Sunset at Sheba (21 page)

There was a car there and at first Winter thought he had caught up with Plummer and Hoole. Then for a brief instant of hope, he thought it might even be the boy and Polly managing to make their escape, but he realised the dust cloud was far too big for one car or two horses to make, and he forced himself to be calm. After a while, he saw that in addition to the motorcar there was also a squad of horsemen and for a second he wondered if it were De Wet, smashing through Botha’s flying columns and advancing on Plummerton.

Finally, as the dust grew nearer, he decided it must be part of Botha’s column itself, for there were about twenty men, three or four of them in the car, the rest riding in two short files with, in between them, the shape of a Vickers-Maxim pom-pom, a relic of the two wars against the Boers.

Somehow, with the sound of firing still in his ears, the little column represented law and order, and he started up the Vauxhall again. As they saw him approaching, the officer in the car threw up his arm and the whole column came to a halt at once, breaking formation as the horsemen crowded round the vehicle and the gun with its spidery wheels. They made no attempt to advance towards him but sat in silence waiting for him.

As he drew nearer, he could see the thick red dust of travel caked on their clothes. Their horses were staring-coated and shaggy with neglect, as though they had been hurrying and had been a long time on the way, while the riders had the hard-bitten wary look of men who had lived too long on the plain and had lost the finesse of civilisation. They were clearly from one of the commandos led by men like Koen Brits and van Deventer whom Botha was using instead of Imperial troops.

As Winter circled the Vauxhall to a halt by the side of the other car, he could see there were sheets of armour plate screwed roughly to its sides in the shape of an ugly iron box, and that a light Lewis gun was balanced on a Scarfe mounting on the stern, like an elongated frying pan with its flat container of ammunition clamped above the breech.

The officer stood up and saluted him briefly, a mere boy, descendant of some Irish adventurer and one of the hundreds who had volunteered for service as soon as war had been declared.

‘O’Hare’s the name,’ he said and Winter saw his face was drawn with weariness. ‘Second-Lieutenant O’Hare. We’re from Ackermann’s Column working with Brits and Botha. We had trouble with the gun carriage and lost touch. The rest of ‘em’ll be in Plummerton Sidings now, where we were hoping to be shortly. Only we heard firing and thought we’d investigate.’ He grinned, young and enthusiastic despite his weariness. ‘Ride to the sound of the guns, man! Napoleon’s maxim.’

Winter nodded. ‘Glad to see you,’ he said, thankful for the boy’s obvious common-sense. ‘My name’s Francis Winter.’

‘Plummer’s man? I’ve heard of you.’ O’Hare grinned. ‘Well, when you see him, you can tell him we managed to give De Wet’s rearguard a rare mauling at Kadhanzi before he got away again. They won’t come out this way again in a hurry.’ He nodded towards the distant firing. ‘It’s from Sheba, isn’t it? What is it? Stragglers from De Wet’s commandos?’

Winter shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There shouldn’t be firing from there.’ He turned and stared at the distant blue crags. ‘Plummer’s there himself,’ he added. ‘Or he should be.’

The boy grinned again. ‘Well, we’ll come along with you,’ he said, ‘and give him the news about De Wet personally. He might reward me with a medal. Let’s go and investigate, shall we?’

He turned and shouted his orders, then raising his arm, swung it over his head and forward, pointing to Sheba, and the little column began to move ahead again, the two cars jolting along side by side.

They came up to Sheba at a tremendous pace, the ground rocking under the pounding hooves, the shaggy beaten horses dragging the light weapon at a remarkable speed after the cars, bouncing it over the stones with such élan that at times every wheel of both gun and gun-carriage seemed to be off the ground.

As the two cars swung into a wide circle before Sheba, the gun crew swerved their horses to a stop just beyond them, the dust rolling away in oily folds as they dismounted. While they were still reaching for cigarettes and water bottles, Kitto came running towards them, his face red and angry, and it was then that Winter noticed the bandaged men crouching behind Babylon.

‘My God, man,’ O’Hare said, his young face startled. ‘What’s going on here? Looks as though you’ve been having a regular battle. O’Hare’s the name.’

‘Mine’s Kitto - Hector Stark Kitto.’

He brought out the name as though it were a flag he was waving and young O’Hare grinned.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I used to play at Hector Stark Kitto defying the Dhanzis when I was a kid. I’m pleased to meet you.’

Kitto waved away the outstretched hand, though Winter could see he was pleased at the recognition and the adulation. ‘Time for that later,’ he said. His narrow dark face turned to Sheba. ‘I want you to get your gun into action as quickly as you can.’

Infected by Kitto’s energy, O’Hare swung round. ‘What against?’ he demanded. ‘Who is it?’

‘There’s a damn’ young thug up there with a rifle.’

O’Hare’s sergeant, a grizzled veteran with an American accent, one of the wandering fortune-hunters who had probably found his way to the district from the goldfields of the Klondike twenty years before, one of those curious accidents of nationality like O’Hare that were found in South Africa, leaned over the gun, smoothed his gravy-dipper moustache and spat.

‘Guess there ain’t anything effective against good rifle fire,’ he said. ‘Less it’s well outside the range.’

Kitto gave him an angry look. ‘He’s killed one of my men,’ he snapped, ‘and wounded six others, two of them badly. We can’t get near him. A few bursts from that gadget of yours should shift him though. At least it’ll give us covering fire till we can get up there.’

Winter had jumped down from the Vauxhall. ‘Good God, Kitto,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to bring artillery against him now, are you?’

Kitto glared at him, his eyes hot and fierce, exuding righteous resentment from every pore. ‘He’s got to be flushed out,’ he said, ‘and if we can’t do it with small arms, we’ll use artillery.’

‘But the woman - ?’

Kitto’s mouth twisted in a crooked smile. ‘She had enough,’ he said. ‘She came down.’ He jerked an arm. ‘She’s over there somewhere. Drinking tea. For God’s sake, get her away from Le Roux. He can’t do anything for staring at her.’

He turned to O’Hare. ‘We know now what equipment her boy friend’s got and how much ammunition. She told us. He’s got food and water and a couple of rifles, one of ‘em an old Henry. But he’s not short of cartridges. Dammit, he marked the range out before we got here,’ he went on as though the hidden marksman had cheated, ‘and we can’t close him. She won’t tell us exactly where he is. She says she doesn’t know but I think she’s keeping it back. I’ve a good mind to threaten to throw her to Le Roux. That should loosen her tongue.’

‘Who is he?’ O’Hare asked, glancing up at Sheba. ‘One of De Wet’s crowd?’

‘No. He’s English, they tell me. Or a damned smous. Name of Schuter. Get your people moving before he changes his mind and starts shooting again.’

O’Hare’s sergeant glanced over his shoulder. ‘Bit close here, sir,’ he reminded O’Hare.

‘You’ll be quite safe at that range,’ Kitto insisted. ‘Dammit, there’s only one of him.’

‘It’s against all instructions, sir,’ the sergeant persisted.

‘God damn it,’ Kitto snapped. ‘Are we to argue all day about the niceties of artillery firing? Let’s get on with it.’

O’Hare’s sergeant shrugged, pulled his hat down over his eyes and hitched up his trousers, but O’Hare made no move, staring at Kitto with a sudden doubt in his eyes.

‘Hold it, Hadman,’ he said.

‘What’s the matter now?’ Kitto demanded. ‘Are
you
worried about the range too?’

‘No.’ O’Hare shook his head. ‘I’d fight at that range if you advised it. You’re in command here. But it’s not that.’ He looked at Kitto apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Major Kitto,’ he pointed out, ‘but
we’re
here to find De Wet. We’re recruited to fight against the rebels, not against loyalists - even if they
are
criminals. Much as I’d like to help -’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Kitto interrupted irritably. ‘Don’t split hairs.’

O’Hare looked uncomfortable. ‘We only came along because we heard the firing,’ he said. ‘We thought it might be a splinter from De Wet’s commando setting about someone.’

‘I’ll take full responsibility.’

Winter pushed between them. ‘You’ve no right to take responsibility for murder, Kitto! Offy’s on his way. He left Plummerton last night to put a stop to it.’

Kitto gave a queer warped smile of triumph, and then Winter noticed the plump figure of Hoole in the background with Romanis, and he had a swift sensation of tragedy.

‘Come with me,’ Kitto said.

He led them in silence to the cars behind Babylon and drew back the stained blanket from the bulky shape which lay there.

‘There’s Offy,’ he said.

Young O’Hare stared at the body. ‘Is that Plummer?’ he asked. ‘The Plummer of Plummerton?’

Kitto nodded and let the blanket fall back into place.

‘What happened?’ Winter asked quietly.

Kitto jerked a hand at Sheba.
‘He
murdered him. Shot him deliberately, while he was standing unarmed in front of us on the kopje, appealing to him to come out.’ He swung round on O’Hare.
‘Now
will you use your damned fowling piece?’

O’Hare still looked unhappy, an expression of disappointment on his face, as though Kitto wasn’t behaving according to the heroic pattern he’d expected. ‘It’s against my orders,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Great God, man!’ Kitto exploded. ‘You can see Plummer there in front of you, murdered by one of his own countrymen, the one man who brought law and order to this district, the very man who was responsible to the Government for raising your damned troop of horse-thieves. Have you no pride? Have you no honour, no patriotism? You’re not going to let that damned Sheeny renegade get away with this, are you? If any man in the whole of this Godforsaken country
ought
to be avenged, it’s Plummer. This murder’s as much a part of the insurrection as De Wet is and I’m going to stay here till I’ve done my duty.’

He brushed them aside and strode back towards the rocks. Then he turned and stared at O’Hare. ‘I expect you to bring your gun into action forthwith, Lieutenant,’ he snapped.

For a moment O’Hare hesitated, then he shrugged. ‘I suppose under the circumstances -’ he began. He stopped and called out to Kitto.

‘You’d better tell me where he is,’ he said.

In his eyrie on the face of Sheba, Sammy had watched the little gun swing into position below and stop.

The air up there, with the sun rebounding off the rocks, was stifling. Nothing moved and even the myriad flying insects seemed to be silent. In front of him, down the slope he could see a thin column of ants trudging between the stones, and a lizard motionless on a rock, its throat fluttering with a pulse that seemed too powerful for its fragile body.

As he watched the new arrivals ease their limbs, he reached out for the water bottle and allowed himself a quick swallow. Then he cut off a piece of biltong and gnawed at it for a while, allowing the salty flavour to lay on his tongue before he took another swallow of water to wash it away. He knew now that only a miracle could save him.

He shifted his position and wiped the sweat from his face, smearing the dust that had grimed it across his cheeks. Then he thought of the rifles and took advantage of the lull to clean them with the pull-throughs, wiping the breech mechanism carefully free from dust. Finally he laid his cartridges on the wiry grass where he could reach them quickly.

He was hungry now, but not so hungry that he couldn’t manage without food, and he decided to conserve his rations for as long as he could. In his days as a hunter there had been many times when he had gone without eating for long periods, through the urgency of a chase or through accident.

Once he had been thrown from his horse and had had to walk back to camp, throughout the whole of a day of scorching sunshine, until his tongue was dry and swollen and his legs were buckling under him with fatigue and hunger, and it was no severe hardship to him to lie motionless in the speckled shade of the thorn bush.

A sudden flurry of movement below him caught his attention, and he saw the gun was being unlimbered. The drivers had trotted the gun team away now and there were four men busy round the little weapon. It startled him a little to realise they were intending to use the gun against him, and for the first time it occurred to him that alone he had held up an assault from thirty-odd men. Now they had brought up a pom-pom and twenty or so more men to deal with him, and if he were to survive long, he had to act now. Once that fussy little weapon with the crackling shells started probing the hillside, there would be little chance to fire back and not much left in the way of shelter.

The increased range didn’t worry him. Shooting was something he had been doing all his life and the extra distance meant simply more care and greater concentration. He could see the cairns of stone quite clearly out on the veld near the gun, marking exactly how far away it was.

He pushed the Mauser forward and raised the sights. The tip of the fore-blade seemed to dance in the heat and he quickly withdrew the weapon and, reaching for the water bottle, poured water sparsely along the barrel to cool it. Then methodically, he laid aside the water bottle and pushed the rifle forward again, remembering instinctively all the things about shooting downwards he had learned during his days as a hunter.

The pom-pom crew, their khaki clothes yellowish against the red-brown of the dusty veld, were moving casually, with the hardened indifference of battle-tried men. At that range, they seemed to feel there was little to be feared from a single rifle. So far, they still didn’t know where they were going to fire for the very simple reason that neither O’Hare nor Kitto knew either. There were plenty willing to offer advice, however, for several of the troopers had seen what they thought was the glint of the rifle barrel or a wisp of smoke, but none of them was really certain.