He came back and studied Zouga directly, and a thought occurred to him with a suddenness that struck him like a physical blow, taking him so by surprise that he almost spoke it aloud.
‘If Helen had given me a different answer, you could be my son.’ But he held back the words, and asked instead:
‘How can I help you, then?’
‘You can tell me where I can start to search for Fuller Ballantyne.’
Harkness threw up his hands, palms uppermost. ‘It’s a vast land – so big that you could travel across it for a lifetime.’
‘That’s why I have come to you.’
Harkness went to the long table of yellow Cape deal that ran nearly the full length of the room and with the twisted arm swept a clear space amongst the books and papers and paint pots.
‘Bring a chair,’ he instructed, and when they sat facing each other across the cleared space, he recharged both their glasses and placed what remained in the bottle between them.
‘Where did Fuller Ballantyne go?’ Harkness asked, and took a silver tress from the thick beard and began to twist it around his forefinger. The finger was long and bony and covered with the thick ridges of ancient scar tissue where the recoil of overheated or overcharged firearms had driven the trigger guard to the bone.
‘Where did Fuller Ballantyne go?’ he repeated, but Zouga realized the question was rhetorical, and he said nothing.
‘After the Zambezi expedition, his fortune was exhausted, his reputation all but destroyed – and to a man like Fuller Ballantyne that was unbearable. His entire life had been an endless hunt for glory. No risk, no sacrifice was too great, his own or others. He would steal and lie – aye, even kill for it.’
Zouga looked up sharply, challenging.
‘Kill,’ Harkness nodded. ‘Anybody who stood in his way. I have seen him, but that is another tale. Now we want to know where he went.’
Harkness stretched out and selected a roll of parchment from the cluttered table-top, checked it quickly and grunted with approval, as he spread it between them.
It was a map of Central Africa, east to west coast, south to the Limpopo, north to the lakes, drawn in India ink and the borders were illuminated by Harkness’ characteristic figures and animals.
Instantly Zouga coveted it with his very soul. All that Harkness had accused his father of he felt in his own heart. He had to have this, even if it was necessary to steal – or, by God, kill. He had to have it.
The map was huge – at least five feet square – hand-drawn on the finest quality linen-backed paper. It was unique, the detail enormous; the notations were profuse but succinct, the observations first hand, the details precise, written in a tiny elegant script that needed a reading glass to be deciphered with ease.
‘Here heavy concentrations of elephant herds during June to September.’
‘Here I sampled gold reef in ancient workings at two ounces to the ton.’
‘Here rich copper is worked by Gutus people.’
‘Here slave convoys depart for the coast in June.’
There were literally hundreds of these notations, each in a neatly numbered box, that corresponded to the exact location on the map.
Harkness watched Zouga’s face, with a sly half-smile on his face, and then handed him a reading-glass to continue his examination.
It took Zouga a few minutes to realize that the pink shaded areas indicated the ‘fly corridors’ of the high African plateau. The safe areas through which domestic animals could be moved to avoid the tsetse fly belts. The terrible Ngana disease which the fly carried could decimate the herds. Knowledge of these corridors had been gathered by the African tribes over hundreds of years, and here it was faithfully recorded by Thomas Harkness. The value of this knowledge was incalculable.
‘Here Mzilikazi’s border impis kill all travellers.’
‘Here there is no water between May and October.’
‘Here dangerous malarial vapours during October to December.’
The areas of greatest hazard were signposted, while the known routes to the interior were clearly marked, though there were few enough of these.
The cities of the African kings were marked, as was the location of their military kraals, the areas of influence of each were defined and the names of the subservient chiefs noted.
‘Here concession to hunt elephant must be obtained from Chief Mafa. He is treacherous.’
Harkness watched the young man eagerly poring over the priceless document. His expression was almost fond, and he nodded his head once as a memory passed like a shadow behind his eyes. He spoke at last.
‘Your father would be trying to restore his reputation at a single stroke,’ Harkness mused. ‘He would have to feed that monstrous ego. There are two areas that come immediately to mind. Here!’
He placed his open hand across an enormous area to the north and west of the defined shape of Lake Marawi. In this area the copious and authoritative notations were replaced by meagre, hesitant observations obtained from hearsay or native legend, and by speculation followed by a question mark.
‘Sheikh Assab of the Omani Arabs reports River Lualaba runs north and west. Possible flow into Lake Tanganyika.’ The dotted outlines of rivers, instead of crisp detail. ‘Pemba, the Chief of the Marakan, reports huge lake shaped like butterfly twenty-five days march from Khoto Khota. Called Lomani. Possible source of Luapula and of Herodotus fountain.’ The lake was sketched in. ‘Question. Is Lake Tanganyika connected to Lake Albert? Question. Is Lake Tanganyika connected to Lake Lomani? If so, Lomani is ultimate source of Nile river?’
Harkness touched the two question marks with his gnarled and bony finger.
‘Here,’ said Harkness. ‘The big question marks. The Nile river. That would attract Fuller. He spoke of it often.’ Harkness chuckled. ‘Always with the same introductory words, “Of course, the fame matters not at all to me”.’ The old man shook his silver head. ‘It mattered not less than the air he breathed. Yes, the source of the Nile river and the fame that it would bring its discoverer – that would fascinate him.’
Harkness stared for a long time at the empty spaces, dreaming perhaps, visions awakening behind the bright black eyes. He aroused himself at last, shaking his shaggy head as if to clear it.
‘There would be only one other feat that would attract as much attention, would be greeted with as much acclaim.’ Harkness ran his spread hand southwards down the parchment to cover another vast void in the web of mountains and rivers. ‘Here,’ he said softly. ‘The forbidden kingdom of the Monomatapas.’
The name itself had an eerie quality. Monomatapa.The sound of it raised the fine hair on the back of Zouga’s neck.
‘You have heard of it?’ Harkness asked.
‘Yes,’ Zouga nodded. ‘They say it is the Ophir of the Bible, where Sheba mined her gold. Have you travelled there?’
Harkness shook his head. ‘Twice I started out,’ he shrugged. ‘No white man has travelled there. Even Mzilikazi’s impis have not raided that far east. The Portuguese made one attempt to reach the Emperor Monomatapa. That was in 1569. The party was wiped out, and there were no survivors.’ Harkness made a sound of disgust. ‘As you could expect of the Ports, they abandoned any further attempt to reach Monomatapa. For the 200 years since then they have been content to sit in their seraglios at Tete and Quelimane, breeding half-castes, and picking up the slaves and ivory that filter down out of the interior.’
‘But still there are the legends of the Monomatapa. I heard them from my father. Gold and great walled cities.’
Harkness stood up from the table with the grace of a man half his age and crossed to an iron-bound chest against the wall behind his chair. The chest was not locked but the lid required both the old man’s skinny arms to lift it.
He came back with a draw-string bag made of softly tanned leather. It was obviously weighty for he carried it in both hands. He pulled the mouth open, and upended the contents on to the linen map.
There was
no mistaking the lovely yellow metal, it had the deep glowing lustre which has bewitched mankind for thousands of years. Zouga could not resist the urge to reach out and touch it. It had a marvellous soapy feeling against his fingertips. The precious metal had been beaten into heavy round beads, each the size of the top joint of Zouga’s little finger and the beads had been strung on to animal sinew to form a necklace.
‘Fifty-eight ounces,’ Harkness told him, ‘and the metal is of unusual purity, I have had it assayed.’
The old man lifted the necklace over his own head and let it lie against the snowy fall of his beard. It was only then that Zouga realized that there was a pendant on the string of golden beads.
It was in the shape of a bird, a stylized falcon-like shape with folded wings. It was seated upon a rounded plinth that was decorated with a triangular design, like a row of sharks’ teeth. The figure was the size of a man’s thumb. The gold metal was polished by the touch of human skin over the ages so that some of the detail had been lost. The eyes of the bird were glassy green chips.
‘It was a gift from Mzilikazi. He has no use for gold, nor for emeralds – yes, the stones are emeralds,’ Harkness nodded. ‘One of Mzilikazi’s warriors killed an old woman in the Burnt Land. They found the leather pouch on her body.’
‘Where is the Burnt Land?’ Zouga asked.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harkness fiddled with the little golden bird. ‘I should have explained. King Mzilikazi’s impis have laid waste to the land along his borders, in some places to a depth of a hundred miles and more. They have killed all who lived there and they maintain it as a buffer strip against any hostile force. The Boer commandos from the south particularly, but from any other hostile invader also. Mzilikazi calls it the Burnt Land, and it was here, to the east of his kingdom, that his border guards killed this solitary old woman. They described her as a very strange old woman, not of any known tribe, speaking a language they did not understand.’
Harkness lifted the necklace from his neck and dropped it carelessly back into the bag, and Zouga felt bereft. He would have liked to feel the full weight and the texture of the metal in his hands for a little longer. Harkness went on quietly:
‘Of course you have heard the talk of gold and walled cities, like everybody else. But that is the closest I have ever come to corroboration.’
‘Did my father know about the necklace?’ Zouga asked, and Harkness nodded. ‘Fuller wanted to purchase it, he offered me almost twice its gold value.’
They were both silent for a long while, each brooding on his own thoughts until Zouga stirred.
‘How would a man like my father try to reach the Monomatapa?’
‘Not from the south nor from the west. Mzilikazi, the Matabele king, will let no man pass through the Burnt Land. I feel that Mzilikazi has some deep superstition attached to the land beyond his eastern border. He does not venture there himself, nor does he allow others to do so.’ Harkness shook his head. ‘No, Fuller would have to try from the east, from the Portuguese coast, from one of their settlements.’ Harkness began to trace out the possible approach marches on the linen chart. ‘Here there are high mountains. I have seen them at a distance and they seemed a formidable barrier.’ Outside, night had already fallen, and Harkness interrupted himself to order Zouga, ‘Tell your groom to off-saddle the horses and take them to the stables. It is too late to return. You will have to stay overnight.’
When Zouga returned a Malay servant had drawn the curtains, lit the lanterns and laid a meal of yellow rice and chicken cooked in a fiery curry – and Harkness had opened another bottle of the Cape brandy. He went on talking as though there had been no interruption. They ate the meal and pushed the enamelled tin plates away to return to the map, and the hours passed unnoticed by either of them.
In the intimate lantern light, the sense of drama and excitement that gripped them both was heightened by the brandy they drank. Once in a while Harkness would rise to fetch some souvenir of his travels to reinforce a point, a sample of quartz rock in which the seams of native gold were clearly visible in the lamplight.
‘If there is visible gold, it’s rich,’ Harkness told Zouga.
‘Why did you never mine the reefs you found?’
‘I could never stay long enough in one place,’ Harkness grinned ruefully. ‘There was always another river to cross, a range of mountain or a lake that I had to reach – or I was following a herd of elephant. There was never time to sink a shaft, or build a house, or raise a herd.’
When the dawn was rising, peeping into the huge gloomy room around the curtains, Zouga exclaimed suddenly, ‘Come with me. Come with me to find Monomatapa!’ And Hark-ness laughed.
‘I thought it was your father you were intent on finding.’
‘You know better!’ Zouga laughed with him. Somehow he felt at home with the old man, as if he had known him all his life. ‘But can you imagine my father’s face when you come to rescue him?’
‘It would be worth it,’ Harkness admitted, and then the laughter faded, and gave way to an expression of such deep regret, of such consuming sorrow that Zouga felt a compulsion to reach out across the table and touch the misshapen shoulder.
Harkness pulled away from his touch. He had lived alone too long. He would never again be able to take comfort from a fellow man.
‘Come with me,’ Zouga repeated, letting his hand drop to the table top between them.
‘I have made my last journey into the interior,’ Harkness said tonelessly. ‘Now all I have are my paint pots and my memories.’
He lifted his eyes to the ranks of framed canvas with their brilliant joyous images.
‘You are still strong, vital,’ Zouga insisted. ‘Your mind is so clear.’
‘Enough!’ Harkness’ voice was harsh, bitter. ‘I am tired now. You must go. Now, immediately.’
Zouga felt his anger rise hotly to his cheeks at the abrupt rejection, this sudden change of mood, and he stood quickly. For a few seconds he stood looking down at the old man.
‘Go!’ said Harkness again.
Zouga nodded abruptly. ‘Very well.’ His eyes slid down to the map. He knew he must have it at any price, though he sensed that there was no price that Harkness would accept. He must plan and scheme for it, but he would have it.
He turned and strode to the front door, and the dogs that had slept around their feet rose and followed him.
‘Garniet!’ Zouga shouted angrily. ‘Bring the horses.’ And he stood in the doorway rocking impatiently on his toes and heels, hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders stiff, not looking around at the thin stooped figure who still sat at the table in the lamp-light.
The groom brought the horses at last, and still without turning Zouga called roughly, ‘Good day to you, Mr Harkness.’
The reply was in a frail old man’s quaver that he hardly recognized.
‘Come again. We have more to discuss. Come back – in two days.’
The stiffness went out of Zouga’s stance. He started to turn back, but the old man waved him away with a brusque gesture and Zouga stamped down the front steps, vaulted into the saddle and whipped his mount into a gallop along the narrow rutted track.
Harkness sat at the table until long after the hoof beats had faded. Strange that the pain had receded to the very back of his consciousness during the hours that he had sat with the youngster. He had felt young and strong, as though he had suckled upon the vigour and the youth of the other.
Then it had come back with a savage rush at Zouga Ballantyne’s invitation, almost as if to remind him that his life was no longer his, that it was already forfeit to the hyena that lived deep in his belly, each day growing stronger, bigger, as it fed upon his vitals. When he closed his eyes he could imagine it, the way that he had seen it so often in the light of a thousand camp fires – up there in the wonderful land that he would never visit again. The thing within him had the same furtive slinking presence and he could taste the fetid breath of it in his throat. Now he gasped
as the full strength of the pain returned, as the beast buried its fangs deeper into his gut.
He knocked over the chair in his haste to reach the precious bottle in the back of the cabinet and he gulped a mouthful of the clear pungent liquid without measuring it into the spoon. It was too much, he knew that, but each day he needed more to keep the hyena at bay, and each day the relief took longer to come.
He clung to the corner of the cabinet and waited for it. ‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘please let it end soon.’
There were half a dozen messages and invitations awaiting Zouga on his return to the Cartwright estate that morning, but the one which gave him most excitement was on official Admiralty paper, a polite request to call upon the Hon. Ernest Kemp, Rear-Admiral of the Blue, Officer Commanding the Cape Squadron.
Zouga shaved and changed his clothing, selecting his best jacket for the occasion although it was a long dusty ride to Admiralty House. Despite missing a night’s sleep, he felt vital and alert.
The Admiral’s Secretary kept him waiting only a few minutes before showing him through, and Admiral Kemp came around from behind his desk to greet Zouga amiably, for the young man came highly recommended and Fuller Ballantyne’s name still commanded respect in Africa.
‘I have some news which I hope will please you, Major Ballantyne. But first, a glass of Madeira?’
Zouga had to curb his impatience while the Admiral poured the syrupy wine. The Admiral’s study was decorated richly, with velvet furnishings and a fashionable profusion of ornaments, small statues, bric-a-brac, stuffed birds in glass showcases, family portraits in ornate frames and pretty ceramics, potted plants and the kind of paintings which Zouga admired.
The Admiral was tall but stooped, as though to accommodate his long frame to the limited headroom between the decks of one of Her Majesty’s ships. He seemed old for the responsible appointment he held, guarding the Empire’s lifeline to India and the East, but the ageing may have been caused by ill-health rather than years. There were dark-toned pouches of skin below his eyes and other marks of sickness carved around his mouth and evident in the distended blue veins on the back of his hands as he handed a glass of Madeira to Zouga