Shadows & Lies (18 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: Shadows & Lies
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It soon became apparent, however, that such thoughts were not possible in the company of Hugh Osborne. One would have been a chilly mortal indeed not to have been warmed by his obviously good intentions. He was amiable and willing to talk, and by the time we'd covered not many more miles, we were very well informed about each other.
When he learned that the purpose of my journey to Mafeking was to visit Lyddie and her husband, he looked decidedly pleased. Yes, of course he knew Lyall Armitage, who had worked as a Scout for his unit many times …not much he didn't know about the territory north of the Limpopo. Best of fellows. And Mrs Lyall is safe in Mafeking? Good. Not the best spot for women over the border at the moment. Still fighting all over the place and no organised opposition as yet in position. However, it seemed General Carrington's chief staff officer was expected any day from England to lead a campaign against the rebels. That was the purpose of the troops on this train, who were being sent on ahead of his arrival.
I sat opposite him and watched the sunlight through the train window on his smooth hair, bleached fair as the grasses of the veld outside, and decided I liked very much what I saw of this tall, well-brushed young officer. Despite what I'd said to Mrs Winstanley, my experience of military men had been extremely limited, based on one particular soldier, a friend of George Crowther's whom I'd particularly detested. Captain Osborne could scarcely have been more different. Born in South Africa, he'd been sent away to school in England, where he seemed to have acquired all the upright attributes necessary for his chosen
career: the determination to live an honourable and courageous life — prepared, if need be, to face death in the service of his country. He much admired Cecil Rhodes' declared intention to extend the British Empire in Africa. I didn't feel disposed to argue with him over this; he would, I felt, always be utterly loyal, once he had given his heart and mind to anything, to any cause. I didn't see then, or even later, how deeply conventional, even rigid, this streak in him was.
Naturally, I didn't form all these opinions during our journey, but over the course of the next few months, by which time we were quite at ease with each other, although, right from the first, it was evident to me at least that we were destined to become friends.
His father had come out to South Africa as a British mining engineer before succumbing to diamond-fever, buying up as many claims as he could and becoming rich in the process. He had died fairly recently, and left his mining interests to his children. The others were anxious to continue working in the business, but Hugh had no such ambitions. “Oh Lord, no. Not with two brothers already in it — and a sister. Very managing sort, Amelia. I don't somehow see myself as an office boy.” The reason, in fact, that he'd obtained leave to go down to Kimberley had been to sign overall control of the management of the business to his siblings. He'd always been the restless sort, he added with his self-deprecating smile, cursed with a streak of adventure hitherto undetected in a family more inclined to the tendency of making money.
I guessed this was a tongue-in-cheek way of saying that it wasn' t in his nature to be idle, that he craved action. He had joined a fighting force because he believed in British justice, even if – or perhaps especially – upholding it meant a good scrap now and then. “The fighting over the border has actually been very sharp lately. The Kaffirs' god – witch-doctor, high-priest, whatever you like to call him – has been stirring them up and they've decided they don't care for being ruled by foreigners after all.”
“Fancy.” I was taken back to the discussions in the schoolroom at home, when Rouncey had often pointed out that simply marching in and raising the flag of sovereignty did not obligate
the natives to accept it, “Didn't we just move in and declare their land henceforth belonged to Britain?”
“Not at all! There were agreements, after all.” I seemed to have unwittingly touched a nerve. “Trouble is, don't you see, the natives can't quite see it like that. They've been accustomed all their lives to raiding and killing and stealing their neighbour's land and cattle, and having theirs stolen. They think they can go to war with us and get their land back just as if we were another tribe who'd wrested it from them.”
“How very unsporting of them!”
To give him his due, he laughed. “Miss Jackson, it's hardly a question of that. British policy, you know, is always to preserve the tribal system – and what the Kaffirs don't realise is what being under our influence can do for them. If you saw the conditions in which they live, you'd see how much they need the benefits civilisation can bring.”
My father had once brought home as a guest a missionary who had worked in Africa. He, too, had spoken of improving the lot of the heathen by the civilising influence of the British, especially in the matter of making them Christians. My father had been doubtful about this justification for imposing on the ‘heathen' a religion they perhaps did not want or need. I supposed that the truth, as it usually does, lay somewhere between the two.
“I'm afraid there's going to be more bloodshed before it's over. But at the moment, it looks as though we have the rebels nicely pincered between the columns we already have up there. Rhodes thinks the neck of the rebellion is broken.”
“And what do you think, Captain Osborne?”
“Oh, I'm just a soldier, doing what I'm told.” He smiled. “But you, Miss Jackson, I see you have a certain propensity for argument.”
“Debate.” I smiled back, but thought perhaps it was time the conversation was steered in another direction. “Tell me about these black people. They sound very fierce.”
“The Matabele? I should say so! They're originally Zulus, you know, quite formidable warriors.” He laughed. “Which they've every need to be. If they return home after a failed attack, their
womenfolk have an unfortunate tradition of breaking their necks.”
“My goodness. Aren't you afraid of them?”
“Pretty damn scared, actually, begging your pardon. Anyone who said he wasn't would be a fool or a liar. It's a sight to put the fear of God in anyone, to see one of those coming at you, I can tell you. Barefoot, wearing nothing but a leopard skin and feathers and a big shield, armed to the teeth with spears and all that.” He broke off suddenly. “I say, I'm frightening you, and that's unforgivable —”
“You wouldn't say that if you knew what a family of boys I've grown up with.”
“You, Miss Jackson? Do tell me about it.”
And so, in my turn, I sketched the details of my own life, and though dull indeed in comparison with his, we went on from there. Whatever else, at that time we were never, Hugh Osborne and I, short of things to say to each other.
 
On the last morning of the train journey, Mafeking appeared suddenly out of the blue. At first sight, it seemed that Mrs Winstanley's gloomy predictions might prove to be correct. This couldn't possibly be my destination, could it? This insignificant huddle on a baking plain in the middle of nowhere? A little, tin-roofed town set saucer-like in the midst of the great undulating veld, its rusty-red roofs and low, mud-brick buildings predominantly echoing the colours of the earth: the reddish sandy soil, the boulders, the dust, and the bare ochre rocks? But yes, there was the sign, boldly painted on a board on the platform: MAFEKING.
Surrounding the station were corrugated iron railway sheds and workshops, freight wagons and a great locomotive in the sidings, piles of track and sleepers stacked in preparation for when the next leg of the line was laid. Not a very prepossessing sight.
I felt dirty and gritty-eyed but, tired as I was, I stepped off the train with a smile in my heart, overjoyed at the prospect of reunion with Lyddie, and was quite disconcerted to find no one there to greet me. I stood amid the sea of khaki uniforms as the troopers poured out of the train and on to the platform, feeling very forlorn, craning my neck and hoping but failing to see
Lyddie, with her cheerful smile and her arms wide, ready to throw around me. Perhaps it had been too much to expect her to stand about waiting for trains when she was expecting a child in less than four months.
I tried to collect my wits and began to thread my way through the milling crowd of men, ducking only just in time to avoid being hit in the face by a kitbag which a large trooper was shouldering. Unaware of what he'd done, it was only when he heard my involuntary exclamation that he spun round. “Oh heck, sorry, miss! Didn't see you standing there, like. You all right, love?”
The soldier, a big strapping lad of no more than eighteen or nineteen, was looking down at me with concern. I heard the broad accents of the West Riding, of home. The men on the train were the mounted infantry of the West Riding, York and Lancaster Regiments, and I felt suddenly overcome with a feeling of homesickness, something I hadn't experienced since leaving Bridge End. It must have been because I was very travel-weary that the familiar tones nearly brought tears to my eyes.
“Yes, I thought someone would be here to meet me …”
“Long way from home, aren't you, then?” He smiled, pushing his hat to the back of his head and mopping his brow. My own accent was obviously as recognisable as his.
“This is going to be my home for some time.” I blinked and hoped my dismay at the prospect wasn't too apparent.
“Oh? Well, mine an' all, till they send us up-country, but I've seen worse places.” A whistle indicated that the commanding officer was endeavouring to bring some semblance of military order to the milling troops before marching them off to their quarters. “Best of luck, lass!” A cheerful grin and a smart salute, and he was gone.
And all at once, there was Lyall, a little unfamiliar in his khaki bush jacket and a wide, slouch-brimmed hat. Browner than ever, his teeth very white under his bushy moustache. I noticed immediately that he looked tired, with a crease of worry between his brows, and older, but the warmth of his welcome almost made up for Lyddie's absence. He apologised for not being there to help me from the train – he'd come on his bicycle and hadn't been
able to find anywhere to leave it, since army transport, waiting to unload supplies from the train, had blocked the station entrance. “Come, we must get you settled in, Hannah dear. Lyddie's simply longing to see you.”
Hardly had he spoken but we were hailed by Captain Osborne, threading his way along the platform between the marshalled troops. The two men smiled and shook hands, and on learning from me how kindly I'd been taken care of, Lyall thanked the captain warmly.
“Always a pleasure to assist a charming lady.”
We spoke a little more before Hugh Osborne took his farewell and departed to report back to his headquarters. “May I come and visit you some time, Miss Jackson?”
“Of course. That is —?” I gave Lyall an enquiring glance.
“Our home is yours now, Hannah. You'd be very welcome, Osborne.”
Lyall watched him go with a smile. “I see you've already made a conquest. Capital fellow!” He hesitated. “Shall we walk? The house isn't far – not above a couple of hundred yards, and it'll give you an opportunity to see something of the town, and to stretch your legs.”
“Lyall, how is Lyddie?”
He didn't answer immediately, looking around for a native boy who could take my luggage and his bicycle to the house, nor did he afterwards, when he had found one. I felt the first small stab of unease.
The morning was still cool and fresh, the air sharp and clear, and the small town was busy and purposeful, conducting its business before the sun reached its zenith. As we left the station and walked through the market square, we passed white women carrying homely shopping baskets, and black women gracefully walking with bundles balanced on their heads. Native children, mother-naked except for a small leather apron, ran about or played in the dust. A pack of thin and unnervingly silent yellow dogs followed us at a distance. There were bicycles everywhere. I breathed in wood smoke and metallic dust and the sweet, heavy perfume from some unidentified plant in a garden we passed, a combination that was to become so familiar to me: the smell of
Africa. And everywhere, overpoweringly at times, was the sharp reek of horse.
“There's the native town – their stadt.” Lyall pointed to a large but scattered accumulation of thatched, round huts standing at some distance from the town proper, each with an outer wall encircling it, where smoke rose into the air from cooking fires. Beyond it, a streak of silver at the bottom of a slope showed the river, the Malopo, in its deep creek. “The location's actually much bigger than the white town – in fact, about six thousand natives live there, mainly Barolong and a few others, to our sixteen hundred or so.”
“So all the natives are not hostile?” I asked, mindful of that conversation in the train about the fearsome Matabele warriors.
He smiled. “We live amicably.” Apparently the Barolong, who counted their wealth in cattle and raised crops to support themselves, were a people who had been settled on the banks of the Malopo long before the white settlers arrived, and were peaceful enough, though they could fight when they had to. “And look,” he added, scarcely pausing for breath, “here's the new Catholic church, just erected, and St John's, where we worship.” Mudbrick again. We continued on our way, puffs of red dust rising at every step, with Lyall pointing out such sophistications as Riesle's, the best hotel in town which, despite such an accolade, appeared dismayingly primitive, as did the clothing store and the fishmonger's, and the haberdashery shop.

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