Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  Nick looked around and savoured the silence. Morengo must have known that what waited for his band’s supporters was far worse than any privation this harsh natural environment held in store for them. To stay in their homeland meant imprisonment and, most likely, death.

  So, Jakob Morengo had brought his people not through the wilderness, but into it, and in doing so he had dangled a target too big, fat and juicy for the German military to resist. Here was a man who cared for his people, but at the same time he would have been acutely aware of the risks. There were only two outcomes to this strategy, neither of them great – death or a stay of execution. Because even if Morengo could turn back the German columns that he knew were coming his way, how long would it be before the Kaiser’s men rallied themselves and returned to finish them all off?

  Nick looked forward to reading Anja’s next email as soon as he was back in internet range.

  Chapter 34

  Garub waterhole near Aus, Namibia, the present day

  Even in her puffer jacket, fleece, gloves and beanie, Anja was shivering as she brought the night vision binoculars up to her eyes.

  The icy wind whistled through the open sides of the rock-wall viewing hide, twenty kilometres from Aus on the road that led to Lüderitz, a further hundred kilometres away. She needed no reminding that Aus was regarded as the coldest place in Namibia.

  She picked up the mare and her tiny newborn foal, moving across the open expanse of desert sand. The mother stopped every few steps to bend her head and feed on the miserable shoots the desert produced. The thirsty youngster tried every time to drink.

  Anja’s stay in Namibia so far had been traumatic and as cold and desolate as this part of the country was, she found the emptiness of the desert and the sight of the horses helped calm her. She might have lost nearly all of her research, but she had a copy of Nick’s manuscript and here, in front of her, were the real-life progeny of the horses she was researching. All was not lost for her, but the horses themselves were in trouble.

  Even though Namibia’s desert-adapted lions were famous – infamous to farmers – for the long distances they travelled in search of food and mates, they were not present in this part of the country. Instead, the number one threat the wild horses faced was spotted hyena. The last thing Anja wanted to see was a foal or an elderly horse brought down by a clan of hyena, but she was interested in how alert the horses were, especially at night.

  In recent years a protracted drought and increased predation by hyenas had led to the horses’ numbers dropping dramatically, to less than a hundred animals. It was rare these days, Anja knew, for a foal to survive to anything approaching maturity so seeing this little one in front of her was even more special.

  In her notebook, by the light of a torch covered with a red lens so as not to startle the animals, she noted the number of times per minute that the mare looked up from feeding to survey her surrounds. Anja watched, counted and recorded until the mare and her foal strayed beyond the range of the binoculars. The horses’ departure gave her an excuse to get back to translating the manuscript on her new iPad.

  It still irked her that she’d had to spend a small fortune on new equipment before the insurance payment came through, as well as set up a new email account, but being out here with the horses was soothing. She forced her fears from her mind and concentrated on the job at hand.

  Anja heard a loud whinny and looked up from her iPad. She took up her night vision binoculars and her heart thudded. A spotted hyena, distinguishable in the full moon by the round slope of its back, was making its way across the plain.

  Through the green glow of the device she made it out more clearly.

  A desert stallion trotted into her field of view, stopped and tossed its head.

  Anja panned left and right, searching for the mare and her newborn foal, and cursed herself – she had been so engrossed in reading the manuscript that she had neglected her fieldwork.

  The mare was leading her foal towards the waterhole and the hide which overlooked it; perhaps, Anja theorised, she associated the hide with humans and safety. Anja knew, however, that spotted hyenas were brazen – given half a chance they would take a chop off a braai if no one was looking.

  Anja’s heart pounded. She had seen the carcasses of horses that had been preyed upon by hyenas, and pictures and videos of a hyena chasing a horse, but she had never witnessed a kill herself. Now that the prospect loomed before her she felt the mix of emotions that confronted tourists when they had the chance of seeing a kill in the wild. On the one hand it was exciting and her elevated pulse rate confirmed that fact, but on the other hand she felt a bond with the desert horses and the thought of seeing one taken, especially a foal, horrified her.

  The hyena circled the three horses, watching and waiting. It paused and raised its head, sniffing the breeze, which was coming from behind Anja, towards the predator. The hyena probably had her scent now, but it showed no sign of backing away from the hunt.

  Anja wondered what would have happened if the hyena was not alone, if there were two or three of them, or more. Hyenas had a reputation for being scavengers, which they certainly were, but few tourists knew that they were also adept hunters. Several years earlier she had seen four hyenas chase down and kill an impala in Etosha National Park. The clan had acted in perfect synchronicity, two of them swinging out as flankers and the other two chasing down the fleet-footed antelope. It had been over in seconds and had been one of the quickest, most efficient kills Anja had ever seen.

  She feared for the foal.

  The night’s chill forgotten, Anja stood, elbows braced on the rock wall of the viewing hide. The hyena moved across her field of vision and around behind her. The mare whinnied and the stallion pranced up to her, as if to check on her and the foal. The little one, oblivious to the danger, tried to drink, but the mother stamped her hoof.

  If they galloped away now, Anja thought, the hyena would chase them and probably catch the foal, if not the adults. Anja looked over her shoulder. The hyena was four metres away, mouth open as if grinning, curved teeth shining in the moonlight. Part of Anja wanted to throw a rock at it, to scare it away, but she was a scientist, and as heart-wrenching as it might be to see the foal killed or maimed, she could not interfere in nature.

  She bit her bottom lip. Haven’t we done that already? The desert horses should not have been there in the first place – hell, some people would say her people, the Germans, should not have been in South West Africa, though she did not believe that. The horses, whatever their origins, had adapted to the desert, just as her people from Europe had learned to live in Africa. Efforts had been made to manage the horse population in the past, including culling or capturing and removing some animals to ensure genetic diversity. Even now, in the middle of a drought, donors were providing feed for the horses, here at this very hide, to ensure they did not starve to death. The horses were a tourist drawcard, as well as an accepted part of Namibia’s fauna.

  Another debate had raged between supporters of the horses on one side and hyena researchers on the other. The ‘horse’ people had petitioned the Namibian Ministry of Environment and Tourism to intercede, either allowing them to relocate the horses to a safer area or to dart and move the hyenas. When the latter had been tried and failed – hyenas were canny creatures and not easy to trap or sedate – some hyenas had been culled. This had infuriated those on the predators’ side.

  So why couldn’t she scare this hyena away? Anja asked herself. Who would know, or care, if she did? The tourists who would coo over and snap pictures of this little foal would probably thank her if they knew she had intervened to save it.

  Then Anja thought of the hyena. Judging by its size she guessed it was a female as these tended to be bigger than the males and dominant in the clan structure. It probably had cubs somewhere, in a den in some rocks. The little ones, a uniform dark brown when new born, and cute like li
ttle bears, would be relying on their mother to nourish them with milk, and for that she needed to feed herself. Who was Anja to interfere and begrudge a hyena a meal? The hyena, after all, was native to Africa, and if it was a question of rights then surely the predator had more right to be here, and to eat, than the prey?

  But were there now more spotted hyenas in this part of the desert because the population of introduced wild horses supported them?

  It was too much to take in and besides, the hyena was making its move. It came around from behind the hide to the right flank, showing itself in the moonlight. The mare tossed her head and the foal, at last, seemed to pick up the presence of danger. It trotted a few metres, but its mother rounded it up.

  The stallion shot away from the female and foal, galloping straight at the threat.

  The hyena stood its ground and whooped at the moon.

  The stallion stopped short and reared up on its hind legs, forelegs kicking as if it was going to strike down at the hyena, which snarled in return.

  Anja picked up her camera and in her rush to get to the right-hand end of the hide she kicked over a Thermos flask of hot coffee. The metal container clanged noisily against the rock wall and concrete floor.

  The hyena, hearing the man-made noise, turned and ran. The stallion gave chase, for a hundred metres or so. Anja, swearing at her clumsiness, glanced out of the hide in the other direction and saw the mare and foal galloping away to safety.

  Once her heart rate had returned to normal, she returned to reading and translating Dr Peter Kohl’s manuscript.

  When she looked up again the hyena, which had circled back to the hide, was glaring at her. Danger was never far.

  Chapter 35

  The Karasberge, German South West Africa, 1906

  Ambush country, Blake thought as he led the horses laden with rifles and ammunition through the moonlit night.

  Whenever he crossed the border to do a cattle or horse trading deal he kept his wits about him. The money was good, and while he tried to salve his conscience with the thought that he was helping what seemed to be a good cause, Blake never forgot that he had truly crossed a line and was now a criminal. While he wouldn’t kill another person over a herd of cattle he knew there were men out there who would, and the German Schutztruppen would shoot him on sight if they caught him running guns to the Nama.

  He looked at the land as a soldier would. If he was leading a patrol he would stick to the high ground as much as possible, but that was impossible with his train of pack animals. He scouted for cover from his vantage point on Bluey’s back, identifying places where he might be able to take shelter and return fire if he was shot at.

  As he rode along the dry sandy riverbed he scanned the top of a natural wall of black basalt, the rocks as square and precise as if they’d been kiln-fired and laid. He felt a chill under his long oilskin coat and rested his right hand on the grip of his trusty old Broomhandle Mauser.

  There was an oddly familiar tingling in his fingertips that he didn’t normally get from a cattle or horse deal, no matter how crooked the characters involved.

  It was excitement.

  He hated to admit it, but a part of him knew he had never felt as truly alive, as sure of himself as he had when he’d been out in the veld facing the prospect of contact with a Boer commando at any moment. He felt it now, the intoxicating mix of fear and anticipation. The wanting and not-wanting were like a drug, better even than opium.

  ‘You’re early.’

  Blake’s horse whinnied and he pulled up on the reins. Liesl stepped from behind a boulder on his left. She held a Mauser rifle and the moon glinted on her smile.

  He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Been watching me long?’

  ‘About an hour, across the plain.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m glad you came, Blake, but there are half-a-dozen of my uncle’s men hiding around here also watching you – and me.’

  He nodded. He had not been about to kiss her, if that was what she was worried about. He sensed from her tone of voice that whatever they’d had was over now, in any case. That didn’t stop him caring for her, or worrying about her being out in the desert with the rebels.

  Liesl whistled and a pair of armed men emerged from the valley ahead of them, one trailing her horse.

  They led him through the mountains, along more of the riverbeds, and then slowly upwards, along narrow paths of loose rock that would have been invisible to someone who’d not been brought up in this part of the world. Up and over a couple of saddles they trotted and walked, slowly, quietly, carefully, until the pre-dawn brought an even more bitter cold to the riders’ bones.

  Blake smelled wood smoke, and as they crested yet another rise he saw Jakob Morengo’s clan spread out before him in a high, windswept U-shaped bowl surrounded by rocky flat-topped ridges.

  Cattle were penned in kraals made of thornbushes and the people had made close to a thousand temporary homes out of branches, blankets and woven grass mats. It was a mean settlement, but at least it had been, up until now, a place of safety. Women with bundles of firewood on their heads, men cleaning rifles and children marching and playing with sticks for Mausers eyed Blake as Liesl and her escorts led him through the camp.

  They came to a canvas tent, patched and old, but one of the more habitable structures on the plateau. Jakob Morengo was outside, dressed in his suit pants and an undershirt, braces hanging down. He was shaving in front of a mirror hanging from a tent pole. A canvas wash basin hung in a tripod.

  He looked over at them as Blake dismounted. ‘Welcome, how are you, Mr Blake?’

  ‘Blake. Fine, and you?’

  ‘Fine, fine, fine. Good to see you.’ Jakob rinsed his blade. ‘Please allow me to finish. A soldier should shave every day, water permitting, don’t you think?’

  Blake shrugged. ‘The Boers didn’t bother in their war, and nor did we, at least not in the irregular units.’

  ‘Quite right! Help yourself to coffee. Liesl, perhaps you would do the honours?’

  ‘Of course, Uncle.’ She took a battered pot off a pile of coals.

  ‘What I mean,’ Jakob finished his last stoke, rinsed the blade and wiped his face, ‘is that it was quite right that you copied your enemy. The strengths of the Boers were their knowledge of the land, their ability to travel light and move fast, and to hit hard and then run. At the same time the British were marching in a column, in three neat files, and shaving every day and burdening themselves with useless equipment. It was only when you colonials started playing them at their own game that you had some success.’

  ‘Thanks for the history lesson,’ Blake said dryly, ‘but I was there. So why are you shaving, because you want to be seen in the same light as a British or German general?’

  Jakob laughed and took a cup of coffee from Liesl, who also poured one for Blake. ‘No. But I don’t discount the Germans, nor underestimate their power.’

  Blake drank some coffee; it was good.

  ‘I see by the look on your face that you’re surprised to taste coffee this good at the tent of a black man.’ Jakob put on a white shirt and buttoned it to the top.

  ‘I’m surprised to taste coffee this good in the Karas Mountains.’

  Jakob smiled. ‘I developed a taste for it in Europe. I was a clerk on the mines, in South Africa, and worked for a German company in Windhoek. The director was a kind man, forward thinking, who believed Africans would one day inevitably move into managerial positions beyond being the boss boy in a house. I made friends, but I noticed that the Germans prize order and precision over everything else. Rules must be obeyed, projects completed, accounts kept, and plans followed – everything is enforced with discipline. It’s the same with their military operations.’

  ‘I’ve heard the same said of them,’ Blake said.

  ‘I shave,’ Jakob pointed at him with the razor blade before folding and p
utting it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, which he then shrugged on, ‘because it speaks of discipline. I want my men to see that I take pride in my appearance and my hygiene. However, the Germans run into trouble when Africa interferes with their love of order.’

  ‘How so?’ Blake sipped some more coffee.

  ‘They find the climate here extreme – the summers hotter than anything they have ever known and the winters colder than they expected, or came equipped for. Patrols in the field suffer from a lack of water and fresh food and the men become louse-ridden and prone to disease as a result. My men are used to living in the wild, but I have to remind them to stay healthy, to keep clean, and to exercise self-discipline.’

  ‘Good advice,’ Blake said.

  ‘But when I shave I think not like a Boer on commando, but as a German commander would.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I think the Germans are following orders, and their orders are not merely to defeat me and my rebels on the field of battle. If their mission was as simple as that they would adapt their tactics, use smaller, more mobile patrols, enlist more of the disgruntled Boers and arm and equip them as fully fledged commandos. No. The Germans don’t just want to kill or capture my men and me, they want to crush my people entirely. They want to send a message to the rest of the colony and indeed the world that native people dare not rise up; that the price of rebellion is annihilation.’

  Blake thought about that. As horrible as the concentration camps had been in South Africa, Kitchener’s intention had not been to wipe out the Afrikaners – though thousands had died of disease and hunger – but to deny the commandos their support. ‘That sounds . . . extreme.’

  Jakob nodded. ‘It’s happening. You know, the Herero began this rebellion, and we Nama, even our best-known commander, Hendrik Witbooi, initially fought on the German side against the Herero. Our two peoples never particularly liked each other – my own parents, one from each tribe, suffered prejudice from both their families for marrying someone from a different culture – and in the past we had been at war. However, the Nama saw how the Germans treated the Herero when they had defeated them in battle and it shocked them into changing sides. Nama warriors were ordered to slaughter Herero prisoners and the Germans drove the women and children into the Omaheke Desert where they died of thirst and starvation. Some of those who tried to return to their lands in surrender were gunned down on the express orders of the former German commander, Lothar von Trotha. Others, we hear, are being sent to camps like the one on Shark Island at Lüderitz where they are worked to death.’