'It's you? It's really you?' he whispered. 'Don't let them ... don't
let them take my leg. Not like they did to Garry.
'Be still, or I'll break your stupid head, ' growled Jan Paulus.
Like Ins face, his hands were beefy and red, big hands with fingers
like calloused sausages, but now they worked as gently as those of a
mother on her child. At last, holding the ankle, he looked at Sean.
'Hold fast, now. I must straighten it.'
Sean tried to grin, but his face was grey beneath the coating of battle
filth, and sweat squeezed from his skin like a rash of tiny blisters.
'Don't talk so much, you bloody Dutchman. Do it!'
Bone grated on broken bone deep in the torn flesh and Sean gasped.
Every muscle in Ins body convulsed and then relaxed again as he
fainted.
'Ja, ' granted Jan Paulus. 'That's better,' and for the first time the
set of his features betrayed his compassion. He finished with the
bandages, and for a few seconds continued to squat beside Sean's
unconscious body. Then he whispered so low that the two bearers could
not catch the words.
'Sleep well, my brother. May God spare you your leg.'
And he stood, all trace of pity and sorrow locked away behind the
red-stone of his face.
'Take him away,' he ordered, and waited while they lifted the stretcher
and staggered away with it.
He went to his pony, and his feet dragged a little through the grass.
From the saddle he looked once more towards the south but the two
bearers had disappeared with their burden among the mimosa trees.
He touched spurs to his pony's flanks and followed the long procession
of wagons, prisoners and guns back towards the Tugela. The only sound
was the jingle of harness and the melancholy rumble of wheels.
Garrick Courtney watched the champagne spilling into the crystal bowl
of his glass. The bubbles swirled in golden patterns, catching the
lantern light. The mess corporal lifted the bottle, dexterously caught
a drop of wine on his napkin and moved behind Garry to fill the glass
of Brigadier Lyttelton, who sat beside him.
'No.' Lyttelton placed a hand over his empty glass to prevent him
doing so.
'Come, come, Lyttelton. ' Sir Redvers Buller leaned forward and looked
down the table. 'That's an excellent wine.'
'Thank you, sir, but champagne is for victory-perhaps we should have a
case sent across the river. ' Buller flushed slowly and looked down at
his own glass. Once more an ugly silence descended on the mess. In an
effort to break it Garry spoke up.
'I do think the withdrawal today was made in extremely good order.
' 'Oh, I agree most heartily. ' From across the table Lord Dundonald's
icy sarcasm added to the gaiety. 'But in all fairness, Colonel, we
were travelling very light on our return.
This oblique reference to the guns sent every eye to Buller's
face-Dundonald was showing a reckless disregard of that notorious
temper. But as a peer of the realm he could take the chance. With a
courteous insolence he met Buller's glare, and held it until the pale
