Tamar (52 page)

The horses had been settled into high-sided, open-topped boxes directly behind the engine while the troops rode in carriages further back. Joseph and his mates leaned out of windows, accepting last-minute embraces and packages from friends and family. Tamar noticed several groups of Maori — so much for their sons being banned from fighting under the British flag, she thought.

A piercing whistle sounded and the engine let out a huge belch of steam and smoke and began to move slowly forward as station workers ran about shooing people away from the tracks. The crowd cheered madly as the long line of carriages moved out. Tamar’s children were caught up in the excitement, screaming and yelling and flapping their little paper flags. They had little understanding of what it meant, and were making the most of the trip into town and the break from their lessons.

‘They will not all return,’ commented Kepa gloomily, hanging tightly onto his own two children to prevent them running off.

‘No,’ agreed Parehuia. ‘Perhaps not. But Joseph can take care of himself. You have seen to that.’

‘
Ae
,’ replied Kepa, although his voice was heavy and he did not sound as if he believed her. ‘I know.’

The trip to Wellington was long with several stops to pick up water and more volunteers, and to stretch the horses in their cramped boxes. The train crossed the North Island at Palmerston North and continued south down the west coast to Wellington. The men and animals were then transported to Campbell’s farm at Karori where a training camp had been established, to meet up with the rest of the First Contingent.

Over the following fortnight recruits from throughout New Zealand arrived to be outfitted, provided with a mount if they had not supplied their own, and issued with Martini Enfield .303 rifles. With the Government ill-prepared to supply much of their equipment, the fledgling Regular Army was pushed to the limit to ensure every soldier had what he needed, including heavy khaki overcoats and military clothing scrounged off the territorial Volunteer units. The Union Steamship Company was equipping the
Waiwera
to transport the men and their horses to South Africa, victuallers nationwide prepared food and shipped it down to Wellington, and saddlers and canvas workers toiled to supply equipment for the brave volunteers. The race to get the First Contingent ready for embarkation was a national effort, with every donation and contribution reported in the papers.

Major Alfred Robin, a competent and experienced Regular Army officer, was given command of the contingent, and another ten officers were selected in time to familiarise themselves with the two hundred and four men in the first contingent. Joseph was in Number 1 Company, drawn mainly from the North Island, while the men of Number 2 Company came from the South Island.

Joseph and his new mates spent their evenings talking about what awaited them in South Africa, and discussing the humiliating fate of those who had been sent home because their equestrian skills were not up to standard.

There was some concern amongst the recruits that the crisis
would be over by the time they got to South Africa, but when news came through that war had broken out between Britain and the Transvaal and Orange Free State Boers on 11 October, many breathed a sigh of relief. How disappointing it would have been to have to turn around and come straight back without even seeing a weapon presented in anger. Especially after the public and private send-offs most had attended, strutting about in their new uniforms, heads high and backs straight, modestly accepting the compliments and best wishes of everyone they encountered.

On 21 October the First New Zealand Contingent was ready to sail. Tamar and Andrew travelled to Wellington to see the ship off, although this time they left the children in the capable hands of Jeannie and Mrs Muldoon. There was great excitement in Wellington, and a huge, cheering crowd had congregated at Jervois Quay to watch the troops of the First Contingent march down Glenbervie Cutting from Karori to the docks. The harbour was afloat with small boats preparing to follow the
Waiwera
out as far as they could, and bands on board several steamers played rousing, patriotic music. Premier Seddon made a long and fervent speech, which was greeted with much cheering and shouts of ‘Bravo, New Zealand’, followed by Robert Stout who made the mistake of saying he hoped the war would be over by the time the New Zealanders got to South Africa. There were loud cries of ‘No!’ from the crowd, and Andrew shook his head in amazement.

‘I don’t think some of these people know what it really means,’ he said in Tamar’s ear. ‘Those Boers know what they’re doing and they’re not afraid to fight. Look at what happened at Majuba Hill. The British were slaughtered.’

Tamar nodded, although she didn’t know what had happened at Majuba Hill, or even where it was. She really must read the papers more often. Next to her a woman in a plain brown dress and an old-fashioned bonnet was wringing her hands anxiously. ‘Oh, I
’ope ’e’ll be safe,’ she muttered to no one in particular. ‘That’s our Donald,’ she said, nudging Tamar and pointing at an obscure face in the line of young men boarding the
Waiwera
. ‘Me only son. D’you ’ave a lad going?’

‘Yes,’ Tamar replied. ‘I do, although I haven’t spotted him yet.’

‘God keep ’em safe. My Jack’ll be ’eartbroken if our Donald don’t come ’ome,’ the woman added miserably. Seddon’s words of victory and glory had obviously been of little comfort.

As the troops boarded the ship, they disappeared into its belly only to reappear minutes later along the rails, some of them climbing into the rigging for a better view. Hundreds of horses had also been taken on board, and their glossy, muscled haunches could be seen lined up in a long row of wooden stalls in the middle of the deck, rolled canvas shades ready to be let down as protection against inclement weather. As the ship began to pull away, a band struck up an energetic version of ‘Rule Britannia’ and the crowd erupted into wild cheering.

Tamar and Andrew watched until the
Waiwera
was heading out of the harbour, escorted by dozens of small boats as far as the heads.

‘Well, that’s it, I suppose, until the next contingent.’

‘Will there be another one?’ asked Tamar, taking Andrew’s hand as they were jostled by the crowd.

‘I expect so, unless the thing blows over, but I doubt it somehow. I’d say this could be the first of many.’ Feeling Tamar’s tension, he stopped and affectionately tucked a stray strand of hair under her hat. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll come home. He knows what he’s doing.’

Tamar nodded. She’d told Kepa the same thing, but it had been different when she had said it — Joseph had only been leaving for Wellington. Now he was on his way to South Africa.

As soon as the
Waiwera
had sailed out past the heads, word was passed that the troops could relax and settle themselves in. Rumour had it there was a race on with the first of the Australian contingents to see who would be the first antipodean troops to land at Cape Town in support of the Empire.

The New Zealanders reached South Africa on 23 November. The weather had been kind, although many had become seasick, particularly when the
Waiwera
dipped into the southern latitudes after passing the southern tip of Australia. A dozen horses died during the trip, their corpses winched overboard and consigned to the sea. To fill in time, the contingent practised pistol shooting and bayonet charges on deck, although this proved to be somewhat dangerous when one soldier bayoneted himself in his right thigh after a particularly violent lurch of the ship. When the weather prevented access to the deck, the men stayed below cleaning their equipment, sleeping and telling each other how much the Boers would regret New Zealand’s offer of assistance to the Empire when they finally got to South Africa.

When they arrived at Cape Town, a flat, dusty settlement backed by Table Mountain shimmering in the heat, they had only a few days to exercise their horses, regain their land legs and pick up extra equipment. Almost immediately, they were sent to join Major-General Sir John French’s Cavalry Division, which was blocking and harassing the Boer force occupying Colesburg in the north.

Joseph and his mates felt self-conscious riding into Slingersfontein, the British camp outside Colesburg, wearing their slightly rag-tag khaki uniforms, their badges and equipment hurriedly dyed or painted brown, but soon found their presence was more than appreciated. The British had discovered that conducting a war using traditional infantry tactics on open ground against a mounted enemy who could and did disappear into the terrain at will was less than productive, if not foolhardy. The New Zealanders, who
fought like infantrymen on the ground but used their horses to enhance mobility, were welcome reinforcements.

The terrain suited the New Zealanders. The temperature was similar to home, and the Drakensberg Mountains, temporary base of the Boer forces, were not dissimilar to some of the country Joseph had ridden over in Hawke’s Bay. The high, grassy veldt was another matter, but most of the New Zealanders, many of whom were more than comfortable moving about rough country on horseback, felt at ease.

Joseph was involved in the New Zealanders’ first major action at Jasfontein Farm outside Colesburg on 18 December. As part of a mounted reconnaissance patrol, Number 1 Company was moving through a series of small hills, or
kopjes
, when they were fired on by a concealed Boer party. Joseph had his head down fiddling with a stirrup buckle and got the fright of his life when he suddenly realised the flat, cracking noises were bullets whizzing past his head. The company was ordered to spread out and return fire, but the Boers countered with heavy artillery and the word came to withdraw. In the mad dash across 800 yards of open ground, the man next to Joseph went down, tumbling almost gracefully out of his saddle. Joseph pulled his own horse up viciously and cantered back to him, oblivious to the bullets kicking up small puffs of dust around him.

‘
Bradford
!’ he bellowed, leaning so far over he almost fell off himself. ‘
George
! Can you hear me?’

Private George Bradford said nothing, on his back in the dirt, his spread legs revealing a gaping wound in his groin. Joseph felt sick. As he went to dismount, another rider skidded to a halt near him, Sergeant Bob Thornton.

‘
Deane
!’ he shouted over the din. ‘Leave him! He’s dead, man! Get out of here!’

Joseph stared at Bradford, not entirely convinced the man
was
dead, until a bullet pinged off the metal water bottle attached to the side of his saddle. He whirled around, booted his horse and followed the rest of his company as they retreated beyond the range of the Boer artillery.

Bradford’s horse came in soon after, with its rider’s bandolier still tied around its neck. Of Private Bradford, there was no sign. When a search party returned later to the scene of the skirmish, there was nothing but a large patch of dried blood on the ground. They discovered weeks later Bradford had not been killed outright, but had been picked up by the Boers and taken to one of their field hospitals where he was treated for ten days before he finally died of his wounds.

Bradford’s wounding and disappearance sobered Number 1 Company. Until then, the war had been an adventure; now, a mate had died and many of the young New Zealand troops suddenly realised they might not all be going home. Perversely, this increased the bravado of some, while others became subdued.

As Joseph and members of his section sat around a camp fire that evening, they talked about Bradford’s disappearance in hushed tones. Joseph felt guilty because he had not stopped to check; the wounded man might still have been alive.

‘Well, he can’t have crawled far, not with his balls blown to buggery,’ declared Barry Price crudely as he tipped tea leaves into a large billy.

‘I didn’t say his balls were blown off,’ replied Joseph, even though he suspected they might have been. ‘I just said he had a groin wound.’

‘Have you seen what one of them bullets can do?’ asked Price. ‘Blow the shit out of you.’

‘So where is he then?’ asked Jimmy Malone, a second-generation Irishman from Waipukurau and the section’s corporal.

Price shrugged. ‘Maybe the ghosts got him.’

‘What ghosts?’ asked Albert Baker nervously. Albert, like Joseph, had lied about his age when he volunteered and was only eighteen but, unlike Joseph, he was naive and somewhat gullible.

‘Them that lives in the Drakensberg Mountains. Ghosts of dead Boers. A darkie was telling me mate, Davey White in Number 2 Company, about them. They come down and take dead bodies back into the hills.’

In the semi-dark Joseph saw Price surreptitiously elbow Malone and wink as Albert Baker’s eyes widened.

‘Shut up, you jokers,’ interrupted Sergeant Thornton. ‘You’re talking bollocks. There are no ghosts, lad,’ he said to Albert. ‘They’re pulling your tit.’

Thornton had served with the New Zealand Armed Constabulary in the 1870s and had fought against the legendary Te Kooti. He’d seen what talk of ghosts and spirits had done to Maori troops in his unit. He wasn’t having that here, load of cobblers that it was. Privately, he was of the opinion that either the Boers had picked Bradford up, or an animal had dragged the corpse away, but he wasn’t going to say that, not with young Baker’s eyes already popping out of his head. Who the hell had let boys like him into the contingent? ‘He might be in a Boer hospital,’ he added, picking his teeth with a twig. ‘You never know.’

Price leaned to the left and let out a loud, resonant fart that reverberated almost musically against the log he was sitting on.

Albert Baker, fear forgotten, giggled madly. That boy really has had a sheltered life, thought Thornton, shaking his head. He turned to Joseph. ‘Forget about it, Deane. There’s nothing you could have done, except get your own head blown off. I saw him — he was either dead or very close to it. It was your first man down. You’ll get used to it,’ he added philosophically.

Joseph nodded, but he wasn’t at all sure that he would.