Under the Desert Sky (2 page)

“I know. There's a steamer that should be leaving for New Zealand in a few days.”

“Tell me, do you really care where you go?”

“I don't. New Zealand, Australia, India—it doesn't matter.”

“What about America?”

“America? I hadn't thought of that. I'm a British citizen, and I only considered the colonies.”

“It wouldn't have to be permanent, but I do have something that might interest you. What do you know about ostriches?”

“Ostriches? I know during the early part of the siege some men brought in some eggs that made a fine breakfast.”

“You won't be eating eggs, my boy. You'll be escorting two pair of ostriches to my old friend Yhomas Prinsen. He bought an ostrich farm in Phoenix, Arizona Territory, and he wants to introduce some new stock into his flock. He asked me to arrange getting them out of the country.”

“Why?”

“The exporting of ostrich feathers to the United States is a big business for the Cape Colony. Now Yhomas thinks he can take some of that business for himself. He's found the Salt River Valley in Arizona to be a perfect place to raise ostriches. The only problem he's encountered is that the colonial authorities only allow birds to be exported for exhibits in zoological gardens.”

Christian smiled. “And so you are facilitating getting an exhibit out of Cape Town. Is that right?”

Mrs. Van Koopmans nodded. “I just hadn't found someone I could trust to get them to Yhomas. Will you do it?”

“Shouldn't I know something about these birds?”

“Would you do it if July went with you?”

“July? Is he still working for you?”

“Of course. He's worked for me for twenty years. Why wouldn't he still be here?”

Phoebe Sloan took off her brown felt hat and wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve as she rested on her rake. It'd been a long time since the last rain, yet a cloud was gathering in the west. She looked over to see that Trinidad was still mowing the alfalfa, so she began waving her hat to get his attention.

“Don't you want me to finish the mowin', Miss Phoebe?” her hired man asked.

“No, I want you to help Cornello get what's cut into haycocks.”

“It's not dry yet. Shouldn't we leave it in the swath?”

“Yes, but if it rains, it's ruined. So stop and help Cornello.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Trinidad lifted the sickle bar and moved toward Cornello, who was at the other end of the field. Soon the two men, who were both in their sixties, were pitching the hay into mounds.

Phoebe had been out in the sun for most of the day. She'd made a pallet for Will in the shade of a mesquite tree, and the two of them had eaten lunch together before her son had fallen asleep. She walked over to see if he was awake.

There was Will, her beautiful four-year-old, resting innocently on the patchwork quilt. She smiled when she saw where he'd built a house out of sticks, and fences out of seed pods. All his carved ostriches were separated into pairs.

Phoebe shook her head, wondering how many children would find enjoyment by playing with carved ostriches. She looked toward the sky. The cloud was getting darker, but she was reluctant to wake the sleeping child. Instead, she walked to the other side of the tree and knelt down beside her husband's grave, where she began rearranging the rocks that outlined the site.

“I need to talk to you, Edwin.” She said the words conversationally as if her husband were sitting beside her. “I went to see Mr. Forbes this week to renegotiate the loan. He said he'd drop the interest rate to four percent if I could pay five percent by the end of the summer.” Her voice began to shake. “I don't know if I can do it. Buck tells me Mr. Prinsen wants to buy every ostrich in the valley, but if I sell our birds now, I won't have any way to make a living.”

“You're a fool, Phoebe.”

Phoebe jumped when she recognized her brother-in-law's voice. “Frank, what're you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you. Charles Forbes told me you'd been in to see him.”

“That's none of your business.”

“Oh, yes it is. That's my nephew over there, and I won't let you kill him like you did my brother.”

Phoebe took a deep breath, but didn't speak. They'd had this conversation before.

“You know what he did was because of you and your big ideas. What fool thinks there's money to be made in ostrich feathers?”

“Mr. Prinsen thinks there's money in it.”

“He grew up in South Africa—he knows something about ostriches, and there's one thing he has that you don't: money. Haven't you learned that it takes a lot of money to keep this place going?”

“Our first birds are mature now—all it takes to keep them is alfalfa.”

“That's a lie. You keep those two old men around. What do you pay them?”

Again Phoebe didn't answer.

“Whatever it is, it's too much. You should sell out and move into town.”

“I won't do that. Not as long as there's a breath in my body.” Phoebe gritted her teeth.

“It won't be long until you'll be lying right there beside Edwin. Have you looked at yourself lately? You look like a dried prune. Your hair is always a mess, your clothes are in tatters. What money you do have, you pour back into this worthless piece of sand.”

By now, tears were streaming down Phoebe's face.

“I've told you before, I'll take care of you.” Frank's voice softened. “You don't have to be here.”

“Yes, you have told me before, and you've told me what I have to do to earn it. But no matter how desperate I might get for money, I'll never warm your bed, Frank Sloan.”

Frank stepped up to Phoebe. He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Never say never, my dear Phoebe. You might find my bed much more to your liking than you ever found my brother's.”

Phoebe slapped Frank hard.

A sardonic smile crossed his face. “A spitfire—that's what I like about you. If only it had been me that came to your bed that night, Will would've been my son.”

Just then, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Phoebe left Frank standing by his brother's grave as she gathered Will in her arms and ran to the house.

Christian stood on the deck of the RMS
Campania
as tugs moved it into position at the Cunard pier. The ship had made the crossing in just six days, much faster than was the first leg of his voyage from Cape Town to Southampton.

He had no idea how difficult it'd be to take four ostriches out of South Africa. First of all, he had had to pay a $500-a-bird tariff just to get them out of the country; then the steamer, from New Zealand, had a flock of at least fifty sheep bound for England. The sheep upset the skittish birds, but the hardest part of the trip was traveling with July. Not even a first-class ticket would've enabled July to travel anywhere but in strictly segregated steerage.

Once they'd docked in New York, customs personnel came aboard to process the first-class passengers. This was little more than a cursory inspection, though when the inspector saw Christian's rifle, which had been a gift from Mrs. Van Koopmans, he commented. “I'm not sure I can let the rifle through.”

“It was cleared in Cape Town.”

“Cape Town? What is your nationality?”

“I have a British passport.” Christian held his passport out.

“You don't need that for entry into the US. Do you have paperwork on the rifle?”

“I do. Here are the authorization papers from both the American and British embassies.”

The official looked at the papers for a moment, nodded, then issued a letter of clearance.

At that moment, Christian saw July, along with several other passengers, being loaded onto a ferry. “Where are they going?”

“Ellis Island, but that's not for you, sir. You've been cleared. You may go wherever you want.”

“But that's my employee and I need to be with him.” Christian pointed to July. “We have live cargo that must be cared for.”

“Very well, sir, if you'll get in the line to the far right”—the officer handed Christian a pass—“you'll be on the next ferry.”

•  •  •

Stepping onto Ellis Island, Christian located the ostriches and arranged for them to be put in the required quarantine for incoming animals. Then he went in search of July and found him being interrogated by a self-important, overweight official.

“July? This isn't July, it's August, and I didn't ask you for the date. Now, let's try again. Tell me your name.”

“July.”

“No. I need your name.” The overbearing man was becoming more agitated.

“
Laat my dit hanteer,
” Christian said, speaking in Afrikaans, telling July to let him handle it. “I'll tell him you aren't that proficient in the language.”

“
Ja, meneer,
” July replied.

“What was all that?”

“This man works for me,” Christian said. “But he doesn't speak English all that well. If I may, I'll answer your question.”

Christian wasn't telling the truth; July had lived and worked in Cape Town for more than thirty years and he was conversational in English, Afrikaans, Malay, Hindi, and several Bantu dialects, as well as his own Zulu language. But Christian recognized that he might be better able to deal with this pompous ass than July.

“I require a full name,” the official said.

In all the years they'd known each other, Christian had never heard July called anything other than that. If Mrs. Van Koopmans had given Christian the surname De Wet, he thought he could just as easily give July a name.

“His name is Julius Van Koopmans.”

July smiled broadly.

“You say he works for you? In what capacity?”

“He's a certified keeper of rare birds, specifically ostriches. We're transporting two pair to Phoenix.

“You have the proper paperwork for this, I suppose?”

“Yes, these birds are going to the Arizona Ostrich Farm, in care of Mr. A. Y. Prinsen, and here is the paperwork showing we've paid the tariffs on each bird.”

“This says you paid two thousand dollars. How many birds did you say you're bringing?”

“Four.”

“Mister, they have to be mighty special birds to have a tariff like that; but no matter how special they are, they still have to stay in quarantine for seven days. Your man here might want to stay close to them if they're that valuable.”

“We appreciate that. Is there a bunk room where July—Julius can stay?”

“Sir, this is not a hotel. There's a bench down there where he can bed down if he wants, but that's about it. Oh, there's a place where he can get a bite to eat and a washroom nearby, but that's all I can offer.”

“Thank you.”

•  •  •

“If we're going to be stuck here for seven days, I think we should trade off every other night. That way it won't be too hard on either of us,” Christian said. “If you'll take the first night, I'll find us a hotel.”

July shook his head. “Do you see all these signs around here—
COLORED
drinking fountain,
COLORED
waiting room,
WHITES
ONLY
. What makes you think the hotel you find for you would work for me?”

Christian had no answer. Blacks had been emancipated in South Africa since the last apprentices were freed in 1840.

“I'll stay with the birds,” July said. “You wouldn't know what to do with them anyway.”

The first thing Christian noticed when he stepped down from the train in Phoenix was how hot it was. The oppressive heat seemed to bear down on him like a great weight. He looked around for July, as he'd not been able to ride in the same car. July was easy to find, not only because he was the only black person on the depot platform, but also because, at six feet nine inches, he was head and shoulders taller than anyone around him.

“July, over here,” Christian called.

With a broad smile, July picked his way through the crowd to join him. “What do we do now, Christian? Where do we take the birds?”

“I'll be honest with you, July, I don't have the slightest idea. My directions ended with—” Christian pointed. “I think that's where we start.”

The sign read
CHRISTIAN DE WET
. A tall, slender young man, dressed in Levi Strauss waist overalls and a short-sleeved denim shirt, held it. His high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat seemed to be part of a universal uniform for all males in this part of America. Christian and July walked toward him.

“I'm De Wet.” Christian extended his hand.

“I'm Andy Patterson. Mr. Prinsen sent me here to meet you and the birds.”

“We were wondering what we were going to do with our stock. This is my friend and partner, July—that is, Julius Van Koopmans.”

Andy looked at July, lifting his eyes as he took the measure of his size. “Damn if I don't think you're about the biggest man I've ever met. Whoowee, I sure don't ever plan to get on your bad side.”

“My bad side?” July asked, confused.

“I don't ever want to get you mad at me,” Andy explained.

Christian chuckled. “July's a good man, and it takes a lot to make him mad. But you're right, when he gets angry, you don't want to be on the opposite side of him.”

“I can tell you right now, we're going to be great friends.” Andy reached out to shake July's hand.

“I assume you have some sort of conveyance for the birds,” Christian said.

“Yes, sir, I sure do. Let's get them settled. It's not much of a ride out to the ranch. I expect you men are hungry. Mrs. Prinsen said we shouldn't tarry—she'll be holdin' supper for you. Besides, I'm one cowboy who's never late for a meal.”