With the Nightjars

by ML Strijdom

I saw him before he saw me. A lone figure, stirring red earth on horseback. Nightjars zipped around his head, their wings slicing the air like restless souls. A lantern swung from his belt, casting faint shadows over the dust. He swatted at the birds, his hand sweeping through the air, then pulled the reins and stopped. The last nightjar peeled away, dipping and weaving before landing in a pepper tree.

The shadow on his steed turned his head toward the cemetery. Smooth headstones rose in ranks, stabbing the hot May sky. The sharp smell of freshly turned earth from newly dug graves reached me, even here. Beyond the cemetery, a tented town made of a hundred tortoise-shaped domes huddled against a koppie on the Karoo plain. A breeze carried the snap of gunfire from the frontlines.

He dismounted and stood still, the reins slack in his hand. Shoulders bent while holding his felt pith helmet, he scanned the sign above the hospital's entrance, the letters bold and freshly painted.

I set the newspaper on the table and the headline glared back: The Nightjar Hunter: The Marksman of the Yeomanry Defending the Empire.

The weight of the day clung to him like a second skin.

I stood, smoothing my white starched apron. The pin of my British Cross brooch pressed cool against my chest. My eyes caught his sleeves, streaked with blood, as he guided the horse closer.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, stepping toward him. “Can I help?” I rush toward him, my hands moving instinctively, searching for the tear, the wound—anything I can mend.

He glanced down at his sleeves, his fingers brushing the stains as though noticing them for the first time.

“It’s not mine,” he said, his voice flat. “The blood of others.”

Our fingers touched briefly and our eyes met.

The sharp contrast of his alabaster hair and crystalline blue gaze unlocked a door to a memory I couldn’t place. I pulled my hand back, transforming it into a gesture of greeting instead. “Lady Georgie Chesham.”

He softly touched my hand and greeted me firmly, like a gentleman would. “Hugh,” he stated under his breath and broke his gaze to his Khaki Drill uniform stiff with grime.

Our hands parted. “Why have you come to Deelfontein?” I asked.

He shifted, still holding the reins tightly with his other hand. “For the Queen Victoria Remembrance Day. Heard in De Aar it’ll be lavish. Flavours from home. They say the Queen sent them herself... before.”

I nodded. His words burned like a branding iron. “Queen Victoria was a great ruler. Her passing left a wound on the Empire.”

His eyes drifted to the tents on the hill. “The hospital’s state of the art,” he said.

“Yes, we have an X-ray department; a dentist, too. My mother secured sponsors back in London. We’re fortunate.” I gestured toward the well. “Strong water supply here to fuel the steam locomotives.”

His gaze followed mine toward the well.

The clop of hooves shattered the quiet. Hugh’s chestnut mare jerked, tossing her head. He steadied her with a firm hand on her nose.

“Watch out!” I shouted, stepping aside as the horse-drawn ambulance rumbled past, wheels kicking up dust. The cloud of dirt settled over Hugh, coating his uniform, turning it a rusty brown. He wiped his face and smiled, catching my eyes as I giggled at him covered in dust.

I noted the Lee-Enfield rifle strapped to the saddle. A carved bird—a nightjar—on the stock caught the light. Hugh shifted, stepping between me and the weapon, his hand brushing the worn leather strap.

“There’s a wash area over there,” I said, nodding toward the well.

He squinted, trying to find it and placed his helmet on his head and tipped it in thanks. He led the mare to a hitching post and looped the reins tightly around the pole.

I stood at the tent’s flap, watching him.

His hands shook as he splashed water, scrubbing them, fingers tight to still the tremble. He peeled off his shirt and rinsed it under the water, wringing it out before pulling it back on. The damp fabric clung to his chest, muscles sharply defined beneath.

“Are you gawking?” Sarah’s voice cut through my thoughts.

I stiffened. “No... I wasn’t.”

Sarah crossed her arms, studying me. “There’s a new patient waiting for us.” She leaned against my shoulder, glancing out at Hugh. “You’ve seen men without shirts. The hospital’s full of them.” She waved toward the row of tents, beds crowded with patients.

My hand found the locket around my neck. “He reminds me of someone,” I murmured, opening it. Inside, two faces, weathered by time, stared back — an elderly man and woman.

I glanced back at Hugh, dripping in a wet shirt, walking away, his horse left behind at the post. “He’s heading to the graves,” I said.

Sarah tugged at my sleeve. “We’ll nurse your grief later,” she said, pulling me back to the patients.

One last glance, and I saw him move past the cemetery’s edge. The earth softened under his boots. Newer graves lined the outskirts. He knelt, scooping soil into his hands. The dry grains slipped away, nothing left behind. He disappeared behind a sickle bush, out of sight.

I turned back to work.

***

The train whistled, its steel wheels clanging against the metal tracks as it rumbled past, empty after unloading supplies.

I gathered the crowd, eager to start the afternoon’s activities. The war had a way of clinging to my thoughts, but today, I’d shake it off. Work usually kept my mind busy, kept the darkness of my past at bay. But today, I looked forward to the uneasy smiles of British soldiers and the local farmers—those sympathetic to the British cause and others simply caught in the crossfire—gathered together for a rare moment of reprieve. Sarah had opposed the idea at first. But after I shared my story, after showing her that despite the Boers’ (whose farms were on British-claimed soil) and the Brits’ differences, we all shared the same land, she softened.

Ahead, near the cemetery, I found the officers. Their laughter broke the air, rising above the chatter of patients, soldiers, and a few civilians. The makeshift track stretched between two thorny bushes, a thread marking the finish line directly in front of the cemetery’s grand limestone pillars, reaching toward the sky.

The contestants—an ostrich, a jackal, a meerkat, a lamb and a scruffy dog—stood in uneasy ranks, their handlers adjusting tethers and murmuring encouragement.

“Place your bets!” a private chanted around the gathering crowd. Wagers changed hands as soldiers shouted their favourites.

I saw Hugh watching from the side, his legs crossed, leaning against a Leadwood tree.

“The ostrich will win,” someone yelled next to Hugh, favouring it with its long legs stamping in the crimson dust.

Hugh strolled closer, his gaze sweeping over the festive scene. Farmers from the surrounding veld joined the spectacle, some grinning as they nudged their neighbours, others standing stiffly, their arms crossed.

The chaplain crouched by the meerkat, whispering into its ear like delivering his Sunday sermon. A doctor led a lamb that halted every few steps to “meh” at the crowd. The black backed jackal’s handler, a lean soldier with a hunter’s eye, held its leash with steady hands.

A farmer stumbled beside Hugh, crashing to the ground. I expected the soldier to stiffen, to turn away. Instead, Hugh knelt, and guided the man up.

No words passed between them.

He steadied the farmer before pulling back. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a few coins and handed them to a private. “The jackal,” I heard him mutter.

I saw more than the hardened soldier I thought he was.

“First one to the finish line wins!” the doctor yelled over the crowd and blew his whistle.

The race began with a flurry of limbs and tails. The ostrich bolted ahead but veered off course, distracted by the shouting crowd, and disappeared into the cemetery. The lamb froze mid-track, gazing mournfully toward the horizon. The dog gave a valiant effort but slowed as the jackal surged forward, its wiry frame darting through the dust. Its fluffy tail flicked above the dusty mist, and snapped through the thread, leaving the others trailing behind.

Cheers erupted as a wave of applause and laughter washed over the gathering.

Hugh stepped forward to collect his winnings, a faint smile curving his lips.

“You’re a lucky man today, Sir. You’re one of few who betted on him.” I heard the private say, handing him his winnings in a soft velvet pouch.

He pocketed the coins, watching the jackal race away across the plains.

“That was an unfair win! My ostrich should’ve won,” a farmer spat in broken English, jabbing his finger towards Hugh’s chest.

From my chair, I saw the tension rise.

Hugh’s jaw tightened but he gave a dismissive wave and stepped deliberately toward the edge of the crowd, keeping his back straight.

I stood and walked to the farmer. From my pocket, I pulled coins and slipped them into his hand. “Here, sir. It’s tough out there. Take this.”

His glare softened. “Thank you, miss,” he muttered, pocketing the coins and spotted the festive spread beneath the newly erected marquee.

Trays of scones; tea cakes; crystal dishes filled with preserves; clotted cream and finger sandwiches arranged like an offering from a distant, gentler world. The food, imported from England, seemed foreign against the backdrop of earth and rock.

White tents flanked the koppie, their crisp peaks a stark contrast to the rough canvas of the hospital below.

I swept the crowd, searching for Hugh and caught him strolling up the hill toward the festive scene as the sun settled low on the horizon.

A steward pressed a crystal glass of champagne into my hand. I grabbed another flute from his tray, tucked a lantern under my arm, and walked toward Hugh. He stood still, captivated by the sky streaked in oranges and purples like paint on a canvas.

“Spectacular, isn’t it?” I handed him a flute.

Hugh nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

“Nothing like an African sunset.”

He touched his pocket, fingers brushing a hard object tucked inside and settled onto a rock, lifting the glass to the lantern’s light. The champagne bubbled, its pale gold shimmering in the light.

He stared at it.

“How did this glass survive the journey when my thoroughbred couldn’t even make it across the sea?” he murmured.

“Maybe the glass knew it needed to survive the war before it could break,” I replied.

He didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the cemetery beyond the gathering.

I pointed at the plate balanced on his knee, where a few untouched snacks rested on a white starched napkin. “You must be used to these parties. No one else bothers with serviettes.”

He glanced at the stack of serviettes piled neatly on the table and said nothing.

“I placed them there,” I added, folding my arms. “Soldiers seem to have forgotten their manners.”

Still, he remained silent.

I leaned in. “Not to your taste?”

At last, he spoke. “Let the young and broken revel. They’ve earned it. They deserve a piece of home.”

I pulled a tin from my bag, took out a small block of chocolate, and held it out. “Here, try this.”

He glanced at the offering and smirked. “A rare delicacy, teasing me like that.”

I smiled. “There’s more. Even tobacco. The donors back home have been generous—chocolates, sweets, socks. They’ve sent us a little oasis from London.”

Hugh shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry for food.”

My brow furrowed. “Then what?”

His voice dropped. “For blood.”

I narrowed my eyes. “A hunter, then?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m not accusing,” I replied. “But the blood you washed off this morning—whose was it?”

He groaned, rubbing his unshaven beard.

I lowered my voice. “You’re the Nightjar Hunter. I saw the article. The birds on your rifles—they match.”

He stiffened. “That piece of drivel from Hampshire?”

“They say the Nightjar Hunter takes the souls of the Boers, the enemies in the eyes of the British.”

“Foolishness,” he muttered. “A reporter with too much time on his hands making up myths.”

“Well, your blood stained sleeves say otherwise,” I said.

“My sleeves have a tendency to pick up trouble.”

“Then why are you here, Lord Thorpe?”

He straightened, his gaze fixed on the cemetery. “I’m here on business.”

His eyes flickered to the ground, his posture stiffening, and he cleared his throat.

I followed his line of sight towards the cemetery.

The nightjars weaved through the air.

“I’m sure that’s where the reporter got the myth from.” I pointed to the birds. “See, they look like restless shadows flying in the night.”

Hugh crossed his arms.

“They say nightjars migrate from Europe every year,” I forced a smile.

“Maybe there’s a reason why they never find a place to stay.” He raised an eyebrow. “Humans shouldn’t be flying around like birds.”

I bit my lip, not responding, thinking he might’ve just solved world peace.

“They also say your hospital is a spectacle,” he remarked. “Something to show the Londoners there’s hope for victory.”

“And you? A lord serving as a reservist to train the young ones how to shoot?”

He snorted. “Teach them? They can’t shoot straight on a good day, the bastards.”

Hugh stood suddenly, startled by a sharp, guttural laughter from the distance—wild, animal.

“Painted dogs. Vilden-honden, the Boers on the farms call them.” I said.

“They’re a menace to the farmers,” he muttered. “Sheep killers. Are you Pro-Boer? You seem to know a lot about them.”

“Farmers work the land, don’t they?” I stare into the distance. “They don’t start a fight unless there’s no other choice. Sometimes, it’s the ones who have the most to lose, who end up fighting the hardest.”

“Have you been to many farms in the Karoo?” he asked.

I tilted my head and kept my eyes on him. “I’ve been to Celeryfontein.”

His gaze snapped to mine, sharp.

“I’ve been there recently,” he said quietly. “Nothing left. Just ruins now. The land’s been... stripped.”

I blinked, still not understanding. “Hard to believe something like that could vanish. War does more than take lives; it leaves nothing behind.” I stared at his face, but the realization didn’t sink in yet.

My fingers curled around the locket. “Let me show you down the hill?”

His arm extended with practiced ease, his fingers brushing mine. I gripped it tighter, pulling myself forward as we descended the rocky slope.

Back at camp, the officers’ mess brimmed with laughter and song. An impromptu concert started while soldiers waited for the train to arrive to take them back to De Aar.

But I was distant, leaning against a tent.

Hugh walked away without greeting.

I felt something pulling me to look again at the locket. I opened it, as always and stared at the familiar photo of a woman, her face soft and kind. But behind it lay a second photo I had never seen before. I carefully slid the top one aside, revealing the image of a young man. His alabaster hair and blue eyes stared at me, and I froze.

Hugh.

My heart stopped.

My eyes darted up to find him between the laughter of people and found him, pacing toward the cemetery again.

My legs moved faster, closing the gap between us.

At the crest, he halted in front of a cluster of graves.

I recognized the spot. I’d stood here too many times before.

“For King and Empire,” I heard Hugh mutter. He knelt before the last cross, his fingers brushing the inscription. “For what empire? Was it all for nothing?”

My chest ached.

From his coat pocket, he pulled a letter. The edges were frayed, worn by time. He placed the lantern at his feet, unfolding it.

Hugh’s focus was lost in the letter. He crumpled to the earth and it fluttered free, landing next to me. I bent, my hand trembling, picking up the fallen letter. The words glared in black ink:

Kill all Brits.

They’ll be the end of us.

With all my love.

Your Father.

My hand tightened around the locket and I swallowed. “For Piet and Johanna,” I whispered. “I promised them I’d find you. I didn't know I’d stumble upon you here. Your parent’s farm saved me when I was lost in Celeryfontein.”

Hugh’s gaze shifted to me. Something broke in his eyes.

I straightened and my boots sank slightly into the loose dark soil from a freshly mounded grave. I slipped the locket from around my neck, my fingers brushing over the delicate engraving of nightjars on its surface.

“How had I not realized it sooner?” I held the locket out to him. “This is from your parents. They saved me when the Boers infiltrated a British camp. Left me for dead. Your mother mended me. She showed me a picture of her only son, proudly angling it on the hearth’s mantle piece. You. She told me stories of you—about how you went to war, thinking it was the right thing for the country. But they knew. They knew you were fighting for the wrong side.”

Hugh’s eyes blurred with tears. “Yes. My father... He sent his last letter. Told me to come home. To help. But I was too late.”

His fingers curled around the locket.

I reached out, gently cupping his hand, my thumb brushing over the locket. “You weren’t too late,” I whispered. “You came back. That’s all that matters.” I leaned in, my forehead resting against his. “You are home now.”