Golden Lion (46 page)

He felt a tapping on his shoulder and saw one of his men pointing down to a line of men, led by a fat, white man on a donkey approaching the entrance to the complex. That was Capelo and there, sure enough, the one white man in the middle of the line of slaves was Hal.

‘I see you, Gundwane,’ Aboli said and the words carried extra weight, for ‘I see you’ was the formal greeting used by peoples across southern Africa. ‘Be patient now, Captain. We will not be long in coming.’

And then Aboli saw something else and he whispered a single word to himself: ‘
Faro?
’

When the sun had risen that day, Capelo had addressed the slaves, telling them where they were going, who their new master would be, and what brutal punishments they could expect if they dared to displease him. Now as the coffle approached the mines Hal, too, noted the small white fort that dominated the area and concluded that Lobo must use it as a residence and as a means of both imposing himself on his slaves and defending himself should they ever rise up against him.

Moving further into the complex, they passed an enclosure, ringed by a sheer-sided ditch at least twelve feet deep and twenty across, like an empty castle moat. There appeared to be two ways of crossing the ditch. One was a rope bridge, with a narrow walkway of planks that led from one side to the other, without even a gate on either end, and the other was a drawbridge that hung from a stone gatehouse on the outside of the ditch and could be lowered back down into the enclosure.

Hal frowned in puzzlement. Whatever was in the enclosure was sufficiently dangerous that it required a ditch to keep it in. Yet a hunting predator like a lion or leopard would be down one side of that ditch and up the other in no time, assuming it didn’t just trot across the bridge. Perhaps Lobo kept elephants. Hal knew that they had been used for both ceremonial and military purposes for thousands of years. But if so, they were nowhere to be seen.

Then Hal saw the inhabitant for whom the enclosure had been built, a huge, two-horned, grey-skinned mass of muscle and fury that trotted to the edge of the ditch, drawn by the scent of unfamiliar human beings, and stood just a few paces away from the coffle’s line of march, swinging its great head this way and that, as if eager to avenge itself on anyone or anything for the indignity of its imprisonment.

Capelo turned in the saddle and said, ‘Have you ever seen anything like that in your life, Englishman?’

Hal had, many times, but the less he appeared to know, the less of a threat he would be seen to be, so he shook his head in dumb ignorance.

‘It is a rhinoceros, though the people here call it “faro”,’ Capelo informed him. ‘Senhor Lobo is the only man in the world to have one in captivity. A dozen men died trying to catch it. But Senhor Lobo said that he had to have a rhino, and in this place, his word is the law.’

Lobo nodded towards the beast, which seemed to have armour-plating rather than skin. ‘Look at that front horn of his, the big one. It must be twice the length of a cutlass. You should see the damage it can do. I’ve seen men impaled on it like pieces of meat on a kebab. Take a good look and pray to God you never see it again, for if you do it will be because you have displeased Senhor Lobo.’

Capelo reined in his donkey and let Hal walk level with him before he started moving again so that they were side-by-side as he leaned down and said, ‘If a slave is disobedient, if he fails to respect his masters, if he does not work as hard as he should, then he is not just whipped. He’s thrown into that enclosure. And he does not come out alive. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, master,’ Hal said.

‘You’re not going to be disobedient, or cheeky, or proud, are you?’

‘No, master.’

‘Lick my boot, Englishman,’ Capelo said and stuck out one of his feet, like a bishop presenting his ring finger.

Hal leaned over as best he could, for the collar round his neck inhibited his movement and began licking the dust and filth of the overseer’s dirty boot.

Go ahead, humiliate me if it makes you feel bigger
, Hal thought.
I’ve survived far worse than this
.

The sun was starting to drop towards the horizon as they were taken to a stockade of impenetrable thorn bush set up at the foot of a hill. Slaves were pushing wooden carts up and down metal rails which led into tunnels that disappeared into the hillside. The carts coming out of the mine were piled high with ore, which was taken to another area where more slaves with sledgehammers pounded the ore into a powder that could then be sifted under running water to search for specks of pure gold. While the work went on, other slaves were lighting braziers filled with wood and dried grass that would provide both light and warmth as the work continued into the night.

Everywhere there were men, both black and white, armed with whips, guns, clubs and vicious, broad-bladed panga knives watching over slaves, urging and whipping them to work harder, or simply watching to make sure that none dared pocket or swallow any gold for himself.

Inside the stockade stood a row of long wooden huts with thatched roofs. The coffle was brought to a halt in front of one of them. ‘This is where you will live,’ Capelo informed them. ‘It is the last home you will ever know, for you will work here until you die. Soon your shackles will be released. This does not mean that you are free. I shall remind you now, for the last time, that any attempt to escape is punishable by death. Soon you will have food. Eat well, for it is the only meal you will get until this time tomorrow. And in the morning you will be put to work.’

Then the chains were removed from their hands and necks and they were given small wooden bowls containing watery millet porridge in which floated inedible chunks of gristle. Hal had learned in his time at the Cape Colony that a man forced into hard labour should never refuse any food, no matter how repellent, and he wolfed it down, for the less time it took to consume the sooner one forgot how disgusting it was.

There were no beds or even bunks inside, simply two long, low wooden tables, roughly six feet wide that stretched the full length of the hut. As the dozen or so men from the coffle lay down to sleep the arrangements seemed almost spacious. It was only when another fifty slaves appeared, sweaty, rank and exhausted from their labours, and forced their way onto the tables, barging the newcomers out of their way as they did, that Hal realized that the crowding was as bad as on any slave ship. He found himself forced up against the wall of the hut, with just about enough room to sleep on his side, with his back against the man next to him and his face pressed hard against the mud wall. The squeeze was so tight that he could barely move a muscle.

But it did not matter. He was finally in the same place as Judith. For now, the few hundred yards that separated them might as well have been a thousand miles, but he would find a way to bridge that gulf, find Judith and make good their escape. It might take him a few weeks, or even, God forbid, a few years. But he would do it.

And having placed that thought in the forefront of his mind, Hal closed his eyes. For if there was another lesson that the Cape had taught him it was that sleep, as much as food, was essential to survival.

The Buzzard was faced with a most reluctant bride. ‘Put on the damn dress, woman, or …’

‘Or what?’ Judith asked. ‘What will you do with your one hand? Hit me? I will evade you. Have some slave or other hold me down while you whip me? That would only spoil the goods before Senhor Lobo can get his hands on them. Kill me? But how much money can you make from my corpse?’

‘Prattle on all you like, you proud bitch, but you’re in no position to talk. Lobo’s got no use for a woman he can’t bed. But he’s always got a use for another slave. When that wedding bell rings, you’ll be down the aisle or down the mines. And to hell with the money, it would be worth losing every penny just to see you getting your comeuppance at the end of an overseer’s whip.’

He sat down on a silk-upholstered chair and snapped his thumb and forefinger for his slave to bring him more wine. ‘So,’ the Buzzard rasped. ‘An hour until you decide which you’d prefer, a long life of luxury as Senhora Lobo, or a nasty, brutish and short one as his slave. Personally, I cannot see why you’re having such a hard time making up your mind. If it were me, I’d let the drunken old lecher do what he damn well pleased if it meant I got a soft bed and a full belly. But what do I know, eh?’

The stockade where the slaves were kept was guarded by two men at its entrance and another two who patrolled the perimeter in opposite directions, crossing one another’s paths two times per circuit. As one of the guards walked by the position where the Amadoda were hiding in the moon shadow cast by a giant baobab tree, one of the tribesmen rose silently to his feet. He was holding a knobkerrie, a club cut from a single piece of hardwood with a narrow shaft that was easy to grip at one end and a bulbous round head at the other. He waited until the guard was directly opposite him and then threw the knobkerrie as straight and true as an arrow. It hit the guard on the temple and killed him instantly.

The Amadoda emerged briefly from the shadows, ran across to the fallen man, carried him off the smooth, hard path that the guards’ feet had beaten down over the years and slit his throat, just to make sure he was out of the way.

A few minutes later the second guard came by. He seemed puzzled, looking this way and that, evidently wondering what had happened to his comrade. He stopped walking and took a look around, close to the Amadoda’s hiding place. Once again the knobkerrie flew out of the shadows, with exactly the same result.

The men standing on either side of the gate knew nothing of the Amadoda’s presence until they felt the prick of the stabbing spear blades that were cutting their throats. Their bodies were rolled into the bottom of the thorn bushes and two of the Amadoda took their places, while Aboli led the rest of his men into the stockade and, having watched their captain every inch of the way, went straight to the hut where Hal was sleeping.

Aboli’s appearance in the hut caused one or two of the slaves to wake. ‘Do not trouble yourselves, my brothers,’ Aboli whispered in Swahili, the language that almost all the peoples of that part of Africa understood, even if it was not their mother tongue. ‘I seek the white man who arrived here today. Our master, Senhor Lobo, is very curious about this white slave and wishes to meet him. Do you know where I may find him?’

He was directed to the end of the long line of sleeping slaves. More were waking now and starting to talk. Some were angry at being disturbed and voices began to be raised.

‘Hush, or you will wake your brothers in the other huts,’ said Aboli, grabbing Hal’s arm and pulling him out of his squashed position like a very large cork from a very tight bottle.

‘What if we do? They are not my brothers,’ one man argued. ‘And who are you? I do not know you.’

The situation was slowly spiralling out of control. ‘All is well, we are going now,’ Aboli said, as he and Hal made their way to the door. One of the slaves tried to block their way and stood across the entrance facing the two departing men. He was felled by a knobkerrie in the back of the head, thrown by one of the Amadoda waiting outside the hut.

‘Run!’ Aboli hissed, in English now as he and Hal hurdled the fallen slave and dashed full pelt for the gate. There was no time for either man to express his gratitude or relief at seeing the other. That would come later. For now they just had to survive. Aboli had a panga that had been taken from one of the guards the Amadoda had killed and he passed it to Hal like a relay baton without either man breaking stride. By the time they reached the gate slaves were spilling out of Hal’s hut and shouting, ‘We are free! We are free!’ to the men in the other huts. Hal cursed under his breath for all hope of surprise had vanished and all they could hope for now was that the sudden slave uprising would act as a distraction.

He heard a shout behind him and the crash of a musket being fired. In the confusion he and Aboli had somehow led their small raiding party right past the barracks where the overseers slept and now there was an ever-growing troop of them on their trail. Someone cried out, ‘To the stables! We’ll ride them down!’ But even if some of their pursuers had gone for the horses instead, that still left an ever-increasing number who were on their heels and getting closer. Another shot rang out and one of the Amadoda screamed in pain and fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

‘Don’t stop, Gundwane!’ Aboli shouted. ‘We can do nothing for him.’

Hal didn’t reply. He didn’t have the breath for it. From behind him there came the sound of a volley of musket fire, the response, presumably, to the slaves running wild inside the stockade. Hal did not care about them. He had enough to worry about putting one foot in front of another. His leg muscles were burning, his chest was heaving, he was close to the end of his tether. And then, up ahead, he saw a tall structure looming up out of the darkness and suddenly his spirits soared. There was still hope!

n Lobo’s private fort Judith had given in and agreed to put on the wedding dress, which, to judge by the dirt, mould and even what looked like bloodstains ground into its faded silk fabric, had seen repeated service, but not for quite some time. Though she hated to admit it, the Buzzard’s logic was unarguable. As long as she went along with the ruler of this private kingdom there was hope. If she reduced herself to slavery there was none.