The Sound of Thunder (8 page)

At his side Mbejane noticed the change of Sean’s mood, and he moved in front of it to turn it once more into sunshine.

“Nkosi, we must hurry if you wish to reach your drinking place at Frere. ” With an effort Sean thrust his thoughts aside, and laughed.

They rode on into the north, and on the third day they reached Chievely.

Sean remembered his innocent amazement when, as a youth, he had joined Lord Chelmsford’s column at Rorke’s Drift at the beginning of the Zulu War. He had believed then no greater accumulation of men was possible. Now he looked out across the encampment of the British Army before Colenso and smiled; Chelmsford’s little force would have been lost in the artillery and ordnance park, yet beyond that the tents stretched away for two miles. Row upon row of white canvas cones with the horse lines in between-and to the rear the orderly acres of import vehicles, thousands of them, with the draught animals scattered grazing across the veld almost to the range of the eye.

it was an impressive sight not only in its immensity but also in its neat and businesslike layout; so was the military precision of the blocks of men at drill, the massed glitter of their bayonets as they turned and marched and counter marched

When Sean wandered into the camp and read the names of the regiments at the head of each row of tents he recognized them as the sound of glory. But the new khaki uniforms and Pith helmets had reduced them all to a homogeneous mass. Only the cavalry retained a little of the magic in the pennants that fluttered gaily at their lance-tips. A squadron trotted past him and Sean eyed their mounts with envy. Great shiny beasts, as arrogant as the men upon their backs. Horse and rider given an air of inhuman cruelty by the slender bright-tipped lance they carried.

A dozen times Sean asked his question,

“Where can I find the Guides” and though the answer was given in the dialects of Manchester and Lancashire, in the barely intelligible accents of Scotland and Ireland, each had a common factor-they were all singularly unhelpful.

Once he stopped to watch a group training with one of the new Maxim mach me-guns. Clumsy, he decided, no match against a rifle.

Later he would remember this judgement and feel a little foolish.

All morning he trudged through the camp, with MbeJane trailing him, and at noon he was tired and dusty and bad tempered The Natal Corps of Guides appeared to be a mythical unit. He stood on the edge of the camp and looked out across the open veld, pondering his next move in the search.

Half a mile out on the grassy plain a thin drift of blue smoke caught his eye. It issued from a line of bush that obviously marked the course of a stream. Whoever had picked that spot to camp certainly knew how to make himself comfortable in the veld. Compared to the bleak surroundings of the main encampment it would be paradise; protected from the wind, close to firewood and water, well away from the attention of senior officers. That was his answer. Sean grinned and set out across the plain.

His guess was proved correct by the swarm of black servants among the trees. These could only be Colonial troops, each with a personal retainer. Also, the wagons were drawn up in the circular formation of the laager. With a feeling of homecoming Sean approached the first white man he saw.

In an enamel hip bath beneath the shade of a mimosa tree this gentleman sat, waist deep, while a servant added hot water from a large black kettle.

“Hello,” Sean greeted him. The man looked up from his book, removed the cheroot from his mouth and returned Sean’s greeting.

“I’m looking for the Guides.”

“Your search is ended, my friend. Sit down.” Then to the servant,

“Bring the Nkosi a cup of coffee.”

Thankful, Sean sank into the rezMe chair near the bath and stretched his legs out before him. His host laid aside the book and began to lather his hairy chest and armpits while he studied Sean with frank appraisal.

“Who’s in charge here?” Sean asked.

“You want to see him?

“Yes. ” The bather opened his mouth and yelled.

“Hey! Tim!”

“What you want?” The reply came from the nearest wagon.

“Fellow here to see you.”

“What’s he want?”

-says he wants to talk to you about his daughter-” There was a long silence while the man in the wagon digested this, then: “What’s he look like?

“Big broke, with a shotgun.”

“You’re joking!”

“The hell I am! Says if you don’t come out he’s coming in to get

YOU,

“The canvas of the wagon canopy was lifted cautiously and an eye showed behind the slit. The ferocious bellow that followed startled Sean to his feet. The canvas was thrown aside and out of the wagon vaulted the Commanding Officer of the Guides.

He moved in on Sean with his arms like a wrestler. For a moment Sean stared at him, then he answered the bellow and dropped into a defensive crouch.

” Yaah! ” The man charged and Sean met him chest to chest, locking his arms around him as they closed.

“Tim Curtis, you miserable bastard,” he roared in laughter and in pain as Tim tried to pull his beard out by the roots.

“Sean Courtney, you evil son of a bitch,” breathless as the air was forced from his lungs by Sean’s hug.

“Let’s have a drink.” Sean punched him.

“Let’s have a bottle.” Tim caught his ears and twisted.

At last they broke apart and stood laughing incoherently in the pleasure of meeting again.

The servant returned with Sean’s coffee and Tim waved him away disgustedly. “None of that slop! Get a bottle of brandy out of my chest.”

“You two know each other, I presume.” The man in the bath interrupted them.

Know each other! Jesus, I worked five years for him!”

snorted Tim

“Digging his dirty gold out of the ground. worst boss I ever had.

“Well, now’s your chance,” Sean grinned, “because I’ve come to work for you. ” “You hear that, Saul? The idiot wants to join.

“Mazeltav. ” The bather dunked the tip of his cheroot in his bath water, flicked it away and stood up. He offered Sean a soapy hand.

“Welcome to the legion of the lost. My name’s Saul Friedman. I gather yours is Sean Courtney. Now where’s that bottle and we’ll celebrate your arrival. ” The commotion had summoned the others from their wagons and Sean was introduced to each of them. It seemed the uniform of the Guides was a khaki tunic without insignia or badges of rank, slouch hats and riding breeches. There were ten of them.

A touhh-looking bunch and Sean found their company to his liking.

Naked except for a towel draped round his waist, Saul did duty as barman, then they all settled down in the shade to a bout of drinking.

Tim Curtis entertained them for the first twenty minutes with a biographical and biological account of Sean’s career, to which Saul contributed comments that were met with roars of laughter. It was obvious that Saul was the Company wit, a function which he performed with distinction. He was the youngest of them all, perhaps twenty-five years old, and physically the smallest. His body was thin and hairy, and in a pleasant sort of way he was extremely ugly. Sean liked him.

An hour later when the brandy had taken them to the stage of seriousness which precedes wild and undirected hilarity, Sean asked, “Captain Curtis .

“Lieutenant, and don’t for-get it,” Tim corrected him.

“Lieutenant, then. What is our job, and when do we do it?”

Tim scowled at his empty glass, then looked across at Saul.

“Tell him,” he instructed.

“As mentioned earlier, we are the legion of the lost. People look on us with pity and a mild embarrassment. They pass us by on the far side of the street, making the sign of the Cross and murmuring a spell to avert the evil eye. We live here in our own little leper colony.

“Why? “Well, first of all, we belong to the most miserable little runt in the entire army of Natal. An officer, who, despite a formidable array of medals, would not inspire confidence in a young ladies” choir. He is chief liaison officer for the Coloni troops on the general staff. Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC.” D.S.O.”

Saul paused and his expression changed. “No relation of yours, I trust?”

“No,” lied Sean without hesitation.

“Thank God,” Saul continued. “Anyway, this is why people pity us.

The embarrassment arises from the fact that nobody recognizes our official existence. Even the drawing of rations must be preceded by a comic opera dialogue between Tim and the Quartermaster. But because we are called

“Guides” everybody expects us to get out there and start doing a bit of guiding.

So in some weird fashion the failure of General Buller to advance even one hundred yards in three months is laid at our door.” Saul filled his glass. “Anyway, we haven’t ran out of brandy yet. ” “You mean we don’t do anything?” Sean asked incredulously.

“We eat, we sleep and we drink.”

“Occasionally we go visiting, ” Tim added. “Now is as good a time as any. ” “Who do we visit?”

“There is a most interesting woman in the area, not five miles distant. She owns a travelling circus-forty wagons and forty girls.

They follow along behind the main army to comfort and encourage it.

Let’s go and get some comfort and encouragement. if we start now we’ll get to the head of the line-first come, first served.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Saul stood up and drifted away.

“He’s a good kid,” Tim observed as he watched him leave.

“Is it against his religion?”

“No. But he’s married and takes it seriously. How about YOU?

“I’m not married.

“Let’s go then.”

Much later they rode home together in the moonlight, both pleasantly melancholy with love and liquor. The girl who had taken Sean to her wagon was a friendly lass with a pair of fat maternal bosoms.

“I like you, mister,” she told him afterwards.

“I like YOU also,” he replied truffiftilly.

Although Sean experienced no more shame or guilt than after satisfying any of his other bodily needs, yet he knew that half an hour with a stranger in a wagon bed was a very poor substitute.

He began to hum the tune that Ruth had sung on the night of the storm.

Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney removed his uniform jacket and hung it carefully on the dumb-valet beside his desk.

The way a house proud wife straightens a picture, on her wall, he touched the purple watered silk on which was suspended the heavy, bronze cross, until it hung to his satisfaction. His lips moving, he read the inscription again, For valour”, and smiled.

The champagne he had drunk during lunch made his brain feel like a great brilliant diamond set in his skull, sharp and hard and clear.

He sat down, swivelled the chair sideways to the desk, and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“Send him in, Orderly!” he shouted, and dropped his eyes to his boots. You couldn’t tell the difference, he decided. No one could tell by looking at them which one was flesh and bone beneath the polished leather-or which leg was carved wood with a cunningly articulated ankle.

“Sir.” The voice startled him and he pulled his legs in guiltily, hiding them beneath his chair.

“Curtis!” He looked up at the man who stood before his desk. Tim stood rigidly to attention, staring stolidly over Garry’s head, and Garry let him stand. He felt satisfaction that this hulking bastard must use those two powerful legs to pay respect to Garrick Courtney.

Let him stand. He waited, watching him, and at last Tim fidgeted slightly and cleared his throat.

“At ease! ” There was no doubt now as to who held the power.

Garry picked up the paperknife from Ins desk and turned it in his hands as he spoke.

“You’re wondering why I sent for you.” He smiled expansively.

“Well, the reason is that I have a job for you at last. I lunched with General Buller today.” He paused to let that absorb. “We discussed the Offensive. He wanted my views on certain plans he has in mind. ” Garry caught himself. “Anyway, that is beside the point. I want you and your men to reconnoitre the river on both sides of Colenso. See here. ” Garry spread a map on the desk in front of him.

“There are fords marked here and here.” He jabbed at the map with the paperknife. “Find them and mark them well. Check the bridges-both the railway and the road bridge, make certain they are intact. Do it tonight.

I want your full report in the morning. You can go.

“Yes, Sir.

“Oh, Curtis-” Garry stopped him as he stooped in the entrance of the tent. “Find those fords.” The canvas flap dropped closed behind the American, and Garry opened the drawer of his desk and took out a silver flask set with camelians. He unscrewed it and sniffed the contents before he drank.

With the dawn, in bedraggled pairs the Guides dribbled into camp.

Sean and Saul were the last to return. They dismounted, turned their horses over to the servants and joined the group around the fire.

“Yes?” Tim looked up from where he squatted with a mug of coffee cupped in his hands. His clothing was soaked and steam lifted off it as it dried in the heat of the flames. “They’ve blown the rail bridge-but the road bridge is still intact.

“You’re sure?”

“We walked across.”

“That’s something anyway,” grunted Tim, and Sean raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“You think so. Hasn’t it occurred to you that they’ve left the bridge because that is where they want us to cross?

No one replied and Sean went on wearily: “When we checked the bridges, Saul and I did a bit of exploring on the far side. Just beyond the railway bridge there is a series of little kopJes. We crawled around the bottom of them.

“And?”

“There are more Boers sitting on those kopJes than there are quills on a porcupine’s back. Whoever tries to cross those bridges in daylight is going to get the Bejesus shot out of him.”

“Lovely thought!” growled Tim.

“Charming, isn’t it? Further contemplation of it will make me puke. What did you find?”

“We found plenty of water. ” Tim glanced down at his sodden clothing. “Deep water.”

“No ford,” Sean anticipated gloomily.