by H Schmidt
He did not betray his emotions, but touched Maria’s arm and said softly, “I love you, Maria.” He squeezed her small hand, which, for a brief moment clung to his.
“I love you, Gustav.” Gustav turned quickly and mounted. He touched his pith helmet. “Auf Wiedersehen, mein liebchen.”
It would take two full days to reach their rendezvous with Krueger. The white hunter had agreed to take his small party of Wanyamwezi ahead to scout the area around Macha’me and to arrange for an assembly area. Krueger had been in Africa for twenty years, jumping ship in Mombasa at twelve. Somehow, as a young boy, he had managed to survive, attaching himself to a British hunter who worked in the Kenyan highlands. At thirty-two, he had become a legend among the natives. He lived as a native, and could survive in the back country like them. Krueger had a single companion, a tall African from the south, named Mawenzi. The African boy, now twenty, was a Zulu, the fiercest of all African tribes. No one knew how they had come to be together; only that Krueger had found the boy in Tanga and had purchased him from Ibrahim, the brother of Farah. The Chagga often talked among themselves of the two men, who spoke the same languages, dressed the same, and seemed never to be apart.
It was Mawenzi who had persuaded Krueger to serve as a scout for the soldiers. It was he who wished to see Farah dead, for he remembered the pain and humiliation inflicted by the Somali. He had often begged Herr Krueger to go after Farah for the reward, and Krueger had always refused. Now the young Zulu would have his chance.
On the second day, Gustav’s detachment had stopped on a ridge overlooking a valley which ran to the northwest. The sun was hidden from them, but lighted the upper reach of the valley, highlighting a large herd of giraffe grazing on the roofs of the acacia trees on the northeast edge of the valley. Close to the northwest corner, hidden in shade, the village of Macha’me. Macha’me was large, sprawling over three hectares of land. Around it, the soldiers could see herds of cattle and goats, tended by the small boys of the village. Unlike most of the villages in the highlands, Macha’me was not run by a single tribe. It had sprung up thirty years before as a way station for slavers. Since the slave trade had been outlawed in German East Africa, the village transformed itself into a way station for poachers, smugglers, and other fugitives from the German law.
Over the thirty years, the village was increasingly used to prey on surrounding villages, to arrange for transshipments of skins and ivory poached on the plains to the west, and to arrange for diamonds to be smuggled past the German duty collectors. So long as Macha’me had not caused any great problems for the Germans, it was left alone. The German officials had many other matters to contend with, and they deliberately filed the matter for actions sometime in the future. With the news of the ivory poachers, the time had come.
Sergeant Hoffman had picked the twenty askari who would form the detachment. All had been with him on other assignments and knew what the quiet soldier expected of them. The veteran of the Franco-Prussian War and dozens of skirmishes in Africa, he knew that the small size of his force made the raid very risky. When the young lieutenant stated that he could have twenty men for Macha’me, he had protested. At least a hundred men would be needed. He had argued with the skinny lieutenant who had arrived in Africa only six months before. The son of a general, Gerhardt Schmidt was not a man who could be persuaded easily. Sergeant Hoffman had seen many such men, and grew resigned to the phobia that so many bad young officers possessed, that to change one’s mind was to admit you had been wrong. Admitting that to a noncommissioned officer seemed impossible. He had grown angry when he thought of all the men he had seen die because of this phobia. At least, such men seemed to die sooner than the good ones. As a soldier, he had done what he had always done. He accepted the orders and hoped he would somehow be able to keep his men safe.
He looked at his young soldiers. He remembered his first encounter with the African soldiers. They frustrated him with their failure to be able to read, with their ignorance of the basic principles of mechanics and of care and maintenance of equipment. He had found the task doubly difficult because the German Army did not acknowledge the animosities between tribes and clans, and often threw ancient enemies into the same ranks. As he looked at them now, he thought, they have learned and we have learned. They learned to master the rifle, how to fire it, how to clean it, how to keep it dry. We learned that the ancient practice of using porters to carry the supplies of soldiers was both essential to the view soldiers had of themselves and for getting the job done. We learned that the practice of bringing the wives and children on long campaigns was necessary to prevent soldiers from deserting, and they learned that deserters are shot.
He looked at his men and realized that he had grown as proud of them as he had of the Bavarians and Silesians who fought with him in 1870. Like those Bavarians and Silesians, it was his job to protect them in battle. His determination to do that had resulted in the one concession in his discussion with the young lieutenant. By arguing that this campaign would test the ability to use such a weapon in mobile warfare, he had been able to get Lieutenant Schmidt to agree to the use of one of the two machine guns available in the highlands. It was the Maxim, which was the edge they would need. The sergeant had not known that Lieutenant Schmidt would have rejected his request, had it not been for the insistence of the Direktor of the Moshi Trading Center of the East Africa Company. The lieutenant thought it a foolish use of the weapon but was in no position to tell Gustav von Mecklenburg so. No matter, von Mecklenburg would be leading the men; he had his duties elsewhere.
As they left from Moshi, Gustav and Hoffman both rode the Ethiopian horses that were prized throughout the African highlands for their quickness and their stamina. Behind them, two abreast, the twenty askari rode the mules which were now being foaled in Amani for the army. Unlike the ordinary soldiers of the German Army in Europe, the askari carried only their rifles slung over their shoulders, their ammunition belts, bayonets, and water canteens. Twenty additional mules carried the machine gun, the ammunition, and supplies. Thirty porters accompanied the soldiers, easily keeping up with the detachment on foot. Now in sight of Macha’me, the detachment remained hidden in the trees that covered the ridge. In the shadows of the trees, Gustav and the sergeant looked across the valley with their field glasses. Gustav spoke while still holding his glasses to his eyes.
“There is Macha’me. Where is Krueger?”
The sergeant was smiling at Gustav. “He is probably watching us through his field glasses now. The last time we used him, he seemed to appear out of nowhere, just at the right time. He’’ll be here.”
“We have two days, Sergeant. Krueger may have some thoughts about how we might position the askari.” Gustav pointed to a trail which led northwest from the village. “It would appear they will be coming into the village using that trail.” As they scanned the village, they could see the stream that ran by it about two hundred meters to the south. From where they stood, they could see that the stream was but a trickle; the rains would turn it into a raging river, overflowing its steep banks.
“The rains will be starting any day now. Let us hope they hold off until after the poachers arrive. The trail to Pagani should come right by where we stand now.” Gustav had a look of concern now. “Any chance they were watching for us on this trail?” Gustav found his thoughts pulled involuntarily to Scheuer. Scheuer was capable of betraying them. At Peters’ insistence, he had kept Scheuer. At this moment, he realized that he presented too great a risk. When he returned, Scheuer would be gone.
The sergeant had not been told that Scheuer had provided the information. He would have been wary if he knew. Still, he knew that Farah had a system of spies and it was possible for him to find out they were coming to Macha’me. Krueger was their protection. He turned to the Direktor.
“Krueger will know. He has been here for at least two days. We will find out soon.”
He began to smile as he moved his head and pointed with his eyes to a spot be
hind Gustav. Gustav turned and saw two men walking toward them, both with rifles slung over their shoulders. Both were dressed the same, both had the same gait and carried their thin bodies in the same way, like two leopards on the hunt. Their legs would bend more deeply than the settlers as they walked, and they would lift themselves on the balls of their feet, their heads bobbing as they moved.
Gustav could not help but notice the askari and the porters. The sight of the two men seemed to put them in a state of excitement, as they broke into wide grins. The askari, used to the discipline of the sergeant, stood silent, while the porters began to chatter. An askari corporal spoke sharply to them, and the chatter ceased.
Gustav dismounted and stepped toward the two scouts. He, too, found their presence a tonic. “Ernst, it is good to see you. Sergeant Hoffman said you would be watching us.”
“This is a good spot to stop. There is a spring not fifty meters from here. Grass for the horses and mules. Farah is on his way. Your information that they will arrive on Thursday seems correct. They show no sign of changing course, but it is still possible. If they continue at the pace they are setting, they will be in Macha’me in two days.”
Krueger leaned on his rifle as he spoke. A man with small, deep-set gray eyes, heavy brows placing them in shadow, clean-shaven, large nose and wide mouth, his teeth the color of beetle nut. As Gustav dismounted, the younger man by a few years took off his hat. His hair was cut close to his head, uneven as if cut by himself or Mawenzi. His skin above the hat line, white, looking like the head of a corpse, below the line, a reddish pink, burned by the unrelenting sun of the highlands. But what most men noticed was the color of his hair--snow white.
The sergeant remembered the story. Krueger had gone on a safari with two rich brothers from America. A Masai raiding party had fallen on the camp, which the sergeant had heard was near the grazing lands claimed by the Masai. Both brothers were killed. Krueger had been wounded, and one of the Chagga gun bearers said he was carried off by the Masai. Two months later, he wandered into Arusha, naked except for a Masai blanket wrapped around him. He was delirious for several weeks. What was most striking was that his hair had turned snow white. Ernst Krueger never talked about his experience. Mawenzi once told one of the settlers close to Krueger that even to him, Krueger would not talk about what happened.
Chapter Five
“By midday tomorrow, we will be in Macha’me,” Farah said aloud to himself. “The rains will come soon. It will be difficult to get the ivory to Pagani with the rains, but it can be done.” The year had not been a good one for Farah and Ibrahim. The British and the Germans make it harder each year to move slaves. The German whores have become obsessed with protecting the ivory trade. There are posters with our pictures everywhere.
He looked down at the beautiful Ethiopian boy, Makonnen. He had taken Makonnen from a drunken Frenchman in Djibouti. Farah had stopped in the French port on his return from Aden where he had delivered five slaves to a sheik. He had met the Frenchman on the dhow which crossed from Aden; Makonnen was with the Frenchman. Farah could see the fear in the thin boy’s large, brown eyes. Farah had despised all white men. For this fat man, already drunk by the time they reached the port, who mocked the words of the great Muhammad with his every act, there was a special hatred.
The lithe Somali followed the two as they walked through the narrow back streets of the city. Seeing his chance on a deserted street, Farah moved swiftly. As he approached them, the young boy sensed he was there and turned. The fat Frenchman turned quickly, grasping the handle of his revolver when Farah’s dagger struck home. As they rode toward Macha’me, Farah chuckled as he thought of the dying Frenchman. Few things were as satisfying as the terror in the eyes of the ferenji when the knife sunk to its hilt in his fat belly. The scream was like that heard in a pig slaughterhouse. That had happened less than a year ago.
“Oh, Allah, you have rightfully given me bitter fruit to eat. I do not deserve the precious gift of this small boy, so beautiful and so soft. Praise be to Allah.”
As Farah spoke aloud to himself, Makonnen swore silently that someday he would slit his blaspheming master’s throat. Perhaps in Macha’me.
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Since first light, the detachment watched the trail below them. Small groups traveled to and from the village. Some could be porters from the coast, but Scheuer had said most would be coming from Arusha on the trail to the west of the village. Midmorning, Mawenzi noticed four men with rifles walking down the trail from Macha’me. They would occasionally stop. There was a flash!! Mawenzi froze. Field glasses. Slowly, he eased himself back into the shadows of the trees then sprinted back to the camp, one hundred meters below the ridge.
“Ernst,” he spoke softly, but his voice showed his excitement. Krueger came toward him, as did Gustav and the sergeant, who watched him running toward them. “There are four men heading this way. They have field glasses.”
Gustav said, “They cannot see us from the trail.”
Krueger spoke, “But they may send someone up here. They may know of the spring and the likelihood that anyone watching the trail might do it from here.”
The sergeant watched the men through the field glasses. He saw that all four were armed. Only one, he guessed their leader, carried field glasses with him.
Gustav now spoke, “If they discover the camp, everything changes. We will have to go down the trail to meet the poachers before Macha’me. Sergeant, take some of your men and work your way between them and the village. If they spot anyone, stop them.” He looked again at the four men. They continued on the trail. The situation Sergeant Hoffman found himself in was a strange one. He was the highest-ranking soldier on duty, yet Lieutenant Schmidt had informed him that Gustav would be in charge of the detachment. If someone other than Gustav was involved, he would have reminded the lieutenant that such an action was against army regulations, but thought that unnecessary. Sergeants are expected to be wise and creative enough to work under such conditions. With Gustav, a former officer and a friend, it would be easy.
Krueger and Gustav watched the men from the village, who continued on the trail. They were now directly below the camp, the sun directly above their heads. The valley at the point where they stood was three kilometers wide, the trail almost two hundred meters from the ridge. They were almost two kilometers from the village. With his glasses, Gustav watched the soldiers move off the ridge and take positions in the high grass a hundred meters from the men. Along with their rifles, the askaris had been issued machetes. The killing must be as silent as possible.
There was a discussion below. “See how they are jumping about. Their leader is arguing with one of them. They are trying to persuade at least one to climb the ridge and check out the spring. No one wants to go. It is a hot day and they know that someone could be up here.” Krueger was smiling as he spoke. “Their loyalty to Farah has its limits. No one will come.”
The hunter was right. The men, uncomfortable in the heat, turned and walked back toward the village. Gustav signaled to Hoffman to let the men pass. Gustav walked back to the camp, leaving Krueger to continue watching the trail. As he reached camp, Sergeant Hoffman was dressing down a corporal who had allowed one of his men to drop a machine gun ammunition box. The man stood rigid, the veins in his temples bulging, and the sergeant calmly went through the litany of proper procedures and consequences for failing to follow them. In the background, the private who had committed the offense looked sheepish, knowing what the corporal would do after the sergeant was finished with him. Gustav smiled to himself, recalling as a young officer how intimidated he had been by his sergeant. Hoffman would have scared him half to death.
After the tension that day, the camp was peaceful as the sun dropped below the blue hills to the west and the temperature began to drop. The sergeant had given strict orders to maintain silence while they waited. The corporals walked about among the soldiers and porters, barking orders whenever the level of the conversation began to rise. They ha
d been in camp for over twenty-four hours. The poachers would arrive in Macha’me tomorrow. Throughout the day, runners who could cover sixty kilometers a day reported to Krueger on the progress of the poachers.
Shortly before midnight, Mawenzi woke Krueger. One of the runners had arrived. The slight, little man had covered the thirty kilometers in three hours. Now he stood before the tall German hunter and his Zulu companion, dusty yet without any sign of fatigue or distress.
Gustav and the sergeant had wakened and were standing now, listening to the report from the Wanyamwezi. “They have camped near the Usa, Bwana.”
Gustav was not familiar with the language spoken, but understood the mention of the Usa River, which flowed between Arusha and Moshi. They were close. Gustav said, “That means they will reach Macha’me tomorrow evening.”
Krueger turned to Mawenzi. “ Tell the runners to be careful – to keep out of sight.”
When the runner had come into camp, another of the runners was awakened. He was one of six being used to track the poachers.
“We need to make sure they do not change their course. They are too close to lose them now.” Kreuger spoke to Mawenzi. “Tell this one to relieve the scout watching the caravan.” As each scout arrived in the camp, another was sent to replace the last. By now, the information on the poachers was only hours old.
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Wolfgang Scheuer wheezed loudly as he made his way to the top of the stairs. When he reached the landing, he stopped, sucking the scented, smoke-filled air into his lungs. He then turned to his right and entered the narrow, poorly lit hallway. He reached the third doorway on his right, stopped to look about him, and then moved the long strings of beads which shielded those inside the room. Still wheezing, he shuffled toward the figure standing in the shadows, away from the niggardly light of the oil lamp.