A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (27 page)

“But what will Schelling do to him in the Cape? Surely he won’t want any witnesses to what happened here?” asked Masson.

“I’m not sure Schelling will make it out of the valley, let alone back to Two Rivers,” Thunberg replied grimly.

“So how do we get back if Chungwa has the other wagon? We only have the one horse, and even you can’t be optimistic enough to think that we would get very far if we tried to walk back to the Cape.”

Thunberg smiled his broadest grin yet. “When I found him, Eulaeus was leading our cart back to the place where we were almost flooded. He had hidden it before going to Two Rivers in case he was not welcomed back, or in case he needed something more to bargain with Chungwa. We left it just over on the other side of this hill. So, if everyone is in agreement, I suggest we get moving.”

The group murmured their collective consent and steadily they marched in silence through the brush.

As they crested the hill, Masson caught a last glimpse of the clump of assegai trees that had been their refuge. He tried to look for the butterflies that he had seen the day before which had given him such hope. He saw that they were still there, but that now they were not alone. A murder of crows had been drawn in to the uppermost boughs of the trees, their dark, glossy forms taking their time to pick off the insects that flitted and danced around the tree blossoms, oblivious to the danger.

Masson need not have worried about Eulaeus deceiving them a second time. In less than an hour, after joining up again with their cart, they were led to a place that looked as though it had been left over from the time of Eden.

Surrounded on all sides by false horsewood and blue guarri trees, a natural spring bubbled to the surface, perfectly concealed from the outside world. Shovelers and teals bobbed for food in the clear spring waters that formed a pool of about fifty yards in diameter, creating a sheltered home for dozens of aquatic plants, birds and insects. Bursts of violet and yellow were spread across the pool where waterlilies erupted from their verdant pads, competing for the dragonflies’ attention with the graceful bowed heads of the pink marsh lilies that lined the banks.

At the far edge of the pool, to Masson’s great relief, he saw a small field populated by hundreds of tall green stems with whole clusters of
isigude
bobbing in the breeze, their crowns of colour rendered even more vibrant by the honeyed light of the afternoon.

The team set about collecting as many of the plants as they could find room for in the back of the cart. Thunberg offered to offload the other boxes of specimens that he and Masson had collected together on the way up, but Masson would not hear of depriving Thunberg of his share of the spoils, and so the specimens remained on board.

“I brought you one for your herbarium,” Jane said, handing Masson one of the flowers that she had cut from its stem. “Shall we call a truce, at least until we get back to Cape Town?”

“How could you possibly refuse such a gracious, and might I add poetic, offer?” said Thunberg, with a sly grin. Masson held the flower in his palm as if convinced that it would take flight like a frightened bird at any moment.

“You do realise that she called you a buffoon?” Masson said mischievously, breaking the moment that was starting to form between Thunberg and Jane. “A truce, then, yes. I accept and thank you.” Masson took his journal and placed the flower in its centre, pressing it between the pages.

With their collecting done, their equipment packed and all the waterskins filled, they left the glade behind them and set off in the direction of the sinking sun.

Masson took the horse and followed behind the cart while Thunberg sat alongside Eulaeus and helped drive the team forward down the road back to Cape Town.

In the back of the cart, curled up amongst the flowers, Jane had fallen sound asleep.

The full moon that lit their path seemed brighter than the tepid wintery sun that had always struggled to force its way through those grey downland mornings when Masson had trudged his way to Leeds Castle. Masson found himself thinking more and more of home. What surprised him was that it was not with longing that he thought of the chalky hills and neatly ordered fields and lanes, but with the kind of detachment that accompanied the sight of a picture or a painting drawn by someone else.

He began to wonder whether he was being bewitched by the African night when he started to fantasise about clearing his name and staying on so that he could complete his two-year contract. Jane could take the flower back to England with a letter for Banks explaining that they had found it together, so that he would still get his land while she would be able to regain her pride. Banks would no doubt be angry, but the passing of time and the hundreds of specimens that Masson would send back would surely temper his wrath. Perhaps he might even give Masson a bonus for services rendered to King and country above and beyond the call of duty.

“You know that it’s not polite to stare,” whispered Thunberg as he jumped down from the driver’s seat, stretching his limbs as he ambled over to where Masson had halted just behind the cart. Upon being roused out of his daydreams by Thunberg, Masson found that he was indeed staring at Jane’s sleeping countenance.

“I wasn’t staring, I was just, ah, thinking,” Masson stuttered, looking away a little too quickly.

“Well, that can only lead to trouble,” said Thunberg, handing Masson a waterskin. “So, what will it be, then?”

Masson stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

“The path, Masson, the path.” Masson thought that Thunberg had lapsed into philosophical delusions, but then saw that they had reached a fork in the trail. It split southwards towards the coast and further north towards the desert that lay just beyond the rolling mountains on the northern horizon. “Eulaeus and I are divided. He feels we should head north and cross over the mountains so that we can take the quiet road that skirts the desert on the other side. My view is that we should just press on to the coast. There’s more chance of being discovered by the Xhosa, but it’s faster, and there are more farms along the way where we could get supplies or new horses if we needed them.”

“But the lions are that way,” said Masson grimly.

“So they are,” Thunberg said casually, as if he were remarking on a common variety of grass rather than the threat of a gruesome death. “But Schelling’s group seemed to have no trouble with them on the way in. Perhaps they’ve moved on, or perhaps the Trekboers were just unlucky.”

“What about Jane, doesn’t she get a vote?” asked Masson, more as a means of buying time than out of any real concern for true democracy.

“Oh, she’s already told me that she’s for heading south, but I thought that I should ask you, just in case we need a tie-break.” Masson wondered what else they had discussed.

“South it is,” Masson said firmly.

“That’s the spirit. In that case,” Thunberg said, walking back to the cart to retrieve one of the rifles, “you may be needing this. Do you want to lead from the front, or protect the rear?”

The coastal track was very different from the one they had taken previously. Whereas before the landscape had been characterised by dense brush, thick foliage and brittle, rocky soil, now they were surrounded by gently rolling plains of pastureland hemmed in by immense coastal sand dunes so high that, even though you could smell it, you could not see the sea beyond them.

The trail was also better established and water was plentiful, with many fresh streams flowing down from the mountains and across the plains before disgorging themselves into the sea. Although the cart was more heavily laden than it had been before, they made steady progress. By the time the sun had reached its peak on the day after they had harvested the flowers, they reckoned to be less than half a day’s journey to the southern crossing point of the river where they had met up with the Trekboers — the official boundary of the frontier.

Although he was exhausted from lack of sleep, Masson was desperate to be across the river, out of the reach of the lions and the Xhosa, but they agreed that with another three to four weeks of hard travelling still ahead of them, it would be unwise to push the horses too far so early on. Thunberg was also keen to get under cover in case they were spotted, and they all agreed that they could rest for the afternoon. Given the easy going, it would be better to travel by night, at least until they were over the river and back within Company territory.

They stopped next to a small stream, forsaking the high ground for a loose clump of thorn pear trees and sage bushes that shielded them from sight and from the sun.

Masson had tried his best not to steer his horse close to the cart every time he saw Thunberg turn to say something to Jane, and he tried even harder not to wince every time she laughed at one of his jokes. When Masson saw them deep in conversation, he wondered if Jane was telling Thunberg the same story that she had told him, or if perhaps she was giving him a different version.

When they stopped and Jane was out of earshot, Thunberg approached Masson and asked in whispered awe, “Did she tell you the whole story?”

But Masson churlishly replied, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Thunberg. I would have thought that the lady’s story is her own. The only thing that matters now is that we all get back to Cape Town. Nothing that may or may not have happened in the past is going to change that, is it?”

Thunberg looked stung but then softened. He rested one hand on Masson’s shoulder before saying, “You know, Masson, it’s only called chivalry when you’re protecting someone who needs protecting. Between you and me, I think this lady can take care of herself.”

Masson changed the subject as he saw Jane approaching. “We should probably check the rifles to make sure they’re still properly sighted. Can you shoot? If not, we can probably teach you,” Masson said to Jane, trying his best not to sound patronising and failing miserably.

In answer to his question, Jane leaned over the side of the cart and picked up one of the rifles. She held it in both hands, testing its balance, then expertly loaded it, took aim and fired at a sapling about thirty feet away. The whole process was so quick and fluid that it probably took less than twenty seconds, although that was more than enough time to make Masson wish the earth would open up and swallow him whole. As the smoke cleared, his humiliation was complete when they all saw that shot had found its mark in the centre of the trunk.

“I think this one’s sighted a little low, you should check it,” Jane said as she handed the rifle back to Thunberg, who doffed his hat in appreciation of her skill. He turned to Masson and asked under his breath, “Still feeling chivalrous?”

The group ate and then rested for the remainder of the afternoon. Masson slept soundly, but as the dusty smell of dusk settled on the camp, he emerged from his dream state disoriented and confused; his mind was slow to make sense of why the sun was setting and not rising. He made his way over to the fire that Eulaeus had made, poured himself some of the weak redbush tea that was perpetually on offer and then went about helping to set the horses within their harnesses.

But the horses were skittish and wouldn’t go easily into their places. They lifted their heads in unison and then shifted their hooves, whinnying nervously as if reluctant to be restrained by the cart. Eulaeus turned and then shouted something that sounded like a curse as he looked down the slope towards the stream. He reached into the fire and took out a burning stick, which he held out in front of him to illuminate the gloom.

“What is it?” asked Jane.

“He’s not sure; he says there’s something just beyond the trees,” Thunberg replied as he reached for a rifle, which he loaded and then handed, half-cocked, to Masson. He took up another rifle, which he also began to load, as Jane looked nervously towards the stream. But before he had finished, Willmer stepped out of the shadows from behind them, levelling his rifle at Masson’s chest.

Everyone except Eulaeus, who kept his eyes fixed on the stream, spun around at the sound of Willmer’s arrival, only to see Schelling step out from behind his comrade’s great bulk, a sneer painted across his dirty face. The two men were grubby and unshaven and looked as if they had not slept in days. The whites of their eyes were shot through with red, and Schelling’s fine clothes were dirty and torn, transforming his usually slick demeanour into something altogether more feral. He trained his own rifle on Thunberg and placed his finger on the trigger guard, pulling the hammer back into the fully cocked position with a well-oiled, metallic click.

Thunberg raised both hands, letting his rifle fall to the ground with the ramrod still protruding from the barrel.

Before anyone could respond, Schelling said acidly: ”Good evening, gentlemen.”

He turned to Jane. “I would say ‘lady’ as well, except that I’m not familiar with any lady who also happens to be a horse and wagon thief.”

Jane started to say something, but Thunberg nudged her and motioned for her to stay silent. Schelling kept his rifle level as he circled around the fire, keeping his back to the stream so that he could take Masson’s rifle from him whilst bringing Eulaeus into his field of fire. “You know, I’ve been thinking over the last day or so as I’ve been riding across this heathen-infested countryside that perhaps I was too harsh. That instead of wanting you both to suffer a painful and prolonged death at the hands of the Cape authorities, I should instead have opted for the much simpler and far kinder approach and simply shot you where you stood at the ravine.”

Masson looked across at Eulaeus and saw that his eyes were bulging in the direction of the stream.

“Come, now, my dear Masson. Cat got your tongue?” But Masson was too preoccupied with Eulaeus, who seemed on the verge of collapsing, such was his discomfort at whatever he had seen down by the stream. “Oh, well, I always thought last words were overrated anyway.”

Schelling trained the rifle on Masson and had just taken his finger away from the trigger guard when a skull-rattling roar erupted from the stream.