Looking decidedly bored, Lord Diamond turned to Dallas. ‘A word on deck if you’d be so kind, Granger.’
Without waiting, he rose and left the table.
Dallas nodded an apology to the others and followed.
As soon as they were in the fresh air, Lord Diamond offered Dallas a cigar.
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Just wanted to put your mind at rest, Granger. I’m a fair judge of character, have to be in my position. You’ve had a spot of bad luck rather than anything else and are obviously concerned that I could choose to expose you.’ Diamond smiled without mirth, his expression grave yet uncritical. ‘Well, your true identity and whereabouts are safe with me. I don’t condone what you’ve done, de Iongh is a damned fine man, but you don’t deserve to hang. As far as I’m concerned, officially anyway, you are who you say you are. If there’s anything I can do for Dallas Granger I’d be happy to oblige.’ He puffed on the cigar with enjoyment before continuing. ‘None of my business, of course, but I’d suggest that Natal might be your best bet. Like you, it’s just starting out. Ideal for somebody whose background would . . . ah, not stand up to scrutiny. There’s a tendency up north, so I’m told, to judge a man by what he does today. Family connections matter only if they have relevance in Africa.’ The nobleman smiled again and, this time, approval glinted in his eyes as his tone became almost conspiratorial. ‘You could do worse than teaming up with Burton. The man’s an honest rogue but that’s desirable out here. You’re a bit of an adventurer too. I think you’d do well together.’ Lord Diamond extended his hand and Dallas grasped it. ‘Good luck, Granger. I’ll be listening out for news. I’ve a feeling you’ll make your mark one way or another.’
With a brisk nod, Lord Diamond returned to the dining room, leaving Dallas wondering exactly what he’d done to so favourably impress the man. Table Mountain, standing sentinel over the town and surrounds of Cape Town, came into view just after lunch the following day. It was a welcome sight and everybody stayed on deck as the Marie Clare drew nearer. The city, what could be seen of it, lay in a curve of the bay. Rising behind, richly wooded forests sloped towards a vertical wall of solid rock. White, wispy cloud billowed over the flat summit hanging, like a lace tablecloth, over the crags and crevices. It was windy, the blustery south-easter whipping the deep blue sea into choppy white horses. Dallas felt strangely elated as he counted a dozen or more ships riding at anchor.
Logan, one hand making sure his hat stayed with him, sniffed the air. ‘Lunchtime. I can smell curry.’
‘So can I. Does the wind always blow this hard?’
‘In summer, yes. Locals call it the Cape Doctor. Always a south-easter. They say it carries germs away from the land. That may well be true. I’ve seen her blow hard enough to knock grown men backwards. When she stops, you can expect a day so serene, so gentle, you might as well be in heaven.’ Logan broke off, looking surprised, as though he hadn’t expected his words.
Hanson Wentzell stood nearby. ‘Home. Thank God. No place like it.’
‘Where will we live, Papa?’ fourteen-year-old Sylvia asked Lord Diamond.
‘I’m not sure,’ her father responded doubtfully. He could see little to enthuse over. The architecture showed a distinctly Dutch influence and was not much to his liking.
‘As far away as possible,’ muttered Wentzell. ‘That’s the only place for you British. You think you are too fine to live in the city with the Dutch.’
‘We’ll live wherever the British government provides a house,’ Lord Diamond rebuked mildly.
Wentzell turned away.
Ensign Pool was also dubious. ‘That must be the fort,’ he said, pointing. ‘Not very big.’
‘Where does soldier boy think he is?’ Logan Burton commented in an undertone.
In such windy conditions the longboat trip ashore might have proved extremely difficult. However, as if on cue, the Cape Doctor abruptly ceased.
‘Does that all the time,’ Logan said. ‘It could start up again in five minutes or stay away for days.’
Lord Diamond and his family said ceremonious goodbyes to both fellow passengers and crew. Hanson Wentzell and his wife barely waved.
Three single men and two married couples joined the ship in Cape Town. Of the couples, one was returning to England after being away for five years. The wife made no effort to conceal her delight at leaving. Her husband was less enthusiastic at the prospect. ‘It’s hard on the women out here,’ he explained with no elaboration. ‘But it’s a grand life all the same.’
Dallas mentioned to Logan that no-one seemed ambivalent about Africa.
‘Don’t listen to any of them,’ Logan advised. ‘Keep your eyes and mind open. See for yourself.’
Dallas realised he had no choice anyway. He might love Africa or hate it. Whichever way it went, he was here, and here he must stay.
The ship spent two days offloading and taking on fuel, fresh supplies and cargo. During that time, Logan decided to show Dallas around. Cape Town was a real melting pot. Its diversity of architecture may have been fascinating but what Dallas found even more so was the strange mixture of inhabitants. As well as the British – soldiers mainly, Hanson Wentzell had been correct that English settlers didn’t seem to mingle – and the Dutch, there were Hottentots, Indians, Malays and mixed-race coloureds, each with their own distinct culture and language. They flavoured the streets with an exotic mix of colour, sound and an ever-present smell of food.
On their second day, with the Cape Doctor still mercifully quiet, they took the aerial railway car to the top of Table Mountain. From there, the full magnificence of Cape Town could be appreciated. It seemed to Dallas that he was standing on the rim of a gigantic basin. Away to the south-west, Cape Point thrust into the sea where two mighty oceans met, the Indian and Atlantic. Rugged mountains rose from the sea creating bays, beaches and cliffs. To the south-east lay more stunning scenery.
On the mountain slopes and between rocky nooks dotted here and there on the flat top, wind-stunted wildflowers grew in profusion, scarlet, gold-spangled, pure white, pinks, blues and yellows. The spectacle was further enhanced by brilliantly coloured nectar-seeking birds hovering over them.
Inland, the Cape Flats stretched towards another mountain range standing misty blue in the distance. Despite being summer, it was cold on the summit.
‘What do you think?’ Logan asked.
Dallas thought for a moment. ‘Big,’ he said finally, giving an apologetic shrug.
Logan smiled. ‘You get used to the space. After a while it’s difficult to live without it. Compared with this, England is a doll’s house.’
‘Well,’ Dallas said reflectively, hugging himself against the cold, ‘at least there you know where everything lives and how it all fits together.’
‘To be sure,’ Logan replied blithely. ‘And just how boring is that?’
‘It must be a comfort to some,’ Dallas objected.
Logan snapped his fingers dismissively. ‘Come, my friend. I know a splendid tavern where we can find a dram to warm us. Let us leave questions of comparison to another day. You cannot be expected to form an opinion in so short a time, though I confess some appreciation of the beauty around you would not have gone astray.’
‘It is beautiful,’ Dallas agreed. ‘If, so far, only to my eyes.’
‘A start, dear boy. We will continue this discussion some other day.’
On the way down, swinging precariously in the small carriage as it crawled along the cable above, Dallas fell silent. It was impossible not to be impressed. Everywhere he looked was nature at her finest. For admiration to become perception required, at the very least, familiarity. At best, acceptance. That took time. Luckily, that was a commodity he had in abundance. Dallas was content to take all that was needed. He had to admit, however, that as first impressions went, Africa was a pretty compelling sight.
Four days later, Dallas took in the sight of what promised to become his new home. It was completely differ
ent from Cape Town. Gone now the grandeur of rugged mountains, cosy inlets snugged between sheer cliffs, no more a wind-tossed deep blue sea. Where Cape Town had been crisp and sharp-featured, Durban was soft and gently contoured. The vegetation further south appeared almost European. Here, it was lush and tropical. The Indian Ocean was aquamarine in colour and indolent in its swell. Beaches lay long, drowsy sweeps with breakers almost reluctant to end their incessant journey. Cape Town displayed a sense of development and order. Durban looked untamed – a defiant spirit refusing to present something it was not. There was promise of a land wild and warm. Savage, to be sure, and unforgiving with it, but for all that it seemed to pledge welcome for those bearing love and respect.
Dallas shook his head at such fanciful thoughts. So much to learn. What lay beyond the tangled forests? What lurked beneath that wide blue sky? What manner of people would leave the comfort and security of a European background to live voluntarily in this hot and dangerous place? It was gut country. Take it and shake it land. Slip and it would go straight for his throat. It had thrown out its challenge and he felt the first stirrings of response.
‘Beautiful.’
Dallas hadn’t heard Logan Burton approach. The man moved like a cat. ‘Beautiful,’ he repeated. ‘Yet much more than that, I suspect.’
‘True. Every turn holds a surprise, each day a gift. Keep an open mind and, whatever you do, don’t expect anything to be familiar. If it is within yourself to accept this place, no questions asked, then you will be happy. Try to bend Africa and not only will you fail, she’ll break your spirit. This is a land of opportunity and excitement not offered to many. Love her for that and she’ll give you everything in return.’
It was almost as if the man had been eavesdropping on Dallas’s own thoughts. ‘I admit it’s better than I expected.’
Burton grinned approval. ‘I came out here at about your age. It took me a month or so to work out that I could embrace Africa and be happy or hanker for England and get nowhere. There are no half measures here. It’s all or nothing. Compromise doesn’t work, though you’ll find many a fool clinging to the old ways.’ He squinted towards land. ‘Jump in boots and all, laddie. I’ve a good feeling about you. You’re going to make a life here, I can feel it.’
Lord Diamond had said something similar. Dallas wished he could see what seemed so clear to others. Was Logan Burton a success? He’d never mentioned what he actually did for a living. Tearing his gaze away from approaching land Dallas asked, ‘What exactly do you do here?’
Burton’s faded blue eyes twinkled. ‘Anything that comes up. Hunt, act as a guide, trade with the natives, you name it. I’m a free man – no wife, no children, no home. It’s the way I prefer it.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’
‘Rather that than face an infinity of dull company.’
‘Well, you know what they say. The lone sheep –’
‘Is in danger of the wolf.’ Burton nodded with a smile. ‘Yes, I’ve heard. Though that rather depends on the sheep, old chap.’ Pain briefly clouded the older man’s eyes. He clapped Dallas on the shoulder. ‘Yes, a man does get lonely sometimes but there’s many lonelier than I surrounded by a wife and children. And where’s the happy man when driven only by a quest for position and possessions? I work so that I can live, Granger, not the other way around. What you haven’t got, there is no fear of losing.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Dallas objected. ‘What happens when you are too old to fend for yourself?’
‘With luck, my friend, the good Lord will have taken a swipe at me before then. When I no longer have enough energy to hope, then is the time to leave. I am a man who lives life. There is no point in losing my faculties and reaching a stage where I forget I once had any.’
‘You paint a bleak picture, Burton.’
‘Not one to concern yourself with. If I could wish for anything it would to be to count youth on my side – have my time over.’
‘Would you do things differently?’
Burton laughed. ‘Probably not. I have a few regrets, of course I do, but given the option, not much would be different. There’s not many can say that.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Tell you what, a new bet. Ten shillings says we won’t be ashore until morning.’
Dallas took the wager. After all, it was only midafternoon.
Lesson number one: If it takes half a day in Britain, the same thing can take up to a week in Africa.
The Marie Clare rode at anchor in the roadstead, on the seaward side of a submerged sandbar that prohibited large ships from entering the port itself. The entrance to Durban harbour was protected on its southern side by a spit of land called The Bluff. Its bush-covered bulk rose several hundred feet out of the sea with what appeared to be a recently erected lighthouse adding nearly half that height again. In front of this stood the signal station, built for the sole purpose of communication with arriving ships. Unfortunately, the signalman was not always on duty. When he was there, he was more often than not either drunk or asleep. Whichever was the case on this day, hours went by before the need for a tender could be communicated. Eventually a boat made its way out but only to inquire where the Marie Clare was from and were there any sick on board. By then, it was too late to bring passengers ashore and a frustrating overnight delay was experienced by those who wanted to feel dry land under their feet. Heat, humidity and a rolling swell added to their discomfort.
Paying over the ten shillings, Dallas asked Logan how he managed to accept such a delay with no sign of surprise or irritation.
‘Remember what I told you. This is Africa. She moves to her own beat, at her own pace and in her own way. Lose your temper, demand action, insist on speaking to someone in authority and you will find yourself on the receiving end of what can best be described as African laissez-faire.’ Logan paused briefly. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to but the system won’t be pushed. At best, you’ll amuse the natives. At worst, alienate the authorities and make yourself look ridiculous. No, my friend, that’s not the way.’ He flung out an all-embracing hand. ‘Take a lesson from what’s around you. Nature is in no hurry, why should we be? It’s a beautiful evening, the sun is still shining, you’re alive. What more could a man wish for? Come, let’s get a drink.’
‘We’re in port. The bar is closed,’ Dallas reminded him.
‘Ah, dear boy, where’s your faith in this continent? Here the rules work for you, not against. Let’s go. I’ll buy the first.’
Not only was the bar open but Dallas and Logan were last to arrive. Passengers and officers alike ignored shipping line regulations about the sale of alcohol in port. Even Captain Aujoulat was there and, judging by his high colour, had been for some time. ‘Welcome to your new home, Mr Granger. If you can’t find what you seek here you’ll find it nowhere. I would stay in a thrice, if I could.’
Logan overheard. ‘What’s stopping you?’
The captain shrugged, spread his hands and smiled. ‘My wife.’
Everybody laughed. The gathering was reminiscent of a celebration. It had a finale feel, which, Dallas supposed, stood to reason. As the hour latened, so too did the bonhomie increase. Dallas lost track of time somewhere around midnight.
He did not appreciate the wake-up call at four in the morning. Others were already on deck in the pitch dark, all sourly wondering if someone was playing a practical joke. But no. At this time of year, announced an equally sleepy second officer, violent storms and sudden squalls were prevalent. The weather was more predictable, less volatile at this hour. Sure enough, as the horizon found its first hint of colour, a lighter could be seen making way towards the ship. Once alongside, luggage belonging to the departing passengers was lowered and stacked haphazardly on deck with little or no thought to the possibility of damaging any fragile items. Dallas, Logan Burton, Lieutenant Elliot, the three single men and one of the married couples who had joined the ship in Cape Town were then required to make the transfer. Nearly fainting with fear, the only wo
man was swung clear of the Marie Clare in a kind of makeshift chair and roughly lowered to the lighter below.
The men had to climb down a rope ladder and jump, an exercise hampered by a choppy swell that had both boats rolling together then parting, leaving a gap too wide to attempt. One misjudgment, one slip, and any of them could end up between the two hulls, to be crushed as they rolled together. By some miracle, tragedy was avoided. Not one of the men had enjoyed much sleep, their dexterity further hampered by limbs sluggish from hang-overs. That everyone and everything made it on board the lighter without mishap was due largely to the competence of an all-African crew. Their deft footwork and steady hands guided and supported with unfailing accuracy.
Once on board, the passengers were asked to enter a kind of hold. Protests about the smelly, damp and dark area fell on deaf ears. Logan Burton reassured the others. ‘It’s only until we’re across the bar, for your own safety.’ Reluctantly, one after the other, all went below.
‘They’ll let us back on deck once we’re in the lagoon,’ Logan explained, though obviously ill at ease himself. Within a few minutes, Dallas understood why. The hatches were closed and the sandbar crossing made in total darkness. Tossed around by the swell, Dallas lost orientation and had no idea which way was up. The woman was seasick. Sour-smelling vomit mingled with already stale and fishy odours to set off a chain reaction. Already suffering headaches and queasiness, the men, in time-honoured tradition, joined the lady. The trip seemed interminable.
Blessed relief came immediately they reached the lagoon. The hatch was flung open and a smiling black face informed them they could now come up on deck. Emerging into sunshine and fresh air it was obvious why they had been subjected to the dreadful confines below. All their luggage, and the sailors, were drenched. Dallas breathed in deeply, willing his still-churning stomach to settle.
Shadows in the Grass Page 13