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.

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 16

TESSA’S BIG FIGHT


THE AFRICAN DAWN began with nothing more than a subtle change in the hue of the night stars. The landscape of hardscrabble rock, dongas, scrub brush and prickly plants was imperceptibly transformed by the intangible translucent shades of orange and purple before the great fiery orb of the morning sun first crept then burst forth over the sleepy horizon. December dawn in Zululand was filled with promise, hope and a sense of menace that far overshadowed any prospects of a new day.

I was utterly alone. Twenty-five miles west of the central column, out of contact with my unit, my one and only companion, a soldier in my section, a mutinous malcontent malingerer one Private Davy Burlingham. He had assaulted me, tried to rape me, and subsequently tried to kill me. Wounded, with a raging fever, he was worse than useless. I was trapped here at Hendricks’ station; we were like two scorpions in a bottle, Davy Burlingham and I, the Gingham dog and the Calico cat.

I watched over him all night. He slept fitfully, his fever worsened. I concluded that it was neither humane, nor practical to keep his hands bound behind his back. It was clear that the wound in his shoulder was swelling and it must have caused him great pain. I needed to find an alternative way to restrain him.

I searched the Hendricks’ barn for anything I could use. I located a ten-foot length of “dog chain,” an iron railroad spike and the most spectacular find of all, a working pad-lock. The key, to which I found, nailed to a beam in the barn. It seemed Mnr. Hendricks was if nothing else well organized. His penchant to keep things under lock and key solved at least one of my problems.

Davy Burlingham woke to the sound of me driving the iron railroad spike deep into the storehouse timber floor. He instantly realized that his hands were free. To that end, his brain feverishly went to work to find what mischief he could cause me with his new found freedom. His leg jerked at the end of the chain. Held fast, he was a prisoner, officially under arrest.

“Here, piss in this, next time you feel the urge.” I couldn’t resist a smirk, “You can shit in it too for all I care, just don’t call me.” I plunked down a battered enamelware bucket and some bog paper.

Burlingham jerked at the chain, rebelliously. “Oy, Claiborne, what’cha call this?”

“I call it―You are under arrest.” I gave him a fresh canteen, a plate of food and a steaming cup of tea.

Burlingham drank the tea. He shoved the food to one side. “I can’t eat this shit! Gimme a taste of dat whiskey.”

“No.” I shot him a glance, the last thing I need was a drunken soldier on my hands. “Quit being such a stroppy cow and eat your food.” His indolence was starting to get on my nerves. It was the very same chicken from last night. I don’t know what Davy Burlingham expected, but I am, if I do say so myself, a very good field cook. The chickens were scrawny, but nourishing. “Well then you choose to go hungry. There’s not likely to be anything more until suppertime. You have two choices, ship biscuits or the chicken. Quit your complaining all the time, things could be worse."

"How could things be bloody worse?" Burlingham scowled.

"We could not have the tea." I said wryly. "I’m going to go tend to the horses.”

In spite of being nearly continuously contrary, Burlingham was too weak to move. It appeared like we were stuck here for at least a couple of days. I took stock of my situation. Food was my biggest problem. We were provisioned with several pounds of ship biscuits and a few tins of meat and vegetables. I had not expected to be in the field more than a couple of days and we had already eaten most of the canned provisions. The farm unfortunately yielded very little in the way of useful provisions. Thoroughly pillaged by the Zulus, they carted off everything of any conceivable use. The barn remained stocked with an adequate supply of animal feed, the shear quantity alone proved more than the Zulus could carry. At least the horses wouldn’t go hungry. The Hendricks’ kraal was a well-built stone structure, the horses, Star and Duke seemed quite happy to graze and laze about. We had good clean fresh water. I had three rifles, a pistol, and some four hundred rounds of .455 ammunition, I depot the saddles, rucksack, the two extra rifles and the rest of my traps in the barn for safekeeping, well out of reach of Davy Burlingham.

I put on my straw hat to shield my fair skin from the fierce African sun. Burlingham stirred, he detected I was getting ready to depart.

“Oy, Claiborne, what ‘cha fix’n to do ya little blighter? You ain’t gonna go off’n leave me now are you?”

“I’m just going to scout around, that’s all. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Ain’t you afraid Claiborne? A wee lil’ blighter like yourself, all alone in the African bush, just crawl’n wit wild animals and dem blood-thirsty blacks?”

"I can take care of myself." I said bravely, deep down inside I was afraid, but I wasn’t going to give Burlingham the satisfaction. I ignored him and continued to pack.

“Well you should be . . . you will be, when the Zulus catch you! Do you know what Zulus call young girls like you?”

I knew he was going to tell me. I just waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Ripen at noon.” Burlingham could barely contain his prurience; he continued his misogynistic travails. “See the Zulus dey ain’t never seen a white woman before, let alone a sweet pea like you. When dey catch you, dey’ll strip you naked. Dem Zulu bucks, dey’s all horny as bloody ‘ell. Dey’ll ‘ave der way wit you fer sure, give you a bloody good what’s for.”

“Shut-up Burlingham! You’re trying to scare me!” I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, but my face betrayed my terror.

Burlingham laughed, his face was full of profanation. “When your belly’s full of dem nigger babies, dat when dey ties you out to blister in the sun. Den duh ants and the scorpions come to eat you alive! If you scream, whatever you do don’t scream Claiborne. ‘Cuz if you do dem Zulus dey ‘ate scream'n. Dey takes a stake and pounds it straight up dat sweet hiney of yours.” He jabbed at me with a fork making a vicious twisting motion. He cracked a shit-eating-grin. “What do you say to that, Claiborne?”

“I say you’re a liar, and a bully. For the record, I don’t like you very much.” I hefted my rifle. “If I do run across any Zulus, they better watch out for me.” I sighted down the barrel, “I’m getting pretty good with this.”

Burlingham’s demeanor changed once the realization set in that no amount of scare tactics was going to dissuade me. I really did intend to leave him.

“Claiborne!” Burlingham balled, “Fer gawd sakes don’t leave me like dis! Be a mate, ‘ave a little pity. Don’t leave me chained ‘ere like a dog.” Burlingham jerked on the chain in a futile effort. “‘Ave a ‘eart, Claiborne, least anyways, leave me with a rifle. You can’t leave me ‘ere defenseless; dem blood-thirsty black will finish me for sure!”

“I’ll kill you myself if you don’t shut-up!”

I turned and left without remorse.

“CLAIBORNE! You gob-shite bitch! Come back ‘ere. Please! Please, don’t leave me ‘ere to die!” Burlingham’s plaintive wails trailed off in the distance.

I set off on my trek, my face burned hot with anger. Leave him with a rifle. I snickered at the very thought. How gullible did he think I was? There was to be no repeat of my earlier mistake. I was stupid to have trusted him once; I was not to be made a fool a second time. Burlingham had made his bed, and now he could lie in it. If the Zulus came again, they could tie him out for the ants to eat for all I cared.

The African bush was teaming in wildlife from the speedy springbok, the sleek antelope, warthog, wildebeest and the long horned onyx. South Africa abounded with dangerous animals as well, I had to keep a wary eye out for roving bands of hyenas and the fleet foot cheetahs and silent killers like the leopard. I was no hunter, I had never shot an animal in my life, but hunger necessitated the attempt. I set the sights on my rifle for fifty yards and set out to see what I could shoot for supper.

* * *

I SHOT A SPRINGBOK. In less than two hours of climbing over rocks and foraging dry riverbeds and ravines, the animal presented itself to me at less than fifty yards. I shot it clean through the heart. The animal fell instantly, I squealed with delight, barely able to contain my excitement.

When I was ten, I had watched Papa and my uncle butcher a hog at Christmas time. I set about the gruesome task of cutting up the animal into usable portions. It was sad to waste so much, but I only took the choices portions, as I was limited to what I could carry. I was thoroughly engrossed in my preparation; my anticipation of a delicious supper was palpable.

I was in a secluded donga, an eroded ravine, a sort of dry watercourse that was a raging torrent when the spring rains came. Now, at the height of the African summer, it was nothing but dust. I heard voices, not English voices, African voices, Bantu. I stopped what I was doing. I crept to the rise of the ravine; the sight that greeted me caused my blood to run cold. ZULUS!

I couldn’t count how many, there were a lot, maybe twenty, maybe thirty. Why they didn’t hear my rifle shot, I can only figure it was the luck of the crazy-quilt geography of the landscape, it plays tricks on acoustics. These Zulus were the 33-year-old unmarried men, of the uNokenke kraal, young, eager to wash their spears. It was clear they were spoiling for a fight. The entire Zulu military hierarchy was based on age, and marriage. If were a young warrior, unsuccessful in battle, if you’ve never killed, an enemy “Washed your Spear,” as it were in the lexicon that is the warrior cult of the Zulu. You couldn’t get married. Therefore, there was enormous pressure in the kraals to prove ones prowess in battle. Virtually all young Zulu males were zealous to say the least; the incentive to kill, to kill a white man was all consuming, irresistible.

I was scared. Scared right down to my bootstraps, I think I might have wet my pants. I fled, leaving behind the springbok. I took flight; the Zulus spotted me and took chase. I was in big trouble. There was no fucking way I could out run them. I launched myself down the steep embankment of the donga, slipping and sliding in the gravelly dust. Scared or not, I made a stand behind the only cover I could find, a snaggly prickly pine.

I dropped two of them straight away. The massive .455 slugs tore into their naked bodies, virtually lifting them off the ground. I loaded and fired again. Disheartened by my firepower, the Zulus circled around. I took the opportunity to flee, the whole time I couldn’t shake the terrible specter of ants crawling in my knickers. I ran. I ran the two miles back to Hendricks’ station. I don’t think I ever ran so far so fast in all my life. I burst open the storehouse door, and veritably tumbled in ass-over-teakettle, wild-eyed, and in cold sweat. “Zu . . . !”

“GOT'CHA you little blighter!” I was yanked off my feet. I felt the cold coils of the dog chain loop around my neck and close tight against my throat. My terror was complete. Burlingham pressed the point of the bayonet, the bayonet; I had forgotten the bayonet, the very same bayonet I pushed into the mealie bag the night before. Now its razor-point pressed into my gut.

"You ain’t so smart, who’s in charge now? Leave me ‘ere to die will, ya?” His lecherous hand ravaged my duty-blouse. “Yeah―from here on in, you and me iz gonna be good friends.” Burlingham tightened his grip; he choked me until I thought I was going to pass out. Even with only one hand he was so much stronger that me.

I gasped, I choked, I clutched at the coils around my neck. “ZULUS!”

This one word fell on Burlingham’s ear like a thunder-stroke. His grip went slack. I squirmed and wriggled and finally found myself upside down, I kicked and kicked. I kicked him in the face and rolled free of his grasp.

“Let me go! Let me go goddamn you!”

I pulled the trigger. The report of the revolver within the confines of the storehouse was absolutely deafening.

“Oh, mama, don’t hurt me!”

I scrambled to my feet. “Burlingham, I will fucking shoot you down like a dog! Give me that bayonet!” The weapon clattered to the floor, faced to face with the barrel of the Webley, Burlingham was cowed. I wanted to fucking kill him. I wanted to shoot the sonofabitch more than I ever wanted to kill anyone in my life. I could still feel his filthy hands pawing at my body. Instead, I re-adjusted my disheveled uniform, and with deliberate and correct military decorum. I kicked him in the balls.

“Zulus! They’re here, they’re coming!” I said, breathless. Burlingham’s face went ashen. There was no further, need to impress on him the urgency of the situation. If there was anything Davy Burlingham understood, if he had one fear greater than the prospect of returning to Port Durban to stand court-martial. It was the fear of a Zulu attack. The full weight of our pathetic plight fell on him like a bag of hammers.

"What? What we gonna do now Claiborne?” Burlingham groaned the pain his bollocks was eclipsed by his terror.

"WE?" I scoffed. Since when did I ever figure so prominently in his parti pris? Believe me, there was never any WE in Burlingham's motive. It was always ALL about him. His proclivity for self-absorption was on some level farcical. Mere moments ago he was in the throes of trying to throttle me; this salient fact flew out of his addle brain. Now, beset by Zulus we were miraculously best mates. Just you’n me Claiborne. I found him a despicable avaricious coward; his narcissism was repellent.

“We’re trapped! Trapped like rats in a trap. We’re gonna die in dis bloody hole! Dis is all your fault Claiborne!”

I held up my hand, “Shhh . . .”

There it was again, a sound like a freight train. Two dozen Zulus, moving in unison lock step, the rhythmic chant, the haft of their spears sounded a steady drumbeat against their buffalo-hide shields. Whatever military strategist ever dismissed the Zulus as a mob of undisciplined African savages was horribly misinformed. The Zulus were in fact a highly disciplined, methodical, well-trained military machine. With the exception of their lack of firearms, they were the undisputed masters of all of South Africa.

A fact Davy Burlingham and I were about to learn first hand.

* * *

I'VE NEVER LAID ANY HUBRIS to be a consummate military strategist. I am a simple Welsh girl, from the coalfields of Cardiff. Nothing more, no experience in my short thirteen, going on fourteen-year-old life prepared me for this situation. The potential for disaster was painfully obvious from the very second of our siege. We were holed up in a mud-brick thatched roof shack without windows. I had one rifle, one pistol and at best, forty rounds of ammunition in my two expense pouches. For alternate reasons, that had seemed completely sound at the time. I had depot my remaining weapons and the entire stock of ammunition in a barn some two-hundred yards away. Some fine fat fucking military commander I turned out to be.

I gave the horses up for loss. I barred the door, and set about in a frantic effort to carve loopholes in the side of the storehouse wall. The bayonet was inadequate to the task but it was all I had. In the midst of all my troubles, I had to listen to the constant insipid bellyaching of Davy Burlingham, he whined, moaned, and carried on something fierce. How we were both going to die, how it was all my fucking fault. It was my fault, I’ll give him that much, but his constant grumbles did little to change the situation.

There was no time to worry further the Zulus were upon us.

“USSUTHU!” The Zulus charged.

“HERE THEY COME!” I fired. I worked the loading lever, empty brass cartridge cases tinkled on the ground. I may have described before, the Martini-Henry was a single shot, breech-loading rifle. It fired an enormous forty-five calibre bullet and kicked like a newly shod mule. Ten rounds a minute that was considered a respectable rate of fire. One round every six seconds, in the first two minutes of the Zulu attack I should think I expended twenty-five rounds. The Zulu bodies stacked up like chord wood. My face was covered in smoke and smudge. There was a brief respite in the battle, while the Zulus regrouped. With their initial attack repulsed, already I could see their black bodies skillfully darting back and forth, circling around beyond rifle range.

“What’s going on, Claiborne? . . . I can’t see . . . Dis iz all your fault Claiborne! . . . We’re gonna die, you stupid Berkshire hunt! You got us into this mess! Do something! Burlingham’s constant moans of pessimism in the background did little to help me think clearly in what was already a desperate situation.

I counted six dead. “I KILLED SIX!” I shouted. I don’t know what I was so happy about, I had stung them good for sure, but all I had really succeed in doing was turn their fanaticism into caution. The Zulus it seems are not so easily discouraged. They would be back, and next time there were to be no more frontal assaults. There was no way; I a single rifleman could beat back a coordinated attack. If I didn’t find someway to alter the balance of power in the next two minutes, Davy Burlingham and I were doomed to be overrun.

Papa was always fond of telling the story of a livery stable owner a Mr. Hobson of London who, in order to rotate the use of his horses, offered his customers the choice of either taking the horse in the stall nearest the door—or taking none at all. “Hobson’s Choice.” I really had only one choice, well that’s not exactly true; but the specter of being eaten by ants was not one I was willing to entertain.

“MR. BURLINGHAM! On your feet soldier, that's an order!" Burlingham scoffed at me, the smirk on his contemptuous face was one of So what’cha gonna do now ya little blighter? I so much wanted to wipe the floor with him. I think he was thoroughly enjoying my personal Waterloo. I found myself enmeshed in an inscrutable dilemma. Against my better judgment, against all past precedent, my brain screamed at a feverish pitch, You are fucking crazy girl! I was out of options. I was going to live or die in the next ten minutes; it all depended on a loathsome Davy Burlingham. I was soon going to find out if he possessed even one scrap of moral fiber. I took out the key to the pad lock.

“Burlingham! Listen to me; I need your help. I need those rifles. I need the ammunition. The rifles are in the barn. I need you to cover me. If you can’t do this, we are both going to die.” I tossed him the loaded rifle, and dropped my webbing with the remaining precious cartridges. “Do you think you can be a soldier for ten minutes, can you at least do that much?”

Burlingham took the rifle, grinning from ear to ear like a cat that had just choked on too much cream. I was immediately sorry for my decision. I was certain I had just made yet another stupid mistake, but it was too late now, I was commited. I drew my revolver, and made a break for the barn. Rifle fire crackled behind me. A Zulu body dropped. Burlingham made his boast he was the best shot in “F” Company.

* * *

I RAN A ZIGZAG PATTERN. Growing up in Glamorganshire Wales, we never had any toys as such, not even so much as a game ball. Tag or “dobby” as we called it was a free-for-all chase game. My brothers and I used to play this game for hours on Saturday afternoons. I've always been very fast; I was seldom “It.” Ever since I was very young, I've always been what you might call a rough-and-tumble girl. Dispite being a girl and all, I always kept up with my brothers and gave them a good what's for. I think some people might even have disparagingly called me a "Tomboy," but with eight brothers and no sisters, what choice did I have?

I now found myself in a game of dobby where the stakes were life or death. I made a brake for the barn. Three Zulus spotted me at once, they hurled their light javelin assegais. These are the traditional weapons of the Bantu people. For centuries, traditional warfare among the Bantu peoples involved a great deal of posturing, some spear flinging and very little in the way of actual casualties. The great Zulu King Shaka changed all of that. He took away what he perceived as a weak flimsy weapon, and replaced it with the utterly lethal short-hafted stabbing spear. The Zulu iKiwa, was named, allegedly, for the sucking sound it made when it was withdrawn from the victim. The iKiwa had more in common with the Roman gladius of legionaries fame than a spear. Overnight, Shaka transformed traditional Bantu warfare from spear flinging and posturing, to utter and complete slaughter.

Outmoded or not, I found myself assailed with a rain of throwing assegais. One pierced the heel of my boot. I quickly realized why Shaka had banned them, they were not particularly deadly. Lethal or not, it is mightily disconcerting to have a hail of sharp pointy things swishing all about you. This was in concert with the steady CRACK of the lone Martini-Henry. I counted his shots. I knew exactly how many cartridges he had. To my surprise, I was still alive. Somehow, I fully expected Burlingham to off me, shoot me in the back at his first opportunity. Burlingham laid down a withering fire from the storehouse, he actually provided me with decent cover and I made it to the barn unscathed.

The confines of the barn represented a measure of safety, the smells were earthy and of animals. There were the haymows and the stacks of animal feed, the cattle stalls, now deserted, were a lonely reminder that up until two days ago this had been a bustling farm. A loose goose crossed my path, terrified; she sought refuge in the confines of the shadows. I retrieved the two rifles and fixed the bayonet. I stuffed my pockets with cartridge packets, and picked up the haversack with the bulk of the ammunition. Each rifle weighed nine pounds; the haversack weighed a good forty. It seemed, getting here was the easy part. Getting back in one piece now that was a challenge.

I launched from the barn at a full tilt. The storehouse seemed very small and represented a pathetic shelter from the Zulu onslaught. “HUZZAH!” I shouted, more to buoy my own spirits, than to scare off the Zulus. Weighed down as I was, I was a lumbering target. The safety of the storehouse seemed even farther away than before. Burlingham’s fire had slowed to a trickle, reduced to single isolated shots, and then nothing at all. In all the pother of the past few minutes, I knew he was out of ammunition. With no steady suppression fire to protect me, the Zulus rose up and attacked me at once. I dropped one rifle, along with the the haversack. At this point, I had shifted into pure survival mode. I pulled the trigger on the rifle without even bringing it up to my shoulder, so close was the Zulu to me the muzzle blast seared his flesh; a second warrior instantly beset me. I now had nothing but an empty rifle with which to defend myself. Fortunately, it was the one with the lunger.

The Zulu crashed into me, battering me with his buffalo shield. He delivered a classic Zulu underhand thrust with his stabbing iKiwa; the killing blow aimed at my loins came up only inches short. I whirled and bashed him with the butt of the rifle. The blow glanced harmlessly off his shield, I succeeded in driving him back just enough to give me maneuvering room to bring the bayonet into a textbook rifleman defensive posture.

“HA!” I lunged at him with the bayonet. I now had the advantage of reach, but his hand-to-hand combat skills were well honed. The warrior expertly parried with the shield, I found myself locked in a deadly ballet of death.

He was a handsome specimen, powerfully built with strong features and a shiny black face. His broad white teeth gleamed in the morning sunlight. I must have struck a pathetic figure, all 94 lbs. of me soaking wet, a girl with a boy’s dirty face. We circled there for the next five seconds, each sizing up the other, looking for an opening, a moment of opportunity. I caught myself wishing I had paid closer attention to bayonet combat in basic training.

The Zulu shouted some incomprehensible gibberish.

“COME ON! You black bastard, tie me out with the ants will you!”

The Zulu charged, expertly deflecting the point of the bayonet, using his shield as a battering ram, he crashed into me with the force of a on rushing freight train. I went sprawling in one direction, my rifle went another. I landed prostrate in the dust. The Zulu seized upon me for the kill. He stabbed at my gut in a skillful killing stroke.

I closed my eyes, and waited for the spear point to slash my flesh. I didn't know for certain what it must feel like to be disemboweled, (unpleasant to say the least), I was soon to find out. My only real experience with death as such was the day poor Lilly got chopped in the remorseless clockworks of the no. 64. I imagined lots of gushing blood and a wretched display of pink bits that should normally stay inside. The blow from the iKiwa, knocked the wind out of my chest, but miraculously I remained stubbornly alive. All those cartridge packets I so greedily stuffed in my pockets deflected the blow.

God bless Color Sargent Bourne. I read a quote in one of my Western novels “God made all men, Samuel Colt made them equal.” I guess the same could be said for Webley and Scott. The bullet from the Webley exploded in my enemy’s face, smashed his teeth, and took the top of his head clean off. I’m sure in the traditions of the warrior cult of the Zulu; I was considered a reprhensible dishonorable opponent. To shoot a man like that—this gave me no pleasure. I didn’t have time to contemplate such niceties as honor in combat. It may not have been the honorable thing to do, I found myself outclassed, out matched. Cowardly or not, I was still alive. I scrambled to my feet, snatched my rifle by the bandolier, clawed the haversack out of the dirt and made a final desperate dash for the storehouse door.

“SARGENT CLAIBORNE, I’M COMING IN!” I shouted. I was breathless parched and utterly exhausted.

Burlingham swung open the door. A totally bedraggled Burlingham greeted me; he appeared wild-eyed, sweaty, exhausted from his exertions. I could see blood spotting his bandages. This was not what you might call a "Happy reunion." He scowled as he snatched the rifle; I let the haversack fall heavy to the floor.

"That's only one rifle! Where the bloody 'ell is the other rifle?"

Whatever remaining strength I had drained from my body. My face filled with tears as I realized the magnitude of my blunder. Stupid! I am so stupid! I don't suppose being nearly skewered at the point of a Zulu spear offered up much of an excuse. The other carbine lay in the yard, exactly where I dropped it along side the body of the dead Zulu.

Burlingham, he had no sympathy for me; instead he thoroughly delighted in my carelessness. He pressed home his advantage. "What! You gonna cry now? Aw, looksee, the wittle girly-sargent is gonna cry!”

“I’m sorry . . . I dropped it.” I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my dirty sleeve and tried to regain my composure.

“You dropped it!” Burlingham scoffed, “Well dats just fucking great! I always knew you wuz noth’n but a little blighter! You took your fine fat fuck'n time gitt’n back ‘ere too, wit just one rifle! Where wuz you? Pick’n posies in the park."

"You call that cover!" I shot back, now he was making me mad. I found myself unable to deal with all his bullshit. I just needed to sit down, catch my breath. I felt faint. The Zulus were gone for the moment, but they would be back.

I was so thirsty, I reached for the canteen. Burlingham cut me off with the tip of the bayonet. "Tut-tut, what's the password?"

"WHAT? I don't have time to play games with you." My exertions of the past fifteen minutes left me feeling physically ill. I found myself in desperate need of a drink. I unscrewed the cap. Burlingham cracked his contemptuous shit-eating-grin. Before I even brought the canteen to my lips, he planted his boot squarely in my chest, and shoved. I watched the storehouse door slam shut—dust spewed in my face. I landed without grace on my arse in the dirt.

"PISS OFF YA LEETLE BLIGHTER!"

Did I ever tell you how much I fuck'n hated him?

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.