Legacy of War

by Wilbur Smith

  Praise for

  ‘A thundering good read is virtually the only way of describing Wilbur Smith’s books’

  IRISH TIMES

  ‘Wilbur Smith . . . writes as forcefully as his tough characters act’

  EVENING STANDARD

  ‘Wilbur Smith has arguably the best sense of place of any adventure writer since John Buchan’

  GUARDIAN

  ‘Wilbur Smith is one of those benchmarks against whom others are compared’

  THE TIMES

  ‘Best Historical Novelist – I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August’

  STEPHEN KING

  ‘Action is the name of Wilbur Smith’s game and he is the master’

  WASHINGTON POST

  ‘A master storyteller’

  THE SUNDAY TIMES

  ‘Smith will take you on an exciting, taut and thrilling journey you will never forget’

  THE SUN

  ‘No one does adventure quite like Smith’

  DAILY MIRROR

  ‘With Wilbur Smith the action is never further than the turn of a page’

  INDEPENDENT

  ‘When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st century H. Rider Haggard’

  VANITY FAIR

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Praise for Wilbur Smith

  Dedication

  Kenya, June 1951

  London

  Lusima, June 1964

  About the Author

  Also by Wilbur Smith

  The Power of Adventure

  Copyright

  I dedicate this book to my wife, Niso.

  From the day we first met she has been a constant and powerful inspiration to me, urging me on when I falter and cheering me when I succeed. I truly do not know what I would do if she were not by my side. I hope and pray that day never comes. I love and adore you, my best girl, words cannot express how much.

  KENYA, JUNE 1951

  In the flickering, smoky light cast by torches of burning brushwood, Kungu Kabaya looked past the slaughtered goat lying in the middle of the abandoned missionary chapel towards the men, women and children watching in fearful expectancy.

  There were around sixty of them, members of the Kikuyu tribe and ‘squatters’, as the white farmers called their black labourers. For no matter how hard a squatter worked; no matter how long he, or his father, or even grandfather had lived on the farm; no matter how skilfully he had built the hut in which he and his family lived: he only stayed on the farm with the farmer’s blessing and could be expelled at any moment, with no right of appeal.

  Kabaya cast his eye towards a separate group of around twenty squatters, men and women alike, who had been selected to take part in tonight’s ceremony, and he nodded to the one at the head of the line. He was thin and gangly, no more than eighteen years old. With a young man’s reckless bravado he had volunteered to be the first to take the oath. But as the gravity of his decision weighed upon him, his courage was giving way to anxiety and trepidation.

  Kabaya approached him and put a fatherly arm upon his shoulder.

  ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he said, speaking quietly so that only the youngster could hear him. ‘You can do this. Show them all that you are a man.’

  The five men Kabaya had brought with him to the ceremony glanced at one another and gave nods or smiles of recognition as they watched the young man straighten his back and hold his head up high, his confidence restored. They had all served with Kabaya in the King’s African Rifles, a British colonial regiment, during World War Two, campaigning in Ethiopia against Mussolini’s Italian armies and then in Burma against the Japanese. They had watched as he had been promoted from private to company sergeant major within five years. And for each of them there had been times when Kabaya had found the words to keep them going in times of hardship, or given them courage when the fighting was most fierce.

  When they came home to East Africa to discover that their military service had earned them neither human rights, nor decent jobs, Kabaya and his men had turned to crime. Their gang was one of many that emerged in the teeming shanty towns that had sprung up around the Kenyan capital, Nairobi, but it swiftly became the most powerful. The gangsters had become rebels and still they followed Kabaya. Whether a soldier, a criminal or a terrorist, their boss had a genius for leadership.

  Kabaya stepped back to leave the young man alone in the middle of the floor. As he did, his second in command, Wilson Gitiri, sat beside the goat, placing the wickedly sharp, long-bladed panga knife with which he – like all of Kabaya’s men – was armed, on the floor by his right hand.

  Kabaya was a tall, handsome, charismatic man. He was highly intelligent, confident in his ability to win people over by reason and charm as well as fear. Wilson Gitiri was malevolence personified. He was shorter in stature than his commander, but he was as barrel-chested as a bull. His face was criss-crossed with thick welts of scar tissue. His eyes were permanently narrowed, forever searching for possible threat. His hair was plaited into tight braids that were gathered in a ridge that ran from the back to the front of his scalp like a soldier’s forage cap. His presence in the chapel was an act of intimidation.

  An earthenware jug, a battered tin cup and a length of rope had been placed by the head of the goat. Gitiri poured a small measure of thick, dark, viscous liquid from the jug into the cup, before replacing both vessels in their original position.

  Minutes earlier, Gitiri had removed one of the goat’s legs with a single blow from his panga. He had skinned the severed limb, cut the muscles away from the bone and diced the uncooked flesh into twenty cubes, which he piled in a wooden serving bowl. This, too, sat on the floor beside the animal’s body.

  Kabaya glanced at Gitiri to ensure he was prepared.

  Gitiri nodded.

  Kabaya said, ‘Repeat these words after me . . . I speak the truth and vow before God, and before this movement of unity . . .’

  ‘I speak the truth and vow before God, and before this movement of unity,’ came the response, like a parishioner following his pastor’s lead.

  The oath-taking began as Kabaya spoke and the young man repeated the next lines:

  That I shall go forward to fight for the land,

  The lands of Kirinyaga that we cultivated.

  The lands which were taken by the Europeans

  And if I fail to do this

  May this oath kill me . . .

  Gitiri stood, holding the tin cup in one hand and the wooden serving bowl in the other. He held out the bowl. Kabaya took a piece of raw, bloody meat and offered it to the young man, saying, ‘May this meat kill me . . .’

  The young man, whose eyes kept darting towards Gitiri as if he dared not leave him out of his sight, hesitated. Kabaya glared at him, his eyes fiercer, more demanding this time. The young man took the meat, repeated, ‘May this meat kill me,’ and put it in his mouth. He chewed twice, grimaced, then downed it in one swallow.

  Gitiri held out the cup. Kabaya took it from him and said, ‘May this blood kill me . . .’

  The young man repeated the words and drank a sip of blood from the tin cup.

  The other Kikuyu tribespeople in the hall looked on in awed, horrified fascination as two separate strands in their culture were woven into a single binding cord.

  Solemn blood-oaths had long been central to Kikuyu life, though in the past they had been restricted to elders rising to the highest councils of the tribe. Within the past seventy years they had been converted to Christianity and were familiar with the rite of Holy Communion: the blood of Christ and the flesh of Christ, expressed
in wine and wafer. This was a darker, deeper, more African communion. It spoke to the very core of their being and everyone, from the youngest child to the most snowy-haired grandparent, knew that any oath taken under such circumstances was a sacred, unbreakable vow.

  Kabaya intoned the last lines of the oath, and the young man repeated after him . . .

  I swear I will not let the white men rule our land forever . . .

  I swear that I will fight to the death to free our lands . . .

  I swear that I will die rather than betray this movement to the Europeans . . .

  So help me God.

  Kabaya dismissed the young man, who walked back towards the main mass of his people. A knot of other youngsters grinned at him and applauded their friend. But he did not share their joy. He had looked into Kabaya’s eyes and understood that the words he had sworn were deadly serious. He would only live as long as he obeyed them.

  One after another, the chosen squatters took the oath, some with enthusiasm but most because they were too terrified to refuse. There were only five men and women left to be sworn in when Kabaya pointed to a man in late middle age and said, ‘You next. What is your name?’

  ‘Joseph Rumruti,’ the man said.

  He was not a tall man, nor strongly built. He had thin, bony limbs and a small pot belly. His scalp was almost bald and his beard was mostly grey. When he said his name he did so diffidently, as if he were apologising for his very existence.

  ‘I am his wife, Mary Rumruti,’ the woman next to him said. Like her husband, she seemed meek and submissive.

  Kabaya chuckled. ‘Mary and Joseph, eh? Is your boy Jesus here tonight?’

  The men on either side laughed at their leader’s wit.

  ‘No, sir, we have no son,’ said Joseph. ‘The Lord did not see fit to bless us with children.’

  ‘Huh,’ Kabaya grunted. ‘So, Joseph . . . Mary . . . it is time for you to swear the solemn oath. Repeat after me—’

  ‘No.’ Joseph spoke as quietly as before.

  A tense, fearful silence descended upon the hall.

  ‘Did I hear you say “No”?’ Kabaya asked.

  ‘That is correct,’ Joseph replied. ‘I cannot take your oath for I have already made a pledge, in church, in the sight of God, that I will have nothing to do with you and your renegades, or any other men like you.’

  ‘Woman,’ Kabaya said, looking towards Mary. ‘Tell your man to swear the oath. Tell him to do this, or I will make him swear.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I cannot do that. I have taken the same pledge.’

  Kabaya stepped up close to Joseph, towering over him, his veneer of civility falling away to reveal the iron-hearted warrior within. His broad shoulders seemed to swell beneath his khaki shirt, his fists clenched like the heads of two blacksmith’s hammers. Kabaya’s eyes glowered beneath his beetling brow.

  ‘Swear the oath,’ he said, speaking as quietly as Joseph had done, but with a chilling undercurrent of menace.

  Joseph could not look Kabaya in the eye. His head was bowed, his body trembling with fear.

  ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I cannot break my word to God.’

  ‘You are not the first person to defy me,’ Kabaya said. ‘They all swore the oath in the end, and you will too.’

  ‘I will not.’

  The tension in the hall tightened still further. One man shouted, ‘Take the oath, Joseph! For God’s sake, take it!’

  ‘Listen to your friend,’ Kabaya said. ‘Heed his words.’

  Only those closest to Joseph could hear him say, ‘I will not.’

  Kabaya heard.

  ‘I have had enough of this foolishness,’ he said. ‘I will make you swear.’

  To Gitiri he said, ‘The rope.’

  Gitiri walked to where the dead goat lay. He put down the cup and bowl. He picked up the rope. Each movement was slow, deliberate, almost as if they too were solemn components of the oathing ceremony.

  He faced Kabaya and tied the rope into a noose with about two feet of its length protruding from the knot.

  Kabaya nodded.

  Gitiri put the noose over Joseph’s head. He tightened it until it was snug against Joseph’s throat, then he stepped behind Joseph, holding the end of the rope.

  ‘One last chance,’ Kabaya said. ‘Will you swear?’

  Joseph shook his head.

  Kabaya said to Mary. ‘Take the oath and I will spare you.’

  Mary stood taller, squared her shoulders, looked up at Kabaya and, to his face, declared, ‘No.’

  Kabaya gave a shake of his head and shrugged, as if he did not want to take the next step but had been left with no choice. He nodded at Gitiri.

  Gitiri closed the noose more tightly against Joseph’s neck. Gitiri’s expression betrayed no emotion.

  Joseph was struggling to breathe.

  ‘Look at me,’ said Mary, and he obediently turned his eyes towards her.

  ‘This can stop now,’ Kabaya said. ‘You can go free. Just swear.’

  Joseph did not respond.

  Again Gitiri pulled the noose, slowly constricting Joseph’s throat, completing the task in tiny fractions.

  Kabaya looked over to the rest of his men, picked out three of them with his finger and nodded in Mary’s direction. They took up station around her, brandishing their machetes.

  The two remaining men, the ones armed with rifles, raised their guns at the crowd, which recoiled, pressing closely to the mission walls.

  ‘If you will not save yourself, save her,’ Kabaya said to Joseph.

  ‘Don’t!’ Mary cried. She started intoning the words of the 23rd Psalm. ‘ “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .” ’

  There was a murmur from the crowd, a rumble that formed the word, ‘Amen.’

  ‘You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head—’

  Kabaya lost his patience. ‘Do it,’ he ordered.

  The soldiers obeyed their commanding officer. Gitiri gave a brutal tug on the rope, tightening the noose so violently that it smashed through Joseph’s larynx and crushed his windpipe.

  As his body collapsed, Mary screamed. The other three men hacked at her with their machetes, slicing into the arms she raised in a futile attempt to protect herself, and butchering her body. Within seconds she was lying dead beside her husband and her blood was bathing them both.

  Kabaya looked at the corpses with indifference. He glanced at the final three oath-takers. They were huddled together, their arms wrapped around one another’s bodies.

  ‘Take the oath,’ Kabaya said.

  In desperate voices that cried out to be believed, they did what they were told.

  LONDON

  ‘Before we go any further, I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Saffron Courtney Meerbach, raising her glass of champagne. ‘To Gubbins . . . who brought us all together, and without whom none of us would be here today.’

  ‘To Gubbins!’ chorused the other five men and women seated around the table in the small French bistro.

  They had met there at her invitation as a nod to days gone by. The restaurant was an old haunt for them all. It was off Baker Street in central London, a stone’s throw from the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive, the wartime intelligence agency in which all but one of them had served. Brigadier Colin Gubbins was their commanding officer.

  ‘By God, he was scary though, wasn’t he?’ Leo Marks, a small man with a puckish smile added. ‘I still have nightmares about the first time he fixed those eyes of his on me. Classicists among us will recall the basilisk, the mythical Greek snake that could kill with a single glance. Well, dear old Gubbins made the basilisk seem like the Sugar Plum Fairy.’

  Of all the people at the table, only one had joined in the toast out of politeness, rather than enthusiasm. He was tall, with the chiselled features, tousled dark-blond hair and perfect tan of a Hollywood star. But there
was a slight hollowness to his cheeks and, occasionally, a haunted look to his cool, grey eyes that spoke of a man who had seen and experienced horrors beyond any normal human imagination. He was not the only one around the table of whom that was true.

  ‘Tell me, my darling,’ Gerhard Meerbach said in a light German accent, as he reached across the table and took his wife’s hand. ‘I understand how Gubbins links you all together. But how do I owe my presence here to him?’ Gerhard gave a wry shrug of the shoulders. ‘I was on the other side.’

  ‘Because, dearest,’ Saffron replied, ‘it was Gubbins who packed me off to the North German plain in late April ’45, to try and find our missing agents, including Peter . . .’

  Peter Churchill gave a modest nod of his bespectacled head as Saffron continued, ‘Had I not been there, I should never have followed the trail of the high-value prisoners that the SS were hoping to trade for favours with the Allies all the way to . . .’

  She was about to say ‘Dachau’, but stopped herself. She didn’t want that hellish nightmare intruding on their gathering.

  Instead she said, ‘All the way across Germany and into the Italian Tyrol, where . . . where I found you, my darling . . . and thought I’d arrived too late . . .’

  The sudden, vivid memory of Gerhard’s skeletal, feverish wreck of a body lying on what seemed to be his deathbed took Saffron unawares. She could not speak for the lump in her throat and had to blink back the tears before she could mutter, ‘Sorry,’ to the rest of the table. She pulled herself together, took a deep breath and with a forced briskness added, ‘But I hadn’t . . . and everything was all right, after all.’

  Silence fell across the table. They all had their own bitter memories and understood how shallow the emotions of war were buried, how the pain could creep up on one at any moment.

  Peter Churchill knew what a decent English gentleman should do at such a moment: lighten the mood.

  ‘I say, Saffron,’ he piped up. ‘It seems to me that you’re hogging the limelight in the matter of the Gubbins–Meerbach connection. After all, if I hadn’t been stuck in the same concentration camp as Gerhard, we wouldn’t have been on the same grim charabanc ride across the mountains. Thus I wouldn’t have been able to keep him more or less alive . . .’ He glanced towards Gerhard. ‘You were in the most terrible state, old boy, we thought you were a goner for sure . . . And I only happened to be on the bus thanks to Baker Street’s determination to keep sending me into Occupied France until I finally got caught. Ergo, the Law of Gubbins applies to me too.’