He knew enough about him now to realize that although he might accuse and even reject his own son, he would not listen to nor tolerate those accusations from someone outside the family, particularly if those accusations were without substance or proof. Mark put the temptation aside and instead he explained quietly, My grandfather and I went there often when I was a child. I needed to go back, for the silence and the beauty, for the peace. Yes, The General understood immediately. What's the game like there now? Thin, Mark answered. It's been, shot out, trapped and hunted. It's thin and very wild. Buffalo? Yes, there are some in the swamps. I think they graze out into the bush in the night but I never saw them. In I goi old Selous wrote that the Cape buffalo was extinct. That was after the rinderpest plague. My God, Mark, when I was your age there were herds of ten and twenty thousand together, the plains along the Limpopo were black with them, and he began to reminisce again. It might have been boring, an old man's musty memories, but he told it so vividly that Mark was carried along, fascinated by the tales of a land where a man could ride With his wagons for six months without meeting another white man.
It was with a sick little slide of regret, of something irretrievably lost that he heard the General say, It's all gone now. The railway line is right through to the copperbelt in Northern Rhodesia. Rhodes Column has taken the land between the Zambesi and the Limpopo.
Where I camped and hunted, there are towns and mines, and they are ploughing up the old elephant grounds. He shook his head again. We thought it would never end, and now it's almost gone. He was silent and sad again for a while. My grandchildren may never see an elephant or hear the roar of a lion. My grandfather said that when Africa lost its game, he would go back and live in old London town. That's how I feel, Sean agreed. It's strange but perhaps Dirk has done something of great value for Africa and for mankind. The name seemed to choke in his throat, as though it was an effort to enunciate it, and Mark was silent, respecting that effort. He has made me think of all this as never before. One of the things that we are going to do during this session of Parliament, Mark, is to make sure that the sanctuary in the Bubezi Valley is ratified, and we are going to get funds to administer it properly, to make sure that nobody, ever, turns it into a sugar cane or cotton field, or floods it beneath the waters of a dam. As he spoke, Mark listened with a soaring sense of destiny and commitment. It was as though he had waited all his life to hear these words.
The General went on, working out what was needed in money and men, deciding where he would lobby for support, which others in the Cabinet could be relied on, the form which the legislation must take, and Mark made a note of each point as it came up, his pencil hurrying to keep pace with the General's random and eclectic thoughts.
Suddenly, in full intellectual flight, the General broke off and laughed aloud. It's true, you know, Mark. There is nobody so virtuous as a reformed whore. We were the great robber barons, Rhodes and Robertson, Bailey and Barnato, Duff Charleywood and Sean Courtney. We seized the land and then ripped the gold out of the earth, we hunted where we pleased, and burned the finest timber for our camp fires, every man with a rifle in his hand and shoes on his feet was a king, prepared to fight anybody, Boer, Briton or Zulu, for the right of plunder. He shook his head and groped in his pockets before he found his cigars. He laughed no longer, but frowned as he lit the cigar. The big stallion seemed to sense his mood, and he crabbed and bucked awkwardly. Sean rode him easily and quirted him lightly across the flank. Behave yourself! he growled, and then when he quieted Sean went on, The day that I met my first wife, only thirty-two years ago, I hunted with her father and her brother. We rode down a herd of elephant and between the three of us we shot and killed forty-three of them. We cut out the tusks and left the carcasses lying.
That's over one hundred and sixty tons of flesh. Again he shook his head, Only now am I coming to realize the enormity of what we did. There were other things, during the Zulu wars, during the war with Kruger, during Bombata's rebellion in 19o6. Things I don't even like to remember. And now perhaps it's too late to make amends. Perhaps also it's just the way of growing old that a man regrets the passing of the old ways He initiates change when he is young and then mourns that change when he grows old. Mark was silent, not daring to say a word that might break the mood. He knew that what he was hearing was so important that he could then only guess at the depths of it. We must try, Mark, we must try. Yes, sir. We will, Mark agreed, and something in his tone made the General glance across at him, mildly surprised. This really means something to you. He nodded, confirming his statement. Yes, I can see that. Strange, a young fellow like you! When I was your age all I ever thought about was a quick sovereign and a likely piece of - He caught himself before he finished, and coughed to clear his throat. Well, sir, you must remember that I had my full share of destruction at an earlier age than you did. The greatest destruction the world has ever known. The General's face darkened as he remembered what they had shared together in France. When you've seen how easy it is to tear down, it makes the preservation seem worth while. Mark chuckled ruefully. Perhaps I was born too late. No, said the General softly. I think you were born just in time, and he might have gone on, but high and clear on the heat-hushed air came the musical cry of a girl's voice, and instantly the General's head went up and his expression lightened.
Storm Courtney came at the gallop. She rode with the same light lithe grace which marked all she did. She rode astride, and she wore knee-high boots with baggy gaucho pants tucked into the tops, a hand-embroidered waistcoat in vivid colours over a shirt of white satin with wide sleeves, and a black wide-brimmed vaquero hat hung on her back from a thong around her throat.
She reined in beside her father, laughing and flushed, tossing the hair out of her face, and leaning out of the saddle to kiss him, not even glancing at Mark, and he touched his reins and dropped back tactfully.
We've been looking for you all over, Pater, she cried. We went as far as the river, what made you come this way? Coming up more sedately behind Storm on a bay mare was the blonde girl whom Markremembered from that fateful day at the tennis courts. She was more conventionally dressed than Storm in dove-grey riding breeches and tailored jacket, and the wind ruffled the pale silken gold of her cropped hair.
While she made her greetings to the General, her eyes kept swivelling in Mark's direction and he searched for her name and remembered she had been called Irene, and realized she must be the girl who had been Storm's companion on the grand continental tour. A pretty, bright little thing with a gay brittle style and calculating eyes. Good afternoon, Miss Leuchars. Oh la! She smiled archly at him now. Have we met? Somehow her mare was kneed away from the leading pair, and dropped back beside Mark's mount. Briefly, yes, we have, Mark admitted, and suddenly the china-blue eyes flew wide and the girl covered her mouth with a gloved hand. You are the one - then she squealed softly with delight, and mimicked him, Just as soon as you say please!
Storm Courtney had not looked round, and she was paying exaggerated attention to her father, but Mark watched her small perfect ears turn pink, and she tossed her head again, but this time with an aggressive, angry motion.
I think we might forget that, Mark murmured. Forget it? chirruped Irene. I'll never forget it. It was absolutely classic. She leaned over and placed a bold hand on Mark's forearm. At that moment Storm could contain herself no longer; she swivelled in the saddle and was about to speak to Irene, when she saw the hand on Mark's arm.
For a moment Storm's expression was ferocious, and the dark blue eyes snapped with electric sparkle. Irene held her gaze undaunted, making her own paler blue eyes wide and artless, and deliberately, challengingly, she let her hand linger, squeezing lightly on Mark's sleeve.
The understanding between the two girls was instantaneous. They had played the game before, but this time intuitively Irene realized that she had never been in a stronger position to inflict punishment. She had never seen such a swift and utterly malevolent reaction from Storm and they knew each other intimately. This time she had Missy Storm in a vice, and she was going to squeeze and squeeze.
