Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  Blake sat on a rock and shook his head.

  Chapter 21

  Kruger National Park, South Africa, the present day

  It was still dark when Nick woke, hungover. His phone told him it was four in the morning.

  Jetlag. The only good thing about it was that it helped if you wanted to get an early start. This way he could be at the gate to Skukuza camp when it opened, at dawn.

  He got out of bed, showered and made a cup of coffee in the outdoor kitchenette. It was chilly this time of morning. With fingers wrapped around the steaming cup he looked out over the Sabie River. He felt despondent; Susan hadn’t replied during the night and it seemed he would be left to his own devices in the Kruger Park and for however long he stayed in South Africa.

  He went back inside and found the map book he’d bought the day before and while he waited for gate-opening time, he planned his first drive into the Kruger Park. As well as seeing some animals he wanted to get a feel for the landscape that Blake would have patrolled on horseback. Even though Susan had broken things off with him he had come this far and was still interested in learning more about his great-great-uncle.

  In his book on Steinaecker’s Horse Nick had read about the Selati railway line that had once passed through the park, and he decided it would be a good, historic route to follow if he could find trace of it. Designed to service the goldfields at Sabie and take produce to the coast and ports of Portuguese East Africa, it was an expensive folly and a tribute to the ingenuity of conmen and corrupt politicians.

  The contract for the line’s construction had been awarded at a price based on the length of the track laid, and its designers had therefore built in miles of twists and turns, inflating the price until it became one of the most expensive stretches of railway in the world. The line had been impractical and short-lived. The goldfields had never lived up to their promise and passenger services through the wildlife-rich lowveld were all too often interrupted by collisions with big game. The line had eventually closed.

  Nick heard a weird noise that sounded like a cross between a baby howling and a screeching bird. He ventured outside again and saw a furry shape bounding along his roof. He checked the back of the map book, which had illustrations of common animals, birds and reptiles of the Kruger Park. He identified the noisy culprit – a small primate called a greater bush baby; to him it looked similar in size and build to the brush-tailed possums that roamed Sydney gardens and rooftops by night.

  As the sky started to turn from black to grey he got ready to leave, making sure he had his map, camera, binoculars and some snacks and water for the drive. In line with the warnings he’d read, he checked that all the windows of his rondavel were closed and secured, and on his way out he locked the front door.

  Nick got into the car and found when he reached the gate that he was far from the only early riser; a queue of about a dozen cars was already waiting for opening time, engines idling.

  When the gate finally opened Nick followed a course southeast from Skukuza camp. He wound down the windows of his Corolla and enjoyed the crisp coolness of the morning air and the clear blue sky. If the day was anything like yesterday he knew it would be hot soon enough.

  As he rounded a bend he saw a phalanx of elephants crossing the road, fifty metres in front of him, and braked. Big ones, females, he guessed, shepherded babies across and a particularly tall cow gave him a long stare and tossed her mighty head at him, shaking her ears.

  Nick felt a charge of adrenaline as a mid-sized straggler took a few steps down the road towards him and blew a shrill trumpet blast from his trunk. When Nick was sure the whole herd had crossed and moved into the bush he tentatively edged forward. Looking to his right he saw that the family had melded into the trees and was peacefully feeding.

  As lovely as the sighting had been he couldn’t fully enjoy it knowing that he would be alone for the rest of his safari. He’d been on his own for eight months, and had allowed himself, if only briefly, to think that he might find companionship again. The prospect of sharing his time in Africa with a pretty, bright woman had made this trip not just a spur-of-the-moment folly, but something he was genuinely set to enjoy. That hope had been dashed with Susan’s cold text, and he felt more alone than he had in a long time.

  Nick had misread Susan, completely. Perhaps she had seen their time in Sydney as nothing more than a fling, or maybe she had been initially caught up in the whirlwind then had a change of heart on returning to South Africa. She had told him to take care of himself, to be careful. Had she been trying to tell him to guard his heart? he wondered. The alternative was that something had happened in her meeting with her client to change her mind, or perhaps she had a partner.

  Susan had told him that she would explain something to him when she saw him again. Had she simply suffered cold feet? Nick let out a sigh.

  Further along he came to a turnoff that led to a big granite outcrop, called Mathekenyane. He saw that another early-morning driver had made it to the top and, consulting his map, he realised it was a lookout spot where he could get out of his car. Nick took the turnoff and drove to the top of the hill. The other tourists were leaving as he got there, which meant that when he got out he had the expansive view all to himself.

  He had a commanding 360-degree view of the brown African bush, and if he closed his ears to the sound of a passing game-viewing vehicle below and the khaki-clad visitors chatting on board he could just about imagine himself alone, like Blake, sitting astride a horse, looking for wily Boers and dangerous game below.

  Nick set off again, generally heading towards Crocodile Bridge camp, which was close to the town of Komatipoort, another of Steinaecker’s outposts, and the border with Mozambique.

  On a stretch of dirt road he found the remnants of the ill-fated railway line. It was an embankment, clearly man-made, but the tracks had long ago been pulled up. Had Cyril ridden his horse along this stretch of railway?

  Despite his nagging feelings of anger and worry over Susan he did his best to enjoy the day’s lazy drive.

  Crocodile Bridge camp was much smaller than Skukuza and had an intimate feel about it. The temperature here was hotter and the air felt thicker. Across the river he could see cane fields. He went to the entry gate by the camp and worked out that he could exit the park, but return the same day, without having to fill out any more paperwork.

  ‘How far is Komatipoort?’ he asked the woman behind the gate reception counter.

  ‘Not far, maybe twenty minutes.’

  That was good enough for him. He had only basic supplies and he figured he could get some more food and drink in the town. Nick left the park and drove across the river, pausing on the low-level concrete bridge to watch a buffalo wading in the shallows, then carried on through the cane farms until he came to the town of Komatipoort.

  Other than Johannesburg, and he had seen little of that city, this was his first experience of Africa outside of a hotel or a national park. The traffic was slow, not due to congestion, but more as if movement was an effort. He worked out who to give way to at a four-way stop intersection, and cruised past general dealers and workshops with signs in English and Portuguese, no doubt due to the proximity to Mozambique. There were shops selling seafood; prawns seemed to feature. A woman with a striped bag of goods on her head sashayed gracefully along the footpath, making the task look effortless, while young men lounged outside a seedy-looking bar.

  He lowered the window and smelled cooking chicken and chilli – peri-peri. He stopped at a shopping centre with a SPAR supermarket and parked the car.

  Nick’s tummy rumbled and he decided he needed fortification before shopping. There was a Wimpy burger restaurant in the centre so he went in, took a table for one, checked the menu and ordered a toasted sandwich.

  While he waited he checked his messages. There was another transcript from Lili, which lifted his spirits a little. Interestin
gly, there was also an email from Anja Berghoff, the prickly German PhD student he had contacted, at Susan’s suggestion, to ask if she had any information about Blake and Claire Martin. Anja had politely but firmly fobbed him off. What did she want now? he wondered.

  Dear Mr Eatwell,

  I am writing to you because I have reconsidered your offer to share the information you said you had about your ancestor, Sergeant Cyril Blake. My own research has suffered a setback – I have lost most of my recently acquired primary source material and it will take me some time to recover it. In the meantime I am in Namibia and while I intend to carry on with my fieldwork as planned I would very much like to learn what you have discovered.

  Yours sincerely, Anja Berghoff

  The tone was very formal, once again, but this time she was not telling him to piss off. In fact it sounded like she needed him. He wondered what had happened to her research and how she had lost it. She’d left a phone number at the bottom of her email, with a prefix that he guessed was Namibian. He might phone her later, he thought. No, he would text her and get her to call him if she was that desperate.

  He opened the last message from Lili and the latest translation.

  Chapter 22

  The eastern Transvaal, South Africa, 1902

  ‘It amazes me how you’ve stayed alive so long,’ Claire said, looking down at a naked Blake.

  Blake opened his eyes. ‘What kept you?’

  He sounded cool, but she knew he was surprised to see her. Blake was lying on his back, on a large flat rock by the side of the river, basking like a lizard in the still-warm afternoon sun. He made no move to cover his nakedness. Claire sat astride a new horse, with Bluey tethered to hers. She had swapped her second-hand dress for more practical men’s clothing, once more.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get dressed?’ she asked.

  ‘Your Boer friend, Hermanus, showed up this morning and stole my uniform, though he kindly left me my empty pistol. He’s looking for you, just like the British are. I told him I had no idea where you had gone. Where did you get to?’

  ‘I slipped away without you waking and now I was able to ride right up to you while you were asleep. It’s a wonder you weren’t killed by the Boers years ago.’

  ‘Who says I was asleep this time?’

  She made no attempt to avert her eyes, although she was pointedly not looking at that part of his body, at least not now that she’d had a good eyeful already.

  ‘A gentleman would have covered himself – if he was aware of a lady approaching.’

  ‘A lady wouldn’t have come this close without announcing herself. Besides, I don’t think it’s a gentleman you’re after.’

  She raised her nose at him. ‘Who says I’m after anything?’

  ‘You came back. And you said it yourself, you need help getting through the bush to Lourenço Marques. You won’t need a gentleman for that trip; you need someone who knows where to cross the border without getting caught.’

  Claire harrumphed and untied the calico bag attached to her saddle. She hated it when a man was right, but fortunately it didn’t happen often. However, as much as it pained her to admit it, she did need help right now. She was still alive because she knew her limitations as well as she knew her skills.

  They would have to pass through dense bush inhabited with a menagerie of dangerous creatures, and she had never lived or worked in the malaria-ridden bush of the Transvaal. These treacherous lands were also home to bands of renegade Boers, bandits, poachers and fierce Swazi and Shangaan tribesmen. It was no place for a single woman, not even one of Claire’s calibre. Nathaniel’s map would take her even deeper into the bushveld, away from the main east–west road and railway route, and along a disused spur line. She would need the help of a man like Blake – his bravery, his brawn and his Broomhandle Mauser would all come in handy.

  ‘What I need is another horse, another gun and someone who knows how to use both,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve found the right bloke, Missus.’ Blake rolled off the rock and opened the bag. He nodded in satisfaction at the coarse woollen shirt, the moleskin trousers, riding boots and broad-brimmed hat.

  ‘It’s Miss.’ Claire wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to correct him.

  Blake pulled on the trousers and slipped on the boots. The fit for both was close enough. ‘I’m pleased you brought civvy clothes. How did you pay for these?’

  ‘I stole them,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t have had you swanning about Portuguese East Africa in a British uniform.’

  He raised his eyebrows as he buttoned up. Claire tugged on Bluey’s reins and pulled him up alongside her. Reaching into the holster on the saddle she withdrew a rifle and tossed it to Blake, who caught it one-handed. She let her eyes linger on his broad chest as he examined the weapon.

  ‘Holland & Holland double. I’m impressed you got away with this. Did you use your feminine charms?’

  She frowned at his apparent lewdness. ‘Nothing of the sort. I found a trading store and the Greek storekeeper was dead drunk.’

  Claire reached into her saddlebag and withdrew a leather bandolier stuffed with shiny fat brass cartridges for the rifle. ‘They’re .577 nitro express,’ she said, throwing him the belt. ‘One of those rounds will stop an elephant.’

  Blake caught the belt and slung it over his arm and pulled the leather-covered recoil cushion of the big hunting rifle to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrels. ‘You do know your weapons and ammunition. It’s good for shooting dangerous game but you’ve got to be close, less than a hundred yards for an accurate shot.’

  ‘There will be plenty of dangerous game where we’re going.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Blake paused, and seemed to be weighing up his options. ‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, but it looks like I’m out of the war for now. If I get you to Lourenço Marques in one piece, will you come with me to the British Consulate and sort out this mess Walters landed me in?’

  ‘I will,’ she said.

  Blake nodded. ‘Then you’ve got yourself a marksman and a horseman.’

  Claire smiled and tossed him a box of bullets. ‘Oh, and I got you some 7.65-millimetre rounds for your Broomhandle Mauser.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘This is business, Mr Blake. Nothing more, nothing less. You get me to LM and I’ll put in a good word for you with the British. That’s it.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ he said, pulling his new hat lower down over his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun.

  They rode until it became dark and Blake lit a fire to keep the lions away. He judged them to be far enough from any road or the rail line to take the risk.

  ‘What’s it like, the bush, where you patrol?’ she asked him from across the flames.

  ‘Uncle Paul Kruger proclaimed the whole area a reserve in 1899. It’s full of game. We won’t go hungry down there, but it’s dangerous country. Plenty of lion, as well. We should be able to make it through the worst of the bush in a couple of days. Once we’re across the Lebombo ranges – the border with Portuguese East Africa – we’ll cut south again down to the railway line and the road to LM.’

  Claire nodded. Blake stared into the fire, silent. He was a handsome brute, she thought, but there was more to him than just another hard-drinking, foul-mouthed soldier. He clearly had sympathy for the innocents in this conflict, and no matter the reason, he had already risked his life to save her. She remembered what he had said about fighting for his fellow soldiers – his mates – rather than for a cause. That was nice. She was now fighting for her survival, and for money, and she wondered which was the greater evil, risking all to steal something that didn’t belong to you, or risking your life for a cause you didn’t truly believe in.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘A man can’t go through life branded
as a criminal, or worse, a coward.’

  ‘Isn’t it better to be a live coward than a dead hero?’

  ‘Ah. Now you’re talking about life and death,’ he said. ‘That’s a different thing altogether. I’ve seen too many good men go to their death because they wanted to be a hero. The word means nothing to me. There’s nothing wrong with turning and running if it’s the sensible thing to do. That’s how the Boers fight and they’re damn good at it. Fire a few shots then melt away.’

  ‘Well, you’re not fighting any more, so it’s academic.’

  ‘True, but something tells me I shouldn’t be hanging this up just yet,’ Blake said, slapping the Holland & Holland by his side.

  They slept but woke before dawn to the sound of a pair of male lions calling to each other from either side of their little camp. They hurriedly packed and rode away, and reached the Crocodile River, upstream from Komatipoort, at noon. The river was about fifty yards wide, swirling and brown. Blake dismounted and led Bluey down to the sandy bank. He could see in the shallows how the bottom dropped away steeply.

  ‘Too deep to ford,’ he said.

  ‘There must be a bridge nearby.’

  ‘At Komatipoort, but there’s a blockhouse there, manned by our lads. Can you swim?’

  Claire bit her bottom lip, then nodded. She was not a confident swimmer, but she did not want to show weakness in front of the Australian.

  ‘I’ll go across first with my horse, then come back for you.’

  ‘I’ll be just fine.’

  Blake shrugged then walked about fifty yards upstream, scanning the bank with his eyes.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Drag marks.’

  ‘What sort of drag marks?’

  ‘Crocodiles. A croc drags his tail when he walks in and out of the water.’ He walked a few paces, stopped and pointed. ‘Yep. Here, see?’