by Wilbur Smith
At the door he paused. Thanks. he said shyly. You were very kind. Oh it's a pleasure. If there's anything else, well, you know my name and where to find me. Then suddenly and unaccountably, she blushed scarlet. To hide it, she turned away with the files. When she looked again, he was gone, and she sighed, holding the files to her plump little bosom.
Mark found the accounts of the old man's estate filed with the Master of the Court almost contemptuously under the heading Intestate Estates less than 100 pounds.
on the credit side were listed two rifles and a shotgun, four trek oxen and scotch-cart, sold at public auction to realize eighty-four pounds sixteen shillings. On the debit side were legal and commission fees accruing to one Dennis Petersen, and costs of winding up the estate.
The total was one hundred and twenty-seven pounds; the account had been in deficit, a distribution had been made and the estate closed. John Archibald Anders had gone, and left hardly a ripple behind him, not even the three thousand pounds he had been paid for Andersland.
Mark hefted his pack again and went out into the brilliant sunlight of afternoon. A water cart was moving slowly down Main Street drawn by two oxen, its sprinklers pouring fine jets of water into the roadway to lay the thick dust.
Mark paused and inhaled the smell of water on dry earth, and looked across the street at the towering building of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank.
For a brief moment, he touched the idea of crossing and entering, demanding of the men in there what had made the old man change his firm resolve to die and be buried on Andersland, how the money had been paid to him, and what he had done with it.
But the idea passed swiftly. The men who worked in that building were creatures of a different breed from the penniless grandson of an illiterate hard-scrabble farmer.
There were orders in society, unseen barriers which a man could not cross, even if he had a university diploma, a military medal for gallantry and an honourable discharge from the army.
That building was the shrine of wealth and power and influence, where dwelt men like giants, like gods. The likes of Mark Anders did not barge in there demanding answers to unimportant questions about an old man of no account. Intestate estate less than 100 pounds, Mark whispered aloud, and set off across town, towards the clanking, buffing sounds of the railway goods yard. Yes, agreed the station master, Piet Greyling was a mainline loco driver, and his son fired for him, but they threw in their time months ago, back in 1919, both of them. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. No, I don't know where they were headed, just too damned happy to see them go, I guess. Oh, yes, now I come to think on it, the son did say something about they were going up to Rhodesia. Going to buy a farm, or something, and the man chuckled. Buy a farm! With what, I wonder, wishes and dreams, not on the salary of a loco driver or fireman. The board room of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank occupied half of the top floor of the building; one set of floor-to ceiling windows faced eastwards to catch the cool sea breeze on hot summer days, the other windows faced the tall escarpment. This made a fine backdrop to the town, and gave an interesting aspect to the huge room with its high ornately plastered ceiling where dancing white cherubs bearing bunches of grapes were suspended upsidedown, frozen in their endless jollification.
The walls were panelled in dark mahogany that set off the green velvet curtaining with golden corded edges.
The carpet was green also, and thick enough to muffle the hoofs of a cavalry charge. The board room table was of marble with golden ormolu work, vine leaves and nude female figures clambering up the legs, playing harps or dancing demurely.
At one end of the table, a man stood respectfully, a man with the short neck and heavy shoulders of a wrestler. The seat of his khaki breeches was shiny from the saddle, and his boots were dusty from hard riding. He twisted the rim of a slouch hat nervously between his fingers.
Opposite where he stood at the far end of the marble table, another man slouched elegantly in the leather-padded chair. Even seated, it was clear that he was a big man, the shoulders under the expensive British broadcloth were wide and powerful.
However, his head was nicely balanced on these shoulders, a glorious head of lustrous but skilfully barbered hair, dark curls that extended low down on to his cheeks into magnificent sideboards. The strong smoothly shaven chin had the jut and set of a man accustomed to command, a wide determined mouth and perfect white teeth with which he now nibbled thoughtfully at his lower lip. A small frown formed a bird's foot at the bridge of his nose, between the dark intelligent eyes, and one carefully manicured fist supported his chin as he listened quietly. Anyway, I thought you might like to know, mr Courtney, the speaker ended lamely, and shuffled his dusty boots on the thick carpet. For a long moment there was silence. The man glanced uneasily at the other two gentlemen who flanked Dirk Courtney, but then flicked back to the central figure.
Dirk Courtney dropped his hand into his lap, and the frown cleared. I suspect you did the right thing, Hobday. He smiled slightly, a smile that enhanced his powerful good looks. You can rest in the antechamber. The clerk there will find refreshment for you, but I will want to talk to you again. . . Yes, sir, Mr Courtney, sir-'The man crossed to the door with alacrity, and as it closed behind him the two men flanking Dirk Courtney burst out together. I told you at the time something like this would happen, But you told us he had been killed. I never liked the idea. Oh, I thought it was going too far this time They spoke across each other, quick breathless outbursts while Dirk Courtney sat with an enigmatic halfsmile hovering on his lips, examining with attention the diamond on the little finger of his right hand, turning the big white stone to catch the light from the windows so that it flicked spots of brilliant light across the ceiling high above where he sat.
After a few minutes, the two of them faltered into silence, and Dirk Courtney looked up politely. Have you both finished? I found that most helpful, constructive, imaginative. He looked from one to the other expectantly, and then when they were silent he went on, Unfortunately, you are not in possession of all the facts, Here is some more news for you. He arrived in town this morning, and he went straight to the Land Deeds, from there to the Register of Companies, the Master's Office -There was a fresh outburst of lamentation from his listeners, while Dirk Courtney selected a cigar from the humidor and prepared it carefully, cutting the end with a goldplated pocket-knife and moistening it between his lips, then he held it poised between thumb and forefinger while he waited for silence again. Thank you, gentlemen, but as I was saying, the gentleman in question then went down to the goods yard, and began making inquiries about Greyling and son. This time they were silent, exchanging appalled and disbelieving glances, and the silence drew out while Dirk Courtney struck a Swan Vesta and waited for the sulphur to burn off before he lit the cigar. It was all your idea, said Ronald Pye. He was at least thirty years senior to Dirk Courtney. Once prosperously bulging flesh had sagged beneath his expensive waistcoat, his jowls drooped also, like the wattles of a rooster, and his cheeks were mottled with faded freckles and old man's blemishes, little darker liver spots. His hair also had faded and thinned, stained only by residual traces of the fiery ginger it had once been. But his prominent ears stood out from his head, giving him an alert listening look, like a desert fox, and his eyes had a fox's cunning glitter as they watched Dirk Courtney's face. Yes, Dirk Courtney agreed. Most ideasaround here are mine indeed. That's why the net reserves of the Farmers Bank have increased from one and a half to fifteen million pounds in the ten years since I started contributing my ideas Ronny Pye went on staring at him, regretting bitterly for the ten thousandth time in those ten years that he had ever been tempted to sell control of the bank to this young adventurer, this elegant buccaneer.
God knows, there had been occasion for doubt, for caution, and he had hesitated long enough before accepting the fantastic offer that Dirk Courtney had made. He had known too much of the lad's history, how he had left his home here in Ladyburg in unsavoury circumstances, estranged from his fathe
r and family.
Then, years later, he had sauntered into Ronald Pye's office, unannounced and unheralded, and made his offer.
He had seen at a glance that the boy had grown into a hard man, but the offer had been too good to dismiss, and then immediately after, he had begun to hear the dark rumours that followed the man as vultures follow the lion.
He should have been warned, the fact that Dirk Courtney could offer six hundred thousand pounds in cash for sixty percent of the Bank's shares and support the offer with a Bank guarantee from Lloyds Bank of London was, in itself, enough to give substance to the dark rumours. How often does an honest man make that kind of money in a few short years, he asked himself.
In the end the money had tempted Ronny Pye, that and the chance to score over an old enemy, General Sean Courtney. He had delighted in the prospect of setting up the estranged son, setting him up in almost baronial circumstances in the very centre of Courtney country. The delight in doing so had swung the balance, spite and six hundred thousand pounds cash money.
It had been a bad bargain. I was against this from the beginning, he said now. My dear Pye, you are against every new idea, on principle. Yet only a week ago you were swooning like a virgin bride over the balance sheet of Ladyburg Estates, and Zululand sugar. Dirk stood up from the chair. His full height was imposing, he smoothed his hair lightly with both hands while his cigar was gripped between strong white teeth, then he arranged the folds of his cravat, touching the pearl pin before swinging away and striding to the far wall of the board room.
He drew down the rolled map of Zululand and north Natal that covered half the wall, and stood back from it.
The boundary of every farm was marked in large-scale topography. The farms belonging to Ladyburg Estates had been carefully shaded in green chalk. They made an impressive sweep of colour from sea to mountains, a great phalanx of land and natural wealth. There it is now, gentlemen, the scheme that you opposed so violently. He smiled again. It was too rich for your watery blood. The smile faded, and he scowled. When he scowled, the line of the wide mouth became bitter and the set of the lustrous eyes altered, with a mean pinched expression. The key to the whole thing was here on the Umfolosi, the water, we had to have it or none of it made sense. One stupid, stubborn, uneducated old bastard, he cut it off abruptly, and in a moment his smile was back, the voice tight with excitement. It is all ours now, the full south bank of the river, and it's not going to end there!
His spread hands clammed down on the map, hooked like claws. Here, he said, and here, and here, his hands marched northwards greedily.
He swung away from the map, laughing, and cocked his big handsome head at them. Look at you, he laughed. It's running down your legs, you're so terrified, and all because I'm making you rich. Dennis Petersen spoke now. He was the same age as Ronny Pye, married to his sister, and, but for that connection, he would never have been seated at the ormolu.
marble table, for he was the least significant of the three men. His features were indefinite and slightly blurred, his body in expensive clothing was pudgy and shapeless while the colour of his eyes was difficult to fathom. What are we going to do? he asked, and though his hands were clasped in his lap, it seemed that he was actually wringing them plaintively. We? Dirk asked kindly, and crossed to his chair. We, my dear Dennis? he patted the man's shoulder like a father, despite the age difference. We aren't going to do a thing. You just go back to your own office now, and I will tell you about it once it's over. Listen, Dirk. Dennis lifted his chin firmly. No more of that, that rough stuff, do you hear? Then he saw Dirk's eyes and dropped his chin. Please, he mumbled.
Dirk chuckled. Off you go and do your sums, both of you, add up the money. Don't worry about a thing. He helped them from their seats, a hand on each shoulder, and shepherded them towards the door. We have a board meeting tomorrow at nine o'clock, Dennis, I will be discussing the new extraction plant at Stanger. I will want the figures, make sure I have them. Alone for a moment, Dirk Courtney's face changed and the eyes narrowed. He pressed out the stub of the cigar in the onyx ashtray as he crossed to the door that led to the antechamber. Hobday, he called softly. Come in here a moment, please. There are occasions in a hunter's experience when a spoor begins hot and true and then fades. Mark remembered a hunt like that which he and the old man had made up near Chaka's Gate. Dead spoor, gone away, he muttered aloud now, and stood uncertainly in the main street of Ladyburg. There seemed no way that he might find the old man's grave. No way that he could bring the body back and rebury it beside Alice on Andersland.
Less important was the money that the old man had been paid for Andersland. Three thousand pounds. It was a vast fortune in Mark's eyes and it would be good to know what had happened to it. With that amount, he could afford land of his own somewhere.
Then Mark faced the issue he had avoided up until now and admitted that there was just one more faint chance, but he felt his stomach tighten at what he had to do. With a physical effort he steeled himself and set off steadily down the street towards the towering building of the Ladyburg Farmers Bank. He had not reached it before the church clock on the spire at the end of the street sounded the hour, five clear chimes that echoed across the valley, and a dozen bank employees came out in a group through the front door, smiling and chatting gaily in the relief of the day's work ended, while a uniformed guard began closing and locking the solid mahogany doors.
Mark felt a sneaking sense of relief, and he turned away.
I'll come back tomorrow, he told himself firmly.
The boarding house behind the church offered dinner and a bed for seven shillings and sixpence, and Mark thought about it for only a moment. The sovereigns that he had from the old man's hoard might have to carry him long and far.
He went on out to the bridge over the Baboon Stroom.
and climbed down on to the bank, moving upstream to find a place to cam There was a fine site, with trees and firewood a quarter of a mile above the bridge, but when Mark went down the bank to the water, he could smell the stink of it before he touched the surface with the canteen; he paused, squatting on his haunches.
There was a thick soapy scum thrown up along the edge, and it had coated the stems of the reeds. For the first time Mark realized that the reeds were dead and brown, and that the water bubbled with sullenbeads of gas. He scooped a handful and sniffed at it, then flicked it away with disgust and stood up, wiping his hand on the seat of his pants.
There was a big yellow fish, at least four pounds in weight, its swollen belly upwards and rotting opaque eyes bulging from its head as it floated in the sluggish current, turning gently in the eddy at the edge of the reeds. Mark watched it with a feeling of disquiet, of foreboding, as though that poisoned and rotting carcass had some special significance in his life. He shuddered softly and turned away, climbed the bank again and shouldered his pack.
He made his way upstream, Pausing now and then to peer down into the river-bed, until he was opposite the steel structure of the new sugar mill; here the waters of the stream boiled and steamed with wisps of pale gas that hung like mist in the stiff brown reeds. Around the next bend, he came upon the effluent pipe, a six-inch black iron pipe that stuck out over the far side of the bank from which the hot, steaming discharge poured in a continuous stream.
A change in the breeze carried the acrid chemical stench of it to where Mark stood, and he coughed and turned away.
A hundred yards further upstream, the clear water chuckled through clean stands of green reeds that bowed and swung gracefully on the breeze, and Mark saw the deep waving shape of an eel in the pool beyond, and watched the small black and pink crabs scurrying across the sugarwhite sand below the surface.
He found another camp site on the first slope of the escarpment, beside a waterfall and its slowly swirling pool.
In the trees above him, the ferns hung like soft green veils, and when he stripped his clothing and went into the pool, the water was a cool and refreshing delight.
The sun was already touching the rim of the escarpment, and its low rays were ruddy and warm rose. They burnished the iron roofs of the town, and tinted the column of smoke that rose from the chimney stack of the sugar mill to a beautiful golden bronze. The smoke rose tall into the evening sky, for the breeze had dropped in that peculiar stillness and hush of the African evening.
Movement caught his eye, and he blinked to clear his vision.
There was a hunting party in the open land beyond the town. Even at this distance, Mark could tell they were hunters. Four horsemen moving slowly in a group, one with a rifle or shotgun held against his hip, its barrel pointing to the sky as he leaned forward intently in the saddle.
The other three were armed also; he could see the guns in the scabbards at their knees, and they also had that intent air of suppressed excitement, the air of the hunter. Ahead of the group was a single figure, a Zulu in ragged cast-off western clothing but he led the horsemen in the characteristic attitude of the tracker, trotting in that deceptively fast gait of the Zulu, head down, eyes on the ground, carrying a stripped reed in one hand, the tracker's wand to part the grass, or touch the spoor.
idly Mark wondered what they were hunting, so close to town, and on the bank of that dying and poisoned river, for they were coming along the same trail that Mark had followed to the escarpment.
The light was going swiftly now, the shining beacons of the iron roofs winked out swiftly as the sun went below the crest, but in the last of the light, Mark saw the leader of the group of horsemen rein in his mount and straighten in the saddle. He was a stocky figure, sitting square on his mount. The man looked up towards the escarpment where Mark stood, then the light was gone and the group became a dark blob against the darkening land.
