Wilbur Smith - Shout At The Devil

by Shout At The Devil(Lit)

  From the curly cap of silk hair to the tips of her pink toes, she was perfection.

  It took Flynn two days to recover from the disappointment of having been cheated out of a grandson. He sulked in the arsenal or sat solitary at the end of the veranda. On the second evening Rosa pitched her voice just high enough to carry the length of the veranda.

  "Don't you think Maria looks just like Daddy the same mouth and nose? Look at her eyes."

  Sebastian opened his mouth to deny the resemblance emphatically but closed it again, as Rosa kicked him painfully on the ankle.

  "She is the image of him. There's no doubting who her grandfather is."

  "Well, I suppose... If you look closely," Sebastian agreed unhappily.

  At the end of the veranda, Flynn sat with his head cocked in an attitude of attention. Half an hour later Flynn had sidled up to the cradle and was studying the contents thoughtfully. By the following evening he had moved his chair alongside and was leading the discussion with such remarks as, "There is quite a strong family resemblance.

  Look at those eyes no doubt who her Granddaddy is!"

  He interspersed his observations with warnings and instructions, "Don't get so close, Bassie. You're breathing germs all over her."

  "Rosa, this child needs another blanket.

  When did she have her last feed?"

  It was not long before he started bringing pressure to bear on Sebastian.

  "You've got responsibilities now. Have you thought about that?"

  "How do you mean, Flynn?"

  "Just answer me this. What have you got in this world?"

  "Rosa and Maria," Sebastian answered promptly.

  "Fine. That's just great! And how are you going to feed them and clothe them and... and look after them?"

  Sebastian expressed himself well satisfied with the existing arrangements.

  "I bet you are! It isn't costing you a thing. But I reckon it's about time you got up off your bum and did something."

  "Like what?"

  "Like going and shooting some ivory."

  Three days later, armed and equipped for a "

  poaching expedition, Sebastian led a column of gun-boys and bearers down the valley towards the Rovuma river.

  Fourteen hours later, in the dusk of evening, he led them back.

  "What in the name of all that's holy, are you doing back here?" Flynn demanded.

  "I had this premonition." Sebastian was sheepish.

  "What premonition?"

  "That I should come back, "muttered Sebastian.

  He left again two days later. This time he actually crossed the Rovuma before the premonition overpowered him once more, and he came back to Rosa and Maria.

  "Well," Flynn sighed with resignation. "I reckon I'll just have to go along with you and make sure you do it." He shook his head. "You've been a big disappointment to me, Bassie." The biggest disappointment being the fact that he had hoped to have his granddaughter to himself for a few weeks.

  "Mohammed" he bellowed. "Get my gear packed."

  Flynn sent his scouts across the river and when they reported back that the far bank was clear of German patrols, Flynn made the crossing.

  This expedition was a far cry from Sebastian's amiable and aimless wandering in German territory. Flynn was a professional. They crossed in the night. They crossed in strictest silence and landed two miles downstream from M'tapa's village. There was no lingering on the beach, but an urgent night march that began immediately and went on in grim silence until an hour before dawn; a march that took them fifteen miles inland from the river, and ended in a grove of elephant thorn, carefully chosen for the kopjes and ravines around it that afforded multiple avenues of escape in each direction.

  Sebastian was impressed by the elaborate precautions that Flynn took before going into camp; the jinking and counter-marching, the careful sweeping of their spoor with brushes of dry grass, and the placing of sentries on the kopje above the camp.

  During the ten days they waited there, not a single branch was broken from a tree, not a single axe-stroke swung to leave a tell-tale white blaze on the dark bush. The.

  tiny night fire fed with dry trash and dead wood was carefully screened, and before dawn was smothered with sand so that not a wisp of smoke was left to mark them in the day.

  Voices were never raised above conversational tones, and even the clatter of a bucket brought such a swift and ferocious reprimand from Flynn, that on all of them was a nervous awareness, an expectancy of danger, a tuning of the minds and bodies to action.

  On the eighth night the scouts that Flynn had thrown out began drifting back to the camp. They came in with all the stealth and secrecy of night animals and huddled over the fire to tell what they had seen.

  Last night three old bulls drank at the water-hole of the sick hyena. They carried teeth so, and so, and so..

  showing the arm to measure the length of ivory, ". - - apart from them, ten cows left their feet in the mud, six of them with young calves. Yesterday, at the place where the hill of Inhosana breaks and turns its arms, I saw where another herd had crossed, moving towards the dawn; five young bulls, twenty-three cows and..

  The reports were jumbled, unintelligible to Sebastian who did not carry a map of the land in his head. But Flynn, sittin beside the fire listening, fitted the fragments together and built them into an exact picture of how the game was moving. He saw that the big bulls were still separated from the breeding herds that they lingered on the high ground while the cows had started moving back towards the swamps from which the floods had driven them, anxious to take their young away from the dangers that the savannah forests would offer once the dry season set in.

  He noted the estimates of thickness and length of tusk.

  Immature ivory was hardly worth carrying home, good only for carving into billiard balls and piano keys. The market was glutted with it.

  But on the other hand, a prime tusk, over one hundred pounds in weight, seven foot long and twice the thickness of a fat woman's thigh, would fetch fifty shillings a pound avoirdupois.

  An animal carrying such a tusk in each side of his face was worth four or five hundred pounds in good, gold sovereigns.

  One by one Flynn discarded the possible areas in which he would hunt. This year there were no elephant in the M'bahora hills. There was good reason for this; thirty piles of great sun-bleached bones lay scattered along the ridge, marking the path that Flynn's rifles had followed two years before. The memory of gun-fire was too fresh and the herds shunned that place.

  There were no elephant on the Tabora escarpment. A

  blight had struck the groves of mapundu trees, and withered the fruit before it could ripen. Dearly the elephant loved mapundu berries and they had gone elsewhere to find them.

  They had gone up to the Sonia Heights, to Kilombera, and to the Salito hills.

  Salito was an easy day's march from the German boma at Mahenge. Flynn struck it from his mental list.

  As each of the scouts finished his report, Flynn asked the question which would influence his final decision.

  "What of Plough the Earth?"

  And they said, "We saw nothing. We heard nothing."

  The last scout came in two days after the others. He looked sheepish and more than a little guilty.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Flynn demanded, and the gun-boy had his excuse ready.

  "Knowing that the great Lord Fini would ask of certain matters, I turned aside in my journey to the village of Yetu, who is my uncle. My uncle is a fundi. No wild thing walks, no lion kills, no elephant breaks a branch from a tree but my uncle knows of it. Thus I went to ask him of these things

  "Thy uncle is a famous fundi, he is also a famous breeder of daughters," Flynn remarked drily. "He breeds daughters the way the moon breeds stars."

  "Indeed, my uncle Yetu is a man of fame." Hurriedly the scout went on to turn Flynn aside from this line of discussion. "My uncle sends his greetings to the Lord Fini and bids me s
peak thus: "This season there are many fine elephants on the Sonia Heights. They walk by twos and threes. With my own eyes I have seen twelve which show ivory as long as the shaft of a throwing spear, and I have seen signs of as many more." My uncle bids me speak further: "There is one among them of which the Lord Fini knows for he has asked of him many times. This one is a bull among great bulls. One who moves in such majesty that men have named him Plough the Earth."

  "You do not bring a story from the honey-bird to cool my anger against you?" Flynn demanded harshly. "Did you dream

  "of Plough the Earth while you were ploughing the bellies of your uncle's many daughters?" His eagerness was soured by scepticism. Too many times he had followed wild stories in his pursuit of the great bull. He leaned forward across the fire to watch the gun-bearer's eyes as he replied, "It is true, lord." Flynn watched him carefully but found no hint of guile in his face. Flynn grunted, rocked back on his hams, and lowered his gaze to the small flames of the camp-fire.

  For his first ten years in Africa, Flynn had heard the legend of the elephant whose tusks were of such length that their points touched the ground and left a double furrow along his spoor. He had smiled at this story as he had at the story of the rhinoceros who fifty years before had killed an Arab slaver, and now wore around his horn a massive gold bangle studded with precious stones. They said the bangle had lodged there as he gored the Arab. There were a thousand other romantic tales come out of Africa; from Solomon's treasure to the legend of the elephants" graveyard, and Flynn believed none of them.

  Then he saw a myth come alive. One evening, camped near the Zambezi in Portuguese territory, he had taken a bird-gun and walked along the bank hoping for a brace of sand-grouse. Two miles from the camp he had seen a flight of birds coming in to the water, flying fast as racing pigeons, whistling in on backswept wings, and he had ducked into a thick bank of reeds and watched them come.

  As they banked steeply overhead, dropping towards the sand-banks of the river, Flynn jumped to his feet and fired left and right, folding the lead bird and the second, so they crumpled in mid-air and tumbled, leaving a pale flurry of feathers to mark their fall.

  But Flynn never saw the birds hit the ground. For, while the double blast of the shotgun still echoed along the river, the reed-bed below where he stood swayed and crashed and burst open, then an elephant came Out into the open.

  It was a bull elephant that stood fourteen feet high at the shoulder. An elephant so old that his ears were shredded to half their original size. The hide that covered his body hung in folds and deep wrinkles, baggy at the knees and the throat. The tuft of his tail long ago worn bald. The rheumy tears of Lyreat aLye staining his seared and dusty cheeks.

  He came out of the reed-bed in a shambling, humpbacked run, and his head was tilted at an awkward, unnatural angle.

  Flynn could hardly credit his vision when he saw the reason why the old bull cocked his head back in that fashion. From each side of the head extended two identical shafts of ivory, perfectly matched, straight as the columns of a Greek temple, with not an inch of taper from lip to bluntly rounded tip. They were stained to the colour of tobacco juice, fourteen long feet of ivory that would have touched the ground, if the elephant had carried his head relaxed.

  As Flynn stood frozen in disbelief, the bull passed him by a mere fifty yards and lumbered on into the forest.

  It took Flynn thirty minutes to get back to camp and exchange the bird-gun for the double-barrelled Gibbs, snatch up a water bottle, shout for his gun-boys, and return to the river.

  He put Mohammed to the spoor. At first there were only the round pad marks in the dusty earth, smooth pad marks the size of a dustbin lid; the graining on the old bull's hooves had long been worn away. Then after five miles of flight there were other marks to follow. On each side of the spoor a double line scuffed through dead leaves and grass and soft earth where the tips of the tusks touched, and Flynn learned why the old bull was called Plough the Earth.

  They lost the spoor on the third day in the rain, but a dozen times in the years since then, Flynn had followed and lost those double furrows, and once, through his binoculars, he had seen the old bull again, standing dozing beneath a grove of morula trees at a distance of three miles, his eroded old head propped up by the mythical tusks. When Flynn reached the spot on which he had seen the bull, it was deserted.

  In all his life Flynn had never wanted anything with such obsessive passion as he wanted those tusks.

  Now he sat silently staring into the camp-fire, remembering all these things, and the lust within him was tighter and more compelling than he had ever felt for a woman.

  At last he looked up at the scout and said huskily, "Tomorrow, with the first light, we will go to the village of Yetu, at Sonia."

  A fly settled on Herman Fleischer's cheek and rubbed its front feet together in delight, as it savoured the prospect of drinking from the droplet of sweat that quivered precariously at the level of his ear lobe.

  The Askari standing behind Herman's chair flicked the zebra tail switch with such skill, that not one of the long black hairs touched the Commissioner's face, and the fly darted away to take its place in the circuit that orbited around Herman's head.

  Herman hardly noticed the interruption. He was sunk down in the chair, glowering at the two old men who squatted on the dusty parade ground below the veranda.

  The silence was a blanket that lay on them all in the stupefying heat. The two headmen waited patiently. They had spoken, and now they waited for the Bwana Mkuba to reply.

  "How many have been killed?" Herman asked at last, and the senior of the two headmen answered.

  "Lord, as many as the fingers of both your hands. But these are the ones of which we are certain, there may be others."

  Herman's concern was not for the dead, but their numbers would be a measure of the seriousness of the situation. Ritual murder was the first stage on the road to rebellion. It started with a dozen men meeting in the moonlight, dressed in cloaks of leopard skin, with designs of white clay painted on their faces. With the crude iron claws strapped to their hands, they would ceremoniously mutilate a young girl, and then devour certain parts of her body.

  4, This was harmless entertainment in Herman's view, but when it happened more frequently, it generated in the district a mood of abject terror. This was the climate of revolt. Then the leopard priests would walk through the villages in the night, walk openly in procession with the torches burning, and the men who lay shivering within the barricaded huts would listen to the chanted instructions from the macabre little procession and they would obey.

  It had happened ten years earlier at Salito. The priests had ordered them to resist the tax expedition that year.

  They had slaughtered the visiting Commissioner and twenty of his Askari, and they cut the bodies into small pieces with which they festooned the thorn trees.

  Three months later a battalion of German infantry had disembarked at Dares Salaam and marched to Salito. They burned the villages and they shot everything men, women, children, chickens, dogs and goats. The final casualty list could only be estimated, but the officer commanding the battalion boasted that they had killed two thousand human beings. He was probably exaggerating. Nevertheless, the Salito hills were still devoid of human life and habitation to this day. The whole episode was irritating and costly and Herman Fleischer wanted no repetition of it during his term of office.

  On the principle that prevention was better than cure, he decided to go down and conduct a few ritual sacrifices of his own. He humped himself forward in his chair, and spoke to his sergeant of Askari.

  "Twenty men. We will leave for the village of Yetu, at Sonia, tomorrow before dawn. Do not forget the ropes."

  In the Sonia Heights, in the heat of the day, an elephant stood-under the wide branches of a wild fig-tree. He was asleep on his feet but his head was propped up by two long columns of stained ivory. He slept as an old man sleeps, fitfully, never sinking very deep below t
he level of consciousness. Occasionally the tattered grey ears flapped, and each time a fine haze of flies rose around his head. They hung in the hot air and then settled again.

  The rims of the elephant's ears were raw where the flies had eaten down through the thick skin. The flies were everywhere. The humid green shade beneath the wild fig was murmurous with the sound of their wings.

  Across the divide of the Sonia Heights, four miles from the spot where the old bull slept, three men were moving up one of the bush-choked gulleys towards the ridge.

  Mohammed was leading. He moved fast, half-crouched to peer at the ground, glancing up occasionally to anticipate the run of the spoor he was following. He stopped at a place where a grove of mapundu trees had carpeted the ground beneath them with a stinking, jellified mass of rotten berries.