Warrior

Pampata smiled: yes, she had concealed the egg.

He returned her smile as he drew his sabre. Her eyes were for the first time bright, and her mouth at ease. Her teeth, he marked, would have been the envy of many a lady of fashion.

He took the egg and gave the shell a sharp crack with the blade, edging as before around half its full circumference, allowing her then to pull it open in two perfectly equal parts. She drained off the white, just as she had with the others, and then pinched the yolk, dividing it between the two half-shells.

Thus they breakfasted: hazree basar, not chota, for although it was the first of the day, half a dozen hen's eggs were no small affair.

'Tea would complete our feast,' he said, before the thought reminded him painfully of Johnson, and he had to fight down the lump in his throat.

Pampata rose and held a hand to shade her eyes as she scoured the veld. Hervey knew better than to ask: he had seen how she picked the mark upon which they would march, and then examined the ground in between to choose her line of advance (there were as yet no prominent hills). She did so, indeed, with the skill of the dragoon- scout, and so far with entire success. He asked her on what she had fixed, and she pointed to a line of trees on the far, north-west, horizon. How tall they were, he could not tell, but he could not suppose them great – perhaps palm. Whatever their height, he did not reckon them closer than a couple of leagues: the mark would see them through the next two hours at least.

But after only half an hour Pampata made a sudden diversion to a stony outcrop by what was evidently a dry waterhole. Hervey thought he knew why: an abundance of dark-green leaves, and brilliant red shrubs clustered with fruit the size of grapes.

A flock of small but equally colourful birds quit their gorging as they approached, and rabbits bolted to their burrows. He felt sorry, almost, for having disturbed them.

But Pampata waved him from his interest in the fruit, making a sign that could not be mistaken for anything but 'poison', and instead took herself to the outcrop, where she crouched and then beckoned him over. 'See, inconi.'

He could see nothing, nothing but the rock itself. How was that to heal his wound?

She pointed.

The white marks – streaks, patches – he had merely thought to be the colour of the rocks. Pampata shook her head. She began to explain, but he understood nothing. She pointed to the burrows, and made a motion with her fingers to suggest rapid movement – the rabbits running, perhaps – but still he could not see what she meant. Then she pointed between his legs and arched her hand towards the ground with a 'psss' sound, which ended with a girlish giggle as Hervey grasped her meaning.

So the white marks were rabbit urine; but he was none the wiser.

Pampata picked a broad, flat leaf from one of the shrubs, motioned to his sabre and made a scraping gesture at the white patches.

Hervey drew his sword to oblige. Pampata was not content until they had collected two teaspoons' worth.

He then removed his arm from the tunic sleeve for a third time, and sat on a rock to await the application of the white magic. He had no second thoughts about her medicine, for he had learned an age ago, in India, how effective native cures could be (and, besides, some of what he had seen 'respectable' practitioners in England do smacked of so much quackery). The aloe had eased the pain to begin with, and although the ncwadi had brought no relief, the wound hurt no more now than before, which in his experience was unusual. What manner of cure, then, would the inconi work? Horse urine was an ammoniac, he knew; was the rock rabbit's?

Pampata wiped the wound clean of the ncwadi pulp. Blood began again to ooze, though not so freely as before. She let it fill the claw marks, dabbed at them with the torn sleeve of Hervey's shirt, then pressed the linen on the wound with the flat of her hand, and with increasing force until she was satisfied that the oozing would not defeat her purpose.

For a full five minutes Hervey endured such a pain as brought the most prodigious sweat to his brow.

She removed the linen, threw back her head and poured the white powder into her mouth, which she had filled with saliva.

Before he could ask her purpose – he now saw it was wholly impractical – she took his shoulders firmly in her hands, put her mouth to the wound, and squirted the milky astringent into the torn flesh.

Hervey was at once filled with admiration, and more – which he could not rightly determine. When she was finished, a new poultice of ncwadi applied and his arm eased carefully back into its sleeve, he turned to thank her. 'Ngibonga kakhulu, Nkosazana.'

She made a face, as if to say it was nothing.

But Hervey would not have it. He took her wrists to express his earnest. 'Ngibonga kakhulu.'

She gave a half smile of content, though of sadness too, unlike the earlier exchange, and rose. 'We have many miles to make today, mfowethu.'

He nodded. This was mere diversion; it gained them nothing in their true mission. But he could not let it pass without a proper expression of his esteem. He did what he had not done in many a year: he pulled a button from his tunic – not one of the black ones, but the silver dragoon button which he wore on the inside of his tunic-fall – he buffed it bright on the leg of his overalls, and presented it to her. 'Ngibonga kakhulu . . . dadewethu.'

He had called her 'my sister', as she had called him 'my brother'.

Pampata took the token reverently.

XX

A SOLITARY DUTYEarlier