A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel

by Caroline Vermalle

  When the rain did come, it wasn’t gradually, but all at once — as if a giant lever had been pulled, releasing the full contents of the clouds in an instant. Sodden, cold and cursing, but with the fear of losing the cart driving them on, the men struggled to control the tired horses, putting their shoulders against the animals’ rumps to add their own strength to an effort that became increasingly futile as the rain turned the clay to mud. The cart became increasingly bogged down.

  The task was made even more difficult by the small, narrow furrows that had been carved by the falling rain, making traps for the cart wheels, which seemed drawn to them as if by some magnetic force. Each time the cart fell into one of the furrows, it had to be levered out.

  The fourth or fifth time this happened, about halfway to the summit, both Masson and Thunberg had to exert all their combined weight and strength on the lever as Eulaeus flogged the horses forward. But the two men were sent sprawling as the cart shifted unexpectedly in the mud. The rear axle broke with a sickening crunch, followed by the sound of wine bottles rolling off the back of the cart, smashing as they fell.

  With no moonlight to inspect the damage, they released the horses from the cart and looked around for cover. The only shelter on offer was in the lee of a large ironwood tree they had seen earlier near the side of the track. But so close to the top of the hill, it looked to Masson like a disaster waiting to happen. His suspicions were confirmed moments later when the tree was struck by a blinding flash of lightning that was followed almost immediately by a deafening roar that shook the ground.

  The horses reared and bolted in a panic, running away in all directions into the pitch-black night. The rain began to pelt down harder than ever. Masson turned to Thunberg and pointed up the road, yelling, “Chicken coop!”

  Thunberg yelled something back which Masson could not hear over the ringing in his ears and the roar of the downpour. Besides, he was in no mood to argue. He turned and jogged through the rain towards the broken hulk of the farmstead. He spotted the small outbuilding he had seen before and made for it just as the rain turned to hail.

  As Masson ducked his head down to pass through the low doorway, he felt himself being grabbed violently from behind. Thrown to the ground, he rolled over, flailing blindly, kicking and thrashing with all of his remaining strength. His foot connected with something soft, and he heard a loud howling sound. He scrambled to his feet and turned around to see Thunberg doubled over on the ground, cursing him and shouting something that Masson could not hear.

  Thunberg picked himself up from the muddy ground. Without saying a word, he pulled Masson by the arm to the entrance of the shelter. He picked up a large rock and threw it inside, whereupon the entire roof collapsed onto the floor of the shelter. Masson saw that the roof comprised of sharp spikes designed to impale whatever was trapped inside.

  “Hyena trap!” shouted Thunberg above the storm as Masson disconsolately wiped the rain from his face.

  The men took shelter in the ruins of the burned-out house, making a cover out of a piece of oilcloth that Eulaeus had retrieved along with an oil lamp from the cart that was now firmly embedded in the slope.

  As the rain pelted down, the men sat huddled together, teeth chattering. Each time the feeble flame flickered within the lamp’s glass chimney, Masson held his breath. With their cart wrecked and the horses scattered, he knew that if Schelling’s progress was unchecked by the storm, he would certainly get to the flower first, and any hopes Masson had of redemption would be lost.

  CHAPTER 31

  The next morning, Masson stood disconsolately amongst the broken bottles and watched as Eulaeus inspected the damage to the rear axle.

  When Masson asked if it could be fixed, he received a non-committal shrug by way of an answer, leaving him with the impression that whilst it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, neither was it particularly likely.

  Depressed, Masson looked around for Thunberg. He was surprised to see the Swede walking towards them leading all but two of the horses and whistling a chirpy tune with what even looked like a smile on his face.

  “Two of them were taken by hyenas during the night, but the rest are not too worse for the experience,” Thunberg said jovially.

  “I don’t suppose you managed to find some water as well?” asked Masson.

  Thunberg stopped whistling. “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the wine bottles were broken when the axle snapped. And the ones that didn’t break are empty anyway. There’s one waterskin that’s half full, but that’s it.”

  “How sweaty are your toes?” asked Thunberg, trying to lift the mood.

  “Doesn’t the homestead have a well?” asked Masson, ignoring him and looking towards the building.

  “Probably poisoned,” replied Thunberg glumly.

  “But there must be water — we were almost flooded last night!”

  “Agreed, but apart from some patches of mud, the earth is as dry as a stone. It’s as if we dreamed the whole thing.”

  Thunberg and Eulaeus conferred for a few minutes whilst Masson paced up and down, cursing his luck.

  “We have a plan,” Thunberg finally said, cheerily. “But only if you’re interested.”

  Masson just shrugged and let his arms fall limply to his side, deflated.

  “If we work together, we can fix the cart. Eulaeus reckons that by following this track, it will take less than a day to get to the Xhosa chief’s Great Place. In the meantime, we could cut across country and be there in a few hours. If we take a little tobacco with us, we could start negotiations and then give the chief the rest when Eulaeus arrives with the cart later tonight. It would be cutting it close, but we would probably still beat Schelling to it. What do you think?”

  “So despite the fact that the story the Trekboers told us is patently true, our big plan is to just ride up to the chief’s Great Place and hope that a bit of tobacco will sweep a titanic border-struggle under the calfskin carpet?”

  “There is a risk, of course, but although Chief Chungwa will be on his guard after expelling the Trekboers, as long as we don’t pose a threat to him or his cattle, we should be fine. Besides, there’s been many a time when a gift of tobacco has done more than just a little sweeping.”

  Masson mulled it over and saw that under the circumstances, they didn’t have much choice.

  “All right, Thunberg, let’s do it your way. Short of being killed, I don’t suppose that things could get any worse. It seems that outcome is equally likely whatever we do.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Thunberg said drily.

  The repairs took most of the morning, but Masson found that the work concentrated his mind and helped to lift the melancholy that had overtaken him.

  With the cart finally fixed, they re-packed all the boxes and equipment and then loaded some provisions into a sack for the ride across the bush. Thunberg took some of the tobacco out of the box. Wrapping it carefully, he added it to one of his saddle bags.

  He then gave a rifle and some ammunition to Eulaeus, who proceeded to give detailed directions for how to find Chief Chungwa’s Great Place at Two Rivers.

  By the time he and Thunberg were ready to leave, Masson had even begun to feel a little optimistic.

  As they bid farewell to Eulaeus and headed down the hill, Masson turned to Thunberg and asked, “You are sure about this short cut, aren’t you? I don’t need to remind you that we have almost no water and only a few strips of dried meat to sustain us if things go wrong.”

  “Trust me, Masson. As long as you show the proper respect and bring the right gifts, the Xhosa are renowned for their hospitality. By the end of the day, I predict that you’ll have your flower, and with the help of a little sorghum beer and a serving of freshly roasted beef, you’ll be the most contented man in Africa.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “I simply don’t understand!” Thunberg had dismounted from his horse to climb a tall stinkwood tree so that he could get the best possible view of t
he surrounding landscape.

  The two men had been riding all afternoon, and the sun was already low on the western horizon. The horses were spent, and their riders were tired and thirsty.

  “We’re lost, aren’t we?” asked Masson.

  “It could be worse,” said Thunberg almost to himself as he scanned the horizon.

  “Yes, I suppose it could. We could, for example, have no water. Oh, wait, we have no water, so that can’t be it.”

  “I followed Eulaeus’s directions precisely,” Thunberg continued, almost in a trance. “He specifically said that if we followed this ridge, it would fall into a valley that would take us directly to the Great Place. But from here, it seems like the ridge carries on for miles. It may even go all the way to the sea, for all I can tell.”

  He climbed down the tree and walked over to where Masson’s horse was chomping at some grass. “There’s only one explanation, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

  “What?”

  “That Eulaeus has sent us in the wrong direction deliberately.”

  “Of course, I suppose it would be too much to suggest that perhaps it’s your navigational skills that are suspect, not Eulaeus’s loyalty?”

  “Quiet!” Thunberg’s head snapped around as a sound came from the dense thorny bush a little way down the slope.

  “Don’t be offended, I was merely pointing out the options—” began Masson.

  “Shh!” hissed Thunberg, who was frozen to the spot, allowing the flies to dart across his face unmolested. Both horses had stopped chewing and now stood with their ears pointed forwards, looking in the same direction. A deep snorting sound came from the bush as the black muzzle of what looked to Masson to be a very large cow peered out from behind the screen of bushes.

  “Masson?” whispered Thunberg.

  “Yes?”

  “Get ready to run.”

  “From a cow?”

  “That’s no cow.”

  Gradually the beast emerged from the bushes, and Masson saw that attached to the muzzle were a large pair of distinctive horns that curled around from sharp pointed tips to fuse together at the base of the buffalo’s brow, forming a boss that Masson knew was so thick and strong that it could not even be penetrated by a bullet.

  The animal continued to make short explosive grunting noises which turned into low, rumbling growls. A red-billed oxpecker sat atop its horns and spied them with a single eye ringed in bright yellow, before pecking at the buffalo’s neck, either looking for ticks or encouraging it to charge, Masson could not be sure which.

  It took a single step towards them before stopping and tossing its head, traces of steam emanating from its muzzle as its hot breath condensed on the chilled evening air. Others also began to emerge, and soon Masson could see that what he had thought was a single animal was in fact a herd that numbered in the dozens.

  Thunberg had begun to walk slowly backwards towards his horse, never for a second taking his eyes off the slowly advancing buffalo that were now about twenty yards away.

  When the animal at the front of the herd emitted a particularly loud and terrible snort, Masson’s horse seemed to have had enough, whinnying with fear and fright as it reared up and kicked at the air with its front legs, almost throwing him off in the process. This seemed to be just the signal the buffalo were waiting for, as they broke into a charge, their enormous bulks accelerating at a pace that defied logic.

  As Masson struggled to regain control, he saw Thunberg almost levitate from the ground and mount his own horse. Without even bothering to put his feet into the stirrups, Thunberg pulled on the reins to turn his mount, before slapping it on the rear to spurn it into action, racing off in the opposite direction down the other side of the ridge.

  Masson barely managed to hold on to his horse as it chased after its partner. He did not need to look back to see if the buffalo were giving chase as the sound of dozens of half-tonne bovines trampling everything in their path thundered in his ears. As the pair raced down the slope, they ignored the pain as branches slapped and tore at their clothes and skin, their only fear being that if their horses stumbled or fell that they were sure to be gored to death.

  As they reached the bottom of the slope, the ground levelled out and the bush gave way to patchy grassland. Masson and Thunberg knew that their horses were tired from the day’s ride and that they would not be able to keep their pace for much longer. Thunberg turned so as to ride parallel to the ridge, keeping to the flat grassland rather than crossing it and ascending the bushy slope that lay on the opposite side.

  On flat ground, unencumbered by bush or trees, the pair made good ground on the buffalo. When they finally managed to turn and look, they saw that the herd had given up the chase. But out of an abundance of caution, they turned again and continued up the slope and into the bush, not stopping until they had reached the summit of the next ridge.

  When they did halt they were speechless and out of breath. In the dim light of evening, they saw that the animals were now grazing placidly on the valley floor below. With the sun setting over the opposite ridge, Masson found it to be one of the most beautiful sights imaginable, particularly since only moments before, he had been convinced that he would never see another sunset again.

  As the night’s noises descended about them, the men made camp, using the horses’ saddles as makeshift pillows. Thunberg made a small fire, and they agreed to take turns keeping watch with the rifle loaded so that the fire could be kept burning through the night.

  Tired, thirsty and hungry as he was, keeping watch was pure torture for Masson. Between his dry mouth, the rumbling of his stomach and the noises from the bush which spooked him constantly, he began to wonder which would kill him off first: wild beasts, thirst, hunger or fright.

  Perhaps it was the helplessness of their situation, or the fact that he was subconsciously preparing himself for death, but over the course of the night Masson found that he became more accepting and less afraid. That is not to say that he didn’t twitch at every cicada or rodent that scurried through the underbrush; more than once he almost shot one of the horses after they snorted or shifted their weight too suddenly. But he found that he no longer took these scares as a personal affront — yes, he was frightened, but he didn’t feel the need to blame anyone. That was just how it was, and there was no longer any point in hiding from it.

  He realised that for the past fortnight, ever since he had landed on African soil, he had felt that the world was against him. There, next to the fire and alone amongst the thousands of stars, he began to wonder at himself.

  He thought about the man he had been before he left; he thought about the books neatly arranged on the shelf above his desk in the room which his mother had gone to such pains to make sure was always free for him, “just in case” he decided to return to Leeds Castle and live at home. He puzzled at his plans for the nursery that he had hoped would bring him independence and freedom. It was a safe, predictable and dependable existence, and it would put to rest, once and for all, the fear and uncertainty that he had harboured in his breast ever since his father had died.

  He compared that version of himself to the one that only the day before had been feeling the hot sun on his back as he waded through clusters of wild camphor, sagewood and confetti bushes, unearthing treasures and seeing them, if not as the first man, then at least as the first man capable of describing their place within the lexicon of the natural sciences. But to his surprise, he saw more than that: he also saw a man who went head to head with the unknown.

  Could it be that Africa was changing him? If so, was it for the better? And what would happen if he stayed much longer? Before he had a chance to answer his own questions, Thunberg woke and relieved him of the watch for the last shift. Masson pulled his coat over himself and, resting his head on his saddle, escaped into slumber.

  CHAPTER 33

  CANADA, 21 NOVEMBER, 1805

  “Do you think Doctor Thunberg was afraid too, Mr Masson?” asked Robert, st
ill captivated by the story, his eyes as wide as saucers.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Robert,” sneered his older brother. “A man like that is not afraid. He’s too busy looking to the future and the place that he will take in it. No, Robert, men like Doctor Thunberg do not fear, they act. And when they act, they do so according to their own belief of what is right and wrong, and they never allow themselves to be held back by the frailties of others or give in to compromise. Isn’t that right, Mr Masson?”

  “Well, Thunberg certainly had an adventurous spirit, but I‘m not sure that he would have thought himself the idealist that you describe.”

  “But don’t you see? He was an idealist in the very best sense of the word. Why else did he help you if not in service of the ideals of science?”

  Masson reflected before answering Jack’s question. “I will admit that the longer we journeyed together, the more I realised that what I had at first taken for madness was in fact an unquenchable thirst for adventure that was matched only by a complete disregard for safety. I assumed that the Queen’s flower was simply a means to an end for him, yet another escapade in search of the glory that he craved so much.”

  Jack began to protest, but Masson held his course. “The things we experienced had affected me greatly, but even as I started to come to terms with how I saw myself, my view of Thunberg changed very little. Although I was thankful for his help and assistance, and whilst I respected his competence and his knowledge, I still doubted his motives.

  “I could not have guessed that the suspicions I had harboured from the day we met at False Bay, which I had managed to keep secreted beneath a cloak of light-hearted banter for so long, would soon erupt and explode — and that it would change everything.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The morning was damp and chilly. As Masson lifted his head, he saw that Thunberg was busy digging at the base of a small tree not far from the camp. The fire had burned itself out, and the smell of smouldering wild olive permeated everything from his torn clothing to the inside of his parched mouth.