Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction Page 5

  we manage to run across him?”

  26

  Colonel Anderson laughed. “Don’t worry son, we have

  plenty of guns. A group of heavily armed civilians would look

  like a posse and attract the wrong sort of attention, so our arms

  are hidden.”

  He had a good point there. Potts lifted one side of his coat

  to reveal a shoulder holster that held a light, snub-nosed

  Webley revolver with a bird’s head butt.

  “You however, for the sake of appearances, will carry a

  hunting rifle for sport with passing game.”

  At that, Floyd brought a horse he was leading forwards.

  “This one’s yours. He’s a Boer pony, the best kind you can

  have. He’s not the fastest or the most elegant, but as far as

  stamina goes ’e can run rings around anything else.”

  I already knew the truth of that for we had pursued and lost

  many a Boer commando who had sprinted away after our

  horses had played out. This horse was an inelegant,

  unremarkable, nondescript grey and didn’t look at all like a

  horse a gentleman would like to ride. It was compact, but

  heavily muscled. I walked around it, noticing the standard

  civilian saddle and a scabbard with a rifle butt protruding from

  it.

  Grabbing the butt, I drew it out – it was a Lee Metford with

  flush magazine, checkered half grip stock and turned-down

  bolt handle. It had an engraved dust cover, good finish, a rib

  and sporting leaf sights, a horn fore end tip and the words

  Churchill: London & Cape Town appeared on the butt plate. It

  was quite something and I’d love to be able to take it home. It

  certainly wasn’t a Rigby or a Gibbs, but it was a decent look-a-

  like that wouldn’t have cost half that of a Rigby; a point, I’m

  sure, that would have been a deciding factor in its purchase by

  the Bureau.

  “You’ll need to hide that military ammo,” added the

  Colonel, staring at my bandolier. “You’ll find some soft-nosed

  cartridges in your packs yonder.” He pointed to the packhorse

  behind. “We don’t want anything military to give away the

  game.”

  Slowly I nodded; it seemed they had contrived to think of

  everything.

  27

  That night we camped by the water tower. Obviously we

  had water and it was a warm, overcast night, so camping out

  would be quite comfortable. The horses were relieved of their

  burdens, after which they were tethered under the tower where

  water dripping from above had produced a green crop of grass.

  The opened packs yielded a pair of safari tents and collapsing

  camp chairs, as well as a set of fire irons and a camp pot for

  making coffee.

  “This is pretty salubrious,” said I, swigging coffee from a

  porcelain cup with elegant patterns on it. Usually only officers

  had this sort of kit.

  It was part of a picnic set in a woven cane basket. In

  addition to six porcelain cups and saucers there were six

  porcelain dinner plates, an equal number of sandwich plates

  and the required number of bone-handled knives and forks to

  boot.

  “All part of our cover. Business men aren’t renowned for

  doing it hard.”

  “So what’s the plan of attack? How do we catch a

  saboteur?”

  The Colonel adjusted his oversized hat and moved his pipe

  around his mouth, while Potts unfolded a map that came from

  an inside coat pocket. Then he took up on the details,

  indicating places of interest using his own pipe as a pointer.

  “We think he’s hiding here, near the Stormberg ranges. No

  doubt there will be plenty of republican sympathizers in the

  region to keep him supplied with intelligence and food. It

  would also be a perfect place to play havoc with railways

  because the branch line from Sterkstroom to Indwe runs right

  along there, see, parallel to it. Then there’s the railway to the

  south to prey upon and moving north we have Molteno,

  Stormberg Junction and its branches: Burgersdorp, Albert

  Junction and another branch over here that forks off to Aliwel,

  all of which are only three or four days ride apart from each

  other.”

  At this point Potts left off to fish about in his pockets,

  while the Colonel took things up.

  “Therefore, should the Army arrive and things go belly-up

  he only has to keep moving north until he’s over the border

  28

  into Orange Free State, during which there’ll be nothing to

  prevent him from continuing to wreak havoc as he goes.” Then

  he made a stab with a forefinger at the map. “From here, we’ll

  be on our way to Stormburg Junction where a special train

  awaits our arrival, but on the way we’ll swing by Jamestown

  first so we can check the telegraph and the local police for

  news.”

  It was midday two days after when Jamestown appeared as

  a distant smudge on the far horizon. Later it became a very

  English-looking town of twenty-eight hundred souls, with

  solid red brick and stonework civic buildings, complete with

  all the necessary amenities such as an Opera House that

  doubled as the Town Hall and a typically English Courthouse.

  It also had nicely laid out streets, pretty churches and the

  surrounding countryside looked good too, with greener grass

  than other places and even stock resting under trees. It was a

  region that had the quiet, understated air of orderliness and

  infrastructure that was borne of prosperity about it.

  On the way there we had camped at night and I had a

  chance to learn more about my new companions. As Floyd and

  I were about the same age we sort of drifted together.

  “Is Anderson a real Colonel?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. He’s a Bureau man though; I hear he had

  been a Colonel in the Canadian Mounties before he

  volunteered to come here.”

  “A Mountie, huh?”

  “Yeah, an’ a good one according to gossip. They say he can

  speak French as well as two Indian languages and they reckon

  he always gets his man. The story goes that he trailed a

  fugitive for over eight hundred miles through snow ‘n ice

  before he nabbed him and brought him in.”

  “Whew. How does Potts fit into this?”

  “He’s also a Bureau man. They say he is a chief of Police

  with a distinguished law enforcing record. He’s essentially part

  of our group because he was born at the Cape and knows the

  law and local policing methods.”

  Silence reigned, as I chewed on that. It was apparent I had

  fallen in with some very distinguished company.

  “How did you get roped into it?”

  29

  “I come from the military. I came over with the West

  Australian Imperial Horse until the Bureau heard that I was

  good at tracking, so now I work with ’em on an ‘as per need’

  basis.” That, too, was interesting and got me thinking.

  “So, what are you doing here?”

  “They seem to think I’m the only geezer who has ever had

  a good look a
t this crook and is still alive.”

  “I can see how that could be handy, although the next time

  you see ’im you may not be so lucky.”

  We laughed, nervously in my case, and lapsed into silence.

  That was a bit close to the heart for comfort.

  “You must be a pretty good tracker if the Bureau has

  insisted on retaining your services.”

  “Yeah. I grew up on an outback station an’ was the only

  white kid. Down the road were the Abbos who worked the

  station, an’ I’d play with their kids. I was the only half-naked

  white kid who hunted with spears and they taught me to track

  an’ read sign. Never thought I’d need those skills when I

  signed to come over here though.”

  We entered the main street of Jamestown, where loafers

  and layabouts watched with lackadaisical interest as we rode

  slowly by. Every town had them. They usually hung around

  hotels and bars, but sometimes it could be stables, pool halls or

  tobacconists where they gravitated to loaf and watch. The road

  was unusually wide for a two-street town, for it was mainly

  only one-street towns that needed streets wide enough so

  wagons could be turned.

  We found what appeared to be the town centre, where we

  pulled up opposite a hotel with a red tiled roof and stone

  facade. Around us was a square of sorts and in the middle of

  the road was a large communal cast-iron pump with an equally

  large wooden trough for the watering of horses. We

  dismounted in front of the trough and while Floyd pumped the

  oversized handle the horses were able to drink, then we walked

  them across the road to the hotel and tied our reins to the rail

  provided. Above us, I noticed a sign that proclaimed the

  quintessential English title of ‘Queen Vic,’ before mounting the

  front veranda and going inside.

  30

  The interior was dark after the glare outdoors and it took

  some time for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. By the time they

  had, the Colonel had ordered two beers for Floyd and me, plus

  a whisky each for Potts and himself. Then we sat near an open

  window, where we had a good view of the road.

  Outside, there wasn’t much in the way of mid-afternoon

  activity. Three black drivers plodded slowly past with a load of

  bricks on an ox wagon, while only a few pedestrians appeared

  to defy the late afternoon sun. Indoors at the Queen Vic we

  were the only customers, so after we downed what dregs we

  had left we rose from our chairs to head for the telegraph

  office, only a short distance along the road.

  We sauntered into an oblong room with a heavy panelled

  counter across one end, behind which was a wall covered with

  pigeonholes, the bulk of which were vacant. The Colonel

  enquired of the thin and nervous clerk if there were any

  telegrams from the British South Africa Cattle Co for Walter

  Anderson and on being told that there wasn’t, we sauntered

  out.

  Next, we called upon the headquarters of the local

  constabulary. At the request of the Colonel, we were ushered

  into the Chief Constable’s office where Potts produced an

  official-looking document from an inside pocket of his jacket

  and, unfolding it, handed it to our host. The document

  contained the official seal of the Cape Colony Police and urged

  ‘all uniformed members of the Cape Colony Police thereof, to

  give the bearers of this document their undivided attention and

  co-operation… and it was signed with a flourishing hand by

  ‘the right honourable, Oliver D. Stephenson, ’ Minister of Cape

  Police.

  After introductions were made, Potts produced a copy of

  the drawing of Eric von Smidt and enquired of the constable if

  he had seen anyone of late that resembled the individual in the

  picture. After studying it for a minute, he said he hadn’t and

  another constable at the front desk was called upon and asked

  the same question, with exactly the same result; whereupon we

  ambled back to the hotel for another beer and booked

  ourselves in.

  31

  Potts and the Colonel took care of the details while Floyd

  and I unloaded the horses of our carpetbags and the cases

  containing our firearms, after which a pair of attendants carried

  them upstairs to deposit them in one of our rooms. When we

  had finished, we untied each horse and walked them through

  an archway that led beneath the upper floor of the hotel to a

  courtyard and stables out the back.

  The horses were then relieved of the last of their burdens

  and re-watered, while the attendant in charge organised some

  feed. Then our saddles, pack saddles, camping gear and

  anything not required while we were in town was locked in an

  adjacent locker and the key transferred to my safari jacket

  pocket. After that, it was upstairs for a meeting in the Colonel’s

  room, the largest and airiest of the four, being on the end of the

  building and having a window down one side as well as across

  the front.

  Once our gear was satisfactorily deposited in the

  appropriate rooms we headed off to a steakhouse we had

  noticed earlier in the day. The place was tidy, with blue

  gingham tablecloths and a bright young miss in a white linen

  smock took our orders. The steak pie an’ mash was particularly

  welcome to starving men and unlike the watery swill my

  companions make, the coffee was thick and full of flavour.

  Since it was still early, only one table other than our own was

  occupied, therefore our orders filled out quickly.

  “Now, let’s go for a drink.” Rising, the Colonel paid the

  tab, whereupon we left and strolled a little further along the

  road to a single storeyed tavern called ‘The Alehouse’.

  The bar contained tables and chairs along one side, while

  the counter traversed the other. The wall behind was hung with

  mirrors and shelves containing numerous glasses and bottles,

  while beer was dispensed from pull handles attached to shiny

  brass taps.

  The barman was tall, broad shouldered and wore a pin-

  striped shirt buttoned to the neck and capped with a black bow

  tie. There were black garters above each elbow and a large

  hand rested easily on a pull-handle.

  “What’ll ye be havin’ gentl’men?” He spoke in a musical

  Irish voice.

  32

  “Three whiskies an’ a beer,” returned the Colonel, winking

  as he turned to look at me. The barman removed some glasses

  from the shelves and as he was doing the honours I cast my

  eyes around, noting the painted off-white tongue and groove

  on the top half of each wall and the wall-papered panelling on

  the bottom half. A pair of commonplace chandeliers hung from

  pulleys so they could be dropped down to light and additional

  lamps hung from nicely scrolled fittings that were screwed at

  intervals along each wall.

  “You gentl’men been ‘ere long?” inquired our host.

  His head was covered in thick black hair that parted in the

>   middle and swept across either side, while an equally luxurious

  moustache drooped down his rawboned face and didn’t look

  out of place.

  “Arrived this afternoon,” volunteered Potts, trying to look

  casual with his shirt neck slightly open and his derby hat

  cocked on his head.

  “Sure did,” verified the Colonel, as he reached for the

  folded picture of Smidt and held it unfolded in front of the

  barman.

  “Have you seen this gentleman? Someone in your game

  would know just about everyone here-a-bouts, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh aye, I would ‘n all, but I don’t recognize this. What’s

  ‘e done, robbed a bank or somethin’?”

  “Not that we know. We’re private detectives on the trail of

  a conman who duped a widow out of her inheritance.”

  “Hope you get the bastard. I’ll remember ‘is face if I see

  ‘im.”

  As we sat and drank, the place began to fill. Intrigued, I

  asked the Colonel why Potts had told the barman that Smidt

  was a conman.

  “He’s Irish,” replied Potts, interrupting. “Many have Boer

  sympathies, therefore he may be more likely to report seeing

  Smidt if he thought he had conned someone vulnerable.”

  It was getting dark when a tall slim man wearing a striped

  apron appeared, moving from lamp to lamp with a long match,

  lighting each one in turn and adjusting the level of the flame to

  suit before disappearing again.

  33

  We downed our drinks and returned to the Colonel’s room

  where we relaxed. The room contained a double bed at one end

  and the partly faded, bright blue curtains were drawn back and

  held by tasselled gold braid in the corners. To the left were

  fancy chairs that encompassed the front of the room, all

  pointing inward towards a low knobby-legged table that

  contained a silver tray, bottle of single malt whisky and a

  number of glasses.

  The Colonel poured generous globs of the amber fluid into

  each glass and raised his hand in a toast.

  “Here’s to an eminently successful and not undeserved

  conclusion to our little undertaking,” then he downed the

  contents of his glass in one gulp.

  “Hear, hear,” we chorused with vigorous form and chucked

  ours down too, except I could only manage half and even that

  brought tears to my eyes.

  We sat down after refills, or in my case a top-up, to get

  down to business.