War Cry. Wilbur Smith

all the power that lay coiled up in the muscles bunched beneath Kippy’s rich, dark, glossy coat.

      She slowed the pony, turned her ninety degrees to the right and set out along the line of three fences that now presented themselves to her. The first was a plain white gate and she made easy work of it. Saffron had long legs for her age, even if they were as thin as a stork’s, but she kept her stirrups short, all the better to rise out of the saddle as she jumped and drive her pony up and over the obstacle. Next came another single rail, although it was placed over bundles of flame-tree branches, still bedecked in their blazing red and yellow flowers: again it proved no match for Saffron and Kipipiri.

      I say, Courtney, that girl of yours is as light as a feather in the saddle,’ said one of the other spectators, a retired cavalry major called Brett, who also served as the local magistrate, as she tackled an oxer, comprised of two railed fences side-by-side. ‘Lovely touch on the reins, too. Good show.’

      ‘Thank you, Major,’ Leon said, as Saffron brought Kipipiri round again to tackle the next couple of fences strung diagonally across the ring: a wall and the water jump. ‘Mind you, I can’t claim any credit. Saffron’s absolutely her mother’s daughter when it comes to riding. You wouldn’t believe the hours that Eva’s spent with her in the schooling ring, both as stubborn as each other, fighting like two cats in a bag, but by God it pays off.’ Leon smiled affectionately at the thought of the two most precious people in his life then said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ as he switched his full attention back to the ring.

      For some reason, his daughter’s pony had a terrible habit of ‘dipping a toe in the water’, as Leon liked to put it. She would leap over the highest, widest, scariest fences, but it was the devil’s own job to persuade her that the water was an obstacle to be avoided, rather than a pool to be dived into.

      As Saffron steadied herself before the challenge in front of her, Leon took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse.

      I don’t know how Saffy feels jumping this course, he thought. But I’m absolutely shattered watching it.

      One fence at a time, one fence at a time,’ Saffron repeated to herself as she fixed her eyes on the wall. ‘Here we go, girl!’ she said and urged Kippy on across the parched turf. The wall was high. They got over it without knocking any of the painted wooden tea-chests from which it had been improvised, but the pony stumbled on landing and it took all Saffron’s skill to keep her upright, maintain their forward momentum and have her balanced and moving strongly again by the time they approached the water jump.

      Saffron was absolutely determined she wouldn’t make a mess of the water this time. She galloped at full pelt towards it, misjudged her pacing, had to take off miles away from the jump, but was going so fast that Kipipiri flew like a speeding dart over the rail, and the shallow pool of muddy brown water beyond. It was all Saffron could do to slow her down and turn her again – hard left this time – before they charged out of the ring.

      Saffron was out of breath, but inwardly exultant. No faults! Almost there!

      In front of her stood a low fence made of three striped poles on top of each other. The polo club’s gymkhana committee had decided to make this a particularly gentle challenge to the riders, for just beyond it stood the last and hardest jump: a vicious triple combination of a plain rail fence, another hay-bale and rail, and finally an oxer, each with just a single stride between them. Some competitors had scraped the first element of the triple, hit the second and simply crashed into the third, completely unable to manage another jump. None apart from Percy had managed to get through without at least one fence down.

      Saffron had to clear it. She summoned every shred of energy she still had in her and rode along the side of the ring nearest to the spectators, her mind replaying the pattern of steps she would need to enter the triple combination at the perfect point, going at just the right speed. She barely even thought of the poles as Kipipiri jumped over them.

      As the pony’s hind hooves passed over the jump, Saffron thought she heard a bump behind her. She glanced back and saw that the top pole had been rattled but it seemed to still be in place, so she thought no more of it. She barely even saw the people flashing by beside her, nor did she hear the faint gasp they emitted as she approached the first element. She met it perfectly, jumped the rail, kept Kippy balanced through her next stride, made it across the second rail, kicked on and then pulled so hard on the reins that she more or less picked up her pony and hauled her over the oxer.

      I did it! I did it! Saffron thought exultantly as she galloped towards the finishing line. She crossed it and slowed Kipipiri to a trot as they exited the ring. She saw her father running towards her, dodging in and out of the applauding spectators and gave him a great big wave. But he didn’t wave back.

      Saffron frowned. Why isn’t he smiling?

      And then she heard the loudspeaker and felt as though she had been kicked in the tummy by a horse’s hoof as the announcer called out, ‘Oh, I say! What awfully bad luck for plucky Saffron Courtney, hitting the last-but-one fence when she was so close to a clear round. My goodness, that pole took an age to fall off! So that means the winner’s rosette goes to Percy Toynton. Well played, young man!’

      Saffron hardly knew what was happening as her groom took hold of Kipipiri’s bridle. All she could think was, How could I knock down that silly, stupid, simple little pole? Her eyes had suddenly filled with tears and she could barely see her father Leon as he lifted her out of the saddle and hugged her to his chest, holding her tight before gently putting her down on the ground.

      She leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his legs as he stroked her hair. ‘I’m better than Percy, I know I am,’ Saffron sobbed. And then she looked up, her face as furious as it was miserable and wailed. ‘I lost, Daddy, I lost! I can’t believe it … I lost!’

      Leon had long since learned that there was no point trying to reason with Saffron at times like this. Her temper was as fierce as an African storm, but cleared as quickly and then the sun came out in her just as it did over the savannah, and it shone just as brightly too.

      She pulled herself away from him, tore her hat off her head and kicked it across the ground.

      Leon heard a disapproving, ‘Harrumph!’ behind him and turned to see Major Brett frowning at the display of juvenile female anger. ‘You should read that little madam some Kipling, Courtney.’

      ‘Because she’s behaving like a monkey from The Jungle Book?’ Leon asked.

      The major did not spot the presence of humour, or perhaps did not feel this was the time and place for frivolity. ‘Good God, man, of course not! I’m referring to that poem. You know, triumph and disaster, impostors, treat them both the same and so forth.’

      ‘Ah, but my daughter is a Courtney, and we’ve never been able to live up to such lofty ideals. Either we triumph, or it is a disaster.’

      ‘Well that’s not a very British way of seeing things, I must say.’

      Leon smiled. ‘In many ways we’re not very British. Besides, that poem you were quoting, “If”—’

      ‘Absolutely, that’s the one.’

      ‘As I recall, Kipling wrote it for his son, who died in the war, poor lad.’

      ‘Believe he did, yes, rotten show.’

      ‘And the point of the whole thing is summed up in the final line which is, if memory serves, “And – which is more – you’ll be a man, my son.”’

      ‘Quite so, damned good advice, too.’

      ‘Yes, to a boy it is. But Saffron is my daughter. She’s a little girl. And not even Rudyard Kipling is going to turn her into a man.’

      Darling Leon, how good of you to come,’ said Lady Idina Hay.

      ‘My pleasure,’ Leon replied. A select few members of the gymkhana crowd had been invited back to the Hays’ house, Slains, which was named after Josslyn Hay’s ancestral home, to have dinner