Shout at the Devil (14 page)

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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Shout at the Devil
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‘
W
hat should we do now, Manali?' Mohammed asked, and the expression on the faces of the two other men echoed the question with pathetic trust. A benevolent chance had reunited Sebastian with the remnants of his command. During the flight through the millet gardens, with random rifle-fire clipping the leaves about their heads, Sebastian had literally fallen over these two. At the time they were engaged in pressing their bellies and their faces hard against the earth, and it had taken a number of lusty kicks with the jackboot to get them up and moving.
Since then Sebastian, mindful of Flynn's advice, had cautiously and circuitously led them down to the landing-place on the bank of the Rovuma. He arrived to find that Fleischer's Askari, by using the direct route and without the necessity of concealing themselves, had arrived before him. From the cover of the reed-banks Sebastian watched dejectedly, as they used an axe to knock the bottoms out of the dug-out canoes that were drawn up on the little white beach.
‘Can we swim across?' he asked Mohammed in a whisper, and Mohammed's face crumpled with horror, as he considered the suggestion. Both of them peered out through the reeds across a quarter of a mile of deep water that flowed so fast, its surface was dimpled with tiny whirlpools.
‘No,' said Mohammed with finality.
‘Too far?' asked Sebastian hopelessly.
‘Too far. Too fast. Too deep. Too many crocodiles,' agreed Mohammed, and in an unspoken but mutual desire to get away from the river and the Askari, they crawled out of the reed-bank and crept away inland.
In the late afternoon they were lying up in a bushy gully
about two miles from the river and an equal distance from M'topo's village.
‘What should we do now, Manali?' Mohammed repeated his question, and Sebastian cleared his throat before answering.
‘Well …' he said and paused while his wide brow wrinkled in the agony of creative thought. Then it came to him with all the splendour of a sunrise. ‘We'll just jolly well have to find some other way of getting across the river.' He said it with the air of a man well pleased with his own perspicacity. ‘What do you suggest, Mohammed?'
A little surprised to find the ball returned so neatly into his own court, Mohammed remained silent.
‘A raft?' hazarded Sebastian. The lack of tools, material and opportunity to build one was so obvious, that Mohammed did not deign to reply. He shook his head.
‘No,' agreed Sebastian. ‘Perhaps you are right.' Again the classic beauty of his features was marred by a scowl of concentration. At last he demanded, ‘There are other villages along the river?'
‘Yes,' Mohammed conceded. ‘But the Askari will visit each of them and destroy the canoes. Also they will tell the headmen who we are, and threaten them with the rope.'
‘But they cannot cover the whole river. It has a frontier of five or six hundred miles. We'll just keep walking until we find a canoe. It may take us a long time but we'll find one eventually.'
‘If the Askari don't catch us first.'
‘They'll expect us to stay close to the border. We'll make a detour well inland, and march for five or six days before we come back to the river again. We'll rest now and move tonight.'
 
 
Heading on a diagonal line of march away from the Rovuma and deeper into German territory, moving north-west along a well defined footpath, the four of them kept walking all that night. As the slow hours passed so the pace flagged and twice Sebastian noticed one or other of his men wander off the path at an angle until suddenly they started and looked about in surprise, before hurrying back to join the others. It puzzled him and he meant to ask them what they were doing, but he was tired and the effort of speech was too great. An hour later he found the reason for their behaviour.
Plodding along, with the movement of his legs becoming completely automatic, Sebastian was slowly overcome by a state of gentle well-being. He surrendered to it and let the warm, dark mists of oblivion wash over his mind.
The sting of a thorn branch across his cheek jerked him back to consciousness and he looked about in bewilderment. Ten yards away on his flank, Mohammed and the two gun-boys walked along the path in single file, their faces turned towards him with expressions of mild interest in the moonlight. It took some moments for Sebastian to realize that he had fallen asleep on his feet. Feeling a complete ass, he trotted back to take his place at the head of the line.
When the fat silver moon sank below the trees, they kept going by the faint glow of reflected light, but slowly that waned until the footpath hardly showed at their feet. Sebastian decided that dawn could be only an hour away and it was time to halt. He stopped and was about to speak when Mohammed's clutching hand on his shoulder prevented him.
‘Manali!' There was a tone in Mohammed's whisper that cautioned him, and Sebastian felt his nerves jerk taut.
‘What is it?' he breathed, protectively unslinging the Mauser.
‘Look. There – ahead of us.'
Screwing up his eyes Sebastian searched the blackness ahead, and it was a long time before the faint ruddiness in the solid blanket of darkness registered itself upon the exhausted retinas of his eyes. ‘Yes!' he whispered. ‘What is it?'
‘A fire,' breathed Mohammed. ‘There is someone camped across the path in front of us.'
‘Askari?' asked Sebastian.
‘Perhaps.'
Peering at the ruby puddle of dying coals, Sebastian felt the hair on the back of his neck stir and come erect with alarm. He was fully awake now. ‘We must go around them.'
‘No. They will see our spoor in the dust of the path and they will follow us,' Mohammed demurred.
‘What then?'
‘First let me see how many there are.'
Without waiting for Sebastian's permission, Mohammed slipped away and disappeared into the night like a leopard. Five anxious minutes Sebastian waited. Once he thought he heard a scuffling sound but he was not certain. Mohammed's shape materialized again beside him. ‘Ten of them,' he reported. ‘Two Askari and eight bearers. One of the Askari sat guard by the fire. He saw me, so I killed him.'
‘Good God!' Sebastian's voice rose higher. ‘You did what?'
‘I killed him. But do not speak so loud.'
‘How?'
‘With my knife.'
‘Why?'
‘Lest he kill me first.'
‘And the other?'
‘Him also.'
‘You killed both of them?' Sebastian was appalled.
‘Yes, and took their rifles. Now it is safe to go on. But the bearers have with them many cases. It comes to me that
this party follows after Bwana Intambu, the German commissioner, and that they carry with them all his goods.'
‘But you shouldn't have killed them,' protested Sebastian. ‘You could have just tied them up or something.'
‘Manali, you argue like a woman,' Mohammed snapped impatiently, and then went on with his original line of thought. ‘Among the cases is one that by its size I think is the box for the tax money. The one Askari slept with his back against it as though to give it special care.'
The tax money?'
‘Yes.'
‘Well, son of a gun!' Sebastian's scruples dissolved and in the darkness his expression was suddenly transformed into that of a small boy on Christmas morning.
 
 
They woke the German bearers by standing over them and prodding them with the rifle barrels. Then they hustled them out of their blankets and herded them into a small group, bewildered and shivering miserably in the chill of dawn. Wood was heaped on the fire; it burned up brightly, and by its light Sebastian examined the booty.
The one Askari had bled profusely from the throat on to the small wooden chest. Mohammed took him by the heels and dragged him out of the way, then used his blanket to wipe the chest clean.
‘Manali,' he said with reverence. ‘See the big lock. See the bird of the Kaiser painted on the lid …' He stooped over the chest and took a grip on the handles, ‘ … but most of all, feel the weight of it!'
 
 
Amongst the other equipment around the fire, Mohammed found a thick coil of one-inch manila rope. A commodity which was essential equipment on any of Herman Fleischer's
safaris. With it, Mohammed roped the bearers together, at waist level, allowing enough line between each of them to make concerted movement possible but preventing individual flight.
‘Why are you doing that?' Sebastian asked with interest, through a mouthful of blood sausage and black bread. Most of the other boxes were filled with food, and Sebastian was breakfasting well and heartily.
‘So they cannot escape.'
‘We're not taking them with us – are we?'
‘Who else will carry all this?' Mohammed asked patiently.
 
 
Five days later Sebastian was seated in the bows of a long dug-out canoe, with the charred soles of his boots set firmly on the chest that lay in the bilges. He was eating with relish a thick sandwich of polony and picked onions, wearing a change of clean underwear and socks that were a few sizes too large, and there was clutched in his left hand an open bottle of Hansa beer – all these with the courtesy of Commissioner Fleischer.
The paddlers were singing with unforced gaiety, for the hiring fee that Sebastian had paid them would buy each of them a new wife at least.
Hugging the bank of the Rovuma on the Portuguese side, driven on by willing paddles and the eager current, in twelve hours they covered the distance that it had taken Sebastian and his heavily-laden bearers five days on foot.
The canoe deposited Sebastian's party at the landing opposite M'topo's village, only ten miles from Lalapanzi. They walked that distance without resting and arrived after nightfall.
T
he windows of the bungalow were darkened, and the whole camp slept. After cautioning them to silence, Sebastian drew his depleted band up on the front lawn with the tax chest set prominently in front of them. He was proud of his success and wanted to achieve the appropriate mood for his home-coming. Having set the stage, he went up on to the stoep of the bungalow and tiptoed towards the front door with the intention of awakening the household by hammering upon it dramatically.
However, there was a chair on the stoep, and Sebastian tripped over it. He fell heavily. The chair clattered and the rifle slipped from his shoulder and rang on the stone flags.
Before Sebastian could recover his feet, the door was flung open and through it appeared Flynn O'Flynn in his night-shirt and armed with a double-barrelled shotgun. ‘Caught you, you bastard!' he roared and lifted the shotgun.
Sebastian heard the click of the safety-catch and scrambled to his knees. ‘Don't shoot! Flynn, it's me.'
The shotgun wavered a little. ‘Who are you – and what do you want?'
‘It's me – Sebastian.'
‘Bassie?' Flynn lowered the shotgun uncertainly. ‘It can't be. Stand up, let's have a look at you.'
Sebastian obeyed with alacrity.
‘Good God,' Flynn swore in amazement. ‘It is you. Good God! We heard that Fleischer caught you at M'topo's village a week ago. We heard he'd nobbled you for keeps!' He came forward with his right hand extended in welcome. ‘You made it, did you? Well done, Bassie boy.'
Before Sebastian could accept Flynn's hand, Rosa came through the doorway, brushed past Flynn, and almost knocked Sebastian down again. With her arms locked
around his chest and her cheek pressed to his unshaven cheek, she kept repeating, ‘You're safe! Oh Sebastian, you're safe.'
Acutely aware of the fact that Rosa wore nothing under the thin night-gown, and that everywhere he put his hands they came in contact with thinly-veiled warm flesh, Sebastian grinned sheepishly at Flynn over her shoulder.
‘Excuse me,' he said.
His first two kisses were off target for she was moving around a lot. One caught her on the ear, the next on her eyebrow, but the third was right between the lips.
When at last they were forced to separate or suffocate, Rosa gasped, ‘I thought you were dead.'
‘All right, missie,' growled Flynn. ‘You can go and put some clothes on now.'
 
 
Breakfast at Lalapanzi that morning was a festive affair. Flynn took advantage of his daughter's weakened condition and brought a bottle of gin to the table. Her protests were half-hearted, and later with her own hands she poured a little into Sebastian's tea to brace it.
They ate on the stoep in golden sunshine that filtered through the bougainvillaea creeper. A flock of glossy starlings hopped and chirruped on the lawns, and an oriel sang from the wild fig-trees. All nature conspired to make Sebastian's victory feast a success, while Rosa and Nanny did their best from the kitchen – drawing upon the remains of Herman Fleischer's supplies that Sebastian had brought home with him.
Flynn O'Flynn's eyes were bloodshot and underhung with plum-coloured pouches, for he had been up all night counting the contents of the German tax chest and working out his accounts by the light of a hurricane lamp. Nevertheless, he was in a merry mood made merrier by the cups of
fortified tea on which he was breakfasting. He joined warmly in the chorus of praise and felicitation to Sebastian Oldsmith that was being sung by Rosa O'Flynn.
‘You turned up one for the book, so help me, Bassie,' he chortled at the end of the meal. ‘I'd just love to hear how Fleischer is going to explain this one to Governor Schee. Oh, I'd love to be there when he tells him about the tax money – son of a gun, it'll nigh kill them both.'
‘While you're on the subject of money,' Rosa smiled at Flynn, ‘have you worked out how much Sebastian's share comes to, Daddy?' Rosa only used Flynn's paternal title when she was extremely well-disposed towards him.
‘That I have,' admitted Flynn, and the sudden shiftiness of his eyes aroused Rosa's suspicions. Her lips pursed a little.
‘And how much is it?' she asked in the syrupy tone which Flynn recognized as the equivalent of the blood roar of a wounded lioness.
‘Sure now, and who wants to be spoiling a lovely day with the talking of business?' Under pressure, Flynn exaggerated the brogue in his voice in the hope that Rosa would find it beguiling. A forlorn hope.
‘How much?' demanded Rosa, and he told her.
There was a sickly silence. Sebastian paled under his sunburn and opened his mouth to protest. On the strength of his half share, he had the previous night made to Rosa O'Flynn a serious proposal, which she had accepted.
‘Leave this to me, Sebastian,' she whispered and laid a restraining hand on his knee as she turned back to her father. ‘You'll let us have a look at the accounts, won't you?' Still syrupy sweet.
‘Sure and I will. They're all straight and square.'
 
 
The document that Flynn O'Flynn produced under the main heading, ‘Joint Venture Between F. O'Flynn, Esq.,
S. Oldsmith, Esq., and Others. German East Africa. Period May 15, 1913, to August 21, 1913,' showed that he belonged to an unorthodox school of accountancy.
The contents of the tax chest had been converted to English sterling at the rates laid down by
Pear's Almanac
for 1893. Flynn set great store by this particular publication.
From the gross proceeds of £4,652. 18
s
. 6
d
., Flynn had deducted his own fifty per cent share and the ten per cent of the other partners – the Portuguese Chef D'Post and the Governor of Mozambique. From the balance he had then deducted the losses incurred on the Rufiji expedition (for which see separate account addressed to German East African Administration). From there he had gone on to charge the expenses of the second expedition, not forgetting such items as:
To L. Parbhoo (Tailor)
£15:10.—.
To One German Dress Helmet (say)
£ 5.10.—.
To Five Uniforms (Askari) £ 2.10.—. each
£12.10.—.
To Five Mauser Rifles £10.—.—. each
£50.—.—.
To Six Hundred and Twenty-Five
Rounds 7mm Ammunition
£22.10.—.
To Advance re travelling expenses, One Hundred Escudos made to S. Oldsmith, Esq.
£ 1. 5.—.
Finally, Sebastian's half share of the net losses amounted to a little under twenty pounds.
‘Don't worry,' Flynn assured him magnanimously. ‘I don't expect you to pay it now – we'll just deduct it from your share of the profits of the next expedition.'
‘But, Flynn, I thought you said – well, I mean, you told me I had a half share.'
‘And so you have, Bassie, and so you have.'
‘You said we were equal partners.'
‘You must have misunderstood me, boy. I said a half share – and that means after expenses. It's just a great pity there was such a large accumulated loss to bring forward.'
While they discussed this, Rosa was busy with a stub of indelible pencil on the reverse side of Flynn's account. Two minutes later she thrust the result across the breakfast table at Flynn. She said, ‘And that's the way I work it out.'
Rosa O'Flynn was a student of the ‘One-for-you-one-for-me' school, and her reckonings were much simpler than those of her father.
With a cry of anguish, Flynn O'Flynn lodged objection. ‘You don't understand business.'
‘But I recognize crookery when I see it,' Rosa flashed back.
‘You'd call your old father a crook?'
‘Yes.'
‘I've a damn good mind to take the kiboko to you. You're not too big and uppity that I can't warm your tail up good.'
‘You just try it!' said Rosa, and Flynn backpedalled.
‘Anyway, what would Bassie do with all that money? It's not good for a youngster. It would spoil him.'
‘He'd marry me with it. That's what he'd do with it.'
Flynn made a noise as though there were a fish-bone stuck in his throat, his face mottled over with emotion and he swung ominously in Sebastian's direction. ‘So!' he rasped. ‘I thought so!'
‘Now steady on, old chap,' Sebastian tried to soothe him.
‘You come into my home and act like the king of bloody England. You try to fraudulently embezzle my money – but that's not enough! Oh no! That's not a bloody 'nough. You've also got to start tampering with my daughter just to round things off.'
‘Don't be coarse,' said Rosa.
‘That's rich –
don't be
coarse
, she says, and just what exactly have you two been up to behind my back?'
Sebastian stood up from the breakfast table with dignity. ‘I will not have you speak so of a lady in my presence, sir. Especially of the lady who has done me the great honour of consenting to become my wife.' He begun unbuttoning his jacket. ‘Will you step into the garden with me, and give me satisfaction?'
‘Come along, then.' As Flynn lumbered out of his chair he made as if to pass Sebastian, but at that moment Sebastian's arms were behind him, still bound by the sleeves of his jacket as he attempted to shrug it off. Flynn side-stepped swiftly, paused a moment as he took his aim, and then drove his left fist into Sebastian's stomach.
‘Oof!' said Sebastian, and leaned forward involuntarily to meet Flynn's other fist as it came up from the level of his knees. It took Sebastian between the eyes, and he changed direction abruptly and ran backwards across the veranda. The low wooden railing caught him behind the knees and he toppled slowly into the flower-beds below the stoep.
‘You've killed him,' wailed Rosa, and picked up the heavy china tea-pot.
‘I hope so,' said Flynn, and ducked as the pot flew towards his head, passed over it and burst against the wall of the stoep, spraying tea and steam.
There was an ominous stirring among Rosa's flowers, and presently Sebastian's head emerged with blue hydrangea petals festively strewn in his hair and the skin around both eyes fast swelling and chameleoning to a creditable match with the petals. ‘I say, Flynn. That wasn't fair,' he announced.
‘He wasn't looking,' Rosa accused. ‘You hit him before he was ready.'
‘Well, he's looking now,' roared Flynn and went down
the veranda stairs like a charging hippopotamus. From the hydrangeas, Sebastian rose to meet him and took up the classic stance of the ring fighter. ‘Marquis of Queensberry rules?' he cautioned as Flynn closed in.
Flynn signified his rejection of the Marquis's code by kicking Sebastian on the shin. Sebastian yelped and hopped one-legged out of the flower-bed, while Flynn pursued him with a further series of lusty kicks. Placing his boot twice in succession into Sebastian's posterior, the third kick, however, missed and the force behind it was sufficient to throw Flynn on to his back. He sprawled on the lawn, and the pause while he scrambled to his knees gave Sebastian respite to ready himself for the next round.
Both his eyes had puffed and he was experiencing discomfort from his rear end; nevertheless, he stood once again with his left arm extended and the right crossed over his chest. Glancing beyond Flynn, Sebastian saw his fiancée descending from the veranda. She was armed with a breadknife.
‘Rosa!' Sebastian was alarmed. It was clear that Rosa would not stop at patricide to protect her love. ‘Rosa! What are you doing with that knife?'
‘I'm going to stick him with it!'
‘You'll do no such thing,' said Sebastian, but Flynn did not have the same faith in his daughter's restraint. Very hurriedly, he moved into a defensive position behind Sebastian. From there he listened with attention to the argument between Sebastian and Rosa. It took a full minute for Sebastian to persuade Rosa that her assistance was not necessary and that he was capable of handling the situation on his own. Reluctantly, Rosa retreated to the veranda.
‘Thanks, Bassie,' said Flynn, and kicked him in his already bruised behind. It was extremely painful.
Very few people had ever seen Sebastian Oldsmith lose
his temper. The last time it had happened was eight years previously; the two sixth-formers who had invoked it by forcing Sebastian's head into a toilet bowl and flushing the cistern, were both hospitalized for a short period.
This time there were more witnesses. Attracted by the cries and crash of breaking crockery, Flynn's entire following, including Mohammed and his Askari, had arrived from the compound and were assembled at the top of the lawn. They watched in breathless wonder.

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