Injury, suffering and hardships
(estimated) 200 pounds. TOTAL 2,000 pounds.
This claim arises from the snaking of the above-said dhow off the mouth of the RLIfiji, 10th July, 1912, which was in Fact of piracy by your gUnboat, the Blucher.
I would appreciate payment in gold, on or before 25th September, 1912, and I will take the necessary steps to collect same personally.
Yours sincerely, Flynn Patrick O'Flynn, Esq
(Citizen of The United States of America).
After much heavy thought, Flynn had decided not to include a claim for the ivory as he was not too certain of its legality. Best not to mention it.
He had considered signing himself "United States Ambassador to Africa', but had discarded the idea on the grounds that Governor Schee knew damned well that he was no such thing. However, there was no harm in reminding him of Flynn's nationality it might make the old rogue hesitate before hanging Flynn out of hand if ever he got his hooks into him.
Satisfied that the only response to his demands would be a significant increase in Governor Schee's blood pressure, Flynn proceeded with his preparations to make good his threat of collecting the debt personally.
Flynn used this word lightly he had long ago selected a representative debt collector in the form of Sebastian Oldsmith. It now remained to have him suitably outfitted for the occasion, and, armed with a tape-measure from Rosa's work basket Flynn visited Sebastian's sick bed.
These days, visiting Sebastian was much like trying to arrange an interview with the Pope. Sebastian was securely under the maternal protection of Rosa O'Flynn.
Flynn knocked discreetly on the door of the guest bedroom, paused for a count of five, and entered.
"What do you want?" Rosa greeted him affectionately.
She was sitting on the foot of Sebastian's bed.
"Hello, hello," said Flynn, and then again lamely, "Hello."
"I suppose you're looking for a drinking companion,"
accused Rosa.
"Good Lord, no!" Flynn was genuinely horrified by the accusation. What with Rosa's depredations his stock of gin was running perilously low, and he had no intention of sharing it with anyone. "I just called in to see how he was doing." Flynn transferred his attention to Sebastian. "How you feeling, old Bassie boy?"
"Much better, thank you." In fact, Sebastian was looking very chirpy indeed. Freshly shaved, dressed in one of Flynn's best night-shirts, he lay like a Roman emperor on clean sheets. On the low table beside his bed stood a vase of frangipani blooms, and there were other floral tributes standing about the room all of them cut and carefully arranged by Rosa O'Flynn.
He was steadily putting on weight again as Rosa and Nanny stuffed food into him and colour was starting to drive the yellowish fever stains from his skin. Flynn felt a prickle of irritation at the way Sebastian was being pampered like a stud stallion, while Flynn himself was barely tolerated in his own home.
The metaphor which had come naturally into Flynn's mind now sparked a further train of thought, and a sharper prickle of irritation. Stud stallion! Flynn looked at Rosa with attention, and noticed that the dress she wore was the white one with gauzy sleeves, that had belonged to her mother a garment that Rosa usually kept securely locked away, a garment she had worn perhaps twice before in her life.
Furthermore, her feet, which were usually bare about the house, were now neatly clad in store-bOLight patent leather, and, by Jesus, she was wearing a sprig of bougainvillaea tucked into the shiny black slick of her hair. The tip of her long braid, which was usually tied carelessly with a thong of leather, flaunted a silk ribbon.
Now, Flynn O'Flynn was not a sentimental man but suddenly he recognized in his daughter a strange new glow, and a demure air that had never been there before, and within himself he became aware of an unusual sensation, so unfamiliar that he did not recognize it as paternal jealousy.
He did, however, recognize that the sooner he sent Sebastian on his way, the safer it would be.
"Well, that's fine, Bassie," he boomed genially. "That's just fine. Now, I'm sending bearers down to Beira to pick up supplies, and I just thought they might as well get some clothes for you while they were there."
"Well, thank you very much, Flynn." Sebastian was touched by the kindness of his friend.
"Might as well do it properly." Flynn produced his tape measure with a flourish. "We'll send your measurements down to old Parbhoo and he can tailor-make some stuff for you.
I say, that is jolly decent of you."
And completely out of character, thought Rosa O'Flynn as she watched her father carefully noting the length of Sebastian's legs and arms, and the girth of his neck, chest and waist.
"The boots and the hat will be a problem," Flynn mused aloud when he had finished. "But I'll find something."
"And what do you mean by that, Flynn O'Flynn?" Rosa demanded suspiciously.
"Nothing, just nothing at all." Hurriedly Flynn gathered his notes and his tape, and fled from further interrogation.
Some time later, Mohammed and the bearers returned from the shopping expedition to Beira, and he and Flynn immediately closeted themselves in secret conclave in the arsenal.
"Did you get it? "demanded Flynn eagerly.
"Five boxes of gin I left in the cave behind the waterfall at the top of the valley," whispered Mohammed, and Flynn sighed with relief. "But one bottle I brought with me."
Mohammed produced it from under his tunic. Flynn took it from him and drew the cork with his teeth, before spilling a little into the enamel mug that was standing ready.
"And the other purchases?"
"It was difficult especially the hat."
"But did you get it?" Flynn demanded.
"It was a direct intervention of Allah." Mohammed refused to be hurried. "In the harbour was a German ship, stopped at Beira on its way north to Dares Salaam. On the boat were three German officers. I saw them walking upon the deck." Mohammed paused and cleared his throat portentously. "That night a man who is my friend rowed me out to the ship, and I visited the cabin of one of the soldiers."
"Where is it?" Flynn could not hold his patience.
Mohammed stood up, went to the door of the rondavel and called to one of the bearers. He returned and set a bundle on the table in front of Flynn. Grinning proudly, he waited while Flynn unwrapped the bundle.
"Good God Almighty," breathed Flynn.
"Is it not beautiful?"
"Call Manali. Tell him to come here immediately."
Ten minutes later Sebastian, whom Rosa had at last reluctantly placed on the list of walking wounded, entered the rondavel, to be greeted effusively by Flynn. "Sit down, Bassie boy. I've got a present for you."
Reluctantly, Sebastian obeyed, eyeing the covered object on the table. Flynn stood over it and whisked away the cloth. Then, with the same ceremony as the Archbishop of Canterbury placing the crown, he lifted the helmet above Sebastian's head and lowered it reverently.
On the summit a golden eagle cocked its wings on the point of flight and opened its beak in a silent squawk of ineriace, the black enamel of the helmet shone with a polished gloss, and the golden chain drooped heavily under Sebastian's chin.
It was indeed a thing of beauty. A thing of such presence that it completely overwhelmed Sebastian, enveloping his head to the bridge of his nose so that his eyes were just visible below the jUtting brim.
"A few sizes too large," Flynn conceded. BUt we can stuff some cloth into the crown to keep it up." He backed away a few paces and cocked his head on one side as he examined the effect. "Bassie boy, you'll slay them."
"What's this for?" Sebastian asked in concern from under the steel helmet.
"You'll see. Just hold on a shake." Flynn turned to Mohammed who was cooing with admiration in the doorway. "The clothes?" he asked, and Mohammed beckoned imperiously to the bearers to bring in the boxes they had carried all the way from Beira.
Parbhoo, the Indian tailor, had obviously laboured
with dedication and enthusiasm. The task set him by Flynn had touched the soul of the creative artist in him.
Ten minutes later, Sebastian stood self-consciously in the centre of the rondavel while Flynn and Mohammed circled him slowly, exclaiming with delight and self congratulation
Below the massive helmet, which was now propped high with a wad of cloth between steel and scalp, Sebastian was dressed in the sky-blue tunic and riding breeches. The cuffs of the jacket were ringed with yellow silk a stripe of the same material ran down the outside of the breeches and the high collar was covered with embroidered metal thread.
Complete with spurs, the tall black boots pinched his toes so painfully that Sebastian stood pigeon-toed and blushed with bewilderment. "I say, Flynn," he pleaded, what's all this about?"
"Bassie boy." Flynn laid a hand fondly on his shoulder.
"You're going to go in there and collect hut tax for..." he almost said me, but altered it quickly to.. us."
"What is hut tax?"
"Hut tax is the annual sum of five shillings, paid by the headmen to the German Governor for each hut in his village." Flynn led Sebastian to the chair and seated him as gently as though he were pregnant. He lifted a hand to still Sebastian's further enquiries and protests. "Yes, I know you don't understand. But I'll explain it to you carefully. just keep your mouth shut and listen." He sat down opposite Sebastian and leaned forward earnestly. "Now The Germans owe us for the dhow and that, like we agreed right?"
Sebastian nodded, and the helmet slid forward over his eyes. He pushed it back.
"Well, you are going to go across the river with the gun and bearers dressed as Askari. You are going to visit each of the villages before the real tax-collector gets there and pick up, the money that they owe us. Do you follow me so far?"
"Are you coming with me?"
"Now, how can I do that? Me with my leg not properly healed yet?" Flynn protested impatiently. "Besides that, every headman on the other side knows who I am. Not one of them has ever laid eyes on you before. You just tell them you're a new officer straight out from Germany. One look at that uniform, and they'll pay up sharpish."
"What happens if the real tax-inspector has already been there?"
"They don't start collecting until September usually and then they start in the north and work down this way.
You'll have plenty of time."
Frowning below the rim of the helmet, Sebastian brought forward a series of objections each one progressively weaker than its predecessor, and, one by one, Flynn annihilated them. Finally there was a long silence while Sebastian's brain ground to a standstill.
Well? "Flynn asked. "Are you going to do it?"
And the question was answered from an unexpected quarter in feminine, but not dulcet tones. "He is certainly not going to do it!"
Guiltily as small boys caught smoking in the school latrines, Flynn and Sebastian wheeled to face the door which had carelessly been left ajar.
Rosa's suspicions had been aroused by all the surreptitious activity around the rondavel, and when she had seen Sebastian join in, she had not the slightest qualms about listening outside the window. Her active intervention was not on ethical grounds. Rosa O'Flynn had acquired a rather elastic definition of honesty from her father. Like him, she believed that German property belonged to anybody who could get their hands on it. The fact that Sebastian was involved in a scheme based on dubious moral foundations in no way lowered her opinion of him rather, in a sneaking sort of way, it heightened her estimate of him as a potential breadwinner. To date, this was the only area in which she had held misgivings about Sebastian Oldsmith.
From experience she knew that those of her father's business enterprises in which Flynn was not eager to participate personally always involved a great deal of risk.
The thought of Sebastian Oldsmith dressed in a sky-blue uniform, marching across the Rovuma and never coming back, roused in her the same instincts as those of a lioness shortly to be deprived of her cubs.
"He is certainly not going to do it," she repeated, and then to Sebastian. "Do you hear me? I forbid it. I forbid it absolutely."
This was the wrong approach.
Sebastian had, in turn, acquired from his father very Victorian views on the rights and privileges of women. Mr. Oldsmith, the senior, was a courteous domestic tyrant, a man whose infallibility had never been challenged by his wife. A man who regarded sex deviates, Bolsheviks, trade union organizers, and suffragettes, in that descending order of repugnance.
Sebastian's mother, a meek little lady with a perpetually harassed expression, would no more have contemplated absolutely forbidding Mr. Oldsmith a Course of action, than she would have contemplated denying the existence of God.
Her belief in the divine rights of man had extended to her sons. From a very tender age Sebastian had grown accustomed to worshipful obedience, not only from his mother but also from his large flock of sisters.
Rosa's present attitude and manner of speech came as a shock. It took him but a few seconds to recover and then he rose to his feet and adjusted the helmet. "I beg your pardon? "he asked coldly.
"You heard me," snapped Rosa. "I'm not going to allow this."
Sebastian nodded thoughtfully, and then hastily grabbed at the helmet as it threatened to spoil his dignity by blind, folding him again. Ignoring Rosa he turned to Flynn. "I will leave as soon as possible tomorrow?"
"It will take a couple more days to get organized," Flynn demurred.
"Very well then." Sebastian stalked from the room, and the sunlight lit his uniform with dazzling splendour.
With a triumphant guffaw, Flynn reached for the enamel mug at his elbow. "You made a mess of that one," he gloated, and then his expression changed to unease.
Standing in the doorway, Rosa O'Flynn's shoulders had sagged, the angry line of her lips drooped.
"Oh, come on now!"gruffed Flynn.
"He won't come back. You know what you are doing to him. You're sending him in there to die."
"Don't talk silly. He's a big boy, he can look after himself."
"Oh, I hate you. Both of you I hate you both!" and she was gone, running across the yard to the bungalow.
In a red dawn Flynn and Sebastian stood together on the stoep of the bungalow, talking together quietly.
"Now listen, Bassie. I reckon the best thing you can do is send back the collection from each village, as you make it. No sense in carrying all that money round with you." Tactfully Flynn refrained from pointing out that by following this procedure, in the event of Sebastian running into trouble half-way through the expedition, the profits to that time would be safeguarded.
Sebastian was not really listening he was more preoccupied with the whereabouts of Rosa O'Flynn. He had seen very little of her in the last few days.
"Now you listen to old Mohammed. He knows which are the biggest villages. Let him do the talking those headmen are the biggest bunch of rogues you'll ever meet. They'll all plead poverty and famine, so you've got to be tough. Do you hear me? Tough, Bassie, tough!!"
"Tough," agreed Sebastian absentmindedly, glancing surreptitiously into the windows of the bungalow for a glimpse of Rosa.
"Now another thing," Flynn went on. "Remember to keep moving fast. March until nightfall. Make your cooking fire, eat, and then march again in the dark before you camp.
Never sleep at Your first camp, that's asking for trouble.
Then get away again before first light in the morning."
There were many other instructions, and Sebastian listened to them without attention. "Remember the sound of gunfire carries for miles. Don't use your rifle except in emergency, and if you do fire a shot, then don't hang about afterwards. Now the route I've planned for you will never take you more than twenty miles beyond the Rovuma. At the first sign of trouble, you run for the river. If any of your men get hurt, leave them. Don't play hero, leave them and run like hell for the river."
"Very well," muttered Sebastian unhappily. The prospec
t of leaving Lalapanzi was becoming less attractive each minute. Where on earth was she?
"Now remember, don't let those headmen talk you out of anything. You might even have to..." Here Flynn paused to find the least offensive phraseology, you might even have to hang one or two of them."
"Good God, Flynn. You're not serious." Sebastian's full attention jerked back to Flynn.
"Ha! Ha!" Flynn laughed away the suggestion. "I was joking, of course. But..." he went on wistfully, the Germans do it, and it gets results, you know."
"Well, I'd better be on my way." Sebastian changed the subject ostentatiously and picked up his helmet. He placed it upon his head and descended the steps to where his Askari, with rifles at the slope, were drawn up on the lawn.
Wilbur Smith - Shout At The Devil Page 10