the lukewarm muddy water, snorting and gasping and laughing wildly as they scooped it into their mouths.
Manfred helped his father to dismount at the edge, and then ran to scoop a hatful and bring it to Lothar where he had collapsed into a sitting position, supporting himself on his own knees.
Lothar drank greedily, choking and coughing as the water went down the wrong way. His face was flushed and swollen, his eyes fever-bright and the poison in his blood burning him up.
Swart Hendrick waded to the side, his boots squelching and water pouring from his sodden clothing, still grinning until a thought struck him and he stopped. The grin was gone from his thick black lips and he glared about him.
Nobody here, he grunted. Buffalo and Legs, where are they? He broke into a run, spraying water at each pace as he headed for the primitive hut that stood in the shade of the nearest umbrella acacia.
It was empty and derelict. The charcoal of the camp-fire was scattered widely; the freshest signs were days, no, weeks old. He raged through the forest, and at last came back to Lothar. Between them Klein Boy and Manfred had helped Lothar into the shade and he lay back against the trunk of the acacia.
They've deserted. Lothar anticipated Hendrick's report.
I should have known. Ten horses, worth fifty pounds each.
It was too much temptation. The rest and the water seemed to have strengthened him; he was lucid again.
They must have run away within days of us leaving them. Hendrick sank down beside him. Surely they have taken the horses and sold them to the Portuguese, then gone home to their wives! Promise me that when you see them again you will kill them slowly, Hendrick, very slowly. I dream of how I will do it, Hendrick whispered. First I will make them eat their own manhoods, I will cut them off with a blunt knife and will feed them to them in small pieces. They were both silent, staring at the small group of their four horses which stood at the pool's edge. Their bellies were distended with water but their heads were hanging pathetically, noses almost touching the baked clay.
Seventy miles to the river, seventy miles at least. Lothar broke the silence, and he began to unwrap the filthy rags that covered his arm.
The swelling was grotesque. His hand was the size and shape of a ripe melon. The fingers stuck stiffly out of the blue ball of flesh. The swelling carried up the forearm to the elbow, trebling the girth of his lower limb, and the skin had burst open and clear lymph leaked out of the tears. The bite wounds were deep, slimy, yellow pits, the edges flared open like the petals of a flower, and the smell of infection was sweet and thick as oil in Lothar's own nostrils and throat, disgusting him.
Above the elbow the swelling was not So intense, but there were livid scarlet lines beneath the skin running right up to Lothar's shoulder. He reached up and gently explored the swollen glands in his armpit. They were hard as musket balls buried in his flesh.
Gangrene, he told himself, and he realized now that the carbolic acid solution with which he had originally cleansed the bite wounds had aggravated the condition. Too strong he muttered. Too strong solution. It had destroyed the capillary vessels around the wound, preparing the way for the gangrene that had followed. The hand should come off. He faced the fact at last, and for a moment he even considered attempting the operation himself. He imagined starting at the elbow joint and cutting I can't do it, he decided. I can't even think of it. I have to go on as far as the gangrene will let me, for Manie's sake. He looked up at the boy.
I need bandages. He tried to make his voice firm and reassuring, but it came out as a raven's croak, and the boy started and tore his eyes from the ravaged limb.
Lothar dusted the suppurating wounds with carbolic crystals, all that he had, and bound them up with strips of blanket. They had used up all their extra clothing for bandages.
How far is she behind us, Henny? he asked, as he knotted the bandage.
We have won time, Hendrick guessed. They must be saving their horses. But look at ours. of the animals had lain down at the edge of the water, One the sign of capitulation.
Five or six hours behind us. And it was seventy miles to the river, with no guarantee that the pursuers would honour the border and not pursue them across. Lothar did not have to voice those doubts; they were all too aware of them.
Manfred, he whispered. Bring the diamonds. The boy placed the canvas haversack beside Lothar and he unpacked it carefully.
There were twenty-eight of the small brown cartridge paper packages with their red wax seals. Lothar separated them into four piles, seven packages in each.
Equal shares, he said. We cannot value each package, so we will cut them four ways and give the youngest first pick. He looked across at Hendrick. Agreed? Swart Hendrick understood that the sharing of the booty was at last an admission that not all of them were going to reach the river. Hendrick lowered his eyes from Lothar's face. He and this golden-haired, white-skinned devil had been together since the far-off time of their youth. He had never considered what held them together. He felt a deep, unwavering antagonism and distrust towards all white men except this one. They had dared so much, seen so much, shared so much. He did not think of it as love or as friendship. Yet the thought of the parting which lay just ahead filled him with a devastating despair, as though a little death awaited him.
Agreed, he said, in that deep resonant tone, like the chime of a bass bell, and he looked up at the white boy. The man and the boy were one unit in Hendrick's mind. What he felt for the father was also for the son.
Choose, Manie, he ordered.
don't know. Manfred put both hands behind his back, reluctant to touch one of the piles.
Do it, snapped his father, and obediently he reached out and touched the nearest pile.
Pick them up, Lothar ordered, and then looked at the black youth.
Choose, Klein Boy. There were two piles left, and Lothar grinned through cracked lips. How old are you, Henny? As old as the burned mountain, as young as the first flower of spring, the Ovambo said, and they both laughed.
