a girl with a boy’s dirty face. We circled there for the next five seconds, each sizing up the other, looking for an opening, a moment of opportunity. I caught myself wishing I had paid closer attention to bayonet combat in basic training.

The Zulu shouted some incomprehensible gibberish.

“COME ON! You black bastard, tie me out with the ants will you!”

The Zulu charged, expertly deflecting the point of the bayonet, using his shield as a battering ram, he crashed into me with the force of a on rushing freight train. I went sprawling in one direction, my rifle went another. I landed prostrate in the dust. The Zulu seized upon me for the kill. He stabbed at my gut in a skillful killing stroke.

I closed my eyes, and waited for the spear point to slash my flesh. I didn't know for certain what it must feel like to be disemboweled, (unpleasant to say the least), I was soon to find out. My only real experience with death as such was the day poor Lilly got chopped in the remorseless clockworks of the no. 64. I imagined lots of gushing blood and a wretched display of pink bits that should normally stay inside. The blow from the iKiwa, knocked the wind out of my chest, but miraculously I remained stubbornly alive. All those cartridge packets I so greedily stuffed in my pockets deflected the blow.

God bless Color Sargent Bourne. I read a quote in one of my Western novels “God made all men, Samuel Colt made them equal.” I guess the same could be said for Webley and Scott. The bullet from the Webley exploded in my enemy’s face, smashed his teeth, and took the top of his head clean off. I’m sure in the traditions of the warrior cult of the Zulu; I was considered a reprhensible dishonorable opponent. To shoot a man like that—this gave me no pleasure. I didn’t have time to contemplate such niceties as honor in combat. It may not have been the honorable thing to do, I found myself outclassed, out matched. Cowardly or not, I was still alive. I scrambled to my feet, snatched my rifle by the bandolier, clawed the haversack out of the dirt and made a final desperate dash for the storehouse door.

“SARGENT CLAIBORNE, I’M COMING IN!” I shouted. I was breathless parched and utterly exhausted.

Burlingham swung open the door. A totally bedraggled Burlingham greeted me; he appeared wild-eyed, sweaty, exhausted from his exertions. I could see blood spotting his bandages. This was not what you might call a "Happy reunion." He scowled as he snatched the rifle; I let the haversack fall heavy to the floor.

"That's only one rifle! Where the bloody 'ell is the other rifle?"

Whatever remaining strength I had drained from my body. My face filled with tears as I realized the magnitude of my blunder. Stupid! I am so stupid! I don't suppose being nearly skewered at the point of a Zulu spear offered up much of an excuse. The other carbine lay in the yard, exactly where I dropped it along side the body of the dead Zulu.

Burlingham, he had no sympathy for me; instead he thoroughly delighted in my carelessness. He pressed home his advantage. "What! You gonna cry now? Aw, looksee, the wittle girly-sargent is gonna cry!”

“I’m sorry . . . I dropped it.” I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my dirty sleeve and tried to regain my composure.

“You dropped it!” Burlingham scoffed, “Well dats just fucking great! I always knew you wuz noth’n but a little blighter! You took your fine fat fuck'n time gitt’n back ‘ere too, wit just one rifle! Where wuz you? Pick’n posies in the park."

"You call that cover!" I shot back, now he was making me mad. I found myself unable to deal with all his bullshit. I just needed to sit down, catch my breath. I felt faint. The Zulus were gone for the moment, but they would be back.

I was so thirsty, I reached for the canteen. Burlingham cut me off with the tip of the bayonet. "Tut-tut, what's the password?"

"WHAT? I don't have time to play games with you." My exertions of the past fifteen minutes left me feeling physically ill. I found myself in desperate need of a drink. I unscrewed the cap. Burlingham cracked his contemptuous shit-eating-grin. Before I even brought the canteen to my lips, he planted his boot squarely in my chest, and shoved. I watched the storehouse door slam shut—dust spewed in my face. I landed without grace on my arse in the dirt.

"PISS OFF YA LEETLE BLIGHTER!"

Did I ever tell you how much I fuck'n hated him?

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 15

I AM A SOLDIER

HENDRICKS' STATION was the epitome of devastation, the stench of death was everywhere. Smoke curled from the blackened skeletons of the upright post of main house, burned to a cinder, utterly devastated. I could see in the blackened pit the remains, the shards that had once been the home of a living family of Dutch colonists. There were the remains of a stove, broken crockery and bottles and a few pitiful bits that had survived the fire. Near the front door, there was a blackened corpse of an adult, burned beyond my ability to tell whether it was a man or woman. There were other traces of the doomed Hendricks’ family last few desperate minutes. Cowering under what I presumed were the remains of a bed, were two more sets of human remains, child size. The Zulus in their murderous fury had spared no one.

The barn, the outhouse, the storehouse and the kraal were left largely intact. There was a well with a pump. I led the horses to water, and pumped and pumped. The water gushed forth in all its life sustaining crystal cold purity. I don’t think I ever tasted water so good. The horses were thirsty. I filled all my canteens. A couple of stray chickens crossed my path. I resolved to catch them, as that would make a fine supper.

The storehouse was the only building of note the Zulus had not broken into. With no windows and barred by heavy oaken door and iron padlock. The reinforced stone structure had defeated all Zulu attempts to break in and pillage.

I took out Mnr. Hendricks’ pocket watch; it was a quarter past two. You will forgive me I’m sure when I tell you with all the other excitement and concentrations going on that I forgot to mention that before I left camp, I searched the Zulu bodies. Among the various sordid sundry items, I found a number of artifacts that clearly were European in origin including a fancy dress mirror, a locket containing the wedding pictures of Mnr. and Mev. Hendricks, and of course, Mnr. Hendricks’s pocket watch. Armed with this information, I surmised that we were very close to Hendricks’ station and that these were the very same Zulu warriors who had attacked the same. It seemed my hunch was correct.

It was plain to see where the Zulu’s had hacked and pried at the stout oaken door to no avail with their heavy stabbing Assegais. I stood back a couple of yards and leveled my Martini. The powerful blast from the rifle easily shattered the lock where the wrought-iron power of the stabbing spears had failed. Inside was a disappointment, stacks of mealie bags, cattle feed and a few farm implements, nothing more, nothing except a bottle of whiskey, tucked out of sight in the rafters, safely concealed from prying eyes of Mev. Hendrick no doubt. It seemed Mnr. Hendrick was not quite the pious Dutch Christian that we might have believed. Other than that, there was nothing of any use to me.

Except for the fresh water, and a few stray chicken, the overall farm was useless burned out hulk. There was nothing to report except to confirm the massacre of the Hendricks’ family. To that end, I had graves to dig.

I should tell you, digging graves is hard work. I retrieved my entrenching tool and set about the task. With in fifteen minutes of working in the hot African sun, I was drenched with sweat. I stripped off my duty-blouse, which left me clad from the waist up only in my white cotton skivvies, woven in the mills of WSPFS no doubt, and my suspenders. I didn’t care; the only person within 25 miles that knew I was a woman was back at camp with a two-foot spear stuck in his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere. I continued to work.

It took me most of the rest of the afternoon to dig five graves. I didn’t dig them very deep but the ground was hard and unyielding. I piled stones on top of the graves and fashioned makeshift crosses. When my work was done, I stood there feeling forlorn and homesick, thinking I should do something more. I couldn’t think of anything else to do but sing. I began with just a little hum, and then I sang the song we sang at my brother’s funeral Dewy and Wallace. I sang for Dewey, I sang for Wallace, I sang for my friends Marty, Lilly and Sally, I even sang for Mr. Crowley. All alone, there amidst those five forlorn graves in the African bush, I sang in my best clear soprano.

I sang in my native Welsh, these are the words I sang in English . . .

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

Well keep a welcome in the hillside.
Well keep a welcome in the Vales
This land you knew will still be singing
When you come home again to Wales.

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

I checked Mnr. Hendricks’ pocket watch again it was a quarter past five O’clock. I still had enough daylight to go back to camp and retrieve Burlingham and bring him back to here, where I figured we least had shelter and access to fresh water. I picketed Duke in the kraal and dressed the chickens for our supper. I figured in forty-five minutes I could be back here, and maybe have enough daylight left to do something about Burlingham's wounds.

How wrong I was.

I rode back and retraced my steps to the original campsite. I was easily within 100 yards when a thunder-crack blasted past my head, so close it knocked off my helmet. The bullet ricocheted on the rocks behind me. I pitched full body into the dirt. I dared long enough to pull my Martini out of the scabbard, slap Star on the rump, before a second “cha-chink” followed by the un-mistakable sound of a Martini-Henry loading lever closing the breech, a quarter of a second later, a second bullet slammed into the dirt near my left foot.

“BURLINGHAM, YOU FUCK-FACED LIVERPOOL DOLT! IT’S ME SARGENT CLAIBORNE!”

“FUCK YOU CLAIBORNE! YOU’LL NOT TAKE ME BACK TO 'ANG!”

The problem was clear and entirely my own fault. I had foolishly, stupidly left a mutinous soldier with a rifle, thinking that he might need it in the event of a Zulu attack. Now it seemed that Burlingham was to have none of that, he was intent on using my altruistic generosity as a mean to murder me and prevent me from returning him to Port Durban to stand court-martial.

“BURLINGHAM! STAND DOWN, I’M COMING IN!” I wormed my way closer, pissed off that I was reduced to crawling in the dirt to approach my own campsite. Despite being an asshole and a dolt, Burlingham was a decent shot and this is what worried me. “Burlingham, you shoot me and you die, here, now in this desert!”

“Don’t come any closer, Claiborne you bald-face cunt! You’ll not take me back to Port Durban to 'ang!”

I was within twenty-five yards of him. I tried to reason with him. "Burlingham, listen to me, I have fresh water, I have two chickens, there’s a fire, and a shelter to get out of this weather. We can get that spear out of you, you have to trust me, and you have to let me help you.”

“You gonna get me 'anged!” Burlingham blubbered.

I took a chance and inched closer. “I’m not gonna do anything of the sort! What you done, you done, that’s for the court to decide . . .”

"Claiborne, I hurt so bad . . .”

"Then let me help you . . .” I made my move, I pounced on him. I should think I surprised the hell out of him. To him, I was nothing more than a dumb girl and was and not capable of such audacity. I wrestled the Martini out of his grasp; I brought the butt of the Webley down hard across his skull with such force I am surprised I didn’t kill him.

Burlingham howled, "Ow! whatcha go'n do that for ya little blighter!"

"That was for trying to kill me!"

"Oh, dat leetle ole thang, I was just josh'n ya . . . a joke Claiborne, can't ya even take a joke?" Burlingham felt the knot on his head, his hand came up bloody. "Looksee what you done to me, I'm bleeding."

"You'll get worse than that if you try that stunt again!" I was not amused. I was full on top of him, all 94 lbs. of me, disheveled and panting. It took me several second before I realized Burlingham, perverted Private Burlingham wasn't struggling anymore, he wasn't so much subdued, as he was using his vantage point to look down the front of my shirt. Despite a knock in his forehead the size of a walnut, Burlingham found enough strength to leer at the sight of my sweaty chest.

“You are one fine looking woman.” Burlingham offered weakly as he sank back into submission.

“Shut-up Burlingham.” I buttoned up my white cotton undershirt, there were to be no more free peek shows to amuse the peanut gallery.

A dissolute private Burlingham aside, my biggest problem now, was how to get the wounded 200 lb. man up and on to a horse. I didn’t have the physical strength to wrestle him up on to a mount, especially if he continued to be uncooperative. Therefore, I contrived to construct an Indian “travois.” I read about this particular Indian invention in another chapter in a borrowed pulp-novel . . . I found the American Wild West was full of practical applications in the African desert. I figured at least this way I could drag Burlingham the three miles back to Hendricks’ station, make bivouac, eat supper, I personally was dying for a cup of tea. Last of all, there was the immotile problem of the spear. I was apprehensive to say the least about the prospects of removing that spear from his chest all without killing him. It would have to be done, and it would have to be done tonight. I trussed Burlingham up good this time. I was a fool to think he possessed even one iota of honor. He was an abasement, not to be trusted. I bound his hands behind his back, like the prisoner he was. “You are under arrest, mister.” I loaded him on to the travois and we made our way back to Hendricks’ station. Burlingham complained bitterly “I was hurting him.” I paid him no mind; a cup of tea and a chicken in a pot were the only thoughts on my mind. How little did I know.

* * *

I MADE A MODEST BIVOUAC amongst the mealie bags of the fortress like enclosure of the storehouse. I felt for the first time since Burlingham’s attempted rape, and the Zulu attack a certain measure of security. Burlingham, he was tied up, and I had four stout walls and only one way in between me and the Zulus. I figured since the Zulus carry virtually nothing in the way of supplies, they have no sustainability in the field. The remnants of the war party must have moved on by this time. I risked a small fire. I boiled some tea, and cooked the chicken. The chicken was delicious. After supper, I faced the inevitable.

"We have to get that spear out." I gave him some whiskey from the bottle I found.

"Oh nice! Been hold'n out on me, 'eh Claiborne?" Burlingham drank greedily, his Adam’s apple bobbed as the fiery whiskey spilled down his throat. He wasted almost as much as he consumed.

"That's enough." I laid out everything I thought I would need including my sharpest knife, needle, thread and the last clean field dressing.

"Here, bite down on this . . . this is gonna hurt―I can't really say I care much." I put my knee in his chest for leverage, and pulled. The spear came straight out, with a spectacular sucking sound and frightful gout of blood. Burlingham’s eyes rolled back in his head, he gurgled and passed out.

"Oh good god I've killed him!" I threw the Zulu spear into the corner, revolted. I applied pressure to the wound to staunch the flow of blood. After what seemed like an eternity, the bleeding subsided to an ooze. I sewed him up, it was a jolly good patch job. I sat beside him for three hours, alone, by the dying embers of the fire, listening to his shallow breathing.

"Oy, Claiborne . . ." Burlingham opened one eye.

"You're alive!" I immediately tried to conceal my joy. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit, Claiborne. Eh, I sure could use another drop of dat whiskey?"

"You've had enough, just rest; it will be daylight in a few hours." I stirred the fire and set the kettle on to boil thinking a cup of tea might solve all my problems.

"Claiborne . . . why'd you do all you done, save my life'n all?"

I shot him a glance, was he trying to thank me? No, he was setting me up again. I was cautious. "Mr. Burlingham, I hold the Queen's NCO, you are my responsibility. It is my duty as an officer in the 24th Regiment of Foot to keep you alive." I said brusquely.

"So you can take me back to Port Durban, see me 'ang, huh?"

"No, I told you it's my duty; I have a responsibility, to the Regiment, to Captain Fredrickson, Major Steele. They expect me to see this mission completed." I bit my lip, it was a weak answer, and I knew it. Once again, Burlingham had turned the tables on me; he had succeeded in making himself the injured party and me the villain. Now I felt guilty. I nervously poked at the fire.

"Claiborne, all that back there, what I said, I didn’t mean it, 'bout you being too ugly to tap'n all . . ." Burlingham coughed, he raised himself up. I didn’t like him looking at me that way. "The way the fire lights your hair . . . such pretty hair. You really ain't such a bad look'n little blighter."

I got up, "I'm going to get some more wood." I really didn't want to have this conversation.

Burlingham it seemed wasn't finished with me just yet, his little pig eyes narrowed to slits, a mean mocking look darkened his face, "Oy, Claiborne, don't you be so uppity wit me. You ain't all that fine. Ya know you got a split between your front teeth?"

"I know." I left him in a huff. My tongue slipped in the gap between my two front teeth. I was sick of Burlingham and all his cruel games. Burlingham had this knack at finding every chink in my armor. I knew it was stupid vanity to let his stupid aspersions bother me. Besides, I could spit better than any boy in Glamorganshire. Henry, he never seemed to mind. He said I had a beautiful smile.

I returned with the wood. Burlingham dozed fitfully; I was grateful for that bit of peace and quiet. I cautiously felt his forehead he was running a fever. I washed his face with cool water, and sat beside him in an uneasy silence.

"Claiborne . . .?"

"What is it now Burlingham?” I was exasperated it seemed Burlingham was determined to be a constant trial.

“Me bladder is hard as a stone."

"What?" As it turned out, pulling the spear out of his chest was nothing compared to what happened next.

"I got me ah pisser Claiborne; I gotta go to the loo.”

I hadn’t counted on this; I was completely at a loss.

“’elp me up Claiborne.” Burlingham staggered to the door with my help. I’m not exactly sure what I thought was going to happen next, but what happened next certainly took me by surprise.

“Well . . .?” Burlingham stood there as if he was expecting me to do something.

“Well, what.” I said, I wasn’t being dense, I think even at that point; I really had not put two and two together.

“Take it out.”

“You’ve got to be fuck’n kidding me. I absolutely will not take it out!”

“Eh? You got me hands tied behind me back, what the fuck you expect me to do? Piss myself? Take it out Claiborne―There’re bloody rules against the mistreatment of prisoners!” Burlingham smirked, he was a regular barracks barrister that Burlingham. I stood there dumbstruck at an impasse as what to do; he was too dangerous to untie.

“TAKE IT OUT CLAIBORNE!" Burlingham screeched, he rampaged against his bindings with such deranged convulsions, I was afraid he would tear open his wound and start bleeding again. "I'M GONNA PISS MY SELF, I SWEAR! TAKE IT OUT YOU LIL' WHORE-CUNT. UNTIE ME, OR TAKE IT OUT. I DARE YOU!”

I gritted my teeth. “All right.” I undid the buttons on his fly, my hands trembled disquiet with trepidation. I fished out his Willie―while it certainly wasn’t the first Willie I’d ever seen, even still, I was careful not to look. Burlingham, I should think, thoroughly enjoyed my humiliation. Never one to be upstaged, he danced, jangled, and made numerous “ooh” and “ah” sounds of satisfaction as his piss spattered the ground. When he was finally finished, I stuffed him back into his trousers as clinically as possible. Burlingham, never satisfied, made certain to degrade me further.

“You like that, eh Claiborne?” Burlingham sniggered weakly, he sank to the blanket utterly exhausted, dissolute in his satisfaction.

"Bog-off Burlingham, I so fuck'n hate you."

I washed and washed my hands at the pump. I felt dirty and violated. The whole incident gave me the creeps. I tried to put it out of my mind. I made ready twelve rounds from my expense pouch and pushed the spear point of the bayonet deep into a mealie bag where I could grab it a moments notice. I checked the loads on the three rifles, and took up a position in the storehouse door. The African sky was full of stars; it was going to be a long night.

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 14

HENDRICKS' STATION

THE LAND OF THE amaZULU is every bit as beautiful, and unforgiving a treacherous landscape as I ever could have imagined. Consisting primarily of vast stretches of scrub brush, scraggly trees, prickly plants and low undulating hills, lush in some places, parched in other. The land is dominated by these enormous rocky escarpments sometimes rising to five hundred feet, and a great range of mountains that could be seen, shimmering hazy-blue one-hundred miles in the distance. I didn’t have time for sightseeing, this was not good horse country, and the ground was stony and uneven. To make matters worse, I was lost. Unfortunately, I was not the world’s best orienteer. Maps compass, I had always left the navigation to Ward and now he wasn’t here. My sixth-grade education in a one-room Welsh schoolhouse failed me. While I could read and write with above average facility, I found math utterly befuddling. I don’t want to make it sound like I was completely addle-brained―but orienteering with compass and map requires some serious mathematical calculations which was simply beyond my simple understanding of addition and long division.

Stubbornly, or stupidly, I pressed forward. How hard could it be?” I was determined not to let Burlingham know I didn’t know what I was doing. I suppose my arrogance, or my simple desire not to allow this arsehole to know that “Yes” I was a Sargent, “Yes” I was in command, but “No” I didn’t know everything. The whole situation spiraled out of control very fast. My basic assumption if we road in a straight line for fifteen miles then turned west was wrong. I was adamant even at this point not to allow Burlingham to know that I was clueless, so we rode on into the afternoon and into the dusk of darkness.

By nightfall, I could see this was all a huge mistake, by that time I was hopelessly lost. I set Burlingham to sentry duty and poured forlornly over the map. I was screwed. I did not have the slightest idea where I was, or where the Hendricks’s station was located. I hated being incompetent, but what I hated more was the idea that Burlingham was soon to find out I was incompetent. A mistake he was not to let me forget.

Therefore, I formulated a plan. I figured by dead reckoning, that we had made at least fifteen miles due west of the column. If we traveled another ten miles in morning and then turned east, well, we were bound to find something. If I didn’t find the Hendricks station, I only hoped I could find my way back to the Buffalo River.

We made a sparse bivouac. I forbid a fire so we sat there in the dark and ate ship biscuits and some of yesterday’s cornpone that I had made. We settled down, I set Burlingham to first watch. I had barely closed my eyes I was knackered to the bone.

I think it must have been some three hours later. I got up, stumbled behind a bush to relive myself. When I got back, I planned to take the watch and allow Burlingham to get some rest. I found there was no need. Burlingham was sacked-out, snoring even. I kicked him savagely. I was angry with myself for getting us lost, now I was furious to find Burlingham sleeping on sentry duty. It was all too much. “WAKE UP YOU SLOVENLY SOLDIER! YOU WANT TO GET US BOTH KILT! YOU ARE ON REPORT, MISTER!”

Burlingham, pretended as if it was nothing, like he was wide-awake the whole time. “Oy, Claiborne, what time is it? Gimme some water.”

“What?” I was incredulous. “What about your own water? I told you to take water.” I couldn’t even believe we were even having this conversation.

“I forgot mine mate, gimme some of your water. I’m parched.”

“You are one motherfuck’n dolt! I told you before we left to carry extra water; you’ve been guzzling water all day as if you were at afternoon tea. I gave water to the horses; you stood right there and watched me. If the horses die, we die. I have one canteen left, and that’s for me, for tomorrow.”

“Eh, I forgot mate, now gimme a drink.”

“No, you’ll wait ‘till we make Hendricks’ station. You can drink then.”

“You got water, mate, don't be so mingy, gimme a drink."

"No."

Burlingham's eyes narrowed to slits, "Don’t make me take it!”

"What?"

Burlingham was on his feet, he leveled the point of his bayonet at my chest, I knew his threat was serious, I scrambled a few feet backwards. My hand closed around Sargent Bourne’s revolver. I didn't actually point it at him; I still thought I was in control. “Put down that rifle Burlingham, that's an order! You’ll get your water in the morning, when we reach Hendricks’ station!”

“I think I'll take that drink now." Burlingham sneered, the triangular point of the bayonet flicked. "I know you. You think you’re so bloody smart. Oy! Major Steele he thinks you’re a bloody grand fuck’n todger, what’cha do’n suck’n his cock? He give you dem stripes, but I know you, you’re nothing but a bleed’n fairy boy, we’re bloody lost, why don’t you fuck’n admit it!"

Burlingham towered over me, my lower lip quavered, betraying my fear. Burlingham seized on my weakness. "You scared of me Claiborne? Well, you should be. Now give me that canteen!”

"No!"

Burlingham fell on me in a full rugby tackle. Sargent Bourne’s revolver, the only object that separated me from exigency, went flying into the dust. He punched me in the face; I tasted my own blood. The only thing I could think while he pummeled me was that assault on an officer was a hanging offence. Of course, that was purely academic, because Burlingham was intent on killing me. He was full on top of me; he was a full-grown man, three times stronger. He punched my face and held me in the dirt. His hands groped my chest.

“What the fuck!" He ripped at my duty-blouse, tore at the bindings. “Blimey O'Reilly, you’re a fuck’n girl!”

The discovery of my sex caused him to pause momentarily in his assault. I clutched my chest, and scooted backwards from him this time genuinely afraid of what was to happen next.

“You ain’t no fuck’n fairy boy," Burlingham tackled me again and pinned me to the ground with his knee. He riffled my duty-blouse, "Jest looksee at dem bee stings. You iz a fuckn’ whore!”

“BURLINGHAM, STAND DOWN! I AM YOUR SARGENT. I AM IN COMMAND HERE. YOU WILL DO AS I SAY!”

“Fuck'n ay! You shut the fuck up bitch!” His backhand came across my face with the full merciless force of his Liverpool boxer training. I should think he broke my jaw. He grabbed me by the throat and started to choke me, he held me against the ground. “You ain’t nobody’s sergeant here. I know you; you aren’t noth'n but a fuck’n gob-shite girl-cunt. Sex on a stick! That's what you are! I just want to fuck’n murder you when I think of all the shit I ever took off you!”

I felt Burlingham paw at my breeches; I felt a sharp yank as my bare bottom ground in the dirt. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. So this is how it was to be. I pictured my Henry, my beloved Henry. Now I was to die; rapped, murdered in this god-forsaken African desert.

In the same instant, before it even began, I suddenly felt no more weight on top of me. My breeches were disheveled; Burlingham was gone. I rolled over and laid my hand on the Webley. My thumb drew the hammer back to full cock; I knew in my heart if I saw him again, I would blow his fucking brains out.

There was no time for revenge. Whoever, or whatever scared off Burlingham promptly scared the shit out of me. Up close and personal, a Zulu warrior in full regalia, buffalo shield, plumage like a peacock and stabbing spear was full upon me. His oiled black skin gleamed, his white teeth flashed in the moonlight. I rolled to one side. A spear jabbed itself deep into the sand next to my head, close enough to cut my ear.

“USSUTHU!” The Zulu war cry―enough to curdle the piss of a dozen brave men; once you heard it, you will never forget it.

I fired blind. I should think I only had enough time to scramble into a semi-up right position, before three more Zulus, silhouetted perfectly against the backdrop of the full African moon, assailed me.

“USSUTHU!”

I remembered reading in a five-penny novel I borrowed somewhere between Portsmouth and Port Durban, a tale of a Texas Ranger in the American Wild West. A man named Jack Hayes, who in 1841 fought off ten Comanche Indians with his Colt navy pistol. These were the days of the single-shot muzzle-loading rifle. Hayes' firepower came as quite a shock to the Comanche Indians. HAYES' BIG FIGHT they called it. I didn’t know for sure, if my particular battle with the Zulu was destine to be immortalized in a pulp novel. TESSA'S BIG FIGHT? It was desperate just the same. Everything happened so fast. I have no specific recollections. I don't think I even felt the shock of the recoil. What I do remember is the bullets came so close together. Afterwards there was nothing but silence and the click, click, click, of the empty revolver. I didn't know it at the time, but I had just shot and killed four Zulus warriors bent on stealing our horses. Jack Hayes, I should imagine, had nothing on me.

I stood up, pulled up my breeches, and with all the dignity I could muster, I dusted myself off, buttoned my duty-blouse. I found my helmet, reloaded my revolver and surveyed the landscape. The Zulus were all dead. Burlingham, the horses, the much-coveted canteen, was nowhere to be seen. I was still alive, my virtue intact. It seemed I owed my life to Sargent Bourne and his .455 Webley revolver.

I found myself alone in the African bush, twenty-five miles west of the column. With no horses, no water, an unknown number of hostile Zulus in the area, and a desperate homicidal rapist in the form of private Burlingham on the loose.

* * *

"Claiborne, help me."

There it was again, I thought it must be a trick or a trap, Burlingham trying to lure me into a position where he could jump me and finish what he started. I was fearful of more Zulu attacks and I was afraid of Burlingham. I crouched there for three hours, occasionally I heard Burlingham cry out, and his wails became increasingly more plaintive. I did not answer him. I waited until the first rays of the African sunrise peeked from beyond the hills.

It was there between the rocks and a prickly pine, I found a groveling Davy Burlingham, he struck a pathetic figure lying there, miserable, utterly defeated, wallowing in a pool of blood. He had pissed himself.

"Claiborne, help me! I'm hurt, stuck like a pig."

"You are a pig Burlingham!" I kicked him hard in the ribs; he uttered a low groan and rolled over, his scarlet duty-blouse soaked in blood. He had this spear sticking out of his chest at a grotesque angle. I wasn't sorry, I was furious. "That's for what you done back there you fucker!"

"Don't hurt me Claiborne," Burlingham cowered, he threw up his hands to protect his face, he blubbered on incessantly. "For Gawd sakes Claiborne, have pity, can't you see I'm stuck!"

I squatted down to eye level “I-fuck’n-don’t-care!” I pushed the barrel of the Webley into his face, so close he could see the cylinder rotate as I pulled the hammer back; he could smell the spent black powder. “Tell me why I shouldn’t do us both a favor and blow your fuck’n brains out here and now?" I hissed.

"'Cuz you won't. You ain’t like that Claiborne." Burlingham allowed himself a weak chuckle, followed by a groan of intense pain. He was indeed stuck. I could see the broken shaft of the heavy Zulu stabbing spear protruding from his clavicle, the iron head was stuck deep. I did what I could. I pressed the bindings that had formally concealed my sex in an effort to staunch the bleeding. I feared the wound was mortal.

Like the doomed first thief on the cross, Burlingham was a sonofabitch to the last. “You know I’ll tell.”

“Shut-up Burlingham, if you tell or you don’t―it makes nary a difference to me. They may court-martial me, but I’ll have the final satisfaction of seeing you dance a merry jig at the end of a rope.”

Burlingham grimaced; more blood seeped from his wound. “I’ll tell . . .” Burlingham closed his eyes. “Claiborne, I don't suppose I could have that drink now?"

* * *

I was no doctor; it was plain to see Davy Burlingham was fucked-up. The iron blade of the Zulu stabbing spear was stuck fast, imbedded deep between the bones of his clavicle. I was at a loss of exactly what to do. If I pulled it out, (and there was never any question that it needed to come out), he could bleed to death. I hated Burlingham; I hated him with every fiber in my being. I could have left him for dead there in the African wilderness without even a twinge of moral conscience. Unfortunately, I was in charge, Burlingham was a soldier under my command. Besides, I had my own perverse reasons to keep him alive.

I knew he would rat me out, tell the command that I was a woman. He promised to do exactly that. There would be an investigation I was to be exposed. They would court-martial me; I didn’t exactly know what the penalty was for impersonating a man, and by extrapolation, impersonating an officer in the Queens army. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; it was my own problems were too pressing. Burlingham had struck me; he had assaulted me, while I held the Queens NCO. He tried to rape me. They could throw me in the stockade; they could line me up and shoot me. None of that mattered. I was determined not to allow Burlingham to die; he was not going to get away with what he had done.

All this weighed on my mind. I took stock of my situation. I had three Martini-Henry rifles, plenty of cartridges, my own revolver, and a wounded, useless Private Davy Burlingham, whom I now considered under arrest. I was alone; in the middle of the unforgiving African bush, dawn was just breaking. As it turned out the majority of my problems were both simply solved and instantly complicated all at the same time.

Burlingham continued his derisive babble, even with a two-foot iron spear sticking out of his chest; I his only possible salvation, he continued to seek ways to try to hurt me. “You know I wouldn’t really have busted you . . . you’re too ugly to fuck.”

“Shut-up Burlingham, you filth! I don’t want to talk to you.”

It was then I heard a familiar nicker. Good old Star. Good loyal Star, she came trotting back in the morning. Spooked, the Zulus had broken her loose of her picket line, like the loyal horse she was, she returned to me. With Star’s help, it was a simple matter to corral “Duke.” I now had my horses back; it seemed that I was not destine after all to die here of miserable thirst in the African bush.

I gave Davy Burlingham his drink. I cradled his head and let him have the first drink from the last canteen.

“We need to get that spear out. I can’t move you with that thing stuck in you.”

“Pull it out Claiborne, Gawd, its kill’n me, its grind’n me flesh!”

“No. Not just yet.” I couldn’t help but derive a certain schadenfreude pleasure from his suffering. However satisfying I found Burlingham’s agony, my main concern was the completion of my mission, to find Hendricks’ station, to report to Major Steele. In order to do that, I need to reconnoiter first. “I think we’re very close to Hendricks’ station. If I can find Hendricks’ station there’s water there, we can hole up there, pull out that spear . . .”

“Don’t leave me Claiborne!”

“Burlingham, three hours ago you were gonna fuck’n rape me. Don’t tell me what to do now.” I checked the Martini, it was loaded. Against my better judgment, I left him with a loaded rifle. “Okay, you’re locked and loaded; I’ll be back in an hour.” I figured he wasn’t all that dangerous, lying there with a spear stuck in him like a prized Christmas turkey.

Burlingham continued to blubber like a little child lost. “CLAIBORNE!”

God I hated him.

As it turned out, either by dumb luck, dead reckoning or perhaps I wasn’t quite as stupid as I imagined, Hendricks’ station was just beyond the next rise. I rode up to the Hendricks’ station, my Martini in my hand. Smoke continued to rise from the mud-brick rondavel farmhouse. I could see dead bodies strewn about the kraal, mother, father, children. No Zulu bodies, the Zulu always carried off their dead. These were the Boer farmers, all dead. The aftermath of the massacre was some twenty-four hours old.

* * *