The Storm That Shook the World
Page 18
He walked the horses quite a ways down a path, leading away from the village, toward the coast. With one foot in a stirrup, he swung himself up and onto the horse. Markus felt so good he chuckled to himself. Even the smell of the horses energized him as he sat tall in the military saddle.
Traveling alone, through most anywhere in Africa, he knew, was always a dangerous undertaking. The BaTonga people would never venture out far alone. He had to remain constantly on alert, as there were so many animals everywhere, which meant there were predators everywhere. A pride of lions could easily overpower one man with two horses.
The countryside was lush and beautiful, and after a few days of switching the saddle between his two horses, Markus felt he was making good headway. The chance of Portuguese soldiers from the camp overtaking him was very small.
Markus risked detection on account of the noise when he shot a large bird, probably a hornbill. It was similar to the ones Helena hunted at the ranch. After reloading, he counted eleven more bullets left for his revolver. “It’s enough for hunting,” he noted to himself.
He roasted the fowl and feasted on it for several days as he made his way through hills to lower elevations and the savannah. Tall trees, tall grass, and thorn bushes, fifteen feet high, were spread out across the plain in front of him. The rains continued on and off as he followed his compass, bearing due east. He had not seen or found traces of any other humans, Portuguese or native, since stealing the horses. The land was pristine, without the slightest mark of man.
CHAPTER 31
From Terror Above
The day began with a drizzle that continued as he rode at a walk, so the horses could go all day. He had heard that a man could actually outrun a horse over the long haul, but he didn’t know whether it was true. At this point, he was inclined to believe it.
“Early afternoon, time for the last of the hornbill.” He had been talking to the horses for days. He reined them in under one of the larger trees, with its spreading branches forming a canopy like an umbrella. He sat quietly in the saddle for a few moments, surveying the landscape around him.
The first thing he remembered after the attack was feeling like his head was being ripped off his shoulders. He had heard the gunshot. He had heard both horses whinny and found himself on the ground. His hands were up to his face and covered in blood. His revolver, still in one hand, was also covered in blood. He could only see out of one eye.
“Gott allmächtig, what happened?” he spattered through the blood running down to his chin. Then, a flash of memory, a picture came to his mind. The spare horse, terrified, with a spotted leopard on its back, kicking wildly and galloping off with the leopard’s claws raking its back and the cat’s mighty jaws sinking into its withers.
Markus sat there for a long time, stupefied. Finally, he staggered up and leaned against the tree. Both horses were gone. He felt pain. He gently touched the slash marks across his face.
“It must have come down on me out of the tree. Thank God in heaven it chose to go after one of the horses, or I’d be half-eaten by now,” he said. His face ached and was swelling up fast. He wiped the coagulated blood out of one eye and was grateful that he could see with it.
His knapsack was still on his back, but the canteen and water gourds were strapped to his saddle. He unslung his pack and rummaged for a cloth to wipe and bandage his face.
“Can I track the horse? It probably hasn’t gone very far … They usually don’t.”
He walked slowly over to a large puddle and washed his face, wincing as he did it. Markus managed to get a smoky fire going under the big tree and sat there eating the last of the big bird. It was late afternoon when he fell asleep, dreaming bad dreams and then a good dream of his wife and little Rupert, with his happy smile and lovely hair and soft body.
He heard the sound before he opened his eyes, a low, growling sound. He opened the least-swollen eye as his hand closed around the grip of his revolver in his lap. Two striped hyenas were staring at him from the other side of the burned-down fire. With their ugly heads low to the ground, their tongues were hanging out as they sized him up.
Markus raised his revolver slowly as he stared down the barrel into the eyes of the nearest beast. The animal crumpled and rolled backward as the sound wave of the single shot blasted the ears of the other. After a few twitches, the animal laid dead still. The other was gone. Markus grinned through a pained face and said, “Thank you, Jesus; here’s dinner!”
Most people who had never been to Africa—and that would have been most people—thought of Africa as a quiet place, with grand vistas of undeveloped land, or trackless jungle, of deserts stretching to the horizon. It was often, however, a noisy place, especially at night.
After gathering a large pile of kindling and building two fires, Markus was exhausted, but he continued to prepare a spit to roast his kill. In the background, he heard elephants trumpet and lions roar.
With a full belly, Markus felt a little better. He decided he was too weak to look for the horse that evening; it was too dangerous, but if it survived the night, he might find it in the morning. In the meantime, Markus dried the skin of the hyena and made a carrying bag for the meat he was cooking. He made a lastminute decision to burn off the hair on the hide to get rid of the bugs. With a stick, he dragged the skin through the fire, hearing the bugs pop. Back and forth, he pulled the hide until it was bare of hair but still pliable.
He built a third fire, knowing that creatures in the dark could smell his blood. He knew he needed sleep, so he built three fires with heavy, green branches to smoke and smolder all night. Even with a light drizzle, the fires flared up occasionally, lighting up his camp and reflecting off several pairs of eyes watching from the dark.
Morning came, and Markus was up feeding his fires. He wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances. After relieving himself, he gathered enough water to fill his tin cup. He dumped in a small measure of his precious coffee grounds. He seldom threw away the grounds. Either he drank them down or dumped them back into his cloth coffee pouch. He gathered the meat he had hung over the fire the night before to smoke and placed it in the leather bag he made. Roasted meat also went in. Markus was a bit clumsy with the bandage on part of his face and tied around his head, but he managed to press his hat down firmly. The pain had greatly subsided, and with a good night’s sleep, he was ready to look for his horse.
Markus abandoned camp and started tracking the horses. Which set of prints to follow? After a short distance, he detected blood on the ground. Wrong horse. He backtracked and took up the trail of the second horse. It led quite a ways in an almost straight line.
Oh no, he thought as he looked up into the sky ahead. Sure enough, a flock of black-winged, red-headed birds surrounded the carcass. With such a thick gathering, Markus couldn’t be sure it was his horse. He watched them from a distance and finally his suspicions were confirmed. One of the large birds took off, carrying in its beak a section of leather bridle.
“That’s just great!” He actually knew the chances of a domesticated horse surviving alone at night were not good. It would be an easy target for a half dozen predators.
“Thanks for carrying me this far,” he said as he turned his attention to his compass. As an ex-lancer back in China, he remembered how horses had saved his life more than once—he really meant the thanks.
I know there’s a village on the coast, due east of the lakes. That’ll be my goal.
Markus set out to find the old Arab slave port of Quelimane, now a Portuguese possession. He vaguely remembered hearing about German farmers settling in Portuguese East Africa, inland from the coast, harvesting sisal for rope.
That would be a stroke of luck to make contact with them.
Royal Portuguese Crest
CHAPTER 32
General Albuquerque
The Portuguese patrol came upon him several days later, attracted by the smoke from his fires. He was still asleep when his foot was kicked. He woke with a start, h
is hand grasping his revolver.
“No, no, German. Neighbor, friends,” the soldier said in broken German. He had a smile on his shaggy face, as did the other six Portuguese troopers. Markus struggled to get up; his whole body ached from the crash injuries, animal attacks, and hard trekking over land for many weeks. A hand extended to him and pulled him up.
“Where you going, German? What you doing out here? Very dangerous, one man alone.”
Markus thought quickly and decided to tell the truth. “I’m walking to German East Africa to visit my friend and rejoin my unit.”
“Where you come from, German?” the Portuguese soldier asked.
“I came from German South West Africa—by aeroplane—but it crashed way back there.” He pointed west. “About a month or so back west.”
There was rapid discussion among the seven Portuguese soldiers. Finally, the leader turned to Markus. He looked at him a long time, up and down. His gaze lingered on the deep scratches on his face. He noticed Markus was favoring one leg. He saw a small patch of hair missing from Markus’s head and noticed the crude animal sack with the half-rotten meat inside. Markus was a terrible sight, with months of beard growth.
“My companions,” he gestured with his thumb, “they think you crazy. No aeroplane in Africa. You desert German Army, correto? Ha!” He laughed, the others, not understanding any of the conversation, laughed too.
“OK, German, we take you with us.” The Portuguese soldiers were riding horses, and Markus was helped up onto the supply horse.
No saddle, but at least I can ride. They headed east toward the coast and, he assumed, toward their detachment. He was happy to be back on a horse—even though he wasn’t in a saddle. The soldier who spoke some German often rode beside him, so Markus had a chance to hear fragments of war news—old news, but news nonetheless.
“Big battle in France—British, Belgian, all fight German. German fight Russian, too. Portuguese no fight, stay alive … ha, ha.”
“But what about here in Africa—in East Africa?” Markus obviously knew of the fighting in South West Africa. “Is there any fighting in East Africa?”
“Yes,” said the soldier. “British soldiers like fight. All time.” It was a long, hard ride, maybe twelve or thirteen hours, to reach the small Portuguese garrison post. Markus figured they wanted to bring back their prize and so did not make it a two-day trip. It was early evening when the eight riders passed through the rickety gates of the walled enclosure that was the base. One of the riders had gone ahead and informed the commander of their coming.
The party reined in their horses and slid out of their saddles, bone tired. Markus was helped down and, after knocking mud off his boots, ushered into the commander’s office. It had started raining again. He pulled himself together as best he could and saluted the captain of the fifty-man garrison.
“Lieutenant Markus Mathias, electrical unit officer of the First Bavarian Army Corps, assigned to the Imperial German wireless station in Windhoek, German South West Africa, sir.” He knew he sounded bone-weary tired.
Commander Joaquim Augusto Mouzinho de Albuquerque, in a perfectly pressed and bemedaled uniform, returned the salute as several other officers stood by.
Commander Albuquerque looked at the bedraggled soldier before him, shook his head slightly, and motioned for a chair. Someone brought a chair, and Markus gratefully slumped into it.
“Wine,” ordered the commander. He sat down behind a beautifully carved desk that seemed out of place in the otherwise spartan surroundings. He conferred quietly with one of his subordinates and waited for the wine to be poured. He motioned for Markus to take the tall glass of red liquid. They toasted each other silently and took long drinks.
“I have heard fragments of your story, Captain Mathias. Now share with me the details of your,” he hesitated, “your adventures.” He spoke in perfect German.
Markus was impressed and began to spell out his story, leaving out the main objective of his mission delivering advanced wireless parts to German East Africa.
After Markus finished, he was asked several innocuous questions, especially about the aeroplane, with the commander looking skeptical of what he heard.
“I’ve heard there are several aeroplanes in the British East African colony, way up north, and the South Africans may have one or two down south. I have not heard of any in the German colonies.” Markus remained silent.
The general spoke “As we are not at war with Germany, you will be treated as our guest. For now, Captain, we have a room for you and temporary clothing. If you will leave your uniform with the orderly, it will be cleaned and mended and will be ready for you in the morning. You may dine with the officers this evening, or you may wish to rest. Please ignore the guard outside your door. It is standard procedure. You may walk around the garrison as you wish. However, as you know, it is dangerous outside the gates at night.” With that, the commander stood up. Markus stood up, returned the commander’s salute, and was escorted to his room.
On the way there, he asked the orderly, who spoke a bit of German, about the commander. “He has a familiar name … but the Joaquim de Albuquerque I’ve read about committed suicide … and some say he was murdered back in Portugal. Is your commander related to the man I speak of?”
The orderly stopped and looked both ways up and down the hall, then whispered, “It’s him. The Commandante is the same man!” Again, he looked both directions. “But say nothing!”
“He’s still alive! But what is he doing here? Why can’t anyone talk about it?”
“It’s a long story, senior—sir. He has many enemies. That is why he is in this distant post, out here at the end of the world. He was a great man, but …” the orderly trailed off as others approached.
“Here is your room, sir,” he said stiffly. The orderly waited for Markus to undress, then gathered his clothes, pointed out the soap and washstand, and left.
Markus looked at the straight razor, cup, and brush and thought, Later, and instead started a basin bath. He ate all the bread and butter and smoked ham on the tray and drank half a bottle of the wine before falling into the luxury of sheets and a pillow. It had been almost three months since he had felt the coolness of a pillow. But sleep eluded him for a short time as he speculated on the reasons for the strange story.
“So your objective is to travel on to German East Africa?” General Albuquerque asked over a midday meal with the German and other officers.
“As you know, while we Portuguese are allies of the British, we are remaining neutral in the European war and also here in Africa. The fight is of no concern to us at the moment.” He was looking at Markus while Markus was eyeing him. The commander glanced at several of his officers and continued:
“Some officers in Portugal and here in Africa would like to get into this fight for the glory of it, but our king—and I—prefer to watch and see what unfolds.”
“A wise choice, Commander. I’ve seen war in China; it’s not glorious. It’s dirty, bloody, deadly, and frightening.”
Several of the officers at the table sneered, with a smile of contempt on their faces. Markus ignored them except to say, “It’s not like fighting primitive tribes here in Africa.” He hesitated a moment. “What would be the best way to get up north to German territory, sir?”
Albuquerque looked at his officers and then at Markus before speaking: “I’ve been to Dar es Salaam, an old city but interesting for its mix of Arab, African, and Germans. I would take a coaster from Quelimane—that’s a two day ride from here—and then sail the five hundred miles north to the Ruvuma River. It’s the frontier between our two colonies. Depending on the winds and weather, you should get there in about five or six days. But if you are going to attempt it, you had better move along quickly.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“Because, my young German officer, our king may be changing his mind about remaining neutral.”
Markus, looking startled asked, “Why is that, sir?”
Silence fell across the officers’ dining table. The general looked off into the distance and drank his wine. The other officers stared, like wolves, at the German.
Markus sat quietly thinking, What would Levi do?
“Sir, would you lend me a horse and directions to the coast? I’ll find a boat north. I’ll send payment for the horse when I get to German East Africa.”
He waited for a reply. The other officers, at first, looked startled at the audacious request, then laughed and shook their heads.
Commander Albuquerque raised his hand slightly, and the room quieted down. They all stared at him. “May I remind you, gentlemen, that we are still in a state of neutrality with the Empire of Germany and with all the other belligerents? Therefore, we will continue normal relations as before the war.”
He looked over to Markus. “Captain Mathias, you may join the supply train to the coast leaving in two days. You can ride on one of the wagons. Is there any discussion on the matter?”
Without hesitating, the commander said, “Fine,” pushed his chair away from the table, and got up.
Everyone also got up.
“Dismissed,” he commanded, leaving the room.
Markus arrived a week later at the Portuguese coastal town of Quelimane. Several German businessmen had shops or trading concerns there, and Markus soon was sitting in the back room of Herr Leopold’s shipping company, quaffing a warm beer.
“So the Portuguese let Germans settle here and have farms and businesses,” Markus observed. “Pretty good of them.”
“Ja, well, they tax us enough for the privilege, and besides, they wanted to open up the country to make something of it, so they invited us in.” Leopold took a deep draw on his pipe. “So you want to go up north, do you?” He got up and pulled a dusty shade down to block the afternoon light. “You could wait for one of the coastal freighters … a couple of weeks, I imagine, or you could hire one of the Arab sailing scows, but they’re slow.”