Amongst the peoples of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State, Marius Van Moordeenaar was a veritable bogey man. The Boer who hated other Boers, he led groups of British soldiers on murderous retalitory raids against suspected guerilla camps, wiping out all those he found there. Even the women and children weren't spared - the "lucky" ones ended up being dragged off to one of the British Empire's many "refugee camps" where there they faced off against the twin perils of malnutrition and disease.
Marius didn't care. Infact, he reveled in his role, treating his raids like a sporting shoot, and awarding bonuses to those of his men who killed, captured or wounded the most "traitors" in that day's "bag". When asked once by an over-curious journalist what his ultimate aim was, Marius replied that all he wanted to do was to sweep the Cape bare of the Boer guerillas, their families, their culture and everything that could give them sustenance. After this he might settle down on a farm of his own.
With such a reputation, it was therefore rather surprising to find that the "hammer of the Boers" was such a physically uninspiring individual
*1. Slight of build and standing barely five foot five tall he gave the impression of a school boy cramed into his father's army uniform. It wasn't until you stared into his eyes (or more likely felt them boring into you) that you realised that all the stories you'd heard about him and what he did was true.
At this moment in time he was in the ruins of the Oranje Vrystaat Commando's camp, kneeling beside its stricken commander. He smiled nastily and drew his service revolver.
"Where are those letters you intercepted?"
Without warning Van Moordenaar slammed the handle of his pistol into the side of the Boer's head, breaking the skin and causing thin rivlets of blood to appear.
"What have you done with those letters?"
The Boer's eyes were wide with fear and when he spoke his breath came in short, frightened gasps.
"We picked up no letters... This is a diplomatic convoy... We're on a diplomatic mission to Bloemfontein."
The Colonel scowled and he pressed his pistol against the man's temple. The Boer's eyes - wide with panic - darted to the side as he felt the cold steel touch his skin before flicking back to stare into the hate-filled gaze of Van Moordenaar. With a slow, deliberate movement Marius pulled back the hammer and the sound of the chamber rotating and clicking into place was almost defeaning to the terrified Boer.
"Please..."
"If this is a diplomatic caravan...where is the ambassador?"
The Boer squeezed his eyes closed and started sobbing to himself - low, animal sounds born out of complete and utter terror. Marius stared at the man for a few seconds before snarling and pulling the trigger. He leapt to his feet - blood, shards of bone and grey matter covering his uniform - and jabbed the smoking revolver in the direction of his officers.
"Captain, tear this place apart until you've found those letters. And bring me the ambassadors - I want them alive!"
Without needing to be told twice the British soldiers set about searching the camp. Marius reached down and tore a strip from the dead Boer's shirt which he used to wipe down the barrel of his revolver and clean the worst of the gore from his helmet. When he had finished he tossed the bloodied rag over his shoulder and marched towards the remains of the camp, whistling cheerily to himself. Off to the side he heard the groanings of a wounded Boer - one of the casualties that hadn't yet been removed by the stretcher bearers and who was lying on the ground in quite considerable pain. Without breaking his stride, Van Moordenaar pulled back the hammer on his revolver, let his gun hand drop to his side and squeezed the trigger. The wet gurgle that followed the weapon's retort caused the Colonel to smile with smug satisfaction. It had been a productive night and now it was time for tea.
The interior of the slavers' wagon was hot, uncomfortable and smelled like a hippo's breath.
*2 Seepo sat on the hard wooden bench and tried to stay upright as the carvan bounced and clattered its way across the veld. He raised his manacled hands to his face and rattled them pathetically before letting out an over-dramatic sigh.
"How did we get into this mess? I really don't know how. We seem to be made to suffer. It's our lot in life."
Teeto, who was manacled next to him, gave him a surprisingly cheery grin and a few merry clicks and whistles. Seepo glowered at him.
"Bright side? What bright side?"
Teeto jangled his manacles and let out a series of long, low whistles which caused Seepo to flush angrily.
"That's easy for you to say - you're just a labourer. I'm an intellectual. I'm not designed for toiling in a field or sweeping floors! Manual work is contrary to my nature. I deteriorate when forced out of my comfort zone. I... I..."
Teeto placed a comforting hand on Seepo's shoulder (or tried to at least - these things aren't easy when one is manacled to a bench) and clicked softly. Seepo nodded.
"Thank you my little friend. That means a lot to me. With you to help me I..."
A series of cheeky clicks and whistles interrupted Seepo's reverie. The taller man started and looked affronted.
"What? What do you mean you'll show me which end of the broom to use to sweep the floor with? Why I ought to..."
"Keep it down in the back you bloody savages!" came the gruff shout from the front of the wagon. Seepo slumped back onto his bench and glowered at Teeto who was sitting chuckling at his little joke. He shook his head and studied his feet in silence as the little carvan continued to trundle its way across the veld.
1. Or maybe not - "short man syndrome" is a well cataloged and understood phenomenon...
2. Which is to say, not very nice...