by Tony Park
In his email inbox was a message from Lili. He could see even before he opened it that there was an attachment, which meant more pages. Nick was looking forward to his next instalment, but he decided to stock up on provisions and grab a bite to eat.
Nick walked over to the shop, a large thatch-roofed building that seemed to be eighty per cent souvenirs and twenty per cent provisions, but he found some steak, beers, bread and milk, and the makings of a salad. When he got back to his rondavel he put the food away in the caged outdoor fridge.
His desire to explore Kruger Park was blunted by jetlag and when Nick lay down on one of the beds in the rondavel, ostensibly for a ten-minute snooze, he fell into a deep sleep. When he woke and looked outside the sun was almost touching the horizon. Nick liberated a Windhoek Lager beer from the outdoor fridge. He read the label and confirmed, as he had thought, that it was from Namibia. Blake’s story would move there at some point and with luck Nick’s journey would keep pace with the old soldier’s. Nick set some firelighters and a pile of charcoal in the braai in front of his hut – he had deduced the Afrikaans word for barbecue during his shopping trip.
As he took his first sip of his drink, he heard a loud honking sound from downriver and moved to the walkway that ran across the front of his rondavel, for a better view. It took him a moment to locate the source, but the ripples on the shining surface of the river gave the hippo away. What started as a few barely distinguishable bumps emerged slowly and coalesced into a giant creature. The hippopotamus lumbered up out of the water onto dry land, its smooth flank glistening. Nick had read somewhere that hippos came out of the water in the evenings to feed on dry land.
The sight and noise and the timelessness of the setting added to the feeling that he was not just in another country, but another world, another time.
From somewhere far away he heard an eerie woo-oop.
‘You hear that?’
He turned and saw a man, his neighbour, with a pair of tongs in one hand and a can of beer in the other, smoke rising from the braai behind him.
‘Yes,’ Nick said. ‘Is it dumb of me to ask what it is?’
‘Hyena,’ the man said.
‘Wow.’
The man walked over. ‘Howzit, I’m Chris.’
‘Nick.’ They shook hands. ‘Is it normal for them to make that weird whooping noise?’
Chris nodded. ‘They really don’t laugh, like some people say, though they cackle like crazy when they’re excited. They patrol the fence here; you might see one.’
Nick smiled and nodded. ‘I guess I’m safe if I’m not dead – they only scavenge, right?’
‘No, no,’ said the man, clearly a local on holiday, ‘they are actually very efficient hunters, though they do scavenge a lot. You know they live in a matriarchal society? The lowest-ranked female in the clan is senior to the highest-ranked male.’
Nick chuckled. ‘Sounds like where I used to work.’
‘For how long are you in the park?’ Chris asked.
‘A few days, maybe longer if a friend joins me. You?’
‘I’m here a couple more days,’ Chris said. He started piling the cooked meat onto a plate. ‘Enjoy your visit.’
‘Cheers, have a good evening,’ Nick said.
When the coals were glowing red Nick cooked and then ate his food. He sent another message to Susan, then jetlag caught up with him again and he lay down on his bed and drifted off to sleep with the light still on.
A ding from his phone woke him.
Disoriented, he sat up and saw from his watch that it was ten in the evening. He checked his phone and saw immediately from the notification on the screen that it was from Susan.
Relieved, and heart racing a little, he opened the message.
I am so sorry to have to write this message, Nick. I apologise for not replying to your calls and voice messages, but I have had time to do some thinking and I have to tell you that I will not be joining you in the Kruger Park. It was really nice meeting you in Sydney, but I have to take stock of my life right now and work out what is important to me, with work and my private life. I think it’s best if I say goodbye now. Best wishes, Susan.
Nick re-read the message, three times. He couldn’t believe it.
He called Susan but the call went straight to voicemail. He left a message and then another.
‘Susan, it’s Nick,’ he tried again. ‘Please call me. I can understand, I think, if you don’t want to carry on, but I just want to make sure you’re OK. Call me.’
He sat for a long while, looking at his phone in disbelief and willing it to ring. He finished another two beers while waiting and his disbelief started turning to anger. It was now morning in Australia and his phone made a different chime, telling him he had mail. He quickly opened his emails, hoping Susan had sent him a message that way, but there was nothing from her. He saw Lili’s unread email so in an attempt to distract and calm himself he read the latest instalment of the manuscript.
Chapter 20
The eastern Transvaal, South Africa, 1902
Blake rode hard for another hour, keeping to the open veld and away from the road, where he knew there would be checkpoints, blockhouses and roving patrols. Claire had hugged his back as they rode and he imagined she was cold. She was wearing a simple linen dress and, from what he could tell, little else in the way of petticoats.
He used the stars to guide him and, because he had no better idea, headed southeast. He figured that soon enough they would reach the east–west railway line that led to Komatipoort and that was where Claire had said she wanted to go. It was as good a place as any to aim for. The town was on the border of the Transvaal and Portuguese East Africa, and home to another outpost of Steinaecker’s Horse. Even though he was on the run from the British he figured he might be able to get help from one or more of his comrades – several of the misfits under Old Stinky’s command had spent time on the run from the law. With Claire as a witness perhaps he could urge Steinaecker or another officer to take up his case and clear his name. They would need food, a horse for Claire, more ammunition, and intelligence about what this Captain Walters had been up to. Blake half hoped the blow to the man’s head had killed him, but his rational self told him that if Walters died he would be in more trouble than he already was. He needed to bring Walters to justice and have his crimes exposed, not to be saddled with another murder charge.
When they reached a narrow stream they dismounted and Blake let Bluey drink his fill. The moon was high and the ripples on the water glittered silver. He knelt and refilled his canteen.
He offered the water bottle to Claire and said, ‘Time for some answers.’
‘I didn’t escape from the British to answer questions from one of their lackeys.’ She took the water bottle and drank greedily from it.
‘You didn’t escape, I rescued you.’
She wiped her mouth. ‘I don’t know you. I don’t owe you anything.’
‘Well, I did save your life, so I think at least a thank you is warranted.’
She let slip a smile. ‘Very well. Thank you. I need a horse of my own.’
‘Are all Americans so pushy?’
‘Yes, and because I’m half Irish and half German I’m obstinate and efficient to boot. Now, a horse?’
‘I’ve got an idea where we can get a mount for you. But first, why is everyone after you?’ Blake asked.
‘I think the real question is, why are you following me?’ she countered.
He knew she wouldn’t budge; she was clearly hiding something that other people were prepared to kill to discover. ‘I’ve been framed over the death of your American friend at the farm, by Captain Walters, the man who was trying to kill you in the field and who tortured and killed your friend.’
She swallowed, and handed back the water bottle. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
�
�You can prove my innocence. Tell the authorities I went into the barn to try and stop Walters when I realised he was torturing that colonel.’
‘I can’t tell the British authorities anything,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’ll hang me. That’s why that man Walters was after me. He thinks I’m a spy and a Boer sympathiser.’
‘And why would he think that?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m just an innocent civilian.’
More lies, thought Blake, but there was more going on here than just the Brits chasing a Boer sympathiser. It was not enough to explain why a British officer would torture and murder an enemy, and frame Blake and corrupt Bert. ‘I’ll take you in by force if I have to.’
She gave him a mocking smile. ‘You haven’t got any ammunition in that Broomhandle Mauser of yours, otherwise you would have used it on Walters. If you had killed him, our troubles would be over and we could go our separate ways. As it is, you probably just knocked him out cold with your little Broomhandle pistol.’
‘You know your firearms.’
‘I’ve a cousin in the business, as it were.’
‘The British will hang me if I walk in without you as a witness,’ Blake said.
‘And they’ll hang me if I walk in with you. Look, I’m sorry, Sergeant whoever you are . . .’
‘Blake.’
‘Well, Mr Blake, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get out of this country and back to German South West Africa. If you can help me get east to Portuguese East Africa, I’ll go with you to the British embassy in Lourenço Marques and give a statement there.’
Blake rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘We should turn ourselves in, get a lawyer and explain things.’
‘I told you, they’ll execute me. I’m finished with this dirty little war. I want out. I’m going to Portuguese East Africa if I have to walk there,’ Claire said.
‘If the British don’t get you the lions will before you even make the border,’ Blake said.
She reached out and put a hand on his forearm. She held his eyes, but instead of defiance, this time he saw desperation. He felt his skin tingle. ‘Then come with me, please. We’ll stand a better chance with two of us.’
Blake doubted it. He felt sure the woman would slow him down and if she wasn’t going to vouch for him then she was little more than excess baggage, but that little touch had made his pulse race like a thoroughbred.
Perhaps seeing Blake’s hesitation, Claire appeared to decide to let it lie for the moment. ‘How long have you been in South Africa, anyway?’
‘Since the beginning, 1899.’ Blake unbuckled a saddlebag, searched inside, and fished out a stick of biltong. He cut the dried beef in half and handed a share to Claire. She nodded her thanks and nibbled on the end.
‘But why? This isn’t your war.’
‘I didn’t think so at the time either, but then all I was interested in back then was getting into the fight. Now, I don’t know. The Boers are just fighting to keep their own country, and I don’t begrudge them that, but if everyone rebelled against the Empire there’d be no Empire.’
‘And what would be so wrong with that?’
‘We’ve only just become a Federation back home, but I don’t know that I can trust the people who have been elected to run a country properly just yet.’
‘And you think Britain runs itself or its Empire well?’
‘Britain brought education and roads and railways to Australia and to places like this,’ Blake said.
‘And smallpox, syphilis, rum, guns and those horrible camps where women and children are locked up like criminals but treated worse!’
‘All right, all right,’ Blake said, holding his hands up in submission; she had a point. He rummaged inside the saddlebag again.
‘And where do you stand on burning farms and imprisoning women and children?’
‘I’ve never burned a farm, but I won’t lie and tell you I haven’t seen it done. I don’t agree with it, just like I don’t agree with rounding up the Boer women and children.’
His talk was borderline treasonous, but Blake experienced a feeling of relief voicing his concerns about the conduct of the war that he’d largely kept to himself until now.
‘Then why do you continue to fight for the British?’
‘I’m not fighting for the British. I fight for my mates, for the youngsters who still come over here thinking it’s going to be a grand adventure. I fight to keep my boys alive, and because I’ve seen too many good young men cut down in their prime by the Boers.’
‘Spoken like a true man.’
‘I like to think that’s what I am.’
‘You’d be more of a man if you put down your gun and tried to help these people.’
Blake shook his head. ‘You’re just as guilty as I am. You say I don’t belong here, but neither do you – you’re just another foreigner keeping the war going.’
She squared up to him, fists clenched by her side and mouth turned down like an angry honey badger – and those things were fierce. He thought she might slap him, but she seemed to take control of herself, let out a long breath and gave a small nod. ‘You’re right, I suppose,’ she said.
Blake was surprised. He had expected this barney to carry on for a good deal longer. ‘We need to get some sleep.’
‘It’s getting cold, but we can’t light a fire.’
He was impressed. She knew that the flames and the smell of smoke would give them away. He unstrapped the blanket from behind the saddle and tossed it at her feet.
‘I’ll manage,’ she said.
‘I’ve no doubt of it, but by the looks of things I’ve got a couple more layers of clothing on than you have.’
Claire blushed and folded her arms across her chest.
Blake tied the horse to a stunted acacia and settled onto the ground. He separated the saddlebags and tossed one across to Claire to use as a pillow. In the distance a jackal howled. He pulled his collar up around his neck, lay back and propped his slouch hat over his face. He heard Claire’s footsteps as she moved along the pebbly shore of the stream to do her private business. It was strange being out bush with a woman.
Blake awoke just before dawn, the coldest part of the day. His uniform was wet with dew and his back ached. He sat up, removing the sodden hat from his face. He was alone.
‘Shit,’ he said.
Apart from the saddlebag he had used as a pillow, everything was gone – the other bag, the blanket, Bluey. He was hungry, so he took the last of the biltong from his bag and chewed on it as the sun came up. He was, he reflected, stuffed.
The bloody woman had left him in the lurch – and after he’d saved her.
Their conversation from the night before played on his mind as he stripped; he was in dire need of a wash. After witnessing Walters kill Belvedere in cold blood and the horrors of the concentration camp, he realised he was finding it harder and harder to justify the war and his own part in it. Voicing his concerns to Claire had only galvanised his misgivings. He realised that at some point the war would come to an end, and he couldn’t wait for that day, but in truth, he had been fighting for so long he wondered what else he could do.
Blake loved Africa and that was part of the reason he had stayed. He was drawn to the wide, open country of the highveld, which was just screaming to be farmed again, and the enticing lure of the thick bush of the eastern part of the Transvaal with its big game, exotic peoples, and sheer unadulterated wildness.
In appearance the whole country was not unlike Australia – even Cape Town had reminded him of Sydney – but the country held greater mystery and more promise of excitement and adventure than his homeland. He had actually been tempted by the woman’s offer to accompany her to Portuguese East Africa. It sounded an exotic destination. He could be shot for deserting if he crossed the border, but then h
e had already committed several capital crimes according to the British authorities. That was all academic now, however, as his only chance of clearing his name had vanished along with his stolen horse.
He gasped as he waded naked into the icy stream. Ducking his head under the water, he rubbed the grit from his hair, then came up for air and stood, waist deep, letting the morning sun warm his back. He shielded his eyes and looked to the north. Two riders were approaching across the veld at a gallop. He strode from the water and reached for his pistol, even though it was empty. He made no attempt to cover himself as the by-now familiar figures closed on him.
Hermanus reined in his horse, and the old Boer commander pointedly avoided staring at Blake’s unashamed nakedness.
‘Where is the woman?’ asked Hermanus.
‘You tell me,’ Blake said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She left with my horse, sometime in the night.’
‘Headed which way?’
‘Something tells me you know the answer to that question,’ Blake said.
Hermanus looked to the east. ‘Put that bladdy pistol down, man, I know there are no bullets in it.’
Blake lowered the weapon. Hermanus spoke to the younger Boer in their own language.
‘Where is Paul?’ Hermanus asked Blake.
‘Lost him near the camp. Took a bullet, I think. He was a good lad.’
Hermanus grunted. ‘Why didn’t you come to the rendezvous point, like we agreed?’
‘We were being chased,’ Blake said. Truthfully, Blake had thought he could outrun the Boers as well as the British.
‘That bladdy woman.’ Hermanus sighed.
‘You can say that again.’
The other Boer dismounted and, while Hermanus covered Blake with his rifle, the man scooped up Blake’s uniform, undershorts and boots.
‘Wait a minute. You can’t leave me here naked.’
‘Thank God that I don’t shoot you,’ Hermanus said. ‘Kom, kêrel,’ he said to the younger man, who stuffed the uniform into a grain sack with evident glee and climbed back on his horse. Hermanus spurred his mount and the two men galloped eastwards.