Leon rode out to Tandala Camp, and when he went into his tent he found Max Rosenthal packing his kitbag. ‘Leaving us, Max?’ Leon asked.
‘The locals are starting a pogrom against us. I don’t want to spend this war in a British concentration camp, like the ones Kitchener put up in South Africa, so I’m heading for the German border.’
‘Wise man,’ Leon told him. ‘Things are going to change around here. I’m going to the polo ground to talk to Gustav about the two aircraft. If you’re there at first light tomorrow morning, I may be able to give you both a lift south to Arusha and safety.’
It was dusk when Leon rode down the main street of Nairobi, but the entire town was bustling. He had to weave his way through the throng of Scotch carts and wagons, all crammed with the families of settlers coming in from the remote farms. A rumour was flying about that von Lettow Vorbeck had massed his troops on the border ready to march on Nairobi, burning and plundering the farms along the way. Major General Ballantyne’s men were erecting army tents on the KAR parade-ground to accommodate the refugees. The women and children were already settling in while their menfolk headed for the recruitment office in the Barclays Bank building where Lord Delamere was taking on men for his irregular regiment of light horse.
When Leon rode past the front of the bank the volunteers were standing in excited groups on the dusty street, discussing the prospect of war and how it would affect them in the colony. Their horses were saddled up, and they were dressed in hunting clothes. Most were armed with sporting rifles, ready to ride out to oppose von Lettow Vorbeck and his murderous askari. Leon knew that few of them had had any military training. He smiled pityingly. Silly beggars. They think it’s going to be a guinea-fowl shoot. They haven’t considered the possibility of the Germans shooting back.
At that moment a man ran out of the cablegram office across the street from the bank, waving a buff form over his head. ‘Message from London! It’s started!’ he yelled. ‘Kaiser Bill has declared war on Britain and the Empire! All aboard for glory, lads!’
There was a raucous chorus of cheers. Beer bottles were lifted high, and there were shouts of ‘Rot the bastard!’
Bobby Sampson was among a group of men, most of whom Leon knew. Leon was about to dismount and join them when a thought occurred to him. How is Gustav going to react to this declaration of war? What orders did Graf Otto leave for him to cover this eventuality?
He whipped up his horse and pointed its nose in the direction of the polo ground.
It was dark when he reached it. He pulled his mount down to a walk as he approached the hangar. There had been rain earlier and the ground was soft. The turf muffled the sound of the horse’s hoofs, and he saw light in the hangar through the tarpaulin wall. At first he thought that somebody was moving around inside with a lantern. Then he realized that the light was too ruddy, and that it was flickering.
Fire!
His premonition of trouble had been realized. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and dropped to the ground. Silently he ran to the door and paused to assess the situation. The flame he had seen was a burning torch, which Gustav was holding aloft. By its light Leon saw that both aircraft were parked tail to tail on their usual stands at opposite ends of the hangar. Each had its own doorway, an arrangement that allowed them to be wheeled in or out without the other machine having to be moved.
Gustav had chopped up most of the heavy packing crates in which the planes had been shipped out from Germany and had piled the wood in a pyramid under the Butterfly’s fuselage. His back was turned and he was so preoccupied with his preparations to burn the planes that he was unaware of Leon’s presence in the doorway behind him. He held the burning torch in his right hand, an open schnapps bottle in the left. He was in the middle of a drunken valediction to the two flying machines.
‘This is the hardest thing I have ever been asked to do. You are the fruit of my mind. You are the creation of my hands. I dreamed up every line of your lovely bodies, and I built you with my own hands. I laboured on you through long days and longer nights. You are a monument to my skills and genius.’ He broke off with a sob, took a long swig of schnapps and belched as he lowered the bottle. ‘Now I must destroy you. Part of me will die with you. I wish I had the courage to throw myself on your pyre, for after you are gone my life will be ashes.’ He hurled the torch towards the pile of wood, but the schnapps had affected his judgement and it arched up, leaving a trail of sparks. It struck the propeller of the near-side port engine and rebounded, falling to the floor of the hangar and rolling back to Gustav’s feet. With an oath he stooped to pick it up.
Leon rushed at him. He crashed into Gustav from behind just as his fingers closed on the handle of the burning torch. He knocked the German off his feet and the schnapps bottle shattered as it struck the floor, but somehow Gustav managed to keep his grip on the torch.
With amazing agility for such a big man he rolled on to his knees and glared at Leon. ‘I will kill you if you try to stop me!’ He threw the torch again, and this time it lodged on the wood. Leon wondered if Gustav had soaked it with petrol, but although the flame was still burning it did not explode. He ran forward, trying to reach it before the fire took hold.
Gustav staggered to his feet and blocked his path. He was leaning over, his head held low and his arms spread to prevent Leon reaching the spluttering torch. Leon ran straight at him, but before Gustav could grab him he used the momentum of his run and kicked him in the crotch. The rowel of his spurs ripped into the soft flesh between Gustav’s thighs. He screamed and reeled back, clutching his injured genitals with both hands.
Leon shouldered him aside and reached the wood. He grabbed the torch and hurled it towards the door. One of the planks of the packing crates was burning. He pulled it free, threw it to the ground and stamped on it to extinguish the flames.
Gustav leaped on to his back and wrapped a muscular arm around his neck in a deadly stranglehold. He had both legs locked around Leon’s body, riding him like a horse. He tightened his grip, and Leon choked.
Through streaming eyes he saw one of the propeller blades of the big Meerbach rotary engine hanging in front of him at head level. It was made of laminated wood, but the leading edge was clad with metal, like a knife blade. He pirouetted quickly, bringing Gustav in line with the blade, then ran backwards. It slashed into the back of the man’s skull, cutting to the bone and stunning him. His grip loosened and Leon tore himself free. Gustav was staggering in a circle, blood spurting from the wound. Leon clenched his right fist and punched the side of his jaw. Gustav went down, sprawling on his back.
Gasping for breath, Leon looked around wildly. The torch was lying in the doorway where he had thrown it. It was still alight but there was nothing for the flames to catch. More dangerously, though, he had not managed to extinguish the plank before Gustav leaped upon him. Now the flames had rekindled and were burning up brightly. Leon picked it up and ran with it to the entrance. He hurled it outside, then turned his attention to the torch. As he bent to pick it up he heard a scuffling sound behind him and ducked to one side. He heard something hiss past his right ear. He whirled around.
Gustav had armed himself with an eight-pound sledgehammer from the workbench against the wall. Then he had charged at Leon and, both hands gripping the long handle, had swung it at Leon’s head. If Leon had not ducked, it would have shattered his skull. The force of the swing had set Gustav off-balance, and before he could recover, Leon grabbed him in a bear-hug, trapping the hammer between their bodies. They spun around in a deadly waltz, shifting weight and balance, trying to trip or lift the other off the ground.
Leon was the taller by four inches, but Gustav matched him in weight and was solid muscle, tempered and hardened by a lifetime of physical work. The punishment Leon had dealt him would have incapacitated a lesser fighter, and Gustav’s resilience was frightening. His strength seemed to increase as the adrenalin coursing through his body countered the agony of his injuries. He drove Leon back towards the doorway where the burning torch lay. Leon felt its heat on the back of his legs. Then Gustav swivelled and pushed his hip under his adversary. For a fleeting second Leon was off-balance and Gustav aimed a mighty kick at the torch. He sent it bouncing across the floor until it slammed into the base of the wooden pyramid. The hangar was filled with smoke and the smell of burning.
Like a leopard mad with rage, Leon found a hidden reservoir of strength. He shifted in Gustav’s arms and hooked one of the man’s heels with his toe, tripping him backwards. Gustav crashed to the ground with Leon’s full weight on top of him. The air was forced out of his chest in a loud whoosh. Leon broke away, vaulted to his feet like a gymnast and ran to retrieve the torch from the wood. Two pieces were already alight but he had just enough time to drag them out of the pile and hurl them aside before Gustav was on him again. He was swinging the sledgehammer in great sweeps at Leon’s face, forcing him to back away. The German was wheezing as he sucked air into his lungs. The back of his shirt was black with blood from the wound in his scalp and the front of his breeches from where Leon’s spur had gouged him, but he was beyond pain. The hammer swung like a metronome, back and forth, and Leon was forced to give ground before the menace of its heavy steel head.
He came up short with his back against the corner of the hangar wall. The angle prevented him breaking out and he knew that Gustav had him trapped. With both hands Gustav lifted the hammer high, and paused with it aimed at Leon’s head. Leon knew that when the blow came he could not avoid it. There was simply not enough space for him to dodge. He stared into Gustav’s eyes, trying to read his intention, trying to control him with the force of his gaze, but schnapps and pain had turned the man into an animal. In his eyes there was no trace of recognition or mercy.
Then Gustav’s expression changed subtly. The mad rage faded from his eyes, replaced by bewilderment. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak a thick gout of bright blood spewed over his lips. The hammer dropped and clattered to the hangar floor. He looked down at his body.
The blade of a Masai assegai stood out three hands’ breadth from the centre of his chest. He shook his head as though in disbelief at what he was seeing. Then his legs buckled. Manyoro was standing close behind him, and as Gustav fell, he plucked out the blade from where he had driven it home. The German’s heart must still have been beating, for a small fountain of blood spurted from the gaping wound and shrivelled as Gustav died.
Leon stared at Manyoro. His mind seethed with wild conjecture. The last time he had seen Manyoro was almost a week ago on Lonsonyo Mountain. How had he arrived so fortuitously? Then he saw that Loikot was with him and, before he could stop him, had plunged his own assegai into the inert body.
Leon was assailed by horror and dread. No matter the circumstances in which it had happened, they had killed a white man. There would be retribution in the form of the hangman’s noose. The administration of the colony could not afford to condone such a heinous offence in a land where whites were outnumbered fifty to one by tribesmen. It would set too dangerous a precedent. His mind racing, Leon demanded of the two Masai, ‘How did you get here?’
‘When the soldier took you from Lonsonyo we followed you.’
‘I owe my life to you. The Bula Matari would have killed me, but you know what will happen if the police catch you.’
‘No matter,’ Manyoro said, with dignity. ‘They can do with me as they wish. You are my brother. I could not stand by and watch him kill you.’
‘Does anybody else know you are in Nairobi?’ Leon asked, and they shook their heads. ‘Good. We must work quickly.’
Between them they wrapped Gustav’s corpse in a tarpaulin from the storeroom with a fifty-pound crank shaft lashed to his feet. They trussed it securely with lengths of hemp rope, then carried it to the Butterfly and loaded it into the main bomb bay in the fuselage. Still working fast, they tidied the hangar, getting rid of any trace of the fight and the fire. They carried out the remains of the packing cases and stacked them on the woodpile behind the Polo Club. Then they spread fresh earth over the bloodstains, trampled it down and sprinkled engine oil over the spot to disguise the nature of the stains. If any questions were asked about Gustav’s disappearance it would be assumed that he had gone on the run to escape arrest and incarceration in a concentration camp.
When Leon was satisfied that they had covered up as much of the incriminating evidence as they could, they wheeled the Butterfly out of the hangar and he climbed into the cockpit to begin his start-up procedures. The two Masai stood ready to swing the propellers. Then they stiffened and stared into the darkness from which came the sound of a horse at full gallop.
‘Police?’ Leon muttered. ‘I have the corpse of a murdered man on board. This could mean trouble.’
He held his breath, then released it as Max Rosenthal rode out of the night and dismounted. He carried a large rucksack slung on his back as he hurried to the side of the Butterfly. ‘You told me you’d help me,’ he said, looking hunted and terrified. ‘Up at the parade-ground they’ve just shot three Germans they accused of being spies. Mr Courtney, you know I’m no spy.’
‘Don’t worry, Max, I’ll take you out,’ Leon reassured him. ‘Climb aboard!’
As soon as the engines started, the two Masai scrambled up to join Max in the cockpit and, with the waxing moon lighting the way, Leon took off and turned south, heading for the border with German East Africa. Three hours later the silver expanse of Lake Natron came up ahead, shining like a mirror in the moonlight. Leon let the Butterfly sink down until they were skimming its surface. He flew into the centre before he pulled the lever that opened the bomb bay, then leaned over the side of the cockpit and watched the tarpaulin-shrouded corpse plummet into the soda-rich water. It raised a splash of white foam. He circled back low over the surface to make certain that it had not floated, but the metal ballast had pulled it under and there was barely a ripple to be seen.
He turned back for the eastern shore. Lake Natron overlapped the boundary between the German and British territories. At this dry season of the year the beaches were exposed and as the water was rich in soda they were brilliant white, the soda hard-packed. Leon could land the Butterfly safely on one of them. The difficulty lay in deciding which to trust. He made a pass down a stretch of beach, which seemed firm and hard, came around again and touched down gently. The Butterfly settled and began to slow. Then, heart sinking, he felt her wheels break through the soda crust into the soft mud beneath. The plane stopped so abruptly that they were all thrown heavily against their safety straps.
Leon cut the engines and they climbed down on to the beach. A hasty inspection revealed no apparent damage to the landing gear or fuselage, but the wheels were bogged axle deep in the mire. Leon walked in a circle around the Butterfly to test the surface. They had been unfortunate to run into a small mudhole. Fifty feet ahead the ground was firm, but there was no hope of the four men being able to manhandle the heavy machine that far.
‘Where are we, Manyoro?’
The two Masai discussed the question before they replied.
‘We are in the land of the Bula Matari. It is half a day’s walk back to the border.’
‘Are there any Germans close by?’
Manyoro shook his head. ‘The nearest post is at Longido.’ He pointed south-east. ‘It will take more than a day for the soldiers to get here.’
‘Are there any villages close by where we can find men to help us?’
‘Ndio, M’bogo. Less than an hour’s walk along the shore from here there is a large village of fisherfolk.’
‘Do they have trek oxen?’
Manyoro consulted Loikot and at last they both nodded. ‘Yes. It is a large village and the chief is a rich man. He has many oxen.’
‘Go to him, my brethren, as fast as you can run. Tell him if he brings a span of his oxen to pull us out of the mud I will make him even richer. He must bring ropes too.’
Leon and Max settled down in the cockpit to wait, but dense clouds of mosquitoes whined around their heads and kept them awake until dawn. At last they heard voices and the lowing of oxen from the direction in which Manyoro and Loikot had disappeared. Then a crowd of people and animals came towards them along the shore. Manyoro was in the vanguard, trotting far ahead.
Leon jumped down from the cockpit and hurried to meet him.
‘I have brought two full spans of oxen.’ Manyoro was grinning with his accomplishment as they came together.
‘I praise you, Manyoro. You have done work of great value. Have they brought ropes?’ Leon asked.
Manyoro’s smile faded. ‘Only short leather traces, which will not stretch across the mudhole to our indege,’ he admitted. He tried to look downcast, but Leon had seen the twinkle in his eyes.
‘A man of such wisdom as you must have thought of another plan?’ Leon asked.
Manyoro gave his sunniest smile.
‘What have you brought me, brother?’
‘Fishing nets!’ he cried, and dissolved into a gale of giggles. ‘That is a very good joke,’ Leon said, ‘but now tell me the truth.’
‘It is the truth.’ Manyoro staggered weakly with an excess of mirth. ‘You shall see, M’bogo, you shall see, and then you will praise me even more.’
The thirty-six oxen were driven down the lake shore by several hundred fisherfolk, with their women and children. On the back of each ox was strapped an enormous brown bundle of some amorphous material. Under Manyoro and Loikot’s stern supervision, the bundles were unloaded and laid out on the beach. When they were unrolled they proved to be two-hundred-foot lengths of hand-woven netting. The mesh was little more than an inch across and the knots were neat and firm. Leon stretched a section over his shoulders and tried with all his strength to break it. The villagers danced and hooted when he turned red with his vain efforts.
‘Look at his face!’ they told each other. ‘It is the colour of a turkey buzzard’s wattles. Our nets are the finest and strongest in the land. Even the largest crocodiles cannot tear them.’
The nets were laid out, joined together, then carefully rolled into a long, bulky hawser two or three feet in diameter, thicker and heavier than the mooring ropes of an ocean liner. Gangs of villagers carried one end out to where the Butterfly stood, her wings canted at a forlorn, abandoned angle. Leon wound the end around the landing gear and secured it with the leather thongs that the villagers had brought with the nets. The teams of oxen were backed to the edge of the mud and inspanned to the far end of the hawser. Leon, Max and the two Masai took up positions at each of the Butterfly’s wing-tips to prevent her rocking dangerously and digging one into the mud. Then, with shouts of encouragement from the onlookers and the cracking of whips by the drivers, the oxen heaved. The hawser lifted from the mud and came up straight and hard. For a minute nothing further happened, but then, gradually, the landing wheels broke out of the mud and the Butterfly trundled on to dry ground.
When the hysteria of celebration and self-congratulation abated, Leon gave the village headman a generous gift, sufficient to purchase several more oxen. Then he bade Max farewell and watched him set off jauntily on foot for the German police post at Longido, his rucksack on his back. As soon as he had disappeared into the bush, Leon and the Masai started the Butterfly’s engines and climbed into the cockpit. When he was airborne, Leon turned north on to a heading for Nairobi.