The Pioneer Road Poem by Terry Dawson

On his salted horse with his slouch hat rode
A transport rider on the pioneer road.
And the rider's none other than Jan Van der Stead
Whose old frame is topped with an excellent head
And his strong right arm on the endless trail
Is the strapping lad called Benjamin Hayle.
And schooled is old Jan, in the classroom of years
While Ben is a youth of adventure and dares.

It's the terrible year when the rinderpest struck
And they're down on their money but trust to their luck.
The transports and oxen that once were all theirs
Are now hocked to banks for the purchase of wares.

To the crack of the whip haul the sixteen spans
And the wagons roll on to the rider's plans.
And the oxen that toil beneath of the yoke
Are the few that withstood when the cattle plague broke.
So the kokeli leads forward from the driver's whip
As the convoy rolls onward to a hazardous dip -
It's the troublesome crossing of the Shashi's ford
Where natives are restless and there's trouble abroad
But Jan and his henchmen aren't new to the game
And strong are their hearts and steady their aim
But it curdles their blood when the rush is made
And the sunlight flashes on the assegais' blade
And the yells on the tongues of the heathen hoard
Are met by the volleys from the banks of the ford.
In the murderous storm of the hot leaden hail
The charge of the impis falter and fail.
And there in the still when the fighting is done
The wagons cross over by one and by one.

And the road rolls on through long dreary flat
Through the endless miles of the bushvelt mat.
Till amongst the tall hills where the weather is cooler
And they're clear of the lands of Lobengula,
Comes word by way of Ngundu halt
That the nation of Shona has joined the revolt
As the shifting of sands in the endless intrigue
Sees the foes of old times are now bonded in league.

Now the kraals of the Shona are perched on the heights
And the light of their fires betwinkle the nights
And precipitous slopes and near vertical fall
Are hazard to the men of the king when they call
To plunder fresh women and cattle and slaves
While the men and the old ones are fodder for graves.
Now the Shona will fight when the wall's at their back
But they've no appetite for offence or attack
And the creep and the pounce in the dark of night
Is preferred to the hazard of man to man fight.

Many are the troubles and great is the load
That are borne by the men who travel the road
Where attack by the natives or badlands one hears
Are the worries, they say, of all wagoneers
And prominent all on the road to ruin
Are horse fly and tsetse and mis-for-tune.

And weary the men as the sun dips low
But each in his heart knows there's further to go.
Now Ben gallops in with thunder and dust
And waving his hat and shouting to bust
That ahead a few miles and gathered in force
A fierce band of spearmen who stand in their course.
Now Jan looks about at the lay of the land
And finding it good, he circles his hand.
At once the drills of the laager commence
And the wagons draw around in age-old defence
And within them is built a boma of thorn
To hold the beasts safe through the night to the dawn.
With a cool and a calm that's devoid of pretence
Jan assigns to each man his arc of defence
And with resolute voice that steadies and calms
He recalls to his men of the strength of their arms!
The smoke from the fires gives the cattle unease
And drums from afar are borne in on the breeze.
Old Jan, his pipe lit, goes inspecting the lines
And harkens to the night for telltale signs.
Dispute of the dangers they pass safe to the dawn
As the clearance patrol find the foe is withdrawn.
And the cookboy called Cooky in lieu of his name
Is busy with coaxing the embers to flame.
From the lips of the crew, an ironical cheer
As aroma of coffee late comes on the air...

Through the trees of the bush like shadow and shade
Will-'o-the-wisp sightings of Shona are made
And bands of the fighters in irresolute style
Keep watch on the wagons from over a mile.
Should ambushers lie low in the tall yellow grass
Of a trickier stretch of the Providence pass
Then the progress of commerce could be brought to a halt
As a high fence would stymie the unbridled colt.
Then onward and upward with scouts to the fore
The wagons roll on through the foothills once more.
And into the mouth of the narrow defile
Where some warriors close to under a mile.
Jan levels his rifle and steadies his aim
And off to the side Ben's doing the same.
The warriors sink down into cover of grass
And soon they are lost in the folds of the pass.
More spearmen appear on a ridge on the right
But a round in their midst has them scatter in fright.
The ascent of the pass bears many travails
By great heart and grit the transporter prevails
And the Shonas have squandered their single best chance
To plunder the convoy and halt its advance!
And Jan van Der Stead feels the thrill of relief
That the ascent of the pass, though fraught, had been brief
And he passed the hip flask of whisky about
Giving praises to God who had spared him a rout!
Now the miles melt away down the half formed track
As the wagons roll on with the wind at their back.
Some men at the wagons are shading their eyes
At the sight of far horsemen who are cresting a rise..
Then a cheer goes up at the glad sight seen
For the riders are surely the men of the queen!
The red faced sergeant says he's Ponsonby
And that he and his men are the BSAP
And they escort the wagons without further events
To the siege bloated town of mud huts and tents.

In the comfort and cool of a rough-thatched abode
They wash from their throats the dust of the road
And they toast health to each other and to that of the crown
In the busy saloon of Victoria's town!
All the talk is of witches who lead the revolt
And how to prevail and who was at fault;
Of murders at night and treacherous deeds
And narrow escapes and desperate needs;
Of tales of courage or terror filled flight
Through wild places and friendless at night,
But the question most begged of Jan and his crew
Is of the weapons and ammo that they had brought through!


From out of the wagons the merchandise pours
For farmers and miners or purveyors of cures.
There are boxes of bullets and rifles and more
And axes and shovels and picks by the score;
There are bales of cloth, hats, buttons and boots;
Fine dresses for ladies to prurient hoots
And tools for the working of wood and of steel
And rolls of hoop iron for mending a wheel.
There's liquor aplenty for joy or for woe;
All manner of seeds for a farmer to grow;
There's rice and there's flour, salt, pepper an spices
And knives, forks and spoons and kitchen devices...
From the very first moment the trading is brisk
And handsome rewarded is Jan for his risk!
When the day is near spent and low hangs the sun
The last of the trading and barganing's done
And the paniers bulge for the money has flowed
And the wagons stand empty in want of new load
And Providence has repaid what it surely had owed
To the resolute rider of the pioneer road.

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