by Tony Park
Through the morning he tracked them, knowing that with each step they were getting closer to the German stronghold at Keetmanshoop. Would they keep her there, he wondered, or take her to the Shark Island camp on the coast?
Occasionally there was a sign of settlement, a modest farmhouse or a telltale plume of smoke from a far-off chimney. Blake kept an eye out for resourceful outriders who might double back to check if the column was being tailed, but even with the knowledge of Morengo’s successful ambush fresh in their minds the Germans behaved like most soldiers getting closer to base; they dropped their guard. Blake knew this part of South West Africa reasonably well as he had roamed close to Keetmanshoop, and towards the Rietfontein border post further north with his horse and cattle trading.
Blake was able to keep the force in sight by its dust cloud, which also obscured him from anyone who might look over their shoulder. That was, at least, until the lone horseman left the column.
Blake wheeled Bluey to the right and galloped away off the pounded trail into some low dunes covered with scrubby grass. Taking out his binoculars, he dismounted between two sandhills and crawled on his belly to the crest of the one closest to the column.
The rider wore the uniform of the Landespolizei, and Blake had seen only one man in the column dressed like this, the same one who had taken Liesl. He was alone, now, and Blake followed his progress through the glasses along what he now saw was a rough track that led to a stand of trees. In between the foliage, green from a spring or well, he caught glimpses of whitewash. When the man had disappeared Blake climbed up on Bluey and took his own circuitous route to the farmhouse through the desert.
He had it in mind that he might take the man prisoner. As a part-time officer he might break more quickly and easily than a professional soldier, Blake thought. He would find out what had happened to Liesl. If they had killed her, the same way they had dispatched civilians in cold blood in Morengo’s kraal, he might exact some measure of revenge on the man. His stomach had turned at the sight of the slaughtered German soldiers in the wagon, but now his own blood lust was simmering.
Blake dismounted away from the farmhouse and crept forward.
*
Claire saw the rider a long way off. She took the Mauser down from the wall and chambered a round.
It wasn’t long before she recognised Peter’s horse and his distinctive solid build. Even though she knew it was him she didn’t feel she could completely relax. She kept the rifle in her hands as she walked out onto the stoep to meet him.
Normally he would have leapt from the horse and come running, but instead he slid wearily off the animal. He took two heavy steps then hung his head.
Claire walked towards him, looking around as she did so. A trio of gemsbok, oryx as they were also known, took flight in the distance. It could be a predator lurking, she thought. When she reached him she took his horse’s reins from his hands. He stared at her, and there was no trace of his trademark grin. His eyes looked beyond her, into the distance. Claire tethered the horse to a post. She put a hand on his arm.
‘Let’s get you inside.’
He blinked, not seeming to hear her. When he looked at her he screwed his eyes, as if he was having trouble focusing. ‘Claire. It was . . .’
She gave a small nod and hooked her arm through his. ‘War.’
‘No, a butchery.’
She led him to the house and in through the kitchen. She had just lit a fire in the stove and he stood there, watching the flames.
‘Innocents,’ he said.
She rubbed his broad back with her palm. ‘I’ll get some coffee on.’
She prepared the pot, then went into the lounge room and took a bottle of schnapps from the carved wooden bar. Back in the kitchen Peter was still staring at the little fire through the open door of the cooker. She poured a glass and handed it to him.
His eyes were red.
‘She – someone – shot our wounded, murdered them in cold blood.’
That didn’t sound like Morengo’s style, she thought, but said nothing. Good commanders led by example, but it still didn’t stop individual men from giving in to the devil within. But a woman? ‘She?’
‘Morengo’s niece, a . . . young . . . thing. I found her on a wagon the rebels had taken from us. She had a rifle and there were five dead soldiers lying at her feet, all men who I had treated, who probably would have lived. The blood, Claire . . .’
She nodded. ‘It won’t help their cause, an act like that. Von Deimling will make sure the whole of Germany hears about it and the natives will be doubly damned.’
Peter shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Claire. We . . . we are just as bad. Von Deimling ordered the mountain guns to open fire on Morengo’s kraal, knowing there were only women and children and old people there. I watched men drag women from the huts and shoot them in cold blood.’
She put her arms around him and ran her fingers through his curly hair. Then she drew his face to her breast, where his tears soaked her dress. At least, she thought, he could cry. He was a doctor, a good man, despite his weaknesses. She shouldn’t have married him, but part of her did still love him, in an inconvenient way. He sniffed.
When he lifted his head she gave him the drink and he downed the schnapps in one gulp. They sat and she poured him coffee and more of the liquor.
In time he composed himself and looked at her. ‘There was a white man, riding with the Nama.’
A chill ran through Claire and she tried not to let it show. ‘Really? That’s odd. An Englishman?’
Peter shook his head. ‘Von Deimling says he is Australian. The girl, Morengo’s niece, was carrying a photograph of him. We have been warned about this man in the past. His name is Prestwich.’
Claire dropped her coffee cup and it shattered on the flagstone floor.
Peter jumped to his feet and reached for a cloth. ‘Are you all right, Claire?’
‘I’m fine. Silly me. I can’t afford to be breaking perfectly good cups. It must have slipped from my fingers. You . . . you never told me about this man before.’
Peter shrugged. ‘Actually I should have told you about him. He’s from Upington. The colonel says he’s a cattle and horse thief who has traded with the rebels. He’s furious that a white man is riding and fighting with the Nama. Maybe he has our cattle?’
Claire looked away from him, but he came to her. It was his turn to hold her. ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine, Peter, just tired is all.’
He took her in his arms, gently, and stopped her from fussing over the spilled coffee.
She wondered how long Peter had known the name of the man she had left behind in Portuguese East Africa. Claire had dared to think, dream perhaps, that the mysterious Australian in Upington might possibly be Blake, perhaps come to find her after all. And it was him. He was using the alias she had secured for him all those years ago.
‘I don’t know how much money we have, Claire,’ Peter said, and she had to concentrate to hear his words, ‘but I do know we have enough for a new coffee cup, for a hundred fine china sets, most likely. What’s wrong? Has something happened while I’ve been away? I haven’t even asked how you are, or what’s been going on.’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’
The kitchen door burst open and a man in a bloodstained German military uniform stared at them, his eyes wide when he saw Claire. He pointed a rifle at Peter, who held up his hands.
Claire drew a breath.
It was him, after all these years.
*
Blake stared at her. Claire had cut her hair and her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying or was about to. She was dressed in men’s riding clothes that accentuated rather than hid her figure.
The man in the Landespolizei uniform, who Liesl had said was a doctor, drew her closer to him and moved so
he was protecting her. He said something in German.
She didn’t scream out Blake’s name or run to him or from him. Instead, she held his eye and gave a tiny shake of the head, as if telling him not to reveal that they knew each other. Blake’s mind reeled. He owed this woman nothing, and yet his stomach was flipping and his heart pounding at the sight of her.
‘You speak English?’ Blake said to the doctor. His mind raced. Was this man her husband?
The man nodded.
‘What’s your name?’ Blake asked.
‘I am Dr Peter Kohl. You are the man who rode with the Nama rebels. I saw you, on the wagon, with my patients. You hit me.’
‘Please don’t hurt him,’ Claire said to Blake, adding, ‘whoever you are.’
His eyes still on Claire, Blake said, ‘I won’t hurt him or you if he does as he’s told. You understand, Doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want the girl, the one who was on the wagon when you arrived, just before the explosion,’ Blake said. ‘I want you to find out what they’ve got planned for her.’
Dr Kohl’s hands turned into fists by his side. ‘She murdered four wounded men.’
Blake shook his head. ‘She did not. I was watching the attack. The man who did that was named Frans – one of your soldiers killed him. Justice was done, Doctor.’
‘Nonsense, there were four wounded men lying helpless in that wagon. What that man did was unforgivable.’
‘Like shelling and machine-gunning innocent women and children in their huts?’ Blake countered.
‘If I get caught,’ Peter said, changing the subject, ‘if the authorities suspect I am asking about her and she is then later freed, it will go badly for me.’
‘If she goes to one of your camps,’ Blake said, ‘she’ll be lucky to live.’
Peter braced himself, as though he was on a parade ground. ‘I am sure she will be treated honourably.’
Blake tossed his head towards Claire, keeping the rifle trained on the doctor. ‘If you want to see your wife again, you’ll do as I say. Where are your people taking her?’
Peter seemed to vacillate so Blake raised the rifle and took aim between the German’s eyes.
‘The prisoners from Narudas will be kept at Keetmanshoop for now, but there are only the prison cells there. I don’t know where she will be sent, or when.’
‘Then you’d better find out,’ Blake said. ‘You have my word, nothing will happen to your wife – as long as you hold to your end of the deal.’
‘I could return with a company of Schutztruppen. You would not stand a chance,’ the doctor said.
‘Correct, and neither would your wife here. It’s up to you.’
‘Peter, please listen to him,’ Claire said in a beseeching tone, ‘we have no choice.’
Blake bit his tongue. People always had choices. Claire could have stayed with him in Portuguese East Africa, or got word to him somehow when he was convalescing. Now, however, she was trying to get her husband to leave, so maybe she had something to say to him after all this time.
The doctor glared at her. ‘You would have me betray my country for a young girl?’
Claire nodded. ‘Yes. They’ve got no business seeing a child off to some camp. You said it yourself, Peter, there’ve been too many innocents slaughtered already.’
Blake suppressed a smile. That sounded like the Claire Martin he had known.
The doctor sighed.
‘Get out of here,’ Blake said. ‘I’ll be here, with your wife, until you get back. Just remember that.’
Peter squared up to him again. ‘If you harm her in any way, or touch her, I will kill you.’
Blake nodded. ‘Let’s make this easy on all of us, sport. Just find out where they’re taking the girl, and when. That’s all I want to know. Then you can have your wife back.’
Peter went to Claire, and Blake didn’t try to stop him. He kissed her and she gave him a hug.
‘Off you go, now,’ she said, ‘I’ll be fine.’
The doctor left, his face red with frustrated rage, and Blake watched through the window as he mounted his horse and galloped off.
Blake lowered his rifle. He was still recovering from the shock of seeing Claire and finding her here, of all places, four years after he had last seen her. He said the first thing that came into his mind: ‘Why did you leave me?’
Claire put her hands on her hips. ‘Why the hell didn’t you follow me?’
What right did she have to be angry at him? ‘Because I had no idea where you went. When I was fit enough I went to the docks and asked around and I worked a passage to Cape Town, but couldn’t find any trace of where you’d gone to.’
Claire’s shoulders sagged. ‘The note, Blake?’
‘What bloody note?’
‘I left a letter with Dr Machado. He seemed a decent enough man. Did he not even give it to you?’
Blake shook his head and wanted to curse and yell over the twist fate had taken. ‘He was a decent man, Claire. There was a fire at the hospital and Dr Machado was killed trying to rescue a patient. It was before I was fully conscious.’
Claire put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh no! The poor man. I left a message for you, Blake, telling you that Walters was on to me. I had to leave. He survived the lioness attack and –’
He nodded. ‘I know. He’s still alive. He’s a colonel in charge of the Cape Mounted Police now, in South Africa.’
She took a step towards him. ‘I said you should write to me care of the Lüderitz port offices, Blake.’
He had hardened his heart. They had only made love the once, he had told himself so many times over the years, and he had convinced himself that she had used him, merely to help her get to the gold and shift it. And all the while she had been hoping to hear from him.
‘I waited,’ Claire continued, ‘for a year, and hoped you might come, but I thought you mustn’t want to be with a thief after all. I wrote to Dr Machado and, of course, never heard back from him, so I assumed you’d read the note and torn it up in front of him. I met the German fellow, Peter. He’s a good man, Blake, but . . .’
The word hung between them. Did she not love the doctor who had just vowed to kill him if he harmed her? The news was still sinking in. ‘You’re married.’
‘I am.’ She sniffed and wiped the corner of her eye. ‘Would you, Blake . . . would you have come for me if you’d received the note I left with Machado?’
In a heartbeat, he thought. He would have dragged his still-wounded body onto the first ship bound for Lüderitz. However, it was all moot, because she was a respectable married woman now. Also, Claire had been a spy and a thief; as much as the sight of her stirred old passions the thought crossed his mind that the story about the note might have been just that, a fiction. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No. You didn’t answer my question, Blake.’
He wanted to grab her and crush her to him and make love to her. He had felt hurt, then angry, then betrayed, and he had let the scar tissue harden his heart, but now he felt it trying to burst free from his chest. ‘I would have come looking for my share of the gold.’
Her face hardened. ‘Aye, well, I should have expected that. For your information, there’s not much of it left that’s readily accessible. Some of it was recently stolen by the Nama and there’s a sizeable stash hidden near Lüderitz. If . . .’
‘What?’ He scowled at her. ‘If I help you find it you’ll give me a share?’
She came to him and for a moment he regretted his words, thinking she was going to throw her arms around him. Instead her hand shot out as fast as a black mamba striking its prey and she slapped his face. ‘I saved your life, damn it.’
‘That just made us even.’
She glared at him. ‘I’ll get you your gold, or at least what I can afford to give you.’
> ‘Will your husband betray me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. He’s a good man and he cares for me, but he knows I don’t love him enough, Blake. He sleeps around with floozies and I haven’t gone out of my way to change his ways or give him children. He wasn’t the man I wanted, Blake, he was the one I settled for.’
Blake mulled over her words and at the same time his eyes roved over her. She was as beautiful as ever.
‘What are you going to do now, Blake? Rob me?’
‘I’ve come for the girl, Liesl.’
‘You and her . . . ?’
‘It’s the cause she loves, not me,’ he said, and it was the truth.
They held each other’s gaze, old passions, lusts and the missed opportunities of four years boiling inside them.
He took a deep breath to steady himself and his feelings. ‘You’re happy here, otherwise?’
‘I wanted to start again, start a better world,’ she said.
‘And?’
‘And instead I’ve ended up in another war,’ she continued, ‘where the rich have dispossessed the poor. As always, when the have-nots dare to rise up against the haves, they’re slaughtered, just like in Ireland.’
Blake raised an eyebrow. ‘You own three huge farms, don’t you? Haven’t you taken the best land from the Nama?’
‘I bought it, and before this blooming war started I was building schools for the Nama, and Peter, for all his faults, was providing healthcare in the village clinics I’d started and learning about traditional healing from the bushmen. We were making progress.’
‘Not fast enough for Jakob Morengo and the other Nama, it seems, who wanted their own land back, not just some charity from a farmer’s wife. If your brave new world involves taking someone else’s land, how does that make you any better than the British?’
She sighed. ‘I don’t know. I thought that all this land in South West Africa was so empty, compared to Ireland and Europe, that we could start again, have a place that was pure, with greater equality. I was told there was no one living out here, but there was, the Nama and the bushmen, and they’re all worse off now.’
