Yesterday's Promise

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Yes. His name is Jube. He had a message for Doc Jameson. The tribal king is sick and agitated upon his bed. He wants his treatment.”

  Derwent looked surprised at the cynical tone in Rogan’s voice, but he seemed to dismiss it. “At least the good doctor can do an act of Christian charity for the chieftain. Maybe it will make them look more kindly upon us.”

  Rogan looked at him sharply. “If anything, it will cast disrepute upon the white man and his God.”

  Derwent’s rusty brows shot straight up. “Now, why would you be saying that?”

  “Between you and me, I think Jameson is resorting to the last and lowest trick in his bag. The Company wants that road built from Bulawayo to the Zambezi. Lobengula refused again this afternoon. You heard. The mood in the king’s kraal is growing more dangerous. His impis would like nothing more than to wet their assegais with our blood. I think Jameson plans to use morphine to get Lobengula to agree on building that road.”

  “You mean get him addicted? Surely we wouldn’t be doing that?”

  It was clear by his use of “we” that Derwent was aligning himself with the English and Boers.

  “I wonder how long Jameson has been treating Lobengula for gout,” Rogan mused.

  “Mornay’s likely to know. Why do you think Dr. Jameson’s planning that?”

  “I’ve no proof,” Rogan said wearily, “just a hunch. Get Mornay, will you?”

  When Derwent returned with the Frenchman, Rogan put the question straight to him.

  Mornay tweaked at his silver whiskers, his ebony eyes attentive. “I’ve heard the doctor has been treating him off and on all summer. But what should that mean?” He gestured expressively with open palms. “I can’t say. One thing I know—this expedition will go forward one way or another. The BSA has too much at stake to let it fall apart now, mon ami.”

  Rogan could feel Mornay’s inquisitive gaze. He knew what was likely to be on his mind. What did Rogan intend to do about his own plans, and Henry’s map? Did he even have a choice? Not if the BSA was claiming control of the Zambezi area in the name of the queen.

  Not wishing to discuss the matter now, Rogan went off to find Dr. Jameson and give him Jube’s message.

  Parnell was there when Rogan told the doctor Lobengula wanted him to come to the kraal to treat him. Parnell looked stressed and said, “Are you going with them to the kraal?”

  “Peter expects it, why?”

  “Just wondering.” Parnell looked away. “Be careful.”

  An hour later Peter left with Thompson and Dr. Jameson for the king’s kraal, but Rogan had changed his plans. If Jameson was going to stoop so low as to use morphine as a tool to get what Rhodes wanted, then he would not be there. He went off by himself to use his telescope on the Matopos Mountains.

  He returned at dark, unnoticed. He started toward his horse and bedroll, when he noticed his saddlebags were gone. Now what? Then hearing a rustle in the thicket behind the mimosa trees, he stopped, slipping his .45 from his gunbelt. It could be anything from a python to a lion.

  A man’s heavy breathing convinced him otherwise. He moved with caution toward the sound, pistol in hand. He paused by the clump of bushes, listening. Again, he heard a groan. He moved slowly, pushing the bushes aside.

  Then he stopped suddenly. On the ground a man lay in a crumpled heap—Derwent.

  Rogan quickly reached him and turned him over to check for wounds in his face and chest, but there was no evidence of blood. He picked him up and carried him back toward the campfire. All was quiet.

  “Mornay? Parnell!”

  Rogan lay Derwent on his blanket by the fire and was looking at the large lump on the back of his head when Parnell hurried up, rifle in hand. He looked pale.

  “What happened to him? Is he all right?”

  “Get some water boiling, will you? I’ll need to bathe this and get something on his gash. Infection starts quickly out here.”

  Parnell rushed off for water, and Mornay came up slowly, looking the scene over with a wary eye.

  “He was hit from behind?”

  “Clobbered, from the looks of the gash.”

  Derwent stirred, groaning. “Oooh—”

  “Take it easy,” Rogan told him.

  “I’ll see if the doctor has anything we can use,” Parnell said. “He may have left something.”

  “Don’t need anythin’,” Derwent stammered. “I’m all right—just dizzy…”

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Derwent winced as Rogan poured some of Thompson’s whiskey on the gash to kill germs.

  “Heard something around the horses…thought I saw somebody stealing Mr. Rogan’s black. Whoever it was stole his saddlebags, then made for the mimosa trees, so I started after him, then wham, I was clobbered from behind. Ouch! Mr. Rogan, don’t press on it.”

  “Did you get a look at who it was?” Parnell asked.

  “No—Well…”

  “One of the workers. It had to be,” Parnell said.

  “Don’t worry about it now, Derwent. Better get some sleep.”

  When Rogan had Derwent situated for the night in his bedroll and came back to the campfire, Parnell was still there, watching the flames dance in the night.

  “You can’t trust those Bantu,” he said as Rogan approached. “They’ll steal anything if they can get away with it.”

  Mornay raised his brows with offense. “Not my Bantu. They have been with me since they were children.”

  “Then one of the others,” Parnell said, “from the kraal.”

  Mornay pursed his lips and studied Parnell. “Maybe, monsieur, maybe. But myself? I don’t think so.”

  “What are you suggesting, then? That one of us was sneaking around Rogan’s saddlebags?”

  “Never mind,” Rogan said. “Where is Retford? Did he go with Jameson and Peter?”

  “No,” came Captain Retford’s voice from behind them. He walked up. “I’ve been on sentry duty, why?”

  “Someone hit Derwent from behind.”

  Parnell looked at Retford. “I didn’t see you go out to the perimeter.”

  Retford turned toward him. “That doesn’t change the fact.”

  Mornay came back from the mimosa trees carrying Rogan’s saddlebags. “I found them in the brush. Looks like someone was looking for something. Better check them.”

  Rogan looked through his things. “Nothing missing.”

  “Odd,” Retford said quietly.

  “Derwent must have scared the thief off,” Parnell said.

  “Or what the thief searched for was not there?” Mornay suggested.

  Rogan knew exactly what was on Mornay’s mind. The same thing that was on his as soon as Derwent had mentioned saddlebags—the map.

  Later, in his bedroll beneath the stars, Rogan considered the unpleasant facts and came to his own conclusion. Either Mornay, Parnell, or Retford had been looking for Henry’s map. Retford knew nothing about the map, as far as he knew. So that left his brother and Mornay.

  Rogan frowned at the stars. He didn’t want to think it so, but he was sure it was his brother. The question was, who had put him up to it? He could confront him and demand the truth, but he wasn’t willing to do so. Derwent might learn that Parnell had been the one who struck him. There was still enough family loyalty stirring in Rogan to want to protect Parnell.

  If he did talk to Parnell about it, it would be alone, and later, after the trouble blew over. He didn’t think Parnell would try the search again. He had looked nervous and pale tonight, which could mean someone had arm-twisted him into doing it—and it bothered him.

  Had he been sent on this journey for the sole purpose of stealing the map?

  The whole attempt looked clumsy and somewhat foolish. It had to have been a plan by someone other than Julien. Julien would know he wouldn’t keep the map sitting out in his saddlebag. But would Darinda?

  Rogan was sitting on a rock near the campfire the next morning, eating breakfast, when he hea
rd the rapid thud of approaching hooves. He stood, holding his tin plate in one hand, leaving his right near his holster, even though the Ndebele owned no horses.

  Peter rode swiftly into camp.

  “Watch the dust,” Rogan shouted, disgusted, but Peter was down from the saddle in a moment and striding up to him.

  His tanned face showed lines of weariness, as if he’d been up all night, but he wore a grin.

  “Jameson’s done it, chap. He’s gotten the wily old savage to relent. We can build the road from Bulawayo.”

  Rogan sat down on the rock and went on eating the thick slices of smoked bacon, ignoring a side dish of mealies.

  “Well, Great Scott, man! Are you just going to sit there? I said Lobengula has agreed at last. We’ve gotten around the impasse.”

  “I heard you the first time.” His casual tone appeared to frustrate Peter even more. Peter stared down at him with puckered brows.

  Derwent, whose head was bandaged, came up, glancing uneasily from Rogan to Peter, then he reached over and filled another tin mug with coffee.

  “What happened to you?” Peter scowled worriedly at Derwent’s bandage.

  “Somebody hit me. They were trying to make off with Mr. Rogan’s saddlebags.”

  Peter looked around for Captain Retford.

  “He got away, sir,” Retford said. “I checked for tracks this morning, but there were none.”

  Mornay grumbled and picked an insect out of his coffee. He held it up for inspection. “Locust. Bad omen, messieurs, very bad.” He turned his piercing ebony gaze toward the horizon at the first morning sun.

  The sky was crimson and gold as the sun began its glorious rise.

  “Better have this, Mr. Bartley,” said Derwent and handed Peter the tin mug.

  Peter drank the coffee, glaring at Rogan, who sat there ignoring him.

  Having lost his appetite, Rogan tossed the scraps into the fire and set down the tin plate.

  Peter gripped the mug. “Very well, then. I gather you don’t agree with the means used to obtain the concession.”

  His stilted tone caused Rogan to smile crookedly. He snatched his leather hat, first whacking off the dust before settling it on his head. He turned and looked at him.

  “Now, why wouldn’t I agree? What are a few white lies told to the old savage when so much is at stake? It’s a small price to pay, considering we’d have to fight for the land, or see it pass to the ruddy Boers.”

  The quiet sarcasm in Rogan’s voice brought a glitter to Peter’s eyes. His nerves seemed to snap after a long night at the kraal, and he threw the coffee aside. “Tastes like mud.” Turning on his heels, he marched in the direction of the water hole.

  Mornay called out, “Monsieur Peter, let it be known to you that there is a fine fat hippo wallowing there. I do not think it will appreciate your company, yes?”

  Rogan went to feed his horse and rub it down with the liniment he’d bought in the Transvaal. Insects of all kinds were a constant torment for animals out here in the bush.

  Distant sounds of wildlife hummed in the wind. Insects droned. A rustle whispered through the grasses behind the mimosa trees. Again?

  Rogan turned, his hand on his holstered pistol. This time he’d get the scoundrel.

  The dark form in the leopard-skin mantle reappeared, two impis behind him.

  “I see you, Hawk.”

  Rogan relaxed his hand.

  “I see you, Jube.”

  The induna stood grave and tense. “I will tell you what happened when the lying doctor left Bulawayo at sunrise.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The young impis are mad for fighting. Our king tells them they will have the white men soon. The shaking like a wind first sounded when Mshete came back from seeing your great White Queen across the waters. Mshete drank African beer from sun rising until sun darken. He told all the indunas how she spoke with him. She said King Lobengula should let no white man to dig for gold, only Lobengula and his servants.”

  Apparently, Mshete was one of the two elderly indunas who had been sent by Lobengula to London with Lieutenant Maund when he tried to stop the British government from giving Rhodes the Royal Charter to grant mining rights and to start a colony.

  “Mshete awakens a great shaking among all the indunas after the lying white doctor leaves Lobengula at sun rising. Lobengula has to quiet the angry spirits. So he has called for Lotshe, who first believed the lies of the man named Frank “Tomoson.” Lotshe said the king should believe him and sign the lying words that were brought to the White Queen.”

  Rogan met the dark, even stare of Jube. “What about Lotshe?”

  “Lobengula has sent for him. He will smell him out for witchcraft.”

  Rogan felt sure that whatever the king would “smell out” would only confirm what Lobengula intended to establish—the guilt of the induna Lotshe. He must want to make Lotshe the scapegoat for his troubles with Rhodes’s delegation by blaming it all on the induna’s witchcraft against the king.

  “Lotshe and all his clan, three hundred Ndebele, will be beaten and hacked to pieces this day. Their blood will soon be warm on the ground. The impis will not be silent.”

  Rogan kept his emotions concealed.

  “The killing will not end yet,” Jube said meaningfully. “The hawk should fly at once.”

  Jube gestured, and one of the ebony impis stepped forward, a large hawk on his leather-wrapped hand. When the induna straightened his arm, the bird spread strong, eager wings, hoping to fly. Jube took a knife and cut the leather strap that bound it.

  The bird took off, its wings beating as it ascended in freedom, a moment later only a silhouette as it flew toward the sun.

  “Hawk should fly too.”

  Jube turned and left through the mimosa trees.

  Why had he chosen to come and warn him?

  Rogan strode back to the camp. Dr. Jameson and Thompson had both collapsed into their bedrolls upon returning from the night spent at the king’s kraal. Peter, too, was in a deep sleep. It had been decided earlier that they would break camp early and leave tomorrow.

  Rogan gave orders to the Bantu workers to start breaking camp now. He went to Mornay, then to Captain Retford to tell him to post a guard, and lastly to Derwent.

  “Rhodes’s men won’t like this none, Mr. Rogan. They’re dog-tired, and Mr. Thompson looked nervous and went to sleep using his flask again. It’s going to be trouble awakening him.”

  “Then pour water on him if all else fails. He’ll find that better than facing an army of bloodthirsty impis ready to hack him to pieces.”

  Rogan explained to Mornay what Jube had said.

  Mornay groaned. “Lotshe? A grief. He is Lobengula’s principal induna. He is one of the more noble of the indunas.”

  Derwent gulped. “We’re sitting on a powder keg, all right. Why, it’s a hundred miles or more back to the Limpopo. If the Ndebele are anything like their cousins the Zulu, they can cover more miles trotting than a man in a wagon.”

  Mornay’s swarthy features showed his knowledge of the imminent danger surrounding them. He glanced quietly about the trees. “Needless to say, mes amis, this will not be a place we want to be once the sun sets behind the hills. We have, maybe, two hours.”

  “I’ll awaken Peter,” Rogan said. “Bring coffee to Thompson, will you, Derwent? Give him a gallon of it if necessary.”

  “The news will scare him out of his wits,” Derwent said. “After what happened to his father. Got goose shivers running up my back just thinking about it. The Bantu said something wicked was on the wind when they heard how I was hit last night. Then I found that giant spider in the cooking things this morning. Never saw such a big one. Had legs as long as pencils. The Bantu swore it was a bad omen. Spirits from angry dead indunas are prowling tonight. They don’t like us.”

  Rogan grinned and shoved his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re back at Rookswood locked inside the vault with Henry Chantry’s ghost?”

  D
erwent looked at him, clearly surprised, as though suddenly remembering Rogan’s boyhood pranks. Then he, too, grinned and looked sheepish. “I’d rather be back at Rookswood spooked by that ghost of yours than facing thousands of impis with assegais.”

  “I’ll get Peter.” Rogan walked away, leaving Derwent to rouse Thompson.

  The mission to Bulawayo had ended as Rhodes’s delegation had hoped, with a concession to build the road, but at what cost? How would this trek into Mashonaland end? With wealth and satisfaction? A new country for the British Empire called Rhodesia? Or would blood and tragedy border the crooked road leading to the elusive gold?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Over a week had passed since the BSA delegation left Bulawayo. Darinda was reading in her private coach and taking tea when the sound of a rapid exchange between the Bantu and Grandfather Julien alerted her.

  “They not far away, Baasa! They all come safe.”

  She tossed her book aside, and her heart began thumping with nervous excitement. Soon she would know if Parnell had been able to get the map.

  She quickly dressed in her tan riding habit with shiny copper buttons and smoothed her hair back, this time leaving it loose and tying it with a copper-colored ribbon. She hurried to leave her coach and saw the riders entering the camp.

  She waited beneath a shade tree, scanning each rider with indifference until her gaze fell on Parnell. His expression would tell—

  Uncertain footsteps approached from behind her, and she glanced around to see Arcilla, looking toward the horsemen as they dismounted and walked their mounts into camp to keep the dust down. Several small Bantu boys ran to lead the horses to water, fodder, and grooming.

  “Are they all safe?” Arcilla questioned.

  “Of course.” Darinda felt impatient. Arcilla had been walking about the camp with the delicacy of a tenderfoot this past week, jumping at every new sound from animal or insect.

  Grandfather had come out of the large meeting tent and waited in the shade of an awning.

  Dr. Jameson and Frank Thompson walked toward him. Jameson was laughing, an obvious evidence to her of his success with Lobengula. Peter walked to meet Arcilla. Darinda didn’t care to see whether they embraced or not. Knowing Peter, he would embrace his wife to make the appropriate impression. Arcilla’s tinkling voice rang out, convincing her that Peter had proven himself the adoring husband.