War Cry

‘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.’

‘What … run around the field? In my birthday suit?’ de Lancey gasped, as the other diners each formed their own mental picture of him naked and on the run. Laughter began to spread around the table.

‘As naked as God made you.’

‘He’s got you there, de Lancey,’ said Joss Hay, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Ten thousand pounds against a trot round a field, you can’t say no to that … What was that splendid phrase you came up with? Oh yes, with your cock swinging gently in the breeze. I’ll bet every white woman in Kenya will be there, just to see the view.’

De Lancey could see that his only hope now was to brazen it out. ‘Let me get this straight: you are betting me ten thousand pounds against a run round a field that one African native can beat three British gentlemen?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I see … oh, one last thing.’ De Lancey paused for a second and then asked, ‘Will your chap run naked too? Isn’t that what the natives do?’

‘I should imagine so,’ Leon replied. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Worried that the Masai might make you look small, de Lancey?’ one man asked to more peals of laughter.

‘No, of course not. Just thinking of the ladies. Don’t want them getting upset.’

As a number of the female diners glanced at one another with rolled eyes and little shakes of the head, Leon made an offer. ‘I’ll tell you what, I will provide a pair of shorts for my chap to wear, how’s that?’

De Lancey looked around the table, knowing that his name in the Colony depended on what he said next. Like a man jumping into an ice-cold pool he steeled himself, breathed deeply and took the plunge: ‘Then in that case Courtney, you’ve got a bet,’ he said as a cheer went up, more drinks were called for, and the night’s festivities began in earnest.

Leon Courtney emerged from the Great War with a fortune even bigger than Amelia or Idina had imagined. Having once been close to destitution he found himself with the means to buy one of the finest estates in East Africa. He named it Lusima, in honour of Manyoro’s mother, whose skills as a healer, counsellor and mystical seer he had come to cherish deeply. Leon planned to follow the example of Lord Delamere who kept much of his land untouched, for use as a nature reserve, and gave over the rest to agriculture. When it came to setting up a safari business that would attract rich customers from Europe and the Americas, Leon was in his element, but the farming was a different matter. He could not help noticing how many British settlers lost everything they had trying to marry European agricultural techniques with African land, weather and pestilence. He therefore decided to work with the grain of Kenyan life, rather than against it. So he made an agreement with Manyoro, by which he and his extended family could have the freedom of the entire Lusima estate, provided that they also herded and cared for Leon’s cattle alongside their own. Since the Masai measured a man’s worth not in money, but by the number of his cows and of his children, Leon paid his people in their preferred currency. For every ten calves born to Leon’s cows, the Masai kept one for themselves.

This arrangement had a few teething problems. The Masai believed that every cow on earth belonged to them and, as a consequence, felt perfectly entitled to rustle from non-Masai. They also lived off their animals’ blood and milk and so kept their cattle alive for as long as possible, rather than sending them to the slaughterhouse. The concept of keeping another man’s cattle until such time as they were taken away to be sold and killed struck even Manyoro, accustomed as he was to British customs due to his time in the army, as bizarre.

On the other hand, the offer of huge areas of grazing and a guaranteed increase in his and his people’s herds was too good to turn down. As the years had gone by, he had prospered mightily, particularly once he had seen how much money his cattle could fetch and how useful money could be in a world now run by white men. The arrangement had worked perfectly for Leon, too, since his herds did not suffer anything like the same rates of disease as those of his fellow farmers. His Masai herdsmen knew which ground was corrupted by plants that produced poisonous feed or insects that carried disease and so they kept to areas of safe, sweet grass. They guarded their animals and Leon’s against lions and other predators and they lived well on the blood and milk that they took from the animals they were herding, a practice to which Leon turned a blind eye once he realized that it did the cattle no harm whatsoever.

In time Manyoro had handed over the day-to-day running of the estate and its buildings to his kinsman Loikot, whom Leon had watched grow from an impish boy to a young man worthy of his trust and respect. Manyoro now lived in the village where his mother had raised him. It stood atop Lonsonyo Mountain, a mighty tower of rock that rose from the plains by the eastern escarpment of the Great Rift Valley, at one corner of the Lusima estate. Two days after the dinner at Slains, Leon drove out to the mountain. He left the Rolls at its foot, guarded by two of his men (their job was to deter curious animals, rather than larcenous humans, for no man who valued his life would touch M’Bogo’s property and thereby risk Manyoro’s wrath). Then he set off up the footpath that zigzagged back and forth across the steep slope, recalling, as he always did whenever he visited, the first time he had made the journey. He had been half-starved and parched with thirst, his feet bloody and blistered, the skin flayed from his heels, the wounds so severe and the pain so great that he had managed no more than a couple of hundred feet up the climb before he had collapsed and been carried the rest of the way on a mushila, or litter, borne on four men’s shoulders.

That had been twenty years ago, yet the memories of that time and his first encounter with Lusima were as vivid as if mere days, not decades had elapsed. He remembered too the times he had spent with Eva in this, their secret shelter from the outside world, the love they had made and the times they had swum in Sheba’s Pool, a crystalline sanctuary nestled beneath a waterfall that fell from the mountain summit. He smiled as he recalled the sight of her, dashing down the path towards him, heedless of the precipitous drop that fell away beside her, then throwing herself into his arms. He felt himself harden and it was not the climb that made his heart beat faster and his breathing deepen as he thought of her naked body, so lithe and graceful in the water, her legs locked around his waist and her soft warm lips pressed to his.

Oh, Eva, my darling, my love, you were so beautiful then, so delicate, so fragile and yet so fierce and so strong. And then he smiled to himself as he thought, And I’d still rather make love to you than any other woman on earth.

They had both grown older since then, but the mountain itself remained as it had always been. On the lower slopes the path was shaded by the groves of umbrella acacias, whose branches flared upwards and outwards from the trunk, like the spokes of an umbrella, before bursting into a broad, but virtually flat canopy of leaves at their top. But as he climbed higher the air cooled and grew moist, almost like mist, and the plants around him became more lush. Tree orchids bloomed in vivid hues of pink and violet in the branches of tall trees where eagles and hawks made their eyries. Leon watched the birds wheeling in the vastness of the cloudless sky scanning the bush far below them for any signs of prey.

When he reached the top he was greeted by a gaggle of small children, grinning with delight and squealing, ‘M’Bogo! M’Bogo!’ A young woman, whom Leon knew to be one of Manyoro’s new wives, looked at him with unabashed appreciation, for it was the custom among the Masai for a man to share his wives with valued guests, but only if the wife liked the look of the guest in question. She had the final and decisive say in the matter.

When Leon had first known Manyoro he had but one wife, for that was all the army would allow. She had produced three fine sons and two daughters. The Masai were, however, polygamous by tradition and it was an unspoken part of his bargain that Leon allowed them to live as they wished on his land. Having prospered mightily, Manyoro now had four wives to his name and a dozen or more new children, all of whom lived under the command and supervision of his first, senior bride. This had always been a prosperous community, whose inhabitants had been well-fed and housed in finely built huts. When Leon first arrived there, the women were bedecked in splendid ornaments of ivory and trade beads and the cattle were fat and sleek. All that was still true, but now Leon noticed a couple of paraffin lamps and, placed outside the largest and most splendid of all the huts, the incongruous sight of a set of rattan patio chairs arranged around a glass-topped table.

Manyoro was sitting in one of the chairs drinking a bottle of Bass pale ale. He must, Leon realized, be more than fifty now and had put on a good deal of weight over the years, as the visible proof of his power and prosperity. Yet there was no sense of softness about Manyoro and when he stood to greet Leon, the Masai was still the taller of the pair.

‘I see you, Manyoro, my brother,’ Leon said, speaking in Masai.

Manyoro’s face broke into a huge grin. ‘And I see you, M’Bogo, and my heart sings with joy.’

Manyoro lifted a bottle of beer from a metal wastepaper basket filled with ice-cold spring-water and offered it to Leon. He was delighted to accept, for the walk had given him a powerful thirst.

‘You are the only Masai I know who always has a crate of pale ale ready to hand,’ said Leon as he took the cold, wet bottle.

‘More than one crate, I assure you,’ Manyoro replied. ‘It is a habit I learned in the army. They served this beer in the sergeants’ mess.’ He smacked his lips with relish. ‘This is the best thing you British ever brought to Africa. Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’

The two men raised their bottles in mutual salute, and then savoured their drinks in silence for a moment. After a while they began to speak in English about their wives and children, Leon feeling almost embarrassed at having just one of each in this company, though Manyoro was keen to hear news of the son that he felt sure Eva was bearing, and of Saffron’s near-victory in the show jumping.

‘Ah, she has her father’s spirit, that one,’ Manyoro said, approvingly, when he heard how Saffron had responded to being beaten. ‘I have never understood how your people talk of being a “good loser”. How can losing be good? Why would a man take pride in accepting defeat? Miss Saffron is right to feel anger and shame. That way she will not make the mistake of losing a second time. Ah, but you must be proud of her, brother. She will be as beautiful as her mother, when she is grown.’

‘Not quite as beautiful as a Masai maiden, though, eh?’ said Leon, knowing Manyoro’s unshakable faith in the superiority of his tribe’s females to all others.

‘No, that would be impossible,’ Manyoro agreed. ‘But a great beauty among her own people, and with that fighting spirit in her heart … Believe me, M’Bogo, it will take a strong man to win her heart.’

Next they moved on to the latest developments on the Lusima estate. Though he seldom ventured down from his mountaintop, and the estate covered the best part of two hundred square miles, Manyoro still knew everything that happened on it and there was never any need for Leon to discipline any of the herders. In the extremely rare event that one of them did anything wrong, Manyoro would already have dealt with the matter himself before Leon even heard about it.

‘So, Bwana, what brings you here today?’ Manyoro asked, calling Leon ‘Master’ not out of servility, but respect.

‘I come to you with a request, one that I hope you will find of interest,’ Leon said. ‘I dined at Bwana Hay’s house two nights ago, and talked to a man by the name of de Lancey. He was disparaging of the Masai. He said they were lesser men, inferior to his own white tribe.’

‘Then this man is no more than a baboon, and a very stupid baboon at that. He should count himself lucky that I did not hear him say those words.’

‘Indeed he should,’ Leon agreed. ‘I, however, know the truth. So I assured him that my Masai brothers were proud warriors who have ruled this land since time began and I suggested a way in which I could prove their strength.’

Manyoro grinned. ‘Will there be a fight? It has been too long since my assegai tasted blood. It keeps moaning to me, “Give me blood, for I am thirsty!”’

Leon fought back laughter as he adopted a pose of outrage at such rebellious sentiments. ‘Sergeant Manyoro! Have you forgotten the oath you swore to defend my people? Have you become a rebellious Nandi, slithering like a snake upon the dirt?’

Manyoro’s broad shoulders broke into a regretful shrug. ‘You are right, M’Bogo, I have given my word and I will stand by it. But please, never compare me to a Nandi, not even in jest. They are the lowest people on all the earth.’

‘I apologize,’ said Leon, reflecting that it had been a Nandi arrow, stuck in Manyoro’s leg, that had first brought him here to Lusima. ‘But let me assure you that neither you nor any of your people will be called upon to fight anyone. The morani will keep their blades sheathed. All I need is a man who can run.’

Leon began to explain what he had in mind. But Manyoro’s reaction was not what he expected. Far from being amused by the challenge, still less inspired by it, he seemed offended.

‘M’Bogo, forgive me, but I am insulted to the depth of my soul. Why did you only pit three whites against one Masai? It is too easy. Ten would be more of a contest, possibly twenty.’

‘Now you insult my people, Manyoro. We are not all weak or lacking in endurance. I carried you on my back for thirty miles to this very mountain, when you were too badly wounded to walk.’

Manyoro nodded. ‘That is true. But you are not like the others. You have the strength of the buffalo himself. That is why my people consider you our equal.’

‘I am proud to bear that honour,’ Leon replied. ‘That is why I have set this challenge, so that the Masai should receive the respect that they are due.’

‘For one day maybe,’ said Manyoro, and suddenly Leon heard the voice of a proud man whose people were reduced to second-class status in their own land. ‘But that is better than no days at all. Who will de Lancey find to run against my man?’

‘No one that you need fear, but some whom you should respect,’ Leon replied. ‘De Lancey is putting the word out. He’ll round up some pretty tough customers, don’t you worry about that. We’re not all bone-idle idiots from Happy Valley, you know.’

Manyoro thought for a moment then asked, ‘You say you will lose ten thousand pounds if De Lancey’s man wins?’

‘Yes.’

‘So if my man wins he will save you that amount. He will have done all the work. Should he not receive some reward for his efforts?’

Leon inwardly winced. Brother or no brother, Manyoro was always determined to wring the most out of any negotiation. ‘Good point,’ he conceded. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘A man who performs a great feat should have a wife to mark his triumph.’

‘Sadly, I can’t provide one of those.’

‘Then give him the cattle with which he will attract a bride and make her father think, “This is a man who deserves to have my daughter beside him.”’

‘Very well, I will give him a bull and three cows …’ Leon could tell from Manyoro’s face that the offer, which he had thought generous to a fault, had somehow fallen short of the mark. And then it occurred to him and he wondered how he could ever have been so stupid as he said, ‘And a bull and five cows to you too, though heaven knows your herds are already so mighty that you will not notice a few more.’

Manyoro smiled with delight, both at the offer and the fact that Leon had understood that it should be made. ‘Ah, M’Bogo, a Masai always notices a new cow. You, of all men, should know that!’

‘So, can I count on you to bring one of your best men to the polo fields?’

‘You can count on me to bring a man. And you can count on him to win your bet. But whether he will be my best man, that I cannot say. My best might feel that this challenge is too easy. But fear not, M’Bogo, your money is safe … and so are my five cows and my bull besides. Now, come with me. You know there is someone else here who would rage like thunder if you should leave without seeing her.’

‘You know that I would never dream of doing that.’

‘Then come …’

Like an empress on her throne, Lusima Mama was sitting on a chair cut into the stump of what must once have been a towering tree. She rose as she saw Leon, her face wreathed in a loving, maternal smile, for since Leon had saved her son Manyoro’s life he had become a son to her too.

Leon had no knowledge of Lusima’s exact age, but she could not be less than seventy and was probably a good many years older than that. Twenty years ago she had seemed entirely impervious to the passing of time, but not even her wizardry could keep it at bay forever. Her hair was white now, her bare breasts a little saggier and less full than they had once been and her tattooed belly was just a fraction softer, the skin like crepe paper. But she held herself as tall and straight as ever, her walk still possessed a feline grace, and though there were lines around her dark eyes, their gaze could still look right through Leon, into the very depths of his soul.

A sense of great peace and security came over him, as it always did when he met Lusima. Being with her felt like stepping into a sanctuary, a place where he was always safe and cared for and he returned her smile with a warm and open heart. He held out his arms to hug her.

And then he saw something flicker in Lusima’s eye and she halted in her approach towards him. Everything about her posture and expression tightened, as if she were suddenly aware of danger: as if the devil had crossed her path and something evil was prowling through the trees, waiting to attack.

‘What is it?’ asked Leon, alarmed by the change that had come over Lusima and conscious that it had happened while her eyes were focused on him.

‘It … it is nothing, child.’ Lusima forced a wan smile. ‘Here, come and let me hold you.’

Leon held back. ‘Something happened. You saw something. I know you did.’ He paused, summoning up his courage as if he were still a boy, rather than a grown man at the height of his powers. ‘You have never been false with me, Lusima Mama. Never. But I fear you are being false with me now.’

Lusima dropped her hands to her side, her shoulders sagged and when she looked at him again the years seemed suddenly written upon her face. ‘Oh my child,’ she said softly, gently shaking her head. ‘You will be sorely tested. You will know pain such as you have never endured before. There will be times when you will not believe that you can survive it, times when you will pray for the release of death. But you must believe me …’ She reached out, took Leon’s hands and looked at him with feverish, imploring eyes, ‘You will find peace and happiness and joy one day.’

‘But I have those things already!’ Leon cried. ‘Are you telling me that they will be taken from me? How? Tell me, for God’s sake … what is going to happen?’

‘I cannot tell you. It is not in my power. My visions come to me in riddles and half-formed images. I see a storm coming for you. I see a dagger in your heart. But you will survive, I promise you that.’

‘But Eva … and Saffron … and the baby. What about them?’

‘Truly, I do not know. I see blood. I feel a great emptiness in you. I wish I did not. I wish I could have lied to you. But I cannot deceive you M’Bogo, and I cannot deny it. I see blood.’

Leon spent the next few days with his stomach in knots and a permanent sense of suppressed anxiety dragging on his mind like a dog on a lead as he tried his best not to dwell on Lusima’s intimations of disaster. He did not doubt that she was absolutely serious nor that there was truth in her words, for she had been right too often in the past for him to doubt her powers now. Yet experience had also taught him that there was nothing he could do to alter what fate had in store. So there was no point fretting over matters that he could not control. Even so, when Eva reported feeling dizzy he insisted on driving her to see Doc Thompson.

Before the war, Dr Hector Thompson (to give him his proper title) and his wife had provided the expatriate community’s medical care virtually single-handed. Since then, however, a European Hospital had been set up to care for the white community and the Thompsons had moved into semi-retirement, running a small general practice up-country. The Doc, a genial, reassuring Scotsman with a full head of white hair and a neatly clipped beard to match, took Eva’s blood pressure and murmured, ‘Hmm, one-thirty-five over eighty-five, a little on the high side. Tell me, my dear, have you had any other symptoms apart from dizziness? Headaches, for example, or blurred vision?’

‘No,’ Eva replied.

‘Not felt sick or vomited?’

‘Not since the morning sickness passed, but that was a couple of months ago.’

The doctor thought for a moment. ‘You have had trouble in the past carrying a baby to term and we don’t want to lose this one. On the other hand, we live at a much higher altitude than our British bodies were designed for and in a tropical climate, so there are all sorts of reasons why you might feel off-colour. I advise plenty of rest and no great exertions of any kind. I’ll also give you some aspirin. Take two if you feel either a headache or nausea and if symptoms persist for more than an hour or two, get in touch. Don’t worry about calling me out in the middle of the night. That’s what I’m here for.’

The wager with de Lancey that Leon had thought so important now seemed entirely irrelevant. ‘I’m going to call him to say that the whole thing’s off,’ he told Eva when they got home from their visit to Doc Thompson. ‘If he makes me forfeit the money, so be it. What matters is staying here with you and making sure you’re all right.’

‘But I am all right,’ she insisted. ‘I felt a little dizzy, that’s all, and you heard what Doctor Thompson said, it was probably just a spot of altitude sickness. I want you to win your wager. And I want to be there to see you win.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Leon insisted. ‘You’re not supposed to have any great exertions, those were the doc’s own words.’

She laughed, ‘Being a passenger on the drive down to the polo club is hardly an exertion, and nor is sitting in a comfortable chair in the shade when I get there. In any case, where do you think the Thompsons will be on the great day? Watching the race, just the same as everyone else for miles around. So if I do happen to feel a bit poorly, that will be the best place to be. Won’t it?’

Leon could not dispute his wife’s logic. And so, on the seventh morning after the dinner at Slains, he, Eva and Saffron, who was bouncing up and down with excitement at the thought of the event, set off before dawn and drove through the cool morning mist to the Wanjohi Valley Polo Club. Loikot came behind them, driving one of the estate’s trucks, filled with everything the family would need to get them through the day and as many of the domestic and estate staff who could cram into the cabin and cargo area, or simply cling on to the outside of the vehicle.

The whole country seemed on the move. Farms and businesses stood deserted by their managers and workers alike. Shops and restaurants had put ‘Closed’ signs in their windows. Many of the chefs and shopkeepers, however, had simply shifted their operations to the polo club where an impromptu market had mushroomed, with stalls selling parasols, folding chairs and bottles of pop, alongside pits where fires were being stoked as whole sheep and great sides of beef were rotating on spits, while chops and sausages sizzled on griddles.

It was not just the colonists who had come to witness the spectacle. Once word had reached the native Kenyan population that one of their number was taking on their white masters, tribal antagonisms had been set aside, for the time being at least, and half the country seemed to be on the move – men and women of the Masai, Kikuyu, Luhya and Meru peoples – coming by foot, ox-cart, bus, or any other means they could find to join the carnival.

The settlers were all arrayed along one side of the polo field around which the race would be held, in front of the clubhouse, with native Kenyans massed opposite them on the far side. The actual field itself had been kept empty, so that the competitors could be seen at all times, to prevent any possibility of cheating. The team principals would remain in the centre of the field, with those of the white runners who were still awaiting their turn to compete. Major Brett was serving as umpire while a dozen African police constables, arrayed around the course and supervised by a single white sergeant, would have the dual tasks of reporting any breaches of fair play, and also keeping the crowd in order.

‘I’ll be frank, Courtney, I’m not entirely happy about this whole palaver that your damned wager has sparked,’ Major Brett told Leon soon after he, Eva and Saffron had arrived at the club.

‘I had no idea there would be quite such a turnout,’ Leon replied.

‘Well, that’s as may be. I’m a fair man, have to be in my position, so I accept that you could not reasonably have anticipated this level of public interest in a private wager between two gentlemen at dinner.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Nevertheless, I foresee the potential for considerable unrest when the native is defeated. John Masai’s an excitable chap when his spirits are inflamed, particularly if he’s got his hands on alcohol. I banned sales to the native population, of course, but I don’t doubt they’ll find a way to have a drink or two. And if they think that we have in any way conspired to make their chap lose, well, I just hope you don’t have anything serious on your conscience when the day is out, that’s all I can say.’

For a second, Leon suddenly wondered whether the blood Lusima had been talking about might be that of the spectators. He was shocked to realize that he felt relieved at that possibility. It seemed almost like a reprieve for his family.