Sunset at Sheba (25 page)

There had been very little shooting from the men sprawled among the rocks, just an occasional pot-shot when somebody had thought he had seen a movement on Sheba, and the rare twang of a bullet striking stone as the marksman in the shadows above them had been tempted to fire at a hat raised on a stick. After a while, they had begun to count the shots, Kitto even posting a corporal with a piece of paper and a pencil to tick off the bullets that went singing across the veld.

Polly sat wrapped in a blanket Winter had found for her, watching the moving shapes of the men and catching the acrid smell of coffee that came with the woodsmoke from the fires.

Winter, who was huddled beside her on an ammunition box, looked up and offered her a cigarette. For a moment she hesitated, then she accepted.

‘Nice girls don’t smoke,’ she said, trying to make a joke as she took the light he offered.

Winter said nothing, his face drawn in the fading light, and as a Kaffir brought him a mug of coffee he passed it silently to Polly.

‘Wouldn’t mind a drink of something stronger just now,’ she said.

For a long time she studied his tired unshaven face and the lean body in the shabby clothes, a look of gentleness on her features as she sensed that they were both outcasts now, the only difference between them the levels of society that they came from.

‘Why didn’t you ever marry, Mr Winter?’ she asked unexpectedly, looking at him with soft compassionate eyes.

Winter raised his face to hers with a faint smile. ‘Nobody would have me,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘ “
Villainous company bath been the spoil of me.
” ‘

‘What’s that?’

‘Quotation. Shakespeare. Ever read Shakespeare?’

‘I always had too much to do.’

‘Maybe I’d have done better if I’d had
more
to do,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I’m a thinker, Poll, without being a doer, and that’s worse than being like Kitto, a doer who’s not a thinker.’

Polly touched his hand shyly. ‘You’re all right, Mr Winter. You’re a toff. You’re labelled a gent like an eighteen-carat gold ring.’

He shook his head and smiled. ‘No, Poll,’ he said. ‘Toffs have clean hands and pure hearts.
I
haven’t even got much pride left.’

Polly stared at him and curiously in her tired face Winter saw hope for himself. He’d been with her often in Plummerton, seen her with the cheap peek-a-boo embroidery of her blouses on her breast, and never thought much on her. But now he seemed to see the real Polly underneath the mask of hardness, the other Polly, the one with the heart, humble and trusting, pleading with all men to peer beyond the facade as he was doing now, and see her as she really was. And in her down-to-earth humility he saw common-sense that made his own troubles trivial, all the suffering of centuries bound up in one tired dusty girl.

The rock formations were fusing together in the dusk with the stunted karroo bushes, the square shapes of the motorcars and the few sentries watching Sheba. There wasn’t much talk from the troopers near the fire, or from the men moving the picket stakes of the horses to let them get fresh feed, nothing beyond the shrill cursing of the Kaffir cooks who found their tins continually full of dust or the struggling big black ants which had trudged after the sugar. To one side a few soldiers, their eyes and throats sore from flying grit, had stretched out under their blankets, and another sat by the fire indomitably trying to darn a hole in the toe of his sock by the light of the flames. A couple more had crept inside one of the cars and huddled down under the canvas cover out of the knife-edge gusts of wind that shuddered the tonneau and whipped the hissing sand against the windscreen.

There was very little sound beyond the clink of hooves against stone and, once in the gathering dusk, the clicking complaints of the Zulu servants.

Someone started singing -

‘Who were you with last night,
Out in the pale moonlight- ?’

The whole camp had fallen into a somnolence that came with waiting.

Then, as the night song of crickets and the hoarse croaking of frogs from the stream beyond the mimosa thorns grew to a mad night-time chorus, they heard a sharp clattering of stones, and in a second they were all on their feet, squinting into the dust, peering towards the shadowy loom of Sheba. A shot rang out and whined off into the darkness and several of them reached for their rifles. There was a wild drumming of hooves, and a couple of troopers galloped past, riding a pair of unsaddled horses, and leading a third.

‘Look!’ Polly clutched at Winter’s arm. ‘Those are our horses. That’s the grey mare and the police horse Sammy bought in the Sidings. The other’s the one he pinched from Le Roux. Now he can’t
ever
get away.’

There was a burst of cheering and men came out of the shadows, forgetting about sleep, running towards the two laughing men who were sliding to the ground now, doing a crazy triumphant dance in the firelight at their first tangible success against the hidden boy on Sheba.

‘We’ve got his ‘osses,’ one of them shouted. ‘We’ve got him trapped now. We’ve only got to get that old pom-pom in then we can walk right over him in the morning.’

As darkness came with African suddenness, Winter saw a team of horses move up from the horse lines, wearing fresh harness made from ropes, and as soon as it was completely dark, Hadman, O’Hare’s sergeant, and two other men moved out silently and hitching up the little pom-pom, brought it safely back to the shelter of Babylon. Then they all heard the sudden cough of an engine rise to a howl and die away again to the dull metallic popple of an exhaust as the armoured car jerked into shelter also, lumbering towards them like some great beetle. In the movement of the machinery of war there was a deadly efficiency, as though the forces of death were ranging themselves against the hidden sharp-eyed boy on Sheba at last.

‘Well, thank gawd for that,’ Hadman said as he dismounted by the gun. ‘I thought we were never going to see old Flossie again. I guess it’d have been hard lines on her, after surviving two wars without capture, to be nobbled by a kid with a rifle.’

He turned and saluted as Kitto approached him and stared up at the shadowy mass of Sheba. ‘Never thought I’d live to see a field piece mastered by a single rifle,’ he observed. ‘The drill book says not to go within seventeen hundred yards of massed fire, but I never seen no mention of a single Mauser. I wish that kid was on our side, sir. We’re going to need a few like him if we catch up with De Wet.’

A little later, the clang of spades and the ringing profanity of tired men from the darkness indicated the gunners had begun to dig a gun pit...

It was after midnight when a shaggy berry-brown man wearing the patched khaki jacket and pink puggaree of Ackermann’s Irregulars arrived in the camp, spurring and jagging furiously at the mouth of a jaded horse. He was met by Romanis and taken to Kitto in the acetylene-lit tent.

‘Corporal Snell, sir,’ he panted. ‘From Colonel Ackermann. Stumbled on you by a bit of luck. Saw the fire from about eight miles away.’

‘What do you want, man?’ Kitto snapped.

‘Message for Lieutenant O’Hare’s detachment, sir, from Colonel Ackermann through Lieutenant O’Hare. It’s addressed to Mr O’Hare but I bumped across him at Plummerton Sidings on the way. He readdressed it to his sergeant. He was bad hit.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Kitto said, reaching across the table. Romanis raised an eyebrow but he said nothing.

‘It’s for the sergeant, sir,’ the messenger pointed out respectfully. ‘This ‘ere other’s for you.’

‘I’ll pass it on to him, man,’ Kitto snapped. ‘The sergeant’s operating under my command at the moment. I’m Major Kitto. Hector Stark Kitto. You can rely on me.’

The rider thankfully took the glass of brandy and water Hoole pushed across to him, and handed over the slip of paper. Kitto pushed an empty ammunition box forward with his foot and Snell sat down gratefully while Kitto glanced at the messages.

For a while there was silence, then Kitto raised his eyes.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it. What about you?’

‘I’m to report back at once, sir.’

Kitto nodded. ‘Romanis, see this man gets some food. He can eat it in here out of the wind.’

‘That’s kind of you, sir.’

Kitto waved a hand, and spoke to Romanis again. ‘See that his saddle’s put on a fresh horse,’ he said. ‘Have it brought round here in a quarter of an hour.’

There was some speculation in the camp about what message the rider had brought, for he had obviously ridden hard, but Kitto kept him well inside the tent where all they could see of him was a hand holding the glass of brandy and water that Hoole had passed to him. Then one of the Kaffirs pushed through the flap with food, and half an hour later the messenger was mounted on a fresh horse and swinging away towards the darkness of the veld.

Winter stepped out of the shadows as he reached the edge of the encampment and Shell swerved his horse violently to avoid knocking him down.

‘Steady on there, man!’ he shouted, struggling with the lean unkempt horse they’d given him. ‘You near as hell got knocked over.’

‘Never mind that,’ Winter said. ‘What’s your message?’

Snell quietened his startled horse. ‘For Sergeant Hadman, sir,’ he said shortly. ‘I handed it over to Major Kitto.’

‘What was in it?’

‘Messages is for the eyes of officers and NCO’s only, sir.’

‘I’m here as a newspaper correspondent,’ Winter pointed out. ‘It’ll reach me eventually.’

Snell stared at him for a moment. ‘I didn’t realise that,’ he said. ‘Well, you oughta get moving, sir, if you want to be in on the fight. It’s up Waterbury way. General Botha’s cornered De Wet. He moved east again, sir. He’s in the Salt Pan area. He wiped out one of Ackermann’s patrols near Kadhanzi, and the Colonel’s mustered his column again and he’s on his way back. He wants the armoured car and the old pom-pom. Major Kitto’s to leave at once with everything he’s got and pick up the column on the way out of the Sidings. De Wet looks as though he’s going to make a fight of it and Ackermann’s going to cut him off to the west.’

Winter’s heart was leaping as Snell gabbled on.

‘Botha wants every available man-jack, vehicle and gun, sir, at once,’ he said. ‘There’s to be no fight till we’re all there. I think the Colonel’s after keeping his forces close so they can support each other. De Wet bites like a snake, sir, and just as fast.’

As he saluted and swung his horse away into the darkness, Winter crossed to Polly and told her joyously of what he had discovered.

‘I didn’t ever think much of it before, Mr Winter,’ she said quietly, ‘but there must be a God somewhere up there. I’ve been praying awful hard ever since I got back that something would happen to save him.’ Impulsively, she flung her arms round Winter and hugged him, the tears on her face smudging against his cheek.

‘It’s only a matter of minutes, Poll, before the gun goes,’ he said, ‘and Kitto won’t dare stay here now. Sammy’ll be free then to come down off Sheba.’

Polly’s arms slowly loosened round his neck and she glanced round at the darkness. Immediately he sensed her disquiet.

‘Mr Winter,’ she said, her voice puzzled, ‘if the gun’s going, why are they still diggin’ that pit?’

Winter looked round, suddenly alarmed by her words. ‘By God, Polly,’ he said, pushing her aside. ‘Surely Kitto’s not going to risk hanging on to it!’

He found Kitto in the tent by the oil-cloth-covered table, poring over a map with Romanis and Hoole.

‘ - Ackermann’ll take this route here,’ he was saying. ‘We can join up with him between Plummerton Sidings and Kadhanzi -’

He looked up and nodded as Winter appeared, then turned again to the map, ignoring him.

‘There’s only a matter of four hours in it,’ he went on, ‘and Snell could easily have wasted that much looking for us.’

He pushed a bottle of Rhynbende across to Winter.

‘Sit down, man,’ he said. ‘You might be interested. There’s a fight coming up. We’re to meet Ackermann and we’re just working out how long it’ll take us.’ He turned again to Romanis. ‘We can go directly north. Ackermann’s bound to head that way and we can cross his path.’ He looked up at Winter. ‘Afraid you’ll have to go back to Plummerton, Winter, with the odds and ends. You might have come with us if that damned woman hadn’t come back, but someone’s got to see her safe and you’re the only one available.’

‘Why hasn’t the gun left?’ Winter demanded.

Kitto looked up, his handsome face hard. ‘Are you trying to teach me my job, Winter?’ he asked slowly.

‘The message was that it was to leave at once.’

‘How do you know what was in the message?’

‘I asked the runner.’

‘You’d no damn’ right to go poking your nose in. Messages are secret. You’re a civilian.’

‘Thank God for that. Why hasn’t the gun left?’

Kitto’s face darkened and Winter saw that he was completely and dangerously obsessed now with the desire to succeed here at Sheba. There had been a blind red rage in the energy he had shown in the last two days, as though he sensed that if he failed in this trivial operation he could never hope to succeed anywhere. Sammy Schuter had become a symbol of his luck - almost as though he regarded his end as the point at which it could change for the better. Beyond the fierce dark eyes, there was the blank stupid anger of a goaded bull.

‘In this day and age,’ Kitto was saying, ‘a soldier’s expected to use his common-sense and interpret his orders as they fit the situation. I know what I’m doing. I don’t have to answer to any lily-livered civilian who confuses the issues of war with what he calls justice for a murderer.’

His anger drove Winter back a step, but he persisted.

‘Have you given the message to the sergeant?’ he said.

Kitto began to shout. ‘Your job’s to report on what you see, Winter, not to question my orders! I have to remind you again that this is a military operation! Leave the army to soldiers, and stick to your blasted pen pushing...’

Polly was waiting outside when Winter left the tent. He shook his head at the question in her eyes, unable to meet her stare.