Mad Dogs and Englishmen (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 3)

by Peter Rimmer

  Then they sat back with satisfaction. General Gordon and Winston Churchill, along with the Mahdi, were forgotten with the night.

  A pair of martial eagles were circling the valley, high in the sky on the morning thermals. They were strangely quiet, riding up to heaven on their six feet wingspan. The birds were usually silent in flight said Colonel Voss. Jim took his word.

  “This morning before tea, when the sun came up, I could have sworn the grass slope of the lower valley over there was contoured. As if someone had grown a crop there.” Jim was pointing to the valley slope on the opposite side to the trees where the horses were grazing below the tree line. “Then the light changed, and the impression changed. Did the Tonga or the Shona ever irrigate crops and contour the land to evenly spread the water at different heights down the valley to stop erosion?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not really. Have a look yourself tomorrow when the sun comes up. It’s your turn to make the early morning tea.”

  “I’ll do my best to be up in time. As far as we know, the black tribes till a little soil round their huts and move every year to new hunting grounds. Most of their sustenance comes from hunting and gathering. They rarely store food for the future. There’s so much land and plenty of game. Look at us. For weeks we’ve lived off the land. Just tea, maize meal and salt was all we brought with us. No, I’m sure the black tribes never built contours and farmed in one spot as we know it. Why they never built a town or a permanent village in this part of Africa. But the Arabs would have done. Oh, yes. They would have done. So none of your tricks with an old man just to get up to make the early morning tea.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “See, young Jim, you are grinning.”

  “At the pleasure of eating fish.”

  Both horses whickered in fear at the same time. They were fifty yards away and even from that distance Jim could see their flanks shivering. The wind had changed again. He could distinctly smell the Arab horses.

  Colonel Voss looked at the Arabs and then followed back on the line of the wind that was blowing directly into his face. He rose from his chair slowly looking towards the Arab horses.

  “Jim, pass me my field glasses… Do you smell them?”

  “The Arab horses?”

  “No. The lions. Can’t you tell the difference?”

  “I can now. I thought those Arabs smelled strong.”

  “Get the guns. I’ll get Othello and Hamlet. Put that damn dog in the wagon.” He passed Jim the field glasses. “Have a look before you go. Over there… And over there. And there. They have the mouth of the valley sealed.”

  “Where?”

  “Just the ears above the long grass. The females. That’s the largest pride of lions I ever saw. The old man and his sons will circle round behind the horses and chase them onto the females. Mostly the females do the killing. The old man has the fun and eats first. When they get behind the horses at the top of the valley, the horses will smell them on the wind and bolt this way. They’ll stampede right through our camp.”

  “Won’t the lionesses face them off?”

  “Maybe… There they go! They’re turning. They’ve smelled the lions. I can see one of the males. We’ve got ten minutes to make ourselves secure with the wagon.”

  “Can the Arab horses defend themselves against lion?”

  “I don’t know. Ours couldn’t. Those Arab stallions are big. There are lots of horses. They’ll run first and then we shall find out. They can’t see or smell the lionesses yet… Even after all those years they’re still fighting for survival. In front of us, Jim, you see the power of life. There’s nothing stronger on this earth. Why we’ve survived so long for some damn reason.”

  Jim pulled the shafts, to make an angle with the old wagon. Colonel Voss caught Hamlet and Othello. The horses were terrified, rooted to the spot. Colonel Voss dragged them by the harness still attached to their heads.

  Jim took the shotgun and his .375 rifle from the wagon, each with its own box of ammunition. The spread of buckshot from the twelve-bore over the shaft might wheel the stampeding Arabs around the wagon. Running in with the horses in each hand, Colonel Voss tethered them to the back of the wagon. He had run as fast as Jim despite the difference in their ages.

  When they stood up in the long grass, there were seven lionesses, their big tails whipping with anticipation as they readied to spring. The leading stallion made a terrible noise and changed direction straight for the nearest lioness. From the thundering herd more stallions broke heading for the lionesses. They could now see. The lionesses had six galloping horses coming straight for them. All but one of them broke, turned tail and ran back down the valley. They passed the laager without looking in Jim’s direction. Jim was cheering on at the top of his voice, jumping up and down waving the rifle over his head. He was as much frightened as he was excited at the swift turn of events. The lioness that had not broken with the others faced the oncoming stallion without flinching. The hunter had become the hunted. The big horse reared up on its back legs and kicked the lioness in the head with both hooves, splitting open the head, killing it instantly. Jim watched in awe. With the rest of the big cats bounding away, the stallions wheeled the herd and headed back up the valley from whence they had come. Jim counted three lions as they ran into the trees where the horses would be unable to follow at full gallop.

  The lion hunt was over. None of the animals had taken any notice of the human spectators. By the time Jim and the colonel, both visibly shaken, went back to the fire, the Arabs were grazing peacefully. Colonel Voss glassed the valley in all directions with his field glasses. It was as if the lions had never been. Except for the dead mother of the pride. She had stood her ground to save her less experienced offspring.

  Colonel Voss took the rifle from Jim and went forward to look at the carcass. Jim expected to hear a shot which never came. The doves began to call to each other as if nothing had happened.

  “Kicked to death,” said the colonel on his return.

  Jim put the big black kettle back on the fire, freshly filled with river water. His heart was still pounding with fear and excitement. They had both forgotten King Richard the Lionheart. Jim looked inside the wagon. The dog had buried its head under the empty sacks of maize. Its bottom was sticking out. Jim gave a friendly whack on the dog’s behind. The dog buried himself further into the sack pile. The wind was still blowing in the same direction, bringing the scent of the lion. The dog had no means of knowing the lioness was dead. Calling the dog made no difference. Jim left him where he was and made fresh tea in the kettle.

  They stayed in the valley all day. There was no way forward except into the dead-end gully. Neither of them thought it wise to approach the wild horses. They would have to go back down the valley where a path lead to the right of the waterfall that plummeted over the cliff into space. Colonel Voss had fruitlessly searched the surrounding mountains through his field glasses to find a way to go higher. Jim thought they had gone as far as they were going.

  “All good things come to an end,” he said philosophically.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “I’ll never forget what we saw.”

  That night the scavengers came to the Valley of the Horses. Colonel Voss liked wonderful names for everything. The horses. The dog. The Place of the Legend.

  The night sky was clear, their valley domed by millions of stars. Jim felt himself at the centre of the universe, the heart of the great dome of heaven. He was the living mind that made the heavens visible.

  The scavengers had come out of the trees and waited where Hamlet and Othello had grazed earlier. Wild dogs. Jackals. Hyenas… Above, the vultures had circled high at first, falling lower circling the carcass as the birds grew confident.

  All through the night of a million stars, the scavengers snapped and snarled at each other, tearing the dead lioness to pieces, ripping into her belly. The jackals chased off the wild dogs. The hyenas chased away the jackals. Jim could see th
em by the pale light of the stars.

  Their fire was kept burning brightly all night. When far away the lions called it was late in the night. None came back to protect the carcass.

  In the morning King Richard still had his head buried in the sacks. Vultures walked on top of what was left of the carcass of the lioness, flapping out their black wings to keep balance. Jim thought how beautiful the birds had looked in flight, circling on the thermals. There were birds inside the gaping belly of the lioness. The wild dogs had taken a turn after the jackals and gone back into the trees with full bellies.

  Jim put on the kettle with the first light. The colonel still asleep next to the fire. Jim had not had the heart to wake him. Anyway, he liked looking after the old man. He missed his father, drowned those years ago in the Irish sea, and Jim’s grandfathers had both died before he was born… It was going to be a beautiful day. Most of the Arab horses were grazing peacefully, or some were drinking at the river. He untethered Hamlet and Othello. They went off to graze, no longer fearful of the carcass still being cleaned by the vultures. The wind had changed taking the scent of the dead lioness back in the direction of the wild horses.

  The morning sun came up and flooded their valley. Jim thought he saw the contours again and called across to where the colonel was still fast asleep. As the yellow sun concentrated on the side of the valley away from the trees, it was at an upward angle to the slope of the hill. Jim was this time certain.

  “Look!” he shouted. “Look! Those are contours.”

  “Dear boy, I rather think you’re right. Here we have it.” The old man was sitting up on the ground blinking his eyes. As the sun moved, the long grass on the slope undulated with the wind washing the contours from the hill.

  “Did we really see anything?” asked Jim. “Or was it just in our heads?”

  “Maybe God was showing me what I wanted to see. This one time an omen of death.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “There was nothing there. Only our imaginations.”

  “We must search the valley.”

  “We will. Diligently. Then we will go home. Some things we want so badly, Jim, we can never have. However much we want them. Sometimes wanting them is more important than having them. When we find what we want it mostly turns to dust.”

  “How long do we go on looking?” asked Jim.

  “Till we die. Now, make an old man his tea and then go off and catch us our breakfast.”

  “Aren’t we going to stay?”

  “For a few days. We’ll walk that slope. Make sure. There is always something else to look for… Where’s that damn dog?”

  “Hiding in the wagon.”

  “I love that dog.”

  “So do I.”

  5

  Johnny Lake December, 1920

  Len Merryl found Cousin Mildred with one foot bent back against a lamp post in Piccadilly. It was December in London and cold. The gaslight at the top of the lamp post shone down the bare knee and the girl’s breasts as it was meant to do.

  “Looking for some fun, dearie. You got to ’ave a room, see. No bloody taxi and going round Eros… What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  “Hello, Mildred.”

  “Blimey. Look what the cat brought up. What you want?”

  “Where can I find my sister?”

  “How the ’ell should I know. Anyway, what’s in it for me? Be quick about it. I’m losin’ business.”

  “Don’t read the newspapers?”

  “You know perfectly well, Len Merryl, I can’t read. If I could read and write, think I’d be leaning against a bloody lamp post? What she done? Someone killed ’er?”

  “Now would I ask if she was dead?”

  “How do I know? Had it comin’. Fancied ’erself, that one. Stayed two nights and buggered off. Months ago. Now, piss off there’s a bloke over there lookin’ at me… Oh, shit it’s a copper in plain clothes! You can walk me to the pub in Greek Street and buy me a port and lemon… Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey… What you doin’ in London, then? Thought you was shrimpin’… Evenin’ officer. My cousin Len Merryl from Neston, up north. That is.”

  “Is this woman your cousin?”

  “What’s it to you?” said Len.

  “Seeing you talk with the same accent I’ll let you go.”

  “Sweet of you, officer,” said Mildred.

  “Don’t give me lip.”

  “Give you more than lip had my way,” said Mildred.

  “Mildred, shut up,” said Len.

  “She really is your bloody cousin!”

  “Boyfriend killed end of war,” said Len. “She was pregnant.”

  “I’m sorry, miss.”

  “So am I,” said Mildred.

  Len took her arm firmly at the elbow. His cousin was crying. Brazen whore to crumpled mess at the mention of Johnny Lake. They walked away.

  “How’s the kid, Mildred?”

  “He’s all right.”

  Len could see the sign over the entrance to the Elephant and Castle. He had been one of the lucky ones. He was still in basic training at Aldershot when the war had come to an end.

  Most of the girls were off duty whores and took no notice of Mildred. Mildred was still shivering despite the log fire in the alcove where Len Merryl found a seat. The whores were welcome, Len found out later, provided they did no soliciting in the pub.

  “It’s so humiliating,” said Mildred.

  She was crying again and Len put his arm round her shoulders. Her whole body was shaking. He ordered their drinks from a barmaid without letting go of his cousin. The shivering went on for a long time. No one took any notice of them.

  “I’d a made a good fisherman’s wife. Why they want to go and kill my Johnny? I’d made my mind up when I was four, Len. Never was no one else.”

  “Come home, Mildred.”

  “How can I, with Johnny’s bastard? Anyway, ’alf of them are dead. Them dead boys don’t suffer no more. I got to suffer for the rest of my life… And if I don’t do better than this so will little Johnny.” She was crying again.

  “Don’t the army give you somethin’?”

  “Course not. We wasn’t married, me and Johnny. Waiting for the bloody war to end. My mum was ashamed of me. Couldn’t talk about it to the others. That Mrs Snell’s a right bitch. Your mum never talked to me with the baby on the way, let alone when it was born, poor little bastard… And Johnny would ’ave loved him… In the end, they’d have gone fishin’ together on the same boat… What am I going to do, Len? In winter, there isn’t much business for a whore.”

  “Where’s the kid?”

  “Three of us share a room. A bed too. Eight ’ours each. Lucky we all do shift work. We all got kids like me. We’ll be all right… You got any money, Len?”

  “No, I ’aven’t. But I’d give you if I had.”

  “Now tell me. What’s all this about your sister?… I always thought she’d marry that Jim Bowman. He was sweet on ’er. Never said nothin’. Just watched ’er with them big sheep eyes. And ’im an officer at the end… Without a bloody scratch.”

  Len took his arm away from her shoulders to find what was left of his money for the barmaid… Mildred gulped half a port and lemon. Len could not keep his eyes away from the girl’s exposed breasts. He knew he should not be looking. Even when he sipped his beer, he was surreptitiously looking. To take his mind away from her body, Len told her about Jim Bowman and the reward in the paper. When he finished, his cousin had stopped shivering. He would have liked to have bought her another drink.

  Len Merryl had left Neston three months earlier with his two shillings. By the time he reached the capital he had to find a job or starve. He had found no sign of his sister or Cousin Mildred. He went from hotel to hotel looking for a job as a dishwasher until he found one. A man on the train down from the north had told him about dishwashing in a good hotel.

  “What them toffs leave on their plates would ’ave fed the whole bleedi
n’ British Army. You work hard but you eat. That’s what counts. No money, so to speak but you can eat.”

  The little pay went to Len’s landlord for the room he shared with an Italian. The Italian could not speak English properly. The Italian was very efficient at cleaning dishes. After the first two weeks in London Len had given up looking for his sister.

  The week before he found Cousin Mildred he had bumped into a school friend from Neston. The best of Neston left to go to Liverpool, Manchester or London.

  “I fucked your cousin Mildred the other day.” His friend had told him as an introduction. “Always did fancy her bosom.”

  “I’ve been looking for her since I came to London.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “Piccadilly. Not far from the Elephant and Castle. Works the night shift.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a whore, silly. Cost a bob to fuck your cousin Mildred.”

  It had taken Len a week to find the courage to look for his cousin. He had always liked Mildred.

  “That bloody war never stops,” he had said and walked away from his friend from school without wanting to know his address in London.

  When Len reached his room in Lambeth, the Italian was fast asleep. It took Len half an hour to fall asleep. He was thinking of his cousin Mildred. If he had had a shilling, he knew he would have paid her. Which made him the same as his friend from school.

  In the early hours of the morning he was vividly dreaming of a girl with big breasts. When he woke in the dark of his room, he was sweating despite the winter cold. He lay awake for the rest of the night.

  In the morning he went to work, walking the four miles through the cold streets of London to the hotel in Park Lane. Inside the hotel it was warm and full of light. The kitchen smelled of good food.