War Cry. Wilbur Smith

the faint outline of an elephant’s footprint on a patch of rock-hard earth where you or I would see nothing but dirt and stones, and identify the precise animal to which the print belongs. If the Masai soldiers I once had the privilege to command came across the trail of an invading war-party from another tribe they would at once know the number of men in the party, the length of time since they had passed and the destination to which they were heading. And if you doubt the capacity of the African brain, de Lancey, answer me this: how many languages do you speak?’

      ‘I’ve always found the King’s English perfectly adequate, thank you, Courtney.’

      ‘Then you are two behind a great many Africans, who speak three languages as a matter of course: their tribal tongue; the lingua franca spoken by everyone in the nation of which their tribe is part; and the language of their colonial masters. So the particular Masai who calls me M’Bogo grew up speaking Masai. As a young man he joined the King’s African Rifles where the ranks spoke Kiswahili, which he swiftly mastered. In recent years he has become fluent in English. These men are not niggers or coons, as you like to call them. They are a proud, noble, warrior race who have grazed their cattle on these lands since time immemorial, and in their own environment they are every bit our match and more.’

      ‘Well said,’ said a small man, with a bald pate and a scattering of silver hair, peering across the table through a pair of steel-framed spectacles.

      ‘Well, I still say that there is a reason why we are their masters and they our servants,’ de Lancey insisted. ‘They’re just a bunch of bone-idle savages and we are their superiors in both mind and body.’

      Having dismissed the option of beating de Lancey to a pulp, Leon had been wondering how he could teach him the lesson he so richly deserved, and now a stroke of inspiration came to him. ‘Would you like to put that proposition to the test?’ he asked.

      ‘Ooh …’ purred Amelia. ‘This is going to be fun!’

      ‘How so?’ de Lancey asked, and for the first time a note of caution entered his voice as it occurred to him he might just have blundered into a trap.

      Leon thought for a moment, working out a way to draw de Lancey in, while still ensuring his ultimate humiliation. ‘I will bet that one Masai from my Lusima estate can outrun any three white men you put up against him.’

      ‘In a race, do you mean?’

      ‘In a manner of speaking. What I have in mind is this …’ Leon leaned forward onto the table so that everyone could see and hear him clearly. He wanted this to be public. ‘One week from today, we will all meet up again at the polo field. String a rope around all four sides of one of the fields. The competitors will run around the field, outside that rope. D’you follow?’

      ‘Yes, I believe so,’ said de Lancey. ‘They all run round the field and if a white man wins the race I win the wager, and if your darkie wins, you do?’

      Leon smiled. ‘Actually, that would be too easy for the Masai. They would be insulted by the very idea and say that one of their young boys, or even a woman, could win.’

      ‘Listen here, old man, you sound like you hate your own race.’

      ‘I wouldn’t say that. I just think that you’re either a good man or you’re not and skin colour’s got nothing whatever to do with it. The most appalling bully and bounder I ever met was a white man.’ Leon paused for a moment and looked around the table at the disapproving faces. Then he added, ‘Mind you, he was a German.’

      The frowns turned to smiles and laughs at that and someone called out, ‘I say, what happened to this horrible Hun?’

      ‘His chest got in the way of a bullet from a .470 Nitro Express hunting rifle.’

      ‘Was that what passed for your war service?’ asked de Lancey acidly. ‘Better than nothing I suppose.’

      The man in the steel-rimmed glasses cleared his throat. There was a philosophical, almost sad look in his eyes and a wry cast to his mouth, as if he were all too aware of the imperfections of man and the shortness of his life. Yet at once the table fell silent. This was the Right Honourable Hugh Cholmondeley, Third Baron Delamere and the unquestioned leader of Kenya’s white population. He had been among the first British settlers in British East Africa, owned two huge estates and was famed for the fortune he had spent trying to establish cattle, sheep and grain farming on his farmland, while preserving the wildlife in the vast areas of country that he left untouched. There was a cane resting on the back of his chair, for he walked with a limp, the result of being mauled by a lion. Yet there was real strength behind those faraway eyes.

      ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, let’s not have any unpleasantness,’ Delamere said. ‘I can testify to the fact that Courtney here served alongside me throughout the war, chasing that infuriating German rascal von Lettow back and forth across East Africa. It may also interest you to know that Mrs Courtney assisted us as an aircraft navigator and pilot and was, at my particular request, awarded the Military Medal for her courage under fire. The Courtneys did their bit, you have my word on it.’

      Leon gave a little nod of gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘Think nothing of it, dear boy. Now, pray finish telling us about your wager. As you know, I rather share your opinion of the Masai.’

      That, too, was something known to all the British in Kenya. Delamere even built his homes with the same mud and thatch that the Masai used for their huts. ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘I maintain that our European civilization as a whole is more advanced than the native African. Still, the individual Masai is a fine man and I might even put a guinea or two into the pot, once I know what I’m betting on. Courtney?’

      ‘Very well then,’ Leon began. The argument about the war had been entirely forgotten and there was a palpable air of growing excitement as he spoke. ‘I propose that the three white men run in a relay against the solitary Masai. One of them will start alongside him, the starter will fire his pistol and they will both set off around the field. The white man keeps running until he either gives up, or the Masai laps him.’

      ‘Is that really likely to happen, Courtney?’ Josslyn Hay asked. ‘A polo field must be twice the size of a football pitch. It’s a long way round.’

      ‘Possibly not,’ Leon replied. ‘I just don’t want anyone to get away with walking. This has to be a race that is run.’

      ‘Fair point. But I take it your rules apply the other way around, as well. That is to say, you lose the wager if the Masai stops first or is lapped.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘I see, so then what?’

      ‘Then the second man takes the first one’s place, under the same conditions, then the third. My wager is very simple. I will bet you five thousand pounds de Lancey, that when the last of the three white men either stops or is lapped, the Masai will still be running.’

      The blood drained from de Lancey’s face as all eyes were fixed on him. ‘I say Courtney, five thousand’s a bit steep,’ he objected. ‘Rather beyond my means, what?’

      ‘All right,’ said Leon. He took a thoughtful sip of his claret, trying to suppress a huge grin as inspiration struck him. ‘I suppose you don’t want me taking the shirt off your back, eh?’

      ‘I’d rather you didn’t, old boy.’

      ‘But that’s exactly what I’d like to take. Here’s my wager. If I lose I won’t give you five thousand pounds. I’ll give you ten.’

      There was a gasp around the table. Idina Hay smiled to herself. Ten thousand pounds, given to her by her mother, had bought her car, Slains and the dresses she took such pride in receiving direct from the couturier Molyneux.

      ‘And if you lose, de Lancey,’ Leon went on, ‘you will indeed give me the shirt off your back, and every other stitch of clothing that you are wearing, and you won’t get them back until you’ve completed a lap of the polo field.’