by Wilbur Smith
‘Sangane!’ Michael returned the salute, grinning as widely, then impulsively hugged him.
‘To see your face is like coming home again.’ Michael spoke easy fluent Zulu.
The two of them had grown up together, roaming the grassy yellow hills of Zululand with their dogs and hunting-sticks. Naked they had swum together in the cool green pools of the Tugela river, and fished them for eels as long and thick as their arms. They had cooked their game on the same smoky fire, and lain beside it in the night, studying the stars and seriously discussing the occasions of small boys, deciding on the lives they would live and the world they would build when they were grown men.
‘What news from home, Sangane?’ Michael demanded as the Zulu opened the door of the Rolls. ‘How is your father?’
Mbejane, Sangane’s father, was the old servant companion and friend of Sean Courtney, a prince of the royal house of Zulu, who had followed his master to other wars, but was now too old and infirm, and was forced to send his son in his place.
They chatted animatedly, as Sangane drove the Rolls out of the base and turned on to the main road. On the back seat Michael stripped his flying gear to reveal his dress uniform, complete with wings and decorations, that he wore beneath.
‘Stop over there, Sangane, at the edge of the trees.’
Michael jumped out and called anxiously, ‘Centaine!’
She stepped out from behind one of the tree trunks and Michael gaped at her. She had used the time since he had left her to good effect, and he realized now why she brought the leather bag. Michael had never seen her wearing makeup before, but she had applied it so artfully that he could not at first fathom the transformation. It was simply that all her good points seemed enhanced, her eyes more luminous, her skin more glowing and pearly.
‘You are beautiful,’ he breathed. She was no longer a child-woman, she was possessed of a new poise and confidence, and he felt awed by her.
‘Do you think your uncle will like me?’ she asked.
‘He will love you – any man would.’
The yellow suit was of a peculiar shade that seemed to gild her skin and throw golden reflections into her dark eyes. The brim of the billycock hat was narrow on one side and full on the other, where it was pinned up to the crown with a spike of green and yellow feathers. Beneath the jacket she wore a blouse of fine creamy crêpe-de-chine, with a high lace collar, that emphasized the line of her throat and the dainty set of her small head above it. The boots had been replaced by elegant shoes.
He took both her hands and kissed them reverently, and then handed her into the back of the limousine.
‘Sangane, this woman will be my wife one day soon.’
The Zulu nodded in approval, judging her as he would a horse or a young thoroughbred heifer.
‘May she bear you many sons,’ he said.
When Michael translated, Centaine blushed and laughed.
‘Thank him, Michael, but tell him I would like at least one daughter.’ She looked about the luxurious cab of the Rolls. ‘Do all the English generals have such motor-cars?’
‘My uncle brought it from Africa with him.’ Michael ran his hand over the fine soft leather seat. ‘It was a gift from my aunt.’
‘Your uncle has style to go to war in such a chariot,’ she nodded, ‘and your aunt has good taste. One day I hope I will be able to give you such a gift, Michel.’
‘I should like to kiss you,’ he said.
‘Never in public,’ she told him primly, ‘but as much as you want when we are alone. Now tell me, how far is it?’
‘Five miles or so, but with this traffic on the road, God alone knows how long it will take us.’
They had turned into the main Arras–Amiens road, and it was clogged with military transport, guns and ambulances and heavy supply lorries, horse-drawn wagons and carts, the verges of the road crowded with marching men, hunch-backed beneath their heavy packs, with the steel helmets giving them a mushroom-headed uniformity.
Michael caught resentful and envious glances as San-gane threaded the big glistening Rolls through the slower traffic. The men trudging in the mud looked into the interior and saw an elegant officer with a pretty girl on the soft leather seat beside him. However, most of those sullen stares turned to grins when Centaine waved to them.
‘Tell me about your uncle,’ she demanded, turning back to Michael.
‘Oh, he’s a very ordinary chap, not much to tell actually. He was thrown out of school for beating up his headmaster, fought in the Zulu War and killed his first man before he was eighteen, made his first million pounds before he was twenty-five and lost it in a single day. Shot a few hundred elephant while he was a professional ivory hunter – killed a leopard with his bare hands. Then, during the Boer War, he captured Leroux, the Boer general, almost unaided, made another million pounds after the war, helped negotiate the charter of Union for South Africa. He was a cabinet minister in Louis Botha’s government, but he resigned to come to this war. Now he commands the regiment. He stands a few inches over six feet and can lift a 200-lb sack of maize in each hand.’
‘Michel, I am afraid to meet such a man,’ she murmured seriously.
‘Why on earth—’
‘I am afraid I might fall in love with him.’
Michael laughed delightedly. ‘I also am afraid. Afraid he will fall in love with you!’
Regimental Headquarters was temporarily located in a deserted monastery on the outskirts of Amiens. The monastery grounds were unkempt and overgrown, for they had been abandoned by the monks during the fighting of the previous autumn, and the rhododendron bushes had turned to jungle. The buildings were of red brick, moss-covered and with wistaria climbing to the grey roof. The bricks were pocked with old shell splinters.
A young second lieutenant met them at the front entrance.
‘You must be Michael Courtney – I am John Pearce, the general’s ADC.’
‘Oh, hello.’ Michael shook hands. ‘What happened to Nick van der Heever?’
Nick had been at school with Michael, and he had been General Courtney’s aide-de-camp ever since the regiment arrived in France.
‘Oh, didn’t you hear?’ John Pearce looked grave, the familiar expression so often these days when someone asked after an acquaintance. ‘Nick bought the farm, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh God, no!’
‘Afraid so. He was up at the front with your uncle. Sniper got him.’ But the lieutenant’s attention was wavering. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Centaine. Obligingly, Michael introduced him and then cut short the lieutenant’s pantomime of admiration.
‘Where is my uncle?’
‘He asked you to wait.’ The young lieutenant led them through to a small enclosed garden which had probably belonged to the abbot. There were climbing roses on the stone walls and a sun-dial on a sculptured plinth in the centre of the small neat lawn.
A table had been laid for three in the corner where the sun penetrated. Uncle Sean was keeping his usual style – king’s pattern silver and Stuart crystal, Michael noticed.
‘The general will be with you as soon as he can, but he asked me to warn you that it will be a very short lunch. The spring offensive, you know—’ The lieutenant made a gesture towards the decanter on the small serving table. ‘In the meantime, may I offer you a sherry, or something with claws?’
Centaine shook her head, but Michael nodded. ‘Claws, please,’ he said. Although he loved his uncle as much as he did his own father, yet he always found his imminent presence after a long absence unnerving. He needed something to soothe those nerves.
The aide-de-camp poured Michael a whisky. ‘Will you forgive me, but I do have a few things—’ Michael waved him away and took Centaine’s arm.
‘Look, the buds are beginning to form on the roses – and the narcissus—’ She leaned against him. ‘Everything is coming to life again.’
‘Not everything,’ Michael contradicted softly. ‘For the soldier, spring is the time of death.’
‘Oh, Michel,’ she began, and then broke off and looked towards the glass doors behind him with an expression that made Michael turn swiftly.
A man had stepped through them, a tall man, erect and broad-shouldered. He stopped when he saw Centaine and looked at her with penetrating appraisal. His eyes were blue and his beard was thick but neatly trimmed in the same style as the king’s.
‘Those are Michel’s eyes!’ Centaine thought, staring back into them, but so much fiercer, she realized.
‘Uncle Sean!’ Michael cried and released her arm. He stepped forward to shake hands, and those fierce eyes swivelled to him and softened.
‘My boy.’
‘He loves him—’ Centaine understood. ‘They love each other very deeply,’ and she studied the general’s face. His skin was sun-darkened and tanned like leather, with deep creases at the corners of his mouth and around those incredible eyes. His nose was large, like Michael’s, and hooked, his forehead broad and deep, and above it was a dense dark cap of hair, shot through with silver threads, that glistened in the spring sunlight.
They were talking earnestly, still gripping each other’s hands, exchanging the vital assurances, and as Centaine watched them, the full extent of their resemblance came through to her.
‘They are the same,’ she realized, ‘differing only in age and in force. More like father and son, than—’
The fierce blue eyes came back to her. ‘So this is the young lady.’
‘May I present Mademoiselle de Thiry. Centaine, this is my uncle, General Sean Courtney.’
‘Michel has told me much – a great deal—’ Centaine stumbled over the English.
‘Speak Flemish!’ Michael cut in quickly.
‘Michel has told me all about you,’ she obeyed, and the general grinned delightedly.
‘You speak Afrikaans!’ he answered in that language. When he smiled, his whole person changed. That savage, almost cruel streak that she had sensed seemed illusory.
‘It isn’t Afrikaans,’ she denied, and they fell into an animated discussion and argument, and within the first few minutes Centaine found that she liked him – liked him for his resemblances to Michael, and for the vast differences that she detected between them.
‘Let’s eat!’ Sean Courtney exclaimed, and took her arm. ‘We have so little time—’ He seated her at the table.
‘Michael over here – and we’ll let him carve the chicken. I’ll take care of the wine.’
Sean gave them the toast. ‘To the next time the three of us meet again,’ and they all drank it fervently, all too aware of what lay behind it, though here they were out of earshot of the guns.
They chatted easily, the general quickly and effortlessly smoothing over any uneasy silences, so that Centaine realized that for all his bluff exterior he was intuitively gracious, but always she was aware of the scrutiny of those eyes, the valuations and appraisals that were in progress behind them.
‘Very well, mon Général,’ she thought defiantly, ‘look all you want, but I am me and Michel is mine.’ And she lifted her chin and held his gaze, and answered him directly and without simperings or hesitations, until she saw him smile – and nod almost imperceptibly.
‘So this is the one Michael has chosen,’ Sean mused. ‘I would have hoped for a girl of his own people, who spoke his own language and observed the same faith. I would have wanted to know a damned sight more about her before I gave my blessing. I would have made them take their time to consider each other and the consequences, but there is no time. Tomorrow or the next day, God knows what will happen. How can I spoil what might be their only moment of happiness ever?’ For a moment longer he looked at her, searching for signs of spite or meanness, for weakness or vanity, and saw only the small determined jaw, the mouth that could smile easily but just as easily harden, and the dark intelligent eyes. ‘She’s tough and she’s proud,’ he decided, ‘but I think she will be loyal, with strength to stay the full distance.’ So he smiled and nodded and saw her relax, and he saw also true affection and liking dawn in her eyes before he turned to Michael.
‘All right, my boy, you didn’t come all this way to chew on this stringy little bird. Tell me why you came, and see if you can surprise me.’
‘Uncle Sean, I have asked Centaine to be my wife.’
Sean wiped his moustaches carefully and then laid down his napkin.
‘Do not spoil it for them,’ he warned himself. ‘Don’t put the smallest cloud on their joy.’
He looked up at them and he began to smile.
‘You don’t surprise me, you stun me! I had given up expecting you to do something sensible.’ He turned to Centaine. ‘Of course, young lady, you had too much good sense to accept, didn’t you?’
‘General, I hang my head when I admit that I did not. I have accepted him.’
Sean looked fondly at Michael. ‘Lucky blighter! She is too darned good for you, but don’t let her get away.’
‘Don’t worry, sir.’ Michael laughed with relief. He hadn’t expected such instant acceptance. The old boy could still surprise him. He reached across the table to take Centaine’s hand, and Centaine looked at Sean Courtney with puzzlement. ‘Thank you, General, but you know nothing about me – or my family.’ She remembered the catechism to which her own father had subjected Michael.
‘I doubt that Michael is intending to marry your family,’ Sean said drily. ‘And about you, my dear. Well, I am one of the best judges of horseflesh in Africa, and that’s not false modesty. I can judge a likely filly when I see one.’
‘You are calling me a horse, General?’ she bridled playfully.
‘I’m calling you a thoroughbred, and I’ll be surprised if you aren’t a country girl and a horsewoman, and if you haven’t got some pretty fancy bloodlines – tell me that I’m wrong,’ he challenged.
‘Her papa is a count, she rides like a centaur, and they have an estate that was mostly vineyards before the Huns shelled it.’
‘Ha!’ Sean looked triumphant, and Centaine made a gesture of resignation.
‘He knows everything, your uncle.’
‘Not everything—’ Sean turned back to Michael. ‘When do you plan to do it?’
‘I would have liked my father—’ Michael did not have to finish the thought, ‘ – but we have so little time.’
Sean, who knew truly how little time there was, nodded. ‘Garry, your father, will understand.’
‘We want to marry before the spring offensive begins,’ Michael went on.
‘Yes. I know.’ Sean frowned and sighed. Some of his peers could send the young men out there with dispassion, but he was not a professional as they were. He knew he would never grow hardened to the pain and the guilt of it, sending men to die. He began to speak and stopped himself, sighed again and then went on.
‘Michael, this is for you alone. Though you’ll learn of it soon enough, anyway. A field order has been issued to all fighter squadrons. That order is to prevent all enemy aerial observation over our lines. We will be throwing in all our squadrons to keep the German spotters from following our preparations over the next weeks.’
Michael sat quietly, considering what his uncle had told him. It meant that as far ahead as he could anticipate, the future would be an incessant and ruthless battle with the German Jagdstaffels. He was being warned that few of the fighter pilots could expect to survive that battle.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said softly. ‘Centaine and I will marry soon – as soon as we can. May I hope that you will be there?’
‘I can only promise you that I will do my level best to be there.’ Sean looked up as John Pearce came back into the garden. ‘What is it, John?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Urgent despatch from General Rawlinson.’
‘I’m coming. Give me two minutes.’ He turned to his young guests.
‘Bloody awful lunch, I’m sorry.’
‘The wine was excellent, and the company was even better,’ Centaine demurred.
‘Michae
l, go and find Sangane and the Rolls. I want a word with this young lady in private.’
He offered Centaine his arm, and they followed Michael out of the small garden and down the cloisters towards the stone portals of the monastery. Only when she stood at his side did Centaine realize how big he was, and that he had a slight limp, so that his footfalls on the stone paving were uneven. He spoke quietly but with force, leaning over her slightly to make each word tell.
‘Michael is a fine young man – he is kind, he is thoughtful, he is sensitive. But he does not have the ruthlessness that a man needs in this world to get to the top of the mountain.’ Sean paused, and she looked up at him attentively.
‘I think you have that strength. You are still very young, but I believe that you will grow stronger. I want you to be strong for Michael.’
Centaine nodded, finding no words to reply.
‘Be strong for my son,’ Sean said softly, and she started.
‘Your son?’ and she saw the consternation in his eyes, which was swiftly masked, and he corrected himself.
‘I’m sorry, his father is my twin – sometimes I think of him that way.’
‘I understand,’ she said, but somehow she sensed that it had not been a mistake. ‘One day I will follow that until I find the truth,’ she thought, and Sean repeated, ‘Look after him well, Centaine, and I will be your friend to the gates of hell.’
‘I promise you that I will.’ She squeezed his arm, and they had reached the entrance where Sangane waited with the Rolls.
‘Aurevoir, Générai’ Centaine said.
‘Yes,’ Sean nodded. ‘Until we meet again,’ and helped her into the back seat of the Rolls.
‘I will let you know as soon as we decide the day, sir.’ Michael shook his uncle’s hand.
‘Even if I can’t be there, be happy, my boy,’ said Sean Courtney, and watched the Rolls purr sedately down the driveway, then with an impatient shrug, he turned and marched back down the cloisters with that long uneven stride.
With her hat and jewellery and shoes packed back into the soft leather bag, and with the fur-lined boots on her feet and the flying helmet on her head, Centaine crouched at the edge of the forest.