Shout at the Devil

by Wilbur Smith

  Acutely aware of the fact that Rosa wore nothing under the thin night-gown, and that everywhere he put his hands they came in contact with thinly-veiled warm flesh, Sebastian grinned sheepishly at Flynn over her shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  His first two kisses were off target for she was moving around a lot. One caught her on the ear, the next on her eyebrow, but the third was right between the lips.

  When at last they were forced to separate or suffocate, Rosa gasped, ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘All right, missie,’ growled Flynn. ‘You can go and put some clothes on now.’

  Breakfast at Lalapanzi that morning was a festive affair. Flynn took advantage of his daughter’s weakened condition and brought a bottle of gin to the table. Her protests were half-hearted, and later with her own hands she poured a little into Sebastian’s tea to brace it.

  They ate on the stoep in golden sunshine that filtered through the bougainvillaea creeper. A flock of glossy starlings hopped and chirruped on the lawns, and an oriel sang from the wild fig-trees. All nature conspired to make Sebastian’s victory feast a success, while Rosa and Nanny did their best from the kitchen – drawing upon the remains of Herman Fleischer’s supplies that Sebastian had brought home with him.

  Flynn O’Flynn’s eyes were bloodshot and underhung with plum-coloured pouches, for he had been up all night counting the contents of the German tax chest and working out his accounts by the light of a hurricane lamp. Nevertheless, he was in a merry mood made merrier by the cups of fortified tea on which he was breakfasting. He joined warmly in the chorus of praise and felicitation to Sebastian Oldsmith that was being sung by Rosa O’Flynn.

  ‘You turned up one for the book, so help me, Bassie,’ he chortled at the end of the meal. ‘I’d just love to hear how Fleischer is going to explain this one to Governor Schee. Oh, I’d love to be there when he tells him about the tax money – son of a gun, it’ll nigh kill them both.’

  ‘While you’re on the subject of money,’ Rosa smiled at Flynn, ‘have you worked out how much Sebastian’s share comes to, Daddy?’ Rosa only used Flynn’s paternal title when she was extremely well-disposed towards him.

  ‘That I have,’ admitted Flynn, and the sudden shiftiness of his eyes aroused Rosa’s suspicions. Her lips pursed a little.

  ‘And how much is it?’ she asked in the syrupy tone which Flynn recognized as the equivalent of the blood roar of a wounded lioness.

  ‘Sure now, and who wants to be spoiling a lovely day with the talking of business?’ Under pressure, Flynn exaggerated the brogue in his voice in the hope that Rosa would find it beguiling. A forlorn hope.

  ‘How much?’ demanded Rosa, and he told her.

  There was a sickly silence. Sebastian paled under his sunburn and opened his mouth to protest. On the strength of his half share, he had the previous night made to Rosa O’Flynn a serious proposal, which she had accepted.

  ‘Leave this to me, Sebastian,’ she whispered and laid a restraining hand on his knee as she turned back to her father. ‘You’ll let us have a look at the accounts, won’t you?’ Still syrupy sweet.

  ‘Sure and I will. They’re all straight and square.’

  The document that Flynn O’Flynn produced under the main heading, ‘Joint Venture Between F. O’Flynn, Esq., S. Oldsmith, Esq., and Others. German East Africa. Period May 15, 1913, to August 21, 1913,’ showed that he belonged to an unorthodox school of accountancy.

  The contents of the tax chest had been converted to English sterling at the rates laid down by Pear’s Almanac for 1893. Flynn set great store by this particular publication.

  From the gross proceeds of £4,652. 18s. 6d., Flynn had deducted his own fifty per cent share and the ten per cent of the other partners – the Portuguese Chef D’Post and the Governor of Mozambique. From the balance he had then deducted the losses incurred on the Rufiji expedition (for which see separate account addressed to German East African Administration). From there he had gone on to charge the expenses of the second expedition, not forgetting such items as:

  To L. Parbhoo (Tailor) £15:10.—.

  To One German Dress Helmet (say) £ 5.10.—.

  To Five Uniforms (Askari) £ 2.10.—. each £12.10.—.

  To Five Mauser Rifles £10.—.—. each £50.—.—.

  To Six Hundred and Twenty-Five

  Rounds 7mm Ammunition £22.10.—.

  To Advance re travelling expenses, One Hundred Escudos made to S. Oldsmith, Esq. £ 1. 5.—.

  Finally, Sebastian’s half share of the net losses amounted to a little under twenty pounds.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Flynn assured him magnanimously. ‘I don’t expect you to pay it now – we’ll just deduct it from your share of the profits of the next expedition.’

  ‘But, Flynn, I thought you said – well, I mean, you told me I had a half share.’

  ‘And so you have, Bassie, and so you have.’

  ‘You said we were equal partners.’

  ‘You must have misunderstood me, boy. I said a half share – and that means after expenses. It’s just a great pity there was such a large accumulated loss to bring forward.’

  While they discussed this, Rosa was busy with a stub of indelible pencil on the reverse side of Flynn’s account. Two minutes later she thrust the result across the breakfast table at Flynn. She said, ‘And that’s the way I work it out.’

  Rosa O’Flynn was a student of the ‘One-for-you-one-for-me’ school, and her reckonings were much simpler than those of her father.

  With a cry of anguish, Flynn O’Flynn lodged objection. ‘You don’t understand business.’

  ‘But I recognize crookery when I see it,’ Rosa flashed back.

  ‘You’d call your old father a crook?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve a damn good mind to take the kiboko to you. You’re not too big and uppity that I can’t warm your tail up good.’

  ‘You just try it!’ said Rosa, and Flynn backpedalled.

  ‘Anyway, what would Bassie do with all that money? It’s not good for a youngster. It would spoil him.’

  ‘He’d marry me with it. That’s what he’d do with it.’

  Flynn made a noise as though there were a fish-bone stuck in his throat, his face mottled over with emotion and he swung ominously in Sebastian’s direction. ‘So!’ he rasped. ‘I thought so!’

  ‘Now steady on, old chap,’ Sebastian tried to soothe him.

  ‘You come into my home and act like the king of bloody England. You try to fraudulently embezzle my money – but that’s not enough! Oh no! That’s not a bloody ’nough. You’ve also got to start tampering with my daughter just to round things off.’

  ‘Don’t be coarse,’ said Rosa.

  ‘That’s rich – don’t be coarse, she says, and just what exactly have you two been up to behind my back?’

  Sebastian stood up from the breakfast table with dignity. ‘I will not have you speak so of a lady in my presence, sir. Especially of the lady who has done me the great honour of consenting to become my wife.’ He begun unbuttoning his jacket. ‘Will you step into the garden with me, and give me satisfaction?’

  ‘Come along, then.’ As Flynn lumbered out of his chair he made as if to pass Sebastian, but at that moment Sebastian’s arms were behind him, still bound by the sleeves of his jacket as he attempted to shrug it off. Flynn side-stepped swiftly, paused a moment as he took his aim, and then drove his left fist into Sebastian’s stomach.

  ‘Oof!’ said Sebastian, and leaned forward involuntarily to meet Flynn’s other fist as it came up from the level of his knees. It took Sebastian between the eyes, and he changed direction abruptly and ran backwards across the veranda. The low wooden railing caught him behind the knees and he toppled slowly into the flower-beds below the stoep.

  ‘You’ve killed him,’ wailed Rosa, and picked up the heavy china tea-pot.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Flynn, and ducked as the pot flew towards his head, passed over it and bu
rst against the wall of the stoep, spraying tea and steam.

  There was an ominous stirring among Rosa’s flowers, and presently Sebastian’s head emerged with blue hydrangea petals festively strewn in his hair and the skin around both eyes fast swelling and chameleoning to a creditable match with the petals. ‘I say, Flynn. That wasn’t fair,’ he announced.

  ‘He wasn’t looking,’ Rosa accused. ‘You hit him before he was ready.’

  ‘Well, he’s looking now,’ roared Flynn and went down the veranda stairs like a charging hippopotamus. From the hydrangeas, Sebastian rose to meet him and took up the classic stance of the ring fighter. ‘Marquis of Queensberry rules?’ he cautioned as Flynn closed in.

  Flynn signified his rejection of the Marquis’s code by kicking Sebastian on the shin. Sebastian yelped and hopped one-legged out of the flower-bed, while Flynn pursued him with a further series of lusty kicks. Placing his boot twice in succession into Sebastian’s posterior, the third kick, however, missed and the force behind it was sufficient to throw Flynn on to his back. He sprawled on the lawn, and the pause while he scrambled to his knees gave Sebastian respite to ready himself for the next round.

  Both his eyes had puffed and he was experiencing discomfort from his rear end; nevertheless, he stood once again with his left arm extended and the right crossed over his chest. Glancing beyond Flynn, Sebastian saw his fiancée descending from the veranda. She was armed with a breadknife.

  ‘Rosa!’ Sebastian was alarmed. It was clear that Rosa would not stop at patricide to protect her love. ‘Rosa! What are you doing with that knife?’

  ‘I’m going to stick him with it!’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Sebastian, but Flynn did not have the same faith in his daughter’s restraint. Very hurriedly, he moved into a defensive position behind Sebastian. From there he listened with attention to the argument between Sebastian and Rosa. It took a full minute for Sebastian to persuade Rosa that her assistance was not necessary and that he was capable of handling the situation on his own. Reluctantly, Rosa retreated to the veranda.

  ‘Thanks, Bassie,’ said Flynn, and kicked him in his already bruised behind. It was extremely painful.

  Very few people had ever seen Sebastian Oldsmith lose his temper. The last time it had happened was eight years previously; the two sixth-formers who had invoked it by forcing Sebastian’s head into a toilet bowl and flushing the cistern, were both hospitalized for a short period.

  This time there were more witnesses. Attracted by the cries and crash of breaking crockery, Flynn’s entire following, including Mohammed and his Askari, had arrived from the compound and were assembled at the top of the lawn. They watched in breathless wonder.

  From the grandstand of the veranda, Rosa, her eyes sparkling with the strange feminine ferocity that arises in even the mildest women when their man fights for them, exhorted Sebastian to even greater violence.

  Like all great storms, it did not last long, and when it was over the silence was appalling. Flynn lay stretched full-length on the lawn. His eyes closed, his breathing snored softly in his throat, bursting from his nose in a froth of red bubbles.

  Mohammed and five of his men carried him towards the bungalow. He lay massive on their shoulders with the bulge of his belly rising and falling softly, and an expression of unusual peace on his bloody face.

  Standing alone on the lawn, Sebastian’s features were contorted with savagery and his whole body shook as though he was in high fever. Then, watching them carry the huge, inert body, suddenly Sebastian’s mood was past. His expression changed first to concern, and then to gentle dismay. ‘I say …’ his voice was husky and he took a pace after them. ‘You shouldn’t have kicked me.’ His hands opened helplessly, and he lifted them in a gesture of appeal. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

  Rosa came down from the veranda and walked slowly towards him. She stopped and looked up at him, half in awe, half in glowing pride. ‘You were magnificent,’ she whispered. ‘Like a lion.’ She reached up with both arms around his neck, and before she kissed him she spoke again. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  Sebastian had very little luggage to take with him. He was wearing everything he possessed. Rosa on the other hand had boxes of it, enough to give full employment to the dozen bearers that were assembled on the lawn in front of the bungalow.

  ‘Well,’ murmured Sebastian, ‘I suppose we should start moving.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Rosa, and looked at the gardens of Lalapanzi. Although she had suggested this departure, now that the time had come she was uncertain. This place had been her home since childhood. Here she had spun a cocoon that had shielded and protected her, and now that the time had come to emerge from it, she was afraid. She took Sebastian’s arm, drawing strength from him.

  ‘Don’t you want to say good-bye to your father?’ Sebastian looked down at her with the tender protectiveness that was such a new and delightful sensation for him.

  Rosa hesitated a moment, and then realized that it would take very little to weaken her resolve. Her dutiful affection for Flynn, which at the moment was submerged beneath the tide of anger and resentment, could easily re-emerge should Flynn employ a little of his celebrated blarney. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose it’s best,’ Sebastian agreed. He glanced guiltily towards the bungalow where Flynn was, presumably, still lying in state – attended by the faithful Mohammed. ‘But do you think he’ll be all right? I mean, I did hit him rather hard, you know.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Rosa said without conviction, and tugged at his sleeve. Together they moved to take their places at the head of the little column of bearers.

  Kneeling on the floor of the bedroom, below the window sill, peering with one swollen eye through a slit in the curtain, Flynn saw this decisive move. ‘My God,’ he whispered in concern. ‘The young idiots are really leaving.’

  Rosa O’Flynn was his last link with that frail little Portuguese girl. The one person in his life that Flynn had truly loved. Now that he was about to lose her also, Flynn was suddenly aware of his feeling for his daughter. The prospect of never seeing her again filled him with dismay.

  As for Sebastian Oldsmith, here no sentiment clouded his reasoning. Sebastian was a valuable business asset. Through him, Flynn could put into operation a number of schemes that he had shelved as involving disproportionate personal risk. In these last few years Flynn had become increasingly aware of the depreciation that time and large quantities of raw spirit had wrought in his eyes and legs and nerves. Sebastian Oldsmith had eyes like a fish eagle, legs like a prize fighter, and no nerves at all that Flynn could discern. Flynn needed him.

  Flynn opened his mouth and groaned. It was the throaty death rattle of an old bull buffalo. Peering through the curtain, Flynn grinned as he saw the young couple freeze, and stand tense and still in the sunlight. Their faces were turned towards the bungalow, and in spite of himself, Flynn had to admit they made a handsome pair; Sebastian tall above her with the body of a gladiator and the face of a poet; Rosa small beside him but with the full bosom and wide hips of womanhood. The slippery black cascade of her hair glowed in the sun, and her dark eyes were big with concern.

  Flynn groaned again but softly this time. A breathless, husky sound, the last breath of a dying man, and instantly Rosa and Sebastian were running towards the bungalow. Her skirts gathered up above her knees, long legs flying, Rosa led Sebastian up onto the veranda.

  Flynn had just sufficient time to return to his bed and compose his limbs and his face into the attitude of one fast sinking towards the abyss.

  ‘Daddy!’ Rosa leaned over him, and Flynn opened his eyes uncertainly. For a moment he did not seem to recognize her, then he whispered, ‘My little girl,’ so faintly she hardly caught the words.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, what is it?’ She knelt beside him.

  ‘My heart.’ His hand crawled up like a hairy spider across his belly and clutched weakly at his hairy chest. ‘Like a knife. A hot knife.’r />
  There was a terrible silence in the room, and then Flynn spoke again. ‘I wanted to … give you my … my blessing. I wish happiness for you … wherever you go.’ The effort of speech was too much, and for a while he lay gasping. ‘Think of your old Daddy sometimes. Say a prayer for him.’

  A fat, tiny tear broke from the corner of Rosa’s eye and slid down her cheek.

  ‘Bassie, my boy.’ Slowly Flynn’s eyes sought him, found him, and focused with difficulty. ‘Don’t blame yourself for this. I was an old man anyway – I’ve had my life.’ He panted a little and then went on painfully. ‘Look after her. Look after my little Rosa. You are my son now. I’ve never had a son.’

  ‘I didn’t know … I had no idea that your heart … Flynn, I’m dreadfully sorry. Forgive me.’

  Flynn smiled, a brave little smile that just touched his lips. He lifted his hand weakly and held it out towards Sebastian. While Sebastian clasped his hand, Flynn considered offering him the money that had been the cause of the dispute as a dying man’s gift but he manfully restrained himself from such extravagance. Instead he whispered, ‘I would like to have seen my grandson, but no matter. Good-bye, my boy.’

  ‘You’ll see him, Flynn. I promise you that. We’ll stay, won’t we, Rosa? We’ll stay with him.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll stay,’ said Rosa. ‘We won’t leave you, Daddy.’

  ‘My children.’ Flynn sank back and closed his eyes. Thank God, he hadn’t offered the money. A peaceful little smile hovered around his mouth. ‘You’ve made an old man very happy.’

  – 31 –

  Flynn made a strong come-back from the edge of death, so strong, in fact, that it aroused Rosa’s suspicions. However, she let it pass for she was happy to have avoided the necessity of leaving Lalapanzi. In addition, there was another matter which was taking up a lot of her attention.

  Since she had said good-bye to Sebastian at the start of his tax tour, Rosa had been aware of the cessation of certain womanly functions of her body. She consulted Nanny who, in turn, consulted the local nungane who, in his turn, opened the belly of a chicken, and consulted its entrails. His findings were conclusive, and Nanny reported back to Rosa, without disclosing the source of her information, for Little Long Hair had an almost blasphemous lack of faith in the occult.