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.

* * *