They passed many farms and homesteads, and whilst the occupants were often very poor, they always offered to share what little they had without expecting anything in return. Small game was plentiful, and they managed to supplement the meat that they hunted with roots and fruits that they foraged along the way.
Whenever they found fresh water, the growing number of empty wine bottles were filled as insurance against the possibility that the next watering place would either be dry or too brackish. They had just forded a freshwater stream and come out of a tall forest of assegai trees — so named because their branches were used by the Khoikhoi to make the shafts of their spears — when the track forked, one route leading east towards the ocean and the other leading inland to the north.
“This is it,” Thunberg said after conferring with Eulaeus. “This is where we head inland and overtake them.”
For almost the entire journey thus far, they had been hemmed into a narrow plain by a range of mountains that ran parallel to the coast. As they came closer and closer to the frontier, with no apparent way through the mountains to an inland route, Masson had begun to worry that Thunberg had miscalculated and that they would end up following Schelling all the way to Two Rivers. But now, with what Thunberg said was just three or four days left, Masson saw that he need not have worried. The mountains that had contained them for so long now petered out, giving way to a hilly coastal plain through which they could traverse without obstruction.
“We’ll take the north track that heads into the interior and then break out east again just before we get to the next range of mountains,” Thunberg said. “It’s slightly longer, but the track is every bit as good as the coastal one. If we push hard, we can easily make up the time.”
Thunberg dismounted from his horse and inspected the tracks in the dirt, conferring with Eulaeus before standing up and gazing eastwards to where they could just about see a faint smear of dust rising off the land, wavering in the heat haze. “Schelling’s headed for a large village of Xhosa that lies a bit further down the eastern track, just before it reaches the sea. He’ll be needing a guide to take him the rest of the way, and hopefully they’ll hold him up with negotiations for a spell and give us more time to realise our passing manoeuvre.”
“But won’t we need a guide as well?” Masson asked.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” asked Thunberg, suddenly fascinated by something that had become lodged under his fingernail. It took up so much of his attention that he did not look at Masson while he spoke. “Two Rivers is where Eulaeus is from. He knows the area better than you know the lines on your own palm.”
Masson couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
Thunberg squirmed. “When you say it like that, it sounds much worse than it is. Really, I just didn’t want to get your hopes up. Eulaeus says that he hasn’t seen the isigude himself, but he thinks he knows where to look.”
“To think that I had begun to trust you,” Masson said, shaking his head. “What did you have in mind? I don’t think you could have abandoned me like Willmer did; that would go against that gentlemanly code you hold in such high esteem. Were you hoping that I would expire in the wilderness so that you could go on to collect the flower yourself?”
“Look,” Thunberg said in a conciliatory tone, “we’re losing time. Every minute we spend arguing here is time we could be spending outflanking Schelling. If we press on now, we can be at Two Rivers the day after tomorrow, and maybe even a day before Schelling. That’ll give us enough time to find the flower and then get going on our return journey. Eulaeus will see to it that the chief puts them onto the wrong trail, and by the time he works out what’s happened, we’ll be halfway back to Cape Town.”
Masson frowned and took a deep breath. He could sense that the flower was almost within his grasp, and yet he still did not have the full measure of Thunberg. He wondered what else lay in store.
“Fine. Let’s do it your way, but without any more surprises.”
As Thunberg led the way onto the northern trail, he gave Masson his warmest smile and made a dramatic show of placing his hand on his heart as if swearing an oath. “No more surprises. I promise!”
CHAPTER 29
The team raced across the plain for the rest of the day. As they headed away from the coast and the mountains dropped away, vistas opened up in every direction. The coastal woodlands that they had passed through were replaced by open stretches of grassland broken up by short, thorny trees and scrubby bush; as a result, the amount and sheer variety of game far exceeded anything they had seen up until then.
They saw elephants and rhinoceros, as well as entire herds of zebras and their brown-flanked quagga cousins, not to mention the seemingly ever-present springbok. Although Masson had seen examples of most of these animals on the way up the coast, this was the first time that he had laid eyes on so many of them in such close proximity. He found himself having to catch the others up because he was constantly stopping in disbelief, trying to take in what seemed to him an impossible number of animals. He was struck dumb with wonder at how fertile the land must be to support so many creatures.
When evening rolled around, the group stopped to rest and feed themselves and the horses before setting off again under the cover of night.
It was whilst they were eating that Masson almost dropped his bowl at a sound that seemed to wrench his heart from his chest. At first it had been distant and he had not thought much of it, blending in as it did with the symphony of evening sounds. But as it grew closer and more distinct, it not only took over the symphony but silenced each and every other instrument until it was alone in the black and otherwise noiseless void of the night.
When the roar came again, it seemed to him so close that he felt sure that at any moment a blur of yellow fur and white fangs would bring both their supper and the journey to a swift and bloody end. As he left his upturned victuals in the dirt and raced for one of the loaded rifles that they kept on the back of the cart, he saw that Thunberg and Eulaeus had remained seated and were looking up at him with bemused interest.
“Don’t worry, Masson, the land here is flat, and with the breeze like it is, sound carries a fair distance. More than likely they are miles away, and anyway, the fire will keep them at bay.” Thunberg’s words did nothing to reassure Masson, especially when he went on to say, almost cheerfully, “Still, probably not a bad idea to keep going.”
After pushing on through the night and stopping only for a herd of elephant that was on its own night march across the plain. Dawn broke in the east, revealing the outline of another range of mountains that rose up jaggedly against the northern horizon. They had reached a shallow and slow-moving river whose course was carved deep into the earth, leaving banks about thirty feet high that were made up of a crumbling, reddish dirt that was bare of any vegetation and which had been striated by gullies and rivulets carved by the last flood waters.
“There’s more than likely a crossing point a bit further upstream,” Thunberg said after conferring with Eulaeus. “Once we get over, the path splits, and we can head back to the main trail that runs along the coast. With the progress we’ve made, Schelling should be at least half a day’s ride behind.”
Masson nodded his head and yawned as he followed on behind Thunberg, who turned and said, “You can take a rest on the back of the cart if you like.”
“Between the lions and your navigation, sleep is more than likely the last thing I could do right now.” Prompted by rumblings in his stomach, Masson remembered that they had not yet had breakfast.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked.
“Well,” replied Thunberg trying to sound upbeat, “we can’t stop to hunt, but there are still some biscuits and plenty of water. And we still have some wine—”
Eulaeus cleared his throat and made a sucking noise through his teeth. Thunberg frowned and cast a glance at the back of the cart. All the crates had been emptied of their contents and then re-filled
with the bulbs, seeds and cones they had collected along the way. The bottles lashed to the sides of the cart were all either empty or filled with water.
“Ah, no wine then. But at least we still have Pieterszoon’s brandy.”
This time it was Masson’s turn to shake his head as he lifted from the cart one of the jars containing the various samples of insects, reptiles and amphibians that had been caught and then preserved in the light brown liquid.
“Now that really is a disaster — we may just have to turn back for home right here and now,” said Thunberg grumpily. He took the jar from Masson, opening it and taking a tentative a sniff. Just as Masson thought he might quaff the liquid, Thunberg shook his head wistfully and reluctantly closed the jar again.
“Well,” he said, “we’ll just have to sustain ourselves on water and biscuits for now and if we make good time, perhaps we can do some hunting for our dinner.”
Eulaeus passed out the hardtack biscuits and water, and after a brief pause, they continued along the path which tracked the course of the river. After a few minutes, Masson stared into the distance and raised a pointed finger to the horizon. “What’s that?”
Two giraffes were grazing on the thorny branches of an acacia tree. “Giraffa camelopardalis, of course,” replied Thunberg. “Surely you’re not that hungry?”
“No. That!”
Beyond the giraffes, towards the horizon, was a faint rust-coloured dust trail rising up above the gorge and coming towards them. Within a few minutes, the source of the cloud was revealed to be a caravan of about half a dozen wagons, each pulled by a team of six oxen that strained against their yokes as the men, covered in dust and sweat, cracked their sjamboks and drove the train on in the bright morning light.
“Trekboers!” exclaimed Thunberg, his excitement immediately giving way immediately to confusion. “But they’re headed in the wrong direction. I’ll go and speak to them and see what’s what. Hand me some of that tobacco, maybe we can trade it for some brandy.”
Thunberg grabbed some of the tobacco and stuffed it into a pouch. “You wait here with Eulaeus.” Masson was about to object, but Thunberg cut him off. “It’s nothing personal, it’s just that if there’s one thing these people distrust, it’s an Englishman. Do you know what they call you?”
Masson shook his head. “But I’m not English—”
“Zoutpeel,” continued Thunberg, ignoring him. “It means salty skin. Because a man who stands with one foot in Africa and one foot in Europe cannot avoid immersing certain parts of his anatomy in sea water.”
Thunberg rode up and cheerfully greeted the man driving the leading wagon. After some discussion, Thunberg returned, looking confused.
“Well, there’s some good news, some bad news and then some news which could go either way, depending.”
Fearing the worst, Masson said nothing, waiting for Thunberg to continue.
“The good news is that the crossing point is just up ahead, and I’ve managed to trade the tobacco for some dried meat. It’s no giraffe, but at least it’ll keep your hunger at bay.”
“But that’s excellent!” cried Masson. He grabbed the sack and pulled out a stick of the biltong, which he tore into as though it were his last meal.
“Ah, yes. That’s where the bad news comes in, I’m afraid.”
Masson stopped mid-chew as Thunberg took a deep breath. “There seems to have been a breakdown in relations with the border tribes over the pasturelands. The Trekboers claim that all their cattle have been taken and their farmsteads burned to the ground, and that anyone crossing over onto the other side of this river is walking to certain doom. They say they’re headed back to Cape Town to try to convince van Plettenberg to send troops to form a garrison here.”
“Do you think they’re telling the truth?” asked Masson.
“Not really,” Thunberg scoffed. “Van Plettenberg couldn’t care less; he answers only to the Company directors, not to wayward Trekboers who become more African and less Dutch with each passing day. No, they’ll probably end up taking some cattle from another tribe further inland and claiming it as compensation.”
“That’s reassuring to know, but I was referring more to the part about ‘certain doom’.”
“Best approach is to go to the top. Each Xhosa chiefdom has at its heart the chief’s Great Place, a village where he lives surrounded by his immediate family and councillors. At this time of year, the local chief’s Great Place is at Two Rivers. We’ll go there and take this as a gift.” Thunberg tapped on one of the wine crates that they had been using to store their specimens.
“Don’t tell me that the chief is a botanist, too?” Masson asked sarcastically.
“Not exactly. There’s nothing that we could teach them about the plants here, anyway. But this is different.” Thunberg lifted the lid. Inside were neatly tied bundles of dried tobacco leaves.
“The Xhosa love it, and if we bring this sort of gift to the chief, they would be only too happy to take us to the flower in return.”
Reluctantly, Masson had to concede that yet again, Thunberg seemed to have thought of everything. Only one other thing remained. “What about the other news, the news that was depending on something or other?”
“Well, if we do decide to press on to Two Rivers, then the route that we have to take crosses over a treacherous mountain pass that makes the Hottentots-Holland Kloof look like a stroll in the Company’s Gardens. Ox wagons are too big and have to be disassembled for the pass, but they reckon we might be able to make it with our smaller cart. Once over the pass, we would have to traverse a stretch of land where water is so scarce that the only thing to drink is the sweat between your toes.”
Masson looked at Thunberg, who shrugged and said, “Their words, not mine.”
“But why not just stick to our original route and head back to the coastal track?”
“Your question is excellent. After all, that track is well used, has plenty of water, is shorter by at least a day and is much safer, depending—”
“Depending on what?” asked Masson, fearing the worst.
“Depending on whether or not we come across the same pride of lions that reduced this seasoned and well-armed group of frontiersmen from seven wagons to six.”
Masson felt the blood drain from his face. The primal fear of being hunted down lingered in his gut.
“Oh,” added Thunberg, “I almost forgot the worst part of all.”
“What?” asked Masson, wondering what could possibly be worse.
“They didn’t have any brandy to trade, either.”
CHAPTER 30
When they reached it, they found that the pass they had chosen in preference to the lions resembled a rockslide more than a wagon track. Although it was devoid of the dense and prickly vegetation that covered the hills on both sides, the ground consisted of fist-sized rocks of red clay that had been baked hard in the sun.
Even Masson could see that the arrow-straight scar that the track made on the side of the hill would be difficult enough to negotiate during the daytime; at night or in the rain, with the deep gullies on either side of the track, any attempts would be doomed to fail.
They agreed to take the horses up to flat ground first and then return with the cart afterwards. After an ascent that should have taken an hour but which took them three times as long, owing to slipping and sliding on the infirm ground, they finally reached the summit.
Not far away, they found the recently burned-out remains of a small farmstead that had once commanded views of the valley beyond. No rain had fallen recently, and countless impressions of bare feet could be seen in the dirt.
The only structure still standing next to the charred wreck of a roughly made house was a small shelter that looked like an oversized chicken coop. Part of a horse’s skeleton lay off to one side, having been picked clean by the hyenas and the vultures.
“Just what I always wanted,” said Masson cheerily. “Friendly neighbours, a bucolic setting, a nice little place in t
he country to call my own. All that’s missing are the crazed serpents.”
“Who says they’re missing?” retorted Thunberg, taking his rifle from its holster and looking around cautiously.
They returned to hitch the horses with the hauling ropes and then began the arduous task of hauling the cart up the slope. “We should wait until morning,” said Thunberg pensively, looking up at the sky, where the sun had already lost its brilliance as it settled towards the horizon. “The horses are fatigued by the climb, and it will be dark soon.”
“No,” Masson said firmly. “We’ve lost enough time as it is. If we wait until tomorrow, we’ll lose our advantage over Schelling and all this will be for nothing.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Thunberg chirpily. “My drawings have improved immeasurably under your excellent teaching, and at least you can shoot more than boulders. And what about that seat under a shady tree?”
“Forgive me, Thunberg, but we can sit and rest once we reach Two Rivers. That flower is my only means of salvation, and I don’t intend to sit by and let Schelling snatch it from me. Not when we’re so close.”
“Very well,” Thunberg sighed, perhaps sensing that he wouldn’t be able to win Masson over this time. “Although if ever a seat beneath a shady tree was a good idea, it would be now.”
Before the cart had even passed halfway up the slope, night had fallen and the sky was made blacker by the rainclouds that had blown in from the south-west, blocking out the light of the moon and bringing with them a chill wind. Soon, the sound of distant thunder accompanied by dim flashes of lightning heralded the arrival of a storm.
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