‘You seem to have the wind in your sails this evening.’
‘Sorry. All this sitting around must be getting to me. Do you believe that this thing is nearly over?’
‘Far from it. The Little Man doesn’t understand what he’s really up against. It’s not just numbers. This is about hearts and minds, the opportunity to achieve an Afrikaner identity. Politicians may have pushed them into it but winning a few battles won’t make us the victors. This war has a long way to run.’
‘You sound just like Fred Selous. He has no love for the Boers– largely because of the way they treat Africans – but he firmly believes that the British have never understood what actually motivates them.’
‘In my opinion, he’s quite right. We’re actually fighting for two totally separate things. The Boers want no more than to control their own destiny. Whitehall, chivvied along by Rhodes, Beit and Milner, to name but a few, lusts after land and what lies beneath it. By sheer coincidence neither camp gives a damn about those who were here well before any white man set foot on the shores of Africa. Dallas, you and I make our living from this land but we work with it, learn from its people and hopefully give back to both. That way it may still be here tomorrow, for our children and theirs, irrespective of colour, creed or nationality.’
‘Now who’s got his sails set?’ Dallas quipped.
‘So why are we here? Protecting this country and its people? I think not.’
‘All I can say is, this is a war that had to happen. If you and I hasten its end then we have played our part.’
‘You’re probably right. As Jack Walsh would have said, “enough is enough”.’
Dallas nearly dropped his pipe. ‘JackWalsh?’
‘Yes. Now there was a character. We bought his farm in the early eighties. Back then it was called Wakefield. The daughter and her husband sold up after Jack died, though she insisted on keeping the name to use on another place. Sad, really. Poor chap drank himself to death. Bottle of gin a day man. Said it helped his breathing, would you believe? Blamed it on an assegai in the chest during the Zulu War. He was with Chelmsford at Ulundi. As I recall, his accent was very similar to yours. It’s one thing you Scots never seem to lose. Did you know him?’
Dallas could feel the sudden lump in his throat. There was no point in explaining that Jack Walsh had been his father. ‘Friend of the family. From Edinburgh, ’he said, trying to keep emotion out of his voice. ‘Just wondered what had become of him.’
It was over eighteen years since Dallas’s late mother had told him the name that her one-time lover, Jonathan Fellowes, had assumed since leaving Scotland to settle in South Africa. Dallas had met the man not long after he first arrived in Africa. Fate had brought them together during a near-disastrous crossing of the rain-swollen Mngeni River above Howick Falls. He had no idea if Jack Walsh ever found out about their relationship. Now he would never know.
The name Wakefield was certainly familiar. It was the farm near Dargle that Cameron wanted to buy. A good three months had passed since they drunkenly discussed it. Dallas had no idea if the place had now been sold.
As he glanced upwards a comet caught his eye, leaving its shimmering trail of stardust across the African night. He watched, wondering if some greater power was at work orchestrating the events of his life. Caroline Hammond – nee Walsh – had to be his half-sister.
‘Why is it that nobody comes to visit you?’
‘I doubt any of the family know I’m here. Besides, it’s almost fifteen years since I left Durban. Let’s just say we all went our separate ways. They’re happy with the shop and I made enough money from ivory to buy a farm.’
Meggie noticed that he kept twisting the elephant hair bracelet on his right wrist. ‘Kingsway, I believe it’s called.’
He wondered what else she knew about him.
‘It’s written on your chart, ’ she said in response to his questioning look.
‘I thought your father might have told you.’
‘Well, actually he did.’
‘Did he also mention that rinderpest damned near put paid to us?’
‘No. Who is “us”? I thought you were a crusty old confirmed bachelor.’
‘That’s as may be but the boys who work with me are as much a part of Kingsway as I am. Who do you think looks after the place while I’m trying to keep my bank manager happy?’
Meggie avoided his question. She had the answer she wanted. ‘Do you still hunt?’
‘Have to. The good Lord doesn’t pay bills. Fences and restocking have cost me an arm and a leg, metaphorically speaking, of course.’ She laughed. ‘We’re trying Afrikanders this time. You must come and see.’
‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’
‘Your father has spent quite a lot of time at Kingsway. We have an unwritten understanding that if I ever choose to sell he’ll have first refusal.’
‘He’s always interested in new ventures. Especially where cattle are concerned.’
‘I think he saw me starting out in much the same way as he had done and couldn’t resist lending a helping hand.’
‘He told me about the tusks you have.’
‘Those I won’t sell. Ever.’
‘Why not, if times get tough?’
Stanley was twisting the elephant hair bracelet again. ‘Because they’re not mine.’
‘Whose are they then?’
‘They belong to a man called Michael Duffy.’
‘The Irishman?’
‘None other. Somebody has certainly done her homework.’
‘Father told me that a mad Irishman with an eye patch once saved your life. Was that when you got all those scars?’
He nodded, his mind drifting back fifteen years. ‘It was in the winter of eighty-five. My first season in Bechuanaland. We had made camp by the Botletle River, near a village called Xhumaga. I’d never seen so many animals. Elephant, buffalo, zebra, wildebeest – you name it. All coming down from further north to find water. There must have been tens of thousands.’
‘And with them came the predators, I suppose?’
‘Lions mainly, but there was so much food for them they left us well alone. All those hours spent with John King were paying off at last. My stockpile of ivory was steadily growing. The boys had plenty of meat and we hadn’t lost a single horse to fly strike – nagana, they call it.’
‘You’re saying “we” again. Were there others with you?’
‘Only the Africans. I prefer it that way. The day it all went wrong I’d gone off on my own towards Nxai Pan, trying to find a place they call the Sleeping Sisters. It’s a group of baobabs that stands on the edge of a shallow depression off the route Selous once used to reach his camp. Sometimes there’s water there, sometimes there isn’t. You can see the place for miles. Thomas Baines carved his initials on one of the trees when he did a painting of them back in 1860.’
‘I’ve heard my father speak of him. What happened?’
‘There was no track as such and the sand had become quite soft. Stupidly I dismounted. There were footprints of lion everywhere.’
‘Where was your rifle?’
‘Slung across my back – the way the Boers carry them – but I can assure you that it didn’t stay there for long. My horse saw him before I did, sitting in the shade of a small scrub thorn with a look of bored indifference on his face.’
‘Ibhubesi?’
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t Thomas Baines’s long-lost puppy! The horse got such a fright that it decided to be anywhere else but there. Only problem was, I didn’t appear to be on it. The lion and I locked eyes and he didn’t like it one little bit. A big black-maned fellow he was, old and seriously scarred. It took him no time at all to cross the distance between us. He came low, ears flat against his head. I got a shot into him after he leapt but the bullet hit underneath and too far back, passing through his stomach before smashing the base of his spine. I didn’t realise that at the time because four hundred and fifty pounds of angry
lion had landed on top of me, sinking his stinking teeth into my right shoulder and ripping out wildly with both front paws. We went down together, his momentum somersaulting us over. I had lost the Hollis and was bleeding badly. At least he’d let go. It took me several seconds to realise that my attacker couldn’t move. He was lying on the rifle glaring at me from a few feet away, snarling and trying to drag himself forwards. It was the most terrifying moment of my life. I knew I had to move– and fast – but that wasn’t to be. The shock and loss of blood caused me to lose consciousness.’
‘And there were other lions there too?’
‘Plenty. I came round lying in the shade, my eyes slowly focusing on a face I’ll never forget. The man was squatting beside me. A bearded apparition with long dark hair and this patch over one eye. He held out a canteen of water, saying, “And here’s me thinkin’ you was plannin’ to do a perish out here! Take a wee drop o’ this, laddie, and we’ll be havin’ a look at the mess old leo has made o’ that arm”. The next thing I remember is waking up beside a fire. It was dark but a full moon enabled me to make out my saviour. For a moment I thought it was Jesus Christ. He introduced himself. “Michael Duffy, at your service.” I tried to move my right arm and couldn’t. It seemed to be on fire. He’d cleaned me up as best he could but wanted to dress the damage with fresh milk and castor oil.
‘ “How far’s your camp?” he asked, and I told him.
‘ “Then it’s best we get moving. These things have a habit of turning nasty very quickly. The horses are ready. There’s no sign of yours so the lions probably got him. Selous’s horse, Bottle, was killed by tau not far from here”.
‘The horses turned out to be two wiry ponies, one of which had a more than adequate pair of tusks slung on each side of it. “Where’s the lion?” I asked. “With his maker”, Michael said. “The skin’s a bit rough but it should fetch a bob or two. Listen and you’ll hear the hyena tidying up”. He helped me into the saddle. It was a type I didn’t know but most comfortable.’
‘What was it?’
‘An Australian stock saddle. I’ve used them ever since. The front arch sits well clear of the withers and it’s got a deep channel to keep pressure off your horse’s backbone. The cantle is higher than usual and well padded so you tend to sit back against it. Most have long flaps, knee rolls and a double tongue girth, though I personally prefer a circingle.’
‘You’re digressing.’
‘You asked. Michael walked, leading both ponies one behind the other, my rifle held by the barrel over his shoulder.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Mid to late forties, I suppose. Very fit and strong. He had this theory that if animals could hear you coming they would invariably move out of the way.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Michael talked or sang as he walked, alternating between what he called Australian bush poetry by some chap called Paterson and a variety of hymns. It took us over eight hours to get back and never once did he repeat himself.’
‘Did Michael stay?’
‘For a couple of weeks. He changed my dressings every day. Luckily we had plenty of fresh goat’s milk and castor oil – though that was no guarantee the wounds wouldn’t turn septic.’
‘Mister Selous’s remedy is to cauterise any wounds caused by a lion with carbolic acid.’
‘Ouch. How on earth do you know that?’
‘He’s a friend of Father’s.’
‘Remind me never to hunt lions with Dallas.’
Meggie laughed. ‘He also says that lions possess two requisites for terrestrial happiness – a good appetite and no conscience.’
Stanley laughed too.
‘Obviously you survived.’
‘Thanks entirely to one Michael Duffy.’
‘That’s quite a story. You must be good friends?’
‘Sadly no. Michael would leave camp each morning and bring back meat for the boys. Either that or just get away on his own. One day he didn’t come back.’
‘What, never?’
‘We waited for over a month but heard nothing. He’d simply disappeared, leaving behind a pony, one salted lion skin and two very fine tusks.’
‘The ones that are now at Kingsway?’
‘He’ll come for them one day. Him or his son. But that’s another story.’
Meggie and Tanith had few secrets from each other. Although older by two years, it was more often than not Tanith who sought a confidential ear – even advice – from her level-headed and seemingly unflappable best friend. She usually prefaced a need to talk by saying that her brothers simply wouldn’t understand.
Because both girls worked at Empangeni hospital they saw quite a lot of each other and at least once each week Meggie would spend a night at the Taylors’. Lorna didn’t mind being on her own at Morningside and was actually glad that her daughter had such a close friend to talk to. Meggie always made sure her mother knew when she wouldn’t be home.
Meggie could hardly believe what she had just heard. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m never late, Meggie. You have to help me. What do I do?’
‘And it’s definitely Duncan’s?’
‘Of course. We ...well, we didn’t mean to. It only happened once. There was so much blood. Oh God, Meggie, what am I going to tell my parents? What will Duncan say?’
‘What will Duncan do is probably more to the point.’
‘Yes, but he isn’t here and a letter will take weeks to reach him, if it ever does. He may be dead, Meggie. Right now he may be dead and he’ll never know. All I’ll have of him is his bastard child.’
‘So you want this baby?’
‘Yes. Well, yes and no. Oh hell, Meggie, what do you mean?’
‘They say that a bottle of gin and a very hot bath ...’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’
‘Then face facts, Tanith. This must have happened at the end of January. At least you two are engaged. Simple solution. Get married.’
‘I wish it were that easy. Duncan might be away for ages and you know what my father’s like.’
‘Then we’ll just have to give everybody blindfolds.’
Tanith smiled, placing a hand on her stomach.
‘Are you feeling sick in the mornings?’
‘A bit.’
‘That’ll pass. If you’re lucky, nothing will show for a few months. Write to Duncan. Do it now, tonight. Post the letter tomorrow morning. There’s time. It’ll be our secret. I’ve got something to tell you too. It’s also a secret. Pact?’
‘Pact.’
‘You know that patient they brought to the hospital after Spion Kop?’
‘The big man with dark hair?’
‘That’s the one. Stanley King is his name. He farms at Nkwalini.’
‘Sister says he’s lucky to be alive.’
‘Apparently it was Cameron who saved him. He knows Father too.’
‘I’ve noticed you talking to him.’
‘Well, that’s the man I’m going to marry.’
Her own situation suddenly forgotten, Tanith’s mouth fell open and she stared at her friend in shocked disbelief. ‘But he’s so ... I mean, well ...’
‘Old, is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘Yes. Not that it matters, I suppose.’
‘Tanith, he’s so different. He talks to me, not at me. He’s done so many exciting things.’
‘That’s hardly surprising at his age.’
‘No, no. You don’t understand. Apart from Father he’s the only man I’ve ever met who goes out and actually makes things happen. He’s had more than his fair share of setbacks but when something goes seriously wrong there seems to be an angel sitting on his shoulder. He and I were destined to meet. I can feel it.’
‘Isn’t he going home soon?’
‘Yes, and he’s asked me to go and see his farm. It’s called Kingsway.’
‘Will you go?’
‘Of course.’
SEVENTEEN
Lor
d Roberts was ecstatic but little did he realise the war was about to change. While Bobs confidently consolidated his position in Bloemfontein before pressing on to Johannesburg and Pretoria, his adversaries – Kruger and Steyn – were holding a council of war in Kroonstad. Many Boers had become demoralised, worn down by the seemingly endless stream of fresh and better equipped troops being thrown against them. The British lion had mobilised significant colonies, bringing regular soldiers, idealistic volunteers, even noncombatants, from places as far away as Australia, Canada, New Zealand, India and the small island of Ceylon. Kruger realised that the many Uitlanders who fought alongside his Afrikaner volk were just that: outsiders. Although Germany and Holland maintained close links with Pretoria, their open intervention in the war was unlikely. Another solution had to be found.
It came from The Lion of the West, General Koos de la Rey, and veteran leader Christiaan de Wet. Together they advocated tactics which would capitalise on their komandos’ better mobility to exploit the enemy’s ever-extending lines of communication and supply: no wagons, waverers or camp followers, only those committed to the cause, each responsible for his own horse and provisions – hit-and-run flying columns. The proposal was adopted.
Serious problems were becoming evident in Bloemfontein itself. Water rationing had been introduced but many resorted to drinking from the Modder, a river heavily polluted by countless carcasses from earlier confrontations and the excrement of man and beast alike. The army-run hospital found itself unable to cope with four-anda-half-thousand who succumbed to enteric fever – typhoid, as it was better known, would kill over a thousand in just four weeks.
Footprints of Lion Page 23
