Tamar (56 page)

In less than an hour, the vultures came. Their huge wings flapping lazily, they circled low above the flat ground between the
kopje
and the rocks and the troops could see the bright blue of their long, bare necks. These were Cape vultures, the second largest in Africa; they fed on the carcasses of large mammals.

As one bird swooped down and landed on the body of a dead trooper, several men cried out in disgust and fired. Word was passed
immediately that ammunition was not to be wasted, and the men had to satisfy themselves with hurling rocks and curses. The big, ugly birds went away eventually, but there was little doubt they’d be back.

The day dragged on, the Boers apparently in no hurry to move. The troops wondered what would happen when the sun went down. It was unlikely they could slip away unnoticed as the Boers would surely be waiting. Would there be another furious fire fight in which more of them would die? None of them believed they would not get away; there were too many of them for that, but not enough to keep charging the
kopje
until every Boer had been killed. And what would be the point? What value was there in taking one rock-strewn, scrub-covered hill in the middle of bloody nowhere? No, it made more sense to sit it out and wait for night, even if that meant lolling for hours in the stinking sun, listening to flies buzzing around dead mates and letting the anger and frustration build until it could be harnessed and directed at either the Boers on the hill, or the next lot they came across.

Gradually, the air started to cool as the sun slid down the sky. It would take time for the heavy black night to roll over the land, and the troopers were anxious to minimise any activity that might suggest they were preparing to move, but did what they could. Each walking wounded was allocated a man to help them and crude litters were fashioned from belts, shirts and jackets for those unable to help themselves. One man died during the afternoon, which made the load lighter.

The dead would have to be left where they were. As soon as the Boers departed, and they would probably be gone one way or another before the sun rose too high tomorrow, a party would collect the bodies so they could be afforded a decent Christian burial back at the camp.

As the rich purple shadows of early evening lengthened and
merged into blackness, the troops were ready.

By now they’d all had nervous pees, quietly gathered their things, fastened down anything that might make a noise, carefully folded rags into the mouths of the wounded to prevent them from crying out, and checked and reloaded their rifles. One by one they began to move silently from the rocks, walking slowly with their shoulders hunched, expecting to hear Boer fire at any second. The wounded went first followed by the bulk of the enlisted men, then the officers, all moving quietly and trying not to stumble.

Only minutes after the last man had crept away from the shelter of the rocks, the darkness relinquished a handful of small four-legged shadows that moved stealthily towards the bodies left behind. They made thick snuffling noises and carried the foul stink of the carrion that sustained them. Soon, the snuffling turned into the sound of something heavy being dragged, then the gentle, almost liquid noises of tearing and chewing.

When the evacuating column reached their horses, they finally dared breathe normally. Some offered up silent prayers of thanks, while others leaned against their mounts and swore in muffled relief. They had no way of knowing the Boers had themselves used the cover of darkness to evacuate the
kopje
an hour earlier, and were now miles away. They had numbered less than two dozen, and would have been unable to maintain anything more than a very minor skirmish with the British, come daylight.

When the sun rose, the retrieval party was already on its way back to collect the bodies of the fallen troopers. Dick Raynor lead the small group, and his orders were to circle the hill from a safe distance to ascertain whether the Boers were still there or not, and if they weren’t, then the bodies were to be picked up and brought back to join the main column. It would be an
unpleasant job as the dead men had already been lying in the full sun for at least half a day, and decomposition set in quickly in the intense heat. There was a pile of heavy shrouds in their wagon, but Raynor expected no one would be riding down wind on the long trip back to camp.

When they reached the
kopje
, it was clear the Boers had gone. Raynor signalled to his men to close in, but as they approached the area in front of the rocks, every man pulled up his mount and stared, slack-jawed and uncomprehending.

On the ground were a handful of dark, glistening, buzzing mounds. Raynor was unable to grasp what he was seeing until he suddenly realised the shimmering black carpets were alive. He cried out in horror and millions of blowflies rose up, hovering in the air with a sickening, teeth-rattling drone. Where they had been lay a strew of human bones, mostly stripped white but blemished here and there by shreds of dark, drying flesh.

Raynor leaned over and vomited onto the dirt, splattering his horse’s front legs. Behind him he could hear several of his men doing the same, then someone asking him what should they do.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and, unable to take his eyes off the horror in front of him, snapped, ‘How the hell should
I
know? What do
you
suggest?’ He was heartily sick of this war and desperately wanted to go home to his gentle wife and his safe, undemanding public servant’s job.

‘We could collect ’em all up, sir, and sort ’em out later.’ Private Biddle had a cast iron stomach, and sensibilities to match.

Raynor hesitated, retching behind his hand at the thought, then agreed. ‘Fetch the shrouds. We’ll have to jumble the lot all in together — one of the MOs can organise them when we get back.’ Then he remembered there was only one medical officer left. The other two were here.

He got off his horse and cautiously approached the mess on the
ground. The stink was faint but it was there, the meagre flesh left on the dismembered skeletons fetid already. He got his handkerchief out and held it over his nose and mouth, then turned to help the men lay a large shroud next to the bones.

When nobody moved, he said through his handkerchief, ‘Come on, gather them up!’

Biddle said cheerily, ‘Aye, they won’t pick ’emselves up, will they?’

Raynor gave him a dirty look, motioned towards the scattered bones and snapped, ‘Get on with it.’ He himself stood back, unable to even contemplate touching the remains.

When all of the bones, buttons, watches and other items had been collected and placed on the shroud, someone pointed out that there weren’t enough skulls.

‘
What
?’ snapped Raynor. Was there no end to this hideousness?

‘There should be eight of ’em, sir,’ replied one of his men uneasily. ‘Two went down when we first got ambushed, then eight in the first wave, five got brought back in, then three more went down. That makes eight. There’s only seven ’ere, sir.’

Raynor closed his eyes.

‘Filthy, scavenging bloody animals,’ muttered Biddle, offended at last.

All of this Dick Raynor recounted to Joseph when their paths crossed many weeks later. Private Deane seemed to fold the information into himself, whether to examine it later in private, or to leave it there forever, Raynor could not tell.

He said, ‘John talked of you and your mother often, so I thought you would like to hear what happened. Perhaps you could relate the … more palatable bits to Mrs Adams. I’ve already sent John’s letter to her, and there will be the official notification. Major Anscombe is writing to her as well, I believe.’

Joseph nodded. ‘Yes, John was one of my mother’s very good friends. Has been for years.’ He looked the other man in the eye. ‘He didn’t have to volunteer. He did it because he thought he could help.’

‘I know,’ agreed Raynor, looking at his hands. ‘And he could have gone home whenever he wanted to.’

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Joseph thanked Raynor and watched him walk away. He wondered if Riria knew yet. And what about his mother? How would she take the news? Would she, as he had done, squash the anger and the hurt down inside herself, or would she sob and rant and rail and lash out at someone in her grief? Either way, he would not be there to help her.

Kenmore, April 1901

‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.’

Andrew reached across the table for the large meat dish. He lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Whew!’ he said theatrically. ‘What’s that smell?’ He narrowed his twinkling eyes and scrutinised each of the children until he came to Thomas. ‘It’s
you
! It’s your oxters!’

Thomas sniffed his armpits. ‘No it isn’t!’ he retaliated indignantly.

‘Oxters! Oxters! Stinky, stinky
oxters
!’ taunted James, giggling.

‘They’re
not
stinky!’ wailed Thomas, his face crumpling into tears.

Whoops, thought Tamar, he’s in one of his sensitive moods. ‘Leave him be, Andrew, and you be quiet, James. You’re upsetting him.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t be such a sook,’ complained James, helping himself to minted peas.

Andrew patted Thomas’s thin shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, son. It’s not you, it’s Mrs Muldoon’s mutton stew.’

‘Andrew, don’t be silly,’ rebuked Tamar, trying to keep the smile off her face. ‘Mrs Muldoon makes a lovely stew.’

Andrew winked at Thomas, who brightened at his father’s attention.

‘Da,’ said Ian, five now and recently graduated to eating at the dining table. ‘Why’s it called a oxter?’

‘
An
oxter,’ Tamar corrected.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Andrew. ‘I suppose it’s a Scottish word.
My
da used to say it all the time. Did yours, Lachie?’

Lachie nodded.

‘Why? Did
he
have stinky oxters?’ Ian asked.

‘That’s enough,’ said Tamar. ‘We don’t discuss personal hygiene at the dinner table.’

As she reached for the potatoes, Mrs Muldoon came quietly into the room. ‘Mr Murdoch,’ she murmured. ‘May I have a word, please?’

‘Of course,’ said Andrew, buttering a slice of bread.

‘A private word, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh. Certainly.’ Andrew and Tamar glanced at each other as Andrew followed Mrs Muldoon into the hall, where she stopped abruptly and said in a loud whisper, ‘There’s a Post Office boy at the door. With a telegraph.’

With a sudden sinking feeling, it hit him. ‘Oh God, it must be Joseph!’

He hurried to the front door, where a boy of about thirteen stood miserably under the portico, cap in one hand and a folded piece of paper in the other. As he handed it over he mumbled, ‘Telegraph, sir. Arrived at Napier Post Office this morning,’ and turned away, not wanting to be involved in someone else’s grief.

‘Hold on,’ said Andrew gruffly as he fished in his pocket and
presented a handful of coins. What a rotten job for such a young lad.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the boy as he stuffed the money into his pocket and ran down the steps.

Andrew opened the telegraph, dreading what he would read. It was bad, very bad, but not the news he had been expecting.

Tamar and Andrew,

John reported killed in South Africa. Need your help. Please telephone.

Riria.

Andrew looked up at Mrs Muldoon who was standing at a discreet distance. ‘You’d better get Tamar,’ he said dully, then moved slowly over to the stairs and sank onto the bottom one, the telegraph fluttering from his hand. He bent his head in grief, willing himself not to weep.

‘Andrew? What is it?’ Tamar asked as she hurried into the foyer. Glimpsing the pain on her husband’s face, she cried out in disbelief, ‘No, not
Joseph
!’

Andrew shook his head. ‘No, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s John. He’s been reported killed.’

Tamar snatched up the telegraph and read it for herself. ‘There must have been a mistake,’ she said eventually.

Andrew took her in his arms. ‘No, darling. It’s from Riria. She would have been informed officially.’

Tamar looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘But I don’t
want
him to be dead,’ she said childishly.

‘I know,’ he murmured tenderly as she started to cry. He hugged her to him, feeling her intense physical and emotional pain as her chest heaved and her shoulders shook. Weeping himself now, he smoothed her hair and rocked her gently, the wretched telegraph discarded on the floor.

Andrew rode into town the following morning to telephone Riria. He went straight to the Post Office and asked for a connection to be put through to Riria’s number, then went outside to wait for the Postmaster to tell him his party was on the other end.

The connection was poor and he could barely hear Riria, but he gathered she and the children would be boarding a steamer for Napier the next day. He attempted to express how he felt about John’s death, but gave up in the end and just said he was terribly sorry.

Riria arrived six days later. With her were Simon, sixteen now, darkly handsome and looking uncannily like his mother; Rose, who at fourteen was surprisingly fair although with Riria’s striking features; and twelve-year-old David. John had always joked he was vastly relieved his children took after Riria, and not himself.

Riria was clearly not herself. She was upset and agitated, but in Tamar’s opinion not behaving like a newly bereaved widow. She wondered if her dear friend was suffering from some sort of emotional disturbance in response to the shocking and unexpected news. Her suspicions were confirmed later that afternoon when Riria made a very odd request. ‘If you do not mind,’ she said conversationally, ‘I would like to leave the children here when I go to Port Chalmers.’

Andrew and Tamar glanced quickly at each other.

Uneasy, Tamar enquired, ‘Dunedin?’

‘Yes, I will be going to meet the next troopship. John will be on that one, or the one after.’