1999 - Ladysmith by Giles Foden Page A

were each in themselves cause for consternation. Together, they made a disastrous impression on the morale of Ladysmith. These events also had the effect of speeding up the ‘evacuation’, as the military were calling the rush from the town. That it was a shameful business was confirmed to Nevinson on a sticky, thunderous Natal evening, when he went down to the railway station. A strange and disturbing sight greeted him there.
    In a yellow light, three trains were waiting, amid great confusion and congestion. Panic-stricken whites mixed with a vast crowd of Indians and Africans. The cause of the alarm was the Boers’ imminent closing of the railway line. Out of the windows of the carriages poked the excited faces of white children, and the anxious ones of their mothers; in the open trucks, the other races were thickly packed. The general idea amongst all seemed to be ‘save your skin’—plus the cloth-wrapped bundle of goods upon your head, if that was your unfortunate lot—and, whatever its colour, every one of those skins dripped with sweat in the oven-like heat.
    Nevinson looked about, and was shocked by what he saw. The native police were hitting both Africans and Indians with knobkerries, or prodding them as if they were livestock. It was cruel and pointless, not least since the more they were beaten and prodded, the more they shouted, pushed and pulled. Thinking there might be some copy in the scene, Nevinson took out his notebook and shoved his way through the crush. As he was scribbling down some notes, he heard an Australian voice in his ear.
    “Well, at least we’re clearing the town of its human refuse.”
    He recognized the voice as that of MacDonald, his fellow correspondent, and a bit of a jingo. He carried a swagger stick and affected the more ostentatious kind of uniform. Many of the press corps wore khaki and other officers’ equipment—sword belt, sun helmet—in some combination, but MacDonald’s outfit, together with his wide-brimmed Australian hat, was so carefully calculated as to suggest considerable vanity.
    “I think it’s rather sad,” Nevinson replied, levelly.
    “Do you really? Myself, I have no doubt that the mass of Hindus and kaffirs will one day furnish Natal with its greatest social and political problem.”
    “Perhaps so. But I don’t think, just now, we’re in a position to make any prophecies.”
    “Well, at least we’re staying here. Only thing a solid bloke could do. See those white bleeders. Look at them! In my opinion, Nevinson, manhood is besmirched by flight in such company.”
    “Some have been ordered out, you know.”
    “Is that so? I know Burleigh has gone.”
    “For good?” Nevinson was surprised that the Telegraph correspondent hadn’t decided to stick it out.
    “Yes, fled the coop. Say, do you fancy a drink at the Royal later?”
    “I won’t, MacDonald, if you don’t mind. Feeling a bit weary.”
    He pocketed his notebook and walked off, suddenly wanting to get as far away as possible from this Babel, and from MacDonald. It made him flinch, the way the race hostility rankled so deep in the Australian. He regretted having billeted with him. Steevens, who shared the cottage with them, was extremely pleasant. A refined and thoughtful scholar who could also cut it with Fleet Street’s yellowest, he put the point upon honour but softened its edge with an easy wit. MacDonald’s coarseness, on the other hand, made their little cottage rather tiresome at times.
    The sun was almost down when he got back there, having strolled round the town picking up colour in the interim. At one point he stopped and watched a group of native women dancing at a street corner. Dressed in brightly printed wraps, they were moving with somnolent ease to the combined music of a mouth organ and a thumb piano. Nevinson stood entranced by the simple rhythm. He watched the feet move in the dust, and then slowly lifted his eyes. The women looked back at him unblinking, with