A Sparrow Falls c-9

by Wilbur Smith

  As they rode, the day's work was continued, with only the occasional interruption for a half mile of hard galloping to charge the blood, and then the General would rein in again and they would amble on over the gently undulating hills, knee to knee. Mark carried a small leather-bound notebook in his inside pocket to make notes of what he must write up on their return, but most of it he carried in his head.

  The week before the departure to Cape Town had been filled with the implementation of details and of broad policies, the winding up of the domestic business of the provincial legislative council before beginning on the national business of Parliament, and, deep in this discussion, their daily ride had carried them further than they had ridden together before.

  When at last the General reined in, they had reached the crest of a hill, and the view before them spread down to the sea, and away to the far silhouette of the great whalebacked mountain above Durban harbour. Directly below them, a fresh scar had been torn in the earth, like a bold knife stroke through the green carpet of vegetation, into the red fleshy earth.

  The steel tracks of the permanent way had reached this far, and as they sat the fidgeting horses, the loco came buffing up to the railhead, pushing the track carrier ahead of it under its heavy load of steel.

  Neither of them spoke, as the tracks were dumped with a faint clattering roar, and the tiny antlike figures of the tracklaying gang swarmed over them, manhandling them on to the orderly parallel rows of timber sleepers. The tap of the swinging hammers began then, a quick rhythmic beat as the fishplates were spiked into place. A mile a day, said Sean softly, and Mark saw from his expression that he was thinking once again of another railroad far to the north, and all that it betokened. Cecil Rhodes dreamed of a railway from Cairo to Cape Town and I believed once that it was a grand dream. He shook his beard heavily. God knows, perhaps we were both wrong. He turned the stallion's head away and they walked back down the hill in silence except for the jingle of harness and the clip of hooves. They were both thinking of Dirk Courtney, but it was another ten minutes before Sean spoke. Do you know the Bubezi Valley, beyond Chaka's Gate?

  Yes, said Mark. Tell me, Sean ordered, and then went on, It is fifty years since I was last there. During the war with the old Zulu king Cetewayo, we chased the remains of his impis up there, and hunted them along the river. I was there only a few months ago. just before I came to you. Sean turned in the saddle, and his black brows came together sharply.

  What were you doing there? he demanded harshly.

  For an instant Mark was about to blurt out all his suspicions, of Dirk Courtney, of the fate that had overtaken the old man, of his pilgrimage to find the grave and to fathom the mystery beyond Chaka's Gate. Something warned him that to do so would be to alienate Sean Courtney completely.

  He knew enough about him now to realize that although he might accuse and even reject his own son, he would not listen to nor tolerate those accusations from someone outside the family, particularly if those accusations were without substance or proof. Mark put the temptation aside and instead he explained quietly, My grandfather and I went there often when I was a child. I needed to go back, for the silence and the beauty, for the peace. Yes, The General understood immediately. What's the game like there now? Thin, Mark answered. It's been, shot out, trapped and hunted. It's thin and very wild. Buffalo? Yes, there are some in the swamps. I think they graze out into the bush in the night but I never saw them. In I goi old Selous wrote that the Cape buffalo was extinct. That was after the rinderpest plague. My God, Mark, when I was your age there were herds of ten and twenty thousand together, the plains along the Limpopo were black with them, and he began to reminisce again. It might have been boring, an old man's musty memories, but he told it so vividly that Mark was carried along, fascinated by the tales of a land where a man could ride With his wagons for six months without meeting another white man.

  It was with a sick little slide of regret, of something irretrievably lost that he heard the General say, It's all gone now. The railway line is right through to the copperbelt in Northern Rhodesia. Rhodes Column has taken the land between the Zambesi and the Limpopo.

  Where I camped and hunted, there are towns and mines, and they are ploughing up the old elephant grounds. He shook his head again. We thought it would never end, and now it's almost gone. He was silent and sad again for a while. My grandchildren may never see an elephant or hear the roar of a lion. My grandfather said that when Africa lost its game, he would go back and live in old London town. That's how I feel, Sean agreed. It's strange but perhaps Dirk has done something of great value for Africa and for mankind. The name seemed to choke in his throat, as though it was an effort to enunciate it, and Mark was silent, respecting that effort. He has made me think of all this as never before. One of the things that we are going to do during this session of Parliament, Mark, is to make sure that the sanctuary in the Bubezi Valley is ratified, and we are going to get funds to administer it properly, to make sure that nobody, ever, turns it into a sugar cane or cotton field, or floods it beneath the waters of a dam. As he spoke, Mark listened with a soaring sense of destiny and commitment. It was as though he had waited all his life to hear these words.

  The General went on, working out what was needed in money and men, deciding where he would lobby for support, which others in the Cabinet could be relied on, the form which the legislation must take, and Mark made a note of each point as it came up, his pencil hurrying to keep pace with the General's random and eclectic thoughts.

  Suddenly, in full intellectual flight, the General broke off and laughed aloud. It's true, you know, Mark. There is nobody so virtuous as a reformed whore. We were the great robber barons, Rhodes and Robertson, Bailey and Barnato, Duff Charleywood and Sean Courtney. We seized the land and then ripped the gold out of the earth, we hunted where we pleased, and burned the finest timber for our camp fires, every man with a rifle in his hand and shoes on his feet was a king, prepared to fight anybody, Boer, Briton or Zulu, for the right of plunder. He shook his head and groped in his pockets before he found his cigars. He laughed no longer, but frowned as he lit the cigar. The big stallion seemed to sense his mood, and he crabbed and bucked awkwardly. Sean rode him easily and quirted him lightly across the flank. Behave yourself! he growled, and then when he quieted Sean went on, The day that I met my first wife, only thirty-two years ago, I hunted with her father and her brother. We rode down a herd of elephant and between the three of us we shot and killed forty-three of them. We cut out the tusks and left the carcasses lying.

  That's over one hundred and sixty tons of flesh. Again he shook his head, Only now am I coming to realize the enormity of what we did. There were other things, during the Zulu wars, during the war with Kruger, during Bombata's rebellion in 19o6. Things I don't even like to remember. And now perhaps it's too late to make amends. Perhaps also it's just the way of growing old that a man regrets the passing of the old ways He initiates change when he is young and then mourns that change when he grows old. Mark was silent, not daring to say a word that might break the mood. He knew that what he was hearing was so important that he could then only guess at the depths of it. We must try, Mark, we must try. Yes, sir. We will, Mark agreed, and something in his tone made the General glance across at him, mildly surprised. This really means something to you. He nodded, confirming his statement. Yes, I can see that. Strange, a young fellow like you! When I was your age all I ever thought about was a quick sovereign and a likely piece of - He caught himself before he finished, and coughed to clear his throat. Well, sir, you must remember that I had my full share of destruction at an earlier age than you did. The greatest destruction the world has ever known. The General's face darkened as he remembered what they had shared together in France. When you've seen how easy it is to tear down, it makes the preservation seem worth while. Mark chuckled ruefully. Perhaps I was born too late. No, said the General softly. I think you were born just in time, and he might have gone on, but high and clear on the h
eat-hushed air came the musical cry of a girl's voice, and instantly the General's head went up and his expression lightened.

  Storm Courtney came at the gallop. She rode with the same light lithe grace which marked all she did. She rode astride, and she wore knee-high boots with baggy gaucho pants tucked into the tops, a hand-embroidered waistcoat in vivid colours over a shirt of white satin with wide sleeves, and a black wide-brimmed vaquero hat hung on her back from a thong around her throat.

  She reined in beside her father, laughing and flushed, tossing the hair out of her face, and leaning out of the saddle to kiss him, not even glancing at Mark, and he touched his reins and dropped back tactfully.

  We've been looking for you all over, Pater, she cried. We went as far as the river, what made you come this way? Coming up more sedately behind Storm on a bay mare was the blonde girl whom Markremembered from that fateful day at the tennis courts. She was more conventionally dressed than Storm in dove-grey riding breeches and tailored jacket, and the wind ruffled the pale silken gold of her cropped hair.

  While she made her greetings to the General, her eyes kept swivelling in Mark's direction and he searched for her name and remembered she had been called Irene, and realized she must be the girl who had been Storm's companion on the grand continental tour. A pretty, bright little thing with a gay brittle style and calculating eyes. Good afternoon, Miss Leuchars. Oh la! She smiled archly at him now. Have we met? Somehow her mare was kneed away from the leading pair, and dropped back beside Mark's mount. Briefly, yes, we have, Mark admitted, and suddenly the china-blue eyes flew wide and the girl covered her mouth with a gloved hand. You are the one - then she squealed softly with delight, and mimicked him, Just as soon as you say please!

  Storm Courtney had not looked round, and she was paying exaggerated attention to her father, but Mark watched her small perfect ears turn pink, and she tossed her head again, but this time with an aggressive, angry motion.

  I think we might forget that, Mark murmured. Forget it? chirruped Irene. I'll never forget it. It was absolutely classic. She leaned over and placed a bold hand on Mark's forearm. At that moment Storm could contain herself no longer; she swivelled in the saddle and was about to speak to Irene, when she saw the hand on Mark's arm.

  For a moment Storm's expression was ferocious, and the dark blue eyes snapped with electric sparkle. Irene held her gaze undaunted, making her own paler blue eyes wide and artless, and deliberately, challengingly, she let her hand linger, squeezing lightly on Mark's sleeve.

  The understanding between the two girls was instantaneous. They had played the game before, but this time intuitively Irene realized that she had never been in a stronger position to inflict punishment. She had never seen such a swift and utterly malevolent reaction from Storm and they knew each other intimately. This time she had Missy Storm in a vice, and she was going to squeeze and squeeze.

  She edged her mare in until her knee touched Mark's, and she turned away from Storm, deliberately looking up at the rider beside her. I hadn't realized you were so tall, she murmured. How tall are you? Six foot two. Mark only dimly realized that something mysterious, which promised him many awkward moments, was afoot. Oh, I do think height gives a man presence. Storm was now laughing gaily with her father, and trying to listen to the conversation behind her at the same time.

  Anger clawed her cruelly and she clutched the riding-crop until her fingers ached. She was not quite sure what had affected her this way, but she would have delighted in lashing the crop across Irene's silly simpering face.

  It was certainly not that she felt anything for Mark Anders. He was, after all, merely a hired servant at Emoyeni. He could make an idiot of himself over Irene Leuchars and she would not even glance aside at any other time or place. It was just that there were some things that were not done, the dignity of her position, of her father, and family, yes, that was it, she realized. It was an insult that Irene Leuchars, as a guest in the Courtney home, should make herself free, should flaunt herself, should make it so blatant that she would like to lead Mark Anders along the well-travelled pathway to her steamy, she could not continue the thought, for the vivid mental image of that pale, deceptively fragile-looking body of Irene's spread out, languid and naked, and Mark about to, another wave of anger made her sway in the saddle, and she dropped the riding crop she carried and turned quickly. Oh Mark, I've dropped my crop. Won't you be a dear and fetch it for me? Mark was taken aback, not only by the endearment, but also by the stunning smile and warmth of Storm's voice.

  He almost fell from the saddle in his haste, and when he came alongside Storm to hand the crop back to her, she detained him with a smile of thanks, and a question. Mark, won't you help me label my cases? it's only a few days and we'll all be leaving for Cape Town. I'm so looking forward to it, Irene agreed as she pushed her mare up on Mark's other side, and Storm smiled sweetly at her. It should be fun, she agreed. I love Cape Town. Grand fun, Irene laughed gaily, and Storm regretted bitterly the invitation that would make her a guest for four months in the Courtney's Cape Town home. Before Storm could find a cutting rejoinder, Irene leaned across to Mark.

  Come on, then, she said, and turned her mare aside.

  Where are you going? Storm demanded. Mark is taking me down to the river to show me the monument where Dick King crossed on his way to fetch the English troops from Grahamstown. oh, Irene darling, Storm dabbed at her eye with the tail of her scarf. I seem to have something in my eye. Won't you see to it? No, don't wait for us, Mark. Go on ahead with the General. I know he needs you still. And she turned her small perfect head to Irene for her ministrations.

  With patent relief, Mark spurred ahead to catch up with the General, and Irene told Storm in honeyed tones, There's nothing in your eye, darling, except a touch of green. You bitch, hissed Storm. Darling, I don't know what you mean. The Dunottar Castle trembled under the thrust of her engines and ran southwards over a starlit sea that seemed to be sculpted from wet black obsidian, each crest marched with such weighty dignity as to seem solid and unmoving.

  It was only when the ship put her sharp prow into them that they burst into creaming white, and hissed back along the speeding hull.

  The General paused and looked at the southern sky, to where the great cross burned among its myriad cohorts, and Orion the hunter brandished his sword. That's the way the sky should be, he nodded his approval. I could never get used to the northern skies. It was as though the universe had disintegrated, and the grand designs of nature had been plunged into anarchy. They went to the rail and paused there to watch the moon rise out of the dark sea, and as it pushed its golden dome clear of the horizon, the General pulled out the gold hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and grunted.

  Twenty-one minutes past midnight, the moon is punctual this morning. Mark smiled at the little joke. Yet he knew that it was part of the General's daily ritual to consult his almanac for sunrise and moonrise, and the moon phases.

  The mAn's energy was formidable.

  They had worked until just a few minutes previously and had been at it since midmorning. Mark felt muzzy and woolly headed with mental effort and the pungent incense of the General's cigars which had filled the suite. I think we over-did it a little today, my boy, Sean Courtney admitted, as though he had read the thought. But I did want to be up to date before we dock in Table Bay.

  Thank you, Mark. Now why don't you go down and join the dancing? From the boat deck, Mark looked down on to the swirling orderly confusion of dancing couples in the break of the promenade deck. The ship's band was belting out a Strauss waltz and the dancers spun wildly, the women's skirts flahng open like the petals of exotic blooms and their laughing cries a sweet and musical counterpoint to the stirring strains of the waltz.

  Mark picked Storm Courtney out of the press, her particular grace making it easy to distinguish her, she lay back in the circle of her partner's arms and spun dizzily, the light catching the dark sparkle of her hair and glowing on the waxy golden perfection
of her bare shoulders.

  Mark lit a cigarette, and leaned on the rail, watching her. It was strange that he had seldom felt lonely in the great silences and space of the wilderness, and here, surrounded by music and gaiety and the laughter of young people, he knew deep loneliness.

  The General's suggestion that he go down and join the dancing had been unwittingly cruel. He would have been out of place there among the rich young clique who had known each other since childhood, a close-knit elite that jealousy closed ranks against any intruder, especially one that did not possess the necessary qualifications of wealth and social standing.

  He imagined going down and asking Storm Courtney for a waltz, her humiliation at being accosted by her father's secretary, the nudging and the snide exchanges, the patronizing questions. Do you actually type letters, old boy? And he felt himself flushing angrily at the mere thought of it.

  Yet he lingered by the rail for another half hour, delighting in each glimpse of Storm, and hating each of her partners with a stony implacable hatred; and when at last he went down to his cabin, he could not sleep. He wrote a letter to Marion Littlejohn, and found himself as warmly disposed towards her as he had been in months. Her gentled sincerity, and the genuineness of her affection for him were suddenly very precious assets. On the pages he recalled the visit she had made to Durban just before his departure. The General had been understanding and they had had many hours together during the two days. She had been awed by his new position, and impressed by his surroundings. However, their one further attempt at physical intimacy, even though it had been made in the urity and privacy of Mark's cottage, had been, if anything, less successful than the first. There had been no opportunity, nor had Mark had the heart to break off their engagement, and in the end Mark had put her on the train to Ladyburg with relief, but now loneliness and distance had enhanced her memory. He wrote with real affection and sincerity, but when he had sealed the envelope, he found that he still had no desire for sleep.