‘You first, Mbejane.’
A splash that rose above the bank.
‘Off you go, Dirk. Remember to hang on to the saddle.’
Another high splash, and Sean flogged his mount as it baulked and danced sideways along the bank. A sudden lunge outwards and the long drop before the water closed over them.
Snorting water, they surfaced and with relief Sean saw Dirk’s head bobbing beside that of his horse and heard his shouted excitement. Moments later they stood on the far bank, water streaming from their naked bodies, and laughed together at the fun of it.
Abruptly the laughter was strangled to death in Sean’s throat. Lining the bank above them, grinning with the infection of merriment but with Mauser rifles held ready, stood a dozen men. Big men, bearded, festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, dressed in rough clothing and a selection of hats that included a brown derby and a tall beaver.
In imitation of Sean, both Mbejane and Dirk stopped laughing and stared up at the frieze of armed men along the bank. A complete silence fell on the gathering.
It was broken at last by the man in the brown derby as he pointed at Sean with the barrel of his Mauser.
‘Magtig! But you’d need a sharp axe to cut through that branch.’
‘Don’t anger him,’ warned the gentleman in the beaver. ‘If he hits you over the head with it, it will crack your skull!’ and they all laughed.
It was hard for Sean to decide which was the more discomforting; the intimate discussion of his nudity, or the fact that the discussion was conducted in the Taal (or Cape Dutch). In his impatience he had walked, or rather swum, into the arms of a Boer patrol. There was just a forlorn hope that he might be able to bluff his way through, and he opened his mouth to make the attempt. But Dirk forestalled him.
‘Who are they, Pa, and why are they laughing?’ he asked in clear piping English, and Sean’s hope died as abruptly as did the Boer laughter when they heard that hated language.
‘Oh, so!’ growled the man in the beaver, and gestured eloquently with his Mauser. ‘Hands up please, my friend.’
‘Will you allow me to put my trousers on first?’ Sean asked politely.
‘Where are they taking us?’ For once Dirk was subdued and there was a quiver in his voice that touched Beaver, who rode beside him. He answered for Sean.
‘Now don’t you worry, you’re going to see a general. A real live general.’ Beaver’s English was intelligible and Dirk studied him with interest.
‘Will he have medals and things?’
‘Nee, man. We don’t use such rubbish.’ And Dirk lost interest. He turned back to Sean.
‘Pa, I’m hungry.’
Again Beaver intervened. He pulled a long black stick of biltong, dried meat, from his pocket and offered it to Dirk.
‘Sharpen your teeth on that, Kerel.’
With his mouth full Dirk was taken care of and Sean could concentrate on the other Boers. They were convinced they had caught a spy, and were discussing the impending execution. In a friendly manner Sean was admitted to the argument, and they listened with respectful attention to his defence. This was interrupted while they forded the Tugela and climbed the escarpment once more, but Sean continued it while they rode in a bunch along the crest. Finally, he convinced them of his innocence – which they accepted with relief, as none of them were really looking forward to shooting him.
Thereafter the talk turned to more pleasant topics. It was a glorious day, sunshine lit the valley in gold and green. Below them the river twisted and sparkled, working its devious way down from the smoky blue wall of the Drakensberg that stood along the far horizon. A few fat clouds dawdled across the sky, and a light breeze took the edge off the heat.
The youngsters in the party listened avidly as Sean spoke of elephant beyond the Limpopo, and of the wide land that waited for men to claim it.
‘After the war …’ they said, and laughed in the sun. Then a change in the wind and a freak lie of the hills brought a faint but ugly sound down to them and the laughter died.
‘The guns,’ said one of them.
‘Ladysmith.’
Now it was Sean’s turn to ask the questions. They told him how the commandos had raced down on the town of Ladysmith and rolled up the force that stood to oppose them. Bitterly they remembered how old Joubert had held his horsemen and watched while the broken English army streamed back into the town.
‘Almighty! Had he loosed us on them then! We would sweep them into the sea.’
‘If Oom Paul had commanded instead of old Joubert, the war would be finished already – but instead we sit and wait.’
Gradually Sean filled in the picture of the war in Natal. Ladysmith was invested. General George White’s army was bottled and corked within the town. Half the Boer army had moved forward along the railway and taken up a defensive line straddling the Escarpment, overlooking the river and the tiny village of Colenso.