Wilbur Smith - Assegai

The governor hurried forward to meet him, clutching with one hand the plume of white ostrich feathers on his cocked hat, and with the other, trying to disentangle his sword from between his legs. He had placed his private train at the disposal of the President and his entourage. As soon as they were all safely aboard, the clouds rolled aside and brilliant sunshine sparkled on the choppy waters of the lagoon. The large crowd burst into a chorus of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’. Teddy Roosevelt stood plump and beaming on the balcony of the leading carriage and acknowledged the cheers as the driver blew his whistle and the train pulled away at the start of the journey up-country to Nairobi.

One hundred miles inland the train halted at Voi siding, the southernmost extent of the vast plains that lay between the Tsavo and Athi rivers. A wooden bench had been built as a viewing platform over the cowcatcher at the front of the locomotive. The President and Frederick Selous climbed up and settled themselves on the bench. Selous was the most revered of all the African hunters, the author of many books on travel and adventure, and a naturalist who had devoted his life to studying and cherishing the animals of the great continent. Renowned for his strength and determination, it was said of him that ‘When all the others fall by the wayside Selous keeps on to the end of the road.’ His physique was robust, his beard steely grey, his eyes were steady and far-seeing and his expression was mild and saintly. Selous and Roosevelt, although so different in appearance, were kindred spirits of the wild open spaces.

While the train puffed across the plains of Tsavo, teeming to the horizon with herds of antelope, the two great men huddled together in conversation, discussing the wonders that lay all around them. As darkness fell they retired to the comfort of the governor’s carriage. When the train pulled into Nairobi station early the following morning the entire population was on the platform to catch a glimpse of the former President.

Over the following days a programme of receptions, balls and sporting events, including polo and horse-racing, had been arranged for his entertainment. It was a week before Roosevelt had performed his social obligations and the safari was ready to depart. Again they travelled by train as far as the remote bush siding of Kapiti plains. When they arrived the safari was drawn up like a small army to meet them.

The next morning, when the march began, the President, with Selous and his son on either hand, rode at the head of the column. Behind them, carried by a uniformed askari , Old Glory spread in the breeze. Next came the KAR marching band, giving an approximate rendition of ‘Dixie’. The rest of the thousand-strong group straggled back two miles over the veld.

Leon Courtney was not one of this multitude. For the last six weeks he had been setting up supply dumps at waterholes along the safari’s intended route.

Reluctantly, Percy Phillips had given Leon an assistant. At first Leon had been horrified. ‘Hennie du Rand?’ he protested. ‘I know him. He’s an Afrikaner Boer from South Africa. The fellow fought against us in the war. He rode with the commando of the notorious Koos de la Rey. God alone knows how many Englishmen Hennie du Rand has shot.’

‘The Boer War ended several years ago,’ Percy pointed out. ‘Hennie may be a tough character, but at heart he’s a good fellow. Like most Boers he’s a true bushman, and he has shot more elephant and buffalo than any other man I know. He’s a good mechanic too. He can help you maintain the trucks and drive one. You’ll need somebody to help you shoot enough buffalo to keep the safari supplied with fresh meat, and there’s nobody better. You can learn a hell of a lot from him, if you listen. But his greatest recommendation is that he will work for his grub and a few shillings a day.’

‘But—’ said Leon.

‘No more ifs or buts. Hennie’s your assistant, and you’d better get used to the fact, young fella.’

In just the first few weeks, Leon discovered that not only was Hennie an indefatigable worker but he knew a great deal more about motor maintenance and bushcraft than Leon did, and was happy to share this knowledge with him. His relations with the staff were excellent. He had lived with African tribesmen all his life and understood their ways and customs. He treated them with humour and respect. Even Manyoro and Ishmael liked him. Leon found him good company around the campfire in the evenings and he was a fascinating raconteur. He was over forty, lean and sinewy. His beard was grizzled, and his face and arms were darkly sunburned. He spoke with a strong Afrikaans accent. ‘ Ja, my jong Boet ,’ he told Leon, after they had run down a herd of buffalo on foot and killed eight fat young heifers with as many shots. ‘Yes, my young friend. It seems we’re going to make a hunter of you yet.’

With Manyoro and four other men they skinned, gutted and quartered the carcasses, then loaded them into the two trucks and delivered them to within half a mile of the great sprawling main camp of the presidential safari. This was as close as Percy would allow the vehicles to approach. He did not want the President and Selous to be disturbed by the sound of engines. Another team of porters came out from the camp to carry in the carcasses.

When they were alone Leon and Hennie parked the older Vauxhall under a pod mahogany tree and rigged a block and tackle from the main branch. They hoisted the truck’s rear and between them removed the differential, which had been emitting an alarming grinding sound. They began to strip down the offending part and lay out the pieces on a tattered square of tarpaulin. They looked up at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. The rider was a young man in jodhpurs and a wide-brimmed hat. He dismounted and hitched his horse, then sauntered up to where they were working.

‘Hello there. What are you up to?’ he drawled, with an unmistakable American twang.

Before he replied Leon looked him up and down. His riding boots were expensive and his khakis were freshly washed and ironed. His face was pleasant, but not striking. When he removed his hat, his hair was a nondescript mousy colour, but his smile was friendly. It struck Leon that the two of them were almost the same age: the other was no more than twenty-two at most.

‘We’re having a spot of bother with this old bus,’ Leon told him, and the stranger grinned.

‘ “Having a spot of bother with this old bus”,’ he repeated. ‘God, I love that Limey accent. I could listen to it all day.’

‘What accent?’ Leon mimicked him. ‘I ain’t got no accent. Now you, you got a funny accent.’ They burst out laughing.

The stranger held out his hand. ‘My name’s Kermit.’ Leon looked down at his own palm, which was smeared with black grease. ‘That don’t matter,’ Kermit assured him. ‘I love to tinker with autos. I’ve got a Cadillac back home.’

Leon wiped his hand on the seat of his pants and took the other’s. ‘I’m Leon, and this ragamuffin is Hennie.’

‘Mind if I sit awhile?’

‘If you’re a famous mechanic you can lend a hand. How about pulling out that rack and pinion? Grab a spanner.’

They all worked in silent concentration for a few minutes, but both Leon and Hennie were watching the newcomer surreptitiously. At last Hennie gave his sotto voce opinion: ‘ Hy weet wat hy doen .’

‘What language is that, and what did Hennie say?’

‘It’s Afrikaans, an African version of Dutch, and he said you know what you’re up to.’

‘So do you, pal.’

They worked on for a while, then Leon asked, ‘Are you part of the great Barnum and Bailey circus?’

Kermit laughed delightedly. ‘Yeah, I suppose I am.’