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.