frail.
'The others,' said Shadrach contemptuously, 'are the products of the unions of baboons and thieving Mashona cattle-rustlers. I have ordered them off our land.' Craig smiled at the possessive plural, but was impressed with the fact that when Shadrach ordered, men obeyed.
Shadrach assembled his recruits in front of the rudely refurbished cottage, and gave them a traditional giya, the blood-rousing speech and mime with which the old Matabele indunas primed their warriors on the eve of battle.
'You know me! he -shouted. 'You know that my great great-grandmother was the daughter of the old king, Lobengula, 'the one who drives like the wind'.'
'Eh he!' They began to enter into the spirit of the occasion.
'You know that I am a prince of the royal blood, and in a proper world I woutil night frilly be an induna of one thousand, with wido*-bird feathers in my hair and ox tails on my war shield.' He stabbed at the air with his fighting, sticks.
Th he! Watching their expressions, Craig saw the real respect in which they held the old man, and he was delighted with his choice.
'Now!' Shadrach chanted. 'Because of the wisdom and farsightedness of the young Nkosi here, I am indeed become an induna. I am the induna. of King's Lynn,' he pronounced it 'Kingi Lingi', 'and you are my aniadoda, my chosen warriors.' Th he! they agreed, and stamped their bare feet on the earth with a cannon-fire clap.
'Now, look upon this white man. You might think him young and un bearded but know you, that he is the grandson of Bawu and the great-grandson of Taka Taka.'
'Haul' gasped Shadrach's warriors, for those were names to conjure with. Bawu they had known in the flesh, Sir Ralph Ballantyne only as a legend: Taka Taka was the onomatopoeic name the Matabele had given Sir Ralph from the sound of the Maxim machine-gun which the old freebooter had wielded to such effect during the Matabele war and the rebellion.
They looked upon Craig with new eyes.
'Yes, Shadrach urged them, 'look at him. He is a warrior who carried terrible scars from the bush war. He killed hundreds of the cowardly, women-raping Mashona--2 Craig blinked at the poetic licence Shadrach had taken un to himself 'he even killed a few of the brave lionhearted Matabele ZIPRA fighters. So you know him now as a man not a boy.' Th he! They showed no rancour at Craig's purported bag of their brethren.
'Know also that he comes to turn you from goat-keeping women, sitting in the sun scratching your fleas, into proud cattle-men once more, for-' Shadrach paused for dramatic effect soon on this grass will graze cows so sleek and beautiful that to look upon them-' Craig noted that Shadrach could repeat his own words perfectly, displaying the remarkable memory of the illiterate. When he ended with a high stork-like leap in the air and a clatter of his fighting-sticks, they applauded him wildly, and then looked to Craig expectantly.
'One hell of an act to follow, Craig told himself as he stood before them. He spoke quietly, in low, musical Sindebele.
'The cattle will be here soon, and there is much work to be done before they arrive. You know about the wage that the government has decreed for farm-workers. That I will pay, and food rations for each of you and your families.' This was received without any great show of enthusiasm.
'And in addition,' Craig paused, 'for each year of service completed, you will be given a fine young cow and the right to graze her upon the grass of Kingi Lingi, the right also to put her to my great bum so that she might bear you beautiful calves-' Th he!' they shouted, and stamped with joy, and at last Craig held up both hands.
'There might be some amongst you who will be tempted to lift that which belongs to me, or who will find a shady tree under which to spend the day instead of stringing fencing-wire or herding the cattle.' He glared at them, so they quailed a little. 'Now this wise government forbids a man to kick another with his foot but, be warned, I can kick you without using 'my own foot.' He stooped and in one deft movement plucked off his leg, and stood before them with it in his hand. They gaped in amazement.
'See, this is not my own food' Their expressions began to turn sickly, as through they were in the presence of terrible witchcraft. Ikey began to shuffle nervously and look around for escape.
'So,' Craig shouted, 'without breaking the law, I can kick who I wish.' Making two swift hops, he used the momentum to swing the toe of the boot of his disembodied leg into the backside of the nearest warrior.
For a moment longer the stunned silence persisted, and then they were overwhelmed by their own sense of the ridiculous. They laughed until d -Leir cheeks were streaked with tears. They staggered in circles beating their own heads, they hugged each other, heaving and gasping with laughter. They surrounded the unfortunate whose backside had been the butt of Craig's joke, and abused him further, prodding him and shrieking with laughter. Shadrach, all princely dignity discarded, collapsed in the dust and wriggled helplessly as wave after wave of mirth overcame him.
Craig watched them fondly. Already they were his people, his special charges. Certainly, there would be rotters amongst them. He would have to weed them out.
Certainly, even the good ones would at times deliberately test his vigilance and his forbearance as was the African way, but in time also they would become a close-knit family and he knew that he would come to love them.
he fences were the first priority. They had fallen into a state of total disrepair: there were miles of barbed-wire missing, almost certainly stolen.
When Craig tried to replace it, he realized why. There was none for sale in Matabeleland. No import permits had been issued that quarter for barbed-wire.
'Welcome to the special joy of farming in black Zimbabwe,' the manager of the Farmers' Co-operative Society in Bulawayo told him. 'Somebody wangled an import permit for a million dollars' worth of candy and milk chocolate, but there was none for barbed-wire.'
'For God's sake.' Craig was desperate. 'I've got to have fencing. I can't run stock without it. When will you receive a consignment?'
'That rests with some little clerk in the Department of Commerce in Harare,' the manager shrugged, and Craig turned sadly back to the Land-Rover, when suddenly an idea came to him.
'May I use your telephone? 'he asked the manager.
He dialled the private number that Peter Fungabera had given him, and after he had identified himself, a secretary put him straight through.
'Peter, we've got a big problem.'
'How can I help you?' Craig told him, and Peter murmured to himself as he made notes. 'How much do you need?'
'At least twelve hundred bales.'
'Is there anything else?'
'Not at the moment oh yes, sorry to bother you, Peter, but I've been trying to find Sally-Anne. She doesn't answer the telephone or reply to telegrams.'
'Phone me back in ten minutes,' Peter Fungabera ordered, and when Craig did so, he told him, 'Sally-Anne is out of the country. Apparently she flew up to Kenya in the Cessna. She is at a place called Kitchwa Tembu on the Masai Mara.'
'Do you know when she will be back?'
'No, but as soon as she re-enters the country again I'll let you know.' Craig was impressed at the reach of Peter Fungabera's arm, that he could follow a person's movements even outside Zimbabwe. Obviously, Sally' Anne was on some list for special attention, and the thought struck him that he himself was probably on that very same list.
Of course, he knew why Sally-Anne was at Kitchwa Tembu. Two years previo&ly Craig had visited that marvelous safari camp on the Mara plains at the invitation of the owners, Geoff and Jone Kent. This was the season when the vast herds of buffalo around the camp would start dropping their calves and the battles between the protective cows and the lurking packs of predators intent on devouring the newborn calves provided one of the great spectacles of the African veld. Sally-Anne would be there with her Nikon.
On his way back to King's Lynn, he stopped at the post office and sent her a telegram through Abercrombie and Kent's office in Nairobi: 'Bring me back some tips for Zambezi Waters. Stop. Is the hunt still on. Query. Best Craig.' Three days later a convoy of trucks ground up the hills of King's Lynn and a platoon of Third Brigade troopers offloaded twelve hundred bales of barbed wire into the roofless tractor sheds.
'Is there an invoice to pay?' Craig asked the sergeant in charge of the detail. 'Or any papers to sign?'
'I do not know,' he answered. 'I know only I was ordered to bring these things and I have done so.' Craig watched the empty trucks roar away down the hill, and there was an indigestible lump in his stomach. He suspected that there would never be an invoice. He knew also that this was Africa, and he did not like to contemplate the consequences of alienating Peter Fungabera.
For five days he worked with his Matabele fencing gangs, bared to the waist, with heavy leather gloves protecting his hands; he flung his weight on the wire strainers and sang the work chants with his men but all that time the lump of conscience was heavy in his belly, and he could not suffer it longer.
There was still no telephone on the estate, so he drove into Bulawayo. He reached Peter at the Houses of Parliament.
'My dear Craig,
