A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (21 page)

He climbed down the tree and walked over to where Masson’s horse was chomping at some grass. “There’s only one explanation, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

“What?”

“That Eulaeus has sent us in the wrong direction deliberately.”

“Of course, I suppose it would be too much to suggest that perhaps it’s your navigational skills that are suspect, not Eulaeus’s loyalty?”

“Quiet!” Thunberg’s head snapped around as a sound came from the dense thorny bush a little way down the slope.

“Don’t be offended, I was merely pointing out the options—” began Masson.

“Shh!” hissed Thunberg, who was frozen to the spot, allowing the flies to dart across his face unmolested. Both horses had stopped chewing and now stood with their ears pointed forwards, looking in the same direction. A deep snorting sound came from the bush as the black muzzle of what looked to Masson to be a very large cow peered out from behind the screen of bushes.

“Masson?” whispered Thunberg.

“Yes?”

“Get ready to run.”

“From a cow?”

“That’s no cow.”

Gradually the beast emerged from the bushes, and Masson saw that attached to the muzzle were a large pair of distinctive horns that curled around from sharp pointed tips to fuse together at the base of the buffalo’s brow, forming a boss that Masson knew was so thick and strong that it could not even be penetrated by a bullet.

The animal continued to make short explosive grunting noises which turned into low, rumbling growls. A red-billed oxpecker sat atop its horns and spied them with a single eye ringed in bright yellow, before pecking at the buffalo’s neck, either looking for ticks or encouraging it to charge, Masson could not be sure which.

It took a single step towards them before stopping and tossing its head, traces of steam emanating from its muzzle as its hot breath condensed on the chilled evening air. Others also began to emerge, and soon Masson could see that what he had thought was a single animal was in fact a herd that numbered in the dozens.

Thunberg had begun to walk slowly backwards towards his horse, never for a second taking his eyes off the slowly advancing buffalo that were now about twenty yards away.

When the animal at the front of the herd emitted a particularly loud and terrible snort, Masson’s horse seemed to have had enough, whinnying with fear and fright as it reared up and kicked at the air with its front legs, almost throwing him off in the process. This seemed to be just the signal the buffalo were waiting for, as they broke into a charge, their enormous bulks accelerating at a pace that defied logic.

As Masson struggled to regain control, he saw Thunberg almost levitate from the ground and mount his own horse. Without even bothering to put his feet into the stirrups, Thunberg pulled on the reins to turn his mount, before slapping it on the rear to spurn it into action, racing off in the opposite direction down the other side of the ridge.

Masson barely managed to hold on to his horse as it chased after its partner. He did not need to look back to see if the buffalo were giving chase as the sound of dozens of half-tonne bovines trampling everything in their path thundered in his ears. As the pair raced down the slope, they ignored the pain as branches slapped and tore at their clothes and skin, their only fear being that if their horses stumbled or fell that they were sure to be gored to death.

As they reached the bottom of the slope, the ground levelled out and the bush gave way to patchy grassland. Masson and Thunberg knew that their horses were tired from the day’s ride and that they would not be able to keep their pace for much longer. Thunberg turned so as to ride parallel to the ridge, keeping to the flat grassland rather than crossing it and ascending the bushy slope that lay on the opposite side.

On flat ground, unencumbered by bush or trees, the pair made good ground on the buffalo. When they finally managed to turn and look, they saw that the herd had given up the chase. But out of an abundance of caution, they turned again and continued up the slope and into the bush, not stopping until they had reached the summit of the next ridge.

When they did halt they were speechless and out of breath. In the dim light of evening, they saw that the animals were now grazing placidly on the valley floor below. With the sun setting over the opposite ridge, Masson found it to be one of the most beautiful sights imaginable, particularly since only moments before, he had been convinced that he would never see another sunset again.

As the night’s noises descended about them, the men made camp, using the horses’ saddles as makeshift pillows. Thunberg made a small fire, and they agreed to take turns keeping watch with the rifle loaded so that the fire could be kept burning through the night.

Tired, thirsty and hungry as he was, keeping watch was pure torture for Masson. Between his dry mouth, the rumbling of his stomach and the noises from the bush which spooked him constantly, he began to wonder which would kill him off first: wild beasts, thirst, hunger or fright.

Perhaps it was the helplessness of their situation, or the fact that he was subconsciously preparing himself for death, but over the course of the night Masson found that he became more accepting and less afraid. That is not to say that he didn’t twitch at every cicada or rodent that scurried through the underbrush; more than once he almost shot one of the horses after they snorted or shifted their weight too suddenly. But he found that he no longer took these scares as a personal affront — yes, he was frightened, but he didn’t feel the need to blame anyone. That was just how it was, and there was no longer any point in hiding from it.

He realised that for the past fortnight, ever since he had landed on African soil, he had felt that the world was against him. There, next to the fire and alone amongst the thousands of stars, he began to wonder at himself.

He thought about the man he had been before he left; he thought about the books neatly arranged on the shelf above his desk in the room which his mother had gone to such pains to make sure was always free for him, “just in case” he decided to return to Leeds Castle and live at home. He puzzled at his plans for the nursery that he had hoped would bring him independence and freedom. It was a safe, predictable and dependable existence, and it would put to rest, once and for all, the fear and uncertainty that he had harboured in his breast ever since his father had died.

He compared that version of himself to the one that only the day before had been feeling the hot sun on his back as he waded through clusters of wild camphor, sagewood and confetti bushes, unearthing treasures and seeing them, if not as the first man, then at least as the first man capable of describing their place within the lexicon of the natural sciences. But to his surprise, he saw more than that: he also saw a man who went head to head with the unknown.

Could it be that Africa was changing him? If so, was it for the better? And what would happen if he stayed much longer? Before he had a chance to answer his own questions, Thunberg woke and relieved him of the watch for the last shift. Masson pulled his coat over himself and, resting his head on his saddle, escaped into slumber.

C
ANADA
, 21 N
OVEMBER
, 1805

“Do you think Doctor Thunberg was afraid too, Mr Masson?” asked Robert, still captivated by the story, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Robert,” sneered his older brother. “A man like that is not afraid. He’s too busy looking to the future and the place that he will take in it. No, Robert, men like Doctor Thunberg do not fear, they act. And when they act, they do so according to their own belief of what is right and wrong, and they never allow themselves to be held back by the frailties of others or give in to compromise. Isn’t that right, Mr Masson?”

“Well, Thunberg certainly had an adventurous spirit, but I‘m not sure that he would have thought himself the idealist that you describe.”

“But don’t you see? He was an idealist in the very best sense of the word. Why else did he help you if not in service of the ideals of science?”

Masson reflected before answering Jack’s question. “I will admit that the longer we journeyed together, the more I realised that what I had at first taken for madness was in fact an unquenchable thirst for adventure that was matched only by a complete disregard for safety. I assumed that the Queen’s flower was simply a means to an end for him, yet another escapade in search of the glory that he craved so much.”

Jack began to protest, but Masson held his course. “The things we experienced had affected me greatly, but even as I started to come to terms with how I saw myself, my view of Thunberg changed very little. Although I was thankful for his help and assistance, and whilst I respected his competence and his knowledge, I still doubted his motives.

“I could not have guessed that the suspicions I had harboured from the day we met at False Bay, which I had managed to keep secreted beneath a cloak of light-hearted banter for so long, would soon erupt and explode — and that it would change everything.”

The morning was damp and chilly. As Masson lifted his head, he saw that Thunberg was busy digging at the base of a small tree not far from the camp. The fire had burned itself out, and the smell of smouldering wild olive permeated everything from his torn clothing to the inside of his parched mouth.

“I thought you were supposed to climb a tree in times of danger, not dig beneath them?”

“Cussonia,” said Thunberg without pausing as he scraped away the rocky earth with his bare hands from the base of a tree that was about as tall as Masson and which had large, finger-like, fleshy leaves that clung to its branches. “If we can get at the roots, we can scrape them and then squeeze some water out. It won’t be much, but it will stop us from dying of thirst.”

Masson got down in the dirt next to Thunberg and began to dig. With both of them working away, they soon exposed the large tubular roots. Thunberg pulled out his knife and scraped away at them, and once he had a handful of shavings he raised his hand above his mouth with his thumb extended like a spout and squeezed.

A cloudy liquid dribbled from his clenched fist, down his thumb and into his mouth.

“God, that’s good! Here, you try.” He passed the knife to Masson, who copied the process and was soon also enjoying the liquid that tasted a little bit like weak vegetable broth. They took turns scraping and drinking until their hands were raw and their thirst slaked.

“I’ve been thinking,” Masson said, wiping his hands on his trousers only to find that they came away dirtier than before. “Without supplies and ammunition, and between the lions, the buffalo and the Xhosa, I am struggling to see how we can carry on. I think we should turn back, and the sooner the better.”

Thunberg looked at Masson. “I assume you’re joking.”

Masson shook his head. “No, Thunberg. I think this is it.”

“You’ve got cold feet, haven’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen it before, you know. A man suffers and toils endlessly for the thing he most wants and then when it’s almost within his reach, he pulls back, afraid of what will be left when all is accomplished.”

“And you? The great Doctor Carl Peter Thunberg, botanist, surgeon and adventurer extraordinaire — please forgive me if, in coming to my senses and realising that no flower is worth dying for, it puts a premature end to yet another adventure with which you can regale your friends back in Stockholm!”

“Perhaps it’s cold feet of another kind? If you don’t find the flower, you won’t get your land. No land, no wedding. Is that it? Are you trying to sabotage a union of inconvenience? If so, I can think of much simpler ways to go about it!”

“How dare you, sir! Not that it is any of your business, but I happen to care very deeply for Constance!”

“Yes, very deeply — which is why you’ve written a grand total of two letters to your so-called soul-mate since we left Cape Town. One of them was to describe the flowers we had collected, and the other was to ramble on about how the weather here was so fine. Not exactly the sort of stuff to get a lady’s heart racing, if I may say!”

In an instant, all of Masson’s self-control evaporated. He lunged at Thunberg and buried his shoulder into his solar plexus, slamming him against the tree, leaving him winded but not incapacitated. As Masson stepped back to have another go, Thunberg brought his knee up into the soft tissue of Masson’s nose. Masson staggered backwards, clutching at his face and watching in disbelief as blood streamed through his fingers.

With a howl of fury, he lunged again at Thunberg and collected him up onto his shoulder before both of them tumbled to the ground, kicking and punching at each other without the slightest consideration to form or Broughton’s Rules.

When they were at last able to scramble to their feet and face each other once more, there was not much to tell them apart in terms of bruises and cuts. Where Masson’s eyes had already begun to swell from the blow to his nose, Thunberg had received heavy punches to his ears and jaw, and from the way he limped, it was clear that his groin had not escaped unscathed.

“You’re a coward!” Thunberg said as he struggled for breath. “You’ve been afraid from the moment you set foot on this continent, and now that you’ve had enough, you think that you can simply run back home!”

“Not only are you a sneak who has descended so low as to read another man’s private letters, but you’re also a reckless fool who thinks only of his own glory,” Masson shot back. “Do you really think that I don’t realise that as soon as we have the flower, you’ll be looking for the first chance to make it your own? Maybe the flower is your means of getting to Japan — I don’t know and I no longer care, because as far as I am concerned, you can have it, but not before I leave you with something else!”

Masson swung out in a last desperate effort, but Thunberg parried his blow. The two men grappled feebly before falling exhausted to the ground and rolling away from each other, both of them squinting at the bright sky above and panting in short, painful breaths.