by Wilbur Smith
‘Nothing could do that, sir.’
‘Careful, my lad. Show some respect for my grey hairs and the stars on my shoulders.’
‘Forgive me, General. I meant no offence. I was simply implying that you are a connoisseur of impeccable taste.’
Once Penrod had greeted most of the other diners in the room, stopping for a moment at each table, they finally reached the terrace and settled into their chairs under the bougainvillaeas. Malonzi opened and poured the wine, then served the hors d’oeuvre of marrow bones on toast and withdrew discreetly.
‘Let me bring you up to date with everything that has been happening in the wider world while you’ve been cavorting with royalty and warthogs in the wilderness.’ Penrod scooped a large greasy lump of marrow out of the bone on to his toast, as he began a short résumé of events in Europe. ‘The most startling item of gossip is that in the recent elections the Social Democratic Party has, for the first time in history, become the largest party in the German Reichstag. It has more than doubled its seat total from the 1907 election. Big trouble brewing there. The German military ruling élite will have to do something spectacular to reassert themselves. Anyone for a nice little war?’ He popped the marrow toast into his mouth and chewed with gusto. ‘And Serbia will surely want to wade into Austria. How about another little war? Talking of which, the one in Turkey rumbles on. The Turks have thrown the Bulgarians back from the gates of Constantinople, but it cost them twenty thousand casualties...’ He devoured the rest of the marrow and washed it down with a glass of Margaux.
While he waited for Malonzi to serve the hot-pot he went on, ‘Now, closer to home you have a large accumulation of mail, which includes a dozen or more enquiries for your services as a hunter. I picked them up from the post office and read them to save you the trouble.’
‘I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again. Uncle, you’re a brick!’
Penrod acknowledged the compliment with a gracious wave of his fork.
‘Most of these communications were from nobodies - I discarded those. However, three show great promise, all from our favourite country, Deutschland. One is from a conservative minister of government, the second from a Count Bauer, an adviser to the Imperial Chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, and the third from a captain of industry who is the largest single contractor to the military. Naturally we wish to cultivate all three. However, the most attractive from our point of view is the industrialist. His name is Graf Otto Kurt Thomas von Meerbach. He is the head of the Meerbach Motor Works.’
‘I know of them.’ Leon was impressed. ‘They developed the Meerbach rotary engine for aeroplanes. They’re in competition with Count Zeppelin working on dirigible airships. Hell’s bells and buckets of blood! I’d love to meet the fellow. I’m fascinated by the idea of taking to the skies, but to date I’ve never even laid eyes on one of the incredible new flying machines, let alone had a chance to go up in one.’
Penrod smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. ‘If all goes as planned, you might soon have your chance. With Percy’s blessing I have replied by urgent-rate cable to von Meerbach in your name. I gave him full details of what you have to offer, including available dates and your standard rates. But, in the meantime, you haven’t tasted the hot-pot. It’s jolly good. Oh, and by the way, there’s also a letter from your pal Kermit Roosevelt.’
‘Which you opened to save me the trouble?’
‘Good Lord, no.’ Penrod was horrified. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. That’s your private mail.’
‘As opposed to all my other correspondence, which is public, Uncle?’ Leon asked, and Penrod smiled comfortably,
‘Line of duty, my dear boy.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘So, I understand that, with the princess out of your hair, you’re charging off hot-foot to assist your partner, Percy, with the Eastmont safari.’
‘That’s correct. I leave first thing tomorrow. Percy’s hunting on the west bank of Lake Manyara down in German territory. He left a note for me at Tandala. He says that Lord Eastmont is keen to get at least a fifty-inch buffalo and Manyara’s the best place to find one.’
‘Percy introduced me to Eastmont when he was passing through Nairobi. We had dinner together here, Percy, me and their two lordships, Eastmont and Delamere.’
‘What did you make of Eastmont, if I might ask, sir?’
‘You might indeed. In fact, I was about to tell all - you and Percy need to know. From our very first meeting I thought he was an odd fish. Something about him troubled me. It was only after he and Percy had left for Manyara that it all came back to me with a rush and a roar, if you’ll pardon the poetic licence.’
‘Pardon granted, sir. Please continue. I’m all ears.’
‘I remembered there had been a nasty little incident in the South African campaign back in ’99. A young captain of the Middlesex Regiment of Yeomanry Cavalry named Bertie Cochrane was in command of a forward reconnaissance platoon at a place called Slang Nek when they ran into a strong Boer contingent. At the first shots young Cochrane ran. He left his sergeant to try to fight off the Boers and ran for home and Mother. It was a massacre. The platoon took fifteen casualties from a strength of twenty before they could extricate themselves. Cochrane was court-martialled for cowardice in the face of the enemy, found guilty and cashiered. He might have been given a blindfold and a.303 bullet if not for his friends in high places. When I remembered all this I sent a cable to somebody I know at the War Office to check my memory of the incident. The reply came back affirmative. Cochrane and Eastmont are one and the same fellow, but there were a few more snippets of information. After his dishonourable discharge, young Bertie Cochrane married an extremely wealthy American oil heiress. Less than two years later, the new Mrs Cochrane drowned in a boating mishap on Ullswater in the Lake District of Cumberland. Cochrane was tried at the Middlesex Assizes for the murder of his wife, but acquitted for lack of evidence. He inherited her fortune, and two years later, on the death of his uncle, he became Earl of Eastmont, with an estate of more than ten thousand acres near Appleby in Westmorland. Thus plain old Bertie Cochrane became Bertram, Earl of Eastmont.’
‘Dear God! Does Percy know this?’
‘Not yet, but I rely on you to give him the glad tidings.’
Leon was in pensive mood when he rode home to Tandala. When he got there Manyoro and Loikot were waiting for him. He gave them instructions for an early start the next morning on the journey to join Percy’s hunting camp on the banks of Lake Manyara, then went to his tent to read his mail.
There were three of his mother’s marvellously fond and entertaining letters. Each was more than twenty pages long, and they were dated a month apart but had arrived at the Nairobi post office together. He learned that his father was well and prosperous, as always. His mother’s latest book was titled African Reflections and it had been accepted for publication by Macmillan of London. Leon’s eldest sister, Penelope, was to marry her childhood sweetheart in May, which was six weeks ago. He would have to send her a belated wedding gift. He laid the three maternal letters aside for reply, then slit open the letter with the New York postmark and Kermit’s red wax seal on the flap.
Kermit had kept his word. His letter was breezy and chatty. He described the last months of the great safari with Quentin Grogan up the Nile and through the Sudan and Egypt. Big Medicine had continued to wreak havoc among the game herds. On the voyage from Alexandria to New York he had fallen in love again, but the girl was already engaged. He seemed to have taken this rejection in good part. Then he went on to describe a dinner party at the home of Andrew Carnegie, the steel multi-millionaire who had financed the great presidential safari. One of the other guests had been a German industrialist from Wieskirche in Bavaria. His name was Otto von Meerbach. Kermit had been seated across the dinner table from him and they had taken to each other immediately. After dinner, when the ladies had withdrawn, they had lingered over the port and cigars.
Otto is an extraordinary character, straight out of the
pages of a lurid novel, complete with duelling scar and all. He is a great mountain of a man, booming with energy and self-assurance, and even if one does not like him, one has to admire him. He is the proprietor of the Meerbach Motor Works. I am sure that you have heard of it. In fact, I think I remember you and I discussing it. It’s one of the biggest and most successful enterprises in all of Europe, employing more than thirty thousand workers. MMW developed the rotary engine for flying machines and dirigible airships. It also makes motor-cars and trucks for the German Army and airplanes for their air force. But the really interesting thing about Otto is that he is an avid hunter. He has huge estates in Bavaria where he hunts stags and wild boar. In winter he hosts hunting parties at his Schloss, which are famous. It is nothing out of the ordinary for the guns to shoot more than two hundred wild boar in a day. He has invited me to join him as one of his guests the next time I am in Europe. I told him about our safari, and he was very interested. He told me he has been thinking about an African safari for many years. He asked me for your address and of course I gave it to him. I hope you do not mind?
‘So that’s how von Meerbach found out where to get hold of me,’ Leon said aloud. ‘Thank you, Kermit.’ The letter continued for a few more pages.
Otto’s wife, or maybe she is his mistress, I am not entirely certain of the relationship, is truly one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever laid eyes upon. Her name is Eva von Wellberg. She is very refined and quiet but, my sweet Lord, when she turned those eyes on me my heart melted like butter in a skillet. I would readily have fought a duel with Otto for her favours, even though he is reputed to be one of the most accomplished swordsmen in Europe. That’s how strongly I feel about this lovely consort of his.
Leon laughed. The hyperbole was so typical of Kermit. He interpreted his description to mean that Eva was probably fair-to-middling attractive. Kermit ended by exhorting Leon to reply soon, letting him have all the news of his own activities and of the many friends Kermit had made in British East Africa, particularly Manyoro and Loikot. It concluded, ‘salaams and Weidmanns heil (Otto taught me this, it means Hunters’ Salute) from your BWB’. It took a moment for Leon to work out what the letters stood for. He smiled again. ‘And all the best to you, too, Kermit Roosevelt, my brother of the warrior blood.’
Leon opened his travelling bureau to begin the replies to his mother and Kermit, but before he could dip his pen in the inkwell Ishmael sounded the dinner gong. Leon groaned. He had not fully recovered from his luncheon with Penrod. But Ishmael’s meals were not optional. They were obligatory.
The journey south to Lake Manyara was over brutally rough tracks for the first two hundred miles. The Vauxhall took cruel punishment and they were forced to stop and repair punctured tyres at least a dozen times. Manyoro and Loikot had become past masters at the art of locating and removing the thorns that had pierced them. In the sandy stretches of road the engine boiled over regularly and they had to wait for it to cool before they refilled the radiator.
The boundary between British and German East Africa was neither marked nor guarded. There were no signposts along the way, other than blazes on roadside trees and a few bleached animal skulls set on poles. Navigating chiefly by instinct and the heavens, they at last reached the tiny bush store run by a Hindu trader at Makuyuni river. Percy had left a pair of good horses with the store owner to await his arrival.
Leon parked the truck under a ficus tree at the back of the store and saddled up one of the horses. From there it was a ride of at least fifty miles to Percy’s hunting camp, which was set on a promontory above the lake shore.
Leon and his Masai reached it an hour after dark on the following day. He found out that neither Percy nor his noble client had returned to camp. Percy’s cook served Leon a dinner of grilled hippo heart and cassava porridge with pumpkin mash and thick Bisto gravy.
Afterwards Leon sat at the fire and watched the flamingoes flying across the moon in dark, wavering lines. A bush fire was burning on the far shore of the lake. It looked like a fiery snake crawling through the dark hills, and he could smell the smoke. It was past ten o’clock when he heard the horses coming out of the night and went to the perimeter of the camp to meet them.
As Percy dismounted stiffly and painfully from the saddle, he recognized Leon waiting in the shadows. His shoulders straightened and his face creased in a smile of welcome. ‘Well met indeed!’ he called. ‘Your timing’s immaculate, Leon. Come to the fire and I’ll introduce you to his lordship. I might even be minded to pour you a dram of Talisker.’
Eastmont was a tall, gangling figure, with huge hands and feet and a head the size of a watermelon. His long, thin limbs were illmatched to his bulky torso. Percy stood at a little more than six feet and his Masai tracker was an inch taller, yet Eastmont towered over them, and Leon realized that he must be six foot three. When he shook hands, his fist engulfed Leon’s fingers as though they were a child’s. In the flickering firelight Eastmont’s features were gaunt and bony, his expression dark and morose. He said little but instead left the talking to Percy. Once the glasses were charged he sat staring into the fire while Percy described the day’s hunting,
‘Well, his lordship wanted a truly monumental buffalo and, by golly, we found one this morning. He was an old solitary and I swear by all that’s holy he’s fifty-five if he’s an inch.’
‘Percy, that’s incredible! But I believe you,’ Leon assured him. ‘Show me the head. Are your people bringing it in tonight, or will the skinners come in with it tomorrow?’
There was an awkward silence, and Percy glanced across the fire at his client. Eastmont seemed not to have heard. He continued staring into the flames.
‘Well,’ said Percy, and paused again. Then he went on with a rush of words: ‘There’s a small problem. The buff’s head is attached to his body, and the body is still very much alive.’
Leon felt a chill at the back of his neck, but he asked carefully, ‘Wounded?’
Percy nodded reluctantly, then admitted, ‘Yes, but pretty hard hit, I think.’
‘How hard, Percy? In the boiler room or the guts? How much blood?’
‘Back leg,’ said Percy, then hurried on: ‘Broke the gaskin bone, I do believe. He should be stiff and crippled by tomorrow morning.’
‘Blood, Percy? How much?’
‘Some.’
‘Arterial or venous?’
‘Hard to tell.’
‘Percy, it’s not hard to tell arterial from venous. You taught me how, so you should know. One is bright red, the other dark. Why did you find it hard to tell the difference?’
‘There wasn’t very much of it.’
‘How far did you track him?’
‘Until it got dark.’
‘How far, Percy, not how long.’
‘A couple of miles.’
‘Shit!’ said Leon, as though he truly meant it.
‘The polite version of that word is “ merde”.’ Percy tried for a touch of humour.
‘I’ll settle for good old Anglo-Saxon.’ Leon did not smile.
They were silent for a few long minutes. Then Leon looked across at Eastmont. ‘What calibre were you using, my lord?’
‘Three seven five.’ Eastmont did not look up as he spoke. Shit again! Leon thought, but did not say. Goddamned peashooter! ‘How thick is the cover he’s in, Percy?’
‘It’s thick,’ Percy admitted. ‘We’ll follow him up tomorrow at first light. He’ll be stiff and sore. Shouldn’t take too long to catch up with him.’
‘I have a better plan. The two of you stay here and have a quiet day in camp. Rest your leg, Percy. I’ll follow him up and finish the business,’ Leon suggested.
His lordship let out a bellow like a bull sealion in mating season. ‘You will do no such thing, you impudent whippersnapper. It’s my buffalo and I will finish him off.’
‘With all due respect, my lord, too many guns could turn a potentially dangerous situation into a fatal one. Let me go. This is what you
pay us so much money to do.’ Leon smiled in an unconvincing attempt at diplomacy.
‘I paid so much money for you to do as you’re bloody well told, my lad.’ Leon’s mouth hardened. He looked at Percy, who shook his head.
‘Leon, it’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll probably find him down tomorrow.’
Leon rose to his feet. ‘As you wish. I’ll be ready to ride at first light. Good night, my lord.’ Eastmont did not reply and Leon turned back to Percy. He looked old and sick in the firelight. ‘Good night, Percy,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t worry. I have a good feeling about this. We’ll find him down, I know it.’
Leon stood at the edge of the cliff with Manyoro and Loikot. The sun was not yet up, and a low bank of mist hung over the water. The dawn was windless and the lake was a polished pewter grey. Skeins of luminous pink flamingoes flew in long, wavering lines low along it, the unruffled grey waters reflecting their perfect mirror images. It was very beautiful.
‘Bwana Samawati thinks his back leg is broken,’ Leon said, still watching the flamingoes. ‘Perhaps it will slow him down a little.’ Loikot spat a small glob of mucus on to the black lava sand, and Manyoro picked his nose, then examined the crusty product on the end of his forefinger with attention. Neither replied to the fatuous statement. A broken leg would not slow down an angry buffalo bull.
Leon went on, ‘Bwana Mjiguu wants to lead. He says it’s his buffalo. He will shoot it.’ The Masai had named Eastmont ‘Mr Big Feet’ and greeted this latest snippet of information with as much joy as they would news of the passing of a dear friend.
‘Perhaps he will shoot it in the other leg. That will slow it down,’ Manyoro suggested, and Loikot doubled over in paroxysms of mirth. Leon could not control himself. He had to join in, and the laughter eased their feelings a little.