Inyoni and the Pale Man

The commando stopped behind a small ridge that ran parallel to the Selons River. Quickly, about a third of the Boers went along the river to the right. They were to cross about a mile further, go around the English camp, and attack from the rear, first. In the meantime, the rest would crawl straight on, as close as they could. Once the guns at the rear began firing, the main body would hold off shooting till the Englishmen were out of their tents and had their backs turned. Then the main body would pick them off. With limited ammunition every shot counted. Pieter was left with the group that crawled forward for the frontal attack. They left the horses with him, waded across the Selons, and crawled towards the rooineks. He sat against a rock, uncomfortably, and waited. Some warthogs snuffled about behind him. He thought about how hopeless he was at war. Boers had taken to teasing him, sometimes mercilessly, for being a cheesehead schoolteacher who couldn’t shoot. But they liked to listen to him read his poetry. He wrote about their dreams and hardships. He thought of it as making myths. He didn’t want to become one, though. He waited for the shots from behind the camp. It was still too early. But soon. The sun was tinting the horizon with streaks of purple. He was afraid, as always. It might be a stray shot. A snake in the grass. An English scout. He shook himself. For now, all was well. Then a fusillade of shots rang out—too close to be from behind the camp. Crawling Boers must have run into an English outpost. That couldn’t be good. Where were the Boers at the rear? Peering over the embankment between two stands of thorn bush, in spite of the dim light, he made out a great deal of commotion in the English encampment. The Boers between him and the camp were shooting with abandon now. Within minutes the English responded. As the light increased Pieter saw the English cannons. One man after another fell at its wheels. The Boers were good shots. The English kept up their intense firing. The Boers responded with many fewer shots, husbanding bullets, taking careful aim. Still no sign of Boers at the rear. He noticed a line of English flanking the Boers nearest the Selons. There were too many, with too many bullets. Boers began retreating, crouching, crawling, sometimes breaking into a dead run. Within minutes, just when the first Boers made it to the bank and splashed in, grenades began exploding overhead. The English had divined where the ponies were by the direction of the retreat. The ponies were now beyond consolation. Several broke free from the lightly tied reins. A few Boers climbed the bank, jumped on ponies, and fled. Two were struck before they could be mounted and fell where he was crouching. By now, besides the grenades, he heard bullets whizzing by. He’d seen enough and turned to grab the reins of a horse, but they were all gone. As he watched the main body of rooineks approach the Selons, he tied a white hanky to the end of his gun, lay flat on his stomach, and held up his rifle and flag to surrender. His fighting days were done. He surprised himself by feeling a wave of relief as the shooting died down. He'd survive. He’d probably be sent far from the fighting, maybe to a prisoner camp in Bermuda or India. He’d be safe. He’d return, find Anke, and start over. He thanked God for finding the courage—with the help of his dreams—to confess to her. Five minutes later, the English were upon him. They tore his gun away, pulled him up to his feet, and marched him away. The odd shot still rang out, but it was over. No word was spoken. The field was littered with dead Boers, and as they approached the camp, many more English. Halfway there, he was shocked to see Jaap and two kaffirs get up from beside a body. A stretcher lay at their feet. Jaap had changed sides. He saw that Jaap recognized him immediately. He tried to smile. Jaap looked at the soldier carrying Pieter’s gun with the white flag and immediately said to the guard, “That one fired his gun while I was looking for the wounded. White flag waving.” Turning to his companions, he added. “You heard the shots. We were nearly hit.” The men frowned, nodded, said nothing. One of the captors said, “Jah, I saw it too. Bastard. Firing under a flag of truce. Boers aren’t civilized. Let's see what the commander says. This man’s an animal. He should be shot.” Turning to Jaap he said, “report to the captain's tent as soon as you're done here.” Pieter was stunned. He called out. “Jaap, it's me, Pieter Rijken. You remember! I didn't shoot. You’re wrong. Those were someone else’s bullets.” “Oh, no, Pieter. You fired your gun. Before. And now again. It should be the death of you.” Then, as Pieter walked close by him, Jaap added, quietly, “Well deserved, too, for what you did to Dien.” Jaap turned back to his work. The English soldier laughed. Pieter called out again, “Jaap, you’re wrong!” Jaap rose to look at him, but didn’t respond.