The Great Karoo by Fred Stenson

Author:Fred Stenson [Stenson, Fred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-37258-1
Publisher: Anchor Canada
Published: 2008-04-03T04:00:00+00:00

The date of Taylors death was August 19. Frank and Jeff got to Pan Station on the afternoon of August 20. The sick Mounted Rifles from Night Attack had passed through Pan three days earlier. They had stopped for a few hours to rest and then had kept on for Middelburg. Jeff and Frank asked for more information. Was the scout Casey Callaghan among them? Was there a French cowboy named Ovide Smith? Someone vouched for Casey, but no one remembered Ovide.

Frank asked Jeff if they could go to Middelburg now. Jeff said he couldn’t, but that Frank had better. Casey would be wanting his horse back and was probably in a lather about it. Jeff himself had business with other Hutton scouts to the east. When an officer at Pan asked Frank to take Van Erkum to Middelburg, Frank lied and said he had an urgent dispatch, and was not allowed to travel that slowly.

Frank burst out of Pan at a gallop and rode hard along the railway line. He gave The General no rests and no water. At the British outposts along the railway, he yelled, “Dispatch!” and waved an empty bag he’d found in Casey’s saddlebag.

At Middelburg, Frank was told that the sick troop he sought were mostly recovered and had continued north to Bankfontein. Frank asked the soldier, a C Squadron corporal, about Ovide Smith. The corporal looked at the ground and shook his head.

When Frank galloped The General into Bankfontein, it was dark. Some fires were lit and lanterns hung. He had by now ridden The General to the great horse’s very bottom. The buckskin’s mouth hung open and his rasping breath blew foam. The wrap had fallen off and the leg was black with blood at the clipped spot. From his head to his tail, he was dark with sweat.

Casey came running. When he saw the condition of his horse, he grabbed Frank by the chest of his uniform; ran him backwards and threw him to the ground. Frank jumped up and ran away. He ran through the darkness, looking for his and Ovide’s tent, but could not find it.

In the dark rows of tents and bedding, Frank bumped into a private cradling a mess tin of hot tea. The private spilled tea on his hands, then danced and cursed Frank some more.

“Where’s Ovide Smith?”

“Smith? Fuck. Smith’s dead, you stupid ass.”

Frank slowed. He walked back toward the fires. Among them, he studied the faces lit by each glow. At one, he saw Greasy Griesbach and Reg Redpath. Frank had not seen Redpath since Kroonstad. The group had rum and looked happy.

“Adams!” Griesbach cried. “Pull up a stump. You’re as dirty as a soldier gets. Come and have your well-earned rum ration.”

Griesbach had a bottle and extra mess tins. He poured Frank a generous splash.

“We’re celebrating Reg’s return. They’ve found him a truss.”

Frank took the cup and raised it to Redpath, who grinned sheepishly and raised his back. Frank shot it into his throat, the black taste, the burn.

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