by Tim Jeal
‘He didn’t understand what he signed.’ Robert gazed straight at Fynn. ‘The man who says he did is a damned liar.’
Clara’s cheeks were burning. With his powerful build, Fynn could flatten Robert if he chose. But before the American could react, a red-haired officer, sitting to Francis’s right, remarked sharply, ‘The niggers may love you, sir, but they don’t love us. Visit our wounded sometime.’
Clara sensed the emotional bond among the hussars and their common hatred of Robert’s arguments. As if oblivious to the anger he had aroused, Robert remarked calmly, ‘Of course I’m sorry for your wounded, but they shouldn’t have come here in the first place. None of you should.’
‘Soldiers don’t choose their postings,’ said Francis mildly.
Robert looked at him with pity. ‘How can you bear to surrender your moral sovereignty to others?’
An officer with a badly sunburned face said, ‘We trust our leaders.’
Robert shook his head sadly. ‘Christ is the only leader to trust.’
As angry glances began to be aimed at Clara too, Francis smiled at her with such friendliness that she could have wept. He asked, ‘Do you think so badly of us, Mrs Haslam?’
‘I … I’m glad you’re here,’ she croaked. ‘We found two settlers murdered at Mungora. We might have died on our way there.’
‘We’re all very glad you didn’t,’ soothed Francis. ‘You mustn’t think us butchers, Mr Haslam. We admire many of these people.’
Robert nodded sagely. ‘Might one ask how this admiration expresses itself?’
Francis stared ahead of him. ‘I can’t claim we’ve been handing out presents.’ There was a wistfulness about him, which Clara liked. ‘Just a little incident. Nothing remarkable, mind. I was spying out the land among some rocks near a stream, when there was a rattle of trinkets and the grass suddenly parted. A glistening Matabele warrior was standing with his back to me, only yards away. He had those cows’-tail plumes on his knees and carried a great ox-hide shield. He was so still he might have been cast in bronze. I could hardly breathe. Took me an age to raise my revolver, but at last I had it pointed at his head. Pure luck I was downwind, or he’d have smelled me. Anyway, he dropped his weapons and knelt down to drink. As I touched the trigger, I saw it all in my mind: his body pitching forward, blood swirling in the water. I decided not to shoot him till he stopped drinking. God, how that man drank! Great sucking mouthfuls, as if he’d never stop.’ Francis looked around the table, reliving the moment. ‘Do you know, I simply couldn’t squeeze that trigger, so I let him go.’
Robert said dryly, ‘Is it so noteworthy not to kill a helpless man in cold blood?’
‘Helpless? These savages?’ stammered the red-haired officer. ‘We saw things in Belingwe I can’t even tell you … I’d have shot him in the guts and roasted him alive if I’d had the same chance.’
‘Me too,’ echoed another officer.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Francis. ‘If he’d seen me, of course I’d have stopped him telling anyone else. But he saw nothing. He was a man on his own, doing something we all have to do.’
‘What of it?’ muttered the sunburned officer.
‘Is it really so hard to grasp?’ Clara blushed as Francis gazed straight at her. ‘Do you think it’s hard to understand, Mrs Haslam?’
‘Not at all,’ she stammered. ‘A man drinking is just a man. But hiding in the grass, he’s an enemy.’
Francis smiled at his brother officers. ‘You see, gentlemen? Not so hard after all.’ His eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘You know the way leopards move? All that pent-up power, coupled with incredible grace – that’s what he made me think of.’
‘Lucky for him he wasn’t lame or fat,’ commented Robert.
Francis clapped appreciatively. ‘You have a sense of humour, sir. I’m sure you’ll need it.’
Later, the conversation ranged over such subjects as remedies for snakebite, linguistic misunderstandings, and the African idea of dressmaking. With clothes under discussion, an officer whose lips were disfigured by veld sores asked Clara if she often dressed as smartly as tonight. She could not help looking down her nose, duchess-like. ‘My husband and I always dress for dinner.’
Most of the diners laughed, but Clara caught the red-haired lieutenant glancing surreptitiously from Robert to her and back again, as if bemused. And did she detect the same confusion in Francis Vaughan’s eyes?
When she and Robert were leaving, Francis came with them as far as the outposts. Men sprang to attention as he passed. The sky had cleared and the moon was bright. Distant trees and rocks stood out clearly. A trumpet startled Clara.
Robert said grimly to Francis Vaughan, ‘You’re asking for an attack with your fires and trumpets.’
‘I have scouts out all around us, Mr Haslam. Some are miles away in the bush.’
‘That won’t stop you being surrounded. Your machine guns won’t help you at night.’
‘They certainly won’t.’ Francis laughed. ‘But we don’t intend to sit around. In fact, we’ll be gone within forty-eight hours.’
The frogs around the dam lake were croaking in long pulses of merging sound. Robert faced Francis solemnly. ‘Don’t expect us to leave with you, Captain.’
Francis moved closer to Clara. His voice was warm and concerned. ‘Is that what you want, Mrs Haslam?’
‘I don’t …’
Francis smiled encouragingly. ‘Your husband’s wrong about my column’s chances.’
‘Am I, Vaughan? You wouldn’t be the first to be caught with exhausted horses and hunted down.’
‘Anything’s possible,’ agreed Francis. ‘Perhaps I’ll lure thousands on to my Maxims.’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘Of course not. I want these chiefs to return home without bloodshed.’ He moved closer to Robert. ‘Come and help me.’
‘I can’t desert my people.’
‘I’d hate to hear in a month or two that you’re both dead.’
Francis’s concern struck Clara as so clearly genuine that she was mortified by Robert’s refusal to acknowledge it. Away to their right, lanterns were moving among the dark shapes of the horses in the lines. When Robert finally spoke, it was dismissively, ‘Don’t worry about us, young man. We are guided by Him who never fails.’
*
The following morning, Francis was in an ugly mood, having just heard that Nashu had decamped after being humiliated by Fynn in a manner calculated to earn his lasting hatred. The American was cutting a skin into strips for new reins when Francis burst into his tent.
‘Don’t you realize Nashu could have led us to Mponda’s lair?’
Fynn was incredulous. ‘You’d have followed that little bastard anyplace he led?’ He put down his knife. ‘That’s the last thing you should have done. Mponda’s no more a Christian than my ass. He’s a rebel, same as Nashu. They hatched this plot together. You’re lucky as hell I got rid of him.’
There had been a heavy shower earlier, and now the sun was beating down on the damp canvas, making it hot and sticky inside. ‘You should have talked to me before doing anything so bloody stupid,’ shouted Francis. ‘Nashu hates Mponda. He blames the chief for his daughter’s death.’
‘What if he does? This is a war between black and white. Nashu’s going to fight us first before settling old scores.’
‘Wrong again, Fynn. Nashu wants to oust Mponda in favour of Makufa. He wanted to use us against the chief. That was fine by me. But you’ve wrecked it all.’
‘Jesus Christ, Vaughan. Are you crazy? If you’d kept him with you, every goddamn rebel in Mashonaland would have known where we was headin’.’
‘We’re his special weapon. Would he want us blunted?’ Francis could feel sweat dripping down his back. Fynn’s know-it-all manner was intolerable. But what could he do about it? Because the American was not in the army, the only disciplinary sanction against him was dismissal, and Francis could not afford to lose his best scout. Fynn
sat chewing tobacco stolidly. Francis said, ‘Will you do something for me? Just make yourself agreeable to Haslam for the next twenty-four hours.’
Fynn spat a stream of amber tobacco juice on to the ground. ‘That ol’ mission maggot! He’ll betray us too.’ He grinned at Francis, showing his teeth through his beard. ‘You want me to be nice to him so he’ll bring along that sweet little wife o’ his. Am I right?’
‘No, you’re not,’ snapped Francis. ‘Haslam can persuade Mponda not to fight us to the death.’
‘More likely he’ll tell him all our plans. They’re pals, Vaughan.’
‘Haslam’s spent ten years of his life making Mponda a Christian. Ten years. He’ll do anything to see he isn’t killed.’
The American shrugged. ‘Christians don’t think rational about death.’
‘But you’ll watch your tongue when he’s around?’
Fynn laughed cheerlessly. ‘Don’t you worry, Vaughan. I won’t do nothin’ to stop you feastin’ your eyes on that little wife of his.’
‘To hell with that,’ muttered Francis, ducking down to leave. ‘Old man Haslam’s the one I want to feast my eyes on.’
Outside again in the open air, Francis hardly noticed the pleasantly cooling breeze. Yesterday he had promised Fynn that he would strike camp the following morning, and this left precious little time for working on the missionary. Francis had already decided to ask Clara to help him; if she could only be persuaded to tell Haslam that she wouldn’t stay on here, then he would probably agree to leave with her. The thought of being alone with Clara disturbed Francis, especially when he recalled Fynn’s knowing remarks. Perhaps he really had allowed his admiration for her to be obvious. But who wouldn’t admire a woman who had endured what she had and still been able to joke about dressing for dinner?
Before Francis could set out to find the Haslams, an afternoon storm broke and within minutes the canvas sail erected over the sick-horse lines had collapsed under the weight of water it contained. In the ensuing stampede, several horses were seriously injured, and as Francis arrived on the scene, the veterinary officer was struggling to restrain one of them. Francis helped the vet to strap up the stallion’s damaged leg with a stirrup leather, while the terrified creature thrashed and twisted, showing the whites of his eyes. Changing into dry clothes afterwards, Francis tried not to feel bitter because he now had to humour a man who was ready to risk his wife’s life for no good reason. But a cooperative Haslam could do more to safeguard the squadron than a hundred extra men.
Francis left the camp in watery sunlight and walked into a patchwork of native shambas, where the tassels of the growing maize hung down like pale-green horses’ tails. Knowing the missionary would deplore his entering the village with an armed escort, Francis had strapped a Colt repeating carbine to his leg in case any heroic old warrior felt tempted.
Beyond the shambas, a few boys raced after a quail, which whirred up into the air and was struck down by one of their clubs, to the sound of loud applause from some women pounding grain. A week after first entering the village, Francis still found the absence of all the young men strangely unnerving.
At the mission, Philemon explained that his master was seeing sick people. Across the room, a woman was cracking nuts and an old man was making a basket. Flies buzzed loudly. Francis pushed open a door and revealed a dozen people squatting on the floor. Malaria sufferers shook and shivered, and a young woman hid horribly inflamed eyes behind a filthy cloth. Francis moved closer to Haslam.
‘I didn’t know you were a doctor, Mr Haslam.’
‘I’m not. Anyone can dispense simple remedies. An old coat can save a man with pneumonia.’
Haslam laid a hand on Francis’s arm and led him to a man who lay motionless on the ground. He pointed to an angry-looking raised weal on the man’s thigh. ‘There’s a harrabene worm in his leg. The thing started life as an egg under his toenail. It can’t be extracted without surgery. He’ll die unless your army surgeon will help him.’
‘I’ll send some men with a stretcher.’
‘Unless he’s cured, some poor innocent will be accused of witchcraft.’
The smell was so vile that Francis was thankful to be led into the kitchen, where Simon was chopping vegetables.
‘Where’s the hat I gave you?’ asked Francis.
‘Simon’s no soldier,’ said Robert, ‘but he knows plenty of ways to cook a goat and even makes flying ants taste wonderful.’
Francis was expecting this recital of the boy’s virtues to continue, when Haslam unexpectedly steered him out on to the veranda. ‘What can I do for you, Captain?’
‘You can help me save Chief Mponda’s life.’
‘Don’t be absurd. You’re the only man who can do that – by ordering your men home.’
‘I’d face a court-martial if I did.’
‘What can I possibly do?’
‘Convince him that I’ll spare him if his followers lay down their arms and return here.’
‘How can I be sure you won’t use me to trick him?’
‘You’ll have to take my word for it.’ The missionary’s face remained closed and hostile, so Francis appealed again, ‘If you won’t help me, I’ll have to storm his stronghold. I’ll lose men, maybe a great many; but I’ll end up killing him and most of his warriors.’
‘Unless he kills you and all your soldiers.’ Haslam smiled bleakly. ‘It’s happened before.’
‘Believe me, Mr Haslam, we’ll be fine.’
‘You think so?’ The older man moved closer, his stubbly chin jutting. ‘Tell me this, sir. What would be more welcome in the eyes of God? The death of a man defending his country, or the death of a stranger out to rob him?’
Francis studied his boots. ‘I imagine God would prefer it if neither of them died. If that’s what you would like, come to my camp at dawn tomorrow.’ Receiving no answer, Francis walked away.
*
In the schoolroom, Clara was reading aloud. Shortly before Paul had been murdered, she had started Gulliver’s Travels with the children, and so when several pupils sought her out and begged her to continue, she had agreed. At this uncertain time, she was glad to be occupied, and as always, she was delighted by their questions. Could he really have eaten so many cows and pigs and drunk so much milk, even allowing for his size? Would Chief Mponda employ a Gulliver against his enemies if he ever found one?
Being used to frequent whisperings while she read, Clara was surprised by a sudden silence. She looked up from the book and saw Francis Vaughan standing elegantly in the doorway.
He raised his hands in apology. ‘Please go on. I love to hear you speak the language.’
‘You wouldn’t if you knew how badly I do it.’ She was afflicted by a strange breathlessness.
The children remained deathly quiet. She noticed Francis’s gun and said to them in their own tongue, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He looked strained, with his mouth bracketed by grim lines.
He asked, ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’
‘Of course.’
His insouciance of the evening before was gone, and he seemed ill at ease. ‘Am I right to think you may agree to come away with us?’
‘Have you spoken to my husband?’
‘He wasn’t encouraging.’ Francis hung his head as if too dejected to continue. A moment later, he brightened. ‘He said soldiers are wrong to delegate moral responsibility. Surely that means he wants you to make your own decisions?’
‘It means nothing of the sort.’ Clara’s vehemence surprised her and left Francis speechless. His presence had robbed her of control and judgement. She wanted to behave normally but couldn’t. She said harshly, ‘Stop being dishonest. You know I’ll have a dreadful struggle to persuade him to come away from here.’
He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead. ‘Mrs Haslam, all I want is to get my men home with as little bloodshed as possible.’
She stared at his polished boots and said quietly, ‘How do you end a rebellion withou
t bloodshed?’
Francis came closer. ‘If your husband will help me, I’m sure we can save the chief and his men.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Anyone can see how much Mr Haslam loves you. Please get him to come with me.’
A wave of disappointment broke over her. So that was why he was strained and distraught: not in case she chose to stay behind but in case Robert did.
‘Did he refuse you outright?’ she asked.
‘Very nearly.’
She smiled wanly. ‘I’m not surprised. Robert sees you as Mr Rhodes’s stooge.’
Francis drew back. ‘This country will be settled come what may. If the English lose heart, the Germans won’t.’
Noticing that the children seemed cowed by his presence, Francis sat down on one of the earth benches to seem less threatening. He turned humbly to Clara. ‘How can I win Mr Haslam over?’
‘Resign your commission.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
He got up as if she had slapped him. ‘Please understand this, Mrs Haslam: My men are no more than boys … nineteen or twenty, most of them. I’m ready to eat a lot of humble pie to avoid writing letters of condolence to their parents.’
Depression engulfed her. He thought her hard as nails, but she couldn’t speak kindly to him while all he wanted was to secure Robert’s cooperation. She said, ‘I can’t influence him. He’s decided to stay, and that’s what he’ll do.’
He regarded her with unexpected sympathy. ‘You really mustn’t underestimate his feelings for you. Tell him you’re going to leave. Be firm. I know he’ll think twice about staying.’
‘How do you know?’
He became deadly serious. ‘Because he’d be mad to risk losing you.’ The compliment was so unexpected that she felt a tearful tightness in her throat. ‘I’m afraid your husband was right about one thing: we really may be wiped out unless he’s with us. I’d be very grateful if you could convince him that I’ve no intention of tricking the chief.’