The Land Leviathan (A Nomad of the Time Streams Novel) (13 page)

I nodded. “I think so, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Caponi,” said the President, addressing the dashing and idealistic young Sicilian aviator who had made such a name for himself when he had almost single-handedly saved the survivors of Chicago from the raging fires which had swept that city, by dropping again and again into the inferno, risking almost certain death to rescue the few who remained alive. “You have told me how your countrymen have turned to cannibalism and reverted to their old, feuding ways. You would see that changed, would you not?”

Caponi nodded eagerly, his eyes blazing. “Give me the supplies, Mr. President, and I will have my keels over Sicily by morning!”

Most of the other commanders echoed Captain Caponi’s sentiments and President Gandhi was well pleased by their response.

“There are matters I must attend to before we embark on this scheme,” he said, “but we can probably begin loading the food and medicine by the end of the month. In the meantime I had better warn you, gentlemen, that General Hood is soon to make a state visit to Bantustan.”

The news was received with consternation by most of us— and with undisguised disgust by some, including Caponi, who was never one to hide his feelings. He expressed what a good many of us—particularly the whites—refrained from saying:

“The man is a mass-murderer! A bloody-handed looter! A maniac! Many of us have had relatives done to death by his minions! Why, I have sworn that if I should ever have the opportunity, I should kill him—with my bare hands I should kill him!”

The little President glanced at the floor in some embarrassment. “I hope you will not be so tempted, Captain Caponi, when General Hood is here as my guest...”

“Your guest!” Caponi clapped his hand to his forehead. “Your
guest
!” He broke into a stream of Sicilian oaths which I, for one, was glad I did not understand—although the import of the language was clear enough.

President Gandhi let him continue for a while and then interrupted mildly: “Would it not be better,
capitano,
to have this man as our guest—rather than as our conqueror? By meeting him, I hope to influence him—to beg him to stop the senseless warfare, this vendetta against the white race which can only lead to more violence, more terror, more grief...”

Caponi spread his hands, his somewhat pudgy features displaying an expression which was almost pitying. “You think he will listen, Mr. President? Such a man cannot be reasoned with! I know to my sorrow how destructive a vendetta can be— but the Black Attila is a madman—a wild beast—a ferocious and senseless killer—a torturer of women and children. Oh, sir, you are too unworldly...”

President Gandhi raised his eyebrows, biting his lip. He sighed. “I hope I am not,” he said. “I understand all the arguments and I know how you must feel. But I must obey my conscience. I must make an effort to reason with General Hood.”

Captain Caponi turned away. “Very well—reason with him— and see what good it does. Can you reason with a whirlwind? Can you reason with a rogue rhino? Reason with him, President Gandhi—and pray for the safety of your country!” And with that he walked rapidly from the room.

One or two of the other officers mumbled words which echoed Caponi’s. We all loved President Gandhi, but we all felt that he was misguided in his hopes.

Finally, he said: “Well, gentlemen, I hope some of you will agree to be present at the banquet I intend to hold for General Hood. If your voices are added to mine, at least you will know, as I will know, that you have done your best...”

He dismissed us, then, and we all left with heavy hearts, speculating variously on what General Hood would be like to meet in the flesh and how we should react when—or if—we saw him.

Personally I had mixed feelings. It was not every day, after all, that one received the opportunity of dining with a legend, a world-conquering tyrant whom history would rank with Genghis Khan or Alexander the Great. I was determined to accept the President’s invitation. Besides, I had to admit that I was beginning to get a little bored with my life in Bantustan. I was first and foremost a soldier, a man of action, trained in a certain way of life and not, by nature, contemplative or much of an intellectual. General Hood’s visit would, if nothing else, relieve that boredom for a while!

A
week later there was a Black Fleet hanging in the skies of Cape Town. Between twenty and thirty good-sized keels lay anchored to specially built masts. They swayed slightly in the warm wind from the west, each of them displaying the insignia of the Black Attila’s so-called New Ashanti Empire: a black, rampant, snarling African lion in a scarlet circle. Hood
claimed
as an ancestor the famous Quacoo Duah, King of Ashanti in the 1860s, and it was initially on the Gold Coast that he had begun to build his army—starting with a handful of Ashanti and Fanti nationalists pledged to the overthrow of the first native government of Ashantiland (as it had been renamed after Independence). Although the Black Horde consisted of members of all African peoples, as well as those from beyond Africa, it had somehow retained the name of Ashanti, just as the Roman Empire had kept its name even after it had few connections with Rome at all. Also the Ashanti people were well-respected throughout most of Africa, and since Hood claimed to be Quacoo Duah’s direct descendant, it suited him to keep the name.

Many of those who had sworn to have nothing whatsoever to do with the whole affair were drawn reluctantly to the streets or their balconies, to watch the descent of Cicero Hood and his retinue from the flagship (diplomatically named the
Chaka)
which hung just above the main formation. For the first time we saw Hood’s famous Lion Guard—huge, perfectly formed warriors with skin like polished ebony and proud, handsome features, drawn from all the tribes of Africa. On their heads were steel caps from which projected tall, nodding ostrich plumes dyed scarlet and orange. From their shoulders hung short cloaks made from the manes and skins of male lions. They wore short, sleeveless jackets of midnight blue, similar to the jackets worn by French Zouaves, trimmed with gold and silver braid, and tight cavalry-style britches to match. High boots of black, gleaming leather were on their feet and each man carried two weapons, symbolic of the Old and the New Africa—an up-to-date carbine on the back and a long-shafted, broad-bladed spear in the right hand. Standing in the open-air carriages, scarcely moving a muscle, their faces expressionless, they were undoubtedly amongst the most impressive soldiers in the world. Their carriages formed a perfect circle around that of General Cicero Hood himself—a carriage painted in splendid colours and flying the black-and-scarlet flag of the Black Attila’s Empire. From where I stood on the roof of my apartment building (many of my colleagues were with me, including Korzeniowski) I could see that there were two figures in the carriage, but I was too far away to make out details of their features, though it seemed to me that one of the occupants was white!

Upon landing, Hood and his Guard transferred to open electrical broughams and began a long procession through the streets of Cape Town that was received with surprising enthusiasm from many of the citizens (admittedly most of them Negroes), but I could see little of this procession from my vantage-point. I retired to the bar downstairs where a number of other officers were coming back from the street, where they had witnessed the scene. Not a few of the white and a number of the black officers had looks of grudging admiration on their faces, for there had been no doubt about the excellence of the stage-management involved in Hood’s arrival. A man I knew slightly who had been a land-fleet commander in India before he had joined the army of Bantustan (his name, as I recall, was Laurence), ordered himself a stiff brandy and drained it in a single swallow before turning to me and saying in a tone of awe: “I say, Bastable, the chap’s got a bally white woman in tow. Rum go, eh? His distaste for us doesn’t seem to extend to the female of the species, what?”

Another acquaintance called Horton, who had been an officer in the Sierra Leone navy before the nation was annexed by Hood, said dryly: “To the victor the spoils, old man.” There was a look of amusement on his brown face, and he winked at me, enjoying Laurence’s discomfort.

“Well, I mean to say...” began Laurence, realizing his lack of tact. “It’s not that I feel...”

“It’s just that you do.” Horton laughed and turned to order Laurence another drink. “You think Hood’s taken a white concubine as a sort of gesture. It could be that he finds her so attractive he doesn’t care what colour she is. I’ve heard of Europeans falling in love with African women. Haven’t you?”

Laurence’s next point was undeniably a good one. “But not Europeans with a deep loathing of Negroes, Horton. I mean, it rather shakes his case about us being awful fiends, doesn’t it?”

Horton grinned. “Maybe he prefers the devil he knows.”

“I must admit,” put in a lieutenant who had begun his career in the Russian navy, Nicolai, “I wouldn’t mind knowing her myself. What a beauty! I think she’s the most ravishing creature I’ve ever seen. Good luck to Hood on that score, say I!”

The conversation continued on these lines for a while until those of us who had accepted invitations to attend the banquet had to leave to get ready. Korzeniowski and I and a party of other ‘underwater sailors’ were going together. Dressed in the simple, white dress-uniforms of the Bantustan navy, we left for the palace in a large carriage rather like an electrically powered
char-à-banc,
were met at the steps and escorted into the great hall which normally housed the elected representatives of the people of Bantustan. Long tables had been laid out and each place was adorned with gold and silver plate and cutlery. We were privileged (if that is the word) to sit at the President’s table and would thus be afforded a good chance of observing the infamous General Hood at close range.

When we were all seated, President Gandhi, General Hood and the general’s lady consort entered through a door in the back of the hall and moved to take their places at the table.

I believe that I had by this time learned enough self-control not to register my surprise upon recognizing the woman whose hand was now placed on the arm of the despot who had become master of most of Africa and all of Europe. Our eyes met and she acknowledged me with a ghost of a smile before turning her head to say something to Hood. It was Una Persson! Now I knew why she had wished to return to Africa so speedily and why she had been reluctant to take me with her. Had she, even then, been keeping this association with the Black Attila?

General Hood was not what I expected. He was as tall as any member of his “Lion Guard”, but fairly slender, moving with what I can only describe as a sort of awkward grace. He wore perfectly cut conventional evening-dress which was entirely without decoration. I had expected a fierce-eyed warlord, but this man was close to middle age, with the distinguished air of a high-ranking diplomat. His hair and beard were greying a little and his large, dark eyes held a mildness which could only be deceptive. I was reminded, against my will, of a sort of black Abraham Lincoln!

President Gandhi was beaming. It seemed he had had a conversation with General Hood which had proved satisfactory to him. The little Indian was dressed, as always, in a light cotton suit of what we used to term “Bombay cut”. They took their places and we, who had been standing, resumed ours. The meal began in a rather grim silence, but slowly the atmosphere improved. General Hood chatted amiably to President Gandhi, to the President’s aides, and to Una Persson. I heard a little of the conversation— enough to know that it was the usual sort of polite small-talk which goes on among politicians on occasions like this one. From what might have been a mistaken sense of tact, I tried not to look at Mrs. Persson during the dinner and addressed myself primarily to the lady on my left who seemed to be obsessed with the notion of trying to breed back, in Africa, many of the species of bird-life which had been made all but extinct during the wars in Europe.

The meal was an excellent compromise between European and African dishes, and I think it is probably the best I have ever eaten, but we were on the sweet course before I was saved from the conversation of the amateur ornithologist on my left. Quite suddenly I heard the deep, mellow tones of General Hood speaking my name and I looked up in some embarrassment.

“You are Mr. Bastable, then?”

I stuttered a reply to the effect that his information was correct. I was not even sure how one addressed a despotic conqueror who had on his hands the blood of hundreds of thousands of innocents.

“You have my gratitude, Mr. Bastable.”

I was conscious of a decided lull in the conversation around me and I think I might have been blushing a little. I noticed that Mrs. Persson was smiling broadly at me, as was President Gandhi, and I felt very foolish, for no particular reason.

“I have, sir?” was, I think, what I answered. It sounded insane to my ears and I tried to recover my equilibrium by reminding myself that this man, in spite of appearances, was the sworn enemy of my race. It was, however, difficult to maintain an attitude of disdain while at the same time behaving in a way which suited the social situation. I had accepted the invitation to dine at the palace and therefore had a duty to President Gandhi not to offend his guests.

General Hood laughed a deep, full-throated laugh. “You saved the life of someone I hold very dear.” He patted Una Persson’s hand. “Surely you remember, Mr. Bastable?”

I said that it had been nothing, that anyone would have done the same, and so on.

“You showed great courage, Mrs. Persson tells me.”

I made no answer to this. Then General Hood added: “Indeed, if it had not been for you, Mr. Bastable, it is unlikely that I should have been able to continue with certain military ambitions I have been entertaining. White though your skin is, I think you have the heart of a black man.”

A calculated irony, surely! He had managed to implicate me in his crimes and I think relished my embarrassment. Next he added: