"Dirk.� Come here."

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

Sean led him into the tent.

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

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

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

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

it carefully.

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

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

into Dirk's eyes.� Then he spoke again.

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

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

"And now?"� Jan Paulus asked.

"I want passage through the lines."

"You are going over to the English?"

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

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

them?

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

expected.

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

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

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

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

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

will kill you."

"Or I you," Sean answered him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

regiment.

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

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

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

rode, and then considered the direction from which Sean had

approached.

"Say that again," he invited.

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

fell heavily on the Yorkshire man's ear.

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

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

barbed-wire prison compound while the Intelligence Department cabled

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

days during which Sean brooded incessantly, not on the indignities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

overpowering depression that it could only be alleviated by liquor or

physical violence.

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

the coast, promised both of these.

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

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

"What will you do, Nkosi?

Sean started towards the dingy little canteen that catered for the

thirsty of Frere.

"I'm going there," he answered.

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

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

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

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

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

then he will be in a condition conducive to sleep.

From the door Sean surveyed the interior of the canteen.� A single

large room with a trestle bar counter along the back wall, and the room

was comfortably MI of warmth and men and the smell of liquor and

cigars.� Still standing in the entrance, Sean slipped his hand into the

pocket of his trousers and surreptitiously counted his money, ten

sovereigns he had allowed himself, more than sufficient for the

purchase of the liquor he intended to consume.

As he worked his way through the crowd towards the bar, he looked at

the men about him.� Soldiers mostly, from a dozen different regiments.

Colonials and Imperial troops, other ranks predominating, although a

party of junior officers sat at a table against the far wall.� Then

there were a few civilians whom he judged to be transport drivers,

contractors and business men, two women with the officers whose

profession was never in doubt, and a dozen black waiters.

"What will it be, ducks?"� the large woman behind the counter asked as

he reached it and Sean regarded her moustache and her term of address

with disfavour.

"Brandy."� He was in no mood for the niceties.

"You want the bottle, ducks?"� She had recognized his need.

"That will do for a start," he agreed.

He drank large brandies, and with a fianit dismay know that they were

having no effect-apart from sharpening his imagination to the point

where he could clearly see Ruth's face before his eyes, complete in

every detail down to the little black beauty spot high on her cheek and

the way the corners of her eyes slanted upwards as she smiled.� He

would have to make a more active approach to forgetfulness.

Leaning back with both elbows on the counter and the glass clutched in

his right hand, he studied the men about him once more.

Evaluating each of them as a source of distraction and then discarding

and moving his attention on, he was finally left with the small group

around the gaming-table.

Seven players, the game draw poker, and from what he could see the

stakes were modest.� He picked up his bottle, crossed the room to join

the circle of spectators and took up his position behind a sergeant of

yeomanry who was receiving a battering from the cards.� A few hands

later the sergeant drew one to fill his flush, missed and pushed the

bluff-raising twice until he was called by two pairs across the

table.

He threw his hand "in and blew through his lips in disgust.

"That cleans me out.� " He gathered the few coins left on the table in

front of him and stood up.

"Rough luck, Jack.� Anyone care to take his place?"� The winner looked

around the circle of spectators.� "Nice friendly little game, table

stakes.� " "Deal me in."� Sean sat down, placed his glass and bottle

strategically at his right hand and stacked five gold sovereigns in

front of him.

"The man's got gold!� Welcome."

Sean ducked the first hand, lost two pounds to three queens on the

next, and won five pounds on the third.� The pattern of his luck was

set, he played with cold single-mindedness-and when he wanted cards it

seemed he had only to wish for them.

What was the old adage?--Unlucky in love, and the cards turn hot."

Sean grinned without amusement and filled a small straight with the

five of hearts, beat down the three sevens that came against him and

drew the pot towards him to swell the pile of Ins winnings.� Up about

thirty or forty pounds.� He was enjoying himself now.

"A small school, gentlemen.� " Three players had dropped out in the

last hour leaving four of them at the table.� "How about giving the

losers a chance to recoup?"

"You want to raise the stakes?"� Sean asked the speaker.� He was the

only other winner, a big man with a red hice and the smell of horses

about him.� Tkansport rider, probably.

"Yes, if everyone agrees.� Make the minimum bet five pounds.� " "Suits

me, " grunted Sean, and there was a murmur of agreement round the

table.� With heavy money out an air of caution prevailed at first, but

slowly the game opened up.� Sean's luck cooled a little, but an hour

later he had built up his kitty on a series of small wins to a total of

seventy-five pounds.� Then Sean dealt a strange hand.

The first caller on Sean's left raised before the draw, and was raised

in turn by the gentleman with the horsy smell, number three called and

Sean fanned his cards open.

With a gentle elation he found the seven, eight, nine and ten of

Clubs-with a Diamond six.� A pretty little straight dealt pat.

"Call your twenty, and raise it twenty, " he offered, and there was a

small stir of excitement among the onlookers.

"Call."� Number one was short of cash.

"Call," echoed Horse Odour and his gold clinked into the pot'I'm

dropping.� " Number dime closed his cards and pushed them away.� Sean

turned back to number one.

"How many cards?"

"I'll play with these."� Sean felt the first premonition of disaster.

"And you?"� he asked Horse Odour.

"I'm also happy with what I have.� " TWo pat hands against his small

straight; and from the suit distribution, Sean's four Clubs, one of

them would certainly be a flush.� With a queasy feeling in his stomach

Sean knew he was in trouble, knew his hand to be a loser.

Break the straight and go for the other Club, still not a certain

winner, but the only thing worth trying.

"I'll draw one.� " He tossed the six of Diamonds into the welter of

discards, and dealt to himself from the top of the pack.

"My bet."� Number one's face was glowing with confidence.

"I'll raise the maximum-another forty.� Cost you eighty pounds to look

at me, boys.� Let's see the colour of your money.

"I'd like to push you-but that's the limit.� I'll call.� " Horse

Odour's expression was completely neutral but he was sweating in a

light sheen across his forehead.

"Let me go to the books."� Sean picked up his cards and, from behind

the other four, pressed out the corner of the card he had drawn.

It was black, he opened it a little more-a black six.� Slowly he felt

the pressure build up within him like a freshly fired boiler.� He drew

a long breath and opened the card fully.

"I'll call also.� " He spoke on a gusty outgoing breath.

"Full house," shouted number one.� "Queen's full-beat that, you

bastards!� " Horse Odour slapped his cards down viciously, his red face

crumbling in disappointment.� "Goddam it-of all the filthy luck.

I had an ace-high flush.� " Number one giggled with excitement and

reached for the money.

"Wait for it, friend," Sean advised him, and spread his cards face up

upon the table.

"It's a flush.� My full house beats you," protested number one.

"Count the pips-" Sean touched each card as he named them, "six, seven,

eight, nine and the ten-all Clubs.� Straight flush!� You come second by

a day's march."� He lifted number one's hands off the money, pulled it

towards him and began stacking it in columns of twenty.

"Pretty hot run of luck you're having," Horse Odour gave his opinion,

his face still twisted with disappointment.

"Yes," agreed Sean.� Two hundred and sixty-eight pounds.

Very pretty' Funny how it comes to you on the big hands," Horse Odour

went on.� "And especially, when you're dealing.� What did you say your

profession was?"

Without looking up Sean began transferring the stacks of sovereigns to

his pockets.� He was smiling a little.� The end to a perfect evening,

he decided.

Satisfied that the money was secure Sean looked up at Horse Odour and

turned that smile full upon him.

"Come along then, laddie," he said.

"It will be a pleasure."� Horse Odour shoved his chair back and stood

up.

"It will indeed," agreed Sean.

Horse Odour led down the back-stairs into the yard, followed by Sean

and the entire clientele of the canteen.� At the bottom he paused,

judging Sean's footstep on the wooden stairs behind him-then he spun

and hit, swinging his body into the punch.

Sean rolled his head, but it caught him on the temple and he went over

backwards into the crowd behind him.� As he fell he saw Horse Odour

jerk back the tail of his jacket and bring out the knife.� It shone

dull silver in the light from the canteen windows skinning knife,

curved, eight inches of blade.

The crowd scattered leaving Sean lying on the stairs, and Horse Odour

came in to kill him, making an ugly sound, bringing the knife arching

down from overhead, a clumsy, unprofessional blow.

Only slightly stunned, Sean followed the silver sweep of the knife with

ease and the.� man's wrist slapped loudly into Sean's open left hand.

For a long moment the man lay on top of Sean, his knife-arm helpless in

Sean's grip, while Sean assessed his strength-and with regret realized

it was no match.� Horse Odour was big enough, but the belly pressed

against Sean's was flabby and large, and the wrist in Sean's hands was

bony without the hard rubbery give of sinew and muscle.

Horse Odour started to struggle, trying to wrestle his knife arm free,

the sweat de wed on his face and then began to drip it had an oily,

unpleasant smell like rancid butter that blended poorly with the odour

of the horses.

Sean tightened his grip on the man's wrist, at first using only the

strength of his forearm.

"Aah!� " Horse Odour stopped struggling.� Sean brought in the power of

his whole arm, so he could feel his shoulder muscles bunching and

writhing.

"Jesus Christ!� " Shrieking, as bone cracked in his wrist, Horse

Odour's fingers sprang open and the knife thumped on to the wooden

stairs.

Still holding him, Sean sat up, then came slowly to his feet.

"Leave us, friend."� Sean flung him backwards into the dust of the

yard.� He was breathing easily, still feeling cold and detached as he

looked down and watched Horse Odour scrabbling to his knees, nursing

his broken wrist.

Perhaps it was the man's first movement towards flight that triggered

Sean-or perhaps it was the liquor he had drunk that twisted his

emotions, aggravated his sense of loss and frustration and channelled

it into this insane outburst of hatred.

Suddenly it seemed to Sean that here before him on the ground was the

source of all his ills-this was the man who had taken Ruth from him.

"You bastard!"� he growled.� The man sensed the change in Sean and

scrambled to his feet, his face turning desperately from side to side

as he sought an avenue of escape.

"You filthy bastard!� " Sean's voice rose, shrill with the strength of

this new emotion.� For the first time in his life Sean craved to kill.

He advanced upon the man slowly, his fists opening and closing, his

face contorted and the words that spilled from his mouth no longer

making sense.

A great stillness had fallen upon the yard.� In the shadows the

watchers stood, chilled with the dreadful fascination of it.� The man

was frozen also, only his head moved and no sound came from his open

lips-and Sean closed in with the weaving motion of a cobra in

erection.

At the last moment the man tried to run, but his legs were slack and

heavy with fear-and Sean hit him in the chest with a sound like an axe

swung against a tree-trunk.

As he fell Sean went in after him, straddling his chest, roaring

incoherently with only a single word recognizable-the name of the woman

he loved.� In his madness he felt the man's face breaking up under his

fists, felt the warm spatter of blood thrown into his own face and on

to his arms, and heard the shouts of the crowd.

"He'll kill him!"

"Get him off " "For Chrissake give me a hand-he's as strong as a bloody

OX.� Their hands upon him, an arm locked around his throat from behind,

the shock as someone hit him with a bottle, the press of their bodies

as they swarmed over him.

With men clinging to him, two of them riding his back and a dozen

others on his arms and legs, Sean came to his feet.

" Pull his legs out from under him.� " "Get him down, man.� Get him

down.

With a convulsive heave Sean swung the men on his arms into violent

collision with each other.� They released him.

He kicked his right leg free, and those on his other leg let go and

scattered.� Reaching over his shoulders he plucked the men off his back

and stood alone, his chest swelling and subsiding as he breathed, the

blood from the bottle gash in his scalp trickling down his face and

soaking into his beard.

"Get a gun!"� someone shouted.

"There's a shotgun under the bar."� But no one left the circle that

ringed him in, and Sean glared around at them his eyes staring wildly

from the plane of glistening blood that was his face.

"You've killed him!"� a voice accused him.� And the words reached Sean

through the madness, his body relaxed slightly and he tried to wipe

away the blood with the open palm of his hand.� They saw the change in

him.

"Cool down, mate.� Fun's fun but the hell with murder.

"Easy, now.� Let's have a look what you've done to him.

Sean looked down on the body, and he was confused and then suddenly

afraid.� The man was dead-he was certain of it.

"Oh, my God!"� he whispered, backing away, wiping at his eyes

ineffectually and smearing blood.

"He pulled a knife.� Don't worry, mate, you've got witnesses.� " The

temper of the crowd had changed.

"No," Sean mumbled; they didn't understand.� For the first time in his

life he had abused his strength, had used it to kill without purpose.

To kill for the pleasure of it, to kill in the manner in which a

leopard kills.

Then the man moved slightly, he rolled his head and one of his legs

flexed and straightened.� Sean felt hope leap within him.

"He's alive!� " I

"Get a doctor.

Fearfully Sean approached and knelt beside the man, he un knotted the

scarf from around his own throat and cleaned the bloody mouth and

nostrils.

"He'll be all right-leave him to the Doc.

The doctor came, a lean and laconic man chewing tobacco.

In the yellow light of a hurricane lamp he examined and prodded while

they crowded close about him craning to see over his shoulders.

At last the doctor stood up.

"All right.� He can be moved.� Carry him up to my surgery."

Then he looked at Sean.� "Did you do it?"

Sean nodded.

"Remind me not to annoy you."

"I didn't mean to-it just sort of happened.

"Is that so?� " The doctor shot a stream of yellow tobacco juice into

the dust of the yard.� "Let's have a look at your head.� " He pulled

Sean's head down to his own level and parted the sodden black hair.

"Nicked a vein.� Doesn't need a stitch.� Wash it and a little iodine. "

"How much, Doc, for the other fellow?"� Sean asked.

"You paying?"� The doctor looked at him quizzically.

"Yes."

"Broken jaw, broken collar-bone, about two dozen stitches and a few

days in bed for concussion," he mused, adding it up.

"Say two guineas."

Sean gave him five.� "Look after him, Doc."

"That's my job."� And he followed the men who were carrying Horse Odour

out of the yard.

"Guess you need a drink, mister.� I'll buy you one," someone offered.

The whole world loves a winner.

"Yes," agreed Sean.� "I need a drink."

Sean had more than one drink.� When MbeJane came to fetch him at

midnight he had a deal of difficulty getting Sean up on to the back of

the horse.� Half-way to the camp Sean slid off and subsided into the

mud, so Mbeiane loaded him sideways-head and arms hanging over to port

and legs dangling starboard.

"It is possible that tomorrow you will regret this," Mbejane told him

primly as he unloaded him beside the fire and rolled him still booted

and bloody into his blanket.

He was correct.

In the dawn as Sean cleaned his face with a cloth dipped in a mug of

hot water, regarding its reflection in the small metal mirror, the only

fact that gave him the faintest satisfaction was the two hundred-odd

sovereigns he had salvaged from the night's debauch.

"Are you sick, Pa?"� Dirk's ghoulish interest in Sean's condition added

substantially to Ins evil temper.

"Eat your breakfast.� " Sean's tone was calculated by its sheer

malevolence to dry up further questioning.

"There is no food."� Mbenjane fell into the fkmiliar role of

protector.

"Why not?"� Sean focused his bloodshot eyes upon him.

"There is one among us who considers the purrhase of strong drink, and

other things, more important than food for his son.� " From the pocket

of his jacket Sean drew a handful of sovereigns.� "Go!"� he ordered.

"Buy food and fresh horses.� Go quickly so that in my grave illness I

may not be afflicted with the wisdom of your counsel.� Take Dirk with

you.

Mbejane examined the money, and grinned.

""The night was not wasted.

When they had gone back to Frerr, Dirk trotting beside the huge

half-naked Zulu and his voice only fading at a distance of a hundred

yards, Sean poured himself another mug of coffiee and cupping it in his

hands he sat staring into the ash and pink coals of the fire.� He could

trust Mbejane to use the money with care, he had the bargaining

patience peculiar to his race that could if necessary devote two days

to the purchase of a single ox.� These things did not concern Sean

now.

Instead he went over the events of the previous night.� Still sickened

by his display of murderous rage, he tried to justify it.

Taking into account the loss of nearly all he owned, the accumulation

of years of hard work that had been stripped from him in a single day;

the hardship and uncertainty that had followed.� And finally he had

reached the flash point when liquor and poker-tensed nerves had snapped

the last reserve in him and translated it all into that violent

outburst.

But that was not all, he knew he had avoided the main issue.

Ruth.� As he came back to her a wave of hopeless longing overwhelmed

him, a tender despair such as he had never experienced before.� He

groaned aloud, and lifted his eyes to the morning star which was fading

on the pink horizon as the sun came up behind.

For a while longer he wallowed in the softness of his love, remembering

the way she walked, the dark serenity of her eyes and her mouth when

she smiled and her voice when she sang until it threatened to smother

him in its softness.

Then he sprang to his feet and paced restlessly in the grass beside the

fire.� We must leave this place, ride away from it-go quickly.� I must

find something to do, some way to keep from thinking of it, something

to fill my hands which ache now from the need to hold her.

Along the road, going north to Colenso, a long column of infantry filed

past him in the dawn.� He stopped his pacing and watched them.

Each man leaned forward against his pack and the rifles stood up behind

their shoulders.

Yes, he thought, I will go with them.� Perhaps at the place to which

they march I can find what I could not find last night.� We will go

home to Ladyburg, riding hard on fresh horses.� I will leave Dirk with

my mother, then come back to this war.

He began to pace again impatiently.� Where the hell was Mbejane?

From the heights above, Sean looked down on Ladyburg.� The village

spread in a neat circle around the spire of the church.� He remembered

the spite as beacon-bright in its cladding of new copper, but nineteen

years of weather had dulled it to a mellow brown.

Nineteen years.� It did not seem that long.� There were goods yards

around the station now, a new concrete bridge over the Baboon Stroom,

the blue gums in the plantation beyond the school were taller, and the

flamboyants that had lined the main street were gone.

With a strange reluctance Sean turned his head and looked out to the

right, across the Baboon Stroom, close in against the escarpment, to

where he had left the sprawling Dutch gabled homestead of Theumskraal

with its roof of combed yellow thatch and the shutters of yellow-wood

across the windows.

It was there, but not as he remembered it.� Even at this distance he

could see the walls were flaking and mottled with patches of dampness;

the thatch was shaggy as the coat of an aftedale; one of the shutters

tilted slightly from a broken hinge; the lawns were brown and ragged

where the bare earth showed through.� The dairy behind the house had

crumbled, its roof gone and the remains of its walls jutted forlornly

upwards to the height of a man's shoulder.

"Damn the little bastard!"� Sean's anger flared abruptly as he saw the

neglect with which his twin brother had treated the lovely old house.

"He's so lazy he wouldn't get out of a bed he'd peed in.� " To Sean it

was not just a house.� It was the place his father had built, which had

sheltered Sean on the day of his birth and through the years of his

childhood.� When his father died under the Zulu spears at Isandlawana,

half the farm and the house had belonged to Sean; he had sat in the

study at nights with the logs burning in the stone fireplace and the

mounted buffalo head above it throwing distorted, moving shadows up on

to the plaster ceiling.� Although he had given his share away-yet it

was still his home.� Garry, his brother, had no right to let it decay

and fall apart this way.

"Damn him!"� Sean voiced his thoughts out loud-then almost immediately

his conscience rebuked him.� Garry was a cripple, his lower leg shot

away by the blast of a careless shotgun.� And Sean had fired that

shotgun.� Will I never be free of that guilt, how long must my penance

continue? �He protested at the goad of his conscience.

That is not your only trespass against your brother, his conscience

reminded him.� Who sired the child he calls his son?

Whose loins sowed the seed that became man-child in the belly of Anna,

your brother's wife?

"It has been a long time, Nkosi.- Mbejane had seen the expression on

his face as Sean looked towards Theuniskraal and remembered those

things from the past that were better forgotten.

"Yes.� " Sean roused himself, and straightened in the saddle.

"A long road and many years.� But now we are home again."

He looked back towards the village, searching the quarter beyond the

main street and the hotel for the roof of that little cottage on Protea

Street.� As he found it, showing through the tall, fluffy blue gum

bees, there was a lift in his mood, a new excitement.� Did she live

there still?� How would she look-a little grey surely; had her fifty

years marked her deeply, or had they treated her with the same

consideration which she showed all those with whom she came in

contact?

Had she forgiven him for leaving without a farewells Had she forgiven

Ins long years of silence since then?� Did she understand the reasons

why he had never written-no word or message, except that anonymous gift

of ten thousand pounds he had transferred to her bank account.� Ten

thousand miserable little pounds, which he had hardly noticed among all

the millions he had won and lost in those days long ago when he was one

of the lords of the Witwatersrand gold fields

Again the sense of guilt closed in upon him.� As he knew with utter

certainty that she had understood, that she had forgiven.

For that was Ada, the woman who was his stepmother-and whom he loved

beyond the natural love one owes their own full blooded mother.

"Let's go down," he said and kicked his horse to a canter.

"Is this home, Pa?"� Dirk shouted as he rode beside him.

"Yes, my boy.� This is home."

"Will Granma be here?"

"I hope so," Sean answered, and then softly,

"Beyond all other things, I hope that she will.

Over the bridge above the Baboon Stroom, past the cattle pens along the

fine of rail, past the old wood and iron station buildings with the

sign, white and black faded to grey,

"Ladyburg.� Altitude 2,256 it.

above sea level, " swinging left into the dusty main street which was

wide enough to turn a full span of oxen, and down to Protea Street rode

Sean and Dirk, with Mbejane and the pack-mule trailing far behind.

At the corner Sean checked his mount to a walk, drawing out the last

few minutes of anticipation until they stopped outside the wicket fence

of white that encompassed the cottage.

The garden was neat and green, gay with beds of Barberton daisies and

blue rhododendrons.� The cottage had been enlarged, a new room built on

the far side, and it was crisp-looking in a coat of new whitewash.� A

sign at the gate said in gold letters on a green ground, "Maison Ada.

High-class Costumier" Sean grinned.� "The old girl's gone all French,

by God.

Then to Dirk,

"Stay here!"

He swung down from his horse, handed the reins to Dirk and went through

the gate.� At the door he paused self-consciously and adjusted his

cravat.� He glanced down at the severe dark broadcloth suit and new

boots which he had purchased in Pietermaritzburg, slapped the dust from

his breeches, stroked his newly trimmed beard into place, gave his

moustache a twirl and knocked on the door.

It was opened at last by a young lady.� Sean did not recognize her. But

the girl reacted immediately, flushing slightly, attempting to pat her

hair into place without drawing attention to its disarray, tying to

dispose of the sewing in her hands, and exhibiting all the signs of

confusion peculiar to the unmarried female who finds herself suddenly

and unexpectedly in the presence of a large, well-dressed and

attractive male.� But Sean felt a twinge of pity as he looked at her

scarred face, ugly with the purple cicatrice of acne.

Sean lifted his hat.� "Is Mrs.� Courtney here?

"She's in the workroom, sir.� Who shall I tell her is calling?

"Don't tell her anything-it's a surprise.� " Sean smiled at her, and

she lifted her hands self-consciously in an attempt to mask the ruin of

her face.

"Won't you come in, sir?� " She turned her head aside, shyly as though

to hide it.

"Who is it, Mary?� " Sean started at the voice from the depths of the

cottage, it hadn't changed at all-and the years dropped away.

"It's a gentleman, Aunt Ada.� He wants to see you.

"I'm coming.� Ask him to sit down, and please bring us coffee, Mary.

"Mary escaped thankfully and left Sean standing alone in the small

sitting-room, twisting his hat in big brown hands, staring up at the

daguerreotype print of Waite Courtney above the mantel.� Although he

did not recognize the fact, the face of his father in the picture was

almost his own-the same eyes under heavy black brows, the same

arrogance about the mouth, even the identical thrust of stubbornness in

the jaw beneath the thick spade-shaped beard-and the big, hooked

Courtney nose.

The door from the work-room opened and Sean swung quickly to face it.

Ada Courtney came through it smiling, until she saw him, then she

stopped and the smile died on her lips and she paled.� Uncertainly her

hand lifted to her throat and she made a small choking sound.

"Dear God," she whispered.

"Ma."� Sean fidgeted his feet awkwardly.� "Hello, Ma.� It's good to see

you.� " "Sean."� The colour flooded back in her cheeks.� "For a moment

I thought-you're grown so much like your father.� Oh, Sean!� " And she

ran to him.� He tossed his hat on to the sofa and caught her around the

waist as she came.

"I've waited for you.� I knew you'd come."

Sean scooped her up and kissed her into a concision of joy and

laughter, swinging her while he did it, laughing himself.

"Put me down," Ada gasped at last, and when he did she clung to him.

"I knew you'd come back.� At first there were bits in the newspaper

about you, and the people told me things-but these last years there has

been nothing, nothing at all.

"I'm sorry.� " Sean sobered.

"You're a bad boy.� " She was sparkling with excitement, her hair had

escaped from its bun and a wisp of it hung down her cheek.� "But it's

so good to have you back-" and suddenly she was crying.

"Don't, Ma.� Please don't.� " He had never seen her cry before.

"It's just that ... It's the surprise.� " She brushed impatiently at

her tears.� "It's nothing.� " Desperately Sean sought something to

distract her.� "Hey!"

he exclaimed with relief,

"I've another surprise for you.

"Later, " she protested.� "One at a time."

"This won't wait."� He led her to the door and out on to the front

stoep with his arm around her shoulders.

"Dirk," he shouted.� "Come here."

He felt her standing very still as they watched Dirk coming up the

garden walk.

"This is your Gran'a.� " He introduced them.

"Why is she crying?� " Dirk eyed her with frank curiosity.

Later they sat at the table in the kitchen while Ada and Mary plied

them with food.� Ada Courtney believed that the first thing to do with

a man was feed him.

Mary was almost as excited as Ada, she had taken full advantage of the

few minutes she had been alone, and now her hair was freshly brushed

and she wore a gay new apron, but the powder with which she had tried

to cover the terrible disfiguration of the skin served only to call

attention to it.� In sympathy Sean refrained from looking at her, and

Mary noticed.� Shyly she devoted herself to winning Dirk's attention.

She fussed over him quietly-and Dirk accepted this as the natural order

of things.

While they ate Sean filled in the missing years for Ada with a brief

outline of his activities, glossing over the death of Dirk's mother,

and other things of which he had no reason to be proud.

He came to the end of it.

"And so here we are.

"Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the

hill."� Dirk, don't put so much in your mouth and keep it closed when

YOU chew.

"How long will you stay?� Mary, see if there are any cream puffs in the

jar-Dirk is still hungry," said Ada.

"You'll make him sick.� I don't know; not long though-there's a war on.

" "You're going to join?"

"Yes.� " "Oh, Sean.� Must you?"� Knowing that he must.� While he

selected a cheroot from his case Sean studied her closely for the first

time.� There was grey now as he had known there would be, almost as

much grey as black; long streaks of it across her temples and the

texture of her skin had altered, losing the moisture of youth, drying

out so that it creased around the eyes and stretched tight across her

hands to show the knuckles more prominently and the blueness of veins

beneath it.� She was plumper also, her bosom was full and round, each

breast having lost its separate identity in the whole.

Yet the other qualities whose memories he had treasured so long ago

still persisted, seemed indeed to have grown stronger; the composure

which showed in the stiffness of her hands and body, yet was given the

he by the humour that hovered around her lips; the eyes whose depths

held compassion and a sure understanding of those things they looked

upon.� But mostly it was the indefinable aura of goodness about

her-looking at her, he sensed again that behind those eyes no

destructive thought could live for long.

Sean lit a cheroot and spoke while the smoke masked his face.

"Yes, Ma.� I must go."

And Ada, whose husband had ridden to war also, and not ridden home,

could not prevent the sadness showing for an instant in her eyes.

"Yes, I suppose you must.� Garry has gone already-and Michael has been

agitating to follow him.

"Michael?"� Sean fired the question.

"Garry's son-he was born a short while after-after you left Ladyburg.

He will be eighteen this winter."

"What's he look like?"� Sean's voice was too eager.� Michael-so that is

what my son is named.� My first-born.� By God, my firstborn, and I

didn't even know his name until he was almost grown.� Ada was looking

at him with her own question unasked in her eyes.

"Mary, take Dirk through to the bathroom please.� Try and get a little

of that food from around his mouth.� " When they had gone she answered

Sean's question.

"He's a tall boy, tall and lean.� Dark like his mother, but a serious

lad.� He doesn't laugh much.� Always top of his class.� I like him very

much.� He comes here often."� She was silent for a moment, then,

"Sean.� . . " Quickly Sean cut in.� "And how is Garry?"� He sensed what

she was going to ask.

"Garry has not changed very much.� He has had a run of bad luck Poor

Garry, things have been bad on the farm.� The rinderpest ravaged his

herds, he had to borrow money from the bank.� She hesitated an instant.

"And he is drinking a lot these days.� I can't be sure of it-he never

visits the hotel and I have never seen him take a drink.

But it must be that.

"I'll find out where he is when I go up to Colenso.

"You'll have no difficulty finding him.� Garry is a lieutenant-colonel

on the General's staff.� He was given promotion from major last week,

and he has been awarded the Distinguished Service Order to go with his

Victoria Cross.� He is in charge of liaison between the Imperial and

the Colonial troops.

"Good God!"� Sean was stunned.� "Garry a colonel!"

"General Buller ads very highly of him.� "The General is also a holder

of the Victoria Cross.

"But," Sean protested.� "You know how Garry got that decoration.

It was a mistake.� If Garry is on the General's staff then Lord have

mercy on the British Army!� " "Sean, you mustn't talk about your

brother that way.

"Colonel Garrick Courtney.� " Sean laughed out loud.

"I don't know what there is between you and Garry.� But it's something

very nasty-and I don't want any of it in this house.

Ada's tone was fierce and Sean stopped laughing.

"I'M sorry."

"Before we close the subject, I want to warn you.� Please be very

careful how you handle Garry.� Whatever happened between you two-and I

don't want to know what it is-Garry still hates you.� Once or twice he

started talking about you but I stopped him.� Yet I know it from

Michael,-the boy has picked it up from his father.� It's almost an

obsession with him.� Be careful of Garry.

Ada stood up.� "And now about Dirk.� What a lovely child he is, Sean.

But I'm afraid you've spoiled him a little.

"He's a tiger," Sean admitted.

"What schooling has he been given?"

"Well, he can read a little-" "You'll leave him here with me.

I'll enrol him when the school term begins."

"I was going to ask.� I'll leave money with you.

"Ten years ago there was a very large and mysterious deposit to my bank

account.� It wasn't mine-so I placed it out at interest.� " She smiled

at him and Sean looked guilty.� "We can use that.� " "No," he said.

"Yes," she contradicted.� "And now tell me when you are leaving.

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"Tomorrow.

Since climbing the World's View road out of Pietermaritzburg, Sean and

Mbejane had travelled in sunshine and in companionship.� The feelings

between them were solid, compacted by time and the pressure of trouble

and shared laughter into a shield of affection-so that now they were

happy as only men can be together.� The jokes were old jokes, and the

responses almost automatic-but the excitement between them was new, in

the same way that each day's sun is new.� For they were riding to war,

to another meeting with death, so that everything else lost

significance.� Sean felt free, the thoughts and relationships with

other people which had weighed him down over the past months slipped

away.� Like a ship clear for action he hurried with a new lightness to

meet his chance.

At the same time he could stand aside from himself and grin tolerantly

at his own immaturity.� By God, we're like a couple of kids sneaking

out of school.� Then, following the thought further-he was suddenly

thankful.� Thankful that this was so; thankful that there was still

this capacity to forget everything else and approach the moment in

childlike anticipation.� For a while this new habit of self-appraisal

asserted itself, I am no longer young and I have learned much, gathered

it brick by brick along the way and, trimmed each brick and cemented it

into the wall.� The fortress of my manhood is not yet completed, but

what I have built so far is strong, Yet the purpose of a fortress is to

protect and hold safely those things the are precious; if, during the

building, a man loses and expends those things which he wishes to

protect, then the finished fortress is a mockery.� I have not lost it

all, a little I have used in barter.� I have traded a little faith for

the knowledge of evil; exchanged a little laughter for the

understanding of death; a measure of freedom for two sons (and this was

a good trade)-but I know there is still something left.

At his side Mbejane noticed the change of Sean's mood, and he moved in

front of it to turn it once more into sunshine.

"Nkosi, we must hurry if you wish to reach your drinking place at

Frere. " With an effort Sean thrust his thoughts aside, and laughed.

They rode on into the north, and on the third day they reached

Chievely.

Sean remembered his innocent amazement when, as a youth, he had joined

Lord Chelmsford's column at Rorke's Drift at the beginning of the Zulu

War.� He had believed then no greater accumulation of men was possible.

Now he looked out across the encampment of the British Army before

Colenso and smiled; Chelmsford's little force would have been lost in

the artillery and ordnance park, yet beyond that the tents stretched

away for two miles.� Row upon row of white canvas cones with the horse

lines in between-and to the rear the orderly acres of import vehicles,

thousands of them, with the draught animals scattered grazing across

the veld almost to the range of the eye.

it was an impressive sight not only in its immensity but also in its

neat and businesslike layout; so was the military precision of the

blocks of men at drill, the massed glitter of their bayonets as they

turned and marched and counter marched

When Sean wandered into the camp and read the names of the regiments at

the head of each row of tents he recognized them as the sound of glory.

But the new khaki uniforms and Pith helmets had reduced them all to a

homogeneous mass.� Only the cavalry retained a little of the magic in

the pennants that fluttered gaily at their lance-tips.� A squadron

trotted past him and Sean eyed their mounts with envy.� Great shiny

beasts, as arrogant as the men upon their backs.� Horse and rider given

an air of inhuman cruelty by the slender bright-tipped lance they

carried.

A dozen times Sean asked his question,

"Where can I find the Guides" and though the answer was given in the

dialects of Manchester and Lancashire, in the barely intelligible

accents of Scotland and Ireland, each had a common factor-they were all

singularly unhelpful.

Once he stopped to watch a group training with one of the new Maxim

mach me-guns.� Clumsy, he decided, no match against a rifle.

Later he would remember this judgement and feel a little foolish.

All morning he trudged through the camp, with MbeJane trailing him, and

at noon he was tired and dusty and bad tempered The Natal Corps of

Guides appeared to be a mythical unit.� He stood on the edge of the

camp and looked out across the open veld, pondering his next move in

the search.

Half a mile out on the grassy plain a thin drift of blue smoke caught

his eye.� It issued from a line of bush that obviously marked the

course of a stream.� Whoever had picked that spot to camp certainly

knew how to make himself comfortable in the veld.� Compared to the

bleak surroundings of the main encampment it would be paradise;

protected from the wind, close to firewood and water, well away from

the attention of senior officers.� That was his answer.� Sean grinned

and set out across the plain.

His guess was proved correct by the swarm of black servants among the

trees.� These could only be Colonial troops, each with a personal

retainer.� Also, the wagons were drawn up in the circular formation of

the laager.� With a feeling of homecoming Sean approached the first

white man he saw.

In an enamel hip bath beneath the shade of a mimosa tree this gentleman

sat, waist deep, while a servant added hot water from a large black

kettle.

"Hello," Sean greeted him.� The man looked up from his book, removed

the cheroot from his mouth and returned Sean's greeting.

"I'm looking for the Guides."

"Your search is ended, my friend.� Sit down."� Then to the servant,

"Bring the Nkosi a cup of coffee."

Thankful, Sean sank into the rezMe chair near the bath and stretched

his legs out before him.� His host laid aside the book and began to

lather his hairy chest and armpits while he studied Sean with frank

appraisal.

"Who's in charge here?"� Sean asked.

"You want to see him?

"Yes.� " The bather opened his mouth and yelled.

"Hey!� Tim!"

"What you want?"� The reply came from the nearest wagon.

"Fellow here to see you."

"What's he want?"

-says he wants to talk to you about his daughter-" There was a long

silence while the man in the wagon digested this, then: "What's he look

like?

"Big broke, with a shotgun."

"You're joking!"

"The hell I am!� Says if you don't come out he's coming in to get

YOU,

"The canvas of the wagon canopy was lifted cautiously and an eye showed

behind the slit.� The ferocious bellow that followed startled Sean to

his feet.� The canvas was thrown aside and out of the wagon vaulted the

Commanding Officer of the Guides.

He moved in on Sean with his arms like a wrestler.� For a moment Sean

stared at him, then he answered the bellow and dropped into a defensive

crouch.

" Yaah!� " The man charged and Sean met him chest to chest, locking his

arms around him as they closed.

"Tim Curtis, you miserable bastard," he roared in laughter and in pain

as Tim tried to pull his beard out by the roots.

"Sean Courtney, you evil son of a bitch," breathless as the air was

forced from his lungs by Sean's hug.

"Let's have a drink."� Sean punched him.

"Let's have a bottle."� Tim caught his ears and twisted.

At last they broke apart and stood laughing incoherently in the

pleasure of meeting again.

The servant returned with Sean's coffee and Tim waved him away

disgustedly.� "None of that slop!� Get a bottle of brandy out of my

chest."

"You two know each other, I presume."� The man in the bath interrupted

them.

Know each other!� Jesus, I worked five years for him!"

snorted Tim

"Digging his dirty gold out of the ground.� worst boss I ever had.

"Well, now's your chance," Sean grinned, "because I've come to work for

you.� " "You hear that, Saul?� The idiot wants to join.

"Mazeltav.� " The bather dunked the tip of his cheroot in his bath

water, flicked it away and stood up.� He offered Sean a soapy hand.

"Welcome to the legion of the lost.� My name's Saul Friedman.� I gather

yours is Sean Courtney.� Now where's that bottle and we'll celebrate

your arrival.� " The commotion had summoned the others from their

wagons and Sean was introduced to each of them.� It seemed the uniform

of the Guides was a khaki tunic without insignia or badges of rank,

slouch hats and riding breeches.� There were ten of them.

A touhh-looking bunch and Sean found their company to his liking.

Naked except for a towel draped round his waist, Saul did duty as

barman, then they all settled down in the shade to a bout of

drinking.

Tim Curtis entertained them for the first twenty minutes with a

biographical and biological account of Sean's career, to which Saul

contributed comments that were met with roars of laughter.� It was

obvious that Saul was the Company wit, a function which he performed

with distinction.� He was the youngest of them all, perhaps twenty-five

years old, and physically the smallest.� His body was thin and hairy,

and in a pleasant sort of way he was extremely ugly.� Sean liked him.

An hour later when the brandy had taken them to the stage of

seriousness which precedes wild and undirected hilarity, Sean asked,

"Captain Curtis .

"Lieutenant, and don't for-get it," Tim corrected him.

"Lieutenant, then.� What is our job, and when do we do it?"

Tim scowled at his empty glass, then looked across at Saul.

"Tell him," he instructed.

"As mentioned earlier, we are the legion of the lost.� People look on

us with pity and a mild embarrassment.� They pass us by on the far side

of the street, making the sign of the Cross and murmuring a spell to

avert the evil eye.� We live here in our own little leper colony.

"Why?� "Well, first of all, we belong to the most miserable little runt

in the entire army of Natal.� An officer, who, despite a formidable

array of medals, would not inspire confidence in a young ladies" choir.

He is chief liaison officer for the Coloni troops on the general staff.

�Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC."� D.S.O."

Saul paused and his expression changed.� "No relation of yours, I

trust?"

"No," lied Sean without hesitation.

"Thank God," Saul continued.� "Anyway, this is why people pity us.

The embarrassment arises from the fact that nobody recognizes our

official existence.� Even the drawing of rations must be preceded by a

comic opera dialogue between Tim and the Quartermaster.� But because we

are called

"Guides" everybody expects us to get out there and start doing a bit of

guiding.

So in some weird fashion the failure of General Buller to advance even

one hundred yards in three months is laid at our door."� Saul filled

his glass.� "Anyway, we haven't ran out of brandy yet.� " "You mean we

don't do anything?"� Sean asked incredulously.

"We eat, we sleep and we drink."

"Occasionally we go visiting, " Tim added.� "Now is as good a time as

any.� " "Who do we visit?"

"There is a most interesting woman in the area, not five miles distant.

She owns a travelling circus-forty wagons and forty girls.

They follow along behind the main army to comfort and encourage it.

Let's go and get some comfort and encouragement.� if we start now we'll

get to the head of the line-first come, first served."

"I'll leave you to it," Saul stood up and drifted away.

"He's a good kid," Tim observed as he watched him leave.

"Is it against his religion?"

"No.� But he's married and takes it seriously.� How about YOU?

"I'm not married.

"Let's go then."

Much later they rode home together in the moonlight, both pleasantly

melancholy with love and liquor.� The girl who had taken Sean to her

wagon was a friendly lass with a pair of fat maternal bosoms.

"I like you, mister," she told him afterwards.

"I like YOU also," he replied truffiftilly.

Although Sean experienced no more shame or guilt than after satisfying

any of his other bodily needs, yet he knew that half an hour with a

stranger in a wagon bed was a very poor substitute.

He began to hum the tune that Ruth had sung on the night of the

storm.

Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney removed his uniform jacket and hung

it carefully on the dumb-valet beside his desk.

The way a house proud wife straightens a picture, on her wall, he

touched the purple watered silk on which was suspended the heavy,

bronze cross, until it hung to his satisfaction.� His lips moving, he

read the inscription again, For valour", and smiled.

The champagne he had drunk during lunch made his brain feel like a

great brilliant diamond set in his skull, sharp and hard and clear.

He sat down, swivelled the chair sideways to the desk, and stretched

his legs out in front of him.

"Send him in, Orderly!"� he shouted, and dropped his eyes to his boots.

You couldn't tell the difference, he decided.� No one could tell by

looking at them which one was flesh and bone beneath the polished

leather-or which leg was carved wood with a cunningly articulated

ankle.

"Sir."� The voice startled him and he pulled his legs in guiltily,

hiding them beneath his chair.

"Curtis!"� He looked up at the man who stood before his desk.� Tim

stood rigidly to attention, staring stolidly over Garry's head, and

Garry let him stand.� He felt satisfaction that this hulking bastard

must use those two powerful legs to pay respect to Garrick Courtney.

Let him stand.� He waited, watching him, and at last Tim fidgeted

slightly and cleared his throat.

"At ease!� " There was no doubt now as to who held the power.

Garry picked up the paper-knife from Ins desk and turned it in his

hands as he spoke.

"You're wondering why I sent for you."� He smiled expansively.

"Well, the reason is that I have a job for you at last.� I lunched with

General Buller today."� He paused to let that absorb.� "We discussed

the Offensive.� He wanted my views on certain plans he has in mind.� "

Garry caught himself.� "Anyway, that is beside the point.� I want you

and your men to reconnoitre the river on both sides of Colenso.� See

here.� " Garry spread a map on the desk in front of him.

"There are fords marked here and here."� He jabbed at the map with the

paper-knife.� "Find them and mark them well.� Check the bridges-both

the railway and the road bridge, make certain they are intact.� Do it

tonight.

I want your full report in the morning.� You can go.

"Yes, Sir.

"Oh, Curtis-" Garry stopped him as he stooped in the entrance of the

tent.� "Find those fords."� The canvas flap dropped closed behind the

American, and Garry opened the drawer of his desk and took out a silver

flask set with camelians.� He unscrewed it and sniffed the contents

before he drank.

With the dawn, in bedraggled pairs the Guides dribbled into camp.

Sean and Saul were the last to return.� They dismounted, turned their

horses over to the servants and joined the group around the fire.

"Yes?"� Tim looked up from where he squatted with a mug of coffee

cupped in his hands.� His clothing was soaked and steam lifted off it

as it dried in the heat of the flames.� "They've blown the rail

bridge-but the road bridge is still intact.

"You're sure?"

"We walked across."

"That's something anyway," grunted Tim, and Sean raised a sceptical

eyebrow.

"You think so.� Hasn't it occurred to you that they've left the bridge

because that is where they want us to cross?

No one replied and Sean went on wearily: "When we checked the bridges,

Saul and I did a bit of exploring on the far side.� Just beyond the

railway bridge there is a series of little kopJes.� We crawled around

the bottom of them.

"And?"

"There are more Boers sitting on those kopJes than there are quills on

a porcupine's back.� Whoever tries to cross those bridges in daylight

is going to get the Bejesus shot out of him."

"Lovely thought!"� growled Tim.

"Charming, isn't it?� Further contemplation of it will make me puke.

What did you find?"

"We found plenty of water.� " Tim glanced down at his sodden clothing.

"Deep water."

"No ford," Sean anticipated gloomily.

"None.� But we found a ferryboat on the bank with the bottom knocked

out of it.� That could be the excuse for marking a ford on the map.� "

"So now you can go and tell your beloved Colonel the glad tidings."

Saul grinned.� "But one gets you five that it has no effect.

My guess is that Buller will attack Colenso within the next two days.

He might just be able to get a couple of thousand men across that

bridge, then we'd have a chance.� " Tim regarded him balefully.� "And

the Guides will be the first across.� All very well for you.� The Rabbi

has reduced your target area considerably-but what about us?

"But it's marked on the map," protested Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick

Courtney.� His head bowed so that Tim could see the Pink scalp through

the furrows the comb had left in his sandy brown hair.

"I've seen dragons and sea monsters marked on maps, Sir, Tim answered,

and Garry looked up at him coldly with pale blue eyes.

"You're not paid to be a comedian, Curtis."� "I beg your pardon, Sir,"

and Garry frowned.� Curtis could make the

"Sir" sound like an insult.

"Who did you send?"� he demanded.

"I went myself, Sir.� " "You could have missed it in the dark.

"If there is a ford there, it would have a road or at least a path

leading down to it.� I wouldn't have missed that, Sir.

"But in the darkness you could have been mistaken," insisted Garry.

"You might have missed something that would be obvious in daylight."

"Well, Sir ... "Good.� " Briskly Garry went on.� "Now, the bridges. You

say these are still intact.

"Only the road bridge, but.� .

"But what?"

-The men I sent report that the hills beyond the river are heavily

defended.� Almost as though the bridge has been preserved to bait a

trap."

-Curtis."� Deliberately Garry laid his paper-knife upon the map before

him.� His nose was too large for the space between his eyes and when he

pursed his lips this way he looked, Tim thought, like a bird-a sparrow,

a little brown sparrow.

-Curtis", Garry repeated softly.� "It seems to me you have very little

enthusiasm for this business.� I send you out to do a job and you come

back with a long list of excuses.� I don't think you realize how

important this is."

chirp, chirp-iittie sparrow.� Tim smiled secretly and Garry flushed.

"For instance.� Who did you send to reconnoitre these bridges-reliable

men, I hope?

"They are, sir.

"Who?"

"Friedman.

"oh!� The little Jewish lawyer.� A wise choice, Curtis, a commendably

wise choice.� Garry sniffed and picked up the paperknife.

my God!� Curtis marvelled.� He's a Jew-baiter as well, this little

sparrow has all the virtues.

"Who else did you send?"

"A new recruit."

"A new recruit?� A new recruit!"� Garry dropped the knife and lifted

his hands in appeal.

"I hhappen to have worked for him before the war.� I know him well,

sir.� He's a first-class man, I'd trust him before anyone else you

could name.� In fact, I was going to ask you to approve his promotion

to sergeant.� "And what is the name of this paragon?"

Funnily enough its the same as yours, sir.� Although he tells me you're

not related.� His name is Courtney.� Sean Courtney, Slowly, very

slowly, the expression of Garry's face altered.� It became smooth,

neutral.� Pale also, the lifeless, translucent paleness of a corpse's

face.� All life died in his eyes as well-theY were looking inwards,

back into the secret places of long ago.

The dark places.� They saw a small boy climbing a hill He was climbing

up through thick brush, young legs strong beneath him.

Climbing in deep shade, with the smell of leaf mould and the soft

murmur of insects, sweating in the heat of a Natal summer's morning,

eyes straining ahead through the dense green foliage for a glimpse of

the bush buck they were hunting, the dog leaning eagerly against the

leash and the same eagerness pumping in his own chest.

The dog barked once, and immediately the brush and stir of a big body

moving ahead of them, the click of a hoof against rock, then the rush

of its run.

The shot, a blunt burst of sound, and the buck bleating wounded as it

thrashed through the grass, and Sean's voice high and unbroken: "I got

him.� I got him first shot!� Gary.� Gary!� I got him, I got him!� "

Into the sunlight, the dog dragging him.� Sean wild with excitement,

running down the slope towards him with the shotgun.

Sean falling, the gun flung from his hands, the roar of the second shot

and the blow that knocked Garry's leg out from under him.

Sitting now in the grass and staring at the leg.� The little white

splinters of bone in the pulped flesh and the blood pumping dark and

strong and thick as custard.

"I didn't mean it ... Oh God, Garry, I didn't mean it.� I slipped.

Honest, I slipped.� " Garry shuddered, a violent almost sensual spasm

of his whole body, and the leg beneath the desk twitched in sympathy.

"Are you all right, sir?"� There was an edge of concern on Tim's

voice.

"I am perfectly well, thank you, Curtis."� Garry smoothed back the hair

from his temples.� There were deep bays of baldness there and his

hairline was frayed and irregular.� "Please continue.� " "Well, I was

saying-it looks like a trap.� They've left those bridges because .� .

.

" "It is your duty to collect information, Curtis.� It is the duty of

the general staff to evaluate it.� I think that completes your

report?

Good, then you may leave.� " He must have a drink now, already his hand

was on the handle of the drawer.

"Oh, Curtis."� His voice croaked with the terrible dryness in his

throat, but he spoke on through it.� "That promotion you spoke of is

approved.� Make the man a sergeant."

"Very well, sir.

"Of course, in the event of a frontal assault on the bridges he will

act as guide for the first attack.

"Sir?"

"You see the need for it, don't you?"� Tim had never heard this

wheedling tone from him before.� It was almost as though he wanted

Tim's approval.� As though he were trying to justify his decision.� "I

mean, he knows the bridges.� He's been over them.� He's the one who

knows them, isn't he?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And after all, he's a sergeant.� I mean, we should send someone with

rank-we can't just send anybody."

"I could go, Sir.� " I

"No.� No.� We'll need you at the ford.

"As YOU wish.� "You won't forget, will you?� You will send him, won't

YOU?

Almost pleading now.

"I'll send him," agreed Tim and stooped out of the tent.

Garry jerked open the drawer and his fingernails scrabbled on the rough

wood in their haste to find the flask.

To General Sir Redvers Buller, V. C. Officer Commanding, British

Expeditionary Army of Natal At Chievely December 19the 1899 Sir, I have

the honour to report that in accordance with orders received a

reconnaissance was carried out by officers and men of the Natal Corps

of Guides on the night of December 18th.

The results of which are set out below: Ford marked

"A " on attached Map: Although the ford promises passage for a large

body of men, it is difficult to locate in darkness and a night crossing

is not recommended.

Bridge marked -B " on attached map: This is a road bridge of metal

construction.� At present it is undamaged, probably due to its sturdy

construction resisting demolition by the enemy.

Bridge marked

"C " on attached Map: This is a railway bridge also constructed of

metal, but has been demolished by the enemy.

General: Limited penetration of area beyond the Tugela River by

elements of the NCG revealed the presence of the enemy on the hills

marked

"D" and

"E."� However, no evidence of artillery or excessive force was noted.

Courtney G."� Lieutenant-Colonel Officer Commanding NCG, In the

Field.

EXTRACT MADE FROM THE BATTLE ORDERS OF GENERAL SIR RED VERS BULLER

VC.� MADE AND SIGNED ON THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 19TH 1899.

The force commanded by Brigadier Lyttleton will advance on and capture

the village of Colenso.� Thereafter it will seize and cross the metal

bridge, and drive the enemy from the kopjes on the far bank.

(See attached Map.� They lay in the grass, side by side, and the dew

had soaked through the backs of their tunics.� The night was still and

silent.

No clouds above and the fat stars were very bright.� Ahead Of them the

silver smear of the Milky Way threw the silhouette of the Tugela

heights into bold relief, gave it an aspect of brooding menace.

Saul yawned loudly, and immediately Sean was forced to do the same.

Though they had not slept that night, it was not the weariness-but the

symptom of nerves wound tight at the prospect of going in against the

Boer guns .� . .

"Another hour and a half until dawn," Saul whispered, and Sean grunted.

There was no profit in counting the hours.� At forty-seven minutes past

six the sun would rise, and from behind them the British Army would

move forward across the brown grass plain.

Once more Sean rose to his knees and swept the ground before them with

his eyes, letting them move slowly along the bank of the TUgela,

picking up the loom of the steel road bridge a hundred paces ahead of

them, accounting for each bush on this bank, that they had not

multiplied or moved.� Then satisfied, he sank down again.� 7,

"My God, it's cold!� " He could feel Saul shivering beside him.

"It will warm up quite soon."� Sean grinned in the darkness as he

answered.� The clear night sky had allowed yesterday's warmth to

escape, the grass and their clodung were wet, even the steel of the

rifles was painfully cold to touch-but Sean had long ago learned to

ignore physical discomfort.� He could, when necessary, lie completely

motionless while tsetse flies settled on his neck and sank their

red-hot needles into the soft skin behind his ears.� Nevertheless, it

was a relief when the false dawn showed and it was time to move.

"I'll go in now," he whispered.

"Good luck!� I'll have breakfast ready when you come back.

This was a job for one man.� A job that Sean did not relish.

They had made certain that there were no enemy on this side of the

river, now at the last minute when it was too late for the Boers to

alter their dispositions-someone had to cross and find out in what

strength they were holding the bridge.� A couple of Boer Maxims sited

to command the bridge at short range, or even demolition charges set

ready to blow, would mean that the chances of success instead of being

slim would be non-existent.

Sean slung his rifle across his back and began crawling forward through

the grass.� TWice he stopped to listen briefly, but there was little

time-true dawn in an hour.� He reached the bridge and lay in its heavy

shadow, staring across at the far bank.

Nothing moved.� In the twilight the kopjes loomed like the backs of

dark whales in the grassy sea.� He waited five minutes-long enough for

a restless sentry to fidget-still nothing.

"Here we go," he whispered aloud, and suddenly he was afraid.� For an

instant he did not recognize the sensation, for he had experienced it

only three or four times in his life, but never with so little cause.

He crouched beside the steel girders of the bridge, with the weakness

in his legs and his belly full of the oiliness.� It was only when he

caught the taste of it at the back of his throat, a taste a little like

that of fish oil mixed with the effluence of something long dead, that

he knew what it was.

I'm afraid.� His first reaction was of surprise, which changed quickly

to alarm.

This was how it happened.� He knew it happened to other men.� He had

heard them talk of it around the camp fires, remembered the words and

the pity underlying them.

"Ja, his gun boy led him back to camp.� He was shaking like a man with

fever, and he was crying.� I thought he was hurt.

"Daniel, I said,

"Daniel, what is wrong?"� " "It broke," he said with the tears running

into his beard.� "It broke there in my head, I heard it break.� I threw

the gun away and I ran.� " "Did he charge, Daniel?"I asked.

"No, man.� I didn't even see him, just heard him feeding close by in

the cat bush Then it broke in my head and I was running.� " "He was no

coward.� I had hunted with him many times, seen him kill an elephant

from a charge so that it fell close enough to touch with the

gun-barrel.

He was good, but he had lived too close to it.� Then suddenly it broke

in his head.� He hasn't hunted again.� " I have accumulated fear the

way an old ship collects barnacles and weed below the water-line, now

it is ready to break in me also-Sean knew.� Knew also that if he ran

now, as the old hunter had run, he would never hunt again.

Crouching in the darkness, sweating in the cold of dawn with the

iciness of his fear, Sean wanted to vomit.� He was physically sick,

breathing heavily through his open mouth, the warm oiliness in his

belly coming close to venting itself, so weak with it that his legs

began to tremble and he caught at one of the iron girders of the bridge

for support.

A minute that seemed like an eternity, he stood like that.� Then he

began to fight it, bearing down on it, stiffening his legs and forcing

them to move forward.� Consciously he checked the relaxation of his

sphincter muscle-that close he had come to the ultimate degradation.

He knew then that the old joke about cowards was true.� And that it

applied to him also.

He went up on to the bridge; picking up each foot deliberately,

swinging it forward, laying it down and moving the weight of his body

over it.� His breathing was deliberate, each breath taken and expelled

at the command of his brain.� He couldn't trust his body now to perform

even the simplest task-not after it had betrayed him so monstrously.

Had they been waiting at the bridge, the Boers would have killed him

that morning.� Without caution he paced slowly down the centre of it,

big and heavily moving in the starlight and his footsteps rang on the

metal.

Under his feet the metal gave way to gravel.� He was across.

He kept walking, down the middle of the road, following the gentle

curve towards the dark hills.

He walked on with his terror and the sound of it roared in his head

like the sound of the sea.� The sling of his rifle slipped from his

shoulder and the weapon clattered into the road. �He stood for a full

minute before he could gather himself to stoop and pick it up.

Then he turned and went back.� Pacing slowly, counting his footsteps,

measuring them out-one each second-timing them carefully to prevent

himself from running.

Because if he ran he knew it was finished.� He too would never hunt

again.

"You all right?"� Saul was waiting.

"Yes."� Sean sank down beside him.

"See anything?

"No."� Saul was staring at him.� "Are you sure you're all right?

Sean sighed.� Once before he had been afraid.� Fear had come to him in

a caved-in mine-shaft, later he had gone back and left his fear in the

same mine-shaft, and had walked away from it alone.� In the same way,

he had hoped to leave it now beyond the river, but this time it had

followed him back.� With a certainty he knew that it would never leave

him from now onwards.� It would always be near.

I will have to tame it, he thought.� I will have to break it to the

halter and the curb.

"Yes, I'm all right," he answered Saul.� "What's the time?"

"Half-past five.� " "I'll send Mbejane back now."

Sean stood up and went to where Mbejane waited with their horses.

He handed Mbejane the small square of green cloth which was the

prearranged signal that neither the bridge nor the town was defended in

force.� The red square he replaced in his breast-pocket.

"I will come back," Mbejane told him.

"No."� Sean shook his head.� "There is nothing for you here."

Mbejane untied the horses.� "Stay in peace."

"Go in peace."� Sean was thankful that Mbejane would not be there as

witness, should he break under his new-found fear.

But I must not break, he decided grimly.� Today will be the test.

If I can la stout this day, then perhaps I will have tamed it.

He went back to where Saul waited in the darkness, and together they

lay and watched the dawn come on.

The darkness drew back, each minute enlarging the circle of their

vision.� Now the upper works of the bridge stood out, a neat

geometrical pattern against the dark bulk of the heights.

Then he could see the patterns of dark bush against pale grass and

rock.

The new light distorted distance, made the high ground seem remote and

no longer hostile.� A flight of egrets flew in long formation above the

course of the river, high enough to catch the sun so that they were

birds of bright, glowing gold in a world of shadow.� And the dawn

brought with it a small cold wind whose voice in the grass blended with

the murmur of the river.

Then the sun hit the heights as though to bless the army of the

Republic.� The mist in the gullies writhed in agony at its warmth,

lifted into the wind and smeared away.

The rim of the sun pushed up over the edge of the land, and the day

came bright and clean with dew.

Through his glasses Sean studied the crest of the high ground.

At a hundred paces there were traces of smoke as the Boer Army brewed

coffee.

"You think they'll spot us?"� asked Saul.

Sean shook his head without lowering his glasses.� Two small.

bushes and the thin screen of grass they had constructed during the

night hid them effectively.

"Are you sure you are all right?"� Saul asked once more.

From the set of his face Sean seemed to be in pain.

-Stomach gripes," Sean grunted.� Let it start soon, please let It

start.� The waiting is the worst.

Then the ground trembled under his chest, the faintest vibration, and

Sean felt relief flood through him.� "Here come the guns," he said, and

using the cover of one of the bushes, he stood up and looked behind

him.

In a single column, following each other at strictly spaced intervals,

the guns were moving into action.� They were coming in fast, still tiny

with distance but growing as the gunners astride the lead horses of

each team urged them on.� Closer now so that Sean could see the whip

arms rising and falling, he heard the rumble and rattle of the

carriages and faintly the shouts of the outriders.

Sixteen guns, one hundred and fifty horses to drag them, and a hundred

men to serve them.� But in the vastness of the great plain before

Colenso the column seemed small and insignificant.� Sean looked beyond

them and saw the foot soldiers following them, line upon line, like the

poles of a fence, thousands of them creeping forward across the plain.

Sean felt the old wild elation begin.� He knew the army was cent red up

on the line of markers which he and Saul had laid early the previous

night, and that the two of them would be the first across the bridge

the first of all those thousands.

But it was elation of a different quality to anything he had

experienced before.� It was sharper and more poignant, seasoned by the

red pepper of his fear.� So that for the first time in his life Sean

learned that fear can be a pleasurable sensation.

He watched the patterns of men and guns evolve upon the brown

gaming-table-counters thrown down at chance, to be won or irretrievably

lost at the fall of the dice of war.� Knowing also that he was one of

the counters, afraid and strangely jubilant in this knowledge.

The guns were close now.� He could make sense of the shouting, see the

features of the men and even recognize his own feelings in their

faces.

Close, perhaps too close.� Uneasily Sean glanced back at the forbidding

heights beyond the river and gauged the range.� Two thousand yards

perhaps, long rifle shot.� And still the guns came on.

"Jesus Christ!� Are they mad?"� Sean asked aloud.

"They must engage now.� " Saul also saw the danger.� "They can't come

closer.� " And still the guns came on.� The sound of their charge was

low thunder; dust from the dew-damp earth rose reluctantly behind them;

horses with wide mouths ffuming froth as they drove against the

traces.

"They're in range now.� They must stop, they must!� " groaned Sean.

Then at last the column splayed open, alternate guns wheeling left and

right still at full gallop.� Swinging broadside to the waiting Boer

rifles.

"My God!� My God!"� Sean mouthed the blasphemy in agony as he watched.

"They'll be massacred.� " Gunners rising in the stirrups, leaning back

to check the car rages The Gun-Captains jumping from their mounts,

letting them gallop free as they ran to begin the unhitching and the

pointing.� In this helpless moment while men swarmed over the guns,

man-handling them to train upon the heights; while the horses still

reared and whinnied in hysterical excitement; before the shells could

be unloaded and stacked beside their pieces-in that moment the Boer

rifles opened together.� It was a sound that lacked violence, strangely

un warlike muted by distance to the popping of a hundred strings of

fireworks, and at first there was no effect.� The grass was thick

enough to hide the strike of the bullets, the dust too lazy with dew to

jump and mark their fall.

Then a horse was hit and fell kicking, dragging its mate on to its

knees also.� TWo men ran to cut it loose, but one of them never reached

it.� He sat down suddenly in the grass with his head bowed.� Two more

horses dropped, another red and pawed wildly at the air with one front

leg flapping loosely where a bullet had broken the bone above the

knee.

-Get out!"� roared Sean.� "Pull back while there's still time,"

but his voice did not carry to the gun crews, could not carry above the

shouting and the screaming of wounded horses There was a new sound now

which Sean could not identify, a sound like hail on a tin roof,

isolated at first then more frequent until it was a hundred hammers

clanging together in broken rhythm-and he knew it was the sound of

bullets striking the metal of the guns.

He saw: A gunner fall forward and jam the breech of the piece until he

was dragged clear, A loader drop the shell he was carrying and stumble

on with his legs fbi ding until he subsided and lay still; One of the

horses break loose and gallop away across the plain dragging a tangle

of torn traces behind it; A covey of wild pheasant rise together out of

the grass near the batteries and curve away along the river before

dropping on stiff wings back into cover; And behind the guns the

infantry in neat lines advancing placidly towards the huddle of

deserted cottages that was Colenso.

Then, with a crash that made the earth jump, and with sixteen long

spurts of blue smoke, the guns came into action.

Sean focused his glasses on the ridge in time to see the first shells

burst along the crest.� The evil blossoms of greenish-yellow lyddite

fumes bloomed quickly in the sunlight, then drifted oily thick on the

wind.

Again the guns crashed, and again---each salvo more ragged -than the

last until it became a continuous stuttering, hammering roar.

Until the stark outline of the ridge was blurred and indefinite in the

dust and lyddite fumes.� There was smoke also, a fine greyish mist of

it banked along the heights-the smoke of thousands of rifles.

Quickly Sean set the rear sight of his Lee-Metford at a thousand yards,

wriggled forward on his elbows, hunched down over his rifle and began

shooting blindly into the smoke on the heights.� Beside him Saul was

firing also.

TWice Sean emptied his magazine before looking back at the guns.

The tempo of their fire had slackened.� Most of the horses were down in

the grass.� Dead men were dragged across the gun carriages, others

badly wounded crouched for cover behind the mountings, and where six

men had served each piece before, now four or only three carried shell

and loaded and fired.

"The fools, the bloody fools," Sean whispered, and began to shoot

again, concentrating his whole attention on the routine of jerking the

bolt back, sliding it forward in the same motion, sighting up into the

mist of gun smoke, and firing.� He did not count the shots and each

time the weapon clicked empty he groped for another clip from his

bandolier and re-loaded.� He was starting to sweat now, could feel it

trickling down his armpits, his ears buzzed from the concussion of the

rifle and his shoulder was beginning to throb.

Gradually a sense of unreality induced by the clamour of the guns and

the smell of burnt powder came over him.� It seemed that all he would

ever do was lie and shoot at nothing, shoot at smoke.� Then reality

faded further so that all of existence was the vee and dot of a rifle

sight, standing solid in mist.� And the mist had no shape.� In his ears

was the vast buzzing silence that drowned all the other sounds of

battle.� He was alone and tranquil, heavy and dulled by the hypnotic

drift of smoke and the repetitive act of loading and firing.

Abruptly the mood was broken.� Over them passed a rustle like giant

wings, then a crack as though Satan had slammed the door of hell.

Startled he looked up and saw a ball of shimmering white smoke standing

in the air above the guns, spinning and spreading, growing in the sky

like a flower.

"What the .

"Shrapnel," grunted Saul.� "Now they're finished."

Then crack and crack again as the Boer Nordenfeldts planted their

cotton flowers of smoke above the plain, flailing the guns and the men

who still worked them with a buzzing, hissing storm of steel.

Then there were voices.� Confused and dazed by the gunfire, it took

Sean a minute to place them.� He had forgotten the infantry1 4close UP

there."

"close up on the right.� Keep the line!"

"Don't run.� Steady, men.� Don't run.� " Long lines of men, lines that

bulged and lagged and straightened again at the urging of their

officers, Evenly spaced, plodding quietly with their rifles held across

their chests, they passed the guns.� Behind them they left khaki

bundles lying on the plain, some of the bundles lay still but others

writhed and screamed.

As the gaps appeared in the lines they were quickly filled at the chant

of

"Close up.� Close up there on the flank."

-They are heading for the railway bridge.� " Sean felt the first

premonition of disaster.� "Don't they know that it's been destroyed?� "

- we, have to stop them.� Saul scrambled to his feet beside Sean.

"Why didn't the fools follow our markers?"� Angrily Sean shouted the

question that had no answer.� He did it to gain time, to postpone the

moment when he must leave the flimsy cover of the grass shelter and go

out into the open where the shrapnel and the Mausers swept the ground.

Sean's fear came back on him strongly.� He didn't want to go out

there.

"Come on, Sean.� We must stop them."� And Saul started to run.� He

looked like a skinny little monkey, capering out towards the, advancing

waves of foot soldiers.� Sean sucked in his breath and held it a moment

before he followed.

twenty yards ahead of the leading rank of infantry, carrying a naked

sword in one hand and stepping out briskly on long legs, came an

officer.

"Hey, you!� " Sean shouted at him, waving his hat to catch his

attention.� He succeeded.� The officer fixed him with bright blue eyes

like a pair of bayonets and the waxed points of his grey moustache

twitched.� He strode on towards Sean and Saul.

"You're heading for the wrong bridge," Sean yelled at him, his voice

high-pitched with agitation.� "They've blown the rail bridge, you'll

never get across there.� " The officer reached them and checked his

stride.

"And who the hell are you, if it's not a rude question?"

"We're the ground scouts .� . ."� Sean started, then leapt in the air

as a Mauser bullet flicked.� into the ground between his legs.

"And put that bloody sword away-you'll have every Boer on the Tugela

competing for you.� " The officer, a colonel by the crowns on his

shoulders, frowned at Sean.

"The correct form of address, Sergeant .

"The hell with that!"� Sean roared at him.� "Swing your advance on to

the road bridge.� " He pointed with agitation at the metal

superstructure of the bridge that showed on the left through the thorn

trees.� "If you continue as you're going they'll cut you to pieces.� "

A moment longer the Colonel fixed Sean with his bayonet eyes, then he

lifted a silver whistle to his lips and blew a piercing blast.

"Take cover," he shouted.� "Take cover!"

And immediately the first rank dropped into the grass.� Behind them the

other ranks lost their rigidity, as men hesitated.

"Get into the town," a voice shouted.� "Take cover in the buildings."

And they broke and ran, a thousand men, jostling each other racing for

the security of the cottages of Colenso.

Pouring into the single street, diving into doorways and windows.

Within thirty seconds they had all gone to ground.

"Now, what's this all about?� " demanded the Colonel, turning back to

Sean.� Impatiently Sean repeated himself, standing out in the open and

uncomfortably aware that for absence of other targets the Boers were

beginning to take a very active interest in them.

"I,&

"Are you sure?"

"Dammit!� Of course, I'm sure.� The bridge is destroyed and they have

torn up all the barbed wire fences and thrown them into the river.

You'll never get across there.� " "Come along.� " The Colonel set off

towards the nearest cottage and Sean walked beside him.� Afterwards he

was never certain how he had managed to cover that hundred yards

without running.

"For God's sake, put that sword away," he growled at the colonel as

they walked with the flit, spang, flit, spang of bullets around them.

"Nervous, Sergeant?"� And for the first time the Colonel grinned.

"You're damn right, I am."

"So am I. But it would never do to let the men see that, would it?", He

steadied the scabbard on his hips and ran the sword back into it.

"What's your name, Sergeant?"

"Sean Courtney, Natal Corps of Guides.� What's yours?"

Sean ducked instinctively as a bullet cracked Past his head, and the

Colonel smiled again at the familiarity.

"Acheson.� John Acheson.� 2nd Battalion, Scots Fusiliers.

And they reached the cottage.� No longer able to restrain himself, Sean

dived thankfully through the kitchen door and found Saul already there.

He handed Sean a cheroot and held a match for him.

"These crazy Souties!� " he observed.� "And you're as bad as he

strolling around in the middle of a battle.

"Right, Courtney.� " Acheson followed him into the kitchen.

"Let's go over the situation."

He listened quietly while Sean explained in detail.� He had to shout to

lift his voice above the whistle and crack of the Boer artillery and

the roar of a thousand Lee-Metford rifles as they replied from the

windows and doorways of the village.� Around them the kitchen was being

used as a dressing-station and the moan and whimper of wounded men

added to the hubbub Of battle.

When Sean had finished Acheson turned away and strode to the window. He

looked out across the railway tracks, to where the guns stood.� They

were drawn up in precise parade-ground formation.� But now they were

silent.� Dribbling back towards the shelter of a deep don ga-or

gully-in the rear, the surviving gunners dragged their wounded with

them.

"The poor bastards," Sean whispered, as he saw one of the retreating

gunners killed, shot in the head so that his helmet was thrown spinning

upwards in a brief pink cloud of blood.

The sight seemed to rouse Acheson also.

"All right," he said.� "We'll advance on the road bridge.

Come on, Courtney.� " Behind him someone cried out, and Sean heard him

fall.� But he did not look round.� He watched the bridge ahead of

him.

Although his legs moved mechanically under him it seemed to come no

nearer.� The thorn trees were thicker here beside the river and they

gave a little cover from the merciless marksmen on the far bank.� Yet

men were falling steadily, and the shrapnel raged and cracked above

them.

"Let's get across.� Get the best seats on the other side, " Saul

shouted beside him.

"Come on, then," agreed Sean and they ran together.� They were first on

to the bridge, with Acheson just behind them.

Bullets left bright scars on the grey painted metal, and then suddenly,

miraculously, they were across.� They had crossed the Tugela.

A drainage ditch beside the road and they dived into it, both of them

panting.� Sean looked back.� Over the bridge poured a mass of khaki,

all semblance of order gone as they crowded into the bottleneck and the

fire from the Boers churned into them.

Once across, the leaders fanned out along the river, crouching below

the dip of the bank, while behind them the slaughter on the bridge

continued.� A struggling mass of cursing, running angry, frightened and

dying men.

"It's a bloody abattoir."� Sean was appalled as he watched it.

Dead and wounded men were falling over the low guard rail, splashing

into the brown waters of the Tugela to sink or strike out clumsily for

the banks.� But a steady stream of men was coming across and going to

ground in the two-deep drainage ditches, and beneath the angle of the

river bank.

It was clear to Sean that the attack was losing its impetus.� As the

men jumped down into the ditches he saw in their faces and in the way

they flattened themselves into shelter that they had lost all stomach

for the attack.� The ordeal of the bridge had destroyed the discipline

that had held their steady advance into those neatly controlled ranks;

officers and men were inextricably mixed into a tired and badly

frightened rabble.� There was no contact between the different groups

in the drainage trenches and those lying in the lee of the river

banks-and already there was little cover for the men who were still

coming across.� The fire from the Boer positions never faltered, and

now the bridge was blocked with the bodies of the fallen, so that each

new wave had to climb over them, stepping on dead and wounded alike,

while the storm of Boer rifle-fire lashed them like wind-driven rain.

Rivulets of fresh bright blood dribbled down the supports of the bridge

in ghastly contrast to the grey paint, and the surface of the river was

stained by a chocolate-brown cloud of it spreading slowly downstream.

Here and there a desperate rallying voice was lifted in the hubbub of

incoherent shouts and groans.

"Here the 21st.� Form on me the 21st.� " "Independent fire.� On the

heights.� Ten rounds rapid."

"Stretcher-bearer!� " "Bill.� Where are you, Bill?"

"Jesus Christ!� Jesus sobbing Christ!"

"Up, you men!� Get up!"

"Come on the 21st.� Fix bayonets."

Some of them were head and shoulders out of the ditch returning the

Boer fire, a few were drinking from their water bottles already.� A

sergeant struggled with a jammed rifle and swore softly without looking

up, while beside him a man sat with his back against the wall of the

ditch, his legs sprawled open, and watched while the blood pumped from

the wound in his belly.

Sean stood and felt the wind of a bullet slap against his cheek, while

low in his stomach the slimy reptile of fear coiled itself tighter.

Then he scrambled up the side of the ditch.

"Come on!"� he roared and started running towards the hills.

It was open here, like a meadow, and ahead of him an old barbed wire

fence sagged on rotten poles.� He reached it, lifted his foot and

kicked with his heel.� The fence pole snapped level with the ground,

the wire collapsed.� He jumped over it.

"They're not coming," Saul shouted beside him, and Sean stopped.

The two of them were alone in the middle of the field and the Boer

rifles were seeking them eagerly.

"Run, Saul!"� Sean shouted and snatched off his hat.� "Come on, you

bastards.� " He waved at the men behind him.

A bullet missed him so narrowly that he staggered in the wind of its

passage.

"This way!� Follow us!� Come on!"� Saul had not left him.� He was

dancing with excitement, and flapping his arms.

"Come back."� Acheson's voice floated across to them.� He stood in the

drainage ditch, showing clear from the waist up.

"Comeback, Courtney!

The attack was finished.� Sean knew it in that instant, and saw the

wisdom of Acheson's decision.� Further advance over the open meadowland

below the heights was suicide.� The resolve that had carried him this

far collapsed, and his terror snapped the leash he had held upon it. He

ran back blindly, sobbing, leaning forward, his elbows pumping in time

to his fear-driven feet.

Then suddenly Saul was hit beside him.� It took him in the head, threw

him forward, his rifle spinning from his hands, squawking hoarsely with

pain and surprise as he went down skidding on his belly.

And Sean ran on.

"Sean!"� Saul's voice left behind him.

"Sean!"� A cry of dreadful need, and Sean closed his mind against it

and ran on towards the safety of the ditch.

"Sean.� Please!"� and he checked and stood uncertain with the Mausers

barking above and the bullets clipping the grass around him.

Leave him, shrieked Sean's terror.� Leave him.� Run!� Run!

Saul crawled towards him, blood on his face and his eyes fastened on

Sean's face.

"Sean!"

Leave Turn.� Leave him But there was hope in that pitiful blood-smeared

face, and the fingers of Saul's hands clawed among the coarse grass

roots as he dragged himself forward.

It was beyond all reason.� But Sean went back to him.

Beneath the spurs of his terror Sean found the strength to lift him and

run with him.

Hating him as he had never hated before, Sean blundered towards the

drainage ditch carrying Saul.� The acceleration of his brain slowed

down the passage of time so that he seemed to run for ever.

"Damn you!"� he mouthed at Saul, hating him.

"Damn you to hell!� " The words came easily from his mouth, an

inarticulate expression of his terror.

Then the ground gave way beneath his feet and he fell.� Together they

dropped into the drainage ditch and Sean rolled away from him.� He lay

on his stomach and pressed his face into the earth and shook as a man

shakes in high fever.

Slowly he came back from that far place where fear had driven him, and

he lifted his head.

Saul sat against the bank of the ditch.� His face was streaked with a

mixture of blood and dirt.

"How are we doing?"� Sean croaked and Saul looked at him dully.

It was bright and very hot here in the sun.� Sean unscrewed the stopper

of his water-bottle and held it to Saul's lips.� Saul swallowed

painfully and water spilled from the corner of his mouth down his chin

and on to his tunic.

Then Sean drank and finished panting with pleasure.

" Let's have a look at your head.� " He lifted Saul's hat from his

head, and the blood that had accumulated around the sweat band poured

in a fresh flood down Saul's neck.� Parting the sodden black hair Sean

found the groove in the flesh of his scalp.

"Grazed you," he grunted and groped for the field dressing in the

pocket of Saul's tunic.� While he bound an untidy turban round Saul's

head he noticed that a strange stillness had fallen on the field, a

stillness accentuated rather than broken by the murmur of voices from

the men around him and the occasional report of a rifle from the

heights above.

The battle was over.� At least we got across the river, he thought

bitterly.� The only problem that now remains is getting back again.

"How's that feel?"� He had wet his handkerchief and wiped some of the

blood and dust from Saul's face.� "Thank you, Sean.� " Suddenly Sean

realized that Saul's eyes were full of wan and it embarrassed him.

He looked away from them.

"Thank you for .� for coming back to get me.

or get it."

'll never forget.� Never as long as I live.

"You'd have done the same.� " "No, I don't think so.� I wouldn't have

been able to.� I was so scared, so afraid, Sean.� You'd never know.

You'll never know what it's like to be that afraid.

"For-get it, Saul.� Leave it alone."

"I've got to tell you.� I owe it to you-from now on I owe you .

If you hadn't come back I'd be .� . . I'd still be out there.� I owe

you."

"Shut up, damn you!� " He saw that Saul's eyes were different, the

pupils had shrunk to tiny black specks and he was shaking his head in a

meaningless idiotic fashion.� The bullet had con cussed him.� But this

could not prevent Sean's anger.� "Shut UP, he snarled.� "You think I

don't know about fear.� I was so scared out there-I hated you.� Do you

hear that?� I hated you!

And then Sean's voice softened.� He had to explain to Saul and himself.

He had to tell him about it, to justify it and place it securely in the

scheme of things.

Suddenly he felt very old and wise.� In his hands he held the key to

the whole mystery of life.� It was all so clear, for the first time he

understood and he could explain it.

They sat close together in the sun, isolated from the men around them,

and Sean's voice sank to an urgent whisper as he tried to make Saul

understand, tried to pass on to him this knowledge that embraced all

truth.

Beside them lay a corporal of the Fusiliers.� He lay on his back, dead,

and the flies swarmed over his eyes and laid their eggs.� They looked

like tiny grains of rice clustered in the lashes around his dead open

eyes.

Saul leaned heavily against Sean's shoulder, now and then he shook his

head in confusion as he listened to Sean.� Listened to Sean's voice

tripping and stumbling then starting to hurry as his ideas broke up and

crumpled, heard the desperation in it as Sean strove to retain just a

few grains of all that knowledge which had been his a few moments

before.� Heard it peter out into silence and sorrow as he found that it

was gone.

"I don't know," Sean admitted at last.

Then Saul spoke, his voice was dull and his eyes would not focus

properly as he peered at Sean from beneath the bloodstained turban of

bandages.

"Ruth," he said.� "You speak like Ruth does.� Sometimes in the night

when she cannot sleep she tries to tell me.� Almost I understand,

almost she finds it and then she stops.� "I don't know," she says at

last.� "I just don't know.� "Sean jerked away from him, and stared into

his face.� "Ruth?"

he asked quietly.

"Ruth-my wife.� You'd like her, Sean-she'd like you.� So brave-she came

to me through the Boer lines.� All the way from Pretoria-riding alone.

She came to me.� I couldn't believe it.

All that way.� She just walked into camp one day and said,

"Hello, Saul.� I'm here!"� just like that!� You'll like her when you

meet her, Sean.� She's so beautiful, so serene .

In October when the big winds blow they come for the first time on a

still day.� It has been hot and dry for perhaps a month, then you hear

them from far away, roaring softly.� The roar mounts quickly, the dust

races brown on the wind and the trees lean away from it, threshing and

churning their branches.� You see it coming but all your preparations

are nothing when it hits.

The vast roaring and the dust envelope you and you are numbed and

blinded by the violence of it.

In the same way Sean saw it coming, he recognized it as the murderous

rage which before had nearly killed a man, but still he could not

prepare himself And then it was upon him and the roaring filled his

head and narrowed his vision so that all he could see was the face of

Saul Friedman.� The face was in profile for Saul was sat ring back

across the plain of Colenso towards the English lines.

Sean lifted the dead corporal's rifle and laid it across his lap.

With his thumb he dipped off the safety-catch, but Saul did not notice

the movement.

"She's in Pietermaritzburg, I had a letter from her last week, he

murmured, and Sean shifted the rifle in his lap so that the muzzle

aimed into the side of Saul's chest below the armpit.

"I sent her down to Pietermaritzburg.� She's staying with her uncle

there.� " Saul lifted his hand and touched his head.� Sean curled his

finger on the trigger.� "I wish you could meet her, Sean.� She'd like

you."� Now he looked into Sean's face, and there was such pathetic

trust in his eyes. �"When I write I am going to tell her about

today-about what you did.� " Sean took up the slack in the trigger

until he could feel the final resistance.

"We both owe you-" Saul stopped and smiled shyly.� "I just want you to

know that I'll never forget it.� " Kill him, roared Sean's head.

Kill him now-kill him quickly.

Don't let him talk.

It was the first conscious command his instinct had issued.

Now!� Do it now!� But his trigger-finger relaxed.

This is all that stands between you and Ruth.� Do it, do it now.

The roaring in his head abated.� The big wind had passed by and he

could hear it receding.� He lifted the rifle and slowly pushed the

safety-catch across.

In the stillness after the wind he knew suddenly that from now on Saul

Friedman was his special charge.� Because he had come so close to

taking it from him, Saul's life had become a debt of honour.

He laid the rifle aside and closed his eyes wearily.

"We'd better think about getting out of here, " he said quietly.

"Otherwise I might never get around to meeting this beauty of yours.

"Hart has got himself into a mess out there!"� General Sir Redvers

Buller's voice matched the pompous jut of his belly and he leaned back

against the weight of the telescope he held to his eye.� "What do you

think, Courtney?

"Well, he certainly hasn't reached the drift, sir.� It looks to me as

though he's been pinned down in the loop of the river, Garry agreed.

"Damn the man!� My orders were clear," growled Buller.

"What can you make of the guns-can you see anything there?"

Every telescope in the party of officers swivelled back to the centre,

to where the corrugated iron roofs of Colenso showed above the thorn

trees, dimly through the dust and the smoke.

"I can't .� . . " Garry started, then jumped uncontrollably as the

naval 4.7 bellowed from its emplacement beside them.� Every time that

morning it had fired, Garry had jumped.� If only I knew when it was

going to, he thought and jumped again as it bellowed.

"They are not being served," one of the other staff officers interposed

and Garry envied him his composure and his calmness of voice.� His own

hands were trembling so that he must grip hard with both hands to keep

his binoculars focused on the town.� Each time the naval gun fired the

dust of its recoil drifted over them, also the sun was fierce and he

was thirsty.� He thought of the flask in his saddle-bags and the next

bellow of the gun caught him completely off guard.� This time both his

feet left the ground" .� . . Do you agree, Courtney?� " Buller's voice,

he had not heard the beginning of the question.

"I do indeed, sir.

"Good."� The General turned to his ADC.� "Send a rider to Hart.

Tell him to pull out of there before he gets badly mauled.

Quick as you can, Clery.

At that moment Garry made a remarkable discovery.� Behind the

inscrutable mask of his face with its magnificent silver moustache,

behind the bulging expressionless eyes-General Sir Redvers Buller was

every bit as agitated and uncertain as was Garry Courtney.� His

continual appeals to Garry for support confirmed this.� Of course,

Garry did not consider that another reason why Buller addressed his

appeals to him, rather than the regular officers of his staff, was

because this was the one quarter from which Buller could rely on

unquestioning support.

"That takes care of the left flank.� " Buller was clearly relieved at

his decision as he searched out towards the right, fixing the low round

bulk of Hlangwane KopJe in the field of his telescope.

"Dundonald seems to be keeping his end up.� " Earlier, there had been

desultory rifle and pompom fire from the right flank.

Now it was silent.

"But the centre As though he had been delaying the moment, Buller at

last turned his attention on the holocaust of dust and flame and

shrapnel that enveloped Colenso.

"Come along.� " He snapped his telescope closed.� "We'd better have a

closer look at what they've accomplished there.� " And he led his staff

back to the horses.� Careful that no one should usurp his place at the

General's right hand, Garry limped along beside him.

At the headquarters of Lyttelton's Brigade, established in a deep don

ga half a mile before the first scattered buildings of the town, it

took Buller half a minute to find out what had been accomplished.� It

appalled him.

"We hold the town, sir.� And three companies have advanced to the road

bridge and seized it.� But we cannot hope to hold it.

I have sent a runner ordering them to withdraw on the town.� " "But why

aren't the guns firing?� What's happened to Colonel Long?

"The guns have been silenced.� Long is badly wounded."

While Buller sat his horse, slowly absorbing this, a sergeant of the

Transvaal Staats Artillerie jerked the lanyard of his quick firing

Nordenfelt and fired the shell which changed a British reverse into a

resounding defeat that would echo around the world.� From out of the

broken and rocky complex of hills on the north bank the shell arched

upwards; over the river with its surface churned to brown by shrapnel

and short shell and blood; high over the deserted guns manned only by

corpses; shrieking over the heads of the surviving gunners as they

crouched in the rear with their wounded, forcing them to duck as they

had ducked a thousand times before; plunging in its descent over the

town of Colenso where weary men waited; down across thorn tree and

mimosa and brown grass veld littered with dead men; falling at last in

a tall jump of dust and smoke in the midst of General Buller's staff.

Beneath him Garry's horse dropped, killed instantly, pinning his leg so

that had it been flesh and bone, not carved oak, it would have been

crushed.� He felt the blood soaking through his tunic and splattered in

his face and mouth.

"I've been hit.� Help me, God help me, I'm wounded."� And he writhed

and struggled in the grass, wiping the blood on his face.

Rough hands freed his leg and dragged him clear of his horse.

"Not your blood.� You're all right.� Not your blood, it's his.� " On

his hands and knees Garry stared in horror at the Surgeon-Major who had

stood beside him and who had shielded him from the blast.� Shrapnel had

cut his head away, and the blood still spouted from his neck as though

it were a severed hose.

Around him men fought their panic-stricken horses as they reared and

whinnied.� Buller was doubled up in the saddle, clutching the side of

his chest.

"Sir, sir.� Are you all right?"� An ADC had the reins and was bringing

Buller's horse under control.� TWo officers ran to Buller and helped

him down.� He stood between them, his face contorted with pain, and his

voice when he spoke was shaky, but hoarse.

"Disengage, Lyttelton!� Disengage on your whole front!"

"Sir," protested the Brigadier.� "We hold the town.� Let me cover the

guns until nightfall when we can retrieve them at our .� . . " .

"Damn you, Lyttelton.� You heard me.� Pull your brigade back

immediately.� The attack has failed.� " Buller's breathing wheezed in

his throat and he still clutched the side of his chest with both

hands.

"To withdraw now will mean accepting heavier losses than we have

suffered already.� The enemy artillery is accurately ranged

"Pull them out, do you hear me!"� Buller's voice rose to a shout.

"The guns .� Lyttelton tried again, but Buller had already turned to

his ADC.

"Send riders to Lord Dundonald's Brigade.� He must retire immediately.

I give him no latitude of discretion, he is to disengage his force at

once and withdraw.� Tell him ... tell him the attack has failed on left

and centre, tell him the guns are lost and he is in danger of being

surrounded.� Go.� Ride fast.� " There was a murmur among them,

horrified as they listened to these orders.� Miserably every eye turned

to Lyttelton, silently they pleaded with him, for he was the senior

officer present.

"General Buller.� " He spoke softly, but with an urgency that caught

even Buller's shell-shocked attention.� "At least, let me try to

recover the guns.� We cannot abandon them.� Let me call for

volunteers.

. " "I'll go, sir.� Please let me try.� " A young subaltern elbowed

Garry aside in his eagerness.� Garry knew who he was, all of them did,

for apart from being one of the most promising and popular youngsters

in Buller's command-he was also the only son of the legendary Lord

Roberts.

Assisted by his ADC, Buller moved to the shade of a mimosa tree and

sank down heavily with his back against the rough bark of the trunk. He

looked up at young Roberts, dully, without apparent interest.

"All right, Bobbie, Lyttelton will give you men.� Off you go then.

" He pronounced the sentence of death upon him, and Roberts laughed

excitedly, gaily, and ran to his horse.

"I think we are all in need of refreshment.� Will you join me in a

sandwich and a glass of champagne, gentlemen?� " Buller nodded to his

ADC, who hurried to bring food and drink from the saddle-bags.� A stray

shell burst twenty yards away, scattering clods of earth over them.

Stolidly Buller brushed a piece of dry grass from his whiskers and

selected a smoked salmon sandwich.

Sean crawled down the drainage ditch towards the bank of the river.� A

shell burst on the edge of the ditch and scattered clods of earth over

his back.� He paused to brush a tangle of grass roots out of his

whiskers and then crawled on to where Colonel Acheson squatted on his

haunches in earnest conversation with a captain of the Fusiliers.

"Hey, Colonel Acheson.� I doubt you'll need me again, will you?"

The Captain looked shocked at Sean's term of address, but Acheson

grinned briefly.

"A runner just got through.� We have been ordered to with(]raw.� I

"What a pity!"� Sean grunted sarcastically.� "Just when we were

knocking the daylights out of old brother Boer," and all three of them

ducked as a machine-gun hammered lumps of dirt out of the bank above

their heads.� Then Sean took up from where he had been interrupted.

"Well, in that case-I'll be leaving you.

"Where are you going?� " the Captain demanded suspiciously.

"Not across that bridge."� Sean removed the stub of his cheroot from

his mouth and pointed with it at the grey structure with its gruesome

streaks of new paint.� "I've got a wounded man with me.� He'll never

make it.� Have you got a match?

Automatically the Captain produced a box of wax matches from his

breast-pocket.� "Thanks.� I'm going to swim him downstream and find a

better place to cross.� " Sean re-lit his cheroot, blew a cloud of

smoke and returned the Captain's matches.

"A pleasure meeting you, Colonel Acheson.� " "You have permission to

fall out, Courtney.� " A second longer they looked into each other's

eyes, and Sean experienced a powerful desire to shake this man's hand

but instead he started crawling back along the ditch.

"Courtney!"� Sean paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"What's the name of the other Guide?"

"Friedman.� Saul Friedman."

Acheson scribbled briefly in his notebook, then returned it to his

pocket.

"You'll hear more about today-good luck."

"And to you, sir.

From a tree that hung out over the brown water of the Tugela, Sean

hacked a bushy green branch with his bayonet.

"Come on," and Saul slid down the greasy clay of the bank, waist-deep

into the river beside Sean.

"Leave your rifle.� " Obediently Saul dropped it into the river.

"What's the bush for?"

"To cover our heads."

"Why are we waiting?"

"For Acheson to create a diversion when he tries to get back across the

bridge.� " At that moment a whistle shrilled on the bank above them.

Immediately a fierce covering fire blared out and a party of khaki-clad

figures stampeded out on to the bridge.

"Now," grunted Sean.� They sank together into the blood warm water with

only their heads, wreathed in leaves, above the surface.� Sean pushed

out gently and the current caught them.

Neither of them looked back at the shrieking carnage on the bridge as

they drifted away.

TWenty minutes later and a half-mile downstream, Sean edged across the

current towards the remains of the railway bridge that hung like a

broken drawbridge into the river.� It offered a perfect access to the

south and the embankment of the railway would cover them in their

retreat across the plain.

Sean's feet touched mud bottom, then they were under the sagging bridge

like chickens under the wing of a hen.� He let the branch float away

and dragged Saul to the bank between the metal girders.

"Five minutes" rest," he told him and squatted beside him to rewind the

bandage that had come down over Saul's ears.� Muddy water streamed from

sodden uniforms, and Sean mourned the cheroots in his tunic pocket.

There was another drainage ditch running beside the high gravel

embankment of the railway.� Along it, walking in a crouch, Sean prodded

Saul ahead of him, yelling at him every time he attempted to straighten

up and relieve Ins aching back.� Once a sniper on the kopJes behind

them thumped a bullet into the gravel near Sean's head, and Sean swore

wearily and almost touched his knees with his nose.� But Saul did not

notice it.� With his legs sloppy under him he staggered along in front

of Sean, until finally he fell and lay in a sprawling, untidy heap in

the bottom of the ditch.

Sean kicked him.

"Get up, damn you!"

"No, Ruth.� Don't wake me up yet.� It's Sunday.� I don't have to work

today.� " Speaking quite clearly in a reasonable persuasive tone Saul

looked up at Sean, but his eyes were matt and the pupils shrunken to

black points.

"Get up. �Get up!"� The use of Ruth's name inflamed Sean.

He caught Saul's shoulder and shook him.� Saul's head jerked crazily

and fresh blood seeped through his bandage.� Instantly contrite, Sean

laid him back gently.

"Saul, please.� You must try.� Just a little farther."

"Glossless," whispered Saul.� "There is no gloss on it.� I don't want

it.� " And he closed his eyes, his lips bulged open and his breath

snored through them in tiny bubbles of spittle.

A suffocating despair dropped down over Sean as he studied Saul's face.

The eyes had receded into dark plum-coloured cavities, leaving the skin

stretched tight across his cheeks and across the gaunt bony nose.

Not because I nearly killed him, not because I owe it to him.

But because-but because?� How can you define your feelings for another

man.� All you can say is-because he is my friend.

Then, because he is my friend I cannot leave him here.

Sinking down beside him, Sean lifted his slack body into a sitting

position, draped one of Saul's arms around his shoulder and stood up.

Saul hung beside him, his head lolled forward on his chest, and Sean

looked ahead.� He could see the survivors from the bridge struggling

back through the village, dragging their wounded with them.

Across the whole breadth of the plain, singly and in twos and threes,

harried by shrapnel, beaten, broken, Buller's mighty army was in

retreat.� And there, not a hundred yards from where Sean crouched in

the railway ditch, drawn up neatly in the grass, deserted, forlorn,

stood the field guns.

Quickly Sean averted his eyes from them and began plodding away from

the river.� Over his shoulder he held Saul's wrist, his free arm was

wrapped around Saul's waist.

"Then slowly he was aware that the Boer fire was crescendoing once

more.� Shell that had fallen haphazard among the retreating men began

to concentrate on an area directly ahead of Sean.

Behind him the rifle-fire that had popped spasmodically on the heights

now swelled into a fierce, sustained crackle like a bush fire in green

forest.

Leaning against the side of the ditch Sean peered ahead through the

mimosa trees and the storm of dust and bursting shell.� He saw horses,

two teams in harness, men with them racing in through the thorn trees,

lifting pale dust in a cloud to mingle with the dust of the shells. Far

ahead of them, brandishing his cane, leading them in towards the

abandoned guns, galloped a figure on a big shiny bay.

"He's laughing.� " In wonder, Sean watched the leading rider disappear

behind a column of dust and high explosive, only to emerge again as he

swerved his mount like a polo player.� His mouth was open and Sean saw

the glint of white teeth.� "The fool is laughing his head off!"

And suddenly Sean was cheering wildly.

man, ride!"� he shouted and his voice was lost in the shriek and crash

of the bombardment.

"They've come to fetch the guns," howled Sean.� "Saul, they've come for

the guns.� " Without knowin how he had done it, mad with the excitement

of it, Sean found himself out of the ditch, running with new strength,

running with Saul's unconscious weight slung over his shoulder, running

through the grass towards the guns.

By the time he reached the battery the first team was already there.

The men were down struggling to back the horses up to the trail of the

Number One gun.� Sean slid the inert body from his shoulder and dropped

it in the grass.� Two of them were trying to lift the trail of the

field gun, but this task required four men.

"Get out of the way!"� Sean shouted at them and straddled the long

wedge-shaped trail of steel.� He locked his hands into the grips and

heaved upwards, lifting it clear and high.

"Get the carriage."� Quickly they rolled the detachable axle and wheels

in under the trail and locked them into position.

Sean stepped back panting.

"Well done!"� The young officer leaned forward in his saddle as he

shouted at Sean.� "Get up on the carriage.

But Sean turned and ran to Saul, he picked him up and stumbled with him

to the carriage.

"Grab him!� " he grunted at the two soldiers who were already aboard.

Between them they dragged Saul up on to the carriage seat.

"No room for you, cock.� Why don't you take Taffy's place on the

right-hand wheeler?"� one of them shouted down, and Sean saw he was

correct.� The drivers were mounting up, but one saddle was empty.

"Look after him," he told the man who held Saul.

"Don't worry, I've got him," the gunner assured him, and then

urgently,

"You'd best grab a seat-we're pulling out."

"Look after him," Sean repeated and started forward.

In that moment the luck which had protected him all morning ran out.� A

shell burst beside him.� He felt no pain but his right leg gave under

him and he went down on his knees.

He tried to stand but his body would not obey.

"Forward!� " shouted the subaltern, and the gun carriage trundled away,

gathering speed, beginning to jolt and bounce as the drivers lashed the

horses.� Sean saw the gunner who held Saul staring back at him from the

carriage, his face was contorted with helplessness.

"Look after him!� " Sean shouted.� "Promise me you'll look after him. "

The gunner opened his mouth to reply, but another shell burst between

them, throwing up a curtain of dust that hid the carnage.� This time

Sean felt the shrapnel tear into his flesh.� It stung like the cut of a

razor and he sagged sideways.� As he went down he saw that the

subaltern had been hit as well.� Saw him throw up his arms and fall

backwards over the rump of his horse, rolling from the saddle, hitting

the ground with his shoulder, one foot caught in the stirrup so that he

dragged over the rough ground until the stirrup leather snapped and

left him lying.� His horse galloped away in pursuit of the careering

gun carriage.

Sean dragged himself after it.� "Look after him," he shouted.

"For God's sake, look after Saul.� " But nobody heard that shout for

they were gone away amongst the trees, gone away in the dust with the

shellfire escorting them like a troop of brown demons.

Still Sean crawled after them, using one hand to reach ahead and claw

into the earth and inch his whole body belly down through the grass.

His other arm dragged at his side, and he could feel his right leg

slithering after him, until it caught and tethered him.� He struggled

against it, but his toe had hooked in a tuft of coarse grass and he

could not free it.� He wriggled on to [us side and doubled up with his

broken arm beneath him to look back at his leg.

There was much blood, a wet, slippery drag mark of it across the

flattened grass, and still it welled up out of his body.� But there was

no pain, only a dizziness and a weariness in his head.

His leg twisted at a ridiculous angle from his trunk, and the spur on

his boot stood up jauntily.� He wanted to laugh at the leg, but somehow

the effort was too great and he closed his eyes against the glare of

the sun.

Near him he heard somebody groaning and for a while he thought it must

be Saul.� Then he remembered that Saul was safe, and it was the young

subaltern.� With his eyes closed Sean lay and listened to him die.� It

was an ugly sound.

Battle-General Jan Paulus Leroux stood upon the heights above the

Tugela and removed his Terai hat.� His head was bald with a fringe of

ginger hair above the ears and thick around the back.

The skin of his pate was smooth and creamy white where the hat had

protected it from the sun, but his face had been weathered and

sculptured by the elements until it looked like a cliff of red-stone.

"Bring my pony, Hennie."� He spoke to the lad who stood beside him.

"Ja, Oorn Paul."� And he hurried away down the reverse slope to the

pony laager.

From the firing trench at Jan Paulus's feet one of his burghers looked

up at him.

"God has heard our prayers, Oom Paul.� He has given us a great victory.

" Jan Paulus nodded heavily, and his voice as he replied was low and

humble, without any trace of jubilation.

"Ja, Fredevik.� In God's name, a great victory.

But not as great as I had planned it, he thought.

Out of cannon shot, almost out of range of the naked eye, the last

tattered remnants of the British were dwindling into the brown

distance.

If only they could have waited, he thought with bitterness.� So clearly

I explained it to them, and they did not heed me.

His whole strategy had revolved upon the bridge.� If only his burghers

on the kopJe below the heights had held their fire and let them cross.

Then God would have delivered the enemy to them in thousands instead of

hundreds.� Caught in the amphitheatre of the heights with the river at

their backs none of them would have escaped when his artillery

destroyed the bridge behind them.� Sadly he looked down upon the trap

he had laid with such infinite care.� From above he could see the

trenches, each of them, masked and cunningly overlapped so that an

unbearable fire could sweep the grassy bowl into which he had hoped to

lure the British centre.� The trap that would never be sprung, for he

knew they would not come again.

Herime climbed back to him, leading his pony, and Jan Paulus mounted

quickly.

"Come, let us go down.

At forty-two years of age, Jan Paulus Leroux was very young for the

command he held.� There had been opposition in Pretoria to his

appointment when old Joubert refired, but President Kruger had ridden

rough-shod over it and formed the Volkraad to accept.� Ten minutes

before, Jan Paulus had sent him a telegraphed message, which had

justified this confidence.

With long stirrup leathers, his massive body loose and relaxed in the

saddle, his sjambok willing from his wrist and the wide brimmed hat

shading his face, Jan Paulus went down to gather the harvest of war.

As he reached the kopJes and rode in among them, his burghers rose from

their trenches on the slopes and cheered him.

Their voices blended in a savage roar that echoed from the heights like

the jubilation of lions on a new kill.� Impassively Jan Paulus examined

their faces as he passed.� They were coated with red dust and burned

powder, and sweat had run in dark lines through the grime.� One man

used his rifle as a crutch to balance himself against his wound, and

there were harsh lines of pain around his mouth as he cheered.� Jan

Paulus checked his pony.� "Lie down, don't be a fool, man!"� The man

grinned painfully and shook his head.

"Nee, Oorn Paul.� I'm going with you to fetch the guns."

Brusquely Jan Paulus motioned to the men who stood beside the wounded

burgher.� "Take him away.� Take him to the doctors.� And he trotted on

to where Commandant Van Wyk waited for him.

"I told you to hold your men until they crossed," he greeted him, and

Van Wyk's grin faded.

"Ja, Oom Paul.� I know.� But I could not hold them.� The young ones

started it.� When they saw the guns right there under their noses-I

could not hold them.� " Van Wyk turned and pointed across the river.

"Look how near they were.� " Jan Paulus looked across the river.� The

guns were standing in the open, so close and so lightly screened by the

intervening thorn scrub that he could count the spokes of the wheels

and see the sparkle of the brass breech fittings.

"It was too much temptation," Van Wyk ended lamely.

"So!� It is done, and we cannot undo it with words."� Grimly Jan Paulus

determined that this man would never command again.� "Come, we will

fetch them.

At the road bridge Jan Paulus halted the long column of horsemen behind

him.� Although none of it showed on his face, yet his stomach heaved

with horror at what he saw.

"Move them," he ordered, and as the thirty burghers dismounted and went

forward to clear the bridge he called out after them.� "Handle them

gently, lift them-do not drag them away like mealie sacks.� These were

men. �Brave men."� Beside him the boy, Hennie, was crying openly.

The tears falling on to his patched tweed jacket.

"Be still, Jong," Jan Paulus murmured gently.� Tears are for women."

And he urged his pony into the narrow passage between the dead.� It was

the dust and the sun and the lyddite fumes which had irritated his own

eyes, he told himself angrily.

Quietly, lacking the triumphant bearing of victors, they came to the

guns and spread out among them.� Then a single rifle-shot 1 cracked out

and a burgher staggered and clutched the wheel of a gun carriage for

support.

Whiding his pony, and flattening himself along its neck, Jan Paulus

charged the don ga beyond the guns from which the shot had come.

Another shot hissed past his head, but by then Jan Paulus had reached

the don ga Pulling Ins mount down from full gallop on to its haunches,

he jumped from the saddle and kicked the rifle out of the British

private's hands before dragging him to his feet.

"We have killed too much already, you fool.� " Stumbling over the

English words, his tongue clumsy with rage, he roared into the

soldier's face.� "It is finished.� Give up."� And then turning on the

surviving gunners who huddled along the don ga "Give up, give up, all

of you!� " None of them moved for a long minute, then slowly one at a

time they stood up and shuffled out of the don ga

While a party of Boers led the prisoners away, and the others went

about the business of hitching up the guns and the ammunition wagon,

the British stretcher-bearers began filtering forward through the

mimosa trees.� Soon khaki figures were mingled everywhere with the

burghers as they searched like bird-dogs for the wounded.

Two of them, dark-skinned Indians of the Medical Corps, had found a man

lying out on the left flank.� They were having difficulty with him, and

Jan Paulus handed the reins of Ins pony to Hennie and walked across to

them.

In semi-delirium the wounded man was cursing horribly and resisting all

attempts by the two Indians to fix splints on his leg.

"Leave me alone, you bastards," and a flying fist knocked one of them

sprawling.� Jan Paulus, recognizing the voice and the punch, started to

run.

"You behave yourself, or I'll klop you one," he growled as he reached

them.� Groggily Sean rolled his head and tried to focus on him.

"Who's that?� Who are you?� Get the hell away from me.

Jan Paulus did not answer.� He was looking at the wounds and they made

him want to vomit.

"Give to me."� He took the splints from the shaken bearers and squatted

down beside Sean.

"Get away!"� Sean screamed at him.� "I know what you're going to do.

You're going to cut it off!"� dean " Jan Paulus caught his wrist and

held it while Sean writhed and swore.

"I'll kill you, you filthy bastard.� I'll kill you if you touch it.

"Sean!� It's me.� Look at me!"

And slowly Sean relaxed, his eyes steadied.

"It's you?� It's really you?"� he whispered.� "Don't let them ... don't

let them take my leg.� Not like they did to Garry.

"Be still, or I'll break your stupid head, " growled Jan Paulus.

Like Ins face, his hands were beefy and red, big hands with fingers

like calloused sausages, but now they worked as gently as those of a

mother on her child.� At last, holding the ankle, he looked at Sean.

"Hold fast, now.� I must straighten it."

Sean tried to grin, but his face was grey beneath the coating of battle

filth, and sweat squeezed from his skin like a rash of tiny blisters.

"Don't talk so much, you bloody Dutchman.� Do it!"

Bone grated on broken bone deep in the torn flesh and Sean gasped.

Every muscle in Ins body convulsed and then relaxed again as he

fainted.

"Ja, " granted Jan Paulus.� "That's better," and for the first time the

set of his features betrayed his compassion.� He finished with the

bandages, and for a few seconds continued to squat beside Sean's

unconscious body.� Then he whispered so low that the two bearers could

not catch the words.

"Sleep well, my brother.� May God spare you your leg."

And he stood, all trace of pity and sorrow locked away behind the

red-stone of his face.

"Take him away," he ordered, and waited while they lifted the stretcher

and staggered away with it.

He went to his pony, and his feet dragged a little through the grass.

From the saddle he looked once more towards the south but the two

bearers had disappeared with their burden among the mimosa trees.

He touched spurs to his pony's flanks and followed the long procession

of wagons, prisoners and guns back towards the Tugela.� The only sound

was the jingle of harness and the melancholy rumble of wheels.

Garrick Courtney watched the champagne spilling into the crystal bowl

of his glass.� The bubbles swirled in golden patterns, catching the

lantern light.� The mess corporal lifted the bottle, dexterously caught

a drop of wine on his napkin and moved behind Garry to fill the glass

of Brigadier Lyttelton, who sat beside him.

"No."� Lyttelton placed a hand over his empty glass to prevent him

doing so.

"Come, come, Lyttelton.� " Sir Redvers Buller leaned forward and looked

down the table.� "That's an excellent wine."

"Thank you, sir, but champagne is for victory-perhaps we should have a

case sent across the river.� " Buller flushed slowly and looked down at

his own glass.� Once more an ugly silence descended on the mess.� In an

effort to break it Garry spoke up.

"I do think the withdrawal today was made in extremely good order.

" "Oh, I agree most heartily.� " From across the table Lord Dundonald's

icy sarcasm added to the gaiety.� "But in all fairness, Colonel, we

were travelling very light on our return.

This oblique reference to the guns sent every eye to Buller's

face-Dundonald was showing a reckless disregard of that notorious

temper.� But as a peer of the realm he could take the chance.� With a

courteous insolence he met Buller's glare, and held it until the pale

bulging eyes faded and dropped.

"Gentlemen."� Buller spoke heavily.� "We have had a most trying day,

and for all of us there is still work to do.� " He glanced at his ADC.

"Clery, will you be kind enough to propose the Queen?

Alone, Garry limped from the huge marquee mess tent.� The smaller

tents, lit internally, were a vast field of luminous cones, and above

them the night was black satin sown with silver stars.

The wine that Garry had drunk during dinner hummed in his head so that

he did not notice the dejected silence that smothered the encampment as

he picked his way through it.

As Garry entered his headquarters a man stood up from the camp chair

beside his desk.� In the light of the lantern his features were gaunt,

and weariness showed in every line of his body.

"Good evening, sir."

"You've come to make your report?"

"I have, sir.� For what it's worth.

"Tell me, Curtis-how many casualties?"� There was an eagerness behind

the question which Tim found ghoulish.� Speculatively he examined

Garry's face before replying.

"We suffered heavily, out of a strength of twenty we had four dead two

Missing and five wounded.� "Have you made out a list?

"Not yet."

"Well, tell me.� Who were they?"� "Killed were Booth, Amery.

No longer could Garry hold his impatience, he blurted out suddenly:

"What about that sergeant?"

"You mean Courtney?"

"Yes.� Yes."� And now with his impatience was mingled a dread that made

his stomach feel hollow.

"Wounded, sir.

And Garry felt a lift of relief so intense that he must close his eyes

and suck in his breath to ride it up.

Sean was still alive I Thank God Thank Godfor that

"Where is he now?"

"They've got him down at the railhead hospital.� He's being sent out

with the first batch of badly wounded."

"Badly?"� Garry's relief changed quickly to concern, and he demanded

harshly,

"How badly?� How badly?"

"That's all they told me.� I went down to the hospital but they

wouldn't allow me to see him.

Garry sank into his chair and instinctively reached for the drawer

before he checked himself.

"Very well, Curtis.� You may go."

"The rest of my report, sir?"

"Tomorrow.� Leave it till tomorrow.

With the liquor glowing hotly in his belly, Garry set off through the

night towards the hospital.� It did not matter now that he had planned

and hoped that Sean would die.� He no longer reasoned, but hurried

through the sprawling camp, driven by his desperate need.

Unrecognized but strong within him was the hope that he might again

draw comfort and strength from that fountain as he had done so long

ago.� He started to run, stiffly, so the toe of his boot scuffed in the

dust with each pace.

Desperately he searched through the hospital.� He hurried along the

rows of stretchers examining the faces of the wounded; he saw pain and

mutilation and slow creeping death soaking like spilt red ink through

the white bandages.� He heard the moan and murmur and delirious

laughter, he smelt the taint of agony induced sweat blended with the

heavy sweetness of corruption and disinfectant-and he hardly noticed

them.� One face, one face only, he wanted.� And he did not find it.

"Courtney.� " The medical orderly examined his list, tilting it to

catch the lamplight.� "Ah!� Yes.� Here it is-let's nnnsee.� Yes!

He's gone already-left on the first train an hour ago ... I can't say,

sir, probably to Pietermaritzburg.� They've established a big new

hospital there.� I can't tell you that either, I'm afraid, but they've

got him listed here as dangerous ... that's better am critical

anyway.

Wearing his loneliness like a cloak, Garry stumbled back to his

quarters.

"Good evening, sir.� " His servant was waiting for him.� Garry always

made them wait up.� A new man this, they changed so fast.� Never could

keep a batman more than a month.

Garrick pushed past him, and half fell against the camp bed.

"Steady on, sir.� Let's get you on to the bed, sir.� " The man's voice

was insidiously servile, the voice men used towards drunks.� The touch

of his hands infuriated Garry.

"Leave me."� He lashed out with a clenched fist across the man's face,

throwing him back.� "Leave me.� Get out and leave me!"

The servant rubbed his bruised cheek uncertainly, backing away.

"Get out!"� Garry hissed at him.

"But, sir-" "Get out, damn you.� Get out!"

The man went out and closed the tent flap softly behind him.

Garry stumbled across to it and laced it closed.� Then he stood back.

Alone.� They can't see me now.� They can't laugh now.

They can't.� Oh God, Sean!

He turned from the flap.� The dummy leg caught on the rough floor and

he fell.� One of the straps parted and the leg twisted under him.

On his hands and knees he crawled towards the commode across the tent,

and the leg jerked and twisted grotesquely behind him.

Kneeling beside the commode he lifted the china basin from its recess

and reached into the space below it and he found the bottle.

His fingers were too clumsy for the cork, he pulled it with his teeth

and spat it on to the floor.� Then he held the bottle to his lips and

his throat jerked rhythmically as he swallowed.

A little of the brandy spilled on to his tunic and stained the ribbon

of the Victoria Cross.

He lowered the bottle and rested, panting from the sting of the liquor.

Then he drank again more slowly.� The trembling of his hands stilled.

His breathing smoothed out.� He reached up and took the tumbler from

the top of the commode, filled it, then placed the bottle beside him on

the floor and wriggled into a more comfortable position against the

commode.

In front of him his artificial leg twisted on its broken straps at an

unnatural angle below the knee.� He contemplated it, sipping the brandy

slowly and feeling it numb the taste-buds of his tongue.

The leg was the centre of his existence.� Insensate, unmoving, still as

the eye of a great storm upon which the whole turmoil of his life

revolved.� The leg-always the leg.� Always and only the leg.

Now under the lulling spell of the liquor he had drunk, from the

stillness at the centre where the leg lay, he looked outward at the

gigantic shadows of the ast, and found them preserved and perfect, not

distorted or blurred by time, whole and cornI, plete in each detail.

While they paraded through his mind, the night telescoped "in upon

itself so that time had no significance.� The hours endured for a few

minutes and were gone while the level in the bottle fell and he sat

against the commode sipping at the tumbler and watching while the night

wasted away.� In the dawn the final act was played out before him.

Himself on a horse in the darkness riding in cold soft rain towards

Theuniskraal.� One window showing a yellow oblong of

A

lantern light, the rest dark in the greater dark mass of the

homestead.

The unaccountable premonition of coming horror closing cold and soft as

the rain around him, the silence spoiled only by the crunch of his

horse's hooves in the gravel of the drive.� The thunW of his peg leg as

he climbed the front steps and the chill of the brass doorknob in his

hand as he turned it and pushed it in upon the silence.

His own voice slurred with drink and dread.� "Hello.� Where's

everybody?� Anna!� Anna!� I'm back!� " The blue flare of his match and

the smell of burnt sulphur and paraffin as he lit the lamp, then the

urgent echoing thump of his peg leg along the passage.

"Anna, Anna, where are you?

Anna, his bride, lay upon the bed in the darkened room, naked, turning

quickly away from the light, but he had seen the dead-white face with

swollen and bruised lips.

The lamp from the table threw bloated shadows on the wall as he stooped

over and gently drew down the petticoats to cover the whiteness of her

lower body, then turned her face to him.

"My darling, oh Anna, my darling.� what's happened?"� Through the torn

blouse her breasts were engorged and darkly nippled with pregnancy.

"Are you hurt?� Who?� Tell me who did it?� " But she covered her face

and broken lips with her hands.

"My darling, my poor darling.� Who was it-one of the servants ?

"No.

"Please tell me, Anna.� What happened?

Suddenly her arms were about his neck and her lips close against his

ear.� "You know, Garry!� You know who did it.

"No, I swear I don't.� Please tell me.� " Her voice tight and hoarse

with hatred, uttering that word, that one unbelievable horrible word.

"Sean!"

"Sean!"� he said aloud in his desolation.� "Sean.� Oh God!"

and then savagely,

"I hate him.� I hate him!� Let him die-please God, let him die.

He closed his eyes, losing his grip upon reality, and felt the first

dizzy swing of vertigo as the liquor took firm hold upon him.

Too late now to open his eyes and focus them upon the bed across the

tent, the giddiness had begun-now he would not be able to hold it down.

The warm, acid-sweet taste of brandy welled up into his throat and

mouth and nose.

When his servant found him it was the middle of the morning.

Garry lay fully dressed but asleep upon the bed with his sparse hair

ruffled, his uniform stained and grubby, and the leg lying derelict in

the centre of the floor.

The servant closed the door softly and studied his master, his nostrils

flaring at the sour smell of stale brandy and vomit.

"Had yourself one hell of a bust-up.� Hey-Hop, Skip and Jump?� " he

murmured without sympathy.� Then he picked up the bottle and examined

the inch of liquor remaining in it.� "Your bloody good health, cock,"

he saluted Garry and drained the bottle, patted his lips delicately and

spoke again.� "Right!� Let's get your sty cleaned up.

"Leave me alone," Garry groaned.

"It's eleven o'clock, sir.

"Leave me.� Get out and leave me.

"Drink this coffee, sir.

"I don't want it.� Leave me.

"I've got your bath filled, sir, and a clean uniform laid out for

YGU

"What time is it?"� Garry sat up unsteadily' Eleven o'clock," the man

repeated patiently.

"My leg?"� Garry felt naked without it.

"One of the harness makers is stitching the straps, sir.� It'll be

ready by the time you've bathed.

Even in a position of rest Garry's hands, laid upon the desk in front

of him trembled slightly, and the runs of his eyelids prickled.

The skin of his face was stretched like that of a drum over the slow

pain that throbbed within his skull.

At last he sighed and picked Lieutenant Curtis's report from the top of

the thin sheaf of papers that waited for his attention.

Garry skimmed through it dully, few of the names upon it meant anything

to him.� He saw Sean's name headed the list of wounded, and below him

was the little Jewish lawyer.� At last satisfied that mained nothing to

the discredit of Colonel Garrick Courtney, he initialled it and laid it

aside.

He picked up the next document.� A letter addressed to him as Officer

Commanding the Natal Corps of Guides, from a Colonel John Acheson of

the Scots-Fusiliers.� TWo pages of neat, pointed handwriting.� He was

about to discard it and leave it to his Orderly's attention when the

name in the body of the text caught his eye.� He leaned forward

attentively and read quickly from the beginning.

"I have pleasure in bringing to your attention... conduct beyond the

call of ... under intense enemy fire... once more, initiated an advance

... although wounded... disregard of personal danger ... two members of

your Guides.

Sergeant Sean Courtney.

Pte.� Saul Friedman.

earnestly recommend ... Distinguished Conduct Medal great gallantry and

powers of leadership.� "Garry dropped the letter and leaned back in his

chair, staring at it as though it were his own death warrant.� For a

long while he did not move, while the pain kept beating in his head.

Then he picked it up once more.� Now his hands trembled so violently

that the paper fluttered like the wing of a wounded bird.

"Everything of mine, everything I've ever owned-he's taken it from me,"

and he looked down at the ribbons on his breast.

"I've never had ... Now this, the one thing.� " A drop of moisture fell

on to the letter, blurring the ink.

"I hate him, " he whispered and tore the letter across.� hope he dies,"

and he torr again and again, ripping it to shreds and at last screwing

them into a ball in his clenched fist.

"No.� You'll not get that from me.� It's mine-it's the one thing you'll

never have!� " He hurled the crumpled ball against the canvas of the

tent, and lowered his head on to his arms upon the desk.� His shoulders

shook as he sobbed: "Don't die.� Please, Sean, don't die."

Simply by putting his shoulder against her and shoving her aside, Dirk

Courtney cleared a small girl from the doorway and was first down the

steps and out into the sun.� Without looking back at the schoolhouse he

headed for the hole in the back hedge, the others would be following.

They caught up with him while he was selecting a klei-lat from the

hedge.

"Hurry up," Dirk ordered.� "We got to get to the river first else

they'll get the best place.

They spread out along the hedge, small boys chattering like a troop of

excited monkeys

"Lend me your knife, Dirkie .� "Hey, look at my lat."� Nick Peterson

brandished the short rod of Port Jackson Willow he had cut and peeled.

It whipped with a satisfying swish.

"It's not a lat," Dirk informed him.� "It's a Lee-Metford-" He looked

round at the rest of his team.� "You remember now, I'm Lord Kitchener,

and you got to call me

"My Lord."� " "And I'm General French," announced Nick.� This was fair

enough, after all, he was Dirk's chief lieutenant.� It had taken Dirk a

mere two weeks and five bloody fist-fights to reach his position as

un-challenged leader.

-,I'm General Methuen!"� one of the lesser members yelped.

"And I'm General Butler!"

I

"And I'm General Gatacre!

"You can't be all generals."� Dirk glared around.� "Only Nick and I are

generals.� You are all just Privates and things

"Gee, man, Dirkie!� why you always got to spoil things?"� you shut your

mouth, Brian."� Dirk sensed mutiny, and quickly he diverted their

attention.

"Come on, let's go and get ammo.

"Dirk took the long route down the sanitary lane.� This way he was

unlikely to meet adults and have any of his force seconded to serve

elsewhere at wood chopping or gardening under parental control.

"Peaches are nearly ripe," Nick commented as they passed the Pye

orchard.

"Another week, " Dirk agreed, and crawled through the hedge into the

Van Essen plantation that spread down to the Baboon Stroom.

"There they are!"� someone shouted as they emerged from the trees.

"Boers, General!

Out on the right, busy along the bank of the river was another bunch of

small figures-sons of the Dutch families in the district.

"I'll go and talk to them," Dirk said.� "You go for ammo.

They trotted off towards the river and Dirk called after them: "Hey,

Nick, get me a good dollop of clay.

"All right, My Lord."

With all the dignity of a general, officer and a peer of the realm Dirk

approached the enemy and stopped a short distance from them.

"Hey, Piet, are you ready yet?� " he asked haughtily.� Piet Van Essen

was his second cousin twice removed.� A chunky lad but not as tall as

Dirk.

"Ja.� " "The same rules?"� Dirk asked.

"Ja, the same rules.� " No clothes, " Dirk warned him.

"And no throwing with stones," Piet shot back.

"How many you got?"� Dirk began counting the enemy suspiciously.

"Fifteen-same as you."

"All right then," Dirk nodded.

"All right then!"

Nick was waiting for him below the bank.� Dirk jumped down beside him

and accepted the large ball of blue clay that Nick handed him' It just

right, Dirkie, not too wet.

"Alright let's get ready."

Quickly Dirk stripped off his clothing, pulled the belt from the loops

of his pants and buckled it around Ins waist to hold his spare lats.

"Hide the clothes, Brian," Dirk ordered and surveyed his naked

warriors.� Nearly all of them still retained the almost WOManly shape

of youth; undeveloped chests, protruding stomachs and fat white

buttocks.

"They'll come down the river like they do every time," Dirk said.

"This time we're going to ambush them.� " As he spoke he kneaded a

handful of clay into a ball and spiked it on to the end of the lat.

"Me and Nick Ill wait here-the rest of you on top of the bank in those

bushes back there He was looking for a target to practise on, and found

it in a water tortoise which was laboriously climbing the far bank

-watch that old skilpad.� " He interrupted himself; stepped forward

with his right hand holding the lat thrown back, then whipped it

through in an overhead swing.� The ball of clay flew from the end of

the rod with a vicious hum and smacked on to the shiny black carapace

with a force that left a white star shaped crack upon the shell.� The

tortoise jerked in its head and limbs and toppled backwards into the

stream.

"Good shot!"

"There he is, let me have a shot.

That's enough!� You'll get plenty shots just now.� " Dirk stopped them.

Now listen to me!� When they come me and Nick will hold them here for a

bit, then we'll run back along the river and they'll chase us.� Wait

until they are right underneath you-then give it to them."

Dirk and Nick crouched side by side, close in against the bank with the

water up to their noses.� A tuft of reeds hid those Parts of their

heads still above the surface and within easy reach their loaded

clay-lats lay on dry land.

Below water Dirk felt Nick's elbow nudge his ribs, and he nodded

carefully.� He also had heard the whisper of voices around the bend of

the river, and the roll and plop of loose earth dislodged by a careless

foot.� He turned his head and answered Nick's grin with one just as

bloodthirsty, then he.� peered around the reeds.

Twenty paces in front of him a head appeared cautiously around the

angle of the bank and the expression on its face was set and

nervous-and Dirk moved his own head back behind the bunch of reeds.

A long silence broken suddenly.� "They're not here."� The voice was

squeaky with adolescence and tension.� Boetie was a delicate child,

small for his age, who insisted on joining the rest Of them in games

beyond his strength.

Another long silence and then the sound of a wholesale but stealthy

approach.� Dirk reached out and gripped Nick's arm the enemy were

committed, out in the open-he lifted his mouth above the surface.

"Now!"� he whispered and they reached for their lats.� The surprise was

complete and devastating.� As Dirk and Nick rose dripping, with

throwing arms cocked, the attackers were bunched in such a way that

they could neither run nor return the fire unhampered.

The clay pellets flew into them, slapping loudly on bare flesh,

producing howls of anguish and milling, colliding confusion.

"Give it to them," shouted Dirk, and threw again without picking his

man, blindly into the mass of legs and arms and pink backsides.

Beside him Nick worked in a silent frenzy of load and throw.

The confusion lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, before the howls of pain

became shouts of anger.

"It's only Dirk and Nick."

"Get them-it's only two of them.

The first pellet flipped Dirk's ear, the second hit him full in the

chest.

"Run!"� he gasped through the pain, and floundered to the bank.

Bent forward to climb from the stream he was frighteningly vulnerable,

and a pellet thrown at point-blank range took him in that portion of

his anatomy which he was offering to the enemy.� The sting of it

propelled him from the water and clouded his vision with tears.

"Chase them!"

"Mt.� them!"

The pack bayed after them, pellets hissed about them and slapped at

them as they pelted back along the stream.� Before they reached the

next bend their backs and bottoms were dappled with the angry red spots

which tomorrow would be bruises.

Without discretion, hot with the chase, shouting and laughing, the

attackers poured into the trap and as they rounded the bend it closed

upon them.

Dirk and Nick stood poised to meet them, and suddenly the bank above

their heads was lined with squealing, dancing, naked savages, who

hurled a steady stream of missiles into them.

For a minute they stood it, then completely broken they scrambled out

of the river-bed with pellets flailing them and raced panic-stricken

for the shelter of the plantation.

One of them remained below the bank, kneeling in the mud, sobbing

softly.� But according to the unspoken laws that governed them this one

was exempt from further punishment.

"It's only Boetie," Nickie shouted.� "Leave him.� Come on!

Chase the others!� " And he scrambled up the bank and led them after

the flight.� Yelling and shrilling with excitement they streamed away

through the brown grass to where Piet Van Essen was desperately trying

to stay the rout on the edge of the plantation, and gather his men to

meet the charge.

But another of them remained below the bank-Dirk Courtney.

There were just two of them now. �Screened by the bank, completely

alone.� Boetie looked up and through his tears saw Dirk coming slowly

towards him.� He saw the latin Dirk's hand and the expression on his

face.� He knew he was alone with Dirk.

"Please, Dirk," he whispered.� "I give up.� Please.� I give

UP.

Dirk grinned.� Deliberately he moulded the clay pellet on to his lat.

"I'll give YOU all my lunch tomorrow, " pleaded Boetie.� "Not just the

sweets, I'll give you all of it."

Dirk hurled the clay.� Boetie's shriek thrilled his whole body.

He began to tremble with the pleasure of it.

"I'll give you my new pocket-knife.� " Boetie's voice was muffled by

sobs and his arms which he had crossed over his face.

Dirk loaded the lat, slowly so he could savour this feeling of power.

"Please, Dirkie.� Please, man, I'll give you anything you-" and Boetie

shrieked again.

"Take your hands off your face, Boetie."� Dirk's voice was strangled,

thick with pleasure.

"No, Dirkie.� Please no!"

"Take your hands away, and I'll stop."

"You promise, Dirkie.� You promise you'll stop.

"I promise,"

whispered Dirk.

Slowly Boetie lowered his arms, they were thin and very white, for he

always wore long sleeves against the sun.

"You promised, didn't you.� I did what you-" and the clay hit him

across the bridge of his nose, spreading as it struck, jerking his head

back.� Immediately there was blood from both nostrils.

Boetie clawed at his face, smearing blood on to his cheeks.

"YOU promised, " he whimpered. �"You promised, But Dirk was already

moulding the next pellet.

Dirkie walked home alone.� He walked slowly, singing a little, with

soft hair falling forward on to his forehead and a smear of blue clay

on one cheek.

Mary was waiting for him in the kitchen of the cottage on Protea

Street.� She watched from the window while he slipped through the hedge

and crossed the yard.� As he came towards the door she noticed the

smile on his face.� There was hardly sufficient room in her chest for

what she felt as she looked at the innocent beauty of his face.� She

opened the door for him.

"Hello, darling."

"Hello, Mary, " Dirk greeted her, and his little smile became a thing

of such radiance that Mary had to reach for him.

"My goodness, you're covered in mud.� Lets get you bathed before your

granma gets home.� " Dirk extricated himself from her embrace and moved

in on the biscuit-tin.

"I'm hungry.

"Just one," Mary agreed, and Dirk took a handful.� "Then I've got a

surprise for you.� " "What is it?� " Dirk was more interested in the

biscuits.� Mary had a surprise for him every evening and usually it was

something silly like a new pair of socks she had knitted.

"I'll tell you when you're in the bath.� " "Oh, all right.� " Still

munching Dirk set off for the bathroom.

He began to disrobe along the passage dropping first his shirt and then

his pants for Mary to retrieve as she followed.

"What is the surprise?"

"Oh Dirk, you've been playing that horrible game again."

Mary knelt beside the tub and gently passed the soapy flannel down his

bruised back and buttocks.� "Please promise me you'll never play it

again.

"All right."� It was a very simple matter to extract a promise from

Dirk, he had made this particular one before. �"Now, what's your

surprise?

"Guess."� Mary was smiling now, a secret knowing smile which

immediately caught Dirk's attention.� He studied her scarred face, her

ugly loving face.

"Sweets?"� he hazarded, and she shook her head and caressed his naked

body with the flannel.

"Not socks!"

"No.� " She dropped the flannel into the soap-scummed water and clasped

him to her chest.� "No, not socks," she whispered.

He knew then.

"Yes, Dirkie, it's about your father."

Instantly he began to struggle' Where is he, Mary?� Where is he?"

"Into your nightshirt first.

"Is he here?� Has he come home?"

"No, Dirk.� He isn't here yet.� He's in Pietermaritzburg.� But you're

going to see him soon.� Very soon.� Granma has gone now to make

reservations on the train.� You're going to see him tomorrow.

His hot, wet body began to tremble in her arms, quivering with

excitement.

"is it ... ?� is it ... "well, you'll see for yourself "In some

respects, Mrs.� Courtney, it was possibly all to the good that we were

unable to contact you before.� " The Surgeon-Major tamped tobacco into

his pipe, and began methodically searching all his pockets.

"Your matches are on the desk.� " Ada came to his assistance.

"Oh!� Thank you.� " He got the pipe drawing, and continued,

"You see, your son was attached to an irregular unit-there was no

record of next-of-kin, and when he came to us from Colenso six weeks

ago he was, shall we say, in no condition to inform us of your address.

" "Can we see Pa now?"� Dirk could no longer contain himself, for the

past five minutes he had wriggled and fidgeted on the couch beside

Ada.

"You'll see your father in a few minutes, young man."� And the surgeon

turned back to Ada.� "As it so happens, Mrs.� Courtney, you have been

spared a great deal of anxiety.� At first there were grave doubts that

we would be able to save your son's life, let alone his right leg. Four

weeks it hung in the balance, so to speak.� But now"-and he beamed at

Ada with justifiable pride' He well?"� Quickly, anxiously she asked.

"What a formidable constitution your son has, all muscle and

determination."� He nodded, still stiff ling "Yes, he's well on the

road to recovery.� There may be a slight limp in the right leg-but when

you weigh that against what might have been .� he spread his hands

eloquently.� "Now the sister will take you through to him."

"When can he come home?"� Ada asked from the doorway.

Soon-another month, perhaps.

A deep veranda, cool with shade and the breeze that came in across the

hospital lawns.� A hundred high metal beds along the wall, a hundred

men in grey flannel nightshirts propped against white pillows.

Some of them slept, a few were reading, others talked quietly or played

chess and cards on boards set between the beds.� But one lay withdrawn,

staring at, but not seeing, the pair of fiscal shrikes which squabbled

raucously over a frog on the lawn.

The beard was gone, removed while he was too weak to protest on the

orders of the ward sister who considered it unhygienic, and the result

was a definite improvement that even Sean secretly admitted.

Shielded for so long, the skin on the lower half of his face was smooth

and white like that of a boy; fifteen years had been shaved away with

that coarse black matt.� Now emphasis was placed on the heavy brows

which, in turn, directed attention to his eyes, dark blue, like cloud

shadow on mountain lakes.� Darker blue at this moment as he considered

the contents of the letter he held in his right hand.

The letter was three weeks old, and already the cheap paper was

splitting along the creases from constant refolding.� It was a long

letter, much of it devoted to detailed description of the clumsy

sparring along the Tugela laver in which Butler's army was now

engaged.

There was one reference to the headaches from which the writer

periodically suffered as a result of his wound which was now externally

healed, and many more to the deep gratitude that Saul felt for him.

These embarrassed Sean to such an extent that when re-reading the

letter he scowled and skipped each one as he came to it.

But there was one paragraph to which Sean returned each time, and read

slowly, whispering it to himself so that he could savour each word: I

remember telling you about Ruth, my wife.� As you know, she escaped

from Pretoria and is in Pietermaritzburg staying with relatives of

hers.� Yesterday I had a letter from her that contained the most

wonderful tidings.� We have been married four years this coming June,

and now at last as a result of our brief meeting when she arrived in

Natal-I am to become a father!� Ruth tells me she has determined on a

daughter (though I am certain it will be a son!) and she has selected a

name.� It is a most unusual name, to be charitable-I can see that it

will require a great deal of diplomacy on my part to make her change

her mind.� (Among her many virtues is an obstinacy reminiscent of the

rock of ages.) She wants to name the poor waif -Storm'@-Storm

Friedman-and the prospect appauls me!

Although our faiths differ, I have written to Ruth asking her agree to

your election as

"Sandek"-which is the equivalent of godfather.� I can foresee no

objection from Ruth (especially in view of the debt which we both owe

you) and it needs now only your consent.

Will you give it?

At the same time I have explained to Ruth your present situation and

address (co Greys Hospital!) and asked her to visit you there so that

she can thank you personally.� I warn you in advance that she knows as

much about you as I do-I am not one to hide my enthusiasms!

Lying with the letter clutched in his hand, Sean stared out across the

lawns into the sunlight.� Beneath the bedclothes, swelling up like a

pregnant belly, was the wicker basket that cradled his leg.� "Storm!"

he whispered, remembered the lightning, playing blue and blinding white

upon her body.

"Why doesn't she come?"� Three weeks he had waited for her.� "She knows

that I am here, why doesn't she come to me?"

"Visitors for you.� " The sister paused beside him and straightened the

bedclothes.

"Who?� " He struggled up on to his good elbow, with the other arm still

in its sling across his chest.

"A lady."� And he felt it surge through him.� "And a small boy.� " The

cold backwash of disappointment, as he realized it was not her.

Then immediately guilt, Ada and Dirk, how could he hope it was someone

else?

Without the beard Dirk did not recognize him until he was ten paces

away.� Then he charged, his cap flew from his head and his dark hair,

despite the bonds of brilliantine, sprang up into curls as he ran.� He

was squeaking incoherently as he reached the bed, clambered up on to

Sean's chest to lock both arms around his neck.

It was some time before Sean could prise him loose and look at him.

"Well, boy," he said, and then again, "well, my boy."� Unable to trust

himself not to lay Ins love for the child bare for all to see-there

were a hundred men watching and grinning, Sean sought diversion by

turning to Ada.

She waited quietly, as she had spent half her life waiting, but when he

looked at her the tenderness showed in her smile.

"Sean."� She stooped to kiss him.� "What hap penned to your beard?

You look so young."

They stayed for an hour, most of which was taken up by a monologue from

Dirk.� In the intervals while he regained his breath Ada and Sean were

able to exchange all their accumulated news.� Finally, Ada stood up

from the chair beside Sean's bed' The train leaves in half an hour, and

Dirk has school tomorrow.� We'll come up from Ladyburg each week-end

until you are ready to return home.� " Getting Dirk out of the hospital

was like evicting an unruly drunk from a bar.� Alone Ada could not

manage it and she enlisted a male hospital orderly to the cause.

Kicking and struggling in tantrum, Dirk was carried down the veranda

with his screams ringing back to Sean long after he had disappeared

from view.

"I want my Dad.� I want to stay with my Dad.

"Benjamin Goldberg was the executor of his brother's estate.

estate consisted of a forty-per-cent shareholding in Goldberg Bros.

Ltd."� a company which listed among its assets a brewery, four small

hotels and a very large one situated on the Marine Parade at Durban,

sixteen butcher shops, and a factory devoted to the manufacture of polo

ny pork sausages, bacon and smoked ham.� The lag products caused

Benjamin some embarrassment, but their manufacture was too profitable

to be discontinued.� Benjamin was also the Chairman of the Board of

Goldberg Bros."� and a sixty-per-cent shareholder.� The presence of an

army of twenty-five thousand hungry and thirsty men in Natal had

increased the consumption of beer and bacon in a manner that caused

Benjamin further embarrassment, for he was a peaceable man.� The huge

profits forced upon him by the hostilities both troubled and delighted

him.

These same two emotions were evoked by the presence in his household of

his niece.� Benjamin had four sons and not a single daughter, his

brother Aaron had left one daughter for whom Benjamin would gladly have

traded all four of his own sons.� Not that the boys weren't doing very

well, all of them settled into the business very nicely.� One of them

running the Port Natal Hotel, the eldest managing the brewery and the

two others in the meat section.� But-and here Benjamin sighed-but

Ruth!

There was a girl for a man's old age.� He looked at her across the

polished stinkwood breakfast table with its encrustation of -H silver

and exquisite bone china, and he sighed again.

"Now, Uncle Ben, don't start again.� Please.� " Ruth buttered her toast

firmly.

"So all I'm saying is that we need him here.� Is that so bad?

"Saul is a lawyer."

"Nu?� Is that so bad.� He's a lawyer, but we need a lawyer with us. The

fees I pay out to those other schmo ks " "He doesn't want to come into

the Company."

"All right.� We know he doesn't want charity.� We know he doesn't want

your money working for him.� We know all about his pride-but now he's

got responsibilities.� Already he should be thinking about you-and the

baby-not so much about what he wants.

At the mention of the baby, Ruth frowned slightly.� Benjamin noticed

it, there were few things he did not notice.� Young people!� If only

you could tell them.� He sighed again.

"All right.� We'll leave it until Saul comes back on leave, " he agreed

heavily.

Ruth, who had never mentioned her uncle's offers of employment to Saul

had a momentary vision of living in Pietermaritzburg-close enough to be

drowned in the tidal waves of affection that emanated from her Uncle

Benjamin, caught like a tiny insect in the suffocating web of family

ties and duties.� She flashed at him in horror.

"You even mention it to Saul and I'll never speak to you again.

Her cheeks flushed wondrously and fire burned in her eyes.

Even the heavy braid of dark hair seemed to come alive like the tail of

an angry lioness, clicking as she moved her head.

Oi Yoi Yoi!� Benjamin hid his delight behind hooded lids.� What a

temper!� what a woman!� She could keep a man young for ever.

Ruth jumped up from the table.� For the first time he noticed that she

wore riding habit.

"Where are you going?� Ruth, you're not riding again today.

"Yes I am

"The baby!

"Uncle Ben, why did you never learn to mind your own business?"

And she marched out of the room.� Her waist was not yet thickened with

pregnancy and she moved with a grace that played a wild discord on the

old man's heart strings.

"You should not let her treat you that way, Benjamin.� " Mildly, the

way she did everything, his wife spoke from across the table.

"There's something troubling that girl."� Carefully Benjamin wiped egg

from his moustache, laid the napkin on the table, consulted the gold

fob watch he drew from his waistcoat, and stood up.� "Something big.

You mark my words."

It was Friday, strange how Friday had become the pivot on which the

whole week turned.� Ruth urged the chestnut stallion, and he lengthened

his stride under her, surging forward with such power that she had to

check him a little and bring him down into an easy canter.

She was early and waited ten impatient minutes in the Oaklined lane

behind Greys Hospital before, like a conspirator, the little nurse

slipped out through the hedge.

"Have you got it?� " Ruth demanded.� The girl nodded, around quickly

and took an envelope out of her grey nursing cloak.� Ruth exchanged it

for a gold sovereign.� Clutching the d coin the nurse started back for

the hedge.

"Wait.� " Ruth stopped her.� This was her only physical contact and she

was reluctant to break it so soon.� "How is he?

"It's all there, ma'am.� " "I know-but tell me how he looks.� What he

does and says," Ruth insisted.

"Oh, he's looking fine now.� He's been up and about on his sticks all

week, with that big black savage helping him, The first day he fell and

you should have heard him swear.� Lordy!� " They both laughed

together.

"He's a real card, that one.� He and sister had another tiff yesterday

when she wanted to wash him.� He called her a shameless strumpet.� She

gave him what for all right.� But you could see she was ever so pleased

and she went around telling everybody about it.

She bur bled on and Ruth listened enchanted, until: "Then yesterday,

you know what he did when I was changing his dressing?"� She blushed

coyly. "He gave me a pinch behind!"

Ruth felt a hot flood of anger wash over her.� Suddenly she realized

that the girl was pretty in an insipid fashion.

"And he said.

"Thank you!"� Ruth had to restrain the hand that held her riding crop.

"I have to go now.� " Usually the long skirts of her habit hampered her

in mounting, but this time she found herself in the saddle without

effort.

"Next week, ma'am?"

"Yes," and she hit the stallion across the shoulder.� He lunged forward

so violently that she had to clutch at the pommel of the saddle.� She

rode him as she had never ridden a horse before, driving him with whip

and spur until dark patches of sweat showed on his flanks and froth

spattered back along his shoulders, so that by the time she reached a

secluded spot on the bank of the Umgeni River far out of town her

jealousy had abated and she felt ashamed of herself.� She loosened the

stallion's girdle and petted him a little before leaving him tethered

to one of the weeping willows, and picking her way down the bank to her

favourite log on the water's edge.

There she settled herself and opened the envelope.� If only Sean could

have known that his temperature chart, progress report, house-doctor's

recommendations, and the sucrose content of his urine were being so

avidly studied, he would probably had added a ruptured spleen to his

other ills.

At last Ruth folded the pages into their envelope and tucked it away in

the jacket of her habit.� He must look so different without his beard.

She stared into the pool below her and it seemed as though his face

formed in the green water and looked back at her.� She touched the

surface with the toe of her riding boot so that the ripples spread and

shattered the image.

She was left with only the feeling of loneliness.

"I must not go to him," she whispered, steeling the resolve which had

kept her from him these past weeks since she had known he was there. So

close-so terribly near.

Determinedly she looked down again into the pool and tried to conjure

up the face of her husband.� all she saw was a yellow fish gliding

quietly across the sandy bottom with the pattern of its scales showing

like the teeth of a file along its sides.� She dropped a pebble into

the water and the fish darted away.

Saul.� Merry little Saul with his monkey face, who made her laugh the

way a mother laughs at her child.� I love him, she thought.� And it was

true, she loved him.� But love has many shapes, and some are the shapes

of mountains-tall and jagged and big.� While others are the shape of

clouds-which have no shape, no sharp outline, soft they blow against

the mountain and change and stream away but the mountain stands

untouched by them.� The mountain stands for ever.

"My mountain," she murmured, and she saw him again so vividly, standing

tall above her in the storm.

"Storm," she whispered and clasped her open hands across her belly that

was still flat and hard.

"Storm," she whispered and felt the warmth within her.� It spread

outwards from her womb, the heat rising with it until it was a burning

madness she could no longer control.� With her skirts flying about her

legs she ran to the stallion, her hand trembled on the straps of the

girth.� - "Just once," she promised herself.� "Just this once more.

Desperately she clawed up into the saddle.

"Just this once, I swear it!� " and then brokenly,

"I can't help myself.� I've tried-oh God, how I've tried!

An appreciative stirring and hum of comment from the beds along the

wall followed her as she swept down the hospital veranda.� There was

urgent grace in the way she held her skirts gathered in one hand, in

the crisp staccato tap of her pointed boots along the cement floor and

the veiled swing of her hips above.� There was unrestrained eagerness

in the sparkle in her eyes and the forward thrust of her breasts

beneath the wine coloured jacket.� The wild ride which brought her here

had flushed her cheeks and tumbled her hair glossy black down her

temple and on to her forehead.

Those sick and lonely men reacted as though a goddess had passed them

by, thrilled by her beauty, yet saddened because she was unattainable.

She did not notice them, she did not feel their hungry eyes upon her

nor hear the aching whisper of their voices-for she had seen Sean.

He came slowly across the lawns towards the veranda, using the stick

awkwardly to balance the drag of his leg.� His eyes were downcast and

he frowned in thought.� Her breath caught in her throat as she saw how

wasted was his body.� She had not remembered him so tall with shoulders

gaunt and wide like the crosstree of a gallows.� Never before had she

seen the bony thrust of his jawline, nor the pale smoothness of his

skin faintly blue with new-shaved beard.� But she remembered the eyes

heavily over scored with black brows, and his great beaky nose above

the wide sensuality of his mouth.

On the edge of the lawn he stopped with feet apart, set the point of

the cane between them with both hands clasped over the head of it, and

he lifted his eyes and looked at her.

For many seconds neither of them moved.� He stood balancing on the cane

with his shoulders hunched and his chin raised as he stared at her. She

in the shadow of the veranda, her skirts still in one hand-but the

other at her throat, fingers trying to still the emotions that

fluttered there.

Gradually his shoulders straightened until he stood tall.� He hurled

the cane aside and reached both hands open towards her.

Suddenly she was running over the smooth, green lawn.� Into his arms,

trembling in silent intensity, while he held her.

With both arms around his waist and her face pressed against his chest

she could smell the man smell of him and feel the hard muscle of his

arms as he enfolded her-and she knew she was now safe.� As long as she

stayed like this-nothing, nobody could touch her.

On the slope of the table-topped mountain that crouches over the town

of Pietermaritzburg there is a glade among the wattle trees.� It is a

secret place where even the timid little blue buck come out to graze in

daylight.� On a still day you can hear very faintly the pop of the

wagon whips on the road below, or farther off the steam whistle of a

train.� But that is all that intrudes in this wild place.

A butterfly crossed the glade in uncertain wobbling flight, it came out

of the sunlight into the dappled, moving shade along the edge, and

settled.

That's good luck," Sean murmured lazily and Ruth lifted her head from

the plaid rug on which they lay.� As the butterfly moved its wings,

fanning them gently, the iridescent green and yellow markings sparkled

in the speck of sunlight that pierced the roof of leaves above them and

fell upon it like a spotlight.

"It tickles, " she said, and the insect moved like a living jewel

across the smooth white field of her belly.� It reached her navel and

paused.� Then the tiny tendril of its tongue uncurled and dabbed at the

fine sheen of moisture that their loving had left Upon her skin.

"He's come to bless the baby."

The butterfly skirted the deep, delicately chiselled pit and moved on

downwards.

"Don't you think he's being just a little forward-he doesn't have to

bless that as well?"� Ruth asked.

"He certainly seems to know his way around," Sean admitted dubiously.

The butterfly found its road southwards blocked by a forest of dark

curls, so laboriously it turned and retraced its steps towards the

north.� once more it detoured round her navel and then headed

unerringly for the pass between her breasts

"Keep right on, friend,"

Sean cautioned, but it turned suddenly and climbed the steep slope

until at last it sat triumphant on the peak.

Sean watched it throbbing its wings, blazing in oriental SPlendour upon

her nipple, and he felt himself stirred once more.

-Ruth."� His voice was husky again.� She rolled her head to look into

his eyes Go away, little butterfly, " and she brushed it from her

breast.

Ruth woke him a little Later, after they had slept and they sat facing

each other on the rug with the open hamper between them.

While Sean uncorked the wine she worked over the hamper with the

dedication of a priestess preparing a sacrifice.� He watched her split

the bread rolls and fill them with salty, yellow butter, then open the

screw-topped jars of soused beans and pickled onions and beetroot.� A

heart of young lettuce rustled crisply as she plucked its leaves into a

wooden bowl, and poured dressing over them.

Her hair, released from its braid, broke like a black wave over the

marble of her shoulders, then rippled and swung with the small

movements of her body.� With the back of her hand she brushed it from

her forehead, then looked up at him and smiled.

"Don't stare.� It's bad manners.� " She took the glass he offered her

and sipped the cool yellow wine, set it aside and went on to dismember

the fat-breasted chicken.� Pretending to ignore his eyes upon her body,

she began to sing, softly, the love-song she had sung on the night of

the storm and shyly her breasts peeped at him through the black curtain

of her hair.

She wiped her fingers carefully on a linen napkin, took up the

wineglass again and with elbows on her knees leaned forward slightly

and returned his scrutiny with equal frankness.

"Eat," she said.

"And you?� "In a little while.� I want to watch You.� Then he was

hungry.

"You eat the way you make love-as though tomorrow you die.

"I'm taking no chances."

"You're covered with scars, like an Old tOm-Cat who fights too much,"

and she leaned forward and touched his chest with one finger.

-What happened there?"

-Leopard.

"And there?"� She touched his arm.

"Knife.

"And there?"� his wrist.

"Burst shotgun."

She dropped her hand and caressed the fresh purple cicatrice that

twined around his leg like some grotesque parasitic vine.

"This one I know," she whispered and her eyes were sad as she touched

it.

Quickly, to change her mood, he spoke.

"Now it's my turn to ask the questions."� He reached across and laid

his open hand upon her stomach where the first faint bulge pressed

warmly into his palm.

"What happened there?"� he demanded, and she giggled before she

replied.� "Burst shotgun-or was it a cannon?"

When she had repacked the hamper she knelt beside him.� He lay flat on

his back with a long black cheroot between his teeth.

"Have you had sufficient?"� she asked.

"My God, yes," and he sighed happily.

"Well, I haven't."� She leaned over him, took the cheroot from his

mouth and flicked it into the brambles.

With the first faint flush of evening in the sky a small breeze came

down from the mountain and rustled the leaves above them.� The fine

hairs upon her forearms came erect, each on its tiny pimple of

gooseflesh, and her nipples stood out dark and hard.

"You must not be late back to the hospital on the very first day

they've let you out.� " She rolled away from him and reached for her

clothing.� Matron will have me hung, drawn and quartered.

Sean agreed.� they dressed quickly, and she was remote from him.

All the laughter gone from her voice and her face cold and

expressionless.

He stood behind her to lace the whalebone corset.� He hated to cage

that lovely body and was about to say so.

"Saul is coming tomorrow.� A month's leave.� Her voice was harsh.

His hands stilled and they stood without moving.� It was the first time

either of them had referred to Saul since that morning a month ago when

she had come to him at the hospital.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"� His voice also was harsh.

"I didn't want to spoil today."� She had not turned towards him, but

stood staring out across the glade to the far hills beyond the town.

"We must decide what we are going to tell him."

"There is nothing to tell him," she answered flatly.

"But what are we going to do?"� Now his voice was ugly with mingled

dread and guilt.

"Do, Sean?"� She turned slowly and her face was still cold and

expressionless.� "We are going to do nothing!� nothing at all!� "But

you belong to me!"� he cried in protest.

"No," she answered.

"The child, it mine!"

At his words her eyes narrowed and the sweet line of her lips hardened

in anger.

"No, damn you, it isn't!� Not yours-although you sired it.

She flamed at him.� It was the first time she had unleashed her temper

at him.� It startled Sean.� "The child belongs to Sauland I belong to

Saul.� We owe you nothing.

He stared at her.� "You don't mean that," and the flames of her anger

faded.� Quickly he tried to press his advantage.

"We'll go away together."

"Run away-you mean.� Sneak away like a pair of thieves.

What would we take with us, Sean?� The happiness of a man who loves and

trusts us both-that, and our own guilt.� You'd never forgive me, nor I

you.� Even now when we talk of it you cannot meet my eyes.

Already you are beginning to hate me a little.

"No!� No!"

"And I would hate you," she whispered.

please.

"You don't love him.� " The agonized accusal was wrung from him, but it

was as though he had not spoken.� She went on dressing.

"He'll want to see you.� Half of every letter he writes is about

YOU.

I've told him that I've visited you at the hospital."

Call for my horse,

"I'm going to tell him," Sean shouted.� "I'll tell him everything.

"No, you won't."� She answered him calmly.

"You did not save him at Colenso to destroy him now.� You would destroy

him-and us.� Please call for my horse.� " Sean whistled and they stood

together, not touching, not talking, not even looking at each other.

Until Mbejane emerged from the bush below the glade leading the

horses.

Sean lifted her into the saddle.

"When?"� he asked quietly.

"Perhaps never," she answered and swung the horse away.

She did not look back so Sean never saw the tears that streamed down

her face.� The muffled drum of hooves drowned her sobs and she held her

back and her shoulders stiff so that he would not know.

The War Council ended long after dark and when his commandants had up

saddled and ridden away to their laagers among the hills, Jan Paulus

sat alone beside the fire.

He was tired, as though his brain was the cold, flabby body of an

octopus and its tentacles spread out to every extremity of his body.

He was lonely.� Now at the head of five thousand men he was alone as he

had never been in the vast solitude of the open veld.

Because of the loneliness and because of the companionship she had

given him these past twenty years his thoughts turned to Henrietta, and

he smiled in the dari mess and felt the longing blunt the edge of his

determination.

I would like to go back to the farm, for a week only.� Just to see that

they are all well.� I would like to read to them from the Book and

watch the faces of the children in the lamplight.� I would like to sit

with my sons on the stoep and hear the voices of Henrietta and the

girls as they work in the kitchen.� I would like .� . .

Abruptly he stood up from beside the fire.� Ja, you would like !

to do this and you would like to do that!� Go then!

Give yourself leave of absence as you refused it to so many others.

He clenched his jaw, biting into the stem of his pipe.� Or else, sit

here and dream like an old woman while twenty-five thousand English

pour across the river.

He Strode out to the laager, and the earth tilted upwards beneath his

feet as he headed for the ridge Tomorrow, he thought.

Tomorrow.

God has been merciful that they did not rush the ridge two days ago

when I had three hundred men to hold it.� But now I have five thousand

to their twenty-five-so let them come!

Suddenly, as he reached the crest, the valley of the Tugela lay below

him.� Soft with moonlight so that the river was a black gash in the

land.� He scowled as he saw the field of bivouac fires that straddled

the drift at Trichardt's farm.

They have crossed.� May God forgive me that I had to let them cross,

but I could not meet and hold them with three hundred.

Two days I have waited in agony for my columns to cover the twenty

miles from Colenso.� TWo days while the cannon bogged down in the

mud.

Two days while I watched their cavalry, foot soldiers and wagons

crossing the drift and I could not stop them.

Now they are ready.� Tomorrow they will come up to us.� they will come,

to try at any other place is madness, a stupidity far beyond any they

have shown before They cannot try the right, for to reach it they must

march across our front.� With little cover and the river fencing them

in they would expose their flank to us at two thousand yards.� No, they

cannot try the right-not even Buller will try the right.

Slowly he turned his head and looked out to the left where the tall

peaks rose sheer out of the heights.� The formation of the ground

resembled the bak of a gigantic fish.� Jan Paulus stood upon its head,

on the relatively smooth slope of Tabanyana.� but on his left rose the

dorsal fin of the fish.� This was a series of peaks, Vaalkrans,

Brakfontein, Twin Peaks, Conical Hill and, the highest and the most

imposing of all, Spion KOP.

Once again, he experienced the nagging prickle of doubt.

Surely no man, not even Buller, would throw any army against that line

of natural fortresses.� It would be senseless as the sea hurling its

surf at a line of granite cliffs.� Yet the doubt remained.

perhaps Buller, that pedestrian and completely predictable man, Buller

who seemed eternally committed to the theory of frontal assault,

perhaps this time he would know that the slopes of Tabanyama were too

logically the only point at which he could break through.� Perhaps he

would know that the whole of the Boer Army waited for him there with

all their guns Perhaps he would guess that only twenty burghers guarded

each of the peaks on the left flank-that Jan Paulus had not dared to

spread his line so thin, and had risked everything on Tabanyarna.

Jan Paulus sighed.� Now it was past the time for doubt.� He had made

the choice and tomorrow they would know.� Tomorrow, van more.

Heavily he turned away and started down towards the laager.

The moon was setting behind the black massif of Spion Kop, and its

shadow hid the path.� Loose rock rolled under his feet.

Jan Paulus stumbled and almost fell.

"Wies Door?� " The challenge from an outcrop of granite beside the

path.

"A friend."� Jan Paulus saw the man now, he leaned against the rock

with a Mauser held low across his hips.

"Tell me-what commando are you with?"

"The Wynbergers under Leroux.

"So!� Do you know Leroux?"� the sentry asked.

"Yes.

"What colour is his beard?"

"Red-red as the flames of hell.

The sentry laughed.

"Tell Oom Paul from me I'll tie a knot in it next time I see him.

"Best you shave before you try-he might do the same for you," Jan

Paulus warned him.

"Are you his friend?"

"And his kinsman too.

"The hell with you then also."� The sentry laughed again.

"Will you drink coffee with us?

It was an ideal opportunity for Jan Paulus to mingle with his men and

gauge their temper for tomorrow.� "Dankie.� " He accepted the

invitation.

"Good."� The sentry straightened up and Jan Paulus saw he was a big

man, made taller by the homburg hat he wore.� "Karl, is there any

coffee left in the pot?"� He yelled into the darkness beyond the rocks

and was answered immediately.

"in the name of God, must you bellow?� This is a battlefield, not a

political meeting.

"The English are as loud.� I've heard them all night."

"The English are fools.� Must you be the same?"

"For you, only for you."� The sentry dropped his voice to a sepulchral

whisper, and then roared again suddenly: "But what about that damned

coffee?"

This one is not short of stomach, Jan Paulus grinned to himself, as the

man, still chuckling happily, placed an arm about his shoulder and led

him to the screened fire among the rocks.

Three burghers squatted about it with blankets draped over their

shoulders.� They were talking among themselves as the sentry and Jan

Paulus approached.

"The moon will be down in half an hour," one of them said.

"Ja.� I will not be happy to see it gone.� If the English plan a night

attack, then they will come in the dark of the moon.� " "Who is with

you?"� Karl asked as they came towards the fire.

"A friend," the sentry replied.

"From what commando?"

"The Wynbergers," Jan Paulus answered for himself, and Karl nodded and

lifted the battered enamel coffee-pot from the fire, you are with Oorn

Paul.� And what does he think of our chances for tomorrow?"

"That of a man with one bullet left in thick cat bush with a lung shot

buffalo coming down in full charge."

"And does it worry him?"

"Only a madman knows no fear.� Oom Paul is afraid.� But he tries not to

show it, for fear spreads among men like the white sore throat

diphtheria," Jan Paulus replied as he accepted the mug of coffee and

settled down against a rock out of the firelight so they would not

recognize his face nor the colour of his beard.

"Show it or not," grunted the sentry as he filled his mug.

"But I reckon he'd give one of his eyeballs to be back on his farm at

Wynberg with his wife beside him in the double bed."

Jan Paulus felt the glow of anger in his belly and his voice as he

replied as harsh.

"You think him a coward!"

"I think I would rather stand on a hill a mile behind the fighting and

send other men in to die," the sentry chuckled again, but there was a

sardonic note in it.

"I've heard him swear that tomorrow he will be in front wherever the

fight is fiercest," growled Jan Paulus.

"Oh, he said so?� So that we fight more cheerfully?� But when the

Lee-Metfords rip your belly open-how will you know where Oorn Paul

is?"

"I have told you he is my kin.� When you insult him you insult me.

" Anger had closed Jan Paulus's throat so that his voice was hoarse.

"Good!� " The sentry stood up quickly.� "Let us settle it now."

"Be still, you fools."� Karl spoke irritably.� "Save your anger for the

English," and then more softly, "all of us are restless, knowing what

tomorrow will bring.� Let your quarrel stand."

"He is right," Jan Paulus agreed, still choked with anger.

"But when I meet you again.� . . !� " "How will you know me?"� the

sentry demanded.

"Here!"� Jan Paulus jerked the wide-brimmed Terai hat from his head and

flung it at the man's feet.� "Wear that and give me yours in

exchange.

"Why?"� The sentry stood puzzled.

"Then if ever a man comes up to me and says,

"You're wearing my hat," he will be saying,

"Jan Paulus Leroux is a coward!"

The man grinned so that his teeth glittered in the firelight, then he

dropped his own black homburg into Jan Paulus's lap and stooped to pick

up the Terai.� In that instant, faintly on the wind, soft as the

crackle of dried twigs, they heard the rifle-fire.

" Mausers!� " shouted Karl and he leapt to his feet sending the

coffee-pot flying.

"On the left, " moaned Jan Paulus in anguish.� "Oh, God help us!

They've tried the left.� " The chorus of rifle-fire rose, swelling

urgently; and now blending with the crisp crackle of the mausers was

the deep belling of the Lee-Metfords.

"Spion Kop!� They're on Spion Kop," and Jan Paulus ran, hurling himself

down the path towards the laager with the black homburg jammed down

over his ears.

The mist lay heavily on the peak of Spion Kop that morning, so that the

dawn was a thing of liquid, pearly light.� A soft uncertain thing that

swirled about them and condensed in tiny drops upon the metal of their

rifles.

Colonel John Acheson was breakfasting on ham sandwiches spread thickly

with Gentleman's Relish.� He sat on a boulder with his uniform cloak

draped over his shoulders and chewed morosely.

"No sign of the jolly old Boer yet," the captain beside him announced

cheerfully.

"that trench is not deep enough.� " Acheson glowered at the shallow

ditch which had been scraped in the stony soil and which was filled to

capacity with men in all the various attitudes of relaxation.

"I know, sir.� But there's not much we can do about it.� We're down to

bedrock and it would need a wagon-load of dynamite to sink another

foot.� " The captain selected a sandwich and upended the Relish bottle

over it.� "Anyway, all the enemy fire will be from below and the

parapets will cover that.� " Along the front edge of the trench clods

of earth and loose rock had been piled a height of two feet.� Pathetic

cover for two thousand men.

"Have you ever been on this mountain before?"� Acheson asked

politely.

"No, sir.� Of course not.

"Well, what makes you so bloody certain how the land lies.

You can't see a thing in this mist."

"Well, sir, we are on the crest, and it is the highest .� But Acheson

interrupted him irritably.� "Where are those damned scouts?

Haven't they come in yet?"� He jumped up and with his cloak swirling

about him strode along the trench.� "You men.

Can't you get that parapet higher there!

"At his feet a few of them stirred and began halfheartedly lifting

stone.� They were exhausted by the long night climb and the skirmish

which had driven the Boer garrison from the mountain, and Acheson heard

them muttering sullenly behind him as he walked on.

"Acheson!"� Out of the mist ahead of him loomed the figure of General

Woodgate Mowed closely by his staff.

"Sir!"� Acheson hurried to meet him.

"Are your men entrenched?"

"As best they can."

"Good.� What of the enemy?� Have your scouts reported back yet?

"No.� They're still out there in the mist."� And Acheson pointed into

the smoky billows that limited the range of their vision to fifty

feet.

"Well, we should be able to hold until we are reinforced.� Let me know

the moment .� . . " A small commotion in the mist behind them, and

Woodgate paused.� "What is it?"

"My scouts, sir."

Saul Friedman began delivering his report from a range of twenty feet.

His face was working with excitement as he scurried out of the mist.

"False crest!� We're on the false crest.� The true summit is two

hundred yards ahead and there's a rise of ground out on our right

flank, like a little knoll all covered with aloes, that enfilades our

whole position.� There are Boers everywhere.� The whole bloody mountain

is crawling with them."

"Good God man!� Are you certain?"

"Colonel Acheson," snapped Woodgate, "turn your right flank to face the

knoll," and as Acheson strode away he added under his breath, "if you

have time!"� and he felt the agitated swirl of the mist as it was swept

away before the wind Jan Paulus stood beside his pony.� The mist had de

wed in his beard and set it a-sparkle in red-gold.� Across both

shoulders heavy bandoliers of ammunition drooped, and the Mauser rifle

seemed like a child's toy in his huge hairy hands.� His jaw was thrust

forward in thought as he reviewed his dispositions.� All night he had

flogged his pony from laager to laager, all night he had roared and

bullied and driven men up the slopes of Spion Kop.� And now ground him

the mountain rustled and murmured with five thousand waiting burghers,

and in an arc of 120 degrees behind it stood his guns.� From Green Hill

in the northwest to the reverse slopes of the Twin Peaks in the east,

his gunners crouched beside their creusots and their Nordenfeldts,

ready to range in upon the crest of Spion Kop.

All things are ready and now I must earn the right to wear this hat. He

grinned and settled the homburg more firmly over his ears.

"Hennie, take, my horse back to the laager.

The boy led it away and he started up the last slope towards the

summit.� The light strengthened as he climbed and the burghers among

the rocks recognized the flaming beacon of his beard.

" Goeie Jag, Oom Paul," and,

"Kom saam om die Rooi Nekke te ski et " they called.� Then two burghers

ran down to meet him.

"Oom Paul.� We've just been forward to Aloe Knoll.� There are no

English on it!"

"Are you sure?"� It seemed too generous a gift of fortune

"Ja, man.� They are all on the back of the mountain.� We heard them

digging and talking there."

"What commando are you?"� Jan Paulus demanded of the men massed around

him in the mist.

"The Carolina commando" voices answered.

"Come," ordered Jan Paulus.� "Come, all of you.� We are going to Aloe

Knoll."

They followed.� Skirting the summit, with the brush, brush, brush of

hundreds of feet through the grass, hurrying so that their breathing

steamed in the moist air.� Until abruptly ahead of them humped the dark

mound of Aloe Knoll and they swarmed over it and disappeared among the

rocks and crevices like a column of ants returning to their nest.

Lying on his belly Jan Paulus lit his pipe and tamped down on the

glowing tobacco with a fire-calloused thumb, sucked the smoke into his

mouth and peered into the solid white curtain of mist.� In the eerie

silence that had fallen upon the mountain his stomach rumbled loudly

and he remembered that he had not eaten since the previous noon.� There

was a stick of biltong in his coat pocket.

A lion hunts best on an empty stomach, he thought and drew again on his

pipe.

"Here comes the wind," a voice whispered near him, and he heard the

rising sibilance of it through the aloes above his head.

The aloes stood tall as a man, multi-headed, green candelabra tipped in

crimson and gold, nodding slightly in the morning wind.

"Ja.� " Jan Paulus felt it stirring deep in his chest, that blend of

fear and exhilaration that drowned his fatigue.� "Here it comes."

He knocked out his pipe, stuffed it still hot into his pocket and

lifted his rifle from the rock in front of him.

Dramatically, as though unveiling a monument, the wind stripped the

mists away.� Beneath a sky of cobalt blue, soft golden brown in the

early sunshine, lay the rounded peak of Spion Kop.

A long uneven scar of red earth five hundred yards long was slashed

across it.

"Alinagtig!� " Jan Paulus gasped.� "Now we have them."

Above the crude parapet of the trench, like birds on a fence rail, so

close that he could see the chin straps and the button on each crown,

the light khaki helmets contrasted clearly with the darker earth and

grass.� While beyond the trench, completely exposed from boots to

helmets, standing in the open or moving leisurely forward with

ammunition and water canteens, were hundreds of English soldiers.

For long seconds the silence persisted, as though the burghers who

stared over their rifles at this unbelievable target could not bring

themselves to press the triggers on which their fingers rested.� The

English were too close, too vulnerable.� A universal reluctance held

the mausers silent.

"Shoot!"� roared Jan Paulus.� "Skiet, Kerels, Skiet, " and his voice

carried to the English behind the trenches.� He saw all movement among

them suddenly paralysed, white faces turn to stare in his direction-and

he sighted carefully into the chest of one of them.� The rifle jumped

against his shoulder, and the man went down into the grass.

That single shot broke the spell.� Gunfire crackled in hysterical

unison and the frieze of khaki figures along the trench exploded into

violent movement as the bullets, thudded amongst them.� At that range

most of Jan Paulus's burghers could be trusted to knock down four

running springbok with five shots.� In the few seconds that it took the

English to dive into the trench, at least fifty of them went down, dead

or wounded, and lay sprawled against the red earth.

Now there were only the helmets and heads above the parapet to shoot at

and these were never still.� They ducked and weaved and bobbed as

Woodgate's men fired and reloaded, and seventeen hundred Lee-Metford

rifles added their voices to the pandemonium

Then the first shell, lobbed from a field gun on the reverse slope of

Conical Hill, shrieked over the heads of the burghers and burst in a

leap of smoke and red dust fifty feet in front of the English trench.

A lull while Jan Paulus's heliograph team below the crest signalled the

range correction to the battery, then the next shell burst beyond the

trench; another lull and the third fell full upon the trench.� A human

body was thrown high, legs and arms spinning like the spokes of a wagon

wheel.� When the dust cleared there was a gap in the parapet and half a

dozen men frantically trying to plug it with loose rock.

Together all the Boer guns opened.� The constant shriek of big shells

was punctuated by the @icious whine of the quick-firing pompoms.

And once again a mist covered the peak, this time a thin sluggish mist

of dust and lyddite fume which diluted the sunlight and clogged the

nostrils and eyes and mouths of men for whom a long, long day had

begun.

Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney was damnably uncomfortable.

It was hot in the sun.� Sweat trickled down under his tunic and

moistened his stump so that already it was chafed.� His field-glasses

magnified the glare as he looked out across the Tugela River to the

great hump of the mountain four miles away.

The glare aggravated the ache behind his eyes, which was a memorial to

last night's drinking.

"Woodgate seems to be holding very well.� His reinforcements should be

up to him soon enough.

Sir Redvers, Buller appeared to be satisfied, and none of his staff had

any comment to add.� Stolidly they stood and stared through their

glasses at the peak which was now faintly blurred with the dust and

smoke of battle.

Garrick was puzzling once more the devious lines of authority which

Buller had established for the attack on Spion Kop.� Comanding the

actual assault was General Woodgate, who was now "holding very well" on

the peak, yet Woodgate was responsible not to Buller but to General

Charles Warren, who had his headquarters beyond Trichardt's Drift where

the column had crossed.� Warren was in turn responsible to Buller, who

was well back behind the river, standing on a pleasant little hill

called Mount Alice.

Everyone on the staff was aware that Buller hated Warren.

Garrick was certain that Warren had been given command of an operation

which Buller considered very risky, so that in the event it failed

Warren would be discredited and goaded into resigning.

Of course, if he succeeded, Sir Redvers Buller was still supreme

Commander and the credit would therefore ac rue to him.

It was a line of reasoning Garrick found easy to follow, in fact, had

he been in Buller's position he would have done exactly the same.

This secret knowledge gave gary a deal of satisfaction, standing beside

Buller on the dope of Mount Alice he felt very much in tune with him.

He found himself hoping that Spion Kop would soon be a bloody

slaughter-house, and that Warren would retreat across the river in

disgrace.� He remembered the occasion in the mess when Sir Charles had

referred to him as an "irregular, and a damned colonial irregular-at

that!� " Garry's fingers tightened on his field-glasses and he glared

out at the mountain He was so deep in his resentment that he hardly

noticed the signaller who came running from the mule wagon that housed

the field telegraph which connected Buller's headquarters with those of

Warren beyond the river.

"Sir!� Sir!� A message from General Warren.� " The urgency of the man's

tone caught all their attentions.� As one man the entire general staff

lowered their glasses and turned to him.

"Let's have it then, my man!"� Buller snatched the sheet of notepaper

and read it slowly.� Then he looked up at Garry and there was something

in those pale, bulging eyes, a pleasure, a conspiratory gleam that made

Garry almost grin.

"What do you make of that, Courtney?� " He handed the sheet across and

waited while Garry read it.

"Message from Colonel Crofton on the Spion Kop.� Reinforce at once or

all is lost.� General Woodgate dead What do you suggest.� Warren.� "

"It seems to me, sir," Garry spoke slowly, trying to mask the fierce

jubilation he felt, "that Sir Charles Warren is on the verge of

panic.

" "Yes, that's the way it looks."� Buller was openly gloating now.

"I would suggest sending him a message that will stiffen him, sir.

"Yes, I agree."� Buller turned to the signaller and began to dictate.

"The mountain must be held at all costs.� No withdrawal.� I repeat no

withdrawal.� Reinforce with Middlesex and Dorset regiments."

Then he hesitated and looked around his staff.� "What do you know of

this fellow Crofton?� Is he the right man to command on the peak?"

There were non-committal sounds of negation from them until A'Court,

Buller's ADC, spoke up.

"Sir.� There is one excellent man up there-Acheson-Colonel John

Acheson.� You remember his showing at Colenso?� " Buller nodded

thoughtfully and turning back to the signaller he went on with his

dictation.� "You must put some really good hard fighting man in command

on the peak.� Suggest you promote Acheson to Major-General.

In front of the trench the grass was flattened by the repeated

counter-attacks that had swept across it, stained by the blood of those

who had dragged themselves back from the Boer positions along the

crest, and littered with the twisted corpses of those who had not.

Every few seconds a shell exploded along the British line, so there was

a continual moving forest of bursts and the shrapnel hissed like the

flails of threshing giants.

John Acheson forced himself to his feet and climbed on to the parapet

and shouted,

"Come on, lads.� This time they'll not stop us!"

In the trench below him the dead and the wounded lay upon each other

two and three deep, all of them coated with a layer of red dust.� The

same red dust coated the faces that looked up at him as he shouted

again.

"Bugler, sound the charge.� Come, lads, forward.� Take the bayonet to

them.� " The bugle started to sing, brassy and urgent.� Acheson hopped

like a gaunt, old stork from the parapet and flapped his sword.

Behind him he heard laughter from a dozen throats, not the laughter of

ordinary men, but the chilling discord of insanity.

"Follow me, Follow me!"� His voice rose to a shriek and they scrambled

from the trench behind him.� Dusty spectres with bloodshot eyes,

smeared with dust and their own sweat.� Their laughter and their curses

blended with the babbling of the wounded, outstripped it and climbed

into a chorus of wild cheers.� Without form, spreading like spilled

oil, the charge flowed out towards the crest.� Four hundred men,

staggering through the dust-storm of shell-fire and the tempest of the

Mausers.

Acheson stumbled over a corpse and fell.� His ankle twisted with a

shock of pain that jolted his dulled senses.� He recovered his sword,

dragged himself up and limped grimly on towards the rampart of boulders

that marked the crest.� But this time they did not reach it to be

thrown back as they had before.� This time the charge withered before

it had covered half the distance.� In vain Acheson waved them forward,

yelling until his voice was a hoarse croak.� They slowed and wavered,

then at last they broke and streamed back down the open bullet-swept

slope to the trench.� lbars of frustrated anger streaking his dusty

cheeks, Acheson hobbled after them.� He fell over the parapet and lay

face down on the corpses that lined the trench.

A hand shaking his shoulder roused him and he sat up quickly and tried

to control the breathing that shuddered up his throat.

Dimly he recognized the man who crouched beside him.

"What is it, Friedman?"� he gasped.� But the reply was drowned in the

arrival of another shell, and the delirious shrieks of a man wounded in

the belly in the trench beside them.

"Speak up, maul" "Heliograph message from Sir Charles Warren,"

shouted Saul.� "You have been promoted General.� You are in command of

the peak.� " And then with a dusty sweat-streaked grin he added: "Well

done, sir.

Acheson stared at him aghast.� "What about General Woodgate?� " "He was

shot through the head two hours ago

"I didn't know.� " Since morning Acheson had known nothing that was

happening outside his own small section of the line.

His whole existence had closed down to a hundred yards of shrapnel- and

bullet-swept earth.� Now he peered out at the holocaust around him and

whispered,

"In command!� No man commands here!� The devil is directing this

battle."

"Sir Charles is sending up three more battalions to reinforce us,"

Saul shouted into his ear.

"We can well use them," Acheson grunted, and then,

"Friedman, I've sprained my ankle.� I want you to lace up my boot as

tight as you can-I'm going to need this foot again before the day is

done.� " Saul knelt without argument and began working over his foot.

One of the riflemen at the parapet beside him was thrown sideways.

He fell across Acheson's lap, and from the wound in his temple the

contents of his skull splattered them both.� With an exclamation of

surprise and disgust Saul pulled back and wiped his face, then he

reached forward to drag the body from Acheson's legs.

"Leave him.� " Acheson prevented him sharply.� "See to that boot.

" While Saul obeyed, Acheson unwound the silk scarf from around his own

neck and covered the mutilated head.� It was a wound he had seen

repeated a hundred times that day, all of them shot through the right

side of the head.

"Aloe Knoll," he whispered fiercely.� "If only we'd taken Aloe Knoll. "

Then his tone dulled.� "My poor lads.� And gently he eased the

shattered head from his lap.

"They are ripe now, let us pluck them!"� With five hundred of his

burghers Jan Paulus had left the shelter of Aloe Knoll and worked his

way forward, crawling belly down through the jumble of rocks, until now

they were crouched in a line along a fold of dead ground below the

false crest.� TWenty yards ahead of them was the right-hand extremity

of the English trench.� They could not see it, but clearly they heard

the incoherent cries of the wounded; the shouts of

"Stretcher-bearer!

Stretcher-bearer!� " and

"Ammunition boys, here!"� and above the splutter of musketry, the

continuous metallic rattle of breech bolts reloading.

"You must signal to the guns, Oom Paul," the burgher next to him

reminded him.

"Ja, " Jan Paulus removed the homburg from his head and waved with it

at the fat mound at Aloe Knoll behind them.� He saw his signal briefly

acknowledged and knew that the order to cease fire was being flashed by

heliograph to the batteries.

They waited, tensed to charge, a long line of men.� Jan Paulus glanced

along them and saw that each man stared ahead fixedly.

Most of their faces masked by beards of fifty different hues, but here

and there a lad too young for this work, too young to hide his fear.

Thank God my eldest is not yet twelve, or he would be here.

He stopped that train of thought guiltily, and concentrated his whole

attention on the volume of shell-fire that raged just ahead of them.

Abruptly it ceased, and in the comparative silence the rifle-fire

sounded strangely subdued.� Jan Paulus let the slow seconds pass,

counting silently to ten, before he filled his lungs and roared:

Vrystaat!� Come on the Free Staters!"

Echoing his cry, yelling wildly, his burghers surged forward over the

crest on to the English flank.� They came from so close in, seeming to

appear as a solid wall from under the English parapet, that the

momentum of their charge carried them instantly into the depleted line

of shell-shocked, thirst-tormented and dazed Lancashires.� Hardly a

shot was fired, and though a few individual scuffles rippled the smooth

onward flow of the charge-most of the English responded immediately to

the shouts of

"Hands Op!� Hands Op!� " by throwing down their rifles and climbing

wearily to their feet with hands held high.� They were surrounded by

jubilant burghers and hustled over the parapet and down the slope

towards Aloe Knoll.� A great milling throng of burghers, and soldiers

spread over fifty yards of the trench.

"Quickly!"� Jan Paulus shouted above the hubbub.� "Catch them and take

them away."� He was well aware that this was only a very localized

victory, involving perhaps a tenth of the enemy.

Already cries of

"The Lanes are giving in!"� "Where are the officers?"" "Back, you men,"

were spreading along the English line.� He had planted the gerni of

defeat among them, now he must spread it through them before he could

carry the entire position.� Frantically he signalled for reinforcements

from the Boer positions along the crest, hundreds of his burghers were

already running forward from Aloe Knoll.

Another five minutes and complete victory would emerge from the

confusion.

"Damn you, sir!� What do you think you're doing!"� The voice behind him

was impregnated with authority, unmistakably that of a high-ranking

officer.� Jan Paulus wheeled to face a tall and enraged old gentleman,

whose pointed grey whiskers quivered with fury.� The apoplectic crimson

of his countenance clashed horribly with its coating of red dust.

"I am taking your men hands-up away.� " Jan Paulus struggled gumnally

with the foreign words.

"I'll be damned if you are, sir."� Leaning heavily on the shoulder of a

skinny little dark-haired man who supported him, the officer reached

forward and shook a finger in Jan Paulus's face.� "There will be no

surrender on this hill.� Kindly remove your rabble from my trench!

"Rabble, is it!"� roared Jan Paulus.� Around them the Boers and the

British had ceased all activity and were watching with interest.

Jan Paulus turned to the nearest burghers: Vat hulle weg!� Take them

away!� " His gesture that accompanied the order was unmistakable.

"We'll have none of that, sir!� " Acheson glared at him before issuing

his own order.� "You men, come back and re-form on the Devonshires.

Hurry it up, now.� Come along.� Come along."

"Hey!"� Jan Paulus held up his hand.� "These are my .

He groped for the word.� "My captures.

"Sir." �Acheson released his grip on Saul's shoulder, drew himself up

to his full height and glared up into Jan Paulus's face.

"I will give you five minutes to vacate this trench-otherwise you will

become my prisoner.� Good day to you.� " And he hobbled away through

the grass.� Jan Paulus stared in disbelief when fifty paces away

Acheson turned, folded his arms across his chest, and waited grimly for

the expiry of the five minutes.

About him he had gathered a handful of battle-stained soldiers and it

was clearly his intention to implement his duty with this pitiful

little band.� Jan Paulus wanted to laugh with frustration the skinny

old goat.� But he realized with dismay that most of his prisoners were

filtering away and hurrying to join Acheson.

He must do something but what?� The whole position was deteriorating

into a farce.

"Stop them!� " he shouted at his burghers.� "Hold those men they went

hands-up.� They cannot change their minds now.� " Then abruptly the

whole position altered.� Over the skyline behind Acheson and his tiny

party poured a solid phalanx of fresh khaki-clad figures.� The dime

battalions of reinforcements sent up from the foot of the mountain by

Sir Charles Wan-en had at last arrived.� Acheson glanced over his

shoulder and saw them swarming forward.� The brown parchment of his

face tore laterally in a wide and wicked grin.

"Fix bayonets!"� he shrieked, and drew his sword.� "Buglers sound the

charge.� Charge, men!� Charge!

Hopping and stumbling like a stork with a broken leg, he led them.

Behind him, the glittering crest of a wave, a line of bayonets raced

down on the trench.� Jan Paulus's burghers hated naked steel.

There were five hundred of them against two hundred.

They broke and blew away like smoke on a high wind.

Their prisoners ran with them.

Jan Paulus reached the crest and dropped behind a boulder that already

sheltered three men.

"Stop them!� Here they come!"� he panted.

While the British wave slowed and expended itself against the reef of

hidden Mousers, while they fell back with the shrapnel scourging them

once more-Jan Paulus knew that he would not stand in the British trench

again that day.

He could sense the despondency among his burghers.� He knew that

already the faint-hearted were slipping away to where their ponies

waited at the foot of the mountain.� He knew with sickened acceptance

that he had lost Spion Kop.� Oh!� The English had paid a heavy price

all right, there must be fifteen hundred of their dead and wounded

strewn upon the peak, but they had torn a gap in his line.� He had lost

Spion Kop and through this breach would pour twenty-five thousand men

to relieve Ladysmith, and to drive his burghers out of Natal and into

the Transvaal.� They had lost.� It was finished.

John Acheson tried desperately to ignore the agony of his bloated foot,

he tried to shut out the shrill chorus of the wounded pleading for

water.� There was no water on the peak.� He turned his gaze away from

the trench where men, drugged with exhaustion, oblivious to the thunder

of bombardment that still raged about them, lay in sleep upon the

bodies of their dead and dying comrades.

He looked instead at the sun, that great, bloody orb lightly screened

with long streamers of cloud.� In an hour it would be dark-and he knew

he had lost.� The message he held in his hands admitted it, the

grotesque piles of dead men that clogged the trench proved it.� He

re-read the message with difficulty for his vision jerked and swam

giddily.

"If you cannot hold until tomorrow, retire at Your discretion.

Buller.� " "Tomorrow.� What would tomorrow bring, if not a repetition

of today's horror?� 'rhey had lost.� They were going down from this

mountain.� They had lost.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rough stone of the

parapet.� A nerve in his eyelid began to twitch insistently, he could

not stop it.

How many are there left?� Half perhaps.� I do not know.� Half my men

gone, all night I heard their ponies galloping away, and the crack and

rumble of their wagons, and I could not hold them.

Jan Paulus stared up at the mountain in the dawn.

"Spion Kop."� He mouthed the name with loathing, but its outline was

blurred for his eyes could not focus.� They were rimmed with angry red

and in each corner was a lump of yellow mucus.� His body seemed to have

shrunk, dried out like that of an ancient mummy.� He slumped wearily in

the saddle, every muscle and nerve in his body screamed for rest.� To

sleep for a while.� Oh God, to sleep.

With a dozen of his loyal commandants he had tried all night to staunch

the dribble of deserters that was bleeding his army to death.

He had ridden from laager to laager, blustering, pleading, trying to

shame them.� With many he had succeeded, but with many he had not-and

once he had himself been shamed.� He remembered the old man with the

long white beard straggling from his yellow, wizened face, his eyes

glistening with tears in the firelight.

"Three sons I have given you today, Jan Paulus Leroux.� My brothers

have gone up your accursed mountain to beg for their bodies from the

English.� Three sons!� Three fine sons!� What more do you want from

me?"� From where he sat against the wheel of his wagon the old man

struggled to his feet hugging the blanket around his shoulders,

"You call me coward, Leroux.� You say I am afraid.� " He stopped and

struggled with his breathing, and when he went on his voice was a

croak.� "I am seventy eight years old and you are the first man to ever

call me that if God is merciful you'll be the last."� He stopped

again.

"Seventy-eight years.� Seventy-eight!� and you call me that!

Look, Leroux.� Look well!"� He let the blanket fall away and Jan Paulus

stiffened in the saddle as he saw the bloody mess of bandages that

swathed the old man's chest.� "Tomorrow morning I will be with my

sons.

I wait for them now.� Write on our grave, L@roux!

Write

"Cowards' on our grave!"� And through the old lips burst a froth of

pink bubbles.

Now with red eyes Jan Paulus stared up at the mountain.� The lines of

fatigue and shame and defeat were etched deep beside his nostrils and

around his mouth.� When the mists cleared they would see the English on

the crest and with half his men he would go back.� He touched the pony

with his spurs and started him up the slope.

The sun gilded the mountain mist, it swirled golden and began to

dissipate.

Faintly on the morning wind he heard the cheering and he frowned.

The English cheer too soon, he thought.� Do they think we will not come

again?� He urged his pony upward, but as it scrambled over loose rock

and scree he reeled drunkenly in the saddle and was forced to cling to

the pommel.

The volume of cheering mounted, and he peered uncomprehendingly at the

crest above him.� The skyline was dotted with figures who danced and

waved their hats, and suddenly there were voices all around him.

"They've gone."

"The mountain is ours."

"We've won!� Praise God, we've won.� The English have gone.� " Men

crowded about his pony, and dragged him from the saddle.� He felt his

legs buckle under him, but rough hands were there to support him, and

half dragging, half carrying him, they bore him up towards the peak.

Jan Paulus sat upon a boulder and watched them harvest the rich crop of

battle.� He could not sleep yet, not until this was done.� He had

allowed the English stretcher-bearers to come up his mountain and they

were at work along the trench while his own burghers gleaned their dead

from along the crest.

Four of them approached Jan Paulus, each holding the domer of a gray

woollen blanket as though it were a hammock.� They staggered under the

load, until they reached the neat line of corpses already laid out on

the grass.

"Who knows this man?"� one of them called, but there was no reply from

the group of silent men who waited with Jan Paulus.

They lifted the body out of the blanket and laid it with the others.

One of the burghers who had carried him removed from his clutching,

dead fingers a wide Terai hat and placed it over his face.

Then he straightened and asked: "Who claims him?"� Unless a friend or a

kinsman claimed the corpse it would be buried in a communal grave.

Jan Paulus stood up and walked across to stand over the body.

He lifted the hat and replaced it with the homburg from his own head.

"Ja.� I claim him," he said heavily.

"Is he kin or friend, Oom Paul?"

"He is a friend."

"What is his name?"

"I do not know his name.� He is just a friend.

Saul Friedman fidgeted impatiently.� In his eagerness he had arrived

half an hour before visiting-time began and for this he was doing

penance in the bleak little waiting-room of Greys Hospital.� He sat

forward on the straight-backed chair, twisted his helmet between his

fingers and stared at the large sign on the opposite wall.

"Gentlemen are requested Not to smoke."

He had asked Ruth to come with him, but she had pleaded a headache.� In

a sneaking fashion Saul was glad.� He knew that her presence would

inhibit his reunion with Sean Courtney.� He didn't want polite

conversation about the weather and how was he feeling now, and he must

come round to dinner some evening.� It would have been difficult not to

be able to swear if they wanted-it would have been even more difficult

in view of Ruths attitude.

Yesterday, the first day of his leave, he had spoken of Sean with

enthusiasm.� How many times had she visited him?� How was he?� Did he

Did he limp badly?� Didn't Ruth think he was a wonderful person?� Twice

she replied and, well, no not badly, yes he was very nice.� Just about

then Saul perceived the truth.� Ruth did not like Sean.� At first he

could hardly believe it.� He tried to continue the conversation.� But

each of her monosyllabic replies confirmed his first suspicion.� Of

course, she had not said so, but it was so obvious.� For some reason

she had taken a dislike to Sean which was close to loathing.

Now Saul sat and pondered the reason.� He discounted the possibility

that Sean had offended her.� If that were the case Sean would have

received as good as he gave and afterwards Ruth would have related the

whole tale with glee and relish.

No, Saul decided, it was something else.� Like a swimmer about to dive

into icy water, Saul drew a metaphorical deep breath and plunged into

the uncharted sea of feminine thought processes.� Was Sean's

masculinity so overpowering as to be offensive?� Had his attention to

her been below average (Ruth was accustomed to extravagant reactions to

her beauty)?� Could it be that.� . . ?� Or, on the other hand, did

Sean.� . . ?� Saul was floundering heavily when suddenly, as a

shipwrecked victim surfacing for the last time finds a tall ship close

alongside with lifeboats being lowered from every derrick, the solution

came to him.

Ruth was jealous!

Saul leaned back in the chair, astounded at the depth of his own

perception.

His lovely, hot-tempered wife was jealous of the friendship between

Sean and himself!

Chuckling tenderly, Saul laid plans to appease Ruth.� He'd have to be

less fulsome in his praises of Sean.� He must get them together and in

Sean's presence pay special attention to Ruth.

He must .� . .

Then his thoughts ricocheted off in another direction and he began to

think about Ruth.� As always when he thought too intensely about her,

he experienced a feeling of bemusement similar to what a poor man feels

on winning a large lottery.

He had met her at the Johannesburg Turf Club during the big Summer

Meeting, and he had fallen in love at a range of fifty paces, so that

when he was presented to her, his usually nimble tongue lay like a

lutrip of heavy metal in his mouth and he squirmed and was silent.� The

friendly smile she bestowed upon him licked across his face like a blow

torch, heating it until he felt the skin would blister.

That night, alone in his lodging, he planned his campaign.� To its

conduct he allocated the sum of five hundred guineas, which was exactly

half his savings.� The following morning he began his intelligence

work, and a week later he had collected a massive volume of

information.

She was eighteen years old and was on a visit to relations in

Johannesburg, a visit scheduled to last a further six weeks.� She came

from a rich Natal family of brewers and hotel-keepers, but she was an

orphan and a ward of her uncle.� While in Johannesburg she rode every

day, visited the theatre or danced every night with an assortment of

escorts, except Fridays when she attended the Old Synagogue in Jeppe

Street.

His opening manceuvre was the hire of a horse and he waylaid her as she

rode out with her cousin.� She did not remember him and would have

ridden on, but at last his tongue, which was sharpened by three years

of practice at the Johannesburg Bar, came to life.� Within two minutes

she was laughing and an hour later she invited him back to tea with her

relatives.

The following evening he called for her in a splendid carriage and they

dined at Candy's Hotel and went on to the Ballet in company with a

party of Saul's friend.

Two nights later she went with him to the Bar Association Ball and

found that he was a superb dancer.� Resplendent in brand-new evening

dress, with an ugly yet mobile and expressive face, an inch taller than

her five feet six, with wit and intelligence that had earned him a wide

circle of friends-he was the perfect foil for her own beauty.� When he

returned her home Ruth had a thoughtful but dreamy look in her eye.

The following day she attended Court and listened to him successfully

defend a gentleman accused of assault with intent to do grievous bodily

harm.� She was impressed by his display and decided that in time he

would reach the heights of his profession.

A week later Saul again proved his command of the spoken word in an

impassioned declaration of love.� His suit was judged and found worthy,

and after that it was merely a case of informing the families and

sending out the invitations.

Now, at last, four year later they were to have their first child.

Saul grinned happily as he thought about it.� Tomorrow he would begin

his attempt to discourage the adoption of the name Storm.� " It would

be a difficult case to win, one worthy of his talents.� In the

preceding four years Saul had learned that once Ruth set her small

white teeth into something she had a bulldog grip.� A great deal of

finesse was needed to loosen that grip without invoking her wrath.

Saul had an awesome respect for his wife's wrath.

"It's four o'clock."� The little blonde nurse poked her head around the

waiting-room door and smiled at him.� "You may go in now.

You'll find him out on the veranda.� " Saul's eagerness returned in

full flood and he had to restrain himself from bouncing too

boisterously down the veranda.

He recognized Sean's bulk, clad in uniform khaki, reclining elegantly

in a cane-backed chair and chatting to the men in the row of beds in

front of him.� He came up behind the chair.

"Don't stand up, Sergeant.� Just toss me a salute from where YOU are. "

"Saul!� " Lugging himself out of the chair and pivoting easily on his

game leg, Sean gripped both Saul's shoulders in the old show of

affection.� The pleasure that fired Sean's expression was genuine and

that was enough for Saul.

"Good to see you, you old bastard."� He returned Sean's grip, grinning

happily.� He did not notice how swiftly Sean's pleasure faded, and was

replaced by a shifty, nervous smile.

"Have a drink."� They were the first words that came into Sean's mind.

He must have time to feel his way.� Had Ruth said anything to Saul, had

he guessed?

"Water?� " Saul grimaced.

"Gin," whispered Sean, guilt making him garrulous and he went on in a

clumsy attempt at humour.� "Water carafe is full Of gin.� For God's

sake don't tell Matron.� I smuggle it in.� Argue with the nurse

whenever she tries to change it-she says

"Water stale, must change!"� I say,

"Like stale water, raised on stale water, stale water stroongly

indicated in all cases of leg injury!

"Give me stale water too," laughed Saul.

While he poured Sean introduced Saul to the gentleman in the next bed,

a Scotsman who agreed with them that stale water was a sovereign

therapeutic for shrapnel wound in the chest-a complaint from which he

was currently suffering.� The three of them settled down to a course of

intensive treatment.

At Sean's prodding Saul embarked on a long account of the battle of

Spion Kop.� He made it seem very funny.� Then he went on to describe

the final break through at I-Dangwane, Buller's eventual relief of

Ladysmith, and his cautious pursuit of Leroux Is army which was now in

full retreat into the Transvaal.

They discussed Lord Roberts's offensive that had driven up from the

Cape, relieved Kimberley, swept on to take Bloemfontein and was now

poised for the final thrust up through the belly of the Transvaal to

Pretoria which was the heart.

"It will all be over in three months.� " The Scotsman gave his

opinion.

"You think so?"� Sean sneered at him a little, and succeeded in

provoking an argument whose flames were fed with gin.

As the level in the carafe fell the time for sober and serious

discussion passed and they became sentimental.� Tenderly Saul inquired

after their injuries.

The Scotsman was being shipped home across the sea, and at the thought

of parting they became sad.

Sean was returning the following day to Ladyburg for convalescent

leave.� At the end of which, if the doctors were satisfied that the

pieces of shrapnel in his leg were satisfactorily encysted (two words

which Sean had difficulty enunciating) he would be returned to duty.

The word "duty" aroused their patriotism and Sean and Saul with arms

around each other's shoulders swore a mighty oath that together,

comrades in arms, brothers in blood, they would see this war out.

Never counting the cost in hardship and danger, together they would

ride against the foe.

Suitable music was needed for their mood, and the Scotsman gave them

"The Wild Colonial Boy.� " His eyes were moist and his voice quavered

with emotion.

Deeply touching, but not entirely appropriate to the occasion, Sean and

Saul did

"Hearts of Oak" as a duet, then all three launched into a lively

rendition of

"Are you awake, Johnny Cope?"

The Matron arrived in the middle of the third chorus, by which time

Johnny Cope and anybody else within a hundred yards could not possibly

have been sleeping.

"Gentlemen, visiting hour ended at five o'clock."� She was a fearsome

woman with a voice like a cavalry charge, but Saul who had pleaded

before hanging judges rose undaunted to the defence.

"Madam."� He opened his address with a bow.� "These men may, let me

speak with truth-these heroes have made great sacrifice in the name of

freedom.� Their blood has flowed like gin in defence of that glorious

ideal-Freedom!� All I ask is that a little of that precious stuff be

granted unto them.� Madam.� In the name of honour, of fairness, and of

gratitude I appeal to you."� He ended with one fist clenched above his

heart and his head tragically bowed.

"Hoots, mon!

"Oh good!� Very good!

The two heroes burst into spontaneous and heartwarming applause, but

over the Matron's features descended a frosty veil of suspicion.

She elevated her nose a little and sniffed.

"You're drunk!"� she accused grimly.

"Oh, foul libel!� Oh, monstrous untruth."� Saul backed hurriedly out of

range.

"All right, Sergeant."� She turned grimly on Sean.� "Where is it?

"What Sean was all helpless innocence.

"The bottle!� " She lifted the bedclothes and began her search.

Saul picked up his helmet, saluted them behind her back and tiptoed

down the veranda.

Sean's leave in Ladyburg passed quickly, much too quickly.

MbeJane had disappeared on a mysterious errand into Zululand.

Sean guessed that it related to the two wives and their offspring that

Mbejane had cheerfully sent to the kraals of their parents when Sean

had left Ladyburg so many years before.

Dirk was incarcerated each morning in the schoolhouse, and so Sean was

free to roam alone upon the hills and over the veld that surrounded the

town.� Most of his time he spent coveting the huge derelict ranch

called Lion Kop which spread above the escarpment.

After it month he knew the course of every strcani and each fold and

slope of the land.� His leg strengthened with the exercise.� It no

longer pained him and the scar lost its purple shine and dulled down to

a closer match with his skin colour.

But as his strength returned and flesh filled out his shoulders and

padded the gaunt bones of his face, so restlessness came back to him.

His daily pilgrimage to Lion Kop Ranch became an obsession.� He

wandered through the bare rooms of the old homestead and saw them as

they could be with the thatched roof replaced to keep out the rain and

the flaking plaster renewed and freshly painted.� He stood before the

empty, smoke-blackened fireplace and imagined the glow and the warmth

it could give.� Stamping across the dusty floors he judged the

yellow-wood planking as sound as the massive beams that supported the

roof.� Then he wandered out across the land, stooping now and then to

take up a handful of earth and feel its rich loamy texture.

In the May of 1900 he went to the Deeds Registry at the Magistrate's

office and surreptitiously inspected the title.� He found that the

fifteen thousand acres of Lion Kop Ranch had been purchased from the

estate of the late Stephanus Johannes Erasmus by the Ladyburg Banking &

Trust Co Ltd.� Transfer had been signed by Ronald Pye, Esq in his

capacity as Chairman of the Bank.� Sean grinned.� Ronny Pye was his

most cherished childhood enemy.� This could be very amusing.

Sean settled himself in the deep, soft nest of polished leather formed

by the armchair and glanced curiously around the panelled office.

"A few changes since you were last here.� Hey, Sean?� " Ronny Pye

interpreted his thoughts accurately.

"A few.� " The Ladyburg Banking & Trust Co was doing very prettily,

judging by the furnishings.� Some of its prosperity showed on the

figure of its Chairman.� Plenty of flesh under the solid gold

watch-chain, dark but expensive jacket to offset the extravagant

waistcoat, fifteen-guinea handmade boots.� Very nice until you looked

at the face; pale so that the freckles showed like irregular gold

coins, greedy eyes, ears like the handles of a shaving-mug-that much

hadn't changed.� But although Ronny was Just two years Sean's senior,

there was plenty of grey in his ginger sideburns and little wrinkles of

worry around his eyes.

"Been out to Theuniskraal to visit your sister-in-law yet?"

There was a sly expression in Ronny's face as he asked.

"No.

of course you wouldn't," Ronny nodded understandingly and managed to

convey that the scandal, though old, was by no means dead.

Sean felt a repugnance that made him shift in his chair.� The little

ginger moustache heightened Ronny's resemblance to a bush rat.

Now Sean wanted to end the business and get out into the fresh air

again.

"Listen, Ronny.� I've searched title on Lion Kop.� You own it," he

began abruptly.

"Lion Kop?� " The previous morning the clerk from the Registry had

hurried down to Mr.� Pye with the news that earned him a sovereign.

There had been many others calling with the news that Sean had visited

the ranch every day for a month.� But now Ronny had to search his

memory to place the name.� "Lion Kop?� Ah, yes!� The old Erasmus

place.

Yes, I do believe we picked it up from the estate.� Paid too much for

it, I'm afraid.� " Here he sighed with resignation.� "But we can hold

on to it for another ten years or so and get our money back.� No hurry

to sell.

"I want it.� " Sean cut short the preliminaries and Ronny laughed

easily.

"You're in good company.� Half the farmers in Natal want it but not

enough to meet our price.

"How much?

The established price of grazing land in the Ladyburg area was one

shilling and sixpence an acre.� minutes before Ronny had set himself to

ask two shillings.� But now he was looking into Sean's eyes and

remembering a fist crushing his nose and the taste of his own blood.

He heard again Sean's arrogant laughter rejecting his overtures of

friendship.� No, he thought with hatred.� No, you big cocky bastard,

now you pay for those.

"Three shillings," he said.

Sean nodded thoughtfully.� He understood.� Then suddenly he grinned.

"My God, Ronny, I heard you were a pretty sharp business man.

But I must have heard wrong.� If you paid three shillings for Lion Kop

they really caught you with your skirts up.� " And Ronny flushed.

Sean had probed deep into his pride.

"I paid nine-pence, " he snapped.� "I'm selling for three shillings.

"Make out the deed of sale for 2,250.� pounds.� I'll take it.

Damn it!� Damn it to hell!� Ronny swore silently.� He would have paid

five.

"That's for the land only.� An extra 1,000 pounds for the

improvements.

"Anything else?"� Sean enquired.

"No.� " Sean calculated quickly, with transfer tax he could meet the

price with a few hundred spare.

"I'll still take it.� " Ronny stared at him while his brain wriggled

like a snake.� I didn't realize he wanted it that badly-I could have

had his soul.

"Of course, my Board will have to approve the sale.� It depends on them

really.� " Ronny's Board of Directors consisted of himself, his little

sister Audrey, and her husband Dennis Petersen.� Ronny held eighty per

cent of the shares, and Sean knew this.� He had examined the Company's

Articles that were lodged with the Registrar.

"Listen to me, dear friend of my youth.� " Sean leaned forward across

the stinkwood desk and picked up a heavy silver cigar-box.� "You made

an offer.� I accepted it.� I'll be here at four o'clock this afternoon

with the money.� Please have the documents ready.� " Sean lifted the

cigar-box in one fist and started to squeeze.� The muscles in his

forearm writhed like mating pythons and the box crumpled and burst open

at the seams.� Sean placed the distorted lump of metal on the blotter

in front of Ronny.

"Don't misunderstand me, Sean.� " Ronny grinned nervously and dragged

his eyes away from the box.� "I'm certain I'll be able to convince my

Board.

The following day was a Saturday.� No school for Dirk.� and Sean took

him along on the daily ride out to the ranch.� Almost beside himself

with joy at being alone with his god, Dirkie raced his pony ahead and

then circled at full gallop to fall in beside Sean once more.

Laughing with excitement, chattering ecstatically for a while, then he

could no longer contain his high spirits and he galloped ahead.

Before Sean reached the cross-roads below the escarpment he met a small

caravan of travellers coming in the opposite direction.

Sean greeted the leader solemnly.� "I see you, Mbejane."

Mbejane had the jaded and slightly sheepish look of a tomcat returning

from a busy night out.� "I see you also, Nkosi.There was a long,

embarrassed silence while Mbejane took a pinch of snuff and stared

fixedly at the sky above Sean's head.

Sean was studying MbeJane's travelling companions.� There were two in

their middle age, which is about thirty-five years old for a Zulu

woman.� Both of them wore the tall head-dress of clay which denotes

matron hood Though they retained the proud, erect carriage, their

breasts were pendulous and empty and the skin of their bellies above

the brief aprons was wrinkled with the marks of child-bearing.� There

were also two girls just beyond puberty, moon-faced skins glowing with

youth, straight and well-muscled, buttocks like ripe melons and firm,

round breasts.� They hung their heads and giggled shyly.

"Perhaps it will rain tonight," MbeJane remarked.

"Perhaps.� " "It will be good for the grazing," Mbejane ploughed on

doggedly.

"Who the hell are these women?"� Sean could contain his curiosity no

longer and Mbejane frowned at his breach of etiquette.� Observations on

the weather and the grazing should have continued another five

minutes.

"Nkosi, these two are my wives."� He gestured at the matrons.

"The other two your daughters?"

"No."� Mbejane paused, then went on gravely: "It is not fitting that a

man of my years should have but two women who are old for work and the

bearing of children.� I have purchased two younger wives."

"I see," said Sean, and kept the grin off his face.� Mbejane had

invested a large percentage of his capital.� "And what do YOU propose

doing with all your wives, you know we must soon return again to

fight?"

"When the time comes they will go to the kraals of their fathers and

wait for me there.� " Mbejane hesitated delicately.� "I bring them with

me until I am certain that I have trodden on the moon of each of them.

" Treading on a woman's moon was the Zulu expression for interrupting

her menstrual cycle.� Mbejane was making sure his investment bore

interest.

"There is a farm upon the hills up there."� Sean seemed to be changing

the subject.

"Many times, Nkosi, you and I have spoken of it.� " But Mbejane

understood and there was an anticipatory gleam in his eyes.

"It is a good farm?� " Sean held him a little longer in suspense.

"It is truly an excellent and beautiful farm.� The water is sweeter

than the juice of the sugar-cane, the earth is richer than the flesh of

a young ox, the grass upon it as thick and as full of promise as the

hair on a woman's pudendum.� " Now Mbejane's eyes were shining with

happiness.� In his book a farm was a place where a man sat in the sun

with a pot of millet beer beside him and listened to his wives singing

in the fields.� It meant cattle, the only true wealth, and many small

sons to herd them.

It meant the end of a long weary road.

"Take your wives with you and select the place where you wish to build

your kraal.� " "Nkosi.� " There is no Zulu equivalent of thank you.� He

could say I praise you, but that was not what Mbejane felt.

At last he found the word.� "Bayete!� Nkosi, Bayete!� " The salute to a

King.

Dirk's pony was tethered to the hitching-post in front of the

homestead.� Using a charred stick Dirk was writing his name in crude

capitals on the wall of the front veranda.

Although the entire house would be replastered and painted Sean found

himself quivering with anger.� He jumped from his horse roaring and

brandishing his sjambok and Dirk disappeared round the corner of the

house.� By the time Sean had regained self-control and was sitting on

the veranda wall revelling in the pride of ownership, Mbejane

arrived.

They chatted a while and then Mbejane led his women away.� Sean could

trust him to build the beehive huts of his kraal on the richest earth

of Lion Kop.

The last girl in the line was Mbejane's youngest and prettiest wife.

Balancing the large bundle on her head, her back straight, her buttocks

bare except for the strip of cloth that covered the cleft, she walked

away with such unconsciously regal grace that Sean was instantly and

forcibly reminded of Ruth.

His elation subsided.� He stood up and walked away from the old

building.� Without Ruth in it, this house would not be a home.

He sat alone on the slope of the hills.� Again he was reminded of Ruth.

This place was so much like their secret glade.� Except, of course,

there were no wattle trees here.

"Wattle!"� exclaimed Ronny Pye and glared at his sister and his

brother-in-law.� "He's planting wattle."

"What for?� " Dennis Petersen asked.

"For the bark, man.� The bark!� There's a fortune in it.� Twenty pounds

a ton!"

"What do they use it for?"

"The extract, is used in tanning leather."

"If it's so good why haven't other people-" Dennis began, but Ronny

brushed him aside impatiently.

"I've gone into it thoroughly.� Lion Kop is ideal wattle ground, high

and misty.� The only other really good ground in the district is

Mahobo's Kloof Ranch and Theuniskraal.� Thank God you own Mahobo's

Kloofl Because that's where we're going to plant our own wattle.� He

looked at Dennis but without seeing him as he went on.� "I've spoken to

Jackson at Natal Wattle Company.� He'll sell us the saplings on the

same terms as he's supplying that bastard Courtney, and he'll buy our

bark-every scrap of it at a guaranteed twenty pounds a ton.� I've hired

two men to supervise the planting.� Labour will be our big problem,

Sean has grabbed every native within twenty miles.� He's got an army of

them up there."� Suddenly Ronny stopped.� He had seen the expression on

Dennis's face.� "What's wrong with you?"

"Mahobo's lGoof!"� Dennis moaned.� "Oh God!� Oh my God.

"What do you mean?"

"He came to see me last week.� Sean ... He wanted an option to

purchase.� A five years" option.� " "You didn't give it to him!"� Ronny

screamed.

"He offered three shillings an acre-that's six times as much as I paid

for it.� How could I refuse.� " "You fool!� You blathering bloody

idiot!� In five years that land will be worth .� Ronny gulped,

"It will be worth at least ten pounds!� " "But nobody told me!� "

Dennis wailed the age-old cry of the might-have-been, the lament of

those that never quite succeed,

"Nobody told Sean either."� Audrey spoke softly for the first time and

there was that in her voice that made Ronny turn &avagely on his

handsome sister.

"All right-we all know about you and Sean.� But he didn't stay around

long enough for you to get your hooks into him, did he?"� Ronny stopped

himself and glanced guiltily at Dennis.� It was years before Audrey had

abandoned all hope of Sean's return to Ladyburg and succumbed to

Dennis's gentle but persistent courtship.� Now Dennis coughed awkwardly

and looked at his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Well, anyway," he murmured,

"Sean's got it and there's nothing we can do about it.� "To hell!� "

Ronny pulled a notebook towards him and opened it.� "This is how I see

it.� He's borrowed that ten thousand from his mother-you know the money

we tried to get her to invest in the Burley deal.� " They all

remembered the Burley deal and looked a little ashamed.� Ronny hurried

on.� "And he's borrowed another five thousand from Natal Wattle-Jackson

let it slip out.� " Ronny went on with his calculations.� When he

finished he was smiling again.� "Mr.� Sean Courtney is stretched about

as thin as he can get without breaking.

Just one slip, one little slip and-Pow!� " He made a chopping motion

with his open hand.� "We can wait!

He selected a cigar from the leather box which had replaced the silver

one and lit it before he spoke again.� "By the way did you know he

hasn't been discharged from the army yet?� The way the war is going

they certainly need good fighting men.

That leg of his looks all right to me.� Perhaps a word in the right

ear-a little pressure somewhere."� Ronny was positively grinning now.

His cigar tasted delicious.

The doctors at Greys Hospital had given Sean his final examination a

week before Christmas.� They had judged his disability as roughly one

per cent, a slight limp when he was physically fired.� This

disqualified him from war wound pension and had made him available for

immediate return to duty.

A week after New Year's Day of 1901 the first letter from the army

arrived.� He was to report immediately to the Officer Commanding the

Natal Mounted Rifles-the regiment which had " now swallowed up the old

Natal Corps of Guides.

The war in South Africa had entered a new phase.� Throughout the

Transvaal and Orange Free State the Boers had begun a campaign of

guerilla warfare alarming in its magnitude.� The war was far from over

and Sean's presence was urgently required to swell the army of a

quarter of a million British troops already in the field.

He had written begging for an extension of his leave, and had received

in reply a threat to treat him as a deserter if he wasn't in

Johannesburg by February first.

The last two weeks had been filled with frantic activity.� He had

managed to finish the planting of ten thousand acres of wattle begun

the previous May.� He had arranged a further large loan from Natal

Wattle to pay for the tending of his trees.� The repairs and renovation

of the Homestead on Lion Kop were completed and Ada had moved from the

cottage in Protea Street to act as caretaker and manager of the estate

during his absence Now, as he rode alone over his land in a gesture of

farewell, he had an opportimity to think of other things.� The main one

of these was his daughter.� His first and only daughter.� She was two

months old now.� Her name was Storm and he had never seen her.� Saul

Friedman had written a long, joyous letter from the front where Sean

was soon to join him.� Sean had sent hearty congratulations and then

tried once again to contact Ruth.� He had written her without result

and, finally, had abandoned his work on Lion Kop and gone up to

Pietermaritzburg.� Four days he waited, calling morning and afternoon

at the Goldberg mansion-and each time Ruth was either out or

indisposed.� He had left a bitter little note for her and gone home.

Deep in gloom he rode through his plantations.� Great blocks of young

trees, row upon endless row, covered the hills of Lion Kop.� The older

wattle planted ten months before had started to come away.

Already it was waist high with fluffy green tops.� It was an

achievement of almost superhuman proportion, ten months of ceaseless

gruelling labour by two thousand native labourers.� Now it was done.

He had retained a gang of fifty Zulus, who would work under Ada's

supervision, clearing the undergrowth between the rows and guarding

against fire.� That was all there was to it; four years of waiting

until the trees reached maturity and were ready for stripping.

But now he was so completely absorbed in thought that he passed over

the boundary of Lion Kop without noticing, and rode on along the foot

of the escarpment.� He crossed the road and the railway line.

From ahead the murmur of the White Falls blended with the wind whisper

in the grass, and he glimpsed the flash of water cascading down from

the high rock in the sunshine.� The acacia trees were in bloom, covered

with the golden mist of their flowers above, gloomy with shadows

beneath.

He crossed the river below the pool of the falls.� The escarpment rose

steeply above him, striped with dark dense bush in the gulleys, a

thousand feet high so it blocked out the sunlight.

The pool was a place of fern and green moss, and the rocks were black

and slippery with the spray.� A cold place, out of the sun-and the

water roared as it fell in a white, moving veil like smoke.

Sean shivered and rode on, ambling up the slope of the escarpment.

Then he knew that instinct had directed him.� In his distress he had

come back to the first home he had ever known.

This was Courtney land beneath his feet, and spreading down and out

towards the Tugela.� The nostalgia came upon him more strongly as he

climbed, until at last he reached the rim and stood looking down upon

the whole of Theuniskraal.

He picked out the landmarks below him; the homestead with the stables

and the servants" quarters behind it; the paddocks with the horses

grazing heads down and tails swinging; the dip tanks among the

trees-and each of them had some special memory attached to it.

Sean dismounted and sat down in the grass.� He lit a cheroot, while his

mind went back and picked over the scrap-heap of the past.

An hour, and then another, passed before he came back to the present,

pulled his watch from the front pocket of his waistcoat and checked the

time.

"After one!"� he exclaimed, and stood to dust the seat of his pants

and.� settle his hat on to his head before beginning the descent of the

escarpment.� Instead of crossing the river at the pool, he stayed on

Theuniskraal and keeping to higher ground aimed to intersect the mad on

this side of the bridge.� Occasionally he found cattle feeding together

in herds of less than a dozen; they were all in condition, fat on the

new grass, for the land was not carrying nearly its full capacity.� As

he passed they lifted their heads and watched him with vacant, bovine

expressions of un surprise

forest thickened, then abruptly ended and before him lay one of the

small swampy depressions that bellied out from the river.� From his

look-out on the escarpment this area had been screened by trees, so now

for the first time Sean noticed the saddled horse tethered on the far

edge of the swamp.� Quickly Sean searched for its rider, and found him

in the swamp-only his head visible above the bright poisonous green

field of papyrus grass.� The man's head disappeared again and there was

a commotion in the grass; a wild thrashing and the sudden panic ridden

bellow of a beast.

Sean worked his way quickly round the edge of the swamp until he

reached the horse.� The head and shoulders of the man in the swamp

reappeared and Sean could see that he was splattered with mud.

"What's the trouble?"� Sean shouted, and the head turned towards him.

"There's a beast bogged down here.

"Hold on, I'll give you a hand."� Sean stripped his jacket, waistcoat

and shirt and hung them with his hat on a branch before going in.

Ploughing knee-deep through ooze that bubbled and belched gas as he

disturbed it, using both arms to part the coarse tangle of reeds and

marsh grass, Sean finally reached them.

The beast was an old black cow; her hindquarters completely submerged

in a mudhole and her front legs twisted helplessly under her chest.

"She's just about finished," said the man.� Sean looked at him and saw

he was not a man but a youth.� Tall for his age, but lightly built.

Dark hair, cropped short and the big nose to show he was a Courtney.

with an unnatural tightness in his gut and a shortening of his Sean

knew that he was looking at his son.

breath,

"Don't just stand there," snapped the boy.� He was covered from the

chest down in a glistening evil-smelling coat of mud, sweat pouring

down his face and dissolving the spots of mud on his forehead and

cheeks, breathing heavily through open Mouth, crouching over the animal

to hold its head above the surface.

"Have to roll her," said Sean.� "Keep her head, up.� " He waded to the

hindquarters and the mud bubbled greasily up around his waist.� He

thrust his arms down through it-groping for the trapped legs.

Scans hands could only just encompass the thick bone and sinew of the

hock.� He settled his grip and leaned back against it, straining

upwards, gradually bringing the fulll strength of his body into the

pull until he knew that something in his belly was on the point of

tearing.� He held like that, his whole face contorted, mouth wide open

so that his breathing rattled hoarsely up his throat, the great muscles

of his chest and arms locked in an iron convulsion.

A minute, two minutes, he held the stance while the boy watched him

with a mingled expression of alarm and wonder.

Then suddenly there was a squelching popping escape of swamp gas around

Sean's chest, and the beast began to move.� Slowly at first,

reluctantly up through the ooze showed the swell of its rump-then

faster, as the mud lost its hold, until, with a final belch and sigh,

it yielded and Sean came to his feet holding the legs above the

surface-the cow lying exhausted on her side.

"Hell's teeth!"� breathed the boy in open admiration.� For a moment the

beast lay quiescent, then realizing that its legs were free, it began

to struggle, thrashing wildly to regain them.

"Hold the head," shouted Sean, and blundered sideways until he could

grab its tail and prevent it from attempting to stand.

When the animal was quiet again he began to drag it, moving backwards,

towards the firm ground.� Like a bob sleigh the carcass slid easily

over the carpet of mud and flattened reeds until it grounded.

Then Sean jumped clear while she struggled up, stood a moment and then

lumbered unsteadily away into the trees.

Sean and his son stood together, gasping, covered with filth, still

ankle-deep in mud, watching the cow disappear.

"Thanks.� I'd never have done it on my own, sir."� The form of address

and the boy's tone touched something deep in Sean.

"It needed two of us," he agreed.� "What's your name?"

"Courtney, sir.� Michael Courtney."� He held out his hand towards

Sean.

"Nice to meet you, Mike."� Sean took the hand.

"I know you, don't I, sir?� I am sure I've seen you before-it's been

worrying me."

"I don't think so."� With an effort Sean kept his feelings from showing

in his voice and face.

"I'd ... I'd count it an honour to know your name."� As Michael spoke a

shyness came upon them both.

What can I tell him?� thought Sean.� For I must not he-and yet I cannot

tell him the truth.

"My God, what a bloody mess," he laughed instead.� "We stink like we've

been dead ten days.

Michael seemed to notice their condition for the first time.

"Ma will have a hernia when she sees me," he laughed also, then, "Come

up to the house.� It's not far from here.� Have lunch with us and you

can clean up-the servants will wash your clothes for YOU.

"No.� Sean shook his head.� "I must get back to Ladyburg.

"Please.� I'd like you to meet my mother.� My father's not here-he's at

the war.� But, please come home with me.

He really wants me to.� As Sean looked into his son's eyes the warm

feeling that he had been struggling to suppress flooded up from his

chest and he felt his face flush with the pleasure of it.

"Mike," he spoke slowly, groping for the right words.

"Things are a bit difficult right now.� I can't take you up on the

invitation.� But I'd like to see you again and I'll be through this way

one day.� Shall we leave it until then?� " "Oh!� " Michael made no

attempt to hide his disappointment.

"Anyway, I'll ride with you as far as the bridge."

"Good.� " Sean picked up his shirt and wiped off the surplus mud, while

Michael unhitched their horses.

They rode slowly, in silence at first with the shyness Still] on them.

Then they started to talk, and quickly the barriers between them

crumbled.� With a feeling of pride that was ridiculous in the

circumstances, Sean became aware of the quickness of Michael's brain,

the ease of expression unusual in one so young, and the maturity of his

views.

They spoke of Theuniskraal.

"It's a good farm."� There was pride in Michael's voice.� "My family

has owned it since 1867.� " "You're not running much stock,"

Sean grunted.

"Pa has had a run of bad luck.� The rinderpest hit us but we'll build

it up again-you wait and see.� " He was silent a moment, then, "Pa's

not really a cattleman, instead of putting money into stock he spends

it on horses-like Beauty here.� " He patted the neck of his magnificent

golden mare.� "I've tried to argue with him, but-" Then he realized

that he was steering close to the lee shore of disloyalty, and he

checked himself then went on hurriedly: "Don't misunderstand me, my

father is an unusual man.� Right now he's on the army staff-a colonel,

and one of General Buller's right-hand men.� He is a holder of the

Victoria Cross for bravery, and he has been awarded the D.S.O. for the

job he is doing now.

Yes, thought Sean, I have defended Garry also; many times, as often as

you will by the time you reach my age.� In understanding he changed the

direction of the conversation.

They spoke of the future: "So you want to be a farmer, then?"

"I love this place.� I was born here.� To me it is not just a piece of

land and a house.� It is part of a tradition to which I belong built by

men of whom I am proud.� After Pa, I will be the only one left to

continue it.� I won't fail that trust.� But .

They had reached the rise above the road, and Michael stopped and

looked at Sean as though trying to make up his mind how much he should

tell this stranger.

"But?"� Sean prompted him gently.� For a moment longer Michael stared

at him, trying to account for his certainty in this man-for the

conviction he had that he could trust him beyond all other men on

earth.� He felt that he had known him all his life, and between them

was something so strong-so good and strong as to be almost tangible.

"But," he jerked himself back to their conversation, "that is not all.

I want something beyond just land and cattle.� It's so difficult to

explain.� My grandfather was a big man; he worked with people as well

as animals.� He had ... you do understand me, don't you?

"I drink so," Sean nodded.� "You feel you'd like to make a place for

yourself in the scheme of things.� " "Yes, that's it.� I'd like to make

decisions other than when to cull and when to brand, or where to build

a new dip-tank.

"What are you going to do about it then?� " "Well, I'm at Cape Town

University.� This is my third year, I'll have my degree by Christmas.

"Then what?

"I don't know, but I'll find something.� " Then Michael smiled.

"There's a lot to learn first.� Sometimes when I realize how much it

frightens me a little.� " They walked their horses down towards the

road, so completely absorbed in each other that neither of them noticed

the buggy coming towards them from the direction of Ladyburg; until it

was almost on them, Then Michael glanced up.� "Hey!� Here comes my

mother.

Now you can meet her.

With a sense of dread numbing him, Sean realized he was trapped.

There was no escape-the buggy was less than fifty yards away, and he

could see Anna sitting up behind the coloured driver staring at them.

Michael shouted,

"Hello, Ma!"� "Michael!� Whatever have you been doing?� Look at you!"

There was a shrewishness in her voice now.� The years had treated Anna

in the manner she deserved, had sharpened her features and exaggerated

the catlike set of her eyes.� She turned those eyes on Sean and she

frowned.� The frown cut deep grooves in her forehead and showed the

heavy lines of flesh beneath her chin.

"Who's that with you?"� she asked Michael.

"A friend.� He helped me free a bogged animal.� You should have seen

him, Ma.� He lifted it clean out of the mud."

Sean saw that she was expensively dressed, ostentatiously so for a

farmer's wife on a working day.� Velvet and ostrich feathers-those

pearls must have cost Garry a small fortune.� The rig was new, polished

black lacquer picked out with scarlet, and brass fittings-another few

hundred pounds" worth.� Sean ran his eyes over the horses, matched

bays, blood stock-Jesus!� be thollo.

Anna was still frowning at him, recognition and doubt mixed in her

expression.� She was starting to flush, her lips trembling.

"Hello, Anna."

"Sean!"� She spat the word.

"It's been a long time.� How are you?"

Her eyes slanted venomously.� She hardly moved her lips as she snapped

at Michael,

"Get away from that man!"

"But .� . . " The bewildered look on Michael's face hurt Sean like a

spear thrust.

"Do as your mother says, Michael," Sean told him.

"Are you ... are you my Uncle Sean?

"Yes."

"Get away from him, " shrilled Anna.� "Don't you ever speak to him

again.� Do you hear me, Michael?� He's evil-evil!� Don't ever let him

near you.� He'll destroy you.� " Anna was panting, shaking with rage

and hatred, babbling like a mad-woman.� "Get off our land, Sean

Courtney.� Get off Theuniskraal and don't come on again."

"Very well, Anna.� I'm going."

"Michael.� Get on your horse!"� she screamed at him.� I

"Hurry.

Come away from him."

Michael swung up into the saddle.

"Drive on.� Drive quickly," she ordered the coloured coachman.� At the

touch of the whip the big bays jumped forward and Anna was thrown back

against the padded seat.� "Come on, Michael.� Come home immediately."

Michael looked across at Sean.� He was bewildered, uncertain.� "I don't

... I don't believe that you .

"We'll talk again some other time, Mike.

And suddenly Michael's expression changed, the corners of his mouth

drooped and his eyes were dark with regret at having found, and lost,

so soon.

"No," he said, lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell, and wheeled

his horse.� Crouched forward on its neck he drove in savage pursuit of

the buggy.

"Michael," Sean called after him, but he did not seem to hear.

And so Sean went back to war.� The farewell was an ordeal.� Ada was so

brave about it that Sean wanted to shake her and shout,

"Cry, damn you!� Get it over with!� " Dirk threw one of his more

spectacular fits.� He clung to Sean and yelled until he almost

suffocated himself.

By the time the train pulled out Sean was in a towering rage that

lasted until they reached Pietermaritzburg four hours later.

He took his anger into the saloon on the station and sedated it with

half a dozen brandies.� Then, with Mbejane carrying his luggage, he

worked his way through the crowd on the platform, searching for an

empty compartment on the northbound express.� As traffic was on

military permit only, his fellow travellers were exclusively clad in

khaki.� A vast, drab throng speckled with gay spots of colour, women

who were sending men to war and not very happy about it.� The sound of

weeping blended with the roar of loud voices, men's laughter and the

occasional squeal of a child.� Suddenly, above it all Sean heard his

name called.� He peered about and saw an arm waving frantically above

the heads of the crowd.

"Sean!� Hey, Sean!"� Saul's head bobbed into view and then disappeared

as he hopped up and down.� Sean fought his way through to him and they

shook hands delightedly.

"What the hell are you doing here?"� Saul demanded.

"Heading back to duty-and you?� "A week's leave just ended.

Came down to see the baby.� My God, what luck I spotted you!"

"Is Ruth here?"� Sean could not contain the question.

"She's waiting in the carriage outside.

"I'd like to have a look at this infant.

"Of course.� Let's find a couple of seats first and dump our luggage,

then we've got twenty minutes before the train leaves.

Sean saw her as they came out on to the front steps of the station

building.� She sat in an open carriage while a coloured coach boy held

a parasol over her.� She was dressed in dove-grey with big

leg-o'-mutton sleeves slashed with pink and a huge hat Piled with pink

roses.� Her face was in profile as she leaned forward over the bundle

of white lace on her lap.� Sean felt the leap in his chest as he looked

at the calm lines of her face.� He stopped and whispered,

"My God, she's lovely,"

and beside him Saul laughed with pleasure.

"Wait until you meet my daughter!

She did not see them approach the carriage, she was too intent on her

child.

"Ruth, I've a surprise for you, " bubbled Saul.� She looked up and Sean

was watching her.� She went rigid with shock, staring at him while all

colour drained away from her face.

"Hello, Ruth.� She did not reply immediately.� Sean saw her mask her

face with a pale impassivity.

"Hello, Sean.� You startled me."

Saul had missed the interplay of their emotions.� He was climbing up

into the carriage beside her.

"Come, have a look."� Now he was opening the lace shawl, leaning over

the infant, his face alight with pride.

Silently Sean climbed up into the carriage and sat opposite them.

"Let Sean hold her, Ruth."� Saul laughed.� "Let him get a good look at

the loveliest girl in the world."� And he did not notice the way in

which Ruth froze again and hugged the child to her protectively.

"Take her, Sean.� I promise she'll not wet you too badly, though she

might sick up a little, " Saul went on happily.

Sean held out his hands for the infant, watching Ruth's face.

It was defiant, but afraid.

" The colour of her eyes seemed to change a darker bluer grey.� The

hard lines around her mouth dissolved and her lips quivered pink and

moist.� She leaned forward and placed her daughter in his arms.

It was a long, slow journey up to Johannesburg-a journey broken by

interminable halts.� At every siding there was a delay, sometimes of

half an hour but usually of three times that length.

Occasionally, without apparent reason, they groaned to a stop in the

middle of the veld.

"What the hell is the trouble now?"

"Somebody shoot the driver."

"Not again!

Protest and comment were shouted by the angry heads that protruded from

the windows of every coach.� And when the guard trotted up along the

gravel led embanlunent towards the front of the train, he was followed

by a chorus of catcalls and hooting.

"Please be patient, gentlemen.� We have to check the culverts and

bridges.

"The -war's over.

"What are you worried about?"

"The jolly old Boer is running so hard he hasn't got time to worry

about bridges.

Men climbed down beside the tracks, and stood in small impatient groups

until the whistle blew and they scrambled aboard as the train jolted

and began crawling forward again.

Sean and Saul sat together in a corner of a crowded compartment and

played Klabrias.� Because the majority regarded the cold clean high

veld air with the same horror as if it had been a deadly cyanide gas,

the windows were tightly closed.� "he compartment was blue with

pipe-smoke and fetid with the smell of a dozen unwashed bodies.� The

conversation was inevitable.

Confine a number of men in a small space and they'll get round to it in

under ten minutes.

This company had a vast experience in matters pornographic.

A sergeant had served three years in Bangkok, but it took him two hours

to convince his companions that what rumour placed horizontally,

nature, in fact, had maintained at the vertical.� He carried his point

only after an expedition down the corridor from which he returned with

another old China hand.� This expert produced photographic evidence

which was studied minutely and deemed conclusive.

It served also to remind a corporal who had done a tour of duty in

India of his visit to the Temple of Konarak.� A subject which was good

for another hour and paved the way for a smooth entry into a discussion

of the famous Elephant House in Shanghai.

They kept it up from noon until nightfall.

In the meantime, Saul had lost interest in the cards and taken a book

from his bag and started reading.� Sean was bored.� He cleaned his

rifle.� Then he picked his teeth with a match and stared out of the

window at the small herds of springbok that grazed along the line of

rail. �He listened to a detailed account of the pleasures provided by

the proprietress of the Elephant House, and decided to give it a wide

berth if he ever visited Shanghai.

"What am you reading?"� he demanded of Saul at last.

"Huh?"� Saul looked up vaguely and Sean repeated the question.

"The Westminster system of Government.� " Saul held the book so that

Sean could see the title.

"Jesus!"� grunted Sean.� "What do you read that stuff for?

"I am interested in politics," Saul explained defensively and returned

to reading.

Sean watched him for a while then,

"Have you got any other books with you?"

Saul opened his bag again.� "Try this."

"The Wealth of Nations " Sean handled the book dubiously.

"What's it about?"� But Saul was reading again.

Sean opened the heavy volume and glanced idly at the first page.

He sighed with resignation for it was a long time since he had read

anything but a letter or a bank statement-then his eyes started moving

back and forth across the page like the shuttle of a loom.

Without knowing it, they were weaving the first threads into a fabric

that would cover a part of his soul which until now had been naked.

After an hour Saul looked across.� "What do you make of it?

he asked.

Sean grunted without looking up.� He was completely absorbed.

This was important.� The language of Adam Smith had a certain majestic

clarity.� With some of his conclusions Sean did not agree but the

reasoning evoked a train of thought in Sean's own brain, stimulating it

to race ahead and anticipate sometimes correctly, but often reaching a

point wide of where the author was aimed.

He read quickly, knowing that he would go back and read it all again

for this was only a scouting party into the unknown territory of

economics.� With his eyes still fixed on the pages, he groped in the

pockets of his tunic, found a stub of pencil and underlined a passage

to which he wanted to return.� Then he left it and went on.� Now he

used the pencil frequently.

"No!"� he wrote in the margin at one place.

" Good," at another.

Saul looked up again and frowned as he realized Sean was defacing the

book.� Then he noticed Sean's expression, saw its scowling

concentration and his own face relaxed.� He watched Sean from under

lowered eyelashes.� His feeling for this man of muscle and moods and

unexpectedly soft places had passed affection and now reached the

borders of adulation.� He did not know why Sean had placed protecting

wings above him."� nor did he care.� But it was good to sit quietly, no

longer reading, and watch the face of this big man who was more than

just a friend.

Alone in the midst of a multitude they sat together.� The train snaked

northwards across the grassland, spreading a long trail of silver-grey

smoke behind it and the sun sank exhausted to the earth and bled on to

the clouds.� After it was gone the darkness came quickly.

They ate canned meat spread on coarse bread with the blade of a

bayonet.� There was no lighting in the compartment, so after they had

eaten they sat together wrapped in their blankets and talked in

darkness.� Around them all other conversation died and was replaced by

the sounds of sleep.� Sean opened one of the windows and the cold sweet

air cleaned their minds and sharpened them so that they talked in

quietly suppressed excitement.

They talked of men and land and the welding of the two into a nation;

and how that nation should be governed.� They spoke a little of war and

much of the peace that would follow it; of the rebuilding of that which

had been destroyed into something stronger.

They saw the bitterness ahead that would flourish like an evil weed

nourished on blood and the corpses of the dead, and they discussed the

means by which it should be rooted out before it strangled the tender

growth of a land that could be great.

They had never spoken like this before.� Saul hugged his blankets about

his shoulders and listened to Sean's voice in the darkness.� Like most

of his race his perception had been sensitized and sharpened so that he

could pick up a new quality, a new sense of direction in this man.

I have had a hand in this, he thought, with stirring of pride.

He is a bull, a wild bull, charging anything that moves; charging

without purpose, then breaking his run and swinging on to something

new; using his strength to destroy because he had never learned to use

it in any other way; confused and angry, roaring at the barbs in his

shoulders; chasing everything and as a consequence catching nothing.

Perhaps I can help him, show him a purpose and a way out of the

arena.

And so they talked on into the night.� The darkness added another

dimension to their existence.� Unseen, their physical forms no longer

limited them and it seemed that their minds were freed to move out and

meet in the darkness, to combine into a cushion of words that carried

each idea forward.� Until abruptly, the whole delicate pattern was

shattered and lost in the concussion of dynamite and the shriek of

escaping steam, the roar of breaking timber and glass, and the

confusion of equipment and sleeping bodies thrown violently together as

the train reared and twisted and plunged from the tracks.� Almost

immediately a further sound blended into it all-the crackling of

musketry at close range and the steady hammering beat of a Maxim

machine-gun.

Sean was pinned helplessly in the complete darkness, unable to breathe

under an immense weight.� He struggled wildly, tearing at the men and

baggage above him, his legs bound by loose blankets.� The weight eased

enough for him to drag air into his lungs, but a knee was driven into

his face with such force that his lip burst open and the blood oozed

saltily into his mouth.

He lashed out and felt the stinging rake of broken glass along his

arm.

In the darkness men screamed in terror and in pain, leading the hideous

chorus of groans and oaths and gunfire.

Sean dragged his body free of the press, felt men thrashing under him

as he stood.

Now he could hear the repeated splintering thud of bullets into

woodwork much louder than the guns that fired them.

Someone reeled against him and Sean caught him.

"Saul?"

"Leave me, let me go."� A stranger, Sean released him.

"Saul.� Saul.� Where are you?"

"Sean.� " "Are you hurt?

"No.� " I "let's get out of here."

"My rifle."

"Bugger your rifle."

"Where's the window?"

"Blocked."

At last Sean was able to get some idea of their situation.� The coach

was on its side with the windows against the earth and the whole welter

of dead and broken men piled upon them.� The door was high above them,

probably jammed.

"We'll have to break out through the roof.� " He groped blindly, then

swore and jerked his hand back as a splinter of wood knifed up under a

fingernail, but he felt a draught of cold air on his face.

"There's a hole."� He reached out again eagerly and felt the torn

timber.� "One of the planks is sprung."

Immediately there was a rush of bodies in the darkness, hands clawed at

him as half a dozen men fought to find the opening.

"Get back, you bastards.� " Sean struck out with both fists and felt

them connect.� He was panting and he could feel the sweat sliding down

his back.� The air was heavy with the body warmth and breath of

terrified men.

"Get back.� I'll work on it."� He forced his hands into the crack and

tore the loose plank out.� For an instant he struggled with the

temptation to press his face to the narrow opening and suck in the

clean air.� Then he locked his- hands on to the next plank, braced his

legs against the roof and heaved back with all his strength.� It

wouldn't budge.� He felt the panic mounting in him once more.

"Find me a rifle, somebody, " he shouted above the uproar.

"Here.� " Saul's voice, and the rifle was thrust into his hands.

He ran the barrel into the opening and using it as a lever flung his

weight on to it.� He felt wood tearing, moved the barrel and pulled

again.� It gave and he cleared the plank and started on the next.

"all right.� One at a time.� Saul, you first."� With his panic just

below the surface.� Sean shoved each man unceremoniously through the

jagged opening.� A fat one stuck and Sean put a boot behind him and

pushed.� The man squeaked and went out like a champagne cork.

"Is there anyone else?"� he shouted in the darkness.

"Sean," Saul's voice from outside.� "Get out of there."

"You get under cover," Sean roared back at him.

The Boer fire still flailed the wrecked train.� Then he asked again.

"Is there anyone else?"� and a man groaned at Sean's feet.

Quickly Sean found him.� Hurt badly, his head twisted.� Sean cleared

the tangle of baggage from above his body and straightened him out.

Can't move him, he decided, safer here until the Medicos come.

He left him and stumbled over another.

"Damn them," he sobbed in his dreadful anxiety to get out.

This one was dead.� He could feel the reptilian clamminess of death on

his skin, and he left him and scrabbled his way out into the open

night.

After the utter blackness of the compartment, the stars lit the land

with a pearly light and he saw the fog of steam hanging above the

locomotive in a high, hissing bank, and the leading coaches telescoped

into each other, and the others jack-knifed and twisted into a weird

sculpture of destruction.� At intervals along the chain a few rifles

winked a feeble reply to the Boer fire that poured down upon them,

"Sean, " Saul called from where he was crouched beside the overturned

coach.� Sean ran to him and lifted his voice above the clamour.

"Stay here.� I'm going back to look for Mbejane.

"You'll never find him in this lot.� He was with the horses listen to

them."

From the horse-boxes at the rear of the train came such a sound that

Sean hoped never to hear again.� TWo hundred trapped and frenzied

animals-it was far worse than the sound of those men still in the

wreckage.

"My God!� " whispered Sean.� Then his anger rose higher than his fear.

"The bastards," he grated and looked up at the high ground above

them.

The Boers had chosen a place where the line curved along the bank of a

river.� The watercourse cut off escape on that side, and on the other

the ground rose steeply in a double fold that commanded the full length

of the railway line.

Along the first fold lay their riflemen, two hundred of them at least,

judging by the intensity of their fire, while from above them on the

summit ridge the muzzle flashes of the Maxim gun faded and flared as it

traversed relentlessly back and forth along the train.� Sean watched it

hungrily for a moment, then he lifted the rifle that he still carried

and emptied the magazine, firing at the Maxim.

Immediately the flashes grew brighter as it came questing back to find

him, and around Sean's head the air was filled with the swishing crack

of a hundred whips.

Sean ducked down while he reloaded, then stood up again to shoot.

"You bastards," he shouted at them, and his voice must have carried for

now the riflemen up there were helping the Maxim to search him out.

They were getting very close.

Sean crouched down once more, and beside him Saul was firing also.

"Where did you get the rifle?"

"I went back for it."� Saul punctuated his reply with gunfire and Sean

gritmed as his fingers fumbled with the reload.� "You're going to get

hurt one day, " he said.

"You taught me how to go about it, " Saul retorted.

Once more Sean emptied his magazine to no effect, except that the

recoil of the rifle invoked the old high madness in him.

It needed only Mbejane's voice beside him to trigger it completely.

"Where the hell.� have you been?"� Sean demanded.

"My spears were lost.� I spent much time finding them in the darkness.

" Sean was silent for a moment while he peered up at the ridge.

Out of the left there was a gap in the line of riflemen where a narrow

don ga ran through them and down towards the railway.

A small party might be able to go up that gully and pass through the

rear of the Boer firing-line.� From there the solitary Maxim on the

ridge would be very vulnerable.

"Bring your spears, Mbejane.

"Where are you going?"� Saul asked.

"I'm going to try for that machine-gun.� Stay here and keep these

gentlemen's minds on other things.

Sean started off along the train towards the outlet of the don ga

He covered fifty yards before he realized that not only MbeJane but

Saul was with him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"With YOU' The hell you are!

"Watch me.� " There was that peculiar note of obstinacy in Saul's voice

that Sean had come to recognize, and there was no time to argue.

He ran on until he was opposite the don ga where again he sought

shelter in the lee of an overturned coach while he made his final

assessment of the position.

The don ga looked narrow but deep, and the scrub-bush that filled it

would give them cover to the top where there was a definite gap in the

Boer line.

"It'll do, " he decided aloud, and then to the other two,

"I'll go first, then you follow me, Saul, and watch those big feet of

yours!

He was vaguely aware that some show of resistance was being organized

among the survivors of the wreck.� He could hear the officers rallying

them and now a hundred rifles were returning the Boer fire.

"All right.� I'm off."� Sean stood up.� "Follow me as soon as I get

across.� " At that moment a new voice hailed them.� "What are you men

UP to?"

"What's it to you?"� Sean flashed impatiently.

"I'm an officer," and then Sean recognized the voice and the lanky

figure with a bared sabre in one hand.� "Acheson!"

A second's hesitation before Acheson recognized him.

"Courtney.� What are you doing?"

"I'm going up that don ga to attack the Maxim.

"Think you can reach it?"

"I can try.- " "Good fellow-off you go then.� We'll be ready to support

you if you make it.� " "See you at the top," said Sean and ran out

towards the mouth of the don ga

They moved quietly in single file upwards and the guns and the shouting

cloaked the soft sounds of their advance.� Sean could hear the voices

of the burghers above them growing closer and louder as they

approached-very close now-on the side of the don ga just above their

heads-then behind them, and they were through.

The doun ga was shallower here, starting to flatten out as it neared

the crest.� Sean lifted his head above the side and looked out.

Below him he could just make out the lumpy shapes of the Boers in the

grass but their rifles threw long orange spouts of flames when seen

from above-while the British replies were mere pinpricks of light from

around the dark tangle of coaches.

Then Sean's attention focused on the Maxim and he could see why the

rifle-fire from below had made no effect on it.� Sited just below the

crest of the ridge on a forward bulge of the slope, it was protected by

a scharnz: of rock and earth that had been thrown up in front of it.

The thick water-jacketed barrel protruded through a narrow opening and

the three men that served it crouched low behind the wall.

-Come on," whispered Sean, and wriggled -up out of the don ga on to his

belly to begin the stalk.

One of the gunners saw him when he was a few yards from the gun.

"Magtig!� Pasop, daars "n- " and Sean went in with the rifle clubbed in

both hands and the man never finished his warning.� Mbejane and Saul

followed him in, and for a few seconds the emplacement was filled with

a struggling mass Of bodies.� Then it was over and the three of them

panted heavily in the stillness.

"Do you know how to work this thing, Saul?"

"No.� " "Nor do I" Sean squatted behind the gun and settled his hands

on to the twin grips, his thumbs automatically resting on the

firing-button.

"Wat makeer june daar bo?� Skiet, man, skeet!"� a Boer shouted from

below, and Sean shouted back,

"Wag maar "n oomblik-dan skeet ek bedonderdWites daar?� Who's that?"

The Boer demanded and Sean depressed the gun.

It was too dark to use the sights, so he took a vague aim over the

barrel and thrust his thumbs down on the button.� Immediately his

shoulders shook like those of a man using a jack hammer and he was

deafened by the harsh beat of the gun, but he swung the barrel in a

low, sweeping arch across the ridge below him.

A storm of shouts and cries of protest broke out along the Boer line,

and Sean laughed with savage delight.� The Boer fire upon the train

withered miraculously as men jumped up and scattered beneath the spray

of bullets.� Most of them streame( back to where their horses waited

behind the crest, keeping well out on the flanks of the Maxim, while a

line of cheering British infantry followed them up from the

train-giving the support that Acheson had promised.

Only a tiny but determined group of Boers came up the slope towards

Sean, yelling angrily and shooting as they came.� There was dead ground

directly below the emplacement where Sean could not reach them with the

Maxim.

"Get out of here.� Run out to the sides," Sean shouted back at Saul and

Mbejane as he hoisted the heavy gun on to the rock wall in front of him

to improve its field of fire.� But the movement twisted the belt of

ammunition and after the first burst the gun jammed hopelessly.� Sean

lifted it above his head, stood like that for an instant and then

hurled it among the men below him.� It knocked two of them down into

the grass.� Sean snatched up a pumpkin-sized rock from the top of the

wall and sent it after the gun-and another, and another.

Howling with the laughter of fear and excitement, he rained rocks upon

them.� And they broke.

Most of them veered out to the sides and joined the general rush for

the horses.

Only one man kept coming, a big man who climbed quickly and silently.

Sean missed him with three rocks, and suddenly he was too close-not ten

feet away.� There he paused and lifted his rifle.� Even in the dark, at

that range, the Boer could hardly miss and Sean sprang from the top of

the wall.� For an instant he dropped free, and then with a shock that

knocked the wind from both of them, he drove into the burgher's chest.

They rolled down the slope, kicking and grappling, bouncing over the

rocky ground, until a small thorn bush held them.

"Now, you bloody Dutchman!"� rasped Sean.� He knew there was only one

possible outcome to this encounter.� With supreme confidence in his own

strength Sean reached for the man's throat, and with a sense of

disbelief felt his wrist held in a grip that made the bone creak.

"Kom, ons slaat aan, " the burgher's mouth was an inch from Sean's ear,

and the voice was unmistakable.

Jan Paulus!"

"Sean!"� The shock of recognition eased his grip for an instant, and

Sean broke his hand loose.

Only once in his life had Sean met a man whose strength matched his

own-and now again they were pitted against each other.� He drove the

heel of his right hand up under Jan Paulus's chin, forcing his head

back against the encircling left arm.� It should have broken Jan

Paulus's neck.� Instead he locked his arms around Sean's chest below

the level of his armpits-and squeezed.� Within seconds Sean felt his

face swelling and congesting with blood, his mouth opened and his

tongue came out between his teeth.

Without breath, yet he maintained the pressure on Jan Pauls's neck,

felt it give fractionally-and knew that another inch of movement would

snap the vertebrae.

The earth seemed to tot and turn beneath him, he knew he was going for

his vision was blotched with moving patches of deeper darkness-the

knowledge gave him a little more strength.

He flung it all on to Jan Paulus's neck.� It moved.� Jan Paulus gave a

wild muffled cry and his grip on Sean's chest eased a fraction.

Again, Sean told himself, again.� And he gathered all of what was left

for the final effort.

Before he could make it, Jan Paulus moved quickly under him, changing

his grip, lifting Sean clear of his chest.� Then his knees came up

under Sean's pelvis and with a convulsive heave drove Sean's lower body

forward and over-cartwheeling him so that he was forced to release Jan

Paulus's neck and use his hands to break his own fall.

A rock caught him in the small of the back and agony flared in him like

sheet lightning in a summer sky.� Dimly through it he heard the shouts

of the British infantry very near, saw Jan Paulus scramble up and

glance down the slope at the starlight on the bayonets, and saw him

take off up the slope.

Sean dragged himself to his feet and tried to follow him but the pain

in his back was an effective hobble and Jan Paulus reached the crest

ten paces ahead of him.� But as he ran, another dark shape closed on

his flank the way a good dog will quarter on a running rybuck.� It was

Mbejane and Sean could see the long steel in his hand as he lifted it

above Jan Paulus's back.

"No!� " shouted Sean.� "No, Mbejane!� Leave him!� Leave him!

Mbejane hesitated, slowed his run, stopped and looked back at Sean.

Sean stood beside him, his hands clasped to his back and his breathing

hissed in his throat.� Below them from the dark rear slope of the ridge

came the hoof-beats of a single running pony.

The sounds of Jan Paulus's flight dwindled, and they were engulfed in

the advance of the lines of the bayonet men from the train.� Sean

turned and limped back through them.

Two days later, on the relief train, they reached Johannesburg.

"I suppose we should report to somebody," Saul suggested as the three

of them stood together on the station platform beside the small pile of

luggage they had been able to salvage from the train wreck.

"You go and report, if that's what you want," Sean answered him.

"Me, I'm going to look around."

"We've got no billets, " Saul protested.

"Follow your Uncle Sean."

Johannesburg is an evil city, sired by Greed out of a dam named Gold.

But it has about it an air of gaiety, of brittle excitement and bustle.

When you are away from it you can hate it-but when you return you are

immediately re-infected.� As Sean was now.

He led them through the portals of the railway building into Eloff

Street and grinned as he looked up that well-remembered thoroughfare.

It was crowded.� The carriages jostled for position with the

horse-drawn trams.� On the sidewalks beneath the tall three- and

four-storeyed buildings the uniforms of a dozen different regiments set

off the butterfly colours of the women's dress".

Sean paused on the station steps and lit a cigar.� At that moment the

sounds of carriage wheels and human voices were drowned by the

plaintive wail of a mine hooter and immediately others joined in

signalling the noon.� Automatically Sean reached for his pocket-watch

to check the time, and noticed the same general movement in the crowded

street.� He grinned again.

Jo'burg; hasn't changed much-still the old habits, the same feeling

about it.� The mine dumps higher than he remembered them, a few new

buildings, a little older and a little smarter but still the same

heartless bitch beneath it all.

And there on the corner of Commissioner Street, ornate as a

wedding-cake with its fancy ironwork and corniced roof, stood Candy's

Hotel.

With rifle and pack slung over each shoulder, Sean pushed his way

through the press on the sidewalk with Saul and Mbejane in his wake.

He reached the hotel and went in through the revolving glass doors.

"Very grand."� He looked about the lobby as he dumped his pack on the

thick pile of the carpet.� Crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains roped

with silver, palms and bronze urns, marble tables, fat plush chairs.

"What do you think, Saul.� Shall we give this flophouse a try?"

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