Wilbur Smith - Assegai

‘You have proved your courage beyond any doubt, sir. Now, give me your rifle and let me finish the job.’

‘I never send a boy to do a man’s work, Courtney. Besides, you have your good spear. For what reason do you need a rifle?’

‘You are going to get somebody killed.’

‘ Ja , perhaps. But I don’t think it’ll be me.’ He strode forward towards the wall of thorn bush on the far side of the clearing. ‘One of them went in there. I am going to pull him out by his tail.’

It was futile to try to stop him. Leon held his breath as Graf Otto reached the far end of the clearing.

The wounded buffalo was waiting for him behind the first fringe of vegetation. It let him come in close, then charged at him from a mere five yards. The thorn exploded before its rush. Graf Otto had the rifle to his shoulder in an instant, and the muzzles were almost touching the bull’s wet black nostrils when he fired. It was another perfect brain shot. The buffalo’s front legs collapsed under it. However, the momentum of its charge carried it forward and it slid into its tormentor’s legs like a black avalanche. He was sent spinning backwards, the rifle thrown from his hands, and hit the ground flat on his back. Leon heard the breath forced in a rush from his lungs. He sat up painfully, wheezing, as Leon ran forward to help him.

Leon was in the centre of the clearing when Manyoro shouted an urgent warning behind him. ‘On your left side, M’bogo. The other one is coming!’

He swerved to the left and saw the third wounded buffalo almost upon him, so close that it was already lowering its head to hook at him with its horns. He saw the bull’s suppurating blind eye – this was the first animal Graf Otto had fired at. Leon wheeled to face it and gathered himself, standing on the balls of his feet, his body in perfect balance, judging his moment. As the bull closed with him he swayed into the beast’s blind side, and it lost sight of him, hooking wildly at where he had been the second before. If the horn had not been broken and foreshortened it would probably have ripped Leon’s belly open, and even though he pirouetted clear, the ragged tip snagged his shirt, but then it tore free. Leon arched his back and the bull’s massive body brushed against him, splashing the legs of his trousers with blood as it thundered past.

‘Hey, Toro!’ Graf Otto shouted encouragement. He was struggling to his feet, his voice hoarse with laughter despite the agony of his empty lungs. ‘Hey, Torero!’ He was still laughing wheezily as he stooped to pick up his rifle.

‘Shoot it!’ Leon yelled, as the bull skidded to a halt, its front legs braced.

‘ Nein! ’ Graf Otto shouted back. ‘I want to watch you use your little spear.’ He was holding the rifle with the muzzles pointed at the ground. ‘You want to learn to fly? Then you must use the spear.’

His first bullet had broken the bull’s back leg at the hip, so it was slow to recover from its abortive charge. But then it swung around awkwardly and again focused its single eye on Leon. It plunged forward, coming at him in a full gallop. Leon had learned from the bull’s first pass: he held the spear in the classic Masai grip, the long blade aligned with his forearm like a fencing foil, and let the bull come in close, waiting until the very last instant before he swung his body out of the line of the charge and into the buffalo’s blind spot again. As the great black body brushed against his legs he leaned in over the shoulder and placed the point of the spear in the hollow between the shoulder-blades. He did not try to stab with it. Instead he let the impetus of the bull’s own charge carry it on to the blade. He was astonished at how easily the razor-sharp steel slid in. He hardly felt the jolt as the entire three feet vanished into the heaving black body. He released his grip on the haft and let the bull carry away the spear, plunging and swinging its head from side to side, fighting the biting agony of the blade. Leon saw that these violent movements were working the steel around in its chest, slashing the heart and lung tissue.

Once again the bull bucked to a halt on the far side of the clearing. It was still swinging its head, trying to find him. He stood motionless. At last the bull spotted him and turned towards him, but its movements were slow and uncertain. It staggered, but kept coming. Before it reached him it opened its mouth and let out a long, low bellow. A thick gout of blood from its lacerated lungs burst through its jaws and it fell on to its knees. Then it rolled slowly on to its side.

‘ Olé! ’ Graf Otto shouted, but this time his tone was without mockery, and when Leon looked at him, he saw new respect in the man’s eyes.

Manyoro went slowly to where the buffalo lay. He stooped and, with both hands, took hold of the assegai haft that protruded from between its shoulder-blades. He straightened up, leaned back and drew the bloody steel out of the wound. Then he saluted Leon with the spear. ‘I praise you. I am proud to be your brother.’

When they returned to camp Graf Otto turned breakfast into a celebration of his own prowess. He sat at the head of the table wolfing ham and eggs, and swigging the coffee he had laced generously with cognac while he regaled Eva with a highly coloured description of the hunt. He gave a passing mention to Leon at the end of the long account. ‘When there was only one old blind animal still on its feet, I let Courtney have it. Of course, I had wounded it so badly that it was not a real challenge, but I will say this for him, he managed to kill it in quite workmanlike fashion.’

At that moment his attention was taken by sudden activity outside the tent. Hennie du Rand was with the skinners, who were getting into the back of a truck. They were armed with axes and butcher’s knives. ‘What are those people doing, Courtney?’

‘They are going to bring in your dead buffaloes.’

‘What for? The heads are worthless, as you have already told me, and surely the meat will be so old and tough that it will be inedible.’

‘When it is smoked and dried the porters and other labourers will eat it with relish. In this country any meat is much prized.’

Graf Otto wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood up. ‘I will go with them to watch.’

This was another of his typically idiosyncratic decisions, but still it took Leon by surprise. ‘Of course I will come with you.’

‘No need for that, Courtney. You can stay here and see to the refuelling of the Butterfly for the flight back to Nairobi. I will take Fräulein von Wellberg with me. She will be bored sitting in camp.’

I would do my best to entertain her if you gave me half a chance, Leon thought, but kept the sentiment to himself. ‘As you wish, Graf,’ he acquiesced.

Hennie was overawed to have such illustrious company travelling with him in the truck, even for the short ride to where the carcasses lay. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, Graf Otto put him more at ease by offering him a cigar. After the first few puffs Hennie had relaxed to the point at which he was able to answer the man’s questions coherently, rather than in an embarrassed mumble.

‘So, du Rand, they tell me you are South African, ja ?’

‘No, sir. I am a Boer.’

‘Is that different?’

‘ Ja , it is very different. South Africans have British blood. My blood is pure. I am one of a chosen Volk .’

‘To me it sounds as though you do not like the British very much.’

‘I like some of them. I like my boss, Leon Courtney. He is a good Sout Piel .’

‘ Sout Piel? What is that?’

Hennie glanced unhappily at Eva. ‘It is man’s talk, sir. Not fit for the ears of young ladies.’