Slowly, through the black mists of rage, reason returned to Herman Fleischel. He stood with shoulders hunched, breathing heavily through his mouth, and mentally digested the full import of Kalani's message.
This was not just another of O'Flynn's will-o'-the-wisp forays across the Rovuma from Mozambique. This time he had sailed brazenly into the Rufiji delta, with a full-scale expedition, and hoisted the British flag. A queasy sensation, not attributable to the pickled pork, settled on Herr Fleischer's stomach. He knew the makings of an international incident when he saw one.
This, perhaps, was the goad that would launch the fatherland on the road to its true destiny. He gulped with excitement. They had flapped that hated flag in the Kaiser's face just once too often. This was history being made, and Herman Fleischer stood in the centre of it.
Trembling a little, he hurried into his office, and began drafting the report to Governor Schee that might plunge the world into a holocaust from which the German people would rise as the rulers of creation.
An hour later, he rode out of the boma on a white donkey with his slouch uniform hat set well forward on his head to shield his eyes from the glare. Behind him his black Askari marched with their rifles at the slope. Smart in their pillbox kepis with the back flaps hanging to the shoulder, khaki uniforms freshly pressed, and put teed legs rising and falling in unison, they made as gallant a show as any commander could wish.
A day and a half march would bring them to the confluence of the Kilombero and Rufiji rivers where the Commissioner's steam launch was moored.
As the buildings of Mahenge vanished behind him, Herr Fleischer relaxed and let his ample backside conform to the shape of the saddle.
have you got it straight?" Flynn asked without conviction. The past eight days of hunting together had given him no confidence in Sebastian's ability to carry out a simple set of instructions without introducing some remarkable variation of his own. "You go down the river to the island, and you load the ivory onto the dhow. Then you come back here with all the canoes to pick up the next batch." Flynn paused to allow his words to absorb into the spongy tissue of Sebastian's head before he went on. "And for Chrissake don't forget the gin."
Right you are, old chap." With eight days" growth of black beard, and the skin peeling from the tip of his sunburned nose, Sebastian was beginning to fit the role of ivory poacher. The wide-brimmed terai hat that Flynn had loaned him came down to his ears, and the razor edges of the elephant grass had shredded his trouser legs and stripped the polish from his boots. His wrists and the soft skin behind his ears were puffy and speckled with spots of angry red where the mosquitoes had drunk deep, but he had lost a little weight in the heat and the ceaseless walking, so now he was lean and hard-looking.
They stood together under a monkey-bean tree on the bank of the Rufiji, while at the water's edge the bearers were loading the last tusks into the canoes. There was ale-greenish smell hanging over them in the steamy purp heat, a smell which Sebastian hardly noticed now for the last eight days had seen a great killing of elephant and the stink of green ivory was as familiar to him as the smell of the sea to a mariner.
"By the time you get back tomorrow morning the boys will have brought in the last of the ivory. We'll have a full dhow-load and you can set off for Zanzibar."
"What about you? Are you staying on here?"
"Not bloody likely. I'll light out for my base camp in Mozambique."
"Wouldn't it be easier for you to come along on the dhow? It's nearly two hundred miles to walk. "Sebastian was solicitous; in these last days he had conceived a burning admiration for Flynn.
"Well, you see, it's like this..." Flynn hesitated. This was no time to trouble Sebastian with talk of German gunboats waiting off the mouth of the Rufiji. "I have to get back to my camp, because..." Suddenly inspiration came to Flynn O'Flynn. "Because my poor little daughter is there all alone."
"You've got a daughter?" Sebastian was taken by surprise.
"You damn right I have." Flynn experienced a sudden rush of paternal affection and duty. "And the poor little thing is there all alone."
"Well, when will I see you again? "The thought of parting from Flynn, of being left to try and find his own way to Australia saddened Sebastian.
"Well," Flynn was tactful. "I hadn't really given that much thought." This was a lie. Flynn had thought about it ceaselessly for the last eight days. He was eagerly anticipating waving farewell to Sebastian Oldsmith for all time.
"Couldn't we..." Sebastian blushed a little under his sun-reddened cheeks. "Couldn't we sort of team up together?
I could work for you, sort of as an apprentice?"
The idea made Flynn wince. He almost panicked at the thought of Sebastian permanently trailing along behind him and discharging his rifle at random intervals. "Well now, Bassie boy," he clasped a thick arm around Sebastian's shoulders, "first you sail that old dhow back to Zanzibar and old Kebby El Keb will pay you out your share. Then you write to me, hey? How about that? You write me, and we'll work something out."
Sebastian grinned happily. "I'd like that, Flynn. I'd truly like that."
"All right, then, off you go. And don't forget the gin."
With Sebastian standing in the bows of the lead canoe, the double-barrelled rifle clutched in his hands, and the terai hat pulled down firmly over his ears, the little flotilla of heavily laden canoes pulled out from the bank and caught the current. Paddles dipped and gleamed in the evening sunlight as they arrowed away towards the first bend downstream.
Still standing unsteadily in the frail craft, Sebastian looked back and waved his rifle at Flynn on the bank.
"For Chrissake, be careful with that goddamn piece,"
Flynn bellowed too late. The rifle fired, and the recoil toppled Sebastian sprawling onto the pile of ivory behind him. The canoe rocked dangerously while the paddlers struggled to keep it from capsizing, and then disappeared around the bend.
Twelve hours later, the canoes reappeared around the same bend, and headed towards the lone monkey-bean tree on the bank. The canoes rode lightly, empty of ivory, and the paddlers were singing one of the old river chants.
Freshly shaved, wearing a clean shirt and his other pair of boots, a case of Flynn's liquor between his knees, Sebastian peered eagerly ahead for his first glimpse of the big American.
A fine blue tendril of camp-fire smoke smeared out across the river, but there were no figures waving a welcome from the bank. Suddenly Sebastian frowned as he realized that the silhouette of the monkey-bean tree had altered. He wrinkled his eyes, peering ahead uncertainly.
Behind him rang the first cry of alarm from his boatmen.
"Allemand!"And the canoe swerved under him.
He glanced back and saw the other canoes wheel away in tight circles aime downstream, the boatmen jabbering in terror as they leaned forward to thrust against the paddles.
His own canoe was in swift pursuit of the others as they darted beyond the bend.
"Hey!" Sebastian shouted at the sweat-shiny backs of his paddlers. "What do you think you're doing?"
They gave him no answer but the muscles beneath their black skins bunched and rippled in their frantic efforts to drive the canoe faster.
"Stop that immediately!" Sebastian yelled at them. "Take me back, dash it all. Take me to the camp."
In desperation Sebastian lifted the rifle and aimed at the nearest man. "I'm not joking," he yelled again. The native glanced over his shoulder into the gaping twin muzzles and his face, already twisted with fear, now convulsed into a mask of terror. They had all developed a healthy reverence for the way Sebastian handled that rifle.
The man stopped paddling, and one by one the others followed his example. Sitting frozen under the hypnotic eyes of Sebastian's rifle.
"Back!" said Sebastian and gestured eloquently upstream.
Reluctantly the man nearest him dipped his paddle and the canoe turned broadside across the current. "Back!" Sebastian repeated and the men dipped again.
Slowly, warily, the single canoe crept upstream towards the monkey-bean tree and the grotesque new fruit that hung from its branches.
The hull slid in onto the firm mud and Sebastian stepped ashore.
"Oud" he ordered the boatmen and gestured again. He wanted them well away from the canoe for he knew that, otherwise, the moment his back was turned they would set off downstream again with renewed enthusiasm. "Oud" and he herded them up the steep bank into Flynn O'Flynn's camp.
The two bearers who had died of gunshot wounds lay beside the smouldering fire. But the four men in the monkey bean tree had been less fortunate. The ropes had cut deeply into the flesh of their necks and their faces were swollen, mouths wide in the last breath that had never been taken. On the lolling tongues the flies crawled like metallic green bees.
"Cut them down!" Sebastian roused himself from the nausea that was bubbling queasily up from his stomach. The boatmen stood paralysed and Sebastian felt anger now mixed with his revulsion. Roughly he shoved one of the men towards the tree. "Cut them down," he repeated, and thrust the handle of his hunting knife into the man's hand.
Sebastian turned away as the native shinned up into the fork of the tree with the knife blade clamped between his teeth. Behind him he heard the heavy meaty thuds as the dead men dropped from the tree. Again his stomach heaved, and he concentrated on his search of the trampled grass around the camp.
"Flynn!" he called softly. "Flynn. I say Flynn! Where are you?" There were the prints of hobnailed boots in the soft earth, and at one place he stooped and picked up the shiny brass cylinder of an empty cartridge case. Stamped into the metal of the base around the detonator cap were the words Mauser Fabriken.
"Flynn!" more urgently now as the horror of it came home to him. "Flynn!" and he heard the grass rustle near him. He swung towards it, half raising the rifle.
"Master!" and Sebastian felt disappointment swoop in his chest.
"Mohammed. Is that you, Mohammed?" and he recognized the wizened little figure with the eternal fez perched on the woolly head as it emerged. Flynn's chief gun-boy, the only one with a little English.
"Mohammed," with relief, and then quickly, Fini? Where is Fini?"
"They shot him, master. The Askari came in the early morning before the sun. Fini was washing. They shot him and he fell into the water."
"Where? Show me where."
Below the camp, a few yards from where the canoe was drawn up, they found the pathetic little bundle of Flynn's clothing. Beside it was a half-consumed cake of cheap soap and a metal hand-mirror. There were the deep imprints of naked feet in the mud, and Mohammed stooped and broke off one of the green reeds at the water's edge. Wordlessly he handed it to Sebastian. A drop of blood had dried black on the leaf, and it crumbled as Sebastian touched it with his thumb-nail.
"We must find him. He might still be alive. Call the others. We'll search the banks downstream."
In an agony of loss, Sebastian picked up Flynn's soiled shirt and crumpled it in his fist.