by Wilbur Smith
While they worked Lothar considered that there were dozens of these caches, scattered through the wilderness, while in the north at the secret coastal base from which he had refuelled and re-equipped the German U-boats there must still be thousands of pounds worth of stores. Until now it had never occurred to him to raid them for his own account,, somehow they had always been in patriotic trust.
He felt the prickle of temptation: Perhaps if I chartered a boat at Walvis and sailed up the coast, But then with a sudden chill he remembered that he would never see Walvis Bay or this land again. There would be no return after they had done what they were setting out to do.
He jumped to his feet and strode to the entrance of the rock shelter. As he stared out across the dun and heat-shot plain with its dotted camel-thorn trees, he felt a premonition of terrible suffering and unhappiness.
Could I ever be happy elsewhere? he wondered. Away from this harsh and beautiful land? His resolve wavered. He turned and saw Manfred watching him with a troubled frown. Can I make this decision for my son? He stared back at the boy. Can I condemn him to the life of an exile? He thrust the doubts aside with an effort, shaking them
off with a shudder like a horse driving the stinging flies from its hide, and called Manfred to him. He led him away from the shelter, and when they were out of earshot of the others told him what lay ahead of them, speaking to him as an equal.
All we have worked for has been stolen from us, Manie, not in the sight of the law but in the sight of God and natural justice. The Bible gives us redress against those who have deceived or cheated us, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. We will take back what has been stolen from us.
But, Manie, the English law will look upon us as criminals.
We will have to fly, to run and hide, and they will hunt us like wild animals. We will survive only by our courage and our wits. Manfred stiffed eagerly, watching his father's face with bright eager eyes. it all sounded romantic and exciting and he was proud of his father's trust in discussing such adult matters with him.
We will go north. There is good farming land in Tanganyika and Nyasaland and Kenya. Many of our own Volk have already gone there. Of course, we will have to change our name, and we can never return here, but we will make a fine new life in a new land. Never come back? Manfred's expression changed. But what about Sarah? Lothar ignored the question. Perhaps we will buy a beautiful coffee shamba in Nyasaland or on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro. There are still great herds of wild game upon the plains of Serengeti, and we will hunt and farm., Manfred listened dutifully but his expression had dulled.
How could he say it? How could he tell his father: Pa! I don't want to go to a strange land. I want to stay here. ?
He lay awake long after the others were snoring and the camp-fire had burned down to a red smear of embers, and he thought about Sarah, remembering the pale pixie face smeared with tears and the hot thin little body under the blanket beside him: She is the only friend I've ever had. He was jerked back to reality by a strange and disturbing sound. It came from the plain below them but it seemed that distance could not take the fierce edge from the din.
His father coughed softly and sat up, letting his blanket fall to his waist. The awful sound came again, rising to an impossible crescendo and then dying away in a series of deep grunts, the death rattle of a strangling monster.
What is it, Pa? The hair at the back of Manfred's neck had risen and prickled as though to the touch of a nettle.
They say even the bravest of men is afraid the first time he hears that sound, his father told him softly. That is the hunting roar of a hungry Kalahari lion, my son. In the dawn when they climbed down the hillside and reached the plain, Lothar, who was leading, stopped abruptly and beckoned Manfred to his side.
You have heard his voice, now here is the track of his feet. He stooped and touched one of the pad marks, the size of a dinner plate, that was pressed deeply into the soft yellow earth.
An old maanhaar, a solitary, old, maned male. Lothar traced the outline of the spoor. Manfred would see him do that often in the months ahead, always touching the sign as though to draw out its secrets through his fingertips. See how his pads are worn smooth, and how he walks with his weight back towards his ankles. He favours his right fore, a cripple. He will find a meal hard to take, perhaps that is why he keeps close to the ranch. Cattle are easier to kill than wild game. Lothar reached out and plucked something from the lowest branch of thorns. Here, Manie, he placed a small tuft of coarse red-gold hair in Manfred's palm. There is a tress of his mane he left for you. Then he stood up and stepped over the spoor. He led them on down into the broad saucer of land, watered by a string of natural artesian springs, where the grass grew thick and green and high as their knees, and they passed the first herds of cattle, humpbacked and with dewlaps that almost brushed the earth, their coats shiny in the early sunlight.
The homestead of the ranch stood on the higher ground beyond the wells, in a plantation of exotic date palms imported from Egypt. It was an old colonial German fort, a legacy from the Herero war of 1904 when the whole territory had erupted in rebellion against the excesses of German colonization. Even the Bondel swarts and Namas had joined the Herero tribe and it had taken 20,000 white troops and an expenditure of Y,60 million to quell the rebellion. Added to the cost, in the final accounting, were the 2,500 German officers and men killed and the 70,000 men, women and children of the Herero people shot, burned and starved to death. This casualty list constituted almost precisely seventy percent of the entire tribe.
The homestead had originally been a frontier fort, built to hold off the Herero regiments. Its thick whitewashed outer walls were crenellated and even the central tower was furnished with battlements and a flagstaff upon which the German imperial eagle still defiantly flew.
The count saw them from afar, coming down the dusty road past the springs, and sent out a trap to bring them in.
He was of Lothar's mother's generation, but still tall and lean and straight. A white duelling scar puckered the corner of his mouth and his manners were old-fashioned and formal. He sent Swart Hendrick to quarters in the servants wing and then led Lothar and Manfred through to the cool dark central hall where the countess had black bottles of good German beer and jugs of homemade ginger beer already set out for them.
Their clothes were whisked away by the servants while they bathed, and were returned within an hour, laundered and ironed, their boots polished until they gleamed. For dinner there was a baron of tender beef from the estate, running with its own fragrant juices, and marvelous Rhine wines to wash it down. To Manfred's unqualified delight, this was followed by a dozen various tarts and puddings and trifles, while for Lothar the greater treat was the civilized discourse of his host and hostess. It was a deep pleasure to discuss books and music, and to listen to the precise and beautifully enunciated German of his hosts.
When Manfred could eat not another spoonful, and had to use both hands to cover his yawns, one of the Herero serving maids led him away to his room, and the count poured schnapps for Lothar and brought a box of Havanas for his approval while his wife fussed over the silver coffee pot.
When his cigar was drawing evenly the count told Lothar: I received the letter you sent me from Windhoek, and I was most distressed to hear of your misfortune. Times are very difficult for all of us. He polished his monocle upon his sleeve before screwing it back into his eye and focusing it upon Lothar again. Your sainted mother was a fine lady.
There is nothing that I would not do for her son. He paused and drew upon the Havana, smiled thinly at the flavour and then said, 'However Lothar's spirits dropped at that word, always the harbinger of denial and disappointment.
However, not two weeks before I received your letter the purchasing officer for the army remount department came out to the ranch and I sold him all our excess animals. I have retained only sufficient for our own needs. Though Lothar had seen at least forty fine horses in the herd grazing on the young
pasture that grew around the ranch, he merely nodded in understanding.
Of course, I have a pair of excellent mules, big, strong beasts, that I could let you have at a nominal price, say fifty pounds. The pair? Lothar asked deferentially.
Each, said the count firmly. As to the other suggestion in you r letter, I make it a firm rule never to lend money to a friend. That way one avoids losing both friend and money. Lothar let that slide by, and instead returned to the count's earlier remarks. The army remount officer, he has been buying horses from all the estates in the district! I understand he has purchased almost a hundred. The count showed relief at Lothar's gentlemanly acceptance of his refusal. All excellent animals. He was interested only in the best, desert-hardened and salted against the horse-sickness. And he has shipped them south on the railway, I expect! Not yet, the count shook his head. or he had not done so when last I heard. He is holding them on the pool of the Swakop river on the far side of the town, resting them and letting them build up their strength for the rail journey. I heard that he plans to send them down the line when he has a hundred and fifty altogether. They left the fort the following morning after a gargantuan breakfast of sausage and prepared meats and eggs, all three of them riding up on the broad back of the grey mule for which Lothar had finally paid twenty pounds with the head halter thrown in to sweeten the bargain.
How were the servants quarters at the fort? Lothar asked.
Slave quarters, not servants quarters, Hendrick corrected him. 'in them a man could starve to death or, from what I heard, be flogged to death by the count. Hendrick sighed.
If it had not been for the generosity and good nature of the youngest of the Hereto maids, Lothar nudged him sharply in the ribs and shot a warning glance towards Manfred, and Hendrick went on smoothly.
So do we all escape on one sway-backed ancient mule, he observed.
They will never catch us on this gazelle-swift creature. He slapped the fat rump and the mule maintained its easy swaying gait, its hooves plopping in the dust.
We are going to use him for hunting, Lothar told him, and grinned at Hendrick's perplexed frown.
Back at the rock shelter, Lothar worked quickly, making up twelve pack-saddles of ammunition, food and equipment.
When they were lashed and loaded, he laid them out at the entrance of the shelter.
Well, Hendrick grinned. We've got the saddles. All we need are the horses. We should leave a guard here. Lothar ignored him, But we'll need every man with us. He gave the money to Pig John, the least untrustworthy of the gang.
Five pounds is enough to buy a bathtub full of Cape Smoke, he pointed out, and a glassful of it will kill a bull buffalo. But remember this, Pig John, if you are too drunk to stay in the saddle when we ride, I'll not leave you for the police to question. I'll leave you with a bullet in the head. I give you my oath on it. Pig John tucked the banknote into the sweatband of his slouch hat. Not a drop of it will touch my lips, he whined ingratiatingly. The baas knows he can trust me with liquor and women and money. It was almost twenty miles back to the town of Okahandja and Pig John set out immediately to be there well in advance of Lothar's arrival. The rest of the party, with Manfred leading the mule, climbed down the hillside.
There had been no wind since the previous day, so the lion's tracks were still clearly etched and uneroded, even in that loose soil.
The hunters, all armed with the new Mausers, and with bandoliers of ammunition belted over their shoulders, spread out in a fan across the lion spoor and went away at a trot.
Manfred had been warned by his father to keep well back, and with the memories of the beast's wild roarings still in his ears, was pleased to amble along at the mule's slow plod.
The hunters were out of sight ahead, but they had marked their trail for him with broken branches and blazes on the trunks of the camel-Thorn trees so he had no difficulty following.
Within an hour they found the spot at which the old red torn had killed one of the count's heifers. He had stayed on the carcass until he had consumed everything but the head and hooves and larger bones. But even from these he had licked the flesh as proof of his hunger and restricted hunting prowess.
Quickly Lothar and Hendrick cast forward in a circle around the trampled area of the kill and almost immediately cut the outgoing spoor.
He left not more than a few hours ago, Lothar estimated, and then as one of the grass stalks trodden down by the big cat's paws, slowly rose and straightened of its own accord, he amended his guess. Less than half an hour, he might have heard us coming up. No. Hendrick touched the spoor with the long peeled twig he carried. He has gone on at a walk. He isn't worried, he hasn't heard us. He is full of meat and will go now to the nearest water. He's going south. Lothar squinted against the sun to check the run of the spoor. Probably heading for the river and that will take him closer to the town, which suits us very well. He reslung the Mauser on his shoulder and signalled his men to stay in extended order. They went on up the low rise of a consolidated dune and before they reached the top the lion broke, flushing from the cover of a low clump of scrub directly ahead of them, and went away from them across the open ground at an extended catlike run. But his belly, gorged with meat, swung weightily at each stride as though he were heavily pregnant.
It was long range, but the Mausers whip-cracked all along the line as they opened up on the running beast. Dust spurted wide and beyond him. All Lothar's men except Hendrick were appalling marksmen. He could never convince them that the speed of the bullet was not directly proportional to the force with which one pulled the trigger, or break them of the habit of tightly closing their eyes as they ejected the bullet from the barrel with all their strength.
Lothar saw his own first shot kick dust from beneath the lion's belly. He had misjudged the range, always a problem over open desert terrain. He worked the bolt of the Mauser without taking the butt from his shoulder and lifted his aim until the pip of the foresight rode just above the beast's shaggy flowing red mane.
The lion checked to the next shot, breaking his stride, swinging his great head around to snap at his flank where it had stung him, and the sound of the jacketed bullet slapping into his flesh carried clearly to the line of hunters. Then the bon flattened once more into his gallop, ears back, growling with pain and outrage as he vanished over the rise.
He won't go far! Hendrick waved the line of hunters forward.
The lion is a sprinter. He can only maintain that blazing gallop over a very short distance before he is forced back into a trot. If you press him further, he will usually turn and come back at you.
Lothar, Hendrick and Klein Boy, the strongest and fittest of them, pulled ahead of the line.
Blood! Hendrick shouted as they reached the spot where the lion had taken Lothar's bullet. Lung blood! The splashes of crimson were frothy with the wind of the ruptured lungs.
They raced along the bloody spoor.
Pasop! Lothar called as they reached the rise over which the beast had disappeared. Look out! He'll be lying in wait for us, And at the warning the lion charged back at them.
He had been lying in a patch of sansevieria just beyond the crest, flattened against the earth with his ears laid back upon his skull. But the moment Lothar led them over the crest, he launched himself at him from a distance of only fifty feet.
The lion kept low to the ground, with his ears still back so that his forehead was flat and broad as that of an adder and his eyes were a bright implacable yellow. His gingery red mane was fully erect, increasing his bulk until he appeared monstrous, and such a blast of sound came out of those gaping fang-lined jaws that Lothar flinched and was an instant slow on the shot. As the butt of the Mauser touched his shoulder, the lion rose from the ground in front of him, filling all his vision and the blood from his torn lungs blew in a pink cloud and spattered into Lothar's face.
His instinct was to fire as swiftly as possible into the enormous shaggy bulk of the lion as it towered over him on its hind-legs, but he
forced himself to shift his aim. A shot in the chest or neck would not stop the beast from killing him, the Mauser bullet was light, designed for men not great game, and that first bullet would have desensitized the lion's nervous system and flooded his system with adrenaline The brain shot was the only one which would stop him at such close quarters.
Lothar shot him on the point of his muzzle, between the flared pink pits of his nostrils, and the bullet tore up between the cat's eyes, through the butter-yellow brain in its bony casket and out through the back of his skull, but still the lion was driven on by the momentum of its charge. The huge muscular body slammed into Lothar's chest, and the rifle cartwheeled from his hands as he was hurled backwards to hit the earth with his shoulder and the side of his head.
Hendrick dragged him into a sitting position and wiped the sand from his mouth and nostrils with his bare hands, and then the alarm faded from his eyes and he grinned as Lothar struck his hands away weakly.
You are getting old and slow, Baas, Hendrick laughed.
Get me up before Manie sees me, Lothar ordered him, and Hendrick put a shoulder under him and hoisted him.
He swayed on his feet, leaning heavily on Hendrick, holding the side of his head where it had struck but already he was giving orders.
Klein Boy! Legs! Go back and hold the mule before it smells the lion and bolts with Manie! He pulled away from Hendrick and crossed unsteadily to the lion's carcass. It lay on its side and already the flies were gathering on the shattered head. We'll need every man and a bit of luck to get him loaded. Even though the cat was old and lean and out of condition, scarred by years of hunting in thorn veld and his coat dull and shaggy, yet his belly was crammed with beef and he would weigh four hundred pounds or more. Lothar picked his rifle out of the sand and wiped it down carefully, then he propped it against the carcass and hurried back over the ridge, still limping from the fall and massaging his neck and temple.
The mule with Manfred perched on his back was coming towards him, and Lothar broke into a run.