CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From a distance, Spitsdorp seemed a hopeless-looking little place, sun-baked and deserted. Scarce more than a hundred or so corrugated iron or wattle-daub huts along straggling alleys, with a few better houses gracing the single main street. A white-walled church gleamed among deep green bushes, its steeple crowned with a large crucifix prodding above tall gum trees. The only sounds came from the water-pump windmill screeching atop a skeleton tower, and the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer somewhere.

Harry had been here a couple of years ago, but couldn’t remember much about it now. Even at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning, there were fewer than a dozen villagers to be seen at first. As the patrol came closer, the church doors opened and people came out from morning services. They dallied near the village centre, women lifting brims of their special go-to-kirk kappies of flowered linen to see better as the soldiers approached. Men stared, too, a fair number of young Boers of military age among them. Since the time of General Cronje’s surrender, Tommies rarely came through Spitsdorp anymore.

“Troop, ride-at, atten-shun!” Lanyard ordered. His men closed horse ranks and sat straighter in saddles, despite the weariness of their long night ride.

“Come on lads,” Coveyduck urged. “Bags of swank, now.”

They cantered into town looking their best, backs rigid, rifles canted on hips, ostrich feathers nodding on their bush-hats. The troopers knew the importance of making a strong first impression on these possibly hostile civilians. They were joined by Lt. Scayles’ detachment riding in smartly from the opposite end of town as a precaution.

Seen closer up, the village was not quite so run-down as it first seemed. The dusty street was clean enough, lined by hitching-rails outside a score of shop fronts. Folk looked decently dressed, and there were well-fed horses about. Lanyard wondered idly what was the source of money coming into the little place. Ragged black servants were everywhere, big-eyed with interest, but careful not to call friendly greetings. Despite their caution, though, some broke into delighted laughter when Jiggy called bawdy remarks in Sotho.

Harry ordered dismount, and the troopers swung down stiffly with many a saddle-sore groan. Boer females moved quickly aside, spreading away from soldiers like stones rippling a pond.

“Calm down, girls. We won’t eat you,” Haywood said.

“Speak for yourself, mate.” Jiggy laughed. He called to a group of glum-faced young women in Sunday clothes. “How are you, darlings? Looks like you needs a bit of cheering up.”

Menfolk growled angrily, and edged themselves in front of their women. “Private Mendip, behave yourself!” Harry snapped, “We’ve enough grief as it is.”

The two officers stayed mounted, weighing up the place carefully for advantages or dangers. Troopers looped reins over their arms, easing cinches, and chatted about getting some grub. The Griquas rode in last with the mules and remounts, and began tethering them to the last unused hitching rails, in front of the church.

Harry noticed a platform ringing the steeple, with a small access door. He told Jiggy to ask to set up an O.P. there. The signaler rested the helio across his shoulder and ambled along the graveyard path. He had to weave between parishioners who lingered and did not make way for him.

The church doors banged wide and a scrawny-looking man in a black suit charged out, roaring. He barged into Jiggy, almost sending the tripod flying, and ran to the two Griquas. He flailed his hat at their faces, screaming outrage in Afrikaans.

The hammering stopped in the smithy, faces craned from doorways, and parishioners gathered to take in the commotion. Piet trotted over, trying to calm things down.

“Sacrilege!” The preacher shouted in English, with an incredibly loud, booming voice. “Get these cursed sons of Ham away from my church this instant!”

Bertil declared proudly, “‘n Griqua is nie ‘n swart man, en hy is nie ‘n coloured!”

For him to deny he was neither black nor a Coloured infuriated some villagers. A burly man ran from the smithy and started pulling Bertil’s coat off. When Rao tried to interfere, the Boer felled him with one punch to the jaw. Several burghers laughed and clapped, but fell quiet when Canadians swore and leveled their rifles at the blacksmith. The cheerful Griquas’ skill with horses had made them popular already, and no Boer was going to get away with abusing them.

“Hold!” Lanyard called. It was only the angry troopers’ good fire-discipline that saved the smith from being ventilated.

Ned planted himself between the Griquas and their attacker. The two big men squared off like sparring gorillas. Coveyduck was an imposing size, and he wore Harry’s Webley on his left hip in a cut-away holster, butt-forward for a fast cross-draw. Still, the massive bare-chested smith showed no sign of backing down.

Scayles led three men with rifles at the high port to press the Boer into his own doorway. He stood there scowling and talking loudly to sympathetic villagers. Ned helped Rao to his feet and told the Griquas to tether the mules further off under the trees.

Harry kneed his pony forward. “What’s his trouble?”

“Seems the blacksmith took exception to Bertil wearing an old ZARP uniform coat,” Piet explained. ZARPs were Zuid Afrikan Republic Police, who had become some of Kruger’s best troops early on.

“No need for an upset, Padre,” Harry said.

“Predikant!” The minister corrected, and slapped his low-crowned hat on, dead straight. “I am Predikant Emanuel Carolus, spiritual leader of this independent Boer community!”

“And I’m Lieutenant Lanyard, military leader of this British army patrol. So let’s both just talk things over sensibly.” He dismounted, raised his eyebrows questioningly, and when the minister nodded permission, Harry looped reins over the rail.

“One of my men needs to use your steeple for signaling.”

“Out of the question!” But the officer’s courtesy seemed to calm Carolus down, and he even explained himself. “We consider each church to be the very body of Christ, and cannot allow its use for warfare in any fashion.”

“I understand that, Predikant. But I have to say with all respect, I’ve uncovered too many Mausers hidden in churches just like yours. And I insist my man goes up there.”

Carolus ignored the come-back, and gestured resignedly at the troopers. “So many armed men give me no choice. Still, I formally protest against you putting my flock in danger. To use the steeple for military purposes could draw reprisals against our village.”

“We’re here to prevent just that,” Harry said. He nodded for Scayles to carry on, and led Jiggy into the church. Behind him, Carolus boomed, “I expect full compensation for any damage your soldiers cause, mind!”

They climbed up a zigzag of ladders inside the steeple, sneezing from the dust. It was hard going for Jiggy, one handed. Half-way up, he lost hold of the tripod and Harry just managed to catch it. When Jiggy flung back the trapdoor, their nostrils crinkled at a feral smell. “What a pong!” Dried guano crunched under their boots, and they peered around the chamber lit by fingers of sunlight through vent holes.

“Bats, sir.” Jiggy pointed upwards. Hundreds of leathery little pods hung down from the steeple-beams, quivering and rustling. “Hopes they aren’t vampires.”

“Or carry rabies. Relax, they’re harmless otherwise.”

They had to prise nails out to open the little door to the platform. The narrow walkway had an ornamental fence less than a foot high, and they were careful to stay well back. The steeple gave a panoramic view of the surrounding territory, with crystal-clear visibility in every direction.

A lot of it was familiar to Harry, from early last year when he patrolled the ground and rode in to visit Bethany. His binoculars picked out laborers working the tobacco-fields around Farm Vincennes, and he lingered for a moment hoping he’d see her as well. Knowing Beth, though, she was just as likely to be off riding elsewhere, seeking the hidden trove.

Other smaller farmhouses showed, many with white tablecloths flapping to advertise their neutrality. Far to the south, brass-work gleamed on a tiny train moving along the repaired Delagoa Bay Railway. Beyond, Lanyard could see the wrinkled layers of jungle and ravines forming what settlers called the Valley Of Death because of the deadly fever there.

The open veld undulated away forever ahead, blue koppies sticking up like islands, and only the occasional small mimosa tree to give shade in the enormous landscape. Nearby, to the northwest, the Devil’s Knuckles rose in two smooth rock domes. In the other direction, Spits Kop mountain bared rocky teeth that gave the village its name.

“Now, this is what I call a real observation post, sir.”

“And perfect for signals.” Harry checked his Ingram for the time. “Close to the morning sked. Get a move on, Jiggy.”

Minutes after Harry’s SitRep was sent, other flashes winked from distant hills in the south. One helio was at the Field Intelligence unit near Machadodorp, that signaled, “RECEIVED. STAND BY.” The other was from the same Boer comedian as yesterday. This time, he flashed, “GOOD TO SEE YOU ARE IN CHURCH TODAY TOMMY.”

“They know where we are again, sir.” Jiggy broke off when the army helio began sending, and he jotted down words rapidly. “In clear, sir. Addressed to Mister Scayles.”

Harry grunted, focusing on a billow of dust rising between hills to the southwest. An army mounted column from the look of it, big enough to include a long supply train. Most British cavalcades out in this foodless country were as much escorts for supply-wagons as they were combat formations. Farther west, a smaller dust-cloud indicated the slow advance of infantry, an hour or so behind.

Ned called up, standing in the middle of a large crowd of civilians, so Harry had only time for one last long sweep before he went down. Other movement caught his attention, tiny specks of horses riding fast from the west, in and out of sight as they crossed the rolling land. They were a scattered bunch, not in military straight column formation. It could be a wing of those National Scouts, but somehow he didn’t think so. They were too far to make out numbers, but he guessed at least fifty. He swung his glasses along the route they were headed, aimed straight to converge with the army column before long.

“Hell, there’s an attack shaping up over there!”

Mendip took one look and swivelled his helio mirror towards the column. Harry dictated a short signal, LARGE PARTY OF ENEMY RIDING FROM WEST ETA YOUR CONVOY TWO HOURS. “Keep sending until they acknowledge!”

Harry stuffed the message for Scayles into his pocket and hurried down the ladders. A bunch of serious-looking village men in sober clothes stood waiting for him in the street. Their leader had a big gut and pompous way about him, and looked like a shop-keeper. He articulated English well, if in a throaty accent that was hard to follow. He introduced himself as Burgemeester Kleinhaus, chairman of the village committee, which Harry presumed meant mayor. It was confirmed when the man’s next sentence sounded like a platform speech.

“I must inform you we intend to send a civic letter of complaint direct to Lord Milner detailing the unconscionable way your troops have invaded our peaceable community without explanation in any shape, manner, or form.”

“Yeah, well, we were kind of side-tracked, first off.” Harry nodded towards the frowning predikant.

Lanyard explained matter-of-factly what the patrol’s mission was. “It’s the British government’s intention to return the gold to the banks it was stolen from, to help re-build the Transvaal’s economy. I’m authorized to pay a substantial reward to anyone able to help us recover the money, even just useful information. And we offer good daily wages to local civilians who’ll join our search.”

Most of the town committee laughed mockingly and nudged each other. With wild-goose-chases like this, no wonder it was taking Kitchener so long to get the war finished. Their smiles faded when they heard the lieutenant’s shocking next words.

“Gentlemen, please inform your people I require all firearms in this town to be turned over to my men by sundown today.” Kleinhaus started to shake his head angrily, but Harry went on. “This is to prevent any untoward incidents, for your own protection as well as ours. If it’s done quick enough, I can promise we’ll be out of here tonight.”

The burghers shouted all at once, red-faced with indignation. Harry held up his hand, “Receipts will be issued for every weapon turned in. They’ll be held only temporarily, locked up safely. We’ll return all guns to their owners after our job’s completed.”

“Your orders are impossible,” Kleinhaus blustered. “Since the surrender at Pretoria, we have kept Spitsdorp out of any hostilities. We wish to remain only neutral, supporting neither side. But, now d’you realize what you’re asking? To give up our guns, while you ride away and leave us to the mercy of commandos or every bandit within a hundred miles!”

“The predikant may keep the key in case there’s a genuine emergency requiring firearms. I am prepared to accept his judgement on that. But if there’s any threat to your village, my men will protect you. You have my word.”

“Your word!” In Afrikaans, the blacksmith shouted, “What’s worth the word of a bunch of English skelms like you? Nothing more than bandits yourselves, who’d steal pennies from a dead Boer’s eyes!”

Lanyard didn’t understand much of the Afrikaans, other than ‘skelm’. Beth had called him the same thing. He made his voice hard, “Mister Kleinhaus, your people can either co-operate or face being arrested.”

He sought out Carolus’ blazing stare. “I’m sure you will voice your support, Predikant. An announcement at afternoon services today would be a big help as well. We all want to avoid any serious confrontation.” He raised his voice. “Lieutenant Scayles, soon’s the men have eaten, detail them to go house-to-house for surrender of weapons. Peaceable as they can, though, with rifles slung. Make spot-check searches as well, and arrest anybody who holds out on us.”

He turned back to the committee, “Meanwhile, I’m sure you gentlemen will start spreading the word. Everyone’s to bring their weapons voluntarily to Sergeant Coveyduck here in the village square. Good morning.”

Harry walked away from their grumbling, joined his men, and saw that the Griquas had tended his pony already. He took a few minutes in the shade for a bite to eat while he told Scayles about spotting a commando heading towards the distant army formation.

“The column’s out of view now, and too far off for us to lend a hand. Jiggy says he didn’t get any acknowledgment of my warning, either, so they could be caught flat-footed.”

“Dozy Cuthberts, not keeping a signals watch.” Scayles pulled out the message from Provost HQ. “Speaking of which, look at what you brought me.”

Harry chewed the last of his bully-beef, then casually unfolded the flimsy. A name jumped off the paper, and he read the message through twice. BELFAST POLICE IDENTIFY ASSAILANT OF LT L AS JOSS KOLBECK AKA COCKEYE STOP TWO PREVIOUS CONVICTIONS GBH STOP NAME OSSEBOOM NOT KNOWN HERE ENDS.

He shook his head and handed the paper back, “What do you make of it?”

“It looks like that bird who tried to kill you was just some street thug. He’d been nicked twice before for grievous bodily harm. Anyway, not your Osseboom chap. Or my master-spy, either. Pity.” Scayles wrote a note in his book and folded the message inside. “When I told the civvie ‘tecs, they thought that vrou’s story sounded queer. But she seemed pretty convincing to you at the time, I gather.”

“She still does, somehow.”

“Well, the Belfast bobbies’ll keep their eye peeled. If this Ossie bird does turn up on their turf, they’ll give him a royal grilling, believe you me. Probably just some Boer blowhard, though. Anyway, we’ve got bigger things than him to worry about just now.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

Harry agreed when Scayles suggested he go through the village with Piet van Praage as interpreter to canvas for any information about the Kruger cache. The MP began to assign troopers into search teams before he went off to play detective.

Some giggling along the street drew Harry’s attention to two rawboned young women enjoying the flirtations of Haywood and Mendip. Jiggy did not let lack of a common language slow down his approaches. Posed hip-up on a hitching-rail, he used comical grimaces and a playful tone of voice to amuse the girls.

“See,” Jiggy grinned. “Just get ‘em laughing, and you’re halfway inside any bint’s knickers.”

Haywood did not seem too keen. “Nah, this pair of scrawny dames ain’t worth the effort.”

“Garn! You doesn’t look at t’mantlepiece when you’re poking t’fire!”

“Mendip, get over here!” Harry tried to keep his face stern, and the man’s incorrigible randiness gave him an idea. “I want you to make yourself useful. Get acquainted with some village ladies, and listen for any gossip about suspicious lorry-shipments.”

“Right away, sir.” Already Jiggy had spotted a group of prettier young house-vrouws outside a nearby shop. He saluted smartly, “I’ll start make making probing enquiries, sir, if it takes all night. Very probing, indeed!”

Harry shook his head, amused, then started door-knocking for guns. He approached the more prosperous-looking houses, where his rank would be persuasive with wealthy residents. Now and again he had to insist forcefully, but the process moved along better than expected. Villagers wanted no trouble with soldiers this late in the war. Cameron drove along to load collected guns aboard a hired cart, while Scayles was working the houses opposite.

The MP noticed two roughly-dressed men squatting on their hunkers against the wall of a rooming-house. Their horses were hitched at the rail near a spyder-cart. What drew his attention was that both men carried a revolver on their hip. He drew his notebook and demanded they account for themselves, intending to confiscate the guns.

It turned out he had to let them keep their pistols, as they were not Spitsdorp residents. The tall skinny one wearing a battered bowler hat and filthy dress shirt was a uitlander. He called himself Maddocks and claimed to be a gold prospector. His whining gutter-snipe way of talking made Scayles wonder if he was a deserter.

“Just an ‘armless bit of fun, squire, watching all the Boer bits of crumpet in their best frocks. But if it bothers you, we’ll be on our way in ‘alf a mo’,” Scayles’ cop instinct caught something false in the man’s chirpy manner. His hands looked too soft to have handled a miner’s shovel.

The other, with a scraggly black beard and torn overalls, was another suspicious-looking down-and-outer, one of those bywoner drifters. He admitted to the name of Zoller, and held a permanent scowl on his face. “We have a right to carry weapons as protection against blackies, and go where we please, no?”

“Unless I say otherwise.”

“We are not soldiers, so you have no authority over us, I think.” Zoller spat a gob in the dust near Scayles’ gleaming boot.

“Step over the line, and we’ll soon see about authority.”

“No need to get shirty, now.” Maddocks’ hard eyes belied his lop-sided grin. “You must be wore out today. What with guarding money-bags and rounding up guns and everyfink.” He turned to Zoller, and said meaningly. “Rather than be in anybody’s way, we’d best be getting along.”

They swung into the saddle without another word, and Scayles stood hands on hips, watching them out of sight. He glanced at the waiting spyder, its black driver dozing over the reins.

Harry was carrying a Guedes hunting rifle to the cart, when Scayles waved from across the street. He was standing beside a two-wheeler at the boardinghouse. An expensive leather suitcase was on the seat. Scayles slapped the “V” brand on the animal’s haunch. “Seems we’ve found your dodgy Russian again.”

The landlady led the way through to where Feliks Nikolai sat sipping tea on the back veranda. When he saw them, he froze, cup to lips, but quickly recovered. “What a pleasant surprise. Prisoner and escort out for some exercise. But perhaps events have changed since we last met?”

“Shut up and stand up!” Scayles roughly pushed his hands inside the man’s jacket, patting up and down.

“Why, Lieutenant, I didn’t think you cared!” Nikki mimed effeminacy. “La vice Anglais, so early in the day.”

Scayles found a bank-bag heavy with sovereigns. “Who’d you rob this time, Sunshine?” The Russian did not reply, so Scayles reluctantly gave back the money, and pushed him into his seat.

Nikki crossed an ankle over his knee and cradled it there. “You’re looking surprisingly well, Harry.”

Guessing because of the bank-bag, Harry snapped, “Which is more than your pal Cockeye could say!”

Nikolai shrugged in a pantomime of bewilderment. Scayles growled, “Is that fancy gun hid in your luggage?”

“My word as an officer of the Imperial Guard, it is not.” Harry noticed a badly inflamed sore on Nikki’s cheek, oozing from what might have been an insect-bite or something.

“Very convincing, I don’t think.” Scayles tapped his handcuff case. “Right off, I could put you in irons for theft of that horse outside. Under martial law, a hanging offence.”

“The nag’s not stolen, merely borrowed. Besides, Hiram’s my business partner now. He would never press charges.”

“We’re here to recover officially what you’re after illegally,” Harry said. “I’m warning you, drop the hankering for gold, and get out of my sight for good! All the way back to Moscow, preferably.”

“But Harry, this is even better! You, me, and now a professional Sherlock Holmes with us on the search.” He bowed mockingly to Scayles. “We just share the boodle three ways instead of two, and none’s the wiser.”

“Except for my entire platoon.”

“Ah, brought that many with you? So, discreet sharing’s out of the question now, obviously.” Nikki slowly lowered his boot, pressing both heels together.

Scayles said, “If any cronies of yours get involved, I’ll run them in, too. Who else’ve you discussed it with?”

“Only our lovely Bethany Beatrix.” Nikolai smiled lazily at the Canadian. “She sounded quite keen to go treasure-hunting, last time we spoke. Late the other night. In her bedroom.” He smoothed his raven hair, “Aah, Harry, that kissable little beauty-spot, on her pretty left mamelle!”

Harry went white around the mouth. “If I didn’t know you’re such a Goddam liar, you’d be a dead man now. I should plug you anyway, for setting that shotgun artist on me.”

“Probably the bastard did, but we’ve no evidence to go on.” Scayles turned to go. “Let’s not waste any more time with this piece of shyte.”

“Hear me right, Nikolai,” Harry grated. “You’ve been a Czarist agent and out on commando. That makes you an enemy of the Crown twice-over already. Next time you’re caught within fifty miles of this town, I’ll shoot you myself on the spot! Now get out of Spitsdorp!”

They strode away, until Scayles paused in the vestibule. “Crafty sod. Notice he avoided replying about accomplices by casting aspersions on your lady-friend? Knowing how touchy you are about her.” Scayles fingered the scab on his nose. “Which reminds me, when this hare-brained treasure-hunt is over, you and I have something to settle ourselves. A pleasure deferred for now, though.” He stamped towards the stairs. “I’ll toss his room, just on the off chance.”

Nikolai waited a few minutes, then adjusted a trouser-cuff over the Nagant tucked in his boot. He went out to the cart, and paused to hit his right bicep, jabbing an obscene fist towards Harry’s retreating back. He snapped an order, and the driver whipped the horse at a gallop out of town. Maddocks would not have gone far.

For the next half hour, Lanyard continued to canvass homes for weapons. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of troopers moving through poorer side-streets, loading an average of one gun from every third dwelling. If these were Boer farmers out on the veld, the ratio of rifles to homes would be the other way around.

“Yoo-hoo, captain!” A young woman called from her garden gate, smiling under a frilly parasol. “I rather hoped you’d come in my direction.” Her Irish speech gave words the lilt of a flute.

He touched his brim and asked if his men had called there. “Indeed, that dishy Trooper Lascelles has been already. My, with his looks and posh voice, he should be an officer, that one. But you seem so sad, yourself, I wanted to say a cheerful word.”

She was uncommonly pretty, with jewel eyes that matched her lavender dress. “I am the Baroness Neave von Gliewitz. And you?”

Harry gave his name, but made to move on, attractive though she was. He needed to get the disarming finished. She sensed his haste and said breathily, “My dear husband the Baron was a soldier. We came so he could train gunners for the Free State.” She sighed, “He died last year at Bloemfontein. Of the plague, not battle, but taken from me nonetheless.”

“Sorry to hear, ma’am.”

“Baroness. He was so headstrong. So manly. But I can hold no hard feelings about this war.” She tilted her head and smiled to take the sting out of the words, “I grew up coping with British soldiers, you see. In Ireland, of course.”

“Well, I figured you don’t exactly sound German, Baroness.”

She laughed delightfully, as much for the benefit of two elderly vrouws who walked by, whispering about the foreigners. “Now look, my reputation sullied even more. That brazen Catholic hussy, consorting with a kakie.” Her smile faded, “My own family back home disowned me for marrying dear Horst, a Protestant. And now here I am with my True Faith among pious Calvinists, beyond the pale again.”

“Maybe you could just go Dutch.”

She rewarded him with another silvery laugh. “You’ve no idea the effect your young men are having on the village ladies today. We’ve never seen so many roguish smiles at one time.”

Harry doubted the attraction. Most Boer women considered it their patriotic duty to act coldly towards Tommies. “Well, the boys won’t have much time to get into mischief. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He tipped his hat and half-turned away.

“Oh, surely not leaving already. It’s so seldom I get to chat with a gallant officer.”

It always took Harry by surprise if a woman bothered to flirt with him. He had few delusions about his plain looks. There had been nothing coy about Beth though, just a straightforward acceptance of him from the start. Well, that one big chance of romance was not liable to be repeated. The thought made him sound harsher than he intended. “I have to be going, ma’am. Good day to you.”

Baroness von Gliewitz barely had time to pout, when the crack of a rifle made her jump. Harry drew his Colt and started to run along the street. Scayles was ahead of him, elbows pumping like a rugby centre-forward. They found some angry troopers in a front garden, shaking and hitting a spindly old man. There was the welt of a fist on his chalky face, and Terry Bramah was jabbing a Mauser into the man’s ribs.

“Let’s string the old bastard up, Harry,” Fontaine shouted. “He just shot poor Barney Wignall!”

Their friend lay spread-eagled in a rosebush, making croaking sounds, his tunic stained over the heart. His rifle was still slung across his back. Harry knelt to check, but it was obvious the ex-cowboy from Kamloops was near death. He started to open the jacket, when someone knelt hurriedly, pushing him aside.

“Quickly now!” Baroness von Gliewitz ripped the tunic wide, buttons flying. Pale pink bubbles swelled and burst with sputters of air. “Not good, I’m afraid.”

“Better let us handle him,” Harry said impatiently. This was no time for some well-meaning lady of the manor.

“Hardly. I’m Berlin trained, and’ve nursed half of Bloemfontein, too!” She ripped the field-dressing pad from where it was lightly stitched inside Wignall’s tunic, and pressed it to his wound. “Hold that tight a moment.” She dipped in her skirt to tear the hem off her petticoat for a bandage.

Wignall sounded a phlegmy rattle. “He’s gone, I’m afraid,” she sighed. Troopers swore, and Bill Fletcher thumped the old man.

Harry struggled to sound impassive, “Thanks for the effort, though.”

She nodded and sank back on her heels. “Not much chance to do anything with a sucking wound like that.” She sounded both sad and matter-of-fact.

Harry unbuttoned the breast pocket to take Wignall’s service-book for the Graves Registration people. Its pages were sticking together already. He’d have to write one of those next-of-kin letters he always dreaded.

“Somebody escort the baroness home, please.”

A man took her elbow, and she looked into deKrieger’s face. Her cheeks drained of colour and she started to speak. The trooper interrupted quickly, guttural sounds, and she replied in the same tongue. Nobody else could understand what they were saying.

“Yes, thank you.” Her words were directed at Harry, but she never took her gaze away from deKrieger. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save your man. But I would like to rest now, if you don’t mind.” Neave took the soldier’s arm and the pair walked off. After a few steps, she halted abruptly, staring up at something he said. Her shoulders shook and she dabbed her eyes with a hankie. He patted her shoulder and led her away.

The killer kept whimpering, his reedy voice rising and falling with a mix of curses and prayers in Afrikaans. Piet shouted at him to “Hou jou bek!”, but the man would not. Bramah grabbed him by his nanny-goat beard, “I’ll shut your mouth, shithead, for good!”

“Fair play, and all that, chaps,” Lascelles drawled. “The old boy’s obviously mad as a hatter.”

“Who’re you to be sticking up for a murdering Boer?“

”Pipe down the pair of you!” Scayles interrupted, “How’d this happen?”

They all spoke in a rush, but gradually it became clear that Wignall, aggressive as ever, had gone up against a man with the drop on him. A frightened woman next door explained. The oldster had stepped outside with his gun, and ordered the kakie to get off the property. She said, “The Tommy said he’d never turn tail from any Boojer, and Mister Muller shot him.”

“Christ, I wish we had one of Gat’s old machine-guns along,” Bramah was maroon-faced, jowls wobbling with rage. “We could clean out this whole friggin burg!” His mates growled agreement, and shouted the glum news when more troopers ran up.

“Take it easy, men!” Harry yelled above their rowing. “I’m upset as anybody about Barney, but we can’t punish all the village because of one crazy galoot. We’re still soldiers. Anybody gets out of line with civilians will answer to me!”

That drew some hollering protests, and Schammerhorn drawled to nobody in particular, “Guess this comes from ordering troopers to keep their guns out of reach.”

Bramah sneered, “Yeah, and we know whose half-assed idea that was!”

Lanyard snapped, “Don’t push your luck, Private!”

He shook his head at Scayles to not intervene. Unlike the strictly disciplined Imperials, Colonial troops were used to speaking their mind, and it usually went no further than that. But if this lot were confronted in the heat of their anger, a protest could escalate to something far more serious. Mutiny in time of war was a capital military offence, liable to summary field court-martial and a firing-squad more often than not.

It took all Harry’s force of will to calm the troopers down from wreaking random vengeance. He busied them by detailing some to gently lay Wignall on the cartload of rifles and trundle him away to the church. When the others sullenly went back to confiscating weapons, Harry knew any Boer gun-owner who argued at the door would risk a beating.

Scayles clamped handcuffs on Muller, and said flatly, “My prisoner. We take him back alive, to stand proper trial.”

“Shit, Harry.” Bramah glared resentment at his friend of years, as if seeing a stranger. “Those officer pips sure made you go soft on us!”