South African Steam, 1900 (vignette)

You got used to the sun, he thought. Not like the natives, of course, they didn't even give it a thought. But still, we don't suffer the way the British do.

The sun had crawled its way up from the horizon and burned off the ephemeral mists that gathered in the gullies. After the cold of the night it was a gift that outgrew its welcome.

He shaded his eyes and stared out across the bleached grass, ruffled by the slight wind. Here and there twisted trees, barely a leaf between them, sprung stark from the baked earth. But that was the way of things here. At home they said it was lush and wet, always too much rain. But here the rain was never enough.

But when it did come the grasslands turned green and flowered overnight, trees exploded into leaf. Then the barren river beds swelled and would carry away livestock or even a town if it was built in the wrong place. Too far from water and people died of thirst, too close and they were washed away.

What a place. But he was second generation. His father had been born in a small Dutch town, son of a farmer himself. "Farm in Africa" had been the cry. "A new land of plenty, free and for all." And that was the way of it for his father and tens of thousands of others. Land a-plenty going free, no one else there.

Except the black man. They didn't farm: they hunted, fought and died. Just savages. No, the blacks were not the problem. It was the British. They were the problem. They were always the problem.

As usual the British decided the land was theirs: The Transvaal and the Orange Free State, his land and the land of his father. The British saw a place to furnish the raw materials for their empire and they wanted it. Like spoilt children.

A murmur went through the men to his left. Maarten de Vries turned to look. The hint of the dust trail rose until it was unmistakable: The British convoy heading their way.

He looked about him: the men were well hidden along the sides of the small valley the path wound through. It was a river bed but there was no chance of rain. His place near the top gave him a clear view as he lay in the dust while insects crawled by going about their business, unaware of the bigger world.

What do you do with a spoilt child? Don't spare the rod.

In his grandfather's day the British had tried to take the Transvaal and they had been beaten to a stop. There had been negotiations, and the British claimed the land but let the Dutch alone. But unrest half a world away meant they wanted more control, more resources. The British always wanted more.

He pulled out his father's gun, a revolver, it wasn't new but he had ammunition, those with rifles were already in place. No heavy artillery, no machine guns but it was a good place for an ambush.

When he'd been a boy, before the fever had taken his grandfather into the Lord's mercy, he had listened with a boy's enthusiasm to the tales his grandfather told of the battles fought with the redcoat British soldiers. But that had been then. The British did not wear their red coats any more. Now they were practical in their khaki uniforms, with their vehicles mounted with machine guns and even bigger artillery.

Maarten looked at the rising cloud. It should be just infantry.  A hundred British soldiers against their two hundred and they had the element of surprise.

When the British had attacked the first time the people of the Transvaal had waited, though they knew the British were coming. As good Christian men they thought it better to wait until the first blow had been inflicted before turning from their crops and animals to the gun. For that they had paid.

Not this time. He weighed the gun. He had practiced a little but ammunition was hard to come by, he could not waste what he had. But after today they would all be equipped with British weapons.