The Sound of Thunder (2 page)

Since Sean had last seen it the sign above the entrance had been freshly painted in red and gold. “I. Goldberg. Importer & Exporter, Dealing in Mining Machinery, Merchant & Whole Purchasing Agent: gold, precious stones, hides and skins, saler ivory and natural produce.

Despite this war, or because of it, Mr. Goldberg’s emporium was doing good business. It was crowded and Sean drifted unnoticed among the customers, searching quietly for the proprietor.

He found him selling a bag of coffee beans to a gentleman who was plainly sceptical of its quality. The discussion of the merits of Mr. Goldberg’s coffee beans as opposed to those of his competitor across the street was becoming involved and technical.

Sean leaned against a shelf full of merchandise, packed his pipe, lit it and while he waited he watched Mr. Goldberg in action. The man should have been a barrister, his argument was strong enough to convince first Sean and finally the customer.

The latter paid, slung the bag over his shoulder and grumbled his way out of the shop, leaving Mr. Goldberg glowing pink and perspiring in the flush of achievement.

“You haven’t lost any weight, Izzy, ” Sean greeted him.

Goldberg peered at him uncertainly over his gold-framed spectacles, beginning to smile until suddenly he recognized Sean. He blinked with shock, jerked his head in a gesture of invitation so his jowls wobbled, and disappeared into the back office. Sean followed him.

“Are you mad, Mr. Courtney?” Goldberg was waiting for him, quivering with agitation. “If they catch you. ” “Listen Izzy. I arrived last night. I haven’t spoken to a white man in four years.

What the hell is going on here?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“No, damn it, I haven’t.”

“It’s war, Mr. Courtney.

“I can see that. But where? Against whom?”

“On all the borders-Natal, the Cape.”

“Against?”

“The British Empire.” Goldberg shook his head as though he did not believe his own statement. “We’ve taken on the whole British Empire. ” “We?” Sean asked sharply.

“The Transvaal Republic and the Orange Free State. Already we have won great victories, Ladysmith is besieged, Kimberley, Mafeking-” YOU, personally?” “I was born here in Pretoria. I am a burgher.

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“No, of course not. You’ve been a good customer of mine for years. “Thanks, Izzy. Look, I’ve got to get out of here as fast as I can. “It would be wise.”

“What about my money at the Volkskaas-can I get it out?

Izzy shook his head sadly. “They’ve frozen all enemy accounts.

“Damn it, God damn it! ” Sean swore bitterly, and then,

“IIzzy, I’ve got twenty wagons and ten tons of ivory parked out there on the edge of town-are you interested?”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand for the lot; oxen, wagons, ivory-the lot.”

“It would not be patriotic, Mr. Courtney,” Goldberg decided reluctantly. “Trading with the enemy-besides I have only your word that it’s ten tons. ” “Hell, Izzy, I’m not the British Army-that lot is worth twenty thousand quid. ” “You want me to buy sight unseen-no questions asked? All right. I’ll give you four thousand-gold.

“Seven.” “Four and a half,” countered Izzy.

“You bastard. ” “Four and a half.

“No, damn you. Five!” growled Sean.

“Five?

“Five!

“All right, five.

“Thanks, IZZy. ” “Pleasure, Mr. Courtney.”

Sean described the location of his laager hurriedly.

“You can send someone out to pick it up. I am going to run for the Natal border as soon as it’s dark.

“Keep off the roads and well clear of the railway. Joubert has thirty thousand men in Northern Natal, massed around Ladysmith and along the Tugela heights. ” Goldberg went to the safe and fetched five small canvas bags from it. “Do you want to check?”

“I’ll trust you as you trusted me. Good-bye, Izzy.” Sean dropped the heavy bags down the front of his shirt and settled them under his belt.

“Good luck, Mr. Courtney.”

There were two hours of daylight left when Sean finished paying his servants. He pushed the tiny pile of sovereigns across the tailboard of the wagon towards the last man and went with him through the complicated ritual of farewell, the hand-clapping and clasping, the repetition of the formal phrases-then he stood up from his chair and looked around the circle. They squatted patiently, watching him with wooden black faces-but reflected back from them he could sense Ins own sorrow at this parting.

Men with whom he had lived and worked and shared a hundred hardships. It was not easy to leave them now.

“It is finished,” he said.

” Yebho, it is finished.” They agreed in chorus and no one moved.

“Go, damn YOU! Slowly one of them stood and gathered the bundle of his possessions, a kaross (or skin blanket), two spears, a cast-off shirt that Sean had given him. He balanced the bundle on his head and looked at Sean.

-Nkosi! ” he said and lifted a clenched fist in salute.

“Nonga,” Sean replied. The man turned away and trudged out of the laager.

“nosi!”

“Hlubi.

“Nkosi!”

“Lim.

A roll call of loyalty-Sean spoke their names for the last time, and singly they left the laager. Sean stood and watched them walk away in the dusk. Not one of them looked back and no two men walked together. It was finished.

Wearily Sean turned back to the laager. The horses were ready.

Three with saddles, two carrying packs.

“We will eat first, Mbejane. ” “It is ready, Nkosi. Hlubi cooked before he went.”

“Come on, Dirk. Dinner.”

Dirk was the only one who spoke during the meal. He chattered gaily, wrought up with excitement by this new adventure, while Sean and MbeJane shovelled fat Hlubi’s stew and hardly tasted it.

Out in the gathering darkness a jackal yelped, a lonely sound on the evening wind, fitting the mood of a man who had lost friends and fortune.

“It is time.” Sean shrugged into his sheepskin jacket and buttoned it as he stood to kick out the fire, but suddenly he froze and stood with his head cocked as he listened. There was a new sound on the wind.

“Horses!” Mbejane confirmed it.

“Quickly, Mbejane, my rifle.” The Zulu leapt up, ran to the horses and slipped Sean’s rifle from its scabbard.

“Get out of the light and keep your mouth shut,” Sean ordered as he hustled Dirk into the shadows between the wagons.

He grabbed the rifle from MbeJane and levered a cartridge into the breech and the three of them crouched and waited.

The click and roll of pebbles under hooves, the soft sound of a branch brushed aside.

“One only,” whispered Mbejane. A packhorse whickered softly and was answered immediately from the dari mess Then silence, a long silence broken at last by the jingle of a bridle as the rider dismounted.

Sean saw him then, a slim figure emerging slowly out of the night and he swung the rifle to cover his approach. There was something unusual in the way the stranger moved, gracefully but with a sway from the hips, long-legged like a colt and Sean knew that he was young, very young to judge by his height.

With relief Sean straightened up from his crouch and examined him as he stopped uncertainly beside the fire and peered into the shadows.

The lad wore a peaked cloth cap pulled down over Ins ears and his jacket was an expensive, honey-coloured chamois. His riding breeches were beautiffilly tailored and hugged his buttocks snugly. Sean decided that his backside was too big and out of proportion to the small feet clad in polished English hunting boots. A regular dandy, and the scorn was in Sean’s tone as he called out.

“Stay where you are, friend, and state your business!”

The effect of Sean’s challenge was unexpected. The lad jumped, the soles of his glossy boots cleared the ground by at least six inches, and when he landed again he was facing Sean.

“Talk up. I haven’t got all night.

The lad opened his mouth, closed it again, licked his lips and spoke.

“I was told you were going to Natal. ” The voice was low and husky.

“Who told you that?” demanded Sean.

“MY uncle. ” “Who is your uncle?

“Isaac Goldberg. ” Sean digested this intelligence and while he did so he examined the face before him. Cleanshaven, pale, big dark eyes and a laughing kind of mouth that was now pursed with night.

“And if I am?” Sean demanded.

“I want to go with you. ” “Forget it. Get back on your horse and go home.

“I’ll pay you-I’ll pay you well. ” Was it the voice or the posture of the lad, Sean pondered, there was something very odd about him. He stood with a flat leather pouch held in both hands across the front of his hip sing an attitude of defence, as though he were protecting, protecting what? And suddenly Sean knew what it was.

“Take off your cap,” he ordered.

“No. ” “Take it off.

A second longer the lad hesitated, then in a gesture that was almost defiance he jerked off the cap and two thick black braids of hair, shiny in the firelight, dropped and hung down almost to his waist and transformed him instantly from gawky masculinity into stunning womanhood.

Although he had guessed it, Sean was unprepared for the shock of this revelation. It was not so much her beauty, but her attire that caused the shock. Never in his life had Sean seen a woman in breeches, and now he gasped. Breeches, by God, she might as well be naked from the waist down-even that would be less indecent.

“Two hundred pounds-” She was coming towards him now, offering the pouch. At each step the cloth of the breeches tightened across her thighs and Sean dragged his eyes guiltily back to her face.

“Keep your money, lady. ” Her eyes were grey, smoky grey.

“Two hundred on account, and as much again when we reach Natal. ” “I’m not interested.” But he was, those soft lips starting to quiver.

“How much then? Name your price.

“Look, lady. I’m not heading a procession. There are three of us already-one a child. There is hard riding ahead, plenty of it, and an army of Boers in between. Our chances are slim enough as it is.

Another member to the party, and a woman at that, will make them prohibitive. I don’t want your money, all I want is to get my son to safety. Go home and sit this war out it won’t last long. ” “I’m going to Natal.”

“Good. You go then-but not with us. Sean could not trust himself longer to resist the appeal of those grey eyes and he turned to Mbejane. “Horses,” he snapped and walked away from her. She stood watching him quietly as they mounted up, making no protest. She seemed very small and alone as Sean looked down at her from the saddle.

“I am sorry,” he growled. “Go home now like a good girl,” and quickly he wheeled away and trotted out into the night.

All night they rode, east through the open moonlit land. Once they passed a darkened homestead and a dog barked, but they sheered away and then turned east again and held the great crucifix of the Southern Cross at their right-hand. When Dirk fell asleep in the saddle and slipped sideways, Sean caught him before he hit the ground, pulled him across into his lap and held him there for the rest of the night.

Before dawn they found a clump of bush on the bank of a stream, hobbled the horses and made camp. Mbejane had the billy can boiling over a small well-screened fire and Sean had rolled Dirk unconscious into his blankets when the girl rode into camp and jumped down from her horse.

“I nearly lost you twice. She laughed and pulled off the cap.

“Gave me a horrible night. ” She shook down the shiny braids.

“Coffee! Oh good, I’m famished.”

Menacingly Sean climbed to his feet and with clenched fists he glared at her, but undismayed she hobbled her horse and turned it loose before acknowledging him again.

“Don’t stand on ceremony, please be seated. ” And she grinned at him with such devilment in her grey eyes, aping so faithfully his stance with hands on those indecent hips, that Sean suddenly found himself smiling. He tried to stop it for he knew it was an admission of surrender, but his effort was so unsuccessful that she burst into delighted laughter.

“How’s your cooking? ” he demanded.

“So SO.” “You’d better brush up on it because from now on you’re working your passage. ” Later, when he had sampled it for the first time, he admitted grudgingly,

“Not bad-in the circumstances,” and wiped the plate with a crust of bread.

“You are too kind, sir.” She thanked him and lugged her blanket-roll into the shade, spread it, pulled off her boots, wriggled her toes and lay back with a sigh.

Sean positioned his own bedroll with care so that, when he opened his eyes, without turning his head he could watch her from under the brim of the hat that covered his face.

He woke at midday and saw that she slept with one cheek in her open hand, the lashes of her eyes meshed together and a few loose strands of dark hair across a face that was damp and flushed in the drowsy heat. He watched her for a long time before silently rising and crossing to his saddlebags. When he went down to the stream he took with him his flat canvas toilet-bag, the remaining pair of breeches that were neither patched nor too badly stained and a clean silk shirt.

Sitting on a rock beside the water, naked and freshly scrubbed, he regarded his face in the polished steel mirror.

“A big job. ” He sighed and started snipping at the great bush of beard which had not felt the scissors in dime years.

At dusk, selfconscious as a girl in her first party dress, Sean walked back into the camp. They were all awake. Dirk and the girl sat together on her blanket in such earnest conversation that neither of them noticed his arrival. Mbejane was busy at the fire; he rocked back on his heels and examined Sean without change of expression.

“We’d better eat and get going.”

Dirk and the girl looked up. Her eyes narrowed and then widened thoughtfully.

Dirk gaped at him, and then, “your beard’s all funny-” he announced, and the girl tried desperately to quell her laughter.

“Get your blankets rolled up, boy.”

Sean tried to break Dirk’s grip on the subject, but like a bulldog Dirk held on relentlessly.