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 characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 18

ZULU DAWN

I SET OUT ON MY TREK, my great adventure part two with the greatest of all appre- hensions. My loyalties were divided, on the one hand, I knew what had to be done, I knew the lessons my Papa had taught me. On the other hand, my natural desire to survive, to return to my unit, to my life, to the arms of my Henry was undeniably strong. When I signed up for this soldiering, it was because I was hungry and destitute. I never bargained that I'd be expected to be brave. I'm no hero, I am just a plain Welsh girl, believe me, I had no desire to get myself topped off, especially not for the likes of Davy Burlingham.

I hated Davy Burlingham. I don't want there to be any misunderstanding on this point. Private Burlingham was a malingering miscreant, a malcontent, he assaulted me, tried to murder me—tried to rape me. To take from me the one thing, I a woman, promised my husband, my Henry. No, there was no love lost between Burlingham and me. I hated him more than I hated Mr. Squeers who abducted me, and sold me into involuntary servitude. I hated him more than I hated Mr. Smith, who stood by and did nothing as poor Lilly lay dyeing, squashed and mangled in the mill-works of the no. 64. I hated him more than I hated Mr. Crowley who beat me with his cruel truncheon and made me shovel shit. I know it wasn't Christian to hold a grudge or be unforgiving, yet the undeniable truth was I hated Burlingham more than all of them people what done me wrong.

Now, I found myself on a collision course, hell bent on a rescue mission. What wicked set of perverted circumstances could have launched me on this course of action? I found myself compelled to rescue the one person in the entire world, that I hated most. I should kill him myself, I could! Worse yet, the odds were not exactly in my favor. I was just one person, a girl no less, not even a big girl at that. Four months shy of my fourteenth birthday, what did I know about hunting Zulus? I was no backwoodsman tracker. There were at least thirteen Zulus. I counted their tracks. One of the Zulus, the inDuma, a chieftain, had a musket! However inaccurate, this represented an unprecedented level of threat that could not be discounted. I had one horse, one canteen, one rifle, well, more precisely a cavalry-carbine, one pistol and a couple of dozen rounds of ammunition. What exactly was it I was planning to do? I did not know.

To compound my comedy of errors, my arrogance my bullheaded stupidity, I failed to face up to the fact I was no Henry Stanley; considering the measure of trouble I had finding Hendricks' station, (and that was with map and compass!) I think my ability to track my enemy teetered somewhere between rudimentary dumb-luck and non-existent. Undaunted, I set out in the general direction my quarry had fled. I knew which way was South, and South led to Ulundi. I suppose at this point I was partially deluded. I figured if I set out, made a jolly good show, took a shot at a noble cause, and after a few hours when confronted with defeat, I could happily give up, turn back. Confident in the knowledge, Well, at least I tried. No such luck, as it turned out, in the pristine, smooth, sand of the South African bush. There was nothing easier to track than a War impi of thirteen Zulus on the march. I followed them without interruption for twenty-five miles.

You have to understand. The Zulus had no interest in concealing their movements. Within the context of the history of all of South Africa, the Zulus were the absolute masters of their domain. They feared no one, there was no force, people, tribe or civilization that had yet to oppose them that the Zulus had not only defeated, but utterly annihilated. All this was about to change, the Zulus had never faced a foe armed with a .455 Martini-Henry . . . when I say this, I certainly in no way am talking about me, one lonely girl lost in the forlorn desert of Africa. What I mean to assert is the army, the Queen's Army, Lord Chelmsford's Army with their horses, rifles, cannon and bombs. Yet it seems even this mighty host, had at least one humbling lesson to learn at the hands of the Zulu.

As it turned out all my fears were at once justified and unfounded. The Zulu's it seemed were quite human. This particular war impi, bloodied, wounded, stung by my rifle fire, it seemed had enough. They were in no hurry to join up with their main force. This fact lurked in the back of my head, I knew if I followed them long enough, I just might find the main impi, armed with this crucial information I could then return to the Central column and report to Captain Fredrickson.

I should pause to explain, when on the move, the Zulus carry nothing with them in the field, no rations, no equipment except their assorted weapons and ubiquitous buffalo-hide shields. The Zulus represent the absolute ultimate light infantry. Following behind, is a baggage train of sorts, consisting of a number of young boys ranging in age from 10 to 15 years-of-age, udibi boys, carried all the necessary water and provisions, sometimes driving a small herd of cattle. The udibi boys also had charge of the calabashes of beer, cooking utensils and sleeping mats, all the necessities to sustain an army in the field.

Ah, yes, let's not forget about the beer. The Zulus made this sort of sour drink, uTshwala, a thick, creamy sorghum beer, which is especially rich in nutrients and formed a staple part of their diet. A bullock was slaughtered; the Zulus were a cattle culture and as such, beef composed a large part of their diet. It was just my luck, the Zulus stopped to eat and rest. That was when I caught up with them.

Roast beef, turned slowly on a spit, the smell of fat dripping into the fire hung tantalizingly in the air. I myself was not so well fed, my belly growled. I made a poor bivouac the night before, no fire, no tea, no blanket, just me under the African sky and a couple of squares of ship biscuits. I examined the three by three inch cracker, tapped it expectantly, it did not yield, it made a high clear sound, something akin to striking a piece of stone. Forty-nine evenly spaced holes, the biscuit was clearly marked with the baker's name Spillers & Bakers. I snickered, if I were responsible for such an atrocious culinary blight, I'm not sure I would have been so eager to stamp my name on my creation. I nibbled a corner; they lived up to their name, they were hard, tasteless, entirely inedible and indestructible, hence the perfect Army food.

I crept forward on the Zulu camp with a sense of purpose, tenacity that when I look back on it, surprises me even to this day. I don't think it was so much raw courage that drove me forward, or even a sense of duty. Believe me, the notion that I was about to get into an unpleasant situation where I could get myself topped, was very much on my mind. No, the explanation was far simpler, there was too much of my Papa in me. I wasn't a quitter, I wasn't what you might call courageous, what I did possess in an over abundance was plain old Welsh bullheaded stubbornness.

♫ Men of Harlech on to glory
This will ever be your story
Keep these burning words before ye
Welshmen will not yield. ♫

I ensconced myself behind a boulder; it turned out later not to be a boulder at all, but a termite mound, (more on that later). I was determined to have a butcher's, I counted thirteen drunken Zulus and one loud-mouthed, un-cooperative, paranoid and self-deluded prisoner; I grimaced at my prospects. I considered my options; I couldn't overwhelm them with firepower that seemed clear, even with the advantage of surprise. Oh, sure, I could top three or four of them, but not all of them, not before the rest of the lot rushed me, then I'd have the devil to pay. No, stealth was my only option. I took my off my boots, I stripped off my shell jacket, my duty blouse, my trousers. I stripped down to my skivvies, except for a smear of grease, I felt almost as unencumbered as in the old days crawling under the mill-works of WSPFS. I left behind my rifle, all my clothes, everything tied up neat in a bundle with Star. I took only the bayonet and the Webley . . . I took the Webley knowing, if things went tits up, if I needed it, if I needed it at all; it was for myself . . . Still I crept forward.

As I lay there, on the rise, I watched in a combination of fascination and horror. It seemed I had interrupted a great celebration. I watched as the Zulus dance their devil widdershins dance, their naked black feet stamped in unison churning up the dust. That was when I realized much to my chagrin; that Burlingham was still very much alive. What were they up too? I imagined all sorts of fantastic deviltry. Images of cannibals and a great boiling cauldron with Davy Burlingham bubbling up to his neck in carrots and onions, all the while surrounded by a convulsing horde of naked black savages; these are the thoughts that went through my head. None of this was true. It seemed I had stereotypes of natives of South Africa confused with Captain Cook and his tales of savage New Guinea. As it turned out the Zulus were far more noble, sophisticated and fearsome than any comic tales of headhunters, profane witchdoctors and cannibals I might have imagined. As the drunken Zulus continued their frenzied celebration, it seemed clear to me that Burlingham's inclusion inched ever closer to taking center stage.

I had no time to lose.

* * *

AS I LAY THERE WATCHING IN ABJECT FASCINATION. I wasn't so much worried about the inDuma and his musket, or the warriors who lay about in a drunken stupor, gorged on huge joints of roast beef, as I was the ordinary udibi boys, who were not allowed to partake in the drunken celebration. Not only were the udibi boys inconveniently not fed, worse yet they were not drunk. Fortunately, for me, they were a lazy lot, and with their warrior masters all plastered, the lads took to themselves.

I seized my chance. My plan, my objective, of stealing into the Zulu camp and retrieving my solider was inexplicably, unexpectedly, irrevocably interrupted. I discounted it at first; slowly I became aware of an imperceptible disquieting sensation in my knickers. I thought at first I had to pee (Blast! Not now, I don't have time for that). Then a fanny itch, all at once I was beset with a monstrous crawling sensation. To my abject horror, I realized I was on an ant hill! I had ants crawling in my knickers! Termites really, as to the exact species, at that exact moment, I could have cared less. I was horrified! All I could think about was Burlingham and his terrifying travails, the images of being staked out, my naked flesh boiling in the unrelenting fury of the African sun. His horror stories of my body eaten alive by ants. It was all too much. It wasn't my imagination either. They bit my flesh; I was besieged with a host of stinging, biting, insects that crawled into places that modesty belies description.

I swatted, scooted, I dug my hand in the waistband of my knickers. I muffled a scream. It was the most horrifying experience of my life! If the Zulus hadn't been drunk as Lords, gorged from their feast, I'm sure I must have given myself away. I slid down the embankment in a cascade of gravel and dirt in full retreat. My remaining scraps of clothes flew with wanton abandonment, before I knew it; I was standing in the desert dirt of Africa naked as a jaybird, seething, covered in tiny red welts. Burlingham's words about being “Eaten by ants” rattled in my brain. I can't do this!

Then the rains came. It started as a solitary heavy drop that struck the nape of my neck and ran down as a cold rivulet tracing the length of my naked spine. Only telltale little spatters at first, making minute craters in the desert sand, the ants, they were smarter than I, they knew what was coming and made a hasty retreated, they made for cover. I was very much glad to be rid of them. It was then that the heavens opened up, a flash of lightning, a crack of thunder, and then it began to bucket down. I stood there in my gully, naked; my tormentors were gone, washed away, I lifted up my arms, the rain fell in great drops against my face, soaked my body, I was deluged in the most glorious downpour.

The Zulus, fortunately were lousy sods, at least as smart as ants, they too didn't much like being rained on, they took cover in a crude bivouac of sorts under a solitary red Syringa tree. The rains continued, unrelenting, transforming from a pleasant midnight shower to a cold driving downpour. I was soaked to the bone. By this time I was starting to shiver. As miserable as I was, I knew this rain was Gods way of providing me the opportunity that I needed. I didn't tarry, I couldn't waste this one chance. I crawled on my belly in the mud up over the rise, the rain spattered my face. I could see him, not ten yards away, a pathetic figure, neglected, dejected, shivering. I think he might have been crying. I felt sorry for him. If I was going to do this thing, I was going to do it now.

I pounced.

I think I surprised the hell out of him, poor devil. Considering his fate, being boiled alive or tied out for the ants, I must have appeared as an angel.

“Blimey O'Reily! . . . Hmmpf . . .” I clamped my hand over his mouth, I pressed down so hard across his blathering pie-hole; I'm sure he genuinely thought I was intent on suffocating him. That mouth! I swear he had a bell in every tooth! That mouth was destined to get us both killed. I pushed the razor sharp point of the lunger down in between the knots. There was a lightning flash. The whiteness of my flesh contrasted sharply in the darkness amidst the pale sparks of the campfire; my naked chest hovered over his face, matter-of-factly, unashamed . . . It was only then, I realized in my fluster over the ants combined with my impetuosity. I had entirely neglected to put my clothes back on. Shit! Well, Bob's my uncle now.

“Shut up!” I hissed, “SARGENT CLAIBORNE! If you want to live—Do exactly as I say!” Burlingham jerked; he was wild-eyed, unpredictable, a coiled spring ready to snap. I sawed; I sliced frantically at his hemp bonds, while keeping one eye on Burlingham and another on the Zulus. The drunken Zulus, fortunately, all sought shelter from the downpour, huddled under a solitary tree they did not stir. Nor did they take notice of a lone white-girl with a bayonet about to free their captive. In all the confusion, I don't think Burlingham had quite figured out that with the exception of my wedding ring, my rain soaked hair and a cursory slathering of mud, I was, completely naked.

“Watch it! You Berkshire hunt!" Naked or otherwise, Burlingham recognized it was me, who else could it be? Who else in this entire cocked-up world gave even so much as a rat's ass if he lived or died? Undeterred, I might even go as far as to say emboldened, he wasted no time in dishing out his insults.

I had no time to banter words with Burlingham. The last coils of the Zulu hemp fell away; I grabbed him savagely by the hand and half dragged, half pushed him in a desperate scramble up and over the termite mound embankment. We still had another two hundred yard run, it was then the rains stopped, the clouds broke, there in the light of the full African moon; Burlingham got the full Monty. Not just my naked backside. He jerked me around and I faced him. I wasn't particularly ashamed. I was there; it couldn't have been less erotic, it was a purely matter-of-fact moment. I was naked; I clutched him by the arm, there I was a thirteen-year-old girl, covered in mud, a twenty-one-inch socketed bayonet gripped in one hand, and a .455 Webley dangled by a lanyard around my neck. Other than that, there's not much else to say—I was naked.

I stood in front of him; I let him have a good look, my chest heaved. “Are you satisfied? You act like you've never seen a girl naked before?”

Burlingham cracked his shit-eating-grin, he was beaten, bloodied, one eye was swollen shut. For a man who faced death by hanging or being eaten by ants at the hands of his Zulu captors, he was enjoying himself way too much, “Dis be duh first time fer you Sarge. Mm-Mmm, I'll say one thang fer sure, you iz one fine look'n piece of quinny . . . did I ever tell you how much I love a girl covered in mud?”

“Shut the fuck up, Burlingham! Move-it! That's an order, double-time, you big dumb Liverpool dolt!”

Once back at the prickly brier, I wasted no time in getting dressed. You might think common courtesy, the decent gentlemanly thing to do was to turn your back, offer a girl a bit of privacy. Oh, no, Burlingham, he was such a cad, he stood right there and watched, he watched me get dressed, enjoying every minute.

"Oh mama, wat a crack'n leetle blighter you turned out to be! Now ain't we just about the finest look-see," Burlingham leered.

My face burned hot, now I felt embarrassed. I wanted to just die right then and there. I clutched a desperate scrap of clothing to my breasts and shot him a 'look.' Everything, all of it—came crashing down all at once. Instead of feeling gratification for what I had done. I once again felt violated, dirty. I was covered in mud to be sure, I was a naked girl. I had done what I had done because it needed to be done. Yet Burlingham possessed this knack for making me feel dirty well beyond the kind of filth that could be washed away with ordinary soap and water. I told him to Bog-off! I shook out my knickers; making double sure they were free of any nettlesome stinging insects. I hurried to pull up my trousers and button my duty-blouse. Burlingham, he had enjoyed himself for the last time. I suppose what bothered me most was not his complete lack of gratitude, (I expected none). It was the way he was able to manipulate the situation, turn my desperate action on the Zulu camp from triumph to personal humiliation. He was such a fuck'n pervert, gawd how I hated him!

I retrieved my rifle from Star, I couldn't be bothered with Burlingham and his prurient peek show, I had Zulus to consider.

* * *

"WE RIDE DOUBLE! I swear to God Burlingham—if you touch anything that isn't a belt or a buckle, I will shove you off this horse and leave you to the Zulus!” Burlingham didn't test me.

“USSUTHU!” The Zulus came. They boiled up out of their hole like a black swarm of angry hornets. I heard the deadly “strike-click” followed by an explosion, a musket ball slammed into the earthen berm far too close for comfort. I brandished the Martini, cocked and returned fire. I wasn't going to wait for the rain of assegais. I wielded Star around. She was a good strong horse, and even though I wasn’t very heavy, with the extra burden she was sluggish.

I did not intend to make a stand, not here, not now. Instead, I did what the Zulus least expected, I made an end run around the main war impi and charged strait towards the baggage train. Napoleon once said, “An army marches on its stomach.” It was useless, no matter how many Zulu I killed they would pursue me remorselessly, to the ends of the earth. I calculated if I attacked the udibi boys instead, if I destroyed the Zulu’s ability to sustain themselves in the field, then they couldn't follow. I was grim faced; I knew what I had to do. I didn't feel good about myself, I told myself this is war, this is survival.

I shot the first udibi boy at twenty-five yards. I systematically killed all the cattle. Star trampled the remaining supplies. I drew my revolver and road up and down and shot the udibi boys one at a time at close range. I felt sick to my stomach. I killed them all—all but the last littlest boy, he couldn't have been more than ten-years-old. He had the most beautiful liquid brown eyes; he wasn't any older than what my brother, my Daniel was back home in Wales. I pointed the revolver straight in his face, then I lowered the weapon, released the hammer. I was the devil. There are limits to war.

Burlingham was unmoved by my merciless slaughter. To him they amounted to nothing more than worthless blacks. (I knew better). I felt worse than I'd ever felt in my life. I was angry with Lieutenant Governor Sir Henry Bartle Frere, I was angry with the Zulu King Cetshwayo, I was angry with Lord Chelmsford, Major Steele and Captain Fredrickson. Blast! I was angry at this whole bloody filthy stupid war! However, most of all, I was angry with myself for what murder I had just done.

The war changed me, almost getting myself killed changed me. I did a lot of growing up during those desolate days spent alone in the desert, and I’m not sure I liked the person I had become. Burlingham sensed my trepidation; he was never one to miss an opportunity to stick a dagger in my soul. If I didn’t already feel bad enough, Burlingham found a way to make me feel worse.

“Blimey! Claiborne! You jest shot dem lads down lik dogs! You iz one mean cunty bitch!”

“Don’t you forget it!” I knew what I had done.

We found Duke, big, dumb, stupid Duke. Content, com- placent Duke, completely happy with whatever master fed him. I summarily shoved Burlingham off my mount.

“Get on your own Goddamn horse!”

* * *

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT didn't come as a surprise, not even to me, not this time. You might assume after topping half-a-dozen teenage boys—that the killing, shooting in the back even, of one miscreant, malingering, quisling was not enough to even give me pause. I had every right to shoot him under article 36 of the military code; Burlingham could now add desertion in the face of the enemy to his résumé of sordid crimes and misdemeanors. Yet, I did hesitate, I didn't shoot him. I could have, I should have, I didn't. I didn't even raise my rifle. I let him go.

Why?

I don't know what power stayed my hand . . . I suppose at this point, for whatever reason, I was too emotionally (physically) exhausted to do anymore. I felt confused, all muddled in my head. My relationship to Davy Burlingham was complicated, tumultuous without saying a lot. Burlingham; he was my perfect personal foil. What had me all in a conundrum was this nagging little voice in the back of my head that dared to imply (suggest) I might even have feelings for him. Bollocks! The mere thought of infidelity sickened me. I put those thoughts right out of my head, (however immoral, improbable, I couldn't deny my illicit thoughts.) Like some garish painting that hung in a gallery, no critic dared to say it was ugly, and yet you'd paid too much money at auction to hate, those wicked thoughts retuned. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get them out of my head. What's worse was the ugly little fact that my impromptu “naked” rescue of Burlingham perhaps was not quite the happenstance I once led myself to believe.

I came to the unalterable conclusion; I wanted him to see me naked. Worse yet, did I like it? Oh, Tessa . . . What have you done?

Henry, I love you.

I bit my lip. I was ashamed; I was more confused than ever. This couldn't be happening to me! I remembered my best mate Marty, I had feelings for him too, feeling that may have transgressed beyond the bounds of our platonic relationship. Ultimately, I suppose the truth lay somewhere, in-between, if I could only figure out my true feelings. Burlingham and I; we were this odd couple, locked in a quarrelsome symbiotic feud. The more he abused me, disrespected me, the more resolute I became in my determination to break him, to bring him to heal, to make him say he was sorry for what wrong he had done me. Shooting him in the back of the head, that's what was never going to satisfy me.

“PISS OFF YA LEETLE BLIGHTER!”

Duke was a stronger horse than Star. I did not pursue. I watched Burlingham push off, he had no food; he had no water or rifle. I was certain this was the last I was ever to see of his sorry ass. I rode hard until dawn; I wanted to put as much distance between me and the Zulus as possible. The sun was well on to ten O’clock before I felt safe enough to stop. I poured half of what water I had into my hat and offered it to Star; I took only a sip for myself, a nibble of hard tack for breakfast. I checked Mrh. Hendricks’ pocket watch against the sun. Once I knew for certain which way was East, I headed back towards the Buffalo River, back to the Central column, back to Captain Fredrickson and my unit. I had no idea I had been gone for so long. I passed into the New Year. It was January 1879.

DAKOTA FANNING, Child-star no more

Where has our time gone? It seemed only yesterday, Dakota was nine-years-old. Where is my adorable little Dakota from "I AM SAM?" *sigh* they grow up so (too) fast. Dakota too has grown up; she has become quite the lovely young woman. This picture was taken two days ago; Dakota is in LAX returning from North Carolina where filming “THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES” completed principal photography. Today is Dakota’s fourteenth birthday; I couldn’t let this day go by without at least wishing Dakota a Happy Birthday! Dakota you bring me so much happiness. We look forward to your return to the silver screen in 2008!

Dakota Tide commerical

 

Dakota in TAKEN 2001

Dakota on Letterman 2002

Dakota in ACROSS THE UNIVERSE video

TESSA CLAIBORNE

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 characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 17

TESSA’S CHOICE


THERE IN THE SUN-BAKED African earth of Hendricks’ station I lay sprawled in a forlorn heap surrounded by dust—literally turfed out the door of my own castle, the people had risen up and deposed of their monarch in a coup d’état of one. It’s funny; as I lay there, I didn't feel all that afraid. I felt foolish, angry, betrayed and abandoned. As for fear, that’s the one emotion I did not have. I did have the presence of mind to look around me to make sure I wasn't about to be stabbed to death. The Zulus miraculously were gone.

I'm not exactly sure, how long I sat there, a long time I suppose. Long enough for Burlingham to get all-grotty with me, he yelled at me to BUGGER-OFF! Pffft, I scoffed. As if he genuinely thought, he owned the front yard too! The bastard was sure to get his in the end; God could not be so unjust. I took stock of my situation. I didn't seem to be hurt (well, not physically anyway). I found being tossed out the door on my arse, summarily sitting there in squalid dirt a humbling emotional catharsis. I felt a little bit surprised, quite a bit foolish. However, mostly, peculiarly, I found myself feeling sorry for Davy Burlingham. It must be a terrible burden to be so selfish, cowardly, and self-centered. To live ones life so evilly narcissistic that the only person you thought of was yourself. I couldn't imagine living life burdened with such travails.

Such was my misery my soul ached. I missed my Henry; my beloved, shy, insecure Henry. Its funny how things work out, Henry, he initially was my biggest detractor, he dismissed my idea of joining the army, after all, I was nothing but a girl. Sargent Bourne on the other hand, he had other ideas; he recognized, I had a natural talent for this soldiering. How could anyone have known? Six months later, I found myself in Natal, South Africa, twenty-five miles west of the Central column; knee-deep-in-the-dead, a Sargent in the Queen's army.

I remember reading in my sixth-term classroom, a quote from the play JULIUS CAESAR: A coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave die but one. My teacher, did not expound on this passage, I don't think she understood or even comprehended the profundity of these words. I found it was left to me, sitting in the dirt of Africa to learn the answer for myself; with a crystal clarity, I understood the words of William Shakespeare. Burlingham, he was a miserable wretched creature—if I died, at least I died honorably, knowing I had done my duty.

Even though this wasn't my first reconnoiter, I was officially over due. I couldn't help but wondered if Captain Fredrickson even considered me missing? For whatever the reason, I certainly did possess a knack for getting myself into predicaments, even though the conflagrant particulars were never my fault. The fall-out, the repercussions, the consequences of whole bloody rot was forever left for me to clean up. I caught myself longing for the days when my life was simple, the shilling, the Sunday afternoon walks to the fire station, Domino, the comfort of my snug bed at WSPFS; the reassuring softness of Sally, her warm flesh cuddled beside mine.

Davy Burlingham, he had done me in this time for sure. My hand slipped under my duty-blouse, my chest ached where he kicked me. I know I don't have much, but what I had sure did hurt. I didn't like being a victim, why did I always let him do these things to me? I couldn't comprehend how anyone could be so cruel and hateful. I was so angry I spat and spat, my mouth was full of grit, I was so parched, no spit came. Well, this was getting me nowhere fast. I didn't have time to wallow there feeling sorry for myself.

All right, Tessa, what to do now? On your feet soldier!

I should think the exact level of military catastrophe confronting me might very well have confounded the combined talents of Alexander, Napoleon and Wellington. After risking my life—I saved his life. (Remember that?) I pulled that god-cursed spear out of his chest. I sat beside him, I nursed him, I even held his tally whacker so he could pee. What had Burlingham done for me in return? He choked me, assaulted me, tried to rape and murder me. All this after I ran the gauntlet to retrieve the weapons, Burlingham still had the brass bollocks to toss me out on my ear.

Somehow, I found all of this surprising.

My real problem was my soldier; Davy Burlingham was holed up in a fortress. I was left outside, I was vulnerable. That was exactly what he intended. I amounted to nothing more than Zulu bait. From Burlingham perspective if the Zulus came again, now, with virtually unlimited ammunition, he could shoot them down at his leisure. If I was killed, that was of little consequence. My legitimate death at the hands of the Zulus was a bonus. He could report to Captain Fredrickson how he fought a desperate engagement. How Sargent Claiborne was tragically killed. Instead of a hangman’s noose, the bastard was sure to get a medal.

Out in the open, the Zulus were sure to kill me. The Zulus, they would descend on me like a chick on a June bug. To kill a British soldier, to Wash their Spears, this was the all-consuming objective of every Zulu warrior. With their blood lust sated—with me dead. The war party could then move on, leaving Burlingham to his own devices. Exactly how he thought he was going to make it back to the Central column without me, without horses, I’m sure he had not thought that far ahead.

I for one did not intend to participate in his fantastic narrative. I didn't even trouble him to open the door. He'd done me wrong, and he knew it. I loathe to subject myself to groveling to the likes of Davy Burlingham. I wasn't going to plead; I wasn't going to beg. I had my pride. I'm sure this course of action disappointed him mightily. Even now, he was sitting in the storehouse licking his chops waiting for me to bang on the door, wail, shout, scream. All because I was a girl, he persisted in perceiving me as weak and stupid. Burlingham, of course was in his glory, he'd call me a "Little Blighter" and say something smug like "NOT BY THE HAIR OF MY CHINNY, CHIN, CHIN" or some such tommyrot. I did not oblige him; I did not allow him the pleasure. To that end, I picked myself up and fled.

It's curious how things work out. Fifteen minutes ago, I was in anguish, I was in tears over the apparent loss of the rifle. Now my seeming carelessness, my incompetence, turned out to be my salvation. I seized the neglected carbine from the Hendricks' yard. I had cartridges in my pockets; I was once again well armed. I scampered to the safety of the barn, the one place I thought I could make a stand. My strategy was to make myself scarce. I knew Burlingham in his paranoia was sure to persist in making a spectacle out of himself, incurring the Zulu wrath by shooting at anything that moved. If I held my fire, the Zulus might very well forget about one very small girl holed up in the barn.

I buried myself in the haymow. For the next six hours, I listened to the intermittent crackle of rifle fire. However improbable, I think I must have fallen a sleep. I woke with a start, afflicted with a raging thirst. I checked Mrh. Hendricks’ pocket watch. It was well on to nine pm. Dusk was starting to settle; the Zulu’s seldom persisted in attacks after dark. I crawled out of the safety of the haymow. There was a glorious moonrise. The night stars were just creeping out from the last retreating shadows of the setting sun. It was a perfect twilight. The first thing I noticed was there were no additional Zulu bodies. This didn’t surprise me, as the Zulu always drag away their own dead. I had killed half-a-dozen in their initial assault, a couple of more bodies were strewn about, those were the same ones I had killed myself that afternoon. Despite a constant din of rifle fire from the storehouse. Burlingham had not succeeded in killing a single Zulu. Were the Zulus gone?

My answer came in the form of fire. Smoke more precicely. As I said before, the Zulus are not stupid people. Brave, fanatical at times, they do not throw their lives away carelessly by charging headlong into accurate rifle fire. The Zulus quickly adapt, change their tactics. The storehouse with its many blind spots was even more vulnerable due to its thatched roof. The clever Zulus simply kept the rifleman busy with faints all during the long afternoon. They waited for nightfall, and then they simply set the roof alight. Fire was sure to do the rest. I heard my name.

“CLAIBORNE! Duh niggahs, dey’s burn’n me alive! Help me Claiborne!”

Déjà vu, in a surreal moment of gallows humor, at first I snickered, then I succumbed to outright laughter. After all he'd done to me; he still had the brass bollocks to expect me to pull his fat out of the frying pan. From my vantage point, I watched the storehouse go up in a catastrophic blaze. I watched the thatch roof burn; it could only be a matter of minutes. I counted the seconds. The roof sagged a bit, and started to collapse. I watched in horror; That could have been me. Burlingham, he burst out of the storehouse door in a fit of panicked rage. I believe he may have caught fire. Five Zulus ambushed him almost straight away. He lunged, he feinted, he parried. The Zulus crushed him by shear weight of numbers. They beat him with their knobkerries, a sort of wooden mace. I was sure he was dead.

I heard a strike-click; followed by an almost imperceptible delay as gunpowder hissed in the frizzen, then KABOOM! The muzzle flash sent a shower of sparks into the air. One of the Zulus had a flintlock musket; the shock value succeeded in halting the killing frenzy. The lower ranked Zulus poised to beat and stab Burlingham to death, scattered. The Chieftain took charge of the prisoner. I watched; I did not intervene. I heard many angry voices, they were arguing. It was obvious that there was some division in the ranks. There is no word in the Bantu language for “English solider,” so the Zulus simply borrowed from the Afrikaans and called us what the Boers called us, Redcoats. He was an English soldier, this they understood, he was more valuable to them alive than dead. They intended to take him back to the Royal Kraal at Ulundi and present him to King Cetshwayo himself.

“Claiborne! ‘ elp me Claiborne, I knows yous der! Dey's kill'n me! Don't let dem kill me! I don't want to die! Fer gawd sakes Claiborne! HELP ME!”. . . Burlingham continued to call my name; his cries grew faint until his voice trailed off into the darkness. He was as good as dead, carted off to feed the ants, or whatever gruesome fate awaited him. I didn't care.

After all, he’d done to me; did he really expect me to save him? Fuck him! I didn’t care.

The problem was I did care. He was my soldier, he was my responsibility. Goddamn him! Goddamn him all to hell! Why couldn’t he just buck-up and die like a man? Oh, no, he had to go and get himself captured—trussed up and carted off like a prized Christmas goose. Once again, Burlingham had succeeded in creating a mess and it was left to me to clean-up the bloody rot!

The Zulus were gone. For the next two hours, I sat in the haymow in the failing light of the burning storehouse. I listened to the steady pop, pop, pop as the ammunition cooked off, I imagined my spyglass, maps, compass all my kit burned to a cinder. I located a lantern; I dared to make a light. For the first time, I had the presence of mind to examine my stomach where the Zulu stabbed me, just below my bellybutton, exactly where the pockets of my shell jacket over-lapped my belt-line, was a pink welt. Otherwise, I was unharmed. I removed the packet of ammunition that had saved my life. The short chamber boxer-Henry cartridge was solidly constructed of rolled brass, the size of a man’s index finger, I was awestruck the first time I saw one. The bullet its self weighed nearly a quarter of an ounce and could stop a Zulu dead in his tracks at four hundred yards. These cartridges, my lucky cartridges, clearly showed where the broad iron spear point struck. They were pieced, crumpled, mangled and bent. I held them in my hand in wonder; This is what had saved my life.

My thirst was such, my dehydration had reached such a deplorable state, I was certain I was no longer thinking clearly. It had been eight hours or more, since I'd had so much as a sip. Self-preservation trumped any fear of a renewed Zulu attack. If I died of thirst, it was no different than a spear point. I crept to the pump in the center of the yard. They say horses can smell water. This is true; I suspect the same must be true of people. I was so thirsty, I wasn't very careful. I should imagine I failed "Gideon's Test."

At first I only washed my face and hands, the water felt so good, I took off my shell jacket and pulled back the collar on my duty-blouse, before I knew it, I had plunged my whole head under the gushing torrent, I let the cold water stream over my head washing away my tears, anger and sorrow along with a considerable amount of smudge and smoke. I shook my head dry like a shaggy dog. I'M STILL ALIVE! I shouted, whooped and screamed and stuck my head under the pump again. The cold water was exhilarating, my mind was clear again. Sitting there by the pump, under the glorious twilight of the night sky, I contemplated what to do next. There In the shadows of the dying embers of the storehouse, I did something that surprised even me. Up to this point, I had worked hard to maintain the fragile façade that I was a boy. I don't know what possessed me to do such a foolish and dangerous thing. I did it anyway; I took my wedding ring off from the chain around my neck. I carefully placed it on my finger. If I died in the next few hours, I wanted to die close to my Henry.

“I love you Henry . . .”

This was my own private little rebellion against what I considered an ignominious injustice. The irony of my situation was I was a girl pretending to be a boy. I was considered unworthy to perform anything but the most menial of task; I had my choice, bar wench, washerwoman, factory worker or worse. Here in the Army, I was a man. I had respect, authority, and responsibility. I held the Queen's NCO. I couldn't help but feel resentment towards a society that held my sex in such low esteem. Was I not the same person?

In 1874, there was an accident in the deep pit of Abernant Colliery one of the many pits owned and operated by the Powell Duffryn Steam Coal Company Ltd., where my Papa, Robert Chard Claiborne worked as a shift supervisor.

I still remember the day, I was nine-years-old. The shrill sound of the emergency whistle shook the foundation of the town of Glamorganshire. Mama stopped washing the dishes and Mama never stopped doing anything she put her hand to. She wiped her hands on her apron; I watched as Mama ran to the door. All the other women-folk of the town came to their doors as well, every wife and mother in the whole town looked in the direction of the mine. There was a panic. All the grownups were screaming and yelling it seemed the complacent fabric of the sleepy shire was torn asunder. Nothing but pandemonium as friends and family alike dropped whatever it was they were doing and ran towards the pit. I was so frightened. I heard words I'd never heard before, words like “fire” and “collapse.” I didn't understand what was happening, I knew it was something bad, something terrible. Papa, he was missing—for hours, we waited for news in front of the Mine Director's office. Mama sat up all night.

Two terrible days past while we waited. Papa, he finally emerged from the pit, blackened, hungry and tired; all his men were with him alive! Papa led his men to safety. I knew he would come home! Later, when I asked him about it, he told me there was a fire the choking smoke was terrible. However, he couldn't leave his men. He found a pocket of fresh air; they say he braved the smoke and flames and went back three times, until all his men were safe. For two days and a night, he and his men huddled there in the blackest of black until the fire burnt its self out. When I asked him WHY, why he went back . . . Papa only chuckled.

“Come here lamb,” Papa, he took me on his lap, I felt safe in his broad powerful arms. He hugged me tight, smoothed my hair; I looked into his brave honest face, perpetually creased with the black from the pit. Papa's one good eye twinkled; he smiled that jolly Welsh smile of his. What he told me left me puzzled. At nine-years-old, I didn't understand.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

There under the full moon of the African sky, I remembered Papa's words. My hand slipped to the sleeve of my shell jacket, my fingers explored the stitching, the three chevrons of my Sergeant's stripes. I was a Sargent in the Queen's Army; I considered my responsibility, my duty. My conundrum, my puzzlement was such I didn't know what to do. Well, that wasn't exactly true; I knew WHAT to do, I just didn't want to do it—that was all. I sat there for a good hour wrestling with my conscience. I wracked my brain in a self-deluding effort to find a reason, any pretext; any excuse no matter how small in postponing, avoiding, or even outright shirking the obvious. My alternative seemed so clear. I could just walk out.

“Don't be so earnest all the time Tessa, consider yourself for once. You can just walk out.” I startled myself by the sound of my own bitterness.

I found myself half-way persuaded by my own argument. Afterall, I was healthy, it was as a twenty-five mile walk; if I set out in the morning, with any luck I could reach the Buffalo river and safety in two days. Burlingham, he was of no concern of mine; I owed him nothing. It was too late for him; he was as good as dead. Who was I trying to fool? My brain twisted and turned like a steel-head trout on a line, I was caught. No matter how many excuses I contrived to convince myself otherwise, ultimately in my heart, I knew I only had one choice. Tessa's choice.

The Zulus had my soldier; they had my property. One Davy Burlingham and I for one wanted him back. I hefted my rifle; a grim resolve came over me, then a calm confidence, I was finally at peace. I worked the loading lever, what was I waiting for? It was time to give the Zulus a well deserved what's for. It was time to hunt some Zulus.

* * *

I SCAVENGED WHAT I COULD from the fire. There was not much left; I did retrieve the singular infamous bayonet. Burnt, tarnished, blackened in the fire, the triangular point still gleamed; it remained sharp enough to pierce Zulu flesh. Even though the Martini-carbine possessed no lug upon which to fix the weapon, I took it; I shoved it in my belt.

I still had several pounds of ship biscuits. Oh, joy! If you've never had the singular displeasure of eating, worse yet, relying on hard tack for survival, well, let me tell you, it lives up to its name, its hard, tasteless and when faced with the prospects of subsistence or starvation, hard tack presents a difficult choice. In addition, I had one precious canteen that survived the fire, I filled it with water and shook it—it didn't seem to leak.

I turned my shell jacket inside out. However disloyal it seemed the scarlet red color, much revered by the public, historians and the military hierarchy a like, was not particularly advantageous in the bush of Africa. I could never figure how that worked to the common soldier's advantage. I found one of Mrh. Hendricks' slouch hats, now looking appropriately drab like a Boer, with my fair skin shielded from the African sun; I was ready to set out on my trek.

Sixty cartridges; I had sixty cartridges. I figured there were less than dozen Zulus left in the war impi. That should be enough. My biggest problem was, I was already four hours behind, and the Zulus were legendary in their ability to cover fifty miles in a day. In the British army, fifteen miles is considered a forced march, how could I hope to keep up, let alone catch up? My only hope was they stopped somewhere along the way to camp at a waterhole. I imagined a comical scenario where Burlingham caused his Zulu captors as much trouble as he had caused me . . .

That was when Star returned to me. I first spied her as a black smudge on the horizon. I couldn't believe as to what I saw. She was tentative, agitated, she nickered softly, and then she came to me. Good old loyal Star, apparently unhappy with her Zulu captors she had escaped, returned to the last place she had good food and water. Saddled, watered, I once again felt powerful. I knew how the Zulus felt about horses. “Giddy up!” I urged her on. I felt like a Western cowboy in one of my novels. Now I could make fifty miles in one day.