by Wilbur Smith
‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ he told it, and laughed for the first time since he had returned to barracks. He lowered the weapon and read the engraving on the barrels.H&H Royal.470 Nitro Express. Then the pure gold oval inlay let into the walnut of the butt caught his eye. It was engraved with the initials of the original owner: PO’H.
‘Patrick O’Hearne,’ he murmured. The magnificent weapon had belonged to Verity’s dead husband. An envelope was pinned to the green baize of the lid beside the maker’s label. He set down the rifle carefully on the pillow at the head of his bed and reached for it. He split the seal with his thumbnail and pulled out two folded sheets of paper. The first was a receipt dated 29 August 1906:
To whom it may concern: I have this day sold the H&H.470 rifle with serial number 1863 to Lieutenant Leon Courtney and have received from him the sum of twenty-five guineas in full and final payment. Signed: Verity Abigail O’Hearne.
With this document Verity had transferred the rifle legally into his name so that nobody could contest his ownership. He folded the receipt and returned it to the envelope. Then he opened the other sheet of paper. It was undated and the handwriting was scrawled and uneven, unlike that on the receipt. Her pen had twice left splashes of ink on the page. It was obvious that she had been in a state of upheaval when she had written it.
Dearest, dearest Leon,
By the time you read this I will be on my way back to Ireland. I did not want to go, but I have been given little choice. Deep in my heart I know that the person who is sending me away is right and it is for the best. Next year I will be thirty years old, and you are just nineteen and a very junior subaltern. I am sure that one day you will be a famous general covered with medals and glory, but by then I will be an old maid. I have to go. This gift I leave you is an earnest of my affection for you. Go and forget me. Find happiness somewhere else. I will always hold you in my memory as I once held you in my arms.
It was signed ‘V’. His vision blurred and his breathing was uneven as he reread the letter.
Before he reached the last line there was a polite knock on the door of his rondavel. ‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘It is me, Effendi.’
‘Just a minute, Ishmael.’
Quickly he wiped his eyes on the back of his forearm, placed the letter under his pillow and packed the rifle back into its case. He pushed it under the bed and called, ‘Come in, Beloved of the Prophet.’
Ishmael, who was a devout coastal Swahili, came in with a zinc bathtub balanced on his head. ‘Welcome back, Effendi. You bring the sun into my heart.’ He set the tub in the centre of the floor, then set about filling it with steaming buckets of water from the fireplace behind the hut. While the water cooled to a bearable temperature, Ishmael whipped a sheet around Leon’s neck and then, with comb and scissors, took up position behind him and began to snip at Leon’s sweat- and dust-caked hair. He worked with practised skill, and when he had finished he stood back and nodded, satisfied, then fetched the shaving mug and brush. He worked up a creamy lather over Leon’s stubble, then stropped the long blade of the straight razor and handed it to his master. He held the small hand mirror while Leon scraped his jaw clean, then wiped away the last traces of soap.
‘How does that look?’ Leon asked.
‘Your beauty would blind the houris of Paradise, Effendi,’ Ishmael said solemnly, and tested the bathwater with one finger. ‘It is ready.’
Leon stripped off his stinking rags and threw them against the far wall, then went to the steaming bath and lowered himself into it, with a sigh of pleasure. The bath was hardly large enough to accommodate him, and he sat with his knees under his chin. Ishmael gathered up his soiled clothing, holding it ostentatiously at arm’s length, and carried it away. He left the door open behind him. Without knocking, Bobby Sampson ambled in.
‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,’ he said, with a diffident grin. Bobby was only a year older than Leon. He was a large, gawky but affable youth, and as the two most junior officers in the regiment, he and Leon had formed a friendship that had at its core the instinct for survival. They had sealed their friendship with the joint purchase of a dilapidated and road-beaten Vauxhall truck from a Hindu coffee-grower for the sum of three pounds ten shillings, almost their total combined savings. By working until all hours of the night they had restored it to an approximation of its former glory.
Bobby went to the bed and dropped on to it, placed his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and contemplated the gecko, which had climbed into the rafters and now hung upside down, above him. ‘Well, old man, you seem to have got yourself into a bit of a pickle, what? I’m sure you know by now that Freddie the Frog is accusing you of all sorts of mischief and wrongdoing. Quite by chance, I happen to have with me a copy of the charge sheet.’ He reached into the large side pocket of his uniform jacket and brought out a crumpled ball of papers. He smoothed them out on his chest, then waved them at Leon. ‘Some pretty colourful stuff here. I’m impressed with your naughtiness. Trouble is, I’ve been ordered to defend you, what? What?’
‘For God’s sake, Bobby, stop saying “what”. You know it drives me mad.’
Bobby put on an expression of contrition. ‘Sorry, old boy. Truth is I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m supposed to be doing.’
‘Bobby, you are an idiot.’
‘Can’t help it, my old beauty. Mother must have dropped me on my head, don’t you know? Anyway, back to the main item on the agenda. Have you any idea what I’m supposed to be doing?’
‘You’re supposed to bedazzle the judges with your wit and erudition.’ Leon was beginning to feel more cheerful. He enjoyed the way Bobby hid his astute mind behind a bumbling façade.
‘Bit depleted in the wit and erudition department, at the moment,’ Bobby admitted. ‘What else is there?’
Leon rose from the bath splashing soapy water over the floor. Bobby balled up the towel Ishmael had left on the end of the bed and threw it at his head.
‘For a start, let’s read through the charges together,’ Leon suggested, as he towelled himself.
Bobby brightened. ‘Brilliant idea. Always suspected you of being a genius.’
Leon pulled on a pair of khaki trousers. ‘Bit short of seating in here,’ he said. ‘Move your fat arse.’
Bobby sat up, serious now. He made room for his friend on the bed, and Leon settled beside him. Together they pored over the charge sheet.
When the light in the hut faded, Ishmael brought in a bullseye lamp and hung it on its hook. They worked on by its feeble yellow light, until at last Bobby rubbed his eyes and yawned, then pulled out his half-hunter and wound it vigorously. ‘It’s well past midnight and you and I have to be in court at nine o’clock. We’ll have to call it a day. By the way, would you like to know what I think of your chances of acquittal?’
‘Not really,’ Leon answered.
‘If you offered me odds of a thousand to one I wouldn’t risk twopence ha’penny,’ Bobby told him. ‘If only we could find this sergeant of yours the story might have a different ending.’
‘Fat chance of that happening before nine o’clock tomorrow. Manyoro’s on top of a mountain in Masailand, hundreds of miles away.’
The officers’ mess had been converted into a courtroom to house the proceedings. The three judges were seated at the high table on the dais. There were two tables below them, one for the defence and the other for the prosecution. It was hot in the small room. On the outside veranda a punkah-wallah heaved regularly on the rope that disappeared into a hole in the ceiling above him, and from there over a series of pulleys to the fan hanging above the judges’ table. Its blades whirred monotonously, stirring the languid air into an illusion of cool.
Sitting beside Bobby Sampson at the defence table, Leon studied the faces of his judges. Cowardice, desertion, dereliction of duty and failing to obey the orders of a superior officer: all of the crimes with which he was charged carried the maximum penalty of execution by firin
g squad. The skin of his forearms prickled. These men held over him the power of life and death.
‘Look them in the eye and speak up,’ Bobby whispered, holding up his notepad to conceal his lips. ‘That’s what my old daddy always told me.’
Not all of his judges looked human and compassionate. The senior man was the Indian Army colonel who had come by rail from Mombasa. It seemed that the journey had not agreed with him. His expression was sour and dyspeptic. He wore the flamboyant uniform of the 11th (The Prince of Wales’ Own) Bengal Lancers. There were two rows of decoration ribbons on his chest, his riding boots gleamed and the tail of his multi-coloured silk turban was thrown back over one shoulder. His face was flushed by the sun and whisky, his eyes were as fierce as a leopard’s, and the tips of his moustache were waxed into sharp points.
‘He looks a right man-eater,’ Bobby whispered. He had been following Leon’s gaze. ‘Believe me, he’s the one we have to convince, and it’s not going to be easy.’
‘Gentlemen, are we ready to begin?’ boomed the senior judge, and turned his cold, slightly bloodshot eyes on Eddy Roberts at the prosecution table.
‘Yes, Colonel.’ Roberts stood up respectfully to reply. He was Froggy Snell’s favourite, which was why he had been selected.
The president looked at the defence table. ‘What about you?’ he demanded, and Bobby leaped to his feet with such alacrity that he sent his carefully arranged pile of papers cascading on to the floor. ‘Oh, dearie me!’ he stuttered and dropped to his knees to gather them up. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘Are you ready?’ Colonel Wallace’s voice was as loud as a foghorn in the confines of the small room.
‘I am, sir. I am indeed.’ Bobby peered up at him from the floor, clutching his papers to his chest. He was blushing rosily.
‘We haven’t got all week. Let’s get on with it, young fellow.’
The adjutant, serving as clerk and court recorder, read the list of charges, then Eddy Roberts came to his feet to open the case for the prosecution. His manner was relaxed, and he spoke clearly and convincingly. The judges followed his address with attention.
‘Damn me, but Eddy’s rather good, what?’ Bobby fretted.
After his preamble Eddy called Major Snell, his first witness, to the box. He led him through the charge sheet and had him confirm the details set out in the document. Then he questioned him on the accused’s service record and the performance of his duties up to the time when he was sent to guard the boma at Niombi. Snell was too sly to let his evidence seem one-sided and prejudiced against Leon. However, he managed to make his qualified and lukewarm assessments seem like damning condemnation.
‘I would reply to that question by saying that Lieutenant Courtney is a skilled polo player. He also evinces a passion for big-game hunting. These activities take up much of his time when he might be better employed elsewhere.’
‘What about his other behaviour? Have you been made aware of any social scandal surrounding his name?’
Bobby jumped to his feet. ‘Objection, Mr President!’ he cried. ‘That calls for conjecture and hearsay. My client’s conduct when off duty has no bearing on the charges before the court.’
‘What do you say to that?’ Colonel Wallace turned his searching glare on Eddy Roberts.
‘I believe that the accused’s integrity and moral character have a direct bearing on this case, sir.’
‘The objection is denied and the witness may reply to the question.’
‘The question was...’ Eddy pretended to consult his notes ‘... are you aware of any scandal surrounding the name of the accused?’
It was what Snell had been waiting for. ‘As a matter of fact there has recently been an unfortunate incident. The accused became involved with a young gentlewoman, a widow. So blatantly scandalous was his behaviour that it brought the honour of the regiment into question, and enraged the local community. The governor of the colony, Sir Charles Eliot, had little option but to arrange for the lady in question to be repatriated.’
The heads of the three judges turned to Leon, their expressions forbidding. It was only a few years since the death of the old queen, and despite the racy reputation of her son, the reigning sovereign, the older generations were still influenced by Victoria’s strict mores.
Bobby scribbled on his notepad, then turned it so that Leon could read what he had written. ‘I am not going to cross-examine on that issue, agreed?’
Leon nodded unhappily.
After a long pause to let the importance of that testimony register with the judges, Eddy Roberts picked up a thick book from the desk in front of him. ‘Major Snell, do you recognize this book?’
‘Of course I do. It’s the battalion order book.’
Eddy opened it at a marked page and read aloud the extract that covered Leon’s orders to take his detachment to Niombi boma. When he had finished he asked, ‘Major Snell, were those your orders to the accused?’
‘Yes.’
Eddy quoted once again from the open page of the order book: ‘ “You are ordered to proceed with utmost despatch...” ’ He looked up at Snell. ‘With utmost despatch,’ he repeated. ‘Those were your precise instructions?’
‘They were.’
‘In the event the accused took eight days to make the journey. Would you consider that he acted “with utmost despatch”?’
‘No, I would not.’
‘The accused has given as his reason for his tardiness the fact that en route to Niombi he came across the tracks of a rebel war-party and felt it his duty to follow them up. Would you agree with him that it was his duty?’
‘Certainly not! His duty was to proceed to Niombi and take up a guard position over the inhabitants, as he had been ordered to do.’
‘Do you think that the accused would have been able to recognize with any certainty that the tracks he was following had been made by Nandi rebels?’
‘I do not. I am strongly inclined to doubt the assertion that the tracks were left by humans. Given Lieutenant Courtney’s predilection for shikar - hunting - it was more likely that the tracks of some animal, such as a bull elephant, excited his attention.’
‘Objection, your honour!’ wailed Bobby. ‘That is merely conjecture on the part of the witness.’
Before the senior judge could make a ruling Eddy cut in smoothly: ‘I withdraw the question, sir.’ He was satisfied that he had placed the thought in the minds of the three judges. He led Snell on through Leon’s report. ‘The accused states that, with most of his men killed and his sergeant badly wounded, he fought a valiant defence against heavy odds and was only driven out of the Niombi boma when the rebels set fire to the building.’ He tapped the page of the document. ‘When that happened he placed the wounded man on his back and, using the smoke from the building as a screen, carried him away. Is this credible?’
Snell smiled knowingly. ‘Sergeant Manyoro was a big man. He stood well over six feet.’
‘I have a copy of his medical report. The man stood six feet three and a half inches with his feet bare. A very big man. You would agree?’
‘Indeed.’ Snell nodded. ‘And the accused claims that he carried him something like thirty miles without being overtaken by the rebels.’ He shook his head. ‘I doubt that even such a powerful man as Lieutenant Courtney is capable of such a feat.’
‘Then what do you think has happened to the sergeant?’
‘I believe that the accused deserted him at Niombi with the rest of his detachment, and made his escape alone.’
‘Objection.’ Bobby jumped to his feet. ‘Conjecture!’
‘Objection sustained. The court recorder will strike the question and the witness’s reply from the record,’ said the turbaned colonel, but he glanced disapprovingly at Leon.
Eddy Roberts consulted his notes. ‘We have heard evidence that the relief column was unable to find the sergeant’s body. How would you account for that?’
‘I must correct you there, Captain Roberts. The eviden
ce is that they were unable to identify the sergeant’s body among the dead. That is a different matter. They found corpses in the burned-out building, but they were charred beyond recognition. The other bodies were either decapitated by the rebels or so badly mauled by vultures and hyena that they also were unrecognizable. Sergeant Manyoro could have been any one of those.’
Bobby cupped his face in his hands and said wearily, ‘Objection. Supposition.’
‘Sustained. Please stick to factual evidence, Major.’ Snell and his favourite exchanged a smug glance.
Eddy went on in a businesslike tone: ‘If Sergeant Manyoro had escaped from Niombi with the assistance of the accused, can you suggest where he is now?’
‘No, I cannot.’
‘At his family manyatta, perhaps? Visiting his mother, as the accused has stated in his report?’
‘In my view that is highly unlikely,’ Snell said. ‘I doubt that we shall ever see the sergeant again.’
The judges adjourned for a lunch of cold roasted guinea fowl and champagne on the wide veranda of the officers’ mess, and when they resumed Eddy Roberts continued his examination of Snell until the middle of the afternoon when he turned to the senior judge. ‘No further questions, your honour. I have finished with this witness.’ He was well satisfied and did not attempt to conceal it.
‘Do you wish to cross-examine, Lieutenant?’ The senior judge asked, as he consulted his pocket watch. ‘I would like to conclude by tomorrow evening at the latest. We have a ship to catch in Mombasa on Friday evening.’ He gave the impression that the verdict was already decided.
Bobby did his best to shake Snell’s self-confident mien, but he had so little to work with that the man was able to turn aside his questions in an indulgent and condescending tone, as though he was speaking to a child. Once or twice he cast a conspiratorial glance at the three judges.
