Wilbur Smith - Assegai

The boundary between British and German East Africa was neither marked nor guarded. There were no signposts along the way, other than blazes on roadside trees and a few bleached animal skulls set on poles. Navigating chiefly by instinct and the heavens, they at last reached the tiny bush store run by a Hindu trader at Makuyuni river. Percy had left a pair of good horses with the store owner to await his arrival.

Leon parked the truck under a ficus tree at the back of the store and saddled up one of the horses. From there it was a ride of at least fifty miles to Percy’s hunting camp, which was set on a promontory above the lake shore.

Leon and his Masai reached it an hour after dark on the following day. He found out that neither Percy nor his noble client had returned to camp. Percy’s cook served Leon a dinner of grilled hippo heart and cassava porridge with pumpkin mash and thick Bisto gravy.

Afterwards Leon sat at the fire and watched the flamingoes flying across the moon in dark, wavering lines. A bush fire was burning on the far shore of the lake. It looked like a fiery snake crawling through the dark hills, and he could smell the smoke. It was past ten o’clock when he heard the horses coming out of the night and went to the perimeter of the camp to meet them.

As Percy dismounted stiffly and painfully from the saddle, he recognized Leon waiting in the shadows. His shoulders straightened and his face creased in a smile of welcome. ‘Well met indeed!’ he called. ‘Your timing’s immaculate, Leon. Come to the fire and I’ll introduce you to his lordship. I might even be minded to pour you a dram of Talisker.’

Eastmont was a tall, gangling figure, with huge hands and feet and a head the size of a watermelon. His long, thin limbs were illmatched to his bulky torso. Percy stood at a little more than six feet and his Masai tracker was an inch taller, yet Eastmont towered over them, and Leon realized that he must be six foot three. When he shook hands, his fist engulfed Leon’s fingers as though they were a child’s. In the flickering firelight Eastmont’s features were gaunt and bony, his expression dark and morose. He said little but instead left the talking to Percy. Once the glasses were charged he sat staring into the fire while Percy described the day’s hunting,

‘Well, his lordship wanted a truly monumental buffalo and, by golly, we found one this morning. He was an old solitary and I swear by all that’s holy he’s fifty-five if he’s an inch.’

‘Percy, that’s incredible! But I believe you,’ Leon assured him. ‘Show me the head. Are your people bringing it in tonight, or will the skinners come in with it tomorrow?’

There was an awkward silence, and Percy glanced across the fire at his client. Eastmont seemed not to have heard. He continued staring into the flames.

‘Well,’ said Percy, and paused again. Then he went on with a rush of words: ‘There’s a small problem. The buff’s head is attached to his body, and the body is still very much alive.’

Leon felt a chill at the back of his neck, but he asked carefully, ‘Wounded?’

Percy nodded reluctantly, then admitted, ‘Yes, but pretty hard hit, I think.’

‘How hard, Percy? In the boiler room or the guts? How much blood?’

‘Back leg,’ said Percy, then hurried on: ‘Broke the gaskin bone, I do believe. He should be stiff and crippled by tomorrow morning.’

‘Blood, Percy? How much?’

‘Some.’

‘Arterial or venous?’

‘Hard to tell.’

‘Percy, it’s not hard to tell arterial from venous. You taught me how, so you should know. One is bright red, the other dark. Why did you find it hard to tell the difference?’

‘There wasn’t very much of it.’

‘How far did you track him?’

‘Until it got dark.’

‘How far, Percy, not how long.’

‘A couple of miles.’

‘Shit!’ said Leon, as though he truly meant it.

‘The polite version of that word is “ merde ”.’ Percy tried for a touch of humour.

‘I’ll settle for good old Anglo-Saxon.’ Leon did not smile.

They were silent for a few long minutes. Then Leon looked across at Eastmont. ‘What calibre were you using, my lord?’

‘Three seven five.’ Eastmont did not look up as he spoke. Shit again! Leon thought, but did not say. Goddamned peashooter! ‘How thick is the cover he’s in, Percy?’

‘It’s thick,’ Percy admitted. ‘We’ll follow him up tomorrow at first light. He’ll be stiff and sore. Shouldn’t take too long to catch up with him.’

‘I have a better plan. The two of you stay here and have a quiet day in camp. Rest your leg, Percy. I’ll follow him up and finish the business,’ Leon suggested.

His lordship let out a bellow like a bull sealion in mating season. ‘You will do no such thing, you impudent whippersnapper. It’s my buffalo and I will finish him off.’

‘With all due respect, my lord, too many guns could turn a potentially dangerous situation into a fatal one. Let me go. This is what you pay us so much money to do.’ Leon smiled in an unconvincing attempt at diplomacy.

‘I paid so much money for you to do as you’re bloody well told, my lad.’ Leon’s mouth hardened. He looked at Percy, who shook his head.

‘Leon, it’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll probably find him down tomorrow.’

Leon rose to his feet. ‘As you wish. I’ll be ready to ride at first light. Good night, my lord.’ Eastmont did not reply and Leon turned back to Percy. He looked old and sick in the firelight. ‘Good night, Percy,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t worry. I have a good feeling about this. We’ll find him down, I know it.’

Leon stood at the edge of the cliff with Manyoro and Loikot. The sun was not yet up, and a low bank of mist hung over the water. The dawn was windless and the lake was a polished pewter grey. Skeins of luminous pink flamingoes flew in long, wavering lines low along it, the unruffled grey waters reflecting their perfect mirror images. It was very beautiful.

‘Bwana Samawati thinks his back leg is broken,’ Leon said, still watching the flamingoes. ‘Perhaps it will slow him down a little.’ Loikot spat a small glob of mucus on to the black lava sand, and Manyoro picked his nose, then examined the crusty product on the end of his forefinger with attention. Neither replied to the fatuous statement. A broken leg would not slow down an angry buffalo bull.

Leon went on, ‘Bwana Mjiguu wants to lead. He says it’s his buffalo. He will shoot it.’ The Masai had named Eastmont ‘Mr Big Feet’ and greeted this latest snippet of information with as much joy as they would news of the passing of a dear friend.

‘Perhaps he will shoot it in the other leg. That will slow it down,’ Manyoro suggested, and Loikot doubled over in paroxysms of mirth. Leon could not control himself. He had to join in, and the laughter eased their feelings a little.

Behind them Percy came out of his tent and Leon left the Masai to greet him. His complexion was as grey as the lake waters and his limp more pronounced.

‘Morning, Percy. Did you have a good night?’

‘Bloody leg kept me awake.’

‘There’s coffee in the mess tent,’ Leon said, and they walked towards it. ‘I saw Uncle Penrod in Nairobi. He asked me to tell you something.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Eastmont was cashiered from the army in South Africa. Cowardice in the face of the enemy.’ Percy stopped and stared at him. ‘Back home he was found not guilty of drowning his extremely rich wife. Lack of evidence.’

Percy thought about that for a moment, then said, ‘Do you know something? That doesn’t surprise me one little bit. I had him right up against the buff yesterday. Twenty yards. Not an inch more. He shot it in the back leg because he was overcome with terror.’