The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set

by Peter Rimmer

  By the time they camped the first night, there was game on both sides of them, herds of buck and antelope, that Wally named as they first appeared, grazing the vast expanse of the bush. The first rifle shot was Wally shooting a young female kudu that had looked up with big bat ears, and big frightened eyes, from behind a thorn bush, where she had been delicately picking off green shoots without pricking herself on the thorns. It was a good clean shot and made Benny sad, sadder than it should have done. For a brief moment, he would have turned the party around, but they had come so far from Johannesburg, and it was a safari. The poor animal tasted better than any American beef. The party had to eat. Wally had handed him the heart of the kudu, roasted in the coals, and Benny said a silent prayer for the beast’s soul and thanked him for his supper, glad the others could not read his sentimental mind.

  The great plains around his home in Missouri were beautiful, but as the hunting party penetrated deeper into nowhere, Benny was sure he had never seen anything like it before. He knew then he wanted to come back.

  At night Wally checked their position from the stars, reading the south line of the Southern Cross. The first night out of Salisbury they heard the lion roar. By the time they reached the south bank of the Zambezi River, the seduction of Tina Pringle was some way back in his mind. Benny Lightfoot knew he had himself been seduced by the African bush.

  They were going to stay a week beside the big river and made a good camp on a high piece of ground. After days of eating meat, the river bream ate well. Despite the original idea of hunting for trophy heads, Benny said he only wanted to shoot and catch what they would eat. Tina gave him a real smile and he felt good inside that had nothing to do with his hormones. Wally Bowes-Leggatt was the perfect guide, and the boys, as they were called, which was nonsense to Benny as they were all men, were equally enjoying their paid journey into the bush, chatting away to each other nineteen to the dozen. To think that nations were slaughtering each other thousands of miles away was impossible to comprehend in the omnipotence of the African bush.

  “And they call that civilisation,” Benny had drawled, that first night on the banks of the river, thinking of the slaughter far away. No one replied. Wally understood.

  With the fire down, there was layer upon layer of stars in the heavens, the splash of the Milky Way almost close enough to touch. Only when a leopard coughed behind them somewhere in the bush, away from the tall river trees, did Wally signal one of the black men to stoke the fire, sending sparks flying up to the stars, dancing through the canopy of the tall trees that covered their camp. After they had gone to bed, Benny woke each time someone stoked the fire. In the morning it was cold.

  Tina had read the sign to Elephant Walk. In Johannesburg, where the lights were often dim, and good clothes made an old man’s body look better than it was, Tina had been happy to play with Benny Lightfoot. In the bush, he was an old man and there was no way of changing it. The sight of him taking an early morning swim in the river, with Wally on a rock, standing shotgun against the crocodiles, made her laugh. His thighs were thin like sticks. He was swimming in a long pair of shorts. His knees were knobbly, and the little floppy belly rather sad, as it wobbled above the leather belt that kept up the shorts. She wanted to laugh out loud and had to put a hand over her face, making a choking sound. Benny turned around from the water just at the wrong moment and they caught each other’s eyes. Having first been annoyed by her brother, she was now happy he was there, stuck as they were in the middle of nowhere. Twice they had seen villagers on their journey out of Salisbury and then no sign of human habitation. She wondered why. Wally, the poor thing that looked like a shaggy goat, with sloppy big eyes that followed her everywhere she moved, was good at finding his way in the bush but fending off the old voyeur would be another thing. For the rest of her life, she would never again put herself at a man’s mercy, no matter how much money he had in the bank. Looking at the old man climbing out of the water made her feel sick. She much preferred to be surrounded by lots of men, all vying for her attention. There was safety in numbers. She could play them all without fear of retribution. She would have to think before she did things next time.

  The water dripping off the old body looked obscene. She got up from where she was sitting on the ground and climbed into the wagon. The sooner they all went home the better. Straight back to Johannesburg. If there wasn’t a war going on, straight home to England. A flash with a face passed through her mind. It was Barnaby St Clair. For the first time since they had been forced apart, she missed him. Life had been a lot less complicated when they were kids, before that first time in the horsebox down at Swanage. Or was it Poole, she asked herself. So much in her life was sliding together, men and more men. Rows of them. All smelling her heat. Playing with them in more ways than one.

  Getting out of the wagon with a handkerchief, she wondered how it would all end. Taking the bull by the proverbial horns, which Tina thought in her mind was appropriate with so many wild animals all over the place, she walked across to Benny with a pre-made smile on her face. He was dressed again which made it easier. Long, lightweight khaki trousers and a blue shirt that hid his pot belly. He had combed his hair carefully again to hide the bald patch on his pate. Wally was still on his rock with the rifle, staring down the river. Her brother was reading a book. The blacks were in a group off to themselves.

  “Did you have a nice swim, Benny?”

  “Very nice, thank you. Never swam a river full of crocodiles before.”

  They were being so damn polite to each other she could scream. Surely he could see they were going nowhere together.

  “Did you see a sign on the road just out of Salisbury that read Elephant Walk?” she asked.

  “Sure. What does it mean? The walk for the elephants or elephants please walk?”

  “Something like that originally. Wally told me. Every twenty or thirty years the elephants do a great migration. And they always take the same route. An early hunter who stayed to farm saw the migration going through his land and called his farm Elephant Walk. We know the family. Or Bert does. You want to go visit, Benny? You’re not shootin’ for horns or heads. It’s nice here but a bit lonely. What you say, luv? We pack up an’ go visiting. The worst they can do is give us a cup of tea and tell us to bugger off.”

  “Hey, Wally,” shouted Benny, “get off your rock. We’re going back to make a visit.”

  “Where are we going?” drawled Wally, taking his eyes off a pair of fish eagles, motionless on the stump of a dead tree, looking hawk-eyed into the slow brown flow of the river, fishing. He would have liked to have sat with them all day.

  “Elephant Walk.”

  “Harry Brigandshaw?”

  “Have you met him, Wally?”

  “Yes, briefly, and I know all about the family. His father was a legend in these parts. One of the first hunters with Selous and Hartley. He ran away from England. Or was shipped out by his father… We can pay them a visit. Albert met Harry once, so he said. Sebastian Brigandshaw’s wife is still alive. Harry’s mother. Mrs Brigandshaw would be about your age.”

  Wally, having missed the entire point of the safari had put his foot in his mouth. Benny smiled to himself. At least the man was honest. Maybe his days seducing young girls should be over.

  “Sounds a good idea,” said Albert, joining the conversation. He wanted to get back to Johannesburg. To the explosives factory. There was a war going on. If he was still in England they would be sending him to France. Like many other Englishmen in Africa, he was beginning to feel guilty. He was getting the same feeling that sent his brother back from Australia.

  Within half an hour, they had struck camp. Going back was easy. They followed the path crushed by the iron wagon wheels.

  That night, there was pandemonium when Wally woke next to the dead fire. There was no moon and cloud had covered the stars. One of the black men had been taken in his sleep by a lion, pulled from under his blanket, screaming out the last of his life. Wally had a
gun out but it was too dark to see. The lion was running fast, the screams running away with him into the night. Horrified, all they could do was stand and listen. They heard the last, terrible cry for life and then the depth of silence.

  The next day there was cat spoor all around their camp. Lions and lionesses. Wally blamed himself. For once the fire had been allowed to burn out. Away from the river, they had let down their guard and one of them was dead. They tracked the kill all morning, following the trail of human blood that ended with a pride of lions. The big, black-maned father, three lionesses and seven cubs. One of the cubs was chewing on a human hand.

  “Let them be,” said Benny. “It is the way of life. The cubs had to be fed.”

  The Purdey fired three times, the first shot killing the male. Systematically Wally shot down the pride, hunting them to the death on horseback with the help of the blacks. When they were satisfied, they rode back to where Benny stood. Albert had stayed in the fateful camp with Tina.

  “I told you not to do that,” said Benny. He was seething with anger.

  “Oh, it’s not as easy as that, old boy. These chaps look up to us. They wanted revenge. Their friend will rise to the spirit world to his ancestors. But most important those lions won’t stake out a native village and eat the villagers one by one. The father was teaching his cubs. As he should have been. But we don’t want them growing up with bad manners, old boy. You want us to skin the carcasses?”

  “Leave the poor things where they are. I feel bad enough as it is.”

  “Now that is a waste. You wanted to go on safari. You found me in a bar. This is real life. The real jungle. I made a mistake with the fire and will have Jackson on my conscience all my life. I wonder where he came from? What was his real name? None of the others seems to know. No, Mr Lightfoot. We’re going to skin those lions and take them home. Maybe next time I won’t make such a stupid bloody mistake.”

  At the top of the escarpment the next day, Benny Lightfoot looked back over the Zambezi Valley, the trees looking smaller and smaller as his gaze ran down to the valley floor. From their height, the grazing animals were barely visible. There were white fluffy clouds over the distant river. The clouds were motionless, as were their shadows on the valley floor. The trail had wound up for hours, the six oxen pulling the wagon. Jackson’s horse was tied to the back of the wagon on a long lead, the saddle inside next to the wrapped skins of the lions. The heads were still attached to the skins. Wally had covered them with a tarpaulin to keep off the flies.

  After ten minutes they rode on, following the old track of their wagon wheels. No one was talking, the blacks quiet next to the riderless horse. Some ten miles away a bush fire was hazing that part of the valley. Benny could smell the woodsmoke on the wind. Tina was riding next to her brother and Wally was off alone in one of his silent moods. For him, the safari was over, another piece of his life come to an end.

  Benny looked at Wally for a long moment, wondering what would become of him next. Ships passing in the night. There had been many in Benny’s life. Sometimes he could see their faces, rarely remember their names. He felt the pain of loneliness for those parts of his lost life. Down in the valley, he had left nothing else behind. The seduction trip had been a failure. With all his money, he wondered if the same could not be said for his life. Giving a wave to the valley, he turned the head of his horse. He was still not yet fifty. He would remember that. Maybe there would be something else for him to do with the rest of his life.

  By the time they reached the signpost to Elephant Walk a week later, Wally Bowes-Leggatt had made up his mind. He was going home. He was going to England. He was going back to his regiment. In the depth of the war, he didn’t think they would give a damn about his wife’s indiscretions. What his father thought of him would have little effect on his life in France. He was a trained soldier. He couldn’t keep a wife but he could keep the respect of his men. He would divorce the bitch as bitch she had to be to place horns on his head. He may have a funny-looking face. But the rest of him was sound.

  “This is where we part ways,” he said to Benny Lightfoot. After the killing of the lions, they had not been the best of friends. “I’ll take the wagon on to Salisbury and leave your excess luggage at Meikles Hotel. They have a parcels office for farmers to centralise the delivery of their shopping. Deduct the wagon, horse and oxen deposit from your cheque. I’ll pay off the boys and return the equipment. Can’t say I’ve enjoyed the trip but that’s how it goes, old boy. Not much of a safari. I’ll keep the lion skins, seeing you don’t want them. It would be nice if you found out who Jackson was and give his family some money. But you rand barons probably don’t have time for that sort of thing. I’ll try my best when I’m in Salisbury. Oh, and just for a tip, old chap. She is young enough to be your granddaughter, just in case you think I missed the point.”

  “That’s exaggerating.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “What are you going to do?… I’m sorry.”

  “Shoot Germans instead of lions. Most of the regular officers are dead now. Even the colonel, if he’s alive, won’t have any objections. And if my father, the famous general, had any he can go to hell… I have written down every detail for your cheque. I presume the Standard Bank in Salisbury will honour your signature.”

  “I expect they will,” Benny said sarcastically.

  “When are you Americans coming into the war?”

  “Soon. I rather think soon.”

  “Will you come over?”

  “I’m nearly fifty.”

  “So what the hell.”

  “Maybe… You think I’d make a good soldier?”

  “Yes. I think you would.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It is, Mr Lightfoot.”

  “How are you going to pay your passage back to England? By your own report, your mother won’t be sending you money for another month.”

  “I’ll sell the lion skins.”

  “Then their lives won’t have been wasted… And I will find Jackson’s family. You can be certain of that. One of the benefits of being a rand baron. I have some clout… And yes. You are right. She is too young. Men never think they are too old with women until they make fools of themselves.”

  “You didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

  “Nearly. Very nearly.”

  Tina and Albert were two hundred yards down the track towards Elephant Walk.

  “This won’t be a long visit,” said Benny, looking at Albert and Tina. “Albert wants to be back in Johannesburg.”

  “You never know.”

  “Those skins stink by the way.”

  “They do, don’t they? There’s always a price to pay for everything.”

  2

  July 1915

  Emily Brigandshaw had been widowed at the age of thirty-seven by an elephant. Ever since she had been dead. No light in her eyes. No care for herself. Just the daily chores and her children, Harry, Madge, and George. Even her father Sir Henry Manderville living on the farm had been of little consequence. Every day she went through the motions. No one on Elephant Walk ever saw her smile. What went on in her mind was a secret. Even Harry had given up trying to help her while he went about the business of running the farm.

  She had known Harry’s father, Sebastian, most of her life. In the early years, she had lived with her widowed father in genteel poverty at Hastings Court in the south of England, the family fortune having dwindled to the old house that had stood on the same piece of ground for centuries. Nearby, Captain Brigandshaw, founder of Colonial Shipping, had built The Oaks. They had been inseparable as children, Emily and Sebastian. In the grotto, they had seduced each other without understanding any of the implications. She had just turned sixteen, Sebastian seventeen. Neither of them knew another world even existed. Left on their own they had been the only thing in each other’s lives. But like so many other things in life, Emily was to find out later it was not to be. The Captain, whom
many in his erstwhile employ called the Pirate, for the origin of his wealth, a lot of it stolen, they said, in his early years on the high seas, coveted Hastings Court and the antiquity of Sir Henry Manderville’s baronetcy that went back to the time of the Normans. And all the money in the world (and as Colonial Shipping grew there was plenty of that) could not buy the old Pirate respectability. He was certain everyone thought him as common as dirt. All they were after was his trade. His money. Somewhere he had read a family could become gentry in three generations.

  The plan he hatched was for his grandchildren. He could buy himself a hereditary title by donating large sums of money to the Tory party. He could leave his family rich. What he could not do was leave bluer blood in the veins of his descendants without some outside help. He made Sir Henry do a deal with the devil. In exchange for the hand of Sir Henry’s daughter in marriage to his eldest son, the eldest son who would inherit the title he was going to buy, the Pirate would purchase the falling-down Hastings Court, which would be restored, and bequeathed to the eldest son of his eldest son. The Pirate’s grandson would have wealth and the respect of ancient lineage. Arthur, the eldest son of the Pirate, debauched and living off his father’s fantasy, fell in with the plan. Sebastian, the Pirate’s youngest son, was shipped out to the colonies to get him out of Emily’s way. Emily, struck dumb by the secret knowledge she was pregnant with Sebastian’s child, fell in with the plan. To a point. She refused to sleep with Arthur, who merely chortled with glee. Not only was the stuck-up little penniless aristocrat not going to give him trouble with his mistresses, but the prissy little thing was also pregnant, pregnant, Arthur was sure, by brother Sebastian, a lovely joke on their father. All Arthur had to do was sit back and enjoy his life. Everything had been done for him. Even the breeding of his son, who wasn’t his son but still his father’s grandson. Arthur Brigandshaw regularly laughed himself to sleep.