Assegai

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Tell him, Leon!’ Kermit was bubbling over, but he didn’t want to appear a braggart.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, this afternoon Mr Roosevelt managed to shoot the lion we’ve been looking for since the start of our safari.’

  ‘A lion!’ Fagan spilled a few drops of whisky. ‘Now that’s real news. How does it compare with the one taken a week or so ago by the President?’

  ‘You’ll have to judge that for yourself,’ Leon said.

  ‘May we see it?’

  ‘Come this way,’ Kermit told him eagerly and, picking up a burning brand from the fire, he led them to where the lion lay. Up to now it had been hidden by the night. He held the flame high to illuminate the scene.

  ‘Well, damn me to hell, that’s a monster!’ said Fagan, and turned quickly to his photographer. ‘Carl, get your camera.’ For almost another hour he persuaded Kermit and Leon to pose with the trophy, although Kermit needed little persuasion. Their vision was starred with the multiple explosions of flash powder when finally they returned to the fire and took up their mugs again. Fagan pulled out his notepad. ‘So, tell us, Mr Roosevelt, how does it feel to have done what you did today?’

  Kermit thought about that for a while. ‘Mr Fagan, are you a hunter? It will make it easier to explain if you are.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m a golfer, not a hunter.’

  ‘Okay. For me this lion was like you shooting a hole-in-one in the Open Championship, during a playoff with Willie Anderson for the title.’

  ‘Wonderful description! You have a gift with words, sir.’ Fagan wrote swiftly. ‘Now tell me the whole story, blow by blow, from when you first saw that huge beast to the moment of the kill.’ Kermit was still wrought up with excitement and whiskey. He left nothing out, and did not stint on the use of hyperbole. He appealed regularly to Leon for confirmation of the finer details. ‘Isn’t that so? Isn’t that exactly what happened?’ And Leon backed him up loyally, as a hunter is duty-bound to do for his client. At last, when the story was told, they sat in silence digesting the details. Leon was about to suggest that it was time for everybody to turn in when a thunderous roar came from the darkness.

  ‘What was that?’ Andrew Fagan was alarmed. ‘What in God’s name was that?’

  ‘That’s the lion we’re going to hunt tomorrow,’ said Kermit, offhandedly.

  ‘Another lion? Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Mind if we tag along?’ Fagan asked, and Leon opened his mouth to refuse, but Kermit beat him to it.

  ‘Sure. Why not? You’re welcome, Mr Fagan.’

  Early the next morning the skinners began work on the lion, and coated the wet skin with a thick layer of rock salt. ‘Wait here when you’ve finished,’ Leon told them. ‘I’ll send Loikot to fetch you.’

  As the light came up out of the east he watched the treeline across the glade. As soon as he could make out individual leaves against the dawn sky, he said, ‘Shooting light! Mount up, please, gentlemen.’ When they were all in the saddle, he gave a hand signal to Manyoro. With the two Masai trackers leading they moved out in close order. Gradually Leon eased his pony back into the column until he was riding stirrup to stirrup with Fagan. He spoke softly but firmly. ‘Mr Roosevelt was very generous to allow you to join the hunt. If it had been up to me I would have refused. However, you may have underestimated the danger involved. If things go wrong somebody could get badly hurt. I’m going to insist that you keep well back, and safely out of the way.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Courtney. Anything you say.’

  ‘By “well back”, I mean at least two hundred yards. I will be taking care of my client. I won’t be able to look after you as well.’

  ‘I understand. Two hundred yards away and as quiet as a mouse it shall be, sir. You won’t even know we’re there.’

  Manyoro led them two miles to the next lion bait. As they approached the bloated carcass of the old giraffe, a large colony of vultures that had been feeding on it launched into flight and a clan of a dozen or more hyenas fled in grotesque panic, their tails twisted over their backs, giggling shrilly, blood and offal smearing their grinning jaws.

  ‘Hapana.’ Manyoro shrugged ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There are three more baits. He’s bound to be on one of them. Don’t waste time, Manyoro, lead us on,’ Leon ordered. The second carcass lay in the centre of an open glade of freshly burned black stubble surrounded on three sides by green Kusaka-saka bush, whose dense foliage hung close to the ground and afforded a safe retreat for a fleeing animal. But Leon had seen to it that there was a wide area of open ground around the carcass. Space enough for them to work in.

  The first thing that struck Leon and tautened his nerves was that the upper branches of the trees were loaded with a huge colony of vultures and a small group of four hyena was standing at the edge of the Kusaka-saka. Both vultures and hyena were keeping well away from the dead buffalo cow in the middle of the clearing. There must be something there that they did not like. Then Manyoro, who was well in the lead, stopped and made a discreet gesture that warned Leon as clearly as if he had spoken.

  Leon reined in. ‘Be careful. He’s here,’ he said to Kermit. ‘Wait. Manyoro’s getting hot. Let him work it out for us.’ Fagan and his party rode up. ‘You will stay here,’ Leon told them. ‘Don’t come any closer until I give you the signal. You will have a good view of the proceedings from here, but you must keep well out of harm’s way.’ They watched Manyoro test the wind. It was light and warm, but blowing directly from them to the bait. Manyoro shook his head and made another gesture.

  ‘Right, chummy, the lion’s on the kill,’ Leon told Kermit. ‘We’re going in. Same drill as last time. Steady. Don’t hurry. But whatever you do, don’t stare at the bloody lion this time.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’ Kermit was grinning with nervous excitement and his hand was trembling as he reached down for the rifle in its boot. Leon hoped that the slow walk-in would give him time to get a grip on himself.

  They dismounted.

  ‘Check your piece. Make sure you have a bullet up the spout.’ Kermit did as he was told and Leon saw with relief that his hands had steadied. He signalled to Manyoro to take up his position behind them and they started the long slow march across the open burned area. Little puffs of fine ash rose from each step they took. They were still two hundred and fifty yards from the carcass when the lion stood up from behind it. He was very big, every bit as big as the old lion. His mane was full but ginger, touched only lightly with sooty black at the tips. He was in beautiful condition, his hide sleek and glossy, with no ugly scars. When he snarled his fangs were shiny white, long and perfect. But he was young, and therefore unpredictable.

  ‘Don’t look at him!’ Leon warned, in a whisper. ‘Keep walking but, for God’s sake, don’t look at him. We must get closer. Much closer.’ When they were still a hundred and fifty yards from him the lion snarled again and his tail twitched uncertainly. He turned his great maned head and glanced behind him.

  Oh, shit! No! Leon lamented silently. He’s lost his nerve. He’s not going to hold his ground. He’s going to break.

  The lion looked back at them, and snarled for the third time, but the sound lacked murderous intensity. Then, abruptly, he swung away and bounded across the open ground towards the safety of the Kusaka-saka thicket.

  ‘He’s getting away!’ Kermit shouted, and ran forward three quick paces, then stopped dead. He lifted the Lee-Enfield.

  ‘No!’ Leon shouted urgently. ‘Don’t shoot.’ The range was far too long, and the lion was a fast-moving target. Leon ran forward to restrain Kermit, but the Lee-Enfield cracked sharply and the muzzle jumped. The lion’s long lean muscles played beneath the glossy hide like those of an athlete in his prime. Leon saw the bullet strike. At the point of impact the skin jumped and rippled, as though a stone had been tossed into a still, deep pond. It was two hands’ span behind the last rib in the lion’s flank, and low of the central line of the body.

  ‘Gut s
hot!’ Leon moaned. ‘Much too far back.’ The lion grunted as he took the bullet and burst into a dead run. In the time it took Leon to get the rifle to his shoulder the beast had almost reached the safety of the Kusaka-saka. It was far beyond the accurate range of the Holland. Nonetheless Leon was forced to fire. The lion was wounded. It was his moral duty to try to finish it, no matter how remote the chances of success. He cut loose with the first barrel, only to see the heavy bullet drop too sharply and throw up dust under the lion’s chest. The report of his second shot blended with the first, but he did not see the strike before the lion disappeared into the bush. He looked back quickly at Manyoro, who touched his left leg.

  ‘Broken his bloody back leg,’ Leon said angrily. ‘That won’t slow him down much.’ He ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded the Holland.

  ‘Don’t just stand there with an empty rifle admiring the view,’ he snapped at Kermit. ‘Reload the damned thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kermit said, shamefaced.

  ‘So am I,’ Leon retorted grimly.

  ‘He was getting away,’ he tried to explain.

  ‘Well, now he’s well and truly got away, with your bullet in his belly.’ Leon beckoned Manyoro to join him, and the two squatted, heads close together, talking seriously. After a while Manyoro went back to join Loikot, and the two Masai took snuff together. Leon sat down on the bare earth with the Holland across his lap. Kermit was sitting a little way off, watching Leon’s expression. Leon ignored him.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Kermit asked at last.

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For the poor beggar to bleed out, and for his wounds to stiffen up.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then Manyoro and I go in there and flush him out.’

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘No, you bloody well won’t. You’ve had enough fun for the day.’

  ‘You could get hurt.’

  ‘That’s a distinct possibility.’ Leon chuckled bitterly.

  ‘Give me another chance, Leon,’ Kermit asked pathetically.

  Leon turned his head and looked directly at him for the first time, his eyes hard and cold. ‘Tell me why I should.’

  ‘Because that magnificent animal is dying a slow and agonizing death in there, and I am the one who hurt him. I owe it to God, the lion and my sacred honour as a man to go in there and put him out of his misery. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leon, and his expression softened. ‘I understand very well, and I salute you for it. We’ll go in together and I’ll count it an honour to have you beside me.’

  He was about to say more, but he glanced across the clearing and his expression crumbled into horror. He scrambled to his feet. ‘What does that blithering idiot think he’s playing at?’ Andrew Fagan was riding slowly along the very edge of the Kusaka-saka, directly towards the spot where the wounded lion had disappeared. Leon broke into a run to try to head him off.

  ‘Go back, you bloody fool! Get back!’ he bellowed, at the top of his lungs. Fagan did not even look around. He rode on slowly into mortal danger. Leon was running hard, covering the ground swiftly, and did not shout again. He was saving his breath for the terrible moment he knew was coming. Now he was so close that Fagan must hear him: ‘Fagan, you idiot! Come away from there!’ he yelled, and waved the rifle above his head. This time Fagan looked around and waved his riding crop cheerily, but he did not check his horse.

  ‘Come back here immediately!’ Leon’s voice was high with desperation.

  This time Fagan stopped the horse and his smile evaporated. He turned towards Leon, and at that moment the lion erupted from the dense screen of Kusaka-saka at full charge, grunting with fury. Mane erect and yellow eyes blazing, he rushed towards Fagan.

  His horse threw up its head, then reared wildly on its back legs. Fagan lost one stirrup and was thrown on to his mount’s neck. The horse bolted, and Fagan clung to it with both arms. Over the short distance the lion was faster than horse and rider so he overtook them swiftly. Leaping up, he hooked the long yellow claws of both front paws deeply into the horse’s croup.

  The horse whinnied with agony and bucked violently in an attempt to free itself from the cruel grip. Fagan lost his seat and hit the ground with a thump like a sack of charcoal thrown from the back of a coal dray, but his foot caught in a stirrup and he was towed behind the struggling horse, under the back legs of the lion. The horse squealed and kicked savagely, trying to dislodge its attacker. Its hoofs flashed around Fagan’s head. As one of the lion’s back legs was broken, he could not get enough purchase to pull the horse down. The struggle was almost obscured by clouds of ash kicked up from the burned grass. Unsighted by the dustcloud, Leon dared not shoot for fear of hitting the man rather than the lion. Then Fagan’s stirrup leather snapped under the strain and he rolled clear of the mêlée.

  ‘Fagan, come to me!’ Leon roared. This time Fagan responded with alacrity. He came to his feet with the stirrup steel still on his right foot and stumbled towards him. Behind him the lion and the horse were still struggling, the horse kicking with both back legs, dragging the lion in a circle, the lion roaring, holding on with his front paws and trying to bite into the horse’s heaving rump.

  The horse kicked again and this time landed both hoofs solidly on the lion’s chest. The blow was so heavy that he was thrown backwards and his claws tore free of the horse’s flesh. He rolled onto his back but in the same movement sprang to his feet. The horse broke away at a wild gallop, blood spraying from the deep wounds in its croup, and the lion started after it, but the running figure of Fagan diverted his attention. He changed direction swiftly and came after Fagan. Fagan glanced back and wailed pitifully.

  ‘Come to me!’ Leon was running to meet him, but the lion was faster. He was still unable to fire because Fagan was directly between him and the beast. In a second it would have him.

  ‘Get down!’ Leon screamed. ‘Fall flat and give me a clear shot.’

  Perhaps in obedience, but more likely because his legs simply gave way under him in a paralysis of fear, Fagan collapsed and, like an armadillo, rolled himself into a ball on the bare earth, knees drawn up to his chest and both hands clasped to the back of his head. His eyes were screwed tightly shut in a face that was a blanched mask of terror. It was almost too late. The lion rushed in as silently as death, no longer grunting in the last fatal moments of the charge, jaws agape, fangs bared. He stretched out his neck to bite into Fagan’s helpless body.

  Leon let drive with his first barrel and the bullet smashed through the lion’s lower jaw. White chips of teeth flew like gaming dice from a cup. Then the expanded bullet drove on with immense power through the full length of the great tawny body, from breast to anus. It hurled the lion backwards, end over end, in an untidy somersault. He rolled back on to his feet and stood, swaying unsteadily, head hanging, blood dribbling from open jaws. Leon’s second shot crashed into his shoulder, shattering bone and ripping through the heart. The lion fell back in a loose-limbed tangle, eyes tightly closed. His broken, bloody jaws mouthed the air fruitlessly.

  Leon had two more fat brass cartridges held ready between the fingers of his left hand. With a flick of his thumb on the top lever and a snap of his wrist the action of the Holland sprang open, and when the spent cartridge cases had pinged away he replaced them with one deft movement, swiftly as a card-sharp palming an ace. The Holland leaped back to his shoulder. He fired the insurance shot into the lion’s chest, and the unbroken back leg kicked spasmodically in the final death throe, then stilled.

  ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Fagan. You may stand up now,’ Leon said politely. Fagan opened his eyes and looked around as if he expected to find himself lying before the pearly portals of Paradise. He climbed painfully to his feet.

  His face was as white as a Kabuki mask, but glossy with sweat. His body was powdered with ash. However, the front of his twenty-dollar Brooks Brothers riding breeches was sopp
ing wet. When he took a hesitant pace towards Leon his boots squelched.

  Andrew Fagan Esquire, stalwart of the fourth estate, doyen of the American Associated Press, committee member of the New York Racquets Club, and eight-handicap captain of the Pennsylvania Golf Club, had just pissed his pants copiously.

  ‘Tell me truly, sir, did you not find that a lot more invigorating than eighteen holes of golf?’ Leon asked mildly.

  Eventually the great presidential safari left the banks of the Ewaso Ng’iro river and trundled on ponderously towards the north-east through the wildly beautiful hinterland. Kermit and Leon made the most of the dwindling days that remained to them. They rode afar and hunted hard, more often than not with marked success. Once Leon had repaired Big Medicine, Kermit never missed another shot. Was it Lusima’s spell, Leon wondered, or simply that he had instilled into Kermit his own code of ethics, understanding and respect for the quarry they pursued together? The true magic was not in any spell: it was that Kermit had matured into a highly skilled and responsible hunter, a man of poise and self-confidence. Their friendship, tried and tested, took on a steely, durable character.

  Four months after leaving the Ewaso Ng’iro the safari came upon the mighty flow of the Victoria Nile at a place called Jinja at the head of that vast body of fresh water, Lake Victoria. Here they had reached the parting of the ways.

  Percy Phillips’s contract ended at the river. On the eastern bank of the Nile they could see another vast encampment: Quentin Grogan was waiting to take over from Percy, and conduct President Roosevelt northwards through Uganda, the Sudan and Egypt to Alexandria on the Mediterranean. From there he and his party would take ship for New York.

  Roosevelt ordered a farewell luncheon on the bank of the Nile. Although he did not partake himself, he allowed champagne to be served to his guests. It was a convivial gathering, which ended with a speech by the President. One by one he picked out each of his guests and regaled the others with some amusing or touching anecdote regarding the person he was addressing. There were cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow!’