TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living and dead are intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 15

I AM A SOLDIER

HENDRICKS' STATION was the epitome of devastation, the stench of death was everywhere. Smoke curled from the blackened skeletons of the upright post of main house, burned to a cinder, utterly devastated. I could see in the blackened pit the remains, the shards that had once been the home of a living family of Dutch colonists. There were the remains of a stove, broken crockery and bottles and a few pitiful bits that had survived the fire. Near the front door, there was a blackened corpse of an adult, burned beyond my ability to tell whether it was a man or woman. There were other traces of the doomed Hendricks’ family last few desperate minutes. Cowering under what I presumed were the remains of a bed, were two more sets of human remains, child size. The Zulus in their murderous fury had spared no one.

The barn, the outhouse, the storehouse and the kraal were left largely intact. There was a well with a pump. I led the horses to water, and pumped and pumped. The water gushed forth in all its life sustaining crystal cold purity. I don’t think I ever tasted water so good. The horses were thirsty. I filled all my canteens. A couple of stray chickens crossed my path. I resolved to catch them, as that would make a fine supper.

The storehouse was the only building of note the Zulus had not broken into. With no windows and barred by heavy oaken door and iron padlock. The reinforced stone structure had defeated all Zulu attempts to break in and pillage.

I took out Mnr. Hendricks’ pocket watch; it was a quarter past two. You will forgive me I’m sure when I tell you with all the other excitement and concentrations going on that I forgot to mention that before I left camp, I searched the Zulu bodies. Among the various sordid sundry items, I found a number of artifacts that clearly were European in origin including a fancy dress mirror, a locket containing the wedding pictures of Mnr. and Mev. Hendricks, and of course, Mnr. Hendricks’s pocket watch. Armed with this information, I surmised that we were very close to Hendricks’ station and that these were the very same Zulu warriors who had attacked the same. It seemed my hunch was correct.

It was plain to see where the Zulu’s had hacked and pried at the stout oaken door to no avail with their heavy stabbing Assegais. I stood back a couple of yards and leveled my Martini. The powerful blast from the rifle easily shattered the lock where the wrought-iron power of the stabbing spears had failed. Inside was a disappointment, stacks of mealie bags, cattle feed and a few farm implements, nothing more, nothing except a bottle of whiskey, tucked out of sight in the rafters, safely concealed from prying eyes of Mev. Hendrick no doubt. It seemed Mnr. Hendrick was not quite the pious Dutch Christian that we might have believed. Other than that, there was nothing of any use to me.

Except for the fresh water, and a few stray chicken, the overall farm was useless burned out hulk. There was nothing to report except to confirm the massacre of the Hendricks’ family. To that end, I had graves to dig.

I should tell you, digging graves is hard work. I retrieved my entrenching tool and set about the task. With in fifteen minutes of working in the hot African sun, I was drenched with sweat. I stripped off my duty-blouse, which left me clad from the waist up only in my white cotton skivvies, woven in the mills of WSPFS no doubt, and my suspenders. I didn’t care; the only person within 25 miles that knew I was a woman was back at camp with a two-foot spear stuck in his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere. I continued to work.

It took me most of the rest of the afternoon to dig five graves. I didn’t dig them very deep but the ground was hard and unyielding. I piled stones on top of the graves and fashioned makeshift crosses. When my work was done, I stood there feeling forlorn and homesick, thinking I should do something more. I couldn’t think of anything else to do but sing. I began with just a little hum, and then I sang the song we sang at my brother’s funeral Dewy and Wallace. I sang for Dewey, I sang for Wallace, I sang for my friends Marty, Lilly and Sally, I even sang for Mr. Crowley. All alone, there amidst those five forlorn graves in the African bush, I sang in my best clear soprano.

I sang in my native Welsh, these are the words I sang in English . . .

♫ Far away, a voice is calling,
Bells from memory do chime
Come home again, come home again,
They call through the oceans of time.

Well keep a welcome in the hillside.
Well keep a welcome in the Vales
This land you knew will still be singing
When you come home again to Wales.

This land of song will keep a welcome
And with a love that never fails,
Well kiss away each hour of hiraeth
When you come home again to Wales. ♫

I checked Mnr. Hendricks’ pocket watch again it was a quarter past five O’clock. I still had enough daylight to go back to camp and retrieve Burlingham and bring him back to here, where I figured we least had shelter and access to fresh water. I picketed Duke in the kraal and dressed the chickens for our supper. I figured in forty-five minutes I could be back here, and maybe have enough daylight left to do something about Burlingham's wounds.

How wrong I was.

I rode back and retraced my steps to the original campsite. I was easily within 100 yards when a thunder-crack blasted past my head, so close it knocked off my helmet. The bullet ricocheted on the rocks behind me. I pitched full body into the dirt. I dared long enough to pull my Martini out of the scabbard, slap Star on the rump, before a second “cha-chink” followed by the un-mistakable sound of a Martini-Henry loading lever closing the breech, a quarter of a second later, a second bullet slammed into the dirt near my left foot.

“BURLINGHAM, YOU FUCK-FACED LIVERPOOL DOLT! IT’S ME SARGENT CLAIBORNE!”

“FUCK YOU CLAIBORNE! YOU’LL NOT TAKE ME BACK TO 'ANG!”

The problem was clear and entirely my own fault. I had foolishly, stupidly left a mutinous soldier with a rifle, thinking that he might need it in the event of a Zulu attack. Now it seemed that Burlingham was to have none of that, he was intent on using my altruistic generosity as a mean to murder me and prevent me from returning him to Port Durban to stand court-martial.

“BURLINGHAM! STAND DOWN, I’M COMING IN!” I wormed my way closer, pissed off that I was reduced to crawling in the dirt to approach my own campsite. Despite being an asshole and a dolt, Burlingham was a decent shot and this is what worried me. “Burlingham, you shoot me and you die, here, now in this desert!”

“Don’t come any closer, Claiborne you bald-face cunt! You’ll not take me back to Port Durban to 'ang!”

I was within twenty-five yards of him. I tried to reason with him. "Burlingham, listen to me, I have fresh water, I have two chickens, there’s a fire, and a shelter to get out of this weather. We can get that spear out of you, you have to trust me, and you have to let me help you.”

“You gonna get me 'anged!” Burlingham blubbered.

I took a chance and inched closer. “I’m not gonna do anything of the sort! What you done, you done, that’s for the court to decide . . .”

"Claiborne, I hurt so bad . . .”

"Then let me help you . . .” I made my move, I pounced on him. I should think I surprised the hell out of him. To him, I was nothing more than a dumb girl and was and not capable of such audacity. I wrestled the Martini out of his grasp; I brought the butt of the Webley down hard across his skull with such force I am surprised I didn’t kill him.

Burlingham howled, "Ow! whatcha go'n do that for ya little blighter!"

"That was for trying to kill me!"

"Oh, dat leetle ole thang, I was just josh'n ya . . . a joke Claiborne, can't ya even take a joke?" Burlingham felt the knot on his head, his hand came up bloody. "Looksee what you done to me, I'm bleeding."

"You'll get worse than that if you try that stunt again!" I was not amused. I was full on top of him, all 94 lbs. of me, disheveled and panting. It took me several second before I realized Burlingham, perverted Private Burlingham wasn't struggling anymore, he wasn't so much subdued, as he was using his vantage point to look down the front of my shirt. Despite a knock in his forehead the size of a walnut, Burlingham found enough strength to leer at the sight of my sweaty chest.

“You are one fine looking woman.” Burlingham offered weakly as he sank back into submission.

“Shut-up Burlingham.” I buttoned up my white cotton undershirt, there were to be no more free peek shows to amuse the peanut gallery.

A dissolute private Burlingham aside, my biggest problem now, was how to get the wounded 200 lb. man up and on to a horse. I didn’t have the physical strength to wrestle him up on to a mount, especially if he continued to be uncooperative. Therefore, I contrived to construct an Indian “travois.” I read about this particular Indian invention in another chapter in a borrowed pulp-novel . . . I found the American Wild West was full of practical applications in the African desert. I figured at least this way I could drag Burlingham the three miles back to Hendricks’ station, make bivouac, eat supper, I personally was dying for a cup of tea. Last of all, there was the immotile problem of the spear. I was apprehensive to say the least about the prospects of removing that spear from his chest all without killing him. It would have to be done, and it would have to be done tonight. I trussed Burlingham up good this time. I was a fool to think he possessed even one iota of honor. He was an abasement, not to be trusted. I bound his hands behind his back, like the prisoner he was. “You are under arrest, mister.” I loaded him on to the travois and we made our way back to Hendricks’ station. Burlingham complained bitterly “I was hurting him.” I paid him no mind; a cup of tea and a chicken in a pot were the only thoughts on my mind. How little did I know.

* * *

I MADE A MODEST BIVOUAC amongst the mealie bags of the fortress like enclosure of the storehouse. I felt for the first time since Burlingham’s attempted rape, and the Zulu attack a certain measure of security. Burlingham, he was tied up, and I had four stout walls and only one way in between me and the Zulus. I figured since the Zulus carry virtually nothing in the way of supplies, they have no sustainability in the field. The remnants of the war party must have moved on by this time. I risked a small fire. I boiled some tea, and cooked the chicken. The chicken was delicious. After supper, I faced the inevitable.

"We have to get that spear out." I gave him some whiskey from the bottle I found.

"Oh nice! Been hold'n out on me, 'eh Claiborne?" Burlingham drank greedily, his Adam’s apple bobbed as the fiery whiskey spilled down his throat. He wasted almost as much as he consumed.

"That's enough." I laid out everything I thought I would need including my sharpest knife, needle, thread and the last clean field dressing.

"Here, bite down on this . . . this is gonna hurt―I can't really say I care much." I put my knee in his chest for leverage, and pulled. The spear came straight out, with a spectacular sucking sound and frightful gout of blood. Burlingham’s eyes rolled back in his head, he gurgled and passed out.

"Oh good god I've killed him!" I threw the Zulu spear into the corner, revolted. I applied pressure to the wound to staunch the flow of blood. After what seemed like an eternity, the bleeding subsided to an ooze. I sewed him up, it was a jolly good patch job. I sat beside him for three hours, alone, by the dying embers of the fire, listening to his shallow breathing.

"Oy, Claiborne . . ." Burlingham opened one eye.

"You're alive!" I immediately tried to conceal my joy. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit, Claiborne. Eh, I sure could use another drop of dat whiskey?"

"You've had enough, just rest; it will be daylight in a few hours." I stirred the fire and set the kettle on to boil thinking a cup of tea might solve all my problems.

"Claiborne . . . why'd you do all you done, save my life'n all?"

I shot him a glance, was he trying to thank me? No, he was setting me up again. I was cautious. "Mr. Burlingham, I hold the Queen's NCO, you are my responsibility. It is my duty as an officer in the 24th Regiment of Foot to keep you alive." I said brusquely.

"So you can take me back to Port Durban, see me 'ang, huh?"

"No, I told you it's my duty; I have a responsibility, to the Regiment, to Captain Fredrickson, Major Steele. They expect me to see this mission completed." I bit my lip, it was a weak answer, and I knew it. Once again, Burlingham had turned the tables on me; he had succeeded in making himself the injured party and me the villain. Now I felt guilty. I nervously poked at the fire.

"Claiborne, all that back there, what I said, I didn’t mean it, 'bout you being too ugly to tap'n all . . ." Burlingham coughed, he raised himself up. I didn’t like him looking at me that way. "The way the fire lights your hair . . . such pretty hair. You really ain't such a bad look'n little blighter."

I got up, "I'm going to get some more wood." I really didn't want to have this conversation.

Burlingham it seemed wasn't finished with me just yet, his little pig eyes narrowed to slits, a mean mocking look darkened his face, "Oy, Claiborne, don't you be so uppity wit me. You ain't all that fine. Ya know you got a split between your front teeth?"

"I know." I left him in a huff. My tongue slipped in the gap between my two front teeth. I was sick of Burlingham and all his cruel games. Burlingham had this knack at finding every chink in my armor. I knew it was stupid vanity to let his stupid aspersions bother me. Besides, I could spit better than any boy in Glamorganshire. Henry, he never seemed to mind. He said I had a beautiful smile.

I returned with the wood. Burlingham dozed fitfully; I was grateful for that bit of peace and quiet. I cautiously felt his forehead he was running a fever. I washed his face with cool water, and sat beside him in an uneasy silence.

"Claiborne . . .?"

"What is it now Burlingham?” I was exasperated it seemed Burlingham was determined to be a constant trial.

“Me bladder is hard as a stone."

"What?" As it turned out, pulling the spear out of his chest was nothing compared to what happened next.

"I got me ah pisser Claiborne; I gotta go to the loo.”

I hadn’t counted on this; I was completely at a loss.

“’elp me up Claiborne.” Burlingham staggered to the door with my help. I’m not exactly sure what I thought was going to happen next, but what happened next certainly took me by surprise.

“Well . . .?” Burlingham stood there as if he was expecting me to do something.

“Well, what.” I said, I wasn’t being dense, I think even at that point; I really had not put two and two together.

“Take it out.”

“You’ve got to be fuck’n kidding me. I absolutely will not take it out!”

“Eh? You got me hands tied behind me back, what the fuck you expect me to do? Piss myself? Take it out Claiborne―There’re bloody rules against the mistreatment of prisoners!” Burlingham smirked, he was a regular barracks barrister that Burlingham. I stood there dumbstruck at an impasse as what to do; he was too dangerous to untie.

“TAKE IT OUT CLAIBORNE!" Burlingham screeched, he rampaged against his bindings with such deranged convulsions, I was afraid he would tear open his wound and start bleeding again. "I'M GONNA PISS MY SELF, I SWEAR! TAKE IT OUT YOU LIL' WHORE-CUNT. UNTIE ME, OR TAKE IT OUT. I DARE YOU!”

I gritted my teeth. “All right.” I undid the buttons on his fly, my hands trembled disquiet with trepidation. I fished out his Willie―while it certainly wasn’t the first Willie I’d ever seen, even still, I was careful not to look. Burlingham, I should think, thoroughly enjoyed my humiliation. Never one to be upstaged, he danced, jangled, and made numerous “ooh” and “ah” sounds of satisfaction as his piss spattered the ground. When he was finally finished, I stuffed him back into his trousers as clinically as possible. Burlingham, never satisfied, made certain to degrade me further.

“You like that, eh Claiborne?” Burlingham sniggered weakly, he sank to the blanket utterly exhausted, dissolute in his satisfaction.

"Bog-off Burlingham, I so fuck'n hate you."

I washed and washed my hands at the pump. I felt dirty and violated. The whole incident gave me the creeps. I tried to put it out of my mind. I made ready twelve rounds from my expense pouch and pushed the spear point of the bayonet deep into a mealie bag where I could grab it a moments notice. I checked the loads on the three rifles, and took up a position in the storehouse door. The African sky was full of stars; it was going to be a long night.