We will go north. There is good farming land in Tanganyika and Nyasaland and Kenya. Many of our own Volk have already gone there. Of course, we will have to change our name, and we can never return here, but we will make a fine new life in a new land. Never come back? Manfred's expression changed. But what about Sarah? Lothar ignored the question. Perhaps we will buy a beautiful coffee shamba in Nyasaland or on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro. There are still great herds of wild game upon the plains of Serengeti, and we will hunt and farm., Manfred listened dutifully but his expression had dulled.
How could he say it? How could he tell his father: Pa! I don't want to go to a strange land. I want to stay here. ?
He lay awake long after the others were snoring and the camp-fire had burned down to a red smear of embers, and he thought about Sarah, remembering the pale pixie face smeared with tears and the hot thin little body under the blanket beside him: She is the only friend I've ever had. He was jerked back to reality by a strange and disturbing sound. It came from the plain below them but it seemed that distance could not take the fierce edge from the din.
His father coughed softly and sat up, letting his blanket fall to his waist. The awful sound came again, rising to an impossible crescendo and then dying away in a series of deep grunts, the death rattle of a strangling monster.
What is it, Pa? The hair at the back of Manfred's neck had risen and prickled as though to the touch of a nettle.
They say even the bravest of men is afraid the first time he hears that sound, his father told him softly. That is the hunting roar of a hungry Kalahari lion, my son. In the dawn when they climbed down the hillside and reached the plain, Lothar, who was leading, stopped abruptly and beckoned Manfred to his side.
You have heard his voice, now here is the track of his feet. He stooped and touched one of the pad marks, the size of a dinner plate, that was pressed deeply into the soft yellow earth.
An old maanhaar, a solitary, old, maned male. Lothar traced the outline of the spoor. Manfred would see him do that often in the months ahead, always touching the sign as though to draw out its secrets through his fingertips. See how his pads are worn smooth, and how he walks with his weight back towards his ankles. He favours his right fore, a cripple. He will find a meal hard to take, perhaps that is why he keeps close to the ranch. Cattle are easier to kill than wild game. Lothar reached out and plucked something from the lowest branch of thorns. Here, Manie, he placed a small tuft of coarse red-gold hair in Manfred's palm. There is a tress of his mane he left for you. Then he stood up and stepped over the spoor. He led them on down into the broad saucer of land, watered by a string of natural artesian springs, where the grass grew thick and green and high as their knees, and they passed the first herds of cattle, humpbacked and with dewlaps that almost brushed the earth, their coats shiny in the early sunlight.
The homestead of the ranch stood on the higher ground beyond the wells, in a plantation of exotic date palms imported from Egypt. It was an old colonial German fort, a legacy from the Herero war of 1904 when the whole territory had erupted in rebellion against the excesses of German colonization. Even the Bondel swarts and Namas had joined the Herero tribe and it had taken 20,000 white troops and an expenditure of Y,60 million to quell the rebellion. Added to the cost, in the final accounting, were the 2,500 German officers and men killed and the 70,000 men, women and children of the Herero people shot, burned and starved to death. This casualty list constituted almost precisely seventy percent of the entire tribe.
The homestead had originally been a frontier fort, built to hold off the Herero regiments. Its thick whitewashed outer walls were crenellated and even the central tower was furnished with battlements and a flagstaff upon which the German imperial eagle still defiantly flew.
The count saw them from afar, coming down the dusty road past the springs, and sent out a trap to bring them in.
He was of Lothar's mother's generation, but still tall and lean and straight. A white duelling scar puckered the corner of his mouth and his manners were old-fashioned and formal. He sent Swart Hendrick to quarters in the servants wing and then led Lothar and Manfred through to the cool dark central hall where the countess had black bottles of good German beer and jugs of homemade ginger beer already set out for them.
Their clothes were whisked away by the servants while they bathed, and were returned within an hour, laundered and ironed, their boots polished until they gleamed. For dinner there was a baron of tender beef from the estate, running with its own fragrant juices, and marvelous Rhine wines to wash it down. To Manfred's unqualified delight, this was followed by a dozen various tarts and puddings and trifles, while for Lothar the greater treat was the civilized discourse of his host and hostess. It was a deep pleasure to discuss books and music, and to listen to the precise and beautifully enunciated German of his hosts.
When Manfred could eat not another spoonful, and had to use both hands to cover his yawns, one of the Herero serving maids led him away to his room, and the count poured schnapps for Lothar and brought a box of Havanas for his approval while his wife fussed over the silver coffee pot.
When his cigar was drawing evenly the count told Lothar: I received the letter you sent me from Windhoek, and I was most distressed to hear of your misfortune. Times are very difficult for all of us. He polished his monocle upon his sleeve before screwing it back into his eye and focusing it upon Lothar again. Your sainted mother was a fine lady.
There is nothing that I would not do for her son. He paused and drew upon the Havana, smiled thinly at the flavour and then said, 'However Lothar's spirits dropped at that word, always the harbinger of denial and disappointment.
However, not two weeks before I received your letter the purchasing officer for the army remount department came out to the ranch and I sold him all our excess animals. I have retained only sufficient for our own needs. Though Lothar had seen at least forty fine horses in the herd grazing on the young pasture that grew around the ranch, he merely nodded in understanding.
Of course, I have a pair of excellent mules, big, strong beasts, that I could let you have at a nominal price, say fifty pounds. The pair? Lothar asked deferentially.
Each, said the count firmly. As to the other suggestion in you r letter, I make it a firm rule never to lend money to a friend. That way one avoids losing both friend and money. Lothar let that slide by, and instead returned to the count's earlier remarks. The army remount officer, he has been buying horses from all the estates in the district! I understand he has purchased almost a hundred. The count showed relief at Lothar's gentlemanly acceptance of his refusal. All excellent animals. He was interested only in the best, desert-hardened and salted against the horse- sickness. And he has shipped them south on the railway, I expect! Not yet, the count shook his head. or he had not done so when last I heard. He is holding them on the pool of the Swakop river on the far side of the town, resting them and letting them build up their strength for the rail journey. I heard that he plans to send them down the line when he has a hundred and fifty altogether. They left the fort the following morning after a gargantuan breakfast of sausage and prepared meats and eggs, all three of them riding up on the broad back of the grey mule for which
