by Wilbur Smith
Mark pushed it aside and drove on grimly into the night.
The motorcycle slipped and slid from one verge of the road to the other as he took it up the steep ascent of the Ladyburg escarpment, and below him the lights of the town were blanketed by the falling white fog of rain.
Mark was uncertain as to whether or not the General was in residence at Lion Kop, but as he gunned the machine into the walled kitchen yard he saw lights in the windows, and a clamorous pack of the General's hunting dogs rushed out into the night followed by three Zulu servants with lanterns. Mark shouted at them. Is the Nkosi here? Their answers were superfluous, for as Mark dismounted, he looked up and saw the bulky familiar beloved shape step into the lighted window of the study, head held low on broad shoulders, as Sean Courtney peered down at him.
Mark ran into the house, stripping off his streaming oilskins, and he burst into the General's study. My boy. Sean Courtney hurried to meet him across the huge room. What is it? Mark's whole being was charged with a fierce and triumphant purpose. I have the man who killed my grandfather, he exulted, and halfway across the study Sean stopped dead and stared at him. Is it, he stopped, and the dread was plain on his face, is it Dirk Courtney, is it my son? The servants carried Hobday's heavy inert body into the study and laid him on the buttoned leather sofa in front of the fire. Who put those chains on him? growled Sean, studying the man, and then without waiting for a reply, Take them off him. My God, what happened to his face?
Ruth Courtney came then, awakened by the uproar and excitement, dressed in a long dressing-gown with her night cap still knotted under her chin, Good Lord, she stared at Hobday. His arm is broken, and perhaps his jaw also. How did it happen? Sean demanded. I hit him, Mark explained, and Sean was silent for a long moment staring at him, before he spoke again.
I think you had better tell me the whole story, he said. From the beginning. While Ruth Courtney worked quietly over Hobday's broken face, Mark began his explanation to the General. His name is Hobday, he works for Dirk Courtney, has done so for years. One of his right-hand men. Of course, Sean nodded. I should have recognized him.
It was the swollen face. I've seen him before. Quietly, quickly, Mark told everything he knew about the man, starting from his first meeting with Hobday at the deserted homestead on Andersland. He told you he was working for Dirk Courtney then?
Sean demanded. For Ladyburg Sugar, Mark qualified, and Sean nodded his white beard on to his chest. Go on. Mark repeated Pungushe's story of the old man's death, how the three men had come with him to the valley, and how the silent one had shot him and waited for him to die, and how they had buried him in an unmarked grave.
However, Sean shook his head, frowning, and Hobday on the couch stirred and tried to sit up. His swollen, distorted jaw worked and the words were blurred. It's a bloody nigger lie, he said. First time I've ever been to Chaka's Gate was three days ago.
Sean Courtney's worry showed clearly on his gaunt features as he turned back to Mark. You say you hit this man, that you are responsible for his injuries. How did it happen? When he came to the valley, Pungushe recognized him as the man who killed John Anders. I lured him out of his camp, and Pungushe and I captured him and brought him here. After half killing him? Sean asked, heavily, and did not wait for Mark's reply. My boy, I think you've put yourself into a very serious position. I cannot see a shred of evidence to support all this, evidence that would convict a man in a court of law, while on the other hand you have assaulted somebody, grievous bodily harm and abduction at the least. Oh, I do have proof, Mark cut in quickly.
What is it? Sean asked gruffly.
The man on the couch turned his battered face to Sean, and his voice rose confidently. He's a bloody liar. It's all lies. Quiet! Sean waved him to silence, and looked to Mark again. Proof? he asked. My proof will be in the fact that Dirk Courtney kills this man, or has him killed, the moment we turn him free. They all stared at Mark in stunned silence, and Mark went on seriously. We all know how Dirk Courtney works. He destroys anything that stands in his way, or that is a danger to him. Hobday was watching him, and for once the eyes were no longer veiled and cold. His mangled lips quivered and gaped slightly, showing the black gaps where the teeth were missing from his jaw.
It isn't necessary for this man to confess anything to us.
The fact that he has been here, in this house, with the General and myself, in the camp of Dirk Courtney's enemies, the fact that his face bears the marks of heavy persuasion, that will be enough for Dirk Courtney. Then one phone call is all it would take. Something like this Mark paused, then went on. "Hobday was with us, he is ready to make a sworn statement, about the killing of John Anders. " Then we take Hobday down to the village and leave him there. Dirk Courtney kills him, but this time we are ready. For once we can trace the murder directly to him. God damn you, snarled Hobday, struggling into a sitting position. It's a lie. I haven't confessed anything! You can tell that to Dirk Courtney. He might believe you, Mark told him quietly. On the other hand, if you turned king's evidence and did confess, you'd have the protection of the General and the law, all the force of the law, and we would not turn you loose. Hobday looked around him wildly, as though some avenue of escape might open miraculously for him, but Mark went on remorselessly. You know Dirk Courtney better than any of us, don't you, Hobday? You know how his mind works. Do you think he will take the chance that you didn't confess? Just how useful are you going to be to him in the future? Can you trust his loyalty, now that the shadow of doubt is on you? You know what he is going to do, don't you? If you think about it, you'll realize that your only chance of survival will be to have Dirk Courtney locked up safely, or dancing at the end of a rope. Hobday glared at him. You bastard, he hissed through his broken lips, and it was as though a cork had been drawn; a steady stream of obscenity poured from him, vicious filth, the ugly meaningless words repeated over and over again, while his naked eyes glittered with helpless hatred.
Mark stood up and cranked the handset of the telephone on Sean's desk. Exchange, he said into the mouthpiece. Please connect me with the residence of Mister Dirk Courtney. No! choked Hobday. Don't do that! and now terror had replaced hatred, and his face seemed to collapse around the ruined nose and mouth.
Mark made no effort to obey, and clearly everybody in the room heard the click of a connection being made, and then the squawk of a voice distorted by the wires and distance. This is the residence of the Honourable Deputy Minister for Lands, Mr Dirk Courtney -Hobday lumbered off the couch, and staggered to the desk, he snatched the earpiece from Mark's hand and slammed it back on to its bracket of the telephone. No, he panted, with pain and fear. Please don't do that. He hung on to the corner of the desk, hunched up with the pain, clutching his broken arm to his chest, his mashed features working convulsively. They waited quietly, Mark and Ruth and Sean, waiting for him to reach his decision.
Hobday turned and staggered heavily back to the sofa. He collapsed upon it with his head hanging forward, almost touching his knees, and his breathing hissed and sobbed in the silence. All right, he whispered hoarsely. What do you want to know?
General Sean Courtney shook himself as though awaking from a nightmare, but his voice was decisive and brisk. Mark, take the Rolls. Co down into town and get me a lawyer. I want this statement drawn up in proper form I'm still a justice of the Peace and Commissioner of Oaths.
I will witness the document. Mark parked the Rolls in Peter Botes gravel driveway of the big new house on the outskirts of town.
The house was dark and silent, but to Mark's heavy knocking on the carved teak front door, a dog began to bark in the house somewhere, and at last a light bloomed in an upstairs window and the sash slid up with a squeal.
Who is it? What do you want? Peter's voice was querulous and fuddled with sleep. It's Mark, he shouted up at the window. You've got to come with me, now! My God, Mark, it's after eleven o'clock. Can't it wait until morning? General Courtney wants you, now. The name had its effect. Ther
e was a mumble of voices within the bedroom, Marion's sister protesting sleepily, and then Peter called down again. All right, give me a minute to dress, Mark. As he waited in the driver's seat of the Rolls with the rain slashing down on the roof, and rippling in wavering lines down across the windshield, Mark pondered briefly why he had chosen Peter Botes. It was not only that he knew exactly where to find him so late at night. He realized that he wanted Peter to be there when they tore down his idol, he wanted to rub his nose in it when they proved Dirk Courtney a thief and a murderer. He wanted that satisfaction, and he smiled bleakly without humour in the darkened Rolls. I deserve at least that, he whispered to himself, and the front door of the house opened. Peter hurried out, ducking his head against the slanting rain. What is it? he demanded, through the window of the Rolls. It had better be important, getting me out at this time of night. It's important enough, Mark told him, and started the engine. Get in! I'll follow you in my Packard, Peter told him and ran to the garage.
Peter Botes sat at General Courtney's big desk. Hurriedly dressed, he was without a necktie and his small prosperous paunch bulged the white shirt, pulling it free of his trousers waistband. His sandy hair was thinning and ruffled, so that pink scalp showed through as he bowed over the foolscap sheet of paper.
He wrote swiftly, a neat regular script, his features betraying each new shock at the words he was transcribing, his cheeks pale and his mouth set and thin.
Every few minutes he would pause incredulously and stare at Hobday across the room, breathing heavily at some new and terrible admission. Have you got that? the General demanded, and Peter nodded jerkily and began to write again.
The others listened intently. The General slumped in his chair by the fire. His eyes were closed, as though he slept, but the questions he rapped out every few minutes were bright and penetrating as a rapier blade.
Mark stood behind his chair, quiet and intent, his face expressionless, although his anger and his hatred cramped in his guts.
Hobday sat forward on the sofa and his voice was a muffled drone in his thick north-country accent, muted in contrast to the terrible words he spoke.
It was not only the killing of John Anders. There was more, much more. Forgery of State documents, bribery of high officials, direct abuse of public office, and Mark started and leaned forward with shock as Hobday recounted how he had tried on two occasions, following Dirk Courtney's orders, to kill him.
Mark had not realized nor recognized him, but now Hobday's stocky shape tied in his memory with the shadowy faceless hunter in the night on the escarpment, and with the other figure seen through the rain and the fever mists. Hobday did not look up as he told it, and Mark had no questions to ask. It was as though once Hobday had started, he must purge himself of all this filth, as though he were now deriving some perverse satisfaction from the horror his words struck into his audience.
They listened, appalled by the magnitude of it all. Every few minutes, Ruth exclaimed involuntarily, and Sean would open his eyes briefly to stare at her, before closing them again and covering them with one hand.
At last Hobday came to the murder of John Anders, and each detail was exactly as Pungushe had described it. Mark felt sickened and wretched as he listened, but he asked only one question. Why did you let him die so slowly, why didn't you finish him? It had to look like an accident. Hobday did not look up. One bullet only. A man does not shoot himself twice by accident. I had to let him die in his own time. There was no breadth nor horizon to Mark's anger, and this time Ruth Courtney caught her breath with a sound like a sob. Again Sean Courtney opened his eyes. Are you all right, my dear?
She nodded silently, and Sean turned back to Hobday.
Go on, he said.
At the end, Peter Botes read the statement back, his voice quivering and fading at the more horrendous passages, so that Sean had to gruff at him fiercely. Speak up, man. He had made two fair copies, and Hobday signed each page with an illiterate scrawl, and then each of them signed below him, and Sean pressed his wax seal of office on to the final page of each copy. All right, he said, as he carried the top document to the iron safe built into the wall behind his desk. I want you to keep and file the other copy, he said to Peter, Thank you for your help, Mr Botes. He locked the safe and turned back into the room. Mark, will you telephone Doctor Acheson now, please? We've got to take care of our witness, I suppose.
Though, for my money, I'd just as soon see him suffer. When Doctor Acheson arrived at Lion Kop, it was almost two in the morning, and Ruth Courtney took him up to the guest room where Hobday lay.
Neither Sean Courtney nor Mark went up; they stayed in the study, sitting quietly together across the fire which a servant had built. Against the windows, the wind bumped and the rain spattered. Sean was drinking whisky, and Mark had filled his glass twice for him in the last hour.
He was slumped down in his favourite chair now, tired and old and bowed with grief, holding the glass with both hands. If I had the courage, I would take the rifle to him myself - like a rabid dog. But he is still my son, no matter how often I deny it, he is still of my blood, of my loins.
Mark was silent, and Ruth came into the room.
Doctor Acheson is setting that man's arm, she said. He will be another hour, but I think you should come up to bed now, my dear. She crossed to Sean's chair and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. We have all had more than enough for one day. The telephone rang on the desk, a tinny irritant sound that startled them all. They stared at it for a full five seconds, until it rang again demandingly and Ruth crossed to it and lifted the earpiece.
Mrs. Ruth Courtney, she said softly, almost fearfully. Mrs. Courtney, are you the mother of Mrs, Storm Hunt? Yes, this is correct. I am afraid we have very bad news. This is the Superintendent of Addington Hospital in Durban. Your daughter has been involved in a motor accident. The rain and the mud, I am afraid. Her son, your grandchild, has been killed outright. Thankfully he suffered no pain, but your daughter is in a critical condition. Can you come to her, as soon as you possibly can? We don't know if she will last the night, I'm afraid. The telephone dropped from Ruth's hand, and she swayed on her feet, the colour flying from her face, leaving it frosted with icy white. Oh God! she whispered, and she started to fall, her legs collapsed and she crumpled forward. Mark caught her before she hit the floor and lowered her on to the sofa.
Sean crossed to the dangling earpiece and lifted it. This is General Courtney, he barked angrily. What is it? Mark took the big Rolls down the long slanting right hand turn towards the bridge very fast. The woman he loved, the mother of his dead child, was dying, and Mark's heart was breaking. The road was deep with chocolate mud, and other vehicles had rutted it deeply, churning the mud to a thick ugly porridge. The Rolls flared and kicked in the ruts, but Mark fought the wheel grimly.
The bridge over the Baboon Stroom was five hundred yards ahead of them, still invisible in the endless driving rain. The headlights faded fifty feet ahead, overwhelmed by the flights of white raindrops, thick as javelins.
In the rear seat, Ruth Courtney sat quietly, staring ahead with eyes that did not see. The collar of her fur coat was pulled up around her ears, so she looked small and frail as a child.
General Sean Courtney sat beside Mark, and he was talking quietly, as though to himself. I've left it too late. I've been a stubborn old fool. I wanted too much from her, I wanted her to be better than human, and I was too harsh on her when she did not meet the standards I set for her. I should have gone to her long ago, and now perhaps it's too late. It's not too late, Mark denied. She will live, she must live. It's too late for my grandson, whispered Sean. I never saw him, and only now I realize how much I wanted to -At the mention of baby John, Mark felt the sickening jolt of despair in his stomach again and he wanted to shout, He was my son. My first born! But beside him, Sean was talking again. I've been a spiteful and unforgiving old man. God have mercy on me, but I even cut my own daughter out of my will. I disowned her, and now I hate mysel
f for that. If only we can reach her, if only I can talk to her once more. Please, God, grant me that. Ahead of them the steel guard railings of the bridge loomed out of the torrential darkness, and lightning bounced off the belly of the clouds. For an instant Mark saw the spidery steel tracery of the railway bridge spanning the chasm two hundred yards downstream. Under it, the rocky sides of the gorge dropped almost sheer a hundred and firty feet to the swollen racing brown flood waters of the Baboon Stroom.
Mark touched the brakes, and then double-declutched the gears, bringing the Rolls under tighter control as he lined up for the entrance to the road bridge.
Suddenly, dazzling light flared from the darkness on the right hand side of the road, and Mark threw up one hand to protect his eyes.
Out of the darkness rushed a great dark shape, with two blazing headlights glaring like malevolent eyes as it came.
With sudden clarity of mind, Mark realized that the Rolls was trapped helplessly on the approach ramp to the bridge, and that on his left hand, only a frail railing of iron pipes screened them from the drop and that the monstrous vehicle racing down from the right would come into a collision which would hurl the Rolls through the railing as though it were a child's toy. Hold on! he screamed, and swung the wheel to meet the roaring towering monster of steel, and the blinding white light cut into his eyes.
Peter Botes pulled off the road into the pine trees and switched off the engine of the Packard. In the silence he could hear the pine branches thrashing restlessly on the wind, and the dislodged rain-drops tapped on the roof.
Peter lit a cigarette and the match danced in his cupped hands. He inhaled deeply, waiting for the calming effect of the tobacco smoke, and he stared ahead up the straight roadway that led to Great Longwood, the homestead of Dirk Courtney.
He sensed that the decision he must make now was the most vital of his entire life. Whichever way he decided, his life was already changed for ever.
