by Peter Rimmer
Mad Dogs and Englishmen
Third Book in the Brigandshaw Chronicles
Peter Rimmer
Contents
Join Peter’s Band of Readers
1. The Guide, August 1920
2. Deceit, August 1920
3. Finders, Keepers, September 1920
4. Valley of the Horses, October 1920
5. Johnny Lake December, 1920
6. London, January 1921
7. Echoes from the Past, January 1921
8. New Horizons, January 1921
9. Games and more Games, June 1921
10. England and Harry, April 1922
11. Hastings Court and Colonial Shipping, April to May 1922
12. Manipulations, May 1922
13. Paper Money, Paper Dreams, May to August 1922
14. Journey Home, September 1922
15. Sea Voyage Around Africa, October 1922
16. Elephant Walk, November 1922
17. The Teddy Bears’ Picnic, November 1922
18. Soldier of the Queen, December 1922
Epilogue
Enjoyed Mad Dogs and Englishmen?
Principal Characters
Glossary
Historical Notes
About Peter Rimmer
Also by Peter Rimmer
Join Peter’s Band of Readers
Acknowledgments
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1
The Guide, August 1920
The first distant call of the steam whistle made the knots of people on the railway platform stop talking to listen. Again, across the highveld. Three times. Satisfied they talked again, each with their own small story. Above them the clouds were motionless white in the African sky that had not rained for five months.
An old man watched the line of rail, watching for the train and his last opportunity. None of the others, deep in their trivial talk took any notice of him. His skin was dry and wrinkled. On his back he carried an old canvas haversack. In his right hand he gripped a gnarled stick he had made for himself long ago from a limb of a mukwa tree, harder than any Burmese teak. The old man waited patiently, alone, as he had done many times before when meeting the train from Beira, the deep water port that served Rhodesia, some three hundred miles east on the Indian Ocean in Portuguese Mozambique. The only good pieces of clothing were his boots which he had bought from the army surplus store for sixpence. In 1920 there was plenty of army surplus. The clear blue eyes that watched the train were the last sign of his youth. The three blasts of the steam whistle still echoed in his mind. Like so many other things from his past. Most of the good he was going to have from life had happened a long time ago. All but this one thing. Which made him determined.
The great iron engine with grand puffs full of energy and white steam rolled over the last of the metal track into Salisbury Station, the big cowcatcher pushed out front importantly. As the driver and his fireman looked out of opposite sides from the high, hot metal cab, the great piston of the steel turning the wheels that clanked the iron railway that had cut open the heart of Africa, the old man noticed the rotten leg of a kudu caught in the cowcatcher. When the train moved past him slowly he saw the flies had begun to eat the dry blood of the antelope and lay their eggs. The hoof of the kudu was small and beautifully made, pointing at the roof of the shed that ran the length of the platform.
More people were pushing forward to have a look at the train, the great engine, full of modern energy. Behind came the line of wooden carriages, their windows down. People leaning out. Eager faces. Looking with happy expectation. Their old sad lives left in England when they boarded the boat that had brought them to Africa. The boat train was the end of their journey. The beginning of their new lives. The excitement of new hope. For some it was the happiest day of their lives.
The butterflies in Jim Bowman’s stomach made all of a flutter. Everyone else in the carriage had stood up. The sleepers were in first class and Jim had saved his money. He never understood how the mind dictated to the stomach. The first shellfire had emptied his bowels. The first sight of Jenny Merryl had stopped his heart. The first man he killed with a bayonet had made him vomit. And now the butterflies were fluttering, concentrating his fear and expectations. Only when the train stopped was he able to get up, certain his legs would hold him up. Then he took down his kitbag that had gone with him through the war before they gave him his commission in the field. He had been paralysed with fear but gone on in with the bayonet, leading the others so they had said. He didn’t really remember except the vomiting and no one had mentioned that. And the next day the colonel had made him a second lieutenant. He thought the fact that the junior officers were all dead had more to do with it than the mentally paralysed charge across no man’s land. There had been so much noise.
And then they had had to teach him which knife and fork to use in the officers’ mess. By the summer of 1918 when he made his charge, the British were nearly out of the officer class at the junior level. The war was over six weeks after they made him an officer. He had enjoyed the food. One of the officers had been a Rhodesian which was why he was on the train alone with his kitbag and fifty-three pounds, seven shillings and thruppence, all after paying his passage. As a lance corporal his severance pay would have got him as far as London from where he lived in the north, next door but three to Jenny Merryl who would not even notice he had gone.
The butterflies stopped fluttering at exactly the moment he very much needed the lavatory. This time it was his bladder.
“There you are, dear boy,” said an old man with a haversack on his back. Jim had never seen him before in his life.
“Where’s the gents, please?”
“I see. Better follow quickly.”
Surprisingly quickly, the old man led the way.
With his bladder bursting and his mind still in control, Jim Bowman stood at the urinal with the old man watching behind him. Nothing happened.
“Oh, I see, dear boy… I’ll be outside when you’re finished. You are Lieutenant James Bowman of the Lancashire Fusiliers?”
“Please!”
“I’ll be outside. Just outside.”
His flood of relief lasted a full minute and then his bowels took control. The small cubicle with the half door smelled of stale urine and there was no toilet paper. He crammed in with his kitbag and took down his trousers without wiping the seat like his mother had always told him. After ten minutes and with a smile of self-satisfaction he found the roll of toilet paper in his kitbag. The army had taught him always to carry a toilet roll.
Outside on the platform everyone had gone. Down the far end the engine driver was letting out the last of the steam. A mongrel dog looked at the driver hopefully. The fireman threw the mutilated leg of kudu out onto the empty platform and whistled to the dog. By the time the mongrel reached the meat, there was a dogfight going on and a pair of crows had flat landed on the platform.
The old man with the gnarled stick was sitting on the bench outside the waiting room watching him. Not sure of his next move, Jim smiled at the old man and went across to him.
“How do you know my name, sir?”
“Colonel Voss, at your service. You will be going to Meikles Hotel I presume? There is a delightful restaurant.”
“I wasn’t sure where to stay.”
“Everyone stays at Meikles when they first arrive. I�
��ll show you the way. We can walk. The weather in Africa is beautiful… Oh, and on the patio there is no dress code at lunchtime. The farmers you see. Mostly a scruffy lot until they’ve had a bath and changed. They travel long distances to town… I’m in the mining business but I’ll tell you over lunch. Mining and rare artefacts. I’m sure you’ll be interested. There is sweet music in the energy of youth larded with the knowledge of great experience. Come along. Take us five minutes, I should think. We go along Pioneer Street and turn left into Second Street. Give you a chance to see a bit of the town. We can have a bottle of wine with our lunch… Have the butterflies stopped fluttering?”
“They have as a matter of fact,” said Jim, surprised at the old man’s perception.
“What do we call you? Bowman or Mr Bowman.”
“Call me Jim, sir.”
“None of the ‘sir’ business… You see, you and I are going to be partners.”
With the kitbag on his right shoulder he walked behind the old man with the haversack who was walking fast. Jim noticed the old man was wearing a new pair of British Army regulation boots. Suddenly Jim Bowman felt very happy.
In the side street to the left of the hotel were a line of hitching posts. Some of the tied up horses were alone. Some were still in harness with long traps behind them. Outside the hotel entrance stood a Bentley car with a long bonnet and a leather strap over the middle of the round bonnet. Small black boys in bare feet and cast-off shorts were looking at the car. A huge black man with the biggest belly Jim had ever seen was standing on the pavement watching the small boys with distrust. A leopard skin was flung over his shoulder. He carried a shield and spear. Hung below the vast open belly was a shirt made from animal skins that had seen better days. Unbeknown to Jim Bowman, the big Zulu from the tribe of King Shaka and King Lobengula would have been an induna if the white man had not interfered. His father had been one of the last induna’s of Lobengula to stay with the king at Gu-Bulawayo, the king’s last kraal. Now he was the doorman at Meikles Hotel.
The Zulu watched Colonel Voss with the young man, envious of the old man’s new boots. They caught each other’s eye. When the old man was lucky, he made the young men give the Zulu a penny when they left. One of them had given him a three-penny piece. All the coins had on them the head of the King of England, some with the words ‘Southern Rhodesia’ around the bottom. A penny bought a lot of meat the white butcher called boy’s meat. With a big pot of sadza it was good to eat… And always there were more of these young Englishmen coming into his country. Especially since the big war was over. White men killing white men. He would have liked to have seen that.
One of the small boys was about to touch the gleaming black bonnet of the Bentley when his half bare behind was pricked by the Zulu’s spear. The small boys ran off down the dirt road together. Through the trees of Cecil Square, the church clock struck eleven o’clock in the morning.
“Why don’t we have a beer on the veranda, dear boy? Still a little early for lunch and that bottle of wine.”
Ignoring the mild protest of the head waiter, the old man sat down at the round table. They were in a courtyard ten feet from the kerb. A red-sashed, red-fezzed waiter came up.
“You order, dear boy,” said the old man trying to make it look like a favour.
And then Jim had the message, smiling to himself. He was young but not that naïve. He comforted himself with the thought of a horse-drawn cab to the nearest hotel would have cost him more than a bottle of beer. He really felt at home. Later he would find a cheap room in a boarding house. Colonel Voss with the old clothes and new boots would know where to find him what he wanted.
The big black man with the spear and shield was looking at him with something close to pity. He gave the man a wink. The man broke into a broad smile with big white teeth. Then the cold beers came dripping condensation down the outside of the bottles onto the silver tray. He gave the waiter an English sixpence and waited for his change. English money they had said was just as good as Rhodesian. Most anywhere, English money was as good as anything. Certainly in the colonies. By the time his change came the old man had drunk his beer. Jim ordered them both another one. He was curious how the old man knew his name. And he was having fun. The first beer had gone straight to his head. Maybe he had better spend his first night in the hotel.
“Excuse me,” he said getting up.
The old man was alarmed. The two new beers had been ordered but not paid for.
“Waiter,” called Jim to the man’s back. Hefting his kitbag in one hand he gave the bar money to the waiter and walked into the hotel.
He was quite sure the old man would still be there when he came back. At reception, they gave him a key, took away his kitbag, sealed his wallet and put it in the safe. Jim had a pound note in his pocket. It would be enough. Feeling safer, he walked out onto the front courtyard of the hotel. The old man was waiting for him. The two full bottles of beer stuck in an ice bucket with the tops off ready to be drunk.
The traffic in the wide street had built up while he was standing inside at the reception desk. A pretty girl in a flowered dress gave him a smile. Only when she had gone past him did he manage to smile back. It was hot, but the air was dry. Invigorating.
“Do you know any of the legends of Africa, dear boy?… Always sensible to find a base straightaway. You know that doorman would be an induna if Doctor Jameson hadn’t chased Lobengula out of Bulawayo.”
“What’s an induna?”
“An adviser to the king. Rather like a minister in the British cabinet. Cheers, dear boy. Your most excellent good health. The legend brought me in the first place, not the gold or the promise of a great farm. Long before Rhodes sent up his pioneer column. In those days the white hunters got permission from the Ndebele King Lobengula to hunt the lands of the great Shona tribes. Men like Hartley and Selous, Oosthuizen and Brigandshaw. The British hanged Oosthuizen for going out with the Boers during the war. He was a British subject. Crown colony Southern Rhodesia. Sebastian Brigandshaw was killed by the Great Elephant. But I digress, dear boy. The legend was the thing.”
“How do you know my name, sir?”
“I’ll come to that. You see, the legend is so old no one knows when it started. The tribes of Africa never wrote anything down, but the legend lived. Father to son. Round the cooking fires over the long, long centuries. They weaved the story of their history. Their ancestors. The legend has it there was a great civilisation here when we in Europe were still climbing trees and living in caves dressed in animal skins. And the heart of the ancient empire was right here in Rhodesia. Deep in the bush are the ruins of a great city that thrived two thousand years ago. Before the birth of Christ. Before the Queen of Sheba. Only Egypt, far to the north, had anything like this great kingdom.”
“What was the kingdom called?”
“Nobody knows.”
“A legend without a name! Pardon me. That’s silly. Nobody passes down a legend for three thousand years without a name.”
“They won’t tell us, you see,” said the old man leaning forward and dropping his voice to a whisper. Then he took out a pipe, the bowl carved in the shape of a crocodile head. “Do you have any tobacco?… Maybe the waiter could find us a pouch of pipe tobacco… You won’t mind me smoking?”
“Not at all,” said Jim laughing. The price of local knowledge was going to cost him more than he thought… Either the old man was a crook or crazy… Jim was halfway through his second bottle of beer. He had had no idea what he was going to do on his first day… He thought of the pretty girl and blushed. The old man was spinning a good yarn. The beer was cold. The sky was blue. He told himself there were times in life to talk and times to listen. Jim was sure the story was a figment of the old man’s imagination.
When they had eaten a good lunch and drunk a bottle of wine, Jim wanted nothing more than his cool room upstairs in the hotel with the curtains drawn and a bed to sleep on. He paid the bill, shook the old man’s hand and excused himself.
The old boy was still sitting at the round table when he looked back. Either the man was drunk or bad of sight as his small wave went unnoticed.
Only in the cool of his room did he remember he had not learnt how the old man knew his name and regiment. Then he fell asleep and dreamed of the Queen of Sheba wearing a floral dress and a smile.
He slept through the afternoon and deep into the night. When he woke an owl was calling from outside in Cecil Square. He counted the clock strike three and fell back into sleep. When he woke a crack in the curtain had let a line of sunlight cut across his bed. All the blankets were on the floor.
When he got up and looked out of the crack in the curtain at his new home, he realised he was ravenously hungry. On the side table was his watch and his change. The beers, the tobacco, the wine and the lunch for two of them had cost him two and sixpence.
Downstairs there was no sign of the old man. The fat-bellied Zulu was at his work. The Bentley had gone. The small boys were back looking for something to do.
Jim went into the big dining room with the punkahs turning overhead to cool the room and ate his breakfast. He was going to have himself a good life, of that much he was certain. In time he might even forget the war. Sitting over a second pot of tea he waited for the pretty girl in vain.
The first thing he had to do was find himself a job. He wondered if Salisbury had a labour exchange for just arrived Englishmen. He doubted it and sent his waiter out for the newspaper. Doves were calling outside his nearest window from a tree in an inside courtyard.
When he had read the Rhodesia Herald, he looked up and found he was the last in the dining room. No one seemed to mind. No one brought him a bill. He found out at reception that the night in the room included his breakfast. He changed his mind again, walked back to the reception desk and asked the man to keep his room for another night. Then he walked out of the hotel to look around Salisbury. He gave the big Zulu a penny as the old man had told him to do. Again he was given a flash of white teeth. They were becoming friends.