Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction Page 10
does this attack bring to mind?”
We looked at each other. Eric von Smidt? It had all the
hallmarks of something he would do if his reputation was
anything to go by.
“ang on now,” said the constable with the stripes. “I knows
where I saw the fella in the picture – it were out at the
crossroads just north o’ town. I went to Herrick’s place t’
investigate a disappearance o’ one ‘orse like, when I sees this
fella at the crossroads talking to a couple other fellas. Don’
suppose it were ‘im that stole the ‘orse now, do you?”
That morning, we repacked our equipment and left for Illwe,
taking the most direct route south by traversing the Stormberg
Ranges along the way. We had chosen Illwe as our next
destination because Illwe was the closest place to Jamestown
with rails leading to it and therefore, the most logical place for
the wreckers to go if they wanted to blow up trains. The train
wreckers would have used their head start well and there
would be little likelihood of our being able to catch them.
There would also be no sabotage or train wrecks along the
way, because there were no tracks to Illwe from Jamestown.
That they could disappear so completely was not entirely
surprising. The South African regions were easily the size of
France and with fighting occurring on three fronts, there was
plenty of scope elsewhere for plying their trade. We had failed
to establish if Eric von Smidt was involved, or Shaun Blaine
either for that matter, and we were never likely to find out who
murdered Futile Ferg, although my gut instincts told me that
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Eric von Smidt would be at least partly responsible. The
residents of Jamestown would have to pay for Ferg’s burial and
a plain whitewashed wooden cross at the end of a pile of rocks
would be all he would get.
The ranges were a steep, hill-studded upland that stretched
for more than a hundred miles, and were at least twenty miles
across, depending on your point of entry. The hills were high
with rock-strewn tops that were extensively rounded from
erosion over the millennium, creating wide, grassy valleys that
weaved and turned for miles. Once elevated, it would be
possible to see anyone coming from a long way off.
Only two groups of travellers had passed us and each was
shown the picture of Smidt, although no-one from either group
remembered seeing him. There was not much point in scouring
the ranges without direct confirmation that Smidt was there for
we could go round and round for months on end and find no-
one, so we went straight to Illwe, the end of the rails on the
Stormberg – Illwe branch line.
Illwe was around the same size as Jamestown but lacked its
civic order. It had two main streets connected by cross roads
and looked like it had been built in a hurry. It was a town that
had expanded recently, for half the buildings were relatively
new, no doubt in response to the arrival of the railway and the
greater economic opportunities it brought. It lacked the
Englishness of Jamestown with its solid brick and stonework
buildings because it was mostly built of cheaper adobe mud
brick; there was a frontier boomtown feel to it.
There were more Boer people here, the rural ones dressed
in the requisite brown felt hats and corduroy, while the more
affluent ones wore summer-weight suits. Most were large and
walked with their slow, casual gait, while black people drove
ox wagons, cleaned streets and did other casual work. One
black wagoner had found a discarded top hat, complete with a
hole in the crown, but nonetheless wore it proudly.
The railway station was right in the middle of town and we
set ourselves up in a single storey accommodation house
across the road; an ideal location as the police station was half
a block one way and the telegraph was an equal distance the
other. We decided to avoid hotels from now on. The
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accommodation was always on the floor above, so if we were
attacked, we couldn’t easily escape by opening a window and
leaping out.
Due to the war there were no railway carriages available in
the war zones, simply because bullets could easily pass
through them; consequently, civilians were not allowed to
travel by train and the accommodation business was all but
dead. Which meant that there were always rooms available and
most of the time we could choose which ones we wanted. The
front entrance to the building was reached via a small
courtyard flanked by an accommodation wing on either side,
so we brought up the horses, unpacked them there and stored
our saddles, packsaddles and packs in the room next to the
ones we would sleep in, so we would be able to hear anyone
who attempted to ransack our gear. When finished, we walked
the horses to a stable on the west edge of town where we put
them up.
Returning to our digs we washed, changed and shaved.
Then we walked to the telegram office and this time, there was
a telegram from the ‘British South Africa Cattle Company.’ It
confirmed that they had received the last message and that
there was no fresh news to hand concerning E.v S., so we
should keep looking. It was signed John G. Watermeyer, Esq.,
company President. Colonel Anderson penned a reply
confirming we had received the message and we left.
Next port of call was the police station, where we did a re-
run of what went down at Jamestown, before visiting the
dining room at the King James hotel. The King James was a
narrow wooden structure of two floors, clad with corrugated
iron and with verandahs and a stone façade on both levels
across the front. The dining room was on the right of the main
hallway while the bar was directly opposite, the double doors
to the dining room being panelled with glass and a large Royal
crest hung above them.
As we dined on pork pie we discussed what our activities
would be tomorrow.
“I have a hunch I’d like to play on,” said I, while the others
raised more food to their mouths.
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“And what might that be?” said Potts, having swallowed
his before the others.
“Well, I noticed at Jamestown that they seem to like
clandestine meetings at crossroads.”
When the sun came up I was nestled between the headstones,
back in my old army gear less the bandolier, simply because at
any distance I would be harder to see. I was in the Illwe
County cemetery about a mile from town, skulking behind a
headstone while the Metford lay on the grass beside me.
I looked at the scripting on the stone – ‘Here lies Angeline,
only seventeen. Gone early to God’s kingdom. 12th October
1887’. The cemetery was situated on a knoll of some two or
three acres in size that gave me, along with all due respect to
Angeline, an unprecedented view of the roadway east from
The cemetery itself was divided into different sections.
Typically, there was one for Catholics, another for the Church
of England, another one for Methodists, Presbyterians etc., and
yet another for the Dutch Reformed Church of the Boer
residents. I never saw any headstone with a black name on it –
although there was another section with some graves that were
unmarked. With my binocular cord around my neck, I steadied
the edge of the binoculars against the side of Angeline’s
headstone as I scanned the roadway and the junction where the
eastwards road and the turnoff to the cemetery intersected.
Behind me, to the north, the Stormberg Ranges dominated
the skyline, the foothills of which began some ten miles away;
while off to the south and east, undulating hills snaked their
way towards a purple and far more distant horizon. To the West
lay Illwe, a mere one mile away, from where I could watch
anyone who ventured forth and lingered.
From my eyrie, I could see the backs of buildings and
washing lines laden with clothes that flapped listlessly in the
breeze, while elsewhere, a woman beat a rug with a spade to
remove the dust. There were dogs milling around, their barking
audible even from here, and long drops with their doors wide
open in a perpetual struggle to reduce the smell. Above it all,
the smoke from coal ranges continued to rise upwards towards
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the great blue yonder of the sky which seemed to stretch
endlessly over our heads.
It was bound to be a long day. My horse was tethered on
the far side of the mound and I had three large canteens of
water. Deftly wrapped in paper was a pile of sandwiches made
for me by the landlady, so I was well prepared for the task. I
lay back, my hands behind my head, while the flies droned
around, settling here or there, only to flex their wings and
drone off somewhere else, hopefully to be eaten by a lizard or
a bird.
I had seen some lizards, little things mostly, mottled grey
or brown with silvery bellies; geckos I suppose. Then there
were sparrows. Yes, English sparrows of all things. It seems
the English take them everywhere, although you only see them
around the towns. There are too many predators in the
countryside, there being kites, hawks and falcons as well as
other birds of prey. Everything in Africa eats something else.
The morning dragged by. Occasionally someone would go
past in a wagon or on a horse, but nobody stopped at the
crossroads. I opened my sandwiches and ate one that was
pickled beef and mustard, washed down with a draught of
water. Today, the others were going to walk the town with
Smidt’s picture. I wondered how they were getting on.
I lay back again. By now the flies had given up buzzing, it
was getting too hot; they would land on the shadow side of a
tombstone and remain motionless for an hour or more. They
were in some torpid state I suppose, like me; at least while they
were like that they weren’t so annoying.
Potts was a funny bugger. I couldn’t honestly say that I
liked him. He was all bristling, officious. I suppose you have to
be like that to be a good policeman and he obviously was. He
was scary to watch when he was grilling Fergy, even though it
transpired that he was not severe enough. I don’t know about
his threat to shoot Ferg in the back of the head though – I
suppose it was just bluff. I hope it was bluff. There was no way
in hell I’d want to be a part of that sort of thing, although as
things turned out it wouldn’t have made any difference to Ferg
if he had.
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Ferg’s murder had been a shock. One would think he
would be as safe as houses being locked in a jail, but
apparently not. Whoever did it had the cheek of Ned Kelly and
more gall than Spring-heel Jack. I couldn’t get over how easily
the killer had achieved it and how callous it was. It was
chilling to realise that this was the sort of men we were up
against.
Floyd was a bit of an oddity too. He was always on the
outside of things; part of the group without actually being part
of the group. Perhaps he had been around black people too
much as a kid for he was like a ghost without a foot in either
camp. We hadn’t seen much of his tracking skills, although to
date there hadn’t been much opportunity. Towns were too full
of other people’s tracks to be able to successfully isolate the
trail of a suspect and follow it.
Colonel Anderson was something entirely different. The
complete opposite of Potts, who was a townie and full of
bluster and talk. Anderson was a plainsman through and
through; the prince of forest and mountain pass. Like most
outdoor men he had a quiet, almost leisurely way of doing
things, not prone to talk at all unless there was something
relevant to talk about. When he did speak though, it paid to be
listening as there was always something of value in what he
said. He didn’t turn his head to look at things the way ordinary
men did, in fact his head moved very little and even then only
in a measured, leisurely way – like an Indian I imagine. It was
his hooded, steely eyes that did the work, roving slowly,
missing nothing; his face a pleasant, smiling mask that hid a
mind that was always turning over information; outwardly
composed and calm, inwardly never at rest.
I shifted my weight and my thoughts drifted to the war,
which wasn’t going all that well. General Methuen was
supposed to save Kimberley but had ground to a halt after his
defeat at Magersfontein and to date had failed to make any
more headway. The New Zealanders had done well though,
having been commended in dispatches a couple of times for
quick thinking and staunchness under fire. There was much
ado and singsong after Matlock had distinguished himself at
New Zealand Hill; he rallied our boys after taking command
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and mounted a bayonet charge that repulsed the Boers, saving
the Brits from being over-run.
Then, there was that other hill. It was Matlock to the fore
again. After the senior British officer was hit five times and
had to be carted off, our boys counterattacked the enemy in the
flank and swept them away. The Boers were disadvantaged in
having to attack uphill and weren’t game to give it another go,
so the crisis had passed.
“God bless the New Zealanders,” said the wounded
Colonel, as Matlock and the boys crept by on their way to the
summit. The press had made a feast of that.
Meanwhile, I was missing it all. Lying here doing nothing, just
as torpid as the flies. When I wasn’t doing this I was being hit
on the head with a sock full of sand and getting a headache for
my trouble. Mind you, the rations were far superior to what the
boys were getting and the workload less; I may have even put
on weight. I reached for another sandwich.
I shifted again and noticed that someone was approaching
from the town. I locked the field glasses on him and studied
him, fine-tuning the focus while resting the glasses against the
edge of Angeline’s headstone. He was a big fellow with a
beard and wore one of those dust coats that Boers like to wear
– the ones that came down to the knees, always open at the
front and split up the back, while his head was covered with a
dark brown wide-brimmed hat.
My interest sharpened when he stopped at the intersection
of the turn-off to the cemetery. He climbed down and looked
up briefly at the sun as if trying to estimate the time. He
waited, looking a trifle impatient, and I waited with bated
breath. I idly wondered why they preferred to meet in daylight,
then I realised that at night they would never know if there was
an ambush about to take place until too late. In daylight, they
would be able to see from afar whether anyone else was about,
although not today. They would have no idea that I was lying a
short distance away among the headstones, waiting and
watching.
I swung the glasses eastwards along the road and lo, there
were two men on horseback approaching, dressed and
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appearing much the same; brown cord pants and boots, brown
coats, with their heads covered with brown felt hats. Their
horses were decked out for travel, with blanket rolls, bags and
canteens suspended from their saddles. Our boy hadn’t seen
them yet and still waited impatiently, not having the advantage
of being elevated like I was. Soon, they united, the latest
arrivals swinging down; grins on faces and shaking hands. I
lay low and watched, absorbing every detail of their dress and
features, until after fifteen minutes or so, they all mounted up
and headed for town.
My vigil was over and with no one in sight I sprinted back
to my horse, slipped the Metford back into its scabbard and
slung the canteens around the pommel, before I headed after
the three men who were now plodding casually along at least
half a mile ahead. I spurred my horse into a canter and was still
trying to close the gap when they reached the outskirts of town
and turned to follow the loop road that went around it. I slowed
to a walk. So far everything was going well and it wouldn’t do