In that first moment of direct encounter, Mark knew instantly that Dirk Courtney’s strength and weight were far greater than his own. Even if he had been uninjured, it would have been no contest, he was so out-matched that he felt as though he had been caught up in the cogs of a powerful piece of machinery. Dirk Courtney’s body seemed not to be made of flesh and bone, but of brutal iron.
Mark’s broken ribs moved in the vast encircling grip, and he cried out as the sharp edges of splintered bone lanced into his flesh. He felt his gun hand being forced back, the muzzle of the pistol training up into his own face, and Dirk Courtney swung him off his feet, both of them spinning into a turn like a pair of waltzing dancers, so that only the wildest effort and a lucky trick of balance allowed Mark to come down on his feet again. But now he no longer had the support of the truck chassis and the next effort would throw him headlong into the mud.
He felt Dirk Courtney gather himself for the next effort, the hard athlete’s muscles moving him into perfect balance. Mark tried desperately to meet it, but it came with a smooth surge of power as irresistible as a huge comber rushing towards the beach. Then miraculously, at the moment when he was going, Mark felt the big body hit with a tremor, heard the sobbing outrush of Dirk Courtney’s breath. and almost instantly Mark’s stomach was drenched with a copious rush of warm liquid as it poured from his adversary.
The strength melted out of Dirk Courtney’s body, Mark could feel his balance go, the grip on his pistol hand relaxed slightly – and Mark realized that his bullet had done damage, and that that last effort had torn something open in Dirk’s chest. His life blood was expelled from the wound in thick hissing jets by the powerful pump of his heart, and Mark found he was able, by a supreme effort, to reverse the direction of the pistol barrel, swinging it in a slow arc back, back until pointed into Dirk Courtney’s face.
Mark did not believe that he had the strength left to pull the trigger. The weapon seemed to fire of its own accord, and the muzzle flash almost blinded him.
Dirk Courtney’s head snapped back as though he had been hit in the mouth with the full swing of a baseball bat. He was hurled backwards, out of the beam of the headlights into the darkness, and Mark heard his body sliding and tumbling down the steep side of the gorge.
The pistol dropped from Mark’s hand, and he fell, first on to his knees, and then slowly toppled forward on to his face in the mud.
This is the last will and Testament of SEAN COURTNEY, married out of community of property to RUTH COURTNEY, (formerly FRIEDMAN, born COHEN), and presently residing at Lion Kop Ranch in the district of Ladyburg.
… . … . … . … . … . … . I give and bequeath my entire estate and effects, movable or immovable, whether in possession, reversion, expectancy or contingency, wherever situate and of whatever description nothing excepted, to my wife the said RUTH COURTNEY.
At first light the next morning, Mark led the search party down the steep river banks. His right arm was in a sling, his ribs were strapped tightly under his shirt, and he hobbled painfully with his injuries.
They found Sean Courtney half a mile below the last cataract, where the Baboon Stroom debouched into the valley.
He lay on his back, and there was no blood, the waters had cleansed every drop of it, and even his wounds were clean and washed pale blue. Except for the dent in his temple, his features were almost unmarked, and the white bush of his beard had dried in the early morning sun. It curled proudly on his chest. He looked like a carved stone effigy of a medieval knight laid out with his armour and sword on a sarcophagus in the dim depths of an ancient cathedral.
In the event of my wife predeceasing me, or dying simultaneously, or within six months of each other —
The river had been kind and carried her down to the same sand-bank. She was lying face down, half buried in the soft white sand. One slim naked arm was outflung, and on the third finger was the simple band of bright gold. The fingers almost, but not quite, touched her husband’s arm.
They buried them together, side by side, in the same deep excavation on the slope of the escarpment, a little way beyond the big house of Lion Kop.
… . … . … . … . … . … . I direct that the following shall apply in regard to the rest and residue of my estate.
There followed almost five hundred separate bequests which covered fifty pages, and totalled almost five millions of sterling. Sean Courtney had forgotten nobody. Beginning with the humblest grooms and domestic servants – enough for a piece of ground, a small herd, the equivalent of a life pension.
To those with a lifetime of service and loyalty, the gift was greater, in proportion.
To those who had laboured to build up the various prosperous companies and enterprises, there was a share of those companies, a large share.
He had not forgotten a single friend nor relative – not one of them.
I acknowledge that I have one legitimate man-child, though I hesitate to employ the word son — one DIRK COURTNEY, presently residing at Great Longwood in the district of Ladyburg. However, God or the devil has already provided for him so abundantly. that anything I could add would be superfluous. Therefore I leave him nothing — not even my blessing.
They buried Dirk Courtney in the pine forest, below the dog ring. No priest could be found to recite the office of burial, and the undertaker closed the grave under the curious eyes of a few members of the Press and a throng of sensation-seekers. Though there were many to stare, there was nobody to weep.
To my daughter STORM HUNT (born COURTNEY), who took lightly her filial duties, I, in turn, discharge my paternal duties with the bequest of a single guinea.
‘He did not mean it,’ Mark whispered to her. ‘He was talking about you that night — as it happened, he was remembering you.’
‘I had his love,’ she said softly. ‘Even though – at the end – he tried to deny it, I will have it always. That is riches enough. I don’t need his money as well.’
To MARK ANDERS, for whom I have conceived the affection a man usually accords only to his natural son, I leave no money, as I am well aware of the contempt he holds for that commodity. I bequeath to him, in lieu of cash, all my books, paintings, guns, pistols and rifles, personal jewellery, and all my domestic animals, including dogs, horses and cattle.
The paintings in themselves made up a considerable fortune, and many of the books were unique in rarity and condition.
Mark sold only the cattle and horses, for they were many and there was no place for them all in the tsetse-infested valley of the Bubezi.
The rest and residue of my Estate I bequeath to the said MARK ANDERS in his capacity as the Trustee of the Wild Life Protection Society. The bequest to be used to further the aims of the Society, particularly to the development and extension of the proclaimed lands presently known as Chaka’s Gate, into a Wild Life Reservation.
‘No one in Government will want to touch a Bill that was drawn up and piloted by the former Deputy Minister of Lands,’ General Jannie Smuts prophesied to Mark, as they stood talking quietly together after the funeral. ‘The man’s name will leave a pungent stink on anything he ever touched. Political reputations are too fragile to risk like that – I foresee a stampede by the new Government to dissociate themselves from his memory. We can confidently expect a new Bill being introduced, confirming and upgrading the status of the proclaimed lands of Chaka’s Gate, and I can assure you, my boy, that the Bill will have the full support of my party.’
As General Smuts had foreseen, the Bill passed through the House at the following Session, becoming law on 31st May 1926, as Act No. 56 of 1926 of the Parliament of the Union of South Africa. Five days later, the telegram from the Minister of Lands arrived at Ladyburg confirming Mark’s appointment as first Warden of Chaka’s Gate National Park.
There was no trial at which Hobday could turn king’s evidence and claim immunity from the crime of murder; so at Hobday’s own trial, the Public Prosecutor asked for the death sentence. In his summing
up, the Chief Justice mentioned the evidence given by Sithole Zama, alias Pungushe. ‘He made an excellent impression on this Court. His answers were clear and precise. At no time did the defence shake his transparent honesty and powers of total recall.’
On Christmas Eve in the whitewashed room at Pretoria Central Gaol, with his arms and legs pinioned by leather straps, and his head covered by a black cotton bag, Hobday dropped to eternity through the crashing wooden trap.
Peter Botes, cleared of any implication in the crimes of murder and attempted murder by the testimony of Mark Anders, was not placed on trial.
‘His crimes were weakness and greed,’ Mark tried to explain to Storm. ‘If there were punishment for those, then there would be a gallows waiting for each of us. Besides, there has been enough vengeance and death already.’
Peter Botes left Ladyburg immediately after the hearings, and Mark never learned where he went or what became of him.
Now, when you cross the Bubezi River by the low concrete bridge, where Dirk Courtney’s dam wall and hydro-electric station might have stood, you will come to the barrier on the far bank.
A Zulu ranger in smart suntans and a slouch hat will salute you, and give you a smile that sparkles like the Parks Board badge on his hat brim.
When you leave your vehicle and go into the office building of hewn stone and neat thatch to sign the register, look then to the left wall beyond the reception desk. In a glass case there is a permanent display of photographs and memorabilia from the park’s early days. The centre-piece of this collection is a large photograph of a sprightly old gentleman, lean and tanned and tough as a strip of rawhide, with a shock of pure white hair and a marvellous pair of spiky moustaches.
His cotton jacket is a little rumpled and fits him as though it was made for his elder brother, the knot of his tie has slipped down an inch and one tab of his shirt collar is slightly awry. Although his smile is impish, his jaw is firm and determined. However, it is the eyes that arrest attention. They are serene and direct, the eyes of a visionary or a prophet.
Under the photograph is the legend: ‘Colonel Mark Anders, First Warden of Chaka’s Gate National Park.’ And below that again in smaller letters, ‘Because of this man’s energy and farsightedness, Chaka’s Gate National Park has come down to posterity. Colonel Anders served on the Board of the National Parks Trust from its inception in 1926. In 1935, he was elected Chairman. He fought with distinction in two world wars, was severely wounded in one, and commanded his battalion in North Africa and Italy in the second. He is the author of many books on wildlife, including Sanctuary and Vanishing Africa. He has travelled the world to lecture and to gain support for the work of conservation. He has been honoured by monarchs and governments and universities.’
In the photograph, a tall slim woman stands beside the Colonel. Her hair is streaked with grey and drawn back severely from her face, and although there are crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and deep lines around her mouth, yet they are the lines of laughter and the planes and angles of her face still show traces of what must once have been great beauty. She leans half protectively, half possessively against the Colonel’s right arm and below the photograph the legend continues:
‘His wife and life-long companion in his work was the internationally celebrated artist, who painted her memorable African landscapes and wildlife studies under her maiden name of Storm Courtney.
‘In 1973, Colonel Anders retired from his position of Chairman of the Parks Board, and went with his lady to live in a cottage overlooking the sea at Umhlanga Rocks on the Natal Coast.’
When you have read the legend you may go back to your motorcar. The Zulu ranger will salute you again and raise the barrier. Then you too can go, for a short time, into Eden.
ALSO BY WILBUR SMITH
THE COURTNEYS
When the Lion Feeds
The Sound of Thunder
A Sparrow Falls
Birds of Prey
Monsoon
Blue Horizon
The Triumph of the Sun
Assegai
THE COURTNEYS OF AFRICA
The Burning Shore
Power of the Sword
Rage
A Time to Die
Golden Fox
THE BALLANTYNE NOVELS
A Falcon Flies
Men of Men
The Angels Weep
The Leopard Hunts in
Darkness
THE EGYPTIAN NOVELS
River God
The Seventh Scroll
Warlock
The Quest
ALSO
Dark of the Sun
Shout at the Devil
Gold Mine
The Diamond Hunters
The Sunbird
Eagle in the Sky
The Eye of the Tiger
Cry Wolf
Hungry as the Sea
Wild Justice
Elephant Song
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF WILBUR SMITH
THE TRIUMPH OF THE SUN
“Triumph of the Sun is everything [Smith’s] fans have come to expect: masterful storytelling and breathtaking adventure …chalk up another winner.”
—Times Record News (Wichita Falls, TX)
“Espionage, disguise, stabbings in the dark … a story that is—like the Nile itself—swift and powerful.”
—Booklist
“Wildly entertaining, compulsively readable.”
—Sunday Telegraph (UK)
BLUE HORIZON
“The eleventh volume in Smith’s saga of the Courtney clan is every bit as riveting as its predecessors. Brimming with bravado, greed, and romance.”
—Booklist
“Really big retro-fun.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A swashbuckling, brawling, sprawling historical epic. Rich, exciting, and fascinating.”
—Library Journal
“Adventure and danger at every turn.”
—New York Daily News
“Gripping. The writer’s fans will enjoy the ride.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Master storyteller Smith takes his story into another generation of adventurers battling on the sea and on land in the settling of South Africa.”
—Tulsa World
More …
“Everything Smith’s fans have come to expect from his epic adventure novels. His consummate skill at crafting vast battle scenes, passionate and wildly romantic characters, cruel and bloodthirsty villains, and larger-than-life heroes make Blue Horizon irresistible.”
—Journal (Flint, MI)
WARLOCK
“When it comes to historical fiction, Smith is without rival. He is a warlock of writers.”
—Tulsa World
“Filled with enough action, adventure, battles, betrayals, and actual cliffhangers to satisfy Indiana Jones, Wilbur Smith’s new novel Warlock is a rousing and worthy sequel to River God.”
—The Plain Dealer
“Seamlessly composed, this epic historical drama by veteran author Smith tracks a power struggle in ancient Egypt between false pharaohs and a true royal heir, evoking the cruel glories and terrible torments of the era. Those willing to brave the blood and gore will be carried away by the sweep and pace of Smith’s tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Each time I read a new Wilbur Smith I say it is the best book I have ever read—until the next one. It’s the same, with Warlock. Brilliant … irresistible and impossible to put down.”
—Times Record News (Wichita Falls, TX)
“Those of you familiar with Smith’s writing … can expect more of his signature brand of pulse-pounding, ‘Perils of Pauline’—style of adventure and excitement, with more blood and guts than a slaughterhouse.”
—Tampa Tribune Times
“This summer’s most entertaining read … another full-blown tale of war, intrigue, murder, lust, and true love set in ancient Egypt. [This] is really the book Taita fans hav
e been waiting for.”
—Flint Journal
“Smith is at the top of his game in weaving exotic adventures in this work. Very highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Smith … returns to the genre with this epic action tale of intrigue, suspense, and adventure set in ancient Egypt. His many fans will be clamoring for copies of this one.”
—Booklist
“A stirring tale, full of chariot battles … Smith has whipped up a heady brew … and undoubtedly deserves his immense popularity far more than most of his rivals.”
—Evening Standard (UK)
“You can almost feel the heat and taste the dust as the narrative builds to a cracking pace … [Warlock] is a ripping yarn and a classic adventure story.”
—Irish News
RIVER GOD
“A grand tale of intrigue, deception, true love, and exile.”