The Sound of Thunder(14)

‘You will give me your word not to take up arms with them?’

‘No,’ answered Sean and Jan Paulus nodded, it was the answer he had expected.

‘There is a debt between us,’ he decided. ‘I have not forgotten the time of the elephant. This is full payment of that debt.’ He crossed to the portable desk and dipped a pen. Still standing he wrote rapidly, fanned the paper dry and proffered it to Sean.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘And I hope we do not meet again, for next time I will kill you.’

‘Or I you,’ Sean answered him.





– 9 –

That afternoon Sean led his party across the steel railway bridge over the Tugela, on through the deserted village of Colenso and out again across the plain. Far ahead, sown on the grass plain like a field of white daisies, were the tents of the great British encampment at Chievely Siding. But long before he reached it Sean came to a guard post manned by a sergeant and four men of an illustrious Yorkshire regiment.

“Ullo, Piet. And where the hell do you think you’re off to?’

‘I am a British subject,’ Sean informed them. The sergeant ran an eye over Sean’s beard and patched coat. He glanced at the shaggy pony he rode, and then considered the direction from which Sean had approached.

‘Say that again,’ he invited.

‘I am a British subject,’ Sean repeated obligingly in an accent that fell heavily on the Yorkshireman’s ear.

‘And I’m a ruddy Japanee,’ agreed the sergeant cheerfully. ‘Let’s have your rifle, mate.’

Two days Sean languished in the barbed-wire prison compound while the Intelligence Department cabled the Registrar of Births at Ladyburg and waited for his reply. Two long days during which Sean brooded incessantly, not on the indignities which had been inflicted on him, but on the woman he had found and loved and lost again so quickly. These two days of enforced inactivity came at precisely the worst moment. By repeating over and over in his imagination each word that had passed between them, by feeling again each contact of their hands and bodies, by forming her face in his mind’s eye and gloating over every detail of it – Sean burned her memory so deeply into himself that it was there for all time. Although he did not even know her surname, he would never forget her.

By the time he was released with apologies and given back his horses, rifle, moneybag and packs – Sean had driven himself into a mood of such overpowering depression that it could only be alleviated by liquor or physical violence.

The village of Frere, which was the first station south on the line to the coast, promised both of these.

‘Take Dirk with you,’ instructed Sean, ‘beyond the town find a camp beside the road and make a big fire, so I can find you in the dark.’

‘What will you do, Nkosi?’

Sean started towards the dingy little canteen that catered for the thirsty of Frere.

‘I’m going there,’ he answered.

‘Come, Nkosizana.’ As he and Dirk continued on down the street Mbejane was deciding how long he should give Sean before coming to fetch him. It was many years since the Nkosi had headed for a bar in such a determined fashion, but then there had been much to distress him these last few days. He will need until midnight, Mbejane decided, then he will be in a condition conducive to sleep.

From the door Sean surveyed the interior of the canteen. A single large room with a trestle bar counter along the back wall, and the room was comfortably full of warmth and men and the smell of liquor and cigars. Still standing in the entrance, Sean slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and surreptitiously counted his money – ten sovereigns he had allowed himself, more than sufficient for the purchase of the liquor he intended to consume.

As he worked his way through the crowd towards the bar, he looked at the men about him. Soldiers mostly, from a dozen different regiments. Colonials and Imperial troops, other ranks predominating, although a party of junior officers sat at a table against the far wall. Then there were a few civilians whom he judged to be transport drivers; contractors and business men, two women with the officers whose profession was never in doubt, and a dozen black waiters.

‘What will it be, ducks?’ the large woman behind the counter asked as he reached it and Sean regarded her moustache and her term of address with disfavour.

‘Brandy.’ He was in no mood for the niceties.

‘You want the bottle, ducks?’ She had recognized his need.

‘That will do for a start,’ he agreed.

He drank three large brandies, and with a faint dismay knew that they were having no effect – apart from sharpening his imagination to the point where he could clearly see Ruth’s face before his eyes, complete in every detail down to the little black beauty spot high on her cheek and the way the corners of her eyes slanted upwards as she smiled. He would have to make a more active approach to forgetfulness.