Conditie van muzak

by Michael Moorcock

  Cornelius accepted a cup. “Should we do anything else, sir?” Looking through the window again it seemed to him that the hills were obscured by a huge cloud of white and yellow dust.

  Major Nye knocked out his pipe and picked up his cup. He chuckled as he raised the tea to his cracked lips. “Write letters to our nearest and dearest, I suppose.” He lifted a white handkerchief to his sleeve and brushed away a fly. “I don’t think this will last too long, do you?”

  2. WITH THE FLAG TO PRETORIA

  “Bleck is bleck ent wide es wide, my dee-arr,” said Meneer Olmeijer comfortably, puffing at his large pipe. The tubby Boer, in khaki shirt and jodhpurs and wide-brimmed bush-hat, surveyed the tranquil plaas through twinkling eyes. “Airr you stell intirrested on de oostrrich, Miss Corrnelius?”

  “Perhaps…” she said. She had difficulty crossing the yard in her long tropical skirt. She had chosen a drab brown so as not to show the dust. Her hat, too, was brown and its brim tended to obscure her vision. “Perhaps later?”

  “Cerrtinly, cerrtinly—lader or niverr—y’ave all de tame in de woahld ’ere. Yooah ön ’oliday! Ya doo whadiver ya fill lake—Liberty Kraal, eh? Heh, heh, heh!” He displayed his stained teeth. “En corrl me Cousin Piet. Efterr all, we’rre rrelitivs, ain’t we?” He placed a tanned, red hand on her soft, wincing shoulder. “Ther woah’s övah—we’ll all be Afrikanders soon—Brridischerr oah Hollanderr—farrms oah mines.” They had halted by a white wooden fence, marking the northern limits of the plaas. On their left were the huts of the native workers’ kraal. Piet Olmeijer lifted a booted foot to the lowest rail; a mystical light had entered his eyes as he inspected the infinite veldt, most of which was his, won from the Matabele with blood and Bibles and an inspired hypocrisy which filled Catherine with admiring awe but caused her companion, currently back in the house, considerable confusion. Una had been unable to face this morning’s tour; neither, to their host’s dismay, had she breakfasted. She continued to suffer, Catherine had said when presenting Una’s excuses, from the heat—but the fact was that Una, furious and frightened not so much by the condition of the native Africans as by the peculiar attitude of the whites towards them, was almost incapable now of speech in the presence of Olmeijer or his overseers. Moreover the farmer had taken a fancy to Una and had dropped several hints concerning his need for a wife and sons who could inherit all he had created. Olmeijer had told Jerry, whom he knew from Johannesburg days, that Una Persson looked strong and healthy, the sort of help-meet an Afrikander farmer needed. Olmeijer’s first wife and most of the rest of his family had contracted typhus during internment some years previously, when the Witwatersrand dispute was at its height. However, Una’s bouts of ill-health, as she explained them, were causing him to relax his attention as time went on. The only unfortunate consequence of this was that gradually the farmer was beginning to speculate about Catherine’s capacity for filling the rôle. The introduction of Christian names was, Catherine guessed, a significant step forward and, perhaps, a bold one for a widower Boer of forty sweating, self-restraining summers. It could also explain his sudden expressions of tolerance towards someone who, while they had a name that sounded comfortingly Dutch, was still an Uitlander. He had been reassured by Una herself when they had first arrived: at that point she had been anxious to recall her pro-Boer convictions in England, to disassociate herself with the gold-diggers, critical of the foreign invasion of the Transvaal, full of the romance of the Great Trek, of the courage of the Voortrekkers and their struggles against the savage Matabele. Una had always found such mythologies attractive and, Catherine thought, always sulked in bitter disappointment when the reality contradicted her imaginings. But Catherine was determined not to be critical of her friend. Una’s idealism had dragged her up from despair more than once.

  “Just think,” said Catherine positively to Meneer Olmeijer, “only seventy years ago there was nothing here but lion and wildebeeste! And now…” The veldt rolled to the horizon. “And now there’s hardly any lions or gnus at all!”

  “Doan’t ya bileef et,” chuckled Piet Olmeijer. “Ger rridin’ by yerself an’ find ert!”

  “Well, at least there’s no wild natives to worry about any more,” said Catherine, still doing her best, but feeling increasingly that she was somehow betraying Una.

  “Det’s a fekt,” agreed Olmeijer with some satisfaction. “Neow, Ah prromist Ah’d lit her see some o’ da tebacca bein’ pecked in da feealds, ya?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Catherine reluctantly. “Or the oranges, you said.”

  “Certainly—oah de örrinjis.” He chose to detect in her manner an enthusiasm for his life and its loves. As they left the fence he reached a hand towards her but dropped it as, from the other side of the bungalow, there came a pounding sound which shook the ground and round the corner raced a tall black-and-white ostrich, its eyes starting, its beak enclosed in a peculiar harness, its broad feet stirring the dust, while on its back, whooping and giggling in a dirty, crumpled European suit, his white hat over his face, was Catherine’s brother, followed by upwards of twenty grinning blacks in loincloths or tattered shorts and shirts.

  “Heh, heh, heh,” laughed Piet Olmeijer. “Oh, look at det berd rrun! Heh, heh, heh!” He removed his pipe from his mouth and waved it. “’Ang ern, Meneer Cornelius! Excellent!” The ostrich reached the kraal fence, stopped and then swerved, running the length of the enclosure. Jerry slipped further from the saddle, yelling with joy like a five-year-old, the loose-limbed blacks clapping and shouting, “Ride ’im, baas!”

  The bird’s panic increased. It began to run in circles, its long neck undulating, attempting to free itself from the halter.

  “Ride ’im!”

  “Hokai!” cried Olmeijer jovially. “Hokaai!”

  Jerry fell heavily on his back and was dragged a short way by one stirrup before he could free himself. His face was bruised purple and yellow, covered in dust; his suit was torn and he was limping, supported by the blacks as he came back towards Olmeijer and his sister. “That was great fun.”

  “I don’t think I’ll try it now.” Catherine was concerned for him. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “Turned my ankle in the stirrup, that’s all.”

  “Foei tog!” said Olmeijer sympathetically. He spoke in Afrikaans to the blacks holding Jerry, ordering them to take him to the stoep, ordering others to capture the ostrich and return it to its pen. At the door to the house Olmeijer dismissed the boys and he took one side of the hobbling Englishman while Catherine took the other. Olmeijer was in fine humour.

  “I hope the ostrich is all right,” said Jerry.

  “Dit is vir my om’t ewe!” Olmeijer was admiring. “Ye’ave te’ve gets to rroide them oostriches…” He remembered himself. “Excuse me, Miss Cornelius. Eouwt ’ere, wivart vimenfolk arahnd, ya git a liddel sleck wid de lengvij.” They entered a large white kitchen, seating Jerry in a high-backed wooden chair. “Olly! Olly! Waar die drummel—weah de deuce es det houseboy?”

  The houseboy emerged grinning. He had evidently heard what had happened. Olmeijer told him to bring cold water and towels for Jerry’s ankle.

  Catherine helped Jerry to remove his jacket, looking about for a cloth. “I’ll clean your face.”

  “Nar, nar,” said Olmeijer pleasantly, “lit one av der serrvants do et! Det’s wod dey’re paid fer, efter all!”

  Catherine left the kitchen, entering a shady hall, on her way to Jerry’s room to get him a fresh shirt and jacket. As she passed the door of the room she and Una were sharing, she heard her friend’s voice raised in song. Glad that Una seemed more cheerful, she went in. Una was bathing. As an uncomprehending black girl poured warm water over her perfect back she rendered an old Gus Elen music-hall song of several seasons before:

  I wonders at th’ ig’rance wot prevails abaht th’ woar,

  Some folks dunno th’ diff’rance wot’s between a sow an’ Boar!

  Roun’ Bef’nal Green they’re spahtin’ of ole Kru
ger night an’ day,

  An’ I tries to put the wrong-uns right wot ’as too much to say…

  W’en I goes in the Boar’s Head pub the blokes they claps th’r ’ands,

  They know I reads a bit, an’ wot I reads I understan’s;

  They twigs I know abaht them Boars an’ spots the’r little game

  ’Cos they bin an’ giv’ yer ’ighness ’ere a werry rortyname!

  I finks a cove sh’d fink afore ’e talks abaht th’ woar,

  There’s blokes wot talks as dunno wot they mean,

  But yer tumble as yer ’umble knows a bit abaht th’ Boar—

  W’en they calls me nibs “The Bore of Bef’nal Green”…

  “Ssshh,” said Catherine smiling, “he’ll hear you. He’s only in the kitchen. I thought you hated that song. You were saying…”

  “I do hate it,” Una agreed, sponging her breasts, “but it’s the only thing that’ll cheer me up at the moment.”

  “You’re such a pro-Boer! You could hardly get work…”

  “Yesterday’s underdog is tomorrow’s tyrant.” Una stood up, taking the towel which the pretty servant girl handed to her. “That must be even more obvious on the Dark Continent, I suppose.” She raised her voice and sang louder:

  In this ’ere woar—well strike me pink—ole England’s put ’er ’eart,

  Them kerlownial contingints too ’as played a nobby part,

  Some people sez we ain’t got men—I ain’t got no sich fears,

  An’ it’s me wot fust suggested callin’ out th’ volunteers!

  Anuffer tip o’ mine’s ter raise a Bef’nal Green Brigade,

  Th’ way they scouts for “coppers” shows them blokes for scouts is made—

  But I ’ears as “Bobs’ ’ll eat them Boars—an’ now I twigs th’ use

  Of sendin’ out a Kitchener to cook ole Kruger’s Goose!

  Naked, Una swaggered around the room, watched by a spluttering Catherine and a wide-eyed black girl.

  But for shootin’ at th’ women—well I ’opes they’ll get it stiff.

  ’Cos ain’t they bin a-firin’ shells at that poor Lady Smiff!

  Spontaneously, Una linked arms with Catherine and then with the servant, to march them back and forth across the carpet. “Altogether for the chorus!”

  “We don’t know it, Una.”

  But yer tumble as yer ’umble knows a bit abaht th’ Boar—

  W’en they calls me nibs “The Bore of Bef’nal Green”…

  Una stopped, put her hand on the back of the young servant’s neck and kissed her full on the lips. The girl uttered a strangled yell and fled from the bedroom.

  Catherine stared at her friend in despair. “What did you want to do that for, Una? You’ll give the whole game away at this rate.”

  3. THE PATHFINDER

  Only hours ahead of the Cossacks and the so-called ‘Mohawks’, Una Persson reached the garrison at Fort Henry to find the place crowded with the Northwest Mounted Police and a couple of regiments who, on first sight of their dark blue and scarlet uniforms, seemed to be the 5th and 7th Royal Irish Lancers. The four high concrete towers of the fort were thick with Maxim guns. There was also a generous display of medium-weight artillery all along the crenellated walls, while circling over the pines and crags of the heavily wooded pass which the fort defended, a Vickers Vimy biplane kept reconnaissance. As she dismounted and went to look for the CO Una realised that her ride had been unnecessarily hasty—the plane would be able to warn the Canadians of an attack in plenty of time. The Cossacks, as usual, were not showing much caution. Her long Henry rifle in the crook of her arm, she forced her way through the Lancers and Mounties and ran up the concrete steps to the HQ building, saluting the healthy corporal on duty at the door. “Captain Persson the scout. Who’s your commandant, trooper?”

  He returned her salute. “District Superintendent Cornelius, at present, ma’am. Um. Is it urgent, captain?”

  She straightened his broad-brimmed hat on his head. She took a pace backward, cocking her eye at him. “You’d probably have time for a couple of choruses of ‘Rose-Marie’ before a Cossack sabre turned you into a soprano.”

  He was shocked. He opened the door for her; he was still saluting. “Scout to see you, sir.”

  Una strode in. In the loose silk divided skirt of the Don Cossack, a wolfskin-trimmed riding kaftan, with cartridge pockets just above the breasts, an astrakhan shapka, she could be immediately identified as an irregular.

  The District Superintendent greeted her: a wary wave of his gloved hand. The scarlet of his tunic clashed horribly with his young face which bore an expression of callow sternness and which suggested that he was new to the job. His accent was a reasonable attempt to give Canadian inflexions to an otherwise nondescript English accent. “You’ve news of the invasion?”

  “They’re done with Quebec and are on their way. I didn’t expect to see you this far north, Jerry.”

  “They posted me from Toronto two days ago. I was supposed to be in Niagara Falls by now. Do you think I’ve been set up? Is it going to be the Alamo, all over again? Or was it the Alma?”

  “Don’t forget Quebec initially welcomed the Cossacks. The French always think they can control their conquerors. There wasn’t any resistance to speak of. And nobody was much interested in stopping them between the time they left Alaska until they landed at Ungava. Even then you all thought they’d be content to run around in the Northwest Territory a bit until they got tired and went home. But by that time the States had started to get worried. Those are American guns out there, aren’t they?”

  “Mostly. They’ve been very good about giving us support.”

  “Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Why were you going to Niagara Falls? Honeymoon?”

  “Oh, sure.” He scratched his red sleeve with leather fingers. “No, I was meeting my father. I think. He’s got business in Buffalo.”

  “I thought your father was in Mexico.”

  “Maybe he’ll be going to Mexico later.”

  “Are you sure he’s—?”

  “No. But he says he is. It was worth checking.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “The bloody Cossacks have fucked everything up, as usual. Once they start—”

  “You’ll stop them. They’ll never reach Kingston.”

  He frowned anxiously at a map of the Great Lakes. “We don’t want the Americans moving in. And they will, unless…”

  “They’ve left nobody behind—the Cossacks, I mean. The ‘Mohawks’ aren’t a problem. As long as they all attack Fort Henry, that’s it. You’ll blow them to bits.” She sounded sad. “You needn’t worry about the States.”

  “It was bad enough when it was only Sitting Bull. Or do I mean Notting Hill? What’s that?”

  “Since Roosevelt they’ve had it in their heads that the rest of America is really theirs, too, that they’re leasing it to a lot of incompetent relatives and foreigners on condition that they look after it properly. But in this case there won’t be much more interference.” She was decidedly regretful. “A shame. I’d love to see the Cossacks in New York.”

  “I heard that’s where they meant to go. They thought the Ungava Peninsula was Nantucket.”

  “You could be right. They’re still not clear as to whether they’re in the USA or Canada. There’s only one or two of them can speak any English at all—and the French ‘Mohawks’ can’t understand the Cossacks’ French while the Cossacks can’t understand the French’s French. Apparently the accents create two virtually different languages.”

  “You know a lot about them.”

  “I should do. I’ve been acting as an interpreter since Fort Chimo.” She straightened her shapka. “Well, I must be on my way.”

  “You’re not staying for the ‘fun’?”

  “No point. You’ll beat them. They’re tired, overconfident, poorly armed. They’ll have eaten badly and been sleeping in the saddle, if I know them. Most will probably be drunk. They’
ll keep coming at you until you’ve wiped them out. In the meantime the ‘Mohawks’ will have run back to Quebec.”

  “They can’t have come all this way without a plan.”

  “They got to Uppsala two years ago without a plan. They were wiped out. Four prisoners taken. It’s their nature. And twenty years ago they reached Rawalpindi, couldn’t find the British, hit the Chinese by accident and drove them back. Hardly anyone in England ever knew there had been a threat!”

  “That was a bit of luck for someone,” said Jerry innocently.

  “It usually is. Well, cheerio. You’re bound to get a promotion if you hang around long enough after the battle.”

  “I told you, I was on my way…”

  “I can go via Niagara, if you like. Any message?”

  “If you get a chance, find a man named ‘Brown’. He’s staying at the Lover’s Leap Hotel on the American side. Tell him I’ve been held up.”

  “Okay.” She removed her kaftan. She had a buckskin jacket underneath. Hanging by a deerhide thong at her beaded belt was an old-fashioned powder horn. She reached for the horn, taking something from the bullet pouch on her other hip. “Have you got a mirror?”

  He removed the map of the Great Lakes. There was a large oval mirror behind it. She inspected her face. Then, tipping a little powder onto the puff, she began to cover her nose.

  4. THE OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

  “I remember the good old days,” said Sebastian Auchinek, his voice grumbling along with the twelve wing-mounted engines on either side of the cabin, “when there was still a sense of wonder in the world.”

  “That was before universal literacy and cheap newsprint.” Jerry spoke spitefully. Either Auchinek or the engines began to cough. They had not been getting on since Calcutta when the Russian policeman had demanded to see their documents and Jerry had shot him.