Assegai

by Wilbur Smith

  Leon Courtney was not one of this multitude. For the last six weeks he had been setting up supply dumps at waterholes along the safari’s intended route.

  Reluctantly, Percy Phillips had given Leon an assistant. At first Leon had been horrified. ‘Hennie du Rand?’ he protested. ‘I know him. He’s an Afrikaner Boer from South Africa. The fellow fought against us in the war. He rode with the commando of the notorious Koos de la Rey. God alone knows how many Englishmen Hennie du Rand has shot.’

  ‘The Boer War ended several years ago,’ Percy pointed out. ‘Hennie may be a tough character, but at heart he’s a good fellow. Like most Boers he’s a true bushman, and he has shot more elephant and buffalo than any other man I know. He’s a good mechanic too. He can help you maintain the trucks and drive one. You’ll need somebody to help you shoot enough buffalo to keep the safari supplied with fresh meat, and there’s nobody better. You can learn a hell of a lot from him, if you listen. But his greatest recommendation is that he will work for his grub and a few shillings a day.’

  ‘But-’ said Leon.

  ‘No more ifs or buts. Hennie’s your assistant, and you’d better get used to the fact, young fella.’

  In just the first few weeks, Leon discovered that not only was Hennie an indefatigable worker but he knew a great deal more about motor maintenance and bushcraft than Leon did, and was happy to share this knowledge with him. His relations with the staff were excellent. He had lived with African tribesmen all his life and understood their ways and customs. He treated them with humour and respect. Even Manyoro and Ishmael liked him. Leon found him good company around the campfire in the evenings and he was a fascinating raconteur. He was over forty, lean and sinewy. His beard was grizzled, and his face and arms were darkly sunburned. He spoke with a strong Afrikaans accent. ‘Ja, my jong Boet,’ he told Leon, after they had run down a herd of buffalo on foot and killed eight fat young heifers with as many shots. ‘Yes, my young friend. It seems we’re going to make a hunter of you yet.’

  With Manyoro and four other men they skinned, gutted and quartered the carcasses, then loaded them into the two trucks and delivered them to within half a mile of the great sprawling main camp of the presidential safari. This was as close as Percy would allow the vehicles to approach. He did not want the President and Selous to be disturbed by the sound of engines. Another team of porters came out from the camp to carry in the carcasses.

  When they were alone Leon and Hennie parked the older Vauxhall under a pod mahogany tree and rigged a block and tackle from the main branch. They hoisted the truck’s rear and between them removed the differential, which had been emitting an alarming grinding sound. They began to strip down the offending part and lay out the pieces on a tattered square of tarpaulin. They looked up at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. The rider was a young man in jodhpurs and a wide-brimmed hat. He dismounted and hitched his horse, then sauntered up to where they were working.

  ‘Hello there. What are you up to?’ he drawled, with an unmistakable American twang.

  Before he replied Leon looked him up and down. His riding boots were expensive and his khakis were freshly washed and ironed. His face was pleasant, but not striking. When he removed his hat, his hair was a nondescript mousy colour, but his smile was friendly. It struck Leon that the two of them were almost the same age: the other was no more than twenty-two at most.

  ‘We’re having a spot of bother with this old bus,’ Leon told him, and the stranger grinned.

  ‘ “Having a spot of bother with this old bus”,’ he repeated. ‘God, I love that Limey accent. I could listen to it all day.’

  ‘What accent?’ Leon mimicked him. ‘I ain’t got no accent. Now you, you got a funny accent.’ They burst out laughing.

  The stranger held out his hand. ‘My name’s Kermit.’ Leon looked down at his own palm, which was smeared with black grease. ‘That don’t matter,’ Kermit assured him. ‘I love to tinker with autos. I’ve got a Cadillac back home.’

  Leon wiped his hand on the seat of his pants and took the other’s. ‘I’m Leon, and this ragamuffin is Hennie.’

  ‘Mind if I sit awhile?’

  ‘If you’re a famous mechanic you can lend a hand. How about pulling out that rack and pinion? Grab a spanner.’

  They all worked in silent concentration for a few minutes, but both Leon and Hennie were watching the newcomer surreptitiously. At last Hennie gave his sotto voce opinion: ‘Hy weet wat hy doen.’

  ‘What language is that, and what did Hennie say?’

  ‘It’s Afrikaans, an African version of Dutch, and he said you know what you’re up to.’

  ‘So do you, pal.’

  They worked on for a while, then Leon asked, ‘Are you part of the great Barnum and Bailey circus?’

  Kermit laughed delightedly. ‘Yeah, I suppose I am.’

  ‘What’s your job? Are you from the Smithsonian Institute?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, but mostly I just sit around and listen to a bunch of old men talking a load of bulldust about how things were much better in their day,’ Kermit replied.

  ‘Sounds like great fun.’

  ‘Did you guys shoot that load of buffalo that was brought into camp this morning?’

  ‘It’s part of our job to keep the camp in meat.’

  ‘Now that really sounds like fun. Mind if I tag along next time you go out?’

  Leon and Hennie exchanged a glance. Then Leon asked carefully, ‘What calibre of a rifle is it that you have?’

  Kermit went to his horse and drew the weapon out of its boot under the saddle flap. He came back and handed it to Leon, who worked the lever action to check that the breech was empty then lifted it to his shoulder. ‘.405 Winchester. I hear it’s a good buffalo rifle but that it kicks like Bob Fitzsimmons punches,’ he said. ‘Can you shoot it worth a damn?’

  ‘I reckon.’ Kermit took the weapon back. ‘I call it Big Medicine.’

  ‘All right. Meet us here at four o’clock on the morning of the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Why don’t you pick me up in the main camp?’

  ‘Forbidden,’ Leon said. ‘We lower forms of animal life are not allowed to disturb the great and the mighty.’

  At four in the morning it was still dark when he and Hennie drove up to the rendezvous in the two vehicles, with the skinners and trackers, but Kermit was waiting for them. Leon was impressed. He had doubted that he would show up. They followed a game trail through the remaining hours of darkness, Manyoro loping ahead to warn of stumps and holes. It was cold and Kermit huddled under a sheet of tarpaulin to shelter from the wind. When the trail reached a dry riverbed which presented an impassable obstacle to the trucks they parked under a tree and climbed out. When they took out the rifles, Kermit looked hard at Leon’s. ‘That piece has had a long life.’

  ‘It’s seen some action,’ Leon agreed. Percy had lent him a beaten-up old.404 Jeffreys from his own battery of firearms because its ammunition was less than a quarter of the price and in more plentiful supply than that for the.470 Holland. Despite its appearance the weapon was accurate and reliable, but Leon was not proud of it.

  ‘Can you shoot it worth a damn?’ Kermit mocked him lightly.

  ‘On a good day.’

  ‘Let’s hope that today’s a good day,’ Kermit needled.

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘Where are we heading?’ Kermit changed the subject.

  ‘Late yesterday Manyoro picked up a large herd that was heading this way. He’s leading us to it.’

  They went down into the riverbed and crossed below a large green pool whose waters had not yet dried up from the previous wet season. The edges had been heavily trampled by the many animals, including herds of buffalo, who were regularly drinking from it. They went up the far bank into an area of flowering acacia and open glades covered with fresh green grass.

  The dawn came up in splendour, the air cool and sweet. The denizens of the forest were coming to life: the men paused for a few m
inutes at a clearing to watch a troop of baboons foraging for insects and roots. They were led by the young males, vigilant and alert to danger. Following them came the breeding females, holding their tails high to display their naked pink posteriors and pudenda, advertising their maturity and availability. Some carried infants perched on their backs like jockeys. The older youngsters frolicked and chased each other rambunctiously about the glade. As a rear-guard, the large dog males moved with a swaggering arrogance, ready to rush forward to confront any threat that the younger males in the vanguard discovered. A small herd of bushbuck, delicately built antelope with spiral horns and creamy stripes across their shoulders, kept pace with the troop. They were using the screen of vigilant apes as sentries and lookouts for leopards and other predators.

  When the parade of animals had passed the men went on, but stopped again behind Manyoro as he pointed with his spear at the soft earth of the far side of the glade that had been churned by the passage of great hoofs. ‘This is the herd.’

  ‘How many, Manyoro?’

  ‘Two hundred, perhaps three.’

  ‘When?’

  Manyoro pointed out a short arc of the dawn sky.

  ‘Less than an hour.’ Leon translated for Kermit. ‘They’re feeding slowly towards thicker cover below the hills where they will lie up during the heat of midday. Remember now what I told you. We shoot only the three- and four-year-old females.’

  ‘Why can’t we shoot the big bulls?’ Kermit demurred.

  ‘Because the meat is as tough as motor tyres, and tastes a hell of a lot worse. Even a hungry Ndorobo wouldn’t touch it.’ Kermit nodded unhappily.

  Leon looked back at Manyoro. ‘Take the spoor,’ he said.

  They had not gone more than a mile before the open bush became much denser. Within a short space it was so thick that they could not see through it for more than a few yards. Suddenly Manyoro held up his hand and they stopped to listen. From ahead came the crackle of many large bodies moving through the under-growth, and then they heard the plaintive bellow of a weaning calf pleading with its dam for the udder.

  Leon leaned towards Kermit and whispered, ‘Right! Here we go. Don’t shoot until one of us does. We have to get in close enough to make certain of brain shots. Don’t shoot for the body. We don’t want to damage the meat, and it won’t be very good for our health to have to follow a wounded buffalo through this thick stuff.’ He nodded to Manyoro and they went on.

  They came into an area of second growth where, the previous dry season, a bushfire had burned through. The scrub was low enough to expose hundreds of dark bovine backs, but high enough to cover the rest of their bodies. The herd was browsing as they moved so their heads were down. Then one came up and gazed directly at them. The base of the horns met on top of its head in a rounded boss, and the tips curled down on each side to give the beast a mournful appearance. They froze immediately and the buffalo seemed not to recognize them as human. It was chewing a mouthful of coarse grass, and after a while it snorted and lowered its head to continue feeding.

  ‘Manyoro, this is too thick,’ Leon whispered, ‘but they’ve changed direction. It looks like they don’t intend to lie up until much later in the day. Now they’re moving back towards the river we crossed earlier this morning. I think they’re going to drink at the pool.’

  ‘Ndio, Bwana. They have led us in a circle. The river runs just this side of that little hill.’ Manyoro pointed at a rocky kopje not more than a mile ahead.

  ‘Get ahead of the herd and we’ll lie in wait for them above the pool,’ Leon ordered.

  In single file Manyoro led them at a trot, circling the slowly moving herd, keeping below the breeze. Once they were ahead they broke into a run and sprinted for the river. When they reached it they kept on across the wide, sandy bed, and took up positions among the trees on the far side.

  They did not have too long to wait before the leading buffalo came down the bank in a pack. Snorting and lowing with thirst they stampeded into the pool, and when the leading animals were belly deep they lowered their heads and sucked up water thirstily. The noise they were making was loud enough to drown Leon’s whisper to Kermit.

  ‘Pick out a cow on the side of the herd nearest to you. The range is thirty yards. Remember, go for the head. If you miss I’ll know to back up your shot.’

  ‘I won’t miss,’ Kermit whispered back at him and raised the Winchester. With alarm Leon saw that the American was shaking. The muzzle of his rifle wavered erratically.

  Buck fever! He had recognized the symptoms of uncontrollable excitement that can overpower a novice when first presented with dangerous big game. He opened his mouth to order him to hold his fire, but the Winchester roared and the barrel jumped high in the air. Leon saw the bullet nick the hump on the back of a very large bull at the edge of the pool and fly on to strike the cow standing directly behind him in the rump. He realized that the heavy recoil of the Winchester had thrown Kermit off balance and for the moment he was unsighted. Before he could recover, Leon fired two quick shots, smoothly recycling the bolt of the Jeffreys without lowering the butt from his shoulder. His first bullet hit the wounded bull just below the boss of his horns and the animal dropped, dead before he hit the ground. The second caught the wounded cow just as she was gathering herself to rush back up the bank. It struck the base of the skull at the juncture with the spinal column. The beast flopped nose first into the white sand and lay still.

  On Leon’s left side Hennie was working with machine-like rapidity, firing into the herd of milling, panic-stricken animals. At each shot one went down. Kermit recovered from the recoil of the Winchester and saw that the bull he had fired at was dead, as was the cow behind it. He let out a wild cowboy yell. ‘Yee-ha! I got two with one shot.’

  He raised his rifle again, but Leon shouted, ‘That’s enough! Don’t shoot.’ Kermit didn’t seem to hear him. He fired again. Leon spun around to mark the strike of his bullet, ready to finish off any animal he wounded. However, this time Kermit had pulled off a perfect brain shot and another bull buffalo crashed down.

  ‘Enough!’ Leon shouted. ‘Stop firing!’ He pushed down the barrel of the rifle as Kermit tried to raise it again. Below them the herd thundered up the far bank of the riverbed and crashed away into the bush, leaving nine dead buffalo lying around the pool.

  Kermit was still shaking with excitement. ‘Hell’s bells!’ he panted. ‘That was the best fun I ever had. I got three buffalo with two shots! Must be some kind of record.’

  Leon was amused by his childlike jubilation. He could not bring himself to tell him what had really happened and spoil it for him. Instead he laughed with him. ‘Well done, Kermit!’ He punched his shoulder. ‘That was some shooting. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Kermit grinned at him ecstatically. Not for a moment did Leon realize that with a tiny white lie his life had changed for ever.

  By the time they had butchered the enormous carcasses darkness had fallen. Rather than risk a night drive back along the game tracks, which were filled with old tree stumps and antbear holes that could smash the trucks’ suspension, they camped on the riverbank. Ishmael prepared fresh buffalo tongue for their dinner, and afterwards they sipped their coffee around the fire and listened to the hyenas, who had been attracted by the smell of buffalo blood and guts, sobbing and shrieking in the dark bush around their camp. Hennie fossicked in his haversack and brought out a bottle, pulled the cork and offered it to Kermit, who held it up to the firelight. It was less than half full with a pale brown liquid.

  ‘The President don’t allow hard liquor in the camp. I haven’t taken a real drink in a month. What kind of poison is this?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘My aunty in Malmesbury down in the Cape makes it from peaches. Its called Mampoer. It’ll put hair on your chest and load your fun-gun with buckshot.’

  Kermit took a swig. His eyes opened wide as he swallowed. ‘You can call it Mam-whatever. I call it a hundred-per-cent proof moonshine.’ He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand and passed the bottle to Leon. ‘Have a blast of that, pardner!’ He was still euphoric, and Leon was even happier that he had allowed him to claim the buffalo kills. The bottle went around the fire twice before it was empty and all three were in expansive mood.

  ‘So, Hennie, you’re from South Africa. Were you there during the war?’ Kermit asked.

  Hennie considered his reply for a minute. ‘Ja, I was there.’

  ‘We read a lot about it in the States. The newspapers say it was something like our own war against the South. Damn hard and bitter.’

  ‘For some of us it was worse than that.’

  ‘Sounds like you were mixed up in the fighting.’

  ‘I rode with de la Rey.’

  ‘I read about him,’ Kermit said. ‘He was the greatest commando leader of them all. Tell us about it.’

  The Mampoer had loosened the tongue of the usually taciturn Boer. He became almost eloquent as he described the fighting in the veld, where thirty thousand Boer farmers had stretched the military might of the greatest empire the world had ever seen almost to its limits.

  ‘They would never have forced us to surrender if that bloody butcher Kitchener had not turned on the women and children we had left on our farms. He burned the farms and shot the cattle. He herded all the women and children into his concentration camps and put fish-hooks into their food so they coughed up blood before they died.’ A single tear ran down one of his weathered brown cheeks. He wiped it away and excused himself brokenly. ‘Ag! I am sorry. It’s the Mampoer, but they are bad memories. My wife, Annetjie, died in the camps.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to turn in. Good night.’ He picked up his blanket roll and walked away into the darkness. After he had gone Kermit and Leon sat quietly for a while, their mood sombre now.