They had climbed through a chill morning mist which served to make the silence around them even more noticeable. Occasionally something unseen dislodged a rock as it decided to remain anonymous and move away from the well-worn track their horses were following. Quite suddenly they emerged into a cloudless winter morning, the pale-blue sky stretching away as far as the eye could see. Dallas stopped to take in the view. There again were the snow-covered peaks of the Drakensberg, somehow closer than they had seemed the night before, rising from a blanket of white which filled every valley of the world below.
‘It’ll take a couple of hours to clear, ’ Caroline commented as she saw the expression of awe on Dallas’s face. ‘Not far now.’
She had said nothing about where they were going but the unmarked pile of rocks left no doubt that it was a grave. The track stopped there. ‘Hello, Guy. I told you my brother would find me. Well, here he is.’
Dallas felt as if he were intruding. Caroline noticed his unease and laid a hand on his arm. It was the first time they had actually touched.
‘We all have to go, ’ she said softly. ‘So often it seems unfair, especially when those we love are taken tragically. Life is a journey. Some roads are longer than others. It’s as simple as that. Guy could well have died after he lost his arm. He weathered the storm and carried on for another four years. In the end his heart let him down. In some ways they were the happiest years we had ever known.’
‘You said last night that a horse was responsible. If you don’t mind talking about it, what actually happened?’
‘Not just a horse: a stallion. ‘Bright Eyes’ was his name. He was by far the best stud in our stable.’ They were sitting on an outcrop of rock not yet warmed by the winter sun. ‘It wasn’t his fault, you know. Just one of those things.’
As she talked her mind drifted back to the day when Guy went to check that all was well with their brood mares and the stallion running with them. There had been a few stock losses in the district – put down to Bushmen from over the border in Basutoland, though no arrests were ever made. It only happened when times were tough in the mountains.
Guy was riding a gelding, Bright Eyes’s brother, in fact. He had ridden right up to the mares when, without warning, the stallion lunged at his mount, jaws snapping and teeth bared. Missing his target he tried again, this time grabbing Guy by the forearm and pulling him from his saddle. The terrified gelding quickly made off, pursued by an unnecessarily jealous sibling. Once satisfied that the perceived threat to his harem had been taken care of, Bright Eyes returned and stood over Guy for a good ten minutes before losing interest and moving off to rejoin his ladies.
Caroline realised that something was wrong when Guy’s horse came back without him. She found her husband stumbling home, one blood-soaked arm hanging useless, his hand twisted inwards at a peculiar angle. The bite had torn through muscle, severing tendons and nerves. She could see white worm-like things in the gaping wound.
After tying a tourniquet round his upper arm to staunch the flow of blood, Caroline and Moses made Guy as comfortable as they could in the pony trap and set off for the nearest hospital at Howick. Despite every effort to save Guy’s arm, the wound turned gangrenous. After ten days the doctor had no option but to amputate it at the elbow. Even then it was uncertain that he would survive.
Caroline paused, picking up a stone and throwing it at nothing in particular. ‘So you see, I was lucky. Sorry, correction. I am lucky. You’re here, which is good in itself but if I’m not mistaken it also means that Cameron is interested in acquiring Wakefield?’
Dallas nodded. ‘He is, though the lad seems to know precious little of what might be for sale.’
‘Oh, it’s for sale all right. Lock, stock and barrel. I just haven’t told anybody else. My price is one guinea.’
Caroline’s statement – delivered in the same matter-of-fact voice as the story she had just told – turned Dallas’s attention from the rapidly dissipating mist to her penetrating blue eyes focused on his face. They told him that she meant it. ‘Why?’was all he could think of to say.
‘Cameron is my nephew. Family. He’s young. Call it a wedding present, call it what you will. There are conditions, of course.’
Dallas could hardly believe what he was hearing.
She went on, ‘This will always be my home. Cameron can have the main house but he must build another for me. Something simple. I’ll show him where.’
Caroline’s words sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. Dallas didn’t interrupt.
‘Popeti stays with me, as do Moses and his family. I’ll pay them, even when I’m away.’
‘Away? Away where? I thought you wanted to be here?’
‘No. My home is here. One day I will die here. Before that day comes I intend to travel, to do things that have never been possible until now.’ She laughed. It was a happy sound. ‘I want to ride a camel, see the Sphinx in Egypt, go to Europe and climb that tower in Paris. Who knows? Watch the Derby at Epsom, spend a day at Royal Ascot. Might even try my hand at driving grouse in Scotland. I’m not a bad shot, Dallas. Oh, and one other thing. I want to shoot a lion.’
Although Dallas no longer saw the need to take life in the name of sport, he had once made his living from hunting. It had killed his one-time partner, Logan Burton. He remained silent.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ she said, smiling at her unintended pun.
‘No, not at all. It’s a most amazing offer and I only wish Cam himself could hear what you are saying. Are you sure that this is what you want to do?’
‘Quite. Though there is one last thing.’
‘Name it, ’Dallas said.
‘No matter what happens in the future, I want to be buried here. Where we are sitting now, beside Guy. Will you promise me that?’
‘Of course.’
She stood up, extending her hand to Dallas. ‘Then I do believe we have an understanding. I need you to give me a few details about Cameron but that can wait until this evening. Right now I should show you as much of the farm as I can.’ Caroline pointed. ‘You see where the river runs?’
Dallas turned back to look at the valley below. The mist had completely cleared.
The rest of the day was taken up exploring every corner of Wakefield. As it was winter, the mealie fields were bare, but Caroline explained her hopes for the extensive plantings of black wattle. ‘These trees originally came from Australia. They’re only a few years old but as you can see, they’re quick growing and need virtually no attention. The bark yield should be around three hundredweight to the acre. We try to plant at least two hundred acres each year, so what’s that?’
‘Thirty tons annually, ’Dallas replied. ‘What will happen to it?’
‘The raw bark has to be hung and dried before being bagged for export to Europe. It’s used for tanning skins.’
‘And the value?’
‘The bark itself won’t fetch much more than five or six pounds a ton but mature trees make excellent mine props and any smaller cuts can be sold as firewood. Nothing goes to waste and it needs no special machinery to plant or harvest so the return on capital employed should be better than any cash crop. That’s the theory at least.’
Over a light lunch of cold meat and salad Dallas asked the question he had been putting off. ‘Do you see anything of your cousin these days?’
Caroline looked at him before answering. ‘Sarah’s dead. I thought you knew?’
‘No.’
‘She was nursing at Intombi.’
‘The hospital outside Ladysmith?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘She took her own life. An overdose of morphine.’
‘Why?’
‘Nobody knows for certain but the coloured man they caught spying for the Boers was said to be her son. He was executed by firing squad.’
Dallas sat in silence for several minutes remembering the deceit that had forced him to marry Sarah, pregnant with another man’s ch
ild – the Zulu wagon driver, Thulani. ‘And her father?’
‘He’s still in Colenso. They made him mayor, so I heard.’
That afternoon they spent looking at the cattle. An Aberdeen Angus beef herd roamed the unfenced hills with two Zulu herd boys. Dallas spoke to them in their own language and learned that the disease which had decimated so much of Zululand a few years earlier had not reached here.
The river flats sustained half a dozen Friesian cows which they followed to the dairy for afternoon milking by a very large Zulu lady. ‘We make our own butter and cheese, ’ Caroline said, dipping her finger in a bucket of frothing milk and tasting the warm liquid. ‘Mmm.’
The pigsty had seen better days but the big blue boar had obviously been busy. Chickens roamed everywhere, scratching for anything that looked edible. They ate well, providing Caroline with a constant supply of tasty, dark-yolked eggs. Behind the house – fenced off from the chickens’ attention – lay a neatly furrowed vegetable garden which produced a seasonal stream of fresh produce, enough for all on the farm, Caroline told him.
Finally they came to the horses. ‘We’re a bit depleted right now. The army wanted everything that was even barely rideable. They paid good money, though. Bright Eyes’s blood line is still here. That’s one.’ Caroline pointed. ‘Early Mist. She’s done exceptionally well for us.’
Dallas noticed that with his half-sister nothing was ever ‘I’.
‘Give the girl another couple of seasons and then we’ll find the right sire for her. That lot are all in foal.’ She nodded towards a fenced field containing between fifteen and twenty fine-looking mares. ‘It’ll be three months at least before any of them drop. Only time will tell what they turn out like. Too late to become cannon fodder, thank goodness.’
They looked at the stables and next to them an enclosed area used for horse breaking and routine obedience training. A wizened little man of indeterminate age sat on one of the wooden rails chewing a stem of grass, his coal black eyes following their every move. ‘That’s Klipklop, ’ Caroline said, waving. ‘He’s from Basutoland. Part Bushman and the best damned horse trainer this side of Mokhotlong.’
Dallas hadn’t the faintest idea where that was.
‘Only problem is, he disappears from time to time.’
By five o’clock they were back at the house, where a tray of drinks had been set out on the verandah. Caroline excused herself, saying, ‘Help yourself, Dallas. There’s nimbo paani or whisky. Not much of a choice, I’m afraid. I wasn’t expecting guests.’
‘May I pour something for you?’
‘Just my Popeti special, please – but don’t let that stop you having something stronger.’
Dallas gave the lime juice a stir, making a whirlpool of the dissolving sugar and mint, then poured a glass for Caroline before splashing himself a good double dram of Scotch from a cut-glass decanter. The tumblers were just that, probably the same ones they had used the night before. No matter, he thought, savouring the peaty aroma of Glenlivet. It was not just any malt, but George Smith’s original. The Glenlivet – a rare treat indeed.
Caroline returned with a pen, ink and some paper. Licking the nib before dipping it in a glass bottle marked ‘Stephens’, she turned to Dallas. ‘There are just a couple of things I need to know about Cameron. First, his full name?’ In less than five minutes Caroline had all the information she needed. ‘Good. I’ll set the wheels in motion. My solicitors are Hempson’s in Maritzburg. There may be things that Cameron has to sign but I’ve no idea how long a transfer takes to register. I think that concludes a most satisfactory day.’ She raised her glass. ‘The future!’
‘I’ll drink to that, ’Dallas responded ‘Slanje.’
‘And by the way. Somebody owes me a guinea!’
Soon it became too cold to be outside. ‘Supper is ready, ’ Popeti announced, confirming that it was time to go in. Their meal was simple but good – the previous night’s stew to which had been added more vegetables and some stock, turning it into a rich and warming broth. They broke chunks of crusty bread, dipping them in the soup and wiping their plates clean.
Sitting by the log fire Dallas and Caroline stared into the flames, each only too aware that the last twenty-four hours had probably changed their lives forever. Their long silences were not awkward, as happens when people are at ease with one another. Dallas put down his pipe and laid an arm round Caroline’s shoulder. She leaned her head against him. It was another world, one which had known its share of tragedy, even if untouched by the madness of war.
‘It’s getting late, ’ Caroline said, grimacing as stiff joints reacted to the effort of getting to her feet. ‘I’ve put those letters by your bed.’
Dallas rose too. ‘Thank you, Caroline. Thank you for everything.’
‘Guy used to call me Caro.’ She looked at him in the firelight. ‘Would you find it strange if I asked you to do the same?’
Gently he held her arms, kissing her first on one cheek then the other. ‘Not at all, little sister. Not at all.’
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Dallas. Sleep well.’
‘You too, Caro. Goodnight.’
The door of her bedroom stood open, the interior illuminated by a flickering candle. As Dallas passed he glanced inside and saw the leopard skin. It was stretched on the otherwise bare floor.
Going to his room Dallas found two bundles, each tied neatly with red ribbon. There must have been thirty letters at least. Taking them back to the fire, he threw on another log, lit his pipe and untied the first knot. In his mother’s long and flowing handwriting he read Jack Walsh. The address was care of the general post office in Durban. Most of the postmarks were illegible but the earliest stamps depicted a very young Queen Victoria. He opened the first envelope. The letter was dated 16 February 1850 – the day Dallas had been born. My darling Jonathan, We have a son.
It took Dallas over three hours to work his way through the first bundle of letters. There was one a year, all written on his birthday, talking of little else but a boy’s progress through life from the time he was born– at four-thirty in the afternoon, he discovered– through breastfeeding. There she digressed into a vivid personal memory of moments stolen by two people deeply in love, things he couldn’t imagine Lady Pamela saying, and then wrote of his first steps. Dallas never knew that it took him fourteen months to stand upright. Lazy fellow, he thought; Duncan was the slowest in our family and it only took him eleven.
Nothing in the letters indicated that she had ever received a reply. Long forgotten incidents, some he didn’t even remember, chronicled his early life with humour, pathos and sometimes concern. She described his physical characteristics and how they changed over the years, what he was good at and what he wasn’t. A picture of twenty years painted in words.
The fire had burned low and so had his only candle. Dallas attended to both before going outside to relieve himself. Standing in the freezing cold he looked up at the Southern Cross. There was no moon and the heavens seemed so close you could reach up and touch the stars. He shivered. In the darkness a jackal called, its distinctive sound telling him it had found a kill. Dallas waited, expecting to hear others. There was only silence. For no apparent reason he realised that something was missing. Dogs. Caroline had no dogs. Nor cats, if it came to that.
Back beside the fire Dallas retied the first bundle and turned to the second. It was smaller, starting in February 1872. He had gone. His mother knew not where. She talked of the circumstances surrounding his enforced flight from Scotland and of the jewels she had given him, pieces Jonathan Fellowes left her when he too had fled his home and the woman he loved.
In her next letter Lady Pamela told Jack that Dallas was in Durban. To this he had obviously replied because the dates suddenly became random. She knew about their coincidental encounter above the Howick Falls. She knew too that Jack Walsh was married and had a daughter, Caroline.
Jack must have maintained his correspondence, reversing the role previously played b
y Lady Pamela and keeping her advised of their son’s fortunes. The letters went on through the ZuluWar of 1879. His mother was aware that Jack had been wounded at Ulundi but she never found out how badly.
In October 1881, Dallas had returned to Scotland for a visit, taking Lorna and his family. While there, his mother had told him for the first time that his real father, Jonathan Fellowes, lived in Natal under the name Jack Walsh. She said nothing about her ongoing correspondence with him.
Dallas had told Lorna but, not wishing to embarrass Jack, never revealed his knowledge to him or his family. It was hardly surprising that in all those years his father also said nothing to his wife and daughter, though he continued writing to Dallas’s mother.
In the last letter she commented on the first family visit back to Scotland and how thin she thought their son was looking. He read on. At least he is happy now, Jonathan. I will always be grateful to you for giving me such a special son. Thank you for watching over him these last few years. Know that I love you more than life itself. Wait for me, my darling, for I shall not be far behind.
Dallas sat by the dying fire, tears streaming down his face. Jack Walsh had died in 1882. Lady Pamela, his mother, thirteen years later. Life was so unfair. It had been a long wait but he had no doubt that they were together at last.
Dallas always enjoyed the element of surprise, though on this occasion his only other option would have been to spend a night at the Royal. He knew the address of Torben and Gerda’s new residence, which was not far from the house Lorna had bought when she first arrived in Durban almost thirty years earlier. For a moment his mind wandered. How everything had changed since then – not only the city, but the people themselves. Somehow Musgrave Road seemed narrower. There were certainly many more houses, and grand ones at that.
The imposing wrought-iron gates were locked but Dallas could see what appeared to be a brand-new carriage drawn up in front of the house. At least somebody was home. A liveried servant– probably the driver– appeared and Dallas spoke to him in Zulu. The man’s face broke into a huge tooth-flashing grin as he produced a key, opened the gate and snapped off a smart salute to the unexpected visitor. So much for security, Dallas thought, as the African led his horse up to the house, leaving the gate wide open.
Footprints of Lion Page 28
