The Sound of Thunder

His voice carried across the lobby and stilled the murmuring of polite

conversation.

"Don't talk so loudly," Saul cautioned.

A general officer in one of the plush chairs hoisted himself and slowly

turned his head to train a monocled stare upon them, while his

aide-de-camp leaned across and whispered,

"Colonials.

Sean winked at him and moved across to the reception desk.

"Good afternoon, sir. " The clerk regarded them frostily.

"You have reservations for my chief of staff and myself.

"What name Sir? " "I'm sorry, I can't answer that question.

We are travelling incognito," Sean told him seriously, and a helpless

expression appeared on the man's face. Sean dropped his voice to

conspiratory level. "Have you seen a man come in here carrying a

bomb?"

"No. " The man's eyes glazed a little. "No, sir. No, I haven't.

" "Good. " Sean appeared relieved. "In that case we'll take the

Victoria Suite. Have our luggage sent up.

"General Caithness has the Victoria Suite, sir." The clerk was

becoming desperate.

What?" Sean roared. "How dare you!"

"I didn't . . . We had no . stuttering the clerk backed away from

him.

Call the owner," ordered Sean.

"Yes, sir. " And the clerk disappeared through a door marked

"Private.

"Have you gone mad?" Saul was fidgeting with embarrassment. "We can't

afford to stay at this place. Let's get out of here. " Under the

concentrated scrutiny of every guest in the lobby he was very conscious

of their grubby travel-stained uniforms.

Before Sean could answer a woman came through the

"Private" doorway, a very lovely but very angry woman with eyes that

blazed like the blue sapphires at her throat.

"I am Mrs. Rautenbach-the owner. You asked to see me."

Sean just smiled at her, and her anger withered slowly as she began to

recognize him beneath the creased HI-fitting tunic and without the

beard.

"Do you still love me, Candy?"

"Sean?" She was still uncertain.

"Who else?"

"Sean!" And she came to him on the run. Half an hour later General

Caithness had been evicted and Sean and Saul were settling comfortably

into the Victoria Suite.

Freshly bathed, with only a towel around his waist, Sean lay back in

his chair while the barber scraped away his three-day growth of

beard.

"Some more champagne?" Candy had not taken her eyes off him for the

last ten minutes.

"Thanks.

She filled his glass, replaced it at his right hand and then touched

the thick muscles of his upper arm. "Still hard," she murmured.

"You've kept ahead of the years. " Her fingers moved on to his chest.

"Just a little grey here and there-but it suits you," and then to the

barber,

"Haven't you finished yet?"

"One moment more madam. " He again scissored along the line of Sean's

temple, stood back and studied his masterpiece then with modest pride,

held the mirror for Sean's approval.

"Excellent. Thank you."

"You may go now. See to the gentleman next door." Candy had waited

long enough. As the door closed behind the barber she turned the key.

Sean stood up from the chair and they faced each other across the

room.

"My God, but you're big. " Her voice was husky, unashamedly hungry.

"My God, but you're beautiful," Sean answered her, and they moved

slowly to meet in the centre of the floor.

Later, they lay quietly while the darkness gathered in the room as

evening fell. Then Candy moved her mouth across his shoulder and, the

way a cat cleans its kittens, she began gently to lick the long red

scratches upon his neck.

When the room was truly dark Candy lit one of the shaded gaslights and

sent down for biscuits and a bottle of champagne.

They sat together upon the rumpled bed and talked.

At first there was a shyness between them because of what they had done

together-but soon it passed-and they sat up far into the night.

Rare it is for a man to have a friend as well as a lover in one

woman-but with Candy this was possible. And to her he released all

those things that had been bottled and fomenting within him.

He told her of Michael, and the strange bond between them.

He told her of Dirk, and hinted at his misgivings for the boy.

He spoke of the war and of what he would do when it finished.

He told her of Lion Kop and his wattle.

But one thing he could not tell her. He could not speak of Ruth or the

man who was her husband.

During the next few days Sean and Saul reported to the headquarters of

the Regional Commander and were assigned neither billets nor duties.

Now that they had arrived no one seemed very interested in them. They

were told to report daily, and turned loose again. They returned to

Candy's Hotel and spent most of the days playing billiards or cards and

most of the evenings eating and drinking and talking.

A week of this and Sean was getting bored. He began to feel like a

stud stallion. Even a solid diet of heavenly manna begins to pall

after a while-so when Candy asked him to escort her to a reception and

dinner with which Lord Kitchener was celebrating his promotion to

Supreme Command of the Army in South Africa, Sean accepted with

relief.

"You look like some sort of god," Candy told him as he entered her

suite through the concealed doorway which connected it with his own

bedroom in the Victoria rooms. When she had shown him this discreet

little panel and demonstrated how at a touch it slid silently aside,

Sean had thrust down the temptation of asking how many others had used

it. It was senseless to resent the nameless host who had passed

through the panel to teach Candy all those little tricks with which she

now delighted him.

"You don't look too bad yourself." She was dressed in blue silk, the

colour of her eyes, and she wore diamonds at her throat.

"How gallant you are! " She came to him and stroked the silk lapels of

his newly tailored evening jacket. "I wish you'd wear your medals.

"I haven't any medals."

"Oh Sean! You must have! With all those bullet holes in you, you must

have medals. " "I'm sorry, Candy." Sean grinned. At times she was so

far from being the glittering sophisticated woman of the world.

Although she was a year older than he was, time had not destroyed that

fragile quality of skin and hair that most women lose so quickly.

There was no thickening of her body, no coarsening of her features.

"Never mind-even without medals, you'll be the handsomest man there

tonight.

As the carriage rolled down Commissioner Street towards the Grand

National Hotel, Sean lay back against the yielding support of soft

polished leather. His cigar was drawing evenly with an inch of firm

grey ash, the single brandy he had drunk before leaving glowed beneath

the starched front of his dress-shirt, a faint aura of bay rum clung

and hovered around him-and Candy's hand lay lightly upon his leg.

All these things induced in him a mood of deep contentment.

He laughed easily at Candy's chatter and let the smoke of his cigar

trickle through his lips-tasting it with an almost childlike pleasure.

When the car rage stopped before the entrance to the hotel and rocked

gently on its superb springing, he climbed down and stood by the big

rear-wheel to guard Candy's skirt as she descended.

Then, with her fingers on his forearm, he guided her up the front steps

and through the glass doors into the lobby Of the hotel. The splendour

of the place did not equal Candy's own establishment. But it was

impressive enough-and so was the reception line that awaited them.

While they took their places among those waiting to meet the

Commander-in-Chief, Sean spoke quietly to an aide-de-camp.

"My Lord, may I present Mr. Courtney and Mrs. Rautenbach. " Lord

Kitchener had a formidable presence. His hand was cold and hard and he

stood as tall as Sean. The eyes that stared for an instant into Sean's

held a disquieting rigidity of purpose.

Then he turned to Candy and his expression softened momentarily as he

bowed over her hand.

"Very kind of you to come, madam."

Then they were past and into the gaudy of uniforms and velvet and silk.

The whole was dominated by dress scarlet of the Guards and Fusiliers,

but there was also the gold-fragged blue of the Hussars, the green of

the Foresters, kilts of half a dozen Highland regiments, so that Sean's

black dress suit was conspicuously conservative. Among the glitter of

orders and decorations shone the jewel lery and white skins of the

women.

Here assembled were the prize blooms of the huge tree that was the

British Empire. A tree grown strong above the rest of the forest. Two

centuries of victory in war had nurtured it, two hundred million

persons were its roots that sucked in the treasures of half the world

and sent them up along the shipping lanes to that grey city astride the

Thames that was its heart. And there this rich sap was digested and

transmuted into men. These were the men whose lazy speech and careful

nonchalance reflected the smugness and arrogance which made them hated

and feared by even the trunk of the great tree that gave them flower.

While the lesser trees crowded closer and sent their own roots out to

divert a little of its sustenance to themselves, the first disease had

already eaten into the wood beneath the bark of the giant.

America, India, Afghanistan, and South Africa had started the dry rot

that one day would bring it crashing down with a force that would

shatter its bulk into so many pieces as to prove it not teak but soft

pine.

Watching them now, Sean felt himself apart from them, closer in spirit

and purpose to those shaggy men whose Mausers still shouted desperate

defiance at them from the vast brown veld.

These thoughts threatened to spoil his mood and he thrust them down,

exchanged his empty glass for another filled with bubbling yellow wine

and attempted to join the banter of the young officers who surrounded

Candy. He succeeded only in conceiving a burning desire to punch one

of them between his downy moustaches. He was savouring the idea with

increasing relish when a touch on his arm turned him.

"Hello Courtney. Seem to find you everywhere there is either a fight

or a free drink. " Startled, Sean turned to look into the austere face

and incongruously twinkling eyes of Major General John Acheson.

"Hello, General. I notice you frequent the same areas. " Sean grinned

at him.

"Bloody awful champagne. Old K. must be economizing."

Then he ran his eyes over Sean's immaculate evening dress. "A bit

difficult to tell whether you have received the awards for which I

recommended you. " Sean shook his head. "Still a sergeant. I didn't

want to embarrass the General Staff by appearing in my chevrons. "

"AH!" Acheson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Must be some hold up. I'll

look into it."

"I assure you I'm quite happy this way."

Acheson nodded and changed the subject. "You haven't met my wife?"

This was patronage on the grand scale. Sean was not to know that

Acheson considered him his personal good luck charm. His own rapid

promotion dated from their first meeting.

Sean blinked in surprise before answering.

"I haven't yet had the honour Come along then."

Sean excused himself from Candy, who dismissed him with a tap of her

fan and Acheson steered him through the press towards a group at the

end of the room. A dozen paces from it Sean stopped abruptly.

" Something wrong? " Acheson asked.

"No. Nothing. " Sean started forward again, but now his eyes were

fastened with fascination on one of the men who was a part of the group

towards which they were headed.

A slim figure in the dark blue dress uniform of the Natal Mounted

Rifles. Sandy brown hair brushed straight back from his high forehead,

nose too big for the mouth and the chin beneath it, slightly

round-shouldered but with the highest reward for bravery showing purple

and bronze beside the striped ribbon of the Distinguished Service Order

on his chest, while on his shoulders the silver crowns and lace

proclaimed him a colonel.

Slowly, with a new awakening of his guilt, Sean let his eyes move down

to this man's legs. With incomprehension he saw them perfectly

matched, booted in polished black leather. Only when the man moved

slightly, shifting his weight, Sean saw the leaden ness in one of them

and understood.

"My dear-I would like to present Mr. Courtney. I think you have heard

me speak of him. He was with me at Colenso, and on the train a few

weeks ago.

"Indeed. Mr. Courtney, this is a great pleasure." She was plump and

friendly but Sean was hardly able to murmur the correct response so

conscious was he of the other eyes upon his face.

"And this is Major Peterson of my staff."

Sean nodded.

"Colonel Courtney you will probably know-seeing that you bear the same

name, and not to mention the fact that he is your Commanding

Officer."

For the first time in nineteen years Sean looked into the face of the

man he had crippled.

"Hello, Garry," he said and held out his hand. He stood with it out

and waited.

Garry Courtney's lips moved. He hunched his shoulders and his head

SWUng slightly from side to side.

"Take it, Garry. Please take my hand. Sean tried silently to urge

him. Realizing the forbidding set of his own countenance, Sean forced

his lips into a smile. It was an uncertain thing that smile, it.

trembled a little at the corners of his mouth.

In response Garry's own lips relaxed and for a moment Sean saw the

terrible longing in his brother's eyes.

" It's been a long time, Garry. Much too long. " Sean prodded forward

with his open right hand. "Take it. Oh God, please make, him take

it.

Then Garry straightened. As he did so the toe of his right boot

scraped softly, awkwardly on the marble floor. The naked 'longing in

his eyes was glazed over, the corners of his mouth lifted upwards in

something close to a sneer.

"Sergeant," his voice was too loud, too high. "Sergeant, you are

incorrectly dressed!" Then he turned, pivoting on the dead leg, and

limped slowly away through the throng.

Sean stood with his hand still out and the smile frozen on his mouth.

You shouldn't have done that to us. We both wanted-I know you wanted

it as much as I, Sean let his hand fall empty to his side and balled it

into a fist.

"You know him?" Acheson asked softly.

"My brother."

"I see," Acheson murmured. He saw many things-and one of them was the

reason why Sean Courtney was still a sergeant.

Major Peterson coughed and lit a cigar. Mrs. Acheson touched the

General's arm. "My dear, Daphne Langford arrived yesterday. There she

is with John-we must have them to dinner.

"Of course, my dear. I will ask them this evening. " They turned

their attention on each other, giving Sean the respite he needed to

recover from his snubbing.

"Your glass is empty and so is mine, Courtney. I suggest we go on to

something more substantial than K's cooking champagne.

Brandy, fiery Cape brandy, very different from that soapy liquor they

make in France. A dangerous spirit to take in his present mood. And

only one mood was possible for Sean after what Garry had done to

him-cold, murderous rage.

His face was impassive, politely he responded to Mrs. Acheson's charm,

once he smiled at Candy across the room, but always he sent brandy

after brandy down to feed the rage that seethed in his belly; his eyes

followed the figure in dark blue as it limped from group to group.

The aide-de-camp who arranged the dinner seating could never have known

that Sean was a mere sergeant. As Mrs. Rautenbach's guest he believed

him to be an influential civilian and placed him high at the long

table, between Candy and Mrs. Acheson, with Majar Peterson below him

and a brigadier and two colonels opposite. One of the colonels was

Garrick Courtney.

Beneath the almost uninterrupted stare which Sean fastened on him,

Garry became nervously garrulous. Never once meeting Sean's eyes, he

aimed his remarks higher up the table, and that bronze cross suspended

on the ribbon of shot purple silk that bumped against his chest each

time he leaned forward gave a weight to his opinions that was evident

in the attention they received from the officers of general rank.

The food was excellent. Rock lobster that had run the gauntlet EJJ@_

of Boer blockade from the Cape, plump young pheasant, venison, four

assorted sauces-even the quality of the champagne had improved.

But Sean ate little, instead he gave permanent employment to the wine

steward who hovered behind his chair.

"And so," said Garrick as he selected a cigar from the cedar wood box

that was offered him,

"I cannot see hostilities continuing another three months at the

outside.

"I agree with you, sir," Major Peterson nodded. "We'll be back in

London for the season.

"Poppycock! " Sean made his first contribution to the discussion.

It was a word he had learned only recently-but he Red it.

Besides, there were ladies present.

Peterson's face charmeleoned to a creditable match with the scarlet of

his dress coat, Acheson started to smile then changed his mind, Candy

wriggled in anticipation for she had reached the edge of boredom, and a

chilly stillness fell over that area of the table.

"I beg your pardon?" Garry looked at him for the first time.

"Poppycock," Sean repeated, and the wine steward stepped forward to

cascade champagne into the crystal bowl of his glass, an operation

which he had repeated at least a dozen times during the course of the

evening-but this time it commanded the attention of the entire

company.

"You don't agree with me?" Garry challenged.

"No. "Why not?"

"Because there are still eighteen thousand Boers in the field, because

they are still an organized army, because not once have they had a

decisive defeat inflicted on them-but mainly because of the character

of these eighteen thousand that are left. " "You don't-" Garry's voice

was petulant, but Acheson interrupted smoothly. "Excuse me, Colonel

Courtney." Then he turned to Sean. "I believe you know these people-"

he hesitated and then went on, "you are even related through marriage.

" "My brother-in-law leads the Wynberg, commando,"

Sean affirmed. The old boy knew more of his past then he suspected

must have made a few inquiries. Sean was flattered and the harshness

gone from his voice.

"What, in your opinion, will be their course of action from now on?"

Acheson pursued the subject and Sean tasted his champagne while he

considered his reply.

"They will scatter, break up into their traditional fighting units, the

commando. " Acheson nodded, from his position on the General Staff he

knew this had already happened.

"In so doing they will avoid the necessity of dragging a supply column

with them. Once the rainy season begins these small units will find

grazing less of a problem for their horses.

"Yes. " Sean saw they were all listening now. He thought quickly,

cursing the wine that had dulled his brain. "They will avoid battle,

run from it and swing round to jab at the flanks, then run again."

"Supplies?" asked the Brigadier.

"The veld is their storeroom, each farm upon it a haven.

"Ammunition, weapons, clothing? " persisted the Brigadier.

"Every British soldier they capture or kill will provide a brand new

Lee, Metford rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition. " "But how long

can they live like that?" Garry spoke indulgently, as though to a

child. "How far can they run?" He glanced around at the others

seeking their support, but everyone was watching Sean.

"How wide is the veld, that is how far they can run. " Sean turned on

him, stung by the tone of his voice. "My God, you know them.

Hardship is a way of life with them. Pride, the watchword that will

carry them on."

"You paint a pretty picture. " Garry smiled easily. "It is unusual to

find such appreciation of grand strategy among the rank and file." Then

he looked higher up the table once more with an emphasis that excluded

Sean from the conversation. "As I was saying, General Acheson, I

believe, " "One moment please, Colonel." Acheson in turn excluded him

and put his question to Sean. "If you had the running of it, what plan

of action would you adopt?"

Across the table Garrick Courtney coughed in a manner intended to

inform the company that his brother was about to make a fool of

himself.

It was not lost on Sean. "The problem revolves around one single fact.

The mobility of the enemy," he stated grimly.

"Your perception does you great credit," murmured Garry.

"Our first problem is to contain him and then to wear him down, " Sean

went on, trying to ignore the taunts of his brother.

"Contain him?" The Brigadier fired the question.

"Herd him into a limited area," Sean explained.

"How?"

"Say, by a series of set fortifications," Sean suggested.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you propose to divide the whole of the

high veld into paddocks and farm the enemy as one would dairy cattle?"

Garry was still smiling.

"The new blockhouse lines along the line of rail are proving effective.

It should be possible to extend them across the open veld, every time

the enemy had to pass through them he would be subjected to a mauling

by the garrisons and his position would immediately be pin, pointed.

"The cost would be enormous," Acheson pointed out.

"Not as great as supporting an army of a quarter of a million men in

the field for another five years," Sean brushed his objection aside, he

was well set on his run of ideas. "Then, within the defined areas

small well, mounted bodies of men, unimpeded by supply wagons and

artillery, would be used to raid the commandos, hitting them in an

unrelenting series of raids and ambushes. Driving them on to the

blockhouse lines, wearing down their horses, giving them no chance to

rest, employing exactly their tactics of skirmishing. Against the

commandos use counter, commandos. " Acheson nodded thoughtfully. "Go

on," he said.

"Then, clear out the farms, " Sean went on recklessly. "Bring in the

women and old men whose crops keep the commandos fed. Force them to

operate in a vacuum. " In the years ahead Sean was to regret the

impulse that made him say it. Perhaps Kitchener would have scorched

the land without Sean's suggestion, perhaps he had no hand in the

formation of the concentration camps that bred bitterness, Sean would

spend the rest of his life trying to sweetep. But he could never be

certain. He was drunk and angry, but later this knowledge would not

comfort him.

Now suddenly he felt empty as though in a premonition of the monstrous

seed he had sown and he sank into brooding silence while the others

passed his ideas back and forth, building on them, already beginning to

plan.

When the dinner party broke up and they drifted through to drink

coffee, Sean made one more attempt to tear down the barrier between his

brother and himself. He went to him with his pride in his hands and

offered it. "I was in Ladyburg last month. All's well there. Ada

writes to say, " "I receive a weekly letter not only from my wife but

from my stepmother and my son. I am fully aware of the latest news

from home. Thank you. " Garry stared over Sean's shoulder as he

replied.

"Garry .

"Excuse me. " Garry nodded briefly and limped away to speak to a

brother officer. He kept his back toward Sean.

"Let's go home, Candy.

"But, Sean .

"Come on."

Sean slept very little that night.

The Headquarters of the General Officer Commanding the eastern sector

were tastefully situated in the offices of a brewery company in Plein

Street. Major Peterson was waiting for Garry when he arrived.

"I sent for you two hours ago, sir.

"I was indisposed," Garry told him.

"Old Ach is not in a very good mood today, we'd better not keep him

waiting any longer. Come along."

Down the passage, where orderlies bustled, Peterson led him, to a door

at the far end. He knocked once and then opened it. Acheson looked up

from his paperwork.

"Colonel Courtney is here, sir."

"Thank you, Peterson. Come in, Courtney.

Peterson closed the door and left Garry standing alone on the thick

Persian rug in front of Acheson's desk.

"I sent for you two hours ago, Courtney. " Acheson used the same

reprimand, and Garry shifted his leg uncomfortably.

"I wasn't too well this morning, sir. Had to get the doctor in.Acheson

fingered his white moustache as he examined the dark circles beneath

Garry's eyes, and the chalky colour of his face. "Sit down,"

he ordered.

Acheson was silent, watching him. But Garry avoided his eyes. He felt

brittle from the previous night's drinking, his skin dry and sensitive,

and he fidgeted in the chair, clasping and unclasping the hand that lay

in his lap.

"I want one of your men," Acheson spoke at last.

"Of course, sir, " Gary nodded.

"That sergeant, Courtney. I want to give him an independent command.

Garry sat very still

"You know who I mean?" Acheson persisted.

"Yes, sir."

"You should," Acheson murmured dryly. "I have personally recommended

him to you on two occasions for recognition.

He flicked through the sheaf of papers in front of him.

"Yes, sir. " Garry's right hand was opening and closing again.

"I notice you took no action on either of my recommendations. " "No,

sir.

"May I ask why?"

"I didn't have . . . I didn't think the occasions merited further

action. " "You thought that my judgement was in error?" Acheson asked

politely.

"No, sir. Of course not, sir," Garry answered quickly.

"Well, then?" Acheson's eyes were pale blue, but cold.

"I spoke to the man. Congratulated him. After Colenso I gave him

leave. " "Very decent of you, in view of the wounds he received

there.

"I didn't want to . . . You see, he's my brother. It was difficult ,

favouritism. I couldn't really do much. " Garry wriggled sideways in

his chair, his hands came up pawing the air as though to pluck words

from it.

"Your brother? " Acheson demanded.

"Yes. My brother. "I know him, I know him, you don't. You can't have

any idea. " Garry could feel the pattern of his thoughts

disintegrating, his voice sounded shrill in his own ear. He had to

explain, he had to tell Acheson. "My leg," he shrilled, "my leg. You

see it. Look at it! He did that. He took my leg. You don't know

him. He's evil. He's evil, evil. I tell you he's evil."

Acheson's expression had not changed, but his eyes were colder, more

watchful. Garry had to reach him and make him understand.

"Anna." Garry's lips were wet and blubbery. "My wife, Anna. He did

that to her. Everything he touches, you can't know how he is. I know.

He's evil. I tried, I hoped at Colensobut you can't destroy him. He

is the destroyer. " "Colonel Courtney!" Acheson's voice cut into his

tirade, and Garry jerked at the crack of it. He covered his lips with

his fingers and slowly he subsided into the chair.

"I just want to explain. You don't understand."

"I think I do," Acheson clipped the words short and harsh.

"I am granting you indefinite leave on grounds of ill, health.

"You can't do that, I won't resign my commission. " "I have not asked

you to," Acheson snapped. "I will send the papers to your hotel this

afternoon. You can take tomorrow's train south."

"But, but, sir, " "That will be all, Courtney. Thank you."

Acheson turned his attention once more to his papers.

That afternoon Sean spent two hours with Acheson, then fie returned to

Candy's Hotel and found Saul in the billiard room.

Sean selected a cue. Saul laid both balls against the far cushion, and

straightened.

"Well?" he asked, as Sean chalked his stick.

"You'll never believe it."

"Tell me, and let me be the judge."

Grinning secretly Sean cannoned twice and then sank the red.

"From sergeant without portfolio, to a full, blown major and an

independent command," he announced.

"You?"

"Me." Sean chuckled and missed a cannon.

"They must be crazy."

"Crazy or not. From now on you will stand in my presence, adopt a

respectful tone of speech, and miss that shot."

Saul missed.

"If you're an officer and a gentleman why don't you behave like one and

keep your mouth shut when I'm making a play.

"You also have changed your status.

"How?"

"You're now a lieutenant," Sean informed him.

"No! "With a gong.

"A gong?"

"A medal, you fool."

"I'm overcome. I am speechless." At last Saul broke down and began to

laugh. It was a sound which Sean enjoyed. "What kind of gong, and

what for?"

"Distinguished Conduct Medal, for the night of the train."

"But, Sean, you . . ."

Sean interrupted. "Yes, they gave me one also. Old Acheson got quite

carried away. He started hanging medals and promotions on everything

that moved, with the same dedicated fervour as a bill, poster putting

up advertisements for Bovril. He damned nearly pinned a medal on the

orderly who brought in the coffee. " "He gave you coffee?"

"And a cigar," Sean answered. "He counted not the cost. It was like

two lovers on an assignation. Repeatedly he addressed me as My dear

fellow " "And what is this command he gave you?"

Sean racked his cue and stopped laughing.

"You and I are to head one of the first counter, commandos.

Small, lightly equipped units to ride in and ginger, up the Boer.

Harass him, wear him down, chase the guts out of his horses and keep

him moving until he runs on to one of the big columns."

The following morning they rode out with Major Peterson to inspect the

band of volunteers he had assembled for them.

"A mixed bag I'm afraid, Courtney. We've scratched together three

hundred and fifteen. " Peterson was gloating a little behind the

apology. He had not forgotten that poppycock.

"It must have been difficult," Sean agreed. "You only had a quarter of

a million to choose from. What about officers?"

"Sorry. Only Friedman here. But I have got you an absolute gem.

Sergeant, major. Snaffled him from the Dorsets. Fellow by the name of

Eccles. First, class, absolutely first, class.

"And Tim Curtis, the one I asked for?"

"Sorry again. They've reopened the gold mines, All engineers are being

pulled out and sent back to work.

"Damn it, I wanted him. What about machine, guns?

"Four Maxims. Bloody lucky to get them."

"Horses?"

"A bit of a struggle, but you can go down to remount and take your

pick.

Sean went on relentlessly with his demands and questions during the

ride out towards Randfontem. His excitement for the challenge of this

venture rose steadily as they argued and talked.

At last he was taking it seriously. He asked the final and crucial

question as they trotted past the sentries into the great army camp on

the outskirts of Johannesburg.

"Has Acheson decided in which area I will be operating?"

"Yes." Peterson dropped his voice. "South, east Transvaal."

"That's where Leroux is!"

"That's right. The gentleman who met your train the other day. " Jan

Paulus again!

"Here you are, Courtney."

A little apart from the main camp stood three lines of white canvas

tents. A field kitchen smoked at the far end and around it were

clustered Scans warriors.

"My God, Peterson. You said a mixed bag! You've robbed the army of

cooks and batmen. And what are those, sailors, Be Jesus " Peterson

shared thinly and shifted in the saddle.

"Press, ganged them," he admitted. "GunDery detail from Repulse.

Ah, here comes your sergeant, major. " Eccles approached in column of

fours; bull, built, black moustache, a few inches over six feet and all

of it held stiffly erect.

Peterson introduced them and they appraised each other.

"A right scruffy lot we got here, sir.

"We've got a bit of work to do, Eccles.

"That we 'ave, sir.

"Let's get started then." And they glowered at each other in mutual

respect and liking.

A week later they were ready to go. Saul had named them "Courtney's

Fighting Scouts." They were all well mounted, although there were some

interesting styles of horsemanship evident, especially among the

delegates from the Royal Navy.

By bullying the quartermaster Sean had arrived at a standard uniform

similar to that of the Imperial Light Horse; slouch hats, khaki tunics

and riding breeches, bandoliers, puttees and issue boots. They had

forty fat and healthy pack, mules, four Maxim machine, guns and Eccles

had trained teams to serve them.

Acheson had approved Sean's request to use Charlestown as a base.

He had arranged rail transport south to this tiny village near the

Natal border, promised support from the big flying columns in the area,

and informed Sean that he was expecting big things from him. He made

it sound like a threat.

"But, darling, you haven't even been given a real uniform. You look so

drab." Candy, who was watching him dress from the double bed, held

very definite views on what constituted a real uniform. It had gold

lace and fragging with, say a Star of the Garter on a rich scarlet

ground. " Look at those buttons, they're not even shiny."

"Boers like shiny things, makes for good shooting in the sun. " Sean

glanced over his shoulder at her. Her hair was fluffed into golden

disorder and the blue gown was arranged to provoke rather than conceal.

Hastily Sean reMmed his eyes to his own reflection in the full-length

mirror and brushed the hair back along his temples. A touch of grey in

it now. Quite dignified, he decided. Pity about the nose.

He took it between his fingers and straightened it, a hell of a nose,

but when he released his grip it returned immediately to a half, cock

position.

"Well, I'll be leaving you now," he said, and she stood up quickly and

the laughter was gone from her lips, they trembled a little.

"I'll come down with you." She arranged the gown quickly.

"No. " "Yes, I have a farewell present for you.

In the hotel yard, hitched behind four fat mules, was a scotch cart She

led him to it and lifted the tarpaulin cover.

"A few things I thought you might need. " Against the cold she had

provided a sheepskin coat, six fine woollen blankets and a silk

eiderdown, two feather pillows and a mattress; a case of Courvoisier

brandy and a case of Veuve Clicquot champagne. Against starvation

there was potted salmon, strawberry jam, caviar in little glass jars,

tinned delicacies all carefully packed in wooden boxes. For his health

a medicine chest complete with a set of surgical instruments.

Against the Boer there was a

"Ibledo steel sabre in a leather scabbard worked with silver and a

matched pair of Colt revolvers in a mahogany presentation case.

"Candy . . . " Sean stumbled. "I don't know what to say."

She smiled a little and took his arm, hugging it. "There's something

else also." She nodded to one of the grooms, who disappeared into the

stables and led out a full, blooded Arab stallion with an English

hunting saddle on its back.

"My God!" exclaimed Sean, and the stallion danced sideways so that the

early sun glowed on the sheen of its coat. It flared with great pink

pits of its nostrils and rolled its eyes before rearing high and

dragging the groom off his feet.

"Candy, my dear," Sean repeated.

"Good, bye, Sean." She lifted her lips for his kiss and then broke

away and almost ran back to the hotel.

While Saul shouted ribald encouragement, Mbenjane and the groom held

its head. Sean mounted the stallion, then they turned it loose and

Sean fought to quieten it. At last he brought it under a semblance of

control and, crabbing and prancing with arched neck and dainty high,

stepping gait, persuaded it to head off in the general direction of

Johannesburg railway station.

Eccles watched his approach impassively.

"What the hell are you laughing at, Sergeant, Major?"

"I wasn't laughing, sir.

Sean dismounted and, with relief, gave the stallion into the care of

two of his troopers.

"Nice bit of horseflesh, sir.

"What do you think he'll fetch?"

"YOU're going to sell him, sir?" Eccles could not hide his relief.

"You're damn right, I am. But it's a gift, so no sale here in

Johannesburg.

Well, Colonel Jordan at Charlestown is usually in the market for a good

nag. I should be able to get you a price, sir. We'll see what we can

do.

Colonel Jordan purchased not only the stallion but the pistols and the

sabre as well. The secretary of the Charlestown garrison officers'

mess frothed at the mouth with excitement when Eccles drew back the

tarpaulin cover from the scotch cart

When Sean's column rode out into the brown open winter grassland

towards the jagged line of the Drakensberg, the little scotch cart

trotted behind with the Maxims and a dozen ammunition cases making a

full load.

There was cold that first night, and the stars were brilliant, clear

and very far away. In the morning the land lay white and brittle in

the grip of the frost; each blade of grass, each twig and fallen leaf

transformed into a white, jewelled wonder. A thin scum of ice covered

the pool beside which the column had camped.

Mbejanc and Sean squatted together. Mbejane with his monkey, skin

kaross draped over his shoulders and Sean with the sheepskin coat

buttoned to the throat.

"Tonight we will camp below that mountain." Sean pointed away towards

the west at the blue cone that stood out against the lighter blue of

the dawn sky. "You will find us there.

, Nkosi, " Mbejane nodded over his snuffbox.

"These others. " Sean pointed with his chin at the group of four

natives who awaited quietly with the spears beside the pool.

"Are they men?"

Mbejane shrugged. "I know little of them. The best of those I spoke

with, perhaps. But they work for gold, and of their hearts I do not

know. " Before going on, he regarded their clothing; tattered European

cast, offs which were everywhere replacing the traditional tribal

costume. "They dress without dignity.

But beneath the rags it is possible that they are men."

"They are all we have so we must use them. Yet I wish we had those

others who now grow fat in the company of their women."

Mbejane smiled. A week before he had put the message into the

grapevine and he knew that both Hlubi and Nonga were at that moment

dissipating their accumulations of fat as they trotted north from their

kraals along the Umfolozi River. They would be here soon.

"This is the way we will hunt," Sean told him. "Your men will spread

out ahead of us and search for sign. The horses of those we seek will

carry no steel on their hooves. If you find it fresh, then follow it

until the run and direction of it is clear.

Then return to me in haste."

Mbejane nodded and sniffed a pinch from his snuffbox.

"While you search, stop at the kraals you find along the way.

Speak with the people there, clearly, if the Mabune are here these

people will know of it.

"It will be as you say, Nkosi.

"The sun comes. " Sean looked up at the glow of it upon the high

places while the valleys were blue with shadow. "Go in peace,

Mbejane.

" Mbejane folded his kaross and tied it with a strip of leather.

He picked up his stabbing spear and slung the great oval war shield on

his shoulder. "Go in peace, Nkosi."

Sean watched while he talked with the other trackers, listening to the

sonorous rise and fall of his voice. Then they scattered, trotting

away into the veld, dwindled and were gone.

"Eccles?" "Sir. " "Finished breakfast?"

"Yes, sir.

The men stood to their horses, blanket, rolls and carbines on the

saddles, slouch hats pulled well down and the collars of their

greatcoats turned up against the cold. Some were still eating with

their bayonets from the cans of shredded beef.

"Let's go, then." The column closed up, riding four abreast, the pack,

mules and the scotch cart in the centre, the outriders fanning out

ahead to screen the advance. It was a tiny command, not a hundred and

fifty paces long even with the pack animals, and Saul smiled as he

remembered the massive fifteen, mile column that had marched from

Colenso to Spion Kop.

Yet it was enough to tickle his pride. Courtney's Fighting Scouts. The

task now was to justify the second word of their title.

Saul hooked one leg over the saddle, balanced his notebook upon it, and

while they rode he and Sean planned a thorough reorganization of the

column.

When they halted at midday the planning was put into effect, A patrol

of ten men in charge of the mules, for this duty Sean picked those who

were fat, old or ungainly in the saddle. These men would also act as

horse holders when the unit went in to fight on foot.

From among his sailors, Sean selected the gunners to captain the four

Maxim teams. The riflemen were divided into patrols of ten with the

most likely men promoted Sergeant Patrol Leaders, and their warrants

noted in Saul's little book.

It was well after nightfall when they off saddled that night below the

dark massif of the mountain. MbeJane was waiting with his men beside a

small, well, screened fire.

"I see you, Mbejane.

"I see you, Nkosi. " In the firelight Mbejane's legs were coated with

dust to the knees and his face was grey with fatigue.

"What news?"

"Old sign. Perhaps a week ago, many men camped over there below the

river. 'twenty fires not in lines as the soldiers make them.

They left no little tin pots as the soldiers (to when they have emptied

them of meat. No tents, but beds of cut grass, many beds."

"How many?" It was an idle question for Mbejane could not count as a

white man counts. He shrugged.

"As many beds as there are men with us?" Sean sought a comparison.

"More." Mbejane thought carefully before answering.

"As many again?" Sean persisted.

"Perhaps as many again, but no more than that."

Probably five hundred men, Sean guessed. "Which way were they

moving?"

Mbejane pointed south, west.

Back towards Vryheid and the protection of the Drakensberg mountain.

Yes, it was part of the Wynberg commando without doubt.

"What news from the kraals?"

"There is fear among them. They tell little, and that of no

importance." Mbejane made no attempt to hide his disgust, the contempt

that the Zulu feels for every other tribe in Africa.

"You have done well, Mbejane. Rest now for we ride before the dawn. "

Four more days they moved south, west, Sean's trackers sweeping the

ground ten miles on each side of their path and finding it empty.

The Drakensberg reared up like a serrated back of a prehistoric monster

along the south horizon. There was snow on the peaks.

Sean exercised his men in the counters to a surprise attack.

Riflemen wheeling out and dismounting in line to cover the Maxims as

they galloped wildly for the nearest high ground.

Holders gathering the loose horses and pelting away to the cover of the

nearest don ga or kopJe. Again and again they repeated this

manoeuvre.

Sean worked them until they leaned forward in their saddles to nurse

aching backsides and cursed him as they rode. He worked them to the

edge of exhaustion and then on to a new physical fitness. They

sprouted beards, their faces reddened and peeled, then darkened with

the sun, their uniforms darkened also, but with dirt. Now they no

longer cursed him. There was a new feeling among them, they laughed

more and sat solid in the saddle, slept soundly at night despite the

cold and woke with eagerness.

Sean was moderately satisfied.

On the morning of the tenth day Sean was scouting ahead of the column

with two of his troopers. They had just dismounted to rest among an

outcrop of boulders when Sean picked up movement out on the plain

ahead. With a savage lift of anticipation he scrambled down from the

boulder on which he was sitting and ran to his horse for his

binoculars.

"Damn it! " he mouthed his disappointment as he saw the lance blades

glitter in the round strangely fore, shortened field of the glasses.

"Cavalry."

Half an hour later they met the small patrol of lancers from one of the

big columns that were driving south from the line of block, houses. The

young subaltern in command gave Sean it cigar, and the latest news of

the war.

De la Rey and Smuts were rampaging north of Johannesburg in the

Magaliesberg with forty thousand men chasing their three thousand.

South in the Free State another of the great De Wet hunts was in full

swing. But this time they would catch him, the subaltern assured

Sean.

Fifty thousand foot and horse soldiers had driven his commando into the

angle between the blockhouse line and the flooded Riet River. In the

east it was quieter. The commandos there lacked leadership and were

lying up in the mountains around Komatipoort.

"So far it's quiet here also, sir. But I don't like the looks of it.

This man Leroux is a nasty piece of work, clever man too.

So far he's limited his activities to a few raids. Ten days ago about

five hundred of his men hit one of our supply columns; near

Charlestown. Wiped out the guard and collected enough ammunition to

fight a full, scale battle, then made off towards the mountains."

"Yes," Sean nodded grimly. "We found one of his camps." "No sign of

him since then, sir. We've been scouring the ground for him, but so

far without luck.

"What's his force?" Sean asked.

"He can muster three thousand, so they say, My guess is that he's

getting himself poised for something really big.

That night Mbejane came into camp well after midnight. he came to

where Sean slept under the scotch cart and with him were two other

men.

N'kosi.

Sean rolled on his side, instantly awake at the touch. "Mbejane?

" He crawled out from under the cart and stood up.

The moon was up, silver and round and bright. By its light he

recognized the men with MbeJane and exclaimed with pleasure: "By God!

"Hlubi! Nonga! " Then remembering his manners, sean stepped forward

grinning broadly to clasp their shoulders in turn. And each replied

gravely as they returned his embrace.

"I see you, Nkosi.

"Are YOU well?"

"I am well. Are you well?"

The catechism of Zulu greeting can be carried on for as long as there

is time available. More than a year had passed since Sean had

discharged them from his service outside Pretoria, and so Sean must ask

each of them for news of his father, his brothers, his herds, and the

journey they had made, before he could put his own question.

"You came through Ladyburg?

"We came that way," agreed Hlubi.

"You saw the Nkosizana Dirk?"

Now for the first time they both smiled, white teeth in the

moonlight.

"We sat in council with the Nkosizana," Hlubi chuckled.

"He grows like a bull calf. Already he wears scars of battle,

honourable blackening of one of his eyes."

"He grows in wisdom also," Nonga boasted. "Saying aloud to us those

things which are written in the book. " Hlubi went on: "He sends

greetings to the Nkosi, his father, and asks that he be allowed now to

leave his school and join with him once more. For now he is skilled in

the matter of books and number."

Sean laughed. "And what of the Nkosikazi, my mother?" he asked.

"She is well. She sends you this book." Hlubi produced a travel,

stained envelope from his loin, cloth. Sean tucked it away inside his

coat to be read at leisure.

"Now. " The formula of greeting completed, Sean could come to the

present. "What news of Mabunu? Have you found sign?"

MbeJane squatted on his haunches and laid his spear and shield beside

him. The others followed his example. The meeting came to order.

"Speak," Mbejane ordered Hluibi.

"We came through the mountains, this being the shorter way," Hlubi

explained. "In the hills below the mountains we found the road made by

many horses, and following it we came upon a level place surrounded by

rock. The Mabunu are there with cattle and wagons."

"How far is this place?" Sean asked eagerly.

"A day's long journey. " Thirty miles.

"How many Mabunu?" Sean asked and Mbejane explained,

"As many as camped at the place I told you of.

It made sense, Sean decided. Jan Paulus would have split his force

into smaller units, for reasons of supply and concealment, until such

time as he needed them.

"We will go then," he said and stood up.

Eccles woke quickly.

"Sergeant, Major. The guides have found a small Boer commando in

laager below the mountains. Get the men mounted UP.

"Sir! " Eccles's moustache, rumpled with sleep, quivered like the

whiskers of a hunting dog.

While around him the commotion of up saddling began, Sean kicked life

into the fire and in its yellow flickering light he tore a page from

his notebook and licked the point of a pencil.

To all British troops in the field: I am in contact with a Boer

commando of 500. Will attempt to contain them pending your arrival.

The bearer will act as a guide.

S. Courtney (Major).

5th August, 1900. Time 00.46 hours.

"Hlubi," he called.

"Nkosi! " "Take this book," he handed him the note. "There are

soldiers out there." He swept his arm towards the north. "Give it to

them."

Bunched into a compact column with the gallant little scotch cart

bouncing and jolting in the rear, Courtney's Fighting Scouts cantered

southwards with the brown winter grass brushing their stirrups.

With Saul beside him and the two Zulus ranging ahead like hunting dogs,

Sean rode in the van. He slouched easily in the saddle and tried with

both hands to steady Ada's letter as it fluttered in the wind of his

passage. It was strange to read the gentle reassuring words as he

hurried into battle.

All was well at Lion Kop. The wattle grew apace, free from fire,

drought or pestilence. She had hired an assistant manager who worked

afternoons only; his mornings required attendance at Ladyburg School.

Dirk was earning his princely salary of two shillings and sixpence a

week and seemed to be enjoying the work. The arrival of his school

report for the period ended at Easter was the occasion for some

concern. His average high marks for each subject were followed by the

notation,

"Could do much better" or

"Lacks concentration. " The whole was summarized by the Headmaster,

"Dirk is a high, spirited and popular boy. But he must learn to

control his temper and to apply himself with more diligence to those

subjects he finds distasteful. " Dirk had recently fought an epic bout

of fisticuffs with the Petersen boy, who was two years his senior, and

had emerged blooded and bruised, but victorious. Here Sean detected a

note of pride in Ada's prim censure.

There followed half a page of messages dictated by Dirk in which

protestations of filial love and duty were liberally punctuated with

requests for a pony, a rifle, and permission to terminate his

scholastic career.

Ada went on tersely to say that Garry had recently returned to

Ladyburg, but had not yet called upon her.

Finally, she instructed him to take pains with his health, invoked the

Almighty to his protection, anticipated his swift re turn to Lion Kop,

and ended with love.

Sean folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. Then he let his

mind drift, lolling in the saddle while the brown miles dropped

steadily behind his horse. There were so many loose or ravelled

threads to follow, Dirk and Ada, Ruth and Saul, Garrick and Michael,

and all of them made him sad.

Then suddenly he glanced sideways at Saul and straightened in the

saddle. This was not the time to brood. They had entered the mouth of

one of the valleys that sloped upwards towards the massive snow,

plastered ramparts of the Drakensberg, and were following a stream

whose banks dropped ten feet to the water that gurgled and tinkled over

the polished round boulders in its bed.

"How much farther, Nonga? " he called.

"Close now, Nkosi.

In another valley that ran parallel to the one Sean was following,

separated from it by two ridges of broken rock, a young Boer asked the

same question.

"How much farther, Oorn Paul?"

But before answering, Vecht, Generaal Jan Paulus Leroux eased himself

around in the saddle and looked back along the commando of one thousand

burghers he was leading to a rendezvous at his laager in the mountains.

They rode in a solid mass that clogged the floor of the valley, bearded

men in a motley of dark homespun clothing, on ponies shaggy in their

winter coats, yet Jan Paulus felt pride swell in his chest as he looked

at them. These were the bitter, enders, veterans of half a hundred

fights, men forged and tempered in the furnace of battle, razor, sharp

and resilient as the finest steel. Then he looked at the boy beside

him, a boy in years only for his eyes were old and wise.

"Close now, Hennie.

"Eccles, we'll halt here. Water the horses.

Loosen the girths but don't off saddle No fires but the men can rest

and eat.

"Very well, sir. " "I am going forward to have a look at the laager.

While I am away I want you to issue an extra hundred rounds of

amunition to each man. Check the Maxims. I should be back in two

hours.

"When will it be, sir?"

"We'll move forward at dusk, I want to be in position to attack as soon

as the moon rises. You can tell the men now."

As Sean and Nonga left the column and moved on foot up the valley, two

men watched them from the ridge. They lay on their bellies among the

rocks. Both of them were bearded. One of them wore a British

officer's Sam Browne belt over his patched leather jacket, but the

rifle that rested on the rock in front of him was a Mauser.

"They send spies to the laager, " he whispered, and his companion

answered in the Taal.

"Ja, they have found it.

"Go! Ride quickly to Oom Paul and say for him that we have three

hundred khaki ripe and ready for the plucking. " The other Boer

grinned and wriggled backwards, working his way off the skyline. Once

below it he ran to his pony and led it down into the grass which would

muffle its hoof, beats, before he mounted.

An hour later Sean returned from his reconnaissance.

"We've got them, Eccles," he grinned savagely at Saul and Eccles.

"They're about two miles ahead in a hidden basin of hills.

He squatted down and smoothed a patch of earth with the palm of his

hand. "Now here is the way we'll do it." With a twig he drew quickly

in the dirt. "This is our valley. Here we are. This is the laager,

hills here and here and here. This is the entrance to the basin. Now,

we'll place two Maxims here, with a hundred men below and in front of

them like this. I want you, " Abruptly his earthen map exploded,

throwing dirt into his eyes and open mouth. "What the bloody, " he

mouthed as he clawed at his face but the rest of it was lost in the

blast of the Mausers.

Through streaming eyes Sean looked up at the ridge. "Oh my God!"

A fire haze of gunsmoke drifted across it like sea spray on a windy

day, and he sprang to his feet.

"Into the river. Get the horses into the river, " he roared above the

murderous crackle, the shrill fluting whine of ricochets and the

continuous slapping of bullets into earth and flesh.

"Into the river. Get into the river!" He ran down the column shouting

at the men who were struggling to clear their rifles from the scabbards

of plunging, rearing horses. The Boer fire flogged into them, dropping

men and horses screaming in the grass.

Loose horses scattered along the valley, reins trailing and empty

stirrups bounding against their flanks.

"Leave them! Let them go! Get into the river!" TWo of the mules were

down, kicking, wounded in the traces of the scotch cart Sean tore the

tarpaulin loose and lifted out one of the Maxims. A bullet splintered

the woodwork under his hands.

"You!" he shouted at one of his sailors. "Grab this!" He passed the

gun to him and the man ran with it cradled in his arms and jumped over

the river bank. With a case of ammunition under each arm Sean followed

him. It seemed as though he ran waist, deep in water, each pace

dragging with painful deliberation and his fear came strongly upon him.

A bullet flipped his hat forward over his eyes, the ammunition cases

weighted him down, and he blundered panic, stricken towards the river.

The earth was gone abruptly from under his feet and he fell, dropping

free until, with a shock that jarred his spine, he struck and toppled

forward face, down into the icy water.

Immediately he scrambled up and, still clutching the Maxim ammunition,

floundered to the steep bank. Above him the Boer fire whipped and

sang, but the bed of the river was crowded with his men, and others

still fell and jumped from the bank to add to the congestion.

Panting and streaming water from his clothing Sean leaned against the

bank while he gathered himself. The stream of survivors into the

river, bed dwindled and stopped. The Boer fire also stuttered out and

a comparative quiet fell over the field, spoiled only by the groaning

and cursing of the wounded.

Sean's first coherent thought was for Saul. He found him holding two

pack, mules under the bank with Nonga and Mbejane beside him holding

another pair. He sent Saul to take command at the far end of the

line.

"Sergeant, Major!" Sean shouted, and with relief heard Eccles's reply

from close at hand.

"Here, sir."

"Spread them out along the bank. Get them to cut firing platforms. "

" Very good, sir, " and immediately he began, " Here you lot, you heard

the Major! Up off your backsides!"

Within ten minutes there were two hundred rifles lining the bank and

the Maxim was sited and manned behind a scharnz of' stone and earth.

Those men who had lost their weapons were tending the wounded.

This pitiful little group were gathered in the middle of the line, they

were propped against the bank, sitting waist, deep in slush and their

blood stained the water pinky, brown.

Sean climbed up on to one of the firing platforms beside Eccles and

lifted his head to peer cautiously over the bank. The area in front of

him was a sickening sight. Dead mules and horses with their packs

burst open littering the grass with blankets and provisions.

Wounded animals flopping helpless or standing quietly with their heads

hanging.

"Is there anyone out there still alive?" Sean called, but the dead men

gave him no answer. A sniper on the ridge ploughed a bullet into the

ground in front of Sean's face and he ducked down quickly.

"Most of them managed to crawl in, sir. Those that didn't are better

out there than in the mud here.

"How many did we lose, Eccles? " "About a dozen dead, sir, and twice

as many wounded. We got off very lightly. " "Yes," Sean nodded.

"Most of their initial fire went high.

It's a mistake even the best shots make when shooting downhill. "

"They fair caught us with our pants down," mused Eccles and Sean did

not miss the censure in his tone.

"I know. I should have placed look, outs on the ridge," he agreed.

You're no Napoleon, he told himself, and you've got casualties to prove

it.

"How many of them lost their weapons?" he asked.

"We've got two hundred and ten rifles and one Maxim, sir, and I issued

an extra hundred rounds to each man just before the attack. " "Should

be enough," Sean decided. "Now all that remains is to sweat it out

until my native guide brings up reinforcements. " For half an hour

nothing happened beyond a little desultory sniping from the ridge.

Sean moved along the line talking to the men.

"How's it going, sailor?"

"Me old ma would have a fit, sir. "George," she'd say, 'sitting in the

mud is not going to do your piles no good," she'd say, sir." He was

shot through the stomach and Sean had to force his chuckle through his

throat.

"I could use a smoke, though. That I could."

Sean found a damp cigar in his pocket for him and moved on.

A youngster, one of the Colonials, was crying silently as he held

against his chest the blood, soaked bundle of bandages that was his

hand.

, Giving you pain?" Sean asked gently. The boy looked at him, the

tears smearing his cheeks. "Go away," he whispered. "Please go

away.

Sean walked on. I should have put look, outs on the ridge, he thought

again. I should have." "Flag of truce on the ridge, sir," a man

shouted excitedly and Sean clambered up beside him.

Immediately a hum of comment ran along the line.

"They're hanging out their washing.

"The bastards want to surrender. They know we've got them licked.

" Sean climbed out of the river, bed and waved his hat at the speck of

white that fluttered on the ridge, and a horseman trotted down towards

him.

"Middag, Menheer, " Sean greeted him. He received only a nod in reply

and took the note the man proffered: Menheer, I expect the arrival of

my Hotchkiss gun at any moment.

Your position is not safe. I suggest you lay down your guns to prevent

further killing.

J. P. Leroux, Vecht, General, Wynberg commando.

It was written on an irregular scrap of brown wrapping paper in High

Dutch.

"My greetings to the General, Menheer, but we will hold out here a

little longer. " "As you wish," the Boer acquiesced, "but first you

must see if any of these, , be pointed at the khaki figures that were

scattered among the dead mules and horses, , you must see if any of

them are still alive. And you must destroy the wounded animals. " "It

is kind of you, Menheer."

"You will, of course, make no attempt to pick up weapons or

ammunition."

"Of course."

The Boer stayed with them while Eccles and half a dozen men searched

the field, destroying the maimed animals and examining the fallen

troopers. They found one man still alive. The air hissed softly from

his severed windpipe and a froth of blood bubbles writhed about the

hole. On a blanket they carried him down to the river, bed.

Eleven dead, sir, " Eccles reported to Sean.

"Eccles, as soon as the truce ends we are going to recover another

Maxim and the two cases of ammunition.

They stood beside the scotch cart and Sean inclined his head to

indicate the bulky, blue, metal led weapon that showed from beneath the

tarpaulin.

"Very good, sir.

"I want four men ready below the lip of the bank. Make sure each man

has a knife to cut the pack ropes. " "Yes, sir. " Eccles grinned like

a playful walrus and drifted back towards the river, and Sean strolled

across to the mounted Boer.

"We have finished, Menheer.

"Good. As soon as I cross the skyline up there, then we'll start

again. " "I agree." Sean walked back to the river, picking his way

through the dead. Already the flies were there, swarming green and

metallic, rising like a migrating hive of bees as he passed, then

settling again.

Sean reached the bank and below him Saul crouched at the head of a

bunch of unarmed men. Behind them stood a very disgruntled Eccles, his

moustache drooping in disappointment.

Instantly Sean saw what had happened, Saul had used his superior rank

to take over command of the volunteers. "What the hell do you think

you're doing?" Sean demanded, and Saul answered him with an obstinate

stare.

" You'll stay where you are. That's an order!" He turned to Eccles.

"Take over, Sergeant, Major," and Eccles grinned.

This was no time to argue. Already the Boer horseman was half way up

the ridge. Sean raised his voice and shouted at the long line of men

below the bank.

"Listen, all of you. No one is to fire until the enemy do. That way

we may be able to spin it out a little longer. " Then less loudly as

he spoke to Eccles. "Don't run, just walk out casually." Sean jumped

down the bank and stood between Eccles and Saul. All three of them

peered up at the ridge and saw the Boer reach the crest, wave his hat

and disappear. "Go!" Sean said, and all of them went.

Eccles, the four volunteers, and Saul. Flabbergasted, Sean stared at

the six of them as they strolled out towards the scotch cart Then his

anger flared. The stupid little bastard, and he went also.

He caught up with them as they reached the scotch cart and in the

strained silence of the suspended storm he growled at Saul: "I'll fix

you for this!" and Saul grinned triumphantly.

Still there was a puzzled silence from the ridge, but it could not last

much longer.

Together Saul and Eccles slashed at the ropes that held the tarpaulin,

and Sean pulled it back and reached for the gun.

"Take it. " He passed it to the man behind him. At that moment a

warning shot cracked over their heads.

"Grab one each and run!"

From the ridge and the river came gunfire like a long roll of drums,

and they ran doubled beneath their loads and dodging, back towards the

river.

The man carrying the Maxim fell headlong. Sean threw the ammunition

case he carried, it dropped short of the bank, but skidded forward and

toppled over the edge. Hardly pausing in his run, he stooped and

gathered the fallen Maxim and went on.

Ahead of him first Eccles, then Saul jumped into safety and Sean

followed them with the three surviving troopers.

It was over, Sean sat waist, deep in the icy water with the machine,

gun clutched to his chest, and all he could think of was his anger at

Saul. He glared at him, but Saul and Eccles knelt facing each other

grinning and laughing.

Sean handed the gun to the nearest trooper and crossed to Saul.

His hand fell heavily on his shoulder and he pulled him to his feet.

"You, " He could not find words cutting enough. If Saul had been

killed out there, Ruth would never have believed Sean had not ordered

it so. "You fool," he said and might have hit him, but he was

distracted by the cries from the firing platform beside him.

"The poor bastard!"

"He's up."

"Lie down, for God's sake, lie down."

Sean released Saul, jumped up on to the platform and stared through the

loophole in the schranz.

Out in the open the trooper who had carried the Maxim was on his feet.

He was moving parallel to the bank, shambling with a curious idiot

gait, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. They were shooting at

him from the ridge.

Held in the paralysis of horror, none of them went to him. He was hit

and he lurched but tottered on with the Boer rifles hunting him,

staggering in a circle away from the river. Then, suddenly they killed

him and he dropped on to his face.

The gunfire stopped and in the silence the men in the river, bed began

to move around, and talk of trivial things, avoiding each other's eyes,

ashamed to have watched such a naked intimate thing as that man's

dying.

Sean's anger was gone, replaced by guilty thankfulness that it had not

been Saul out there in the open.

In the long period of stagnation that followed, Sean and Saul sat

together against the bank. Though they talked little, the old sense of

companionship was restored.

With a rush and rattle the first shell ripped the air above their

heads, and with everyone else Sean ducked instinctively. The shell

burst in a tall brownish, yellow spurt on the far slope. Consternation

bush fired along the river.

" Oh my! they've got a gun!"

"Book me on the next train, mate!"

"Nothing to worry about, boys," Sean shouted reassuringly.

"They can't reach us with that piece. " And the next shell burst on

the lip of the bank, showering them with earth and pebbles. One

startled second they stood dazed and coughing in the fumes, and the

next they fell on the bank like a band of competitive grave, diggers.

Dust from their exertions rose in a pale brown mist over the river to

puzzle the Boers on the ridge. Almost before the arrival of the next

shell, each man had hacked out a small earthen cupboard into which he

could squeeze himself.

The Boer gunners were alarmingly inconsistent. Two or three rounds

would fly wildly overhead and burst in the open veld.

The next would land squarely in the river spraying mud and water high

in the air. When this happened the sound of sustained cheering drifted

faintly down from the ridge, followed by a long pause, presumably while

the gunners received the congratulations of their fellows. Then the

bombardment would recommence with enthusiastic rapidity, which slowly

wound down into another long pause while everybody rested.

During one of these intervals Sean peered through his loophole.

From a dozen points along the ridge rose pale columns of smoke.

"Coffee break up there, Eccles."

"The way they do things we can expect another white flag and a couple

of their lads coming down with coffee for us as well.

"I doubt it," Sean grinned. "But I think we can expect them to come

down though." Sean pulled out his watch. " Half, past four now.

Two hours to sundown. Leroux must try for a decision before dark.

" "If they come, they'll come from behind," Saul announced cheerfully

and pointed to the slope of ground that menaced their rear. "To meet a

charge from there, we would have to line the far bank and expose our

backs to sniping from the ridge. " Sean considered the problem for a

minute. "Smoke! That's it!

"I beg yours, sir?

"Eccles, get the men to build fireplaces of stone along the bed and set

grass and branches ready to light," Sean ordered.

"If they do come from behind we'll screen ourselves with smoke. "

Fifteen minutes of furious activity completed the work. At intervals

of ten paces along the river, bed they built flat, topped cairns of

stone that rose above the level of the water. On each was piled a

large heap of grass and wild hemlock branches gathered from where they

overhung the bank of the river.

A little before sunset, in that time of shadows and deceptive light,

with a haze rising in the still, cold air to mask them Leroux charged

his horsemen at the river.

Sean heard a low drumming of hooves as though a train passed in the

distance and started to his feet.

"Here they come!" somebody shouted. "The bastards are coming from

behind. " With the low sun at their backs throwing big, distorted

shadows ahead of them, they swept down in a long line from the west.

"Light the fires!" bellowed Sean. They were lying flat on their

horses, five hundred of them coming in at a full gallop and shooting as

they came.

"Maxims!" Sean shouted. "Get the Maxims across!" The teams dragged

the heavy unwieldy weapons from their emplacements and floundered with

them across the stream. From each of the fires blue smoke spread and

lifted. Men coughed and swore and splashed to their new positions.

From the ridge a Mous covering fire raked the river and then the field,

piece crashed shell after shell amongst them.

"Fire at will!" Sean shouted. "Hit the bastards. Hit them.

Hit them hard. " The din was appalling, gunfire and bursting shells,

the hammering beat of the Maxims, shouts of defiance and pain, the

thunder of charging hooves, crackling of the flames. Over it all a

dense fog of smoke and dust.

With elbows on the rough shale of the bank, Sean aimed and fired and a

horse went down, throwing rider and rifle high and clear.

Without taking the butt from his shoulder he worked the bolt and fired

again. Got him! swaying and twisting in the saddle. Drop, you

bastard! That's it, slide forward and fall. Shoot again, and again.

Empty the magazine. Hitting with every shot.

Beside him the mate lot traversed the Maxim in a deliberate hammering

arc. Fumbling, as he reloaded, Sean watched the Maxim scythe its slow

circle of destruction, leaving a shambles of downed horses and

struggling men, before its beat stopped abruptly and the mate lot

crouched over it to fit a fresh belt from the wooden case. A bullet

from the ridge, fired blindly into the smoke, hit him in the back of

the neck and he fell forward, jamming the gun, blood gusting from his

open mouth over the jacketed barrel. His limbs twitched and jerked in

the epilepsy of death.

Sean dropped his rifle and dragged the mate lot off the gun , levered

the first round of the belt into the breech and thrust his thumbs down

on the buttons They were close now. Sean bore down on the firing

handles to raise his fire, aiming at the chests of the horses.

The sailor's blood fried and sizzled on the hot barrel, and the grass

in front of the muzzle flattened and quivered in the continuous

blast.

Above him a solid frieze of milling horses was outlined against the

darkening sky, the men upon them pouring their bullets into the crowded

river, bed. Wounded horses plunged down the bank, rolling and kicking

into the mud.

"Dismount! Dismount! Go in after them!" an old burgher with a neat

blond beard yelled.

Sean dragged the gun around to get him. The man saw him in the smoke

but his right leg was out of the stirrup, his rifle held in the left

hand, helpless in the act of dismounting. Sean saw his eyes were grey

and without fear as he looked down into the muzzle of the Maxim.

The burst hit him across the chest, his arm windmilled, his left foot

caught in the stirrup as he went backwards and his pony dragged him

away.

The attack broke. The Boer fire slackened, ponies wheeled away, and

raced back for the shelter of the hills. The old burgher Sean had

killed went with them, dragged upon his back with his head bouncing

loosely over the broken ground, leaving a long slide mark of flattened

grass.

Around him Sean's men cheered and laughed and chattered with

jubilation. But in the mud there were many who did not cheer and with

a guilty shock Sean realized he had been standing on the corpse of the

sailor who had died over the gun.

"Our round, that one!" Eccles beamed. Callous among the dead as only

an old soldier can be.

"Yes," Sean agreed.

Out in the open a horse heaved itself up and stood shivering.

one leg hanging broken under it. A wounded burgher started to cough in

the grass, choking and gasping as he drowned in his own blood.

"Yes, our round, Eccles. Put up the flag. They must come, down and

collect the wounded.

They used lanterns in the darkness to find the wounded and kill the

horses.

"Nkosi, at a place where the river turns and the banks are low, they

have placed men," Mbejane reported, back from his reconnaissance on

which Sean had sent him. "We cannot escape that way."

"I thought as much," Sean nodded, and held out the open can of bully

beef to Mbejane. "Eat," he said.

"What's he say, sir?" Eccles asked.

"The river is held in force downstream." Sean lit one of the cheroots

that he had recovered in the darkness from the saddlebag of his dead

horse.

"Ruddy cold sitting here in the mud," Eccles hinted.

"Patience, Sergeant, Major," Sean smiled. "We'll give them until

midnight. By then most of them will be down the other side of the

ridge drinking coffee around the fires.

You are going to rush the ridge, sir?" Eccles obviously approved.

"Yes. Tell the men. Three hours' rest and then we'll take the

ridge.

"Very good, sir.

Sean lay back and closed his eyes. He was very weary, his eyes felt

gritty from the dust and smoke, his lower body was wet and cold, his

boots heavy with mud. Lyddite fumes had given him a blinding

headache.

I should have put a look, out on the ridge, he thought again.

My God! What a mess I've made of this. My first command and already

I've lost all the horses and damn, nigh half of my men.

I should have put a look, out on the ridge.

They took the ridge a few minutes after midnight with hardly any

opposition. The few Boer sentries made good time down the far slope

and Sean looked down upon the Boer laagers. The camp fires glimmered

in an irregular line along the valley. Men stood around them staring

up at the ridge. Sean scattered them with a dozen lusty volleys, and

then yelled,

"Cease firing. Eccles, get the men settled in. We are going to have

visitors fairly soon. " The Boers had built scharnzes along the crest

which saved Sean's men much inconvenience and within ten minutes the

Maxims were em placed and Sean's two hundred unwounded men waited

behind walls of rough rock for the Boer counterattack. This took some

time to develop for the situation necessitated a hurried War Council in

the valley below. But at last they heard the first stealthy approach

of the attackers.

"Here they come, Sergeant, Major. Hold your fire, please."

The burghers worked their way up cautiously and when Sean could hear

their voices whispering among the rocks he decided they were close

enough and discouraged further intimacy with volleyed rifle, fire and

the use of all his Maxims. The Boers replied with heat and at the

height of the exchange the Hotchkiss gun joined in from the valley.

Its first shell passed but a few feet over Sean's head, then burst in

the valley behind him. The second and third shots dropped neatly among

the attacking Boer riflemen and raised such a howl of protest that the

gunners, their efforts not appreciated, maintained an aloof and

offended silence for the rest of the night.

Sean had expected a determined night attack but it soon became clear

that Leroux was fully aware of the danger of closely engaging an

inferior force in the dark. He contented himself with keeping Sean

awake all night, his burghers taking it in turn to come up and keep the

short, range rifle duel going, and Sean began to have qualms about the

wisdom of his offensive. Dawn would find him on a rocky ridge, facing

a numerically superior force, with his line anchored at neither end,

and short enough to be easily flanked and en filtrated He remembered

Spion Kopand there was little comfort in the memory. But the

alternative was to fall back on the river, and his hackles rose at the

thought.

Unless relief came soon, defeat was certain, better here on the high

ground than in the mud. We'll stay, he decided.

In the dawn there was a hill but although the gunfire dwindled to an

occasional crack and flash on the lower slope yet Sean could sense an

increase of activity among the Boers. Ominous rustlings and the muted

sounds of movement on his flanks confirmed his misgivings. But now it

was too late to retreat on the river, for already the mountains were

showing stark silhouettes against the dawn sky. They seemed very

close, as close and unfriendly as the unseen multitude of the enemy

waiting out there for the light to come.

Sean stood up. "Take the gun," he whispered to the man beside him as

he relinquished the Maxim.

All night he had fought with that wicked clumsy weapon and now his

hands were claws shaped to the firing grips, and his shoulders ached

intolerably. He flexed them as he moved down the line, stopping to

chat with the men who lay belly, down behind the scharnz, trying to

make his words of encouragement sound convincing, In their replies he

sensed the respect they were fbrining for him as a fighting man. It

was more than respect, closer to a tolerant affection. The same

feeling old General Buller had evoked amongst his men. He made

mistakes, a lot of men died when he led, but they liked him and

followed cheerfully. Sean reached the end of the line.

"How's it going?" he asked Saul softly.

"Fair enough.

"Any sign of the old Boer?"

"They're pretty close, we heard them talking a few minutes ago. My

guess is they're as ready as we are.

"How's your ammunition?"

"We've got enough to finish this business."

To finish this business! That would be his decision. When the

massacre began, how much must he make them endure before he called for

quarter, and they stood up with arms raised in the most shameful of all

attitudes?

"You'd better get under cover, Sean. Light's coming fast.

"Who the hell is looking after whom, " Sean grinned at him.

"I want no more heroics from you," he said, and walked quickly to his

station on the other flank.

The night lifted quickly from the land, and morning came as abruptly as

it does only in Africa. The Boer laagers were gone.

The Hotchkiss gun was gone. Sean knew that the gun and the Boer horses

had been moved back behind the new ridge which now faced their

position. He knew also that the rocky ground below him was crawling

with the enemy, that they were on his flanks and probably in his rear

as well.

Slowly, the way a man looks at a place before he begins a long journey,

Sean looked around him at the mountains and the sky and the valley. In

the soft light it was very beautiful.

He looked down the gut of the valley towards the grass plains of the

high veld His head jerked with surprise. He felt excitement lift the

hair on his forearms. The mouth of the valley was blocked by a dark

mass. In the uncertain light it could have been a plantation of wattle

trees, oblong and regular and black against the pale grass. But this

plantation was moving, changing shape, elongating. Bimarn Wood to

Dunsinane.

The first rays of the sun slanted in across the crest of the ridge and

lit the lance, heads into a thousand minute dazzles.

"Cavalry!" roared Sean. "By Jesus, look at them."

The cry was taken up and thrown along the line, yelling, cheering

wildly they fired down upon the tiny brown figures that were scurrying

away to meet the Boer pickets who galloped in across the floor of the

valley, each of them dragging a bunch of a dozen horses after them.

Then above the cheering and the gunfire, high above the sounds of

hooves and the cries of panic, a bugle began to sing: "Bonnie Dundee",

sharp and clear and urgently it commanded the charge.

Sean's rifles fell silent. The cheering faltered and stopped.

One by one his men stood up to watch as the lines of lancers moved

forward. Walk. Trot. Canter. Gallop. The lance heads dropped.

Belly, high they flitted like fireflies in front of the solid dark

ranks, and that terrible thing swept down upon the tangle of men and

frenzied, struggling horses.

Some of the Boers were up now, wheeling away, breaking like game before

the beaters.

"My God!" breathed Sean, tensing himself for the burst of sound as the

charge struck home. But there was only the drum of hooves, no check,

no distortion as the dark squadrons drove through the Boers.

Precisely they wheeled, and came back. Broken lances thrown aside,

sabres unsheathed, bright and long.

Sean watched a burgher dodging desperately as a lancer followed him.

Saw him turning at the last moment and crouching with his arms covering

his head. The lancer stood in his stirrups and swung his sabre

backhanded. The burgher dropped. Like a polo player the trooper

pivoted his horse and rode back over the Boer, leaning low out of the

saddle to sabre him again as he knelt in the grass.

"Quarter! " growled Sean, then his voice rising shrilly in horror and

disgust,

"Give them quarter! For the love of God, give them quarter!"

But cavalry gives no quarter. They butchered with dispassionate

parade, ground precision. Hack and cut, turn and trample until the

blades blurred redly, until the valley was strewn with the bodies of

men wounded a dozen times.

Sean tore his eyes away and saw the remains of Leroux's commando

scattered into the broken ground where the big cavalry mounts could not

follow.

Sean sat down on a rock and bit the end off a cheroot. The rank smoke

helped cleanse his mouth of the taste of victory.

Two days later Sean led his column into Charlestown. The garrison

cheered them and Sean grinned as he watched his men react. Half an

hour before they had bumped along, hunched unhappily on their borrowed

mounts. Now they sat erect and jaunty, eating the applause and liking

the taste.

Then the grin faded from Sean's face as he saw how his band was

depleted, and he looked back at the fifteen crowded wagons that carried

the wounded.

If only I'd put look, outs on the ridge.

There was an urgent summons from Acheson waiting for Sean.

He caught the northbound express twenty minutes after arriving in

Charlestown, hating Saul for the hot bath in which he left him, and for

the uniform which Mbejane had persuaded a plump Zulu maid to wash and

iron, hating him still more venomously for the invitation to be guest

of honor at the officers' mess that night, and knowing that Saul would

drink deep on Veuve Clicquot and Courvoisier which had once belonged to

Sean.

When Sean arrived in Johannesburg the following morning, with soot from

the locomotive adding a subtle touch to the fragrance he had gathered

from two unwashed weeks in the veld, there was an orderly to meet him

and conduct him to Acheson's suite in the Grand National Hotel Major

Peterson was patently taken aback by Sean's turnout, he eyed the stains

and tears and dried mud with genteel horror at the contrast they

afforded to the breakfast table's crisp white linen and splendid

silver. The ripeness of Sean's odour impaired Peterson's appetite and

he dabbed at his nose with a silk handkerchief. But Acheson seemed not

to notice, he was in festive mood.

"Damned fine show, Courtney. Oh, damned fine. Proved your point

entirely. We'll not have much trouble from Leroux for some time, I

warrant you. Have another egg? Peterson, pass him the bacon.

Sean finished eating and filled his coffee cup before he made his

request. "I want to be relieved of this command, I made a bloody mess

of it."

Both Acheson and Peterson stared in horror. "Good God, Courtney.

You've achieved a notable success, the most spectacular in months.

"Luck," brusquely Sean interrupted. "Another two hours and we would

have been wiped out. " "Lucky officers are more valuable to me than

clever ones.

Your request is refused, Colonel Courtney." So it's Colonel now, a

bribe to get me into the dentist's chair. Sean was mildly amused.

A knock at the door prevented Sean continuing his protestation, and an

orderly came into the room and handed Acheson a message.

"Urgent dispatch from Charlestown," he whispered.

Acheson took the paper from him and used it like a conductor's baton as

he went on talking.

"I have got three junior officers for you, men to replace your losses.

You catch them for us and hold them for my cavalry That's all I want

from you. While you're doing your bit the columns are going to start a

series of new drives. This time we are going to sweep every inch of

the ground between the blockhouse lines. We are going to destroy the

crops and the livestock; burn the farms; take every woman, man and

child off the land and put them in detainment camps. By the time we're

finished there will be nothing but bare veld out there. We will force

them to operate in a vacuum, while we wear them down with a relentless

series of drives and raids. " Acheson slapped the table so that the

crockery jingled. "Attrition, Courtney. From now on it's a war of

attrition " 216 Those words had an uncomfortable familiarity for Sean.

And suddenly a picture of desolation formed in his mind. He saw the

land, his land, blackened with fire, and the roofless homesteads

standing in the wastes. The sound of the empty winds across the land

was the wailing of orphans, and the protest of a lost people.

"General Acheson, " he began, but Acheson was reading the dispatch.

"Damn!" he snapped. "Damn and blast! Leroux again. He doubled back

and caught the transport column of those same lancers who cut him up.

Wiped it out and disappeared into the mountains." Acheson laid the

message on the table in front of him and stared at it.

"Courtney," he said, "go back and, this time, catch him!"

"Breakfast is ready, Nkosi. Michael Courtney looked up from his book

at the servant. "Thank you, Joseph, I'm coming now. " These two hours

of study each morning passed so quickly. He checked the clock on the

shelf above his bed, half, past six already, closed the book and stood

up.

While he brushed his hair he watched his reflection in the mirror

without attention. His mind was fully occupied with events that would

fill this new day. There was work to do.

His reflection looked back at him with serious grey eyes from a face

whose lean contours were marred by the big Courtney nose. His hair was

black and springy beneath the brush.

He dropped the brush and while he shrugged into his leather jacket he

flipped open the book to check a passage. He read it through

carefully, then turned and went out into the corridor.

Anna and Garrick Courtney were seated at opposite ends of the long

dining, table of Theuniskraal and they both looked up expectantly as he

entered.

Good morning, Mother. " She held up her face for his kiss' Good

morning, Pa."

"Hello, my boy." Garry was wearing full dress, complete with crowns

and decorations, and Michael felt a flare of irritation. It was so

damned ostentatious. Also it reminded him that he was nineteen years

old and there was a war going on while he sat at home on the farm.

"Are you going into town today, Pa?"

"No, I'm going to do some work on my memoirs."

"Oh," Michael glanced pointedly at the uniform and his father flushed

slightly and applied himself to his meal.

"How are your studies, darling?" Anna broke the silence.

"Well enough, thank you, Mother."

"I'm certain you'll have as little trouble with the final examinations

as you had with the others." Anna smiled at him possessively and

stretched out to touch his hand. Michael withdrew it quickly and laid

down his fork.

"Mother, I want to talk to you about enlisting. " Anna's smile froze.

At the end of the table Garry straightened in his chair.

"No," he snapped with unusual violence. "We've been over this before.

You're still a minor and you do as you're told. " "The war is almost

over, darling. Please think of your father and me. " It began then.

Another of those long wheedling, pleading arguments that sickened and

frustrated Michael until he stood up abruptly and left the room. His

horse was waiting saddled for him in the yard. He threw himself on to

its back and swung its head at the gate, lifting it over, and

scattering chickens as he landed. He galloped furiously away towards

the main dip, tank.

From the dining, room they heard the hooves beat away until they had

dwindled into silence. Garry stood up.

"Where are you going?" snapped Anna.

"To my study. " "To the brandy bottle in your study," she corrected

him contemptuously.

"Don't, Anna."

r'Don't, Anna, " she mimicked him. "Please don't, Anna. Is that all

You can say'? " Her voice had lost the genteel inflexion she had

cultivated so carefully. Now it contained all the accumulated

bitterness of twenty years.

"Please, Anna. I'll stop him going. I promise you."

"You'll stop him!" She laughed. "How will you stop him?

Will you rattle your medals at him? How would you stop him you who

have never done one useful thing in all your life?"

She laughed again, shrilly. "Why don't you show him your leg and

say,

"Please don't leave your poor crippled Daddy." Garry drew himself up.

His face had gone very pale. "He'll listen to me. He's my son.

Your son!

"Anna, please, " "Your son! Oh, that's choice! He's not your son.

He's Sean's son." "Anna. " He tried to stop her.

"How could you have a son?" She was laughing again, and he could not

stand it. He started for the door but her voice followed him, cutting

into the two most sensitive places in his soul: his deformity and his

impotence.

He stumbled into his study, slammed the door and locked it.

Then he crossed quickly to the solid cabinet that stood beside his

desk.

He poured the tumbler half, full. and drank it. Then he sank into his

chair and closed his eyes and reached for the bottle behind him.

He poured again carefully and screwed the cap back on to the bottle.

This one he would sip slowly, making it last perhaps an hour. He had

learned how to keep the glow.

He unbuttoned and removed his tunic, stood up and hung it over the back

of the chair, seated himself once more, sipped at the tumbler, then

drew towards him the pile of handwritten sheets, and read the one on

top.

"Colenso: An account of the campaign in Natal under General Buller. "

By Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC D.S.O.

He lifted it, laid it aside, and began to read what followed.

Having read it so many times before, he had come to believe in it.

It was good. He knew it was good. So too did Messrs. William.

Heinemann in London, to whom he had sent a draft of the first two

chapters. They were anxious to publish as soon as possible.

He worked on quietly and happily all morning. At midday old Joseph

brought a meal to the study. Cold chicken and salads on Delft, ware

china, with a bottle of white Cape wine wrapped in a snowy napkin. He

worked as he ate.

That evening when he had altered the last paragraph on the final page

and laid his pen on the inkstand, he was smiling.

"Now, I will go and see my darling." He spoke aloud and put on his

tunic.

The homestead of Theuniskraal sat on the crest of a rise below the

escarpment. A big building of whitewashed walls, thatch and Dutch

gables. In front of it the terraced lawns sprawled away, contoured by

beds of azaleas and blue rhododendrons and bounded on the one side by

the horse paddocks: two large paddocks for the brood mares and the

yearlings, where Garry paused beside the low fence and watched the

foals nuzzling upwards at the udders.

Then he limped on along the fence towards the smaller enclosure with

its nine, foot fence of thick, canvas, padded gum, poles that contained

his stud stallion.

Gypsy was waiting for him, nodding his almost snakelike head so that

his mane flared golden in the late sunlight, flattening his ears, then

pricking them forward, dancing a little with impatience.

"Hey, Boy. Hey there, Gypsy," Garry called and the stallion thrust his

head between the poles to nibble with soft lips at Garry's sleeve.

"Sugar, is that what you're after. " Garry chuckled and cupped his

hands while the stallion fed delicately from them.

"Sugar, my darling," Garry whispered in sensual delight at the touch of

the soft muzzle on his skin and Gypsy cocked his ears to listen to his

voice.

"That's all. All finished." The stallion nuzzled his chest and Garry

wiped his hands on its neck, caressing the warm and silky coat.

"That's all, my darling. Now run for me. Let me watch you run."

He stepped back and clapped his hands loudly. "Run, my darling,

run."

The stallion pulled his head back between the poles and went up on his

hind legs, whinnying as he reared, cutting at the air with his fore,

hooves. The veins stood out along the belly and upon the tight double,

swollen bag of its scrotum.

Swift and virile and powerful, it pivoted upon its quarters.

"Run for me! " shouted Garrick. The stallion came down into full

gallop along the track worn by his hooves, sweeping around the paddock

with loose dirt flying and the light dancing on his coat as the great

muscles bulged beneath.

"Run. " Leaning against the poles of the fence, Garrick watched him

with an expression of terrible yearning.

When he stopped again with the first dark patches of sweat dulling his

shoulders, Garrick straightened up and shouted across the stable

yard.

"Zama, bring her now!"

On a long rein two grooms led the brood mare down towards the paddock.

Gypsy's nostrils flared into dark pink caverns and he rolled his eyes

until the whites showed.

"Wait, my darling, " whispered Garrick in a voice tight with his own

excitement.

Michael Courtney dismounted among the rocks on the highest point of the

escarpment. For a week he had denied the impulse to return to this

place. Somehow it seemed a treachery, a disloyalty to both his

parents.

Far below and behind him in the forest was the tiny speck of

Theuniskraal. Between them the railway angled down towards the

sprawled irregular pattern of rooftops that was Ladyburg.

But Michael did not look that way. He stood behind his mare and gazed

along the line of bare hills to the gigantic quilt of trees that

covered them in the north.

The wattle was tall now, so that the roads between the blocks no longer

showed. It was a dark smoky green that undulated like the swells of a

frozen sea.

This was as close as he had ever been to Lion Kop. It was a forbidden

land, like the enchanted forest of the fairy, tale. He took the

binoculars from his saddle, bag and scanned it carefully, until he came

to the roof of the homestead. The new thatch, golden and un weathered

stood out above the wattle.

Grandma is there. I could ride across to visit, there would be no harm

in that. He is not there. He is away at the war, Slowly he replaced

the binoculars in the saddle, bag, and knew he would not go to Lion

Kop. He was shackled by the promise he had made to his mother. Like

so many other promises he had made.

With dull resignation he remembered the argument at breakfast that

morning, and knew that they had won again. He could not leave them,

knowing that without him they would wither.

He could not follow him to war.

He smiled ironically as he remembered the fantasies he had imagined.

Charging into battle with him, talking with him beside the camp fire in

the evenings, throwing himself in front of a bayonet meant for him.

From the look, out on the escarpment Michael had spent hours each day

of the last Christmas holidays waiting for a glimpse of Sean Courtney.

Now with guilt he remembered the pleasure he had experienced whenever

he picked up that tall figure in the field of his binoculars and

followed it as it moved between the newly planted rows of wattle.

But he's gone now. There would be no disloyalty if I rode across to

see Grandma. He mounted the superb golden mare and sat deep in

thought. At last he sighed, swung her head back towards Theuniskraal,

and rode away from Lion Kop.

I must never come up here again, he thought determinedly, especially

after he comes home.

They are tired, tired to the marrow of their bones. Jan Paulus Leroux

watched the lethargy of his burghers as they off, saddled and hobbled

their horses. They are tired with three years of running and fighting,

sick, tired in the certain knowledge of defeat, exhausted with grief

for the men they have buried, with grief also for the children and the

women with them in the camps.

They are wearied by the sight of burned homes scattered about with the

bones of their flocks.

Perhaps it is finished, he thought and lifted the battered old Terai

from his head. Perhaps we should admit that it is finished, and go in

to them. He wiped his face with his scarf and the cloth came away

discoloured with the grease of his sweat and the dust of the dry land.

He folded the scarf into the pocket of his coat and looked at the fire,

blackened ruins of the homestead on the bluff above the river.

The fire had spread into the gum trees and the leaves were sere and

yellow and dead.

"No," he said aloud. "It is not finished, not until we try for this

last time, " and he moved, towards the nearest group of his men.

"Ja, Hennie. How goes it?" he asked.

"Not too bad, Oom Paul. " The boy was very thin, but then all of them

were thin. He had spread his saddle blanket in the grass and lay upon

it.

"Good. " Jan Paulus nodded and squatted beside him. He took out his

pipe and sucked on it. There was still the taste of tobacco from the

empty bowl.

, Will you take a fill, Oom Paul?" One of the others sat up and

proffered a pouch of springbok skin.

"Nee, dankie. " He looked away from the pouch, shutting out the

temptation. "Keep it for a smoke when we cross the Vaal."

"Or when we ride into Cape Town, " joked Hennie, and Jan Paulus smiled

at him. Cape Town was a thousand miles south of them, but that was

where they were going.

"Ja, keep it for Cape Town," he agreed and the smile on his face turned

bitter. Bullets and disease had left him with six hundred ragged men

on horses half, dead with exhaustion to conquer a province the size of

France. But it was the last try. He started to speak then.

"Already Jannie Smuts is into the Cape, with a big commando.

Pretorius also has crossed the Orange, De la Rey and De Wet will

follow, and Zietsmann is waiting for us to join him on the Vaal

River.

This time the Cape burghers must rise with us. This time . . . " He

spoke slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a gaunt

giant of a man with his unkempt, ginger beard wiry with dust and

streaked about the mouth with yellowish grey. The cuffs of his sleeves

were stained with the discharge from the veld sores on his wrists. Men

came across from the other groups and squatted in a circle about him to

listen and take comfort.

"Hennie, bring my Bible from the saddle, bag. We will read a little

from the Book."

The sun was setting when he closed the Book and looked around at them.

An hour had gone in prayer that might more profitably have been spent

in rest, but when he looked at their faces he knew the time had not

been wasted.

"Sleep now, Kerels. We will up saddle early tomorrow." If they do not

come in the night, he qualified himself silently.

But he could not sleep. He sat propped against his saddle and for the

hundredth time re, read the letter from Henrietta. It was dated four

months earlier, had taken six weeks to reach him along the chain of

spies and commandos which carried their mail. Henrietta was sick with

dysentery and both the younger children, Stephanus and baby Paulus,

were dead from the Witseerkeel. The concentration camp was ravaged by

this disease and she feared for the safety of the older children.

The light had failed so he could not read further. He sat with the

letter in his hands. With such a price as we have paid, surely we

could have won something.

Perhaps there is still a chance. Perhaps.

"Upsaddle! Upsaddle! Khaki is coming." The warning was shouted from

the ridge across the river where he had placed his pickets. It carried

clearly in the still of the evening.

" Upsaddle! Khaki is coming." The cry was taken up around the camp.

Jan Paulus leaned over and shook the boy beside him, who was too deep

in exhaustion to have heard.

"Wake up, Hennie. We must run again."

Five minutes later he led his commando over the ridge and southward

into the night.

"Still holding southwards," Sean observed. "Three days' riding and

they haven't altered course.

"Looks like Leroux has got his teeth into something," agreed Saul.

"We'll halt for half an hour to blow the horses. " Sean lifted his

hand and behind him the column lost its shape as the men dismounted and

led their horses aside. Although the entire unit had been remounted a

week before, the horses were already losing condition from the long

hours of riding to which they had been subjected. However, the men

were in good shape, lean and hard, looking. Sean listened to their

banter and watched the way they moved and laughed. He had built them

into a tough fighting force that had proved itself a dozen times since

that fiasco a year ago when Leroux had caught them in the mountains.

Sean grinned. They had earned the name under which they rode. He

handed his horse to Mbejane and moved stiffly towards the shade of a

small mimosa tree.

"Have you got any ideas about what Leroux is up to?" he asked Saul as

he offered him a cheroot.

"He could be making a try at the Cape railway."

"He could be," Sean agreed as he lowered himself gratefully on to a

flat stone and stretched his legs out in front of him. "My God, I'm

sick of this business. Why the hell can't they admit it's finished,

why Must they go on and on?"

"Granite cannot bend." Saul smiled dryly. "But I think that now it is

very near the point where it must break. " "We thought that six months

ago," Sean answered him, then looked beyond time. "Yes, Mbenjane, what

is it?"

Mbejane was going through the ritual which preceded serious speech, He

had come and squatted half a dozen pieces from where Sean sat, had laid

his spears carefully beside him in the grass, and now he was taking

snuff.

"Nkosi."

"Yes?" Sean encouraged him and waited while Mbejane tapped a little of

the dark powder on to his fingernail.

"Nkosi, this porridge has an unusual taste." He sniffed and sneezed.

"Yes?"

"It seems to me that the spoor has changed. " Mbejane wiped the

residual snuff from his nostrils with the pink palm of his hand.

"You speak in riddles."

"These men we follow ride in a different manner from the way they did

before , " Sean thought about that for a few seconds before he saw it

Yes! He was right. Where previously Leroux's commando had spread and

trampled the grass in a road fifty feet wide, since this morning they

had ridden in two files as though they were regular cavalry.

"They ride as we do, Nkosi, so the hooves of the horses fall in the

tracks of those that lead. In this way it is difficult to tell how

many men we follow."

"We know there are about six hundred. . . . Hold on! I think I see

what you .

"Nkosi, it comes to me that there are no longer six hundred men ahead

of us."

"My God! You could be right." Sean jumped up and began to pace

restlessly. "He is splitting his commando again. We've crossed a

dozen rocky places where he could have detached small groups of his

men. By evening we'll be following less than fifty men, , when that

happens they'll break up into individuals, lose us in the dark and head

separately for a prearranged rendezvous." He punched his fist into the

palm of his hand.

"That's it, by God!" He swung round to face Saul

"You remember that stream we crossed a mile back, it would have been an

ideal place."

"You're taking a big risk," Saul cautioned him. "if we go back now and

it turns out you're wrong, , then you've lost him for good.

"I'm right," Sean snapped. "I know I am. Get them mounted up, we're

going back."

Sean sat his horse on the bank of the stream and looked down into the

clear water that sparkled over gravel and small round boulders.

"They will have gone downstream, otherwise the mud they stirred up

would have washed down across the ford. " He turned to Saul. "I'm

going to take fifty men with me so as not to raise too much dust. Give

me an hour's start and then follow with the rest of the column.

"Mazelto! " Saul grinned at him.

With a Zulu tracker on each bank Sean and Eccles and fifty men followed

the stream towards the north, west. Behind them the mountains of the

Drakensberg were an irregular pale blue suggestion against the sky and

around them the brown winter sere veld spread away in the folded

complexity of ridges and the shallow valleys. In the rocky ground

along the ridges grew the squat little aloe plants, holding up their

multiple flowers like crimson candelabra while in the valleys the

stunted Thorn bushes huddled along the course of the stream. High,

cold cloud obscured the sky. There was no warmth in the pale sunlight,

and the wind had a knife, edge to it.

Two miles below the ford Sean was showing his anxiety by leaning

forward in the saddle and checking the ground that Mbejane had already

covered. Once he called,

"Mbejane, are you sure you haven't missed them?"

Mbejane straightened from his crouch and turned slowly to regard Sean

with a look of frigid dignity. Then he shifted his war shield to the

other shoulder and, not deigning to answer, he returned to his

search.

Fifty yards further on he straightened again and informed Sean.

"No, Nkosi. I have not missed them." He pointed with his assegai at

the deeply scarred bank up which horses had climbed, and the flattened

grass which had wiped the mud from their legs.

"Got them!" Sean exulted in his relief; behind him he heard the stir

of excitement run through his men.

"Well done, sir." Eccles's moustache twitched ferociously as he

grinned.

"How many, Mbejane?"Twenty, not more."

"When?"

"The mud has dried." Mbejane considered the question stooping to touch

the earth and determine its texture. "They were here at half sun this

morning. " The middle of the morning; they had a lead of five hours. .

Is the spoor fat enough to run upon?"

"It is, Nkosi.

"Then run, Mbejane.

The spoor bellied towards the west then swung and steadied in the same

persistently southward direction, and Sean's column closed up and

cantered after Mbejane.

Southward, always southward. Sean pondered the problem what could he

hope to accomplish with a mere six hundred?

Unless! Sean's brain started to harry a vague idea. Unless he

intended slipping through the columns of infantry and cavalry that lay

before him and trying for a richer prize.

The railway, as Saul had suggested? No, he discounted that quickly.

Jan Paulus would not risk his whole command for such low stakes.

What then? The Cape? By God, that was it, the Cape! That rich and

lovely country of wheat lands and vineyards. That serene and secure

land, lazing in the security of a hundred years of British rule, and

yet peopled by men of the same blood as Leroux and De Wet and Jan

Smuts.

Smuts had already taken his commando across the Orange River. If

Leroux followed him, if De Wet followed him, if the Cape burghers;

broke their uneasy neutrality and flocked to join the commandos, Sean's

mind baulked at the thought. He let!

the wider aspect of it and came back to the moment.

All right then, Jan Paulus was riding to the Cape with only six hundred

men? No, he must have more. He must be either! to a rendezvous with

one of the other commandos. Who'? De la Rey? No, De la Rey was in

the Magaliesberg. De Wet? No, De Wet was far south, twisting and

turning away from the columns that harried him.

Zietsmann? Ah, Zietsmann! Zietsmann with fifteen hundred men.

That was it.

Where would they meet? On a river obviously, for they must have water

for two thousand horses. The Orange was too dangerous, so it must be

the Vaal, but whereabouts on the Vaal'? It must be a place easily

recognizable. One of the fords'? No, cavalry used the fords.

A confluence of one of the tributaries'? Yes, that was it.

Eagerly Sean unbuckled his saddle, bag and pulled from it his map.

Holding the heavy cloth map folded against his thigh he twisted

sideways in the saddle to study it.

"Here we are now," he muttered and ran his finger south.

"The Padda River!"

"I beg your pardon, sir.

"The Padda, Eccles, the Padda!

"Very well, sir," agreed Eccles with stolid features covering his

bewilderment.

In the dark valley below them the single fire flared briefly, then died

to a tiny glow.

"All ready, Eccles," Sean whispered.

"Sir!" Without raising his voice Eccles placed affirmative emphasis on

the monosyllable.

"I'll go down now." Sean resisted the impulse to repeat his previous

orders. He wanted to say again how important it was that no one

escaped, but he had learned that once was enough with Eccles.

Instead he whispered,

"Listen for my signal. " The Boers had only one sentry. Secure in the

knowledge that their stratagy had thrown off all pursuit, they slept

around the poorly screened fire. Sean and Mbenjane moved down quietly

and squatted in the grass twenty paces from the high rock on which the

sentry sat. The man was outlined darkly against the stars and Sean

watched him intently for a full minute before he decided.

"He sleeps also."

Mbejane grunted.

"Take him quietly," Sean whispered. "Make sure his rifle does not

fall." Mbejane moved and Sean laid a hand on his shoulder to restrain

him. "Do not kill, it is not necessary."

And Mbejane moved silently as a leopard towards the rock.

Sean waited straining his eyes into the darkness. The seconds dragged

by, and suddenly the Boer was gone from the rock. A gasp, a soft

sliding sound and stillness.

Sean waited, and then Mbejane was back as silently as he had left.

"It is done, Nkosi.

Sean laid his rifle aside and cupped his hands over his lips, filled

his cheeks and blew the long warbling whistle of a night bird

At the fire one of the sleepers stirred and muttered. Farther off a

horse stamped and blew softly through its nostrils. Then Sean heard a

pebble click and the cautious swish of feet through grass, small sounds

lost in the wind.

"Eccles?" Sean murmured.

Sir.

Sean stood up and they closed in on the camp.

"Wake up, gentlemen. Breakfast is ready." Sean shouted in the Taal,

and each burgher woke to find a man standing over him and the muzzle of

a Lee, Metford pressing into his chest.

"Build up that fire, " Sean ordered. "Take their rifles. " It had

been too easy, he spoke roughly in the irritation of anti, climax,

"Mbejane, bring the one from the rock, I want to see how gently YOU

dealt with him.

Mbejane dragged him into the firelight and Sean's lips tightened as he

saw the way the man's head lolled and his legs hung

"He's dead,"

Sean accused.

"He sleeps, Nkosi," MbeJane denied.

Sean knelt beside him and twisted his face to catch the light.

Not a man, a lad with a thin bitter face and the fluff of pale, imature

beard on his cheeks. In the corner of his eye a stye had burst to matt

the closed lashes with yellow pus. He was breathing.

Sean glanced up at the other prisoners. They were being herded away

out of earshot.

"Water, Mbejane. " And the Zulu brought a canteen from the fire while

Sean explored the hard swelling above the boy's temple "He'll do," Sean

grunted, and curled his lips in distaste at what he must do as soon as

the lad recovered. He must do it while he was still groggy and bemused

by the blow. From his cupped hand he splashed cold water into his face

and the boy gasped and rolled his head.

"Wake up," Sean urged quietly in the Taal. "Wake up.

"Oom Paul?" The Boer mumbled.

"Wake up. " The lad struggled to sit.

"Where ... You're English! " As he saw the uniform.

"Yes," Sean snapped. "We're English. You've been caught."

"Oom. Paul?" The boy looked round wildly.

Don't worry about him. He'll be with you on the boat to Mt. Helena.

Leroux and Zietsmann were both caught on the Vaal yesterday. We were

waiting for them at the Padda and they walked right into the trap."

"Oorn Paul caught!" The boy's eyes were wide with shock.

still dazed and out of focus. "But how did you know? There must have

been a traitor, someone must have told. How did you know about the

meeting, place? " He stopped abruptly as his brain caught up with his

tongue. "But how ... Oom Paul couldn't be on the Vaal yet, we left him

only yesterday. " Then sickeningly he realized what he had done. "You

tricked me," he whispered. "You tricked me."

"I'm sorry, " Sean said simply. He stood up and walked across to where

Eccles was securing his prisoners.

"When Captain Friedman arrives tell him to bring the column into the

garrison at Vereeniging and wait for me there. I am going ahead with

my servant, " he said abruptly, then called across to Mbejane.

"Mbeiane, bring my horse." He would trust no one else to carry the

news to Acheson.

The following afternoon Sean reached the railway line guarded by its

blockhouses and flagged a northbound train. The next morning he

detrained with soot, inflamed eyes, tired and filthy, at Johannesburg

station.

Jan Paulus Leroux checked his horse and behind him the tiny fragment of

his commando bunched up and all of them peered eagerly ahead.

The Vaal is a wide, brown river, with sandbanks through which it cuts

its own channel. The banks are steep and along them are scattered a

few of the ugly, indigenous thorn trees which provide no cover for an

army of three thousand men and horses. But Leroux had chosen the

rendezvous with care. Here the tiny Padda River looped down through a

complex of small kopjes to join the Vaal and among these kopJes an army

might escape detection, but only if it exercised care. Which ZietsMann

was not doing.

The smoke from a dozen fires hazed out in a long pale smear across the

veld, horses were being watered on one of the sandbanks in the middle

of the river, and a hundred men were bathing noisily from the bank,

while laundry decked the thorn trees.

"The fool," snarled Leroux and kicked his pony into a run.

He stormed into the laager, flung himself off his horse and roared at

Zietsmann.

"Menheer, I must protest."

Zietsmann was nearly seventy years old. His beard was pure white and

hung to the fifth button of his waistcoat. He was a clergyman, not a

general, and his commando had survived this long because it was so

ineffectual as to cause the British no serious inconvenience. Only

great pressure from De la Rey and Leroux had forced him to take part in

this wild plan. For the last three days, as he waited for Leroux to

join him, he had been harassed by doubts and misgivings. These doubts

were shared by his wife, for he was the only Boer general who still had

his woman with him in the field.

Now he stood up from his seat by the fire and glared at this red,

bearded giant Leroux, whose face was mottled with fury.

"Menheer, " he growled. "Please remember you are speaking not only to

your Elder, but also to a Dominie of the Church. " In this way was set

the tone for the long discussions which were to fill the next four

days. During this time Leroux saw his bold design bog down in a welter

of trivialities. He did not resent the loss of the first day which was

spent in prayer, indeed he realized that this was essential.

Without God's blessing and active intervention the enterprise must

fail, so the sermon he delivered that afternoon lasted a little over

two hours and the text he selected was from Judges,

"Shall I yet again go out to battle against the children of Benjamin,

my brother, or shall I cease?"

and the Lord said,

"Go up; for tomorrow I will deliver them into thine hand."

Zietsmann bettered his time by forty minutes. But then, as Leroux's

men pointed out, Zietsmann was a professional while Oom Paul was only a

lay, preacher.

The next and most critical question was the election of the Supreme

Commander for the combined enterprise. Zietsmann was the older by

thirty years, a factor heavily in his favour. Also, he had brought

sixteen hundred men to the Vaal against Leroux's six hundred. Yet

Leroux was the victor of Colenso and Spion Kop, and since then he had

fought consistently and with not "little success, including the

wrecking of eight trains and the anihilation of four British supply

columns.

Zietsmann had been second in command at Madder River, but since then he

had done nothing but keep his commando intact.

For three days the debate continued with Zietsmann dourly refusing to

bring the matter to the vote until he sensed that opinion had swung to

his side. Leroux wanted command; not , only for personal Satisfaction,

but also because he knew that under this cautious and stubborn old man

they would be lucky to reach the Orange River, let alone force an

effective entry into the Cape.

The card that won the hand belonged to Zietsmann, and it was ironic

that he had it simply because of his inactivity over the last eighteen

months.

When Lord Roberts had marched into Pretoria two years before, his entry

had been offered only token resistance, for the Government of the South

African Republic had withdrawn along the eastern railway line to

Komatipoort. With them went the entire contents of the Pretoria

Treasury, which totalled two million Pounds in gold Kruger

sovereigns.

Later, when old president Kruger left for Europe, a part of this

treasure went with him, but the balance had been shared out among the

remainder of the commando leaders as their war chests to continue the

fight.

Months before most of Leroux's share had been expended on the purchase

of supplies from the native tribes, on ammunition from the Portuguese

gun runners and on payment to his men.

During a desperate night action with one of the raiding British columns

he had lost the balance along with his Hotchkiss gun, twenty of his

best men and a hundred irreplaceably precious horses.

Zietsmann, however, had come to the meeting with a pack mule carrying

thirty thousand sovereigns. The successful invasion of the Cape would

depend largely upon this gold. On the evening of the fourth day he was

duly elected Commander by a majority of two hundred, and within twelve

hours he had demonstrated how well, equipped he was for the task.

"So we start in the morning, then," one of the burghers beside Leroux

grunted.

"About time," another commented. They were breakfasting on biltong, ,

sticks of hard dried meat, , for Leroux had succeeded in convincing

Zietsmann, that open cooking fires, were dangerous.

"No sign of Van der Bergh's men?" asked Leroux.

"Not yet, Oom Paul."

"They are finished, or else they would have been here days ago,

"Yes, they are finished," agreed Leroux. "They must have run into one

of the columns." Twenty good men, he sighed softly, and Hennie was

with them. He was very fond of the boy, all of them were. He had

become the mascot of the commando.

"At least they are out of it now, the lucky thunders." The man had

spoken without thinking, and Leroux turned on him.

"You can go too hands, up for the British, there is no one to stop you.

" The softness of his voice did not cover the ferocity in his eyes.

"I didn't mean it that way, Oom Paul.

"Well, don't say it then," he growled, and would have continued, but a

shout from the sentry on the kopje above them brought them all to their

feet.

"One of the scouts coming!

"Which way?" Leroux bellowed upwards.

"Along the river. He's riding to burst!"

And the sudden stilling of voices and movement was the only outward

sign of the dread that settled upon all of them. In these days a

galloping rider carried only evil tidings.

They watched him splash through the shallows and slide from the saddle

to swim beside his horse across the deep channel.

Then pony and rider, both streaming water, came lunging up the near

bank and into the camp.

"Khaki," shouted the man. "Khaki coming!"

Leroux ran to catch the pony's head and demanded" "How many'? " "A big

column.

"A thousand?"

"More than that. Many more, six, seven thousand."

"Magtig! " swore Leroux. "Cavalry?"

"Infantry and guns."

"How close?"

"They will be here before midday."

Leroux left him and ran down the slope to Zietsmann's wagon

"You heard, Menheer?"

"Ja, I heard." Zietsmann nodded slowly.

"We must mount up," Leroux urged.

"Perhaps they will not find us. Perhaps they will pass us by."

Zietsmann spoke hesitantly, and Leroux stared at him.

"Are you mad?" he whispered, and Zietsmann shook his head, a confused

old man.

"We must mount up and break away towards the south.

Leroux grabbed the lapels of Zietsmann's frock coat and shook them in

his agitation.

"No, not the south, it is finished. We must go back," the old man

muttered, then suddenly his confusion cleared. "We must pray. The

Lord will deliver us from the Philistine.

"Menheer, I demand . Leroux started, but another urgent warning

shouted from the kopJe interrupted him.

"Riders! from the south! Cavalry!"

Running to one of the horses Leroux vaulted on to its bare back, with a

handful of its mane he turned it towards the kopJe and flogged it with

his heels, driving it up the steep rocky side, scrambling and sliding

in the loose rock until he reached the top and jumped down beside the

sentry.

"There! The burgher pointed.

Like a column of safari ants, tiny and insignificant in the immensity

of brown grass and open sky, still four or five miles distant, the

squadrons were strung out in extended order across the southern

hills.

"Not that way. We cannot go that way. We must go back."

He swung round to the north. "We must go that way. " Then he saw the

dust in the north also and he felt his stomach slide quickly downwards.

The dust drifted low, so thin it might have been only heat haze or the

passing of a dust devil, but he knew it was not.

"They are there also," he whispered. Acheson had thrown his column in

from four directions. There was no escape.

"Van der Bergh!" whispered Leroux bitterly. "He has gone hands, up to

the English and betrayed us. , " A moment longer he stared at the

dust, then quickly he adjusted to the problem of defence.

"The river is our one line," he muttered. "With the flanks anchored on

this kopJe and that one there." He let his eyes run back up the little

valley of the Padda River, carefully memorizing the slope and lay of

the land, storing in his mind each of its salient features.

already siting the captured Maxims, picking the shelter of the hills

and river bank for the horses, deciding where the reserves should be

held.

"Five hundred men can hold the north kopje, but we will need a thousand

on the river." He vaulted up on to the pony and called down to the

sentry,

"Stay here. I will send men up to you. They must build scharnzes

along the ridge, there, and there."

Then he drove the pony down the slope, sliding on its haunches until it

reached the level ground.

"Where is Zietsmann? " he demanded.

"In his wagon.

He galloped across to it and jerked open the canvas at the entrance.

"Menheer, " he began and then stopped. Zietsmann sat on the wagon bed

with his wife beside him. A Bible was open on his lap.

"Menheer, there is little time. The enemy closes from all sides.

They will be upon us in two hours.

Zietsmann looked up at him, and from the soapy glaze of his eyes Leroux

knew he had not heard.

"Thou shalt not fear the arrow that flieth by day, nor the terror that

walketh by night," he murmured.

"I am taking command, Menheer," Leroux grunted. Zietsmann turned back

to the book and his wife placed an arm round his shoulders.

We can hold them for this day, and perhaps tomorrow, Leroux decided

from where he lay on the highest kopJe. They cannot charge their

cavalry against these hills, so they must come for us with the

bayonet.

It is the guns first that we must fear, and then the bayonet.

"Martinus Van der Bergh," he said aloud. "When next we meet I will

kill you for this. " And he watched the batteries unlimbering out of

rifle, shot across the river, forming their precise geometrical

patterns on the brown grass plain.

"Nou skeet hulle, " muttered a burgher beside him.

"Ja, " agreed Leroux. "Now they will shoot," and the smoke gushed from

the muzzle of one of the guns out on the plain. The shell burst

thunderously on the lower slopes and for an instant the lyddite smoke

danced like a yellow ghost swirling and turning upon itself, before the

wind drifted it up to them. They coughed in the bitter, tasting

fumes.

The next shell burst on the crest, throwing smoke and earth and rock

high into the air, and immediately the rest of the batteries opened

together.

They lay behind their hastily constructed earthworks while the

shellfire battered the ridge. The shrapnel buzzed and hummed and

struck sparks from the rocks, the solid jarring concussions made the

earth jump beneath their bellies and dulled their ears so they could

hardly hear the screaming of the wounded, and slowly a great cloud of

dust and fumes climbed into the sky above them. A cloud so tall that

Sean Courtney could see it from where he waited fifteen miles north of

the Vaal.

"It looks as though Acheson has caught them," murmured Saul.

"Yes, he's caught them," Sean agreed, and then softly,

"The poor bastards. " "The least they could have done was to let us be

in at the kill," growled Sergeant, Major Eccles. The distant rumble of

the guns had awakened his blood lust and his great moustache wriggled

with frustration. "Don't seem right to me, seeing as how we been

following the old Boer for going on a year and a half, the least they

could have done was to let us be there at the end. " "We are the cover

guns, Eccles. General Acheson is trying to drive them south on to his

cavalry, but if any of the birds break back through his line of beaters

then they're ours," Sean explained.

"Well, it just don't seem right to me," Eccles repeated, then suddenly

remembering his manners, he added,

"Begging your pardon, sir.

Exultantly General Acheson traversed his binoculars across the group of

hills. Vaguely through the dust and smoke he could pick out their

crests.

"A fair cop, sir! " Peterson grinned.

"A fair cop indeed," Acheson agreed. They had to shout above the

thunder of the guns and beneath them their horses fidgeted and

trembled. A dispatch, rider galloped up, saluted and handed Peterson a

message.

"What is it?" Acheson asked without lowering his glasses.

"Both Nichols and Simpson are in position for the assault.

They seem anxious to engage, sir. " Then Peterson looked up at the

holocaust of dust and flame upon the hills. "They'll be lucky if they

find anyone left to fight up there."

"They will," Acheson assured him. He was not misled by the deceptive

fury of the barrage. They had survived worse at Spion Kop.

"Are you going to let them go, sir? " Peterson insisted gently.

For another minute Acheson watched the hills, then he lowered his

glasses and pulled his watch from his breast pocket. Four o'clock,

three hours more of daylight.

"Yes!" he said. "Send them in."

And Peterson scribbled the order and handed it to Acheson for his

signature.

"Hier Kom Hulle. " Lennox heard the shout in the ceaseless.

roar of the shells, heard it taken up and passed along the line.

"Here they come."

"Pasop! They are coming He stood up and his stomach heaved at the

movement. Poisoned by the lyddite fumes, he fought his nausea and when

he had controlled it he looked out along the river. For a second the

veil of dust opened so he could see the tiny lines of khald moving in

towards the hills. Yes, they were coming.

He ran down his own line towards the river, shouting as he went.

"Wait until they are certain! Don't shoot until they reach the

markers! " From this corner of the kopje he could look out over every

quarter of the field.

"Ja, I thought so! " he muttered. "They come from two sides to split

us. " Advancing on the frontage of the river were those same lines of

tiny figures. The lines bulged and straightened and bulged again, but

always they crept slowly nearer. Already the leading rank was moving

up on his thousand, yard markers, in another five minutes they would be

in range.

"They stand out well," Leroux muttered as he ran his eyes along the row

of markers. While most of his men were building the earthworks along

the kopjes and the river, others had paced out the ranges in front of

these de fences Every two hundred and fifty yards they had erected

those small cairns of stones, and over each they had smeared whitish

grey mud from the river.

It was a trick the British never seemed to understand, and as they

advanced the Boer rifles had their range almost to the yard.

"The river is safe, " he decided. "They cannot break through there,"

and he allowed himself time to grin. "They never learn.

Every time they come against the worst side. " Then he switched his

attention to the assault on his left flank. This one was dangerous,

this was where he must command in person, and he ran back to his

original position while around him and overhead the storm of shrapnel

and lyddite roared on unabated.

He dropped on his belly between two of his burghers, wriggled forward

unbuckling the bandolier from around his chest and draped it over the

boulder beside him.

"Good luck, Oom Paul," a burgher called.

"And to you, Hendrik, " he answered as he set the rear sight of his

Mauser at a thousand yards, then laid the rifle on the rock in front of

him.

"Close now," the burgher beside him muttered.

"Very close. Good luck and shoot straight!"

Suddenly the storm lifted and there was silence. A vast aching

silence, more shocking than the buzzing, howling roar of the guns. The

dust and the smoke drifted away from the crests and after its gloom the

sunshine burned down brightly on the hills and the golden brown plain,

it sparkled with dazzling brilliance on the sweeping waters of the

Vaal, and it lit each tiny khaki figure with stark intensity, so their

shadows lay dark on the earth beneath them. They reached the line of

markers.

Leroux picked up his rifle. There was one man he had been watching, a

man who wLeroux had seen who walked a little ahead of his line. Twice

watching, him pause as if to shout an order to those who followed

him.

"You first, my friend," and he took the officer in his sights, holding

him carefully in the notch with the bead obscuring his trunk.

Gently he took up the slack in the trigger and the recoil slammed back

into his shoulder. With the vicious characteristic crack of the Mauser

stinging his eardrums, Leroux watched the man go down into the grass

"Ja! " he said and reloaded.

Not in simultaneous volley, not with the continuous wild crackle which

they had used at Colenso, but in a careful, steady stutter which showed

that each shot was aimed, the Boer rifles started the hunt.

"They have learned, " Leroux muttered as he worked the bolt of his

rifle, and the empty case pinged away among the rocks.

"They have learned well," and he killed another man. At two places on

the ridge the Maxim guns began their frenzied hammering bursts.

Before it reached the second row of markers, the first line of infantry

no longer existed, it was scattered back in the grass, completely

annihilated by the terrible accuracy of the Boer fire.

The second line walked over them and came on steadily.

"Look at them come," shouted a burgher farther down the line.

Though they had seen it a dozen times before, all of these ragged

farmers were awed by the passive, impersonal advance of British

infantry.

"These men fight not to live but to die!" muttered the man who lay

beside Leroux.

"Then let us help them to die, " Leroux shouted. And below him on the

plain the slow inexorable ranks moved forward towards the third row of

markers.

"Shoot, Kerels. Shoot straight," Leroux roared, for now he could see

the bayonets. He pressed a clip full of ammunition down into the

magazine, and with the back of his hand brushed the clinging drops of

sweat from his eyebrows, pushed the rifle forward and knocked down four

men with his next six shots.

And then he saw the change. At one place the line bulged as men began

to hurry forward, while on the flanks it wavered and disintegrated as

others hung back or crouched down behind pitifially inadequate cover.

"They are breaking! " Leroux howled excitedly. "They won't reach the

slopes. " The forward movement faltered, no longer able to stand the

mauling they were receiving, men turned back or went to ground while

their officers hurried along the ranks goading them on. In so doing

they proclaimed to the Boer riflemen that they were officers and at

that range they did not survive long.

"They're finished!" shouted Leroux, and a thin burst of cheering ran

along the ridge while the Boer fire increased in volume, flailing into

the milling confusion of a broken infantry assault.

"Hit them, Kerels. Keep hitting them!" The following ranks overran

the leaders, then in turn faltered and failed as the Maxim and Mauser

fire churned into them.

Out on the plain a bugle began to lament, and as it mourned, the last

spasmodic forward movement of the assault ceased, and back past the

dead and the wounded streamed the retreat.

A single shell rushed overhead to burst in the valley beyond and

immediately, as if in frustrated fury, the guns lashed the kopje once

more. But in the jump and flash of the shells five hundred Boers

cheered and laughed and waved their rifles at the retreating

infantry.

"What happened on the river?" Leroux called in the tumult, and after a

while the answer came back.

"They did not reach the river. They are broken there also."

Leroux lifted his hat from his head and wiped the sweat and the dust

from his face. Then he looked at the sunset.

"Almighty God, we give you thanks for this day. We ask your mercy and

guidance in the days that are to come."

The shellfire lashed the hills like the surf' of a storm, driven sea

until the night came. Then in the darkness they saw the fires of the

British bivouacs spread like a garden of yellow flowers on the plains

around them.

"We must break out tonight." Leroux looked across the fire at

Zietsmann.

"No." The old man spoke softly, not looking at him.

"Why?" demanded Leroux.

"We can hold these hills. They cannot drive us from them.

"Ja! We can hold them tomorrow-two days, a week-but then it is

finished. We lost fifty men today from the guns."

"They lost many hundreds. The Lord smote them and they perished.

" Zietsmann looked up at him now and his voice gathered strength.

-We will stay here and place our trust in the Lord." There was a

murmur of agreement from those who listened.

"Menheer. " Leroux covered his eyes for a moment, pressing fingers

into them to still the terrible aching. He was sick from the lyddite,

and tired-tired to the depths of his soul. It would be easier to stay.

There would be no dishonour in it for they had fought like no men

before them. Two more days and then it would be over without

dishonour. He removed his hands from his face. "Menheer, if we do not

break out tonight we never will. By tomorrow we will not have the

strength." He stopped for the words came slowly, slurred a little from

a brain dulled by the lyddite and the hammering of big guns. He looked

at his hands and saw the suppurating sores on his wrists. There would

be no dishonour. They would fight this last time and then it would be

finished.

"But it is not a matter of honour," he mumbled. Then he stood up and

they watched him in silence for he was going to speak. He spread his

hands out in appeal, and the firelight lit his face from below leaving

his eyes in shadow, dark holes like the sockets of a skull. He stood

like that for a while and his rags hung loosely on the gaunt wasted

body.

There was nothing except the need to fight on. He dropped his hands to

his sides.

"I am going," he said with simplicity. "When the moon goes down I

ride," and he walked away from the fire. One by one the men rose and

followed him, and all of them were men of his own commando.

Six men squatted in a circle and watched the moon as it touched the

hills. Behind them the horses were saddled and the rifles stuck up

from their scabbards. By each of the six hundred horses a burgher lay

fully clothed, wrapped in his blanket and trying to sleep. Though the

horses stamped and moved restlessly there was no jingling of bits for

all of them were carefully muffled.

"We will say it again, so that each of us knows his part."

Leroux looked around the circle. "I will go first with a hundred men

and follow the river towards the east. What is your route, Hendrik?

"South, through the cavalry until the dawn, then round towards the

mountains.

Leroux nodded and asked the next man: "And yours?"

"West along the river.

"Ja, and yours?"

He asked each in turn and when all had answered-"The place of meeting

is the old laager by the Hill of Inhlozana. Is this agreed?"

And they waited, watching the moon and listening to the jackals

squabbling over the British corpses on the plain. Then the moon went

down below the hills and Leroux stood up stiffly.

Totsiens, KereLs! Good luck to all of us." He took the reins of his

pony and led it down towards the Vaal, while in silence a hundred men

led their horses after him. As they passed the single wagon beside the

Padda, old Zietsmann was waiting and he came forward leading a

pack-mule.

"You are going?" he asked.

"Ja, Menheer. We must. " "God go with you." Zietsmann thrust out his

hand and they gripped briefly.

"The mule is loaded. Take the money with you. We will not need it

here.

"Thank you, Menheer. " Leroux motioned to one of his men to take the

mule. "Good luck."

"Good luck, General. " For the first time Zietsmann used his tiTLe,

and Leroux went down to the perimeter of their de fences and out into

the veld where the British waited.

With the first pale promise of dawn in the sky, they were through and

clear. Though twice during the night heavy outbursts of firing in the

darkness far behind showed that not all of the escaping bands had been

so fortunate.

Sean and Saul stood beside the little scotch cart and Mbejane brought

them coffee.

"My God, it's cold enough to freeze the hanger off a brass monkey."

Sean cupped his hands around the mug and sipped noisily.

"At least you've got a hood to keep your tip warm," Saul retorted.

"We'd better get moving before we all freeze to the ground. " "Dawn in

an hour," Sean agreed. "Time to start walking our beat," and he called

across to MbeJane,

"Kill the fire and bring my horse. " In double file with the scotch

cart bumping along in the rear they started on the outward leg of their

patrol. In the last four days they had covered the same ground as many

times, tacking backwards and forwards across the beat that Acheson had

assigned them. The grass was brittle with frost and crunched under the

horses' hooves.

While ahead of them the Zulu trackers ranged like gun dogs

and behind the troopers huddled miserably in their greatcoats, Sean and

Saul picked up their endless discussion from the point at which they

had left it the previous evening. Already they had reached so faR,

into the future that they were talking of a federation under

responsible government that would encompass all the territories south

of the Zambesi.

"That's what Rhodes has proposed for the last ten years," Saul pointed

out.

"I don't want any part of that wily bastard. " Sean spoke

emphatically. "He'll keep us tied for ever to the apron strings of

WhiteHall, the sooner we get rid of him and Mimer the better, say

"You want to get rid of Imperial rule?" Saul asked.

"Of course, let's end this war and send all of them back across the

sea. We can run our own affairs. " "Colonel, it seems to me you are

fighting on the wrong side," Saul remarked, and Sean chuckled.

"But seriously, Saul . . . " He never finished. Mbejane came out of

the darkness, running with silent purpose so that Sean checked his

horse and felt the skin along his arms prickle with nervous

excitement.

"Mbejane?"

"Mabuna!"

"Where? How many?"

He listened to MbeJane's hurried explanation, then swung round to face

Sergeant, Major Eccles, who was breathing heavily down his neck.

"Your birds, Eccles. A hundred or so of them, only a mile ahead and

coming straight towards us. " Sean's voice was tight with the same

excitement that made Eccles's moustache wriggle like an agitated

caterpillar on the impassive oval of his face.

"Deploy in single line. They'll walk Right on top of us in the dark. "

"Dismounted, sir?"

"No," Sean answered. "We'll gun charge them as soon as they show.

But for God's sake keep it quiet."

As Sean sat his horse with Saul beside him, the two files of troopers

opened on each side of them. There was no talking; only the clicking

of iron, shod hooves on rock, the rustling of men struggling out of

their heavy greatcoats, and the soft rattle and snick of breech, bolts

opening and closing.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends," whispered Saul, but Sean did

not answer because he was wrestling with his fear.

Even in the cold of dawn his hands were damp. He wiped them on the

thighs of his breeches and slid his rifle from the scabbard.

"What about the Maxims?" Saul asked.

"No time to set them up." Sean knew his voice was hoarse and he

cleared his throat before he went on. "We won't need them, it's six to

one.

He looked along the silent line of his men. A dark line against the

grass that was paling in the dawn. He could see that each of his

troopers leaned forward in the saddle with his rifle held across his

lap. The tension was a tangible thing in the half darkness even the

horses were infected, they moved beneath their riders, shifting their

bodies, nodding with impatience.

Please God, let none of them whicker now.

And he peered ahead into the darkness. Waiting with his own fear and

the fear of his men so strong that the Boers must surely smell it.

A patch of greater darkness in the dawn, ahead and slightly to the left

of centre. Sean watched it for a few seconds and saw it move, slowly,

like the moonlit shadow of a tree on the open veld.

"Are you sure they're Boers?" Saul whispered, and the doubt startled

Sean. While he hesitated the shadow spread towards them and now he

could hear the hooves.

Are they Boers? Desperately he searched for some sign that would allow

him to loose his charge. Are they Boers? But there was no sign, only

the dark advance and the small sounds of it, the click and creak in the

dawn.

They were close now, less than a hundred yards, although it was

impossible to tell with certainty for the dark, moving mass seemed to

float towards them.

"Sean . . . " Saul's whisper was cut off by the shrill nervous whinny

of his horse. The sound was so unexpected that Sean heard the man

beside him gasp. Almost immediately came the sign for which Sean

waited.

"Wie's duar? " The challenge from ahead was in the guttural of the

Taal.

"Charge!" yelled Sean and hit his horse with his heels.

Instantly the whole of his line jumped forward to hurl itself upon the

Boers.

Forward in the pounding hooves, forward in the shouting, in the

continuous crackle of rifle, fire that sparkled along the line with his

fear left behind him, Sean spurred at them. Steadying the butt of his

rifle under his right armpit, firing blind, blending his voice with the

yelling of six hundred others, leading slightly in the centre of the

Line; he took his commando down upon the Boers.

They broke before the charge. They had to break for they could not

hope to stand against it. They swung and drove their exhausted horses

back towards the south.

"Bunch up!" roared Sean. "Bunch on me!" And his line shortened so

they charged knee to knee in a solid wall of men and horses and gunfire

before which the Boers fled in wild despair.

Directly in Sean's path lay a struggling, badly wounded horse with its

rider pinned underneath it. Jammed into the charge he could not

swerve.

"Up, Boy!" he shouted and lifted his horse with his knees and his

hands, clearing the tangle and stumbling as they landed.

Then forward again in the urgent, jostling clamour of the charge.

"We're gaining!" yelled Saul. "This time we've got them."

The horse beside him hit a hole and went down with its leg breaking

like a pistol, shot. The trooper was thrown from it high and clear,

turning in the air as he feLL. The line closed to fiLL the gap, and

pounded on over the grassland.

"There's a kopje ahead," Sean shouted as he saw the ragged loom of it

against the dawn sky. "Don't let them reach it! " And he raked his

spurs along his horse's ribs.

"We won't catch them," warned Saul. "They'll get into the rocks.

"Damn it! God damn it!" groaned Sean. In the past few minutes the

light had strengthened. Dawn in Africa comes quickly once it starts.

Clearly he could see the leading Boers ride into the rocks, throw

themselves from their ponies and duck into cover.

"Faster!" shouted Sean in agony. "Faster!" as he saw the chance of

quick success slip from his grasp. Already Mausers were talking back

from the lower slopes of the kopie, and the last burghers were down and

scurrying into the rocks. Loose ponies turned wildly into his line,

empty stirrups flapping, eyes wide with terror, forcing his men to

swerve into each other, dissipating the force of the charge. A loose

pack, mule with a small leather pack upon its back climbed up through

the rocks until a stray bullet killed it and it rolled into a deep

crevice. But nobody saw it fall, Sean felt the horse between his legs

jerk and he was thrown with such violence that the stirrup leathers

snapped like cotton and he went up and out, hung for a sickening moment

and then swooped down to hit the ground with his chest and shoulder AND

the side of his face.

While he lay in the grass the charge spent itself like a wave on the

kopJe, then eddied and swirled into confusion. Dimly Sean was aware of

the hooves that trampled about his head, of the sound of the Mausers

and the shouts of the men who were swept by them.

"Dismount! Get down and follow them." Saul's voice and the tone of it

roused Sean. With his hands under his chest he pushed himself into a

sitting position. The side of his face burned where the skin had been

smeared away, his nose was bleeding and the blood turned the earth in

his mouth to a gritty paste.

His left arm was numb to the shoulder and he had lost his rifle.

Dully he tried to spit the filth from his mouth while he peered at the

chaos about him, trying to make sense of it. He shook his head, to

joggle the apathy from his brain, while all around him men were being

cut down at point, blank range by the Mausers.

"Dismount! Dismount! " The urgency of Saul's voice brought Sean

unsteadily to his feet.

"Get down, you bastards!" He took up the cry. "Get down and chase

them. " A horse brushed against him and he staggered but kept his

balance. The trooper slid down from its back beside Sean.

"Are you all right, Colonel?" He reached out to steady Sean, AND a

bullet took him in the chest below his raised arm and killed him

instantly. Sean stared down at the body and felt his brain click back

into focus.

"The bastards," he snarled and snatched up the man's rifle, then, "Come

on!" he roared. "Follow me!" and he led them out of the shambles of

struggling horses into the rocks.

In the next half, hour, grimly and irresistibly, they used their

superior numbers to drive the Boers back up the kopje. Each outcrop of

rocks was a strongpoint that had to be assaulted and carried, and paid

for in blood. On a front of perhaps two hundred yards, the attack

became a series of isolated skirmishes over which Sean could not

maintain command. He gathered those men who were near him and boulder

by boulder they fought their way towards the top, while the burghers in

front of him held each position until the last moment and then fell

back on the next.

The top of the kopJe was flattened into a saucer with fifty feet of

steep open ground falling away on all sides, and finally sixty burghers

reached this natural fortress and held it with the determination of men

who knew that they fought for the last time AND they threw the British

from the lip of the saucer and sent them scrambling and sliding back

into the shelter of the broken rock below.

After the second repulse a heavy unnatural silence settled on the

kopje.

Sean sat with his back to a rock and took the water, bottle that a

corporal offered him. He rinsed the slime of blood and congealing

saliva from his mouth and spat it pink on to the ground beside him.

Then he tilted the bottle and swallowed twice with his eyes tightly

closed in the intense pleasure of drinking.

"Thanks. " He passed the bottle back.

"More?" the corporal asked.

"No." Sean shook his head and looked back down the slope.

The sun was well up now, throwing long shadows behind the horses that

were grazing far out across the veld below. But at the foot of the

slope lay the dead animals, most of them on their sides with legs

thrust stiffly out. Blanket, rolls had burst open to litter the grass

with the pathetic possessions of the dead men around them.

The men in their khaki and brown were as inconspicuous as piles of dead

leaves in the grass, mostly British but with here and there a burgher

lying amongst them in the fellowship of death.

"Mbejane. " Sean spoke softly to the big Zulu who squatted beside him.

"Find Nkosi Saul and bring him to see me here."

He watched the Zulu crawl away. Mbejane had been left behind at the

start of that wild gallop, but before Sean was halfway up the kopJe he

had glanced back to find him kneeling two paces behind, ready with a

bandolier of ammunition for the moment when Sean needed it. Neither of

them had spoken until this moment. Between them words were seldom

necessary.

Sean fingered the raw graze on his face and listened to the murmured

conversation of the men around him. Twice he heard clearly the voices

of Boers from the saucer above them and once he heard a burgher laugh ,

They were very close, and Sean moved uneasily against the rock.

Within minutes Mbejane was back with Saul crawling behind him.

When he saw Sean, Saul's expression changed quickly.

"Your face! Are you all right?"

"Cut mySElf shaving." Sean grinned at him. "Have a seat.

Make yourself comfortable."

Saul crawled the last few yards and settled himself against Sean's

rock. "Now what?" he asked.

"Ten minutes' rest, then we're going up again," Sean told him.

"But this time with a little more purpose. I want you to work around

the back of the kopje with half the men. Take Eccles with you.

We'll rush their whole perimeter at the same moment. When you're in

position fire three shots in quick succession then count slowly to

twenty. I'll back you from this side. " "Good." Saul nodded. "It'll

take me a little while to get round, don't be impatient." And he was

smiling as he rose to his knees and leaned forward to touch Sean's

shoulder.

Sean would always remember him like that: big mouth creased at the

corners, smiling with white teeth through three days' growth of beard,

slouch hat pushed to the back of his head, so his hair fell forward on

to his forehead, and sunburned skin flaking from the tip of his nose.

The rock behind them was cracked through. If Saul had not leaned

forward to make that gesture of affection he would not have exposed

himself.

The sniper on the ridge had seen the brim of his hat above the rock and

he held his aim into the crack. At the moment that Saul's fingers

touched Sean's shoulder his head moved across the gap and the Boer

fired.

The bullet hit Saul in the right temple, slanted diagonally back

through his head and came out behind his left ear.

Their faces were but eighteen inches apart and Sean was smiling into

Saul's eyes as the bullet hit. Saul's whole head was distorted by the

impact, swelling and bursting like a balloon.

His lips stretched so that for an instant his smile was a hideous

rubbery thing and then he was snatched away and thrown sideways down

the slope. He slid to a stop with his head and shoulders mercifully

covered by a tuft of the Coarse grey grass that grew among the rocks,

but his trunk shivered and his legs danced and kicked convulsively.

For a slow count of ten Sean did not move nor did his expression alter.

It took him that long to believe what he had seen Then his face seemed

to crumple.

"Saul!" His voice was a croak.

"Saul!" It rose higher, sharp with the realization of his loss He came

slowly to hIS knees. Now Saul's body was still, Very still and

relaxed.

Again Sean opened his mouth but this time the sound he uttered was

without form. The way an old bull buffalo bellows at the heart shot,

that way Sean gave expression to his grief. A low shuddering cry that

carried to the men in the rocks around him and to the Boers in the

saucer above.

He made no attempt to touch Saul. He stared at him.

"Nkosi. " Mbenjane was appalled at what he saw on Sean's face.

His tunic was stiff with his own dried blood. The graze across his

cheek was swollen and inflamed and it wept pale lymph. But it was the

eyes that alarmed Mbejane.

"N'Kosi." Mbejane tried to restrain him, but Sean did not bear.

His eyes were glazing over with the madness that had taken the place of

his grief. His head hunched down on his shoulders and he growled like

an animal.

"Take them! Take the bastards!" And he went up and over the rock in a

twisting leap with the bayoneted rifle held against his chest.

"Come on! " he roared and went up the slope so fast that only one

bullet hit him. But it did not stop him and he was over the lip,

roaring and clubbing and hacking with the bayonet.

From the rocks four hundred of his men swarmed up after him and boiled

over the lip of the saucer. But before they reached Sean he was face

to face with Jan Paulus Leroux.

This time it was no match. Jan Paulus was wasted and sick.

A gaunt skeleton of the man he had been. His rifle was empty and he

fumbled with the reload. He looked up and recognized Sean. Saw him

tall and splattered with blood. Saw the bayonet in his hands and the

madness in his eyes.

"Sean!" He said and lifted the empty rifle to meet the bayonet.

But he could not hold it. With Sean's weight behind it the bayonet

glanced off the stock and went on. Jan Paulus felt the tingling slide

of the steel through his reluctant flesh and he went over backwards

with the bayonet in him.

"Sean," he cried from his back. Sean stood over him and plucked the

bayonet out. He lifted it high with both hands, his whole body poised

to drive it down again.

They stared at each other. The British charge swept past them and they

were alone. One man wounded in the grass and the other wounded above

him with the bayoneted rifle and the madness still on him.

The vanquished in the grass, who had fought and suffered and sacrificed

the lives of those he loved. victor above him, who had fought and

suffered and sacrificed the lives of those he loved.

The game was war. The prize was a land. The penalty for defeat was

death.

"Maak dit klaar! Make it finished! " Leroux told him quietly The

madness went out in Sean like the flame of a candle. He lowered the

bayoneted rifle and let it drop. The weakness of his wound caught up

with him and he staggered. With surprise he looked down at his belly

and clasped his hands over the wound, and then he sank down to sit

beside Jan Paulus In the saucer. the fight was over.

"We're ready to move, sir. Eccles stood beside the scotch cart and

looked down at Sean. A massive scowl concealed his concern. "Are you

comfortable?"

Sean ignored the question. "Who is in charge of the burial details,

Eccles?"

"Smith, sir."

"You have told him about Saul, about Captain Friedman?"

"Yes, sir. They will bury him separately."

Sean lifted himself painfully on to an elbow and for a minute stared at

the two gangs working bare to the waist on the COMmunal graves. Beyond

them lay the rows of blanket, wrapped bundles. A fine day's work, he

thought bitterly.

"Shall we start, sir?" Eccles asked.

"You've given Smith my orders? Burghers to be buried with their

comrades, our men with theirs?"

"It's all taken care of, sir."

Sean lay back on the bedding that covered the floor of the scotch

cart

"Please send my servant to me, Eccles."

While he waited for Mbejane, Sean tried to avoid contact with the man

who lay beside him in the scotch cart He knew Jan Paulus was watching

him.

"Sean, Menheer, who will say the words for my men?"

"We have no Chaplain. " Sean did not look at him.

"I could say them. " "General Leroux, it will be another two hours

before the work is completed. You are wounded, and it is my duty to

get this column with the other wounded back to Vereeniging as soon as I

can. We are leaving the burial detail and when they're finished

they'll catch us up. " Sean spoke lying on his back staring up at the

sky.

"Menheer, I demand, " Jan Paulus began, but Sean turned angrily towards

him.

"Listen, Leroux. I've told you what I'm going to do. The graves will

be carefully marked, and later the War Graves Commission will send a

Chaplain. " There was very little room in the scotch cart and they

were both big men. Now, as they glared at each other their faces were

a foot apart. Sean would have said more, but as he opened his mouth

the wound in his guts caught him and he gasped. The sweat broke out

heavily across his forehead.

"Are you all right?" Jan Paulus's expression altered.

"I'll feel better once we get to Vereeniging. " "Ja, you're right. We

must go," agreed Leroux.

Eccles came back with Mbejane.

"Nkosi, you sent for me?"

"Mbejane, I want you to stay here and mark the place where they bury

Nkosi Saul. Remember it well, for later you must be able to bring me

back to it," Sean mumbled.

"Nkosi. " Mbejane went away.

"Very well, Eccles. You can start."

It was a long column. Behind the van rode the prisoners, many of them

mounted two up. Then followed the wounded, each in a horse litter of

poles and blankets, behind them the scotch cart and finally Eccles and

two hundred troopers of the rear guard Their progress was slow and

dismal.

In the scotch cart neither of them spoke again. They lay in pain,

bracing themselves against the jolt and lurch, with the sun beating

down mercilessly upon them.

In that dreamlike state induced by pain and loss of blood, Sean was

thinking of Saul. At times he would convince himself that it had not

happened and he would experience a rush of relief as though he had

woken from a nightmare to find it was not reality. Saul was alive

after all. Then his mind would focus with clarity and Saul was dead

again. Saul was wrapped in a blanket with the earth above him, and all

they had planned was down there with him. Then Sean would grapple once

more with the unanswerable.

"Ruth! " he cried aloud, so that Jan Paulus beside him stirred

uneasily.

"Are you all right, Sean?"

But Sean did not hear him. Now there was Ruth. Now there was Ruth

alone. He felt joy then in his loss, joy quickly swamped with guilt.

For an instant he had been glad that Saul was dead, and his treachery

sickened him and ached like the bullet in his guts. But still there

was Ruth, and Saul was dead. I must not think of it like that. I must

not think! And he struggled up into a sitting position and clung to

the side of the scotch cart

"Lie down, Sean," Jan Paulus told him gently. "You'll bleed again.

"You!" Sean shouted at him. "You killed him.

"Ja. " Leroux nodded his red beard into his chest. "I killed them,

but you also, all of us. Ja, we killed them. " And he reached up and

took Sean's arm and drew him down into the blankets. "Now, lie still

or we'll bury you also."

"But why, Paul. Why?" Sean asked softly.

"Does it matter why? They are dead. " "And now what happens?"

Sean covered his eyes from the sun.

"We go on living. That is all, we just go on."

"But what was it about? Why did we fight?"

"I don't know. Once I knew clearly, but now I have lost the reason,"

Leroux answered.

They were silent for a long time and then they began to talk again.

Groping together for the things that must take the place of that which

had filled these last three years.

Twice that afternoon the column halted briefly while they buried men

who had died of their wounds. And each of these deaths, one a burgher

and the other a trooper, gave poignancy and direction to the talk in

the scotch cart

In the evening they met a patrol that was scouting ahead of the big

columns returning from the vaal River. A young lieutenant came to the

scotch cart and saluted Sean.

"I have a message for you from General Acheson, sir.

"Yes? " "This fellow Leroux got away from us at the Padda.

Zietsmann, the other Boer leader, was killed, but Leroux got away.

"This is General Leroux," Sean told him.

"Good God! " He stared at Leroux. "You caught him. I say well done,

sir. Jolly well done. " In the past two years Jan Paulus had become a

legend to the British, so that the lieutenant examined him now with

frank curiosity.

"What is your message?" Sean snapped.

"Sorry, sir. " The youngster dragged his eyes away from Jan Paulus.

"All the Boer leaders are meeting at Vereeniging. We are to give them

safe conduct into the garrison. General Acheson wanted you to try to

contact Leroux with the offer, but, that won't be difficult now. Jolly

good show, sir.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Please tell General Acheson that we'll be in

Vereeniging tomorrow."

They watched the Patrol ride away and disappear over a fold in the

land.

"So!" growled Leroux. "It's surrender then."

No," Sean contradicted him. "It's peace!"

The primary school at Vereeniging had been converted into an officers'

hospital. Sean lay on his field cot and regarded the picture of

President Kruger on the wall opposite him. In this way he was putting

off the moment when he must continue with the letter he was writing. So

far he had written the address, the date and the salutation: "My dear

Ruth. " It was ten days since the column had returned from the veld.

It was also ten days since the surgeons had cut him open and tied

together those parts of his alimentary canal that the bullet had

disrupted. He wrote: I am at this moment well on the way to recovering

from a small wound received two weeks ago near the Vaal River, so

please take no notice of my current address. "He started a new

paragraph. " God knows I wish the circumstances in which I write were

less painful to both of us. You will by now have received an official

notification of Saul's death, so there is nothing I can add but to say

that he died in circumstances of great personal gallantry. While about

to lead a bayonet charge he was shot and killed instantly.

I know you will want to be alone in your grief. It will be some weeks

before the doctors allow me to travel. By the time I reach

Pietermaritzburg I hope you will be sufficiently recovered to allow me

to call on you in the hope that I may be able to give you some

comfort.

I trust that small Storm continues to increase in weight and beauty. I

look forward to seeing her again.

A long while he pondered the ending, and finally decided on

"Your true friend." He signed it, folded it into its envelope and laid

it on the locker beside his bed for posting.

Then he lay back on his pillows and surrendered himself to the ache of

loss and the dull pain in his belly.

After a while his physical pain dominated, and he glanced

surreptitiously around the ward to ensure there were no nurses about.

Then he lifted the sheet, pulled up his nightshirt and began picking at

the bandage until he had exposed the edge of the wound with the black

horsehair stitches standing stiffly out of it like the knots in a

strand of barbed wire. An expression of comical disgust curled his

lips. Sean hated sickness, but especially he hated it in his own

flesh.

The disgust gave way slowly to helpless anger and he glared at the

wound.

"Leave it stand, old Sean. Looking won't make it better."

Sean had been so intent on the evil gash in his stomach that he had not

heard the speaker approach. Despite the cane and the limp that dragged

his right leg, Leroux moved silently for a big man. He stood now

beside the bed and smiled shyly down at Sean.

"Paul!" Guiltily Sean covered himself.

,Ja, Sean. How goes it?" ....... "Not too bad. And you?"

Leroux shrugged. "They tell me I will need this for a long time to

come." He tapped the ferrule of the cane on the floor.

, May I sit down?"

"Of course." Sean moved to give him the edge of the bed and Leroux

lowered himself with his bad leg stretched stiffly in front of him. His

clothing was newly washed and the cuffs of his jacket darned; patches

on the elbows, and a long tear in the knee of his breeches had been

cobbled together with crude, masculine stitches.

His beard had been trimmed and squared. There were iodine stained

bandages covering the open sores on his wrists, but a red mane of hair

hung to the collar of his jacket and the bones of his forehead and

cheeks made harsh angles beneath skin that was desiccated and browned

by the sun.

"So!" said Sean.

"So!" Leroux answered him and looked down at his hands.

Both he and Sean were silent then, awkward and inarticulate, for

neither of them dealt easily in words.

"Will You smoke, Paul?" Sean reached for the cheroots on his locker.

"Thank you." They made a show of selecting and lighting, then silence

overwhelmed them again and Leroux scowled at the tip of his cheroot.

"This is good tobacco," he growled.

"Yes," agreed Sean and regarded his own cheroot with equal ferocity.

Leroux coughed and rolled his cane between the fingers of his other

hand,

"Toe maar, I just thought I'd come and see you." he said.

"I'm glad of it."

"So, you're all right then, hey?"

"Yes. I'm all right," Sean agreed.

"Good. " Leroux nodded sagely. "Well, then!" He stood up slowly. "I

had better be going. We are meeting again in an hour.

Jannie Smuts has come up from the Cape. " "I heard so." Even the

hospital was penetrated by ruMOurS of what was happening in the big

marquee tent pitched on the parade, ground near the station. Under the

chairmanship of old President Steyn the Boer leaders were talking out

their future.

De Wet was there, and Niemand and Leroux. Botha was there and Hertzog

and Strauss and others whose names had echoed across the world these

last two years. And now the last of them, Jannic Smuts, had arrived.

He had left his commando besieging the little town of O'Kiep in the

Northern Cape and travelled up the British-held railway. Now they were

all assembled. If they had gained nothing else in these last desperate

years, they had at least won recognition as the leaders of the Boer

people. This tiny band of war-sick men was treating with the

representatives of the greatest military power on earth.

-ja, I have heard so," Sean repeated, and impulsively he thrust out his

hand. "Good luck, Paul."

Leroux seized his hand and held it hard, his mouth moved with the

pressure of his emotions

"Sean, we must talk. We have to talk!" he blurted.

"Sit down," Sean told him and Leroux freed his hand and sank on to the

bed once again.

"What must I do, Sean?" he asked. "It's you who must advise me.

Not these . . . not these others from over the sea."

" You have seen Kitchener and Mimer. " It was not a question, for Sean

knew of the meeting. "What do they ask of you?"

"They ask everything. " Leroux spoke bitterly. "They ask for

surrender without terms. " "Will you agree to that?"

For a minute Leroux was silent, and then he lifted his head and looked

full into Sean's face.

"So far we have fought to live," he said and what Sean saw in those

eyes he would never forget. "But now we will fight to die. " "And by

this, what will you achieve?" Sean asked softly.

"Death is the lesser evil." "We can not live as slaves.

"Leroux's voice rose sharply. "This is my land," he cried.

"No," Sean told him harshly. "It is also my land, and the land of my

son," and then his voice softened. "And the blood of my son is your

blood."

"But these others-this Kitchener, this devil Mimer."

"They are a people apart," Sean said' But you fought with them!"

Leroux accused.

"I have done many foolish things," agreed Sean. "But, from them I have

learned. " "What are you saying?" demanded Leroux, and Sean could see

the sparkle of hope in his eyes. I must say this carefully, thought

Sean, I must be very careful. He drew a long breath before he spoke.

"As it stands this moment your people are scattered but alive, If you

fight on, the British will stay until you have found the innihilation

you seek. If you stop now, then soon they will leave. " "Will you

leave?" demanded Leroux savagely.

"No. " "And you are British! The British will stay-you and those like

you. " Then Sean grinned at him. It was so sudden, so irresistible

that grin, that it threw Leroux off balance.

"Do I look and talk like a rooinek, Paul?" he asked in the

"Taal.

"Which half of my son is burgher and which half British?"

Confused by this sneak attack Leroux stared at him for a long time

before he dropped his eyes and fiddled with his cane.

"Come on, man," Sean told him. "Make an end to this foolishness .

You and I have a lot of work to do.

"You and I?" Leroux asked suspiciously.

, yes. , , Leroux laughed, a sudden harsh bellow of laughter.

"You are a slim Kerel, " he roared.

"I'll have to think about what you have said." He rose from the bed

and seemed to stand taller now. The laughter filled out his gaunt

features and wrinkled his nose.

"I'll have to think very carefully about it." He reached out his hand

again and Sean took it. "I will come and talk with you again."

He turned away abruptly and limped down the ward with his cane tapping

loudly.

Jan Paulus kept his word. He visited Sean daily, an hour or so at a

time, and they talked. Two days after the Boer surrender he brought

another man with him.

Jan Paulus stood a good four inches over him, but though he was slimly

built the visitor gave the impression of size.

"Sean, this is Jan Christian Niemand."

"Perhaps I am lucky we did not meet before, Colonel Courtney, "

Niemand's voice, high in timbre, was crisp and authoritative . He

spoke the perfect English he had learned at Oxford University. "What

do you think, Oubaas? " He addressed Jan Paulus by the title which was

obviously a private joke between them, and Jan Paulus chuckled.

"Very lucky. Otherwise you also might be using a stick."

Sean examined Niemand with interest. Hard years of war had muscled his

shoulders and he walked like a soldier, yet above the pointed blond

beard was the face of a scholar. The skin had a youthful clarity which

was almost maidenly, but the eyes were a penetrating blue, the

merciless blue of a Toledo steel blade.

His mind had the same resilience, and before many minutes Sean was

using all his wits to meet and answer questions that Niemand asked

him.

It was clear that he was being subjected to some sort of test. At the

end of an hour he decided he had passed.

"And now, what are your plans?"

I must go home," Sean answered.

soon, soon, perhaps, a wife."

"I wish you happiness "it is not yet settled," Sean admitted. "I still

have to ask her.

Jannie Niemand smiled. "Well, then, I wish you luck with your suit.

And strength to build a new life." Suddenly he was serious.

"We also must rebuild what has been destroyed." He stood up from the

bed and Jan Paulus stood with him.

"There will be need of good men in the years ahead." Niemand held out

his hand and Sean took it. "We will meet again.

Count on that.

As the train ran in past the great, white mine dumps Sean leaned from

the window of the coach to look ahead at the familiar skyline of

Johannesburg, he wondered how such an unlovely city still had the power

to draw him back each time. It was as though he was connected to it by

an elastic umbilical cord which allowed him a wide range. But when he

reached its limit it pulled him back.

"TWo days," he promised himself. "Two days I'll stay here.

Just long enough to hand old Acheson my formal resignation and tell

Candy Good, bye. Then I'll head south to Ladyburg and and leave this

town to stew in its own evil juices.

Near at hand a midday hooter howled from one of the mines, and

immediately its cry was taken up and answered by the other mines. It

sounded as though a pack of hungry wolves were hunting across the

valley, the wolves of greed and gold. Those mines that had been forced

to close during the hostilities were now back in production, and the

black smoke from their stacks sullied the sky and drifted in a dirty

mist across the crest of the ridge. The train slowed, and the

unexpected clatter and lurch of the points broke the rhythm of its run.

Then it was sliding in along the concrete platform of Johannesburg

Station.

Sean lifted his luggage down from the rack above his head and passed it

out of the open window to Mbejane. The exertion of lifting and

carrying no longer caught in his guts; except for the irregular scar

near his navel he was completely healed. When he strode down the

platform towards the exit he held himself erect, no longer stooping to

favour his stomach.

A horse drawn cab deposited them on the pavement outside Acheson's

headquarters, and Sean left Mbejane guarding the luggage while he

pushed his way across the crowded lobby and climbed the staircase to

the first floor,

"Good afternoon, Colonel." The orderly sergeant recognized him

immediately and jumped to attention with such alacrity that he

overturned his stool.

"Afternoon, Thompson," Sean told him. The honours of his rank still

embarrassed him. Thompson relaxed and inquired with more than just the

formal concern: "How are you, sir? Sorry to 'ear about your belly,

sir.

"Thank you, Thompson, I am fine now. Is Major Peterson in?

Peterson was delighted to see him. He made tender inquiries after the

movement of Sean's bowels, for irregularity was often one of the

unpleasant aftermaths of a stomach wound. Sean reassured him and

Peterson went on: "Have some tea. The old man is busy right now but

he'll see you in ten minutes," and he shouted for Thompson to bring tea

before he returned to the subject of Sean's wound. "Much of a scar,

old chap? " he asked.

Sean loosened his Sam Browne belt, unbuttoned his tunic and pulled his

shirt out from his trousers. Peterson came around the desk and

inspected Sean's hairy stomach at close range.

"Very neat. Damn good job they did on you." Peterson gave his expert

opinion. "I got one at Omdurman, , one of those fuzzy wuzzies pegged