As a punishment for her insurrectionist talk Wanjiru, along with Mama Ngina, Kenyatta's wife, was made to carry the prisoners' excrement pails.
But she continued to preach to the inmates, stirring them up, so that finally Wanjiru was locked up in solitary confinement, without her children, for twenty-one days. But even from there Wanjiru continued to organize a food strike. Knowing that the guards were non-Kikuyu, she sang songs at night, her voice ringing out over the compound, and in her Kikuyu songs she told the mothers of Kenya to refuse the gruel that was given to them in the morning, and to lay aside their hoes, and to refuse to carry murram until the food was improved.
When she was released, blinking in the sun, three weeks later, Wanjiru found to her joy that her plan had worked; the women had listened to her songs and had done as she instructed. The food boycott had resulted in a concession of bean plots and a weekly distribution of vitamin tablets.
But it was too late, she learned, for little Hannah.
"We did what we could," the women in Wanjiru's cell told her. "But the help came too late. Now she cannot eat."
Wanjiru sat and rocked the listless child in her arms, singing a Kikuyu lullaby while Christopher watched with big, solemn eyes. In the middle of the night Hannah stirred, said, "Mama," and died.
The next morning Wanjiru herself dug the grave, one of many from the pellagra outbreak, and returned her daughter to the earth of Mother Africa.
THEY HAD BEEN at it for hours; Wanjiru could hardly stand up any longer. Simon Mwacharo never ceased his interminable questions: "Who did you take orders from? Where was your forest camp? Who is Leopard?"
It even proved to be too long a session for Officer Dwyer, who finally got up and left.
"Let me sleep," Wanjiru said. "Please..."
"After you tell me what I want to know. Give me the Mau Mau information, and you can have anything you want. I promise."
Wanjiru felt light-headed. She hadn't eaten in more than a day, and Simon Mwacharo had kept her standing for hours.
"Stupid woman," he said, "your stubbornness will be your death sentence, don't you know that? And if you don't care about yourself, then what about your son?"
She thought of Christopher, back in the cell in the care of the other women. If he must die for uhuru, then so be it, Wanjiru thought. I will not betray my cause just to save my life or my son's.
"Tell me what I want to know," Mwacharo said, "or I shall force it from you."
He walked to the door and locked it. When he gave a signal to the four askaris, Wanjiru suddenly came alert.
"You've had this coming for a long time," he said as he started to unbuckle his belt. "With your vitamins and boycotts and superior ways. I'll show you what you really are. I'll show you what you deserve. And cry out all you want; if anyone hears you, he won't interfere."
The guards shoved Wanjiru to the floor. Two pinned her arms down; the others held her legs.
Simon Mwacharo unbuttoned his pants and said, "When I am done with you, these four askaris will take turns on you."
Wanjiru looked up at the ceiling in horror. She concentrated on the hills and valleys of the gray tin, recalling the green hills and valleys of her home in the Nyeri District. She thought of the sweet-smelling pine forests, of the running streams and waterfalls, of the abundance of birds and flowers, of the children singing in the village, of women working joyfully in the sun, of the husband she had once so loved.
Wanjiru threw back her head and screamed, "David!"
52
M
ONA HAD BEEN SITTING BY THE WINDOW, LOOKING OUT, for nearly two hours when at last her vigil was rewarded. "Uncle James!" she said, jumping up.
She hurried out onto the veranda of Grace's house to meet him, her three-month-old baby in her arms, but as soon as she saw the expression on his face when he got out of the car, she knew that his trip to Nairobi had been in vain.
"I'm sorry, Mona," he said, limping up the stairs. James was sixty-six now, and the old leg wound from World War I was giving him trouble. "I made extensive inquiries, and David Mathenge simply was not among those rounded up."
"Which means he's still in the forest."
"Or he's dead," James said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You must accept that possibility, Mona. Many were killed."
James Donald was referring to Operation Anvil, which had taken place three months ago, in April—a massive campaign against Mau Mau launched by the British which had resulted in the arrest and detention of thirty-five thousand Africans. Since Mona had not heard from David in the year since his disappearance and had received no reply to any of the letters she continued to give to Mama Wachera, she decided he must be in a detention camp and therefore unable to get word to her.
So James had offered to use his influence and make some inquiries. He and Geoffrey, Grace, and Mario, the houseboy, were the only four who knew that David had joined Mau Mau and that the baby in Mona's arms was his.
The colony buzzed with speculation about Mona Treverton's illegitimate child. Whose could it be? She had seemed such a nice, decent woman, the gossips declared, but then look how her mother turned out. The consensus was that the baby was Geoffrey Donald's. He was always at Bellatu.
Mona didn't concern herself with the rumors. The child had little hair on her head and was creamy-skinned. She looked like any baby. But Mona knew the time would come when her daughter's African ancestry would start to show, and then eyebrows would certainly rise. She hoped that by then Kenya would have solved its differences and that her daughter would not have to suffer a social and racial stigma.
There must be a future for us, David had said to Mona on that June night of a year ago, when they had made love and sworn eternal devotion, where we can walk side by side in the sun as man and wife.
Will there be such a future for us? Mona wondered as she went with Sir James into the kitchen, where Mario was preparing lunch. A future in which David and I can marry without being outcasts, in which we can ride together in the same train car, walk into a hotel dining room together and sit at a table and order a meal? Late at night, when she lay in bed with her baby cradled in her arm, Mona's yearning love for David made her believe that such a future was not only possible but very near. In the light of day, however, as she strapped the revolver around her waist and heard the news reports of more killings, more atrocities on both sides, she saw that beautiful future fade like a tea rose exposed to too much sun. In Kenya whites had always ridden the train first class, the Africans third, and they never sat at a meal together. Her fantasy was outlandish; she might as well wish for the moon.
"Jambo, bwana, "Mario said as he poured James's tea. "Habari gani?"
"Mzuri sana, Mario. And yourself?"
"These are bad times, bwana. Very bad."
Bad, yes, James agreed, but improving daily. In the three months since Operation Anvil the British had started to see a definite decline in Mau Mau strength. Although not all of the thirty-five thousand who had been rounded up were Mau Mau, by casting such a wide net, the British had coincidentally snared a few big fish. Now, if only they could get the oath giver in this area, and the Mau Mau high command, such as Dedan Kimathi, or the one they called Leopard, then this rebellion, James was certain, would be snuffed like a flame.
And after that, what?
James stirred sugar into his tea, deep in thought. Beyond the window, bees droned among Grace's marigolds and pansies, the usual busy traffic of the mission rattled down paved lanes, British Tommies patrolled the perimeter, guns ready.
There was no doubt in James Donald's mind that Mau Mau had changed Kenya forever. Once this civil war was over, he knew that drastic innovations were going to be seen. Already something which no white settler would have dreamed had happened: The first African minister had been installed in the government.
But if the Africans expect self-rule, James thought, then whom would they choose to lead them?
"Have you seen Geoffrey?" he asked.
"He was here earlier," Mona said as she commenced to give Mumbi her bottle. "He and Tim Hopkins have joined the DO in another search for the oath giver. They plan a surprise roundup."
James took a slice of bread and buttered it. He didn't know what had happened between his son and Mona, only that it had been bad enough to have caused an irreparable rift between them. The two had not spoken to each other, it seemed to James, in nearly a year. And whenever Geoffrey came to visit with us and the five children, Mona made excuses to leave the room. It had, he suspected, something to do with David Mathenge.
"Mario," James said, "I seem to have used the last of the jam. Would there happen to be—"
To his surprise, the houseboy was no longer there.
THE MISTS CREPT down from Mount Kenya in tendrils. They curled around tree trunks, swallowed grass and bush, burdened each leaf and petal with heavy drops of moisture. By midnight the forest had been transformed into a smoky, shadowy realm, a kind of netherworld like the one the Kikuyu believed their ancestors inhabited.
Two men walked alone through the fog, their hair bejeweled with mist, their ragged clothes wet. They had come a great distance, from the cloud-covered moorlands on top of the Aberdares, where giant bamboo forests and murderous bogs hid their secret freedom camp. They walked with caution, their senses, after their having lived so long in the forest, honed to animal sharpness. They heard as a leopard hears, they scented as an antelope scents, and they walked as if on paws, silently, lethally. There was danger all around them, they knew, not just from the wild beasts of the forest but from the British soldiers who had begun to infiltrate the mountain woodland in new guerrilla tactics.
These two were Mau Mau. They were desperate men, and they were on a mission.
They stopped suddenly, together, and listened. Not far away was a camp. They could hear the bamboo popping in the cook fire. The leader of the two crept forward, his rifle at the ready. He walked with thumb on the safety catch, finger on the trigger. If the soldiers were suddenly alerted, it would be snap shooting.
But the Tommies, he and his companion saw through the trees, were eating bully beef and trying to get warm under canvas tarpaulins. They looked pale and miserable and out of place in this silent jungle of mists and vines.
The two Mau Mau moved on. Their destination was too important to be sidetracked by the killing of a handful of Tommies.
Their orders had come from the very top, from Dedan Kimathi himself, the supreme Mau Mau commander. Underground intelligence had told of a white infant being kept in the house of Memsaab Daktari, Grace Treverton. Kimathi wanted that baby, and he wanted it alive.
Ever since Operation Anvil, which had crippled Mau Mau to the extent that many freedom fighters were cut off from supply lines, starving, diseased, and in rags, Kimathi had decided to launch the largest recruitment to date. At this moment his men were making raids upon Kikuyu homes, dragging the inhabitants out for forced oathings. It was the only way he could increase the size of his army. But because these were hard-core loyalists, Kikuyu who had resisted Mau Mau for two years, Kimathi knew the oathing would have to be of a particularly potent and virulent kind. There would be no dogs or virgins used in this ceremony, but the child of a white memsaab. Once the taboo flesh had been eaten, none of those forced into the oath would be able to disobey Kimathi's orders.
When at last the two—the leader, named Leopard, and his companion, the oath giver—emerged from the forest, they found a world bathed in moonglow. Tidy little shambas patched the grassy hillsides paralleling the river; fingers of smoke rose up from cone-shaped roofs; the sprawling Grace Mission, looking like a small town, slept behind locked windows and doors. The two Mau Mau could see soldiers making silent rounds. One of the forest men, the oath giver, pointed his companion toward the large house in the center of a garden and trees, where Memsaab Daktari lived. The baby was in there, he said, in the room that faced the giant sycamore. And that window, he assured his comrade, was unlocked.
Before striking off down the path that led to the river, Leopard paused. Spread before him, looking eerie and ghostly in the moonlight, was the forgotten rectangle of the polo field, embraced at the southern end by three little Kikuyu huts. His eye traveled up the opposite ridge, where, illuminated by the light from the full moon, a magnificent two-story house stood on a rise like a jewel on black-green velvet. That house was also dark. He thought of its inhabitant, asleep in the dark; he recalled the bed she slept in. And for a moment he was overcome with grief.
But all this—the peaceful river, the three little huts, the house on the hill—was gone now, forever....
MONA TOSSED AND turned in her sleep. Unpleasant dreams visited her; she awoke more than once, her heart thumping.
When she woke up this time, her eyes snapping open, she stared up at the dark ceiling and listened to the silent house. In the bedroom down the hall Aunt Grace and Uncle James were sleeping. Tim Hopkins had spread a bedroll in the large pantry off the kitchen. In these days of the emergency the settlers who had stayed in Kenya clustered together for safety.
Mona listened to the house. Her heart thumped. Had she heard a sound?
But the house was solidly locked; James and Mario had seen to that. And there were soldiers all around.
She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at the silhouette of the crib at the foot of her bed. Her daughter, the joy of Mona's life, dreamed peacefully in baby innocence.
And then, suddenly, the moonglow from the window was blocked by a shadow. Mona gasped and sat up. Reaching for her gun, she jumped out of bed and switched on the light.
She cried out.
Two Mau Mau, their clothes in rags, one with a beard and long hair, the other with a trusted and familiar face, suddenly filled the tiny room. She raised her gun, started to shoot. And then her eyes met those of the bearded one.
"David?" she whispered.
He stared at her. A look of confusion swept over his face.
She looked at the other man: Mario. His face was the same, but his eyes! There was a wildness in them, a savageness that struck terror in her. And then all at once Mona knew: They were after the baby.
"No," she whispered. "David, don't do this! She's our child! She's your daughter!"
He looked down into the crib. His face was like that of a man who has been wakened from a deep trance. He seemed disoriented, as if surprised to find himself there.
"David!" she cried. "You never got my letters!"
In a sudden, swift move Mario reached into the crib and seized the baby. "No!" Mona screamed. She fired the gun. It splintered the wall.
Mario raised his panga and started to throw it at Mona. David grabbed his arm, but Mario shoved him back, and David landed hard against the wall, dazed.
The bedroom door burst open. James rushed in, a club in his hand. He swung at Mario. But the panga found him first. Clutching his neck, James dropped to his knees.
Mona dashed forward and tried to pull the baby from Mario's arms. He wrested the gun from her hand and fired, missing her.
Then David was on his feet again and wrestling with Mario. The grip on the child loosened; she tumbled to the floor and landed between the scuffling feet of the two men.
Mona, down on her hands and knees, tried to reach her.
Mario's gun went off. David flew back, his hands on his chest.
Mona ran to him. He fell into her arms.
And then another shot was fired. Grace Treverton was suddenly in the doorway, her pistol held between both hands. She fired a second time, and Mario fell dead to the floor.
DR. NATHAN QUIETLY closed the door to Grace's bedroom and said, "She'll sleep now. I've given her a sedative."
"Yes," said Geoffrey. He was numb with shock. He had driven as fast as he could from Kilima Simba after receiving the phone call, only to arrive minutes after his father died of the panga wound.
Tim Hopkins, who had arrived on the scene after the last fatal bullet was fired, roused himself now from his
stupor and looked around the crowded kitchen. It was full of soldiers badgering sleepy-eyed Kikuyu with their questions. The oath giver, it was found out, had been Mario. But what David Mathenge had to do with Mau Mau, no one seemed to know. "I say," said Tim, "where's Mona?"
"I don't know, and I don't give a damn." Geoffrey truly hated her now. This was all her fault. He was glad her black lover was dead, as was their half-breed baby. It was just punishment, in Geoffrey's mind.
"Pardon me, sir," said one of the soldiers. "If you're referring to Miss Treverton, she left the house a little while ago and took that path up there."
Tim looked through the open door. The Tommy was pointing up to Bellatu. "And you let her go? You idiot!"
He ran out of Grace's house and climbed the wooden stairway up the grassy ridge.
At the top he paused and looked around. It was a clear night, with full moon and stars. The wilting, unharvested coffee trees stood in thousands of moonlit rows, sweeping away to a silvery, misty Mount Kenya. He turned toward the house. It was dark. But the back door was open.
He went inside and listened. He heard sounds overhead. Running through the dark dining room and living room, Tim took the stairs two at a time until he was on the second floor. He paused and looked down the length of the gloomy hall. The air smelled old and musty. He saw frail light spilling from one of the rooms.
When he reached it, Tim found Mona in a dusty, cobwebby room that looked as if it hadn't been used in years. Dominating it was an enormous old canopy bed, its spread and ruffles yellowed with time. And there was a vanity table, cluttered with dried-up perfume bottles. Mona was on her knees, frantically going through a dresser drawer.
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