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 character © 2007 by Smcallis.
Chapter 20
PIETERMARITZBURG
THAT WAS HOW I EARNED MY Dis-tinguished Conduct Medal. I had no idea my little rec- onnoiter was to generate such furor and curiosity from Colonel Pulleine on down. I guess I would have been just as happy to get about my duties and let the whole thing be forgotten. I returned to camp, to the number three column sometime in the afternoon on the fifth of January 1879. I immediately reported to my commanding officer Captain Fredrickson. I told my story three times, each time in greater detail, each time in greater fear and trepidation.
Ah, Captain Fredrickson, I don’t think I ever properly introduced him. First, he was an excellent officer, in his mid-fifties. Honest, fair, straightforward, what he said was exactly what he meant, lenient when he could be, strict when he had to be. I really never knew my Papa, not as a military man. Fredrickson was the kind of officer I imagined my Papa was, the kind of officer I wanted to be. I admired him very much. When I first joined his command, I thought he was a queer crippled creature. His jaw was perpetually frozen in this macabre left-facing twisted leer. You could never be for certain what he was thinking, because he always looked like he was smiling even when he was angry. He later revealed, that a musket ball shattered his jaw in India, during the first Sepoy rebellion in 1857. Even once you got to know him, even after you knew the reason why, Fredrickson always presented this comical grimace.
I made my report first to Fredrickson. I filled out a detailed written report. There were numerous details of which I had to account for. The Quartermaster was quite preoccupied with the missing rifles and ammunition, I was determined not to surrender the bayonet, it was burnt, tarnished and blacked, of no value to anyone else but me, I had too much emotional baggage invested in it to give-it-up, especially to a military pencil pusher. The teamsters demanded I account for the lost mule and a missing horse. I don’t know what happened to the mule, the horse, Burlingham; I suppose stole the damn animal.
I told Fredrickson everything, everything, I only omitted Burlingham's attempted rape and the ‘naked’ aspects of my rescue.
Fredrickson was very grave, I thought I must be in big trouble when he brought me before Major Steele. Where I again had to account for every detail of my story. Steele was not a sympathetic audience; he was piercing and critical. It seemed the worst breech of military protocol I committed was the decision to supply a rifle to an already insubordinate soldier. On that point, I was adamant in my own defense. I explained that we were under assault. How I had just shot and killed three Zulu warriors, that I had no way of knowing how many Zulus were out there. My primary objective was incomplete to locate and ascertain the fate of the Hendricks’ family. Despite his assault, his in- subordination, I still had no indication up to this point that Burlingham’s intent included out right mutiny and desertion . . . We argued over water rations. I said, a basic instinct. On that point, I caught myself in the unenviable position of defending Burlingham’s actions.
"Yes Sir, I left him with a rifle to defend himself, Sir. While I went on to reconnoiter the station, I still needed to locate and ascertain the fate of the Hendricks' family, Sir. Upon my return, that was when he fired on me." I conceded this was a mistake.
“Yes Sir, I did in fact give Private Burlingham a rifle a second time.”
“Am I to understand that you gave a loaded rifle to an insubordinate mutinous soldier not once but twice?” Steele seemed incredulous.
“Yes Sir, we were under direct Zulu assault, Sir. A rifle that isn’t loaded isn’t good for much, Sir. The harvard sack with the remaining cartridges and the other rifles were depot in the barn, Sir. I had twenty carriages left, Sir. I had two choices. Give Burlingham a rifle, or die, Sir . . . as you can see, I’m still here, Sir.”
“That will be quite enough dramatics out of you, Claiborne!” Lieutenant Ashley, Major Steele’s adjutant snapped.
Major Steele waived his hand and puffed on his pipe. His eyes narrowed to evil judgmental slits, I felt naked, scrutinized like an amoeba under a microscope. He wasn’t there, he didn’t know, yet he stood in judgment of my actions. I was fucked. I was certain at this point; I was headed for a stint in the stockade.
I returned to my unit, sullen, dejected, confident that if I was lucky, the only consequence of my misadventure was a letter of reprimand. My section, it seemed had been taken over by a Corporal Smyth. I took an immediate dislike to him, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I was back, I was the Sargent here, and these were my men, I was in command. I refused three days light-duty, and set right to work reestablishing my authority. Private Ward, Ferrier they did their best to welcome me home. I had a new recruit, a Private Joseph Leutyn, a Dutchman, a son of a Boer national and an English woman, he spoke Afrikaans. A valuable fellow no doubt, the question was could he ride and shoot?
I didn’t have long to wait, the day-after next, on the 11th of January, 1879, coinciding exactly with the expiration of the thirty day ultimatum to the Zulu King Cetshwayo, the first real engagement of the Anglo-Zulu war began as a fight over sheep; it took place at an insignificant locale, a place called Sihayo’s Kraal.
I got my answer, the Light-horse was sent on ahead to encircle and scout. Leutyn could ride, the Boers were born horsemen, we found that out less than ten years later, I'm getting ahead of myself (that's the rest of our story). We weren’t involved in the thick of things it was mostly the infantry. It was all over in a half an hour. The only real consequence of the action was we all had mutton for supper.
The following day I found myself summoned to the command tent of Colonel Pulleine, commander of the number three column. My heart sank, this wasn't nothing, you don't get yourself summoned before the Colonel for nothing . . . I was doomed. To his credit, Captain Fredrickson accompanied me, I wasn't sure if he came to support me or witness the spectacle of my disgrace. Fredrickson off-handedly did his best to reassure me. Even still, I felt like a lamb led to the slaughter.
We found Colonel Pulleine the commander of the number three Column casually smoking a cigar, a late breakfast lay untouched on a tray. Pulleine didn't even acknowledge our existence; he was quite preoccupied with what presumably were more important matters. His adjutant, a Lieutenant Parker, waited on his every whim. Pulleine continued to pour over some maps and charts. I stood there stock-still, overcome with fear and loathing, feeling very much like a naughty schoolboy summoned before the headmaster. After what seemed like an eternity, Pulleine looked up.
“Ah, Fredrickson! Jolly good of you to come, you’ve brought the, err, candidate?”
“Sir.” Fredrickson snapped to attention, saluted smartly, his face frozen in his characteristic perpetual grimace.
“Is something funny, Fredrickson?”
“No Sir, musket ball . . . “
Pulleine didn’t even have the good grace to perceive he’d been wretchedly rude. He continued. “Sargent Thomas Claiborne . . ."
"SIR." I took one step forward, saluted, and snapped to my best attention.
"Claiborne, I’ll make this brief, as I don’t have much time for such niceties. On behalf of Lord Chelmsford, the Army and our beloved Queen Victoria, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! I hereby by do confer upon you and so do award etcetera, etcetera the Distinguished Conduct Medal for gallantry above and beyond that which is expected of an English soldier in the service of the Empire.” Pulleine perfunctorily, absently, handed the medal over to Fredrickson, who smiled (well, he was always smiling). It was left to Fredrickson to pin the half-ounce hunk of ribbon and silver on my chest.
That is how, without fanfare or ceremony, I became Sargent Thomas Claiborne, DCM.
I still had one problem though, (well, I had lots of problems, this is the one that was foremost on my mind.) One nettlesome little problem that only I knew about. I could have easily just done nothing, instead, on the walk back to "C" Company, my conscience finally got the better of me. I confided in Captain Fredrickson.
“I am not a thief, Sir.”
I presented Fredrickson with the pocket watch, Mrh. Hendricks’ pocket watch. I had formed a great deal of affection for the time piece, it pained me when faced with the prospect that I had to give it up.
“I took it from a dead Zulu Sir; I am not a looter, Sir.”
Fredrickson looked at me long and hard, finally he smiled, as much as he was capable, what passed for a smile still looked like a twisted grimace. “Claiborne, you are the most extraordinary soldier I have ever known.”
“I only want to do what’s right, Sir.”
“And that is why I am going to do what is right. The Hendricks, they are a prominent Dutch family. I will speak to Major Steele, I’m sure he will agree to grant you three days leave, for purpose of going to Pietermaritzburg, finding whoever, whatever heirs there might be who could lay claim to that pocket watch and returning said watch to the same. Do you and I understand each other, Claiborne?”
“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”
* * *
I WALKED THE THREE-QUARTERS of a mile over to where one of the Quartermasters directed me—over to where ‘G’ Company bivouacked. Over to the camp where I believed my Henry must be.
"Henry Hawkins, I'm looking for Private Henry Hawkins . . .?"
The camp of the number three Column was a huge sprawling bustling affair, twelve-hundred men and what seemed like an equal number of African levies all going to-and-fro engaged in a bewildering array of activity military or otherwise. I had a great deal of difficulty making my way in and around the vast numbers of men, horses, oxen and wagons, even a collection of “camp followers” loose women come down from Pietermaritzburg to show the lads a good time. Everyone it seemed was going somewhere or doing something. What struck me as odd, what I found most peculiar and this is coming from me, a relative novice at military tactics. Is how everyone was going about their business doing everything but the obvious.
There were no pickets, no entrenchments, the wagons were all in disarray, parked haphazardly, rather than pulled into cohesive defensive laagers. Our host, the Boer teamsters protested, as they considered the laagering of wagons an absolute essential defense in a hostile Zululand. Our command of course knew better and dismissed the Boers as provincials. I observed precious little if any meaningful military preparation going on of any kind. Oh, sure, every rifle was stacked according to military regulation in a neat quadrangle, at the ready. There were the twelve-pounders and the rocket artillery batteries, but none of that seemed to matter very much. It was as if the war didn't exist. It seemed everyone was engaged in doing everything except the business of war. The feeling in the air was less like an invasion and more like a summer lark. As if, the entire British military was on a collective holiday. Evidently, Cetshwayo and the threat poised by his fifty-thousand Zulu warriors was the furthest thing from anybody's mind. The number three Column camped lazily, ensconced at the foot of this enormous escarpment that seemed to rise up from nowhere in the African plain. It loomed mightily, foreboding, it dominated the entire landscape. What Bromhead had facetiously called a “hill” that was an understatement. The spur sat on a gradually rising plain, like a great sphinx, this was no hill, it was a mountain. Our maps identified it as escarpment no. 235. The Zulus called it—Isandlwana.
* * *
“Hello Henry.”
Private Henry Hawkins dropped what he was doing, whirled around and looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost.
“TESS . . . Thomas . . . err, Sargent Claiborne! We thought you were dead! SIR.” Henry came to attention and saluted me.
“Shhh, Henry, I’m not dead.” I smiled broadly, “You can cut out the ‘Sir’ crap Henry, it’s me, Thomas.” I’ll have to say, I did look pretty darn smart, all crisp and laundered, in my full parade regalia of my Sergeant’s uniform, with my shinny new DCM medal pinned prominently on my chest.
“Aren’t you glad to see me Henry?”
Henry smiled weakly, “Of course, Thomas, you'n me, we're best mates." Henry eyed me critically, "You look terrible; you’ve lost a lot of weight.”
I did look terrible.
“I’m mostly unscathed.”
Henry, he wasn’t so sure, he tipped back my helmet, gently brushed my wind burned hair out of my face revealing the extent of my injuries. I was battered and bruised; my lips were parched and burnt. My cheek was busted where Burlingham struck me. I was pretty bodged up. I shrugged my shoulders, “Okay, so I’m a little bit scathed . . . not too badly scathed.” I said self-consciously.
"Thomas, you've been decorated, you're a hero!" Henry said with a nod and a wink, he acknowledged my shinny DCM medal pinned prominently on my chest.
"Not really, Henry, it's nothing . . . I don't deserve it. I’ve done so many terrible things. I'm so ashamed. Isn’t there somewhere we can talk, in private?”
Henry reluctantly pulled open the flap of his tent. “In here.”
I didn’t want to talk; talking was the last thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was hold him, kiss him, smother him, and love him. Henry my love, my husband. I didn't of course, we shook hands like a couple of regular blokes. I maintained my composure.
We had barely entered the confines of the tent flap before I was on him. “Oh, Henry love, it’s been so long. I missed you so much.” I kissed him full on the mouth; I began to unbutton my duty blouse, revealing the white muslin that bound my chest, I looked every bit the part of a boy. The purple welt just below my belly button was clearly visible. When I pulled his hand to my breasts, he jerked away, as if he were a naughty child who'd just touched a red-hot stove. That was when I realized something was wrong. Henry pushed me away.
"This isn’t a game, Tessa, get off me! Buggery is a flogging offence!”
I stopped what I was doing, my unbuttoned duty-blouse, my muslin bound breasts agape. I looked at my husband, I wanted my husband. Yet there was fear in his eyes. “This isn’t buggery, Henry," I said softly, "I’m a girl, a woman, I’m your wife!”
“Yeah, but they don’t know that! When they find out, when they find out you’re a girl, you’ll be disgraced! They’ll strip you of your rank, your medal; they’ll haul you before a tribunal and have you court-martialed. They’ll parade you in front of the whole regiment, with their drum roll and pomp and circumstances. Oh, they’ll pretend they’re carrying out military justice, but they know better. Four dozen lashes, that’s a death sentence—they’ll flog you to death Tessa, just like Marty."
I was thoroughly sobered by Henry’s narrative. I knew what he said was true. I still wasn't exactly sure if the high command was actually prepared to beat a girl to death for impersonating an officer—but I watched Marty die for a lesser crime, the prospects scared me straight. I finished buttoning my tunic back up.
“All right, we’ll get leave. Get a hotel in Pietermaritzburg. Henry I love you.”
“I love you too, Tessa . . . it’s just that . . . Tessa, I think we made a mistake.”
“What do you mean, Henry?” I was in shock. My face full of tears my heart was choked. This couldn’t be happening to me, not now, not after all I’d been through. Henry could not possibly know my own personal anguish, my wicked infidelity. Now, I found my own purgatory, I was to be punished for my inkling of disloyalty. My lips drew tight. I was determined not to cry, I was determined to be brave, yet I was already crying inside.
"Henry?"
“I love you to Tessa—I really do, it’s just that I don’t love you in the same way you want me too. Not like that. You’re thirteen years-old . . ."
"I'll be fourteen in April!" I interjected weakly, as if I thought that might make any difference. "Henry, please, don't do this to me!"
". . . It doesn't matter Tessa, I’m seventeen, you’re more like my kid sister than my wife. When I married you, I did it because I wanted to help you—I felt sorry for you, but now . . . look at you—you’re already a Sargent, decorated for valor, you don’t need my help anymore. I want you to understand.”
“No, I don’t understand . . . I love you Henry, but if that's the way you want it . . . I never thought I'd be shoved off, not like this, not by you.” I buttoned the last button on my tunic, deliberately. I straightened my uniform with all the military decorum I could muster. My face burned hot, bitter bile welled in my throat. I was so ashamed.
Henry's face was pained, "Tessa, please, I don't want to hurt you."
"Well, you have Henry . . ." I bit my lower lip. This was my comeuppance. I was to be punished. I acknowledged my crimes. I thought about the five dead udibi boys I left behind, murdered in the desert. I thought about Private Burlingham, my own wicked heart, and about my Henry. Phfft, I scoffed. "Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I'd died in the bush." I said in a whisper.
I snapped open the canvas flap of the tent in a blind rage. Tears stung my eyes. I was so angry, I didn't want to look at him again, (I couldn't.) I found myself in an even worse state than poor Lot's Wife, there was to be no oblivion in a pillar of salt for me—my fate was far worse. My anguish was such that if I even so much as glanced back at him, the tears already welled up inside me would burst forth in an uncontrollable torrent and I'd start balling like a little girl. I was determined not to let that happen. My chin quavered, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and allowed myself one pitiful sob.
"Tessa!" Henry scrambled out of the tent after me.
I resorted to my command voice, “PRIVATE HAWKINS! WE ARE THROUGH HERE. DISMISSED! I HAVE BUSINESS IN PIETERMARITZBURG!" I left Henry behind, grim faced and alone. I was confused; I was crying inside, I was more wounded in my soul than I ever thought possible. I was betrayed, abandoned, my Henry. Oh gawd! Then that teensy-weensy wicked voice returned, the same treasonable reprehensible voice that spoke the most deniable and unthinkable of all thoughts: I should have given myself to Burlingham; at least he wanted to have me.
* * *
PIETERMARITZBURG. When compared to Port Durban, the poor entry port of South Africa was nothing but a backwater; Pietermaritzburg was the South African capital of Europe. We were defending this city from the Zulu threat. Such a city I had never seen. Vienna, Paris, Rome, these cities I had never seen, Pietermaritzburg was a jewel in the crown, worthy of the title of capital of the entire Southern hemisphere.
I picketed Star in a livery stable and took the streetcar. What a wonderful modern marvel! I was facinated, the trolly "ding, dinged" at every stop. I should think I rode the streetcar most of the afternoon just admiring the city.
I stopped only for tea, as I was famished. I should think I liked walking about the city, a first Sargent, DCM in the Queen’s army; everyone was polite, deferential even. I a poor peasant girl as such from South Wales, I was unaccustomed to such respect.
I walked the streets most of the rest of the afternoon. I bought a couple of penny novels one about Wild Bill Hickock, and another about infamous Confederate guerilla fighter Nathan Bedford Forrest.
After that, I had my photo took. In all my thirteen-going on fourteen-years, I’d never had my photo taken. I don’t think anyone in my whole family ever had their photo taken. I passed a photographic studio in downtown Pietermaritzburg. I don’t know what ever possessed me; chalk it up to passing vanity. I entered the photographic studio and before I knew it, I was sitting for a photograph. They put your head in this sort of vice or brace so you don’t move. The photographer encouraged me to draw my pistol and brandish the weapon; he said the pose was all the rage in the Colonies. The photographer fussed over me, quite impressed with my DCM medal. I should think I looked most fierce and military, I a girl—a Sergeant in the Queen’s army, now quite the infamous Zulu killer.
It cost me ten bob. I paid for two prints of which I collected the following day. I mailed the first to Angus Bourne, and the second to me mum, Mrs. Robert Chard Claiborne of Glamorganshire, Wales. I am quite sure she'll never recognize her own daughter; I enclosed in the envelope a five-pound note, more than two month’s wages, just for spite. I sent it without a letter, just me, my photograph. I snickered to myself; it serves her right, now she shan’t know who sent it. I am not her daughter now.
I stayed at this very respectable boarding house, owned by a Mrs. Fullam. She seemed cheerful, cosmopolitan; I entered her house caring my traps including a Martini-Henry Carbine, and a full bandolier of ammunition. This caused some raised eyebrows, but she knew I was a soldier, so nothing further was said.
"You be staying long?" Mrs. Fullam inquired.
"A couple of days."
"We don't get many English soldiers, but you're not English."
"Mmm . . . No ma'am, I'm Welsh."
The room was light and airy, the bed springy, and smelled of fresh hay. There was a wash stand with pitcher and basin. A fine room.
Supper was plain, ordinary, but better than army fair. I dressed down for supper, opting only for my plain duty-blouse without insignia. Supper its self consisted of a delicious Sheppard’s pie, green beans, fried apples and onions and a peach cobbler for desert. I should think I stayed longer than I intended, the conversation and tea was altogether enjoyable. For a person who was used to being regarded as an insignificant nobody, at this supper table, I was regarded as a somebody, people talked to me as if I were important. The feeling was intoxicating! There was a variety of people at the dinner table, a couple of newlyweds, a schoolteacher, a judge, and of course me, obviously a soldier, there was however this nosey busybody, a Mr. Blair, a newspaperman for the TIMES of London.
“So you’re a soldier come from the column, across the river?”
I looked up; my face was full of food. “Who told you that?” I almost spat my cobbler in his face.
“DCM Claiborne, you’re a war hero, right?" You seem so young; you’re nothing but a boy.” He pointed at me almost accusatory.
I looked scathingly, I didn't like him calling me a boy. “Sir, for your information, I hold the Queen’s NCO, Who wants to know?”
“Begging your pardon, Bobby Blair here, TIMES of London. Well, for starters, the people of London want to know. This war is news, big news, you are DCM Claiborne, are you not?”
“Yes . . . How’d you find out my name?”
Blair chuckled, “Bligh’s photographic studio. You should learn to be more careful, Mr. Claiborne, if you wish to remain anonymous . . . So, now that we’ve had our introduction Mr. Claiborne, how about you and I having a little chat?”
“Bog off!” I stood up indignant, threw down my napkin and turned to leave, not before I deliberately or (sub- consciously) flashed just a hint of blackened steel that was the heavy frame of the Webley revolver, tucked in my waistband. The effect was electric. Blair knew right then and there I was a gunfighter. From my way of thinking, I had scared him shitless; I figured that was the last I would ever see of him, the little todger. How wrong I was.
“MR. CLAIBORNE! Please.”
A persistent little bastard if nothing else, he followed me out onto the veranda. I turned around, a big mistake.
“Have you killed many Zulus? You must have—the Crown doesn’t hand out DCMs for nothing. Mr. Claiborne, please, tell us, did you kill a lot of Zulus?”
I stopped. I paused. “Is that what you really want to know?”
Blair was excited, pen and paper hung on my ever word.
“What would you say if I told you I killed three Zulus?”
“I’d say Right-o, go on.”
“I shot them with this.” I drew my revolver. I didn’t exactly point it at him, but ordinary people, who aren’t used to firearms, are a skittish lot. Blair flinched. I had his attention; I looked him straight in the eye. “What would you say Mr. Blair if I told you I killed six more Zulus? I shot them with my Martini-Henry rifle; it’s a good rifle, sighted out to four-hundred yards. I was holed up in a storehouse, the Zulus charged and I shot them down."
"I say Capital! Go on Mr. Claiborne, what happened next?"
"What would you say if also I told you that I killed five more Zulus?”
Blair was visibly excited. "I had know idea Mr. Claiborne you were so dastardly."
Dastardly wasn't the word for it, the word was "Murder." That was when I added the clincher. “These Zulus I killed they were nothing but boys, not one of them more than fifteen years-old. I shot them down—with this." This time I should think I did point my revolver at him, I pulled back the hammer, the cyinder rotated, I flaired the revolver, I am pretty good. "I shot them Mr. Blair, none without so much as a stick for a weapon. I looked them straight in the face, I saw their fear, and I killed them. That’s why they gave me this medal . . . for murder. War does funny things to people. You wanted the truth Mr. Blair. Print that!”
I saw the look in his eyes, that look of revulsion, I was a monster. Blair didn’t pester me again after that. Apparently, the murder of children, even black African children, enemy children of the empire, was apparently more than Mr. Blair or the London TIMES public was willing to stomach. The unmentionable truth remained. That is what I did—that is what I am. I had to live with myself.
* * *
I LOCATED AND WENT STRAIGHT AWAY to the County Court house the next morning. I went straight to the office of the registrar and deeds. I looked smart, in my Queen’s scarlet, my crisp Sergeant’s uniform, pistol on my hip, DCM medal pinned prominently on my chest. I was treated with great respect, deference, a very great change from my humble origins as a poor Welsh coal miner’s daughter an indentured factory worker. I wondered to myself, if they knew the truth, that I was just a girl, a fraud, a murderer. How would they treat me then?
A very nice little old lady helped me in the office of deeds and registrars, a Mrs. Edith Hall. I don’t remember too much about her except she had white hair and the sharp click, click, click that her heels made once I made my inquiry known, she was off, deep in the racks the labyrinth tomes of the registrar. There no way I could have found what she found me. To Mrs. Hall, it seemed my request; there was nothing more important to her. With in two hours we had traced and located Pieter Hendricks’ only living sister, residing here, on the outskirts of Pietermaritzburg. Elisabeth (Hendricks) Van Dyke, I was particularly taken, as that was my Christian middle name—I was baptized, Theresa Elizabeth . . .
I thanked Mrs. Hall; I offered her two bob, which she indignantly refused. I thanked her again. Armed with this information and nearly two O’clock worth of daylight, I gently nudged Star, and she and I set out the five miles or so to the Van Dyke farm. I had know idea what I would find.
I rehearsed in my mind what I planned to say. Of course, all my words flew straight out of my head when I actually knocked on the door and was confronted with Mev. Van Dyke. She was an older woman, at least as old, probably older than me mum was. She was from good honest hard working Dutch Voortrecker stock, with a lined face, and full broad smile.
“Het hallo, wilt wat u?”
My Afrikaans was pretty bad. I straightened to ramrod attention. “Sargent Thomas Claiborne, 24th-Regiment of Foot, Light-Horse detachment, ma’am. I’ve come to see you about your brother ma’am, Mhr. Pieter Hendricks.”
“Mijn broer?”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t speak Afrikaans. It is my duty to inform you ma’am, your brother is dead. The whole Hendricks family is dead, massacred, ma’am, your niece, your nephews, your sister-in-law, all dead ma’am. The Zulus ma’am, they killed them.”
I saw the strength fail Mev. Van Dyke’s eyes. English or Dutch, the meaning of my visit was clear. It was a few minutes before I eventually managed to work myself inside. I found myself sitting in a well-appointed parlor. I may have been the bearer of bad news but before I knew it, I was the recipient of renowned Dutch hospitality. I had a cup of tea and numerous choices of delicious cakes to choose from. Mev. Van Dyke had regained her composure and wanted to know as many details about her brother. Between her broken English and my near non-existent Afrikaans. We managed to communicate.
I explained to Mev. Van Dyke that I came upon the station too late, that the Zulus had already attacked, and massacred the whole family. I told her how I had buried them, done my best to give them a final Christian burial. I even sang for her a few bars . . .
♫ Far away, a voice is calling,
Bells from memory do chime
Come home again, come home again,
They call through the oceans of time.
This land of song will keep a welcome
and with love that never fails,
Well kiss away each hour of hiraeth
when you come home again to Wales. ♫
I think on that point she was grateful—it was in that moment we connected. All of this brought me to the real reason why I had come. I presented her with Mhr. Hendricks’ pocket watch. I explained how I had taken the watch off the body of a dead Zulu. I made sure to tell her how I had used it through out my long and difficult journey in the bush, how it had served me faithfully and probably saved my life. I’m not really sure how much she understood, but she listened intently. Mev. Van Dyke smiled at me, she took a hold of my hand, with her other hand she touched my face.
“Het horloge van Pieter is goed." Mev. Van Dyke pressed the pocket watch back into my hand. "Hij zou willen dat u het hebt, Mhr. Claiborne."
My Afrikaans is so bad, I had no idea what she just said—but regardless, that's how I came away from Pietermaritzburg with Mhr. Hendricks’ pocket watch still in my possession.
WHAT EXACTLY IS A NICE DAY? People tell you to have one all the time, my bank teller invariably says to me without fail, “Have a nice day.” Does he mean it? Of course not, he doesn’t know me he doesn’t care. Do you often ever really have one? . . . Most of my days qualify as crappy if you want to know the truth. “Have a crappy day.” is probably more apropos. Have a nice day, that social catch phrase is so over worked, trite, and clichéd that it has lost all vestige of any real meaning.
