by John Wilcox
‘I, ah, do beg your pardon, Countess,’ he mumbled.
‘No, no. None of this countess nonsense here. After all, we are not in stuffy Europe now.’ Her smile widened to reveal, of course, perfect teeth. ‘We are in wonderful, exciting Africa. You must call me Anna and I shall call you Simon.’
‘Very well, er, Anna. Of course. Yes.’ Sitting just a few inches away from this ravishing woman, who was clearly quite happy to put herself out to charm him, despite his badly fitted shirt and the awful cuff links, Simon felt a surging wave of physical attraction. For a brief moment he caught a glimpse of himself in the candle-framed mirror on the wall opposite. The reflection showed a face, tanned and hawk-like with its broken nose, sitting incongruously atop the starched white collar and grinning - a great schoolboy grin. He tried to gather his composure. ‘Um . . . what brings you to wonderful, exciting Bloemfontein, then, Anna?’
‘What brings me? Ah. Business. Dull, fusty old business, Simon. Yes, yes, I know. Women are not supposed to be involved in such things, but I have inherited some shareholdings and I refuse to let other people tell me what to do with them. So I am involved with the business.’ She held up her hand. ‘No. I am not going to tell you what it is - that is much too boring.’
‘Very well. Then tell me what part of Germany is your home?’
‘Essen. Again, not exciting, I am afraid. A dull industrial city.’
‘Ah, yes. Just north of Cologne, if I remember.’
‘You have been there?’
‘Well, very near there. In my last year at Sandhurst - that’s our officers’ school. Some of us were invited to go to Germany to watch the manoeuvres of your army. It was very impressive.’
‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
‘Ein Bisschen. Ich habe es in der . . . er . . . Schule gerlernt, aber leider habe ich viel vergessen.’
‘Well, that was said very fluently. You will soon pick it up again. I must teach you.’ This last sentence was said as the countess leaned towards him slightly, touching his arm. Her perfume met Simon’s nostrils again and set his heart pounding anew.
He attempted to clear his throat. ‘Your English is excellent, Coun . . . Anna. You put me to shame. Where did you learn it?’
‘At school in England.’ She lowered her head slightly and looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Oh, I learned so many things there that I enjoyed, you know. I learned how to hunt, do embroidery, act in Shakespeare, play bridge and . . . yes, even play cricket. Do you know, I was the best off-break bowler in the school. Do you know how to bowl an off-break, Simon?’
He shook his head, thinking that she could talk to him about Polynesian postage stamps for the rest of the evening for all he cared, as long as he could sit close to her, looking into her deep brown eyes.
‘Tut, tut. And you an Englishman. Look.’ She leaned forward and seized an orange. ‘Now, observe closely. You grasp the ball so and curl the forefinger - this finger - around just the other side of where the seam should be, and as you let it go, you twist the wrist like this and spin the ball with the forefinger across the seam, so . . .’ and she demonstrated with the orange, her head close to his. The action attracted the attention of the rest of the diners, who watched her in silence for a moment.
‘Ah,’ said the countess, looking up. ‘I was just demonstrating to Captain Fonthill how to bowl an off-break at cricket. He does not know, so he has no right to call himself an Englishman. Don’t you agree, Wilhelm?’
The baron did not smile but stared at Simon briefly. ‘Cricket? Something I know nothing about. Nor do I wish to learn.’
The awkward silence that followed was broken by Mrs Brand. A stoutish, motherly woman, she chose this moment to rise. ‘I think, ladies,’ she said, ‘it is time we retired to leave the gentlemen to do whatever it is they do when ladies retire. I shall send in the liqueurs and cigars, Jan. Now don’t be too long. We shall expect you in the drawing room in about thirty minutes.’ She smiled around the table and the ladies dutifully rose, gathered their long skirts about them and left the room in a swish of silk and taffeta. Almost immediately, a black servant entered carrying a tray with decanters of cognac and port and a large box of cigars.
Small talk ensued as the drinks were passed around and cigars selected, and then Borkenhagen, the newspaper editor, thrust out his legs and addressed Brand, although, of course, the gathering was now intimate enough for everyone to hear. ‘What are you going to do about the Transvaal, Jan?’ He spoke in an accent that combined the guttural sonority of both the German and the Taal tongues.
Brand shot a quick glance that embraced Simon and von Bethman and smiled. ‘Ach, everyone’s asking me that. Dammit all, man, there’s not much I can do now. The war has started; it will probably have to run its course.’
Borkenhagen, a big man with heavy side-whiskers, persisted. ‘You know what I mean, Mr President,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you think we should support our brothers across the Vaal, ja?’
Brand sighed. ‘I’ve read all your leaders in the Express and I know your views. You want a bond - a union of all Afrikaners within South Africa. Well, I see your point and it may happen one day, but I remain unconvinced that our interests are the same as those of the Transvaal. We have our freedom and it has been carefully maintained for sixteen years now. I don’t want to do anything that might compromise that.’
The journalist gave a less than gracious nod to Simon. ‘With due respect to this young man here,’ he said, ‘it will only be a question of time before the British annex us again. Then we shall have to fight anyway. Let’s do it now, while we have support.’
Brand smiled across the table at Simon. ‘I am sorry, Captain Fonthill,’ he said, ‘but we Afrikaners do speak bluntly - particularly the German ones.’ He frowned at Borkenhagen. ‘I don’t think that we should discuss these local and difficult political matters at the dinner table. Let us enjoy our brandy and speak of world affairs.’
The baron leaned forward, blue cigar smoke curling up around his startlingly grey eyes. ‘But Herr President,’ he said, ‘these are matters which concern the world. I can assure you, having recently come from Berlin, that all eyes in Europe - and probably those in America too - are on what happens here now. The British should give the Transvaal its independence. The British have a big enough empire already. They are too greedy. They cannot lift their noses from the trough. They should not fight the Boers.’
The eyes of the three men turned to Simon. Earlier, Simon had resolved that he would not enter into a political debate. He lacked the experience to hold his own in the cut and thrust of this sort of argument, and anyway, with Brand poised to jump down from the fence one way or the other, it could be dangerous. But the cool stare of the two Afrikaners and the provocative language of Bethman - what the hell was his exact relationship with Anna anyway? - were too much.
He took a mouthful of cognac. ‘I agree that we should not fight the Transvaalers,’ he said, as steadily as he could, ‘but I do take exception to your language in describing my country, Baron. We have recently successfully fought lifelong enemies of the Boers in the Zulus and the bePedi tribe of Sekukuni, so removing threats from the people of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State and allowing them to get on with their pastoral lifestyles. An army that does that certainly would not wish to turn its rifles on the very people it has been protecting. No, the first shots in this miserable business were fired by the Transvaalers. A British column was ambushed and given very little chance of defending itself. Whatever the political background, it was the wrong thing to do. No country - certainly not yours, Baron - would allow that sort of action to go without response.’
The German lifted his left eyebrow and directed a look of cool contempt at Simon. ‘It was not an ambush. The British colonel was given the opportunity of laying down his arms.’
‘Were you at Bronkhorstspruit, sir?’
‘Nein. But I was nearby in Heidelberg - that is the new capital of the Transvaal - and heard all about it.’
‘Allow me to correct you, Baron. Pretoria remains the capital of the Transvaal, where a British garrison is in place. I was not at the ambush either but I have interviewed a man who was there - a neutral who has therefore no irons in this particular fire - and he tells me that no honourable man could have surrendered immediately like that. The British had no time to even level their rifles before, standing in the open as they were, they were gunned down.’ Simon made an effort to maintain an even tone. ‘One hundred and twenty of our men were killed. They were shot at point-blank range and I understand that many of them had as many as four or five bullet holes in their heads. That was an act of aggression, and as a result, General Colley is now forced to march into the Transvaal.’
‘Where he will lose all his men,’ Borkenhagen growled through a fog of cigar smoke.
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Simon coolly.
‘Despite what you have said, young man,’ said the baron, ‘white man should not fight white man in Africa.’
‘To repeat, sir, I agree with you. But I can only point out that you should say that to your friends in Heidelberg who opened the hostilities.’
Brand, who had been listening to the exchanges keenly, coughed. ‘I think, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that we have taken that discussion as far as it can go.’ What could have been described as a mischievous twinkle came into his eye as he turned to Bethman. ‘Did you have a successful mission in Heidelberg, then, Baron?’
The German shot a very quick glance at Simon before replying. ‘Ja, thank you, Mr President. Very successful, in fact.’ He smiled, his face giving the impression that it was unused to relaxing in this way. ‘Perhaps rather more successful than my visit here, eh?’ The smile gave way to a staccato laugh.
Brand returned the smile, then looked over his shoulder. ‘I think, gentlemen, that the ladies will be becoming a little restive.’ He stood. ‘Shall we join them?’
The men entered the small salon trailing clouds of cigar smoke behind them. Anna Scheel caught Simon’s eye immediately and patted the space on the small chaise-longue next to her. Trying not to seem too eager, Simon slightly lengthened his stride and joined her. Mrs Brand was speaking in her open, disingenuous way.
‘It is very difficult for us to maintain style here, you know,’ she said, waving her fan to show the homespun but, to Simon’s eye, perfectly acceptable furnishings in the room. ‘Jan’s salary is only five thousand pounds a year and that does not leave us very much room to entertain in a manner which befits the president of a republic.’
Brand coughed, perhaps to hide some embarrassment. ‘Come, my dear, you make the Orange Free State sound like America or France. We are a small state that some fifty years ago only existed in a few covered wagons. We are making our own way very well, slowly but surely. We don’t need or desire all the trappings of a large, settled country.’
‘Mr President,’ Frau Borkenhagen’s voice was an echo of her husband’s in its pitch and tone, ‘you entertain very well, and those of us who are lucky enough to have experienced your hospitality are all most grateful.’ She looked around the room for approval. ‘I am sure that we are all looking forward to the ball the day after tomorrow.’
There was a low murmur of ‘Hear, hear.’
‘Ah, the ball.’ The countess spoke in low tones directly to Simon. ‘Are you to be there, Simon?’
‘Only if you are, ma’am.’
She laughed. ‘Ah, you are learning the gallant ways of the salon very quickly. So,’ she tapped him on the arm with her fan, ‘will you dance with me, then?’
‘Of course. But you may regret it, because I am very clumsy.’
‘We will manage, you and I.’ Her smiling eyes held his, perhaps a moment longer than propriety allowed, and Simon felt his cheeks redden.
She lowered her gaze and Simon looked across the room. Baron von Bethman was regarding him steadily, a look of undisguised malevolence on his face. Simon’s first instinct was to drop his eyes, as conventional politeness would dictate. But he did not. He stayed holding the other’s gaze, keeping his face as coolly expressionless as the baron’s was openly malignant. Was the man jealous or just expressing his ethnic prejudice? Simon decided that he didn’t care but was not going to be intimidated by this Teutonic bully, so he kept his gaze locked on to those icy grey eyes across the room. The two must have stayed that way for all of thirty seconds, like matador and bull sizing each other up for the battle to come. Then, at last, the baron looked away. First blood to me, thought Simon. Then, some vestige of diplomatic conscience stirred within him and struggled through the champagne haze that was beginning to cloud his head, and he felt ashamed - ashamed of this macho posturing, this game-playing with a man who could be dangerous and even harmful to his country’s cause.
He shook his head in a brief moment of self-rebuke and felt a gentle pressure on his arm. Anna was looking at him with a half-smile on her lips but a puzzled, questioning look in her eyes. In a split second, Simon gave way to temptation.
‘Would you care to come riding with me tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘The weather seems to be clement and I understand that the countryside around here, although rather flat, can be quite interesting and good for riding.’
Her reaction was immediate. The half-smile turned into a beam revealing those delicious white teeth. ‘What a good idea,’ she said. ‘Meet me by the citadel at two thirty. Would that be convenient?’
Simon swallowed. ‘Most convenient,’ he said.
The gathering broke up shortly afterwards and Simon walked back to his hotel, his heart singing and his head, if not in a whirl, then certainly buzzing with desire and fascination. He had not, he realised, ever before looked forward with such pleasurable anticipation to riding a horse. Jenkins would be amazed. Yet as he walked in the warm air along the tree-lined avenues, his mind could not help but dwell on the reason for the presence of the two Germans in Bloemfontein. They had clearly travelled to the Free State capital from the Transvaal - presuming, that is, they had travelled together. Were they lovers? Simon’s jaw clenched at the thought. Surely not, given Anna’s warmth towards him. He sighed. What a beautiful, desirable woman . . . but what the hell was such a sophisticated creature doing in the land of the dour, earthy Boers? And what the hell was she doing, for that matter, with the surly baron?
He wandered on, past his hotel, his white tie and tails attracting enquiring looks from the few people, white and black, who still walked the streets. He found himself at the citadel and stood for a moment, looking up at the old cannon perched on top of the loose stones of the wall. Yes, they were indeed 24-pounders. He examined the guns for a moment, his hands deep in his pockets, his brain trying to pin down something elusive . . . some link. Cannon. Germans. Anna. Essen. Ah, he had it! Essen, Anna’s home town in Germany, was also the home of the giant armaments factory Krupp, the largest manufacturer of weapons in the world. So that was it. Anna had said she was a shareholder in a company. Was she in South Africa selling guns to the Boers? It seemed inconceivable that such a young, delicate and beautiful woman could be involved in such a sordid business. Von Bethman, yes. But not Anna, surely? Yet presumably she was travelling with the baron and he had smirked that he had had a successful visit to Heidelberg, the new Boer capital of the Transvaal - and there would be no other town in the world where the demand for sophisticated weaponry would be higher. Von Bethman had also referred ruefully to his comparative lack of success here, in the Free State. That would be because Brand was not in the business of going to war, or at least not yet.
A warning note echoed deep in Simon’s brain as he turned back to the hotel. These were deep waters. What was it that Colley had said? ‘Tread with care.’ He shook his head in frustration. Surely there couldn’t be any harm in riding with the woman? And anyway, perhaps he could learn something about the presence of these two exotic creatures in this dour backwater of Africa?
The next morning a beaming Jenkins came to pick up Simon’s dress shirt to wash and
iron it anew in readiness for the following evening’s entertainment. ‘I’ve found some starch in this funny little place,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘so I can make you look beautiful for the ball an’ all, Cinderella. An’ give me those shoes, see, and I’ll try an’ make ’em gleam.’
‘Sorry I’ve been neglecting you two,’ said Simon. ‘What have you been up to?’
Jenkins’s beam turned into a wicked grin. ‘Ally’s been teachin’ the locals ’ow to play poker. We’ve made a fortune, look you.’
‘What? You as well?’
‘Ooh yes. When ’e’s taught ’em, see, they want to play. It’s natural, isn’t it? So we play ’em as a team - and we win. We’re doin’ nicely, see. I must say, bach sir, I quite like this postin’. I’d be ’appy to stay ’ere for a while, so I would.’
Simon sighed. ‘Oh lord. Do be careful. I somehow never thought that the Boers would gamble.’
‘Ooh no. It’s not them. There’s a funny collection of fellers that get in the bars ’ere: English, but Germans an’ Dutch too. They can’t resist a flutter, see.’
‘Right. But don’t get into a fight, because we are skating on thin ice here. And anyway, it looks as though we will be leaving the day after tomorrow.’
Jenkins pulled a face. ‘Ah. Right you are then.’
Slightly concerned what Jenkins would say about him actually riding for pleasure, Simon groomed his horse himself that morning, rubbing a little wax into the leathers and polishing, as best he could, the harness. If the beast looked smart, he reasoned, perhaps Anna wouldn’t notice the inadequacy of the horseman.
Early as he was, Anna was waiting for him at the citadel. Predictably, she was mounted on a well-bred mare whose coat shone in the afternoon sun and who pranced in anticipation as he cantered up. She was riding side-saddle, wearing a long black skirt that draped one side of her mount, a crisp white blouse buttoned at throat and wrist and a saucy narrow-brimmed straw hat kept in place by a green scarf tied under her chin. Damn! Apple green. Alice’s favourite colour. He shook his head to remove the vision and took off his hat and swept it low in a gallant gesture.