'Well, then, break clean, no hitting low, let's have a good fight and
good luck to both of you Sean grinned and the clean man went down the
passage. Sean packed his book into the briefcase, stood up and
followed him.
On the balcony of the coach he stopped and lit a cheroot, their he
leaned on the railings and looked out across the veld for his first
glimpse of Lion Kop. This had become a ritual whenever he returned to
Ladyburg.
This morning he was as happily content as he had ever been in his life.
Last night, after conferring with Ma and Pa Gold berg, Ruth had set the
wedding date for March next year. then Sean would have completed his
first cutting of bark, an, they would take a month to honeymoon in the
Cape Now, at last, I have everything a man could reasonably ask for, he
thought, and smiled and in that moment he saw the smoke. He
straightened up and flicked the cheroot away.
The train snaked up towards the rim of the escarpment, slowing as the
gradient changed beneath it. It reached the crest and the whole vista
of the Ladyburg valley opened below it. Sean saw the great irregular
blot upon his trees, with the thin grey streams of smoke drifting
wearily away across the hills.
He opened the balcony gate and jumped down from the train.
He hit and slid and rolled down the gravel embankment. The Skin was
scraped from his knees and the palms; of his hands.
Then he was on his feet, running.
Along the road where the fire had been stopped men waited.
sitting quietly or sprawled in exhausted sleep, all of them were coated
with ash and soot. Their eyes were smoke, inflamed and their bodies
ached with fatigue. But they waited while the black acres smouldered
and smoked sullenly, for if the wind came up again it would fan the
ashes to life.
Ken Broster lifted his head from his arm, then sat up quickly.
'Sean's here!' he said. The men around him stirred and then stood up
slowly. They watched Sean approaching, he came with the sloppy,
blundering legs of a man who has run five miles.
Sean stopped a little way off and his breathing wheezed and heaved in
his throat.
'How? How did it happen?'
'We don't know, Sean.' In sympathy Ken Broster dropped his eyes from
Sean's face. You do not stare at a man in anguish.
Sean leaned against one of the wagons. He could not bring himself to
look again at the vast expanse of smouldering desert with the skeletons
of the tree, trunks standing out of it like the twisted hand blackened
fingers of an arthritic hand.
'One of your men was killed,' Ken told him softly. 'One of your
Zulus.' He hesitated, then went on firmly. 'Others were hurt, badly
burned.'
Sean made no reply, he did not seem to understand the words.
'Your nephew and your boy, Dirkie. ' Still Sean stared at him dully.
'Mbejane also. ' This time Sean seemed to cringe away from him.
