A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (20 page)

“That’s reassuring to know, but I was referring more to the part about ‘certain doom’.”

“Best approach is to go to the top. Each Xhosa chiefdom has at its heart the chief’s Great Place, a village where he lives surrounded by his immediate family and councillors. At this time of year, the local chief’s Great Place is at Two Rivers. We’ll go there and take this as a gift.” Thunberg tapped on one of the wine crates that they had been using to store their specimens.

“Don’t tell me that the chief is a botanist, too?” Masson asked sarcastically.

“Not exactly. There’s nothing that we could teach them about the plants here, anyway. But this is different.” Thunberg lifted the lid. Inside were neatly tied bundles of dried tobacco leaves.

“The Xhosa love it, and if we bring this sort of gift to the chief, they would be only too happy to take us to the flower in return.”

Reluctantly, Masson had to concede that yet again, Thunberg seemed to have thought of everything. Only one other thing remained. “What about the other news, the news that was depending on something or other?”

“Well, if we do decide to press on to Two Rivers, then the route that we have to take crosses over a treacherous mountain pass that makes the Hottentots-Holland Kloof look like a stroll in the Company’s Gardens. Ox wagons are too big and have to be disassembled for the pass, but they reckon we might be able to make it with our smaller cart. Once over the pass, we would have to traverse a stretch of land where water is so scarce that the only thing to drink is the sweat between your toes.”

Masson looked at Thunberg, who shrugged and said, “Their words, not mine.”

“But why not just stick to our original route and head back to the coastal track?”

“Your question is excellent. After all, that track is well used, has plenty of water, is shorter by at least a day and is much safer, depending—”

“Depending on what?” asked Masson, fearing the worst.

“Depending on whether or not we come across the same pride of lions that reduced this seasoned and well-armed group of frontiersmen from seven wagons to six.”

Masson felt the blood drain from his face. The primal fear of being hunted down lingered in his gut.

“Oh,” added Thunberg, “I almost forgot the worst part of all.”

“What?” asked Masson, wondering what could possibly be worse.

“They didn’t have any brandy to trade, either.”

When they reached it, they found that the pass they had chosen in preference to the lions resembled a rockslide more than a wagon track. Although it was devoid of the dense and prickly vegetation that covered the hills on both sides, the ground consisted of fist-sized rocks of red clay that had been baked hard in the sun.

Even Masson could see that the arrow-straight scar that the track made on the side of the hill would be difficult enough to negotiate during the daytime; at night or in the rain, with the deep gullies on either side of the track, any attempts would be doomed to fail.

They agreed to take the horses up to flat ground first and then return with the cart afterwards. After an ascent that should have taken an hour but which took them three times as long, owing to slipping and sliding on the infirm ground, they finally reached the summit.

Not far away, they found the recently burned-out remains of a small farmstead that had once commanded views of the valley beyond. No rain had fallen recently, and countless impressions of bare feet could be seen in the dirt.

The only structure still standing next to the charred wreck of a roughly made house was a small shelter that looked like an oversized chicken coop. Part of a horse’s skeleton lay off to one side, having been picked clean by the hyenas and the vultures.

“Just what I always wanted,” said Masson cheerily. “Friendly neighbours, a bucolic setting, a nice little place in the country to call my own. All that’s missing are the crazed serpents.”

“Who says they’re missing?” retorted Thunberg, taking his rifle from its holster and looking around cautiously.

They returned to hitch the horses with the hauling ropes and then began the arduous task of hauling the cart up the slope. “We should wait until morning,” said Thunberg pensively, looking up at the sky, where the sun had already lost its brilliance as it settled towards the horizon. “The horses are fatigued by the climb, and it will be dark soon.”

“No,” Masson said firmly. “We’ve lost enough time as it is. If we wait until tomorrow, we’ll lose our advantage over Schelling and all this will be for nothing.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Thunberg chirpily. “My drawings have improved immeasurably under your excellent teaching, and at least you can shoot more than boulders. And what about that seat under a shady tree?”

“Forgive me, Thunberg, but we can sit and rest once we reach Two Rivers. That flower is my only means of salvation, and I don’t intend to sit by and let Schelling snatch it from me. Not when we’re so close.”

“Very well,” Thunberg sighed, perhaps sensing that he wouldn’t be able to win Masson over this time. “Although if ever a seat beneath a shady tree was a good idea, it would be now.”

Before the cart had even passed halfway up the slope, night had fallen and the sky was made blacker by the rainclouds that had blown in from the south-west, blocking out the light of the moon and bringing with them a chill wind. Soon, the sound of distant thunder accompanied by dim flashes of lightning heralded the arrival of a storm.

When the rain did come, it wasn’t gradually, but all at once — as if a giant lever had been pulled, releasing the full contents of the clouds in an instant. Sodden, cold and cursing, but with the fear of losing the cart driving them on, the men struggled to control the tired horses, putting their shoulders against the animals’ rumps to add their own strength to an effort that became increasingly futile as the rain turned the clay to mud. The cart became increasingly bogged down.

The task was made even more difficult by the small, narrow furrows that had been carved by the falling rain, making traps for the cart wheels, which seemed drawn to them as if by some magnetic force. Each time the cart fell into one of the furrows, it had to be levered out.

The fourth or fifth time this happened, about halfway to the summit, both Masson and Thunberg had to exert all their combined weight and strength on the lever as Eulaeus flogged the horses forward. But the two men were sent sprawling as the cart shifted unexpectedly in the mud. The rear axle broke with a sickening crunch, followed by the sound of wine bottles rolling off the back of the cart, smashing as they fell.

With no moonlight to inspect the damage, they released the horses from the cart and looked around for cover. The only shelter on offer was in the lee of a large ironwood tree they had seen earlier near the side of the track. But so close to the top of the hill, it looked to Masson like a disaster waiting to happen. His suspicions were confirmed moments later when the tree was struck by a blinding flash of lightning that was followed almost immediately by a deafening roar that shook the ground.

The horses reared and bolted in a panic, running away in all directions into the pitch-black night. The rain began to pelt down harder than ever. Masson turned to Thunberg and pointed up the road, yelling, “Chicken coop!”

Thunberg yelled something back which Masson could not hear over the ringing in his ears and the roar of the downpour. Besides, he was in no mood to argue. He turned and jogged through the rain towards the broken hulk of the farmstead. He spotted the small outbuilding he had seen before and made for it just as the rain turned to hail.

As Masson ducked his head down to pass through the low doorway, he felt himself being grabbed violently from behind. Thrown to the ground, he rolled over, flailing blindly, kicking and thrashing with all of his remaining strength. His foot connected with something soft, and he heard a loud howling sound. He scrambled to his feet and turned around to see Thunberg doubled over on the ground, cursing him and shouting something that Masson could not hear.

Thunberg picked himself up from the muddy ground. Without saying a word, he pulled Masson by the arm to the entrance of the shelter. He picked up a large rock and threw it inside, whereupon the entire roof collapsed onto the floor of the shelter. Masson saw that the roof comprised of sharp spikes designed to impale whatever was trapped inside.

“Hyena trap!” shouted Thunberg above the storm as Masson disconsolately wiped the rain from his face.

The men took shelter in the ruins of the burned-out house, making a cover out of a piece of oilcloth that Eulaeus had retrieved along with an oil lamp from the cart that was now firmly embedded in the slope.

As the rain pelted down, the men sat huddled together, teeth chattering. Each time the feeble flame flickered within the lamp’s glass chimney, Masson held his breath. With their cart wrecked and the horses scattered, he knew that if Schelling’s progress was unchecked by the storm, he would certainly get to the flower first, and any hopes Masson had of redemption would be lost.

The next morning, Masson stood disconsolately amongst the broken bottles and watched as Eulaeus inspected the damage to the rear axle.

When Masson asked if it could be fixed, he received a non-committal shrug by way of an answer, leaving him with the impression that whilst it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, neither was it particularly likely.

Depressed, Masson looked around for Thunberg. He was surprised to see the Swede walking towards them leading all but two of the horses and whistling a chirpy tune with what even looked like a smile on his face.

“Two of them were taken by hyenas during the night, but the rest are not too worse for the experience,” Thunberg said jovially.

“I don’t suppose you managed to find some water as well?” asked Masson.

Thunberg stopped whistling. “What do you mean?”

“Most of the wine bottles were broken when the axle snapped. And the ones that didn’t break are empty anyway. There’s one waterskin that’s half full, but that’s it.”

“How sweaty are your toes?” asked Thunberg, trying to lift the mood.

“Doesn’t the homestead have a well?” asked Masson, ignoring him and looking towards the building.

“Probably poisoned,” replied Thunberg glumly.

“But there must be water — we were almost flooded last night!”

“Agreed, but apart from some patches of mud, the earth is as dry as a stone. It’s as if we dreamed the whole thing.”

Thunberg and Eulaeus conferred for a few minutes whilst Masson paced up and down, cursing his luck.

“We have a plan,” Thunberg finally said, cheerily. “But only if you’re interested.”

Masson just shrugged and let his arms fall limply to his side, deflated.

“If we work together, we can fix the cart. Eulaeus reckons that by following this track, it will take less than a day to get to the Xhosa chief’s Great Place. In the meantime, we could cut across country and be there in a few hours. If we take a little tobacco with us, we could start negotiations and then give the chief the rest when Eulaeus arrives with the cart later tonight. It would be cutting it close, but we would probably still beat Schelling to it. What do you think?”

“So despite the fact that the story the Trekboers told us is patently true, our big plan is to just ride up to the chief’s Great Place and hope that a bit of tobacco will sweep a titanic border-struggle under the calfskin carpet?”

“There is a risk, of course, but although Chief Chungwa will be on his guard after expelling the Trekboers, as long as we don’t pose a threat to him or his cattle, we should be fine. Besides, there’s been many a time when a gift of tobacco has done more than just a little sweeping.”

Masson mulled it over and saw that under the circumstances, they didn’t have much choice.

“All right, Thunberg, let’s do it your way. Short of being killed, I don’t suppose that things could get any worse. It seems that outcome is equally likely whatever we do.”

“That’s the spirit.” Thunberg said drily.

The repairs took most of the morning, but Masson found that the work concentrated his mind and helped to lift the melancholy that had overtaken him.

With the cart finally fixed, they re-packed all the boxes and equipment and then loaded some provisions into a sack for the ride across the bush. Thunberg took some of the tobacco out of the box. Wrapping it carefully, he added it to one of his saddle bags.

He then gave a rifle and some ammunition to Eulaeus, who proceeded to give detailed directions for how to find Chief Chungwa’s Great Place at Two Rivers.

By the time he and Thunberg were ready to leave, Masson had even begun to feel a little optimistic.

As they bid farewell to Eulaeus and headed down the hill, Masson turned to Thunberg and asked, “You are sure about this short cut, aren’t you? I don’t need to remind you that we have almost no water and only a few strips of dried meat to sustain us if things go wrong.”

“Trust me, Masson. As long as you show the proper respect and bring the right gifts, the Xhosa are renowned for their hospitality. By the end of the day, I predict that you’ll have your flower, and with the help of a little sorghum beer and a serving of freshly roasted beef, you’ll be the most contented man in Africa.”

“I simply don’t understand!” Thunberg had dismounted from his horse to climb a tall stinkwood tree so that he could get the best possible view of the surrounding landscape.

The two men had been riding all afternoon, and the sun was already low on the western horizon. The horses were spent, and their riders were tired and thirsty.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” asked Masson.

“It could be worse,” said Thunberg almost to himself as he scanned the horizon.

“Yes, I suppose it could. We could, for example, have no water. Oh, wait, we have no water, so that can’t be it.”

“I followed Eulaeus’s directions precisely,” Thunberg continued, almost in a trance. “He specifically said that if we followed this ridge, it would fall into a valley that would take us directly to the Great Place. But from here, it seems like the ridge carries on for miles. It may even go all the way to the sea, for all I can tell.”