‘Bit of an awkward one, though, ’Fairfax offered. ‘Back then, well ... these things were rather frowned on, weren’t they?’
Dallas laughed out loud. ‘I’ll say. You’d think the Scots had just declared war on England the way people carried on. Luckily for me, Lorna didn’t let it worry her. She’s one in a million.’
‘I’ve heard of your wife. People even talk of her in Colenso. You were a trader back in the early days, were you not? She travelled with you. Made quite an impression, as I hear. Sounds like a pretty amazing lady.’
‘Thank you, ’ Dallas said, his mind recalling many months spent on the road and how well Lorna had taken to the life, learning, listening, loving every moment of it. And the day they so nearly lost Cam. She and Will turning a herd of stampeding elephants with little more than a peashooter. That was also the day an enraged elephant had killed his friend and business partner, the inimitable hunter Logan Burton. One memory led to another until a question brought him back to the present.
‘You have two sons riding with us.’ Fairfax lit himself a cigar. ‘Are they your eldest?’
‘My youngest, actually. Apparently they want to keep an eye on their old man.’ Dallas grinned. ‘They’re welcome to try.’
‘And others?’
‘One with the South African Light Horse and another in Durban, married to an Afrikaner.’
‘Ouch!’
‘I know. So far he’s kept out of things.’
‘Wise man.’
Dallas let the comment go.
‘Daughters?’
‘Two. We had three but ...a snake. She was seventeen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Fairfax rose suddenly. ‘What are those damned fools up to?’ In the distance he had noticed movement, several men making their way stealthily from tree to tree, rock to rock, towards the kopje. ‘Pah!’ he said in disgust, fortified by the brandy. ‘They’re playing games. Lion cubs, testing their strength. Pass me your telescope.’
Dallas handed him the spyglass he always carried, a relic of many hours spent searching for the ultimate stag – a ‘Royal’ – in the Scottish highlands.
Fairfax focused on the approaching Boers. There was just enough light to observe them. ‘As I thought. Youngsters flexing their muscles. Cheeky buggers, they’re waving at us. Get them killed one day.’
Dallas was reminded of young Danny Reese. He had been killed around here, also flexing his muscles. In a matter of months the myth of Lindley’s man-eating lions had been exaggerated to epidemic proportions. Out here, raw recruits – Uitlanders in particular – were spooked by the slightest sounds, not to mention the idea of being savaged while they slept. Old Africa hands wrote off the stories for what they were: rumours. Whichever way you looked at it, the death of Danny Reese unnerved most who passed this way. The Boers even capitalised on it, trying to scare their enemies with good imitations of lions roaring during the hours of darkness. As it transpired, not all the sounds were man-made.
Before either of them heard the shot, a bullet slammed into the rock where, seconds earlier, Fairfax had been sitting. Both men instantly dropped and rolled in search of cover. ‘Bloody snipers. A thousand yards is nothing for those new Mausers, ’ complained Fairfax. ‘Can’t even see smoke now they’re using cordite instead of black powder.’ There was a crackle of random return fire along the hilltop but nothing more from below. Both men waited until it was fully dark before moving.
In the Boer camp, the commanding officer was bright red with rage. ‘What do you think you’re doing, you young fools?’ he roared at his grinning would-be invaders of the British position. ‘This is no game.’
Kaptein Hanson Wentzell had not one iota of the understanding or humour that Fairy Fairfax displayed. He was a Cape rebel who hated the British, hated the war and hated the way others disobeyed orders, particularly as he was the man giving them. He especially hated knowing that, although the Boers were winning most confrontations, it could only be a matter of time before that changed. The enemy appeared to have an unlimited supply of troops, food and ammunition, while the Boers were already scraping the bottom of the barrel. If he could, Wentzell would have walked away and returned to his farm, far off in the Hottentots’ Holland Mountains where, as he delighted in telling anyone who would listen, his forefathers had hunted the mighty Cape lion to extinction. In his mind they were twice as big and ferocious as the kittens out there now. He didn’t see how even the Kaffirs could like this godforsaken place.
‘Sorry, sir, ’the sniper said, seeking to get his reprimand over and done with as quickly as possible.
‘Sorry! You young skellum. I’ll make you sorry. Double guard duty. Get to it. Now!’
Grumbling, the young man turned away, making no pretence at contrition.
Wentzell dismissed the others and turned to his adjutant. ‘I’ve a good mind to show this lot how it’s done.’
‘Why don’t you, sir? That would teach them all a lesson.’
A smile spread over the officer’s face. ‘I might just do that. Show them an old dog has no need of new tricks, eh?’
‘Sir?’ The man was suddenly nervous. ‘I didn’t mean – ’
‘I know what you meant, man, ’Wentzell rasped. ‘This war won’t be won with words. Lekker slaap.’ With that he stomped off towards his makeshift sleeping shelter. Having as good as committed himself, he couldn’t back down now. Damn! Wentzell was already regretting his bravado. The last thing he needed that night was more physical exertion. His body craved sleep, nothing else. Every part of him ached. Despite a life spent out of doors, and being extremely fit, half a century of hard manual work had slowed him down. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his favourite armchair, look fondly at his wife, Magda, and do precisely nothing.
Bugger it, he thought, they can think of me as they wish. I’m getting some sleep.
At that moment, a shot rang out.
‘What the hell ...?’ Fairfax actually jumped, the unexpected noise had been so close.
‘Sorry, sir. It just went off. I was only cleaning it. I didn’t touch the trigger, honest.’
Fairy believed him– it had happened before. Luckily nobody had been hurt. ‘Okay, son. No harm done. You’ve learned your lesson. Next time, make sure it’s not loaded. Right now, I suggest you get some sleep.’
Wentzell took the sound personally. It was as intrusive as it was offensive. ‘That’s it, you limey bastard, ’ he growled, using the British navy’s version of ‘Pom’, which had been adopted by the Boers. ‘One of you will die before we move out in the morning.’ Hanson had no intention of spoiling his sleep over some soon-to-be-dead enemy. Tomorrow would come quickly enough.
Dallas had a deep feeling of unease. That shot should have drawn a response. None came. No retaliation. Why? Fairfax expressed the same concern. ‘Could be they’re up to something. We’ll post extra guards just in case.’
Frazer drew the dawn watch: 0400 to 0800 hours. A none-too-gentle hand shook him awake. ‘Umph!’ Frazer groaned, taking a second to realise where he was before rolling from his blanket, standing unsteadily and rubbing a grimy hand over an equally grimy face.
‘Morning, sunshine, ’ a cheery voice greeted him. ‘Grab some tea and get moving. All’s quiet.’
‘Do you have to sound so damned chirpy?’ Frazer grouched.
‘Silly not to. This is probably going to be the highlight of me bleedin’ day.’
Frazer gave what passed for a laugh. ‘Piss off, Trevor.’
‘Temper, temper.’ The unit clown clapped his hands against his cheeks in a gesture of mock surprise.
As did others, Trevor had believed there might be something quirky about this lad’s sexuality, but it was something none of them talked about. Frazer’s father would not stand for such speculation, his retribution likely to be swift and inventive. Besides, Trevor genuinely liked the lad and knew from talking to him that, despite his love of sketching and art, he was no different to anyone else when it came
to more basic instincts.
Frazer picked up his Lee Metford carbine, checked it had a full magazine, stumbled to the fire and poured himself a mug of sweet stewed tea. Turning from the glowing embers he let his eyes adjust to the dwindling darkness before moving off towards a rocky depression on the east-facing slope, just below the skyline. Looking out at the coming dawn, Frazer marvelled at the magic of nature. He recalled a Zulu belief that one great chief – the sun – travelled the sky by day passing under the sea at night only to set off again each new morning. Perhaps they were right.
The land below remained quiet, shadows lay long in the early light. It was not yet six and the sun had already signalled its challenge to a new day, wrapping itself round each tree, shrub and rock, turning everything golden brown. As he watched, the sky changed from deep dark blue to purple to rich red. Morning had come and with it a chorus of new sounds. Clearly heard, not always seen, animal and bird alike heralded the new day with gusto.
Frazer scanned the surrounding country. There was no movement from the Boer camp. Last night’s fires had burned out. He found himself thinking how the wildlife must be suffering, not only from prolonged drought but also as a result of the Boers’ ceaseless struggle for sustenance. Frazer didn’t blame the Afrikaners. Though birds, bucks, even rats and snakes fell to the guns of their expert marksmen, the men had to live.
A discordant noise down and to his left had Frazer turn towards it, weapon at the ready. Squinting straight into the low sun, he saw nothing yet remained alert, listening, watching. Boers could move like shadows, leaving footprints and little else. The sound was not repeated and after some minutes he relaxed.
Dallas woke from sleep, immediately alert. The sun told him it had to be around six. Frazer would be halfway through his watch. For some unknown reason, alarm bells rang and Dallas scrambled to his feet. Hunching over, he snatched up his weapon and set off towards the edge of the kopje, anxious to make sure all was well with his youngest son. Looking down, Dallas was just in time to see a bandolier-strapped figure, carrying a carbine and jumping from one rock to another, about to disappear into the thorny bush below.
Heart beating wildly, he registered that there was no sign of Frazer. The intruder was moving fast, sure footed and agile, his back broad, strong arms held out for balance, bull neck bulging with muscle. ‘Stop!’ Dallas yelled, working the bolt and squeezing off a shot without waiting for the Boer’s response. He still couldn’t see Frazer.
The man dropped from sight. Dallas instinctively fed a new round into the chamber and cautiously made his way down the slope. Stifling a most terrible fear, he reached the scrub line and stopped to listen. Where was Frazer? There was movement ahead and the stranger rose unsteadily to his feet, a dark red stain spreading from just below his left shoulder. Dallas raised his rifle, finger already on the trigger. The Boer took one staggering step backwards, steadied himself and smiled humourlessly. ‘Lucky shot, Engelsman, ’ he said, discarding the stolen Lee Metford in exaggerated disgust.
Dallas stared at him. The wild weather-beaten face, lined and smeared with dirt. Fatigue circles under each eye. Hair and beard unkempt, grey and frizzy. His clothing filthy. One arm dangled uselessly, flesh and shattered bone exposed. Well-worn boots, seams gaping and stuffed with dry grass, promised scant protection from the elements. But it was the man’s voice that captured Dallas’s attention. He recognised it.
‘Wentzell?’ he rasped, throat dry and scratchy.
‘Ja. Who wants to know?’
‘Granger. Dallas Granger. We met thirty years ago on the Marie Clare.’
‘So we did. And I liked you no better then.’ Hanson Wentzell gave a tortured laugh despite his obvious pain. ‘Got water?’
‘Not here.’
The Boer grunted. ‘Neither did the kid up there.’
Dallas felt his stomach churn. ‘What kid? Where?’
Wentzell nodded in the direction from which Dallas had come. ‘No water, no food – nice clean carbine, though. Little bugger was half asleep.’
Frazer!
Hanson Wentzell was talking again, his right hand suddenly holding a long-bladed Bowie knife. ‘Do we settle this my way or yours? Have you got the guts?’
‘The boy?’ Dallas managed. ‘What did you do to him?’
Wentzell drew an imaginary line across his own throat with the knife and grinned obscenely. ‘Jerked around a bit, made it tougher on himself than it might have been.’
Ice cold now, Dallas tightened his trigger finger. Hanson Wentzell flew backwards, dead before he hit the ground.
Back up the hill, Dallas knew what he’d find. It didn’t stop him hoping, praying.
Frazer. His youngest son. The one who should never have joined this crazy war. Too gentle, too sensitive, too damned nice to be in a world of death, destruction, hate and anger. Too intelligent to believe the potent propaganda dished out in defence of what amounted to nothing more than man-made greed.
‘Dear God, let him be alive.’
Frazer lay on his back, one leg kicked out sideways, arms above his head where they’d fallen. Across his neck, a jagged line that had gushed blood so fiercely its dark red stain drenched his chest and the ground around him. Eyes wide and staring, seeing nothing. Mouth open, frozen in a silent scream of protest.
‘Nooooooo!’ The cry rang out from Dallas, deep from somewhere far beyond his control. Dropping on both knees he pulled the bloodied body of his son close and cradled the lifeless shell. It was still warm. ‘I’m sorry, son. I’m so, so sorry.’
Tears ran unchecked down Dallas’s face. He’d promised Lorna to keep this one safe, this son with whom she shared a bond somehow deeper than that she had with the others. She loved all their children but Frazer and Lorna were connected in a way no-one fully understood. Soulmates, she called it. They were so attuned to each other that one would often answer a question before the other asked it. Frazer’s death would destroy Lorna. ‘Forgive me, darling.’
Duncan found them there. ‘Father!’ His eyes took in the scene and he stood, staring, unable to hold back the emotion that shook him from head to foot. ‘Dear God, ’he managed, ‘not Frazer.’
Father and son sat in silence next to the uncovered body. It seemed as though others on the hilltop, possibly even those below, shared in their grief. Silence surrounded everything, wrapped it in a cocoon of sympathy. They had all lost something that morning, and for what? Frazer had been popular. Always willing, always smiling. His death was like losing the unit’s good-luck charm.
Finally, Duncan broke the unnatural quiet. ‘I’ll come with you.’ He understood what his father had to do.
‘No, son.’ Dallas shook his head. ‘Better you stay with Fairfax. I’ll break the news to your mother, get word to the others and be back as soon as I can.’ He reached over and gripped Duncan’s shoulder so hard the boy nearly gasped with pain. ‘Stay safe. That’s all I ask.’
He was the one who would have to tell Lorna. An impersonal telegram from the war office? No. Dallas had to break the devastating news himself. There was no choice.
Fairfax assumed both shots had been directed at the enemy and quickly ordered back-up. Moments later he heard Dallas’s anguished cry of grief.
The burial detail made its way quietly to where Dallas and Duncan still sat in reflective silence. With no unnecessary conversation, they began digging. It was hard, hot work and took them the best part of an hour to make the hole deep enough. Reluctantly, Dallas allowed them to prepare Frazer and place his body in the shallow grave.
‘What about him?’ one of the men asked, nodding down the hill to where Hanson Wentzell lay sprawled on the ground.
‘Leave him to the lions, ’ Dallas said in a hard voice. ‘And leave me with my sons.’
Later, on a white wooden cross bearing Frazer’s name and the dates of his birth and death, he carved the words hamba kahle, Zulu for ‘go well’, carefully colouring each letter with a burnt stick.
Fairfax waited for a couple
of hours before intruding on Dallas’s grief. ‘I’m afraid we have to move on. You can stay or come with us. The choice is yours.’
‘Thank you. I have to tell Lorna. Then I’ll be back. Duncan will go on with you.’
‘As you wish. I’m sorry about your loss. If I can help in any other way?’
Dallas sat still, head bowed. He nodded acknowledgement. ‘Nobody can.’
Without further words, Fairfax turned and left.
A few minutes later, Dallas rose, rested his hands briefly on Duncan, then went in search of his horse. He’d need ammunition, water and food. All were in short supply. Turning, he looked back to Duncan and the fresh grave. They seemed so small and insignificant against the sun-scorched backdrop of nondescript bush, dotted here and there with flat-topped kopjes. ‘Goodbye, my son, ’ he whispered, committing the place to memory. The hill looked identical to so many others, but when this war was over Lorna would wish to visit Frazer’s grave. He would never forget where it was.
On reaching the horses, Dallas found that his mount was already saddled. Someone had filled both his wet skin waterbags, packed rations and extra ammunition. ‘We couldn’t spare much, ’ an apologetic Fairfax told him.
‘This will be fine. Just look after Duncan.’ Dallas mounted, checked his stirrups, raised a hand in silent farewell and set off down the steep escarpment, not once looking back. He and Lorna had faced heartaches, hardship and despair over the past twenty-seven years. There’d been good times as well as bad, but telling his wife about Frazer’s death would be the most difficult thing Dallas had ever done.
TEN
She was in her prime – sleek and largely free of the scars which, in later years, would bear witness to her struggle for survival. Pregnant with a first litter, unexpected sounds of danger caused the lioness to remain hidden whilst the drama of men unfolded. The blood smell told her that a meal awaited. Patience was required.
The Boers were well aware of the lions. They had heard them during the night and, when dawn came, found fresh pug marks within yards of the camp. It was of little concern until the new day also revealed that their kaptein had disappeared.
Footprints of Lion Page 13
