Assegai

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘They have one foot in London and the other in Cape Town, with their cocks dangling in the Atlantic,’ Hennie said.

  Graf Otto let out a hearty guffaw. ‘Sout Piel! Ja. I like it! It is a good joke.’ His chuckles died away, and then he picked up the conversation from where it had been diverted. ‘So, you do not like the British? You fought against them in the war, did you?’

  Hennie thought about the question carefully, while he nursed the vehicle over a particularly rough stretch of the track. ‘The war is finished,’ he said at last, his tone flat and noncommittal.

  ‘Ja, it is finished, but it was a bad war. The British burned your farms and killed your cattle.’

  Hennie did not reply, but his eyes shaded. ‘They put your women and children in the camps. Many died there.’

  ‘Ja. It is true,’ Hennie whispered. ‘Many died.’

  ‘Now the land is ruined and there is no food for the children, and your Volk are slaves to Britain, nein? That is why you left, to escape the memories.’

  Hennie’s eyes were filled with tears. He wiped them away with a calloused thumb.

  ‘Which commando did you ride with?’

  Hennie looked directly at him for the first time. ‘I did not say I rode with any commando.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Graf Otto suggested. ‘Perhaps you rode with Smuts.’

  Hennie shook his head with an expression of bitter distaste. ‘Jannie Smuts is a traitor to his people. He and Louis Botha have gone over to the khaki. They are selling our birthright to the British.’

  ‘Ah!’ Graf Otto exclaimed, with the air of a man who already knew the answer to his question. ‘You hate Smuts and Botha. I know then who you rode with. It must have been Koos de la Rey.’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Tell me, du Rand, what manner of man was General Jacobus Herculaas de la Rey? I have heard tell that he was a great soldier, better than Louis Botha and Jannie Smuts put together. Is that true?’

  ‘He was no ordinary man.’ Hennie stared at the track ahead. ‘To us he was a god.’

  ‘If there were ever to be another war, would you follow de la Rey again, Hennie?’

  ‘I would follow him through the gates of hell.’

  ‘The others of your commando, would they follow him also?’

  ‘They would. We all would.’

  ‘Would you like to meet de la Rey again? Would you like to shake his hand one more time?’

  ‘That is not possible,’ Hennie mumbled.

  ‘With me everything is possible. I can make anything happen. Say nothing to anybody else. Not even to your Sout Piel boss, whom you like. This is between you and me alone. One day soon I will take you with me to see General de la Rey.’

  Eva was crammed in beside him. She was obviously uncomfortable and swiftly becoming bored with the conversation in a language she did not understand. Graf Otto knew that her only languages were German and French.

  Leon refuelled the Butterfly from one of the fifty-gallon drums that had been brought from Nairobi by Gustav in the big Meerbach truck. While he was doing this he sent Manyoro and Loikot to the top of the hill above the camp to join in with the Masai grapevine and gather any news that might be of interest. Once or twice he looked up from refuelling to listen to the shrill distant voices, calling to each other from hilltop to hilltop. The chungaji used a type of verbal shorthand, and he could make out a few isolated words but he could not follow the whole sense of their exchanges.

  Not long after he had topped up the last of the Butterfly’s four fuel tanks and was washing his hands in the basin in front of his tent, the two Masai came down from the hill. They began to report to him the few items of interest they had gathered.

  It was said that on the next full moon, as was customary at this time of the year, Lusima would preside over a conference of the Masai tribal elders on Lonsonyo Mountain. She would sacrifice a white cow to the ancestors. The welfare of the tribe depended on the observance of these rituals.

  It was said also that there had been a raid by a war-party of Nandi. They had run off thirty-three head of prime Masai cattle, but the avenging morani had caught up with them on the banks of the Tishimi river. They had recovered all the missing cattle and thrown the corpses of the rustlers into the river. The crocodiles had disposed of this evidence. At the moment the district commissioner was holding an inquiry at Narosura, but it seemed that the entire area was suffering from an attack of amnesia. Nobody knew anything about stolen cattle or missing Nandi warriors.

  It was further said that four lions had come down into the Rift Valley from the direction of Keekorok, all young males. They had been given a drubbing by the big dominant male and driven out of the pride into which they had been born: he would not tolerate any competition when it came to breeding with his females. Two nights previously the youngsters had killed six heifers from the manyatta directly to the west of Lonsonyo Mountain. The call had gone out to the morani to gather at this village, which was named Sonjo. They were going to deal out to these four cattle-killing lions a summary lesson in manners.

  Leon was pleased with this news. Graf Otto had expressed a keen desire to watch a ceremonial hunt, and this was a most fortuitous coincidence. He despatched Manyoro to the Sonjo manyatta, which was hosting the lion hunters, with a gift of a hundred shillings for the local chieftain, and a request that he allow the wazungu to be spectators at the hunt.

  By the time Graf Otto returned with Hennie in the Vauxhall from butchering the buffalo carcasses, Leon had the horses saddled and the pack mules loaded with sufficient supplies for the side expedition to Sonjo. As his client disembarked Leon hurriedly told him the good news.

  Graf Otto was excited. ‘Quickly, Eva! We must change into riding clothes and go at once. I do not want to miss the show.’

  They pushed the horses along at a canter, covering almost twenty miles before it became too dark to see the ground ahead. Then they dismounted and unsaddled. They ate a cold dinner and slept rough. The next morning they were away again before it was fully light.

  Some time before noon the next day, as they neared the village of Sonjo, they heard drums and singing. Manyoro had come from the village to await their arrival and was squatting beside the track. He stood up and came to meet the horses. ‘All is arranged, M’bogo. The chief of the manyatta has agreed to delay the hunt until you arrive. But you must hurry. The morani are becoming restless. They are eager to blood their spears and win honour. The chief cannot keep them on the leash much longer.’

  The morani were gathered in the centre of the cattle pen, an élite band who had been selected by the elders, the bravest and best. They were young men, fifty strong, dressed in red leather kilts decorated with ivory beads and cowrie shells. Their naked torsos gleamed with a coating of fat and red ochre. Their hair was dressed in an elaborate style of coiled plaits. They were lean and long-limbed, hard and elegantly muscled, their features handsome and hawkish, eyes bright and rapacious, showing their eagerness for the hunt to begin.

  They had formed up in a single rank, shoulder to shoulder. At their head was a senior morani, an experienced warrior who wore five lion tails in his kilt, one for every Nandi he had killed in single combat. His war-bonnet was the headskin of a black-maned lion, further proof of his prowess. Single-handed, he had taken the lion with the assegai. He had a signal whistle made from the horn of a reed buck hanging on a thong around his neck.

  Several hundred older men, with women and children, lined the outer stockade to watch the dance. The women clapped and ululated. As the three whites rode into the manyatta the drums took on an ever more savage and frenetic rhythm. The drummers pounded on the hollow logs, working the warriors into a fighting frenzy until they broke into the lion dance, singing and bounding high in the air on stiff legs, grunting like lions as they came back to earth.

  Then the leader blew a shrill command on his whistle and the troop began to sally forth from the cattle pen, retaining their single file. Evenly spaced, they formed a long, sinuous serpent, w
hich wound away down the grassy slope, the sunlight reflecting in bright sparks off the steel of their assegais. They carried on their shoulders their long rawhide shields, each painted with a single large eye of black and ochre, the pupil glaring white.

  ‘Why do they have eyes on their shields, Otto?’ Eva asked.

  ‘Answer the question, Courtney.’

  ‘The morani say they will provoke the lions into charging. Come, we must not be left behind. When it happens, it will happen very fast.’ The riders followed the long, winding file of warriors.

  ‘How do they know where to find the quarry?’ Graf Otto asked.

  ‘They have scouts watching over the lions,’ Leon answered. ‘But the lions will not have gone far. They have killed six cattle, and they will not leave until they have finished all that meat.’

  Manyoro was running at Leon’s stirrup. He said something and Leon stooped in the saddle to listen to him. When he straightened up he told Graf Otto, ‘Manyoro says the dead cattle are lying in a shallow basin over the next rise.’ He pointed ahead. ‘If we circle out to the right, and take up position on the high ground, we will have a grandstand view.’ He led them off the track and they cantered in a wide circle to get ahead of the file of morani, reaching the lookout point as the head of the long line of warriors breasted the ridge and started down into the basin.

  Manyoro had given them good advice. When they reined in on the crest, they had a fine view over the grassy dale. The rotting carcasses of the cattle lay in full view, bellies ballooned with gas. Some had been partially devoured, but others seemed untouched.

  Now the single file of warriors changed formation. As they reached a predetermined spot, each morani turned in the opposite direction to the man in front of him. Like a chorus line of well-choreographed dancers, the single file split into two. The twin lines opened to form a noose that would encircle the grassy hollow. Then, at a sharp blast on the whistle, the heads of the files of warriors began to converge. Swiftly the manoeuvre was completed. A wall of shields and spears ringed the basin.

  ‘I cannot see the lions,’ Eva said. ‘Are you sure they have not escaped?’

  But before either man could answer her, a lion stood up in full view. He had been lying flat against the earth, his coat blending perfectly with the sun-scorched brown grass. Although he was young, he was big and rangy. His mane was short and sparse, a mere fuzz of red hair. He snarled at the morani, his lips peeling back from his long, bright fangs.

  They returned his greeting: ‘We see you, evil one! We see you, killer of our cattle.’

  The sound of fifty voices alarmed the other lions. They rose from their hiding places in the short grass, crouched low and glared, with eyes of topaz yellow, at the ring of shields. Their tails twitched nervously, they snarled and growled with fear and anger. They were young and this was beyond their experience.

  The buckhorn whistle shrilled again and the morani began to chant the chorus of the Lion Song. Then, still singing, they moved forward in unison, shuffling and stamping. Slowly they closed in on the four lions as a python tightens its coils on its prey. One lion made a short mock-charge at the wall, and the morani shook their shields and called to him, ‘Come! Come! We are ready to welcome you!’

  The lion broke off his charge, coming up short on stiff front legs. He glared at the men, then spun around and ran back to join his siblings. They circled and milled uneasily, growling, and erected their manes in a threatening display, making short rushes at the wall of shields, then breaking off and turning back.

  ‘The one with the ginger mane will be the first to charge home.’ Graf Otto made his judgement and, as he spoke, the largest of the four lions launched himself in a swift, determined charge, straight at the shields. The senior morani, with the black-mane headdress, blew a blast on his buckhorn whistle. Then, with his spear, he pointed out a man in the file who was directly in the line of the charge. He shouted the man’s name: ‘Katchikoi!’

  The warrior who had been chosen sprang high in the air to acknowledge the honour, then broke out of the line and raced to meet the charging lion with long, bounding strides. His comrades egged him on with a savage, rising ululation. The lion saw him coming, and swerved towards him, grunting with each stride, a tawny streak snaking low against the ground, his black-tufted tail slashing against his flanks. His glittering yellow eyes were fastened on Katchikoi.

  As they came together the morani altered the angle of his charge, turning into the lion, forcing him to come in from the right, into his spear arm. Then he dropped on one knee behind his shield. The point of his assegai was aimed at the centre of the lion’s chest, and the beast ran straight on to the steel. The long silver blade disappeared with magical suddenness, full length into the tawny body. Katchikoi released his grip on the haft, leaving the blade buried in the lion’s chest. He raised the rawhide shield and the lion crashed headlong into it. He did not try to resist the weight and momentum of the great cat’s leap, instead he rolled over backwards and curled himself into a ball holding the shield interposed. Despite the assegai, which transfixed him, the lion’s strength and rage were undiminished. He tore at the shield with both front paws, the yellow claws raking deep gouges in it. He was growling hideously and trying to bite into the shield, but the leather had dried iron-hard and his fangs could not find a grip.

  The hunt master blew a short blast on his buckhorn and four of Katchikoi’s comrades left the ring of warriors and raced forward, then separated, two on each side. The lion was concentrating all his effort on Katchikoi so he did not see them coming until they had him surrounded. Their assegais rose and fell as, repeatedly, they drove the long blades deep into the lion’s vital organs. The beast gave a mighty groan that carried clearly to the horsemen on the rise, then collapsed and rolled off the shield. He stretched out and lay still.

  Katchikoi sprang to his feet, seized the handle of his assegai, placed one foot on the lion’s chest and drew the blade clear. Brandishing the bloody steel, he led his four companions back to their places in the ring of warriors. They were greeted with shouts of acclamation that seemed to ring against the sky, and a salute of raised spears. Then the ring of morani moved forward again, tight-ening inexorably around the remaining three lions. As the ring contracted the warriors compacted into a solid wall, the outer edges of their shields overlapping.

  In the centre the three lions rushed back and forth, seeking escape. They charged, then broke off and turned back with tails between their legs. At last one screwed its courage to the fatal point and charged home. The morani who met him drove the blade of his assegai fully home, but as he went over backwards with the lion on top, its claws hooked around the edge of the shield and ripped it aside, exposing the man’s head and his naked torso. While its claws tore the man’s chest open, the mortally wounded lion opened its jaws to their full extent and engulfed the man’s head. It bit down until the long fangs interlocked, crushing the human skull like a walnut in a nutcracker. The dead man’s comrades speared the lion in a fury of vengeance.

  In quick succession the last two lions charged into the front rank of warriors, which broke over them, like an ocean wave upon a rock. They died under the spears, crackling with snarls, lashing out with hooked claws and desperate futility, as the razor steel stabbed deeply into them.

  His circumcision brothers lifted the torn body of the dead morani out of the grass, and laid him on his shield. Then, to the full extent of their raised arms, they lifted him high in the air and bore him home singing his praise song. As they passed the watchers on the hilltop, Graf Otto lifted a clenched fist in a salute to the corpse. The morani acknowledged it with raised assegais and a wild shout.

  ‘There was a man who died a man’s death.’ Graf Otto spoke with solemn intensity, a tone Leon had not heard him use before, and lapsed into silence. All three were deeply moved by the sublime tragedy. Then Graf Otto spoke again. ‘What I have witnessed here today makes all the ethics of the hunt that I have believed in seem ignoble. How c
an I count myself a true hunter until I have stood to meet such a magnificent beast with only a spear in my hand?’ He swivelled in the saddle and glared at Leon. ‘This is not a request, Courtney, it is an order. Get me a lion, a full-grown black-maned lion. I will take him on foot. No guns. Just the beast and me.’

  They camped that night at the manyatta of Sonjo and lay awake listening to the drums beating a dirge for the morani killed in the lion hunt, the keening of the women and the singing of the men.

  In the darkness before dawn, they rode out again. When the sunrise broke over the escarpment of the Rift Valley it swamped the eastern sky with a blazing grandeur of gold and crimson, dazzling their eyes and warming their bodies so that they shrugged off their overcoats and rode on in shirtsleeves. Somehow this sunrise was a fitting epilogue to the lion hunt. It excited their senses and lightened their mood so that they saw beauty in all around them and wondered at the small things that before might have gone unremarked: the azure jewel of a kingfisher’s breast as it darted across the track ahead, the grace of an eagle soaring high against the gold-drenched sky on outstretched pinions, a gazelle lamb kneeling on its front legs under its dam’s belly and greedily bumping her udders with its snout, her milk running down its chin. The ewe watching them pass, unafraid, huge soft eyes glistening.

  The mood was upon Eva also. She pointed with her riding crop and called out gaily, ‘Oh, Otto! See that small creature snuffling around in the grass like an old man who has lost his reading glasses? What is it?’

  Although she was addressing Graf Otto, Leon had the feeling that she was sharing the moment with him alone and answered, ‘It is a honey badger, Fräulein. Although he appears gentle, he is one of the most ferocious creatures in Africa. He is without fear. He is immensely powerful. His pelt is so tough that it resists bee stings and the claws and fangs of much larger animals. Even the lion gives him a wide berth. Interfere with him at your peril.’