We speak of disaster and failure and inglorious warfare only as regards those who made the war and undertook its management. Our brave soldiers acted as bravely as ever men acted in any war; implicitly obeying orders which they knew must end in failure, marching calmly into the jaws of death, enduring hardships innumerable without complaint and entering into the conflict of battle with genuine enthusiasm, notwithstanding the fact that the sympathies of the many were not in the cause.
Edwin Hodder, Heroes of Britain, 1880
It was much easier pretending to be a boy in Helpmekaar and then later, Pietermaritzburg, than the big port of Durban. Everyone in the smaller towns, much closer to the action, were too shocked, too frightened by what had happened, to notice a young batman who was prepared to look after his master tirelessly.
Durban, though.
The sense of fear was less here, in the wide, open streets, and red brick buildings, although still present in the too jocular laughter of the men and the nervous, watchful eyes of the women. The rumour was that the Zulus would press their advantage, take revenge on the invasion of their land and the slaughter of their men, and wipe the English out of Natal as well as Zululand.
Being on edge, and afraid, made the men jumpy and ill-tempered, looking for an easy mark to prove they were still in control. Still strong.
Elizabeth clenched the thin sheet she'd pulled over Jack in her hands as she thought of the hard-edged, filthy rudeness of the shipping clerk when she'd requested adjoining cabins on board the ship they were taking to London.
She had twice thought of leaving. Of making Jack as comfortable as possible, and then sending a note to his doctor and the local army liaison. Slipping away.
The press of the crowds, the petty fights and victories, the sneering arrogance of the administrators – all of this would be waiting for her at the other end of the journey, only a hundred, a thousand times worse.
And she would have to come forward. Let her grandmother know she was alive.
She would be with Jack, at least.
She didn't doubt he loved her. Didn't doubt he would marry her as soon as he was well enough, but she wondered if he realized what their life would be like, what people would think of her, if it came out where she'd been living these last six years.
She looked out the window, into streets wet and muddy from a summer shower, and longed for the feel of the earth beneath her bare feet and the cool mist of rain on her bare shoulders. On her face.
“What are you thinking?”
The whisper jerked her out of her reverie, and she turned her head, was caught in the intense blue of Jack's eyes. There was confusion there, and a thread of fear.
“About travelling.” She tried to smile, but failed.
He lifted his left hand and awkwardly touched her arm, letting his thumb stroke her skin. “It will be all right.”
“Yes.” She managed the smile this time. “Of course it will.”
20 February, 1879
Dear Mrs. Colin Harrison,
I am sorry to inform you that your husband, Sgt. Colin Harrison, died on 22nd January last. I regret I cannot give further or fuller information.
Yours
Col. ---
She was in the apple orchard again.
Jack could see her from where he stood, high on the hill, sitting on the fence watching the wind blow the leaves.
He knew Catherine thought her a strange one, and there was a haunted look in her eyes that made even his niece Maddie, usually a chatterbox, leave her alone.
For propriety’s sake, she slept in the little room next to Maddie’s, in the eaves, and the villagers looked with curious eyes at the serious, withdrawn girl he’d brought home to be his bride.
He moved his arm in its sling, impatient with it. Another month, the doctor said, and it should be back to normal.
And in another month, they'd be married.
He was nervous enough, unsure enough, to wonder if that wasn't too long.
He saw her start to swing her legs on the fence, and wondered if she would ever really be his as he was hers.
He’d helped her contact her grandmother, and discovered she’d passed away only six weeks before, as they were leaving Cape Town on the ship home.
From the suspicious and surprised tone of her lawyers’ letters, he realized they had given Elizabeth up for dead long ago. And who could blame them?
There would be a bit of a battle over her inheritance, but it looked as if she would be well-off, something she seemed not to care about in the slightest.
She missed Zululand.
He could see it in the way she tugged restlessly at her clothes, and stomped in her shoes. The way she sat at the window and watched the rain blow in gusts against the panes. The way she sat shivering by the fire.
And the way he sometimes came upon her, walking through the fields, singing Zulu lullabies to herself.
His heart ached. She had left a piece of herself there, back in that tent, with Lindani. Or in the African sky. She was always looking up at the dull grey English sky, her face set and still. Grieving for that wide, impossible blue and the hot sting of the sun.
She was doing it now, bracing back on her arms, staring straight up at the sky, and he wanted to call to her, distract her. Make her remember for even one moment that she had him. That he was there.
He took a step forward to shout to her, and at that moment she looked straight up at him.
Jack half-raised his hand, lowered it again.
She watched him, cocking her head to one side as if seeing him in a different way. Then she hopped down from the fence and started through the trees towards him.
She disappeared from view, and he waited, heart tight, constricted in his chest by pressures he didn't know if he could bear.
But when she emerged from the orchard, he could see she was running. And heart suddenly free, soaring, he ran to meet her.