The Longs had to return to Durban and possess themselves in patience, but Patricia was not unhappy about the respite from further journeying, for although it was four days since their arrival at Johannesburg she seemed to have done nothing yet but travel all the time. Now she would have a few hours at least in which to see something of one of South Africa’s finest cities.
The wide streets and open spaces impressed her greatly when they drove round Durban on the following morning and particularly the fine houses on the Berea above the town with their magnificent view of the great land-locked bay.
Before lunch they drove out to the ocean beach, and the two men sat watching the great white rollers, while Patricia went in for a swim. Her father was a little nervous because Wisdon said that there were plenty of man-eating sharks off the Durban beaches, but the bathing attendant assured him that she would be perfectly safe as long as she kept inside the line of breakers and that he had already warned her. She came out glowing with health from the buffeting of the surf and lay for as long as she dared afterwards in the grilling sunshine. Then they all lunched at the Hotel Edward and afterwards drove out to Joe-Jack’s once more.
The Indian was at home this time and rose with some difficulty, owing to his enormous bulk, from a couch which seemed little wider than an arm-chair when he occupied it. Like the Van Niekerks he had received a telegram asking him to give no information about his benefactor before Sandy McDiamid’s arrival, but the ex-barman saw no reason why he should pay the least attention to it. He proved to be a simple jolly creature who delighted in the chance to talk about his late patron. On one point only he preseved a careful silence, skilfully turning aside Wisdon’s leading questions, and that was the nature of the service he had rendered to John Thomas Long which had resulted in that gentleman remembering him in his Will. For more than an an hour he gave rambling garrulous descriptions of the feckless white man’s scandalous way of life and open-handed generosity when he had money in his pockets, while his enormous paunch shook like a jelly with rumbling laughter as he described some more than usually drunken party at which he had been in charge of the liquid refreshment.
Of leopard skin karosses, knobkerries, or witch doctors’ necklaces he could tell them nothing, but one important fact came to light in the conversation. A Zulu Induna named N’hluzili had been John’s head boy on a number of his prospecting expeditions, and Joe-Jack was certain that he had been with him when he had last set out. Moreover, the native in question was still living a year before, a rich and influential petty chieftain, in his kraal near a place called Sezela about fifty miles down the coast.
In high feather at this real success the Wisdon party took leave of the gargantuan Hindoo and, at dinner that night, Wisdon insisted upon Patricia sharing a bottle of champagne with him, suggesting also that she should call him ‘Phil’.
The next morning they set out for Sezela and passing round the land-locked bay of Natal to the rising ground on its far side caught glimpses of the town and harbour, spread out like a map below them, through gaps which occurred here and there in the dense jungle-like woods, where tiny monkeys chattered among the thick impenetrable creepers.
Unlike the day before the weather was magnificent and the road wound through valley after valley, some areas of which were planted with broad fields of sugar-cane, and the barrenness of others relieved by cactus, aloes, century plants and aged tattered banana palms. In the whole fifty-mile journey only two villages were passed, and a sugar factory where the stench of the rotting cane was abominable, but the country was abundant with life. On almost every hill-side little clusters of round bee-hive huts marked a native kraal. The cattle near them seemed plentiful and well tended and many Zulus were to be seen on the roads. The women were invariably carrying some article, which would vary in size from a small milk jug to an entire bed, upon their heads. The further they advanced the more picturesque the inhabitants became. The dirty dungarees and cloth caps of the men gave place to worked leather aprons and curious head-dresses—the cheap cottons of the women to a splendid nudity except for a bead-embroidered loin cloth and necklace. Patricia could now appreciate why the Zulus have been described as the finest physical race in the world. A little before midday they pulled up at a small village in a well wooded area called Umboni Park, and secured directions to N’hluzili’s kraal.
Having taken a side road for a few miles through another valley Wisdon halted the car at a bend in the road below a steep slope. Some three hundred yards up the rise an unusually large collection of beehive huts showed a good-sized native village. Getting out, Wisdon produced a suit-case and a parcel from the luggage box at the back of the car, then seeing that Patricia had got out too he said to her quickly:
‘’Fraid we can’t take you with us to see this chap.’
‘Oh! Why?’ she protested.
‘Well, the nigs are a bit touchy about white women, you know. They don’t mind men, but it wouldn’t be exactly etiquette to take you up to this old boy’s hut. In fact he’d probably be so annoyed that it would queer the whole pitch, so you’d best wait here.’
Concealing her disappointment as well as she could Patricia climbed back into the car, while her father and Wisdon started off together up the hill.
When they reached the kraal, Wisdon asked one of the little naked native children if the Induna N’hluzili was still alive, and learned to his great satisfaction that he was. The woolly-headed brat scampered off, and a few moments later a tall, skinny old man with a circle of leather about the top of his bald head came, with a slow, dignified step, towards them.
Wisdon offered greetings in fluent Zulu and, unpacking the parcel, displayed two bottles of Scotch whisky which he presented with a jovial flourish. The old man signed to one of the numerous women who stood in a group behind him gazing curiously at the strangers, and she carried the bottles away. Then he led his visitors to his own hut, a complete bee-hive, with only a hole big enough to crawl through for an entrance but considerably larger than the rest and, motioning them to be seated in front of it, sank down himself on his lean haunches.
Kaffir beer was set before them, a white frothy mixture in clay pots, which Wisdon assured Henry was non-alcoholic, rather than have to explain his reason for not accepting the Induna’s hospitality. While emaciated old women and plump-breasted young ones, children of both sexes and all ages, goats, chickens and kaffir dogs crowded round, Wisdon explained their business and the old chief nodded gravely, making a sign of reverence when he heard mentioned the name of John Thomas Long.
Wisdon then produced the necklace of monkey skulls from the suit-case and handed it to N’hluzili who looked at it curiously for a moment.
‘This is not of my people,’ he said fingering the sparse grey beard that decorated his bony chin. ‘Such are worn by the miserable Bushmen in whose blood my nation washed their spears in the days that are gone. It may be that this thing has been handed from father to son as a memory of the time when Dingaan’s Impis made the earth thunder with the stamping of their feet. It may belong to some survivor of this Slave Race who live now on the edge of the “Great Thirst” which is all of Africa that your people and my people have left to them between us, but I have never seen this thing before.’
With a nod of understanding Wisdon translated the Zulu’s speech to Henry, adding that by the ‘Great Thirst’ N’hluzili meant the Kalahari Desert. He then produced the knobkerrie.
At the sight of the weapon the old native’s dark eyes brightened and taking it with loving care into his skinny hands he weighed it carefully.
‘This I know well,’ he said at once. ‘It was my own when I was a young warrior and with it I have sent many men to join the Spirits of their Fathers.’
Wisdon gave a sudden chuckle of joy and slapped Henry on the back.
‘Got it, my boy!’ he cried excitedly. ‘Now we shan’t be long!’ and he rushed into a quick spate of Zulu, asking N’hluzili how soon he could be ready to guide them upon the same journey
as the last which he had undertaken with his old master.
‘I have many wives,’ said N’hluzili slowly. ‘Much cattle, strong sons, and all things that I could desire—but few years left me in which to enjoy them.’
‘Now don’t you be stupid,’ Wisdon urged with an angry look. ‘We’ll pay you well—much money—many head of cattle!’ But he knew that the law would prevent his forcing the Zulu should he refuse to go and he was filled with bitter helpless rage when N’hluzili replied with slightly contemptuous finality:
‘Nothing that any man can offer would ever tempt me to enter the “Land of the Great Thirst” again.’
9
Sandy Makes an Alliance in Pretoria
On the morning of the Longs’ interview with Joe-Jack Mahout, while Patricia was sampling the delights of pawpaw served with orange juice as a breakfast dish, Sandy McDiamid was passing his baggage through the Customs at Cape Town.
He was the only one among the relatives of the late John Thomas Long who fully realised the dangers and difficulties of the task they were attempting, and it was for that reason he had declined to go in with Michael and the Bennetts.
As a South African he considered that he stood a sporting chance of reaching the place and getting away with the spoil; but he was quite convinced that the odds were heavily against any of the others succeeding. These Englishmen knew nothing of the country, the natives, the preventative measures of the South African police against illicit prospecting and a hundred other pitfalls which they would have to face. Far from being a help, he felt that they would be a perpetual embarrassment to him and, being such obvious town dwellers, draw most unwelcome attention to themselves directly they prepared to set off into the desert.
His overseer met him with his car outside the Customs shed and as they drove to the Grand Hotel he questioned him about a hundred details concerning the well-being of his property, and learned that there was every prospect of a good vintage.
They breakfasted at the Grand, an old-fashioned hotel in the centre of the town, occupying three floors above a block of shops. For years Sandy had made it his headquarters whenever it was necessary for him to spend a night in the capital—preferring it to the more modern and expensive places overlooking the ocean out at Sea Point because he considered the food and the service better. The manager, a man of his own age and an old friend, personally supervised the ordering of his breakfast and, immediately the white-clad, turbaned Malay waiters had served him with tea and a big slice of Sponsbeck melon, Sandy broke the news to his overseer that he would have to leave him to handle the vintage, stating that important business necessitated his going north and that he might be detained upon it for some weeks to come.
It was only after mature consideration on the voyage out that Sandy had reached this decision. To be absent from his property during the latter part of February and early March was a serious step. There was not only the wine making but all the packing of his fine Hanepoot grapes, peaches, nectarines for export to be seen to. Every hand was needed—but Sandy felt the absolute necessity of being first on the spot if he meant to go through with his bid for fortune. Michael and the Bennetts were attempting the venture in any case and would arrive in the Union Castle boat on the following day. If they succeeded in handling their clues aright, the mere presence of such an unusual trio buying oxwagons on the edge of the Kalahari was certain to arouse suspicion, and although old Henry Long had so firmly declared at the lawyer’s that he would not risk it, Sandy placed little weight upon his statement. In fact he would have been prepared to take a bet for a reasonable amount that old Henry and his daughter were either on the Castle boat as well or, if they wished to avoid the Bennetts, on their way to Africa in another. Their presence in the neighbourhood of Upington would be equally embarrassing. Speed was essential if he was to keep his lead of the other parties and get clear away before the authorities took an interest in their activities.
Dismissing his overseer to make certain purchases in the town immediately they had finished breakfast, he collected his car and drove straight out to Hilton Road, Sea Point.
The name or number of Mrs. Aileen Orkney’s house had not been stated in the Will. In consequence he had to make a laborious door to door investigation. At last, in a house on the left near the top end furthest from the seashore, he found an elderly woman who informed him that her husband had bought the house from a Mrs. Aileen Orkney about three years previously. She thought that Mrs. Orkney had gone to live in Salisbury, Rhodesia, but after a time letters which had been forwarded to her had been returned from there marked ‘Not Known’ and she could not give Sandy the name of anyone through whom he might trace her predecessor.
This was a disappointment. Had he possessed one of the three clues he would have made straight for the dorps lying on the southern fringe of the Kalahari and sought out the various local native chiefs, since that was the obvious line of investigation. Without them he was almost entirely dependent on picking up old John’s trail from one of the three South African addresses mentioned in his Will. However, even if number one had proved a dead end he was not seriously perturbed because his principal hope lay in the Van Niekerks at Pretoria.
Having driven back to the town he picked up his overseer in Adderley Street and drove out again up the steep gradient towards Constantia. The day was still young but gave promise of great heat, no tablecloth of cloud fringed the flat top of Table Mountain, rising steeply to his right against a sky of brilliant blue. Below him on the other side, Cape Town flats spread out, vanishing into a misty distance at the right horn of the bay, and merged to the left into the harbour and the town. The aromatic smell of the pine woods came fresh and strong to his nostrils and he drove with a great elation at being back in his own lovely country once more.
His home was a fine example of the seventeenth century Dutch farm-house—white-plastered walls and tall rounded gables, upon which the monogram of the original owner was prominently displayed.
The front of the house formed one side of a quadrangle. Two lines of ancient oaks and the long bodega where the wines were made and stored completed the others; in one corner could still be seen the decaying stump of an old oak tree against which the slaves had once been chained and beaten.
Inside, the central room was lofty as a barn , made so for coolness’ sake. At each end hung heavy wooden doors opening in two sections like those of a stable, a relic of the days when wild animals still roamed the Cape peninsula; the upper half could be opened to admit the air while the lower remained closed to serve as a precautionary barrier against unwelcome intruders. The windows, composed of a number of medium sized square panes, were broad and lofty. Round the walls huge highly-polished kists of stinkwood with ornamental clasps and locks of shining brass, together with two fine old walnut china cupboards, gave the place the comfortable air of having long been lived in.
To his delight he found everything as he had left it. After his long absence he had expected that there would be a thousand urgent matters for hm to attend to, but the work seemed to have gone on in uninterrupted good order and, having made a tour of his property he had to confess to himself that his presence was by no means so important as he had thought it. In fact by three o’clock he found that, apart from the new arrangements necessitated by his journey up to Pretoria, there was nothing for him to do; so he got out the car again and drove over to Muizenberg for a dip and a laze on the sands at False Bay.
By six he was driving back across the beautiful valley of the Peninsula. In the far distance, fifty miles away, behind him the blue mountains of Hottentot Holland showed clear against the evening sky, and stretching towards him lay mile upon mile of green, well-wooded country, speckled with white houses and red-tiled roofs.
He had already booked his sleeper on the Union Limited by telephone, thinking at the time how fortunate it was that the best train of the week ran on the following day, but his pleasure was off-set by the knowledge that it ran from the docks in connection with the Un
ion Castle Boat. Michael and the Bennetts would be on it too, unless they decided to stay in Cape Town to try to find Mrs. Orkney before proceeding to the Van Niekerks at Pretoria, and Sandy was extremely anxious not to run into them.
He could not bear the Bennetts and had already been tempted into telling Michael perhaps a little more than was altogether wise, by his liking for him. Sandy knew his own shortcomings and one of them was a foolish weakness for making confidants of people whom he liked. If he met Michael again he could visualise himself being seduced, against his better judgment, into acting as adviser to the boy and possibly even being drawn into the same party. At the price of having to put up with the Bennetts, Sandy thought that the prospect was very far from being good enough.
On Monday therefore, at just about the time that the Longs were setting out in search of N’hluzili, Sandy boarded the Johannesburg express at the last moment. To his relief he found that the other party were, at all events, not in the same coach as himself. Drawing down the blinds of the windows onto the corridor, he settled himself as comfortably as possible since he inteneded to remain in his compartment for the next thirty-three hours. He had brought with him a good supply of food and a couple of bottles of his own wine so that he could avoid the risk of running into the Bennetts in the restaurant car. Dressed in his oldest clothes, he prepared to face the heat, dust, and general discomfort of the tedious journey with as much stoicism as he could muster. A silent young Dutchman shared the same compartment with him but, apparently having friends farther along the train, he relieved Sandy of his morose society for most of the day and that which followed.
At Johannesburg the Dutchman collected his bags and Sandy, peering cautiously out of the window, caught sight of the younger Bennett, who had evidently just alighted, on the platform. He was a little puzzled as to why the rival party should be getting out at Johannesburg, but pleased that he had succeeded in avoiding them, and that the trouble he had taken to that end had not been in vain. The last thirty miles of his journey was made in solitude and just before seven he arrived in Pretoria.
The Fabulous Valley Page 7
