Echoes from the Past (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 1)

by Peter Rimmer

  The lawns down to the Hunyani at Holland Park were immaculate and where the msasa trees had been left standing on the way to the river and the taller trees with their feet in the water, small flowerbeds ringed the tree trunks giving a splendid splash of colour amidst the dryness of the leafless trees, rain having not fallen for months. In between the trees black men in bare feet, starched white uniforms and red fezzes with black tassels hurried between the multitudes of guests. Earlier everyone had watched a visiting English bishop scoop out an inch of hard dry soil with a silver trowel presented by Jeremiah with his name on the back as the presenter. Drops of water were thrown at the dry patch of cleared bush by the sweating bishop dressed in his full regalia.

  In a cluster round the scooped out tiny hole in the ground a crowd of overdressed Europeans were watched with amazement by a crowd of blacks who had come for the free lunch and had no idea what all the fuss was about. Thankfully the group of Europeans sang for a while out of tune and then got into their horse and cart and drove away from St Mary's Mission leaving the blacks to the fine spread of food, most of which none of them had ever seen in their lives before. There was some dissatisfaction at the lack of maize beer at such a festive occasion but the blacks in a few short years had become accustomed to the less pleasant habits of their new masters. One of the young boys named Amos by Nathanial, who was to play a major role in the future of the mission, said that half a celebration was better than none at all even though he was far too young to drink.

  The three miles from the Mission to Holland Park had taken the guests a half an hour and young Amos would have been amazed to see how much liquor was flowing between the trees and their neat ringed flower beds. There were trays of champagne and Pimms number one, a new drink only recently invented, silver trays of light and brown sherry, the latter a euphemism for sweet as no English lady of culture could ever bring herself to ask for a sweet sherry, trays of canapés to go with the liqueur and all before the main luncheon to be served on the terrace of the great house.

  Guiding, with military precision the red-fezzed black waiters, Taffy Jones was dressed as a major-domo and used the social skills he had learned as a part-time waiter in the officers' mess of his regiment. Taffy had been enjoying himself up to the point when Major Brigandshaw, recently elevated by the British army to his majority, took a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray, turned and looked straight into Jack Jones’s eyes. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" James Brigandshaw was splendid in his red uniform and medals and for a moment the ex-corporal thought it was all over and then the major gave him a wintry smile and turned back to the only good looking lady, really good looking lady in the whole crowd of them and for the rest of the day Jack Taffy Jones intended keeping well away from the man in the crimson uniform.

  Thankfully out of earshot he missed the comment of James Brigandshaw to Fran Shaw: "That man's been in the army. Probably Guards. Tall enough. Now I suppose I'd better go across and talk to that reprobate younger brother of mine. Father said he'd cut me off if I paid him a visit but he never said anything about talking at a church function though frankly this looks more like a garden party at Buck's palace than a religious dedication and if someone doesn't get that poor bishop out of his robes he's going to expire in the noon-day sun even if this is meant to be the winter. You want to come across and introduce me to Seb. Probably won't recognise me, you see. Only thing we all agreed upon at home was that brother Nat was a bore, harmless but a bore. Thank goodness no one let him give a speech at that groundbreaking ceremony. If you can call ground breaking digging up an inch of soil. That poor bishop: he's so fat and the ground so low. You know I told your husband there's going to be a war with the Boers in the Transvaal over the right to vote and he became rather excited. Said I'd enquire about a new commission. You see, he left Chittagong on his own volition."

  "How do you know, Major Brigandshaw?"

  "You'd be surprised how much the British army knows about everyone. Including our host."

  "Do tell. He's such a mystery."

  "Not if you know the facts."

  "Now you are teasing and you'd better stop as here comes the man in question. I'm sure I've seen him before somewhere but bless me I can't remember."

  "Probably just as well," said James under his breath. To James women were either naïve or plain damn stupid. Or was she playing a game? Deliberately, he left her talking to the host as he moved off to join his younger brother in what would be their first conversation in many years. As he walked he was amused to see the tall major-domo move away in the opposite direction. Mentally he marked down a need to find out more about the man.

  To Jeremiah's surprise and annoyance, the woman for whom he had gone to so much trouble failed to recognise him and was about to stand back waiting for a formal introduction.

  "We have met, you know," he said in his best British accent. "Fact is we had supper together…There was a thunder storm, you remember…Meikles Hotel."

  "Oh dear, are you the same little man who paid for my room?" Then it all came back including the memory of her hangover and she blushed. "Then I must thank you for being so kind. Storms are so terrible in Africa."

  "You reached home safely the next morning?"

  "Yes I did…Do you think the church will look splendid?" she said changing the subject.

  "I hope so seeing I'm paying for it. Maybe we will both remember each other the next time we meet."

  "I do hope so. Holland Park is such a lovely home. What's in the tower?" she said looking up.

  "My telescope. That dome opens to the sky. At night the sky is very beautiful."

  "You spend a lot of time looking up at the night sky, Mr Shank?"

  "Yes. Would you like to see the heavens, Mrs Shaw? Now, if you'll excuse me I have so many guests and the bishop wants to leave."

  Still annoyed he turned his back and left her standing alone. Even the best-laid plans come to nothing he told himself and put the matter out of his mind. Halfway towards the bishop he stopped and looked back and their eyes met at thirty yards. When he reached the bishop he was smiling.

  The crimson major had reached the bishop two paces ahead of him and was whispering something in the Right Reverend's ear that made Jeremiah stop. The bishop beckoned over Nathanial Brigandshaw and seemingly passed on the message.

  "No pagan witch doctor is going to intimidate me," said Nat sharply to his brother.

  "They are calling her the Prophet, brother. In Shona of course. Tried once to pronounce their word. Very difficult. The man who speaks English says as near as he can think it means prophet. She has a pet leopard and frightens the wits out of people who come too close. Withered old hag by most reports. We think she had something to do with the rebellion but we kept away from hanging a woman. She was the power behind the Kalanga rising last June probably ordered the burning of brother Nat's church. Often the people who start all the killing are far away from the event when it happens. Fanatics themselves, they breed a deadly fanaticism in their followers. Rather like 'who will rid me of this priest', if you'll forgive me using Shakespeare as an example, bishop. The smaller people in life have smaller vision and take their leader's words rather too personally. Anyway this old crone has prophesied that when they burn down your church in the second Chimerenga and that one I can pronounce, it will send all us British back to where we belong. A Chimerenga translates as a war of liberation. So like the apes at Gibraltar brother you'd better look after your new church when it's built. Can't have these prophesies coming true, can we?"

  "Why don't you arrest the crone and hang her as a witch?" said Nat.

  "Burning witches at the stake is rather out of fashion, old chap."

  "But if she started the rebellion?"

  "If everyone went back in history and started hanging the perpetrators of rebellions I rather think one half of the world would be trying to hang the other half. Let sleeping dogs lie. The rebellion is over."

  "She's a heretic," Nat almost shouted.

>   "Not according to her belief, so I am told. She just has a different way of looking at it all."

  "That's blasphemous, James. And in front of the bishop. You should be ashamed of yourself even thinking such a thought. We have come here to save the blacks not throw them back in the hot fire of damnation."

  "My apologies, your Lordship. Twas not my own belief I spoke only the witch doctors. They say she believes in one God but has a different way of speaking to Him. Through the intercession of her ancestors. I am no theologian just an ordinary soldier. No, the army will do more harm by hanging the prophet. There are few of us and many of them. If we want to do any good for them as we all profess and believe, we must get along with them first. And hanging their high priest would have the opposite effect. Even Constantine didn't hang all the pagans at once when he tried to convert them to Christianity. Ah, there you are, Seb. I've been meaning to talk to you. How are you after all these years? You know you're grown and I don't have the same wish to box your ears any more. Fact is I'd probably have my own ears boxed by the look of you. How's the great white hunter? Emily, how are you? Now, is this my nephew Harry?"

  "And I'm Madge," said a young voice next to him. "And this is George. Why haven't you come and visited us, Uncle James?"

  "Now that's a long story young lady."

  "I can listen."

  "Well, if you're going to do that we'd better go over to that chair under the tree so you can sit on my knee."

  "Can George come as well?"

  "George can come too. But first let me take away your father as I rather think I owe him the explanation first."

  "Even if I am the black sheep of the family," said Sebastian smiling.

  "Father was going to cut off my allowance."

  "I know. How's mother?"

  "I rather think she would like to have sent her love."

  "But she didn't."

  "She's frightened of father…Is that Sir Henry over there with a butterfly net?"

  "Grandfather's gone potty," said Harry.

  Even the bishop smiled at the sight of Sir Henry Manderville down by the river with a butterfly net in one hand and a large glass of Pimms in the other.

  "You have done a great thing building a church," the bishop said to Jeremiah Shank.

  "Not built yet bishop."

  "Yes, well. Now, if you'll excuse me. The day has been long for an old man."

  Being the eyes and ears in Africa of the British army, James was amused to watch the exploits of the merchant seaman who had managed to have himself ostracised by the Merchant Navy, no mean feat in James's book. Not long ago in British naval history those who went to sea for the king had to be persuaded into service. James ate the man's splendid spread of food on the man's terrace, extracted himself with difficulty from the grip of his niece and rode off in the afternoon back to Fort Salisbury. He waved at Sebastian from atop his thoroughbred horse and let the animal have its lead. It was a beautiful day and he had not eaten or drunk too much to spoil the pleasure of the sunshine and the bush. James was a man who enjoyed the open spaces and rather thought he would have been a gentleman farmer if he had not decided to join the army. He hoped Sebastian understood that a British officer in a good regiment was unable to live without a private income. There were always problems in life. Having decided in his own life to avoid the problems of marriage he would have enjoyed getting to know his brothers' children. They all seemed happy which was what really mattered. With the intention of finding out why Shank had called his farm Holland Park and to check the unlikely rumour being wafted around by the little man that he was related to, Teddy Holland, James made a mental note to also enquire about the tall major-domo and then let his mind drift away from military intelligence. He chuckled to himself. Not once had any of the brothers mentioned that pompous ass Arthur all day. What stuck in James's craw when it came to Arthur was that every time the ass made a mistake it made him richer. The shares in the Chartered Company that should have sunk Arthur out of sight were making him richer than ever. Since the collapse of the Matabele and Shona rebellions and Rhodes's move over the Zambezi to explore for minerals, the shares had more than doubled. Then he shrugged. His father had done even better out of the same shares and that was the source of his private income. His horse shied for a moment as it caught the scent of a lion. James pulled his rifle from its holster and for the rest of the journey kept his eyes on the way ahead. Africa, as he knew, was always full of surprises.

  The rumour had started when Jeremiah told the bishop that he owed his great wealth to Lord Edward Holland, third son of the Marquis of Surrey. And the idea of building a church so tall its spire would dominate the surrounding bush for miles had originated with Nathanial Brigandshaw when the bishop was doing the rounds of the new church of the province of Central Africa which at that stage had more to do with imagination than practical achievement.

  In the lounge of Meikles Hotel with the punkahs stirring the heat Jeremiah overhead the conversation at the next table as it was his habit to listen to other people's conversations as both a hobby and a valuable source of information. Being neighbours he had met Nathanial on a number of occasions and had given money to the Mission. The idea of building a church the height of St Paul's Cathedral out of local brick in the middle of nowhere fired his imagination and provided a way for his redemption and entry into colonial society. Even a knighthood seemed a possibility with the right amount of charity and connections. Jeremiah had soon realised that money was a scarce commodity and those who dished it out liberally were forgiven their sins and the sins of their fathers. Under the weight of enough money anyone could acquire a heritage to which they would like to aspire. Looking for his opportunity he waited and when Nathanial looked up from his animated conversation with the bishop Jeremiah was standing at his elbow.

  "Do you require more funds for your Mission, Reverend?" he said.

  "Mr Jeremiah Shank, the bishop designate of the Church of the Province of Central Africa."

  "How do you do, bishop. Now, I hear a rumour you want to want to build a church and of course I would be happy to oblige. My benefactor Lord Edward Holland enables me to be generous."

  "You are related to Teddy Holland," said the bishop smiling at the prospect of raising a large sum of money for the church, the prerequisite for the creation of his bishopric.

  "On my mother's side," blurted Jeremiah before he could stop himself talking.

  "Maybe when you have the time we can meet again."

  "I am always at the service of the church. As a director of this hotel I wish you a pleasant stay. I presume you are staying with us?"

  "You work in the hotel?" said the bishop about to change his tune.

  "Of course not. I merely leant them a large sum of money. I have my estate, Holland Park but three miles from the Reverend's Mission. My investments and donations are handled by Baring Brothers in the City of London, bankers of note. I am sure you will have heard of them, bishop?"

  "Of course I have dear sir," replied the bishop.

  It was the first time anyone had heard a name given to his estate on the Hunyani River and Jeremiah, in it up to his neck, thought he had taken another step on the road to his reconstruction. All he hoped was that Lord Holland never heard a word of it and hoped the great distance between England and Africa would dilute the story before it reached Bramley Park.

  With the bishop's card put away in his breast pocket he walked out of the lounge of the hotel. Outside Jack Jones was waiting with the horses.

  "Money, old cock," said Jeremiah pulling himself up into the saddle, "is a drug they never get enough of. Silly old fart. Had the sod eatin' out of my bleedin' hand."

  "Who?"

  "The bishop of something or other. Now, let's go down to Annie's shack and get drunk my old soldier. A man still has to enjoy 'imself."

  "One of these days, guv, you'll put the right accent in the wrong place."

  "Probably."

  Annie would have laughed out loud were sh
e not sensitive to the small man with the crooked nose having a fixation about his height. The long and short of it were standing at her entrance. Outside Meikles Hotel and the stone house with the observatory overlooking the Hunyani, Annie's shack was the most elaborate house in Rhodesia. Despite the prudish setbacks imposed by British colonialism the establishment flourished.

  Moving graciously across the room she greeted Jeremiah Shank. The tall man next to him was given the nod due to a servant and the three of them moved through the throng of men and young girls to the gilded bar in the centre of the great room with the crystal chandelier sparkling above from the lights of a hundred candles. Being late June fires were laid for the going down of the sun when the bush temperature would plummet.

  "Valentine is away for a while but I am sure she will be back in time to have a drink with you, Mr Shank. And what great work has bought you in to town?"

  "I'm building a church to the greater glory of God. It will rise in the African bush, the cross so high no man will be able to touch it and everyone will see the light of Christianity for miles and miles."

  "I never know Mr Shank when you are being serious or pulling my leg."

  "I never joke about my maker," said Jeremiah humbly. "My man here will have a whisky and so will I. Doing the Lord's work is a thirsty business."

  "Are you staying in town tonight?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Please enjoy my hospitality."

  "I will."

  When Annie reached her office the smile had left her face. "Tell Valentine to have a bath, get ready. The little man is back again."

  By the time Valentine appeared, bathed, perfumed and perfectly groomed no one in the room would have guessed her age at thirty-five. The round dark face was smooth of wrinkles, her stomach small and flat, her smile radiant. Had she been born other than in the slums of Cape Town she would have been an actress instead of a whore. Her red dress reached the floor spread wide by ten petticoats, her bosom pushed almost out of the top of her dress, an unblemished firmness the colour of milk coffee. Behind her head the long black hair had been gathered and caught by a silver clasp in the shape of a lion. No other ornaments touched her body and the smile she gave Jeremiah caught him in the genitals. Even as she put her white-gloved hand out to be kissed his eyes were fixed not on her dark and sparkling eyes but on her cleavage.