Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction Page 7

  than happy that things had evolved the way they had.

  I relived what had happened, over and over. One had to

  keep emotional reactions out of this and see it for what it

  actually was, because going alone to the bunkroom in the dead

  of night with nothing else but her nightdress between us,

  proved that she must at least trust me. Just how much and how

  long her trust would last remained to be seen, but nonetheless,

  in doing that, she had made a statement that was impossible to

  ignore.

  42

  Chapter Six

  JAMESTOWN, Cape Colony. South Africa

  I’d glanced down the hall – clad only in my towel – and turned

  to look back at the interloper in front of me. Then I detected a

  sudden movement from the right. I flinched and twisted my

  head, but it was too late, something impacted against my skull.

  I woke on the floor inside the door, which was shut. I was

  lying on my back and my arms were stretched above me – as

  though I had been dragged across the threshold. I also noticed

  the throb in my head and that I was naked; my towel had come

  away from around my waist and was lying on the floor by my

  feet. I focused on the lamp above me until my vision had

  adequately cleared and with some confidence restored, rolled

  onto my hands and knees and got up, only to stumble and flop

  on the bed like a stranded whale.

  After a minute I realised that I lay on the contents of the

  carpetbag – someone had emptied everything out and tossed

  the depleted carpetbag on the floor. Holding my head, I

  struggled into a sitting position only to notice that my safari

  jacket was also lying crumpled on the floor, so I reached down

  and picked it up, slowly sliding my hand into each pocket in

  turn to realise that there was something missing – the key to

  the stable locker was gone.

  “Shit,” was the first thing that came to mind and feeling

  deflated, I lay back on the bed for a while with my eyes shut.

  Then, another thought materialized. I had to tell somebody

  about this and to do that I had to get up and get dressed.

  Shakily, I swung myself off the bed, stood back up and looked

  at the door.

  The door key was missing too. It took a moment for that to

  sink in. When it did, I wobbled over to it and tried the door

  handle – nothing; it was locked. Shit, no key meant I was

  locked in here. Double shit-shit. Feeling desolate, I noticed the

  bath and wobbled over to it. A quick check of the water

  43

  temperature confirmed that it was still warm, so I couldn’t

  have been out on the floor that long. Then I thought, stuff it.

  Why should I be deprived of my bath? I have worked for it, I

  deserve it and damn them all, since I can’t get out of here I

  may as well have it.

  I must have passed out. I awoke with a start and found that

  the hammering noise I could hear was someone knocking

  loudly on my door. I was still in the bath and the water was

  now almost cold.

  “Richard! Are you in there?” It sounded like Floyd. The

  doorknob rattled back and forth.

  “Yes,” I croaked. “I can’t get out!” There was silence for a

  while before I could hear something turning in the lock and the

  door swung open to reveal Potts, Floyd and Anderson, with a

  clerk holding a door key.

  “What in the hell blue blazes has happened to you?” It was

  the Colonel, flanked on both sides by the others. I stared back

  with as much dignity as I could muster under the

  circumstances.

  “Get me out of this bath,” I grumbled, hardly able to move.

  “You’ve been mugged, ol’ boy.” It was a doctor, stating the

  obvious as he leaned over me and examined the lump on my

  head. He had removed his black frock coat and topper hat

  while a black medical bag lay open on a small table by the bed.

  He stopped staring into my eyes and slowly straightened up.

  “A mild concussion, nothing serious. You’ll be right in a

  day or two. I’ve seen more spectacular lumps caused by cricket

  balls. A cricket ball didn’t cause this though, whoever did this

  was probably a professional. I’d say a sock full of sand was the

  weapon employed.”

  As he was speaking, I noticed the other three were standing

  behind him, looking at each other, and none were smiling. The

  doctor clipped his bag shut and after giving instructions to put

  a wet compress on my head, he then took his leave. I slumped

  back on my pillow and closed my eyes.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  I half opened one eye to look in the direction of the voice. It

  was Potts and he didn’t look happy.

  44

  “Keep your voice down,” cautioned the Colonel. “We don’t

  want anyone to know about this.” There was silence for a

  minute.

  “We’ve been tumbled. The train wreckers know who we

  are. How can that be?”

  “I don’t know,” mumbled Anderson, “but this was one very

  audacious attack. Whoever did this doesn’t lack confidence.

  From now on we’ll have to carry arms and stay in pairs.”

  Disappearing in the direction of his room, he soon came

  back with a roll of oilskin that looked like a rolled-up

  carpenter’s chisel pouch. Untying it, it unravelled to expose a

  number of small revolvers and derringers, some of which he

  drew out and handed to us.

  “While we’re in town you had better keep one of these

  under your pillow.” He threw one on the bed next to me and I

  studied it – it was a Colt double-action revolver in .41 calibre

  and at least a decade old. It had an old style birds-head butt

  and a barrel that was only two inches long. There was no

  extractor rod because the barrel was so darn short that there

  was not enough barrel left to attach one to. Then he tossed a

  small nickel-plated revolver at me that also turned out to be a

  Colt; a third model or something.

  “If you want to visit the bar or go anywhere you better pack

  that in your pocket.”

  Intrigued, I picked it up – the plating was all shiny with a

  subtle yellowish tinge. It had a stud trigger and an external

  hammer that required cocking before firing. It was also mostly

  useless; a .32 Short and lacked power. Still, it would kill you if

  you were shot in the head at a range of a yard, so it could

  definitely take your mind off sex. Then Potts chimed in.

  “It seems rather odd that they would want the locker key.”

  He looked to the Colonel as he spoke. “You and I had better

  get another key and see if there’s anything missing.”

  “True,” returned Anderson, “although there’s nothing there

  except saddles and camping equipment.”

  “We know that, but they may have thought there was

  intelligence, papers and the like; something worth relaying to

  Bloemfontein and Pretoria.”

  45

  Half an hour later they returned to tell us that the packs had

  been ransacked and my campaign j
acket and pants were left

  lying on top. Also, my ammo bandolier and the fifty cartridges

  it contained were gone; obviously, they knew someone that

  could put them to use. That would have also confirmed that we

  had a military connection, so there was no doubt now that they

  were on to us.

  As that sank in, there was a knock on the door and warily,

  Floyd slowly opened it, his hand conspicuously enclosed

  around the butt of a revolver that was protruding from his coat.

  There was no need for concern however, because our visitor

  turned out to be a constable with a single stripe on his

  shoulder, although he was not one of the two we saw earlier in

  the day.

  “Is Colonel Anderson available sir?”

  “Yes Constable, what is it?” The Colonel moved towards

  the door.

  “Well sir, I returns here from my duties this afternoon an’

  the Chief Constable shows me this ‘ere drawing, y’see, an’

  enquires if I might ‘ave seen him an’ all; an’ I has y’see…

  some weeks ago. I can’t say for certain where now, but I

  definitely has seen ‘im, if that be any help.”

  The Colonel thanked the constable for bringing that

  information and dismissing him, closed the door and turned to

  face us.

  “Well, if there was any doubt about who did this, there sure

  is none now, is there?”

  We had another conference right there and then, except this

  time there was no whisky involved. A pity, as a few good

  snorts would probably have made my head feel better.

  “I think this little development calls for revenge.” Colonel

  Anderson eyeballed each of us in turn. “They are obviously

  here, close by somewhere. I think that tomorrow we should

  stalk this town from stem to stern with a copy of that picture

  and ask every shopkeeper and their assistants if they recognize

  Smidt. We’ll do every house and quiz them too. Something

  solid may turn up.”

  46

  We looked at him and each other. What he was proposing

  was pretty expansive and would definitely put to rest any

  illusions about our cover.

  “I also think we need to change our sleeping arrangements.

  Potts can shift into my room with me and you two can shift

  into his. Then we’ll be right next to each other and no one will

  be on their own.”

  The following morning, we hit the dining room early, after

  which we strode purposefully to the police station for another

  chat with the Chief Constable. Feeling better and bolstered

  with good coffee I had joined the enterprise, for I didn’t fancy

  being stuck in the hotel room all day by myself and besides,

  after my little misfortune from yesterday, this had become

  rather personal, as the lump on my head continually served to

  remind me.

  We were immediately ushered to the Chief Constable’s

  office, where we clustered around his desk. Colonel Anderson

  got straight to the point.

  “Yesterday, Richard was mugged in his own room. Nothing

  was taken except a bandolier of cartridges, but the timing and

  nature of the attack suggests to us that Eric von Smidt and his

  republican cronies are involved. Therefore, we plan to canvas

  this town with Smidt’s picture in hand to see if there is

  anything we can learn. We would also like a couple of your

  constables to accompany us, to give the populace the assurance

  that we are official, so to speak.”

  Half an hour later we split into two groups; one group going

  one way, while the second group went the other, each with a

  constable in tow. The group that comprised Colonel Anderson,

  Constable Wilkes and myself, went from store to store and

  business to house, but there was nothing to turn up. Zilch –

  none had seen or knew of Eric von Smidt. We even asked a

  black shoeshine boy and showed him the picture.

  “No masta sa, me no see dat fella.”

  “Pretty distinctive face,” commented one passer-by. “If I’d

  seen ‘im, I’d a remembered it.”

  By late morning, we had covered all there was on our half

  of the town without success and jacked it in. We walked with

  Constable Wilkes back to the police station and thanking him

  47

  for his efforts, we left to find the others and find out how they

  had fared.

  We got about three stores along when I noticed a large sign

  – ‘Get a Furkin Haircut!’ and some small script below which

  read, ‘Shaves 3d, while you wait. Chas. Furkin Proprietor.’ I

  then realised that due to my interruption the night before, I

  hadn’t shaved. I put my hand to my face and could feel the

  stubble, so explaining to the Colonel that I wanted a shave, I

  left him to find the others while I peeled off in the direction of

  the Barber Shop.

  “Good morning’ to you sir,” came the welcome as I crossed

  the threshold. There was only one customer and he was already

  seated in the barber’s chair, his face swathed in towels. My

  host continued.

  “Did you gentlemen find that person you were looking for?”

  I sat on the waiting bench, pleased to sit down as the bump on

  my head had begun to affect me more than I cared to admit.

  My host was a slim, congenial, dapper-looking man in his

  fifties, with silvery hair that was meticulously groomed and

  complimented by a trim grey moustache. He wore a spotlessly

  white barber’s coat with combs protruding from a top pocket,

  and continued stropping his razor while the customer remained

  reclined in the chair.

  “No, nothing turned up yet.” I replied, absently looking at

  the newspapers and finding an ‘Illustrated London News’ that

  was at least two months old. I found another copy of the

  Illustrated which was even older than the first and a copy of

  the ‘Cape Town Times,’ a weekly newspaper that was sure to

  have some news of the war. I picked it up, noting that this was

  only one week old and as current as one was ever likely to get.

  The front page headline stated that Lord Lansdowne, the

  Secretary for War, had appointed ‘Brigadier General Lord

  Roberts VC., to the position of General Officer Commanding

  of British forces in South Africa.’ It would seem that ol’

  whiskers Buller has been given the sack. Then, on page three I

  found a headline that read…

  “H.R.H. Princess Alexandria – the Princess of Mercy.”

  What followed was a lot of exotic dialogue which went on to

  claim that the Princess had outfitted a hospital ship at her own

  48

  expense and the ship would soon be leaving for South Africa,

  where it should arrive in Cape Town within twenty one days of

  leaving Britain, etc., calling in at Gibraltar along the way to re-

  provision, etc., etc.

  I slowly folded the paper and dropped it onto the seat beside

  me, then cast my eye around the room. There was the usual

  wooden bench in front of the barber’s seat, which contained

  various porcelain jars with hair oils, coloured gl
ass bottles in a

  variety of shapes and sizes, a portable mirror suspended from a

  hook, and shaving mugs with brushes protruding; not to

  mention scissors of various sizes and whalebone combs.

  The barber finished wiping the remnants of shaving foam

  away and the customer looked into the portable mirror for

  confirmation of a good job, before he stood erect and turned to

  face me. It was him, the bastard who’d stood outside my door

  with his hands behind his back!

  He took one look at me and bolted for the door, but I was

  closer to it than he and I slammed him with a shoulder-charge

  that hurled his head against the tongue and groove; knocking

  some sense out of him, although unfortunately, not quite

  enough. As I attempted to rise he gave me an elbow jolt that

  struck my cheek under the left eye; causing more pain in my

  head, which only succeeded in making me angrier than I

  already was. Grabbing his hair, I yanked his head back and

  punched him while he groped for my eyes, which I managed to

  evade by continually twisting my head from right to left, while

  my right hand reached for the Colt with the bird’s-head butt. I

  felt my hand close around it and forcefully slammed the frame

  down on his forehead before ramming its muzzle into the side

  of his nose.

  “Try something now and I’ll blow your head off!” His

  dazed eyes looked back. From that angle he stared straight into

  the chambers, where the ugly blunt noses of those .41 double

  action cartridges were staring belligerently back. I got to my

  feet.

  “Roll on your knees, get your hands on the back of your

  head and rise slowly, or you’ll get a couple of these in the

  blink of an eye.”

  49

  He sullenly glared back, but did as he was told. Then I

  warned him again that he had better keep his hands on his

  head, and with a fistful of his coat collar to discourage him

  from making a break for it, we walked the three doors back to

  the police station where I dubbed him in as one of the muggers

  responsible for the lump on my head.

  The duty constable handcuffed him and his pockets were

  turned out to reveal a sizable clasp knife and surprise, surprise,

  a balled-up sock. There was also a pouch of tobacco, a ten-

  pound note plus some small change, so I swooped on a

  sixpence. He hadn’t paid for his shave and now he was up for

  paying for mine as well. Then he was incarcerated in a cell,