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Authors: Wilbur Smith

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BOOK: Shout at the Devil
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F
lynn O'Flynn was a busy man during the period of Sebastian's convalescence. His band of followers had been seriously depleted during the recent exchange with Herman Fleischer. on the Rufiji, so to replace his losses, he press-ganged all the maschille-bearers who had carried them home from Luti's village. These he put through a preliminary course of training and at the end of four days selected a dozen of the most promising, to become gun-boys. The remainder he despatched homeward despite their protests; they would dearly have loved to stay for the glamour and reward that they were certain would be heaped upon their more fortunate fellows.
Thereafter the chosen few were entered upon the second part of their training. Securely locked in one of the rondavels behind the bungalow, Flynn kept the tools of his trade. It was an impressive arsenal.
Rack upon rack of cheap Martini Henry .450 rifles, a score of W. D. Lee-Metfords that had survived the Anglo-Boer war, a lesser number of German Mausers salvaged from his encounters with Askari across the Rovuma, and a very few of the expensive hand-made doubles by Gibbs and Messrs Greener of London. Not a single weapon had a serial number on it. Above these, neatly stacked on the wooden shelves, were bulk packages of cartridges, wrapped and soldered in lead foil – enough of them to fight a small battle.
The room reeked with the slick, mineral smell of gun oil.
Flynn issued his recruits with Mausers, and set about instructing them in the art of handling a rifle. Again he weeded out those who showed no aptitude and he was left finally with eight men who could hit an elephant at fifty paces. This group passed into the third and last period of training.
Many years previously, Mohammed had been recruited into the German Askari. He had even won a medal during the Salito rebellion of 1904, and from there had risen to the rank of sergeant and overseer of the officers' mess. During a visit by the army auditor to Mbeya, where Mohammed was at that time stationed, there had been discovered a stock discrepancy of some twenty dozen bottles of schnapps, and a hole in the mess funds amounting to a little over a thousand Reichsmarks. This was a hanging matter, and Mohammed had resigned without ceremony from the Imperial Army and reached the Portuguese border by a series of forced marches. In Portuguese territory he had met Flynn, and solicited and received employment from him. However, he was still an authority on German army drill procedure and retained a command of the language.
The recruits were handed over to him, for it was part of Flynn's plans that they be able to masquerade as a squad of German Askari. For days thereafter the camp at Lalapanzi reverberated to Mohammed's Teutonic cries, as he goose-stepped about the lawns at the head of his band of nearly naked troopers, with his fez set squarely on the grey wool of his head.
This left Flynn free to make further preparations. Seated on the stoep of the bungalow, he pored sweatily over his correspondence for many days. First there was a letter to:
His Excellency, The Governor,
German Administration of East Africa,
Dar Es Salaam.
 
Sir,
I enclose my account for damages, as follows, herewith:
1 Dhow (Market value)
£1,500.—.—.
10 Rifles
£200.—.—.
Various stores and provisions etcetera (too numerous to list)
£100.—.—.
Injury, suffering and hardships (estimated)
£200.—.—.
TOTAL
£2,000.—.—.
This claim arises from the sinking of the above-said dhow off the mouth of the Rufiji, 10th July, 1912, which was an act of piracy by your gunboat, the
Blücher
.
I would appreciate payment in gold, on or before 25th September, 1912, otherwise I will take the necessary steps to collect same personally.
Yours sincerely,
Flynn Patrick O'Flynn, Esq.,
(Citizen of The United States of America).
After much heavy thought, Flynn had decided not to include a claim for the ivory as he was not too certain of its legality. Best not to mention it.
He had considered signing himself ‘United States Ambassador to Africa', but had discarded the idea on the grounds that Governor Schee knew damned well that he was no such thing. However, there was no harm in reminding him of Flynn's nationality – it might make the old rogue
hesitate before hanging Flynn out of hand if ever he got his hooks into him.
Satisfied that the only response to his demands would be a significant increase in Governor Schee's blood pressure, Flynn proceeded with his preparations to make good his threat of collecting the debt
personally
.
Flynn used this word lightly – he had long ago selected a representative debt collector in the form of Sebastian Oldsmith. It now remained to have him suitably outfitted for the occasion, and, armed with a tape-measure from Rosa's work-basket, Flynn visited Sebastian's sick bed. These days, visiting Sebastian was much like trying to arrange an interview with the Pope. Sebastian was securely under the maternal protection of Rosa O'Flynn.
Flynn knocked discreetly on the door of the guest bedroom, paused for a count of five, and entered.
‘What do you want?' Rosa greeted him affectionately. She was sitting on the foot of Sebastian's bed.
‘Hello, hello,' said Flynn, and then again lamely, ‘Hello.'
‘I suppose you're looking for a drinking companion,' accused Rosa.
‘Good Lord, no!' Flynn was genuinely horrified by the accusation. What with Rosa's depredations his stock of gin was running perilously low, and he had no intention of sharing it with anyone. ‘I just called in to see how he was doing.' Flynn transferred his attention to Sebastian. ‘How you feeling, old Bassie boy?'
‘Much better, thank you.' In fact, Sebastian was looking very chirpy indeed. Freshly shaved, dressed in one of Flynn's best night-shirts, he lay like a Roman emperor on dean sheets. On the low table beside his bed stood a vase of frangipani blooms, and there were other floral tributes standing about the room – all of them cut and carefully arranged by Rosa. O'Flynn.
He was steadily putting on weight again as Rosa and Nanny stuffed food into him and colour was starting to drive the yellowish fever stains from his skin. Flynn felt a prickle of irritation at the way Sebastian was being pampered like a stud stallion, while Flynn himself was barely tolerated in his own home.
The metaphor which had come naturally into Flynn's mind now sparked a further train of thought, and a sharper prickle of irritation.
Stud stallion!
Flynn looked at Rosa with attention, and noticed that the dress she wore was the white one with gauzy sleeves, that had belonged to her mother – a garment that Rosa usually kept securely locked away, a garment she had worn perhaps twice before in her life. Furthermore, her feet, which were usually bare about the house, were now neatly clad in store-bought patent leather, and, by Jesus, she was wearing a sprig of bougainvillaea tucked into the shiny black slick of her hair. The tip of her long braid, which was usually tied carelessly with a thong of leather, flaunted a silk ribbon.
Now, Flynn O'Flynn was not a sentimental man but suddenly he recognized in his daughter a strange new glow, and a demure air that had never been there before, and within himself he became aware of an unusual sensation, so unfamiliar that he did not recognize it as paternal jealousy. He did, however, recognize that the sooner he sent Sebastian on his way, the safer it would be.
‘Well, that's fine, Bassie,' he boomed genially. ‘That's just fine. Now, I'm sending bearers down to Beira to pick up supplies, and I just thought they might as well get some clothes for you while they were there.'
‘Well, thank you very much, Flynn.' Sebastian was touched by the kindness of his friend.
‘Might as well do it properly.' Flynn produced his tape-measure with a flourish. ‘We'll send your measurements
down to old Parbhoo and he can tailor-make some stuff for you.'
‘I say, that is jolly decent of you.'
And completely out of character, thought Rosa. O'Flynn as she watched her father carefully noting the length of Sebastian's legs and arms, and the girth of his neck, chest and waist.
‘The boots and the hat will be a problem,' Flynn mused aloud when he had finished. ‘But I'll find something.'
‘And what do you mean by that, Flynn O'Flynn?' Rosa demanded suspiciously.
‘Nothing, just nothing at all.' Hurriedly Flynn gathered his notes and his tape, and fled from further interrogation.
Some time later, Mohammed and the bearers returned from the shopping expedition to Beira, and he and Flynn immediately closeted themselves in secret conclave in the arsenal.
‘Did you get it?' demanded Flynn eagerly.
‘Five boxes of gin I left in the cave behind the waterfall at the top of the valley,' whispered Mohammed, and Flynn sighed with relief. ‘But one bottle I brought with me.' Mohammed produced it from under his tunic. Flynn took it from him and drew the cork with his teeth, before spilling a little into the enamel mug that was standing ready.
‘And the other purchases?'
‘It was difficult – especially the hat.'
‘But did you get it?' Flynn demanded.
‘It was a direct intervention of Allah.' Mohammed refused to be hurried. ‘In the harbour was a German ship, stopped at Beira on its way north to Dar es Salaam. On the boat were three German officers. I saw them walking upon the deck.' Mohammed paused and cleared his throat portentously. ‘That night a man who is my friend rowed me out to the ship, and I visited the cabin of one of the soldiers.'
‘Where is it?' Flynn. could not hold his patience. Mohammed stood up, went to the door of the rondavel and called to one of the bearers. He returned and set a bundle on the table in front of Flynn. Grinning proudly, he waited while Flynn unwrapped the bundle.
‘Good God Almighty,' breathed Flynn.
‘Is it not beautiful?'
‘Call Manali. Tell him to come here immediately.'
Ten minutes later Sebastian, whom Rosa had at last reluctantly placed on the list of walking wounded, entered the rondavel, to be greeted effusively by Flynn. ‘Sit down, Bassie boy. I've got a present for you.'
Reluctantly, Sebastian obeyed, eyeing the covered object on the table. Flynn stood over it and whisked away the cloth. Then, with the same ceremony as the Archbishop of Canterbury placing the crown, he lifted the helmet above Sebastian's head and lowered it reverently.
On the summit a golden eagle cocked its wings on the point of flight and opened its beak in a silent squawk of menace, the black enamel of the helmet shone with a polished gloss, and the golden chain drooped heavily under Sebastian's chin.
It was indeed a thing of beauty. A thing of such presence that it completely overwhelmed Sebastian, enveloping his head to the bridge of his nose so that his eyes were just visible below the jutting brim.
‘A few sizes too large,' Flynn conceded. ‘But we can stuff some cloth into the crown to keep it up.' He backed away a few paces and cocked his head on one side as he examined the effect. ‘Bassie boy, you'll slay them.'
‘What's this for?' Sebastian asked in concern from under the steel helmet.
‘You'll see. Just hold on a shake.' Flynn turned to Mohammed who was cooing with admiration in the doorway. ‘The clothes?' he asked, and Mohammed beckoned
imperiously to the bearers to bring in the boxes they had carried all the way from Beira.
Parbhoo, the Indian tailor, had obviously laboured with dedication and enthusiasm. The task set him by Flynn had touched the soul of the creative artist in him.
Ten minutes later, Sebastian stood self-consciously in the centre of the rondavel while Flynn and Mohammed circled him slowly, exclaiming with delight and self-congratulation.
Below the massive helmet, which was now propped high with a wad of cloth between steel and scalp, Sebastian was dressed in the sky-blue tunic and riding breeches. The cuffs of the jacket were ringed with yellow silk – a stripe of the same material ran down the outside of the breeches – and the high collar was covered with embroidered metal thread. Complete with spurs, the tall black boots pinched his toes so painfully that Sebastian stood pigeon-toed and blushed with bewilderment. ‘I say, Flynn,' he pleaded, ‘what's all this about?'
‘Bassie boy.' Flynn laid a hand fondly on his shoulder. ‘You're going to go in there and collect hut tax for …' he almost said me, but altered it quickly to ‘ … us.'
‘What is hut tax?'
‘Hut tax is the annual sum of five shillings, paid by the headmen to the German Governor for each hut in his village.' Flynn led Sebastian to the chair and seated him as gently as though he were pregnant. He lifted a hand to still Sebastian's further enquiries and protests. ‘Yes, I know you don't understand. But I'll explain it to you carefully. Just keep your mouth shut and listen.' He sat down opposite Sebastian and leaned forward earnestly. ‘Now! The Germans owe us for the dhow and that, like we agreed – right?'
BOOK: Shout at the Devil
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