Assegai

When they returned to camp Graf Otto turned breakfast into a celebration of his own prowess. He sat at the head of the table wolfing ham and eggs, and swigging the coffee he had laced generously with cognac while he regaled Eva with a highly coloured description of the hunt. He gave a passing mention to Leon at the end of the long account. ‘When there was only one old blind animal still on its feet, I let Courtney have it. Of course, I had wounded it so badly that it was not a real challenge, but I will say this for him, he managed to kill it in quite workmanlike fashion.’

At that moment his attention was taken by sudden activity outside the tent. Hennie du Rand was with the skinners, who were getting into the back of a truck. They were armed with axes and butcher’s knives. ‘What are those people doing, Courtney?’

‘They are going to bring in your dead buffaloes.’

‘What for? The heads are worthless, as you have already told me, and surely the meat will be so old and tough that it will be inedible.’

‘When it is smoked and dried the porters and other labourers will eat it with relish. In this country any meat is much prized.’

Graf Otto wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood up. ‘I will go with them to watch.’

This was another of his typically idiosyncratic decisions, but still it took Leon by surprise. ‘Of course I will come with you.’

‘No need for that, Courtney. You can stay here and see to the refuelling of the Butterfly for the flight back to Nairobi. I will take Fräulein von Wellberg with me. She will be bored sitting in camp.’

I would do my best to entertain her if you gave me half a chance, Leon thought, but kept the sentiment to himself. ‘As you wish, Graf,’ he acquiesced.

Hennie was overawed to have such illustrious company travelling with him in the truck, even for the short ride to where the carcasses lay. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, Graf Otto put him more at ease by offering him a cigar. After the first few puffs Hennie had relaxed to the point at which he was able to answer the man’s questions coherently, rather than in an embarrassed mumble.

‘So, du Rand, they tell me you are South African, ja?’

‘No, sir. I am a Boer.’

‘Is that different?’

‘Ja, it is very different. South Africans have British blood. My blood is pure. I am one of a chosen Volk.’

‘To me it sounds as though you do not like the British very much.’

‘I like some of them. I like my boss, Leon Courtney. He is a good Sout Piel.’

‘Sout Piel? What is that?’

Hennie glanced unhappily at Eva. ‘It is man’s talk, sir. Not fit for the ears of young ladies.’

‘Do not worry. Fräulein von Wellberg speaks no English. Tell me what it is.’

‘It means “salty penis”, sir.’

Graf Otto began to grin, anticipating a good joke. ‘Salty prick? Explain this to me.’

‘They have one foot in London and the other in Cape Town, with their cocks dangling in the Atlantic,’ Hennie said.

Graf Otto let out a hearty guffaw. ‘Sout Piel! Ja. I like it! It is a good joke.’ His chuckles died away, and then he picked up the conversation from where it had been diverted. ‘So, you do not like the British? You fought against them in the war, did you?’

Hennie thought about the question carefully, while he nursed the vehicle over a particularly rough stretch of the track. ‘The war is finished,’ he said at last, his tone flat and noncommittal.

‘Ja, it is finished, but it was a bad war. The British burned your farms and killed your cattle.’

Hennie did not reply, but his eyes shaded. ‘They put your women and children in the camps. Many died there.’

‘Ja. It is true,’ Hennie whispered. ‘Many died.’

‘Now the land is ruined and there is no food for the children, and your Volk are slaves to Britain, nein? That is why you left, to escape the memories.’

Hennie’s eyes were filled with tears. He wiped them away with a calloused thumb.

‘Which commando did you ride with?’

Hennie looked directly at him for the first time. ‘I did not say I rode with any commando.’

‘Let me guess,’ Graf Otto suggested. ‘Perhaps you rode with Smuts.’

Hennie shook his head with an expression of bitter distaste. ‘Jannie Smuts is a traitor to his people. He and Louis Botha have gone over to the khaki. They are selling our birthright to the British.’

‘Ah!’ Graf Otto exclaimed, with the air of a man who already knew the answer to his question. ‘You hate Smuts and Botha. I know then who you rode with. It must have been Koos de la Rey.’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Tell me, du Rand, what manner of man was General Jacobus Herculaas de la Rey? I have heard tell that he was a great soldier, better than Louis Botha and Jannie Smuts put together. Is that true?’

‘He was no ordinary man.’ Hennie stared at the track ahead. ‘To us he was a god.’

‘If there were ever to be another war, would you follow de la Rey again, Hennie?’

‘I would follow him through the gates of hell.’

‘The others of your commando, would they follow him also?’

‘They would. We all would.’

‘Would you like to meet de la Rey again? Would you like to shake his hand one more time?’

‘That is not possible,’ Hennie mumbled.

‘With me everything is possible. I can make anything happen. Say nothing to anybody else. Not even to your Sout Piel boss, whom you like. This is between you and me alone. One day soon I will take you with me to see General de la Rey.’

Eva was crammed in beside him. She was obviously uncomfortable and swiftly becoming bored with the conversation in a language she did not understand. Graf Otto knew that her only languages were German and French.