The Sound of Thunder

THE SOUND OF THUNDER

Wilbur Smith

Four years of travel in the road less wilderness had battered the wagons.

Many of the wheel-spokes and disselboonu had been replaced with raw

native timber; the canopies were patched until little of the original

canvas was visible; the teams were reduced from eighteen to ten oxen

each, for there had been predators and sickness to weed them out. But

this exhausted little caravan carried the teeth of five hundred elephant;

ten -tons of ivory; the harvest of Sean Courtneys rifle; ivory that he

would convert into nearly fifteen thousand gold sovereigns once he

reached Pretoria.

Once more Sean was a rich man. His clothing was stained and baggy,

crudely mended; his boots were worn almost through the uppers and

clumsily resoled with raw buffalo hide; a great untrimmed beard covered

half his chest and a mane of black hair curled down his neck to where

it had been hacked away with blunt scissors above the collar of his

coat. But despite his appearance he was rich in ivory, also in gold

held for him in the vaults of the Volkskaas Bank in Pretoria.

On a rise of ground beside the road he sat his horse and watched the

leisurely plodding approach of his wagons. It is time now for the

farm, he thought with satisfaction. Thirty-seven years old, no longer

a young man, and it was time to buy the farm. He knew the one he

wanted and he knew exactly where he would build the homestead-site it

close to the lip of the escarpment so that in the evenings he could sit

on the wide stoep look out across the plain to the Tugela River in the

blue distance.

"Tomorrow early we will reach Pretoria. " The voice beside him

interrupted his dreaming, and Sean moved in the saddle and looked down

at the Zulu who squatted beside his horse.

"It has been a good hunt, Mbejane. " "Nkosi, we have killed many

elephant." Mbejane nodded and Sean noticed for the first time the

strands of silver in the wooly cap of his hair. No longer a young man

either.

"And made many marches," Sean went on and Mbejane inclined his head

again in grave agreement.

"A man grows weary of the trek, " Sean mused aloud. "There is a time

when he longs to sleep two nights at the same place. " "And to hear

the singing of his wives as they work the fields. " Mbejane carried it

further. "And to watch his cattle come into the kraal at dusk with his

sons driving them. " "That time has come for both of us, my friend. We

are going home to Ladyburg. " The spears rattled against Ins raw-hide

shield as MbeJane stood up, muscles moved beneath the black velvet of

his skin and he lifted his head to Sean and smiled.

It was a thing of white teeth and radiance, that smile. Sean had to

return it and they grinned at each other like two small boys in a

successful bit of mischief.

"If we push the oxen hard this last day we can reach Pretoria tonight,

Nkosi. " "Let us make the attempt. " Sean encouraged him and walked

his horse down the slope to intercept the caravan.

As it toiled slowly towards them through the flat white glare of the

African morning a commotion started at its rear and spread quickly

along the line, the dogs clamoured and the servants shouted

encouragement to the rider who raced past them towards the head of the

caravan. He lay forward in the saddle, driving the pony with elbows

and heels, hat hanging from the leather thong about his neck and black

hair ruffled with the speed of his run.

"That cub roars louder than the lion that sired him," grunted Mbejane,

but there was a fondness in his expression as he watched the rider

reach the leading wagon and drag the pony from full run down on to his

haunches.

"Also he spoils the mouth of every horse he rides." Sean's voice was

as harsh as Mbejane's, but there was the same fond expression in his

eyes as he watched his son cut loose the brown body of a springbok from

the pommel of his saddle and let it drop into the road beside the

wagon. Two of the wagon drivers hurried to retrieve it, and Dirk

Courtney kicked his pony and galloped down to where Sean and Mbejane

waited beside the road.

"Only one?" Sean asked as Dirk checked the pony and circled back to

fall in beside him.

"Oh, no. I got three-three with three shots. The gun boys are

bringing the others. " Offhanded, taking as natural that at nine years

of age he should be providing meat for the whole company, Dirk slouched

down comfortably in the saddle, holding the reins in one hand and the

other resting negligently on his hip in faithful imitation of his

father.

Scowling a little to cover the strength of his pride and his love, Sean

examined him surreptitiously. The beauty of this boy's face was almost

indecent, the innocence of the eyes and faultless skin should have

belonged to a girl. The sun struck ruby sparks from the mass of dark

curls, his eyes spaced wide apart were framed with long black lashes

and over scored by the delicate lines of the brow. His eyes were

emerald and his skin was gold and there were rubies in his hair-a face

fashioned by a jewel smith Then Sean looked at the mouth and

experienced a twinge of uneasiness. The mouth was too big, the lips

too wide and soft. The shape of it was wrong-as though it were about

to sulk or whine.

"We are making a full day's trek today, Dirk. No out span until we

reach Pretoria. Ride back and tell the drivers.

"Send MbeJane. He's doing nothing. " "I told you to go. " "Hell,

Dad! I've done enough today. " "Go, damn you!" Sean roared with

unnecessary violence.

"I've only just come back, it's not fair that-" Dirk started, but Sean

did not let him finish.

"Every time I ask you to do something I get a mouthful of argument. Now

do what I tell you. " They held each other's eyes; Sean glaring and

Dirk resentful, sulky. Sean recognized that expression with dismay.

This was going to be another of those tests of will that were becoming

more frequent between them.

Would this end as most of the others had? Must he admit defeat and use

the sjambok again? When was the last time-two weeks ago-when Sean had

reprimanded Dirk on some trivial point concerning the care of his pony.

Dirk had stood sullenly until Sean was finished, and then he had walked

away among the wagons. Dropping the subject from his mind, Sean was

chatting with MbeJane when suddenly there was a squeal of pain from the

laager and Sean ran towards it.

In the centre of the ring of wagons stood Dirk. His face was OR darkly

flushed with temper, and at his feet the tiny body of one of the

unweaned puppies flopped and whimpered with its ribs stoved in from

Dirk's kick.

In anger Sean had beaten Dirk, but even in his anger he had used a

length of rope and not the viciously tapered sjantbok of hippo hide.

Then he had ordered Dirk to his living-wagon.

At noon he had sent for him and demanded an apology-and Dirk, un crying

with lips and jaw set grimly, had refused it.

Sean beat him again, with the rope, but this time coldly-not for the

sake of retribution. Dirk did not break.

Finally, in desperation Sean took the sJambok to him. For ten hissing

strokes, each of which ended with a wicked snap across his buttocks,

Dirk lay silently under the whip. His body convulsed slightly at each

lash but he would not speak, and Sean beat him with a sickness in his

own stomach, and the sweat of shame and guilt running into his eyes,

swinging the sjambok mechanically with Ins fingers clawed around the

butt of it, and his mouth full of the shiny saliva of self-hatred.

When at last Dirk screamed, Sean dropped the sjambok, reeled back

against the side of the wagon and leaned there gasping, fighting down

the nausea which flooded acid-tasting up his throat.

Dirk screamed again and again, and Sean caught him up and held him to

his chest.

"I'm sorry, Pa! I'm sorry. I'll never do it again, I promise you. I

love you, I love you best of all-and I'll never do it again,"

screamed Dirk, and they clung to each other.

For days thereafter not one of the servants had smiled at Sean nor

spoken to him other than to acknowledge an order. For there was not

one of them, including Mbejane, who would not steal and cheat and lie

to ensure that Dirk Courtney had whatever he desired at the exact

moment he desired it. They could hate anyone, including Sean, who

denied it to him.

That was two weeks ago. And now, thought Sean watching that ugly

mouth, do we do it all again?

Then suddenly Dirk smiled. It was one of those changes of mood that

left Sean slightly bewildered, for when Dirk smiled his mouth came

right. It was irresistible.

"I'll go, Dad." Cheerfully, as though he were volunteering, he prodded

the pony and trotted back towards the wagons.

"Cheeky little bugger " gruffed Sean for Mbejane's benefit, but

silently he queried Ins share of the blame. He had raised the boy with

a wagon as his home and the veld as his schoolroom, grown men his

companions and authority over them as his undisputed right of birth.

Since his mother had died five years before he had not known the

gentling influence of a woman. No wonder he was a wild one.

Sean shied away from the memory of Dirk's mother. There was guilt

there also, guilt that had taken him many years to reconcile. She was

dead now. There was no profit in torturing himself. He pushed away

the gloom that was swamping the happiness of a few minutes before,

slapped the loose end of the reins against his horse's neck and urged

it out on to the road south towards the low line of hills upon the

horizon, south towards Pretoria.

He's a wild one. But once we reach Ladyburg he'll be all right, Sean

assured himself. They'll knock the nonsense out of him at school, and

I'll knock manners into him at home. No, he'll be all right.

That evening, the third of December, 1899, Sean led his wagons down the

hills and laagered them beside the Apies River.

After they had eaten, Sean sent Dirk to his cot in the living wagon

Then he climbed alone to the crest of the hills and looked back across

the land to the north. It was silver-grey in the moonlight, stretching

away silent and immeasurable. That was the old life and abruptly he

turned his back upon it and walked down towards the lights of the city

which beckoned to him from the valley below.

There had been a little unpleasantness when he had ordered Dirk to stay

with the wagons; in consequence Sean was in an evil mood as he crossed

the bridge on the Apies and rode into the city the following morning.

Beside him Mbejane ran to keep pace with his horse.

Deep in his own thoughts Sean turned into Church Street before he

noticed the unusual activity about him. A column of horsemen forced

him to rein his horse to the side of the road.

As they passed Sean examined them with interest.

Burghers in a motley of homespun and store clothes, riding in a

formation wich might imaginatively have been called a column of

fours.

But what excited Sean's curiosity was their numbers-By God! there must

be two thousand of them at least, from lads to grey beards each of them

was festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and beside each left knee

the butt of a bolt-action Mauser rifle stuck up from its scabbard.

Blanketrolls tied to the saddles, canteens and cooking-pots clattering,

they filed past. There was no doubting it. This was a war commando.

From the sidewalk women and a few men called comment at them.

" Geluk hoor! Shoot straight.

"Spoedige terugkonts. " And the commandos laughed and shouted back.

Sean stooped to a pretty girl who stood beside his horse. She was

waving a red scarf and suddenly Sean saw that though she smiled her

eyelashes were loaded with tears like dew on a blade of grass.

"Where are they going?" Sean raised his voice above the uproar.

She lifted her head and the movement loosed a tear; it dropped down her

cheek, slid from her chin and left a tiny damp spot on her blouse.

"To the train, of course."

"The train? Which train?"

"Look, here come the guns."

In consternation Sean looked up as the guns rumbled past, two of them.

Uniformed gunners in blue, frogged with gold, sitting stiffly to

attention on the carriages, the horses leaning forward against the

immense weight of the guns. Tall wheels shod with steel, bronze

glittering on the breeches in contrast to the sombre grey of the

barrels.

"My God!" breathed Sean. Then turning back to the girl he grasped her

shoulder and shook it in his agitation. "Where are they going? "Tell

me quickly-where? " "Menheer!" She bridled at his touch and wriggled

away from it.

"Please. I'm sorry-you must tell me." Sean called after her as she

disappeared into the crowd.

A minute longer Sean sat stupefied, then Ins brain began to work

again.

It was war, then. But where and against whom?

Surely no tribal rising would call out this array of strength.

Those guns were the most modern weapons Sean could conceive.

No, this was a white man's war.

Against the Orange Republic? Impossible, they were brothers.

Against the British, then? The idea appalled him. And yet and yet

five years ago there had been rumours. It had happened before. He

remembered 1895, and the Jameson Raid. Anything could have happened

during the years he had been cut off from civilization-and now he had

stumbled innocently into the midst Of it.

Quickly he considered his own position. He was British. born in Natal

under the Union Jack. He looked like a burgher, spoke like one, rode

like one, he was born in Africa and had never left it-but technically

he was just as much an Englishman as if he had been born within sound

of Bow bells.

Just supposing it was war between the Republic and Britain, and just

supposing the Boers caught him-what would they do with him?

Confiscate his wagons and his ivory certainly, throw him into prison

perhaps, shoot him as a spy possibly!

"I've got to get to hell out of here, he mumbled, and then to

Mbejane,

"Come on. Back to the wagons, quickly." Before they reached the

bridge he changed his mind. He had to learn with certainty what was

happening. There was one person he could go to, and he must take the

risk.

"Mbejane, go back to the camp. Find Nkosizana Dirk and keep him

there-even if you have to tie him. Speak to no man and, as you value

your life, let Dirk speak with no man. It is understood? " "It is

understood, Nkosi.

And Sean, to all appearances another burgher among thousands of

burghers, worked his way slowly through the crowds and the press of

wagons towards a general dealer's store at the top end of the town near

the railway station.

Since Sean had last seen it the sign above the entrance had been

freshly painted in red and gold. "I. Goldberg. Importer & Exporter,

Dealing in Mining Machinery, Merchant & Whole Purchasing Agent: gold,

precious stones, hides and skins, saler ivory and natural produce.

Despite this war, or because of it, Mr. Goldberg's emporium was doing

good business. It was crowded and Sean drifted unnoticed among the

customers, searching quietly for the proprietor.

He found him selling a bag of coffee beans to a gentleman who was

plainly sceptical of its quality. The discussion of the merits of Mr.

Goldberg's coffee beans as opposed to those of his competitor across

the street was becoming involved and technical.

Sean leaned against a shelf full of merchandise, packed his pipe, lit

it and while he waited he watched Mr. Goldberg in action. The man

should have been a barrister, his argument was strong enough to

convince first Sean and finally the customer.

The latter paid, slung the bag over his shoulder and grumbled his way

out of the shop, leaving Mr. Goldberg glowing pink and perspiring in

the flush of achievement.

"You haven't lost any weight, Izzy, " Sean greeted him.

Goldberg peered at him uncertainly over his gold-framed spectacles,

beginning to smile until suddenly he recognized Sean. He blinked with

shock, jerked his head in a gesture of invitation so his jowls wobbled,

and disappeared into the back office. Sean followed him.

"Are you mad, Mr. Courtney?" Goldberg was waiting for him, quivering

with agitation. "If they catch you. " "Listen Izzy. I arrived last

night. I haven't spoken to a white man in four years.

What the hell is going on here?"

"You haven't heard?"

"No, damn it, I haven't."

"It's war, Mr. Courtney.

"I can see that. But where? Against whom?"

"On all the borders-Natal, the Cape."

"Against?"

"The British Empire." Goldberg shook his head as though he did not

believe his own statement. "We've taken on the whole British Empire. "

"We?" Sean asked sharply.

"The Transvaal Republic and the Orange Free State. Already we have won

great victories, Ladysmith is besieged, Kimberley, Mafeking-" YOU,

personally?" "I was born here in Pretoria. I am a burgher.

"Are you going to turn me in?"

"No, of course not. You've been a good customer of mine for years.

"Thanks, Izzy. Look, I've got to get out of here as fast as I can. "It

would be wise."

"What about my money at the Volkskaas-can I get it out?

Izzy shook his head sadly. "They've frozen all enemy accounts.

"Damn it, God damn it! " Sean swore bitterly, and then,

"IIzzy, I've got twenty wagons and ten tons of ivory parked out there

on the edge of town-are you interested?"

"How much?"

"Ten thousand for the lot; oxen, wagons, ivory-the lot."

"It would not be patriotic, Mr. Courtney," Goldberg decided

reluctantly. "Trading with the enemy-besides I have only your word

that it's ten tons. " "Hell, Izzy, I'm not the British Army-that lot

is worth twenty thousand quid. " "You want me to buy sight unseen-no

questions asked? All right. I'll give you four thousand-gold.

"Seven." "Four and a half," countered Izzy.

"You bastard. " "Four and a half.

"No, damn you. Five!" growled Sean.

"Five?

"Five!

"All right, five.

"Thanks, IZZy. " "Pleasure, Mr. Courtney."

Sean described the location of his laager hurriedly.

"You can send someone out to pick it up. I am going to run for the

Natal border as soon as it's dark.

"Keep off the roads and well clear of the railway. Joubert has thirty

thousand men in Northern Natal, massed around Ladysmith and along the

Tugela heights. " Goldberg went to the safe and fetched five small

canvas bags from it. "Do you want to check?"

"I'll trust you as you trusted me. Good-bye, Izzy." Sean dropped the

heavy bags down the front of his shirt and settled them under his

belt.

"Good luck, Mr. Courtney."

There were two hours of daylight left when Sean finished paying his

servants. He pushed the tiny pile of sovereigns across the tailboard

of the wagon towards the last man and went with him through the

complicated ritual of farewell, the hand-clapping and clasping, the

repetition of the formal phrases-then he stood up from his chair and

looked around the circle. They squatted patiently, watching him with

wooden black faces-but reflected back from them he could sense Ins own

sorrow at this parting.

Men with whom he had lived and worked and shared a hundred hardships.

It was not easy to leave them now.

"It is finished," he said.

" Yebho, it is finished." They agreed in chorus and no one moved.

"Go, damn YOU! Slowly one of them stood and gathered the bundle of his

possessions, a kaross (or skin blanket), two spears, a cast-off shirt

that Sean had given him. He balanced the bundle on his head and looked

at Sean.

-Nkosi! " he said and lifted a clenched fist in salute.

"Nonga," Sean replied. The man turned away and trudged out of the

laager.

"nosi!"

"Hlubi.

"Nkosi!"

"Lim.

A roll call of loyalty-Sean spoke their names for the last time, and

singly they left the laager. Sean stood and watched them walk away in

the dusk. Not one of them looked back and no two men walked together.

It was finished.

Wearily Sean turned back to the laager. The horses were ready.

Three with saddles, two carrying packs.

"We will eat first, Mbejane. " "It is ready, Nkosi. Hlubi cooked

before he went."

"Come on, Dirk. Dinner."

Dirk was the only one who spoke during the meal. He chattered gaily,

wrought up with excitement by this new adventure, while Sean and

MbeJane shovelled fat Hlubi's stew and hardly tasted it.

Out in the gathering darkness a jackal yelped, a lonely sound on the

evening wind, fitting the mood of a man who had lost friends and

fortune.

"It is time." Sean shrugged into his sheepskin jacket and buttoned it

as he stood to kick out the fire, but suddenly he froze and stood with

his head cocked as he listened. There was a new sound on the wind.

"Horses!" Mbejane confirmed it.

"Quickly, Mbejane, my rifle." The Zulu leapt up, ran to the horses and

slipped Sean's rifle from its scabbard.

"Get out of the light and keep your mouth shut," Sean ordered as he

hustled Dirk into the shadows between the wagons.

He grabbed the rifle from MbeJane and levered a cartridge into the

breech and the three of them crouched and waited.

The click and roll of pebbles under hooves, the soft sound of a branch

brushed aside.

"One only," whispered Mbejane. A pack-horse whickered softly and was

answered immediately from the dari mess Then silence, a long silence

broken at last by the jingle of a bridle as the rider dismounted.

Sean saw him then, a slim figure emerging slowly out of the night and

he swung the rifle to cover his approach. There was something unusual

in the way the stranger moved, gracefully but with a sway from the

hips, long-legged like a colt and Sean knew that he was young, very

young to judge by his height.

With relief Sean straightened up from his crouch and examined him as he

stopped uncertainly beside the fire and peered into the shadows.

The lad wore a peaked cloth cap pulled down over Ins ears and his

jacket was an expensive, honey-coloured chamois. His riding breeches

were beautiffilly tailored and hugged his buttocks snugly. Sean

decided that his backside was too big and out of proportion to the

small feet clad in polished English hunting boots. A regular dandy,

and the scorn was in Sean's tone as he called out.

"Stay where you are, friend, and state your business!"

The effect of Sean's challenge was unexpected. The lad jumped, the

soles of his glossy boots cleared the ground by at least six inches,

and when he landed again he was facing Sean.

"Talk up. I haven't got all night.

The lad opened his mouth, closed it again, licked his lips and spoke.

"I was told you were going to Natal. " The voice was low and husky.

"Who told you that?" demanded Sean.

"MY uncle. " "Who is your uncle?

"Isaac Goldberg. " Sean digested this intelligence and while he did so

he examined the face before him. Cleanshaven, pale, big dark eyes and

a laughing kind of mouth that was now pursed with night.

"And if I am?" Sean demanded.

"I want to go with you. " "Forget it. Get back on your horse and go

home.

"I'll pay you-I'll pay you well. " Was it the voice or the posture of

the lad, Sean pondered, there was something very odd about him. He

stood with a flat leather pouch held in both hands across the front of

his hip sing an attitude of defence, as though he were protecting,

protecting what? And suddenly Sean knew what it was.

"Take off your cap," he ordered.

"No. " "Take it off.

A second longer the lad hesitated, then in a gesture that was almost

defiance he jerked off the cap and two thick black braids of hair,

shiny in the firelight, dropped and hung down almost to his waist and

transformed him instantly from gawky masculinity into stunning

womanhood.

Although he had guessed it, Sean was unprepared for the shock of this

revelation. It was not so much her beauty, but her attire that caused

the shock. Never in his life had Sean seen a woman in breeches, and

now he gasped. Breeches, by God, she might as well be naked from the

waist down-even that would be less indecent.

"Two hundred pounds-" She was coming towards him now, offering the

pouch. At each step the cloth of the breeches tightened across her

thighs and Sean dragged his eyes guiltily back to her face.

"Keep your money, lady. " Her eyes were grey, smoky grey.

"Two hundred on account, and as much again when we reach Natal. " "I'm

not interested." But he was, those soft lips starting to quiver.

"How much then? Name your price.

"Look, lady. I'm not heading a procession. There are three of us

already-one a child. There is hard riding ahead, plenty of it, and an

army of Boers in between. Our chances are slim enough as it is.

Another member to the party, and a woman at that, will make them

prohibitive. I don't want your money, all I want is to get my son to

safety. Go home and sit this war out it won't last long. " "I'm going

to Natal."

"Good. You go then-but not with us. Sean could not trust himself

longer to resist the appeal of those grey eyes and he turned to

Mbejane. "Horses," he snapped and walked away from her. She stood

watching him quietly as they mounted up, making no protest. She seemed

very small and alone as Sean looked down at her from the saddle.

"I am sorry," he growled. "Go home now like a good girl," and quickly

he wheeled away and trotted out into the night.

All night they rode, east through the open moonlit land. Once they

passed a darkened homestead and a dog barked, but they sheered away and

then turned east again and held the great crucifix of the Southern

Cross at their right-hand. When Dirk fell asleep in the saddle and

slipped sideways, Sean caught him before he hit the ground, pulled him

across into his lap and held him there for the rest of the night.

Before dawn they found a clump of bush on the bank of a stream, hobbled

the horses and made camp. Mbejane had the billy can boiling over a

small well-screened fire and Sean had rolled Dirk unconscious into his

blankets when the girl rode into camp and jumped down from her horse.

"I nearly lost you twice. She laughed and pulled off the cap.

"Gave me a horrible night. " She shook down the shiny braids.

"Coffee! Oh good, I'm famished."

Menacingly Sean climbed to his feet and with clenched fists he glared

at her, but undismayed she hobbled her horse and turned it loose before

acknowledging him again.

"Don't stand on ceremony, please be seated. " And she grinned at him

with such devilment in her grey eyes, aping so faithfully his stance

with hands on those indecent hips, that Sean suddenly found himself

smiling. He tried to stop it for he knew it was an admission of

surrender, but his effort was so unsuccessful that she burst into

delighted laughter.

"How's your cooking? " he demanded.

"So SO." "You'd better brush up on it because from now on you're

working your passage. " Later, when he had sampled it for the first

time, he admitted grudgingly,

"Not bad-in the circumstances," and wiped the plate with a crust of

bread.

"You are too kind, sir." She thanked him and lugged her blanket-roll

into the shade, spread it, pulled off her boots, wriggled her toes and

lay back with a sigh.

Sean positioned his own bedroll with care so that, when he opened his

eyes, without turning his head he could watch her from under the brim

of the hat that covered his face.

He woke at midday and saw that she slept with one cheek in her open

hand, the lashes of her eyes meshed together and a few loose strands of

dark hair across a face that was damp and flushed in the drowsy heat.

He watched her for a long time before silently rising and crossing to

his saddle-bags. When he went down to the stream he took with him his

flat canvas toilet-bag, the remaining pair of breeches that were

neither patched nor too badly stained and a clean silk shirt.

Sitting on a rock beside the water, naked and freshly scrubbed, he

regarded his face in the polished steel mirror.

"A big job. " He sighed and started snipping at the great bush of

beard which had not felt the scissors in dime years.

At dusk, selfconscious as a girl in her first party dress, Sean walked

back into the camp. They were all awake. Dirk and the girl sat

together on her blanket in such earnest conversation that neither of

them noticed his arrival. Mbejane was busy at the fire; he rocked back

on his heels and examined Sean without change of expression.

"We'd better eat and get going."

Dirk and the girl looked up. Her eyes narrowed and then widened

thoughtfully.

Dirk gaped at him, and then, "your beard's all funny-" he announced,

and the girl tried desperately to quell her laughter.

"Get your blankets rolled up, boy."

Sean tried to break Dirk's grip on the subject, but like a bulldog Dirk

held on relentlessly.

-and why are you wearing your best clothes, Dad?"

They rode three abreast in the darkness, Dirk between them and Mbejane

trailing behind with the packhorses. The land rose and fell beneath

them like the swells of an endless sea and the way in which the grass

moved with the night wind heightened the illusion of waves.

Islands in the sea were the dark bulks of the kopJes they passed, and

the yelp of a jackal was the voice of a seabird.

"Aren't we holding too far east?" The girl broke the silence and her

voice blended with the soft sound of the wind.

"Intentionally," Sean answered. "I want to cross the tail of the

Drakensberg well clear of the Boer concentrations around Ladysmith and

the line of rail, " and he looked over Dirk's head at her. She rode

with her face lifted to the sky.

-You know the stars?" he asked.

"A little."

"So do I. I know them all." Dirk accepted the challenge and swivelled

towards the south. "That's the Cross with the pointers, and that's

Orion with his sword on his belt, and that's the Milky Way."

"Tell me some others," the girl invited.

"The others are just ordinary ones-they don't count. They haven't even

got names.

"Oh, but they have and most of them have got a story.

"There was a pause. Dirk was now in an invidious position.

either he had to admit ignorance, and Dirk's pride was too large to

swallow with ease, or else he would forgo what promised to be a choice

series of stories. Large as was his pride, his appetite for stories

was even larger.

"Tell me some," he conceded.

"You see that little clump there underneath the big bright one?

They are called the Seven Sisters. Well, once upon a time-" Within

minutes Dirk was completely absorbed. These were even better than

MbeJane's stories-probably because they were new, while Dirk could

recite from memory MbeJane's entire repertoire. He fell upon any

weakness in the plot like a prosecuting attorney.

"But why didn't they just shoot the old witch?"

"They didn't have guns in those days.

"They coulda used a bow and arrow. " "You can't kill a witch with a

bow and arrow. The arrow just goes-psst-straight through her without

hurting her. " "Hangs teeth! " That was really impressive, but before

accepting it Dirk found it necessary to corroborate with expert

opinion. He checked with Mbejane, translating the problem to the

Zulu.

When Mbejane supported the girl Dirk was convinced for Mbejane was a

celebrated authority on the supernatural.

That night Dirk did not fall asleep in the saddle and when they camped

before dawn the girl's voice was hoarse with overwork, but her conquest

of Dirk was complete and that of Sean was well advanced.

All night while he listened to her voice and the husky bursts of

laughter that punctuated it Sean had felt the seed that was planted at

their first meeting sinking its roots down into his lower belly and

loins, spreading its tendrils up through his chest.

He wanted this woman so violently that in her presence his wits failed

him. Many times during the night he had attempted to join the

discussions, but each time Dirk had brushed his efforts aside with

contempt and turned avidly back to the girl. By morning he had made

the disturbing discovery that he was jealous of his own son-jealous of

the attention Dirk was getting, and for which he hungered so

strongly.

While they drank coffee after the morning meal lying on their blankets

beneath a grove of syringa trees, Sean remarked: "You haven't told us

your name yet." And of course it was Dirk that answered.

"She told me. Your name's Ruth-isn't it?"

-That's right, Dirk."

With an effort Sean clamped down on the senseless anger that boiled up

through him, but when he spoke his voice carried traces of it.

"We've heard enough from you for one night, my boy. Now get your head

down, close your eyes and your mouth and keep,

"I'm not sleepy, Dad."

"Do what I tell you. " Sean jumped up and strode out of the camp.

He climbed the small kopJe above them. By now it was full daylight and

he searched the veld to the horizon on all sides.

There was no trace of habitation or human. He climbed down again and

fussed with the hobbles of the horses before returning to the grove of

syringas.

Despite his protestations Dirk was curled like a sleeping puppy and,

near the fire from a large bundle of blankets issued the unmistakable

snoring of Mbejane. Ruth lay a little apart from them, a blanket

thrown over her legs, her eyes closed and the front of her shirt rising

and falling in a manner that gave Sean two good reasons for not

sleeping. He lay propped on one elbow and fed Ins eyes and his

imagination on her.

These four years past he had not seen a white woman, four years without

the sound of a woman's voice or the comfort of her body. In the

beginning it had worried him-the restlessness, the undirected fits of

depression, and sudden bursts of temper.

But gradually in the long days of hunting and riding, in the endless

struggle with drought and storm, with beasts and the elements, he had

brought his body under control. Women had faded into unreality, vague

phantoms that plagued him only in the night so he twisted and sweated

and cried out in his sleep until nature gave him release and the

phantoms dispersed for a while to gather strength for their next

visitation.

But this was no phantom that lay beside him now. By stretching out a

hand he could stroke the faint down on her cheek and feel the

blood-warm silk of her skin.

She opened her eyes, they were milky grey with sleep, slowly focusing

until they levelled with his and returned his scrutiny.

Because of what she read there, she lifted her left hand from the

blanket and held it out towards him. Her riding gloves were off. For

the first time he noticed the slender gold ring that ench-cled her

third finger.

"I see, " he muttered dully, and then in protest: "But you are too

young-you're too young to be married. " "I'm twenty-one years old, "

she told him softly.

"Your husband-where is he?" Perhaps the bastard was dead, his one last

hope.

"I am going to him now. When war seemed inevitable he went to Natal,

to Durban, to find a job and a home for us there.

I was to follow him-but the war came earlier than we expected.

I was stranded."

"I see." I am taking you to another man, he thought with bitterness,

and put it in different words. " So he is sitting in Durban waiting

for you to make your own way through the lines. " "He is with the army

of Natal. A week ago he got a message through to me.

He wanted me to stay on in Johannesburg and wait until the British

capture the city. He says that with so great a force they will be in

Johannesburg within three months.

"Why didn't you wait, then?"

She shrugged. "Patience is not one of my virtues, " and then the

devilment was in her eyes again. "Besides, I thought it would be fun

to run away-it was so terribly dull in Johannesburg. " "Do you love

him?" he demanded suddenly. The question startled her and the smile

died on her lips.

"He's my husband."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"It was a question you had no right to ask." She was angry now.

"You have to tell me.

"Do you love your wife?" she snapped at him.

"I did. She's been dead five years. " And her anger flickered out as

swiftly as it had blazed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Forget it. Forget I ever asked. " "Yes, that's best. We are getting

into an awful tangle." Her hand with the ring upon it was still held

out towards him, lying between them on the soft carpet of fallen

leaves. He reached out and lifted it. It was a small hand.

"Mr. Courtney," "Sean," it's best if we must," "think we better sleep

now. " And she withdrew the hand and rolled away from him.

The wind woke them in the middle of the afternoon, it roared in from

the east, flattening the grass on the hills and thrashing the branches

above their heads.

Sean looked up at the sky with the wind fluttering his shirt and

ruffling his beard. He leaned forward against it, towering over Ruth

so that suddenly she realized how big he was. He looked like a god of

the storm, with long powerful legs braced apart and the muscles of his

chest and arms standing out proudly beneath the white silk of his

shirt.

"Clouds building up," Sean shouted above the rush of the wind.

"No moon tonight."

She stood up quickly and a sudden violent gust threw her off balance.

She staggered against him and his arms closed about her. For a moment

she was pressed to his chest, could feel the lean, rubbery resilience

of his body and smell the man smell of it. it was a shock for both of

them, this unexpectedly intimate contact and when she broke away her

eyes were wide and grey with fear of the thing she had felt stir within

her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "That was an accident." And the wind

caught her hair and streamed it across her face in a dancing, snapping

black tangle.

"We'll up saddle and ride with the daylight that is left, " Sean

decided. "We won't be able to move tonight."

The clouds rolled in on the wind, spreading upon themselves, changing

shape and dropping closer to the earth. Clouds the colour of smoke and

bruises, heavy with the rain they carried.

The night came early, but still the wind roared and buffeted them in

the gloom.

"It will drop in an hour or so, then we'll get the rain. We'll try and

find shelter while there's still light enough to see. " On the reverse

slope of a kopJe they found an overhang of rock and offloaded the packs

beneath it. While Sean pegged the horses out on their head ropes to

prevent them walking away before the storm, Mbejane cut grass and piled

it into a mattress on the rock floor beneath the overhang.

Huddled in their oilskins they ate biltong and cold mealie bread and

afterwards Mbejane withdrew discreetly to the far end of the shelter

and disappeared under his blankets. He had that animal knack of being

able to sleep instantly and completely even under the most adverse

conditions.

"All right, boy. Get into your blankets.

I

"Can't I just . . . II Dirk began his nightly protest.

"No, YOU can't." "I'll sing for you," Ruth offered.

"What for?" Dirk was puzzled.

"A sleepy-time song-haven't you ever had a lullaby?"

"No." But Dirk was intrigued. "What you going to sing?"

"Into your blankets first. " Sitting beside Sean in the darkness, very

conscious of his bulk and the touch of his shoulder against hers, the

muted roar of the wind as her accompaniment-Ruth sang.

First the old Dutch folksongs,

"Nooi, Nooi- and

"Jannie met die Hoepel been," then other old favourites like

"Frere Jacques. " Her voice meant something to each of them.

Mbejane woke to the sound of it and it made him remember the wind on

the hills of Zululand and the singing of the young girls in the fields

at harvest-time. It made him glad he was going home.

To Dirk it was the voice of the mother he had hardly known.

A safe sound-and soon he slept.

"Don't stop," whispered Sean.

So she sang for him alone. A love-song from two thousand years ago,

filled with all the suffering of her people, but with joy in it also.

The wind died away while she sang and her voice died away with it into

the vast silence of the night.

The storm broke. The first thunder crashed and the lightning forked

jagged-blue through the clouds. Dirk whimpered a little but slept

on.

In the stark, blue light Sean saw that Ruth's cheeks were wet with

tears and when the darkness closed around them again she started to

tremble against him. He reached out for her and she clung to him,

small and warm against his chest, and he could taste the salt of her

tears on his lips.

"Sean, we mustn't."

But he lifted her and held her across his chest as he walked out into

the night. The lightning blazed again and lit the land with startling

brilliance so he could see the horses huddling heads down, and the

crisp outline of the kopJe above them.

The first raindrops splashed against his shoulders and into his face.

The rain was warm and he walked on carrying Ruth. Then the air was

filled with rain, an encompassing pearly mist of it in the next flash

of lightning, and the night was filled with the odour of rain on dry

earth-a clean warm smell.

In a still morning, washed so clean by the rain that they could see the

mountains, blue and sharp on the southern horizon, they stood together

on the crest of the kopJe.

"That's the tail of the Drakensberg, we've cleared it by twenty miles.

There's very little chance of a Boer patrol this far out.

We can ride by day now. Soon we'll be able to work in again and meet

the railway beyond the battle lines. " Because of the beauty of the

morning, of the land that dripped away into the great, grassy bowl that

was Natal, and of the woman that stood beside him, Sean was gay.

Because of the promise of an end to the journey and the promise of a

new one with this woman as his companion, he was content.

When he spoke she turned slowly to look at him, her chin lifting in

acknowledgement of his superior height. For the first time Sean

realized that his own mood was not reflected in her eyes.

"You are very lovely," he said, and still she remained silent, but now

he could recognize the shadows in her eyes as sorrow or something even

stronger.

"Ruth, you'll come with me?"

"No. " She shook her head slowly, regretfully. The fat black python

of hair rolled across her shoulder and hung down against the honey

chamois leather of her jacket.

"You must.

"I cannot. " "But, last night."

"Last night was madness . . . the storm.

"It was right. You know that."

"No. It was the storm." She looked away from him towards the sky.

"And now the storm is ended. " "It was more than that. You know it.

It was from the first moment of our meeting. " "It was a madness based

upon deceit. Something that I will have to cover with lies-the way we

had to cover it with darkness at the time. " "Ruth. My God, don't

talk about it like that."

"Very well, I won't. I won't talk about it again, ever."

"We can't leave it now. You know we can't. " And in answer she held

up her left hand so that the gold upon it caught the sun.

"We'll say good-bye here on a mountain in the sunlight, Though we'll

ride together a little further-it's here we'll say good-bye. " "Ruth

.

he started, but she placed the hand across his mouth and he felt the

metal of the ring on his lips and it seemed to him that the ring was as

cold as his dread of the loss she was about to inflict upon him.

"No," she whispered. "Kiss me once more and then let me go.

Mbejane saw it first and spoke quietly to Sean, perhaps two miles out

on their flank, like a smudge of brown smoke rising beyond the fold of

the nearest ridge, so faint that Sean had to search a moment before he

found it. Then he swivelled away from it and hunted frantically for

cover. The nearest was an outcrop of red stone half a mile away, much

too far.

"What is it, Sean?" Ruth noticed his agitation.

"Dust, he told her. "Horsemen. Coming this way.

"Boers?"

"Probably. " "What are we going to do?"

"Nothing. " "Nothing?"

"When they show on the ridge I'll ride to meet them. Try to bluff our

way through. " He turned to Mbejane and spoke in Zulu. "I will go to

them. Watch me carefully, but keep moving away. If I lift my arm let

the pack-horses go and ride. I will hold them as long as I can, but

when I lift my arm then it is finished. " Quickly he unbuckled the

saddle-bag which held the gold and handed it to the Zulu. "With a good

start you should be able to hold them off until nightfall. Take the

Nkosikazi where she wishes to go and then with Dirk return to my mother

at Ladyburg. " He looked again at the ridge just in time to see two

horsemen appear upon it. Sean lifted the binoculars from his chest; in

the round field of the glasses the two riders stood broadside, their

faces turned towards him so he could make out the shape of their

helmets. He saw the burnished sparkle of their accoutrements, the size

of their mounts and their distinctive saddlery and he yelled with

relief.

"Soldiers!"

As if in confirmation a squadron of cavalry in two neat ranks broke

over the skyline with the pennants fluttering gaily on the forest of

their lances.

Dirk hooting with excitement, Ruth laughing beside him and Mbejane

dragging the pack-horses after them, Sean galloped standing in the

stirrups and waving his hat above his head to meet them.

Unaffected by the enthusiasm of the welcome the lancers sat stolidly

and watched them come and the subaltern at their head greeted Sean

suspiciously as he arrived.

"Who are you, sir? " But he seemed less interested in Sean's reply

than in Ruth's breeches and what they contained. During the

explanations that followed Sean conceived for the man a growing

dislike. Although the smooth, sun-reddened skin and the fluffy, yellow

moustache aggravated this feeling, the central cause was the pair of

pale blue eyes. Perhaps they always popped out that way, but Sean

doubted it. They focused steadily on Sean only during the short period

when Sean reported that he had made no contact with the Boer, then they

swivelled back to Ruth.

"We'll not detain you longer, Lieutenant," Sean grunted and gathered

his reins to turn away.

"You are still ten miles from the Tugela River, Mr. Courtney.

Theoretically this area is held by the Boers and although we are well

out on the flank of their main army it would be much safer if you

entered the British lines under our protection. " "Thank you, no. I

want to avoid both armies and reach Pietermaritzburg as soon as

possible." The subaltern shrugged.

"The choice is yours. But if it were my wife and child . . . " He did

not finish, but turned in the saddle to signal the column forward.

"Come on, Ruth. " Sean caught her eye, but she did not move.

"I'm not going with you." There was a flat quality in her voice and

she looked away from him.

"Don't be silly. " It shocked him and gave his reply a harshness that

lit sparks of anger in her eyes.

"May I travel with you?" she demanded of the subaltern.

"Well, ma'am." He hesitated, glancing quickly at Sean before he went

on. "If your husband . . . " "He's not my husband. I hardly know

him." She cut in and ignored the exclamation of protest from Sean. "My

husband is with your army. I want you to take me with you, please. "

"Well, now ... That's a horse of another colour," the officer drawled,

but the lazy arrogance of his tone barely concealed his pleasure at the

prospect of Ruth's company. "I'd be delighted to escort you, ma'am.

With her knees Ruth backed her mount and fell in beside the subaltern.

This small manoeuvre placed her directly facing Sean-as though she were

on the far side of a barrier.

"Ruth, please. Let me talk to you about this. Just a few minutes. "

"No. " There was no expression in her voice, not in her face.

"Just to say good-bye," he pleaded.

"We've said good-bye." She glanced from Sean to Dirk and then away.

The subaltern raised his clenched fist high and lifted his voice.

"Column! Column, Forward!" and as his big, glossy hunter started he

grinned maliciously at Sean and touched the brim of his helmet in

ironical salute.

"Ruth!"

But she was no longer looking at Sean. Her eyes were fixed ahead and

as she swept away at the head of the column her chin was up, that

smiling type of mouth was drawn into two straight lips and the thick

braid of hair thumped against her back with each thrust of the horse

beneath her.

"Rough luck, matey!" called a trooper from the rear rank and then they

were past.

Hunched in the saddle Sean stared after them.

"Is she coming back, Pa? " Dirk inquired.

"No, she's not coming back."

"Why not?"

Sean did not hear the question. He was watching, waiting for Ruth to

look back at him. But he waited in vain, for suddenly she was gone

over and beyond the next fold in the land and a few seconds later the

column had followed her. Afterwards there was only the vast emptiness

within him.

Sean rode ahead. Ten yards behind they followed, Mbejane restraining

Dirk from a closer approach for he understood that Sean must now be

left alone. Many times in the years they had been together Mbejane and

Sean had travelled in this formation-Sean riding ahead with his sorrow

or his shame and Mbejane trailing him patiently, waiting for Sean's

shoulders to straighten and his chin to lift from where it drooped

forward on his chest.

There was no coherence in Sean's thoughts, the only pattern was the

rise and swoop of alternate anger and despair.

Anger at the woman, anger almost becoming hatred before the plunge of

despair as he remembered she was gone. Then anger building up towards

madness, this time directed at himself for letting her go.

Again the sickening drop as he realized that there was no means by

which he could have held her. What could he have offered her?

Himself? Two hundred pounds of muscle and bones and scars supporting a

face like a granite cliff? Poor value! His worldly goods? A small

sack of sovereigns and another woman's child-by God, that was all he

had. After thirty-seven years that was all he had to show! Once more

his anger flared. A week ago he had been rich-and his anger found a

new target. There was at least somewhere he could seek vengeance,

there was a tangible enemy to strike, to kill. The Boer.

The Boer had robbed him of Ins wagons and his gold, had sent him

scurrying for safety; because of them the woman had come into his life

and because of them she had been snatched away from him.

So be it, he thought angrily, this then is the promise of the future.

War!

He straightened in the saddle, his shoulders seemed to fill out wide

and square. He lifted Ins head and saw the shiny snake of a river in

the valley below. They had reached the Tugela. Without pause Sean

pushed his horse over the lip of the escarpment.

On its haunches, loose rock rolling and slithering beneath its hooves,

they began the descent.

Impatiently Sean followed the river downstream, searching for a drift.

But between the sheer banks it ran smooth and swift and deep, twenty

yards wide and still discoloured with mud from the storm.

At the first place where the far bank flattened sufficiently to promise

an easy exit from the water, Sean checked his horse and spoke

brusquely.

"We'll swim. " In reply Mbejane glanced significantly at Dirk.

"He's done this before," Sean answered him as he dismounted and began

to shed his clothing, then to the boy,

"Come on, Dirk. Get undressed.

They drove the pack-horses in first, forcing them to jump from the

steep bank and watched anxiously until their heads reappeared above the

surface and they struck out for the far bank.

Then all three of them naked, their clothing wrapped in oilskins and

lashed to the saddles, they remounted.

"You first, MbeJane. " A splash that rose above the bank.

"Off you go, Dirk. Remember to hang on to the saddle."

Another high splash, and Sean flogged his mount as it baulked and

danced sideways along the bank. A sudden lunge outwards and the long

drop before the water closed over them.

Snorting water, they surfaced and with relief Sean saw Dirk's head

bobbing beside that of his horse, and heard his shouted excitement.

Moments later they stood on the far bank, water streaming from their

naked bodies, and laughed together at the fun of it.

Abruptly the laughter was strangled to death in Sean's throat.

Lining the bank above them, grinning with the infection of merriment

but with Mauser rifles held ready, stood a dozen men.

Big men, bearded, festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, dressed in

rough clothing and a selection of hats that included a brown derby and

a tall beaver.

In imitation of Sean, both Mbejane and Dirk stopped laughing and stared

up at the frieze of armed men along the bank. A complete silence fell

on the gathering.

It was broken at last by the man in the brown derby as he pointed at

Sean with the barrel of his Mauser.

"Magtig! But you'd need a sharp axe to cut through that branch.

" "Don't anger him," warned the gentleman in the beaver. "If he hits

you over the head with it, it will crack your skull! " and they all

laughed.

It was hard for Sean to decide which was the more discomforting; the

intimate discussion of his nudity, or the fact that the discussion was

conducted in the Taal (or Cape Dutch). In his impatience he had

walked, or rather swum, into the arms of a Boer patrol. There was just

a forlorn hope that he might be able to bluff his way through, and he

opened his mouth to make the attempt. But Dirk forestalled him.

"Who are they, Pa, and why are they laughing? " he asked in clear

piping English, and Sean's hope died as abruptly as did the Boer

laughter when they heard that hated language.

"Oh! So!" growled the man in the beaver, and gestured eloquently with

his Mauser. "Hands up please, my friend."

"Will you allow me to put my trousers on first?" Sean asked

politely.

"Where are they taking us?" For once Dirk was subdued and there was a

quiver in his voice that touched Beaver, who rode beside him. He

answered for Sean.

"Now, don't you worry, you're going to see a general. A real live

general. " Beaver's English was intelligible and Dirk studied him with

interest.

"will he have medals and things?"

,-Nee, man. we don't use such rubbish." And Dirk lost interest.

He turned back to Sean.

"Pa, I'm hungry."

Again Beaver intervened. He pulled a long black stick of biltong,

dried meat, from his pocket and offered it to Dirk.

,

"Sharpen your teeth on that, Kerel. " With his mouth full Dirk was

taken care of and Sean could concentrate on the other Boers. They were

convinced they had caught a spy, and were discussing the impending

execution. In a friendly manner Sean was admitted to the argument, and

they listened with respectful attention to his defence. This was

interrupted while they forded the lbgela and climbed the escarpment

once more, but Sean continued it while they rode in a bunch along the

crest. Finally, he convinced them of his innocence which they accepted

with relief, as none of them were really looking forward to shooting

him.

Thereafter the talk turned to more pleasant topics. It was a glorious

day, sunshine lit the valley in gold and green. Below them the river

twisted and sparided, world rig its devious way down from the smoky

blue wall of the Drakensberg that stood along the far horizon. A few

fat clouds dawdled across the sky, and a light breeze took the edge off

the heat.

"The youngsters in the party listened avidly as Sean spoke Of elephant

beyond the Limpopo, and of the wide land that waited for men to claim

it.

"After the war . they said, and laughed in the sun. Then a change in

the wind and a freak lie of the hills brought a faint but ugly sound

down to them and the laughter died.

"The guns," said one of them.

"Ladysmith. " Now it was sean's turn to ask the questions. They told

him how the commandos had raced down to the town of Ladysmith and

rolled up the force that stood to oppose them. Bitterly they

remembered how old Joubert had held his horsemen and watched while the

broken English army streamed back into the town.

"Almighty! Had he loosed us on them then! We would sweep them into

the sea.

"If Oom Paul had commanded instead of old Joubert, the war would be

finished already-but instead we sit and wait."

Gradually Sean filled in the picture of the war in Natal.

Ladysmith was invested. General George White's army was bottled and

corked within the town. Half the Boer army had moved forward along the

railway and taken up a defensive line straddling the Escarpment,

overlooking the river and the tiny village of Colenso.

Below them on the great plain of the Tugela, General Buller was massing

his army for the breakthrough to relieve Ladysmith.

"But let him try-Oom Paul is waiting for him."

"Who is Oorn Paul-Surely not Kruger?" Sean was puzzled.

Oom Paul was the affectionate nickname of the President of the South

African Republic.

"Nee, man! This is another Oom Paul. This one is VechtGeneral Jan

Paulus Leroux of the Wynberg commando." And Sean caught his breath.

"Is he a big man with red hair and a temper to go with it?"

Laughter, and then. "Ja! that's the one. Do you know him?

"Yes. I know him."

So my brother-in-law is now a general, Sean grinned to himself, and

then asked: "Is this the general we are going to visit?"

"If we can find him."

Young Dirk will meet his uncle at last-and Sean found himself

anticipating the reunion with a tingle of pleasure.

The canvas of the tent did little to moderate the volume of the voice

within. It carried clearly to where Sean waited with his escort.

"Must I drink coffee and shake hands with every rooinek we catch?

Have I not already enough work for ten men, but you must bring me

more?

Send him to one of the Field-Comets!

Send him to Pretoria and let them lock him up! Do whatever you like

with him if he is a spy-but, in the name of a merciful providence,

don't bring him to me. " Sean smiled happily. Jan Paulus certainly

hadn't lost his voice.

There was an interval of comparative quiet while Beaver's voice mumbled

within the tent. Then again the muted bellow.

"No! I will not! Take him away."

Sean filled his lungs, cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted at

the tent.

"Hey, you bloody Dutchman! Are you afraid to meet me again? You think

I'll knock your teeth out like I did last time. " A few minutes of

appalling stillness, then the clattering of an overturned stool and the

flap of the tent was thrown open. Into the ma light blinking in the

glare, but scowling, the red hair that fringed his bald pate burning

like a bush-fire, and Ins shoulders hunched aggressively, came Jan

Paulus. His face turned from side to side as he searched for the

source of the insult.

"Here," called Sean, and Jan Paulus stopped dead. Uncertainly he

peered at Sean.

"You!" He took a pace forward and then,

"It is you, isn't it.

Sean! And he began to laugh. His right hand that had been clenched

into a huge fist unfolded and was thrust forward.

"Sean! Hell, man! Sean!"

They gripped hands and grinned at each other.

"Come into the tent. Come on in, man."

Once they were inside, Jan Paulus's first question was: "Where's

Katrina? Where is my little sister?" and immediately the smile was

gone from Sean's face. He sat down heavily on the reinWje stool and

took off his hat before he answered.

"She's dead, Paulus. She's been dead these last four years."

Slowly the expression on Jan Paulus's face changed until it was bleak

and hard.

"How?" he asked.

And what can I answer him, thought Sean. Can I tell him she killed

herself for some reason that no one will ever know.

"Fever," he said. "Blackwater fever."

"You did not send word to us. " "I did not know where to find you.

Your parents?" "They too are dead," Jan Paulus interrupted brusquely

and turned away from Sean to stare at the white canvas wall of the

tent. There was silence between them then as they remembered the dead

in sorrow, made more poignant by its utter helplessness. At last Sean

stood up and went to the entrance of the tent.

"Dirk. Come here."

Mbejane pushed him forward and he crossed to Sean and took his hand.

Sean led him into the tent.

"Katrina's son," he said and Jan Paulus looked down at him.

"Come here, boy." Hesitantly Dirk went to him. Suddenly Jan Paulus

dropped into a squat so that his eyes were on a level with those of the

child. He took Dirk's face between the palm of his hands and studied

it carefully.

"Yes," he said. "This is the type of son she would breed.

The eyes-" His voice stumbled and stopped. A second longer he looked

into Dirk's eyes. Then he spoke again.

"Be proud," he said and stood up. Sean motioned at the flap of the

tent, and thankfully Dirk scampered out to where Mbejane waited.

"And now?" Jan Paulus asked.

"I want passage through the lines."

"You are going over to the English?"

am English, " said Sean. Frowning a little, Jan Paulus considered this

before he asked: " You will give me your word not to take up arms with

them?

"No," answered Sean and Jan Paulus nodded, it was the answer he had

expected.

"There is a debt between us," he decided. "I have not forgotten the

time of the elephant. This is full payment of that debt." He crossed

to the portable desk and dipped a pen. Still standing he wrote

rapidly, fanned the paper dry and proffered it to Sean.

"Go," he said. "And I hope we do not meet again, for the next time I

will kill you."

"Or I you," Sean answered him.

That afternoon Sean led his parry across the steel railway bridge over

the Tugela, on through the deserted village of Colenso and out again

across the plain. Far ahead, sown on the grass plain like a field of

white daisies, were the tents of the great British encampment at

Chievely Siding. But long before he reached it Sean came to a guard

post manned by a sergeant and four men of an illustrious Yorkshire

regiment.

"And where the hell do you think you're off to?"

"I am a British subject," Sean informed them. The sergeant ran an eye

over Sean's beard and patched coat. He glanced at the shaggy pony he

rode, and then considered the direction from which Sean had

approached.

"Say that again," he invited.

"I am a British subject," Sean repeated obligingly in an accent that

fell heavily on the Yorkshire man's ear.

"And I'm a ruddy Japanese, " agreed the sergeant cheerfully.

"Let's have your rifle, mate. " Two days Sean languished in the

barbed-wire prison compound while the Intelligence Department cabled

the Registrar of Births at Ladyburg and waited for his reply. TWo long

days during which Sean brooded incessantly, not on the indignities

which had been inflicted on him, but on the woman he had found and

loved and lost again so quickly. These two days of enforced reactivity

came at precisely the worst moment. By repeating over and over in his

imagination each word that had passed between them, by feeling again

each contact of their hands and bodies, by forming her face in his

mind's eye and gloating over every detail of it-Sean burned her memory

so deeply into himself that it was there for all time. Although he did

not even know her surname, he would never forget her.

By the time he was released with apologies and given back his horses,

rifle, moneybag and packs-Sean had driven himself into a mood of such

overpowering depression that it could only be alleviated by liquor or

physical violence.

The village of Frere, which was the first station south on the line to

the coast, promised both of these.

-nkeep Dirk with you," instructed Sean, "beyond the town find a camp

beside the road and make a big fire, so I can find you in the dark.

"What will you do, Nkosi?

Sean started towards the dingy little canteen that catered for the

thirsty of Frere.

"I'm going there," he answered.

"Come, Nkosizana. " As he and Dirk continued on down the street

MbeJane was deciding how long he should give Sean before coming to

fetch him. It was many years since the Nkosi had headed for a bar in

such a determined fashion, but then there had been much to distress him

these last few days. He will need until midnight, Mbejane decided,

then he will be in a condition conducive to sleep.

From the door Sean surveyed the interior of the canteen. A single

large room with a trestle bar counter along the back wall, and the room

was comfortably MI of warmth and men and the smell of liquor and

cigars. Still standing in the entrance, Sean slipped his hand into the

pocket of his trousers and surreptitiously counted his money, ten

sovereigns he had allowed himself, more than sufficient for the

purchase of the liquor he intended to consume.

As he worked his way through the crowd towards the bar, he looked at

the men about him. Soldiers mostly, from a dozen different regiments.

Colonials and Imperial troops, other ranks predominating, although a

party of junior officers sat at a table against the far wall. Then

there were a few civilians whom he judged to be transport drivers,

contractors and business men, two women with the officers whose

profession was never in doubt, and a dozen black waiters.

"What will it be, ducks?" the large woman behind the counter asked as

he reached it and Sean regarded her moustache and her term of address

with disfavour.

"Brandy." He was in no mood for the niceties.

"You want the bottle, ducks?" She had recognized his need.

"That will do for a start," he agreed.

He drank large brandies, and with a fianit dismay know that they were

having no effect-apart from sharpening his imagination to the point

where he could clearly see Ruth's face before his eyes, complete in

every detail down to the little black beauty spot high on her cheek and

the way the corners of her eyes slanted upwards as she smiled. He

would have to make a more active approach to forgetfulness.

Leaning back with both elbows on the counter and the glass clutched in

his right hand, he studied the men about him once more.

Evaluating each of them as a source of distraction and then discarding

and moving his attention on, he was finally left with the small group

around the gaming-table.

Seven players, the game draw poker, and from what he could see the

stakes were modest. He picked up his bottle, crossed the room to join

the circle of spectators and took up his position behind a sergeant of

yeomanry who was receiving a battering from the cards. A few hands

later the sergeant drew one to fill his flush, missed and pushed the

bluff-raising twice until he was called by two pairs across the

table.

He threw his hand "in and blew through his lips in disgust.

"That cleans me out. " He gathered the few coins left on the table in

front of him and stood up.

"Rough luck, Jack. Anyone care to take his place?" The winner looked

around the circle of spectators. "Nice friendly little game, table

stakes. " "Deal me in." Sean sat down, placed his glass and bottle

strategically at his right hand and stacked five gold sovereigns in

front of him.

"The man's got gold! Welcome."

Sean ducked the first hand, lost two pounds to three queens on the

next, and won five pounds on the third. The pattern of his luck was

set, he played with cold single-mindedness-and when he wanted cards it

seemed he had only to wish for them.

What was the old adage?--Unlucky in love, and the cards turn hot."

Sean grinned without amusement and filled a small straight with the

five of hearts, beat down the three sevens that came against him and

drew the pot towards him to swell the pile of Ins winnings. Up about

thirty or forty pounds. He was enjoying himself now.

"A small school, gentlemen. " Three players had dropped out in the

last hour leaving four of them at the table. "How about giving the

losers a chance to recoup?"

"You want to raise the stakes?" Sean asked the speaker. He was the

only other winner, a big man with a red hice and the smell of horses

about him. Tkansport rider, probably.

"Yes, if everyone agrees. Make the minimum bet five pounds. " "Suits

me, " grunted Sean, and there was a murmur of agreement round the

table. With heavy money out an air of caution prevailed at first, but

slowly the game opened up. Sean's luck cooled a little, but an hour

later he had built up his kitty on a series of small wins to a total of

seventy-five pounds. Then Sean dealt a strange hand.

The first caller on Sean's left raised before the draw, and was raised

in turn by the gentleman with the horsy smell, number three called and

Sean fanned his cards open.

With a gentle elation he found the seven, eight, nine and ten of

Clubs-with a Diamond six. A pretty little straight dealt pat.

"Call your twenty, and raise it twenty, " he offered, and there was a

small stir of excitement among the onlookers.

"Call." Number one was short of cash.

"Call," echoed Horse Odour and his gold clinked into the pot'I'm

dropping. " Number dime closed his cards and pushed them away. Sean

turned back to number one.

"How many cards?"

"I'll play with these." Sean felt the first premonition of disaster.

"And you?" he asked Horse Odour.

"I'm also happy with what I have. " TWo pat hands against his small

straight; and from the suit distribution, Sean's four Clubs, one of

them would certainly be a flush. With a queasy feeling in his stomach

Sean knew he was in trouble, knew his hand to be a loser.

Break the straight and go for the other Club, still not a certain

winner, but the only thing worth trying.

"I'll draw one. " He tossed the six of Diamonds into the welter of

discards, and dealt to himself from the top of the pack.

"My bet." Number one's face was glowing with confidence.

"I'll raise the maximum-another forty. Cost you eighty pounds to look

at me, boys. Let's see the colour of your money.

"I'd like to push you-but that's the limit. I'll call. " Horse

Odour's expression was completely neutral but he was sweating in a

light sheen across his forehead.

"Let me go to the books." Sean picked up his cards and, from behind

the other four, pressed out the corner of the card he had drawn.

It was black, he opened it a little more-a black six. Slowly he felt

the pressure build up within him like a freshly fired boiler. He drew

a long breath and opened the card fully.

"I'll call also. " He spoke on a gusty outgoing breath.

"Full house," shouted number one. "Queen's full-beat that, you

bastards! " Horse Odour slapped his cards down viciously, his red face

crumbling in disappointment. "Goddam it-of all the filthy luck.

I had an ace-high flush. " Number one giggled with excitement and

reached for the money.

"Wait for it, friend," Sean advised him, and spread his cards face up

upon the table.

"It's a flush. My full house beats you," protested number one.

"Count the pips-" Sean touched each card as he named them, "six, seven,

eight, nine and the ten-all Clubs. Straight flush! You come second by

a day's march." He lifted number one's hands off the money, pulled it

towards him and began stacking it in columns of twenty.

"Pretty hot run of luck you're having," Horse Odour gave his opinion,

his face still twisted with disappointment.

"Yes," agreed Sean. Two hundred and sixty-eight pounds.

Very pretty' Funny how it comes to you on the big hands," Horse Odour

went on. "And especially, when you're dealing. What did you say your

profession was?"

Without looking up Sean began transferring the stacks of sovereigns to

his pockets. He was smiling a little. The end to a perfect evening,

he decided.

Satisfied that the money was secure Sean looked up at Horse Odour and

turned that smile full upon him.

"Come along then, laddie," he said.

"It will be a pleasure." Horse Odour shoved his chair back and stood

up.

"It will indeed," agreed Sean.

Horse Odour led down the back-stairs into the yard, followed by Sean

and the entire clientele of the canteen. At the bottom he paused,

judging Sean's footstep on the wooden stairs behind him-then he spun

and hit, swinging his body into the punch.

Sean rolled his head, but it caught him on the temple and he went over

backwards into the crowd behind him. As he fell he saw Horse Odour

jerk back the tail of his jacket and bring out the knife. It shone

dull silver in the light from the canteen windows skinning knife,

curved, eight inches of blade.

The crowd scattered leaving Sean lying on the stairs, and Horse Odour

came in to kill him, making an ugly sound, bringing the knife arching

down from overhead, a clumsy, unprofessional blow.

Only slightly stunned, Sean followed the silver sweep of the knife with

ease and the. man's wrist slapped loudly into Sean's open left hand.

For a long moment the man lay on top of Sean, his knife-arm helpless in

Sean's grip, while Sean assessed his strength-and with regret realized

it was no match. Horse Odour was big enough, but the belly pressed

against Sean's was flabby and large, and the wrist in Sean's hands was

bony without the hard rubbery give of sinew and muscle.

Horse Odour started to struggle, trying to wrestle his knife arm free,

the sweat de wed on his face and then began to drip it had an oily,

unpleasant smell like rancid butter that blended poorly with the odour

of the horses.

Sean tightened his grip on the man's wrist, at first using only the

strength of his forearm.

"Aah! " Horse Odour stopped struggling. Sean brought in the power of

his whole arm, so he could feel his shoulder muscles bunching and

writhing.

"Jesus Christ! " Shrieking, as bone cracked in his wrist, Horse

Odour's fingers sprang open and the knife thumped on to the wooden

stairs.

Still holding him, Sean sat up, then came slowly to his feet.

"Leave us, friend." Sean flung him backwards into the dust of the

yard. He was breathing easily, still feeling cold and detached as he

looked down and watched Horse Odour scrabbling to his knees, nursing

his broken wrist.

Perhaps it was the man's first movement towards flight that triggered

Sean-or perhaps it was the liquor he had drunk that twisted his

emotions, aggravated his sense of loss and frustration and channelled

it into this insane outburst of hatred.

Suddenly it seemed to Sean that here before him on the ground was the

source of all his ills-this was the man who had taken Ruth from him.

"You bastard!" he growled. The man sensed the change in Sean and

scrambled to his feet, his face turning desperately from side to side

as he sought an avenue of escape.

"You filthy bastard! " Sean's voice rose, shrill with the strength of

this new emotion. For the first time in his life Sean craved to kill.

He advanced upon the man slowly, his fists opening and closing, his

face contorted and the words that spilled from his mouth no longer

making sense.

A great stillness had fallen upon the yard. In the shadows the

watchers stood, chilled with the dreadful fascination of it. The man

was frozen also, only his head moved and no sound came from his open

lips-and Sean closed in with the weaving motion of a cobra in

erection.

At the last moment the man tried to run, but his legs were slack and

heavy with fear-and Sean hit him in the chest with a sound like an axe

swung against a tree-trunk.

As he fell Sean went in after him, straddling his chest, roaring

incoherently with only a single word recognizable-the name of the woman

he loved. In his madness he felt the man's face breaking up under his

fists, felt the warm spatter of blood thrown into his own face and on

to his arms, and heard the shouts of the crowd.

"He'll kill him!"

"Get him off " "For Chrissake give me a hand-he's as strong as a bloody

OX. Their hands upon him, an arm locked around his throat from behind,

the shock as someone hit him with a bottle, the press of their bodies

as they swarmed over him.

With men clinging to him, two of them riding his back and a dozen

others on his arms and legs, Sean came to his feet.

" Pull his legs out from under him. " "Get him down, man. Get him

down.

With a convulsive heave Sean swung the men on his arms into violent

collision with each other. They released him.

He kicked his right leg free, and those on his other leg let go and

scattered. Reaching over his shoulders he plucked the men off his back

and stood alone, his chest swelling and subsiding as he breathed, the

blood from the bottle gash in his scalp trickling down his face and

soaking into his beard.

"Get a gun!" someone shouted.

"There's a shotgun under the bar." But no one left the circle that

ringed him in, and Sean glared around at them his eyes staring wildly

from the plane of glistening blood that was his face.

"You've killed him!" a voice accused him. And the words reached Sean

through the madness, his body relaxed slightly and he tried to wipe

away the blood with the open palm of his hand. They saw the change in

him.

"Cool down, mate. Fun's fun but the hell with murder.

"Easy, now. Let's have a look what you've done to him.

Sean looked down on the body, and he was confused and then suddenly

afraid. The man was dead-he was certain of it.

"Oh, my God!" he whispered, backing away, wiping at his eyes

ineffectually and smearing blood.

"He pulled a knife. Don't worry, mate, you've got witnesses. " The

temper of the crowd had changed.

"No," Sean mumbled; they didn't understand. For the first time in his

life he had abused his strength, had used it to kill without purpose.

To kill for the pleasure of it, to kill in the manner in which a

leopard kills.

Then the man moved slightly, he rolled his head and one of his legs

flexed and straightened. Sean felt hope leap within him.

"He's alive! " I

"Get a doctor.

Fearfully Sean approached and knelt beside the man, he un knotted the

scarf from around his own throat and cleaned the bloody mouth and

nostrils.

"He'll be all right-leave him to the Doc.

The doctor came, a lean and laconic man chewing tobacco.

In the yellow light of a hurricane lamp he examined and prodded while

they crowded close about him craning to see over his shoulders.

At last the doctor stood up.

"All right. He can be moved. Carry him up to my surgery."

Then he looked at Sean. "Did you do it?"

Sean nodded.

"Remind me not to annoy you."

"I didn't mean to-it just sort of happened.

"Is that so? " The doctor shot a stream of yellow tobacco juice into

the dust of the yard. "Let's have a look at your head. " He pulled

Sean's head down to his own level and parted the sodden black hair.

"Nicked a vein. Doesn't need a stitch. Wash it and a little iodine. "

"How much, Doc, for the other fellow?" Sean asked.

"You paying?" The doctor looked at him quizzically.

"Yes."

"Broken jaw, broken collar-bone, about two dozen stitches and a few

days in bed for concussion," he mused, adding it up.

"Say two guineas."

Sean gave him five. "Look after him, Doc."

"That's my job." And he followed the men who were carrying Horse Odour

out of the yard.

"Guess you need a drink, mister. I'll buy you one," someone offered.

The whole world loves a winner.

"Yes," agreed Sean. "I need a drink."

Sean had more than one drink. When MbeJane came to fetch him at

midnight he had a deal of difficulty getting Sean up on to the back of

the horse. Half-way to the camp Sean slid off and subsided into the

mud, so Mbeiane loaded him sideways-head and arms hanging over to port

and legs dangling starboard.

"It is possible that tomorrow you will regret this," Mbejane told him

primly as he unloaded him beside the fire and rolled him still booted

and bloody into his blanket.

He was correct.

In the dawn as Sean cleaned his face with a cloth dipped in a mug of

hot water, regarding its reflection in the small metal mirror, the only

fact that gave him the faintest satisfaction was the two hundred-odd

sovereigns he had salvaged from the night's debauch.

"Are you sick, Pa?" Dirk's ghoulish interest in Sean's condition added

substantially to Ins evil temper.

"Eat your breakfast. " Sean's tone was calculated by its sheer

malevolence to dry up further questioning.

"There is no food." Mbenjane fell into the fkmiliar role of

protector.

"Why not?" Sean focused his bloodshot eyes upon him.

"There is one among us who considers the purrhase of strong drink, and

other things, more important than food for his son. " From the pocket

of his jacket Sean drew a handful of sovereigns. "Go!" he ordered.

"Buy food and fresh horses. Go quickly so that in my grave illness I

may not be afflicted with the wisdom of your counsel. Take Dirk with

you.

Mbejane examined the money, and grinned.

""The night was not wasted.

When they had gone back to Frerr, Dirk trotting beside the huge

half-naked Zulu and his voice only fading at a distance of a hundred

yards, Sean poured himself another mug of coffiee and cupping it in his

hands he sat staring into the ash and pink coals of the fire. He could

trust Mbejane to use the money with care, he had the bargaining

patience peculiar to his race that could if necessary devote two days

to the purchase of a single ox. These things did not concern Sean

now.

Instead he went over the events of the previous night. Still sickened

by his display of murderous rage, he tried to justify it.

Taking into account the loss of nearly all he owned, the accumulation

of years of hard work that had been stripped from him in a single day;

the hardship and uncertainty that had followed. And finally he had

reached the flash point when liquor and poker-tensed nerves had snapped

the last reserve in him and translated it all into that violent

outburst.

But that was not all, he knew he had avoided the main issue.

Ruth. As he came back to her a wave of hopeless longing overwhelmed

him, a tender despair such as he had never experienced before. He

groaned aloud, and lifted his eyes to the morning star which was fading

on the pink horizon as the sun came up behind.

For a while longer he wallowed in the softness of his love, remembering

the way she walked, the dark serenity of her eyes and her mouth when

she smiled and her voice when she sang until it threatened to smother

him in its softness.

Then he sprang to his feet and paced restlessly in the grass beside the

fire. We must leave this place, ride away from it-go quickly. I must

find something to do, some way to keep from thinking of it, something

to fill my hands which ache now from the need to hold her.

Along the road, going north to Colenso, a long column of infantry filed

past him in the dawn. He stopped his pacing and watched them.

Each man leaned forward against his pack and the rifles stood up behind

their shoulders.

Yes, he thought, I will go with them. Perhaps at the place to which

they march I can find what I could not find last night. We will go

home to Ladyburg, riding hard on fresh horses. I will leave Dirk with

my mother, then come back to this war.

He began to pace again impatiently. Where the hell was Mbejane?

From the heights above, Sean looked down on Ladyburg. The village

spread in a neat circle around the spire of the church. He remembered

the spite as beacon-bright in its cladding of new copper, but nineteen

years of weather had dulled it to a mellow brown.

Nineteen years. It did not seem that long. There were goods yards

around the station now, a new concrete bridge over the Baboon Stroom,

the blue gums in the plantation beyond the school were taller, and the

flamboyants that had lined the main street were gone.

With a strange reluctance Sean turned his head and looked out to the

right, across the Baboon Stroom, close in against the escarpment, to

where he had left the sprawling Dutch gabled homestead of Theumskraal

with its roof of combed yellow thatch and the shutters of yellow-wood

across the windows.

It was there, but not as he remembered it. Even at this distance he

could see the walls were flaking and mottled with patches of dampness;

the thatch was shaggy as the coat of an aftedale; one of the shutters

tilted slightly from a broken hinge; the lawns were brown and ragged

where the bare earth showed through. The dairy behind the house had

crumbled, its roof gone and the remains of its walls jutted forlornly

upwards to the height of a man's shoulder.

"Damn the little bastard!" Sean's anger flared abruptly as he saw the

neglect with which his twin brother had treated the lovely old house.

"He's so lazy he wouldn't get out of a bed he'd peed in. " To Sean it

was not just a house. It was the place his father had built, which had

sheltered Sean on the day of his birth and through the years of his

childhood. When his father died under the Zulu spears at Isandlawana,

half the farm and the house had belonged to Sean; he had sat in the

study at nights with the logs burning in the stone fireplace and the

mounted buffalo head above it throwing distorted, moving shadows up on

to the plaster ceiling. Although he had given his share away-yet it

was still his home. Garry, his brother, had no right to let it decay

and fall apart this way.

"Damn him!" Sean voiced his thoughts out loud-then almost immediately

his conscience rebuked him. Garry was a cripple, his lower leg shot

away by the blast of a careless shotgun. And Sean had fired that

shotgun. Will I never be free of that guilt, how long must my penance

continue? He protested at the goad of his conscience.

That is not your only trespass against your brother, his conscience

reminded him. Who sired the child he calls his son?

Whose loins sowed the seed that became man-child in the belly of Anna,

your brother's wife?

"It has been a long time, Nkosi.- Mbejane had seen the expression on

his face as Sean looked towards Theuniskraal and remembered those

things from the past that were better forgotten.

"Yes. " Sean roused himself, and straightened in the saddle.

"A long road and many years. But now we are home again."

He looked back towards the village, searching the quarter beyond the

main street and the hotel for the roof of that little cottage on Protea

Street. As he found it, showing through the tall, fluffy blue gum

bees, there was a lift in his mood, a new excitement. Did she live

there still? How would she look-a little grey surely; had her fifty

years marked her deeply, or had they treated her with the same

consideration which she showed all those with whom she came in

contact?

Had she forgiven him for leaving without a farewells Had she forgiven

Ins long years of silence since then? Did she understand the reasons

why he had never written-no word or message, except that anonymous gift

of ten thousand pounds he had transferred to her bank account. Ten

thousand miserable little pounds, which he had hardly noticed among all

the millions he had won and lost in those days long ago when he was one

of the lords of the Witwatersrand gold fields

Again the sense of guilt closed in upon him. As he knew with utter

certainty that she had understood, that she had forgiven.

For that was Ada, the woman who was his stepmother-and whom he loved

beyond the natural love one owes their own full blooded mother.

"Let's go down," he said and kicked his horse to a canter.

"Is this home, Pa?" Dirk shouted as he rode beside him.

"Yes, my boy. This is home."

"Will Granma be here?"

"I hope so," Sean answered, and then softly,

"Beyond all other things, I hope that she will.

Over the bridge above the Baboon Stroom, past the cattle pens along the

fine of rail, past the old wood and iron station buildings with the

sign, white and black faded to grey,

"Ladyburg. Altitude 2,256 it.

above sea level, " swinging left into the dusty main street which was

wide enough to turn a full span of oxen, and down to Protea Street rode

Sean and Dirk, with Mbejane and the pack-mule trailing far behind.

At the corner Sean checked his mount to a walk, drawing out the last

few minutes of anticipation until they stopped outside the wicket fence

of white that encompassed the cottage.

The garden was neat and green, gay with beds of Barberton daisies and

blue rhododendrons. The cottage had been enlarged, a new room built on

the far side, and it was crisp-looking in a coat of new whitewash. A

sign at the gate said in gold letters on a green ground, "Maison Ada.

High-class Costumier" Sean grinned. "The old girl's gone all French,

by God.

Then to Dirk,

"Stay here!"

He swung down from his horse, handed the reins to Dirk and went through

the gate. At the door he paused self-consciously and adjusted his

cravat. He glanced down at the severe dark broadcloth suit and new

boots which he had purchased in Pietermaritzburg, slapped the dust from

his breeches, stroked his newly trimmed beard into place, gave his

moustache a twirl and knocked on the door.

It was opened at last by a young lady. Sean did not recognize her. But

the girl reacted immediately, flushing slightly, attempting to pat her

hair into place without drawing attention to its disarray, tying to

dispose of the sewing in her hands, and exhibiting all the signs of

confusion peculiar to the unmarried female who finds herself suddenly

and unexpectedly in the presence of a large, well-dressed and

attractive male. But Sean felt a twinge of pity as he looked at her

scarred face, ugly with the purple cicatrice of acne.

Sean lifted his hat. "Is Mrs. Courtney here?

"She's in the workroom, sir. Who shall I tell her is calling?

"Don't tell her anything-it's a surprise. " Sean smiled at her, and

she lifted her hands self-consciously in an attempt to mask the ruin of

her face.

"Won't you come in, sir? " She turned her head aside, shyly as though

to hide it.

"Who is it, Mary? " Sean started at the voice from the depths of the

cottage, it hadn't changed at all-and the years dropped away.

"It's a gentleman, Aunt Ada. He wants to see you.

"I'm coming. Ask him to sit down, and please bring us coffee, Mary.

"Mary escaped thankfully and left Sean standing alone in the small

sitting-room, twisting his hat in big brown hands, staring up at the

daguerreotype print of Waite Courtney above the mantel. Although he

did not recognize the fact, the face of his father in the picture was

almost his own-the same eyes under heavy black brows, the same

arrogance about the mouth, even the identical thrust of stubbornness in

the jaw beneath the thick spade-shaped beard-and the big, hooked

Courtney nose.

The door from the work-room opened and Sean swung quickly to face it.

Ada Courtney came through it smiling, until she saw him, then she

stopped and the smile died on her lips and she paled. Uncertainly her

hand lifted to her throat and she made a small choking sound.

"Dear God," she whispered.

"Ma." Sean fidgeted his feet awkwardly. "Hello, Ma. It's good to see

you. " "Sean." The colour flooded back in her cheeks. "For a moment

I thought-you're grown so much like your father. Oh, Sean! " And she

ran to him. He tossed his hat on to the sofa and caught her around the

waist as she came.

"I've waited for you. I knew you'd come."

Sean scooped her up and kissed her into a concision of joy and

laughter, swinging her while he did it, laughing himself.

"Put me down," Ada gasped at last, and when he did she clung to him.

"I knew you'd come back. At first there were bits in the newspaper

about you, and the people told me things-but these last years there has

been nothing, nothing at all.

"I'm sorry. " Sean sobered.

"You're a bad boy. " She was sparkling with excitement, her hair had

escaped from its bun and a wisp of it hung down her cheek. "But it's

so good to have you back-" and suddenly she was crying.

"Don't, Ma. Please don't. " He had never seen her cry before.

"It's just that ... It's the surprise. " She brushed impatiently at

her tears. "It's nothing. " Desperately Sean sought something to

distract her. "Hey!"

he exclaimed with relief,

"I've another surprise for you.

"Later, " she protested. "One at a time."

"This won't wait." He led her to the door and out on to the front

stoep with his arm around her shoulders.

"Dirk," he shouted. "Come here."

He felt her standing very still as they watched Dirk coming up the

garden walk.

"This is your Gran'a. " He introduced them.

"Why is she crying? " Dirk eyed her with frank curiosity.

Later they sat at the table in the kitchen while Ada and Mary plied

them with food. Ada Courtney believed that the first thing to do with

a man was feed him.

Mary was almost as excited as Ada, she had taken full advantage of the

few minutes she had been alone, and now her hair was freshly brushed

and she wore a gay new apron, but the powder with which she had tried

to cover the terrible disfiguration of the skin served only to call

attention to it. In sympathy Sean refrained from looking at her, and

Mary noticed. Shyly she devoted herself to winning Dirk's attention.

She fussed over him quietly-and Dirk accepted this as the natural order

of things.

While they ate Sean filled in the missing years for Ada with a brief

outline of his activities, glossing over the death of Dirk's mother,

and other things of which he had no reason to be proud.

He came to the end of it.

"And so here we are.

"Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the

hill." Dirk, don't put so much in your mouth and keep it closed when

YOU chew.

"How long will you stay? Mary, see if there are any cream puffs in the

jar-Dirk is still hungry," said Ada.

"You'll make him sick. I don't know; not long though-there's a war on.

" "You're going to join?"

"Yes. " "Oh, Sean. Must you?" Knowing that he must. While he

selected a cheroot from his case Sean studied her closely for the first

time. There was grey now as he had known there would be, almost as

much grey as black; long streaks of it across her temples and the

texture of her skin had altered, losing the moisture of youth, drying

out so that it creased around the eyes and stretched tight across her

hands to show the knuckles more prominently and the blueness of veins

beneath it. She was plumper also, her bosom was full and round, each

breast having lost its separate identity in the whole.

Yet the other qualities whose memories he had treasured so long ago

still persisted, seemed indeed to have grown stronger; the composure

which showed in the stiffness of her hands and body, yet was given the

he by the humour that hovered around her lips; the eyes whose depths

held compassion and a sure understanding of those things they looked

upon. But mostly it was the indefinable aura of goodness about

her-looking at her, he sensed again that behind those eyes no

destructive thought could live for long.

Sean lit a cheroot and spoke while the smoke masked his face.

"Yes, Ma. I must go."

And Ada, whose husband had ridden to war also, and not ridden home,

could not prevent the sadness showing for an instant in her eyes.

"Yes, I suppose you must. Garry has gone already-and Michael has been

agitating to follow him.

"Michael?" Sean fired the question.

"Garry's son-he was born a short while after-after you left Ladyburg.

He will be eighteen this winter."

"What's he look like?" Sean's voice was too eager. Michael-so that is

what my son is named. My first-born. By God, my firstborn, and I

didn't even know his name until he was almost grown. Ada was looking

at him with her own question unasked in her eyes.

"Mary, take Dirk through to the bathroom please. Try and get a little

of that food from around his mouth. " When they had gone she answered

Sean's question.

"He's a tall boy, tall and lean. Dark like his mother, but a serious

lad. He doesn't laugh much. Always top of his class. I like him very

much. He comes here often." She was silent for a moment, then,

"Sean. . . " Quickly Sean cut in. "And how is Garry?" He sensed what

she was going to ask.

"Garry has not changed very much. He has had a run of bad luck Poor

Garry, things have been bad on the farm. The rinderpest ravaged his

herds, he had to borrow money from the bank. She hesitated an instant.

"And he is drinking a lot these days. I can't be sure of it-he never

visits the hotel and I have never seen him take a drink.

But it must be that.

"I'll find out where he is when I go up to Colenso.

"You'll have no difficulty finding him. Garry is a lieutenant-colonel

on the General's staff. He was given promotion from major last week,

and he has been awarded the Distinguished Service Order to go with his

Victoria Cross. He is in charge of liaison between the Imperial and

the Colonial troops.

"Good God!" Sean was stunned. "Garry a colonel!"

"General Buller ads very highly of him. "The General is also a holder

of the Victoria Cross.

"But," Sean protested. "You know how Garry got that decoration.

It was a mistake. If Garry is on the General's staff then Lord have

mercy on the British Army! " "Sean, you mustn't talk about your

brother that way.

"Colonel Garrick Courtney. " Sean laughed out loud.

"I don't know what there is between you and Garry. But it's something

very nasty-and I don't want any of it in this house.

Ada's tone was fierce and Sean stopped laughing.

"I'M sorry."

"Before we close the subject, I want to warn you. Please be very

careful how you handle Garry. Whatever happened between you two-and I

don't want to know what it is-Garry still hates you. Once or twice he

started talking about you but I stopped him. Yet I know it from

Michael,-the boy has picked it up from his father. It's almost an

obsession with him. Be careful of Garry.

Ada stood up. "And now about Dirk. What a lovely child he is, Sean.

But I'm afraid you've spoiled him a little.

"He's a tiger," Sean admitted.

"What schooling has he been given?"

"Well, he can read a little-" "You'll leave him here with me.

I'll enrol him when the school term begins."

"I was going to ask. I'll leave money with you.

"Ten years ago there was a very large and mysterious deposit to my bank

account. It wasn't mine-so I placed it out at interest. " She smiled

at him and Sean looked guilty. "We can use that. " "No," he said.

"Yes," she contradicted. "And now tell me when you are leaving.

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"Tomorrow.

Since climbing the World's View road out of Pietermaritzburg, Sean and

Mbejane had travelled in sunshine and in companionship. The feelings

between them were solid, compacted by time and the pressure of trouble

and shared laughter into a shield of affection-so that now they were

happy as only men can be together. The jokes were old jokes, and the

responses almost automatic-but the excitement between them was new, in

the same way that each day's sun is new. For they were riding to war,

to another meeting with death, so that everything else lost

significance. Sean felt free, the thoughts and relationships with

other people which had weighed him down over the past months slipped

away. Like a ship clear for action he hurried with a new lightness to

meet his chance.

At the same time he could stand aside from himself and grin tolerantly

at his own immaturity. By God, we're like a couple of kids sneaking

out of school. Then, following the thought further-he was suddenly

thankful. Thankful that this was so; thankful that there was still

this capacity to forget everything else and approach the moment in

childlike anticipation. For a while this new habit of self-appraisal

asserted itself, I am no longer young and I have learned much, gathered

it brick by brick along the way and, trimmed each brick and cemented it

into the wall. The fortress of my manhood is not yet completed, but

what I have built so far is strong, Yet the purpose of a fortress is to

protect and hold safely those things the are precious; if, during the

building, a man loses and expends those things which he wishes to

protect, then the finished fortress is a mockery. I have not lost it

all, a little I have used in barter. I have traded a little faith for

the knowledge of evil; exchanged a little laughter for the

understanding of death; a measure of freedom for two sons (and this was

a good trade)-but I know there is still something left.

At his side Mbejane noticed the change of Sean's mood, and he moved in

front of it to turn it once more into sunshine.

"Nkosi, we must hurry if you wish to reach your drinking place at

Frere. " With an effort Sean thrust his thoughts aside, and laughed.

They rode on into the north, and on the third day they reached

Chievely.

Sean remembered his innocent amazement when, as a youth, he had joined

Lord Chelmsford's column at Rorke's Drift at the beginning of the Zulu

War. He had believed then no greater accumulation of men was possible.

Now he looked out across the encampment of the British Army before

Colenso and smiled; Chelmsford's little force would have been lost in

the artillery and ordnance park, yet beyond that the tents stretched

away for two miles. Row upon row of white canvas cones with the horse

lines in between-and to the rear the orderly acres of import vehicles,

thousands of them, with the draught animals scattered grazing across

the veld almost to the range of the eye.

it was an impressive sight not only in its immensity but also in its

neat and businesslike layout; so was the military precision of the

blocks of men at drill, the massed glitter of their bayonets as they

turned and marched and counter marched

When Sean wandered into the camp and read the names of the regiments at

the head of each row of tents he recognized them as the sound of glory.

But the new khaki uniforms and Pith helmets had reduced them all to a

homogeneous mass. Only the cavalry retained a little of the magic in

the pennants that fluttered gaily at their lance-tips. A squadron

trotted past him and Sean eyed their mounts with envy. Great shiny

beasts, as arrogant as the men upon their backs. Horse and rider given

an air of inhuman cruelty by the slender bright-tipped lance they

carried.

A dozen times Sean asked his question,

"Where can I find the Guides" and though the answer was given in the

dialects of Manchester and Lancashire, in the barely intelligible

accents of Scotland and Ireland, each had a common factor-they were all

singularly unhelpful.

Once he stopped to watch a group training with one of the new Maxim

mach me-guns. Clumsy, he decided, no match against a rifle.

Later he would remember this judgement and feel a little foolish.

All morning he trudged through the camp, with MbeJane trailing him, and

at noon he was tired and dusty and bad tempered The Natal Corps of

Guides appeared to be a mythical unit. He stood on the edge of the

camp and looked out across the open veld, pondering his next move in

the search.

Half a mile out on the grassy plain a thin drift of blue smoke caught

his eye. It issued from a line of bush that obviously marked the

course of a stream. Whoever had picked that spot to camp certainly

knew how to make himself comfortable in the veld. Compared to the

bleak surroundings of the main encampment it would be paradise;

protected from the wind, close to firewood and water, well away from

the attention of senior officers. That was his answer. Sean grinned

and set out across the plain.

His guess was proved correct by the swarm of black servants among the

trees. These could only be Colonial troops, each with a personal

retainer. Also, the wagons were drawn up in the circular formation of

the laager. With a feeling of homecoming Sean approached the first

white man he saw.

In an enamel hip bath beneath the shade of a mimosa tree this gentleman

sat, waist deep, while a servant added hot water from a large black

kettle.

"Hello," Sean greeted him. The man looked up from his book, removed

the cheroot from his mouth and returned Sean's greeting.

"I'm looking for the Guides."

"Your search is ended, my friend. Sit down." Then to the servant,

"Bring the Nkosi a cup of coffee."

Thankful, Sean sank into the rezMe chair near the bath and stretched

his legs out before him. His host laid aside the book and began to

lather his hairy chest and armpits while he studied Sean with frank

appraisal.

"Who's in charge here?" Sean asked.

"You want to see him?

"Yes. " The bather opened his mouth and yelled.

"Hey! Tim!"

"What you want?" The reply came from the nearest wagon.

"Fellow here to see you."

"What's he want?"

-says he wants to talk to you about his daughter-" There was a long

silence while the man in the wagon digested this, then: "What's he look

like?

"Big broke, with a shotgun."

"You're joking!"

"The hell I am! Says if you don't come out he's coming in to get

YOU,

"The canvas of the wagon canopy was lifted cautiously and an eye showed

behind the slit. The ferocious bellow that followed startled Sean to

his feet. The canvas was thrown aside and out of the wagon vaulted the

Commanding Officer of the Guides.

He moved in on Sean with his arms like a wrestler. For a moment Sean

stared at him, then he answered the bellow and dropped into a defensive

crouch.

" Yaah! " The man charged and Sean met him chest to chest, locking his

arms around him as they closed.

"Tim Curtis, you miserable bastard," he roared in laughter and in pain

as Tim tried to pull his beard out by the roots.

"Sean Courtney, you evil son of a bitch," breathless as the air was

forced from his lungs by Sean's hug.

"Let's have a drink." Sean punched him.

"Let's have a bottle." Tim caught his ears and twisted.

At last they broke apart and stood laughing incoherently in the

pleasure of meeting again.

The servant returned with Sean's coffee and Tim waved him away

disgustedly. "None of that slop! Get a bottle of brandy out of my

chest."

"You two know each other, I presume." The man in the bath interrupted

them.

Know each other! Jesus, I worked five years for him!"

snorted Tim

"Digging his dirty gold out of the ground. worst boss I ever had.

"Well, now's your chance," Sean grinned, "because I've come to work for

you. " "You hear that, Saul? The idiot wants to join.

"Mazeltav. " The bather dunked the tip of his cheroot in his bath

water, flicked it away and stood up. He offered Sean a soapy hand.

"Welcome to the legion of the lost. My name's Saul Friedman. I gather

yours is Sean Courtney. Now where's that bottle and we'll celebrate

your arrival. " The commotion had summoned the others from their

wagons and Sean was introduced to each of them. It seemed the uniform

of the Guides was a khaki tunic without insignia or badges of rank,

slouch hats and riding breeches. There were ten of them.

A touhh-looking bunch and Sean found their company to his liking.

Naked except for a towel draped round his waist, Saul did duty as

barman, then they all settled down in the shade to a bout of

drinking.

Tim Curtis entertained them for the first twenty minutes with a

biographical and biological account of Sean's career, to which Saul

contributed comments that were met with roars of laughter. It was

obvious that Saul was the Company wit, a function which he performed

with distinction. He was the youngest of them all, perhaps twenty-five

years old, and physically the smallest. His body was thin and hairy,

and in a pleasant sort of way he was extremely ugly. Sean liked him.

An hour later when the brandy had taken them to the stage of

seriousness which precedes wild and undirected hilarity, Sean asked,

"Captain Curtis .

"Lieutenant, and don't for-get it," Tim corrected him.

"Lieutenant, then. What is our job, and when do we do it?"

Tim scowled at his empty glass, then looked across at Saul.

"Tell him," he instructed.

"As mentioned earlier, we are the legion of the lost. People look on

us with pity and a mild embarrassment. They pass us by on the far side

of the street, making the sign of the Cross and murmuring a spell to

avert the evil eye. We live here in our own little leper colony.

"Why? "Well, first of all, we belong to the most miserable little runt

in the entire army of Natal. An officer, who, despite a formidable

array of medals, would not inspire confidence in a young ladies" choir.

He is chief liaison officer for the Coloni troops on the general staff.

Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC." D.S.O."

Saul paused and his expression changed. "No relation of yours, I

trust?"

"No," lied Sean without hesitation.

"Thank God," Saul continued. "Anyway, this is why people pity us.

The embarrassment arises from the fact that nobody recognizes our

official existence. Even the drawing of rations must be preceded by a

comic opera dialogue between Tim and the Quartermaster. But because we

are called

"Guides" everybody expects us to get out there and start doing a bit of

guiding.

So in some weird fashion the failure of General Buller to advance even

one hundred yards in three months is laid at our door." Saul filled

his glass. "Anyway, we haven't ran out of brandy yet. " "You mean we

don't do anything?" Sean asked incredulously.

"We eat, we sleep and we drink."

"Occasionally we go visiting, " Tim added. "Now is as good a time as

any. " "Who do we visit?"

"There is a most interesting woman in the area, not five miles distant.

She owns a travelling circus-forty wagons and forty girls.

They follow along behind the main army to comfort and encourage it.

Let's go and get some comfort and encouragement. if we start now we'll

get to the head of the line-first come, first served."

"I'll leave you to it," Saul stood up and drifted away.

"He's a good kid," Tim observed as he watched him leave.

"Is it against his religion?"

"No. But he's married and takes it seriously. How about YOU?

"I'm not married.

"Let's go then."

Much later they rode home together in the moonlight, both pleasantly

melancholy with love and liquor. The girl who had taken Sean to her

wagon was a friendly lass with a pair of fat maternal bosoms.

"I like you, mister," she told him afterwards.

"I like YOU also," he replied truffiftilly.

Although Sean experienced no more shame or guilt than after satisfying

any of his other bodily needs, yet he knew that half an hour with a

stranger in a wagon bed was a very poor substitute.

He began to hum the tune that Ruth had sung on the night of the

storm.

Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney removed his uniform jacket and hung

it carefully on the dumb-valet beside his desk.

The way a house proud wife straightens a picture, on her wall, he

touched the purple watered silk on which was suspended the heavy,

bronze cross, until it hung to his satisfaction. His lips moving, he

read the inscription again, For valour", and smiled.

The champagne he had drunk during lunch made his brain feel like a

great brilliant diamond set in his skull, sharp and hard and clear.

He sat down, swivelled the chair sideways to the desk, and stretched

his legs out in front of him.

"Send him in, Orderly!" he shouted, and dropped his eyes to his boots.

You couldn't tell the difference, he decided. No one could tell by

looking at them which one was flesh and bone beneath the polished

leather-or which leg was carved wood with a cunningly articulated

ankle.

"Sir." The voice startled him and he pulled his legs in guiltily,

hiding them beneath his chair.

"Curtis!" He looked up at the man who stood before his desk. Tim

stood rigidly to attention, staring stolidly over Garry's head, and

Garry let him stand. He felt satisfaction that this hulking bastard

must use those two powerful legs to pay respect to Garrick Courtney.

Let him stand. He waited, watching him, and at last Tim fidgeted

slightly and cleared his throat.

"At ease! " There was no doubt now as to who held the power.

Garry picked up the paper-knife from Ins desk and turned it in his

hands as he spoke.

"You're wondering why I sent for you." He smiled expansively.

"Well, the reason is that I have a job for you at last. I lunched with

General Buller today." He paused to let that absorb. "We discussed

the Offensive. He wanted my views on certain plans he has in mind. "

Garry caught himself. "Anyway, that is beside the point. I want you

and your men to reconnoitre the river on both sides of Colenso. See

here. " Garry spread a map on the desk in front of him.

"There are fords marked here and here." He jabbed at the map with the

paper-knife. "Find them and mark them well. Check the bridges-both

the railway and the road bridge, make certain they are intact. Do it

tonight.

I want your full report in the morning. You can go.

"Yes, Sir.

"Oh, Curtis-" Garry stopped him as he stooped in the entrance of the

tent. "Find those fords." The canvas flap dropped closed behind the

American, and Garry opened the drawer of his desk and took out a silver

flask set with camelians. He unscrewed it and sniffed the contents

before he drank.

With the dawn, in bedraggled pairs the Guides dribbled into camp.

Sean and Saul were the last to return. They dismounted, turned their

horses over to the servants and joined the group around the fire.

"Yes?" Tim looked up from where he squatted with a mug of coffee

cupped in his hands. His clothing was soaked and steam lifted off it

as it dried in the heat of the flames. "They've blown the rail

bridge-but the road bridge is still intact.

"You're sure?"

"We walked across."

"That's something anyway," grunted Tim, and Sean raised a sceptical

eyebrow.

"You think so. Hasn't it occurred to you that they've left the bridge

because that is where they want us to cross?

No one replied and Sean went on wearily: "When we checked the bridges,

Saul and I did a bit of exploring on the far side. Just beyond the

railway bridge there is a series of little kopJes. We crawled around

the bottom of them.

"And?"

"There are more Boers sitting on those kopJes than there are quills on

a porcupine's back. Whoever tries to cross those bridges in daylight

is going to get the Bejesus shot out of him."

"Lovely thought!" growled Tim.

"Charming, isn't it? Further contemplation of it will make me puke.

What did you find?"

"We found plenty of water. " Tim glanced down at his sodden clothing.

"Deep water."

"No ford," Sean anticipated gloomily.

"None. But we found a ferryboat on the bank with the bottom knocked

out of it. That could be the excuse for marking a ford on the map. "

"So now you can go and tell your beloved Colonel the glad tidings."

Saul grinned. "But one gets you five that it has no effect.

My guess is that Buller will attack Colenso within the next two days.

He might just be able to get a couple of thousand men across that

bridge, then we'd have a chance. " Tim regarded him balefully. "And

the Guides will be the first across. All very well for you. The Rabbi

has reduced your target area considerably-but what about us?

"But it's marked on the map," protested Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick

Courtney. His head bowed so that Tim could see the Pink scalp through

the furrows the comb had left in his sandy brown hair.

"I've seen dragons and sea monsters marked on maps, Sir, Tim answered,

and Garry looked up at him coldly with pale blue eyes.

"You're not paid to be a comedian, Curtis." "I beg your pardon, Sir,"

and Garry frowned. Curtis could make the

"Sir" sound like an insult.

"Who did you send?" he demanded.

"I went myself, Sir. " "You could have missed it in the dark.

"If there is a ford there, it would have a road or at least a path

leading down to it. I wouldn't have missed that, Sir.

"But in the darkness you could have been mistaken," insisted Garry.

"You might have missed something that would be obvious in daylight."

"Well, Sir ... "Good. " Briskly Garry went on. "Now, the bridges. You

say these are still intact.

"Only the road bridge, but. .

"But what?"

-The men I sent report that the hills beyond the river are heavily

defended. Almost as though the bridge has been preserved to bait a

trap."

-Curtis." Deliberately Garry laid his paper-knife upon the map before

him. His nose was too large for the space between his eyes and when he

pursed his lips this way he looked, Tim thought, like a bird-a sparrow,

a little brown sparrow.

-Curtis", Garry repeated softly. "It seems to me you have very little

enthusiasm for this business. I send you out to do a job and you come

back with a long list of excuses. I don't think you realize how

important this is."

chirp, chirp-iittie sparrow. Tim smiled secretly and Garry flushed.

"For instance. Who did you send to reconnoitre these bridges-reliable

men, I hope?

"They are, sir.

"Who?"

"Friedman.

"oh! The little Jewish lawyer. A wise choice, Curtis, a commendably

wise choice. Garry sniffed and picked up the paperknife.

my God! Curtis marvelled. He's a Jew-baiter as well, this little

sparrow has all the virtues.

"Who else did you send?"

"A new recruit."

"A new recruit? A new recruit!" Garry dropped the knife and lifted

his hands in appeal.

"I hhappen to have worked for him before the war. I know him well,

sir. He's a first-class man, I'd trust him before anyone else you

could name. In fact, I was going to ask you to approve his promotion

to sergeant. "And what is the name of this paragon?"

Funnily enough its the same as yours, sir. Although he tells me you're

not related. His name is Courtney. Sean Courtney, Slowly, very

slowly, the expression of Garry's face altered. It became smooth,

neutral. Pale also, the lifeless, translucent paleness of a corpse's

face. All life died in his eyes as well-theY were looking inwards,

back into the secret places of long ago.

The dark places. They saw a small boy climbing a hill He was climbing

up through thick brush, young legs strong beneath him.

Climbing in deep shade, with the smell of leaf mould and the soft

murmur of insects, sweating in the heat of a Natal summer's morning,

eyes straining ahead through the dense green foliage for a glimpse of

the bush buck they were hunting, the dog leaning eagerly against the

leash and the same eagerness pumping in his own chest.

The dog barked once, and immediately the brush and stir of a big body

moving ahead of them, the click of a hoof against rock, then the rush

of its run.

The shot, a blunt burst of sound, and the buck bleating wounded as it

thrashed through the grass, and Sean's voice high and unbroken: "I got

him. I got him first shot! Gary. Gary! I got him, I got him! "

Into the sunlight, the dog dragging him. Sean wild with excitement,

running down the slope towards him with the shotgun.

Sean falling, the gun flung from his hands, the roar of the second shot

and the blow that knocked Garry's leg out from under him.

Sitting now in the grass and staring at the leg. The little white

splinters of bone in the pulped flesh and the blood pumping dark and

strong and thick as custard.

"I didn't mean it ... Oh God, Garry, I didn't mean it. I slipped.

Honest, I slipped. " Garry shuddered, a violent almost sensual spasm

of his whole body, and the leg beneath the desk twitched in sympathy.

"Are you all right, sir?" There was an edge of concern on Tim's

voice.

"I am perfectly well, thank you, Curtis." Garry smoothed back the hair

from his temples. There were deep bays of baldness there and his

hairline was frayed and irregular. "Please continue. " "Well, I was

saying-it looks like a trap. They've left those bridges because . .

.

" "It is your duty to collect information, Curtis. It is the duty of

the general staff to evaluate it. I think that completes your

report?

Good, then you may leave. " He must have a drink now, already his hand

was on the handle of the drawer.

"Oh, Curtis." His voice croaked with the terrible dryness in his

throat, but he spoke on through it. "That promotion you spoke of is

approved. Make the man a sergeant."

"Very well, sir.

"Of course, in the event of a frontal assault on the bridges he will

act as guide for the first attack.

"Sir?"

"You see the need for it, don't you?" Tim had never heard this

wheedling tone from him before. It was almost as though he wanted

Tim's approval. As though he were trying to justify his decision. "I

mean, he knows the bridges. He's been over them. He's the one who

knows them, isn't he?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And after all, he's a sergeant. I mean, we should send someone with

rank-we can't just send anybody."

"I could go, Sir. " I

"No. No. We'll need you at the ford.

"As YOU wish. "You won't forget, will you? You will send him, won't

YOU?

Almost pleading now.

"I'll send him," agreed Tim and stooped out of the tent.

Garry jerked open the drawer and his fingernails scrabbled on the rough

wood in their haste to find the flask.

To General Sir Redvers Buller, V. C. Officer Commanding, British

Expeditionary Army of Natal At Chievely December 19the 1899 Sir, I have

the honour to report that in accordance with orders received a

reconnaissance was carried out by officers and men of the Natal Corps

of Guides on the night of December 18th.

The results of which are set out below: Ford marked

"A " on attached Map: Although the ford promises passage for a large

body of men, it is difficult to locate in darkness and a night crossing

is not recommended.

Bridge marked -B " on attached map: This is a road bridge of metal

construction. At present it is undamaged, probably due to its sturdy

construction resisting demolition by the enemy.

Bridge marked

"C " on attached Map: This is a railway bridge also constructed of

metal, but has been demolished by the enemy.

General: Limited penetration of area beyond the Tugela River by

elements of the NCG revealed the presence of the enemy on the hills

marked

"D" and

"E." However, no evidence of artillery or excessive force was noted.

Courtney G." Lieutenant-Colonel Officer Commanding NCG, In the

Field.

EXTRACT MADE FROM THE BATTLE ORDERS OF GENERAL SIR RED VERS BULLER

VC. MADE AND SIGNED ON THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 19TH 1899.

The force commanded by Brigadier Lyttleton will advance on and capture

the village of Colenso. Thereafter it will seize and cross the metal

bridge, and drive the enemy from the kopjes on the far bank.

(See attached Map. They lay in the grass, side by side, and the dew

had soaked through the backs of their tunics. The night was still and

silent.

No clouds above and the fat stars were very bright. Ahead Of them the

silver smear of the Milky Way threw the silhouette of the Tugela

heights into bold relief, gave it an aspect of brooding menace.

Saul yawned loudly, and immediately Sean was forced to do the same.

Though they had not slept that night, it was not the weariness-but the

symptom of nerves wound tight at the prospect of going in against the

Boer guns . . .

"Another hour and a half until dawn," Saul whispered, and Sean grunted.

There was no profit in counting the hours. At forty-seven minutes past

six the sun would rise, and from behind them the British Army would

move forward across the brown grass plain.

Once more Sean rose to his knees and swept the ground before them with

his eyes, letting them move slowly along the bank of the TUgela,

picking up the loom of the steel road bridge a hundred paces ahead of

them, accounting for each bush on this bank, that they had not

multiplied or moved. Then satisfied, he sank down again. 7,

"My God, it's cold! " He could feel Saul shivering beside him.

"It will warm up quite soon." Sean grinned in the darkness as he

answered. The clear night sky had allowed yesterday's warmth to

escape, the grass and their clodung were wet, even the steel of the

rifles was painfully cold to touch-but Sean had long ago learned to

ignore physical discomfort. He could, when necessary, lie completely

motionless while tsetse flies settled on his neck and sank their

red-hot needles into the soft skin behind his ears. Nevertheless, it

was a relief when the false dawn showed and it was time to move.

"I'll go in now," he whispered.

"Good luck! I'll have breakfast ready when you come back.

This was a job for one man. A job that Sean did not relish.

They had made certain that there were no enemy on this side of the

river, now at the last minute when it was too late for the Boers to

alter their dispositions-someone had to cross and find out in what

strength they were holding the bridge. A couple of Boer Maxims sited

to command the bridge at short range, or even demolition charges set

ready to blow, would mean that the chances of success instead of being

slim would be non-existent.

Sean slung his rifle across his back and began crawling forward through

the grass. TWice he stopped to listen briefly, but there was little

time-true dawn in an hour. He reached the bridge and lay in its heavy

shadow, staring across at the far bank.

Nothing moved. In the twilight the kopjes loomed like the backs of

dark whales in the grassy sea. He waited five minutes-long enough for

a restless sentry to fidget-still nothing.

"Here we go," he whispered aloud, and suddenly he was afraid. For an

instant he did not recognize the sensation, for he had experienced it

only three or four times in his life, but never with so little cause.

He crouched beside the steel girders of the bridge, with the weakness

in his legs and his belly full of the oiliness. It was only when he

caught the taste of it at the back of his throat, a taste a little like

that of fish oil mixed with the effluence of something long dead, that

he knew what it was.

I'm afraid. His first reaction was of surprise, which changed quickly

to alarm.

This was how it happened. He knew it happened to other men. He had

heard them talk of it around the camp fires, remembered the words and

the pity underlying them.

"Ja, his gun boy led him back to camp. He was shaking like a man with

fever, and he was crying. I thought he was hurt.

"Daniel, I said,

"Daniel, what is wrong?" " "It broke," he said with the tears running

into his beard. "It broke there in my head, I heard it break. I threw

the gun away and I ran. " "Did he charge, Daniel?"I asked.

"No, man. I didn't even see him, just heard him feeding close by in

the cat bush Then it broke in my head and I was running. " "He was no

coward. I had hunted with him many times, seen him kill an elephant

from a charge so that it fell close enough to touch with the

gun-barrel.

He was good, but he had lived too close to it. Then suddenly it broke

in his head. He hasn't hunted again. " I have accumulated fear the

way an old ship collects barnacles and weed below the water-line, now

it is ready to break in me also-Sean knew. Knew also that if he ran

now, as the old hunter had run, he would never hunt again.

Crouching in the darkness, sweating in the cold of dawn with the

iciness of his fear, Sean wanted to vomit. He was physically sick,

breathing heavily through his open mouth, the warm oiliness in his

belly coming close to venting itself, so weak with it that his legs

began to tremble and he caught at one of the iron girders of the bridge

for support.

A minute that seemed like an eternity, he stood like that. Then he

began to fight it, bearing down on it, stiffening his legs and forcing

them to move forward. Consciously he checked the relaxation of his

sphincter muscle-that close he had come to the ultimate degradation.

He knew then that the old joke about cowards was true. And that it

applied to him also.

He went up on to the bridge; picking up each foot deliberately,

swinging it forward, laying it down and moving the weight of his body

over it. His breathing was deliberate, each breath taken and expelled

at the command of his brain. He couldn't trust his body now to perform

even the simplest task-not after it had betrayed him so monstrously.

Had they been waiting at the bridge, the Boers would have killed him

that morning. Without caution he paced slowly down the centre of it,

big and heavily moving in the starlight and his footsteps rang on the

metal.

Under his feet the metal gave way to gravel. He was across.

He kept walking, down the middle of the road, following the gentle

curve towards the dark hills.

He walked on with his terror and the sound of it roared in his head

like the sound of the sea. The sling of his rifle slipped from his

shoulder and the weapon clattered into the road. He stood for a full

minute before he could gather himself to stoop and pick it up.

Then he turned and went back. Pacing slowly, counting his footsteps,

measuring them out-one each second-timing them carefully to prevent

himself from running.

Because if he ran he knew it was finished. He too would never hunt

again.

"You all right?" Saul was waiting.

"Yes." Sean sank down beside him.

"See anything?

"No." Saul was staring at him. "Are you sure you're all right?

Sean sighed. Once before he had been afraid. Fear had come to him in

a caved-in mine-shaft, later he had gone back and left his fear in the

same mine-shaft, and had walked away from it alone. In the same way,

he had hoped to leave it now beyond the river, but this time it had

followed him back. With a certainty he knew that it would never leave

him from now onwards. It would always be near.

I will have to tame it, he thought. I will have to break it to the

halter and the curb.

"Yes, I'm all right," he answered Saul. "What's the time?"

"Half-past five. " "I'll send Mbejane back now."

Sean stood up and went to where Mbejane waited with their horses.

He handed Mbejane the small square of green cloth which was the

prearranged signal that neither the bridge nor the town was defended in

force. The red square he replaced in his breast-pocket.

"I will come back," Mbejane told him.

"No." Sean shook his head. "There is nothing for you here."

Mbejane untied the horses. "Stay in peace."

"Go in peace." Sean was thankful that Mbejane would not be there as

witness, should he break under his new-found fear.

But I must not break, he decided grimly. Today will be the test.

If I can la stout this day, then perhaps I will have tamed it.

He went back to where Saul waited in the darkness, and together they

lay and watched the dawn come on.

The darkness drew back, each minute enlarging the circle of their

vision. Now the upper works of the bridge stood out, a neat

geometrical pattern against the dark bulk of the heights.

Then he could see the patterns of dark bush against pale grass and

rock.

The new light distorted distance, made the high ground seem remote and

no longer hostile. A flight of egrets flew in long formation above the

course of the river, high enough to catch the sun so that they were

birds of bright, glowing gold in a world of shadow. And the dawn

brought with it a small cold wind whose voice in the grass blended with

the murmur of the river.

Then the sun hit the heights as though to bless the army of the

Republic. The mist in the gullies writhed in agony at its warmth,

lifted into the wind and smeared away.

The rim of the sun pushed up over the edge of the land, and the day

came bright and clean with dew.

Through his glasses Sean studied the crest of the high ground.

At a hundred paces there were traces of smoke as the Boer Army brewed

coffee.

"You think they'll spot us?" asked Saul.

Sean shook his head without lowering his glasses. Two small.

bushes and the thin screen of grass they had constructed during the

night hid them effectively.

"Are you sure you are all right?" Saul asked once more.

From the set of his face Sean seemed to be in pain.

-Stomach gripes," Sean grunted. Let it start soon, please let It

start. The waiting is the worst.

Then the ground trembled under his chest, the faintest vibration, and

Sean felt relief flood through him. "Here come the guns," he said, and

using the cover of one of the bushes, he stood up and looked behind

him.

In a single column, following each other at strictly spaced intervals,

the guns were moving into action. They were coming in fast, still tiny

with distance but growing as the gunners astride the lead horses of

each team urged them on. Closer now so that Sean could see the whip

arms rising and falling, he heard the rumble and rattle of the

carriages and faintly the shouts of the outriders.

Sixteen guns, one hundred and fifty horses to drag them, and a hundred

men to serve them. But in the vastness of the great plain before

Colenso the column seemed small and insignificant. Sean looked beyond

them and saw the foot soldiers following them, line upon line, like the

poles of a fence, thousands of them creeping forward across the plain.

Sean felt the old wild elation begin. He knew the army was cent red up

on the line of markers which he and Saul had laid early the previous

night, and that the two of them would be the first across the bridge

the first of all those thousands.

But it was elation of a different quality to anything he had

experienced before. It was sharper and more poignant, seasoned by the

red pepper of his fear. So that for the first time in his life Sean

learned that fear can be a pleasurable sensation.

He watched the patterns of men and guns evolve upon the brown

gaming-table-counters thrown down at chance, to be won or irretrievably

lost at the fall of the dice of war. Knowing also that he was one of

the counters, afraid and strangely jubilant in this knowledge.

The guns were close now. He could make sense of the shouting, see the

features of the men and even recognize his own feelings in their

faces.

Close, perhaps too close. Uneasily Sean glanced back at the forbidding

heights beyond the river and gauged the range. Two thousand yards

perhaps, long rifle shot. And still the guns came on.

"Jesus Christ! Are they mad?" Sean asked aloud.

"They must engage now. " Saul also saw the danger. "They can't come

closer. " And still the guns came on. The sound of their charge was

low thunder; dust from the dew-damp earth rose reluctantly behind them;

horses with wide mouths ffuming froth as they drove against the

traces.

"They're in range now. They must stop, they must! " groaned Sean.

Then at last the column splayed open, alternate guns wheeling left and

right still at full gallop. Swinging broadside to the waiting Boer

rifles.

"My God! My God!" Sean mouthed the blasphemy in agony as he watched.

"They'll be massacred. " Gunners rising in the stirrups, leaning back

to check the car rages The Gun-Captains jumping from their mounts,

letting them gallop free as they ran to begin the unhitching and the

pointing. In this helpless moment while men swarmed over the guns,

man-handling them to train upon the heights; while the horses still

reared and whinnied in hysterical excitement; before the shells could

be unloaded and stacked beside their pieces-in that moment the Boer

rifles opened together. It was a sound that lacked violence, strangely

un warlike muted by distance to the popping of a hundred strings of

fireworks, and at first there was no effect. The grass was thick

enough to hide the strike of the bullets, the dust too lazy with dew to

jump and mark their fall.

Then a horse was hit and fell kicking, dragging its mate on to its

knees also. TWo men ran to cut it loose, but one of them never reached

it. He sat down suddenly in the grass with his head bowed. Two more

horses dropped, another red and pawed wildly at the air with one front

leg flapping loosely where a bullet had broken the bone above the

knee.

-Get out!" roared Sean. "Pull back while there's still time,"

but his voice did not carry to the gun crews, could not carry above the

shouting and the screaming of wounded horses There was a new sound now

which Sean could not identify, a sound like hail on a tin roof,

isolated at first then more frequent until it was a hundred hammers

clanging together in broken rhythm-and he knew it was the sound of

bullets striking the metal of the guns.

He saw: A gunner fall forward and jam the breech of the piece until he

was dragged clear, A loader drop the shell he was carrying and stumble

on with his legs fbi ding until he subsided and lay still; One of the

horses break loose and gallop away across the plain dragging a tangle

of torn traces behind it; A covey of wild pheasant rise together out of

the grass near the batteries and curve away along the river before

dropping on stiff wings back into cover; And behind the guns the

infantry in neat lines advancing placidly towards the huddle of

deserted cottages that was Colenso.

Then, with a crash that made the earth jump, and with sixteen long

spurts of blue smoke, the guns came into action.

Sean focused his glasses on the ridge in time to see the first shells

burst along the crest. The evil blossoms of greenish-yellow lyddite

fumes bloomed quickly in the sunlight, then drifted oily thick on the

wind.

Again the guns crashed, and again---each salvo more ragged -than the

last until it became a continuous stuttering, hammering roar.

Until the stark outline of the ridge was blurred and indefinite in the

dust and lyddite fumes. There was smoke also, a fine greyish mist of

it banked along the heights-the smoke of thousands of rifles.

Quickly Sean set the rear sight of his Lee-Metford at a thousand yards,

wriggled forward on his elbows, hunched down over his rifle and began

shooting blindly into the smoke on the heights. Beside him Saul was

firing also.

TWice Sean emptied his magazine before looking back at the guns.

The tempo of their fire had slackened. Most of the horses were down in

the grass. Dead men were dragged across the gun carriages, others

badly wounded crouched for cover behind the mountings, and where six

men had served each piece before, now four or only three carried shell

and loaded and fired.

"The fools, the bloody fools," Sean whispered, and began to shoot

again, concentrating his whole attention on the routine of jerking the

bolt back, sliding it forward in the same motion, sighting up into the

mist of gun smoke, and firing. He did not count the shots and each

time the weapon clicked empty he groped for another clip from his

bandolier and re-loaded. He was starting to sweat now, could feel it

trickling down his armpits, his ears buzzed from the concussion of the

rifle and his shoulder was beginning to throb.

Gradually a sense of unreality induced by the clamour of the guns and

the smell of burnt powder came over him. It seemed that all he would

ever do was lie and shoot at nothing, shoot at smoke. Then reality

faded further so that all of existence was the vee and dot of a rifle

sight, standing solid in mist. And the mist had no shape. In his ears

was the vast buzzing silence that drowned all the other sounds of

battle. He was alone and tranquil, heavy and dulled by the hypnotic

drift of smoke and the repetitive act of loading and firing.

Abruptly the mood was broken. Over them passed a rustle like giant

wings, then a crack as though Satan had slammed the door of hell.

Startled he looked up and saw a ball of shimmering white smoke standing

in the air above the guns, spinning and spreading, growing in the sky

like a flower.

"What the .

"Shrapnel," grunted Saul. "Now they're finished."

Then crack and crack again as the Boer Nordenfeldts planted their

cotton flowers of smoke above the plain, flailing the guns and the men

who still worked them with a buzzing, hissing storm of steel.

Then there were voices. Confused and dazed by the gunfire, it took

Sean a minute to place them. He had forgotten the infantry1 4close UP

there."

"close up on the right. Keep the line!"

"Don't run. Steady, men. Don't run. " Long lines of men, lines that

bulged and lagged and straightened again at the urging of their

officers, Evenly spaced, plodding quietly with their rifles held across

their chests, they passed the guns. Behind them they left khaki

bundles lying on the plain, some of the bundles lay still but others

writhed and screamed.

As the gaps appeared in the lines they were quickly filled at the chant

of

"Close up. Close up there on the flank."

-They are heading for the railway bridge. " Sean felt the first

premonition of disaster. "Don't they know that it's been destroyed? "

- we, have to stop them. Saul scrambled to his feet beside Sean.

"Why didn't the fools follow our markers?" Angrily Sean shouted the

question that had no answer. He did it to gain time, to postpone the

moment when he must leave the flimsy cover of the grass shelter and go

out into the open where the shrapnel and the Mausers swept the ground.

Sean's fear came back on him strongly. He didn't want to go out

there.

"Come on, Sean. We must stop them." And Saul started to run. He

looked like a skinny little monkey, capering out towards the, advancing

waves of foot soldiers. Sean sucked in his breath and held it a moment

before he followed.

twenty yards ahead of the leading rank of infantry, carrying a naked

sword in one hand and stepping out briskly on long legs, came an

officer.

"Hey, you! " Sean shouted at him, waving his hat to catch his

attention. He succeeded. The officer fixed him with bright blue eyes

like a pair of bayonets and the waxed points of his grey moustache

twitched. He strode on towards Sean and Saul.

"You're heading for the wrong bridge," Sean yelled at him, his voice

high-pitched with agitation. "They've blown the rail bridge, you'll

never get across there. " The officer reached them and checked his

stride.

"And who the hell are you, if it's not a rude question?"

"We're the ground scouts . . ." Sean started, then leapt in the air

as a Mauser bullet flicked. into the ground between his legs.

"And put that bloody sword away-you'll have every Boer on the Tugela

competing for you. " The officer, a colonel by the crowns on his

shoulders, frowned at Sean.

"The correct form of address, Sergeant .

"The hell with that!" Sean roared at him. "Swing your advance on to

the road bridge. " He pointed with agitation at the metal

superstructure of the bridge that showed on the left through the thorn

trees. "If you continue as you're going they'll cut you to pieces. "

A moment longer the Colonel fixed Sean with his bayonet eyes, then he

lifted a silver whistle to his lips and blew a piercing blast.

"Take cover," he shouted. "Take cover!"

And immediately the first rank dropped into the grass. Behind them the

other ranks lost their rigidity, as men hesitated.

"Get into the town," a voice shouted. "Take cover in the buildings."

And they broke and ran, a thousand men, jostling each other racing for

the security of the cottages of Colenso.

Pouring into the single street, diving into doorways and windows.

Within thirty seconds they had all gone to ground.

"Now, what's this all about? " demanded the Colonel, turning back to

Sean. Impatiently Sean repeated himself, standing out in the open and

uncomfortably aware that for absence of other targets the Boers were

beginning to take a very active interest in them.

"I,&

"Are you sure?"

"Dammit! Of course, I'm sure. The bridge is destroyed and they have

torn up all the barbed wire fences and thrown them into the river.

You'll never get across there. " "Come along. " The Colonel set off

towards the nearest cottage and Sean walked beside him. Afterwards he

was never certain how he had managed to cover that hundred yards

without running.

"For God's sake, put that sword away," he growled at the colonel as

they walked with the flit, spang, flit, spang of bullets around them.

"Nervous, Sergeant?" And for the first time the Colonel grinned.

"You're damn right, I am."

"So am I. But it would never do to let the men see that, would it?", He

steadied the scabbard on his hips and ran the sword back into it.

"What's your name, Sergeant?"

"Sean Courtney, Natal Corps of Guides. What's yours?"

Sean ducked instinctively as a bullet cracked Past his head, and the

Colonel smiled again at the familiarity.

"Acheson. John Acheson. 2nd Battalion, Scots Fusiliers.

And they reached the cottage. No longer able to restrain himself, Sean

dived thankfully through the kitchen door and found Saul already there.

He handed Sean a cheroot and held a match for him.

"These crazy Souties! " he observed. "And you're as bad as he

strolling around in the middle of a battle.

"Right, Courtney. " Acheson followed him into the kitchen.

"Let's go over the situation."

He listened quietly while Sean explained in detail. He had to shout to

lift his voice above the whistle and crack of the Boer artillery and

the roar of a thousand Lee-Metford rifles as they replied from the

windows and doorways of the village. Around them the kitchen was being

used as a dressing-station and the moan and whimper of wounded men

added to the hubbub Of battle.

When Sean had finished Acheson turned away and strode to the window. He

looked out across the railway tracks, to where the guns stood. They

were drawn up in precise parade-ground formation. But now they were

silent. Dribbling back towards the shelter of a deep don ga-or

gully-in the rear, the surviving gunners dragged their wounded with

them.

"The poor bastards," Sean whispered, as he saw one of the retreating

gunners killed, shot in the head so that his helmet was thrown spinning

upwards in a brief pink cloud of blood.

The sight seemed to rouse Acheson also.

"All right," he said. "We'll advance on the road bridge.

Come on, Courtney. " Behind him someone cried out, and Sean heard him

fall. But he did not look round. He watched the bridge ahead of

him.

Although his legs moved mechanically under him it seemed to come no

nearer. The thorn trees were thicker here beside the river and they

gave a little cover from the merciless marksmen on the far bank. Yet

men were falling steadily, and the shrapnel raged and cracked above

them.

"Let's get across. Get the best seats on the other side, " Saul

shouted beside him.

"Come on, then," agreed Sean and they ran together. They were first on

to the bridge, with Acheson just behind them.

Bullets left bright scars on the grey painted metal, and then suddenly,

miraculously, they were across. They had crossed the Tugela.

A drainage ditch beside the road and they dived into it, both of them

panting. Sean looked back. Over the bridge poured a mass of khaki,

all semblance of order gone as they crowded into the bottleneck and the

fire from the Boers churned into them.

Once across, the leaders fanned out along the river, crouching below

the dip of the bank, while behind them the slaughter on the bridge

continued. A struggling mass of cursing, running angry, frightened and

dying men.

"It's a bloody abattoir." Sean was appalled as he watched it.

Dead and wounded men were falling over the low guard rail, splashing

into the brown waters of the Tugela to sink or strike out clumsily for

the banks. But a steady stream of men was coming across and going to

ground in the two-deep drainage ditches, and beneath the angle of the

river bank.

It was clear to Sean that the attack was losing its impetus. As the

men jumped down into the ditches he saw in their faces and in the way

they flattened themselves into shelter that they had lost all stomach

for the attack. The ordeal of the bridge had destroyed the discipline

that had held their steady advance into those neatly controlled ranks;

officers and men were inextricably mixed into a tired and badly

frightened rabble. There was no contact between the different groups

in the drainage trenches and those lying in the lee of the river

banks-and already there was little cover for the men who were still

coming across. The fire from the Boer positions never faltered, and

now the bridge was blocked with the bodies of the fallen, so that each

new wave had to climb over them, stepping on dead and wounded alike,

while the storm of Boer rifle-fire lashed them like wind-driven rain.

Rivulets of fresh bright blood dribbled down the supports of the bridge

in ghastly contrast to the grey paint, and the surface of the river was

stained by a chocolate-brown cloud of it spreading slowly downstream.

Here and there a desperate rallying voice was lifted in the hubbub of

incoherent shouts and groans.

"Here the 21st. Form on me the 21st. " "Independent fire. On the

heights. Ten rounds rapid."

"Stretcher-bearer! " "Bill. Where are you, Bill?"

"Jesus Christ! Jesus sobbing Christ!"

"Up, you men! Get up!"

"Come on the 21st. Fix bayonets."

Some of them were head and shoulders out of the ditch returning the

Boer fire, a few were drinking from their water bottles already. A

sergeant struggled with a jammed rifle and swore softly without looking

up, while beside him a man sat with his back against the wall of the

ditch, his legs sprawled open, and watched while the blood pumped from

the wound in his belly.

Sean stood and felt the wind of a bullet slap against his cheek, while

low in his stomach the slimy reptile of fear coiled itself tighter.

Then he scrambled up the side of the ditch.

"Come on!" he roared and started running towards the hills.

It was open here, like a meadow, and ahead of him an old barbed wire

fence sagged on rotten poles. He reached it, lifted his foot and

kicked with his heel. The fence pole snapped level with the ground,

the wire collapsed. He jumped over it.

"They're not coming," Saul shouted beside him, and Sean stopped.

The two of them were alone in the middle of the field and the Boer

rifles were seeking them eagerly.

"Run, Saul!" Sean shouted and snatched off his hat. "Come on, you

bastards. " He waved at the men behind him.

A bullet missed him so narrowly that he staggered in the wind of its

passage.

"This way! Follow us! Come on!" Saul had not left him. He was

dancing with excitement, and flapping his arms.

"Come back." Acheson's voice floated across to them. He stood in the

drainage ditch, showing clear from the waist up.

"Comeback, Courtney!

The attack was finished. Sean knew it in that instant, and saw the

wisdom of Acheson's decision. Further advance over the open meadowland

below the heights was suicide. The resolve that had carried him this

far collapsed, and his terror snapped the leash he had held upon it. He

ran back blindly, sobbing, leaning forward, his elbows pumping in time

to his fear-driven feet.

Then suddenly Saul was hit beside him. It took him in the head, threw

him forward, his rifle spinning from his hands, squawking hoarsely with

pain and surprise as he went down skidding on his belly.

And Sean ran on.

"Sean!" Saul's voice left behind him.

"Sean!" A cry of dreadful need, and Sean closed his mind against it

and ran on towards the safety of the ditch.

"Sean. Please!" and he checked and stood uncertain with the Mausers

barking above and the bullets clipping the grass around him.

Leave him, shrieked Sean's terror. Leave him. Run! Run!

Saul crawled towards him, blood on his face and his eyes fastened on

Sean's face.

"Sean!"

Leave Turn. Leave him But there was hope in that pitiful blood-smeared

face, and the fingers of Saul's hands clawed among the coarse grass

roots as he dragged himself forward.

It was beyond all reason. But Sean went back to him.

Beneath the spurs of his terror Sean found the strength to lift him and

run with him.

Hating him as he had never hated before, Sean blundered towards the

drainage ditch carrying Saul. The acceleration of his brain slowed

down the passage of time so that he seemed to run for ever.

"Damn you!" he mouthed at Saul, hating him.

"Damn you to hell! " The words came easily from his mouth, an

inarticulate expression of his terror.

Then the ground gave way beneath his feet and he fell. Together they

dropped into the drainage ditch and Sean rolled away from him. He lay

on his stomach and pressed his face into the earth and shook as a man

shakes in high fever.

Slowly he came back from that far place where fear had driven him, and

he lifted his head.

Saul sat against the bank of the ditch. His face was streaked with a

mixture of blood and dirt.

"How are we doing?" Sean croaked and Saul looked at him dully.

It was bright and very hot here in the sun. Sean unscrewed the stopper

of his water-bottle and held it to Saul's lips. Saul swallowed

painfully and water spilled from the corner of his mouth down his chin

and on to his tunic.

Then Sean drank and finished panting with pleasure.

" Let's have a look at your head. " He lifted Saul's hat from his

head, and the blood that had accumulated around the sweat band poured

in a fresh flood down Saul's neck. Parting the sodden black hair Sean

found the groove in the flesh of his scalp.

"Grazed you," he grunted and groped for the field dressing in the

pocket of Saul's tunic. While he bound an untidy turban round Saul's

head he noticed that a strange stillness had fallen on the field, a

stillness accentuated rather than broken by the murmur of voices from

the men around him and the occasional report of a rifle from the

heights above.

The battle was over. At least we got across the river, he thought

bitterly. The only problem that now remains is getting back again.

"How's that feel?" He had wet his handkerchief and wiped some of the

blood and dust from Saul's face. "Thank you, Sean. " Suddenly Sean

realized that Saul's eyes were full of wan and it embarrassed him.

He looked away from them.

"Thank you for . for coming back to get me.

or get it."

'll never forget. Never as long as I live.

"You'd have done the same. " "No, I don't think so. I wouldn't have

been able to. I was so scared, so afraid, Sean. You'd never know.

You'll never know what it's like to be that afraid.

"For-get it, Saul. Leave it alone."

"I've got to tell you. I owe it to you-from now on I owe you .

If you hadn't come back I'd be . . . I'd still be out there. I owe

you."

"Shut up, damn you! " He saw that Saul's eyes were different, the

pupils had shrunk to tiny black specks and he was shaking his head in a

meaningless idiotic fashion. The bullet had con cussed him. But this

could not prevent Sean's anger. "Shut UP, he snarled. "You think I

don't know about fear. I was so scared out there-I hated you. Do you

hear that? I hated you!

And then Sean's voice softened. He had to explain to Saul and himself.

He had to tell him about it, to justify it and place it securely in the

scheme of things.

Suddenly he felt very old and wise. In his hands he held the key to

the whole mystery of life. It was all so clear, for the first time he

understood and he could explain it.

They sat close together in the sun, isolated from the men around them,

and Sean's voice sank to an urgent whisper as he tried to make Saul

understand, tried to pass on to him this knowledge that embraced all

truth.

Beside them lay a corporal of the Fusiliers. He lay on his back, dead,

and the flies swarmed over his eyes and laid their eggs. They looked

like tiny grains of rice clustered in the lashes around his dead open

eyes.

Saul leaned heavily against Sean's shoulder, now and then he shook his

head in confusion as he listened to Sean. Listened to Sean's voice

tripping and stumbling then starting to hurry as his ideas broke up and

crumpled, heard the desperation in it as Sean strove to retain just a

few grains of all that knowledge which had been his a few moments

before. Heard it peter out into silence and sorrow as he found that it

was gone.

"I don't know," Sean admitted at last.

Then Saul spoke, his voice was dull and his eyes would not focus

properly as he peered at Sean from beneath the bloodstained turban of

bandages.

"Ruth," he said. "You speak like Ruth does. Sometimes in the night

when she cannot sleep she tries to tell me. Almost I understand,

almost she finds it and then she stops. "I don't know," she says at

last. "I just don't know. "Sean jerked away from him, and stared into

his face. "Ruth?"

he asked quietly.

"Ruth-my wife. You'd like her, Sean-she'd like you. So brave-she came

to me through the Boer lines. All the way from Pretoria-riding alone.

She came to me. I couldn't believe it.

All that way. She just walked into camp one day and said,

"Hello, Saul. I'm here!" just like that! You'll like her when you

meet her, Sean. She's so beautiful, so serene .

In October when the big winds blow they come for the first time on a

still day. It has been hot and dry for perhaps a month, then you hear

them from far away, roaring softly. The roar mounts quickly, the dust

races brown on the wind and the trees lean away from it, threshing and

churning their branches. You see it coming but all your preparations

are nothing when it hits.

The vast roaring and the dust envelope you and you are numbed and

blinded by the violence of it.

In the same way Sean saw it coming, he recognized it as the murderous

rage which before had nearly killed a man, but still he could not

prepare himself And then it was upon him and the roaring filled his

head and narrowed his vision so that all he could see was the face of

Saul Friedman. The face was in profile for Saul was sat ring back

across the plain of Colenso towards the English lines.

Sean lifted the dead corporal's rifle and laid it across his lap.

With his thumb he dipped off the safety-catch, but Saul did not notice

the movement.

"She's in Pietermaritzburg, I had a letter from her last week, he

murmured, and Sean shifted the rifle in his lap so that the muzzle

aimed into the side of Saul's chest below the armpit.

"I sent her down to Pietermaritzburg. She's staying with her uncle

there. " Saul lifted his hand and touched his head. Sean curled his

finger on the trigger. "I wish you could meet her, Sean. She'd like

you." Now he looked into Sean's face, and there was such pathetic

trust in his eyes. "When I write I am going to tell her about

today-about what you did. " Sean took up the slack in the trigger

until he could feel the final resistance.

"We both owe you-" Saul stopped and smiled shyly. "I just want you to

know that I'll never forget it. " Kill him, roared Sean's head.

Kill him now-kill him quickly.

Don't let him talk.

It was the first conscious command his instinct had issued.

Now! Do it now! But his trigger-finger relaxed.

This is all that stands between you and Ruth. Do it, do it now.

The roaring in his head abated. The big wind had passed by and he

could hear it receding. He lifted the rifle and slowly pushed the

safety-catch across.

In the stillness after the wind he knew suddenly that from now on Saul

Friedman was his special charge. Because he had come so close to

taking it from him, Saul's life had become a debt of honour.

He laid the rifle aside and closed his eyes wearily.

"We'd better think about getting out of here, " he said quietly.

"Otherwise I might never get around to meeting this beauty of yours.

"Hart has got himself into a mess out there!" General Sir Redvers

Buller's voice matched the pompous jut of his belly and he leaned back

against the weight of the telescope he held to his eye. "What do you

think, Courtney?

"Well, he certainly hasn't reached the drift, sir. It looks to me as

though he's been pinned down in the loop of the river, Garry agreed.

"Damn the man! My orders were clear," growled Buller.

"What can you make of the guns-can you see anything there?"

Every telescope in the party of officers swivelled back to the centre,

to where the corrugated iron roofs of Colenso showed above the thorn

trees, dimly through the dust and the smoke.

"I can't . . . " Garry started, then jumped uncontrollably as the

naval 4.7 bellowed from its emplacement beside them. Every time that

morning it had fired, Garry had jumped. If only I knew when it was

going to, he thought and jumped again as it bellowed.

"They are not being served," one of the other staff officers interposed

and Garry envied him his composure and his calmness of voice. His own

hands were trembling so that he must grip hard with both hands to keep

his binoculars focused on the town. Each time the naval gun fired the

dust of its recoil drifted over them, also the sun was fierce and he

was thirsty. He thought of the flask in his saddle-bags and the next

bellow of the gun caught him completely off guard. This time both his

feet left the ground" . . . Do you agree, Courtney? " Buller's voice,

he had not heard the beginning of the question.

"I do indeed, sir.

"Good." The General turned to his ADC. "Send a rider to Hart.

Tell him to pull out of there before he gets badly mauled.

Quick as you can, Clery.

At that moment Garry made a remarkable discovery. Behind the

inscrutable mask of his face with its magnificent silver moustache,

behind the bulging expressionless eyes-General Sir Redvers Buller was

every bit as agitated and uncertain as was Garry Courtney. His

continual appeals to Garry for support confirmed this. Of course,

Garry did not consider that another reason why Buller addressed his

appeals to him, rather than the regular officers of his staff, was

because this was the one quarter from which Buller could rely on

unquestioning support.

"That takes care of the left flank. " Buller was clearly relieved at

his decision as he searched out towards the right, fixing the low round

bulk of Hlangwane KopJe in the field of his telescope.

"Dundonald seems to be keeping his end up. " Earlier, there had been

desultory rifle and pompom fire from the right flank.

Now it was silent.

"But the centre As though he had been delaying the moment, Buller at

last turned his attention on the holocaust of dust and flame and

shrapnel that enveloped Colenso.

"Come along. " He snapped his telescope closed. "We'd better have a

closer look at what they've accomplished there. " And he led his staff

back to the horses. Careful that no one should usurp his place at the

General's right hand, Garry limped along beside him.

At the headquarters of Lyttelton's Brigade, established in a deep don

ga half a mile before the first scattered buildings of the town, it

took Buller half a minute to find out what had been accomplished. It

appalled him.

"We hold the town, sir. And three companies have advanced to the road

bridge and seized it. But we cannot hope to hold it.

I have sent a runner ordering them to withdraw on the town. " "But why

aren't the guns firing? What's happened to Colonel Long?

"The guns have been silenced. Long is badly wounded."

While Buller sat his horse, slowly absorbing this, a sergeant of the

Transvaal Staats Artillerie jerked the lanyard of his quick firing

Nordenfelt and fired the shell which changed a British reverse into a

resounding defeat that would echo around the world. From out of the

broken and rocky complex of hills on the north bank the shell arched

upwards; over the river with its surface churned to brown by shrapnel

and short shell and blood; high over the deserted guns manned only by

corpses; shrieking over the heads of the surviving gunners as they

crouched in the rear with their wounded, forcing them to duck as they

had ducked a thousand times before; plunging in its descent over the

town of Colenso where weary men waited; down across thorn tree and

mimosa and brown grass veld littered with dead men; falling at last in

a tall jump of dust and smoke in the midst of General Buller's staff.

Beneath him Garry's horse dropped, killed instantly, pinning his leg so

that had it been flesh and bone, not carved oak, it would have been

crushed. He felt the blood soaking through his tunic and splattered in

his face and mouth.

"I've been hit. Help me, God help me, I'm wounded." And he writhed

and struggled in the grass, wiping the blood on his face.

Rough hands freed his leg and dragged him clear of his horse.

"Not your blood. You're all right. Not your blood, it's his. " On

his hands and knees Garry stared in horror at the Surgeon-Major who had

stood beside him and who had shielded him from the blast. Shrapnel had

cut his head away, and the blood still spouted from his neck as though

it were a severed hose.

Around him men fought their panic-stricken horses as they reared and

whinnied. Buller was doubled up in the saddle, clutching the side of

his chest.

"Sir, sir. Are you all right?" An ADC had the reins and was bringing

Buller's horse under control. TWo officers ran to Buller and helped

him down. He stood between them, his face contorted with pain, and his

voice when he spoke was shaky, but hoarse.

"Disengage, Lyttelton! Disengage on your whole front!"

"Sir," protested the Brigadier. "We hold the town. Let me cover the

guns until nightfall when we can retrieve them at our . . . " .

"Damn you, Lyttelton. You heard me. Pull your brigade back

immediately. The attack has failed. " Buller's breathing wheezed in

his throat and he still clutched the side of his chest with both

hands.

"To withdraw now will mean accepting heavier losses than we have

suffered already. The enemy artillery is accurately ranged

"Pull them out, do you hear me!" Buller's voice rose to a shout.

"The guns . Lyttelton tried again, but Buller had already turned to

his ADC.

"Send riders to Lord Dundonald's Brigade. He must retire immediately.

I give him no latitude of discretion, he is to disengage his force at

once and withdraw. Tell him ... tell him the attack has failed on left

and centre, tell him the guns are lost and he is in danger of being

surrounded. Go. Ride fast. " There was a murmur among them,

horrified as they listened to these orders. Miserably every eye turned

to Lyttelton, silently they pleaded with him, for he was the senior

officer present.

"General Buller. " He spoke softly, but with an urgency that caught

even Buller's shell-shocked attention. "At least, let me try to

recover the guns. We cannot abandon them. Let me call for

volunteers.

. " "I'll go, sir. Please let me try. " A young subaltern elbowed

Garry aside in his eagerness. Garry knew who he was, all of them did,

for apart from being one of the most promising and popular youngsters

in Buller's command-he was also the only son of the legendary Lord

Roberts.

Assisted by his ADC, Buller moved to the shade of a mimosa tree and

sank down heavily with his back against the rough bark of the trunk. He

looked up at young Roberts, dully, without apparent interest.

"All right, Bobbie, Lyttelton will give you men. Off you go then.

" He pronounced the sentence of death upon him, and Roberts laughed

excitedly, gaily, and ran to his horse.

"I think we are all in need of refreshment. Will you join me in a

sandwich and a glass of champagne, gentlemen? " Buller nodded to his

ADC, who hurried to bring food and drink from the saddle-bags. A stray

shell burst twenty yards away, scattering clods of earth over them.

Stolidly Buller brushed a piece of dry grass from his whiskers and

selected a smoked salmon sandwich.

Sean crawled down the drainage ditch towards the bank of the river. A

shell burst on the edge of the ditch and scattered clods of earth over

his back. He paused to brush a tangle of grass roots out of his

whiskers and then crawled on to where Colonel Acheson squatted on his

haunches in earnest conversation with a captain of the Fusiliers.

"Hey, Colonel Acheson. I doubt you'll need me again, will you?"

The Captain looked shocked at Sean's term of address, but Acheson

grinned briefly.

"A runner just got through. We have been ordered to with(]raw. I

"What a pity!" Sean grunted sarcastically. "Just when we were

knocking the daylights out of old brother Boer," and all three of them

ducked as a machine-gun hammered lumps of dirt out of the bank above

their heads. Then Sean took up from where he had been interrupted.

"Well, in that case-I'll be leaving you.

"Where are you going? " the Captain demanded suspiciously.

"Not across that bridge." Sean removed the stub of his cheroot from

his mouth and pointed with it at the grey structure with its gruesome

streaks of new paint. "I've got a wounded man with me. He'll never

make it. Have you got a match?

Automatically the Captain produced a box of wax matches from his

breast-pocket. "Thanks. I'm going to swim him downstream and find a

better place to cross. " Sean re-lit his cheroot, blew a cloud of

smoke and returned the Captain's matches.

"A pleasure meeting you, Colonel Acheson. " "You have permission to

fall out, Courtney. " A second longer they looked into each other's

eyes, and Sean experienced a powerful desire to shake this man's hand

but instead he started crawling back along the ditch.

"Courtney!" Sean paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"What's the name of the other Guide?"

"Friedman. Saul Friedman."

Acheson scribbled briefly in his notebook, then returned it to his

pocket.

"You'll hear more about today-good luck."

"And to you, sir.

From a tree that hung out over the brown water of the Tugela, Sean

hacked a bushy green branch with his bayonet.

"Come on," and Saul slid down the greasy clay of the bank, waist-deep

into the river beside Sean.

"Leave your rifle. " Obediently Saul dropped it into the river.

"What's the bush for?"

"To cover our heads."

"Why are we waiting?"

"For Acheson to create a diversion when he tries to get back across the

bridge. " At that moment a whistle shrilled on the bank above them.

Immediately a fierce covering fire blared out and a party of khaki-clad

figures stampeded out on to the bridge.

"Now," grunted Sean. They sank together into the blood warm water with

only their heads, wreathed in leaves, above the surface. Sean pushed

out gently and the current caught them.

Neither of them looked back at the shrieking carnage on the bridge as

they drifted away.

TWenty minutes later and a half-mile downstream, Sean edged across the

current towards the remains of the railway bridge that hung like a

broken drawbridge into the river. It offered a perfect access to the

south and the embankment of the railway would cover them in their

retreat across the plain.

Sean's feet touched mud bottom, then they were under the sagging bridge

like chickens under the wing of a hen. He let the branch float away

and dragged Saul to the bank between the metal girders.

"Five minutes" rest," he told him and squatted beside him to rewind the

bandage that had come down over Saul's ears. Muddy water streamed from

sodden uniforms, and Sean mourned the cheroots in his tunic pocket.

There was another drainage ditch running beside the high gravel

embankment of the railway. Along it, walking in a crouch, Sean prodded

Saul ahead of him, yelling at him every time he attempted to straighten

up and relieve Ins aching back. Once a sniper on the kopJes behind

them thumped a bullet into the gravel near Sean's head, and Sean swore

wearily and almost touched his knees with his nose. But Saul did not

notice it. With his legs sloppy under him he staggered along in front

of Sean, until finally he fell and lay in a sprawling, untidy heap in

the bottom of the ditch.

Sean kicked him.

"Get up, damn you!"

"No, Ruth. Don't wake me up yet. It's Sunday. I don't have to work

today. " Speaking quite clearly in a reasonable persuasive tone Saul

looked up at Sean, but his eyes were matt and the pupils shrunken to

black points.

"Get up. Get up!" The use of Ruth's name inflamed Sean.

He caught Saul's shoulder and shook him. Saul's head jerked crazily

and fresh blood seeped through his bandage. Instantly contrite, Sean

laid him back gently.

"Saul, please. You must try. Just a little farther."

"Glossless," whispered Saul. "There is no gloss on it. I don't want

it. " And he closed his eyes, his lips bulged open and his breath

snored through them in tiny bubbles of spittle.

A suffocating despair dropped down over Sean as he studied Saul's face.

The eyes had receded into dark plum-coloured cavities, leaving the skin

stretched tight across his cheeks and across the gaunt bony nose.

Not because I nearly killed him, not because I owe it to him.

But because-but because? How can you define your feelings for another

man. All you can say is-because he is my friend.

Then, because he is my friend I cannot leave him here.

Sinking down beside him, Sean lifted his slack body into a sitting

position, draped one of Saul's arms around his shoulder and stood up.

Saul hung beside him, his head lolled forward on his chest, and Sean

looked ahead. He could see the survivors from the bridge struggling

back through the village, dragging their wounded with them.

Across the whole breadth of the plain, singly and in twos and threes,

harried by shrapnel, beaten, broken, Buller's mighty army was in

retreat. And there, not a hundred yards from where Sean crouched in

the railway ditch, drawn up neatly in the grass, deserted, forlorn,

stood the field guns.

Quickly Sean averted his eyes from them and began plodding away from

the river. Over his shoulder he held Saul's wrist, his free arm was

wrapped around Saul's waist.

"Then slowly he was aware that the Boer fire was crescendoing once

more. Shell that had fallen haphazard among the retreating men began

to concentrate on an area directly ahead of Sean.

Behind him the rifle-fire that had popped spasmodically on the heights

now swelled into a fierce, sustained crackle like a bush fire in green

forest.

Leaning against the side of the ditch Sean peered ahead through the

mimosa trees and the storm of dust and bursting shell. He saw horses,

two teams in harness, men with them racing in through the thorn trees,

lifting pale dust in a cloud to mingle with the dust of the shells. Far

ahead of them, brandishing his cane, leading them in towards the

abandoned guns, galloped a figure on a big shiny bay.

"He's laughing. " In wonder, Sean watched the leading rider disappear

behind a column of dust and high explosive, only to emerge again as he

swerved his mount like a polo player. His mouth was open and Sean saw

the glint of white teeth. "The fool is laughing his head off!"

And suddenly Sean was cheering wildly.

man, ride!" he shouted and his voice was lost in the shriek and crash

of the bombardment.

"They've come to fetch the guns," howled Sean. "Saul, they've come for

the guns. " Without knowin how he had done it, mad with the excitement

of it, Sean found himself out of the ditch, running with new strength,

running with Saul's unconscious weight slung over his shoulder, running

through the grass towards the guns.

By the time he reached the battery the first team was already there.

The men were down struggling to back the horses up to the trail of the

Number One gun. Sean slid the inert body from his shoulder and dropped

it in the grass. Two of them were trying to lift the trail of the

field gun, but this task required four men.

"Get out of the way!" Sean shouted at them and straddled the long

wedge-shaped trail of steel. He locked his hands into the grips and

heaved upwards, lifting it clear and high.

"Get the carriage." Quickly they rolled the detachable axle and wheels

in under the trail and locked them into position.

Sean stepped back panting.

"Well done!" The young officer leaned forward in his saddle as he

shouted at Sean. "Get up on the carriage.

But Sean turned and ran to Saul, he picked him up and stumbled with him

to the carriage.

"Grab him! " he grunted at the two soldiers who were already aboard.

Between them they dragged Saul up on to the carriage seat.

"No room for you, cock. Why don't you take Taffy's place on the

right-hand wheeler?" one of them shouted down, and Sean saw he was

correct. The drivers were mounting up, but one saddle was empty.

"Look after him," he told the man who held Saul.

"Don't worry, I've got him," the gunner assured him, and then

urgently,

"You'd best grab a seat-we're pulling out."

"Look after him," Sean repeated and started forward.

In that moment the luck which had protected him all morning ran out. A

shell burst beside him. He felt no pain but his right leg gave under

him and he went down on his knees.

He tried to stand but his body would not obey.

"Forward! " shouted the subaltern, and the gun carriage trundled away,

gathering speed, beginning to jolt and bounce as the drivers lashed the

horses. Sean saw the gunner who held Saul staring back at him from the

carriage, his face was contorted with helplessness.

"Look after him! " Sean shouted. "Promise me you'll look after him. "

The gunner opened his mouth to reply, but another shell burst between

them, throwing up a curtain of dust that hid the carnage. This time

Sean felt the shrapnel tear into his flesh. It stung like the cut of a

razor and he sagged sideways. As he went down he saw that the

subaltern had been hit as well. Saw him throw up his arms and fall