A King`s Trade

and look away in dread as he chugged down his beer and waved for another.

'Roight, so I woz of a mind, not much o' one, d'ye see,' Wigmore croaked, 'alius on th' lookout fer talent, so…' He shrugged with a weak and sickly defeated grin plastered on his sweaty face.

'What happened to Groome? What happened with Rodney?' Lewrie demanded. His voice was level, his tone almost mild, but there was a steel to it, and Wigmore knew he was a long way from being out of the woods.

'Now, alia that were van der Merwe's doin', 'at feeble digit!' Wigmore exclaimed, all but wringing his hands. 'Lord, Cap'm Lewrie, ye don't know wot a trial we been through, worse'n th' wand'rin's o' th' h'Israelites h'in th' Wilderness… worse'n me namesake, Daniel, h'in th' Lion's Den, oh yes! 'Twoz Biblical, 'ow we suffered h'out there, I tell ye gennulmen… Biblical!'

'Do tell,' Lewrie dubiously said. 'No, really… tell.'

Wigmore's litany of woe was long and plaintive. First, one of his shave-pated strongmen who posed as a Hindoo jetti had been bitten by a boomslang and died within minutes. The second night out, their kraal hadn't been properly ringed with enough thornbush, and had been invaded by a pack of warthogs, which had spooked the horses, requiring a whole day to round them up again… minus the one that got pulled into a stream by crocodiles, less one that a pack of lions had eaten!

Then, there were the termite mounds and man-tall ant hills that van der Merwe had led them to, praising the unique oddity of aardvarks and aardwolves, which they captured… though not without being swarmed by an army of biting ants after they'd used too large a keg of gunpowder to spread the 'treats' as bait for the aardvarks and aardwolves, and everyone had dashed off to the nearest waterhole to bathe them off, shedding clothing as they went, not noticing the half-dozen crocodiles lurking in said waterhole, first, who ran them back onto dry ground… rather a long way, and that change of clothing was lost to hyenas.

Under van der Merwe's knacky guidance again, they had ringed a tree in which a pair of spotted panthers were sleeping, banging on pots and ox-bells, yelling to daunt the cats as they brought up stout nets. Unfortunately, the panthers hadn't felt much like joining the circus, and had leaped down at the worst possible moment and ganged up on the circle of beaters, who just had to shoot their way wide of disaster, but had ended up shooting mostly at each other, the tree, and anything inside their circle… excepting the panthers, of course, and they'd lost a Black bearer, which, considering the firepower at hand, and the level of terror and chaos, could have been a lot worse. It resulted in Panthers: 1, Nimrods: 0, though they did manage to take another pair of panther cubs they got up another tree, later.

Then, when van der Merwe had suggested that hyenas just might be able to be tamed, one night, the dawn had revealed that three more of their native helpers had decamped, and they, thankfully, gave up on that idea.

Groome, well… van der Merwe told them that Cape buffalo were immensely strong beasts, never got rinderpest like domestic cattle and oxen, so vital to the Boers, did, and wouldn't they be a novelty when trotted into the ring towing circus waggons, once broken to the goad, and the yoke! And, what a boon to Boer mobility!

They had stalked a herd of them, thinking to corral a few with another ring of noisy beaters, and fleet horsemen with rope nooses to capture the ones they wished. The queston had turned out to be who was herding whom, though. The herd had milled tight together, flowed round as one for a bit, then whirled into formation and charged, with Wigmore likening it to an evolution of a brigade of British dragoons or lancers, perfectly bristling with hundreds of horns, not sabres or lance-tips! That pretty-much put paid to the circle idea, and everyone had run or galloped for their lives. Groome had run to a flimsy flame tree and scaled it, but hadn't lasted two minutes once the Cape buffs had circled below him and butted the damned thing down.

More natives had realised they'd been hired on by a nit-wit, by then, and, uttering the Bantu equivalent of 'Bugger this for a game of soldiers!,' had melted away into the bush.

Wigmore's second false jetti had followed van der Merwe's sage lore that zebras calm down just sweet as anything if one pulled a jute sack over their heads, and somewhere in the braying stampede, jetti #2 had gotten kicked in the head, then trampled to death.

They'd captured Durschenko's trio of lion cubs with yet another encirclement of beaters, but had had to shoot the male and three females to part them from the cubs. That's where Rodney had been mauled, when the adults in the pride had bowled through jittery gunners and beaters.

'We found h'elephinks,' Wigmore sorrowfully related. 'Sorta 'ard not to, wot wif s'bloody many of 'em bellerin' an' trumpetin' so mad, when we camped by th' water'ole they warnted h'at. H'at's where we lost pore ol' h' Antonio.'

'The mime,' Lewrie commented, now nibbling on cold lobster with his fingers, their dinner re-directed to Wigmore's table.

'An' a good'un 'e were, too, Cap'm Lewrie, an' din't th' lit'l chil'ren love 'im,' Wigmore wistfully replied, piping at his eyes with his handkerchief. 'Ne'er 'ad th' voice t'be a good h'actor, d'ye see, but that man knew 'is way wif a pig bladder or a dummy chicken like 'e was born t' th' craft. An' I allus knew me camels an' such woz in good 'ands…'less h'Antonio were in drink, or feelin' h'amourous.'

'He… with livestock, d'ye mean t'say?' Burgess gasped. 'Well, now an' h'agin, but 'e ne'er meant nought by h'it,' Dan Wigmore said with a mournful sigh. 'Butt h'ugly'z h'Antonio woz, not a woman h'in th' world woulda…'

'Male, or female?' Burgess asked, lips quivering rather oddly. 'Oh, females h'only, sir!' Wigmore primly declared, tugging at his waistcoat as if insulted. ' 'Twoz nought queer 'bout h'Antonio!'

Burgess shot to his feet as if outraged beyond all countenance, and crossed quickly to the veranda railing facing the street. Wigmore fretted with his coat lapels, shrinking into it as if embarrassed… 'til Burgess Chiswick erupted in 'laughter, great heaves of laughter that sounded something very much like

'Bwooharharhar!' along with the odd snort, cackle, and wheeze.

'Well, h'it 'appen, Cap'm Lewrie,' Wigmore explained. 'Now, I'm 'at sorry we lost one o' yer sailor boys, an' 'at lit'l Rodney feller like t'got et by 'at mama lion, but 'e'll most-like 'eal up an' serve ye good'z h'ever, oncet…'

'But that isn't the point, is it, Mister Wigmore?' Lewrie said with a wintry crackle to his voice. 'You had your way, how many more of my hands would you have lured away? By God, sir! I should string you to a hatch-grating and have you flogged 'til your backbone is exposed! A fubsy such as you, the 'cat' would pare your flesh like it'd cut fresh, soft cheese! Mine arse on a band-box, I should!'

Wigmore paled, blinking rapidly in dread; unable to look Lewrie in the eye, he turned to heed Burgess Chiswick, who was rattling that veranda railing with his laughs. Wigmore tried to smile it away.

'Nivver do h'it h'agin, sir, swear h'it!' Wigmore tumbled out. 'Point taken, Cap'm Lewrie. Make h'it up t'ye, h'if I could. Biood-money! I could pay… I'm told yer fond o' playful, furry critters, sir. 'Ow 'bout a mongoose! 'Ey's Hell on rats, an' cute as anythin'!'

To which offer, Lewrie could not help but hide a grin, try to maintain fierceness, but said, his own lips quivering with amusement, 'No thankee… have one!' He stood, suddenly, scaring the man. 'Oh, drink yer damned beer, Wigmore. But, do you come sniffing round any of my sailors, again, I'll come after you myself with a cat-o'-nine-tails!' he warned.

Leaving the man in a speechless, hang-jawed sweat, Lewrie went to join Burgess Chiswick at the railings, about ready to cackle, too.

'Nothin' queer 'bout Antonio, my Lord!' Burgess was still weakly wheezing to himself. 'Oh, Alan, did ye ever hear the like?'

'Oh, probably,' Lewrie muttered, still fuming. 'One gets about. Who knows… worse things happen at sea. Burgess, my apologies, but I must cut things short. Things t'see to aboard ship, you understand.'