Wilbur Smith - Assegai

‘I bet this is my dad coming to find out what I’ve been doing.’ Kermit was grinning in anticipation. ‘I can’t wait to see his face when he lays eyes on this lot.’

While they reined in to wait for the approaching riders to come up, Leon brought up his binoculars and studied them. ‘Hold on! That isn’t your father.’ He stared a few moments longer. ‘It’s that newspaper fellow and his cameraman. How the hell did they know where to find us?’

‘I reckon they must have an informer in our camp. Apart from that, they have eyes like circling vultures,’ Kermit commented. ‘They don’t miss anything. Anyway, we can’t avoid talking to them.’

Andrew Fagan rode up and lifted his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Roosevelt,’ he called. ‘Are those elephant tusks that your men are carrying? I had no idea they grew so large. Those are gigantic. You’re having a wonderfully successful safari. I offer you my heartiest congratulations. May I have a closer look at your trophies?’

Leon called to the porters to lay down their burdens. Fagan dismounted and went to inspect them, exclaiming with amazement. ‘I’d love to listen to your account of the hunt, Mr Roosevelt,’ he said, ‘if you could spare me the time. And, of course, I’d be extremely grateful if you and Mr Courtney would be good enough to pose for a couple more photographs. My readers would be fascinated to hear of your adventures. As you know, my articles are syndicated to almost every newspaper in the civilized world from Moscow to Manhattan.’ An hour later Fagan and his cameraman had finished. Fagan had half filled his notebook with shorthand scribbles, and his photographer had exposed several dozen flash plates of the hunters and their trophies. Fagan was eager to get back to his typewriter. He intended to send a galloper to the telegraph office in Nairobi with his copy and instructions that it was to be sent urgent rate to his editor in New York. As they all shook hands Kermit unexpectedly asked Fagan, ‘Have you met my father?’

‘No, sir, I have not, though I must add that I am one of his most ardent admirers.’

‘Come to see me tomorrow at the main camp,’ Kermit told him. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

Fagan was flabbergasted by the invitation, and as he rode away he was still calling his thanks.

‘What came over you, chum?’ Leon asked. ‘I thought you hated the fourth estate.’

‘I do, but they’re better as friends than enemies. One day Fagan may be a useful man to know. Now he owes me a big marker.’

Leon and Kermit rode into the main camp on the river in the late afternoon. Nobody was expecting them. With his robust constitution, the President had completely recovered from the effects of his Thanksgiving dinner. He was sitting under a tree outside his tent, reading his leatherbound copy of Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers , one of his perennial favourites. With a bemused air he regarded the uproar that his son’s arrival had created. The entire personnel of the camp, almost a thousand strong, was hastening from every direction to greet the returning hunters. They crowded around them, craning for a closer look at the tusks and the rhino head.

Teddy Roosevelt laid aside his book, adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles on his nose, stood up from his chair, tucked in his shirt over the bulge of his belly and came to find the cause of the commotion. The crowd parted deferentially to allow him through. Kermit jumped from the saddle to greet his father. They shook hands warmly and the President took his son’s arm. ‘Well, my boy, you have been away for almost three weeks. I was starting to worry about you. Now you’d better show your old man what you’ve brought home.’ The two went to where the porters had laid out their bundles for inspection. Leon was still mounted and close enough to the President to have a clear view of his face over the heads of the crowd. He was able to watch every nuance of his expressions.

He saw mild, indulgent interest give way to astonishment as Roosevelt counted the tusks lying on the ground. Then astonishment gave way to dismay as he took in the size of the ivory shafts. He dropped Kermit’s arm and walked slowly down the line of trophies. His back was turned to his son, but Leon saw dismay harden to envy and outrage. He realized that for the President to have reached his position of utmost eminence he must be one of the most competitive men on earth. He was accustomed to excelling in any endeavour and ranking first and foremost in any company. Now he was being forced to come to terms with the fact that, for once, he had been outshone by his son.

The President stopped at the end of the line and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He chewed the ends of his moustache and frowned heavily. Then his expression cleared and he was smiling as he turned to Kermit. Leon was filled with admiration for how swiftly he had controlled his emotions.

‘Splendid!’ said Roosevelt. ‘These tusks beat anything we already have, and almost certainly anything we’ll get before the end of the expedition.’ He seized Kermit’s hand again. ‘I’m proud of you, really and truly proud. How many shots did you have to make to get these extraordinary trophies?’

‘You’d better ask my hunter that, Father.’

Still clasping Kermit’s right hand, the President looked at Leon. ‘Well, Mr Courtney, how many was it? Ten, twenty or more? Tell us all, please.’

‘Your son killed the three bulls with three consecutive bullets,’ Leon replied. ‘Three perfect brain shots.’

Roosevelt stared into Kermit’s face for a moment, then pulled him roughly into the circle of his muscular arms and embraced him fiercely. ‘I’m proud of you, Kermit. I couldn’t be prouder than I am at this moment.’

Over the President’s shoulder, Leon could see Kermit’s face. It glowed. Now it was Leon’s turn to suffer mixed emotions: he rejoiced for his friend, but for himself he felt tearing agony. If only my father could bring himself to say that to me one day, he thought, but I know he never will.

The President broke the embrace at last and held Kermit at arms’ length, beaming into his face with his head cocked on one side. ‘I’ll be damned if I haven’t sired a champion,’ he said. ‘I want to hear all about it at dinner. But my nose detects that you need a bath before we eat. Go and get cleaned up now.’ Then he looked across at Leon. ‘I’d be pleased if you’d join us for dinner as well, Mr Courtney. Shall we say seven thirty for eight?’

While Leon used his straight razor on the dark and dense stubble that covered his jaws, Ishmael filled the galvanized-iron bath almost to the brim with hot water that smelled of woodsmoke from the fire. When Leon stepped out of it, his body glowing pinkly, Ishmael had a large towel ready for him, which he had warmed beforehand at the fire. A set of crisply ironed khakis lay on Leon’s bed and beneath it stood a pair of mosquito boots, polished to a gloss.

A short time later, his hair combed and pomaded, Leon set off towards the circus-sized mess tent. Determined not to be late for the President’s dinner, he was half an hour early. As he passed Percy Phillips’s tent the familiar voice hailed him. ‘Leon, come in here for a minute.’

He stooped through the fly to find Percy sitting with a glass in his hand. He waved it to indicate the empty chair across the floor from where he sat. ‘Take a pew. The President keeps a dry table. The strongest brew you’ll be offered tonight is likely to be cranberry syrup.’ He made a small moue of distaste and pointed at the bottle on the table beside Leon’s chair. ‘You’d better fortify yourself.’

Leon poured himself two fingers of single malt Bunnahabhain whisky and topped it up with river water that had been boiled, then cooled in a porous canvas waterbag. He tasted it. ‘Elixir! I could get addicted to this stuff.’