Legacy of War

by Wilbur Smith

  Up ahead, there were two more Land Rovers, both pockmarked by dents and rust patches. They did not look like properly maintained police vehicles, which was intentional. Makori was at the wheel of the lead vehicle, with one of the pseudos driving the one behind him.

  ‘That is General Thiga,’ Wambui said, when Saffron asked her to identify the second driver. ‘He is Sergeant Makori’s deputy.’

  ‘But he is Sungura’s commander.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Wambui said, with another beaming smile. ‘That is also true.’

  The column rolled out of the police compound and turned onto a road, little more than a dirt track signposted, ‘To Keringet’. This was a farming district, and every so often signs could be seen, on one side or other of the road, indicating the way to individual properties and bearing the names of their owners: Barrett, McEwan, Jarvis.

  All British, Saffron thought. And scared stiff that their own workers have taken the Mau Mau oath.

  ‘How did you come to serve under Sergeant Makori?’ she asked Wambui. ‘What were you doing before?’

  ‘I was with Major Jimmy.’

  ‘Is he another rebel?’

  ‘He was. I was his woman. But Sergeant Makori killed him.’

  ‘Are there many women among the rebels?’

  ‘Yes . . . wherever there is a camp, there will be at least one woman.’

  ‘Does she belong to the leader?’

  ‘Yes, but she can go with the other men, too.’

  Saffron knew that the Kikuyu, like the Maasai, had a different attitude to sexual morality than Europeans, particularly where women were concerned.

  ‘But she chooses which man to go with?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Wambui replied. ‘It is a great honour for a man to go with the chief’s woman.’

  ‘And Sergeant Makori took you prisoner?’

  ‘Yes. I was taken to a screening camp, with those of Major Jimmy’s men who were not killed.’

  At last Saffron had the chance to hear a first-hand account of life in the internment camps. Makori had been right. She would never get a better chance to understand what the rebellion and the fight against it were really like.

  ‘Was Sergeant Makori with you at the camp?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Did he hurt you at all? I have heard that many Kikuyu have been badly hurt in the camps.’

  Wambui nodded. ‘I have heard that too, such terrible stories. But Sergeant Makori did not hurt us. He showed us that it was better for us to go with him.’

  ‘How did he do this?’

  ‘He told us, “If your leaders were truly powerful, they would not have let me kill them. If they truly cared about you, they would not have let me kill your brothers and capture you. But I am powerful, and I will care for you.”’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Not right away. But I considered what he had said over many days. And I saw the truth of his words. Also, he gave me food and found me new shoes, for I had none. My dress was torn, so he gave me a new dress. So I thought, “This is a powerful man, and a good man. I will follow him.”’

  ‘He is a good man,’ Saffron agreed, considering how much more effective Makori’s policy of persuasion, time and patience was than the aggression and brutality that was so common elsewhere. ‘And a wise one, too.’

  If only I could say the same about the others.

  They drove through the small hamlet of Keringet. By now they were approaching the edge of a forest that rose up through the surrounding hills, as far as the eye could see. Makori turned off the dirt road and onto a narrower, more pitted track that bumped and twisted uphill until it reached a small glade, barely bigger than a tennis court.

  The lead Land Rover came to a halt; the other two vehicles pulled up beside it and everyone got out.

  Saffron counted nine male pseudos, including Thiga, all of them armed with rifles. Makori was carrying an army-issue Sterling sub-machine gun. A fighting knife in a battered leather sheath was now tucked into the belt of string around his waist. With her and Wambui, there were a dozen people in all: a decent fighting force in a guerrilla campaign.

  Makori approached her, with a pseudo by his side. Saffron could see at once that he was not a Kikuyu. His skin was darker than theirs and his hair was not cut tight to the scalp, but stuck up around his head in a wiry frizz.

  ‘This is our tracker, Wando. He’s an Okiek.’

  Saffron and Wando shook hands. She knew that the Okiek were a forest-dwelling tribe, famed for their hunting and tracking skills. If De Lancey really had been brought through this forest, Wando would find his trail.

  ‘The plan is as follows,’ Makori continued. ‘If De Lancey has been captured, and if any of the rebels around were involved, then we know the general direction of their route between the Aberdares and here. We will therefore march in a south-south-easterly direction, hoping to cross the path of the kidnappers – if there is any path to cross. Please do not take this the wrong way, ma’am, but purely for your safety, I am hoping we do not find anything.’

  There are times when a wife finds herself talking to her husband like a mother to a child.

  ‘No,’ Harriet told Leon, ‘we can’t cancel everything. It’s too late. Dorian and Sophie are arriving from Cairo today, expecting to have a lovely relaxing break with us, and you simply can’t cancel your own brother and sister-in-law. In any case, they’ll be in the air by now so there’s no way of turning them back. The Sharpes and the Finneys are coming to dinner and I’ve asked them to stay on for a couple of nights. We’ll have a proper house party. It will do us both good to see other people and have a jolly time.’

  ‘But Manyoro—’

  ‘Would not want you to be moping around feeling miserable on his account. No one has taken more pleasure out of life than him.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly true,’ Leon admitted with a sad, affectionate smile. ‘As his many, many wives could testify.’

  ‘And this one and only wife is telling you that the best way to honour your dearest friend is to enjoy yourself and be happy.’

  Leon gave a sigh of surrender. ‘You’re right, as always, my love. We’ll drink a toast to Manyoro tonight. Several toasts, in fact. I’ll tell Mpishi to put some champagne on ice. Let’s do the job properly, finish off the last of the Krug ’45.’

  ‘Now that’s more like it,’ Harriet said.

  Saffron had been marching for more than three hours, uphill and down without a break, when Wando, who was a few yards up the road, suddenly stopped dead. The column immediately did likewise.

  Wando looked down, took a couple of paces to either side and contemplated the ground. He asked Makori to join him.

  Saffron watched as Wando and Makori stood huddled over whatever it was that had attracted Wando’s attention: footprints, she presumed. Wando squatted down, picked up a twig and pointed it at a spot on the forest floor. Makori got down on his haunches beside the tracker and the two of them had a lively debate, while the others waited.

  Makori walked back to his team and said, ‘Wando has found several sets of footprints. He is sure that one of them belongs to a white man. He says this man is heavy and that he is stumbling and scuffling his feet as if he is very tired, or injured, though there are no signs of blood anywhere.’

  ‘That sounds like De Lancey,’ said Saffron. ‘But how is Wando sure that the prints were made by a European?’

  ‘They are much clumsier, more obvious than the others. Forgive me, but Wando says an elephant could move through the forest with more grace than a white man.’

  As the pseudos chuckled, Saffron added, ‘De Lancey’s a blundering great oaf all right. So, are we going after him?’

  ‘Yes, but if we find the camp, the rest of you will have to take cover, while Thiga and I go in and try to find De Lancey.’

  ‘Do we have to rescue him? He’s a vile man. He’s tortured hundreds of people.’

  ‘I have heard that too. But that is no
t our business now. All we know is that the rebels have committed the crimes of murder and kidnap. It’s our job to free their victim.’

  Makori looked hard at Saffron, while the pseudos watched on, fascinated, but also confused by this conversation between a white woman and a black man who treated one another as equals. How could this be? White men did not consider black people their equals. Women were certainly not men’s equals. And yet, here they were.

  ‘Do I have to remind you of the terms of our agreement?’ Makori asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Saffron replied. ‘You’re in command.’

  The men nodded, relieved that the rightful order of things had been restored, not noticing the little roll of the eyes that Wambui had directed at Saffron.

  Makori gave a curt nod. ‘Good.’ He turned to the Okiek tracker and, switching into Swahili, said, ‘Wando, lead the way.’

  For two hours they marched in silence through the forest. In the shade of the trees, with the only sounds coming from the songs of the birds up above and the rustle of animals through the undergrowth, it was hard to believe that this was a place where a war was being fought and blood being shed. From time to time, Wando would stop and whisper to Makori. Following close behind him, Saffron learned that the white man’s footprints were telling Wando that his physical condition was worsening. If his captors did not arrive at their destination soon, they would be forced to stop if they wished to keep their prisoner alive.

  With every step, the tension grew as the inevitable contact with the enemy drew closer. Saffron’s belly clenched a little tighter as she thought about what would happen if the men they were hunting discovered that they were being followed.

  All they have to do is double back, set up an ambush and we’ll be goners.

  She dragged a hand across her face to wipe the sweat away from her eyes, and gave a wry, exhausted smile as another thought occurred to her. She was now safer here, with the others, than if she tried to make it back to the cars by herself. That meant she could no longer run from trouble, even if she wanted to.

  The forest seemed to have quietened, as though the birds and animals were retreating to nests, hides and burrows in anticipation of a storm to come. The air was growing heavy, electric with anticipation.

  Wando held up a hand and Makori mimicked the gesture, bringing the column to a halt. They conferred once again and Wando stepped off the path, into the forest and disappeared. Houdini himself could not have performed a more magical trick.

  ‘Wando has seen signs of other men in this area,’ Makori told Saffron. ‘He believes we may be approaching a camp, so he’s going to see for himself.’

  Makori posted two lookouts, then told the others to fall out. The pseudos had been marching for hours, and welcomed the chance to rest and get some food and water inside them.

  Saffron slumped to the ground, exhausted. As a twenty-three-year-old SOE trainee, she’d been marched for days and nights across the freezing, rainswept terrain of the West Highlands and thought nothing of it.

  But that was a dozen years and two babies ago. I’m an old woman now!

  An hour went by before Wando reappeared. He spoke to Makori, then Makori gathered his team around him.

  He began with a single word: ‘Kabaya.’

  There was a low, gentle sound as the pseudos gasped.

  ‘He is a very dangerous,’ Makori said to Saffron. ‘We served together in Abyssinia. He was a very good soldier, a sergeant like me. But when we came home, we took different paths. Kabaya chose the path of evil. He was a gangster in Nairobi, very wicked, killed many people, but no one would ever be a witness against him. Now he is leading rebels instead of criminals, but still a bad, bad man.’

  He switched to Swahili as he told the pseudos what he had in mind. Wando would lead Makori and Thiga to the camp. They would infiltrate it, identify the captive, observe the layout and work out the number of rebels, then get word back when they’d worked out a plan of attack.

  The pseudos nodded. One exchanged his rifle for Makori’s Sterling, which was too special a weapon for the lowly Sungura to carry into a Mau Mau camp.

  Saffron focused on the pseudos for a moment. She noticed that none of them asked how long Makori expected to be gone. They were used to this. They trusted their boss to get in and out alive. When the time came they would be ready.

  She looked to where Makori, Thiga and Wando had been standing, but they had disappeared.

  All she could do now was wait.

  Makori and Thiga had taken cover behind a bush within twenty yards of the camp. There was a sentry ahead of them. Many Mau Mau treated sentry duty as a chance to relax and have a smoke. That made it easier for Makori to sneak up on them and put his knife to work. Kabaya, however, had his men well trained because this one was clearly alert and paying attention.

  He would be hard to take by surprise. They would have to get in another way.

  Makori put his cupped hands to his mouth, like a man imitating birdsong. Thiga nodded. He cupped his hands in the same manner and made the call of a nightjar.

  The sentry stiffened and looked into the trees. The nightjar’s call was the signal by which all Mau Mau made themselves known when approaching a camp.

  Thiga made the call again.

  The sentry made a similar call back.

  Thiga stepped from behind the bush and strode towards the sentry with brash self-confidence.

  ‘I am General Thiga,’ he said. ‘I am a great fighter from the Aberdares. The British ambushed my camp. Many of my men were killed, but I escaped with but a single man.’ Thiga turned his head and called out, ‘Sungura, show yourself!’

  Makori emerged, looking sheepish, hunched and unthreatening.

  Thiga turned to the sentry and said, ‘Is this the camp of the mighty General Kabaya? Take me to him so we may talk together.’

  The sentry frowned again. ‘I cannot do that, sir. The general is conducting a trial. He cannot be disturbed.’

  ‘Nonsense! How can a prisoner be more important than a fellow general?’

  The sentry stood up tall. ‘General Kabaya has captured Nguuo the Torturer. He is trying him for the killing and wounding of many of our brothers.’

  ‘May we watch this trial?’ Thiga asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the sentry said, looking downcast. ‘Every other man in our company is in the jury. Only I have been denied that honour.’

  ‘Did you displease General Kabaya?’

  ‘I lost my boots.’

  Makori looked down and saw that the sentry was barefoot.

  ‘The general struck me twenty times with the kiboko and put me on sentry duty for a month.’

  Thiga nodded. ‘I, General Thiga, will tell you how this will go,’ he said. ‘You will take me and my comrade Sungura into the camp and we will observe this trial. When it is done, and justice has been meted out to the evil Nguuo, I will make myself known to General Kabaya and I will be sure to tell him that . . .’ He smiled and put an arm around the sentry’s shoulder. ‘Forgive me, but if I am to praise you to your general I must know your name . . .’

  ‘Kipchego,’ the sentry said.

  And that was the last word he uttered.

  While Kipchego’s attention had all been focused on Thiga, Makori had slipped behind him, unsheathed his knife and clamped one hand across the sentry’s mouth while the other stabbed the knife into the small of his back.

  Kipchego fell forward onto the earth and Makori fell with him. Experience had taught him that a lot could happen between the striking of a deadly blow and death itself. So it was in this case.

  Muffled moans emerged from Kipchego’s stifled mouth as he writhed his back and shoulders like a horse trying to buck its rider. Makori clung on as Kipchego made a last, desperate attempt to get away, digging his fingers into the earth and dragging himself forward. He managed two strong pulls that moved him half a body-length, but the strength suddenly left him. His back stilled and his limbs stopped moving.

  Ki
pchego’s head flopped forward as Makori let go his grip. He got back to his feet and helped Thiga drag Kipchego’s body into the undergrowth. Then they made their way into the camp, which was laid out in classic Mau Mau style.

  Around the outside were two concentric rings of foxholes the shape of shallow graves, lined with leaves. These, as Makori knew from personal experience, were surprisingly warm and cosy on a chilly night. At the back of the camp, beyond an open area that would be used to drill the troops, an open lean-to with a wooden frame and thatched roof rested against a rock outcrop. This was the general’s headquarters.

  The lean-to had become the judge’s bench and defendant’s dock. Makori saw a tall, distinguished Kikuyu in combat fatigues. He was addressing an overweight, plainly terrified white man, who was standing before him. Kungu Kabaya was the judge and prosecution in the trial of Nguuo, the hippo, alias Quentin De Lancey.

  Makori could see another man, a huge, looming presence, half-hidden in the shadows behind Kabaya. He carried out a quick, rough headcount and estimated that there were twenty-five, maybe thirty more rebels sitting cross-legged in the open area in front of the lean-to, gazing with rapt attention at the proceedings. A couple of them, recognising Thiga, greeted him with the respect that his reputation deserved, but were hushed by the others around them. No one wanted to miss a single word of the trial. Thiga and Makori took their places at the back and settled down to watch the show.

  Kabaya had listed at least twenty specific instances of torture and a further five counts of death. He spoke with a passionate, exaggerated tone of voice, and the outraged cries of horror and shouted abuse from the assembled Mau Mau gave the proceedings an air of pantomime. Yet this was no empty oratory. Each fresh allegation was accompanied by the name of the victim and details of the precise nature, time and place of the alleged offence.

  Makori had always treated the stories of prisoner abuse with a degree of scepticism, not least because he did not want to believe that the forces he served could behave that badly. But the crimes that Kabaya was describing bore an unmistakable stamp of truth, and De Lancey knew it, too.