‘What happened, Father?’
They walked and talked as Dallas told his eldest son and Will everything that had transpired during the last ten days.
‘I promised your mother I’d take Frazer home when the war is over. Thinking about it now, I don’t know if I could bring myself to disturb him. In spirit he’s there already. I hope Lorna will understand.’
‘Her telegram is so impersonal. It’s as if she’s talking about some casual acquaintance rather than family.’
‘We are all dealing with this differently, ’Dallas said. ‘I bear the burden of having been there when it happened and in some ways your mother holds me responsible. You feel guilty for not knowing or being able to attend the funeral. These are things over which we have little control. Only time can make them less painful.’
Will had hardly said a word since learning of Frazer’s death. He too had a special empathy with the artistic young man who had loved the African bush and was blessed with a God-given ability to capture its endless drama on paper or canvas. He found himself wondering if the birds’ eggs Frazer had so recently collected from him in Swaziland had ever reached Dallas’s friend, Fred Selous. Had anybody thought to tell him what had happened?
‘Sorry to hear the news about Kevin.’ Dallas was trying to change the subject. ‘Ginnie called by the house but Ellie was the only one to see her. Your mother says that you two may get married in Maritzburg? Any idea when?’
Will had picketed Dallas’s horse near the handlers’ quarters. He left father and son deep in conversation, soon returning with a mess tin of steaming curry, three spoons, bread and a full bottle of Cape brandy. They sat under the stars, shared the food and talked, passing the bottle from hand to hand, toasting absent friends with the fiery liquid until it too was gone.
Cameron told Dallas and Will about the scouting trip from which he had just returned. ‘Must be my Scottish blood. There’sh a place called Fort Nottingham. Between there and Dargle is some of the mosht magnificent country imagin ... imaginable. You could be back in Scotland, Father. There’s deer to be stalked, except they’re eland and reedbuck; the rivers are an angler’s paradise, not salmon but trout aplenty. Even managed to guddle a few the way you taught me.’
Will’s snoring emphasised his interest in Cameron’s observations. Dallas leaned over and held his nose, starving him of air until he turned to a more comfortable sleeping position and the intrusive noise ceased.
‘There’s a hill – looks like Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh. They call it the Inhluzan. Below it is a farm called Wakefield. It’s for sale. I want Ginnie to see it.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, if she approves, I’d like to buy it.’
‘And what about Morningside? It’s not exactly next door. Anyway, how do you know this place is on the market?’
‘She told me. That’s how.’
‘She?’
‘Mishes Hammond. My horsh threw a shoe. We had no nails with us, just spare shoes. She fixed it.’
‘Cameron, hold on. You’re losing me.’
‘Caroline breeds horses. Racehorses. That’s what she does.’
‘Caroline Hammond? The name is familiar. Tell me more.’
‘She’s about the same age as Mother. Her husband was killed six months ago. An accident. That’s why the place is for sale. Loves her horses but the farm runs cattle as well. Even has a small dairy. They make their own butter and cheese. There are acres of mealies and a black wattle plantation. It’sh too much for one person to manage.’
‘And how do you propose to make this purchase?’
Cameron hesitated. ‘I thought you and Mother might help. Make it a family thing. Ginnie and I could run Wakefield. Duncan and ...well, Duncan can help you at Morningside.’
‘Shon, ’ – Dallas was also feeling the alcohol’s effects – ‘might I suggest that you seem to have positioned your proprietorial cart well and truly in front of Mishes Hammond’s horses.’ He belched, excused himself and went on: ‘Let’s see now. How many morgen are we talking about – acres, if you prefer?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What stock goes with the farm?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Are there outstanding mortgages?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Must see the farm accounts. Last three years at least.’
‘Why three?’
Dallas ignored the question. ‘What’s her labour force?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Fences?’
‘Think so.’
‘Have you seen the house, compound, any other buildings?’
‘Of course.’ At last Cameron had heard a question he could answer – at least in part. ‘The house is wattle and daub. Thatched with a polished cow manure verandah. And there’s water. Plenty of water. You forgot to ask about water. Frazer would love it.’
The silence that followed said it all. Frazer would never see Wakefield. Perhaps Dallas wouldn’t either.
The next morning, early, head throbbing and mouth dry, the last thing Dallas felt like doing was setting off towards Lindley, a good hundred and fifty miles distant. His route would take him well to the west of Ladysmith, climbing to cross the Drakensberg through Van Reenen’s Pass, leaving Natal and moving into enemy territory. At first he could travel cross-country, keeping the towering eleven-thousand-foot peak of Mont aux Sources out to his left. It was there that the Thukela, so much a part of his early life in South Africa, began its twisting two-hundred-mile journey to the distant Indian Ocean. Once into the Orange Free State, the going would get easier, though there would be the ever-present risk of running into an enemy komando. Dallas wore no uniform, but his military mount and Lee Metford carbine would not stand close scrutiny. His knowledge of Afrikaans was, to say the least, limited.
Will, who seemed none the worse for wear, had carefully checked and fed Dallas’s horse, refilled both waterbags and deposited a fistful of biltong in his saddlebag. He neglected to say what it had been made from. Cameron, probably feeling no better than his father, promised to find out more about Wakefield.
The morning was already hot, clouds building over the Berg promising rain later in the day. As the pain behind his eyes eased Dallas began to take in his surroundings. They were breathtakingly beautiful: once-volcanic basalt towering above time-weathered sandstone shaped by the elements over millions of years, mighty waterfalls – high rather than wide – calming to crystal-clear fossil-laden streams as their plunging descent finally eased. Scrub covered the south-facing slopes, becoming dense and heavily wooded in each kloof and krans. Leopard country, Dallas found himself thinking, as he heard the warning bark of baboons. High above, a tailless eagle soared with effortless grace, never once beating its wings.
All day Dallas climbed, instinctively becoming more alert, watching for unexplained movement, any signs of hidden danger, as his choice of ways over the pass became more and more limited. Dassies made each and every rock slide come alive with now-you-see-them, now-you-don’t curiosity. Sure-footed klipspringer stood on tiptoe to watch his passing. Overhead, crowned plovers– mbagaqwa, the Zulus called them – twisted and turned, screeching their annoyance at his presence. Longlegged secretary birds ignored him completely, striding the veld in their ceaseless search for snakes or any other live prey.
The morning’s promise of rain had not materialised and except for a slightly queasy stomach, Dallas was feeling considerably better. He had made good time and, with luck, would be well into the Free State before dark. Cresting the final rise he dismounted to find a spot where observation of the way ahead would not leave him silhouetted against the skyline. He hobbled his horse and cautiously moved forwards, looking for a suitable vantage point.
Sometimes, though not always, the lethargic and deadly puff adder issues a warning that intrusion will not be tolerated. Dallas hadn’t noticed the coiled and well-camouflaged snake. His foot was hovering above it when a screeching hiss caused him to freeze. He had heard the
sound before– once – and it was not a noise to be forgotten. A sidestep would expose his inner thighs and groin but Dallas managed to turn the movement into more of a twisting leap. The smashing open jaw connected with his left boot, venom-filled fangs failing to find purchase. Dallas rolled away in one direction, his attacker slithering off in the other.
It had been close – too close – bringing back a vivid memory of Katie, killed eight years earlier, not by a puff adder but by the lightning-fast strike of an eight-foot black mamba, a snake so quick many believed it could attack any bullet aimed at it. Certainly Dallas had seen one moving over the top of his sugar cane at a speed faster than a horse could gallop. He shook his head to clear the memory. It hurt. Bloody brandy.
Dallas decided to use all the hours of daylight before stopping for the night. The country was opening out, making it easier to avoid signs of habitation or others on the road. Turning due east he kept to the south of Harrismith, hoping to reach a shallow cave he had used before. Stick-figure hunting scenes depicted on its walls told him he was far from the first to do so. It was near Aberfeldy on the Wilge River, an area that was quite beautiful but nothing like the part of Scotland after which some homesick settler had probably named it.
The night had noises of its own. Gone was the continuous alarm call of crested barbets and the banter of arrow-marked babblers. In their place came the peaceful prrrup of a Scops owl and the yapping of a freckled nightjar somewhere on the rock-strewn slope. Stars – the backbone of the sky – became increasingly evident as he stared up into the heavens. With no moon the nightly display was at its finest, undistorted by humidity or the misty blending of land and sea temperatures. Best of all, it belonged to nobody. Katie and Frazer were out there, of that Dallas had no doubt.
The farm looked uninhabited. Gone was the Afrikander herd Wallace Reese had so painstakingly built up over the last twenty years. The gates stood wide open giving goats access to what had once been a well-tended garden. A few chickens scratched out an existence near the house, having probably been left alive to provide eggs for the Africans who were undoubtedly around but nowhere to be seen. Wooden shutters barred every window, the doors were locked and dust lay thick on the verandah. A skin-and-bone bitch of unknown breed, her nipples swollen and splayed, must have had her litter somewhere close by. She watched the stranger with cautious curiosity.
Where was the Reese family: Wallace, Elizabeth and the girls? What had happened? Did Danny’s death make them move? Was it the war? By the look of things, nobody had been living here for months.
By now it would be known that a white stranger had arrived at the house. Nothing moved. Even the dog settled down, panting. It was hot.
Dallas checked the water tank. Low but not empty. He opened a once-polished brass tap and ran some murky brown liquid into the horse trough. His mount sniffed it and drank gratefully. Still having one full waterbag, Dallas didn’t.
Cautious and unwilling to invite closer scrutiny he left everything as it was and moved on, taking the road towards Lindley and the kopje where Frazer was buried.
TWELVE
She had given birth well away from the pride: three balls of cuddle-soft fur disguised with dark rosettes and weighing only a pound apiece, their infant eyes open if unable to focus.
Although a first-time mother, the lioness instinctively knew the danger they were in, not only from jackal, hyena and leopard, but also from her own kind. During the last ten days she had moved her family five times, picking up each cub in turn – velvet-soft jaws spread shoulder to shoulder across their backs – carrying them from one hiding place to another. Each move brought her cubs closer to the pride, though it would be four weeks at least before she could risk an introduction to their father. All had gone well, until that morning.
The constant strain of feeding herself, suckling her offspring and keeping them hidden made the lioness momentarily careless. So intent was she on moving her second cub that she didn’t notice the hyena. An opportunist at the best of times he waited until she was out of sight before letting the faint mewing sound beneath a thorn-laden acacia bush lead him to the likely meal. His jaws were not as gentle as those of the helpless youngster’s mother. They crushed the cub’s head in a single bone-crunching snap. Keeping a clamp-like grip on the limp body he loped off out of harm’s way to dine at his leisure.
On her return, the lioness heard no sound emanating from within the den. Senses suddenly alert, she gently released the cub she was carrying and called softly. The silence seemed deafening. She could smell it now, fresh blood, and the unfamiliar scent of the intruder. Somehow the mother in her knew it was too late. There was no need to check further.
It was just on dusk when she picked up the man smell and from deep in her throat gave a drawn-out rolling growl. Dallas instantly lost interest in finding somewhere to relieve his cramping stomach, courtesy of Will’s highly suspect curry at Frere. The sound had come from a dense thicket to his left. It told him two things. The lion was protecting something, either a meal or cubs, and it was seriously contemplating aggression. He caught sight of a twitching tail, waving in agitation. Lioness. If it stopped he could expect a charge from which she would not swerve.
‘Shite!’ Dallas muttered under his breath. He had no desire to harm the animal. She was only doing what was natural, protecting that which was hers. Very slowly, he lowered his eyes and started backing away. The continued warning ended in a short snarl. He dared not turn his back to her, nor could he move any faster. Given the slightest excuse, she would attack. The clear sound of cubs reached him. Their little chirrups might have been endearing to anyone not where he was at that moment. A rustle. Was she moving forwards? His grip on the military issue carbine tightened as he continued to widen the gap between them.
Dallas was lucky. The lioness, encouraged by his backdown and not wishing to leave her remaining cubs, decided against any follow-through. Sweating – though it had nothing to do with the oppressive heat – Dallas reached his knee-haltered and highly agitated horse, quickly released the restraint and mounted. He heard one last threat from the lioness and, with a sigh of relief, turned away. There was movement out on the open veld, too far off for him to make out but definitely something to avoid. A Boer komando, probably.
The lioness also turned her attention to the distant dust. Excellent eyesight told her it was a small herd of springbok. She hadn’t eaten in days and although the man smell meant food, their strange taste was not really to her liking. This was much better. Now she just might get lucky.
Cautiously cresting the small kopje, Dallas checked to make sure nobody else had made camp there. Its flat top was deserted, finally giving him the chance to unburden his distinctly rebellious bowel.
Frazer’s grave was as he had left it. Dallas added a few more rocks to make sure it stayed that way. Of Hanson Wentzell he found no sign. Africa’s scavengers had done a good job. After securing his horse for the night, Dallas dug his pipe and some biltong from a saddlebag and settled down to watch the sunset. The pain had gone.
It was late on the afternoon of Sunday 10 December when Dallas had encountered the lioness near Lindley. Two hundred miles to the south-east, unseasonal sleet-like rain blanketed the advance of Lord Methuen’s troops. Led by Major-General Andrew Wauchope they were within three miles of the assumed Boer positions on Magersfontein Kopje, the last-but-one hurdle before Kimberley. An artillery barrage battered the as yet unseen enemy until nightfall, by which time the weather had deteriorated even further.
The Fairfax Scouts had reported significant Boer reinforcements being drawn from the blockade of Mafeking but had failed to discover General de la Rey’s plan that Piet Cronje should dig in below– rather than on – the hill itself. There were now over eight thousand Boer burghers at Magersfontein and in six days a conscripted African labour force had miraculously managed to conceal them in twelve miles of newly dug defensive trenches.
When Dallas reached Lord Methuen’s camp late on 12 Decembe
r it was to discover the troops demoralised and in a state of total disarray. More than nine hundred men had been killed or wounded – among them Andrew Wauchope – while trying to take the near-invisible Boer positions. The advance on Kimberley had come to a costly and completely unexpected halt.
News from elsewhere in the Cape was no better. Two days earlier General Gatacre had lost nearly seven hundred men – most taken prisoner – at Stormberg, south of the Free State border. The war was not going well.
Fairfax and his scouts had the task of monitoring enemy troop movements to the north and east of Magersfontein. They were in constant contact with Lord Methuen so Dallas ascertained more or less where he would find them. Concealment wasn’t easy in the almost featureless flat country but a sixth sense warned him he had been under observation for some time. Dallas was almost on top of the dry riverbed when a challenge rang out. It was in English. Seconds later Duncan rose to greet him.
That night, although fires were not possible, it was far from cold and a nearly full moon provided more than adequate visibility. Dallas gave Duncan the news from home, saying how badly Lorna had reacted to Frazer’s death and how strong Meggie was being. He told him of Cameron not receiving the telegram and that Kevin, Virginia’s brother, had been wounded and might not walk again.
Duncan spoke of Methuen’s so-called success on the Modder where more than four hundred British soldiers had been killed or wounded before the Boers upped and rode away, leaving trenches thick with spent cartridge cases, their dead drifting in the river.
‘It was only later we learned both General de la Rey and his son, Adriaan, had been wounded. He has since died, but as far as we know his father is still away.’
Footprints of Lion Page 16
