The Governor's Lady (20 page)

He got up, and allowed his hands to rest for a moment on the canvas chair-back.

‘Really,' he said, ‘I suppose we should all be grateful. The complete rest, you know. And the leisure. But I must be off now. My papers, you understand. We mustn't forget that we've all got work to do, must we?'

Except for the brightness of the stars, it would have been dark, pitch dark, by now. Every detail of the camp stood out clearly. With no moon, there were no shadows. There was simply a vague, milky light that turned the khaki of the canvas into clay, and made a pale silver canal of the pathway that the trucks had flattened out.

One by one the kerosene lamps had been extinguished. Only the Signals tent was still illuminated: propped up on a chair inside and with the headphones worn round his neck like a doctor's stethoscope, a corporal was on all-night vigil in case, with nightfall, cracklings of some kind began to get through.

Because he still ached all over, Harold got up to stretch himself. He
knew enough of Major Mills's sentry postings not to risk going outside the camp: there was no point in being halted, challenged, made to advance and be recognised when all that he wanted was a quiet, uninterrupted stroll. And, hi any case, the camp itself was large enough. He lit a cigarette, and turned in the direction of the Quartermaster's side.

It was all very peaceful. The sleep of others surrounded him. There was no movement; not even, up there in the hills, any of the usual nightly hootings and cat-calls of the bush. Everything was entirely silent. He felt as though he had the whole planet to himself.

Then, as he rounded one of the trucks, he heard something. It was a voice, deliberately kept low, he thought: scarcely more than a whisper. And he heard something else. This time it was a little laugh; kept low, too, like the voice.

Harold put his cigarette behind his back, and waited. In the rear of the end truck he could make out two figures. One was lying on the grass and the other seemed to be kneeling beside him. It was the one on the grass who had given that little laugh. And then Harold remembered where he had heard it before. It had come from the bronze kitchen-boy when old Moses had snatched the knife from him.

A moment later the other figure got up and straightened himself. He raised one hand to thrust back a lock of hair from his forehead. It was a gesture with which anyone who had ever known the A.D.C. would be familiar.

Sir Gardnor was extremely pleased with Major Mills. His map-reading had worked perfectly. They were not merely on the spot: they were on time, too. And expected. In the shade of the acacia grove, the two native hunters were already waiting.

Nature, too, was for once promising to behave every bit as satisfactorily as Major Mills. Despite the lateness of the rains, the grass was waist-high, and still growing. The river-bed was neither barren nor overflowing: its ochre-red torrent might have been made to measure for easy crossing. Startled by the approach of the scout-car, a herd of impala had just exploded into the air and gone aerily bouncing away as though the hard ground beneath their hooves were an acrobats' trampoline.

Sir Gardnor, however, was not to be distracted: he declined to go after anything. It was to be a long safari; and he had all the time in the world in front of him. In any case, it was leopard, not antelope, that he was after.

Because they were going to be camped there for three or four days or even a week possibly—Major Mills laid everything out with the thoroughness of a town surveyor. And now that the one night stands were over, the extra section of Sir Gardnor's marquee was hauled out of the truck, and fitted on.

When fully erected, it was fairground-sized. Under one canopy, there was an ante-room for the A.D.C., Sir Gardnor's own study and sleeping-quarters, and a lean-to out at the back for Old Moses. At the side, connected by a hedge of khaki screens, all neatly cleated and strung, were the adjoining tents for Lady Anne and Sybil Prosser. There, even the Elsans were built-in.

The whole strategic arrangement suited Major Mills admirably. It ensured that, once the ladies had fastened down the front tent-flap they were entirely protected from the outside world. The only access from
the camp was past the A.D.C.'s ante-room; and, even here, Major Mills had taken every precaution. More than once he had reminded the young man that, with the L.M.s around, safari was nothing short of active service, and he had extracted the promise that the A.D.C. would sleep with his revolver on the pillow beside him.

The place was, in fact, a khaki fortress; and, coupled with two sentries posted at either end of the camp and two more on patrol on the perimeter, it made things well-nigh impregnable.

Just as well, too, Major Mills reflected. Less than a mile away lay the beehive village of Kitu. It was quite famous in its way, Kitu. Only last year, his predecessor had raided the settlement and come away with a collection of rough-sharpened pangas and a set of steel claws all ready for mounting.

Sir Gardnor lost no time about it.

Leopard was what he had come for, and leopard was what he intended to have. By dawn on this first morning, he and Major Mills were interrogating the two native hunters. Patiently and without protest, they had spent the night in the adjoining grove.

This time, however, Major Mills was not doing so well. His African languages were limited to Mimbo; and out here by Kitu it was no use to him.

‘But I thought you knew,' Sir Gardnor was saying. ‘Mimbo stops the other side of those mountains. These people aren't Mimbo at all. These are pure Kiburru. Look at their noses,' He turned to Harold. ‘There's a job for you, if you care to stay out here long enough—a Kiburru Dictionary and Grammar. No one's written one yet. You'll find some oddities, too. Most of it's Swahili. But some of the roots are pure Hati.'

Sir Gardnor was speaking as though he were in a lecture hall; or in a private tutorial, at least. It suited him, the effortless showing-off of knowledge that no one else around him could possibly question.

‘But we must get down to business, mustn't we?' he asked. ‘I'll have a word with them myself.'

They were not by any standards particularly prepossessing, these Kiburru tribesmen; and the
ichi
marks carved into their foreheads did nothing to improve them. The row of jagged scars running up from the eyebrows and over the cheekbones made them look as though they had
been lucky to come safely through some nasty road accident. Their colour, too, was against them. They weren't bronze like the kitchen-boy; or gleaming, recently-polished ebony like the Mimbo. They were blue-black; blue-black and ugly.

But they knew their stuff. Moreover, they were excellent actors. “With their flexible black hands they were drawing leopards in the air, describing every contour of them. They ceased to be a couple of half-naked savages waving their arms about. Instead, they became two inky magicians, with one of the great cats, lying, standing, skulking, sitting there, leaping into the air in front of them.

Sir Gardnor came away entirely satisfied.

‘They're exaggerating the size, of course,' he said. ‘These fellows always do. But there's a pair of leopard here all right, wouldn't you say? One of them rather distinguished by all accounts.'

He paused, not because he had finished but because he hadn't finished: he wanted someone to invite him to continue. Major Mills, however, simply did not know the form. It was Harold who stepped in.

‘Distinguished in what way, sir?' he asked.

Sir Gardnor smiled.

‘It seems,' he said, ‘that the male is by no means purely animal. He is a departed human spirit, returned in animal form. And from a hostile tribe, too. That makes him particularly dangerous and anti-social.' Sir Gardnor gave a little laugh. ‘Nor, I'm afraid, is that the end of it.' He was really enjoying himself by now: his smile was at its widest and most patronising. ‘I'm told that such leopards take their revenge on those that attack them. Even a shot between the eyes, I gather, will not deter them. Because being spirits, they can still revenge themselves after death.'

Major Mills caught Sir Gardnor's eye for a moment and tried to smile back understandingly.

‘Folklore, sir,' he suggested.

Sir Gardnor smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Well, we shall soon know, shan't we?' he asked. He paused. ‘Of course, it's entirely up to you two gentlemen whether you decide to come with me. From the point of view of the leopard, we're all in it together: all equally guilty if he wants to punish us.'

They were walking back into the camp by now: after the quiet and solitude of the acacia grove, everything around them was all bustle and activity. And it was no longer African air that they were smelling.
It was the air of England. Coming from the kitchen was the reassuring odour of coffee and fried bacon.

‘I suppose,' Sir Gardnor was saying, ‘it may have been a spirit buffalo that came down on top of our friend here. Perhaps he's had punishment enough already.' There was the smile again, the little laugh. ‘This time it'll be you and me, Major, that the spirits are after.'

Major Mills cocked his head a little.

‘I'm ready to take my chance, sir,' he said.

Sir Gardnor looked at him approvingly.

‘Out here one has to, doesn't one?' he asked. ‘But those fellows believe their story all right. Apparently, you can detect a human leopard by the way it kills. It uses its claws rather than its teeth. Handling the victim, you might say. One of the hunters has actually watched it at work. Really quite remarkable.'

They had reached the breakfast table by now, and Sir Gardnor sat himself down at the head.

‘There appears to be one other sign,' he added. ‘It's something to do with the spoor. A spirit spoor, you understand. Turns up in the most unexpected places.' He looked across at his A.D.C. who had just joined them. ‘Remind me to bring Native Affairs along with us next time, will you?' he asked. ‘After all, he really speaks these languages. I'm afraid I've forgotten half my Kiburru.'

The place of sacrifice had already been selected. It was a clearing some fifty yards across, surrounded by a backcloth of bushes and with a particularly fine baobab tree, left centre. The hunters pointed to a gap on the far side, and became very excited. It was no ordinary gap, they declared: it was more a porch, a gateway. From it, practically nightly, the leopards emerged, sometimes singly, sometimes as a pair. The baobab tree, in fact, stood slap across their favourite cat-walk.

‘It's a point on which I've always insisted,' Sir Gardnor told them. ‘I refuse to hunt the other way. No sportsman would ever dream of shooting a leopard up a tree in India, so why attempt it here? The proper place for the hunter is on a raised platform. So that he can see what he's doing. I don't want to risk hurting the animal.'

It was in the fork of the main branch, Sir Gardnor explained, that he wanted the platform to be built. The specifications were lavish and exact. The platform was to hold three, at least; and in comfort. The
ladder leading up to it could be a simple rope one, he conceded. There was to be ample room for guns, supplies and ammunition; and, above all, they were to take special care with the mosquito netting. Sir Gardnor did not want to be eaten up alive, he said, while they were still waiting.

It was already obvious that Sir Gardnor was preparing for a long and exacting vigil up there in his little Wendy-house. And as the project grew—Sir Gardnor had only just remembered the necessity for a stout three-foot handrail—Major Mills kept adding in his mind to the size of the task force that he would have to detail for such an operation.

Then, like a fast bowler pacing out his run, Sir Gardnor slowly and deliberately took fifty steps from the tree-trunk. He looked back over his shoulder to the point where the branch forked, and shifted across a little to his right. He took one more step forward, and looked back again. This time he seemed satisfied. With his heel, he hacked out a divot.

‘Here, exactly here,' he announced, ‘is where we will have the stake.'

The Kiburru hunters looked on admiringly: it was all gibberish to them, but they were enjoying it just the same.

Sir Gardnor beckoned to Major Mills.

‘You'll want to make a good job of it, I'm sure,' he said. ‘Shall we say Monday night, then? Your men won't mind working right through, will they? I understand the kid can be available at any time.'

Lady Anne had been quite right: private conversations were impossible on safari. She and Sybil Prosser came to the long table for meals; they sat around on the camp chairs afterwards, listening to Major Mills's gramophone; and they took part in Major Mills's makeshift religious service on Sunday morning. Harold and Lady Anne had been within speaking distance a dozen times or more; but so, also, had too many other people. It was not until sundown on the Monday, when the party was actually setting off for the baobab tree, that Lady Anne spoke directly to him; and, even then, they were not entirely alone.

The procession was quite a large one. Sir Gardnor and the A.D.C. were in front. They were followed by the bearers, with the guns and the ammunition. Then came Harold and Major Mills, with two kitchen boys carrying the supper picnic that Old Moses had prepared. Behind them, the camp carpenter had brought along his assistant in case there were any last minute touches that were needed. And, in the rear, came a
solitary Kiburru huntsman: his companion, it was understood, was down in Kitu arranging the final details about the kid.

They were almost past the entrance to Lady Anne's tent when she saw them. And she ran out immediately. The carpenter from the South Staffs had to step back so that she could pass him.

She stood in front of Harold, and put her hand on his arm.

‘Do be careful,' she said. ‘Very, very careful.' She paused, and Harold thought for a moment that he had detected that familiar tell-tale catch in her voice. He was sure of it when she suddenly added: ‘Just for my sake.'