A
Novel
By
Smcallis
This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living and dead are intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.
Chapter 19
RORKE’S DRIFT
THREE DAYS—THREE DAYS PAST since I left Hendricks' station. I know three days doesn't seem like such a very long time in the telling, but when you are in the thick of things, traipsing aimlessly alone in the African wilderness; to me it seemed like an eternity. My world was as a matter of fact turned upside down and inside out, the crossing of the Buffalo River, the Central column, Captain Fredrickson and the immediate urgency of exactly WHY I was sent on this reconnoiter seemed a distant memory. I left behind the five graves of the poor dead Hendricks' family, their burned out farm, the Zulu camp, the ants, the five dead udibi boys, and one Private Davy Burlingham. Cast adrift, I spent three wretched days a fugitive, lost in the forlorn African bush with no water, little food and nothing but Star, the prickly pines and my own wretched conscience for company.Such was my misery. I realized later that the privation of my trek didn't quite amount to any epic suffering when in comparison to the annals of history. Surely, the wandering forty years in the wilderness endured by Moses, and the Children of Israel, was greater. It sure did feel like a long time. To add to my adversity, I didn't dare stop. I was forced to stop, but that was only for a few hours and only to rest Star. I was desperate; the solitary silence of my own desolation only heightened my fears. I felt more like a recreant fleeing the scene of a crime than a retreating British soldier. I was paranoid, certain every little skittering pebble, and even the sound of a twig breaking under my own foot amounted to Zulus! I was certain the Zulus were on my trail, they lurked behind every prickly bush, rock and shadow. Their cruel black faces, crazed with blood lust, eager to Wash their spears, to exact vengeance upon me for what evil I had done.
My heart was heavy. I tried to reassure myself that I had fought a desperate action. The Zulu were the enemy; I was out numbered, out classed. If the Zulus had caught me, they surely would have shown me no mercy. I did what I did because I was compelled. Even still, the killing of the five udibi boys weighed heavy on my mind. I could still see their faces, their terror, the smell of smoke and flesh. I didn't feel good about myself.
Amazingly enough the Zulus did not pursue, if they did, I never saw them again. Late in the afternoon of the third day, I finally hit upon civilization. It was a good thing too; I don't think I could have survived another night in the bush. My canteen, my water ran out the first day. Poor Star was so emaciated, I didn't dare ride her, she, and I walked in shared suffering. I staggered; I dragged myself the last couple of miles to the drift. I saw it first as a little smudge of blue, red and white, fluttering there stalwart amidst a ramshackle collection of low-slung thatched buildings. The union jack flew, a little bit of England, here in the desolation of South Africa. I urged Star on; we made it at last!
The sentry challenged me.
“HALT!”
I must say I couldn't say I blamed him. I must have looked a mess, in my Boer slouch hat, my sunburned, exhausted state, covered in a weeks worth of grime and filth. My Queen's scarlet now three shades of gray. It was Jones, Private Robert Jones, 716. I wondered at the time why he told me that, 716? I found our later there were three other Jones' in "B" Company; they called each other by number just to keep things clear. I guess I had my Papa to thank for that, Claiborne; at least it gave me distinction.
“BRITISH SOLDIER, Help me!” I staggered forward and collapsed. I have to admit I was a bit of a touchy, uncooperative rescue. Ever cognizant that I was a girl, I didn't want my would-be rescuers poking and prodding too close to identifies my sex. I refused all efforts to see the Surgeon-Major. On that point, I was adamant, terrified, I was sure to be found out. I just asked for water, I must have drunk half the Buffalo River. Star was thirsty too. After a long luscious drink, I walked into the Drift on my own.
Rorke's Drift was an insignificant little hole of an outpost nestled under the Osscarberg heights, originally a trading post built by James Rorke in 1849; the Drift afforded an important fording point on the Buffalo River. Now occupied as a mission station operated by the Swedish missionary Otto Witt, the Drift was converted to a temporary staging area garrisoned by Company “B” Warwickshire, 24th Regiment of Foot. Welshmen! The commanding officer was one Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead; he was a little bit of a foppish dandy, but after you got to know him, not at all a bad chap.
“Lieutenant Bromhead.” He saluted me with his crop.
I snapped to attention. I must have looked a sight, I brushed my uniform, dust flew. “Sargent Thomas Claiborne, Sir, Company 'C' 24th Regiment of Foot, Light-horse detachment.”
“The 24th Light-Horse? Jolly good! I understand you've had a rough go of things Claiborne? Draw what you need from the commissariat, Sargent Dalton will assist you.”
“Sir, my Commanding officer is Captain Fredrickson, Sir. I need to report.”
“Ah, Fredrickson, a jolly good chap. I'm sure he won't mind. The 24th, Oh dear, the rest of the lot, they've moved on, I'm afraid, left us behind. Off towards that hill, Isandl-something-or-other, Blast these African names! Why can't they have the decency to name stuff you can remember?”
“Isandlwana, Sir.” Corporal Allen dared interject.
“It's a hill, damn you! It's not like a real place, not like Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly or whatnot. Fifteen miles, across the drift, you'll find your unit camped there, Sargent Claiborne.”
"Sir," Allen hissed under his breath.
“Ah, Sargent Claiborne, I'm forgetting my manners. It's getting on to five O'clock, why don't you billet here for tonight and get a fresh start in the morning. I'm sure Colonel Pulleine and Captain Fredrickson can make do with out your dreary report another twenty-four hours?"
The offer came as a relief; I didn't realize how exhausted I really was. "I'd like that Sir, if you think it's OK.”
"Oh, pish-posh, a few Zulus here, a few Zulus there, I'm sure whatever dramatics you spied, it won't make one whit of difference, I'll write you a report, that you spent the night here in hospital. Corporal Allen here will see you are properly billeted. "
“I should like that Sir; I should like a bath, Sir.” I blurted out, I felt foolish and girlish, but I was so dirty, I couldn't help myself.
“A bath you shall have. Make it so.” Gonville turned to Corporal Allen . . . “Are you sure you're not hurt; we have an excellent Surgeon-Major here?”
“I'm tickety-boo, Sir, just a bath, Sir, maybe some clean clothes, Sir, and something to eat, I'll be fine.”
“Jolly good. Ah, Claiborne . . . there's one more thing."
"Sir?"
"I realize this might be a bit irregular—Officers and ranks don't normally frat, but you seem to be something of a minor celebrity, I for one am absolutely board out of my skull this dreary post, the whole bloody rot. I should be most curious if you might see fit to regal us with your tales of savage Zulus . . . will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner? I'll get one of the lads to clean your kit, I'm sure that Dalton chap can get you some decent clothes from the commissariat.”
"Sir, I'd like that, Sir. Not much left I'm afraid, just these." I was embarrassed; I brushed my thoroughly disheveled uniform as I nervously tried to present my best. "Please don't trouble yourself, Sir." I was caught off guard; did Bromhead just invite me to mess in the officer's quarters?
"Oh, it's no trouble at all old boy, it's not like I'm going to clean it myself. It's all settled then, supper at eight O'clock?" Bromhead saluted me imperiously with his crop. "Cheerio.”
I'll have to admit, for being a bit of a backwater post; the men at the Drift did me up proper. Before I knew it, I was neck deep in a sudsy bath. Before suppertime I was clean as a whistle, they found me a spiffy new shell jacket and one of the lads sewed on my stripes. I felt very much like a soldier again.
Lieutenant Bromhead was every bit the congenial host. Evidently, not much happened at the Drift and I was treated as a conquering hero. He offered me wine, but we finally settled on a pint of beer. Bromhead wanted to know every detail of my adventure. I wasn't exactly sure how much I should tell him, since I had not actually filed my report with my commanding officer. I ended up telling him most everything. I left out only the most salient details . . . The rape, the ‘naked' aspects of the rescue.
I should say I didn't know it was possible to be quite so hungry. I made a pig out of myself. There were bangers, pork chops, guinea fowl, and fried apples, heaps of mashed potatoes, biscuits, real flour baked biscuits, with gravy and peas, and a yellow sweet tangy tinned fruit for desert. I found out later it was called pineapple from Indonesia. Real tea! Oh, God, for a cup of tea! I never knew tea could taste so good! Lieutenant Bromhead continued to be fascinated with my story.
“So you killed three Zulus on their initial assault?”
“Yes Sir, I shot them Sir, with my revolver. We made our way to Hendricks' station, the whole family, was dead, massacred, Sir. I made the decision to hole up in this storehouse at the station.”
“And that was when Private Burlingham perpetrated his initial mutiny?”
“No Sir, he was already under arrest, we argued the night before over water rations, that was when he struck me, Sir.” Bromhead continued to be interested in my story.
“Ah, yes, you did say something about that. After he struck you, forced you to the ground, threatened your life. You subsequently gave him a rifle, why?”
“The Zulus, Sir, I didn't have very many choices Sir; we were under assault.”
“So, you perceived the Zulu threat greater than the potential threat of giving a rifle to an insubordinate soldier? A very grave breech of regulations, Claiborne. Queen's regulations clearly state . . . ”
“Yes Sir, I understand that, Sir. Like I said, I didn't have many choices, Sir. It was a mistake, Sir. That was when he fired on me.”
Gonville Bromhead leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. “Cigar?" I shook my head. "Oh, you don't smoke. After all, of that, you still went back for him? I can't say I could have stomached the same. You are simply extraordinary Claiborne. I should very much like you on my staff. Yet you seem so very young—just how old are you Claiborne. Fifteen, sixteen?”
“Sixteen, Sir.” I lied.
“Sixteen years-old and you're already a Sargent in the Queen's army. Capital! Not just any Sargent, but a bonafide Zulu killer, what is it Claiborne, is you're father a General?”
“No Sir, I come from plain poor Welsh folk, Sir. My Papa is a coal miner; he was a first Sargent in the Crimea War, Sir. 24th Regiment of foot, Colonel Webster, October 1854, the Charge of the Light Brigade, Sir, if that's what you mean.”
Bromhead smiled weakly, “You are simply extraordinary Claiborne, there's nothing wrong with the right family connections, my Grandfather fought at Waterloo . . .”
I made a presentation to Bromhead of one of the three mangled boxer-Henry cartridges that saved my life. He seemed genuinely pleased. "I wouldn't be so cut up about shooting those lad in the baggage train, this is war Claiborne, your did what you had to do. I shall write you a report. You've done well, Claiborne."
I found myself billeted in regal style. The lads took to me right away. We drank (well, they drank,) we sang and celebrated into the night. It was good to be with fellow Welshmen again, we laughed, told stories and sang in Welsh. We were all singing and having a jolly good time, when I must have hit a high note because everyone stopped singing, and I was caught short. I was the only one left singing . . .
"Where did that come from laddie?" Private Owen, the company choir director exclaimed. He immediately saw I was embarrassed, his face was full of kindness. I was among friends. "Oy, no need to be bashful son, you sing beautifully. Please, Sargent Claiborne, do us the honor."
I shook my head, "Oh, no I couldn't."
Before I knew it, Owen had hoisted me up and carefully stood me on the mess bench in the center of the men. (Considering my previous week of privation, I'm sure I didn't even weight 94 lbs.) I really hated being the center of attention, all the men looked to me with en- thusiasm. "Please.” Owen said.
"Here, here, Thomas, give us a song!" All the lads of Company "B" roared.
"All right." I looked to their expectant faces, I looked to the fiddler. I chose one of my favorite songs, "Ar hyd y nos," (All through the night.) I sang in my native Welsh, my high clear soprano filled the barracks. The words go something like this:
♫ Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant
Ar hyd y nos
'Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant
Ar hyd y nos.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch
Ar hyd y nos.
O mor siriol gwen a seren
Ar hyd y nos
I oleuo-i chwaer ddae ar en
Ar hyd y nos.
Nos yw henaint pan ddaw cystudd
Ond i harddu dyn a'i hwyr dydd
Rhown ein goleu gwan i'n gilydd
Ar hyd y nos. ♫
As I sang I became more confident, on the next verse, Owen joined in with his rich baritone, followed by William Jones, 593, the company top tenor. The whole barracks was filled with music. The sound of our merry making drifted out across the compound of the still African night to the command quarters where a solitary lamp burned in the window. Bromhead quit writing and looked up from his desk.
"The lads seem to be enjoying themselves."
"Aye, that they are." Corporal Allen said.
The next morning, I set out, feeling smart. Washed, laundered, in a crisp new shell jacket, a proper white pith helmet. I was refreshed. I mounted Star, she was handsome, well taken care of, and it seemed she did well in a proper stable. Together, we headed off towards that hill, Isandl-something-or-other. I guess I should be grateful to Lieutenant Bromhead, as he inadvertently provided me with a “dress rehearsal” for my statement before Captain Fredrickson. He also gave me a letter of report.
“CLAIBORNE!”
“Sir?”
Bromhead chased after me, when he realized his enthusiasm caused him to look less than official; he slowed to a stately deliberate canter. “Claiborne, you've got no holster for that infamous revolver of yours, I wanted to give you this . . . it’s a bit bodged-up I'm afraid, but if you would take it, I’d be honored. There are some cartridges in the kit.”
“Yes Sir, Thank you Sir.”
Before I left the Drift, the only other favor I asked of Lieutenant Bromhead was for some decent paper, pen and ink.
I set right to work.
My dearest Sargent Bourne,
I found myself attacked, stabbed by a Zulu warrior, if it were not for providence, and the stalwart workmanship of English mercantile, I would surely be dead. Let me explain, due to circumstances beyond my ability to control, the hazards of crossing the Buffalo River reduced my section from four soldiers to one. My one remaining trooper and I were dispatched by Captain Fredrickson to reconnoiter and ascertained the fate and whereabouts of a prominent Boer family, the Hendricks'. I genuinely thought I was prepared for my mission, but it turned out my orienteering skills were not up to the task. I got myself lost in the wilderness, worse yet, my one soldier was Davy Burlingham. You know my past troubles with Burlingham. He is a malignant malingering barracks barrister who mutinied on me. He assaulted me; struck me. I placed him under arrest. Angus, you were always in my thoughts, I always asked myself “What would Angus do?” Unfortunately, circumstances spiraled out of control. I ended up giving Burlingham a rifle, he fired on me, tried to kill me, Angus! I ended up coshing him on the head with the butt of your pistol. I am glad; I had it, as it saved not only my life, but my authority, not once but numerous times. I found myself holed up in a storehouse on the station under Zulu attack. We had only a few cartridges. That was the second time I gave Burlingham a rifle. I made a run for the barn. I was set on retrieving the rest of the ammunition and weapons. I was out in the open, when I was most vulnerable, when the Zulu attacked me. He was bigger than I, stronger. I drew my revolver I shot and killed him. I shot him in the face. Oh, Angus, please tell me that I am not a murder. I do not kill these people because I am cruel or remorseless. The man I shot, I drew and fired, before I knew what I had done, he was dead. I really didn't mean to shoot him, it wasn't as if I knew him or hated him, or had any reason to kill him other than he was there, he was the enemy. He stabbed me Angus. Providence caused me to stuff my pockets with cartridges, if it were not for my greed, my avarice, I would be dead. What choice did I have?
The second time I used your revolver, I am not so proud. Truthfully, I am ashamed. I used your revolver to kill five unarmed boys. These boys were the same age as me. They were no threat; they were no bigger or stronger than I was. I looked in their faces and saw terror. I was on horseback; I appeared as the devil. They cowered before me—yet I shot them down with out mercy. I killed them. I killed them not because they were a threat, but because they were black, and I was afraid. I was afraid of their Zulu masters. I was afraid the Zulus would rise up follow me and kill me. Now, I am sorry.
I read in an American newspaper that the American General, Robert E. Lee said, “It is good this war is so terrible—less we learn to love it too much.” I do not love this war, Angus. I never set out to be a bad person. I do not think of myself as cruel, merciless or as a murder—yet this war; this is what I have become. Please forgive me Angus, I did not mean to betray your trust. I really do want to be a good soldier
Your loving son,
Thomas
