The Shocking Salvation of Sarah Smalley

By N.M. Richards

The young and beautiful Miss Sarah Smalley leaves England to accompany her father, a clergyman, on a private and secret mission to Basutoland. It is the year 1879, and although the once-mighty Zulu have finally been vanquished, she is caught up in the uncertainty of another impending frontier war. The violence she experiences, and the darkest secrets unearthed, destroy her moral certitude and the sentimentality of her ‘imperial’ values. Driven to the edge of insanity, she seeks redemption for her flawed judgement and bigotry by sacrificing all she once held morally inviolable. Inevitably, this comes at a terrible price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.M. Richards
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005268442

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The Shocking Salvation of Sarah Smalley

Copyright © 2021 N.M. Richards

First edition 2021

Published by N.M. Richards Publishing at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Towercott using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Lorna King for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

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Edward John Richards

"Forever with you in spirit."

Prologue

Isandlwana – January 22, 1879

It was over; this he knew.

He deserted the crest as the Zulu regiments finally burst through the ragged line of outlying companies, swarming over the crimson knots of desperate and doomed men in a fierce flurry of assegais and bayonets. There was little left to him, not honour certainly, only the desperate desire to live.

The careful volleys had disintegrated into random, scattered firing and the heavy, sharp smell of cordite had begun to drift into nothingness across the camp. He could feel death, even taste it. But what he feared most was the final frenzied stabbing of the broad blades.

The nek was a confusion of all ranks, but mostly consisting of the colonial volunteers and the remnants of Durnford’s command that had fought their way back from the donga to stand alongside those who had been unable or unwilling to respond automatically to the peremptory, barked commands of the regimental sergeants. Desperate men lay claim to the few packhorses that remained tethered in the wagon park while along the shattered defensive lines the first eager groups of young wild-eyed Zulus began to strip bodies and disembowel the already dead. Others probed at the scattered clusters of defenders still providing dogged resistance on the camp’s collapsed right flank.

Only moments before he had witnessed three imperial officers shake hands and calmly walk to join their men at the forward positions, and he had carefully weighed up his own chances of survival. The horns of the impi would, he knew, be racing around both flanks in an attempt to encircle the camp, but the great squat bulk of Isandlwana gave some temporary protection to the left and rear, forcing the right horn into a much wider arc and into the pickets, assigned to hold open the wagon track back to the Drift. On the right flank a stubborn fighting retreat had momentarily held the left horn at bay.

Despite the chaos and noise of battle he felt a cold, calm stillness descend as his every sense was reduced to a single purpose. The horns had not yet closed. He flung his empty carbine aside – it had become no more than a hindrance; then checked his revolver, satisfied that the two remaining cartridges would – finally – be enough.

Furtive men, heads bowed and eyes averted, both mounted and on foot, had begun to trickle down the slight crease in the land that eased itself out of the nek and fell away from the back of the camp. He led his nervous, skittering horse through the confusion and panic – whispering soothing endearments and stroking its forehead – down the reverse slope, away from the screams and gunfire and into the growing stream of men jostling for a firm foothold in the mess of scrub and termite mounds.

The land dropped away into the far distance, down the shallow fold of the Manzimnyama to the unseen Buffalo, tumbling as if it, too, was in spate with its thorn trees and bushes crashing over the scattered boulders and the tall, sharp grass eddying in pools. And, somewhere, men were dying still, their screams of defiance and pain rising up into the darkening, concussed air.

At first it was easy to remain mounted, as men and horses on either side began to pick their way across the broken ground. The sporadic gunfire, much closer now, told of the approaching Zulu right horn. He kicked the horse into greater effort, dropping down steeper banks and picking his way through the boulders and thorn trees until only those who were fortunate enough to be mounted remained in his peripheral sight. Then, a long terrified scream bolted his nervous mount through the thick scrub and into a small clearing, which at last seemed to offer hope of some easy ground and distance. Once more he kicked hard to maintain his blind momentum and, in the split second before he was thrown, heard and felt the break as the horse stumbled.

As he struggled to regain his senses a uniformed rider burst through the clearing, swerving madly around the body of his fallen horse. He fixed the rider’s eyes in a mute appeal, but they were unseeing now, blank with terror. Then he was gone, and for the briefest moment the clearing seemed shockingly still, despite the far-away sound of approaching death. Just then a single, close shot like the crack of a bullock whip, stirred him once again into motion. He climbed to his feet, checking nervously for his revolver. The crippled horse whinnied as it stirred and kicked, and as if from a great distance he felt a vague but wholly different emotion attempt to surface through his fear – but he dared not waste a bullet. Abruptly, he turned away.

He plunged into the beaten track of the departed rider, through the rough scrub that tore at him, pulling him back and ripping into his clothing. Keeping low, almost hugging the earth itself, he forced apart the dense undergrowth and pressed on and on until his lungs began to burn. All the while he was acutely aware of other bodies crashing through the thorn and scrub, and of the sound of distant, urgent English voices. But instinctively he steered away from all human contact.

Then he stumbled and fell upon a body.

It lay semi-naked, sprawled upon its back with the dull gleaming entrails torn from the torso and slopped carelessly across the wet ground, already attracting the big black blow-flies which rose in angry irritation. As the bile began to rise in his throat, he backed into an impenetrable tangle of thorn and brush, gasping for air, wiping the mess from his hands down the front of his tunic. Dead bodies he had seen many times before, but none gutted quite so deliberately. And with it came the awful realisation that the horns had closed, and he curled his fingers once more around his revolver and the surety of a quick and easy death.

Forcing himself to breathe steadily, he began to regain a measure of control, enough to think. They would be the fleet-footed, the young, and they would collide with those slowest fugitives on foot and begin their killing. He began to move again, clearing his mind, forcing his body down the slope, pushing instinctively towards the steepening bank on his left side. Another rider crashed alongside him and for a few brief moments he followed in the horse’s wake as it forced an easier passage through the thorn. Then it was lost to sight. But still he plunged on; down through the ragged grass and the vicious thorn until his chest felt as if it was bursting, and until, finally, his body broke.

Crawling deep into the undergrowth, he rested his back against the hard security and comfort of a termite mound, his every sense alert to the slightest movement, and then he breathed deeply and slowly, sucking air into his painful lungs. He had to think clearly, to force himself to recover some strength. He knew that panic alone would surely kill him and he grasped his revolver, comforted once more by the quick death it promised.

The burning in his lungs eased as he pressed himself deeper into the thickest thorn, and where the light brown of his tattered uniform blended into the scabby patches of broken earth and termite mounds. For the briefest moment he considered hiding there, to bury his face deep into the warm crumbling earth, and to drag the brush around him, perhaps to play dead, but the splintering, thrashing approach of yet another rider persuaded him that there was yet some hope.

The horse stumbled as it emerged into his partial view and its bleeding flank seemed to bounce off the thick thorn. Unexpectedly, the young rider pulled hard on the reins and yanked the horse about, staring wildly across his tracks, but as he did so the first spear buried itself deep into his chest, and he lurched with its impact before slumping over the horse’s neck. A second sliced into his arm, and hung loosely, caught in his tunic, only falling away as he slid off his horse and fell to the ground.

Three warriors followed, bursting through the brush, screaming their praise-names as they began a frenzied stabbing. Finally, they tore open the drenched tunic and shirt, and ripping their short assegai across the pale stomach they dragged the exposed, glistening entrails across the beaten grass. Still not satisfied in their blood lust, they reached for the horse’s reins, stabbing repeatedly into its throat until it collapsed in an outpouring of blood. Gasping hard and elated with their kill, they sang as they stripped the gutted body of its belted holster and bloodied field tunic before turning down towards the river and its promise of more, easy death. Their assegai had eaten, and they were hungry still.

For long minutes he sat in shock, mesmerised by the horse kicking feebly in its death throes until finally the flies could feast undisturbed. An uneasy stillness settled over the clearing. Unable to move, unable to think clearly, but strangely fascinated by the gleaming offal, he struggled to make sense of the faint disembodied cries and sporadic gunfire that seemed to hang in the thick air. Men were dying still, yet he sucked at the air in great angry gulps, willing himself to live.

Another rider burst into the clearing, an imperial officer still in his scarlet tunic clutching a long leather case across the horse’s neck, desperately struggling to control his mount as it avoided the sudden bloody shambles. A retreating hoof thumped into the mutilated young body jerking it momentarily to life, but as the rider disappeared, he could only feel a curious detachment. He fingered his revolver once more, taking it out of its leather holster to satisfy himself that the cartridges were still in the chamber, then lay his head back and looked up through the thick thorn branches into the darkening sky. It was a storm, and would bring some relief to the parched land, he thought. He licked his tongue around his cracked lips willing the heavens to open and wash away the blood and the stench of fresh death.

For the briefest moment he wondered about the dead boy, his head thrown back into a halo of fair hair, his soft mouth opened in faint surprise; wondered who would mourn for him, who would mourn for any of them. Then he closed his eyes.

From the Tops, the valley was a soft dull green, with the faint trails of smoke drifting over the trees and up the hillsides, and though the river looked silver in the half- light he could not be fooled: it flowed as black as the coal that had been torn out of the very guts of this earth. He could smell the hill, its dankness laced with the heather, the few sheep. And now he could hear the faint bleating in the breeze that was always fresh and carrying with it the promise of rain. He was alone – of this he was certain. He was always alone it seemed, but he would leave one day, he promised himself. He would leave this narrow valley and its servitude. Then the storm broke, as he knew it would, over the green hills in rolling thunder, and the harsh cracks of lightening echoed across the sodden skies. And echoed once more as the sullen rains fell.

His eyes snapped open. The volley was ragged, but there was no doubting that it was a volley, and he pushed himself up into a crouching position. Again, there was no mistaking the guttural command to fire, but the cries rang out not in English, nor the bastard Dutch, but in a Kaffir tongue. Unsure of himself he hesitated as the noise seemed to envelope him, and the booming voice rose above it all. Into the small, defiled clearing two men of the Natal Native Contingent stepped into sight. They were each armed with a carbine and advanced cautiously, scanning the thick brush, soon to be followed by several others stepping delicately over the mutilated corpse and away from the bulk of the dead horse, tightly clutching their weapons. He could see the sergeant now, coaxing his men and directing their slow deliberate movement.

"Ndadi!" The sergeant turned, as a soldier pointed, and their eyes met through the tangle of undergrowth.

Come quick, Sah, the sergeant beckoned to him, not the least surprised to find him there, cowering. Quick.

As he crawled once more into the open, ever more native soldiers tumbled into the limited space, trampling into the entrails of the young body, but parting to take him into their protection. He felt firm hands in support, almost lifting him, and then the sergeant shouted more urgent commands and the men began once again to move as one.

Wait! And he barely understood why, but he stepped beyond the rearmost soldiers to retrieve a beaten leather satchel that lay under a thorn bush. The sergeant shook his head in amazement and neither for the first nor for the last time in his life wondered at the endless folly of the white man.

ONE

Cape Colony: Basutoland – October 1879

As they crested the small rise, the Reverend Matthew Smalley lifted his battered straw hat, pulling at the strands and thin spirals of white hair that circled his deep brown pate, and smiled up at his daughter. He was, it seemed to her, almost childlike in his eager enthusiasm. But when was it ever not so, she mused.

There! He flung his arm theatrically across the landscape that stretched out over his shoulder. There, Sarah. There is our Promised Land! There he waits for us!

Dutifully she lifted her pale blue eyes to the newly revealed landscape, parched and dry and golden but rising in the distance to a solid blue haze that, indeed, seemed to promise very little other than enduring hardship. She shifted uncomfortably as the day’s first drops of perspiration began to run down her back to be absorbed into her tired linen dress. The perch on the wagon gave additional height from which to contemplate their future but this could do little to engender the same spirit that had now gripped her father. However, she rewarded him with an almost imperceptible smile and sighed inwardly. He was always too theatrical, she thought, and pursed her lips as he fell to his knees in supplication, hands raised, palms upwards, into the very certainty of his heaven.

Oh Lord, bless this moment when first we see our future home, and let us give thanks for your divine grace and favour. May we be as true to you as you have been to us, protecting us from the trials and tribulations of our journey and bringing us safe, once more, to Canaan side. Amen. Oh, Amen!

She watched the indifferent oxen twitch their tails, idly observing the flies dancing along the dark leather of their skins stretched taut across the protruding bones of their dung smeared haunches, then stiffened as a cramp, yet again, caught her breath. She eased herself forward, physically conscious of the shameful pad of linen wedged between her thighs. Joseph, meanwhile, had squatted at the side of the track, lazily waving away the flies from his face and tracing faint lines in the dust with his switch.

Come Sarah, her father had misread her grimace and sought to admonish her, we are servants of the Lord, and He will surely provide.

Of that I have little doubt, Father, but even He will understand my occasional need for a little soap and water, she responded irritably.

The Reverend Smalley whooped with joy. Ask and ye shall receive, my dear, ask and ye shall receive. Maseru can only be a half day’s journey away, and you will have all the soap you need. He turned to Joseph. Enough, even, to wash away your black skin, Joseph. What say you?

Oh, Father! Sarah chided. Joseph smiled broadly, revealing very even white teeth, and stood up. She watched him flick the rump of the nearest ox, clicking and sucking through his teeth, waving his arm as the wagon lurched forward. Joseph was ever the silent helper, barefoot and ragged. Still a child, she thought, but wise beyond his years. His was an ancient wisdom, like the landscape, like Eden perhaps, innocent and uncorrupted, untouched; yet she knew this not to be true; knew that the mark of Cain had fallen across this land, and she gazed up at the mountains with a profound sense of foreboding. Was it for this that they had been summoned?

The track began a long, slow meander towards a fold in the distant landscape, edged with a dark ribbon that suggested trees. But the obdurate oxen would not be rushed. And so the day progressed as countless others, in silence and grim contemplation of the rutted and broken surface, and with the occasional lizard twitching in alarm and scurrying out of sight. And as the heat of the morning dragged on, the rancid smell of the oxen hung in the dust and gently settled on Sarah like a benediction. She felt herself dozing, and so willed herself to her private sanctuary – that cool, verdant place at the bottom of the Kentish garden where the stream grew sluggish and the wild flowers grew.

The drift, when it finally came, was approached down a steep, tree-lined bank, even more deeply rutted than the trail, leading to a mess of animal tracks and hoof-prints heavy with the acrid stench of dung and urine. Both Joseph and her father were steadying the oxen, talking and cajoling each in his own way, but Sarah could see that it was Joseph, jumping along the traces, who really controlled the descent, calmly correcting the inexperience and exuberance of her father with soft clicks and laconic remonstrations.

The river was a disappointment. It too had succumbed to the lethargy of the day and its deep-silted orange was an affront to the clear burbling stream of her daydreams. The air was heavy and still. Joseph steadied the oxen as the wagon-cart reached the level of the ford, then shyly glanced down.

Good day, Sir, good day! Her father’s voice seemed excessively loud in the confined space between the banks of the ford, and, startled, she glanced up. She met his dark eyes briefly, and quickly turned away in alarm and confusion at the direct, arrogant stare.

The stranger nodded, and a heavy, uncomfortable silence seemed to settle across the river.

May I introduce myself? I am the Reverend Smalley, and this is my daughter, Miss Sarah Smalley. He hesitated for but a heartbeat. We are bound for Maseru, which, unless I am gravely mistaken, must be on your side of this very river. He hesitated again, adding as if for emphasis or perhaps for his own reassurance, The Caledon.

Sarah, as duty bid, bobbed her head across the river. She had been too preoccupied with their perilous descent to notice the tethered ponies and the young native woman crouched low over the water. She was washing her almost naked body yet seemed wholly unconcerned, and Sarah felt herself flushing in confusion.

And who are you? The stranger pointedly directed his question at Joseph.

"Joseph, Ndadi."

Well Joseph, I am Morgan and this is Pulane. Joseph smiled in complicity.

The Reverend Smalley broke in. A pleasure Mister Morgan, and, Miss ah ... will you be going to Maseru yourselves?

Morgan carefully adjusted the harness on his pony and spoke quietly to the woman. As she stood up, she pulled a loose, grey shift over her head and covered her breasts. Where’re you come from? He glanced up at Sarah.

We left our escort early this morning, Sir – they to Ladybrand. We’ve journeyed up from the Cape; almost four weeks.

Morgan nodded carefully, as if this intelligence was of deep significance. Only one more mile, Reverend. He touched the broad brim of his hat. Miss, then turned and spoke softly to the young woman before leading his ponies up the opposite bank.

Well I never, whispered the Reverend Smalley to no one in particular. Well I never.

Sarah could now study the man more intently, albeit from behind, but her eyes soon strayed across to the sleek, naked legs of the native woman as she fell into step behind the ponies. To envy her would be sinful, of this she was certain, and so she turned her more deliberate thoughts to scorn and disapprobation. But in the suffocating air the effort proved to be too much, and as Joseph began to coax the reluctant oxen across the ford and the wagon lurched into its familiar movement, renewed discomfort demanded her more immediate attention.

Mrs Thorpe turned her deeply lined, yet open, speckled face down the straight, wide track that led towards the distant drift, taking her usual comfort from the few sandstone buildings scattered along its length. Still an outpost, Maseru was growing in confidence as a small administrative settlement, perhaps not yet a town in the full sense of the word, but a vibrant community nonetheless. She smiled to herself, as she often did in contemplation of this view, always taking a keen interest in the progress of each new building, as if it reaffirmed the future of her own small guesthouse. Squinting into the distance, she brushed the long wayward strands of grey hair from her face.

Mr Thorpe! She paused briefly. Mr Thorpe! There was a slight edge of exasperation to her voice.

M’dear?

She glanced at her husband who emerged out of an adjacent wooden shed with a degree of alacrity that would have suggested much to the casual observer had one, at that moment, been present. He was as small as his wife was large, and whereas her movements were expansive and deliberate, his seemed agitated and peremptory, almost bird-like. He wiped his hands down the front of a rough apron leaving a faint dusting of flour. Raising his eyes towards the direction of the distant drift he screwed up his face in exaggerated concentration, as if to confirm his full attendance to the task for which he had been summoned. Finally, he leant his upper body forward and thrust out his scrawny neck.

Well? demanded his wife testily.

"It is a wagon, m’dear, he confirmed, and if I am not mistaken, there is a lady present – perhaps settlers?"

Mrs Thorpe smiled to herself. This was a most satisfying prospect, and she positively beamed at her husband.

Quick, Mr Thorpe, set the girls to work, and bring the kettle to boil.

As the household was roused into action – much evidenced by the clatter of pots and raised voices – Mrs Thorpe kept her eyes fixed firmly upon the distant wagon. Only when she had confirmed to her own satisfaction that her husband had not been mistaken did she turn and follow him into the nearest of the low sandstone buildings.

After the strain of staring so fiercely into the bright distance the parlour seemed dark and cool, despite the opened shutters, and she noted with immediate satisfaction that a fresh linen cloth edged with needlepoint had been placed over the substantial dining table. The room could not be termed elegant, it was true, but it was comfortable and neat, and commodious enough to contain both the dining furniture and a number of worn but nonetheless comfortable armchairs, draped with her own embroidered antimacassars. The gaping stone fireplace was swept clean, with logs stacked inside an iron basket supported on ornate blackened dogs. A large rag-rug gave the whole a decidedly homespun appearance – but none the worse for that, she would reassure herself on each occasion that she considered her handiwork.

A handsome black ebony frame had been placed above the fireplace, from out of which the aging Queen looked down with her habitual disapproval. While at a discreet distance from the royal presence, an equally forbidding patriarch, with a full beard and severe countenance, also surveyed the room with evident distaste. The plasterwork was freshly limed and a solitary hanging sampler beseeched the Lord’s blessings upon the household. While it was certainly not as sophisticated as some of the grand guesthouses in the Cape, it was as comfortable a place as any traveller could wish for after the trials of the journey.

"Flowers, Meh?"

Angelina had appeared with flowers cut from the small garden at the back of the guesthouse. Of indeterminate age, but certainly no longer able to be classed as young, Angelina had tight black hair softening into a distinct furze halo around her small head. She was short, but with a generous bosom and such adipose buttocks that their exuberance seemed barely contained within the flowery print of her cheap cotton frock. Her smile was very wide and very white. Her feet were bare.

"Why thank you, Angelina. What would I do without you? Mr Thorpe! Mr Thorpe!"

M’dear? He seemed to emerge out of the very stonework of the room.

I think the back rooms. The garden is so pretty just now … and a little more firewood if you please.

Mr Thorpe disappeared once more into the shadows leaving his wife to set the china. Angelina waited dutifully for instruction, while the precious porcelain cups and saucers were laid out. Both women – in their different ways and for very different reasons – appreciated the hushed solemnity of the task. Finally, the large teapot was placed in the very centre of the table and the deeply ingrained strainer placed alongside in a pretty dish, ever so slightly chipped, and, as always, causing Mrs Thorpe a moment’s irritation.

A lady, Angelina, she offered by way of an explanation, but more to restore her equanimity than to elicit a response.

Mr Thorpe returned. Very pretty, m’dear; very nice indeed.

I think the Darjeeling, Mr Thorpe, it is freshly opened, then turned to Angelina, and some oat cakes too.

It was at times like these that Daniel Thorpe felt truly satisfied. His wife had followed him into the interior without protest or regret, adapting herself to the life of the frontier farm and its hardships with a passion and commitment that, at times, he could scarcely believe credible. And yet, perhaps with no more than a vague uneasiness, he considered, again, their lack of children. Such was God’s will he had constantly reminded himself down the years, but he had often wondered, somewhat guiltily, what sort of God would bestow such manifold blessings upon his neighbours while his own God-fearing wife had remained so very barren? With the slightest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, he concluded, as he always did, that the Lord truly worked in mysterious ways. He watched contentedly as she continued to fuss with the china, her fleshy brown freckled arms contrasting dramatically with the harsh purity of the linen cloth and the fine delicacy of the cups, and he felt comforted that, with no sons to inherit the farm, they had made the right decision to sell up and place their trust in the small guesthouse in this distant outpost of the Cape Colony.

Perhaps the calico, m’dear, you look so handsome in it.

Mrs Thorpe stopped abruptly, brushing her hand once again through the stray and wilful locks of hair that had escaped from her untidy bun as she straightened her body. Mr Thorpe! She rewarded him with a shy remonstration as she made her way out of the room, and he, more than a little satisfied, scuttled after Angelina into the large kitchen that serviced the household.

Once in the calm of her modest bedroom Mrs Thorpe released the unruly bun and contemplated her thick cascading hair, examining it for yet more evidence of advancing years. It was a momentary vanity that caused her some slight unease because in her heart she knew the Lord ought not to be tasked with her silent regret. As if in penance she began to brush with short violent strokes, quietly examining her handiwork in the large, ever so slightly cracked mirror before once more collecting it into a tight neat bun on the back of her head. Finally, her penitent mind made up, she smoothed down the front of her working smock. It was spotlessly clean and more than worthy of a good Christian woman; it would do well enough for this hour of the working day.

She turned to the washstand, annoyed to find that the pitcher held so little water, and made a mental note to speak to Angelina. The contents were splashed into the floral wash basin where she began working a rich lather into her hands with a much-diminished tablet of Porter’s coal-tar soap, her nostrils flaring with the pleasure of its abrasive assault. Thus occupied, she turned her mind to the preparation of the evening meal. She was still undecided, considering the merits of the salted pork over the meat and potato pie, when a soft knock disturbed her thoughts.

"Meh, Captain Grayson and his sojers are out front, I think they’re going."

Captain Charles Grayson was indeed leaving. He had halted his troop of irregulars outside the cluster of low buildings that, in their entirety, constituted the guesthouse, and was curiously examining the approaching wagon. His men, as well used to his sociability as to his short temper, sat patiently on their mounts, lazily waving away the flies that were attempting to settle on their cracked, leathery faces. He smiled and touched his hat in salute as Mrs Thorpe emerged, settling comfortably into the easy familiarity engendered by the hardship and isolation of the frontier settlements.

Mrs Thorpe, you look as fetching as ever if I may say so.

And you, my dear Captain, lie with such consummate ease that I am not sure that I should allow myself to be charmed by you. But surely you are not leaving at this time?

He grinned and sat back into his saddle. His men, for the most part mixed-race Griquas, remained mutely unaware of the levity of the exchange and eyed the ugly, old white woman with a surly indifference, which was only hardened by the sudden appearance at her side of her scrawny husband.

To Ladybrand – a demonstration is considered necessary along the trail. We will be back by tomorrow morning. Everything remains quiet, but I thought it best to reassure you before we set off. The Colonel still believes that Moorosi can be finally persuaded to submit. I’m not so sure, I must admit; I don’t know what to believe. He paused to enjoy their rapt attention. Some of the Cape Rifles will be stationed at the residency while we are gone. He smiled to give further reassurance, acknowledging her husband with a nod. "You can rest assured that the paramount chief will not want to repeat Moorosi’s fate, no matter how unhappy he is over the