Timpani the Ostrich Rancher (Flat Earth)
Page 3
“We should arrive at Dar-es-Salaam tomorrow morning,” said Jake, riding on a borrowed horse next to Eugene. “Of course, Lisa will get there first.”
“She’s in charge of the scouts, then?”
“She’s the most experienced,” said Jake with a shrug.
“She’d better be,” said Lord Pennington, riding up to meet the two. “If we don’t know how many men the Germans have brought into the city, this will be a bloodbath.” Lord Pennington did not mention his displeasure at the scouts’ collective failure to notice the gatling guns before they killed and wounded a hundred of his men. The fact that the scouts had then destroyed the gatling guns was too little, too late. All this had combined to make the brash gentleman more conservative.
“We have eighteen hundred men and the advantage of surprise. The Germans won’t be ready for a sudden assault so soon after the fall of Tanga.”
“They’ll expect us to consolidate,” added Jake. “But there’s not much point in trying to organize our glorious mob.”
“I hope you’re right.”
§
The squadron flew toward Dar-es-Salaam, the gentle curve of the harbor—empty except for some small merchant shipping—rolling into a city built outward in concentric semicircles. Lisa had only been once, in peacetime. A wealthy lawyer had bought a map off a con man and wanted her to fly out and take a look before he went to the hassle of organizing an expedition. It had been an easy job to prove the liar’s map wrong, and for all she knew he was still down there languishing in his cell.
She gave the signal for the squadron to split by wing pairs. Two of the pilots followed her as she searched for the railroad tracks. She wanted to see if any troop trains were coming into the city. She signaled her intent and descended for a better view. The two pilots followed, one cruising above and one swooping below. She found the tracks when she saw the steam plume from an engine. She maneuvered and then took a look through her telescope. She could see—
The attack came without warning. She heard the stutter of rapid gunshots and the impact of bullets on wood. The glider above her had been riddled with bullets, and she could see that the pilot had been hit and killed. The craft slipped out of the sky and plummeted end-over-end to the earth. Lisa put her craft into a wide turn that put it on one side while she scanned the sky for the enemy. She saw her wing mate do the same and then she saw another glider descending out of the sun to come behind him.
She came out of her loop and banked down. She flipped up the small targeting site on the gatling gun and bracketed the enemy craft. She pulled the trigger and the bullets traced out, pushing her glider’s nose up as she tried to compensate. Whether through skill or luck, enough of the bullets found their way across to the enemy glider to rip one of the wings to pieces. The crippled glider veered off as the pilot tried to keep control.
Lisa managed to level out and dove to pursue, but she gasped when a line of bullets streamed through the space her craft had just been. The enemy glider’s wingman had appeared and was on her tail. She weaved, trying to catch an updraft to soar above and get the height advantage. “Where’s my—”
It was too late, and sustained fire raked her glider. One of the main struts was hit and torn off, sending a wing fluttering away. The tail of the glider, the delicate stabilizer, was in tatters. Lisa felt the glider losing momentum as it fell into a lazy spin. She took small consolation in the fact that the enemy pilot had been overconfident, his glider stalling and sitting in the air. A perfect target for her wing mate to return and destroy. Her wing mate swooped around her falling craft, but they both knew she was doomed. He waggled his wings and flew away before the next wave of enemy rocket-gliders could catch him.
It was a long way to the ground, but Lisa Rutherford kept her eyes open until the end.
§
“Godsdamn the Germans!” The cry that sent the waves of men rolling over the defenses of Dar-es-Salaam was shouted by Jake Bmonc followed by a destructive rampage through the camp. Finally the man had to be subdued by two burly volunteers until he calmed down enough to sleep. But he woke up the next morning, picked up his hunting rifle and walked to the head of Eugene’s company, the Forlorn Hope.
“Permission to lead the charge, sir,” he said in his most serious voice.
Eugene stood back and looked the thin man up and down, then looked him in the eyes. He nodded. “Permission granted.”
Jake turned to the men and shouted. “Let’s move out. Godsdamn the Germans!”
Eugene watched the small company move out to the front of the order of battle. He watched as the rocket-gliders launched to drive off the enemy gliders. He watched as the companies began their assault, converging around the spear-point of the Forlorn Hope. He watched as the attackers moved the captured gatling guns forward and used the cover fire to advance closer and closer. He watched men fall and die, and he watched the defenders break and scatter into the city.
Eugene spurred his horse forward to enter Dar-es-Salaam. Gunfire rang out as squads of men fought house-to-house against the resisting Germans. He couldn’t see any civilians in the streets as he rode up and he found Lord Pennington at the defense line directing the men picking up the many wounded.
“Where’s Jake?”
“He and your company went into the city to find the German commander.”
“We need to keep the pressure on the pockets of resistance.”
“And we need to keep the men from rampaging. We’re trying to hold this city.”
“Agreed. Give me a squad; I’m going to find Bmonc.” Eugene tried to disguise his eagerness as mere concern for an overextended comrade. But Lord Pennington was a perceptive one, and he regarded Eugene Dumortier. But nothing was said.
§
Jake smashed through into the command HQ, falling to the ground amidst the splinters of the door. The remnants of his squad, in the throes of battle lust and the glorious feeling of survival, pounded in opening fire on the armed men in the room. Jake picked himself up and surveyed the carnage. He picked up his sword and advanced on the German commander, who was standing in the center of the room with his aides clustered around. “Sir, I request your surrender,” Jake said, with forced calm. The commander bowed his head in defeat and unbuckled his sword.
Jake bounced the sword in his hand twice. Then he snarled and threw the sword to clatter on the ground at the commander’s feet and turned on his heel, leaving the disposition of the prisoners to his men. He ran down the flights of stairs, each landing strewn with the bodies of the defenders, and stepped out of the building into the open air of Dar-es-Salaam. Shots all around indicated that the fighting was not yet over, but some civilians were starting to peek out of the shutters of their houses.
“Jake!” A cry from down the street.
“Eugene?”
“Jake, we did it.”
“There’s only eight men left of the fifty I led in.”
“But it was worth it! The Germans won’t recover from this!”
“Maybe,” shrugged Jake, walking towards Eugene. “But we’re alive.”
“And that means the war is over in this theatre. Nobody else has to—”
A shot rang out, closer this time. Jake ducked, ran forward and dragged Eugene over beneath an archway. His men opened fire from their vantage on the fifth floor of the building opposite, and Jake heard a scream and a thump as the sniper fell from the second floor window. A grunt of pain directed Jake’s attention to Eugene slumped against the wall. His hands were over his stomach, but blood was spreading out across his shirt.
“Nobody else has to die, I meant to say,” he said with a coughing laugh.
“You can’t die,” said Jake. His anger, forgotten in the reunion, returned. “I love you.”
“Well,” Eugene said. “…shit.” And then he died.
§
Boss Timpani sat atop his ostrich mount in the midst of the savannah. The ranch hands were bringing in a new flock to harvest their feathers. The Dumo
rtier ranch had fallen behind schedule while the rose-quartz man was organizing the defense, but now the raids had stopped. The news of the capture of Dar-es-Salaam had come by way of the newly commissioned frigate Sutherland, now based in that port to patrol the coasts. The happy news of German capitulation in East Africa had come with sad word of Eugene Dumortier’s death. But nothing lasts forever, Timpani thought.
He saw Jake Bmonc riding out towards the work party and rode to meet him. “You are here to take over as owner, young soor?” Timpani said, touching a finger to his broad-brimmed hat. He had been expecting this.
The man reined in his horse. “Why would I do that?”
“I aschumed that soor would include you in his will,” said the rose-quartz man. “My pardons for any offense.”
“Despite it all, you really didn’t know Eugene, did you?” Timpani bristled at this, but Jake went on. “He doesn’t forget his friends.”
“This means?” Timpani was cautious, unsure of how much Jake Bmonc knew about his past.
“You are the new owner of the Dumortier ranch, Mr. Timpani.”
“But, young soor—”
“You don’t have to address me as such, Mr. Timpani. Mr. Bmonc will do. Or better: Jake. It’s not my property you stand on, but yours. Besides, I wouldn’t have time for ranching. It looks like Mombasa needs a new commissioner of police—” and here Jake winked “—if that meets your approval, Mr. Timpani?”
Timpani was shocked, an unfamiliar experience for a rose-quartz man. A landholder, a gentleman? And in a community where the authorities were on his side? “Well,” he averred.
“Well, then it’s settled.”
“What happens now?”
“Lord Pennington is having a celebratory banquet tomorrow and expects all us gentlemen to be in attendance,” Jake said with a wry smile, and wheeled his horse around. He looked back over his shoulder, and Timpani saw for the first time the hint of tears behind the cheery mask. “After that? Anything you like, Mr. Timpani. Anything at all.”
The rose-quartz man went still for a time as Jake disappeared into the distance. And then Timpani the Ostrich Rancher rode back to his flocks.
The End
About the Author
David Barron is a writer currently living and working in Southeast Asia. Follow his professional writing adventures on his website or e-mail him at davidalbarron@gmail.com!
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Table of Contents
Timpani the Ostrich Rancher
The End
About the Author
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