A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel (24 page)

Through the dust cloud, Masson saw Willmer pass the spent rifle to the slave and grab another from the holster on his saddle. They were still gaining on the wagon, although now that they were on flat ground, the six-horse team was doing a better job of staying ahead.

“We’ve got to lighten the load!” shouted Thunberg as he stood up and began to untie the ropes that lashed the large water barrels to either side of the wagon.

Once he had set one of the barrels loose from its bindings, Thunberg and Masson joined forces and managed to push it out of the back of the wagon. It tumbled onto the road and burst, letting loose its liquid cargo and significantly lightening the wagon’s load. Willmer dodged the barrel expertly, but the slave was not so fortunate. His mount reared up and galloped away, leaving him dazed by the side of the track.

Masson and Thunberg once again felt the floor of the wagon tilt as the trail started to wind its way up a steep incline. When they looked out the back just before releasing the second barrel, they saw that a steep slope had formed to their right. It was fast developing into a precipice.

Willmer dodged the second barrel as well, and so they began to frantically empty the wagon of all its contents. Items that were too heavy were pushed off the back, whilst those that were light enough were thrown directly at the horse and rider. First to be discarded were the bags of wheat and grain, the trunks of clothes and then the tents and equipment.

When none of these seemed to have any effect and Willmer was almost within spitting distance, they threw out the boxes of flowers, which fell onto the track and exploded into clouds of splinters and soil that snuffed out any traces of orange or blue.

When only a single box of flowers remained, Masson and Thunberg looked at each other, unsure of what to do next — the last remaining box of flowers was also their last remaining piece of ammunition, but saving the flower would be of little use if they could not save themselves.

But the decision was taken out of their hands as the wagon pitched violently when the front axle struck a termite mound. Thunberg and Masson managed to cling on to the canvas by their fingertips, but the force of the bump launched the box high into the air and out the back of the wagon.

It narrowly missed the horse’s head but caught Willmer squarely in the chest with such force that it unseated him instantly, his face crumpling as he and the box tumbled and disappeared down the side of the hill.

Masson and Thunberg were about to cheer with relief when their world came crashing down in a mangled mess of broken timbers, whinnying horses and a woman’s screams.

Masson blinked against the late afternoon sun as it shone through the clouds of dust that settled slowly on the wrecked wagon.

With nausea rising in his gut and his mouth dry, he fought the pain that shot through his side with every breath as he stood up and surveyed the scene. It wasn’t difficult to put together the pieces of what had happened.

Travelling at full speed, they had come upon the other wagon that had left the camp minutes before. In attempting to overtake it on the narrow pass, they had been forced up onto the side of the hill, where gravity and momentum had prevailed, causing it to lurch onto two wheels. Their wagon had dangled there momentarily before crashing against the side of the other.

The teams of horses became entangled, and the poles and traces of both wagons were torn free of their fixings. As the horses galloped away, the fully laden wagon was pitched over the edge of the precipice and into the gorge below.

When the noise and dust subsided, all that remained of the first wagon was a broken wheel that had come to rest in the middle of the track. The wagon’s cargo had spilled from the back as it plunged down the slope, leaving behind a litter of box fragments and flower petals. Somehow the wagon Masson was on had avoided the same fate, but it now lay battered and wrecked on its side, one unbroken wheel still spinning freely.

Masson limped over to a dazed but not badly injured Thunberg and pulled him to his feet.

“You all right?” asked Thunberg.

“Never better,” replied Masson in return, slowly recovering from the shock of the accident, surveying the mess of flowers, spread like wedding day confetti over the side of the hill.

A muffled groan grabbed their attention, pulling them away from site of the wreckage before them and over to the body of the woman driver, barely conscious and half hidden by the wagon’s canvas canopy that lay in shreds about her.

Thunberg bent down and checked her breathing and heartbeat. “She won’t be driving wagons again anytime soon, but she’ll live.”

“Well, at least there’s good news in there somewhere,” said Masson distractedly as something caught his eye. Willmer’s horse stood riderless about fifty yards down the track, shifting nervously and whinnying softly as if unsure of where to go.

Masson walked slowly towards it, making gentle, soothing sounds before taking up the reigns and leading it back to where Thunberg was tending to the woman.

“Well, we can’t do much with just the one horse. Our only hope is to try and grab the third wagon from Schelling or find Pieterszoon’s cart. It can’t be far away,” said Thunberg.

“I don’t fancy our chances against him and his guns,” mused Thunberg.

“It’s worth a try, and even a couple more horses would be better than what we have. But first things first. We need to get away from here and we need to find some shade, somewhere they won’t easily see us. Once they get that third wagon hitched, it won’t take long to get here. Let’s rig a stretcher and then strike off cross-country to the north, further up the river. Hopefully we can find a place for you two to settle down for the night while I go back and try at least to get some more horses and supplies.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Why don’t we just focus on a single life-threatening situation at a time?” Masson smiled and nodded his agreement.

Masson set about building a stretcher out of bits of broken wagon, and Thunberg climbed on the horse and returned along the track to try to collect anything that might be of use from the material they had thrown from the cart. While Masson was building the stretcher, he found two rifles and a box of cartridges under the driver’s seat.

“You’re lucky you only got a tap on the jaw; she could have blown your head off,” joked Thunberg when he returned a few minutes later with one of the tents, some blankets, a waterskin and a bag of provisions.

They hitched up the stretcher and then retreated back down the track. They struck out into the bush and walked in a gentle arc with the intention of doubling back to a point further up river from the Great Place.

When Masson and Thunberg came to lift the woman on to the stretcher, Masson was again taken aback by the fact that she was dressed in a man’s clothes. Her long, dark hair was matted with twigs and dried blood from a nasty gash above her left eye. In spite of the fact that she had almost clubbed him unconscious and then had almost killed him with a wagon, he couldn’t help but think, as she lay there quietly, the fire and fury extinguished momentarily, that her face was completely at odds with the rest of her appearance. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and although he immediately felt guilty for the thought, Constance seemed very far away. This woman, whoever she was, was breathtakingly close.

When he lifted her onto the stretcher, he did so gingerly, afraid to break her.

“You all right?” asked Thunberg, a twinkle in his eye.

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.”

“And it’s also the second time you haven’t answered. If I didn’t know you any better, I would say that you were looking at her like you were getting ready to draw her.”

“I told you,” Masson replied, “I only draw plants.”

After hours of walking, they descended a steep slope and came to a clump of trees and dense bush that lay at the base of a massive sandstone outcropping.

Masson was astonished to see butterflies for the first time, dancing atop the assegai trees. He took it as a good omen, and so they decided to stop and unhitch the stretcher where they were, carrying it along a game path that took them deeper into the trees. There they hacked away at the low brush and made a clearing large enough to pitch the tent.

Once the tent was set up, they carried the woman inside. “I need to check for broken bones. I’ll have to undress her.”

Masson stood his ground, waiting for Thunberg to tell him what to do. He wasn’t sure whether it was right to be undressing an unconscious woman, but Thunberg was a doctor, after all.

“Ahem,” Thunberg cleared his voice and raised his eyebrows at Masson, his voice slipping into a professional rhythm and tone. “If you could just wait outside, I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Absolutely,” Masson smiled self-consciously and quickly backed out of the tent, but not before his cheeks and neck had flushed a deep crimson.

After a couple of minutes, Thunberg came out of the tent and stood next to Masson, who had built a small fire. “Nothing’s broken. She took a knock to the head, but I don’t think it’s too serious. Keep her covered with the blankets and wake her every hour or so. Try to get her to drink at least a little water. She’ll be thirsty when she comes to, so try to drink as little yourself as you can. I’ll be back as soon as possible with some more food and water, but you should be fine for a day or so with what you have.”

Thunberg continued to give Masson instructions as he got the horse ready, taking one of the rifles and stuffing his pockets with cartridges. “Keep the fire small, just to keep the animals at bay, but make sure you extinguish it before daybreak. We don’t want anyone seeing the smoke.”

As the pair shook hands, Masson surprised Thunberg by holding on with an unexpectedly firm grip. “You will come back, won’t you?”

Thunberg smiled and shook his head. “I have no choice — you know perfectly well that a man alone can’t survive in Africa.”

Without another word, Thunberg mounted Willmer’s horse, waving as he rode off into the dusk.

Masson did not sleep. He sat with the rifle, looking into the fire and trying not to think about the mess he was in. From time to time he checked on the woman, making sure that she wasn’t cold and hadn’t thrown off the blankets. Following Thunberg’s instructions, he also tried to get her to drink, gently lifting her head before carefully placing the waterskin to her chapped lips. When she did drink, she did so without opening her eyes, mumbling incoherently.

She continued to talk in her sleep, and although none of it made any sense to Masson, at least it helped to take his mind off the night noises that permeated every inch of the forest.

At one point in the night, she developed a slight fever, and Masson tore off a piece of his shirt to use as a flannel. Washing away the dirt and grime as he dabbed at her face and neck, he tried to soothe skin that was hot to the touch and soon the fever passed and she fell into a deep and untroubled sleep. As Masson watched the gentle rising and falling of her breast beneath the blanket, his jaw ached and served as a reminder that however pretty she might seem asleep, he would do well to be on his guard.

When the sky began to brighten the next morning, Masson extinguished the fire. He then opened the bag of provisions that Thunberg had gathered and set to work preparing a breakfast of biscuits and pineapple.

“If only the accommodations were as good as the food.” Masson turned at the sound of the sleepy voice that emerged from the tent. Its tenor was silkily female, but something in the clipped vowels and accent was familiar. She had omitted to put on her boots and stood in front of the tent in her stocking feet, wrapped in her blanket. Her dark, wavy hair had been tied back, and the wound on her forehead was the only blemish on her face.

“You’re English,” Masson said, offering up the fruit.

“And you’re Scottish,” she replied with a smile.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as she began eating.

“Better than I look, I’m sure.” She paused and looked around as if searching for something. “Where’s the wagon? We had better get going if we’re going to make it back to the Cape before Schelling.”

Masson could hardly believe his ears.

“Don’t you remember the accident? It was a miracle we weren’t all killed. Doctor Thunberg has gone to try to get some supplies and a cart, or at least more horses, so that we can get back to the Cape.”

Her brow furrowed as she took in the information, shaking her head. But the shaking changed to nodding as Masson’s words unlocked her memory and the events of the previous day tumbled out all at once. “That’s right, I remember. You and your sidekick were in the back of the wagon. It was because of you that I lost control. If you hadn’t changed the weight of the load, I wouldn’t have misjudged that bend on the trail!”

Masson was at a complete loss for words. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish sucking in water, but no sound came out. “Now hold on just a minute,” Masson finally managed. “We saved you! If anyone has destroyed anything, then it is you, madam. You have managed to single-handedly finish off what Schelling started, ruining any chance I had of getting that flower back to England, and with it my future.”

In the heat of the argument, she had let her blanket fall to the ground. Perhaps it was the intricate green stitching on the fawn-coloured breeches that Masson had somehow missed seeing the day before, or the dark-blue waistcoat that now hung loose and unbuttoned over a once-white starched shirt, but something in Masson’s battered brain clicked.

“The monkey!” he blurted out.

She returned his stare, not backing away for even a moment.

“And then — the angel who gave me back the drawing … when I was fevered … I thought I had imagined it, but I didn’t, did I? That was you, too. You really did give it back to me. You’re Burnette!”

As the full extent of the truth began to condense in Masson’s mind, he could sense the cogs and levers of his imagination spring into action as if wound up tight and then suddenly released. “The sketch — you saw it. You knew what the flower looked like. Schelling had everything he needed, didn’t he?”