The Sound of Thunder c-6 Read online

  The Sound of Thunder

  ( Courtney - 6 )

  Wilbur Smith

  THE SOUND OF THUNDER

  Wilbur Smith

  Four years of travel in the road less wilderness had battered the wagons.

  Many of the wheel-spokes and disselboonu had been replaced with raw

  native timber; the canopies were patched until little of the original

  canvas was visible; the teams were reduced from eighteen to ten oxen

  each, for there had been predators and sickness to weed them out. But

  this exhausted little caravan carried the teeth of five hundred elephant;

  ten -tons of ivory; the harvest of Sean Courtneys rifle; ivory that he

  would convert into nearly fifteen thousand gold sovereigns once he

  reached Pretoria.

  Once more Sean was a rich man. His clothing was stained and baggy,

  crudely mended; his boots were worn almost through the uppers and

  clumsily resoled with raw buffalo hide; a great untrimmed beard covered

  half his chest and a mane of black hair curled down his neck to where

  it had been hacked away with blunt scissors above the collar of his

  coat. But despite his appearance he was rich in ivory, also in gold

  held for him in the vaults of the Volkskaas Bank in Pretoria.

  On a rise of ground beside the road he sat his horse and watched the

  leisurely plodding approach of his wagons. It is time now for the

  farm, he thought with satisfaction. Thirty-seven years old, no longer

  a young man, and it was time to buy the farm. He knew the one he

  wanted and he knew exactly where he would build the homestead-site it

  close to the lip of the escarpment so that in the evenings he could sit

  on the wide stoep look out across the plain to the Tugela River in the

  blue distance.

  "Tomorrow early we will reach Pretoria. " The voice beside him

  interrupted his dreaming, and Sean moved in the saddle and looked down

  at the Zulu who squatted beside his horse.

  "It has been a good hunt, Mbejane. " "Nkosi, we have killed many

  elephant." Mbejane nodded and Sean noticed for the first time the

  strands of silver in the wooly cap of his hair. No longer a young man

  either.

  "And made many marches," Sean went on and Mbejane inclined his head

  again in grave agreement.

  "A man grows weary of the trek, " Sean mused aloud. "There is a time

  when he longs to sleep two nights at the same place. " "And to hear

  the singing of his wives as they work the fields. " Mbejane carried it

  further. "And to watch his cattle come into the kraal at dusk with his

  sons driving them. " "That time has come for both of us, my friend. We

  are going home to Ladyburg. " The spears rattled against Ins raw-hide

  shield as MbeJane stood up, muscles moved beneath the black velvet of

  his skin and he lifted his head to Sean and smiled.

  It was a thing of white teeth and radiance, that smile. Sean had to

  return it and they grinned at each other like two small boys in a

  successful bit of mischief.

  "If we push the oxen hard this last day we can reach Pretoria tonight,

  Nkosi. " "Let us make the attempt. " Sean encouraged him and walked

  his horse down the slope to intercept the caravan.

  As it toiled slowly towards them through the flat white glare of the

  African morning a commotion started at its rear and spread quickly

  along the line, the dogs clamoured and the servants shouted

  encouragement to the rider who raced past them towards the head of the

  caravan. He lay forward in the saddle, driving the pony with elbows

  and heels, hat hanging from the leather thong about his neck and black

  hair ruffled with the speed of his run.

  "That cub roars louder than the lion that sired him," grunted Mbejane,

  but there was a fondness in his expression as he watched the rider

  reach the leading wagon and drag the pony from full run down on to his

  haunches.

  "Also he spoils the mouth of every horse he rides." Sean's voice was

  as harsh as Mbejane's, but there was the same fond expression in his

  eyes as he watched his son cut loose the brown body of a springbok from

  the pommel of his saddle and let it drop into the road beside the

  wagon. Two of the wagon drivers hurried to retrieve it, and Dirk

  Courtney kicked his pony and galloped down to where Sean and Mbejane

  waited beside the road.

  "Only one?" Sean asked as Dirk checked the pony and circled back to

  fall in beside him.

  "Oh, no. I got three-three with three shots. The gun boys are

  bringing the others. " Offhanded, taking as natural that at nine years

  of age he should be providing meat for the whole company, Dirk slouched

  down comfortably in the saddle, holding the reins in one hand and the

  other resting negligently on his hip in faithful imitation of his

  father.

  Scowling a little to cover the strength of his pride and his love, Sean

  examined him surreptitiously. The beauty of this boy's face was almost

  indecent, the innocence of the eyes and faultless skin should have

  belonged to a girl. The sun struck ruby sparks from the mass of dark

  curls, his eyes spaced wide apart were framed with long black lashes

  and over scored by the delicate lines of the brow. His eyes were

  emerald and his skin was gold and there were rubies in his hair-a face

  fashioned by a jewel smith Then Sean looked at the mouth and

  experienced a twinge of uneasiness. The mouth was too big, the lips

  too wide and soft. The shape of it was wrong-as though it were about

  to sulk or whine.

  "We are making a full day's trek today, Dirk. No out span until we

  reach Pretoria. Ride back and tell the drivers.

  "Send MbeJane. He's doing nothing. " "I told you to go. " "Hell,

  Dad! I've done enough today. " "Go, damn you!" Sean roared with

  unnecessary violence.

  "I've only just come back, it's not fair that-" Dirk started, but Sean

  did not let him finish.

  "Every time I ask you to do something I get a mouthful of argument. Now

  do what I tell you. " They held each other's eyes; Sean glaring and

  Dirk resentful, sulky. Sean recognized that expression with dismay.

  This was going to be another of those tests of will that were becoming

  more frequent between them.

  Would this end as most of the others had? Must he admit defeat and use

  the sjambok again? When was the last time-two weeks ago-when Sean had

  reprimanded Dirk on some trivial point concerning the care of his pony.

  Dirk had stood sullenly until Sean was finished, and then he had walked

  away among the wagons. Dropping the subject from his mind, Sean was

  chatting with MbeJane when suddenly there was a squeal of pain from the

  laager and Sean ran towards it.

  In the centre of the ring of wagons stood Dirk. His face was OR darkly

  flushed with temper, and at his feet the tiny body of one of the

  unweaned puppies flopped and whimpered with its ribs stoved in from

&nbs p; Dirk's kick.

  In anger Sean had beaten Dirk, but even in his anger he had used a

  length of rope and not the viciously tapered sjantbok of hippo hide.

  Then he had ordered Dirk to his living-wagon.

  At noon he had sent for him and demanded an apology-and Dirk, un crying

  with lips and jaw set grimly, had refused it.

  Sean beat him again, with the rope, but this time coldly-not for the

  sake of retribution. Dirk did not break.

  Finally, in desperation Sean took the sJambok to him. For ten hissing

  strokes, each of which ended with a wicked snap across his buttocks,

  Dirk lay silently under the whip. His body convulsed slightly at each

  lash but he would not speak, and Sean beat him with a sickness in his

  own stomach, and the sweat of shame and guilt running into his eyes,

  swinging the sjambok mechanically with Ins fingers clawed around the

  butt of it, and his mouth full of the shiny saliva of self-hatred.

  When at last Dirk screamed, Sean dropped the sjambok, reeled back

  against the side of the wagon and leaned there gasping, fighting down

  the nausea which flooded acid-tasting up his throat.

  Dirk screamed again and again, and Sean caught him up and held him to

  his chest.

  "I'm sorry, Pa! I'm sorry. I'll never do it again, I promise you. I

  love you, I love you best of all-and I'll never do it again,"

  screamed Dirk, and they clung to each other.

  For days thereafter not one of the servants had smiled at Sean nor

  spoken to him other than to acknowledge an order. For there was not

  one of them, including Mbejane, who would not steal and cheat and lie

  to ensure that Dirk Courtney had whatever he desired at the exact

  moment he desired it. They could hate anyone, including Sean, who

  denied it to him.

  That was two weeks ago. And now, thought Sean watching that ugly

  mouth, do we do it all again?

  Then suddenly Dirk smiled. It was one of those changes of mood that

  left Sean slightly bewildered, for when Dirk smiled his mouth came

  right. It was irresistible.

  "I'll go, Dad." Cheerfully, as though he were volunteering, he prodded

  the pony and trotted back towards the wagons.

  "Cheeky little bugger " gruffed Sean for Mbejane's benefit, but

  silently he queried Ins share of the blame. He had raised the boy with

  a wagon as his home and the veld as his schoolroom, grown men his

  companions and authority over them as his undisputed right of birth.

  Since his mother had died five years before he had not known the

  gentling influence of a woman. No wonder he was a wild one.

  Sean shied away from the memory of Dirk's mother. There was guilt

  there also, guilt that had taken him many years to reconcile. She was

  dead now. There was no profit in torturing himself. He pushed away

  the gloom that was swamping the happiness of a few minutes before,

  slapped the loose end of the reins against his horse's neck and urged

  it out on to the road south towards the low line of hills upon the

  horizon, south towards Pretoria.

  He's a wild one. But once we reach Ladyburg he'll be all right, Sean

  assured himself. They'll knock the nonsense out of him at school, and

  I'll knock manners into him at home. No, he'll be all right.

  That evening, the third of December, 1899, Sean led his wagons down the

  hills and laagered them beside the Apies River.

  After they had eaten, Sean sent Dirk to his cot in the living wagon

  Then he climbed alone to the crest of the hills and looked back across

  the land to the north. It was silver-grey in the moonlight, stretching

  away silent and immeasurable. That was the old life and abruptly he

  turned his back upon it and walked down towards the lights of the city

  which beckoned to him from the valley below.

  There had been a little unpleasantness when he had ordered Dirk to stay

  with the wagons; in consequence Sean was in an evil mood as he crossed

  the bridge on the Apies and rode into the city the following morning.

  Beside him Mbejane ran to keep pace with his horse.

  Deep in his own thoughts Sean turned into Church Street before he

  noticed the unusual activity about him. A column of horsemen forced

  him to rein his horse to the side of the road.

  As they passed Sean examined them with interest.

  Burghers in a motley of homespun and store clothes, riding in a

  formation wich might imaginatively have been called a column of

  fours.

  But what excited Sean's curiosity was their numbers-By God! there must

  be two thousand of them at least, from lads to grey beards each of them

  was festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and beside each left knee

  the butt of a bolt-action Mauser rifle stuck up from its scabbard.

  Blanketrolls tied to the saddles, canteens and cooking-pots clattering,

  they filed past. There was no doubting it. This was a war commando.

  From the sidewalk women and a few men called comment at them.

  " Geluk hoor! Shoot straight.

  "Spoedige terugkonts. " And the commandos laughed and shouted back.

  Sean stooped to a pretty girl who stood beside his horse. She was

  waving a red scarf and suddenly Sean saw that though she smiled her

  eyelashes were loaded with tears like dew on a blade of grass.

  "Where are they going?" Sean raised his voice above the uproar.

  She lifted her head and the movement loosed a tear; it dropped down her

  cheek, slid from her chin and left a tiny damp spot on her blouse.

  "To the train, of course."

  "The train? Which train?"

  "Look, here come the guns."

  In consternation Sean looked up as the guns rumbled past, two of them.

  Uniformed gunners in blue, frogged with gold, sitting stiffly to

  attention on the carriages, the horses leaning forward against the

  immense weight of the guns. Tall wheels shod with steel, bronze

  glittering on the breeches in contrast to the sombre grey of the

  barrels.

  "My God!" breathed Sean. Then turning back to the girl he grasped her

  shoulder and shook it in his agitation. "Where are they going? "Tell

  me quickly-where? " "Menheer!" She bridled at his touch and wriggled

  away from it.

  "Please. I'm sorry-you must tell me." Sean called after her as she

  disappeared into the crowd.

  A minute longer Sean sat stupefied, then Ins brain began to work

  again.

  It was war, then. But where and against whom?

  Surely no tribal rising would call out this array of strength.

  Those guns were the most modern weapons Sean could conceive.

  No, this was a white man's war.

  Against the Orange Republic? Impossible, they were brothers.

  Against the British, then? The idea appalled him. And yet and yet

  five years ago there had been rumours. It had happened before. He

  remembered 1895, and the Jameson Raid. Anything could have happened

  during the years he had been cut off from civilization-and now he had

  stumbled innocently into the midst Of it.

  Quickly he considered his own position. He was British. born in Natal

  under the Union Jack. He looked like a burgher, spoke like one, rode

  like one, he was born in Africa and had never left it-but technically

  he was just as much an Englishman as if he had been born within sound

  of Bow bells.

  Just supposing it was war between the Republic and Britain, and just

  supposing the Boers caught him-what would they do with him?

  Confiscate his wagons and his ivory certainly, throw him into prison

  perhaps, shoot him as a spy possibly!

  "I've got to get to hell out of here, he mumbled, and then to

  Mbejane,

  "Come on. Back to the wagons, quickly." Before they reached the

  bridge he changed his mind. He had to learn with certainty what was

  happening. There was one person he could go to, and he must take the

  risk.

  "Mbejane, go back to the camp. Find Nkosizana Dirk and keep him

  there-even if you have to tie him. Speak to no man and, as you value

  your life, let Dirk speak with no man. It is understood? " "It is

  understood, Nkosi.

  And Sean, to all appearances another burgher among thousands of

  burghers, worked his way slowly through the crowds and the press of

  wagons towards a general dealer's store at the top end of the town near

  the railway station.

  Since Sean had last seen it the sign above the entrance had been

  freshly painted in red and gold. "I. Goldberg. Importer & Exporter,

  Dealing in Mining Machinery, Merchant & Whole Purchasing Agent: gold,

  precious stones, hides and skins, saler ivory and natural produce.

  Despite this war, or because of it, Mr. Goldberg's emporium was doing

  good business. It was crowded and Sean drifted unnoticed among the

  customers, searching quietly for the proprietor.

  He found him selling a bag of coffee beans to a gentleman who was

  plainly sceptical of its quality. The discussion of the merits of Mr.

  Goldberg's coffee beans as opposed to those of his competitor across

  the street was becoming involved and technical.

  Sean leaned against a shelf full of merchandise, packed his pipe, lit

  it and while he waited he watched Mr. Goldberg in action. The man

  should have been a barrister, his argument was strong enough to

  convince first Sean and finally the customer.

  The latter paid, slung the bag over his shoulder and grumbled his way

  out of the shop, leaving Mr. Goldberg glowing pink and perspiring in

  the flush of achievement.

  "You haven't lost any weight, Izzy, " Sean greeted him.

  Goldberg peered at him uncertainly over his gold-framed spectacles,