by H Schmidt
“You searched the ridge.” Farah looked closely at the man.
“Yes, Effendi.” The man knew he must lie convincingly or Farah would kill him, perhaps on the spot. He struggled to look directly into the eyes of his leader. He wished he had searched the ridge. For a full minute, Farah looked at the man. He then reached for the field glasses he slung over his shoulder and slowly scanned the ridge. Farah looked at the clump of trees ahead.
---
Gustav watched the man through his glasses. He watched as Farah swung his glasses toward the clump of trees to his front. If he sends someone forward, there is no choice but to open fire. He watched as the man Farah spoke to suddenly prodded his pony forward. Gustav decided to wait. The Maxim and the men were carefully hidden.
“Don’t open fire, Sergeant,” he said to himself.
The sergeant watched as the man cantered toward them.
“Do not move,” he spoke quietly to the excited crew. The man came forward, now within a hundred meters, now fifty. The pony slowed to a walk. Twenty-five meters. Spurring his mount to the left, he circled the clump of trees, and then cantered back.
“There is nothing, Effendi.”
Farah had watched the man. He started to command him to return and go inside the clump of trees. His head ached from the pombe. If someone were inside the trees, they would have fired. He signaled the caravan to continue.
Gustav watched. They were two hundred meters from the Maxim. Would the back of the caravan be in the clearing before they had to open fire? The order to fire would be given thirty meters from the Maxim. Krueger slowly lifted his rifle and placed his scope on the man who must be Farah. No, he could not fire. The trajectory would threaten the soldiers. He would wait for the armed men to head toward him.
One hundred meters. The sergeant lifted the sight. Seventy-five meters, his finger on the trigger – less than five seconds.
Gustav raised his Luger carefully. He pulled the trigger, the single explosion seemed to freeze the caravan. Less than one second later, and the air was filled with the thump, thump, thump of the Maxim and the single shots of the Mausers. The deadly spray of the Maxim raced down the length of the caravan. Men and horses fell writhing to the ground. Those who still stood began to run in every direction. To the left flank of the machine gun, the two squads opened fire on those who headed toward them. Gustav had concentrated his men to the left side of the meadow because the machine gun could not fire in that direction without hitting the soldiers. To the right of the Maxim, the machine could traverse a full ninety degrees because the soldiers and Krueger were on the ridge.
The sound of the machine gun, which most had never heard, first confused the guards. Then, as screaming men and animals began to fall, panic. From the ridge to their left and from the high grass to their right, came the sounds of rifles cracking from unseen attackers. At the first sounds of the machine gun, the porters dropped the ivory and began to run. Guards still standing raised their rifles and fired into the tall grass and onto the ridge. In less than a minute, those who stood their ground were down, most hit by the six hundred rounds fired by the Maxim. In terror, men dashed toward the edges of the meadow. None made it. Three men had found a position in the center of the caravan where they continued to fire. From his position above the caravan, Krueger could see the men clearly through his telescopic sight. Five shots and all were down.
In five minutes from the time Gustav had fired his Luger, firing from the caravan had stopped. Only the screams of men and animals could be heard. The soldiers stayed hidden for another five minutes, waiting. The guns were silent, only the screams broke the stillness. A lone man suddenly leaped up and sprinted for the edge of the meadow away from the ridge. No one knew whether he was a guard or one of the porters. Five shots rang out, the man fell and lay still.
The first volley knocked Farah’s horse off his feet. The Somali lay still, knowing that to rise meant death. Slowly, he crawled behind his horse and lay there. When the firing stopped, he would try to run to the high grass to his left front. He lay quiet and listened. The firing was sporadic now. Now it had stopped. Near him a man was screaming, crying for someone to help. Makonnen, what of Makonnen? He had been on his right when the firing started. Slowly, he moved his head to look for the beautiful boy. Only a meter away, he saw the small sandal of the boy and his heart began to pound. What had happened?! Slowly he moved his eyes to the left. The boy was not there. His heart leaped. Makonnen was alive! It was then that he sensed the presence of someone above him. He could see the long, thin shadow. A smile opened his face as he looked up. There above him was Makonnen. But in the small boy’s hand was his own jeweled dagger which he had dropped when he was knocked off his horse.
Gustav had seen that Farah had been knocked clear of his horse. He wanted to take him alive, to have him hanged publicly. He noticed the small boy standing over him, somehow spared the carnage. He saw the dagger in his hand, as Farah raised his body, his left hand extended to the boy.
“No, boy, no!!”
But Gustav could only watch in anger as the small boy plunged the knife into the Somali. The boy was screaming at Farah, his eyes filled with hate, as he tried to pull the dagger out of his tormentor’s neck, to strike again. He could not, as the dying Farah held his wrist gently but firmly.
Gustav had the soldiers separate the dead from the wounded. The armed men in the caravan were placed under guard, the wounded among them.
“We will take them back to Moshi to be hanged. There may be some innocents among them.” Gustav turned to the porters who were huddled in a group, their wounded collected with them. “Sergeant, have your soldiers check their hands. Any signs they may be guards trying to pass as porters. Bring them over for questioning.”
Gustav surveyed the field. He watched Krueger moving among the wounded animals, putting them out of their misery with his revolver. As Krueger moved to the back of the caravan, he came upon a porter who lay twitching on the ground. Part of his skull was missing. His mouth moved but no sound came out. His eyes were open. Krueger spoke softly to him.
“I will not leave you like his, my friend.”
He saw the terror in the small man’s eyes as he placed the revolver barrel close to his heart and fired. He reloaded as he moved toward a screaming horse that had been wounded in the stomach. Soon the terrible screams of the animals stopped.
---
The porters were carrying the ivory, putting it into one great pile. “Sergeant, leave a detachment here to guard the ivory. Ten men should suffice. I want you to stay with your men here. I will send porters and relief for you as soon as I reach Moshi. If the rains come, it could be a week. And, Sergeant; well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Few sergeants have the privilege of having a good friend for their commanding officer.
Krueger had finished his task and walked back among the smells of death and gunpowder to the front of the column. He saw Mawenzi squatted beside a small boy, looking into his eyes, talking to him. Krueger knew the story of Mawenzi and Farah, and shook his head. He knew the boy had experienced the same, and thought it was a good thing that he had the opportunity to kill his tormentor. Perhaps it would help purge the degradation from his soul inflicted by that evil man. He spoke to himself, “I wish you had had that chance, Mawenzi. Perhaps, finding the boy will help.” As he approached, Mawenzi looked up, then stood and stepped away. Krueger looked at the boy, at his beautiful face scarred with pain. His dusty face now rigid, streaked from the flowing tears. Mawenzi looked at Krueger, and shook his head. Then he began to walk away, letting Krueger know he would like to talk to him away from the boy.
“Ernst, I would like to take the boy with us. He can stay in our bungalow in Arusha. Mbara can look after him. We can give him time; perhaps take him with us on our safaris. I would like to give him the choice of returning to Abyssinia.”
Krueger nodded. “As you wish, my friend.”
He turned to walk away. There was the matter of his pay
to discuss with Gustav. As he walked, he was pleased that Mawenzi had wanted to help the boy. It would help them both.
---
“Did you notice how cool the boy is under fire, Sir Rupert?” “Did he remind you of anyone, Sir Gustav?”
Over the years, Sir Gustav thought, Sir Rupert could not resist the chance to boast.
“For one so ugly, Sir Rupert, you have a distressing streak of vanity.”
---
They had broken camp early. Pushing their animals, the five men could make Macha’me in four hours. It was Saturday morning. In the village where they stayed, the men told them of the soldiers who had passed three days before. The soldiers had taken one of the men of the village, warning them he would be killed if anyone warned the people of Macha’me they were coming. They told Ibrahim that the men of Macha’me were their friends, that they were afraid of the soldiers. As he listened to the old men talking, Ibrahim looked around. There were no nubile maidens, no young men. They have hidden them, he thought. No matter, there would be another time.
The sun was almost directly above them when they approached the meadow. They heard the shouts of the soldiers in time to check their mounts. Pulling their mounts off the trail, the small band of men spurred them onto the ridge. The thick forest hid them from sight from the trail. Ibrahim sent one of the men forward. In twenty minutes, Ibrahim’s man returned. His eyes were wide. Ibrahim could see he was frightened.
“There is no one on the ridge, Bwana, but there are soldiers in the meadow.” He stood looking at Ibrahim, shifting his weight from one foot to another, afraid to say more. Ibrahim might kill him if he spoke.
“What is it? Speak before I cut out your tongue.” No one treated what the Somali said as an empty threat. The man jumped back and began shouting. “There are many soldiers in the meadow, Bwana.” He stopped, his eyes wide.
“What else, fool?!”
The man began to speak more softly, till Ibrahim yelled at him to speak up. “There are many dead men, Bwana. Many men standing together with ropes tied to their hands and ankles. Many men lying on the ground that are not dead.”
Ibrahim felt his chest constrict as he pulled himself up into his saddle and spurred his horse forward. The men stood watching, then climbed slowly on their mules and followed. Forgetting the danger, Ibrahim spurred his horse until he could see the meadow. Feeling a sense of dread, he leaped from his horse and brought his field glasses to his eyes.
Below him, a column of mounted men faced Moshi, appearing ready to move. Farah? He looked among the shackled men standing forlornly in the middle of the soldiers facing Moshi. Perhaps he has escaped. His heart began to pound as his field glasses scanned the long line of bodies lying with their feet toward him.
Let him escape. Please, Allah, spare my brother. He began to hope, then he felt the shock as he stopped at the last body. His vision began to blur and his knees felt as if they could not hold the weight of his body. He grabbed a low limb and held on. He must be sure. He raised the field glasses again, then a low wail began to come from his chest. The men who had caught up with him pulled back, away from the stricken man.
Ibrahim had always hated the ferenji. Now, for the first time he felt fear. Calmer now, he stared in fascination at the activities of the soldiers in the meadow. The mounted soldiers with their prisoners had left. Only the ferenji sergeant remained. The man everyone feared. He walked among the soldiers and porters, calmly directing them, sometimes raising his field glasses to scan the valley and ridges around the camp. On the ground, Ibrahim’s porters were guarded by soldiers as they dug graves for the rows of dead men. In the center of the meadow, the great pile of ivory which had already been sold lay. Around the pile, a great wall of thorn bushes was being built by other porters. Inside the walls, tents were being raised. Near the center of the circle created by the thornbush wall, the ferenji had erected a platform. The machine gun was on the platform. Two men stood by the machine gun. One stood with his field glasses scanning the surrounding area. Ibrahim moved further into the trees.
Ibrahim did not know how long he had stood on the ridge watching the soldiers. He knew there were only ten soldiers, but it would be folly to attack them. Too many lives would be lost, and only he had a reason for risking his life. As the sun dropped down to light the trunks of the trees around him, he turned and mounted his horse. There was nothing more to do here. In Moshi, it would be different.
Chapter Seven
Ibrahim felt safe in the small village that had grown up in the native quarter of Moshi. He lived in a small shamba with a young girl who worked in the shoe factory. She cooked for him, and slept with him as he wished.
It had been almost two months since the Germans had killed Farah. Ibrahim had gone to the town square to witness the hanging of his men. He did not care to see his men die. But he had done it to feed his hate, to spur him to exact a revenge which would match his own loss.
The residence of the von Mecklenburgs was in the new section of Moshi with its fashionable white homes and their red-tiled roofs. Its large verandah faced Kilimanjaro. Around the home, a wall had been built, and the gate was guarded night and day. Inside those walls were stables, a large lawn for the children and the large parties, a guest house and several small outbuildings.
Five hundred meters east of the residence, the new hospital sat on a hill looking down on all of Moshi. From its roof, anyone with field glasses could watch the von Mecklenburg compound. Each day for the last week, Ibrahim had bribed one of the guards to allow him into the hospital, where he would climb onto the roof and watch the residence. Even when the rain beat down, he would stand and watch. By the end of the week, he had learned what he needed to know.
---
It was late May and the rains had come less and less. Now, showers would come, and after an hour or two, would be followed by blue skies and billowing white clouds. On many mornings now, the family would have time to ride into the hills to the north, to ride through the blanket of dazzling colors of flowers which had come with the rains. This morning, they had ridden far to the north, where the hills were covered with coffee trees, now white with blossoms. If the weather held, they would visit the Buhlers, who had purchased a large tract of land near the mountain, and had planted a hundred hectares of coffee seedlings. Gustav had promised Otto he would drop by the first chance he had.
“Yesterday, I ran into Gerta von Freuhof. She told me her husband thinks that Ibrahim is in Moshi.” This was the first time Maria had talked about the Somali. Most settlers knew that the police suspected Ibrahim of killing the clerk Scheuer and the madam, Giesela Gottfried.
“That is possible. It is likely he killed Scheuer. It seems the madam and Scheuer were together frequently and Ibrahim was seen with both of them. While we can only speculate, it looks like Ibrahim found out Scheuer betrayed his brother, possibly from Fraulein Gottfried. It appears that the madam was attracted to the Somali. We don’t know why Ibrahim killed the madam.” Gustav had summed up as quickly as he could what Police Inspector Reinhold had told him. He did not want to worry Maria because he knew that the Somali was a very dangerous man.
Maria looked at her husband. There was no fear in her eyes but she needed to know. “Do you think he is after you or the sergeant, Gustav?”
Gustav could not lie to Maria. He was not concerned for himself, but his family. A man as vicious as Ibrahim and driven by the death of his brother was capable of anything. He had asked the police to watch the house and he had asked Sergeant Hoffman to provide special training to his guards.
“There is a good possibility. We did kill his brother.” He hoped she would not ask about the family but perhaps they did need to talk about it. It could save her life and the lives of the children. “Maria, you have not fired the revolver lately, have you? When we get back, we should see to it that you refresh yourself in firing it, and we need to talk about the need to be careful with the children. I haven’t wanted to worry the children, but I think we need to tak
e steps.”
“Last week I took out the weapon and fired it. Friederich and little Maria, as well. I thought it had to be done. I didn’t want to worry you. We will be alright.” Both had the same thought. Little Willie. They looked at each other. “Perhaps we can see Herr Buhler another time.” Gustav turned to the children, who were running about the meadow. “Come, children. We may have rain soon.”
Johannes looked at the sky, at the white clouds, and wondered what had made the Frau and Herr to decide to return. He, too, had heard the stories about the terrible Somali, and had watched the road in front of the residence, looking for anyone who might be the evil man.
---
Having Willie to herself was a great gift to Kibo. She could watch the little boy running happily, hugging her, laughing with her, and imagine he was her own son. She was happy that the Frau had so many things to do, and she could watch Willie. Since she had come to live with the von Mecklenburgs, she had heard many stories of settlers who had returned to Germany. She knew that her family was happy in the highlands, but knew that sometimes settlers left because some master had ordered them to go. She did not know what she would do without the children, without her little Willie, whom she was with even before he was born.
This morning, when the sun was still partly behind the hills, the rest of the family had left. Only little Willie, who had risen with them and said goodbye, remained. She led Willie about the yard on his donkey, Mercury. She, too, knew of Ibrahim. Many of her friends talked about him, and some said they had seen him in the part of town where the Africans from the villages lived.
This morning, Kibo looked forward to the visit from the egg man, who came by several times each week to deliver eggs to the residence. Maluto was a Chagga, who had worked very hard to become the egg man for the ferenjis on their road. He would often bring information of the village and of her sisters. He would laugh heartily when Willie would speak to him in Kchagga. Grown used to being forced to speak the language of the ferenji, natives felt a closeness to those who took the time to learn their language and their customs. Maluto always enjoyed his visits to the von Mecklenburgs, for all the children had been able to understand the conversation between the two Chaggas and sometimes become part of it.