When the Lion Feeds (32 page)

Nkosi, I do not think he was a very happy monkey. The smile slipped off sean's face, You would rather wear your skins?

rwhat I wear is the dress of a warrior of Zululand.

There was still no expression on Mbejane's face. Sean opened his mouth to argue with him but before he could speak he lost his temper. You'll wear that uniform, he shouted. You'll wear what I tell you to wear and you'll do it with a smile, do you hear me? Nkosi, I hear you. Mbejane picked up his loin cloth of leopard tails and left the office. When sean went out to the carriage Mbejane was sitting on the driver's seat in his new livery. All the way to the Exchange his back was stiff with protest and neither of them spoke. Sean glared at the doorman of the exchange, drank four brandies during the morning rode back to his office again at noon scowling at Mbejane's -still protesting back, shouted at johnson, snapped at the bank manager, routed the representative from brooke Bros. and drove out to the Candy Deep in a high old rage. But mbejane's silence was impenetrable and Sean couldn't re-open the argument without sacrifice of pride. He burst into the new administrative building of the Candy Deep and threw the staff into confusion.

Where's Mr du Toit? he roared. He's down the Number Three shaft, Mr courtney. What the hell is he doing down there? He's supposed to be waiting for me here. He didn't expect you for another hour, sir. Well, get me some overalls and a mining helmet, don't just stand there. He clapped the tin hat on his head and stamped his heavy gumboots across to the Number Three shaft. The skip dropped him smoothly five hundred feet into the earth and he climbed out at the tenth level. Where's Mr du toit! he demanded of the shift boss at the lift station. He's up at the face, sir. The floor of the drive was rough and muddy; his gumboots squelched as he set off down the tunnel. His carbide lamp lit the uneven rock walls with a flat white light and he felt himself starting to sweat. Two natives pushing a cocopan back along the railway lines forced him to flatten himself against one wall to allow them to pass and while he waited he felt inside his overalls for his cigar case. As he pulled it out it slipped from his hand and plunked into the mud. The cocopan was gone by that time so he stooped to pick up the case. His ear came within an inch of the wall and a puzzled expression replaced his frown of annoyance. The rock was squeaking. He laid his ear against it. It sounded like someone grinding his teeth. He listened to it for a while trying to guess the cause; it wasn't the echo of shovels or drills, it wasn't water. He walked another thirty yards or so down the drive and listened again.

Not so loud here but now the grinding noise was punctuated with an occasional metallic snap like the breaking of a knife blade. Strange, very strange; he had never heard anything like it before. He walked on down the drive, his bad mood lost in his preoccupation with this new problem. Before he reached the face he met Francois. Hello, Mr courtney. Sean had long since given up trying to stop Francois calling him that. Gott, I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you. I thought you were coming at three. That's all right, Francois, how are you? My rheumatism's been giving me blazes, Mr Courtney, but otherwise I'm all right. How's Mr Charleywood? He's fine. Sean couldn't restrain his curiosity any longer. Tell me something, Franz, just now I put my ear against the wall of the drive and I heard an odd noise, I couldn't make out what it was. What kind of noise? A sort of grinding, like, like .

. . I Sean searched for words to describe it, like two pieces of glass being rubbed together. Francois's eyes flew wide open and then began to bulge, the colour of his face changed to grey and he caught Sean's arm.

whererBack along the drive.

The breath jammed in Francois's throat and he struggled to speak through it, shaking Sean's arm desperately. Cave-in! he croaked. Cave-in, man!

He started to run but Sean grabbed him. Francois struggled wildly.

Francois, how many men up at the face? Cave-in. Francois's voice was now hysterically shrill. Cave-in. He broke Sean's grip and raced away towards the lift station, the mud flying from his gumboots. His terror infected Sean and he ran a dozen paces after Francois before he stopped himself. For precious seconds he wavered with fear slithering round like a reptile in his stomach; go back to call the others and perhaps die with them or follow Francois and live. Then the fear in his belly found a mate, a thing just as slimy and cold; its name was shame, and shame it was that drove him back towards the face. There were five blacks and a white man there, bare-chested and shiny with sweat in the heat. Sean shouted those two words at them and they reacted the way bathers do when someone on the beach shouts shark. The same moment of paralysed horror, then the panic. They came stampeding back along the tunnel. Seanran with them, the mud sucked at Ins heavy boots and his legs were weak with easy living and riding in carriages. One by one the others passed him.

"Wait for me, he wanted to scream. Wait for me. He slipped on the greasy footing, scraping his shoulder onthe the rough wall as he fell, and dragged himself up again, mud plastered in his beard, the blood burning in his ears.

Alone now he blundered on down the tunnel. With a crack like a rifle shot one of the thick shoring timbers broke under the pressure of the moving rock and dust smoked from the roof of the tunnel in front of him.

He staggered on and all around him the earth was talking, groaning, protesting, with little muffled shrieks. The timbers joined in again, crackling and snapping, and as slowly as a theatre curtain the rock sagged down from above him.

The tunnel was thick with dust that smothered the beam of his lamp and rasped his throat. He knew then that he wasn't going to make it but he ran on with the loose rock starting to fall about him. A lump hit his mining helmet and jarred him so that he nearly fell. Blinded by the swirling dust fog he crashed at full run into the abandoned cocopan that blocked the tunnel, he sprawled over the metal body of the trolley with his thighs bruised from the collision. Now I'm finished, he thought, but instinctively he pulled himself up and started to grope his way around the cocopan to continue his flight. With a roar the tunnel in front of him collapsed. He dropped on his knees and crawled between the wheels of the COCOPan, wriggling under the sturdy steel body just an instant before the roof above him collapsed also. The noise of the fall around him seemed to last for ever, but then it was over and the rustling and grating of the rock as it settled down was almost silence in comparison. His lamp was lost and the darkness pressed as heavily on him as the earth squeezed down on his tiny shelter. The air was solid with dust and he coughed; he coughed until his chest ached and he tasted salty blood in his mouth. There was hardly room to move, the steel body of the trolley was six inches above him, but he struggled until he managed to open the front of his overalls and tear a piece off the tail of his shirt. He held the silk like a surgical mask across his mouth and nose.

It strained the dust out of the aft so he could breathe. The dust settled; his coughing slowed and finally stopped. He felt surprise that he was still alive and cautiously he started exploring. He tried to straighten out his legs but his feet touched rock. He felt with his hands, six inches of head room and perhaps twelve inches on either side, warm mud underneath him and rock and steel all around.

He took off his helmet and used it as a pillow. He was in a steel coffin buried five hundred feet deep, He felt the first flutter of panic. Keep your mind busy, think of something, think of anything but the rock around you, count your assets, he told himself. He started to search his pockets, moving with difficulty in the cramped space. One silver cigar case with two Havanas. He laid it down next to him. One box of matches, wet. He placed it on top of the case. One pocket watch. One handkerchief, Irish linen, monogrammed. One comb, tortoishell, a man is judged by his appearance. He started to comb his beard but found immediately that though this occupied his hands it left his mind free. He put the comb down next to his matches. Twenty-five pounds in gold sovereigns - He counted them carefully, yes, twenty-five.

I shall order a bottle of good champagne. The dust was chalky in his mouth so he went on hurriedly, and a Malay girl from the Opera.

No, why be mean, ten Malay girls. I'll have them dance for me, that'll pass the time. I'll promise them a sovereign each to bolster their enthusiasm.

He continued the search, but there was nothing else. Gumboots, socks, well-cut trousers, shirt torn I'm afraid, overalls, a tin hat, and that's all. With his possessions laid out carefully beside him and his cell explored he had to start thinking. First he thought about his thirst. The mud in which he lay was too thick to yield water. He tried straining it through his shirt without success, and then he thought about air. It seemed quite A fresh and he decided that sufficient was filtering in from the loosely packed rock around him to keep him alive.

To keep him alive, alive until the thirst killed. Until he died curled up like a foetus in the warm womb of the earth. He laughed, a worm in a dark warm womb. He laughed again and recognized it as the beginnings of panick!

he thrust his fist into his mouth to stop himself, biting down hard on his knuckles. It was very quiet, the rock had stopped moving. How long will it take? Tell me, Doctor. How long have I got? I Well, you are sweating. You'll lose moisture quite rapidly. I'd say about four days, he answered himself. What about hunger, Doctor? Oh, no, don't worry about that, you, will be hungry, of course, but the thirst will kill you and typhoid, or is it typhus, I can never remember.

What about that, Doctor? If there were dead men trapped in here with you there'd be a good chance, but you're alone, you know Do you think i'll go mad, Doctor, not immediately, of course, but in a few days? Yes, you'll go mad. I've never been mad before, not that I know of anyway, but I think it will help to go mad now, don't you? If you mean, will it make it easier, well, I don't know!

now you're being obscure, but I follow you. You mean in that sleep of madness what dreams will come?

You mean, will madness be more real than reality? You mean, will dying mad be worse than dying thirsty? But then I may beat the madness. This cocoPan might buckle under the strain, after all there must be thousands of tons of rock bearing down on it. That's quite clever, you know, Doctor; as a medical man you should appreciate it.

Mother Earth was saved but, alas, the child was stillborn, she bore down too hard. Sean had spoken aloud, and now he felt foolish. He picked up a piece of stone and tapped the cocopan with it. It sounds firm enough.

A most pleasing noise, really. He beat harder on the metal body, one, two, three, one, two, three, then dropped the stone. Soft as an echo, distant as the moon, he heard his taps repeated. His whole body stiffened at the sound, and he started to shiver with excitement. He snatched up the stone: three times he rapped, and three times the answer came back to him. They heard me, sweet merciful Christ, they heard me.

He laughed breathlessly. Dear Mother Earth, don't bear down, please don't bear down. Just be patient. Wait a few days and by Caesarian they'll take this child out of your womb. Mbejane waited until Sean disappeared down the Number Three shaft before he took off his new jacket. He folded it carefully on the driver's seat next to him. He sat and enjoyed the feel of the sun on his skinfor a while, then he climbed off the carriage and went to the horses. He took them one at a time to the through for water then returned them to their harnesses, buckling them in loosely. He picked up his spears from the footboard and moved across to a patch of short grass next to the administrative building. He sat down and went to work on the blade, humming softly to himself as he honed. At last he ran an expert thumb along each edge, grunted, shaved a few hairs off his forearm, smiled contentedly and laid his spears beside him in the grass. He lay back and the sun warmed him to sleep.

The shouting woke him. He sat up and automatically checked the height of the sun. He had slept an hour or more. Duff was shouting and francois, mud-splattered and frightened-looking, was answering him. They were standing together in front of the administrative building.

Duff's horse was sweating. Mbejane stood up and went across to them; he listened closely, trying to understand their staccato voices. They went too fast for him, but something was wrong, that much he knew. It's caved in almost to the number Ten lift station Francois said.

You left him in there, accused Duff. I thought he was following me, but he turned back. What for, why did he turn back? To call the others-'Have you started clearing the drive? No, I was waiting for you You stupid bloody idiot, he might be alive in there . . .

every minute is vital. But he hasn't a chance, Mr Charleywood, he must be deadShut up, damn you. Duff swung away from him and started running towards the shaft. There was a crowd gathered beneath the high steel structure of the head gear, and suddenly Mbejane knew it was Sean. He caught up with Duff before he reached the shaft. Is it the Nkosi? Yes.

What has happened? The rock has fallen on him Mbejane pushed his way into the skip next to Duff and neither of them spoke again until they reached the tenth level. They went down the drive, only a short way before they reached the end. There were men there with crowbars and shovels standing undecided, waiting for orders, and Mbejane shouldered a path through them. He and Duff stood together in front of the new wall of broken rock that sealed the tunnel, and the silence went on and on.

Then Duff turned on the white shift-boss. Were you at the face? Yes. He went back to call you, didn't he? Yes. And you left him there? The min couldn't look at Duff I thought he was following us, he muttered.