by Peter Rimmer
“What kept me alive in the bush for so long. In the bush, anything unusual is to be feared.”
Within minutes of the sun sinking behind the hills, the highveld temperature plummeted. Like cows chewing the cud, they both munched the dry meat until it was soft enough to swallow. The light went almost as quickly, leaving the taint of blue in the west behind the hills. Now it was pitch black to the east. Henry got up from the ground and fetched them both an extra blanket strapped to the rumps of their horses. A wind came up and cut through the blanket and their homespun jackets, cutting them to the bone. They could hear the shuffling of wild animals followed by the snort of a wild pig. The crickets, dulled by the winter night, were silent. The stars of heaven came out and then a higher level until they could make out the Milky Way dashed across the deep heavens like milk thrown far and high by a maid emptying the last of her bucket. Once, James imagined he smelt roast meat and told himself he had been too long in the bush. His mind moved from pleasure to fear as he heard the sawing cough of a leopard from across the stream.
“Was that leopard?” said James.
“Yes,” said Henry. “From the trees on the other side. We should make a fire.”
The leopard fell silent for the next half hour but neither of them could sleep. Again, James smelt the rich sweet smell of roast meat and this time saliva rose in his mouth and he laughed to himself. They heard the leopard cough once more and then the dark night exploded with sound as the leopard struck at a pack of baboons they had watched while making camp, the screaming of the babies more human than animal, the pack leaders barking out the danger as the pack scattered. Five minutes later the bush was quiet and this time James was certain he heard laughter, very distant laughter coming on the wind from the hills to the west. Diligently, with hands rock steady, James searched the hills and found the firelight winking on and off as the distant wind moved the boughs of the trees and changed his line of sight.
“That’s a Boer camp,” said James. “Henry, we need a fire. If they saw our camp they will suspect our darkness. First, we make a fire and then we move. They’re roasting a bloody animal, for God’s sake.”
Up in the hills, Tinus was laughing. He had heard the far away baboons screaming for their lives and understood the reason for the panic.
“That brought some sense, Magnus. Now they light a fire. Lucky the baboons were easier meat. There’s a leopard down there. Now I can go and have some mutton. Those are Boers. Stupid Boers, but Boers. Probably ran away when the British rode into Pretoria and don’t know the bush. Tomorrow we’ll go down and make them join the commando. On their own, they’ll be dead in a week… Look at that. More layers of the heavens… Those two down there had me fooled for a moment. All that soft living in Franschhoek… I hope she is all right.”
“My wife will be looking after her. Alison’s strong. She’ll be all right. All women have bad moods after a miscarriage. By the time you go home, she’ll be fine again.”
“When do you think we’ll go home?”
“When we’ve won the war, Tinus. Now, you want some of that mutton or not? All the best bits of fat will have gone but there’ll still be meat… They’ve built quite a fire down there. The leopard must be close to them.”
By the time Tinus had eaten his fill of roast mutton, James and Henry were across the river. They could hear the leopard crunching the bones of the dead baboon and smelt the fresh blood. James shivered and for once in a long time wished he was back in England where it was safe and wild animals did not hunt in the night.
In the morning with the first light of day, Tinus inspected the burnt-out fire and smiled grimly to himself.
“Whoever it was, they left soon after lighting the fire and they went across the river.”
“To get away from the leopard?”
“No. Look over there. In that tree. A baboon carcass hanging halfway up. The leopard will be back for the rest of his meal tonight. And you can see the tracks of their horses. Must have passed yards away from the leopard. Whoever camped here knew exactly what he was doing.”
“You think they were British?”
“I’m certain. Headed north to Rhodesia. There are Englishmen in Rhodesia who know the bush as well as me. I trained one of them. Spies in Boer clothing.”
“Two men can’t do anything.”
“Not by themselves. Get on your horse, Magnus. We must break the camp right now and trek. Split into small commandos. If the generals haven’t finished talking now, they never will.”
British Intelligence had learnt of the Boer meeting before it took place. There was always someone in need of money who was prepared to spy on his fellow man, always someone who had a grudge against his brother. By the time the British were in striking distance, the group had split into small commandos with instructions to harass the British as they tried to take control of the Transvaal beyond the confines of Pretoria and Johannesburg where the mines were working again for their mainly British owners… The unspoken purpose of the war had been fulfilled.
Tinus caught the rearguard with the wagons, killed the British soldiers with accurate rifle fire from seventy yards and looted the wagons of food, guns and ammunition before the advance column knew what had happened in their rear. Instead of trying to pull the ox-wagons and leave a slow trail, Tinus only took what his men could carry on their horses.
“There are going to be more British columns to savage. Speed and space are our friends. We can lead the British plodding round in circles for years until they all get fed up and go home. Everybody wants to go home in the end. We ride. The vultures are beginning to circle. Hit hard and run hard.”
Kei had watched from the time the Boers struck the supply wagons to the time they lumbered forward again, the British having buried their dead. The vultures were circling higher and higher on the thermals, empty of food. There were scattered remnants of the attack and when all was quiet, he came out of his hiding place in the kopje. The horse followed the rocky descent with sure feet, never once stumbling on the loose stones. Leaving his horse to graze on a loose rein, he scavenged the ground for anything that would be useful. There were tins of bully beef scattered where the Boers had looted, a British water bottle in its khaki casing and a pile of loose .303 cartridges which were perfect for his British rifle that had been taken by Shaka when the Zulu left Ladysmith. Blackdog cocked his leg at a looted British ammunition box and made his point before trotting over to Kei eating from the bully beef tin he had cut open with his hunting knife. The dog watched every mouthful going from the tin on the end of the knife, the black eyes liquid with hope and hunger.
“We are both going to eat our fill today, my dog. There are plenty of tins and there’s only you and me. Only you and me.”
They had been hunted down from the moment they left Bulawayo in such a hurry having found the Ndebele hanging from a tree after asking too many questions about an induna’s head-ring and the gold of Lobengula. Shaka had gone off into the bushes for his morning ablution the second day after leaving their false trail, never to be heard or seen again. They rode all that day and again that night when the moon came up, Kei, the two Sothos and Blackdog, that never left his side. After two days they began to relax and Kei went off with Blackdog to hunt for food. When he came back at dusk with a small duiker over the rump of his horse, there was not a trace of Bow-legs or his companion. Man and horse had seemingly vanished into thin air. With the cold shiver brought on by the prospect of his own mortality, Kei decided his days of wandering were over. Despite the chastising he would get from his father Elijah, he was going home to the farm the Oosthuizens called Majuba. In the fading light of dusk, Blackdog and Kei had eaten raw meat before Kei checked the stars for his bearing south. With the sensation of eyes watching his back all through the night, he found a small cave where he had hidden the horse, posted Blackdog at the entrance and slept till the sun was high in the sky.
On the day after James Brigandshaw and Henry Manderville had crossed the Limpopo River going north, Kei cr
ossed the same river going south, knowing full well he owed his life to the dog now eating its third tin of English bully beef, each hunk of congealed meat going down in one swallow. Looking at the graves of the British soldiers, Kei shivered again; wherever he seemed to go at the moment were dead men.
By the time they left with what Kei could carry, the vultures had vanished from the sky.
Annie’s shack was full and Valentine’s dream of going to Mauritius close. Every time Jeremiah Shank had a row with Fran Shaw he came running to Valentine and, despite his bad habits, the rewards had been worth the pain. The moment the war was over she was going to take a ship from Beira and fulfil her dream of living happily ever after like the heroines in the books she read so avidly. A man sat down next to her and broke the picture in her mind.
“How are you, Valentine?”
“Why, Sir Henry! You are so handsome. So thin. I barely, sir, could recognise you. Be so kind as to tell me where you have been.”
Henry Manderville, wincing inwardly at the mangled talk, smiled on the outside. He had always felt sorry for the girl and never wished to break the veil that separated Valentine from reality. He would have preferred to take a drink in Meikles Hotel but like so many perverse things in life, the gentlemen drank in the whorehouse and those who thought they were gentlemen drank in the most expensive hotel.
“We want some company and a drink, Henry,” James had explained that afternoon when they booked their rooms. “Let’s have a bath, get properly dressed and go down to Annie’s shack. It’s not the whores I’m suggesting, Henry, just a good chinwag and find out what’s going on in the world. We’ve been in the bush for too long.”
Valentine kept talking while he looked around the room with its chandelier dominating the patrons. Down the bar was Jack Slater and through the front door came Fran Shaw, followed a pace behind by Jeremiah Shank.
“I always have the urge to punch that man in the nose,” said James sitting down on his left.
“Why didn’t you pick up his lackey for desertion?”
“Forgotten I told you that story. Never jump to conclusions, Henry. There’s usually a good reason for everything. An officer was mistreating a horse and Jones hit him. No gentleman mistreats a horse or a woman… Shank used to work for my father, did I ever tell you that? He was the one paid to put Seb in jail. But of course, you know.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“Why would it matter to him he’s so bloody rich? Made a fortune out of the army. Poor old Greg. She really put horns on him and with Jack Slater half-drunk down the bar this is going to be quite a night.”
“Do you know everything about us?”
“Most everything, Henry. Most everything that’s interesting. There’s power in knowing a man’s bad habits.”
“What do you know about me?”
“Oh, Henry, why ever would you ask?”
“Because of Emily.”
“Oh, that’s all over. We’re family. Arthur’s a social outcast and my father has delusions of grandeur. Seb and Em are happy. If anyone has an argument with Shank it’s Seb, and Seb ignores him… You think I should tell Fran now? Did she ever love him?”
“No. I don’t think so… Married him for his money and when they found out she was a Catholic, the family trust cut him off.”
“That was bad luck. Maybe you had better tell her, Henry, be a good chap.”
Fran understood the moment she walked through the door and saw them at the bar. Gregory was dead. It was the way Henry and James were looking at her and just then the baby gave a kick, her pregnancy hidden by the voluminous skirt. From down the bar, a chair fell over and Jack Slater was looking directly into her eyes. With less than a month before the baby was due, she would have been unable to run even if she wanted. Behind her, Shank saw Jack Slater and with his factotum giving him protection, moved to her right between the entrance and the drunk Jack Slater. Annie came across to block the confrontation. Without a pause and with the best grace she could muster with the baby distorting her walk, Fran crossed the room. Valentine moved off the bar when she saw her coming and made Fran smile grimly. In the old days she would have sat down on the vacated bar stool but with the baby that was impossible. Both the men stood up as she approached and no one spoke. Shank had followed and stood behind Fran.
“Please leave us, Shank. This is family business,” drawled James.
“She’s with me.”
Behind Jeremiah Shank, Annie had her hand on Jack Slater’s arm. Jack Jones, aware that Major Brigandshaw knew him for a deserter, decided discretion was the better part of valour and quietly left the room; with the commission he had made for himself on the side selling the horses, he could afford to make a new life in Australia. When Shank turned round Jones had gone.
“I have some bad news, Mrs Shaw,” said James formally. “Your husband was killed in action. He died instantly from a bullet intended for me. I am very sorry.”
Everyone had heard and Annie dropped her hand from Jack Slater’s arm in sympathy.
“I’m sorry, Fran,” said Henry. “He was a good friend.”
To Henry’s surprise, small tears began to flow down Fran’s cheeks. Unknown to them she was crying for the unborn child who would never know his father despite what she had said to Jeremiah Shank.
“Do you want us to take you back to the farm tomorrow?” asked Henry.
“No. No. I don’t think I’ll be going back to the farm. Poor Greg. He always tried so hard and only once succeeded.”
“She’s with me, cock, I told you,” said Jeremiah.
‘They always revert to type,’ thought Fran, ‘but when I’m old, I have no wish to be poor.’ Then she turned to move out of the room.
“Please, Jack, leave him alone. I’m sorry. Sorry for a lot of things. But leave him alone as it just isn’t worth the trouble. You’re a good man, Jack Slater, and I’m sorry. You would have made a grand administrator of Rhodesia. Jeremiah, I think we should now go home. There is no longer any point in pretensions.”
So far as Seb was concerned the war down south did not exist. The new baby had been born in March and Harry had gone back to school soon after Kimberley was relieved and the railway line was open again. Until the war was over, he was to stay in Cape Town.
“A man without education has no future, Harry,” Seb had told him at Fort Salisbury railway station. “Tell Aunty Alison and Uncle Tinus we miss them all on the farm. You’ve got some catching up to do. You may not appreciate working hard now but you will. I want you to go to Oxford and have what I missed.”
“I want to farm, Father.”
“So you shall. First look at the knowledge accumulated by the world and then come back to Rhodesia. A wise man can usually be successful in life, a fool, never.”
The June sun was hot overhead as the oxen pulled the ploughs slowly through the rich red soil. By the time the first rains came at the end of October, five hundred acres would have been ploughed deep for planting. Seb knew the success of farming came in watching every detail; from sunup to sundown he rode round Elephant Walk checking on each job he had allocated in the first light of morning. He had never been happier in his life.
Emily spent every day alone with the children and the servants. When Seb came back from the lands he had just enough energy to drink two quick brandies, eat his supper and go to bed. By the time Emily undressed he was fast asleep. Most evenings their conversations were so short there was nothing to remember of them while she lay awake next to him, the sound of the drums coming from the compound feeding her fear. Even the new baby slept in its cot at the foot of their bed without making a sound. The thing she missed more than anything was someone to talk to as mostly anything Seb ever said was about the farm; never once did he mention the war. Most mornings she felt more tired than when she had gone to bed.
They had stayed in the hotel three days before Henry Manderville rode alone out to the farm. James Brigandshaw’s leave was cut short; Boer commandos, small u
nits of mobile men, were attacking British columns with impunity from the Transvaal, through the Free State and as far as the Northern Cape. Hit-and-run, swallowed up by the great expanse of Africa. The war was raging like a bushfire out of control.
The ride was pleasant even if a little maudlin, and many times Henry caught himself talking loudly to Gregory Shaw and hearing the answers in his head as clear as a bell. Never before had he talked so normally to the dead, not even his wife; Gregory Shaw, it seemed, was alive and well in his mind. After the maudlin start, the jokes began to play and by the time he rode in through the stockade built by Tinus Oosthuizen, he was happy as a cricket though a little surprised at the reaction of his daughter.
“Oh, Father, I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my life.”
He had not even had time to get down from his horse.
Jeremiah Shank was more annoyed with finding his books fiddled than Jack Jones scarpering off to Australia; employees could always be replaced, money not so easily. Anyway, he told himself, the horses had been sold and the horseman no longer needed. If the man had asked him, he might have given him a bonus; it was the stealing that stuck in his craw and right under his nose. People come and go in life, he told himself, and this one had gone.
The Reverend Nathanial Brigandshaw would have nothing to do with marrying them as they had been living in sin the best part of six months, despite the money Jeremiah had given to build the great church rising steadily out of the bush, a monument to God and the power of the English evangelists in Africa. The civil wedding took place in the music room at Holland Park and everyone that owed him money or did business with the estate on the Hunyani River attended the wedding. The same day Jeremiah wrote to his mentor, Lord Edward Holland, backdating the wedding to make his son perfectly legitimate. No one else in England received a word. There was no chance in his mind the baby would be a girl. Impatiently he waited for the birth when soon after he would set sail for England and set up an establishment in the West End of London. The thought that The Captain had been made a knight of the realm was comforting. If a jumped-up Lancastrian could reach such heights so could Jeremiah Shank from the East End of London.
