Wilbur Smith - Assegai

They were not far from the spot where Kermit had left his horse the previous day, only a few miles from the presidential camp, when suddenly and unexpectedly two white men stepped out of the bush into the track in front of them. They were dressed in safari clothing but neither carried a rifle. However, one was armed with a large camera and tripod.

‘Damn it to hell! The gentlemen of the fourth estate,’ Kermit muttered. ‘Just can’t get away from them.’ He braked to a halt. ‘I guess we just have to be nice and polite to them or they’ll cook our goose for us.’

The tallest of the two strangers hurried to the driver’s side. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he smiled ingratiatingly. ‘May I trespass on your good nature and ask you a few questions? Are you connected to President Roosevelt’s safari, by any chance?’

‘Mr Andrew Fagan of the Associated Press, I presume, to paraphrase the deathless words of Dr David Livingstone.’ Kermit pushed his hat back and returned his smile.

The journalist recoiled in astonishment, then peered more closely at him. ‘Mr Roosevelt Junior!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please forgive me. I didn’t recognize you in that get-up.’ He was staring at Kermit’s filthy, blood-stained clothing.

‘Mr Who Junior?’ Leon demanded.

Kermit looked embarrassed, but Fagan hastened to reply. ‘Don’t you know who you’re riding with? This is Mr Kermit Roosevelt, the son of the President of the United States.’

Leon turned accusingly to his new friend. ‘You didn’t tell me!’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘You might have mentioned it,’ Leon insisted.

‘It would have changed things between us. It always does.’

‘Who is this young friend of yours, Mr Roosevelt?’ Andrew Fagan asked, and whipped his notepad out of his back pocket.

‘This is my hunter, Mr Leon Courtney.’

‘He looks very young,’ Fagan observed dubiously.

‘You don’t have to grow a long grey beard to be one of the greatest hunters in Africa,’ Kermit told him.

‘. . . greatest hunters in Africa!’ Fagan scribbled shorthand on his pad. ‘How do you spell your name, Mr Courtney? With one e or two?’

‘Just one.’ Leon felt uncomfortable and glared at Kermit. ‘Now see what you’ve got me into.’

‘I guess you’ve been out hunting.’ Fagan pointed at the head of the bull buffalo in the back of the truck. ‘Who shot that creature?’

‘Mr Roosevelt did.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a Cape buffalo, Syncerus caffer .’

‘My God, it’s huge! Can we have some photographs, please, Mr Roosevelt?’

‘Only if you give us a couple of copies. One for Leon and one for me.’

‘Of course. Bring your guns. Let’s have one of you on each side of the horns.’ The photographer set up his tripod and arranged the pose. Kermit looked composed and debonair, Leon as though he was facing a firing squad. The flash powder exploded in a cloud of smoke, much to the consternation of the skinners and camp staff.

‘Okay! Great! Now can we have that tribesman in the red robe in the picture? Tell him to hold his spear higher. Like this. What is he? Some kind of chief?’

‘He’s the king of the Masai.’

‘No kidding! Tell him to look fierce.’

‘This mad fool thinks you’re dressed like a woman,’ Leon told Manyoro in Maa, and he scowled murderously at the photographer.

‘Great! God, that’s so great!’

It was another half an hour before they were able to drive on.

‘Does that happen all the time?’ Leon asked.

‘You get used to it. You have to be nice to them or they write all sorts of garbage about you.’

‘I still think you should have told me that your father was the ruddy President.’

‘Can we hunt together again? They’ve given me an old fellow called Mellow as my hunter. He lectures me as though I’m a schoolboy, and tries to stop me shooting.’

Leon thought about it. ‘In two days’ time the main camp is moving on up to the Ewaso Ng’iro river. I have to ferry the tents and heavy equipment up there ahead of it. But I’d like to hunt again with you if my boss gives me a chance. You’re not a bad fellow, despite your lowly antecedents.’

‘Who’s your boss?’

‘An old gentleman called Percy Phillips, though you’d better not call him old to his face.’

‘I know him. He often dines with my father and Mr Selous. I’ll do what I can. I don’t think I can take much more of Mr Mellow.’

Fate played into Kermit’s hands. Two nights after the grand safari moved into the camp on the south bank of the Ewaso Ng’iro river, the chef Lord Delamere had loaned to the President prepared a banquet to celebrate American Thanksgiving Day. There was no turkey so the President himself shot a giant Kori bustard. The chef roasted the bird and concocted a stuffing that contained spiced buffalo liver.

The next morning half the men in camp were struck down by virulent diarrhoea – the buffalo liver had apparently deteriorated in the heat. Even Roosevelt, he of the iron constitution, was affected. Frank Mellow, who had been appointed as Kermit’s hunter, was one of the worst stricken, and the camp doctor ordered him to the hospital in Nairobi.

Kermit, who had not eaten the stuffing, seized his advantage: he negotiated the appointment of his replacement hunter with his father through the door of the long-drop outhouse to which the President was confined by his indisposition. Roosevelt put up only token resistance to his son’s proposal, and Kermit could go to Percy Phillips as the bearer of the presidential decree. That evening Leon found himself hailed into Percy’s tent.

‘I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but all hell’s broken out. Kermit Roosevelt wants you to have the job as his hunter to replace Frank Mellow and has talked his father into allowing it. They didn’t consult me so I have no choice but to agree.’ He glared at Leon. ‘You aren’t yet dry behind the ears. You haven’t dealt with lion, leopard or rhino yet, and I told the President so. But he’s sick and didn’t want to listen. Kermit Roosevelt is a wild and reckless young rascal, just like you. If you get him hurt, you and I are finished. I’ll never have another client, and I’ll strangle you slowly with my bare hands. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir, I understand very well.’

‘All right, go ahead. I can’t stop you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Leon began to leave, but Percy stopped him.

‘Leon!’

He turned back in surprise. Percy had never before called him by his first name. Then, with even greater surprise, he saw that Percy was smiling. ‘This is your big chance. You’ll never have another like it. If you’re lucky and clever, you’ll be on your way to the top. Good luck.’

The next day Leon and Kermit rode out at large, not seeking any particular quarry animal but ready to take on whatever the day brought forward. ‘If we found a lion, a big black-maned old male, that would be my dream come true. Not even my father has taken one of those.’

‘You may have to wait until we leave Masailand,’ Leon told him. ‘This country’s extremely unhealthy for big black-maned lions.’

‘How’s that?’ Kermit looked intrigued.

‘Every young morani longs for a chance to kill his lion and prove his manhood. All the morani of the same circumcision year go out in a war-party. They hunt down a lion and surround it. When the lion realizes he cannot escape he picks one of the men and charges him. The morani must stand and meet the charge with his shield and assegai . When he kills he is allowed to make a war-bonnet from the mane and wear it with honour. He can also choose any girl in the tribe. The custom thins out the lion population somewhat.’